At approximately two in the morning Alfred looked up from his project and heaved a mighty sigh. Although he still had some fifty more gifts to wrap before the end of the next day, he'd knocked out a fair number tonight while his charges were all occupied with patrol. They sat in a shining pile on the work table behind him, and after he'd swept up the tail ends of ribbon and paper he turned to examine them. Each one was a tiny masterpiece, a labor of love that he didn't regret despite the fact that it would live a mere two days before being torn to shreds. He had poured his heart into choosing the items inside the packages, and now he had sacrificed his hands to disguise them. All was fair in love and Christmas.
Including, he winced, arthritis. He'd known he would have to pay for waiting until the last minute to wrap everything, but he hadn't had much choice. Under no circumstances would he ever bemoan Master Wayne coming home – returning to life, for all intents and purposes, even if he had never truly been dead – nor would he lament Master Tim's return soon after that, but the doubling of his work that had come with them had not been kind to his joints. It wasn't so bad in the summer and fall, but Gotham's wet, cold winters were beginning to wreak havoc on his dexterity, and overuse only made things worse. Some days even Dr. Thompkins' best pills weren't enough to calm the ache in his hands and knees. If the twinges he was feeling now were any indication, tomorrow would be one of those times.
But it couldn't be, he resolved. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, after all, and there was too much to be done. Besides the presents still left to be clothed and groomed and set out beneath the tree there was cocoa to be made and served – the cookies, thank goodness, were all baked – and a car to be driven for lights viewing. He couldn't allow himself to fail on any of those points, for the gifts had to be beautiful, the cocoa was a tradition, and the car would be carrying four of the most precious lives in the world. He simply had to head off the cramping that was creeping up from his wrists, and quickly.
A cup of tea would do wonders, surely. He checked his watch hopefully. Yes, he had time; they wouldn't be home for another hour or so. He could have his tea and relax a bit before he plunged into the raucous tumult that tended to result when his charges came home from an evening of successful roof-running. Pleased, he took a back staircase that ended near his rooms, ducked into his study, and turned on the burner beneath his kettle.
In a few minutes he was sitting before his cold fireplace with his aching fingers wrapped around a cup. The liquid's heat seeped through the ceramic and into his skin, slowly loosening the tensed tissues underneath. He could already tell that a second serving was going to be required if he wanted his hands to be usable the next day, but that was alright; at least he'd caught things in time. While he was sure his family would have been gracious about helping him the next day if his upper extremities had frozen into useless claws, he hated the thought of taking away from their Christmas Eve pleasure with chores. Besides, he grimaced, needing assistance with something so simple as serving drinks made him feel incredibly old; he would much prefer to avoid the predicament altogether.
But he was hardly a spring chicken, a fact of which he was reminded as he gazed around his inner sanctum. Having just been occupied with gift wrapping, his brain began to isolate items that he had received on Christmases past. First, of course, was the large painting that hung above the hearth. Examining it now, his eyes crinkled curiously. What would its creator have thought about the changes that had occurred in her house since she'd been cut down some three and a half decades before, he wondered? For all that Wayne Manor looked the same on the outside as it had when its last mistress had sat down at the bottom of the front lawn in order to put it faithfully on canvas for her loyal butler, in spirit it was a different place. He thought she would have liked it, as he still liked the landscape she'd created for him. Affection remained in the house as much as it did in the painting, and that was what mattered.
His eyes fell next on the faded leather spine of a book. To the outside observer it would have appeared to be just like so many other of the tomes that lined the room from floor to ceiling, but to him it was special. The much-loved copy of The Little Prince had been a gift from his mother in his youth, but that wasn't where its magic stemmed from. No, that was the result of many nights spent sitting alongside a very young and still-sweet Bruce, who had adored the story as a toddler despite there being no pictures for him to look at. How many times had they gone through the tale together, both before and after Alfred had been the only adult in the world the boy could rely on? Bruce didn't know it, but those bedtime chapters were one of the greatest treasures he had ever given the butler.
