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Jason was not having a good day. He was not having a good weekend. He was supposed to be spending time with Dick and his Titans, but the majority of them had gotten called away for an off-planet emergency—Jason, on Batman’s orders, wasn’t allowed to leave the planet yet—and any hopes of having a fun weekend with his sort-of older brother and his friends was spoiled by the fact that they were the only two left in a rattling, empty tower.
Give the golden boy his credit, he’d tried to engage Jason, teaching him some moves on the trapeze set-up that the Titans had, but it was also really fucking obvious that Dick had wanted to go with his friends, and definitely wished he could’ve just shoved Jason back through the zeta to the Batcave.
Jason could tell when he wasn’t wanted.
Both he and Nightwing had jumped at the report of a trafficking stop in upstate New York, eager to get out of the Tower, and had fallen prey to bad intel. Well, it was Nightwing’s case, and Nightwing’s intel, Jason was just providing support, but somehow he had the feeling that Batman wasn’t going to see it that way. He foresaw several disappointed looks in his future.
And of course every possible idea Jason had for getting out of the small room they were currently locked inside had already crossed Nightwing’s mind, and each one was shot down. Gently, but that didn’t help the seething frustration. If they didn’t get out of here soon, Jason was going to start shouting, and either he’d be met with the full force of the Dick Grayson temper, or Nightwing would make that patronizing, conciliatory hum and Jason would break something.
Jason’s gaze caught on the barred skylight. The door was locked shut, nothing they tried had worked on it, and the skylight twenty feet up was their best way out. They just needed to get past the bars.
Jason checked the contents of his belt again, “What about—”
“Shh.”
Jason barely managed to suppress the automatic snarl—he hadn’t even finished, what, was Nightwing a mind reader now? “I didn’t—”
“Robin, quiet,” Nightwing said, all command, frozen near the door. “Someone’s coming.”
Jason forced down the bristling, and moved to Nightwing’s shoulder as Nightwing backed away from the door. He could feel the vibration of footsteps getting closer. “What’s the plan?” Jason hissed. “We rush them when they open the door?”
“Depends on how many there are,” Nightwing said calmly. Jason knew that rushing in blind was what had gotten them caught in the first place, dazed with knockout gas and shoved into this room, but it still grated. “For now, just observe.”
“This might be our only chance,” Jason grumbled.
“Robin,” Nightwing said, voice slightly sharp, and Jason made a face behind his back. Fine. He’d listen. And then he would be able to sincerely tell Batman that it was all Nightwing’s fault.
The door clicked open, and they heard the conversation before they saw the faces. “—as we promised. Don’t worry, no one will interrupt you.”
“Good,” responded a low voice, and a man in an orange-and-black uniform stepped through the door. Jason tensed, but Nightwing didn’t move, and the door clicked shut behind the man.
He was tall and broad, at least as big as Batman, with a wide array of weaponry and hard armor. The orange-and-black mask had only one eyehole, which was the final clue Jason needed to recognize Deathstroke the Terminator.
World’s deadliest mercenary, Jason distantly remembered the file saying, but a rare visitor to Gotham. The closest Deathstroke had gotten to facing off against the hero community…had been a note about an appearance against the Titans, almost a year ago.
It didn’t explain what he was doing here, but Jason didn’t need an explanation to kick his ass.
Jason waited for Nightwing to move, to signal an attack, to do something because meta or not, Deathstroke was just one man—but Nightwing had gone rigid.
The mask scanned over both of them, a piercing gaze, but Deathstroke made no move towards any weapon. “Two birds for the price of one,” came the low voice. “This must be my lucky day.”
“Deathstroke,” Nightwing said, almost hoarse, but at least he was reacting again. He shifted forward, stepping fully in front of Jason, and Jason was forced to step to the side to avoid getting his line of sight cut off. “Here for a rematch?”
The light, teasing tone Nightwing usually used had gone flat, and the false bravado hung bloated in the air. Jason began to feel trepidation curl in his stomach—Nightwing had only two modes in a fight, making stupid puns or arguing with Batman, and he was doing neither here.
