Chapter Text
They wear masks when they go outside.
It was necessary during the riots and the revolution, because you never knew who was an enemy and who wasn't. They implemented codenames then, too; it made communicating easier, identifying allies a much quicker process.
Now, though?
Now, with the world gone to shit and everyone simply trying to make something from the ashes, the masks are a way of unifying them, of connecting the lost, young survivors that they are. They also act as a sort of barrier against the outside world, and in this day and age, any barrier between you and the dangers of everyone else is a good thing.
That's not Dick's only reason, though. For him, his identity is just about the only thing he has left of his previous life, the only thing that he's been allowed to keep, without any chance of it being taken away from him. He knows his allies (his friends, his family, the only people he has left) still don't understand why he wears his domino mask in their hideout, why he has them call him Robin, even after three and a half years, but they don't press anymore, which is all he can ask for.
So they wear masks when they go outside. And Dick never takes his off.
There's only three people still confirmed as alive that know his real name. One of them lives with him, one of them was overseas when everything went to hell and thus safe, and the third...
Well, the third he'd rather not spend too much time thinking about.
The problem is that currently, he's alone on a scavenging mission, which means he only has his thoughts to accompany him.
The bigger problem is that despite the fact that he's on a food and supplies mission, there are no fucking food or supplies.
Kaldur refuses to give up hope that there's something near them that they simply haven't found yet, despite the fact that things have been especially challenging the last eight months. They keep having to travel farther and farther from their base—nicknamed the Cave—to get the things they need to survive, let alone do it in something resembling comfort. It's anxiety-provoking being that far away, and they're technically not supposed to go alone, considering the danger.
(Dick's never been good at keeping to that rule.)
And he understands Kaldur's hesitation—hell, all of them feel it to some extent. The idea of leaving the Cave is scary, because they have relative safety there and the rest of the world is made up of pure unknowns. Choosing to leave the Cave to find a new place is a life-or-death roll of the dice, one that could literally end with their demise.
Dick doesn't ever mention that he knows a place that would welcome them with open arms. They would all know who he meant, and they would all say no.
They would all confine him to the base for even suggesting it, too.
(He'd never even suggest it, though. He'd never put his family in that man's reach, any more than they already are simply by associating with Dick.)
He finishes walking through yet another completely empty store and sighs. It's expected, but still disappointing. He'll have to ask M'gann to check the radio again, see if they've gotten a response (see if maybe, maybe, Bruce is still alive—) because they need help, and they need it now.
Which is, of course, when Dick comes across the envelope.
He recognizes it immediately, but that doesn't stop him from freezing at the sight, his heart speeding up in his chest. His eyes trace the familiar penmanship, the familiar curves of his name against the familiar black folder.
This isn't the first time he's come across one of these waiting for him when he goes out on a mission. He doesn't know how the man knows when it'll be him sent out, or where he'll stop, but somehow it's always waiting.
Like every time before, he hesitates, a war waging in his mind. Because this is...help. This is what they need. This is what will get them through the next month or so with them all alive and in one piece. Winter is almost here, after all, and the Cave doesn't keep heat all that well. They need food and supplies. And this envelope...
He knows it'll be a list. A strangely accurate and detailed list, actually, the kind that made Dick's hair stand on end the first time. It'll be a list of all the things they need right now, and even a few of the things they simply want. And at the bottom will be four familiar words. The same each time, after the first.
Come and visit, Robin.
Dick sometimes wonders why the man uses that name in his letters instead of his real one. Whenever they meet in person, the man delights in the fact that he knows more about Dick than Dick's friends even do, so he's never understood the difference in the letters.
He asked, once. The man had simply smiled at some private joke and not replied.
For the next twenty seconds, Dick manages to keep himself from stepping forward, from grabbing the envelope and opening it. He knows as soon as he opens it, he won't be able to stop himself from going. Because being confronted with such a list...well, he can never say no to providing for his family.
They need the help, or they won't last.
With hands that most certain do not shake, he picks up the envelope and tears it open, pulling out the folded piece of paper. His eyes scan the words quickly, his chest tight with anxiety. And it's...everything. It's what they need to get by for the winter, and then some.
It's a lot. Which means payment...will be too.
The paper crinkles and tears in his hands, startling him. He pushes back his anxiety and heads out of the store, folding up the paper and putting it in his bag; he'll burn it later.
He gets on his motorcycle (so much siphoned gas, and even that's running low) and pulls out of the parking lot.
But instead of heading back towards the Cave, he goes in the opposite direction.
The path is a familiar one; this isn't the first time he's made this trip, and—despite what he tells himself—this probably won't be the last.
The guards atop the gates, sadly, recognize him. He's suddenly struck by the thought of one of his friends accompanying him; what would they think of the way the men immediately call down for him to be let through, no questions asked? What would they think of him?
They'd know that you're saving all their asses, Dick thinks bitterly, and they'd be grateful for what you're doing for them.
Dick drives his bike past the front gates and through the small marketplace that is set up right there, for the people of the community to barter and trade and sell.
He sees oranges and his mouth waters. He hasn't had an orange in...
Well, a very fucking long time.
"Hey, kid," someone calls in greeting when he reaches the front of the main compound. Dick recognizes him; one of the many nameless guards that seem to exist only to serve the man who runs it all. "You know the drill."
He does.
Dick pulls the keys out of the ignition and hands them over, breathing past the lump in his throat as his means of escape is temporarily removed. Then he raises his arms, pulling on a bored expression as the man pats him down for weapons.
His escrima sticks are taken from his back, but the guard barely even glances as them; he has them with him every time he goes out, and thus every time he comes here—all of the men know to expect it by now.
"Okay, all set," the guard says, tucking the escrima sticks under his arm. Dick doesn't know where they always take them, but he always gets them back when he leaves, so he supposes it doesn't really matter. "You can head on up, kid."
Dick just nods, not trusting his voice, and makes his way inside. He's been here enough times that the interior no longer shocks him, but it certainly had in the beginning; this compound is one of the few places left to have steady, lasting electricity.
But not only does the man have working lights, he has an honest-to-god running elevator.
A few years ago, stepping into an elevator would've been nothing. But now? In the fucked-up society they live in? This is fucking novel.
When he steps out on the third floor, he nods politely to the people he passes, who offer the same regard. Part of Dick wishes they didn't recognize him so obviously. He wishes that he was just one of a million kids the man does this with, and that his guards would have to check him over critically each time because there would be no familiarity.
Instead, one of the men he passes even asks how his family is doing. They know him. And sadly, he knows each and every one of them, too.
Dick knocks. He's been told many times in the past that he doesn't have to, that he can just enter, but he never does. That feels too homey, too familiar, too peaceful. This is not his home, and he will knock and wait for the call to enter. This is not his room, no matter how often the man offers.
