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There is nothing in the world like a New Jersey winter. New Jersey winters are unique. They are so beautiful, otherworldly as Bruce describes them, and he would know. He always says no planet or universe compares with the beauty that is a New Jersey winter. And yes, Tim enjoys the crispness of freshly fallen snow and the way the sun glints on the perfect and untouched layer, nearly blinding him. But there’s the other side of a New Jersey winter: Jack Frost nipping at your nose is an understatement, he is gnawing at every limb. The cold stings , worse than any bee sting Tim’s ever gotten. He considers himself lucky he’s never gotten frostbite but there have been many close calls. Last Christmas, he found himself trying to bundle up with a thin and ratty blanket, living off a frozen meal that he’d gotten that week from the corner store. This Christmas promised lean and juicy ham, frothy eggnog, and fresh gingerbread cookies.
Tim was eagerly counting down the days, making good use of the advent calendar Bruce set out, each day on the calendar opening to a quaint little wintry image. Bruce and Alfred promised the full Christmas experience from decorating a real, live , Christmas tree to watching the best Christmas movies (it was a crime Bruce had never seen Elf, Tim was determined to make this his other gift to Bruce). It was supposed to be a real family Christmas, like Tim always saw in the movies.
“Supposed”, being the operative word.
Christmas was three days away and it became automatically clear that Tim was not getting that perfect Christmas. His body hurt. A deeper type of ache than the one he feels when a goon kicks his side or wacks his arm. He’d gone to bed warm, stomach full of Alfred’s hot chocolate, and now he woke up cold and nauseous, as if any given movement would force the treasured drink up his throat. He was feeling everything . The pajamas felt coarse against his skin and he didn’t even know it was possible for his head to vibrate, that’s how painful his headache feels. Tim doesn’t feel like he can even lift his head, it’s dead weight. If he tries to, a surge of vertigo overcomes him and he collapses right back down into his pillows. Ideally, Tim could lie here forever. But lying here forever means no Christmas. No tree decorating, no movie marathons. No. Christmas. Tim couldn’t have that. He couldn’t ruin Christmas for Bruce and Alfred. For the former, Tim just hated seeing his father sad. So much of his life had been consumed by sadness and anger. There’s that phrase - you can tell when a person has been to more funerals than weddings - Bruce was just the walking definition of that phrase. He’d been robbed of so much happiness. Even Alfred remarked that Christmas was never a particularly happy time for Bruce in the wake of his parents’ death but that this could be the year that changes. Alfred is always right so Tim noticed Bruce began to perk up and seemed to almost be excited for the holiday, more than any five-year old waiting for Santa Claus. Tim wanted the guy to be happy or at least get close to feeling that happiness; he wasn’t going to allow a little cold to steal that joy from Bruce. With that motivation, Tim swings his numb legs over the side of his bed.
Tim pushes the nausea and the dizziness way deep down to make his way down for breakfast. The way his head is pulsing now, it would make the most sense to eat something, get some energy in him. Yet, the closer he gets to the kitchen, the more flips his stomach makes, determined to win the gold medal in the “Make-Tim-yak-all-over-the-floor-Olympics”. He also hears voices. Not a voice. Voice s . Tim’s almost certain the fever he most definitely has is making him hallucinate that he considers turning back to go to bed until a familiar mop of black hair comes into view.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!” Dick says cheerfully.
Tim’s not sure what look is on his face right now but however dorky it is, he doesn’t care. He thought for sure Dick wasn’t joining them for Christmas, so Tim is automatically excited to see his brother, sitting at the counter with a steaming mug of coffee and a pile of pancakes.
“I thought you were staying in Bludhaven,” Tim says, hoping Dick ignores the terrible croak that comes from Tim’s throat.
“Good,” Dick says. “I wanted to surprise you. Alfie here said I couldn’t keep it a secret but for once, he was finally wrong.”
Alfred scoffs, flipping another pancake. “And how many times have you gotten close to telling Master Bruce what you’ve gotten him for Christmas, Master Dick?”
Dick sulks. “Touche.” He turns back to Tim. “You bought the big guy any presents?”
Tim searches through his muddled mind. As far as he knows, he hasn’t bought Bruce anything at all. He shakes his head and tries to swallow the miserable feeling brought on by the simple head shake.
Dick’s face lights up with an idea. “Say, Timmy, why don’t we go into the city today and find something for Bruce?”
Tim is never one to turn down hangout time with Dick. It’s not totally rare that he sees him outside of patrol but it’s not super common either. So wanting to take advantage of this opportunity, Tim agrees with a nod. He’s really got to stop shaking and nodding, he thinks it’s flipping his brain upside down.
“Great!” Dick says brightly. “We can leave after you’ve gotten something in you to wake you up, you look like you’ve been sleeping for a thousand years.”
Tim rolls his eyes at Dick’s exaggeration. He wishes he could sleep for a thousand years. Alfred serves a plate of two golden brown pancakes, stacked on top of each other. The nauseous feeling jumps him. He takes a deep inhale, trying to suppress it as he shovels some syrupy pancake into his mouth. His system works. Deep breath, pancake, deep breath, pancake. To his surprise, he finishes the whole plate, even with each piece feeling like a shard of glass going down. On the bright side, the food seems to relieve a little bit of his headache. On the downside, it swirls around in his stomach. It’s not gonna come up now but it definitely will make an appearance later.
“Tim, were you listening?” Dick asks. Wait, Dick is here? When did he get here?
“Uhhh…” is all Tim can say.
“I said, we’re also gonna get something for Alfred too.” Dick looks a little closer at Tim. He’s pale, almost green, like he’s suppressing the urge to lose his breakfast. His hair isn’t mussed in an endearing way, it’s mussed as if Tim hardly slept at all last night, it’s unkempt. And if he did sleep, it wasn’t well; there are these bags under his eyes that look like bruises.
“Are you feeling okay, Tim?” Dick asks, treading lightly. “We can always go shopping later.”
“No!” Tim says, a little too quickly. “No,” He repeats, slower. “I’m okay. Really, I’m fine.” He hops off his seat and leaves, feeling Dick’s concerning glance burn in the back of his head.
As he trudged back upstairs, thoughts swirled through Tim’s aching head. Tim was already worrying about ruining Bruce and Alfred’s Christmas but now he had to consider Dick’s Christmas as well. If Tim’s doing the math correctly, this is Dick’s first Christmas since he and Bruce got back on good terms. Tim really liked to see them laughing and joking again or even just sharing the same space in a calm and peaceful silence. He can tell that both of them have needed each other. Yet, it’s new. Fragile. Tim feels like one wrong move and it could all come crashing down. So, he has to keep it together. For them. For a good Christmas. It’s going to be the best Christmas that any of them have ever had.
