Are You Here to Help or Hurt?

by f_fandom

Summary:

Short two-shot stories regarding Dick in trouble where Slade shows up. Early in their frenemy relationship, so Dick never knows if Slade will rescue him or make things worse. Spoiler: he always saves ;)

Chapter 1: All Strung Up With Nowhere to Go

Slade followed Roland Desmond down the dark hallway, on alert and ready for anything. He'd been given a contract for interrogation, and he was surprised it had come from Desmond. Blockbuster could break anyone he wanted. He certainly had the means and know-how. And so, Slade wasn't entirely sure why he was here. And that made him even more suspicious than he already was just working with Desmond.

"I want these men to see how it's done," is all Desmond said. "They see me do it all the time. And they've not had success yet with this catch. Fucking thorn in my side, this one is. And the morons have had him for six days now, yet he still won't give up the name of the damn mole in my ranks. Someone's been passing him intel, and I'm going to find out who. Even if I have to kill my entire crew."

Desmond paused near the end of the hall and turned to fix Slade with an unnerving smirk. Slade wasn't used to people being taller than him. He hated--hated--working with Desmond.

"I'm hoping it won't come to that," he said. "That's where you come in, Deathstroke."

Slade just tilted his head. "Never met a prisoner I couldn't break."

"I'm counting on that. Because I believe the two of you have some history."

Slade's breath caught in his throat, even though his face stayed expressionless behind the mask. His mind jumped to numerous individuals, but he didn't have time to narrow the possibilities before Desmond opened the steel door and stood back for Slade to enter. When he did, he had to remind himself to keep moving forward into the room. Desmond entered behind him and closed the door with a heavy creak and latch.

Hanging from the ceiling by his arms shackled in irons above his head, swaying slightly from the blow that had just been delivered to his midsection with a steel baton, and bleeding in rivulets onto the grimy floor just a centimeter and a half beneath his toes, was Nightwing.

Slade stalled by circling the vigilante slowly while Desmond's men stepped back to give him room. Dick was naked, but was covered in so much blood and filth and bruising that you almost couldn't tell. His head drooped heavy on his chest, fresh blood hanging low from his mouth and nose, no doubt. His face was obscured by the messy shambles of his hair, mussed in a way that reflected gripping and rough handling. His breathing sounded atrocious, wet and rasping and way too thin. Slade listened to his heart racing overtime.

Dick, somehow still conscious, must have noticed the sudden quiet of the room. Working slowly out of his dissociation, he raised his head a few inches as much as he could. Slade was standing behind him, but he saw Dick's struggle to observe his surroundings.

"Wha's wrong?" he asked, his voice like there was gravel in his throat, and goddamn, couldn't this kid keep his fucking mouth shut for once in his life.

"Bored al-already?" He tried to scoff, but his breath caught and he coughed for a few long seconds in what he tried to hide as obvious agony.

"Nah," the man with the baton said, crossing his arms over his burly chest. "We just wanted a show instead. Ya know, more than the one you gave us, though I must say...I've never felt an ass that stayed that tight after being fucked so many times. You're exquisite, Nightwing."

Slade moved slowly, hidden outrage billowing inside his chest. To interrogate and torture someone was one thing. It involved physical beatings, psychological manipulations. The balance of knowing when was too far. But to bring in sexual assault and torture...that crossed a line. Subjects were degraded during interrogation, yes. But displaying power over someone by forcibly taking their body was a violation that was as abhorrent and undignified as it was unnecessary. As they'd been shown, it wasn't effective. It was sloppy. And downright distasteful. There was a code of honor to the art of interrogation, ironic though it seemed.

He was glad they couldn't see his face. Circling slowly, he came to a stop in front of Dick and waited for him to try lifting his head again. He crossed his arms and watched the change come over Dick's body as he realized it was him. Staring first at Slade's boots and armor, he began trembling. His breathing grew faster. A bruised and swollen face peered at him through his limp hair, the eye lenses from his domino mask widening in comprehension. Slade was the only one in the room who could hear his whispered "oh fuck."

"What have we here," Slade said slowly. "Wings get clipped a bit, Nightwing?"

Dick shuddered and stayed silent. He had no idea in this moment what Slade was going to do. He knew exactly what he was here to do, though. Slade could see the layers of lacerations and burns covering his chest and abdomen. Some had begun healing over--infected, no doubt--while others looked only minutes old. His ribcage, pushed out from the pressure of hanging, expanded in short, controlled gasps. Slade could see through the thin skin that some of the ribs featured serious breaks. Easily a punctured lung. Internal bleeding. Increasing strain on the heart with every hour.

"You just piss off everyone you meet, kid, don't ya. I still haven't forgotten your latest shit with my contract last month. Haven't thanked you for that one, yet."

"I'm touched," Dick mumbled.

"Yeah, so I hear."

Low laughter rippled around the room, and Dick shuddered, his head drooping again.

"Deathstroke is here because I'm tired of wasting my time with you, Nightwing," Desmond said. He hadn't spoken or moved away from the door since he'd entered, and Dick obviously hadn't been aware he was even here with the way he shuddered again. Harder.

"You had your chance. All you had to do was give a name. Now Deathstroke is going to take it from you. And we're going to watch."

"You li-like to watch, huh Roly," Dick whispered. "E-explains a...alot."

Slade reached out and gripped Dick's bruised chin in his hand just to get him to shut up. Dick's gasp of pain whistled out of his bloody lips. Slade squeezed his cheeks together harder, holding him still as he tried to jerk away. Men behind Slade began chuckling again. Turning his face this way and that, Slade examined him, then released him.

"What are these from?" he asked Burly Rapist #1, pointing at burns on Dick's stomach and side.

"Blowtorch."

Slade already knew that, judging by the details of the burn. He knew what he was going to have to do. He glanced to the far corner, where Dick's uniform and weapons had been discarded.

"Should'a just talked, kid," he sighed.

"But you alway--s tell me t'shut up."

Slade turned and backhanded Dick so hard he twisted in the chains, and the crack of his armored gauntlet against occipital bone sharpened against the walls. Dick hissed and couldn't hold back a low groan, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to stop himself swaying. Fresh blood covered the side of his face. His bottom lip was split wide.

And he grinned at Slade, a painful one, but a bloody grin just the same. And Slade swelled with pride.

"One of these days you really are gonna get yourself killed with that mouth. And I'd love to see it."