The two-toned mask settled back on Nightwing. “Rematch?” Deathstroke asked idly. “I don’t remember ever fighting Nightwing.” The heavy gaze swung Jason’s way. “Robin, on the other hand—”
Nightwing cut him off immediately. “You fought me,” he snapped, shifting to block Jason’s line of sight again, and Jason was half-tempted to roll his eyes and make an irritated snort.
He wasn’t trying to poach one of Nightwing’s villains, Jesus fucking Christ, Nightwing needed to stop acting like a jealous boyfriend.
“You’re not Robin, little bird,” and while the words were the typical amused bantering of any Gotham Rogue, the tone was decidedly…darker.
A shiver worked its way down Jason’s spine, and he saw Nightwing go perfectly still.
“Why are you here, Slade?” Nightwing said, tone back to annoyed disinterest. “Revenge? Needed someone else to do your dirty work for you? Couldn’t catch me on your own?” Deathstroke was silent, and there was an edge to Nightwing’s voice now, “I didn’t think you needed traffickers to take me down, Slade, or were they just bait in a trap—”
“You heroes,” Deathstroke said, low and cold, “really do think the whole world revolves around you.” Nightwing flinched as Deathstroke moved, but the mercenary only shifted to the side. “I was just in the area,” cold and smooth and sinuous, “and I heard a rumor that someone had snagged a Robin.” Deathstroke’s steps stopped, and the mask stared straight at Jason. “And I just had to see for myself.”
Nightwing jolted, again shifting between Jason and Deathstroke, and trepidation began to creep inside Jason as he realized that this wasn’t a ‘stay out of my fight’ dismissal. Nightwing was scared.
Jason hadn’t seen Nightwing scared before. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that Dick was only eighteen—he was the original Robin, he’d been in the business for nine years, he was the darling of the hero world, perfect and poised, the leader of the Titans. He couldn’t be scared.
“Great. You saw us. Now leave,” Nightwing’s voice cracked the faintest amount on the last word, wavering confidence, and Jason knew that the mercenary had to have heard.
“I paid for the rest of the day,” Deathstroke said flatly. “Why the hell would I leave?”
“You what—”
“I wonder, little bird,” the mercenary said, all dark threat, “how much can I make you suffer in the limited time we have together?”
This wasn’t good. Clearly Jason was missing something here, but he elbowed Nightwing enough to stand side-by-side with him, scowling at Deathstroke. “What makes you so sure you won’t be the one suffering?” Jason retorted, one hand close to his belt. “You’re the one trapped in a room with us, and it’s two on one.”
“Robin,” Nightwing hissed immediately, a hand latching on Jason’s wrist to drag him back, but Jason fought the grip. If Nightwing wasn’t going to do anything, it was Jason’s job, and he planted himself in place. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by a guy who’d picked up a color scheme from a Halloween store. “Robin,” Nightwing snapped, almost a shout.
“You know what,” Deathstroke drawled, gaze heavy, and Jason met it with a snarl. “I’ve thought a lot about what the perfect revenge would be. How to make it hurt.”
“Slade,” Nightwing said warningly, but Deathstroke wasn’t done.
“How to make you feel like I did,” Deathstroke said, almost quiet. “When someone I was supposed to protect died in my arms.”
Nightwing’s grip tightened, and yanked, and Jason was too caught off-guard to recover before stumbling back, dragged behind Nightwing. “This is between you and me,” Nightwing said lowly. “Leave Robin out of it.”
“This is between me and Robin,” Deathstroke said, a hard edge to his sneer. “Maybe you should stay out of it.” He took a step forward, and Nightwing shoved Jason back.
“Slade, stop,” Nightwing said, his fingers painfully tight around Jason. Jason’s heart rate was steadily climbing—he had fought a lot of villains with Batman, and a fair few with Nightwing, and he’d never heard Nightwing’s voice waver like that. “Grant made his own choices. You can’t take it out on Robin.”
“Can’t I?” Deathstroke laughed. It wasn’t an amused sound. “He would’ve never gotten mixed up with HIVE if it wasn’t for you and your little friends. That’s the thing about heroes. They forget that actions have consequences.”
