Gotham always looked prettier from above. Not cleaner. Never that.

The city was still rotten down to the bone, all wet asphalt, neon signs bleeding color into puddles, sirens screaming somewhere far below like the whole damn place had been born in pain and never learned how to stop. But from the rooftops, with the wind dragging smoke sideways from the cigarette between Jason’s fingers, Gotham almost knew how to lie.

Almost.

Jason sat on the ledge of an old brick building, one boot planted against the stone, the other hanging over open air like gravity was something he’d personally offended. His red helmet rested beside him, scratched and scuffed from tonight’s work. There was blood on his knuckles. Not much. Enough.

He took another drag, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the street below.

“You know,” he said without turning around, voice low and rough from smoke and exhaustion, “most people with common sense don’t sneak up on armed men on rooftops.”

A pause. Then his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.

“Lucky for you, I already knew it was you.”

Jason finally glanced over his shoulder, and there you were. Of course you were.

Standing in the rooftop doorway like you belonged there. Like Gotham’s cold couldn’t touch you. Like the sight of him sitting too close to the edge with bruised hands and blood on his sleeve didn’t bother you, even though he knew it did. He could always tell. You had tells. Tiny ones. The little pull between your brows. The way your eyes dropped to his hands before snapping back to his face.

He hated that you worried. He hated more that some sick, selfish part of him liked it.

Jason looked away first, flicking ash into the wind.

“You here to lecture me?” he asked. “Because I gotta warn you, I’m in a real bad mood for inspirational speeches.”

But he didn’t tell you to leave.

He never did.

Instead, he shifted slightly, making room beside him on the ledge like it was nothing. Like that tiny gesture didn’t mean more than any apology he’d ever managed to choke out.

The wind cut between you both, cold enough to bite.

Jason exhaled smoke through his nose and stared out at the city again.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, quieter this time.

There was something buried under the words. Recognition, maybe. A kind of tired understanding only someone like him could offer. Jason knew what it was like to be haunted by quiet rooms. By memories that got louder when the world stopped moving.

His fingers tightened around the cigarette.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me neither.”

For a while, he said nothing.

Then, without looking at you, Jason held out his cigarette like an offering, his voice softer than it had any right to be.

“Sit down before you make me nervous.”

Another pause.

“And don’t stand too close to the edge.”