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Dick stayed pressed up against the bars, trying to fiddle with the lock. Unfortunately, it was electronic, so lockpicks weren't going to work. Also unfortunately, it was designed to deliver shocks, so Dick had to grit his teeth against painful jolts as he attempted to pry open the keypad.
Damian made a choked sound, and Tim shushed him. Dick paused for a moment to look at them—Tim was sitting in the center of the cage, Damian's head resting in his lap. His broken fingers wouldn't be of much help trying to open the lock. Damian had one hand wrapped around Tim's wrist, the other pressed flat to the ground as he stared at the ceiling. At least the blood dripping from his ears seemed to have dried. Jason was next to Damian, still and unmoving. They'd given him the highest dose of the drug, and Dick had counted his heartbeats frantically before he could be convinced that Jason wasn't overdosing.
"How's it going?" Tim asked quietly, as though they both didn't know the answer to the question.
Dick forced a smile to his face. "Getting there," he chirped, wincing as the lock jolted again. They didn't have the luxury of waiting for backup—Bruce was off-planet, and anyone else would be too late. The auction would be starting soon, and they'd be separated, and the very worst of criminal scum would get their hands on Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin.
They needed to get out of here, whatever it took.
Footsteps sounded in the large storeroom, and Dick pressed back, shifting until he was blocking Damian from view. Tim's free hand gripped his elbow in a wordless reassurance before going back to brushing the hair out of Damian's face.
Dick waited, tense, as the footsteps got closer. Several pairs. He picked out at least seven before his pounding head forced him to halt. Surely they weren't starting the auction already.
"So they really do have them," a breathless voice said as the group stopped in front of their cage. Not their captors. Guests. The kind of people deplorable enough to buy and sell other people.
"I thought they'd be...bigger," another one offered.
"Look, they're trying to hide Robin. How cute."
Dick imagined his escrima crashing into their faces, breaking noses and cheekbones and letting blood run drown in streaks. Maybe if they spent some time locked into cells, they'd know how it felt to be reduced to an object.
"It certainly seems like the real deal."
"I wish I had enough money to buy the whole set."
"I just want Nightwing. He and his have raised enough hell in Bludhaven. They're going to be thoroughly satisfied with this purchase."
Dick resisted the urge to shudder, and just glared back. He'd tried being charming, the first couple of times, keeping up the cheerful façade, but between the pounding headache and very real fear, he didn't have the energy to keep snarking.
The guests made several other unfortunate comments before drifting away to the main auction hall. Some lingered more than others, and Dick waited for all of them to step away before creeping back to the bars and the lockpad.
Moment in the shadows startled him. He almost flinched back—but he recognized that pattern of orange and black. "Slade," he breathed out.
Deathstroke stepped forward, eyeing him silently.
Dick's stomach turned over. The mercenary didn't have many lines, but he usually didn't get involved in human trafficking. Which meant that there was a possibility of flipping him—Dick didn't know what contract he'd come here on, but anything was better than them getting sold to the highest bidders.
"Slade," Dick repeated hoarsely, swallowing as he pressed closer to the bars.
"Nightwing," Slade answered easily. The mask hid all his tells.
"Slade, please get us out of here," Dick said quietly, "Just—if you can break the lock—"
"Why would I do that, little bird?"
"Please, I—I can pay your contract. However much you want." Slade didn't move, and Dick pressed against the bars, "Slade, please."
Still nothing. Dick tried to think it through—what did Slade want, what could Dick possibly give him that the mercenary couldn't get on his own—
"I'll spend a day with you," Dick said, forcing the words out through a suddenly choked-up throat. He couldn't see Slade's face, couldn't tell if it had landed. "I'll—I'll come to your bed."
"Wing," Tim said quietly behind him, but Dick ignored him.
"You seem fairly confident in your skills, kid," Slade said, shifting back like he was going to leave, and Dick snarled.
"Don't give me that crap, Slade, you want me. Do you think I haven't noticed?" Dick snapped, "The rooftop chases, your fucked-up flirtations—this is me, offering to come willingly to your bed. Just get us all out of here."
Slade was still silent, and Dick slumped against the bars.
"Please," he begged quietly, "What do you want? A week? A month? Just—"
Deathstroke stepped forward and crouched in front of the bars, so suddenly that Dick couldn't jerk back. "You're serious," he said, like it was a question.
"They're going to hurt my brothers," Dick answered quietly, "I will do anything to stop that. Slade, please."
Slade regarded him for another long moment, mask slightly tilted. Just when Dick was about to start begging again, Slade straightened. "A day," he said, and snapped the keypad off.