As the child had aged, of course, he'd stopped wanting tucked in. Around the same time he had conspired to get something under the tree without Alfred's knowledge, leading into a whole new era of Christmases. Most of those early offerings – ceramic ashtrays, knotted leather belts, and other things of the sort that young people often gave to their slightly puzzled guardians – were long gone, but one remained. Folded in their box atop his desk were the pieces to an exquisite antique chess set, one side carved in ebony, the other in real ivory. Considering it now, Alfred tried to remember the exact words that had accompanied the gift.
'It's not like you can't use the regular ones,' Bruce had said, 'but I thought you should have some nicer ones, too.' He had followed that up with a request to be taught how to play, making the present less altruistic than it had originally appeared to be, but that was no matter. They had spent dozens upon dozens of hours hunched over those pieces, pitting their minds and their wills against one another. Chess had proved an adequate substitute for a bedtime story, and Alfred had been grateful.
The set's only drawback hadn't been revealed for more than ten years, when he had realized that he couldn't use it to teach Master Dick the game for fear that the appearance of even long-ago harvested ivory would repel the sensitive and elephant-loving child. Christmas had changed once again with such an exuberant little boy in the house, for he brought with him a measure of the old merriment that the season had lost twenty years before. Alfred had almost forgotten what wonder on a child's face looked like until Dick reminded him .
It had soon come to light that reminding his elders what was best about Christmas was not the boy's only December-centric talent. His knack for giving useful but incredibly thoughtful gifts was amply demonstrated from the very beginning of his residence, but he went above and beyond during his fourth winter at the Manor. He had begged Bruce for permission to take wood shop at school that year, a proposition that had seemed to the billionaire to be a waste of time. Looking back on things, Alfred suspected that the boy had only gained his guardian's consent by sharing his plan with him. Once he'd been permitted to act, though, he hadn't strayed from his course. All through the fall semester he had worked on one grand project, occasionally calling on the help of his teacher but mostly relying on himself, and the end result had been admirable to say the least.
Remembering the shock he'd received upon opening up a package addressed to him from his younger charge only to find a set of extremely expensive Japanese chef's knives, Alfred chuckled. The blades had been purchased by Bruce, of course, but they had been Dick's idea. More important than the flawless steel that would go on to prepare thousands of meals had been the box they'd come in. It was well enough executed that at first glance it appeared to be professionally made; only a closer examination revealed the tiny imperfections that were to be expected in the handiwork of a twelve-year-old who'd never practiced wood inlaying until a few months earlier. Despite those – because of them, really – Alfred had fallen instantly in love with the handsome and well-polished storage container. His new knives had fit perfectly in it, and to this day the holder graced the kitchen counter.
Then, of course, there had been Jason. Although he had been more than welcome to utilize Bruce's money from day one of his residence in the Manor, Alfred had always gotten the sense that he wasn't really comfortable with spending in the way the rest of the family was. Receiving expensive gifts was one thing; giving them away was something else entirely. That being the case, during his first Christmas in his new home the previously penniless teen had given the one thing he had that was entirely his own; his time.
Alfred had already been baking for four hours when Jason had come down to the kitchen for breakfast. Out of school for the winter break, he had taken to sleeping in late and requiring breakfast after the others had already finished. On that particular day, though, he had cocked his head to the side and asked what was going on instead of just grumbling that he needed bacon. When the answer was Christmas cookies, he uttered the most extraordinary words that the butler had yet heard come from his mouth.
"...Want some help?"
The query had shocked him, but he had accepted the offer. To his surprise Jason had turned out to be much better at following written directions than he was about taking spoken ones, and before long they had an assembly line set up. With Jason mixing and blending the ingredients, both of them scooping the dough onto cookie sheets, and Alfred managing the cooking and cooling process, they flew through two dozen batches in the space of a day. They had been so involved in their task, in fact, that neither had noticed Dick's presence until he'd all but squealed.
