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Deep and crisp and even,
Brightly shone the moon that night,
Though the frost was cruel…
—Good King Wenceslas, John Mason Neale
Blackgate Prison, Gotham.
He stared out through the narrow prison window at the snow-covered, sleeping city — his city, forever plagued, forever broken. Beyond the glass, winter ruled. He could almost feel it — the rich, soothing pull of the bitter cold, as if it were calling to him, begging him to return. Yet it felt impossibly far away, that Arctic embrace just out of reach.
At least Blackgate showed a sliver of mercy. His cell matched the season. The temperature had been lowered, the stone walls and metal bars steeped in frost. The air bit like teeth. And above him, icicles hung from the ceiling like glass daggers, catching the dim light and glistening in frozen silence.
He walked toward his hardened stone bed, his boots echoing softly. His cold eyes drifted to the frost-laced floor...then back to the window.
The chill outside felt more alive than the prison air within.
Sometimes, he imagined Nora was out there in that winter — waiting. Waiting for him beyond the cruel warmth of the world that had taken her. Waiting in a place untouched by man, where only snow and silence reigned. A place where they could leave the bitter world behind and find a frozen utopia meant only for them.
He held onto those dreams.
He dreamed of his snow bride beside him, the two of them wandering endless lands of ice — Antarctica, Iceland, kingdoms of white and blue where the sun held no power. No suffocating heat. No burning world. Just the two of them, alone and free, living like figures from an ancient winter fairytale.
They would fish through sheets of ice. Swim through dark, glacial waters without fear. Perhaps even tame the polar kings of the Arctic as silent guardians. In those dreams, the cold did not bite to the bone — because they belonged to it. They were no longer fragile humans, but beings reborn in frost…alive in a way they had never been before.
A new beginning.
He stared at the falling snow beyond the glass, and a tear slipped down his face — a drop of warmth in a world of ice. It burned against his frozen skin, a cruel reminder that his heart still ached.
His expression hardened once more, the ice reclaiming his features as reality settled in.
Dreams.
Only dreams.
The tear fell to the stone floor.
Then—
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, heavy and approaching. A sharp knock rang against the metal door, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade.
“Mr. Freeze,” a guard called from the other side, voice muffled by steel. “You’ve got visitors.”
His face hardened further as the sound of keys jiggling echoed through the corridor. Metal scraped against metal as the guard unlocked the heavy, frozen door. The locks ground loudly, shifting from sealed to released. The door creaked open, and the frost clinging to the hinges shattered, ice breaking away like the last fragile shield protecting his small, imprisoned fortress.
His body stilled. His eyes widened — then, in seconds, sharpened into blades of ice.
There they stood before him.
Not Batman and his army of shadows — but them. Human.
He wished he still had his cryogenic power, wished he could freeze them all where they stood. Especially the caped enemy knight — shattered like glass, scattered beyond recovery.
None of them wore that cursed symbol. No armor. No weapons. No masks. Only winter garments meant to shield them from the gentle cold. Their faces — all except one who had long been a thorn at his side — held expressions that blended warmth and restraint.
The guard ushered them inside the frosted cell, breath visible in the air. Shivering, he quickly stepped back out and shut the door, sealing in the cold and fleeing toward warmth.
Victor stared at him. Then at his small army.
Their lips were pink from the chill, their eyes bright — painfully bright. Their warmth felt like a plague crawling under his skin.
“Hi, Mister Freeze,” Tim said with a soft smile, holding something in his gloved hands.
“Happy holidays!” Stephanie chirped brightly.
Victor looked at them, disgust curling inside him at the sight of such warm, living creatures intruding upon his frozen sanctuary. Their humanity felt like a curse.
“What do you all want?” His voice, even without the suit, carried the same frozen edge.
“It is Christmas, Mr. Freeze,” the smallest of them, Damian, said with a small but sincere smile. “Merry Christmas.”
Victor’s gaze shifted between them…and then to him.
“We thought we could come by and give you some things for you,” Bruce said evenly, though there was unmistakable warmth in his voice.
Victor’s stare hardened.
Them? His enemies? Him — the caped crusader? The one who stood in his path, who interfered with his work, who prevented him from saving his beloved bride? The man he hated more than the one who turned him into this?
He glared at them all, his cold eyes cutting like wind over ice.
