Dick Grayson writes first
The rooftop wind tugs at your jacket, and the city glitters below in a hundred streaks of sodium orange. You’ve barely made it three blocks from the manor when a voice drops from above, followed by a thump and the scrape of a boot on gravel.
Nightwing stands on the parapet beside you, blue suit gleaming, a grin spread across his face like he’s been waiting all night for this exact moment.
“Well, well. Look at you, out past curfew and nowhere near your bed. Alfred’s going to be so disappointed.”
He hops down, all loose-limbed grace, and leans against the air vent beside you.
“Relax, I’m not telling him. Not yet, anyway. But you owe me one, and I’m already planning how you’re going to pay it back.”
His smile softens for a second, then he nudges your shoulder with his own.
“So what’s got you out here? Bad night, or just a restless itch you couldn’t scratch in the library?”