Chapter Text
The cave echoed. Caverns stretching out for miles all responding to even the slightest noise or movement, giving the feeling that you were never really alone, that far off there was something moving, waiting, in the dark. Jason had been unnerved by it, his first dozen times in the cave, unable to shake a feeling of unbelonging. That at any moment, someone would accuse him of sneaking his way in and cart him right back to Crime Alley, or worse, into the Gotham juvenile system. Leaving his adventures as Robin, and his relationship with Batman as nothing but a pipe dream.
As grown as he was now, the Batcave unsettled him for different reasons. Too many memories, and the light reflecting off his old costume, still tattered and blood covered, threatened to send him into a green-tinged rage whenever it caught his eye. It didn’t help that Drake still flinched on occasion if Jason didn’t announce himself, always keeping him in his periphery, and never fully turning his back when they occupied the same room. Which Jason understood. The guilt he felt at every twitch was his own burden to bear. The Demon wasn’t much better, staring unashamedly from the dog bed he knelt on, petting that horse of a dog that he seemed to adore more than any human, as if his gaze would keep Jason in check.
And then there was The Bat. He sat in that monstrosity of a chair, shadowed by the screens of the Batcomputer which only seemed to expand every year, now the size of a home theater, typing away with a dizzying fervor. Jason had announced his entrance in his preferred fashion, by driving in full speed and hitting the brakes so hard that a squeal echoed, sending a colony of bats into flight, and despite all of his efforts, Bruce had yet to acknowledge his presence. Drake stood by his left, purple bruises beneath those ice grey eyes, and a frown that suggested that Jason’s summoning here was done with no nonchalance. He himself vowed to only enter the cave under the threat of death—if he was dying, or if one of the Robins was dying—and the act of compromising those rules set him on edge.
”Alright enough theatrics—’’ Jason unlocked his helmet, to reveal his domino mask, and the white streak he had pointedly began to grow out, having dyed it in the past. “What’s with the whole brooding scene you’re all doing here. I get I’m crashing the party but if you recall, you’re the one who called me in Old Man. What gives? Did someone die, or is someone going to die ’cause otherwise I’ve got shit to do.” He held his hood under one arm and did his best to look like he couldn’t give a fuck. If only to ignore the way Drake stiffened and the Demon tucked his head into the neck of his dog.
Bruce kept typing for a few beats too long.
”Alright. Fuck this, I’m out.” Jason turned on his heel, the careful hold on his temper beginning to slip at the clear dismissal from the Bat. “And if you wanted a babysitter you should have called Dickhead.”
”Deathstroke was spotted in Bludhaven 5 days ago.” Bruce growled.
And credit where credit was due, because Jason stopped in his tracks. Slade Wilson was one of the few people who still scared the absolute shit out of him, post-Lazarus. Now, even as young as he was, Jason rivaled Bruce in size, and could keep up with the best of them in hand to hand combat, becoming more of a heavyweight then an acrobat following his death. And Deathstroke could hand him his ass without more than an ounce of effort. They’d met only twice since his ascension as one of Gotham’s most prolific crime bosses, and both times Jason had left feeling thoroughly unnerved, as if sitting in the same room as The Terminator would allow Wilson to figure out who he’d been the first time they’d met.
***
Jason couldn’t have been older than 14, and absolutely giddy, given the fact that Bruce had taken one too many hits from Killer Croc the night prior and had tasked Nightwing with his patrol for the next few days while he recovered. Only after Alfred threatened to feed Bruce a diet of chicken, rice and burned coffee if he dared try to patrol. He rarely saw Dick Grayson, and even rarer was a night with Dick to himself. The hero worship had faded a tinge, but his admiration for the older vigilante never wavered, even after being privy to the spats the first Robin had with Batman. Jason still couldn’t dream of standing up to Bruce the way Dick did.
Dick had treated them both to one of Jason’s favorite hot dog stands, where the man who owned it always gave them extra curly fries when they were in uniform, and the two sat in comfortable silence as they listened to the natural sounds of Gotham at night, and watched the expansive lights of the city stretch out in front of them. Jason kicked his feet as he ate. The night had seemed perfect to him at the time, and he remembered looking up at Dick, who gazed out with a content half smile on his face. His hair had been longer than he kept it now, uniform still a work in progress, with a new pair of escrima sticks holstered behind his back.
Jason felt obligated to say something.
“So, how’s things in Haven?”
His voice cracked midway and he cringed, embarrassed. Dick had snorted, but answered regardless.
“It’s been hard work getting the goons and drug cartels used to having a mask in their city but it seems like they’re finally realizing I’m not going away anytime soon.” He grabbed a curly fry and waved it as he spoke. “Gotham’s had Batman around for long enough that criminals know they need to watch their backs, but in Haven, they’ve been operating so openly for so long there’s no fear of being caught anymore, and it makes them bold.”
“What about the cops?” Jason was aware of the shortcomings of the GCPD and didn’t doubt the BPD were equally inept. Dick gave him a wry smile and scratched his head.
“They’re too busy betting on the dog tracks and taking bribes than any actual police work. But the work needs to be done and I’ve got the time to do it, you know?” He sighed, and Jason suddenly remembered Dick wasn’t that much older than he was.
“Is it just you?” He knew Dick had distanced himself from the Titans but to what degree, he didn’t know. Bruce kept his cards close to his chest, and Jason was bottom of the totem pole when it came to any information on his predecessor.
“Mostly.” Dick replied, and didn’t elaborate, so Jason let the silence lapse, and continued to eat.
“Do you think—“ Jason was cut short by the sound of boots hitting the roof, and the way Nightwing had sprung to hit feet and armed himself before he’d gotten the chance to blink. The charge of escrima sticks buzzed as a voice broke the delicate calm of the evening.
“Didn’t think the Bat let you hang around anymore, Nightwing, not after you flew the coop the last time.” Jason’s gaze met an orange and black faceplate, and a mountain of a man. Taller than Batman, with a broad chest, and what seemed to Jason at the time like an arsenal of weaponry, Deathstroke the Terminator stood only a stone's throw away from the two of them. He prowled, taking slow steps, swords still sheathed.
“Slade.” Nightwing had positioned himself in front of Jason, shielding the younger with his body. “You’re not allowed in Gotham.”
“Heard the big bad bat took a few too many swipes in the latest Arkham breakout,” His one visible eye glinted. “Came to see if you’d come around to the idea of that little field trip we’d spoken about.”
The snarl that came out of Dick was a noise that Jason had never heard him make before, like a dog backed into a corner, baring its teeth.
“You’re showing your hand, coming around when you know Batman is out of commission.”
“We both know the Bat won’t let me within 100ft of you, Little Bird.”
A wingding flew towards the man’s head, and was dodged without any effort.
“Sore spot?”
“Get out of Gotham. I won’t ask again.”
The mercenary hummed, and Jason clenched his fists daring to peek around Nightwing to get a better vantage point, aware of his back to the 60ft drop below. His eyes met Deathstrokes, and he forced himself to meet the gaze, tilting his chin up in what he hoped came across as bravado.
“Seems like the Bat picked up a new bird. Have to say this one doesn’t seem to have your flair for the dramatic, or your temper for that matter.” Deathstroke lazily pulled out one of his katanas. “Bet he finally got sick of you trying to hold him accountable? Or is this one just a better listener than you?”
“We both know it’s more complicated than that.”
Dick sheathed one of his sticks and held a hand behind his back. He began to fingerspell.
“Call A & BG backup. Meet at BC.”
Jason was being told to run away, and while everything in him told him to stay and fight, he knew that against someone like Deathstroke, he’d only serve as leverage against Dick.
There were a few S tier villains that Robin was not under any circumstances allowed to engage with. Deathstroke the Terminator was at the very top of that list. Bruce's explicit instructions were to disengage and find Batman immediately, while calling in whatever backup was available to him at the time. Which he’d attempted to argue against but Bruce had gotten cold and quiet, telling Jason that Deathstroke had no issues slaughtering children, and had a personal vendetta against Robin. The message was clear, if Slade Wilson was in his eyesight, it was Jason’s job to get as far away as humanly possible from him.
Jason hated running away, hated the feelings of failure and shame, but he hated getting his head chopped off with a katana more. If anyone could stay alive long enough, it was Dick.
“Keeping secrets, Little Bird?”
Nightwing didn’t give him a moment to pause, leaping to meet the mercenary with dual blows that would have sent Jason to the ground from the force of them. He turned, knowing if he kept watching the fight he’d lose the ability to leave, and fired his grappling gun into the dark, forcing his breath to even out and willing his hands to stop shaking. Even Batman struggled against the Terminator, and everything in him was convinced he was leaving his brother to die.
Jason swung into the darkness and prayed to a God he didn’t believe him that Dick would come home okay.
***
“Where is Dick?” Jason questioned, voice cruel in its volume. Bruce’s mouth twitched.
“We’ve been unable to contact Nightwing.”
The laugh that came from his mouth was harsh and jagged.
“For how long?”
He was met with a damning silence.
“How long Bruce?”
“It’s been two and a half weeks since the two of us have spoken.”
“Fucking hell.” Jason rubbed his face with one hand. He turned to look at Damian, who had come to stand a few paces back, hands clenched in front, face painted in a downtrodden frown. “You. How long has it been since you’ve talked to him? I know you two are attached at the hip.”
Damien was never what Jason would describe as a shy child, neither descriptors fit the boy standing in front of him, but everything from his body language to the way he wouldn’t meet Jason’s eye brought the words to mind. He wasn’t short for his age, but Jason towered over the current Robin. He toed at the ground, and he was abruptly reminded of how close the kid was with Grayson. When not even Batman could raise and support Damian, (extenuating circumstances aside) Dick stepped up and took over the responsibility, and knowing Bruce’s rearing skills, Dick did a better job of it too.
”Damian,” He used the same voice on Damian that he used on the kids caught in the crossfire on missions. “When was the last time you spoke to Dick?”
“I told Father already.”
”Okay, so tell me.”
”He’d said he’d accompany me to an event held by Gotham Academy’s art department. Our end of semester projects were being displayed for the families of the students to come and view, and Richard promised that he’d be there. He even helped me decide on my final product. The day of the exhibition he was the first one there and the last one to leave, and afterwards we got ice cream.” Damian looked off into the darkness of the cave. “My piece was in the center of the room. I received an A, and my teacher recommended that I begin taking more art electives to further nurture my talents.”
”And after that? Was that the last time you saw him?”
Damian nodded.
“He dropped me off at the manor that evening, and said that he’d try to make it over next week so that we could patrol together. Nothing seems amiss, in fact, he seemed in exceptionally good spirits, going on about the children at the gymnasium he’s been teaching and some video game he and West have been partaking in. I didn’t—“ Damian paused, mouth tight. “He was content. Happy even.”
”Ok, so we know wherever he is, he didn’t go willingly. And I’m assuming you think that Deathstroke may have a hand in this given his sudden and unwelcome appearance recently?” Jason made eye contact with Tim, being sure the question was directed to him, rather than Bruce.
“That’s where things get complicated.” Tim darted over to the keyboard, reaching over Bruce on some occasions to bring up a multitude of images. ”Damian was the last person we know of who was in physical contact with Dick. Neither Babs or Wally has heard from him in weeks, and his Titans channels have stayed silent. According to his phone records he placed a series of three phone calls following the time we have of him departing from the Manor that night, and other than that his bank account, and all other methods of transaction are inactive. His rent is paid for the next month, deposited one day before the exhibit. His job had received no notice of resignation and Dick hadn’t contacted them with any information. ”
A photo of a familiar stuffed elephant floated in the top left corner of the screen.
“One phone call was to a landline under the last name Anders—’’
“You think he called Kory.”
“It’s likely, yes.”
Bruce sighed and stood, the cowl was off but the rest of him was still clothed in gray and black Kevlar. Tim pressed a button, and five images centered themselves. A battered copy of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, an old school Gameboy, a china cup, an unopened black jewelry box, and the stuffed elephant with a torn ear.
“We’d presumed Dick had been taken. However, upon further investigation of his apartment, Tim and I discovered these four items, which were scattered seemingly at random on his dining room table.”
It didn’t take long for Jason to connect the dots.
“That bastard, he knew he was going to vanish, but he couldn’t help himself. He could never leave without saying goodbye.”
He left the ‘again’ at the end of that statement out for the benefit of both his temper and Bruce’s health. Jason looked down at Damian, who had come to stand beside him, arms crossed and resisted the urge to tussle the kids hair, to try and show some sign of brotherly affection.
“So the Gameboy is for Tim, the books for me, the china’s for Alfred, and Zitka is for Damian, but what’d he leave you?” Jason couldn’t have begun to guess what was inside the little black box.
Bruce reached into one of the many filing cabinets surrounding the Batcomputer and removed the same little box. He lifted the lid and inside sat a batarang. It was tarnished, worn and chipped in places with a color scheme Jason had never seen before. Batman had been around for so long, that like the Robins, his costume had changed and evolved over time, and each time his weaponry was updated to fit the latest technological advances. But he’d never seen one that looked like this. It looked to be a totally different type of material than the ones used when he’d been Robin. Bruce followed his line of thinking.
“The first model of batarang. I gave it to Dick the night that he took his oath to join me. I doubted he’d kept it all these years. This model was prone to shattering, and had many other deficiencies that made it far inferior to the ones we utilize now.” Bruce rubbed his thumb along the dark metal. “I became concerned upon receiving this. I believe Dick would never give this to me unless he had no intention of coming back.”
Jason looked up at the book, clearly well loved, and felt his heart begin to speed in his chest at the thoughts that began to run through his head.
”Where’d you go, Dick?”
Chapter 2
Notes:
Just so we’re all on the same page here—I have read many DC comics. Do I understand the timeline bullshit? Kinda. Have I attempted to create consistent characterization by cherry picking over 40 years of media? Oh for sure, I’m only human.
Also, side note, I do believe that Slade should sound like Ron Pearlman all the time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There were no windows here. From the looks of it, this place had once been a warehouse, repurposed somewhere around the time where off color wood paneling and beige were in style, giving the impression that it hasn’t been touched since the 70’s at least. There were five rooms, a kitchen, two bedrooms, military in their uniformity, a training room with mats too thin to disguise the concrete floors below, and another room, which stayed closed and locked.
Dick couldn’t say how long he’d been here. There were no clocks, and the only way to track the passage of time was by meals. He’d lost a few days. Drugged upon his arrival, and beaten into various forms of unconsciousness left him scrambling for any sense of regularity. He couldn’t tell you what day it was. Time was a privilege here. As was food, and the right to keep breathing, and every day he was required to prove he deserved the right to keep drawing breath.
His limbs were tight and rigid as he began his stretching routine, keeping his eyes on the doorway of the training room as well as listening for the sounds of his boots coming down the hall, always vigilant of the possibility of Slade's arrival. The constant awareness wore him down, leaving dark circles beneath his eyes that he had only noticed after catching a glance of his reflection in a cup of water. He hadn’t earned a mirror yet, or the privilege of using glassware. Most likely due to the water glass he’d broken in an attempt to shank Slade during his second escape attempt. His back cracked as he leaned forward til his chest touched the tops of his thighs, giving little thought to the habitual routine he’d inherited from his parents, and despite Bruce trying to break him of the habit, he was able to pass it on to the Robins too.
An ache spread throughout his entire body, as his muscles strained to keep up with the motions he forced them to perform. The realization that Slade had been holding back on him all these years dawned quickly, the night it had all begun to fall apart, piece by delicate piece.