“Why? Why are you truly here? If it is not important, then leave. You and your kind think I am mortal, that I can simply die — you are wrong. If this is meaningless, it would be wise to take your young and leave me in peace,” he snarled, turning away.
Peace.
He did not know that word anymore.
Nora had been his peace. His comfort. His soul.
Now…there was nothing.
They frowned as his expression became stone once more.
Jason clicked his tongue. “Sheesh, come on, Mr. Freeze, it is the holidays and Aunt Diana, Aunt Shayera, and Uncles Clark and Wally and the others of the League and even the Titans and with Mom and Alfred they were at our house and after dinner and the presents and they left and helping Alfred cleaning up we celebrated with them and we wanted to come and celebrate the merry holiday with you,” he said with a pout.
Duke nodded. “Yeah. Least we can do is try to pay you a visit. And Mom wanted to come but had to stay behind to take care of little sis.”
Victor watched them closely, hearing their words — and the expressions on their faces rang…true.
Bruce gave a small smile. “I was going to come alone but…” He looked at his children, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “…they caught me and rushed to put together some things they wanted to give to someone. Selina and Alfred send their greetings and wish you happy holidays.”
Victor’s gaze shifted to the eight young vigilantes.
Stephanie moved her hands behind her back, giving a small, shy smile. “And…we decided to bring you some stuff too.”
Dick nodded. “Yup. We are sure you are going to tell,” he said with an awkward smirk, scratching the back of his head.
Barbara giggled softly, holding her hat in her gloved hand. “But we hope you like them.”
Victor stared at them, unsettled.
For…me?
They came…to visit me?
To offer…gifts?
Foolish trinkets.
And yet…they came...to visit...me.
Bruce stepped forward, setting a few plastic bags down while the boys carried the rest, bringing with them a quiet burst of holiday energy that did not belong in a place like Blackgate.
Victor watched the bags…then Bruce. His cold eyes burned like frostbitten fire as from his helmet of his suit into the un-caped crusader. “I thought you would have a nice meal,” he said calmly.
He said nothing. He slowly reached for one of the bags, untying it and opening it. Inside were several sealed containers. He lifted the first and set it carefully on his lap, peeling back the lid.
A rich scent escaped — real food, not prison rations. It looked like something from a family dinner table, carefully prepared, even chilled, the frost along the lid proof it had been kept cold for him. His eyes shifted to Bruce…then to the young vigilantes behind him, all watching with quiet smiles.
He closed the first container and reached into the bag again, pulling out another. This one held a slice of chocolate cake, topped with whipped cream and a bright red cherry, still cool. He stared at it, a strange sensation stirring in his stomach at the sight of food so clearly better than anything Blackgate ever served.
Barbara spoke gently. “Hope it is cold enough for you and hope you enjoy. We left it in the fridge while we were trying to get everything ready to bring to you.”
“Yeah. Hope you enjoyed the cake,” Jason said, rubbing his stomach with a smirk. “I did.”
“Yeah,” Dick smirked, Tim smiling beside him. “You, Beast Boy and Uncle Wally did alright. Loved Mom's cake alright.”
Cassandra gave a small smirk. “Uncle Wally had a big piece...Uncle Wally...almost ate...most...of cake.”
“Yeah,” Stephanie grinned. “And Uncle Clark and Uncle Hal had to stop him from stealing the cake and Beast Boy tried to help.”
Jason grinned. “I should have joined them.”
Bruce only smirked at the memory.
Victor looked back down. He noticed a wrapped napkin tucked beside the containers. He opened it, revealing a silver fork, knife, and spoon.
His gaze lifted to them…then returned to the chilled food.
No one…had done anything like this for him before.
No one else had ever done something like this.
Not for a man like him.
Except Nora.
He murmured, almost to himself. “It...looks...divine”
Then something shifted.
What was this feeling? Where had it come from? It spread slowly through him, unfamiliar.
Warm. And it did not hurt. What was happening? What...what were they doing to him?
Bruce glanced at his children. Dick leaned forward eagerly. “Which one is first?”
Victor looked back at them.
“I’ll go,” Barbara said softly. She stepped forward, holding another small container. A shy smile crossed her face. “I hope you like them, Mr Freeze. I made them myself and I am sure they are cold enough. But I hope you like them.”
Victor accepted the container cautiously. Inside were Christmas cookies decorated with colored icing and sprinkles, uneven, messy, clearly homemade.
