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1
Tim will admit that this mission has gotten a tad out of hand.
Not that he doesn't have this under control, because he totally does. There might be a few (ton) more assailants than he was expecting, and his own side's backup might be further out than is necessarily good, but it's...fine. They can figure a way out of this, he's sure of it. Extremely sure. At least, like, 90% sure.
He sees Nightwing's second escrima stick get knocked out of his hand, Dick barely twisting away in time to avoid a broken wrist, and lowers that estimate to 80%.
Maybe 75%.
"What the hell do we do next?" Spoiler shouts, head ducking to avoid the latest spray of gunfire. Jesus, these guys are well-outfitted. Their intel was apparently insanely out of date, and Tim's kicking himself because this was his op, his command, one of the first times he actually got to lead a mission instead of just being a player, and it's falling to pieces before he even got a chance to truly start. If he gets out of this alive, Bruce is going to tear him a new one.
Tim looks around desperately for something, anything that will give him an idea. But he's out of batarangs and Dick's been disarmed and Spoiler's much the same and none of them can get close enough for a good ol' fashioned brawl because the guys with guns are just fucking everywhere. None of them have long range weapons on them to even the playing field. None of them have anything that would give them a moment to regroup.
Nightwing ducks behind a crate, teeth visibly gritted as he just barely avoids getting shot. Shot again, Tim realizes, seeing the blood trailing down his brother's arm. He watches Dick hastily wrap a makeshift tourniquet above the wound, pulling it tight. That is...a lot of blood. Fuck, how did Tim get them into this mess?
His brother meets his gaze, and whatever Dick sees in Tim's expression makes his own set grimly. His shoulders square, and his eyes sweep quickly around the warzone of a warehouse, quickly coming to the same dire conclusion Tim has. He sees Dick notice the specifics of the crate he's chosen as his hiding place—guns, the merchandise the gangsters were intending on selling tonight.
He sees Nightwing go perfectly still, and then reach quickly into the crate and pull out a pair of handguns.
Tim stares at him, baffled. It's not like they don't know how to use guns (Bruce's phobia didn't keep him from teaching them, simply so they would know and then never touch them again), it's not even that Dick is unfamiliar with them, considering his time on the Bludhaven police force, and the firearm training that would entail. But that doesn't mean any of them are excellent shots—they sure as shit aren't good enough for this situation.
Tim is confident in his ability to aim and breathe and hit center mass or a shoulder, but that's where his confidence ends. Dealing with recoil, pressure, everything that comes with guns, and making sure to not hit anything that could be considered vital? Tim doesn't know if he could truly do that in ideal circumstances, let alone something like this. This, where gunfire is raining down around them and there will be zero time to think or aim or anything, let alone to do it enough to disable but not kill.
And yet there Dick is, checking the guns over. And Tim has to just blink at him, because Dick is...That is knowledge.
The way Dick twists the handgun, the fluid way he ejects the magazine and snaps it back in, checks the chamber, then repeats the process with the second gun, quick as you please—it is the kind of efficiency and familiarity that Tim would imagine seeing on someone who uses guns every day. It doesn't make any fucking sense.
And then Nightwing is in motion, and Tim can do nothing but stare as his brother fires shot after shot faster than Tim can even blink, briefly ducking back down to avoid retaliation but popping back around the other side at the slightest pause from the gangsters, and then there's—
Silence.
Nightwing stands there, a lone figure, posture the most confident Tim has ever seen him as he sweeps his arms, fingers curled over triggers as he examines the scene before him.
Around the warehouse, various gangsters groan.
Tim gets hesitantly to his feet and glances around. His breath stills as he sees everyone down, every man who only a minute earlier was firing on them are now on the ground with their own bullet wounds. Nothing lethal, Tim can see; this is pinpoint accuracy. No arteries bleeding out, no veering too close to something vital, every bullet simply taking the person down.
Nghtwing nods, satisfied, and flicks the safeties back on before setting the handguns down. He strides forward, and Tim can't help the way he tenses; Dick has never felt more like a predator than he does right in this moment.
"Give me a hand, would you?" Nightwing calls as he begins kicking weapons out of the reach of downed gunmen and moving them around to ziptie their hands and feet.
Spoiler immediately moves forward, starting to follow Nightwing's lead, but Tim can see the way Steph is keeping half her attention on the elder hero even while she goes about binding the criminals.
Tim is frozen for another few seconds before he kicks himself into gear. He can't help it; he just watched the first Robin not only use guns in the field but use them so well that it was like he'd never done anything different. It was as fluid as watching Dick with his escrima sticks, or swinging through the air. Like it was as easy as breathing.
Dick doesn't say a word about it. No one says a word about it, once Batman and Batgirl arrive. They don't even fucking acknowledge it. Tim keeps waiting, keeps watching for Bruce to say something about what obviously happened here, keeps waiting for Dick to explain, but there's—nothing. Just the thinning of Bruce's lips as he surveys the scene, and Dick not quite looking any of them in the eye.
Steph catches his gaze and mouths, "What the fuck?" but he has no answers for her, and no one else seems willing to provide any.
Tim doesn't stop thinking about it for the rest of the week.
2
Robin has only been back with them for two months when he goes missing again.
Their first instinct, of course, is to think that Slade got his hands on their fearless leader again. That the villain returned with a new plot, a new way to get Robin under his thumb since the nanobots plot ultimately failed. They immediately start scouring for him, for any sign of Slade in Jump City, for wherever he could've taken Robin.
