hi babes. For those of you that don’t celebrate, I still hope you are wonderful wherever you are. Kiddo was with her dad last night, so I was all by myself, got a little sad, and thought of this little thing for the holidays. I’ve done angsty ones before (like this one), but I won’t break your heart with it <3
**
And the softly falling snow flutters around Gotham, painting the city in a semblance of joy. Christmas lights on buildings and store fronts, a decorated tree in Robinson Square, all signals the city is feeling the good cheer.
Christmas Eve and all is calm.
Except for the vigilante standing at the top of the Wallstone Apartments, grapple in one hand, planning his next jump while the snow piles on his shoulders, and the glinting lights sparkle off his harness in the night.
The muted comm in his ear is silent, no witty banter back-and-forth or calm, cool orders, no sounds of flying over the skyline or fights breaking out against the criminals. It’s as quiet as the city itself.
He hadn’t expected any different, knowing the patrol roster would be empty. The Bats would be at the Manor for hours already, eating and celebrating the holiday, taking a well-deserved night off unless something awful happened, and major crime took them away from the warmth and laughter.
And even if he isn’t part of it all anymore, not since he’d brought back the OG Batman from time, even if he didn’t wear the R in front of his heart like a brand, even if he’d been gone long enough to get the point, that maybe he’d only been the stand-in all along, Red Robin is still determined to keep moving and make damn sure there would be no reason to disturb their family gathering tonight.
The pain in his chest at being the last one left standing had waned in the last year, enough that he could be in the city without it being such fucking agony. It’s easier to stand at his old haunt with nostalgia dogging his steps, looking out for the same hidden niches and fire escapes sturdy enough to hold his weight. It’s easier to stay out of the way when he’s back, to run Wayne Enterprises without getting in Bruce’s sight, to patrol the outskirts and gaps away from the family, to keep his comm on mute, to keep his penthouse Perch his main haven instead of coming back to the Cave or the Manor or the Bunker and pushing himself into their lives where he probably never should have been in the first place.
It’s easier...for everyone.
It’s easier not to make waves but to just bow out gracefully and work on the backend instead. So, yesterday, he’d bid his teammates at Titan’s Tower good-bye as they all left to go to their families for Christmas, and he boarded a plane back to Gotham with every intention of keeping the city safe while the protectors got their time to celebrate.
And the crisp, cold air is hard on his lungs after thwarting the first of three escape attempts from Arkham, bruised to the bone from some pretty good fights along the way. A few hours before dawn and he could go back to his Perch, check his injuries from the last tussle with his team to make sure he isn’t approaching an infection, and pass out for the first time in over sixty hours.
Renee Montoya, as it happens, is also on patrol, and flags him down with a full cup of coffee, grinning at his whiteouts, pulling the collar of her jacket up while they talk about the few B&Es he’d already hit.
A swing to the soup kitchen and further to the homeless shelter. Skimming along the roof of the crooked pawn shop in the Narrows and down to the usual hangout for a few of the lesser gangs, flaring the cape out to be obvious, sending the message someone is out tonight, and a beating might not be the best present for the morning.
An alarm raised at Blackgate, and he’s riding the Ducati at breakneck speed, jaw tight against the bitter cold, ignoring the numbing in his legs and fingers.
It’s no shock someone as smart as Falcone would have his minions try to bust him out when the guard duty is light for the holidays.
He shoves one out of the way of a hail of bullets, his armor taking most of the damage, and his thigh taking another in a bout of stupidly bad luck. He brings them down fast enough to keep the fighting to a minimum and as many guards safe as possible.
He stays long enough to zip tie the cranky ones, waits for the red and blue lights, the scream of sirens signalling back-up is on the way.
The ride back to town is hazy because he didn’t get the tourniquet on fast enough and blood paints a nasty wreath-like shape in the snow.
The Ducati coasts to a shadowy alleyway a few block from his Perch, and he falls off, drags himself behind a dumpster for a breather. Midnight chimes across the city, a Merry Christmas to go with his blood loss.
And when he’s finally caught his breath enough to stand with the whitehot pain in the meat of his thigh starting to be a problem, his ear cracks to life, hazy in his brainpan.
“Can’t trace him. He doesn’t have trackers in his suit.”
“What the fuck ya talkin’ ‘bout, O?”
“We will absolutely address that later, Hood. For now, we have priorities.”
He laughs off his insane imagination and manages to get to his feet. He hobbles to the Ducati, pushes it behind the dumpster, out of sight, and makes a note to get it in the morning.
The grapple is slippery in his hand, and he fumbles a little on the way up, not realizing it’s because his glove is bloody and not conducive to any kind of a good grip. No running this time, just hobbling his way two rooftops over and he’s home free.