"Come in," the familiar, deep rasp calls. Dick steels himself, and pushes open the door.
Slade Wilson is standing by the window, the one Dick knows looks over a pretty beautiful garden on the other side of the compound, his hands folded behind his back. He doesn't even glance towards the door before he says, "Dick, you're later than expected; did you and Kaldur get into a debate again?"
Dick hates that he's right. He hates that this man knows him so well, knows him better than his family does, maybe even better than he knows himself. He hates how well this man can read him before he's even stepped through the door.
He doesn't feel the need to reply to the comment because he knows Slade doesn't really expect him to, simply steps further into the room and closes the door behind him.
After a moment, Slade turns to face him. His one eye flicks over Dick critically and then he raises an eyebrow. "What's our rule, little bird?"
Dick hates that he calls him that. And he hates him for this fucking rule.
His fingers don't shake as he reaches up to remove his mask, though he knows they want to. He tucks the domino into his bag and then sets it down by the table in the corner, taking the momentary distraction to breath and calm himself further before raising his naked gaze to the man.
He almost laughs at himself. The man. It's how he always thinks of Slade when not in this room, as if letting himself call him by his name even in his thoughts is like inviting the devil into places he shouldn't go.
He feels naked. He feels like he's giving up a piece of himself. And the worst part is that he knows Slade knows it.
"There are those baby blues," Slade murmurs appreciatively.
"Hi," Dick says softly, awkwardly, for lack of anything else.
Slade smiles, indulgent and amused and maybe even a little fond, though Dick ignores that just like every time before. The affection isn't real, or at least not worth putting faith in, and it's best to simply pretend he doesn't see it.
"Would you like food, information, or entertainment first?" Slade asks then, and Dick's breath catches, and he hates himself instantly.
Because it's never just the exchange that he gets when he comes to Slade. It's this, too. It's the fact that Slade offers him books to read and music to listen to and even fucking DVDs to watch, if he wants. It's the fact that he offers him information, on anything he wants.
It's how, five months ago, he learned that Alfred was still alive in England. Even got a message to him.
The connections Slade has...they're priceless.
And the weirdest thing of all, is that these parts of their interactions are always free.
"Music, please," Dick murmurs, and hates himself for asking for anything from this man, but he misses music and TV and stacks upon stacks of books. And Slade never asks for anything in return, at least not for these things. He stopped resisting it a long time ago.
Slade nods, looking satisfied, and heads over to the bookcase filled with CDs and records. "What are you in the mood for?"
Dick makes his way over to one of the armchairs and sits down, letting out a quiet breath at how soft it is. Even after months of coming here, it still manages to catch him by surprise.
"Anything," he replies. The world is so quiet nowadays. He doesn't care what Slade plays, only that it's something.
Soon, there's the crackle of a record player, and then an instrumental version of something starts to play.
He cracks a smile when he recognizes it.
"How can you possibly have that on a record?" he asks with a soft laugh, shaking his head.
Slade sits down in the other armchair, directly across from Dick, a small coffee table between them.
"The world went through a phase where everything was put on records, even stupid pop songs like this," Slade tells him dryly. "I knew someone who worked at the record company and they had a bunch of pretty good instrumental versions of some of their hits; they put it on a record for me some years back, before all this. And I know you like piano..."
He does. He really does, actually, and listening to stupid early 2000s pop music in that instrument is oddly comforting. He used to play, actually. There was a giant piano in the manor, and he used to spend hours teaching himself, learning songs, creating melodies...
It's buried in a pile of rubble now, with the rest of his belongings.
They sit in silence for the next twenty minutes, just listening to the music and the faint sounds from far below them outside, and Dick hates how comfortable it feels.
This isn't a man to get comfortable around. This man is a dangerous one, and if he lets himself forget it for even one second, then he loses another piece of himself.
He's already lost so much, out in the world and right in this room; he doesn't want to lose any more.
But he's so tired of fighting, of keeping his guard up. Everywhere he goes, even with his family around the Cave—he can never truly relax, never truly settle. Slade has spent the last year and a half offering him just that, and with each meeting it gets harder and harder to leave.
He knows that's the point.
He knows that he can't let it work.
"How's Rose?" Dick asks, simply to distract himself.
Slade snorts. "My daughter is..." He shakes his head, one corner of his lips tilting up. "She still lacks focus and control; she almost got her team killed last week because of sloppy work, I'm just..." He sighs, and then glances sidelong at Dick. "She could learn a thing or two from you."
And see, something Dick had to figure out very early on is that part of Slade's effectiveness is using the truth to his own gains. He does respect Dick's skill and abilities. He does believe that Rose could do with some extra training. But he's not saying it to be kind or truthful; he's saying it to get under Dick's skin, just like everything else he does.
He's saying it so that when Dick goes back home and remembers his friends treating him as slightly less-than at the very beginning of all of this simply because of his age, he'll think about how Slade's respected his abilities since the beginning, how Slade still thinks him leagues above the rest.
Everything's a manipulation with this man. Dick's so tired of it.
He plays the game anyway.
"Many could," Dick quips with a small, teasing grin.
"That reminds me," Slade says distractedly, "Lawrence was wondering after his daughter."
Liar. Dick barely keeps himself from laughing outright. Lawrence Crock couldn't give less of a shit about Artemis' wellbeing, only how useful she could be to him.
"She's good," Dick says immediately, because not answering isn't an option, not if he wants the supplies at the end of this, not if he wants to abide by the various rules Slade laid out long ago. "She's become a really great hunter," he adds, because he has to say something but he's certainly not going to share anything personal about his friend.
"I'll be sure to tell him," Slade replies, a sparkle in his eye that shows that he knows what Dick's thinking. He always does, the fucking bastard.
There's a knock on the door, then, and annoyance flashes briefly across Slade's face before he calls for whoever it is to enter.
The person who comes in is one Dick knows by name, and actually knows well; William Wintergreen is Slade's right-hand man and—if the gossip is to be believed—also acts as something of the man's moral compass.
Dick likes Wintergreen. He reminds him so strongly of Alfred that it's almost painful.
"William," Slade acknowledges, the softness of his voice the only sign of his fondness for the elder man. "What is it?"
"Adamson just returned with the item you requested," Wintergreen responds, inclining his head in a small gesture of respect. He offers Dick a kind smile, too.
Slade hums, pleased. "Very good. Bring it in, if you would."
Wintergreen departs, and Dick raises an eyebrow at Slade, curious. The man doesn't respond, simply smirks, and neither of them say anything until Wintergreen returns with a large, sleek black case. He hands it to Slade—who murmurs a quiet Thank you—and then departs again, the door clicking shut behind him.