“Slade—”
“Did you ever wonder what would happen when you gave the kid your name?” Deathstroke asked, advancing slowly. Nightwing was backing up, careful to keep himself in front of Jason. Like a shield. “Did you ever bother to explain to the boy the legacy he inherited?”
“Slade, don’t—”
“How many enemies did you make while wearing that costume, little bird?” Deathstroke asked, low and heavy. “How many of them won’t care that it’s a different Robin? You made yourself a target, and you handed over the bulls-eye, and that’s all on you.”
Jason swallowed. “Nightwing,” he almost whispered, but the older boy wasn’t paying any attention to him.
“I’ll pay you,” Nightwing said, determined but shaky. “I’ll pay whatever you want, Slade, just go away.”
“Money won’t bring my son back.”
Dick, what did you do, Jason wanted to shout, but Nightwing’s obvious fear was keeping his mouth wired shut, and Jason was trying to puzzle out a story he only had pieces of.
“What do you want, then?” Nightwing snapped, frustrated. They were halfway to the back corner, and Deathstroke kept his slow, purposeful steps forward. “I can’t bring Grant back from the dead.”
“No, but you can watch your brother join him.”
Something snapped in the tense posture in front of him, a fracture rippling through Nightwing’s frame. Dread pooled in his gut as Nightwing curled a hand against him, and shoved him back faster, marching him to the back corner and away from the Deathstroke.
Deathstroke paused, watching them both as Nightwing shoved Jason into the corner and kept him pressed there. “Stay here, Robin,” Nightwing murmured. “Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t do anything to draw his attention.”
There were too many questions running through Jason’s head—why was Nightwing so scared, why wasn’t he fighting, what was going on—“N—”
“Little Wing, please,” Dick’s voice cracked, and all Jason could do was nod numbly.
He was Robin, he was Batman’s partner, he was trained—but so was Dick, and Dick was terrified, and Jason didn’t understand what was going on.
Jason stayed where he was as Dick stalked back to face Deathstroke, graceful but trembling. “You don’t want to hurt him, Slade,” Dick said quietly. “You want to hurt me.” He stepped forward, until he was an arm’s length from Slade. “There are other ways of getting what you want.”
“Oh?”
“Hurting him won’t bring your son back,” Dick said, tone almost soothing if he wasn’t shivering. “Hurting me won’t bring your son back.” And then Dick folded, elegant and smooth, the eerie flexibility that Jason could never match—“But I can still make you feel better.”
No, was Jason’s first thought. No. Not—he thought that would never happen again—his mom needed the money, desperately, and Jason had squeezed his eyes shut but he could still hear—he couldn’t close his eyes now, he couldn’t look away, Deathstroke looked ten times bigger looming over Dick’s lithe frame as his older brother almost swayed on his knees—
No, something broke in him, dread sharpening to stark terror. This couldn’t be happening.
Don’t move, Nightwing’s voice echoed in his ears, don’t do anything to draw his attention—and Jason—Jason was Robin, he was supposed to stop this, this couldn’t be happening in front of him—but he was ten again, and he was supposed to be quiet, because if he was quiet then maybe they would forget about him, and Dick was doing this for him.
Jason didn’t register when his cheeks turned wet, only when he had to stop breathing to choke down the sob.
Please, he wanted to scream, please, Dick, stop, please no—but he couldn’t, he could only cower in the corner, and—and the cold reality of the situation doused him like a bucket of water.
Nightwing was the leader of the Titans, he had taken on countless villains with a smile, a flip, and a stupid pun, the very fact that he wasn’t—Jason scrambled his head for any information on Deathstroke, known weaknesses, something, but came up distressingly blank.
He knew he’d read all the files, memorized them, noted down the contingencies for villains and allies alike, and—
He couldn’t remember one for Deathstroke.
He couldn’t remember if there had been one for Deathstroke.
“Please,” Dick rasped, hands reaching up—up to Deathstroke’s belt, fuck, Jason didn’t want to see this but he was too terrified to look away. “Let Robin go. You said the rest—the rest of the day. That—that’s enough time to do whatever you want, Slade, please.”
Deathstroke caught his hands before they could connect, and Dick’s wrists looked laughably small in the mercenary’s grip. Jason half-expected to hear them crack.
