Chapter Text
Part 1
Gotham Central Market was one of the few places that stayed lively even during the grayest months of winter. Snow couldn’t dull the glow of the artificial lights hanging from the awnings, nor could it erase the scent of sweet bread and cinnamon drifting out from the bakeries along the main avenue. Cars moved slowly, leaving wet trails on the dark asphalt. People hurried past, clutching shopping bags and scarves.
For a few blocks, Gotham felt like a normal city trying to believe in Christmas.
Midoriya pulled the collar of his jacket tighter with one hand as he followed the flow of pedestrians. It wasn’t the cold that bothered him—it was the feeling of being caught between two worlds, not truly belonging to either.
Beside him, Dick Grayson adjusted the list on his clipboard as if it were a mission briefing.
“Everything good, Dek—” He stopped himself halfway through the word. “I mean… Izuku. You take pasta and flour, I’ll handle vegetables and spices. Sound good?”
Midoriya hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Sounds good. And… thanks.”
Dick blinked, as if to say no problem, then added lightly,
“Culinary missions are sacred territory. We respect the rules.”
They split up right there, without any dramatic goodbyes. One headed toward the fresh produce section. The other disappeared into long aisles of colorful packages and towering shelves.
Midoriya took only the cart with him… and far too many thoughts.
Christmas music drifted in from somewhere far away.
Bells. Choirs. Soft piano.
It all sounded like an echo from another time.
He walked slowly down the aisle, reading labels with technical care—ingredients, origin, quality. Alfred had been very clear:
“Nothing too industrial. Things that were made with intention.”
The words stayed with him.
Spaghetti. Penne. Nests. Lasagna.
Then he saw it.
A simple blue box, stars and snow printed along its edges. On any other day, it would have been just another product on the shelf.
But not that day.
It was the same brand his mother used to buy in Musutafu.
The memory didn’t ask permission.
He could see the small apartment again.
Smell rice and sautéed vegetables.
Hear her laugh—light, a little nervous—when she realized she’d added sugar to the wrong pot.
And then that sentence, said with so much affection it hurt:
“You’re growing up, Izuku. But… you’ll still be my little boy, right?”
He blinked. The air burned behind his eyes.
A hero could endure explosions, impacts, bones breaking.
But there was no defense against memories.
Without really noticing, he picked up the blue box and set it in the cart. It felt almost like an act of respect—as if, in some foolish and impossible way, buying that pasta might bring her a little closer.
He kept moving.
Real flour. Natural yeast. Granulated sugar.
The items piled into the cart, but they felt like they belonged to another world—like subtitles scrolling across a screen while his mind watched a different movie.
Then he stopped.
In the baking aisle, a family was arguing cheerfully. Two parents. Two kids. The older one, excited, held up a rainbow frosting; the father pretended to analyze the choice as if it were a life-or-death decision, making the girl laugh. The mother watched it all, shaking her head—but smiling.
It was an ordinary scene.
Simple.
And absolutely devastating.
Midoriya looked for a moment… then looked away.
It was there, between shelves decorated with red and green stickers, that he fully understood what this Christmas meant.
It wasn’t just his first Christmas in another world.
It was his first Christmas without a home.
Without his mother.
Without the smell of burning rice.
Without a voice telling him he could always come back.
He took a deep breath and gripped the cart—like someone holding onto something just to keep from falling apart.
Dick was already in line when Midoriya arrived. The counter was covered in bags.
“Before you say anything,” Dick said, pointing at a bunch of mint, “it was on sale.”
Midoriya tried to smile. He managed half of one.
Dick noticed.
But he didn’t ask.
He just paid, thanked the cashier, and started organizing the groceries into reinforced backpacks.
It was a quiet kind of care—almost paternal—from someone who knew what it was like to have no one left to look after you.
The streets were colder when they stepped outside.
Their breath turned to vapor. The sky was already tinted violet.
They walked for a few minutes in silence, listening only to their footsteps crunching over thin snow.
Dick spoke first. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t force it.
“This is going to be a hard first Christmas for a lot of people.”
