The worst thing about Christmas, Clark thought as he lay on his couch and listened to the children in the apartment above him scream and stomp with delight, was how much he had once loved it.

He couldn't remember for certain if he had ever been as excited about Santa and presents and eating far too much candy as the little ones upstairs had been earlier in the day. All he knew was that the holidays he did recall spending on the farm had been warm, joyful affairs. His little family's love had saturated every moment of the day, from the thick, fluffy breakfast pancakes to the last happy 'goodnight'. They had been simple affairs, filled more with jokes and gentleness than with flashy gifts and expensive foods, but they had been good.

They had been so good, in fact, that they'd set the bar for future Christmases impossibly high. Now he couldn't stand to watch the holiday movies on TV because they weren't the same without his father's commentary. He could barely walk by a decorated tree without imagining what his mother, who had had a talent for putting together such things, might have said about it. Ice skating rinks, winter gourds, rosy-cheeked children and men with thick whiskers all taunted him with flashes of the home he had once known. Not one December since his parents' deaths had managed to be anything more than bittersweet, and he hated it. Mild seasonal depression wasn't what they would have wanted for him, but he didn't know how to treat it.

Lois' constant refrain was that he just needed to get out and enjoy himself. He had tried once, joining her and a group of others from the newspaper for something called Santa-Con. Everyone had worn red – Bob from the sports section had donned a full Santa suit, he recalled – and they had bar hopped through the evening, growing steadily more intoxicated and less inhibited. Everyone had been surprised that boring old Clark had come along, but no one was shocked when he left early and then didn't join in the following year. He supposed it was one way of celebrating Christmas, but it wasn't his way. Besides, faking an ever-evolving level of drunkenness was no easy task, especially when he was supposed to be too tipsy to fend off Lois' attempts to sit on his lap and tell him what she wanted him to put in her stocking. There were far better ways for him to spend his time.

He didn't want the noisy, fake camaraderie that so many people of his age seemed content with, but being alone wasn't the answer either. All he wanted was to spend a quiet few hours with good people whose company he enjoyed. It didn't seem like so much to ask, and yet he'd be damned if he could figure out how to actually do it. His few civilian friends all had their own traditions to uphold, as did several other members of the JLA. A couple of them wouldn't be doing anything tonight, but that included celebrating the holiday. Since he didn't want to ignore Christmas altogether, they were off the list, too.

There was really only one option that had any chance of turning out to be what he was looking for, but he wasn't sure that he dared attempt it. It had been Alfred who had invited him to stop by for Christmas dinner, after all, not Bruce. Somehow, Clark smirked at the ceiling, he didn't think the billionaire had been informed of the offer prior to it being made. If that was the case, he wasn't likely to receive the world's warmest welcome were he to show up at Wayne Manor just as the first course was being served. And yet, he was tempted. Who could understand better than Bruce the way holidays spent without those who had once made them special were both sacred and profane? It was a cruel thought, he knew, but an honest one. Besides, even if the other man was an absolute pill he would at least get a solid Alfred-cooked holiday meal out of the visit, and that was nothing to scoff at. It was certainly better than the platter of nothing he'd have if he stayed home and moped all evening.

Having convinced himself, he rolled off of the couch and stood up. An upgrade in wardrobe was required for a dinner at Bruce's, so he swapped the gym clothes he'd worn all day for a pair of slacks and a collared shirt. The whole outfit would have to come off again before he could fly to Mount Justice in order to use the Zeta tube, but he was so practiced with quick costume changes that the skill might as well have been counted amongst his superpowers. Suitably attired and already feeling better, he shut off the lights and headed out.

Fifteen minutes later the Batcave materialized before him. Spotting Bruce hunched over a file, he frowned. "You're working today?" he asked as he approached.

"Crime doesn't care if it's a holiday, Clark."

"I know, I just figured you'd be...you know...upstairs. With Alfred."

"Alfred's cooking."

"Okay, but I can't imagine that he banned you from the kitchen."

The corner of the billionaire's mouth that Clark could see twitched unhappily. "I don't want to get in his way. It would only delay dinner. Which is what I assume you've come for, since you have time to question my work habits?"

"I thought I'd take advantage of the invitation to come by, yeah. Do you mind?"

"Mm. You're here, either way."

