Author's Note: Happy solstice, all! Here is the promised Tim and Damian story from Damian's perspective. Tomorrow we'll have some fun with a polar bear plunge and a few special guests. Happy reading!

"Master Damian!"

Damian glared at the closed door of his bedroom, through which Alfred's call had penetrated. The butler had been in half a tizzy for the past two days as he rushed to prepare everything for tonight's Christmas Ball, and Damian had stayed out of sight as much as he could. Getting in the way before a big event tended to result in being either told off or conscripted into helping, and neither sounded like fun.

He knew better than to ignore a direct summons, though. Rolling his eyes, he walked to the door and stuck his head into the hallway. "What?"

Alfred stood a short distance down the corridor near where Drake was leaning out of his own chamber. "Ah, very good. If you'll both follow me, please. I require your assistance."

"This can't be good," Tim muttered as they fell in line behind the butler, who was walking everywhere in double-time today.

Damian privately agreed, but he wasn't going to let Drake know that. "How would you know?"

"...Ugh."

They traipsed down a back staircase and into one of the several storage and prep areas that let off of the mansion's grand ballroom. The room was full of props and paints and other creative materials, and Damian felt his stomach sink. "What's this about?"

"This is about people who can't keep to a bloody contract," Alfred griped. Realizing what had just come out of his mouth, he grew shame-faced. "Please forgive my language, boys. You've done nothing wrong. It's only that the company I arranged to come in and decorate for the event tonight have suddenly backed out. We've used their services for twenty years," his voice harshened again, "and this is the consideration they show. It's unconscionable.

"Fortunately they had already prepared and delivered the backdrops, and the laborers I hired to place the tables and other furniture have agreed to position those when they come later this afternoon. But none of the smaller pieces – the ceiling décor, the table centerpieces, and so on – are coming. We're on our own for those, and if we don't come up with something in the next few hours the ballroom is going to look half-dressed. As delightful as it would be to spread the word to all of Gotham's social elite that Higgins' Event Magicians can't be trusted to fulfill their agreements, I'll not risk the Christmas Ball's reputation in order to do it.

So," he rubbed his hands together, "that leaves me with no choice but to delegate. I haven't time to come up with a solution for the decorations, let alone to actually make them. That is where the two of you come in."

Damian crossed his arms. "This sounds like a project for Grayson. Why wasn't he roped into this?"

"Because Master Dick came to me after breakfast this morning and asked if I could give him something to flatten a fever in short order. He is currently passed out in bed trying to feel better in time for the event tonight. You are not to bother him unless the house catches fire and he is in immediate danger of burning. Do you understand?"

Damian grimaced. He'd thought Dick seemed a little out of sorts at breakfast, but he'd chosen to chalk it up to a lack of excitement for the social obligation they would all be sharing in this evening. "...So it's us or nobody."

"That is a correct assessment, Master Damian. Now I know you two don't always see eye to eye, but I would consider it a personal favor if you did your best to work together on this. The theme, as you know, is Winter Wonderland. I don't care how you interpret that so long as it isn't lewd, it comes out looking decent, and it's done by six o'clock. All right?"

"Okay," Drake agreed. "We'll, ah…we'll do what we can. Right, Damian?"

"…Right," Damian muttered.

"Very good. I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck."

When Alfred had gone, Tim and Damian looked at one another. "I guess we should get started," Tim said.

"How? We don't know what we're doing!"

"Well, we sort of do. We just have to stick to the theme and come up with something that we can make fast."

"Like what?"

"Like…" Tim's shoulders slumped. "I don't know."

Damian threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Didn't your parents used to throw things like this? You should know what to do!"

"They always hired decorators, just like Alfred usually does." A beat passed. "…Maybe we should go take a look at the backdrops. That might give us some ideas."

Seeing no other options open to them, Damian followed Tim into the ballroom. Leaning against one wall were dozens of six-foot tall canvases, all of them painted in frosty blues and stunning whites. "Okay," Tim said as he slid them carefully apart. "We've got kids sledding, carolers, some snow-covered houses…"

"Here's a snowman," Damian volunteered as he peeked at a few of the paintings. "And people ice-skating."