Dick is curious about whatever is in that case, but he doesn't want to ask. There's a high likelihood that this is some attempt by Slade to get Dick invested in something at the compound; it wouldn't be the first time he tried something like this, and probably wouldn't be the last. Dick doesn't want to get invested in anything Slade has to offer. He's tangled up here enough already.
After a moment, Slade extends the case towards Dick. Dick stares at it. Slade quirks a smile.
"Well?" the man asks, sounding amused, almost close to a taunt. "Are you going to take it?"
Dick purses his lips and reaches out to take the offered item. Does this have a cost attached? he wonders. Will you ask for something in return?
The case is held closed by three clasps and he slowly undoes them before lifting the lid, taking a peek inside. What he sees makes his breath catch and he opens it the rest of the way, his eyes wide and his lips parted.
Inside the case, held carefully in place by foam, are two escrima sticks. And, frankly, they look expensive. Made up of shining black metal with silver bottoms, they look like they were made for world-famous fighters. The ones he already owns are certainly fantastic, the wood sturdy and well-taken care of, but these are...almost otherworldly.
"Oh," Dick says faintly, unable to tear his eyes away. "Wow, these are—wow."
He can feel Slade's eyes on him, feel the man's smug smile. He hates that Slade has done something like this, has given him something so amazing, given him something that Dick wants. It's what Slade always does; gives him what he needs and wants and show him how nice life here could be, if he only said yes—
"They also both have a taser that is activated in the grips, and they connect and extend in order to form a bo staff," Slade tells him. "I know that tends to be your secondary weapon, and I thought having both readily available would be nice."
Dick pauses. He still doesn't look up; he doesn't want to see Slade's expression, doesn't want to meet his eyes. "Did you have these made for me?"
"Of course," Slade purrs. "Every time you come here your escrima sticks are more and more damaged; still solid, of course, but I thought with the amount of fights you end up getting yourself into..." He trails off, but he's already made his point.
"Thank you," Dick says softly. He runs a hand delicately over the metal. "They're...amazing." He raises his eyes now, meeting Slade's gaze.
"You're very welcome, Dick," Slade says, inclining his head. A smiling is tugging at his lips, pleased and smug, and the look in his eye is intense. "I hope they serve you well."
How will I explain this to my friends? Dick wonders; they'll surely notice an addition such as these, clearly brand new and expensive. How the hell did Slade even get these? There's maybe...what? One or two factories still making things across all of North America?
Well, it shouldn't surprise Dick to know that Slade has easy access to one of them. Maybe he even runs it. Actually, that sounds very likely.
Dick clears his throat; he can't let himself get swept away in this. Slade is manipulative and cunning and has made it very clear that he wants Dick to stay; he can't let himself buy into everything here. He can't let himself indulge in the idea of what his life would be like.
He has people counting on him. And the price of staying...He can't lose any more of himself than he already has.
"The list," Dick blurts out, trying to get his mind away from all of that. He closes the case, shutting each of the latches, and then sets it on the ground. "You gave me a list of things you were offering." He pauses. "It's very generous."
Slade's eyes flick down to the case thoughtfully, and then back to Dick's face. "It is," he agrees, dipping his chin. "Winter is almost here, and there's quite a lot that your family needs to make it through safely. I can always be generous, little bird."
The reference to his family isn't accidental; it's a reminder of all Dick has to lose, all he's fighting for. It's a reminder of why he's here at all.
"Of course," Dick replies. He makes himself smile, small and grateful. Slade's eye sparks; he knows it's fake, but he appreciates the effort. He always does. "I'm very thankful for all the help you've given us."
Slade simply smiles as him. And because of the number of things the man's offering this time, because of how much Dick needs them, the price is certainly high. He knew that back when he found the letter earlier. He accepted it. Now he just has to follow through.
Dick gets fluidly to his feet and moves around the coffee table towards Slade. The man watches him come calmly, lips quirked and eyebrow raised.
He's proud, Dick knows; like an owner whose dog is doing a neat trick. In the beginning, Dick certainly hadn't been able to take this initiative, to do what he needed to do. In the beginning, Dick remembers a lot of shaking on his part and cajoling on Slade's.
Now, like a trained pet, Dick knows how this works.
He swings a leg over Slade's thighs and straddles his lap, then wraps his arms around the back of the man's neck. He doesn't flinch or hesitate, just leans in and kisses Slade.
One more thing Dick hates about this whole fucked-up arrangement of theirs—Slade always makes it good for him. When the man picks him up and takes him to bed, it's never selfish or cruel. He always worships Dick's body, like it's important to him.
Dick's pretty sure that part's not a manipulation. He's pretty sure that's just a side effect of a fucked-up mind, just like all the rest of this. Slade wants him, all of him. And, the worst part, is that he wants Dick to want him, too.
Though he certainly has no problem settling for this being coerced and not exactly consensual. Dick will never forget how hard Slade got in the beginning when confronted with Dick's anxiety and resistance.
When everything finishes, Slade gets a wet towel and wipes them both down. They both pretend that Dick's hands aren't shaking, just a little bit. They both pretend for a moment that Slade isn't thinking about simply tying him down to keep him there, to make sure he stays, consent be damned.
And Dick pretends that he doesn't wish this was different, that he could actually be safe here, that he could take care of his family by bringing them here. He pretends that he doesn't want this security, pretends that he's not tired, pretends that he doesn't worry that he's broken.
He pretends that being around Slade doesn't make him miss Bruce with everything he has.
"Pasta or pizza?" Slade asks. He looks calm and unbothered, like he didn't just spend fifteen minutes fucking a sixteen-year-old boy, like both of them aren't stark naked.
"Pizza," Dick sighs. He just wants to leave, but he can't. This is one of the rules—he has to stay for a meal.
They eat in silence for a little while, the music playing faintly in the background. Dick's eyelids are drooping and he leans back against the pillows, hating himself for absolutely loving the pizza Slade's giving him—he hasn't had freshly made pizza in years.
Someone knocks, making Dick jerk upright.
"Enter," Slade calls in a bored tone, making Dick gape.
"We are naked," Dick hisses in outrage. Slade simply grins and doesn't respond, turning to see who is entering.
And now Dick is gaping for an entirely different reason, because that's...that's Roy Harper. Speedy. His friend.
Roy's eyes slide over him, looking amused by the young teen sitting next to Slade, both of them completely devoid of clothing. Dick is briefly terrified that Roy recognizes him somehow, that he's about to have his secret revealed, but—no. Roy never saw his face. He doesn't know that this black-haired teen is anyone special.
"Jade and I were successful," Roy tells Slade, keeping it vague in front of someone he doesn't know.
Since when are you working for Slade? Dick wants to scream. What happened to you after you left us?
"That's very good," Slade says approvingly. "I have your payment." He glances at Dick, and Dick can see the amusement in his eye. "Little bird, would you grab the white envelope from my desk, please?"