Midoriya nodded.
“I know.”
A few more steps.
“But…” Dick continued gently, “Alfred wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t believe we could turn ‘hard’ into… ‘important.’”
He didn’t say happy.
Because he knew it wouldn’t be.
Midoriya lifted his gaze to the darkening sky. The city felt huge. Cold. And still… less empty than before.
Maybe he didn’t need to pretend.
Maybe he just needed to keep walking beside someone who understood.
And in that moment—between the cutting wind and the warm memory of a small kitchen in Musutafu—Izuku Midoriya made a quiet choice:
If this was going to be his first Christmas without a home…
then he would make sure no one else spent Christmas feeling alone.
And they kept walking.
Together.
Back toward the mansion where, for the first time in a very long while… the lights were being turned on.
—
Part 2
The Wayne Manor attic felt like a time capsule sealed tight by silence itself.
Midoriya climbed the wooden stairs with a flashlight in hand, guided by Dick’s voice ahead of him. The place smelled of dust and forgotten stories—a blend of aged wood, dry leather, and nostalgia. The low ceiling forced them both to walk slightly hunched. Their flashlights cut through the darkness in thin beams, revealing stacked boxes, old suitcases, garment racks with formal wear, decorative armor, and even what looked like a bicycle from the 1940s.
“Watch out for the trunk in the corner,” Dick murmured, illuminating a wide wooden chest. “I tripped over it when I was eight and swore eternal revenge.”
“Noted,” Midoriya replied with a faint smile, keeping the flashlight steady ahead.
This wasn’t just storage. It was a secret museum—of pain, glory, and the life Bruce Wayne had lived with an intensity few could understand.
Dick seemed to know the paths between the shadows well.
“This belonged to Commissioner Gordon,” he said, pointing. “One of his hats. Bruce kept it after he retired.”
Midoriya paused for a moment. He looked at the hat—simple, brown, the brim slightly creased—and thought about how many moments of urgency it must have witnessed. How many times it had been there when a city cried out for help.
“Over here,” Dick continued, gesturing to another shelf. “Some of the decorations Bruce used for the League’s dinner… back when there was one.”
Midoriya approached slowly. A set of golden ornaments. A star engraved with Kryptonian symbols. And a snowman with Batman’s black cape sewn onto its back.
“This is…” Midoriya didn’t finish. It was obvious. And ridiculous.
“Clark thought it’d be funny. Bruce pretended to hate it. But he kept it.”
The silence that followed was comfortable.
They searched through a few more boxes. Midoriya found memories that weren’t his, yet he felt their weight as if they were. Every item seemed filled with purpose, even the most ordinary ones.
Finally, Dick stopped in front of a larger box, half-buried beneath a dust-covered blanket.
“Here. I think this is it.”
Midoriya stepped closer, helped pull it out, and carefully lifted the lid.
Inside, wrapped in time-stained paper, was the artificial Christmas tree. Dusty, with spiderwebs clinging to the branches—but intact.
“That’s it,” Dick said, with a note of reverence.
Midoriya ran his fingers along one of the branches. Despite the grime, the structure was solid. No mold. No rust. Just time. And time doesn’t destroy what’s built to last.
“It still works,” he said, almost surprised.
Dick nodded.
“Bruce hated replacing trees. Said tradition only matters if it lasts longer than fashion.”
Midoriya smiled softly.
“He sounds… more sentimental than I imagined.”
“He didn’t show it much. But everything in this mansion was put where it is for a reason.”
They both stood and looked around. The tree was already partially disassembled, but it was still far too large to carry easily down the stairs.
Midoriya glanced at the attic window. It was cracked open, letting cold air rush in.
“I think it’s better if I take it down through there.”
Dick raised an eyebrow.
“You’re going to fly with the tree?”
“Easier than wrestling it down three flights of stairs,” Midoriya replied, already gripping the base and wrapping his arms around it.
“Try not to look like the Grinch stealing Christmas when you fly over the roof, okay?” Dick joked.
Midoriya huffed lightly and opened the window wider.
The icy air hit his face—and he jumped.