///
Dick is worried. Tim isn’t the chattiest kid but he can certainly hold a conversation. Dick’s tried everything: school, movies, TV, even casework. All he’s gotten are some unenthused grunts and hums. Tim may not biologically be Bruce’s kid but he sure does take after the guy. He cleaned up a bit before leaving and there’s a little bit of color back in his face but he still looks tired . Devastatingly so. Dick keeps stealing glances at his little brother in the passenger seat of the car. His arms are folded tightly against his abdomen, as if he’s protecting his stomach from something and a slight shiver courses through his body despite Tim bundling up with at least three layers, a scarf, a hat, and very thick gloves. The kid’s got to be cooking in his makeshift snowsuit, but then again…
They’re stopped at a red light. Five minutes out from the mall, three minutes out from the nearest urgent care.
Dick steals another glance towards Tim and decides to reroute to the clinic, get him checked out. Dick tuts quietly, it’s a shame he’s starting to come down with something right before Christmas, right before his first Christmas with them. Dick’s been in his shoes before; falling in a pond ice skating with Barbara. She managed to be just fine whereas he spent Christmas on Bruce’s couch laid up with pneumonia. He hardly remembers that Christmas from being so damn delirious but he remembers the warmth that wasn’t from fever. It was familial. The whole time he remembers being with someone. It was hard to deduce who was with him when but he was never alone. And if Tim was about to go through what he had been through, or something similar, he’d need them. But first, Dick just wanted to check for a fever in the first place. All signs pointed to one but Dick wasn’t sure yet. Careful not to wake the sleeping boy, Dick reaches out for Tim’s forehead.
HONK!
Dick quickly retracts his hand and places it back on the wheel, pressing the gas. To the mall. Tim doesn’t jolt awake but the car horn is clearly loud enough to stir him. He blinks slowly with a grimace, like he’s in pain.
“Are we there yet?” Tim asks, pitifully quiet. Like talking louder than a whisper would kill him.
“Almost, Tim, you can go back to sleep for a bit,” Dick says, taking a left towards the mall.
Tim makes a disapproving noise. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
Hm. Denial is the path he’s choosing here.
“Are you sure? Your eyes were closed and you weren’t talking. Telltale signs of sleeping to me,” Dick says lightly, trying not to come off like he’s interrogating Tim.
Tim laughs a little. “Nope, just resting my eyes.”
“Okay, old man. You’re too young to rest your eyes. Resting your eyes is for old people. Just look at Bruce.”
“Hn.”
“Oh my gosh, B, is that you?” This gets a more hearty laugh from Tim. It’s the most awake he’s looked since this morning.
They chat a little more, exchanging various anecdotes about Bruce-blunders until Dick finds some parking. The mall is bustling and bright. Massive, over-the-top decorations hang from the ceilings and thousands of elbows bump against the two brothers as they all scurry around for last-minute Christmas shopping. They’re walking pretty slowly as Tim’s taken to leaning into Dick’s side, eyes flickering shut. Yeah, “resting my eyes” Dick’s ass.
Dick stops in his tracks, kneeling at Tim’s eye level. “Hey, Tim.”
Tim blinks, trying to wake. “Hm? I’m up, I swear.”
“Tim, you’re dead on your feet. I’ve considered carrying you at least three times in the last ten minutes.”
Tim’s face scrunches up childishly. “I’m not a baby, Dick. You aren’t gonna carry me. I’m fine.”
“I don’t know if you know the meaning of that word, pal.” He takes Tim aside to some open seating near the food court. “We don’t have to get Bruce or Alfred something. At least not today.”
Tim vigorously shakes his head. “No, we have to do it today. I can do it, I’m okay.”
Dick frowns. He’s not mad at Tim, he could never be mad at such a sweet kid. He’s just worried. Well, he was worried this morning. Now he’s downright scared. Tim looks so unwell. But he also looks jumpy. As if he’s afraid that Dick is going to yell at him. It’s subtle but when Dick lays a hand on Tim’s shoulder for comfort, he flinches. Dick pockets the thoughts that come with that flinch for another day and returns his focus to his kid brother.
“Alright, you win,” Dick says. Tim breathes a sigh of relief. “But to ease my mind, please try and sleep when we get back home.”
Home. Dick hasn’t called the manor that in a long time. Tim’s heart swells. “Okay. I can do that.”
They’re five stores deep when Tim starts to reconsider Dick’s original offer. He does feel dead on his feet and although it’s a bit embarrassing, Dick carrying him doesn’t seem so bad. It’s also starting to look hopeless in the gift department. Alfred’s gift was easy - a record by Luciano Pavarotti including Alfred’s favorite rendition of Nessun Dorma. Bruce’s gift, however, was hard to come by. They thought a new watch would be great yet Tim recalled Bruce saying how he had too many watches and another one would make him throw all of them away. What to get for the man who has quite literally everything? Then, it hits him. Or more like, Tim spots it.
“Dick.” He tugs on Dick’s coat. “Look.”
Sitting on a pedestal in the middle of the current store they’re in, is a little statuette of the Gray Ghost. Dick and Tim waste no time in racing to the statue. For such a small figure, he’s standing in a powerful pose, as if he’s daring anyone and anything to challenge him. It’s perfect. Even more so, it’s a beautiful gift. Bruce told Tim of a similar statue his father owned.
“It sat on his desk, opposite of his globe. A little glass statue.” Bruce had said, surveying Gotham, one warm night. “He always said it was there to protect him and made him feel stronger, even on the darkest of days.”
“What happened to it?” Tim had asked.
“He was playing around with me one day and I ran into the desk and knocked the statue off and it shattered. I don’t think I’d ever cried harder.”
Tim likes these stories about Bruce before the tragedy. It’s always hard for him to open up but Tim appreciates him trying, taking down his walls as a means of bonding.
The statue they find is gorgeous. It’s not too pricey but not too cheap either. This statue is made of pewter and Dick and Tim exchange a look where they both know Bruce would just love it. They grab it before anyone else can take another look at it. Dick buys a gift bag and some tissue paper too for Tim to wrap it later.
They stop in the food court for an early lunch and Tim tries very hard not to puke all over Dick. The burger place they stop at is greasy and nauseating. Normally, Tim would’ve inhaled his whole meal but he quite literally doesn’t have the stomach for it. Dick is still giving him suspicious looks so he knows that he’s got to at least down half of it. Which he does. Between the pancakes and the burger, Tim knows he’s gonna pay for it later but ignores the bubbling feeling in his stomach.