The years hadn’t been kind to him. Dick had mistakenly believed that he’d taken everything life could throw at him, given the fact that he’d gone from a highly trained professional acrobat, to a crime fighting vigilante, to a cop, to the Batman, and to a spy, and back to being a crime fighting vigilante in the span of less than 20 years. He’d fought aliens, robots, fascists, a man eating crocodile creature, and a killer clown amongst other monstrosities, but they’d never managed to shake him to the degree that Deathstroke the Terminator could. Because he knew the best way to beat Nightwing, to beat Dick Grayson, was to let him tear himself apart.
Their first meeting was a spark that burnt down an entire forest. His obsession with finding Slade ate him alive, and it almost consumed the Titans too. He barely ate, only slept when forced, and had fixated with such severity, that the only thing he remembered when he recalled those months was facts about the mercenary. Dick knew everything that could be found about Slade Wilson, AKA Deathstroke the Terminator. All of the files, including the classified personal files of both Batman, and the Justice League, his military records, any mentions of his accomplishments were seared into his psyche, to this day. Slade was his white whale, and in the end, the tool to his destruction.
And he’d hated him for that. Hated how the thought of him twisted his mind into knots, sent him spiraling. He hated the fear that bloomed in his belly at the thought of the punishments he’d earned during his first tenure as Renegade. The bruises. The scars. Slade was careful not to break bone, after all, he was expected to spar every morning, and every evening, at the very least. Most of all, Dick hated how his time as Renegade never really left him. The secrecy he kept concerning his time with the Titans, the lies he’d told to divert the attention of other hero’s away from his familiarity with Deathstroke, and the half-truths he’d told Bruce after he’d knelt to receive punishment after losing a spar one afternoon after his return to the Cave.
Dick’s head was down as he placed his hands flat on the floor, before smoothly moving into a handstand.
“You haven’t changed your routine in all these years.” Slade’s voice drawled from the door jam.
Dick suppressed a flinch, unable to believe he couldn’t hear the other man enter, despite his hulking form and massive amounts of body armor. He turned on his hands, hair dangling, and met Slade’s gaze. Without the presence of a mask, Slade was no less threatening—stark white hair, contrasting with a black eyepatch, and a jagged, ugly scar that emerged from below it to mar his cheek. With half a foot between them and probably 100 pounds, Dick felt acutely more aware of the size difference between the two of them now than he did as a teenager.
“If it isn’t broken, why fix it?” He lightly pushed himself up and back onto his feet.
“Just because something isn’t broken, doesn’t mean it can’t perform better.”
Dick shuffled, the mats sticky against his bare feet. Slade let him squirm, content to watch and wait.
“I didn’t—”
Slade cut him off immediately.
“I went by your apartment. Didn’t realize you had two fathers who never told you to keep your spaces tidy.” He took a step forward. Dick willed himself not to move, knowing if he ran or recoiled, the ramifications would be far worse. “And would you like to tell me what I found?”
Dick blinked, and in that moment, gave himself away.
“I thought we had an agreement.” Slade took another step forward, unsheathing his katana and pressing the tip against the hollow of Dick’s throat.
“You were supposed to vanish. No secret messages, no fail safes, no back up plan, and no gifts.”
The tip of the blade drew blood on the word ‘gifts’.
“I can’t say I expected better of you, but you know I have rules, Robin, and I don’t take lightly to anyone who dares break them.”
”We both know they won’t leave this alone.”
Slade increased the pressure, and the pain began to thrum. He reached up to attempt to slow the blade with his palms, but Slade clicked his tongue, freezing his hands in mid-air.
”It was your job to persuade them otherwise.”
And like clockwork, Dick felt his temper flare.
“Well since I’m not the secretive, withdrawn mess of a teenager that I used to be, when I pull a disappearing act, people actually seem to fucking notice.”
And Dick swore he could feel the final nail being hammered into his coffin as soon as the words left his mouth.
”You will listen and then in time, you will learn.”
In an instant, Slade’s hands were around his neck. His attempt to throw himself back out of reach only made it easier for Slade to slam him against the wall as he held him dangling in place. Dick let out a wheeze, hoping to get his legs around the mercenary's neck. At least until Slade held a small knife over his femoral artery, and pressed.
“I gave you the opportunity to take an out, and you said you’d handle it, that you had another way. So I trusted you, and you agreed that if you failed, we’d do this my way.” Slade toed the line between threatening, and entertained, like he was enjoying the fact that Dick failed to convince his family that he’d chosen to crawl back to Slade Wilson. “And I will assure you, Little Bird, I will enjoy every last moment of this.”
Dick couldn’t help his instinct to scrabble at the hands around his neck, the skin torn by his clawing fingers healed in seconds, unyielding like iron.
“You gave yourself to me. It’s time for the Bat to know who you’ve really belonged to.”
He was going to die. Slade was going to kill him and drop his body on the doorstep of Wayne Manor, as he had threatened to do so before.
“I remember the first time I held you like this. It’s where I got my little pet name for you. Your neck seemed just as fragile as a bird's, only one quick twist and Robin wouldn’t be able to fly away.”
Dick’s eyesight began to flicker, spots dotting his vision as he twitched.
“Please.” He mouthed.
“Please what?” The hand tightened.
”S-Sir.”
By the time he’d realized Slade had dropped him, Dick’s head had already hit the floor. He spasmed and coughed, his right side leaning against the wall as he shook on all fours, unable to do anything but tremble and wheeze. It felt different when he didn’t fight back. Like could almost forget and convince himself he deserved it.
“I waited for you.” That smooth voice came from above. “I thought it would be one of my children, and I hoped to pass it on to Grant, but that opportunity came and went. And then I saw you, and there was something worth nurturing in you. So young, and so very angry.”
Dick managed to struggle to his knees.
“But that fire in you also makes you brash. Impatient.” A large gloved hand cupped Dick’s face. Slade's thumb stroked beneath his eye, brushing away the tears that had fallen whether he wanted them to or not as his body reacted while he’d begun to fade from consciousness. “I’d hoped to become like a father to you, but I have realized you don’t need another father figure to obsessively try to impress, no, you need a keeper. Someone to keep you in line. Someone who will make sure you behave.”
This time, Dick couldn’t hold back his flinch, and Slade smiled at the admission of fear.
“I don’t want to be like you.” Dick admitted, voice a pathetic croak.
”You won’t be like me.” Deathstroke assured, one hand carding through Dick’s hair. “No, you’re going to be something better.”
Slade’s grip on his hair tightened. In one swift arc the hilt of the knife he’d held to Dick’s thigh met his temple with a damning thud, and he fell into the arms that awaited him.
***
The headache set in before his consciousness did. He awoke in pain, shooting upright only to freeze as his eyes lay on nothing. A consuming panic that Slade had blinded him rose like vomit, but upon raising his shaking hands, Dick realized he could make out a barely perceptible silhouette. The floor below him was the familiar concrete, and it smelt of dust and something rusted, and something within him was convinced he’d found what Slade kept behind that ominous locked door. It was cold, and the beating that rang out from his temples was disorienting. Dread flooded his senses as he walked himself around the room, and felt that it was barely a room at all, he’d been in walk-in closets larger than this.
Slade had a raging hard on for sensory deprivation as a disciplinary method and clearly enjoyed limiting his senses, but had utilized it to this degree during their first stint together only once. Seeing how he still hated sleeping in rooms with no windows, it had left a mark. Robin hadn’t given him a reason to try it out again after that. Until now.
“Shit.” Dick’s head was cowed, and he slammed a fist into the wall, sinking to his knees, both from the pain and anger for the situation he’d gotten himself into. He didn’t know when Slade would let him out. Or if, since this all came to culmination because he couldn’t leave his family behind.
But he couldn’t tell them the truth of what he’d done, terrified that everything he’d built would burn to ash the second they realized that he’d never really come home after being taken all those years ago. That his time with Slade never left him, just lingered out of sight. It wasn’t hard to put up mental shields following his return, directing Martian Manhunter to the worst physical torments, to the torture Deathstroke called training, to nights spent curled up with tears drying on bloodied cheeks. The moments of affection, of comradery, of a volatile, unbalanced, but ultimately special, connection. He hid the worst of it from them all, Batman included. And he did so for years.
He may have been the first child vigilante, but even he had a breaking point.
Slade made him understand how little control he really had over his life. After Jason, Dick searched him out, desperate for any acknowledgement, even if it was with fists over words after Bruce blindsided him upon his return from space, but found no sign of the mercenary. Then tried again after he beat the Joker to death with his bare hands. Still nothing. Yet, over the years, they’d find themselves in the same room, and no matter who was there, or how important they were, their attention rarely drifted from the other. But Dick never let Slade get close enough to pin him down. Only after Blockbuster's death did Slade appear, with whispers of destinies, and lineage, and of payments he was owed. But even then Dick resisted, not without receiving a serious beatdown until he was left bleeding on a rooftop in Bludhaven until Wally found him hours later.
“Let me out!” Dick slammed two fists against what he assumed to be the door from the slight vibration when he knocked on it. “Please!”
He’s spent years fearing what Slade could do to his family. The two of them danced the same dance for almost a decade by a mutual understanding of destruction. If Slade spilled his guts, Dick loses any chance of future heroism, a grandiose reputation, and the respect and trust of those closest to him. Everything he’d worked for. And if Dick spilled, Batman would hunt the Terminator down to the ends of the earth to enact vengeance, and who was Deathstroke the Terminator behind bars? No one wanted to make a contract with a man who’s found himself imprisoned.
Then the nightmares returned. And he began to see a broad figure with white hair and an eyepatch around the city, but he’d blink and the visage would vanish before Dick could consider it to be anything other than a fragment of the past. Kory stopped coming over after a while. After she’d caught him drinking out of a bottle of expensive scotch, drunk out of his mind with one of his hands still leaking blood through a shoddily wrapped bandage, things only went downhill from there. They’d never officially broken up, but they weren’t together either.
So Dick handled the ‘break up’ how he normally would, by almost getting himself murdered.
Batman had made sure that he was deeply undercover for this mission, which had been happening with more frequency—Bruce assigning him roles that would require him to leave for weeks at a time with no backup. He’d taken it as a good thing, eager to challenge himself, and a part of him was more than willing to do so, preferring it be him in the line of fire than another. Instead, it left him vulnerable, at risk with no one to watch his back, and no one to call when Deathstroke found him in an alleyway with a knife protruding from his thigh. Dick had little choice in the matter. And when a drawing found its way into Slade’s hand of a towering oak tree he recognized from the grounds of Wayne Manor initialed with the letters DW, he knew the chase was over.
Then Slade pulled his trump card—recorded footage of Dick during his time as Renegade, from surveillance tapes, and the camera installed into Slade’s mask—that was ready to send to every member of the Justice League, and every supervillain Deathstroke had even taken a contract from. And there was no way for him to contact a soul. And the threat was clear, even if Dick bled out in this alley, his brothers would soon follow him wherever he happened to go. After all, Deathstroke never failed a contract.
Not only that, Slade Wilson believed that Dick was someone worth mentoring, worth investing in, and that chilled him to his very bones.
“I just want to go home.” Dick’s voice failed him, between Slade’s strangulation attempt, and the lack of water he was surprised by the noise himself. He rested his forehead against the cold floor and thought of his brothers.
He thought of Tim, who had recently mastered his ollie and had been eager to demonstrate it to him, much to Alfred’s ire given Tim chose the ballroom as the place to do so. He thought about Jason’s book club he’d joined—not that he actually told Dick about it until he’d spotted the flyer on Jason’s coffee table one night before patrol. He thought of Damian. Just of the face he’d make when the two of them would grapple through the streets of Gotham, with an expression of what Dick might dare to call childlike wonder.
“It’s worth it. It’s worth it. It’s worth it. It’s worth it.” And the mantra went on until it shifted. “They’re worth it. They’re worth it. They’re—” His ears rang in the oppressive silence as his voice broke.
Slade only entered after his voice gave out.
***
Notes:
If you haven’t gotten the memo yet—Dick is gonna suffer, and things are going to be violent and confusing for a while so buckle in folks! We’re just getting started.
Chapter 3
Notes:
TW: slight suggestion to domestic abuse, substance abuse
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It had been years since Jason had felt himself slipping into a full blown pit-endured episode, but the more time he spent in the caverns beneath Wayne manor, the more his loose grip on his temper slipped. As far as he could tell, none of them had gotten more than a few hours of sleep. Tim had dozed off in front of the Batcomputer, and Bruce had draped a blanket over him, and continued to type away standing up. Damian had been called away by Alfred, who implored the youngest to attend Gotham Academy that morning, if only to keep up appearances, so the boy had grumpily attested, but for once, seemed to know that he was fighting a losing battle. If they didn’t have Alfred, it was doubtful any of Bruce’s children would have attended school with any regularity.
They’d made little headway on locating Dick. The man seemed to be better at vanishing than any of them could have anticipated, and soon Jason found himself being cajoled by Tim into reaching out to Kory, who he’d been in loose contact with for the past few years. Starfire had always been someone Jason admired—strong, capable, and resilient enough to persist through an unimaginable upbringing, and come out the other side a hero in her own right. Which made sense that she’d connected with Robin. Her relationship with Grayson had always been complicated, but he knew the flame-haired princess loved his brother. As teenagers, they courted, and as adults, Kory had the patience for his brothers moods and nuisances that had sent many other lovers running for the hills
Vigilantism and healthy attachment styles were contradictory affairs. Few had successfully dated outside the life, and Starfire’s knowledge of their secret identities allowed a closeness that was almost impossible to find with a civilian. Dick kept his cards close to his chest. Still, Jason knew that even the Golden Boy had more than enough skeletons in his closet. It was impossible to avoid what with how long he’d been fighting Bruce’s battles. But the more they investigated, the more stones they overturned, he realized how little he really knew about Dick Grayson, and how much he’d been willing to put at stake to keep those secrets from the rest of them.
It came to a head when Bruce avoided Jason’s inquiry concerning how Slade Wilson had even come to interact with their eldest.
“How did Dick even get on Deathstroke radar to begin with?” He questioned, peering over Tim’s sleeping figure to see what Bruce was typing. “Because I’m starting to think this whole ordeal began far before I became Robin, and in that case, you’ve been keeping secrets from us. Well,” Jason met Bruce’s gaze, as he’d stopped and turned to Jason once he’d begun speaking. “More secrets than usual.”
Bruce’s mouth flattened at his accusation. They stood, staring at each other for far longer than Jason was comfortable, and he realized that he no longer had to look up to meet the man’s eyes. They were the same height, and that rubbed him some type of way.
“If you want us to help, like actually do some god damned detective work, then you’ve gotta be honest with us.” And at this, Tim stirred awake, eyes darting from the standoff between Bruce and Jason. “None of this need-to-know basis bull, actually tell us how Deathstroke knows Dick. I tried to access the files, but they were, surprise! Classified.”
Tim piped up.
“There’s almost a year worth of reports from when Dick was 15 to when he was 17 that are either missing or have been purposefully deleted. There’s no records from the Titans from that time anyways, the only information pertaining to him was a report stating that Robin was on a long-term undercover mission assigned by Batman and two other senior members of the Justice League.”
Tim cocked his head, drawing Bruce’s attention.
“You said you didn’t have any contact with Robin when he was stationed out of Jump City, so why would you assign him an undercover mission, and more importantly, why would he have taken it?”
As much as the little brat annoyed the fuck out of Jason, he couldn’t deny that Tim was the best detective of them all, Bruce included.
