˖ ݁❄︎ ݁˖A Very Batfamily Christmas˖ ݁❄︎ ݁˖
pairing: batfamily x batmom!reader
category: Christmas special, batmom fic, batfamily fluff, secret santa, holiday fic, wayne manor chaos, emotional support fic, soft family moments
word count: 9k
divider: uzmacchiato
a/n: merry Christmas and happy holidays darlings! im so happy to complete this year in a full cycle moment since my first ever fic posted here on tumblr was a Christmas fic too! im so greatfull for each and every one of you who like my writing and my crazy plot ideas! im excited for all the new opportunities this upcoming year may bring and super thrilled to share more and more of my ideas. now, ill let yall enjoy reading <3
You’re pretty sure there’s a specific circle of hell reserved for men who schedule “mandatory family dinners” like board meetings.
At least the table is pretty.
Alfred went all out: real china instead of the everyday set, candles in polished silver holders, a simple garland of pine running down the middle. There’s even a bowl of roasted vegetables that you know for a fact only two people at this table will touch without being nagged.
“I want it on record,” Jason says, dropping into his chair with all the grace of a falling brick, “that I was in the middle of a very important operation when I was summoned.”
“Operation DoorDash does not count,” Tim mutters, rubbing his eyes as he sits beside you. He still smells like coffee.
Across from you, Damian lets out a suffering sigh as he pushes his peas into a neat line. “This is absurd. We see each other constantly. Must we pretend these meals are necessary for ‘bonding’?”
“Yes,” Bruce says, without looking up from cutting his steak.
You nudge him under the table with your knee. “We love family dinner,” you say brightly. “It’s good for bonding.”
Duke snorts softly. Cass hides her smile behind her glass. Dick, already halfway through his food, beams down the table like he’s starring in a holiday commercial.
“Look at us,” he says, gesturing with his fork. “Bats in the wild. In their natural habitat. Consuming… fiber.”
“Speak for yourself,” Stephanie says, poking suspiciously at something green. “I’m pretty sure this is a trap.”
“It is broccoli, Miss Brown,” Alfred says as he appears at your side to refill your glass. “Not every green thing is poisonous.”
“Debatable,” she mutters.
You catch Alfred’s eye and he gives you the tiniest nod. Right. Show time.
You squeeze Bruce’s hand under the table. He clears his throat once, then again, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
“Since everyone is here,” he starts, that careful Wayne tone creeping in, “there’s something we’d like to—”
You squeeze his fingers harder.
He corrects, “—that your mother and I would like to propose.”
“Bat parents,” Steph whispers to Duke, who snickers.
You smile. “So. As you all know, Christmas is coming up, and—”
Jason groans. “If this is about matching pajamas again, I’m vetoing.”
“You wore them last year,” Dick points out.
You ignore that. “This year, we thought we’d do something… a little different.”
Tim visibly tenses. “Different how? Different like ‘we’re inviting the League’ different or different like ‘another gala where we have to pretend we’re not exhausted’ different?”
“Relax, Timmy,” Jason says. “If there were a gala I’d have heard Alfred cry about it already.”
“I do not cry over event planning, Master Jason,” Alfred says blandly. “I merely sigh with purpose.”
“Exactly,” Jason says. “Weaponized exhale.”
You can feel Bruce trying not to smile beside you. You lean in slightly, let your shoulder brush his as you talk.
“We’re doing a Christmas party here,” you say, “just us. No board members, no reporters, no League, no city officials. Just family.”
There’s a noticeable shift at the word. The noise dampens. Even Damian’s fork pauses.
“And,” you add, “we’re doing a Secret Santa.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“A what?” Damian demands, deeply offended.
“Oh my god,” Steph says, already grinning. “Yes. Yes. Yes. I accept. Whatever this is, I accept.”
“Secret Santa,” Duke explains, because he is kind and baby enough to still have hope. “You draw a name, you get a gift just for them, it’s anonymous until the party.”
“I am familiar with the concept,” Damian snaps. “I simply reject it.”
“You reject joy,” Jason says. “We know, gremlin.”
Jason leans back in his chair, turning toward Bruce with a slow, exaggerated smirk. “Hold on. You’re a literal billionaire and you’re trying to cheap out on Christmas gifts by making us buy them instead?”
Across the table, Dick chokes on his water. Tim presses his lips together to hide a smile. Cass is openly watching Bruce now, curious.
Bruce stares at Jason, deadpan. “I thought you liked spending my money.”
“Yeah, your money,” Jason says. “Not my sad, honest-vigilante wage.”
“Also my money,” Bruce points out.
“You are all aware,” Alfred cuts in smoothly, “that there is no spending limit, and Mister Wayne is, as always, funding the cards for those of you who so choose.” He glances at Jason with terrifying fondness. “So there is, in fact, no excuse.”
Jason throws his hands up. “Fine. I’ll participate in the capitalist charade.”
“Look on the bright side,” you say. “You only have to focus on one person instead of seven. It’s about… thoughtfulness.” You scan their faces, letting the word sink in. “About getting to know each other. One-on-one.”
Tim swallows. You can practically see him already trying to visualize flow charts. Dick looks delighted at the prospect. Duke looks a little nervous but game. Steph is vibrating.
Damian is scowling, but you see the quick flick of his gaze toward you, the calculation there. You file it away.
“Very well,” he says stiffly. “If we must.”
“I promise,” you say, “it’ll be fun.”
Jason looks doubtful, but he doesn’t argue. That’s as good as a win.
Alfred clears his throat this time, stepping forward with something in his hands: a deep red ceramic bowl, its rim lined with gold. Inside, folded strips of paper.
“As per Madam’s request,” he says, inclining his head toward you, “the names have all been prepared and mixed. To preserve the integrity of the process, no one has seen the pairings.”
“Translation,” Steph stage-whispers, “Alfred rigged it so Tim doesn’t get another panic attack.”
“I assure you, Miss Brown, they are quite randomized,” Alfred says.
“Hey, what if two people draw each other?” Duke asks.
“Then it’s fate and the multiverse wanted chaos,” you say. “We roll with it.”
You catch Bruce’s eye. He looks at you like you hung the moon and also like he’s questioning your sanity. It’s a familiar look.
“Who’s first?” Dick asks, leaning forward.
