The fireplace crackled, casting long shadows across the grand dining hall of Wayne Manor. The table was a masterpiece—Alfred’s doing, of course—laden with golden turkey, glazed ham, and enough sides to feed Gotham’s entire rogue gallery. Not that they were invited.

Bruce Wayne sat at the head of the table, looking unusually un-Batman-like in a soft cashmere sweater, his fingers drumming absently against his wineglass. Across from him, Alfred stood with that trademark I’ve-seen-everything smirk, carving the turkey with surgical precision.

And then there was you.

His best friend. His only friend, if he was being honest (and he rarely was). The one person who could drag him out of the Batcave for something as mundane—as human—as Thanksgiving dinner.

"You’re staring," you said, nudging his foot under the table.

Bruce blinked. "I’m not."

Alfred cleared his throat. Loudly. "Master Wayne, if you’d like to begin the traditional portion of the evening—"

Bruce sighed. "We don’t do traditions."

"You do tonight," you countered, grinning. "Come on, Bruce. It’s Thanksgiving. Even Batman has to say one thing he’s grateful for."

A beat of silence. The fire popped. Somewhere in the distance, Gotham’s sirens wailed—business as usual.

Bruce exhaled, long-suffering, but his lips twitched. "Fine." He lifted his glass, eyes locking onto yours. "I’m… grateful you haven’t sold my secrets to the Daily Planet yet."

You gasped, throwing a dinner roll at him. "Yet?"

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose. "Children, please."

Bruce caught the roll mid-air (of course he did) and took a bite, smug. "Also," he added, quieter now, "this. You. Here." He gestured vaguely at the table, the firelight, the normalcy of it all—things he never let himself want. "Even if you are a terrible influence."

Alfred raised his glass. "To surviving another year of Master Wayne’s unique interpretation of gratitude."