I love DC and the BatFamily!!! I do have a master list just search my page by using the tag masterlist. She, and you can call me E or Dragon! If you want ttto check out some of my other writings here is my secondary page https://www.tumblr.com/dragonstarlightwrites?source=share
Bruce: I expect all of you to be responsible on patrol tonight.
Dick: Of course we will be.
Damain: Obviously father I'm responsible at least.
Bruce: You and Tim blew up three gargoyles, last night.
Tim: It was a tactical decision to catch the criminals.
Bruce: Be responsible and make smart choices.
An hour into patrol over the comms
Jason: I threw a batarang at a pigeon.
Dick: Why did you do that?
Jason: It looked suspicious.
Tim: It was just sitting there.
Jason: Yeah suspiciously.
Damian: You could have hurt it.
Jason: I could have killed, but I didn't.
Bruce: What did I talk about an hour ago?
Jason: To be responsible and taking out a suspicious pigeon is responsible.
Bruce: *stressed dad sigh*
Jason: I dislocated my shoulder and didn't even mention it.
Dick: Well, I had three cracked ribs and still led a mission.
Tim: That's easy. I got a concussion and still solved a case before passing out.
Damain: I was poisoned and still was able to fight before curing it myself.
All turn to look at Duke
Duke: I pulled a muscle once and took a nap.
Jason: That's it?
Duke: Yeah, rest is important when you are injured.
Tim: Nah, going until you pass out is all the rest you need.
Damian: A nap? What are you a child?
Dick:...Okay fair, but I still had three cracked ribs!
Batmom: I’m fine, it’s just a small headache.
Bruce (looking Batmom over): When did it start?
Batmom: About ten minutes ago, I think.
Bruce: Did you drink enough water today?
Batmom (hesitantly): Yes
Bruce: How much?
Batmom: Maybe three...
Bruce: Cups?
Batmom: Sure
Bruce: Sit down, I will dim the lights and get you water and medicine.
Batmom: You worry too much.
Bruce: I know.
Batmom: I love you.
Bruce: I love you too.
Tim's sleeping locations can get out of hand sometimes, but his family is always willing to help get him to an actual bed. A continuation of this reaction.
Bruce:
Bruce entered the evidence room and froze. There, huddled under a table like some forlorn stray, was Tim, asleep. The younger boy had somehow managed to curl himself into a tight little ball, and for a long, tense moment, Bruce simply stood there, hands on his hips, silently reevaluating every life choice that had led him to this exact scenario.
Finally, he leaned down and nudged Tim gently.
“Tim. This is not an appropriate place to sleep,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
Tim stirred, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with drowsiness. “Define appropriate…”
“…A bed,” Bruce replied flatly.
Tim stretched one arm toward the shadows, blinking at the ceiling. “Constraints,” he muttered, as if the universe itself had imposed some cruel limitation on his comfort.
Batmom:
You step into the Batcave and stop dead. There, sprawled face-down on the cold stone floor, is Tim, one leg twitching as if he’d collapsed mid-stride. For a moment, you just blink twice, taking it in, before letting out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Sweetheart… this is not a bed. This isn’t even carpet,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.
Tim groans, muffled into the floor, clearly too exhausted to argue.
“Nope. Up you go,” you announce, squaring your shoulders. With the patience and strength of a mother who has carried every member of this family at least once, you scoop him up.
Tim melts into your arms, an overtired toddler masquerading as a teen, and for a moment you just hold him. He sleeps better when you drag him to bed, tuck him in, and plant a soft kiss on his forehead, even though he tries his hardest to pretend he’s too old for it.
Dick:
Dick swings open the supply closet door and stops short. There’s Tim, curled up like some tiny, confused creature, clutching a box of printer paper as if it’s a prized possession. Dick can’t hold it in, he laughs, loud and uncontrollable, for a full minute straight, doubling over at the ridiculousness of the scene.
Of course, he immediately grabs his phone and starts snapping pictures. With a smirk, he posts them to the family group chat with the caption: “Found a wild Tim in its natural habitat.”
Eventually, when the laughter dies down enough to allow for movement, Dick kneels and gently scoops Tim out of the cramped cabinet. Tim barely stirs, still clutching the box, as Dick carries him off to a proper bed, because no matter how funny it is, his younger brother need a good place to sleep.
Jason:
Jason walks into the kitchen and stops dead. There, perched atop the fridge like some mischievous gremlin, is Tim, fast asleep. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and then just stares, silently questioning the how, and the life choices, that allowed this to happen.
After a long pause, he grabs a broom and pokes Tim gently.
“Drake. If you fall from up there, I’m not explaining what happened,” he says, his voice calm but edged with warning.
Tim doesn’t stir. Not a twitch, not a groan.
Jason exhales, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, half in amusement, half in frustration, as he sets the broom aside and starts plotting how he’s going to get his brother down without calling in reinforcements.
Damian:
Damian rounds the corner and freezes. There’s Tim, asleep, hanging halfway off the staircase, arms splayed like some tragic Victorian ghost. The sight is so absurdly pitiful that Damian’s expression tightens as though he’s just witnessed a crime against physiology.
“Drake. This is pathetic,” he declares, voice sharp. “Even stray animals seek proper shelter.”
Tim mumbles, barely lifting his head. “‘M five minutes… s’fine…”
“It is not fine!” Damian snaps, stepping closer, eyes narrowing. “Your spinal alignment is atrocious!” With deliberate precision, he reaches out, careful but insistent, to drag his brother back to something resembling proper posture.
Cassandra:
Cass enters the room and spots Tim asleep on the floor behind the couch, sprawled as if he were trying to hide from the concept of responsibility itself. She pauses for a moment, studying him, and decides he looks like a drowned raccoon.
Without a word, she slides her arms under him and lifts him effortlessly.
“Sleep. Bed,” she murmurs softly.
Tim immediately melts into her arms, trusting completely, as if he’d known this moment was coming all along. Cass thinks, briefly, that he works too hard. She carries him to his bed, tucks him in, and leaves a cup of tea on the nightstand before slipping quietly from the room, no fanfare, no fuss, just care done perfectly and silently.
Stephanie:
Stephanie steps into the living area and immediately spots Tim, curled up in the middle of a pile of freshly folded laundry. His head rests on a sweater, one arm draped over a towel, and he looks completely oblivious to the world.
She blinks once. Then twice. Then lets out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Seriously, Tim? On the freshly wash laundry?” she mutters, crouching down to tug him gently by the shoulder.
Tim groans, buried deeper into the laundry mountain.
Stephanie rolls her eyes but doesn’t hesitate. She scoops him up with ease, carrying him to his bed while muttering under her breath about how hopeless he is. “You’re lucky I found you. Otherwise, you’d be napping in a hamper forever.” Once he’s tucked in, she straightens the blankets, shaking her head with a small, amused smile.
Barbara:
Barbara walks into the lounge and freezes mid-step. Tim is asleep on the armrest of the couch, limbs dangling. She arches an eyebrow, tilting her head in that way that says, Really, Tim you have the whole couch, and you chose the armrest?
“Timothy Drake,” she murmurs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re inventing new levels of impractical sleeping, aren’t you?”
He twitches but doesn’t wake. Barbara kneels down, carefully sliding her arms under him. “Come on, you’ll survive just fine on a bed,” she says softly.
Tim melts against her, utterly unconscious. She carries him with ease, shaking her head in quiet amusement. Somehow, he makes chaos look comfortable, she thinks, tucking him in and smoothing the blanket. With a final glance, she leaves, already planning how to tease him about this later.
Duke:
Duke steps into the Batcave and freezes. There, crammed into an empty shipping box, is Tim, asleep. For a moment, Duke just stares. Then he slowly backs out of the room, only to step back in, convinced he must be hallucinating.
“Is this… does he do this? Is this normal? Do I call someone?” he asks, voice tight with genuine confusion.
Jason strolls past, munching a snack without even looking up. “Yep,” he says casually.
Dick leans against a nearby console. “Every Tuesday,” he adds, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Bruce, standing off to the side with a stoic expression, offers only, “At least he’s not on the rafters again.”
Duke blinks. Slowly, he realizes the truth: this family probably needs therapy.
Dick: I’m the only one who can juggle while fighting crime.
Damian: Amateur. I can defeat henchmen AND recite Shakespeare while doing it.
Tim: Cute. I hacked the security system… blindfolded… using only my pinky.
Jason: I can throw a Batarang through a donut from 50 feet away.
Cass: I can do all of that AND balance a book on my head while doing it.
Barbara: Well, I can type a 1,000-word paper while interrogating a criminal.
Stephanie: I can pick a lock, dodge an explosion, AND sing show tunes simultaneously.
Duke: I can run faster than all of you while still carrying a bag of groceries… crime fighting optional.
Bruce: What are they competing over?
Batmom: I needed one of them to help me with moving some plants inside before it freezes and somehow it devolved into this.
Bruce: You still need help?
Batmom: Yep.
Bruce: I help you darling, after all I can rearrange the plants mid-brawl and still be victorious.
Batmom: I see where the kids get it from.
Summary: When an entity known as the Archivist captures Batmom and Mrs. Claus, only the combined strength of the Batfamily and Santa can survive the Still Court to save them.
A/N: Buckle up because this is a long one, over 10k words, hope you enjoy! Also finished up at 3am so hopefully there isn't too many errors.
It all began on a fateful December day.
You and Bruce had been dressing up as Santa and Mrs. Claus to hand out presents at Gotham orphanages and charity events for as long as the two of you had been together. What started as a simple appearance had slowly become a tradition one you both protected fiercely. No matter how chaotic Gotham became, there was always time for this.
It was always enjoyable. The laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, the way children forgot, if only for a little while, about the world outside. Being Mrs. Claus beside Bruce’s Santa made the long days worth it.
As your kids grew older, they started participating too. Some dressed as elves, others helped hand out gifts, manage lines, or entertain the kids in their own ways. It became a full Wayne family operation, fun and full of warmth. A tradition built on choice, not obligation.
But this year was a bit different from all the other ones. Criminal activity had spiked, on Earth and beyond it. Threats stacked on top of one another until every member of your family was pulled in a different direction. Patrols ran long, missions overlapped, and calls came faster than they could be answered.
You didn’t resent it. Protecting cities, planets, and people who couldn’t protect themselves was part of the life you’d all chosen. Still, the absence was felt.
Bruce was off world at the Tower, coordinating with the League. The kids were scattered across Gotham and beyond, handling what needed to be handled. For the first time in years, the red Santa suit meant for Bruce stayed in its garment bag.
You went anyway. Even without Bruce at your side, you slipped into Mrs. Claus’s dress, adjusted the familiar shawl, and smiled for the mirror. It was only one event by yourself; you could manage that. The kids deserved at least that much.
The orphanage is already buzzing when you arrive. Paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling, some crooked, some torn and taped back together with care. A donated tree blinks in the corner, its lights mismatched but earnest. The air smells like hot chocolate and sugar cookies, the kind baked with love.
“Mrs. Claus!” Someone shouts.