---
The tree was lighter than it looked. He held it firmly while gliding carefully, flying just a few meters above the ground, avoiding any sudden air currents that might twist the branches into him. He didn’t want to damage a symbol carrying so many memories.
That was when something caught his attention.
The sound of an engine tearing through the garden’s silence shattered the calm.
A dark jeep stopped near the entrance.
Seconds later, the door opened with a soft click—and a burst of cold wind rushed into the hall, along with the scent of snow.
Roy Harper entered first, stomping his boots on the rug to shake off the ice. His expression was serious by habit, but his eyes took everything in. Right behind him, Mia practically exploded into the mansion, wrapped in a red coat far too big for her age—and carrying far too much energy for her size.
“IS THAT THE TREE?!” she nearly shouted, pointing into the hall.
Dick blinked.
Midoriya tried—and failed—to suppress a smile.
“It is,” he answered lightly. “We’re really using it.”
Mia ran up to the tree, inspecting every detail like a newly discovered magical artifact. When she spotted a spiderweb, she made a battle-ready face and stepped back half a pace.
“Okay… it’s kind of creepy,” she declared. “I love it.”
Roy snorted something close to a laugh.
“If that tree survived Wayne Manor, I think it can survive anything.”
Before anyone could reply, the air in the hall seemed to ripple—like water disturbed by a stone.
Then—light.
A circle of energy opened smoothly across the marble floor. Blue symbols shimmered like constellations spinning in perfect order. From the portal, Zatanna stepped through with confident strides, her black hair flowing with the motion. Her dark blue coat stood in sharp contrast to the winter outside.
She closed the spell with a subtle gesture.
And smiled.
A gentle smile. Warm. Unforced.
“I hope I’m not late.”
“You are precisely on time, Miss Zatara,” Alfred replied, appearing discreetly, as if the house itself had summoned him.
He wore a perfectly clean apron.
Hands folded. Posture impeccable.
But his eyes—those were softer.
“The kitchen is ready. And,” he added, looking at the tree as one might greet an old acquaintance, “I see our special guest has been welcomed back into society.”
Dick inclined his head slightly.
“It was time.”
There was a pause.
Not an uncomfortable one.
The kind of silence that exists when something important is happening—and everyone feels it.
Zatanna approached the tree and lightly ran her fingers along the aged wood of its stand, respectfully.
“It has history,” she murmured.
“It does,” Dick said. Simply that.
Mia raised her hands like a general issuing orders.
“Okay! Priority list! One: clean the tree before a bat flies out of it. Two: pick the ornaments. Three: convince Roy to wear a ridiculous hat.”
Roy looked at her with the calm of someone who had already accepted his fate.
“I am not wearing a hat.”
“You are,” Mia replied, already heading toward the kitchen. “Alfred, where do you keep the buckets of hot water—and your patience?”
“Both are in the pantry, Miss Dearden.”
Midoriya let out a small laugh—barely more than a breath.
Zatanna watched him.
Not with pity.
Not with sadness.
But with the serenity of someone who knows how to recognize when something—even something small—is precious.
“Izuku,” she said gently, “thank you for bringing it down.”
He shook his head.
“I just—”
“…brought what was already here,” Dick finished for him, not looking at him, but fully present.
And there was truth in that.
The house felt subtly different now.
No longer just a monument to absence.
But a place where the past could coexist with the present without suffocating anyone.
Alfred then made a small gesture with his hands—almost ceremonial.
“Ladies and gentlemen… if I may suggest, we should begin. Christmas requires preparation. And Wayne Manor…” He paused slightly, his voice carrying a trace of restrained emotion. “…has certainly waited long enough.”
Midoriya nodded.
Dick took a deep breath.
Zatanna smiled.
Roy resigned himself.
Mia shouted something about glitter.
And together—for the first time in a very long while—they began.
Not a mission.
Not a patrol.
Not a war.
But a simple act of humanity.
And somehow, quietly…
It felt important.
Fundamental.
Indispensable.
As if the mansion—at last—was learning how to breathe again.