But their search turns up just as fruitless as it has the last two months—no evidence that Slade has returned to Jump City at all, let alone once more taken up residence and taken up kidnapping.
Instead, they do find the trail of an up-and-coming crime gang who have been trying their hand at everything from stealing to assault, and one thing leads to another and eventually they have video evidence of Robin getting into a fight with some of their members in an alley, and one of them getting in a lucky hit to his head that knocked him to the ground and allowed them to take him.
It's only been two months since they got Robin back from Slade's clutches, only two months after more than three times that where Robin spent day in and day out with a supervillain. It's still so—raw, for all of them. It has them all extremely on edge, quick to the jump, quick to anger and fear. Quick to guilt, too, for once more failing to have Robin's back the way he always has theirs.
Maybe that's why they end up going after the gang so hard, once they identify the ones who took Robin. Maybe that's why they're more—ferocious, than they typically would be. They refuse to fail him again. They refuse to take seven months to find him like they did last time. They will save him and bring him home. They'll prove they can do better than they did before.
(Robin has told them multiple times that they're not to blame for his pseudo-imprisonment, but it's hard to believe that when faced with the haunted look that's always in his eyes, these days.)
It takes them four days to track down the headquarters of this new gang, and they assault it with all the fury of a team wronged, tearing through the base with abandon. Criminal after criminal are knocked unconscious and left for the police to deal with as they make their way deeper and deeper into the facility until finally they find the boy they've been searching for.
And then they have to stop dead, because Robin looks—dead.
He's hanging from the ceiling by chains, thick cuffs circling his wrists. The top half of his suit has been removed, and the visible skin is covered in wounds and burns and blood. His head is hanging against his chest, his feet limp and not supporting his weight. He looks dead. He looks like he died painfully. He looks like they failed him in the most ultimate, final way.
But then Starfire is rushing forward and putting her hand to his chest and gasping, "He's alive," and they are all once more thrust into motion.
Cyborg blasts the chains, and Beast Boy is there to catch Robin as a giant gorilla, cradling their leader in his arms with the utmost gentleness. Raven is at their side in an instant, reaching out with her abilities to try to lessen the damage. Healing has never been her strong suit, nor where her powers truly lie, but she can at least help a little. Can bring Robin further back from the brink than he is.
It seems to work, because Robin's eyes flutter open. A soft groan escapes him before suddenly cutting off, and his gaze sharpens, sweeping over them all and the room at large.
Beast Boy grins and says, "Hey, buddy! You—" Robin starts pushing himself upright, face twisted in a grimace but his determination clear. "Hey, woah, dude, wait, you shouldn't be walking."
"I'm fine," Robin says, and the worst thing about it is he sounds fine. He doesn't sound pained or angry or nauseous or upset or anything like that—he sounds perfectly, one hundred percent fine. Not like he just spent four days being tortured. More like he's ready for a training session or a movie marathon or a villain bust. He sounds like Robin.
But he doesn't stand like Robin. He stands like the apprentice they faced on the roof.
"Let's go," Robin says, and begins heading towards the door.
Starfire makes a protesting noise, Cyborg puts that protest into words, and Beast Boy shifts back into himself to ask, bewildered, "What's going on here?"
Raven just looks her friend, silent and solemn, and then follows him out, covering his back. Watching him.
He moves like he always has. He moves like he isn't covered in cuts and burns and blood. He moves like his arm isn't dislocated the way it seems to be. He moves like he's in peak physical health instead of looking like death warmed over.
They come across one of the criminals they must've missed before, and Robin takes the man down instantly with a high kick across the face and a punch to the gut for good measure, and keeps walking without a single hitch in his step.
"Seriously, what the heck?" Raven hears Beast Boy squawk behind her, but Robin's still moving so Raven is, too, two steps behind and to the right.
She can feel the edges of Robin's emotions—or, really, the lack thereof. He's completely calm. There's...nothing. No fear, no anger, no pain. Barely more than a blank slate.
If Raven were anybody else, she might be terrified.
As it is, she simply keeps pace with her leader the entire way back to Titan's Tower. And, once they arrive and it looks like Robin is going to head for his quarters without a word to any of them, she takes a bigger step to close the gap between them and puts her hand on his shoulder.
Robin falls still. He doesn't turn to face her, but he doesn't shake her off, either. Raven takes it for the win it is.
"We need to go to the medbay," she says. "You might feel...fine, but that doesn't negate your injuries. They need to be treated. And you are not treating them yourself."
Silence lingers in the aftermath of her words. The rest of the team behind her barely even seem to be daring to breathe—and Robin stands, with his shoulders squared and head held high, and gives her a short nod.
She nods back, even though he's not facing her, and lets her hand fall from his shoulder. The instant the touch is gone, Robin is moving again, this time heading towards their medical bay. Raven follows closely behind him.
The Titans, in turn, follow closely behind her. But once they arrive at the medbay, Raven shuts the door behind her before the rest of the group can step through, ignoring their sounds of complaint. They'll get over it, and Robin doesn't need onlookers or hoverers right now.
Robin lets Raven check over each of his injuries without a single word. He watches her, though, she can feel it. Feel his sharp eyes—not unlike the way he's always been, but with an...edge, now, that was never there before they got him back. Before Slade.
"Is this going to be a problem for us?" Raven asks, nodding towards a wound she's bandaging up.
