Chapter Text
"Just for the record," Jason said, panting, "I'm winning."
"Is now the time?" Tim grit back. In the background, you could hear the faint sounds of fighting. "I mean, we're kind of in the middle of something."
A loud shout and crash over the comm, and then Damian said, "We're tied now, Hood!"
"See, the kid gets it!" Jason laughed. "You're just a sore loser."
Tim sighed in exasperation, and the bickering continued.
Dick knew he should probably interrupt them, bring them back to the task at hand, but there was something very comforting about their familiar chatter. His three little brothers had often been actually at each other's throats, so the fact that it was now good-natured rather than murderous was something Dick would always be grateful for, and always smile when he heard it.
Besides, he didn't need to bring them back to the task at hand—he trusted them all well enough to know they were completing their parts of the mission.
"If you boys are done," Stephanie drawled, "I'm in position."
"So really," Dick interjected, grinning to himself, "I think Spoiler might be winning." Next to him, Cassandra smirked, shaking her head.
A groan from Jason and a "Tt" from Damian, both of which made Dick's smile larger.
"Oh please," Tim said, his eyeroll practically hearable in his voice, "as if you aren't already where you're supposed to be, Nightwing. Don't give us that shit; brag like everyone else."
Dick didn't like bragging. Bragging could bring on praise which brought on...well, brought on things he'd rather not think about, so. He preferred to do his job and move on.
But still, this was his family and they meant him no ill-will (you're okay), so he drawled, "I do my best," in a superior tone, and then leveled his voice and said, "Good work, Spoiler. Batgirl and I are, in fact, in position, so any time the rest of you wanna do your part..."
"Oh, shove it, Goldie," Jason muttered. "I'm setting the charges right in the right wing now for our wonderfully explosive distraction—just hold your fucking horses."
"Done, Nightwing," Damian said firmly. "The charges in the left quadrant are set. Back into the fray, yes?"
"Yeah, Robin," Dick said, an easy smile on his lips, "go ahead and keep kicking their asses—you'll have more heading your way soon, anyway."
The smiling thing on missions was nice. There was a long period of his life that he found happiness hard, let alone being happy on missions. He did the job and he did it well, but the laughing and joke cracking thing he'd been known for before? That had all been gone.
Slowly but surely things had come back to him, and every once in a while it struck him how he was smiling at his siblings right now. He was enjoying himself right now, and everything was going well.
(He knew that later, he'd have nightmares. The easy days always brought the hardest nights, and so he just tried to enjoy the time while he could.)
Dick cleared his throat. "Red Hood, are you clear?"
A moment's pause, and then Jason said, "Yup, I'm clear. Blow it, RR."
"Wing?" Tim prompted.
"Blow it," Dick confirmed.
He didn't need the comm unit in his ear to hear the explosion, and he and Cassandra hunkered down more firmly as the force of it rocked the building.
Instantly, all the men on the floor beneath them started shouting and running about, those with guns heading for the exits to find the attackers and put out the fires. The scientists shifted nervously, looking towards the doors, and then got barked at to keep working.
"Lots of incoming your way," Dick murmured. "Party's coming to you."
When there were only a few guards left, he nodded at Cassandra and they both dropped to the ground. The few men remaining whirled around to face them, guns raising, but Dick and Cass were far faster than them, and they went down quickly.
"Batgirl and I are in," Dick said as they headed towards the giant machine at the center of the room, the scientists parting fearfully for them. "How are you looking, Spoiler?"
"Dandy fine," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "The people up here are a little antsy; I'm gonna move a little closer, see if I can get eyes on these guys."
Dick nodded, even though Stephanie couldn't see him. "Sounds good, S; keep to the shadows, though."
"Nightwing," Cassandra called, nodding towards a small control panel.
He smiled at her. "Awesome." She smiled back, eyes crinkling.
Ducking down, Dick pulled out a small flash drive and plugged it into the control panel, watching the virus they'd created pop up on the large screen. In the corner of his eye he could see the scientists rushing for the exits, but they didn't matter; none of them were actually evil, just some poor assholes who got sucked into some supervillain's plan or another.
"Program's doing its thing," he said in satisfaction.
"They're calling in backup!" Jason shouted back. "So hurry the hell up—we need backup. Spoiler, who's giving orders up there?"
A sigh from Stephanie, and then she quietly said, "Exactly who we thought it would be—Lex Luther, doing his typical shit."
Dick pursed his lips. "Hate that guy," he muttered. "Any other household names up there?"
There was a brief pause, during which Dick focused on the files popping up on the gigantic computer screen in front of him. After about a minute, Stephanie said, "Four men and one woman I don't recognize, and there's one other guy I can't quite get a look at...Wait! It's Sportsmaster."
Dick withheld a sigh; great—another person he detested.
"Done," Dick said, pulling the flash drive from the panel when it finished doing what it was supposed to. "I'm heading to you, Red Hood. Batgirl, join Robin. Spoiler, plant the bug and get to the extraction point. Red Robin, head to the roof to back her up."
There were a chorus of agreements, and everyone got to work.
It wasn't even a minute later that they all heard Stephanie cry out.
"Spoiler!" Tim shouted. No reply. "S! I'm on my way!"
"Shit," Dick cursed. "Hood, Robin, how bad is it where you guys are?"
"There's barely any left back here," Damian said, sounding disappointed. "Hood, I believe, has the brunt force out front."
"Got it. Change of plan—Batgirl, head to Red Hood's position; I'm going to go after Spoiler with Red Robin."
Dick made his way up and up. At the third level he met up with Tim, the younger boy's expression set in determination, and then to the last floor, where Stephanie had been to plant the bug.
The men and woman who'd been there before were gone, but Stephanie was on the floor, limp. Tim immediately rushed to her, hand going to her neck to feel for a pulse, and then slumped in relief.
"She's okay," he said, voice shaking a little, "just unconscious. Blow to the head, looks like."
Just then, the sound of a helicopter started up on the roof, making both Dick and Tim's head jerk up.
"Stay with Spoiler," Dick said, heading for the small staircase that led up, "I'll stop this."