"So…winter wonderland stuff."

"Yeah." Damian let the canvas he'd been examining fall back into place. "Really helpful."

"It was worth a try," Tim sighed. "Let's see…Alfred specifically said that the ceiling and the table tops were missing. We just need something that works for both of those."

Several minutes passed in silence as they both thought. Damian began to pace the room, staring up at the ceiling all the while. Above him and in the other wing of the house was Dick, whom they really needed if they were going to pull this off successfully. If Dick had been down here with them they'd already be hard at work on some kitschy but Alfred-acceptable idea. Left to their own devices, though, he and Tim were helpless.

Then, suddenly, it hit him. "Drake!"

"Gaah, what?!"

"I've got it!" He pointed skyward. "Snowflakes!"

"…Snowflakes?"

"Yes!" A week earlier Damian had found Grayson cutting out paper ornaments for the miniature tree he put up in his room each year. Dick had shown him how to fold and cut paper so that a delicate, lacy snowflake fell from each piece, and while Damian had been lukewarm on the project at the time it now seemed like the perfect solution. "We can attach them to strings and hang them from the ceiling so it looks like it's snowing. That's 'Winter Wonderland'-ish, isn't it?"

"It is," Drake nodded slowly. "And it's something we could do in bulk, and fast. We can probably get the lighting guys to hang the strings, since they have to go up to the ceiling anyway. Or…" His eyes widened. "What if we put the snowflakes on strings of white Christmas lights? Then they'd be lit up, and the whole ceiling would have kind of a soft look to it."

"Do we have enough lights for that?"

"Oh, yeah. The Christmas before you came along Dick had the crazy idea of making the Manor look like the Griswold house from 'National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.' I only talked him into turning the things off at night by telling him I couldn't sleep with all that light coming through the curtains. They're up in the attic somewhere."

"Okay. So you go get those, and I'll go back into that room from before and find stuff for snowflakes."

"Wait. What are we going to do about the tables?"

"I don't know! I took care of the ceiling, so why don't you come up with something?"

"Okay! Okay. Jeez. I was just asking…"

When Drake had departed Damian made his way back into the chamber where Alfred had briefed them. A short search turned up a variety of scissors collected in an old fish bowl as well as a pile of colorful papers. At the bottom of the stack he found a ream of thick white cardstock covered with silver and gold foil swirls. Armed with that and his arsenal of scissors, he moved back into the ballroom, sat down in the middle of the floor, and fell to work.

He didn't look up until the squeak of cart wheels caught his attention. Drake pushed his load of boxes up to where Damian had established himself and then stepped back, panting slightly. "You wouldn't think a bunch of wires and twinkle lights could be so heavy."

"Maybe you're just a weakling," Damian retorted absent-mindedly as he turned back to his snowflake.

Tim snorted and sat down across from him. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it. Hand me some scissors, would you?"

Damian nudged the fishbowl towards him with one foot. "Hand them to yourself."

"I'm amazed you didn't take the opportunity to try and stab me with a pair."

"If I'd stabbed you then you'd have an excuse not to work."

"Oh, well, nice to know you care."

"I'm not cutting out five hundred snowflakes by myself, Drake. Get to work."

They were silent for quite a while after that. Damian had been mildly annoyed by the repetitive folding and cutting process when he'd first tried it the previous weekend – perhaps, he reflected, because Dick's snowflakes had been so much prettier than his – but now it soothed him. His hand began to ache, but he pressed on. This, he was certain, was exactly the sort of thing Grayson would have come up with. If he managed to get out of bed to see it, he'd love it.

"…I'm going to start stringing these onto the lights," Drake said eventually.

"Mmkay." He was working on an especially detailed flake, and any distractions might destroy his precision. When he unfolded it a minute later, he was impressed. "Nice," he hissed to himself. It wasn't quite Dick-level, but it was pretty good.