This wasn't turning out to be the greeting he'd hoped for, but it was about what he'd expected. Before he could come up with a response for Bruce's grudging acceptance of his presence, Alfred appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Ah, Mister Kent!" the butler exclaimed. "How lovely to see you. You have excellent timing; I've just finished preparing dinner."

"I'm not too late, am I? I don't want you to have to scramble on my behalf."

"Not at all. I made an extra steak in the hopes that you would show. If you're at a stopping point, Master Wayne...?"

Bruce sighed and closed his folder. "Yeah. I lost my place when the Zeta went off, anyway."

"Sorry," Clark apologized. "It was just more convenient than the train, especially today."

"Mm."

"Well, then, if the pair of you would like to lead the way," Alfred suggested. His tone was full of professional cheer, but Clark didn't miss the warning look he shot at his charge as they walked by. Be nice, he interpreted it. It's Christmas, and you have a guest. He could only imagine the grimace that must have replied.

Nevertheless, Bruce was slightly less catty than normal during the soup course. When he did finally make a somewhat rude observation, he did so with more of a reluctant curiosity than an intent to wound. "For someone who has no biological need to eat, you throw back Alfred's food pretty fast."

"Alfred's food is amazing," Clark parried. "Normally I only eat to keep up appearances, you know, but here...here I eat because it's a pleasure." As if to prove his point, the butler carried in two aromatic plates of filet mignon at that very moment. "...Case in point," he joked as one was set down before him.

"You prefer your steak a bit rarer than Master Wayne if I recall correctly, Mister Kent?" Alfred inquired.

"I do. This looks perfect," he complimented. As he took in the way the bacon wrapped around the edge of the beef had browned perfectly, he let out a happy sigh. This was a far cry from the ham, potatoes, and green beans that had made up his childhood Christmas dinners, but there was no way he was going to complain.

"Very good. And I've butterflied yours as usual, sir," Alfred went on as he set down Bruce's plate. "It's cooked thoroughly." He stepped back. "...I selected a wine for this course, but I wonder if you might prefer Scotch?"

The billionaire didn't hesitate. "Yes. Clark will have it too."

"...Mister Kent? Is that acceptable?"

"I've never really been a big drinker," he confessed. "It doesn't do much for me."

"You want. The Scotch," Bruce informed him flatly. "I'm not suggesting it to try and get you drunk, I'm suggesting it because the steak's better that way. If you want the maximum pleasure out of the meal," he arched an eyebrow, "you'll take my advice."

"...Scotch it is," Clark gave in.

To his surprise, the beverage didn't repel him the way he'd thought it might. Bruce had been completely right; the steak, already tender and flavorful enough to make angels cry, went up another notch when it was combined with the heady smoke and hints of caramel swirling in his glass. Alcohol had no physical effect on him whatsoever, but by the time dessert came out he was feeling mellow anyway. Bruce seemed a bit looser, too, which he took as a good sign. Maybe, just maybe, he hoped, he wouldn't be chased out of the house as soon as dinner was over and Alfred's back was turned.

His wish came true. As he set his napkin on the table top to be cleared away, Bruce nodded towards his empty tumbler. "I was right," he stated.

"You were," Clark admitted. "It wasn't what I was expecting at all, but I liked it."

The billionaire stared at him for the space of a long breath. His expression was blank, making it impossible to tell whether he was preparing to attack, measuring his dining companion for some other reason, or doing something else entirely. When he finally spoke it was to offer the last words the Kryptonian would have wagered on. "...Do you want more?"

It took him a second to respond, so caught off guard was he. "Um...yeah. If you don't mind, that is."

Bruce's brow knit briefly. Then he stood up and jerked his head towards the hallway. Without another word, Clark followed.

For a moment after they stepped into the next room he couldn't quite manage to breathe. The tree had caught his eye immediately, and for an instant his mother's voice had rung in his head. 'Oh, Clark, look,' she gasped. 'Isn't it lovely?' It was lovely, done up in golds and greens that matched the rest of the room without blending in and becoming invisible. It was the sort of tree his mother would have decorated if she'd had unlimited funds, and seeing it drove a spike of longing into his heart.

"Here," Bruce spoke suddenly at his elbow. Pulled away from his reverie, he turned to find a fresh glass of amber liquid being held out to him.

"Thanks." Taking it, he sipped. Normally he was glad that alcohol had no effect on him, but tonight he wished it was capable of calming his nerves. Lacking that advantage, he tried to express how he felt without getting teary. "...That's a beautiful tree."