He sauntered over to the corner and stooped down, picking up Dick's escrima sticks. Behind him, Dick muttered something so quiet even Slade couldn't hear. Twirling them the way Dick always did to show off, he came back and slowly traced one down Dick's nose, his chin, the line of his sternum. Dick closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could risk.

"I wonder if I'm gonna be the one to do it," Slade mused. He leaned close.

"Gee," Dick rasped. "If Harvey were here, he coul-could flip a coin."

And he grinned again. Slade knew he was daring him, that it was part of his routine. The way he kept himself from breaking. Every quip was a show of control he still had. It was also the easiest thing to exploit if you knew that.

Slade sighed, and, without warning, jammed a stick into the bruised stomach and turned on the electric shock wave. Sparks sounded and snapped, and electricity fizzled as Dick screamed and seized up, shaking and jerking uncontrollably with his head thrown back, jaw clenched. His shriek cut in and out behind his teeth, and fresh blood dribbled from countless wounds as the tremors in his muscles aggravated them. His body locked up, Dick could only wait it out, but Slade held it against his skin for seven whole seconds.

When he released Dick, the kid's entire body fell like a string holding him had been cut. His shoulders yanked when his weight landed on them. He continued jerking in spasms, gasping through the aftershocks. Behind Slade, the men laughed harder.

Gasping for breath, Dick tried not to pass out. He knew Slade had used the highest setting. He tried to lift his head and let out a whimper.

"What..." he started to gasp out, but Slade pressed the electricity back into the same spot on the right center of his stomach, the second stick jammed into his side against his ribs.

In the middle of trying to speak, his mouth already open, the scream was louder this time. And Slade held it out longer.

Again and again.

Both currents streamed into him and left him shaking uncontrollably. Dick tried to stay silent, stubborn to a fault. Particularly in front of Slade. But the effort involved in trying to hide the immense pain only highlighted it more to Slade, who knew all the kid's tells. He knew how badly it hurt to be electrocuted this way. And that was on a healthy day, not after almost a week of non-stop torture.

Each time, Dick recovered slower and slower. Slade grit his teeth behind his mask, begging the kid to just pass out already. Tears smeared drying blood on Dick's face. Sweat mixed with it across the entire surface of his skin. Above the iron shackles squeezing and slicing into his wrists, his hands trembled nonstop in weak variations of the fists he kept trying to form. Aftershock twitches racked his frame. If they would have been giving him any water, he would have pissed himself multiple times already.

"Give us the name, Nightwing," Desmond said. Again, nearly everyone except Slade jumped, as if they'd forgotten he was there, observing like the rest of them. "That's all you have to do, and then we'll let you go home. We'll let you walk right out, how's that."

Dick hissed something that sounded an awful lot like "fuck" and "face," which unless Slade was mistaken, wasn't a name. Dick couldn't lift his head to look at Slade anymore. Slade really hoped he would last to see what was coming, but he was beyond cognitive responses now anyway.

After electrocuting for the longest range yet and watching Dick slam down in the chains again, this time finally dislocating both shoulders in a soundless shriek, he checked to see if the men had drawn close enough. Were distracted enough. Desmond was rapt by the door, arms crossed over his chest and pulling his suit jacket tight. Slade let the stick fall and clatter on the ground.

He pulled out both handguns and balanced them in each hand. He pressed one into Dick's kneecap, the other at his hipbone. Career-ending injuries. Even the man behind him gasped and stilled, holding their breaths.

"For my next trick," he drawled.

"Slade...no," Dick breathed. "Please no."

He knew Slade could do it. Would do it. That his life and his future were in Slade’s hands right this second. He finally passed out after another shaky gasp of fear. Complete hopelessness. Completely at Slade's mercy. There was an element of it that was nice, Slade had to admit. But not like this.

Oh well.

With speed only he possessed, Slade fired bullets between the eyes of all five men in the room. Half a second later, he let Desmond reach inside his jacket with wide, raging eyes. Then he too got one. Slade holstered his weapons and moved to Dick, pressing his fingers to the kid's neck. Too fast. He'd fucked around long enough.

"Why are you never paying attention when I pull impressive shit like this for you?"

 

 

tbc

Chapter 2: All Strung Up pt. 2

Summary:

Slade realizes he's fucked.

Slade stood by the window of the room he and Wintergreen had placed Dick after having over one of his surgeons. That had been 48 hours ago. Slade had showered and eaten and cleaned his weapons and pretended he wasn't listening to everything that was happening in the medical wing, that if he wasn't distracting himself he wouldn't be pacing outside it instead.

It was just Nightwing.

Nightwing. Dick fucking Grayson.

The kid who screwed him over every chance he got and twice on Sundays. Who swung from a grapple hook above him and yelled, "Incoming!" before landing on his back and tackling him, just to roll over and up and keep on running. The kid who at one time thought it was a good idea to wear an unruly mullet and a blue and yellow performance uniform like he was an 80s country singer wrapped in the flag of Sweden.

The kid who was stupid enough to believe there was good in the world. Who would hold out through a fucking week of torture and rape to protect someone he didn't even know. For all Slade knew, Dick didn't even know who the mole was, but let Desmond believe he did. Maybe there was never a mole at all.

Slade was going to have to notify one of the Batbrats. It was disgusting enough that none of them had been looking, or, perhaps worse, had been looking and unable to track him down. Perhaps Dick had told them to give him time. Not to call it off.

Instead, he was lying in a guest room bed in Slade's house looking like something out of a war. And Slade had seen plenty of that to know. Bandages nearly everywhere. Wrappings binding his ribcage, holding his arms immobilized in slings to protect his re-located shoulders. Gauze on burns and stitches, and tape around sprains and pulled muscles. Three different IVs. A nasal cannula after hours on an oxygen mask. Enough antibiotics to take out the fucking plague.

Wintergreen had finally finished the last of his checks. Adjusted the cold cloth folded on Dick's forehead to help with the fever that was raging against the grave infections. Slade watched Wintergreen close the door behind him and scowled, approaching Dick's bed and sitting in a chair he'd pulled up earlier. He straightened a corner of the sheet drawn up to the kid's waist, exposing the torso of damage. Then, not thinking too hard about it, he brushed the long fringe off Dick's bruised forehead.

"What the fuck am I gonna do with you," he muttered. "I'm not always gonna be there to get you out of this shit."

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned the chair back on two legs. Then he slipped on his glasses and pulled out his work tablet, scrolling through job offers. So boring. It was an off season. It happened. He pretended to research while he listened to Dick's ragged breathing.