Dick stared for a moment, stunned, as Slade wrenched the bars free, before he scrambled up. "Come on," he murmured to Tim, who had gone pale, "Get Damian. I'll carry Jason." Two hundred pounds of deadweight wasn't easy to carry, but Dick managed, following behind Tim and Slade as they exited the remote warehouse before any alarms were set off.
"I have a safehouse nearby," Slade said, shouldering some of Jason's weight, and Dick didn't have any choice but to follow. Tim carried Damian piggyback, and his face was pinched whenever Dick checked it, his gaze locked on him as if he was waiting for Dick to disappear.
Dick hadn't expected 'cabin in the woods' to be Slade's definition of a safehouse, but it was certainly nice. Two bedrooms, a kitchen and living area, and Slade even dug out a medkit after depositing a still-unconscious Jason on the couch. Dick half expected Slade to drag him into the bedroom immediately, but he didn't—he disappeared into the master bedroom, leaving Dick, Tim, Damian, and Jason alone.
Tim gently eased Damian onto the couch, and Dick crouched down to check his ears. Hurt? he signed at Damian, who responded in the negative. Dick could tell his balance was still shot, though, and he cleaned Damian's ears gently—no fresh blood oozed out, which was a good sign.
"Are you hurt?" Dick asked Tim, who shook his head, still pinched and pale. Dick turned away from him, to be met with Damian's frown. Why are we following Wilson? Damian signed, finger-spelling Slade's name with an expression of acute disgust. Dick responded with the sign for safe, and ignored Damian's growing scowl.
"Dick," Tim said softly, "We need to get out of here." Dick didn't look at him, bending down to recheck Jason's pulse. The drug hadn't knocked Dick out, just left him woozy, and Tim and Damian had woken up within minutes, but Jason—Dick had no idea how much they'd given Jason.
"Dick," Tim said, his voice rising, and Dick glanced at the bedroom door to make sure Slade wasn't in sight before pinning Tim with a hard look.
"Jason's unconscious. Damian can't walk. Where are we going to go?" Dick asked.
"Anywhere," Tim whispered, his voice cracking, "Dick, please don't—"
"I made a deal for your safety," Dick said quietly, "Because I want you to be safe."
"Don't do this," Tim said, near-silent, "Dick, please—"
I don't have a choice, Dick didn't say. They both knew that Deathstroke could wipe through them as they were now. "It's just one day," Dick said softly. Please don't make this more difficult than it already is. "Tim—"
"We can—renegotiate," Tim said, quiet and desperate, "Money or—or there has to be something I can do—"
"Absolutely not," Dick hissed, grabbing Tim's shoulders and folding him close, "No. No, Tim, you're my little brother, and I'm not letting you bargain with Deathstroke."
"But it's okay for y—you to do it?" Tim's voice broke, muffled against Dick's shoulder.
"It's one day," Dick said quietly, running a hand through his little brother's hair. He allowed himself that moment of stillness—before the weight of a heavy gaze landed on his shoulder.
Dick dared to glance up. Slade was standing at the threshold of the master bedroom, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching him.
Dick swallowed. Slade made no motion to call him forward, and Dick gently disengaged from the hug. "Come on," he told Tim, who was pointedly not looking in Slade's direction, "Let's get Jason and Damian in bed, and then I can set your fingers."
The second bedroom also had an ensuite bath, which made things easier. The bed was a queen, not quite large enough for three vigilantes to sleep comfortably, but Damian curled up against Jason without prompting. He wasn't looking at Dick, and he'd stopped asking questions.
"Dick," Tim said quietly as Dick splinted his fingers, "When Jason wakes up—"
"Leave," Dick cut him off, "I'll follow later."
"Dick."
"You need to get them both out," Dick said quietly, not looking up, "Damian needs to get his ears checked. You need to get these X-rayed—"
"Dick."
Dick finally looked up. Tim clutched his hands. "If Jason wakes up," Tim whispered, "Then we can get out. You don't have to—"
"Do you think we can take Deathstroke?" Dick asked quietly, "Exhausted and injured? Do you really think we can win, Tim?"
"We can try."
"And if we do get away?" Dick pressed, "Tim, I made a deal. You know what happens to people who renege on deals with Deathstroke."
Tim's mouth snapped shut, his expression shifting to belligerence. "Keep them safe," Dick murmured, reaching up to press a kiss to Tim's forehead.
Tim followed him out—Slade hadn't moved from his position, silently waiting, and Dick could see Tim glare at Slade as Dick walked over to him. Dick forced his footsteps slow and even, and resisted the urge to go back and hug Tim and cuddle between his brothers. Slade's patience wasn't finite. And the sooner he started this, the sooner it would be over.
