Robin watched from the rooftops as the fat man below waddled down the road, beady eyes darting suspiciously back and forth. He was swathed in his finest garments - top and tails, naturally – with an umbrella held above his head to stay the dank morning drizzle. The curved handle sported a red and white candy stripe pattern to fit the season.

It wasn't the first time Robin had tailed the portly gentleman. Every week or so, he found himself obliged to keep his eye on proceedings. But this was something new. And something altogether more bizarre than anything he'd witnessed before. Even in Gotham.

"Robin to Nightwing," he said over the coms, in a hushed voice. "I think you'll want to come see this."

Robin remained perched on the rooftop while he awaited Nightwing's arrival, and in the entire half hour it took, his shock at the Penguin's actions didn't let up in the slightest.

Nightwing's arrival was soundless as he crouched down beside the young crime-fighter. For a long time, Tim had felt like Nightwing knew everything. But now he'd finally found something that even Dick couldn't be nonchalant about. This was big. Like, finding out Batman could sing, BIG. All the rules had just changed. Things would never be the same.

"So," Nightwing prompted. "Was there something important or did you just want company?"

"If that was the case, I'd ask for better company than yours," Tim jeered. "Look, I was running routine surveillance on the Penguin. Followed him from the Iceberg Lounge. You won't believe what he's up to."

"Seriously?" Nightwing said incredulously. "I've been watching this guy since before you could pronounce surveillance. I'm sure I can guess."

Robin crossed his arms. Nightwing's smug know-it-all attitude was going to make this all the sweeter. He nodded briefly toward the old building across the street and waited, trying to maintain his poker face. His lip twitched with the effort of concealing his grin.

Nightwing's jaw dropped.

"In there?"

Robin nodded. He raised his eyebrows, creating an expression of superiority, resisting the urge to say 'I told you so'. It took a while before Nightwing remembered to close his mouth, and when he did he was still speechless for a few minutes. Robin had never heard him go so long without making some kind of quip. This really was as big as he thought.

"No way," Nightwing uttered at last. Robin grinned. "You know one of us is gonna have to go down there, make sure he's not poisoning anyone."

"After you," Robin said.

"Why me?"

Robin shrugged. "You make the better hobo."

Nightwing joined the line some twenty minutes later. He'd found a homeless man on his way out with a shopping trolley full of junk, muttering to himself about some unknown horror from the past. It was a sad sight. Hard to believe these men didn't get the help they needed. Some of them were coping with mental illnesses, some were former soldiers. All deserved better than this. Especially at Christmas.

After buying the old man's coat and shoes, Nightwing had thrown them on over his costume. The smell of urine would take weeks to get out of the fabric. Babs would not be happy.

Now he stood behind a dozen other similarly grubby men, most with long scruffy beards and cloudy eyes. The feeling of despair was palpable. It hurt to know that all their years of vigilantism had done very little for me like these. But at least the Wayne Foundation was doing its bit.

As well as places like this.

"Oswald Cobblepot," Nightwing said as he reached the front of the line.

He'd kept the hood of his coat drawn up high over his head so that the shadows concealed his face, but he was still wearing the domino mask over his eyes.

Penguin's feathers were obviously ruffled at having been recognized in such a deprived area, but he soon recovered his composure. He let go of the ladle in the soup and glanced quickly around the soup kitchen to ensure that nobody else could hear their conversation. The homeless men were too busy eating their food to care about him.

"Yes, I am Cobblepot," he announced drawing himself up to full height. "I suppose my reputation precedes me, though I had hoped to retain my anonymity."

"Then maybe you should have worn something a little less circumspect," Nightwing pointed out, lifting his hood. "Personally, I always thought you looked best in prison orange."

"Nightwing!" Penguin exclaimed, his hackles rising.

"What's the deal, Ozzy? Miss serving sloppy joes in Stonegate?"

Penguin's countenance took on a look of self-righteous indignation – a sight that jarred considerably with everything Nightwing knew about the man. The knuckles of his webbed hands turned white as he tightened his grip on the lapels of his dinner jacket, and glared down his beak at the vigilante. Considering the height difference, it was no mean feat.

"I'll have you know that we Chesterfields observe a longstanding tradition of helping the less fortunate during this festive period. Not even arctic birds are so cold-hearted as to ignore the plight of others at Christmas."

Cobblepot slopped a couple spoonfuls of soup into Nightwing's bowl, careful to splash as much as he could down Nightwing's front.

"It's not poisoned is it? I'd hate to have to haul you in over the holiday period," Nightwing said, relishing the thought.

"Just leave, already. Before I carve you up like a turkey."

"What happened to Peace to All Men?"

Nightwing left, then, shedding the coat and shoes outside in the alley. He'd take them home to be cleaned, then gift them to the homeless shelters next week, when he had the chance. Maybe he'd take some of his old clothes too. In the meantime, he tested the soup for obvious tampering, first through smell, then by taste. Finally, he took a sample to analyse back at the Batcave, and passed the soup off to an amputee on his way out of the soup kitchen. The man looked at the soup as though all his Christmases had come at once.

"I spoke to the staff," Robin said as Nightwing settled back on the rooftop. "Turns out he's been coming every year for as long as he's operated in Gotham. Penguin's a philanthropist!"

"Do they know who he is?"

"Sounds like. But he's been nothing but generous to them, by all accounts. Weird, right?"

"Hmm." Nightwing scratched his head. The world as he knew it would never be the same again. "I still think we should run some tests. Just to be on the safe side."

Nightwing had just finished testing the sample when Batman returned to the cave. The results had come back negative. No toxins or foreign substances of any type. There weren't many materials the Batcomputer couldn't detect, so the results were reliable, but Nightwing still couldn't believe it.

"Next we'll find out that Scarecrow has an affinity for kittens."

"Or Ra's al Ghul collects glass figurines," Robin suggested.

"Or Batman knits."

They both chuckled at this last, before noticing the Dark Knight's return, and silently praying he hadn't overheard. Awkwardly, the pair stepped away from the Computer, as the Bat settled into his chair. He didn't like Nightwing being down here without his express permission these days, but he said nothing.

Nightwing cleared his throat.

"You'll never guess what Robin stumbled upon today," Nightwing said.

Batman didn't look at him. He set about placing samples of some kind of pollen or residue under the microscope and programming co-ordinates into the Batcomputer. Robin glanced at Nightwing who nodded encouragingly.

"Go on, tell him."

"The Penguin does charity work every year at Christmas," Robin blurted, gaining confidence as he went. This was going to blow the Bat away. "In a soup kitchen!"

Batman looked up from the microscope, his expression inscrutable.

"I know."