Thank you for clicking and checking out my first ever one-shot! This is meant to be much more lighthearted than my other work and it's set 10 years before my main story Everything Burns. If you haven't been reading that one, then definitely check it out!

Merry Christmas to all of you and I hope you enjoy!

The day started like any other for Alfred Pennyworth.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. His schedule was just as rigorous; with the upkeep of the Manor, managing the other employees, and routinely calling Bruce to ensure he was eating and interacting with the world in a manner befitting an adult—there was plenty to occupy Alfred's mind. He was constantly prepared, vigilant in anticipating the needs of Bruce even when he was out of reach—though the young Master Wayne did not always see the virtues in his position. This had been Alfred's life since the day he heard Bruce's first cries over two decades before, when Alfred first looked on at the family he owed everything to. But this day was different.

It was less than a week until Christmas and the Manor stood barren, the frigid cold of the world outside reflecting inwards.

Christmas with the Wayne's before the deaths of Martha and Thomas was marked by lavish parties, charity galas, and warm celebrations by the fire. Alfred had been instrumental to the organization and success of many of those sumptuous gatherings. Sure, the Wayne's would hire caterers' to do a large portion of the heavy work, but Alfred was always there to guide, more rigidly than not, them to greater efficiency and efficacy. He executed any and all contingencies, all while keeping everyone else oblivious to his efforts. Alfred had a flair for these things, a talent that was nurtured during his days in the army, although in a vastly different context.

Martha was a kind and powerful force, pointing her husband in the right direction and holding the most scandalous conundrums together through sheer force of will and a winning smile. Thomas was the charmer, always affable and genuine—he created a fervent life wherever he was and his enthusiasm was rarely dampened. Bruce was so young then, but the boy knew what he liked and it certainly was not black tie events. In the past, Alfred had to suppress several smirks and small chuckles at the look of deep discomfort on Bruce's face and his resolute avoidance of most social interactions.

Not much has changed on that front, I'm afraid.

Wayne Manor no longer hosted the Christmas gatherings of old. Traditions followed every other year since the foundations were laid in 1852 were cast aside after the deaths of Martha and Thomas. Bruce did not like parties and so they had none, preferring to let the occasion pass with very little fanfare. Those days Alfred remembered were long gone, but he tried to keep some traditions going, in his own way.

That's where Alfred found himself that afternoon. The next day was the allotted time of arrival for Bruce and the Kanes, as few as they were. The Kanes stayed at the Manor for prolonged periods, when Katherine's work would allow, after the deaths of Martha and Thomas and they were always there for the major holidays. Bruce had asked for 'spartan decorations' if there were to be any. But Miriam was still young. If there were no parties to be had, then at the very least the Manor would reflect the holiday spirit for her—even if it only graced their four pairs of eyes. Alfred had dismissed the other staff for early for the year; there wasn't anything he couldn't handle on his own. They had expressed their worry about him being alone to prepare the Manor, but he had been resolute on the matter. He could manage just fine on his own, thank you very much.

Alfred got to work, pulling out the dust-covered—and overflowing—boxes from the cellar and unpacking the many, many decorations housed in them. The tinsel and Christmas lights were the first things he pulled out and, of course, they were one inextricable jumble of corded sparkles and wires.

"Nothing you can't handle, old boy," Alfred muttered to himself as he began the painstaking process of untangling the mess.

Alfred was correct. This would be nothing in comparison to his time in the British Special Air Service, or that one New Year's Eve party where Alfred spent much of the evening minding the wide array of drunken houseguests and defending the many antiques from the bumblings of one specific imbecile. Robert Dumas had been so drunk he stranded himself on the gilded eves on the west wing of the Manor, searching for the famed—but fictional—Wayne Manor vault. Alfred suspected that the man spent too much time watching poorly done day-time dramas and made a concerted effort to abandon any and all sense in the situations he would inevitably find himself in. When Dumas was not ham-fistedly pounding on the walls and getting lost in the many hallways, he was tipping over the many treasured antiques resting on their pedestals with his abundant girth. Nor did Alfred fondly remember the efforts to hoist Dumas up from his precarious position as he ended the evening hanging out of a second-floor window, or the hour spent treating Dumas' many small cuts after he fell into a thistle bush.