She's not actually talking about the injury itself, and Robin's smart enough to know that. She half expects him to pretend anyway, to play clueless—she'd let him, if he wanted to. If he dodged her question she wouldn't press the issue. Not now, at least. But, thankfully, he actually considers it.
"I'll feel it more later," Robin says. He's staring at a point past her shoulder. "After I sleep, after some distance. But I don't...feel pain the same way, anymore. Or, no, I just—" He breathes out sharply. "It doesn't matter as much anymore, I guess. All this is like having a headache."
Raven doesn't ask what was done to him to make four days of torture feel like nothing more than a headache, to make him walk out like it's Sunday in the park instead of being rescued from captivity. She doesn't ask who was the one to do it to him. She simply mourns for the Robin of nine months ago.
"Okay," is all Raven says, and thinks it must've been the right thing going by the way Robin's shoulders relax minutely.
"Okay," he echoes, and that's that.
3
Jason wouldn't say he likes when Nightwing comes to visit Gotham, but he's not...opposed to it, necessarily. The guy's not half bad, or whatever. Okay, he's got a few cool moves, and he has a lot of tips for dealing with Bruce's various moods, and he knows a lot of awesome buildings to freefall from, but it's not like Jason actually likes him, or anything. Just—respects him. Yeah, hero-to-hero respect.
This time, Nightwing's staying in town for a few days covering for Batman while Bruce goes away on Justice League business. Jason had argued that he can cover Gotham just fine by himself in the meantime, and Dick had snapped about having his own city to protect, but here they both are anyway, Dick dressing up in the cowl for a few nights and Jason being the Robin to a different Batman than usual.
It's...kind of fun, Jason can't lie. Once Dick got over his butthurt simmering about spending a few days away from Bludhaven (like his Atlantean Titan buddy hadn't already agreed to cover it for the time being), he's actually pretty fun to train with. He teaches Jason some flippy weird shit that Bruce definitely never has, and actually cracks jokes while on patrol, and honestly it's not...bad. Not a bad way to spend a few days until Bruce gets back.
The first two nights of patrol go like clockwork, nothing unexpected happening. The Penguin causes a ruckus and they take him down, and stop some run-of-the-mill muggings and attempted assaults, and that's about it. Mainly, it's Jason getting to flip around a bit and eat fast food while in costume because Dick grinned and said yes when he asked for it.
But on the third night, when they answer a call about shots fired at an apartment building, they arrive at the high-rise to find a guy in an orange and black costume with a shit ton of weapons, dismantling a rifle and tucking it back into a case at his knee.
Dick, for a moment, goes completely stiff. The gunman's head tilts towards them, and the sole visible eye crinkles at the corner like he's smiling as he snaps the rifle case shut.
"What the hell are you doing in that getup, kid?" the man asks as he pushes to his feet and turns to face the two heroes. It makes Jason tense—does this guy know Dick isn't the regular Batman? How the hell does he know that?
"What the hell are you doing in Gotham, Deathstroke?" is Dick's immediate return. He's not using the Batman voice, though. He's been doing the Bruce Growl whenever they've had to talk to people the last couple nights, but now, that's—that's just his voice. Dick's voice, albeit tight and tense.
"Completing a job," Deathstroke says, fingers flicking dismissively towards the rifle case. "Seems you were a bit too slow. What would daddy think?"
"Robin, stay back," is all Dick says, and then he's darting forward toward the apparent mercenary.
Normally, Jason would be extremely offended to be told to 'stay back', always hates it whenever Bruce tries to pull shit like that on him in the field. Also normally, it would be even worse coming from Dick, since Dick was Robin first and knows how sucky it is to be treated like a kid by Batman. Dick always tries to treat him more equally when they train together. So having him say stay back? Well, any other time that would've made Jason say quite a few colorful expletives.
But this time...
This time, Jason is seeing a fight like none he's ever witnessed. Jason's been trained by one of the best in the world, regularly gets to participate in high-caliber fights, gets to team up with the fucking Justice League from time to time, even. And Jason knows Dick's good at what he does, he was the first child superhero, he's the one Bruce trusts to fill in as Batman, but this is—
The way Dick and Deathstroke move, every kick and punch thrown, every twirl and twist and duck and arch together, is like seeing something you didn't even know you were missing. Is this what Bruce would be like, fighting people other than shit-stains like Two-Face and Black Mask? Is this what Dick is capable of?
Because honestly, this is far more than Jason thought Nightwing could do. He knew the guy was good—great, even—but the shit Dick's been doing around him so far is fucking amateur hour compared to what he's doing now. The way he's striking at Deathstroke, the way he's moving—It's like he's a completely different person. Jason has never seen Dick fight like this before.
It is unreal. It is fucking incredible. Jason almost wishes he had a sign so he could hold up a "10" because fucking hell this is just badass as fuck.
When Bruce comes back, Jason is going to demand he stop fucking around and teach Jason this shit right here, because clearly they've been doing fun and games compared to the stuff Dick must've learned from Bruce during his time as Robin.
In a move so fast Jason can't even freaking keep track of the way their bodies curve and lash out, Dick gets Deathstroke on his back on the rooftop, one arm braced on his neck under his chin, free hand holding a batarang with the point pressed into the hollow of Deathstroke's throat.
It's the most blatant threat Jason's ever seen a hero make before, and it's almost mind-boggling to see Dick Grayson being the one to do it.
Deathstroke lifts a hand slowly upward; Dick tenses and presses harder against his throat, but doesn't do anything to stop Deathstroke as the gunman reaches for his own mask and tugs it upward, revealing his face. There's blood at the corner of his mouth, but no visible wound. One eye is covered with an eyepatch.
