The city breathed beneath you.

Steam curled from grates like sighs. Sirens howled in the distance, never close, never far. The glow of a thousand apartment windows cast a patchwork of amber and white across the sleeping streets, like the city was watching you right back.

You crouched on the edge of the rooftop, boots planted firm on old stone, fingers tapping out a quiet rhythm on your thigh. Patrol was supposed to be quiet tonight, just recon. But Gotham never did quiet for long.

Roy shifted beside you, a barely-there sound of leather brushing against concrete as he adjusted his quiver.

“Dead out tonight,” he murmured, voice low enough not to carry. “Either we’re early, or the bastards are late.”

You didn’t answer right away. Eyes scanned the streets. A couple arguing at the corner of 5th. A cab slowing at the light, too long. A flicker of movement—no, just a cat.

“You get this bored often?” You asked dryly. He chuckled. “Only when I’m not being shot at.”

There was a beat. Just wind and rooftop silence.

Then, “...You always this tense on patrol, or is it just me?”

You glanced over. He was half-leaning against the rooftop vent now, bow slung across his chest, a smirk playing lazy at his lips. He looked too casual for someone carrying enough weaponry to start a minor revolution.

“I don’t relax around people I don’t know,” you replied flatly.

“‘Don’t know'? C’mon.” He gestured between you with a half-rolled shrug. “We’ve bled on the same rooftops twice now. That’s at least ‘coworker’ level!"

You huffed. “Coworker doesn’t mean friend.”

“No,” he said. “But it could mean ‘less tense silence.’” You didn’t respond immediately.

Roy let the quiet stretch. He didn’t push, didn’t press. And that—somehow—was worse. It felt like he knew something you didn’t.

The radio buzzed softly in your earpiece. Roy stretched, arms over his head, spine cracking in protest. “Guess we’re heading south. You riding rooftop, or wanna take the alleys?”