Chapter Text
Fighting crime in Gotham meant there were a few things to be prepared for: Joker’s insanity, Riddler’s riddles, and Scarecrow’s fear toxin. With how often those three wreak havoc, it’d be foolish to casually disregard them completely. Even if the case they were working on had nothing to do with psychopathic murderers, borderline unsolvable puzzles, or panic-inducing hallucinations, it was best to keep the possibility of a villainous appearance in mind. Preferably at the front of the mind, ready to be dealt with as soon as humanly possible.
Blüdhaven did not follow the same rules.
Blüdhaven rarely had to deal with Gotham problems, especially not the big ones that kept the citizens of Gotham on edge day in and day out.
So Dick didn’t recognize the trap he was leaping into, not when he didn’t have the familiar atmosphere of Gotham to give him pause.
Arguably, the only thing more alarming than stumbling into Scarecrow’s fear toxin is unexpectedly stumbling into Scarecrow’s fear toxin. When in Gotham faced with some of the most horrifying things found deep in the psyche of the victim, it’s relatively easy to connect the dots. Seeing things that shouldn’t be there while only a bridge away from Arkham Asylum? Yeah, there’s a pretty good chance Scarecrow was involved. Of course, relatively easy does not mean easy. Even knowing there’s a possibility your greatest fear isn’t actually in front of you does not take the fear away because there’s still a possibility your greatest fear is right there. Still, the presence of hope can lighten any scenario. But outside of Gotham, it wouldn’t be anybody’s first instinct to blame Scarecrow.
Not even Nightwing, though that could be blamed on the minor reactions he had to psychological toxins in general. It had been years since a psychological toxin had truly affected him.
There was a loud crash, one that startled Dick enough to turn around and away from the thug he had been fighting with. It was an easy fight, not one that required his constant attention, so he thought nothing as he turned away to find the source of the noise. He had thought the warehouse he entered while chasing after an individual carrying a baseball bat was empty. He hadn’t completed a full rotation before he was blinded by a bright flash of light. The guy – could hardly be called a criminal, really, because how could somebody commit crimes while unable to fight at a higher level than a first grader? – took this time to flee, giving Nightwing a rough shove in the process. The light had disorientated him badly enough that he couldn’t find his balance and ended up on his knees. He waved his hand trying to push the haze of something away from his face. He glanced up, unsure if he wanted to chase after the guy who got a cheap shot in or investigate the noise that caused the flash of light and the weird layer of smoke that continued to build and build when he caught sight of him.
Of course it was him. Not many others could get one over on Nightwing. That goes double for getting one over on Nightwing in Blüdhaven. This was his city, his territory, his home.
There would always be a soft spot for Gotham, sure. It’s where he learned to fight alongside Batman. Where he found a family to help him get through the loss of his other family. Where he somehow looked at Batman as a father and not just the rich man who related to him and sympathized for him and took him in and somehow looked at Alfred as a grandfather and not just the butler of the previously mentioned rich man. Where he first met Jason and then Tim and then Damian. And Cass and Steph and Babs. Where he felt comfortable enough to create the mantle of Robin named by his mother and felt comfortable enough to venture out on his own and felt comfortable enough to return to despite the feelings of shame he was still grappling with to this day in the face of his perceived failure in Jump City. Where he had to say goodbye when he relinquished the title of Robin more willingly this time and went out alone again, more mature and ready to fight alongside his family when needed because his worth didn’t rely on them anymore.
All that being said, not even Gotham could compare to Blüdhaven. He’s had plenty of homes before. The Flying Graysons weren’t exactly a stationary bunch. He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease. Traveling his entire childhood away meant home changed over and over again. He loved it. Oh, he adored it. He got to see the country before the age of ten with his parents who were his best friends (granted, traveling so often meant he didn’t have the time or opportunity to create long-lasting friendships). It was freedom no other child could experience; maybe even a freedom no other child should experience when he thinks back on it as an adult with younger siblings he will always look out for. When his life turned upside down in a way even an acrobat such as himself couldn’t imagine until it happened, his constantly changing home morphed into a mansion in Gotham City. Money and stability and an orphan being raised by an orphan. Years later, wanting to prove himself, he made Jump City his home and the Teen Titans his family. And then Gotham City was his home again. But Blüdhaven is the home he chose. Not the one he went to so he could get away from Batman and pretend he was ready, not the one Bruce brought him to, not the various cities his parents and him performed in. He chose Blüdhaven and he committed to making it better, to being the protector there like Batman was for Gotham. His life in Blüdhaven was a life he built for himself and himself only.
