Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick fell into greedy, desperate sleep huddled in the dubious shelter of a damaged warehouse.

He floated slowly towards wakefulness, just aware enough to scold himself for not snapping awake, the way he knew he should. He drifted in that half-aware space for a long time, never quite toppling over into true consciousness, just aware that he ought to.

But he was so comfortable. He was warm, and his skin felt clean and soft, and there was just a hint of morning light tempting his eyes open. Each of these sensations was precious, a tiny thing not to be squandered. He even yawned as finally woke, and it was like a rubber band pulling until it snapped. Dick was moving in a heartbeat, throwing himself feet-first out of bed, already braced to attack.

Except instead of rolling over directly onto cracked linoleum flooring, Dick’s feet hit air, and he tumbled over the side of a bed. Only by sheer luck and innate balance did he manage to catch himself on low-pile carpet, and his body was already moving to tuck himself against the corner for cover before his brain caught up.

Dick didn’t know where he was. His heart was thundering in his chest. This wasn’t the threadbare nest he’d shared with his husband for the past month. Individually, the pieces of his surroundings all made sense - a tangled bed, a pair of cheap matched nightstands, a single window in a plaster wall with patched-over cracks, an alarm clock blinking innocuously down at him - but together, they were a mystery.

When was the last time he’d seen a bed?

The sun was shining through the single curtained window, and it was much too bright. Dick already knew he was alone in the room, since he couldn’t hear breathing, but he peeked his head up over the mattress just in case. Caution never hurt, and lack of it often killed.

There were two doors in the room that Dick could see, set on perpendicular walls in the same corner. One was cracked open, and the other closed. He couldn’t see a lock on either, but that didn’t mean much. Dick rose into a crouch and crept over to the window, back to the wall. He felt heavy, more sluggish than he remembered, and his pulse still hadn’t evened out, but it would have to wait. As long as he was functioning well enough to figure out what the hell was going on, everything else could take a back seat.

When no one appeared through either door to kill him or torture him or whatever they were planning to do, Dick slid a hand under the curtain and lifted it just enough to see outside.

For a moment, Dick’s brain stalled out. The only thing outside the window was a cramped alleyway, and a rickety fire escape to match. From this angle, he could see a sliver of street and the preoccupied pedestrians who hurried past on it. When he looked up, he could see a hint of familiar skyline. Dick stared, open-mouthed, trying to fit the pieces together in a configuration he knew wasn’t going to work.

Dick knew this alley. The fire escape, the dumpster below, the tower rising across the street - he couldn’t place them, because they weren’t clues. They were ambient features, so familiar that they blended into the background. The sun, even smog-filtered as it was, still glinted stubbornly off the window glass.

Everything clicked together all at once - the window, the room, all of it. Dick’s hand fell limply to his side as he stared in bafflement at his Bludhaven apartment.

This was an exact replica, down to the water-stain on one corner of the ceiling and the scattered protein bar wrappers on the right-hand nightstand. Dick had brought that alarm clock with him from the manor, because it had a gradual volume-increase setting that made hard mornings easier.

Now that he was looking, Dick could even identify some of the clothes piled together in a vague acknowledgment of where the hamper ought to be. There was a book cracked open on the dresser that Dick had never finished. The phone he’d used in the brief period between getting his own apartment and Blockbuster blowing up the building was charging on one corner of the mattress.

Dick clenched his fists to keep still. He had to think, had to figure out what the fuck was going on here. He couldn’t afford to throw himself onto the spring-snapped mattress and starfish in the luxury of a real bed, no matter how tempting. He had to figure this out, had to get back to where Damian and Slade were likely searching for him. They were all Dick had left anymore, the one thing left worth living for, and Dick would be damned if something happened to them while they were out trying to find him.

As if the reminder shifted Dick into another gear, he immediately started running through options while he automatically started casing the apartment.

Hallucinogenic drugs? Possible, but unlikely. The world around him was too meticulous, too stable.

Some sort of magical illusion? Slightly more likely. It would explain the level of personal detail. It had been a long time since Dick had dealt with magic, but he was pretty sure he remembered the trick of it.

Dick sank down onto the corner of the bed, groaning in pleasure at the rumpled give of it. God he’d missed beds. He sat cross-legged and closed his eyes, not shutting out the sensations of this familiar-strange room, but embracing them. The kick-hum of the ancient heater buzzed away in his ears. The stale scent of unwashed clothes overwhelmed any other smell. The lazily circulating air against his skin was kept off by a soft, clean t-shirt and sleep shorts. Dick let himself sink into it, let the relief of being comfortable rise up and buoy him. He drifted on the surface of his awareness, testing the current, finding the rhythm of his own body.

Then he dived, slipping silently through the waters of his own mind, deeper and dark. It was no easy thing, to know your own self, to see your perceptions and biases well enough to sort you out from everything else. But Dick had never had the luxury of illusions.

His despair and relief and and exhaustion were raw and overwhelming, with no protection, no distance to keep him from his self. Dick shuddered through deep sobs and clenched hands and dived deeper.

It felt like an eternity, in the way that timeless things always do, before Dick was able to eliminate the possibility that his mind was being tampered with. He surfaced sore and drenched with sweat, hovering dangerously close to drop.

Dick caught it just in time. His thoughts were turning syrupy-slow, the fine tremors increasing. His breath was speeding up to match his traitorous heart, and if he could look in a mirror, he knew he’d see his pupils dilating. He hadn’t dropped in almost a decade - since he and Slade had settled into their relationship. But he was dropping now, and he had a very narrow window to do something before he hyperventilated himself into unconsciousness.

Without Slade there, his options were limited. If he could get somewhere safe, at least he could ride out the drop, but there was no telling how long it would take, and it was potentially dangerous. Alternatively, if he took a big enough hit, inflicted enough pain in a single moment, sometimes that would override the drop just through sheer adrenaline. Neither choice was ideal when he still didn’t know where he was or why. His gaze flicked over to the window, then back to the door, then landed on the side table, where a small bottle sat, half-open.

He probably should’ve checked the label first, but Dick was too far gone for that. He dropped the phone and nearly fumbled the bottle, shaking out one tiny pink pill. He tossed it back and swallowed it dry, and then tucked himself in between the narrow spot between the bed and the wall to ride it out.

Stop-Drop was horrid, and Dick had forgotten how much he hated it. He tumbled further into confused anxiety, convinced that he’d missed the chance to stop the drop before it began. He didn’t know how many minutes had passed before he felt a sudden flush wash over him, and then he was sweating. Dick grimaced. His joints ached, and his head was pounding. He had thought from time to time that perhaps his memory of the side–effects had been exaggerated over many years of shortage.

No, Stop-Drop was just as awful as he remembered.

Dick had to force himself to his feet, but he consoled himself with the fact that he could. Even the mood swings and the prickly feeling and the bone-deep aches were a small price to pay in comparison to near-catatonia for god-knew how long. Dick could wash off the worst of the initial sweat in cold water, and then he’d even be able to pass for fine.

Dick half-expected to open the bathroom door and find a void behind it, or a hell-dimension, or something of that sort. Instead, it was exactly as he remembered it, dingy green tile and all. Dick pulled a face at how gross it looked, now that he was out of his bachelor-pad era. At least he didn’t need hot water. He ignored everything except a reasonably clean towel as he scrubbed himself off under the trickle of water from the showerhead. He was so relieved to get the feeling of the Stop-Drop off his skin that he was rinsing off by the time he noticed anything odd.

Dick knew that he’d lost weight in the past years. It wasn’t ideal, but food was scarce, and Damian was still growing. So Dick had slowly become little beyond lean muscle and ropy scar tissue, and he’d adapted to it. He didn’t have the stamina of his youth, but he was wily, and determined, and much more deadly, so it balanced out.

Except that he wasn’t any more.

Dick was gently swiping the washcloth over his bad shoulder when he realized that the skin under his fingers was smooth. He craned his neck to look, reaching for the mess of scar tissue that spread over half his back.

There was nothing there. And now that Dick had noticed it, he realized that his shoulder didn’t even ache, beyond the general pain of the Stop-Drop. He froze with freezing water dripping from his hair, and numbly started to tally all of the ways his body wasn’t what he expected.
His top-surgery scars were comfortingly familiar, but that was pretty much the only thing. Not only was Dick missing a myriad of injuries - he had all of his toes, for one thing - there were more subtle, stranger differences. His skin was smoother, not just on his hands, but also on his arms, and legs, and chest. His arms and legs were just a little shorter than he expected. His shoulders weren’t quite as broad as he remembered, though he’d never been a particularly large-framed man.

And he was softer. The shape of his stomach and hips, the bones of his knees and elbows and ribs, everything was just a little round. There was give under the skin when he poked his finger into one hip that meant fat under the skin. Dick had vague memories of a time when that would have panicked him, but it wasn’t panic that made his breath catch.

It was relief. Dick had to slap his hand over his mouth to keep the sound in, to fight back the tears that threatened to overflow. He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t afford to appreciate this suddenly healthy body, because when the illusion shattered, he would be back to scrambling for every meal. The reminder that he still needed to find a way to break free was the lifeline that brought Dick back to himself. He remembered to set his breaths until his body was still again, and shut off the water. He toweled himself off, and then examined himself clinically in the mirror.

He saw a reflection that was so young it was nearly painful. Had he ever really looked like such a baby? Is this what Bruce had seen, when he looked at Dick and insisted that every mission was too dangerous? Dick felt a pang of sympathy for him. He wouldn’t want a kid this young fighting the Joker either.

God, was this what Slade had seen? Dick teased his husband about rubbing the cradle fairly often, but he resolved to double the frequency. Because he looked like a child, and that had never once given Slade a moment’s pause, nevermind the fact that Dick was technically an adult. Even Damian carried more years on his shoulders than this bright-eyed reflection.

Dick let out his breath in a noisy breath. Whatever was happening, it was real, and he was going to have to deal with it as a twenty-year-old. As inconvenient as it was, he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed.

***

Dick’s first order of business was food. The rest of the apartment, whatever it might be, was pretty much precisely how he’d left it, which meant that the fridge and cupboards were sparsely stocked. This might be a temporary illusion, but he was damned well going to appreciate real food while he had it. There was a time that leftover pizza and canned soup wouldn’t have qualified as food, but now? Now Dick ate it happily, and savored every bite. His body still ached from the Stop-Drop, and his stomach protested, but he ignored it. Stop-Drop made everything feel horrific, but he still needed to eat. He even washed the dishes when he was done, just for the feeling of hot water running over his hands. Dick considered his approach as he dried and replaced the dishes.

Wherever he was, whatever had happened, it was real - for a given value of reality. He’d encountered other dimensions before, realities that ran parallel to his own, but that had been more Wally’s thing than Dick’s. Dick had seen how haunted Wally got, sometimes between what for him was one blink and the next. Once Dick had experienced a rift in space-time himself, he’d understood. What was just moments for Dick was sometimes a whole lifetime for Wally.

God, Dick really hoped he wasn’t in another reality.

Wally had told Dick once, in a cracked and halting voice, that the worst dimensions were the ones where people were still alive. Where his loved ones had survived, and Wally had to face the ache of losing them all over again.

Dick swallowed hard as he realized for the first time what he was about to do. His allies had always been his greatest asset, and he couldn’t afford to ignore that. But could he bear it? What would he do, if he saw his family again, saw them and heard them and hugged them right against his chest, and had to leave them behind again?

Dick realized he was crying again, still shaky from the Stop-Drop. The urge to cut it off, the instinct that this was dangerous, loomed huge in his mind. But ultimately, the ratty couch was softer than his fear was potent. The sun was setting, and Dick was warm and full and tired. So for the first time in a long time, he simply let himself cry.

***

It was full dark before the tears petered out. Dick scrubbed his face with his hands, stretched his weirdly-flexible spine, and set to work.

Whatever happened, someone had done it on purpose. If he was, in fact, in an alternate dimension or timeline, the two major suspects were theoretical science or big magic. From there, compiling a list of possible culprits and allies was easy. The most challenging part was trying to remember who had survived, who Dick could reach out to now that he wouldn’t be able to in even just a year’s time.

Funnily enough, following up with the magical options was going to be easier than the physics ones. Dick had several skilled magic users willing to do him a favor. On the other hand, while Wally would be able to follow through on a few leads, but Dick was going to have to pull some serious strings to follow up on the rest. Mad scientists tended to do a better job of keeping their secrets than mad mages.

Dick’s phone blinked innocently, its charging indicator light a friendly green. There was no guarantee he’d even be able to unlock it. If it was another reality - would that Dick have picked the same passcode? Would it be similar enough to guess? This would have been before Bruce had figured out how to sort out the issues with fingerprint security, so thankfully Dick didn’t have to consider whether he shared the same genetic makeup as an alternate reality version of himself.

Dick thumbed in a code, and the phone opened obligingly.

He was struck with a strange sense of deja-vu. He remembered setting this selfie of him and Babs as his background. They’d still been dating, the first time around, when they took it, and Dick had wanted the reminder after their first breakup. He wanted to remind himself that they’d been happy together. He’d loved Babs first, and he wasn’t ever going to stop, and that made everything that happened after worth it.

Dick had studied this picture long enough, memorized every pixel of it, so well that he could still summon the image in his minds’ eye, long after phones had stopped working.

It felt wrong, how easy it was to just open his phone and send out a handful of messages. Dick had no way of knowing if they actually went anywhere, or if he just believed that he was sending messages - but the phone felt strange in his hands, the ease of pre-Audit communication felt like walking down a staircase and expecting one more step, only to find that you’d already reached the bottom.

His first three messages were carefully neutral, feeling out the possibility that someone might be able to help him with some magical problems. He wouldn’t expect an answer right away, unless he was extraordinarily lucky - vigilante life just didn’t leave a lot of time for answering texts, even encrypted ones. It would take as long as it would take for someone with the appropriate expertise to get back to him. In the meantime,

The next two messages were trickier. For one thing, Dick didn’t have numbers saved in his phone that would go directly to Slade or to Damian - he hadn’t even known yet that Damian existed during this time of his life. His encounters with Slade were never pre-planned - at least not by Dick. So he had no direct way of reaching them.

But if Dick needed someone to delve into dangerous, deeply unethical scientific experiments on the nature of space-time, there was no one better than Slade.

Dick fiddled with the phone until he remembered how to play music from it. He spared a few minutes to scroll through the songs he had saved, shocked and pleased at how many of them he could listen to again. He’d forgotten so many of them.

Maybe after this was all over, he’d remember a few of them a little better.

Then, with his entire music library on shuffle, Dick dug out his laptop and hacked into it. His skills were a little rusty - he was more used to alien tech now than anything Earth-based - but it came back quickly enough. After that, it was just a matter of research.

The only advantage Dick had in this arena was information about the future. He’d never had a reason to learn to navigate the shadowy corners of the world wide web that men like Slade frequented, at least not with the ease of a native. Still, his hacking habits, no matter how rusty, came from future years much more protected against cyber crime. As it turned out, finding Slade wasn’t hard now that he knew where to look. He could follow his husband’s virtual tracks through even the muddiest back-end web connections. He knew exactly what contracts Slade would watch, which he would take, which he would be offended by - Dick could even pick his husband’s words out of a few anonymous forums and private conversations. Finding Slade was easy.

Not using any of the codes they’d developed over the years was much harder. Dick stared down at a contract offer that Slade had accepted with a curt acknowledgement almost a month ago, and chewed his lip.

They had codes that even an alternate reality-version of Slade would probably recognize, since the earliest versions of their own secret language had been built on the foundations of the secrets they’d already carried. Dick could unlock any of Slade’s safehouses from anywhere in the world, as long as this dimension or timeline or whatever was close enough to his world. Slade could speak on Dick’s behalf for any of the friends or allies that Dick had gathered throughout the years, as long as they still shared the same memories.

Except that Dick had no way of knowing whether this Slade was the same, or some other darker version of himself, from some other darker world. If Dick didn’t play his hand exactly right, Slade could be a dangerous, unpredictable player. During Dick’s early years as Nightwing, Slade had still been kicking Dick’s ass more often than anything. Dick knew now that Slade had never intended to kill him, except during that first brutal fight with HIVE, but he hadn’t known that when it was happening. And even if this version of Slade shared that same reluctance, he could still make Dick’s life a living hell - maybe even just to fuck with Dick. Dick couldn’t afford that kind of mess right now. If there was anyone who could fuck him right up and throw a wrench in all of his plans, it was Slade “Be My Apprentice” Wilson.

“Fuck,” Dick muttered. He had to stop for a moment to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. He selfishly wanted Slade at his side, and he just couldn’t take any unnecessary risks. Until he knew what was going on, he would have to play the oblivious, twenty-year-old vigilante, and try to enlist Deathstroke’s help the old fashioned way.

And then maybe he could to the bottom of this whole fucking catastrophe.

Chapter Text

It typically took several days for Dick to get a message to Slade, when he’d been a kid. It had usually been a matter of making some waves, pissing off a few carefully chosen goons, leaving painfully obvious messages in places he knew Slade would find them. Then, Dick would have to wait for Slade to come to him, and the mercenary often took his dear sweet time doing it.

Thankfully, once Dick had gone through the calendar saved in his phone, he was able to pinpoint the timeline he was experiencing. Or close enough. He remembered these months, a wet, miserable winter that he’d been convinced he wasn’t going to survive. Bludhaven had been as quiet as it ever was - although Dick knew now that was more due to Blockbuster planning his campaign of destruction than anything else. But it was Dick’s first winter as Nightwing, and even with as proud and capable as he was, Dick had been nearly swamped by his depression.

He winced at the physical reminders of that fact as he started to root through the apartment for supplies. The trash hadn’t been taken out in what looked like weeks. The toothbrush was still in the package. The selection of food was barely acceptable - Dick didn’t remember relapsing into his disordered eating during this particular time period, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had. It had been a rough time.

And of course, the entire three months of sleet and smog had also been plagued with a certain mercenary, curious about Robin’s new look.

Looking back on it, Dick guessed that Slade had truly been indulging his own curiosity. He hadn’t totally given up on his plan to convert Dick to his way of doing things by this point, but he hadn’t had a lot of confidence in it, either. With the filter of their later relationship, Dick could see the desperate, brutal fights he remembered as the fucked-up foreplay Slade probably remembered. Dick sighed. God, his husband could be dense as a brick sometimes. Dick had never been at his best when he was grieving, always convinced that everyone around him was angry, disappointed, liable to leave or hurt him at any moment. It hadn’t exactly been the best time for Slade to come calling.

It was useful now, though, since Dick could be relatively certain that Slade was near Bludhaven, if not within the city proper. He couldn’t remember the precise series of events, which nights his patrols had been interrupted by a flash of orange-and-black, but that was okay - if Dick knew his husband, Slade probably had all sorts of alerts set up for Nightwing, and would take any opportunity to show up and annoy him. It was just a matter of creating the right opportunity.

It was an easier plan than trying to face his living family. He had done a quick, automatic inventory as he was looking over the records he could find on his phone and computer. He hadn’t really meant to, but it had happened without his input. Based on the year, there were only months before Red Hood made his Gotham debut, which meant that somewhere in the world Jason was undergoing a brutal training regimen at the hands of murderers and scumbags. Tim was struggling to fill Jason’s shoes, and succeeding better than anyone would ever admit to him. Stephanie was probably stitching together her first, hand-made Spoiler costume at this very moment. Damian, of course, was at Talia’s side. It was hard to tell exactly where Cass would be, except under her father’s tyrannical thumb. Duke was still just a kid. Dick knew full well that Babs wasn’t currently speaking to him, from the wall of texts he’d sent over the past few months. With the perspective of age, he realized now that she wasn’t talking to any of them more than she had to. She was doing what she had always done when she was injured - retreating into fortified isolation while she planned her recovery. And what a magnificent recovery it would be.

The thought of his family, out there in the world, alone and stubborn and hurting and afraid, was more than Dick could handle right now. He had more on his plate than he could possibly chew through already. There was a possibility that he would wake up tomorrow 20 years in the future, curled up against his husband while he kept watch. Dick couldn’t decide whether it would be better or worse to see any of them again before that happened, so he just didn’t decide at all.

Time enough for that tomorrow, Damian’s brisk voice echoed in his mind. He’d grown into a pragmatic and deadly young man, with somehow more determination in the marrow of his bones than most people experienced their whole lives. Dick would even dare to call him an optimist.

It was a good reminder now, as Dick started to scavenge the apartment for equipment that would serve him for tonight’s mission. As the sun started to disappear behind the low-lying smoke and the ugly high-rises of the city, Dick managed to retrieve enough pieces of the Nightwing suit to make a whole. He laid it all out on the bed - now neatly made, since Dick couldn’t bear a messy bed anymore - and eyed each piece with a critical eye.

It was lighter than he remembered, and less defensive than he would like. The suit was all one piece, with a cleverly placed invisible zipper up the back. Dick didn’t even fully understand the technology that went into making it look seamless; he just knew how to disarm the defenses on the neck, wrists and ankles that would shock any unsuspecting villain. The boots and gloves hid most of his equipment, aside from the bits and pieces tucked away in the escrima holsters. They too would appear seamless once Dick had them on.

The suit reeked. Dick crinkled his nose in distaste. Laundry had never been his strong suit, and costumes were notoriously difficult to launder, but seriously - this was rank. He wondered when it had been cleaned last. He’d have to do it soon, but tonight he didn’t have time. Stepping into the form-fitting legs felt like trying to shove a snake back into its original skin - technically it fit, but it felt wrong. Dick was used to having more protection, something just a little heavier to account for his aging joints. It was nice to be able to reach all the way behind his back to get the zipper, though - he didn’t miss the fucked up shoulder he’d been gifted by an Auditor during his last time in Gotham. He’d gotten a few more years with Jason out of it, though, so it had been worth it.

The only familiar thing was the finger stripes. Dick had missed them. He flexed his hands, feeling the gloves wrinkle and give under his grip. The grips buried in the palms were an incredible luxury. The finger stripes were the only thing he’d kept of his parents after he’d shed the Robin suit. Those familiar, comfortable grips that wrapped around an acrobat’s two middle fingers - even if no one else knew what they were, Dick knew.

Once Dick was dressed and armed, he was as ready as he would be. He didn’t have much more in the way of equipment, which was disappointing. His younger self might have thought he was always prepared, but Dick could see how innocent he had been. There were some things you could never be prepared for.

Still, this would do for his purposes. It made the back of his neck crawl, to be going out without so much as a knife on his person; Damian’s and Slade’s habits had rubbed off on him. Dick scrubbed the back of his neck with his gloves and reminded himself that he wasn’t going to encounter any Auditors, so the escrima would do just fine. Probably.

He debated briefly before tossing back another Stop-Drop pill on his way out. The worst of the immediate side effects had faded, and if he took another now he’d stabilize within an hour or so. He would be fine by the time Deathstroke found him, and it would help manage the very real risk of just collapsing at Slade’s feet the moment he appeared. Besides, Dick didn’t exactly need to be at peak performance to handle a few Bludhaven thugs.

Dick crawled out his window to the familiar fire escape, and even his once-again aching joints couldn’t compare to the rush of tepid air and cityscape sound that greeted him. The alley reeked of rotten garbage and piss and burnt engine oil. The sounds of voices were drowned out by car horns, distant machinery, and passing sirens. The neon glow of Bludhaven’s many run-down street shops made everything hazy.

It was beautiful.

Dick crouched on the corner of his building, a silent and invisible shadow, just taking in the sight of so many people. All of them, living their lives, mid-argument or mid-revelation. They all had yesterdays that guide their steps today, and almost all of them had tomorrows to look forward to. Dick’s heart thrummed with it, with the faint electric hum of synapses and impulses and memories. Then, once he was filled with it, with the feeling of it, Dick leapt to the next rooftop.

The first two hours of the night, when Bludhaven was still glowing with the leftovers of the day’s lights, was dedicated just to remembering how he used to move. His patrol routes had been carefully crafted, so Dick’s body remembered those well enough where his conscious mind failed. The city’s balconies and friezes and spires - those were all familiar, as were the knots of gangs and violent crime. It was odd to see the Bludhaven with the benefit of experience - what had once seemed like an epidemic to him now looked suspiciously like a symptom of a bigger problem. Besides, there hadn’t been time for humans to fight each other after the Audit, no matter how much they hated each other. They’d all been too busy trying to fight the Auditors. Some of these people that Dick would happily send to jail now might be the very people he fought back-to-back with in the future. That was a jarring thought.

More pressing than that, though, was Dick’s own body. The first time he launched his grapple, he nearly slammed into the side of a building when he tried to correct his flawed form. It wasn’t until gravity yanked at his hips that he realized that his form wasn’t flawed - it was exactly right for a young, softer body. His center of gravity was just a little different, the length of his legs just slightly off. He no longer had to correct for a stiff spine or a bad shoulder or a weak knee. Fuck, even having all ten toes nestled safely inside his boots made a difference. Separately, each difference might have been small, but together, they added up to a messy, harrowing experience. Dick had been planning to take an injury of some kind, look more hurt than he was, and then retreat to a “safe” rooftop to wait for Deathstroke to show. Maybe he’d lose his temper, or something, too, just to get the point across about how vulnerable and impressionable he was.

At this rate, he wasn’t going to have to pretend. He was slower than he remembered, and even as he adapted to this new-old muscle memory, it wasn’t fast enough. Nightwing dropped down into an alley to stop a good old-fashioned mugging, and nearly got his head caved in by a baseball bat. He busted up a meeting to arrange a weapons shipment, and took a whole-ass bullet to the calf, just because he forgot exactly how much space his body took up. Still, he managed to corral the remaining goons for the BPD and make it to the abandoned fire escape he’d picked for this particular meeting before he had to bandage the wound.

Thankfully, it was a through-and-through, so Dick didn’t have to dig a bullet out of his leg in the freezing early morning pollution. Trying to get a good angle to dig a bullet out of your own leg was awkward, as well as painful. The emergency bandages would do for now, and Dick managed to secure them with little hassle just as he caught a flash of movement on a nearby roof.