"That can't go up on the ceiling," Tim announced.

Damian immediately saw red. "What do you mean it can't? It's better than anything you did!"

"That's the point, smart one. If you'd take half a second to think before you flew off the handle at everything I say to you maybe you'd realize that I'm trying to give you a compliment. It can't go on the ceiling because it's too good for up there. No one would be able to see it clearly."

"…Oh." For some reason the praise made him feel good despite the fact that it was Drake who had given it out. "What am I supposed to do with it then?"

"What if we used it for the tables?"

"How?"

"The tablecloths for tonight are dark blue. I saw Alfred picking them out. But we have glass covers that can go on top of the cloths; what if we put the snowflakes under those so that they can be seen but not moved? Then maybe we can put some of the extra strings of lights in a vase or something for a centerpiece."

"How will they light up, though?"

"I'll rig something with a battery pack. One nine-volt for each string should be enough for the evening. You keep cutting out snowflakes for the tables; I think we have enough for the ceiling already. I'll get with these guys," he gestured towards the lighting crew that was maneuvering its mechanical lift through the double doors at the far end of the room, "and then check with Alfred on what time the linen rental company will be here to set up the tables."

Normally Damian would have objected to Tim's managerial attitude, but since he didn't really want to do anything other than cut more paper he let it go. "Fine. But Drake?"

"What?"

"…Don't let the lighting people tear any of my snowflakes."

Tim smirked. "Relax. Some of them are mine, too, remember?"

"Yeah, well…"

The rest of the day flew by. By the time Damian had run out of paper to cut the lighting crew had half of their snowflake-bearing strings hung from the ceiling. The linen company's employees had arrived as well, and were busy setting up the round tables that Alfred had deemed appropriate for tonight's event. Drake showed them where the glass table-toppers were and explained what they wanted done with the snowflakes, then flagged Damian down. "Help me with the centerpieces. We're running out of time."

"You're kidding, right? Look at my hands!" His eagerness to create as many snowflakes as possible had caused him to push through the pain of several hours of scissor use, and now there were blisters forming in the uncallused valleys between his fingers. Wanting to make his point as clear as possible, he shoved them forward into Drake's face.

Tim winced. "Well, shit. Ah…Okay. I was going to have you cut the plug off and strip the ends for me, but you can't hold the wire-cutters like that. Do you think you can manage to connect the wires to the battery packs?"

"I'm not an idiot. I know how to attach a battery pack." Twisting the sharp, tiny ends together and wrapping them in tape wouldn't feel good, but using the wire cutters would be far worse.

"Okay, then let's get going. Alfred's going to be down here wanting us to change soon."

"Ugh. Stupid tuxedos…"

They could hear the ongoing work in the ballroom as they raced to complete their centerpieces. "We're lucky Alfred keeps ridiculous amounts of matching glass vases on hand," Tim remarked as they shoved strings of lights into two dozen identical vessels. "I like the way the bottoms of them are frosted."

"They're acceptable, I suppose."

"Liar," Tim accused with a hint of jest.

"…Shut up, Drake," Damian rebutted, but he couldn't quite keep a smirk off of his face. He might not have wanted to admit it, but Drake's idea had been a good one. The focal points for each table were coming together nicely, and he could imagine what they would look like in the low light of the ballroom later tonight. He only hoped that his snowflakes showed up as well from their places in the air.

When they were done, Damian made to grab two of the centerpieces and carry them out into the ballroom. Most of the noise on the other side of the wall had stopped a short while before, and he couldn't wait to see how his contribution to the project compared to Drake's. "Let's go."

"Hold on."

Damian narrowed his eyes as Tim crossed to the first aid kit mounted on one wall. "What are you doing?"

"You can't go around all night with blisters on your fingers. It's gross, and Alfred will have a fit if one pops midway through the night or something. So hold out your hands."

"I can dress my own wounds, Drake."

"Oh, okay then. Here you go." Tim held out a stack of wrapped bandages. "Have fun."

