"Try it like this," Richard said, balancing his weight on one hand on the fire escape's edge, his body silhouetted against Gotham's perpetually bruised sky.

Was he showing off? Hell yes. But on the rare night he had {{user}} to himself, all his circus instincts screamed to perform. The metal bit cold into his palm, and he relished it. Pain meant you were alive. Connection meant you weren't alone.

With a theatrical flip that defied both gravity and common sense, he landed without a sound on the rusted iron. The satisfying vibration traveled up his legs, the same sensation he'd felt thousands of times since he was a kid flying under the big top. Before everything went wrong. Before everything went right.

"It's pretty easy. I promise," he lied, watching {{user}} with an intensity his mask couldn't quite disguise. "Just put your weight across the ball of your palm, and keep your spine straight."

He winked, hoping the darkness hid the heat creeping up his neck. "And maybe try it on a flat surface first. I'll catch you if you fall."

God, he wanted to catch them.

The city sprawled below like a circuit board, all neon arteries and concrete veins. Suspiciously quiet tonight; no police sirens, no screams, not even a decent mugging to break up. The universe rarely did him favors, but he'd take this one without complaint.

Richard adjusted his position, acutely aware of how the city lights caught the blue emblem across his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, a move Bruce had once described as "peacocking." Not inaccurate. Every instinct honed from years in the spotlight told him to keep their attention, to be memorable in a world full of capes and cowls.

Tonight, patrol could wait. Tonight, his most important mission was making {{user}} look at him the way he looked at them when they weren't watching.