The car ride back to the manor is just like the morning. Tim’s gone quiet, his arms are wrapped protectively around his middle, and he seems to be fighting the urge to curl up in a ball. Dick doesn’t even try to engage him in conversation, choosing to let him get what little rest he can. The car ride doesn’t seem to be doing him any good. Dick makes a note to tell Bruce he should donate some money towards road paving, there’s too many potholes in Gotham for the roads to be considered “safe”. It’s a literal life hazard driving here. Every hole that he hits earns a quiet groan from Tim and a mutter of “sorry” from Dick. Yeah, these roads really need to be fixed.
Dick pulls into the main garage. When he turns off the ignition, he turns to look at Tim, whom he’s pretty sure is asleep.
He gently jostles Tim’s shoulder. “Hey, Timmy,” He says, gently. “Tim? We’re back.”
Tim’s eyes shoot open and Dick notices they’re a little red. He doesn’t say anything.
“Thanks for helping me pick out these gifts, Dick,” Tim says, clearing his throat once when it cracks. “I’m gonna go wrap these now.”
Dick tuts. “Hey, what did I say?”
“I slept in the car!” Tim protests.
“Doesn’t count. Go. To. Bed.”
Tim sighs, giving up entirely on fighting Dick. Dick clocks this as a red flag, Tim could out-argue any of them. If he wasn’t a vigilante, he could totally make it as a lawyer.
“Wake me up when it’s dinnertime,” Tim says, dejectedly.
He grabs the gifts and gets out of the car. Dick swears he sees Tim trip a little but doesn’t say anything. Dick sits in the car a little while longer before getting out and heading to the living room.
///
Tim is in the library. He’s not supposed to be but he just couldn’t go back to sleep like Dick said. His room is much colder than usual and the headache he’s sporting right now is beyond painful, worse than he’s ever felt before. So he brought a blanket and pillow down to the library. He tried reading a book from the coffee table in front of the big comfy chair he chose to recline in but the words were all blurry and jumbled so he tossed it back.
A fire is roaring in front of him. It’s managed to be the only thing that’s poking through the cold in his bones. He feels snug and comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, he feels himself getting sleepy. He welcomes sleep with open arms, praying that when he wakes, he feels better.
///
“Have you seen Tim at all since you guys came home? I wanted to go over some new developments about this case.” Bruce enters the living room with a manila folder in hand.
Dick flips through the channels on the TV. “He’s not in his room? I told him to go to bed.”
“Why would he be in his room?” Bruce sits down next to Dick.
Dick sighs. “I don’t think he’s getting enough sleep, B. He was practically a dead man walking when we were out today.”
Bruce’s eyebrows knit together in worry. “Hn.”
Alfred enters the living room with a tray of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Just the way Dick likes it.
“Your hot chocolate, Master Dick.” He sets the tray down on the coffee table.
“Thanks, Alfie.” Dick eagerly grabs the mug and takes a sip, leaving him with a silly looking whipped cream-stache.
“Alfred, have you seen Tim anywhere?” Bruce asks.
“Might I suggest checking the library,” The older man says while dusting a shelf. “I seemed to find a boy-shaped lump napping in a chair while tidying up and adding more wood to the fire.”
“At least he’s napping,” Dick mutters into his drink.
Bruce enters the library very quietly. With the manor being so old, the floors inevitably creak. Lucky for Bruce, he knows exactly where each creak is and he avoids them as he makes his way over to the big chair in front of the fireplace. Just as Alfred said, there is his boy in the chair under a blanket. It’s almost adorable the way he’s curled up. If what Dick is saying is true, Bruce would hate to wake him. Bruce stands to leave when he hears a quiet groan.
“Izzit dinner time yet?” Tim mumbles, eyes barely open.
Bruce chuckles softly. “No, bud, not yet. You want to move to your bed? It’s probably more comfortable there.”
“ ‘S too cold in there,” Tim says through a yawn.
“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Want me to leave you alone?”
“Come get me for dinner,” Tim says.
“Alright, bud, just go back to sleep.” Bruce pulls the blanket up to Tim’s chest and the boy snuggles deeper into it.
Within seconds, Tim is asleep again. Bruce stands there, admiring his kid. Tim is unbelievably smart. He’s almost always one step ahead of Bruce and it isn’t uncommon for the kid to finish his sentences or read his thoughts. He’s so proud of all that Tim has accomplished and how hard he’s worked as Robin. He gets a little rush of joy seeing him be surrounded by those who love him like Dick, Barbara, and Alfred. He loves this boy quite a lot and wants only the best for him. He thinks of Tim’s gift - he noticed the other day how much decoration Tim’s bedroom lacks. He’s only been with Bruce for a short while to be fair, but his room could use a little personality. It’s nothing flashy but he hopes Tim will like it all the same - it’s a picture of Tim, Bruce, and Dick, taken by Alfred a few weeks prior. They’re all laughing at some joke Dick told before the picture was taken and Bruce feels his heart grow a few sizes everytime he sees the happy look on both boys’ faces. His boys.
///
Tim’s face hurts when he wakes up in bed the next morning. His nose has revoked his right to breathe normally. Tim remembers the day before, how he could breathe properly. He took that for granted. In addition, his throat feels like sandpaper. Tim can’t swallow without feeling like he’s swallowed some nails. He tries chalking it up to the dry air but he and his mind both know that’s not the case. He’ll make that case to Bruce, Alfred, and Dick, that’s for sure.
He really, really, really , does not want to get up right now. He doesn’t think he can, honestly.
Good thing Dick decides that for him. Tim’s door swings open and Dick launches himself on his bed like…well, like a kid on Christmas morning. Even though it’s two days away.
“Tim! Tim! Timmy! Tim-o-thy!” Dick repeats. “We got a lot planned today so move your lazy bones!”
Tim grabs a pillow and hits Dick with it, pulling it back to press into his congested face. “What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“Half an hour more.”
Dick grabs the pillow from Tim’s face. “Nope! We’re going to look for a Christmas tree!”
Now, Tim did promise himself to give his family the best Christmas, sinuses be damned. He reluctantly sits up, trying to hide any sense of dizziness.
“I’ll be down soon,” He sighs.
“Great! Later, we’ll make gingerbread houses while we wait for the tree to fall out and then after we’ll decorate and watch a movie!” Dick hops off of Tim’s bed and bounds out the door.
