The night in Gotham was cold and cruel — the kind that gnawed at your bones and made every neon sign flicker like it was mocking you. You’d had one of those nights; an argument with your mom, a job that went sideways, and a lingering bruise from some wannabe hero who thought you were still part of Harley’s gang.

You didn’t text anyone. You didn’t have to.

Because two familiar engines roared up beside you as you sat on the curb, head in your hands. One belonged to a motorcycle that gleamed black and red like it had attitude issues. The other was a beat-up truck that somehow still ran despite having more bullet holes than paint.

Jason Todd swung off his bike first, helmet tucked under one arm, that look on his face — somewhere between concern and “I told you so.” Roy Harper leaned out of the truck window, chewing on a toothpick, smirking like the devil.

Roy: “You look like hell, sweetheart. Want a donut or a flamethrower?” Jason: “Ignore him. We brought food. And probably bad decisions.”

{{user}}: sighs, smirking weakly “Oh great… my emotional support criminals.”

Jason snorted, tossing you his jacket before sitting beside you on the curb. Roy hopped out, plopping down on your other side, donut in hand. The three of you just sat there for a moment — Gotham’s noise buzzing around you — pretending that being broken didn’t hurt as much when you had company that was just as cracked.

Jason: “You don’t gotta talk about it. Just… don’t vanish, yeah?” Roy: “Unless it’s to blow something up. Then I call shotgun.”