Dick withholds a sneer and gets silently to his feet, not letting any recognition show in his face. On top of a pile of folders is a thick white envelope, held closed by a rubber band. He tosses it to Slade and leans back against the desk, giving off an unbothered air.
Roy's eyes run over his naked body, a slight purse to his lips, before looking back to Slade, raising an expectant eyebrow.
Slade flips through the envelope, clearly counting the money, and then holds it out, offering it to Roy. Roy purses his lips and then starts forward, taking it from the older man.
"Thanks," he says shortly, and shoves it into the small bag slung across his back. They must've confiscated his quiver and arrows, the way they took Dick's escrima sticks. "Pleasure doing business with you."
He heads for the door. He makes it as far as putting his hand on the knob before Slade calls out to him. "Oh, Harper?"
Roy pauses. Dick wants to scream at him to go, but the archer won't; he clearly has a business arrangement going on with Slade, and he isn't going to ruin it by storming out.
"Yeah?" Roy asks, turning back around. His expression is guarded.
"I have a job for you, low-risk. Interested?" Slade asks, raising his eyebrows. Dick crosses his arms, suddenly feeling anxious. What is this about?
"Sure," Roy says hesitantly. His eyes flick to Dick momentarily. "What's the job?"
Slade looks at Dick. "Little bird, the green folder, if you would?"
Dick doesn't appreciate that he's being ordered about at the moment, but Slade hasn't used his name, which he could easily do. He could so easily call him Robin. But he hasn't, and as long as Dick plays along, he won't.
So, Dick turns back to the desk and shuffles through the folders until he finds the green one, then brings it over to where Slade is lounging.
"Who's the kid?" Roy asks as Slade flips idly through the folder. Dick withholds a frown; Roy is only three years older than him.
Slade snorts. "Hardly a kid," he says, and Dick hates that he appreciates it. "If you're not a kid, Speedy, then neither is he."
Dick freezes, and Roy startles, tenses, and narrows his eyes. "How do you know that name?"
"I know a lot of things," Slade says with a smirk. Then he looks up from the folder and holds out three pieces of paper. Dick can't see what they say, but there's definitely a lot on them. "Your job, if you're up for it."
Roy stares for another few moments, not a fan of the new imbalance Slade has just presented; Speedy was the name Roy used with them, not something Slade should know to identify. Wouldn't know, if not for his obsession with Dick, an obsession that drove him to know everything about the boy's life.
"What is it?" Roy asks. He walks forward but doesn't reach for the offered papers.
"Why don't you take these and find out?" Slade taunts, wiggling the papers in the air.
For a moment it looks like Roy isn't going to, but then he starts forward and snatches them, eyes scanning the pages. Then, he laughs. "You're joking, right?"
"Most definitely not," Slade says smoothly. "Why? Don't think you can do it?"
Dick curses internally; pride's always been Roy's fatal flaw, and it isn't hard to figure that out. Slade certainly has, and he's using it to his advantage. Slade always uses the things he knows to his advantage.
"Of course I can," Roy scoffs, but his eyes are narrowed. He folds the sheets of paper and tucks them into his bag with the envelope of money. "I'll let you know when it's done." Then he offers a sloppy, two-fingered salute and strides from the room.
There's a moment of tense silence. Then Slade says, "Ask, Dick."
"Since when is Roy working for you?" Dick demands.
Slade puts on an expression of mock surprise. "Oh, do you know him? I had no idea." When Dick doesn't calm, Slade sighs and shakes his head. "Harper is a survivor, and he knows that I am the best way to stay alive." He gives Dick a brief, pointed look. "He and his girl—Artemis' sister, actually—do jobs for me from time to time in order to help them and their little girl."
Dick's next words die in his throat.
"Roy has a daughter?" he asks, eyes a little wide.
Slade nods. "He does. Her name is Lian; she's just about a year old." Dick opens his mouth again but Slade shakes his head. "No more questions, little bird; come finish your food, and then you can head out."
Dick briefly considers protesting, but that would be stupid; he needs to put his old friend out of his mind and focus at the people he still needs to take care of back at the Cave. Roy's clearly doing what he has to in order to protect his family—it's something Dick can understand.
"Of course," he says instead of more questions, and settles back onto the bed next to Slade. They finish their food in silence that's no longer easy and comfortable (thank fucking god), Dick's mind moving too quickly now.
Slade chuckles about something but doesn't explain when Dick glances at him.
"Samuel will have everything ready for you down in the courtyard," Slade says as Dick gets dressed ten minutes later. "Don't forget your gift, by the way." He nods towards the case, still on the ground next to the armchair.
Dick hesitates, and then picks it up carefully, almost reverently. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Slade smile.
"Thank you again," Dick says softly.
"You're very welcome, Dick," Slade tells him graciously, inclining his head. "Would you like to use the shower before you go?"
In this moment, Dick feels like screaming. Because yes, he wants to use the shower. He wants to scrub his skin red, burn off the feeling of Slade's touch, try to erase the memory of what he did here today. It isn't rape, what he and Slade do, but it certainly isn't something he would normally consent to, either.
Dick does this for his family. And he hates that if they truly understood what he was doing, they would probably look at him with disgust.
He also hates that, on the other side of everything, he simply wants to take a shower. He wants to have access to an elevator and eat oranges and have freshly made pizza. He wants to sleep in a big, actual bed and not worry each day about if he's going to survive. He wants to let Slade take care of him. He's so tired of fighting.
Once, about a year ago, Slade managed to convince him to drink quite a bit. And when they were both tipsy—Slade certainly less than Dick—the man told him that if he stayed, if he remained at the compound as a permanent resident, then he could dictate any physical contact that they had.
'I just want you here, little bird,' he'd said. 'Stay, and pick what you want.' And Dick had known that somehow, he actually meant it.
He'd been so tempted. Because that was the perfect deal, wasn't it? Safety and security and a home and Slade's company but no necessary touching, none of this deal that they have.
But he couldn't trust it, and he knows it. He does. He can't stay, not with everyone counting on him. He can't stay, unsure whether or not Slade would eventually push for more.
"No, thank you," he says, voice barely more than a whisper, and then leaves quickly before Slade can say anything else to make him hate himself for wanting.
They have a small cart that they attach to the back of his motorcycle, filled with all of the items Slade promised him, supplies they really need and items that will make their lives easier.
He has his domino mask back on, and it helps him regain a piece of his sense of self. It helps him put Slade behind him as he drives away, just a bit. Never enough, of course. Never enough.
About halfway back to the Cave, he pulls over.
He opens the case holding the escrima sticks Slade gave him and stares at them for a moment, debating chucking them into the bushes that line the road. Tossing them wouldn't help him, of course; it would be more petty and symbolic than anything else. Because he knows, now, that whenever he uses them he'll think about how Slade gave them to him, how Slade gave him something that is keeping him safe.
