The Spider and the Lamps - marmaladechainsaw - Batman (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

Moonlight caught his blood-spattered armor as he slipped through the back entrance of his safehouse, closing the door into place behind him and plunging the room back into darkness.

Slade performed his usual post-job routine on autopilot: a shower to wash away the sweat and blood; a bland protein shake, taken silently over the kitchen counter.

Finally he settled in the training studio, shining his armor and blades until they shone. His last chore for the night.

When he was finished he sat back against the chair, clean blade resting across his lap.

On another night he would've headed to bed, satisfied by another completed job and the generous payout that came along with it. But a restless energy hung over him.

It wasn't unusual. There was satisfaction in every successful job, but a listlessness that came between them.

He was a killer--was born to be--and he was good at it. Any given man off the street could take a life when necessity required it, but it took a certain level of pride to make sure the job was done right, without exception.

It wouldn't take long for someone else to reach out with another offer. It never did. Until then he'd go back to living in the space between where the work ended and the man began.

It wasn't much, these days.

Slade stood, putting away his armor and weapons and moving barefoot to the kitchen.

He retrieved a half-empty bottle of mid-tier whiskey from the cupboard--then changed his mind, pulling out a more expensive, unopened bottle instead. Poured himself a few fingers, neat.

A cigar was next. Slade struck it with a match, flooding his tongue with familiar taste. It burned away in his fingertips as he leaned against the counter, sipping his drink.

There was another reason for the restlessness. A date, itching at the back of his skull.

Three years since he'd last looked into blue eyes--steely below the glimmer of hurt. The last time they'd crossed each other on the rooftops, neither one of them willing to back down. Just like always.

The night his little bird had left for good, pulled away by his invisible puppet strings.

Slade took another drink.

Their short-lived relationship might've been inevitable. Slade had noticed the potential in the boy early on, envisioning just how deadly he would be if he were ripped away from the Bat's influence and came under his direction instead.

But he always rejected the offer of recruitment, clinging stubbornly to his silly heroism. Too full of meaningless platitudes about justice and virtue, drilled into his developing mind since childhood.

There was something else there, though. Obvious tension between he and the Bat.

Slade had held onto it in the dark while he was looking at the pictures. The thought of driving a wedge between him and his Bat-induced ideals, freeing him to live up to his true potential.

The catalyst was the night Slade came across him in an alleyway, bleeding out against the cobblestone beneath his shredded uniform.

He'd bared his teeth and curled in on himself when Slade had stepped out of the shadows. A cornered animal with his escape route cut off.

"What's wrong, little bird? You don't look so good," Slade called to him in his slow approach. Curious at finding the boy-hero out by himself in such bad shape.

Robin didn't answer, bloodied hand gripped tightly over the wound in his side. Breath labored in the night air--but his gaze held onto Slade, unwavering.

"That looks serious," Slade commented, stopping nearby. "Is the Bat on his way? If you don't do something about that soon, your night's going to get a lot worse."

"I-it... just did." The boy glared at him. Stubborn even with death looming over him.

His face seized, hand squeezing shakily over his side. Blood trickled through his fingers.

"M...m-my comm. Broken," Robin admitted, slumping against the grimy brick behind him. An injured little bird, waiting for the press of Slade's boot to end his suffering.

But it wasn't the first time he'd spared the boy's life when he could've ended it instead. Slade lifted him from the filthy ground, slinging him over a shoulder.

"W-where are you taking me?" Too hurt to mask the real fear in his voice. Fight.

"Home," Slade answered, gripping tight over his slender waist.

Back at his safehouse the boy had allowed Slade to bandage him up: tense under his hands, his white gaze locked onto Slade's every movement.

He'd refused water and left without even five minutes' rest to catch his breath--shooting Slade a narrowed, searching glance before disappearing back into the night.

Things were different after. It didn't take long before the young hero was showing up at his safehouse for every injury he got while out on patrol, whether major or minor. Nonchalant, but cheeks flushed pink.

It was amusing, in how obvious it was: his way of rebelling against daddy in secret by fraternizing with the enemy--while at the same time looking for the approval and attention he lacked at home.

Looking for more. Eighteen-year-old Dick Grayson wasn't afraid of heights or guns or the scum and villainy that festered in Gotham's underbelly--and he wasn't afraid of the thought of Slade's bloodstained hands on him.

If Slade was a good man he would've put a stop to it. Shot him down and ground his little feelings into the dirt so he'd stop coming back.

But he wasn't a good man.

The fifth time he'd materialized on Slade's doorstep with a wound that was barely even a wound, unusually silent as Slade bandaged it up anyways.

"Dick Grayson," the little bird blurted, looking over at him for the first time since he'd arrived. Slade's brow lifted.

"Uh, that's my name. Dick Grayson." He shrugged a shoulder, picking at a loose fiber in the couch. "You showed me your face, so..."

"I know," Slade said, rising to clear the first aid supplies from the ottoman. The naked shock on the boy's face almost made him smirk. "It wasn't hard to figure out."

The boy was quiet for a moment--and then all the color drained from his face, head whipping to look up at Slade from under slanted brows. "Does that mean you--you--"

"Know the Bat's identity, too?" Slade taunted. "What do you think."

Another long pause. "...you haven't told anyone," the boy concluded. A question.

"I haven't," Slade agreed. He made his way to the kitchen, the boy following after him.

Unlike his first visit he took the bottle of water Slade handed him. Drank, shoulders hunched beneath his silly little cape. "Why not?"

"Because that's the kind of information that's only good for selling. I don't have anything to gain by broadcasting the Bat's identity to the world," Slade demurred, drinking his own water. It wasn't the complete truth--but it was amusing, toying with him.

"So if... say... someone called you up, wanting to know Batman's identity," the little bird said slowly, "you'd tell them if they offered you enough money?"

He hesitated, gaze shifting away from Slade's face. "'Cause--'cause if it's money you're after--"

The boy fell silent at his chuckle, eyes narrowing.

"I don't want your daddy's money," Slade told him.

His face went red. Something to examine later. "So you won't tell anyone?" he demanded, fiery again.

"If I was going to--I would've already found a buyer," Slade said flatly. The complete truth.

Robin stared at him. Reached up with shaking fingers and removed his mask in one swift movement, blinking up at Slade with the blue eyes he'd only ever seen in the pictures.

They dropped away. "Since you showed me yours," Robin--Dick--repeated, smoothing fingers through his black hair. A pretty bird, hopping out on a limb.

Only three weeks later when the boy had shown up on his doorstep again ("'M'not hurt; just--I was passing by.") Slade held him down on the couch and f*cked him for the first time, in both meanings of the term.

After that the boy came back more often--and Slade let him. Bemused at the semblance of a relationship that quickly formed out of late-night visits whenever he was in town and the little bird wasn't busy with his heroism.

He got used to coming home to find the boy in his bed, fallen asleep waiting for him. Or better yet--awake and ready to go.

And even with all the secrets that came along with a match up of two opposing sides, the little bird somehow wormed his way in closer than anyone ever had been. Had ever tried to be.

Slade learned him back. He'd been right about his frustration with the Bat; the perceived lack of trust and respect the man had for him. The dissatisfaction with their partnership.

It wasn't perfect. They fought a lot, clashing worldviews a constant source of tension. Slade still wanted his little bird to be his apprentice, and his little bird still wanted to be a good boy. To save Slade from himself.

It came to a head after nearly two years of their twisted little version of together, the Bat's influence ultimately winning out.

"Who's afraid of the Big Bad Bat," Slade called after Dick the night he'd left, his shoulders tightening with every word. He hadn't turned back. "One day you're going to wake up and realize he's not the f*cking paragon of virtue you've held him up to be, all these years. And then you'll ask yourself why it's me you're running from."

Losing to the Bat, again, and the man didn't even know it; didn't realize or care that his most precious possession had made a choice to keep belonging to him instead.

He didn't deserve the boy. Didn't know his true value like Slade did.

But Slade let him go. They'd both disappointed the other.

In the three years that followed Slade watched from a distance, like before. Only six months after things had ended Robin broke away from the Bat--but not his influence. Dick Grayson relocated to Blüdhaven, and suddenly there was a new masked vigilante known as Nightwing.

Life continued on. Nightwing, a viable hero in his own right; the Bat, business as usual, with a new little pet by his side; and him, the work and the man slowly becoming one and the same.

A sudden series of buzzes from his pocket. Slade tucked the cigar in his mouth and dug out his burner, leaning back against the kitchen counter to read the texts.

Three images, sent from a spoofed number. The pictures were dark and hard to make out, but Slade recognized the subject anyways.

He put his phone away, cigar coming loose again in his first two fingers. Smirked into his whiskey.

It looked like he had a new job after all.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Chapter Text

Fifteen years of fighting crime without dying, and Dick was sure tonight was the night his luck finally ran out.

He braced himself seconds before crashing through the window of the abandoned old apartment complex, glass shards showering over him as he hit the floor hard. He tucked into a roll at the last second in an attempt to offset the force of impact, but still it knocked the breath from his lungs, searing pain ripping through him as he tumbled haphazardly for several feet before coming to a stop.

Chest heaving, he drew up onto hands and knees, sucking in great gasping breaths as he whipped his head back to look over his shoulder.

Nothing except the familiar city scape of Blüdhaven, and the moon, full and eerie, hanging just overhead.

He'd lost his pursuers--at least for the moment.

Dick sat back on his heels, grimly inspecting his bloodied palms. His suit had protected most of his body from the glass, but his hands hadn't been so lucky. Thanks to years of wear and tear (including a few too-close encounters with explosives) his gloves had become badly damaged, leaving his hands vulnerable, and tonight it had finally come back to bite him: there were little glass shards embedded in his palms, sticking out at all angles, some of them deep enough that he knew they wouldn't come out easily.

And there was his rib injury, too, AKA the reason he'd hit such a sloppy landing in the first place in his desperate attempt at retreat (because even he knew his limits). Now that the adrenaline was fading he could feel the pain of it return, twinging and protesting with every breath or slight movement.

Damn you, Sionis. I'm going to kick your ass when I finally get my hands on you--if they ever heal.

There had been two of them, this time, both wearing those grotesque animal masks that never failed to creep him out: men sent by Black Mask--AKA Roman Sionis--and THAT was something Dick had never seen coming.

Years ago he and Bruce had shut the man and his False Facers gang down in Gotham, and Sionis had been sent to Arkham where he belonged. In his absence the man's rag-tag team of D-list criminals had disbanded, until several other villains--most notably the Joker--had picked up the pieces to serve their own nefarious purposes.

After being released from Arkham Sionis had been silent for the last several years, until he'd materialized a little over two months ago in Blüdhaven, apparently deciding a change of scenery was in order.

Within weeks of arriving in Blüdhaven he'd managed to drum up a new band of loyal followers. Black Mask might have fallen out of power years ago, but his name still carried weight in the criminal underground. And much to Dick's dismay, he'd clearly decided to claim Blüdhaven as the new capital of his re-branded operation.

Dick had caught wind of him almost instantly, because Sionis had never been one for subtlety. Within weeks he'd begun flooding the already-troubled city with guns and drugs, planting the seeds for his new criminal empire.

Dick had been busy wiping them out before they could grow into a much larger problem, and after a few too many times of successfully shutting down some of the man's small-scale plots, he'd caught Sionis' attention. Weeks ago the man had started sending his goonies after Dick in a bid to wipe him out, with a level of dedication that rivaled his previous obsession with killing Batman back during his reign in Gotham.

He sure knows how to make a guy feel special.

Usually a couple of thugs wouldn't be too much for him to handle, but tonight they'd caught him off guard, as much as he hated to admit it. It had been an exhausting few months: night after night of searching and interrogations, trying to track down Black Mask's hideout with no luck, and dealing with the man's dumb thugs for the past few weeks just added an extra layer of stress.

He hadn't been getting much sleep because of it, and the exhaustion was starting to creep in, throwing off his senses and decreasing his effectiveness in a major way. If he didn't find Black Mask soon and put an end to things, the next time the man's thugs caught him he might not be as lucky.

Slowly, Dick tried to get to his feet; felt his head swim and his vision go blurry, and almost fell in the process. Blearily he reached up to touch the back of his skull, his fingertips coming away stained red.

A head injury, too. Maybe even a concussion. Great. Just when he thought this night couldn't get any better.

Groaning quietly, he shuffled to the window, ignoring the various aches and pains in his body as he flattened against the wall beside it and peered side-long out into the night once again. Still nothing that he could see, but it didn't mean there wasn't someone lying in wait, just out of sight. He would have to be extra careful-- especially with his hands in their current state.

Dick took one last strained inhale before vaulting himself onto the fire escape, muffling a pained groan as he landed. He allowed himself the briefest of moments to collect his bearings before he took off again, setting off for home.

--

Back at his run-down apartment Dick collapsed onto the single chair at the rickety old dining table, his hands and ribs and head screaming in agony from his journey.

Still, he forced himself back to his feet minutes later, stiffly peeling out of his suit before dragging himself down the short corridor to his bathroom, where he fumbled blindly for the first aid kit he kept in the cabinet above the sink.

It took him over an hour to extract each and every last piece of glass from his palms, one at a time with an old pair of tweezers between bitten off curses and sharp breaths. When he was finished he slumped back against the chair in exhaustion, slowly flexing a blood-stained hand and wincing at the stinging pain that resulted. It would take a while for them to heal, which meant work was going to be a bitch. How the hell was he supposed to bartend with his hands all sliced up? And more importantly: how was he going to continue his nightly patrols when he couldn't even hold a weapon?

Shoving those thoughts away--he would worry about that tomorrow--Dick made his way back to the bathroom, cleaning up his bloodied palms in the sink before awkwardly bandaging them up with the rest of the gauze in the first aid kit as best as he could.

"This would be a lot easier with some help," he muttered to no one in particular after three failed attempts, blowing at his bangs in frustration.

A series of memories surfaced almost instantly, but Dick shook his head, refusing to let his mind go there. He was not going to think about that--about him. Not...not right now.

In the end the results of his self-bandaging weren't exactly pretty, but it would have to do for now.

He checked his head again on impulse. Luckily it had stopped bleeding, and although he was sure he wouldn't exactly be in peak condition for the next week or so, he didn't think he was concussed, at least.

As for his rib--he wasn't sure if it was broken, but there wasn't much he could do about it either way. Even if he was in the habit of going to the doctor, his crappy part-time job definitely didn't offer health insurance. The only thing he could do was leave it alone, and hope that it healed the way it was supposed to.

Dick put the first aid kit back in the cabinet behind the mirror, catching his own eye in the reflection on his way out of the bathroom.

He hadn't exactly been thriving lately even before recent events, but the stress of the past few months had already taken a visible toll on him. His face looked drawn and paler than usual, but it was the shadows under his eyes--so dark and heavy they looked almost bruised--that had made him look twice.

Randomly he lifted a corner of his hole-y t-shirt, examining his torso with a frown. Not exactly wasting away, but was he imagining things, or did he look noticeably thinner than just a month or two ago--?

He killed the lights before he could get stuck on his reflection again, heading straight to his bedroom. He flipped on the small space heater he kept on the floor before finally sliding into bed, careful not to jostle his rib too much.

Dick curled into a ball on his good side, piling his stack of blankets over himself in an attempt to ward off the winter chill. The heat had gone out days ago, and the owner still hadn't bothered sending anyone to fix it despite the brutal cold as of late.

Nearly ten minutes later the heater had warmed up the small room enough to stop his shaking, and finally Dick felt himself relax just slightly, exhaustion once again seeping into his bones and making his eyes feel heavy.

He didn't want to think about what might happen if he wasn't able to stop Black Mask. In his three years since becoming the protector of Blüdhaven, he'd yet to face any major villains--at least not on the same scale as the ones he'd faced alongside Batman in Gotham.

He hated the deep-seated, instinctual urge to reach out to Bruce for guidance. This was the hardest he'd struggled since going solo, and with his suit damaged--something he'd been dealing with for some time now, thanks entirely to pride--he wasn't sure what to do next.

But what kind of hero was he, if he couldn't even handle a washed-up old gangster like Sionis? The thought of Bruce knowing just how badly he was struggling made him feel sick.

He hadn't spoken to Bruce in a year; hadn't seen him in two. And anyways, he had a new Robin now--a boy he'd taken in less than a year after Dick had left.

For two days Dick had been ignoring the calls.

The number was foreign to him--he'd blocked the other man from his phone forever ago--but somehow he'd known right away that it was him anyways.

If things had been different, he might've thought it was an attempt at reconciliation, or even an apology (and how dumb was he, to ever think that for even a second?). But three months ago--only nine months after he'd left--Dick had heard about Bruce taking in a new orphan, and right there and then, he'd just known--

At the sudden spring of tears in his eyes he found his chest clench at the force of his rage, because this was the last thing in the universe Dick Grayson would ever let reduce him to tears; Dick Grayson, who hadn't cried since he was eight years old, the night his parents died--

By the third day the calls had stopped. But that evening he got two texts--brief and to the point, like always.

It's Alfred, said the first. And then:

He's asking for you.

--

Wayne Manor looked exactly the same as it had a year ago, when he'd driven away from it for what was meant to be the last time.

Dick forced himself to knock at the front door and wait, even though every inch of him was screaming at him to turn tail and run.

But he wasn't leaving--at least not until he saw Alfred. He owed the man that much.

After several minutes of waiting he was just about to knock again when the doors abruptly swung open.

It was strange, not being greeted by the kindly British butler--even stranger that the kid who'd answered looked so oddly like him that Dick was struck speechless (and that didn't happen very often).

The kid--Jason, Bruce had told him, even though he hadn't asked--stared right back at him, expression inscrutable. He was sixteen, maybe, with messy dark hair and blue eyes and cheeks flushed pink with youth, dressed casually in the typical teen uniform of sneakers and a hoodie and jeans ripped at the knees.

It was almost like looking back in time. Dick felt an uncomfortable prickle at the base of his skull--the sudden thought that this is a terrible, horrible mistake screeching in his brain like tires on asphalt. But he found himself rooted to the spot, somehow frozen under that cool blue gaze.

At last the kid rocked back onto his heels, sucking his teeth as he eyed Dick critically. "So you're Dick," he said. He sounded bored.

Then he was turning without waiting for a response, retreating back inside as quickly as he'd appeared.

"C'mon--Bruce's waiting," he said over his shoulder, not even pausing to make sure Dick was following.

Reluctantly Dick stepped into the familiar hall, closing the heavy doors behind him.

--

Alfred was pale and worn--moreso than the last time Dick had seen him--but his eyes were still sharp, and overall he didn't look nearly as bad as Dick had been expecting.

"Master Dick," he greeted from where he was laid up in bed, and though his words trailed off in a rattling cough he still managed a watery half-smile in greeting. "What a nice surprise."

Bruce was there, too, gazing out the window like he didn't have a care in the world, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his well-tailored slacks that no doubt cost more than Dick's entire month's salary--but Dick knew him well enough to recognize the tense line of his shoulders.

He turned at Alfred's greeting, locking eyes with Dick from across the room. And even though Dick still felt that familiar low-level rage simmering in his stomach just from seeing Bruce in person again, he refused to cower or look away in deferment like he would've in the past, even though every instinct was screaming at him to do just that.

A long beat--him, with square shoulders and jaw set, his chin lifted in defiance, and Bruce, expressionless and to (most) outside observers, the picture of ease--until at last Bruce inclined his head minutely, his gaze sweeping past Dick to settle on Alfred.

"I'll leave you two alone to visit," he murmured in that familiar, smooth baritone, and then he was striding out the door without another word.

Dick watched as the kid--Jason--hesitated only a second before following after him like a puppy scrambling at it's master's heels, nearly bumping into Dick on his way past, and he felt the knot that was his stomach tighten just a little bit further.

"...won't you come sit and tell me what you've been up to, Master Dick," Alfred said gently, and when Dick turned to look at him the old man's eyes were sympathetic and knowing, just like always.

And so Dick forced his shoulders to relax, finding a smile for the man as he did just that.

--

After he'd left Alfred to his nap Dick headed straight for the study, and sure enough Bruce was there, sitting behind the desk just like Dick had known he would be, and he didn't look at all surprised by how easily Dick had found him, or his thunderous expression.

"You lied," Dick accused the second he'd stepped over the threshold, tense and coiled and already pumping with adrenaline like he always was in the minutes before a fight.

"...close the door, Dick," Bruce said, looking suddenly tired, and with gritted teeth Dick did so before whirling on him again.

"You lied," he repeated, more forcefully this time, stabbing a finger at the older man in emphasis. "You made it sound like Alfred was on his deathbed or something! But he's going to be fine. Said he's still getting over a nasty case of pneumonia, but that the doctor gave him the all-clear this morning."

Dick crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from shaking with anger, jaw so tight he could feel the muscles in it jump. "Why?" he asked flatly, searching his adoptive father figure's face for answers, but no one could pull a better poker face than Bruce Wayne himself. "Is this your f*cked up way of checking up on me? By--by--tricking me into thinking Alfred was dying?"

"You wouldn't answer my calls," Bruce said, like it was obvious--like that justified it--and in his mind maybe it did. "And I never said he was dying."

Incredulous, Dick only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes, because dammit he was a twenty-two year old man, not the bratty little sh*t-head kid he used to be. "Okay. Fine. Well?" he prodded, making a sarcastic, sweeping gesture at himself. "You win. I'm here. What do you want?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing," Bruce said evenly, totally unaffected by Dick's anger, and somehow that infuriated Dick even more.

"Like you care," Dick bit out before he could stop himself, face twisting into a sneer, and damn if the childishness in him didn't always end up bubbling to the surface whenever he was around the other man, no matter how much he tried to suppress it.

"You've got him now anyways, don't you? So why would you--you--oh, goddammit. Nevermind," Dick cut himself off abruptly with a curse, turning away before Bruce could see the sudden dampness of his eyes, and he was thankful for the unruly length of his hair for the way it covered up the angry flush in his cheeks.

"As you can see, I'm alive and well," Dick said to the floor when he was finally sure his voice wouldn't shake, still hiding behind his bangs. "And I've been doing a pretty damn good job on my own."

"You have," Bruce agreed easily, and Dick hated the way his heart squeezed at the simple praise; the part of himself that still felt like preening at the mild approval, like a needy cat receiving half-hearted attention from its owner.

Another few beats--Bruce clearly studying him---and just like earlier Dick felt frozen in place, only this was ten times worse. He resisted the urge to squirm, even though he knew his discomfort had to be as obvious as a flashing neon sign.

"What about money?" Bruce asked, finally.

"What about it," Dick said tersely, playing dumb. He felt like his jaw was about to crack in half from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

"Do you need any?" Bruce clarified patiently, slowly, like Dick was a child again, being shown how to do something for the tenth time because he still hadn't quite gotten it. Like he wasn't put off by Dick's attitude in the slightest.

And the thing was, he did need it. When he'd left a year ago--dropped out of the expensive college Bruce had been paying for, packed up his most valuable possessions and moved out without looking back--he'd cut up the card to the bank account Bruce had made for him years ago, severing his final connection to the man, determined to make it on his own.

(Though when a package had arrived on his doorstep a month later, containing only the suit and a short, handwritten note, Dick had debated destroying that too for all of .2 seconds before deciding against it. But that was different, he'd reasoned with himself; he couldn't be an effective hero without an effective suit, and so it was worth the slight dent to his pride.)

Of course, 'making it on his own' had been harder than he'd imagined, especially for someone who had never worked a 'real job' (at least not since the circus, but as a child it had always felt far more like an exciting hobby than work). After rent and food and a few other bills his bank account was admittedly left hovering just above 'completely empty' most months, and it was a sharp contrast to the luxuries he'd enjoyed while growing up at Wayne Manor.

Still, he'd be damned if he took the easy way out by letting Bruce pay his way again like he was still a child--not to mention pile onto the debt he'd unwillingly taken on when Bruce Wayne had been magnanimous enough to take in the little boy with the dead parents and raise him. Or worse, allow Bruce to feel like he'd successfully smoothed things over between them with money. It might've been enough for some people, but it wouldn't fix a single one of Dick's emotional scars, even if it did make some things easier.

"Not every problem can be fixed by throwing money at it, or beating it to a pulp," he said, quietly. "I don't want your money, Bruce. And I don't need you checking up on me anymore either. I can handle myself."

Before either one of them could say more there was an uneven knock at the door, Jason's messy head poking in seconds later.

"sh*t--sorry," he muttered when he saw Dick, making to leave again.

"It's okay, Jason," Bruce said, coming to his feet at last, and the teen paused, hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

"Dick was just about to leave," the man continued genially, his Bruce Wayne mask firmly back in place, but Dick was surprised to see the way his blue eyes seemed to soften just a fraction as he regarded the teen.

"Show him out, would you?" he said, one of those orders disguised as a request (the kind Dick had always hated). But Jason only smiled at him, nodding, and Dick felt that hot flush of some undefinable discomfort percolating in his stomach once again.

"Unless there's anything else?" Bruce asked, gaze settling back on Dick again (the softness gone, just like that), like Dick was the one who'd decided to come here in the first place.

It was a clear last offer before he went, although Dick wasn't exactly sure what for. Money? Reconciliation? Forgiveness, for all the things he'd said in the weeks leading up to the day he'd left, Bruce's face empty as he silently absorbed every word Dick threw at him (cold, always so f*cking cold), like he could take the poisonous words a thousand times over before he could do the things that would've prevented them in the first place just once?

Whatever it was, Dick didn't want it.

Tight-lipped, Dick only shook his head mutely, too afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he tried to speak.

"You know my door is always open," Bruce told him as he made to follow Jason, hands returning to his pockets as he watched them go, and if he were anyone else in the world besides Bruce Wayne Dick might have thought he sounded almost sad.

"Give my best to Alfred," Dick said curtly, and it took everything in him to walk out without looking back. This time, he knew it was for good.

"He worries about you," Jason chirped as they headed for the door, and Dick glanced at him sidelong, bewildered by the words in the face of such an obviously tense visit. "He doesn't really talk about it, but I can tell."

On the front porch the kid paused, turning to him, and without knowing why Dick paused too.

"He keeps your room the way it was, you know," Jason continued, seemingly unbothered by his lack of response. "Won't even let me go near it."

The teen narrowed his eyes at Dick. "You aren't hiding something cool in there, are you?"

"No," Dick murmured, dumbstruck by the claim that Bruce thought about him regularly. That Bruce Wayne was sentimental enough to keep his childhood room preserved the way it was, indefinitely.

Jason shrugged, clearly oblivious to his inner turmoil. "Anyways--what's it like, doing hero sh*t? Bruce won't let me go out yet--thinks I'm not ready." The teen's flat tone and wrinkled nose clearly conveyed how he felt about that, but his eyes were bright with genuine curiosity.

And in that moment Dick could see himself in the young man again--the same way he himself had once been so eager and enthusiastic, before his faith in Bruce's teachings had started to waver.

"It's..." Dick searched for the right word or phrase, but came up short. "Exciting, I guess. And dangerous. But worth it, at the end of the day, knowing that you're keeping people safe."

"Awesome," Jason said, a slow grin spreading over his face, and Dick had a feeling he wasn't talking about helping people.

"When I'm Robin, I'm gonna kick some serious bad-guy ass!" he announced, practically bouncing where he stood as he punched at the air, grinning and flushed with youthful exuberance. And despite himself Dick could feel the ghost of his own smile at the teen's enthusiasm.

Jason glanced back to him, still grinning. "Don't worry--I won't track you like Bruce does," he assured, grin dissolving into a smirk, and Dick felt his own smile falter.

"Sorry?" he asked, sure he'd misheard, his heart tweaking strangely in his chest like a record scratch.

"You kno-oow. The tracker? In your arm?" Jason tapped at his own forearm in demonstration, rolling his eyes like Dick hadn't done earlier. "Dude--don't tell me you forgot. You haven't not-been Robin for that long!

"Hey--you think he put one in Alfred too?" the teen wondered aloud, snickering, but Dick barely heard him over the sudden rush of blood in his ears, or the suffocating sensation that his head was approximately three times too small for his skull.

"Anyways, I better go back in," Jason told him. "You should come back some time. Maybe we can even go out on patrol together some day."

For several minutes after he'd gone Dick stood motionless, staring at nothing, his arms hanging limply like foreign appendages at his sides. And even when he returned to his apartment with hardly any memory of how he'd gotten there, the only thing he could see was that image of Jason--grinning and tapping at his arm--spiraling over and over in his mind.

(That night Dick stood over his bathroom sink, anguished screams echoing off the narrow walls as he cut into his right forearm with a pocket knife, blood streaming out in rivulets all down his wrist and across his palm and between his fingers.

It took him three excruciating minutes of digging before he found it--shiny and round, barely the size of a pea. With a howl of rage he threw it into the toilet and slammed the bloodied heel of his hand against the handle to flush it down, chest heaving, watching with wild eyes until he was satisfied that it was gone for good.)

Under the blanket Dick swiped a thumb over the small scar on his forearm, a hard pit forming in his stomach at the memory. No; calling for help wasn't an option.

He'd figure it out himself.

---

Dick took the next day off from both work and patrolling, sleeping most of the day away to give his body a head start on healing.

The day after that he returned to work, brushing off questions from his coworkers regarding his bandaged palms with a charming grin and a made-up story involving cleaning up a broken glass at home.

Luckily his shifts at Angie's Bar were usually uneventful on Wednesday nights, and tonight was no exception.

Still, he was exhausted by the time his shift was over and he was on his way home. He knew there was no way he would be able to go out on patrol tonight, and maybe not for the next few nights either (and the knowledge killed him, because every day he didn't locate Black Mask's hideout was another day the man got that much stronger).

But going out in his current state could very well be a death sentence, and if there was one thing Dick had learned over the last three years of flying solo, it was knowing when to lay low for a while.

And anyways, Black Mask hadn't pulled anything too major yet, so Dick told himself the citizens of Blüdhaven would be safe without him for just a day or two longer.

When Dick reached his apartment he had his key ready in hand, already looking forward to a hot shower, a quick meal of whatever he could scrounge up in the kitchen, and a full night's sleep--

He stopped short in front of his door, cold dread washing over him, his heart instantly picking up in his chest.

It was slightly askew--definitely not the way he'd left it earlier, before he'd gone to work.

Dick hesitated, glancing down the grungy hallway with its familiar stains and cracked ceiling and flickering, yellow light--but it was utterly silent, no sign of anyone.

There wasn't a rational explanation for it. Between work and his 'second job' he didn't have time for any friends who might have randomly dropped by, and his last short-lived relationship--a girl named Alicia--had ended several months ago (and anyways, he'd never given her a spare key).

And Bruce would never come to see him here--not to this run-down old apartment building on the wrong side of town.

Which meant there was only one possibility. Sionis had somehow found him out.

Dick mentally cursed, inwardly debating. He was tired, and still injured, and he didn't have his suit or weapons. But he couldn't stand here forever, and the police in Blüdhaven were criminally useless.

What am I saying? I'm supposed to be a hero, dammit, Dick thought, irritated with himself. He wasn't going to let an injured rib and a few scrapes stop him. If it was one of Black Mask's goons laying in wait for him--or, way more unlikely, Sionis himself--then this could finally be Dick's chance to get information regarding the man's hideout.

With that in mind, Dick braced himself, expression grim, and slowly pushed the door open further, just far enough so he could slip inside.

He crept silently through the living area--empty--and down the short corridor on the way to the kitchen.

It wasn't until he rounded the corner to the small dining area that he saw it: the intruder, standing tall and broad near his kitchen table, half-shrouded in shadows.

As if sensing his presence the figure turned, and Dick felt his heart nearly stop for the second time tonight.

"Hello, little bird," Slade Wilson rumbled, plucking the lit cigar from his mouth, his single eye glinting in the dim lighting.

He was dressed casually--black jeans, black shirt, well-fitted leather jacket--and he looked nearly the same as Dick remembered him, grayed goatee neatly trimmed as ever, his white hair shorter and slicked back from his face in a way that suited him.

Maybe it was the stress of the past weeks--the paranoia of feeling like he was constantly on the run, and the frustration at not being able to find Black Mask--but something about seeing Slade standing in the middle of his apartment so casually broke something inside of him.

Dick flung himself at the man with a cry, damaged fists flying.

"It's good to see you, too," Slade said, side-stepping him easily, and though his face was solemn his eye was glittering in clear amusem*nt, and he made no move to return the attack. Dick ignored him, attacking again, intent on clocking the man in his stupid smug face.

Thanks to exhaustion and injury Dick's reaction time wasn't what it usually was, and anyways Slade had always been more than a match for him even without a weapon. This time he caught Dick's wrist easily, and the next thing Dick knew he was being shoved chest-first over the creaky wooden table, the breath knocked from his lungs, his right arm twisted roughly behind him. Dick barely managed to suppress a pained cry as the movement stretched his sore rib.

He stiffened as he felt the mercenary press up against him, leaning heavily over his back and effectively trapping him in place.

"Are you done?" Slade said, hovering somewhere near his ear, and all of it--the man pressed so closely against him; the smell of mint and cloves, and the pungent scent of cigar smoke--was so intimately familiar that Dick felt a sharp lick of arousal in his low stomach.

His weakness brought his fury back full force. "f*ck you," he snarled from where his face was smashed against the table, trying to push against it with his free hand for leverage--even managed an inch or two--but it was Slade. He wasn't going anywhere.

Slade huffed out an amused breath--the warmth of it ghosting over Dick's ear, nearly making him shudder--before shoving him back down and twisting his arm a little further, and this time Dick couldn't catch the noise he made as his rib twanged like a guitar string in protest.

He could feel the man pause--didn't even need to see his face to see the gears in his head turning--and then Dick went completely rigid, sucking in a breath as a big hand slid underneath his t-shirt. Warm, callused fingers brushed over his injured rib, surprisingly gentle.

Heart stuttering in his chest, Dick's mouth fell open, intent on angrily telling the man off, but no sound came out.

"It isn't broken," Slade spoke finally, and it was only when his hand disappeared that Dick felt himself start breathing again.

"Get off of me," Dick said through gritted teeth, head and heart pounding at his precarious position.

"That depends. Are you going to be a good little bird?"

Another little flicker of heat--the kind he hadn't felt in months--and Dick squeezed his eyes shut tightly against it, desperate to get free before something completely embarrassing happened.

"Dammit, Slade, will you just let me up," he growled, hearing the frustration in his own voice, and with a low chuckle the man finally released him, taking a step back.

Dick rose slowly, turning to glare at the man as he took stock of his palms: their 'fight' had reopened some of the cuts, and they were already starting to bleed through the bandages, which had loosened during his attack.

Slade noticed, too, catching Dick's wrist again and yanking it closer for inspection before Dick could stop him.

"You're going to end up with an infection," Slade told him, narrowed brown eye flicking up to Dick's face, his cigar tucked back in the corner of his mouth. "You know better than that."

"Let go," Dick hissed, trying to rip his hand away, but Slade held firm. "Why the hell are you here, Slade?"

"First--" Slade squeezed his wrist in emphasis before dropping it, his face impassive. "Then we talk."

---

A few minutes later they were settled on Dick's cramped loveseat, first aid supplies spread out between them, Dick's hand laying palm side up on Slade's lap as the mercenary slathered it in ointment and began wrapping it in a fresh bandage much more neatly than Dick had managed.

It was a scenerio that had happened so many times before, years ago--Slade, working silently and meticulously, expression such that Dick couldn't even begin to guess what he was thinking--and Dick felt himself relax slightly despite himself, unconsciously soothed by the familiar ritual.

Still--

"What are you doing here, Slade," he murmured after several minutes of semi-awkward silence, and he sounded as tired as he felt.

Slade finished wrapping his hand--finally looking up at him--and Dick reluctantly pulled it away, flexing it experimentally just to distract himself from the intensity of the other man's gaze.

"I heard an interesting rumor," Slade responded, conversationally. "It seems that Roman Sionis is up to his old tricks again, and a certain masked vigilante is caught in the crosshairs. And this time it isn't the Bat."

Slade shook his head almost ruefully. "Sionis always was a power-hungry egomaniac--but to rile him to the point that he puts out a hit on you?" The older man let out a short whistle like he was impressed, but Dick got the distinct impression he was being made fun of. "I guess that's how you know you've really made it as a hero."

Dick abruptly jumped to his feet, anger flaring within him again like a lighted match. "How do you know that?" he demanded hotly, ignoring the teasing. Sionis' goons were one thing (and, admittedly, they'd caught him off guard a few times now), but if he'd actually opened up the competition to more professional outside help--just like he'd done years ago, in an attempt to kill Batman--then Dick's life was about to get even more stressful. And right now, with his injuries, if even one of them came calling he might find himself in a world of trouble.

"Because I'm in the business of accepting hits, in case you forgot," Slade replied lazily, relaxing back against the couch and slinging his arm casually across the top of it like he planned on staying for a while. "Imagine my surprise when a few days ago, an offer appeared on my phone: a quarter million, to put the resident bird down."

Slade stroked a hand over his goatee, thoughtful. "Is that really all former boy-wonders are going for, these days?"

"You tell me," Dick shot back between clenched teeth, head still spinning from the man's revelation. "You here to kill me, Slade?"

"You know me better than that," Slade replied easily, almost smiling. "If I was, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Then why? What do you want?" Dick demanded for the third time. He was tired of the riddles; of Slade being here, in general, because it was dredging up memories that he'd locked away a long time ago for his own mental well-being.

"To warn you. And--to offer my help," Slade said, like it was obvious.

"I don't need help," Dick responded automatically, bristling. "Not from anyone, and definitely not from you. I'm handling it."

"Really?" Slade made a show of glancing around the tiny living room, with its stained, crumbling wallpaper and more-than-sparse furnishings. "Working a dead-end job and barely making enough to pay for an apartment the size of a shoe box; nearly getting yourself killed because you have so many people tailing you it's only a matter of time before one of them succeeds?"

The one-eyed gaze settled onto him again, the man's expression turned grim. "I can see how well you're handling things."

"It's none of your f*cking business," Dick growled, hands unconsciously tightening into fists at his sides, wounds stinging in warning until he forced them to relax.

"How do you know all this? Have you been--what--" he gave an incredulous bark of laughter, "tracking me?"

An image flashed in his mind: standing in his bathroom, bloody forearm laying in the sink, his own eyes wild when he met them in the mirror--

"Call it what you want," Slade said dismissively, and Dick's stomach twisted unpleasantly at the casual admission.

"Un-f*cking-believable," he whispered, shaking his head slowly in horrified awe. "It's ironic--in the end, you really are just like him."

Slade's eye narrowed to a slit, studying him intently, but he said nothing.

"That's all I ever was--to both of you," Dick continued quietly, almost to himself, gaze fixated on the threadbare old carpet. "Just an object, to use for your own gain. Him, to make me into a better version of himself, whether I wanted to be or not--and you, to turn me into a killer."

He met Slade's eye again, jaw setting. "Thanks for the offer, Slade, but I'm going to have to decline. I don't need this sh*t in my life anymore; that's why I went solo in the first place. So you can show yourself out--you already know where the door is."

For a long moment Slade simply stared at him, unreadable--then he slowly rose to his feet, single eye as sharp as chipped glass.

Dick tensed as the man approached but refused to back away, not even when Slade stepped unnecessarily close, towering over him.

"I don't think you understand your situation," Slade murmured, barely loud enough to hear over the sudden thumping of Dick's heart. "With the way things are now, your little bird-brains will be splattered all over the pavement by week's end. I may not have taken Sionis up on his offer, but I assure you--plenty of others will be more than happy to."

Then Slade's hand tangled in his hair, wrenching his head back and forcing Dick to look up at him, and the expression on the mercenary's face had Dick feeling truly afraid of him for the first time all night.

"Another warning--free of charge," Slade said, single eye mapping over Dick's face, and the steel in his voice nearly made Dick shiver. "I'll gladly help you out with your daddy issues anytime you want--but don't ever compare me to the Bat."

Then he was releasing Dick and turning for the door, and Dick could only watch him go, red-faced and stunned, some chaotic storm of mixed emotion brewing inside of him.

When Slade reached the door he glanced back at Dick over his shoulder, hand curling over the door knob.

"I'll be in touch," he said shortly, and just like that he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving Dick still staring after him.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

Dick had struggled to fall sleep after Slade left, despite his full-body exhaustion.

Eventually he'd managed to drift off, but when his alarm went off the next morning he felt tense and restless, like he hadn't slept at all.

For a while he simply laid there, staring up at the water-stained old ceiling above him, mulling over Slade's visit.

The man may have been a killer-for-hire, but he wasn't a liar (Or at least, not usually, Dick thought with a grimace, shoving that particular memory away). So if he said that Sionis had ordered a hit on Nightwing, then Dick believed it.

But he'd be lying to himself if he pretended that he'd only struggled to sleep because of the news the man had brought him. In reality, just seeing Slade again had completely thrown Dick off his axis.

He'd been just like Dick remembered, all easy confidence and no-bullsh*t attitude--a man completely sure of his place in the world, thanks to all the things he'd seen and his unwavering faith in his own abilities. It was something Dick had been drawn to, as someone who had always felt like he didn't measure up--and who, admittedly, often let his emotions (namely anger) get the best of him.

And despite how things between them had ultimately ended and the years of no-contact that had followed, Slade had still acted like he actually cared: bandaging Dick's wounds and calling him those stupid pet names (the ones he'd halfheartedly complained about, once upon a time, but had secretly come to relish). Not to mention going out of his way to help Dick in the first place, with no real benefit to himself.

On a more shallow note--Dick's jaw clenched as he felt a familiar stirring in his sweatpants.

There was a brief period of time, after he'd ended things with Slade, when he'd convinced himself that he wasn't really into men. That Slade had been an exception--an experience that he didn't regret, necessarily, but one that he didn't feel the need to recreate.

And it had worked, for a while--until about a year ago, when he'd inadvertently found himself making out with a guy at a bar after a rare night of self-pitying drinking.

Dick abruptly broke the kiss, face flushed and heart racing, and when the guy tried to lean down and capture his mouth again Dick pushed him away, shrinking back against the little nook they'd been making out in for the past several minutes.

"What's wrong, gorgeous?" the stranger asked with a half-smirk, but even in his drunken state Dick could tell he was impatient, his hard eyes searching Dick's face for an explanation.

Dick shook his head, nausea washing over him, his head suddenly spinning. "Sorry--I--I can't--"

He shoved past the guy without another word, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stumbled for the door.

"What the hell?!" he heard the guy yell after him, but he didn't look back. "f*cking tease!"

(Once home Dick collapsed in bed, the alcohol already tugging him into unconsciousness, telling himself that the only reason he was hard was because it'd been a while since he'd gotten laid--)

It was a lie he'd clung to for years, because it was easier than experimenting with anything that even remotely reminded him of Slade.

And then last night, Slade himself had wrecked his delusions in less than five minutes of meeting.

Dick rolled over onto his side and stared at the wall, unable to stop the fresh memories from resurfacing.

Slade, tall and broad and muscled as ever, all lined, chiseled face and stupidly intense brown eye. Subduing him and shoving him over the table like it was nothing (and Dick could tell himself all he wanted that it was just because he'd been hurt and tired, because it was easier than admitting Slade had gotten the best of him with barely any effort--and while smoking a f*cking cigar, no less--but it didn't make it true).

Slade, pinning him to the table with his own body weight and slipping his hand under Dick's shirt like he had the f*cking right to, stroking over his tender rib in a way that had sent a jolt of pure electricity up Dick's spine until his entire skull felt like it was buzzing--that big, callused hand, which had taken more lives than Dick ever wanted to think about, touching him like he was something precious--

Dick worked his own hand into his pants and curled it over himself, inhaling sharply, suddenly feeling far too hot despite the small heater having shut off hours ago.

He didn't even try to pretend that it was anyone other than Slade he was thinking of as he roughly began stroking himself off. The man's stupid smug smirk, the one Dick could conjure even in his dreams; the easy, familiar teasing, because he'd always practically gotten off on riling Dick up and pissing him off.

The sharp warning, and the heavy hand in his hair, keeping him in place, and Dick couldn't tell if his narrowed expression meant he wanted to strangle Dick or bend him back over the table--

With a gasp he came, hard, heart stuttering in his chest as he spilled all over his own hand, his socked feet curling sharply against the mattress.

Afterwards Dick laid there for long minutes as his heartbeat and breath slowly returned to normal, the tension returning to his body as his post-org*sm euphoria faded.

He was so f*cked.

---

Dick went out on patrol the next few nights despite his still-fresh injuries, and he told himself it was entirely because he had new motivation to hunt down Black Mask and not because he needed a distraction.

Ironically, it was the quietest week he'd had in months--nothing besides a few muggings and a carjacking (no Slade, either, and Dick squashed any inkling of a feeling that could even vaguely be interpreted as disappointment).

It should've given him pause, but he was too tired to feel anything but relieved. He'd had to pick up more hours at work thanks to a coworker quitting, and he still hadn't been sleeping very well, so he was thankful for a break from Black Mask's schemes. Even if it was suspicious.

It was at the end of the week--when the cuts on his hands had scabbed completely over, and wrapping his rib stabilized it enough that he barely felt it anymore while vaulting over the rooftops of Blüdhaven--that he finally got a lead regarding Black Mask's hide out.

He'd just happened to stumble across them: two men, lurking in the shadows of an alleyway between a bar and an old laundromat, and Dick would've recognized those nightmare-inducing masks anywhere.

"How long we gotta wait?" one of the men--wearing what looked like a bear's face--asked the other, shifting impatiently.

"As long as it takes," the second man (a lion) responded shortly, adjusting the baseball bat that rested on his shoulder. "You heard the boss--take out the bird, or he's gonna take us out like that poor sonofabitch Márquez last week."

The bear shuddered. He didn't have any visible weapons, but Dick knew better than to think he was unarmed. "Yeah, I know. But--uh--tell me what we gotta do, again?"

"You idiot. Don't tell me you forgot the plan already," the lion griped, pointing the tip of the bat at his counterpart in emphasis.

"One: when the bird comes swinging by, you run out to the street and start yelling for help like yer hurt. Two: while he's distracted, I come up behind him and--" the man swung the bat, the force of it whooshing audibly through the frigid night air. "--wham! Lights out; show's over.

"Three: we put 'em down, then drag the body back to twenty-second street so we can show the boss and collect our reward."

The first man said something in response, but Dick barely heard him, a slow grin curling over his lips. Gotcha, he thought gleefully to himself. You're mine, Sionis.

After he'd subdued the two men--easy, because they hadn't even seen him coming--Dick quickly made his way to twenty-second street, located in one of the mostly-abandoned parts of downtown.

When he got there he immediately spotted a building that stuck out like a sore thumb: a crumbling old industrial warehouse, many of its windows either smashed open or heavily boarded up.

Dick perched on a nearby rooftop, using his binoculars to get a closer look. There were no lights that he could see, but something else caught his eye: a slight movement in one of the lower windows.

Frowning, he zoomed in a little more, just as something--or someone--moved away from the window, a second before he could make out what it was.

Bingo.

He quickly swung his way over to the building, climbing silently into one of the broken windows near the front entrance.

Using his night-vision lenses he easily moved through the warehouse, searching for any hint of life or activity, but there was nothing except broken down old machinery and shipping crates and rotting debris.

He made his way to the next floor, then the next, and it was then that he heard it: footsteps, running away from him, clearly headed towards the stairwell on the far side of the room.

Dick bolted after the sound, pushing himself to catch up, and when he reached the bottom of the stairwell he caught a glimpse of the tail-end of a black coat before the figure disappeared through the door at the top.

Heart racing with adrenaline, Dick vaulted himself up, springing off the walls of the narrow stairwell and easily catching onto the railing. He flipped himself over it effortlessly-- landing lightly on his feet--and burst through the entrance to the fourth floor.

From there he could see it: light, coming from the center of the room, its source obscured by a towering pile of shipping crates. And he could hear the footsteps echoing off the spacious walls, clearly making a beeline straight towards it.

Grinning, Dick took off along the right wall, his own steps nearly silent in their quickness, intending to cut the person off in the center aisle.

As he neared the center he became aware of some familiar noise, and the acrid, unmistakable smell of smoke. Alarm bells ringing, he dove out from behind the crates, skidding to a stop in the center aisle, expecting to catch the person mid-run--

--only to stop short as he finally saw the source of the light.

A wall of fire, cutting off the path of the main aisle, the flames so tall they were nearly a third of the way to the ceiling.

Confused, Dick spun around, looking for the figure he'd been pursuing--only for another blaze to suddenly ignite, cutting off another avenue and forming a semi-circle of flames around him. Up close the sound was deafening, the smell of burning wood and metal already making his throat close.

Throwing an arm across his mouth and nose to block out the smoke, he was just about to turn back to escape the way he'd come when a voice spoke directly into his ear, so close he could hear it even over the flames.

"Nighty-night, Nightwing," it sang, and then everything went dark.

---

When Dick jolted awake his face was smashed against a pillow.

The first thing he became aware of was his head. There was a dull, throbbing ache spanning its entire surface area, and he knew from experience that moving would make it ten times worse.

For a moment he allowed his eyes to close again, relaxing further into the comfortable whatever he was laying on, feeling himself slowly start to drift back to sleep--

Only to sit straight up, eyes springing open, his entire body poised and ready for a fight as memories of the abandoned warehouse came rushing back to him.

"Mother--" Dick groaned, clutching at his head as, sure enough, stars exploded across his vision at the rapid movement.

When the pain had finally settled back down to a slightly more tolerable level he opened his eyes again, taking in his surroundings.

It looked like a hotel room--an expensive one. It was huge, all decked out in silvers and whites and blues, furnished with claw-foot tables and plush chairs and an ottoman nearly big enough to double as a bed, situated near the curtained, floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall.

An enormous, silver chandelier hung over the center of the room, and from where he was sitting Dick spotted at least two ornamental rugs and some kind of weird, decorative art installation in one corner.

It was the kind of place he would've stayed at with Bruce, once upon a time, on the rare occasions Dick accompanied him on Wayne Enterprises-related business trips, the other man booking an entire suite just for Dick--always far more space than any one person needed.

When they weren't busy with business he'd spent blissful hours eating junk food in the hot tub, raiding the extensive mini-bar (always empty, to his disappointment, because Bruce had always been strict about the whole 'no drinking until twenty-one' thing), and jumping on the King-sized bed.

He was in a similar, almost comically large bed now, its midnight blue sheets so soft they felt like silk. It was a sharp contrast to the creaky, twin-sized bed back at his apartment, with its lumpy mattress and torn sheets.

All at once Dick noticed that he was wearing nothing but his boxers. Heart leaping into his throat, he instinctively reached for his face, stomach dropping as he realized his mask was gone, too.

Which meant someone not only had his suit--but they also knew his face.

Suddenly tense all over again, he threw the blankets off of him and climbed out of the bed, bare toes sinking into the plush carpet, the throbbing in his head once again intensifying as he came to his feet.

Nausea washed over him, and for a long moment he simply stood there, breathing deeply, until finally the moment passed and the pain leveled out once more.

He tried the door first. Unsurprisingly, it was locked.

Next were the windows. There didn't seem to be any way to open them--that he could see anyways--and the glass was thick enough that he knew they wouldn't break easily.

Dick glanced out across the view, searching for clues as to his location.

It was an overcast day, and though it was hard to tell the time, he guessed it was early afternoon. There was nothing in his immediate field of vision that gave him any hints, but the part of the skyline he saw in the distance was one he'd recognize anywhere.

So he was somewhere on the outskirts of Blüdhaven. Whoever had dragged him here hadn't taken him far, at least.

For the next ten minutes he searched the room, quickly finding the name of the hotel (the Côte d'Azur--just outside Blüdhaven, as he'd already figured), a glaring lack of phones, as well as a bathroom connected to the suite. It was just as spacious, with a large, walk-in shower and an unnecessary total of four sinks spanning the enormous counter.

He found a silky robe, too, the same midnight blue as the sheets, and he quickly pulled it on. When his captor finally came back he didn't want to have to fight them in his underwear (and he couldn't help but snort at the mental image, despite the situation).

After several more minutes of snooping (and finding nothing useful), the wooziness in his head had come back with a vengeance. Reluctantly he made his way back to the bed, gingerly lowering himself down onto it and beginning his wait.

Nearly an hour later he was so bored he was seriously considering switching on the giant flat-screen against the far wall (distraction be damned) when finally there came the sound of the door unlocking. Dick immediately jumped to his feet, ignoring his screaming head injury as he prepared himself to attack.

"--Slade?!" For the second time in less than two weeks he was shocked to see the mercenary standing before him, dressed in all black just like the other night, this time sans-cigar.

"...you're awake," Slade commented neutrally. His face wore that impassive expression that Dick had always found impossible to read.

"What happened? Why the hell did you bring me here?" Dick demanded, rounding to the foot of the bed, but he kept a good fifteen feet between them just to be safe.

"What happened is I saved you from certain death," Slade responded, as casually as someone commenting on the weather. "I have to ask--do you always spend your free time parading through burning buildings, or is it a more recent hobby?"

"You were following me?" Dick asked accusingly, ignoring the jab. He hadn't noticed anyone trailing him, but then again he'd been more than a little preoccupied with finally sniffing out Black Mask. And anyways, part of what made Slade so deadly was how good he was at going undetected.

"If I hadn't--you'd be dead," Slade said, blunt as ever. "To be fair, the night didn't begin that way. I happened to notice a little bird flying off into the night--and it looked like he was on his way to do something incredibly foolish. Something like--walking right into an obvious trap."

Dick felt his ears burn as the realization hit him. He should've known better than to think even the dumbest of thugs would openly blab about their secret base of operations, especially when Dick just so happened to be within earshot.

"Black Mask?" he asked quietly, gaze suddenly stuck on the carpet, embarrassed despite himself. Slade always knew exactly what to say to make him feel like a stupid kid again--and the worst part was, he was usually right.

"A contemporary. One of many who answered the call for your head."

Dick's eyes jumped back to the other man's face, adrenaline flooding through him. "Where is he? Do you know where he went?" he asked in a rush, mind already whirling. "If I can interrogate him, I might be able to find out where Black Mask--"

"He's dead," Slade said flatly--face practically carved from stone--and Dick abruptly fell silent, stunned. The implication was more than clear.

"...I have to get back out there," he said finally, ignoring that particular bit of information, because he wasn't even remotely going to examine that right now. "I need to find Black Mask before someone gets hurt--"

Dick cut off mid-sentence as Slade moved closer in two long strides, towering over him, the surprise of it making him flinch backwards and nearly fall on his ass as the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. It seemed to be the man's signature move when it came to intimidation, and Dick hated that it kind of worked. Just like last time his entire body went rigid, heart already picking up in his chest at the perceived threat.

"What you need is to rest," Slade told him, low, barely an inch of space between them.

The older man's eye narrowed sharply, scrutinizing his face. "How long have you been using a defective suit?"

Oh. Of course he would've seen the damaged state of Dick's suit while removing it.

Face flushing, Dick opened his mouth, a defense already on the tip of his tongue--but he'd never been able to bullsh*t Slade.

"...a while," he admitted grudgingly, eyes sliding away from the mercenary's face.

"What a foolish little bird," Slade said, finally turning away from him, and the disapproval in his voice made Dick's stomach clench unpleasantly. It only made him angrier.

"You don't get to criticize the way I do things!" he yelled after Slade as the mercenary made his way back to the door. "I didn't ask for--"

"--my help," Slade finished for him, pausing at the door, just like the other night. "You've already made that clear."

"...where are you going?" Dick asked warily, eyeing the man suspiciously, but he made no move to follow after him. The last time he'd tried to take on Slade while injured it hadn't exactly gone over well.

"Out," Slade answered, his tone making clear that the subject was closed. "The only thing you should be concerned with is resting and healing. Maybe it'll help you think more clearly next time."

"Seriously? I don't have time for your stupid lectures!" Dick growled back, hackles rising at the other man's nerve. Who the hell was he to decide what Dick needed? "I have to work! And go after Black Mask! Are you seriously going to--what--keep me locked in here?!"

"If I don't--will you be a good little bird and stay?" Slade shot back, and Dick glared at him, fists clenched, but he said nothing.

A hint of a smirk touched the other man's lips, gone so fast Dick wasn't even sure he'd really seen it. "I didn't think so.

"Rest. I'll bring you some food later," Slade told him shortly, turning to leave again.

Incredulous, Dick watched as the mercenary flashed something up to the card-reader on the door, and it swiftly opened for him with a short series of beeps.

Once again Slade paused, just barely glancing over his shoulder, and the only part of his face Dick could see was the black of his eye patch.

"Letting pride interfere with your work is unacceptable," he said, voice as hard as granite. "Whatever issues remain between you and the Bat--resolve them. Before you get yourself killed."

"Wait--Slade--!" Dick ran after him, then, reaching the door just as Slade closed it behind him, the audible 'snick' as it clicked back into place assuring Dick that he was definitely locked in again.

"SLADE! Let me out, goddammit!" he shouted, pounding heavily on the door, but there was no answer--nothing but the sound of the man's heavy footsteps as he walked away.

After another full minute of shouted threats and curses Dick finally gave up, slumping back against the door with a groan.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, reaching up to prod at the back of his pounding head. Just the slight touch made pain shoot across the surface like an ice pick to the brain.

...Okay, so Slade maybe had a point about the resting.

Still--who did the man think he was, locking Dick up in here and demanding he fix things with Bruce, like it was that easy; like he still had the right to interfere in Dick's life?

They hadn't seen each other in three years--hadn't even ended on good terms--and suddenly the mercenary was waltzing back into his life like nothing and trying to call the shots?

It was more than a little irritating. As someone who had always fiercely craved independence--one of the biggest reasons he'd finally walked away from Bruce for good--he resented anyone trying to tell him what to do.

(Bruce had remarked once that if he hadn't taken Dick in as a child and trained him to be a hero, then his problems with authority would have eventually led him to a life of crime. At the time Dick had taken it as a joke, but when he'd gotten older he wasn't so sure it had been).

What was even more irritating was the tiny part of him that found Slade's protectiveness sort of... nice. It had been a long time since anyone had actually given a damn about him. Maybe not even since his relationship with the man himself.

Still--he couldn't just stay here and take a vacation while Black Mask was out there getting stronger by the day, no matter how tempting it was to just let someone take care of him for a while. 'Someone' being the murderous, (admittedly attractive) asshole who was currently holding him against his will.

A half-smirk twitched over his lips before disappearing just as fast, and Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair as he felt fatigue settle back over his shoulders like a heavy blanket.

For now he would rest, just a little while longer--and then he'd figure out a way to get out of here.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

It was disturbingly easy to sleep, once he found himself in a comfortable bed after months of sleeping on a creaky old twin mattress.

When Dick awoke again his head felt a tiny bit better, but he still had a lingering headache. He felt more rested than he had in weeks, though, and that was something at least.

Predictably, there was no Slade--but there was a tray of food waiting on the ottoman. It was a full breakfast spread: various croissants and jellies and other pastries; sausages and fancy eggs and several kinds of cheese, along with an assortment of fruit, with coffee and juice to drink.

Stomach growling (when was the last time he even ate anything more substantial than a bowl of off-brand cereal?), Dick fixed himself a cup of coffee--no sugar, with a splash of cream--and munched on a pastry while he switched on the flat-screen and flipped to the local news.