And he's grinning up at Dick like he's the best thing he's ever seen.
"Good to know you haven't been slipping," Deathstroke says.
Dick sneers at him. "Unlike you, you mean?"
Deathstroke scoffs but doesn't actually look bothered. His gaze briefly flicks to Jason, making Jason tense, and then back to Dick when Dick digs the batarang in even harder. It looks like it might even be piercing through the Kevlar of Deathstroke's suit.
"Don't look at him," he snaps.
"Worried, pretty bird?" Deathstroke asks. "Or is it jealous?"
Dick laughs, but it's a weird, jerky sound, nothing like the mirth Jason normally hears when Dick laughs. This is jagged, like nails on a chalkboard. It feels wrong. Jason doesn't understand it at all—Dick's never acted like this around any criminals, not that Jason's ever seen.
"You haven't changed a bit," Dick says. He sounds so tired all of a sudden. It makes Jason want to have a weapon of his own in his hand, so he takes out a batarang of his own and holds it aloft, ready if he's needed.
"How about later tonight I show you just how little I've changed?" Deathstroke says, and that's—it's—the innuendo in his voice—there is no fucking way—
Dick's jaw drops, and in an instant Deathstroke takes advantage of his momentary surprise, surging into action. Jason jerks forward, shouting for Dick, but it's over before Jason can take more than two steps.
Dick is on the ground, clutching his leg, and Deathstroke is gone.
"Batman," Jason breathes, running over and dropping to his knees at Dick's side. His hands hover uselessly in the air. "What do I do? What's wrong?"
"My leg's broken," Dick says, gritting his teeth. "Bastard snapped my fucking leg. Bastard."
"How did he...?"
"Super strength," Dick says. He's already pushing himself into a seated position, bracing his leg with one hand on his knee but otherwise no longer holding it. It's mind boggling to Jason; Dick just had his leg bone snapped, but he didn't scream and now he's already calming down like it's any old cut. What the fuck is this shit, and why hasn't Bruce taught any of these skills to Jason?
Dick lifts a hand to his ear, activating his comm unit. "Batman to cave. Please remote access the batmobile and send it to our location."
"Copy that, Batman," comes Alfred's voice. "ETA six minutes."
Jason stares at him. "How the hell do you expect to get off the roof of a twenty-story building to the batmobile with a broken leg?"
Dick smiles grimly. "It'll be an experience, that's for sure."
Jason chokes out something like a laugh, adrenaline crashing hard. "That was amazing, dude. You gotta tell B to teach me that shit! The way you moved—that was so epic!"
"B didn't teach it to me," Dick says, almost absent-minded, scanning the rooftops like there's any chance of Deathstroke still lurking somewhere nearby. No, the guy's probably long gone.
"Who taught it to you then?" Jason asks, frowning.
Dick blinks at him. He doesn't respond for a long moment. Eventually, he says, "No one. Don't worry about it. Come on, let's get to the ground, be ready when the car arrives."
Jason's attempt at protesting is cut off as Dick begins leveraging himself to his feet, darting forward to help despite Dick not asking for it. He wraps an arm around Dick's waist to steady him, and pretends like he doesn't feel Dick looking down at him while they hobble towards the edge of the roof.
"Now what?" Jason grumbles.
The words are barely out of his mouth before Dick's shooting out his grapple gun and saying, "Hang on."
Jason's shout as they tip over the side is swallowed by the wind and Dick's laugh.
4
Roy has been up for thirty-six hours and is running on pure fear and adrenaline and anger (instead of food and water and rest) when the knock comes at his door, Dick admitting himself only seconds later without waiting for permission.
"Go away," Roy tells him, already turning his attention from his friend and back to the wall in front of him—or, more specifically, all of the documents pinned to the wall.
"No," Dick says, blunt and unapologetic like he always is when away from his flock of birds. More honest, Roy always thought. Always appreciated. Right now, he'd rather shove Dick off a building than get the "honest" Dick hanging around.
"Go away, Dick," Roy says, emphasizing the name to make it clear he's saying it as an insult and not just addressing him.
"No," Dick says again. He comes to stand at Roy's side, arms folded over his chest. He doesn't even glance at Roy, just examines the documents in front of him with sharp eyes.
"Your timing's off."
"I fucking know that," Roy snaps. He rakes a hand through his hair, agitated. "I fucking know. You think I'd still be standing here feeling sorry for myself if everything was hunky dory? You think I wouldn't already be fucking gone if my timing was right and my escape route plausible and I could hack that fucking censor? No, I wouldn't be, so why don't you shut the fuck up and let me focus?"
He normally wouldn't speak to his friend this way. He's known Dick for forever, would die for him, would slap himself upside the head for ever speaking to those he loves like this. But these aren't regular times. This isn't a regular Saturday. Roy hasn't been up for thirty-six hours for the hell of it. Dick didn't drop by just to say hi.
It's been eighteen hours since Lian was kidnapped. Seventeen since Roy received the ransom demand, from some idiot assassins who thought messing with the child of Arsenal and Cheshire Cat was a good fucking plan. But did they simply want money? No, of course not, or Roy would've already raided Oliver's bank account and gotten his kid back.
They wanted Roy to steal something for them. Tell no one, keep your mouth shut, steal the tech, drop it off at a specified location. Deviate from any of these steps and his little girl dies.
