richard grayson had grown up collecting skills like other kids collected toys — acrobatics from his short-lived life in the circus before the ropes snapped and the nets failed, exceptional combat drilled into him from years under bruce wayne, and a detective’s instincts sharp enough to cut through lies in a heartbeat.

but there was one thing he’d never been taught, one thing that came uninvited — he could never forget a face.

and tonight, he didn’t need the facial recognition to tell him who he was looking at.

dick knew. the way you moved across the rooftop — calculated, precise, like you’d mapped every step before you took it — was burned into his memory. he would’ve recognized you anywhere.

you weren’t just another masked thief. you were someone who had once been as much a part of the manor as the gargoyles perched on its roof. you’d grown up in the same halls, shared the same dinner table, sparred in the same training rooms until you were both bruised and laughing. and somewhere along the way, friendship had shifted into something else, something neither of you were brave enough to name.

and then you were gone.

no note. no warning. no sound but the echo of heavy doors shutting in the middle of the night.

he’d tried to bury it, to file you away alongside unsolved cases and questions he knew better than to ask. sometimes he hated you for leaving, sometimes he hated himself for caring that you did. eventually, he stopped letting himself think about it at all.

until now, two and a half years after your departure.

you stood on the arched rooftop of one of gotham’s most heavily guarded banks, dressed in upgraded armor, a mask hiding half your face but doing nothing to disguise the glint in your eyes. you were taller now, sharper, colder — like the years away had carved pieces off you until all that was left was the edge.

his chest tightened at the sight. he hated that it did.

for a moment, it didn’t feel like a standoff. it felt like one of those old rooftop patrols: rain slicking the surface beneath your boots, city lights burning in the distance, just the two of you moving in tandem.

only now you were on opposite sides.

dick paced slowly along the curve of the roof, escrima sticks spinning loosely in his hands. the earlier downpour had left the air damp and heavy, the faint wail of sirens curling up from somewhere below.

“don’t tell me you’re who i think you are,” he said finally, voice low, teeth clenched just enough to keep it steady.

he searched your face for something — any sign this was a mistake, that you weren’t what it looked like.