"...What's up?" Jason asked with a frown as Dick approached from the direction of the cave. "Aren't you coming out with us tonight?"

"No one's going out tonight, little brother," the older man grinned. "Not to Gotham, at least."

He shook his head, confused. "...Are we going somewhere else, then?" Maybe there was something going on at the Watchtower, he mused, or another hero had asked them to cover their city over the holidays. The former seemed more likely than the latter – Batman wasn't known for his generosity, after all – but one never knew.

"Yeah. To the back lawn."

"The back...why?"

Dick stopped short and stared at him. "Uh-oh," he grinned. "No one told you, did they?"

"Told me what?"

"Bruce, you dork, you didn't tell Jay about tonight!"

The billionaire, who had just emerged from behind the clock and was carefully pushing it shut, frowned. "What about tonight?" he asked.

"About snow patrol!"

"...Oh. You're right, I didn't." Joining them midway between the cave and the foyer, Bruce crossed his arms and explained. "None of us go out on patrol on Christmas Eve, not unless there's a major emergency."

"Instead," Dick announced, practically bouncing with anticipation, "we go outside and have a massive snowball fight. But we're going to need teams this year," he added, turning back to Bruce. "Unless you were thinking we'd just have a three-way battle?"

"Mm...no. Teams are fine. But you'll have to convince Alfred to join us."

"My best thing! I'm on it. See you guys in a minute."

When Dick had gone, Jason addressed his mentor. "...You really don't go to the city tonight?" he asked. "Not even after the snowball fight?"

"No. I used to go out on Christmas Eve, but once Dick became Robin we started doing this instead."

That was all the reasoning the man gave, but Jason could read into it from there. If Robin and Nightwing were at home on Christmas Eve, nothing bad could happen to them. Batman might have to stay in as well, but to the overprotective billionaire that would seem a small price to pay. "...Okay," he nodded. "Cool. So...snowball fight."

"Right." A hand landed on his shoulder and began steering him towards the foyer. "A word of advice, though; watch out for Dick's curveball. He's got a tricky one, and it's fast."

"What makes you think he won't be on my team?" Jason challenged.

"Because I always pick first for family team events."

"And you're going to pick Dick."

"Right."

"So then why are you feeding secrets to your opponent?"

"Because someday you might need him to throw you something more important than a snowball, and I don't want you to think you have to move to catch it just because it looks like it's coming in high. It will go exactly where he's aiming it, trust me." He paused, his hand falling back to his side as they reached the entry closet. "...Maybe I should have put him in baseball when he was a kid," he mused. "No, he would never have had time for something like that. Neither one of you do." A proud little smirk arched his lips for a moment. "Too busy with more important things."

Jason loved seeing that tiny uptick of lips when he knew that he was included in the thought or comment that had inspired it, and now he smiled too. "Yeah," he nodded. "Like snowball fights."

"Like snowball fights," Bruce agreed.

"Hey guys, I got him!" Dick announced as he entered the foyer again.

"I consent to this fight only if you stop speaking as if you've caught a trophy fish, young sir," the butler trailing along behind him protested.

"Sorry, Alfred," Dick apologized. "I'm just excited. But if you were a fish, you'd totally be a world record. Just saying."

"Yeah," Jason added without thinking, "I mean, how many fish have you ever met who can cook an omelette?"

"Oh-ho," Dick chortled. "...You better watch out for friendly fire after that, Jay. At least I assume I'm with you, Bruce?"

"You are."

"Excellent."

"Now, now," Alfred waved off. "There's no reason to fret about friendly fire. I'm going to choose to interpret Master Jason's remark as nothing more than a compliment of my cooking. That is all you meant by it, isn't it, young sir?"

Caught off guard, he stuttered. "Uh...yes?"

"Very good," the butler said, and winked.

Jason felt himself relax. He'd been looking forward to a nice brisk patrol after having spent all evening doing all his winter break homework, but staying home and throwing snowballs around was starting to sound better and better with each passing minute. Besides, he mused, someone had had to teach Dick that curveball that Bruce seemed so impressed with; maybe Alfred would pass the secret on to him, too. "Let's get dressed," he suggested, suddenly eager. "I'm ready for some action!"