“I believe,” Alfred says, “we should keep this utterly impartial.”
He disappears for a moment and returns with a small bundle of red-and-white candy canes, all similar, but not quite the same length. He lays them along the center of the table like a line of tiny striped swords.
“Each of you,” he says, “may take one. Shortest will draw their name first on the evening, and thus present first. Longest shall be last.”
“Oh, we’re gamifying it,” Steph says. “You are a menace, Alfred. I respect you.”
“Randomized order,” you say. “No arguments later.”
Jason narrows his eyes at the candy canes. “That one is shorter. I can tell.”
“You cannot possibly—” Tim starts.
Jason reaches out and grabs one at random anyway, waving it triumphantly. “HA. Wait. Is this good or bad?”
“Depends on how dramatic your gift is,” you say.
One by one, hands reach out:
Dick takes his with exaggerated care, like it’s a bomb.
Tim hesitates, then picks one like he’s defusing a hostage situation.
Steph just grabs the first she sees.
Duke politely waits, then chooses.
Cass studies the line for a long moment, then quietly takes one from the middle.
Damian chooses last, eyes narrowed in suspicion, as if he could outwit the candy.
“You may compare lengths later,” Alfred says. “For now, the names.”
He trades bowl for candy in a quiet, practiced motion. The slips of paper rustle softly as he holds the bowl out first to Bruce.
Bruce glances at you. You nod. He reaches in, pulls a folded piece out, opens it under the table. His expression doesn’t change, but his thumb lingers on the paper for half a second longer than necessary.
Steph leans to the side, trying to peek. “Who’d you get, Bats?”
“If I told you,” Bruce says mildly, “it would hardly be ‘secret.’”
Next is you. The paper is cool and smooth under your fingers as you unfold it. The name written there makes you smile, soft and warm. Oh. That’s going to be easy, and dangerous, and fun.
You keep your face neutral anyway. No need to give Steph the satisfaction.
Dick opens his and immediately lights up, eyes going suspiciously shiny for a fraction of a moment before he schools it into something gentler. “Nice,” he murmurs.
Alfred clears his throat quietly. You pretend not to notice the way Dick looks at him.
Jason takes his, flicks it open with a dramatic flourish. A slow, feral grin spreads across his face. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
“That is deeply concerning,” Tim mutters.
Speaking of: Tim’s turn. He takes his slip like it might explode. When he opens it, his eyes widen.
“Oh,” he says faintly. “Oh no.”
You bump his shoulder. “Hey. Breathe. You’ll be fine.”
“I won’t be,” he whispers back. “I’m going to ruin Christmas.”
“Not on my watch,” you say.
Duke opens his with quiet curiosity and gives a small, thoughtful nod, already planning. Steph peeks at hers and actually cackles.
“Oh, you are so done,” she tells her unlucky target, whoever they are.
Cass takes hers last of that cluster, unfolding it slowly. Her gaze lifts, finds someone across the table, and she smiles—small but certain.
Then the bowl reaches Damian.
He plucks a slip from the top, like he’s drawing a sword from a sheath. For a moment, he just holds it, fingers tight around the folded paper.
“Go on,” you say gently. “It won’t bite.”
He huffs, flicks it open, looks down.
You don’t see the name. You do see the way his posture shifts: the brief widening of his eyes, the inhale he tries to disguise, the way his grip softens against the fragile paper.
He looks up. For a heartbeat, his gaze locks with yours.
There’s something unguarded there, something raw and startled and almost… shy.
Then the walls slam back into place. His expression returns to its usual, imperious annoyance.
“Tt. This is ridiculous,” he says, folding the paper once, twice, tucking it into his pocket like something precious he refuses to admit is precious.
You rest your elbow on the table, chin in your hand, and smile at all of them. At your chaotic, exhausted, overarmed, overcaffeinated, overtraumatized little family.
“This will be good for us,” you say quietly, mostly to Bruce, but loud enough that the table hears it.
“Define ‘good,’” Jason says.
Alfred moves around topping off glasses, unbothered. “Character building, Master Jason.”
“Exactly,” you say. “You’ve all saved Gotham a hundred times. You can survive one Secret Santa.”
Steph raises her hand. “Question. Are we allowed to cry if the gift is too good?”
“Please don’t plan for crying,” Tim says weakly.
“Emotions are not a sign of weakness, Drake,” Damian says, scandalized.
“Wow,” Jason says. “Therapy is working for you.”
You laugh, the sound mixing with the clink of cutlery and overlapping voices, with Bruce’s quiet huff of amusement beside you.
Somewhere under the table, Damian’s fingers brush the slip of paper in his pocket again.
And for the first time all evening, the idea of Christmas in this house doesn’t feel intimidating.
The Secret Santa idea settles into the house slowly, like snow. Not a storm—just a quiet, steady covering. You don’t notice it all at once. It’s in the small things.
The way people disappear at odd hours.
The way doors close that usually stay open.
The way they keep orbiting back to you.
You’re walking past one of the guest rooms with a basket of folded laundry when you hear a strangled noise from inside, something between a groan and a whine.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
The words are pure agony.
You pause, knock your knuckles lightly on the doorframe. “On a scale from ‘I burned the kitchen’ to ‘I need stitches,’ how worried should I be?”
“Mom,” Dick says miserably. “I’m losing a fight. To ribbon.”
The bed is a graveyard of wrapping paper and tape. Gold and navy sheets crumpled into sad balls, shredded scraps on the floor. The box in the center looks like it’s been through war—paper half taped, half torn, a bow hanging off the side like it’s given up on life.
You bite back a smile. “Oh no,” you say. “Deadly weaponized stationery.”
He drops the roll of tape and flops backward on the bed, tape stuck in his hair like he’s seven again and glued himself to construction paper. “It has to look good. He deserves it looking good.”
The last word is soft. You sit on the edge of the mattress and start gently peeling a rogue strip of tape from his hair.
“You know,” you say, “I’m pretty sure he’d be happy if you wrapped it in old newspaper. It’s you giving it that matters, not how Pinterest-worthy the bow is.”
“Yeah, but…” He rolls onto his side, chin on the comforter, looking up at you. “He spent so long taking care of me, you know? I want him to look at it and— I don’t know. Feel… seen.”