He knocked the top hatch open and jumped up onto the roof. He immediately had to dive to the side to avoid the hail of gunfire that rained down on him. He could see the helicopter at the other end of the roof; Lex Luthor, Sportsmaster, and a woman Dick didn't know were ducked and heading towards the chopper, protecting by the seven men all aiming guns at Dick.
Dick smirked; child's play.
He darted forward, getting to work. Everything was instinct, natural, as easy as breathing. There had been a while when fighting was spoiled for him, made into something evil, something where he couldn't trust his own mind. Not anymore, and never again.
When all the goons were down, Dick threw one of his wingdings, making it land right in front of where Luthor was about to step. The man reared back and then whirled around, Sportsmaster and the woman following suit.
"Nightwing," Luthor greeted smoothly. "How good to see you again."
Dick heard someone come up through the hatch behind him and recognized Tim's tread, his little brother walking forward to stand at his side.
"Stand down," Dick ordered, looking at Sportsmaster and the woman, both of whom seemed ready for a fight.
"I don't think so, little bird," Sportsmaster sneered.
Fury sparked inside of Dick and he bared his teeth, his fists clenching.
It was Lawrence Crock's favorite thing to do whenever they fought, call him that fucking term. He'd been there, ten years ago, when that phrase had actually had meaning. Luthor referenced it every once in a while, having been there, too. They both knew it didn't actually carry any weight anymore, but they liked using it to just get under his skin.
It worked. More than Dick liked to admit. And it made him severely pissed.
(He didn't acknowledge the shudder that ran up his spine, the tightness of his chest. None of it mattered. He was fine.)
"Last warning," Dick said, his voice notably colder than it was a minute ago.
Luthor smirked. "No, I don't think so. I've seen what you can do firsthand, Nightwing, and I don't intend to wait around here for you to get out your repressed trauma by beating us up." He looked at the woman and nodded. "Detonate."
Dick dove at Tim, pushing his brother to the ground and covering him just as the explosion hit. The heat was searing and concrete blocks went flying, but it was mostly in the center of the roof, separating the two heroes from the escaping villains.
With a grimace, Dick got to his feet. He offered Tim a hand and the younger boy took it, grunting as he stood. The pair of them watched the helicopter flying away, Sportsmaster saluting them sarcastically from where he was hanging out of it.
"Shit," Tim cursed. Dick nodded his agreement, glaring after them.
"Stephanie?" he asked.
"She's okay," Tim said, smiling wryly. "She woke up and yelled at me to go after you. Said I was an idiot."
"She's a smart girl," Dick said with a smirk, but it felt mechanical. Hollow. Encounters like this always left him...distant. Folding in on himself. Mind and body quiet.
And he'd been having such a good day, too.
"You okay?" his little brother asked, brow furrowed.
"Of course," Dick replied automatically, and then headed back for the hatch. He felt so tired all of a sudden, and hated that in that helicopter they were probably patting each other on the back and joking about the poor little hero, the one whose trauma they witnessed firsthand.
They made their way back to ground level and then outside, Stephanie joining them. Unconscious goons littered the grounds, Jason, Damian, and Cassandra all wandering through them, every once in a while throwing a punch to knock someone out who was still with them.
"What happened?" Jason asked when he spotted them.
"We saw the explosion," Cassandra added, nodding.
Dick didn't answer, looking around them for any possible remaining hostiles. In the face of his silence, Tim was the one to reply.
"...Luthor blew the roof so that he and Sportsmaster and that woman could get away. Blew up some of their own men, actually. They got away. But you said you were successful, right, Nightwing? Batgirl?"
"Right," Dick agreed. He wondered if he sounded as hollow to them as he did to himself. "All on the flashdrive."
"Let's get the fuck out of here, then," Jason said with a snort, brushing his hands off on his pants. "I could use a drink."
Normally, this would be the part where Dick dryly commented, You're nineteen, Hood, but better luck next time. He didn't say it, though. He couldn't feel it.
Faintly, he acknowledged that he should give Wally and Artemis or Conner and M'gann a phone call. Kaldur'ahm was in New York at the moment with Aquaman, doing something or another—he should see if Kaldur would make a detour, come say hello.
He knew, far more clearly, that he wouldn't do that. He hadn't let any of them help him ten years ago, and there wasn't a chance he'd ask for help now.
There was nothing to help. He was fine. He just needed a good night's sleep.
Throughout their debrief, Dick could feel Bruce's eyes on him.
The bat was subtle about it, of course, listening to Damian, Stephanie, and Jason give all the highlights. Tim interjected some corrections and then explained what happened on the roof. The only time Dick had to speak was to say that the program had worked.
"Did you see anyone else on the helicopter?" Bruce asked, cowl still pulled up as he sat at the batcomputer. He'd had his own mission tonight, and left this one to his kids. This wasn't Dick's first time leading a team, and it wouldn't be his last—Bruce never doubted he could do it.
Silently, Dick shook his head. He saw Tim and Jason share a glance, and Bruce pursed his lips. Bruce always hated when he got non-verbal, because he always knew what triggered it. He knew all of Dick's tells, having spent ten years learning them.
The last few years had been...easier, the last two especially. The family around him really helped. Sometimes they really didn't understand him, which was the point—he didn't want them to know why he did certain things. He didn't want them to understand why he was the way he was.
He was the Golden Boy, the first Robin, the shining Nightwing, Damian's Batman; none of them had ever learned what happened ten years ago, and if Dick had anything to say about it, they never would.
"Good work everyone," Bruce said, and pulled down his cowl. "You're free to go." Everyone pushed to their feet, chatter starting up, but Dick didn't move; he knew Bruce was going to ask him to stay behind, anyway—standing would be pointless.
"Grayson, come get a bite to eat," Damian called, his voice determined.
"Leave 'im be, squirt," Jason said with a snort, "he and Bruce are gonna have one of their super special secret conversations."
"Goodnight, Jason," Bruce said, shaking his head. Normally, there would be fond exasperation in his voice, but right now he was too focused on Dick.