He doesn't want to have to be grateful about that. He's already grateful for enough of that man's gifts.
"Don't be childish," Dick mutters. "Don't be stupid."
He removes the new escrima sticks from the case and then freezes. They are...perfectly balanced. As in, exactly the same as his wooden ones where it counts. Which means that somehow, Slade had had someone take down the specifications of his escrima sticks and simply create a better version.
It's...eerie.
Shaking himself from his surprise, Dick rests them on the motorcycle seat as he walks into the bushes and puts the now-empty case there; he doesn't need it, and frankly it looks pretty suspicious returning with.
Heading back to the bike, he pulls his wooden escrima sticks from their holders on his back and purses his lips, hesitating. These have served him well the past four years. But he can't put sentimentality ahead of efficiency—the metal ones are sturdier and of higher quality, and have the useful feature of becoming a bo staff. Plus, that electric current running through them that he can activate will certainly come in handy.
Dick tucks the wooden sticks into his pack and then slides the metal ones into the holder on his back. He hates to admit it, but he's looking forward to practicing with the new weapons.
Slowly he pulls back onto the road, heading towards the Cave. It's another three and a half hours before he reaches their home base, and for the last forty minutes he's praying that no one will be in the atrium, that he can get in, put the supplies away, and then slip off to his room to take a nap. He doesn't want to have to face anyone yet.
For the most part, he's successful. He thanks his lucky stars and quickly puts everything away where it's supposed to be. After a moment's hesitation, he grabs one of the bars of soap for himself—he figures since he's the one who brought all of this in, maybe he can get first use of the brand new items.
Dick turns around to head to his room and freezes. M'gann and Artemis are standing in the doorway, staring at him. M'gann looks concerned and surprised. Artemis looks the same, but far more muted and with far more suspicion.
He doesn't take it personally; Artemis tends to deal with all emotions rather defensively.
"Hi guys," Dick says awkwardly. "What's up?"
"Where did you get all of this, Robin?" M'gann asks, her brow furrowed in worry.
Dick wishes she wouldn't ask; they all know, or at least have some idea. This certainly isn't the first time he's returned with lots of supplies, nor the first they've confronted him. He really wishes they'd stop asking and simply be grateful.
"Was my lucky day," Dick mutters, and starts forward, intending to slip between them.
Simultaneously they step together, blocking the exit. Artemis has her arms crossed, eyes narrowed. M'gann puts a hand on his arm instinctively to halt him, and he flinches at the contact; he really doesn't want to be touched right now.
Of course, neither of the girls miss that motion.
"Robin—" M'gann begins, eyes bright with concern.
"It's nothing," Dick interrupts, offering his friend a smile. "I'm tired, though, so I think I'm gonna go to bed. You guys should claim one of the coats; they look really comfortable."
This time, they let him push past them when he tries, and Dick lets out a relieved breath. But his relief is short-lived as he hears them quietly follow him down the hall towards his room.
Dick sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes, but doesn't try to stop them.
Neither of them say anything as he starts emptying his bag, putting things away; he leaves the letter in there, though, with plans to burn it later.
He hears M'gann make a surprised noise when he starts to strip, and then a snort from Artemis. Maybe part of him hoped that would drive them from the room, but he should've known better; they're stubborn, and have known him for long enough to not be embarrassed by his lack of clothing as he changes.
"Alright, what?" Dick snaps after a little while, turning back around the face them in gym shorts and a t-shirt. And, of course, his mask.
"Those are new," Artemis comments, nodding to where he put the metal escrima sticks.
"Are they?" Dick answers vaguely, looking at the sticks in faint interest, and doesn't say anything else.
"Wally told us that you knew him," M'gann blurts out. "From before, I mean."
"M'gann," Artemis hisses, displeased.
Dick blinks at them. They already knew that he and Wally knew each other before the world went to shit. That's not news, so why are they acting like it is?
Then understanding dawns. They're saying that Wally told them someone else knew him before.
"Wally should keep his mouth shut," Dick mutters. He snatches the new escrima sticks and pushes past them again, heading out the door. Once again, they follow him, but he keeps his head high and heads for the room where they have a few dummies, targets, and punching bags set up. Their own mini training room.
Dick really likes this room; it takes him back to the early days of the revolution, when the Manor was still standing and Bruce was training him. The days when everything was tense but still felt like it was going to be okay. The days when Dick still had his dad.
He puts the sticks down on a bench and goes to work on a punching bag.
He's angry at Wally, and maybe he's even a little afraid. How did the topic even come up for them? Why did Wally tell his secret? Why wouldn't they leave him alone and be grateful for what he was doing for them? Because of him, they now would be perfectly fine for the next few months. So what if he had to let Slade fuck him? They were safe now, because of him. For the next few months they were safe.
"Robin, please talk to us," M'gann murmurs. "Just tell us what's going on."
Dick doesn't respond. He just keeps throwing punches.
After a moment, Artemis strides over and stands on the other side of the bag, bracing it for him. Her jaw is set in determination, and Dick knows this conversation is far from over.
Why now? He's been getting supplies from Slade here and there for the past year and a half—why do they suddenly want to talk about it?
"What does he ask for in return?" Artemis asks him. "All that shit you just brought back—that's insane. That'll take care of us for months. Slade Wilson isn't a generous man; so it's time you tell us the price you're paying."
"Your father sends his regards," Dick says, because he's feeling sharp.
The words surprise the archer and his next punch to the bag sends her stumbling back.
Artemis regains control quickly, though, and stands tall, fire in her eyes. "We are a team, Robin! A family! For three and a half years it has been the seven of us against the rest of the world—quite literally. You have to let us in, man. Whatever price you're paying, it's not worth it, it's—"
"Yes it is!" Dick yells back. He straightens, hands balled into fists at his sides. "Eleven months ago, Zatanna would've died from that stab wound without the medical supplies Slade gave me. Five months ago, Conner and Kaldur would've died of heat stroke when the car broke down in the goddamn desert if not for the cooling pads and flats of water Slade gave me. Don't you get it, Artemis? We do need his help! And the fact that he's willing to give it to me?" He laughs, a tinge of hysteria in his voice. "The price is worth it. We won't survive otherwise."
"Oh, Robin," M'gann murmurs sadly, shaking her head, but doesn't say anything else.
The room falls into tense silence.
"He knows your name, then?" Artemis asks after a while. Dick pretends not to hear the bitter edge to her voice. He has enough bitterness of his own; he doesn't want to deal with hers.
"Like Wally said," Dick sighs, "he knew me before."
"How?" M'gann asks. Dick doesn't reply. M'gann's brow crinkles, and then she declares, "Let's make cookies and brownies."