"...warehouse fire in the mostly abandoned Firestone District," the news anchor said, his lined face appropriately serious. "The Blüdhaven Fire Department has concluded that the fire was, in fact, intentionally set. Luckily, Chief Austin Wilkes has reported that no one was injured.

"At this time, police have not determined any suspects."

Because he's dead.

And Slade would have left the body to burn.

Suddenly not hungry anymore, Dick set the rest of his pastry back down on the tray, his mind tuning out the news as the anchors moved onto the next segment.

The fact that Slade had killed someone for him was--disturbing, to say the least. Even if it was the asshole who had lured Dick there for the purpose of killing him.

And it's not the first time, Dick thought grimly, remembering that night--the one where he'd walked away from Slade for good.

"...were killed last night just outside of Sycamore Square Apartments."

Dick jerked his attention back to the TV, brows climbing his forehead in shock.

"The three victims--Joseph Cullson, 29, Geoff Baker, 25, and Ian Klein, 31--were gunned down while leaving the apartment building. Police have confirmed that all three victims were tenants at Sycamore Square."

Images flashed on the screen: three young men, all with dark hair and slender builds; all of them smiling. Dick could only stare at the screen in silent horror.

"Witnesses told police that they saw two suspicious individuals--who appeared to be wearing what looked like animal masks--lurking in the alleyway beside the building. A police search yielded no suspects.

"At this time no one has been arrested in connection with the murders. More on this story later."

Sycamore Square Apartments; AKA the place he'd been living at for the past several years. And the animal masks--there was no mistaking it.

Either Sionis had found him out, or someone had seen Nightwing leaving or entering the building. They must've started targeting anyone who looked even remotely like they could be him. And he was too busy being trapped here to stop it.

Dick cursed, jumping to his feet as he switched off the TV and tossed the remote onto the ottoman. Only one night away, and three people had died because of him.

Four, his mind reminded him automatically. Don't forget the man Slade killed for you.

He cursed again, suddenly furious. No more people were going to die because of him-- whether it be by the gangster's hand, or Slade's. Which meant he had to get out of here.

If only Slade would come back.

---

After a brief work out--push-ups and crunches and pull-ups on the bathroom door frame, ignoring his pounding head the entire time--Dick cleaned himself up, trying to shove down the guilt he felt at enjoying a hot shower in a high-end hotel while Black Mask and his gang were out there killing innocent people.

Afterwards he rummaged in the ornately carved dresser that probably cost more than everything he owned, finding an assortment of clothes that obviously belonged to Slade. The last thing he wanted to do was wear his ex's clothes (especially his ex who had just killed someone for him), but he didn't exactly like the idea of continuing to hang around in an expensive hotel room in a fancy silk robe like he was some mob boss's spoiled wife, either.

All of it was too big for him, but he eventually settled on an oversized white t-shirt and a pair of navy blue sweatpants that luckily tightened at the waist. He hesitated only a second before pulling them on without the two-days-old boxers that he'd arrived here in.

After polishing off the rest of the food from earlier (his appetite returning full-force after his workout) and searching again for a way out (nothing), Dick spent the rest of the day in bed, the TV on for background noise, his mind too distracted by the current situation to pay much attention.

It was early evening when Slade returned.

The man barely even glanced at him, sliding the room key into his pocket as he headed over to the same dresser Dick had gotten the clothes from earlier.

"Hi, honey. How was your day?" Dick asked sarcastically, irritated by the man's silence--like he wasn't casually keeping Dick here against his will. He muted the TV as he came to his feet and warily approached the other man, his guard firmly up, because Slade was unpredictable at the best of times.

But the mercenary didn't even blink at his biting sarcasm. "Fine," he responded, busy pulling out a fresh change of clothes. He looked unruffled and put-together as ever, but Dick knew better than to think he'd just been out sight-seeing all day.

Finally he glanced over at Dick, brows raising. "Are those mine?"

"Yeah. Didn't really have much of a choice. Y'know, because of the whole 'being held against my will' thing," Dick shot back, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed the man coolly.

"They look good on you." Shoving the drawer closed again, Slade grabbed his pile of clean clothes and headed towards the bathroom.

"I'll order dinner when I'm finished," he called over his shoulder on his way across the room, casual-as-you-please, and Dick nearly saw red.

"Are you f*cking kidding?!" he exploded, hands curling into fists, and Slade actually paused in the middle of the room, looking back at him questioningly.

"This isn't a f*cking romantic getaway, Slade. I need to leave!" Dick yelled at him, face flushing hotly in his anger, just barely short of stamping his foot. "Black Mask's gang killed three people last night! Because I wasn't there to stop it!"

"Really? I hadn't heard," Slade replied neutrally, and somehow Dick still found himself shocked at the man's callousness.

"You really don't care, do you?" he said in disbelief, slowly shaking his head. "That--that people are dying, and Black Mask is getting stronger every single day, and if I don't do something he's going to take over the entire f*cking city."

"No. I don't," Slade said, turning to face him fully, and Dick could only stare at him, speechless. "I don't give a damn about this city, or its citizens, or Roman Sionis and the pathetic gang of zoophile rejects he's wrangled into doing his bidding.

"What I find disturbing is your insistence on throwing your life away for thankless strangers and a corrupt, decaying city--all based on some silly notion of heroism drilled into your skull by the Bat during early childhood."

"...when are you going to let me leave, Slade?" Dick asked hollowly, fury simmering away to some kind of odd disappointment--the kind he could feel like a hole in the gut.

He didn't know why it still surprised him, after all these years, that Slade Wilson saw human lives as completely disposable, meaningless things, only good for manipulating and bending to his will. After all--it was, ultimately, the reason they'd broken up in the first place.

"After your little bird-brain has healed from being bashed over the head with a pistol--and you agree to contact the Bat for an upgraded suit," Slade answered dismissively, clearly already done with the conversation.

The man gave him a hint of a smirk, turning back to the bathroom. "You're welcome to join me," he offered, before disappearing inside.

Dick stood there for several minutes after the bathroom door had closed, frustration mounting inside him. He had to do something, or he was going to be stuck here until Slade felt like letting him go. And who knew when that would be.

Suddenly, he remembered: Slade, casually sliding the room card into his pocket after entering. AKA, the key to his freedom.

Dick cut his eyes back to the bathroom door, calculating.

Before he could talk himself out of it he was striding towards the bathroom, hearing the sound of the shower going through the door as he slowly cracked it open just a few inches.

Instead of a discarded pile of clothes and the mercenary already in the shower like he'd expected, Slade was situated at the counter in front of one of the sinks, still dressed except for his jacket, his chin tilted upwards slightly as he shaved his jawline with an electric razor.

It was a familiar, intimate scene: the flex and pull of his well-developed biceps as he moved the razor; the hint of a tattoo Dick had traced countless times (with his fingers and his tongue), peeking out from under a shirt-sleeve.

His plan ruined, Dick's brain screamed at him to abort mission--but he stood frozen in the doorway, strangely transfixed, his stomach pulling tight as he watched.

Slade caught his eye in the mirror for just a second before turning his attention back to his own reflection.

"Decided to join me after all?" the mercenary murmured, tilting his head to the side as he began shaving his right cheek. Utterly relaxed, like the thought of Dick pulling anything--or even being a credible threat--wasn't even a consideration.

Snap out of it, Dick. Looks like it was time to switch plans, now that he'd been spotted.

Closing the door behind him, Dick approached the man slowly, flashing his most charming smile.

"Maybe," he agreed, leaning back against the counter next to the other man--so close they were nearly touching--and smiling up at him. "I already showered earlier, but I'm sure another one wouldn't hurt."

"So friendly, all of a sudden," Slade told his reflection, leaning in a bit closer to the mirror as he began expertly trimming his goatee, his brow furrowed in concentration. He didn't sound suspicious, per se (in the past he'd described Dick as 'moody' on more than one occasion--which, okay, maybe that wasn't entirely inaccurate), but Dick decided to lay it on thick anyways.

"Well--maybe I overreacted," he said, and it took everything in him to keep smiling around the words. "After all, you went out of your way to save my life--thanks, by the way--and you're right; I've been in pretty rough shape these last few months, so I really could use the rest.

"And... I'm glad to see you," Dick told him, voice lowering in a way that only an idiot would misinterpret, and Slade definitely wasn't an idiot (unfortunately, or else this whole thing would be much easier).

Slade finished shaving, switching off his razor and setting it on the counter. He looked back at the mirror, turning his head slightly as he stroked over his goatee--apparently satisfied--before glancing over at Dick again.

"Is that so?" he said, his own voice taking on that slightly rougher quality that had never failed to get Dick going.

"Yeah," Dick answered a little breathlessly, and he told himself it was just because his acting skills were being stretched to the limit.

Abruptly he edged himself in between the mercenary and the counter, pulling himself up to sit on its edge in one swift movement, his toned legs splaying in wordless invitation.

"It's been a while," Dick hummed, letting his smile curl flirtily at the edges. "I mean, a while since I've... you know."

"You don't say," Slade responded, and he definitely looked interested now, wearing that familiar little half-smirk again, his single eye focused solely on Dick.

Dick spread his legs just a little bit wider, leaning back slightly on his hands and fixing the man with a lazy grin.

"Well...with a man, at least," he admitted, biting at his lower lip--and okay, maybe that was a little too much. At this point he sounded like he was in some crappy, low-budget p*rno, even though it wasn't technically a lie (and the flush that rose to his cheeks at the admission wasn't a lie, either, because he wasn't that good of an actor). He hadn't ever let any other man except Slade touch him like that.

Not that he was going to tell Slade that.

Slade didn't seem to mind the bad p*rn dialogue. The mercenary took the bait, moving to stand between his legs, big hands settling over each of Dick's thighs like they belonged there.

"Isn't this familiar," Slade taunted, half-lidded eye roaming over Dick's face. "Spreading your legs for me--even though you're too embarrassed to come out and say what you really want."

And just like that Dick was completely hard, almost lightheaded from the arousal that surged through him.

The worst part was that Slade wasn't wrong. With women Dick had always been confident and sure, but when it came to sex with Slade he'd always felt out of his league.

It was hard to give up control to anyone (especially someone like Slade, who was so utterly overpowering in damn near every way), yet it was that same feeling of helpless submission--of giving himself over to someone so much bigger and stronger; someone who totally knew what they were doing when he definitely didn't--that had turned him on more than anything else.

But this wasn't about sex--even if the flimsy sweatpants weren't doing much to hide how much this was affecting him. It was time to go in for the kill.

So Dick pasted on another grin to cover up his nerves, telling himself this was no different than anyone else he'd ever seduced for his own gain.

"Is that what you want me to say?" he teased, reaching out to rest a hand over the mercenary's broad chest, looking up though his lashes at the other man. "You want me to ask you to f*ck me?"

He nearly gasped as he was suddenly dragged off the counter and spun around, Slade shoving him against the edge of it, the marble digging into his stomach.

Before he could act Slade stepped in behind him and pinned him in place against the counter, muscled arm winding around the small of his waist, and now Dick could feel that the mercenary was just as hard as he was.

A big hand slid up his throat, thick fingers nearly encircling the entire width of it as they clasped the tender flesh--loose enough to pose no real danger, but tight enough to serve as a threat.

Breath caught in his chest, Dick slowly brought his eyes up to meet the other man's gaze in the mirror.

"...your heart is racing," Slade said after a long, pregnant pause, callused thumb swiping over Dick's pulse-point.

His usual smart-ass comebacks deserting him, Dick said nothing, his heart rate only seeming to speed up even more at the other man's observation--and the grip on his neck, impossible to ignore.

Still, Dick stubbornly refused to look away--even as he waited for the other man to snap his neck and get it over with.

But then the hand on his throat moved upwards, forcing Dick's head back against the broad chest--and now it was more than uncomfortable, his breathing partially obstructed by the angle and Slade's fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh, his pulse still jack-hammering under the mercenary's thumb.

He should've struggled--should've fought with everything he had--but instead Dick fell completely still, hands gripping tightly to the edge of the counter, his eyes locked onto the mercenary's face in the mirror.

He was still painfully hard.

"This still excites you," Slade mused, and with his head against the man's chest Dick could feel the words, vibrating against his skull. It was more of a statement than a question--one he couldn't have refuted even if he wanted to.

From the feel of things, it still excited Slade, too.

Red-hot shame washed over Dick and coiled tightly in his gut, somehow nearly indistinguishable from the lust.

The hand on his throat finally loosened, freeing his neck from the odd angle, and Dick inhaled sharply as the mercenary rocked forward, crushing him against the counter almost painfully.

His brain stuttered as the hand at his waist slid under the baggy t-shirt just like that night in his apartment and stroked over the flat of his stomach, dangerously close to his co*ck, and if it wasn't for the man holding him in place Dick was sure his knees would've buckled underneath him.

"I want to hear you say it," Slade said, voice and eye sharper now, the flat of his hand resting across the width of Dick's stomach as hot as a brand. Even with his grip loosened on Dick's throat his thumb still stroked over Dick's pulse-point to some slow, nameless rhythm--a silent reminder of just how dangerous the man behind him really was. "Be a good little bird and ask me nicely to f*ck you."

The word was tumbling out before Dick could stop it--or before he could even convince himself he wanted to.

"Please," Dick heard himself say, all rational thought flying out the window. He couldn't remember the last time he was so turned on. "Please--Slade..."

He didn't know how this had gone so wrong; how he'd started out manipulating Slade, only for the other man to turn it around and beat him at his own game.

But this was his only shot--because who knew when he would get another one.

So when Slade turned him around, shoving him back against the counter by a hip and taking him by the throat again--forcing his head back, thumb resting heavily over Dick's bottom lip--Dick met the man's eye with his own soft, too-big gaze, letting his mouth fall open slightly in silent encouragement.

And when Slade leaned down with clear intent--grip on his throat tightening just slightly as if to make sure he couldn't escape--Dick didn't pull away, standing stock still as Slade moved in closer and closer. Slowly he inched his hand down to the man's side, fingers just barely brushing the pocket of the pressed slacks--

His stomach dropped as his hand was crushed in an iron grip, only centimeters away from his goal.

Slade slid past his mouth to speak directly into his ear, goatee scratching against his jaw in a way that made him shiver.

"Good try, pretty bird," he said, sounding more amused than angry, and Dick winced as the mercenary gave his hand a hard squeeze, the bones grinding together under the pressure.

Just as quickly Slade dropped his hand, straightening to full height again, grip disappearing from Dick's throat.

With all pretense vanished Dick didn't bother to hide his scowl, trying to push past the man to leave, some ugly feeling that felt far too much like humiliation clawing in his chest. He would've preferred anger over that smug smirk.

But Slade boxed him in, bracing a hand on either side of him, and Dick grudgingly met the single-eyed gaze.

"Don't play games with me. You won't win," Slade said lowly, sharper than the edge of the blade he favored, his narrowed eye searching Dick's face--

--and then all at once Slade released him and turned away, as loose-limbed and relaxed as when Dick had first entered the bathroom.

"Now leave--or don't. It makes no difference to me," the mercenary said in clear dismissal, shrugging off his shirt in one fluid movement, and despite himself Dick couldn't stop his eyes from taking in the muscled expanse of the man's back, that familiar tattoo on his arm now fully exposed to Dick's greedy gaze.

Slade paused as if feeling Dick's eyes on him, glancing back at him over a shoulder. "Unless you need some help?" he offered, brow raising as his eye flicked down to the front of Dick's pants.

"...f*ck you, Slade," Dick muttered, finally shaking himself out of it. He shoved off the counter and stormed out of the room, closing the door behind him much more forcefully than necessary.

He didn't need a mirror to know that his face was on fire--but he couldn't completely stamp out the part of his brain that wondered if Slade's fingers had left marks around his throat.

Dick pointedly ignored the large mirror behind the dresser on his way back to the bed, flopping himself down onto it and glaring up at the ceiling as he waited for the feeling of Slade's hand around his neck to fade.

Waited for his erection to soften, stubbornly refusing to touch it.

Waited for Slade to come back.

---

After Slade was finished in the shower they ate dinner together.

Or, together in the sense that they were in the same room at least, Slade sitting on the edge of the bed while Dick situated himself on the ottoman, aggressively eating his fancy salmon and alternating between ignoring the man and glaring daggers at him.

The mercenary had tried only once to engage him in conversation, but at Dick's icy response he'd given up, instead switching his attention to the evening news. No more mention of last night's murders; apparently it was already old news. It wasn't like there was any shortage of murders in Blüdhaven, unfortunately.

Dick debated with himself as he ate. Maybe, just maybe, Slade would let him out if he knew the entire situation, and why it was so important for Dick to go take care of it.

...but probably not, he thought flatly, remembering the man's words from earlier regarding the victims.

And anyways, no real good could come from telling Slade that they'd found his apartment--and possibly his real identity. The mercenary would probably just keep him locked in here for another hundred years.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Slade told him after he'd cleaned up his plate and switched off the TV, heading for the door, and this time Dick didn't bother asking him where he was going.

"Can I at least have my suit?" he asked instead--only the second sentence he'd said to the man since the embarrassing bathroom scenario. "You can't just throw it away. If someone found it..."

"I didn't throw it away," Slade said shortly, single eye catching the light as he glanced back at Dick. "You can have it back after you get a new one."

When he was gone Dick relocated to the bed and dropped down onto it with a huff, just barely resisting the urge to punch the mattress in frustration.

He had to get out of here.

---

Dick spent the next day in nearly the same way: breakfast, the news (luckily, no new murders), working out, showering, then back to the bed, dozing throughout the afternoon.

Admittedly, he felt better than he had in weeks. He was nearly caught up on sleep, his rib pain was pretty much nonexistent, and his hands had healed enough that he knew they were no longer in danger of splitting back open, at least not easily. There was still a persistent ache in his skull, thanks to the asshole who'd knocked him over the head in the warehouse, but even that felt better.

Still, it didn't really matter how much better he was feeling, if he was still stuck here.

As expected there was no sign of Slade all day, and before long it was already nearly five--well past the point that the man had returned yesterday.

In the end, his escape was facilitated by the most simple, obvious source: a housekeeper, knocking loudly at the door of the bedroom and calling out to ask if anyone was there.

Dick froze for only a moment before hurrying over to the door, his heart pounding, holding his breath as he waited.

Just as he'd hoped the door opened moments later with a few beeps, and a slim older woman with dark hair and severe, yet tired features entered, pushing her cart of supplies in front of her.

"Oh! You frightened me," she said when she saw him, hand clutching at her heart. "My apologies for barging in, sir. I didn't think anyone was here."

Dick only grinned. In that moment, he could've kissed her. "Not a problem, ma'am. Really," he assured her in a rush, catching the door and squeezing past her without another word.

First order of business: his suit. Dick glanced around the suite, overwhelmed by the size of it.

It was decorated in the same silvers and whites and blues as the bedroom, with a sizable lounge area complete with multiple chairs and couches--one of them facing another huge flat screen mounted on one wall--and a table made from pure white marble that he didn't even want to guess the cost of. A silver chandelier--larger than the one in the bedroom--hung overhead.

There was a sleek white piano in one corner, and in another was an entire bar stocked with rows upon rows of fancy, top-shelf liquor. There was more weird art, too, along with a spiral staircase and a loft area that he could only assume led to more rooms, and a shadowy alcove that he assumed was a kitchenette, around the corner of the bar.

Dick let out a breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He had to hurry--Slade could come back any minute.

It seemed unlikely that the man would hide the suit in the common area, so Dick headed straight for the spiral staircase.

Upstairs there was another, smaller bathroom--still bigger than the one in his apartment--and two more rooms. The first one was a bedroom, similar in style to the master bedroom he'd spent the last two days in except smaller, and it looked completely untouched. It didn't take more than two minutes of searching for Dick to conclude that his suit wasn't there.

The door to the second room was pointedly closed. Dick tried the doorknob, finding it unlocked.

It was immediately obvious that Slade had been sleeping here. The room was a mirror of the first bedroom, but the blanket and sheets were noticeably rumpled, and there were some of Slade's things here and there: a few clothing items, strewn over the back of a chair that looked more for show than sitting; a half-empty book of matches on the nightstand; a black phone charger, still plugged into an outlet.

For all the extravagance of the room it looked almost like a stage set--hardly any indication that anyone had actually been living here, just like the common area downstairs.

It aligned perfectly with the Slade he knew. Even when they were still together Slade had always stayed in only the finest of places whenever possible--a clear showcase of the wealth he'd amassed during his career. But even his long-term safe house--the one Dick had visited him at most often in Gotham--always seemed barely lived-in, no personal touches or warmth at all.

Slade had claimed it was a consequence of his career; of constantly needing to pick up and leave at a moment's notice. Especially on the off-chance that someone found out where he was staying.

"What point is there in decorating a place I might need to abandon tomorrow?" Slade said over the glass of whiskey he had most nights when Dick was here, spitting the word out like it was poison, and Dick smothered his laughter at the clear offense in the older man's voice. As if Dick had just suggested they flip on the home improvement network for some interior design tips. "A safe house is for sleeping and eating and plotting against your enemies; that's it."

Dick had made the mistake of asking him why he didn't bother with any sort of decorations around his long-term safe house, especially with Christmas just around the corner.

Wayne Manor was always beautifully decorated for the holidays, hired crews spending several days putting everything up. Although Bruce seemed indifferent, it was a tradition that Alfred had insisted on keeping alive. As a child Dick had looked forward to the colorful, twinkling decorations every year, and even now as an adult he always found time to admire the impressive displays that brightened the manor throughout the entire holiday season.

It was almost enough to brighten up the unspoken gloominess that seemed to follow Bruce like a shadow--and the darkness that grew between them more and more with each passing year.

"That's it, huh?" Dick smiled up at Slade from where his head was resting in the man's lap. He was dressed only in Slade's oversized t-shirt, pulled on carelessly after their first round of sex, his bare legs stretched out on the leather couch. "I guess I should go, then."

He moved as if to get up, but Slade caught him by the hair and yanked him back into place, and this time Dick couldn't contain his laughter.

"You really think you're funny," Slade said flatly, but the way he sipped casually at his whiskey and carded a hand through the thick black strands of Dick's hair was an obvious sign that he was more relaxed than irritated.

"Sometimes, yeah," Dick replied once his laughter had faded, smiling up at the man beatifically.

His smile curled into a smirk as he allowed his legs to fall open a little further in a way he knew Slade wouldn't miss. Just the other man's hand stroking through his hair was already starting to get him hard again--because, nineteen years old--and the flimsy t-shirt did little to hide it.

"At least I'm cute, right?" he asked coyly, batting his lashes up at the older man.

"Sometimes, yeah," Slade mocked, smirking back at him, but when the mercenary pointedly set his glass down on the table Dick mentally cheered himself for successfully distracting the other man--before all thought left him, his mouth falling open on a groan as Slade yanked the t-shirt up and curled a big hand over him.

(A week later, when Dick brought over a small table-top Christmas tree and a few strands of twinkling lights, Slade snorted but didn't say a word.)

Dick's smile faded along with the memory. Once, he'd asked the man if he had a real house--not a rented penthouse or a temporary hotel, but an actual place to call home.

To his surprise, Slade had said that he did have such a place. He wouldn't tell Dick where it was--secretive bastard--but he'd said that some day, if Dick really wanted to that badly, they could go there together.

Things between them had ended before he could keep his promise.

Jaw setting, Dick mentally shook himself, reminding himself of the important task at hand.

He set to work searching the room, and after several minutes of not finding anything he was just about to give up and go back to look downstairs--anxiety gnawing at him, because what if Slade lied, and he really did throw out the suit?--when he decided to check the closet one last time.

This time, he saw it: his suit, laid out across the top rack, along with his mask. He must've glanced right past it.

Dick snatched it up, along with an empty wardrobe bag hanging in the back of the closet, stuffing his suit inside as quickly as he could.

Bye, Slade, he thought, strangely reluctant as he cast a final glance around the nearly-untouched room--before closing the door soundlessly behind him.

---

Luckily, the front door was unlocked too.

Dick made his way to the elevator and jammed his thumb against the button, covertly glancing down the hallway on either side of him as he waited impatiently for it to arrive. When the doors finally opened he tensed, half-expecting Slade to jump out (because the man had already outright admitted to tracking him on several separate occasions, so he wouldn't be surprised if Slade already knew he'd left), but it was empty.

He's going to be pissed, Dick thought to himself on the slow ride down, unable to help but grin. The thought of the mercenary's face when he realized Dick was gone was both terrifying and hilarious. He was almost sorry he was going to miss it.

Once in the lobby he rushed across the bright, ornately-decorated room as fast as he could manage, and it wasn't until he'd changed into his suit in a shadowy corner of the hotel's empty courtyard that he finally let himself breathe.

Despite the suit's damaged state it still felt right, just like it always did--a second skin that he sometimes felt naked without.

Something Bruce and I actually have in common, he thought ironically to himself.

With one last glance to make sure no one was watching Dick took off, making a beeline for Sycamore Square Apartments. It was time to investigate.

---

Dick saw the flames from a block away.

He landed on a building a few rooftops down from the apartment complex, heart racing as he used his binoculars to get a closer look.

The bottom floor of the apartment building was engulfed in flames, and the fire was steadily rising--he could see flames through one of the second floor windows, and on the third floor, too.

Apparently Black Mask had gotten impatient and sent his help to just kill everyone in the entire building. The gangster would've been smart enough to realize that none of the three murder victims were actually Dick, even if the man still didn't know his real identity.

Dick gritted his teeth, a cold weight settling in his stomach. He wasn't even going to think about if Black Mask did know.

Just then he heard it: the welcome wail of firetrucks in the distance, getting closer by the second.

Before Dick could do anything a sudden movement caught his eye: a figure, running past a window on the fifth floor where the maintenance workers stored their equipment, the nearby streetlight catching on the grotesque mask he wore for just a split second.

Instantly Dick sprung into action, launching himself off the rooftop and making his way to the apartment building, where he grappled up to the fifth floor and smashed through the window.

The fire hadn't yet spread to the fifth floor, leaving the air eerily quiet. Unlike the lower floors this one had clearly only ever been intended for storage: the floors were cold concrete instead of lineoleum, and its white walls were missing the ancient brocade wallpaper that decorated the rest of the building.

Dick crept through the maze-like hallway as quickly and silently as he could, searching for the figure.

At last, he saw it: a man, about the same height as him but much stockier and dressed in all black, sprinting towards the back staircase that marked the only exit.

Dick caught him seconds before he could go through the door, grabbing him by the back of the collar and arm and slamming him to the floor.

"Who are you? Where's Black Mask?!" Dick demanded, shoving the man's face against the concrete and ripping off his ostrich mask. Even in the dim lighting he could tell it wasn't anyone he'd come across before.

The man only smirked up at him. "You should be more careful when you leave your apartment, Nightwing."

Impatient, Dick picked up the man's head by the sparse tufts of greasy dark hair, slamming his head back against the floor, and the man groaned in pain. "ANSWER ME!"

The man gave him another wobbly smile, his green eyes a little dazed. "How do you smoke out a pesky bird?" he sing-songed, thin lips stretching into a crooked smile to show off a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "You burn down his nest!"

Infuriated by the taunting, Dick twisted the man's arm a little further and wrenched his hand back, the tendons popping audibly at the harsh angle. The man cried out again, his smirk vanishing.

"Where's Black Mask?! Tell me where he is, or I'll break your f*cking hand!" Dick threatened, knee digging sharply into the man's back to keep him in place.

"You--ah!--you should be more worried about all the people who live here," the man managed, a slight sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. "How's it feel to know that countless people are about to die because of you?"

Dick cursed. The man was right--he couldn't sit here all day interrogating someone when there were people in danger of dying just a floor below them.

With a single well-aimed punch Dick knocked the man out cold, slinging him over his shoulder before making his way back to the window.

There were already two firetrucks parked out front, several firemen working in tandem to take down the flames as others rushed inside. Off to the side was a group of tenants, all huddled together and looking on with worried expressions, while others trickled down the various fire escapes as they fled the burning building.

Dick dumped the False-Facer gang member onto the grass near one of the firemen, taking a precious few seconds to bind the man's hands behind him.

"He's a suspect!" he shouted to the firemen, just barely able to hear himself over the water hose and the roar of the fire, and the man nodded and lifted a hand in what he hoped was understanding. "I'm going back in!"

Dick raced back inside, pounding on each door of the first floor as he shouted to see if anyone was trapped inside, but it quickly became clear that everyone had already managed to get out.

He ran into another fireman on the second floor, halfway down the main hallway.

"Fire's spreading!" the man shouted as he ran past, an unconscious victim slung around his shoulders. "We got men on the first three floors--you take the fourth!"

Dick took off in a sprint, heading back to the east stairwell, which was free of fire for now.

Again he went door to door, searching for victims. Within minutes he'd rescued seven tenants, depositing them all safely on the grass outside before going back in.

Finally, he reached the last apartment.

"Hello!" he shouted, and when there was no answer he kicked as hard as he could, the scuffed up old door exploding open in a shower of wood and sparks. Dick moved quickly throughout the small apartment, arm once again slung over his mouth and nose to block out the smoke, suddenly feeling major deja-vu from a few nights ago at the warehouse. "HEY! Is anyone here?!"

That was when he saw it: an elderly woman, laying motionless on the living room floor.

Adrenaline pumping, Dick rushed over to her--just as a burning china cabinet fell right over top of the woman in a burst of flames, pinning her underneath.

Dick grabbed the cabinet and began prying it off the victim without hesitation, cursing as he felt the burning sting of fire against his exposed hands. Heaving it off to the side, he grabbed the unconscious woman off the floor and positioned her as carefully as he could across his shoulders in a fireman's hold.

His hands felt like they were going to explode, but he grimly continued his search of the apartment, and when he found no one else he headed back into the hallway, finding the nearest window and vaulting out of it.

Dick didn't leave until the fire had been put out, and he didn't fully breathe until the fire department confirmed that no one had lost their lives. Five people had been taken to the hospital for smoke inhalation--one of them being the elderly woman, who also had some minor injuries from the cabinet--but luckily all of them were expected to make a full recovery.

The same couldn't be said for Sycamore Square Apartments. The entire building had been destroyed in the fire, only a charred skeleton remaining.

Which meant all of his meager belongings--his clothes, his sh*tty couch, his f*cking second-hand iPhone--all of it was completely gone.

Unfortunately, the False-Facer gang member was gone, too. He'd escaped in all the confusion, much to the mortification of the Chief, who apologized to Dick profusely about not keeping a closer eye on the suspect until police had arrived.

Dick had reassured him, brushing off the apology, but when he'd finally left--collapsing onto a rooftop a few blocks from his former apartment, trying to catch his breath as exhaustion hit him--he couldn't shake the cold, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.

With a sigh he sat back against the wall, taking stock of his injuries.

His head was still throbbing--although he'd felt worse--but his hands. Dick glanced down at them, feeling an odd mixture of guilt and apprehension wash over him.

His palms had been spared this time, but there were numerous burns on the sides and backs of his hands--at least second degree, from what he could tell--and they were already blistering. He didn't think they were bad enough to need any special medical treatment, but they looked awful--and the pain was excruciating.

So much for healing, Dick thought to himself, examining them for another moment before letting them drop back down to his side with another sigh.

More importantly: what the hell was he going to do? He had no money--no more ID or bank card now, either, even if he had any in his account to begin with--and absolutely no place to go.

You could call Bruce, his brain not-so-helpfully suggested. Jaw tightening at the thought, Dick let his head loll back against the wall, considering. You could call Bruce, and show up with your f*cked-up suit and f*cked-up hands; or you could call Alfred--who'll insist that you come straight home, and then Bruce'll see your f*cked-up suit and f*cked-up hands.

Home. Dick made a face.

No. He couldn't let Bruce see him like this--couldn't let the man know just how badly he was failing to get things under control.

Which meant there was only one other option.

Dick groaned, staring up at the cloudy, starless night sky.

The last thing he wanted to do was go running back to Slade, especially after he'd told the man in not-so-uncertain terms that he didn't need or want his help. After all--Dick still didn't even know what Slade's real intentions were, and he didn't trust that they were pure, no matter what Slade said.

Still... it would be so, so easy to give into that familiar illusion of safety, especially now that he had no-where else to go.

And just like last time Slade was seemingly offering him refuge, away from that lonely, stranded feeling--like he didn't really belong anywhere. Like he was only an empty shell masquerading as a fully-formed human being, no real connections or purpose except the single, self-appointed one he'd carved out for himself.

It was the same feeling Dick was sure haunted Bruce. Because of it the older man's sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning was to act as Gotham's protector so he could avenge his long-dead parents, and damn anybody or anything else that got in the way (including Dick--especially towards the end, right before he'd left for good).

Slade had understood the feeling, if not Dick's solution to it.

Or at least Dick had thought he did. But in the end he'd had to face the reality that he'd been nothing but a useful tool to the man all along.

He hated the part of himself that still cared about Slade, even after everything.

Dick debated with himself for another few minutes, dully sifting through his limited options, even though he knew deep down he was just stalling.

Both choices were equally unappealing--albeit for very different reasons--but he couldn't just sit out here until sunrise.

Exhaling a slow, shuddery breath, Dick grudgingly came to his feet, his mind made up.

---

The wardrobe bag with Slade's clothes inside was still in the hotel courtyard where he'd left it.

Dick quickly changed out of his suit behind a row of bushes, his stomach like lead as he approached the hotel's front door--only to stop short, thinking.

For all he knew, Slade wasn't even back yet. The man's line of work often led to unusual hours, much like Dick's, whether it be late nights or multiple days away from home.

Of course, it was unlikely that Slade would take off and leave him for too long--but it was only nearing midnight now. Maybe he could sneak back in without the man having ever known he'd left.

Dick scowled at himself. He sounded like some dumb kid trying to sneak back into the house after a night of partying before his parents found out.

...still, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed to stay in Slade's good graces at the moment, until he either figured out another place to stay or finally worked up the nerve to call Bruce. Maybe Elliott from work would let him crash on his couch for a few weeks; or Cindy, the waitress with the bad dye job who was constantly hitting on him, even though she was old enough to be his mom.

...although by that logic, Slade wasn't exactly an age-appropriate match, either.

Dick grimaced at his own thoughts. Whatever. He could figure that out later.

For now, he had to figure out another problem: how to get back into Slade's room to begin with. It wasn't like he had his own room key--Slade obviously hadn't given him one, and Dick hadn't thought to get one after breaking out because he'd never planned on coming back. So how the hell was he going to get back inside?

Dick peered in through the glass of the hotel's front door, scoping out the lobby. Thanks to the late night it was deserted--only a single employee staffing the front desk.

Which meant more acting. Hopefully with much better results than the (admittedly half-assed) scheme he'd tried to pull on Slade.

His plan in place, Dick went inside, striding confidently over to the front desk.

The employee--a pretty blonde with green eyes, her hair slicked back in a neat bun--glanced up as he approached.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, smiling politely, but Dick could see the way she was not-so-discreetly inspecting him.

He was all too aware of how out of place he looked in a fancy place like this, dressed in Slade's clothing: the oversized t-shirt, sweatpants and oddly-shaped wardrobe bag were bad enough, but to top it all off he was wearing a pair of complimentary hotel slippers for shoes. Hopefully she hadn't noticed that, at least.

He flashed the young woman a dazzling smile to compensate. "Hi, yeah, thanks. I was hoping I could get another room key to my suite. I seem to have accidentally misplaced mine earlier today."

"Of course, sir. Is the room under your name?" she asked, smile still frozen in place, but she was clearly skeptical.

"Yes. Well, actually--I'm, uh, visiting. A friend. Visiting a friend. So, the room should be under his name." Just referring to Slade as a friend felt wrong, for more than one reason, but Dick's smile didn't waver.

The woman still didn't seem convinced, but he saw the way she softened just a little under his smile. "Certainly, sir. What is the guest's name?"

"Oh. Uh..." sh*t. There was no way Slade had used his real name. He had to think fast. "He's on the twelfth floor. It should be under Mr.--"

Dick coughed out a random set of syllables, hoping it somehow vaguely sounded like a name.

The young woman frowned, typing something into her computer.

"Mr....Cabrera?" she asked, eyes flicking back to his face. "In Suite A on the twelfth floor?"

"Yes--that's it! Suite A," Dick confirmed hastily--because at least he knew that much. He blinded her with another smile, and this time she definitely blushed.

"Very good, sir." The employee typed something else in her computer before reaching under the desk, moments later producing a shiny black card that was identical to the one Dick had seen Slade use.

"Here you are, sir," she said, handing it over to him with a shy smile of her own.

"Great. Thanks a lot for your help," Dick accepted the card with a wink, giving her one last nod of thanks before turning away.

Okay--maybe his acting skills were fine, and Slade just knew him too well.

The thought made him scowl.

Twice on his way up to the top floor Dick stopped the elevator, nearly turning around and going right back to the lobby--before forcing himself to continue his ascent.

It's just Slade, he scolded himself.

Yeah--it was just one of the deadliest assassins in the world, who also happened to be his ex. And who he'd also escaped from--and then used his broken suit--after the man had explicitly warned him against both.

Nothing to worry about here.

When the elevator reached the twelfth floor Dick dragged himself off, an entire swarm of panicked butterflies (bats?) in his stomach.

He made his way to Suite A like a man on his way to the electric chair, clutching the wardrobe bag containing his hidden suit tightly to his chest as he stopped in front of the door he'd escaped from only hours earlier.

Taking a deep breath, he swiped the card over the key pad--the light flashing green and giving two short beeps as it unlocked--and slowly he pushed open the door, peeking his head inside.

Everything was the same as it had been: the TV switched off; couch cushions undisturbed; the bottles along the bar still lined up neatly. No sign of the housekeeper from earlier, and more importantly, no sign of Slade.

He craned his head, listening intently--but the room was completely silent, the lights still dimmed just like earlier. Not a single indication that anyone was home.

Still, there were the other rooms. Dick ducked inside, carefully closing the door behind him before creeping over to the door of the master bedroom.

But there was no Slade there, either--or in the stupidly large bathroom.

Dick headed straight for the spiral staircase. His first order of business: putting his suit back.

The bathroom upstairs was dark, and the first bedroom was empty as ever--which left only Slade's room, the door still closed just like he'd left it.

Holding his breath, he slowly inched the door open--

Empty.

Despite the stress of the night--and losing damn near every worldly posession--Dick found himself grinning. He'd actually managed to beat Slade back.

He hastily returned his suit and the wardrobe bag to the closet, laying it out just as he'd found it.

Then he headed back to the door, mind already occupied with thoughts of showering to wash away the tell-tale smell of smoke on his hair, and then finding something to wrap his hands in--

--only to run right into Slade, practically bouncing off the man's chest.

His very armored chest.

Heart skittering in his throat, Dick slowly craned his head to look up at the other man.

It had been years since he'd seen Deathstroke. During their year-and-a-half long fling, Slade had always been sans-suit whenever Dick had come by, and after things were over Dick had had no personal dealings with him either in Gotham or Blüdhaven.

Until now at least.

Slade was hardly expressive at the best of times, but as Deathstroke there wasn't a single clue to give away what he was thinking. He was just standing there, blocking the doorway, silently looking over Dick with that red-eyed gaze.

Still--Dick had a few ideas, and none of them were good.

He opened his mouth to make up an excuse--even though there wasn't a single thing he could say that would make this look any better--but Slade beat him to the punch.

"After showering, I was going to have a drink downstairs," the man said evenly, voice slightly muffled and distorted by the mask. "You look like you could use one, too."

It didn't sound like a suggestion.

Nodding stiffly, Dick slowly pressed forward, and though Slade made no move to get out of the way he allowed Dick to slip past him.

The walk back to the first floor was like a death march.

Briefly Dick considered leaving--because he knew better than to think Slade just wanted to have a friendly chat over drinks--but he reminded himself that he had nowhere else to go, and that an angry dressing-down (ha) from Slade would be far better than those haunted, reproachful looks Bruce always fixed him with, like Dick was the most disappointing decision he'd ever made.

So instead he reluctantly settled onto one of the couches, flipping the TV on low volume as he awaited his fate.

Ten minutes later Slade reappeared, hair damp from his shower and dressed only in his eyepatch and a pair of gray lounge pants not unlike the ones Dick wore, wordlessly heading for the bar.

Within minutes Slade was handing him off a drink, and Dick took it without comment, watching from the corner of his eye as the other man took a seat at the opposite end of the couch.

Ironically, despite being a bartender Dick wasn't much for drinking. It was probably yet another influence of growing up with Bruce, who never indulged as far as Dick knew.

Still, he did drink occasionally--and it only took one sip of the drink Slade had given him to confirm it was an Old Fashioned. It had been his favorite back when he and Slade were together, on the rare nights when he'd joined the man in a post-sex nightcap.

The fact that Slade had bothered fixing him his preferred drink meant that the mercenary didn't plan on killing him, at least.

Probably.

"I'm surprised you remembered," Dick said aloud with a forced half-smile, mostly just to break the uncomfortable silence. After all--Slade wasn't exactly a romantic.

Slade didn't even look at him, and he might as well have still been wearing his mask for all that Dick could read him. "Remembered what?" he asked, sipping at his own drink as he flipped through the channels.

Dick rolled his eyes (because this was Slade, not Bruce). "My go-to drink," he clarified, raising the glass a little in emphasis.

Slade glanced at him side-long, just for a moment. "It should help with the pain, at least," he demurred, and Dick felt an unpleasant weight settle in his gut, like he'd swallowed a stone.

His burned hands. Right. Of course Slade would have already noticed, even though the man had hardly even looked at him since he'd come downstairs.

Now he really didn't feel like drinking--because there was a weird, tense undercurrent in the room that probably didn't bode well for his safety--but Dick took another large gulp of the Old Fashioned anyways, if only to dull his nerves.

They spent the next ten minutes in silence--the TV droning on in the background, playing a re-run of the six o'clock news--and Dick could feel his eyes starting to glaze over.

Maybe this was Slade's idea of punishment: boring him to death with a story about how Blüdhaven's Street Maintenance Division planned to wage war against the pot holes plaguing the streets downtown, come spring.

Dick finished his drink at record speed--head already feeling a little buzzy, because yeah, it'd been a while since he'd drank--and before he could lean forward to set his glass on the marbled table, Slade spoke.

"Another drink?"

"...okay," Dick agreed, reluctantly handing his glass back to Slade, who was already coming to his feet.

He probably should've refused--because he doubted it was a smart idea to get any level of buzzed around the mercenary right now--but Slade was being unusually genial, and he didn't want to break the spell.

Slade returned a minute later with a fresh drink, face inscrutable as he handed it to Dick over the back of the couch, and Dick accepted it again, grateful for the distraction.

Especially since the other man seemed in no hurry to return to his own seat, lingering silently behind Dick in a way that was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge.

He sipped hastily from his drink, liquor burning the back of his throat on the way down.

"Did you hear about this one?" Slade leaned over to grab the remote from the couch cushion, turning up the volume slightly, his eye glued to the screen.

It was a news report about the fire at Sycamore Square--along with several clear shots of Dick on the scene, rushing into the burning building.

Dick said nothing, his eyes falling away from the TV and fixating on some unspecified point on the couch. The moment he'd been waiting for: here at last.

"Crazy," Slade tsked, expression solemn. "The city's really gone to hell. It's a good thing they have their very own local hero."

Jaw tightening, Dick kept his eyes trained on the couch, shoulders already tensing in anticipation of a fight. "Look, Slade, I--"

"Don't. Speak."

Warily Dick fell silent, narrowed gaze still avoiding looking at the man behind him.

For all the good memories he had of his time with Slade--for all the leniency the mercenary had always shown him (the way he never seemed to for anyone else), and the way he'd gone through the trouble of saving Dick even years after they were over, no matter what his true intentions actually were--Dick sometimes forgot that Slade was not a Nice Man.

He was a trained killer; unpredictable. And with the man still hovering ominously behind him, Dick was very aware of both.

"You've always been a disobedient little bird," Slade said, deceptively calm, "but this...this tops them all."

"I'm not obedient to you or anyone, Slade," Dick muttered reflexively, hand tightening around his glass.

Despite the man's warning he felt the words flow before he could stop them, his tongue loosened by the liquor.

"If it wasn't for you holding me hostage here I could've already caught Sionis. If it wasn't for you the fire never would've happened in the first place, and I wouldn't have just lost every single f*cking thing I own." It wasn't exactly fair--because it wasn't like either one of them could have predicted it, and admittedly he hadn't even been close to catching Sionis even before Slade showed up--but it felt good to blame someone.

"I told you before--I'm not some object that you can just put up on the shelf whenever you don't want to deal with it! I don't belong to you."

A heavy hand settled over the back of his neck at the end of his tirade, and Dick didn't flinch, but it was a near thing.

"No?" Thick fingers threaded through the shorter hairs at the base of his skull while a callused thumb stroked over the knob of his spine, and the sudden heat that flooded through him had nothing to do with the liquor. "Then why did you come back?"

It was stupid and pathetic, but Dick couldn't help the way his head lolled forward slightly, eyelids growing heavy at the touch. "You know why," he mumbled, tasting the bitter resentment on his tongue, even as every nerve-ending in his scalp tingled pleasurably at the mercenary's oddly-gentle petting. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

It wasn't a complete lie.

"Really." The hand disappeared, and Dick told himself he was only imagining his brief flash of disappointment.

"The Bat isn't taking your calls, then?" Slade mused--sounding closer, now, like he was leaning in next to Dick's ear--and just like that, Dick felt himself snap.

"We're not talking about him," he growled, jumping to his feet and whirling on the man. The last thing he wanted right now was to think about Bruce.

"You're right," Slade agreed, taking a leisurely sip of his whiskey, steely eye trained on Dick over the rim of his glass. "This isn't about the Bat. It's about you."

And then Slade had him by the throat.

Dick barely had a chance to comprehend the sound of the man's glass thumping to the carpet before losing the grip on his own as Slade dragged him easily across the back of the couch, shoving him back against it so hard that he felt a sharp twinge of pain in his mid-vertebrae.

Eyes flying wide, Dick's hands instinctively flew up to pry the man's hand off, but Slade only tightened his grip further, eye narrowed to a single, fiery point.

"You really don't have a single f*cking speck of self-preservation, do you?" Slade hissed, forcing Dick's chin up with the tip of a thumb and giving his neck a sharp squeeze. "But what else should I expect, from a man who invites a murderer into his bed?"

"Slade--" Dick clawed at the man's grip, teeth clenched tightly against the discomfort, his head swimming with liquor and adrenaline. He could still breathe, but his body had entered full flight-or-fight mode anyways, struggling in the man's hold in a desperate attempt to break free. It was like trying to fight a brick wall.

He gasped as Slade slapped him--more in shock than pain--and then the grip on his throat tightened, cutting off his air supply completely as Slade lifted him effortlessly into the air.

"I said don't. Speak," Slade snarled, lifting him up a few inches higher until the tips of his feet were just barely scraping the floor, enormous hand still crushed around Dick's throat like a steel trap.

Only seconds later the mercenary was letting him go, and Dick's heart seized in panic at his sudden free-fall as he tumbled backwards over the back of the couch, landing harmlessly on the cushions.

Dazed, his watery eyes trained on the vaulted ceiling, Dick was overcome with a violent coughing fit as he sucked in big lungfuls of oxygen, his vision nearly blacking out as all the blood came rushing back to his head.

When Slade rounded to his side of the couch-- narrowed eye fixated on him like a laser--Dick scrambled into sitting, back up against the white faux-leather. Before he could act Slade was towering over him, grabbing him by the throat again and holding him at arm's length.

Once again Dick's hands flew up reflexively, wide eyes locking onto the mercenary's scowling face.

"It's a wonder you've managed on your own this long, with such complete disregard for your own life," Slade ground out, giving him a little shake, and when Dick scrabbled at the strong forearm, his nails sinking into muscled flesh, the mercenary didn't so much as blink. "If I wasn't so intimately familiar with your obsessive hero complex, I might think it was a cry for help. Or maybe proof that you belong in a cell at Arkham, right beside Sionis."

Now that he could (somewhat) breathe again Dick could feel the complete and utter fury coursing through him, all the way down to his fingers and toes.

It was this again--Slade, speaking like he had any sort of authority over anything, let alone Dick's life.

When it came to his relationship with Bruce, the man had always quietly blamed himself for the way things had turned out--like Dick was nothing but a reflection of his own failure to turn him into the perfect successor.

But Slade's criticisms were always directly related to Dick's own shortcomings, in failing--or maybe refusing--to live up to the mercenary's lofty standards.

He wasn't sure which one was worse--but they both infuriated him.

"You f*cking bastard," Dick croaked out, glaring hatefully up at the other man through damp lashes, practically vibrating with his anger.

He brought his leg back, kicking out as hard as he could, but Slade caught him by the ankle, shoving him back further against the cushions by the hold on his neck.

The mercenary crushed in close, hooking Dick's captured leg around his own hip, and just like that Dick's anger evaporated, his mouth falling open in shock as his half-hard co*ck pressed against the other man's abdomen.

"You have something to say, little bird?" Slade growled, deathly quiet, so close Dick could feel the man's whiskey-laden breath on his lips. "Then say it."

For a single heartbeat Dick only stared at him, chest still heaving, his eyes settling on the mercenary's mouth--and then he was surging up, closing the last few inches between them.

Slade kissed back like he'd been expecting it, hand releasing Dick's throat in favor of gripping the back of his neck instead, fingers stroking over the fine hairs again in a way that felt directly connected to his co*ck. The man's other hand settled over Dick's hip, dragging him even closer and bringing their chests flush together, and now he could feel the mercenary's own hardness pressed against his hip.

Slade kissed him bruisingly, licking into his mouth and roughly claiming his tongue, and Dick groaned into it, winding his arms around the man's broad shoulders, heel of his foot digging into the mercenary's hip while his free leg wound around Slade's other thigh to keep him locked in place.

Even through the whiskey he could taste a hint of mint: that cheap gum Slade always chewed whenever he would sit on the couch and polish his sword, burning cigar tucked into the corner of his down-turned mouth, his dark eye flicking up with interest as Dick entered the room; or out on the job as he lurked on rooftops or in shadowy alleyways, waiting for his target, so utterly casual and unbothered even in the moments right before he snuffed out yet another life, and even though the motions were invisible behind the mask Dick could picture the jump of muscles in his jaw anyways--

When Slade bit into his bottom lip and pressed forward against his arousal Dick moaned, mouth breaking away from the kiss, still clinging to the broad shoulders as he panted against Slade's collarbone, his hips practically moving of their own accord as he rubbed up against the man's stomach.

Abruptly Slade released his captured leg, pulling back just a little, and now that there was nothing pressed against his co*ck he could feel a tiny trickle of sense return to him.

"We can't do this," Dick said breathlessly, but when Slade yanked his shirt up by the hem he didn't make any move to stop it, even lifted his arms up slightly to help as the mercenary tugged it up and off.

"We can," Slade said gruffly, hands already finding his waistband, and at the sharp tap on his side Dick obligingly lifted his hips, Slade pulling them off in a single yank and tossing them carelessly to the side.

Just the way Slade was looking at him already had his blood on fire, but still--this was a bad idea, for about a thousand different reasons.

"Slade--" he protested--just as the man reached out and tangled a hand in his hair, wrenching his head back against the cushions and working two fingers into his mouth.

"Pretty bird," Slade acknowledged, pressing down pointedly on his tongue.

Face burning, Dick dutifully sucked, eyes never leaving the other man's face. When Slade pushed them back further on his tongue--firm and unyielding--he gagged, saliva pooling around the thick digits.

Slade made an appreciative noise, once again wearing that same look of dark interest like he had earlier in the bathroom as he stroked insistently over Dick's tongue.

The mercenary finally pulled his fingers free, a long string of spit following after them before it snapped, curling wetly against Dick's chin.

He sucked in a breath as Slade grabbed both of his thighs and yanked him to the edge of the couch, shoving his legs back until his bent knees were practically up around his ears, leaving him completely open and exposed to the man's gaze.

"Still so flexible, Boy-Wonder," Slade said approvingly, hand settling against the back of his thigh for leverage as he leaned in slightly, and before Dick could voice his complaints at the position a single finger slid into him.

Dick felt his spine seize at the unexpected pressure, forcing himself to keep his free leg bent even though every instinct was screaming at him to kick the man away. It had been a long, long time since he'd done this.

Slade gave a little hum, curious, like he was thinking the same thing.

"How many?" he asked, studying Dick's face as he slowly pumped the spit-slick digit in and out.

"How many what?" Dick gritted out, playing dumb. He held onto the edge of the couch in a white-knuckled grip, heat prickling over every inch of his skin. Even just one of the man's fingers felt foreign and uncomfortable after so many years without this. Still, if his memory was correct, he had a lot bigger things to worry about.

"How many other men have had you this way?" Slade insisted--curling another finger in alongside the first--and Dick couldn't help but tense up even further at the burning stretch.

The mercenary didn't stop, fingers scissoring apart to stretch him open, but he made a soothing little sound, leaning down to trail a line of slow, open-mouthed kisses across Dick's shoulder.

Slowly Dick felt himself start to relax, heat pooling syrupy-sweet in his loins at the scratch of the older man's goatee against his neck. The burning sensation was already beginning to fade, replaced with something much less unpleasant.

"Shouldn't you already know? Since you're always tracking me," Dick muttered with no real heat. Mindlessly he wormed a hand down to touch himself, but Slade smacked it away, returning his glare with a half-smirk.

A particularly sharp twist of the man's fingers inside him had him biting back a cry, toes curling in the air.

"How many?" Slade repeated, fingers crooking a bit more insistently now, and Dick felt a white-hot spark of something shoot up his spine, his co*ck twitching and drooling against his stomach with interest.

"...none, alright?" he bit out, face flushed, letting irritation color his voice to cover up the fact that he was starting to press back against the fingers, now, just a little. "Just--ah--just you."

The other man's smile was downright vicious.

"Good. Saves me the hassle of killing anyone."

Dick nearly flinched. If it were anyone else he would have assumed they were kidding, but something told him Slade meant it.

All at once the fingers inside him disappeared, Slade straightening back to full height, and slowly Dick lowered his legs and lifted up onto his elbows a bit uncertainly, watching with a pounding heart as Slade slid off his own pants and kicked them to the side.

Like everything else about Slade his co*ck was stupidly big, even against the mercenary's oversized palm. Dick didn't have a whole lot to compare it to--because p*rn didn't really count--but it was definitely longer and thicker than his own, the dampened, slightly curved tip flushed an angry red.

It was hard to believe Dick had ever managed to take that inside of him--but he had, repeatedly, and with great enthusiasm.

"...what about lube?" he asked around a suddenly-dry mouth, brow creasing heavily.

In response the man spit into his palm, smoothing it over himself, his eye never looking away from Dick's face.

"We both know you can take it," Slade said loftily, stroking over his length--big hand twisting slightly at the end--and Dick felt his stomach swoop. From past experience he knew that going without lube wasn't exactly painless, to put it mildly, even though Slade had worked him open first.

His hand finally left his own length as he moved in and shoved Dick's legs up once again, this time crushing in close. Reflexively Dick dug his heels against the man's shoulders, relaxing back down against the cushion again, his hair splaying under his head.

Fingers trailed back down, sliding back inside him as the man's callused thumb rubbed little half-circles against his taint.

His stomach quivered as the fingers left him once again, replaced with the blunt, wet tip of the other man's co*ck.

"So take it," Slade said into his ear--and then he was pushing inside.

Dick had fought countless bad guys in his years of crime-fighting; had been burned and stabbed and concussed (and everything in between) countless times.

But he was sure none of it could compare to the burn of Slade's stupidly-huge co*ck, splitting him open. It felt like a f*cking knife in his chest.

The first time they'd ever done this, back at Slade's most-used safe house in Gotham: Slade, holding him down against the couch and wordlessly f*cking into him, narrowed eye fixed on his face like he didn't want to miss a single second of Dick's reaction; and Dick staring back at him with wide, glassy eyes, open palms fluttering uselessly into half-fists near his head, just as wordless, because the overwhelming stretch of the other man inside him had driven all the breath from his lungs--

"f*ck." He flexed backwards in an unconscious attempt to escape the discomfort, but Slade's hand found his hip, pinning him into place against the couch.

"Relax," Slade said roughly, like he was barely holding himself back. When he leaned in to seal their mouths together Dick kissed back without hesitation, tangling his fingers in the man's goatee, and when they broke apart he let his head fall to the side as Slade kissed over the tender, bruised skin of his throat, tongue swiping over his Adam's apple like an apology.

"It hurts, asshole," Dick huffed into the shared space between them, throwing an arm over his eyes so Slade couldn't see the dampness there as he sunk in inch by agonizing inch. It was beyond pathetic, getting misty-eyed over something he'd done a thousand times before, but right now it felt like he was being f*cked by Slade's sword more than the man himself.

"But you're doing so well." Slade yanked his arm away from his eyes just as his balls came to rest snugly against Dick's ass--giving a few shallow, half-thrusts like he was testing it--and Dick felt his chest flutter at the simple praise even as his muscles twinged and jumped in alarm, struggling to accommodate the intrusion.

Within moments Slade had picked up a rhythm as he began shoving that stupidly big co*ck into him again and again, and Dick clutched at the man's bicep right over the stupid tattoo, his jaw going slack.

Before long he could feel his body settling into it, accepting the stretch of Slade inside him, leaving him with that familiar, overwhelming fullness that was no longer on the wrong side of too much.

"Slade," he groaned out, some breathy, needy sound bubbling up from his chest and forcing its way past his lips as the pain from earlier was rapidly replaced with sharp spikes of undeniable pleasure.

When the mercenary grazed over that spot that always had him seeing stars Dick let out a wail, co*ck dribbling out more pre-come against his stomach where it was trapped between them.

It had been so f*cking long he'd almost forgotten how good it had felt, whenever Slade activated that secret little bundle of nerves inside of him with frightening precision. More than once he'd gotten Dick off two, three times in a row just by milking that little spot, first with his co*ck and then just his fingers, until Dick was vibrating like a live wire and dangerously close to tears, and even though it was almost painful he still felt a rush of sickly-sweet pleasure when Slade finally pushed him over the edge again--

Without warning Slade pulled out of him, and before Dick could scream his frustration the mercenary was flipping him over onto hands and knees, yanking his hips high until his back was arched at an unnatural angle, his face half-smushed against the couch cushion.

"f*ck--Slade," he moaned as the mercenary sank back inside of him in a single thrust, hips resuming their previous rhythm as if he'd never stopped, and desperately he reached for his own co*ck still hanging heavy and hard between his legs. Again Slade stopped him, catching his wrist and pinning it against his sacrum, and Dick let out a frustrated whine, fingernails of his free hand digging into the cushion underneath him.

"Apologize," Slade growled, the obscene sound of flesh-on-flesh growing louder as the man pounded into him so hard that the couch jumped underneath them. "Convince me you're sorry, and I might let you have your release instead of finishing inside you and leaving you to rut against the couch."

"I-I'm sorry," Dick babbled out even as his co*ck jumped at the threat, not sure if he was apologizing for escaping the hotel earlier or using his f*cked-up suit or for walking away from Slade three years ago. "It was stupid and dumb and I'm sorry, okay, just--f*ck, Slade, please--"

When Slade released his captured hand he scrabbled for his co*ck, his toes curling sharply in anticipation of release as he clumsily jerked himself.