—
Part 3
The main hall of Wayne Manor had never been meant to welcome.
Its ceilings were too high for comfort, the curved staircases of dark marble and the stone columns giving the impression that the house was always waiting—not for guests, but for a return. As if every wall were turned toward someone who had left too early and never come back.
It was an architecture of absence.
And yet, that afternoon, something was beginning to change.
Boots leaving damp marks on the polished floor. The sound of coats being hung. Voices crossing corridors that once swallowed words whole. The echo was no longer empty. It returned laughter. It returned life.
Zatanna was the first to shake off the cold. She unwound her navy-blue scarf with an elegant motion and hung it on the old coat rack, her eyes moving through the space with quiet respect.
“This place always feels bigger on the inside,” she remarked. “Like it stores too much silence.”
Alfred, already wearing his apron, folded a sheet of paper with the precision of someone who treated every task as ritual.
“Silence is also a form of mourning, Miss Zatanna,” he replied. “But it is surprisingly adaptable when it finds company.”
He opened the list carefully.
“Today we’ll handle the foundations. Traditional stuffing, two kinds of mashed potatoes… and we’ll begin the dessert. But first,” he added, lifting his gaze over his glasses, “there is the tree. And the decorations. Both will require… mercy.”
Roy, who had been eyeing the artificial tree leaning against the wall as if it were a radioactive artifact, crossed his arms.
“I still think there’s at least one bat living in that thing.”
“Alfred said there isn’t,” Dick replied, returning from the pantry with buckets, brushes, and cloths stacked in his arms.
“Alfred also said liver pâté was ‘a noble tradition,’” Roy shot back. “And that was a war crime.”
“And yet, historically accurate,” Alfred called from the kitchen, without even turning around.
Mia wasted no time. She grabbed a brush and began scrubbing one of the branches with absolute focus, as if she were disarming a bomb.
“Alfred! The bucket’s too full!”
“An excellent observation, Miss Dearden,” he answered immediately. “That qualifies you for the position of Bucket Supervisor. My congratulations.”
Roy made an exaggerated warning sound.
“Careful. Power goes to your head fast.”
Mia straightened, hands on her hips.
“I was powerful before the title.”
The laughter came easily. Even Roy let a brief smile slip through—the kind that appears before the mind has time to stop it.
Midoriya watched it all in silence.
It wasn’t just the conversation. It was the controlled chaos. People moving at the same time, talking about small, trivial things, with no urgency. No sirens. No cries for help. No city depending on him.
He realized he was smiling.
Zatanna noticed before he did.
“Enjoying yourself, Ultra Might?”
Midoriya flushed instantly.
“I’m… still getting used to the name,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “But… yeah. I am. It’s different.”
“Different how?” she asked gently.
He took a moment before answering, his eyes drifting across the hall—Mia arguing with a crooked branch, Roy complaining about the cold water, Dick balancing boxes with quiet efficiency.
“I don’t remember the last time I spent Christmas with this many people,” he said at last. “It was usually just me and my mom. A small table. Not much food. But… it always felt like enough.”
There was something in the way he said enough that made the air feel heavier.
“It’s loud here,” he continued. “People talking over each other, laughing… getting in each other’s way.” He took a breath. “It’s strange. But it’s a good kind of strange.”
Zatanna smiled, holding a silver ornament between her fingers.
“That’s what happens when silence gets used to company.”
Midoriya nodded slowly.
The tightness in his chest wasn’t gone—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It still hurt to remember. But for the first time, the memory didn’t come alone.
“But it’s worth it,” Dick added as he passed them, a cloth slung over his shoulder.
In the kitchen, Alfred was already arranging ingredients like a quiet strategist. Every item had its place. Nothing was there by accident.
“Did the tree survive?” he asked.
“Barely,” Dick replied. “But I think so. The old star… didn’t fare as well.”
Alfred nodded, thoughtful.
“Then perhaps it’s time for something new. A topper that represents… the present.”
Midoriya heard it as if it were meant for him.
Something that represents the present.