He isn't surprised Dick knows what's going on, despite Roy following the command to tell no one. Bats tend to know weird shit, Dick especially—certainly when it comes to his friends. But Roy doesn't know if Dick's presence here is going to get Lian killed or frankly just be a distraction so he wants Dick to leave.
The clock's ticking, Lian's life is on the line, and he's been given an impossible task.
Because that's the fucking kicker here, really. The tech he's been instructed to steal is locked up tighter than Fort Knox, and Roy is many things—not all of them great—but a master thief he is not. He's been working the issue for seventeen hours, he has eight left until the deadline, and he has no idea what he's supposed to do that doesn't end with him in prison and Lian, oh yeah, dead.
Dick's eyes narrow. He scans the board one last time, then turns on his heels and heads for the door.
Roy blinks after him, utterly stunned, as Dick leaves the apartment without another word.
He knows he told Dick to go. He knows he cursed him out. But still, he can't help from feeling...hurt, that Dick would just—go. Would just leave, knowing Lian's life is on the line. That he would actually listen to Roy telling him to fuck off for the first time ever.
Dick didn't budge when Roy was high off his ass and spewing hateful words at him, hitting every pressure point he could think of, but this is where Dick backs off? It—it just doesn't make any sense. It burns.
But Roy doesn't have time for that shit. He has a job to do; he can think about the degradation of one of his oldest friendships after he saves his daughter's life.
An hour ticks away, then another, and another. His nerves are beyond frayed, his fear nearly all-consuming. He doesn't know what to do. If he tells anyone, Lian dies. If he fails to steal this shit, Lian dies. There's no winning. He can't win this. How is he supposed to—
The door opens and shuts behind him, but Roy can't move to look for who it is, can't stop desperately scanning all of his information as he tries to see what he's missed, figure out a game plan with only five hours to go on the clock they gave him.
Dick steps up beside Roy once again. He holds something up between them. Roy glances at the movement instinctively, and then—freezes.
Slowly, his eyes slide from the tech—the tech—in Dick's hand up to Dick's face. Dick looks back at him, perfectly calm. He tilts his wrist towards Roy in silent offering.
Roy snatches the device immediately, diving for his phone to pull up the address of the meet point. Dick's already moving towards the door, holding it open as Roy rushes after him. Dick has his bow slung over his back, his quiver at his hip. He's dressed in a weird all-black outfit with something hanging around his throat that almost looks like a rebreather—wait, no, it's too big. It's actually almost like—a muzzle?
"Time for that later," Dick says, dragging Roy the last foot out the door and kicking Roy's brain back into gear. He catches the bow and quiver when Dick tosses them to him as they start a jog down the hall, and it isn't long before they're out of the building and speeding down the highway on their bikes.
The exchange, to everyone's fucking surprise, actually goes very well. Dick wears the "mask" (aka muzzle) during the meet, and they all pretend the assassin assholes aren't glancing at him warily. They also pretend that the assassin assholes don't look slightly disappointed that Roy showed up victorious and they don't get to kill a little girl.
Roy wants to rip them to shreds.
Instead, Roy wraps his little girl in his arms and takes her far away from there, no longer paying the men any mind, knowing that Dick's got his six covered.
Later—much later, after Jade's punched Roy a bunch of times and Lian is safe and sound sleeping in her bed—Roy goes to find his friend. Dick's sitting on the roof, because of fucking course he is, and he scooches over a little to make room when Roy makes it clear he's joining him out there no matter what.
"So," Roy says after a few moments of not-quite-awkward silence, "are we gonna talk about how you did that?"
"If you want," Dick says. His voice is so...dull. It makes Roy give him a side eye.
"Well, first, thank you," Roy says. "I quite literally could not have done that without you. Lian would be dead if you hadn't helped—thank you, Dick."
Dick looks at him, and a soft smile breaks through the emptiness. "Of course, Roy," he says. "I'd do anything for you, for her—you know that."
"I do," Roy agrees, and weighs his words. "I do know you'd do anything. So I...guess I'm wondering what that 'anything' means for you this go 'round." Dick looks away again. "How'd you do that, Dick? I spent twenty hours trying to figure out how to steal that thing, and you accomplished it in three. That doesn't just...Bat training isn't that extensive, is it?"
He tries to make his tone light and jokey, but he doesn't think he fully manages it.
"I couldn't explain it to you," Dick says eventually. "I mean, I could, but—but I can't, Roy. It...That's not me anymore, you know? That's not me. I don't want to be what he made me. I did this because I could and Lian's life was on the line but going back to that shit—I already did that once, already went back and I can't, not again—"
"Woah, hey, hey," Roy interrupts, seeing Dick start to spiral. "Okay, it's alright. We don't have to talk about it. You don't have to tell me." No matter how Roy is fucking dying to know what the fuck Dick is talking about here. Who did this to him? What the hell happened to his friend, and how has Roy had no idea about any of this?
Dick takes a slow, deep breath and nods. He glances at Roy out of the corner of his eye and then away quickly when he sees Roy looking back. "I'm really glad Lian's okay, Roy. I'm glad I—" His jaw flexes. "I'm glad she's okay."
"Me too, Dickie," Roy says softly, pretending he doesn't notice the tremor to Dick's voice. He wraps his arm around Dick's shoulders. "Me, too."
5
The last thing Barbara expected upon entering Dick's apartment was to find him standing in the kitchen in front of a sizzling pan, poking at the contents of it with a spatula, while bickering with a teenage girl.