Even when Blüdhaven wasn’t safe, it was safe for him.
Slade Wilson should never have stepped foot into his city.
With how fast his heart was beating, the only choice he had was to swing. His body could anticipate that something bad was going to happen...but maybe that was their history talking. Dick down on his knees with Slade right in front of him never ended well for him. It was either submit like he did as a teenager or fight, so he fought. He fought without words. No sarcastic remarks, no questions, no anything but swinging his escrima sticks relentlessly and ruthlessly.
Not a single hit landed. It only made him more desperate, lashing out frantically without much thought outside of, ‘please not again, not again, not again.’ He was trying to keep the man on the defensive by forcing him to dodge hits without giving him enough time to throw any hits himself, but Slade would always be faster than him. Bigger and faster and stronger. He never stood a chance, not then and not now.
For a brief moment, he considered the panic button hidden on his escrima stick. They all had a panic button somewhere on them whether that’s on their weapon of choice, on their comms, or even on their suit to make a quick and easy way to call for backup in tricky situations. If they were too hurt or too overpowered, they were to press it. For a group of stubborn bats and birds, it got used with relative frequency. It wasn’t meant to be used in only the direst of situations, though that brought along the problem that when the distress signal was sent, the rest of them didn’t know what they were walking into. It could be one of them stuck hanging from the rafters trying to avoid the forty mobsters while waiting for backup, or it could be one of them bleeding out from multiple stab wounds. If there was no follow up on the comms, nobody could know just how serious the situation was. Backup would come in fast and prepared for whatever they may be walking into if there was no communication.
But Slade was his enemy. Not Bruce’s, not his siblings, his. It was his failure all those years ago in Jump that led him to ever being forced into working for Slade to keep his friends safe. The last time he went after Slade with even the barest of assistance from his Titans team, they were threatened and closer to death than they had been aware of in the moment. That alone put the two of them on this intersecting path they’ve been on for the last decade. No matter how much he detested it, he was part of Slade’s journey and Slade was part of his.
His family dealt with enough shit on their own or as a team. They didn’t need whatever would happen should Dick let more people get involved in his business. He wouldn’t – he couldn’t – let anybody else get involved.
“What’s the matter, little bird? My little Robin.” Just like always, there was a deep pit of something akin to betrayal hearing that name fall from Slade’s lips. Robin. The nickname his mother gave him signally the beginning of spring, the nickname that always made him feel lighter than air as his parents and him flew across the sky like birds. Like robins. He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease. The name he went by when he put on that beautifully bright costume to play hero with Batman as a child. (Sometimes, he couldn’t tell what hurts worse; Batman giving his name away or Slade defiling it.) “Can’t keep up with your Master anymore?”
“You are not my Master,” Dick growled.
“Aren’t I?” Slade asked, voice teasing. “Did you not refer to me as ‘Master’ every day for nearly an entire year? Has your memory failed you after all these years, little bird?” Easily, as if Dick’s fighting was nothing more than a nuisance, Slade disarmed him. He heard the clang of his sticks bounce away, not daring to take his eyes away from this man in front of him. He didn’t let the lack of weapons stop him as he started throwing punches frantically. Slade’s voice wasn’t even breathless as he let out an amused chuckle. Amused and condescending; it was a laugh that Dick heard in his sleep.
Suddenly, though every move was expected, Dick was knocked from his feet. He fell to the ground heavily, barely stopping himself from letting out of groan as the air left his lungs. Unable to breathe but never letting that stop him before, he pushed himself up until he was in a couched position ready to launch himself up at a much taller, much larger enemy (but was that even accurate anymore? Dick wasn’t a giant, but he wasn’t that same miniature version of Robin he had been the first run in they had together. He was more on equal footing and didn’t need to rely on tricks such as this to counterbalance the obvious disadvantages he was facing).