You barely have time to brace before a small body crashes into your legs, arms wrapping around you with complete trust. You laugh, steadying them, and kneel so you’re eye level. “Well hello there,” you say warmly. “Someone’s excited.”
More children follow, forming a loose semicircle around you. Some are dressed up, others clutching wish lists that are already wrinkled from nervous hands. You listen. You comment. You remember names. It’s easy, this part always is.
Without the rest of the family, you take on more roles than usual. You help pass out gifts. You redirect overexcited kids. You reassure the shy ones that Santa knows they tried their best this year, even if he couldn’t be here himself.
“No Santa?” a little girl asks, frowning up at you.
“He’s very busy,” you tell her honestly, smoothing her hair. “But he wanted me to make sure you all got your presents.” That seems to satisfy her.
Time moves the way it always does during events like this, quickly and not at all. Laughter echoes. A volunteer trips over wrapping paper. Someone starts a clumsy rendition of a carol on an out-of-tune keyboard.
And then, something shifts. It’s subtle enough that you almost miss it. The room doesn’t get quiet. The lights don’t flicker. No alarms go off. But the air thickens, like the moment before a storm.
You straighten slowly, scanning the room out of habit. Everything looks fine. The kids are still laughing. The volunteers are still moving. Snow drifts past the windows outside, soft and steady. Too steady.
You watch a flake brush against the glass and wait for it to melt.
It doesn’t.
Another lands beside it. Then another. Perfect little stars, unmoving, like they’ve been pressed there on purpose. Your smile doesn’t falter, but your pulse picks up. You reach for your comm out of reflex.
Silence.
Someone laughs behind you, and the sound feels oddly distant, like it’s traveling through cotton. You take a step forward, then stop. Your foot meets resistance, like the floor has decided to hesitate with you. You breathe in. The air isn’t cold, it was still, too still. And for the first time all day, a thought slips through your mind; Bruce should be here.
The first flake drifts lazily down from the ceiling. Then another. The children squeal, pointing and laughing.
“It’s Mrs. Claus magic!” one boy shouts, spinning in delight as more snow begins to fill the room.
You force a small smile, kneeling to calm a few younger kids. “Not quite,” you say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Let’s make sure we all stay dry, okay?”
The volunteers exchange uneasy glances. You feel it too, the wrongness beneath the charm. The flakes aren’t warm. They don’t melt. They hang in the air like suspended stars, perfectly still before tumbling slowly, impossibly, downward. You take a careful step back. Something brushes your mind, like a pressure you can’t see. The room seems to lean inward. The laughter of the children echoes oddly, stretched and hollow.
“Everyone, gather near me,” you call gently, masking the rising tension. “Keep together.”
The kids obey, still laughing, still thinking it’s part of the fun. You glance toward the window. Snow is piling outside too, unnaturally fast. But this isn’t a winter storm, it’s a slow, deliberate bloom of ice, weaving through the air and across the floor.
Then, the temperature drops, not sharply, not painfully, just enough that your skin prickles. The snow swirls faster, unnaturally precise, forming shapes too perfect to be random. And then you feel it, a tug. A gentle, invisible pull, wrapping around your body, around your arms, your legs, and your chest. You reach out instinctively, trying to steady yourself, but it’s like grasping at water.
The children shriek in surprise, half thrilled, half confused. You hear a volunteer cry out as they are lifted slightly off their feet, the same invisible pull brushing against them, guiding them back from your reach. Your heart hammers. You try to move toward the strongest tug, toward the source, toward control, but the snow itself thickens around you, lifting you with it, drawing you into something far older and far colder than Gotham’s winter.
The last thing you see before the world tilts and folds around you is the children, still cheering, still believing in magic.
You know better.
Everything tilts. The floor, the walls, the air itself; it folds in on you like a book snapping shut. You blink, and the bright, cheerful room of the orphanage is gone.
The snow still swirls around you, but the warmth is gone too. Not just Gotham’s winter, but life itself feels paused. You stumble forward, trying to gauge where you are, but your feet meet nothing familiar. The floor has become a mirror of frost, smooth, endless, and impossibly cold.
You carefully lift your head, taking in your surroundings. The air is thick and crystalline, like every flake of snow around you has been sharpened into glass. Shadows stretch impossibly long across the frost, folding into angles your mind refuses to name.
And then you see him.
Not fully, not in detail. Just a figure, tall and impossibly still, standing at the far edge of the frozen expanse. His presence presses in like the air itself has weight. The snow swirls around him differently, slower, deliberate, bending toward him as if he commands it without effort. Even at this distance, you can feel his gaze. Not looking, exactly. Watching. Measuring. Judging. Every instinct in your body screams to move, to attack, to fight. But your limbs feel heavier than lead, as if the frost beneath your boots is tethering you in place.
A quiet, almost polite voice echoes through the stillness, soft enough to almost be the wind.
“You move differently than the others,” it says. “Curious… admirable.”
Before you can respond, before you can even process the weight of his presence, the frost around your feet shifts. The snow rises, swirling in a tight, vertical spiral that encases you. It pulls at your arms, your legs, and your chest slowly.
The figure watches, unhurried, as if your capture is inevitable.
You struggle, but the frost grips like water turning to iron. You barely have time to register the last thought of clarity before the world tilts again.
The frozen spiral lifts you from the ground, carrying you through the endless cold, twisting and folding until, you land, gently but firmly, in a small chamber of frost and still air.
And there, seated quietly in the center, is an older woman, her hands folded in her lap, waiting. “Finally,” she says, a small smile crossing her lips. “I wondered how long it would take him to bring you here.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You steady yourself, brushing frost from your sleeves, and finally meet her gaze. She doesn’t rise, but her eyes study you with something between relief and calculation. “I was wondering when you would arrive, (Y/N) Wayne,” she says. Her voice is soft, calm, carrying a quiet certainty that immediately sets you slightly at ease.
Your mouth opens, but words falter. “You… you know me?”
Mrs. Claus smiles faintly. “Of course. He watches, yes, but I watch too. I know who you are. I know what you mean to him, to your family. And I know why the Archivist brought you here.”
You tense. “Why?”
She shifts slightly, the movement delicate in the frozen stillness. “Because you care. You move, you protect, you resist, and he cannot understand that. This place… the Still Court… it is his domain. It bends, traps, and waits. It’s older than memory, older than winter itself. And it responds to him alone.”
You glance around the chamber. The frost glints with impossible angles, the silence pressing against your chest. “And you? How long have you been here?”
The women exhales softly. “Not long, just before you arrived. He brought me here first, but I know what this place is thanks to my husband.”
You feel a shiver, not just from the cold. “And the snow… the way it moved…”
“Yes,” she nods. “The Archivist wields it as easily as we breathe. It lifts, it restrains, it isolates. He doesn’t just want to trap us, he wants to study us, understand the warmth that he cannot comprehend.”
You pause, eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”
The women tilts her head slightly, her gaze steady. “I am Mrs. Claus, Santa's wife.” she says, the title carrying both warmth and authority.
“Your Mrs. Claus?” You look wide eyed at the women. "So, you know my husband then?”
She nods laughing, the sound is warm against the chill of the chamber, “Yes I know Bruce,” her eyes twinkling with a hint of fondness. “He was always willing to lend me a hand when he was training with my husband. Clever, determined, very much like you, I’d say.”
“He had told me about you after I found out he trained with Santa Claus.” You reply with a bit of wonder in your eyes, “I just never thought I would get to meet you.”
“Well, I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.” Mrs. Clause responds, helping you up from the ground.
You nod, “Yeah.... not really the best. So... what is the Still Court?” Taking a seat beside her.
Mrs. Claus folds her hands neatly in her lap, her eyes scanning the endless frost surrounding the chamber as if the wall themselves might be listening. “The Still Court isn’t a place in the usual sense. It exists only because he wills it. Time bends, space folds, and everything obeys his design. Nothing here is random and nothing happens by chance.”
You glance around noticing how the frozen walls shimmer with impossible angles and how the snow hangs suspended in the air. “So... it’s alive?”
“In a way,” she nodded. “Not alive exactly but it is responsive. It reacts to him and to us. The Still Court isolates, it tests, and it reshapes itself to challenge anyone brought here.” She leans forward slightly; her tone softens, but her eyes remain sharp. “Why he brought us here, that I couldn’t tell you. But the most important thing now is surviving.”
You take a slow breath, letting her words settle. The chill of the chamber presses against you, but a fire stirs beneath it, resolve, determination, and the unshakable need to protect. “I understand,” you say with a steady voice. “Then I’ll survive and I’ll figure this place out and how to get us out of here.”
Mrs. Claus’s smiles approvingly bring warmth against the chill in the air. “Good. That is all you need to decide for now. Watch, learn, and act when the time comes.” You nod, your eyes focusing on the frost and the endless expanse of white beyond.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cave was unusually loud for a change. Tim and Damian were arguing, half serious and half competitive, over who got to wear the “special elf hat” for the charity event. Hason was leaning against the wall, smirking, clearly enjoying the chaos, while Dick with rolling his eyes, mutter about “one of these years, you’ll all learn to coordinate.”
“Seriously, Tim,” Damain huffed, tugging at the hat. “You know I’m faster, more efficient.”
“I’m the one who’s going to pass out the first, so clearly I need the hat.” Tim interrupted, yanking it back and holding it high like a trophy.
Meanwhile, Jason tossed a pari of reindeer antlers to Dick, “Try not to poke anyone’s eye out with those, Bird Brain.” he teased. Dick rolled his eyes but put on the antlers.
“Boys, let's hurry! We can still meet your mom at the orphanage and surprise her and the kids.” Bruce called pulling the Santa costume out of the garment bag. A course of agreement and clothing changes filled the cave. The mood was light, everyone laughing as they started swapping their vigilante suits for the bright reds, greens, and whites of the holiday gear.
And then the Batcomputer buzzed with an incoming call. Alfred appeared on screen with brows furrowed. Behind him, the orphanage loomed in the background, lights flickering unnaturally. “Master Bruce. I’ve received a call from the orphanage,” he said, voice tight with urgency.
Everyone froze mid-motion. Jason’s smirk vanished. Dick straightened up pulling off the antlers. Tim and Damian exchanged worried glances.
“They are saying Miss (Y/N) has vanished.” Alfred continued, glancing towards the orphanage. “The line dropped before I could get any more details. I was coming to pick her up when I got the call and quickly got here to gather more information.”
Bruces expression hardened, “What information have you gotten?” His voice was low and controlled.
“The other volunteers and the children reported... that is was snowing and suddenly she was being pulled away from everyone,” Alfred explained. “then she was gone. I have tried to locate her tracker, but there is no signal. She vanished less than five minutes ago.”
Jason muttered, “What the hell?” He looked around at the others, his usual sarcasm giving way to the alarm.
Tim’s eyes went wide, and he immediately started scanning the Batcomputer feeds. “Less than five minutes? That’s insane. She couldn’t have gone far... unless...” His voice trailed, dread creeping in.
Damian’s jaw clenched. “We cannot waste time theorizing. Ummi is in danger.”