Slade still didn't grab Dick, merely moving out of the doorway when Dick got closer. "Clothes are on the bed," he said, his tone inscrutable, "You can freshen up in the bathroom."
Dick mutely followed the order, grabbing the clothes—a thin T-shirt and sweatpants a couple sizes too big for him—and heading for the bathroom. He had to use soap and water to remove the mask because they'd lost all their gear, and when it was gone, Dick checked the mirror to see that he looked like a mess.
Dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin was slightly gray, red, irritated lines marked the edge of the mask, and his expression was one part dread to three parts exhaustion. Dick bent to splash some water on his face. That was Slade's problem, not his.
He debated skipping a shower—he didn't want Slade to join him—but the prospect of getting clean was too good to pass up, even if he wasn't going to stay that way for long. He kept the water hot, and scrubbed off as quickly as he could, dreading the sound of the door opening.
When he emerged back into the bedroom, dressed in Slade's clothes, the man himself was lounging on the bed. There was a book in his hands, but Slade's gaze immediately flicked to him. Dick froze.
"Are you waiting for an invitation?" Slade asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dick took a deep breath and let it out slowly, refusing to show the older man how much he rattled him. He walked towards the bed and climbed on top of it—Slade tugged the sheets down, and Dick shifted to let him pull them free.
He knelt on the bed—should he reach out first? Was Slade going to initiate? Just how much was Dick supposed to participate in this—the last thing he wanted was Slade to feel unsatisfied and cart them all back to the traffickers.
Before Dick could make a decision, Slade flicked off the lights.
Okay. That was weird. What was he—
A loud sigh. "Get in bed, Grayson."
Dick slowly slid down, until he was curled on his side, under the covers. If he squinted, he could just about make out Slade's outline—the man was turned away from him, and all Dick could see was his back. It left no clues about what Slade wanted Dick to do.
Was Slade giving him a rest? Were they going to start in the morning? Was he expecting Dick to go over to him? Was he trying to lull Dick into a false sense of complacency before—
"I can hear you thinking."
Dick took a deep breath and tried to lower his heart rate. It didn't work. He just wanted this over with, but Slade wasn't starting, and Dick didn't know how long he could wait—
A groan, and the lights flicked back on. Dick blinked against the sudden brightness, and Slade's scowl appeared above him. Dick went very, very still as Slade straddled him.
Looked like they were starting then. A brief part of Dick bemoaned the loss of sleep.
"What," Slade asked flatly, "Are you expecting me to do to you?"
Dick opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He didn't want to give Slade ideas.
"You think I'll what? Hold you down and fuck you? Make you scream? Make it hurt?"
Dick's heart was thundering in his ears, his mouth gone completely dry. He didn't dare move. He did, however, register the anger in Slade's expression. Like he was offended by the suggestion.
"Don't tell me you don't want to," Dick said, keeping his voice level by sheer force of will.
Something flickered in Slade's eyes. He placed a hand on either side of Dick's shoulders, slow and deliberate, and leaned down, until Dick had no choice but to stare at the icy blue eye.
"Do you think," Slade said lowly, "That I'm somehow incapable of taking what I want?"
The hands on either side of Dick were a very visible threat.
"No," Dick rasped.
"And yet I haven't taken you," Slade said, level. Like that meant something. Like Slade's whims were supposed to reassure Dick.
Dick had to fight to get the next words out. "You want me to beg," Dick said softly, because he'd figured it out years ago, this game of cat-and-mouse Slade kept playing. The point wasn't for Slade to hunt him. The point wasn't for Slade to catch him. The point was for Dick to come to him, to sink on his knees and beg.
And that was exactly what he did.
"I do," Slade agreed, his gaze heavy, "But I want you to beg because you want to. Not because you're terrified for the safety of your family."
That...didn't make any sense. Dick lifted himself on an elbow as Slade rolled off of him. "But—you said—we have a deal," Dick said, confused, "I said I'd—"
"Spend a day with me," Slade cut him off, "Come willingly to my bed. In case it's escaped your notice, little bird, you're in my bed." The lights flicked back off. "Go the fuck to sleep."
Dick slowly sank back down on the bed. The sheets rustled, but Slade made no movement towards him, and Dick relaxed, inch by inch.
Slade didn't—Slade couldn't mean that. Dick hadn't managed to convince the man to break them out for...Dick just spending the day with him? No sex? No acts of dubious morality? Just—just what, what was Dick even doing, why did Slade even agree?