He wondered if his situational awareness had improved, or if Slade meant for Dick to see him coming.

Either way, his heart was pounding in his throat by the time a pair of familiar boots thudded down on the metal grid next to him. Maybe Slade would mistake it for fear, or anger, but it wasn’t. Dick felt nearly giddy with relief, just to have Deathstroke next to him. He had to swallow down his first half-dozen reactions, which ranged from ‘public indecency’ to ‘full-on subspace’. He kept his eyes fixed on the silhouette of St. Bernadine’s Church across from him to keep Slade from seeing his expression.

He doesn’t know you, Dick reminded himself viciously. Not really.

“Deathstroke,” he greeted quietly, watching Slade steadily from the corner of his eye, waiting for anything, any reaction. Slade was always harder to read with the mask on, but Dick had gotten pretty good at it over the years. His body language was carefully neutral now, but it wasn’t likely to stay that way. So Dick was going to have to play his cards carefully. If Slade knew anything about what was going on, Dick needed to know.

“Nightwing.”

If Dick hadn’t take another Stop-Drop pill, the familiar growl of his voice probably would’ve sent Dick right under. Even so, Dick had to clutch the railing he was curled over tightly to keep his breathing steady. He wanted to throw himself into Slade’s chest, wanted to slide right to his knees and rest his head against Slade’s thigh. God, when was the last time this baby-faced Dick had gone under? His body was all but begging for it.

A question for later. Dick breathed steady and chose his opening volley carefully.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

There, that was the script he remembered - a token protest, but without any real heat behind him.

Slade didn’t so much as twitch. He didn’t cock his head to the side in amusement, didn’t shift his shoulders in that miniscule way that meant he was calling Dick on his bullshit. That was fine. Dick still had a whole hand left to play. His hands didn’t tremble on the railing. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the church’s steeple.

“You’re not in any shape to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be doing.”

Dick blankly aware of the chuckle that wanted to bubble up inside of him at Slade’s churlishness, but he caught it just before it emerged.

He doesn’t know you.

“Never stopped me before.”

It wasn’t a hard rhythm to fall into, this back-and-forth with Slade. Easy, even. Comforting. Dangerous. Things hadn’t really changed so much when they’d fallen into bed together. Still, Dick didn’t pull himself to his feet to make good on his threat, which he was pretty sure he would have done at this age, no matter how battered he was. There was no chance that Slade hadn’t already noticed the bandages - he just needed Slade to taunt him about it, needed an opening to appear desperate enough to go to Deathstroke to help. Slade would refuse to take a contract from him, but he’d look into whatever Dick let slip his problem was. He’d done it before, more times than Dick even knew about. That was all Dick needed, for Slade to investigate.

He gripped the rail tighter. The metal grid of the fire escape was cold even through the suit. Dick struggled to keep up with the conversation.

“Is it going to stop you this time?”

Dick finally turned his head to look at Slade straight on. He barely remembered that version of the suit. It was fucking ugly, and Slade didn’t need that much armor. He’d benefit more from the freedom of movement of something lighter, not unlike Dick himself. The mask was one of the molded ones, rather than the fabric bandana. Dick wanted to stick his tongue out at it. He refrained, redirected his attention to the mission at hand.

“That depends. What am I stopping you from doing?”

And there, that was Dick’s second play. Just a hint of vulnerability, the kind Slade couldn’t help but chase.

But still, Slade didn’t react. He didn’t dig, or taunt, or try to rile Dick up. Dick didn’t clench his jaw; it was too much of a tell.

“Relax, little bird. Just surveillance, for now.”

It wasn’t an answer, but Dick decided to let it go for now. He had bigger fish to fry than whatever asshole Slade was stalking.

“It had better stay that way,” Dick informed him, and it lacked force even to his own ears. How long had it been since he’d had to properly threaten Slade? God, years, probably. It seemed he’d lost the trick of it. That, at least, Slade noticed. His head cocked to the right, ever-so-slightly.

“Hurt little birds shouldn’t be out,” Slade said threateningly, and Dick nearly keened. Suddenly, letting Slade pick him up and carry him home was the only thing Dick could think about. Every insane thing that had happened over the past few hours caught up with him, and drenched him in cold sweat and fine tremors. He locked his jaw, gripping the rail so hard his gloves squeaked. He couldn’t collapse. He couldn’t beg. Even if he did, Slade wouldn’t give him what he wanted. Maybe - maybe - Slade would haul his ass to a safe house and field dress his injuries, and then Dick would wake up alone with an annoying note on the counter. It wouldn’t be enough. To be so close, and not be allowed to curl into Slade’s chest, to slip sideways into submission - that would be too much.

So Dick dug his teeth into his tongue until he was sure he could control the words coming out.

“I need help.”

Close enough. It sounded like it had been choked out of him, and that would have to pass for reluctant enough. He could tolerate Slade’s smug goading, as long as he also asked what the job was.

“Well, well, well-“ and there was the goading, familiar enough to make Dick want to grin, to make him want to cry, “- I never thought I’d see the day.” Slade hadn’t moved an inch, still just looming over Dick’s shoulder, arms crossed. It was a tactic Dick had seen him use before, on the inexperienced or the frightened - he cut a menacing figure. If he noticed that it was affecting Dick at all, hopefully he thought it was poorly concealed fury, instead of poorly concealed longing.

“You think you can afford my rates, little bird? I thought daddy cut you off.”

Dick nearly swallowed his tongue. Slade hadn’t called Bruce ‘daddy’ in a very, very long time. He covered his cough with a scowl.

“I have enough. Will you help me or not?”

He glared up at Slade with his stoniest expression. The moment stretched, expanding with every breath. Dick wished he could see Slade’s eye. The tension dropped as Slade leaned forward to brace his elbows on the railing.

“You know better, little bird - I never contract without knowing the terms.”

Dick swallowed and made a show of considering his words carefully. He needed Slade to find answers that Dick couldn’t find - at least not without significant risk. If this was a mad scientist problem, then he would need leads if he was going to get back to his dimension. No matter how much of a relief this whole, messy world was, he couldn’t abandon Damian and Slade.

“I’m working a case. I have a suspect, but I can’t get close enough to get any useful intel,” he finally said, infusing every word with reluctance.

“Who’s the suspect?”

Dick looked up at the line of Slade’s jaw, then away again. He couldn’t be too obvious. If someone was fucking around with dimensions, the Speed Force was the most likely option, and that wasn’t normally Slade’s bag. Alternatively, Dick had tangled with Alexander Luthor on a couple of very memorable occasions, and his mere existence here would be enough to answer any number of questions. If it wasn’t Alexander, then Lex was as good a place to start as any. He always had his finger in every evil science pie cooking at any given moment.

“Luthor,” Dick finally spit out through clenched teeth. Both he and Slade knew very well that Deathstroke would never take a contract against such a respected and well-paying client. But maybe, if he thought Luthor was causing Dick trouble, he’d keep his eyes open.

Slade barked a laugh, and Dick pressed his lips together.

“Oh, kid, come on. Why the hell would I take a contract against Lex?”

Well, that didn’t exactly eliminate Alexander, since he had also gone by Lex, but it was better than nothing. Dick shrugged.

“Because I’m just that charming?” He replied, and it fell flat. Slade snorted.

“Sure, kid. Keep telling yourself that.” Slade pushed himself back upright, ready to leave. Dick wanted to ask him to stay. He wanted to grab Slade’s wrist and keep him here. He knew exactly what to say, what information would convince Slade that Dick knew him, no matter how it had happened. It would be so easy.

Dick kept his hands where they were.

“Get some sleep, birdie. You look like shit,” was Slade’s parting statement.

Dick stayed out on the fire escape for a long time.

Chapter Text

Slade was a failure of a man and a failure of a dominant. He’d accepted that a long time ago. He hadn’t managed to protect anyone he had ever called family, never mind keep them safe and well.

Slade knew it had been selfish, but he didn’t really care anymore. He refused to keep failing. Besides, what was the point of a future without Dick Grayson in it?

So Slade had failed - but in this, at least, he had succeeded. This one thing. Dick was here, and whole, and if not exactly hale, well - at least he was alive.

He didn’t even make it outside of Bludhaven’s city limits before he had to break something. He found a tussle down by Bludhaven’s docks, probably over drugs, and decided to do Dick a favor. He wasn’t even breathing hard by the time they were all dead, and his anger had barely reduced to a simmer.

Dick was alive. Slade had to focus on that. Yesterday, he’d lived in a future where Dick Grayson was dead, and today he lived in a past where Dick Grayson was alive. Slade had hoped for more. He’d been warned that the spell might work this way, but some of Dick’s relentless optimism must have infected him, because Slade had hoped that maybe - well. Dick might not share the memories of their life together, but he was alive.

As long as Slade focused on that, he could manage the rest of his fury. He had forgotten how horrifically neglected Dick had been during that delicate time between leaving Robin behind and falling into Slade’s bed. Dick had looked so fragile, curled up on that rickety fire escape, exhausted and injured. He must have been taking a dangerously high dose of Stop-Drop too, by the disconnected way he reacted to Slade’s presence. He’d barely seemed to notice a dangerous dominant towering over him, when he was hurting and vulnerable. Not reacting was one thing, but Slade knew all of Dick’s tells. There was no part of Dick’s hindbrain that had even bothered to warn him that Slade was a danger.

Slade realized he was growling under his breath. On top of it all, Dick was dealing with some sort of bullshit from Luthor. Slade didn’t remember any specifics about whatever Lex had been up to from this particular period of time, but his attention had been pretty well split at the time. Between trying to keep Joey from throwing his life away on the Titans, and trying to keep Addie from straight-up murdering Rose, he hadn’t taken many contracts. So Slade would have to look into it himself, and make sure that whatever Lex was up to wasn’t going to cause any unacceptable problems for his little bird. As long as it was something Slade hadn’t been involved in the first time around, it should work out more or less, since Dick had survived, but Slade wasn’t here to preserve the timeline. He’d take the grace period if he needed it, but he fully intended to take better care of Dick this time around.

And that meant he needed reinforcements. Before he could do anything about Luthor, Slade had a promise to keep. He booked transport to Nanda Parbat, and started planning his extraction.

***

For better or worse, it was Constantine who could meet Dick the soonest. Dick’s relationship with Constantine had changed drastically after the Audit - he had been the only magician Dick knew who survived. Z, Raven, even Doctor Fate - they had all put up an incredible fight. Constantine had done what he always did, and survived.

Dick couldn’t bank on any of that goodwill now. Constantine might be a bleeding heart under all the angst, but he certainly wouldn’t be willing to show it to Dick, whom he barely knew. But as long as Dick was a solid blend of interesting, respectful, and most of all generous, he should at least be able to hire his services.

Thankfully, he doesn’t make Dick fly all the way to London, citing business nearby. They arranged to meet at one of Dick’s safe houses in Star City, where as long as they didn’t cause any trouble, Oliver wasn’t likely to notice them. Their odds of flying under the radar were greater there than Metropolis or Gotham, at least.

Dick had barely slept. He’d dropped hard after his little visit with Slade, and spent most of the night shaking and hyperventilating in his closet. He was lucky his fever hadn’t cooked his brain, or passed out, or given himself a concussion, but there was nothing for it. His body had been too neglected for too long - going three years without subspace fell somewhere between going three years without physical contact and going three years without solid food. Brutal, potentially dangerous, and a damn fool idea, but not immediately lethal. He’d have to make some sort of arrangement soon, but he’d have to consider his options carefully. There weren’t a lot of safe options for a vigilante with no powers and very little backup.

The heavy leather jacket that Dick swaddled himself in helped the shivers a little, just by virtue of once having belonged to Jason. Would belong to Jason eventually. Dick’s head hurt when he tried to work it out, so he just huddled into the sense-memory of “family” and “safe” and waited in the dilapidated storehouse for Constantine to show. His feet hurt.

Constantine was late, but only fashionably so - and he even used the door instead of dumping himself through a portal with a chase closing in behind him. It was refreshing. Dick kept his face carefully neutral, when he wanted to smile at his friends’ carefree posture. Well, carefree for the Constantine that Dick knew, at least. He was even whistling a little, an annoying tune that he would be an idiot to think would bother Nightwing. Dick had earned his title as the most annoying vigilante for a reason.

“Nightwing. Heard you might have a job for me.”

Dick rolled his eyes behind his mask. “Yeah, you sure did. Since I called and said ‘Hey Constantine, I might have a job for you.’”

Constantine just shrugged. It made his signature trench coat wrinkle. It had been a long time since Dick could remember him wearing that coat, or any version of it. After the Audit, it had been so damn cold, all the time - even warlocks needed an extra layer most of the time.

“Well, whatever works, right? So what’s the gig?”

Dick spread his arms out.

“This is. I am. Or rather, something about me.” Dick sighed, and dropped his arms. He could feel a headache coming on. “I need information. Something happened to me, and I need to know what. Might be magical, might not. Either way, I need to know.”

Constantine schooled his surprise well, but Dick caught it anyway - whether due to unequal familiarity, or just long years of practice watching microexpressions, he couldn’t tell. He hummed under his breath and made a show of walking all the way around Dick, inspecting him.

“Well, that ought to be easy enough. Knock on wood, you know. What are you offering?”

Dick named a price. Constantine gaped.

“Thought daddy bats cut you off?” He quipped weakly. Dick shrugged. Bruce had never cut him off, as much as Dick had refused his help. He’d been young and hurting and angry, and he’d wanted so badly to make it on his own. Now, he would take any resources he could get. Besides, it wasn’t like Bruce would even notice the missing cash - especially if Dick was about to get rocketed back to his own dimension.

Dick caught thoughts of Bruce by the tail and shoved them to the back of his mind.

For the first time, Dick felt a tiny pang of sadness. He might be exhausted and achy now, but when he returned to that shitty, bombed-out warehouse that the three of them had been using for shelter, it would be even worse. He would be freezing, and his injuries would ache, and he knew full well how unlikely it was that the remainders of his family would outlive him.

But he couldn’t leave them there alone, either.

Constantine tossed up his hands. “Alright, then, it’s your money! Do you want to stand there brooding, or do you want to sit? This could take a minute. Oh, and I’m going to need a drop of blood.”

A younger Dick might have been suspicious of giving his blood to a sorcerer, but now he didn’t complain - just nicked his earlobe and let Constantine close enough to smear his thumb over the it. Then he just folded down onto the floor until he was curled over his crossed legs. The odds that Constantine would try something shady wasn’t high enough to outweigh a little rest.

Constantine’s magic wasn’t showy, when he was actually working. He made a few more laps around Dick, muttering quietly to himself and occasionally making arcane gestures.

“Huh,” he said finally, eyebrows drawn in confusion. Dick crooked his neck to look up at him, and Constantine waved Dick away. Dick shrugged and let Constantine get on with it. The longer he worked, the more confused he became, until he finally dragged over a rickety folding chair and lowered himself onto it. Dick propped his elbows on his knees, and tried to keep his expectations in check.

“So?”

Constantine scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, leaving it somehow even more mussed than before.

“There’s something magic going on, for sure,” he said finally. Dick’s heart leapt into his throat.

“And?” He demanded, but Constantine wasn’t finished.

“Or rather there was. Or there will be.”

Dick’s stomach dropped out. He gripped his knees tightly and kept his face carefully still.

“And what, exactly, does that mean?”

Constantine just looked at him wearily. Dick didn’t like what his expression said. He waited it out, stubborn to the last, and refused to acknowledge any of the wild theories swirling just under the surface of his conscious thought.

“You know what it means.”

Dick took a deep breath to keep from snarling.

“Why don’t you enlighten me anyway.”

Constantine sighed, and leaned back in the chair. It creaked ominously.

“So the thing you have to understand about time travel is that it’s impossible. And the thing you have to understand about magic is that it doesn’t give a fuck. Or maybe it’s just me who doesn’t give a fuck.”

Dick blinked a few times to clear his vision, and kept his eyes locked on Constantine, who was staring up at the rafters.

“Cause it wasn’t just anyone who sent you back in time. It was me, and I left a message. Presumably for you, but who can say for sure? Certainly not me. I’m a man of mystery.”

Dick nearly snorted in shocked laughter. Time-travel. Dammit. Sometimes Dick really hated magic.

“What’s the message?”

Constantine shrugged, his eyebrows furrowed just the tiniest bit in confusion.

“Ah. Well. It doesn’t make much sense, but hopefully it means something to you.” He cleared his throat. “It’s: Don’t even think about it, little bird. There’s nothing here for you.”

Constantine was watching Dick closely, which meant the only weakness Dick could grant himself was to close his eyes and let out a low, voiceless breath.

Slade. Slade had done this. He could feel his pulse starting to spike again. He couldn’t be here right now. It wasn’t safe. When he didn’t respond, Constantine slid from the chair to crouch in front of him.

“Hey, alright there?”

Dick shook his head. His eyes were still squeezed shut. He could feel where Constantine was by the shift in air, by the sound of his voice. The man wasn’t particularly dominantly-inclined, but he was close enough that Dick wanted to sway closer. He didn’t.

“That bad, huh?”

Dick nodded. The future really was that bad.

“Well. Whatever I did, it was on purpose. So he must’ve cared, that other mad version of me. So he would’ve been glad you’re here.”

Constantine was never exactly soothing, but Dick could tell he was trying. He was strangely grateful for it. This wasn’t his Constantine, the friend he’d bled with over battles and scrapes. But he wasn’t not, either. Dick knew him well enough to read the tentative confusion in his voice. Without context, it must’ve seemed that the message had been from Constantine himself, and as confused as that made this version of the warlock, he was willing to roll with it. Dick owed him an explanation, but it would have to wait.

“Hey, whatever you’re worrying about, whatever you left behind? Forget it. They’d want you to. You’ve traveled back in time. Don’t ask me what happened to whatever current version of yourself that was running around; I don’t know. Also I wouldn’t worry too much about branching realities, or anything like that. Not because nothing bad happened, but because even if it did, there’s nothing to do about it now. So congrats, I guess? You get a second chance.”

And all of it hit at once. A second chance. A real one.

Dick was on his feet before he even realized that he’d put the pieces together.

He must have thanked Constantine but he didn’t recall, exactly. The only thing he would remember of the breakneck ride back to Gotham was the panic.

Dick knew what his body was trying to do, even as he zipped dangerously in and out of traffic. The part of his brain that Bruce had trained to stay detached, no matter the circumstance, kept up a steady stream of reminders that he was in shock. Dick kept trying to shove the thought away, to concentrate on a plan. But it just kept coming back, that incessant reminder worming its way in that his body was flooded with adrenaline, that as soon as he stopped he was going to crash, and crash hard. That tiny voice, usually so reliable, was like a skipping record. Second chance and no going back and fucking time travel playing on erratic repeat.

Dick didn’t even have the wherewithal to choose his destination. He was just going, letting his body do what it did best, what he had trained it to do since he could walk. Dick’s body, left to its own devices, would always keep him alive.

It wasn’t until his bike hit the familiar, engineered-quiet gravel lining the back road to the Cave that Dick realized he couldn’t feel his hands. By the time the cleverly hidden rock wall parted, he also couldn’t feel his toes. He was breathing too fast. He had an absurd moment, faced with the looping track that served as parking for the Batmobile, where he realized that he didn’t know how to stop.

His body solved that problem for him, too - by diving from the back of the bike and rolling before he could collide with the glass costume cases. Dick was suddenly submerged in a memory of being kicked through those exact cases. It was an incongruous image. In Dick’s memory, the cases started on the left with his Robin suit, and marched all the way along history until the line ended with Dick’s own version of the batsuit at the far end. In between, various versions stood at attention not just of Robin, but also Batgirl, Spoiler, Orphan, Red Robin, even one of Jason’s early Red Hood jackets. Now, though, there were only four cases - one for Dick’s original Robin costume, one for Bruce’s original batsuit, the suit Barbara had been using when she was shot, and of course Jason’s bloodstained costume, complete with torn domino.

Dick stared at the cases, half-propped on one elbow where he’d fallen gracelessly out of his landing, and started to laugh.

Chapter Text

It was Bruce who carried Master Dick up to his room in the manor. He had been resistant, initially, wanting to check the boy for toxins and mind-control and all manner of things, and Alfred had been forced to insist. Master Dick was clearly dropping, and he would be safest in familiar surroundings. Alfred preceded them, attention fixed firmly on setting up Master Dick’s room with everything he would need, rather than worrying about the twitching, gasping boy in Bruce’s arms. Worry was for situations in which one had no control. In Alfred’s experience, there was little in life that was completely outside of one’s control - especially not the goings-on within Wayne Manor.

The room was clean, of course, and had been aired out recently, so Alfred went directly to the kitchen to make a tray. A selection of easy-to-eat, calorie-packed foods went on one half of the tray, and a variety of first-aid materials pulled from the emergency pantry kit went on the other. Alfred also selected a variety of electrolyte-dextrose beverages from the fridge.

Even moving slowly and carefully with his precious burden, Bruce was already tucking Master Dick in by the time Alfred entered. Bruce’s face was painfully blank as Dick trembled in a ball under the covers. If Alfred was a betting man, he would wager any fortune that Bruce had tried to reach out to smooth Master Dick’s hair, or squeeze the back of his neck, and that Dick had pulled away. He never did such a thing when he was conscious, of course, but. Well. Subdrop was a nasty thing, and it often brought deep-rooted fears to the surface of an already-hazy mind. Given Master Dick’s constant fear that Bruce would abandon him completely, it was only reasonable that his affection might be more than the boy could bear.

Still, it wouldn’t do to leave Bruce sitting here alone in his grief, and his fear. Alfred had often found that both Bruce and Dick responded well to having something to do, somewhere to channel their anxiety. He set the tray on the bedside table with a quiet cough. Bruce’s eyes didn’t waver from the bundle that Dick made under the covers.

“He came here, Alfred,” Bruce choked out. Alfred could feel his expression soften. Bruce wasn’t unaware, then, of the trust that Dick was placing in them, despite his drop.

“Indeed he did, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied. “And he will need some degree of care taken, I dare say.”

They were both old hands at this particular song and dance. Bruce managed to tame Dick’s thrashing limbs long enough for Alfred to clean him up a little and check him for injuries at the same time. Alfred made a neat catalog of his injuries, but found nothing more concerning than a pair of strained ribs and a well-bandaged through-and-through. The blood sample, which was somewhat more challenging to obtain, also came back clear from the small mobile monitor within a matter of minutes. Bruce would no doubt want to run further tests in the Cave, but for now, the only thing that appeared to be ailing Master Dick was the sub-drop.

As much of a relief as that was, neither Alfred nor Bruce was willing to declare him safe quite yet. Sub-drop, untreated and unmedicated, could prove dangerous in the same way that the common cold could prove dangerous. Death rates were almost nonexistent among people with adequate medical care and no preexisting medical conditions. Unfortunately, that didn’t put Master Dick completely in the clear. His entire was a patchwork of trauma and exertion that was already takings its toll on him, and that was assuming that he had been obtaining sufficient rest and nutrients. Alfred had to admit that it was unlikely.

The primary concern was fever, as it was for so many illnesses. That was easily managed with paracetamol and fluids, as long as they were attentive. Bruce measured out the dosage while Alfred set up the intravenous line. Master Dick whined piteously the entire time, no doubt confused about the pinching pain of the needle. It was enough to tug at even Alfred’s heart, who had not a dominant bone in his body. He could only imagine how deeply it affected Bruce, who had moved on to trying to coax some food into Master Dick’s stomach. Knowing his young charge, Alfred suspected that it had likely been some time since had eaten a proper meal.

He was also petulant in his refusal, so much so that Alfred finally laid a light hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“If he needs it, we can always add nutrients to his medication.”

Bruce sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. Alfred pressed on.

“What he needs now is rest, and monitoring. I will bring a chair in from the office.”

Alfred didn’t even think to suggest that Bruce rest in his own room. Not only would it be an impossible task to convince him, but Master Dick would also benefit from having his family nearby. No matter how strained their relationship, Bruce had still been his primary caretaker through many of his formative years. He had served as Master Dick’s familial dominant since the boy began to display submissive tendencies. Some part of Master Dick’s mind would remember that at least, and be soothed by it.

So Alfred brought in the chair, and brought Bruce his computer, and a tray of his own, and let them be. The tidying caused by the wreck in the cave ought to keep him occupied long enough to see Master Dick through the worst of it, and Bruce back to his own bed. If that failed, there was always household work to be done.

***

As a rule, Slade detested deserts. At first, they’d been a nice change from the sweltering, damp heat of the tropics. But then the United States military had decided to fuck around and find out for nearly three full decades in what they called “the middle east” - as though it was an entire place, a homogeneous country guilty of some sort of atrocity. In Slade’s experience, no government in the world was any less guilty of atrocities than anywhere else, and the good old US of A more than most. Slade had been long gone from military service by the time Desert Storm began, but where there was war, there were contracts. So Slade had gotten his fill of sand and rock and people begging him to just let them be.

That, at least, wasn’t a problem in Nanda Parbat. Ra’s never begged for anything, no matter how potentially useful. Slade was tolerated only because he was useful to the League in general and Ra’s in particular. He didn’t exactly have a standing invitation to visit the al’Ghul stronghold, but it wasn’t hard to fabricate a contract that he needed information from Ra’s about. Slade would have to pay for it, of course - and probably through the nose, since he desperately needed this deception to work. But what he was going to take from Ra’s would more than balance the scales.

Slade found Ra’s company tedious at best, but thankfully, it was Talia who insisted he join her for dinner. Not only was she better company, she was better positioned for Slade’s true purposes. They sat in a small set of private rooms, a small decorative table between them, both chairs perfectly positioned to watch both the sunset over the desert and each other. Slade certainly wasn’t immune to beautiful women, and Talia was everything he liked in a woman - cunning, witty, ruthless. When Talia arched one eyebrow invitingly in his direction, Slade wondered idly what Dick would say if he could see Slade now. Neither of them had been of a particularly jealous bent, but Dick had always disliked Talia. It had been a point of contention between him and his boy, on more than one occasion. Slade could relate to that - Adeline was still the biggest sore spot in his relationship with Joey.

