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A Belated Christmas
Five AM. Alfred glanced at the bedside clock as he forced himself to throw back the warm covers and swing his legs over the side of the soft bed. It was harder to get up at this hour than it used to be, required more of an effort but it had to be done. The others depended on him, counted on him to set the pace of the morning.
He had a job to do.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed, his teeth brushed and his black jacket in place over his waistcoat, he made his way into the kitchen, setting out the makings for the traditional morning meal. True, he wouldn't actually be cooking for several hours but it was better if they were allowed to reach room temperature first.
The eggs, butter and the rest laid out in order on the counter, he proceeded down the long hallway to the master's study, the room silent and seeming to still be asleep with the dark colors and heavy furniture resembling hibernating animals wrapped in coats of velvet, leather and suede.
Opening the large closet he systematically removed the presents, wrapped in bright paper and colored ribbons and smiled at the overdone professional wrappings the stores unasked always provided when they knew who the contents were for. No matter, soon enough they'd be wadded up and tossed into the recycling bin.
Most people assumed, if they thought about it at all, that the house would be awash in over the top gifts, the garage filled with expensive cars, the boxes under the tree stuffed with with cashmere and things from Harry Winston. The simple truth was that when one had as much as the masters did, such things meant little and the boxes held the same—or similar—things that were under any tree; sweaters, books and music the recipient might like, games, sports equipment, perhaps just one special present more extravagant than the rest.
The day wasn't really about the gifts and never had been in this house, it was about the day itself and enjoying it together. Sometimes, not as often as he used to, Richard might go to mass at the local Catholic church, honoring his parents and heritage. Now and then they might be joined by close friends, as they would be this evening for dinner, but mostly it was a quiet day with family.
The grandfather clock struck six.
There had been a snow shower around midnight last night, leaving three or four inches and Alfred heard the plow rumbling up the long driveway and the grounds crew shoveling the front walk and steps. It was cold out; Alfred went to the kitchen to make them hot coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls.
The sun was coming up, the early morning dark disappearing and the windows lightening. Putting the rolls in the oven, he looked through the window overlooking the side lawns, blue shadows giving way to glistening and white.
Six-thirty. "Gentlemen, please come inside to warm yourselves, the coffee is just ready."
"Thank you Mr. Pennyworth, it's colder than a witch's ti...sorry. It's really cold out there."
"Yes, quite. My pleasure, heavens, you gentlemen deserve this and more. Please, help yourselves, there's more than enough for everyone."
"Thanks, Mr. Pennyworth, these are great."
Seven-thirty. The workmen were gone, the snow under control and the house was still asleep despite the brilliance of the sun shining on the new snow. Sitting in the kitchen, spotless after the plowmen left, Alfred read through the paper while he sipped his second cup of Earl Grey.
A few years ago the young master would have been here in the kitchen with him, mixing the batter for the pancakes, insisting that at least some of them have chocolate chips (then eating them from the bag) and wanting to use the decades old manual machine to squeeze the oranges himself.
Master would stroll in, fully dressed in his casual outfit of khaki's and (usually) a black cashmere turtleneck sweater, pretending to be annoyed at the delay in his breakfast, insisting he was famished and no presents would be opened until he was fortified by a decent meal. This would, inevitably elicit a frantic scramble from the youngster, redoubling his efforts to get breakfast on the table in record time.
Eight AM.
Then, by the time the lad was in high school, the presents and all would be pushed back til at last nine as Robin's schedule and responsibilities became heavier and his school workload became more taxing—not that he ever seemed bowed by his tasks. And teenagers seemed to need their sleep as much as they needed to empty the refrigerator.
By the time the boy was attending university, that one semester, the celebrations were delayed until at least ten or so but were none the less for their postponement.
Sighing and not wanting to waste time, Alfred put a load of laundry into the wash and set the kitchen table; another family tradition started when Dick came to live with them. Never completely comfortable being waited on, Alfred always allowed meals when just the two of them were in attendance or special occasions to be eaten with less formality in the kitchen.
Seeing an stray piece of lint on the floor, he bent to pick it up. The wall clock ticked as he put on the kettle for another cup of tea.
He sliced the ham for the omlettes and grated the cheese.