Your chest tightens. You reach down and brush your fingers through his hair. “Funny. I know someone who’d say the same about you.”
His mouth wobbles. “Not fair.”
You smile. “Life isn’t fair. Lucky for you, you’ve got me.”
He lets out a weak laugh and pushes himself up to sit, shoulder pressed to yours, head briefly leaning against you like he’s still that kid who wouldn’t go to sleep unless he knew you were in the next room.
“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands lightly. “Move over and let me show you the bow thing. And before you ask: yes, it is in the ancient mom manual.”
He groans theatrically but shifts aside, and you spend the next fifteen minutes looping ribbon and showing him how to twist it just so, guiding his hands until the bow actually looks like it was meant to be there.
“See?” you say. “Perfect.”
He looks at the box, then at you. “Thanks, Mom.”
Unlike Dick, Jason doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t even tell you he’s going out to shop.
You just happen to catch him in the middle of it.
You’re coming back from a grocery run, fingers numb from the cold through the handles, when you spot him through the window of a small thrift shop you like—him, the battered leather jacket, the familiar slope of his shoulders as he flips through a rack of shirts.
The bell over the door jingles when you push it open. The place smells like old cotton and dust and a hint of orange cleaner. Jason glances up, sees you, and still manages to look like you’ve been caught.
“Ma,” he says. “This is a very suspicious coincidence.”
“I could say the same,” you reply, shifting the grocery bag on your hip. “You doing recon on the discount flannel scene?”
“Something like that.” He shoves a random shirt back onto the rack a little too hard. “I’m browsing.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “It’s classified.”
You hum, drifting along the rack opposite him, pretending to inspect a hideous sweater. “You know, most people doing ‘nothing suspicious’ don’t look ready to bolt.”
“I’m not ready to bolt,” he says automatically.
Then his hand stills. He’s pulled a shirt from the rack—dark, soft, with loud white letters across the front. His mouth curls into the kind of grin that means someone’s about to be roasted with love.
You tilt your head. “Found something?”
“Maybe.” He folds it and tosses it into the crook of his arm with practiced casualness. “Don’t worry about it, Ma. Secret Santa. Clue’s in the name.”
You step close enough to bump his arm with your elbow. “I’m not asking who you got. Just checking in.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away. “I’m not gonna screw it up.”
“You never do, my love” you say quietly.
He huffs out a breath, like he wants to argue and can’t quite find the angle. His gaze flicks back to a little display by the counter—tiny figurines hanging from a metal tree. You follow his line of sight just long enough to see a small acrobat ornament, paint chipped, arms frozen mid-swing. Oh.
By the time you look back at him, he’s already turning away, pretending he hasn’t been staring.
“All right,” you say, shifting the groceries again. “I’ll let you get back to doing nothing suspicious. Try not to traumatize the cashier please.”
“No promises,” he mutters, but his lips twitch
Next, you find out Steph and Cass have claimed the living room without permission.
There are catalogs spread over the coffee table, open laptops propped on cushions, wrappers from candy canes abandoned in a little pile. Steph is circling things with a pink pen, chewing on the cap. Cass has her legs folded under her, shoulders relaxed as she scrolls her phone, the light reflecting in her dark eyes.
“Should I be worried?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.
Steph looks up, brightening instantly. “Always, Mom. We’re planning.”
Cass’s eyes flick to your face, then your mouth. You slow your words a touch without thinking, make sure you’re turned toward her. She smiles and lifts her hands, fingers moving in quick, familiar shapes.
You walk over and kiss the top of her head before sitting beside her on the couch. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Steph spins a catalog and jabs at a page. “Okay, so, if I do this and this and this, they’re either going to cry or propose to me.”
“Those sound like very different outcomes,” you sign along.
She shrugs. “I’m flexible.”
Cass taps the edge of the catalog with one finger, then signs, She wants them to sob. She just won’t admit it.
“Hey, betrayal,” Steph gasps. Then, grinning at you, “She’s right, though.”
You laugh. “I’m starting to feel bad for your Secret Santa.”
“No you’re not,” Steph says, swiftly signing along. “You’re proud.”
Cass shifts a little closer, leaning into your side. She signs against your thigh this time, her movements smaller, just for you:
You have someone already?
Is it hard? Her fingers hesitate on the last sign, like she’s not sure if she’s asking about the gift or about all of this—holding so many people’s hearts at once.
“A little,” you sign softly, only for her eyes. “But the good kind of hard.”
She smiles, soft and content. Steph pokes her with the pen.
“Okay, focus,” Steph signs, her fingers barely managing to follow along with her quick words. “We’re in a war. I refuse to let anyone out-gift me.”
Cass raises her eyebrows and signs, We are not in a war. We are in a game.
“Same thing,” Steph shrugs. “One just has more bows.”
You shake your head, standing. “You two want cookies or are you surviving purely on sugar canes and chaos?”
“Yes,” Steph says instantly.
“On it,” you say. As you head for the kitchen, Steph’s voice follows you:
You look back long enough to see Cass covering her smile with the heel of her hand, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Love you too,” you call.
Duke is the next to look for your help, as he appears in your office doorway like a kid asking to stay over at a friend’s house.
You look up from your laptop playfully, “I swear, every time you call me that I grow another gray hair.”
He winces. “Sorry. I just— I don’t know what to call you that’s not… weird? Or… too much?”
You close the computer and swivel your chair toward him. “Come in, Duke. You’re allowed to stand closer than ten feet from the threshold.”
He shuffles in, hands jammed into his pockets. “Can I… bother you for a ride? My bike’s in the shop and there’s this place I wanna check out. For, uh.” He glances toward the door, lowers his voice like the walls might snitch. “For the thing.”
“You mean the nuclear-level top secret classified Christmas operation?” you whisper back.
He laughs, shoulders finally loosening. “Yeah. That.”
“Sure,” you say, grabbing your keys from the desk. “You’re stuck with me now, anyway.”
The drive is short, city lights blurring against the windshield. Duke fiddles with the radio, skipping past static and over-cheery jingles until you land on something slow and soft in the background.
“So,” you say, eyes on the road. “How are you feeling about all this?”
He lets out a noise that’s half groan, half laugh. “Like I got dropped into a running group chat from hell.”
“Accurate,” you say. “We do run in all caps.”
