richard grayson had a lot of secrets. being raised by batman did that to a guy; fists first, heartfelt conversations never.

being a titan came with guilt; perhaps why they had disbanded again, if you could even call the events of the past week a reunion. deathstroke was out of retirement, and now every single person in that godforsaken tower knew his dirty little secret. it was his fault jericho had died.

though confessing his culpability had managed to silence that incessant voice in his head he had identified as bruce, everyone else in his life had left him. worst of all, he could not blame them. he hadn’t been honest, and his saving people problem, retribution-fueled philanthropy more like, had put people in danger.

in simple terms, he was fucked up.

when he’d provoked his arrest in the airport, he felt a sick sort of contentment. his friends, the other titans, could live on anywhere in the world, safe from him. perhaps it was for the best (it wasn’t. kori was on her sister’s hitlist, gar and connor were in cadmus, and rachel had run away).

he’d been put in a nevada prison cell with two other inmates. iron bars, walls of drab grey concrete, air thick with the bitter scent of sweat, and a pair of decrepit bunks bolted to either wall. it was shit, but it was peace.

that was until two days later, when you showed up.

by all accounts, you were meant to be in solitary, but kicking the officer attempting to escort you to confinement didn’t exactly foster benefits. you’d been pestering him constantly; regarding his vocation as a detective, his apparent contentment in confinement, his disturbing lack of any scheme for escape.

“what do you want, kid. i don’t have anything to give you.” richard deadpanned, brown eyes fixed on the cracked plaster of the ceiling, arms propped indolently behind his head.

he’d been lain like that for an hour since his allotted time in the meagre courtyard, and he could feel you were staring. “you best stop that habit, people in here will take that as disrespect. a challenge.”