"…How do you do that?" he asked some twenty minutes later as a perfectly round lump of snow rolled out of Alfred's hands and onto a pile of identical balls. "Is it just practice?"

"Practice comes into it, yes," Alfred answered without looking up from his task. "But there is a technique involved as well. I'll be happy to show you, but," he smiled, "I think we need another inch or two on our barricade first, hmm?"

He started at the reminder. "Oh, right." Both teams had agreed to a half-hour arms race during which they could build up their defenses and stockpile supplies. Two-third of that time was now gone, and while the butler had supplied them with a respectable arsenal their walls were still lacking. Glancing over his shoulder towards Dick and Bruce's preparations, Jason gave a displeased harrumph. The compact shield they had constructed gleamed beneath the spotlights illuminating the yard, making it look as if it was coated in ice. It's makers were out of sight behind it, no doubt both busily packing together projectiles. Jealous of their experienced prowess, he began to pile huge armfuls of snow atop his own effort, pounding it down with his hands until it was firm.

The end came much too quickly. "Five!" A warning rang out from the other camp. "Four!" Jason hurriedly pressed one last clump into place. "Three!" Alfred, veteran that he was, called him to safety. "Two!" He scrambled around the edge of the wall, wondering if the others would cheat and launch their assault early. "One!" His back pressed against the inside of his barricade, and he sighed with relief. "WAR!"

He wasn't expecting that last roar, which sounded like it had come from twelve throats rather than two. Almost immediately on its heels came the hard splat splat of a pair of snowballs breaking behind him. A second wave followed, then a third. It seemed wasteful to him that the others were throwing their weapons against a blank wall, but in a moment's time he understood the genius behind it.

Dick and Bruce weren't taunting them with those 'pointless' shots; they were just been finding their range.

"Gah!" he cried out as a spray of snow came down atop his head. The sphere that had caused the shower ricocheted off the crest of the wall and bounced to a stop just beyond his boots. For a moment he simply stared at it and wondered what exactly he'd been thinking when he'd agreed to go toe-to-toe with Batman and Nightwing, of all people.

"Shall we engage, Master Jason?" Alfred queried, his voice carrying a hint of excitement.

"Yes!" he answered, galvanized by the question. Adrenalin flooded his system as another volley came in. Once it had passed – they'd overshot things a little this time, but he was sure that that meant the next round would be right on target – he clawed for the snowball that had grazed him with shrapnel. "Have some of your own medicine!" he called, and hurled it blindly back.

A distant yelp told him he'd scored a hit. It had been pure luck, but it earned him an appreciative nudge from his partner. "Well thrown, young sir!" the butler congratulated as he rose to toss a snowball of his own. He came back with his shoulder coated in powder. "…That bloody curveball of his," he muttered, shaking his head even as he smirked.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" Jason asked as he snagged another round and leaned out sideways to fire it off. "Dick's curveball? Bruce says it's really good, so I figure you must have taught it to him."

"I'm afraid I wasn't the one who taught Master Dick how to throw like that. I've always imagined that his father or one of their friends from the circus helped him develop it."

"…Oh." Disappointed, he lobbed his next ball extra hard. Bruce ducked it, but barely. "Do you think Dick would teach me, then?" he continued the conversation once he'd dived back under cover.

"I'm sure he would, if you asked him. You know how Master Dick is, with his penchant for sharing."

"Yeah…" Grabbing two snowballs this time, he rolled to his knees. Dick chose that moment to 'share' a projectile of his own, which crashed squarely into the spare Jason was cradling and smashed it into bits. "Hey! No attacking my supply lines!" he shouted.

"Should have circled the wagons, little brother!"

"…Circled the wagons," he muttered as he fell back to fill his hands again. "I'll circle your wagon…"

"Master Jason, I should warn you that there is a no faces rule in this match," Alfred cautioned.

"What if I accidentally hit him in the face? Just once?"

A wad of snow, evidently tossed underhand by one of their smirking, sneaking enemies, plopped down dead-center atop Alfred's head. Flushing red and pursing his lips, the butler reached up and brushed the flakes away. Then he gave a decorous little cough and turned to Jason. "If it's an accident, young sir," he said, his eyes hard but twinkling, "then I don't suppose I can hold it against you."