"You're both covered in batter. This is so adorable. I'm getting my camera."
Jason had balked, naturally, but gentle cajoling from his brother eventually convinced him to pose alongside an equally flour-smeared Alfred for a quick shot. They'd held a pan of fresh chocolate chip cookies between them to prove in future years that they hadn't just been having an ingredients fight, and – miracle of miracles – Jason had given an honest smile just before the shutter closed. Those cookies had long since been eaten, but the photo had never budged from its place on the butler's bookshelf. No matter what news he heard about the deeds of the most wayward of the Robins, he could always look at that captured moment and remember him as he had once been.
Blinking hard, he stood up and crossed back to the kettle. When his cup was mercifully warm once more he turned to reclaim his chair, then paused. Set into the wall on the opposite side of the room was his small television, which he rarely turned on but kept for those odd days when he was under the weather. In recent years it had gotten far more use than it was accustomed to, not because he'd been sick more often but because there was finally someone in the house who understood what he liked to watch. Master Tim – practical, introverted, dry-humored – was the closest to him in temperament of all of the boys, and it hadn't taken long for them to discover that they enjoyed the same sort of programming. Consequently it had become their habit to exchange seasons of shows at Christmas, which they would watch on their own and then report back to one another on.
It was funny, Alfred thought, how much joy he got out of that simple trade. First there was the excitement of picking something that he had seen but that the younger man had not, which was followed by the anticipation of finding a spare hour here or there in which to watch what he had given him. Next, of course, was the pleasure of the show itself. Finally, and perhaps best of all, came the intense feeling of belonging that accompanied their sharing of details and opinions when their respective viewings were complete. Those tête-à-têtes had given them dozens of private jokes that no one else in the house understood, and Alfred loved every one of them.
The only thing that was missing, he mused as he took the room in as a whole once more, was something meaningful from Master Damian. The boy had tried, he was sure, but as of yet none of his Christmas gifts had conveyed the same warmth as the ones that Alfred had considered tonight. Perhaps this year that would change; at thirteen, Damian had progressed enough in his maturity to begin noting the likes and dislikes of others for purposes other than torture. He would just have to wait and see what the day after tomorrow brought…
A knock at the door stopped him halfway to his chair. Frowning, he glanced at his watch and realized that more than an hour had passed since he'd come downstairs. Expecting to see Bruce or Dick on the other side of the portal, he began his apologies automatically. "My apologies for my absence-" Then he paused. "...Master Damian? Is everything all right?" The child had taken the time to change into civilian night clothes, but that didn't necessarily mean that there wasn't a problem. If one of the others had been hurt badly enough that they needed his assistance in the cave, and this close to Christmas...he could have kicked himself. Why, why hadn't he gone straight down after gift wrapping, and to hell with his crooked old fingers?
"Everything's fine," Damian informed him. "I came for...something else."
As glad as Alfred was to hear that there was no emergency, his youngest charge's uncertain tone was making him curious. "And what is that, young sir?"
"Um...well..." He glanced back down the hall as if he feared that someone might see him in conversation with the butler. "...It's this," he said quickly, whipping a package out from behind his back and thrusting it forward.
Momentarily stunned, Alfred stared at him. "A gift, Master Damian?" he guessed, taking in the fancy paper that had been crudely taped into place around a box.
"...Yeah. I was going to just chuck it under the tree, but..." He shuffled his feet. "...Grayson said you'd probably been wrapping stuff all night, and that was why you weren't downstairs when we got home. So I thought you might want...what's in there. I thought it might..." He trailed off as a bit of color fought its way into his cheeks. "Look, could you just open it?"
Normally he would have insisted that gifts wait until Christmas morning, but he'd never had one carried to his threshold in the dead of the night before. Deciding to give in, he nodded. "Of course." His hands were stiffening up again, making it a struggle to get the paper off, but once it went and he could see what he held he was stunned. "...Oh, my..."