Dick ran a hand through his hair, trying to rein in the panic that was quickly rising. “We know the drill. Gear up, plan, fast and move as one.”
Bruce’s face was set in grim determination. “Everyone, suit up. We leave immediately.”
The cave erupted into practiced chaos. The laughter, jokes, and holiday cheer vanished, replaced by the familiar rhythm of gear and coordination. Christmas outfits were swapped for suits, weapons, and utility belts. Every member of the family moved with speed and precision, fully aware that every second counted.
The cave emptied in minutes and soon the Batmobile and Red Hood's bike tore through Gotham’s snowy streets, light cutting the dusk. The city was alive with holiday cheer, but the family was focused solely on finding you.
Arriving at the orphanage, the scene was eerily quiet. Outside, the snowfall had slowed, but the air still carried a strange chill. Alfred took his leave after their arrival to help coordinate back at the cave.
Tim knelt near the entrance, his finger moving quickly over a Bat-Tablet. “There’s no sign of forced, entry, no cameras catching anything, and no alarms were triggered. It is like she just vanished into thin air.” He muttered frustration in his voice.
Damain frowned, “And yet someone, or something, took her. Not a human threat, at least not one within normal means.”
Jason kicked a patch of icy snow, scowling. “Great.”
Dick surveyed the children and volunteers who had gathered outside. The volunteers were pale and shaken, but the children were playing in the snow, oblivious to what had really happened. “We need to start by talking to witnesses. Anything unusual, any details, even the smallest thing, could help.”
As they moved to gather statements, Bruce stood in the center of room standing where you had vanished. There was something eerily familiar about your disappearance, like a story he had heard long ago.
Bruce remained rooted in the center of the room, eyes scanning the sport where you had vanished, when the temperature shifted. The chill in the air deepened, carrying with a subtle weight. A soft thud echoed behind him. Bruce turned sharply, already reaching for a batarang. But he was met with a sight that stopped him cold.
Standing just inside the doorway was a figure tall and broad-shouldered, dressing in red trimmed with coat with white fur. A white beard framed a face both kind and impossibly commanding. Even in the dim, light his presence filled the room.
“Bruce.” the man said, voice steady and resonant, carrying with it a warmth. “It has been awhile.”
“That is has Nick, or do you prefer Santa still.” Bruce asked, breathing a bit easier.
“For you, my old trainee, either is fine.” Santa said with a small smile before the expression turned a bit more grim. “Your wife has been taken as well then?” Bruce gave a small nod sensing there was more to come. “It wasn’t a random act, the man who took her took Megan as well.”
“Mrs. Claus was taken at well?”
“Yes, I followed the trail here as soon as she was taken, but it seems I was too late to save your wife.”
Santa and Bruce stood there for a moment when the others trailed into the building looking for Bruce. Dick and Jason were scanning the area, while Tim focused on the Bat-Tablet, scanning for anything unusual and Damian was looking around as well.
And then they saw him.
Standing near Bruce, framed by the glow from the Christmas tree lights in the corner of the room. The myth they had only ever heard about in the stories they convinced Bruce to tell. Red coat, white fur time and that legendary beard. Santa Claus.
Tim froze mid-step, whispering to himself, “No way...that’s...that’s really Santa.”
Damian’s jaw dropped., “So Father wasn’t exaggerating.”
Jason muttered under his breath, “He’s real... he actually is real.”
Dick, trying to mask his own awe, leaned over to others and whispered, “Keep it together. We still have a situation here.”
Santa’s eyes swept over them, warm but serious. “Richard, Jason, Timothy, and Damian.... I have heard much about you four.” He said, voice carrying the same authority that Bruce has described to them, “Bruce has trained you well.”
“He... he knows who we are.” Tim asked and the others who stood there still shocked at seeing Santa.
Santa nodded. “I know who all of you are, it is part of my job.”
Bruce spoke up voice calm, but edged with urgency, “If there is nothing else, we can do here, let’s go back to the cave and you can explain what is going on.”
“I will meet you all there.” Santa replied, his tone firm and with that he disappeared, leaving behind only the faintest shimmer in the air where he had stood.
The Batboys exchanged stunned looks, still processing the presence of the man they had only heard about in stories. Tim mutter under this breath, “Okay...that just happened.”
Jason whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief, “He Santa. He just poofed.”
Dick shook he head, “Yeah okay, we’ve officially crossed into ‘weird holiday myth in real’ territory.”
Bruce ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Alright, let's move. We met him back the cave, get the full picture and state planning. Time is critical.” The family quickly fell into motion, heading back to the Batcave, the urgency of the rescue mission replacing the awe still hanging in the air.
They arrived at the Batcave in a flurry of motion, the roar of the Batmobile and Red Hood’s dike fading into the cavernous space. Snow clung to their boots and shoulders, but no one cared; the urgency of the situation hung over them like a heavy fog.
Bruce led the way to the central chamber, where the computers and holographic displays flickered with data streams and maps. Alfred had already begun preparing hot drinks for those who could spare the moment, though non one touched them yet,
And then the temperature shifted again; a soft and commanding presence filled the cave. Santa appeared in a swirl of warmth and faint magic. “We have little time. I will explain what has happened.” Santa eyes swept over them all. “Your mother, your wife, is in grave danger, as is my wife. Both were taken by a force that isn’t human. The one who control the Still Court is older than memory and far more cunning than most int this world or others, the Archivist.”
“Who or what is it?” Dick questioned, stepping forward.
“He is that which traps, seeking to understand what he cannot feel: warmth, love, determination.” Santa Claus replied, as his gaze settled on Bruce, “And eventually he will grow frustrated when he cannot and will dispose of them both.”
Damian’s fists clenched. “Then we do not waste time. We must move immediately, where is this Still Court?”
Santa shook his head, voice firm. “Not yet. You must understand the rules of his Still Court. Strength alone will not suffice. Observation, patience, and unity will be just as critical as your skills and weapons. The place reacts to fear, doubt, and hesitation.”
Santa stepped closer, “Before we move, you need to know more than just where the Still Court exists. You must understand why they matter to him.” The family leaned in; some still tense and all plotting the next course of action.
“My wife,” Santa started, his voice softening for just a moment, “has been by my side for centuries. She is not just my partner; she embodies the spirit of resilience, kindness, and warmth. He with dominion over the Still Court cannot comprehend that, and so he seeks to dissect, to trap her, to study her essence, in order to unravel the very core of what keeps me balanced.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed, processing the words carefully. “So, this isn’t just about physical danger. It’s psychological and emotional.”
“Exactly,” Santa confirmed. “Your wife shares qualities that mine does. She has courage, compassion, stubbornness, and similar light to what my wife has. He cannot understand it and that is why she was taken as well. Brute force alone will not save them.”
Jason crossed his arms, “So... observation and patience, got it. But how do we even get a foothold in a place that responds to our every fear?”
“The Still Court is a test. It was designed to react to what it knows and understands, fear, doubt, hesitation...it can twist and magnify these. But unity, trust and clarity, these it doesn’t understand, making that the weak point.” Santa explains.
Tim rocked slowly on his feet, “So, our approach must be tactical, yes, but also with emotional armor. We can’t let it get into our heads.”
“So basically, be Batman, but with cookies and Christmas cheer?” Jason piped in.
Santa gave a small almost imperceptible smile, “Something along those lines, yes.”
Damain’s voice cut in sharply, “How do we locate the entry to the Still Court?’
Santa nodded gravely, “There is no single entrance. It is woven into the threads of reality itself, appearing only to those it allows. But there are clues, small ripples in time and space, traced left by those who enter or leave. I have been following them. That is why I came to Gotham in the first place, but I was too late, and the ripple had already closed. If we can find another disturbance, we will be able to gain access.”
Bruce stepped closer to Santa, voice low, “And Mrs. Claus? You said she was taken first. How much time do we have?”
Santa’s expression hardened, the weight of centuries pressing into his features. “Every moment matters. She is resilient, but the Still Court will try to break that resilience. But if they are both together, they have a much better chance. But your wife will need every ounce of strength you and your sons can bring.”
The members of the Batfamily exchanged glances, understanding the gravity of the situation. Their lives and the lives of two extraordinary women hung in the balance. And the best of hope saving you from a threat older and more cunning than anything Gotham had ever seen was Santa Claus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Santa and Tim crouched over the holographic map in the Batcave. Tim’s fingers flew over the map, cross-referencing city gid sensors, minor temporal fluctuations, and even magical traces lefty by supernatural phenomena.
“Here,” Tim said highlighting a faint distortion that shimmered like heat on concrete, “a ripple in the patterns of reality. Small, but consistent with what you described.”
Santa nodded, adjusting his gloves, “Yes. The Archivist leaves them like cookie crumbs. He cannot help himself; his curiosity forces these anomalies. But we must be careful, any direct approach is likely to lead directly into a trap.”
“Right,” Tim said snaping his fingers, “so we track the ripples, map them, predict where they lead, and hope the next one five us access.” He glanced up at Santa. “And you’re confident this works?”
Santa looked down at the map and back up at Tim, “I am. He underestimates me and he underestimates you, all of you. That is where we have the advantage.”
Bruce walked up and stood besides the two studying the map. “You know this man?”
Santa’s attention turned towards Bruce, eyes hardening like steel. “The Archivist is ancient, far older than any mortal city. He traps, studies, and discards. Most would avoid confrontation, but I will not allow him to destroy what I have spent centuries protecting. And I will not allow him to take my wife without consequence. We must strike but decisively.”
Jason and Dick, listening from over Tim’s shoulder, exchanged a glance. “So, we’re breaking into an older than time ice fortress controlled buy a guy who studies fear and warmth... and Santa’s leading the charge?” Jason questioned.
“Essentially,” Bruce responded, “We follow the ripples, neutralize any traps, and recover the captives. That’s the mission.”
“Then we divide. We will need precision, distractions, and reconnaissance.” Damain says placing his hands firmly on the table.
Tim added not missing a beat, “I can handle tracking the ripples once we are in so we can find a way back out.”
Santa placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “And I will be with you in the fight. My experience with him gives us our only real edge in direct confrontation. We cannot allow him isolate anyone completely.”
Bruce nodded and looked back at his sons, “Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian, you four will stay together in there, and you will find Mrs. Claus and (Y/N). Tim focuses on finding and exit while you secure them. Nick and I will keep the Archivist busy.” He turned back towards Santa, “No mistakes.”
“There will be none and remember that trust in each other is paramount. Even the smallest hesitation will give the Still Court an edge against you.” Santa said firmly.
The family gathered closer, forming a tight circle. Every eye focused on the map, every mind already calculation, planning and anticipating. Outside, Gotham slept, unaware of the fight for two lives was about to begin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The chamber remains unchanged, frosted walls locked in an impossible angle, and snow suspended in the air like a paused breath. No doors, no windows, and no obvious exits. Just silence so heavy it pressed against your lungs painfully.
You pace slowly, boots crunching softly against the ice, testing the space again. It doesn’t react. Mrs. Claus watches you from where she sits, hand folded neatly in her lap, observing what you are doing. “You're mapping it.” She says after a moment.