And when it changed, speeding up, he put the tablet down and studied in silence. Dick grimaced and tensed while he worked his way up. His hand flexed weakly, and Slade watched his IV line to make sure he didn't disturb it. Dick's heavy eyes blinked open, but he didn't seem aware as he glanced around the room. He was in obvious pain, though, and Slade scowled--Dick didn't even notice as he leaned over and adjusted the morphine drip. The kid blinked slowly, and tried to regulate his breathing.

Then he glanced over and met Slade's eye. He froze, and Slade smirked despite himself as Dick's bruised features filled with alarm, confusion, then fear and panic as he put together the past events. His blue eyes were faded and dulled with pain and fever. He tried to move, but barely managed to shift his arms and take a deep breath before he tensed and cried out in a raspy voice.

"Stop moving," Slade grunted. "We've done a lot of work putting you back together. If you pull your stitches, I'm not redoing them."

Dick stared, eyes wide, still trying to catch his breath and ease himself to stillness. He paused and took stock of the soft bed he was in, the flannel pajama pants, the various patches and wraps of gauze. He seemed most horrified by the IV lines in the back of his hands.

"Wha... what's...?"

"Relax, kid," Slade said gently, taking off his glasses. "You're safe now."

Dick stared at his glasses. He'd never seen Slade in them. He licked his split lips. The bruises along his face and the swelling by his eye made him look even worse in his pained panic. Slade folded his hands together to resist reaching out and stroking the hair from the kid's eyes.

Dick startled and then coughed, grimacing at the pain in his chest. He kept coughing, unable to stop. Slade lifted his head up from behind his neck and held a plastic cup of lukewarm water to his mouth. The kid hesitated, as if he was delirious and thought Slade had poisoned it after taking the time to rescue him and get him patched up. Slade nudged his lips with the cup and helped him drink a bit when he finally accepted it. It spilled down his chin, of course, and he coughed a good bit after that, his whole face screwed tight in pain as he whimpered between coughs.

"Easy," Slade said. "Just breathe slowly. You're okay."

Bit by bit, Dick regained his breath and laid there panting through the pain. His eyes blinked open again, bleary. He swallowed and blinked hard a few times.

"I don't understand," Dick breathed. "What happened?"

Slade snorted. "What the fuck do you think happened? You got your ass caught again and I got called in and had to decide what to do. You're lucky I was in a generous mood."

"You saved me?"

Slade just closed his eye and begged for patience. Anything to avoid the pained look on Dick's face that was there despite the fact he should have been flying high with all the morphine meds he was on. But there he was trying to brave it. Even if he couldn't get his voice above a whisper without it hurting. Slurring over every other word, pausing mid-phrase. Probably only half aware right now anyway.

"You... I didn't think you were going to help me this time." Dick relaxed a margin and let his head sink into the pillow again.

"Well that's kinda the point, isn't it?" Slade snapped. "Wasn't sure myself at first."

That was a lie. A blatant lie if he ever told one, but he wasn't going to let Dick know that. Let him know that the second he'd walked in and seen the kid strung up like dead meat that he was ready to incinerate everyone in the room. That once he'd learned how far the motherfuckers had gone, he was ready to burn down the whole block. So instead he just kept his arms crossed over his chest and glared.

"You're an idiot."

"I know," Dick whispered.

"You're stubborn and reckless."

"I know."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"...I know."

Slade held his breath and looked hard at Dick, who had his face turned to the wall. The response had been so sad, so resigned. So Batman. Slade growled in fury and leaned close. Dick glanced at him out the corner of his eye, but stiffly avoided his gaze.

"You," Slade growled slowly, "are not worth his crusade. Nothing. Repeat, nothing justifies the answer you just gave. You are more than that. You're better than that. But you're too stupid to see it. Now, I get it. He raised you. But you can respect him without becoming him. Cause if I ever find you in a Batman suit again I'm gonna kick your fucking ass."

Dick just stared at the wall, grimacing as his breathing shifted. As a tear rolled over his nose and off onto the pillow. Slade sighed and leaned back.

"Who do you want me to call, Dick? Bat-dad? One of your brothers?"

"No one."

"What was that?" Slade asked, even though he'd heard perfectly well.

"No one," Dick whispered again. He looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. "No one knows I'm gone. I...I've been on my own in Blüdhaven for a while now."

"No shit," Slade grunted. "So does everyone else, apparently. You're an idiot."

"You already said that."

"Then I'll say it again! I'll say it as many goddamn times as I need to for it to sink in!"

"I'm not your Renegade," Dick hissed through clenched teeth.

"No," Slade said. "No, you're not. If you were, this never would've happened."

Dick didn't respond. He bit his lip and hissed when he reopened a cut. His tongue came out to lick the blood, and he tried to take further stock of himself. Slade growled and reached out, ignoring the way Dick's flinch hurt more than it should have. He pushed Dick's head down with a single finger and swiped the blood gently with his thumb. Dick stared at him and froze, thinking and debating and hurting. Slade rolled his eye.

"If I wanted you dead, little bird, I'd have left you there. Or I'd have actually killed you."

"You..." Dick narrowed his eyes. "I thought you were gonna...so you didn’t shoot me?”

Slade raised an eyebrow. “And are you shot?”

Dick bristled. “I...no. I don’t think so anyway. What did you give me?”

“Not enough,” Slade said honestly. “You’d feel it right now if I’d blown a hole in your kneecap and pelvis.”

Dick seemed to deflate a bit more on the pillow, as if he’d truly been that concerned and unable to tell. Poor kid was a wreck. And yet he'd taken Slade's reprimand on top of it. Stood his ground even.

“You did electrocute me a lot,” Dick muttered. “I remember that much. That fucking hurt, by the way."

Slade chuckled and leaned the chair back on two legs. "You get an upgrade on those sticks? I think I might just keep 'em."

"Why are you doing this? What do you want, Slade?" Dick looked ready to pass out again, his eyes glazed in pain and anxiety.

Slade's jaw ticked and he stared hard until Dick almost turned away. He didn't though, just like Slade knew he wouldn't. So he hesitated, and then reached out again and stroked the hair off Dick's forehead.

"No one does that to you, little bird," he said lowly. "No one."

"Just you? The fucking or the beating or both?" Dick scowled. When Slade just glared harder at him, he sighed. Then winced as it hurt his chest.

"No one," Slade repeated. "On either one. You're a kid. A fucking stupid kid with a martyrdom complex. But a kid. And I need you out there so I know who to blame when my contracts go tits up."