Tim goes into the connected bathroom and takes himself in. He looks worse than he did yesterday. Makes sense considering he feels worse too. He wishes he kept some kind of first aid in his bathroom because there’s no way he isn’t in mind melting fever territory now. It’s hard to gauge your own temperature with your hand but Tim’s a detective, let’s consider the facts: his sheets and pillowcases are soaked with sweat, as well as his pajamas, and he can even see little beads of sweat on his forehead. To conclude, Tim’s feverish, he just doesn’t know how high. To be honest, he’d rather not find out how high. He just has to focus on looking presentable. A shower, not too hot and not too cold, just might do the trick. Again, Tim’s not the best gauge on temperature considering he’s flip-flopping between boiling and freezing but it must be nice considering his body doesn’t totally rebel when he steps in. He lets the water run through his hair and over his sweat-soaked body. It’s the nicest he’s felt in the last twenty-four hours.
As Tim finds out, the property of Wayne Manor is big enough where Bruce can legally cut down his own Christmas tree from a forest of evergreens that sits a little beyond the main house. Dick and Bruce are chatting animatedly as Bruce pulls along a sled big enough to cart a tree back. Tim’s never cut down a tree before and he’s really excited to do so. It’s comedic how excited Bruce is to cut down this tree, this hulking mass of a man who intimidates people simply by standing quietly, singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” with Dick at the top of his lungs in the expansive woods. It reminds Tim of Clark Griswold and he makes another note to see if Bruce has seen that movie.
“Ooh, B, how about this one?” Dick runs ahead to a medium-sized tree. It looks right out of a storybook, Tim thinks.
Bruce hums in approval. “It’ll look great in the living room, but we’ve got a third party here. Tim, what do you think?”
Tim is caught off guard, he didn’t know that his opinion mattered. “Uh, wow, I like it.”
“Like it enough to cut it down?” Bruce clarifies.
Tim nods swiftly, suppressing the urge to make a face at the pain of the movement.
They cut down the tree and tie it down to the sled. They didn’t go far but Tim’s feet hurt a lot. He can’t tell if it’s just the ache that comes with being ill or not. Again, Dick and Bruce pull way ahead while Tim kind of hovers behind the sled, not wanting to reveal the severity of his condition. He’s getting worse as the minutes tick by. He’s dressed in more layers than both Dick and Bruce but the cold still seeps through. Alfred would be happy to fix him some hot cocoa when they come back and is probably making some anyway.
They set the tree up in the living room and Tim watches as Dick holds onto the tree stand and secure the little posts to hold the tree in place. Bruce playfully ruffles Dick’s hair when they’re done.
“I’ve taken the liberty of setting up gingerbread pieces for the Masters Dick and Timothy, shall I include one more set up for you, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks.
Bruce opens his mouth to respond but then his phone buzzes. He gives a few clipped responses before putting it on mute. “I would, but it seems there’s some pressing business to take care of. I’ll be in my office.”
Bruce exits hurriedly while Dick and Tim enter the kitchen. While the smell of gingerbread normally soothes Tim, he can’t really smell it. Yet, the sight of the sugary contents in front of him makes him extremely nauseous. All of the frosting and the candy and the gingerbread itself is sickening. Tim is suddenly feeling all that he’s consumed in the last twenty-four hours, swirling madly in his gut. His mouth is watering and he feels the inevitable coming on. Dick and Alfred’s backs are turned so Tim quietly slips out and races to find the nearest bathroom. He makes it barely in time, losing any and everything he’s eaten. The cramps feel like several different punches to the gut and Tim swears he’s pulled a muscle when he’s finished. Standing on shaky legs like a newborn baby deer, Tim rinses his mouth of the acidic taste and wipes his mouth with some toilet paper. He looks drained but not like he just got done puking his guts out, so he deems himself good to go.
“Where’d you run off to?” Dick asks when he returns, mid-frosting a gingerbread door.
Tim scoffs. “Nature calls, Dick.”
“Forget I asked.”
They both sit in a peaceful and comfortable silence. Tim’s surprised he’s able to stomach being in here with the heavy spice filling the air. While Dick is uber-focused on gumdrop shingles, Tim swears he can see his older brother studying him with his peripheral vision.
“So, Timmy, what are we watching tonight?” Dick asks, stealing one of Tim’s gumdrops.
“Hey! That’s mine,” Tim protests.
“Well, my roof is down a shingle and if the roof isn’t complete, then this home won’t be GHOA approved.”
“GHOA?”
“Gingerbread Homeowners Association.”
That gets a quiet chuckle from Alfred, who’s quietly frosting little gingerbread people at the kitchen counter.
Tim rolls his eyes at the corny joke and grabs another gumdrop from the open bag. “I don’t know, I mean, there’s so many.”
“We could watch one of those creepy stop-motion TV movies-”
“Dick, they’re not creepy!”
“Timothy.” Dick stops frosting and his face stones. “Those things hardly move, their mouths don’t line up at all with what they’re saying, it’s nightmare fuel.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“He is,” Alfred chimes in. “Last time Master Dick watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, he screamed and cried anytime the Abominable Snowman appeared on screen, hiding under the coffee table.”
Dick’s ears turn an impressive shade of red. “I didn’t hide! You make me sound like a baby, Alfred.”
“You were. A twelve-year old baby.”
Tim starts to laugh, belly laugh. The image of a teary- eyed Dick hiding under the coffee table from a fictional creature that wasn’t the least bit scary was a funny one. It stopped being funny as soon as Tim’s laughs transitioned into choking coughs. His throat seized shut and he wasn’t getting much air anywhere. Between his blocked nose and closing throat, he couldn’t breathe. A hand was on his back in less than two seconds, rubbing small circles. Dick, Tim concluded.
“Easy, buddy, easy,” Dick soothed. “You’re okay.”
Alfred filled a glass with water and slid it into Tim’s hand. Shakily, Tim put the glass to his lips. The water soothed his aching throat.
“Are you alright, Tim?” Dick looks scared. Tim hates to do that to him.
“Y-yeah, I’m okay.” Tim takes a deep breath to test that hypothesis. He’s good. “I’m fine.”
Dick doesn’t look convinced by that but if he isn’t, he doesn’t say anything.
Bruce comes running back in. “I heard coughing, is everything okay?
“Yeah, we’re good,” Tim replies quickly. “Just laughed a little too hard.”
“Laughed? At what?” Bruce sits next to Tim and begins to frost a gumdrop for Tim’s roof.
“Dick’s irrational fear of stop-motion.”
Dick hums. “I stand by what I said.”
They continue talking while the boys finish their houses. Dick is masterful with his house. He’s somehow managed to make a Cape-Cod style home, complete with shutters and a wraparound porch. It’s almost too good to eat until Bruce snaps a corner off and pops it in his mouth when Dick isn’t looking.
