Dick had exactly one plan for Christmas Eve.

One.

Couch. Blanket. Something mindless on the TV. Maybe a stupid holiday movie he’d pretend to complain about and secretly enjoy. A quiet afternoon before the inevitable chaos of Wayne Manor, where Bruce would be emotionally unavailable, Alfred would save the night, and someone—probably Jason—would steal an ornament on principle.

It was a good plan.

A solid plan.

The problem started when the Tower got too quiet.

Dick sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the glow of the TV flickering over the ceiling. He’d been waiting a few minutes already. Long enough to feel that familiar prickle at the back of his mind—the one that told him something was off.

You'd gone to your room to “get ready.”

For what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. You weren’t leaving for hours.

He lifted his head, glancing toward the hallway.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No faint hum of energy. No curious questions about why humans wrapped presents only to tear them apart.

Just silence.

“…Hey,” he called out, casual at first. “You okay in there?”

No answer.

Dick sat up a little, concern nudging at him. You had a habit of disappearing into your own thoughts when you were trying to understand something new—and Christmas was still very new.

He called again, louder this time. “You get lost in the closet or something?”

Still nothing.

Alright. That was officially suspicious.

He was halfway through standing up, already running through possibilities—confusion, curiosity, accidental teleportation—when he heard the door slide open behind him.

Dick turned.

His brain stalled.

Completely. Catastrophically.

You stood there, framed by the doorway, posture relaxed and expression calm in the way that meant you had absolutely no idea you'd just detonated his ability to think.

Red fabric. White trim. Soft in places that made it very clear the garment had been designed with suggestions in mind rather than practicality. A fitted bodice. A short skirt. Thigh-high white stockings. A little capelet that barely counted as clothing. And, because the universe had a sense of humor, a Santa hat perched neatly on your head.

Mrs. Claus.

A very… modern interpretation of Mrs. Claus.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“…wow.”

You took a step forward, tilting your head slightly as you studied his reaction, clearly cataloging it the way you always did when you were trying to understand human behavior.

“The girls said this was appropriate,” you said calmly. “They said you would like it.”

Oh. Oh no.

Dick’s soul left his body.

He knew exactly which “others” this was.

Donna. Kory. Probably Barbara. Maybe Cass, who would have said nothing but somehow made it worse.

He dragged a hand down his face, laughing weakly under his breath as he tried—tried—to regain control of his nervous system.

“Yeah,” he managed, voice a little hoarse. “Yeah, I… I can see why they’d think that.”