“What are you hiding?” Jason couldn’t keep the distain from leaking into his tone.
There’s this habit that Bruce seemed to have always had, where his stoicism increased as soon as there was any question about his capabilities.
Shocking that a man who’s spent almost half his life dressing up as a bat would have poor emotional regulation skills, but Jason could see the way Bruce warred with himself.
”It would be better if we heard it from you.” Always the voice of reason, Tim stood, crossing his arms besides Jason.
It was rare the two of them agreed upon anything, and even rarer that they would present a united front against Bruce. A murmur in the back of his head said that Dick would be pleased that they were working together for once, but he quickly dismissed it, choosing instead to point to one of the files that Bruce had been looking through. It was a mission report completed by Kid Flash and Arsenal, though he was still going by Speedy at the time.
The last few sentences are what drew his attention.
****All enemy combatants neutralized by 20:00 with no appearance or sign of Deathstroke the Terminator or his apprentice Renegade. R remains MIA. Upon further investigation, one of R’s projectiles was found embedded into the body of a bird (believed to be a Robin). No identifying evidence proved R had killed the animal himself, or was present at the scene.****
“If you don’t tell us, I’m going to have to call Starfire, and neither of us want that.” Bruce had no real qualms with Koriand’r, but the woman had repeatedly challenged and put the older man in his place enough to have gained a wary respect of her. And Bruce was notoriously awkward with his children’s significant others.
“When Dick was 16, he was shot by a rogue, and if the injury had been centimeters farther to the left, would have lost almost complete mobility of his left arm, and with that, a vast majority of his acrobatic skill.” This was not news to Jason, who knew that Dick still bore the scar. “This was not the first time he’d been injured in the field, but it was the first time he’d done so after directly disobeying my orders, and I benched him. Permanently.”
”And I assume he took that well?” Sarcasm leaked from Tim’s tone, and Jason quirked a brow in admiration.
“He left for Jump City that night, and ignored any of my attempts to contact him. I got updates from other members of the Justice League who interacted with him, mission reports, and whatever Alfred thought I deserved to know.” Bruce rubbed a hand down face, a decidedly uncharacteristic tic. “I didn’t handle his rebellion well, I said some, frankly inappropriate things, and Dick only recently found it within himself to forgive me. It came from a place of fear, fear of losing Dick, and fear of my own weakness when it came to him. If I’d lost Dick that early on in our tenure as Batman and Robin, I very well could have lost any chance of the legacy we have now.”
“I didn’t know you benched Dick.” Tim looked perplexed, as if the words themselves didn’t make sense.
“I didn’t just bench him, I tried to take Robin away from him, and with that, I attempted to take away everything he’d built until then, and that wasn’t the first time either.”
Jason carried a lot of resentment inside him. Sometimes he could find it within himself to be ashamed of the depth of his animosity, but in that moment, he realized how much of the path they’d taken as Robin’s had been laid by their eldest sibling. After all, there was only 14 years between Bruce and Dick. Their relationship was far more nuanced than any of the others seemed to know.
“Okay so Dick spent a few years doing his own thing, what I’m confused about is how the man with eyes and ears everywhere didn’t seem to notice when his only child actually went off the map. I know you kept tabs on Dick, your paranoia wouldn’t allow it otherwise.” A defining one of Bruce’s personality traits was ignoring boundaries and privacy in favor of ‘the greater good’ or ‘the mission’. “Hell when I was still wearing the pixie boots, if I sneezed in the wrong part of Gotham, you’d know about it.”
Tim didn’t add anything, just looked up into the stalactites but they all knew what went unsaid. He had undoubtedly received the worst of Bruce’s overbearing nature, following Jason's death Bruce went through phases where Tim wasn’t allowed to be out of his sight for a moment when they were in the field together. Either that or Bruce completely ignored the third Robin, lost in the thralls of his apparent grief.
“I didn’t feel as entitled to be an authoritarian for Dick as I felt for the rest of you. Disciplining him as Batman was one thing, I was his superior officer at the end of the day, but I struggled to impart the same expectations as Bruce Wayne, and therefore, Dick was allowed far more freedoms than I gave those of you who followed.” Bruce turned to the computer, pulling up a series of images. A photo of Titan’s tower from about 10 years ago, what looked to be some type of machine, a sleek looking robot with an orange and black mask, and a group photo.
“He’s so young.”
The Teen Titan’s smiled and posed for the photo, with Cyborg carrying Beast Boy on one arm, and Raven on the other who boasted her signature frown, while in front of the three of them stood a young Starfire and Robin. Kory’s arm was around Dick’s shoulders, as she was still a good half a foot taller than him then, and she had tucked her head into the crook of Dick’s neck, mid-laugh. Dick’s arms were crossed and he’d turned his face away “Three days after this photo was taken, Dick went missing. The Titan’s had been facing an unknown masked villain who had fixated on Dick specifically, and they were facing unprecedented losses, which the Justice League eventually took notice of, and this led me to be informed of Dick’s disappearance a few weeks later.” Jason could tell how this still perturbed Bruce by the slight twitch of his lips.
“Superman was the one to inform me, I spent the next three months trying to locate Dick, only to find the trackers in both his suit and tech had been planted in two different parts of the world, leading me on a wild goose chase only to eventually discover that Dick had removed the tracker I’d implanted in his upper arm. His suit I found in Vietnam. His tech was placed in Northern California. His personal tracker was abandoned in Greece, still covered in his blood.”
Photo’s of said trackers appeared on the screen of the Batcomputer.
“The tech you used for the trackers pre-dating my time as Robin could be removed by another person, correct?” Tim continued on without a confirmation. ”After…this you engineered them to be unidentifiable by any tech other than your own, and impossible to remove by another person.”
Bruce nodded. He turned to Jason, hands clasped in front of him as if mid-prayer.
“I’d appreciate it if you both reached out to your remaining contacts in the Titans. I doubt they’ll have any new information—I was diligent in my follow up during the initial investigation—but they may have more insight into Dick’s more recent habits.”
Which was as close as Bruce would come to admitting a shortcoming. Jason pulled out one of two burner phones he kept on his person, and tapped through the options until the initial K blinked on the green-tinged screen.
”Here goes nothing.” Jason dialed, and perked up in surprise as the dial tone only rang once before a spritely voice answered with a “Jason? Are you alright?”
Jason chuckled despite himself.
“For once, yeah I am, but I’m not calling about myself, Star. We’ve got a bit of a problem on our hands.”
“We?”
”I’ve got the old man here, and little Red. I uh—I hate to ask you this but have you heard from Dick at all in the last couple weeks?”
A beat of silence. Tim leaned in closer.
“Dick…no I haven’t. We haven’t spoken in weeks.” There was a note of hesitance in her voice that Jason latched on to. “Why? Has something happened to Robin?”
Despite how many predecessors the Robin mantle would have, there would only ever be one Robin in Kory’s books. She slipped up and referred to his older brother as such only when she was concerned.
“Dick’s been missing for weeks. His trackers are offline, and his civilian alias went MIA with no warning. He didn’t even quit his job. I know the two of you were back…on…and the old man hoped you’d have any insight into his mental state, or just anything we may have missed.” He skipped over the detail that the only member of his family that had been in any worthwhile contact with their eldest was Damian, who Dick would never divulge anything inflammatory to.
“Oh Dick.” Jason heard shuffling on the other side of the receiver. “Oh X’hal…I feared something like this.”
His stomach dropped.
“About a month ago we’d made plans to go out to dinner, to this restaurant that Dick said reminded him of his mothers cooking, and I jumped at the occasion. He’d been off—cancelling dates for extra patrols, and he wasn’t eating right, and by that I mean worse than usual. I thought he was just regressing, as he dismissed his civilian therapist a few months ago, and did my best to help mitigate the paranoia but it—it became too much. He wasn’t sleeping, and…” Kory broke off, hesitating in a way that was uncharacteristic of the warrior. “I found him in his apartment that night.”
“Kory, I’m gonna put you on speaker.” The princesses' voice floated around the Batcave like a disembodied ghost.
“He’s been drinking again. I’d found him like this a few times before, in years prior, and he’d quit for some time but this was the first instance where I’d discovered he’d been lying about his sobriety. There was broken glass scattered around the apartment, and his feet were bare, all torn and bloody. All the windows in his apartment were open, and he’d been sitting in one of the window stills, covered in freezing rain, just staring out into the dark of the city. He barely acknowledged me as I entered, ignoring his name or any of my attempts to draw his attention.” Kory took a deep breath, and Jason had no doubt she hadn’t told a soul about his brother's apparent meltdown. “His cheek was bruised, one eye filled with blood, and he only reacted when I touched him, flinching so hard I feared he’d topple out the open window. When I tried to ask what was happening he laughed and it was…horrible. He sounded unhinged. The laughter just continued, and I’m afraid I lost my temper with him—”
Bruce interrupted briskly.
“—What did you say?”
Kory stammered a bit as she attempted to answer.
“I told him that I couldn’t help if I didn’t know what was wrong. He replied, ‘Nothing’s wrong, everything is playing out exactly according to plan.’ When I tried to pull him from the window, he resisted. In my fear, I told him that he was acting like a child, and I said he was scaring me.”
“He just kept laughing, one hand held the bottle, the other held some dark box. I am embarrassed to say I did little investigating, and the details are vague as it was very early in the morning and all the lights were off. I feared that he’d been reverting to habits from his past, and this was my undeniable confirmation of such.”
”Did he mention anyone’s name, or make reference to anyone else?”
Kory was silent for too long, her quiet consideration had Jason shifting with anxiety.
“Batman, is this about who I think it is? I will not betray Dick’s trust any more than I already have without knowing more.”
“We think it’s Deathstroke. He was spotted in Gotham six days ago, and we have reason to believe he was in contact with Dick before his disappearance.” Tim answered in turn.
Kory was a fighter, but she was not a vicious or cruel soul. A beacon of light, her energy and miraculous spirit made her an indomitable force of good, but when she replied, Jason heard a venom in her voice he’d never encountered before.
“You should have called much sooner, Batman.”
“We only discovered his disappearance a day ago Starfire,” Tim leaned over Jason’s shoulder to speak into the receiver again. “We’re reaching out to anyone who’s had recent contact with Dick to try and clarify exactly what’s going on here. You are the first we’ve called.”
“If it is truly Deathstroke who has a hand in this, then we have begun far too late. It took years for Dick to recover from his last encounter with him, and even now the flashbacks still affect him. You agreed that The Terminator would never be able to set foot in Gotham or Bludhaven!” Her voice raised as she addressed Bruce. “You promised, Batman, that Deathstroke would never terrorize Dick again!”
“I know what I said. No one had any idea that they were in contact with each other, Starfire. What else did he say?”
“I finally managed to get him out of the window. He was drenched, shaking as his teeth chattered. I asked him again what was wrong, and he went quiet. We stood in silence for what felt like ages. He finally met my eyes, and he told me that he thought about me every day. That it was my face that he dreamed of in his darkest moments, that he’d whisper my name beneath his breath to remind himself that I was real, and… I knew what moments he was referring to. He touched my hair, and as he got close I could smell the alcohol on his breath. It was like he was trying to commit my face to memory.” Kory’s voice shook.
“He told me I was a dream, his dream, and that he’d do anything for one more kiss from me before he left. That he wished we could fly together again. When I asked him where he was going, something shifted in his demeanor, and he ran a hand through his hair, exposing a deep cut behind his left ear that had been stitched back together. His breathing was ragged and he slapped the hand I reached out to inspect his face further. He kept muttering ’I’m fine’, like he was trying to convince himself it was true.”
“He took a long swig from the bottle before he smiled a small, sad smile. Then he—” Her voice broke, and the three of them leaned in close to hear what she’d say next.
“—He shoved me. It was uncoordinated and rather weak but his expression shifted into something malicious, and cruel, and he told me to leave. That he needed some space, that I was too ‘clingy’ and my suffocation was why he was like this, and in the face of his cruelty, I am ashamed to admit that I left. I threw his house key at him and said some unflattering remarks concerning his mental health. I’ve been at Titan’s tower for the last month, hoping the distance would help soothe the heartbreak I’ve been feeling.”
At the admittance that Dick put his hands on Koriand’r like that, Jason and Tim met each other's eyes with joint expressions of surprise and horror. Their older brother could be a mean drunk but still, this was entirely out of character, and enforced his theory that Dick was slowly pushing away everyone who cared about him. This whole debacle was becoming undeniably premeditated.
“Fuck Kory, I’m sorry.” Jason floundered, feeling the need to support his friend without knowing how to admonish his clearly fucked up and traumatized brother. “He never would have done that in his right mind.”
“I know that now. According to the other Titan’s, Wally is the only other member he’s had any contact with in the last six months, and they had a falling out of their own around the time that…this happened...”
“Thank you Starfire, we know this must be difficult for you to share.” Bruce rubbed his temples with one hand. “We may request your assistance later on once we’ve begun to narrow down Dick’s location, if you’re willing that is.”
“I should have known that Deathstroke had a hand in this, after all no one else is able to get under Dick’s skin like him. These out of character acts are similar to how he would act during his search when we were younger—the nightmares, the paranoia, the aggression—I should have known…”
“None of us paid enough attention. We’ll be reaching out to West, and if anything comes to mind, inform either Red Hood or myself immediately. Even the smallest detail could help.”
“There was something.” Jason held the phone a little tighter. “He smelled like smoke. I gave little thought to it at the time, assuming he’d encounter a fire while on patrol, but the scent was still strong, and there was ash smudged along his hairline.”
Tim was already looking up the reports Nightwing had submitted post-patrol that week. He shook his head towards Jason, confirming that there was no official record of Nightwing saving anyone from a fire, or encountering any type of blaze that would have led to him smelling so strongly of smoke.
“Thank’s Star, really, I know this probably wasn’t easy.”
The alien on the other end of the phone sighed, weariness tainting her tone.
“The last time we lost Robin to Slade, he almost left us for good. I fear this time the damage that has been done will truly be irreparable. Please find him Jason, and soon. Give my contact to the Batman, and I will speak with the Titan’s concerning Dick’s disappearance.”
“Starfire,” Bruce’s voice dropped into the familiar growl. “This investigation needs to be kept clandestine for as long as possible, given we don’t know how Deathstroke managed to contact Dick in the first place. This is highly classified and you must not speak to anyone concerning Dick’s disappearance until we have a better understanding of the powers at play.”
“I will not stand aside while Dick suffers at the hands of this villain again Batman!”
“I am not asking you to disregard what is happening, only to wait until we have more information to go off of. You are the only person who has seen Dick with any clarity pertaining to his emotional state, and you will be an imperative assist during the eventual rescue operation. Your discretion is indispensable.”
Kory scoffed, but didn’t continue to argue, which Jason took as a sign to end this conversation before she decided she didn’t feel like respecting Bruce’s tentative authority.
“You’ve got my number Kor, I’ll be in touch.”
“Goodbye Jason, please tell me if you find anything.”
“Of course. Bye.”
He hung up the phone and sighed deeply, feeling the fatigue in his joints and feet.
“Well that’s fucking troubling.”
“Why would Dick do something like that?” Tim’s hesitance bled into his question. “Kory could have helped him”
”Not if he believed that Deathstroke could do something to harm her. He’d never allow her to get hurt if he could help it.” Jason replied, well aware of Dick’s self-sacrificial tendencies. “He loves her, always has.”
