Dick would say that Bruce genuinely looked startled at the time.
They promptly contacted Dr. Leslie, assuring her that her lovely sister had simply fallen asleep due to exhaustion. Nobody agreed that after sleeping for a day and a night, Baia should continue dealing with the aftermath. Batman could handle everything solo.
Greenland, near the Arctic Circle, stretched out with boundless white snowfields, with the conspicuous black Bat-plane hovering overhead.
"Thankfully, it's not Antarctica."
The cryogenically preserved man, who never took off his helmet, finally lifted his visor, breathing in deeply like a fish released into the sea from a cramped fish tank. The cold air didn't discomfort him; instead, it seemed to invigorate him.
"Mainly to prevent certain people from stealing penguins," Baia explained.
The current Robin, wearing a fur-lined uniform, grumbled discontentedly, feeling targeted.
Yesterday, a container-style laboratory, including numerous expensive research equipment, had been set up nearby. Although the area was sparsely populated, it wasn't too far from the Inuit settlements. To prevent the cryogenically preserved man from escaping—although they didn't believe he had the motive to do so—the transportation equipment left for him by Bruce consisted of twelve Alaskan sled dogs.
The reserves of food and other daily necessities were ample here. Whether one wanted to live in seclusion or interact with the local residents, Batman wouldn't interfere. Of course, he wouldn't relax his surveillance of the cryogenically preserved man either.
After considering Baia's plan, Bruce had arranged everything.
Despite being under Batman's close surveillance, Dr. Victor Fries felt genuinely free for the first time.
"Thank you, Doctor," the cryogenically preserved man glanced at Batman for a moment before turning to the fur-clad sparrow beside him.
Baia: "If you really want to thank me, then fulfill our agreement sooner rather than later."
"Take care of Nora."
"I will."
Baia sneezed, prompting Bruce to immediately cover her with his thick cape.
"Not everyone gets this opportunity," Batman said solemnly. "Dr. Fries, you'd better cherish it. I'll be watching you."
The Bat-plane retracted its landing gear, and Gotham's vigilante and his two young partners embarked on the return journey.
The cryogenically preserved man tossed his helmet into the snow, removed the heavy armor, and walked through the icy wilderness.
In the living quarters outside the laboratory, twelve Alaskan huskies awaited his care. Through the real-time connection on his tablet, he could see Nora's recovery status in Gotham Hospital.
Victor Fries felt remarkably serene.
On the Bat-plane.
"Damian, what are you hiding in your cape?"
"Nothing!"
"...You better drop that polar hare right now, immediately."
Christmas Eve.
Under the shroud of the thick night, Wayne Manor, brightly illuminated, appeared especially lively. This Edgar Allan Poe-style somber building had long been enveloped in the shadow of tragedy. Now, with a few new residents at year's end, it had been rejuvenated.
Bruce Wayne would attend Gotham's elite Christmas banquet, something Batman never did.
Perhaps this year would be an exception.
"I don't know what the point of all this is," Damian said as he jumped off the couch, pulling down a large pile of green silk ribbons from the table with disdain. "These things look like they've been through a paper shredder after being used by the Riddler."
"If gingerbread men and ribbons can't get you to stop complaining, try this," Dick tossed him two collars, both festively red with red-and-white bows and two silent Christmas bells, one larger for Ace and the other for the ill-tempered cat.
Even for Damian, it was a colossal challenge, and the Demon's Son turned his evil gaze towards the Great Detective.
The large bundle of long-haired black cats that had been napping on the back of the couch immediately perked up its ears alertly, leaping up at the first sign of Damian wielding the collars and scampering upstairs. Surprisingly, this time Ace didn't bark at it but instead helped Damian corner it.
Tim, wearing a Christmas sweater, was stepping on a ladder, hanging baubles on the Christmas tree, while Alfred stood below, directing. Hearing Damian and the Great Detective's antics inside the house, he shook his head. "Grade-schoolers, I swear."
"Drake! I heard that!"
This towering, verdant fir tree bore laser-cut marks at its base, while its leaves carried the fresh scent of forest and snow. Undoubtedly, it was a Christmas gift from Kryptonians. Alongside the Christmas tree arrived two large servings of apple pies from Smallville.
Meanwhile, Baia was rushing to salvage the kitchen, a story that starts with Bruce.
In fact, Bruce did try to help.
He returned a bit tipsy. At regular gatherings, Bruce would substitute champagne with ginger ale, but that trick didn't always work. The slightly woozy Gotham darling returned to the mansion and was instructed by Tim to sit on the couch like a much more obedient grade-schooler, waiting for dinner.
