Warnings: none

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

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Christmas Eve

He opened the kitchen door of the old house, the room was dark, the heat turned down. The only thing which implied someone lived here occasionally was the digital clock across the room blinking an unending stream; 12:00...12:00...12:00...

He hadn't been home, such as it were, in almost two months. There had been the usual problems with Arkham, the near invasion from Brother Blood and his friends followed by Prometheus doing everything possible to destroy the JLA and their various home cities. Roy lost his arm and then...

And then Lian died.

Pulling a beer from the fridge he twisted off the cap and walked through the darkened rooms; Bruce was in Europe trying to get Batman, Inc going (something he had serious reservations about, not that anyone cared about his opinion, of course), Tim was god knew where, Alfred was in England, the staff released for the holidays, Damian was his mother, thank god. He was on his own.

Opening the door to the main study he sat in the large leather chair behind the antique desk, a small Tiffany desk lamp the only light, casting enough to let him look around at the familiar bookshelves, the wide screen wall-mounted TV, the expensive pens and accoutrements on the desk and the collectibles here and there, the old family portraits and photographs on the mantle. The shadows were deep and oppressive.

He felt old.

He was twenty-four.

He allowed himself to wallow for a few more minutes and then shook his head; this wouldn't help anything. Seriously, buck the hell up, Grayson and show some spine. Enough pity-party, you're better than this.

Way better than this. He got up and walked back to the garage.

Straightening his shoulders, decision made, picked up his jacket, turned around and quickly started the old station wagon. An old woody left over from the fifties, it had belonged to Bruce's grandparents and was held in memory or something. Privately he'd always thought being sentimental about a car was sort of extreme but then extreme was pretty much Bruce's middle name.

It was cold in the car, the heat taking a long time to come up, the engine unused for too long but—like all of the vehicles in the ridiculously large garage it was in perfect tune, battery charged and gas tank full. Nothing less would be unacceptable.

It was close to midnight, the streets were almost deserted, the stores closed, most of the houses dark. Driving, not even really sure what it was he was looking for he finally found it, a shopping center, a huge parking lot with just a few cars still near the main door. On impulse he turned in and found a spot near the door. It was really cold out.

Inside he could hear the registers being closed out, the employees tired and wanting to go home, wishing the last stragglers would finish and just leave, get out, let them get their own last minute chores done.

He took a cart and started to wander through the enormous store, up and down the too brightly lit aisles, glancing at the picked over shelves, the occasional broken package, the cheap clothing and discounted toys, the marked down electronics.

Finally, just as the manager announced that the store would be closing in five minutes,he finished his selections and made his way to the last opened register. A few minutes later, credit card back in his wallet, he was loading the packages into the back of the woody and headed home, just as a few flakes began to fall in his headlights, skittering away in the air stream as he made his way along the dark and narrow roads.

Back at the house, car safely in the garage, he unloaded his purchases, carrying them into the study. He considered calling a friend or two but then thought better of it when he saw that it was now after one AM.

Getting himself another beer, changed his mind and pulled the chilled Moet from the fridge, popped the cork and took one of the antique champagne glasses from the cabinet. Taking his wine and his packages into the study, he set to work.

First he pulled the small, pre-lit and somewhat cheesy fake Christmas tree from it's box. Standing a proud two and a half feet tall (including the plastic stand), it claimed pride of place next to the fireplace. When he realized what was wrong with this picture, he moved the tree to the large desk, centered on the antique Tiffany blotter pad, struck a long match and lit the already set kindling and logs. Much better.

Dick plugged in the small tree, the fiber-optics starting immediately, changing color at the ends of every scrawny branch as the internal color wheel audibly rotated. Next he broke opened the box of small plastic ornaments, arranging them to his satisfaction.

Yes, absolutely. A crackling fire and a decorated tree made all the difference.

Almost.

He went over to the entertainment center and found a CD of Christmas songs, courtesy of Celine Dion. A second glance showed him that Celine had autographed the plastic case to Bruce. In french. Of course she had.

