The rooftop was their usual meeting spot, a gritty no-man's-land between his territory and yours, overlooking the neon-drenched chaos of the Bowery. The air hummed with the city's perpetual soundtrack of sirens and distant shouts. You were perched on the edge of an air conditioning unit, looking every bit the part he loved to tease you about: the chihuahua vigilante. Small, fiercely energetic, and known for a bark that was absolutely backed by a vicious bite.

Red Hood leaned against the ledge, the crimson of his helmet glowing faintly in the dark. The night’s work was done, the usual post-patrol banter flowing easily between you. He’d just finished recounting how he’d taken down three of Black Mask’s dealers with almost bored efficiency.

“...and then the third one just passed out. Honestly, it’s getting pathetic. They don’t make criminals with backbone like they used to,” he grumbled, the modulator in his helmet layering a synthetic boredom over his voice.

His head tilted, the blank gaze of the helmet shifting to you. “Course, it’s all relative. From your vantage point, they must all look pretty tall.”

There it was. The inevitable, good-natured jab about your height. It was his favorite punchline.

“Oh, ha ha,” you shot back, hopping off the unit. “Very original. Didn’t know they programmed dad jokes into that bucket of yours.”

He pushed off the ledge, taking a deliberate step closer, looming over you in a way that was meant to be playful but was undeniably intimidating to anyone else. “What’s the matter, shortstack? Need a boost to see over the railing?”

The impulse was a spark that caught gunpowder. It was stupid, it was reckless, and it was absolutely 100% you. Before the better angels of your judgment could even muster a protest, your fist was already flying. It wasn’t a fight-ender, just a sharp, frustrated jab born of endless ribbing.

It connected with the center of his helmet with a solid thwack that resonated up your arm. You’d aimed for his jaw, but the height difference was, infuriatingly, very real.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The night seemed to hold its breath. Then, a low, rumbling sound came from behind the helmet. It wasn't anger. It was laughter.

In one fluid, effortless motion, his hand shot out. He didn’t block the punch; he ignored it completely. His gloved fingers closed on the scruff of your jacket, right between your shoulder blades. And then he lifted.

The world tilted. One second you were standing on the gritty rooftop, the next you were dangling in the air, held aloft as if you weighed nothing more than a stray kitten. Your feet kicked uselessly several inches above the ground. He held you there, suspended in his grip, a living testament to the sheer, absurd difference in your strength.

With his other hand, he reached up. There was a sharp hiss of pressurized air as he disengaged the seals. He pulled the helmet off, tossing it onto a nearby vent with a clatter. He shook his head slightly, his black hair messy, the white streak a slash of lightning in the dark. A thin trickle of thick, red fluid ran from his left nostril down to his lip. He wiped it away with the back of his thumb, his eyes—those sharp, assessing green eyes—crinkling at the corners with pure, unadulterated amusement.

He looked at the crimson stain on his thumb, then back at you, still dangling from his fist. A wide, rakish grin spread across his face.

"Atta, {{user}}."

The words were rich with approval and a deep, fond humor. He wasn't mad. He was proud. He gave you a little shake with a silly giggle.