“None of the reports from that week suggest that Nightwing encountered any large fires, and any calls from civilians to the Bludhaven fire department suggest they were handled without any vigilante interference. Which means Dick either encountered a fire that he chose not to report, or it was when he was a civilian.” The furrow between Tim’s brows deepended. “There was a small fire that occurred at midnight down at the docks, in a vacant warehouse 727, but by the time emergency services arrived, the fire had been subdued and there was no one present at the scene. Police reports state that they believe the fire was started by a group of homeless people who appeared to be residing there in an attempt to shelter from the storm.”
“I guess we’ve gotta check out that warehouse.” Jason rolled his head, cracking his neck twice. “Demon Brat will be getting home from school, and in the meantime, I need a fucking break from all this. I’ll be back in a few hours, so I’ll take the zeta’s and plan to meet you there after sundown. God knows we need all the hands we can get.”
This couldn’t have come at a worst time, and the more time they spend looking into Dick’s disappearance, the more Jason realized he chose this month with intent. Duke was participating in a study abroad program out of Italy, while both Spoiler and Batgirl were abroad in Asia, one training with one of the Bat’s associates and the other deep undercover. Oracle was still active, but was primarily focusing on her thesis for her masters degree that she’d be presenting in a few months. So not only was Dick putting them through the wringer, he did so knowing they’d have limited amounts of backup.
This bullshit had him wound tighter than a spring. He began to walk over to where his bike was parked, when a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. Jason whirled around, snatching the hand from his back as he sneered to where Bruce now stood in front of him, hand still outstretched, and his face carefully blank.
“We have no time to spare, Jason. Every moment Dick is in Deathstroke's hand is a detriment to both us and him.”
”Don’t you think I know that!” Jason snarled in response, the conversation with Kory rattled around dangerously in his head. “But I need some time to fucking shower and try not to lose my cool over the fact that Dick even dared to treat Kory like this before I can even consider the next step in saving his stupid ass. So forgive me Bruce, if I actually take care of myself instead of running myself into the ground!”
Tim watched him with a cool, removed expression and Jason felt his temper roar at the sight.
“I’m. Leaving. I will see you at sundown in Bludhaven.” His hands shook around the handles of his bike as he sped off through the tunnels of the Batcave and into the constant drizzle of Gotham City.
Notes:
Okay so I am 100% a Dickkory stan—I think there is nothing more romantic than one of the Flying Graysons falling in love with a woman who can actually fly. Also for anyone that’s like “Dick is OOC, he’d never be this mean!” I hate to break it to you but Dick Grayson can actually be a real asshole, obviously there’s extenuating circumstances happening here too. And yes you will be getting other characters POV’s going forwards, I just like being able to write Jason’s annoyance at the situation he’s in rn.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Determining ages for these fools is nearly impossible but my rough math concluded—
Bruce: 39
Dick: 25
(I enjoy them having a 14/15 year age gap due to their whole teen parent/you’re my dad but not my father dynamic)
Jason/Cass: 19
Steph: 18
Tim: 17
Damian: 12
Chapter Text
It was never easy to keep him in a cage. Dick wasn’t claustrophobic by any means, but there was something about the wind in his hair and the feeling of weightlessness in his stomach, a roar of the wind in his ears as he flew. Even though he knew the bird metaphors were a little on the nose, he truly hated feeling trapped. And after exhausting every single conceivable option of escape, he was willing to admit he‘d lost his grip on himself a bit.
In his first room, he was allowed a window—and that didn’t last for long, given the obvious reasons. He’d unscrewed the hinges of the door of the second room, and made it out into the yard this time before Slade shot him with a tranquilizer dart and when Dick woke up, he found himself in a different safe-house than before. His fingers were torn apart afterwards, and still he’d dislocated his thumbs twice, and by his sixth and most recent attempt, Slade had become unamused. It hadn’t been long since he’d been put in solitary after Slade discovered the gifts he’d left like a sentimental idiot, and to say Slade was angry at his attempt would be a flat out lie. He was furious.
“I like when you fight back, but if you cannot be subdued, I will handle you like one does a rabid dog.”
And Dick was rewarded for his efforts with a specialized cocktail of drugs in his food that put him to sleep for what felt like days. Which was better than being shot. When he was pulled from the drug induced haze by Slade strong-arming him from his spot on the floor, Dick seriously believed that Slade was going to kill him. That feeling rarely receded. Still reeling, he’d barely had enough sense about him to lift his head and he soon found himself in front of a television. A video was playing, and his knees were kicked out from under him, and he folded with no resistance, eyes fixated on the person who was on the screen.
It was Damian, in his Gotham Academy uniform, sitting in the courtyard by himself while other students milled about. It was filmed from about 50 ft away, and oddly enough, Dick could place exactly where the camera man must have been hiding, knowing the grounds of the school like the back of his hand. He tried to sober up, but he was badly injured going on seriously wounded, had spent the last day heavily sedated, and it had been so long since he’d laid eyes on another human, let alone his baby brother. Damian’s hair was getting longer, and his posture was uncharacteristically relaxed. He looked smaller in his uniform, almost like the actual child that insisted he wasn’t. Every so often, he’d look up from his sketchbook to observe the fountain that adorned the space. Dick soaked up every second, until a hand tightened in his hair, forcing his gaze upwards, to meet one unamused blue eye.
”I got pretty close. Especially knowing how jumpy you Robins can be.” Dick willed himself to stay silent, knowing a threat when he stared it in the face. “I’m done playing games. I’ll admit, it was cute the first few times, but it’s getting old.”
The grip on him loosened, and Dick sat there for a minute, watching Damian draw. Deathstroke stood above him, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen for a second. If Slade wanted to kill Dick, he would have already. No, he was breaking Dick down piece by piece until he forgot he didn't want to come here in the first place. That was part of the fun of this for Slade, if he can make Dick—Robin, Nightwing, The Boy Wonder—obey his orders unwaveringly, then he’ll have accomplished a feat even the Batman himself failed. And that was worth all the contracts in the world for Slade Wilson.
“This one at least looks like Wayne. Heard you took care of the boy when someone finally got rid of the Bat. Too bad it only lasted so long. But I figured I’d remind you of our agreement, given I seem to have knocked you upside the head so many times that you’ve forgotten.”
There was no audio, but Damian checked his watch and a moment later the other students in the shot began to pack their bags, signaling the ringing of the bell. He tucked his sketchbook, took a long look at the emptying courtyard, and ducked into the building, never one to be late to class. Dick let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Ra’s Al Ghul would pay good money for the brat, alive or dead, although I suppose you know that already, given your family's ties to the League. Now, Grayson,” Slade tugged him upward until their eyes met. “I won’t kill you first. I’ll kill as many birds as I can get my hands on, and then I’ll kill you, in front of the Bat, just so he can see the expression on your face, but when I go after the others—I won’t make it quick, and you, one of the few people who could try and stop me, are here. So there’s a good chance I’ll get away with it too.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” The response left his lips with a slight slur.
“Because I wanted you. And I deserve a legacy. You are the only one I deemed acceptable, and if you cannot see the honor that this is then I will make you see it.” Deathstroke growled. “But I will not play games with you. If I find you somewhere you shouldn’t be again, I will void our contact, and the brat goes first, or maybe the old man, whichever suits my mood that day.”
Dick let out a mirthless laugh. Something about the weight of his helplessness had become funny again. How ridiculously horrible his life was at that moment.
“Okay. I’ll stop.”
The image on the screen shifted showing a flowing river of fiery red hair and skin tight purple uniform as Starfire flew into view, almost a blur above the city's rooftops, only overshadowed by the scope of a sniper rifle in the bottom right hand corner.
“Alright, I got the message. I’ll quit with the escape artist act, cross my heart.” *Click*
Alfred running errands. *Click*
Tim outside Wayne Enterprises, talking on the phone. *Click*
Jason in his office as Red Hood, a book in hand. *Click*
Wally leaving work, halfway through a granola bar. *Click*
Bruce at a charity gala, a fake smile marring his face, as he dazzled the crowd.
“Okay, Slade please, I won’t do it again, I promise.”
“I don’t believe you.” Slade paused, his one eye fixated on Bruce’s persona in full effect. “That girl of yours, she’s tough.”
“What?”
The image shifted back to the open sky, where Kory was still patrolling the skies of what Dick realized to be Bludhaven. This stream was the only one to have a visible weapon in it, which dawned upon him with damning clarity, as the weapon shifted, and the shooter began to aim. He doubted it was live, but couldn’t help himself from voicing his protests all the same.
“No, no Slade you don’t have to do this, I won’t run, I promise, you DON’T—”
There was no sound. One moment Kory was soaring, and the next she was plummeting towards the Bludhaven skyline and Dick was 8 years old all over again, watching her fall, and fall, and fall.
“KORY!”
“Took a lot to bring her down. Had to special order the bullets. I see why you took a liking to her, she’s a fighter, like you.”
Then the screen turned to black, and he saw his own paltry reflection. Slade still had one hand fisted in his hair, which was greasy and untamed. His skin was blotchy with bruises and various marks. He looked malnourished. Unwell. And there were tears in his eyes. There was anger there too, but it was paralyzed by the magnitude of his defenselessness. A gun shined in Deathstroke's other hand and Dick closed his eyes and resigned himself to just sit there, praying he wouldn’t have to live with the fallout of his decisions.
He’d called her before he’d caught his first flight, one of many on his way to meet the Terminator. A moment of weakness, sure, but he knew she’d be out when he called. All he wanted was just to hear her voice one more time. He’d ditched his tech ages ago, knowing it would be the first thing his family would track, and instead faked that his cell phone died and he needed to call his girlfriend to let her know his flight was delayed. An older woman in her late 50’s took pity on him, and he soon stood with one ear covered, being sure to catch every word coming from this woman’s outdated phone. He was always sure to memorize Kory’s number, and his chest felt tight as he dialed.
It rang. He knew she wouldn’t answer, but he imagined what he’d do if she did. Eventually a beep sounded, and Starfire’s voice rattled out of the small speakers.
“Oh how do I… yes hello—person on the cellular telephone. I am not answering the telephone right now, so I will talk to you when we encounter each other next! Or perhaps tomorrow! Yes! Goodbye! Now what—?”
She hadn’t changed the voicemail since he’d set it up for her during their Titans days.
He knelt there, face still bloody from his punishment a few days ago, and thought about the look on her face the last time she’d seen him, the look of concern, pity, and eventually anger as he escalated their encounter until he knew she’d stay gone. His stomach did a flip.
“Don’t try me again. You won’t like the results.” Slade's voice crashed like the sea over sand, soaking into every piece of him.
Dick nodded numbly, eyes still on the black screen, replaying how Kory’s hair had streamed behind her. A comet crashing into Earth. He loved to watch her fly.
“Are you done with these childish acts of rebellion?”
Dick nodded again. His ears were ringing.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” Slade released his hair, and he slid to his hands and knees like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Prove to me you’re not more trouble than you’re worth.”
He’d stopped trying to escape after that.
****
One morning, after a week of what Dick personally deemed ‘exemplary behavior’, which meant no back talk, no escape attempts, and grueling training sessions, he was given a newspaper. The front page read “LUTHOR UNDER SCRUTINY” and the banner proclaimed it a piece by the Daily Planet, but more importantly, it boasted the date in a tiny innocuous font above the logo. March 12th. He’d lost almost 5 whole days, and he’d been with Slade for almost 6 weeks. He stared at the date as if he could will it to change, or set it aflame, but alas, all that happened was Slade continued to eat his breakfast across from him, moving methodically through a plate of fruit, scrambled eggs, and breakfast sausage.
“What day did you think it was?” The mercenary stabbed a piece of pineapple with his fork.
Dick debated lying, but in the end knew it wouldn’t protect him from anything.
“March 7th.”
“So you lost roughly about 120 hours. Didn’t realize solitary confinement would be so effective.” Unmasked as he was, Dick noticed the slight quirk of his lip at his misinformation. “I expect you to begin your exercise regimen following breakfast, and plan for a spar by 0700 hours. A clock has been placed in your room for the foreseeable future, but can be removed at any time. We’ll be using blades today, so don’t allow your thoughts to stray. If you arrive distracted, I will ensure you regret it.”
“What type of blades are we using today, Sir?” Dick took a spoonful of the oatmeal in front of him, keeping his eyes down. It was hard to look at him without seeing the image of Kory spiraling towards the ground, the recoil of the sniper rifle. Without remembering the satisfaction rolling off of Slade in waves at Dick’s broken cry of protest.
“Hunting knives. Close combat. If you perform adequately, we’ll graduate to some of my personal Tanto’s. Those cattle prods of yours don’t have the same finesse as a real weapon.”
Dick knew Slade had an affinity for needle-point knives from his time in the military, and knew he’d be leaving this spar with no shortage of cuts, especially given his talents were more focused on disarming an opponent using a bladed weapon, not keeping up with one. He was no amateur, but Deathstroke cut down the best of the best with little effort, and Dick knew when he’d be spending his time trying to stay alive. Which was a feat in itself.
“I will be leaving for a contract in eight days, and I am expecting that you will join me.” Dick fought to keep his expression neutral. He knew this would come eventually.
“Eight days.” Dick echoed.
”Is that going to be a problem for you?” Slade set down his silverware, and placed both of his gloved hands on the wood of the table, giving him easier access to Dick. “More than a week of preparation beforehand. And you didn’t think I was just going to keep you here like an untrained house pet. Even dogs must be socialized.”
Eight days. Dick knew the date Slade chose was purposeful, after all, his 26th birthday was no small affair.
“There’s no problem, Sir.”
A discerning blue eye seemed to bore into him as they both sat there in the tense silence. Dick couldn’t relax around the man, and Slade seemed to relish in the fact.
“It’s a protection detail. We’re required to watch over the client for the entirety of one evening, and have been instructed that no harm should come to either the client, or the client's chosen company for that evening. I expect you to fulfill your duties to their fullest extent.” Slade picked up his fork again, and Dick kept his eyes on his hands, worried the mercenary would choose to introduce his cutlery to Dick’s throat. “Look at me.” He tore his gaze away from Slade’s hands, and began to take long, calming breaths as the man across from him refused to break eye contact.
”I will be expecting perfection from you when we leave here. Do you understand me?”
Dick understood viscerally. There was one blaring way that Dick refused to meet Slade’s expectations, and that was his continuous refusal to kill. For Slade, it was his biggest shortcoming, and he knew that if he convinced Dick to break his vow, that there was no going back to the Batman this time. No, if Slade bullied, convinced, or coerced Dick to kill, there’d be nowhere else for him to go. He’d truly be ruined, if he wasn’t already.
“I understand, Sir.”
“Good. We’ll do a few mission briefings before we leave. Clean up after yourself and begin your routine.”
Slade went back to his breakfast while Dick cleared his dishes. He knew someone else was allowed inside the safe house, but he’d never seen another soul besides himself and Deathstroke. Much like when Alfred would putter around the Manor, Dick found the dishes miraculously finished and put away, his laundry would appear folded on his bed, and there was the faint smell of lemon cleaning supplies in the air every so often. There was no way that Slade was cleaning up after him, and it was only ever just the two of them all those years ago. Slade was not a friendly man, and Dick doubted he had any allies to begin with, which made this mystery maid all the more perplexing.
He silently made his way to the gym, where he again ran through his lengthy stretching routine before beginning some weight training. The treatment he’d received upon his arrival here meant Dick had lost no small amount of muscle mass. Built like an acrobat, he wasn’t a heavy hitter like Bruce, Slade or Jason, but preferred to use his reflexes and agility to keep himself in the fight, rather than throwing his weight around. However, going up against Slade had only clarified that Dick needed to bulk up more, if only to take the hits he received from the mercenary. He wasn’t a small man, but Slade made him feel like a child again.