Most likely, his little bird would just laugh and roll his eyes if he saw Slade continue to sip his wine placidly in the face of what was objectively an excellent strategic opportunity. Something about this moment, though, sitting in the rapidly cooling desert both half a lifetime and a mere handful of days since he had held his husband’s broken body in his arms… Slade set the wine glass down. Odds were good he couldn’t get it up even if he wanted to, and that would do him no favors.

So instead, Slade turned the conversation deftly to his supposed contract. He danced around needing information. Talia pretended not to know what he was talking about. They circled each other like fighters in a ring, each waiting for an opening. Slade finally found his when Talia idly mentioned what a shame it was, that a man of Slade’s reputation couldn’t be convinced to turn his attention to worthier pursuits.

It was the same tack that she had tried in the past, to try and convince him that working for the League would somehow be better than working on his own. That he would do more good for them than he had for the army; or at least, that he would make more money. All it took from there was to shift her strategy from aligning Slade to the League to something a little more personal.

“I work alone, Talia,” he reminded her, his tone just a little too sharp for casual. She would interpret that as she would.

She pressed the rim of her wine glass to her lower lip.

“Not always,” she said thoughtfully, no doubt remembering one of the times that she or Ra’s or one of a number of other players had taken a contract that aligned his goals with hers. He stared stubbornly out at the last smears of light on the horizon, and hoped that she was reminded of the last time he had attempted to take an apprentice.

“Not anymore.”

Somewhere underneath them, the faint sounds of assassins training drifted up from a courtyard. Slade let his head turn, ever so slightly, as though he was just catching the sound of it.

Talia cocked her head.

“No, I suppose not. Still, a pity.”

Their conversation smoothed over into calmer waters, discussions of travel and art and the goings-on of various contacts. It was mostly dull conversation, Slade was surprised to find. For all her charm, Talia’s interests rarely intersected with his own. Everything about her was so controlled, so calculating - with concentration, Slade could see the shape of the conversation before it happened. He could tell her thoughts were elsewhere, and hoped that had laid the bait well.

***

Evidently he had, since Slade woke to a blade at his throat and a hand over his mouth. He wanted to roll his remaining eye, but refrained. Instead, he threw the kid off of him and after a painfully brief tussle, slammed him into the floor.

Damian was good. He was one of the best, one of the most lethal fighters Slade had ever trained.

He was also, at this moment, six years old.

“That was a rookie mistake, kid,” Slade snarled. He kept his eyes fixed on Damian’s shrouded face, but let the rest of his senses expand out, searching for watching presences. This was the League of Shadows, after all; better to assume you were always being watched. “You should’ve just slit my throat when you had the chance.”

Damian growled, and Slade nearly laughed. It was a deeply familiar sound, but coming out of the chest of a kid whose balls hadn’t even dropped, it was downright hysterical. Damian shifted, managing to worm one hand out of Slade’s grip, clawing for his good eye. Slade caught it easily, and it wasn’t until he felt tiny fingers move against his forearm that he realized what Damian had been trying to do.

The rhythm he tapped out wasn’t morse code, but it worked much the same way. It was an unholy amalgamation of the codes and ciphers that the three of them had trained in, what they had in common, what was easily learned. There had never been enough time for anything more sophisticated.

Even while Damian managed to slip Slade’s hold twice more, he managed to tap out the code for “don’t blow my cover” and “extraction” and “NO”. Slade snarled at him again. He’d gone to all sorts of trouble to get the kid out of here, and now he didn’t want extracting? Slade expressed his frustration by letting Damian slide out of his immediate range and retrieve his knife, just so they could have a proper fight. He didn’t bother to use the code to formulate a response. He’d sling the kid over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes if he had to.

Their little scuffle threw them both into the walls and furniture, with Damian wincing when sharp edges caught the soft, vulnerable organs in his torso. Slade reached for him again. Damian slid inside his grip again, turning their fight into another wrestling match. If he had been trying to win, it was a foolish move - Slade outmatched Damian at a distance by every metric. But as a way to communicate silently, without any prying eyes or ears, it was a sound strategy.

“Jason,” Damian finally managed to murmur against Slade’s ear, with the pretense of trying to bite it off. God, Slade hadn’t missed the fucking biting phase. He slammed the kid into the floor, then bent his limbs into a painful, inescapable hold.

Jason Todd. Slade snarled in annoyance. The kid had a point. Red Hood had been a thorn in Dick’s side for years, and a thorn in his heart for even longer. His stupid vendetta against the Bat had kept them divided, quarreling, and made them all easy pickings for the Auditors.

It was as good a place to start as any, and Slade had to admit that Damian was perfectly positioned to provide valuable intel. Now that he had the brat subdued and glaring, rather than trying to behead him, Slade had a moment to strategize.

It wasn’t just Jason. Between Damian’s experience and Slade’s ability, they actually stood a chance of handling the League before they caused any more problems. It was one of many factions they’d discussed in terse conversations as they tracked down the warlock, Constantine. They’d been in perfect agreement - this couldn’t happen again.

Slade narrowed his eye at Damian’s churlish expression. Dawn was just starting to wake, and the ambient grey light leeched the boy’s eyes of all their color, leaving steel in its place. He nodded sharply once. Then, for his benefit and the benefit of whatever audience they might have, he said, “Not bad, kid.”

Then he tossed Damian over his shoulder and out the door. He had a busy day ahead of him.

***

Dick was aware that he wasn’t alone before he was even aware that he was awake. He didn’t bother trying to keep perfectly still - there were minute, instinctive differences between sleeping and waking that were as inevitable as breathing. Instead, in the absence of any immediate threat that he could sense, Dick fell back on his most certain skill. He yawned, and blinked sleepily, and turned a lazy, charming smile at the person watching him.

It took his exhausted, drop-hungover brain precious long moments to put the pieces together. The familiar square jaw and hooked, broken nose. The light, powdery smell of well-washed sheets. The pale morning light, diffused by gauzy cotton curtains. The smell of the tung oil, laid over wax and ancient wood.

The manor. Dick was in his childhood bedroom in the manor, and Bruce was keeping watch while he slept. Dick was flung abruptly back to a time not just two decades before, but further. A time that even this version of himself viewed through the sepia tones of nostalgia. For a disorienting second, Dick was not just a teenager again - he was a child, injured on patrol, sleeping safely while Bruce kept watch.

Then Dick blinked, and the moment passed. He was nineteen again, and the expression on Bruce’s face was so stoic it made Dick’s heart pang a little. He understood a little better now, what it was like to lose a child. What it did to you. Not to mention his now-extensive experience reading the faces of men who were convinced that a single emotion, wrongly expressed, would kill them.

Bruce was worried, true, but under that - under that, Dick was shocked to realize that he was also swamped by guilt.

“Hey, B,” was all he managed to choke out. Bruce was there in an instant, checking the IV line sprouting from the back of Dick’s hand.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked, and his gruffness sounded like anger, if you didn’t know where to look.

Dick burst into tears. He was choked by them, clawing at his own shoulders, racked by deep gasping breaths that he clutched at between sobs. Then Bruce was there, perched precariously on the edge of the bed, prying Dick’s fingernails away from fragile skin, his scarred arms wrapping tightly around Dick’s shoulders and ribcage.

Dick buried his face against Bruce’s collar and cried. Bruce was murmuring to him, and Dick had no idea what it was - pleas or assurances or questions - because he couldn’t hear anything, could only feel the vibration of his chest and throat. Bruce couldn’t fail him, this time, because all Dick wanted was for him to be here. To be alive. And he was.

Bruce was alive.

They all were.

Dick managed to pry himself out of Bruce’s grip and wipe his wet face with the heels of his hands.

“Sorry, sorry, ‘m fine,” he muttered. He knew Bruce wouldn’t believe it. They were neither of them stupid, just scared. But Bruce recognized it for what it was - a request, for a moment. Just a moment to breathe, to collect himself, to not fall apart completely right now. Maybe later. But not right now.

“You peeled into the Cave like - well.” Bruce cleared his throat self-consciously. Dick grinned at the familiar chagrined expression on his face. God, Bruce was so young.

“Like a what, B?” he couldn’t help but insist. Bruce shook his head, and that was familiar, too. Bruce could only be pressured into bat-related puns at the least opportune moments. Dick nodded sagely.

“Oh, like a bat out of hell,” he filled in when Bruce still refused to finish the though. And that earned him the tiniest smile, and Dick thought that his heart might burst. Bruce wasn’t his father, exactly. But he was something, something like it, something warm and steady and difficult and absolutely foundational to who Dick was as a person. It felt so, so good to be here, to see him worry.

Dick managed to swallow around the dry lump in his throat.

“I’m alright, B. Promise. I…” Dick hesitated here. He still didn’t know what he was going to do, didn’t want to think about what Constantine had said.

Time enough for that tomorrow, Damian’s voice reminded him. Dick agreed. He would hedge his bets for now.

“I got some unexpected news. It was. A lot.”

Dick could see Bruce’s brain turning, reaching for pieces, inspecting and discarding evidence faster than most people could conceive of. He nudged Bruce’s shoulder to get his attention back, and shook his head.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m dealing with it.” And then Dick did something that probably should have made Bruce suspicious, before he could even think to stop himself. “I promise I will let you know if I need help.”

Bruce’s whole face went slack in surprise, and Dick tried to shrug it off.

“What? I jumped off a motorcycle! I just woke up from the worst drop in the history of drops! I can ask for help if I want!” he protested, and there - that sounded more like him.

Bruce softened a little, and allowed himself to be redirected. Dick wasn’t fool enough to think he had forgotten, but Dick had at least bought himself a little breathing room.

“Of course, chum. Anytime you need.”

***

It proved frustratingly difficult to track Todd down. It didn’t help that Slade was balls-deep in Luthor’s business, trying to figure out what the fuck he was up to that was causing Dick such trouble. He spent a good portion of the next two months in the air, chartering flight after flight to chase down leads, only to find that he was a day two late, two days. He was starting to understand how Red Hood had caused so many problems for the Bat - he was a cunning son-of-a-bitch.

He also couldn’t figure out what the hell Luthor was doing. Or rather, he couldn’t figure out what it had to do with Dick. Obviously, he was working on his little pet clone project, which Dick was definitely going to throw a fit about at some point. But Slade was pretty sure that Dick hadn’t even heard a rumor of Cadmus yet, so that couldn’t be it. As far as Slade could tell, all of Luthor’s attention was fixed on Superman, obsessive little man that he was.

Slade grimaced. He could all but hear Dick teasing him about glass houses. He needed to sort this out so that he could get his ass back to Gotham. He had a little bird to lure in, until he was nesting in the palm of Slade’s hand.

***

Dick only allowed himself two days to recover in the Manor, and even that was bad enough. His mind was already racing by the time that Alfred pronounced him in good enough health, for the time being. His emotions had been firmly set aside - Harley would throw a fit - in favor of making and discarding handfuls of plans. Dick didn’t set foot in the Cave, which he knew was throwing Bruce for a loop, but he couldn’t risk it. There was no amount of internet security that would keep Dick’s investigations safe from Bruce if he was foolish enough to search things on the Manor grounds.

Which reminded him to call Babs. It was early in the morning, early enough that Dick knew she would still be sleeping, but not so early that she would think it was an emergency. He knew better than anyone that she preferred to listen to a voice message on her own terms, in her own time, than be forced to take a call she didn’t want.

Her familiar voicemail message was almost enough to make Dick tear up again. He’d been doing that a lot lately. He figured it was a side effect of the sub-drop, and being so goddamn young. He just hadn’t heard her voice in so fucking long.

Dick had to clear his throat before he could start talking.

“Hey, Babs. It’s me. Just wanted to hear your voice, if you get a chance. See if you’ve got anything that could use another set of hands.”

Dick was better at this now, better at navigating offering help to people who desperately needed it and loathed the thought of it simultaneously.

“If not, that’s fine too. Just wanted to say hi. Let you know I’m thinking about you.”

Dick wanted to keep going, to spill out everything that had happened, tell her how much he treasured her, how much he missed her. He wanted to tell her that she was perfect, and that he was unspeakably proud of her. Hell, he wanted to tell her about the past twenty years - the funny way that Damian’s voice had cracked when he hit puberty, a strange cloud formation that he’d seen a few years after the Audit fucked up the ozone layer, a new trick he’d tried to keep his injured shoulder limber. All of it. He wanted to tell her every single fucking thing he’d ever caught himself thinking, “Oh I should tell Babs,” and then realized that he couldn’t.

But he also didn’t want to hurt her, or ruin the relationship they had now, so he didn’t. He kept it all behind his teeth and swallowed again.

“Okay, that’s all. Love you, Babs.”

After that, Dick felt somehow more ready.

The first part of plan was assessing the situation, which was easier than Dick had anticipated. He sat propped up in his incredible, childhood-soft bed, and stared up at the ceiling, thinking.

He knew he had traveled back through time. He knew that Slade had left him a message.

Don’t even think about it, little bird. There’s nothing here for you.

Dick could practically hear Slade saying it. That meant Slade had known, had possibly even tracked down Constantine himself. He hadn’t told Dick to wait, or to look for them, or to fix things. He’d told Dick that there was nothing here for you, and for all Slade’s flaws, he wasn’t a liar.

Which meant that whatever had happened, Slade probably hadn’t survived it. Damian either - Slade knew well enough that Dick would find Damian in any world, at any cost.

Dick was hit by a sudden wave of grief. It doubled him over, made him fist his hands in the cotton duvet, hiss his breaths out through his teeth. He had gotten good at grieving, over the past twenty years. He mourned hard and fast, and moved on.

But there were no tears, no vivid bruise of longing and hurt, no incandescent rage to chase it away. Everything felt muted, not as though the grief was less, but as though it was buried under layers of sediment, and radiating up through his being. Dick surprised himself by still having coherent thoughts. It reminded him of something Dinah had told him once, that emotions were your brain’s interpretations of what your body was telling you. Feeling what your body tells you is a skill like any other.

This new-old body was so unpracticed, Dick realized. He trembled a bit, but didn’t collapse. He hadn’t practiced yet. He didn’t know how to feel his feelings any more than he knew how to hit a bottle cop at 2,000 yards.

That was the first step, then. Training, conditioning, assessment. Once Dick was certain he was back in shape, he could begin.

***

The plan came together in bits and pieces, tiny drips of ideas forming stalagtites of thoughts while Dick was moving. Dick had only been able to look Bruce in the face for two days before his affection started to get suspicious, so he removed himself back to his Bludhaven apartment. It was for the best. Dick almost didn’t manage to start the motorcycle, only the thought that he could come back any time he wanted breaking through the sudden spike of longing to stay right where he was. It helped that Tim was away with the Titans, and wouldn’t be back for at least a week. Dick could come back then.

So he set himself to work in the city he’d once felt so fiercely protective of. He’d failed Bludhaven before, and no-doubt would again. But at the very least, he could buy himself time. He trained hard, pushing himself over rooftops and down into sewers, trying to figure out where his experience would carry him and what would be over-written by muscle memory. He’d been right about his marksmanship, at least - when he managed to find himself a suitable sniper and makeshift target, he was a lousy shot. His knifework was abysmal, too, as well as most of the martial forms he’d learned from Damian after he’d grown up enough to match Dick in a spar.

His languages, though, were almost completely intact - even those he’d learned after the Audit. His hacking was much improved as well, along with his strategical and tactical thinking. He’d always been a solid leader, and a good tactician - now, with the benefit of twenty extra years of experience? Dick felt comfortable assessing his skills in the top .5% of people currently alive on the planet. Even Luthor had followed his lead in their fights against the Auditors, at the end.

While Dick trained, he researched. Babs never returned his call, but that was alright - he could cover his own tracks well enough for at least another few years.

Tim, Steph and Duke were safe enough where they were for now. Damian, too, as much as Dick hated to admit it. Talia wouldn’t let any harm to come to him. Hadn’t let any harm come to him. Dick was faced with the stark reality that the timeline could diverge at any moment. Even if the only different variable was him, there was no telling what impact even his small choices might have on the world. He unfortunately knew too much about time-theory to discount the “butterfly flaps its wings in China” theory. Anything could change at any time, and all Dick could do was be ready.

So for now, Dick focused his attention on Cass and Jason. The clock was ticking on Jason’s plans. Dick had never managed to completely nail down the timeline of his training and return to Gotham. When had Talia shown him the pictures of Bruce and Tim? When had she turned his confusion and grief into rage? Who had he trained under, and where, and in what order? Dick knew only that he’d left a trail of bodies behind him. He’d been livid about that, one.

Now, it just made him sad. He’d failed Jason so badly. He’d repeated Bruce’s rules verbatim, parroting the same things back to Jason in the hopes that they’d help him as much as they’d helped Dick. But they hadn’t, because Dick hadn’t understood.

He had only known that Batman and Robin couldn’t kill, that killing was bad and wrong. He hadn’t had to face why, only look to the deaths that stained his own grieving past, and refused to inflict that on anyone else.

It had been good enough, for a very long time.

But then the Audit, and suddenly Dick had been fighting alongside people he would have once happily condemned to a lifetime of prison. He’d organized resistance cells composed of violent felons, and seen first-hand how badly their justice system had failed them. He had watched people who had once been villains sacrifice everything they had in order to give others a chance to survive, to keep fighting. Good and evil had stopped mattering. All that Dick had cared about was trust, and survival, and trying to keep everyone from giving hope altogether.

So he was a little more conflicted than he had once been. He could understand a little better, the choices that were laid out in front of Jason. He knew in his bones how much it cost to look for other options, to see beyond what had been given to you.

Dick vowed to himself that he would give Jason every choice in the goddamn universe, and never begrudge him a single one.

Armed with his future-knowledge, Dick managed to pick up the trail of dead bodies, all belonging to particularly vile criminals. He put up a good old-fashioned cork board in his apartment bedroom to track it all, and started to fill in the gaps. Hand-to-hand combat, demolitions, cybersecurity, firearms - Dick closed his eyes, and tried to put himself in Talia’s shoes.

She didn’t know exactly what she was going to do with the weapon she was creating yet, which meant that she needed to hone him in every possible skill.

Dick’s flashed open and he began scribbling more options onto a scrap of paper.

Poisons, meta-ability suppression, infiltration, everything that Dick could think of was cross-referenced against Dick’s lists of already-missing mentors. He begged, borrowed and stole names and territories from contacts that would never now know his name. He eliminated some, added others, stopping occasionally for food and water, and to close his eyes and think like Talia.

Finally, Dick was left with three names. The last body had only turned up two days ago, so if Dick chose right, he could intercept Jason before he finished his plan for revenge.

There was a women in Wales who specialized in black market negotiations. A man in Peru who taught martial arts disciplines that even Dick wasn’t familiar with. Finally, another man in Sri Lanka who was the perfect candidate for teaching untraceable poisons.

Dick weighed his options, and booked a flight for Sri Lanka.

Chapter Text

Dick was vibrating out of his skin and cursing himself for a fool by the time he caught his first glimpse of Jason.

He was somehow exactly how Dick remembered him. Dick hadn’t realized until this very moment, laying flat on a rooftop and watching Jason haggle with a street vendor, that he had enshrined Jason at nineteen in his memory. Dick could summon an older image to his minds’ eye, interpose the somehow even broader shoulders and broken nose and cross-hatching of ropy scars over this fresh-faced kid. But it wasn’t the default, wasn’t how he imagined Jason when he thought of him.

No, this was how he remembered Jason - broadly powerful and eyes sparking with mischief. He was bent over a little to be able to hear his conversation amidst the cacophony of the street, and he had angled his body to block off any potential threats to the frail old submissive he was arguing with. Dick’s stomach clenched. He would wager that Jason hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it. No one had bothered to give him a crash-course in dominance when he came out of the pit, and Jason’s instincts had always put his body between others and harm. Of all of the axes of dominance, safety was the one that Jason had always resonated with the most.

Dick’s limbs were weighed as though with curing cement, the clutching void of his chest howling at him. He hadn’t gotten under since his drop, nearly three weeks ago, and here was a strong, trustworthy dominant. Jason was family. Jason could take care of him. Dick knew he could, too, with practice - but not yet. His memories didn’t care, fucking merrily with his body. Dick bit his lip bloody keeping a plaintive keen inside his soft mouth.

Then Jason was moving again, this time cracking open the shell of a mangosteen to get at the fruit inside. Dick was a shadow behind him, alleys and rooftops serving him with the same easy stealth. He trailed Jason through the tapestry of Colombo for most of the lengthening evening. He’d only been here once, before the Audit, and he’d forgotten how much he loved it. Though to be fair, Dick had rarely been anywhere on Earth that he didn’t love.

Everything was drenched in the smell of curry as vendors started opening up shop. The ocean crept through everything, damp and shushing, keeping the air cool and humid even as the bustle of tiny bodega businesses and boisterous conversations drowned out the sound of the waves. The mishmash of architectural styles cut distinctive shadows through the light of flickering street lamps. Everywhere, people went about their business - meeting and laughing and living. Dick could so easily lose himself in it, in the life of it, and never look back.

Eventually, Jason ducked into a doorway that Dick couldn’t follow him through. It looked like a private residence, if one hoped to live somewhere that provided complete anonymity as its primary defense. There was absolutely nothing distinct about it - no brightly blooming vines in window boxes, no painted window casings. There were, however, brand-new curtains in the same cheerful pattern blocking sightlines at each window.

Dick shook his head. Fucking sloppy. If this was Jason’s new teacher, Dick was disappointed.

It was the work of long minutes to find a silent way in, and by the time Dick managed to creep downstairs from an unprotected balcony, Jason was already standing over a slumped and bloody figure on the kitchen tile.

The man didn’t notice Dick’s entrance, too busy crying and blabbering, but Jason certainly did. His grip on the .45 was unwavering even as his eyes widened. His jaw didn’t drop open, but Dick didn’t expect it to - Jason had always played his truest emotions close to the chest.

Dick barely noticed the carbon steel gaze of the gun on him. Jason would shoot him, or not - Dick didn’t much care either way. What mattered was that he was here, that for the first time in so many years, Dick was close enough to see the individual curls of his hair, the faint traces of chicken-pox scars on his hands, the glowing green of his Lazarus eyes. Dick realized suddenly that he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Even if he could, he seemed to have lost to do anything with his mouth other than smile.

He realized distantly that he was crying again.

“What the fuck?” Jason whispered fiercely, then his voice cracked out. “What the fuck?!”

Dick knew better than to try to get physically close to Jason when he was scared and confused, but god wanted to. Instead, he lifted both of his hands to show that he was both unarmed and unarmored, and stepped around the doorframe to back further into the room. Words somehow squeezed their way out of his bubbling throat.

“I missed you, Jay, I missed you so much, I swear to god Little Wing, I-”

Jason cut him off with the snap of a gunshot into the floorboard. It was a flash-bang of anger, and Dick knew what it was protecting. He knew Jason, down to the marrow of him. So even though he knew he wasn’t in any real danger, knew that Jason would hurt but not harm, he cut off the stream of words.

“What are you doing here?” Jason hissed, all accusation. He wasn’t trembling. He’d been too well-trained for that, was too stubborn for it. His voice was the only thing that wavered.

Dick had to swallow back an incredulous laugh of a sob.

“I came for you.”

Jason stared, unblinking, the pistol still rock-steady in his grip. His expression had settled into a scowl, and rage radiated off of him in waves. Dick couldn’t care less.

“Well, that’s-” Jason cut off, not finishing the sentence. “Fine, whatever. You saw me. Leave.”

Dick shook his head. Leaving was absolutely the worst thing he could do right now. Jason certainly wasn’t going to scare him away with threats of violence.

Jason snarled at his refusal.

“You are going to leave. I am going to shoot this slimy bastard right between the eyes. Then you are going to run home to B and tell him I’m coming for him next.” Jason’s eyes narrowed, and his stance shifted as he gathered up the shreds of his control. “Or, you don’t leave, and I shoot both of you. B doesn’t really need a warning.”

It was a wrinkle in Jason’s original plan, but the intent was the same. Hurt Bruce. Hurt them all, for not loving him. For not being there for him. For replacing him. For whatever words Jason used to patch over the pain of his death and resurrection and every shitty choice their fucked up family had ever made.

Dick was already moving closer, ready to hug Jason whether he wanted it or not, by the time he noticed the bloodied man on the floor aim the gun. Jason did not notice.

Time didn’t freeze. Dick had done this enough times by now that he kept full awareness of space, and time, and the movement of objects through it, even as his body flooded with adrenaline. Instead, time paused for him, just for a moment, a thousand thoughts rattling through him one after the other. It was like running an algorithm with the press of a button - an instantaneous assessment of one factor after the other, with no hesitation between, to determine a plan of action.

The man was too far away for Dick to kick him or the gun. Jason was too close to dodge. Even the best reaction time wouldn’t be fast enough for a warning to matter. The man was already hurt, probably in shock. Pain or surprise wouldn’t stop him. Dick could stop him, just stop him, without killing him. Maybe. Maybe not.

Dick flung a familiar curve of razor metal through the air, faster than thought, certainly faster than this amateur could fire a gun. Dick could see the arc of it through the air, knew its trajectory even before its momentum was stopped abruptly by the spurting, gasping meat of the man’s neck and the bone underneath.

Time did freeze then. The blood and breathe gurgled from the neat line of the wound. The gun clattered to the ground, followed by the dull thump of the man’s hand. He hadn’t even had time to close his eyes. The smell of urine seeped into the air, under the coppery blood.

Jason’s jaw dropped. The gun wavered, arced down in his hand until it was pointed at the floorboards. He was staring at the man, at the glint of light of the edge of the bloody Batarang.

“Holy shit,” he finally choked out, and then his attention snapped back to Dick. “What the fuck?!”

Dick didn’t shrug; he didn’t feel casual. He’d ended someone’s life, and that was always a heavy choice. But he’d done it to save Jason, and in the balance of his choices, Dick could live with that. He would grieve later. This wasn’t the first man he killed, and no matter what he always hoped, he doubted it would be the last.