Dick snorted and played with a loose thread on the sheets. There hadn't been loose threads before, Slade knew. But he looked ready to fall apart, so he could pull as many threads apart as he needed as far as Slade was concerned. He'd been meaning to get rid of it anyway.

“I turned 20 last month,” Dick said quietly. “I’ve never been a kid.”

“Exactly my point. Happy belated birthday. I guess. Did Brucie buy you a new Ferrari?”

Dick ignored him—actually flinched at the mention of Bruce—and continued to stare at the wall, in obvious distress of the memories he was recounting. Slade had to keep in mind that they’d had Dick for six days before he’d arrived. He knew exactly the kinds of things Dick was struggling with in his head right now. And he shouldn't have been pushing.

"To be honest," Slade said slowly, "I know the type of beatings you've handled in the past. I can count on one hand the people I’ve ever met who could take the kind of torture you have. But I draw a hard line at rape."

Dick flinched at the word and Slade sighed, reaching out and placing his hand on top of Dick's shaking one. His fingers touched the wrappings around his wrist from the manacle wounds. So fucking small.

"I'm sorry that happened, Dick," Slade said, "I’m sorry no one came. No one deserves that. You and I both know why I got you out of there. But don't make a fucking habit of it. It's... There are bigger things in life."

Dick opened his mouth and then closed it. "You... you said that to me once when I was Robin."

"I'm sure I said it many times, kid. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry I hurt you in there."

"You did what you had to." Dick sighed and shifted again. "Thank you. You didn't have to help me."

"Yeah, I did, little bird." Slade stroked his hair and checked some of his thicker bandages again. He took the cloth on Dick's brow and dipped it in the bowl of water, wringing it out and flopping it back on his head. Dick blinked as one side covered his eye and water dripped into the other.

“You could have just dropped me off somewhere.”

Slade snorted and took mercy on him, readjusting the cool cloth. “Wouldn’t have lasted until then, kid. Just relax. You're safe here, okay?"

"You're not gonna kick me out?" Dick blinked slowly and leaned into Slade's touch on his brow. He was so fucking pale. Looked like someone'd charcoaled under his eyes.

Slade snorted again and drew his hand back. "Maybe when you can actually walk out, I'll think about it. Close your eyes."

Dick glanced around the room and still seemed hesitant. His breathing stayed calm, but it was only because it was practiced. Slade could still hear his heartbeat racing. Still too uneasy with Slade so close, despite the fact he’d obviously been there when Dick had been unconscious before. He sighed and leaned forward, signaling that he was going to stand up and leave.

"Close your eyes," he repeated. "You need anything, just call for Wintergreen. He'll be in to check on you."

Dick's wide eyes snapped up, and Slade paused. Was he in pain? Was he scared of something? Had he and Wintergreen missed an injury? Yeah, Dick was a mess, but he thought they'd covered everything.

"Could you..." Dick blushed and looked away, fiddling with the sheet again. "Could you stay? You don't have to, I mean..."

Slade didn't say anything, but his face softened and he nodded. He leaned back in the chair again and picked up his glasses and tablet. He felt Dick's eyes on him, but he let the kid take time to settle until he felt safe. He couldn't move of course, having to stay flat on his back.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You already said that.” Slade didn’t look up from his tablet. “Knock it off. Or you’ll make me feel like a good person.”

Dick made a soft noise of amusement. The drugs were beginning to pull him under.

"When did you get glasses?" he asked quietly, eyes heavy as he drifted off.

Slade looked at him over the rim of the thick black frames. "Honestly don't remember."

Dick smiled a bit, but kept his eyes closed. "Gonna get you a monocle instead. Would look badass."

Slade stared at him, the sleeping face still pale and tight in pain, but more relaxed than it has been before. The bruises ripening would be darker again once he woke up.

The surgeon would be back in around 12 hours to check the surgical site and give them an update. Slade was particularly concerned about the internal bleeding they’d fixed, especially in his lungs. The slight tremors from the electrocution aftershocks bothered Slade the most, personally, but Dick hardly seemed to notice among everything else. But Slade noticed. He noticed everything.

Like how calming it was on his anger to watch Dick sleep in safety and know that nothing would harm him. And that sitting watch, as unnecessary as it was, felt even better.

Good thing so much of his job was portable and virtual. Dick owed him for this one.

Chapter 3: Not You...Anyone But You

Summary:

Dick got himself captured and now he's been sold off to the highest bidder. What a day.

Dick shifted in the iron manacles digging bruising cuts into his wrists and ankles fastened behind his back. He hated being hog tied in chains. So unoriginal yet maddening. He was on his side on the freezing stone, trying to keep his breathing calm. The blindfold they’d put on him was less disorienting than the concussion they’d given him. And whatever they’d been drugging him up with.

He knew what a concussion felt like. He’d managed to keep the nausea down by staying absolutely still. The first person who tried to move him was going to get a mess on their shoes. Listening for activity outside his cell made the pounding in his head even louder. At least he was still in his uniform and had a small bit of warmth.

His head was pounding so hard that when the heavy door finally opened, he flinched and felt the light blinding still through both his eyelids and the blindfold. A large hand gripped his upper arm beneath his shoulder and dragged him out. As he predicted, he groaned at the immediate spike in nausea he twisted himself as far as he could to hurl on whoever was dragging him. Through the disorientation and pain of vomiting and the way it hurt his head even more, he heard swearing and laughter. He was dropped and kicked hard in the lower back, then his head. He vaguely heard himself cry out, but the added pain and fresh blood coating his hair on top of the dried bit left him completely powerless.

“You’ve been sold, Nightwing,” a voice said. “Earned a pretty penny off you. The winning bidder is here to collect.”

Dick groaned and felt blood dripping down his chin. He was still shivering from the latest dose they’d given him. He didn’t even know how long he’d been there.

“Yeah, and I want some of that money back. You’ve damaged it.”

Dick flinched hard at the second voice and tried to remain stoic. No. Hell no. But they’d noticed, and that trademark chuckling sneer sounded off again.

“That’s right, boy,” Deathstroke said, suddenly quite close to his face.

“Not you. Anyone but you,” he muttered.

The blindfold was ripped off and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his domino mask, wincing hard. Slade’s face mask was inches from his own. Sharp gloves gripped his face and turned it from side to side. He gritted his teeth to keep from whimpering.

Slade’s presence blocked everything, pressing dangerously close and stifling. “You knocked him around too much. And he’s high as a fucking kite.”

“The transaction’s already gone through. We don’t do discounts.”

