The Batmobile pulled into the cave slowly, slower than usual. Inside, Batman numbly switched the engine off as the powerful vehicle came to a stop in its usual location. The car's armored black exterior was covered in a layer of snow, which slowly began to melt in the heat of the Batcave. The hatch to the cockpit slid open but Batman didn't move, even as a bit of the melting snow dripped onto the Kevlar of his suit. Instead, he sat for a moment, staring blankly ahead at the controls of his vehicle.

"Master Bruce," Alfred called, approaching the vehicle from across the cave.

Bruce exhaled. "Alfred," he said, acknowledging the older man, before climbing out of his car and removing his cowl.

"I trust it was a productive night, sir," Alfred offered as his ward strode by him. Bruce only grunted in response as he made his way over to the Batcomputer and took his seat. His gloved hands readied themselves over the keyboard but froze when he noticed the small snow-globe sitting atop his filing cabinet. He paused for a moment, looking at the tiny festive house contained within the glass orb. It was decorated, with welcoming lights and even a snowman out front. A tiny couple stood in the doorway with a small child between them, waving at a companion coming up the snowy walkway. It didn't take long for Bruce to snap out of his indecipherable thoughts. His deft fingers closed over the snow-globe quickly and tossed it into the wastebasket beside him.

Alfred pursed his lips in annoyance as Bruce began typing, entering his reports with mechanized efficiency. Alfred checked his wristwatch, deciding to let the behavior of the resident Grinch slide for the moment. "I'm glad you're back. I was worried you'd be out all night in that ghastly blizzard. At least now, you can still attend the League Christmas Party on the Watchtower."

"I'm not going," Bruce said in his flat baritone, not missing a keystroke as he did.

"What?" Alfred sputtered, "But, sir…You said you were going to just yesterday. Master Kent, Miss Diana…they're all expecting you."

"Well, they're all just going to have to be disappointed then," Bruce said robotically, not looking away from the computer screen.

The British butler was about to retort when he noticed the reflection of Bruce's face on the computer screen. After nearly twenty years of Batman, he was well-accustomed to his ward's gruff demeanor and incessant scowling. Except Bruce wasn't scowling this time. Instead, his face was blank and dead glacial eyes stared back at him from the screen.

"Sir," Alfred ventured tentatively, keeping his voice gentle, "Did something happen out on patrol?"

Bruce's fingers froze over the keys, but only for a moment, before continuing their rapid pace, swiftly recording the information. Alfred waited as heavy silence hung in the air, punctured only by the dull rhythm of fingers hitting computer keys.

"Master Bruce–

"Nothing happened, Alfred." Bruce's voice was ice. The old butler shivered slightly beneath his tuxedo as the already cold cave became a bit more frigid.

"I was just going to suggest calling someone if you're planning on spending the evening in, sir. I'm sure Master Grayson or perhaps Miss Kyle would love to hear from you." Bruce gave no indication of acknowledging the suggestion. No part of his body moved, except his fingers as they continued their relentless typing. His gaze remained on the screen.

Alfred stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on his ward's Kevlar-covered shoulder, stilling his fingers over the keys once more. "Master Bruce, no one, not even you, wants to be alone on Christmas," said the butler gently, staring at Bruce's rigid profile as his cerulean gaze remained on the screen.

"Alfred, don't you think it's time you went to bed?"

Alfred pulled back, eyebrows raised as he assessed his ward. He knew that cold voice. Despite the wording, it was clearly not a suggestion.

Bruce sensed his old companion lingering off to the side. "I'm sure you're tired. Go get some sleep. I won't be needing your services again tonight." He still didn't turn to look at him and resumed his typing.

A jab of pain went through the old butler at the word services. Bruce had done that before, usually when he was hurt and wanted to be left alone. He'd emphasize the employer-employee aspect of their relationship in order to get some solitude. For the man who'd raised him and thought of him as a son, it was a particularly hurtful tactic that showed his ward's mean streak.

It would usually provoke the old butler's ire and lead to him putting the prickly crimefighter in his place, employer-employee relationship be damned. However, the dull, lifeless eyes reflected on the screen squelched the anger before it even appeared. Concern remained in its place.

"Sir–

"Goodnight, Alfred," Bruce said flatly, his dead voice clipping the last syllable off with a harsh sense of finality.

The old butler's shoulders sagged. His mouth opened, ready to say something, before slowly closing. He glanced down at the blue orbs reflected on the screen. They remained still, as if the cave and the manor and Gotham and the universe itself didn't exist and everything that was and ever would be was all contained on the Batcomputer's monitor. Alfred shook his head before turning and slowly making his way across the cave and up the stairs to the manor. He paused at the top and looked back. The cave was cold and dark, save for the dull blue glow emanating from the immense monitor of the Batcomputer, which Bruce's large form still sat in front of as he continued typing away. All the other lights were off and a black sea closed around the Batman's island of illumination. No sound came except for the regular clicks of the keyboard and the occasional sound of the bats nesting on the ceiling. Alfred looked forward into the house, festively decorated with wreaths, garlands, poinsettias and a large Christmas tree covered in lights. The ruddy glow of the roaring fireplace spilled out into the living room and the smooth sounds of Frank Sinatra's Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas played from the stereo.

