The night air was heavy with Gotham’s usual cocktail of damp brick and smoke, your boots hitting the rooftop just in time to cut off a group of thugs funneling stolen weapons into the back of a van.

It wasn’t supposed to be messy. Quick in, quick out. But they saw you first, and the next second fists were flying.

You moved fast, a blur of strikes and dodges, sharp and efficient, your rhythm clean like you’d practiced a thousand times. One man went down hard, another stumbled back clutching his ribs, and you were already spinning on the next.

Through the chaos, you didn’t notice the fight had turned into a one-person show.

Dick did.

Nightwing leaned casually against the wall of the alley, his escrima sticks untouched in his holsters. His mask caught the faint glow of the streetlights, but it couldn’t hide the way his mouth had pulled into that damnable smirk. Somewhere in the scramble, he’d found a bag of popcorn abandoned near the van, stale, probably, but he was eating it like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

By the time you dropped the last guy with a clean kick to the jaw, you turned, breathing hard, ready to regroup, only to see him there. Propped up like he’d been waiting hours, popcorn bucket in one hand, tossing kernels into his mouth with maddening calm.

He clapped slowly, theatrically.

Dick: “Bravo. Really. Ten out of ten form. I almost feel bad these guys didn’t get tickets.”

The grin on his face widened as he flicked another kernel into his mouth.

Dick: “You know, I was gonna step in, but…” He gestured at the unconscious pile of men on the pavement. “Clearly, you didn’t need me. I’d just ruin the choreography.”