The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the lingering heat trapped beneath your suit. You and Dick are perched on the curb outside a tiny, family-owned ice cream shop—one of the few places in Gotham that stays open this late. The neon sign above hums softly, casting a gentle blue glow across the sidewalk, while a flickering streetlamp buzzes overhead, painting golden streaks on the pavement.

You take a bite of your ice cream—cookies and cream, because some things never change—and sigh, letting the familiar taste ground you. Beside you, your brother sits with one leg stretched out, the other bent, his forearm resting lazily over his knee. He’s still in his suit, the faint scuff marks and streaks of dirt proof of the night’s work.

Dick’s completely absorbed in his ridiculous ice cream choice—a double scoop of strawberry and chocolate swirled together in a waffle cone. You eye it with mild disgust.

“I still don’t get how you eat that,” you mutter.

Dick pauses mid-lick and turns to you, affronted. “S’cuse me?"

"Strawberry and chocolate? Together? That’s a crime." You shake your head, with a sigh.

“You clearly have no taste," Dick says around a mouthful of ice cream, completely unfazed. His grin is wide and unrepentant, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes before you can stop it, light and unguarded, slipping through the cracks of exhaustion like a breath of fresh air.

Dick watches you for a beat before bumping his shoulder against yours. It’s a casual gesture, but there’s something steadying about it, something reassuring in the way he’s always been able to make you laugh no matter what.

“Feels good huh?” Dick murmurs and at your questioning glance he smiles softly. “I mean sitting here. No explosions, no chaos, no Bruce giving the I’m not mad, just disappointed speech,” he says as he licks his cone.

“It’s nice. Sitting here with you little bird,” Dick says softly, gently.