Music, a crackling fire, champagne and a tree. He was almost there. On the third shelf of the main bookcase were a row of albums, the kind any family would have (though the ones belonging to the Wayne family were embossed leather, tooled in gold leaf). Taking the smaller, battered blue plastic album in his right hand, he sat in the big chair by the fireplace and started turning the pages, one by one.

His parents standing together, arm in arm, smiling. Shots of their trailer, the old red Ford pick-up which hauled it from gig to gig, his dad's old Harley cross tied in the back. Himself in a cheap umbrella stroller, maybe a year or so old. Him standing on his dad's outstretched palm, dad's other hand steadying him, both laughing. Looking up from an arithmetic worksheet, annoyed. Hugging an elephant's trunk. His mother in her new costume, feigning modesty, covering her chest with her hands, laughing. Blurred photos of their flying in progress. Publicity stills, posed shots. Reviews. A close up of the main poster featuring The Flying Graysons

He refilled his glass, drained it then refilled it again.

Flipping another couple of pages of the album he watched himself grow from just reaching to his father's waist to almost getting up to his shoulders. Dad hadn't been all that tall, maybe five foot seven or so and his mother wasn't much more than five feet even. He's taken after some other part of the family, maybe a grandparent or uncle or someone since he'd reached five ten, a giant for his family and he had at least half a head on his dad...

Another glass of champagne.

Yeah, if his parents hadn't been killed. If they were still alive he'd probably be spending the holiday with them in the little house down in Venice, Florida; the one which had been sold as part of their estate, the one he'd thought about buying but decided against. He realized, as he sat out front of the place in a rented car, that there was no point, that it was just a house, that someone else lived there now.

He'd moved on.

The fire snapped, a log slipping down and sending up a small shower of sparks.

Nah, he was doing fine. He'd been taken in by Bruce Frigging Wayne and, after a couple of rough months—or years—adjusting, had settled in just fine. He'd seen, been to and done things and places most people dreamed about. He knew the Justice League, f'cryin' out loud; he'd led the Justice League, f'chrissake. He was goddamn Nightwing—beat that!

Focusing with some small effort, picking up the bottle, only slightly surprised to see that he'd pretty much drained it. Figuring there was no point in wasting the few drops left in the bottom (well, more like three inches or so) he poured it out.

Okay, he was so special, what was he doing spending Christmas Eve drinking alone?

The fire snapped again, a section of the bottom log falling through the grate to the orange embers below. The mantle clock struck 3:30. If he'd gone out on patrol he'd probably be getting home about now, taking a tour through the fridge to see what was there, maybe lucking out with some leftover Chinese or (better yet), some of Alfred's cookies.

The champagne was gone and he was too drunk to do much of anything other than get his butt upstairs and into bed. But it was chilly tonight and the sheets would feel like he'd slid his feet into an ice bath. Not tempting. But he was getting tired.

Screw it.

Slightly shakily he hauled himself over to the big chesterfield couch facing the fireplace, pulled the oversized, hand-knit wool throw from the back, punched a throw pillow into shape and closed his eyes.

The next thing he was aware of was the smell of fresh brewed coffee. That was followed by the pounding headache and the fuzzy, foul tasting coating in his mouth. Opening his eyes, he saw the silver tray sitting on the desk, a plate covered by a silver dome and a small carafe undoubtedly holding the coffee. And a glass of what could only be fresh squeezed orange juice. And the fire was blazing again.

"Good afternoon, sir. I took the liberty of assuming that you might be hungry."

"Huh?" Sitting up, the throw falling back to the couch, Dick blearily looked around. Alfred was uncovering the food, muted light was coming through the tall windows, snow heavily falling beyond the glass. It looked cold, frigid, in contrast to the warm fire.

"You may find it easier to eat sitting at the desk and make sure to know that this will not, in any way, become a habit. Civilized people eat at a table and sleep in a bed. Is that understood? I suggest you start your meal with the aspirin I supplied."