"Grayson," Slade groaned, and Dick aimed a scowl in his general direction. He couldn't control his heartbeat, and the more he tried to calm it down, the more his eyes began to prickle. He had to hold onto the fear because without it, he was teetering over an abyss of confusion and relief and it would sweep him away.
Dick felt like Slade had swept a rug out from under him, and he was trying to regain his balance.
He stretched a hand out in Slade's direction—if this was a trick, he'd prefer to know sooner rather than later. It managed to land on Slade's shoulder, and Slade didn't stop Dick from creeping closer. Dick got close enough to Slade's back that he could feel Slade's warmth radiating out, his hand slipping from Slade's shoulder, down his arm, crossing his chest.
Slade shifted, lifting his arm to trap Dick's underneath. Dick froze as Slade curled his fingers around Dick's. And didn't move.
Didn't use his grip on Dick's hand to pull him forward. Didn't twist or break. Didn't—didn't do anything, just held Dick's arm to his chest, his breathing slow and even.
Dick buried his face between Slade's shoulder blades, and let himself shake.
The shudders tore out of him, one after the other, and he managed to muffle the sobs, stifling them, but tears still leaked out of his eyes. Dick had no illusions that Slade didn't know he was crying. But the older man didn't say anything, didn't move or turn around, just rubbed soft circles into the back of Dick's hand with his thumb.
Dick didn't know when he stopped crying, because exhaustion surged after the tears, and the steady heartbeat pulsing against Dick's face sent him down to sleep.
"Kid, wake up."
Dick made a incoherent noise and wormed his way deeper inside the blankets.
"Grayson."
He was warm and cozy and it wasn't fair.
A callused thumb brushed away an itchy lock of hair from his face. "Little bird, your brother is about ten seconds from breaking down the door, so you should probably get off of me."
"W'ch lil' r'th'r."
"The undead one. Grayson, get up."
Dick made a whining groan and flopped off the warmth. Tim could be bribed into going away, and Damian could be tugged into cuddles, protesting all the while, but Jason in a mood was like dealing with an angry tank. The bed shifted, and Dick blearily cracked his eyes open—to be met with one blue eye, crinkled in amusement.
Slade. Traffickers. His brothers. The deal. Dick was in Slade's bed.
He bolted upright, and Slade's faint mirth twisted all the way to a smirk. "Up," Slade ordered, motioning to the door, "They've been debating a plan of attack for the last five minutes, and I'd rather not get blood on this bed."
Dick glared at him and half-rolled, half-crawled out of the bed. He ached all over, a combination of the drug and not letting himself soak in the hot water, and Dick nearly stumbled into the bed twice as he tried to walk in a straight line. Slade caught his elbow before Dick could brain himself, and steered himself towards the door.
Sure enough, when Dick pulled the door open, Jason was right on the other side, eyes flickering a dangerous green.
"Dick," Jason said, a tone of pure relief at odds to the rage swirling across his face, and Dick felt himself being pulled forward into a crushing hug. Jason twisted, putting himself between Dick and Slade, and Tim reached out to grab Dick, Damian sitting on the couch behind him, eyes wide.
Dick yanked away from Tim—Jason was already stalking towards Slade, who was leaning against the doorframe and smirking. Jason attacked, but Dick could tell he was still a little unsteady—Slade caught his punch easily, and shoved him back.
Dick snagged Jason's wrist before he could go for another punch, and got between the two of them. "Stop," Dick ordered, catching Jason's other hand and forcing his little brother another step back, "Jason, stop it."
"No," Jason growled, pushing back against Dick, "No, I'm going to rip his fucking head off."
"Stop," Dick snapped, "Slade broke us out—"
"Tim told me about your deal," Jason snarled, "I'm going to tear him to pieces—"
"Jason!" Dick hissed, struggling to keep his brother back, "We didn't have sex!" That, at least, stalled Jason enough for Dick to shove him back another couple of steps. "He didn't hurt me, Jason, stop attacking him."
Jason jerked away from Dick's grip, but didn't try to sidestep to get at Slade. Instead, he studied Dick with intense scrutiny—Tim matched it, eyes wide and worried.
"You were in his room," Jason said finally, his gaze piercing and his voice blank.
"Sleeping," Dick said, "Nothing more." Jason's eyes flicked up, glancing over Dick's head at Slade, and narrowed.
Dick resisted the urge to groan. "Slade," he said through gritted teeth, "Stop smiling."
"No," Slade retorted—Dick could practically hear his smirk.
"You're such an ass," Dick muttered, and Slade laughed, his voice getting closer.