When the others' footsteps faded away, Bruce firmly asked, "What happened?"
"They told you," Dick got out.
"You know what I mean," Bruce returned. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Bruce sighed. "Luthor and Sportsmaster were there—did one of them say something?"
Dick hesitated, and then nodded, but didn't say anything.
"Dick. Words, please." He paused briefly, then said, "I know you're...I know what this is, but I need you to speak to me for just a bit longer."
"The usual stuff," Dick mumbled. Fuck, he hated them. Those fuckers barely had to say anything at all and Dick was reduced to that first year, barely speaking, practically mute.
"Crock or Luthor?"
Dick knew what he meant—Which one said it to you?
"Sportsmaster," Dick said. "But Luthor...contributed."
"Tell me a number."
Dick scowled and raised his eyes from where they'd been focused on the table. Bruce met his irritated gaze easily, expression perfectly calm. There was a tightness to his jaw, though, that Dick perfectly understood; he was picturing someone's death in his mind, a murder that he'd never follow through on, but certainly enjoyed imagining.
"C'mon, B—"
"A number, Dick," Bruce interrupted.
About a year after everything went down, Bruce came up with his goddamn numbers system. Dick hated it, but Bruce had latched onto the idea immediately. Dick supposed it was understandable; he'd refused to talk about everything since the very beginning, and this had been Bruce's one way to get a feel for what Dick was feeling.
To Dick, it was the stupidest fucking thing. It made him feel like he was in the doctor's office with one of those charts on the wall smiling back at him; Please rate how bad your emotional trauma is today!
"Five," Dick muttered, lowering his gaze again. "Or four. Six. I don't know, B, I just want to go to bed."
"No," Bruce immediately said, once more drawing Dick's irritation. "You're going to let Alfred check over your injuries, you're going to eat an actual meal, you're going to watch an hour of TV with Damian, you're going to take a shower, and then you can go to bed."
This was Bruce's way of taking care of him. Bruce knew that if Dick went up to his room right now, he'd spend the next two hours staring at shadows on the wall, his mind making them into demons, and then when he eventually fell asleep, he'd be plagued by nightmares. Now, while nightmares would still be likely even after Bruce's planned activities, doing those things would help to drag Dick out of his mind a bit before going to isolate in his room.
This wasn't even close to the first time Bruce had taken this tactic, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Dick had to admit that it helped.
He sighed and nodded. "Yes, Sir," he murmured. He didn't notice how Bruce's hands tightened on the armrests of his chair at the term. "Am I dismissed?"
"Yes," Bruce said on a quiet breath. "Yes, you're...dismissed."
Dick got to his feet. "Thank you, Sir. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Dick," Bruce said quietly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Grayson, please!" Damian cried out, coughing up some blood. "Stop this!"
Dick stared down at him dispassionately, his blade poised right over the young hero's heart. A few feet away, Tim and Jason were limp, dead, blood pooling around them.
"We're your family," Damian croaked, trying again. His eyes were wide and afraid, something that was rarely seen on the boy's face. "Dick, I thought we were family."
"Not anymore," a deep rasp purred, approaching the pair of them. "Now, he's my family."
Slade's arms wrapped around Dick's body and he began kissing and licking his way down Dick's neck. Dick leaned into the touch. Damian's eyes sparked with betrayal.
"Little bird," Slade murmured, "finish him."
Dick drove down the blade, and woke up screaming.
He muffled the sound quickly, having enough experience to know to muffle himself, lest he wake up the other inhabitants of the house. His hands were shaking and he stared at them, examining them intently, searching for the blood that he knew was on them.
Damian's blood. His little brother. His Robin.
This wasn't the first time he'd had that particular dream, him killing his brothers. The ones that ended with Damian looking so scared—scared of him—were always the worst. Damian got afraid more than he admitted to, but that was...different. Never so openly, and never because of Dick.
Feeling restless, Dick got out of bed and headed for the door. He didn't even realize he had a destination in mind until he ended up outside Damian's bedroom, the door slightly cracked.
He hesitated for a moment more and then slipped inside. Damian was in the center of his large bed, spread out like a starfish, lips parted in sleep. He twitched minutely but settled, not waking at Dick's presence like he used to when he was new to them all. He was comfortable, he called them his siblings.
Dick loved him. He loved them all. So goddamn much. And the thought that he could kill them, that he could put a blade to Jason or Tim or Damian and actually mean it—it was horrifying. It made him want to vomit. It made him want to call up J'onn and tell him that he'd changed his mind, that he wanted the memoires gone.
It wasn't the first time he'd wanted that. It was the coward's way out (just like those scars on his arms), but that didn't stop him from wanting. Once, about five months after everything went down, he'd woken up from nightmares so horrible that he'd wanted to scrub his mind with bleach. He'd asked J'onn to take them memories away. Practically begged, actually.
"Please, I—I can't do this anymore. I...I just want him gone."
"He is gone, Robin," J'onn had replied, calm and understanding. "His influence has been removed."
"No, you—not like that. I mean the memories. I still...please, just take them away. I don't want to live with this anymore."
It was the most Dick had said in one sitting in months. He was exhausted, and he meant every word. He didn't want to live with the horrors in his mind.
J'onn had been sympathetic, with sad eyes and sorrow making his lips purse, but instead of agreeing he'd said, "I am going to help you sleep dreamlessly tonight, Robin. And if in a few days you still feel this way, then we can discuss it with Batman."
It had been a dismissal. A gentle one, but a dismissal nonetheless.
And then a week later Dick tried to kill himself.
Alfred had been the one to find him. It was pure happenstance that the man got there in time at all; Bruce had been at work, and Alfred was supposed to be running errands. Dick was supposed to be alone in the Manor. But Alfred's car shorted out a quarter of the way to the store and so he came back, calling out for Dick's assistance. When Dick didn't answer, Alfred went searching.
He found the young teen in the bathroom tub, bleeding pretty heavily. Alfred had experience with serious wounds and worked quickly, ignoring Dick's faint protests. He didn't actually remember it, really; he'd lost too much blood at that point, and it was all a blur.
