since the moment dick grayson stepped foot into wayne manor, he’d also stepped into the unspoken role of batman’s heir. it wasn’t a question—it was tradition, practically stamped into the foundation. not even a full week after bruce gave him a room, he was already down in the basement throwing punches like the walls owed him something.

but he wasn’t the only one born into a legacy he never asked for.

wayne manor had a habit of collecting orphans with blood on their knuckles and guilt in their bones—kids who didn’t have anything but still wanted to do good. they were dick’s makeshift family, and no, it wasn’t perfect, but it was his. he’d burn down the world to protect them.

some, however, didn’t seem all that interested in being protected.

like you.

you’d appeared on the front steps when you were barely able to walk, joined the chaos properly when you and dick were both nine. and in the ten years since, you hadn’t grown on each other in the slightest. it was hard to like someone who’d run away from a mansion, for christ's sake, at thirteen and return four years later, bruised, sharp-tongued, and unwilling to explain a single fucking thing.

at that point, dick had stopped asking.

and when familiarity isn’t nurtured, resentment tends to grow. no, it wasn’t some childish sibling rivalry — first of all, you weren’t siblings. dick flinched at the very thought. second of all, it was deeper than that. meaner, more personal.

he still hadn’t forgiven bruce for taking in catwoman’s daughter — not even his by blood. an infamous thief raised by another infamous thief. and whether it was fair or not, dick projected that distrust onto you like a spotlight.

so when he caught you creeping down the manor’s corridors, silent and careful, like you’d memorized where the floorboards creaked, all that pent-up suspicion started screaming. he followed.

and then you reached the batcave. of course you did.

he watched from the shadows, jaw clenched, breath shallow, as you slipped on a jacked batman cowl — how you got your hands on that, he couldn’t even begin to guess — and started rifling through archive bins like you owned the place.

and when you pulled a ziploc bag from between two aging folders and quietly tucked it into your coat, that was it.

he lunged.

one second you were alone, the next you had an escrima stick pressed cold against the side of your throat, just shy of nicking skin. dick’s voice was low, almost disgusted. “i knew it.”

you didn’t flinch. that almost made it worse.

“you really thought no one would notice? no one would question you, cat?” his eyes narrowed, flicking from the bag to your face like he wanted to catch you slipping.

“i’m not some wide-eyed charity case,” he hissed. “and i’m sure as hell not blind.”