"Merry Christmas, sir," Alfred said, before exiting into the manor.

Bruce remained silent and continued typing.

It only took Bruce an hour to finish the reports. He'd gone through them like a well-oiled piece of machinery, neatly and efficiently logging every single report from the evening and filing it away. He couldn't remember much of what he typed, just that he'd typed it and that it was more or less correct. He removed the suit slowly before showering, lingering underneath the spray for a while. He dressed slowly in a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants before slowly making his way up to the manor, towel slung over his shoulder and dark hair still wet.

Alfred was absent and Bruce found himself alone in his festive living room. He frowned as he observed the décor, finding it more annoying than usual. He turned and made his way to the kitchen, quickly retrieving a glass and opening the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a Macallan M bottle of whiskey and steadily filled his glass. He moved to put the bottle back, but thought differently and brought it and the full glass back to the living room. He sat in the plush recliner and pointedly ignored the poinsettias sitting on his coffee table like an occupying force as he retrieved the remote. He turned his large television on as he tossed his glass back, not bothering to savor the beverage as he began to channel surf. Different Christmas specials were on. How the Grinch Stole Christmas. A Charlie Brown Christmas. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. A Christmas Carol. He flipped past them. He passed a bowl game, something tech vs. somewhere state. He wasn't looking too closely.

He finally stopped on Gotham's news network and began pulling directly from the bottle as Vicki Vale and Jack Ryder came on the air.

"Well Vicki, it looks like we're in for a white Christmas after all," Jack said, leaning forward on the desk the pair shared.

"That's right, Jack. Weather forecasts show that the large blizzard that's been hovering over the Midwest for the past few days has swung east and should hit Gotham tonight," Vicki answered as a map, showing a gigantic purple blob that Bruce still recognized as the blizzard despite his slightly inebriated state. True to Vicki Vale's words, the blob swung east and was heading straight for Gotham.

Jack gave a mock shiver and laughed in a way that made Bruce want to roll his eyes. "I would not want to be out in that weather."

"No, you wouldn't," Vicki said, chuckling along with her co-host before turning her blue gaze back to the camera, "And the city doesn't want you out there either. In fact, the National Weather Service has issued a winter storm warning and city officials are urging all Gotham residents to stay off the roads until tomorrow morning."

"Figures we get a snow day on a day we already had off," Jack quipped, laughing pleasantly along with his co-host before turning back to the camera, all joy vacant as his face took on a heavy look, "Now, in other news, a tragic double-homicide occurred tonight in east Gotham. David and Casey Browning were heading back to their car after catching The Nutcracker at the Gotham Center for the Arts wh-

Bruce shut the television off, silencing Jack Ryder as his head was swarmed by unwelcome images, both recent and long passed. In the eerie silence of the house, awful sounds echoed in his ears as clearly as if he'd used a tape-recorder to preserve them. He found himself walking, bottle still in hand as moved without a destination. He soon found himself before the immense mahogany doors of the library, his library. Well, not exactly his. He owned it but it had been in Wayne Manor for decades and he could count on his fingers the number of additions he'd made to it.

He flipped the lights on as he went inside. His gaze swept over the immense bookcases, lined with texts both ancient and modern, all valuable. Unlike the living room, the library fireplace was off, but Bruce's eyes were drawn to the area above. He'd seen the portrait a thousand times before, gazed upon the painted forms of his long-since departed parents. His mother's gentle smile. His father's friendly visage. Bruce took a long swig, feeling the alcohol burn his ragged throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, mind assaulted by other images. Bright red blood on the dark asphalt. A broken string of pearls. The sharp bark of a handgun. Spent shells clattering to the ground. Two bodies, their life draining rapidly. Police sirens. Shrouds pulled over cold faces.

He looked away from the portrait. The bottle slipped out of his hand and shattered on the hardwood floor. Bruce ran his large hands down his tired face before storming out of the library, feeling the presence of Thomas and Martha Wayne still hanging over the fireplace behind him, kind lifeless eyes watching him go. He slammed the door behind him and slouched against it, only to feel the dull prickle of a wreath on the back of his thick neck. He hadn't noticed it before, but he felt his anger flare up again as his gaze roved over the circle of ivy and the large red bow.

The billionaire plucked the wreath from the surface of the doorway and went back to the living room. He tossed the decoration into the roaring fireplace as he passed it and retrieved one of the cheaper coats he had on the coatrack, a dark grey one, wool and, most importantly, nondescript. The wreath blackened and crackled in the fireplace as Bruce pulled on a Gotham Knights cap and went to the garage, where dozens of his cars were stored. He grabbed the first set of keys his eyes landed on off the rack. The clicker unlocked a black Rolls Royce at the end of the row. Bruce climbed in quickly and opened the garage door before peeling out into the snow.

Author's Note: This story is set in the DCAU and will reference specific events from that timeline. If you're unfamiliar with the DCAU, you should check it out. This story will make more sense and you'll enjoy some awesome shows.