A heavy sigh. “Fucking amateurs,” Slade muttered under his breath so only Dick could hear. “It’s all right, Grayson. You’re worth every dollar.”

“F—fuck you,” Dick hissed.

The chuckle again. “All in good time.”

Sudden pain erupted in Dick’s side. A burning, almost melting through his uniform and into his skin. He couldn’t twist away from it, but he screamed, loud and echoing before groaning through gritted teeth. He hadn’t been ready for it. He gagged on the smell of burning flesh.

“Wait till you see the nice brand I gave you here, kid. A piece of work. Now everyone will know you’re mine...if they don’t already.”

"Fucking...what? You branded me?"

Slade leaned so close his mask pressed into Dick's head. Harsh. "You bet I did, little bird." He let go of Dick's arm, the only thing holding him off the floor.

He’d been branded. He’d been fucking branded.

“Don’t own me,” Dick gasped, shaking and discarded on the floor by Slade’s kneeling feet. “Won’t be your Renegade.”

A rich laugh, and then Slade was hauling him up over his shoulder. Dick couldn’t help moaning at the harsh movement.

“This ain’t about Renegade anymore.”

“Wait,” one of the first voices said. “Another one for the road. He’s been on it for nearly a week now. The only thing that would really keep him down.”

“Not necessary,” Slade growled.

But then there was a pinch in Dick’s neck and a burning liquid pushing through his veins. Not again. He stiffened over Slade’s shoulder, groaning, and a harsh movement later had the syringe removed, probably before it was completely empty.

“I said, ‘not... necessary.’”

“Company policy. You don’t like it, you can leave him here. The next highest bidder was Two-Face. I know he desperately wants his hands back on Nightwing.”

“No,” Dick couldn’t help gasping. “No.”

“Shut up, kid. Or I may let him have you.”

“Or maybe...” the tip of something hard and metal is shoved into the back of his thigh above the knee and Dick cracked his eyes open to try and look behind him. It was an electric drill. A fucking drill. He did not want to imagine that ripping into his leg.

“Maybe we give him another goodbye present. He was a pain in the ass. The condition was fixed on ‘sold as-is.’ As-is can change real quick.”

Deathstroke was standing very still, and Dick scoffed despite himself.

“You have any i...idea how pissed he’ll be if...you do that?” he rasped, slurring.

“There’s five of us and one of him. And you’re no threat at all tied up in a pretty package like that.”

“Fucking amateurs,” Dick and Deathstroke muttered at the same time.

Dick only felt like he could breathe a little better when the drill pressure was hesitantly removed. His whole body was going numb slung over Slade’s shoulder, and the blood rushing his head made the pounding even worse. That drill would have been more accurate if it was between his eyes. Each fast pulse slammed against his head and knocked him painfully toward unconsciousness.

Slade was apparently tired of it too because he snarled something Dick couldn’t make out, and then they were moving. He groaned at the nausea.

“If you throw up on me, I will leave you here.”

“Nnngh,” Dick moaned.

“Stay awake, kid. Tell me about Two-Face. Why does Harvey seem to scare you so much? He’s a lightweight compared to the kind you and Daddybats have taken out.”

“Where we going?” Dick managed as Slade changed direction and walked fast down another dark hallway. His arm hooking Dick’s legs behind the knees gripped tighter.

“To where I’m parked, moron. You get to ride in the trunk.”

“Lemme go.”

Slade didn’t even dignify him with a response that time. Just a quiet scoff.

“Only half-conscious and still deflecting. Harvey, kid. Stay focused.”

“Don’ wanna.”

“Too fucking bad.”

"He..." Dick groaned and tried to stabilize his breathing. "Tricked me when I was Robin. B...Batman was captured, and...Harvey killed someone cause I tried to play his game. H...he beat me up with a baseball bat. Al...most died. That was the...the first time Batman fired me."

Slade was silent for a long moment and Dick spit out, "Happy?"

"Hmm," Slade grunted. "That tracks. That was the first time you came to me, yeah?"

"I didn't come--ow! Slow down. I...didn't come for...for you. You just... found me."

"Wasn't that difficult."

Dick tried to respond with his own insult, but he couldn't. Everything was finally going black, and he was unable to hold it off any longer. He wondered what he would wake up to. What new prison of hell he'd find himself in.

“Hate drugs,” he slurred.

"C'mon, kid, stay awake... Nightwing?... Dick?..."

A hand on his face.

...”Goddammit, Dick.”

 

 

Dick was in and out of consciousness for an unidentifiable extension of time. He remembered being hauled out of the trunk and strapped into the front passenger seat. A rough hand on his forehead, gentle. Then a harsh series of slaps on the cheek. He may have made a noise of anger because there was a laugh.

"What to do with you...what to do with you. So many options..."

Uneven roads under the tires. Bouncing. Dick whimpering. Hard dirt and then gravel. Night outside. Bare trees in the headlights. Slade's grim profile behind the wheel, staring ahead. Clenching his jaw. Wind harsh against the windshield. Dick bleeding on the leather seats. Hands and feet tied together in front of him. Unable to hold his head up. Seatbelt digging under his collarbone. Cool window glass on his face.

"Where we going?" he mumbled.

"Safehouse. Stay awake."

"Slade."

"What."

"I don't feel so good."

"No shit."

 

 

Stopping. Falling forward with a low groan, a hand on his chest stopping him before his head smashed on the dashboard. His door opening. Pulled from the seat and...carried, not dragged. Biting cold air. Whimpers of pain he couldn't hold back.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Quit crying, kid."

Thick wooden doors opening and closing. Crackling of a fire nearby. Immediate warmth. Too much warmth. His head felt full of blood and ready to explode. Too hot. An old male British voice. Murmured words. Shouting. A soft couch underneath him. Then being picked up again. Wanting nothing more than to stop moving. Would somebody please just make the spinning stop. Make it stop.

"It'll stop soon, little bird. It'll all be over soon."

Over. Right. He was a prisoner now. Slade's prisoner. Again. He'd been captured. Sold like an animal.

He wouldn't die like one.

 

 

Waking up was an experience Dick would have preferred to postpone perhaps indefinitely, if the sharp pain in his head was anything to measure from. Everything hurt. His skin was on fire. He couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. There was a heavy hand on his bare shoulder. Another on his arm. Pinning him down. He was arching off the bed, shaking, moaning.

"No," he gasped. "No...no."

"Easy, kid." The deep rumbling voice wasn't as harsh in his ears as he thought it would be. Still, he was on fire.