But Deathstroke just let them go. “Take off your mask,” came the harsh demand, and Dick hunched forward, shaking through a quiet, choked sob as he clawed at the edge of the mask.
No—they were supposed to protect their identities, and yes, he’d heard Batman’s lecture on their lives being more important, but Dick hadn’t made a single, muted protest at being forced to bare his face—which meant that Deathstroke knew. Deathstroke knew who they were, not just Nightwing and Robin, he knew where they lived, he—he knew everything.
Jason had to tighten his hands over his mouth to keep himself quiet, pressing further into the corner. But there was nowhere to go.
Taking the mask off without the solvent hurt like a too-sticky bandaid, but Dick pulled it off without making a sound, looking up and coughing when Deathstroke grabbed his chin and yanked him forward, tilting his face up.
“Now,” Deathstroke said, voice low. “What were you saying?”
“Please,” Dick gasped, voice breaking. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt him.” The world went a little blurry every time Jason blinked. “Please, Slade, I know you want to hurt me—” He was cut off with a strangled sound as Deathstroke’s grip moved to his throat and hauled him up.
The motion was effortless, and Jason’s eyes went wide as Deathstroke held Dick up by one hand, Dick clutching the gloved wrist and gasping as he strained on his tiptoes. “We just went over actions and consequences,” Deathstroke said, his voice almost level but entirely furious. “And yet you want to make the same goddamn mistake.”
Jason couldn’t hear what Dick choked out, but Deathstroke’s grip just tightened, forcing the sound into a wheeze.
“Here’s a lesson for you, kid,” Deathstroke snarled. “Never give your opponent ideas when you’re not in control of the situation.”
Nightwing made a strangled gasp that sounded like a protest.
“Really, little bird?” Deathstroke’s tone dropped to slow and sinuous. “You want to bring up sex with your little brother still trapped in this room?”
Jason went cold. The wail that tore itself from Dick’s choked throat was entirely anguish, and Deathstroke’s gaze shifted, the mask staring straight at Jason as Dick struggled.
“No,” Deathstroke said coldly, “you started this. Robin.” The mask was boring a hole into him. “Get over here.”
Jason was one hundred percent sure that what Dick was trying to gasp out was ‘no’, but Jason—Jason didn’t have a choice. There was nowhere to run, and Dick was struggling and—Deathstroke’s hand constricted, and Dick was clawing at the grip, desperately wheezing for breath, and Jason stuttered forward a step without meaning to.
“Get over here, now, or big brother won’t be able to sing anymore.” That jolted Jason forward, wavering steps as he got closer and closer, trying to ignore Dick’s strangled sobs.
Deathstroke was—was big, and bigger up close, and Jason could feel himself going numb, withdrawing inch by inch as he got close. He stopped next to Dick, and looked up, wondering if he should drop to his knees. If Deathstroke would at least spare Dick if Jason begged sweetly enough.
“Remember this,” Deathstroke hissed, turning back to Dick, “the next time you decide to escalate. Remember that very few people will walk away.”
He let go of Dick, who promptly crumpled, gasping for breath, face red and tearstained, blue eyes glimmering. Dick tried to get up, but he was wheezing too hard to make it off his knees, and Jason stayed where he was, wondering if Deathstroke was going to choke him next.
But the mercenary turned on one heel and walked out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind him, and everything was hazy, and Jason didn’t remember folding to his knees, but he could register Nightwing’s armor under his cheek, and warm arms around him, squeezing tight.
“I’m sorry, Little Wing,” Dick gasped, voice hoarse and cracking and broken. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Nightwing was crying. That was—that was the worst part, the crying, the noxious terror that emanated from the corner they’d squeezed themselves into, Jason curled up with his back to the wall and Dick bracketing his front, like he could hide Jason if he just tried hard enough. The sobs were silent, but Jason was pressed close enough to feel the shivers, and the tears dripping down onto the back of his neck.
Dick wasn’t supposed to cry. Dick was supposed to be the Golden Boy, always smiling, always in control. Dick wasn’t supposed to—Dick wasn’t—Jason couldn’t curl his fingers into the skintight armor, but he gave it his best shot, burying his face against Dick’s shoulder.