Dick and Artemis look at her incredulously as she strides away, heading in the direction of the kitchen. The pair of them glance at each other and then follow her, Dick sighing and Artemis rolling her eyes.
None of them say anything as M'gann goes about getting things to make cookies, improvising where they're lacking. Dick sits on the counter top and mixes what he's told. Artemis sits backwards on a chair at the table and does the same.
They both look worried, Dick notices. Artemis is hiding it better, but—he's their friend, and they're worried about him. They want him to be safe, the same way he wants them. They just want to help. They just want to understand.
Dick sighs, his eyes fixed on the floor. Here goes nothing. "My dad was a leader of the resistance."
Both girls startle and look at him, wide-eyed. They don't say anything, though, which Dick is grateful for. He continues.
"He was one of the three heads, and I mean the heads of it. I remember being in the background of so many meetings through the years, meeting the who's-who of the Most Wanted list. The identities were secret, though, so we continued to live our normal lives with no one the wiser." He glances at them briefly before lowering his eyes again. "It's how Wally knows me; his uncle Barry was a member of the resistance, and when Barry had to go underground for a bit, Wally stayed with me and my dad."
"And Slade?" M'gann asks quietly when Dick doesn't continue.
Dick purses his lips. "Slade was...a business man. An opportunist. He came to our home once for a large Christmas party, with his son. He didn't know who my dad really was, just thought he was an airheaded, rich socialite. Slade was...sharp and intelligent, and by the end of the night he was suspicious."
"Of your dad," Artemis extrapolates, nodding.
But Dick shakes his head, smiling crookedly, ruefully. "Not at all, actually. My dad had been doing this a while, and Slade left that night 100% sure that he was a stupid playboy, easily controlled but not a strong ally. No, he was suspicious of me."
Both girls stare at him. Neither of them ask for more information, but they clearly want it. And since Dick is apparently in a sharing mood, he explains.
"I was only nine when this happened. My dad was training me, because he knew the world was a dangerous place and he wanted me to be ready. And since I was just a kid, I got bored during the party, antsy under all the attention from my dad's many rich guests. I snuck off to the balcony with a couple throwing knives. I was just practicing, making up targets and then hitting them. Slade found me there."
Dick purses his lips. "It was...I was afraid, at first. My dad and I were so careful to never show any signs of being something other than a random pair of rich people, and suddenly I was being seen throwing actual daggers with precision. But Slade didn't look angry; instead, he looked delighted. He walked closer and said 'Careful to not let your daddy see you doing that; he doesn't seem the type to be happy that his son wants to do something useful and join the revolution."
"Shit," Artemis chuckles, shaking her head.
Dick snorts his agreement. "I was absolutely stunned. I stuttered out a denial, of course, but he didn't buy it. You're not just having fun, kid, he'd said; you're throwing with focus. You have a target in mind, and it's not that statue." Dick's lips twitch. "He then told me to be careful, that the govs were looking for any excuse to make an example of someone; a billionaire's son would certainly be a good target. He said if I ever wanted to fight for someone with a brain, that I should look for him."
"And how did he find you again?" M'gann asks. "He couldn't've kept track of your through the riots and collapse of everything, there's no way."
Dick shrugs a shoulder. "Before we all found each other, I ended up traveling with Slade's son for a bit. Joey was actually a really sweet kid, just about a year older than me, and in the fall of Gotham we both lost contact with our fathers, not even knowing if they were alive." He purses his lips. "Joey found his dad eventually. I didn't.
"Anyways, Joey probably told Slade about the trained kid he'd been traveling with, but with everything in so much chaos, they couldn't track me down immediately. I found you guys and we became a team. About two years ago we fought against some of Slade's men, remember? Well through them, Slade managed to track us—me—down after a couple months. He offered me a simple deal. I accepted."
The room falls silent again.
He can see that they have many questions, so much that they want to ask him about the arrangement and what he's giving up, about his life before all this. But they hold back, and for that Dick is immensely grateful.
"What happened to Joey?" M'gann asks instead.
Dick smiles. "He's alive. He got pretty badly injured—his vocal cords were cut, and he can't speak anymore, but other than that he's okay. Split from Slade about a year ago, actually." His smile fades. "He learned what his dad was doing, and he didn't approve." He clears his throat. "Anyway, Joey's a sweet person. Slade's other son, not so much. His daughter's mostly obsessive, not actually evil. So, at least he got a wide spectrum in the genetic output."
M'gann cracks a smile and Artemis snorts. They're trying really hard to act unbothered by this. He appreciates it more than they possibly know.
"Your sister has a daughter, by the way," Dick says softly.
Artemis startles, her lips parting. "What?"
Dick nods. "Her name's Lian, she's just about a year old."
"Did you—did you meet her?" Artemis asks. Her tone is a demand, but her voice cracks halfway through.
"No," Dick says, shaking her head. "But..." He wets his lips. "The father's Roy."
"Speedy?" M'gann exclaims incredulously.
Dick nods. "The very same. I saw him today. He's doing some jobs for Slade, simply trying to earn money for Jade and his daughter. He didn't know who I was," he adds.
"You weren't wearing your mask," M'gann marvels.
"...No," Dick admits quietly. "It's...I'm not allowed to while I'm there." He shrugs a shoulder, like it's no big deal. "But, yeah. Roy has a kid. With your sister, Jade. If I, uh, learn anything more, I'll definitely tell you."
Artemis nods mutely, staring at the wall. "Right. Thanks, Robin."
Silence, once more, falls.
Dick wants to go to bed. No, he wants a shower. Or at least a bath. As long as it's scalding hot. He wants to leave all of this behind. He wants to have Bruce and Alfred and his life back. He doesn't want to keep going to Slade, letting him—
M'gann places her hand on top of his in what is meant to be a comforting gesture, but it makes Dick flinch, like before.
"Robin—" M'gann begins, sounding heartbroken, as she quickly pulls away.
"I just need sleep," Dick interrupts. He gets to his feet and doesn't look at either of them. "I just need sleep, and then I'll be back to normal."
He slips out of the room before they can say anything else.
The next few weeks pass uneventfully.
Kaldur, when he sees the new supplies, gives Dick a long look and quietly says, "A fruitful outing, then." He doesn't comment otherwise, and Dick is grateful.
Wally bites his lips nervously, his eyes flitting around to each of his friends, but doesn't say anything. Conner clenches his jaw and shares a look with M'gann. Zatanna briefly puts her hand on Dick's arm (this time he doesn't flinch) and says, "I hope you know we're here."
Other than that, none of them react to the supplies they now have, supplies that will truly save their lives. The air is starting to chill, the ground is starting to freeze. The coats, blankets, food, and a million other things that Slade has given Dick—this is their safety for the winter months.
Dick practices with his new escrima sticks and hates how much he loves them. They are perfectly weighted, steady in his grip, and stable when connected and extended to form a bo staff. They also somehow have a bit more bounce to them, making them come back harder when hitting a wall.