"Make it stop."

There was a damp cloth at his forehead, pressed to his neck and the hollow of his throat. Only then did he realize that his soaked hair, the entire surface of his skin, was layered in sweat. The salt burned in his eyes, but when he blinked them open, everything was a blur. He couldn't stop the trembling that seemed to come from underneath his skin. His bones burned like molten led.

"Please, make it stop." His head arched off the pillow, and he was pushed back down again by the hands.

"Easy, kid. It'll stop."

Dick gasped for breath and floundered. His hand reached out, grasping at air, and it was taken up by a large, callused palm, fingers that wrapped around his entire wrist. His chest heaved up and down, breath hitching with every ragged gasp.

"I know, I know. Detox’s a bitch."

A painful sound came from Dick's mouth, and he floated. Unable to control his body's reactions. The hands kept him steady when he shook.

"Slade...?"

"Right here, kid." A fresh, cool cloth was pressed on his brow.

"Don't hurt me."

A chuckle. "Not gonna hurt you, Dick. Not yet."

Dick moaned and tried to turn away, his fist finding a sheet near his waist. "You...you b-branded me, you bastard."

"Yup." The "p" popped and there were actual fingers in his hair, scratching.

Dick shivered, his teeth chattering. "Why'd you do that. That...fuck you."

"Because I'm a bastard. Relax, kid. It hardly touched you. You were pretty sensitive with those drugs they were pumping in you."

"Hurt..."

"I bet it did."

"But I..." Dick shook his head, dizzy. "I smelled it. No...it was..."

"Oh, you mean my hand?" Slade asked. "Where I was holding it? Yeah. Pretty sneaky of me. Lovely aroma."

"What?" Dick blinked. That didn't make any sense. "Doesn't make sense. Le...lemme see."

A deep sigh. "It's already healed, you idiot. Just close your fucking eyes, kid."

"Drugs..."

"Uh-huh, kid."

 

 

tbc

Chapter 4: Not You pt. 2

Summary:

Slade takes care of a drugged bird and calms down the angry one that comes to get him.

The next time Dick opened his eyes, it was a little better. Marginally. At least he thought he'd opened his eyes. The room was darker than he remembered it being. The chair by his bed was also empty.

His head was still killing him, though, and sick sweat still clung to his skin, the hair damp on his forehead. And, though lessened, he still felt shaky. Trembling, he rubbed his eyes and frowned at the IV taped into the back of his hand. Everything before that moment suddenly fell away. He was being drugged again. Someone was drugging him with who knew what. And they'd be back soon.

Slade. He remembered Slade. He'd...he'd bought him and now he was drugging him up again. He was a prisoner here. He had to get out. He had to find a way to contact Bruce. No, wait. Jason. Jason would do whatever was necessary. And he wouldn't judge or be disappointed.

Dick, hands shaky, ripped the IV from his skin at a bad angle and blinked at the blood dribbling down his hand. He freed his tangled feet from the bedsheets, noticed he was wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants, and tried not to think too much about that as he tried several times to throw his legs over the side. Grunting quietly, he touched the cold floor and pulled himself up. His head was dizzy and throbbing, and he swayed a bit from the head rush. But then he grabbed the empty chair and stood on his feet, breathing heavily. He waited a moment, looking around the room and spotting a window. It was across the room. He could do this.

He took one step. Two. He needed a second to balance each time, but that was okay. Slow and steady. Three steps. Wait--his foot was caught behind his ankle...get it free...

Dick crashed hard on the floor, face down, barely able to throw an arm out. His body screamed in pain, and he couldn't help screaming out a loud shout, too. The brand on his side reminded him it was there and he tried to arch away from it, hand hovering over it while he laid there trying to catch his breath.

Loud thuds. Dick only identified them as footsteps before the door to the room was flung open and light from the hallway streamed in. He cried out again, shielding his eyes. That silhouette. The person standing there. No.

"The fuck do you think you're doing," Slade growled.

"No!" Dick shouted. He crawled toward the window, pulling himself along the floor. He had to get away.

Hands grabbed his ankles and hauled him back, dragging him. Dick screamed and clawed at the floor, kicking as he was pulled.

"No! Let me go! I'm not yours!"

The hands were on him now, turning him over on his back, snatching his arms and pinning him down. He thrashed and banged the back of his head on the floor, sobbing. He was lifted just enough so his head lifted off the floor and he couldn't do it again. Pulled against someone's chest.

"Stop! I don't belong to you! Let me go! Let me go!" He tried to pull back, smeared blood over his hands and the hands of the person holding him.

"He ripped his IV out, sir."

"Yeah, I can see that, Billy! Gimme a hand here before he hurts himself again." The deep voice was right by his ear.

Then he was being lifted all the way, the gravity shift sending spikes of pain through his head. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not. All he could see were blurry shadows. A flash of white hair. A beard. A stern eye glaring at him in...concern?

"Please, noooooo," he sobbed, hyperventilating in near panic. "Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Please stop."

An angry growl. Dick flinched, waiting for a hit that didn't come. He was put back in the bed and then it was just the one pair of hands holding him down again. Not as hard. Just keeping him still. The hands needn't have bothered. Dick had completely drained himself. Legs and arms still pinned tight, wrists together on his chest, he was just barely able to roll over and bring his knees toward his chest. He was still sobbing, unable to stop.

“How are you still such a fucking mess? Should have just killed those bastards. Lucky they didn’t OD you and kill you, kid.”

The hand felt his forehead. Dick heard a sigh. The hand stayed and stroked his hair back while he kept crying, exhausted and close to darkness again. His throat made weird gasping noises and his bottom lip quivered as he sniffed. He could barely keep his eyes open, if they even were open. They felt raw and puffy. He still wasn't seeing anything.

"Where does it hurt, Dick?"

"Head...everywhere."

"Your head or everywhere? Pick one."

"Both." He whimpered at the pinch in the back of his hand again. More tape than before. Blood being cleaned from his hands.

A deep sigh. "Both... Rip this out again and I'm gonna stick it some place you won't like."

“...OD.”

Something warm held his fingers. “No, kid, these are the good drugs. Just...go back to sleep.”

"Jay..." Dick sniffed. "Jay..."

“J, huh? Having some trouble with the alphabet.”

Dick pouted. His head rolled back and forth on the pillow. Bad idea. Dizziness.

”Jason.”

A deep sigh. The hand on his head again, large fingers brushing his cheek. A cool cloth on his itchy face. Gentle.