Something he did remember, clear as a bell, was when Alfred had managed to stem the bleeding and stitch up his arms, Dick grabbed his hand and said, "Please don't tell Bruce. Please. He'll think I'm weak. He'll make me stop being Robin. I can't lose that, too."
Alfred had shushed him, telling him to rest, and then Dick had fallen unconscious.
He didn't know how much later it had been when he woke up again, but it was pitch black outside instead of the bright early-afternoon sun. He'd slipped from bed, making his way silently down the staircases, and heard voices coming from Bruce's study. Curious and ignoring the faint pounding in his forearms, Dick had walked closer, making sure to keep his footsteps silent.
"...n said something was off in Dick's mind, but he couldn't give me specifics. I should've asked him to actually delve in, take a look. Maybe then we could've stopped this."
Bruce had sounded so tired, so heartbroken, and it made shame bubble in Dick's chest. His wounds throbbed in response.
"Oh, Master Bruce," Alfred had sighed back. "You cannot blame yourself for this."
"I should've pressed him harder to talk," Bruce had muttered, as if he didn't even hear what Alfred said. "He hasn't said a word to anybody about what happened. That can't be...he needs actual help, right?"
"He wouldn't accept it," Alfred had gently replied. "Which you know. Same reason you've never accepted help. Master Richard has been through the absolute unthinkable, but he will get through this."
"He just tried to kill himself!" Bruce's voice had risen, tight and upset, before hushing again. "That's not getting through this." Then a sigh. "Maybe he should take a break from Robin. I should bench him, give him some time—"
Dick hadn't even had time to feel the fear that would come with that statement before Alfred had sternly said, "You will do no such thing."
"Alfred—"
"Do you know what he said to me once I'd stitched up his wounds, Master Bruce?" Alfred had still sounded so firm, almost angry. "He begged me not to tell you what happened."
Bruce had sucked in a sharp breath, and he'd sounded like he'd been punched in the gut when he asked, "Why?"
"He said you'd think he was weak. He said you'd make him stop being Robin, and—to use his words—he couldn't 'lose that too'. The way I see it, fighting as part of that team and being at Batman's side gives him a sense of purpose that will help him heal. You will not take Robin away from him, Master Bruce. I won't allow it."
And that had been that.
Damian turned over in his sleep, drawing in a brief snore that made Dick smile. He wanted to walk forward, stroke his brother's hair back, maybe even lie down beside him. With Tim and Jason, he could do that; they'd stir but stay asleep, and in the morning Jason would tease and Tim would roll his eyes but they'd still both be happy to have him there.
But Damian was far more sensitive, and if Dick touched him, the boy would wake up. He didn't want that, because the boy would surely see something was wrong and then press until he had answers. Dick didn't want that; he just wanted to cuddle with his brother.
So, he went to Jason's room.
The younger boy shifted as Dick laid down next to him, a furrow appearing between his brows before settling again, and Dick relaxed beside him.
When he woke up the next morning, Jason was snoring loudly and had thrown an arm across Dick during the night, faintly gripping at Dick's t-shirt. It made Dick smile and he settled back in, falling back asleep.
The next time he woke up, Jason was flicking him in the face.
A month passed, then another. Things went back to normal. Incidents like the one with Sportsmaster were few and far in between, and Dick pushed it from his mind just like he always did. Nightmares came and went, as they always did, and Dick even got himself to reach out to Wally.
That weekend, Nightwing, Flash, and Artemis teamed up, and it left Dick feeling lighter than he had in a while.
Every other Monday, Dick went to an AA meeting.
Now, he wasn't actually an alcoholic. In fact, he tried to stay as far away from booze and drugs as he could, figuring that with his history it would probably be very easy for him to abuse.
No, Dick went to these meetings because he liked hearing people who'd been through hell talk about how far they'd come, or how far they still had to go, or how goddamn hard they were trying. He sat in the back and never spoke, but he liked being there. It was his way of helping himself. He'd been going to AA meetings for five years.
Jason went with him sometimes. The first time it happened, his little brother had simply followed him, and given Dick a serious heart attack when he suddenly appeared. Jason had raised an incredulous, teasing eyebrow, but in the face of Dick's clear discomfort, he hadn't actually said anything.
Dick didn't really know whether or not Jason thought he was actually an alcoholic, but the younger boy never asked or pressed, just showed up sometimes and sat down next to Dick.
Cassandra accompanied him once, too. There were also a few occasions where Tim was already there, waiting for Dick in the back, donuts and coffee ready.
His siblings always had his back, even when they had no idea what they were supporting. And thankfully, they let him go alone plenty of times, too, because usually that's what he needed, and they always seemed to know.
This time, Dick was alone. There were about twenty people there, and three quarters of them Dick recognized. Currently up at the podium was a woman named Stella who was celebrating ten years sober. Dick barely knew her, but he felt unbelievably proud, and he clapped and cheered with everyone else.
A few people after Stella, a man stepped up. Dick didn't know him, but people came in and out of these groups so that wasn't too unusual. He was in maybe his late twenties with tanned skin, deep brown eyes, and a scar across his chin. He introduced himself in the usual way as Andrew, an alcoholic.
"So I'm here today because tomorrow is the fifth anniversary of me getting invalided back from Afghanistan," Andrew said with a sigh. "This week is hard for me every year, and so I try to attend as many meetings as I can. Drinking seems so goddamn easy..."
He spoke a bit longer, and Dick felt his heart going out to him, just like he always did for all these people. He could practically see the weight Andrew carried on his shoulders, the same look in his eyes that Dick saw in the mirror on his bad days. So maybe it was that sense of familiarity that made Dick approach the elder man after the meeting.
"Hi," Dick said with a hesitant smile, "I'm Dick." He offered his hand.
Andrew offered him a smile in return, shaking his hand. "Hi. Andrew. Though you probably knew that." He laughed a little awkwardly, his eyes flitting away from Dick, an endearing blush dusting his cheeks. "It's nice to meet you."