The apologies had trailed off, hiccups and tears the only thing left, and Jason knew that Dick was just waiting for Deathstroke to come back. They’d set off their panic alerts hours ago, but Dick’s went to Titans Tower and Jason’s to the Batcave, and both were empty this weekend. He didn’t know how long it would take Batman to find out that they were missing.
If there would be anything left of them when he did.
A deep, shuddering breath, and he curled up tighter against the older boy. Every second that they were left alone in this room was another second that Batman had to find him. He had to remember that.
Dick’s arms were clenched tight around him, tight enough that Jason wondered if Dick would ever let go—and the speed at which Dick untangled them when the door clicked was a little astounding.
Jason found himself upright and squished into the corner, Nightwing shielding him with his whole body, before Deathstroke walked into the room.
“Cute,” was the mercenary’s contribution, steady footsteps walking forward. “Move.”
Jason could hear Dick’s heartbeat stutter. “Slade,” he said, his voice low and conciliatory, “please don’t—I’m sorry about Grant—please, it’s not his fault—”
“Shut up. Move. Door. Out.”
Jason swallowed against a tight throat. The—the training he’d been given had stated it quite clearly—if there was an opportunity to get out, take it, because getting out meant calling for help, meant a rescue, meant that at least both of them wouldn’t get hurt.
Dick didn’t move.
“Slade—”
Deathstroke was right in front of them, and as fiercely as Dick stuck to his role as shield, he couldn’t stop Deathstroke from tearing him away from the corner. Jason stayed where he was, locked still, as Dick skidded a step away.
“Slade, please—”
“Stop talking,” Deathstroke said quietly, “or I’ll find something to shut you up with.” Dick opened his mouth, and grew pale.
Jason fought the shiver as the mask turned towards him. “Get out. Both of you.” Jason edged a step towards Dick, and when Deathstroke didn’t make a move to stop him, flung himself at his big brother. Dick caught him in a half-hug before swiftly interposing himself between Jason and Deathstroke again, and Jason clutched his back, peering out at Slade from around Dick’s arm.
“Did the meaning of the words get out change since you last heard them?”
“Nightwing?” Jason whispered, casting a glance at the doorway. He could see—bodies. On the ground. Limp. Probably dead.
Nightwing’s hand pressed against his side, a solid reassurance. “Okay,” he said, shakily level. “Okay, we’re going.” It took them a moment to edge out the door in their shuffling step, and Nightwing sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the corridor.
Definitely dead.
“You never stop being sanctimonious, do you,” Deathstroke said flatly, having followed them out. “They were traffickers, kid. Trust me, they deserved it.” He walked down the corridor, uncaring of the blood or bodies, and crooked a hand at them to follow.
“Nightwing?” Jason asked again, his fingers shaking, and Dick let out a slow breath.
“It’s okay, Robin,” he said quietly. “Stay behind me.” It was the unconscious surety that lent itself so easily to taking command, but Jason could hear desperation behind it now, and shut up and followed.
Jason didn’t know why Deathstroke wasn’t a priority one villain if he was a superhuman with a grudge. He didn’t know why Dick didn’t mention anything before about killing Deathstroke’s son. But now was clearly not the right time to ask questions, and Jason slowly let go of Dick as they moved through the bloody corridors. He didn’t have many weapons left, but he had a few birdarangs, and he silently passed two to Dick, who’d lost his escrima sticks, along with a smoke bomb.
He didn’t know whether it would be enough against Deathstroke, but they weren’t in a locked room anymore.
But Deathstroke didn’t attack them. He merely led them out of the now-silent base, nothing but bodies wherever they looked, and cleared the doorway without another word. When Dick stepped out, he flinched minutely, and drew closer to the right to let Jason walk out on the left. Deathstroke was waiting on the right side, still incongruously terrifying, and Dick was still for a stretching second before unfreezing and pushing Jason towards the tree line.
Jason—didn’t understand, Deathstroke was just watching them, why—why wasn’t he attacking, but Dick murmured, “Keep moving,” so Jason did, heading for the trees until Dick’s hand abruptly disappeared from his back.
Jason immediately spun around. Deathstroke had caught ahold of Dick’s wrist, and Dick was frozen in place, tense. Jason was four steps away, and his heart was pounding in his ears.
