You're inside a sitting room with tall windows and even taller ceilings. Somehow, you know this is Wayne Manor, an estate slapped out of the way on an immense acreage. It's evening, but not quite dark because you can see the hazy orange-violet of twilight horizon out of the windows on the far wall. Outside, it's snowing. The enormous stone fireplace, though, is crackling with flame and life, dancing shadows on the opposite wall and providing more warmth to the room than expected.
It looks and smells like old money here, and you would be disgusted if not for the fact you feel so at home in this familiar place. Dark, antiqued wood furniture wrapped in oxblood upholstery and lined with goldenrod are tucked neatly together for conversation. The settees and chairs are all straight-back and ancient (but immaculate), and you're lying on one of the lounging couches with a book so old it only has a rough fabric cover with lettering.
There are other people here with you. At the opposite end of your settee, bunched up, is a dark-skinned, green-eyed, and black-haired boy who can't be much older than thirteen or fourteen, The shape of his face is a cookie-cutter copy of the man you know, and the taciturn expression he wears doesn't help; his eyes are sharp and intelligent, but he's focused on reading a book not much different than your own. This is Damian. Between the two of you, a large, black Great Dane hogs most of the room of the seat, offering you all of its gangly legs while resting its head on Damian's stomach; this is Titus, Damian's dog. A tuxedo cat walks under the couch and by, tail slipping out of the edge and lifting like a flag; this is Pennyworth, Damian's cat.
Across from you in a chair on his own, sitting sideways, is Tim, dark-haired, blue-eyed. This is a theme with the rest of you boys. He has a slim laptop in his lap between his raised legs, and he's typing away even though you know he has an ear listening to the rest of you. You're a little surprised he's in glasses this time instead of contacts. Maybe they're for the blue light.
Sharing another couch on your other side are two people: an older young man with similar dark-hair and blue-eyes and a blonde-haired young woman. This is Dick (Richard) and Stephanie. As usual, Dick is cracking terrible jokes and trying to get you, Damian, and Tim to pay more attention to the gathering at hand. He has a lot of big brother energy; you know he's the oldest. He's also the family Golden Boy, and sometimes, you are a little resentful. From time to time, Damian will say, "Grayson," with all the flatness of the world without glancing up. Stephanie is helping him with much more ridicule, and half the time, you have to keep yourself from snickering.
There are two more girls left who are down at the other end, but not necessarily far away. Barbara is a red-head, and she isn't sitting on any of the furniture because she's in a wheelchair which she has pulled up between the rest of you. She is trying her best to get Dick to stop being obnoxious, but it's hard for her to keep the humor out of her voice. Beside her in a chair is Cassandra, a black-haired, small girl with almond eyes. She's very quiet, though you know she could break your neck with her bare hands in one swift movement if she wanted. But she doesn't, and that's the point. She is tired of being a tool for someone else, a killer who only listens and acts on instinct.
Those are the mostly broken ones of you. The only one left is an African-American boy who hasn't had a bad life, who calls the rest of you out on your weird bullshit sometimes, but who cares about you all the same. Duke. He's new, and maybe you can give Bruce a sliver of credit for succeeding with this one. Oh. And there's Alfred, but the butler is always here at all times. He's the stitching that holds every single one of you together somehow. The MVP. You know every person here would die for this man without a bit of hesitation. That's how powerful Alfred is. That's how loved Alfred is. He's dryly chatting with the rest of you when Dick inadvertently pulls him into the conversation.
All of you are here because it's Christmas. You're waiting on someone in the warm light of the fireplace, and as much as you dig in the fact he had been too late to help you a long time ago, he actually arrives when he's meant to arrive.
It's Bruce. When he walks in, he has a very commanding air, and all of you turn to give him your attention without him even saying a word. When he's working, his face is hard and serious, unyielding, studious, alert, cautious. Here, seeing the lot of you gathered together in a too big place that has spent a lot of time empty and cold and silent, his expression is softer and kinder. You can see love and appreciation there, you can see home there, and acceptance, and guidance, and gratitude. It stirs weird feelings inside of you, conflicted ones. You struggle to be callous, but this is--
Your dad. This is your dad, and you hate him, and admire him, and love him, and resent him all at once.
"Are we going to sit here all day and look at each other, Father?" Damian asks.
The laugh Bruce gives removes all of the formal, professional tension from the room. It's a sound you all have heard, but not often, and so it is extremely precious. A coveted pearl of a thing. You understand Bruce is not Batman here, and so you can all relax, and you all do.
"Come on," Bruce says, turning back out of the door and beckoning with his hand. "It's time to eat."
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