Now, honestly, that in and of itself wouldn't be all that unusual. Dick's mentored just about every teen hero there is, in some fashion or another, and it isn't unusual for him to take another stray under his wing—heh—for a time. It isn't even unusual for him to keep in contact, even hang out with them, given he usually only has family or the like actually over to his apartment.
No, the strange part about the entire scene is that the teenage girl in question is a girl with long white hair and an eyepatch, leaving just one pale blue eye visible. This is a girl Barbara recognizes because she always keeps track of potential threats, especially when those threats are crazy people who cut out their own eyes. This is Rose Wilson, Ravager, daughter of the goddamn Deathstroke.
And she's sitting on Dick's kitchen island and bickering with him about the amount of spice he's putting into the meal he's cooking.
Rose notices Barbara first. Her gaze flicks over, sharp and analytical, scanning Barbara like trying to identify her weak spots for a fight—in any other situation, Barbara might be flattered that she's still considered worthy of a look like that now that she's in a wheelchair. Rose's posture is noticeably tighter than it was before—coiled, Barbara might say. Prepared.
The girl gives a short whistle, and Dick's head immediately snaps to the side, locking onto Barbara's position unerringly. His eyes widen momentarily, and then in an instant it changes. He smiles at her, wide and easy, Dick Grayson all over.
Barbara raises an unimpressed eyebrow back at him and wheels closer.
"Hey," Dick greets warmly. "What are you doing here? Did I forget about plans again? Shit, I'm sorry."
"No," Barbara says, waving him off. He never stops amazing her, how easily he can make shit sound real when he doesn't mean it. Barely anyone ever seems to notice how often Dick does it, how much of him is a mask he crafts for whoever's around him, but Barbara's known him longer than most. She knows him. She knows he's perfectly aware they didn't have plans, that he's not sorry because there's nothing to be sorry for. But the show must go on.
"I was just bringing over the files Bruce mentioned—we said tomorrow, but you know me, I like getting a jump on things." It's never been a problem before, her just turning up, letting herself in. That's just the kind of friendship they have. But usually, Barbara supposes, Dick doesn't have the daughter of an accomplished mercenary who once tried to kill him and all his friends hanging out in his kitchen.
"Right, thanks," Dick says, still so warm, so open. Barbara can't help but shake her head at it all. "Hey, Rosey, keep stirring this for me, would you? I'm gonna go over some stuff with Babs."
"Sure," Rose says, shrugging a shoulder. She hops off the counter and takes the spatula from Dick, bumping him with her hip as she does so. It draws a flash of something across Dick's face, something fond and real, before he covers it back up with easy-going nonchalance.
Barbara wonders how she missed something so massive as Dick becoming this close with the daughter of his enemy.
He leads the way into the living room, and Barbara follows, the files resting in her lap all but forgotten. Her mind's racing; what is she supposed to do here? What is she supposed to say? Dick's not an idiot, he knows how dangerous this is. How stupid. How did this come to pass? Does Deathstroke know? Does Rose know about what her father used to do to Dick's team? She must, right? There's no way she—
"The wheels in that brain of yours are turning fast so why don't you share with the class?"
She looks over at Dick. He's perched on the arm of his couch, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. She thinks the amusement on his face is real, that the affection there is, too, but she's not one of his little teammates or the young heroes who worship the ground he walks on—she knows there is so much more to Dick Grayson than meets the eye. She knows how much of a front he puts up.
It's one of the reasons their relationship didn't last—Dick Grayson is one of the best liars Barbara has ever encountered, and in her line of work she meets a lot of them. She can respect the skill. She even respects whatever reason he has for feeling like he has to hide away a majority of himself from the world. But she couldn't be in a relationship with someone she only half knew while he was pretending to be an open book.
They're great as friends, haven't tried to be more than that in a long, long time. And he's never acted any differently with her after their breakup than he ever did before. But then, Barbara has no idea how much of that comfort is real or not.
She pushes the thought from her mind; rumination never helps anyone, and she has more pressing concerns at hand.
"You know what I'm wondering," Barbara says, faintly chastising.
Dick pulls on a chagrined look. His eyes are too sharp to pull it off—he's usually better at this. He must actually be nervous about how she's going to react to this whole thing if he's slipping this much already.
"She's a good kid, Babs."
"She's a mercenary, Dick," is Barbara's immediate, calm response.
"Not anymore," Dick says. There's a bite to his words, and she can't help but marvel at it as she watches him visibly pull himself back. Shit, she really underestimated this. How did Rose Wilson become so important to him? When the fuck did this happen? How did no one notice a bond like this forming?
"Not anymore," Barbara echoes. "Okay. She stopped, then? Stopped hurting people? Now she's just...going to school? Being a regular teen?"
"She's deciding what she wants to do," Dick says. Is that a hint of...pride, in his voice? "We've been training a bit—she's considering going the hero route. She came out on patrol with me the other night, it actually went really well. We still have to work on that punch of hers, it's a little too hard, I'm working on teaching her moderation—"
He cuts himself off, because Barbara sure as shit wasn't going to. She could've listened to him ramble on like that for hours. It was honest.
"Anyway," Dick says, a touch awkwardly. "She's not what she was made to be. Her dad...He wanted her to be something, and she tried. She tried to be everything he wanted from her. But that wasn't her, no matter how often he said it was. She doesn't have to live in the darkness. She has everything he taught her, but—but it doesn't have to be used for purposes he'd approve of. She can carve her own path. She can be a hero."