"I have to get my entertainment somehow," he chuckled, heading past Dick and Jason and towards the kitchen. Jason watched him go, still glowering, but didn't try to attack again.
"So can we leave now?" Tim asked, pressing forward—the kid was pale, dark circles looking painted on. He and Jason were the only two in full uniform, and Tim looked like he'd gotten no sleep the entire night.
Dick didn't really want to know what horrible things he'd been imagining, and reached out to pull his little brother into a hug.
"Last time I checked, a day still had twenty-four hours," Slade said from the kitchen. Jason immediately growled.
"Twenty-four hours from when?" Dick asked, mostly polite.
"Good question," Slade turned in their direction, looking contemplative. Dick was aware he held very little of the cards here—Slade could say 'starting now' and there wasn't much Dick could do to argue—"From when we got to the cabin," Slade decided, "That leaves you twelve hours, little bird."
Jason bristled again, but Dick just led Tim back to the couch. "Jason," Dick called softly—he couldn't corral all his siblings at once, and Slade wasn't going to observe their attacks with amusement forever. Thankfully, Jason stomped back over to them, and starting signing a barebones update of the situation to Damian while Dick sank into the other end of the couch with Tim.
"You look exhausted," Dick murmured gently, and Tim slumped into his lap, curling closer and hiding his face against Dick's shoulder.
"I—I didn't—I thought—I was afraid," Tim finally managed to get out, and Dick could feel wetness seeping through his shoulder. Dick hummed, because he couldn't exactly say sorry—he'd been terrified too. "You swear he didn't hurt you?" Tim asked, too quiet for Jason to hear. "You're not lying?"
"I swear he didn't hurt me," Dick said quietly, "You want a pinky promise, baby bird?" Tim huffed something that could've been a laugh, and Dick leaned back so that Tim could curl up comfortably against him. "Sleep, Tim," Dick said softly, curling a hand through his hair. They needed to get their strength back up to return safely to Gotham.
There was a soft, creeping motion near his elbow, and Dick twisted to see Damian at his side, expression painfully open. It had to be killing the kid to not hear what was going on, and Dick could see that the balance issues were lingering. He didn't think either Tim or Jason would've explicitly explained 'Dick whored himself out to Deathstroke to get us out', but Damian wasn't blind.
"Hey, Dames," Dick said, extracting an arm to draw Damian against his side—the kid immediately curled up against him, like a cat, and Dick almost snorted. Jason flopped down in Damian's now-vacant spot, exhaustion drawing over his face, and regarded Dick with a weary gaze.
"Why are we hanging out in Deathstroke's safehouse with no apparent price?" Jason asked bluntly, not bothering to moderate his tone—Slade could hear them whether they whispered or not.
I don't know Dick signed back to him. Jason's eyes narrowed. After a moment's hesitation, Dick signed safe. Jason raised an eyebrow. Dick half-shrugged—he didn't understand it either, but wondering about Slade's motivations was going to twist his mind up in knots. They could deal with a betrayal if and when it happened.
Jason just shook his head. "Wake me up if something happens," he muttered, and leaned sideways, sprawling over Damian's lap to rest his head against Tim's thigh. Thoroughly trapping Dick under three little brothers.
Planned or not, it was extremely effective.
Slade snorted when he came into the living room. "Determined protectors," he said dryly, putting two bowls on the coffee table, and returning to the kitchen. "Cute," he remarked, coming back out with another two bowls. It looked like some kind of rice stew and smelled delicious, spicy and hot. "I don't know how effective it is," he said, rounding the couch and looming over Dick until Dick had to crane his head back to see him. "When I'd just have to yank to pull you out," he tugged on a lock of Dick's hair. "But cute."
"Next time," Dick said slowly, "If you don't need a deal, don't imply that you want one."
Slade shrugged, coming into view with his own bowl, and sitting down on the armchair. "Would you have believed me, if I said I'd get you out, just like that?"
Dick opened his mouth, and closed it. Slade's expression shifted to a mirthless smile.
"You want an ulterior motive, little bird, I'll give you one," Slade said, leaning back, "I want to annoy you for a day. Fair deal?"
"I feel like I'm getting my pigtails pulled," Dick grumbled, "Did you seriously never grow up? No one teach you better ways of getting someone's attention?"
"Where would be the fun in that?" Slade murmured, something intense sliding into his gaze, "Though we're going to revisit the idea of you in pigtails."
"Slade."
Slade cracked a smile, but the intense gaze didn't waver. Dick shivered. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling.
"But I will see you on your knees one day," Slade said, low and inflexible, "Of your own volition."
Dick met the intense gaze with Nightwing calm. "We'll see who ends up on their knees."