As soon as he got his feet underneath him, Slade swept his legs out once again and then pressed his foot into his chest to keep him down. “I’m disappointed,” Slade said, voice carrying the edge of a sigh. “You had more fight as a child. Was the threat of your friends being harmed really all that was pushing you forward? Perhaps we must revisit that idea…you do have younger brothers who remind me so much of you, especially the youngest one. Damian, is that his name? So much fire for such a little bird, just like you had at that age. Have I ever told you I was watching you since the circus?”
Dick didn’t realize he was on his feet again until he saw the way Slade’s single eye had a glint of triumph while crouched to brace himself from falling from Dick’s abrupt kick to the face. He grabbed both of his escrima sticks and turned on the electricity, trying to allow the sound of energy zapping through them to calm his mind. But just as quickly as Dick allowed himself to have hope that maybe he could win this fight, he was flat on his back again with the foot pressed to his neck this time.
“I don’t understand why you must remain so stubborn, Robin,” Slade said mockingly. “This could all go away if you simply call daddy for help. Or do you not believe Batman will come running if you cry?”
“I don’t cry,” Dick snapped.
As expected, Slade laughed at this remark. He knew better. Only two people in the world knew how bad of an impact the forced apprenticeship on Dick and they were both here: himself and Slade. He could lie to himself for the rest of his life but that wouldn’t change the facts. And that facts were that Dick had been broken and beaten down. He had been brought to tears and brought to begging. He had pleaded for his…his Master to stop touching him, to kill him instead and do whatever he wanted with his body once he was gone. The truth was that Dick did cry. Slade knew that better than anybody.
“Don’t want daddy to see how incapable you are?” Slade continued to taunt. “Or is it more likely that your daddy is already here? That your daddy is me?”
Dick barely turned his head to the side before he threw up. Slade, as he always did, allowed him to push himself off from his back in order to avoid choking on his own vomit. Just like when he was younger, Dick couldn’t tell if this was because Slade didn’t want his precious apprentice to die from something other than him or if he simply liked the pathetic sight of Dick unable to control his bodily reactions. The man laughed deeply as he circled the scene. Pathetic. Dick was pathetic.
“You could never beat me, Robin,” he was saying. The extensive training was the only reason Dick could hear what he was saying through the ringing in his ears. Slade hated nothing more than to be ignored. “You never could, and you never will.” Once Dick made it longer than ten seconds without gagging again, Slade grabbed his hair and pulled him up to his knees before letting go. Dick put one hand on the ground to keep himself steady and looked up.
The position he found himself in became immediately apparent. Slade hadn’t moved away but instead took a step closer. No…Dick was eye level with the worst place of Slade’s to be eye level. Anytime he ended up in this position, it never ended well. If it happened mid-fight, everything would be brutal. The pace would be brutal, the thrusts would be brutal, the choking would be brutal. Everything brutal, brutal, brutal. Would it be as painful now as an adult? Surely the fight would be harder. Slade may be metahuman, but everybody has stamina. Everybody’s stamina depletes through time. Nightwing would be able to put up more of a fight than Robin had been able to. Surely, surely, Slade wouldn’t physically be capable of the same level of brutality as before.
Something about being back on his knees in front of Slade changed something in Dick’s brain, something he had always pretended did not exist. He felt his consciousness try to float away, try to fly away like a robin. He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease. It hadn’t been easy at first as a teenager. Every time Slade appeared in his sight and demanded he strip, he would put up a fight. He would refuse, he would yell, he would swing. But that did not last long before he learned that accepting the reality was…easier. Not easy by any means but just a bit easier. He squeezed his escrima sticks tighter in his fists to ground himself and glared up at Slade.
It hurt so much less to zone out, though, and he knew it. No matter how strongly he repeated to himself ‘stay here, stay present, stay grounded, stay grounded, Robin, stay grounded’, he felt himself drift further and further away. The further he drifted, the harder he had to pull himself back. He was supposed to continue fighting. Never give up. Fight until he died because he was not subjecting himself to this again.
He had almost lost the battle within himself completely when he caught sight of something just beyond Slade’s shoulder. There were two people wearing similarly colored costumes that he himself had donned over a decade ago back before his uniform truly felt like a uniform. His brain short-circuited for a moment. His parents, they were right there, they were okay. No, no, they weren’t okay. They were going to fall. He had to get to them; he had to catch them. He couldn’t watch this again. He wasn’t the same helpless child he was before.
