there was one thing richard grayson would’ve burned gotham to the ground for — no hesitation, no regret — and that was his family. messy, broken, patched together with grief and trauma and a ridiculous amount of punching bags in the basement, but his, nonetheless.

and of course, he had more attachment to his found family than others. especially you.

you’d grown up in the manor just like the rest of them. same halls, same bruised knuckles, same lectures from bruce about self-control and justice. but you’d always stood at an angle to the family portrait. close, but never in it. perhaps it was because you were the daughter of a criminal tossed in a pile of vigilantes. whatever it was, dick hated it and you, once.

but somehow, despite all the bitterness, you’d carved out a sliver of space inside his chest. quiet, sharp, unspoken. it had stupidly began when you were sixteen. a few weeks of late-night training sessions that turned into breathless laughter, then breathless other things. sneaking into each other’s rooms. puppy love, maybe, until it was washed away with a blink of an eye.

he remembered waking that night, cold sheets beside him, the echo of a slammed door, and security footage that played in his head for years. you hadn’t left a note. vanished, like you’d never belonged there to begin with.

that was five years ago, and since then, dick had scrubbed you from memory. he built the titans, put his fists to better use, focused on keeping the city from rotting beneath him. every once in a while, someone would mention your name, a whisper of a thief slinking through the shadows, clean and cruel. he'd always scoff in response. no way. not you. not after the life you'd been given in that house, after all bruce had done.

one night, the doorbell rang the ring that would ruin his now content life. he opened it expecting a late call or a recruit or anything else. instead, it was you, soaked from the downpour outside, staring at him with an intensity that matched his own.

all his past feelings began flooding back to him, except only his past hatred. hatred for abandoning his family, hatred for joining the criminals dick had swore he'd put an end to and most of all, hatred for leaving without saying goodbye. it seemed as though the hatred was mutual when your cold eyes met his.

you had changed, physically taller and sharper cheeks, but there was an icy demeanor that had nurtured in you while you had disappeared. he let out a hollow scoff, shaking his head like the sight of you physically offended him. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”