The way he said it was embarrassed but heartfelt, and the grin he sent Dick's way was gorgeous, and now Dick was feeling a little panicked because he'd actually initiated this conversation but he suddenly felt hopelessly out of his depth and he just wanted to go home, maybe never come to this group again—
Dick opened his mouth to excuse himself, his body already curving slightly away, when Andrew suddenly said, "Hey, would you want to get a bite with me, maybe? Across the street there's a great little café. Really good coffee. You look like you could use an ear, and I sure as hell could."
Dick hesitated for a moment; he'd never met this man before, and it was really not like him to just go out to dinner with strangers. He had far too much experience with things going horribly wrong to put his trust in newbies. He wanted to say no.
But, on the other hand, he never did anything like this! He never met a nice guy or girl and just went out with them. He could see himself in Andrew, too. Not just in the fact that they'd both probably seen enough danger to last a lifetime; there was a solidness in his shoulders and in his eyes that Dick usually only saw in people in his line of work, and only in the ones like Bruce.
The ones like Dick.
So maybe, just this once, Dick could push past all the shit in his mind and just go on a date, or whatever this was.
"Y'know," Dick said, smiling wryly, "it's like ten at night—not exactly prime coffee time."
Andrew laughed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah, maybe. Want to get some anyway?"
"I...yeah. Yeah, I do."
They went across the street to the café Andrew had mentioned. It was a cute little place and mostly empty considering the time of day, and they sat down at a small table by the window.
And then they just...talked.
It was nice. They didn't even discuss anything heavy or important. Andrew told him about the stupid shit his siblings had done when they were kids, and Dick then returned stories about his own brothers. Dick talked about his favorite books, and Andrew introduced him to a few cool movies he should check out. It was nice.
For one of the rare times in his life, Dick was doing something purely normal. And it was actually going well.
Which meant everything had to go so, so wrong.
They'd been there for maybe an hour when Dick started to feel odd. Drowsy, confused, his body tingling. He stared down at the table, blinking heavily, trying to clear his head. He tried to count his symptoms and identify a cause as Bruce taught him, but everything was moving so...slowly. He couldn't think. And he was steadily losing the ability to move.
He felt someone pull him to his feet and he stumbled along beside them, his feet sliding uncoordinated and uncooperative. He sucked in the cold bursts of air that hit him as they stepped outside, but just as soon he was in a car. The person with him held him against him, Dick's few jerky attempts to pull away easily controlled, and before he knew it, they were leaving again.
Then stairs, and an elevator, and a bed, and his clothes were being removed. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to get his body to move, unable to pull away as his limbs were moved and manipulated.
"Just relax," someone said. A face swam into his vision but he couldn't recognize it, couldn't identify anything. "I'm not going to touch you; my job was just to get you here."
Footsteps away from him, and then nothing for a long while. Dick floated in the nothingness, hating his body for not doing what he wanted it to, hating his mind for being so foggy, hating—
"Hello, little bird."
The voice was like ice water down Dick's spine and in his current state he couldn't stop the small whimper that crawled its way out of his throat. A hand cupped the side of his neck and he tried to inch away from it, that kind of touch having far too many connotations.
"It's good to see you again."
He wanted to pull away, to run, but he couldn't move. He had to just lie there as the nightmare that had haunted him for years crawled on top of him, large hands running intimately over the entirety of his body.
"Don't worry," the man murmured. "I won't go too far, won't do anything...invasive. I'd simply be a fool to let an opportunity like this pass by, when I have you all to myself." A deep chuckle. "I might be here for business, but who says you can't mix it with pleasure?"
Hot breath puffed against his neck and cheeks and lips. Familiar words were cooed endlessly in his ears. Hands roamed. Everything was blurry. Everything went black.
After a while, he felt himself being moved, clothing being pulled back over his body. There were stairs, and then a car ride, and more stairs, and then—
"Sleep tight, little bird. I'll see you very soon."
When Dick woke up, he was in bed in his Blüdhaven apartment.
He was in underwear and the t-shirt he always wore to bed. He had the sheet over him but not the blanket. He phone was plugged in and charging on the nightstand. By all accounts, it was exactly the way he woke up every day in the spring months.
But he felt...off. He had a bunch of half-remembered dreams in his head, ones that left him feeling like he needed a million hot showers, left him feeling nauseous and shaky and almost scared.
Hello, little bird.
"Fuck," Dick muttered, and managed to get to the bathroom before he vomited.
There was no way it had been real, right? He had dreams all the time of Slade coming back; they were never real. And just because Dick couldn't remember what actually happened the night before didn't mean anything. There were many reasons for a foggy memory. It didn't mean that the demon of his nightmares had actually appeared.
"Think," Dick whispered to himself, head hanging over the toilet. "C'mon, Grayson; what happened last night?"
There was...he'd gone to the AA meeting, his brilliant idea for an alternative to therapy. And then he'd...talked to someone? Yeah, he'd approached someone, started a conversation. Male. A scar on his face, maybe?
It was all so...fuzzy.
It's good to see you again.
He vomited again, nothing more than bile this time.
"Snap out of it," Dick told himself when it ended, and then pushed himself to his feet. He filled a glass of water from the bathroom tap and downed it.
There was something he needed to do for his own peace of mind, but he was afraid of what he'd find, so he was probably pushing it off a little. He brushed his teeth. He straightened up the living room. He cleaned the kitchen counter.
"Stop being a coward," Dick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It was all just a weird dream. It's fine. You're...you're fine."
He headed back into his bedroom and stripped quickly, tossing his clothes onto his bed. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped in front of his full-length mirror and checked his body for any marks.
Ten minutes later he slumped in relief; the only bumps and bruises were the ones he'd already had before last night. Nothing new. He shook his head at himself, rolling his eyes for being so paranoid. He had fucked up dreams all the time but they were never real.
I'll see you very soon.
Dick was calling before he was completely aware of it, and then he cursed as it started to ring. If he hung up now, the person would just call him back. No, he needed to offer some other reason for having called. Then he'd be left alone.
"Dick?"
"Hi, Bruce," Dick greeted, keeping the anxiety out of his voice. "Just wanted to ask what time the gala starts tomorrow? I've got some stuff to do beforehand and I want to make sure I'm not late."