Then...stillness.

 

 

Gunfire woke him up the next time. Dick decided he just wasn't having a good time of it. It sounded like it was right outside the room. And yelling. So much yelling. Dick groaned and covered his ears, trying to hide under the bedsheet. Slade was so loud.

"Calm the fuck down! I called you!"

"Where's Dick, you son of a bitch!"

"I'm not telling you anything until you put down your fucking weapons!"

"I'll blow up every room in this goddamn house if I need to!"

"Stop shouting!" Dick screamed at the top of his lungs, holding his head.

The immediate silence was nice, but his head punished him severely and he just groaned, burying back into the pillow. He groaned again at more footsteps in the hall. His sluggish brain tried to help him, tried to make the connection to what was about to happen next. He even thought he heard Slade yell something like, Wait! and Don't open--! But he was still unprepared for the door to slam open and light to flood the dark room.

Dick let out a cry, his hands moving to his eyes as he buried his face in the pillow. The harsh jerk of his head sent it spinning and he realized he was curled tight on his side again, sobbing exhaustedly. Why couldn't anyone just let him sleep?

"Dick?" a quiet, shocked voice asked. He knew that voice. Didn't often hear it sound this concerned, though.

"Dick, it's me. It's Jaybird. You're okay, all right?"

"Jay..." he moaned into the pillow. "Dreaming."

"You ain't dreaming, Dick. You ready to go home?"

A rustle of a glove being pulled off and then a hand on his bare shoulder. Dick flinched hard, but then relaxed with a sigh. The hand rubbed his shoulder and then moved to his head, feeling his brow.

"Fucking burning up."

"He's been like this for almost 24 hours. The sellers said they'd had him for a week and had been drugging him up. The detox is hitting him hard."

That was Slade's voice. Slade and Jay...together? Nothing made sense.

"Slade..." he moaned.

"It's okay, kid. Your brother's here now. He's gonna take you home."

"No...no Manor...no Bruce."

"Me? Go to the Manor? You really must be outta your mind, Dickhead. We're going back to your place. I'm gonna stay with you for a bit."

"As I said," Slade spoke lowly, "you're welcome to stay here until he improves some more to be moved. Wintergreen has been observing him closely."

"Yeah, I bet," Jason drawled. There was a deep huff of annoyance. "Fine. I...fine, you're right. He's in worse shape than I thought."

Jason's hand was in his hair again, stroking it off his forehead. Dick made a noise and leaned into the touch. He heard Jason chuckle and mutter something like, idiot.

"What have you got to pass for food around here?"

"Slade..." Dick moaned again.

"What is it, kid."

"Don't...don't tell Jay about the brand."

"The WHAT?"

Dick groaned and wrapped his hands harder around his head, trying to turn into the darkness.

"Shouting," he squeaked in complaint.

"Come with me. Now," Slade growled. The pressure from the bed lifted as Jason stood up.

"Get your fucking hands off me..."

"Dick...you--you..." Slade's weary sigh and the door closing. Complete darkness returning to the room.

That was so much better.

 

 

The next day passed in and out of consciousness, still. Sometimes it was Slade by his bed, gruff and gentle with water and pain meds and cool washcloths. Sometimes Jason, hesitant and muttering. Don't trust him one bit. Get you outta here soon. I promise. Sometimes Wintergreen, clinical and efficient. Very Alfred-like.

Sometimes Dick was awake, and sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes he was in between. Dick blinked slowly against the lamplight and watched Slade with heavy eyelids as the man lifted one of his arms after the other, washing him down as carefully as if the cloth would rub his skin right off. He knew, of course, that Dick was watching him. Also knew he wasn't all the way there.

The pain was lessening slowly. His joints no longer felt like they were on fire. His head had settled to a steady ache rather than the incessant pounding. He watched Slade's face, stern and focused. His hands were so large, his forearms the size of both of Dick's together. He could crush Dick right now without exerting any meta-strength at all. His hair was gathered at the nape of his neck in a casual bun, strands loose around his face. He pushed a bit behind his ear in a move that looked so bizarre in its casualness. Domestic. Dick was in Slade's house. One of them, anyway.

Dick licked his chapped lips. "What time is it?" he breathed.

Slade didn't stop his work. Didn't look up. He just grunted. So Bruce-like.

"Early morning. Been here 37 hours now, kid. Your brother's about ready to fireman carry you out regardless of your condition."

Dick snorted, and Slade twitched his mouth as well. He worked the cloth between Dick's fingers, and Dick's face filled with such heat he blamed it on the fever. His hand jerked in Slade's hold. The man raised an eyebrow at him.

"Tickles."

"Tickles," he mumbled. "So what happened, huh? What did you do to land yourself with a gang like that? Nasty business group."

"Business group," Dick scoffed. "I don't remember. Last thing I remember was patrolling near the docks. Lead on a string of abduction cases."

"Congratulations. You found them and got yourself abducted."

Dick scowled. "It's not my fault."

"Doesn't matter." Slade washed along his ribs and the muscles of his torso, finishing up. "Nearly found yourself at a very painful ending. No more Nightwing. No more Dickie Grayson."

"Would make your life easier."

Slade's face hardened, and he fixed his eye on Dick. "Not barring the utter bullshit of that statement, have I ever seemed to you like the kind of man who prefers life easy?"

Dick huffed through his nose and looked at the wall. "Easy is a relative term."

"I think you're still a little high. Nothing. Nothing about you is easy. You're a fucking pain in my ass."

"So...that's why you saved me?" Dick peered up at him.

Slade plopped the washcloth on his face and stood up, fiddling with Dick's IV lines and checking the medication levels. Standing by the bed, he towered above Dick. A looming presence. And, for the first time, as he tugged the washcloth off his face with a pout...Dick didn't feel any fear by it.

"Why the brand?" he whispered.

Slade's jaw popped. Grinding his teeth, he growled. "Cause that's the fucking protocol of the lovely people you found yourself with. Proof of purchase. All that shit."

"That's..." Dick's hand hovered over the bandage still there. "That's fucked up."

"Hnnnn." Slade nodded. "You didn't get the full brand, kid. Just a bit of a burn."

Dick coughed and tried to shift in the bed. "Just waiting to do it later on your own terms?"

Slade gripped Dick's chin and turned his face to look him in the eye. Dick blinked and breathed carefully, staying silent. Slade's hard expression softened only marginally, a teasing smirk playing on his mouth.

"Maybe," he said. "Think what you want, kid. You do anyway."