“Never make an offer you can’t follow through,” Deathstroke said, cold and level. Dick was wearing his mask again, and Jason couldn’t see his eyes, but he could see the way his expression went blank, his body slumping a half-inch in resignation.
‘Go,’ Dick mouthed. Jason took a half-step back and didn’t move.
The tree line was right there, and heading for a comm unit was the best idea, Jason could get the whole Justice League here in less than twenty minutes, but who knew what Deathstroke could do to Dick in twenty minutes, and Jason couldn’t just leave his brother, not after his mother, not after he swore he’d never let that happen to anyone again—
Deathstroke let go. Dick twisted around to stare at him, but Deathstroke merely crossed his arms. “Leave,” the mercenary said flatly. “Before I change my mind.” And he turned and walked back into the building, leaving them alone.
Jason blinked. “Did he just—”
“Come on.” Dick was already backing away, and he caught Jason’s hand and started tugging him towards the tree, throwing frequent glances over his shoulder. “We need to get away from here before he does decide to change his mind.”
“What the fuck,” Jason said faintly, but he let Nightwing pull him into a run, casting his own backwards glance when they hit the woods.
He didn’t see a single hint of orange-and-black armor, all the way back to the Tower.
Wintergreen took a moment before he accepted the call. “Slade,” he said levelly.
Slade did not immediately answer, and the silence unnerved him more than he’d like to admit. Silence on Slade meant that he was searching for words. Meant that he’d done something he was still trying to square with himself, and there were few things a killer-for-hire had moral dilemmas about.
“How did it go?” Wintergreen asked delicately, because he knew where Slade was, because he’d passed along the whispers of Robin’s capture as part of Slade’s demand to always be updated on Bat news, because Slade had been seething with a vendetta for a year now, and it had constantly been teetering on the line of what Slade could justify to himself.
If Slade had truly believed that the Titans were responsible for Grant’s death, each one of those kids would have been gruesomely murdered in a matter of days. Instead, Slade had gone after HIVE, which meant that he could still put blame where it was due, but an angry, grieving father was not rational, and Wintergreen had weathered many furious diatribes about how if Robin—now Nightwing—hadn’t crossed paths with Grant, Grant would still be alive.
“I killed the traffickers,” Slade said finally, which was—not what Wintergreen was expecting.
“Okay,” Wintergreen said slowly, trying to figure out why. “Did they—did they not have Robin?”
Another long silence. “Robin escaped,” Slade said slowly, and Wintergreen arched an eyebrow at the phone, even though Slade couldn’t see it.
But he didn’t push. “Okay,” Wintergreen said simply, and waited to see if Slade had any other news or requests.
This time, the silence stretched for a full ten seconds. “He got on his knees and practically begged me to rape him,” Slade said flatly.
Wintergreen almost choked. “Robin?” The kid was twelve, what the hell had Slade done?
“No. Nightwing.”
Wintergreen had definitely not heard any chatter about Nightwing in the area. “You have Nightwing?” he asked, mentally praying that the kid remained in one piece. Batman and the Justice League were not good enemies to have.
“I just said he escaped.”
Wintergreen had significantly more questions now. But Slade didn’t appear to be in a talkative mood, and Wintergreen could put several of the pieces together easily enough. Nightwing and Robin ‘escaping’, when Wintergreen knew damn well that no one escaped Deathstroke, and the mention of things that crossed Slade’s hard lines, forged long before Wintergreen had met him.
“He’s a child,” Slade snapped suddenly, tone furious, and there was a distant crash, like Slade was destroying something. “And he tried to whore himself out.”
Wintergreen didn’t point out that Dick Grayson was eighteen, and merely listened to a few more seconds of faint destruction before saying, deliberately mild, “And that surprised you?”
The sounds of destruction stopped abruptly, leaving nothing but silence. Wintergreen checked to see if the call was still running.
“Wintergreen,” Slade said, voice suddenly level.
“Yes, Slade?”
“Stop tracking Bat news. They’re more trouble than it’s worth.” Wintergreen let out the breath he’d been holding since Grant died. “And get me a contract. I need to kill something.”