“I just…” He blows out a breath. “I don’t wanna be the one lame gift, you know? Everyone else has known each other forever. I came in, like, halfway through the season.”
“You say that like we didn’t immediately renew you for all the next seasons,” you reply.
He huffs a little laugh, then sobers. “It still feels like I’m… catching up.”
You turn onto the street where the electronic store sits, bright signage buzzing against the dark.
“You are catching up,” you say. “That’s okay. You’re still just as ours.”
He looks at you quickly, then down at his hands, mouth pressed into a line that’s trying not to smile.
You pull into the lot and park, but before he can bolt out, you touch his wrist lightly.
“And for the record,” you add, “you don’t have to call me Mrs. Wayne. If you want to use my name, do. If you ever want to use ‘Mom’…” You shrug, trying to keep it easy. “That door’s open. No rush. No pressure.”
He’s quiet for a beat, eyes fixed on the dashboard.
“Can I… think about it?” he asks, voice smaller than he likes to let people hear.
“Of course you can,” you say. “Thinking is kind of your thing.”
That gets you a real smile. He nods, clears his throat. “Okay. Thanks. For… yeah. The ride. And the rest.”
“Go find your gift, Duke.”
He hops out, and you sit there for a second, watching him in the store window as he moves from lamp to lamp, cupping his hand above each one like he’s already imagining the light falling on someone else’s face.
Tim is the most in shambles with this whole situation, and leaves his panic all over the house.
You find scraps of paper on the counter, on the cave steps, by the coffee machine: lists of ideas with arrows and question marks; tiny, cramped handwriting spelling out things like “book?” “weapon??” “too intense,” “not enough,” and, in one particularly dramatic note, “what do you buy a man whose main hobby is unresolved trauma.”
Five nights before Christmas Eve, you walk into the kitchen and find him hunched over the island, surrounded by empty mugs and printed screenshots. There’s a map of Gotham on the tablet in front of him, zoomed out, blank. His fingers tap restlessly on the counter, nails bitten short.
“Sweetheart,” you say. “Blink twice if you’ve moved from ‘gift search’ to ‘full breakdown.’”
He jerks, almost spilling his mug. “I’m fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.”
You come around to his side and lean your hip against the island, pushing his mug away from the edge before he knocks it over. The screens are a mess—search tabs, spreadsheets, a document titled “Bruce Wayne possible hobbies?” that is entirely blank.
“Mom,” he says, and your name in his mouth sounds like relief and despair at once, “what do you get a man who has everything and likes nothing?”
“Harsh,” you say. “He likes some things.”
“Name three that aren’t crime, you, or stressing out the rest of us.”
You open your mouth. Pause. Close it again. “…Fair.”
He shoves a hand through his hair, keeping it there like he’s holding his head together. “If I get it wrong, it’s not like he’s gonna say anything, he’s just going to internalize it and add it to the file of Ways I Have Failed My Children and—”
You lay your hands on either side of his face, thumbs pressing gently into his cheeks, and tip his head down until your forehead rests against his.
“Breathe,” you say softly. “Come on. In. Out.”
His shoulders rise and fall under your hands, the shaky rhythm slowly evening out.
You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Here’s a crazy idea,” you say. “You ready?”
“Stop trying to solve Bruce.”
He blinks. “That’s literally what I do. That’s my whole role. I’m the designated Bruce translator.”
“Not for this,” you say. “This isn’t a mission. It’s not a riddle. It’s you, telling your dad something you want him to remember every time he walks past it.”
His gaze flickers, uncertainty and hope warring in his face. “Like… a message.”
“Exactly. If you could remind him of the places that really matter to him—not as Batman, but as a father—and put them in one gift… what would that look like?”
You see it hit him. The click behind his eyes. The way his fingers stop tapping and curl around the edge of the counter instead, grounding.
“…I think I know,” he says quietly.
You press a kiss to his eyebrow. “Then start there. The rest will follow.”
As you head back to bed later, you pass the study and catch a glimpse through the half-open door: Tim bent over a printed map, tiny colored pins scattered across the surface, his expression soft and serious. In the middle of the map, his finger rests on the stylized outline of the Manor.
Bruce, of course, works in the shadows.
You wake up one night to find his side of the bed empty and the light under the door to the sitting room on. You pad over, rubbing sleep from your eyes, blanket wrapped around your shoulders.
He’s on the couch in sweatpants and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose, laptop balanced on his knees. The screen reflects in his eyes, lines of text and a chat window with a maker somewhere across the world.
You sink down beside him. “You know, for someone who hates people knowing his business, you’re taking a big risk with targeted ads.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s a secure browser.”
You tilt your head to see the page.
Wood choices. Mechanism notes. A box design with space for a small figure inside—one you recognize from the reference photo attached. Cass, mid-spin, hair flying, face hard and soft at the same time.
The description below mentions vibration strength. Tactile music.
Your chest fills. “She’s going to love that,” you say.
“You think?” Bruce sounds almost… hesitant. “I don’t want it to feel patronizing. Or like I’m… reminding her of what she can’t hear.”
“You’re not,” you say, laying a hand over his. “You’re giving her another way to feel the music. You’re showing her you see her. All of her.”
His fingers turn under yours, lacing with them. The blue light from the screen catches the silver at his temples, the tired lines around his mouth.
“You’re a good dad,” you say softly.
He doesn’t reply, but he leans into you, shoulder to shoulder, the weight of his head just brushing yours. His thumb strokes across your knuckles once, twice.
On the screen, the tiny digital ballerina twirls.
But Damian’s part in all of it is the most absent.
He’s usually underfoot—if not physically, then through the noise he makes: sparring in the training room, arguing with Jason in the hallway, lecturing Titus in the garden. Now, the house has pockets of silence where he used to be.
You notice one of the smaller sitting rooms has its door shut more often than not. The one with good light in the afternoons and a solid little table near the window.
The first time you pass, you hear the soft scrape of wood and the scratch-scratch of pencil.
You pause. Before you can knock, his voice reaches you through the door.
You blink. “I didn’t say I was coming in.”
“I could hear you stop,” he says. “Your footsteps change.”
You lean your shoulder against the wood, smiling. “I see your detective training is paying off.”
“This is… a restricted area,” he adds, the stiffness in his voice covering something more fragile.