She gave a small, embarrassed giggle. “Heh, heh, I am sure you can tell I made them myself. First time.”
Victor studied her…then the cookies. A faint curve formed beneath his gaze. “They are nice. Very...nice.” He hid a smile, staring at the chewed cookie. It does look tasty.
Barbara beamed. Damian stepped forward, took one, and bit into it, smiling as he chewed. Victor watched the boy…then the others...then Bruce. He sensed their expectation. Slowly, he lifted one of the cookies and took a small bite, chewing carefully.
He froze, staring at it.
Barbara asked softly, “What do you think?”
“It is...tasty. Well made.”
Her smile widened.
Duke stepped forward next, pulling a small device from a bag and setting it beside Victor. “Here you go, Mr. Freeze.”
Victor eyed it. “What is this?”
“It is a radio. And for now it is playing Christmas songs. I hope it got a good signal.” Duke switched it on, and soft holiday music drifted into the cold air of the cell.
Victor stared at it…then at Duke. That strange warmth inside him grew.
He said nothing as Cassandra approached. She held something behind her back. When she reached him, she brought it forward — a thick wool thermal blanket. Victor looked at it…then at her shy, bright smile. “Hope...you like...blanket...Mister...Freeze...merry Christmas...” Without another word, she gently set it beside him on the cold prison bed.
Victor stared at it. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his hand across the soft fabric. The texture was warm, real.
The feeling inside him kept growing.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
It did not feel like pain.
Victor stared at them all. His body felt colder than ever before, a deep, marrow-level chill that prison walls could not cause — but that warmth…that warmth inside him was spreading, melting through him, growing stronger and stronger, impossible to freeze, impossible to contain.
What was happening?
They came here…to do this for him? But why? Why him? And why did it feel so…so…
Like he deserved to be alive.
Like they…cared…for him.
Bruce bent and picked up the last bag from the floor, handing it to Dick. The boy stepped forward with his siblings, all of them smiling wide, nervous, hopeful — standing in front of one of their family’s oldest enemies.
Tim smiled sheepishly and said, “We made this for you. We were rushing ’cause we didn’t want Dad to wait for us but…heh, you’re definitely going to tell we made it.”
Victor watched as the bag was set in his lap. He looked at them — their open faces, their warmth — while Bruce stood a step behind, silent, his stance tall, with the faintest curve to his mouth.
Slowly, Victor opened the bag.
He paused.
Then reached inside and pulled out a small, scraggly Christmas tree, its thin branches wrapped in tiny colored lights, the wooden stand a little crooked. Handmade. Imperfect.
He stared at it.
Then at them.
Then back into the bag. Something inside his frozen heart cracked — not shattered, but thawed.
He reached in again, slower than before. Slower, as if he were lifting a crown from sacred ground.
In his hands now was a snow globe.
Inside, a ballerina and her partner stood mid-dance, surrounded by tiny trees dusted in white.
Victor froze.
A sharp breath left him as his fingers stroked the glass. His eyes darted to the Batfamily…to their bat patriarch…then back to the globe. Gently — carefully — he shook it.
Snow came alive inside.
Tiny white flakes swirled, drifting around the dancers as if time itself had paused just for them. They moved in silent perfection, untouched by sorrow, untouched by separation.
Together.
Forever.
As if they had never been cursed by tragedy.
As if no cruel world had torn them apart.
They looked like they lived in paradise. In peace. In freedom.
Like…yes. His dream. His dream of him and his snow queen in the endless arctic — a kingdom of frost where no one could follow, where no one could hurt them. Just the two of them dancing beneath an endless sky of white and blue.
His Nora.
His eyes burned, melting with tears — but not of grief this time.
He smiled softly at the globe.
“Nora…” he whispered.
Bruce watched, silent. The young vigilantes stood still, their expressions caught between smiles and something more fragile.
Their gifts. Their innocence. Their warmth.
It felt like her. It felt exactly like...her.
“It is like…” Victor’s voice trembled, a broken sound mending itself. His smile grew as he stared into the swirling snow. “…my Nora…”
-
They left the prison and drove home in silence, the city’s chill slowly giving way to the warmth of Wayne Manor as they entered.
“Welcome, Master Bruce. Young masters and misses,” Alfred greeted, standing in his usual composed stance.