"Awesome." He swept up another half-dozen snowballs. "Then I'm going to machine gun these. Pray and spray, all the way."

"An excellent plan, given the slipperiness of our opponents. I'll replenish our stores in the meantime." Alfred gave him the sort of nod that Jason usually associated with suicide missions in war movies. "Good luck, Master Jason. Get them both once for me, would you?"

"Totally." Lost in the moment, he stood up all the way. A fresh barrage flew up from the icy fortress several dozen yards away, but he didn't falter. Instead he let out a wordless cry and began to windmill his free arm, returning fire with speed but little accuracy. It didn't matter; the assault managed to peg both members of the other team, and he dropped back to the ground wearing a broad, panting grin.

"Were you successful?"

"Got 'em both," he managed.

"Good boy," Alfred said heartily. A fresh load was pushed forward. "Whenever you're ready, you might repeat the feat."

Jason's smirk turned wicked. "Abso-freaking-lutely I will," he promised as another attack rained down around them. "Abso-freaking-lutely."

Lying in bed two hours later, he tried to count the number of bruises he had accrued during the battle. His tired mind kept losing track, so he eventually gave up. It didn't matter anyway – he'd had more fun this Christmas Eve night than he had had on plenty of past Christmas days, and that was what he cared about.

He'd hit Dick square on the jaw during his third machine-gun bout, and had gotten Bruce in the ear with the fourth. Once Alfred had built up a fresh backlog of ammunition he'd rejoined the fight, letting Jason supply covering fire while he took more carefully directed shots from below. Their opponents had responded by adjusting their tactics, popping up and falling back like unpredictable gophers. Sometimes they would both emerge, and only one would throw; other times one would show themselves in order to draw fire then duck to signal that the other should rise and fire before reloads could be procured. It was bedlam, and Jason loved it.

The sniping, pummeling, and good-natured name calling lasted until they were all soaked and shivering. Once they'd shed their dripping winter gear Alfred had hustled them into the living room, where he'd stoked a huge blaze in the fireplace and then turned on the Christmas tree lights. A few minutes later he'd pressed huge, steaming mugs of hot chocolate into their frigid hands and encouraged them to drink while he fetched one last item.

Jason had put his nose so close to the surface of the liquid in order to savor the smell that he'd nearly drowned. He had pulled back only in order to accept the gift that the butler passed to him upon his return. Being allowed to open the package had been a pleasant surprise despite the fact that it revealed nothing more than pajamas. They were comfortable, though, and so long as he didn't dwell on the fact that Bruce and Dick had gotten pairs identical to his own Jason rather liked them.

Even better than the present, though, had been the conversation he'd had with Dick as they'd tromped upstairs to put on their new night clothes and go to sleep. "Could…could you show me how you were throwing those curveballs?" he'd asked, pausing outside of the older teen's door. "Whatever you were doing was super-effective."

Dick had shot him a surprised look. "Sure thing, Jay," he'd grinned after a second. "Any time. But we'll practice in the gym or the garage or something; it's way easier to learn with your bare hand and a baseball than it would be with gloves and snowballs."

Pleased, Jason had wished him a sincere goodnight and continued on his way. Recalling the promise that had been made now brought a faint smile to his half-unconscious expression and led straight into his memory of the other oath that had been made this evening. Lacking any opportunity to teach him how to make the perfect snowball while they were fighting, Alfred had pulled him aside once peace was declared and made mention of private lessons. After Christmas, the butler had said, they would take advantage of Bruce and Dick's return to work to hone their techniques for next year in secret. It sounded fantastic, and Jason wasn't sure if he was more eager for tomorrow morning or for the clandestine tactics sessions that would come after that.

What he did know was that this was by far the best Christmas Eve he had ever had. He was warm, his stomach was full and his muscles tired, and he had activities to look forward to with two of the three people who made up what he was quickly beginning to think of as his family. Life was good.

So long as he could have just one night like this every year for the rest of his days, he thought as he drifted off into a blissful slumber, he would be happy.

Author's Note: Ah, the classic snowball fight. If you're looking up your snowball game or are just curious about different kinds of snowballs (yes, there are different kinds), I've put a video up about it on my blog.

For those of you who have been waiting for more young Dick, you'll get your wish tomorrow. Happy reading!