Damian stared at him for a moment. Part of him was tempted to take the Band-aids and struggle through things himself just to prove his point. It would take forever, though, and the result would be a fair bit messier than if he let Drake do it for him. "Fine," he gave in grudgingly. "You do it."

"No need to thank me. You're so welcome," Tim drawled as he applied the first bandage.

"Just hurry up, would you?"

"You guys," a raspy voice spoke from the doorway without warning, "are amazing."

Damian looked over his shoulder and found Grayson shuffling forward in pajamas and a bathrobe. His heart sank. "You're not coming to the ball, are you?"

"Nope. It looks like not even Alfred's best efforts were enough to banish this flu, so I wouldn't be a very good co-host tonight. But he told me about your project, and I wanted to come see for myself."

"How's it look out there?" Tim inquired.

"I don't know. I came in here first. Haven't you seen it?"

"Not completed, no. We've been in here for the last hour."

"And now you're bandaging Dami's poor mangled fingers." Dick clapped his hands and gave a weary smile. "I love it."

"Well, I'm done now," Tim said as he released Damian's hand. "So let's go see our handiwork."

"Wait!" Damian cried out. "…Let's put the centerpieces out there before Grayson looks. Since he's not going to get to see it later, he might as well see it all the way done now."

"I like that idea," Dick announced as he dropped into a folding chair. "You guys do that, and I'll sit here and try to stop seeing everything double."

"Riiiight," Tim drew out. "You're helping me get him back up the stairs when we're done with this," he whispered to Damian as they carried a load of vases out into the vast chamber beyond.

"I know." He was only half-listening, though. Above him the silver and gold foil on his snowflakes were catching the light from the twinkling Christmas strands to which they were attached, giving the illusion that it was actually precipitating in the ballroom. The ceiling had been left dark other than that, but the recessed downlights turned to half-power along the edges of the dance floor provided just enough additional brightness for him to see the details on the tabletops. The flakes caught underneath the glass had been arranged in a circular pattern that would draw the eye straight to the centerpieces, and as he put the first one in place Damian smiled. In the varying light from the vases the paper on the table was a match for the paper overhead. It was, in short, perfect.

"…This looks good," Tim said when they reconvened after the last tables were set. "This looks really good."

"It's lovely, young sirs," Alfred said from behind them. "Much lovelier, I'm ashamed to say, than I expected. I seem to have underestimated your talent for decorating."

"And their usually hidden talent for working together," Dick croaked beside him. "It's a real Winter Wonderland in here, thanks to you two. I wish I was going to be down here to overhear all of the amazing compliments your work is going to get tonight." The beaming grin he was already wearing grew wider. "I think I recognize some of those snowflakes."

"Those were Damian's idea," Tim shared. "He got the ball rolling. I cut a few out, but they're mostly his."

"The centerpieces are well done, also," Alfred remarked. "Simple, but very elegant."

"Were those yours?" Dick asked Tim.

"Yeah. Damian helped me do the battery packs, though. I wouldn't have gotten through all of them in time if he hadn't."

"How wonderful," said Alfred. "It's a masterpiece, honestly, young sirs. I'd almost term it a Christmas miracle. I couldn't have done better myself, and certainly not in the limited time you had to work with. Higgins' Event Magicians," his tone soured, "couldn't even have come close."

"I'd hug you both in congratulations, but I don't think you want what I've got," Dick told them. "Even so, this is amazing. My little brothers did a killer job. And without killing each other in the process, too!"

"There's a Christmas miracle for you," Damian snorted.

Tim nudged him. "Was it, though?" he asked only half in jest. "Was it really that hard to work with me for a few hours without being a complete snot?"

It hadn't been, in retrospect, but if he admitted as much now he'd never live it down. He turned his head away before he answered, trying to hide the smirk that was back on his face without permission. He knew he'd failed when they others began to chuckle, but he nudged Tim back anyway – a little harder, perhaps, than was strictly necessary, but not as roughly as he once would have – and went ahead with his standard retort. "…Shut up, Drake."