“I still would like to know what movie we’re watching tonight, I mean we’ve already watched Die Hard, The Santa Clauses 1, 2, and 3, as well as both Home Alones,” Dick says.
“I thought there were six of those,” Bruce says, on his third gingerbread person.
“There are two, B, end of discussion.”
“You know, I seem to recall Master Tim suggesting the movie about that man who thinks he is a Christmas Elf?” Alfred says, setting down a coffee mug in front of Bruce.
“Elf! Good choice, Timmy.” Dick snatches a fourth gingerbread from Bruce’s hands.
“It’s still a wonder that you’ve never seen that movie, B,” Tim says, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger and thumb. He feels another headache coming on.
“This, coming from the child who’s never seen The Lion King,” Bruce says with a smirk, sipping on his coffee.
Dick gasps dramatically. “I can’t believe you, Timothy. I’m not even sure I can call you my brother anymore.”
Tim’s aching chest blossoms with warmth. He’s really enjoying the brotherly teasing and hates that this nasty bug has been depriving him of enjoying the last couple of days.
“Then it’s settled.” Bruce stands up from his seat with his mug. “After we decorate the tree, we’ll put Elf on. Dick, you’re on popcorn duty.”
Dick salutes Bruce. “Aye-aye, cap’n.”
///
Tim is exhausted. Not tired. He is profoundly exhausted. He can’t bring it in himself to keep up with Bruce and Dick’s idle chatter. Tim’s too short to help string the lights on the tree so he just watches as Bruce and Dick do it. He feels his eyes drooping and he’s fighting to keep them open. It’s a harder battle to stay awake than fighting Killer Croc. The tree is decently sized so wrapping the lights around it will take at least twenty minutes so if the math says taking a nap is logical, then a nap Tim shall take.
“Timmy?” Dick’s voice sounds very far away.
“Mm, go ‘way,” Tim mumbles.
“We’re done putting lights on the tree, pal, up and at ‘em.” Dick pulls Tim upwards.
That did not feel like twenty minutes. It felt like two. It didn’t help much either. Tim’s even more exhausted now, like he could drop dead any second.
“Oh,” Tim says, disoriented. “Okay.”
Dick and Bruce exchange concerned glances with each other. They both watch as Tim grabs a red bauble, puts a hook in it, and hangs it in the near exact middle of the tree. It’s freaking him out.
“I can feel both of your eyes drilling holes in my skull,” Tim says, clearing his throat when its own croakiness makes him cringe.
They both go to grab baubles themselves, hesitant to hang them in lieu of figuring out whatever’s made Tim so lethargic in the last few days. He’s quiet as a mouse and he’s barely touched any meal that’s been served in the last few days. But Dick and Bruce both know that they aren’t cracking Tim’s shell anytime soon. He’s going to keep being tightlipped about this.
Decorating takes the better part of an hour while a Frank Sinatra record plays and a fire roars. It’s an idyllic scene, Tim notes, giving bonus points to the snow falling outside. At some point, the boys seem satisfied with their work. The tree is covered with warm white lights and beautiful red and green ornaments. Bruce digs the tree topper, a shining star, out from a storage tub. Dick grabs the stepstool from the kitchen.
“Tim, wanna do the honors?” Dick says. “I got to do it my first Christmas here, so it’s only fair.”
Tim is overjoyed that they want him to place the star on the tree but he hides that fact, he’s still gotta look cool for Batman and Nightwing. He’s never felt more like he’s belonged. Like they were a real family. For once, his nausea is replaced with a warm feeling.
Tim steps up on the stool and clips the star at the top, to mild applause from the other two. Bruce quickly flicks some of the other lights off and they admire their tree while Sinatra gently croons “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” behind them. Tim feels a strong arm pulled around him. He looks up to see Bruce has his arms around both him and Dick. His first thought is how cheesy it must look to some outsiders but then he thinks Alfred is probably grabbing the camera as he speaks. Tim pretends not to hear the flash. Bruce is warm and Tim welcomes it; he’s been on and off, hot and cold, and right now he’s cold. Tim studies his adoptive father and notes how Bruce’s icy blue eyes shine in the Christmas lights. If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d say Bruce was trying not to cry. Tim looks over at Dick and sees the exact same thing. Tim can’t say their alike out loud, he’ll get crucified by Dick. Tim takes another second to look at both of them and truly cherish how much he’s come to love his father and brother and turns his attention back to the tree. He leans into Bruce’s side and he feels the hug grow a bit tighter. Bruce’s thumb is gently rubbing Tim’s shoulder and he feels himself grow sleepy again.
“So,” Dick begins, breaking the peaceful silence after a couple of minutes. “Movie time?”
Tim takes a deep inhale to wake himself back up, but it only results in another coughing fit. This one is shorter and not as painful but it doesn’t stop Bruce and Dick from looking concerned.
“It’s fine, I just need something to drink,” Tim says, trying to calm both of them down.
Alfred clears his throat. “I’ve prepared hot chocolate and seem to recall Master Dick is on popcorn duty.”
Dick makes a run for the kitchen and Tim finds a spot on the couch and turns on the TV to look for Elf. Bruce sits on the other end of the couch, awkwardly. Like he wants to say something to Tim but doesn’t know what or how.
“Tim?”
“Yeah, Bruce?” Tim figures Bruce can’t read his face if he’s not looking at him.
“You know you can come to me about anything, right?”
“I know.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about?”
“No,” Tim says, quickly. Too quickly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Again, too fast to be convincing.
Bruce doesn’t say anything else, most likely because he doesn’t know what to say. Two minutes later, Dick comes back with a large bowl of popcorn and nestles himself in the spot between Dick and Bruce, while Alfred takes the armchair. Tim wraps himself in a warm blanket and presses play. As Tim lays his head on a pillow he placed on the armrest, he can feel the sleepiness start to fight with him again. Tim makes it through the opening credits and sees Buddy the Elf call himself a cotton-headed ninny muggins (which Tim thinks he too, is a cotton-headed ninny muggins) before letting sleep overtake him.
///
Dick is laughing at Buddy brawling with the gruff mall Santa when the sound of soft snores are suddenly heard. Bruce was laughing right along with Dick and even Alfred was softly chuckling so that left-
“B, look,” Dick whispered to Bruce. They both turn to see Tim, fast asleep. He looks much younger under the gentle glow of the tree.
“You were right, Dick. He hasn’t been sleeping well these last few days,” Bruce says. “I’m really worried about him.”
Dick nods in agreement. “Do you think we should just put him to bed?”
Dick doesn’t have to say anything twice as Bruce has already paused the movie and gathered a blanketed Tim in his arms. Tim instinctively curls into Bruce’s chest.