Quarter to ten. Alfred thought he heard someone walking around upstairs and yes, there was Master Bruce, dressed in workout clothes and headed down to the gym; not the one in the cave, the one in the far wing, the one with the equipment set up near the indoor pool and with the floor to ceiling windows looking out over the south lawn.
"Is Dick up yet?"
"No sir, I believe he's having something of a lie-in this morning."
The master walked down the stirs, shaking his head and snapping his towel against the newel post at the bottom.
Oh dear.
Eleven-thirty. Taking the situation into hand, Alfred made his way up to the young master's room, silently opening the door and crossing the cluttered floor in the gloom of the drawn velvet curtains. Richard was there of course, unconscious and half covered by the down comforter, one leg sticking out from the knee down.
"Sir."
"Sir."
"Master Richard."
"...mmm..."
"Richard."
"....ummm..."
He gently put his hand on the warm, bare shoulder. "It's almost noon, time to get up."
"...mmmm...nnnnn..."
"Yes, it is. It's Christmas. Come now."
"...innaminnit..."
"Dick, it's Christmas morning and you will get up and dressed and be downstairs in five minutes, do you understand me? The entire household is waiting for you and you will join us immediately, young man."
The elicited two slitted eyes, the owner exhausted and still largely asleep. "C'mon, Alf, the presents can wait a while."
Exasperation. "They may indeed wait, however, the other members of this household have waited more than long enough for you to make an appearance and would appreciate your rousing yourself enough to, as you might phrase it, get your ass out of bed."
Dick's eyes focused. Alfred just told him to get his ass out of bed. He used the word 'ass'?
Well...crap.
"Is five minutes okay?"
"That would be acceptable." With a raised eyebrow and a nod, he silently closed the heavy door behind him.
Four minutes later Dick was down in the kitchen, wearing a none too clean pair of jeans, crumpled tee-shirt and no shoes. He needed a shower, his teeth were unbrushed (as was his hair) but he was there. His eyes were opened and he had a slightly forced pleasant expression on his unshaven face.
"G'morning."
"Good afternoon, would you care for something to eat?"
Standing in the doorway, Dick blinked, trying to form coherent thought and then translate it into understandable words and phrases. "How about presents first? Then we usually have something to eat; sound good?" And he could sit down, focus enough on the usual shirts and sweater and maybe a new pair of skis or whatever that he could wake himself up. And what was the big deal, anyway? He was trying here.
"Food first would be fine." The suddenness of Bruce's voice would have startled anyone else but this was Wayne Manor and he was talking to the people he was talking to. They could relocate soon enough to the study, arranged around the smallish family tree to pass out the presents, it didn't really matter. "Would you mind telling us why you were unable to get out of bed before now?"
"...I was just tired, that's all...sorry."
They set to the late breakfast but there was an unmistakable pall over the proceedings and an awkwardness that everyone pretended didn't exist. The three men were in the kitchen, playing out the tradition of Christmas morning breakfast despite the fact that it was now past one on the afternoon.
The meal was strained and over as soon as was reasonably possible, Dick disappearing upstairs to attend to his personal hygiene, Bruce went down to the cave, Alfred cleaned up. Half an hour later Bruce stopped back into the kitchen to linger over a second cup of coffee. He watched Alfred's angry movements for a while.
"We were too hard on him. Both of us were."
"Excuse me, sir?"
"He was working last night, that's why he was so late. There was a problem in Bludhaven, a terrorist was captured just before he could set off some kind of bomb on a plane sitting on a runway at the airport. Dick was the one who actually stopped the man and made the collar; 'got on the plane somehow without the bomber knowing and disarmed him before he could do any damage. Jim Gordon called me to let me know that he was kept at Bludhaven headquarters until almost six-thirty this morning answering questions, filling out a report and talking to the press. And he'd worked a double shift before he was called in to help the bomb squad."
Alfred wasn't surprised, that was like the boy, to simply feel it were his own failing in disappointing his family and not thinking to explain that he'd had no sleep and had just been through what could have only been a high stress situation.
"So like him."
Bruce nodded, feeling a little guilty that Dick was just as he'd been raised to be, to not think of himself, put his head down and get on with things without complaint. "I looked in his room a minute ago, he's asleep."
"The presents can wait."
12/26/09