He spends hours practicing that, and has to admit that it makes him a little giddy when he perfects catching them while in a flip or jump.
A month passes, then another, and another. They all spend a majority of their time inside, doing their best to avoid the terrible chill (made easier by the packets of insulator Slade somehow fucking gave him), and Dick is grateful when spring comes around, feeling antsy.
When it warms, Artemis starts teaching Wally to use a bow. Dick doesn't think he's laughed that hard in years, and he can tell that his other friends feel the same. Wally takes it all in good fun, probably just as relieved to have something light in their lives when surrounded by so much darkness.
It's three months after Dick got the supplies that he finds the hidden item.
He's taking stock of the cans of food they have, sorting the things they have left into categories. He pulls everything out of one of the boxes and tosses it away for the moment. Something clatters inside; Dick frowns and walks over, examining it. That's when he sees the small false panel, and he slowly pries it open, his eyes going wide.
Inside a small little area is an iPod, headphones, a charging cord and base, a portable charger, and a charging cord for that as well. There's also a folded up piece of paper with it.
Dick's fingers most certainly do not shake when he reaches for it and unfolds it.
Little bird—
I know you think the world is too quiet nowadays, and miss music. This was a bitch to get working and filled, but I think you'll find it to your liking. 5,000 songs, ranging from that stupid pop shit you like to rock&roll to classical. The portable charger can do 5 full charges before it dies; hope it serves you well.
See you next time.
There was no need to sign it; there's no way Dick could ever mistake who this is from.
Why does he know him so well? When did Dick get in so deep that Slade so offhandedly recognizes one of Dick's deep truths right now, that the silence of the world these days is almost screamingly intense and Dick can barely stand it. He misses the ever-present noise of Gotham, or Metropolis, or Central City. He misses the sounds of life or civilization or even fucking people in general.
Hell, at this point Dick would probably be grateful for nothing more than one track on this iPod—the honking of cars, the screeching of traffic. He could listen to that for hours.
Dick's hand is tight around the iPod as he picks it up. This gift is...just as spectacular as the escrima sticks. 5,000 songs? This will bring him such peace. Trips out can take hours and hours; being able to listen to music during them is going to be so phenomenal. And then when training—he used to love listening to music when training.
"Why can't you leave me alone?" Dick whispers, staring down at the device hatefully. "Why do you keep doing this?"
And why hide it away this time? Slade has always loved watching Dick receive the big gifts, the ones he knows will hit Dick the hardest. But hiding it away in a box of supplies? That's such an odd decision. He must've known that Dick wouldn't notice it for a while, not until their supplies were running low and the rattle in the crate was noticeable.
Or...maybe that's the point. He knew Dick wouldn't find it for a while; maybe that was purposeful. Maybe it's a way of bringing Dick's attention back around to him, another long-distance way for Slade to remind the boy of what he has to offer.
If that was the point, it's certainly effective.
"Bastard," Dick mutters, and then tucks the new items into the pocket of his hoodie, trying to put them out of his mind for a little while and get back to his task.
Another month passes, life going normally. Zatanna and Artemis return from a trip with buckets of supplies and grim faces—apparently they came across a group of people, all dead.
Taking from corpses is never pleasant, but always necessary.
Conner and M'gann find a set of walkie-talkies in an abandoned police vehicle. All of them grin, overjoyed; these items will make communicating on trips and missions so much easier.
And they really do. It also makes it easier to just go out for short periods simply if they needed a break, because they can be called back quickly if they're needed.
It's because of the walkie-talkies that they learn what happens to Kaldur and Wally.
The pair went out and, a few hours later, send a panicked message over the walkie.
"—Under attack, need help—!" comes Wally's panicked voice.
"Where are you?" Artemis demands, diving for the device. "Tell us your location!"
In the background, Conner and Dick are racing to get their bikes started to they can leave immediately.
"Past the bridge, down the dirt road," Kaldur tells them. He's panting. There's gunfire in the background, and a scream. "We are too far," he adds, something they all know; the bridge is at least an hour and a half away from the Cave. There's no way any of them will get there in time to help.
That doesn't stop them, of course.
"We're on our way," Artemis says firmly, throwing her leg over her bike; Zatanna slides on behind her. "Fucking run, okay? We're coming!"
"—Fuck—!" Wally cries out, and distantly you can hear Kaldur shout, and then static.
None of them say anything as they drive. They all feel panicked, are all scared out of their minds. They've all lost far too many people, and the idea of losing two of their friends—their family—is a horrifying thought.
Dick knows they're all running the possible outcomes in their minds. Depending on what group attacked Kaldur and Wally, their status will be very different. Some groups kidnap for forced labor or human trafficking. Some groups kill for fun and steal people's shit. Some still believe in the ideals of the govs and try to fight the Good Fight, and will thus treat Kaldur and Wally as rebels to be taken down.
Out of every possible outcome, that third one is the worst to think about. Govs mean pain and imprisonment and probable death. Govs mean it's practically impossible to get them back.
It's obvious when they reach the place it all happened. There are bike and tire tracks, a few bullet casings, and even—pushed off to the side of the road—a dead woman.
The uniform she wears is unmistakable.
"Govs," Conner murmurs.
"No!" Artemis shouts, purely denial. Her eyes are wide and wet beneath her green mask. "No, she must've just—just stolen some clothes, right? This wasn't—they weren't—they can't be gone!"
Dick hates that the world is so calm when he feels like his is crumbling. Kaldur and Wally—they're his family. He's known Wally since he was ten, the redhead only two years older; such an amazing human being. And Kaldur has never been anything except an exemplary leader and brother, always taking care of them and being there for them.
They can't just...be gone. They can't be out there being treated as criminals, as rebels simply because they don't support the fucking "Great Cause", just because they don't wear the colors of an oppressive government that doesn't even stand anymore. It's fucking ridiculous that they don't stand a chance.
Because they truly don't. The five of them against an extremely well-organized, well-armed militia? Five of them against all of that, and breaking into what used to be a government base? They'll all end up in cells if they even try. They simply don't have the man power.
But...
Dick turns on his heels, heading back for his bike. He hears M'gann call his name, and then Zatanna ask where he's going. He can feel Artemis' eyes on him and Conner's confused glare. He doesn't stop, though. He gets on his bike and he drives, leaving them all behind.
This drive is going to take him at least seven hours, so he needs to get going. His knuckles are white against the handlebars and he hears a faint ringing in his ears. He doesn't even know if this'll work. He doesn't know what it'll cost him if it does.
With jerky movements, he pulls out the iPod. He's scared and angry and even grieving a little bit; the music, when he jams the earbuds in, helps to calm him, or at least helps to drown out his racing mind.
