Fic: A Batclan Christmas Carol, part 2
Title: A Batclan Christmas Carol - Part II
Prompt: T15; P46 Cookies
Characters: Dick and Tim
Genre: fluff/comedy
Rating: G
Words Count: 2,089
Summary: just what the Doctor ordered.
Tim is frowning at the computer screen. It would make sense to leave this to Babs, but it's Christmas Eve and there is no way he's going to bug her with it. His own computer skills will do just fine. However, apparently someone has done a very good job of covering their tracks. That's fine. It just means it will take a little longer, but he'll get the information eventually.
"I don't want a lot for Christmas..." the feminine voice, deep and warm, suddenly starts to spread from upstairs to downstairs and into the cave, accompanied by a gospel choir...
Tim blinks and looks up. What on earth? Oh, Alfred. Of course he'd want to set the proper mood for the holiday even if there is no one to celebrate. He ignores it and goes back to work.
The song, which has been coming down muffled till that very moment - evidently smoothed out by the closed secret entrance - out the blue becomes clearer, as if somebody has just opened the door in question to purposely let the music in. Now the tune is undeniably loud and merry. And Mariah Carey performs incredibly vocalizations, utterly ignoring Tim's need for concentration.
Tim grumbles. He looks to the computer. No, he is NOT going upstairs. He is going to finish this and if that means dredging up some of the more obscure meditation techniques, then that's what he'll do. He needs to track the damn drugs, find out where the poisoned shipments are coming from.
"Are you deaf," a voice asks, from behind Tim, so very close to his left ear, "or just stubborn?"
Tim refuses to jump and he certainly won't look, knowing damn well who is breathing in his ear.
"Hmmmmm," he intones in his best imitation of Bruce at his most non-communicative.
"I'll take that as a 'I'm VERY stubborn'" Dick mutters lightly, not showing any will at all to straighten up and leave his current position: arms and legs folded, elbows planted in the soft top of the chair's stuffed backrest, chin rested on his own crossed wrists and lips protruded to bother his younger brother's ear.
Tim sighs. "You're one to talk about stubborn." He glances out of the corner of his eye at the man. "Much as I love seeing you, Dick, I really need to get this done."
Dick's eyebrows arch and then smooth. He uncrosses his arms and props his face on a hand, intently studying first the screen and then Tim. "You caught that Timbo" he sentences, pretty seriously, in the end.
Tim does look up now. "Pardon?" He blinks at his older brother, having no idea what the man is on about.
Oh, finally! At least earned some eye contact, Dick smiles to himself. He leans to Tim, still with his very best serious face on, and pronounces: "Bat Constipation".
The expression on his face - so vivid - express genuine worrying. And it'd be quite convincing... if only Dick wasn't Dick and thus obviously teasing. "It starts like that, you know?" the young man gestures to the console. "First you prefer to ignore your older brother and then you end up grunting instead than speaking, followed by other terrible, terrible things".
Bat-- "What?!" Did Dick just...?! Then Tim can't stop it, he feels himself grinning. Damn, he hasn't done that in a while. Then a small laugh tries to burble it's way up from his chest.
Dick drops his mask of seriousness and withdraws with a victorious grin. What he likes about Timbo, is that however much Tim can resemble Bruce, there's always a way to pull out the merrier part of him... "You need to be cured little brother" Dick says.
Tim gives Dick a very dubious look. "I'm not sure I want to know what that entails..."
"It's even worse than I though..." Dick mutters to himself, mock-frowning. He has Tim's attention now and he's NOT going to let the teen return to his job anytime soon...
Tim sighs. "Later. Right now I really need to finish this..." He turns back to the computer, ruthlessly suppressing the humor of the moment before. He has a job to do.
"The Doctor orders a specific cure for your disease" Dick continues casually, as if Tim hasn't spoken at all. "Nothing dramatically cheerful, I can ensure" his blue irises dancing.
"I said later," Tim reminds him crossly. "Someone has been spiking the smack that's been coming into Gotham. There have been 13 deaths already."
Finally Dick straightens-up and folds his arms, he's serious for real now.
"What if there isn't a later, do you ever think about that Tim?" the young man says. That's the kind of worry that Dick usually tries to ignore; but, at times - only at times - it occurs to him. "In our job, unlucky days and nights are always around the corner... that's why we ought catch the moment. Present is a present."
Tim scowls.
"There will be a later. I'm almost done. Another thirty minutes. Maybe an hour." He doesn't want to think about a world without Dick but... it's true. And he hates it. But it's the life they have chosen for themselves.
Tim deliberately hunches away from Dick. “You can come back in an hour."
Dick sighs. He doesn't walk away though, he's FAR too used to Bruce's manners to get discouraged by Tim's attempt at a dismissal; he simply returns to lean on the top of the backrest - head very close to Tim's ear, just to be sure the teen is well aware of his presence, and utters, "Okay. Show me this Gordian Knot you have then. Two brains work better than one". Before turning into a total and serious professional though, Dick can't help but add: "And we'd better be fast. We have only 15 minutes before the dough spoils".
Tim wants desperately to bang his head on the keyboard, but that would probably result in some detrimental coding issues. Instead he just indicates what he's found so far about the shipments. It gets as far as Germany of all places and the trail stops. Or rather is erased. "They've covered their tracks well, I'm uncovering them..."