"You'd be surprised," Dick said softly.

Slade leaned over him and grabbed him gently under his arms, lifting him from the mattress to sit up against the headboard. Dick grimaced and blinked the nausea away, pressing his hands into the mattress to hold himself up.

"Is that so."

Slade held Dick's shoulder when he started to slip sideways. He took a bowl of something and sat back in the chair, pulling it closer. He picked up the spoon in the bowl, and Dick saw steam rising from it.

"What is that?"

"Poison." Slade held a spoonful of the liquid up to Dick's pursed lips, waiting. "With a hint of tomato basil."

Dick grunted. "Well, tomato's not bad." He opened his mouth and took the soup, surprised when it wasn't steaming hot but just on the right side of warmed. And it was...fantastic.

"I can feed myself," he argued.

"Sure you can." Slade pressed another spoonful into his mouth. "But I've had to clean up after you enough these past two days. I'd rather not add tomato soup to the list."

Dick tried to think of a comeback, but after another minute, realized the bowl was empty, and a glass of water was being forced on him. And when that was done, an extra pillow shoved behind his back.

"Let's keep you sitting up a bit now. If you don't crash again here in a few hours, you'll be good to go."

Dick fiddled with the bedsheets. "Tell Billy I said thanks."

Slade scoffed. "I'll do no such thing."

"What?" Dick peered up at him. "Why?"

"I made that myself, brat." Slade picked up the bowl and glass and other materials, the bowl of water and washcloth, balancing it all casually.

"Oh." Dick leaned his head on the pillow against the headboard, at just the right angle to still recline a bit and sleep.

"Well...thanks."

Slade just paused on his way into the hall and, without looking him in the eye for some reason, nodded, and closed the door gently.

If he'd known the next time he woke up he'd be back in his own apartment with Jason, he would have tried to stay awake longer.

 

 

The first thing Dick did when he opened his eyes was glance around the noticeably brighter room and squint, moaning as he covered the top half of his face. The feel of his own bed, complete with Superman plush pillow, had never felt so amazing.

"Don't be so dramatic," Jason drawled from somewhere nearby.

Dick peeked his eyes open under his hand and saw Jason through the open door in the living room, lounging on the couch with a book. He'd changed from his weapons and gear and wore one of the many shirts he'd dumped in Dick's laundry when he popped by for take-out.

"Slade?" Dick mumbled, rubbing his head.

"Well, he ain't here if that's what you want."

"Does Bruce know?" Dick slowly pushed himself up in bed and sat on the edge, letting his head hang.

"Not unless you told him." Jason snapped the book shut and stood up, walking over and standing in the bedroom doorway to lean on the frame.

"There may be a bit of a cover up. I saved you, you're welcome. You scared the shit out of us, Dick. Once Babs didn't get the 5-day check-in, she started searching like crazy. It was simply fortuitous that when I reached the abode of those lovely traffickers and blew it up for them, they were able to tell me that Deathstroke bought you. And--no, no, sit the fuck down." He snapped his fingers at Dick. "And it was even more fortuitous that Slade then happened to call me on my way to kill him."

"Convenient indeed," Dick mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do I...smell food?"

Jason leaned his head out in the hallway and glanced toward the kitchen. "Yeah, it's one of those things that you can make when you buy ingredients and shit."

Dick stood up slowly, holding one hand on the bed, and hobbled toward the shower. His window was open, letting in fresh--if polluted--air.

"You didn't have to cook for me, Jay."

"Au contraire. Any person of any baseline culinary skill could come into your kitchen, sit on the floor, and set themselves on fire from the state of it."

"That's graphic." Dick pulled out fresh underwear and a t-shirt from the dresser drawer. Then sweats from another.

"But true. I've got 72 hours to get you back into a shape resembling something even half-alive, and then I'm gone."

"Jay..." Dick shook his head. "I don't need 72 hours. I'm fine. I'll be back on the streets tomorrow. I just need a good night's sleep."

"Yeah, about that." Jason took a step into his room and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Slade said that if he sees you out on the rooftops any earlier than three days from now, he'll poison you again himself."

"What?" Dick squawked. "Is he like...watching the place or something?"

"That is not something I was going to ask him. Y'all have got something weird going on and I don't wanna know anything about it."

Dick tossed the clean clothes on the bathroom counter and started the hot shower. "We do not have anything weird going on, Jay."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if you two aren't the best character judges on weird. He's got this whole pirate vibe going with his uniform and you...well, let's not get started, circus boy."

"I take offense to that."

"Good," Jason said. "Chicken parmesan should be ready by the time you're done."

Dick waved him off and closed the door, stepping into the shower and letting the bathroom fill with steam. Standing with his hands against the tile wall and his head hanging, he let the scalding water pound his back and work his sore muscles loose. Wash away the fever sweat and ickiness that even Slade's sponge bath--he was not going to think on that--hadn't fully alleviated. He scrubbed his hair and let the shampoo and soap suds run over his skin. Carefully, he scrubbed over the bruises and hissed, avoiding the healing burn.

"Fucking brand, my ass," he muttered. "That was total bullshit. Of all the fucking things..."

After a good half hour of indulging himself, the hot water ran out and Dick sighed, turning it off and stepping out to grab a towel. He scrubbed his face and his hair and then wrapped the towel around his waist, shuffling to the sink. On autopilot, he lathered up his toothbrush and began brushing. And when he looked up at the large mirror, the brush fell out of his mouth and clattered in the sink.

Standing there with a mouth full of toothpaste, he read the message written by hand in the steam.

IT WASN'T BULLSHIT. 72 HRS. DON'T GET TRAFFICKED AGAIN.

Dick spit the toothpaste out and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced at the closed bathroom door and then swung it open fast. No one was in his bedroom. Just the open window with echoing traffic sounds and his fluttering blue curtains.

And on his nightstand was a can of tomato basil soup, along with a small pack of what looked like burn cream.

Dick sagged against the door, breathing heavily. He ran a hand through his wet hair and went to his open window. He leaned over and stuck his head out. No one on the rooftop above. No one below. Didn't matter.

"A text would suffice!" Dick screamed out the window. Then he slammed it shut and locked it, then flopped onto the bed.

"What the fuck are you yelling about?" Jason called from the kitchen.

"Nothing!" Dick called back. He reached over and picked up the burn cream, holding it in his hand and sighing fondly.

"Nothing at all."

Notes:

Anyone catch that reference with the steamed mirror message to the Nightwing issue where Slade does that? LOL