There was a long silence, one that made Dick shift awkwardly, and then Bruce asked, "What happened?"
Shit. Bruce was too good at what he did. "Nothing, B. My handwriting's just awful, and I can't tell if I wrote down that it started at five or six. "
Another silence, and then Bruce said, "It starts at six."
"Thanks—"
"Jason and Tim are going to stop by your place today, by the way."
Dick blinked. "I—what?"
"Might stay the night, too."
"Wha—why would they do that?"
"Jason has some kind of business in Bludhaven," Bruce told him. His tone was so blasé. "And Tim just needs to get out of the house."
"Jay hates Bludhaven," Dick said dubiously. "And Tim can get out of the house without going to another city."
Bruce hummed. "Good point. You can ask them about it when they get there, then."
"Bruce—"
"I'll see you tomorrow, Dick."
Dial tone.
"Fuck," Dick said, blinking at the wall.
Jason groaned and rolled out of bed, stumbling towards the door. He didn't know who was pounding on it at god-o'clock in the morning, but they were about to get a gun to the head.
He swung the door open and came face-to-face with Tim, who looked very unimpressed with the firearm Jason was pointing at him.
"Why are you here, Replacement?" Jason asked. "It's too fucking early for this shit."
Tim arched an eyebrow. "It's two in the afternoon, Jason."
Jason paused; huh. He'd really thought it was earlier. Whatever, he'd had a fucking night.
Grumbling under his breath, Jason stepped away from the door, waving his little brother in. "Why are you here?"
"Bruce sent me," Tim began. "We need to—"
"I'm gonna stop you right there," Jason said, chuckling. He relocked the door and put down the gun before throwing himself down onto his couch, stretching out. "I had a busy night, and don't feel like doing anything for him right now. I'm going to that stupid fucking party tomorrow, so—"
"It's about Dick," Tim said firmly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Jason noticed the little furrow between the younger boy's eyebrows, the tightness of his jaw.
Jason sat up immediately. "What happened?"
Tim shook his head. "I don't know. But Bruce doesn't talk about feelings or anything, and yet he sent me a text message about half an hour ago saying the two of us need to go visit Dick. I asked why, and he said that you have some business in Bludhaven, and I needed to get out of the house."
Jason stared. "I don't have business in Bludhaven," he said dumbly. "I hate Bludhaven."
Tim gave him an irritated look. "I fucking know, Jason, and I was already out of the house when he sent me the text. He's giving us covers for being in Bludhaven, which means something's fucking wrong with our brother, so go get dressed."
His little brothers arrived just before four.
By that point, Dick had taken a shower, eaten something, and put on clean clothes. Then, he settled himself in front of the TV to try and fucking relax.
Dick didn't know why he was so anxious about Jason and Tim coming over. He was looking forward to it, of course, because he got more comfort from family than anything else, but he really didn't want them to ask him any questions. They knew nothing about his past. He really wanted it to stay that way.
The knock came, and he didn't even have time to stand up before the door was opening, his brothers walking in. Jason was holding a box of pizza, and Tim had a bag with what looked like bottles of soda.
"We come bearing gifts!" Jason announced, kicking the door shut behind them. They both headed for the kitchen, pulling out plates and cups.
Dick shook his head incredulously and got to his feet. "Y'know guys, I have a door for a reason."
"We knocked," Jason said innocently. Beside him, Tim cracked a smile.
"Why are you here?" Dick asked, walking closer. He knew what Bruce had told him, but he knew that that was false, too. He wanted to see what his brothers said.
Tim shrugged a shoulder. "Damian was being a pain—I just wanted to get out for a bit."
"Yeah," Jason snorted, pouring some soda, "so he decided to bug me instead while I was busy. Figured since we were in Bludhaven anyway, we might as well stop by."
Well, no one could say his brothers were bad liars.
"You guys are so full of shit," Dick accused, shaking his head, but he was smiling. "Plain pizza?"
Jason rolled his eyes. "Yes, you priss, half the pizza is plain. Now come fucking eat something, and we can pick some shit movie to watch."
Dick blinked rapidly against the tears that were stinging his eyes. They must've dropped everything to come over. Bruce had told them something was up and they drove the forty minutes to visit, even brought pizza and soda. They had his back, always.
Seven years ago, when Jason had first become Robin, Dick had been so uncomfortable. Robin was the nickname his mother had given him, and seeing someone else using it had been...Well, those first couple months had been hard. But he'd come to adore that kid, becoming family. Grieving Jason had almost broken Dick all over again, and Tim must've thought him so empty when they first met.
But then Jason came back, and so he had two brothers. Then Stephanie and Cassandra and Damian—they were his family, and they had helped him keep sane more than they could even realize. With them he never felt alone, and whenever he was feeling like complete shit, one of them was always there for him.
It wasn't like life was easy, but his family certainly made it a hell of a lot better.
The pair of them did end up staying the night, and went out on patrol with Dick. The three of them had worked together countless times before, but Bludhaven was a completely separate beast from Gotham, and it was really funny watching his brothers' incredulous reactions to the things they came across.
It was, overall, a routine night. His fractured dreams from the night before were already slipping from his mind, covered by movies with his brothers and fighting by their side. Dick might've been exasperated with Bruce for pulling this, but he couldn't claim to not be grateful. He was feeling much better.
Which meant that everything had to go so, so wrong.
The men came out of nowhere, surrounding them. They fell into the familiar rhythm of fighting together, not having any time to question who these people were or what they wanted. Every time one went down it was like another took their place, an endless stream of faceless men.
They were being separated, too, he noticed after a little while. The men were slowly getting Dick, Jason, and Tim further and further apart, which amped up his anxiety. He wanted to be able to have his brothers' backs. He wanted them to have his.
When Jason cried out, Dick's concentration split for a moment, long enough to see the younger boy go down, an electric baton slammed against his side.
"Red Hood!" he yelled, eyes wide, but couldn't go to his brother, having his own opponents to face. He kept jerking around to try to keep Jason in his line of sight, and he saw the boy's hands being tied behind his back, his feet secured as well. Jason started to struggle against them and Dick breathed a sigh of relief that he was at least conscious again, if not free.