He didn't stop, not even when Slade gripped his throat roughly and yanked his head back just like he had in the bathroom, his neck screaming at the odd angle.

"Next time you don't listen I'm going to throw you over my lap and beat your ass," the mercenary promised hotly against the nape of his neck, his thrusts becoming more erratic like he was almost there too, and when the fingers on Dick's throat squeezed, cutting off his oxygen for the briefest of moments Dick came with a choked, half-gasp, eyes nearly rolling back as he finished all over his hand and stomach, his ass clenching down again and again around the other man's co*ck.

Slade let out a growl, shoving his head forward again, and it was only the bruising hold on his hip and the back of his neck that kept his suddenly-boneless body in place. Face smashed into the cushion, Dick drooled slightly against the faux-leather as Slade shoved in three, four, five times before following him over the edge with a deep grunt.

Dick exhaled sharply as Slade collapsed over his back, still buried inside him, their chests heaving almost in unison.

Eyelids already threatening to close, Dick made no protest as the other man pressed lazy kisses against the back of his neck, big hand stroking over his stomach in something approaching tenderness.

When Slade finally spoke it sounded almost too loud against the sudden quiet of the room, nothing but the low murmur of the TV still playing in the background.

"If you leave again--I'll come after you," the mercenary said against his shoulder--matter-of-fact--and Dick felt himself tense even as his spent co*ck gave a little twitch.

This time, he knew the man was serious.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Chapter Text

Slade had never had an appreciation for poetry.

The written word wasn't his forte; cloying, saccharine language even less so.

But as he stood in front of the hotel window, smoking, eye trained on his favorite bird, he thought he finally understood its purpose.

There was possibly nothing in the entire world as appealing as a twenty-four-year-old Dick Grayson spread face-down and nude in his bed, shoulders rising and falling softly with each breath as he slept.

Slade let himself look his fill, the way he'd done for nearly an hour now: the shock of dark hair, shorter than the last time he'd seen it; the broad, tanned shoulders, flecked with moles, narrowing down into a trim waist.

The small divots on either side of his low back (the ones that Slade had always liked to dig his thumbs into like hand-holds whenever he was taking the younger man from behind), just above the sinful, ridiculous swell of his ass, shapely and toned from training.

Long legs--strong with muscle but still lean--splayed against the mattress, the angle hiding another mole on his inner thigh that Slade could point to like a landmark on a map.

Slade took a slow drag on his cigar, unwilling to look away from the prone form for even a moment.

The last three years he'd settled back into the life he'd had pre-Dick Grayson...if not comfortably, at least resignedly.

But after seeing the younger man these past several weeks--after sinking inside of him again, that familiar heat wrapping perfectly around him like he was made just for Slade--he wondered how he'd ever convinced himself he could do without it.

Still--he wasn't going to delude himself into thinking one f*ck was enough to fix things between them.

If there was one thing Slade knew about the younger man, it was that he was ridiculously stubborn, often to his own detriment--as he'd proven more than once lately. And he obviously still had plenty of pent-up resentment towards Slade for the way things had ended.

But Slade wasn't concerned. As a general rule he was not a patient man, but Dick Grayson had always been the exception to that. Among other things.

If he wanted to prolong the inevitable, that was fine with Slade. He'd seen enough in the way that beautiful body had responded so easily to him during the silly bathroom scheme--and during their quick f*ck on the couch--to know that the younger man still had feelings for him, whether he wanted to acknowledge them or not.

Not to mention how he'd come running back with his tail between his legs, choosing Slade over going home to face daddy.

Slade smirked, exhaling out a billowing cloud of smoke. No; it didn't bother him if the little bird wanted to fight against his own feelings. He was already enjoying himself more than he had in a while.

There was a noise from the bed, the younger man finally stirring. For long moments he laid there, and Slade was nearly convinced he'd fallen back asleep when he slowly pushed himself up to sitting, blue eyes instantly seeking him out.

Slade didn't bother to disguise that he'd been staring. "There's some painkillers in the bathroom," he said, after a moment.

He'd examined the younger man's burned hands after he'd fallen asleep, confirming that they would heal on their own without issue so long as the blisters didn't rupture. Still, the pain would linger for at least a few days.

Dick nodded wordlessly, but Slade doubted the younger man would take him up on the offer. He had never had much interest in any mind-altering substances, as far as Slade recalled; even the necessary ones. Maybe yet another result of his stubbornness.

He decided not to push it. "...hungry?" he asked, still puffing on his cigar as he took in the effortlessly mussed hair and tight stomach. He usually didn't eat until later in the day--had already had a few cups of coffee instead--but from what he remembered the younger man was constantly eating.

As if he'd just realized that he was still naked, Dick pulled the sheet up over his lap to cover himself--like he hadn't just been pinned underneath Slade last night, legs spread obscenely--and wrinkled his nose.

"You're not supposed to smoke in here," he said flatly, ignoring Slade's question.

The sullenness had returned even sooner than he'd expected. Altogether unsurprising.

"If you want to eat before we leave, you'd better order something now," Slade told him, finally pulling his eye away from the tempting image before him as he crossed the room.

"...leave? To go where?" Dick asked warily, watching as he put out his cigar in the empty coffee mug he'd left on the dresser.

"Shopping," Slade answered shortly. "For clothes. And whatever else you need."

As far as he was concerned the younger man deserved nothing less than to live in complete luxury, surrounded by the best things money could offer--not the dilapidated apartment building that was better off now that it'd been nearly burnt to the ground. And if Slade was the one to cover the expense, so much the better.

Dick seemed to consider this. "What about my job?" he asked finally, but Slade could tell it was a token protest, that unending stubbornness rearing its head again. "They've gotta be wondering where I am by now. I need to call them before I get fired."

"You don't need it," Slade said dismissively. The young hero had far greater purpose than wasting his hours serving drinks to the scum of Blüdhaven. "Consider this your resignation."

Those blue eyes narrowed, like the younger man wanted to argue--but then his shoulders slumped, head leaning back slightly as he gazed up at Slade appraisingly.

"What about Black Mask?" he asked, quieter. "I can't just do nothing after what happened last night."

Slade felt his jaw tighten, his unending well of patience for Dick Grayson beginning to run dry.

"We've already discussed this," he replied with just a hint of irritation. "Make an appointment with the Bat, and then you can pursue Sionis to your heart's content."

He didn't want to talk about Sionis this early in the morning. He already had the beginnings of a plan for dealing with the bastard, anyways.

The younger man gave him another sulky look, but wisely gave up arguing further. For now.

"Do you want breakfast, or not?" Slade reiterated, slow, like he was speaking to a child.

Dick thought for a long moment, as if it were a life-changing decision. "...can we get Starbucks?" he asked at last, and if Slade was anyone else he might have rolled his eye.

"Get dressed," he said instead, already heading for the door.

---

"Turn left here," Dick directed bossily from the passenger seat of Slade's Bentley, top lip damp with frothy cream from the overpriced drink Slade had bought him. He'd accepted the painkillers after all, and if the way he'd been shifting in his seat was any indication it wasn't just because of his hands.

After parking Slade pulled out his wallet, plucking out a nondescript black card and tossing it into the younger man's lap.

"Here. Don't take forever," he instructed, already resigning himself to a few long hours in the parking lot.

Dick gave him a look of surprise. He was dressed in more of Slade's clothing, and despite being just as ill-fitting as the ones from yesterday the overall look was appealing.

"You're not coming?" he asked, frowning, but he tucked the card in his pocket anyways. "What if Sionis really does know who I am, and his goons corner me in the dressing room when my pants are half-off or something?"

It was an absurd and transparent attempt at manipulation, so much so that Slade snorted lightly.

"He doesn't," he said flatly. Sionis was not like him. If the man had managed to uncover such valuable information he would have undoubtedly already used it to his advantage. Burning down the apartment building showed just how desperate he really was to pinpoint Nightwing's identity. "And as charming as this little damsel-in-distress routine is, we both know you're more than capable of fighting off a few idiots in animal masks, half-dressed or not."

Although the mental image was, admittedly, amusing.

The younger man seemed to finally realize his angle wouldn't work, sinking back against the seat and fixing Slade with what could only be described as a pout. "If you're not going, then I'm not either," he said, with an air of finality.

Stubborn. Slade killed the engine, deciding that giving in would be faster. It usually was. "Fine. But be quick about it. I have other things to do."

He knew he didn't imagine the flash of a smirk on the younger man's face before he turned away, already climbing out of the car.

---

Inside Slade sat himself down on one of the empty benches in the main hallway, refusing to go any further.

Fortunately, this seemed to be an acceptable compromise to the little bird, who happily flew off to go spend Slade's money.

For an eternity Slade sat there, product-pushers and fellow shoppers alike giving him a wide berth, and it wasn't until the gum he'd been idly chewing disintegrated into a pulp that Dick finally reappeared, saddled with an armful of bags.

"It's a start," he said cheerfully as he unloaded the bags onto the bench next to Slade, his mood clearly lifted since earlier.

At some point he'd changed into one of his purchases--a pair of slim-cut jeans and a fitted white t-shirt, along with a navy jacket and gray Oxford shoes--and although Slade didn't care much about anything relating to fashion, he appreciated the way the outfit highlighted and clung to the younger man's figure.

"Uh, maybe don't check your balance right away," Dick said sheepishly, dropping down onto the bench beside him and handing the card back over.

Slade made a noise of dismissal. He might not have quite as much money as the loathsome Bat, but it was unlikely that the purchases had made even a minuscule dent in his funds. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Well..." Those blue eyes he had an admitted affinity for flicked away from him, the younger man's face coloring slightly. "I could really use a new phone. Even before my old one got burnt to ashes, I mean."

"Then get one," Slade told him, handing him back the card, and Dick quirked a little half-smile at him, taking it without protest as he jumped back to his feet.

"You know... It'd be nice to have a laptop, too," he said innocently, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back slightly on his heels. "Seriously--how do you even deal without a computer?"

Although he was far from illiterate when it came to technology, Slade spent very little time perusing the internet for leisure. Anything he needed to do or look up could be done from his phone.

"I told you--get whatever you need," he repeated gruffly, and Dick actually beamed at him, turning on his heel and leaving him with all the bags.

Slade leaned back against the uncomfortable wooden bench, and waited.

---

Another hour and a half later Dick returned again, arms straining with more bags, and Slade chose not to comment.

"Ready?" he asked, already rising to his feet to leave.

Dick hummed his agreement, and finally they left, Slade helping him carry his purchases to the car.

On the way back to the hotel Dick insisted on stopping to get lunch from some fast-casual restaurant Slade had never heard of, leaving Slade to wait in the car as he ran inside to order.

They ate together in the common area of the suite, and afterwards--when Dick was preoccupied with his newly-purchased electronics, spread out on the marble table in front of him--Slade made his way up to the second-floor bedroom to place a few calls.

An hour later he tossed his phone onto the bed beside him and leaned back slightly, scratching tiredly at his goatee, single eye squinting against the sting of smoke from the cigar perched in the corner of his mouth.

As predicted, none of his contacts had any useful information regarding Sionis. The most he knew was that the man was hell-bent on wiping out Nightwing so he could enact some grandiose, self-important scheme, no doubt one of many that lay behind that monstrous face of his. But there was nothing about how to find him.

The disgraced gangster was apparently taking no chances after his epic downfall in Gotham City at the hands of the Bat, years ago: he'd kept the location of his whereabouts under lock and key since arriving in Blüdhaven, revealing himself to seemingly no one.

Slade had received the succinct details about the hit via proxy, and the assassin at the warehouse who'd taken up the same offer had had no more information regarding Sionis than he did (as he'd confessed with his last words, right before Slade had snapped his neck and left his bloated body to burn).

It was doubtful that anyone knew Sionis's location except for a handful of his most trusted inner circle--or at least, anyone who was willing to talk.

Although if Slade managed to get his hands on one of Sionis's animal-masked lackeys, he was confident he could convince them.

Dick would be upset if he came to find out that Slade had been busy attempting to track the gangster down on his own. As desperate as the younger man was for information about Sionis, he would resent getting it from Slade. His little bird took the whole 'independent hero' act very seriously.

Still, Slade was ready to put an end to the entire thing, before Dick saved Sionis the trouble and got himself killed all on his own, as he seemed bound and determined to do.

His motivation was two-fold: first, the obvious reason being that Sionis had overstepped boundaries by coming after what belonged to Slade (and whether he knew it or not was entirely inconsequential).

Two: his own personal grudge against the skull-masked man.

Years ago, when Sionis still reigned supreme in Gotham, he'd contracted help from Slade and a handful of other hired killers to take out the Bat on Christmas Eve.

No money had been given up front, and although that was usually one of his non-negotiable stipulations--one that most of his clients had no problem agreeing to, since his reputation preceded him--Slade had been more than willing to take the man up on the offer anyways.

He'd held a deep-seated loathing for the meddlesome Bat since he'd first been made aware of him--and the agile little songbird always trailing after him like a reluctant shadow.

In the end, Slade had failed to kill him, instead suffering a humiliating defeat at his hands--a rare blemish on his otherwise spotless record. By the end of the night Sionis had been captured and thrown into Arkham, and Slade had narrowly avoided capture himself, not even a dime to show for the disastrous evening.

Unlike the villainous scum running amok in Gotham and beyond, Slade generally did not kill unless he was being paid to do so (there were a few other reasons, of course; taking out anyone foolish enough to get in the way of him successfully completing a job being one of them, pretty little birds notwithstanding).

But there were two notable exceptions; men he would kill without hesitation, even without being paid a single cent, if he was ever afforded the opportunity to do so: the detestable, self-righteous Bat, no matter the look of horror that would undoubtedly materialize in his little bird's eyes when he learned the news--and the dodgy coward Roman Sionis himself, who had played Slade for a fool.

The Bat could wait--if only because he was still useful, as he provided Dick with the equipment he needed.

But like a parasite, Sionis served no purpose except his own. Beyond that, he'd made the fatal mistake of not only resurfacing in the first place--as if Slade would have forgotten about that night, years ago--but also attempting to expose Dick's real identity and threatening his life.

And so, he would be the first of Slade's pro bono targets to die.

It made no difference if Dick resented his help or not. He would come around eventually; already was.

But for now, there was nothing more he could do. It was enough, at least for the moment, that Dick was still safe, here with Slade where he belonged, and where Sionis and the other pathetic criminals who weren't even fit to lick his shoe couldn't reach him.

Putting out his cigar, Slade slowly came to his feet, closing the bedroom door behind him as he made his way back downstairs.

In a scene reminiscent of that morning Dick was stretched out face-down on one of the white couches, surrounded by a pile of bags and discarded plastic packaging, fingers of one hand trailing the floor. The gentle motion of his breathing confirmed that he was asleep.

Slade took him in: the hem of his white t-shirt that had ridden up slightly, exposing a slice of tanned skin and the black band of his briefs, tight against his trim waist; the dark jeans that clung indecently to the curve of his ass.

The tumble of dark hair across his forehead, and the strands brushing the back of his neck, the ones Slade always itched to thread his fingers through--sometimes to manipulate the younger man's head where he wanted; other times to hold him in place while Slade squeezed and petted and ran his tongue along the back of that slender neck, Dick squirming and panting under his attention.

Just the sight of the young hero back in his possession once again thrilled him, some animalistic need that had lay dormant inside of him for years flaring to life again.

He approached the couch, gazing down at the prone figure. Asleep, the younger man's long, black lashes rested against the tops of his defined cheekbones; his lips were parted slightly for breath.

It was strange that anyone could sleep so peacefully in the presence of a man with as much blood on his hands as Slade (maybe his ex-wives had, once, before they'd known what he was). But then again, the young hero had always had more courage than sense.

For a brief moment he considered tangling his fingers in that dark hair so that those sleepy blue eyes looked up at him; coaxing open the strong line of his jaw with expertly-placed fingers and a few words of encouragement (and it wouldn't take much, because his little bird had always been so desperate for praise), enough so that he could press inside until his length reached the back of that throat, still darkened with bruising from Slade's fingers--

But maybe not. Although Dick had obviously enjoyed himself last night, Slade didn't want to push him again too soon, lest he throw up another stubborn wall of defensiveness.

And although Slade had meant it when he'd said that he would come after the younger man should he run off again--because there wasn't a single place on earth that Dick Grayson could run to where Slade wouldn't find him--he would prefer it if he didn't have to.

After all--as much as Slade enjoyed taking what was his, there was a different sort of enjoyment in watching the younger man finally give in to his desires and surrender himself to Slade.

Slade decided to let him sleep.

Suddenly feeling distinctly restless, he headed for the door, deciding to do what he always did whenever he had time to kill: train.

---

When he returned to the hotel Dick was awake, curled up on the couch with one arm tucked behind his head as he watched TV--hair damp, like he'd just gotten out of the shower--and Slade both was and wasn't surprised to see him still there. He'd half-expected the younger man to have left again, but maybe he'd taken Slade's words to heart. For now.

"Get dressed," Slade told him on his way to the bathroom for his own shower. "Something nice."

That dark head poked over the top of the couch, just far enough to show those narrowed blue eyes. "What for?" Dick asked, suspicious, like he still harbored some notion that Slade meant him harm even though there had been countless opportunities for that by now.

"Dinner." Slade slipped into the master bedroom without another word.

After a brief shower and dressing in a tailored black suit, Slade reemerged into the common area, finding Dick fiddling with his jacket in front of one of the decorative mirrors mounted to the wall.

He looked up at Slade's entrance, and Slade felt that same dark satisfaction spread through him like the taste of expensive liquor.

The younger man was dressed in pressed black slacks and an open, well-fitted navy jacket with black lapels, his white collared shirt--worn sans-tie--casually unbuttoned against his tanned throat.

"...what?" Dick smoothed a hand over his hair like he was self-conscious (the untamed strands already coming loose from their messily-gelled hold), revealing the flash of a silver watch at his wrist. "Is this not fancy enough?"

Slade tore his eye away. "It's fine."

He headed to the bar, pouring himself a shot from the bottle of whiskey he'd been drinking last night and downing it in one go. Brushing past the other man on his way to the kitchenette, he swept up his keys from the counter.

"Let's go."

---

It was abundantly clear just from his body language that the little bird was uncomfortable.

Slade didn't see why. He was sure that the younger man must have accompanied the Bat to such high-end restaurants as Vincenzo's--without the hero garb, of course--during his time growing up.

Although he supposed it had more to do with him than the restaurant itself. During their year-and-a-half long fling he'd never once taken the younger man anywhere except his bed. Besides the fact that Slade found the concept of courtship distasteful, it wouldn't have been wise for Daddy Bats (or the media, for that matter) to see his adopted son running around town with Slade.

Because even if the Bat hadn't known about the little bird's dalliances, Slade knew the man was fully aware of who he really was.

"...this place is nice," Dick commented into his glass of wine, finally breaking the lingering silence between them as they waited for their entrees.

"I never thought the day would come when Slade Wilson took me on a date," he tried again when Slade only grunted in response, a little half-smirk playing over his face.

"Ridiculous," Slade said evenly as he sipped at his own wine--a vintage red--already feeling slightly mellowed. If they were anywhere else he might have snapped at the younger man for using his real name (because Slade's enemies were too many to count), but they were seated in a private, shadowed alcove of the restaurant, away from prying eyes and ears. And anyways, he was in a peaceable mood. "I was already planning on going out for dinner. I figured I might as well feed you too."

It was a pointless lie, because no one decided to dine at such an exclusive place on a whim. Vincenzo's was an Italian restaurant laying just outside Blüdhaven, lavishly decorated in classic Baroque-inspired style. The waiting list was notoriously long--unless you had the right connections, or the right amount of wealth.

Judging by the way Dick's smirk grew, he was well aware.

"You could've just left me to order room service or something," he pointed out reasonably, but his blue eyes--darker than usual in the dim candlelight--were mirthful. "So, why else would you bring me to a fancy restaurant, unless it's because you wanted to take me on a date?"

"Maybe I just enjoy showing off my possessions," Slade deflected. He'd noticed more than a few longing glances at the younger man tonight--as well as a few envious looks in his own direction.

He watched as Dick's smile fizzled out to nothing--some of the shine in his eyes fading--just as the waitress reappeared with their dinner.

They ate silently for several minutes--Dick, leaning over the table with dark head bowed; Slade, expressionless, already on his second glass of wine--when at last the younger man spoke again.

"This isn't going to work, you know," he said quietly, not looking up from his plate.

"What's that?" Slade responded, feigning ignorance, even though he knew very well what the other man was talking about. Leave it to Dick Grayson to ruin a perfectly good veal saltimbocca.

"This. All of it." Setting his fork down on his plate with an audible clink, Dick slumped back in his chair, fiery blue eyes settling onto him. "I see what you're trying to do, but it's not going to work. It can't."

Slade set his own fork down, reaching for his glass as he fixed the younger man with a measured gaze. "Oh? Enlighten me, then, Boy-Wonder. What is it that I'm trying to do?"

"You know..." Dick broke their shared gaze, gesturing randomly. "Riding in like a white knight; buying me stuff. Taking me to dinner. Last night..."

He cut himself off, face going slightly pink. "I mean, what's next--a vacation in Cabo?" he joked, but Slade could tell his smile was forced.

"That could be arranged," Slade said mildly, crossing his free arm over his chest as he assessed the other man over the rim of his wine glass.

"That's not what I--" Running a hand through his hair--a nervous habit Slade didn't remember--Dick frowned at him. "What I'm saying is... we already tried this before. Just because it's been three years doesn't mean things would be any different."

"...you're still upset over what happened that night," Slade inferred. He'd already known it, of course, but if the little bird wanted to put things out in the open between them then they could do just that.

Dick stared at him across the table with a tightened jaw, his eyes going cold. "Yeah, Slade. I'm still upset about what happened that night."

"That's too bad." Slade resumed his eating, even as he felt those eyes burning into him.

"...you really haven't changed at all, have you," Dick said softly, after a long silence. He sounded sad. "You could at least pretend that you're sorry."

"I'm not," Slade said simply, meeting his gaze again, and he meant it. "It's... unfortunate, that you chose to run away--but what happened that night was for your own benefit."

That the little bird still couldn't see it wasn't surprising. He'd always held a very black-and-white view of the world--no doubt a result of the Bat's programming. Still, the fact that what had transpired three years ago was still acting as a roadblock to the younger man accepting his feelings was...annoying.

"My benefit. Right." Dick huffed a laugh, but his eyes were still hard.

He heaved out a sigh, tugging slightly at the ends of his hair in frustration. "Dammit, Slade--why couldn't you have changed?" he ground out, almost to himself, free hand curling into a fist against the table. "Why couldn't things be different?"

"You've always known who I am," Slade said evenly, not missing the way the younger man's shoulders tensed even further at the words. "I would've thought you'd have given up on saving me by now."

His little hero.

"I did. I want to," Dick amended quietly, picking his fork back up at last. "But I know it's impossible."

The younger man twirled his fork in his carbonara, attempting a grin. "Listen to me. I'm sure he would be disappointed if he heard me say that.

"Not that that's anything new," he added under his breath.

Even through his attempt at lightening the mood the bitterness rang through his words, clear as day.

"Still letting others dictate your actions? I'm not the only one who hasn't changed." For all his talk, the little bird was still just the same himself--allowing the Bat to control him, even if it was only from the unconscious recesses of his mind.

"Like you haven't always been at the forefront of that list," Dick huffed, but he sounded more resigned than irritated.

Slade made a noise of dissent. "What I want for you is what you really want for yourself. You just haven't realized it yet." Although not for much longer, if he had his way.

"You're seriously insane," Dick snorted, shaking his head, but Slade could see a smirk lurking around the corners of his mouth as he took another bite of pasta.

"More than a man who plays hero while dressed as a bird?" Slade asked loftily, brow raised.

Dick rolled his eyes. "f*ck you. That's not the same," he muttered around another mouthful, but he was outright grinning now, some of the tension gone from his shoulders.

Conversation lapsed again as they both busied themselves with their dinners, until at last those blue eyes flicked back up to him once again.

"You're not completely wrong," Dick said, cautious, like it pained him to admit. "A part of me...doesn't think it would be the worst thing. If I let it work, I mean."

He glanced away like he was embarrassed, but just as quickly he was looking back, earlier smirk resurfacing. "Would you seriously take me to Cabo, though? Because, like, I've never been, but I've heard it's pretty awesome."

Bright-eyed and smiling, no trace of the bitter frustration that had seemingly become the younger man's default--for a moment it was just like before things between them had soured.

"I told you," Slade said, fingers suddenly itching for a cigar. "Whatever you want."

---

The car ride home was spent in silence, but it seemed more thoughtful than awkward on the younger man's part.

Slade himself was satisfied with the way things had gone--most notably the little bird's reluctant admission. He'd assumed it would be a more drawn-out struggle before Dick finally gave in to him, but maybe they were closer to it than he'd thought.

It was Dick who suggested a drink once he'd finished changing back into more comfortable clothes. Soon they were settled on the couch in front of the TV--Slade still in his suit, except for his jacket and shoes--the mood much less tense than the previous night.

"Are we seriously watching this," Dick complained after fifteen minutes of a documentary on the history of automotives, face already a little flushed from his drink.

"You have something else in mind?" Slade asked, sipping from his own drink. He didn't care what they watched--hadn't even been paying attention--but as with everything else, it seemed that their choice of program was a life-altering decision.

"Anything is better than this." Dick eased himself closer, swiping the remote from Slade and taking a long swig from his drink as he began flipping through the channels.

Soon he'd settled on some obnoxious comedy, wordlessly relaxing back against the couch as if satisfied with his choice.

Two hours later Slade had long since tuned the movie out in favor of watching the younger man, customary cigar already burning between his lips. After several more drinks Dick had migrated to the carpet only a few feet in front of Slade, cross-legged and slumped against the marble table, face lighting up as he laughed along with the insipid jokes.

When it was over he glanced back at Slade with a lazy grin, cheek resting against his shoulder.

"Well? Pretty good, right?" he asked, a tendril of dark hair curling over his forehead, and with his half-lidded eyes and lush mouth--dampened from the liquor--he looked impossibly sultry. Impossibly young.

"Enthralling," Slade rumbled, and he wasn't talking about the movie.

The younger man seemed to take it as sarcasm, smirking as he turned to face Slade completely.

"We can do something else, you know," he offered, draining the rest of his glass--his words a little slurred--and Slade watched the long line of his throat work as he swallowed the liquid down.

"Oh? Like what?" Slade responded neutrally, plucking his cigar from his mouth as he eyed the younger man with casual interest.

Setting his glass back down--his hooded eyes fixed on Slade as he wiped his mouth off on the back of his arm--Dick hesitated only a moment before shifting onto his hands and knees, straightening upright in between Slade's spread legs.

"What's this?" Slade taunted, raising a brow, but his blood was already beginning its slow journey south at the sight of the younger man kneeling before him. "Repayment for the thousands I spent on you today?"

"Don't be an asshole," Dick scolded, but he didn't actually look angry, his hands sliding up to smooth over Slade's thighs.

"...it's been a while since I've done this," he said, biting at his lower lip--far less certain than usual--and Slade felt his co*ck begin to thicken.

"I'll go easy on you," he promised. Smirking.

When Dick reached for his fly Slade made no move to help, leaning back to watch the young man's drunken fingers fumble with his belt until he finally got it open.

Those striking eyes darted up to his face for only a second before Dick leaned in, nuzzling his face against Slade's still-clothed co*ck, and even through his boxer briefs he could feel the heat of the young hero's breath; the teasing, damp pressure of his tongue.

Slade tolerated only a few moments of it before tangling his fingers in dark hair, impatiently yanking the young man away again.

"What did I say about playing games," he growled, tightening his grip to the point of pain. He was rewarded with a dark blush, those blue eyes steadily holding his gaze.

"My bad," Dick apologized a little breathlessly, not looking very sorry at all.

Just as quickly Slade released him, placated when the young hero immediately reached for him and drew out his half-hard co*ck.

He gave Slade a few long strokes before leaning in, stomach coming to rest flush against the couch, but once again Slade stopped him.

"Take off your shirt."

"Yes, sir." Dick quirked a grin at him, obediently shrugging off his shirt--exposing the smooth, tanned skin of his chest and stomach to Slade's gaze--before leaning back in.

When he took Slade into his mouth at last Slade made a sound of encouragement, fingers reaching down to cradle that familiar face, his thumb digging into the defined jaw as that hot mouth worked over his rapidly-hardening length.

Despite his admission the younger man still knew enough to keep his teeth out of the way, his tongue laving messily over the head of Slade's co*ck before sucking it into his mouth.

It wasn't particularly skillful (although Slade was sure that had as much to do with the liquor as being out of practice), but between the hot, wet curl of the younger man's tongue--and the knowledge that it was none other than Dick Grayson with his mouth wrapped around Slade's co*ck--it was more than enough to get him to full hardness anyways.

Already Dick was struggling to take him down more than a few inches, hand coming up to palm over his balls as his free hand gripped to the length he couldn't fit into his mouth.

"I'm sure you can do better than that," Slade chided, hand sliding around the back of his neck to push him down further. He gagged instantly, jerking back against Slade's hold in a desperate attempt to pull off.

Slade held him for several beats before releasing him, watching as he sat back on his heels and glared up at Slade with watery eyes.

"Asshole," Dick hissed, wiping at his eye with the back of his hand--sounding like he meant it this time--but he didn't fight it when Slade took him by the hair and yanked him back in.

"Watch your f*cking mouth," Slade admonished lazily, far too satisfied by the turn of events to feel any real irritation as that pretty mouth opened for him once again. "Try again."

The younger man started up a choppy rhythm, dark head bobbing as he sucked sloppily--hand stroking in tandem over the shaft with each motion, those strong shoulder blades rolling appealingly with his efforts--and soon he'd taken Slade to the back of his tongue, holding himself in place even as he gagged against it.

"That's a good little bird," Slade said roughly, fingers sliding tenderly through the dark strands as a counterpoint, and the tips of the younger man's ears flushed pink at the praise.

Again Slade forced his head down, feeling the head of his co*ck slip into that slick throat.

Retching, Dick reared back--wild eyes flying up to his face in panic--but Slade kept him there, this time for good, fingers pressing harshly into the hinges of his jaw to keep his mouth open.

"Look at you," he rumbled, drinking in those glassy blue eyes and long, dark lashes clumped with tears, and he was sure he'd never seen a more alluring sight. "Such a beautiful boy."

The lashes fluttered helplessly at the words, flinging tears onto the sharp cheekbones--and then all at once the fight seemed to leave the younger man completely as he slumped forward into Slade's lap, hand still gripping loosely to the base of Slade's co*ck, the quivering muscles of his throat going slack around it.

Slade murmured his approval, rocking his hips up just slightly--feeling that slender throat catch at the motion--and Dick let him, even as his free hand gripped so tightly to Slade's thigh that the knuckles turned white.

"Keep going," Slade said, stilling his movements, and the younger man picked up instantly where he'd left off, slowly f*cking his throat on Slade's co*ck, his brow heavily creased.

Limbs heavy with heat and drink, Slade relaxed back against the couch as he took a slow drag on his cigar, free hand still resting heavily on the back of the dark head, his half-lidded eye locked onto the younger man's face.

The young hero nearly gagged with every slide of Slade's co*ck against his slick throat, the muscles twanging and fluttering as they tried to swallow around him, and before long his face was flushed nearly purple, tears streaming freely now, his hand and chin and mouth soaked with spit as he bobbed his head in disjointed rhythm.

With some reluctance Slade finally pulled him off, tucking his cigar back into the corner of his mouth. The younger man sat back on his heels again, knees splayed beneath him, looking up at Slade with dark eyes.

"About to cum already? You sure you can still keep up with me, old man?" Dick taunted around a grin, but the effect was somewhat lost in the noticeable hoarseness of his voice.

"Don't flatter yourself," Slade said with an answering smirk as he unbuttoned his shirt and eased it off his shoulders, amused by the familiar banter. Dick Grayson was still the only person who could survive speaking to him in such a way. "Quit stalling and take off the rest of your clothes."

He shed his own pants and underwear, kicking them to the side as he began idly stroking over his length--still wet from the younger man's mouth--and watched Dick rise to his feet a bit less gracefully than usual, already stripping off the rest of his clothing.

Their previous coupling had been entirely too short, driven by anger and primitive lust, but tonight the more relaxed mood allowed Slade a closer appreciation of the young body before him.

He was a bit more broad than he'd been during their time together, his perfectly toned physique muscled but not bulky, waist lean enough that Slade's hand could nearly span the entire width of it.

Like the rest of him his co*ck was perfect, jutting out proudly between the hairless, toned thighs ("It makes the suit go on easier, okay?" he'd said defensively when Slade had taunted him about it), his neatly-trimmed balls hanging heavy with need below it. Slade's eye lingered on the familiar dark mole dotting his inner right thigh, just below the faint line of an old scar.

"Now who's stalling," Dick complained--hand stroking over his own co*ck--but Slade could hear the faint uncertainty hiding behind the words, as if he were unnerved by the attention. As if he had any cause to be. "You just gonna stare at me all night?"

Still mouthy as ever, even after Slade had f*cked his throat raw. Another thing that would never change.

"Maybe you need a reminder of how this works," Slade told him, and the tight stomach clenched visibly at his elevated tone. "Forget all of your previous encounters with the women unfortunate enough to fall for your charms. You aren't in charge here. Understand?"

He saw the way the younger man's breath quickened at the words, face softening into some unreadable emotion as his hand moved a bit faster over the drooling head of his co*ck.

"Yes, Daddy," he breathed out, the word rolling naturally off his tongue, and Slade felt a brief twinge of surprise, even as his own co*ck twitched in response.

So it was like that tonight--the manifestation of the young hero's deep-seated issues with the Bat, bubbling to the surface once again.

It wasn't a subject his little bird liked to acknowledge, but Slade had read it in him like an open book anyway, all that pent-up rage and jealousy and desire for approval--the desire to please.

The first time was after a particularly explosive fight with the Bat, the word slipping out of the younger man while Slade was buried inside him, and his slack-jawed expression had seized up in horrified shame when he realized what he'd said.

He'd tried to take it back--tried to pull away--but Slade hadn't stopped, grip tightening over the slender hips as he murmured filthy words of encouragement, exhilarated by the secret knowledge of this new victory over the Bat, and if there was a single thing Slade would ever be grateful to the man for it was gifting him this: this lovely creature with the sinful mouth and watery blue eyes, looking up at him like Slade was the only one in the world with the answer to his problem--

Even years later that expression hadn't changed.

Reaching over to put his cigar out in the ashtray on the table next to him, Slade leaned back against the couch again, grimly pleased by his revelation.

"Come here," he ordered, voice roughened as if the words had been dragged through gravel, and Dick came to him willingly, just like the first time, stepping in between Slade's spread legs.

Slade dragged him closer by the hips until he stood flush against the couch, shoving his hand away from his co*ck, and when he leaned in and pressed a nearly chaste kiss to the flat stomach--just to the left of his navel--the younger man's breath hitched, reaching up to steady a hand on Slade's shoulder.

"I should have realized it sooner," Slade said, facial hair scratching against the smooth skin as he pressed another kiss just inches away from the first, his hands locked onto those slender hips. "The reason for your reluctance; your disobedience. You're afraid of how much you still need this."

"Slade," Dick groaned out, stomach spasming under Slade's mouth--his hand squeezing painfully to Slade's shoulder--and when Slade brought his hand down against the firm flesh of his backside the younger man nearly jumped in surprise, his co*ck twitching and drooling just inches from Slade's face.

"What was that?" Slade demanded, fingers digging harshly into the junction where ass met thigh. He ignored the younger man's co*ck in favor of placing another slow kiss just below his navel, his tongue swiping inside the indent.

"...Daddy," the younger man corrected himself, and when Slade glanced up at him his face was scarlet, shaded under the curtain of his hair, the blue of his eyes nearly eclipsed by the size of his pupils.

Slade gave an approving hum, smoothing his hand over the abused flesh of the younger man's backside. "Fortunately, I'm feeling generous today. I'm going to give you exactly what you need."

He dropped one last kiss against the flat stomach before leaning back, dragging the younger man down with him until he was hovering over Slade's lap.

He trailed his fingers between the firm cheeks, finding that tight little center, his brows raising in surprise when he met no resistance.

"...what's this?" Slade asked in mock-surprise, eye flicking back up to the younger man's face, even as he slid his first few fingers into the slick passage all the way up to the knuckles.

"Did it--ah--earlier. When we got back," Dick admitted, sounding almost embarrassed, but his hips tilted slightly as he rocked back against Slade's fingers.

"Such foresight," Slade smirked, wrist working as he slowly pumped his fingers, titillated by the thought of the little bird spreading himself open and f*cking himself on his own fingers with the intention of giving himself over to Slade once again.

Already impatient, he pulled them free, taking his own co*ck in hand to hold it in place.

"Be a good little bird and sit for me," Slade said darkly, and the younger man sucked in a breath, the muscles of his thighs quivering as he slowly began lowering himself down onto Slade's co*ck.

Just like every time it was by far the best thing he'd ever felt, nearly agonizing in its perfection: that hot, tight heat, clamped around him like a vise; the steady weight of the younger man as he finally came to settle into Slade's lap, his mouth falling open slightly on a dazed exhale, leaking co*ck drilling into Slade's stomach.

"Such a good boy," Slade said hotly against his jawline, lifting him up by the hips just a little before forcing him back down, and Dick let out a needy little sound, his hips moving in slow circles as he began riding Slade's co*ck. "If I'd known this was all it took to make you behave for me, I would've taken you against the table that night in your apartment."

"You could've," Dick groaned, hips working faster now, the muscles of his taut stomach flexing appealingly with his movements. "f*ck, but I would've let you."

Heat spiking in him at the confession, Slade roughly claimed the younger man's mouth in his own, fingers sinking into the supple skin of his ass. Dick melted against him, hands bracing against the couch on either side of him, his body practically thrumming in Slade's lap as they moved together.

"Don't stop," Slade said when they broke apart, kissing and licking over every inch of the younger man he could reach: the junction where his neck met his shoulder; the bruised skin of his trachea; the sharp collarbones.

When his mouth found one of the tiny pink nipples Dick surged up against him, hips stuttering, his co*ck dribbling out more pre-come against Slade's abdomen, and Slade knew it wouldn't take much more.

He kissed over the slightly swollen bottom lip, once, twice--gratified by the red irritation already blooming around the younger man's mouth and chin from his facial hair--before reluctantly stilling his hips.

"Up," Slade ordered, giving the younger man a pointed nudge, and even though his brow runkled in confusion Dick did as he was told, wincing as Slade's co*ck pulled free. He didn't protest when Slade grabbed him by the hips again, spinning him around easily.

He'd been wrong, earlier--there had never been a more alluring sight than this, Slade decided, eye trailing over sharp shoulder blades and the curve of the younger man's spine, leading down to the perfect swell of his ass--well-developed from years of acrobatics, the tender skin slightly reddened from his hand.

Slade struck his hand against the same spot, harder, the taut flesh rippling enticingly under it.

"Slade..." Dick, inhaling sharply, strong muscles of his thighs flexing and pulling as he shifted his weight to his other foot, and Slade couldn't decide if he sounded eager or embarrassed. Both were equally appealing.

"Sit," Slade insisted, holding his co*ck in place again, too impatient to correct him.

As the younger man began lowering himself back down Slade parted the firm cheeks so he could get a better look at the slickened hole, puffy and just slightly loosened from being f*cked two nights in a row, waiting to greedily swallow him up again.

For a moment Slade was tempted to keep him like that--make him squat in place as Slade lazily stroked himself off to the sight of that lean back and taut, curved flesh, the well-conditioned muscles showing no signs of effort--until he finally came, painting that greedy, twitching little hole with his seed--

Desire won out. Slade wound an arm around the trim waist and pulled the younger man the rest of the way down, watching that tender little rim stretch open around his co*ck and allow him to sink fully back inside that tight heat.

Past the point of any more teasing Slade shifted forward to the edge of the couch, using his hold on the slender waist to hold the younger man in place, the familiar sound of flesh-on-flesh filling the room as Slade leaned heavily over his back and began roughly f*cking up into him.

"There's nowhere left to run from this," Slade told him, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder, and when his hand found the younger man's co*ck and began stroking it in sync with his thrusts Dick cried out, head falling forward like a puppet with its strings cut, reaching back to sink his nails into Slade's thigh. "You can't hide from me any more."

Dick said nothing, straining violently against him like he couldn't decide if he wanted to pull Slade closer or push him away, the hair at the base of his neck damp with perspiration when Slade buried his face against it, and the sharp scent of their mingled sweat ignited that same possessive fire inside of him once again.

"My beautiful little bird," Slade growled against his temple, pressing a kiss to the sweat-dampened strands, and he knew he'd hit the younger man's prostate dead-on when Dick choked out a gasp, entire body jolting against him. "Even when you lie to yourself, your body still recognizes who it belongs to. I want to keep you locked away in a cage, so I'm the only one who can hear you sing."

"Please," Dick begged around a broken-off moan as if he'd let Slade do that too, muscles of his legs tightening against Slade's own thighs in a way he knew meant the younger man was close. "Oh, f*ck--I--I can't--"

"Say it," Slade demanded, still pounding up into that tight heat--battering relentlessly against that same little spot--some sudden, selfish need to hear the words nearly consuming him. "Remind us both who you belong to."

"Y-yours... I'm yours," Dick babbled out, nearly driven to incoherence, entire body tensing up suddenly. "f*ck--Daddy--"

He came with a gasp, clenching down around Slade's co*ck as he erupted all over Slade's fist, and Slade f*cked him through it, almost there himself, entire focus narrowed down to the slick drag of his co*ck inside that tight little hole and the younger man still pressed flush against him, twitching and shuddering in the post-org*sm fade.

"So good for me," Slade muttered almost mindlessly, all eloquence lost in his single-minded pursuit, his balls pulling tight with his own impending release.

A few more pounding thrusts--couch creaking mournfully underneath them--and Slade was shoving into him a final time, flooding the younger man with his seed, his arm tightening to bruising around the trim waist as if to prevent him from fleeing once again.

Even after it was over they remained sitting there, still connected in the most intimate way, that familiar rush blanketing his head like a veil as he stroked over the younger man's side with his thumb.

"Such a perfect, beautiful boy," Slade said against the strong line of his shoulder--heart finally slowing back to normal--and he felt the younger man go rigid in his hold.

A shaky little exhale, suspicious in a way he couldn't place--and then all at once Dick was pulling out of his arms, Slade's co*ck slipping out of him as he came to his feet.

"...m'gonna lay down," he mumbled, already moving to leave--his face turned away--but Slade caught his wrist.

"Running again already?" he asked, thrown by the abrupt change in mood.

Dick stumbled slightly at the sudden hold, his forearm flying up as if to shield his face, but not before Slade could see the tell-tale sheen of fresh tears.

"I'm not running," he snapped, ripping his arm free before Slade could question it. "It's just... been a sh*tty couple weeks. I'll see you tomorrow."

When the young hero disappeared back into the master bedroom without another word Slade settled back against the couch, relighting his cigar, his mouth pulling into a frown around it.

The very last thing he'd expected was for the night to end with Dick Grayson in tears--besides the lovely, involuntary ones whenever he choked on Slade's co*ck.

The younger man was always a bundle of heightened emotion--anger being the most prominent--but crying had never been among his repertoire for emotional expression. That was a role his silly hero act fulfilled (and whether it was a healthy expression was a question more suited to a psychoanalyst than a mercenary-for-hire).

It seemed unusual that the young hero's current Roman Sionis-shaped issue would be enough to reduce him to tears, bothersome as the man was--but then again, his little bird seemed to base his entire worth on whether he successfully managed to save the day or not. Maybe some sort of post-org*sm clarity was enough to finally bring it out of him--or maybe it was the liquor.

Either way, it was unacceptable.

As far as Slade knew, there were only two people who held the honor of being wedged so deeply into Dick Grayson's psyche that nothing or no one could ever hope to extract them: himself, and the damnable Bat.

The Bat, Slade had grudgingly accepted--partially because the masked vigilante wasn't so far removed from his own brand of obsession (albeit for very different reasons)--and also because without the man's tainted influence Dick would have never come to him in the first place.

But there was no room there for a lowly degenerate like Sionis, even if it was only a temporary stay.

Smoothing his hair away from his face, Slade plucked the cigar from his mouth, following up his slow exhale with a sip from his long-abandoned whiskey.

It was time that Sionis was dealt with for good.

Chapter 6: Chapter Six

Chapter Text

Cold sweat beaded at his hairline as his thumb hovered over the call button, his stomach churning with anxiety.

For the thousandth time Dick hit the back button, nearly overcome with the urge to fling his phone away from him as hard as he could--only to stop himself last second, letting out a shaky breath.

Once again he pulled up the same name from his contacts list, added to his new phone just yesterday.

He'd been sitting here for an hour already, ever since Slade left, staring down numbly at the familiar number.

Slade was in front of the sink again, fully dressed, combing through his goatee in the mirror like he was getting ready to leave.

Unlike two days ago the mercenary didn't even glance at him, and Dick felt a spike of uneasiness, wishing like always that he had even a single hint as to what the other man was thinking. Despite his pounding headache he hadn't drank enough to forget what had happened last night, and he knew better than to think Slade had either.

"...going out?" Dick asked, leaning against the door frame, his voice still raspy from sleep. He'd wrapped the bed sheet around him like a robe, his bare feet shifting against the carpet in a pointless attempt to offset the dull ache in his pelvis.

Slade grunted something vaguely affirmative as he set the comb down on the sink, grabbing his jacket from where it was slung across the counter and shrugging it on over his massive shoulders.

"How long will you be gone?" He'd aimed for nonchalant, but there was a lingering note of neediness there anyways--a remnant from last night.

"As long as it takes," Slade said, finally looking at him, and even though the cryptic reply wasn't outside the norm the words somehow sounded more ominous than usual.

When the mercenary approached Dick warily pulled the sheet tighter around him, heart picking up in his chest as Slade braced a huge hand against the door just above his head, and for a second he was almost convinced the other man was going to kiss him--but he only stared, single brown eye mapping Dick's face.

"...your procrastination ends today," Slade said eventually, face inscrutable. "I won't let you hide from your problems here. Call home."

His hand slid away as he slipped past Dick through the doorway without a backwards glance.

"What--no kiss goodbye?!" Dick shouted after him over the sudden, horrible rush of blood in his ears, but the mercenary didn't stop.

He slumped heavily back against the door, sheet slipping down around his shoulders as his fingers went slack, the familiar sting of rejection seeping through him like the bitterest of poisons.

His stomach swooped unpleasantly as he recalled the mercenary's clipped words; his swift exit from Dick's life, just as quickly as he'd appeared.

It was all because he'd been pathetic enough to let himself fall apart in front of Slade after a few meaningless words of praise, driving the man off just when he'd started to warm up to the idea of having him around again.

Just when Dick had started to accept that there might still be something between them after all.

Slade had taunted him about his 'complex' plenty of times in the past--seizing upon the vulnerability like a shark scenting blood; teasing and toying until he'd extracted the word from Dick like a confessed sin--but last night he'd revealed a part of himself that even Slade had never seen before, at least not fully.

It was pure weakness--that ugly wound that still festered inside him, no matter how long he'd spent trying to bury it somewhere deep enough that it couldn't reach him anymore.

And now Slade had all but kicked him out, so disgusted by his breakdown that he probably would have left without saying anything at all if Dick hadn't woken up in time to see him go. Probably regretting that he'd wasted his time with someone as weak and broken as Dick in the first place.

Hot shame swirled through him at the thought.

It's for the best, he reminded himself, determined to make himself believe it. Things had happened way too fast, dragging them closer and closer to that overly familiar place, and Slade hadn't been wrong when he'd guessed that the thought of depending on anyone again for any reason terrified him.

Because no matter what Slade had said about it, he knew damn well they couldn't move past what had broken them up in the first place. And after last night the older man had made it clear he didn't want to, anyways.

Slade was right about one other thing, though: he couldn't put off this call for even one more day. Especially now that he needed another place to stay.

Dick turned his attention back to his phone, jaw setting with determination.

Before he could stop himself he shoved his thumb against the call button, heart beating erratically in his chest as he shakily brought the phone up to his ear.

For five long rings he sat there, barely breathing into the space between each one, and he was just about to hang up--relieved that he could put this off for even a little bit longer--when the line clicked, and that voice he knew as well as his own answered.

"Bruce Wayne."

Dick said nothing for a long moment, shocked into silence by the brisk greeting--only to remember that he was calling from a new number.

"Hello?"

Reluctantly he cleared his throat, slumping forward over his knees, his free hand coming up to smooth through his hair.

"...it's me," Dick said finally, and it came out hoarse.

"Dick." There was a mild inflection of surprise. "Just a minute."

Muffled voices in the background--static, as if the phone was being shoved into a pocket--and then the other man was back on the line.

"Sorry. I was just leaving a meeting," Bruce said against a background of perfect silence, alone.

"S'okay," Dick said, voice fainter than he'd meant it, scrubbing the heel of his hand over his eye as if it would somehow make the agonizing tightness in his chest disappear. "How are things? Alfred? The ki--Jason?"

"They're fine." A pause. "I heard what happened to your apartment building."

It shouldn't have surprised him--didn't, really, because Bruce knew everything. He always did. Which meant he was probably well aware of Dick's ongoing failure to capture Black Mask.

"Yeah," Dick managed around a sudden lump in his throat. He cleared his throat a second time, forcing himself to sit up straighter. "Well, everyone made it out, so that's what matters."

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Bruce, casually tip-toeing around Dick's pride like he'd long since become an expert at doing, and Dick felt that same suffocating feeling from the days before he'd left, rising up inside him like a tidal wave.

"I'm staying with a friend," he heard himself say, the words clunky and awkward on his tongue. "Just until I get back on my feet."

It wasn't at all what he'd meant to say--but there wasn't a single cell in his body that could survive asking to come back to the manor, much less actually doing so. It was something he'd already known in the back of his head before he'd even hit call.

And maybe Bruce wouldn't even let him, if he also knew exactly which friend Dick had been staying with. Dick shoved away the horrifying thought before he could dwell on it, deciding he would rather not know.

He'd figure out something.

"Is there anything I can do?" Bruce asked lightly--genuine--and the tidal wave grew even larger, threatening to drown him.

"Actually--that's why I'm calling," Dick admitted, waiting for the usual resentment to surface, but for once it was oddly silent. "I could really use a new suit. The one I have now is...kinda past its prime."

An understatement--but the older man didn't need to know that.

"Of course," Bruce agreed, suddenly all business. "I thought you might be needing another one soon. I had Lucius install a few upgrades, but it's still a prototype at the moment. It might take a few days to finish."

It felt wrong to be openly talking about this on the phone, but he knew the older man's personal line was just as secure as the comm lines always had been.

"O-okay. Sure," Dick said, squeezing his eyes shut tight against some other emotion he was determined to ignore. "That'd be great."

"Where are you staying?"

When Dick reluctantly gave him the address there was another lengthy pause.

"The Côte d'Azur," Bruce said, and Dick couldn't place his tone.

"...yeah," he confirmed, sweaty grip on the phone so tight his hand ached, silently pleading that the older man didn't press any further.

Much like Slade Bruce knew him too well to fall for any lies--although due to the frosty state of their relationship Dick wasn't sure the older man would even bother calling him out.

"...understood," Bruce said finally, and Dick felt his grip loosen, just a little. "I'll get it to you as soon as I can."

"Sounds good," Dick said in a rush, already pulling the phone away so he could hang up before he had to endure another second of this, but Bruce's voice caught him before he could.

"Dick?"

"Yeah?" he croaked, brows knitting heavily together. A single bead of sweat broke free from his hairline at last, trickling down his temple before disappearing onto his shirt.

"You'll have to let me know how it works out."

He's talking about the f*cking suit, Dick thought wildly, even as his heart leapt into his throat, nearly choking him.

"I will," he said, barely a whisper. "Thanks, Bruce."

He hung up before the older man could say anything else.

---

The next morning there was still no Slade, and Dick was grateful.

He dreaded the thought of another confrontation--especially since Slade would expect him to be gone whenever he finally got back.

But now he had to stay at least long enough to get his new suit. And after that--Dick had no idea.

He hadn't exactly surrounded himself with any kind of support network since moving to Blüdhaven, deciding he didn't have the time or emotional energy to maintain any relationships, platonic or otherwise. He'd settled for short flings instead, reasoning that he was too young to be tied down anyways.

Even when he'd finally tried for something more it hadn't worked out, his anger and frustration and secrecy putting an end to it before it had barely even begun.

"You're just always so... distant," Alicia said quietly, nails gently stroking over his forearm where it was wrapped around her waist. They were still tangled together in her bed, her head tucked under his chin--the first time they'd seen each other in over a week--and he could smell the sweet, floral scent of her shampoo, almost overpowering this close.

Dick started to deny it--only to realize he'd barely heard a word she'd said since he'd gotten here. His mind had been a million miles away all day, like it was more often than not lately.

Alicia pulled out of his arms and rolled over to face him, brown hair curling around her shoulders, and he could feel her warm breath on his cheek with every word. "It's like... even when you're here, you're not really here. And...even when you're smiling..."

She reached for him, thumb stroking gently over his cheekbone, her hand like fire against the sudden clamminess of his skin. "...your eyes are still sad," she finished softly, her own hazel eyes searching his face for an explanation, and Dick could hear that familiar question lurking behind her words--the same one he'd asked himself countless times.

Why am I not good enough?

He broke up with her over the phone the next day, unwavering even when she cried and begged him to reconsider--before finally agreeing that it was for the best.

That night he skipped patrolling in favor of drinking alone in his cold, empty apartment, dull gaze trained on the scuffed up wall for hours, wondering when running away had become his solution to everything.

When being alone had become less painful than letting anyone get close.

When, even despite all the promises he'd made to himself, he'd still ended up exactly like Bruce.

As far as he knew, Alicia was happily settled in a new relationship, just like she deserved. The last thing he would ever do was re-insert himself in her life, even though she was kind enough that he knew she'd let him stay with her until he could figure out how he was going to afford a new apartment.

Especially now that he'd almost definitely lost his job after not calling or showing up for days. Maybe if he went to Angie's and begged for it back, they'd agree to rehire him.

Dick sighed, rubbing tiredly over his face even though he'd just gotten out of bed not even two hours ago. First things first: taking the bus downtown so he could get a new bank card and ID.

He'd worry about the rest later.

---

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't issue a new debit card without proof of ID," the teller apologized, looking up at him from her computer.

She was a slender, mousy young woman with eyes nearly too big for her face, dressed in a loud green sweater vest with the bank logo stitched into it just below a name tag that read Susan. "If you have your account information you can apply for a new one online, but I'm afraid it'll take approximately one week to receive it in the mail."

Dick ran a hand through his hair, slumping heavily against the counter with a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, I know that--but like I said, I really need it today," he said for the third time, ignoring the disgruntled mutterings from the line that had formed behind him. "Look--is there someone else I can talk to? A manager or something?"

He needed a debit card to pay for a new ID--but he needed an ID to get the debit card. He should've realized it, considering how sh*tty his luck had been lately.

"Is there a problem?" A short older woman with frizzy red hair approached the counter, her piercing blue eyes sizing him up. She was wearing the same green sweater, a pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses clasped loosely at her low back.

"He wants a new debit card, but he doesn't have any ID," Susan explained, glancing helplessly at the red-haired woman, and Dick had a feeling he'd earned himself a ranking on her list of nightmare customers.

"We can't issue a debit card without ID," the older woman repeated flatly, already turning to leave. "You'll have to either call our customer service line or order one online."

"Wait--uh, Margaret--?" Dick read off her name tag, flashing her his most charming smile, but at her decidedly uncharmed expression he felt it falter, just a little. "Can't you just look up my information by the account number? It's under Richard Grayson; account number 5, 7... uh...3...?"

"Richard Grayson?" The red-haired woman slipped her glasses on with a frown, gaze sharpening even further behind them. "I thought you looked familiar. Aren't you Bruce Wayne's son?"

It didn't happen often, but he'd been to enough galas and fundraisers with Bruce over the years that he sometimes got recognized. It always felt like getting punched right in the gut, sans-suit.

"That's me," Dick agreed easily, standing up straighter as he gave her another smile, and he hoped it didn't look as forced as it felt. "I'm actually on my way to meet him now, so I'm kind of in a hurry."

He hated piggy-backing off of Bruce's notoriety for anything, but it admittedly had its uses. Although he doubted the woman would still be convinced he was the son of a billionaire if she saw the sorry state of his account balance.

She studied him shrewdly for several more moments, like she was trying to decide if he was lying--before finally turning to her employee.

"Go ahead and get him a new card," the red-haired woman instructed, plucking her glasses off her nose again, and the younger woman's brown eyes widened to epic proportions in her small face.

"...M-ma'am?" she stuttered, like she'd just been ordered to set her computer on fire, but the other woman ignored her.

"Sorry for the hassle, Mr. Grayson," Margaret told him, pulling a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Thank you for choosing Centurist United. You have a pleasant day, now."

Five minutes later Susan slid his new card across the counter, biting at her lower lip uncertainly. "Here you are, sir. Would you like a balance slip?"

"Ah--sure." It was probably a good idea to make sure he even had enough money to cover a new ID before he went and wasted his time at the BMV.

The young teller printed off a slip of paper and handed it over with a stiff smile. "Thank you for choosing Centurist United. Have a nice day."

Dick accepted it with a nod of thanks, sheepishly ignoring the looks he got from the people still waiting in line as he headed for the door, his eyes scanning over the receipt--

--only to stop mid-step, hand freezing over the door handle.

$10,055.32.

Jaw clenching, he crushed the slip into the pocket of his jeans, pushing past the door to leave before he got any more dirty looks.

It was stupid to feel upset about a big sum of money appearing like magic in his account--especially after he'd happily accepted Slade's money only two days ago--but this felt less like a gracious gesture and more like being paid to go away.

Or worse: some insulting, f*cked-up compensation, like he was a D-list model being paid to 'hang out' with random oil tycoons during Cannes. Dick could imagine the mercenary smirking as he wired what amounted to his leftover pocket change into Dick's bank account.

Yeah--that sounded more like Slade.

So be it, Dick thought grimly. If Slade wanted to pay him to leave then he'd take the money and run. At least now he could afford to find a new place to stay, and even have some left over until he figured out another job.

Now all he needed was a new ID and his suit, and he could disappear from Slade's life just as neatly as he had the first time.

---

Several hours later he was back at the hotel with his new license, breathing a sigh of relief when he'd confirmed that Slade still wasn't back.

Dick spent the rest of the day lounging in front of the TV, ordering the most expensive food from the hotel restaurant and charging it to the room (even tipping room service a few hundred for the hell of it) as a petty, childish f*ck-you to Slade.

It was nearing midnight when he finally fell asleep, laid out on the couch in the common area with the TV muted in the background, the mercenary the very last thing he thought of before he drifted into darkness.

---

The next morning he was still alone, and Dick began to accept the possibility that maybe Slade hadn't ever planned on coming back.