He looked around. Mia commanding the cleanup like an unlikely general. Roy helping while absently rolling an arrow between his fingers out of habit. Zatanna testing lights with small, discreet spells. Dick organizing everything with the ease of someone who grew up learning how to care for broken spaces.
And himself. A boy from another world. A displaced symbol. A survivor.
Here. Present.
Decorating a tree.
Maybe this was what staying meant.
Maybe fighting wasn’t the same thing as remaining.
When the old record player started up, the music filled the tall spaces of the hall softly. Boxes were open. Ribbons spread across the floor. Dust slowly gave way to light.
The tree was still far from perfect.
But it was breathing now.
And for the first time in a long while, so was Wayne Manor.
---
Part 4
Outside, the sky was already beginning to darken, washed in shades of violet and deep blue. The first stars appeared timidly between the winter clouds, while the moon reflected its pale light over the snow piled in the gardens of Wayne Manor.
Inside the house, however, the cold no longer held any power.
The fireplace in the main living room was lit, crackling softly, casting living shadows across the tall walls. The scent of dinner in preparation slowly spread through the corridors—butter melting, fresh herbs, warm dough—mixed with the aged aroma of the manor’s old wood. For the first time in a long while, the mansion felt occupied, not merely inhabited.
At the center of the hall, the Christmas tree—now clean, sturdy, and partially decorated—was beginning to transform. Where there had once been dust, there was now sparkle. Where there had been cobwebs, ribbons now hung. Crooked branches were gently repositioned, as if someone were teaching something old how to breathe again.
Zatanna floated small ornaments into place with restrained magic, almost shy by her standards. There were no grand effects, just subtle adjustments: a sphere aligning itself, a string of lights brightening to the perfect intensity, a warm glow blinking in blue, gold, and violet.
Roy stood on a ladder, adjusting the upper branches with the automatic precision of someone who had always trusted his hands more than his words. Every so often, he stepped back, studied the result, muttered something inaudible, and climbed up again.
Mia sat on the floor, organizing empty gift boxes beneath the tree with near-military seriousness.
“These go here,” she said, nudging one with her foot. “Because when the real ones arrive, everything will stay balanced.”
“Balanced for who?” Roy asked, without climbing down.
“For the tree,” she replied, as if it were obvious.
Dick wrapped strings of lights around the room, a spool resting on his shoulder, quietly humming an old Christmas tune. He didn’t seem to notice how completely his presence filled the space—every movement, every step, every short laugh echoing as something necessary.
Midoriya sat on the floor near the tree, an open box of old ornaments in front of him. He cleaned each one with a damp cloth, slowly, with almost excessive care. Before hanging anything, he examined it—turning it between his fingers, weighing it, studying its shape and shine.
Zatanna noticed and moved closer, sitting cross-legged beside him.
“You organize like you’re following an invisible manual,” she remarked, without irony.
Midoriya smiled faintly, without looking up.
“My mom used to do it like this,” he said simply.
He held a small red ornament, the glass worn slightly by time.
“She said the tree needed to ‘tell a story from the bottom up.’ The simplest ornaments went first, closer to the trunk. The most fragile ones… only later.”
He gestured toward the inner branches.
“‘If everything looks perfect right away,’ she used to say, ‘you lose patience too fast.’ So she made me separate everything first. Color by color. Weight by weight.”
Zatanna listened in silence, attentive.
“And you obeyed?”
“At first, no,” he replied with a soft laugh. “I wanted to hang everything at once. Then branches bent, things broke… and she’d just sigh.”
He wiped a small golden star.
“Later I understood that organizing wasn’t wasting time. It was caring.”
He paused.
“She always said the tree didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to stay standing until the end of Christmas.”
Zatanna tilted her head, absorbing every word.
“Your mother sounds wise.”
“She was,” he said naturally. No explicit pain. Just truth.
Roy climbed down the ladder with a long sigh and dropped the ribbons onto the couch.
“Okay, official break. My arms have officially retired from the arts.”
Dick appeared moments later, balancing several steaming mugs.
“Hot chocolate. Alfred’s recipe. Don’t question it. Just accept it.”