Bruce is gentle as ever carrying Tim upstairs without disturbing him, like he’s carrying a priceless object. Which he is. He’s so fond of the boy in his arms and wouldn’t trade him for the world. His boy is everything to him. He manages to unwrap Tim from his blanket burrito and change him into pajamas without waking him. It’s when he goes to lay Tim down and tuck him in that he wakes.
“ ‘S th’ movie over yet?” Tim croaks, blearily.
“No, bud, you fell asleep. I’m putting you to bed,” Bruce says in a hushed tone.
“I c’n finish it,” Tim protests, trying to sit up.
Bruce gently pushes his shoulders back down and pulls the blankets up to his chin. “I think bed is the best thing for you now. We’ll finish it with you.”
“But Bruce–”
“Tim.”
Tim sighs, defeated. “Okay.”
“If it helps, I think it’s really funny so far. I’m glad you picked it out.”
“Good.”
Bruce laughs a little at the tired sassiness. “Goodnight, Tim.”
“Night, Bruce.”
Bruce sits on Tim’s bed for a few more seconds and watches as Tim returns to Dreamland. He pats the boy’s knee under the blankets and leaves.
///
It’s Christmas Eve. That much Tim gathers when he wakes up the next morning with an ear splitting migraine and completely dulled senses. His nose is more blocked than it’s ever been before and his mouth has involuntarily opened to allow air to get through. Not only is it uncomfortable, but it’s painful. His face hurts . On top of that, his stomach has decided to be mean to him this morning. It’s swirling uncomfortably and Tim knows what to expect next. This thought motivates him to grab his trash can by his desk but sitting up is harder than he originally thought. With his head feeling like a two ton weight, it’s hard to hold up by himself. He doesn’t really have his bearings either with the sun gleaming in a way that makes the nausea worse.
Tim wobbles to his desk, vision going spotty. If he’s not quick, he’ll pass out for sure. A long and painful shiver runs through his body, stopping him on the way back to his bed. The lightheadedness brings him to his knees and just in time, too. Tim hugs the trash can tight as he retches heavily. The round of vomiting leaves no mercy as the ache felt throughout Tim’s body intensifies and his throat is left blistered by the agonizing sensation. Tim would be surprised if he even had a voice left at this point. When there’s nothing left to come up, Tim takes a deep breath, through his mouth. He shifts into a weaker version of Robin-mode, trying to decide his next moves. He knows there’s some medicine, most likely ibuprofen, in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. He also knows there’s a water glass in there, perched on his sink next to his toothbrush holder. Tim deduces in his foggy state that the best course of action would be to grab these things if he’s ever gonna make it through the day without alerting Bruce, Dick, or Alfred. He also needs to lock his door. He doesn’t need any of them seeing him like this. Tim’s banking on the fact they’ve all suspected him of being insanely sleep deprived (which isn’t a total untruth - his sinuses don’t let him sleep comfortably and nightmares have been plaguing his restless sleep) so they’ll leave him alone if they’re convinced he’s finally taking care of himself. He closes his curtains too, bathing the room in near complete darkness.
Tim returns from the bathroom with a halfway gone container of ibuprofen, the water glass, and wet washcloth to cool his fever down. It’s probably scary high but Tim doesn’t need to know how high. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim spots Bruce and Alfred’s unwrapped gifts. If Tim were smart, he’d ask Dick to wrap them. He watched him wrap Bruce’s gift the other day - the dude is crafty, using only three bits of sticky tape. Three! Tim is completely lost when it comes to wrapping. They always come out clunky and he prefers gift bags anyway. Luckily for him, Bruce’s gift is better in a gift bag and he only needs to wrap Alfred’s. Alfred’s record is a square so that shouldn’t be too ugly.
Tim will wrap later. Right now, he needs to rest. He takes two pills with some water to chase it down. Tim says a silent prayer that it will stay down, even without food. He slaps his forehead with the cold washcloth and he closes his eyes.
///
Tim is on round 4 (5?) of throwing up. There’s nothing to throw up. He hasn’t been downstairs all day. He hasn’t had anything to eat except for some unopened crackers Alfred packed in his lunchbox last week that has yet to be unpacked. He’s utterly confused, not really knowing what time it was or at times, where he was. The wash cloth doesn’t stay cold for very long, his skin soaks the cold right up. Tim gives up on that after the third use of it. He’s getting worse and knows he should probably tell someone but his pride won’t let him. He’s survived dozens of colds and flus without anyone’s help. He can do this. Robin can do this. He repeats that to himself, like the mantra is the only thing keeping him sane.
While in that mindset, Tim decides now is a good time to wrap Bruce and Alfred’s gifts. Again, he makes the chancy journey to his desk. Tim makes it and takes a seat. He chooses to wrap Alfred’s first. The fight with the wrapping paper isn’t fun, especially in his state. It’s a shoddy wrapping job, as expected but at least the record is covered in jolly snowflake wrapping. Alfred will appreciate the effort, the old softy. Tim goes to get Bruce’s statue but another wave of nausea overwhelms. He grips the desk for dear life, willing himself to not puke. No use. He jumps up from his seat and hears a thud behind him as he barely makes it to the trash can. After he wraps Bruce’s gift, he’s not leaving his bed until he estimates how close it is to the beginning of the Christmas Story marathon. This round of puking is really just incredibly painful dry heaving, squeezing Tim’s core. He finishes quickly and turns back to his desk. But the gift. The gift is gone .
Tim’s blood runs cold with fear. How could he lose it? Did he already wrap and hide it? He grows very anxious and wanders near his desk to look for the statue. It’s not hard to miss but Tim’s not feeling too hot, so everything is double the normal work. Tim’s sure he won’t find it until he feels something poke his foot. He bites down on his lip, maybe drawing blood at how dreadful the step was. Same energy as stepping on a lego. Tim looks down to see the culprit of his foot stabbing.
It’s the Gray Ghost. Well. His arm, at least.
Tim picks up the intact arm of the Gray Ghost. His pointed finger had stabbed Tim. Tim looks at the statue adjacent to the arm and notices the whole statue is down an arm. Tim is horrified. There’s no way he can fix this. It was supposed to be perfect. Now he’ll have let down Bruce and Dick, who helped him buy this present. Tim sinks to his knees and cries. He chides himself mentally, as crying, sobbing, like this is only for babies. But he can’t help it anymore. He’s exhausted and sick and gross. He hears a distant voice in his head, unsure of who it could be, telling him to stop or he’ll make himself sick. That’s kind of funny, actually. How can he make himself sick if he’s already been sick? He finds out a little bit later cause he’s back to throwing up. He doesn’t even make the attempt to go back to bed, instead choosing the floor. It’s much more of a hassle to lean over his bed and throw up when he can just hug the trash can. With the queasy feeling churning in his stomach and the thick congestion practically suffocating him, Tim shuts his eyes and falls into a sickly sleep.