“Understood,” you say. “I’ll go haunt someone else. Don’t destroy the furniture.”
“I am not Todd,” he mutters.
The second time you pass by, later that week, the door is open a crack. You should keep walking. You know that. But you hear his voice, low and unsteady in a way you don’t get to hear often.
“…it looks wrong,” he’s saying. “The proportions are off. Her face isn’t— it doesn’t capture—” He breaks off in frustration. “It’s not good enough.”
Alfred’s reply is calm, warm. “Master Damian, art is not about perfection. It is about intention. And yours, I assure you, is very clear.”
There’s a pause. You edge back a step, just out of sight, heart lodged somewhere high in your throat.
“Do you think she’ll like it?” Damian asks, quiet. Younger.
“I think,” Alfred says, “that your mother will be honored you made anything at all for her with your own hands.”
You press your palm lightly against the wall, eyes stinging. When you hear a chair scrape and movement toward the door, you retreat down the hall, wiping at your face before anyone can see.
Christmas Eve looks good on the Manor.
The tree glows in the corner of the room, all warm white lights and mismatched ornaments—some expensive crystal, some obviously made of macaroni and paint by tiny, clumsy hands years ago. The fire snaps quietly. Someone put on a soft playlist that fades into the background like it’s afraid to compete with the noise level in this house.
The noise level is… considerable.
“Okay, okay, ground rules,” Steph says, standing in front of the coffee table like she’s hosting a game show. “No booing, no re-gifting in front of the original gifter, and crying is allowed but if you ugly-cry I’m taking a picture.”
“You take a picture if I look slightly emotional,” Jason says from his spot on the arm of the couch.
“Correct,” she says sweetly.
Alfred glides into the room with the red ceramic bowl from the dinner, now filled with the candy canes they drew that night. “As previously agreed,” he says, “the order has been set by the lengths each of you chose.”
He pulls a folded slip from his pocket and consults it, the picture of ceremony. “First will be Miss Brown. Then Mister Thomas, Miss Cain, Madam, Master Todd, Master Richard, myself, Master Timothy, Master Wayne, and at last, Master Damian.”
Damian looks smug about being last, like he’s won something. Steph pumps a fist. “Ha! Knew I’d be the chaos opener.”
You’re curled at one end of the main couch, knees tucked under you, shoulder pressed against Bruce’s. He’s relaxed in that way only this room brings out of him, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers just brushing your shoulder. Around you, the kids are finding perches: Dick on the floor in front of you, back to the couch; Tim on the other side with his legs crossed, clutching a mug; Duke in an armchair, leaning forward; Cass tucked beside Bruce’s other side; Jason sprawled wherever he can take up the most space.
“Miss Brown,” Alfred says, with a small, indulgent bow. “You have the floor.”
Steph rubs her hands together dramatically, then bounces over to the tree. There’s a moment where she digs, muttering to herself—“Nope. Not that one. That’s emotional damage. Where’s my disaster baby”—and then she comes up with a medium-sized box wrapped in obnoxiously bright paper.
She spins toward Duke, grinning. “Thomas. My victim. Merry Christmas.”
Duke laughs, already shaking his head as she presses the box into his hands and flops back onto the rug to watch.
He opens it cautiously, like it might explode.
Inside, on top, is chaos: a “Kick Me If I’m Brooding” sticker, a stress ball with the bat symbol squashed on the side, a ridiculously yellow headband, and a tiny notebook that says “Emergency Bright Ideas” on the cover in glitter gel pen.
“Oh my god,” Tim wheezes.
Jason is practically falling off the arm of the couch. “Oh, this is beautiful.”
Duke holds up the headband, giving Steph a look. “You’re kidding.”
“You’d look amazing,” she says solemnly. “Gotham’s literal sunshine.”
You can see the hint of something tight at the corner of his mouth, the old anxiety that whispers he’s only ever going to be the joke. Before it can root, Steph gestures at the box.
“Keep going,” she says, tone shifting just enough.
He digs deeper and finds a flat, neatly wrapped package at the bottom. When he peels the paper back, his breath catches.
It’s a pair of patrol gloves—good ones, reinforced and flexible, in his exact suit shade.
His fingers smooth over the material, reverent. “Steph…”
She shrugs, suddenly shy. “You do a lot with your hands. Figured they could use backup.”
He looks up at her, and the grin he gives her is bright and unguarded. “Thanks.”
You catch his eyes flick to you, just once, like he wants to check if he did the “reacting to love” part right. You smile at him, and something in his shoulders loosens.
“Very well done, Miss Brown,” Alfred says.
“Next,” Alfred continues, “Mister Thomas.”
Duke stands, wiping his palms on his jeans, then picks up a tall, carefully wrapped box from under the tree. The paper is neat in that way that says he redid it three times.
He stops in front of Tim and offers it with both hands. “Uh. Merry Christmas, man.”
Tim looks startled, even though he had to know this moment was coming. “For me?”
“No, for the other Tim Drake,” Jason says. “Yes, for you.”
Tim shoots him a face and starts opening it.
When he gets the lid off, he just… stares.
It’s a desk lamp. Sleek, modern, with adjustable arms and a slim bar for the light. It’s clearly not cheap. There’s a little note taped to the base, in Duke’s handwriting: “For the nights when your brain won’t let you stop.”
Tim runs his thumb over the note.
“I, uh,” Duke says, rubbing the back of his neck, “noticed you always rub your eyes in the Cave. Thought, you know. Less eye strain. Might help.”
There’s a beat where Tim doesn’t say anything, and you see Duke start to panic, eyes flicking from the lamp to the floor.
Then Tim looks up, eyes soft.
“Duke,” he says, voice rough, “this is… perfect.”
He gets up and just hugs him. Duke stiffens in surprise, then hugs back, laugh muffled in Tim’s shoulder.
Your heart squeezes. This. This is what you wanted for them.
“Miss Cain,” Alfred says once they separate, his eyes crinkling. “You are next.”
Cass rises gracefully, moving to the tree. She picks up a wrapped bundle that’s… oddly soft. She comes to stand in front of Damian.
He straightens unconsciously, hands tightening on his knees.
She signs first, her hands slow and careful so he doesn’t miss a movement: For you.