“Habit,” you reply, “There’s a pattern, and if there’s a pattern, it can be broken.”
She smiles faintly, “My husband would like you.”
You snort quietly, “Thank you, I look forward to meeting him once we get out of here.” You stop near the wall and press a gloved hand against the ice. It’s cold but not painfully so, it waits. “It reacts,” you murmur, “Not to movement or noise, it reacted when I panicked back at the orphanage.”
Mrs. Claus nods, “The Still Court listens, not with ear but with intent. Emotion and fear feed it, but stillness ironically confuses it.”
You glance at her, “You’ve dealt with this before?”
“Not directly,” she admits. “But my husband has warned me of beings like him. Collectors. Archivists. Creatures who mistake preservation for understanding.” Her gaze hardens, looking at the spot. “They always fail to grasp on thing.”
“And that is?”
She rises smoothly to her feet, skirt brushing against the frost. “Warmth moves, love adapts, and both resists stagnation.”
You exhale slowly watching your breath fog in front of you before vanishing, “Good because I don’t do stagnation.” You crouch, brushing your fingers through the suspended snow. The flakes shift, just barely, before settling again. “There,” you say quietly. “Did you see that?”
Mrs. Claus steps closer, “A delay.”
“Exactly,” you nod.
“It doesn’t like indecision, but it also doesn’t fully understand intention without fear attached. If we act deliberately, calmly”
“...we leave a ripple.”
Mrs. Claus grins, “Bingo.”
You straighten, squaring your shoulders. “I don’t know when they’re coming, but Bruce and Santa will come.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Mrs. Claus’s smile is warm and unshakable, and you are wearing a matching one.
The chamber hums softly, the frost shifting just enough. Somewhere beyond the walls of where you are being held, something ancient stirs, curious. Good, let it watch. You and Mrs. Claus exchange a look, two women who have spent lifetimes standing beside legends, and who have learned long ago how to fight even without capes or magic. You aren’t waiting to be rescued; you are preparing to escape.
The Still Court reacts, not violently and not immediately. The temperature drops, not enough to harm, just enough to distract. The suspended snow begins to rotate, slow at first, then tighter, ending with the flakes aligning into precise geometric patterns. The walls hum softly, a sound you both feel more than you could hear.
“Good, I was hoping he would.” The floor fractures, not breaking but rearranging, the ice folding inward as if the chamber is deciding how to contain you better. The space shrinks by inches and then feet. You shift your stance, grounding yourself. “It wants panic.”
“Yes, it does.” Mrs. Claus agrees.
The snow surges suddenly, rushing towards you in a controlled wave. It wraps around your legs, then your arms, freezing in place like a sculptor mid-work. You grit your teeth, breathing deep and controlled breathes of cold air.
Mrs. Claus doesn’t hesitate; she steps forward, placing one gloved hand against the air itself and pushes. The snow recoils and yields. The Court shudders the hum deepening in pitch.
You stare at her, “Okay, that was badass. I see why Santa would have wanted to marry you.”
Mrs. Claus exhales slowly, eyes sharp. “The Court understands cold and preservation, but warmth?” Her hand remains steady, “Warmth isn't just heat. It is intention and care.” She steps fully between you and frost creeping back towards you. “For centuries,” she continues, voice even, “I have mastered that warmth.”
The snow hesitates, and you can feel the Still Court’s attention fully locking onto her.
Perfect, that was just what you needed. You move deliberately; you force tension into your body, not from fear but from defiance. You let your thoughts sharpen and your anger surface, keeping it focused. You take a step forward and speak, voice echoing in the chamber. “Is this really all you have?”
The Court surges as the wall breaks outwards, snow spiraling violently now, reacting to the challenge, the emotion and the refusal to submit. Pressure crashes into you, trying to force you to your knees.
But you don’t, you lean into it. “Come on, do you want to understand warmth? Try this.” You let yourself care harder. Bruce, your kids, your friends, Gotham. You don’t block the emotion; you weaponize it.
The Court howls, a fissure tears through the chamber, space folds wrongs, light bending into a thing, tearing seam that pulses like a heartbeat.
A ripple.
Mrs. Claus gasps softly, “You’ve done it.”
You brace yourself as the pressure spikes. “Tell me that was enough.”
She smiles proudly, “Oh yes, he won’t be able to ignore that.”
The ripple stabilizes for half a second and then snaps shut. Silence crashes back into the chamber, you sag slightly, breathing heaving but still standing. The Still Court settles, watching, interest.
But elsewhere, in a cave beneath the Wayne Manor, Tim’s head snaps up from the console.
“There,” he breathes. “That right there is a massive spike. Emotional-magic feedback loop, it them it has to be.”
Santa straightens instantly, eyes blazing, “They’ve forced his hand.:
Bruce is already moving. “That’s our entry point.”
“It won’t take us to them,” Santa warns, “The Court never makes things that easy.”
Bruce's jaw tightens. “Doesn’t matter. We’re in.” The ripples bloom again, unstable, violent and wide open. They don’t hesitate for a second.
Back in the Still Court, you and Mrs. Claus stand shoulder to shoulder as the frost shifts uneasily around you.
“He’s angry now,” you say watching the frost.
Mrs. Claus nods, “Good, angry beings make mistakes.”
Your square your shoulders, “Let’s make sure he makes plenty.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ripples doesn’t act like a door, it bends and folds. One moment they are standing on solid ground and the next reality pulled inward like a breath being sharply inhaled. Light stretches as sound fractures and gravity loses interest in direction.
“Stay together,” Bruce orders, voice cutting through the distortion. They step through as one and the world flips.
Cold slams in them. Their boots hit the frost that looks smooth enough to be glass but feels wrong beneath their weight, resisting just enough to be unsettling.
The Still Court unfolds around them. Endless ice stretches in all directions, broken by towering crystalline structures that rise and fall at impossible angles. Snow hangs suspended midair, frozen in motion, each flake sharp-edged and precise. There is no sky really, just a pale luminous expanse that feels more like ceiling.
Jason exhales slowly, “Yeah, nope. Fuck this place already.”
Tim looks around and down at this watch that is taking a scan of the area. “Sensors are freaking out. No stable coordinates.”
Damian’s grip tightens on this sword, ‘This place is alive.”
“Responsive,” Santa corrects as he moves forwards, boot crunching the frost. “It listens.”
The Still Court answers, as the snow moves deliberately. Flakes short, aligning into slow spirals around the group, testing their perimeter. The frost beneath their feet subtly reshapes, nudging them apart.
Bruce raises a hand, “Hold position.”
The pressure increases, and then a voice. It comes from everywhere and nowhere, smooth and measured, like ice sliding across ice. “So many variables,” it murmurs. “So much motion.” The snow parts, he doesn’t step forward, he simply is there. Tall. Still. Wrapped in layered frost and shadow, his form half-defined as if reality itself hasn’t fully agreed on this shape. His presence presses in, heavy and undeniable. The snow bends towards him instinctively.
The Archivist.
His head tilts slightly as he observes them. “Fascinating, you move as a unit. Inefficient. Emotional.”
Santa steps forward without hesitation. “Release them.”
The Archivist’s attention shifts, sharpening. “Ah Ni'klaus of Myra returns.” There is something almost like amusement in his tone. “You bring noise with you this time.”
Bruce fist clenches slightly, “Where are they?”
The Archivist ignores him, eyes flicking instead to Damian, then Dick, then Tim and finally Jason, cataloging and measuring. “Children trained for violence,” he muses. “Fear wrapped in discipline. Love masquerading as strategy.” His gaze returns to Santa. “And you still cling to warmth, after all this time.”
Santa’s voice is iron, “And you still mistake understanding for possession.” The Court tightens and ice rises in slow arcs around them, not trapping them but boxing them in.
“You have already disrupted my study,” the Archivist says calmly. “The women you seek are resilient. Anomalous.” His tone cools, “They do not break as expected.”
Bruce’s eyes flash. “That because you don’t understand them.”
“No.” the Archivist agrees. “That is why I keep them.”
The snow surges outward, forcing the Batfamily to spread out just enough to react. Dick flips back instinctively as frost lashes where he stood. Jason fires and the rounds vanishing in the ice.
Tim’s voice cuts through chaos. “He’s not attacking, he’s studying.”
“Correct,” the Archivist says pleasantly, “I am curious.”
Santa plants his axe against the ice, magic flaring steadily. The snow recoils again the space stabilizing. “You will not take them, not today.”
The Archivist’s gaze drifts past them, towards the deeper reach of the Still Court. “They have already changed this place,’ he replies softly, “And now, so have you.” The Court hums louder.
From else were in the Still Court, both you and Mrs. Claus straighten as the pressure shifts again.
“He’s engaged.” You murmur.
Mrs. Claus smiles, “Good, that means he’s distracted.”
Back in the open expanse, the Archivist beings to fade, withdrawing like a scholar stepping back to observe an experiment. “Run,” he advises calmly, “Search. Struggle.” His voice echoes as he dissolves into snow and shadow. “Every movement teaches me something.”
Silences crashes down again.
Bruce turns towards Santa. “He’s letting us in?”
Santa’s eyes burn with a new fire, “No. He’s letting us try.”
“Then we move fast. We find them before he decided he’s learned enough.”
The silence left behind by the Archivist is heavy as the Still Court shifts beneath their feet, frost rippling outward in slow deliberate waves.
Santa’s hand tights and with a low, resonant hum, the axe in his grasp solidifies. Its blade is wide and ancient, etched with runes older than the know languages, the metal glowing faintly with warmth that doesn’t melt the ice, but defies it. Frost recoils from the blade, trying to retreat. “He will return,” Santa says calmly, “Soon and when he does, he will attempt to isolate, divide, and observe.”
Bruce steps besides already adjusting his utility belt, “Then we don’t let him.”
Santa nodes once, “I will draw his attention. He cannot resist engaging me directly, he never could.”
Bruce looks back at his sons, “We will split. I will stay with Santa and you four will find them.”
Damian bristles, “Father...”
“You’re the best chance we have of navigating this place,” Bruce cuts in. “You’re fast, you're adaptable, and you trust each other. You have the best chance against the Still Court’s tricks and traps.”
Tim swallows, then nods. “We’ll find them.”
Dick meets Bruce’s eyes, “We will bring them home.”
Bruce places a hand on Jason’s shoulder, “Don’t let it get into your heads.”
The Court reacts immediately, the ice between the two groups raising up walls like mirrored glass, pathways unfolding in opposite directions. The Archivist's voice echoes faintly tinged with amusement. “Excellent. The experiment continues.”
Santa steps forward, ace resting against his shoulder. “Come, then,” he called into the shifting expanse. “You wanted to understand me.” Burce moves with him without hesitation.
The path behind them seals. The batboys stand alone, and the Still Court tightens. Snow begins to fall. Tim's scanner glitches wildly. “It’s changing the environment based on proximity. It’s learning.”
Jason cracks his neck. “Great. A learning death maze.”
