Damian had been drawn by the loud sounds of merriment and foolishness. He was unsurprised at the source, and waved off Sasha's greeting. Todd was not so easy to ignore.
"No, Todd, I do not want a glass of the obviously-spiked eggnog."
Jason snorted, brushing his once more two-toned hair out of his eyes. "Like I'd risk Alfred's wrath by spiking Dick's precious eggnogg." The older man snorted at Damian's disbelieving expression. "For future reference Baby Bat, the first batch of eggnog every year is completely alcohol-free."
"Why?"
"Because Dick Grayson's a spoiled little shit, and Alfred decreed it to be so ever since Goldie's first Christmas in the Manor." Jason reached out and ruffled Damian's hair swiftly. "Alcohol and minors do not mix under Alfred's watchful eye," he added with the wisdom that came from experience. "Just keep that in mind when puberty finally kicks in, kiddo."
Damian snarled, and stalked off to find Grayson. He didn't want any eggnog-enhanced or no.
"If you say a word to Steph-" Tim snarled, hastily rewrapping the box of expensive chocolate.
Damian rolled his eyes, and proceeded past the older Titans. "As you purchase the same chocolates for Brown every year, I would assume that even Fatgirl has figured out your cunning plan, Drake."
"They're her favorites," Tim defended, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Superboy and Kid Flash.
Damian found the attempt at intimidation quite ridiculous; Supergirl was clearly the most formidable of her family. "Which would be why Brown begs for them in the first place," he pointed out dryly.
"Steph doesn't beg," Tim retorted hotly. "and she'd never ask for anything. I had to convince Babs . . ."
Damian walked away, leaving the other boy to his monologue. While Drake's argument hadn't a single leg to stand on, Damian felt rather unsettled. He decided to win some of the chocolate from Brown later on, and continued with the matter fully resolved to his satisfaction.
"Oi, Little D, slow down," Dick called, jogging to keep up with the miniature assassin.
Damian was of the opinion that the greater the speed with which he moved, the sooner they could be finished and leave this plebian market behind them. Dick did not share this strategy; the man dawdled. Deliberately.
"Here ya go," Dick chirped, dropping an armload of cans into the cart.
Damian twitched. "Pennyworth makes his cranberry sauce from scratch, Grayson."
Dick nodded absently. "But this stuff's for Cass-she's a little too much like Bruce in the kitchen, you know?"
"There are seventeen cans in the cart," Damian pointed out, although he coul feel his stance weakening in the eyes of Grayson. "And Cassandra will be joining us for the actual holiday dinner."
"Cass kinda has this thing for cranberry sauce," Dick explained with a shrug, "a lot of cranberry sauce. Hey! What kind of ice cream do you think Tim would like? Is he still crazy about chocolate?"
Damian neither knew or cared about Drake's preferences. His own, however, were very clear. "Strawberry, Grayson."
Grayson bought Neopolitan. The compromise grated.
The Oracle wanted a turkey, despite her complete inability to successfully cook a bird in the past. The burnt aftermath of Thanksgiving would not be soon forgotten.
By Damian at least . . . the others were enablers.
So he made Grayson pay for the turkey, but somehow Damian ended up being the one to deliver it. He got a book for his troubles, Gordon's idea of a present. It was-surprisingly-adequate.
"The candy canes have all gone missing again, Father."
Bruce Wayne sighed and closed his book. "Have they, Damian?"
"Yes, Father," Damian responded, indignantly. "I assisted Pennyworth in replacing them after breakfast. There were seventy-two candy canes on the tree this morning, and now there are none. Video surveillance has made the culprit clear."
"Has it?"
"I insist that we apprehend Todd and turn him over to the proper authorities. He is a thief, and a scoundrel." It was usually best not to bring up the murder bit; somehow that always led to a discussion of Damian's own transgressions.
His father sighed again, resting a hand on Damian's shoulder. "I think we can afford to let this go, son."
"It is merely the principle of the matter," Damian urged.
"Peppermint is Jason's favorite holiday treat. Don't worry; I'll buy some more candy canes, Damian."
"That is not-Father!" Damian sputtered. "Seventy-two candy canes! There were fifty-six yesterday, and another seventy-two the day before. Not even Todd could consume two hundred candy canes in fifty-three hours. He is clearly up to no good!"
"Jason likes to stockpile for the rest of winter in what he thinks is a secure secret hiding place."
Damian had more protests, but more pressing: "He 'thinks,' Father?"
His father smirked. "I am Batman."
"This is absolutely ridiculous," Damian announced loudly. It had just been imparted that the marshmallow-laden hot cocoa in his hands was Drake's favorite part of Christmas, and really . . . enough was enough.
Tim side-eyed him from where the teen had taken refuge on the couch nearest the parlor fire. "Clearly, you haven't tasted the cocoa yet."
"The taste of the cocoa is not the point, although I find it quite satisfactory, Pennyworth," Damian was quick to pay tribute to the man patiently extracting him from his frozen bootlaces while Damian melted all over the foyer. Snowball fight was a misleading term for what had just occured on the back lawn. "It is statistically improbable that every individual in this house has a different favorite holiday treat. Also, the quantities in which you all indulge . . ." Damian shook his head, and accepted the blanket Grayson brought him.
"It's not that strange, Little D," Dick chuckled, taking a towel to Damian's damp hair. "What's yours?"
"Do not be ridiculous, Grayson." Damian crawled onto the couch next to Drake, jostling for room as Dick joined them with a refill of their hot drink. "Food is food, regardless of season."
Father had an unhealthy obsession with Christmas cookies. The kitchen was practically a factory in the weeks leading up to Christmas, and any one venturing too close would be conscripted posthaste.
The day before Christmas, Damian braved the frenzy regardless. He was a creature of habit, and Damian was in the habit of taking tea with Alfred at four o'clock. Pennyworth was late.
"Ah, Master Damian," was the immediate greeting before Damian could even open his mouth to complain. "I'll be with you momentarily." Pennyworth did indeed mean momentarily, as he was soon standing in front of Damian and proffering a mixing bowl before Damian could sulk away to wait for his tea. "Stir up, if you would, young sir."
Damian blinked at the rich contents. Then he swallowed. "This is figgy pudding, Pennyworth."
The man smiled patiently. "It is."
Damian glanced up at Cassandra, sitting perched at the island and liberally dusted with flour. She smiled inquisitively back at him, and Damian turned his gaze to the floor. "I did not think we would have a pudding."
They hadn't had one last year. Damian hadn't asked.
"I seem to be running a bit behind with all the holiday cooking to be done, but better late than never, I hope." The spoon was offered again. "Go on, dear boy. Make your wish."
If it were anyone but Pennyworth, Damian would suspect mockery. Instead, he pursed his lips, took the spoon, and spun it through the ingredients expertly. Accepting his due praise, Damian offered the utensil to Cassandra.
She took it reverently and carefully copied his actions.
"Very good," Alfred acknowledged graciously, still resting a hand on Damian's shoulder. It was warm and just as strong as Father or Grayson's hand. "Go on and fetch your brothers. Mistress Cassandra shall retrieve Master Bruce. Once everyone's given the pudding a good stir, we shall all adjourn for tea."
That should be a novel experience.
Cassandra took off eagerly, but Damian hesitated in the doorway just long enough to see Alfred withdraw a plate of mincemeat pies. Reassured, the boy promptly trotted off to collect his errant family members.