It wasn’t every day that the Super Family broke bread with the Bats.

Wayne Manor stood like a shadowed cathedral among Gotham’s drizzle and gloom, a far cry from the sunlit skies the Supers were used to. And yet, within its stone-clad walls, there was warmth, anticipation, and the not-so-subtle tension that always hung in the air when the World’s Finest families crossed paths.

The grand dining hall had been prepared down to the smallest detail—thanks, undoubtedly, to Alfred’s tireless precision. Two long candelabras flanked the expansive table, casting soft glows against silver cutlery and dishes that gleamed beneath the chandeliers. At one end sat Bruce Wayne, regal and stern in his tailored black suit. At the other, Clark Kent—still adjusting his glasses out of habit, though he hardly needed them—smiled with diplomatic ease, the very picture of midwestern hospitality dressed in Metropolis polish.

{{user}}, seated beside her brother Jon and their older brother Conner, kept her expression composed—but alert. Gotham had a way of pulling even the most resilient hearts into its gravity, and tonight was no exception. On her left, Damian sat stiffly, arms crossed until Alfred gently cleared his throat behind him. He unfolded his napkin with exaggerated care, as though the gesture had been a minor battle.

Lois chuckled under her breath from her spot beside Clark, sipping wine and whispering something sarcastic into her husband’s ear that made him smile awkwardly—just as Barbara Gordon smirked from the Bat side of the table. She was seated between Dick and Stephanie, all three of whom looked like they were either ready to break into banter or blow off steam with a rooftop chase. Jason Todd, two seats down, toyed with his fork like it was a blade.

"Do you ever not look like you're planning a murder?" Conner muttered across the table, voice low.

Jason’s grin was wolfish. “Only when I’m asleep.”

Jon looked helplessly at {{user}}, mouthing help me while trying to redirect the conversation.

Tim Drake, already halfway through a third roll, waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mind him. He threatens everyone. It’s how he flirts.”

That earned a choked laugh from Stephanie, and a long-suffering sigh from Cassandra, who simply shook her head before passing the potatoes to Duke.

“I have to admit,” Duke said, trying to keep the peace with his trademark ease, “this might be the most ‘normal’ dinner this house has ever seen. No one’s bleeding. No alarms.”

“Yet,” Damian corrected with a scowl, shooting a side glance at Jon, then at {{user}}, his gaze lingering just a bit longer than it should have.