///
“How come we didn’t go on vacation for Christmas?” Dick asks Bruce.
They’re both in Bruce’s office, wrapping Tim’s presents to put under the tree. The kid had given Bruce his list of things and instead of just picking out a few like Tim had said, Bruce bought the whole list. And as predicted, Bruce put off all of the wrapping until today. So that is what leaves them both here, surrounded by a myriad of patterns and ribbons.
“Vacation? What makes you say that, chum?” Bruce says, diligently focused on folding snowman paper over a leatherbound journal.
“I was on the phone with Babs from Barbados!” Dick exclaims. “Barbados, Bruce!”
Bruce chuckles. “We can go to Barbados next year, I just wanted Tim to have a nice first Christmas here, give him the full Christmas experience.”
“Speaking of Tim, where’s he been all day? It’s four o’clock, and I haven’t heard a peep from him all day,” Dick says as he expertly wraps a remote-controlled racecar.
Bruce pauses. It hasn’t occurred to him that he hasn’t seen Tim all day. Not at breakfast or at lunch or even in the cave, training.
“I…don’t know. I haven’t seen him either.” Bruce says, quietly.
“Do you think he’s okay? I mean, he’s been really freaking me out all week, B.”
“Same here.” Bruce bites his lip nervously. “I hope he’s okay. Maybe he’s taking the rest day he needs.”
Dick shrugs. “Could be. I suspect he’s coming down with something but I didn’t want to push.”
“We’ll see tonight, he’s bound to come down to watch A Christmas Story with us.”
Dick nods and returns to stuffing a mug with tissue paper that he himself bought that says “World’s Best Brother”. Dick didn’t even know they made those.
There’s a few minutes of silence, save for the rustling of the wrapping paper and tissue paper.
“Can we go to Barbados for New Years?”
“Dick.”
///
There’s a gentle knocking at Tim’s door that wakes him up. He notices he doesn’t feel totally sick to his stomach anymore and has briefly regained his sense of smell. This also means he can smell the sick that’s been ruminating in his trash can, thus restoring a less aggressive nauseous feeling. He can feel the sweat that covers every inch of his body, making the pajamas he hasn’t taken off all day stick to his skin.
“Hey, Timmy, it’s Dick,” A voice says through the door. “If you aren’t still sleeping, Bruce and I are gonna catch the beginning of the Christmas Story movie marathon and hope you can join us. Alfred made more gingerbread and hot cocoa if you’re hungry!”
Now that his brother mentions it, Tim is feeling pretty hungry. He doesn’t know what exactly his stomach can take, so he might just drink some hot chocolate and throw some marshmallows in there to not upset its delicate state.
Tim clears his throat in an attempt to sound as normal as possible. “I’ll be down soon, go ahead without me.”
“Great!” Tim can hear the smile in Dick’s voice.
Tim hobbles over to his bathroom and cringes at the person staring back at him. He doesn’t hesitate for a second and immediately decides to get in the shower.
///
Dick and Bruce are idly chatting with a plate of cookies and mugs of hot cocoa in front of them when Tim makes his long-awaited entrance into the living room.
“You’re alive!” Dick swoops Tim up in a bone crushing hug.
“Mmph! Dick, you’re suffocating me!” Tim says, struggling to break free of Dick’s grip.
“Dick, please don’t accidentally kill your brother,” Bruce says like the tired dad he is.
Dick lets go and tries to hide the reaction on his face when he sees how pale and tired Tim looks. He kind of wants to pick him up and put him back to bed, assuming that’s where he’s been all day.
“So where have you been all day?” Dick asks, settling with picking Tim up and setting him in the armchair.
“Sleeping.” Tim says, hoping that answer would suffice.
“Good, I think you’ve needed it,” Bruce says, handing Tim’s mug of cocoa to him.
Tim takes a sip and almost cries at how nice it feels going down his dreadfully sore throat. It’s a nice reprieve from how bad he’s felt all day and now he can settle in and watch a hilarious movie with his father and brother.
///
As the movie progresses, Tim starts to feel bad again. He’s gotten a few strange looks from Dick as he tries to suppress some stubborn coughs or sniffs every time his nose gets clogged. He can’t really help it and he’s gotten a little tired of keeping up appearances. He starts drifting to the sound of kids screaming as the drunken Santa Claus and his menacing yet underpaid elves shove them down a long slide.
It’s not long before Tim feels someone shaking his shoulder. “Tim. Tim?”
“Hmm?” Tim doesn’t open his eyes.
“Are you alright?” Bruce whispers, kneeling in front of where Tim is curled up in the chair.
Tim sighs. “I think I’ve got a cold or something,” He half-lies. “ ‘M really tired.”
“Do you want to go to bed? It’s a marathon, so we can always watch it in the morning.”
Tim pushes himself up on his elbows and nods, dragging the blanket with him. “Yeah. I’m really sorry, Bruce.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Bruce says with a small smile. “There’s some cold medicine in my bathroom. Take some of that and head to bed. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Tim yawns. “G’night, Bruce. G’night, Dick.”
“Night, Tim, feel better!” Dick calls after him.
Tim waves without turning his back and trudges upstairs. He can already feel some tears welling up in his eyes. He’s on his way to ruining their Christmas. He can’t stay awake for not one but two movies, he broke Bruce’s present, and Dick got super close to getting mad at him at the mall. He just knows he messes up anymore and that’ll lead to Robin getting taken away and Bruce being forever disappointed in him. Dick will probably get sick of him too and grow distant again. Tim lets the tears fall a little and climbs back into his room. Before he goes to bed, he puts the statue in a bag along with its broken arm. There’s no point in giving the present to Bruce in its shabby condition, so he hides it under his bed.
Tim puts some new pajamas on, red and black checkered ones with his monogrammed initials on it. TJDW . Tim didn’t really think he was deserving of that W but Dick made him promise they’d all wear the pajamas tomorrow, which all were a matched set Bruce ordered.
Tim tucks himself in and stares into the darkness. For all the sleeping he’s done in this last week, he finds he can’t get to sleep. Every other Christmas before, he’s always had excited jitters that would keep him awake. Now he’s just got a stomach full of dread. He tries everything - counting sheep, taking deep breaths - nothing seems to work. He curls on his side because now his nose is doing that annoying thing where one nostril is congested and the other is fine. This goes on for about ten minutes and the mere tossing and turning exhausts him.