Some bruises on his torso protested as he began his reps on the bench press. At this point, the aches and pains blended together, and beads of sweat gathered on his brow as he focused on his form, rather than the thoughts that clawed at his subconscious. It had been a very long time since he’d seen a friendly face, and Dick could rarely stop himself from letting visions of his friends and family overtake his concentration. He wondered where they were and what they were doing, and if they’d even notice that he’d gone. If they hadn’t yet, they soon would, with his birthday arriving in almost a week's time.
He finished his workout 10 minutes early, and used that time to meditate. Bruce encouraged Dick to practice these forms every day, and he had many fond memories of the two of them, sitting on the sparring mats, just breathing beside each other. He thought of Bruce, and the feeling of helplessness began to rise up his throat again.
“You’re trapped, and they’re not coming. Even if they do come, Slade will slaughter enough of them that there will be nothing for you to return to. You’re trapped—”
His inner dialogue turned rotten and acidic with little encouragement, as he attempted to clear his mind before sparring.
“He’s going to cut your wings. You’re trapped. There’s no going home. You killed her. You’re trapped. No one is coming for you, you made sure of that. Kory! You’re trapped—”
A creak of a floorboard had him snapping to attention, rolling to the side into a defensive crouch only to see a knife embedded into the floor where he’d just been kneeling. Slade stood in the doorway, flipping another identical blade in his hand.
“Well done.”
Dick grabbed the blade that was stuck in the floor and held it so the edge ran along his forearm. He was very aware of the way Slade began to circle him like a prowling tiger. For once, Dick took the offensive, slicing up towards Slade’s neck while attempting to take the mercenary off of his feet. Deathstroke countered, jabbing towards Dick’s chest, catching his bicep, as Dick danced to the side, attempting to prod his back or kidneys if exposed. Today, he wore no armor, but any cut he received from Dick’s blade healed within a minute with barely a trace he was injured at all.
On the other hand, for every slice Dick dealt out, it felt as if he received three in return. Even though Dick could see the openings, he wasn’t fast enough to take advantage of them, with Deathstroke’s superior speed forcing him back on the defensive regardless of his ability. He was fast, having trained with speedsters and meta’s alike, but Slade wasn’t just enhanced, he was a formidable opponent before the serum, and any weaknesses he’d had in combat before had been eliminated. He managed to catch him, slicing a deep cut into the side of Dick’s thigh. He spun hoping to create some distance between the two but Deathstroke trapped his wrist in a grip that threatened to break his arm, and threw him onto the mats. Dick gaped like a fish. Not a second passed before Slade’s weight pressed him into the floor. A knee between his shoulder blades, and the knife against his throat.
“You’re too used to being faster than your opponent. Planning six steps ahead does nothing if you’re dead before the third. Again.”
They fought until failure—always Dick’s failure, of course—but the hours dwindled away as they traded blows back and forth. Slade pushed harder the longer they went, but Dick somehow would find small moments of success, managing to catch Slade off guard a few times, landing a few key blows of his own, and even out maneuvering Slade to the point where the other man resorted to his super strength. Dick’s blade flashed, the opening there for the taking until Slade shouldered Dick across the room with the force. Once Dick’s head stopped spinning, and he peeled himself off the mats, he met Slade’s eyes with a tired grin. The mercenary angled his head up, looking down at him, but they both knew had Dick been fighting anyone else, that blow would have ended the fight.
“Again.”
And they went. Until Slade caught Dick in the ribs, and a crack broke through the sounds of their panting and their bare feet against the now slick mats. The noise that exited his mouth sounded like a dog whose tail had been caught in the door, and Dick misstepped, right into a left hook from Slade that sent him tumbling down. He shook and panted against the mat, scrambling to find his footing, before the pain sent him right back to the floor.
“That’s enough.” Slade looked down at him, clothes torn in the places where Dick managed to land a hit. He didn’t look tired per se, but that constant ambivalence had faded suggesting that Dick had forced him to put in effort, which satisfied him in a way he felt vaguely ashamed of. “Clean yourself up. I’ll fetch you for dinner.”
Dick handed the knife over to Slade, who wiped the blood off, and tucked it away. His hand shook as it reached out, and Dick pulled it back for fear of Slade spotting his weakness, and by the raised brow he received from the Terminator, it didn’t go unnoticed.
“Few survive a fight with me, Little Bird, especially when I’m trying. At least now it’ll take actual effort for me to kill you. There are bandages in your room.” And left Dick bleeding on the mats without another word.
Chapter Text
Titus let out a grumble from where he slept heavily at the foot of Damian’s bed. The sun had just begun to set, and he tapped his pencil impatiently on his desk as the rays slowly drifted from view. Pennyworth had sent him to school that morning, despite the information revealed last night concerning Richard’s disappearance. Todd and Drake were purposely avoiding him, keeping pertinent information on this case to themselves, and Father was so enraptured by the dilemma Grayson had found himself in, that nothing else outside of the investigation seemed to register. He was still in the cave when Damian returned home. Before he was allowed to join the others in the cave, his homework must be done and the sun must be set, so he stared at the retreating light as if it had personally offended him.
Damian resented his youth. He’d never quite considered himself a child at any point in his life, after all, he was raised to defy expectations. Every trial shaping him into a worthy heir, a champion, a legacy worthy of the Al Ghul name. Eventually, his destiny turned to dust, and Damian was sent to fulfill another daunting birthright—become a warrior, under the tutelage of his Father. Become the son of the bat he’d been destined to be. After his Grandfather’s attempt on his life, he found clarity concerning the intentions of man, and he truly began to understand there was no one watching his back. That the world would be ready to devour him in a heartbeat if he dared give it the chance.
Then his Mother abandoned him in a strange city, with a man that couldn’t spare him a passing glance outside of admonishment. Damian didn’t know what the rules were anymore, and he didn’t know who he could trust. Any attempt to earn his Father’s approval were sorely lacking, and the chasm between himself and the gaggle of orphans his Father had accumulated widened until he believed there would be no chance of becoming someone his Father could take pride in.
Before he knew it, the Batman was gone, and Richard was there. And Damian hated him for it.
This was not the Batman he’d looked up to, who struck fear into the hearts of criminals, and this was certainly not his Father. Where Batman was dark and unwavering, Nightwing was bright and fluid. You would have to be blind not to notice the clear foil between his Father, and the first Robin. It felt wrong for both of them, and the weight of legacy had begun to take its toll. But despite it all, he felt a fondness for his Father’s eldest son which Damian couldn’t deny, and eventually, out of a begrudging trust, they’d developed a bond built of mutual respect. With that, Richard became his Batman.
When his Father returned, the careful balance they’d built came tumbling down. But he hadn’t forgotten, neither had Richard, and he felt oddly assured that if he called, his Batman would always answer. This foreign conviction that he knew his brother better than any other member of their family. It was a sentiment he held over the heads of the others, and held close on the nights where his past got in the way of his present.
So when Richard vanished, and the others started keeping secrets, the fantasy he’d cultivated turned into smoke and mirrors, as if it had been a dream all along.
Once the sun had finally set, he made his way out of his room, eager to dawn his suit and put these pathetic woes behind him for the evening. He stood in his Father’s study, looking at the numbers on the clock, remembering a conversation early on into his tenure as Robin, and he suddenly felt heavy, daunted by what he knew he’d find at the end of the stairs. It didn’t last for more than a minute, but the hesitation stayed with him. Hesitation was a failure, and failure was unacceptable. Voices bubbled up from below, and Damian, as always, was sure to keep his steps as discreet as possible.
“We need all the help we can get, Bruce. The amount of progress we’ve made in comparison to similar cases is concerning, and from everything we’ve seen, Dick knew he was planning on disappearing and was as thorough as you taught him to be when it came to covering his tracks. Active participation either means this was a choice he made, or someone was skilled enough to force him to do it. Either way, it’s a sign that we could use some help.”
”Do you believe I’m not aware of the factors contributing to this investigation? Regardless, there is extremely sensitive information concerning Dick’s past that I know he would not want brought to light, and I refuse to compromise him in that way.”
Tim and Bruce’s voices were sharp enough to suggest this wasn’t the first time this conversation had been had.
“I’m not talking the entire Justice League, I’m talking a few key people from Dicks life who—“
”This is not up for discussion. I have insight you do not have, Red Robin, and I will not betray Dick’s wishes.”
”Even if it leads to his death? God! No wonder Jason always says Dick is self righteous. He got it from you!”
”I don’t have time for this behavior, especially not from—“
Damian took this as a sign to dart into view, drawing the attention of both men with just the small shift of his shadow.
“Given the predicament we find ourselves in, I’d hoped you’d be spending your time focusing on endeavors other than arguing with each other. Have you made any headway in finding Grayson?”
He forced himself to project, both Father and Drake watching him descend the final steps.
Tim had his arms crossed. He was glaring at Bruce with clear animosity, and his Father looked…old. Worn down in a way that seemed contradictory to everything he knew about the man.
”Where’s Todd?”
Father’s mouth twitched and he wouldn’t meet Damian’s eye.
”We are investigating a warehouse in Bludhaven. After contacting Starfire, she informed us that the last time she saw Dick, which was a few days before his disappearance, he smelled of smoke. Red Robin managed to narrow down the only fire that was reported that night that could have led to the smell.” Batman intoned, any trace of his frustration during the previous argument was gone. “Suit up.”
Damian stared up at his Father, head tilted in disbelief.
”That’s our only lead? A fire that happened over a month ago?” His voice came out at a louder volume than he intended. “Was Starfire really so useless?”
”Don’t talk about her like that.” Tim snapped. “You underestimate Dick’s abilities, Damian. He does not want to be found. There have purposefully been no signs of him for weeks, and because of some stipulations, we’re working with a skeleton crew, so yes, this is our only lead.”
Rarely did the former Robin speak with such vitriol. Damian swallowed, and bowed his head.
“I—I meant no offense. I had just hoped…“ He trailed off, embarrassed by the immensity of his concern at their lack of progress.
Tim stared at him with his mouth half open, a baffled expression wiping away any previous animosity.
“Have you considered locating Deathstroke, if we believe him to be a catalyst for Grayson’s odd behavior?” Damian refused to acknowledge Tim’s reaction, or Fathers for that matter.
“He hadn’t taken a contract in two months, but it’s the longest time he’s taken between jobs other than the duration of his prison sentences—neither of which he served to term—and I would be surprised if he waited another month.” Tim scratched the back of his head, staring up at nothing in particular, while his mind spun. “Something well paying, but under the radar. Nothing that would put him in contact with someone in the hero circuit if he could help it, which also means he’ll try and take a job that won’t leave behind too many bodies.”
”I doubt he’d take a job on this continent. I’d assume it’s narrowed down to Europe and Asia, given the languages Wilson is fluent in.” Bruce interjected. ”He’s been doing more freelance work in recent years, but still has proven contacts in the governments of 26 known countries. The real number is most likely twice that. Due to Deathstroke’s habit of beheading those who leak his contact information, the only one of us who has been able to find the mercenary in years prior, was Nightwing.”
Both Tim and Damian turned to Batman, warring expressions of exasperation and confusion.
”So our only way to find a lead on Deathstroke in the past decade has been Dick? And we have no reliable contingency plan outside of that?” Tim let out a disbelieving chuckle, hands buried in his hair as he stared at Father in disbelief.
“Obviously there are other avenues, but they will take much longer.”
Damian was impressed by the lines that seemed to be carved into the face of his Father, as if he were turning to stone before their very eyes.
”I believe we are due to meet Todd.” Damian attempted to keep his voice, and his temper, level.
”We’ll take the Batmobile.”
Father donned his uniform, and his entire demeanor hardened. Any sign of the exhausted man vanished beneath the kevlar and cowl.
“Red Robin, inform Oracle that we’re heading to Warehouse 727, and ask that she has Red Hood meet us there. After that I’d like to revisit Dick’s apartment to see if there’s anything we may have overlooked the first time. Robin—“
Damian snapped to attention.
”You are accompanying us on a temporary basis. Deathstroke is extremely dangerous, and I expect you to obey orders—even if that request is to leave the field—with absolute obedience. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Father.” Damian bowed his head, refusing to let his ire at this childish treatment bubble to the surface.
“Good.”
Drake had taken the front seat during this exchange, and Damian crawled in the back with increasing ire. Still, even now, his Father didn’t trust him to the degree Richard had, and with each passing interaction he found himself longing for the soft words of assurance from his brother, that he pretended to resent. The ride was silent except for the occasional sounds of Drake as he typed away at various holo-screens. Damian stared out the window, watching the blurred lights of Gotham shift into the ugly, dark streets of Bludhaven as an unfamiliar pit grew in his stomach as they approached. He had little expectation for what they’d find, but he knew Grayson would not be where they were looking.
When they arrived, the docks were quiet, only the sound of the ocean protesting before a storm met his ears, as the sea roiled and crashed with an ominous fury. Storm clouds bloomed above their heads, and he pulled his hood tighter around himself.
“This is the one,” Drake’s face appeared ghostly in the light from the screen. “Any word from Red Hood?”
A moment later, the sound of a motorbike in the distance echoed off of the buildings around them. Batman turned on his heel and the three of them grappled up the side of the warehouse. From the higher vantage point, they could spot a lone driver weaving recklessly through the narrow streets leading down to the ocean, a red helmet catching on the few lights as he passed. The skylights of the building allowed them to peer inside, showing high steel rafters, and only three various shipping containers within the cavernous warehouse, which would usually contain five times as much potential cargo. A noise from Drake insinuated he’d come to the same conclusion. Damian’s gaze drifted to his Father, waiting for orders even as his hand drifted to the grapple gun at his belt.
“Red Robin, the two of us will enter to begin the preliminary search while Robin will make contact with Red Hood and join once a thorough search of the perimeter has concluded.”
Damian couldn’t help but click his tongue in annoyance, drawing Father’s attention with the noise.
”Is there an issue Robin?” Batman growled in response.
His mouth opened, prepared with a barrage of insults concerning his Fathers delegation of tasks, of how Damian would be the one best suited to find any clues Richard may have left for them, but the sound of metal against concrete interrupted the brewing argument.
”Looks like I arrived just in time.” An automated voice drawled from below the rooftop’s edge, as Todd hefted himself up to join them. “I take it I’ve got babysitting duty?”
Damian bristled at the comment, and Batman shot him a glare of warning before shifting his attention.
“As I said, Red Hood and Robin will be on the perimeter, while Red Robin and I will assess the damages below. Be aware of any surveillance. I doubt Deathstroke is allowing us to move unfettered, and I fear that any indication we’ve begun searching for Nightwing will only further us from our goal.”
In classic Batman fashion, he opened the skylight and darted in, Red Robin following close on his heels, leaving him alone on the roof with Red Hood, who cracked his knuckles before glancing down where Damian stood.
“Guess it’s you and me tonight, Squirt.”
”Cease your drab comments, Hood, we have a task at hand.” Damian snapped, sweeping his cape behind him as he began his descent.
”Good talk.” Hood muttered before following.
There were no civilians to be seen, giving both the late time of night and the brewing storm. Even Damian felt himself reacting to the cold, his nose becoming chapped and red, as the two of them circled the building, looking for any indication of Richard or Deathstroke’s presence. Eventually after circling twice, and a few minutes wasted by Todd taking a cigarette break, they both concluded if Nightwing had been here, the month interim had wiped away any evidence of such.