“What the fuck?” Jason repeated, quieter, sounding more like the confused kid he was under the anger.

Dick took a cautious step forward, and when Jason just stared, another one, until he was within arm’s reach. He didn’t bother with the gun still clutched in Jason’s hand. He just reached out and wrapped both arms around Jason’s. He was so much taller than Dick that his jaw just brushed the top of Dick’s head. It was an awkward, nearly painful position, with Dick’s arms part way around Jason’s upper arms and not even long enough to go all the way around.

Dick didn’t give a single fuck. He pressed his forehead against Jason’s jacket, against the new-stiff leather, and a zippered pocket dug into his cheekbone. He squeezed as tight as he could. Jason didn’t moved, except to tilt his head down, just a little.

“I missed you, Little Wing,” Dick said again. They stood there until Jason dropped the gun and hugged Dick back.

***

The safehouse in Sri Lanka had been scrubbed recently. By the scent of the chemicals, within the last two hours. Slade didn’t even bother casing it. Jason had been impeccable about every single site so far, and he wasn’t a man who slipped. Instead, he visualized a map of the city, and set his sights on where he would run his escape route, if this had been one of his jobs. Then he planned his course, and ran.

In a city this crowded, Slade could make up serious time with his enhancements, if he didn’t care too much about being seen. All of those fucking parkour sessions with Dick had done him some good after all, even if Slade would never admit it. He cut directly across the city to a private airfield that he knew for a fact was frequented by easily-bribed pilots.

He missed the chartered plan by minutes. He did not miss the pilot, who had been a handsome sum to take the night off and swear he had no idea where the plane had gone in the morning. Slade’s persuasion was not gentle, but he was in too much of a hurry to rely on anything more than involved than sheer intimidation.

“I- I don’t know! I swear I don’t know! They didn’t tell me!”

The pilot was jabbering already, digging around in his memory for any detail that would convince Slade to set him safely back on the rooftop. Slade cocked his head.

“They? Who was with him?”

The pilot clutched Slade’s fist, as though that would save him if Slade let go.

“I don’t know! I don’t! Two guys, both young! One of ‘em was big, you know? Real tall! The other one was shorter, dark hair! They both had dark hair! Blue eyes!”

A suspicion started to germinate in Slade’s mind.

“The shorter man. Graceful, charming smile?”

The man nodded frantically. Slade swore and tossed the pilot back onto the rooftop. He should have known that Dick was tracking his movements, after begging him to take a contract on Luthor. He might not have known the why, but the kid had a sense for people, and the strategy to back it up. He’d probably been planning to ambush Slade himself again, and through a combination of skill and sheer dumb luck, he’d found his precious, dead Little Wing instead.

God fucking dammit.

Slade still had time to salvage this. He had no way of knowing how far deep into his revenge fantasies Jason had fallen, no measure for how patiently he might be willing to play his hand, alone with Nightwing. And Dick, the ever-trusting, wouldn’t even consider the possibility that Jason might be a danger to him. Still, they had left together, which meant that they were at least under a temporary truce. It was extraordinarily difficult to fly the plane they’d co-opted single-handedly, so Slade probably had at least until they landed and went to ground.

Slade turned his attention back to the pilot, who was scuttling away from him backwards, on his hands and heels.

“One more thing.”

Chapter Text

Slade knew all of Dick’s safehouses, which ones he liked best, and which ones he used only as a last resort. ‘Rediscovering your long-lost brother’ was a new situation, but it didn’t matter. He knew Dick. He knew how he thought.

He would want to be close to Gotham, but not within the city proper. Bludhaven was well-placed, but it didn’t feel safe to Dick, not really. He hadn’t been there long enough. Metropolis and Star City were out of the question - both too far away and governed by other vigilantes.

No, Dick would stick closer to home. New York City. He’d scattered boltholes everywhere in the City that Never Sleeps during his time with the Titans, and still took refuge there when he needed space from the Bat.

From there, it was easy to consider and discard apartments and brownstones and warehouses until Slade honed in on the only option for a panicked Dick Grayson to squirrel Jason away until he could figure out what to do. By Slade’s measure, it was 50/50 whether they had a catastrophic fight within 24 hours, or joined forces to hide Jason’s little killing spree from the Bat. Dick could be unpredictable that way, when his morals ran up against his loyalties.

Or, of course, Jason could just be biding his time, waiting for Dick to fall asleep.

Slade made use of a cowardly billionaire’s private landing strip to shave time off of his journey, and a judicious application of blackmail kept his arrival quiet. A taxi was a waste of time this early in the morning, so Slade set off through the city on foot, shunning the subway in favor of rooftops. When the boarded-up windows of the decommissioned shipping center flashed into view, Slade slowed. He was reasonably certain he’d beat the boys here, but caution never hurt, and lack of it often killed.

A quick examination proved that the building was empty - no lights on, no electricity running, and the pile of dead blossoms and discarded wrappers against the doorframe hadn’t been disturbed in months. Getting in was easy when Slade knew every trick his little bird had ever used, and every security code besides. He did Dick the courtesy of not re-arming everything behind him, so that Dick would at least have some warning of what was waiting for him.

Nestled into the center of what had once been an office suite, several rooms had been opened up and retrofitted into a comfortable studio apartment and command center. A pair of smaller offices had been converted into guest bunks as well, since Dick was the only person Slade knew who regularly brought company to his safe houses. The whole thing was well-appointed and comfortably cluttered - almost lived in. Dick wasn’t much of one for luxury, but he delighted in his little creature comforts. The whole place was stale and dark, since there were no exterior windows, but it also meant that the scent of Dick was everywhere. Slade’s enhanced senses were overwhelming as often as they were useful, but for the moment, he didn’t give a damn. For just a second, alone in the dark, Slade closed his eyes and let himself breathe in his husband’s presence. He didn’t go so far as to imagine that he was just returning from a contract, but he was vividly reminded of those scant, halcyon years before the Audit, when he’d all but lived out of Dick’s apartment.

Slade shook the memory off and set to making something edible out of the eclectic mix of shelf-stable foods that Dick stocked his safehouses with. His little bird’s appetite was fickle and difficult, but he could choke down pretty much anything if it was really necessary. Slade really didn’t want to fight that battle tonight, if he could avoid it. Besides, in his experience, food put everyone on the back foot. Hard to imagine the night ending in violence if it started with a delicious and heavy meal.

***

Jason was silent, but not still. Dick could feel his tension festering and boiling over, and Jason would open his mouth, then close it again and return his attention to the plane’s panel. It made Dick feel jittery. When he was at his best, going under regularly, being in such close quarters with an anxious dom was no trouble at all. As it was, Dick had to focus on the contraction of his lungs, the buzzing of the aircraft, to keep himself steady. The flight was long, even in such a fast aircraft, so Dick finally broke the silence a few hours in. He kept his own eyes firm on their flight path, but said abruptly:

“I have a safehouse in New York. We’ll go there, give you some time to rest and recuperate.”

“Not Gotham?”

Dick looked over to find Jason scowling at him suspiciously. The fact that he was close enough that Dick could reach out and ruffle his hair was like a sweet little dart of joy straight to Dick’s heart. He refrained, but grinned anyway.

“Do you want to deal with Bruce right now?” he asked. Dick himself certainly didn’t - not until he could figure out how to approach this, what to say to keep Bruce from treating his own son with cold, unforgiving suspicion when what he needed most was a warm, safe bed and Alfred’s cookies, probably.

Jason shuddered and took his point, shaking his head vigorously.

More hours of silence ensued, until everything stretched out below them was frothy, chilling water as far as they could see. Dick loved this part of flying, being between places, knowing that he was coming from somewhere and going somewhere else. He wished that his body wasn’t so set on sabotaging him with demands to go to ground, to find safety, to find his husband and nudge his face into that scruffy beard until Slade chuckled.

Jason had closed his eyes for a brief nap somewhere around the Mediterranean, so Dick took advantage of the brief privacy to sink into meditation. He distanced himself from his body, just a little. Just for now. He focused on the needs of the mission, the greater good that he could let subsume his choices, and it was almost as good as submitting. For now. Dick needed to get Jason home, see him safe and cared for and decidedly less murderous. He needed to sort out what plans he needed to make, and what could wait for a few days. Then he could rest properly. Maybe he would even call Wally, or Kori. Shit, was he on speaking terms with Kori, in this strange when? He couldn’t remember.

Then again, did it matter? He wasn’t interested in continuing whatever their most recent fight was, and if he admitted to her that he needed something, she would come. It was an option.

Jason finally woke close to sunset. He seemed steadier, quieter. They shared a brief meal of onboard snacks - bougie but unsatisfying. Jason moved slowly, mulling things over in that serious, thoughtful way of his.

Finally, he settled inside himself enough to ask, “So it doesn’t bother you?”

Dick hummed. Jason wasn’t looking at him, just staring out at the sun-glint water. So Dick followed suit, letting his eyes trace the patterns of waves. He knew what Jason meant, probably better than Jason himself.

“Of course it bothers me.” Dick let his fingers drum against the armrest of the pilot’s chair, and took his time trying to find the words. Jason always appreciated that, knowing that people were really thinking about their answers. And Dick might only get one chance at this.

“That was a, a - a human. A whole person. And like, we can talk about what he did or what he might have done or whatever. But the point is he was a person, and I decided he didn’t get to keep living. I did that. And that really bothers me.”

Having answered the question, Dick let Jason sit quietly while he turned that over, examined it from every angle. The urge to keep going, to explain and explain and explain, was almost overwhelming. But Dick bit it back.

“This isn’t the first time,” Jason finally said. Dick tilted his head back and forth, both a yes and a no. For this Dick Grayson, it would have been.

“No,” he finally admitted, and wondered how to explain without delving into twenty years of apocalyptic violence that Jason didn’t need to know about. “It was an accident, the first time.”

He’d long since let go of the blame he carried for Roland Desmond’s death. He’d been out of his mind with exhaustion and fever and drop, which meant he hadn’t had much of a choice. It also meant that he’d never know what choice he would’ve made, if he’d been in his right mind. Would he have stopped Catalina from killing a man who was methodically destroying everything Dick cared about? Or would have stopped her, and let the consequences fall on the people he loved? Dick knew what choice he would make now. What he was going to do, if it came up again. But he would never know what he would have done then. And that was okay.

Dick cleared his throat, yanked his attention kicking and screaming back to the present moment, to the humming plane and humming quiet.

“It broke me in half, Jay. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t patrol.”

Just remembering that time was difficult. After that rooftop and everything that had followed, things went distant and blurry in his recollection for a while. It was all glazed over with hollow pain and an utter conviction that it would be better if he just didn’t exist. Dick was no stranger to suicidal ideation - in himself and others - but he’d been too shattered to even notice that he was a danger to himself.

If it wasn’t for Slade bringing him Rose, forcing him back to his feet, making him feel needed and connected again, things might have gone very differently for Dick.

Dick swallowed hard. Jason had a right to know, at least the shape of it. He was Dick’s brother.

“I’m lucky I survived, to be honest. I didn’t really want to, I guess, and it made me careless. I ended up just not thinking about it for a long time. And so of course it just festered while I ignored it, and it just…” Dick trailed off. He didn’t know how to explain that feeling, the way he’d had to dig around in his past so many years later. It had been like trying to lance a wound that was so scarred over it was indistinguishable from every other injury. It had been rotten timing - a mission gone wrong collided with a scene gone wrong, and then suddenly he’d been having a panic attack in Slade’s bed. He’d spent more time in subspace during the next three months than he had the past ten years combined, just to be able to cope. Dick sighed, and let it lie.

“So it bothers me, yeah. But I can’t let it break me, either. So I find ways to deal with it. I don’t lie to myself, say I didn’t have a choice or it was an accident, or whatever. But I try to… move through it, I guess. When we get back, I’ll see if I can find any family or friends, anyone that might mourn him. I’ll try to break the news myself, if I can. Not as myself. But, you know.”

Jason was nodding, just slightly, looking troubled. Dick wondered what he was thinking, whether he was trying to fill in the gaps of what he might have missed while he was gone. He was watching Jason reconstruct the image of Dick he had in his mind in real-time. It was strangely dizzying, almost nauseating. But also weirdly liberating. It mattered, what his loved ones thought of him, how they saw him. It became a part of who Dick was. His family often saw things in him that he had missed, or buried, or hidden. They were often outrageously, frustratingly wrong, too - but wasn’t that the price of being known?

They passed the rest of the flight in silence, until it was time to coordinate their landing. New York City was crowded and claustrophobic, and they couldn’t very well just land in the middle of Astoria. So after some debate, they agreed on an airstrip on the Jersey side of the island, along with the frustratingly long drive into the city. Neither of them were exactly equipped for the subway, still bedraggled and armed.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

The lasagna was already cooling by the time that muffled sounds drifted in from the street. Slade listened with half an ear while he set the table with mismatched flatware. He put out plastic cutlery. Still potentially dangerous, but not as immediately threatening as silverware. 

The near-silent approach was promising, at least. Dick and Jason seemed to be working together to case the breached safe house, rather than say, Jason dragging Dick in by his heels. Slade could tell when they caught the scent of marinara and cheese, because through two walls he could hear the faintest whisper of “what the fuck?”

Dick slammed the door open with more force than necessary, and Slade was forced to pluck the batarang he threw out of the air just inches from his nose. 

“Welcome home,” he drawled, burying any errant sincerity under a thick layer of sarcasm. “Stop throwing things and siddown.”

Dick hadn’t moved from the doorframe. He was frozen there, with Jason annoyed behind him, staring at Slade in shock. Slade narrowed his eye. 

It wasn’t Dick’s usual brand of surprise - that was a more open expression, a little delighted, pleased just to experience something unexpected. No, this was something deeper, like snapping awake from a dream that feels uncannily real. 

Then the expression flits away, quick as a breath, and Dick heaves a put-upon sigh. 

“Jay, you’ve met Slade? Jason, Deathstroke the Terminator. Deathstroke, my beloved baby brother Jason.” Dick gestured at each of them in turn, the warning reminder glib on his lips. 

Slade hadn’t actually met Jason before, technically speaking. He’d outlived most of his family by almost ten years, and they’d fought side-by-side for most of that. Slade could admit that he was fond of Jason, and more importantly, respected him. Regardless, he had the tactical advantage - he knew all of Jason’s tricks, and Jason didn’t know him at all. They could sit down and have a nice meal together and at the end of it, Slade could be certain about whether Jason was planning to murder Dick in his sleep. 

He didn’t offer to shake Jason’s hand, but he did nod congenially and gesture towards a pot of green beans simmering on the stove. 

“Grab those, would you?” he asked before anyone could stand around awkwardly. 

Dick was already shucking his shoes and the dark leather jacket that Slade was pretty sure was going to get stolen out of his closet. He wove around Jason and Slade, brushing close without touching, to climb partially on a counter below the liquor cabinet. With a little groan, he managed to pluck a bottle of wine and another of vodka. It wasn’t whiskey, but then again, this painfully young Dick had no reason to keep whiskey in his safe houses. 

“Will vodka do?” he asked absently as he rummaged around for glasses. Jason made a retching noise. “Not for you, asshole, for Slade.”

Slade just shrugged and reached over Dick’s head for a shot glass. It was an excuse to step into his space, to stand close enough to breathe him in and crowd him close, without showing his hand. Dick’s pulse skipped, then settled. 

Good little bird, Slade thought to himself. 

Jason seemed to be arguing about the wine, which was a horrific two-buck-chuck that Slade himself wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot-pole. Might as well drink rubbing alcohol. 

“Absolutely not,” Dick was saying as Slade set the lasagna at folding card table set up for dining. He returned to the kitchenette to pour three glasses of water. 

“Oh come off it! I can murder a bunch of people but I can’t have wine? You know I drink! I was drinking before Bruce even found me!”

Slade hummed in disbelief. To call it “drinking” was a stretch - at most, the kid had been offered the occasional sip of liquor from a friendly bum or hooker. Still, he set a wine glass down on front of him. Old enough to fight was old enough to drink, in Slade’s book. 

More importantly, Dick didn’t argue with the murder bit. They all managed to settle into their chairs without a real flash of anger, and Slade pretended to ignore him when Dick turned his annoyance on Slade. 

“Really? Really?! Right after I just said no, you’re gonna undermine me, in front of god and everybody?”

Slade shrugged. Jason had served himself massive portions of both lasagna and green beans, and was shoveling them both down with single-minded dedication. Slade was struck with the reminder that Jason was still a kid, still growing, with a teenager’s appetite. 

Dick, on the other hand, had yet to touch his food. Slade could tell that he was genuinely annoyed, and not just playing. By his guess, he was probably a few years out from earning Dick’s playful scoldings. Still, he had yet to say anything about Jason’s growing body count, even though Jason had brought it up. 

So either Dick missed the jab, or he just couldn’t bring himself to care. It was a few years ahead of schedule, but Slade wasn’t about to complain. If he’d known that a joyful - or at least less violent - reunion would tilt the scales for his little bird so quickly, he would’ve arranged it himself the first time around. 

Slade gestured at Dick’s plate. 

“Eat,” he said, and emphasized it with a tone just shy of outright dominance. Dick needed that, sometimes, when it came to food. 

Dick grumbled, but picked up his fork. They ate in silence for long minutes. Slade watched Jason surreptitiously, trying to weigh the odds that he was just taking advantage of a solid meal before plotting violent revenge. 

It was hard to gauge, when the only thing that seemed to be happening in Jason’s head was “lasagna good”. Slade had to admit it was looking increasingly like Dick had managed to cut off his more murderous impulses at the head. Slade snorted to himself in amusement. 

Dick clicked his fork down and flashed an absent smile. 

“Bathroom,” he muttered by way of explanation. Slade avoided watching him go with a great deal of effort. He kept half an ear on his receding footsteps, though, indulged in the comfort of his familiar warm pulse. 

A pulse which spiked alarmingly less than sixty seconds later. Slade shoved the chair away, a knife in his hand, on sudden and silent alert for danger. He barely noticed that Jason did the same a half-beat behind. 

No one could have gotten in. Dick wasn’t in danger. Slade had heard the water turn on. So what would-?

“He’s dropping,” Slade realized in whispered horror. Then he was moving, the instinct of his well-honed body, covering the distance to the bathroom door in less time than it took to blink. 

It was locked. Dick’s pulse was erratic, and this close, Slade could hear his ragged breathing. Slade ripped the door from the frame with a splintering crack. Jason barely dodged it behind him. 

“Dick doesn’t drop- ” he was protesting, but his voice died when they saw Dick’s hunched silhouette. 

He was curled over the sink, his right arm cradled in his left, glassy-eyed and sweating. Slade caught the splotched red of a burn spreading across the tender skin of his inner arm. Dick flinched when Slade crowded into his space. Slade didn’t waste time hating himself for it. With one hand he slammed the steaming faucet off, and with the other grabbed Dick’s uninjured wrist hard enough to bruise. 

***

Dick knew he was fucked the second he’d opened the door to the sight of Slade pulling open the oven and the scent of lasagna soaking the air. He’d worry about how Slade had found this particular safe house later. For now, all of Dick’s attention was on pretending that everything was 100% fine, no impending drop here, absolutely not. 

It was just so domestic, an echo of a hundred nights that Dick hoarded in his memory. They bickered lightly over giving Jason wine, Slade made the tiniest expression of distaste over the cheap vodka. Even the lasagna was familiar, a Wilson family special concocted from cheap, shelf-stable cans and boxed pasta. 

It was taking all of Dick’s concentration to keep from visibly trembling. Slade was so close, crowded in around the rickety card table. Dick could smell him - not just the musk of the road, but the skin-scent of him. Dick wanted to bury his face against the crook of Slade’s neck and breathe it in. He wanted to grin and tease until Slade got fed up enough to shove a forkful of lasagna in his mouth. He wanted to hold Slade’s hand. 

Dick had been concentrating on not falling apart at the table so hard that he didn’t notice that he’d barely eaten. Slade noticed. 

“Eat,” he interrupted, and Dick’s chest squeezed. It was the voice Slade used for real orders, the nonnegotiable kind, the orders that would carry unpleasant consequences if Dick ignored them. 

Dick took a bite. He couldn’t have stopped himself even if he wanted to. He was too well-trained for that, and the thought stirred equal parts pride and longing in his belly. 

He knew it was a mistake the second he swallowed. The pasta was rich and heavy, designed to pack as many calories into a palatable bite as possible. His stomach rebelled almost immediately, and Dick couldn’t even blame it. Normally, Slade’s orders helped, made it easier to eat as much as his body needed, to do it without shame or guilt or second-guessing. 

But it had taken them years to work out their system - what Dick needed, when Slade could push and when he had to let up, what Dick wanted orders about and what he didn’t. And all of it was gone. 

Dick forced himself to take another bite, and then another. Slade had told him to eat. Dick didn’t have to do what Slade told him, not anymore. He wanted to. He was going to be sick. 

His throat was so tight that it was a miracle he managed a tired smile and a quick excuse before he all but bolted for the bathroom. Dick knew he was dropping, knew it was probably too late to stop. It was worse knowing that Slade was right there, and Jason too - two dominants he trusted, who could put him under and keep him there. But that wasn’t right. He couldn’t trust them. Not anymore. Not yet. He wanted to. 

Dick flipped the faucet in as hot as it would go. A shock to the system, a quick, clean burn - it was as good a bet as anything. Dick caught sight of his reflection, braced over the countertop, eyes wild. Fuck, what was he doing? He could go back out there, explain -

What? Explain time theory? Hope they believed him? Hope they would treat him gently and firmly rather than like a raving lunatic?

Insane. Ridiculous. Dick shoved his arm under the steaming water. 

***

Dick was hovering on the cliff of a truly brutal drop. Slade could tell from the dilation of his pupils, by the catch-hook of his breath, by the gasping furrow of his forehead. His precious bird, scared and hurting, and Slade didn’t know what to do. Dick didn’t go down easy. He needed force, and usually pain, and a sense of utter safety. Slade didn’t even know if this younger Dick trusted him enough to go down for him at all. But damn Slade if he didn’t try. 

Before Dick could squirm away, Slade caught his other wrist in a steel grip and pulled. Jason was yelling threats from behind him, obviously not willing to risk hurting Dick to carry through on them. Over his shoulder, Slade snapped, “There’s a box in the bedroom.” Under the foot of the bed, on the side closest to the door - but Slade couldn’t know that. “Find it and bring it to the couch.”

Jason hesitated, but Slade had already forgotten him, arms full of a panicked, protesting Dick. He was a squirming, desperate mess - convinced as always that his vulnerability was a flaw, a burden, a threat. Slade had literally beat that out of him, once upon a time, and he would do it again if he had to. He’d forgotten how much he loathed this, seeing Dick trying to run from his own needs, refusing to be helped, scared to be seen. It made his chest freeze and crackle with anger. This should never have been allowed to happen - not to someone like Dick.

Dick might have been all fluid grace in the field, but like this, the biggest challenge was keeping him from hurting himself as Slade dragged him bodily from the bathroom to the nearby couch. Dick ducked and flailed, and Slade cursed and caught him, an asynchronous dance that only ended when Dick threw his head back hard enough to shatter Slade’s nose. Slade choked on the sudden hot-copper rush, and swore viciously. The pain was meaningless, but it was a sign that Slade could lose this fight. If Dick got away, for even a moment, he could bolt out into the night, and then even Slade would have a hard time catching him. The thought of that, of Dick alone in a city that wasn’t his, dropping and running and vulnerable - Slade cut the thought off. 

He didn’t have time to wait for Jason to find the fucking restraints. He managed to wrestle Dick into an almost-hold long enough to shift the grip he had on Dick’s left arm. Then, before Dick could slip away again, Slade lifted the wrist to his mouth and hit down hard. 

Dick moaned. 

Fuck, it was a beautiful sound. The noises of pleased-shock and pain that Dick choked out always made Slade want more . Dick went utterly still, not limp but tense, hovering at the shoreline of real submission. Slade wanted to do such terrible things to him. 

Dick’s arm twitched, an instinctive attempt to move away from the pain, but Slade didn’t let go. All Dick managed to do was work the bruise in deeper, panting and trembling as he did. 

Jason appeared a moment later, a familiar blue tupperware bin in his hands.  Having a task seemed to focus him, since he only blinked in surprise at Slade’s blood-soaked beard and the grip of his teeth in Dick’s arm. That, or the scene somehow didn’t register as strange enough to worry about. Slade still didn’t let go, just made a small gesture to set the box on the bland coffee table. Jason bristled a bit at being told what to do, at not knowing what he should do, but his dominant instincts won out. Dick was still shaky and vulnerable, the air between them all still tight with apprehension, and any display of anger or conflict could still send him into a drop. 

No, much better to have two capable dominants working together to get him steady. That’s what Slade reminded himself of, anyway, as Jason started rifling through the box. Dick still hadn’t moved, except to pant and twitch. 

Jason started sorting through the box, holding up items a few at a time, only momentarily confused by items he didn’t recognize. He didn’t even know what he was looking for, Slade realized - how could he? Who would have taught him?

The second his hands touched the cheap cuffs that Dick kept in hand for emergencies, Slade growled, low and forceful. Dick froze. Jason held them out, and then carefully helped Slade buckle them around one wrist, then the other. They were hideous plastic faux-leather things with an easy release that Dick had picked out to use for himself when he just needed pressure, to feel contained. Rope would be better, but these would do for now. Slade could feel the stress in Dick’s body start to leak away. He leaned in close over Dick’s shoulder so that he could link the cuffs together, and murmured in his ear, “Good boy.” 

Dick gasped and let his hands fall into Slade’s grip. His body was still so taut, pressed up hard against Slade’s chest. It soothed something in Slade, to have him there. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but at least Slade had Dick contained, tucked close to his body  

Jason, thankfully, caught on quick enough to dig out the matching ankle restraints and pass them over. It was the work of moments to wrestle Dick down onto the couch and cuff his ankles together. It wasn’t until he had Dick pulled over his lap that Slade realized that Jason was watching them, tense and silent, and chewing on the inside of his lip like it was good tobacco. 