Well, it should have been nothing in comparison.

Alfred sat on the floor, with his legs growing numb from their awkward position and poor blood circulation. Glitter, broken off petals from the poinsettias, and a massacre of tinsel surrounded him. By the time he glanced at the towering grandfather clock in the hall, he saw that two hours had passed and he had barely made any progress.

"Bloody Christ," he said out loud to no one in the grand hall. Alfred stilled his hands for a moment, looking from the infuriating mess in front of him to the main doorway.

"This is a young man's game. When does the butler get his own manservant, I wonder? They should have a bloody handbook for all this," Alfred grumbled as he stroked his stiff spine. Apparently, it was also a young man's endeavour to sit on the floor for inordinate amounts of time and accomplish nothing at all.

Alfred made his decision. Dropping the lights and tinsel back in the box, Alfred grabbed his wool coat, keys, and hat with the intentions of pulling out the car and head to the store.

I'm the only one who'll know the bloody difference. Yes—no one will ever know, quite right.

Alfred decided he'd take the secret to the grave.

"What happened to 'minimalistic,' Alfred? It's like a Christmas catalogue threw up all over the place," Bruce said as he scrutinized the elaborate decorations with a critical eye.

Alfred's mouth twitched into a grin. He held it back until it was just the beginnings of a smirk. Bruce's critiques of the decorations were exactly the same as they'd been when he was a boy. Alfred had kept the decorations understated, relatively speaking. The hall was covered in warm yellows and brilliant reds and greens. Alfred had been pleased to discover that they sold Christmas lights on large spools now—a wonderful development that would be very helpful in the next year—and it made lighting up the large stairway and wainscotting a much easier task.

A great green fir stood to the right of the stairs, and the wonderful smell of forest filled the Manor. Alfred had relented and hired some help with the transport of the tree, as it stood at two and a half meters. He'd decorated it himself with ribbons of white and gold, ornaments of red, blue, and yellow, along with small trinkets that had belonged in the Wayne family for years. To top it all off, a glasswork star sat atop the tree, catching the light and reflecting it back down in a shower of colour. Alfred felt proud of his efforts. He'd only thrown out his back once during after the ordeal with the lights and almost fell off the ladder twice. All in all, Alfred was counting it as a victory.

Nothing a Vicodin cannot remedy, Alfred thought as he admired his work.

"Well, sir, I'd say it's all a matter of perspective."

Alfred really couldn't suppress his grin now. Bruce shook his head as Alfred took the young man's bags and brought them up to the master bedroom. Alfred's world may have grown smaller with the deaths of Martha and Thomas Wayne, but his fervent love for Bruce was unending—even when he was sulking. Alfred chose to believe that some part of Bruce enjoyed the holidays despite his protests.

The Kanes would be arriving momentarily and Alfred had the Manor completely prepared. His kitchen was spotless, the rooms were clean and beds made, the food prepared for the large dinner he would make in two days, and the gifts were wrapped and placed under the tree. He'd also taken the pains to store some of the more breakable items away in the basement. Bruce may have been a well-mannered boy, but Miriam had a source of energy that was rarely abated.

A great ringing resounded through the Manor and Alfred rushed to get the door. With all likelihood, Bruce had wandered off somewhere until Alfred would drag him out to socialize, as Alfred had routinely done many times before when other guests would arrive to call on him.

Which is why Alfred was surprised when Bruce beat him to the door. Alfred watched him swing the great door open with a wrapped pink box hidden behind his back. He seemed to have more energy than Alfred had seen in a long while.

Miriam burst through the crack in the door as soon as it was wide enough to slip her small frame through. Her black hair was in a long plait and her reddened cheeks were nearly obscured entirely by the large scarf and fur collar of her coat. That didn't stop her from taking a flying leap and wrapping her arms around Bruce's neck.

"Bruce, Bruce! Guess what, guess what!"

"You've developed a permanent speech impediment that makes you speak in twos?"

Katherine Kane walked in a moment later, her bright red hair dotted with spots of snow. She took off her sunglasses, waved to Alfred, and gave a knowing smile in greeting.