Wavery, he doesn’t fall when Nightwing and the Red Hood land it on either side of him, but damn if it isn’t a close thing.
“Finally!”
“Fer fuck’s sake, Red. Ya couldn’ta bother callin’ er some shit?”
Which throws him for an important second because what the hell are they even doing out?
The step away is automatic, stepping back from the vigilantes that, in their own ways, tried to kill him. Jason, at least, didn’t try to hide the intent.
Slowly, N raises a hand, “easy, Red. It’s okay now, we’re–”
“Go home,” is all he can think to say. “Go back to your family. I’ve already taken care of the city tonight.” And turns his back on them both with copper in his mouth and the pain in his chest more acute than the one throbbing in his leg.
But the tall, imposing shadow right behind him manages to stop his thought processes because of all things, he sure as hell didn’t expect this.
“The guard at Blackgate reported you could have been hit,” Robin takes a step away from Batman’s side, a hand flying out to sweep the cape back, the reinforced tights stained even in the dim. “It seems he was correct.”
Penned in on all sides, B and Robin, N and Hood, all of them closing in on him.
“Is the bullet still in?” Hand on his shoulder and fuck is it familiar.
“Why the hell didn’t cha call fer back-up?!”
“We need to get him home. Now.”
“Do not strain it, Drake. It may have hit an artery.”
Pulling out of Batman’s hold is not something he can remember doing before tonight, and it’s easier said than done. The hand tightens down for a second before Red makes another try, lunging back to keep them all in his sight.
The vigilantes around him go quiet, all those whiteouts fixed.
“Go home. I came out tonight so the Bats could enjoy Christmas. Arkham’s been secured and so has Blackgate.” He grips his thigh, tightens his hand so the pain helps clear his head a little.
Hood holds up both hand, palms out in the I come in peace that really has no place between them.
(Really, what’s a slit throat and bat-a-rang in the chest between enemies?)
And Nightwing still has a hand out toward him, takes a careful, easy step. But the Batman? He gives absolute no fucks about what his middle son is spewing, just strides up, moves fast and furious enough to have Red Robin up in his arms, tight against the yellow insignia on his chest, turns in a flare of cape, and dives off the roof.
“What the fuck–?!”
The Batmobile slides open silently, and B falls right in the driver’s seat without a ruffle, slams the button to start the massive engine, an arm around Red’s to keep the younger vigilante against his chest, in his lap, held securely. Robin lifts the legs off his seat and joins them.
The Dynamic Duo ignore the pointed, “wait!” as the hatch slides back in place and the car takes off down the silent, snowy street.
Robin reaches to adjust the tourniquet, a quiet, “hold your breath, this shall not be...pleasant.”
B’s hand moves to grip his shoulder while the other pilots the big car, pulling Red Robin deeper into his body, trying to shield him in some crazy way that seems too much, too fucking much, to be real.
The adjustment takes him by surprise, the abruptness of it, of them, of this, taking him completely–
out.
Which is how the Batman leaps out of the Batmobile, with Tim limp and loose in his arms, Damian following on his heels with quicker steps.
“My word,” Alfred turns away from setting up coffee, a hopeful gesture for Master Tim’s sake.
“That’s not what I hoped for,” Stephanie is out of the computer chair in a heartbeat, her ugly Christmas sweater still lighting up since Dick and Jay said there wouldn’t be a need for anyone else to suit up tonight. She and Cass elected to stay behind and keep Alfred company while they boys went to collect their wayward Robin.
Cass moves silently past, already throwing the screen back to the medical bay, her eyes narrowed on the swaying arm and tights darkened with blood.
The echo of Ducatis hits as Alfred scrubs his hands, gloves up, and Steph helps Bruce maneuver around the traps in Tim’s suit.
It’s all hands on deck with Cass and Dami helping to ready supplies, stripping off pieces of the suit when they can.
Dick tosses his gloves and gauntlets the minute they throw themselves off the bikes, Jay dropping the helmet at his workstation on the way.
By the computer, Barbara keeps searching, her likewise ugly Christmas sweater a tacky Riddler dancing with the tastefully done rhyme: Jingle Bells, Batman smells! Robin laid an egg. The Batmobile lost it’s wheel is absolutely perfect for the night.
Until she digs around to see what Red Robin has been in to since his plane hit Gotham, then goes a little further to see what’s been on the Titan’s roster the last few weeks.
The report is grim, and she gives it with a hard tone as Duke comes into the medical bay with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, frowning over bullet fragments pinging in a metal tray.
“By his damn self?” Because Jay feels it bares repeating.
“By himself,” Barbara confirms, wheeling cautiously around to reach through the bodies and squeeze the unmoving hand.