Slade pressed one palm over the nape of Dick’s neck to buy a few seconds to think. He knew that in the future-past, Jason had been happy to help Dick down, and Dick had been happy to let him. Slade remembered Grant doing the same for Joey, when Joey had been fighting with Addie and didn’t want to submit to her. But it had taken years to rebuild that trust between Dick and Jason , years that neither of them had the benefit of. 

And besides, Slade couldn’t be absolutely certain that he could take Dick all the way down without showing his hand. 

“I’m about to spank your brother red and put him on his knees,” Slade said bluntly. “This would be a good time to go do a perimeter check. A long one.”

Jason didn’t startle or blush, but he did narrow his eyes, ready for a fight. Slade pretended to ignore him and turn his attention to Dick’s jeans. 

Jason didn’t argue, just stomped away and slammed the door on his way out. The sound made Dick whine in upset uncertainty. Slade smoothed a hand through his swear-damp curls, and leaned down to murmur in Dick’s ear, victory and vicious pride thrumming through his veins  

“Shhh, it’s alright, little bird. Just you and me know. I’m going to take care of you.”

Chapter Text

Jason wasn’t stupid. Sure, he was swamped by a green-tinged haze of anger, but he wasn’t stupid. 

The last thing any vulnerable submissive needed was a dominant with a temper. Jason kept having to blink away memories of Willis, how mean he got when Catherine dropped. Even at his drunkest and angriest, he’d tried to get her steady, and lost his temper when he couldn’t manage it. The first and only time Jason had called the ambulance had been after one of Willis’s futile attempts, and it had still been a close call. 

Jason barreled through the worst fucking perimeter check of his life. He felt too big for his skin, wanted to feel his knuckles split, wanted to wipe blood away from his nose. The hideous, pleading whine that Dick had made kept echoing in his ears. The angle of Dick’s burned arm, clutched awkwardly to his chest, chased Jason around every corner. Jason hadn’t even known that Dick could drop. And now here Jason was, trying to outrun his fury long enough to be useful. 

Dick was alone in a shitty safe house with Deathstroke , and it was still a better choice than anything Jason could give him.

Jason thudded down to a well-hidden fire escape, fists clenched. 

Fuck that. Fuck this. Jason wasn’t about to leave Dick to Slade’s non-existent mercy. Two minutes of vicious tinkering with his communicator, and Jason managed to encode a message with shaking fingers. 

N in danger. The mercenary is here. Bring B. 

Jason sent just that terse message, along with a set of coordinates, to a digital address he could only hope was still monitored. 

It was time to see what the new Robin was made of. 

***

Dick thrashed against the grip over his thighs, driven by the raw ache of being held so close against Slade, but without getting what he needed. Conscious thought kept slipping away, replaced by the overwhelming sensation and flashes of feral panic. His body was screaming at him, his still feverish skin laid overtop of throbbing joints, begging him for more, for something, for anything that would wrench him back to himself. 

Dick tried to yank his legs away, hoping against hope that Slade would bruise him for it. He couldn’t contain his own limbs, could barely breathe through the knot in his chest. He needed Slade to hurt him. He knew Slade wouldn’t, not like he needed. 

Why not? Dick couldn’t figure out why Slade was just holding him still, barely hard enough to hurt, murmuring words Dick couldn’t parse. He tried again to jerk away, and barely got a swat on the thigh for it. Dick struggled to find words, to ask for what he needed. He could barely manage to work his mouth, never mind strong thoughts together. 

He wanted to beg to be tied up, for a field of tiny, painful knots to dig into his body. He wanted to be held in place while Slade beat bruises into him. He wanted Slade to carve this awful, trembling feeling from his chest with a knife. 

Slade did none of those things. He worked one huge hand into Dick’s hair and pulled, not even yanking painfully at his neck, just forcing him to lift his face. Then he was shifting his legs, steadying Dick over his lap, and working Duck’s pants down to expose his ass. Dick sobbed when the first blow landed, and it was only partially from gratitude. 

***

Slade kept Dick in his place over Slade’s lap with the ease of long practice and no small amount of enhanced strength.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” he muttered. Never let it be said that Dick Grayson knew when to give up. Slade admired the pink glow that his hand was painting across Dick’s perfect ass. Slade could tell from here that Dick was wet, his pussy slick with want. The angle that Slade had him tilted over his lap didn’t allow him to press his hardening cock into Dick’s hip or stomach - pity. Slade’s attention was narrowing, his thoughts growing clear and focused. He was tempted to reach down and rub his fingers against Dick’s clit, but he refrained. 

His little bird had strong feelings about things like consent, and he knew Dick wouldn’t thank him in the morning if Slade took liberties now. It was a damn shame. Slade wanted to flip Dick over and eat him out until he cried, force him to come on his fingers and tongue over and over until he just gave up. There was nothing more intoxicating than the moment that Dick went limp, giving up completely. 

But now wasn’t the time. Slade knew it, in that instinctive way that only came to him when he hit topstate. Dick was too tense under his hands, needy, pleading gasps falling from his mouth. Slade smoothed his palm over the marks he’d left. This, he could do. He brought his hand down on one smooth cheek, then the other, each sharp sound sending heat curling low in his belly. 

Slade paced himself carefully, grounding his other hand in Dick’s sweaty curls. If this was his husband, Slade would be able to all but rip Dick into pieces before he tapped out. But this wasn’t his husband, no matter how similar. This was a young, vulnerable submissive with no reason to trust him. 

Slade would just have to work with what he had. 

He painted Dick’s ass with bruises until his bird shoved back against his hand, still whining senselessly. Slade didn’t dare push harder, not without more experience together. That was alright, though - he had options. 

“Shhh, shhh, good boy,” he whispered. It was easy to rearrange Dick, to lower him to the floor so that he was kneeling, his heels digging into the fresh bruises. He was a goddamn gift like this, lashes wet with tears, so loose and desperate Slade’s feet. 

Slade pressed two fingers against Dick’s chapped lips, and crooned when Dick opened his mouth. His bird didn’t even bother to suck, just opened his mouth and let Slade stroke his tongue. His mouth was so wet, a familiar, soft heat that Slade looked forward to sinking his cock into. But for now, Slade focused on petting his velvety tongue, using his other hand to stroke Dick’s hair, his cheekbone, his jaw. There would be no sudden submission tonight, only a slow, gradual release. That was alright, though. There would be other nights. 

Slade would make sure of it. 

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, Tim did know when he was in over his head. “The mercenary” could only mean Deathstroke, and that meant that Time would be outmatched - not to mention the unknown variable of whoever had sent the message to start with. They had Robin’s personal line - not Tim’s, but the one that had been retired when Jason died. 

It was so obviously a trap that it might not be, and Tim absolutely would take Batman with him - if he was in Gotham. But he wasn’t, he was in space for the next two days, and by Tim’s estimate that was too late. So Tim left a message for Alfred and took the Batjet. 

New York City wasn’t the easiest place to land, but with the Batjet’s stealth capabilities, Tim managed a landing less than a mile from the coordinates. 

Tim had come well-equipped for reconnaissance, and he put all of his hard-earned skills to use as he slipped through the city. Trying to take Deathstroke head-on would be a tactical error of monumental proportions- but if he finally had Dick in his grasp, he might not notice a stealthy shadow following him. 

At least, Tim hoped. 

Am infrared scan of the surround block revealed a few inhabitants- two adults cooking in an apartment, plenty of folks asleep in bed, a bulky man smoking in a fire escape - but no cause for concern. The safe house wasn’t too hard to spot, once Tim knew what to look for. It was low to the ground, instead of high, which was odd for Nightwing. But it was also in an area that would limit civilian casualties, and the boarded windows all hid various traps and alarms. 

Nothing stops the US mail, Tim thought, and grimaced. He found a shadowed nook - much harder than it would have been in Gotham - and settled in to watch. It took a few minutes to find the heat signatures of two people in the safehouse, and then even longer to find an angle where Tim could make sense of what he was seeing. 

The larger splash of red was Deathstroke, and her seemed to be sitting on some sort of couch or chair. The smaller, hotter shape had to be Dick, and he was lower, crouched down. 

Kneeling. Dick was on his knees in front of Deathstroke. Tim swallowed bile. 

He needed a plan. 

***

Jason watched the new Robin flit from roof to roof, and had to squeeze his eyes shut to hide from the flare of green rage. This kid - truly a child, still - had neither Dick’s grace nor Jason’s power. Jason had thought he was angry when he found out that Bruce had replaced him. This- seeing such a tiny person tracing Deathstroke the Fucking Terminator, with absolutely no backup and probably not nearly enough training - was a roaring bonfire in comparison to his earlier candle flame. 

At least the kid didn’t rush in to engage. He worked his way around to several different surveillance spots, no doubt checking entrances and exits, as well as heat signatures. Jason couldn’t know exactly what Robin was seeing, but he had an idea. Fuck. No telling what the kid might do if he thought Slade was ravaging Dick, rather than pulling him back from the brink of a dangerous drop. 

And where in the ever-loving fuck was Bruce? 

Jason hadn’t planned to get involved. He wasn’t ready for anyone to know, yet, how not-dead he was. Dick had thrown a serious wrench in his plans. 

But he couldn’t let Slade kill the kid, either - and he might, if Tim accidentally yanked Dick out of subspace. 

Fuck his entire second life. 

Jason waited until Robin was focused wholly on the safehouse, then picked his way to a rooftop closer by. It was good to know that he hadn’t lost his touch for stealth even with so much added bulk. He watched the kid wearing his colors, Dick’s colors, case the joint with precise efficiency, then slip in through a jimmied window. 

God fucking dammit. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Jason had a whole fucking plan, a way to make damn sure that his death had meant something, that it hurt as much for Bruce as it did for him. 

And now another Robin was in imminent danger of being murdered. 

Jason tore a strip of black fabric off the bottom of his t-shirt and tied it over his nose and mouth, then flipped the hood of his maroon jacket up to hide his hair. It would have to be good enough for now. 

***

Even the thick curls of Dick’s sweat-damp hair and the sweet affection in his expression couldn’t distract Slade from trying to puzzle out what the fuck had happened. He petted Dick absently where his head rested against Slade’s thigh, and tried to map out the sequence of events. 

Sure, Dick probably hadn’t expected to find his dead brother while trying to intercept Slade; that was fair. It was the kind of revelation that would send most submissive into a shock drop. Slade had watched Nightwing walk through hundreds of other, more horrifying scenes without so much as a whimper. Besides, he’d seemed fine when they sat down for dinner. Exhausted, but stable. He’d even taken a full plate of food, which he never did of his own volition if he felt unsteady. He needed the control, to decide what he put in his body and when and how much. He hadn’t eaten all of it, but even so-

Slade froze, one hand still buried in Dick’s hair. 

Dick hadn’t been eating. Slade had told him to eat. He’d ordered him to, with the full force of habit. That was one of the things he’d done for Dick, just a few weeks ago - forced his bird to eat, when he struggled to do it for himself. 

So Dick, who already struggled so much with food, had been ordered to eat by a dominant he neither knew nor trusted. And he’d done it. Slade hadn’t actively watched him, but thinking back he could recall every bite that Dick had taken. He’d eaten almost everything on his plate, and he’d hated every second of it. 

Jesus wept. Slade was sitting here with Dick at his feet, and it was his fault. Slade forced himself to resume stroking, kept his muscles loose and relaxed, but his jaw clenched so hard he felt it crack. 

This was the last thing either of them needed. When Dick came to he would be hurt and incandescently angry; Slade could tell that he himself was already toppling out of topstate. One stupid goddamn mistake, and Slade had already managed to sabotage any chance he had at rebuilding trust with the kid. 

It would be worse if he was still here when Dick surfaced.

Luckily for him, Jason had called in backup. Probably within five minutes after slamming the door, if Slade’s timing was right. Even now, he could hear another sly little hero working his way into the safehouse. No Bat yet, that Slade could tell, but that was alright. If Slade’s memory was still as perfect as it ever was, this Robin was Tim, and Tim would grow up into a cunning and firm dominant. That would be enough to help Dick come up gently. 

Slade could still salvage this. 

“You might as well come in, Robin.” Slade didn’t call out, just spoke loud enough that he could be picked up by curious ears. 

There was a long silence, no doubt while Tim tried to spin this, tried to come up with a plan. Slade sighed. 

“I give you my word I have no intention of harming you or Nightwing tonight.”

If Tim was as smart as Slade remembered, he’d know that Slade’s word was his best guarantee of safety. 

***

Tim should have known better. He was always making stupid mistakes like this; no wonder Batman didn’t trust him. Even now, Tim couldn’t see what he should have done differently, what he should do now. 

But Deathstroke was famous for keeping his word, and Dick was in there without backup. 

Tim tried to enter silently, but he saw the back of Wilson’s head turn ever-so-slightly. It was a straight shot from the only usable door through a small kitchenette and then to the ragged couch centered in the tiny living space. The remains of a meal sat on the table. Three settings, not two, along with a glass of half-drank vodka and two glasses of wine so rank it might as well be vinegar. 

Tim approached slowly, using stealth as an excuse to catalogue details and try to figure out what the hell was going on. Who else had been here? Why was Dick’s jacket hanging on a hook, but no sign of his Nightwing kit? There was no sign of Deathstroke’s kit, either, aside from an unassuming suitcase without a tag. As Tim cleared the counter, he could see the remains of a door and its frame scattered in the hallway. 

What on Earth had happened here? 

Wilson wasn’t moving, except to visibly track Tim’s movements, and Tim knew it was a courtesy. It didn’t help the thundering adrenaline racing through Tim’s system. He’d never faced Deathstroke directly, but he knew that even Dick never tried to take him head on. Tim had to keep his cool. 

Tim shifted his grip on his bo staff to something less immediately threatening, and kept his back to the wall as he stepped around the couch. 

Dick was on his knees, eyes closed, deep in subspace. His head was leaning against Wilson’s thigh. Tim squashed his immediate disbelief and outrage - being shocked by the situation wouldn’t change the reality of it. Wilson’s hand was tangled proprietarily in Dick’s hair. There was a box of implements discarded on the coffee table, and Tim could make out a hint of cuffs at Dick’s wrists. 

Before Tim could open his mouth to negotiate, Wilson cut in with a brisk report. Tim’s heart stopped at the whiplash of it, but he kept his eyes on Wilson’s profile.

“He nearly dropped almost two hours ago. He tried to shock his system by running his arm under scalding water.”

Well, that explained the bathroom door at least. Tim collapsed his staff and moved to the opposite side of the side table so he could do a better visual inspection. Wilson wasn’t looking at Tim, eyes locked in Dick’s face. Tim didn’t know why Wilson was telling him this, but he could figure that out later. 

“I got him down, but he’ll be delicate when he comes back up. He’ll need arnica and a clean bandage for his arm. Don’t force him to eat, but there’s oranges and crackers in the cupboard. Make sure he drinks at least a liter of water.”

And then Wilson moved. It was a slow, deliberate motion, but Tim’s hand flew back to his staff all the same. Wilson shot him an unimpressed look and Tim definitely didn’t flush in embarrassment. Wilson was just shifting, crouching to get an arm under Dick’s shoulders. He lifted Dick in an easy bridal carry, and Tim took a half step back to allow him to pass. 

At this moment, at least, Wilson hadn’t done anything threatening, or even vaguely sinister. Tim still didn’t have a single theory as to what exactly had happened, but he needed to decide what he was doing regardless.

He followed Wilson at what would be an advantageous distance with any other opponent. Tim was pretty sure that wouldn’t make a bit of difference right now. Tim’s hands were sweaty, and his pulse was racing - but he kept his breathing under control. Dick needed him to keep it together, to figure out what was going on, to get him out. Or something.

Tim watched in silence, trying to fit the image of Deathstroke carefully tucking Dick into bland bed separated from the living space by a folding screen. He obviously didn’t have any troubles manhandling Dick - who Tim knew from experience was a lot denser than he looked. More confusing was the fact that Dick kept curling back towards him, making little noises of confused annoyance when Wilson took a half-step back. Dick’s eyes were open, but bleary, and he clutched a pillow and whined when Wilson separated from him entirely. Tim’s stomach was doing something weird that he did not like. It took him a moment to realize that Wilson was watching him expectantly. He gestured imperiously at where Dick was trying to reach him, pulling the comforter in closer as a substitute.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Tim nearly bolted to the bed at such a blatant command, but the usual revulsion rose up and stopped him. Tim wasn’t going to be a submissive, no matter what the tests said. Which meant that he could do this. He could take care of Dick, at least long enough to get him back to the manor.

Tim took a bracing breath, and then squirmed in from the side of the bed that didn’t have Deathstroke looming over it. He could feel the familiar buzzing concentration starting to whir in his brain. It was the same feeling that he got when he started to really sink his teeth into a case - Tim could do this. 

He was smaller than Dick, but that was fine - he wiggled in under the comforter next to him and sat propped up, so that he would be in a more advantageous position. When Dick turned his face towards him, his expression twisted in distress, Tim used the movement to pull on Dick’s shoulder. He couldn’t rearrange Dick the way Wilson could, but it was surprisingly easy to encourage Dick to pull the pillow he was clutching with him and curl up against his thigh. The hardest part was getting Dick to budge around enough that Tim could pull out the wrinkles of blankets and smooth them over his shoulder. The pillow protected Dick’s cheek from Tim’s bony knees, and it left him in the perfect position for Tim to reach out and smooth down his hair. Mentally, Tim ran through everything he’d studied about dominance, about subdrop, about how to tell what a submissive needed, how to take care of them. He’d thought it would be complicated. There was so much information, so many different recommendations out there, procedures and laws and social mores - but Tim was somehow not at all surprised when that all fell away. Tim wasn’t taking a weird test in a doctor’s office, he was just cuddling Dick. That was a typical Tuesday night, at least if Dick had his way. 

Okay, that was great. Tim could do this. He ran his fingers through Dick’s hair, petting and scritching more confidently when Dick relaxed into it and started making contented sounds. 

“Good. He comes up easy.”

Tim hadn’t exactly forgotten Wilson was there, but he jumped a little anyway. He’d stepped back from the bed, and was in the process of shoving the splinters of the door out of the immediate walkway. Tim opened his mouth - maybe to complain? - but Wilson didn’t let him.

“Just keep him warm, and make sure he drinks the damn water. Got it?”

Wilson’s voice was a lot more brusque than it had been just a few minutes ago. Tim wasn’t sure why. In his defense, he was pretty well distracted by the urge to just wrap himself over Dick’s head so that it wouldn’t be too bright, too loud, too anything. He nodded.

“Arnica, oranges and crackers, a liter of water,” he repeated sharply. He wasn’t going to forget. And then, just to be spiteful, he added, “Heavy blanket, no music, but talking is fine. Don’t let him fall asleep until he comes all the way back up.”

Wilson might have all of his creepy files or whatever, but Dick was Tim’s hero. He’d been watching Robin his whole life. He knew how to take care of him - and he wasn’t going to waste his chance to do it. 

Rather than angry, which Tim had expected, Wilson just seemed amused.

“Yeah kid. That’ll work fine.”

And then, instead of passing on a weird message or making vague threats, Wilson just took the suitcase, and walked out the front door.

***

Jason didn’t exactly know what he was feeling when Slade emerged, but it sure wasn’t relief. At least the new baby Robin hadn’t picked a fight. But Jason’s skin still felt too small, or maybe he felt too big for it. He felt like he was fucking, vibrating, like all of his muscles were so tense that they were just shaking underneath the dermis and subcutaneous fat and shit. 

He dropped down behind Slade, fell heavier than he ever had before, boots loud even in the city sounds. 

“That can’t fucking happen again,” he spat. Slade sighed. Jason grit his teeth.

Slade turned around. 

“Which part? Do you mean the part where I kept Dick from boiling his skin off?” Jason snarled at the tone, the kind of controlled calm that meant danger. Slade took a step forward, into striking range. Jason’s feet shifted. Slade quirked an eyebrow.

“Or do you mean the part where you didn’t have the faintest idea what to do?”

Jason nearly took a swipe at him. He clawed his anger back with his fingernails. Slade was so fucking dangerous, and now he was smirking.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Feral little zombie, doesn’t know how to be a dominant.”

The anger twisted and broke free. Jason got one solid hit in before he was flying through the air, and he twisted just in time to hit the crumbling brick with his shoulders rather than his skull.

“First lesson, kid? Control yourself.” Slade’s steps were slow and deliberate as he came close enough to peer down at him. When Jason didn’t lunge for his knees, Slade cocked his head to the side. Jason could feel the power radiating from him from here, the kind of unconcern that only the truly untouchable ever managed. He swallowed down the street rat part of him that wanted to flip over and show his neck. He wasn’t a helpless kid anymore. He hauled himself up.

“Think you’re such hot shit?” he spat. “Show me.”

Of all of the people he’d managed to convince to teach him, this was by far the riskiest. Slade Wilson had no reason to teach him jack shit, not even a favor to Talia that Jason could cash in. Slade folded his arms.

“I have contracts,” he pointed out. Jason shrugged.

“I’ll come. Hell, I’ll even help. That-” Jason gestured back to the safehouse, “-can’t happen again.”

They were both still for a long moment, two silhouettes tucked away in a standoff against the shadows of the alley and passing headlights. 

Slade jerked his head.

“Come on, then.”

***

There weren’t nearly as many gargoyles in New York City as there were in Gotham. Only the architecture betrayed the fact that the shape crouched on the edge of the roof wasn’t just part of the building. That, and the nearly infinitesimal turn of his head as he watched two men walk out of the alley. He was already rearranging the pieces of the board - whoever the man in the red hoodie was, he was clearly a new player. And he was dangerous.

Once they were out of range of sight and sound, the shadow dropped down to the street and Batman started the process of retrieving his Robins.

Chapter Text

Dick crested the rise of consciousness slowly, a familiar hand scratching through his hair. It had been a long time since he’d gone down for Tim, hadn’t it? It was nice. Dick turned his head to bury his nose into the pillow Tim always liked to put on his lap. 

The scratching paused. Dick whined in protest. Instead of a playful swat or a tsk, Tim muttered, “Sorry, sorry,” and went back to his petting. 

That was odd. Was Tim crashing? Was he alright?

No, Dick’s brain supplied him abruptly, Tim’s dead. 

Dick shot up, heart pounding - and there was Tim, pimple-faced and panicking, and Dick’s lungs finally caught up. 

Right. Right, yeah. Tim wasn’t dead. No one was dead. It was two decades in the past and everyone was alive and this actual tiny baby version of Tim had… put him under? 

Dick slumped back down, as much to steady his own nerves as to steady Tim’s, who looked ready to panic. He probed his memory. 

Jason. Jason was alive too. And Dick had found him. And then Slade had found them both. 

Dick groaned as he recalled his dramatic breakdown. Shame settled thick and sticky in his stomach as his burnt arm twinged. Slade had fucking made him dinner, and Dick had repaid him by not only dropping spectacularly, but hurting himself in the process. Slade hated it when Dick hurt himself. Or maybe this Slade didn’t care. Maybe this Slade was just pissed off that he’d had to wrestle Dick down into subspace. Maybe Slade had better things to do than-

“Hey, no, nuh-uh,” Tim interrupted Dick by tugging on a lock of hair. It broke Dick out of the vicious cycle enough to at least keep from catastrophizing further. Dick groaned. Tim kept talking. In time, he’d grow out of the rambling, but for now, it was better than silence.

“It’s March 23rd, oh-one-hundred Eastern, we’re in New York City…”

It wasn’t a debrief; Dick recognized the string of facts as the protocol that Batman drilled into all of them for bringing someone back to level after subdrop or topcrash. It was also useful for regaining consciousness after hospital stays. Dick learned that he had minor injuries - mostly the burn and the mottled, bruised bite marks - but that Tim hadn’t seen anyone but Slade. That was good. Dick still remembered vividly how harrowing it was to put his body between Jason and Tim. It seemed like Jason had put out an SOS, which meant Tim was going to figure it out, and probably sooner rather than later. But that was a problem for tomorrow Dick. Today Dick was busy trying not to keen at waking up with Slade there, without the warm hand over the back of his neck and grumbling list of questions he liked to ask after a scene.

Dick should be grateful he'd gone down at all. He just wished he'd been aware enough to enjoy it.

By the time Dick was levering himself up into a sitting position, the safehouse door cracked, and Batman surveyed them both with silent detachment. For the first time since he’d woken up in the past, the silhouette of the cape and the ears made something unpleasant clench in Dick’s stomach. Maybe it’s because it was Batman, and not Bruce. Maybe it was the way took in every shred of evidence that gave away Dick’s failure. Maybe it was just a reminder of all of the many, many times that exact figure had stood in judgment of Dick and found him wanting. 

Dick shook it off. He took a few long breaths, scrubbing his palms against his eyes to buy himself a few seconds to school his expression.

“Hey, B. Please tell me you brought a ride home.”

***

Dick slept most of the way home. Not that it took long - it turned out that Tim had brought the Batjet. No one spoke, not even Tim. Dick had forgotten how annoying that habit of Bruce’s was, that when he was displeased, he made everyone wait to report until they were back in the Cave. It let everyone stew in the tension and anxiety of knowing that he was upset, and not knowing how bad it was going to be.

Today wasn’t the day to bring it up. Dick stumbled down the ramp behind them and was greeted by Alfred, who had a tray of sandwiches and hot cocoa.

Dick nearly started crying. He managed to sniffle the tears back, but he did take the tray bodily from Alfred’s hands so that he could hug him. Alfred sniffed at the impropriety, but Dick didn’t care. For a second, he’d forgotten that Alfred would be there. That he was still alive. That was one good thing at least.

If anyone asked, Dick could probably chalk it up to the subdrop. It would probably be true, even - Dick still felt like shit. As long as he kept his eyes ahead and didn't let his mind wander back to Slade, to how much he missed him -

Dick started taking off his shoes.