The mercenary had plenty of other places to stay spread out across various cities. Maybe he'd finished his latest job and went back to one of his other safe houses--maybe even the old one in Gotham.

A cold weight settled in his stomach at the thought.

But Dick refused to sit around like the pining, lovesick heroine of some sh*tty romance novel on the off-chance Slade returned.

Instead he kept himself busy all day: going back to the mall to get a few things he still needed with his newly-acquired funds; treating himself to lunch at some overpriced, hipster cafe; flirting with the girls who worked at the hotel front desk; working out in the hotel's huge, mostly-deserted gym. When he finally headed back to the suite it was almost six o'clock.

Instead of Slade there was something better: a gunmetal, armored briefcase sitting not-so-inconspicuously on the floor, just a few feet from the main entrance.

All of his current problems faded into background noise, replaced with genuine enthusiasm for the first time in a while.

He had no idea how Bruce had gotten it to him so fast--or how he'd managed to deliver it inside the suite at all--but Bruce Wayne works in mysterious ways was something he'd accepted a long time ago.

Eagerly he scooped up the hefty package, searching for some kind of clasp or groove, but there was nothing, like it didn't have an opening at all.

Then, he spotted it: a tiny sphere embedded in one corner, glinting briefly in the dim lighting when he turned it just the right way.

Flipping the briefcase over so that the sphere was pointed upwards, Dick held it up just a few inches from his right eye.

Instantly a red beam of light emanated from the tiny sphere, scanning over his retina in a single pass.

A second later there was a small beep of confirmation, and a panel with a numeric keyboard appeared on the top of the briefcase.

"Input password," a tinny, computerized voice told him.

Dick frowned, eyebrows knitting together. Bruce hadn't mentioned a password--unless it was the same one used for the package his original suit had arrived in three years ago. If only he could remember.

He thought hard for a long minute, trying to recall any numbers that had ever held any significance for them--until suddenly one jumped to the forefront of his mind, obvious in its simplicity.

With unsteady fingers he typed in the four-digit sequence, holding his breath as he waited.

"Identity confirmed: Richard Grayson."

There was a faint hiss, the pressurized package smoothly shifting open.

His new suit lay square in the center, flattened and unassuming, another mask and pair of Escrima sticks embedded into the material above it.

Dick pulled out the suit, distractedly setting the briefcase down on the couch behind him as he ran his hand over the Kevlar-lined Nomex, grinning ear-to-ear at the shiny, flawless blue symbol at the chest's center.

He eagerly pulled it on, the material clinging just as perfectly as his old one, turning in front of one of the nearby decorative mirrors as he admired his reflection.

His smile slowly faded as he glanced back over at the briefcase he'd discarded on the couch, going over to retrieve it again before he could think twice.

Unlike the first package Bruce had sent with his original suit, there was no note included.

Why would there be, Dick thought flatly, irritated with himself. Before yesterday the last time he'd spoken to the older man was that day at the manor, over two years ago. It was surprising he'd even agreed to send a new suit at all--let alone any sort of heartfelt note of encouragement, like when Dick was first starting out on his own.

He'd kept the original note without knowing why, never daring to pull it out like just seeing it again would be some kind of bad omen, even though he'd memorized the words written there anyways. It had vanished along with the rest of his things in the apartment fire.

Dick sighed, reaching down and pulling out the new mask, turning it over in his hands as he thought.

Now that he had his suit--and money in the bank--there was no excuse for him to stay here any longer.

...but it was already evening, so it wasn't like he was going to find a new apartment tonight. And since he already had the suit on he might as well test out the new features Bruce had mentioned--and continue his search for clues about Black Mask while he was at it.

Mind made up, he slid the mask into place, heart pumping excitedly as he retrieved the new Escrima sticks, the familiar weight of them reassuring against his palms.

Finding a new place to live could wait until tomorrow. It was time to blow off some steam.

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

Chapter Text

As much as Dick had loved his old suit, the new one was far superior.

It was more lightweight and flexible, with an updated grappling gun and more spacious compartments for his throwing stars and flash powder. The new mask even had a detachable gas filter, which he knew would come in handy at some point. His gloves also had a range of new features attuned to each hand sign, including an EMP detector.

But it was the wrist-mounted holographic computer that stuck out above everything. It took him less than a minute--and another series of logins not unlike the ones he'd used for the briefcase that held his suit--to realize it was hooked up to the Batcomputer.

An abridged version, sure--not the nearly-complete access he'd had as Robin--but incredibly useful all the same.

Still, Dick recognized the one major caveat: the fact that the entire suit was basically a giant, blinking tracker. There was no way in hell that Bruce wouldn't be able to see everything he did through it, if he wanted to.

If the older man was feeling generous, he might even make a conscious effort not to--but then again, he'd proven in the past that he wasn't above tracking Dick for his own purposes (and whether it was out of some misguided, paternal concern, or because it gave him yet another set of 'eyes' to expand his all-knowing reach--Dick wasn't entirely sure, even now).

At least this time, he wasn't hiding it.

But, just like with his first suit, Dick wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not this one, anyways. It was too important to his success.

Also, it was f*cking cool.

His first hour on patrol was spent testing the suit's capabilities while stopping a few petty crimes: a car jacking; a convenience store robbery; two drug deals.

Eventually he made his way to the East side of town, swinging by the Millennium Bar on his patrol through. It was the single remaining business on the first floor of a sprawling brick complex, bracketed by what had once been a shoe store and a cake shop. The remaining three floors above it were either sealed off or unoccupied, just like many of the old buildings on this side of town. If it wasn't for the peeling logo stamped onto the bar's front window--just above a flickering OPEN sign--it would be easy to think the entire building was abandoned.

Two years ago the bar--then known as Lucky's, ironically--had been busted as a minor drug hub, and had been forced to shut down as a result.

A year later it reopened as the Millennium Bar, and although he didn't have any concrete proof, Dick suspected that the bar's name was the only thing that had changed.

From his vantage point on the building across the street he could see that it wasn't very busy; only a few tables were occupied, and the bar itself was practically empty.

The door opened, and two men emerged, leaning back against the grimy brick facade as they lit up cigarettes. There wasn't anything remarkable about them--both mid-40's, maybe, one with lank blond hair and dressed in a navy sports jacket; the other with curly black hair and an aquiline nose, his thick winter coat adding even more bulk to his frame--but something about them piqued his curiosity anyways. Dick pulled out his directional microphone, pointing it in their direction so he could listen.

"...join the game tonight?" the dark-haired man was saying, flicking ashes away from the tip of his cigarette as he exhaled into the cold night air. "It's a pretty f*ckin' penny--biggest pot this sh*t-hole's ever seen."

Gambling. Nice. It wasn't the worst crime, but it confirmed his suspicions that the bar was still a hot spot for shady dealings.

The blond man snorted, hunching his thin shoulders against the wind, his own cigarette burning away in between his fingertips. "You kidding me? I ain't paying that entrance fee. Besides--I heard the rat is playing tonight."

Rat?

"Oh, come on, Barry. If he was a rat, the pigs woulda already come knocking," the bigger man shot back. "He's in it for the same reason as anyone else--cold, hard cash."

"Whatever--I still don't trust the guy. If he ain't working for the pigs then he's working for the bird. Christ, I gotta get out of this town. Too many f*ckin' animals."

The blond took one last drag on his cigarette before dropping it to the sidewalk and grinding it out with his heel. "You done or what? I still gotta pay my tab."

The dark-haired man put out his cigarette, and both men went back inside the bar.

Dick put away his directional microphone, digesting the new information. It sounded like someone high-profile was joining in on a little underground gambling ring--which, while not exactly surprising, was still worthy of further investigation.

He studied the building, considering. More than likely the game was taking place on one of the sealed floors above the bar. He'd just have to look for a way in.

---

Dick easily found his opening, courtesy of an unlocked window on the top floor.

He used his night vision lenses to lead him as he looked around. The place had clearly once been an apartment: there were a few pieces of furniture that had been left behind, including a stained old mattress that had seen better days. Trash and debris were scattered everywhere, and the bright blue paint was chipping off the walls in flakes.

Reminds me of home, Dick thought flatly, thinking of his dingy old apartment.

After confirming it was empty he found the stairwell, passing by a few more windows as he went down a flight and peered around the corner.

There were several doors spanning the length of the dimly-lit hallway--and in front of the door at the very end stood two blank-faced men, their hands clasped in front of them.

Bingo.

Dick flattened himself back against the wall with a grin. It was time to see what else his suit could do.

---

Three minutes later he finished breaking down the second man's gun and tossing it away, stepping over the guards' unconscious bodies as he approached the door.

Dick found himself in a short hallway leading into a darkened kitchen, a small island counter sitting empty in its center. He could hear voices over the low droning of a TV, just on the other side of the plaster wall.

He glanced up above him, an idea forming as he took in the shadowed, industrial-inspired ceiling, its exposed beams and piping extending past the dividing wall.

Dick hopped up onto the island with ease, the counter creaking quietly underneath him as he grabbed onto the beam directly overhead and hoisted himself up--just as someone entered the kitchen.

He pressed himself flat against the beam just in time, falling completely still, his night vision lenses narrowing in on the figure.

"...told you--I'm busy tonight," the man hissed into his phone, the narrow stream of light from the room beyond highlighting his balding head and a sliver of his face for just a split-second as he began pacing the kitchen.

Guess I found the rat.

Andrew Bishop--the current Deputy Mayor of Blüdhaven.

Dick had done a cursory check on the man when he'd first taken office, finding nothing noteworthy besides a few misdemeanor charges related to illegal gambling that had been scrubbed from his record before his run.

If the two men he'd heard outside were right, then Bishop had apparently decided not to let his job--or his prior arrest--get in the way of his little hobby.

"Yes. Yes. I'll speak with you soon."

Bishop shoved his phone back into his pocket, pushing his glasses up his nose as he turned and headed back through the doorway he'd entered from. Dick began nimbly slinking along the beam behind him, the TV and voices growing louder as he crossed over the wall into the room beyond.

He stuck to the shadowed perimeter of the ceiling, observing the room underneath him as he crept after Bishop.

The sparse room had once been an apartment just like the one he'd entered through upstairs. On the other side of the kitchen wall was a flat-screen TV propped up on an old nightstand, surrounded by a tattered love seat and a collection of mismatched chairs, nearly all of them occupied by rough-looking men of various ages. They were talking and arguing drunkenly amongst themselves, discarded take-out boxes and cigarette butts and empty beer bottles surrounding them. Dick recognized at least two of them from a drug bust just a few months ago.

Towards the back of the room was a short, rectangular table positioned under a fluorescent hanging light, illuminating the heaping pile of mismatched chips at its center.

A group of four men were seated in metal chairs around it, cards in hand, and Dick felt his heart nearly stop when he saw who was at its head.

Slade, incognito in black jeans and a fitted white v-neck, biceps straining at its sleeves. A few strands of his white hair were coming loose from its slicked-back hold like it'd been a long day, coils of smoke rising from his cigar and disappearing into the too-bright lighting above.

Even with his eye patch he didn't look out of place here, his expression schooled into a blank mask perfectly suited for poker. If it wasn't for the way his jaw worked methodically at a piece of gum he would've almost appeared carved from stone.

It was ridiculous how just seeing Slade like this--so effortlessly confident and sure, even surrounded by criminals--was enough to make heat spark inside him like a flipped switch.

No--bad. He's an asshole, remember? Dick mentally scolded himself, but his eyes still lingered on the other man, reluctant to tear away. Focus, Dick.

A quick scan with the codec showed that one of the men--Nicholas Davis, the brown-haired one seated on Slade's right--was no stranger to crime, mostly relating to petty theft and drug dealing.

The other two were Antonio Giatti and Rico Vasquel--former associates of Carmine Falcone.

Dick frowned. What are they doing in Blüdhaven?

"Sorry about that, gentlemen," Bishop apologized as he rejoined the table, smoothing his tie down as he reclaimed the last empty seat--right across from Slade--and picked up his cards. "Where were we?"

"I'm out," Davis said, tossing his hand down and shoving away from the table.

Within minutes Vasquel--dressed in a crisp black suit, his bald head in sharp contrast to his bushy beard, eyes so dark they were nearly black--wordlessly threw down his own cards and left the table, crossing the room to lean against the pillar next to one of the couches in favor of watching the basketball game. Only Slade, Bishop, and Giatti remained.

Several turns later Giatti let out a dramatic groan, all but slamming his cards on the table.

"I swear this f*ckin' game is rigged," he complained in a thick accent, slumping back in his chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest. His eyes slid accusingly over the mercenary, but Slade didn't even glance at him.

"Guess it's just you and me, friend," Bishop grinned over his cards at Slade, brown eyes glittering excitedly behind his thick circle lenses.

For several more minutes it went on--Bishop, brow furrowed in intense concentration; Giatti, sulkily watching the exchange; Slade, stoic as ever, still yet to say a word--and Dick felt his attention drifting until suddenly Bishop threw down his spread hand with a flourish, jumping to his feet with a triumphant cry.

"HA! It's over!" he gloated, sweat dripping down the sides of his round, pasty face, the swell of his stomach rising and falling against his button-down shirt as he stared Slade down with slightly crazed eyes. "Sorry to disappoint, friend, but it looks like I'll be taking home the gold tonight!"

Dick tensed, gaze seeking out the mercenary again as he waited to see the man's response.

For a brief second Slade almost seemed to glance upwards, right in Dick's direction, like he'd felt the eyes on him.

Heart plummeting, Dick shrank back into the shadows, hardly daring to breathe in case the other man could pick out the slight movement of his breath, even through the perfect camouflage of his suit.

Then the moment passed, and Slade's single eye flicked down to Bishop's face as he spread his own hand out on the table.

Bishop's face crumpled, all color draining from it, his eyes moving back and forth over the cards like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"Whoa, whoa--hang on. Somethin' ain't adding up," Giatti complained loudly, rising up from the table, his hands bracing against it as he leaned in menacingly towards Slade. "Who the hell let this clown in here, anyways?"

Some of the guys watching the game were already looking over at the outburst with interest, grinning and murmuring in anticipation of a fight. Vasquel had turned, too, black eyes silently watching.

Slade's chair let out a high-pitch squeal as he pushed away from the table, slowly coming to standing. Despite Giatti's bulk there was a stark height difference between them, Slade easily towering over him--but Giatti stood his ground, straightening himself fully as he glared up at Slade.

There was a drawn out pause, the room cloaked in obvious tension as the two men stared each other down: Giatti, face the same red as his hair, his eyes narrowed to slits; Slade, expression still carefully blank, but Dick noted uneasily that he'd stopped chewing.

He barely saw the flash of steel as the mercenary produced a knife from somewhere and jabbed it right into the man's trachea, free hand clamping down over a thick shoulder to hold him in place against it.

Giatti's mouth dropped open in shock, blood spurting wildly in every direction, collapsing heavily against the table's metal edge with sightless eyes. He reached up to his throat with a shaky hand--but Slade twisted the knife a little deeper, slamming him face-first over the table, the pile of chips in the center jumping from the impact.

The man made no sound or move to get up, blood already pooling underneath him against the scratched green surface of the table.

There was a ripple of outrage from the men near the TV, but it was Vasquel who acted. Dick watched in horror as he produced his own switchblade, running at Slade with a growl.

When he'd crossed the room halfway Slade kicked his chair into the man's path, too quick for him to dodge it. He fell hard onto his stomach, losing his grip on the knife and sending it skittering across the floor.

The mercenary stopped it with the heel of his shoe, bending slightly to swipe it up in one smooth movement.

At the abrupt role reversal Vasquel shoved himself up, falling backwards onto his ass and awkwardly crab-walking back the way he'd came as Slade advanced on him, the floor creaking ominously under the weight of his boots with each step.

Do something, dammit, Dick thought desperately, but he sat rigid in the shadows as if helpless, fingers clinging painfully to the beam underneath him as he watched the scene unfold.

When Vasquel's back met the pillar he clumsily reached for it, leveraging himself up against it, black eyes locked onto Slade's impassive face.

"W-wait!" he pleaded, holding up his free hand as he started to rise, and he made it halfway to his feet before Slade reared back, burying the knife in his stomach.

Vasquel slumped against the pillar, gurgling wetly around a mouthful of blood, hand falling to his side as he sank back down to the floor almost in slow motion. Only moments later his eyes dimmed, head falling forward against his chest.

No one spoke--even Bishop was silent, mouth agape, wide, unblinking eyes like empty pits against the pallor of his face.

Slade turned to regard the group of men near the TV who were still looking on, frozen. He wasn't even the slightest bit ruffled--shirt just barely specked with blood--and his jaw had resumed its slow chewing.

"Leave us," the mercenary said, voice rising, and as if the spell had been broken the men jumped out of their seats, knocking over their beers and snacks as they stepped over each other in a frantic race to the door.

Seconds later it was just Slade and Bishop--and Dick, hidden in the ceiling above, sick with shock at what he'd witnessed.

Slade began making his way back to Bishop, who was shaking where he stood, eyes darting wildly in his piggish face as he looked for an escape route.

"P-please--you don't have to do this," he babbled out, but Slade ignored him, flipping over the now-dead Giatti and yanking his knife free from the man's throat. The corpse slid off the table, landing on the floor with a wet, sickening thud.

With a terrified cry the politician flung himself across the table in a bid to escape, chips and cards flying in his wake, but Slade caught him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him back.

Bishop choked, struggling like a fish in a net as he grasped at his throat, but he was no match for Slade's strength. The mercenary pulled him off the table, spinning him around and shoving him against it, and now they were both standing directly underneath Dick.

Still he hung back, heart racing, paralyzed with indecision. He couldn't just stand by while Slade murdered a third person right in front of him--

"What's Sionis planning?" Slade demanded, slicing through his thoughts, blocking Bishop's escape with his own body.

"I--I--" Bishop's eyes were as wide as saucers behind his glasses, the lenses flecked with Giatti's blood, his white collared shirt heavily stained with it. He shrunk back against the table as far as he could go, hands clinging to the edge in a white-knuckled grip. "I have no idea what you're--"

The politician let out an agonized scream as Slade speared the blade through the back of his right hand, pinning it in place against the table. Blood sprung up as if summoned, exploding across his fingers and wrist--a stark contrast to the ghostly white of his skin.

"I'm feeling impatient today," the mercenary snarled in warning, pressing down against the knife with the heel of his hand, and Bishop howled, tears and sweat streaming down his face in equal measure. "I'll ask only once more: what are you and Sionis planning? Answer quickly, or this'll be the last card game you ever play."

Dick felt his chest pull tight with the weight of this sudden discovery, his body so tense and frozen he could've passed for one of the many gargoyles overlooking Gotham. Already guilt was rearing up inside him--the kind that only got stronger, every time he failed to protect someone, or prevent another death--but right now, in this second, the possibility of finally getting an edge over Sionis mattered more to him.

It was a sickening realization.

"Okay, okay!" Bishop gave in, Adam's apple bobbing wildly, his face flushed a violent red. "He--he said he'd pay off my old gambling debts... that he'd get rid of Duvall so I can step in as mayor, if I agree to keep the police from interfering with his business."

So that was Sionis's grand plan. Dick's head spun at the revelation.

Although Walter Duvall wasn't the most effective mayor in history, he did seem to genuinely care about cracking down on crime in Blüdhaven. If Black Mask succeeded in killing him and Bishop took over, it would be nearly impossible for Dick to stop the gangster from ruining what was left of the city from the shadows.

"So Sionis has found another spineless puppet to carry out his orders. How useful," Slade sneered, like he'd read Dick's mind. "And when is this assassination taking place?"

"D-during Monday's speech at City Hall. I told him it had to be somewhere public; less chance of anyone suspecting me. But I swear--I don't know how he's going to do it! I didn't want to know," Bishop insisted, the information coming easier now, his bloodied hand gone limp against the table.

"It sounds like you've covered all your bases," Slade remarked, easing away from the man just a few inches, and Dick could see Bishop's shoulders relax minutely. "What about Sionis's hit on Nightwing?"

"Hit?" Bishop's brow creased, his face taking on a look of genuine confusion. "All I know is we both agree it's well past time that little nuisance was dealt with. I plan on bringing the full weight of the police force down on him, since that old fool Duvall doesn't have the sense to do it himself."

Currently Dick had a tentative truce with the Blüdhaven police, who for the most part left him alone (and even grudgingly accepted his help, usually).

But if Bishop turned them against him--along with Sionis's men, and the assassins he'd hired--it would only be a matter of time before he was caught or killed by one or the other.

Slade leaned down sharply on the heel of the knife in retaliation, and Bishop whimpered, tugging uselessly against it, a fresh stream of sweat trickling down his temple.

"That's not for you to decide," he growled as he shoved in close again, dwarfing the man with his larger frame. "Where is Sionis hiding?"

"P-please--I swear I don't know!" the politician stuttered, shoulders shaking in rapid little micro-movements, looking up at the mercenary with terrified eyes. "We've only ever spoken on the phone! I don't know anything else!"

Apparently, Slade decided he was telling the truth. "...I see," he said after a moment, aloofness returning.

He finally ripped the knife free from the man's hand, leaving a jagged, oozing cut behind as he stepped away.

Bishop sagged against the table with a mournful groan, tear-stained and bloodied, head wobbling on his shoulders like it might fall right off.

"You're going to carry on as planned. If you breathe a word of this to Sionis--or anyone--tonight won't be the last time you hear from me," Slade promised, slipping the knife back into his pocket, and Bishop only stared at him warily, chest straining the buttons of his bloody, sweat-soaked shirt with every shallow, ragged breath.

"Go."

The politician all but ran from the room, nearly falling over his own feet in his haste.

Slade retrieved his jacket from the back of a chair on his own way to the door, the corpses of Vasquel and Giatti still slowly bleeding out behind him.

Dick waited exactly fifteen seconds after the mercenary slipped out of the apartment to lower himself down from the beam, landing soundlessly to the floor below--determinedly avoiding looking at the bodies--before hurrying after the man.

---

When Slade cut through an alleyway, Dick trailed after him--

--only to immediately be caught in an iron-clad grip and shoved none-too-gently against the grimy brick wall.

"...so you finally got a new suit," Slade murmured, close, thumb of the hand around his throat stroking gently over his Adam's apple (the same hand he'd just seen brutally murder two people).

He should've felt nothing but disgust--but instead his pulse quickened, that fluttery feeling already squirming to life in his stomach like a kid who'd just seen his middle school crush.

A million different responses raced through his head, and even he didn't expect the one that won out.

"You knew I was there," he said dumbly--more of a question than a statement. Sure, the mercenary's senses were enhanced because of the experimental serum, but he should've been pretty much invisible thanks to the stealth feature of his suit.

Slade exhaled shortly, overly warm against his face, and in the weak moonlight Dick could see that his eye had taken on that faint gleam of amusem*nt.

"You're not as subtle as the Bat," the mercenary agreed. "Although, to your credit, I didn't notice right away."

Predictably Dick felt himself scowl at the insult. "I'll try to be more subtle next time I walk in on you gutting someone like a fish." He was sure the image of the mercenary stabbing Vasquel in the stomach--of driving his knife into Giatti's throat without hesitation--was going to haunt him forever.

"Ah--that," Slade acknowledged mildly, like they were discussing the weather. "If I'd known it was bring your bird to work day, I might've held back."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe," Dick muttered, but he didn't shift away from the thumb still sweeping feather-light over his pulse-point. "Seriously, Slade? I told you to stay out of this!"

He was still reeling from the knowledge that the mercenary had gone off to help him, in his own twisted way.

But even if it had ultimately led to the reveal of Black Mask's plan, Dick would never accept the other man's deadly methods--one of many fundamental differences between them.

...although if he was being honest with himself, pride wouldn't have allowed him to accept any form of help. And Slade had to know it--which explained why the man hadn't bothered telling him what he was up to before taking off.

The hand on his throat squeezed in warning, warm breath fanning across his lips as the older man pressed in closer.

"Your permission isn't necessary," Slade said contemptuously, lip curling in a sneer. "Go back to the hotel. I'll be back shortly."

Dick started to argue--an angry protest already lined up on his tongue--but it disappeared when Slade leaned in, brutally capturing his mouth.

Instantly Dick rocked up against him, hands balling up in the front of the man's jacket as he kissed back, his brain going fuzzy at the familiar taste of mint and cloves and the scratch of facial hair against his chin.

"For once, do what I tell you," Slade admonished when they broke apart, pressing a last fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling away from him entirely, and shamefully enough Dick felt almost wistful as he watched the man go. "We'll talk more later."

Dick lingered in the alley after Slade had left, confused by the sharp 180.

Just this morning he'd been convinced that the other man no longer wanted anything to do with him--and now Slade was acting like nothing had even happened. Like he hadn't been off involving himself in things Dick had asked him not to.

He should've been too angry to even want to hear the other man out--but when it came to Slade, things had never been that simple.

Dick went back to the hotel.

---

He awoke with a gasp, the last remnants of his nightmare swirling away like water around a drain.

Dick stared groggily up at the vaulted ceiling above him as the events came flooding back: returning to the hotel after finding out that Bishop was in league with Sionis thanks to Slade's interrogation; peeling out of his suit and grabbing a quick shower before parking himself in front of the TV to wait for the mercenary to come back.

He must've fallen asleep waiting. But the dimmed lighting--and the blanket haphazardly thrown over him--hinted that Slade had returned at some point.

Dick found his phone laying on the carpet next to the couch, squinting down at the screen.

2:22 AM. He'd only been out for a few hours.

He let his phone drop back down to the carpet, slinging an arm across his eyes as the guilt from earlier resurfaced just like he'd expected.

Why the f*ck hadn't he done something? Why had he only stood by and watched as Slade slaughtered two men in front of him?

He didn't have an answer--at least none he wanted to examine.

Dick craned his head back, glancing over at the spiral staircase.

Slade had still been sleeping in the room upstairs. More than likely he was there now, maybe even asleep, although he knew the former soldier didn't sleep nearly as much as most people.

He debated with himself for only a minute before shoving the blanket away and coming to his feet.

Slade's door was closed, as usual, but he could see light streaming out from the slit underneath. Dick hesitated, suddenly nervous.

If he was a better person (a better hero) he could've convinced himself it was from what had happened earlier--but selfishly enough, his nerves had nothing to do with being confronted with undeniable proof of the man's career, once again.

Before he could change his mind Dick tapped on the door with the back of a knuckle, pushing it open just a crack and peering inside.

Slade was sitting in bed, a small book clasped in hand, dressed only in a dark blue t-shirt and black boxer briefs. His face was bare.

Dick froze, hand hovering on the doorknob, his own eyes roaming over the empty pink socket of the mercenary's missing eye.

He'd only ever seen Slade without his eye patch once for barely a second before the man had tugged the black leather into place, almost too quickly for Dick's brain to register what he'd seen at all.

It was strange seeing him without it--not because of the missing eye itself, but because his eye patch seemed as much a part of him as his blade, or his cigars. Without it, he looked--ironically enough--less foreboding.

"Finished lurking outside my door?" Slade spoke first as he set the book face-down in his lap, reaching over to the night stand for his eye patch like he'd read Dick's silence as discomfort.

"Don't," he blurted, and Slade paused, single eye flicking back to him, his brow raising above it in silent question.

Flushing, Dick pushed the door open all the way as he took a single step inside the room. "I mean--you don't have to. It doesn't bother me."

Slade huffed, hand falling back to his side, regarding him with the ghost of a smile. "No," he agreed. "If what you saw last night wasn't enough to make you run again--this isn't likely to, either."

"...you shouldn't have done that," Dick said, jaw going rigid as he remembered all the blood--and not just from last night. "Even if they were criminals, they didn't deserve to die like that."

Slade leaned his head back against the headboard, considering him. "I wonder--would you feel differently, if you knew they were two of the men hired to kill you?"

Dick blinked, caught off guard. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Vasquel and Giatti could have been two of the people hired by Sionis to come after him.

But that just meant they were two more people who had died indirectly because of him, bringing his Slade-sponsored body count up to four.

"...no. It would still be wrong," he answered, firm. He'd promised himself before he wouldn't let the mercenary kill in his name again--and he'd failed. Next time, he wouldn't.

Slade's faint smile returned, like he knew something Dick didn't.

"So you say. Or is that the Bat talking?" he asked, as if he were testing the waters again--prodding to see if there was still that part of Dick that had splintered off from Bruce's teachings, far enough to exploit. It had almost worked, once.

"Just stay out of it, okay? I don't want you killing anyone else for me," Dick gritted out, hands curling into fists beside him. "I know you think you're helping, but even if I wanted you to--there's a better way than that."

"Sometimes there is no better way," Slade said evenly, like it was only logical. "Not with men like Sionis--and not for men like me."

Reflexive anger rose inside him as he recalled the night the mercenary had told him something all too similar. Dick stamped it down, far too weary for a late-night argument over philosophical differences.

"I'm not doing this right now," he muttered, starting to pull the door closed again--but he hesitated, grip tightening to the point of numbness over the doorknob.

He wasn't sure what made him ask--only that the thought of going back downstairs alone without clearing the air between them suddenly felt more unbearable than confronting things head on.

"Can I... I mean..." The words got stuck in the dryness of his mouth as he became hyper-aware of that sharp eye watching him, just as observant as any two-eyed gaze. "Can I stay here? Just for a little bit?

"...you know what--nevermind, forget it," Dick back-tracked instantly, paralyzed with the fear of another rejection. Already he was turning to go; to run away, just like he always did. "I'll just--"

"Dick."

He turned back, stunned by the older man's rare use of his name.

The mercenary closed his book and tossed it onto the nightstand, moving over slightly in clear invitation. "Come here."

Heart throbbing, Dick cautiously entered the room, closing the door behind him.

It was wrong, how easy it was to slide into bed alongside the older man--to let Slade tug him into place so that his head rested in the man's lap just like he always did back then, burying his face against the hard muscles of his abdomen and breathing in the cotton scent of his shirt. He wasn't supposed to feel this comfortable in the hands of a man who killed as easily as breathing.

But as always, it wasn't enough to make him stop.

"...I had horrible nightmares. After my parents died," Dick told Slade's stomach, the words springing up from some raw, broken part inside of him, just from being held like this again. It was the first thing he could think to say. "I would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, for weeks on end. Reliving that moment, again and again... just watching them die. Too weak and helpless to do anything but watch."

Slade said nothing, but a heavy hand settled in his hair, carding through the black strands. Dick let out a shaky exhale, pressing his face more tightly against the man's shirt to hide the sudden wetness of his eyes.

"Alfred would come. Some nights he'd bring me hot chocolate... or tell me stories about when he was my age. Sometimes, he'd just sit with me. Either way, he always came."

The tears broke free, hot trails sliding down his face where it was tucked against the older man's shirt.

"But not him," Dick whispered, voice breaking just slightly at the end. "Never him."

After a few beats of silence Dick cleared his throat, finally composed enough to continue. "Then... one night... he told me I didn't have to live with the nightmares anymore. That I could--could--channel all that rage... that pain...into something else."

He laughed bitterly, hands curling into fists against the mattress, tears still streaming silently down his face. "I was eight years old."

His bitter half-smile faded. "But now... looking back... I think it might've been the only thing he knew how to do," he said softly, chest aching as he thought of Bruce, who'd been so young himself. "He couldn't comfort me after the nightmares like Alfred... but he could teach me how to fight them."

He didn't often spare any empathy for Bruce, because he was afraid if he did--if he held up a magnifying glass to things, even just a few seconds too long--then he might not be able to hold onto his anger towards the other man any longer. And after so many years, he wasn't sure who he'd be without it.

"And he did," Slade said, stomach vibrating under his cheek with each word, still petting through his hair like he didn't mind that this was the second time in less than a week that Dick had broken down in front of him, or that the front of his shirt was soaked through with Dick's tears.

"Yeah. I guess he did." Shortly after he'd started training with Bruce the nightmares had stopped completely. Even years later he rarely ever dreamed of the night his parents died.

He fell silent, oddly lulled by the mercenary's warm stomach rising and falling reassuringly under his head with each breath--until finally forcing himself to roll over so he was looking up at the other man, wiping at his damp eyes with the back of his wrist, Slade's hand pulling away from him at the movement.

"I thought you wanted me to leave," Dick said, forehead scrunching up as he searched the other man's gaze.

If Slade was thrown off by the abrupt change in subject he didn't show it.

"Why's that," he asked bluntly in typical Slade fashion, but his big hand found Dick's hair again.

"Because of what you said. In the bathroom? Before you left?" Dick scowled up at him, some of his usual fire returning. "I know you're old, but--"

He yelped--more for show than anything--as the mercenary gave his hair a sharp tug.

"You misunderstood--obviously," Slade said flatly, grip softening as he went back to his petting. Fond.

"Ooor, you need to be more clear," Dick shot back, gray mood vanishing entirely at the playful back-and-forth. It was just like how it was back when it was just the two of them, night after night. "Obviously."

"And I thought I'd been more than clear already," Slade said, with a hint of dry amusem*nt.

Dick made a face at him, but he couldn't help his answering smirk. "Yeah, right. You're always talking in f*cking riddles. You share a bunk with the Riddler back in the army or something?"

His grin vanished as the mercenary tilted his head back sharply, free hand coming up to rest over his throat, that dark eye--opposite the empty socket--boring into him.

"How's this," Slade said, almost conversational. "There's not a single event that has occurred in your life these past three years that I haven't been fully aware of. Every action you've taken--every decision you've made--has happened only because I allowed it.

"I'll lock you away again, if I see fit to. I'll allow you to defy me, if it amuses me. I'll let you fly around the city at night, playing your silly game, fighting your useless little fight in the name of justice, because it makes defiling you all the sweeter.

"Every part of you--your body; your spirit; the very thoughts inside that pretty head--belongs entirely to me. If I wish to kill ten-thousand men in your honor, I'll do so without a second thought.

"As long as you walk this earth--and I possess a single remaining breath--you will never be free of me."

Slade thumbed heavily over his bottom lip, half-lidded eye wandering his face like the man was trying to commit it to memory. "Is that clear enough for you?"

"...uh, yeah," Dick said hoarsely, tongue flicking against the callused thumb with each word, his cheeks blooming pink again. It was hard to tell if the other man was being serious--or if it was just more of his black humor. "I mean, I'm totally going to tell myself you're joking--because talk about overkill, Jesus--but point taken."

Slade only smirked, finally releasing his head and giving him a nudge. "Up. It's time for good little birds to rest for the night."

"...alright," Dick said, heart sinking, feeling oddly reluctant to leave. "I guess I'll see you in the morning."

He pushed up to standing, but Slade grabbed him by the hem of his shirt, tugging him back down onto the mattress.

"Don't play dumb," the mercenary said, sounding as close to exasperated as Dick had ever heard him, and he felt his face split into a grin. "From now on, you're sleeping in my bed."

"Fine," Dick agreed, happily sinking under the covers beside him and stretching out like a lazy cat. "But can we at least move it back downstairs after tonight? I think I'm used to the giant bed now."

Slade rumbled something that might have been an agreement, reaching over to switch out the light before laying down flush behind him. A heavy arm settled over his waist, and it was more than comfortable: it felt right, like no time had passed since they'd broken up at all.

It was confusing, how drawn he still felt to the other man, especially after the things Slade had done; the things he continued to do. It was something Dick had struggled to make peace with--had almost succeeded, throughout the length of their relationship, until the night that ended it all.

But he wasn't ready for this to end again--not yet. It wasn't something he'd completely realized until he'd thought Slade had abandoned him.

He was still terrified--and deep down, he knew it wasn't a good idea any more than it had been three years ago--but for now, at least in this moment, he found himself wanting to ride it out for as long as possible.

And if things went south--when they went south--then he would leave, just like the first time. Even if Slade accused him of running away.

"About all that stuff you said--" Dick broke off on a yawn, eyes already growing heavy. "You were kidding, right? 'Cause you should know by now... I won't let you."

"Go to sleep, little bird," Slade said, somewhere near his ear, and as if by magic Dick felt himself start to drift off again, strangely at peace.

He didn't have any more nightmares.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

Chapter Text

"Ready for more?"

"Nooo," Dick groaned out pitifully, summoning the last of his strength to inch away like a pathetic little slug--but a big hand caught his hip, easily pulling him back flush against the man behind him.

He shuddered as lips found the back of his neck, that evil hand stroking over his bare thigh almost innocently in contrast.

"What's the matter, pretty bird?" Slade murmured directly in his ear, kissing over the bite marks he'd left on Dick's neck earlier. He sounded unbearably smug. "You wanted my attention--and now you have it."

Dick groaned again--this time at himself.

For the first time in a long time he wasn't alone when he woke up.

Slade was sitting on the edge of the bed, back facing him, still dressed in his clothes from the night before like he'd actually slept in for once--and he was talking on the phone.

...or at least Dick figured someone else must be talking, because the mercenary was just sitting there in stony silence. He almost felt bad for whoever was on the other end.

Dick watched for nearly a minute--Slade occasionally giving one-syllable grunts of input--but it quickly became clear that the man wasn't going to hang up any time soon.

Already bored--okay, mostly just horny--he shifted to lay diagonally across the bed, jabbing Slade in the side with his bare foot.

When the mercenary didn't react Dick tried again, sharply grinding his heel into the top of Slade's thigh--and when that didn't work he wriggled closer, inching his foot even further, just barely brushing it over the man's groin--

He broke into a grin when Slade caught his foot like a fly in a trap, holding it hostage against his hard stomach--only to suck in a breath, his entire leg seizing up as the man began stroking lightly over the arch, grunting a vague affirmative to the person on the phone.

Dick tried to yank his foot away from the ticklish sensation, his other foot bracing against the mattress for leverage, but Slade only tightened his grip, fingers brushing deliberately against the sensitive skin.

It was almost embarrassing how his morning wood swelled even further in response, his co*ck straining against his underwear at this cruel and unexpected torture--but he was grinning like an idiot at finally getting the man's attention.

If Slade wanted to play games--then he could play them right back.

Dick pulled down his pants and underwear until they came to rest just under his balls, his co*ck springing free and smacking wetly against his stomach.

He licked over his palm and took himself in hand, settling further into the mattress, heat licking at the base of his groin with each brush of Slade's fingers against his arch and each twisted stroke of his own hand over his shaft.

Soon he grew impatient, the sound of his co*ck f*cking his fist growing louder in the quiet room as he moved his hips not-so-subtly against the mattress, trying his hardest to get Slade to look at him--but still the man didn't turn. Only the slight shift of broad shoulders under the blue t-shirt as he adjusted his grip on the phone gave any hint that the mercenary even heard him.

He was definitely being ignored.

Dick's hips stilled, hand going slack around his co*ck as his mouth pulled into a little pout--only to quickly be replaced by a smirk, his hand already resuming its stroking as another idea popped in his head.

"Oh, god," he moaned, overly loud--loud enough for the person on the phone to hear--flinging his head back dramatically against the mattress as his thumb swirled over the damp head of his co*ck. "f*ck, yeah--more--"

Dick broke off mid-moan as Slade suddenly dug his thumb right into a sore pressure point on the bottom of his foot, sending pain zinging across its surface.

Now he was crying out for an entirely different reason, both hands flying down to brace against the mattress as he reared back, struggling to pry his captive leg free.

"...understood. We'll speak again," Slade spoke at last into the phone--thumb finally easing off the point in his foot--before hanging up, leaning over to set it on the night stand.

"Okay--you win," Dick whined, giving another useless tug at the hold around his foot. His erection hadn't flagged at all--the traitor. "You can let go anytime now."

Slade tsked, knee coming up to rest against the mattress as the man turned halfway to face him at last, Dick's calf now slung across his lap.

"Less than ten minutes without my attention and you start acting like a child," the mercenary said sternly--tips of his nails raking down the bottom of Dick's foot again--and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smirk when Dick's breath hitched, toes curling sharply, his co*ck quivering against his stomach. "What do you think I should do about it?"

"You should stop being boring," Dick smirked back, all too aware he really was acting like a kid right about now, but he'd missed this: their playful flirting, from back in those days when he hadn't been quite as jaded, yet. And besides that, he'd almost forgotten how much fun messing with the other man was.

"Who was that? Your side piece?" he continued, teasing. "Or, wait, lemme guess--I'm the side piece, right?"

"Ridiculous," Slade dismissed him, but he looked just as amused by the flirting, big hand slipping under the leg of Dick's pants to stroke down his calf. "It's enough work keeping one little bird in check."

"No--I think I'm onto something," Dick insisted, still grinning ear to ear, flexing his calf purposely under the mercenary's hand. "It explains the shopping, and taking me on a date to the fanciest restaurant in town--oh, and the little gift you dropped off in my bank account.

"Speaking of which--"

He lifted up onto his forearms, slowly sucking in his bottom lip, his messy hair tumbling across his forehead as he regarded the mercenary with half-lidded eyes.

"I think I'm worth way more than ten thousand--don't you?" Dick asked heatedly, damp mouth curving into the faint little smile he'd used on countless women--and Slade--with great success in the past.

When Slade stood--taking his captured leg with him--Dick fell back against the mattress, his face coloring as the older man brought his foot up and pressed a kiss to the sole, single eye never breaking from his.

"If you want more--you'll have to earn it," Slade told him, the low timbre of his voice sending shivers up Dick's spine.

He let out a squawk as the other man effortlessly flipped him over onto his stomach by the ankle, dragging him to the edge of the bed so that his legs were dangling off of it.

"But first--punishment, for your childish distractions," the mercenary rumbled, stepping in close--that big hand sliding over the curve of his bare ass in a way that was impossible to misinterpret--and Dick moaned for real this time, his hips arching into it as he wormed his own hand underneath him to grasp his neglected co*ck.

He'd been earning it for hours now, and Dick was pretty sure he'd be okay with being broke for the rest of his life and never having sex again.

They'd both already gotten off three times: first with Slade hovering over him, taking him against the mattress as he trailed biting kisses across Dick's neck and shoulders; then making Dick kneel over his chest the second time so the mercenary could suck him off (much more skillfully than Dick had managed) and finger his slick hole simultaneously, before guiding him back down onto that stupidly big co*ck.

Not even twenty minutes later the man had spread him out on the bed, mapping every inch of him with teeth and tongue until his co*ck had grudgingly come back to life--then flipped him over and repeated the process before sliding back into him, Dick far too worn out to do anything but lie there and take it. That time his co*ck had barely dribbled out a few drops of come before giving up the ghost.

And now Slade was ready to go again, if the hard co*ck nestled snugly against the small of his back was any indication.

In his current state--with every inch of his body aching and bruised, most notably his ass--it felt like a threat.

"I-I can't take it again," Dick ground out, but his head was too muzzy to even try shrinking away from the other man again. "I think I seriously might die."

It was ironic, considering he should've been the one with the higher stamina due to his much younger age--but apparently the experimental serum had affected more than just the mercenary's strength and reflexes.

"Giving up already? That doesn't sound like the Boy-Wonder I know," Slade mocked, teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of his shoulder before soothing the bite with his tongue only seconds later, his hand coming up to squeeze over Dick's chest.

Even at the faint flicker of arousal from the mercenary's thumb rubbing teasingly over his nipple and the scratch of facial hair against his bare skin his co*ck didn't respond, completely tapped out against his thigh.

"Don't," Dick complained as the older man began rocking against him, stupid giant co*ck scorching hot against his heated flesh. "Seriously--my co*ck is KO'd here. You freakin' KO'd my co*ck. I guess I'm Ryu. No--definitely Ken. You're Sagat, obviously."

He heard the older man chuckle, breath fanning hot across his neck. "Still chirping. You must not be that exhausted."

"The point is--I literally couldn't get off again even if I wanted to. And I don't want to. Possibly ever." Until tomorrow maybe. Or at least a few hours from now.

"Hmm," Slade rumbled, big hand stroking over his low stomach, and Dick thought he felt the curve of a sharp smile against his shoulder. "We'll see."

The mercenary released him at last, coming up to sitting against the headboard.

Dick grudgingly flopped back onto his stomach, dragging his head up to look at the man in confusion-- but before he could question it Slade hauled him up by the armpits, maneuvering him face-first across the man's strong thighs.

That big hand smoothed over the tender, bruised skin of his ass--still tingling with heat from his punishment--and dull horror rose within him at the implication.

"Slade--" Dick said, panicked--hands bracing against the mattress as he lifted his chest up--but Slade shoved him back down, strong arm stretching across his midsection to keep him in place, the hot palm of his free hand sliding down Dick's spine in a parody of soothing.

He felt his breath catch as the mercenary's hand settled between his spread thighs, and it was only his full-body exhaustion that prevented him from jumping when the man's fingers brushed teasingly over his balls, thumb massaging the sensitive space just behind them.

"Uh," Dick breathed out, head dropping limply back down to the mattress as two of the man's fingers breached him far too easily. "Why? Asshole."

Even with the loosened slickness of his hole it felt like too much after three rounds of rough f*cking, stinging pain radiating with each slow drag of those thick fingers inside him.

"Why?" Slade mused, fingers moving in teasing strokes, and Dick let out a little whine as the man's free hand traveled down to his ass, roughly kneading the sensitized flesh before prying his cheeks apart further as if to make more room for himself. "Because I like tormenting you."

His face burned at the words--and the obscene squelching noises of the man's lazy fingering. Dick was seriously starting to hate himself for provoking him earlier.

All at once the fingers stilled, halfway inside him. "Should we prove you wrong?" Slade asked from above him, thoughtful, big hand stroking over his ass tenderly, but Dick wasn't so far gone that he'd forgotten the smarting pain it had mercilessly rained down upon him only a little over an hour ago.

His brow furrowed, the words hardly computing through the static in his brain--but they didn't sound good. "Prove me wr--"

The fingers slid back into place in one smooth thrust, the pads of them instantly zeroing in on that sensitive little spot inside him.

Dick inhaled sharply at the thrill of pleasure that jolted up his spine in response, realization hitting him like a punch to the face.

"Don't," he choked out, hips jerking forward as if electrocuted, but Slade ignored him, arm still easily holding him in place as he pressed against the same little spot dead-on--then again and again.

Dick let out a mournful wail, burying his face against the mattress once again as he gave up on escape, his head spinning as the older man's fingers crooked over that little gland with clear purpose.

Already his body was betraying him, his co*ck twitching with a mighty effort as it began rising from the dead, plumping up against the mercenary's thigh.

"Hmm? What's this?" Slade said with faux-surprise, coaxing him to half-hardness embarrassingly quickly, the muscles of his thigh flexing under Dick's rib cage. "Looks like you have another one left in you after all."

Dick managed a half-hearted sound of objection, eyes clenched shut against the dizzying, reluctant heat building inside him like a shaken-up soda bottle. "Slade--"

The arm released his mid-section in favor of winding around his throat instead, yanking his head up and back until he was practically in upward facing dog--forcing Dick to steady his hands underneath him to hold himself up, his low back arching to compensate for the angle.

"Perfect boy," Slade purred, fingers still performing their dark magic inside him, gently flexing the arm around Dick's throat as if to prove that he could. "I could keep you like this forever and never get tired."

"T-that makes one of us," Dick managed past the uncomfortable pressure on his larynx, arms straining mightily to hold him upright. Even with his co*ck hanging untouched he could feel he was close--too far past the point of no return to take it back. "Fuuuck--I thought you said you didn't come back to kill me!"

He couldn't even turn his head to look, but somehow he knew Slade was smirking anyways. The mercenary leaned in, hot mouth dragging idly along the length of his jawline like he wasn't casually taking Dick apart with just his fingers.

"Are you ready to sing for me again, beautiful little bird?" Slade asked hotly against the shell of his ear, tugging at the earlobe with his teeth. His arm lifted Dick's head back another inch or two more, until Dick was sure his spine was going to snap in half.

"Yes, dammit," Dick pleaded, not even resenting it anymore, arms wobbling with the struggle of staying upright as his co*ck throbbed and strained between his legs with impending release. "Slade, please--"

When the mercenary shoved down firmly against his prostate with both fingers he came with a guttural groan, toes curling sharply against the mattress, his co*ck shooting out far more come than the last time--all over the older man's thigh and the sheets beneath them.

Slade released the hold on his neck, and Dick nearly got a head rush from the momentum as he instantly collapsed forward, those thick fingers still buried inside him as deep as they could go.

When they resumed their firm little circles over the sensitive gland it took Dick's fuzzy, post-org*sm brain approximately five seconds to realize that the mercenary had no intentions of stopping.

"No--stop," he begged anyways, fists tightening in the sheets, eyes already getting misty at the overwhelming sensation--but Slade only growled approvingly, big hand squeezing over the back of his sweaty neck to keep him down.

It should've been impossible, but Dick could feel his groin pulling tight again even as his body thrummed with the weight of his last org*sm, pleasure-pain sparking with each firm, intentional jab of the man's fingers against his battered prostate.

This time it didn't take even half as long, his own fingers twisting painfully in the sheets as it raced up to meet him like concrete after free-falling off a building. "Oh, f*ck, Slade--I--I'm gonna--"

Dick screamed, nearly blacking out as he was shoved over the edge yet again, aching co*ck pulsing out another sizable load all over the mattress between the man's thighs as his hole clamped down around those thick fingers again and again. They milked him through it, wringing out every last drop until he was nearly shaking, so overstimulated he wanted to crawl right out of his own skin.

At last the fingers eased out of him, wiping slick on the back of his thigh. Dick was too drained to fight it when Slade maneuvered his boneless body again as easily as a doll's, positioning him on hands and knees so he was straddling the man's thighs backwards, his ass hovering only inches away from that monster co*ck.

"Stay just like that," Slade instructed, pressing down sharply on Dick's low back to bring his hips up a little higher, before leaning back against the mound of pillows once more.

Dick wordlessly did as he was told, dropping down to his forearms and resting his forehead against his balled fists. He could feel the older man's seed from earlier leaking out of him, slow trails swirling down the backs and insides of his thighs, his stretched hole fluttering like it was waiting to be filled up again.

When Slade thumped his giant co*ck against the swell of his ass Dick exhaled shakily, shoulders shifting as he fought to keep his hips still, but they started to sink anyways thanks to the drowsiness rapidly overtaking him.

The mercenary hiked him back up, fingers digging roughly into the crease of his thigh, that cruel thumb prying him open to expose him even further.

"Stay still," Slade repeated, and panic flared inside him as the man's co*ckhead slid over his swollen entrance--but it made no move to push inside, only dragged back and forth through the slick there. "Be a good little bird and let me use you again."

Dick's eyes fell shut as he felt the man begin roughly jerking his co*ck, fist smacking against the bruised skin of his ass with each stroke, the blunt tip catching on his tender rim.

"If only you could see yourself," Slade said, breath growing slightly labored now, the bed creaking under them at the force of the man's strokes over his oversized length. "Spread open and dripping with my seed--your pretty hole still begging me for more."

A big hand came down hard over his left ass cheek, sending flesh rippling under the impact. Dick gasped as it reignited the pain from earlier, rocking forward onto his forearms and momentarily freeing himself from the menacing press of the man's co*ck against his center--but Slade dragged him back, roughly kneading and stroking over the same spot, his other hand moving over his length at a more frantic pace.

"Almost," Slade gritted out, sounding distracted now, and when the head of his co*ck eased against Dick's abused hole--just barely dipping past the tight ring of muscle--Dick could only whimper, thighs nearly shaking with the effort of keeping himself in place, his heart racing in his chest like he was the one about to spend again.

With an animalistic snarl Slade came, fingers sinking hard into his flesh in one of many guaranteed bruises as the man flooded his ass with hot seed for the fourth time.

Within moments Slade eased out of him slowly like he was reluctant to--co*ckhead catching at his sore rim in a way that made Dick's breath catch--and the man's most recent load gushed wetly out of him like he was too filled up to take even a single drop more inside of him, the viscous fluid trailing down to dampen his perineum and the base of his balls.

"Filthy boy," Slade crooned--entirely too pleased--and Dick felt his neck heat even as his stomach flipped in a not-entirely-unpleasant way. "Come here."

Somehow he found a hidden reserve of strength to push himself back onto his haunches and turn around, collapsing heavily next to the mercenary on the bed and tucking in close against his side, his eyes already closing.

They didn't open even when Slade pressed him into the mattress again and came up to hover over him like a great, hulking beast, kissing over his face almost reverently--his cheekbone; his left eyebrow; his cheek--the coarse, ticklish scratch of the man's goatee nearly too much against his hypersensitive skin.

When Slade pressed a kiss to his eyelid Dick scowled feebly, lifting an arm to tiredly block his face from further assault--but the mercenary caught his wrist, pinning it to the mattress beside his head, that broad chest lowering against his as the man leaned in to capture his mouth.

Dick surrendered to it, blearily parting his lips, all the air pushed out of his lungs by the heavy weight of the other man on top of him as he let Slade lick into his mouth with a slow, hot drag of the tongue.

Finally the mercenary pulled away, tongue tracing over his slick bottom lip--and with a last kiss to the corner of his mouth the larger man dropped back down onto the mattress, gathering Dick in his arms and pulling him close.

"Feel disgusting," Dick mumbled, fingers sleepily drifting up to the man's chest to curl in the patch of silver hair there.

Cum still trickled out of him with every slight movement, the sticky trails sliding down the backs of his thighs and soaking the sheets underneath them. The room reeked of sex, and with his face this close to Slade's underarm he could smell the sharp, distinctly masculine scent of the older man's sweat. It should've been gross--was gross--but Dick found himself nosing his face in a little closer anyway, oddly hypnotized.

Dimly he recognized he should feel guilty at wasting half the day like this, now that he knew Black Mask's plan--but right now, in this quiet, still bedroom, his body still humming from the intense pleasure wrung from it, it was easy to trick himself into believing they were the only two people in the world.

"Rest," Slade said, stroking over his low back, and it was strange he could even still feel pleasure from such a simple touch after everything his body had just been through. "You can shower later."

"...will you still be here?" Dick heard himself say, eyes once again losing the fight to stay open. He didn't know why it mattered so much--but suddenly, even in the face of his full-body exhaustion, he felt like he couldn't fall sleep until he knew the answer.

The hand on his back paused--then just as quickly resumed its stroking like it had never stopped.

"Yes," Slade said--and just like that Dick let go, allowing sleep to drag him under.

---

"If only we'd gotten to Bishop sooner," Dick sighed, chin coming up to rest against Slade's thigh.

True to his word the mercenary was still there when Dick awoke several hours later, dressed in yesterday's clothes like he hadn't even left the room, sitting up against the headboard as he performed some mysterious task on his phone. Probably something nefarious--but Dick didn't really want to know.

For the past thirty-or-so minutes he'd been thinking out loud regarding Black Mask's scheme to assassinate the mayor.

The Mayor's annual 'New Year, New City' speech was a chance for him to address his plans for Blüdhaven during the year ahead, as well as answer any questions and concerns from the community.

It was typically held at the end of January, and this year's speech was scheduled for tomorrow--which meant he only had tonight to figure out a plan.

City Hall was closed to the public on the weekends, and security had been amped up in preparation for the event. Which begged the question of how Black Mask's men (because he wasn't naive enough to think the gangster would be the one getting his own hands dirty) were going to smuggle their weapons inside in the first place.

...and who even knew what weapons they were using. Bishop hadn't given them a whole lot to go on, but he'd mentioned that they'd planned for it to happen during a highly publicized event. Which meant something flashy, knowing Black Mask.

"Guns, probably," Dick mused aloud, shifting slightly against the mattress. He was stretched out on his stomach, head resting on the mercenary's thigh, because it hurt way too damn much to lay on his back or side. "Poison's definitely not his style--too subtle."

He would go tonight to stake out the building, but he suspected it wasn't going to be as easy as stopping a few crooks at the front door. For all he knew things were already set up, since they'd had Bishop to help them navigate around security.

The cops were useless, and getting them involved would probably only make things worse--especially if Black Mask had already gotten to some of them too. Dick had a feeling his best (and only) bet would be to go to City Hall right when they opened tomorrow and hope like hell he could put a stop to things before the Mayor ever even took the stage.

"I'll have to go undercover, obviously," he decided. "No way I'm getting into City Hall as Nightwing with all the cameras and security everywhere--especially not that early in the morning. Maybe I'll pose as a reporter or something."

"A reporter," Slade echoed flatly, still leisurely scrolling on his phone--the first thing he'd said in almost ten minutes. Every so often, just when Dick was convinced that the man had tuned him out, he'd say something to prove he was still listening. "I almost pity the man whose life hinges on Dick Grayson's acting abilities."

"f*ck you. I'm a great actor," Dick scowled, kicking at the man's sock-clad foot with his own. "I act my way out of stuff literally all the time. You should've seen me when I convinced the girl at the front desk to give me a key to your room. Or when I talked the woman at the bank into giving me a new debit card even without any ID."

Which, okay, the second one had more to do with Bruce's notoriety than his acting--and the room key thing had been mostly luck--but Slade didn't need to know that.

He heard the man huff out a sound that might have been a laugh. "I'm sure that had more to do with the face attached to the actor than his level of skill."

Before Dick could argue--because what kind of sh*tty backhanded compliment was that?--his stomach let out a deafening roar. He hadn't eaten yet today.

"Ugh--I'm starving," he complained, jostling awkwardly onto his side so he could glance up at the older man--only to get whacked in the face with the room service menu.

"Pick something," Slade told him. "I'll handle the ordering. Otherwise I might end up destitute by the time I leave here."

Dick felt his face heat at the offhand reference to his (admittedly dumb) method of 'punishing' Slade when he'd thought the man had left him. He'd never seen anyone smile as big as the room service attendant had when he'd signed over a several hundred dollar tip on top of an already expensive order.

"So you noticed that, huh," he said, lowering the menu from his face as he smiled sheepishly up at the older man. "I didn't think you would."

"I notice everything," Slade said simply. Creep. "And you did think so--or you wouldn't have done it."

Touché.

"So what? It's not like you can't afford it," Dick said dismissively, burying his nose in the menu to shield himself from the man's gaze. "Umm... get me some of that salmon I had the day after you kidnapped me. I think I want the roasted potatoes this time, though."

"Fine," the other man said shortly, plucking the menu from his grasp, and Dick didn't like the look of the barely-there smile that was revealed behind it. "And while we're waiting--another round of punishment, for your petty revenge."

Dick's mouth dropped open in genuine horror, his ass twinging sharply as if on cue.

"Funny. You're gonna put the Joker out of a job," he played along, cracking a weak smile, but he could feel that it didn't quite land. "No, seriously--please tell me you're joking."

---

Blüdhaven City Hall sat on a grassy knoll overlooking the heart of downtown, its gray, Neoclassical-style facade towering somberly over the streets below it. At four stories that nearly spanned the length of two football fields and an attached car garage--it was one of the largest buildings in the city.

Dick arrived at 7:45 am, dressed business-casual in fitted gray slacks and a white and gray gingham shirt, signature sunglasses perched on top of his head.

He hadn't seen or learned anything useful during his stake out last night--except that City Hall was now employing a private company called 'Echelon Security' to guard the building more fully. After looking into them he hadn't found anything suspicious, but something about it didn't sit right with him.

Either way, things had been locked down so tightly he hadn't even been able to get close. Just as expected, there was no other choice but to go undercover the day of the planned attack instead.