* * *
Tim sits back, smiling. DONE! And it didn't take the estimated hour. He's feeling pretty pleased with himself, all told.
"You better watch out,
you better not cry,
better not pout,
I'm telling you why..." Frank Sinatra sings from the upper level.
Dick mimics the words under his breath as his head wiggles slightly, all in time with the music.
Tim winces. "Could you at least sing on key?" he stands up and stretches a little.
In response, Dick flashes a dazzling grin to his little brother. "Cookie time" he announces, still humming. He's NOT singing off key and both of them know; Timmy is just trying to spoil him mood. Blah. The boyo is definitely fighting a losing battle. "The last one to make it to the kitchen, is one of Santa's little elves," he provokes, eyes sparkling.
Tim's eyes widen and he's OFF! Given his luck, Dick will probably try to stuff him in a damned elf costume. He's so not going to let that happen.
With a gorgeous smirk, Dick sets off in pursuit a second later, chasing Tim upstairs. When they reach for the secret door, the young man catches Tim by his shirt collar and tugs him backward, making himself room to exit the Batcave as for first.
Not to be outdone, Tim tackles his brother's legs, brings him down low as he scrambles over top of the former Robin.
Oh, now THAT's fun! THAT's his Timmy! Faster than his brother, Dick finds a way to elude and curl up, so to caper backwards; then he's on his feet again, dashing to the kitchen in a cloud of mad snickers.
Tim careens into the kitchen a fraction of a hair before his brother and skids around the island, beaming a triumphant grin at the man. "Ha! You'll look good in an elf outfit. You already have the pixie boots."
In response - with a short little snerk - Dick balls up Alfred's favorite apron and hurls it at his younger brother. "Move your hands, not your mouth” he counters, raising one eyebrow at Tim and shooting him one of his patented killer grin.
“He's making a list
And checking it twice;
Gonna find out
Who's naughty and nice
Santa Claus is coming to town”.
As he takes the bowl filled with an inviting lemon-yellow colored mixture, Dick's hips show the clear intention to want and take part to his hands activity and to the joyous atmosphere, because they start to shake at the sound of Frank's voice. Soon enough, not even Dick's feet can be restrained anymore and one begins to keep the beat.
Tim catches the apron easily and puts it on. Then he wanders over and peers in the bowl. "So what are we making?"
"Shortbreads" Dick announces. The mixture prepared by Alfred, is now a crumbling and finicky dough, ready to be knead.
The third Robin gives a sharp little Tim smile as he eyes his brother. "And how much is actually going to make it onto the pans?"
Dick turns partly to grin at Tim from over his shoulder, the rest of the body can't help but keep jiggling at the tune.
"Christmas, Christmas time is near
Time for toys and time for cheer" the Chipmunks are now chirping in the background.
"All the dough you can catch" the man's eyebrows waggle.
Tim snorts and deftly swipes the bowl.
"That's what I thought. Now make yourself useful and get me the cotton sheet from the drawer by your knee. And the flour. It's in the pantry."
"Immediately your Royal Cookieness" the young man answers amusedly, moving away from the boy. He doesn't really need for Tim's tips about where the supplies are, he knows the kitchen as well as the palm of his own hand, for all the past Christmases he spent there, baking cookies together with the old butler.
Tim shakes his head and watches him go. When Dick is safely in the pantry, only then does he abandon the bowl, leaving it unprotected, so he can grab the cookie cutters from the drawer all the way over by the sink. Of course Alfred has the appropriately festive shapes right at the front. He takes his prizes back to the bowl.
Dick returns to Tim carrying the flour and eyes the cutters from over the teen's shoulder.
"Not those" he says, placing the package on the table top, near to the bowl.
Tim raises an eyebrow at the man. "You drag me up here to make Christmas cookies and you're objecting to iconic shapes?"
“I am," the man cocks his head at his little brother. "Don't you tell me that you wouldn't be able to make BAT shortbread now..." he smiles impishly.
Tim hangs his head dramatically. Then he looks to the ceiling, raising his fist up as he exclaims.
"Why? Why do you hate me so?!"
Dick can't help but laugh in response. "Hate you? If He really hated you, He'd have left you down there, all alone and grumpy AND on the Christmas Eve. Instead you're here now, baking cookies with your gorgeous older bro" he teases charmingly.
Tim snorts. "More like annoying older brother." He takes the sheet and spreads it out, dusting it with flour. "Fine, go get the batshaped cookie cutters. But know that you are doing me great psychological damage."
He's doing his best to look disapproving, but his eyes are shining happily.
Dick shakes his head at Tim's affected behavior, laughing silently and walks out of the room again victorious, right at the moment in which Alvin declares - in a decidedly unnatural high-pitched tone - that he wants a hula-hoop.
Tim sighs and shakes his head even as a grin tries hard to breakout across his face.
“We can hardly stand the wait
Please Christmas, don't be late!
We can hardly stand the wait
Please Christmas, don't be late...”
*
Alfred closes the door he has been peeking through till that very moment; the right corner of mouth is curled up, in a hint of a smile.
That's a promising beginning for his boys, even if he doesn't think there will be very many cookies that actually make it out of the kitchen.
He has to move on and contact the other members of the family. And fast, there's only half a day left to the Christmas Eve...