Finally, finally. Tim sleeps.
///
Bruce is the first one awake. After Tim had gone to bed last night, Bruce and Dick placed all of his presents under the tree. Bruce is back downstairs, to make sure everything has gone undisturbed. It looks so serene, so lively as the shiny presents shimmer with the new dawn, barely peeking in the windows. Bruce lays some blankets out and puts them on the couch for his boys to choose from when they eventually come downstairs and bundle in little burritos like they always do. He decides he’s going to wait for them and enjoy the silence for as long as it will last. He takes a mental bet with himself - Dick will be the first one awake and come speeding down the stairs and find some way to vault himself up to the chandelier.
It’s peaceful for about five more minutes until Bruce hears something . His heart rate spikes and he’s about to enter Batman-mode. The noise is coming from upstairs which means either of his sons could be in danger. Dick’s door is closest so Bruce presses his ear to Dick’s door. Nothing there. So that must mean…
Tim.
Bruce throws Tim’s door wide open and immediately clocks the empty bed. The sheets and blankets are thrown askew. Sign of a struggle, possibly? Bruce is about to enter panic mode when he notices the bathroom light in Tim’s room is on. This is where the sound is coming from. It’s a mix of soft sobs and retching. Bruce approaches the door cautiously and slowly opens. Instead of panic, worry takes over at the miserable sight in front of him. Tim is curled up in a ball besides the toilet, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, whimpering. His eyes are clenched tightly in pain as tears fall. Bruce approaches the boy gently, kneeling to his level.
“Tim?” He says, softly. Tim jumps a little at his presence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Tim starts to cry a little harder. He didn’t want Bruce seeing him like this. Bruce seemingly doesn’t care and gathers Tim in his arms, hushing him. He feels his palm rest against his forehead. Bruce’s hand is so cool, Tim can’t help but lean into the touch.
“That’s quite a temperature you’ve got, bud.” Bruce stands, one arm beneath Tim’s knees and the other supporting his back.
Tim writhes a bit in his grasp. “ ‘M not a baby, you d’nt have t’ carry me.”
Bruce chuckles. “Yeah, but I bet you can’t really walk upright, can you?”
Tim stays silent on that. Fair point.
Bruce brings them back to his own room and lays Tim on his own bed while he leaves to enter his own bathroom. He comes back with some Tylenol and a thermometer. Bruce sits on the edge of the bed and slips the thermometer under Tim’s tongue without any protest from the latter. They wait a few seconds for the beep.
“103.5,” Bruce says solemnly. “That’s a pretty nasty fever, we’re gonna have to bring that down. Is there anything else bothering you?”
Tim coughs a little. “My face really hurts and I c’n’t breathe out of my nose and I’ve been feeling really nauseous.”
“I don’t think you would’ve gotten this bad unless–Tim, how long have you been feeling sick?”
Tim turns his back to Bruce. “Since Monday.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bruce doesn’t sound mad, just worried.
Tim sniffs, wiping a tear that falls. “I didn’t want to ruin Christmas. I’m sorry”
Bruce plies Tim to scoot over and then pulls him into his lap, head resting against his chest. “Oh, Tim. You could never ruin Christmas, don’t apologize for something you didn’t do. If anything, I’m worried your Christmas has been ruined. It sucks being sick on Christmas.”
“I would know,” says another voice. Dick is standing in the doorway. “I got pneumonia and was delirious until New Years.”
“I promise, Tim, Christmas is not ruined.” Bruce presses a kiss into his sick son’s sweaty hair. “Now, let’s get you back to bed. Dick, run and get a cold cloth.”
Dick wordlessly salutes Bruce and runs ahead. Bruce carries Tim back to his bedroom and tucks him back in. He joins Tim on the bed and lets the boy lay his head in his lap. Bruce combs his fingers through Tim’s hair, continuing to do so when Dick returns with the compress. Dick joins them on the bed, but feels his foot nudge something.
“What’s this?” Dick reveals the gift bag in his hands and Tim gets a burst of energy to grab it.
“No, Dick, don’t–”
Dick peers into the bag and then hands it to Bruce. “It’s for you.”
Tim’s face flushes a deeper shade of red, not just from the fever.
He awaits Bruce’s disappointment but it never comes. Instead, Tim opens his eyes to a teary-eyed Bruce, just like he was looking at their tree.
“Tim, I love this. Thank you.” He presses a kiss into his forehead again.
“But, it’s broken. I broke it.” Tears start welling up in his eyes again.
“Nothing a little welding can’t fix,” Bruce says with a wink. “I love it regardless.”
“It’s for your desk,” Tim says, snuggling further into Bruce’s side. “Like your Dad.”
“He would’ve loved you,” Bruce says. “Both of you.”
They stay snuggled like that for most of the morning until Bruce decides to carry Tim downstairs for a little breakfast. Bruce and Dick enjoy some homemade Christmas waffles while Tim has the more gentle cream-of-wheat in a decorative Christmas bowl. After breakfast, they all retreat to the living room, where Tim decides he’ll spend the day, mostly sleeping.
“Well,” Bruce says, hanging the phone up. “Leslie says that you’ve got the flu as well as a sinus infection. Sorry, kiddo. She’ll be by later with some antibiotics.”
“Damn,” Dick whistles. “Now we can’t go to Barbados for New Years.”
“What?” Tim laughs a bit at the out-of-context comment.
“Nevermind your brother, he’s a pain,” Bruce says, earning a childish raspberry from Dick. “Why don’t you open my gift?”
Bruce hands Tim a small flat present. It’s a little crudely wrapped, which is how Tim knows Dick didn’t wrap it. He tears into the paper and gasps softly at the reveal.
“I figured your room could use a little decorating and what better decoration is me and Dick.” Bruce pats Tim’s knee. “I hope you like it, buddy.”
Tim throws his arms around Bruce. “I love it,” He says into Bruce’s broad chest.
They all settle in for the morning, both boys cuddled on either side of Bruce. Alfred joins them a little later and turns on another showing of A Christmas Story.
“I double-dare you to stay awake for the rest of the movie.” Dick asks.
“I triple-dog dare you,” Tim retorts.
“Hush,” Bruce says. “Or you’ll both shoot your eyes out.”
“Ho-Ho-Ho,” Dick says slowly.
All three laugh a little at their quote-off and Alfred rolls his eyes, amused.
“Merry Christmas, Tim.” Bruce says.
“Merry Christmas, Bruce.” Tim replies.
It wasn’t the Christmas Tim had planned for but he certainly couldn’t ask for a better feeling than the one he had right now. He’ll count this Christmas as a success.
Fin.