The rest of the night’s events wouldn't be explained away as easily as Dick's teariness. Red Robin - no, shit, Robin - straightened his shoulders and stared straight ahead as he gave a succinct report. Batman listened silently. When he was done, they both turned to Dick.

“What happened?” Batman barked. Dick sighed, nearly done with the edits that he’d been making in his head. He explained that he’d been tracking down a lead from a contact related to the League - neat groundwork for reintroducing Jason later, if he needed it - and that he’d run into trouble. When he went to ground, Slade had already been there. Dick lied through his teeth, telling Batman that they’d had a brief fight before Dick dropped. He tried not to over-emphasize that Slade had stayed, even though he didn’t have to. Slade could’ve killed him or kidnapped him or even try to keep him under, but he hadn’t. He’d just passed Dick off to Tim and left.

That was a puzzle for later. For now, Dick just wanted to keep Batman and Deathstroke from each other’s throats until he could manage to wriggle his way back into his husband’s good graces.

Batman listened impassively and seemed prepared to accept his explanation, at least for now, but Tim hadn’t perfected his poker face yet. The little furrow between his eyebrows gave away his confusion. Batman honed in on it with the precision of a missile.

“Robin, what is it?”

Tim didn’t deflect; he had no reason not to trust Bruce. Not yet. 

“Who else was there?”

Dick nearly swallowed his tongue. Of course Tim had noticed. The evidence of another person was all over the safehouse, from the extra place setting to the way the chairs were arranged. Dick weighed his options. He remembered the playbook from this chapter of his life - and every single choice led to a fight. His stomach tightened at the thought. He still kind of wanted to cry. Caution be damned, Dick had better coping skills now, and he was going to use the. He opted for the element of surprise.

“I’m not ready to tell you that yet.”

The silence that followed was tinny and ringing. No one moved. Batman opened his mouth, but Dick knew better than to let him try and wrest the conversation back.

“No, listen. I’m in the middle of a very sensitive investigation. The less people know, the better. That’s just good opsec.”

Dick didn’t wince at how much he sounded like Slade. Bruce probably wouldn’t notice, not without context. He chose his next words carefully.

“When I’m ready for an assist, I will read you in. Both of you.”

It was was like starting to pack away the chess pieces while your opponent was still planning their next move. There was no anger that Bruce could sink his teeth to, and it was hard to argue with the assumption that Dick would inevitably fill them in. Dick could tell that Bruce was nearly cracking his jaw as he tried to find a way around it. His gauntlets curled around tight fists as his pathological need to know every secret warred with his desire to ensure that his children were well trained, and came to him for help rather than keeping secrets of their own.

Operational security won out - for now. Dick knew he was only delaying the inevitable, but that was alright. He just needed to figure out how to bring Jason back on his terms, when it was safe.

“Fine. I expect reports to be done before anyone turns in.”

That, Dick could do. He and Tim shared a look of silent commissary, and each took a station to enter the details of their night into the Batcomputer’s database.

***

Dick needed more corkboards. He considered the three he’d managed to scrounge up, and had to admit that there was still a lot of information to be added.

He tried to remember the last time he’d done a good old pin-and-string investigation while he ran down to the closest office supply store. They’d started doing virtual data visualization a few years ago in this timeline, so Dick estimated somewhere in twenty-five, thirty-year range.

Sticky notes and thumbtacks were the only surefire way to keep Oracle out of his business, though, so corkboards it was. Dick set the three new corkboards up next to the mismatched old ones, and start the process of shifting things over.

Anything he remembered about the Auditors went on one corkboard. The timeline of their scouting parties, the invasion proper, offensive and defensive capabilities, language, biology - it was all pulled straight from his head, which meant there were holes. But it was better than nothing.

The corkboard next to it displayed every crime that the Auditors had held humanity to task for - oil spills, murders, mistreatment of children, endangered species, corruption of justice. That board could hold infinite sticky notes, and still barely scratch the surface, so Dick stuck to categories: environmental, violence, and systems of injustice. He could break them down further later.

Another corkboard had piecemeal bits of every case that the Dick in this timeline had active. Most of it would be pretty easy to wrap up, knowing what Dick knew now, but some of it was delicate. Nightwing couldn’t be seen chasing down Blockbuster when he hadn’t made a public move yet. Still, Dick had ideas, and he scribbled them down and tacked them up for later.

Past that, Dick started tossing up everything he knew about his missing family. A lot of it was conjecture. He had absolutely no way of knowing where Cass was at this time in her life or how to find her. He knew that Steph’s father would go to jail soon, but couldn’t remember more than a year window. Jason had taken off god knows where, but at least he’d established contact. It was a start.

Damian was still in Talia’s care. Dick loathed it. He knew exactly the kind of “training” his Robin was enduring, and he couldn’t see a way out of it. No matter how Dick rearranged things, he couldn’t manage to shave more than a few months off of Damian’s escape to Gotham. 

Which was why he was doing this. That was what investigations were for - to examine the information, find the holes, to connect the patterns that weren’t obvious at first glance. Right now, the best thing he could do for Damian was work the case. 

Dick turned on his music and the coffee pot.

Chapter Text

Dick’s time was officially up. Babs kept a pretty specific flowchart algorithm for how long each member of their little crime-fighting team was allowed to squirrel away without contact. Even accounting for his recent drop and whatever the fuck had happened in New York, Dick had been hiding for too long. He hadn’t responded to messages or calls, so it was time for more drastic measures. 

One of the few things Babs never worried about was money, so booking a car was easy. She could’ve taken the train, but being restricted to accessible stations would’ve turned a 45-minute trip into a six-hour one. So an unobtrusive silver sedan it was, along with the well-trained driver sent by the company Bruce used. He didn’t hesitate or stumble when Babs levered herself into the front seat, just folded up her chair neatly and slid it in the backseat. 

Dick’s apartment was more of a challenge. There was a ramp, technically, but it was narrow and difficult to manage. Babs waved off the driver’s help and employed a certain amount of brute force to roll herself over the pocked cement and piles of discarded newspapers. She added a tally to her list of annoyances with Dick. He knew how much she hated coming out to Bludhaven. 

At least the elevator worked - it had been out of order last time she visited. Babs wished it was a mystery why Dick chose such a shithole to live in, but she knew it had a lot to do with his own opinions on what he deserved. 

Breaking in was the work of moments. Besides the physical security measures, which were only annoying because of how difficult it was to find an angle she could reach the damn lock from, she slid through the electronic defenses easily. Dick had updated a few things, which Babs appreciated, but not enough to stop her. 

The state of Dick’s apartment was all the evidence Babs needed that she had been completely right. Whatever spiral Dick was caught in, it was bad. He was never the tidiest person in the world, but this place was a mess. Takeout containers that hadn’t migrated to join the pile around the trash can festered on every flat surface. The floor was littered with just dirty socks - probably because Dick hadn’t been bothering to change any of his other clothes. 

Babs knew he was home, because she could hear his sugary pop-rock playlist blaring from the bedroom. He was working on a case, then. Babs pinched the bridge of her nose, hard, hoping to stave off the tension headache she could feel building. 

Wheeling through the mess added another tally to her grievances. When Dick wasn’t spiraling, he typically remembered to keep enough space for her wheelchair; when he was distracted, it fell by the wayside. When she finally reached his bedroom door, she didn't bother knocking. If he truly hadn’t heard her come in, he could use the reminder to pay attention. 

The door slammed open. Dick fully yelped, jumping nearly a foot in the air while simultaneously yanking an ink-stained sheet to drape over the cork board he was currently working on. Barbara schooled her laughter into an appropriate scowl. 

The room was in better condition than she had expected. It was messy, but it was all the detritus of active case-work. The bed wasn't crisp, but the blankets had been straightened recently, and the discarded cans and food containers had been dumped in a black trash bag draped over one bed post. 

The laughter died in her throat when Dick finally turned to give her his full attention. Aside from the fact that she nevershould have been able to surprise him like that, he also should have recovered in an instant. Instead, every line of his body was tense, not relaxing even when he realized who had snuck up on him. She could practically see the adrenaline pumping through him, refusing to abate even without an immediate threat. He was as disheveled as she'd expected, his uncomfortably greasy hair pulled up off his neck when the texture became more than he could bear, his wrinkled clothes hanging sloppily from his shoulders and hips. The smudges under his eyes weren't tired so much as they were haunting, smears of purple that lurked under his skin. 

God, how long had it been since he'd gone under? He was practically shaking, and he wasn't being subtle about his attempt to hide his work with his body. Barbara's scowl deepened. What was going on here, and how hadn't she known about it?

“Oh, hey, hi, I, um. I didn't expect-” Dick was rambling at her, explanations and excuses and apologies that just reinforced her suspicion that it had been far too long since he'd actually submitted to someone, anyone. She ignored his blabbering, and started cataloguing what she could see of the corkboards. 

Two of the boards were mostly angled away, but with three walls plastered in pictures and notes and fucking red yarn, it wasn't hard to see what was going on. 

“Dick,” she interrupted his promise that he would have come pick her up, if he'd known she was coming, “Are you trying to solve… literally every global crisis at once?”

That was the only explanation she could come up with. One wall was mostly Gotham cold-cases or current local events, another spanned the entirety of the Earth. He'd compiled information on climate change, gun violence, systems of oppression, health and housing crises, and what looked like every single ongoing genocide. It was impressive, but useless. It was too much data, too many pieces to shuffle around at once. Either he was sifting through the chaff trying to find something specific, or he was in the middle of some sort of personal crisis.

Barbara finally turned back to Dick, who was still wound as tight as a jack-in-the-box. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, visibly attempting to concoct a lie on the spot. 

“Dick,” Barbara said softly, as gently as she knew how. “Please don't lie to me.”

Dick slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, all but collapsing onto the foot of the bed. He buried his face in his hands. Barbara experienced the strange urge to grab him by the wrists and shake him. He wasn't supposed to let it get this bad. He wasn't supposed to need rescuing like this. They'd agreed. They'd promised each other, even if it had been a decade - they would take care of each other. But Dick had hidden himself away, again, and now Barbara was left to try and piece him back together, again. 

Maybe if she had been closer to dominant end of the scale, rather than barely dominant-leaning, she wouldn't be bothered. Maybe she would relish the chance to put him back together, turn him back into a real boy after he got himself fucked up. But maybe not. 

“This isn't fair,” she murmured, and immediately wished she hadn't. She didn't want to fight right now, didn't want to try and explain to Dick again that he couldn't do this, that people cared about him, that she wasn't going to just abandon him. She just couldn't do it right now.

But he didn't protest. He didn't snap back or glare at her. Instead, Dick slid off the bed to come sit on top of the nightstand next to her, so that they were more-or-less level.

“I know.”

That was all he said, just two words. He didn't even look at her as he said it. He just reached out a hand, not touching her, not resting it on her chair, just holding it out. Barbara didn't take it. She couldn't. He pulled it back without protest. 

“Do you want to know? It's bad. You aren't going to like it. And you don't need to be involved, if you don't want to.”

It was the first time he'd ever made her an offer like that. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing his expression, trying to put the strange, almost longing expression on his face together with his bizarre case-wall. She was missing something. Something strange was happening here, something she couldn't put her finger on. It was Dick, partially, now that she was really looking. There was something different about him, something in the way that he was holding himself. The apartment was off, not just the corkboards, but the nod to tidiness, even when he was wrapped up in something big like this. 

Do you want to know? What kind of question was that? Barbara always wanted to know. But he had offered her a choice. He'd told her it was bad. But he'd still offered, and he was still waiting, watching her patiently.

Barbara scanned through the corkboards again, more carefully this time. 

The cases were the first tell. Some of them had gone cold years ago, but Dick had tacked names and dates and motives up next to some of them - bits of information that Barbara had never been able to find. Some of the cases didn't have dates at all, and she didn't recognize any of those ones. Desmond Roland featured heavily on the Bludhaven board, and as far as she knew, he hadn't stirred up any trouble since Dick had moved to Gotham's sister city. He'd scrawled out brief descriptions of events and posted some of them around cities or people that had never pinged Barbara's considerable radar.

Then there was the data he'd gathered on what seemed like every major challenge humanity faced. Some of it was off. His numbers for carbon emissions, for instance, were higher than Barbara knew them to be. There was a summary of crime reduction initiative in Sweden that Barbara had never heard of. There were notes on upcoming elections.

Except none of it was written in the future tense. Barbara knew what a bat looked like when they were making contingency plans, and this wasn't it. This was an attempt to solve past problems.

Barbara's stomach dropped out. She couldn't look at Dick, couldn't see the expression on his face when she whispered, “How long?”

It was so quiet, removed from the noise of the city, that she could hear him swallow. His breathing was ragged.

“Twenty-five years,” he admitted. His voice was so quiet, as though it might be absorbed by the wrinkled blankets and stacks of papers, and cease to be true. “Give or take.”

Barbara couldn't process the enormity of it. A hundred different angles jockeyed for her attention. What had happened? What was going to happen? Who did she need to call? How had he managed time travel, of all god-forsaken things? What had made him desperate enough to try? Everything felt very distant, as though she was only vaguely tethered to her body.

One question emerged, more urgent than the others. Barbara's voice cracked.

“How long?” she asked again.

This time, she could hear impending tears in Dick's voice, gathering behind his eyes and throat. 

“About a month.”

Barbara snapped back into the present, into her trembling, crying body. She grasped for Dick's hand, his elbow, desperately trying to pull him closer. He collided with her chair at a painful angle, but made no noise of complaint, just tucked his face next to her and burrowed close. She realized hazily that he was stroking her hair, and that his face was just as wet as hers. It occured to her that he might drop, or that she might crash, or both. She gripped him tighter.

They sat there for a long time, tears silent but forceful, until Dick had to be aching from holding the awkward angle, hovering up just slightly to reach her. Their crying eventually petered out, as it always did, between them. Barbara grabbed a fistful of Dick's hair and pulled his head back so she could look at him. She ignored his suddenly blown-out pupils.

“Since March?” she demanded, suddenly angry. He'd travelled through time to a day a month ago, and not said a word? 

“February,” he managed to admit, his voice going just slightly soft at the edges.

“So more than a month.”

He tried to shake his head, but she didn't let him. “No, Boy Wonder. Don't you dare lie to me. It's April. February means two months, even if it was fucking Leap Day.”

She was so incandescently angry, so laser-focused on his tear-stained face, that she caught spike of confusion, then panic, before he buried it. He deliberately relaxed into her grip.

Her anger vanished as quickly as it had risen, leaving crystal determination in its' wake.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I lost track of time. I really thought it was still March. So two months, a little less.”

“You promised,” she reminded him, and her voice was cold. “What, twenty-five years and you just forget? We promised.”

Dick reached up to wrap his fingers around her wrist, his skin pleasingly dark against her fair complexion. He didn't try to pull her away, just held on. 

“I take care of you, and you take care of me. I didn't forget.”

Something about the way he said it made it sound like a prayer. Like the psalms that Barbara's mother had sometimes repeated during difficult nights, a well-worn comfort held as a talisman against the painful world.

“I wasn't there.”

It wasn't really a question. No version of her would have allowed Dick to do something as dangerous as travel back in time. Besides, she knew that her odds of surviving any sort of cataclysmic event were low. She couln't exactly run. How long had he been alone, in that desperate future?

He did pull on her wrist then, and she let go, let him tug her hand so that it was braced over his heart.

“You were here.”

They both burst into wet laughter, the sincerity of his gesture buried under layers of cheese that reminded them both of his early days as Robin. They laughed until they were crying again, flushing out the last of the tears. Finally, Barbara wheeled her way deeper into the room so that she could see all of the boards at once.

“Alright, then, what's the plan?”

*** 

Fucking April.

How could Dick have missed that? How could he have forgotten? His relief at having Babs at his side, her keen humor and sharp eyes, was eclipsed by the nausea in his stomach. He managed to steal a glance at the calendar on his phone, and confirmed that it was still only the 3rd, which meant he hadn't missed it entirely. But god, he could have. In fifteen years, he'd never forgotten - he'd never been able to. And yet he could have woken up two days from now and realized that Gianni's birthday had come and gone, and he'd missed it. 

He must have managed to maintain a relatively coherent conversation with Barbara, because she grilled him for nearly half an hour before declaring that he was useless and needed rest.

“I'm going to see what I can do with this.”

Dick wasn't really sure what “this” was - he knew he'd mentioned the Auditors, explained the bare bones of the apocalypse that would be coming for them. But he also knew that Babs still had to have more questions than answers, if only because it was all so goddamm complicated. He had to be in a pretty bad way, if she was sending him off to bed before she could follow up on every strand of information spread out in front of her.

He offered to see her to the door. She accepted, and then used the opportunity to ambush him into a tight hug, yanking him down around the shoulders to whisper in his ear.

“You need to go under. I don't care who you ask. Tonight, or tomorrow, or I'm telling Bruce.”

Dick nodded numbly. She was right, but probably not for the reasons she expected. Dick knew full well that he couldn't be alone tomorrow. The date made him reckless under the best of circumstances, and a danger to himself under less ideal conditions.

He helped Babs into the elevator, then picked up his phone and dialed a memorized number. He'd meant to put out feelers, see who was busy, who might have time to put him under gently and bring him up slowly, but that door was closed now. He let the phone ring until a generic voicemail picked up.

“It's me. I need to go under. I've got a place in DC, you know the one, with the flowerboxes. I'll be there in the morning.”

Chapter Text

Slade had planned to spend the day putting his enhanced metabolism to the test with ungodly amounts of whiskey. He'd left Jason doing surveillance for a job in Wyoming, of all places, in the face of his protests. Jason might've been pissed, but Slade wasn't about to subject him to the black mood that would wake up with him on April 4th. Wasn't about to subject himself to having Jason around, either.

But then Dick had called, and Slade had come to heel like a dog. Fucking safehouse with the goddamn flower boxes his ass. Slade growled while he punched his way through the security, not bothering to preserve it. Of all the ways he could have vented his temper today, the last thing he wanted was to be faced with a sweet-faced Dick who barely understood the meaning of the word grief.

Slade made himself comfortable while he waited, shucking the outer layers of his civilian clothes and stowing the few weapons he'd travelled with. He'd packed light - Slade knew himself well enough to know that this encounter was almost certainly going to go poorly, and he didn't want the temptation to actually harm Dick too close to hand. So he'd loaded a pair of hand-guns, a few knives, and a few gadgets, but left the sword at home. He'd never claimed to be a good man, but he was at least a tactical one.

Slade was forced to reasses this strategy the moment the door opened to reveal the temper-sharp line of Dick's shoulders. His expression was shuttered, locked tight against even Slade's knowing eye. Dick didn't say a word about the busted security, didn't complain about the guns, just locked the door behind him and dropped a duffel bag on the hardwood floor. His eyes never wavered from Slade, not even a narrowed glance to give him away.

So it was going to be like that, was it?

Slade rose from the armchair that he'd claimed. Dick didn't move, not even to respond to the implied threat. They watched each other, two wary animals, sharp-teethed and hollow-eyed. For any other submissive, it might be unusual behavior - but Dick had years of masking his behaviors, posturing with some of the most powerful dominants in the world.

Dick moved first, as Slade always knew he would. But he didn't lunge, or roll his eyes, or make a mean quip. He didn't look away from Slade, but instead kicked off his shoes near the door, peeled off his jacket and tossed it towards the counter. Slade nearly growled at him, a familiar reminder that 'there's a perfectly good coatrack there, birdie." But there wasn't. So Slade kept his silence, and fixed his silent attention on the sparking eye contact between them. Dick leaned over to snag the handle of the duffel bag and traced the few silent steps into the unassuming living room. The lines of the layout meant there was no furniture to walk around, no barriers between them. Dick stopped just out of arms' reach, and set the duffel on the coffee table.

"Sit down," he said. It wasn't an order, somehow - too quiet, too certain. And then Dick sat himself, perched on one end of the couch. Slade's heartrate had fallen, and he could feel it, the stillness of a true hunt settling over both of them like a shroud. He sat slowly, his body relaxing into the armchair, ready to snap to a fight from any angle. It wasn't quite topstate, but something to the left, some unholy hybrid between the sweet confidence of dominant instincts and the steely certainty of a sniper.

"I want to get fucked," Dick said. His quiet, level tone rendered the vulgarity soft, blurry. "And I want it to hurt."

The blood in Slade's veins was hot and slow, pulsing in waves against his neck, his wrists, his groin. His eyes traced every line of this boy's face, who sat in his husband's place, and thought he knew what loss looked like. Slade couldn't be sure what had happened - there was always something, with the Bats - but whatever it was, it had Dick in some kind of way. Dick probably thought it was the end of the world, the worst thing he'd ever felt, that the grief would tear him apart if he didn't give it to someone else.

Slade didn't want his grief. Not for whatever trivial thing Dick thought he was mourning.

"No."

Dick didn't protest, didn't bark out a condescending laugh or snarl his disapproval. Slade realized distantly that something was even more wrong than usual. Any other day, he might have followed that curiosity. Today, Slade couldn't be fucked to care. Today, Slade wanted to be left to drink himself dead in peace.

Dick narrowed his eyes, tilted his head to the side - not a songbird, but a raptor.

"No to which?"

And wasn't that the question. Slade realized with a sudden rush of arousal, that he wanted to fuck Dick. He wanted to hurt him. He thought of the handguns and the knives, and how he hadn't brought the sword.

Slade rifled through images in his minds' eye. Dick on his knees, bleeding from a dozen sluggish cuts; Dick painted in bruises, thrashing on the bed he was tied to; Dick strung up, howling in the pain of arcing electricity; Dick slack and whimpering while Slade fucked into him. Each was more appealing than the last.

"You don't want me to hurt you," Slade heard himself saying. "And you certainly don't want me to fuck you." More images - his own cock, smeared with Dick's blood, and the visceral memory of how Dick's bones could crack under Slade's hands - clamored for Slade's attention. He knew, from a tactical point of view, that he couldn't be trusted to hurt Dick right now. Not like this, not this child-version of him.

The missing of him, the splinter of his husbands' loss, sliced through Slade like glass. He had to catch his breath against it. That tiny movement cut through the simmering tension, and the sudden release was like the aftermath of a concussive grenade. They were both moving in the same moment.

Dick flung himself forward, Slade braced his feet against the floor, and the sudden impact shoved the armchair back three screeching inches. Dick's weight wasn't neglible, all dense muscle, and their mouths slammed together hard enough to draw blood against their teeth. Slade caught Dick's arm sliding behind his shoulder for a painful hold, and twisted beneath him, pulling one of Dick's powerful thighs up and away. Dick bit his lip, hard and Slade groaned into it, yanking Dick's hair back with a painful snap.

Dick panted and snarled, and Slade's cock pulsed with the blood of the fight. They wrestled, shoving each other away only to wrench closer again, over and over, never leaving the chair. Dick left raw imprints of his teeth over Slade's jaw, his neck, his shoulders, re-tracing them as soon as they faded. Slade left trails of raw gashes where his fingernails dug into that warm, scarred skin. Slade knew that Dick was as wet from it as he was hard, and the though made him growl in possessive pleasure. This is how it had always been, with them - however submissive Dick might be at home, they were never anything but perfectly matched equals in the field, where Dick could meet him violence for violence, with a vicious grin.

It wasn't until Dick's hand went for Slade's belt that a fissure of real violence shivered through him. He caught Dick's slim wrist harder than bruising.

"No," he snapped. Dick bared his teeth, but Slade twisted, grinding the bones of Dick's wrist together, and the threat of it made Dick gasp, his mouth dropping open with a mixture of shaky pain and arousal.

"I'm not fucking you," Slade snarled, watching the blissed-out expression on Dick's face twist into anger.

"Why the fuck not?" he demanded, and that tone set something off in Slade, dominant instincts rearing their head against the petulant challenge. Maybe Dick was thinking clear enough to do it on purpose; maybe not. Either way, Slade wasn't about to give him what he wanted. Not when every real pain that had ever flowed through his veins had crystallized into such clear, vicious anger.

"Because you're not in charge here," Slade whispered against Dick's ear, and Dick's full-bodied shiver was all the reward Slade needed.

Dick wanted to go under? Fine, Slade would put him under.

"Leave the bedroom door open. Strip, properly." Slade knew that this command would go largely unheeded - after all, this Dick had never been trained that clothes were meant to be folded neatly, instead of tossed on the floor. Maybe Slade could punish him for it.

"Find something to fuck yourself with. You want it to hurt? Fine, that's up to you."

Slade remembered at the last moment that even that order needed clarification, and the sudden frustration at the reminder made him growl. His Dick, his vicious, exuberant husband, wouldn't need more specific instructions. This Dick did.

"Make sure it's clean, properly. If you end up with an infection I'm not taking you to the hospital."

No matter how low and vicious the threat was, Dick twitched when Slade said it, stifling an incredulous laugh. Slade pulled and twisted on the wrist still in his grip, effectly locking Dick's elbow joint against itself. Dick fell silent with a shaky gasp.

"Choose a blindfold, or I will choose one for you."

This Dick had no way of knowing how real a threat that was - he probably hadn't even discovered yet the depths of panic that a poorly-chosen blindfold could send him into. How would he? No one had ever played with him that hard, pushed his bounaries so far. But Dick just nodded. Slade released Dick's hair with the hand not occupied by that warm, tender wrist. He traced his thumb over Dick's mouth, smearing a trickle of blood where his lower lip had split on Slade's teeth.

Slade released him.

"Go."

Dick ducked his eyes down, shadowed in a parody of an obedient nod, and slid backwards off Slade's lap. Even here, bloodied and shaky with adrenaline, he was nothing but grace, and Slade watched him leave. Dick didn't look around, didn't stop or pause, and Slade allowed himself two strokes of his heavy cock, just to enjoy this one moment of obedience. It might the last he would get tonight.

Well, that was just fine.

Chapter Text

Dick seethed, fighting the urge to slam the door behind him. He couldn't believe what a goddamn fool he'd been. Slade couldn't give him what he wanted; not like this. Not when what Dick wanted was a hurt so profound that his mind tried to flee from it, only to be yanked back to his body and forced to endure until he cracked apart. 