"Pfft, no," Miriam said. Bruce dropped her back on the ground and made a show of thinking hard.

"Well, I'm out of guesses then," Bruce said, still keeping the present hidden behind his back.

"You didn't even try!"

Bruce let out a loud laugh and the two continued to tease one another. Alfred listened and watched with fond attention as Miriam told Bruce all about her birthday gift given by her mother—Miriam's first laptop, and an expensive looking one at that. Alfred couldn't help the beaming smile that fought its way through the mask he spent years developing to connote an aloof, but dedicated, devotion.

Bruce was a normally serious and studious boy, spending much of his time reading and pursuing knowledge wherever he could find it. That changed whenever Miriam arrived. Bruce would revert to a boy-like state that Alfred hadn't seen since his childhood days of playing with Rachel Dawes.

Katherine distracted the bantering pair long enough to give Bruce a long hug and a kiss on the cheek. He accepted it warmly, another reaction that pleased Alfred greatly.

"If we're not careful, she's going to be completely spoiled," Katherine said as she stood next to Alfred, her tall form almost matched his in height. She was a striking woman, and Alfred extended his smile to her and chuckled as she tucked her short hair behind her ears.

"Will Maggie be joining us this evening, Katherine?" Alfred thought it was an innocent question, but he was surprised to see her smile falter for a moment. She regained it quickly.

"No, she won't be. We're... we're taking a break right now," Katherine said, keeping her eyes on Bruce and Miriam. Alfred knew better than to pry, she would tell him what happened if she wished, likely out of Miriam's earshot. She took off her coat and held two small suitcases in her hands. Alfred went to take them from her, but she shook her head and gracefully twisted out of reach.

"I've got it, Alfred. Watch them for me, will you? I have a feeling Bruce has something there that's going to stir up some trouble," Katherine said, darting her bright green eyes to Miriam tearing open the pink present Bruce had been holding.

Alfred could only nod his assent. It warmed his heart to see Bruce's transformation in front of him—even if the ramifications left Alfred with more than one disaster to clean-up after.

You're completely prepared. All the heirlooms and china are put away, locked in the cellar and you are the only one with the key.

Miriam held up two air-propelled dart pistols—or 'Nerf Guns,' according to the logo on the packaging. Her small yells of excitement and the mischievous grin on Bruce's face made Alfred doubt himself for a moment.

How much trouble could an eleven-year-old girl and a twenty-one-year-old man get into?

A lot, apparently.

As a countermeasure against any tomfoolery those little 'Nerf Guns' would unleash on the Manor, Alfred had subtly suggested that they save their planned games for outside on Christmas Eve, which was the next day. He hadn't seen either of them for a while, and he was hoping that they found some quiet nook with a book to read.

Alfred was walking down one of the long halls on the third floor, making his daily rounds through the necessary parts of the Manor to ensure all was as it should be. He saw that one of the study doors was open. Expecting to find Miriam and Bruce, Alfred instead found Katherine sitting in one of the large wingback leather chairs with a large book resting on her lap and a glass of brandy in her hand. She'd started a fire and had her feet angled towards the warmth. He knocked on the door and she turned her head at the sound, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Sorry, I hope you don't mind that I dipped into the old stash a little bit. Thomas was always great at picking these out," she said as she held the glass up to the firelight.

"Yes, he certainly was," Alfred said, stepping into the room. He was about to ask Katherine if she needed anything but she spoke first.

"No, I'm just fine, Alfred. I don't get a lot of quiet time at home, and coming here is wonderful for some peaceful solitude." Katherine's smile turned into a warm reflection of the fire in front of her.

Katherine was right about that. There were more times than Alfred cared to recall where that same solitude made Katherine relax left him feeling lonely in the large house at times. She seemed to read his thoughts and her eyes stared ahead as the smile dimmed.

"I miss my sister and Thomas, too. This time of year especially." Her voice had grown quiet. "Thank you, for all of this. Truly."

Alfred lost his voice, but he nodded his head and kept his eyes downcast. There was a moment of silence between them before Alfred gave his head a slight shake. He went to speak when Katherine seemed to read his thoughts again.