Dick raises a hand. “Formation. Damian, front. Jason rear. Tim eyes everywhere.” They move and the floor tilts suddenly, gravity skewing sideway as a corridor of ice unfolds beneath them. Shadows stretch unnaturally long, towards their feet. A whisper slips through the air, not the Archivist voice, but the Still Court’s itself.
Doubt.
Damain falters for a half a second and the ice lunges. Dick grabs him instantly, tanking him back as a spike erupts where he stood. “It reacts to hesitation. We have to be careful.”
Damian’s jaw clenches, “Understood.” They push forward, step by careful step, every movement deliberate, every emotion locker down tight.
Elsewhere in the Court, you exhale sharply as the pressure shifts again. “They’re closer,” you murmur.
Mrs. Claus nods, eyes alight. “I felt it too.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders. “Good. Then let’s make this place even harder to ignore.”
The Still Court rumbles, and the battle, on all sides, begins.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The frost beneath your boots tightens; smoothing itself into flawless symmetry, as if it is offended by the scuff marks you’ve left pacing the chamber. The air grows quieter, expectant, like the pause before something big happens.
Mrs. Claus notices immediately, “It didn’t like that.” As she moves around the chamber, the warmth she carries doesn’t banish the cold, but it keeps disrupting it blurring the perfect lines. You let out a slow breath and stop moving; the Court leans in, and the pressure returns at once like a hand guiding you back into place. The wall glimmer, frost blooming into patterns that meant to sooth, to still, to contain.
“Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s give his asshole something to study.” You step forward directly in the pull, and the Court react instantly; ice spirals upwards, elegant and precise, wrapping around your arms and torso with almost gentle care trying to guide you. The sensation crawls under you skin, whispering that resistance is unnecessary, inefficient, and futile.
Mrs. Clause moves without hesitation, she quickly places a hand against the frost, and where her palm meets the ice, it steams. The cold recoils, warping. The spiral falters as cracks form. “This place was never meant to hold warmth, that flaw is our greatest weapon.”
You seize the moment, rather than pulling away you lean into the pressure. You push emotion into the cracks that were forming, the way Bruce taught you to push through pain and fear. You pushed all the love and rage you had in you.
The Still Court stutters. And somewhere beyond the chamber, something pulls a disturbance radiating outward like a stone crashing into frozen water.
Mrs. Clause smiles proudly, ‘There, we have to keep doing that.”
You nod, chest tight. “Keep causing ripples.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Batboys hit the ground hard, skidding across ice that shouldn’t exist, air snapping painfully cold in their lungs. The Court reacts immediately, walls shifting and corridors unfolding in impossible angles, trying to separate them before they can orient. But they react quicker, grabbing ahold of each other as they collide into walls and each other, but they don’t let go.
They finally come to a stop and Dick roll to his feet first. “Everyone still with me?”
“Yep,” Time answers already scanning. “But this place is adapting fast.”
Damian draws his blade, eyes just as sharp. ‘Let it try.”
Tim’s sensor goes off as ripple snaps in and out of existence. “It’s the same signature that pulled us in.”
“Then Ma’s doing it.” Jason remarks, “Anyway to figure out where it is originating from?”
“Not that I know of.” Tim responds, shaking his head.
Dick thinks for half a second before snapping his fingers. “Let's go in the opposite direction of where they appear.” The other look at him. “If it doesn’t want us to find them then they would be further from the ripples. They are where the exit isn’t.” No one argues and begins heading in the opposite direction from the most recent ripple.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You bring disruption into my domain,’ the Archivist says softly, frost curling at his feet as Santa and Bruce stand opposite him. His voice carries no anger, only interest. “And yet, you persist.”
Santa swings his axes around in his hand, warmth radiating outward in defiance of the cold. “You took what was not yours”
Bruce stance is solid, immovable, “And you’re going to give them back.”
The Archivist tilts his head, “Let us see,” he says almost pleasantly, “how long you can really last. The Still Court rumbles once again.
The Archivist moves first; the frost beneath them fractures into geometric patterned rising bladed spikes meant to funnel more than to strike. The Court isn’t trying to kill them; it was trying to position them.
Santa reacts instantly; the axe comes down in a wide decisive arc, where its edge burns into the ice, warmth erupts. The frost recoils collapsing inward. “You mistake warmth for weakness.” Santa says, stepping forward.
Bruce is already moving, he use the disruption, grappling hook firing into a forming wall and wanking him sideways as the floor drops where he stood a second earlier. He lands, rolls, and comes up behind the Archivist.
The Archivist turns smoothly and Bruce strikes. The blows lands and passes through a layer of frost that wasn’t there a second ago. The impact of blow ripples cracking the air itself.
The Archivist tilts his head, fascinated, “Interesting.” He murmurs, and the Court responds. The gravity lurches as the floor becomes a vertical plane, Bruce digs in using a couple of Batarangs, just in time as the space reorients around him. Santa braces, axe embedded in the ice, refusing to be moved.
The Archivist’s attention sharpens and shifts; he feels it something is pulling at the edges of his domain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You felt the shift immediately. The pressure spikes, sharp and sudden, like the Still Court in flinching. The frost around you tightens, reacting faster now, more aggressively.
“He’s distracted, but not enough.” Mrs. Claus says look towards you.
You don’t hesitate, “The we make it enough.” You step foward again, hard this time.
The Court doesn’t bother with gentleness this time. Ice slams up around in thick, brutal bands, snapping closing with intent. The whisper returns louder, more insisting, trying to drown out any of your own thoughts.
Still.
Stay.
Submit.
You push back as hard as you could. You pour everything into, fear for your kids, fury at being taken, the bone-deep certainty that Bruce is fighting somewhere nearby. You let the emotion spike instead of controlling it.
The Court recoils. The chamber cracks as a shockwave ripple outward, violent and uncontrolled, tearing through the Still Court like a scream.
Mrs. Claus reaches for you and as you start to sway, alarm flaring in her eyes. “That was too much all at once for you to handle.”
“I know.” You gasp holding on to her for support, “But it worked.”
Somewhere, something broke.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ripple hits like a bomb. The corridor ahead of them collapses inward, folding in on itself. Jason barely had time to grab Damain before the floor tilts, sending them sliding towards a yawning drop that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Okay,” Dick says after firing the griping line with Tim holding on, Jason holding onto Tim and Damian clinging to Jason. “New rule, when Mom does that we brace.”
They all carefully climb back up and once of somewhat solid ground, Tim’s sensors go wild alarms overlapping, “That wasn’t just a ripple, that was...”
The Still Court reacts violently, as walls surge inward, attempting to compress them. Frost lashes out forming restraints aimed at joints and weak points.
Damian slashes through one snarling, “It is panicking.”
“And panicking means sloppy,” Jason adds, firing a concussive round that shatters a forming barrier. “Which means we’re close.”
Tim’s watch flickers, then stabilizes, He sucks in a breath. “I’ve got a fixed point; it’s not totally stabled but it’s real.”
Dick grins, adrenaline sharp, “Lead the way.” They move as the Court closes in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Archivist stumbles, just a half a step, but it’s enough.
Santa’s eyes narrow, “That was (Y/N).”
Bruce feels it too and a pressure release in his chest. “She overdid it.”
“She did, but she also did us all a favor.”
The Archivist straightens, frost spiraling violently around him now, no longer elegant. “You contaminate my domain,” he says voice finally edged with something like irritation. “You introduced too many variables.”
Santa raises the again, warmth flaring brighter than before, “That’s what people do.”
Bruce steps in beside him, steady and unyielding. “And you can’t change that.”
The Still court screams and somewhere within it, paths that were sealed begin to crack open.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Batboys pressed forward every step in carful negotiation with the shifting, impossible architecture of the Still Court. The corridors twisted at angles that shouldn’t exist, and the frost lashed out at any misstep.
“Keep together!” Dick called, grappling lines taut as the wall attempted to split them apart.
Tim’s fingers flow over his watch, “The ripples are stabilizing in this section. Whoever is creating them is just ahead.”
Jason gritted his teeth, “Great Just hope ‘whoever’ is Ma and ‘just head’ doesn’t mean a hundred-foot drop or trap waiting to snap us in half.”
Damain looked around with sharp eyes, blade at the ready, “Fear slows you, focus Todd.”
The corridor suddenly surges, wall rushing towards them with lethal intent. Tim yanked Dick back just as frost formed snapping restraints. Jason blasted with wall free with another concussive chare and Damian slashed another into icy shards. They kept moving ahead and the disturbance slowed down.
“Close,” time muttered tracking the disturbance. “It’s coming from... there.” He pointed ahead, the holographic readout showing a subtle shimmer of energy, ripples converging into a single point.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back where they had entered, Bruce and Santa fought the Archivist. Every strike of Santa’s axe sent shockwaves of warmth ripping through the frost; every move Bruce made tore through the Court’s careful geometry.
“You underestimated resilience,” Santa said, voice steady over the grinding road or shifting ice.
The Archivist's frost covered form reacted, spiraling, snapping and reforming as if alive. “Defiance... you are fascinating anomalies, but inconvenient variables.” He said, his voice carrying over the battle.
Bruce’s fist stuck in precise movements, every blow calculated. “And that defiance is exactly why you won’t succeed.”
The Still Court trembled around them, and somewhere deep in its heart, the subtle tug of ripples caused by Mrs. Claus and (Y/N) disrupted the Archivist’s focus further
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back with the Batboys, they hit the point Tim had marked. The corridor opened into a wide chamber, the frozen floor cracking underfoot. At the center a faint shimmer pulsed, a weak flickering ripple in the fabric of reality.
“That’s it,” time whispered, “That has to be where they are.”
Jason grinned, “Finally, some good news, let's get Ma back.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed, “Move carefully, it wouldn't just give them up freely.”
They advanced cautiously, every sense alert, navigating shifting walls, snapping frost, and sudden drops. The ripple pulsed stronger, a beacon pulling them forward.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bruce and Santa landed blows that fractured the very floor beneath the Archivist. Ice splintered in jagged columns, crashing around them, and the domain itself seemed to convulse.
“The Still Court is destabilizing.” Santa said, planting the axe deep in the frost. Warmth flared outward radiating in the corridors all around. “Now is our chance.”
Bruce nodded, eyes narrowing. “Let’s finish this before he can adapt.”
The Archivist roared, frost whipping violently, his voice overcome with anger, “NO YOU WILL NOT HAVE THEM!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The chamber groans, not a sound so much as a pressure. Like the Still Court itself was drawing a strained breath. Frost peels away from the walls in long, trembling fractures, revealing darkness beneath, deep and endless.
You stagger, knees buckling as Mrs. Calus catches you. “Easy,” she murmurs, steady hands warm even now. “You’ve pushed it far enough.”
“Not yet,” you breathe teeth clenched, “I can feel them. They’re close, my kids are close.”
The Court reacts to that. The walls surge inward again, faster this time, sharper. Ice lashes out like reaching fingers, desperate now, no longer precise. It wasn’t even trying to pretend to be guiding. It’s afraid.