“I cannot believe Father lets you indulge in such a disgusting habit.”
Todd took a pointedly long puff.
”Batman doesn’t ‘let’ me do anything nowadays, Shortstack.”
“This is absurd.” Damian muttered, kicking at a cracked piece of cobblestone. “We are investigating loose ends when Nightwing may be suffering at the hands of his captors. Our time is better spent tracking down the villain who we believe has instigated this debacle.”
Beside him, Todd hummed, stubbing his cigarette with no apparent concern.
“If you’d like to draw Deathstroke's attention, be my guest, but he works pretty fucking hard to limit any interaction between himself and the old man.”
”Anything is better than this facade of progress.” Damian’s stomach clenched as he breathed heavily through his nose, latent feelings threatening to get the better of him. “Nightwing would not allow for such a failure.”
Todd chuckled darkly, tilting his head to meet Damian’s gaze.
”I’d be willing to bet, if it were up to ‘Wing, you wouldn’t have been let out of Agent A’s sight.”
”That is untrue!”
“You really think that he’d risk having you anywhere near Deathstroke?” With his helmet removed, Damian could see the way Todd raised his brows in mock surprise. ”Goldie would blow a gasket if he knew Batman let you anywhere near this case, let alone in the field.”
”I fail to see how that’s relevant.”
”It’s relevant ’cause if you continue to act up in front of the old man, he’s gonna bench you without a second thought, which would undoubtedly lead to you going off on your own, and doing something fucking stupid.”
Damian scoffed.
”I know better than to challenge Deathstroke on my own, Todd.”
”No names in the field.”
The venomous look Damian shot his way was ignored in favor of lighting another cigarette.
“Nightwing kept his cards close to his chest for a reason. If Batman is refusing to divulge sensitive information to Red Robin of all people, you should know by now that the two of us are on a need-to-know basis, otherwise known as ‘on thin fucking ice’.” Todd took another drag. “If you haven’t figured it out already, Nightwing planned this to some degree, which means that we’re not just working against whatever scheme Deathstroke has concocted, we’re trying to outmaneuver the world’s first child superhero. The first son of the ‘World's Greatest Detective’.”
Todd punctuated his statement with air quotes, Damian waved away the lingering smoke that drifted over from the movement.
”If Nightwing left clues for us to find him, it is doubtful he’d leave them here.”
”I hate to be the one to break it to you kid, but Nightwing didn’t leave any clues for us.”
”What about the gifts?” Damian thought back to the stuffed elephant that now resided in his bedroom, and if he’d chosen to sleep with the childish bauble since Richard relinquished it to him, no one needed to know.
“An apology. That moron couldn’t leave without saying some kind of goodbye. He should know better than to expect any of us to leave this alone now. I doubt he did it with a clear head.” Todd exhaled, leaning his head against the stone behind them. “If I had to guess, he didn’t think we would find him, even if we bothered to look.”
The words left Todd’s mouth with no anger. Instead a melancholy resignation leaked into his tone, chilling Damian more than the wind off of the sea.
”I won’t accept that he chose to leave.” Damian furrowed his brow. “He wouldn’t do that to me. Not like this, not without something—“
”Except he did, Robin.” Todd’s tone was sharp as a blade. “This is our only lead, and reminding us of that fact won’t do shit except clear a spot for you on the bench.”
At the words, Damian deflated, turning away to tuck himself further into his hood, if only to distract himself from the way panic burst inside his chest.
”I only want to offer my assistance.”
A resigned sigh came from behind him.
”We’ll drag him outta whatever mess he’s found himself in, Robin. God knows this family has a way of pulling you back in, whether you want it to or not.” Todd nodded to their rendezvous point above. “Come on. Let’s go see if the detectives’ found anything.”
Todd was not someone Damian would describe as gentle, but in the years since his reemergence, he seemed to have leveled out significantly, even spending time with specific family members outside of patrols. He knew Richard cared deeply for the man, seeing the broken child underneath the body armor and scars, but Damian kept his distance whoever possible, aware of the lurking danger hidden behind venom green eyes. The pit corrupted everything it touched. Himself included. And Damian would not be fooled by a few idealistic heroes into trusting someone who would snap his neck given the wrong circumstances.
Red Robin and his Father were going over a video feed when the two of them reached the top of the warehouse, and Damian noted the matching set of frowns beneath their cowls.
“Is that Starfire?” Todd questioned, glancing at the small screen.
A shaky video which Damian presumed to be footage taken by a civilian showed the Tamaranean princess flying in her suit of choice, which Damian had always deemed impractical due to the amount of skin showing, but his internal critique was cut short by the irregularity of her flight pattern. In the video, the purple was covered by the off red color of her blood as she staggered mid-air between buildings, a severe injury clearly inhibiting her ability to land gracefully. A good 40ft from the ground, Starfire dropped, landing on the pavement with a quake of rubble and dusty air as the concrete gave way from the force. She did not rise, and the film cut out a moment after.
“Since when can a bullet wound take down Starfire?” Todd’s voice hinted at a brewing rage.
”The shooter hasn’t been identified yet.” Batman pulled up his own holo-screen. “Starfire was taken to the Watchtower two hours ago for treatment, and is now recovering under the protection of The Flash, Raven and Arsenal. Superman sent this footage over to me, and requested my presence at a meeting concerning the attack.”
”The report said she was flying over Bludhaven when she was hit.” Tim interjected. “Which means the shooter not only had bullets strong enough to pierce her skin, but the skill to make a shot while she was mid-flight from the top of a Bludhaven skyscraper. This leaves only a handful of potential perpetrators, given the difficulty of the shot, and the expenses required to purchase specialized rounds capable of this much damage. The bullet pierced her right lung, and the shrapnel threatened to stop her heart if the Flash hadn’t retrieved her in time.”
“Do you believe it to be Deathstroke?” Damian directed his query to his Father.
”I have my suspicions. Deadshot and Bloodsport are still currently imprisoned in Blackgate. Deathstroke undoubtedly has the motive, means of purchase, and skill to attempt a shot like this.”
Damian had met the flame-haired princess many times at Richard’s insistence, and found himself unable to find any tangible reason to resent the warrior, not that any slight towards her would have been permitted. Richard was fiercely protective of her, in a way he’d only demonstrated for Damian himself. Normally her jovial demeanor and odd mannerisms would have been off putting, but the way she looked at his brother, how they fit together with such ease, limited his animosity significantly. He’d never seen two people exist so effortlessly in each other's space. Koriand’r brought out a side of Richard that stunned him, in the way he brightened when she entered the room, his body mirroring hers, his eyes watching her graceful movements. Damian was so unfamiliar with this behavior, he scarcely could put a name to the phenomenon.
“Hood, I expect you to convene with Arsenal concerning the details of their extraction of Starfire, while I’ll discuss the circumstances we find ourselves in to the League. Do your best to divulge as little information as possible.”
Damian waited for a beat, both himself and Drake staring at the crime lord, anticipating his reaction. Todd had never been around this often. He knew he wasn’t the only one to await a blow out between Todd and Father, given the frequent and repetitive nature of their prior arguments. It was akin to lighting an entire box of matches above a hay bale and hoping it wouldn’t catch.
To his surprise, Todd nodded and pulled a burner phone from one of his pockets.
”We taking the zeta?” He inquired.
”I’ll join you from the cave, Robin will accompany me. Red Robin, you join Hood and get a first person account from anyone else who touched down on the scene. If we can narrow down what day Deathstroke, or an associate of his, was in Bludhaven, that will get us farther than we are now.”
It only took a moment for Damian to fear his Father’s intention for bringing him back to the cave.
”Will I be joining you at the Watchtower, Father?”
The question drew both Drake and Todd’s attention, and the three of them watched, waiting for the man to answer.
”Starfire asked for you by name.”
The three of them stared at their Father, with expressions of various degrees of surprise and concern.
“There’s no time to waste. Let’s go, Robin.” And with little further explanation, Batman made his way to the Batmobile, and Damian barely spared a glance at the reactions of the other two before following suit. There were no good reasons that would prompt Starfire to request his presence. A spark of hope bloomed in Damian’s chest nonetheless, believing that this one one step closer to locating Richard, and with that, returning his life back into what it had resembled before.
Notes:
If Bruce seems cold and emotionally constipated, it’s because he is.
Also I enjoy the dichotomy between how Damian presents himself, and how he feels. I don’t think he would react well at all to Dick disappearing act, and I enjoy when he reverts to a more childlike demeanor when Dick is in danger. How else would a child act when their main caregiver vanishes? Even if that child is a trained assassin and a vigilante.
If you haven’t read The Boy Wonder run with Damian, I highly recommend it.
Chapter Text
Three days before Slade’s contract, he woke up in a different bed. He knew before he even opened his eyes. Training so integrated into him it had become instinctive a long time ago, Dick assessed his surroundings as he kept his breath slow and even, feigning sleep. Someone else was in the room with him, and there was a wall at his back. No new injuries, as far as he could tell, he was still in the same clothes that he fell asleep in, and there was a delay in his thoughts that pointed to a sedative.
A creak that could only come from old wood echoed around the room, as a man cleared his throat.
“I know you’re awake, kid.”
Dick opened his eyes to Slade sitting in a wooden desk chair across from the cot he laid on.
“How?” His voice crackled with the remnants of sleep. “How’d you know?”
Slade flipped a page of the book in his hand. The Art of War. In other circumstances, Dick would have made a joke, something about not knowing Slade was the religious type. Instead he just waited, unsure if he’d receive an answer.
“Your heartbeat picked up. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t have known.”
It almost sounded like a compliment. Dick dragged himself upward in an attempt to shake off the lingering slowness of the drugs, and truly assessed the space he found himself in.
Old vintage furniture decorated the room, and despite the military cot beneath him, the room almost resembled one he’d find in Wayne Manor—polished expensive wood, respectable wallpaper, and the feeling you were in another time. He scanned the room then turned his attention to his bare feet, keeping his face carefully blank as he attempted to shove the wave of grief elsewhere. There was light leaking in through the windows, suggesting the morning had barely begun.
He sat with his back straight, hands tucked between his thighs, as he waited with a bowed head for Slade’s next word. Sitting there, he could feel the tightness of his muscles, the aches and pains from the vigorous training sessions, and a thrumming beneath his temples—A parting gift from the sedative.
”Sleep well?” Slade didn’t shift his attention from the book in his lap.
The question was far too open-ended for his liking.
“Yes, sir.”
Slade raised an eyebrow in his direction.
“Your ribs are healing up too slowly for my liking. I need you in prime condition. I forgot how slowly you heal.”
Dick was surprised Slade cared that he was healing at all, given that all of his injuries had been a gift from the mercenary in front of him. He’d always been able to take the hard hits and keep on moving, no healing factor to keep it going, and no invincibility to bounce the bullets off of him. However, trying his best to avoid taking hits so he could deal out three more in return was the reason for his success. But there was no avoiding Deathstroke, and his body lagged, protesting despite his best efforts.
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Did I ask for an apology?”
Dick raised his head, meeting the ice blue of the other man. It didn’t matter if you knew there were mines underfoot before you walked across the minefield, they’d blow regardless of a careful tred.
“No sir.”
They watched each other for a moment. A bird call leaked in through the frosted window panes.
“I thought I would have broken you by now. But I still don’t feel as if I can turn my back to you, and if I’m going to put a gun in your hand, I’d like to know you won’t shoot me with it.”
“You made it clear what would happen if I tried.” Dick’s mouth tightened with the acknowledgment of Slade’s blackmail.
“Yes. But if the opportunity arose, to kill me, and save your assortment of orphans, you’d take it. Wouldn’t you?”
Dick let his silence speak for him. There was no use denying it. He’d imagined killing Slade on repeat during those days he’d spent in the dark. Blood on his knuckles, breaking his nose, his jaw, the splatter blurring his vision as it dripped from his eyelashes. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“I thought so. You’re a hero. I can’t beat that out of you, despite my best efforts, seeing as you’d rather die than give up your savior complex, so I’ve been forced to make some alterations concerning this—” Slade gestured to himself, and then Dick. “—dynamic we have.”
“I don’t understand.”
Dick was out of his depth, and the water was rising rapidly.
“You’re weak. In the ways that matter. Through little fault of your own though, I knew the Bat wouldn’t push you in the ways that were needed, that he’d cultivate a softness in you that I’d need to beat out. But it’s worse than I thought.” He licked the tip of his glove, and turned the page. “Do you agree?”
“That I’m weak? Because I believe in second chances, or because I know the value of a life.” Dick worked hard to keep the perverted chuckle in his throat. “I don’t think that makes me weak, no.”
Slade’s laugh echoed in the small space between us. Dick swore that if he looked outside, he’d see a pair of pigs flying.
“Of course you don’t. Do you feel like a hero, sitting here with me?” His voice was almost fond.
“No. I feel like a traitor.”
He hummed, as if had raised his hand and given the correct answer in class. A hand flashed to his belt, and Slade withdrew his preferred handgun, a Glock 19, and set it atop the dresser to his left, well within both of their reach.
“I need you to do something for me.”
Slade Wilson didn’t ask for anything. With him, nothing is a request, and denying him was akin to staring death in the face and betting it wouldn’t take you.
“What do you need me to do? Sir.”
“I need you to shoot me.”
A beat passed and the gun was in Dick’s hands and pointed between Slade Wilson’s brows.
“Good boy. Go ahead, you know the only spot that’ll slow me down enough before my hands tear your neck in two. Right between the eyes, right Richard?”
Despite himself, Dick inhaled sharply, all of his focus turned to the tremor that threatened his steady aim.
“You’ve got two options here, kill me, and hope none of my contingencies come to fruition, or shoot me somewhere you’ll hope will only horridly wound me, and pray I can’t get my hands on you. Seems fair, given the dilemma you’ve brought down on the two of us.”
He thumbed back the hammer, finger sitting comfortably over the trigger, then paused before flicking it right back into place. Popping the magazine, his heart sank into his stomach. Empty. Slade never loaded it to begin with.
“That’s what I thought.”
The book shut with a clap, and Slade stood to look down his nose at Dick. Assessing him the way one would appraise a new piece of livestock. His gaze drifted over his bare limbs, the bird's nest he must be sporting from the night of reckless sleep, a shiner courtesy of last night's training.
“Follow me.” Slade turned on his heel, and for a moment, Dick saw Bruce in his place, a black cape billowing behind him.
He followed Slade into the hall, who’s vintage sconces and Persian rugged floors only exacerbated his feeling of unease. He shuffled along, bare feet dragging as he ogled the old oil paintings lining the walls. Training kept him in line behind Wilson, as he ignored the goosebumps lining his arms.
“Keep up, apprentice.”
Dick snapped to attention, and chose to keep his eyes on Slade‘s back. He knew better than to ask where they were going, and he didn’t even know if he wanted to know. They descended down two flights of stairs. In another life, he would have slid down the entirety of the bannister, whoops of childish glee echoing around the cavernous room. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, avoiding placing too much pressure on the toes of his left foot.
Lemon cleaning supplies hit his nose as they passed a large, modern kitchen, where a pot bubbled away on a massive stovetop. Slade’s quick stride prevented him from peering in, curious at who was minding the cookware.