"Bruce and Miriam said something about going to make some treats. I think they went off to the kitchen," Katherine said. Her eyes had a wild spark of mischief as her smile turned into a smirk.

"The kitchen?" Alfred could almost feel his hair turn a shade whiter and he lost all sense of decorum.

"I think they've been in there for a couple of hours." She was trying not to laugh now.

Of all the places he hadn't been making his rounds, he didn't think either of them would have had an interest in the kitchen. It was a vain hope it seemed. Alfred cursed his lax surveillance habits and realized that there were more things that could be destroyed than some ceramics. Katherine's voice followed him out into the hall.

"Feel free to come back up and join me, Alfred. I'm guessing you'll need it." He could hear her chuckle as he tried to rationalize the situation with himself.

Surely there was only so much they could do in there. Bruce had never cooked a meal in his life, as far as Alfred knew—he certainly never volunteered to learn—and he didn't think that a predilection for the culinary was something Miriam developed at eleven. Alfred imagined the possible state of the kitchen.

No, they didn't. Surely they wouldn't do that to me.

Oh, but they did.

Alfred hurried his steps as he went down the stairs, he was trying to get to the kitchen quickly without resorting to going in a full-out sprint. He took the shortcut, going down the old servants' hall and bursting through the side door. All he could do was stand there with his mouth agape.

It would have been funny if it wasn't Alfred's kitchen.

The kitchen was his prized space that he kept immaculate, perfectly ordered with his spices alphabetized and surfaces shining clean. Every appliance had its place, each plate and platter its own home that Alfred had painstakingly organized. He had a very specific system that he was very protective of. The sight that greeted his eyes barely registered through the shock.

The kitchen was a mess. Flour coated the countertops and sprinkled through the air like an infuriating parody of snow. Scorched pans with unidentifiable remains of baked confectionaries gone wrong littered the counters, nearly every single dish that inhabited the kitchen lay in the sink in a batter-caked heap. His prized, top-of-the-line, industrial sized Kitchenaid mixer sat there, covered in a brown goo that sprayed out in a pattern indicating the helions had failed to use the splash-guard. Miriam and Bruce stood in the middle of it all, their clothes stained with various ingredients and food colouring staining their hands. Somehow they managed to find Alfred's good aprons, which were also covered in the remains of the disaster they unleashed.

"Alfred—you're just in time!" Miriam said, her little face beaming. "We're making gingersnaps. Bruce keeps messing up the recipe, though—"

"Don't you blame that one on me! You're the one who mixed up the sugar with salt—"

"You messed up the baking soda with the powder—"

"It's not my fault that they all look the same."

"You can read, can't you?"

They continued on that way, forgetting Alfred's presence entirely and proceeding to throw fistfuls of flour at one another while giggling profusely as Bruce chased Miriam around the decimated kitchen island with a bowl of what looked like eggs yolks.

Alfred felt his eye twitch. He noticed a small lingering fire from the failed attempt at cookies on top of the oven. Taking the fire extinguisher by the door, he doused the entire oven until he was sure that absolutely no flame would grow—and that Miriam and Bruce would have to clean up the mess before they could use it again. He calmly set the extinguisher down and promptly turned on his heel and decided to join Katherine for that glass of brandy after all. Or maybe he needed two, or three. He hadn't decided yet, he just knew that he needed the sweet burn of alcohol and a very long nap.

Alfred did have several glasses of brandy and spent over two hours stewing over the travesty with Katherine and lamenting the toils of caring for children. They stayed up long into the night laughing by the fire and Alfred deliberately forgot about the mess in the kitchen, all while knowing that he would have to wake early to clean up the wreck that awaited him.

He awakened with the dull throbbings of a hangover. Alfred cursed his old age for that one, and he chided himself for starting Christmas Eve that way. Martha and Thomas would traditionally play games of backgammon and chess with Bruce during quiet moments during the holidays, and Alfred had plans to set up several of the board games that were Bruce's favourites as a boy. Before any of the fun could begin, Alfred had some serious work ahead of him.