“I trust anything that comes out of his kitchen,” Zatanna said, taking one.
“The only flaw Alfred has,” Roy added, “is pretending none of this means anything to him.”
Mia raised her hand, wrapped in a blanket.
“I vote that nobody touches the tree anymore until I say it’s done.”
“You’re the Christmas architect now?” Dick teased.
“I am the supreme authority,” she replied, far too seriously to be joking.
The laughter came easily. Not loud. Not exaggerated. But real.
Midoriya watched the tree for a moment. Something was still missing at the top. He held a simple star—clear glass, no flashy details.
He didn’t lift it yet.
He just held it, as if understanding that some things shouldn’t be rushed.
> A house doesn’t begin to breathe when the lights turn on.
But when people learn how to move together inside it.
He placed the star back in the box, closed it carefully, and stood.
“I think my mom would approve of this mess,” he said with a quiet smile.
Zatanna returned it.
“Then we’re on the right path.”
From the doorway, Alfred watched in silence, hands folded in front of his apron. He said nothing. Just nodded, like someone witnessing something long-awaited.
The night deepened.
Mia, now settled into a cushion with a blanket over her legs, raised her hand.
“I vote you all tell how it was… going back to being heroes after everything. Like—really.”
They exchanged glances. It hadn’t been planned. But as always, it was Mia who managed to say the right thing—through innocence or courage.
Zatanna took a breath.
“I thought I’d lost my magic. But the truth is, I was just afraid to use it. When Rocket dragged me out of the house and we faced that guy with the cursed sword… I realized I could still cast spells. I just needed a reason to want to do it for someone.”
“It was like… relearning your purpose?” Midoriya asked.
She nodded.
“It was like remembering we’re not heroes because we have powers. But because we choose to use them, even after the pain.”
Dick took a sip of hot chocolate before speaking.
“I thought I couldn’t be Robin without Batman. That the name depended on him. But when I saw what all of you were going through, I realized he trained me to move forward. Being Robin was about what I did with what he left me. So… I put on the new suit, redesigned the colors. And came back.”
“With style,” Roy added.
“Thanks.”
“I ran,” Roy said bluntly. “Thought it was the only way. Buried everything. Weapons, name, will to live. Locked myself in bars and fights until Jade found me and forced me to remember who I was. Then… Mia happened. And, well, I think she saved me too.”
Mia smiled, pretending she wasn’t listening.
Then they all looked at Midoriya. He was still holding the star between his fingers. He stayed silent for a moment, then spoke calmly.
“I come from a world where being a hero was a profession. A system. There were rankings, contracts, sponsors… But there was also purpose. I gave everything to that world. Friends, blood, time. In the end, I defeated the greatest villain… and was thrown here. And here… there are no rankings. No recognition. Just responsibility.”
“You saved Metropolis twice in the last month,” Dick said. “That counts as recognition.”
“But that’s not what weighs on me,” Midoriya replied. “It’s that… I still don’t know if I’m what this world needs. I have too much power, and no real ties to anyone. I’m just trying to honor what I learned. Just trying not to lose who I was.”
Zatanna placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Then… you’re doing everything right.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was respectful. A space of understanding between people who had fallen—and who, in different ways, chose to rise.
Alfred appeared at the doorway, drying his hands on his apron.
“Ladies and gentlemen… the cheese bread dough has finished resting. If you’re ready, I can teach you how to shape it, as was done in the old Wayne family days.”
“Does shaping it with magic count?” Zatanna asked.
“Only if your hands are not covered in glitter,” Alfred replied, a faint curve to his lips.
Roy stood, lifting Mia effortlessly into his arms. Dick dimmed some of the magical lights. Zatanna spun lightly through the air.
Midoriya lingered a second longer, watching the tree. The star still wasn’t on top. But he held it. Not in haste. In care.
> A home doesn’t have to be where you came from.
Sometimes, it’s what you build with others.
He set the star aside with reverence and followed them into the kitchen.
The night was only beginning.
But for the first time since the world fell apart, it felt welcoming.
—