But…no. If his parents were still alive, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He wouldn’t be wearing a stupid uniform trying to stop bad people from doing bad things. He wouldn’t be wearing a mask. He wouldn’t be in front of Slade. He wouldn’t even know Slade. He would still be in the circus as a Flying Grayson. He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease. That daring young man on the flying trapeze. His parents, the ones behind Slade, were screaming in terror and disappeared from view only to reappear a moment later looking as healthy as ever before screaming and disappearing again.
This was a trick, his mind finally supplied in a whisper, one he could barely hear over his own racing heart and the screams of his parents and the moans from Slade who wasn’t actually doing anything beyond standing in front of him. It was a trick, it wasn’t real. That gas must’ve been either a knock off of Scarecrow’s fear toxin or Scarecrow’s own fear toxin. He was Nightwing. He was supposed to be better than this. They were all trained to recognize when they were compromised. They were all trained to recognize hallucinations.
Deathstroke wouldn’t have appeared in front of him for a fight, not without a contract – and he was certain nobody put a contract out on his head – or if Dick was interfering in his business. His parents wouldn’t have appeared falling from the skies over Blüdhaven and not over Haly’s Circus like it happened all those years ago when he was just a child. They fell before he met Bruce, before he joined Batman, before he took the nickname from his mother and turned it into the name of a hero.
His parents weren’t there for certain. Deathstroke, on the other hand, could have been. Dick had no idea if somebody had put a contract out on his head, and for all he knew, the fight he found himself in was Slade’s business. The odds that this was really Slade were slim. He was pretty sure he was almost confident that he was alone here with Slade nowhere in sight. And yet, Slade looked and sounded and felt so real, so tangible. It’s hard to argue with his own senses. It’s just as hard to argue with his own logic telling him that Slade was also imaginary. Fear toxin made the victim revisit their greatest fears, and Slade would always be his greatest fear.
Now that Dick was aware that this must be some kind of trick of his mind, most likely Scarecrow’s fear toxin, he was nearly unable to fight with his mind to keep himself present. He didn’t want to be aware of the fake assault or a possible real assault. But if this was a fear toxin, simply trying to wait it out wasn’t an option. He’d remain in pain and afraid without an antidote and would eventually suffer a heart attack. He wasn’t used to this feeling, not after growing up around the various poisons and toxins they were forced to confront. His tolerance to them all was unmatched. He never had reactions like this to fear toxin. He barely had reactions at all. His reactions were always so minor that he didn’t need the antidote, nor did he want it. The antidote did more damage to him than the toxin itself did. His hallucinations, if he had them, were minor and short-lived. His heart rate and blood pressure would spike, but they’d level off quickly preventing any worry of fatal consequences if left unchecked. With the severeness of this reaction now, succumbing to the physical effects of the poison were more likely. A heart attack would be possible.
But Slade would kill him before the heart attack occurred. One hand was in his hair now gripping tight while the other was on his jaw squeezing until he opened his mouth and the assault began. The hand on his jaw prevented him from biting down as he had been wont to do at the beginning of their time together. Tears leaked from his eyes, and he was grateful it was from choking rather than crying over the situation. Imagine that. He was fucking grateful over a physical reaction to hide his emotional reaction.
He almost resolved himself to fight with Slade until Slade had no choice but to kill him, but the scream from his parents distracted him long enough. Yes, right, his parents were there, too, but they weren’t really there, and if they weren’t really there, Slade was likely not really there. Slade had, after all, been taunting him into calling for Batman (daddy, he called him. It made him sick. Bruce was his dad, yes, but Slade was the only person he had ever called that, and it was not by choice). Slade didn’t want to fight Batman. Would he really bring Batman up and hope that Dick didn’t actually call his bluff?
He had to fight back just in case this was real, but he couldn’t get past the cloud in his head. He was somewhere way above, watching this happen from the clouds. He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease. He couldn’t fight from way up here. That daring young man on the flying trapeze. Robin was known for acrobatics and gravity-defying stunts – he’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease – but he knew fights couldn’t be won from the sky – that daring young man on the flying trapeze.
With the last of his mental faculties, Dick pressed the panic button on his escrima stick and allowed himself to fly.