Barbara stares at him, eyes stinging. There's something extremely raw about what he just said, something in his voice that feels like he means more than just Rose. But she's at a complete and utter loss as to what it is. What did she miss? How did she miss something so monumental in someone she loves?
"How did you even meet her?" Barbara asks. That feels like a safer path than the one they're going down, about right and wrong.
One corner of Dick's mouth ticks upward. His gaze feels so very far away. "Her dad hired me to train her."
Barbara stares at him. That tick takes on a wry edge.
"It was years ago. It...a lot happened. To both of us. But she's come out the other side and that matters, right? That matters."
"Of course it matters," Barbara says softly. She tilts her head, and when she manages to catch his eye, she smiles. "It sounds like you're good for her."
Dick barks a laugh. It's sudden and jagged, clearly surprising him as much as it does her. His eyes dart towards the door to the kitchen, and he rubs a hand sheepishly over the back of his neck, offering her a matching expression.
"I don't know about that," he says, and despite the performative look on his face the words are very...honest. Heartbreakingly so, actually. "I know we're better together than with him, though, so I guess it's working out. She's a good kid."
Barbara's heart pounds in her chest, and she fights to not react, to not let Dick realize what he just said, what he just accidentally gave away. We're better together than with him. Not that Rose is better away from Slade—that they both are. Implying they both were under his thumb.
She doesn't know how that's even possible. That doesn't make any sense.
She'll have to do some digging.
"I'm glad," Barbara says, keeping her thoughts very much to herself. She takes the files from her lap and places them on his coffee table. "Let me know what you think of them, okay? Whenever you get to it." She starts to turn her chair around. "Have a good night, Dick."
"You too, Babs," Dick says, and it's like a stab to the heart that the warmth in his voice sounds true this time. Not like earlier. "I'll see you soon, okay?"
She squeezes his hand goodbye and lets him shut the door behind her, and then she sits in the hall for another few seconds, mind racing.
She's never been good at letting puzzles go.
1
The battle started bloody, and so far that seems like the way it's going to end.
But then, was there any way for it to go any differently when it comes to Dick and Slade?
But usually, there aren't witnesses. Usually, it's not in the middle of Gotham, in the middle of a fucking gang war. Usually there aren't police officers strewn about. Usually the members of his family are far, far away.
Usually, it goes like this:
Him, Slade, a rooftop or two or five. Swords digging into flesh, fingernails gouging eyes, electricity crackling in the air turned up to the highest setting. The blue stripes of Dick's suit stained purple, the orange of Slade's armor a deep maroon. Barred teeth and furious words and laughter that vibrates through every one of Dick's bones until he's not positive he's not making the sound himself. Broken bones and angry yells and heaving breaths and one of them eventually down for the count.
And then—
And then—
It's usually just the two of them. He usually doesn't have to worry about Damian getting too close to the threat Deathstroke provides, doesn't have to feel Bruce watching him, far too knowing, doesn't have to think about the positioning of every member of his family, every civilian nearby, every soul Slade could use to hurt him.
Slade, grin bloody and pleased, knowing that all too well.
Dick can't hold back, there's no option for it, not when he's fighting Slade. He can't do what he does with Gotham crooks or Bludhaven gangsters—there's no going 50% and still coming out on top. Slade will beat him into the ground, snap every bone in his body, before he puts up with Dick fighting him with anything less than his full capability.
It's just...Dick doesn't like doing that. Because his "full capability" isn't something he learned with Bruce or anyone like him. His "full capability" is something that shouldn't be possible as a pure human, wouldn't be possible if not for Slade. His "full capability" is fifteen years old and forced to wear a mercenary's colors, it's twenty-two years old and donning them "willingly" again. His "full capability" is something dark and ugly and—
Powerful. And Powerful.
(Dick wonders, sometimes, if this is how Cass feels. If when she's going 100%, using everything David Cain taught her when he tried to make her a weapon, if she feels rotten inside or if she feels powerful. Or maybe she's healthier than he is—maybe she sees it as just another tool in her toolbox. Something for her to use, instead of get used by others. It's been fourteen years and Dick isn't even close to there yet.)
"There you are, kid," Slade purrs, as Dick lets Slade push him higher and higher, forcing Dick out of his "play pretend" as Slade would call it, hitting the next gear in the way only a fight with Slade can make him. "There you are. Now give me some more."
Dick does as he's told, just as he always does. He can never shake it no matter what he tries. Slade shows up and they fight and it's bloody and brutal and messy and then and then and then they're pressed together and Dick has no idea which way is up or down, only knows that Slade's mouth is on his and their bodies grinding together—
That can't happen this time, though. He has to keep his shit together, keep Slade out of his head. They're out in the open. His family is here. They can't know. They can't know. They can't—
Slade's fist slams across Dick's face. "Sloppy," he chides. "Distracted. You're better than this."
The chastisement hits deep. Dick snarls to hide just how much it hits him. Slade's smile says he can tell all the same.
It goes on and on. They exchange blows, they hurt each other, they grapple, they snarl unkind words. A vicious cycle that always comes back around. Dick can never escape it, escape him. Slade's a constant in a way Dick despises more than anything but can never get rid of. Slade shifted something inside of him, twisted something the wrong way around, and Dick is—stuck, like this. Tied to him no matter what.
("You don't have to be tied to him," Dick told Rose once. "You get to choose who you are, who he is to you. He doesn't have any control over you without your permission." He's shocked she never really called him out on all his bullshit.)
