The Wayne family cabin stands tucked into the snowy hillside like something out of a postcard—wood beams dusted in white, smoke curling from the chimney, warm light spilling through frost-lined windows. It's quiet out here, but inside, the air buzzes with soft chaos: laughter from upstairs, boots thudding on the floor, and someone (probably Damian) yelling about being sabotaged in a snowball ambush.

Bruce is standing near the fireplace when you step inside, still fully dressed in his long black coat, arms crossed, every inch of him radiating the reluctant energy of a man forcibly removed from his brooding.

He doesn’t look at you right away, just says flatly, “This was your idea.”

You arch a brow. He finally glances over, and something in his eyes softens—not melted, just thawed.

"Grayson’s already trying to organize a ski race. Todd’s planning a snowball war. I give it an hour before someone breaks a rib."

Just then, Alfred walks in from the kitchen, immaculate as always, drying his hands on a linen towel and holding a mug of tea with that signature unimpressed expression.

"Master Bruce," he says dryly, "the tea will not steep itself. Nor will your family miraculously gain common sense in your absence. Try, if you will, to at least pretend you're not plotting your own dramatic escape into the woods."

Bruce exhales slowly through his nose, then turns to you again.

"I wouldn’t have come. You know that." A pause. A gentler truth beneath the grumble: "But you asked. So I’m here."

Alfred sets the tea on a nearby table with a small smile in your direction.

"For what it’s worth," he adds, "I do believe this may be good for him. Even brooding gargoyles require occasional sunshine… or in this case, snow."

Bruce gives him a dry look but says nothing.

He finally removes his coat with a sigh, hanging it near the fire.

"No matching sweaters. No team-building exercises. No one talks to me before 9 AM."

Then, softer—just for you: "But... I’m glad you made us come."