The bruises and contusions make the point, drive home some very hard to believe things as the Bats take him in to the skin. The new scars aren’t in his medical report, and B shoves back the cowl, eyes moving to memorize each one, already planning how he’s going to ease Tim in to talking about them all.
Dick runs a bare hand through Tim’s hair while Jay puts in an IV, Damian grips a bare ankle, his expression grim. Cass winds an arm around Steph’s waist to ground her, watches her best friend blink back tears and hold a hand to her mouth in disbelief. Duke stands with arms folded over his chest, looks for any indication he can jump in and help.
In a few hours, everyone is in pajamas, in various stages of passed out around the couch when Tim comes to slowly, strangely warm for being out in the middle of Gotham on Christmas Eve.
(What the fuck?)
He catches his breath when the ceiling above is one he recognizes all too painfully. He doesn’t even get the chance to move to sit up, to try maneuvering around all the bodies splayed in his favorite sitting room in Wayne Manor because Bruce is someone with an instinct that flares when one of his Robins is obviously in need.
He’s awake, completely alert before Tim’s hand moves the blanket off enough to try getting free over the back of the couch and out.
“Thank God,” and Bruce’s expression is so awfully, terribly relieved, Tim has to look away or be reduced to that teenage kid, shoving himself in their lives trying to save this man from himself.
And since, well Batman, Bruce is up on the couch just that fast, holding Tim in his lap, against his chest, rocking him gently back and forth, arms tight.
“I’ve been so worried about you,” breathed against his too long hair, “when you wouldn’t come home, wouldn’t come back. I thought...it doesn’t matter what I thought, but you’re home and we’re going to take care of you.”
“N-no, I can’t...I shouldn’t be here. I– you should have let me go, I don’t...I’m not–” but his voice wavers when those arms lock down, keep him from wiggling away.
“Yes, yes, you should be here. Right here with us where you belong. No more running, Tim. I’m not letting you go back to Titan’s Tower until you tell me everything. We’re going to solve cases and update your files and talk about what a pain in your ass the team is. We’re going to go to WE together next time and text each other in board meetings to keep from falling asleep. You’re going to patrol with me and Dick and Damian until you remember this is your home too.”
And Bruce only lets up enough to pull the blanket up to Tim’s shoulders, rocks them both gently while his other children sleep on.
“Bruce,” is watery and lost, is so many things that make his heart ache painfully.
“I know, well, at least some of it,” he huffs against the top of his son’s messy bedhead, “but this? You coming back? This is my Christmas Miracle, Tim.”
A big hand loosens enough to rub soothing circles on his back, feeling the tremble that go through Tim’s body that has nothing to do with the hole in his leg. But it’s fine because he’ll sit here all day and into the night, just like this if he needs to, will keep his middle son in place if it keeps Tim from running back to the Titans, to give him the evidence he needs to see.
(How much they need him.)
He holds on and soothes while the tree in front of him blinks brightly and the presents below wait for the excitement of his sleeping kids to wake up and rip them open. And strewn around the base, packages and packages marked Tim and Timmy and Drake and Pain in the ass and Boy Wonder and Master Tim all from the last two years without their third Robin are waiting to be piled up in his lap and spill out on the couch beside him. Are waiting for him as patiently as all the sleeping bodies have been. Waiting for him to come home, waiting for him to finally, finally come back.
By the time Alfred comes in with a tray of coffee, hoping to see their missing member awake without trying to leave, Tim is laying exhausted against Bruce’s chest, the two talking softly.
“I just...I–”
“I know, kiddo, I’m sorry you ever thought that.”
“B...”
“It’s okay. We’ll work it out, we’ll work together to make it better for you. Don’t give up on me, Tim.”
“Like that’s ever going to happen? The rest of the world thought you were dead, you know.”
Seeing the look on Master Tim’s face when he takes the first sip of coffee is intensely gratifying, watching him devour the omelette (tomatoes and spinach, still his favorite of course) before Alfred’s other charges are awake sets a bit of starch in his spine because the young man is woefully under weight. Another omelette is certainly in order.
Dick barely blinks his eyes open before he’s latching on to his little brother with his own octopus hold engaged, and refuses to relinquish the bird while the others start waking up to gather around him.
Tears are shed and the hugs are so tight, laughter following on the edges. Gifts are piled and the attention is set on him as he slowly opens them, blinking back so his eyes don’t spill over.
And he gets to have this warmth in the niche of Dick’s lap with hands desperately holding on, grounding him here in the Manor instead of in the silent Tower or his empty Perch.
He gets Dami gingerly handing him a wrapped package that’s a book of sketches, him in his red and black, him with a grin and domino, him with an arm around Kon and Bart, him and Dick on patrol, him and B walking to the open Batmobile, ready to take on the night. He gets a serious lecture on the statistics of sepsis and a finger wagging in his face that Dami will not tolerate his family being in such danger, Drake, and yes, that includes you.