"Alfred did it." Bruce, too, took a drink. "...He said it looks like one my mother did once."

Clark was so unprepared for that weighty comment that he almost spilled his digestif. Covering up the near-faux-pas by lifting the tumbler to his lips again, he replied with a personal tidbit of his own. "...Mine always did our tree, too."

"Mm..."

The usually dismissive noise was more accepting than he had ever heard it before, and in that moment he decided that he liked the kinder, gentler Bruce Wayne that whiskey had wrought. When he was offered a chair in front of the fire a minute later, his opinion was settled. Get a couple of drinks and a good steak in him to soften him up and the billionaire wasn't half-bad company at all.

They sat before the flames for over an hour. Few words passed between them, but those that did weren't unkind. It was enough for Clark, who was beginning to think that he had finally found what he was looking for in a Christmas. Bruce's earlier attitude notwithstanding, he felt welcome, or at least more welcome than he'd ever felt before in this house. Good food, good drink, and – once plied with the first two items – good company were all his tonight, and he could barely believe it.

"...I should get ready for patrol," came eventually. The words marked the inevitable close to the evening, and Clark sighed.

"Yeah. I should probably give Metropolis a little attention. But are you sure you should go out? We had a fair bit of alcohol."

A beat passed with no reply, and he wondered if he'd gone too far by expressing concern for the other man's safety. Then the billionaire snorted, set his glass aside, and stood up. "You have no subtlety. I hope you know that."

"But driving-"

"I'm not an idiot, Clark. The car has autopilot. By the time I get ready and ride into town I'll be sober."

"...Oh." Mildly embarrassed – of course the Batmobile could drive itself, what had he been thinking? – he climbed to his feet. "Well, you can't blame a guy for checking, I suppose."

"I could. But I won't. Now let's go, it's getting late."

Alfred was sweeping when they entered the cave. "Going out on patrol, sir?" he directed at Bruce.

"Yeah. Is everything ready?"

"As usual, sir."

"Good." With that he disappeared towards the changing area, not bothering to say a word of farewell.

Alfred gazed after him for a second, then turned to Clark. "And you, Mister Kent?"

"...Guess I'd better be getting to that, too. You know how it is."

"I do indeed. The demands of justice notwithstanding, though, I hope you enjoyed yourself enough this evening to consent to join us next year?"

He stared after Bruce. "...Do you think he wants me to?"

"He'll never say it out loud, Mister Kent, but believe me when I tell you that he does. He's normally out the door for the city as soon as he's finished dessert; I've never known him to stay in and chat beside the fire. Please," he requested, "do come back next year. And in between as well, of course, but...particularly for Christmas dinner."

And there it was, that final piece that he'd been searching for. He was more than welcome; he was wanted. This might have been the first Christmas he'd spent at Wayne Manor, but Alfred's offer for next year cemented his coming as a tradition. "...Sure," he agreed. "I will. I'll come next year. Thanks, Alfred. I...I really appreciate it."

"Not at all, Mister Kent," the butler smiled gratefully. "I assure you, the appreciation is all mine. Merry Christmas, sir."

"Merry Christmas," he wished back. "...Tell the grinch in the back I said the same to him, would you?"

"I will."

He left on that note. When he'd reached Metropolis, he landed atop the city's tallest building and examined his domain. Tomorrow the Christmas trees and lights and window displays that made his city extra bright tonight would begin to come down, destined to wait in attics and basements for the next eleven months. For the first time in several years, though, he wouldn't mind seeing them go. The old emptiness this season had once left him feeling had been filled by a burning brand of contentedness,and while it wasn't the same as the one he had carried as a child it was more than good enough.

Tomorrow the lights would come down, he mused with a smile, but next year there would still be space for him at Wayne Manor.

Author's Note: A guest reviewer asked to see one of the Christmases with Clark that were described in an earlier chapter. I want to show Christmas at Wayne Manor through Clark's eyes in other situations as well - eg when Dick's there and young, and hence with each of the boys - but my plans for the rest of this year's stories are already laid out. What that means is that next year there will be at least one, possibly two, of these little peeks through Superman's POV. They will all be entitled 'Clark's Christmases', with the numbering of parts carrying from year to year as they come out. Hopefully you all enjoyed this one and will be as eager to read more as I am to write more.

Happy reading, and happy solstice!