Chapter Text
“I can feel you staring.”
The ensuing snicker, in Roy’s opinion, was hard to muffle. Slade had been baking for a good half hour, and Jason had steadily lost interest in Survivor as he’d shot increasingly anxious glares at the alpha dominating his kitchen. Roy could actually track the decline in attention by the dwindling number of complaints Jason made about the survival tactics employed by the cast on the show.
Watching that was actually more entertaining than the dumb “reality” television itself most days, but this time, Jay was antsy. They all were. Roy was leaving for Star the next day to check on his pup, Deathstroke had been sighted in Batman’s territory on patrol, and Jason had been attempting, diligently, to keep the peace.
Some dealt with their stress by way of learning to bake or watching brainrot TV. Some, more obviously, liked to criticize everyone else.
“If you have something to say,” Slade rumbled patiently, almost sarcastically calm as he ran his finger down the recipe in a cookbook. “Then say it.”
Jason released a frustrated snarl. “You’re using the baking soda wrong.”
“Really? Interesting. And here I was debating on whether to leave it out entirely.”
A single snort escaped Roy’s throat as Jason lunged to his feet, enraged. The older omega pulled his phone out--- Better safe than sorry--- and started to record. Y’know, for posterity. And also to prove to anyone else that Slade Wilson did actually possess a soft side if they happened to ask.
“Soft” being a relative turn.
This was not, as it turned out, a wasted opportunity. Jason somehow managed to shove Slade aside on his quest to save the not-quite-cake, but in the process, Slade’s planted hand slipped on butter, smearing the counter with yellow goo and flailing to keep his balance and knocking over the bowl of dry ingredients in the process. Jason performed a fantastic combination of twisting almost-catches, bumping the bowl back into the air like a volleyball player, before ultimately dropping it.
Then Oliver Queen’s contact photo popped up on the screen.
Roy slid right, slapping the device to his ear. His heartbeat had already exploded into action behind his ribs, sprinting to conclusions he didn’t dare make. “When?”
“Fifteen minutes ago. She went to the bathroom; we didn’t---”
Roy was moving before Oliver had finished. Over the couch, into the bedroom, skid, grab, run. He didn’t bother suiting up. He slung on his go bag, grabbed his quiver, and shoved his feet into red armored boots. He transferred the call to a com as he went, twisting the earpiece into his right ear. He couldn’t think. Questions--- He needed to ask questions. He didn’t know where to go. “Where?”
“Star Central. Dinah went in with her; she turned her back for one SECOND, Roy---”
Roy growled as he tugged the door open. He could feel Jason behind him; Jason who knew, Jason who didn’t need details, Jason who had dropped everything to grab his weapons the second Roy had vaulted from the couch. “Who?”
“I don’t know; we’re suiting up now. She has a tracker in her jacket. Unless they ditch that for some reason, they won’t get very far. We’ll find her.”
Roy slapped his hand on the railing of the stairwell, stopping himself before smashing straight out of the window at the end of the hallway, and vaulted. He reached his hand up when he heard the whizzzzzz of a grapple; a familiar grip wrapped around his wrist, holding tight as the line slowed their descent. Four stories later, Roy hit the ground running. He could still feel Jason two steps behind him. Bike, bike, where was the bike? Garage--- stairs--- open. Open FASTER.
Their alpha appeared in the doorway half covered in flour. “What are you two doing?”
Roy backed out, barely listening. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t--- he couldn’t. “They took her.”
Slade’s eyebrow raised. “So you do have a pup.”
“Go,” Jason said sharply, shoving his helmet on. The modulator twisted his voice into something deadlier. Something as unforgiving as a monstrous icicle about to pierce the frozen pond below. “If he wants to help so bad, he can catch up.”
“Fill me in, pup,” Slade growled as he disappeared again. His voice buzzed to life over Roy’s com. “Quickly.”
Roy stayed quiet, focused now on getting out of traffic, weaving, filtering, and zooming away toward the open highways. Then he was home free, agonizing sluggishness putting on a burst of speed to get the fuck out of the city. Buildings fell away on either side. Jason’s voice hummed steadily in his ear, giving update after update with only the barest of information. The only information they had.
Someone had taken Lian Harper. Someone had snuck past two Justice Leaguers, stolen a little girl in broad daylight, and disappeared. Someone who had left no apparent trace.
Roy ground his teeth together, his boot to the harsh metal of his bike, his hands to the wearing grips. Every gust of wind tore through his jacket with a groundless ferocity as his speed threatened to tear him from his ride. The breathless anticipation, the springing step that waited, poised, just before the hunt.
The joke was on them. Arsenal had made a living doing this shit, and he had never… ever… lost track of a target.
Slade’s voice filtered smoothly back into Roy’s ear. “I know a guy.”
“Quiet.”
Arsenal almost snarled. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were breathing. On my mark.”
He drew an arrow aaaaaaall the way back, taking a deep breath. Hood was hovering on his right, watching Arsenal’s back as he aimed to hold backup, and Deathstroke was about to make a move through the building’s front. While Arrow chased the most obvious possible trail with no actual clues, the Wilson team were on track to make a house call.
