Everything was meticulous. Plates lie at ghost filled seats, the china untouched by meaningless occasions. Silverware shined softly under the warm light of the chandelier. Cream napkins faded into the table cloth that covered the sleek mahogany table; a table meant for an army. It was almost unbearable to believe anyone could fill all those cushioned chairs. Even with the last generations of three, empty seats spoke more loudly then those that are filled.

Bruce stood stiffly in the archway.

His slacks were plain, his shirt casual. Yet he felt more uncomfortable then in any tux he had every been forced into. His hair had been brushed back hours ago, but without product to keep it in place his hands has shoved the hair roughly askew. His feet were hot in the cotton socks.

He should feel relaxed in his own home; his sanctuary. But his hands were kept tight behind his back, his legs kept straight, his chin held high.

This was not the first time he had spectated the state of alone he was in.

Don't be daft, you arse, he heard a voice snap in his mind. You have Alfred, you've always had Alfred.

But somehow . . . It was somehow different. There was a nagging, twitch of a difference between someone always loyal to a symbol and one who chooses to stand by it.

Another twitch.

Bruce cleared his throat, looking around the much too big dining room. He felt the somber whisper of a wish, and not the first one, for a smaller home. One without dining rooms, where there wasn't more beds then a hospital. A place with only the necessities. A cave for searching for hidden justice in an unjust world. A world without Bruce Wayne and the ward who chose a path without him. Somewhere without memories of two families lost.

"Master Wayne."

Bruce watched as Alfred brought out the cornucopia centerpiece. It was dazzling, like every year. Sometimes Bruce wondered why Alfred went through all the trouble when he would be the only one at the table. But as he knew, old habits were hard to break.

Alfred made his way around the table, straightening plates and tugging out wrinkles.

"Dinner will be ready momentarily, sir."

Bruce nodded silently.

"Master Clark called again." Alfred said offhandedly.

"Did he now?" Bruce murmured. He played with a folded napkin distractedly.

"He invited you to join he and Miss Lane at Mrs. Kent's." Alfred had busied himself with the silverware. "I relayed to him once more that you respectfully declined."

Bruce gave a throaty chuckle. "Respectfully."

Alfred nodded in conformation, ignoring his charge's bought of distaste.

"It would have been good for you to accept, if not to be polite then to try and access your social life that has dwindled."

Bruce continued to finger the cloth. "Then who would keep you company?"

"I thank you for your consideration, Master Bruce."

Bruce smirked. "Anytime."

After a few moments of silence Alfred made his exit back to the kitchen. Bruce let out a long held sigh, slowly trudging toward his seat at the head of the table. He pulled out the heavy chair. From that position, the room seemed longer, narrower.

The plates were stacked in a neat order, three discerning sizes slowly sinking into one another. Doubles of each utensil sat to either side of him. Bruce reached for his glass, hoping his headache was just from dehydration.

Something poked his lip.

Bringing the glass away from his mouth, Bruce took in the small chip decorating the rim. A small, neat triangle was cut into the cup. The years had smoothed the dig, as well as Alfred attention. It was an accidental tradition. The comings of a nervous boy, not used to the enormity of even a real kitchen table. A slip of the fingers, the drowning of fabric.

"Bruce, I'm-I'm so sorry!"

Dark hair leaned towards him as the boy pushed his napkin against the table. The glass lay still sprawled on the table, a neat cut now slit into it's form.

"I'll get you a new cup." A look of embarrassment flashed over the face. "When I'm older and have my own money, I'll buy you a new cup."

Bruce turned the glass in his hands, examining it for the first time in years. This being his first Thanksgiving since his son's abrupt absence, with Bruce avoiding the holiday with over exaggerated night activities, he had missed the opportunity of upholding the tradition.

"Dick, it's fine, accidents happen."

Bruce had found the glass to be amusing. Teasing his son was another added benefit to dinner when Alfred would being out the food.

Bruce continued to stare through the cup until he felt Alfred's presence next to him.

"I see you found the water to your liking, sir." Alfred placed the food before him. "I thought it fitting to continue the ritual."

Bruce said nothing.

Minutes passed as the butler once again set the table. Not waiting for a response, Alfred began another silent trip back to the kitchen.

"Alfred."

The older man turned to glance at his charge who was still enamored with the glass in his hand.

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you mind joining me for dinner this evening?"

It was a hesitant request, one a child would make at the thought of being rejected.

"I would be honored, sir."

Patrol had come later then usual. Making his rounds around the city had brought a calmness to him in the midst of the heavy holiday.

Batman danced across the buildings, heading towards the bridge. The only connection between Gotham's sister city.

It was a sorry excuse to glance across the lake, silently wishing he had the enhanced vision of Superman.

Was he spending the night with someone? Was he wishing for the sweet turkey that had always been served at the manor?

Something caught his eye.

A flash, not more then a second. The shadows shifted silently beside him. Turning sharply he scanned the roof. Why would anyone be skulking in the shadows at this time of night?

You're one to talk, a voice said smugly in the back of his mind.

Ignoring the familiar cackle that had followed the silent comment, Batman began his sweep of the roofs. Finding nothing on the building with him, he turned to cast one last look across the lake before returning home.

And there sat a small, white box.

Plain cardboard, slender and tall.

Maybe a bomb, but Batman quickly diminished the idea after lifting the almost weightless container. The top peeled back slowly. A gloved hand reached inside, and he felt his heart rate drop.

A small, glass cup sat rested in his hand. Inside sat a simple note, neat calligraphy decorating its paper surface.

"Sorry for the late IOU. Happy holidays. -D"

The ride home was a blur. Dressing back into civilian clothes was a blur. Suddenly he found himself standing in the kitchen, delicately placing the glass onto the counter.

"Happy Thanksgiving, son."

Wow, this is pathetically late. Sorry about that. I guess even trying to stay on a once a month schedule is too short for me. I'll try to have December and January up before February so at least I don't lapse into a year.

Thanks for the patience, guys!