Surprisingly, for all the trouble Slade had given him lately, the mercenary hadn't tried to talk him out of his (admittedly half-baked) plan.

"Anything that brings Sionis one step closer to ruin is a worthwhile pursuit," was all he'd said about it. Dick had a feeling the man was still working on his own pursuit of the gangster--but he hadn't felt like arguing about it that early in the morning.

He wasn't the only one who'd come early: there was already a small news crew from the Blüdhaven Daily Reporter gathered by the curb outside just like he'd hoped, setting up for their story.

He zeroed in on one of the reporters. Dark hair, slender enough build, maybe only a few years older--Dick was sure he could pass for him, as long as nobody looked too close.

Even better, he could easily make out the man's employee ID badge, the lanyard hanging carelessly from the pocket of his khakis.

Hands stuffed casually in his own pockets, Dick slipped his sunglasses into place before strolling over to the news van in the pretense of climbing the stairs to the building.

"Hey! Can someone get me the--ugh, forget it, I'll do it myself," he heard the man grumble to himself as he approached. "Just like everything else around here."

Sorry, buddy--but your day's about to get worse.

The reporter rounded the van, alone, head bent as he focused on the papers clutched in hand, and it was almost too easy.

He gave a shocked cry as Dick ran straight into him, knocking him off balance and sending his papers flying all over the sidewalk--removing the badge from the man's pocket and slipping it neatly into his own with one quick grab at the exact moment of impact.

"sh*t--my bad. You alright?" Dick apologized, still pressed against him, his hand resting on the other man's waist in an effort to steady him.

"Nevermind that--my papers!" the man snapped, yanking away from him as he scrambled to pick them up before the wind could blow them away.

Dick helped him, sheepishly handing over the crinkled pile he'd collected. "Here you go, man. Sorry about that."

"Watch where you're going next time, huh?" the reporter scowled at him as he snatched the papers from Dick's hand none-too-gently, already dismissing him in favor of putting them back in order.

"Sure," Dick said with a blithe smile, hands already finding their place in his pockets.

He made his way to the stairs, whistling a jaunty tune to himself as he began jogging to the top.

---

"Sorry, honey--building's not open to the public today," the rotund guard informed him cheerily at the security check point just inside the main lobby, brown eyes warm in her kind face. "Mayor Duvall's got his speech at eleven. We'll be back to normal visiting hours tomorrow, though."

"Actually--I'm with the press," Dick replied smoothly with his own smile, holding up the reporter's badge--Alex Warner--just long enough for her to glimpse their similar features. "I know I'm early, but I thought I'd get some pictures of the building for our upcoming feature on the history of the city. It's my first front-page story."

"First time on the cover, huh? Well, that's real special." She motioned to the plastic bin. "Go ahead and put your things down and step on through, then."

Dick put his wallet, phone, and the ID badge (face down) in the bin, hesitating only a moment before unclasping the holographic computer from his wrist and setting it carefully on top of the pile.

He'd brought it along with him, certain it would prove useful, although unfortunately its diminished capabilities were pretty noteworthy: there was no cryptographic sequencer like the one Bruce often used, and he wouldn't be able to do any complex forensic scans remotely.

Bruce had also only granted him read-only access to certain files--not the extensive dossier he'd utilized as Robin. As far as system-level security went, he was hovering somewhere between 'collaborater on a shared Excel workbook' and 'customer who had been reluctantly given the wi-fi password at the local independent coffee shop'.

Beyond that, it had even less functionality outside the suit. He'd still have various scanning and hacking abilities, but without the whole suit module to monitor his identity and biometrics he wouldn't even be able to connect to the Batcomputer--likely as a built-in security measure.

Still, he realized that complaining about being given such a gift--especially when he hadn't expected it--would make him a complete ass. He'd just have to do some detective work the old-fashioned way.

The computer was unobtrusive enough to pass as a regular smartwatch, but the security guard noticed it anyways.

"Haven't seen one like this before," she commented as he stepped under the X-Ray scanner, idly poking through his belongings before pushing the bin down to meet him on the other side.

"It's a new model," Dick replied easily, clipping it back into place on his wrist. It was always easier when it wasn't technically a lie. "Straight from Japan."

"I just can't keep up with all this new technology," the guard said with a click of her tongue, shaking her head ruefully. "When I was a hot young thing about your age I was just excited to get my first Walkman. You probably never even had a Walkman, did you?"

"No--I don't think so," he agreed with a bland smile, collecting the rest of his things from the bin. "Thanks for your help, ma'am."

"Now, now--none of that 'ma'am' stuff, either. You're gonna make me feel even older." The guard actually winked at him. "You have fun taking those pictures, honey. I'll be keeping an eye out for your front-page story."

"Uh, right. Thanks again." Dick gave her a stiff little nod, smile still frozen in place as he turned to go.

He waited until he was out of her line of sight to adjust a few quick settings on his holographic computer so it would alert him if it detected anything questionable: gunpowder; toxins; any other suspicious chemicals.

Probably won't do much good with so many armed guards around--but better safe than sorry, Dick thought as he ventured further into the building.

The speech was to take place in the spacious front hall, just around the corner from the main lobby. It was lined on either side by a row of pillars, the room illuminated by the skylights embedded in the domed ceiling overhead.

Already a temporary stage had been erected on one end just in front of a giant oil painting of what supposedly depicted the founding of Blüdhaven. Dick recognized it from some of the mayor's previous televised addresses.

A crew of maintenance men were hard at work: setting up a sea of chairs in front of the stage; polishing the linoleum floor; hanging and taping wires for the audio-visual.

It was already a quarter after eight, which meant he had less than three hours until the Mayor's speech. His first objective was finding a way into the surveillance control room so he could check the security feeds for evidence of Black Mask's men setting their plan into place.

The problem was getting there without being noticed. Although this early there weren't many others around--just a few staffers and various other employees, trickling in and out of the hall as they made their way to work--Dick spotted several security guards lingering near a mounted map of the building, just in front of the elevators. They wore the same branded Echelon Security jackets he'd noticed on the guards last night.

There was no way they were going to let a reporter have free reign of the building--especially not today.

Stairs it is, then. But how was he going to figure out where to go?

The schematics he'd found last night had proved useless--the most recent copy was from almost seven years ago, way before the building's recent, extensive renovations.

His eyes scanned over two maintenance men who were busy carrying a stout podium over to the short set of stairs that led up to the stage.

A maintenance worker would definitely know which floor the surveillance control room would be on--right?

Dick slipped his sunglasses into place before heading over to the two men. Time for more acting.

"...swear to God if you drop this thing on my toes you're gonna be in for a world of hurt, buddy," the taller man--dressed in a gray, environmental control jumpsuit, his simple name tag reading 'Bill S.' in a messy scrawl--told his coworker, hawkish features contorted into a grimace.

"Shut up and help me get it up the stairs," the second man--'Cal', according to his name tag, his identical uniform straining at his rounder frame--snapped back. "If we don't get this thing set up in time we're both gonna be in for a world of hurt. I still gotta make sure the bathroom's stocked before the speech."

"Excuse me."

They both jumped at the sound of his voice like he'd snuck up on them, the taller man--Bill--losing his grip on the podium in his surprise. It landed against the floor with a heavy thud, only inches away from the second man's foot.

"You idiot!" Cal hissed, carefully lowering the other end to the floor with a more muffled thud as he shot his coworker a poisonous look. "You almost took off my foot!"

"Uh--sorry to bug you," Dick cut in, interrupting before they could start arguing, "but I'm kinda lost. I'm here to inspect the camera feeds in the surveillance control room before the speech starts--but I have no idea where I'm supposed to go. Can you point me in the right direction?"

The two men exchanged glances.

"Sure, buddy," Cal huffed, eyeing him testily. "Should be on the second floor. There's signs right when you get off the elevator."

"Ah--awesome. Thanks. But, uh, between you and me--" Dick leaned in a little, lowering his voice a few octaves.

"Kinda had a late night last night, you know?" he said with a sheepish grin, tapping his sunglasses in emphasis. "Not sure my stomach can handle a ride in an elevator. There any stairs around here?"

"Through that door there," Bill spoke up, jerking his thumb in the direction of a door behind the left side of the temporary stage, just barely visible between two columns. "Can't miss 'em."

"Great. Thanks again," Dick thanked them with a smile. Another win. Who said I can't act?

"Yeah, yeah. Beat it, kid. Can't you see we're working here?" Cal turned back to his coworker as he reached for the podium again, already forgetting Dick's existence. "On the count of three, alright? You drop it again, and this time my foot's goin' up your ass."

Dick left them to their work. Glancing around to make sure there were no security guards--or anyone else--watching, he headed for the two pillars, disappearing around the short corner behind them and finding the door.

The doors on the second floor were all clearly labelled overhead. Fortunately he didn't pass anyone on his way through the halls, eyes sliding over each sign as he searched for the right room.

Soon he came across the building directory sign, posted right outside the elevators just like the maintenance worker had mentioned--but there was no listing for the surveillance control room on this floor.

Frowning, Dick re-read the sign, finally spotting the listing under the heading for the third floor: Surveillance Room, room 309. They must've accidentally given him the wrong floor.

Unfortunately, according to the sign the third floor was only accessible through the employee elevators, color-coded blue unlike the ones for general use. Which meant he was going to need an employee badge.

The blue elevators were easy enough to find. Dick leaned against the wall just a few feet away from them, pushing his sunglasses back up onto his head and pulling out his phone as he waited.

It took less than five minutes for the doors to open, a woman with close-cropped brown hair in a tan business suit emerging, her employee badge dangling from a lanyard in the opposite hand as her briefcase.

Dick kept his gaze trained on his phone, arm loosely crossed over his chest--but the woman didn't even look at him, her wedges clicking against the polished floor as she made to walk past him.

He waited until she was halfway down the hall before pushing off the wall and following after her, careful not to get too close, silently pressing a few buttons on the holographic computer to ready the scanner.

Just as she went to turn the corner at the end of the hall he stepped in a little closer, angling his wrist so the screen was level with her badge. The scanner instantly snapped onto it, copying the card in a split-second--quick enough for him to turn and head around the opposite corner without stopping.

Dick heard her pause--sensed her turning to glance over her shoulder--but he didn't look back, diverting his attention back to his phone as he strode away. The clicks of her footsteps started back up only seconds later.

Way to go, Dick. She probably thinks you're some kind of pervert. But it had worked, at least.

He circled around the hall back to the employee elevator, holding the skimmed badge up to the scanner, and the blue doors obediently opened for him.

On the third floor he passed two employees in the hall, but they didn't give him a second glance. Only minutes later he stood in front of room 309--

--which was where he hit his next minor snag. Through the door Dick could see a male employee with short, spiky hair sitting in a rolling chair in front of a row of monitors at a cluttered desk, sipping idly at his coffee. A female employee in a white blouse stood off to his left, also watching the screens, her long brown hair tied into a tight ponytail behind her.

How the hell was he going to distract them so he could get inside? He had to think of something fast before someone caught him creeping outside the door.

As it turned out, fate intervened. When the two employees turned and began shuffling towards the door Dick drifted a few feet away from it, pulling out his phone and holding it up to his ear like he was on a call.

"--seriously have to do this right now?" he heard the male employee complain as he emerged, holding the door for his coworker, coffee cup still clutched in hand.

"I know, I know--but Lawrence said it'll only take ten minutes, tops," the woman sighed, ducking under his arm on her way out. "Let's just get it over with."

Dick waited until they disappeared down the hall before trying the door, finding it unlocked. He slipped inside and gingerly closed it behind him, crossing the small room in two strides as he approached the monitors.

The employee's password was a breeze to hack, and the security footage from the past several weeks was easy to find. He started with the last few nights, focusing on the feeds from cameras aimed at the building's various entrances.

Before long he'd found something suspicious: a noticeable chunk of footage missing from the parking garage around 10:00 pm on Saturday, shortly after Slade's interrogation of Bishop.

The deleted footage was a bit harder to get to, since it required hacking into the server. Dick worked quickly, brow furrowing as his fingers flew across the screen of the holographic computer, one ear listening for the door behind him.

In just under three minutes he'd recovered it. Dick pressed play with a pounding heart, eyes glued to the screen.

Within seconds a gray van came down the ramp, headlights blazing as it pulled into an empty parking space, and Dick felt a spike of adrenaline as he saw the company logo on its side.

Echelon Security. So the private security company was on Black Mask's payroll right alongside Bishop. Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

Two men in the same branded jackets got out. The feed wasn't clear enough to show them in any detail--and there was no sound--but they were both Caucasian and around average height, their dark hair hidden under baseball caps. They shoved open the van's side door, producing a sleek metal briefcase from inside.

From the right side of the screen another 'security guard' appeared, pushing a double-level cleaning cart in front of him. He held the door of the cart open as one of the men loaded the briefcase inside, before pushing it back the way he'd came, the two other men trailing after him.

Dick tracked the deleted footage through several other cameras around the same time frame, cranking it up to 2x speed as he watched the mens' progression into the building with bated breath.

Finally, their trail stopped right in front of a men's bathroom just off the main lobby on the ground floor, all three of them disappearing inside. Minutes later they reappeared with the cart, the two newcomers parting ways with the third man and heading back to the parking garage.

Whatever they were using--it was in that bathroom.

Dick jumped up from the chair--only to immediately sit back down as another thought came to him. While he was in, he might as well try to find any logs relating to Echelon Security--including any scheduled deliveries from the company.

It didn't take long to find a contract agreement between the City of Blüdhaven and Echelon. Nothing about any scheduled deliveries of equipment--big surprise--but he did find a list of guards hired through the private company.

Dick copied it to his computer, making to close out, but something else caught his attention--a complete employee directory for City Hall.

Might as well grab that too. It could come in handy later, if it turned out anyone other than Bishop and the security guards were in bed with Black Mask.

He quickly covered his tracks as he disconnected from the server, taking another precious few moments to permanently delete the footage of his own entrance into the surveillance room before taking his leave--only slipping back into the hallway when he was sure the coast was clear.

Dick made it just a few feet down the hallway on his way back to the elevators when a loud shout rang out after him.

"HEY! You there!"

Mentally cursing, Dick reluctantly turned to find a blonde woman in a floral blouse and navy skirt storming down the hall towards him in sky-high heels, her pretty face set in a scowl.

"Who are you? How did you get up here?" she demanded as she reached him, looking him up and down suspiciously.

Damn. His acting skills were really getting a work out today. Fortunately, if there was one group he felt more than confident in winning over, it was attractive young women.

"I'm not totally sure, to be honest," he said lightly, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck with an abashed grin. "I thought I was getting off at the first floor, but I must've hit the wrong button."

"Oh really." She crossed her arms over her chest, brown eyes narrowing. "Who are you? This floor is employee-access only."

Dick made a big show of widening his eyes, hand sliding away from his neck and falling back to his side. "Seriously? Well, that explains why the lady on the elevator gave me a weird look when I got on," he joked, but she only stared at him, unamused.

"Heh. Sorry. I'm a reporter, actually," he told her with a cool smile, hands finding their default position in the pockets of his slacks. "I know I shouldn't be roaming around, but I was trying to get some pictures for an upcoming story before the speech. I didn't realize this floor was for employees only, though. I guess that's what I get for not reading the signs."

She stared at him a moment longer, painted lips slightly pursed--before turning abruptly on her heel.

"Follow me," she said briskly, towering heels clicking against the floor as she strode purposefully away. "If you're a reporter, then you won't want to miss the mayor's press conference."

"Press conference?" Dick jogged after her, frowning. "Isn't that usually done after the speech?"

"Usually," the young woman agreed as they reached the employee elevator, swiping her badge and ushering him on before stepping in after him. She leaned against the mirror and produced a phone from her pocket, a lock of blonde hair falling across her face as she impatiently checked the screen. "But Mayor Duvall won't have time for questions afterwards due to some urgent schedule changes, so he's doing it before instead."

She put the phone away again, glancing back up at him. "But you would already know that, wouldn't you, if you hadn't been too busy snooping around," she said with a little smirk, tucking the hair back into place behind her ear, and Dick easily recognized the flirty lilt to her voice, clear as a flashing neon sign.

"Yeah, maybe," he replied with a lazy smile of his own, and suddenly he wasn't acting anymore. "But then I wouldn't have gotten caught by you. And if you ask me, this is way more exciting than some boring press conference."

She rolled her eyes with a little huff, a curtain of blonde hair hiding her face as she turned her head away, but Dick saw the smile still playing around her tinted lips in the mirror.

"It's this way," she said when the elevator reached the first floor, stepping out before the doors had even fully opened and heading off in the exact opposite direction of the bathroom he needed to search. "Hurry--it should be starting soon."

Dick grudgingly followed after her, casting a fleeting glance down the opposite hall. He had no choice but to go if he wanted to avoid raising her suspicions again--but maybe he could slip out unnoticed when everyone else was distracted.

"Oh--and don't even think about pulling anything else," she told him over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched, but her eyes were glittering with amusem*nt. "I'm keeping my eye on you."

Well, sh*t. How long could a press conference last, anyways? He'd play along, for now.

"Yeah? Same here," Dick grinned as she turned back around, long blonde hair bouncing behind her as they made a beeline for one of the many doors lining the main hallway. "You drink coffee? 'Cause there's this amazing little place not far from my apartment. Only fair-trade, organic coffee, imported directly from Seattle--the best of the best. And you look like a girl who appreciates the best of the best."

It probably wasn't smart to try and pick up cute girls when he was involved with a giant, scary man who practically got off on killing anyone who even looked at him funny--but old habits die hard, and all that.

"Cute--but I'm engaged," the young woman answered loftily as they reached their destination, flashing her left hand to show off a sizable rock on a sparkling diamond band--but when she turned she was smirking again, opening the door and hurriedly waving him in. "Go."

The conference room was nearly at full capacity, staffers and members of the various local news stations listening raptly to Mayor Duvall, who was already speaking. Echelon security guards lingered on either side of the stage, silently watching the crowd.

The only empty seat was one near the end of the second row. Not exactly an ideal position for an early getaway--but Dick could feel the blonde woman's eyes boring into him. Reluctantly he started down the aisle, dodging cameras and journalists on his way.

"...and so first I would like to extend an apology from Deputy Mayor Bishop for his inability to attend today," the Mayor droned into the array of microphones arranged in front of him at the podium. "He was called away on urgent business early this morning, but asked me to convey his unwavering dedication to working towards a more prosperous--and safer--city for all citizens in the year ahead."

Yeah, I bet. What a shock he had urgent business today, of all days, Dick thought sourly to himself as he took his seat, turning his attention to the mayor.

Walter Duvall was a portly man of indeterminate age with tired eyes and a sparse ring of gray hair, his tie fastened uncomfortably tight against the thick, reddened column of his neck. He had a manner of speaking that made it sound like he was perpetually worried--which, Dick supposed, made sense for a man responsible for a city like Blüdhaven.

A sea of hands flew up all around him as the mayor finished speaking, eagerly vying to ask their questions.

"Ah--yes," Duvall said warily, pointing at a young woman with auburn hair in the row ahead of Dick.

"Mayor Duvall--can you offer any insight into the two recent arson cases?" she asked, holding up her recorder as she spoke. "Have the police uncovered any leads as to who might have been involved?"

"Well--ah, no, not to my knowledge," Duvall admitted, "but I've been informed they're working diligently to resolve both cases. Ah--you, there, in the red shirt."

A weedy blonde man seated near the middle lowered his hand. "What about Nightwing?" he pressed, pushing his square-rimmed glasses up his nose, and Dick automatically tensed in his seat at the almost accusatory tone. "I heard he was at the apartment fire--and that someone saw him near that old warehouse in the Firestone District, right before it went up in flames. Seems kind of strange he was spotted at both crime scenes before the crime even happened."

Okay, that's not even true, Dick thought indignantly, biting down hard on his tongue. Well, maybe the warehouse--but the fire had already been started at Sycamore Square well before he'd arrived on scene.

"Unfortunately, I cannot comment as to the motives of the vigilante known as Nightwing," Duvall said dismissively, eyes already scanning the crowd for another hand. "Yes, you, in the floral dress."

"What exactly is the relationship between the Blüdhaven Police and the self-professed hero known as Nightwing?" another woman asked imploringly, a bulky portfolio resting on her crossed legs. "It does seem odd that the police have scarcely commented on his involvement since he arrived in the city nearly three years ago--or his presence at both recent crime scenes."

Duvall noticeably bristled, his ruddy cheeks going even redder. "I assure you--there is no relationship between the Blüdhaven police force and this--this--masked man who calls himself a hero," he answered, the wavery quality of his voice becoming even more pronounced as his volume steadily climbed. "Now--"

"Are you seriously implying that Nightwing might have been behind the recent arson cases?" a middle-aged woman said as if the mayor hadn't even spoken, glancing in disgust at the woman in the floral dress. "If it wasn't for him, all of those people in that apartment building would've died!"

"The fire department was already there, though," a man with a neatly-trimmed beard pointed out reasonably from the fifth row. "What does it say about Blüdhaven if police and emergency services can't even do their jobs without getting help from some guy in a cheap costume?"

Cheap? Really? Dick fought to keep from scowling, pretending to check something on his phone to distract himself from the heat rising to his face.

It wasn't exactly news to hear how some people felt about Nightwing--he knew all too well that the citizens of Gotham had often voiced similar thoughts regarding him and Bruce. Still, it did kind of sting a little, especially when he'd been working his ass off to stop Black Mask.

"Well, I think he should be commended," a skinny man with a shaved head spoke up. "If the police aren't going to put a stop to all the crime, then I say good on Nightwing for doing something about it!"

A few other voices piped up, a mini argument breaking out in the crowd as Duvall stood aghast on stage, sweat beading at his temple, his face growing redder by the second under the bright stage lights.

Several staffers quickly got the argument under control, and the conversation turned to other, non-Nightwing related topics--but Dick only grew more and more tense with each passing minute, alternating between checking his phone and glancing over at the young blonde woman from earlier.

She stood against the far wall, attention dutifully trained on the stage--but the third time she seemed to feel his eyes on her, shooting him a pointed look before turning her gaze back to the mayor.

There was no way he could get up and leave the room without her (and everyone else) noticing--and besides that there were two Echelon security guards stationed in front of the doors like an impenetrable stone fortress, their hands clasped behind their backs.

It'd be impossible to get through them without some kind of confrontation. He would have to wait.

By the time the press conference was over--it had lasted just over an hour, as Dick confirmed after checking his phone for the thousandth time--there were only twenty more minutes until the speech.

The second Duvall stepped off the stage Dick bolted from his seat, weaving through the sea of journalists and reporters on his way to the door, but it still took several minutes just to exit past the crowd.

He went straight for the men's bathroom in the shadowed back corner of the main lobby, walking as fast as he dared, silently begging the universe to give him just a little more time.

There was no one in the bathroom. Dick hastily locked the door behind him before making a mad dash to the row of stalls, kicking open the doors, his gaze wildly searching each one before moving onto the next--but there was nothing.

That's when he heard it: a quiet beeping, coming from his holographic computer. Dick checked the screen, eyes widening at the message.

WARNING: CHEMICAL TRAIL DETECTED

Trace amounts of C4, from the looks of it. He'd been wrong--they were using a bomb.

Heart leaping into his throat, he spun back around, eyes zeroing in on the only other enclosed space: the cleaning supply closet.

The beeping grew louder as he approached it, its flimsy lock ripping off easily under his hand as he threw the door open and flipped on the light switch next to it without looking.

There were the usual cleaning supplies: mops, buckets, bottles of cleaning solution, extra toilet paper stored on the narrow shelves--but something caught his eye, stuffed under a box on the second shelf.

A handful of empty, unbranded name tag holders, still in the box.

Dick frowned, mind racing as he thought--only to have an off-handed comment from earlier resurface out of nowhere.

"If we don't get this thing set up in time we're both gonna be in for a world of hurt. I still gotta make sure the bathroom's stocked before the speech."

He sucked in a breath, remembering the two maintenance men with their messy, handwritten name tags. And they'd sent him to the wrong floor, almost like they hadn't known where the surveillance control room was--

Frantically Dick wracked his brain as he tried to remember their names, the words shooting up from the unconscious recesses of his mind.

Bill S. and Cal.

He brought up the City Hall employee directory, navigating to the maintenance department with a few rushed clicks, his eyes flying over the list of names. It listed both current and previous employees, dating back what looked like at least a year--and not a single Bill S. or Cal to be found.

"Goddammit--I'm too late," Dick growled, spinning on his heel again as he hurried to make his way back to the main hall.

Nearly all of the chairs in front of the temporary stage were occupied, camera crews already lined up behind the last row with equipment in place, the crowd's chattering echoing throughout the spacious room. There was no sign of Duvall--but there were several Echelon guards lingering on the sidelines, watching expressionlessly.

As Dick got closer his holographic computer started beeping with the same flashing warning sign as earlier, drawing a few curious looks.

f*ck. He frantically switched it to vibrate-only, standing off to the side as he desperately scanned the room--but he didn't see Bill S. or Cal, or any other maintenance worker for that matter.

Think, Dick. Where would they put the bomb?

His eyes snapped back to the stage, fixating on the podium, the pieces clicking into place as he remembered the two 'maintenance workers' lugging the heavy piece of furniture over to it. The podium was ancient, made of what looked like solid maple wood, its base narrow--but plenty wide enough to hide a small bomb inside.

Heart racing, Dick surveyed the crowd, calculating. An aisle separated the audience into two different sections, the nearly-full first rows on both sides at least twenty-five feet from the base of the stage.

Based on the computer's readings (and the size of the metal case he'd seen in the footage earlier; not to mention the size of the podium itself) the bomb probably had a blast radius of ten to fifteen feet at most. A directional bomb, then--maybe some kind of low-grade claymore mine, only meant to kill Duvall and anyone unlucky enough to be on stage with him.

A sudden wave of clapping broke his thoughts, his head whipping over in time to see Duvall entering from one of the doors off to the side of the room, smiling blandly at the applause, his hand lifted in silent greeting as he headed for the stage.

Goddammit--think! He had to do something--but what?!

There was only one choice. Grim-faced, Dick slid his sunglasses back into place as he took a step forward.

"HEY!"

Hundreds of heads turned to look as his shout rang out over the fading applause. Duvall stopped to look, too, halfway to the short set of stairs, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

"Yeah! I'm talking to you, Duvall!" Dick continued loudly, pushing past the row of cameramen into the aisle that divided the sea of chairs. "How dare you go up on stage and pretend like everything's fine after all the sh*t that's been going on in this city!"

There was a ripple of hushed murmurs from the crowd, people exchanging unsure glances at the interruption. Duvall himself looked dumbstruck, muttering something to the nervous-looking young aide at his side.

"Is this part of the speech?" he heard someone whisper, but Dick ignored them, eyes focused on Duvall as he started down the aisle.

"What about the apartment building that was burned down, huh?! What about the murders of the three men who lived there, the day before the fire! The police haven't even named any suspects--but you say that things are 'being handled'?!" Dick shouted, making his way straight for the older man. "Don't you dare go up there and lie right to our faces! You don't deserve to stand on that stage and call yourself the mayor!"

He was all too aware of the cameras turning to track his every move, greedily taping this exciting turn of events at what was usually an empty, mundane speech.

"For God's sake, get this lunatic out of here!" a male staffer hissed from the sidelines, glaring daggers at the two security guards nearby.

They started down the aisle towards him with purposeful steps, but Dick cut through the nearest rows of chairs to avoid them, ignoring the shocked cries from the audience as he shoved his way through.

The guards circled back around, intercepting him as he exited the row, but Dick easily swept the first man's feet out from under him--sending him crashing to the floor--before catching the second one in the face with an elbow. The man staggered backwards with a cry, clutching at his bleeding nose as he tripped over the fallen body of the other guard and fell on top of him.

The mayor stood frozen, the ruddiness in his cheeks become more pronounced with Dick's every approaching step.

"What's the meaning of this?" he whispered harshly to his aide, eyes darting wildly as he looked for someone to help.

"You should be ashamed!" Dick yelled as he closed in on the man, pointing an accusing finger at him, and at last Duvall stumbled further away from the stairs in an effort to put more distance between them, his young aide clinging to his elbow with wide, terror-filled eyes. "You're garbage! You don't even care what happens to this city! People are dying and you haven't done a damn thing to stop it!"

"Somebody get the mayor out of here until they arrest this guy," another staffer snarled to two nearby employees, who nodded stiffly, already moving to usher Duvall away--just as Dick felt strong hands clamp down onto either one of his arms.

"Yeah, go on, you coward! Get out of here!" Dick cried out over the uproar of the crowd as the two guards began dragging him bodily away. "You'll go down in history as the worst mayor this city has ever seen! MARK MY WORDS!"

"Come on, you f*cking psycho," the guard on his right muttered, tightening his grip on Dick's arm. Dick struggled dramatically under their hold, the heels of his shoes squeaking against the polished floor as they pulled him away, eyes still tracking Duvall as he drifted further and further from the stage.

The elderly man neared the side door he'd come out of, trailed after by his staffers--just as a deafening BOOM rang out across the hall.

There were shrill screams from the crowd as the podium exploded, blasting a sharp spray of wood and metal backwards across the empty stage.

The two guards lost their hold on him in their shock, and Dick stumbled forward, barely catching himself, hastily scanning to survey the damage.

The crowd was panicked, their frantic, confused voices throwing the room into chaos. Some of the chairs near the front row had tipped over (whether from the force of the blast, or their occupants' panic it was hard to say), but it didn't look like anyone was obviously hurt.

"Call the police!"

"Is everyone alright?!"

"Do we need an ambulance?!"

A pair of staffers began shouting orders, rounding everyone up to evacuate, and he saw several people already on the phone with the police. No blood, though, and no more screaming--which was always a good sign.

Dick's shoulders sagged, relief washing over him. He'd done it; he'd figured it out just in time. He'd stopped Black Mask from assassinating the mayor.

A strong hand on his shoulder jerked him around, cutting his relief short.

"Somethin' real strange about you, kid," the guard he'd elbowed earlier sneered, his nose still dripping blood. "You're stayin' with me until the cops show up."

---

Within an hour the crowd had been evacuated, leaving only police, the local bomb squad, and a few witnesses remaining. The Echelon guards had nearly all disappeared too, unsurprisingly.

But from what Dick had overheard no one had been seriously hurt--just a few minor injuries sustained by some of the people closest to the stage. Which meant today had ended with the best possible outcome.

Except for the getting arrested part.

"Come on, kid. You're gonna take a fun little field trip downtown so we can ask ya a few questions," the surly cop--Officer Daniels--said sarcastically, heavy hand finding the back of his neck to force him forward.

Dick gritted his teeth at the uncomfortable hold, trailing after the female officer in front of him. He snorted quietly to himself, overcome with a sudden imagining of Slade's reaction if he saw the cop manhandling him like this. Daniels was lucky Dick hadn't brought his human shadow along with him today.

"Something funny, punk?" Daniels jeered, squeezing harshly at his neck, and Dick let his smirk drop, thoughts turning instead to how the hell he was going to get himself out of this one--

"Wait, officers!"

All three of them stopped and turned to look. Dick was surprised to see Duvall ambling towards them, huffing and puffing, his face reddening with each step.

"Yes, Mr. Mayor? You're more than welcome to come downtown to give us a statement about what happened today, but we know you're a busy man," Daniels drawled, sounding almost bored, his hand still clasped tightly around Dick's neck.

"Nevermind," Duvall said impatiently, waving the man off. "Where do you think you're taking this young man?"

Daniels' brows climbed his forehead. "To the station for questioning, Mr. Mayor. We got reason to believe he might've been involved in the bombing."

"Don't be a fool," Duvall snapped, and Dick could hear the officer wince. "If it weren't for this young man I would be dead. Do you really think someone who planted a bomb with the intention of killing me would have gone out of his way to keep me off the stage?"

Daniels hesitated, exchanging a look with the female officer--who gave a helpless shrug--before turning his attention back to the elderly man. "But, Mr. Mayor--"

"He's merely a political dissident," Duvall interrupted the cop impatiently. "And furthermore, he's the man who saved my life. I ask--no, strongly urge you to let him go."

There was a long, drawn-out pause, and for a second Dick thought for sure Daniels was going to argue--but then he begrudgingly released his hold on Dick's neck and uncuffed him in a few quick movements, taking a single step away.

"Sure thing, Mr. Mayor," Daniels said with a grim nod, glancing back over to his partner. "Let's go, Munez."

"Uh--thanks for that," Dick told Duvall as the two cops walked away, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. "I'm not sure I deserved it, though, after the way I interrupted your speech."

"Nonsense. I meant what I said," Duvall said briskly, all business. "In fact--"

The elderly man produced a small, square card from his front shirt pocket, handing it over. "Here. If you ever wish to set up a meeting to discuss your concerns, call to arrange an appointment with my secretary. I'll be more than happy to hear you out."

Dick accepted the card, his face splitting into a genuine smile as he slipped the card into his own pocket. "Thanks, Mr. Duvall. I just might take you up on that."

It wasn't a lie: despite Duvall's less-than-stellar leadership, Dick knew the man really did have the city's best interests at heart. And now, with this olive branch, maybe he'd have a chance to inspire some good in Blüdhaven outside his suit as well.

"See that you do," Duvall told him with a faint smile of his own, clapping Dick once on the shoulder before turning to go.

Well--that turned out better than expected, he thought as he watched the man leave.

He'd saved the mayor's life and earned his favor; avoided anyone getting seriously hurt or killed; miraculously gotten rescued from Officer Handsy; proved his acting chops about a hundred times--and best of all, he'd stuck a giant, middle-finger up at Black Mask, without the other man even knowing it was him.

Dick tucked his hands into his pockets, whistling the same jaunty tune from earlier as he strolled towards the door.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Chapter Text

"...can see here the exact moment the crazed man forced his way into the crowd, taking out two guards in front of horrified onlookers. In a shocking turn of events, Blüdhaven Police have confirmed that the man--who still remains unidentified--is not considered a suspect in the bombing, which occurred shortly after--"

"Okay, okay--turn it off!" Dick leapt across the couch for the remote, but Slade held it just out of reach, cigar pinched between the finger and thumb of his free hand.

Unsurprisingly yesterday's bombing had made headline news--and so did Dick's theatrical performance.

He would've felt proud that the crowning achievement of his acting career had been recorded as a testament of his skills--except that Slade didn't look impressed at all.

"Careless," he chided, and just that one word was enough to transport Dick back to his teen years, whenever he'd thought he'd done well--only for Bruce to criticize a single, minuscule error he'd made. "You drew far too much attention to yourself. Even for someone who thrives on attention-seeking stunts."

Dick bristled at the insult. "Except everything worked out fine. I stopped Black Mask's plan and saved the day with zero casualties! Besides--I didn't have a choice. I had to do something."

Not that he expected the mercenary to understand it, given his cool indifference to human life. But he'd thought the other man understood him by now, at least.

"There's always a choice," Slade countered, unmoved by his list of accomplishments. "And you chose to put your identity at risk by taking out two guards on live television."

It did sound pretty bad when it was put like that--but Dick couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not when it had saved the mayor's life--and possibly others as well.

"Whatever. You heard what the news said. Nobody knows who I am," Dick muttered, slouching back down into the couch beside the other man. He knew he was coming off like a sulky teenager, but right now he didn't care. "The mayor even got me off the hook with the police. So as far as I'm concerned, the entire day was a win."

"With your face plastered across every major news station, it's only a matter of time before someone connects the dots," Slade told him around an exhale, leaning forward to stub his cigar out in the ashtray on the marble coffee table. "While it's true they might not automatically link you to your alternate self--you've opened yourself to unwanted scrutiny all the same. And me, by extension."

The mercenary came to standing, tossing him the remote. Dick caught it easily, warily meeting the man's stoic expression. "We'll have to find another safe house. Staying here could prove to be a mistake."

"No--c'mon," Dick groaned, falling back against the couch in the space the man had just left behind and stretching his legs out long. He couldn't stand the thought of them having to pick up and leave because of him. And besides--even after just a few short weeks this place felt more like home than his crappy apartment ever had. "You're being overly paranoid, as usual."

Deep down, he knew the mercenary had a point--but at the same time he didn't see how anyone could link him to Nightwing even if they did find out his identity.

"And you aren't being cautious enough, for a man with so much to lose," Slade shot back, already turning to go. "There's something I need to take care of tonight. I won't bother trying to stop you from going out--but try your best to avoid any further martyrdom. Until your latest self-sacrifice is no longer breaking news, at least."

He disappeared around the couch. Dick gave an irritated sigh, stabbing his thumb against the power button to switch off the TV.

"I had on sunglasses! You could barely even see my face!" he called after Slade, but at the pointed lack of response he groaned again, kicking resentfully at the back of the couch before letting his leg drop back down to re-join the other.

It was just like the other man to rain on his parade.

There was nothing to worry about, Dick reasoned with himself. He'd just lay low for a while--make sure he was extra careful when coming or going--and by tomorrow or the next day the whole thing would be old news.

---

It was an uneventful night.

He'd sent an anonymous tip to the police with the deleted footage from the security cameras at City Hall, along with the employee directory and the list of the Echelon guards they'd hired. Hopefully, they would draw the same conclusions he had.

Dick had already looked into the guards last night, finding that all of the names were fake. A trip to the company's single listed address brought him to an old building that had been abandoned years ago.

There was no doubt in his mind that Bishop was the one who'd green-lit the hiring of Echelon in the first place. Dick would definitely be keeping a close eye on the Deputy Mayor--and also looking to find something more incriminating to tie him to the attempted murder, since he couldn't exactly use the information they'd learned from Slade's interrogation. Not without an insider on the police force like Bruce had with Gordon.

Later, though. Dick stopped patrolling around eight o'clock, deciding Bishop could wait until tomorrow.

He got back to the hotel in a good mood after changing back into his street clothes in a shadowed alley a few streets away, hiding his suit in a wardrobe bag as always.

"Early night, Dick?" the blonde girl at the front desk who'd given him the room key (Abigail, as he'd learned after stopping by a few times to flirt with her whenever he passed through) called out to him across the nearly-empty lobby with a wide smile.

Feeling up to chatting, Dick made his way over to the front desk with his own smile.

"Earlier than usual, at least," he agreed, leaning casually against the edge of the tall desk. "I actually made plans to stay in for once."

His 'plans' included vegging out in front of the TV in his underwear, eating a snack (or two) and masturbating, because he figured Slade wouldn't be back any time soon tonight, if at all. But that was probably more detail than she needed.

"Ooh--I almost forgot," Abigail nodded, pretty green eyes lighting up. "You're having a little get-together, right? Your friends got here just a few minutes ago. I didn't see you leave earlier, so I already sent them up."

A cold, sickly feeling took up residence in his stomach, his good mood vanishing into thin air.

"...my friends," Dick said around a suddenly-dry mouth. He cleared his throat, forcing out another smile. "Right. Thanks, Abigail. I should go up and meet them, then."

"Of course. Let me know if you need anything!" she told him like always, leaning over the desk with a cheerful little smile--but he barely even heard her, beginning the slow march to the elevators on numb legs.

There weren't many other patrons around this time of night. Dick stepped into the elevator alone, turning to face the lobby, still clutching the wardrobe bag in front of him.

The moment the elevator doors closed on his impassive face he sprung into action, taking out the camera in the corner with a well-aimed punch.

He finished suiting up in record time, hiding flat against the wall as the elevator reached his floor--but the hallway was deserted, like usual.

Dick stuffed the bag with his street clothes behind an elaborate piece of artwork, grimly making his way to Suite A.

No one hanging around by the door, either. Whoever it was--they were already inside.

He pressed his ear to the door, listening, but he couldn't hear anything except the pounding of his own heart.

Slowly, Dick brought his room key up to the scanner, holding his breath as he heard the familiar little beeps of the door unlocking.

He pushed the door open just a crack, peering inside, but it looked the same as he'd left it earlier: dimmed lighting; relatively neat, for two men living there. Nothing out of place.

Dick caught the first man lurking behind the door with a punch to the head, swiftly dodging the swing of a metal baseball bat from the second before whirling back around.

They were both average-height and stocky, dressed in suits, the one he'd punched holding a pistol. Both of their faces were hidden by animal masks--a tiger and an alligator respectively.

Black Mask's men. Not good.

He whipped out his Escrima sticks, gritting his teeth as he charged again at the one with the gun.

Surprisingly agile for his frame, the man darted into the nearby kitchenette as he fired twice, the shots muffled by a silencer--but Dick zig-zagged out of the line of fire, the bullets whizzing past him as he vaulted over the island, catching the man in the chest with both feet.

The tiger-masked man fell backwards against the counter with an oof, raising the gun to fire again, but Dick brought his right stick down on his wrist, sending the gun clattering to the floor. Before he could react Dick slammed his head against the cupboard, knocking him out cold.

The man slithered down against the counter, dropping motionless to the tiled floor--just as another round of shots rang out.

Dick ducked instinctively into a crouch behind the island, catching a brief glimpse of a third attacker wearing a bird mask seconds before the bullets caught the cupboard doors above. Glass showered down upon him as he crept around the side of the island, waiting, his heart skittering in his chest.

"Come on out, Nightwing," the alligator called, footsteps padding almost soundlessly against the carpet as he came closer, but Dick could hear the dull thwack of the baseball bat against his meaty palm. "We just wanna talk."

He sounded familiar. Dick tensed against the side of the island, poised for action--

The second he leapt out from around the other side of the island he threw down a smoke pellet to cloak himself. Choking and sputtering, the third man shot haphazardly into the cloud of smoke in rapid fire, one of the bullets just barely grazing his shoulder.

Dick heard another explosion of glass behind him as he jumped out of the smoke in a forward roll, bringing both sticks down on the man as hard as he could.

The man collapsed back against the couch, mask flying off at the impact as Dick dragged him down by both shoulders and drove his knee up into the man's face with a sickening crunch. He dropped bodily to the carpeted floor, his gun flying from his slackened grip.

Dick kicked it across the room before spinning back around, chest heaving, his narrowed eyes darting over to where the man with the bat had stood--but he was gone.

Silence.

Grim-faced, Dick slowly made his way back towards the kitchenette, Escrima sticks still clasped firmly in hand--

The harsh bite of a chain around his neck stopped him mid-way as a hidden fourth intruder stepped in behind him.

Eyes shooting wide, Dick grabbed at the chain and pulled at it with all his strength, roughly knocking back against the bulky frame, his gaze seeking out the alligator-masked man as he slunk out from behind the kitchenette wall with bat in hand.

The man behind him grunted, swinging him around with effort and sending them both staggering backwards into the decorative mirror on the wall nearby. It shattered to pieces under the collision, spraying glass everywhere as Dick struggled to pry the chain loose. He braced himself against the man as hard as he could, swinging himself up, his heart thrashing violently against his rib cage as his oxygen rapidly dwindled.

The intruder stumbled, breath coming in harsh pants against Dick's ear as he pulled the chain even tighter. Dick's vision was already starting to dim at the edges, numbness settling over him and inviting him to give up, his fingertips screaming under the bite of the chain even under the protection of his suit.

With a last, desperate surge of adrenaline Dick yanked at the chain hard, careening side to side in a frantic attempt to throw the man off. The force of it sent him crashing backwards against one of the gaudy, metal-and-glass art installations, fracturing it into a thousand pieces under the impact, the man losing his grip on the chain in the commotion.

Dick heaved forward, catching himself seconds before he hit the carpet--just as the bat connected with the side of the head, his vision whiting out like a power surge.

He lost his hold on the Escrima sticks completely as he collapsed onto his stomach, head swimming, that hoarse, sickening feeling rattling in his lungs as all the breath was knocked from him.

There was an audible click of a gun, and then the cold press of steel at the base of his skull.

"This is for yesterday," he heard the man say as a heavy boot stomped down hard on the back of his neck, trapping him against the floor.

Dick fought to keep his eyes open, head filled with an ear-piercing ringing that threatened to split his skull in two. Blearily he registered the slow advance of a pair of shoes from the very edge of his field of vision, getting closer with each darkened, over-long blink of his eyes.

They stopped only inches from his face, a pointed toe nudging his limp head up to look, and all the blood drained from his face as he saw the man standing over him.

"You've been causing me a lot of trouble, freak," Black Mask said, hands housed casually in the pockets of his black striped suit, looking eerily like a skeleton dressed for a danse macabre.

"Sionis," Dick rasped out, the world tilting on its axis as he tried to get up--but the gun at his neck dug in a little further in silent reminder, the boot shoving him back down to the floor.

Sionis pulled his foot away, and Dick's delayed reaction time didn't allow him to catch his cheek from thumping back against the carpet, his stomach roiling with nausea as it spiked his head injury once again.

"You just had to go sticking your nose where it didn't belong," Sionis said conversationally as he strolled idly back the way he'd come, glancing around the common area with casual interest. "So here I am--returning the favor."

He glanced at Dick over his shoulder, nearly blending into the dimness of the room, the whites of his eyes the only hint that something lurked in the shadows there. "Pretty swanky place."

"What do you want, Sionis," Dick managed between pained, shallow breaths, ignoring the pressure of the gun at the back of his head.

"You know--it's funny," Sionis mused like Dick hadn't spoken at all, turning back to face him again. "When I watched the footage of some random nobody ruining what should've been a fool-proof plan...my right-hand man said to me: that guy looks familiar. I think I saw that guy eating at Vincenzo's not even a week ago--with Slade Wilson, of all people."

Dick fought to keep his expression neutral as his heart lurched uncomfortably before taking off at break-neck speed again. Stupid--how could I have been so stupid--

"And I thought to myself--so what? Maybe that glum bastard's just going through a mid-life crisis or something; went and got himself some young tail. It happens," Sionis continued, easygoing, like they were just two friends catching up. "But then I watched it again. And you know what?"

The gangster tilted his head back, staring down at him, only the thinnest slit of black eyes visible like a near-total eclipse. "It is strange when some protester shows up out of the blue, taking out my guys like it was nothing--the same protester my right-hand man saw eating dinner with Deathstroke himself. Something there just doesn't add up."

"Get to the f*cking point, you bastard," Dick grated out, wincing at the sharp kick in the ribs from the man behind him. "Or are you just gonna stand here and listen to yourself talk all night?"

He blinked rapidly against the looming threat of unconsciousness, fighting to stay alert, because he knew if he gave into it he would never wake up again. The only choice was to keep Sionis--and himself--talking.

"The point is I think the kid who punched out my guys and ruined my plan might be the same freak who's been causing me nothing but problems since I arrived in this sh*t-hole," Sionis growled, pleasant act dropping--just as easily angered as Dick remembered. "Lucky for us, it wasn't hard to find you. Not hard at all."

Sionis approached again, and Dick went rigid as the man crouched down near his head, tangling a fist in his hair and wrenching it up off the floor.

He bit back a cry, steadily holding the older man's gaze as he forced himself to keep still--even as every cell in his body wanted to fight. This close up the man smelled like some unpleasant mix of gunpowder and sulfur and charred, dead flesh, like the fire that had adhered his mask to his face for eternity had happened only yesterday instead of years ago.

"As I'm sure you already noticed, I came wearing my real face tonight. Call it... a show of good faith," Sionis told him, gesturing at the grotesque mask melded to his face, and even with his own mask still on Dick felt suddenly completely exposed under those black eyes. "No more secrets between us, Nightwing. No more masks. I've shown you my face--now it's time for you to do the same."

His mask was ripped away before Dick could make any move to stop it.

He slammed his eyes shut reflexively, but when the grip in his hair tightened, yanking his head back at an odd angle--his head injury roaring in protest--they flew right back open anyways, latching onto Sionis's own.

"...Huh," Sionis said, sounding almost disappointed, that soulless gaze analyzing every inch of his face.

"...Wait. I know you," he murmured finally, eyes narrowing back to angry slits, the gears in his head visibly turning. "You're--"

Dick saw the exact moment the puzzle piece clicked into place in the gangster's mind--a little flicker of recognition in the inky depths of his eyes.

"...Grayson," Sionis said, surprised, like even he didn't know where the word had come from. "The orphan boy. Taken in by--"

The gangster cut off mid-sentence, shoulders shaking in sudden, bone-chilling laughter as he abruptly shoved Dick's head back down to the floor, sending stars exploding across his vision once again as the man came back to standing.

"Richard Grayson--the orphan boy, adopted by Gotham's most famous orphan--grows up and becomes Nightwing. Why? Because Bruce Wayne and the Bat are one in the same."

Sionis's face split into a wicked grin, those menacing eyes--as black and cold as a shark's--pinning him in place like a bug on display. "Does he know you're sleeping with the man I hired to kill him?"

"You're wrong," Dick growled out, even as his heart plummeted all the way down to his toes. He forgot about his head injury and the gun entirely as he struggled to push himself up--but again the boot forced him back down. "He doesn't know anything about this!"

Sionis ignored him, glancing over Dick at the man who was holding him captive. "Call off the hit on Nightwing. No-one is to touch him--and I mean no-one. You got that?"

"Yeah, I got it, boss," came the sullen reply, but Dick could hardly hear anything past the screaming, incandescent rage that filled him from the reality of what had just happened.

"Here's the deal, Grayson," Sionis told him, straightforward, attention switching back to Dick again. "You come to my place at the old foundry tomorrow night, eight o'clock sharp--

"--yeah, that's what you wanted, isn't it?" he added at the surprise on Dick's face. "So I'm handing you a f*ckin' written invitation. Just you--not your boyfriend, and not the Bat, unless you want trouble.

"Oh. And if you're thinking about coming early so you can surprise me--don't," Sionis said, like he'd seen the wheels turning in Dick's own head. "I got eyes on this building--and I got every single one of your enemies on speed dial. One step outside before tomorrow--one glimpse of you in your suit--and I'm selling your secret to the highest bidder. And trust me--there's already a line of 'em wrapped around the block."

"You're wrong," Dick repeated, forcing the words past gritted teeth, desperate to make the man believe it; to fix this. To shield Bruce from his own stupid, careless mistake. "He has nothing to do with this."

Sionis smiled thinly--as cool and indifferent as when he'd first walked in. "Yeah? I guess we're going to find out. See you tomorrow, Grayson."

A pointed shoe came down on his face, and everything went dark.

---

Dick awoke in a haze, like his brain was wrapped in smog.

Mild concussion, at least. He'd been doing this long enough to feel the difference. But he'd also felt worse.

He was still where they'd left him, stretched out on the carpet, his Escrima sticks laying unassumingly nearby.

Slowly he pushed himself to sitting, blinking past the grittiness in his eyes as he glanced dimly around the suite. From his position he could just barely make out the time from the microwave in the kitchenette: 10:30pm. He hadn't been out for long.

There was no sign of Sionis or any of his men--including the ones he'd knocked out earlier. No Slade.

But the place was a wreck. There was glass everywhere, the (probably one-of-a-kind) art installation laying in a destroyed heap near the broken remains of the mirror. The bar was littered with smashed liquor bottles and tumblers, chunks of glass pooling in thousands of dollars worth of amber liquid.

He had to clean up before Slade got back.

Dick dragged himself to his feet, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head so he could formulate a plan. Trash bags. He needed trash bags.

He stepped around the piles of glass in the kitchenette, checking the cupboards, but there was no sign of any. Frustrated, he did the only other thing he could think of: calling the front desk.

"Dick!" Abigail answered in a rush, like she'd been breathlessly anticipating a call from him. "Good to hear from you! Is there something you need?"

"Ah--yeah, actually," Dick answered, hoping he'd successfully managed to cover up the fatigue in his voice. Wasn't sure he did. "I know it's odd, but--could you send up some trash bags? Maybe a broom and dustpan? My, uh, friends kind of made a mess. I didn't want to leave it for the maid."

"Of course!" the young woman agreed immediately, audibly beaming. "I'll send someone up right away."

He had just enough time to change back into lounge wear before there was a knock at the door. Dick opened it just a sliver, accepting the supplies from a young employee he hadn't seen before.

"Thanks," he said tiredly, closing the door in the young man's face before he heard the answer.

For the next thirty minutes he cleaned up as much of the glass as he could, movements sluggish and uncoordinated, his head protesting every time he moved it just a fraction of a second too quickly.

Afterwards he used towels from the bathroom to wipe up the blood left behind in the kitchen before throwing them out in another bag, cringing at how suspicious it all looked.

By the time he was done there were four full trash bags--including the remains of the mirror and the art installation, which were beyond salvaging. He didn't even want to think about how much it was going to cost to replace them.

There wasn't really a good place to hide the bags. In the end Dick stored them away in the empty bedroom upstairs--silently hoping that Slade never bothered going inside--before coming back down to inspect his work.

It wasn't perfect--but maybe he'd get lucky and Slade wouldn't notice.

Yeah, right. Dick grimaced as he remembered the man's words from earlier. I notice everything.

But there wasn't anything more he could do, except call for the housekeeper in the morning.

For now he was exhausted, his feet already dragging him in the direction of the master bedroom.

This wasn't supposed to happen, Dick thought hollowly, stripping off his shirt before curling into a little ball in the center of the bed and pulling the covers tight around him.

He'd long since accepted that the day might come when someone discovered Nightwing's true identity. It was a risk he'd been aware of since day one, and he'd prepared himself for the eventuality, knowing in the back of his mind that he couldn't do this forever. That some day, it would inevitably come to an end.

But what he couldn't accept was that Bruce's secret was on the line, right alongside his. That somewhere right now, Bruce was wrapped up in his usual routine, totally unaware that he was only centimeters away from complete and total ruin at the hands of an incredibly dangerous man.

For all the lingering bad feelings between them--all the strained memories and harsh words--Dick would never even think of betraying the other man in that way. It was unfathomable. Unforgivable.

And now he'd inadvertently done just that.

Dick's stomach roiled, the panicked nausea from earlier returning full-force.

This wasn't like running himself ragged for weeks, pushing himself to the edge of what he could handle in his single-minded pursuit of Black Mask; or putting off replacing his suit, all for the sake of saving his pride. This was beyond pride. This was serious.

There was no way around it. He had to tell Bruce, even if Bruce hated him for it. Together, they could come up with a plan to take Sionis down.

But Slade. Dick thumped his fist against the pillow.

How was he supposed to hide this, from a man who saw too much--who saw right through him--without Dick even saying a word?

He already knew Slade would want to rush in, guns blazing--but Dick wouldn't let the mercenary kill for him again. Not even Sionis. Not even for this.

And besides that, there was no way in hell he was going to let Slade in the same room as Bruce for even a second.

And who are you protecting from who? a little voice asked, but Dick instantly squashed it down.

He'd just have to find a way to throw Slade off so that he--and more than likely Bruce, now--could shut Sionis down, just like last time. Even if it ultimately meant sacrificing his identity in the process.

"Sorry, Slade. Guess I'm headed for martyrdom, after all," Dick mumbled bitterly as he drifted off into a restless sleep.

---

Dick's eyes shot open as the blanket was ripped away from him, thrust instantly into fight-or-flight mode, half-expecting to see Sionis looming over him with gun drawn--

But it was only Slade, standing by the side of the bed in his street clothes, still holding the blanket in a single-handed grip. And he looked furious.

Okay--rude, Dick thought, heart still jack-hammering in his chest, because apparently his body recognized Slade as just as much of a threat as Sionis. He wasn't sure it was wrong, either, if the expression on the other man's face was anything to go by.

He blinked in confusion as Slade tossed three innocuous-looking phones down onto the mattress near his feet.

"Trophies. From the men I found lurking outside," he said by way of explanation, and Dick was struck with realization as he recalled Sionis's warning about having eyes on the building.

"...are they dead?" Dick asked quietly, but the way the older man's eyes narrowed further was answer enough.

He closed his own eyes briefly against a twitch of panic. If Black Mask called to check in with his men then Dick's identity would be forfeit in a second--if it wasn't already.

"You always kill first and ask questions later?" he muttered, inwardly cursing the turn of events.

Slade's lips thinned, unamused. "What happened?" he demanded, flinging the blanket away carelessly, his single-eyed gaze trained unwavering on Dick's face.

"...can't I at least have a few minutes to wake up first?" Dick sighed, wincing as he rose up to sitting. His head didn't feel quite as clouded as last night, but there was still a distinct thudding that he had a feeling was going to linger for at least another week or so.

Slade didn't answer right away, staring at him accusingly for what felt like forever--before turning abruptly and leaving the room.

"I guess that's a yes?" He paused long enough to check his phone and throw on a shirt before following.

In the common area Slade was already at the bar, drinking, that dark eye locking onto him the second he stepped out of the master bedroom.

When the mercenary thrust an identical glass into his hands Dick reluctantly took it.

"Kinda early to be drinking, isn't it?" he joked half-heartedly, idly swirling the glass. Despite the gray, overcast sky it was only coming up on noon. He hadn't meant to sleep in so late.

"Drink," Slade snapped--clearly in no mood for jokes--so Dick did, smothering a grimace at the burn on the way down. "Start talking."

Dick sighed again. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to confront this right away--but apparently he didn't have a choice.

"Black Mask," he said softly, eyes dropping down to stare into his glass. "He knows. Everything."

He waited for the other man to explode; to shout, or threaten, or throw something--but there was no reaction.

Dick uneasily raised his eyes back up to Slade's face, grip tightening on his glass in grim anticipation--but he didn't even look angry.

He didn't look like anything, really, as if the information had wiped his brain's circuits completely clean. It was somehow even more unsettling than the anger he'd expected.

"I've already got a plan," Dick said quickly, overcome with the hope that maybe if he could just speak fast enough he could preemptively talk the man down. "Well, I mean, I'm still working on it, but I know I can come up with something by tonight--"

"Tonight?" Slade cut him off, the word pulling a reaction out of him at last--but he still looked oddly blank, like it was a term he didn't recognize.

"...yeah," Dick agreed, all of a sudden feeling like he'd said too much, but it was too late to take it back. "He wants me to meet him tonight--no suit; no masks. Said that if I didn't..."

He trailed off, swallowing down the rest of his drink in several oversized gulps.

"Where," Slade prompted--a sliver of ire bleeding into his tone at last--and Dick's shoulders tensed as he spotted the intention behind the single word from a mile away.

"...listen, Slade," he said, carefully setting his glass on the bar beside him. "I know what you're thinking. But we can't just bust in and--"

"Where," the other man repeated, speaking over him, his voice hiking several notches.

"Would you just listen to me for two f*cking seconds," Dick bit out, his own temper flaring sharply in response. "If you think I'm gonna just let you walk in there and--"

His words died in his throat as the man's tumbler suddenly shattered to pieces in his hand, glass and amber swirls of liquid raining down onto the carpet below.

In a flash Slade had him against the bar, pinning Dick in place with his own body as that massive hand came up to encircle his throat.

"I'll ask again--where did Sionis tell you to meet him?" the mercenary demanded, but Dick only stared at him, heart racing, his traitorous co*ck twitching with interest as the man's thumb dug into the space just next to his windpipe. "Don't make me ask you a third time."

Dick could feel that he was on the precipice of something dangerous--the same tension crackling in the air around them as the night he'd escaped the hotel and used his broken suit against the other man's orders.

But handing over this single, last piece of information--inviting Slade even further into this than the man had already done himself, and jeopardizing Bruce even more, as well as who knew how many lives--seemed infinitely more dangerous.

He took a risk.

