A/N: Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred, don't belong to me.
I've always loved to entertain the idea that Batman is just that. A man. This will be one of many one-shots about Bruce Wayne's humanity/weakness. Times of our Dark Knight being vulnerable.
"Empty Glass/Bitter"
Bitter.
The aftertaste of the vodka slid down my throat, setting fire as it went.
With a slight grimace I slammed the shot glass onto the glass table beside me, empty.
Dark eyebrows were knit in concentration as I stared at Gotham City's skyline, stark and harsh.
Dried tears had left their salted trails running down my cheeks.
I heard the soft footfalls behind me, the hushed tinkling of glass, the subdued sound of a liquid being poured.
I didn't say anything.
I didn't have to.
I simply reached for the refilled glass, and without taking my unrelenting gaze from the window, I brought it to my lips, tilted my head back...
And with a gulp I was done, the small glass placed back beside me.
Thanks Alfred.
I heard the receding footsteps of the older man, the silver tray he carried underarm.
You're welcome Mr. Wayne.