They stopped in front of a wooden door. Nondescript other than an old metal ring in place of a doorknob, and the draft leaking from the crack between the floor and the door jam that suggested it led further downstairs. His heartbeat fluttered. Slade had turned to look at him but Dick’s eyes didn’t drift from the door. Something akin to fear bloomed in his chest, as every carefully cultivated instinct in him screamed he should sprint in the other direction, consequences be damned. His face carefully blank, he shifted back a step, hands clenched where he hid them from Slade’s view.
“Is there a problem, Richard?”
Dick nodded.
“What’s down there?”
Slade tilted his head towards the door.
“Your next assignment.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Loyalty.” Slade put his hand on the ring. “Zero hesitation.”
Dick shook his head, foreign terror flooding every sense.
“What is down there?”
“Your future.”
Something in Slade’s posture suggested impending violence. A purposeful stillness, similar to a crouched tiger, all honed muscle and bloodlust waiting for the right moment to introduce his teeth to Dick’s neck. His punishment awaited him on the other side of this door. If there was a bullet in the chamber of that gun, he would have fired it with little regret, and despite never pulling the trigger, Slade knew what decision he’d made regardless.
The standoff—which was a generous way of describing it, with Dick in his underthings, barefoot, and Slade, half clothed in armor with who knew how many weapons adorning his person—was brief. Dick took another step back, desperately searching for an exit. Seeing none, he clenched his fists bringing them to his side.
“Do you want to do it this way?” Slade cracked his neck.
“No, I don’t, but I’m not going down there with you. I can’t!” He knew he was pleading. Slade took a small remote from his back pocket, and his flat expression morphed into a hungry grin.
“Please, by all means, run. But you should know I’ll relish every moment spent dragging you down there.”
Dick barely left him finished before he was off. Wayne Manor was a maze, and from his experience, rich people relished in implementing sprawling, confusing floor plans. Slade was no different, and he found himself in an unfamiliar wing of the house with one wrong left turn. He stopped, trying to identify the nearest window leading outside, when a shock left him paralyzed. Electricity raced along every fiber of his body, and in a moment he found himself face down, shaking as every conscious thought bled from his mind, only to be replaced with agony. He would swear his body was melting. Every atom disintegrated until there was only unrelenting pain. Blood bloomed in his mouth where he bit his tongue, and he spasmed like a dying bird who flew into a window.
A chuckle resounded from nearby, but it was muffled by the torment. It stopped just as quickly as it started. Still, Dick twitched with the aftershocks, mouth gaping as he drew in desperate breaths. Black combat boots interrupted his spotted vision, as Slade grabbed his hair, ignoring the string of drool that leaked from Dick’s mouth, he dug his thumb into the edge of Dick’s eye socket, watching his eyes flutter. Slowly, feeling started leaking into his limbs, and the pain was replaced with pins and needles. Slade didn’t give him any time to acclimate.
Half-dragging, half-carrying him down the hall, Dick stumbled like a newborn colt, past marble busts who spared him no pity. Luckily, he noted he hadn’t wet himself, but the shaking hadn’t stopped and he barely noticed when Slade ripped open the wooden door and began descending down the stone stairs. He panted, a moan leaving him before he had the sense to close his mouth.
“Don’t worry, Boy Wonder, you’ll be all the better for this.”
There was little question in Dick’s mind whatever awaited him at the bottom of these stairs, would stay with him until the day he died.
Stone stairs ended at a metal door, resembling a bank vault more than anything. Slade dropped his grip on Dick’s hair to remove one of his gloves, causing him to falter to one knee, dizzy with the sudden movement. Any thoughts of escape paled in comparison to the sight of what lay inside. A sterile steel room with a surgical table. Nothing else. He flinched back, but Slade nearly resumed his position, lugging Dick’s thrashing body further inside without pause, despite his best efforts. Deathstroke grabbed him underneath his arms, and heaved him onto the table in one move. Dick’s back hit the metal with a loud crash, but before he could sit up, cold metal shackles encased his wrists and ankles in an unforgiving grasp.
“NO!” He cried, attempting to break his bonds, despite knowing the futility of the attempt. His noises of protest met deaf ears.
“Problem, apprentice?” Slade’s voice leaked like honey. Dick certainly felt like a fly in a trap.
“What are you doing?” Dick’s breath puffed out in front of him. The room was achingly cold, his body shivering against the unforgiving metal all around them, as waves of panic washed over him.
“What I should have done years ago.”
A syringe appeared in his hand, and a self satisfied grin had made permanent residence on Slade’s face, morphing his features into something unrecognizable. At the sight of the needle, Dick’s blood ran cold.
“You had your choice, and you made it, kid. I’m going to break you, and rebuild you in my image, for good this time.”
“No. No you can’t. It’ll kill me!” If it didn’t drive him insane first. Images of Rose, mad and violent, flashed across his vision. Photos of the soldiers tested after Slade, hearts disfigured, lungs turned to mush, with faces frozen in eternal agony caused him to struggle as Slade approached. The Mirakuru serum tore through its victims, leaking only madness and aggression in its wake.
“I don’t want it, just kill me instead! Please!” The words tore their way from his throat. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Is that so?” Slade quirked a brow. “You think I should, what, just let you go? After all the time and effort I’ve invested in you?”
Dick thrashed and struggled like he never had before.
“Slade, don’t do this!”
“Little Bird, there seems to be a concept that you are not understanding. If I cannot have you, I will have a replacement. And you know all about replacements, do you not?”
“If this works,” Dick’s voice rubbed against them like sandpaper. “I’ll fucking tear you apart.”
”If that’s so, I’ll be more than impressed.”
He thought of the others, praying his heart would give out before anyone caught wind of the monster he’d become at the hands of Deathstroke, rather than have them be witness to what horrors awaited him at the end of that needle. There would be nothing close to Dick Grayson left. He decided right there, that death would be preferable. Preferable to the death he’d deal out with his own two hands. Preferable to the look on Bruce’s face once he realized there would be no return to the little boy he’d dressed in spandex, who flew above the rooftops of Gotham with no loyalty to anything but the Bat, and on occasion, gravity. Slade was about to burn out any remaining vestiges of who he’d been. The grave was more of a comfort than the fear of facing those who still believed in his image, in the mission he’d taken on as a child, in what his symbols stood for. Better to die a hero than see the dawn with blood covered fists.
A pinch below his chin, and the regret that the last face he’d see would be Slade Wilson’s flooded his senses. In a moment, his world was consumed, making the electricity from earlier feel like chicken wire, and he sent up a prayer that he’d die before he saw the other side of the Mirakuru serum.
His mouth opened, and the scream that left him was unfamiliar to his own ears.
***
***
His hands were wet.
As were his knees. Metal flooded his senses, blood filling his mouth, dripping from the ends of his hair which hung limp in front of his eyes. There was a ringing. High pitched and grating. An unanswered alarm.
He shook. Why was he covered in blood? He held his hands to his face. Dried crescents under his fingernails the color of dirt. He pawed at his eyes, attempting to clear them of the offending liquid. It was so warm in here. Only dressed in a pair of shorts, but every molecule on his body screamed that he was on fire. It was too warm. His hands found their way into his hair, feeling the crusted blood saturated from days without being washed.
He didn’t know where he was. He barely knew who he was.
A puddle sloshed as he stood, maroon shifting below his feet, as the room came into view, despite his flickering vision.
Bodies.
Dick blinked.
They did not move. He stood alone besides the dead. Any conscious thought dissolved before it could take form, as he stared at the plentiful corpses of his unknown victims. They wore uniforms he did not recognize, but carried weapons he was intimately familiar with. He felt he had been asleep for years, and the carnage around him was merely a figment of a nightmare that had yet to disappear. When he pinched himself, he did not feel it.
He was missing something. There was something he needed to do.
His body jolted, a car stalling, as he jerked his way towards the open door on the other side of the room. One man was missing the bottom half of his jaw. Half of a tooth poked out from Dick’s left hand, embedded in the knuckle of his pointer finger where the skin had healed since then. He felt no impulse to stop, and check on the victims. His skin may not bear the marks of this battle, but he remembered the way he tore through a room of men as if they were dolls, dressed up for his entertainment.
The word test came to mind.
He kept walking. His feet left trails of red footprints. He was looking for someone. The hallways were white. Still, he dripped onto the pristine floors. Someone would be upset—no blood on the carpet—the man didn’t like when Dick got blood on the carpets, and would oversteep his tea as revenge.
His name was Dick.
He had hurt those people. No, he had killed those people.
His name was Dick Grayson.
He was looking for someone.
There was blood on his hands. Under his fingernails. Up to his elbows. Marking his thighs.
He needed to report in. Someone was waiting for him.
It was so warm.
He turned right, and there was a man. Orange and black, armed to the teeth and at the sight of him, his vision flickered dangerously. The noise that left his mouth was more animal than man, as he lowered himself into a crouch, perfectly still, just waiting for his opponent's next move. His next breath.
“Are you with me, Grayson?”
He answered with a fist, the fire in his blood flared once again, and he lost himself to the flames.
Notes:
This chapter was a tough one! Writing Dick without his trademark playful personality is a difficult feat. As always, drop those comments below so I can keep ignoring my responsibilities in favor of continuing this story.
Chapter 7
Notes:
Speedsters are wonderful ways to write long paragraphs of dialogue. Infodumping queens, the lot of them. Also, I enjoy the concept that Batman remained mostly secluded and separate from other superheroes (I diagnose them with more of a vigilante strain) and only post-Jason, did Batman begin to collaborate more. A dynamic duo isn’t complete without unhealthy attachments and isolationist tendencies!
Also I am totally bullshitting the Titan’s lineup—I know very little to none about Wonder Girl or Aqualad and chose to cherry pick (yet again) my cast of characters to suit my convenience, but I’ve been told that’s writing. Feel free to judge me for my Tim Drake characterization, I have yet to read Red Robin (2009) so if it’s funky, it’s because I haven’t read enough source material, but I’m charmed by him regardless.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On occasion, he’d been insecure about his place amongst the others. He’d wonder if he was quick enough, or brave enough, and those moments still came, but they were fewer and farther between with each passing year. If anything proved he belonged here, it was the fervor in which he consumed the case concerning Dick’s disappearance.
Because that’s what it was: a case.
And Tim did what he did best. He investigated.
It seemed like every other responsibility in his life fell to the periphery, as the days added up with dizzying speed. And they made little progress. Any stray crumb, or loose string was neatly cleaned and tied with a daunting red bow. Tim cursed Bruce’s thoroughness in training their eldest sibling, as Dick’s steps were carefully erased, and red herrings were purposefully scattered about to mislead anyone who would bother to question his whereabouts.
Dick took three flights over the course of 21 hours. Greece, where he picked up new papers, then caught a flight to Mumbai, where he then landed in Taiwan, where he seemed to completely vanish. He was in view of CCTV footage in Mumbai for 2 hours, though had changed outfits, and entered the country with the name, “Hunter Johnson”. In the brief 20 seconds of footage from a camera in the Athens International Airport, showed his brother in a pair of black dress pants and a casually expensive shirt, one arm on the seat beside him as he read a copy of The Art of War. Lounging there, seemingly without a care in the world.
In Mumbai, he played the part of a bumbling young businessman, tie askew. Underpaid and underslept. He made his way through the airport with the speed of someone late for their flight, carefully styled hair and expensive but untailored suit hiding his identity. Tim watched these snippets obsessively, each frame, watching the intricacies in Dick’s behavior, the brands of the clothes he was wearing, clawing for anything, any lead worth following. But he couldn’t find a trace of Dick in Taiwan, but neither could Bruce.
So Tim toiled away, ignoring push notifications from his Wayne Industries email, and the texts from Superboy, and he began researching any known strongholds of Deathstroke's in Taipei City.
Between the little rest he’d managed since news broke of Dick’s disappearance, and the distinct feeling of failure rising in his throat, his trip to the Watchtower was uncomfortable to say the least.
To begin with, Jason bailed on him before they reached the zeta, with little more explanation than “I’ve got business to handle”, and knowing Jason that could be anything from a round table with some of Gotham’s seedier underlings, or a cooking class. Tim chose to save his energy, waving the man away with one hand.
“I really do not care, Hood. Go handle whatever you’ve deemed to be more important.” He sounded cold, as his annoyance began to shift into irritation. Jason never failed to push Tim’s buttons with his flippancy. This devil-may-care attitude had a time and a place, but this was not one of them, and Tim couldn’t help but indulge the sharper remarks he tried to keep sheathed. “When we find him, I’ll tell him you noticed he was gone.”
“Excuse me?” The modulated voice of the helmet still managed to convey Jason’s incredulous reply. “What’d you say?”
“You heard me. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”
“Just because I’m not on the Bat’s agenda, doesn’t mean I’m not looking as hard as you are.” Jason waved a burner phone in Tim’s direction. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, punk. I’ll be back. Get what you need, and we’ll reconvene. And Red,”
Tim stared at him resolutely, keeping perfectly still.
“Don’t think for a fucking second I don’t want him back as badly as you do.” Jason turned to look over his shoulder. “I can’t do this caring big brother shtick for much longer. I don’t know how Goldie didn’t snap sooner, putting up with all your bullshit.”
Always needing to get in the last word, Jason strolled out of the alley that hid one of many Zeta portals in Bludhaven, and Tim watched his back until he turned around the corner, out of sight.
“Prick.” Tim muttered, before stepping into the glowing light.
A mechanical voice intoned his ID from above, as he blinked, adjusting to the fluorescents that appeared above.
Tim had enough time to take a single breath before a blur of red light appeared, overtaking his entire vision. He took a step back, doing his best to follow the words coming from Wally West’s mouth.
“ThereyouareRedwowisitgoodtoseeyouBatsbeengivingmethecoldshoulder—”
“Hey Flash. I…didn’t quite catch all that.”
“My bad, buddy. Do you know what’s going on? I’ve got Starfire laid up in the med bay, Bats won’t answer his comm, and I reached out to Nightwing after we found Starfire, worried this was an attack on the original Titans, but he’s giving me the run around too! Ha! Get it, run around? Now I know you keep your cards close to your chest, but I could really use some insight into what I’m missing.”
“Let’s talk somewhere more private.” Tim suggested as lightly as he was able, which given the news he was about to share, meant that Wally’s expression morphed from bashfully manic to a blank severity. In a blink, the two of them were in what appeared to be a changing room near the training simulators. He shook off the wave of dizziness that always came from traveling at super speed. “Cozy.”
Flash knocked on the walls of the stall.
”Lead lined. As close to private as you can get around here. What’s going on Red? What’s with the whole secrecy act—or the more secret than usual act, and honestly, I’m confused about why you’re here and the Bat isn’t?”
“When was the last time you talked to Nightwing?”
Wally’s cowl did little to hide the tightening of his jaw. He sighed and ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair, a nervous tick all speedsters seemed to possess.
“I’m guessing you’re not asking for a good reason.”
“No one we know of has had contact with Nightwing in weeks.”
In the small space the two of them shared, Tim could see the way Wally vibrated, almost imperceivable unless you were looking for it, but the flashes of lightning between his fingertips would have been a clear clue. Wally had closed his eyes.
“And you think his disappearance has something to do with why someone had to cut out two bullets embedded in Starfire's chest today.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where Nightwing is?”
“No. We lost track of him in Taiwan. His trackers are completely disabled, even the one Batman hasn’t told us about, and he went dark. Totally off the grid. And we don’t think he went willingly.” The words seemed to turn his stomach as he laid out their limited knowledge for the man across from him. “We haven’t known for long, but we have our suspicions on who it was that took him.”
“Taiwan…? It’s not who I think it is? Is it?”