"...at the abandoned marine warehouse near the harbor," Dick lied, holding the man's burning gaze as he held his own breath, and it felt like that single eye was peering into his soul as the older man searched his face for truth.

At last Slade seemed to find what he was looking for, his head inclining just slightly, and for a half-second Dick thought he'd been just convincing enough--

He struggled reflexively against the sudden hold on his upper arm, kicking out, his foot catching the bar stool beside him. It landed on the carpet with a muffled thud, giving an abortive half-roll before falling still.

The other man flipped him around, crushing him against the edge of the bar and twisting his free arm behind him, easily pinning both wrists against his sacrum with a single hand.

"Liar," Slade said hotly against the shell of his ear, and between the bar digging into his stomach and the solid, oppressive weight of the man behind him there wasn't even enough room for any air in his lungs. "Don't lie to me. You don't have the talent for it."

"You're right--that's more your department, huh?" Dick gritted out, letting his usual anger overtake him to cover up his sudden fear. "Were you ever going to tell me you were tracking down Sionis, if I hadn't walked in on you and Bishop? Or were you just going to let me find out from the six o'clock news?!"

He couldn't stand the man's hypocrisy--all the concessions he expected Dick to make to keep the peace between them, when Slade had never offered him the same courtesy. It was one of many reasons why it hadn't worked out between them the first time, and already it was coming back to bite him yet again.

"Whatever I choose to do or not do doesn't concern you. I answer to no one--least of all you," the mercenary growled, the scratch of his goatee against the back of Dick's neck sending tingling waves of electricity up his spine.

"Doesn't concern me?! That's rich, coming from the asshole who's admitted to stalking my every f*cking move for years," Dick seethed, tugging uselessly against the hold on his wrists. "If you expect me to turn a blind eye to your job, then quit messing with mine! I never asked for your help with this in the first place!"

He let out an involuntary little whine as Slade somehow crushed impossibly closer, big hand squeezing painfully around his wrists in warning.

"You're treading on thin ice, little bird. I recommend quitting while you're still ahead," Slade cautioned, infinitely patient, his hot breath leaving goosebumps trailing in its wake. "Now tell me--where are you going to meet Sionis?"

"Go f*ck yourself," Dick snarled, spit flying, shoving back against the man as he tried in vain to yank free, but there wasn't the slightest inch of give.

"Wrong answer."

His brain powered off as he felt the man release his wrists and pull his lounge pants down to mid-thigh in a single tug--but it surged back online when a heavy hand twisted in the waistband of his briefs and yanked them up, trapping the fabric in the cleft of his ass.

"What the f*ck are you doing," Dick cried, outraged, his face already enflamed, but the man only yanked them up even higher, saran-wrapping his co*ck and balls tightly in place against his body and leaving his bare ass exposed.

It was completely f*cking ridiculous--humiliating--but heat was already tugging at his groin in response to the unyielding friction against his perineum and hole, pleasantly tender from the rough f*cking he'd received two days ago.

The first hit caught him off guard, the resulting sensation hanging suspended in the air for a nano-second before stinging pain ignited across every single nerve in his body, all the way down to his toes.

"It's become very clear that you need the right motivation to make you behave," Slade spoke at last, broad palm raining down another string of harsh blows against both sides of his ass in rapid succession, and it suddenly became very clear to Dick that this was a real 'punishment', unlike their playful exchange the other day. "Fortunately, I'm more than willing to provide it."

"Oh yeah?" Dick challenged unthinkingly, the words bubbling up from that place inside of him that just didn't know when to quit. His co*ck was swelling to life in some kind of f*cked-up, Pavlonion response, too well-trained by similar scenarios in the past. "You gonna--ah--interrogate me like you did to Bishop?"

The next smack spanned across both ass cheeks as the other man wound his hand tighter into the waistband and dragged his hips up higher, knuckles cutting into the base of his spine under his shirt, the fabric of his underwear digging almost painfully into his thighs.

Dick groaned, rocking up onto the balls of his feet in an attempt to relieve the pressure, his co*ck straining violently against its cloth prison.

"When I'm finished, you're going to wish I'd been so merciful," Slade promised bitingly, bringing the back of his hand down this time--so hard that it almost felt like the knuckles had split the flesh there. Dick flinched hard, failing to stifle a pained cry. "Tell me."

"No," Dick panted out, bare feet shifting against the carpet, heat flaring inside him as every micro-movement rubbed the twisted, biting fabric against the sensitive skin of his entrance and the secret space below it. "I'm not gonna let you kill Sionis for me!"

The low, animalistic snarl behind him sent alarm bells ringing even through the dense fog of his arousal.

"Even now, you're protecting him," Slade accused, squeezing at the sore, pliant flesh of his ass like it was molding clay before striking him rapidly across its center once again, hard enough to draw welts. "Why?"

Still Dick couldn't stop his mouth from running, filled with that dark need to keep pushing just like pressing on a bruise, same as it'd been with Bruce near the end. He felt almost drunk with the pain and the liquor he'd hastily swallowed down, the heat of both cloaking the dull thudding in his head and severing the connection between common sense and his tongue.

"May-be," he breathed out, deliberately drawing out every syllable, "you're not the only murderer I've invited into my bed."

It was the wrong thing to say.

His heart seized in his chest as the other man shoved him flat against the top of the bar, sending his glass from earlier tumbling off its side. It shattered against the floor below, forgotten.

"You'll regret provoking me," Slade said from somewhere above him, deathly quiet, fist still wound tightly in the back of his briefs like a handle.

Dick lifted his head just a few inches from the bar, glaring hatefully over his shoulder at the man behind him. "Go to he--"

The next blow that giant hand brought down upon him sent him shooting back up onto his toes with wide eyes, his mouth moving around words that never materialized.

"You exhaust my patience, little bird." This time the hand didn't stop, coming down across the meat of his ass again and again with stark precision. "You're very lucky I think so highly of you."

"Y-you got a real funny way of showing it," Dick stuttered back, a little hysterically, his eyes tearing at the corners from the brutal onslaught.

It hurt, and not like the punches or kicks he took in stride while out on the field, so used to them that they'd almost become an essential part of the experience--this pain was far more intimate, awakening neurons he didn't even know existed at the base of his skull and along the length of his spine and inside his deepest, most hidden center, impossible to deflect or defend against.

"All that I've done for you--the leniency I've granted you, time and again--and this is how you repay me," Slade went on like he hadn't said anything, hiking his hips up a little higher in that oversized fist, and the next well-aimed strike lit a path of nerve endings from the base of his balls all the way up into his hole, sending pure heat spiraling up his core. "Protecting a man who would snuff out your life with no more consideration than an insect under his heel."

Dick groaned helplessly, clinging to the wooden bar top like a life raft, his trapped co*ck soaking the front of his briefs completely through even as his hips tried to shrink away from further abuse.

"I can handle Sionis myself," he insisted dazedly--only to choke out another ragged moan as the mercenary whacked him in the same spot again, harder.

"Don't say his name while I have you like this," Slade warned, sounding almost incensed now as his hand continued its unrelenting assault, and the clear jealousy in the man's voice startled a laugh out of Dick's throat.

"Or what?" he prodded, pushing, even pinned in place and at the mercy of the man behind him. "You'll kill me and save Sionis the trouble? You'll tell everyone my real identity before Sionis has a chance to? You'll let Sionis--"

"Enough."

The sharp clinking of a belt coming undone behind him sounded overly loud in the sudden quiet of the room, and for a wild, heart-stopping second Dick expected the other man to start beating him with that instead--

Slade dragged him up by the scruff of the neck and draped heavily over his back, a hot, oversized hand closing over the outline of his co*ck through his briefs.

Dick arched back against the broad chest with a gasp, hips bucking forward urgently, his hands holding tightly to the edge of the bar as an anchor against the sudden spinning of the room.

"Soaking wet--just from this," Slade sneered, close, and the way he sank his teeth into the skin just below Dick's ear and cupped him roughly through the fabric stole the breath from his lungs, his co*ck jumping against the other man's palm.

Then all the pressure and heat against him vanished as the man spun him back around, shoving down hard against his shoulder until his knees crumpled under him.

Only years of training saved him from losing his balance completely thanks to the pants still stretched taut around his mid-thighs. Dick braced his hands against the floor, finding himself nearly eye-level with the man's monstrous co*ck.

Despite his taunt Slade himself was already fully hard, co*ck flushed and glistening at the tip, his sac hanging heavy and full above the black boxer briefs bunched snugly underneath it.

Before Dick could push back to standing the front half of Slade's boot came down against the back of his right hand, pinning it to the floor, the bones creaking and shifting in protest as the mercenary leaned his weight onto it.

There was a searing pain in his scalp as Slade tangled fingers in his hair and jerked his head back, forcing his gaze up to the man's face.

Slade no longer looked angry. Instead he wore that familiar, grave expression that Dick imagined lay hidden behind his mask in the moments just before he killed someone--resigned to his gruesome task, like a public executioner.

"Since you seem to have an issue with knowing when to be silent--I'm going to help you out," Slade told him, cutting off any chance of a protest as he guided the head of his co*ck to Dick's mouth and forced it past his lips.

Instantly Dick's hand flew up, gripping at the man's thigh in an effort to shove him away, but with the bar behind him and his other hand pinned under the man's boot there was nowhere for him to go. New tears pricked at his eyes as the fat head of the man's co*ck settled in the back of his mouth like it belonged there, his tongue fluttering against the thick, bulging vein on its underside.

"Much better," Slade's voice rang out above him, pulling out only a few inches before shoving his hips forward again, and Dick gagged automatically, blinking out a few stray tears. "How could I forget that the key to your submission is silencing that mouth of yours?"

The mercenary began f*cking his mouth without waiting for him to adjust, holding tight to his hair for leverage, the ridged crown of his co*ck catching at the back of Dick's soft palate with each insistent thrust. Already saliva pooled heavily under his tongue, overflowing from the strained corners of his mouth and soaking his chin.

It felt easier than last time: the stretch of his lips, and the familiar burn of his jaw; the musky smell of the other man, so close, his heavy hand--and boot--holding Dick firmly in place like two anchor points, almost reassuring in their weight.

Dick shifted unsteadily on the balls of his feet, letting go of his hold on the other man's thigh as he reached mindlessly for his own co*ck--but Slade smacked him hard enough to sting, grunting as he took a half-step forward and forced the last few inches of his co*ck down until Dick's face was flush against his pelvis, nose burying in the silver thatch of hair there.

He retched loudly as his gag reflex was utterly obliterated, eyes pricking with fresh tears, his hand falling away only inches from its destination as he read the message loud and clear. The rough treatment did nothing to dampen his arousal, his neglected co*ck sputtering out another string of pre-come between his thighs even as nausea washed over him from the invasion of his throat.

"Do you remember your place, now?" Slade questioned, casual tone at odds with the way his grip in Dick's hair turned cruel, his boot grinding down harder against the back of Dick's hand. "Think about this, the next time you want to defy me."

Somehow the words killed all the fight left in him in an instant. Dick slumped into it, his damp lashes coming to rest against the tops of his cheekbones as the other man kept up his brutal pace. An odd, distant humming reverberated through his skull, cancelling out everything until there was only the slide of that swollen head against his slackened throat and the pain still radiating over the broken, sensitized flesh of his ass.

Just as the hinges of his jaw had locked into place and he'd floated away completely to some alternate, oxygen-less dimension Dick felt the grip in his hair tighten further still, a familiar, bitter taste trickling down his throat as the mercenary's hips took on a more jerky quality.

"Look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes of yours," Slade ordered through clenched teeth, and the shock of the words cutting through the white noise in his skull made his eyes fly open just as the other man pulled out of his mouth, fist stroking rapidly over the flushed, swollen head of his co*ck only inches from Dick's face.

Realization hit him right as Slade came with a low grunt, spurting out hot ropes of cum all over his face, the viscous liquid spattering across his forehead and eyebrow and the bridge of his nose.

Stunned, Dick could only kneel there, his own co*ck twitching in sympathy as the mercenary wrung out a final fat glob onto Dick's swollen, parted lips before tucking himself neatly back into his pants.

The hold in his hair disappeared along with the boot on his hand as Slade took a step away, and Dick immediately sagged back against the bar behind him--only to suck in a shocked breath as the man's boot lowered into the space between his splayed thighs, pressing down against the hard swell of his co*ck.

"Be a good little bird and tell me what I want to know," Slade commanded, easing his weight forward, dark eye glinting dangerously in his expressionless face.

Dick's mouth gaped open soundlessly, fingers gripping at the treads as if to pry it away even as his hips bucked of their own accord against the solid pressure. With a hot rush of shame he realized he could finish, just like this: rocking against the man's boot as he towered over Dick and watched, alternating between threatening and praising him.

Flush-faced, he silently shook his head, shoving uselessly against the man's boot--but it only pushed down a little further, drawing out a low, broken noise from some place deep inside of him at the faint twinge of pain that followed.

Dick glanced shakily up at the other man's face, looking for any trace of absolution, and found none.

"...the o-old foundry on the west side," he whispered past the buzzing in his skull, co*ck throbbing urgently under the merciless press of the man's boot. "Bastard."

The boot disappeared instantly. Dick shuddered, head lolling back against the bar, too dumbstruck to do anything but watch as Slade took his time making his way to the end table near the couch for the half-smoked cigar he'd left there earlier, clenching it between his teeth as he struck a fresh match to light it.

At last the man turned his attention back to Dick, looking him over almost dispassionately.

"...do you want to finish?" Slade asked him, puffs of smoke coming out from around his cigar with every word.

Dick bit down against his angry retort and the sudden rush of heat that crept up his neck, wordlessly holding the other man's gaze. He kept his hands firmly by his sides, because something told him that reaching for himself without permission would be a fatal mistake.

Slade's mouth curved just barely into a half-smirk, as if Dick had passed some unspoken test.

"So it is possible to silence you." The mercenary drew his cigar from his mouth, turning his head slightly to the side as he exhaled, that heavy gaze still trained on him. "But when I ask you a question, I expect an honest answer. So, little bird--do you want to cum, or not?"

"...yes," Dick ground out like he was speaking around a mouthful of glass, hands curling into fists, and he didn't know if it was because of how badly he wanted to punch the other man or touch himself. "Yes, I want to cum."

"I can see that. But do you really think you deserve it?" Slade asked, measured, and even if it was another test there was only one answer Dick could think of.

"Please," he whispered, forcing the word out past the shredded flesh of his throat. He didn't think he could take it if the answer was no.

That same ghost of a smile returned to the man's face.

"Go ahead, then," Slade said, like he was doing Dick a favor. "Make yourself cum."

A low groan ripped out of him as he immediately reached for his co*ck, hips stuttering forward as he began f*cking up into the tight circle of his fist. His breath pulled sharp as his thumb swirled over the damp, sensitive head, fully aware of Slade standing there, smoking, his face impassive as he watched.

The mercenary didn't say another word, but somehow that registered as even more erotic in his half-melted brain, just imagining what he must look like: collapsed against the side of the bar, legs spread as wide as they could go in their cloth trap, come still sliding down his face as he f*cked his own fist like a horny teenager desperately chasing release.

The humiliation that curled in his pelvis only spurred him on further, his hand moving over his co*ck in a blur now as the muscles of his thighs and stomach tensed and coiled, and it was the faint saltiness of his tongue swiping over the glob of come still smeared across his bottom lip that finally pushed him over.

He rose up onto the balls of his feet, head thumping back against the bar, his throat working around a strangled gasp as he shot his load all over his fist and chest and stomach.

Dazed, Dick slid down against the side of the bar until his bare ass rested on the carpet, tangled legs stretching out long in front of him as his hand fell away from his co*ck, his chest rising and falling like he'd just finished running a marathon.

He didn't move--not even when Slade put out his cigar and slowly walked over, hauling him up by his arm.

Dick surrendered against the broad chest as Slade dragged him forward by the throat and seized his mouth in a kiss, more panting into it than anything as coordinated as kissing back, tasting the bitterness of the other man's release as Slade pushed his tongue inside and curled it around his own.

"Didn't I tell you?" Slade murmured when they broke apart, so close their lips brushed with every word, that dark eye skimming over his face. "Your thoughts are mine to take."

When he pulled away and began stalking towards the door it was enough to break Dick out of his post-org*sm stupor.

"Wait!" Dick yelled after him, clumsily tugging his pants and underwear back into place with a wince as he made to follow. "If you really hold me in such high regard--then let me help you. Let me--let me do it."

It was the only bait he had left to dangle. He tried to keep his face open; unguarded in its apparent sincerity.

It worked. The mercenary paused at the door and gave him a dubious look, seemingly thrown off by the offer.

"...you would really do what needs to be done?" Slade asked, brow raising skeptically over his good eye.

Unlike last time, Dick heard, as clearly as if he'd said the words aloud. He forced himself to stay relaxed under that hyper-observant gaze.

"Yes," he said. Resolute. Because he would--even if it wasn't what the other man had in mind.

Because it was always easier if it wasn't technically a lie.

Slade said nothing for several long beats, until Dick was nearly sure he'd failed again. But then the man turned away from the door completely--pacified, for now.

"Let's begin."

---

An hour later they were settled together in the common area like nothing had happened.

Slade was sitting in his usual spot on the faux leather couch with a new glass of whiskey, and he seemed much calmer now that Dick had agreed to help him kill Sionis.

...or as far as he knew. Dick had tread carefully with every word to make it as believable as possible: he would go in without any suit or weapons, as instructed--get close to Black Mask and keep him distracted--and Slade would find a way inside.

It was a simple plan, but Slade had accepted it easily enough. He knew it wouldn't be hard: Black Mask didn't even have the foresight or patience to give them a decoy location. The man wasn't known for having very intricate plans himself, which was why Dick had so easily put two and two together regarding his plot to kill Duvall, once he'd known what he was looking for.

"He wants to use me to lure out Bruce. Confirm with his own two eyes who he really is before he kills him," Dick mused from where he was slumped against the marble coffee table across from the mercenary, his own glass dripping with condensation between his two palms.

Even though Slade had already known for years, Dick never referred to Bruce by name whenever speaking about him in the mercenary's presence. It felt strange saying it now--blasphemous--but Slade's expression didn't even change.

"You should've seen his face, when he realized. It's like I didn't even matter anymore. All he cared about was killing Batman--just like back in Gotham." Dick snorted quietly, idly moving the tumbler back and forth between his hands. "I guess spending years rotting away in Arkham isn't exactly the best way to get over any obsessive grudges. Especially not with Batman."

It was an ironic--and unfortunate--truth.

"As much as I hate to compare myself to a man like Sionis--I can't pretend not to understand his fixation," Slade drawled, single eye catching the light over the rim of his glass as he drank. "Speaking of the Bat. If he shows up, it could complicate things."

"It'll take time for him to get there--if he even comes," Dick said dismissively, hiding the brief twitch of his expression in another drink before it could give him away. "By then, we'll already be long gone."

Luckily, Slade didn't question it any further. "This plan of yours--do you really think it'll be that easy? A man as ruthless as Sionis isn't going to be distracted by a pretty smile."

Dick felt himself flush at the wry tone, just a little. "It was enough to distract other ruthless men in the past," he muttered pointedly into his glass.

Slade gave the barest hint of a smirk at that, head inclining just slightly like he was conceding the point.

"What about you?" Dick asked, changing the subject. "How will you get inside?"

"I'll manage."

"They'll have guns. I can keep them busy--even Black Mask--but there'll be a lot of them, and they'll all be armed." Even without his suit or weapons Dick knew he'd be relatively safe--at least until he'd served his purpose--but things could end up going sideways quickly.

"I'll manage," Slade repeated, a little more forcefully.

"And then?" Dick asked, ignoring the twinge in his stomach at the implication.

"I'll find you. And then you can finish this."

When Dick said nothing the mercenary took another drink, gaze sharpening in a way that he knew meant he was being evaluated, somehow. He kept his fingers from tightening around his own glass, steadily returning it.

"...you changed your mind quickly," Slade observed. Assessing.

"Maybe I realized you have a point, after all," Dick returned lightly. "Dropping him off at Arkham won't cut it. He knows my name."

And now Bruce's, he didn't say.

"Even still. Can you really say you won't regret it? That you won't flinch, when I press my blade into your hand and stand aside?" Slade persisted. "There won't be any room for hesitation. Not for this."

"You sound so skeptical," Dick deflected, but the sudden dampness of his palms wasn't entirely from the glass. "This is what you've always wanted, isn't it? Bringing me down to your level, just so you can revel in finally ruining me completely? So you can make sure he'll never look at me the same way again?"

He expected more anger at laying the other man's motives bare in such an unflattering way, but Slade only smiled, draining his glass as he came to his feet.

"You're wrong," he said, to Dick's surprise. "It's not about watching you fall from grace. It's about taking the final piece of you he still keeps locked away from me."

When Slade reached out in silent offering Dick finished the rest of his own drink in a single gulp, numbly handing over the glass without looking.

The hand enveloped his own in an iron grip before he could pull it away, bringing his eyes back to the other man's face.

"This time, a pretty smile won't be enough," Slade said, almost softly, and Dick's heart gave a painful squeeze at the truth he heard behind the words--just as resolute as his own had been. Except he knew Slade meant it.

Dick nodded, once. He didn't trust himself to speak.

---

An hour later--after Slade had left to 'go prepare'--Dick waited until he was sure he was alone before he pulled out his phone.

His call was answered on the third ring.

"...Bruce?" Dick exhaled shakily, dragging a weary hand down his face. "Something happened."

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

Chapter Text

Dick was struck with the feeling that he was eight years old again, on his way to bury his parents.

Slade had already left, with a promise to stake out on top of one of the old warehouses near the foundry. What he didn't know was that Dick would be meeting him there--and not because they would be working together to take down Black Mask.

A part of him thought the other man must know it, on some level. Before he'd left Slade had pulled him close, holding Dick in the circle of his arms and breathing against his hair, and the truth had nearly tumbled out of him there and then as he was overcome with the absurd desire to not disappoint the other man. Not again.

"It's almost over," Slade had told him--eerily prophetic--and the kiss he'd dropped over Dick's brow had felt like a farewell.

Dick wasn't blind to the parallels between tonight and the night things between them had ended. Except this time, it really would be for good.

Slade's refusal to respect his non-lethal approach--his easy capitulation and dark encouragement when Dick had lied about wanting to help him kill Black Mask--only reinforced exactly why their tenuous relationship could never work out. He'd resisted easily enough this time, three years' removed from the mercenary's influence--but given enough time together, Dick knew Slade would only keep trying to coax those feelings out in him again.

The way he almost had, once, when Dick had nearly severed his strained relationship with Bruce completely.

--JANUARY THIRD, THREE YEARS AGO--

Dick crouched low on the rooftop, waiting, wondering hollowly how he'd gotten himself roped into this.

The tension between him and Bruce had been getting worse, and it came to a head two nights ago when the older man had dropped a bombshell on him: tonight, Tony Zucco would be transferred to federal prison after being found guilty for the death of Armando Falcone--and they were taking on the task of protecting him during the move, since the GCPD couldn't be trusted to do it successfully.

"I realize it's difficult." Bruce was sitting in front of the Batcomputer with elbows braced on the desk, already changed out of the suit for the night, his face half-hidden behind his clasped hands. He sounded solemn.

It was the only tone he ever seemed to use with Dick, these days--or maybe it had always been like that. It was his default, whenever he wasn't playing Effortlessly Charming Playboy Billionaire Bruce Wayne--or Gruff, No-Nonsense, Full-of-Rage Batman (closest to his truest self, Dick suspected, if he even had one).

Bruce was solemn. Quietly contemplative. Haunted.

It was that haunted look Dick thought he saw there now, even though the older man wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Do you, though?" Dick bit out, slamming his palms on the desk to stabilize himself against the wave of sickened disbelief that rose up inside him, and it only grew when he saw Bruce's expression wipe clean in the way it always did whenever Dick lashed out at him--invisible armor, for when the Batsuit wasn't available. "You're asking me to protect the man who murdered my parents! To save his life, again! Can you honestly say you'd do the same for the man who killed yours?!"

"Tony Zucco needs to pay for his crimes in prison--not by being hunted down in the streets," Bruce said--soft, but firm, like steel wrapped in wool--and it didn't escape Dick's notice that he'd skated around the question. It was one of his many skills. "I know you understand that."

"I'm starting to think you don't know anything about me. Not really," Dick shot back, but his words had lost their sharp edge by the end of it, taking on that same solemn quality that mirrored Bruce's perfectly.

Despite their relatively easy night, he felt completely drained. He was tired of fighting with Bruce; of pretending that he was okay with living in his shadow as a living, breathing extension of him, even though he hadn't wanted that for a long time now. If he ever did.

"...I'll do it. But I'm serious, Bruce. This is it. Whenever Zucco gets out of prison--if the bastard even makes it out alive--don't expect me to be lined up and waiting as his personal bodyguard." There he was, giving in just like always, because it was easier than facing Bruce's quiet disappointment--a manipulation tactic in and of itself, and one that was often successful.

Suddenly all he wanted was to get away from this--away from this man, who controlled him so easily; the one who'd built him up and hard-coded him like the beta version of a program, equally likely to be started or stopped at any moment. No say in his own design.

It wasn't until Dick made to storm out of the Batcave that he sensed Bruce swiveling in his chair to stare after him.

"...going out?" he called out, all affected nonchalance, but something about the simple question made Dick's shoulders pull tight again. He paused in the middle of the platform, not looking back, because he had a feeling if he did--if he met Bruce's eyes, in this moment--the older man would somehow read the truth there.

"...unless you need anything else," Dick muttered, just barely glancing over his shoulder. They'd already finished patrolling for the night.

"Not tonight."

Bruce said nothing else, but Dick couldn't make his feet move again, somehow frozen in place by the unspoken question he could sense hanging in the balance between them.

He was just about to turn back after all--because the weight of that silent stare on his unguarded back suddenly felt even more exposing than letting the other man see a curated version of his expression--when finally Bruce spoke again.

"You've been going out a lot." Playing at casual, but searching. Always searching. "It isn't any of my business..."

Dick snorted to himself, even as his stomach swooped. There wasn't anything Bruce considered none of his business--at least not enough to stop him from looking into it further, if he felt the need to.

And maybe he'd finally felt the need to in this instance. Dick hadn't gone so far as to hide his infrequent late-night excursions over the course of his short-lived relationship with Slade--because he wasn't a f*cking kid anymore--but he knew Bruce had to have noticed, at least in passing.

He'd clearly noticed lately, at any rate. Slade had been stationed back in Gotham for the past month--'taking a vacation', he'd claimed wryly--which meant Dick had been going to see him more often.

Maybe Bruce already knew exactly where Dick had been off to nearly every night, and was only just now bringing it up.

An unpleasant thought--but Dick had to know.

"You already know where, then," he said quietly, just loud enough to hear over the dull thumping of his heart against his rib cage.

"No."

Even in that single word, Dick could read the implication: Bruce didn't know, because he'd chosen not to.

Some of the tension bled away from his shoulders as he pictured Slade in his usual spot on the couch with his usual glass of whiskey, probably already waiting for him. Still an unexpected oasis from the inner turmoil that had taken over his life--and still hidden from the man who had caused much of it, for some reason that he couldn't pin down just yet.

"Then why bring it up?"

Another lingering silence. "I wanted to make sure you weren't in any trouble."

Dick stuffed down the ugly little laugh that threatened to bubble out of him. He was in trouble--but it was trouble he'd brought upon himself when he'd allowed himself to fall for a man like Slade in the first place.

It wasn't something Bruce could save him from. He didn't need saving, anyways.

"I'm not in trouble," Dick told the floor. "I'm just... trying to figure some stuff out."

He turned, then, meeting that austere gaze with his own steely blue.

"You know Zucco isn't going to pay for his crimes. Not all of them," Dick said tightly. "Back then they said there wasn't enough evidence--let him walk free--even though it was obvious what he'd done.

"So maybe all his other sh*t has finally caught up to him; maybe he pissed off the wrong person and he's finally getting sent to prison--so what? It'll never make up for what he did to me. What he did to my parents."

He desperately searched Bruce's face for something--a reassurance; a reconsideration; some hidden plan or knowledge that would somehow make all of this okay.

But for once, Bruce didn't have an answer.

The comm suddenly crackled to life, interrupting his brooding.

"It's time," Bruce growled in his ear. "Move in. I have your six."

"...acknowledged." Gritting his teeth, Dick grappled off the building, making his way to the Gotham City Jail.

The front entrance was quiet and still, only a few stray cars parked in the half-roundabout--no signs of life beyond the odd citizen walking briskly along the sidewalk, hunched against the chill, their visible breaths leading them through the frigid night.

Dick passed it by, dropping down onto the building catty-cornered to the jail that would afford him a clear view of one of its many nondescript back entrances.

Due to the high profile nature of Zucco's crime and sentencing, the GCPD had opted to keep the date and time of the man's transfer under wraps to avoid any sort of dangerous confrontations by the Falcone family or their allies. They'd also arranged for him to be picked up out back for a more inconspicuous move--a detail only a few were privy to, including him and Bruce, courtesy of Gordon.

There was less activity at the back of the building but more cars, all of them dark and quiet under the beaming floodlights. No police van yet, though, and not a single soul in sight.

With a silent breath of resignation Dick trailed soundlessly across the rooftop to move into position--only to skitter to an abrupt stop as he saw a familiar, hulking form near the edge.

Slade--no, Deathstroke, crouching low as he adjusted a mounted gun, already positioned in place and aimed at the entrance Tony Zucco would be walking out of any minute. He didn't seem to have even heard Dick approach.

"Slade?!" he blurted out before he could stop himself, too shocked to come up with anything else.

The mercenary glanced back at him over an armored shoulder, good eye like a singularity under the glow of moonlight overhead.

"...go away, pretty bird," Slade said dismissively, turning back to his task. "I'm busy."

"I can see that," Dick growled, words returning to him just as quickly. "But unless you're just out here to get some fresh air, I gotta ask what the hell you're doing."

He already knew the answer--had known it the moment he'd recognized Slade--but his mind was having trouble accepting it.

"The Falcone family has offered a reward to put Tony Zucco down," Slade said shortly--unapologetic. Not even sparing him another glance. "You should be thanking me."

Cold horror settled over Dick, chilling him to the bone as he recalled his visit to the mercenary's safe house last night: the way he'd mindlessly told the man about Zucco's impending transfer down to the date and time, and about the skeleton crew assigned to the task to lessen the chances of a leak; the detail about the back entrance, and about his disgust with protecting the man to begin with.

And Slade had listened to it all, face blank enough he didn't even need a mask to hide his thoughts.

He'd agreed that Zucco didn't deserve to be protected. Agreed that Bruce was asking too much.

Expressed disapproval, when Dick said he was going to do it anyways. And when Slade pressed him he hadn't even really been able to articulate why, except that it was the right thing to do.

(The same thing Bruce had told him after they'd saved Zucco from dying when Dick was still just a child, and even then Dick had resented it, seeing the reflection of his parents' fall in Zucco's wide, terrified eyes; the weak clutch of his hand at his chest as he gasped for breath, same as his parents had reached for him as they plummeted to their deaths.)

But Slade hadn't said a single word about having any personal involvement of his own--only listened, stroking through his hair like always, even as he silently plotted with every detail that Dick fed him.

"Thanking you?!" Dick sputtered, heart constricting painfully at the unsettling realization. "You used me--after I poured my guts out to you! You let me walk out the door, knowing damn well you were planning to work against me the entire time!"

He'd confided in Slade--and that was the worst part, wasn't it? During the span of their unconventional relationship he'd come to actually trust the mercenary in a way he didn't even trust Bruce anymore, at least not fully, despite all the evidence as to why it was a horrible idea.

And Slade had taken advantage, bringing them back to that point of working at cross-purposes in a way they hadn't been in a long time now, like the last year and a half meant nothing. Who knew what other information the man was willing to use for his own purposes--if he hadn't already.

"Work against you?" Slade echoed, pausing in his task to look back at him again. "I'm doing this for you."

"And I'm sure the money is just an added bonus, huh?" Dick sneered, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm, still blindsided by the betrayal. "Bullsh*t! Don't patronize me! And don't you dare say this is for me! I would never want this!"

"No," Slade agreed, unperturbed by his anger. "What you really want is to rid the world of him yourself. But you allow yourself to be controlled by the arbitrary morals of a man whose only goal was molding you into an idealized projection of himself from day one."

At last the mercenary seemed satisfied with his setup, rising to his feet and turning to face Dick completely. "It's not too late."

His meaning was clear.

"And what do you call that? You're doing the same exact thing!" Dick snapped, but it came out shakier than he'd meant it, thrown off by the way the mercenary always saw right through him like he was as transparent as glass--same as Bruce. Except Slade didn't even have the decency to keep it to himself.

Because there was a part of him that did want to kill Zucco--had envisioned countless times the way he'd wrap his bare hands around the man's thick neck and squeeze and squeeze, until realization dawned in those watery blue eyes that this time there was no one to call him an ambulance; no one to save him from his impending death, Batman or otherwise--the same realization his parents had had to face in their final moments as they fell to the earth--

"Consider it restoring your wings, so you can finally be free of him," Slade responded, with that easy ability to make anything sound like the most reasonable thing in the world.

Dick barked out an ugly laugh--the same one he'd stuffed down in front of Bruce the other night. "I'll never be free of what he did to my family. Not even if he spends a thousand years in prison. Not even if you kill him."

Slade co*cked his head slightly to the side, considering. "No," he conceded. "But I wasn't talking about Zucco."

The sudden humming of an engine sliced through the quiet of the night, burying his response. They both turned to look just as the armored police van arrived, pulling up in front of the crumbling cement stairs leading to the back entrance before idling in park as it waited for its cargo.

"Not much longer," Slade commented almost to himself as he took up position, back facing him once again. "It's clear the little bird still prefers his gilded cage, for now. So I'll offer him a choice: stay and watch, so he can share in my satisfaction--or run away and hide, and comfort himself with the knowledge that his hands remain clean another day."

Dick was disturbed to find that part of him was tempted. It would be so easy to turn around now and walk away; pretend that he hadn't ever come across Slade at all tonight. Let the mercenary carry out his mission, and do for him what Bruce could never: finally put an end to the man who had haunted his dreams ever since that horrible night.

Bruce wouldn't know. He would find out that Slade was the one who'd done it--but not that Dick had seen him here. He wouldn't ever know that Dick had inadvertently tipped the mercenary off, or that Dick was involved with him in the first place, because Bruce would gladly carry on with ignoring this unspoken thing, not allowing himself to know it, as long as he didn't have a real reason to.

But the thought of something so ugly festering between them, eating away at the tattered edges of their already frayed relationship--the thought of Bruce's face if he ever stumbled upon the knowledge, those blue eyes going cold for good, never again holding any hint of warmth or the scraps of approval that Dick had always chased after like they were as vital as air; his
family, lost to him a second time--made the choice clear.

"You forgot the third option," Dick said, whipping out his Escrima sticks and grimly squaring off, and he told himself it was because he needed to stop Slade--that it was the right thing to do--and not because it was far easier to fight the other man than his own deep-seated compulsion to follow Bruce's orders. "Turn around and face me, Deathstroke."

Slade did, interest peaked by the cold address. Even with his face hidden Dick could easily imagine the way his brows had climbed high on his forehead, as if genuinely surprised by the turn of events.

"...I don't want to hurt you, little bird," Slade said neutrally, pointedly not drawing his sword like Dick wasn't even a threat to be taken seriously. "And we both know it's not me you're looking to fight."

The fact that he was right was enough to topple the last of Dick's self-control, overwhelming him with the urge to lash out at someone; anyone.

"I'm starting to think," Dick said shakily, just above a whisper, the words carrying easily over the frigid silence of the night, "that you don't know anything about me."

And then he charged.

Slade effortlessly deflected his attacks, one after another, not even moving except to block his every swing and kick and jab. The casualness of it only infuriated him more.

"Fight me!" Dick commanded after the fourth rejection, skittering backwards across the gravel--his chest heaving--but Slade only stood there, making no move to do so, the artificial red light where his missing eye should be piercing through the night like a sniper's mark.

With a snarl of frustration Dick leapt back to full height and sprinted at the man, side-stepping him last second and springing off the crumbling edge of the building as he tucked into a roll mid-air, putting every bit of force he had behind his attack as he came down--

--Slade dodged easily, stomping on the back of his calf and catching him by the collar when he crumpled, before pinwheeling him backwards in a single sharp tug. The movement upended the sky above him, sending him free-falling for what felt like forever before he landed in the gravel in a dusty heap, hard enough to knock the breath from him.

A boot settled over his chest, grinding him down into the dust, and still he could tell the man was holding back.

"Enough," Slade admonished, like the entire thing was just one of Dick's fits of
moodiness. "I've made the decision for you. Leave. Now."

Dick eyed the other man warily from his pinned position, sizing him up for another attack--but before he could there was a shuffle of activity at the jail's back entrance as a grim-faced Tony Zucco emerged, dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit with hands and ankles bound, flanked on all sides by uniformed officers. They forced him down the cement stairs, gait made awkward and unsteady by the chains.

The boot eased from his chest as Slade made for his gun, and Dick used the slight distraction to hook a wrist around his ankle, yanking as hard as he could.

When the mercenary stumbled it was enough for Dick to break free and jump to his feet, jabbing the man in the lower left side with both electrified ends of his Escrima sticks and following it up with a swinging kick.

Slade staggered sideways but caught himself quickly, and Dick could practically see the thunderous expression hidden under his mask.

"Your efforts are wasted," he said, voice threaded through with real irritation now as he began stalking towards Dick.

A flurry of back-and-forth, Slade parrying his every movement with ease, and when Dick aimed at his ribs with another forceful swing the mercenary caught his wrist, driving a fist into his low stomach.

Dick wheezed out a pained breath, curling in on himself for a half-second--just long enough for Slade to follow up with a backhanded blow against the side of his head.

This time it was Dick who was sent stumbling, right ear ringing loudly as a backdrop to his shallow breaths. The mercenary began advancing towards the edge of the roof again just as the officers shut the rear doors on Zucco, sealing him inside the van, one of them pausing at the driver's side door to speak to the officer behind the wheel.

He just needed to distract Slade for a few more minutes--long enough for the van to leave--and then he could go from there.

Dick leapt back into action, flinging a few batarangs at Slade's retreating form and catching him in the shoulder as he sprinted at the man again. Just as he'd hoped Slade turned at the assault, blocking against the new wave of attacks, every blow driven with as much strength as Dick could muster.

Finally Slade caught him just a split-second off-tempo a second time, driving a knee upwards into his face when he ducked the man's swinging fist.

It caught Dick under his chin--blood exploding in his mouth as his teeth speared his tongue--followed seconds later by another blow to the head that sent him reeling, his Escrima sticks falling from his grasp and clattering to the gravel below.

This time the older man knotted a fist in his cape and slammed him face-first into the dust, wrenching his left arm behind him, a heavy boot pinning his wrist in place as the man crouched down beside him.

"No one gets in the way of my objective," Slade said lowly, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking his head back, forcing Dick to meet his gaze. "Not even you."

Dick could barely speak past the blood sliding down the back of his throat, his mouth streaming with it. He tried to shove himself up with his free hand, palm slipping against the gravel, but Slade only twisted his captured arm even further, tearing a pained cry from him as his shoulder blade nearly popped out of place.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the armored police van drive up to the edge of the parking lot, pausing long enough to check the deserted street for cars before pulling out onto the road, and despite his precarious situation Dick felt a fleeting sense of triumph--but it was cut short as a black Cadillac in the back of the lot came to life in a flash of lights, engine roaring as it floored across the parking lot after the van.

There was a leak, after all, Dick thought dazedly--just as a sudden, thunderous boom rang out across the night air.

Even Slade glanced up, both of them taking in the bright cloud of smoke and fire at least a dozen blocks away.

The comm instantly crackled to life in his ear.

"Joker." Bruce spit the word like a curse, the two syllables an explanation all their own. "Robin--go after Zucco. I'll find you when I'm finished." The line cut out again.

Teeth clenched, Dick used the mercenary's slight distraction to inch his fingers down, just barely managing to pull out a flashbang from his utility belt and hurl it down against the rooftop as hard as he could.

Slade's grip on him loosened with a muffled curse at the bright flash of light, easing off him enough for Dick to escape. He flipped his way back to the edge of the building, springing off of it before the mercenary could recover.

The sparse traffic this time of night meant it was easy to find the police van--but it also made it easier for the Cadillac tailing it to keep up. Dick vaulted over rooftops, legs pumping, knowing full well Slade wouldn't be far behind.

The mercenary's involvement didn't bode well--for either of them--but he shoved the unwelcome thought away for now, focusing on his chase.

By this time the officers had realized they were being followed, the van bobbing and weaving throughout the scant traffic in an effort to lose the Cadillac--but it steadily kept pace with them, side-swiping several cars in its hot pursuit. He had to do something, before someone got hurt--

His worst fears came to life as the police van pulled left through a yellow light, the Cadillac hooking a sharp left behind it just moments after it changed to red. Dick watched in horror as a car on the opposite side of the street throttled through the intersection at full speed, T-boning the Cadillac right in its side.

The Cadillac went flying, rolling side-over-side almost in slow motion before coming to an abrupt halt right-side-up, all of its windows shattered. The air was filled with the sound of screeching tires as a handful of other cars pumped their breaks in a last-minute effort to avoid the crash.

Dick cursed, quickly calling it in. Less than a minute later he heard the shrill wail of sirens from a nearby ambulance as it converged on the scene--but it wasn't enough to alleviate his brief twinge of guilt for keeping up his pursuit instead of stopping to help.

The entire night had already gone to hell, and now that Bruce was occupied with the Joker's latest scheme it was up to him to fix it.

He just hoped he could get there before Slade did.

The police van made to cut through a narrowed alleyway only a few blocks from the bridge that lead out of the city--still intact; no Slade in sight--but Dick's relief was short-lived as the undercarriage suddenly erupted in flames, sending the heavy metal frame leaping into the air.

The driver lost control, the van careening to the side and crashing head-on against the crumbling brick wall in a definitive crunch of metal and glass before falling still.

Heart in his throat, Dick grappled over to the building, swinging down from the fire escape as he rounded to the front end of the van.

It was still smoking, the front windshield completely smashed out. The driver was slumped over the wheel, motionless; the officer in the passenger's seat, likewise, his head hanging limply against his chest. There was blood everywhere.

Dick checked them both for a pulse, stomach sinking when he found none.

He gazed warily past the two dead officers to the reinforced compartment behind them, but it was impossible to tell if there was any movement or sound from within.

Dick found himself standing in front of the double doors at the back of the van as if he'd floated there, reaching for the door handle with an unsteady hand.

Tony Zucco lay face-down on the floor, unmoving, his wrists and ankles still bound.

Dick hauled him out by the arm, numbly lowering the man down to the filthy cobblestone and turning him over onto his back with the tip of a shoe.

He was older now, hair thinning into a sparse gray crown. His ruddy nose was overlarge in the bloated sagging of his face, collapsing jawline shadowed with days-old stubble. There was a deep gash above his dark brow, bleeding sluggishly, the blood staining his hairline pink.

Thinner than Dick remembered, his shoulders slightly rounded with age, but he still retained a hefty paunch, straining against the orange fabric of his jumpsuit with every breath.

Unconscious--but he'd live.

The irony made Dick want to laugh hysterically; or maybe cry--or maybe drive his heel into that bloated face again and again and again until it caved in under the force, caking his shoe with the man's blood; the blood he was owed; the blood of his parents' sacrifice--

Dick collapsed onto his knees next to the man--because for all that Dick had built him up in his mind as the shadowy, elusive villain hovering just at the edges of his consciousness whenever he closed his eyes he was just a man, and Dick could see that now, in the shriveling, sinking form of him, laying harmlessly on the cold grime--and wiped at the tears that had escaped from under his mask with the back of his arm, smearing the blood from earlier across his mouth and jaw, his palms coming to rest uselessly in his lap as he stared down at Zucco's lined face.

He didn't look up at the slow approach of heavy, measured footsteps circling around the van, coming to a stop just a few feet away from him.

"He seemed so much bigger when I was a kid. Scarier," Dick said softly, glancing up at Slade, and he could feel the blood in his teeth when he smiled. It vanished seconds later when his eyes returned to Zucco as if compelled--like picking at an old scab. His oldest scab. "Hard to believe someone who looks so normal is the person who took everything from me."

"Not everything," Slade rumbled after a beat, and the words carried a significance that Dick couldn't decipher.

This time he did look up when the mercenary approached, tensing automatically in anticipation
of an attack--but Slade only bent at the waist, placing something cold and heavy in his open palm and curling his fingers around it before letting go and stepping away again.

Dick stared dumbly at the gun--at his fingers, wrapped around it like he'd done this a thousand times before (and he had, hadn't he, even if it was only in his darkest dreams?)--the weight of it a cold promise of retribution, close enough to reach out and take.

He glanced back up at Slade with knitted brows, looking for guidance, because suddenly he couldn't even think past the rush of blood in his ears or the taste of it on his tongue.

"You can't recover what he stole from your past--but the choice you make here and now will decide your future," Slade told him. "Will you allow him to keep taking from you forever? Or will you release the hold he has over you, once and for all?"

It sounded so logical--reasonable--but all the rules that had been drilled into his head since childhood instantly jumped to make themselves known, whirling through his mind in a disorienting cacophony until only one remained clear enough to pluck from the air.

"...but it's wrong," Dick said, brow creasing heavily as he searched the blank mask that served as the mercenary's face, entreating him to understand--to empathize with his position--but that dark eye held no such assurance.

"I wonder--did he think the same, when he murdered your parents without remorse and left you an orphan?" Slade asked, and Dick flinched like he'd been struck, his eyes dropping back down to Zucco's face. "Few are ever afforded vengeance. You've waited long enough."

Dick's hand tightened reflexively around the gun as he saw his parents' deaths for the millionth time, the memory so well-trodden he could recall every last detail: the horrified gasps from the crowd; the moment realization hit him, already far too late, his eyes locking onto theirs as they fell into the boundless hole of shadows below, reaching for him, no time to even scream--

He saw Bruce, already solemn even in his mid-twenties, telling him that he didn't have to let the nightmares rule over him anymore--that he could teach Dick how to fight them--

"Your life means even more in the face of their deaths," Alfred told him once, "just like Master Bruce--"

Dick found himself alone on the tightrope, dressed in the familiar, flashy costume--only this time he was the one who was falling, pushed over the edge by invisible hands, and when he looked up into the face of his murderer in his final seconds it was Slade--not Zucco--staring back at him, impassively watching him fall.

Bruce stepped wordlessly out of the shadows next to him, wearing that all-too-familiar expression of
quiet disappointment, looking right through him like he was already dead--

"...no," Dick whispered, gutted, hand going slack around the gun as he squeezed his eyes shut against the sinister thoughts, the final memory of his parents disappearing from his mind's eye like water down a drain. When something damp touched his cheek he wiped at it numbly, expecting more tears--but it was only snow, drifting down silently from the heavens hanging vast and starless above them. "I--I can't. Don't you get it?! I can't!"

I'm sorry, mom and dad.

The gunshot shattered the peaceful stillness, Dick's heart rolling in his breast at the shock of sound and the hot spray of blood on his chest and face that followed.

He stared down at the gun in horror, expecting to find his finger curled over the trigger--but it lay unassuming in his loosened grip, heavily flecked with blood (Zucco's blood, and now they were even, weren't they?).

Dick shakily sought out Slade's face--his exposed eye--and found it turned away from him, only a sliver of artificial red visible over the brawn of the man's shoulder.

"Better a fool than a coward," Slade spat, voice barbed with poisonous contempt. He carelessly dropped the gun to the broken cobblestone below, making his slow retreat from the alley without looking back.

Objective complete.

Dick didn't watch him go. His gaze returned to the gun in his hand, lying cold and heavy like a dead thing--and then to Zucco, likewise, the gash in his forehead still bleeding quietly as if it hadn't gotten the memo.

He knelt there as snowflakes danced all around them, their fragile, crystalline forms falling to the earth in graceful, soundless descent, equitable enough to bury them both together.

---

Dick didn't remember how he got back to the Batcave--only that he was there now, sitting in front of the Batcomputer, still in his blood-spattered suit. His face was bare.

Bruce was there, too--the towering bulk of him only slightly less intimidating with the way he was leaning over the desk, cowled head bowed.

Neither of them had spoken since arriving here--maybe not even on the drive back, although Dick couldn't remember that either. Any other time the heavy silence would've bothered him, suffocating him until he felt compelled to break it--but he was too preoccupied with the same thought that had echoed endlessly in his mind since it had sprung up and taken root there: dead dead dead Tony Zucco is dead, and it was almost me who killed him--it should've been me--

"They planted explosives. Killed two officers. Shot Zucco," Bruce said finally, and Dick startled--glancing up from where he'd been staring at the floor--but the other man wasn't even looking at him. "The men had been dead for minutes when I got there. You saw what happened."

A question, phrased as a statement-- another one of Bruce's tactics. It was effective, usually, but this time Dick found himself holding back.

Slade's betrayal hurt, as if the mercenary had shot him instead. The man didn't deserve his protection anymore--not after he'd completely shattered Dick's trust, then nearly driven him over the edge of something he could never climb his way back from--but still Dick found himself clinging to those familiar, comforting feelings he'd developed in the last year and a half spent in his company.

Even now he didn't want to give it up: the small sapling that he'd nourished and tended ever since it had begun growing inside him. He still wanted to shield it and protect it from the prying eyes of the world; preserve it as it was, even if it would never grow past tonight.

He didn't want to let Bruce take it away from him.

"...I never saw his face," Dick said. A lie wrapped in truth. "He got away before I..."

The rest of the sentence fell off, his mind flashing back to the image of Slade walking away from him, leaving him with Zucco's dead body as snow swirled all around them. A dark parody of the night Slade found him bleeding and alone in the alleyway and had taken him home for the first time.

Bruce looked at him, then, and he seemed to read something in Dick's expression, lifting up from the desk and turning to face him at last.

"You're protecting someone." Not an accusation--a knife, ripping right through him to the heart of things.

Because he made you, Dick's mind supplied dully, what else do you expect--?

"I'm not," he said quickly--too quickly--and from his peripheral vision he could see the other man's mouth pull into a frown.

"This is bigger than spiting me." And there was the accusation. Dick seized on the diversion, his shoulders drawing up reflexively.

"The only thing I've ever done to spite you is fail to live up to your impossible expectations," Dick ground out, using his anger as a shield to keep the other man away from this unwanted train of thought--away from Slade--but Bruce didn't fall for the distraction.

"Are they blackmailing you?" he demanded, drawing in closer, and the imposing form of him--dressed in all black like something from a nightmare, gloved hands tightening into fists that had beaten and strangled and threatened countless people--sent Dick's heart skittering in his chest like he was next. He gripped to the arms of Dick's chair to cage him in, looming over him menacingly. "Tell me! I can help you!"

"That's not--it's nothing like that!" Dick insisted, shrinking back in his chair as far as he could go and meeting the other man's eyes at last.

"And don't act like that's why you care!" he went on, voice ratcheting up to form some kind of offensive barrier around him, but Bruce didn't so much as flinch. "It's because you don't know how to explain to Gordon how I f*cked up so badly--how I managed to get Zucco and two of his officers killed!"

"It's because I don't know how to explain to myself why I found you leaning over a corpse with a gun in your hand!" Bruce thundered out, gripping so tightly to the chair that the arms creaked in protest--the words bouncing off the cavernous walls in an endless echo, sending bats screeching in the distance--and all of Dick's anger wooshed out of him instantly.

"...you think I did it." It should've terrified him--but the guilty part of him was all too ready to fall on his sword. Because in a way, he had killed them: the officers, when he'd told Slade about the armored van, giving him enough time to rig it with explosives; and Zucco, when he'd failed to stop Slade the second time.

He hadn't even tried.

A long, pregnant pause--both of them staring at each other--and then Bruce gave a tired sigh, shoving up from the chair and turning away from him again.

"No," he said, to Dick's surprise. "The murder weapon was found on scene--different caliber. The bullet trajectory; the blood pattern; the muzzle burns. None of it aligned with your position."

Dick nodded slowly, even as a little voice inside him told him it wasn't true; that it might as well have been him. Because a real hero wouldn't stand by as someone was murdered in cold blood right in front of them, no matter who it was--then go on to cover up the truth of what had really happened.

He wasn't even in the same league as Bruce, who'd single-handedly apprehended the Joker tonight and prevented any casualties in the process.

He didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt. Least of all from Bruce.

Silence fell between them again, and this time Dick was uncomfortably aware of it--but he couldn't speak, the taste of blood from earlier thick and sour on his tongue.

"Whatever you're doing--whoever you're protecting--it won't end well," Bruce said, breaking the silence at last. "I can't see you go down that dark road, knowing I stood by and watched it happen."

The older man turned to look at him again, expression clouded by the cover of the mask. "When I brought you into this... I didn't need a replacement. Didn't think you needed something to ground you. You learned that the world doesn't make sense. Doesn't stop, even when you’ve lost everything. I saw the anger in you--and the willingness and capability to use it for something greater.

"If I ever made you feel otherwise..."

It wasn't really an apology--but it was close enough that it knocked him for a loop, robbing his brain of any and all coherent reply. He could count on both hands the number of times Bruce had offered him anything close to emotional comfort over the years. It was ironic that one of them had to be tonight, after what he'd done. After what he hadn't done.

Luckily, Bruce didn't press the issue. "You'll tell me if you're in any trouble," he said briskly, bringing them back to safer shores. It wasn't a question.

Dick nodded mutely, unsure of his ability to lie to this man a second time. Not tonight. Not after the out Bruce had just given him.

Bruce nodded back like the matter was settled, even though Dick knew he wouldn't rest until he'd found out what really happened. But Slade would already be gone.

"Get some rest," Bruce told him, turning to go--to walk away from him, just like Slade had--and Dick found his voice at last.

"...I failed you," he said, the words barely a whisper--but Bruce heard them anyways, pausing on the platform to listen. "For just a second, when I had the gun in my hand--when I saw my parents fall--I...I wanted to kill him."

It was the closest thing he could bring himself to give the other man in terms of the truth.

His head hung heavily, hiding the sudden sting of tears in his eyes, and he kept them trained on the floor even as he heard Bruce approach, too afraid to see the man's reaction to his confession.

A heavy, gloved hand settled over his shoulder, that familiar voice washing over him.

"You didn't," Bruce told him, like he thought Dick needed the reminder. Maybe a part of him did. "And you didn't fail me."

---

Slade didn't look surprised to see him.

He was in casual clothes, barefoot and shirtless even in the dead of winter, sitting on the couch in the familiar living room without drink or any other distraction like he'd been waiting for Dick.

Neither one of them said anything--Dick with eyes like a wounded animal, mouth a tight, flat line in his barely-restrained fury; Slade, loose-limbed but expression shuttered, like a sprawling, boarded-up house--until at last Dick forced himself to speak.

"You killed two officers," Dick said quietly, amazed when his voice came out level. "Did they pay you for that, too? Or was it just a bonus?"

"Unintended casualties," Slade corrected him, and he didn't sound the slightest bit apologetic. "You understand that."

Dick flinched reflexively. No matter how good of a hero someone was--no matter how hard they tried--it was impossible to save everyone, all of the time. Sometimes, death was inevitable.

Except there was a difference between the unfortunate deaths of those he and Bruce couldn't save, and the trail of bodies Slade left behind him wherever he went.

Dick's mind flashed suddenly to the two dead officers, blanketed in shattered glass; to Zucco's wan, bled-out face, and the bullet hole in his head that Dick had done nothing to prevent.

Isn't there?

"Don't act like we're the same," he snapped, unsure which one of them he was trying to convince. "I'm not here to play mind games, Slade. I'm here to say goodbye. Whatever this is--was--it's finished."

Slade didn't react right away, staring him down like he was trying to figure out if Dick was serious--before exhaling in what might have been a sigh.

"Punishment, then," he guessed.

"Self-preservation," Dick said tightly, trying to keep calm, but he could feel the bitterness rising inside him with every passing moment in the face of the other man's cool indifference. "I trusted you, Slade! God knows why, but I did. And you betrayed me! You killed two officers; you tried to make me into a murderer! Was that your goal from the beginning?! Trick me into trusting you just so you could watch it blow up in my face?!"

He couldn't stand to hear the answer, but he knew if he left here without it it would only eat away at him, day after day, until he had no hope of ever healing.

"Idiot boy. All this time--keeping your secret, and the secret of a man I hate--and that's really what you think my aim was?" Slade shot back, face twisting like he smelled something sour. "Don't insult me. There are far worse things I could've done to you, if I'd wanted to."

Dick stood his ground when the mercenary rose from the couch and approached him--and he made no move to shrink away when the man curled a hand around the back of his neck, his weak heart pirouetting in his chest at the close contact.

"Zucco hurt you--so I removed him," Slade murmured, thumbing over his bottom lip, and even now the intimate touch made him shiver. "Isn't that what lovers do?"

"They don't go behind each others' backs," Dick mumbled back, trying not to get lost in the other man's closeness--the dizzying warmth of him--but he already felt like he was drowning. "They don't lie to each other."

"You're the only one who's lying here," Slade responded, squeezing at the back of his neck in emphasis. "I've never made any secret about who I am. So why act upset after being confronted with what you've known all along?"

The older man smiled--an unpleasant expression--and the shadowed cavern of his missing eye was like a gaping wound. Dick saw Zucco's lifeless face, bloodied and still, snowflakes covering it in a burial veil.

"You didn't come here because of me. You came here because the Bat got in your head--just like always."

Dick struggled against the kiss, shoving at the man's broad chest--but Slade only grunted and captured his wrist, hauling him in closer and walking them both back against the nearest wall, mouth unrelenting against his own.

For just a moment the weakest part of him gave in, free hand coming up to cling at Slade's bicep as he matched the man's brutal, urgent pace, venting his frustration and anguish in a vicious tangle of tongue and teeth.

A hard thigh situated itself between his, and Dick cried out as Slade bit harshly at his lower lip, blood springing to life from his earlier injury. It was that--the taste of his blood on the other man's tongue, intertwining with his own--that finally brought him back to his senses.

Despite the odd angle he managed to catch the man in the jaw with a fist. Slade backed off with a muffled grunt, caught off guard by the punch.

"Don't," Dick snarled out around his ragged breaths--poised for another attack--but the other man made no move to reciprocate, dark eye flashing. "Touch me again and I swear I'll knock your f*cking teeth out!"

Slade's smile was indulgent as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his wrist, and when his hand fell away Dick saw that it was stained red with his blood.

"What was it this time?" he taunted like nothing had happened, straightening back up to full height and looking down his nose at Dick. "Did he forgive your failures? Show you his infinite mercy? Or did he pass judgment on his lowly creation?"

"He apologized," Dick growled out, stomach twisting unpleasantly at how Bruce had taken the blame on himself. Absolved him of everything, even knowing damn well Dick had sat there and lied to his face. After Dick had nearly thrown away everything the man had ever given him. "And that's more than I can say for you."

He made to shoulder past the older man to leave, but Slade caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

This time when Dick swung at him he saw it coming, capturing Dick's other wrist and yanking him in closer. Dick glowered but fell still, too drained to even fight anymore, training his gaze on the floor as he waited for the man to say his piece and get it over with.