Mrs. Claus Straightens, something ancient and unyielding settling into her posture. The warmth around her brightens. “This place will crumble under warmth.” She presses her palm onto the floor. Where she touches, the frost doesn’t just recoil; it loosens. The perfect symmetry fractures, patterns blurring, lines losing meaning. The Court tries to compensate, tries to reassert order, but it stutters.
You step beside her, you don’t push blindly this time, you focus.
On Bruces steady presence and warmth.
On your kids’ voices and laughter.
One the way none of you ever stop moving for long.
You breathe out and push, not against the Still Court, but through it. The ripple blooms wide and violent, tearing through the chamber like a fault line. Ice screams as the walls split, chunks breaking free and vanishing into nothing. The Court shrieks in response.
Mrs. Claus grips your hand smiling, despite the strain. “That's it. That’s the opening.” You brace together as the chamber finally gives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Batboys finally reached the source of the ripple. The Floor was trembling, frost lifting like balloons and at the center; two figures emerged through a shimmer of distorted light.
“Mom! Mrs. Claus!” Dick shouted.
You and Mrs. Claus moved together, her supporting you, and both exhausted and generating energy through resistance. The Court howled around, but the ripples you had created earlier amplified, giving your boys a way forward. The remains of the chamber shuddered violently, cracks racing across walls and celling. The Court was retaliating, collapsing around you. But the Batboys pressed through, sliding and leaping over fissures, helping each other as the ice shattered.
You reach for them, hands outstretched, and together, the family converged in the center of the chamber.
The walls groaned and ice shards rained from above, but standing together, warmth and determination radiating from all of you, the shattered chamber became bridge rather than a prison.
All of you could hear the Archivist's fury ringing throughout the Still Court.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bruce feels it instantly, a deep bone-level vibration through the ice beneath his boots, the kind that doesn’t come from impact but from failure. The air fractures, pressure snapping outward like a breath force through clenched teeth.
Santa stiffens beside him. “Your boys found them.” He says with certainty ringing through his voice.
Bruce exhales, sharp and controlled, “They did it.”
The Archivist recoils, frost spiraling violently around his form now, no longer measured, no longer elegant. The perfect symmetry of the Still Court is gone; corridors stuttering as it tries and fails to correct itself. “No,” the Archivist bites out “They weren’t meant to get out.”
The Still Court responds to his distress.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ice beneath the reunited family drops. The bridge shudders, fracturing into uneven plates that drift apart like broken continents. Frost lashes upward, no longer caring, snapping at ankles, wrists, edges of capes and armor.
“Spread weight!” Dick calls instinctively, already making himself the anchoring point with a grappling line.
Jason catches Damian by the collar as the ground tilts. “You good?”
“I am not the one slipping,” Damian snaps, grabbing Tim’s wrist as another fissure opens.
The Still Court is targeting them now. Wall shear inward, attempting to isolate, corridors forming between bodies, ice surging to split the group apart.
Mrs. Claus reacts instantly. ‘Together,” she commands with certainty. Warmth pules outward from her. The frost recoils just enough to slow down its advance.
You can feel her warmth steadying you. You plant your feet despite the tremor in your legs. You slam your palms into the ice. Not to break it but send it back. The Court shrieks as the surface fractures outward; ripples radiating in every direction at one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Far above, the Archivist staggers again. Santa doesn’t waste a second. The axe comes down with finality, warmth tearing through the Archivist and the Still Court’s upper structures. Ice explodes outward, corridors unraveling mid-formation,
Bruce launches forward through the opening striking hard, relentless, refusing to Archivist time to recover. “You don’t get to decide who stays,” Bruce growls out.
The Archivist’s voice cracks through the domain, furious, “You are chaos.”
Santa plants himself beside Bruce, unmovable. “No” he corrects. “They are warmth.” He brings his axe down, delivering the final blow.
A ripple opens behind them, reality folding inward as both men step back without hesitation. The world drops away.
The Still Court buckles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The space ahead of the family opens, a ripple. Reality thins, edges fraying, the ripple Tim had been tracking finally stabilizes into something passable, barely.
“That’s it!” Time shouts, “That’s the way out, but it won’t hold long!”
“Then let's move!” Dick says immediately.
The Still Court makes one final attempt. Ice surges upward in front of them; a wall forming too fast, too thick and stops. Mrs. Claus steps forwards, placing herself between the family and the closing ice. “No, you don’t.”
The ice shatters.
You grab her hand, “Let's go home.”
Together, the family surges forwards leaping into the ripple as the Still Court collapses inward, screaming around them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Batcave receives them in a rush of displaced air and light. One second there is screaming ice and collapsing reality, and the next gravity snaps back into place.
They hit the cave floor hard. Dick rolls first, instinctively popping to his feet and already scanning the area. Damian lands in a controlled crouch, Tim barely catching himself before Jaso slams in him, sending them crashing into the other two. Resulting in all four being in a pile on the floor.
And then you dropped through bouncing off some of the stacked-up training mats. Shortly after Bruce is there rolling in similarly to Dick.
Santa drops through landing on one knee, before popping back up catching Mrs. Claus as she fell through.
For half a second, no one moves.
Then Bruce is across the floor in three strides, pulling you into him with both arms wrapping around you, crushing you into a hug. You feel the tremor in his breath before you hear it. “You’re safe.” He mummers into your hair, voice breaking just enough to give him away. “I love you.”
You grip the back of his suit like you might fall if you don’t. “I love you too.” you whisper hoarsely.
Bruce loosens his hold just enough for you to breathe.
That is when Dick makes his move, he crosses the space and pulls you out of Bruces arms to his. His forehead presses briefly against yours. “You scared the hell out of us Mom.” Dick says, voice rough trying, and failing to sound light.
You huff out a weak laugh. ‘Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Don’t” he says immediately, “Don’t apologize.’ His grip tightens for a second before he lets go, hands lingering on our shoulders like he’s making sure you're real.
Jason steps in the moment Dick moves back. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just wraps his arms around, solid and grounding, chin resting briefly on top of your head. You feel the tension in him finally drops. “Ma, next time,” he mutters, “I'll be at the event with you”
You smile into jacket, “Deal.”
He pulled back just enough to look at your eyes sharp and bright. “Don’t pull any stunts like that again without backup.”
“No promises,” you tease softly.
Tim is next; he stops in front of you, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to put them, eyes scanning you with the same intensity he uses on a crime scene. “You’re okay,” He says more to himself than anyone else. “Vital steady. No residual...”
You pull him into a hug before he can finish. He freezes for half a second, then melts into it completely, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid letting go might undo everything. “I thought I lost you, mom.” He admits quietly.
You rub a hand over his back. “You didn’t, you found me.”
Damain hangs back the longest waiting for his brothers to finish. His haw is tight, posture rigid, hands clenched at his sides, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. When he finally steps forwards, it’s deliberate.
“Ummi” he says, voice low. “You acted recklessly.”
You tilt your head already smiling, “I know.”
He hesitates, then steps in close and wraps his arms around you, forehead pressing into you. The hug is fierce, brief and devastatingly sincere. “Do not do that again,” he says, voice strained. “You are irreplaceable.”
You press a kiss to the top of his head, “So are you.’ He pulls back quickly composing himself, but he doesn’t move far, standing just at your side. Bruce watches all the exchanges with pride and relief written across his face.
In a different part of the cave, Santa carefully lowers Mrs. Claus before wrapping her in a hug. “Megan.” He breathes and for the first time since she was taken, the careful composure she’s worn like armor finally slips. “You’re here.”
She hugs him back just as tight, “You always worry about me.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, “I am allowed to worry, you are my wife.”
She cups his face in her hands, thumbs brushing beneath his where frost still clings faintly. “And you came.”
“Always my love.” They hold each other for a long moment, the cave falling respectfully silent around them.
Santa finally pulls back just enought to look at her properly hand still firmly at her waist. ‘Did he hurt you?”
Mrs. Claus shakes her head. “No, he didn’t hurt me or her.” She glances towards you, warmth in her gaze. “He underestimated us.”
Santa follows her look and nods giving you a bright and cheery smile, “His mistake, you two are clearly a force not to be reckoned with.”
Mrs. Claus smiles at him fondly. Santa draws her back into his chest with one arm wrapping protectively around her shoulders as he looks towards Bruce and the family. “Thank you,” he says simple, “All of you.”
Bruce nods his head wrapping his arm around you, “Family looks after family.”
Mrs. Claus chuckles softly, resting her head against Santa’ shoulder, “I like them.”
Santa’s smile widens; pride is unmistakable. “I told you he was one of my best trainees.” Laughter fills the Batcave.
Mrs. Claus closes her eyes for a moment, breathing him in, safe and steady at least. “Next year,” she murmurs, “we're doing Christmas somewhere warm.”
Santa laughs, rich and bright, echoes through the cave, “Deal.”
Alfred clears his throat; eyes bright. “If everyone is quite finished nearly giving me a heart attack,” he says, “I suggest we move to a less frozen portion of the cave. There are blankets, tea, and cookies.”
Jason grins. “You're the best Alfred.”
Dick slings an arm around Tim’s shoulder, “Group survival hug later?”
“Mandatory,” Tim replies while ruffling Damians' hair, who tries to swat him away.
You lean into Bruce once more surrounded by your family and for the first time since the snow fell you felt completely, undeniable safe.
Steph: Gingerbread is obviously the superior stealth snack that Santa would have. Crunch-to-flavor ratio? Elite
Tim: Incorrect, sugar cookies have better structural stability and produce significantly fewer crumbs. Basic stealth metrics
Jason: You’re both wrong. Chocolate chip is clearly the best. Sugar content increases energy levels and combat-ready in seconds. Plus, they taste better. End of discussion.
Bruce: Why… why is this happening?
Batmom: Because Barabara got a spreadsheet going already and they have a good point. Add Spritz cookies to that list.
Barbara: Color-coded by crunch factor, portability, and stealth efficiency. I’m adding a ‘holiday morale’ column too.
Cass: Oatmeal raisin = betrayal
Dick: Exactly! Exactly! Someone gets it.
Duke: They aren't that bad...
Dick: Duke...no.
Jason: Bro. Come on.
Damian: If you handed me an oatmeal raisin during combat, I would assume you wished me dead.
Bruce: …I trained with Santa for one winter. I didn’t sign up for this.
Batmom: It could be worse.
Bruce: How?
Batmom: They could be fighting with each other.
Bruce: You are lucky I love you and this family.
This is dedicated to @aommatoskannin who told me about Bruce training under Santa Claus. This information has altered my life and is now my Roman Empire. This story is building off of Santa is a Criminal Mastermind. Enjoy!
Summary: Batmom discovers the candy cane truth about one of Bruce mentors.
The Batcave was unusually peaceful, which meant, or course, that peace was doomed.
Dick was flipping effortlessly across the training mats while performing dramatic aerials. Jason was bench-pressing while attempting to make direct eye contact with Tim to assert dominance. Tim was attempting to ignore him as he worked with Barbara on a new gadget. Damain and Cassandra sparred silently, intensely, dangerously while Duke and Stephanie sat on a create, watching, eating chips, and betting on the outcome.