He swallows and takes the parcel. The paper comes off in quiet, precise strips.
Inside is a scarf—hand-knitted, Robin colors: deep red and green with a line of yellow running through it. The stitches are not machine-perfect; there’s a little wobble here and there, evidence of labor and learning.
He runs his fingers over it, the yarn catching slightly on his calluses.
You notice the details immediately. One end has a tiny, understated D worked into the corner. The other, tucked more discreetly on the underside where only he would know to look, is a small Hamsa emblem, embroidered in careful blue and gold thread.
Damian’s thumb pauses on that symbol. His face doesn’t change much, but you see it—the flicker in his eyes, the slight tremor in his inhale.
“It is…” he starts, stops, clears his throat. “It is acceptable.”
Cass’s eyes soften. She leans in, presses a quick kiss to the top of his head, and signs against his shoulder: Warm. Safe. You.
He doesn’t push her away.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. It’s almost too soft to hear, but in a room this attentive, nothing gets missed.
Your chest aches with how much you love them.
“Madam,” Alfred says, turning to you. “Your turn.”
You stand, smoothing your hands over your legs, and go retrieve the tote bag from where you stashed it near the back of the tree.
The bag itself is sturdy canvas, embroidered with a little bat and a heart. You walk over to Steph and hold it out.
She grins and takes it, immediately digging inside.
“Okay, first of all: cute,” she says, pulling the tote fully out to admire it. Then she starts going through it: pastel bandages in a little tin — “Adorable, I will absolutely get shot more now”—, hair ties — “Practical, love it”—, a tiny pink grapnel charm, a small notebook labeled “For Emotional Support Only,” and, finally, a Polaroid of the two of you on the rooftop, hair whipped by the wind, her mid-laugh, your arms around her.
She flips it over and reads the back. You know what it says, because you agonized over every word: “For when the world feels too loud. I’m always here. —Mom.”
“Rude,” she says, voice already thick. “Emotional terrorism.”
You open your arms, and she’s across the room in a second, practically tackling you, arms around your neck, laughing and crying all at once.
“Love you, Mommy,” she sniffles into your shoulder.
You tighten your hold. “Love you too, sweetheart.”
When she finally lets go and wipes her eyes, Jason whistles. “Strong opener from the parental unit.”
“Master Todd,” Alfred says dryly, “you are next. Do try to keep things civilized.”
“No promises,” Jason says, hopping off the couch.
He grabs a medium-sized bag from under the tree and strolls over to Dick, who is already trying not to giggle.
“Dickhead,” Jason says solemnly. “From the bottom of my blackened heart: seasonal greetings.”
Dick accepts the bag with exaggerated reverence and pulls out the first thing: a t-shirt.
The words “WORLD’S OKAYEST ACROBAT” shout up at him in bold letters.
Duke doubles over. Steph collapses backwards onto the rug. Even Bruce’s mouth twitches hard.
Dick slaps the shirt against his chest and stands like he’s accepting an award. “I have never felt so seen,” he declares, eyes already wet from laughing.
“Meant to get ‘adequate,’ but they were out,” Jason says.
“Check the bag,” you murmur, already knowingly smiling at Jason.
Dick peeks back in and freezes.
When he pulls his hand out, he’s holding a small ornament—a tiny acrobat figure frozen mid-swing, painted in his first Robin colors. The paint job is a little messy, hand-done, some lines not quite precise.
The laughter dies down into a softer hush.
Jason looks sideways, like he wants to pretend this part didn’t happen. “It was in a bin,” he mutters. “I… fixed it up. Thought, you know. Whatever. Don’t make it weird.”
Dick’s eyes shine. “Too late,” he says, and then he’s launching himself forward.
Jason swears and stumbles, but he doesn’t actually fight the hug. He grunts, arms coming up to steady Dick as he practically climbs him.
“Okay, okay, air,” Jason complains, but his hand comes up to the back of Dick’s neck in a brief squeeze.
You swallow hard. It’s fine. You can rehydrate later.
“Master Richard,” Alfred says after a moment, voice a bit rough, “if you are finished attempting to suffocate your brother, it is your turn.”
Dick sniffs, swipes at his eyes, and grabs his neatly wrapped, perfectly bowed box from under the tree.
He walks over to Alfred with a softness in his shoulders you recognize from the rare times he lets himself be vulnerable.
“Happy Christmas, Alfred,” he says, handing him the gift. “Hope I did okay.”
Alfred’s smile is small and fond as he takes the box. He unwraps it with the same care he gives to everything, folding the paper, setting it aside. When he lifts the lid and pulls out the frame inside, his hand trembles.
You lean forward slightly, catching a glimpse: a much younger Dick sitting on Alfred’s shoulders, arms flung wide, both of them laughing at something out of frame. The photo’s been restored, colors brightened, creases erased, set in a simple, elegant frame.
“I, uh,” Dick says, rubbing the back of his neck, “found it in a box. It was kind of beat up. Thought maybe it deserved, you know. Another chance.”
Alfred doesn’t speak for a long moment.
Then he clears his throat. “I remember that day,” he says quietly. “You insisted on being ‘taller than Master Bruce.’”
“Still am,” Dick says, voice unsteady.
Alfred looks up at him, eyes bright. “You have always stood quite tall, my dear Richard.”
Dick breaks. He folds Alfred into a hug before the older man can protest, holding on a little too long.
You press your hand over your heart.
When they part, Alfred sniffles once, discreetly, and sets the frame carefully on the mantle.
He squares his shoulders. “Well. I suppose it is my turn to contribute to this emotional ambush.”
There’s a ripple of laughter as he retrieves a rectangular package, wrapped in deep green paper, from beside the tree. He walks to Jason.
“Master Jason,” Alfred says. “This is for you.”
Jason takes it slowly, like it might bite. The room gets quiet.
He peels the paper back, revealing a worn but carefully restored book with a new green leather cover, gold-foiled title: Peter Pan.
For a moment he doesn’t move.
His thumb traces the letters. Then he opens the front cover.
On the inside, in old, childish handwriting, are the words you’ve seen in Bruce’s haunted eyes more than once: “If lost, please return to my dad. —Jason.”
Below that, in Alfred’s careful script: “You were never lost to me, my boy.”
Jason’s jaw clenches. He looks away, blinking rapidly.