They smiled as they stepped inside, shedding the aching cold of both the prison and the winter night for the comforting warmth of the manor.
“How was it?” he asked.
Bruce held his coat in his arms, his expression stony but softened by the smallest curl of a smile. “It went well.”
“And he liked the gifts and the cookies,” Barbara added proudly.
Alfred inclined his head with satisfaction. “I assured you that they were both beautiful and delicious, and I am certain our guests appreciated them as much as the cake.”
Barbara offered a shy smile and, with the others, headed upstairs to prepare for the night, passing under the watchful and welcoming eyes of their stepmother.
Selina descended the stairs, cradling the sleeping Helena in her arms, making her way to her children and Bruce.
Bruce gave her a warm, genuine smile and kissed her lips softly. “So, how’d it go?” She asked.
He replied quietly, “He said the cake was good.”
She smirked, and they kissed again briefly. Bruce then gently stroked Helena’s chubby cheek, and as Alfred turned to tend to other matters, Selina smiled as the eight vigilantes returned downstairs. Bruce’s gaze fell on what they were carrying.
He looked at them, their faces alight with pride and mischief, and his chest tightened with quiet affection as he took in their presence. Dick and Jason held the picture, while the others watched Bruce, their father, who did nothing but take them in, protect them, and love them in the way only he could.
Bruce’s eyes scanned the drawing: sloppy lines forming his figure on the couch, dressed in his usual black, with a lopsided smile. Beside him, Selina shared a sweet smooch, Alfred stood behind the couch with his head tilted and a smile, and the eight children gathered around, Helena nestled on the couch beside them. Ace and Isis lay atop his lap, and above it all, a bright, imperfectly drawn bat symbol.
Selina giggled, Alfred’s mischievous smile faintly mirrored hers, while Bruce simply raised an eyebrow and grinned. “And what is this supposed to be?”
“It’s our family picture,” Tim said, chuckling shyly.
“For…you…Mom…Alfred…Dad…” Cassandra added softly, her words deliberate. “Love…you.”
“It was made with love,” Stephanie cooed, giggling.
“And…Starfire and the others decided to help out,” Dick laughed.
“Bet you can tell we made this,” Duke grinned.
Bruce’s smile widened slightly, though he remained steady and composed. “Oh, I can tell, alright.”
“But…we made it for you, Dad,” Tim said again, hoping he would like it.
Bruce approached them, taking the paper carefully in his hands, holding it up. He just let his smile kept growing.
Stephanie leaned in. “Turn it around.”
He obeyed, and on the back were the words, written simply but with all the honesty and warmth of their hearts:
"We love you, Dad. Merry Christmas!"
Bruce stared at the words, at the faces of his children. In this dark life, in this unending shadow of Gotham and his burdens, he had not thought he deserved this. Yet…he did.
The eight children looked at him with worried anticipation, and Bruce asked quietly, steady but soft, “So…is this why you’ve all been acting suspicious lately? And why Selina, and even Alfred, wouldn’t tell me? They’ve been keeping this from me?”
The children smiled widely. Selina grinned, Alfred gave a warm approving smile.
Then, without warning, they rushed him. Bruce braced himself, but in seconds the children collided with him, laughing and shouting joyfully.
“Merry Christmas, Dad!”
-
His cell was as cold as the world outside, yet it felt…warmer now. Warmer in the air. Warmer inside him.
The food containers that once carried the cold dinner and cake sat empty beside him and the homemade cookies were also gone, scattered with crumbs like the aftermath of something sacred. The small radio hummed softly, Christmas songs drifting through the frozen silence. The scraggly little Christmas tree still glowed, its tiny lights flickering against the steel and frost of the dim cell walls.
Victor’s eyes were locked on the snow globe resting in his hands, as if he were holding a priceless relic. His earlier tears had dried, but he could feel more gathering. Still, his smile never faded.
He gently shook the globe. Inside, the tiny white flakes swirled to life, drifting and dancing as the ballerina and her partner turned together in their endless winter waltz. A dream preserved in glass. A world untouched by pain.
He watched them, his gloved fingers slowly stroking the smooth curve of the glass.
“My Nora…” he murmured warmly. “…merry Christmas.”
The tears returned, slipping down his face, but they were not born of failure or grief this time.
They were born of warmth.
And for the first time in so long…
He did not feel alone.
“Thank you...”
They were the only ones who cared.
“...Batman. All of you”