In the moment that Slade had crushed his wrist so tightly, Dick had forgotten. He'd let himself forget, let the sense-memory wash away his caution. For just that moment, it had been exactly what Dick needed. Dick had forgotten where he was - when he was. Then Slade had ordered him to the bed like an errant puppy, with instructions Dick didn't need, and it had been like plunging into a frigid pool. Even if Dick did manage to push Slade's buttons enough to get true pain from him, still it wouldn't be enough. This Slade didn't know him well enough for real cruelty - not yet. Just the mention of a blindfold was proof enough of that. Dick still remembered vividly the first time Slade had knotted a tie around his head, and the unexpected panic attack and drop that ensued. His Slade had taken years to map out the edges of that particular trigger, discovering how much light he could take away, and under what circumstances, and with what materials. Anything makeshift reminded Dick's body too strongly of real captivity, along with anything that covered his forehead or cheeks. 

But this Slade had no way of knowing that. Which meant Dick was about to walk into a scene with a truly dangerous dominant who had no idea how to handle him. Dick didn't curse; Slade would be able to hear him even from the first floor. Instead, yanked his fingers through his tangled hair and let the tugging pain ground him. He could get through this. He had to. He hadn't been lying, when he called - he needed this. One way or the other, he was going to get swept under, and the only choice he had was whether it was pain or grief that drowned him. 

Dick knew which one would do more damage. 

He set to work on Slade's orders. It wasn't the easy, smooth obedience of a scene already begun; Dick yanked drawers open and bit his tongue and bared his teeth while he tried to remember where the fuck he had kept things in this particular safehouse. The toy was easy enough to find - Dick kept a stash of toys in a box under the bed of every safehouse he used regularly. Luckily, he had an unopened box from a specialty store that he preferred tucked away in the corner. Dick remembered ordering a few of these, always convinced he was going to work up the energy to test one out, and then never getting the chance. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd managed to get around to it, and wondered distantly if this body was ready for what he was about to do to it. He cracked the seal with a fingernail, and unwrapped an intimidating length of thick, unforgiving silicone in Galaxy Black. He knew from future experience that while the first fifteen minutes or so with it inside him were incredible, after that the stretch started to burn. Whatever Slade had planned, Dick doubted it would take less than fifteen minutes. A bastard he may be, but a thorough one.

Despite his best hopes, there was no blindfold in the box. Why would there be? Dick wasn't inclined to it on his own, and the version of him from six or twelve months ago would've had no reason to purchase one, nevermind to keep one in a safehouse. The supplies were all picked to prevent drop in a pinch, or force him through it as quickly as possible at the worst. A blindfold wouldn't help with that. 

Dick slammed the lid down and kicked the box back under the bed. His skin felt too small, prickled with adrenaline-sweat, and there was a tell-tale pounding behind his dry eyes. He dug his fingernails into the already-swelling bruise around his wrist and breathed through the spike of pain. 

He could do this. Dick flung the bathroom door open, not caring that Slade could hear his temper. He tugged drawer after drawer open, searching for something that would do - something that would obscure shape and definition and movement, but allow enough light through to keep him calm.

One drawer held a thorough first-aid kit. Dick considered a roll of gauze, but discarded it - the last thing he needed was to associate sensory deprivation with medical treatment. The next was mostly makeup, as well as a handful of accessories, usefull for disguise but less useful for a scene. The medication cabinet had duplicates of all of his meds, as well as the regular suspects: Stop-Drop, acetemetophin and ibuprofen, prozac and seroquil and adderall and one of his older birth control medications. Without his permission, Dick's hand hovered over the little packet of labeled pills. That was what he had been taking, after the Audit - the side effects were awful, but it was all they'd been able to find. And then they couldn't even find that. Dick remembered with sickly clarity that he hadn't been worried about it. He'd been taking T for so long, and he was so malnourished, and his body was so generally fucked up - he just hadn't been worried.

He should have been. He should have been really fucking worried about it.

Dick slammed the medicine cabinet shut hard enough to crack the glass. He couldn't fucking do this. He braced himself over the counter and pointedly didn't look in the mirror. 

What choice did he have? His tactical training supplied a helpful list, including getting the hell out of dodge, but when Dick followed that through, it always all led to the same place - Dick, either hurting someone who didn't deserve it, or allowing himself to be hurt in ways that weren't easy to heal from.

At least Slade could be trusted not to fuck him up permanently. It was more than Dick could say for himself.

He moved onto the next set of drawers. This one was mostly hair supplies, a mismatch of elastics and clips, along with a handful of products. Dick caught a glimpse of fabric, and had to rummage under a pile of old bobby-pins to dig out a head-band. Although Dick didn't remember specifically owning it, he did remember his headband phase. It had been a chore, finding something tight enough to stay on but not so tight it gave him a headache. This one was made up of a thick band of pale blue linen, with an elastic section at the back. Dick fitted it hopefully over his head. 

It sat snug over his eyes, prevented from shifting by his hair in the back and the bridge of his nose in the front. It was gauzy enough that it let light through, but no shapes. It shouldn't cause any problems.

There was no spike of triumph, even though Dick knew there should be. He tossed the headband and the toy onto the bed, where they bounced off the duvet. He pulled off his shirt, and his hands had already started the habitual motions of folding it when he caught himself. Slade was micromanaging every other aspect of this scene; let him bear the consequences of that. It was a petty anger, palatable, something Dick could chew on without choking. Slade had no idea yet that given the choice, Dick would just toss his clothes wherever they landed. Or that he had, once upon a time. 

The shirt went into a pile on the dresser along with everything else.

Dick wasn't typically shy about nudity, but something about being naked on the bed when his resentment and desperation were bubbling so close under his skin made him feel cold, vulnerable. He wasn't even vaguely tempted to touch himself, to put on a show or start without permission. He had to fight the urge to just curl up against the headboard and hide. He managed to compromise by telling himself that he was just going to stay in corpse pose, just until he could get his breathing under control.

Slade didn't give him the chance. He appeared in the doorway, fist closed around something, but otherwise empty-handed. Dick couldn't meet his gaze, stared at the bridge of his nose and knew that Slade wasn't fooled. Slade jerked his head towards the armchair.

"Go sit while I set up."

Dick scowled, but found he couldn't find words to even complain about it. He spared another final thought for leaving, just abandoning his clothes and walking out the door. Where would he go? Where was safe enough to keep him from lashing out from people he loved if they got too close, when they didn't know what he was capable of?

Maybe this fiasco of a scene was for the best. Maybe he would finally learn how think before he fucking acted, at least for a while. Dick doubted it, but it was a gallows-humor sort of hope.

He curled up on the chair.

Slade gave the room a once-over, a quick inspection no different than a tactical sweep. Satisfied, he set something down on the mattress, then curled both hands over the low footboard of the king-sized bed and pulled. The metal bedrame left channels in the plush carpet where Slade pulled it away from the wall, so that the bed sat angled in the center of the room, facing away from the very armchair that Dick sat in, so that the high, slatted headboard was between him and the mattress.

He scooped up the handful he'd set down and held it out for Dick's inspection. It was a handful of dimes that Dick suspected had come from either the duffel bag or the mostly-empty junk drawer in the safehouse's mostly-functional kitchen. He almost groaned out loud, then stopped himself. There was only one thing that Slade could be planning with - Dick counted quickly - ten coins. Not that Dick had any way of knowing what was coming. So he kept his mouth shut and his expression surly. 

Slade inspected the toy and the blindfold, and hummed in approval. The instinctive spike of pleasure alchemized instantly into contrary arousal. When Slade motioned for Dick to get up on the bed, Dick had to fight down the urge to bite him. He was slow and reluctant, but Slade obviously wasn't expecting ethusiasm, because he didn't tell Dick to hurry it up. 

The setup itself was fairly obvious, so Dick settled on his knees, facing the headboard, hands outstretched. In this position, Slade would be able to watch him from the chair, and the vague light that trickled through the blindfold would be scattered by the bars of the headboard. 

"Blindfold now or later?" Slade asked neutrally, and Dick didn't have to think about it. Having his sight taken away mid-scene was more treacherous than if he started without it.

"Now," he demanded, his voice tight and high. Slade's eyebrows narrowed at the tone, but he didn't say anything. Dick reached for the headband, but Slade grabbed it first. He didn't have to gesture for Dick to turn his head; Dick just did it. He closed his eyes, so that the sensation of warm fingers and pressure affected his sense of touch more than his sight. Slowly, he opened them, wary of the feeling of his eyelashes brushing up against the fabric. It was unpleasant, but bearable.

"First," Slade murmured from behind him, close enough to raise goosebumps on his neck, "You're going to get this pretty little toy inside you." 

It was a small comfort when the heavy, hard shape of it brushed up against the back of Dick's hands. He grabbed it automatically, and then started shuffling around for a better position, a less awkward one, something that wouln't make him feel so stupid and vulnerable for shoving something up his cunt while Slade watched. A warm hand on the back of his neck stopped him, held him in the high kneel.

"No, just like this." No endearment, no teasing - just iron cold orders. Dick wondered for a moment if he wanted to rebel, if it was worth it to fight back, but then Slade's hand tightened, squeezing his neck. Dick would have gone under right then, if he wasn't still so blisteringly angry.

Dick reached down with both trembling hands and parted the lips of his pussy, damp but not yet truly slick. He hesitated, and Slade squeezed again - a silent order.

"I-" Dick couldn't manage to choke a full sentence out. "Lube?" He meant it to be a demand, but it came out a question. He expected Slade to deny him; he didn't expect a sudden huge, calloused hand to swipe over his cunt, ignoring where Dick's smaller hand was still buried. He nearly choked, but the touch was gone as quickly as it appeared. Dick felt Slade nod against his neck, and then his weight disappeared from behind him. There were sounds of rummaging, and then the click of a bottle.

"Hold out your hand."

Dick had to balance carefully on his knees to do it, but he held his left hand out obediently. The lube pooled slick over his palm, and when the bottle clicked shut again, Dick set to work spreading it across the toy, smearing the extra across his cunt. His clit was already starting to stiffen.

Dick's breath came quick and light while he tried to find an angle that would work. The toy was long, but not long enough that he could just kneel on it without it slipping out. He was forced to spread his legs awkwardly, leaning his weight partially forward against the headboard. It took both hands to open himself up enough to get the head of the toy inside - and oh he hadn't taken anyting like this before. It burned. He had to consciously relax and twist the toy, easing it inside until he could finally sink down. 

It wasn't a particularly comfortable fuck. His thighs would hold this position for longer than most, but not forever, and the toy felt bigger than he remembered. Like there wasn't enough space in his body for it. He shifted, trying to find a better angle, and the toy slipped suddenly deeper. Dick bit his lip against the tender spike of pain, pausing to check that he hadn't torn anything. Slade was silent behind him. Dick wished he wasn't, wished that his husband would make some noise of impatience or approval, or anything. For all Dick could tell, he'd walked away and found something else to occupy him while Dick prepped. It was an unpleasant thought.

Once Dick had pushed the toy past the smooth, snug muscles of his opening, the pressure eased. The hard edges were uncomfortable, pressed against his g-spot and the surrounding soft tissue, but not painful. Dick took a deep, calming breath. He wasn't turned on enough for it to feel good, yet, but he'd get there. He was tempted to rock a little, test the give of the mattress and the angle, but he refrained, instead turning his head to indicate to Slade that he was ready - if Slade was watching.

There was a long moment of silence, long enough that sick adrenaline started trickling into Dick's system, before Slade spoke.

"Well done," the praise was brusque, but it released a knot of tension in Dick's belly, and he clenched a little on the toy, in spite of himself. "Hold out your hands."

Dick knew what was coming, and had to bit his tongue to keep from pulling a face. Slade arranged his hands against the wooden slats of the headboard, each finger pressed flat to a single slat. His pointer fingers presssed against the top cross-slate. Then, one by one, Slade slipped a dime between the pad of each finger and the smooth wood. His left hand was still slippery with lube, and Dick could feel the lack of friction working against him.

"If you drop them, we're done," Slade informed him. Dick nodded. It was an exercise he was familiar with, and loathed. The coins were cold and just slightly textured, just barely different enough than the headboard for Dick to be able to tell the difference. "If the toy falls out of your needy little cunt, we're done."

Dick swallowed hard, realized he was nodding. It was a difficult game, but not an impossible one. With the soft shifting of the mattress, Dick would have to keep impeccable balance. Eventually, he would fail - but that was alright. He only had to outlast whatever Slade had planned for him. And he could outlast a lot.

"What are we doing?" Dick had to wet his mouth enough to make a sound.

Slade made a low, approving sound from the other side of the headboard. 

"You are fucking yourself until it hurts. I am enjoying watching you do it."

Dick's throat was sticky. He cleared it. "For how long?"

Slade's voice came from a bit further away this time - the armchair.

"Until I'm finished. You can start."

Well, Dick had worked with more abrupt instructions. The pose was awkward but not uncomfortable, and his body responded well enough to that familiar, dark voice that at least he was wet now. It was vulnerable and uncomfortable, and Dick could tell when Slade had set up a no-win scenario. But Slade didn't know him, not really, not this version of him. This Slade didn't know what Dick had already endured; his frame of reference would be skewed.

So Dick began. He rocked his hips experimentally, just feeling the bulge of the toy inside of him, how it shifted when he moved. He sunk down a little further, until his knees and ankles screamed at the position, then knelt back up again. His fingers shifted a little as he moved, but he kept them flat and still enough that none of the coins fell. Emboldened, Dick fucked himself deeper.

And gasped at the intrustion, the unforgiving edge of the toy pressed up against the soft, spongy tissue that protected his cervix. He almost clenched his hands, but remembered just in time. Instead, he let his head fall forward, let a long breath trickle out. There was no sound from Slade, no indication that he'd seen Dick nearly fail. When Dick raised his eyes, just a little, he couldn't make out the shape of the chair through the headboard, nevermind Slade. 

So that was the play, was it? Make Dick feel ignored? It was an amateur move, frankly, when Dick knew full well how incapable Slade was of ignoring him, even if it looked like he was. It probably wasn't even going to be that hard to get a rise out of him.

The vindictive irritation was a better feeling than the howling, raging grief that Dick was fighting, so he embraced it. 

***

Even pissed off and trembling, Dick was beautiful. His dark, scarred skin slid easily over well-defined muscle. He was softer than Slade remembered, rounder at the shoulder, the hip, the thigh - it was an appealing shape, no less masculine, but gentler than the whip-lean man he'd aged into. Slade had always enjoyed the curve of Dick's top scars, a mark of Dick's own determination to be whatever he wanted to be, and those at least were the same as they had ever been. The room was warm, but not warm enough to keep his dusky nipples from perking up, in spite of their dull sensitivity. Slade spared a thought to imagine tweaking them, pinching them between his fingers just to watch Dick whine, then doing the same to his clit, jerking and twisting until it was fully erect. He set those thoughts aside for another day.

Slade didn't bother to take his dick out yet; they were going to be here for a long while, and it was enough at this moment to watch his vicious little brat try to find a satisfying angle to fuck himself. 

Dick wanted to get fucked up? There was no one better at it than himself. All Slade needed to do was set it up. As long as he was forced to stay in his body, Dick would fall to pieces on all on his own. Slade was looking forward to it, with the same black satisfaction as what he got from completing a particularly challenging contract. There was an efficiency to it, and even today, Slade could appreciate that. 

It was barely a minute before Dick started running his mouth. Predictable.

"Is this working for you? Watching the least sexy fuck in the world?" Slade disagreed, but didn't say so. Watching Dick struggle was always arousing, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable. And right now, while Slade was furious, it was a particularly enjoyable bit of cruelty. Slade's pants were starting to feel too tight, but he still didn't touch himself. He was enjoying this part too much. A fine sheen of sweat was pooling under Dick's arms, behind his knees, down his back. 

"Honestly, this is just annoying."

Slade raised an eyebrow in amusement. He could see the shape of the toy perfectly from here, watch it disappearing into Dick's body, saw where it brushed up slick against Dick's hardening clit. Annoyance had certainly never stopped Dick from getting off before; it would probably keep him from subspace, though. Slade wondered absently whether he should have poured himself a glass of whiskey to enjoy with the show. It probably would've been enough noise to give away the game, but it was something to consider for another time. It definitely would've improved his mood.

"Do you know that you're actually the most stubborn asshole I know?" Dick's voice hitched, just a bit, on the last word. Not a stutter, not yet. He still hadn't found a rhythm, hadn't figured out how to get what he needed without dropping the coins. Slade was confident he'd sort it out soon enough, even with the running commentary. It might be enough to get him off; it might not. Either way, it wouldn’t get him what he wanted. The blindfold was growing damp with sweat, Dick's hair starting to stick to his cheeks, his neck. Slade waited for Dick to start babbling again, and let the sound cover the hiss of his zipper. 

"And that's actually- ah," Dick tried to mask the small sound of pleasure as he finally managed to dig the toy in at the right angle, and Slade palmed himself through his briefs. He could see Dick's cunt clench, watch him twitch around the toy. Dick froze, just for a split second, trying to make out whether Slade had heard him; whether Slade was still watching; whether Slade was still there. It wasn't desperation yet, but it would be soon enough. If Dick really needed to go down as badly as he’d said, he was going to be aching for it right about now. Slade pushed his briefs down and stroked himself once.

"Fuck you, you know that? If all I wanted was a toy and a stress position I could have done that on my own."

That much was true; it was a trick Slade had used for him more than once, when Dick needed instructions to keep him steady while Slade was away. The bitter memory of it was sweetened a little by the way that Dick was rocking on the bed, by the steady friction of his own palm around his cock. They both knew that it wasn't about the toy, or the ache in his body - it was about the fact that it was Slade making him do it, that Slade was watching him do it. 

"But that's jahhh - just like you, isn't it?" Dick didn't even bother to swallow his sounds this time. His mouth was hanging open between words, his mouth starting to turn plump and red from biting back his groans. Slade tipped his head back, working his thumb over the head of his cock. "Should know better - oh, oh - than to ask you for anything."

Slade couldn't disagree with that. He could feel satisfaction starting to curl in his fingers and toes. Dick was truly riding the toy now, using the leverage from his hands to press himself down over and over again. The wet sound of it was obscene, and hot enough that Slade had to slide his hand down to his sac, pulling lightly for the scrath of pain. He wondered if Dick would come. It would be a pretty sight, and probably just serve to make him more frustrated. 

"You couldn't - fuck," Dick was stumbling over his words now, only managing to gasp out a few syllables at a time, making his sentences breathy and stilted. Slade wondered if it had started to hurt yet too. Even the pain wouldn't be enough to put him under. Pain alone never was; Dick was too well trained for that.

"You couldn't even-" a harsh breath, "put me under-" a gasp,"if you wanted-" a breathy accusation, "could you?"

Slade fantasized for a moment about shoving his fingers into Dick's mouth, just to shut him up. No doubt, that was exactly what the kid wanted, and he wasn't going to get it, but Slade could enjoy the thought of it. Dick was fucking himself deeper now, his thighs starting to protest the rhythm. His fingers were still pressed tight to the headboard, but Slade could see the strain in them. 

"This-" Dick's left hand slipped, just a bit, and he only managed to catch himself by collapsing onto the toy with a sharp gasp that went straight to Slade's cock. "This what you wanted?" Dick managed to choke out.

Slade still didn't respond. He could read the line of Dick's body easier than a book. They were finally getting somewhere. Dick was looking for Slade, in spite of himself, the tilt of his head attuned to any quiet movement. Slade knew his little bird, knew the shape of his thoughts, his fears, his hopes. Right around now, he was starting to wonder if Slade was even paying attention. If even cared. 

Good, Slade thought viciously, let him wonder. His cock was starting to ache. He stroked it slowly, silently, just to ease some of the pressure.

"Wanted to watch me," Dick choked, "make a fool of myself? That it?" He was facing down real desperation now. Even his incredible body couldn't hold this position forever, and he had to know that he was risking a torn tendon if collapsed. "Fuck you."

Fuck, the kid was beautiful like this, spitting made and still trying so hard to follow the rules - Slade's rules. Slade pinched the underside of his cock. 

"Maybe you don't-" Dick managed to slide his left hand back up into the correct position, pushing the coins up with him. A pity. "-don't even know how to want anything anymore."

Slade's hand stilled, wrapped around the base of his cock. That had sounded different. Less pointed, more hollow. Slade was no stranger to the his husband's merciless projection issues. So they weren't talking about Slade anymore, were they? Good. It was a grim pleasure; but Slade would never turn down a chance to tear Dick apart, get at the pieces underneath. Finally, finally, he was peeling back the layers.

"Fuck, this was-" Dick's voice was rough now, not choked with tears yet, but threatening it. Slade admired the sweaty flush of Dick's dark skin, the shape of his muscles, the smell of his cunt. He was soaking wet now, dripping on the bed. "This was a bad idea. Useless." 

Dick's hand shifted, trying to brace himself, and coin fell to the floor with a near-silent thunk. 

"Shit."

As though a dam had broken, Dick tried to scramble to press the rest of the coins harder against the headboard, but only managed to fumble two more of them, both of them bouncing off the bedspread to the floor.

"Fuck! Fuck," Dick was frozen now, trying to look for disapproval he couldn't see, begging for instructions he wasn't going to receive. Slade leaned forward, head tilted down so that he could watch Dick's face. 

"Fucking," Dick choked out, and the way his voice broke told Slade that the blindfold was about to be soaked with tears. "Fuck! Useless, terrible idea, never should've - fuck."

Dick was shaking all over now, his sore muscles trembling, and he bit his lip hard in a familiar gesture to stave off tears. Slade squeezed the base of his cock, hard, twitching in his own hand. 

"This is useless," Dick croaked, and then suddenly, he was sobbing. His left hand slipped, sending the remaining coins flying; his right hand curled convulsively around the headboards and Slade couldn't make out where all of the dimes fell. Dick's head curled down, tears starting to escape from the edge of the blindfold. He tucked his left arm protectively around himself, nearly choking on his own sobs. He was still trying to force out words, but they were incoherent - all Slade could pick out were curses, and the word useless, over and over again.

They weren't talking about Slade anymore.

Maybe it was the fact that when Slade stood and stepped around the bed, he could see that Dick was still desperately pressing his thumb against the last remaining dime. Maybe it was the realization that no matter how much Slade hurt Dick - or how much Dick hurt himself - the grief would still be waiting for Slade when he tried to sleep that night. Maybe it was his rusty dominant instincts, finally making themselves known.

His snarling anger abandoned him. Suddenly, the only the thing that mattered was this moment, happening right now. All that mattered was Dick.

***

Dick couldn't stop shaking, and he couldn't stop the wracking, gasping sobs. He ached all over, sharp warning pain in his thighs and groin, dull throbbing pain in his cunt. It didn't matter. Dick didn't know why he had thought any of it would matter. Now he was just lonely and angry and grieving and he hurt. Useless. Why was everything he did always so damn useless? All of the training, all of the fighting, all of the sacrifice, and for what? To not even be able to save his own son? What was the point?

The mattress dipped behind him. He could acknowledge that meant that Slade was still here, that he hadn't actually left, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Slade would hurt him, or he wouldn't. Eventually he would leave. That was all that mattered. Eventually Dick would be left to cry himself out into the damp mattress. That was all he wanted.

A warm, rough hand engulfged his, where it was still curled around the headboard. Calloused fingers kept his hand and the coin pressed tight against the wood. Slade's other arm looped under his belly, the rolled cuffs of his shift too-scratchy against his sensitive belly. Dick was drowned under another wave of sobs. 

"One left, little bird," Slade murmured into Dick's neck, and the sound of it - approving, fond, determined - made him shudder, his arms going completely limp. The weight of his arm pulled at his right wrist, but Slade just shifted his grip to ease the strain. "Hold on to me."

The order was like an anchor in a storm. Dick caught on to it, clutched Slade's broad arm underneath him, and let himself go half-limp in Slade's hold. 

With his free hand, Slade reached down and traced the shape of Dick's cunt around the toy. Dick's hips tried to twitch away, everything raw and oversensitive, but Slade held him firm, his knees on either side of Dick's. 

"Shh, shh, hush little bird."

Dick realized that his sobs had turned to keens. He shook his head as Slade dipped two fingers between his labia and the toy, gathering the slick that pooled there. It was too much, too much friction, too much pressure, too much everything.Slade curled two fingers under Dick's engorged slit, and then started slowly, gently, stroking it with his thumb. 

Dick whined and sobbed and choked. He realized distantly that he was begging Slade to stop, protesting, gasping for more - it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that he hold on. The muscles of Slade's forearm shifted rhythmically under his grip as Slade worked him over. Occasionally, his fingers dipped deeper, gathering more slick to ease his tender, relentless torture. 

Dick's voice gave out, sliding into wordless whines and gasps. He barely noticed. Everything outside of this moment fell away, everything other than the pain, the stretch in his cunt, the hungry need, Slade's arms and hands and heartbeat jumping against Dick's back. Slade pressed closer, his bare, hard cock trapped between them, and used the new angle to rock Dick gently back and forth on the toy.

It burned, too much, trapped between Slade's hand and the stretch of the toy. Dick whined, words completely lost to him, and dug his fingernails into Slade's arm. Slade pressed his mouth, open and still, against the side of his throat.

"Shh, shhh, I have you. Let go now."

And maybe Slade meant to let go of his arm, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that familiar, beloved voice, those clever hands - Dick could no more have disobeyed than ripped out his own heart.

His orgasm was a relief, a few feeble twitches of his hips and his cunt clenching painfully around the toy. The rest of his body went entirely slack, exhausted and languid in Slade's hold. He let Slade rearrange him without protest, just indulging in being moved and touched so carefully. Slade lowered his hand slowly down to the mattress, pulled him back into his lap, so that he was curled over Slade's arms around his chest and hip, Slade's cock nestled against him. Slade was still murmuring in his ear, hushing him, rutting against his sore ass. It satiated something deep in Dick's chest, Slade just arranging him, using him for his pleasure. It was such a visceral intimacy, feeding a craving that Dick had been denying for weeks. 