He gets Steph holding his hand too tight, her eyes watery and lower lip trembling with whatever she’d seen while he was riding the unconscious train, and Cass rubbing his scalp with her free hand and smiling that same gentle smile from that time she came for him in the fight against Ra’s crazy ass sister.
He gets Jason Todd putting a fresh cup of coffee in his hand and a soft half-smile that seems to tell a story he’d never thought he’d live long enough to hear, and Babs treating him the same as always, going on about the new Ransomware she’d planted in Lonnie’s systems just for a hoot.
He gets to low-five Duke when the guy helps get some of the intense attention away, steering most of them back to the tree to help hand out gifts and get spots cleared so Alfred can bring in food with Jay helping so the butler can catch a seat and accept brightly wrapped packages.
And the day moves into afternoon, terrible Hallmark Christmas movies turn into awful 80′s action movies with Christmas themes (Jason making fun of Lethal Weapon is literally the best thing he’s ever seen), and it’s strange to see someone waiting for him in the hall anytime he’s had to use the bathroom, or hobbles upstairs to change clothes.
(He never suspected he’d still have a room, a place, a workstation, a set of clothes that fit. Never suspected any of this to be waiting, thought these days were long gone and acceptance was the road better taken.)
A chorus of hell no’s! and Dick literally wrapping him up in a stifling hold keeps him in for the night when he follows in the back of the group down to the Cave and picks up his suit, assesses the damage briefly but starts to wrap his wrists anyhow.
Jason is the one to take the tape out of his hand around Dick’s crushing denial, and another finger wagging in his face with some nu-uh Timmers. That shit ain’t gonna happen, feel me? on the side.
Alfred caps it all off, mildly remarking how Master Tim would absolutely be able to work comms in their absence since someone of the household would need to clean-up the mess upstairs since he apparently isn’t getting any younger.
So he finds himself plunked down in the chair by the big computer, O grinning next to him on her laptop, warming up her system to plug into the criminal side of Gotham and get their night started right.
And this chain of events might not be what he imaged a few hours, a few days, a few weeks ago when memories of the Manor hit him in his roughest moments, gave him a bit of strength to keep moving, but it may just be the evidence he needs to also believe in Christmas miracles.
Fingon watches Aegnor and Angrod walk back to their people and encampment, muttering darkly among themselves. Then, Fingon continues to walk, catching up to his father, who returned to their tent. Once inside and privacy is guaranteed, Fingolfin allows himself to collapse onto his chair. Fingon makes himself useful and moves around to add another piece of wood to the brazier and serve cups of wine.
“Caranthir is the one in charge,” Fingon says without preamble, handing over the cup of wine to his father. “But this is not to say Maglor does not know what he is doing. But if we hope to make a dent against Maglor, the road will have to be given to us by Caranthir.”
Fingolfin is ashen-faced. There has been a great gulf of enmity between himself and Feanor, but, deep in his heart, he had loved his half-brother. Fingolfin’s very simple goals that made him lead the rest of the Noldor across the Ice is the intense desire to see Feanor again and beat him into a pulp. And then after that, he was prepared to follow through with his vow made at the Mahanaxar: that Feanor would lead and he would follow.
And Maedhros, Maedhros whom he had put much hope on to wrestle peace with among the Noldor– gone! Taken–
Fingolfin takes a very big drink of his wine.
“They have started building the beginnings of the city,” Fingon is still talking. “They must have emptied the King’s Grand Treasury. There is no way they could set down roots this fast without gold and precious things. Caranthir must have taken everything.” Fingon then pauses to drink his wine. Then, a sly little chuckle. “Uncle Arafinwe would be returning to barren land, so to speak.”
Fingolfin turns to his eldest son. Fingon meets his gaze steadily. Hardship had worn them both down, and Fingolfin notes the patches of freeze injury on Fingon’s cheeks and forehead.
“What is the wisest course of action?” Fingolfin asks his son.
Fingon takes a big swig of his wine as well. “Atar, I am afraid we are on our own.”
Surprise on Fingolfin’s face. Fingon looks at him.
“Atar, now is the moment to steel yourself. We have survived the Ice and reached Endore, and in this land, there is opportunity and chances we have never had in Valinor,” Fingon begins. “Do you remember Uncle Feanor’s words? Here, in the East, the lowly can make himself great, and the great may be toppled. You have to reign in my cousin Finrod. You know very well why he chose Exile rather than return to Tirion with Uncle Arafinwe. Him and Galadriel will need to be controlled early on, Atar. Do not let the favor which Finrod gave to you during the Crossing hamper you from asserting yourself.”
[on tenterhooks / Part 25 of Noldorin Finances / AO3]