One of the people Dick was fighting got in a good punch to his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over and tried to back up, to get some space, but there were so many of them. Hands grabbed onto him and held him still for just long enough, and then an electric baton was jabbing him, sending high-powers volts of electricity scorching through his body.
A strangled sound forced its way out of his mouth as his jaw snapped shut, and then he collapsed to the ground, body twitching.
He must've blacked out for a second, because when he came to, he felt them tightening the ropes that were now binding his hands behind his back. He yanked against them and kicked out, connecting with flesh, but they simply jammed him with the baton again.
Nausea rolled through his stomach and he fought against the urge to vomit. Faintly, he became aware of the fact that he was being moved, and when he had enough control over his body to fight back, it was useless. They had his hands and feet bound; he had no leverage for escape.
Dick grunted as they dropped him, manhandling him so that he was on his knees. He tried to jerk away from them, but two of the men grabbed ahold of his shoulders, keeping him in place.
To his right, about thirty feet away, Jason and Tim were similarly thrown to the ground. Dick let out a little upset sound at seeing them, Tim with a giant bruise forming on his cheek, Jason bleeding from a cut on his forehead.
They looked as exhausted—and as pissed—as he felt.
Dick took a look around, trying to figure out where they'd been brought. It seemed like a warehouse, very open and empty, with tall beams holding the vaulted ceiling and a cement floor beneath them.
Jason made an attempt to kick back at the people holding him still, but couldn't get any force behind it without risking crashing face-first onto the cement. He received a punch to the gut as punishment, and it sent him coughing.
"Get your hands off of him!" Dick yelled, pulling against the people holding him, straining towards his brothers.
"Calm down, little bird. Your brothers will be fine."
The voice was like ice water down his spine. He froze. His eyes went wide. His breathing stopped.
No. This...this couldn't be happening. There was no way he was there, holding him and his brothers captive. There was no way that after ten years he was popping up in Bludhaven, on one random fucking patrol night.
Slade Wilson walked into his line of sight, decked out in full Deathstroke armor, weapons strapped all over his body. He headed straight towards Dick, steps unhurried, like he was savoring the way Dick's anxiety was growing and growing with every slow motion.
Oh, he definitely was, the sadistic bastard.
"Get the fuck away from me," Dick snarled as Slade got closer. But he couldn't hide the way he was instinctively pushing back against the men holding him, trying to get further away.
Slade chuckled, and Dick shuddered at the sound. The mercenary crouched down directly in front of Dick and watched him for a moment. Then he reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing the face of Dick's nightmares.
The man, of fucking course, was smirking, his blue eye alight.
"You fought well," Slade complimented, "as I knew you would. I hired a lot of these thugs to ensure that they'd take you down; anything less would've been child's play for you, hmm?"
Dick hated—hated—that the praise felt good. He had to remind himself that it was just a side effect, just fucking PTSD, and it didn't mean shit.
"I don't need your approval," he sneered.
The look Slade gave him was pure condescension. "Oh, we both know that's not quite true."
The mercenary removed his gloves and then reached out, his hand going up to cup the side of Dick's neck. The hero jerked back, straining to get away. He didn't want Slade's hands on his body. He didn't want this horrifying man anywhere near him, let alone—
"Get away from him!" Tim yelled furiously.
"Gag them," Slade ordered offhandedly, not taking his eyes off of Dick's face, and his hand was burning when it made contact.
Dick flinched and a strangled sound climbed its way out of his throat. "Stop," he said, voice tight. "Leave me alone."
Slade shook his head, amusement tilting his lips, and lightly stroked Dick's skin. "I've missed you, little bird. It's been far too long; last night certainly wasn't as much of a reunion as I've wanted."
No. Dick couldn't breathe. That hadn't been real, it had been a dream. Not real, it couldn't've been!
Seeing something in Dick's expression, Slade laughed, loud and surprised. "Oh, did you think it was all a dream? One more awful nightmare to haunt your days? Is that why Thing 1 and Thing 2 are here?" He glanced briefly in the direction of Jason and Tim, and smirked. "It's cute, having them come over to comfort you while your mind was full of me."
"Why are you doing this?" Dick demanded.
Slade laughed again, smiling ruefully. "Does that take you back, little bird? You feeling helpless and afraid, asking me why?"
The awful thing was that yes, it did. Every time Slade had brought him back to himself, that was always the question he asked. Desperate and angry and filled with shame—he just wanted to know why him.
He never really got a straight answer.
"What is the point of this?" Dick asked. His voice hitched on the last word as Slade's hand traveled lower, stroking down his neck and chest and stomach and then resting high up on his thigh. The mercenary smirked at the way he tensed under the touch.
"The point, little bird?"
"Yes," Dick said firmly, and then flinched as Slade squeezed gently. He pushed past the feeling. "You lost, remember? 'Cause I recall standing over you with the rest of the Justice League. You lost! So is this some kind of temper tantrum? Get the fuck away from me, man."
Slade grinned at him, looking severely amused. "My, my; look at you! Boy Wonder, all grown up, actually looking me in the eye and telling me to get fucked. I'm impressed by you. Though over all, you haven't been faring very well, have you?"
Dick's brow furrowed briefly before he forced it smooth. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Slade rose an eyebrow. "All your little ticks, of course." The blood drained from Dick's face. "Or did you really think I wouldn't know about them?"
"How...?" Dick couldn't stop himself from numbly asking.
The mercenary hummed, low in his throat. "I've kept a very close eye on you," he murmured. "So I know all about the things you can't stop yourself from doing, all the things that ten years of missing me have done to you."
"Missing you?" Dick hissed, so filled with rage that he actually saw red. "You think that for one goddamn second I missed you? Get the hell away from me, before the League comes down to kick your ass again."
Slade shook his head patronizingly. "No, I don't think the League is going to show up in time, little bird. I timed this perfectly, you see, and all the big players are currently occupied, even if one of them knew that something was wrong here."