After managing to drag himself out of bed, he spent three hours in the kitchen, painstakingly returning it to its previous condition. Alfred thought, vehemently, that he'd die a happy man if he never had to smell ginger or the burnt char of confectionary failure again. He was grateful that there were items for breakfast and lunch that did not require an oven, as that was the poor appliance that needed the most attention. When he returned from the dark depths that his kitchen had become, Alfred heard the sounds he'd come to associate with destruction—the sound of Bruce and Miriam laughing. He almost caught himself wishing that Bruce had kept his lack of Christmas cheer, it certainly would have saved the colourful integrity of his cotton aprons they had tarnished.

Alfred took a calming breath and entered the main hall. He found Katherine reclined back on the stairs, dressed in an oversized navy sweater that complimented her auburn hair and barely holding back laughter. She was watching Miriam chase Bruce with her neon gun in and out of the large space with an expression of amusement.

"What are they doing, exactly? Are they playing some sort of tag or is this another one of those trends I seem incapable of understanding?" Alfred asked Katherine as he listened to the shouts and laughter that echoed against the tall ceilings. The sight of them playing vaguely recalled his own days as a boy when he would play with the neighbourhood children back in England.

"They called it 'Alien versus Predator.' Not entirely sure what that's supposed to mean yet."

"Oh dear. I do not like the sound of that," Alfred said, his worry shooting up at the sight of Bruce and Miriam's game growing dangerously close to the large Christmas tree.

Bright orange darts were shooting out with the sound of plastic whirring furiously as Miriam and Bruce shot at one another. Alfred watched Bruce make an exaggerated effort of dodging them before one hit him in the chest.

"I got you! You're dead now, Bruce!" Miriam shouted as she took a break, her small chest heaved with the effort of running for so long.

"Not for long!" Bruce ran away in a small arc as he looked over his shoulder and grinned at Miriam.

"Hey, that's cheating—" She didn't have time to finish her sentence. Bruce snatched her up and they twisted around in dizzying circles.

"I told them to take the rough-housing outside. They should be more careful," Alfred said mostly to himself. Everyone else was too caught up in the little game unfolding in front of them. Katherine was laughing now and clapping a hand over her mouth as it descended into a high-pitched squeak.

Alfred was about to repeat his wish for them to move outside louder when it happened.

Bruce had spun too wildly with Miriam clinging on to him, and they crash landed—right into the Christmas tree. Katherine's laughter turned into shocked silence as she and Alfred watched the tree tip away from the two hooligans on the floor and towards the second-floor balcony. It all happened so fast, Alfred couldn't even stop it if he wanted to. The tree dragged down the rows of Christmas lights and crashed into the wall. The force of the collision snapped the upper portion of the tree in half, sending ornaments flying in all directions and the glittering star on top crashing to the floor, shattering a great portion of it. The presents beneath were the only things still intact, protected, miraculously, by the arch the tree created as it leaned against the wall.

Miriam and Bruce laid there together, their faces an identical match of embarrassed horror. After a moment, Miriam looked like she was on the verge of tears. Glancing upwards, she saw the utter ruin of what was meant to be their gathering space on Christmas morning. She untangled herself from Bruce and looked at Alfred with a mix of sheepishness and fear as Katherine rushed from the stairs to see if she sustained any injuries.

"I-I'm really sorry, Alfred. I promise I'll clean it up—" Miriam started. Alfred cut her off with a wave of his hand. He forced himself to smile.

"Don't you worry, my dear girl. It's alright. I think I'll, er, go rest for a while and tackle the clean-up later," Alfred said. He couldn't stay mad at any of them, but the disappointment he felt made his heart hurt. "Are you quite alright, Master Bruce?" Alfred had to make sure he was uninjured as well. Bruce still lay flat on his back, but Alfred guessed that he was too embarrassed to look him in the eye, so he raised his hand in the air and gave a thumbs-up.

Alfred gave a silent nod and went up the stairs. "I'll see you all for supper at five," he said as he rounded the corner and shut himself away in his room for some forced quiet time. If Alfred had been a superstitious man, he'd have been very worried that the spectors of Martha and Thomas were watching him with a disapproval that rivaled what he felt for himself already.