Bruce meanwhile was reviewing case files at the Batcomputer, blissfully unaware that his life was about to implode.
Alfred descended the stairs carrying a tray of tea and snacks. "Master Bruce," he said, in the same tone one might use to announce a hurricane. "you may wish to...prepare yourself."
Before Bruce could respond, the evaluator slammed open so hard the metal rang out, echoing through the cave. You march out, not walked, marched down the stairs eye locked onto Bruce, practically radiating fire. Never had anyone seen you this pissed off before.
Everyone froze.
Time went pale, "Oh god...Bruce is done for."
Jason sat up instantly turning towards his dad, "Bruce, what the hell did you do?"
Dick whispered shouted, "Did you forget an anniversary? Did you break something? Did you breathe wrong?"
"Father, explain yourself." Damian demanded narrowing his eye at his father.
Bruce looked around confused, "I didn't do anything."
"BRUCE THOMAS WAYNE," you snapped, voice echoing across the cave like a divine judgment.
The entire Batfamily recoiled.
"Oooo, the middle name," Jason muttered, "Did he cheat?"
"If he did, I'm living with Ummi after the divorce." Damain added, followed by a chorus of agreement from the others.
Bruce looked over at his children with betrayal across his face. "I would never cheat on your mother. Beside, most of you don't even live here anyway."
You finally reached Bruce and pointed with the force of a blizzard, "You LIED to me and BETRAYED my trust."
Dick gasped dramatically.
Cass cover her mouth.
Damian was ready to fight Bruce.
Tim whispered, "Oh my god he did cheat."
Duke muttered to Stephine, "I don't want to see this, but I can't look away."
Bruce slowly stood up, "About what?"
You threw the object you had been carrying to the nearest flat surface. It was a book, a very old book with a cover that read: Arctic Shadows: Advanced Stealth Training ~~~ By S. Claus
The kids quickly scrambled to see it and Bruce looked at it like it was a bomb waiting to go off.
Jason's jaw about hit the floor. Tim let out a gasp. Dick hands covered his mouth in shock. Barbar looked at in disbelief. Duke choked on a chip. Stephine was doing mental gymnastics trying to wrap her brain around it. Cass blinked twice, impressed. Damian looked personally betrayed by reality.
You jabbed a finger into your husband's chest. "SANTA CLAUS IS REAL AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME?"
Bruce grimaced, "I can explain."
"AND YOU TRAINED WITH HIM?!"
Cue all the gasps from the rest of the family.
Jason shoved Tim to the side. "OH MY GOD, I was right. He is a criminal mastermind!"
Tim quickly started typing furiously on his tablet with Barabra quickly following suit, "This changes everything, his speed, the phasing... it all makes sense.
Dick was laughing so hard he almost fell to the floor, "Bruce, you trained under Santa? What was that a festive internship?"
Damian stepped forward, fury and awe swirling in equal a measure. 'You allowed to lie in wait with a net gun to capture a man who TRAINED YOU?"
Bruce dragged a hand over his face, "I told it was complicated ... I didn't expect... I never thought this conversation would happen."
You crossed your arms glaring at him, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because," Bruce said helplessly, "no one believes me when I say it out loud!"
Tim whipped around, "So, just to be clear: Santa Claus is real, he's immortal, he's a stealth specialist..."
"and he trained Batman." Duke finished in awe.
Bruce muttered, "It was one winter. ONE. When I was traveling." This sparked a course of questions.
"Oh my god did Santa teach you how to do that rooftop vanish thing?"
"Did you get a certificate?"
"Did he give you a candy cane sword?"
"What are the entrance requirements? Cookies? Combat proficiency?"
"Did you have to clean up after the reindeer?"
"Did you meet Mrs. Claus too?"
Then Damian as dead serious as one could be, "Father, will you introduce me to him so I may challenge him to combat?"
"Absolutely not." Bruce said shaking his head.
"You fear I will best one of you mentors."
"Damian, you will NOT be challenging Santa to combat, end of story." Bruce responded looking pointedly at him. Damain let out a huff.
You ran both hands down your face. "The worst part," you groaned, "is that Alfred knew."
Alfred calmly poured himself tea. "I was present when Mater Bruce returned from the North Pole, yes."
Jason pointed in outrage, "How could you not tell us this?"
Alfred calmy took a sip of his tea. "In my defense, I did not think any of you would handle the information with...grace."
Dead silence.
Then everyone started shouting at once.
"GRACE"
"SANTA TRAINED BATMAN"
"I NEED TO UPDATE ALL MY FILES"
"THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE"
"FATHER FEARS NO MAN EXCEPT SANTA'
"GUYS, I CAN'T BREATH"
You let out a large sigh and then stepped closer to Bruce, grabbing his hand and stared him dead in the eyes. "We are talking about this later. In depth."
Bruce nodded like a condemned man. "Yes, love."
Dick slid by whispering, "Bruce is sooooo sleeping on the couch."
Jason whispered back, "Nah, Ma loves him too much."
Stephine chimed in, "Yeah she's just gonna make him explain everything in painful detail.
Duke looks at the others, "So does it make him part of the Batfamily, like a grandfather or something?"
All of them froze and then turned to look at you and Bruce. You shrugged looking over at Bruce, "A far far far distance relative, maybe."
That was enough, a collective shriek filled the cave. Dick dropped down to knees and Barbar patted his back. Cass and Stephine hi-fived. Duke and Tim both sat down trying to process the information. While Jason and Damian looked at each other trying to figure out what all this meant and if they would get in trouble from Santa for trying to catch him.
And Bruce, Bruce just closed his eyes placing his head on your shoulder, as you gently pat his head, "I really," he muttered, "need to start locking the holiday-themed training information."
Cass spoke up for the first time since this whole thing started, " So, does this mean we get milk and cookies in training now?" The kids all froze, considering it and then immediately started arguing with about what flavor cookies would optimize stealth performance.
Tim Drake is a brilliant detective, a strategic genius, and a caffeine-fueled raccoon in human form. His sleeping habits, when they happen at all, are the stuff of legend. Most of the family has no right to judge (Dick could and would sleep hanging from a pull-up bar and Bruce has literally fallen asleep standing up), but Tim takes weird sleeping locations to a whole other level, even in this family.
Bruce:
Bruce pretends he’s seen it all, but every time he finds Tim unconscious somewhere questionable, curled in a supply closet, slumped over the Batmobile’s hood, half-buried under case files, he has to pause and mentally count to five. Part of him feels responsible; Tim clearly picked up his terrible sleep schedule. The other part wonders how a kid who can devise a multi-layered infiltration plan ends up asleep on top of the washing machine. He always sighs, mutters “not again,” and carries him to bed.
Batmom:
You love all your children, but Tim’s sleeping habits test the absolute limits of your patience and your lower back. You always find him in the most inconvenient places, draped across kitchen chairs, curled under the stairs, face-down on a hardwood floor with a coffee mug still in hand. And every single time, you pick him up and tuck him into bed because he is still one of your babies, even if he sleeps like a feral gremlin.
Dick:
Dick finds Tim asleep wedged between the couch and the wall? Hilarious. Tim passed out in the middle of the training mats? Immediate selfie. Tim curled up in the linen closet? Family group chat material. But after he’s done laughing and documenting. He scoops Tim up like a baby koala, deposits him into a bed, and tucks him in with the gentleness of a big brother who has Been There.
Jason:
Jason will make fun of Tim, that is given. “What the hell, Replacement, who falls asleep in a sink? What are you, a goldfish?” But after complaining loudly, he’ll grab Tim by the hoodie like he’s picking up a misbehaving cat and haul him somewhere soft. Throws a blanket over him. Adjusts the pillow. Maybe even pats his head if no one’s watching.
Tim:
Tim denies everything. He wasn’t sleeping on the floor, he was “analyzing grout patterns.” He wasn’t unconscious behind the Bat Computer, he was “regulating his core temperature.” He didn’t fall asleep in the museum storage room he “tripped and stayed there.” He won't admit he has a problem.
Damian:
Damian is offended every time. He scolds Tim even though Tim is unconscious, “Have you no dignity? No discipline? You are going to irreparably damage your spine, Drake!” He forcibly hauls Tim upright, muttering about idiotic brothers and preventable injuries. Usually drags him by the sleeve through the entire manor, Tim half-awake, Damian fuming like a tiny, angry mother hen.
Summary: In which Jason thought it would be a good idea to mess with Damian on Christmas Eve
The manor was quiet.
Too quiet.
Which was the first sign something was wrong.
You had gone out for the day to visit with a couple members of your family and wouldn’t be back until late so he couldn’t hang out with his Ummi. And a bored Damian was a suspicious Damian. He stalked through the hallway with narrowed eyes, already anticipating that one of his brothers was up to something idiotic.
He found exactly that.
Jason Todd was lounging on the couch upside-down, boots hanging off the backrest, flipping through a magazine like a bored cat.
Damian crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”
Jason smirked without lifting his gaze. “Good afternoon to you too, demon spawn. I’m actually here on important business.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “…What business?”
Jason sat up, put the magazine down, and leaned in like he was about to share state secrets and the eagerness of someone about to start trouble. “Making sure you’re prepared.”
“For what?”
Jason lowered his voice. “For Santa.”
Damian blinked. “The mythical old man who breaks into homes? The one Father insists is not real?”
Jason gasped, hand to his chest in dramatic betrayal. “Bruce told you Santa’s not real? Wow. And here I thought he cared about your childhood.”
Damian glared. “I am not a child.”
“Sure you’re not,” Jason muttered before continuing. “Listen, kid. Santa is absolutely real.”
Damian’s brows furrowed. “Father says the opposite.”
“Yeah, well Bruce also said I couldn’t build a rocket launcher in my bedroom.” Jason shrugged. “Man lies.” Damian considered this while Jason leaned in further. “Look, Santa is real, but he’s not the jolly fat guy the movies show. He’s a criminal.”
Damian stiffened. “A criminal?”
“Oh yeah. Breaks into millions of houses a night. No warrants. No permits. No identification. Classic B&E. Guy’s basically top-tier rogues gallery material.” Damian’s expression shifted from suspicion to mild outrage. Jason continued, enjoying himself far too much. “And he bribes kids with toys to look the other way. Organized crime at its finest.”
Damian’s eyes widened with dawning horror. “He corrupts minors.”
“Exactly.” Jason nodded gravely. “I knew you’d understand. You're a sharp kid.”
Damian clenched his fists. “Why is Father not dealing with this menace?”
Jason lowered his voice dramatically. “Because Santa is better at stealth than Batman.”
Damian gasped. Jason bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Damian immediately turned on his heel. “This will not stand. If father will not deal with him, we must.”
Jason blinked. “Wait, what?”
Damian stormed toward the cave. “I must prepare.”
“Oh god.” Jason scrambled off the couch, suddenly realizing he had made a mistake. “Dami, little demon, hold up! I was joking!”
Too late.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bruce froze mid-step. “What?”
Damian appeared on the platform, fully suited up, holding a grappling gun and what looked suspiciously like a net launcher. “Father. I am ready.”