"They're arthritis gloves," the boy informed him. His blush deepened. "They, uh…they heat up. I guess that's supposed to help or something."
"It does," Alfred murmured. "It helps a great deal, in fact. Master Damian…this is an extremely thoughtful gift. And to give it tonight, and for the reason that you stated…I must confess that I'm a bit overwhelmed. Thank you. But if I may ask…have I been terribly obvious these last few months?"
"No. I mean, a little, but…anyway, Grayson said it would be good if I tried to find one meaningful present for everyone this year. I saw those, and I thought…well, it made sense. So…yeah. That's all." Ducking his head, he turned as if to leave.
"Wait, please."
Damian swiveled back. "Yeah?"
Alfred observed him for a long moment. "…Would you be so kind as to help me with the packaging? I'm afraid it might prove difficult as things stand."
"Uh…I guess, yeah. Here, give it back to me."
A minute later Alfred was sliding his aching joints between compression fabric. Finding the tiny power button near the wrist, he pressed it. Low heat immediately began to flow across all of his most painful spots, dulling their cries to distant groans. "Mm," he winced as tight tissues began to release.
"Is it okay?"
The anxiousness in Damian's voice made the butler smile. "They're lovely, young sir," he assured him. "Absolutely what I needed after all the work of the season. You did very well in picking them out, and I really cannot thank you enough." A beat passed before Alfred put a cherry on top of the sundae of compliments he'd just offered. "…You seem to be well on your way to matching your eldest brother in skill at gift-giving."
The teen didn't stand a chance of hiding the glow that rose into his face at that. "Um…thanks," he choked out. "Nobody can match Grayson at picking out presents, but…it's kind of nice to be close."
"Yes, I've always envied his knack for knowing the perfect present myself."
"I never know what to get him. I mean, Father was relatively easy to find something for, and I even came up with a gift for Drake, but Grayson…" Damian sighed.
"He is one of those rare people, I believe, who would be truly happy just to have his family and an empty tree on Christmas morning," Alfred remarked.
"That's the problem! He's impossible!"
"…This is just a thought, Master Damian, but there is one shopping day left before Christmas. If you would like, you and I could venture into town and make a last-ditch effort to cross his name off of your list." He had a hundred other things to do tomorrow, but none of them could possibly be as important as taking a few hours to possibly bond with the wiliest of his charges. Besides, all of those smaller tasks would be easier now that he had what he was already beginning to think of as his miracle gloves.
"...There was this one place I wanted to look at, but Father never had time to take me," Damian revealed. "I can't be in a car long enough with just Drake for him to take me, and obviously I couldn't ask Grayson. So…if we could try there…"
"That sounds like an excellent idea, young sir. I look forward to it."
"Um…yeah. So…are we good, then?"
"Yes, young sir. We are very well, I believe."
A tiny smile appeared, then disappeared just as quickly as it had come. "Okay."
"Off to bed, are you?"
"Yeah. I guess I can't sleep in too much if we're going shopping for Grayson, right?"
"Quite right. The shops will be closing earlier than usual, and there are the normal Christmas Eve festivities besides. So I shall see you early, hmm?"
"Sure. Early." The miniature smile flashed by once more. "…See you later, Alfred."
"Good night, Master Damian. Sleep well."
When the child had gone and the door was shut between Alfred and world again, a broad grin broke across his face. As if it wasn't enough that his hands felt better than they had in hours – days, possibly – he was going to spend part of the next day in an interesting pursuit with the one Robin that he still occasionally felt was a stranger to him. "A meaningful Christmas gift," he murmured, curling his fingers experimentally and finding them somewhat limber. "…I'd say you hit that nail square on the head, my boy."
Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed this look at the sort of things that Alfred receives for Christmas. This story was in response to a request from 1booklover11; thank you!
Tomorrow we'll start a big Christmas two-parter featuring Young Justice and the Joker (yes, I'm giving you the Joker for Christmas. Please don't hate me, LOL). Happy reading!