"I won't apologize for showing you the truth," Slade told him roughly, close enough that Dick could feel the vibrations of the words. "I only regret that it wasn't enough."

He craned his head back to look up at the man, forcing his bloody mouth to stretch into something ugly to match the ugly mess of guilt and anger and sickly contradictions swirling around inside him. "Oh, yeah--you've shown me the truth, alright. My only regret is that I didn't let myself see it sooner."

His smile faded, eyes hardening to little pinpoints as they flicked back and forth over the other man's face. "You should leave Gotham. It won't take him long to find you."

"Because a little bird told him?" Slade questioned, grip tightening on his wrist and bicep when Dick made to pull away again. He didn't sound worried; only curious. He wasn't afraid of Bruce. "Should I be expecting another knock on my door tonight?"

"...no," Dick admitted, inexplicably unable to meet that shrewd gaze--but somehow that single word exposed him more than enough by itself.

Slade noticed, dissecting his thoughts--even the unspoken ones--just as easily as ever.

"Your discretion is a shield--a tool, meant to bury your guilt somewhere he can't find it. Not so selfless, after all." Dick could hear the wry amusem*nt in the other man's voice. "It looks like I was right to call you a coward."

Dick's stomach turned over, unnerved in the face of this man and his uncanny ability to peer into Dick's heart and read the truth there.

Because he was right. As much as a part of him had wanted to protect Slade from Bruce's wrath, he'd wanted to protect himself from it even more. Protect himself from the imagined disappointment that weighed on him even more heavily than the desire to avenge his parents for the needless deaths they'd suffered.

It was too disturbing a realization to even confront.

When Dick said nothing--neither confirming nor denying it--Slade gave a thoughtful hum.

"The guilt," he murmured, leaning in close to his ear, and Dick felt himself stiffen, tense and coiled like an animal scenting danger. "Is it because you failed the mission he gave you? Or because from now on--whenever you look him in the eye--you'll be reminded that you almost pulled the trigger yourself?"

The words sent him reeling; sent the room tilting under his feet so that Slade's hold on him felt more like a kindness than imprisonment.

I wanted to kill him, he'd told Bruce--a desperate attempt to alleviate the gnawing guilt inside him.

But he hadn't told the entire truth (because he was a coward, just like Slade said).

The truth was, that for the briefest moment--no matter how fleeting it might have been--he was going to do it.

Dick wrenched his arms out of the man's grip, looking up at him with steely, glittering eyes, and this time Slade let him, gazing back at him impassively. The same look as when he'd pushed Dick off the tightrope and watched him fall.

"Goodbye, Slade," Dick said firmly, resolute, turning sharply away from him. Like he'd turned away from Dick in the alleyway. "Don't contact me."

"Who's afraid of the Big Bad Bat," Slade called after him as he went, words dripping with mocking disdain--a final, parting shot, meant to cut deep--but Dick didn't turn back, shoulders hunching against the knife-sharpness of them. "One day you're going to wake up and realize he isn't the f*cking paragon of virtue you've held him up to be, all these years. And then you'll ask yourself why it's me you're running from."

Dick left, the words embedding themselves like fish-hooks just beneath his skull. He wanted to snap back at the man; tell him he had it wrong--that running away from someone else was the easy part. It was running from yourself that was harder.

He didn't, though. Just one more thing to prove Slade was right about him, after all.

---PRESENT DAY---

Slade was there when Dick touched down on the rooftop of the old warehouse, gazing out across the city, and the scene was so utterly reminiscent of that night that for a moment Dick saw Tony Zucco's empty face, shrouded in snow, staring sightlessly up at the starless sky overhead.

I've never made any secret about who I am, Slade had told him, the first time around. He hadn't this time, either, and yet Dick had allowed him to get close again, even knowing how things would inevitably end.

But despite his lapse of weakness, Dick hadn't lied about who he was, either. Maybe he was just Bruce's imperfect creation--a flawed copy; the beta program, still full of bugs--but he was done being a coward.

He'd stand up and deal with Black Mask, no matter the consequences--and he'd do the same with Slade.

Slade turned at the crunch of gravel under Dick's feet, and the relaxed set of his shoulders said the man wasn't surprised to see him dressed for business, Escrima sticks at the ready.

A stretch of silence that could have meant anything or nothing as they stared each other down, punctuated by a scattered sworl of snowflakes that were carried away on the wind just as quickly as they appeared.

"You already knew." Dick cast the first line, always uneasy in prolonged silences. And it really was hard to tell what Slade was thinking behind the mask.

"Obviously."

A thousand different possible responses sparked in his mind.

Does this mean you've finally given up on dragging me down into the darkness?

I guess we're even now, then. How's it feel to be lied to?

He wondered if Slade knew he'd called Bruce. Wondered if it had hurt when he'd realized that Dick had chosen Bruce over him yet again--the same hurt he'd felt when he'd found out Slade had gone behind his back all those years ago. The thought didn't bring him the satisfaction he'd expected.

He settled on something more neutral. "Then why go along with it?"

"Because you need this," Slade answered, and the simple words were enough to spark realization.

He apologized--and that's more than I can say for you, Dick had told him that night. The puzzle pieces clicked into place as he suddenly saw it for what it was: an apology. Strained and clumsy, but an apology all the same.

During their dinner at Vincenzo's the mercenary had said he wasn't sorry for what had happened--and Dick had no doubt he'd meant it--but he'd clearly recognized Dick's need for a resolution to the way things had ended for them. So he was giving Dick one in the only way he felt he could: by offering him a do-over.

It was a transparent attempt at moving them past what he must've seen as the single remaining roadblock to resuming their relationship--offered by an emotionally stunted man who probably had never once admitted to being wrong in his entire life--and such an utterly simplistic solution to a complex problem that it startled a genuine laugh out of him. If it were anyone else besides Slade, he might've called it endearing.

"You really think this'll be enough to fix everything?" Dick pressed him, incredulous. "What about next time? What'll stop you then, Slade? For f*ck's sake--look at us!"

His voice had risen by the end of it as he gestured wildly to the space between them, and everything it stood for: their respective sides, forever opposite each other; the dark, gaping chasm that kept them apart. The one he couldn't risk falling into again.

There was no way to reconcile some differences--something he'd had to accept long ago, when the partnership between him and Bruce had dissolved for good.

The same way things between him and Slade had ended the moment Black Mask had found out his and Bruce's identity; since he'd gone behind Dick's back three years ago, trying to force closure on a situation he couldn't really understand.

Even if Dick hadn't wanted to admit it to himself at first. Even though he'd tried to forgive and forget. But the way Slade had inserted himself into this situation and tried to take control had been more than enough to remind him.

They couldn't do this again.

"I know this is your f*cked-up way of protecting me. Another thing you both have in common," Dick muttered, jaw pulling tight as he gazed off into the distance--before he came back to himself, seeking out Slade's face again.

"You told me that I couldn't change the past--but I could decide my future, here and now," Dick said, louder in his growing confidence, his words carrying easily on the faint breeze. "That night you both tried to decide for me--even though it didn't turn out exactly how either of you wanted. But I'm not gonna let you or him choose for me, Slade. Not any more."

He held the single-eyed gaze in his own, head held high, daring the other man to contradict him.

Finally Slade inclined his head, huffing out a little breath that was muffled by the mask, and Dick got the sense that he was smiling.

"So the little bird has finally escaped his cage." He sounded approving.

Dick's heart quickened at the sharp schwip that echoed across the silent night air as Slade pulled out his ballistic staff with clear intent.

"By all means, then," the mercenary told him, staff smacking into his open palm as he gripped it with both hands. "Go ahead and stop me."

No more hesitation. Dick charged at the man full sprint, Escrima sticks swinging.

Slade met him on the attack, holding him off with an equal amount of strength as they sized each other up, close enough to touch.

"This time," Dick told him through gritted teeth, arms vibrating with the effort of holding the other man at bay--and the steady, unwavering strength he could feel on the other end of the sticks-- "don't even think about holding back."

This time he knew Slade was smiling under the mask, catching a faint gleam of amusem*nt in the dark eye before heaving away from the other man with a practiced spin.

For hours or minutes they danced together on the rooftop, nothing but the sound of their weapons clashing and the thumping of his heart, nearly in sync with the rapid-fire pace of Slade's attacks.

Just as he'd demanded the mercenary wasn't holding back, treating Dick like an actual, credible threat for maybe the first time ever, unlike those early days when he'd swatted Dick away like a pest so he could focus on the real threat. Dick thrilled at it; that shrill, aching part of him that still felt like he had something to prove. The one that still clamored for approval.

But another part of him was wondering if he'd miscalculated. Slade wasn't even winded, launching a stream of attacks at him with machine-like efficiency and effortlessly parrying the few strikes that Dick managed to get in.

He was fast, but Slade was just as fast or maybe even faster, propelled by his enhanced senses. He was stronger, too. Dick could feel the bones of his wrists jarring every time they connected, sending twin shock waves up the taut muscles of his arms. He would never win in a one-to-one battle of strength against the other man, and they both knew it.

I have to think of another way, Dick thought grimly, or we'll be here all night--

His slight distraction allowed Slade the opening he'd been looking for. The mercenary caught him in the side with his staff, following it up with a surprisingly elegant kick to the stomach. Even through the protection of the suit it knocked the breath from his lungs, sending him skidding back a few paces across the rooftop.

Dick caught himself, balancing on the balls of his feet in a perfect crouch and glancing up warily at Slade as he sucked in big lungfuls of frigid winter air.

Okay, that hurt. f*ck, but the man could really pack a punch. Kick. Whatever.

Slade tsked. "Is that all? I'm disappointed."

The mercenary made no move to advance on him, staff spinning in his palm as he brought it back into position, staring down haughtily at Dick from where he towered over him. "Now--will you be a good little bird and get out of my way? It won't take long. Sionis never was much of a threat."

Dick felt his face burn crimson at the underhanded insult--his failure to stop Black Mask before things had gotten ugly, thrown back in his face.

Before I let him find out Bruce's secret.

Guilt flared within him, but Dick shoved it away. This time, he was going to be the one to set things right. This time, he wasn't going to let Slade swoop in with his own ideas of justice.

He just had to figure out how to stop the man.

Dick glanced over him again, considering. Brute force wouldn't work. He'd just have to outsmart him.

All at once an idea formed in his mind as his eyes swept over the piercing red light, set in the socket of the mercenary's missing eye. It was a feature of his helmet, Dick knew--not only did it give him the ability to seek out and lock onto targets, but it also had a sonar-like ability that improved his reaction time by helping him 'see'.

It didn't just make up the difference of having two eyes--it improved on it tenfold. Slade must've come to rely on it, at least partially.

Which meant he'd just have to blind the man all over again.

Dick slowly rose to his feet, his arm falling away from his middle with a grimace. "Now I'm the one who's disappointed, Slade. I thought you knew me better than that by now."

The mercenary watched as Dick reholstered his Escrima sticks in a single smooth movement before squaring off again, hands bare.

"Switching tactics?" Slade taunted, but he was curious, if the tilt of his head was any indication. "Falling back on your pretty smile, after all?"

"Is it working?" Dick flashed one of the smiles he was asking for: bright and full of teeth. The kind that had gotten him out of trouble more than once.

Not this time, though.

But I don't need it to, Dick thought grimly, bracing himself as Slade came at him in response.

When the man had nearly reached him Dick threw down a smoke pellet, springing up and flipping over him with a single hand against his armored shoulder.

He threw down another just as Slade whirled on him, using the wall of smoke as cover to retreat.

"More parlor tricks?" the mercenary called out, but Dick didn't answer, treading at the edges of the slowly-disappearing smoke with silent footsteps as he waited.

"I can still see you."

Slade leapt out of the smoke with staff raised, artificial red eye flashing like a beacon, but Dick was ready for him: he slid deftly underneath the man moments before he landed in a neat crouch, dust unsettling at the impact.

Before he could turn Dick tackled him, sending both of them tumbling across the tarmac, the staff flying free from the mercenary's grip as he landed flat on his back with Dick hovering over him.

In the blink of an eye Dick had drawn out an Escrima stick, bringing it down on the man with all his strength--but Slade blocked his right-hand strike with an armored forearm, following it up with his own swing.

It caught Dick in the lower rib cage--the same still-healing ribs he'd injured less than two weeks ago--and the shock of pain made him falter long enough for the mercenary to snatch up his right wrist in a gloved fist, grip so tight he could feel the bones grinding together even through his suit.

"Got you."

Dick inhaled sharply, rapidly-numbing fingers dropping the Escrima stick to the tarmac below as Slade gave his wrist a brutal squeeze. He dragged his captured prize high into the air as he began rising to sitting, so close that all Dick could see was red--Tony Zucco's bleeding face, lingering permanently in the dregs of his mind's eye.

He scrabbled desperately for his second stick, fingers tightening for purchase as he whipped it out and flicked on its current, and before Slade could make any move to stop him he reared back, driving the electrified end into the artificial red light.

The protective panel shattered under the force as the opposing voltage sent him flying backwards, the mercenary's grip on him disappearing in the explosion.

Dick jumped back to his feet, darting closer to swipe up the Escrima stick he'd dropped earlier, turning back to face the man again just as he began to rise.

Slade reached up and yanked out the now-inert Escrima stick still lodged into his mask, dropping it to the rooftop below. He pried off the ruined remains of the mask and tossed it aside, his face (sporting only a few minor cuts and scrapes) as shuttered as the grave.

Damn. Wasn't even entirely sure that would work.

"Is that a no?" Dick asked sweetly, heart pounding hard with adrenaline. "About the smile, I mean."

The mercenary smiled faintly at him in turn. Somehow, he looked even more disconcerting without the mask.

"Gloat while you can," Slade told him, stretching his head towards his shoulder with an audible crack, and Dick's smugness faded just a little as the man drew his sword with a metallic shiiink, the weapon cutting audibly through the air with a practiced flourish. "When this is over, you'll be lucky to ever see the light of day again."

"Changed your mind about killing me?" Dick shot back, gaze straying to the fallen Escrima stick laying unassumingly near the mercenary's boot.

Slade caught him looking, casually kicking it behind him with his heel. It rolled silently across the tarmac, coming to rest against the roof's edge.

"About your freedom," Slade corrected. "You caused far fewer headaches while I had you locked away. This time I'll chain you to my bed so you can't fly away again."

"If you wanted something that can't fly away from you--didn't you ever think that maybe a bird wasn't the best choice?" Dick asked mildly, but his face felt hot.

"Never," Slade answered without missing a beat, the word carrying just a hint of reverence in a way that made Dick's skin prickle under the constricting material of his suit.

They met each other halfway, words falling away as their weapons clashed.

It was harder with only one stick, but now Slade was weakened, too: Dick could tell his reaction time was just the slightest bit off, peripheral vision made nonexistent on the side of his missing eye without the aid of the mask.

If he could just catch the man on his weaker side, Dick knew he could win. But first he needed his other stick.

Slade's attacks were fiercer than ever to compensate for his sudden weakness. Dick ducked and dodged and flipped, the mercenary's blade missing him by mere centimeters as he dove forward in a somersault, sprinting over to the roof's edge to retrieve his stick.

He snatched it up, dodging out of the way just before the other man's sword struck out into the space where he'd been only seconds prior.

"Enough, Slade," Dick told him, springing back a few feet as he alighted both Escrima sticks with their electrical charge. They crackled with energy as he flicked them through the air, radiating power--an extension of his own carefully-honed strength. "It's time to end this."

"There's only one way to end this," Slade countered, undaunted in the face of his confident display. "And you already know how."

So long as I possess a single remaining breath, you will never be rid of me. The promise the man had made him just days ago, when he'd held Dick close--tight, like he'd known already that Dick wasn't going to stay.

You should know by now I won't let you. His own answering promise. Because although it hurt--and there was a part of him that still wished things could go back to the way they were--he wouldn't let himself be caged. Not again.

"Still trying to push me over the edge," Dick said lightly, his smile rueful. "It won't work, though. Even if it means I have to keep fighting you."

A flash of teeth as the mercenary drew his shoulders back, the wicked curve of his blade gleaming in the moonlight. "Then fight."

With both sticks in hand Dick was re-energized, swiftly dodging the attacks the other man rained down on him and slinging back his own in swirls of flashing blue light.

Finally, it happened: Slade reacted just a fraction of a second too late as Dick caught him in his blind spot, jabbing him in the chest with the electrified end of one stick.

The momentary shock stunned him just long enough for Dick to follow up with an underhanded swing, so hard it knocked the sword from the man's hand and sent it flying. Slade's split-second glance after it gave him the final opening he needed: Dick pirouetted with a swinging kick, connecting with the side of the man's head.

Slade dropped bodily to the rooftop, motionless, collapsed onto one side in a crumpled heap.

Heart pounding, Dick chanced a closer look, gaze sweeping anxiously over the mercenary's still face, half-expecting him to spring up and attack again--but Slade made no move to get up, chest rising and falling with the slight movement of his breath under his heavy armor. Just unconscious.

Shoulders sagging with relief, Dick debated for only a moment before deciding to leave him there. It was unlikely there would be anyone in Blüdhaven looking for Slade. He should be safe.

Good luck to anyone who tries to wake him, anyways, Dick thought dryly. If he had any luck, the mercenary would be out for a while.

Now, it was time to go do what he'd been itching to do for months: take down Black Mask once and for all.

Dick reholstered his Escrima sticks and cast one last look at the mercenary's sleeping face before he took off across the rooftop, hair streaming in the wind, blood singing in his veins with renewed purpose.

And all at once he noted vaguely that with the infinite stretch of stars overhead--the still, frigid air, not a single snowflake in sight--it wasn't very much like that night at all.

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Text

The old foundry was on the west end of town not far from the Firestone district, nestled in the center of a once-bustling industrial complex. The loud red building was derelict with age, cracked windows like gaping holes in its weather-beaten facade, but it stood tall and sturdy against the black backdrop of night. It had shut down years ago--but apparently someone had helped Black Mask make it operational again.

Dick settled on the crumbling edge of a nearby factory, mentally kicking himself for not thinking to find Black Mask here sooner. A foundry was the perfect base of operations for someone concerned with taking over a city with an absurd amount of firepower. But with this side of town being mostly abandoned, Dick had had little reason to come here.

From his vantage point he could see that the roof was crawling with heavily-armed mooks--no doubt as a precautionary measure for him--and the nearby buildings weren't close enough to use as a jump-off point anyways. Which made the roof a no-go as a point of access.

Dick grinned, switching his mask back to default view with a casual tap of the fingers. Good thing they'd planned for this.

---

An old maintenance entrance on the back end of the building got him inside, and his holographic computer got him past the security system-locked door. It was almost disappointingly easy.

This end of the building, as far as he could tell, housed only administrative offices that clearly hadn't been used since the building was shut down. Dick hurried through the narrow, stark white halls, flickering bulbs hanging overhead casting everything in a sickly fluorescent glow.

There was still old signage on the walls, helpfully pointing him in the direction of the work room. He ran into his first two goons when he was nearly there: dark-haired men in masks, chatting animatedly to each other about last night's basketball game, rifles cradled in their arms like newborns.

Dick took them down before they could even turn to look, dismantling their guns with brisk efficiency and pressing on.

At last he came upon the entrance to the work room floor, charged with renewed adrenaline as he cracked the door open with a feather-light touch of his fingertips.

The man on the door's right side noticed first, swiveling towards him, face hidden behind a brightly-colored cat mask. Dick was on him before he could so much as shout or lift his gun, the sound of his heavy frame hitting the concrete floor masked by the deafening sound of machinery all around them.

The second guard he took down silently from behind, his lean form no match for a jolt from his Escrima sticks.

Dick dragged both of their unconscious bodies behind a nearby stack of pallets, peering out around them to scope out the work room floor.

Unlike the narrowed hallways of the administrative wing the heart of the foundry was open and spacious, roof coming together in a faint arch. The acrid smell of burning metal and cold damp hung heavily in the air, sharp enough that he could almost taste it with every inhale.

A dense haze blanketed the upper stratosphere, laid bare by the moonlight trickling in from the line of windows near the high ceiling, catching on the criss-crossed network of rafters that spanned the length of the room.

It was darker here, scattered yellow light emitting weakly from fixtures interspersed high overhead like streetlights, while the molten glow of liquid metal in countless casting stations lit up the room's center in a way that appeared almost otherworldly.

The image wasn't helped by Black Mask's men: they littered the floor, working and overseeing and patrolling, the incandescent light casting odd shadows on the disproportionate planes of their animal masks like some kind of fey species.

It almost looks like a normal day at work, Dick thought wryly, taking in the forklifts and pallets and workbenches full of tools; the heavy, looming machinery he couldn't name. Except for the creepy nightmare masks.

There was no sign of Black Mask--but Dick had a feeling he wasn't far.

No more hiding, Sionis. I'm coming for you. With one last look around to make sure no one was following, Dick crept out from behind the stack of pallets, infiltrating the floor's center.

He used the machines at the room's fringe for cover as he moved, suit camouflaging him into the darkness, the droning of heavy machinery the perfect companion to his stealth.

He nearly made it to the halfway point of the work room floor when he saw it: a set of stairs leading up to a small platform that housed an enclosed foreman's office, perfectly situated to oversee the room.

Black Mask stood at the platform's center like the main lead in some kind of macabre play, dressed in a white striped suit that was the antithesis of their last meeting, barking orders over the side of the railing to a group of armed goons below that were immediately drowned in the cacophony of the work room floor. This side of the room was alight in the same grungy yellow light of the room's perimeter, and it highlighted the sharp, slick angles of Black Mask's face, lending him a ghoulish appearance.

Two of the men Dick recognized from the ambush at the hotel guarded the perimeter of the platform in pacing steps, guns held at the ready--though the man in the alligator mask was conspicuously missing.

Game over, asshole, Dick thought excitedly, blood already singing with anticipation of the victory he'd been after for months now.

Still, he'd have to be careful. The line of machinery he was currently using for cover stopped abruptly, leading to a long stretch of open floor before the platform. Dick turned his gaze upwards to the high ceiling, where the system of rafters and support beams and walkways extended even here. Sneaking up would be almost impossible--but he'd always been more of a 'grand entrance' kind of guy anyways.

Dick tapped open his holographic computer, scanning the map to make sure his signal was still broadcasting. A network of reverberating dots moved across the map, the lone red one signifying his own position--but he knew even if he counted them all he'd come up one short. He wasn't the only one watching.

Show time. Dick sent the code through and tapped the screen off, digging out his grappling hook and aiming high.

Several of Black Mask's men startled as Dick landed before the platform in perfect, graceful form, pocketing the grappling hook as he rose back to standing.

The men instantly turned their guns on him, but Dick ignored them, making a show of checking his wrist-mounted computer before grimacing up at Black Mask.

"8:06? Sorry I'm late. I had some trouble finding the place."

"Nightwing." Sionis looked more irritated than surprised at his dramatic entrance, voice curling derisively around the name. He held tight to the metal railing, leaning over it with a sneer. "Didn't I tell you tonight was casual dress only? That's not very polite of you, kid."

Dick shrugged a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. Out of the corner of his eye he could see countless masked men appearing suddenly out of the shadows from up high in the rafters, guns trained on him. Without looking he knew there would be another line of masked crooks behind him, effectively surrounding him.

"You came to my place wearing your real face--so I thought it was only fair.

"Oh, and pro tip: maybe send, like, at least your second-best guys if you actually want to give me a challenge next time." Dick winced, reaching up and smoothing a hand over his hair in faux self-deprecation. "Uh, I forgot--there's not gonna be a next time. Sorry. I guess that's three strikes in the 'not-very-polite' column."

His hand fell back to his side as he stared coolly up at the man. "I'm shutting you down, Sionis. Really, I couldn't let you keep this place running even if I wanted to. These guys aren't even wearing any protective gear--it's completely unsafe. And I bet you don't have an operating permit, either."

"Heh. You got guts, kid. I'll give you that," Sionis said, carefully neutral, but the flash of teeth against his mask gave away his irritation. "Didn't work out so well for you last time, though, did it? I know your little secret now, bird-brain. You really think I won't let the whole world know it? Even if you do manage to lock me up there isn't anything that can stop me from talking."

"I'm sure," Dick agreed, quirking an indulgent little smile. "Problem is, there won't be anyone for you to talk to when you wake up in an underground prison cell on the other side of the planet where nobody speaks a single word of English." He and Bruce might have a code--and Dick was more sure of its importance than ever--but there were other ways of dealing with dangerous enemies that was just as effective. Bruce Wayne's connections were good for more than just getting front-row seats at the theater or fast-tracking a new ID.

"Tch." Even at a distance those black eyes were probing as they sized him up, as if the other man were recalculating the situation. "That might've been a better threat if I didn't have an entire room full of men ready to turn you into Swiss cheese on my say-so. You can't take 'em all down yourself--guts or no."

Dick tilted his head back, looking up at the skull-masked man with a serene smile. "Who said I was doing it by myself?"

The room plunged into sudden darkness as the lights winked off, nothing but the radioactive glow of molten metal lending faint illumination to the center floor like the shifting light of a bonfire.

"What the--"

"What's that? What happened?"

"Who cut the f*cking power?!"

"Where's the backup generator?" Black Mask's infuriated voice rose above the frantic stutterings of his men, his patient front vanishing along with the light. "There's gotta be one in this sh*thole somewhere! Why the f*ck didn't it kick on?!"

"I--I think I saw the controls in the maintenance room--"

"Then go fix it, you freakin' idiot!"

Dick turned on his nightvision and sprinted for cover behind the nearest stack of pallets off to the left of the platform just as the stretch of roof behind him gave way in a thundering blast of glass and steel and debris, the familiar shape of the Batwing illuminated against the sky for the briefest moment before plummeting into the shadows below.

The blue-white lights of the Batwing's high beams flicked on as it let loose a heavy stream of rubber bullets before it had even touched the ground, turrets rotating in a steady path for maximum coverage.

"What the hell is that!"

"Why you askin' me?! I can't see sh*t!"

"It's him!" Black Mask's voice rang out above the fray with equal parts derangement and vicious hatred as he crouched low behind the metal railing, producing an automatic from inside his suit. "Quit your f*ckin' yammering and shoot it, for f*ck's sake! Or I'll skin every last one of you alive!"

The room erupted in a crescendo of gunfire as Black Mask's men took aim at the Batwing, bullets pinging harmlessly off its armored exterior and ricocheting away.

"HEY--boss!" A man with a lizard mask crept cautiously closer to the Batwing on tip-toes, dodging stray bullets as he went, his own gun still at the ready as he craned his head to peer inside. He glanced back up at Black Mask, confusion written into the lines of his posture. "I don't think there's anybody in here!"

Black Mask hissed like a snake as he rose back to standing, swiping a gloved hand through the air, the gunfire falling off almost instantly.

"Damn him," he growled out, gun clutched to his heaving chest. "What the f*ck is that idiot doing?! Where's the goddamned lights?!"

Dick crouched low behind the pallets, watching the scene unfold. Already some of Black Mask's men had apparently decided their pay wasn't worth their freedom: a small group of no less than five of them were making a beeline for the shipping and receiving entrance tucked away in the right corner while Black Mask busily berated the rest.

As if on cue the Batmobile crashed straight through the door, steamrolling through it like it was tinfoil as it sealed off the potential escape route.

The group of men stopped mid-run in their shock, jerking backwards so fast they nearly tripped over their own feet in their haste to backtrack the way they'd come.

"He's already inside!" Black Mask was practically spitting in his rage as he jumped up and down on the platform like a child having a tantrum, his gun swinging wildly. "Find him and kill him!"

"But Boss. What about Nightwing?" the man with the tiger mask shouted above the new wave of gunfire at the Batmobile, gaze and gun pointed up as he scanned the ceiling, his shoulders hunched near his ears.

"To hell with Nightwing!" Black Mask snarled out. With a growl of frustration he turned to address his men again, his voice rising to a shout. "Kill both of them! You hear me?! I want the Bat and Bird in body bags by bed time, or all of you are gonna answer to me!"

The Batwing had finally stopped firing, and between that and the new orders from their boss Black Mask's men had regained their confidence: they appeared out of every crack and crevice like stubborn insects, shouting directions to each other as they hunted.

Dick eased out from behind the pallets--only for an all too real bullet to miss him by mere inches, whizzing over his shoulder far too close for comfort.

He spun to look, finding two of Black Mask's goons hanging out from behind a piece of machinery, their guns trained on him.

Before he could act both men were suddenly yanked into the shadows, their cries cutting off abruptly.

Dick smothered a grin as he glanced over his shoulder at Black Mask, who was still ranting and raving on the platform, paranoid gaze whipping back and forth.

He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. For now, it was time to help take out the trash.

Dick came upon a group of three men lurking between tall metal shelving and took out two of them with ease before whirling to face the third--just as he was spirited away up into the shadows with a shout, his gun clattering uselessly to the floor below.

"Show off," Dick accused with a lopsided grin, glancing upwards, but predictably there was no response.

He zipped through the narrow spaces between stations, Escrima sticks clasped in hand, his face set in grim determination.

Dick worked his way across the floor, taking out bad guys with practiced spins and kicks. In the distance he could hear the sound of activity: rapid gunfire; confused shouts; cut-off screams, and the unmistakable fwiiip as another unlucky soul was dragged skywards by the ankle and left to dangle inverted.

Finally he worked his way back to the empty stretch of floor near the Batwing, catching a stolen glimpse of the platform through rows of machinery as he ran.

The rest of the men had congregated in front of it, forming a protective wall like a living moat, all of them armed with heavy artillery. Black Mask still stood at the top, shouting orders, barricaded on both sides by two of his right-hand men.

One last challenge--and then Black Mask was his. He just had to figure out how to get past the wall of fire.

Time for a distraction.

Dick leapt out of his hiding place with a perfectly-timed sequence of smoke pellets, bullets cutting through the smoke only inches from him as he ran.

As expected a number of men charged forward through the wall of smoke with outraged cries, heavy footsteps like thunder in the cavernous belly of the foundry.

Dick took them out one after the other, raining down blows with his Escrima sticks, his blood coursing with adrenaline.

Still, for every man he took down, two more seemed to take their place, eager to jump into the fray. All too soon he found himself surrounded by the masked men, dodging bullets and swings and punches as they slowly closed in on him.

Dick grimly flicked on the electrical charge of his sticks, preparing to leap back into action--just as something dropped down heavily right behind him in a whorl of black.

Instantly his shoulders relaxed, crooked grin from earlier reappearing. "Took you long enough."

Suddenly re-energized, Dick launched himself at the nearest mook with a growl, sticks swinging.

For several minutes it was just like old times: they worked in tandem, the heavy presence of the other man at his back like a shadow, only made tangible through the brief snatches of a swirling black cape in the beaming flood of blue-white light from the Batwing's headlights.

"Not bad," Dick panted through his exertion, knocking out another man--this one, in a panther mask. "Age hasn't slowed you down one bit."

A barely-perceptible grunt over the sound of fist hitting flesh, yet another man joining the others where they lay, out cold, on the hard cement.

They both leapt for cover at the ear-splitting sound of gunfire descending from high as the smoke finally cleared--the men with the tiger and bird masks, missing Dick by inches.

"Useless idiots!"

Dick watched in stunned disbelief as Black Mask shot the man in the tiger mask at point-blank range--brain matter spattering against the side of the foreman's office--before turning to the bird-masked man closest to him, shooting him square in the chest. He tumbled backwards down the set of stairs, landing at the bottom in a crumpled, motionless heap, his head bent at an odd angle.

Without further preamble Black Mask vaulted over the side of the platform with his free hand and landed heavily below, springing back to his feet and taking off.

A noisy commotion yanked Dick's attention away from his prize: a group of men turning tail and running for the exit on the far end of the room where he'd originally entered. Behind him, a new crop of men crept in close, guns at the ready, apparently willing to go down with the ship even without their captain at the helm.

Dick's head whipped back to look after Black Mask, torn with split-second indecision as he watched the white form of the man grow further away, disappearing into the shadows on the far right side of the room.

"Go." The word was growled into his ear, just like all those times with the comm. "I'll deal with them."

Dick turned to look, a protest already on his tongue--only to be greeted by empty air.

He turned back with a resolute nod. It was time.

The lights flickered back on just as Dick took off after Black Mask. He ducked against a stray bullet from a faceless enemy behind him--only to catch another just under the rib Slade had re-injured, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Winded, Dick rolled to his right, all but collapsing behind the nearest casting station, clapping a hand over the gunshot wound reflexively. He peered out between the cracks to see the alligator-masked man from the attack at the hotel trailing after him, purposeful and unafraid, gun leading before him.

Guess he's still got a grudge, Dick thought flatly, thinking back to when he'd knocked the man out at the mayor's press conference. sh*t--this feels personal, alright.

He peeled his bloodied hand away from his ribs, glancing down at it with a grimace. The suit had protected him from the worst of it--but it still stung like hell. His rib felt properly fractured, now, and there would definitely be major bruising; possibly even internal bleeding, if he was really unlucky.

It took two tries to pull out his grappling gun. Chest heaving, Dick aimed for the machine right across the small aisle and depressed the hook. It hit its target and held true, suspending the taut line just a few inches above the floor, nearly invisible.

Breathing coming more labored now, Dick slowly pulled out one of his sticks and slumped back against the machine as he waited, listening to the rapidly-dwindling sounds of gunfire and shouts on the other side of the room.

His plan worked just as intended: the alligator-masked man tripped over the invisible wire and went down hard, gun misfiring as he lost his grip and sent it skittering across the cement. Before he could move Dick drove the end of his stick into the man's shoulder blade, flicking on the pulse at the last moment.

The man convulsed once with a bitten-off groan before falling still, unconscious.

Dick heaved himself up with effort, peeking around the line of machinery for any other followers--but the room had fallen eerily quiet. A quick check of his holographic computer showed only two blinking dots still remaining on this end of the building, one of them his own, while a small group of them disappeared one by one outside the scanner's perimeter. In the far distance he could still hear sounds of attack--Black Mask's men, attempting to flee.

They wouldn't get far, though.

It hurt just to walk--and he could feel his wound bleeding sluggishly with every step--but Dick ignored it, forcing himself into a light jog in the direction Black Mask had disappeared to before his body could overpower his mind. No matter what, he wasn't going to let Black Mask slip through his fingers again.

Beyond the platform was a shadowed corner that appeared to be some kind of storage space for old machinery and empty shipping crates, some of it shrouded in cheap plastic tarps; all of it covered in a fine layer of dust.

Clutching at his still-smarting side, Dick switched his night vision back on, looking around frantically for Black Mask.

The distant clanging of metal overhead forced his gaze up as he spun around, just in time to see a flash of white moving quickly in between the hulking structures and machinery along the narrow metal platform near the ceiling, almost halfway across the work room floor now.

Dick considered grappling up to the ceiling for less than a second before dismissing it with a curse, turning and going back the way he'd come. It would hurt too much in his current condition. He'd have to find a ladder.

A sudden, echoing gunshot followed by a plaintive cry turned his blood to ice. Dick glanced frantically skywards, searching for the source, but the room was cold and still.

He checked his holographic computer again, finding three dots now: his own, and two others up ahead, nearly on top of each other.

Heart in his throat, Dick took off at a sprint, each stride like a knife tearing at the edges of his frayed nerves. There was no time. He'd just have to do it the painful way.

He stopped under the metal platform that ran along the far right wall and aimed high with his grappling hook, bracing himself as the line took hold of him and pulled him swiftly up into the shadowed overhang above.

Still, it wasn't enough to prepare him for the pain. Dick muffled a groan against the surge of nausea as he landed, clutching onto the railing for balance as the room tilted sideways, his knees threatening to buckle under him. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself on, eyes tracking the slow movement of the two dots up ahead to guide him.

The sound of shouted curses and threats grew louder as Dick drew nearer. Up ahead of him the platform split off into another path that intersected the stratosphere of the room, with an obvious cut-off towards the center where the Batwing had crashed through it, leaving a gaping hole in the ceiling right above it.

Dick stopped in his tracks at the shocking sight that lay before him: a familiar, imposing figure dragging a struggling Black Mask towards the cut-off edge of the platform in a purposeful march, gloved hand clamped onto the man's striped collar.

f*ck. He should've known better than to think Slade would stay knocked out for long.

"No," Dick croaked, momentarily forgetting his pain as he surged after them.

He crested the platform just as the two men neared the edge, Black Mask struggling with renewed vigor now.

"I'll kill you!" the man spit, twisting viciously back and forth against the grip on his collar. His left leg stretched limply before him, white fabric over his calf stained a dark red, a matching trail of blood following after it with every step forward. "You hear me, you sonofabitch?! You're as good as dead!"

Slade ignored him, still dragging the man effortlessly along. Dick noted in horror the bubbling pit of liquid metal underneath, only a free-fall away, and suddenly the mercenary's intentions were crystal clear.

"Slade!" he shouted, scrambling down the path after them, his voice echoing across the drafty beams.

The other man turned to look, bare face grim under the pale moonlight from the hole in the ceiling overhead--the executioner's expression he knew all too well. Resigned in the face of a fate he'd already decided--for both of them.

Snatches of that night rushed back to him in an instant: the feel of the gun in his hand, heavy and full of quiet, dark possibilities; the sound of gunshot, and the taste of blood-tinged snowflakes on his tongue as Tony Zucco took his last breath.

The suffocating weight of Bruce's disappointment. The crushing feeling of Slade's betrayal. The lonely, haunted years that had followed--because Tony Zucco's death hadn't erased the pain of any of it; only granted the man immortality so that he was free to haunt Dick even beyond his nightmares, a living ghost always just at the edges of his conscious mind whenever he was out on patrol or had too much to drink or during a moment filled with too much silence and not enough distraction, reminding him of the time he'd almost lost control and allowed himself to be made into the very thing he had sworn to stop. Of the time he'd let another person decide for him, because the opportunity for revenge was too tempting to ignore, and it was easier to let someone else be the monster for him.

He couldn't let it happen again. He wouldn't.

"You can't," Dick pleaded, voice nearly failing him in the face of his pain. He held tightly to the guard rail as he stumbled forward, free hand still clutching at his bullet wound, his face and lips beginning to grow cold and numb as his heart sluggishly expelled his blood through the ragged tear of flesh. Slade stood predator-still, wordless, but Dick saw the way his eye flickered over the expanding mass of blood at his side. "Please."

Scowling, Black Mask's shoulders drew up like a snake ready to strike, struggle momentarily forgotten as he looked rapidly back and forth between them. "Hey! What the hell is thi--"

He cut off mid-sentence at the small dagger that appeared in Slade's other hand, pressing tightly to his windpipe.

"Quiet," Slade muttered, not even looking at him, his eye still tracking Dick's unsteady approach.

Dick stopped just a few feet away, breath coming shallower now, every word more difficult than the last. "Please," he said again, and he could feel the sting of tears forming behind his mask in his desperation to make the man understand. "Don't do this. Not again."

Slade considered him, knife deftly poised against Black Mask's throat, the masked man sprawled snarling and bleeding and limp at his feet like a wrangled animal.

"He's too dangerous to let live," the mercenary said finally, but the fact that he was hesitating at all told Dick he hadn't failed to reach him yet. That there was still a chance, no matter how slight.

"His death won't change anything," Dick managed, mouth pulling flat at another sharp pulse of pain from his wound. He sucked in a rattling breath, forcing himself to go on. "Neither did Zucco's.

"I still see his face," he said, softer, the man's face flashing in his mind even now: cold and still and empty, blanketed in bloodied snow. "I thought it would...would make me feel better, knowing he couldn't hurt me or anyone else, ever again. But I was wrong. And now--now I have to live with it, just like the night my parents died."

Maybe even worse. Because even though it had taken him years to accept that it wasn't his fault--that he wasn't to blame for their deaths--it didn't come close to the reality that he'd almost taken a life in turn. The thought shamed him anew, imagining what his parents would think of him if they'd seen him kneeling there over a defenseless man, gun in hand, his finger inching towards the trigger in self-righteous fury.

"He'll ruin you," Slade warned, teeth flashing as the blade pressed a little deeper into the soft column of the man's throat. Black Mask gave no outward reaction, chin lifted arrogantly as if daring him to do it, a thin rivulet of blood leaping to the surface under the knife's edge. Dick reluctantly met those remorseless black eyes, simmering with cold hatred even now. "Is having a clear conscience worth losing everything you've worked for? Worth saving a single, worthless life?"

Deep down, a part of him knew it would be easier to let the man do this-- just like that night on the rooftop, when he'd nearly turned a blind eye to Slade's plan. Even with Bruce's resources there was still a chance that Black Mask could out them, so long as he was alive.

But he wouldn't be able to face himself again; not a second time. Not after what he'd been through. Being a hero meant adhering to a code of justice without exception--even when it was hard. Maybe especially then.

If there was one thing that Bruce had taught him, it was that.

"If it means that one less person dies because of me--then yes, dammit," Dick gritted out, grip tightening on the guard rail, folded over himself against the throbbing, nauseating pain in his side. "The answer will always be yes."

For a moment Slade only stared at him, brows narrowed sharply, and Dick was sure he'd failed after all--when all at once the mercenary's expression relaxed, the tense pull of his mouth dissolving into a not-quite smile.

"...I see," he said, slowly withdrawing the pointed blade from the masked man's throat. "Not such a coward, after all."

Dick's mouth fell open on a soundless cry of protest as the mercenary leaned down swiftly, winding one massive arm around Black Mask's throat instead. A single drawn-out squeeze, and Black Mask's head went limp, palms going slack against the platform.

Slade let him go, and the masked man slumped over onto his side, the faint rise-and-fall of his chest still visible through his loud suit.

Stunned, Dick glanced up warily as the mercenary stepped over the unconscious figure, gaze locking onto him as he approached.

For a single crazed moment he almost expected the other man to chuck him into the fiery lava pit instead--whether for destroying his mask earlier, or depriving him of his kill; either way, he wasn't really in any condition to fight back--but he only came to a stop right in front of Dick, so close they stood nearly toe-to-toe.

An overlarge hand ghosted over the hand still pressed to the bullet wound in his side, the touch so slight he barely felt the pressure at all.

"You don't look so good," Slade murmured with just a hint of irony, hand lingering over his own for just a breath before pulling away again. "You'd better do something about that soon, or your night might get even worse."

Dick recognized the words instantly--an echo of the same thing the man had said to him, that night he'd first found him bleeding in the alleyway and brought him home to bandage him up. The night that had shifted the tides of their relationship forever.

He had a feeling that tonight would be another.

Dick offered a tentative smile, sudden fondness coming on so strong it nearly choked him. In that moment there were a million different things he wanted to say--but now wasn't the time. He still had to finish this.

"...I will," he assured, but it sounded more like thank you even to his own ears.

Slade nodded, once, eye burning into his face with all the things he couldn't say--and then the mercenary was stepping away from him, retreating into the shadows without looking back.

Dick wasted no time, hefting Black Mask over his shoulder with a pained grunt. He moved unsteadily back across the platform, retracing his steps, his usual speed and easy mobility encumbered by his injury and the weight of his burden.

He was halfway across the platform when a searing pain tore through his side, right where the bullet had struck him.

Dick gasped in stricken-faced shock, pitching forward as he grasped for the wound blindly, Black Mask easily breaking free from his loosened hold and landing hard on the platform behind him.

Vision swimming, Dick turned to find Black Mask sneering at him, the knife--still wet with Dick's blood--clasped in hand.

"I'm not goin' back there," the man snarled through ragged breaths, hands slipping against the blood-slick metal platform as he scrambled to his feet. "I'm not gonna let him take me back to the loony bin!"

"Sionis--" Dick staggered forward, bent nearly double against the pain shooting through his skull like a thousand needles, clinging to the railway for balance as the room careened sideways in front of his eyes. He reached behind him with his free hand for a stick but grasped only empty air, movements made uncoordinated by the dizziness that was quickly overtaking him.

"Stay back, bird-brain," Black Mask growled, brandishing the knife in front of him as he slowly backed away, cold, black eyes locked onto Dick. "Come any closer and I'll gut you for real!"

"The... platform," Dick managed, stomach roiling with nausea, his eyes fighting to stay open. With every step away from him the masked man was edging closer to the dangling edge of the platform--and the steep drop into hot iron below. "Sionis--"

"Stay back!" Black Mask roared, nearly tripping in his haste to keep the distance between them as Dick ambled forward. He didn't seem to even notice the open chasm behind him, entire body coiled tight with feral rage and unchecked mania. "Stay--"

"Sionis--!" Dick surged forward with hand outstretched as the other man's foot slipped at the jagged edge of the ruined platform, mouth falling open on another barrage of venomous words that never came as his leg gave out underneath him, his center of gravity thrown off by the sudden shift in balance.

It seemed to happen in slow motion: their gazes locked as Black Mask fell backwards into the chasm, the glow of moonlight overhead illuminating his edges and lending him an ethereal quality as he hung suspended like space dust.

For a moment he appeared almost like a fallen angel being struck down to earth, arms outstretched in his arrogant defiance, his eyes--cold and certain as death--entirely without remorse.

Just as quickly he was gone, plunging wordlessly into the shadows, cast into the unending fires in eternal disgrace.

Sickened, Dick half-stumbled, half-crawled his way to the platform's edge, breath catching as he stared down into the bubbling cast of molten metal below--but there was no trace of the man left.

"f*ck. f*ck!" Dick collapsed to his knees only inches from the jagged edge, fists pounding against the bloody metal beneath him, his shoulders heaving under the constrains of his suit. He shouldn't care--he should be relieved--but somehow it felt like his only chance at redeeming himself in his own eyes had just been snatched away from him, only inches from his grasp.

He didn't remember how he got back down to the work room floor--only that he was suddenly on his hands and knees on the cold cement just a few feet from the Batwing, lungs rattling with every agonizing breath, his kaleidoscope-vision distorting the room around him.

"Nightwing." The growling voice carried a sharp note of alarm as a heavy gloved hand settled on his shoulder, a hint of swirling black appearing at the fuzzy edge of his periphery.

Dick shook his head, shrugging the hand off as he attempted to climb back to his feet. "Over... there," he rasped, struggling to right himself, but his arms felt numb and far away, as if they belonged to someone else. "Man... in alligator mask. He knows."

He tried to say more--tried one last time to shove himself up--but his strength finally failed him as his muscles gave out entirely, the darkness swallowing him just as easily as it had Black Mask.

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Text

"HA! Take that!"

Jason turned to him with a wide grin, face flushed and eyes sparkling in his victory, controller still clutched in hand. "I win again, bro. Just admit I'm better than you."

He was taller than the last time Dick had seen him, frame a little broader but face leaner--no trace of the baby fat that had still lingered there two years ago. Even when Dick had been his age he'd already been tired and jaded from years of fighting crime--but Jason's shoulders carried none of the world-weariness he recognized in himself.

They were in the game room at Wayne Manor: a veritable wonderland of every possible video game known to man, replete with vintage pinball machines and consoles that had gone out of production decades ago.

For the last few hours they'd been facing off in Street Fighter, and Dick was only a little annoyed by the fact that his losses couldn't be blamed on letting the kid win, just to be nice. He still had his pride, after all.

It had only been a full day since he'd awakened; three days since Bruce had brought him back to the Batcave, Alfred tending to his injuries just like the old days.

Three days since Black Mask had fallen to his death, before Dick could stop it--and three days since he'd spoken to Slade.

He wasn't trying to think about that right now, though.

Dick pulled a face, tossing his controller down onto the plush carpet as he slumped (carefully) back into the comfortable chair behind him, mindful of his rib. "I'm just out of practice," he complained, but he couldn't help the smirk that twisted his lips when Jason cackled loudly in response.

"Uh-huh. C'mon--let's go again. This time I promise I'll go easy on you," the teenager grinned, tossing his own controller down as he sprung up to standing, already turning to go. "But first I'm gonna go see if Alfred will make us some--oh. Uh..."

"Hm?" Dick turned to glance over his shoulder, stomach sinking automatically at what he saw.

Bruce stood in the doorway, looking out of place in the colorful, casual environment in his muted pressed suit with hands tucked away in the pockets, his dark hair slicked back from his face in the usual way. His face was inscrutable, but Dick knew immediately why he was there.

They hadn't had a chance to talk since he'd regained consciousness, after all.

"...right." Jason glanced back at him, mouth shifting into a sympathetic grimace. "Pretty sure this one's all you, man."

"Yeah." Dick stood with a little sigh, feigning a smile he didn't really feel as he gave the kid a playful punch in the arm. "Don't shut it off, okay? I'll be back to kick your ass again soon."

Jason flashed a mega-watt grin, blue eyes lighting up again at the promise. "Again, ha. Whatever you say, bro."

Bruce didn't say anything as Dick approached--just turned and started off, with the wordless expectation that he would follow. It should've annoyed him, but despite his three days of rest he felt like he hadn't slept in at least a thousand years. He didn't have it in him to be annoyed, just now.

He wasn't surprised when the older man led him to his study, gesturing at him to close the door behind them for privacy.

Dick took the chair in front of the desk without being told, hackles already beginning to raise as he remembered the last time he'd been here, and the not-so-friendly way the visit had ended.

"Drink?" Bruce asked, hovering near a tray filled with quarter-full bottles of liquor and whiskey tumblers in one corner of his massive desk.

Dick frowned. "You don't drink."

"Some do," Bruce said, brow climbing slightly in an expectant look--and at Dick's nod he poured out two fingers worth of bourbon, passing the glass over before taking his own seat behind his desk.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, blue eyes piercing under his strong brow.

It was a little too reminescent of being grilled across the principal's desk for his taste--well, besides the liquor--but Dick recognized the effort at geniality all the same.

"Better," he said, taking a long sip from his glass. It went down impossibly smooth, and he didn't need to look at the label to know it was prohibitively expensive. "It'll be a while before it's healed completely, but it's--better."

As suspected the gunshot had fractured his rib--but at least there hadn't been any internal bleeding or organ damage.

"Thanks," Dick added, a beat later. "For... bringing me here. And, well--for everything." He hid his awkwardness in another hasty over-long sip.

Fortunately, Bruce didn't acknowledge it. "You and Jason seem to be getting along."

Dick's free hand clenched instinctively over his thigh; he forced it to relax again, gaze sliding away from the other man. "Sure. He's... genuine," he settled on with a shrug, his voice pulling flat on the word. Maybe he'd decided the kid was alright--almost like the little brother he'd never had--but it didn't mean he wanted to sit here and listen to Bruce sing his praises. He didn't really want to talk about him, period.

"He looks up to you."

Dick laughed, and it wasn't very genuine-sounding at all. "I'm not looking for admiration," he muttered, jaw pulling tight. And I don't deserve it, even if I was, he didn't say. Apparently, he had enough energy for irritation, after all. "I don't... that's not why I do this."

"Why do you?" Bruce asked mildly, unphased by the growing ire prying audibly at the edges of Dick's self-control--an unfortunately common result of any time spent together.

You should know. You made me this way, didn't you? Your perfect little toy soldier: wind him up and watch him go, Dick could say, wielding the words like a weapon.

He could go with something more sardonic; something guaranteed to make Bruce frown, even if it was only minutely. Same reason why anyone does it, right? For the glory and the sex and the massive ego-boost that comes from being splashed across the front page with every victory.

Because I've done this for so long that I don't even know who I am without it, anymore. Guess we're just alike that way, you and me. Closer, but still not exactly right. At least not anymore.

"...I don't know," he said finally, blue meeting blue as their gazes locked again, and it tasted like the truth. "I thought I did, but..." But. He didn't have a better answer than that.

Not now that he and Bruce were no longer partners. Not now that Tony Zucco was dead.

And Slade--

If Bruce was surprised by his answer he didn't show it--only nodded, like it made perfect sense.

"What will you do now?" he wanted to know, hands steepling under his chin.

The thing was, Dick didn't know the answer to that, either. He'd assumed he'd return to life as usual once Black Mask was taken down--but that felt like a lifetime ago. Now it all seemed so...empty. Pointless, in some ways. He didn't think he could go back to how things were, after everything that had happened--all the mistakes he'd made, and the things he'd learned, and the too-close call that had nearly ended everything.

Maybe it made him selfish--but Dick was tired of living as a phantom that operated in the shadows, unable to get close to anyone, striving night after night for a cause that was questionable as to whether it was even his own, anymore, or just an instinct imprinted on him years ago.

It wasn't something he'd sat down and really, truly thought about, since making it on his own. Maybe it was time he did.

"...I think I need to take a break for a while," he answered at last, gaze dropping back down to his glass as he gave the remaining bourbon an idle swirl. "Figure out where I want to go from here."

A pause; Bruce weighing him against some unknown parameter. "You blame yourself for what happened," he said finally.

Dick snorted, mouth twisting into a humorless grin. "Which part?"

"Sionis' death wasn't your fault."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But the way he found out about--" Dick cut himself off with a grimace. "It could have ruined everything."

"The stakes have always been high. I've known the risks since day one."

"That doesn't make it any easier." Dick's gaze flickered back up to Bruce's, the older man still passively observing him. Their conversation resurrected a thought that had been nagging at him since he'd awakened. "Speaking of...what about our alligator-masked friend?"

Bruce didn't even blink. "Taken care of."

Dick only nodded, not bothering to press for more. It wouldn't make a difference, even if he knew. Either way he had faith that Bruce had solved the issue.

They lapsed into silence, Dick's gaze returning to his bourbon. The clear glass caught the cheery sunlight streaming in from the nearby window, refracting rainbow-colored light all over the otherwise somber room.

"This was my shot at redemption," Dick said finally into the stale silence. It was more raw than he'd meant, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Even if Bruce didn't know all of it--the brief reunion with Slade; the parallels to the night when everything changed, and the second chance he'd been afforded to fix it--he knew there was no one else who could come closer to understanding what he meant.

Instead of answering right away Bruce rose from his desk in one fluid movement, hands finding his pockets again as he approached the window and gazed out into the expansive yard of the manor.

"You've never needed redemption," he said without turning, with his usual steady surety.

It made Dick scowl. "Forgiveness, then," he amended sourly.

Bruce glanced back at him over the broad line of his shoulder, a tendril of dark hair coming loose from its slicked-back hold to tumble across his forehead. His blue eyes were stained glass in the afternoon sun: absorbing light but reflecting nothing behind them. "Do you think you need forgiveness?"

"Do you?" Dick shot back, grip tightening on his glass.

Bruce turned away again, posture still at ease. "You don't need forgiveness, either. You needed a reason to keep going." He paused for a beat, voice coming softer when he spoke again. "Not the one I chose for you."

Dick gritted his teeth against sudden, full-blown agitation. There it was, again--that familiar note of regret, as if Dick was a failed science project that regrettably had to be tossed out despite all the work put into it, and even though Bruce had no one to blame but himself he couldn't help but feel disappointed by the unfortunate turn of fate all the same.

"And what about Jason?" he all but spat, muscles gone so tense he could feel an impending headache starting up just behind his temple. The kid was clearly Bruce's own play at redemption, whether he acknowledged it or not. The truth of it rankled him in ways he couldn't bring himself to fully process, even now. "What's his reason?"

He could see Bruce's face in the window's reflection, his expression unchanging in the face of Dick's aggression. His eyes, still fixed on a distance that Dick couldn't see.

"You could ask him," his reflection said.

"...nevermind," Dick muttered, his next sip of bourbon nearly burning his throat with his bitterness.

He let out a defeated sigh, shoulders slumping as his anger evaporated like smoke. He didn't want things to continue like this between them. Even if there were still so many unaired grievances and emotional wounds that might never heal completely, he had to remind himself that Bruce had always been there for him when it mattered most--and that counted for something. That counted for more than just something.

Just like when he was nothing but a scared little boy, desperately searching for an escape from his nightmares, and Bruce had shown him the way.

But he wasn't that same little boy anymore. Maybe sometimes there was an end in sight, even for someone who had gotten too used to running.

Dick heaved another sigh that was more weary than frustrated, tugging a hand through his hair. "What if it turns out our reason... isn't what we thought it was? Or... what if it is, but we realize it's not what we really want, anymore?

"Is that the day we take off the mask for good?" His eyes flicked back up to Bruce, brow faintly furrowed, searching for a reassurance that the older man knew the answer, like always.

Bruce turned to face him fully at that, crystalline gaze finding him once again. Backlit by the white-hot winter sun he looked more like some transcendental being removed from the plane of mortal consequence than a man confined to flesh and bone, just like any other.

"That's something you have to decide for yourself," he responded evenly--pragmatic to a fault.

It should've been disappointing--the equivalent to being told he'd 'had the power all along'--but that was the thing with free will. It was an ongoing responsibility with all of the consequences that came along with it--not a passive, idyllic state that guaranteed he'd never do the wrong thing again.

---

Early the next day Dick borrowed one of Bruce's cars and made the drive back to Blüdhaven, radio cranked up to full volume to distract himself from the way his stomach had tied itself into knots.

It was half past eleven when he got to the Côte d'Azur. Part of him was tempted to scour the parking deck for Slade's Bentley--just to be safe--but he talked himself out of it last second, heading for the front entrance instead. It would be quicker to just get in and get out. The less time he spent there, the less chance of getting caught.

His plan B had been to casually ask Abigail if she'd seen Slade leave today--but unfortunately for him the two employees at the front desk in the lobby were unfamiliar faces.

It was too bad he didn't get a chance to say goodbye. He wouldn't be coming here again.

Dick strolled past them without a second glance, heading for the elevators.

He didn't have his key card--but luckily he'd had the foresight to scan it into his holographic computer. Dick held the wrist-mounted device up to the scanner on Suite A, tense with trepidation as he eased the door open.

Slade wasn't home, of course. He made sure of it, first, silently creeping through the familiar suite and peering into every room.

He'd expected it--because whatever Slade had busied himself with now, he wasn't the type to sit around all day and do nothing--but it was a relief all the same.

Once he was sure he was alone Dick quickened his step, stuffing his belongings into the few shopping bags he'd never gotten around to throwing out: clothes; toiletries; his laptop.

His phone was still powered off, laid out on the nightstand in the master bedroom where he'd left it. Dick pocketed it swiftly before turning to go, eager to get gone before the mercenary came back.

He was just about to leave--arms full of his only wordly possessions--when he remembered: his broken old suit, hiding away in the closet of the spare room upstairs.

Dick debated internally before setting the bags down on the nearby couch with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he jogged over to the spiral staircase and crested the stairs. It was a risk--but it would be a risk to leave the suit behind, too, even if he knew Slade had no intentions of exposing him.

Entering the spare room was like entering a tomb: quiet and still from years of undisturbed air, and his suit stretched limply in the closet the rotted corpse. In many ways, a version of him that no longer existed.

Dick grabbed it from the top shelf and turned on his heel to leave again, just as something caught his eye: a small piece of folded paper, falling out of one of the suit's many compartments and fluttering to the carpet below.

Frowning, Dick bent at the waist and snatched it up, unfolding it impatiently.

His eyes widened as he instantly recognized the words, addressed to him over three years ago now.

New clothes for a new roost. I know you'll put it to good use.

-B

P.S. You're going to miss the cape.

Dick stared at it for a long time, eyes re-scanning the short message again and again until they didn't catch at him in the same way anymore. He'd thought he'd lost the note in his apartment fire--but apparently he'd had it with him in his suit the entire time.