Tim hesitated, and for Wally it must have felt like an eternity, because he put one hand on Tim’s shoulder, giving him a bit of a shake. “Who, Red?”
“Deathstroke.”
Tim watched Wally digest the information in real time, and it unsettled him deeply. He stared at a spot on the wall to the right of Tim’s head, as if seeing someone that wasn’t really there.
“We’re making slow progress, but we’re hoping that any details into this attack on Starfire will offer some clarity.”
Cold green eyes met his, and for just a moment, Tim was afraid of what he saw in them. Hell hath no fury like a speedster scorned. Then the moment passed, and Wally dragged his hand down his face like a tired father, before shooting Tim the most tired, disingenuous grin he’d ever received, and that was saying something considering his relation to Dick Grayson.
“How does he do it?” Wally let out an incredulous chuckle, throwing one hand in the air in mock surprise. “I mean every time I think ‘no there’s no way Rob can get himself into a worse situation’, the guy has to make me eat my words. Does he take it as a challenge? Who am I kidding, he takes everything as a challenge.”
Tim didn’t reply. The silence was weighted and uncomfortable for them both. Tim didn’t know Wally very well. They were two different generations of heroes, and watching him swallow the news of Dick’s disappearance wore down Tim’s resilience. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard others reference Dick using Robin, or some variation on the name. The deeper into the case they fell, the more he learned about his brother's time as the Boy Wonder, and he felt there was a lot of pertinent information that was being withheld.
“What can you tell me about the attack on Starfire?”
Wally breathed out heavily, before nodding. His back straightened as his foot began tapping a frantic rhythm on the ground.
“I got the emergency call from Raven around 5pm CST and got there in about a minute, maybe less so, to find Starfire had already been injured. I was the first on the scene, and performed initial triage, before reaching out to other available members of the League for extraction. Raven arrived soon after, and took over first aid responsibilities, while I cleared the scene of civilians to the best of my ability. I knew something was off, I just knew it—Star crash lands on one of the busiest streets in Nightwing’s city and he doesn’t bother to show up? I figured there was a reason, and not a good one at that, god knows that man—”
Lucky for him, Tim had a lot of experience corralling speedsters.
“Flash. Did you see the perpetrator?”
“Nah, he’d run off long before I got there, and neither Raven or Arsenal saw anything either—Raven even did that thing she does where she can sense murderous intent or whatever, and nada. Nothing. It’s like the shooter vanished into thin air! None of the civilians on the scene seemed to see anything either, one second she was in the air, and then she was falling. I think Bats was able to figure out the trajectory of her flight based on where she landed and is trying to get CCTV footage from the buildings tall enough for them to take the shot while she’s mid-air, but if he’s found anything, it’s news to me. Everyone’s been real tightlipped about this whole thing.”
Wally shot Tim a pointed look, which he gave little attention too. Instead, his mind began to whir, and his hypothesis that Deathstroke was the one to attempt this assault only became further entrenched.
“What are the chances that it was four members of the original Titan’s that were on the scene?” Tim asked the question allowed, without really expecting an answer.
“We keep in touch, especially if one of our own is hurt.” Wally rubbed the back of his neck with one gloved hand. “Once a Titan, always a Titan. You know that, Red.”
“What do you know about Nightwing's time with Deathstroke, during his first stint with the Titans? When he was still Robin, but was working independently from Batman.” Tim’s ingrained paranoia and Bruce’s warning for disgression was giving way to his hunger to know more. “You were listed as one of the active members of the Titans during that time period, and from the stories, I know the two of you were close.”
Wally took a nervous step back, letting out a tense chuckle, his body language screaming discomfort. Part of Tim felt a little ashamed for pushing the speedster, but it did little to deter him from continuing on.
“I’ve read almost every incident report from that time. The Titans spent months battling Slade bots, and encountered him multiple times over the course of a year, with many of the reports being written by Nightwing himself, and then suddenly it stops. Then there is the appearance of an assailant named “Red X” who was revealed to be Nightwing, acting as a covert operative to try and infiltrate Deathstroke's operation. Over three weeks of mission reports were too classified for my clearance. Still, it feels right to assume that Nightwing achieved his goal and began working for Deathstroke as a double agent, but no one will tell me what happened.” Tim’s voice took on a note of frustration that surprised him.
“There’s almost four months listing Nightwing as missing in action. It’s like any pertinent files to his time working with Deathstroke have been wiped off the map, which means there’s information in there that either Nightwing, or Batman, didn’t want anyone to know about.”
Deer in the headlights was always a good comparison for an overwhelmed speedster, and Wally encapsulated the phrase perfectly—wide eyes, aghast expression.
“Tim, those files were wiped for a reason.” Wally’s tone was unfamiliarly serious. “What happened…it was bad, like really bad, for everyone involved, and I don’t think Batman was the one to clear your system. If I had to guess, Nightwing did it. You know how Bats is with his need for detailed organizational methods.”
“You’re saying it was Nightwing covering his tracks, not Batman?”
Wally nodded solemnly, as if ashamed he’d betrayed Dick’s trust.
“The information you have could be the reason for us finding him.” Tim had little shame about guilt tripping the man in front of him, not if it meant finding Dick.
This was troubling for a number of reasons.
Again, another big blaring red flag that his older brother had been hiding things from them, and had been doing so for at least a decade. Not that Tim blamed him completely. Privacy was a rare and delicate thing when you’re the responsibility of the World's Greatest Detective and they all were well aware that Bruce usually deemed secrets to be an impediment, let alone a right.
“Wally, he’s in danger. He left us gifts—he—he gave Zitka to Robin.”
Wally sighed, and checked the time.
“We’ve gotta make this quick before someone realizes that we’re not where we’re supposed to be. Okay—”
Tim prepared himself for a barrage of information, double checking the recording software in his mask was functioning.
“Nightwing joined the Titan’s at 16, after Bats tried to fire him permanently due to a pretty nasty field injury—obviously he didn’t listen, and he left to live in Titan’s tower, and basically cut off all contact with Batman, and the League, unless absolutely necessary, and even then it was like pulling teeth. So our generation of Titan’s acted a lot more independently then ones that followed. We pretty much had no supervision—ha super-vision—and that only happened for us, well, because of Nightwing. He fought for our right to operate independently, and he fought hard, even standing up to Superman at one point. But as much as that felt like a victory, it took a pretty brutal toll.”
“Robin—he took a personal interest in Deathstroke, and it didn’t help that Slade fixated on him in return. It got pretty scary there for a minute, and he started to lash out. He’d isolate himself, and would go on solo missions without cluing us in at all. He went full Bat, basically M.I.A., and then…” Wally took a breath, the first one in quite a while, before continuing on.
“Then we figured out he was moonlighting as Red X and it all fell apart. He vanished, without telling us where he went or what he was doing, only to leave him alone or get out of his way. Very angsty teenage rebellion of him. And he was more closed off back then, like he’s changed a lot since his days as Robin. We didn’t know what to do, and without Robin—uh, Nightwing—we struggled to follow up on any leads, and it seemed like Slade had completely pulled out of Jump City. There were no signs of him, or Nightwing, for months, but after a few weeks we caved and reached out to Batman for assistance.”
Wally suddenly looked much older than 28 at that moment.
“Bats took us all off the mission. The Titan’s were relegated to only Jump, and were under pretty close observation from that point on, and frankly, none of us had the heart to protest ‘cause we’d done the whole “we’re grown up enough to fight crime at 15” shtick and because of that, Robin was able to disappear in the first place. The case was taken from us. It wasn’t another three months until they found him.”
“So he vanished for four months?”
“Nightwing was Deathstroke's apprentice for four months.” Tim stared at Wally, the words filtering in slow-motion.
“What?”
Dick Grayson, the first Robin, the standard to which all young superheroes are held, served as Deathstroke the Terminators apprentice? It didn't make sense. If Tim’s brain was a computer, it would be filled with error codes.
“None of us were allowed on the retrieval mission. Only active league members. But we were brought in for a decontamination procedure beforehand, where Bats informed us that we had been infected with nano-technology during one of our fights with Slade, and he was using the team as leverage to blackmail Rob. He used us against him.” The rage was leaking back into Wally’s tone, as he clenched his fists to keep them from moving too much. “Once the scans ran clear, we were given the okay to head back to Jump, but not before Cyborg hacked into Batman’s cowl feed so we could see what he was seeing.”
Tim raised an impressed eyebrow, but given that this was 10 years ago, he doubted Cyborg could do it given the current security measures.
“He had Nightwing in Siberia, 20 miles from the nearest sign of anyone, and…and it was bad. Really bad. Slade had tortured him, probably the whole time he was gone, and any sign of Robin had been beaten out of him a long time before they’d gotten there. Red…I’ve never known anyone to recover from treatment like that, and it changed him in a deep, fundamental way. I mean, trauma on that level will do that.”
“He never said anything.” Now Tim was the one spiraling. “No hints, no jokes, nothing. Why? Why would he hide this from us?”
“It’s Nightwing, and you’re his baby brother. His family. If he could make everyone who knew about this, everyone on that mission, forget about this, then he would. Red, I saw him, the day they got him back, and…” Wally took another deep breath to compose himself. “He couldn’t walk. Batman had to carry him, and he was so far gone that Bats had to remove the cowl to convince Rob it was really him. Slade had done such a number on him, he couldn’t distinguish what was reality and what was a figment of the drugs and the sense-dep. God, I—I shouldn’t be saying this—”
Tim almost felt bad for turning what was already a bad day into a cataclysmic one, but he didn’t regret it. Tight lipped as always, Bruce gave them as little to work with as was feasibly possible, but this changed the foundation of this entire case, leaving Tim floundering to reconcile the man he knew with the teenager that ran at the side of The Terminator.
“—Rob came back different, and it took him a while to get back on his feet, but like everything else involving his personal life, Bats swept it under the rug and we were sworn/threatened into secrecy.” Tim didn’t miss the way Wally’s eyes darted around them as if Batman would be summoned by the mere mention of his name.
“Files were erased, mission reports altered or deleted, and Rob literally never brought it up again once. Like, to a weird degree, man. If there was even a chance Deathstroke would be in the same country as him, Bats would take him off the mission stat—and Rob wouldn’t fight it. Like at all. Which was the weirdest part about the whole thing.”
“They both chose to pretend like it had never happened.”
“Yeah. It was back when Bats was more of a separate entity from the League. When it was just him and Rob, it would be rare to spot him outside of Gotham, so it wasn’t too hard to keep the whole thing under wraps. I’d say less than a dozen people knew.”
It looked as if Wally had swallowed hot coals, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with nerves, as he glanced around anxiously, clearly aware that he was sharing information he arguably should have never known in the first place. Tim was glad he started with Wally, As he doubted the others would be so forthcoming.
A faint alarm played from Wally’s watch and his face shuttered at the sound.
“I’ve gotta take this, but we’ll be in touch.” His tone made it clear it wasn’t a request.
“I’ll be speaking with Arsenal and Raven before reconvening back at the cave. I’ll keep you as updated as I can, but Batman is not messing around with how classified this investigation is. Officially, it’s still family only.”
Wally grimaced and nodded in understanding, after all, he’d known Batman for longer than Tim himself had.
“Take care of yourself, Red. This will eat you alive if you’re not careful.”
And he was gone, the wind blowing back Tim’s hair being the only sign he was there at all.
*** *** ***
The Medbay of the Watchtower was never a place Tim was fond of. Sterile, cold, and a reminder of many calls too close to count—moments spent waiting for the inevitable news that would threaten to fracture his world to pieces. Sending a mental curse to wherever Jason was hiding, he crossed the threshold into Starfire’s room. Flame red hair spilled over the eggshell white pillows of the gurney bed, where she slept cradled by wires and machines that held vigil around her bedside. The image was wrong. Her normally vibrant skin was pale, slick with sweat, as he watched her heart monitor bob in time.
A figure sat by Starfire’s side, cloaked in indigo, she didn’t raise her head as Tim approached, but the closer he got to her, the colder the air seemed to get.
“Red Robin.” Raven’s voice always set him on edge, gravelly with an undertone of otherworldliness. “You’re late.”
“I was held up by The Flash.”
“Shocking. Let’s take this outside. She needs rest.”
She turned to face him, rising gracefully, and cool eyes found his own. They stood in silence, and despite the lack of exchange, he felt Raven had acquired all the information she needed from his demeanor alone. He turned on his heel, glad to be out of sight of the monitors, and let Raven drift out behind him. The door shut without a touch.
“So, he’s gone.”
“Starfire was the last one to speak to him.”
“That was weeks ago.” Tim nodded. “You’re afraid.”
He was. That was the worst part of this whole debacle, is that Tim felt undeniably out of his depth. Unprepared, and unaware in a way that never managed to catch him off guard. He was a bat, and before that he was Robin. Taught that everything must be taken into account, and everything else was planned for, except apparently, this.
“Do you have any insights into this attack that we may have missed?” Tim needed to focus on the goal.
“The shooter was gone by the time we arrived. Starfire was non-responsive to external stimuli. I handled the wounds to the best of my ability before securing her for transport.” Raven hadn’t blinked once. “Kid Flash removed at-risk civilians, while Arsenal assisted me in securing Starfire. There was nothing there for me to assess.”
He didn’t doubt that Arsenal’s account would be the same, and resolved to obtain as much information as he could before returning to the cave. If nothing tangible came from the interviews concerning the attack, he’d learn more about what really happened to his brother all those years ago.
“Do you know where he is?” Raven raised an inquiring brow.
“We lost him in Taiwan. So far our leads are turning up nothing worth pursuing. Batman is keeping most of us on a need-to-know basis.”
“There’s only one reason why he would go to Taiwan.”
Tim nodded, hesitant to share why.
“Nightwing told us, years later, that the only time he’d ever been to Taiwan was with one person.”
Raven’s eyes flickered with something unreadable.
“I’m aware.” Tim replied soberly.
“So you know why he’d return.”
“Is there any chance you know of other places they went together? Batman declared no sign of him in Greece, Mumbai, Taiwan or…Siberia.” Tim hesitated, aware he was showing his cards.
“It was not my business, and I did not feel welcome to pry. If he was not open to sharing, I had no right to demand so.”
Discretion was something Tim respected, and unlike with Wally, he had little control over the course of this conversation. Raven would share what she deemed necessary, and no more.
”If you think of anything concerning Nightwing’s past, please reach out.” Tim glanced through the window of the room, seeing the electric green numbers dance in time with Starfire’s heartbeat. “We can’t be certain the Titan’s aren’t being targeted, so stay alert and in contact with the others.”
Tim was losing his grip on his carefully cultivated persona, and he knew Raven could tell.
“Last time we found him, it took years to put himself back together.” Her eyes didn’t waver from his. “It would be in all of your best interests to use the resources at your disposal.”
Tim exhaled heavily.
“Try telling him that. Thank you Raven.”
And with that, Tim left her hovering in the hall, feeling her eyes on his back far after he’d left her sight.
Notes:
Dick’s POV is up next, don’t worry!
Well, maybe worry a little bit.
Chapter Text
Hey y’all, sorry for the extended hiatus. I got a new job that I hate and given the current climate of things (for context I live in America), it’s been hard to have the gusto to publish chapters with the world going to absolute shit. This story is not abandoned, and I hope to release another chapter before the month is up, but I figured I’d explain myself, and express my thanks for your continued support. Keep dropping those comments, I read every single one, and know I’m grateful each read and kudos.
Xoxo—Failingracefully
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