This work is going to be a series of outtakes from the Renegade-verse being cowritten by myself and Eastonia and published on both our accounts. The series starts with Divergence and is also up on AO3. Most of these outtakes take place further along in the timeline of the series and will make the most sense if you start from the beginning. Today we have a holiday short.
Dick still hadn't quite gotten used to waking up on the 'outside'. It had been getting better recently, but there were times - in the moments in between sleeping and waking that he saw dim corridors, heard the steady drip of the elektrum-infused waters, smelt old drying blood and felt the heat of the incinerating kilns.
It took a bit, but he had been getting good at reminding himself he was not, in fact, in the Labyrinth anymore. First, he let himself sink into the clean linen. Then he let the sounds of his surroundings reach him fully. Back when he was staying at one of the Outreach houses, it was the hustle and bustle of the building's inhabitants getting ready for the day. Here, in Wayne Manor, it was birdsong and the distinct tap-tap-tap of Bruce's knock on the door.
The latch of his bedroom door clicked open as Bruce bustled into the room and crouched at the side of his bed. Dick could feel the warmth of his newly adopted dad's hand hovering just over his soldier. "Dick, it's 6:30am Christmas Morning. You're at home."
Dick opened his eyes. "Christmas?"
Bruce nodded.
Last Christmas, Dick had barely been on the outside for two months, and he had still been quite jumpy, watching every corner for the Owls to spot his little string of interferences and come after him, bulldozing the innocent bystanders in their way.
The surprise back then was watching Tobias and the rest of the HangOut staff come together to persuade (Tobias), puppy-dog pout (Doug) and demand (Zee-Cue) him to attend their 'little' Holiday bash. All in all, it had been a surprisingly chaotic but good time.
Tobias had organised the staff into something of a cooking battalion and threw open the doors of the HangOut for anyone that needed good food, a warm place and warm company for the 25th of December.
The chicken, mashed potatoes, roasted broccoli, gravy and cranberry sauce that had come out of the kitchen that day seemed endless. And the sense of cheer that permeated the place had lifted his spirits as everyone gamely tried to polish off the leftovers.
Even so, back then, Dick boiled with anger at the thought of the holidays he had lost to the Owls.
This holiday season, with the Waynes, had been a little different. Martha Wayne - how odd was it that she was essentially now his grandmother - had brought out a menorah and had smiled sadly at it before lighting the first of the eight candles four days ago.
Apparently, she had long been estranged from the other Gotham Kane's due to a difference in ideology that started from her parents. Martha had just smiled sadly and moved the subject along.
"You awake there chum?"
"You know, that's still a weird nickname." Dick said as she forced his eyes open to glare at Bruce.
"Hey! My dad used to call me chum!"
"Fish. Bait."
"Okay so maybe not the most glorious of terms of endearment but still!" Bruce ruffled Dick's hair. "It's our term of endearment. Passed down from father to son."
"Mum used to call me her daring little Robin." Dick absentmindedly offered, right before he clammed up. He looked pointedly away from Bruce.
Bruce sighed as he settled himself down on the floor, cross-legged. "You wanna talk about that?"
"Not really. No."
"Would you like me to…"
"No. It's. I just. I don't feel like her Robin anymore you know? And it's just hard."
"More Owl stuff?"
"I was 10. The day I jumped in front of a bullet for you was my 16th birthday. Bruce," Dick turned ancient, ancient eyes at him. "They stole 5 years from me. 5 birthdays, 5 Christmases." Dick laughed darkly, "I barely remember what they were even like with my parents."
"Well," Bruce replied softly, "I can't give you back those Christmases, but I can tell you what we normally do here?"
-.-.-.-
A Wayne Christmas started off with a indulgent spread of three different variants of cinnamon buns, accompanied by a spiced hot chocolate so rich Dick could swear he would be full just from attempting to drink it.
Alfred laughed at him. "Make sure to load up, youngun', we're basically working through lunch."
"Well," Martha added, "We do still have some popletas, but that's more for munching on while we do all the prep."
Dick looked around confused, "Prep?"
Thomas grinned at his relatively new grandson, "The Wayne Christmas Gala is something of a misnomer. That's usually on the 27th. This is more something for us."
Bruce shrugged, "Alfred drags us all into the kitchen and we attempt to put together our Christmas dinner."
"Indeed, and I hope you don't have an accident with the glutinous rice flour again this year Bruce."
"Alfred," Bruce groused, "You didn't need to bring that up."
Martha smiled, "We did manage to salvage the tang yuan. I swear, Mrs Kwan would've rolled in her grave to know what you did to it, Bruce."
Flickers of laughs and good smells and sticky dough between his fingers briefly enveloped Dick. As close as last Christmas had been to the Before, the general sense of purpose and urgency required to churn out several meals for an entire community was not conducive to - let's call it tomfoolery.
Dick reached for another cinnamon bun and prayed that the sugar crash would not cause them all too much regret around the general hazards of the kitchen.
-.-.-.-
Thomas was on knife duty. Bruce was on measuring.
Apparently - the two elder male Waynes could not be trusted any further than that in the kitchen.
Oh - Bruce was also allowed to peel potatoes and other root vegetables and to toast bread lightly in the toaster so it would dry out enough.
Nothing. Else.
There was the tang yuan incident last year.
The latkes incident from the year before (the GCFD had called in Bruce and Thomas for a very long fire safety lecture and how to dispose of bubbling oil).
There was the year Thomas had tried to help with dessert, the year Bruce had tried to roast their duck (and given them all salmonella) and the year in which they genuinely just reverted back to Martha's old Christmases when her family would bring sufganiyot to the flat over the Kwan's Chinese restaurant to spend Christmas with someone else who believed, and accepted. Otherwise known as the Christmas in which they all gave up and had takeout.
This year was a little different.
Martha had been given the task of making the long life noodles and roasting half of the potatoes, and all the root vegetables in duck fat and garlic. The other half had been set aside for mashing (and then, apparently, because it hadn't been healthy enough after that injection of cheese, roasted garlic and copious amounts of butter and cream, deep frying it like it was some massive croquet ring.).
Alfred had stolen basically all the swede away to candy, and then with a twinkle in his eye, he showed Dick how to make a proper Yorkshire pudding.
(There was laughter. There was fun. There was joy and togetherness for no other purpose but joy and togetherness. It reminded him of everything the Owls stole from him so strongly that he could cry.)
Broccoli and brussel sprouts were roasting in some sort of soy sauce and garlic blend. Peking duck was somehow being made. Everything whirled together with singing and dancing and random pranking and teasing.
And as Dick sat and nursed his spiced fruit tea (Bruce and Thomas both had another one of those ridiculously rich spiced hot chocolate, while Alfred and Martha were slowly sipping mulled wine). He had the sudden realisation.
The Owls may have taken five Christmases from him, but they wouldn't take another.
He was home.