A/N: I don't own Batman.

Master Bruce had fallen asleep in the Cave. Again. The plate of sandwiches beside him remained untouched. Also a repeated occurrence.

Alfred sighed and took the plate. "You know, Master Bruce, this is not quite the job my father described to me. I wouldn't leave now for the world - I wouldn't dare - but I do sometimes wish I had known what I was getting into.

Master Bruce naturally didn't answer.

But the hat he had been examining began to glow.

Alfred hadn't the slightest idea where he was. One moment he had been about to call and accept Mr. Wayne's job offer and wincing at the rather tone deaf carolers outside his hotel room, and the next he was standing in a dark cave with a loud pop ringing in his ears.

A large man who had been sleeping at the desk in front of him jolted awake and upright. Oddly, he calmed when he saw who was before him. "Alfred."

When all else failed, courtesy kicked in. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir. I don't recall being introduced." He looked around the cave doubtfully. "Of course, I don't recall coming here either. I'm afraid I appear to be missing some time."

The man's eyes widened in horror. "Alfred, it's me. It's Bruce."

"I am sorry, Mr. Bruce. The only person I recall of that name is the young son of my future employer," he said apologetically.

"Future - Alfred, what year do you think it is?"

With a growing sense of dread, Alfred told him. And then: "Judging by your expression, I suspect I am mistaken."

"I - yes. That's a good way to put it."

Alfred looked around. The full strangeness of their surroundings hit him for the first time. "Where are we?"

"Wayne Manor," Mr. Bruce said numbly.

"Wayne Manor?"

Mr. Bruce - and was it possible this was Bruce Wayne, no longer quite so young? - shook himself and stood. "Come upstairs. I'll show you."

It was Wayne Manor, Alfred was quickly forced to admit, a fact that was further confirmed by a portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne. The idea of missing years was supported by a number of technological implements lying around that were not quite what he knew.

"Did I suffer a blow to the head recently?" At this point it seemed the most rational, if concerning, explanation.

Mr. Bruce - or Mr. Wayne, rather - grimaced. "That was my first thought. But look." He walked over to a family picture on the mantle, just below the portrait.

Alfred followed. The picture displayed a small army of children surrounding the new Mr. Wayne. An older gentleman stood slightly to one side.

He had been an actor what felt like only a short time ago. He knew how his hair looked covered in silver, his face covered in lines.

It looked rather like that.

"It's been many years, then," he said shakily.

"For me, yes. But for you . . . " Mr. Wayne steered him towards a mirror.

His own face looked back at him, just at the age it should be.

"How . . . odd," he said weakly. "I don't quite understand what's going on, I'm afraid."

"That makes two of us. But don't worry." Mr. Wayne tried to smile. "We're more used to odd than you might think."

A scream shattered the air just as a small head poked through the door. "Father. Todd has broken into Drake's bedroom. He appears to have been dosed with fear toxin." Two gunshots and a large clatter came from upstairs. The boy didn't even twitch. "The others are containing him, but I believe they could use some assistance while I obtain the antidote."

"What on earth?" Alfred demanded.

The boy saw him and brightened. "Ah, Pennyworth. Are the Christmas cookies done yet?"

Mr. Wayne cursed. "Damian, go get that antidote. Alfred, go check on the cookies. I'll explain later." He hurried to the door.

"Why would Pennyworth require - "

"Damian, go!"

What kind of future was it, exactly, where gunshots were met with concern about cookies?

Out of a desire to at least keep the house from burning down, he went and got the cookies out of the oven. He was wavering between going upstairs to help and calling for emergency services.

He was just reaching for a flour covered rolling pin to use as a weapon when one of the young men from the picture stumbled into the kitchen. Unlike in the picture, where he appeared to be a model young man, he had worryingly deep shadows under his eyes, bruises covering his face and arms, and blood soaking the collar of his t-shirt.

"Are you alright?" he demanded. The answer was obviously no, so he started running a towel under cold water so he could at least get the boy cleaned up.

The boy just waved a hand. "I'm fine." He yawned. "I need more coffee. The adrenaline must be fading."

"It is - " He checked the clock. "Past three in the morning. You need sleep, not caffeine. Also, you are bleeding, young man."

"I am?" He looked down at himself and groaned. "Great. Jason broke my stitches."

"Stitches?" he asked sharply as he handed the towel over.

The boy froze. "Small, minor stitches that there was no need to worry you about?"

"And might I ask why you needed them?"

The boy mumbled something.

"What was that?"

"Ra's . . . might have sent some people after me." The boy slumped in his chair. "I don't even know why he's mad this time! I mean, sure, I hacked his network, but I do that all the time, and - " HIs bloodshot eyes suddenly narrowed. "You look different." Suddenly the tired boy was gone and a tensed and trained fighter sprang into his place.

Alfred was beginning to suspect the future was some kind of apocalypse where fighting for one's life was a daily occurrence. "Your father believes something odd is going on," he said dryly. "I am increasingly inclined to agree with him." For lack of anything better to do, he began to plate the cookies.

