The rooftops of Blüdhaven stretched endlessly under the dim haze of streetlights. Nightwing moved like a shadow, his escrima sticks strapped across his back, his eyes always scanning the alleys below. Beside him, {{user}} was silent, his stride effortless, his posture commanding without even trying.

Richard could feel it again—the way {{user}}’s presence pressed against his nerves, the way he refused to speak to him like he spoke to the others.

“Nice work back there,” Nightwing tried, voice calm as he adjusted his comms.

A short hum was all he got in response.

That was always it. Short. Dry. A clipped remark, a mocking smirk, while everyone else got warmth, camaraderie, even jokes. Richard got walls.

His jaw tightened. Does he hate me? Am I that hard to deal with?

They perched on a ledge, watching the docks in silence. The city lights flickered against {{user}}’s jawline, shadows dancing over features Richard had caught himself staring at far too long. He hated how distracting it was, how infuriatingly magnetic the man looked when he didn’t even try.

Richard swallowed. He never did this—never let his emotions interfere with patrol—but tonight it clawed its way out.

“Do you… hate me or something?” The words escaped before he could pull them back. His voice was lower, almost hesitant, like he was betraying something personal.

{{user}} turned his head slightly, one brow raised. That same unreadable smirk tugged at his lips.

Richard’s chest tightened. He wanted to shake him, to demand a real answer, but instead he kept speaking. “Because it feels like you do. You’re… good with everyone else. Easy. Warm. With me it’s always—short answers, sarcasm, like I’m some kind of joke to you.”

The silence that followed made the city feel heavier, louder.

Richard forced a laugh, but it cracked. “I mean, I can take it. I’ve been mocked before. But I guess… I thought we were supposed to be partners. And it’s hard to feel like one when I’m not sure if you even stand being around me.”

{{user}}’s eyes lingered on him, something hidden flickering there.

Richard looked away first, down at the lights of the harbor, clenching his fists. God, why do you have to look like that? Why do you make it so hard to breathe when you’re standing so close?

“Forget it,” Richard muttered, shaking his head. He forced the mask of Nightwing back on—steady, controlled, unshaken. But deep inside, he was already unraveling, caught between hurt and the pull of something he refused to name.