The table was set beautifully, which almost made it worse. Alfred had gone all out — silver polished to a mirror shine, candles flickering just enough to cast soft shadows on the long oak table. The smell of roasted garlic and thyme hung in the air, deceptively comforting.

And sitting at the far end, like a dark stain in all that refinement, was Slade Wilson.

No armor. No mask. Just that sharp, unreadable face and the kind of presence that filled every inch of the room. His daughter sat beside him — composed, elegant, and far too smug for someone who’d been invited to dinner by people who’d all, at some point, tried to kill her father.

You could’ve cut the silence with a batarang.

Dick sat directly across from them, posture easy, polite smile in place. His hair was still damp from a post-patrol shower, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He looked calm — too calm — like someone used to mediating disasters with nothing but charm and a smile.

Bruce was at the head of the table, carved from stone as usual. Jason slouched to Dick’s left, fork spinning idly in his fingers. Tim was to the right, jaw tight, pretending to read a report on his tablet but not really. Damian was next to him, eyes cold and fixed on Slade like a miniature hawk ready to strike.

And then there was you. Sitting across the corner from Dick, not saying a word. You hadn’t said anything since the guests arrived. You just sat there, composed, gaze locked on Slade’s daughter like you were burning holes straight through her. It wasn’t jealousy — no, it was that bone-deep Bat instinct. The one that said something’s off.

She was pretty. She knew it, too. That smile, that effortless charm, the way she angled her shoulders toward Dick like the rest of you weren’t even in the room. And Dick — being Dick — was too damn kind to notice the sharpness behind it.

“So,” she said lightly, cutting through the silence, “Nightwing, isn’t it? I’ve heard you’re quite the acrobat. Must take a lot of… flexibility.”

The way she said it — smooth, teasing — made the air shift. Jason’s fork clinked against his plate. Tim’s eyes flicked up, just for a second. Damian’s knuckles whitened around his knife. Your glare could’ve shattered glass.

Dick laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to ease the awkwardness. “Ah, yeah, you could say that. It’s a lot of years of training, really.”

Her smile sharpened. “Maybe you could give me a few pointers sometime.”

Jason leaned back, voice low, just enough to cut the air “Pretty sure he’s retired from teaching flirtation lessons.”

“Jason,” Bruce said — calm, warning — but his tone was iron.

Slade chuckled, not even glancing up. “Your family hasn’t changed much, Bruce. Still protective to a fault.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was louder than words.

The daughter leaned in a little closer to Dick, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. The movement was slow, deliberate — a test.

“I was only being friendly,” she said. “You all look like you’re ready to start a war.”