Author's Note: Mister Freeze is among my favorite Batman villains, despite not having a huge role in the Animated Series (the only medium that did his character justice, really), so I offer this humble fic to appreciate what great work went into such an interesting character.
I do not own Batman nor any of its Affiliates
It was Christmas time again, Victor's favorite holiday of the year in all its tinsel, warmth, and good tidings. He relaxed against his tall damask chair, absentmindedly running ideas through his head about calibration and recalibration, not at all concerned with plum pudding. It had been a slow, uniform day: he woke up, went to work, and left for home. Quite gray but fulfilling nonetheless.
The room in which he sat adhered to the city's Gothic architecture with an arched ceiling and dark corners. On every square foot of floor lay shadow, the sole light emanating from a nearby fireplace. Victor fingered the glass of scotch he held with detached interest, unfocused on the here and now.
In a city like Gotham, every winter was a white one. Dots of snow drifted lazily towards the streets below, gathering on a small ledge outside Victor's apartment window. In the late evening, the falling flakes would vanish under darkness' cover, invisible till morning.
Victor readjusted his glasses, which had a habit of sliding down the bridge of his nose. He yawned. How many late nights had it been? Four, five in a row? His Nora was counting on him, asleep in her pod, to pull through. He looked forward to speaking to her again; he looked forward to seeing her glow again; mostly, he just looked forward. Victor knew reflection on the past to be a luxury.
In the past, it was as if she had never left. Never fell ill. She was there, standing bright-faced beside him in a treasured memory. All he had to do was reach out and stroke her cheek. She would lean into his hand, smiling with closed eyes-
-and then his hand would disappear, and her smile would fade as she sunk into the embrace of a cold, unyielding machine.
Victor drank a stinging sip of scotch, letting it warm his stomach but worsen the beginnings of headache. His body disagreed with his after-hours research sessions, but that was no great matter. He would sacrifice every last scrap of comfort he had ever felt should it bring his beloved back, if even for a second. Victor wondered if she ever dreamt of him.
The file on his lap seemed a mockery, filled with perfect, near groundbreaking calculations, but otherwise devoid of any palpable solution. Victor turned it over, pinching the folder's dull edges. He sighed, went over things one final time, and retired to bed. He had a few more inconsistencies to iron out, but those could be attended to tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Victor liked that word. Tomorrow, he decided, was the perfect time to record a small video on his findings, hopefully create something to convince the higher-ups to fund his project - willingly, that is.
For now, he was content.
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