Alfred lied awake late into the night, staring at the ceiling and contemplating how to best rectify the absolute mess that awaited him downstairs—on Christmas morning, no less. He felt weary, this Christmas had not gone at all how he'd expected it to. Their Christmas Eve dinner was quiet, punctuated by the awkward knowledge that Miriam and Bruce had upset Alfred with the destruction of the decorations and Christmas tree. Miriam tried apologizing again, but Alfred waved away her guilty expression. Katherine tried distracting them all with childhood stories of her and Martha and all the wild shenanigans they would get up to, but that only seemed to amplify the tension. And so they proceeded ahead with awkward small talk and safe conversation topics surrounding the weather and Bruce and Miriam's time in school.

Alfred could never stay mad at either of them for long, and his frustrations turned into something else as he stared into the dark. In a way, he felt like he'd let Martha and Thomas down. He wanted to keep their memory alive in a small way, and he felt like he was losing touch—as if his stumblings were indicative of a larger disappointment to them. He let out a loud sigh and rolled onto his side, hoping to gain a little rest before first light.

There was a small creak that alerted him to his bedroom door opening. Alfred didn't move, his instincts alerted him it might be best that he should pretend to be asleep. Small padded footsteps crept into the dark of the room, small rays of light spilled in from the hall, and a quiet, whispered voice confirmed his suspicions.

"Alfred, are you awake?" Miriam asked in a small voice. He decided not to reply, there was no need to prolong the interaction when the girl should have been in bed. He was surprised when she stood there for a moment, the floor squeaking under her shifting weight. A small rustling alerted him to an object being placed on his night-table.

"I'm sorry, Alfred. I hope you can still have a good Christmas." Her voice was even more gentle now, so quiet that Alfred strained to hear it in the absolute quiet of the room. It wasn't long after that he heard her patter away and shut the door behind her, closing off the room to the small beam of warm light.

Alfred raised himself to a sitting position and turned on his lamp. A small rectangle wrapped in a red plaid design laid on the table with a large silver bow. Curiousity made him forget his lingering ill-feelings and he gently peeled back the wrapping paper, revealing a wooden frame. It was a picture from the summer before when the four of them traveled to Italy. They were on a beach: Bruce looked genuinely happy, he had an arm wrapped around Miriam, with her big grin and bright eyes. Katherine and Alfred flanked them in the picture, with Katherine giving a lopsided smile and Alfred trying to keep an air of professionalism. Even Alfred could see that it didn't entirely work, he could see the twinkle in his own eye. The memory captured was a happy one, a rare occasion that Alfred often did not have evidence of.

He found himself surprised that he was crying. Alfred wiped at his eyes and saw that there was a card attached to the back of the frame. He immediately recognized the compact writing as Bruce's. Opening the envelope, he began to read. It was a simple card with a design in blue and gold, but the writing within quelled any possibility of stemming his tears.

Merry Christmas, my old friend. I know I don't say this often enough, but thank you. - Bruce.

You're the best, Alfred. Merry Christmas! - Love, Miri.

Thank you for all you do, Alfred. I don't know where any of us would be without you. - Love, Kate.

Grabbing his kerchief, Alfred put on his slippers and silently walked down the hall. He was dabbing at his eyes all the way down the stairs, but he realized it was a futile effort when he saw the newly-restored hall.

The tree that had fallen and snapped was been replaced with a smaller one that smelled like freshly cut pine. The ornaments that had fallen were placed delicately on its branches, now over-laden with ribbon, lights, and coloured orbs. The star that shattered had been glued back together and been placed back on top of the tree. The scene was much smaller than it had been originally, but Alfred could see the effort to put into it and the time taken to make it perfect.

Alfred stood there for a moment and his heart felt full. Taking in the lights and imprinting the moment in his memory, he went back up the stairs to bed, where he knew now he could rest with the knowledge that maybe he had done something right after all.

I would like to acknowledge the help I received for this fic from a few wonderful users on Reddit: thank you jixie-unofficial for help with the title, Avexsis for their help with editing a scene, and to blueandie (who has an awesome fic called "Welcome to the New Age" from Avatar: the Last Airbender that you should definitely check out!) for all their help!

Thank you to all of you readers as well. Your support means a lot, and I'll always be incredibly grateful! ❤