Slade gets a fistful of his hair and slams his head against something hard—brick, a wall. Dick's vision goes white, his limbs turn to jelly. By the time he manages to scrap his thoughts back into something more than incoherent pain, Slade has his arms twisted up behind his back, his legs kicked apart to keep his off balance, and one thick arm around Dick's neck, dragging him to line up bodily against Slade, back to front.
"Well then," Slade says, panting hard. His breath washes across Dick's face, and he shudders. There's two warring instincts inside of him—one to run as far and fast as he can, and the other to go limp, bare his throat, agree to whatever Slade wants.
He strains against the hold, searching, but there's no give. His head is fucking pounding. Somewhere, someone shouts his name. He instinctively tilts his head to seek the person out, but all he sees are blurry shapes. People? Oh, right. His family. His family's here.
"Let go," Dick says, wheezing against the hard press of the crook of Slade's arm.
"Why, so they don't see their big brother taken down a peg?" Slade asks. Dick can hear the grin in his voice, feel it against his cheek when Slade ducks his head in. "It's good for them, I think. And it's not like anybody but me could get you like this, right, kid?"
"Let go of him!"
Dick blinks hard, then again, until the blurry shapes become more defined blobs and then actual humans. He sees Jason, face twisted in a snarl, guns pointed and Dick—no, at Slade, Dick's just in the way. Inconvenient. He sees Damian, shoulder clearly dislocated but standing strong. Steph's on the ground, not moving—but considering Tim is kneeling beside her and not screaming bloody murder, she must just be unconscious. He can't see Cass anywhere.
Batman stands behind them all, a dark shadow, white eyes fixed on Dick and Slade.
All of the rest of the fighting around them is done. He doesn't know when that happened; he was so focused on Slade he didn't have a single spare thought for any of the rest of the fight.
Inattentive, a voice in his head chides, and he can't tell if it's Slade or Bruce.
"Why would I do that?" Slade says, and Dick is utterly confused for a long second before he realizes he's responding to Jason. "I'm rather comfortable like this, Hood. Always a pleasure having Nightwing like this."
The innuendo is obvious. Dick twists, searching for a way out of the hold, but still comes up empty. Slade simply chuckles at his failure.
"Get your filthy hands off of Nightwing before we remove them!" Damian shouts. Dick wants to scream at him to run. Robin should never be around Deathstroke, it's not a safe place for little birds.
"Safe place," Slade muses, and shit, was Dick talking out loud? Head wounds are the worst. "How old's he now, anyway? Fifteen, isn't he? And so righteous, so sure he's the best. Familiar."
A whine escapes Dick's throat. "Don't," he chokes out. "Don't you fucking—fucking dare—"
Slade presses a kiss to his temple. He sees the action ripple over his family. "Don't worry, Renegade," he says, loud enough to be heard, nose brushing over Dick's hair, "I have no interest in taking another little bird as an apprentice the way I took you."
Slade doesn't let him hide from the revelation. He holds Dick in place and makes him watch as the members of his family stand before him and click pieces into place.
Everybody knows Renegade.
"Why?" Dick rasps. "Why now? Why after so many fucking years—"
"Because I can," Slade says. He holds Dick even tighter. It's possessive and protective all rolled into one, and Dick knows he's fucked up for leaning into it but lean into it he does all the same.
"You're lying," Tim says, but the words ring hollowly. He doesn't believe them even as he says them. Dick squeezes his eyes shut.
"I'm really not," Slade says anyway, because he's a bastard like that. "Nightwing's been mine since he was fifteen. No blue or black colors he wears will change that he bleeds orange."
Dick's breathing stutters out helplessly. Mine, mine, mine. Damnation and salvation all rolled into one. He's so fucked, he's so fucked up, he's so fucked.
Then Slade shouts, and they both jerk, and Slade's grip releases. Dick stumbles from his arms and whirls around, eyes wide as he sees Black Bat engaging Slade, coming out of fucking nowhere to hit Slade precisely and make him release Dick.
Dick doesn't hesitate to move back in to join the fight—he knows how good Cass is, but this is Slade—but he doesn't make it more than half a step before Jason's there dragging him bodily away, quickly joined by Damian who takes a protective stance like he could do a damn thing to stop Slade if Slade came at them. A fifteen-year-old Robin is no match for Deathstroke.
"Let's go, Nightwing," Jason says, breathing roughly. It almost feels odd for him to call him that, after Slade proclaimed him 'Renegade'. Like they should all be able to smell it on him now, like the hero he was is gone.
But, no, Jason's hold is protective, not restrictive, and Tim says, "Wing, thank god," as he joins them with Steph in his arms, and Bruce puts a hand on Dick's shoulder to squeeze ever so gently before rushing past him to join Cass.
Slade extracts himself before it gets that far, putting space between himself and the heroes. He catches Dick's eye and smiles, inclining his head.
Until next time.
Then he's gone.
Dick stands in his brother's hold and looks around at the rest of his family and marvels at the fact that none of them are blinking. None of them are looking at him like he's a monster. They know who Renegade is, they just heard Slade say that whole mess has been in the works since he was fifteen, but they aren't flinching. They don't even look stunned.
If anything, they look...confirmed. Like things they've been thinking have finally slotted into a place where they make sense. It's...mind-boggling.
Dick lets himself go limp in Jason's arms, feels Damian press in close under the pretense of support. They catch him. They don't flinch away.
He was so sure they'd flinch away.
"Let's get you home," Jason says, and Dick lets his family do just that.