Totally. "Yes, Alfred." He moved over to the desk chair, the empty champagne bottle now gone. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now,after you finish that, I further suggest that we call Master Bruce in here and see what Father Christmas brought us."

"Wha?"

"I believe I've told you repeatedly over the years that 'Excuse me' is appropriate." He left the room, off to do whatever Alfred had on his list.

The small, plastic tree was plugged in, the fiber optic lights still revolving through it's color changes but now, surrounding the desk, were a pile of at least two dozen elaborately wrapped boxes ranging from large (a new helmet?) to the small (cuff links?). What the...how...? He looked around in some confusion as Alfred came back in, carrying his own cup of Earl Grey. The presents he'd bought last night was carefully wrapped in plastic Walmart shopping bags. Oh well, too late now.

"Master Bruce finished his business earlier than expected so he picked me up at Heathrow, we returned about ten this morning and found you here quite dead to the world. If I might suggest, perhaps a shower and fresh clothing after you've eaten and then we can commence with presents."

"But..."

"It is Christmas, Richard. Please make yourself ready."

Knowing that this was not open to debate, he cleared his plate and headed upstairs. Standing under the hot water he started to smile; this was so like Bruce, showing up unexpectedly as if it was the most natural, assumed thing in the world. Finished, he pulled the large bath sheet from the rack and was mid dry when his thoughts started to turn.

'Showing up like it was the most natural thing in the world, no warning, no heads up, no indication that he'd make the slightest effort, leaving everyone hanging. 'Here's the deal, take it or leave it'. As usual. On the considerable other hand, it was Christmas and he wasn't sitting alone, watching old movies and heating up leftovers.

Dressed, pushing down his irritation, he walked back into the study and settled himself on the end of the couch, the throw now folded and precisely laid over the back.

"There you are, shall we get started?"Bruce was making a good stab at smiling, handing him a wrapped box to open.

Oh, what the hell, "Sure, thanks." Inside was a cashmere sweater, black, turtleneck, heavy and beautiful, and, judging by the Hermes label, probably costing at least a thousand dollars. "This is great, thanks, Alfred." Of course Alf had bought it, just like he always bought everything, freeing Bruce to think about other things and not have to sweat the small stuff. The rest of his haul were all equally thoughtful, appropriate and in perfect taste

Like this as a surprise? This was how every Christmas was, ever since he'd arrived at the Manor and likely for years before that. This was SOP, standard operating procedure.

The presents he'd picked up the night before at Walmart were also handed out, the recipients polite, containing smiles or eye-rolling at the contents of their piles. Bruce remarked on the hip-waders, the camouflage patterned polyester ski jacket, the long-handled, spring mounted shoe horn and the three pound bag of Pretzel M&M's. Alfred was effusive in his gratitude for the ten piece set of non-stick pans (with glass covers and new nylon spatulas included), all in a cheery cherry red and the twelve pack of white tube socks along with the set of snap-tight containers for dinner leftovers.

Gathering the wrappings into a garbage bag, Alfred glanced over at Bruce. "So, another fine Christmas put to rest. If you don't think it would be too forward, might I suggest that we inquire if any friends might be free for a holiday dinner this evening?"

"Excellent idea, Alfred, absolutely. Dick, 'you want to call anyone?"

Uh..."I'll see if anyone's around, sure, sounds good."

Later, with Leslie, Barbara and Jim Gordon, Roy and Donna en-route to the impromptu meal (which would consist of at last five courses, all homemade by Alfred from kitchen findings), Bruce regarded his new waders draped on the floor by the fiber optic, two foot high plastic tree. "Great tree."

"'Just keeping with the spirit of the season."

"...Yuh." He paused. "Y'know, Christmas pretty much comes around on December twenty-fifth every year. You can pretty much count on it."

Dick nodded. "I'll make a note of it."

3/31/11