About three hours into his ride, he hears his walkie-talkie crackle to life, M'gann's worried voice coming through. He switches it off immediately; he doesn't want to hear whatever it is she has to say.
When he arrives, the guards atop the gates immediately call for him to be let in, just like every time before. He drives quickly to the doors of the main compound and comes to a sharp stop, hopping off his bike.
One of the guards at the door—one Dick recognizes at Samuel, one of Slade's higher-ranking men—frowns at him and walks forward.
"Hey, Rob. We weren't expecting you," he says. His tone isn't unfriendly or hostile. Just surprised. Confused. Maybe even a little worried.
"I know," Dick replies curtly. He removes the escrima sticks from his back and offers them and the keys to Samuel—he wants to speed this along. He needs to get inside as soon as possible.
Samuel's eyebrows shoot up and he accepts the items, passing them off to another guard. He pats Dick down quickly, definitely sensing the boy's urgency, and then straightens. "Okay, follow me."
The man leads Dick to Slade's study; Dick's only been there once or twice, most of their meetings being confined to that one room, so usually this would be Dick's occasion to explore, but not now. Now, all Dick can focus on is the screams of his friends over the walkie-talkie and the pounding in his heart.
Samuel knocks when they get there, and Slade's familiar timber calls for them to enter. The man glances up from his desk when they do, and pleased surprise flits briefly across his face before he sees something in Dick's expression, his own shuttering in response.
"Leave us," he commands, getting to his feet, and Samuel doesn't hesitate to do so, shutting the door behind himself. Slade begins moving around the desk. "Dick—"
"I need your help," Dick blurts out, unable to stop himself. Times for playing the game have passed; now, he needs to save his friends.
Slade pauses at the shaking of the boy's voice, the same tremble in his hands. He's never seen Dick like this. "Alright," he says carefully, "what happened?"
"Govs took Kaldur and Wally," Dick tells him. His voice is still shaking and his words are rushed. He feels his breaths quickening. Panic is going to take over soon, he knows it. "They were—we were only a few hours away, but they got 'em. I can't leave them there, Slade. I-I can't. And we can't do it by ourselves, we don't have the firepower or the manpower. I need your help."
"What do you want me to do, Dick?" Slade asks him gently. "Gov compounds are old military bases and heavily fortified; my men and I work very hard to avoid those hot spots, not purposefully attack them. I don't want to put my people at risk for a couple kids."
"I'll do anything," Dick says desperately, and he means it. He came here knowing what he was asking, knowing that it would likely cost Slade's people their lives. He came here knowing that he will have to pay a large price himself.
Dick rips off his mask and strides forward. His desperation, his fear, and anger—he's sure it's all crystal clear. "I'll do anything," he says again, pleading. "Anything you want, Slade, please, anything—" He reaches up, pressing at Slade's chest and then cupping his neck and then cheeks. His hands are still shaking; he can't keep them still.
"Dick—" Slade starts softly. He lifts his hands and grabs Dick's own, but doesn't try to remove them yet. The look in his eyes is kinder than Dick's ever seen from this man.
"I mean it," Dick pleads. "I—"
"I know you do," Slade interrupts. "I know, little bird, but—"
"I'll stay!" Dick exclaims, and his eyes go wide. He's taken himself by surprise. And, going by the way Slade freezes, his lips parting, he's been surprised, too.
Even more surprising, though, is that Dick finds he actually means it. If at the end of the day it saves Kaldur and Wally—and even all the other prisoners in the gov compound—then why the hell would he do anything except promise anything?
"I'll stay," he repeats, more firmly. He tries to sound calmer. "Here, with you. If you—if you help me save my friends and get them back alive, then I will stay here, for as long as you want me. That's what this is always about, right? Well, I'm here and I'm not going anywhere, if you save Wally and Kaldur from the govs."
Slade stares at him for a long moment, examining him. Dick wonders if this will be enough, if Slade wants him badly enough to sacrifice the lives of his men, possibly many of them. After almost two years of this shitshow, Dick really fucking hopes so.
"...Okay," Slade says eventually, and Dick's breath catches.
"Really?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," Slade says, nodding. He releases his grip on Dick's wrists and strokes a hand through the boy's hair. "You stay at the compound, work for me, don't attempt to undermine my operations, stay at my side, keep me company—if you agree to be loyal, then yes, I'll stage an assault on the gov base. I'll get Wally and Kaldur out safely and back to the Cave."
"Thank you," Dick breathes, eyes wide. "Slade, thank you—"
"But Dick," Slade interrupts, "I need you to look me in the eye and swear to keep up your end of the bargain. Because it would be ever-so-easy for you to just run with your friends and find a new home far away from here, once the two boys are free."
"You know me, Slade," Dick says. "Better than just about anyone, actually. When I make a promise, I keep it; I'm true to my word, you know that. I swear to you that if you get Wally and Kaldur to safety, I will stay with you. I understand the gravity of this; you're agreeing to save the lives of my friends, likely at cost to your people. I won't back down from something this important, I swear it."
Once more, Slade stares at him for a while, watching him carefully, looking for any sign of a lie. But he does know Dick very well, somehow better than his best friends, and he knows Dick would never break his word, let alone for something this big.
"Then okay," Slade says, dipping his chin. "I'll talk to my men; we'll make a plan. Wally and Kaldur will be safe, Dick. We'll save them."
Tears prick Dick's eyes, the air going out of his lungs in a rush. This is...he hadn't been sure whether or not Slade would agree. This is incredible. And though he's anxious and even a little afraid about what he's giving up, he knows it's worth it. It's the same kind of deal he's been making with Slade from the beginning, simply bigger. He'll always sacrifice himself to save the people he cares about.
"Thank you," Dick whispers. His eyes slide shut and he presses his forehead against Slade's chest. "Christ, Slade, thank you."
Slade wraps his arms around Dick, pulling him into a tight hug and stroking his hair. It's...comforting, actually. Dick's always been a tactile person, and physical contact has always been so important to him. Slade right now isn't pressing for anything, he's just holding Dick, and fuck if Dick hasn't missed this, missed an authority figure just comforting him.
He hates how perverted this all is. He hates that he's now bound to Slade, that Slade is the man he's seeking comfort from. It makes Dick seriously fucking miss Bruce.
"It's alright," Slade murmurs softly. "I've got you, little bird. Everything's going to be alright. We'll get your friends out safely." He presses a kiss to the crown of Dick's head and then starts to pull away. "Go up to the room, little bird; I have planning to do."
Dick nods numbly and steps back. "Right, of course. I'll see you later?"
Slade nods back. "Take a shower, eat something, try to get some rest; I'll come get you when things are more set in stone, alright?"
"Alright," Dick says. He bends down to scoop up his mask. "Thank you," he says again, because he doesn't think he can say it enough, and then heads out the door.