Bruce stared at him as though processing a foreign language, “For what?”
“To apprehend Santa. Todd informed me of his crimes.” Damian said, dead serious.
Bruce turned slowly toward Jason. Jason held his hands up instantly and shrank back. “Okay, now listen, we can talk about this.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jason.”
“It was a joke!” Jason protested. “A harmless little holiday prank!”
Damian scowled. “There is nothing harmless about a serial home invader.”
Dick, halfway down the steps, was already crying with laughter. “Oh my god, Jason, why?”
Jason threw his hands up. “You weren’t here! He was being a brat!”
Damian aimed the net gun at Jason. “Retract your lies or face the consequences.”
Jason dove behind a workbench. “BRUCE CALL OFF YOUR SON!”
“Damian," Bruce sighed. "Santa is not a criminal.”
Damian’s brows pulled tight. “Then why does he trespass?”
Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Because he’s...he’s...It’s complicated.”
Jason peeked from behind the workbench. “See? Even Bruce can’t justify it.”
“JASON!”
From the Bat Computer, Tim didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “You guys want definitive proof Santa doesn’t exist?” He typed a few keys. “Here. Chimney feed. No entry. No exit. No blips. No anomalies.”
Damian whipped around. “Show me.”
Tim pulled up a video. “Here’s the chimney. No one enters. No one leaves. No time skips. No forced entry.”
Damian stared. “So he is a meta capable of phasing through matter.”
Jason smacked his forehead. “Holy crap.”
“Tim,” Bruce muttered, “stop encouraging him.”
“I’m just presenting data,” Tim said, entirely too pleased messing with his younger brother.
Dick wiped his eyes. “I’m gonna be laughing about this for the next five years.”
Damian turned back to Jason. “Regardless of your exaggerations, Todd, I will remain vigilant. If this Santa is real, I will be prepared.”
Jason sighed. “Great. I created a monster.”
Damian smirked. “You did not create me. Father and Mother did.”
Jason pointed at him. “Not helping your case, gremlin!”
~~~~~~~~~
Damian sat by the chimney, perfectly still. His small frame was cloaked in a black tactical suit, his face hidden behind night-vision goggles. The gadgets surrounding him were impressive for someone so young: two grappling hooks, a net gun, and a plate of cookies "for bait." He was so intensely focused on the empty fireplace that he didn’t even flinch when Jason approached from behind.
“You’re really doing this.”
Damian didn’t look away from the chimney, his expression hard as he waited for the mythical criminal to make his move. “I must defend this family from all threats. Even mythical ones.”
Jason exhaled, this kid was too serious, but damn if it wasn’t impressive. He sat down next to him. “Mind if I wait with you?”
Damian hesitated. Then nodded. “I would appreciate backup.”
Jason smiled softly. “Yeah. I got you.”
The silence that followed was comfortable in a way only these moments could be. They sat side by side, watching the empty chimney like they were about to stop an international heist instead of waiting for a jolly old man to break into the house with presents. Jason tried to hold in a smile, but couldn't help it.
(He’d apologize for the joke tomorrow. Maybe.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Down the hallway, hidden just enough in the shadows, Bruce and you stood quietly in the doorway, watching the two boys.
You leaned gently against Bruce's side, smiling softly at the sight before you. Damian’s serious face was illuminated by the dim firelight, his tiny hands clutching the net gun like he was about to go on a mission to capture a real criminal.
Bruce watched with an almost imperceptible sigh. “I blame you for this.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Me? You’re the one who kept telling him how to defend this family. And besides I wasn't even here for this.”
Bruce’s eyes softened as he glanced at you. “I didn’t think it would go this far.”
You said in a low voice. “But it’s kinda adorable. Isn’t it?”
Bruce gave you a small smile, “This is going to be a long night.”
“I don’t know,” you said quietly, watching Jason lean back and Damian follow his lead, both of them staring at the chimney. “I think they’re going to be okay.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’re okay with this?”
You chuckled, resting your head against his shoulder for a moment. “If you mean them bonding? Yes. They’re not really going to catch Santa. But it’s nice that they’re doing this together. I mean I tried to catch Santa, not for B&E but I think this a good thing for Damian.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, watching his sons, his mind clearly working a mile a minute. "We should probably put some backup plans in place. Just in case they do catch him."
You rolled your eyes, a fond smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Bruce, there’s no catching Santa. It’s a tradition.”
“And I’m assuming you’re planning to keep it that way?” Bruce asked.
You gave him a soft, knowing glance. “I think I can manage. But I’ll make extra cookies, just in case they’re really committed to this.”
Bruce nodded, a warmth in his eyes as he kissed the top of your head. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate that. And so will I.”
You both watched as Jason tilted his head back, pretending to doze off while Damian stayed alert, sitting straight as a board, determined as ever. Despite the oddity of it all, you felt a warm contentment spread through you.
Bruce quietly slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. You smiled taking in the sights of two of your sons. It was Christmas Eve, and your family had a way of making the impossible seem more real than ever.
Dick: GUYS WHY IS THERE IS A BAT IN MY CEREAL BOX!
Jason: Don't look at me, look at the resident Robert Irwin.
Damian: Ah you have meet Noctis, he must have followed me from the Batcave.
Dick: Why is it in my ceral?!
Damian: HE, not it, is probably in your cereal looking for food.
Dick: Get it out, now.
Batmom: Damian, you know better than to bring the bats from the cave into the manor.
Damian: I didn't "bring" him in, Noctis followed me.
Tim: I'll get the net.
Damian: Don't you dare, he is harmless but if you try to catch him, I won't be.
Dick: Can someone get Noctis out of my cereal box?
Jason: You know I bet you could make him your sidekick Damain. Get him a little mask and everything.
Damain: Todd, that is the first good idea you have ever had.
Jason: Watch it, Demon Spawn.
Batmom: Jason not helping. Damain you aren't keeping Noctis in the manor. He seems like a lovely bat, but rules are rules, the bats stay in the cave. And Dick there is a new box of cereal in the pantry.
Dick: Thank you!
Damain: Fine I will return Noctis to the Batcave, but is that a yes to a bat sidekick?
Batmom: Ask your dad.
Batfamily React To Batmom Hanging Over A Shark Tank
It was a normal date night for you and Bruce. You two had managed to dodge the children long enough to escape the house and sit down for a peaceful dinner. Of course, that peace didn’t last. A group of bad guys burst into the restaurant, and you and Bruce just looked at each other and rolled your eyes. Bruce slipped away to change, but that’s when things took a turn for the worse. One of the men recognized you and grabbed you, dragging you out of the building.
You weren’t too freaked out. It wasn’t the first time you’d been kidnapped, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
Once at the lair of whatever random villain this was, you couldn’t be bothered to listen to his rant about taking over Gotham. They had you strung up like a piñata, suspended from a pulley system over a massive tank.
The villain pulled a switch, and the top slid open to reveal two sharks. You still weren’t as afraid as you probably should’ve been. This wasn’t your first time hanging above a shark tank—and with Gotham’s villains, it probably wouldn’t be the last.
At this point, you mostly wondered how they kept getting sharks into Gotham in the first place.
Bruce:
Bruce loved you, fiercely, protectively, obsessively in that quiet Bruce Wayne way. He wanted you safe in every situation, always. But when he finally found you hanging above a shark tank wearing an expression that basically said “again?”, he felt some of the tension in his chest ease. If you were annoyed, you were fine. Still, he was getting you down before someone did something stupid.
Dick:
Your oldest had always been a bit of a worrywart, so seeing you suspended over a tank of sharks did nothing good for his blood pressure. He took the bad guys out fast, too fast for them to even think about touching the release switch. Sharks, drowning, freak accidents, none of it was happening on his watch. Not to you.
Jason:
The moment Jason saw you hanging over the water, his blood frozen then ran hot with anger. Sure, he could stay calm under pressure, but his mom in trouble? That was the exception to every rule. Family mattered to him more than he’d ever admit out loud and seeing you in danger pushed every button he had.
Tim:
Tim nearly had a heart attack when he saw you dangling over the shark tank, mostly because his brain immediately started calculating every possible worst-case scenario. He was already running probabilities, structural analysis of the pulley system, and the sharks’ behavior patterns before he even moved. He quickly snapped into action. Tim might be exhausted 90% of the time, but for you? He was instantly wide awake.
Damian:
You were his Ummi, so naturally he was going to rescue you, but also naturally, you were getting a shark lesson on the way down. Damian informed you that sharks were completely misunderstood, that human flesh wasn’t even appealing to them, and that they almost never attacked people intentionally. Honestly, the sharks were the least of your worries. The real threat was whoever thought dangling you above them was a clever plan and Damian was going to help the others handle that next.
Extra:
After you were safe and bad guys had been dealt with Damain asked, with total sincerity, if he could keep the sharks. Not as pets “that would be irresponsible” but perhaps housed in a Batcave tank where they could be “properly cared for and appreciated.” He was already listing filtration systems and habitat requirements before anyone could remind him that the Batcave was not a marine sanctuary.
I can’t remember who requested this😅. I hope everyone enjoys.
Bruce’s POV
“Bruce wait a second please!” (F/N) shouts at me. I can hear the wavering in her voice. “I’m not mad at you but please don’t leave me. I’m begging you.” Her voice trails off and the soft sobbing beings.
I turn around and look at her. I could feel my resolve crumbling as I looked at her tear stained face. I wanted nothing more then in that moment to take her in my arms and comfort her. But I can’t to that.“I can’t. I hurt you.”
She looks at me her eyes were red and tears dropped off her flushed red cheeks onto the carpet below. “You didn’t hurt me. That psychopath did. Not you. You never would.”
“Yes, I did!” I shout out her. “It’s my fault he took you!” My whole body trembled, and I could feel the pressure building up behind my eyes. The first tear slipped out, and I couldn’t stop the rest that followed. (F/N) ran into my arms and we dropped to the floor.
“Listen to me. I love you Bruce, so much that I can’t imagine my life without you in it anymore.” I could feel her tears drip down my neck and all I could was wrap my arms tighter around her. “I didn’t believe in true love until I met you. I choose you. And I knew what I was getting into when we got together. So if think for a second you getting rid of me because so big bad villain kidnapped and tried to kill me you very very wrong.” (F/N) kissed my gently and pulled back to look into my eyes.
I kiss her forehead before resting mine on her’s. “I love you too. I can’t ever stop the way I feel. I choose you too. But I can’t lose to some psycho, because I can’t imagine my life without you in it either. So please I’m begging you be more careful.”
“I will. I promise, but my apartment isn’t safe anymore apparently.” She glances around her apartment which was trashed from the struggle she had put up.
“Move in with me.” The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. I didn’t regret them for a second. I could protect her, and see the love of my life everyday. It was a win win.
Her eyes widen and she gives that brilliantly beautiful smile of hers.“Really? You mean it?” She question softly.
I nod my head, “Yes, I choose you. I will always choose you so why not.”
ellievsbear
yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
discoholicmusic
turnnoffyourmind