“Alfred,” he says, voice shredded.
“If it is not to your taste, I’m sure we can find another edition,” Alfred starts.
“Stop it,” Jason says, but it comes out strangled. He squeezes the book to his chest for a second, and you don’t move. Nobody does. This is his moment, and they all know it.
After a beat, he clears his throat, swipes at his face with the heel of his hand. “It’s… yeah. It’s okay.”
It’s so obviously more than okay that your eyes burn.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred says softly, giving Jason the space he needs, as he settles back on the couch. “You are next.”
Tim looks like he might be sick. Then he glances at you. You nod, slow and steady.
He goes to the tree and pulls out a flat frame wrapped in crisp, white paper. No bow. Just clean lines.
He walks it over to Bruce.
“Uh. Merry Christmas, Dad,” he says.
Bruce accepts it with careful hands. The room holds its breath.
He unwraps the paper neatly, revealing a framed map of Gotham—stylized, almost beautiful in its clean lines and muted colors. Scattered across it are tiny pins, each with a small handwritten label.
You recognize them as Bruce’s eyes move from point to point.
Haly’s Circus – “Where you first opened your heart.”
Crime Alley – “Where you met your second son.”
Robinson Park – “Where you listened to me.”
A small dot by an old safehouse – “Where trust began.”
An unremarkable rooftop – “Where you saw her strength.”
A ballroom – “Where you smiled at her for the first time.”
A little library – “Where you asked her to marry you.”
The Manor garden – “Where we all began again.”
And in the center, marked with a golden pin: Wayne Manor.
Under it, in Tim’s careful hand: “Home. Where the story changed.”
The room feels like it shrinks around you. Bruce doesn’t say anything. His thumb hovers over the glass, not quite touching.
“I, um,” Tim says, words tumbling. “I just… I know Gotham is… a lot. For you. For all of us. And I thought maybe it would help to have… a version that’s just—” He swallows. “Just the good parts. The parts you chose. The parts where you were… Dad. Not Batman.”
Bruce exhales slowly, shakily.
He sets the frame on his lap, then reaches out and pulls Tim in. No warning, no hesitation. Just wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds on, pressing his face briefly into Tim’s hair.
“Thank you,” he says, voice rough. “This is… I don’t have words.”
Tim makes a tiny, broken sound into his shoulder. “You don’t need them,” he mumbles.
You blink back tears. One slips out anyway. Bruce’s eyes meet yours over Tim’s head, and there’s so much open, unguarded love in them that it steals your breath.
“Master Wayne,” Alfred says gently after a moment, “you are next. If you can bear to part with your gift long enough to present it.”
Bruce lets Tim go, squeezes his shoulder once more, and sets the framed map carefully against the coffee table.
He rises and goes to the tree, retrieving a medium-sized box wrapped simply in dark blue paper. He kneels in front of Cass.
Her eyes go wide, her attention locking fully on his face. You see him shift, make sure he has her full focus, his mouth clear, his hands moving as he speaks so she can catch both.
“For you,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
She accepts the box, opens it with careful fingers. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, is a wooden music box. Dark, smooth wood, polished to a shine. The lid has a small carved symbol: a dancer’s silhouette.
She looks up at him. He nods toward it.
Instead of traditional tinkling music, the mechanism inside hums in a way you can feel more than hear. Her hand, still resting on the edge, picks up the vibration. Her eyes widen.
In the center of the box, on a tiny metal rod, a figure spins slowly—a ballerina, but not generic. Her hair, her posture, even the shape of her nose: it’s Cass, rendered in miniature, mid-pirouette.
Bruce touches the top of the box lightly so she can see his words. “The craftsman worked from a photo,” he says. “And I asked them to make it so you could feel the song, even if you can’t hear it.”
Her hand slides fully onto the surface, feeling the pattern of the movement, feeling the rhythm travel through her bones. Her eyes close for a moment, shoulders trembling.
When she opens them again, they’re filled with tears.
She sets the box down on the coffee table and launches herself into his arms.
Bruce goes back a little with the force of it, then wraps her up, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other around her shoulders. His jaw clenches like he’s holding back his own tears.
“Thank you,” she says against his chest, her voice quiet and rough but clear enough to catch.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs into her hair.
Somewhere to your left, Steph sniffles. “We’re really just hitting every possible tear duct tonight, huh.”
You laugh wetly, wipe your cheek.
Alfred glances at the list again, though you already know what he’s going to say. “And lastly,” he announces, “Master Damian.”
Damian stands, a little too quickly, and you see the faintest hesitation before he goes to the tree. He picks up a box you hadn’t noticed before—simple, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. No flashy bow. No label. The kind of gift that looks almost plain, until you notice how carefully the corners are folded.
“Ummi,” he says, stopping in front of where you sit. His voice is steady but his grip on the box is not. He holds it out. “This is… for you.”
You take it with both hands, suddenly aware of everyone watching. The weight of it is solid, grounded. You can feel the faint unevenness under the paper—wood beneath, not cardboard.
Your fingers are not entirely steady, but you unwrap it anyway, peeling the paper back without tearing it. Damian watches your hands like he’s tracking every move.
When the paper falls away, you’re holding a box.
It’s hand-carved, dark wood, the lid adorned with a simple relief of a bird mid-flight. It’s not perfect—one wing is a little thicker than the other, the lines not machine-smooth—but you can see him in every uneven groove, every careful cut.
You run your fingers over the carving. The wood is warm from his hands.
“Damian,” you whisper. “Did you make this?”
His chin lifts a little, defensive and vulnerable all at once. “Yes. It is… primitive. I am still learning—”
“It’s beautiful,” you say, and his mouth closes on the self-criticism.
The breath goes out of you.
Inside, the box is divided gently into sections. In one, there’s a tiny carved bird, even smaller than the one on the lid, smooth and a little lopsided, with “Ummi” carved carefully along its side. The letters wobble just enough to prove they were done by hand, not a laser.
Another section holds a pressed flower between two small pieces of glass—the same color as the blossoms in the Manor garden. You remember that day. Damian’s hands in the soil, his hair in his eyes, the way he’d pretended not to care when you told him you were proud.
There’s a folded scrap of fabric: the pattern from the first scarf you helped him wrap properly around his neck that winter.