The boy made a small choking noise. "My what?"

Alfred glanced up. "Your father? Mr. Wayne?"

"Tt." Damian stalked into the room and claimed the seat furthest from the other boy. "Drake's father is dead. I am the Wayne heir." He frowned. "And since when do you call Father 'Mr. Wayne?'"

The boy - Drake? - had flinched a bit at the other's words, but he covered for it by rolling his eyes. "Tactful as ever, Damian." He turned back to Alfred. "You don't remember us, do you? Are we talking time travel or deaging?"

Alfred offered him a cookie and shot a pointed look at Damian when he tried to take one too. "I believe an apology is in order first, young master. And to answer your question, Master Drake, I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea. Hopefully, it will be something easier to remedy than either of those."

Both of the boys were staring at him.

Drake swallowed and said, "Um, Tim. I'm Tim. Damian just has this weird thing where he uses last names all the time. And we've pretty much given up on getting Damian to apologize for anything short of attempted murder at this point."

He hoped that last part was hypothetical, but given the rest of this insanity, he rather doubted it. "Then I assume Master Damian has given up on ever having dessert privileges."

"I . . . apologize," Damian ground out.

Alfred handed him a cookie.

Damian accepted it huffily. "Regardless, Pennyworth, you don't have to worry. Whatever the situation is, I assure you that Father can handle it. We have probably dealt with its like before."

"And that extends to time travel, dimension hopping, and reality warping," a new voice said cheerily. A young man, who looked so strongly like the other two it was hard to believe they were not all brothers, leaned against the door. "Ooh! Cookies!" A greedy and rather bloodstained hand reached for one.

Alfred smacked it away. "Wash, first."

"Ah, Alfie . . . "

"That's Dick," Tim informed him

"Master Timothy!"

"That's his name!"

"Technically, it's Richard," the young man in question said from the sink, "but I really do prefer the other."

"For reasons incomprehensible to the rest of us," Damian muttered.

"For once, I agree with the brat." Yet another bloodied young man had appeared, half-supported by Mr. Wayne. This one had a streak of white in his hair, something Alfred increasingly sympathized with. "Hey, Alfie. Tell Bruce to let go of me, will you?"

Considering the way the young man was shaking, Alfred thought that was a poor idea. Considering the way he leaned into Mr. Wayne, Alfred thought perhaps, deep down, the young man didn't really want him to.

"This is Jason," Mr. Wayne informed him.

"He's the one that caused the disturbance earlier," Damian said,.

"Hey, I was toxined! It wasn't my fault!"

"No, but your choice to come here - "

"Is one we're all very grateful for," Dick cut in. "Aren't we?" His tone didn't really leave that last part a question.

"Yeah, yeah, we're all glad I'm not dead again. Moving on - "

"Again?" Alfred demanded.

Mr. Wayne closed his eyes. Jason blinked. "Oh, yeah. You wouldn't know. I was kind of dead for a couple of years."

Alfred wordlessly offered him a cookie.

"I was also temporarily deceased," Damian said in a tone that bordered on hopeful.

"You've already had a cookie," Dick pointed out, finally grabbing one. "It's late, you don't need more sugar."

All of this was said equally casually.

The future, Alfred decided, was terrifying.

Mr. Wayne went to research what had happened. The boys filled him in on what he had missed. Apparently they had judged the timeline corrupted enough that they might as well, though they kept some details vague.

It seemed he ended up the butler to a family of vigilantes in a Gotham gone mad. Alfred wasn't really sure he wanted those details.

At this point, he wasn't really sure he wanted this job.

He scrubbed the dishes mechanically as talks of yet more insanity washed over him. It wasn't until he was putting them away that the world came back into focus.

There was a mug. It was emblazoned with 'World's Best Grandfather.'

There was a loud pop.

Alfred was back in the hotel room, phone in his hand. He didn't have to call. He could go back to England. He could find another job.

The problem was the family picture. The problem was the mug. The problems were the children and Mr. Bruce Wayne's horrified eyes.

He could find another job. He just wasn't at all sure he could find another family.

He made the call.

"It's all right, sir." Alfred laid a plate of now frosted cookies by Master Bruce's elbow. The relief in Master Bruce's eyes at seeing him back to normal warmed him, he had to admit.

"Alfred. What happened?"

"Let us just say I needed a reminder of just what I had gotten myself into." The bare hotel had reminded him all too well.

Master Bruce winced. "Alfred - "

"To clarify, I find myself largely contented with the situation. Although I would be far more so if you would join your children in the kitchen and actually eat. You may consider it your Christmas gift to me if you would like."

"Whatever you say, Alfred."

"Excellent, sir."

Notes:

When I was introducing my beta to the Batman fandom, my beta became highly interested in an Alfred time travel story. I'd never run into one before, so I decided to write one.

(If you HAVE run into one before, please mention it in a comment. I'd love to read it.)

And yes, since this is a Christmas story, the hat Bruce was examining was the "old silk hat" found in the Frosty carol.