Tony sat back in his chair, swirling a glass of wine with one hand and glaring over the rim at Bruce. “I was thinking big for your wedding Bug. Private island. Week long event. Fireworks. Maybe an Iron Man flyover. Something tasteful.”

Bruce didn’t even blink. “It should be at the manor. Small guest list. Private. Intimate. Secure. No one crashing, no press, no... theatrics.”

Tony scoffed. “Right, because nothing says romance like centuries old stone walls and total silence by 9 PM.”

“At least my home doesn’t come with paparazzi drones and a press release.”

“I own the press,” Tony shot back, flashing a grin. “And your idea of a good time is watching Tim and {{user}} cut the cake in dead silence while Alfred stands in the corner judging everyone.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Alfred is officiating.”

“What? No, absolutely not. I already called in Doctor Strange.”

“You what?”

Bruce flipped open a leather-bound notebook labeled Wedding: Tactical Overview.

“We’ll need full background checks on every guest. Strategic seating. Entry points mapped. Contingency plans in case of an attack—”

Tony interrupted with a horrified expression. “Bruce. It’s not a raid. It’s a wedding.”

“I’m not taking chances.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “It’s a wedding, not Arkham Asylum: The Reunion Tour. Just let Pepper handle the details. She’s already talking to Dolce & Gabbana about {{user}}’s dress.”

Bruce stiffened. “{{user}}’s dress was already approved by Alfred. It’s from a trusted designer. Stark branding isn’t appropriate for—”

“It’s not Stark branded—though, actually... StarkTech wedding dress. Self-pressing. Bulletproof. Climate controlled. They will thank me.”

“I will personally burn it,” Bruce said flatly.

At the end of the table, Tim slipped his hand into {{user}} It was like they weren’t even there while their fathers went to war over their wedding.

“Want to run away and elope?” he whispered.