You lift a small notebook, handmade, the cover painted with a clumsy but endearing attempt at the Manor’s silhouette. On the front, in neat writing: “Firsts.”
Your fingers tremble as you open it.
Inside are sketches and little glued-in photos, each labeled in his careful script.
“The first breakfast you made just for me.” A pencil drawing of you at the stove, your profile soft, his own tiny silhouette at the table.
“The first time I called you Ummi.” An image of your arms around him, your face not fully detailed but unmistakably tender.
“The first time you patched me up after patrol.” A photo, grainy and a little off-center, of you sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, gently taping gauze around his wrist while he scowls at something off-camera.
“The first time I saw you smile because of me.” A sketch of you in the garden, head thrown back, one hand over your mouth, the other still holding a crooked, dirt-covered sapling.
Your vision blurs. The words swim.
You lower the notebook back into the box and notice, for the first time, the inside of the lid. There, burned into the wood in steady, precise letters, are the words:
You can’t breathe for a moment.
“Ummi?” Damian’s voice is small. “If you dislike it, I can—”
That breaks whatever fragile dam was holding you together. The first tear hits the edge of the box, darkening the wood.
“Oh,” you manage, and then you’re crying. Real, full, hot tears that you can’t blink away fast enough. Your chest aches with it.
Damian freezes, eyes wide, lips parting as if struck. “I— I have upset you,” he says. His face tightens, panic scraping at the edges. “I knew it was inadequate, I should have—”
“Hey,” you say, but the word comes out rough. You put the box carefully on the coffee table like it’s made of spun sugar and reach for him, and fold him into your arms like you’ve been waiting his whole life for this moment.
He’s always met affection with elbows and sharp teeth, with defensive barbs and limited tolerance. You expect him to pull back, to scoff and fold his arms.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, sees your face, and then lets you take him. His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist—not clinging, but anchoring. You pull him into closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed between his shoulder blades.
He is stiff at first, all tense lines and held breath.
“You did not do anything wrong,” you whisper into his hair. “Damian, look at me.”
He turns his face just enough that you can see his eyes. They’re wide, shining, his lower lip caught between his teeth like he’s bracing for impact.
“This is the best gift I have ever received,” you say, and it’s as true as anything you’ve ever said. “You hear me? The best. You… you took your memories, and your hands, and your heart, and you put them all in one place and gave them to me. I have never—” You break off, laugh weakly through a sob. “I have never felt so loved and so attacked at the same time.”
A tiny, startled huff of a laugh escapes him.
You feel him soften, just a little, some inner string loosening. Slowly, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, his arms come up around you, circling your waist. His forehead presses into your shoulder.
“I wished,” he says, voice muffled, “to give you something worthy of what you have done for me. I know it is not enough.”
“It’s more than enough,” you say fiercely. “It’s you. That’s… all I’ve ever wanted.”
You hold him, and—miracle of miracles—he lets you. No knuckles, no teeth. Just the quiet, shaking exhale of a boy who has carried too much and is finally, finally letting you carry some of it with him.
When you pull back, just enough to see his face, his eyes are damp, lashes clumped. He looks embarrassed by the moisture on your shoulder.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” you say, thumb brushing under his eye. “For anything about this.”
His gaze flicks to the box on the table, then back to you. There’s a softness there now, something unarmored.
“I am… glad you like it,” he says.
“‘Like’ is an insult,” you tell him. “I adore it. I will probably be buried with it.”
“Morbid,” Jason says from somewhere behind Damian. His voice is rougher than usual.
“Shut up,” you and Damian say at the same time.
The room laughs, the tension breaking like a wave.
You wipe your face and settle back into your spot on the couch. Damian takes the seat at your feet, leaning back against your legs. You automatically rest a hand on his shoulder, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t move away.
Dick is leaning into Jason, head on his shoulder, the “Okayest Acrobat” shirt draped across his lap. Jason has Peter Pan within reach, fingers touching it now and then, like he needs to reassure himself it’s real.
Alfred stands by the mantle, one hand resting on the frame of that old-new photo, watching you all with a fondness that radiates like another source of light.
Tim is still seated by Bruce’s knee, the framed map propped carefully against the coffee table like a relic. Bruce’s hand rests lightly in Tim’s hair, absent and tender, while Cass sits on his other side, her fingers splayed across the music box, eyes half-closed, feeling the vibration of her own tiny dancer.
Steph is on the rug with Duke, leaning against his legs, trying to stick the “Kick Me If I’m Brooding” sticker to his sock while he laughs and bats her hands away.
It’s chaos. It’s mismatched, and loud, and absolutely ridiculous.
“Alfred,” you say, voice still a little shaky. “We need a picture.”
He smiles. “Already prepared, Madam.”
He retrieves the old tripod from the corner, sets the camera on it with practiced hands, angles it toward the tree and the crowded couch. There’s a brief flurry as everyone tries to look presentable and ends up just piling closer instead—Dick dragging Jason down from the armrest, Steph yelling that she needs to be in the front “for symmetry,” Duke trying to move out of the way and being pulled back in, Tim scooting to one side, making room for Cass to tuck herself more comfortably against Bruce, Damian staying where he is at your feet, your hand still resting on his shoulder.
Bruce’s arm slides around your back, pulling you closer into his side. You tuck your head against his temple, eyes still a little raw but full.
Alfred sets the timer and moves to join you, slipping into a spot behind the couch, one hand resting lightly on the back—on all of you at once.
“Everyone ready?” he asks.
“Steph, get your elbow out of my ribs—”
“Tt, Todd, if you lean on me I will stab you—”
“Smile, kiddos!” you say, laughter in your voice.
In the moment it captures, no one is perfectly posed. Steph is in mid-laugh, Duke’s head tipped toward her. Tim’s eyes are crinkled, half-turned toward Bruce. Cass is looking down at the music box in her hands. Jason’s mouth is caught in the ghost of a smile he’d deny. Dick is beaming like the sun. Damian is leaning back just slightly into your leg, your hand solid on his shoulder. Bruce is looking at you, not the camera.
Later, when you see it framed on the mantle, you’ll think it looks exactly like it felt:
A little messy. A little crowded. Some edges still sharp.
But held together, in the center, by something as simple and as complicated as love.
©starlitfables 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work