Anything for a fucking lead.
“Claud,” Deathstroke’s voice rumbled. “Don’t get up. I want Ursa.”
Arsenal’s fingers tightened around the curve of his bow. He could feel the texture perfectly under his fingers; the places that had blocked hard blows from swords or daggers, the places he’d tried to buff out that were no longer completely smooth. He kept the arrow aimed unerringly at the window, the window through which he could not see. He had no line of sight on this situation. The com in his ear--- and the bonds thrumming with high, tense energy in his head--- were his only cues.
“A score,” Deathstroke demanded now, a hint of boredom in his tone as he presumably answered a question. “The younger side. Someone took her before I could get there. I have rules, Claud. No one interferes with a bounty hunter bound by contract. The hunt is a sacred thing, and someone has defied my holy place. Give me Ursa.”
Arsenal’s lips pulled back in an automatic snarl. Deathstroke sounded so fucking casual about this, like he wasn’t talking about his packmate’s daughter. Like he wasn’t talking about an innocent little girl. Like he really didn’t care.
“Let him work,” Hood muttered quietly, crouching under Arsenal’s drawn arrow to get a better look. “Manipulation, strategy, blackmail--- These are his professional skillsets. If anyone can get us a lead…”
Arsenal growled low in his throat, an animalistic noise that he wouldn’t have been able to make in his right mind, and snapped the arrow loose. He slid it back into his quiver, pulling a different one, and fired at the wall of the building. The arrow flew like a snowy owl, cutting effortlessly through the air before lodging with a soft tink in the brick. Arsenal tested it before sliding down.
“Arsenal,” Hood hissed over the com. “Ar--- agh, fuck it.”
Arsenal drew a lethal arrow, the kind that came with a barbed head attached, and crept through the shadows around the building. He could feel himself slipping into it--- The narrow sight, the pure, unwavering courage that came with going feral. The enhanced night vision and scent and auditory functions. The sensation of every little texture crawling across his skin.
He was more dangerous this way. All for what? He hadn’t even been able to protect his own daughter.
“I don’t do excuses,” Deathstroke’s voice reverberated. His tone shifted down down down, settling uncomfortably in Arsenal’s gut, even through the com. The growl was so deep that he wasn’t sure he heard it at all. He would have, though, if he were Claud. He could smell the fear from outside.
Deathstroke hadn’t even touched him.
Arsenal slid to a stop next to the back door, shooting out the light with his wrist crossbow before pressing himself to the wall, making room for Hood. Brute force was perfectly effective, but the former Robin could pick a lock like his life depended on it. Sometimes… it had.
He made quick work of the door, kicking it in as soon as the deadbolt was unlocked. Arsenal took point, running in through the dim hallway to clear one, two, five rooms. Nothing. Some of the lights flickered, dimming, and the hair on his arms stood up. Something wasn’t right.
They were not the only people here.
“My patience wears very thin,” Deathstroke rumbled in Arsenal’s bones somewhere, somewhere beyond his hearing, somewhere deep enough to pull out the fear and twist it free and bring it to bear like a t-shirt puled taut, a snarl full of pointy teeth in his face.
It tasted like prey terror on the back of his tongue.
“I hear something,” Hood suddenly hissed, dashing right. Arsenal’s first instinct pulled him as hard as he’d ever had to resist after his packmate’s back, but he managed to wrench himself away. Whoever Hood was beating to the punch would be on the run. Arsenal could go back around, cut them off. It always worked this way, the two of them, the tactics everyone seemed to expect after the fact when they reflected on how they’d been caught. The alpha on the hunt, the ferocious predator with claws unsheathed took advantage of their fear to flush them out. Arsenal waited patiently, a hunter in his own right, for something to wander across his sight. All he needed was for the prey to abandon their hiding places.
Maybe they weren’t that different from the fucking bounty hunter after all.
Arsenal skidded to a stop around the building’s east side, three arrows already nocked. He pulled as far back as he would, shoulder blades brushing against each other, and breathed out. The door would fly open any second now. Any second now. Any… second…
“Fuck,” Hood suddenly exclaimed. “Get---”
Arsenal lowered his bow, stepping out of the shadows to get a better look. The door wasn’t--- It wasn’t opening. “Hood?”
“I have a lead,” Deathstroke bit out, back to his normal grating tone. “Where are you? Why is his bond shut out?”
“Hood, we found---” Arsenal’s blood ran cold as his brother’s pack bond suddenly went dark. His own heart froze behind his ribs for five agonizing seconds. Long enough for him to remember what a broken bond really felt like. Long enough for him to anchor himself. Long enough for whatever had happened… to be done.
He kicked down the door, aiming shiny steel ready to sheer through bone down a long hallway. The lights flickered. Nothing.
“Well?” Deathstroke growled urgently. “Hood, where is he? Which bastard knocked him out?”
“I…” Arsenal lowered his bow, breathing hard. He couldn’t smell anything now. Nothing but his own unadulterated fear. “I was too slow. They took him; he’s gone.”