Dick went still. "In time?" he echoed, voice barely more than a whisper. "What do you mean in time?"
But Slade didn't say anything in response. His hand slid back up Dick's body, landing in its original spot cupping his neck. His other hand went up and peeled off Dick's domino mask, tossing it to the ground.
The hero didn't even have time to feel the loss of it before that hand moved to stroke through Dick's hair. Normally, Dick loved that motion, drew comfort from it. Now, it made him want to vomit.
"It's alright, little bird," Slade cooed softly. "I'm not mad at you. I understand why you did what you did."
Dick looked at him warily, unease growing in him. "What are you doing?"
"It's okay, it's okay. Time to come out, little bird. I'm not angry, in fact I'm so proud of you. You've done so well, been so strong. It's alright, little bird."
Dick was feeling...odd. "Stop," he snapped. "Whatever this is, I don't care! Shut the hell up."
Slade's grip on the side of his neck tightened, and Dick made a small sound of displeasure. That had always been what Slade used to ground him, and for ten years Dick had hated people touching his neck. He didn't want this, whatever was happening. He wanted to leave, he wanted—
"It's okay," Slade repeated. "I'm so proud of you, little bird—"
"Stop calling me that!" Dick yelled, but his voice trembled. "Don't—"
Slade shushed him. "Don't worry, little bird, I'm not angry. You had to let them do it, I understand. You betrayed me, but it can all be forgiven."
Okay, Dick was feeling very odd. This was bad. What was this? What was he doing?
"You've been so lost without me, haven't you, little bird? So afraid, separated from everyone. No one understands you, little bird, not like I do. You never let anyone in, because you always knew that they would never be able to match me."
"Stop," Dick croaked. His head was swimming. "That's not what...get off of me!" He tried, once again, to pull away, but he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
"I've missed you," Slade continued, completely ignoring all of Dick's comments. His grip remained tight on Dick's neck, his other hand kept stroking through his hair and brushing his cheek. "You've missed me too, little bird. All is forgiven, you just have to listen to me. It's alright. Little bird, it's time to come home. I'm your home, little bird. You know the truth. You belong at my side."
He couldn't...he...
"Stop this," Dick whispered. "I don't understand—J'onn got you out, I...stop."
"The Martian couldn't break our bond, little bird," Slade chuckled, shaking his head. "I spent months working on your mind, Dick, and it was perfect. It was masterfully done. One little walk through your mind wasn't going to get rid of me." He grimaced briefly. "I'll admit he certainly did a good job, but there was no way he could completely get rid of me, hmm?"
Dick blinked rapidly, horror bubbling in his chest. No. "No, you're wrong, it's been ten years, he—"
"I've got you, little bird," Slade cooed. He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. "It's okay, just let go. You don't have to be in pain anymore, little bird."
Dick keened, the sound going out of him without his permission. There was a flash of triumph in Slade's eye, but it was gone so quickly that Dick thought he must've imagined it.
"I know, I know," Slade said sympathetically. "It's been so awful, hasn't it, little bird? You've struggled so much these last ten years, holding your mind together with duct tape and superglue. Let me help you, little bird, you know you want to. I can make this all better. I can make this all go away, little bird, you just have to surrender."
"Stop," Dick managed to get out, but everything felt so distant, so unimportant. Why was he fighting? He...needed to. Yes. He couldn't...stop. Giving up would be bad. Surrendering would be bad. He had to stay away from the fuzziness, from the peaceful, dark cloud that wanted to cover him.
"It's okay," Slade told him, "little bird, you don't have to be afraid. I can make this all better. You just have to obey me. Obey me, little bird, and this will all be better."
Obey. Obey? He needed to...no, why would he do that? Wait, why wouldn't he? It looked so peaceful, sounded so good. Slade always took care of him, right? He praised him and gave him missions and he always did his best, right? But—no. This was...wrong. Right? Was it right? Or was he right that it was wrong?
Fuck, his head was swimming.
Dick whimpered. "Please—"
"Just let go, little bird. You'll be happy with me, just like before. It'll all be alright."
A sob forced its way out of Dick's chest. He shook his head. From somewhere to his right, he heard muffled shouting.
"You're doing so well, little bird," Slade said. "You're such a good boy. I know how confused you must be, how much this must hurt—but you're so strong, little bird, and I have faith in you. You can do this. You just have to take a deep breath and do as you're told. Obey me, Dick. Follow my orders. And everything will be okay."
Dick made an unintelligible sound, something that could've been a word or could've been a groan.
He didn't notice the way he was now leaning into the hold on his neck.
Slade watched him carefully for a long moment, gaze scanning his expression and body language. Then he said— "Lights out, little bird."
Dick had never felt as disoriented as he did in that moment. It was like the universe was turning upside down, but the ground under his feet was attempting to stay still. There was a loud rushing in his ears and his mouth was suddenly very dry. His stomach rolled.
"Hng," Dick tried. "Nng." He was getting hot and cold flashes, leaving him feeling feverish and off-balance. This was so bad. What was happening to him?
Slade shushed him again. "It's alright, little bird. You're so strong, I know. But you need to obey me. Lights out, little bird. Be good for me."
He...wanted to be good. Yes, he was supposed to be good. Why wasn't he being good? Why would he fight? But no, no, he couldn't let this happen, it was...bad. He...shouldn't obey. He needed to...to get someone's help. Whose help? Why would he want anyone else's help? Slade was right there.
"Lights out, little bird."
Dick cried out, shaking his head. Slade kissed his forehead.
"You're so strong," he murmured. "So powerful. But it's time to surrender, little bird. It's time to come home."
"Please," Dick whispered, and now he wasn't so sure whether he was begging for this to stop or begging for Slade to take him home.
"You've been so lost without me, little bird. So broken. I can make you whole. You'll be whole with me, little bird. So obey."
"Obey," Dick slurred. "I..."
"Yes," Slade said firmly. "Yes, little bird, obey me. Surrender to who you're supposed to be. Do as you're ordered. Little bird, lights out."
"Yes, Sir," Dick whispered, and then everything faded to black.