But Bruce wouldn't.
Bruce wanted to get into the kitchen!
Batman—could—handle—everything.
The Gotham prince, with his nonchalant expression and slightly disheveled hair fixed in place with gel, didn't look drunk at all, except for that. The only one who noticed Bruce entering the kitchen was Damian, who had no clue about his cooking skills. At that moment, the naive Damian even felt a twinge of awkward gratitude towards Bruce for cooking personally.
That was until Tim noticed smoke billowing from the kitchen and urgently called for Dick.
Alfred's usual oven for baking cookies was immovable, and the oven embedded in the kitchen counter was busy roasting the turkey Baia had carefully marinated. So Bruce searched around and found a spare oven to bake Christmas cakes for his beloved sons and daughters.
He prepared the ingredients, following the precise proportions Batman had researched for gel explosives, poured the batter into cupcake liners, and then placed them in the oven.
What could possibly go wrong?
Bruce thought, lifting the oven and placing it on the stove, igniting it.
"What on earth are you trying to do?" Fifteen minutes later, Dick confronted Bruce with one hand holding a smoking oven. "Blow us all up?"
The scene resembled a rocket launch site.
Tim, holding a fire extinguisher, looked at Bruce and sensed something was off. "How much did you drink? And with whom?"
"Kate, Diana," Bruce's babyish attempts to recall took a moment, "Um, and... Oliver."
Of course, because if Black Canary came to Gotham, Green Arrow, Oliver, wouldn't stay alone in Star City for the holidays. The combination of these people could very well have gotten Bruce quite tipsy, Dick sighed, rubbing his forehead. After all, Oliver's temperament...
In the end, they retrieved the charred remains of Batman's handcrafted cupcakes... and presented them, a few chunks of charcoal extracted from the wreckage, to the young Damian.
"What's this? Deep-fried gingerbread men?" Damian stared solemnly at the plate of charcoal in front of him, slowly speaking up.
"This is the cake your dad made," Dick said gleefully, "Dig in, it's delicious."
"Since no one wants to eat it, why not put this thing in the Batcave's display case and call it 'Fatherly Love'?" Baia and a few birds exchanged glances for a moment, then proposed.
Baia didn't even realize Bruce was drunk at the time, otherwise maybe she could have saved the oven. Shocked by the scene in the kitchen after being woken up by a canary, Bruce swiftly left the scene of the incident, making an excuse to monitor the city from the Batcave.
Actually, drunk Bruce was quite bold. In addition to daring to enter the kitchen, he also messaged someone he wouldn't normally contact, though it was short, just two words.
Come home.
At half past eleven in the evening, the Great Detective, adorned with Christmas bell collars and reindeer antlers, gave up resistance, staring at everyone in the house with the terrifying eyes of a deep-sea creature, then was kneaded by several birds in succession, feeling a bit despondent.
Ace was excited, like a dog-shaped reindeer, jumping around incessantly, and the decorated Christmas tree exuded a strong festive atmosphere.
All family members, including Alfred, gathered in the dining room, where smoked salmon, roasted turkey, ham, coq au vin, baked lobster, and mulled wine were successively served. The cats and large dogs also received beef and a platter of Arctic shrimp as their Christmas dinner.
"Merry Christmas," Dick raised his glass first.
"Merry Christmas—" Baia cheered softly, her green eyes gleaming, and the girl in the Christmas-colored knit coat even received two red velvet hair ornaments, personally arranged by Dick.
Finally joining the festivities were Bruce, who hadn't celebrated Christmas in a long time, and Damian, who usually spent every day in brutal training. Damian and Baia exchanged a glance, and because they were underage, they could only have orange juice as their beverage.
Wayne Manor hadn't been this lively in a long time, or perhaps, in Alfred's memory, it had never been.
Only Master Bruce, dressed in his Batman attire, licked his wounds while the rest of the city celebrated, and the silver moonlight cast a lonely glow on the ground.
The children laughed and clamored for gingerbread cookies. Even Damian, who usually disdained "Christmas," was infected by the atmosphere. A faint smile crept onto Bruce's lips.
Perhaps growing old made one more easily moved, thought the old butler, discreetly wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye with his neatly arranged sleeve, hoping that the sight before him would bring solace to the souls of the Wayne couple in heaven.
"Alfred," Alfred heard Bruce's voice and saw his young master, whom he had raised, looking at him earnestly. "Merry Christmas."
The midnight bells rang, and Christmas had arrived.