He suddenly recalled the four-digit passcode used to gain access to the briefcase that had housed his new suit: the year that Bruce had adopted him. Practically sappy, for him--and just another little indication that maybe he really did care, even if he didn't often know how to show it.

Dick refolded the aged paper and gingerly tucked it away in his jeans pocket before the emotion welling up in his chest could overwhelm him, hand swiping away the faint mist that had sprung to his eyes.

It was hard to tell himself that he'd been fighting for someone else's cause this entire time, when such a simple message could still make him feel suddenly invincible.

Shaking his head at himself, Dick left the room and shut the door behind him, taking the stairs two at a time on his way back to the common area.

Still no Slade. Time to make his escape.

Tucking his suit carefully away in the bottom of one of the bags, Dick made a beeline for the door, not allowing himself to look back.

---

That night Dick retired to his old room in Wayne Manor, dropping down onto his bed with a contented sigh.

After his impromptu visit to Blüdhaven he'd come right back, spending the rest of the day hanging out with Jason before they both joined Bruce for an early dinner, even convincing Alfred to join them.

Alfred had regaled Jason with stories from Dick's own childhood--some more flattering than others, to the teenager's amusem*nt. Bruce had even cracked a smile or two at some of them--faint, and gone too quickly, but there all the same.

It... wasn't as terrible as he'd been afraid of, returning to the manor. Even if his chest did occasionally pull tight at Bruce and Jason's easy familiarity.

A muffled buzzing from his phone caught his attention, pulling him from his thoughts. Frowning, Dick reached across the bed to his nightstand, his fingertips just barely reaching it.

There was a single text from an encrypted number.

Not finished brooding, I take it?

Heart suddenly beating a little faster, Dick rolled over onto his back (wincing at the way it jostled his hurt rib), feeling like a teenaged girl who'd just gotten a text from her crush.

He tapped out a quick response, tongue poking out between his teeth in his concentration, his mouth curling into a faint smirk as he hit send.

nope. but i'll let you know when i am

The reply came almost instantly.

Remember what I told you. You have until Sunday.

Dick rolled his eyes, even as his faint smirk morphed into a full-blown grin. yes, daddy he typed back, pulse quickening a little as he sent it off. He fired off another one before he could dwell on it. or what? even you wouldnt show up here

The absurd thought of Slade sneaking onto the manor grounds and throwing pebbles at his bedroom window to get his attention made him snort. The thought of him running into Bruce while doing so was equal parts hilarious and terrifying.

You have to go out sometime, came the ominous response.

Dick couldn't help it: he broke into side-splitting laughter for what felt like the first time in forever, elation bubbling out from his chest and down into his limbs. It probably said more about him than Slade that his response to such a creepy text--and from one of the deadliest assassins in the world, to boot--was nothing but longing fondness, but, well. He'd accepted a long time ago that he was a little bit f*cked up.

like i said--i'll let you know, he sent, once his laughter had subsided. He powered off his phone before he could get a response, smile fading as he stared up at the familiar ceiling.

Despite his recent excess of free time he'd avoided thinking too much about the mercenary and the state of their relationship.

He still could hardly believe that Slade had actually listened to him--that he'd let Black Mask go, when he'd finally had the man in his grasp.

Dick wasn't ignorant as to what it meant. It was Slade's way of showing what he couldn't put into words: trust. Respect. The mercenary's own redemption.

It was an extension of his 'apology', back on the rooftop; a compromise; a concession--and Dick knew a man like Slade didn't make concessions easily for anyone, if at all. The thought was nearly overwhelming in its potency.

The question was: would it be enough to give them another shot? A real one--not two lost souls who found their way together through circ*mstance and had forgotten to let go, but two adults who had chosen to stay together because it felt better than being apart?

And just as importantly: is that what he wanted?

Dick considered, idly fiddling with his phone where it was clutched to his chest. He didn't know exactly what his future looked like--but he knew he felt good when he was with Slade, at least once he'd put all his anger aside. It felt safe, ironically--and familiar. Like being understood. He didn't have to hide anything about himself or his past with Slade, like he'd had to with previous relationships.

But how could he expect it to work this time around, even if Slade had granted him a rare concession? There was no getting around what the man did for a living; they were bound to clash over it again, some day. Especially if Dick took up the crime-fighting mantle as Nightwing once again.

Unless--

Dick huffed out a sigh, turning onto his non-injured side and curling an arm under his head as he stared at the wall in front of him. It was worth a shot, anyways.

---

After three more days of pretending his life was normal--one more day than Slade had 'allowed' him, because he was petty like that--Dick found himself in his room when Bruce and Jason had gone out for the night, powering on his phone so he could text his trigger-happy assassin boyfriend.

Or whatever they were to each other now.

Surprisingly, there were no new texts from the other man. Dick typed out a quick message, biting at his lip and staring at the ceiling as he waited for the response.

i think i'm finally finished

Nearly ten minutes passed, and Dick's mind was already starting to imagine all kinds of crazy scenarios when his phone buzzed against his chest.

And did you come to any conclusions?

Sliding an arm behind his head, Dick blew out a breath that rustled his bangs, considering the question for only a second before his thumb set to work.

yeah. i miss you

It was cutesy and ridiculous--and it made his cheeks burn a little just looking at it--but it was honest.

Come here.

Dick huffed, but a silly smile spread over his face anyways. it's late. don't you ever sleep?

Less than usual, lately.

Now Dick's face felt like it was on fire. How the hell did he still get flustered over this kind of stuff when he'd had the other man's co*ck in his ass more times than he could count?

wow. not entirely sure i'm talking to the right guy now

You speak to other men this way?

Dick broke into snickers, his mood lifting more and more by the minute. oh, yeah. dozens. but you're in the running for favorite

What would it take to win the top spot?

He worried at his lower lip again, head slumping back against the mattress as his eyes scanned over the message.

Dick made a split-second decision, typing out a quick reply and sending it off with a shaky finger.

meet up with me tomorrow and i'll tell you.

---

"Here, Master Dick."

Just as he'd asked Alfred had pulled into a public parking lot downtown to drop him off--the place where Slade had agreed to pick him up.

"Thanks, Alfred." Grabbing his backpack that he'd hastily stuffed with a few essentials just in case, Dick unhooked his seatbelt and reached for the door handle.

"Master Dick?"

"Yeah?" Dick paused, meeting the older man's sharp blue gaze in the mirror.

"Do let Master Bruce know when--or if--you'll be back," the Englishman told him, reasonable as ever. "Even if he won't say so himself, I believe it's done him good to have you at the manor again. It may not be my place to comment, but he seemed quite dispirited when you left the first time around."

Dick cleared his throat around the sudden lump that had appeared there, fingers slackening on the door handle. "That's...kind of hard to believe," he managed, with a dry, self-deprecating little laugh. When he'd left three years ago Bruce hadn't even tried to stop him--and that had almost hurt worse than all the reasons he'd decided to leave in the first place. "But--alright. I'll...I'll let him know."

"Very good, sir." Alfred's gaze was knowing in the mirror. "I shall be awaiting your call, should you need a ride back to the manor."

"Thanks, Alfred," Dick nodded, voice firmer this time. "I'll be in touch."

After the sleek limo had driven off Dick glanced around the parking lot, fiddling with his phone as he searched for his ride. He was just about to give up and call when he spotted it: Slade's black Bentley, tucked away in the far corner.

Brightening, Dick jogged over to it, a grin already curling his lips.

"Hey," he said breathlessly as he pulled open the passenger door and slid in, tossing his bag in the back. The car was pleasantly heated against the chill outside, radio playing so faintly he couldn't make out what it was.

Slade sat with one arm braced against the door, first finger and thumb of his free hand pinched around a freshly-lit cigar, neatly-shaven jaw working methodically at a piece of gum. He was dressed in his usual street wear, black leather jacket pulled tight across the broad line of his shoulders and his biceps, and in the close quarters of the car Dick could smell him: the familiar combination of mint and cloves under the cloying scent of cigar smoke.

It made his stomach do a little flip. God, he was pathetic.

"How's your side?" Slade rumbled by way of greeting as he tucked the cigar into the corner of his mouth, smoke puffing out around the words, one oversized hand already reaching to shift out of park.

"Oh." Dick finished buckling his seat belt, hand ghosting over the injury hidden under his coat--as gentle as the other man's hand had back at the foundry. "Still hurts. But it's already healing."

Slade only grunted in response, pausing at the entrance of the parking lot before pulling out onto the nearly-empty road. Dick settled into his seat, not bothering to ask where they were going, content for the moment to just enjoy the ride in the other man's company.

"I guess you heard what happened," Dick said finally into the comfortable silence, eyes trained out the window at the passing scenery.

"Yes."

Dick nodded, shifting against the sleek leather. "I... didn't thank you. For, you know." He stole a quick glimpse at the other man, but Slade's single-eyed gaze was focused on the road before them. "So... thanks. It really meant a lot to me. Probably more than you know." Even if he hadn't been able to save Black Mask in the end. The knowledge still nagged at him--but just like his rib, it was getting a little better, day by day. Some day, it might even heal completely, even if it did leave a scar behind.

"Useless sentiment," Slade answered, but there was a hint of humor there.

Dick laughed. "Yeah, maybe. But isn't that why you did it?" he teased, eyes cutting to the man again with a smirk. "Useless sentiment?"

"Not useless," the mercenary corrected him, without looking. "You're sitting here now, after all."

Dick couldn't fight his goofy smile, a light feeling rising in his low stomach. "Yeah, I guess so."

His smile faded, weighing his next words carefully as he glanced up at the other man through his bangs. "So where do we go from here?" he hedged. "I mean... this. Us."

Another grunt. "I thought I already made my intentions clear."

Dick rolled his eyes. "Don't I get a say?"

"Only if it's to agree."

Such a Slade response. Dick shook his head, exasperated, but he had to hide his sudden smile behind his fist as he turned back to the window. "It's... not that I don't want to. But what I said on the rooftop--I meant it."

He didn't want to keep fighting the other man; didn't want to see them facing off again like on that terrible night, both of them holding onto the one irreconcilable difference that no amount of affection or fondness could overcome.

But there wasn't any way to erase that bit of his programming. So he would, if he had to. Which was why it was up to him to stop it from happening again in the first place.

A swirl of smoke as Slade exhaled, cigar passing to his other hand to flick ashes out the window. "But you have a solution," he guessed.

Dick glanced at him, chin propped on his fist, his entire body tensing in anticipation of his words. "Let's go away somewhere," he said, all in a rush, barely a pause between the words. "Just you and me. Somewhere... somewhere we don't have to do this anymore. Any of it." Maybe to the house you never got around to showing me, the first time we tried this, Dick thought--the one he'd imagined countless times but had never been able to picture completely.

Slade glanced at him sharply--the first time he'd done so since Dick had gotten into the car. "How whimsical. Your very own fairy tale ending," he said dryly, turning his attention back to the road. "What about your precious city?"

Dick shrugged a shoulder, ears burning at the rebuke. Like he was just a dumb kid with a head full of dumb ideas. Maybe to Slade, he always would be. "They were fine before I ever got there, right? They'll be fine without me, too."

Maybe even better off completely, he thought, thinking back to the people who had died because of him; the less-than-charitable comments from disgruntled citizens at the mayor's press conference.

"And what will Dick Grayson do without a way to act out his hero complex?" the other man pressed, flat. "You'd be miserable."

I'm already miserable.

"I don't have a hero complex," Dick muttered, hopes sinking more and more by the moment. He was starting to regret ever bringing up the idea at all. "Well, alright, maybe a little. I was thinking about... becoming a cop or something. You know--do some good within the law for a change instead of acting outside it.

"Or maybe I'll go to acting school," he said sarcastically, shooting the man a narrowed look. "Shoot two birds with one stone. Pun intended."

Slade smirked at that. "You've given this a lot of thought."

"You weren't wrong when you said I was brooding," Dick mumbled, eyes flicking back to the window, his mood well and truly soured now. He should've known better than to think Slade would go for such a thing. Running away together, like some kind of cheesy romance novel? The idea sounded ridiculous even to him, now.

"And now you're doing it again." Slade made a sound that might have been a sigh, fingers idly smoothing over his goatee. "Once again, Dick Grayson thinks with his heart instead of his head."

"Yeah, well, if I didn't then I wouldn't be here right now, would I?" Dick shot back, scowling at the man in the mirror's reflection.

"I didn't say it's without appeal." Slade briefly turned to look at him again, but Dick refused to meet his gaze. "You know it isn't that simple, pretty bird."

Dick's expression hardened at the patronizing words, eyes still trained on the landscape zipping past them. A part of him wanted to order the man to pull over so he could get out and go back to the manor--but he wasn't that petty. "Why can't it be? For once, why can't it just be simple?"

"Simplicity is for simple men. And your life has never been simple."

Dick finally glanced back at the other man, brows narrowing sharply, his frustration mounting by the minute. "I don't get it. Isn't this what you wanted? I'm telling you that I'm on board--that I'll do it if we both just give up on this...this... insanity."

Because that was the definition of insanity, wasn't it--doing the same thing over and over again and expecting things to somehow turn out differently? So what made him any different than a man as unhinged as Black Mask, or all the other villains he and Bruce had sent to Arkham over the years, if he couldn't recognize when it was time to throw in the towel?

"I want you beside me. Not to clip your wings completely--tempting as it is." Slade paused for another slow drag, brow quirking over his good eye, his jaw still working at his gum. "You said you were finished letting others decide for you. Shouldn't you be acting on your own desires, now?"

"What if that's exactly what I'm trying to do?" Dick muttered, arms crossing over his chest as he turned back to the window.

"By running away, again?"

At Dick's sullen silence the mercenary made a considering noise as he puffed on his cigar, blowing the smoke out of the left side of his mouth towards the window. "Say we did run away somewhere. Would anywhere be far enough to outrun the memories that still torment you? All the parts of yourself that you're still trying to forget?"

"Maybe not. But at least I won't be hurting as many people as I help." Dick's hands curled into fists where they were tucked away in his underarms. "In the end, I still couldn't save him. One person--one chance to fix things--and I couldn't even do that. So what gives me the right to act like I've got any kind of moral high ground? Just because I dress up in a suit and call myself a hero?"

He snorted bitterly at himself, his forehead thumping against the cool glass of the window as he stared glumly beyond it. "I'm not a hero. Maybe I'm just tired of pretending."

"Pretending to be a hero--for this long?" Slade made a noise of dissent, glancing at him sidelong. "Your acting skills aren't impressive enough for that."

Dick cracked a smile, despite himself. It warmed him, to read the other man's underlying words--that he still didn't think Dick was a f*ck up. That he didn't believe Dick was a failure despite Black Mask's ill-fated ending, or that he was only masquerading as someone who actually believed that he could make a difference--even if the mercenary couldn't relate to the way he'd chosen to do so.

It was strange, that somehow the other man always knew exactly what he needed to hear.

Silence descended between them, but it was comfortable again; the mood easier. For a time there was nothing but the smooth hum of the Bentley and the cold rush of air streaming through Slade's cracked window, drowning out the distant sound of the radio.

Dick shifted in his seat as he let out a sigh, breath fogging up his reflection. "Does this mean you're not gonna run away with me?" he asked, stealing another look at the older man over his shoulder. He was mostly joking. "Too bad. It might've been fun."

There was no response--but the other man shifted gears suddenly, cutting across two lanes into the right-most one. Dick frowned at the abrupt change, glancing up just in time to see the big green exit ramp sign hanging overhead.

"Uh, Slade? Where are we going?" he asked, turning in his seat to face the other man. He probably should've already asked, but better late than never.

Slade glanced at him, cigar poised in his fingers, the cold winter air rustling the collar of his shirt and his white, slicked-back hair. Behind him the sun was slowly setting, orange-yellow light haloing his head and softening the sharpness of his face, his dark eye like obsidian in the fading, mellow glow.

"I thought you wanted to go on vacation," he rumbled, exhaling a cloud of smoke, the biting air carrying it away just as quickly as it appeared.

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Text

When Dick awakened he found himself staring up at a ceiling he didn't recognize, the events of the previous day trickling back to him in pieces.

He and Slade had flown...somewhere on a small, private plane. Slade hadn't told him where they were going, and Dick hadn't asked, content, for once, to let someone else worry about things for a change.

It had been dark out when they'd arrived at a walled-in, two-story compound that he'd scarcely glanced at, blearily following after the other man inside. He was shown to a bed that he'd promptly fallen face-first into, sleep claiming him as soon as his head had touched the pillow.

Now, his senses returned to him, Dick pushed himself up to sitting in the queen-sized bed, gray, rumpled sheets falling to his waist as he peered around the unfamiliar room.

It was box-shaped and spacious, if not a bit spartan, with dark, glossy walls and a high ceiling, the overhead light fixtures--combined with the heavy blackout curtains drawn over the floor-to-ceiling windows--lending the room a dim, moody ambience. The platform bed was set low to the polished floor, a modern open-ended nightstand bracketing either side, with lit, modular shelving built into the walls behind and beside it. A dresser sat against the far wall; to the left of it was a closed door, presumably leading to a bathroom, with another, larger door to the right.

Predictably, there was no sign of Slade.

Dick climbed to his feet with a yawn, spine cracking as he arched his back in a cat-like stretch. He was clad in only his black briefs--a level of undress he didn't remember before crashing into bed the previous night.

With a faint smirk Dick slipped out the door, finding himself in a long, darkened hallway with the same polished floor as the bedroom, the walls bare.

After several twists and turns in the odd square layout and descending a short staircase he came across a modern, streamlined kitchen, open windows bright with daylight, the distant sound of ocean beyond them.

There was still no Slade--but Dick could smell fresh coffee, spotting a complicated-looking coffee maker on one of the matte black countertops, its interface lit up from recent use. A low-backed chair was pulled out slightly from the gunmetal table built into the righthand wall, like someone had been sitting there recently.

There was a single door on the far wall, too, conspicuously ajar, its panes whited out from the intensity of the sun. Dick padded across the hardwood floor, stomach tight with anticipation for reasons he couldn't name.

The smell of saltwater hit him as he emerged onto a raised, railed-in deck overlooking a pristine beach, a neat row of comptemporary lounge furniture arranged under the awning.

Slade sat on the second-highest step with one leg stretched before him, left arm resting over his knee, gazing out at the ocean. The faint breeze rustled his shirt and the edges of his white hair as he drank from a sleek black thermos, seemingly unaware of Dick's presence.

Grinning mischievously, Dick crept forward--

"You're awake."

...damn. Stupid enhanced soldier senses.

"Didn't mean to sleep so late," Dick said sheepishly, giving up all pretenses of sneaking as he came to settle on the step just beside the man, not quite close enough to touch. The clock in the kitchen had read nearly 12:45. "You should've woken me up."

"You must've needed the sleep." Slade didn't so much as look at him, single eye fixed on the water, the empty socket of his missing eye unusually bare.

"Guess so." Dick fell into a contented silence as he took in the view, enjoying the fresh sea air--so unlike the stagnant, polluted air of the city. He turned back to the man at last, the obvious question nagging at his curiosity. "Don't get me wrong; this place is amazing, but--mind telling me where we are, exactly?"

Slade glanced at him finally, brows drawing minutely together in a way Dick had long since learned was his 'Dick Grayson just said something stupid' expression.

"Home," he answered mildly, dark eye locked on Dick's own as he sipped from his thermos. "You asked me to come here once."

"So this is where you live. When you're not--you know." Killing for money. It was the obvious conclusion--though part of Dick had assumed it was some sort of secluded resort, at first.

"You were expecting something else?"

Dick's gaze swept over the sparkling beach and crystalline water, and the dense line of tropical trees in the distance--and beyond them a hint of the same reinforced wall he'd noticed briefly when they'd arrived last night. Of course Slade would have his own private fortress on some remote island, he thought, amused. But it suited him.

He shook his head, smiling. "Not at all," he said, truthfully. "Actually--it's exactly what I pictured.

"I'm glad you brought me," he added, softer, lashes lowering in uncharacteristic shyness. Thanks for remembering, he really meant, but it felt too raw to say something so sentimental in the bright, exposed light. There would always be time for heart-to-hearts later.

Unsurprisingly Slade didn't smile back, but Dick caught the gleam in his single eye before he turned it back to the ocean.

"Anyways--" Dick jumped to his feet in the sand below and turned, purposefully blocking the other man's view. The afternoon sun felt like heaven on his bare skin, chasing away all remaining traces of Blüdhaven's winter chill--and Slade's intense eye settling on him warmed him with a different sort of heat entirely. "How about some breakfast? It's the least I can do to repay you for taking me on an island getaway." He flashed the man his most co*cksure grin, entirely aware of the picture he made in clingy briefs and nothing else, lithe, taut muscles glowing honey-gold in the sun.

"Lunch--since you slept past noon," Slade corrected him, though there was a slight curve to the corner of his mouth. His gaze flicked knife-sharp over the length of Dick's body, returning to his face with visible weight. "And I can think of a few other ways you can repay me."

Dick smirked back. "Lunch first," he insisted, only just resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. He made for the stairs, kicking up white sand in his wake, thoughts already turning to the empty rumbling in his stomach and the contents of Slade's fridge--but Slade caught his wrist on his way past, stopping him short.

"...it suits you," he said when Dick glanced down at him in questioning, his single eye fixed on the water.

Slade released him just as quickly--only to bring the back of his hand down on the curve of Dick's ass instead, hard enough to make the firm flesh jump. "I thought you were going to cook for me," he said, expression as serious as the grave, though there was no mistaking the glint in his eye.

"Yes, dear," Dick grumbled, starting up the stairs again--but he whistled tunelessly under his breath as he went, grinning ear-to-ear, in that moment the stress of the past few months all but forgotten.

Maybe he really did just need a vacation.

---

As a compromise Dick ended up making brunch--two omelets that wouldn't have been out of place in an overpriced little hipster café, in his not-so-modest opinion. He'd had to learn to cook for himself in the years spent living on his own.

It was surprisingly domestic, eating across from Slade at the breakfast table in companionable silence, sneaking glances at the man whenever he thought it wasn't too obvious.

It seemed he wasn't the only one suited to island life. The other man appeared almost relaxed--or as relaxed as any man who'd seen and done the things he had could get, anyways.

"Okay," Dick said when they'd both finished, shoving away from the table with a feeling of satiated contentment. "What's next on the itinerary?" He was feeling a little too full to start repaying the man's hospitality, but admittedly it was rare that he couldn't be coaxed into the mood.

"I've got something in mind," Slade responded as he stood from the table to collect their plates, inscrutable as ever.

---

"...you want to fight?" Dick asked dubiously as he glanced around the studio, not sure he'd heard right.

Slade had shown him to a door off the kitchen behind what had appeared to be a pantry, directing him through a twisting hallway that led to a hidden, window-less section of the house.

It was obviously where the other man trained whenever he was home: an airy, open space in the same black and gray palette as the rest of the house, with hanging chandeliers and blue strip lights inlaid in the reflective ceiling, a row of body-length mirrors lined evenly across the front wall.

An extensive collection of weights and other training equipment were organized neatly in the main area of the floor, beyond which he spotted a separate area spread out with wrestling mats and several punching bags.

There was even a recovery station tucked away in a little alcove, complete with examination table and what looked like a full stock of various medical supplies--presumably for the man to fix himself up, when needed.

It was an impressive space--but Dick had, admittedly, expected to be led to the nearest bedroom instead.

"Not fight. Train." Slade co*cked his head faintly. "Unless you're too injured."

Dick ghosted a hand over his side reflexively at the reminder. The wound still smarted if he pressed on it, but it no longer throbbed day and night, healed up enough that he'd stubbornly stopped taking pain meds. His ribs felt better, too, though he was sure getting knocked around by Slade wouldn't do much to aid the healing process.

He'd just have to make sure the other man didn't get a hand on him. At least not until later.

"No worse than usual. Let's do it," he agreed, gaze straying to the expansive rack of scarily-sharp swords on the far wall--and then to another rack with a less intimidating collection of ballistic staffs, even if he knew all too well that being on the receiving end of one didn't exactly feel great either.

"You gonna lend me one of your staffs? I'm not really in the mood for a swordfight," he joked. He'd left his suit and Escrima sticks back at the manor without a second thought, trusting that wherever he and Slade ended up, he wouldn't need them--or the reminder they brought.

"I was thinking we'd go without the weapons, this round." Slade's eye was sharp in the blue-tinged light of the studio, though his expression betrayed nothing. "Any objections?"

There was one, actually--namely that it would take approximately 0.5 seconds of Slade's hands on him to get him worked up--but at least he'd had the foresight to throw on a t-shirt and loose-fitting pair of shorts before cooking brunch, so it wouldn't be as obvious.

"No objections," Dick said, overly innocent, his expression carefully schooled. He followed after Slade as the man led him across the main area towards the room beyond, where the wrestling mats were laid out. "But, you know--if you really wanted to get your hands on me that bad, there're, like, a million easier ways to do it. Asking, for one."

Not that the other man always bothered to do so--at least not in so many words. Which maybe said more about him than Slade, given that he always came the hardest, those times.

"I already know how easy you are," Slade responded with perfect nonchalance, busily wrapping his knuckles with bright orange hand wrap he'd retrieved from a nearby shelf, like he really planned on delivering a nice, thorough ass-beating. Which, honestly, was pretty hot.

He tossed the roll to Dick when he finished, who caught it on reflex, even as he scowled. "You always see hidden motivations where there are none. Aren't you the protégé of the world's greatest detective?" A white brow lifted, mocking him.

"Okay, first of all--that's a totally rude, though entirely accurate statement," Dick grumbled as he set to work on his own knuckles, his protests somewhat weakened by the way his co*ck had chubbed up a bit at Slade's casual assertion that he was easy. f*ck--maybe the 0.5 seconds he'd estimated earlier had been giving himself too much credit. "Second--fine. If you want a fight that badly, then I'll give you one. Just don't expect me to hold back."

A genuine smirk, this time, which on anyone else would be infectious but on Slade just came off as creepy. "I was going to say the same thing." He moved to the center mat, turning to face Dick expectantly. "Ready?"

Dick finished wrapping his own hands, tossing the leftover roll aside as he went to stand opposite the other man, fists rising to position. "Bring it."

They circled each other like vultures--Dick, narrow-eyed and focused, fists held defensively before him; Slade, annoyingly blank-faced as ever, hands hanging casually at his sides--until Dick's mouth started up again, like always.

"You know what I think?" he provoked, light on his feet as he circled the other man. There was no hint he was even thinking of striking, but from past experience Dick knew that when he did, he'd need to move quickly if he didn't want to get clocked. "I think you're still pissed about me kicking your ass back in Blüdhaven, and you want a rematch. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Silly thoughts from a silly little bird," Slade responded lazily, fists still by his sides. Silently daring Dick to strike first. "If I'm angry at you, you'll know it."

Point taken. There'd definitely been no ambiguity that night he'd broken out of the hotel and gotten injured while using his broken suit, or when Dick had refused to tell the man where Black Mask was hiding.

...okay, not the best thoughts to have when he was already getting hard just from Slade eyeing him like a predator.

"Yeah, right. I know you can't stand that I finally proved I'm stronger than you," Dick continued--foolishly, probably, but he had to goad the other man into attacking first somehow. "Admit it."

Slade didn't so much as blink at his taunts. "If you think you're stronger--then go ahead." His palms opened pointedly, head tilting. "Unless you realize it was a fluke. Because it was."

Asshole. Dick gritted his teeth, calculating--then went for it, fists swinging in a blur of neon orange as he lunged forward.

Slade dodged his attack easily, catching Dick in his (non-injured) side with a sharp uppercut that stole his breath away.

Dick leapt outside the man's reach again with a smothered hiss of pain, side throbbing dully. Somehow he always forgot how much the other man's punches hurt--even if, despite his claim to the contrary, Dick could tell he wasn't using his full strength.

Slade tutted. "Still waiting," he challenged, the bastard. "Sure you're up to it?"

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Dick shot back, shaking the pain off as he retook his fighting stance. "But I guess this is your greatest fantasy come to life, huh? Is this what you think about when you get yourself off, imagining me as your protégé instead?"

"Come here and I'll tell you," Slade said, words more growled than spoken, as if Dick's taunts were finally starting to get to him.

Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly, Dick thought, inwardly smirking. Slade wasn't the only one enjoying this.

When he lunged again Slade dodged his attack a second time--and this time Dick side-stepped his answering punch with a grin, heart soaring with adrenaline.

"Too slow," Dick sing-songed, grin widening at the way the man's brow had begun to crease. "Are you sure this wasn't a bad idea? Wouldn't want to embarrass you a second time in your own home."

Slade tutted again, though it was edged with audible impatience. "I almost forgot you never stop chirping," he remarked shortly. "Good thing I remember how to shut you up."

Dick colored slightly as he, too, remembered the other man's method of shutting him up. At least temporarily.

"Yeah? You'll have to catch me first," he goaded, co*cky. "I'm not sure you have it in you."

Slade's eye narrowed sharply at that. "We'll see."

For several minutes they traded blows, each landing their fair share: Dick, fist glancing off the man's hard stomach; Slade, catching him in the side a second time; then several more back-and-forth jabs each, until finally they separated by unspoken truce, reverting back to their circling just outside the other's reach.

"Not bad," Dick hummed, chest rising and falling rapidly with his exertion. Slade's own breathing was still mostly even, though sweat glistened visibly at his temples. "But how about we make things a little more interesting?"

He shrugged off his sweat-drenched t-shirt and tossed it carelessly aside, flat of his abdomen rippling at the movement, his nipples tightening instantly in the cool air.

"And what's so interesting about a half-dressed Dick Grayson?" Slade said flatly, sounding unimpressed, but his single eye traced over the newly-exposed flesh all the same. "If you're trying to distract me, it's not working."

"Yeah?" Dick yanked down the shorts and kicked them aside for good measure, spreading his arms in presentation--careless, now, of the other man seeing the visible effect their little boxing match had had on him. Even the unflattering lighting wasn't enough to dull the sculpted figure he'd spent years toning, and he knew it. "How about now?"

Slade only smirked. "If you want it that bad--you only have to ask," he mocked, echoing Dick's words from earlier. "Enough games. I think I mentioned they don't work on me."

"You might have," Dick responded neutrally, taking up position once again. "Only one way to find out."

For the next several minutes they grappled and swung and dodged, and to his frustration it seemed like the other man really wasn't distracted, giving back as good as he got, so that Dick knew he was going to wake up with new bruises tomorrow one way or another.

At last Slade got hold of him, twisting his arm lightning-quick behind him--then the other one, both wrists caught in one oversized hand to drag him back flush against the other man, the grip tightening when Dick instinctively tested the hold.

The man's free hand smoothed up over his heaving stomach, then chest--callused fingertips brushing over his left nipple and making him shiver--before sliding up his throat, pinching Dick's face tightly between fingers and thumb to tilt his head back awkwardly against the man's shoulder.

"Yield," Slade ordered, low, middle finger dipping into his mouth to press against his tongue.

So, naturally, Dick bit down.

The mercenary's hold on his wrists loosened just enough to allow his right arm to break free--and then drive his elbow backwards into the man's stomach, taking advantage of his distraction to spin away.

"What an inventive technique," Slade said dryly, looking more annoyed than in pain when Dick turned back towards him. "I've never seen the Bat use that move."

"Laugh all you want--but my inventive technique is what helped me beat you last time," Dick reminded him sweetly, hopping foot to foot like a boxer to help pump himself up again. "Hey--we can always call it quits, if you want. I promise I won't never, ever let you forget it as long as you live. Oops; that might've come out wrong--"

In place of a response the other man charged at him, apparently unappreciative of Dick's sass.

For several more minutes they fought, neither one landing any significant blows--until Dick caught the man off guard purely by chance, sweeping his legs out from underneath him and sending him crashing down to the cushioned mats below.

Dick was on him instantly, settling heavily over the man's waist--and Slade let him do it, laid out flat beneath him, dark eye peering up at him inscrutably.

"Yield," Dick taunted with a self-assured grin, palms coming to plant on either side of the man's head as he leaned in closer, sweat-damp hair flopping across his forehead at the movement. His heart was singing, flooded with the familiar endorphins that followed every victory--not to mention the tell-tale hardness he could feel pressing snugly against his ass, an echo of his own.

Slade said nothing, single eye slitting as he gazed steadily back at Dick--and then they were kissing, Dick's shoulder blades undulating like fluttering wings as the other man dragged him down, mouth devouring his own.

Their hands roamed over each other with matching urgency: Dick, tearing at the man's shirt, hips rolling mindlessly over the hardness beneath him; Slade's hands mapping out the sweat-slick muscles of his back, the right one shoving inside the damp, clingy fabric of his briefs to grab his ass and haul him in impossibly closer.

"Slade," Dick groaned, breaking the kiss, his lips and chin tingling from the scratch of facial hair. In response the man grazed his teeth down the line of Dick's throat, still palming at his ass--and then he was moving to flip them over, putting Dick onto his stomach and coming to rise above him, a hand and knee on either side.

"You were right earlier," Slade said against the shell of his hear, the words followed by a flash of teeth, and then the feeling of the man's weight shifting behind him.

Lifted up on his forearms like a Sphinx, Dick quivered helplessly as a hot tongue traveled from the very base of his low back all the way up the length of his spine, catching sweat droplets along the way, his head sagging helplessly forward as the other man's mouth skimmed up the vertebrae in his neck before returning to his ear.

"I just wanted to get you like this. Which is why I let you win."

"Jerk," Dick managed, though he was well past the point of caring who'd won or lost anymore with his aching co*ck trapped against the mat and the other man hovering over him, groin rocking against his ass. "Slade--I need--"

The mercenary shushed him, tongue flicking over the shell of his ear, fingers clutching over the narrow clasp of his waist. "I know what you need," he said, so solemnly that Dick believed him. He pressed a final kiss just behind Dick's ear--and then the heat and weight of him vanished as he lifted his chest away from Dick's back, sinking back behind him.

Thick fingers yanked his hips back, forcing him onto hands and spread knees--then squeezed over the generous curves of his ass, kneading the toned flesh, before two thumbs spread him apart.

Dick's mind blanched as that same wet heat slicked over his entrance, sending a jolt of pure pleasure up his spine.

"Oh, f*ck," he moaned, arms nearly collapsing under him as it happened again, and again, bristled facial hair tickling at his most sensitive skin as the other man licked over his entrance without a hint of hesitation.

The memories of all the times Slade had done this came rushing back to him, remembering the way his younger self would squirm and pant as the mercenary took him apart, until he finally lost himself to the pleasure of it.

He did the same, now, breath growing shallow as Slade teased his hole with little wet-hot flicks of the tongue--then broad, flat, purposeful strokes as he grew impatient, right hand clutching tightly to Dick's hip so he couldn't move away.

He keened when the man's tongue left his entrance to suck at the stretch of skin beneath it instead, then lower, teasing and nuzzling at the delicate skin of his balls, a hand sliding over his quivering stomach to pump his co*ck lazily as the tongue slid back up again, leaving a scorching trail in its wake.

"Slade," Dick urged as the hand left his co*ck to return to his flank, thumbs spreading him open again, the man's tongue laving and worshipping his tight center.

Slade hummed--so close that Dick could feel the vibration of it against his very center--and yanked him back further, face burying between his taut cheeks, licking into him now as his tongue dipped just past the tight ring of muscle.

It was torment--torture--and Dick never wanted it to end, rocking back against the man's face even as his co*ck screamed for attention between his tensed thighs, sure he could ride the knife's edge of pleasure for hours with release just barely eluding him. It was getting sloppier, now, spit-slick hole beginning to loosen under the other man's coaxing, saliva dripping down his perineum and the base of his balls. The tip of the man's tongue swirled around his rim, then just inside it, then in and out again in a mimicry of f*cking that wasn't quite enough, leaving him dazed and wanting.

"More," Dick demanded, ragged, suddenly needing the other man inside him so badly he could barely stand it. "Give me your co*ck--Slade, I need it--"

Another reverberating hum--followed by a filthy kiss, just over his softened entrance--and then the man's mouth left him as a thick finger took its place, his flesh swallowing it up to the first knuckle.

Dick groaned appreciatively as a second one joined it almost immediately, scissoring roughly apart from the first as the man's tongue found his entrance again, tracing teasingly around the stretched flesh.

"More," he gasped out as the fingers grazed over that electric spot inside him, co*ck leaking profusely now, the mat stained with damp beneath him. "Slade, c'mon--just f*ck me already!"

"It's going to hurt," the mercenary said against the base of his spine--more statement of fact than warning--but the fingers disappeared all the same, the mat shifting as the man moved behind him.

"It always hurts," Dick said impatiently, knees and hips starting to ache from being spread. "Do it anyways. Please." Before I go insane, he didn't add.

"So polite," Slade rumbled, taunting, though he didn't argue. Behind him came the tell-tale sound of the man spitting into his palm--then the lewd sound of a fist working over slick flesh, Dick practically vibrating out of his own skin with yearning.

His stomach jumped as his knees were nudged even further apart--then sucked in a breath at the first blunt press of the man's co*ck against his entrance.

Even after being loosened it resisted--before Slade shoved forward, co*ckhead breaching the tight ring of muscle, drawing a low groan from Dick's throat as he forced his body to relax into it.

His breath left him in a slow, drawn-out exhale as Slade worked himself the rest of the way inside, carving out a space for himself inside the hungry suction of Dick's body, broad chest coming to blanket Dick's back as the man's hips settled flush against his ass. For a long moment they breathed as one, joined as intimately together as it was possible for two people to be, the mercenary preternaturally still behind him--and then the weight of him lifted, co*ck sliding partially free.

Oversized hands gripped either of his hips--and then the other man was shoving back inside, the overwhelming fullness of his co*ck driving all the air from Dick's lungs.

Slade f*cked him in brutal, shallow thrusts, yanking his hips back to meet every one, the room filled with the snap of flesh against flesh and the mindless pleas that fell from Dick's lips like a foreign language, the words entirely senseless even to his own ears.

With a growl Slade shoved him down to the mat, pinning him there with one heavy hand over the back of his neck, the other still curled tightly around Dick's hip for control as he f*cked into him.

Dick surged up against the hold unthinkingly--only to be shoved right down again, cheek mashed against the sweat-flecked mat, his damp, tousled hair falling messily into his eyes.

"You begged for this," Slade hissed, voice floating out above him as he took his pleasure in Dick's flesh. "So take what I give you and be grateful for it."

Dick made a faint whine of protest, co*ck twitching pitifully between his thighs. He wormed his hand beneath himself, grasping the rigid flesh--only to choke on a breath as the pressure on the back of his neck increased, the man's thumb pressing down warningly against his windpipe as his arm was seized roughly behind him.

"What did I tell you," Slade growled, hips still snapping against his ass with every body-wracking thrust, his head already swimming from his partially-blocked airflow under the man's thumb. "Greedy little birds don't get anything, if they don't appreciate what they're given."

Dick sucked in a heaving breath as the pressure on his windpipe let up, his right arm released back down to the mat as the mercenary resumed his brutal pace, thumbs digging sharply into the divots on either side of Dick's lower spine. There was nothing to hold onto for purchase; nothing to do except take it, just as the man had said, sparks shooting up the base of his groin and his neglected co*ck with every dead-on thrust against his prostate.

Dick finished first with a throaty moan, muscles clamping down around the man's flesh like a steel trap, nearly whiting out at the surging intensity of pulsating pleasure as he came untouched onto the mat below.

Slade rumbled his approval, chasing after his own climax with abandon, jostling Dick's very bones with every battering thrust.

Less than a minute later the mercenary found release with a grunt, f*cking him through it as he emptied himself inside Dick's body.

When it was over there came a loaded silence, Slade stilling behind him--and then the warmth and pressure of him vanished as he pulled free from the tight clasp of Dick's body in one long tug, blessedly cool air rushing in to blanket his overheated flesh.

Dick collapsed to the mat as if the man's co*ck had been the only thing holding him up, boneless and sweaty and sated, exhaling a contented sigh as the transient tides of afterglow began to drag him under.

"No, but s'rsly--we both know I won," he mumbled sleepily into the mat, eyes so heavy he could barely keep them open. "You're just trying to save face."

No response--but Dick could hear movement on the far side of the room; the rustle of clothing, and something else he couldn't place, like wood sliding over metal.

"Slade?" Eyes bleary, he tried to crane his head to see, but the angle was wrong. Grudgingly Dick shoved up onto his forearm for a better look--and found Slade leaving the rack of ballistic staffs he'd noticed earlier, fully dressed with not a hair out of place, as if he hadn't just given Dick a run for his money and then f*cked his brains out.

In his (now bare) hands the mercenary held a long black rod: much thinner than the staff he used while fighting, and fragile-looking, like it would break in half with the slightest effort.

Dick's good mood gave way to faint apprehension as Slade stepped unhurriedly forward, stopping just beneath the nearest light fixture, the blue-tinged light bathing him in an eerie glow.

"You wondered earlier, about how I've pictured you as my protégé," the man said with frightening calm, head tilting back to gaze down at Dick in lofty appraisal. He'd fixed his eyepatch back in place, and once again Dick couldn't help but feel that he somehow looked even more intimidating than without it. "How about I show you?"

"Now?" Dick said weakly, still propped up on his forearm. He didn't make any move when the man strolled towards him--though his mouth did, the words tumbling out of him without thinking. "Think you gave me a pretty clear picture already. Aren't you--"

The rest of his sentence died in his throat as Slade caught a fistful of his hair and dragged him none-too-gently forward--then kept dragging, until Dick had no choice but to flip over onto his front, palms coming to brace flat against the mat beneath him, his pulse quickening at the unexpected turn of events.

"Up," Slade said shortly, releasing his hair as he nudged Dick's ankle pointedly with the toe of his shoe. Confused, Dick lifted slowly into a plank position, body a strong, straight line beneath the fluorescent lights.

"What--you want me to do some push-ups for you?" he huffed out a laugh, head craning over his shoulder to flash a crooked grin at the man as he shook his messy, sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. "You know I've been training since I was literally eight. No offense, but I don't think a few push-ups are going to be much of a challenge."

Slade's face didn't even twitch--the creepy bastard. "Not push-ups," he said, too casually. "You're going to stay like this until I tell you to stop."

"Yeah? Still waiting to hear the challenging part," Dick retorted, though his grin had slipped a bit at the other man's deadly calm expression--and the rod he still held in hand like some kind of ritualistic sword.

His breath stuttered in his chest as Slade took a step closer and crouched beside him, catching a fistful of his hair again and pulling his head backwards, his neck twinging at the unnatural angle. "You're going to stay here, just like this, until I tell you--" the man reiterated against his ear, and Dick nearly jumped out of his skin as something cold and firm slipped between his cheeks, stiffening as it swiped across his swollen hole. "--and you're not going to waste a single drop of the seed I gave you. Understand?"

"...yes," Dick managed, breathing slowly through his nose to compensate for his obstructed airway.

It didn't exactly take much effort to keep cum from leaking out, and he knew he could hold plank all day without even breaking a sweat--but it couldn't hurt to play along with the other man's game; especially if it ended in another mind-blowing org*sm. His co*ck was already perking up again, as curious about where the man was taking things as Dick was.

His head sagged forward as Slade released his hair and stood, stepping away from him once more.

"So--since I'm your protégé now," Dick teased, settling into position, his breath and confidence returning to him, "does that mean I should call you sensei, or--"

His smart-ass remark was cut off prematurely as the rod suddenly cut through the air with a sharp fwoosh, branding a line of white-hot pain across the small of his back.

Dick surged forward onto his toes with a cry--then remembered his instructions just in time, entrance clamping down again before the other man's release could gush free.

Well--that explains what the rod is for.

He shifted back onto the balls of his feet with a shaky grin. "Is that a no?"

This time, he expected the strike. It caught him just over the swell of his ass, and Dick hissed at the sting of it, though he didn't move, his muscles still held firmly together.

"Definitely thinking I made the right choice, when I turned you down before," he said weakly, earning himself two more stripes across his shoulders and left ribcage. f*ck--they somehow hurt even worse when he couldn't see them coming. "Anyone ever tell you you're a sad*st?"

Another strike across the tops of his thighs, hard enough to raise welts, springing unwelcome tears to his eyes.

"But your body's already responding," Slade said from somewhere behind him, irritatingly clinical, like he was observing Dick in a f*cking British nature documentary (The vigilante appears to be aroused by the painful stimuli--a most curious response.). The cane slid beneath him to nudge at his co*ck, hanging half-hard between his stomach and the mat. "So what does that make you."

"Easy," Dick muttered sourly, tensing in preparation for another strike that didn't come. He relaxed again, shifting his weight evenly on his palms, still clenched down around the man's seed inside him. "What happens if I hold out to the end?"

A low chuckle--a sound so rare that it automatically made the hair on the back of Dick's neck stand on end.

"You won't," came the ominous reply. Creep.

"Okay...then what happens if--" Dick sucked in a breath as the rod snapped across his mid-back, raising a new line of fiery pain. "--i-if I don't make it?"

"Students who don't live up to their master's expectations get punished," Slade informed him, still lingering in the shadows just outside Dick's line of sight in a way that would've made Bruce proud. The duh was heavily implied.

"This isn't your idea of punishment?" Dick laughed breathlessly--only to jump at two more lashes across the backs of his legs, the muscles in his thighs straining to hold him steady under the assault. Perversely enough his co*ck was fully hard again, damp head bobbing against his stomach.

"No. If you were really my protégé, we'd start every training session this way--until you could take every strike I gave you without flinching."

The cane came down across the curve where ass met thigh, and Dick flinched violently as if to prove the man's point, arms swaying as his legs squeezed tightly together.

"sad*st," he accused a second time, embarrassingly breathless already. He was starting to feel it now, fatigued after their little boxing match and the rough f*ck that had followed, his muscles beginning to burn with the effort of holding him aloft and keeping himself from turning into a leaky f*cking faucet, and the tensed anticipation of the next strike.

...or strikes, as it turned out, two over his back and then his legs, and then again and again, each in a different spot, so rapid-fire that Dick's overloaded brain grew nearly dizzy with trying to predict each one.

The last one kissed the sensitive skin at the backs of his knees, the cutting sting that followed stealing his concentration and springing a fresh new wave of tears to his eyes as the clench of his muscles eased the tiniest bit. A single drop of release escaped from his entrance to trickle down his perineum--for now, hidden from the other man's view.

Dick clenched down as tightly as he could against the rest of it, arms quivering and toes aching, hyper-aware of the wetness tickling at his most sensitive skin, and his heart, thudding sluggishly in his ribcage at the close call.

He blinked through the glaze of tears as the other man's legs appeared in his vision at last, stopping just in front of him.

"...I don't tolerate failure," Slade spoke at last, eerily prescient, the words oddly deafening over the buzzing in Dick's ears.

The tip of the cane tipped his chin up, forcing him to look up at the man, a single tear breaking free from the corner of his eye to trail down his cheek.

Slade's mouth twitched, single eye flicking sharply over Dick's flushed face.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and Dick's treacherous heart gave a squeeze. "Are you ready for our little game to end?"

Dick couldn't bring himself to speak, warily holding the man's gaze, the muscles of his entrance twanging distractedly now as his strength dwindled by the second.

His stomach shifted as the cane disappeared from under his chin and Slade moved back out of his line of sight, every inch of him a tensely coiled bundle of nervous suspense.

A silent few beats passed--then several more, even longer, until Dick was close to trembling, sweat beading at his temples and the back of his neck and along his spine, his breath a choppy, uneven staccato.

The final strike, even though he'd expected it, still caught him by surprise. The rod whipped cleanly across the tender soles of both his feet, tearing a shocked cry from Dick's throat as he finally, finally lost control, the other man's release gushing out of him all at once to drip filthily down the base of his balls and his corded inner thighs.

Dick dropped heavily to his knees, shoulders heaving and head hanging against his chest, his face burning under the stare he could feel on him like a tangible weight--and his co*ck, still blatantly hard between his spread thighs.

A light tsk, the sound making Dick flinch like another flick of the cane against his skin.

This time it was an oversized hand that grasped his chin and tilted his head back, deceptively gentle. The mercenary's gaze was searing upon his own, missing eye an endless well of black under the harsh lighting.

"Not good enough," Slade said, and it was almost pathological, how just three words said in a faintly disapproving tone were enough to make Dick's stomach go sideways. "It looks like I have to punish you."

Before Dick could protest the man was dragging him to his feet by the upper arm, free hand finding its favorite spot around Dick's throat as Slade marched him backwards across the room towards the nearest object--the exam table--lips seizing his before Dick's back had even touched it.

Dick fisted his hands in the man's shirt for grip, groaning as thick fingers tightened at his throat, the mercenary licking possessively into his mouth like he owned every inch.

When they broke apart again Slade turned him bodily, shoving Dick chest-down over the table in a position reminiscent of his last punishment--an outcome his co*ck seemed fully on board with, if the way it hadn't flagged a bit was any indication.

"What is it with you and punishment," Dick complained half-heartedly, shivering at the cold press of stainless steel against his scorching skin, his warm breath fogging the table's surface.

Slade didn't respond--only stepped one foot between his own, wedging his sticky legs apart, muscled thigh nudging against the space just behind his balls.

A warm hand slid over the back of his neck, fingers sifting through the shorter hairs there, the familiar gesture enough to lull him into a false sense of security.

Just as he was opening his mouth to speak again the hand disappeared--and moments later a warm, callused palm wrapped around his hard co*ck beneath the table, stroking him from root to tip, while two fingers slid into his loosened passage without resistance, making him rock up onto his toes in surprise.

"f*ck," Dick breathed out, settling back down on his heels as his hips tilted and legs fell open a bit wider of their own accord to accommodate the man behind him, gripping tightly to the edge of the table for stability. It felt good, really good, the mercenary's fist working over his length with perfect pressure, his fingers curling inside Dick like a tease of things to come. No pun intended.

"If this is punishment," he said, breath hitching at the crook of fingers inside him, "then maybe I really should sign up to be your protégé."

The other man only chuckled darkly behind him--which in hindsight was probably a giant warning sign, but between the hand on his co*ck and the fingers working over his prostate with surgical precision there wasn't room for much else in Dick's lust-addled brain.

Shamefully enough it didn't take long for the mercenary's skillful ministrations to bring him to the edge, his breath growing labored as the pleasure built to a crescendo inside him.

"f*ck--m'gonna come," Dick warned against the table, breath fanning back against his face, his eyes squeezing shut as he raced head-first towards release--

A half-second before he could finish the mercenary's hand left his co*ck to clamp down hard around the base of his balls, thick fingers withdrawing completely from inside his slick passage.

Dick gave a croak of pained confusion, groin throbbing mournfully with his aborted org*sm and the unyielding hold, his heart beating so wildly in his ribcage he could feel it in his throat.

"Slade...?" he questioned, voice sounding far away over his uneven breath, his brain struggling to compute what had just happened.

Slade gave a rumble of acknowledgement, the sound vibrating against Dick's back where the man was pressed against him--and then the hand was releasing its painful hold on his balls and returning to the much more pleasant strokes over his co*ck, fingers sliding back into his passage and resuming their maddening circles against that little spot inside him.

It was enough for the detective side of Dick's brain to piece things together at last, even through the thick fog of frustrated lust.

"Slade--" he repeated, angry now, trying to shove himself up from the table--but Slade crowded him further against it, shushing him, both hands still working him in coordinated rhythm.

With a groan of resignation Dick reluctantly lowered back down, shivering as the man leaned down to press a line of slow, hot kisses against the back of his neck in lieu of speaking, the room otherwise silent besides the man's fist working over his flesh, and the lewd squelching of his passage, and Dick's breath, growing more stilted by the moment.

This time when his org*sm reared up inside him he bit sharply into his low lip, fighting to stay silent--

--only to hiss out his frustration as Slade cut his climax off yet again, tugging his balls roughly away from his body, fingers stilling inside his stretched passage.

"Okay...you've made your point," Dick rasped out as the mercenary's hands resumed their torture a third time, chest shifting uncomfortably against the table top. "Please--I can't. Not again." Except his co*ck was still hard and eager, leaking all over the other man's fist, now, in clear interest.

"You will," Slade rumbled, without missing a beat. End of discussion.

Dick cursed him, suddenly misty-eyed as his body responded enthusiastically to the man's tugging and prodding and teasing, thumb swirling over the damp head of his co*ck on every upstroke, those callused finger pads massaging his prostate in dizzying little circles designed to torment him.

On his third ruined climax Dick screamed, the agonized sound magnified as it echoed off the walls of the spacious studio all around them. Genuine tears were tracking down his face, now, soaking the table top where his face was pressed against it, desperation clawing his chest and straining at his skin like a too-tight suit.

"Very pretty," Slade murmured, condescending, shifting behind him so that Dick could feel the hard press of the man's own co*ck against his hip. "How many more can you take?"

Dick shook his head mutely, blinking against the flow of tears, too exhausted to offer any further protests.

"No? Go on then," Slade's voice encouraged darkly just above his ear, hand still gripping his balls taut. "Beg me to let you cum."

It was a trap--just another mind game--but staying silent felt like one, too. And even in his powerless position, he had at least one last card up his sleeve.

Dick cleared his throat, gathering up the last bit of moisture in his bone-dry mouth to speak, heat crawling into his cheeks as he summoned the words.

"Please," he said, little more than a whisper, avoiding his own gaze in the table's surface. "Let me come...daddy."

A heart-stopping beat--and then the hands were starting up again with revived purpose as Slade leaned heavily over him, teeth scraping across his shoulder blade.

Dick keened, flesh throbbing in relief at the attention. It took no time at all to get him there, his interrupted org*sm lingering just beneath the surface. Slade conjured it up again like a magician, so that Dick's stomach tightened in fearful anticipation, half-expecting that cruel hand to cut it off a fourth time before it could fully materialize.

But this time the mercenary's hands kept going, tugging roughly at his co*ck to match the rough set of his teeth against the line of Dick's throat, fingers inside him sparking syrupy pleasure with every exacting prod.

"Cum for me," Slade commanded in his ear, low--and that was all it took for Dick to shoot off like a rocket, violently enough that it felt like his soul had left his body, pulling some horrible, wailing sound out of his throat along with it.

He went limp against the table, fogging out his reflection with the force of his heaving breath, the last bit of his strength leaving him. He barely even twitched as Slade slid home inside him in one smooth push, hiking Dick's sinking hips up in two big hands as the man began f*cking him raw a second time.

The mercenary didn't say another word--and Dick didn't, either, driven to silence at long last, eyes rolling shut at the relentless battering against his spent nerves as the man dragged him back to meet his thrusts, free hand braced flat against the wall above him, the table clanging loudly with each drive of his hips.

Slade came at last with a low grunt, squeezing his flank harshly enough to make bruises bloom, hips stilling finally as they came to rest flush against him.

A big hand clasped over his stomach as lips tracked up the dampened valley between his shoulder blades, ending their reverent journey at the base of his neck.

"Good boy," Slade muttered, the two words zinging through the reward centers in his brain and making him tingle pleasurably all over.

Dick smiled.

----

Sunset came late on the island. Isla Rosa, Slade had called it, with a lack of inflection that had hinted at some deeper meaning. Dick had vowed to ask about it some day.

For now he leaned over the ornate railing of the back deck, Mai Tai in hand, sea breeze teasing at his still-damp hair. He was dressed in only his loose shorts from earlier and a too-big white button down he'd stolen from Slade, pulling it on over wet skin after his latest dip in the water.

After the intense experience in the man's training studio they'd spent the rest of the day lazing, mostly outside, only coming in long enough for Slade to fix them a dinner fancy enough to put Dick's omelets to shame.

Dick had spent much of his time in the water, trying (and failing) to convince Slade to join him; then laid out in the nude to sunbathe while the other man smoked his cigar under the shade of the deck, watching from afar.

He was a little sunburnt across the nose--but he'd already tanned nicely, not a tan line to be seen.

And a little sunburn had been worth it, for the way Slade had pulled him close when Dick had returned to the deck, trailing slow, unhurried kisses across his newly-bronzed skin until he was hard and aching--then sucking him off lazily until Dick had reached a toe-curling climax, this time (mercifully) without any teasing.

Afterwards he'd gone in and made Dick a drink, just the way he liked it, pressing the cool glass into his hand where he was stretched long on one of the deck chairs, sated and nude--and Dick had thought to himself that he might have been, maybe, just a little bit in love.

Now, several hours (and drinks) later, Dick was feeling happier than he had in a long time.

He turned, still (mostly) graceful, finding Slade in the same chair he'd been lounging in all day--as close to content as Dick had ever seen him.

"Is it wrong that I don't miss it?" he asked, leaning back against the railing, glass dangling from loosened fingertips. The fading orange light warmed the strip of skin just above his shirt collar, casting his shadow long on the deck before him. "The city, I mean."

The city is alive, Bruce had told him once, back in Gotham. At the time Dick had chalked it up to just another one of his cryptic, off-handed remarks, mysterious meaning known only to himself.

It wasn't until he'd gotten older and set out on his own in Blüdhaven that he'd understood what the man had meant; could see, with the benefit of hindsight and maturity, the ways that Gotham had bound Bruce to its twisted whims, a dark god demanding sacrifice; and he, the sole person willing or capable of preventing yet another victim from descending into its ravenous, gaping maw--and even then not always, despite all his efforts.

Dick knew, because his city had ensnared him in the same way--and he'd felt real guilt over abandoning Bruce to his fate, a man so consumed by grief and constrained by his self-imposed rules and responsibilities that even with all his money, and recognition, and the widespread adoration for a person that didn't really exist, he had nothing except the city, jagged and pulsing and always hungry, its streets run red with blood.

But here on Isla Rosa, four drinks deep with the sun at his back and wind in his hair, it was tempting to forget his own mantle of responsibility.

"That's something you have to decide for yourself," Bruce had answered, when he'd asked what he should do now.

At the time, the advice had seemed so generic; but now, divorced from the situation with plenty of time to reflect, Dick finally understood its significance.

For the first time, maybe ever--and from here on out--it really was up to him to create his own future.

"Are you asking to stay?" Slade responded, only a touch wry, good eye glinting in the fading light as he drank from his own glass.

Dick shook his head, smiling ruefully, his decision already made. "No more running away--remember?" he said. "We both know I have to go back."

And he would. He wouldn't run away from repairing his relationship with Bruce, terrifying as the prospect was; or from Jason, who was so obviously vulnerable and looking for guidance despite his co*cky bravado, just as Dick had been--even if he still harbored conflicting feelings at seeing someone else at Bruce's side.

He wouldn't run away from processing what had happened with Black Mask, and what it meant for moving on from his past, even if things hadn't turned out the way he'd hoped; and not from the city that had given him new purpose, either, or any of the innocent people living there who stood unknowingly in harm's way.

And as for Slade--well. They could figure that out as they went.

"The city's still going to be there tomorrow," Slade said, reasonable, always so good at making the solution to anything sound so simple. Or maybe that was just his fourth Mai Tai talking. "For now--stay."

Dick turned back to lean over the railing, sipping his drink as he watched the sun set over the water, all worries about his city and thoughts of tomorrow fading along with the last glimmering rays of daylight.

Slade was right. He could stay--just for a while longer.