Slade came quietly, twitching against the base of his spine, and the only thing that Dick cared about was his satisfied groan.

He lingered in that warm, contented space for a long time, just inhabiting his body. Slade moved around him, moved him, but Dick paid it little mind. Slade was here, and that meant Dick was safe. 

He slept.

Chapter Text

Slade was tempted to close his eyes and compare this moment with the sense-memory of a hundred other nights spent exactly the same way: with Dick sprawled half on-top of him, sweaty and sticky and mumbling in his sleep. Instead, he settled for slowly working each individual snarl out of Dick's thick hair and just drinking in the sight of him, comparing what he remembered to what was right in front of him.

He shouldn't have been surprised by how many scars and injuries he didn't recognize. Even scars fade with time, and he hadn't had a chance to learn Dick's until some five, six years later the first time around. He was surprised to miss some that he was familiar with. Some, like Dick's fucked up shoulder, he could happily do without. Others were more personal: a thread-thin line across his ribcage where Dick had misjudged Slade's willingness to draw blood; a constellation of burst blood vessels where Slade had misjudged how fast Dick had been moving; the little crescent on Dick's thigh where Slade's teeth had broke his skin for the first time. Slade used to trace those marks, just enjoying the ways that Dick's body had been changed by him, made more his.

None of the marks Dick made ever lasted.

So instead, Slade considered ideas for new marks. Perhaps Dick could be convinced to pierce his other ear a few years early, if Slade was persuasive. Everything about this new intimacy would have to be handled carefully. Dick's own stubborness could set everything back years if he thought Slade was taking liberties. Slade snorted. As though Dick didn't love to be treated with casual, presumptive familiarity. As though he didn't crave it so much he could barely find the words to ask for it.

Still, Slade had only discovered much later how closely he had skated to chasing Dick away entirely, or else breaking him beyond repair. He knew at least a few things to avoid, and one of them was even the appearance of attempting to remove or override Dick's choices - at least, in any meaningful way. They had some disagreements on what constituted "meaningful", but Slade was willing to cede the issue. Most of the time.

The challenge now was that Slade still couldn't pinpoint exactly what he'd done right the first time around. When he looked back on what could only very generously be deemed their courtship, he couldn't even pinpoint when they'd gone from angry, agressive chemistry and the occasional desperate fuck to actually trusting each other. He knew when he'd realized it, but not when it had happened. And he knew even less what he'd done to earn the same trust from Dick. God alone knew that Slade wouldn't have trusted himself, in Dick's position.

He could try just recreating as many of their interactions as he remembered, but the idea lacked appeal. Not only was it tactically risky, with how much Slade was already changing, it was… dull. Unworthy of what Slade was trying to accomplish.

Slade tipped his head back, just curling his hand around Dick's skull, and considered his approach. He might be working blind, but he'd done more with less. He hadn't been given his rank because of his pretty face.

The first step was always establishing the desired end result, and Slade knew better than to rush past it. It would've been easy to just cling to the memory of how his second marriage had been, and try to replicate it. But that was a short-sighted strategy, and Slade knew it. This was a new environment, with new factors, and there was always the possibility of improvement. Or deterioration.

Slade wasn't interested in "reducing conflict" or "enabling interdependence", no matter how many times Joey had parroted the suggestions. Slade knew himself well enough to know that he lacked any interest in a partner who couldn't, or wouldn't knock him on his ass. And Slade had known from the moment that brightly-colored bird had cocked his head and spouted an insulting pun that they would work magnificently together. He'd never seen spirit like that before, and he'd never seen it again since.

There were other things, though. Things that Dick had wanted, that Slade hadn't been able to give him. Affection and approval, in ways that were foreign to Slade. A sense of safety, not from danger but from loneliness, that Slade had never been able to guarantee. A family that was well, and whole, and happy - even if just for a moment. That, maybe, Slade could manage. Maybe. He was certain there was nothing to be done about the Bat's dour attitude, but at least he hadn't completely mangled his relationship with Dick yet. None of Dick's loved ones were dead yet, except very technically Jason.

Even Joey was still breathing with his own body, even if he absolutely refused to talk to Slade.

The real problem, once Slade had considered it, was the sheer number of people Dick decided to love. It could be charming, from time to time, but also a damned annoyance. There were so many people who's death - or even just maiming - would rack his bird with guilt and grief. Slade ignored the tiny reminder of his own grief, and it quieted. If Slade tried to count, he'd be here all day. And besides that, even Deathstroke couldn't be in two places at once, which meant Slade would have to pick his battles.

Dick shifted, and Slade shifted with him, adjusting Dick's shoulders so that he didn't end up with a painful crick in his neck when he woke in a few minutes. Dick snuffled at his neck, still mostly-asleep, and Slade allowed himself a small smile. This was going to work. He was going to make it work.

***

Aside from a single disorienting moment where Dick thought he was forty-six again, he woke clear-headed and calmer than he'd been in days.

His brain supplied some snide remarks about actually going under when he needed it, which he ignored in favor of pretending to be asleep while Slade politely pretended to believe it. He just needed a few more minutes, to revel in the tacky places where their skin touched, the home-worn scent of Slade's body. His stomach finally gave him up, grumbling too quietly for him to hear - which meant, of course, that Slade caught it immediately.

"Time to get up, little bird."

Dick barely gave a token protest, he felt that much better. His muscles burned and his cunt was sore, but he felt better. More himself. Less like he was going to rip his hair out staring at corkboards and wondering where he'd gone wrong.

Part of his brain was already whirring through his plans, sorting out information from questions and priorities and approaches, processesing in the background of his thoughts while Slade disappeared to retrieve water and hopefully simple carbs. Dick managed to stumble into the bathroom for a quick clean-up. Even after they'd been married for a decade, Dick still preferred to do this part himself, if he wasn't still under. It was too cloying otherwise, too close when he was just getting resettled in his skin.

He would happily curl up on Slade's lap to be fed, though, and did. For a miracle, Slade didn't even seem inclined to be distant and frustrated about it. Maybe he felt bad for being such an asshole. Probably not, Dick though. Probably it was just a way to satisfy that base dominant part of him that wanted to prove that he could take care of a submissive. That wanted his submissive close, and trusting. That was fine with Dick. They passed a few quiet words, the sort of distant logistical interactions that two people existing in the same space occasionally needed.

Dick considered his next steps while he munched on bites of protein bar and dried apricots. He'd need a way to get in touch with Slade again, hopefully with less posturing and drama on both their parts. Using Wintergreen as a go-between wasn't ideal for setting up scenes, nevermind for some of the bullshit Dick was about to pull.

He timed it carefully - after Slade had fed him and proclaimed him well enough to stand, before he went to hand Dick his clothes and got annoyed all over again at the untidy pile. Dick stretched down, lengthening his spine to pull any kinks out of his hamstrings, and said casually, "So, what would you say if I said I had a contract for you?"

His boxers landed on his head, which was honestly a better response than Dick had hoped for.

"You get your entire shit wrecked and the first thing you want to talk about is work?" Slade asked, and there was that sardonic judgment Dick knew and loved. Dick shrugged, and pulledthe boxers on before stepping into another stretch, this time for his glutes.

"What can I say, I'm feeling very energized. So what would you say?"

The rest of his clothes landed at his feet, one-by-one. A far cry from the possessive way that Slade used to like to re-dress him after a scene, but Dick was feeling magninamous. A good fuck always did that to him, made him all generous and balanced. Slade was silent until Dick had shrugged the rest of his clothes back on, and by the time Dick looked up, Slade was also fully-dressed again and leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

"You know me, birdie. I never take a contract without knowing the terms."

Gotcha, Dick thought, and grinned.

"I think you'll like this one. It's a retrieval, and it's going to be a challenge."

***

After that, agreeing on a line of communication was easy - if nothing else, Dick had to send the details. Cleaning up and resetting the safehouse was more companionable than Dick could have hoped for, almost familiar. The lingering tension and anger was gone, dissipated completely by Dick's newfound cheer and Slade's smugness. Dick wasn't even annoyed by it, for once - he should have been, because what Slade had pulled was a colossally dick move, but honestly, he couldn't be bothered. He'd definitely instigated it, and ultimately, he'd gotten what he wanted. The shadow of grief still lingered, and Dick knew he was still going to absolutely sob himself to sleep tonight - but that was for tonight.

For this evening, Dick let Slade slip out first, disappearing into the busy streets while he made a call.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, phone pinched between his ear as he finished resetting the last of the security.

"Did you get your shit together?" Babs asked from the other end of the line. Dick grinned.

"They don't call me Boy Wonder for nothing," he told her, and disappeared into the city as well. "Meet tomorrow?"

Chapter Text

Tim was back at the drawing board, once again re-examining the facts. That was the thing that tripped most investigations up - mistaking facts for assumptions and assumptions for facts. So when he was stuck, he liked to go back over them, re-arrange them, stress-test them and look for weaknesses.

Fact: Someone had used the old Robin line to send a message.

Fact: That someone had known or suspected that Deathstroke was alone with Dick.

Fact: There had been at least three separate people in Dick's safehouse the day Tim had seen it.

Caveat: Tim assumed there were at least separate people, due to a collection of other facts. These were the extra coat hanging in the entryway, three chairs pulled out from the dining table, and three place settings halfway through a meal.

He turned the caveat over in his head, examining it from every angle, re-hashing discarded theories. There could have been more than three people. Deathstroke could have fabricated evidence of a third person then made the call himself in order to… what? Confuse Tim? Confuse Bruce?

But then why call them in at all? Tim was way too familiar with Deathstroke's obsessive behavior all centered on Dick; if he had the former Robin alone and unaccounted for at a safehouse, what would he gain by inviting the Bats in? Wouldn't he already have had what he wanted?

Tim chewed his lip, then mentally added the possibility to the list of things to investigate later, if all of his other leads ran out. For now, three people was still the most likely option.

Tim sighed and ground the heel of his hand into his temple. He was exhausted and headache-y and late for chemistry again. He would have to put a pin in it for now, maybe let his brain run scenarios in the background, dedicate just enough computing power to functioning for the school day while he subconsciously worked through options.

One way or the other, Tim was going to figure out what was going on.

***

Dick wasn't expecting the painful, longing nostalgia that hit him when he rolled up to the Clocktower with takeout in hand. There were so many tiny details he'd forgotten. The smell of Gotham on a warm day, especially this close to the harbor; the noise from the chassis factory just two blocks over; even the way the sun glinted off the clock-hands had been completely lost, buried somewhere in his memories. The space left behind by the sudden stab of wistfulness filled in with something giddy, something that felt like both relief and anticipation. He couldn't remember how long at it had been since he'd been here, plotting with Barbara, swinging by to touch base on some mission, or even just enjoying her company.

He hit the app on his phone that would let her know he was coming up, then ducked through the concealed door that led to Babs's personal elevator.

The Clocktower was just as he remembered it. He was afraid he'd exaggerated in his mind, the magnificence of the light that filtered through the clock-faces, the splashes of gold mottled with the blue glow of Babs's many screens. Everything was open, echoing, with hugely vaulted ceilings that Dick loved to disappeared into. And moving through it all, the beating heart of everything that happened in Gotham, was Babs, already in the processes of gathering her things at her workstation so that they could plan. God, Dick adored her.

She called over her shoulder at him when he appeared, "Will you grab plates?"

Dick shot her a thumbs up, then stared at the cupboards for long moments while she logged in and started pulling up files. He picked a cupboard at random and opened it. Dry goods. He picked another: liquor and glasses.

"Uh, Babs?"

"What? I swear I just did dishes."

Dick pulled a face. "Uh, no. It's not that. I, um. I don't remember where they are."

There was a pause, they stared at each other, helpless in the face of such a ridiculous problem. Dick had traveled twenty-five years back in time, and now he didn't remember where Barbara kept her plates. It was almost embarrassing.

But then Babs just laughed, and Dick's tension melted away. She shrugged. "Just open 'em all. You'll need to know where everything is anyway."

That was fair enough. After some trial and error, Dick managed to set them both up with TV trays takeout, along with coffee for Babs and water for them both. When he started to hunt for a chair to pull up alongside her, she pinned him with a shrewd like.

"Do you want to sit, or do you want to kneel?"

Oh. She hadn't offered to let him kneel for her in years. Since the last time they broke up. Dick just nodded, unable to speak through the lump in his throat. Her face softened, and she jerked her head towards the couch.

"Grab the cushions."

Dick fumbled a little as he took two of the large, square cushions directly off the couch - one for the floor, and one to put between his shoulder and the wheel of her chair. It was an old dance, Babs making sure she was where she wanted to be and locked before Dick tried situating himself.

He cleared his throat.

"Um. My knees are… a little sore. Is it alright-"

Babs interrupted him. "Sit, then. I want you on the floor where I can keep an eye on you."

Even that light, sharp teasing wove its way into Dick's chest, settling him, making it easy to lean against her through the cushion. He let his eyes drift closed for a few moments, relishing the sound of her fingers on the keys, the brief pause where she ruffled his hair. He was still feeling so mellow from his scene with Slade, this was indulgent, to let himself be submissive for a little bit, to be safe with her.

She flicked his forehead when she was ready to start their plotting. He focused up, scanning the various photos and charts and articles she had pulled up on her many screens.

"Alright, Boy Wonder. I have questions."

"Shoot."

Babs navigated to a chart, and expanded it so that he could see it more easily if he wanted - he could tell from a glance that it was some sort of informational flow chart, ensuring that she didn't miss any relevant questions. He didn't pay it much mind, too focused on how nice it felt to sit against her.

"What is the Audit?"

Dick blew his cheeks out with a puff of air. "Boy, you don't start easy, do you?"

"Never have."

Dick shifted a little, sitting more vertical, trying to find the rhythm of a report without the formality.

"Well firstly, that's just what we called it. Because it was… an accounting, of sorts, I suppose. Of humanity. When the Auditors came, they didn't name themselves, just told us that they were here to balance the books, and that we had a year to fix things or they'd do it for us. That's how it translated, at least, though different people heard it in different languages. That's what it boiled down to, though. So first, it was the Auditors, and then after… well, it just started to get called the Audit."

Dick paused, letting Babs spend some time adding notes on linguistics, concepts to look into while he tried to find the words.

"The Auditors started showing up about three years before the Audit, maybe four. They would just… appear somewhere, not appearing to do anything, and then disappear again after a few days. A few sightings a year turned into a couple a month, then a few a week. Then a year before the Audit, Auditors appeared in every city in the world with more than 10,000 people. They released a simultaneous, psychic message: that humanity was under observation and judgment, and that we had been deemed to dangerous to continue to exist. We had one Earth year to fix things, or they would do it themselves."

Babs moved over to a database, a complex one that she'd programmed herself, and started inputting relevant information.

"I think I have my suspicions, but just for the sake of thoroughness, what things?"

Dick shrugged. "You suspicions are probably spot on. Horrific violence, ecological destruction, pervasive injustice - all of that kind of stuff. There wasn't a specific list of grievances."

Babs was making notes in her database of what looked like categorical tags. "That makes it harder, but it's a starting place. Next question: why didn't we stop it?"

That was a harder one to answer. Dick could feel his stomach tightening unpleasantly, but Babs reached over to tug on his hair, and that helped. Dick sighed.

"It was a lot of things. Part of it was that they moved too fast, once the deadline was up. Gotham, LA, Tokyo, Moscow, Istanbul, Beijing - they were all destroyed within an hour of each other. We were scrambling to catch up. We couldn't figure out what they were, never mind how to stop them."

Dick didn't enjoy thinking about it. One morning he'd been trying to convince Damian to just try some oatmeal, and that evening he'd been trying to find the remaining bodies of half the people he loved. He shifted on his cushion, pressing his forehead hard against the curve of the wheelchair through the padding. He just had to get through it once, just this one time. After this, he'd have Babs to help him explain.

"So what are they, then?"

Dick's eyes narrowed in concentration. "I still don't really… know, for sure." It was both a difficulty and an embarrassment to explain. "We think they're extraplanar? Because they don't match anything in the known galaxy - at least that we were able to call in help to identify. Every test we managed to ran came back inconclusive."

Babs was really in it now, juggling multiple entry points, pulling up references and cross-references, making comparisons and discarding them just as quickly. It felt distantly futile to Dick, who had watched the best scientists he knew scramble for years for something about the Auditors, anything.

"What data did you get back?" she asked. Dick let out a long breath, trying to figure out how to explain it right, how to make it stick.

"That's the problem, Babs. All of it. Every scan, every test, every chemical analysis and behavioral investigation - it was like the science equivalent of white noise. Everything came back positive, like off-the-charts. They're constructed, but they're not synthetic. They're organic but they're not alive. They're alive and they think but psychically they're both plants and humans and light and also somehow the concept of water? I don't know how to explain it better than that."

The hand that had been occasionally stroking his hair was long gone now, while Babs furiously collated this information. Dick could've told her it was useless.

"But what does that mean?" Dick knew she wasn't talking to him, that she was asking herself aloud in the hopes it would help make some connection she'd missed. But he was starting to feel tense again, a little jittery, and he couldn't leave well enough alone.

"It's like…" Dick wracked his brain for an example that Babs would have a frame of reference for. "Like you know how Kori can't have an MRI, because Tamaraneans organic composition is too metallic? It just comes back as a big blob, because the magnetic waves just come back as 'yep, there's sure magnets here!' even though there's not? It's kind of like that. Except with every test."

Babs's fingers slowed, then stopped. Dick froze. She stared blankly at her bank of screens, then after a long, quiet moment, tilted her head to look down at him. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, but she was holding herself too stiffly, too concentraded, suddenly all of her focus on him rather than the problem right in front of her. He was sure she was about to snap at him, but when she spoke, it was very gentle.

"I don't think I've ever heard you say her name like that before," she said, and it was so carefully neutral, not prodding but inviting. Dick squeezed his eyes shut. Right, Kori. That would be… yeah.

He wetted his suddenly dry lips. "Like what?" He couldn't look away from her, and she didn't seem to be able to either. But she did reach down again, and curl her fingers behind the shell of his ear.

"Like you're not apologizing to me for saying it."

Shame and regret flooded Dick's chest, dripping down his throat, making his voice crack. That was the one thing they'd never been able to work through, the one mistake he'd never been able to mend. He'd never gotten a chance to apologize - not really. Not because he meant it, and not because he was scared to lose her.

"Maybe I should," he whispered, and squeezed his eyes closed so that he could look up, furiously refusing the tears that wanted to well up. Babs didn't move, except to curl the tips of her fingers a little closer, just brushing against the vulnerable skin behind his ear and jaw.

"What happened?" she asked, and it was both command and benediction. Dick could not more have refused than he could tear out his own heart.

"I fucked up. It was… a long time ago. A couple years from now." She deserved to have some frame of reference, at least. Dick tried to dig up the words, but found nothing but mud, and the stark facts. "I kissed her."

There was another long silence while Dick kept rifling through explanations, discarding them, trying to find a way to tell her how badly he'd fucked up, how much he regretted it. He found nothing, and Babs took mercy on him. Her voice was still gentle, a kindness he didn't deserve.

"Dick, you were engaged. This isn't news to me," she said, nudging him along, reminding him that she was still missing pieces. Dick's jaw creaked with how hard his teeth were clenched. It didn't even matter in this moment how she reacted, if she was hurt or angry, if she kicked him out or punched him in the fact. He could face all of that. But trying to confess his own self-centered cruelty was like looking into a funhouse mirror, and he couldn't bring himself to face the reflection.

"Not." He cleared his throat. "Not while we were engaged. I mean me and Kori. You and me. When we were engaged."

Dick still couldn't open his eyes, but he could feel Babs go completely still. He couldn't even hear her breathing. Dick wanted to howl. He still didn't completely understand how he could have hurt her so badly, what had possessed him to treat her trust to callously. There was no slip-knot in it, no convenient thread he could tug to untangle it and absolve his guilt. He had hurt her, and he'd done it without considering how it would impact her at all.

"Why?" she finally asked, her voice steel and soft and still. He wasn't sure, in her shoes, that he would allow himself a chance to explain. Then again, he'd only broken this Barbara's heart once - not more times than he could count.

"I was scared. " That was what it had come down to, in the end, all of it. He forced himself to open his eyes, to tilt his face up enough that she could see it, because he needed her to know. He pinned his gaze to her left shoulder. "It wasn't because I didn't love you, or because I loved her more, or anything like that. It wasn't because I wasn't happy." Bile tried to rise in Dick's throat. He swallowed it down. "But the whole thing was because I was scared. I was scared to lose you, that if we weren't married then someday you wouldn't want me anymore."

What a foolish fucking child he'd been. Everyone he was so afraid of losing, and he'd just chased them away himself. He memorized the lines of her sweater, where the seam hung over Babs's shoulder, and forced himself to keep talking.

"I wasn't ready to be married, but I proposed anyway. And then shit went down, like it always does, and I got scared that I was going to lose Kori. And I pretended it was for some bullshit mission reason. But it wasn't. It's because I didn't know how to just tell you that I loved you and I never want to lose you."

Babs's voice was still quiet, and Dick felt raw at the tenderness in it.

"A kiss isn't that much, Dick. We were already struggling, weren't we?"

Dick nodded. She was right. If everything else had been fine, then they probably could've worked through it. They could've talked about it, and Dick could have figured out why he was acting like a complete asshole, and he could've fixed it. But things hadn't been okay.

"Yeah. Not for the reasons you think. There was…" Dick thought of Mirage, of Tarantula, the fights and tears that ensued, the way that he hadn't really understood until years later what it all meant. "There was a lot of complicated stuff going on. Some of it was my fault, and I can admit that some of it wasn't. But, yeah, things were bad already. It was kind of the last straw."

Dick knew that if he waited long enough, she'd reply with some thoughtful, gentle question. So he pushed through, just one more time.

"And I never apologized. Not really. Not because I was going to do better, and I wanted you to know how badly I hurt you, and that I was sorry. So I'm saying it now. I am so, so sorry."

This time there was no silence. Babs was shaking her head before he even choked the words out, and Dick was already gathering his feet under him, ready to leave her be. She pinched his ear, and twisted painfully so that Dick was forced to look at her. There, finally, was the thunder he had expected, sparking behind her eyes.

"No, absolutely not. I will not accept an apology for a woman who will never exist. I see you, Dick. I know how hard this is for you. But I'm not her, and now I never will be, and your history is between you and her. So learn to live with it, or don't, just… " Babs sighed, looking suddenly exhausted, "… just do better, I suppose?"

Dick's hands were trembling a little, and all he managed was to nod. It was almost a relief, her judgment rendered. And she was right, besides. It wasn't her responsibility to hear apologies for a woman from Dick's memory. She loosened her grip on his ear, and then stroked his hair back from his face. Her expression was strange now, both fond and sad.

"That's it for us, isn't it?"

Dick didn't pretend not to know what she meant. In that other life, he'd never really given up on them, on the chance that someday they might figure out out. Not until the day he'd seen her body with his own eyes.

But in this life? Dick had already made his choices.

He nodded, feeling her fingers tug a little in his hair. She leaned over close, and he knelt up to reach her, making it easier. She laid her hand along his jaw, her elegant fingers barely reaching his ear. He tilted his head up so that she could rest her forehead against his.

"One for the road, then," she whispered, and then very slowly, leaned in a bit closer and kissed him. It was light, and lingering, and so sweet Dick wanted to cry. It was barely a kiss at all, just a breath taken from the same space, while their lips brushed. And when she pulled away, it was like she took something with her, some awful tangled thing that had lived behind Dick's ribs for so long he'd forgotten it was there.

Babs leaned back with a sigh, and pressed his neck to nudge him back to his position leaning against the cushion propped against her chair. She tiled her head back, eyes closed, and they sat together that way for a spell. Dick had forgotten what it was like to just sit with her, just because they wanted each others' company, without secrets or anger between them. He relaxed more of his weight against her, and let his attention slip away for a little while.

Chapter Text

By the time Dick resurfaced, true night had fallen, and Babs was painted in the shifting, flickering light of her screens. She looked ethereal like that, aloof and untouchable. Dick liked seeing her like this.

He yawned and stretched, and Babs gave him a hand to help him stand. He didn't usually spend such a long time in one position, even when he was asleep, and he was feeling stiff. Subspace did that to him, sometimes - but kneeling was worth it. Still, he cleaned up the pillows and warmed up some leftovers when Babs told him firmly to get dinner ready. He was grateful that she knew him so well. He never came up easy, staying soft and suggestible sometimes for hours after going under. Simple, practical orders was a helpful step on the staircase back to equilibrium.

They chatted idly while they ate, until conversation turned inevitably back to the not-future, to the Audit and whatever plans they were going to make. Dick still couldn't explain exactly what the Auditors were, because he still didn't know. He'd stopped caring about it a long time ago.

"Look, I don't know exactly what they are. The important thing is this: I've never, ever heard of someone killing one. Destroying one. Whatever."

Babs looked more pensive at that than concerned. Dick sighed, and set his pesto spaghetti aside. If there was one way to get Babs to understand the enormity of something, it was to satiate her curiosity, then let her explore from there.

"We've managed to stop or stall them before. A powerful psychic can disrupt their communications for a little while, maybe an hour or so - they're marginally less dangerous independently than as a collective. Magic works slightly better than most things - Constantine managed a spell that forced a whole mob of them back into their native inter-planar space for at least a week. But most weapons are useless. They both do and don't have a physical form, so if you shoot them enough or drop a building on them, they slow down long enough to run, if you're fast."

Babs wasn't even taking notes, just staring into the middle distance, obviously listening, but running rapid calculations in her mind.

"What do they look like?"

That was equally difficult to describe. Dick thought that if he wasn't still floating a little from his quick dip into subspace, he might be getting annoyed. As it was, he was just concerned with trying to find the best answers.

"You how Plasmus is kind of a human-shaped mass of plasma? And you shouldn't be able to look at him because plasma is too bright, but you can anyway?"

Babs nodded, eyes narrowed, still considering.

"So like, combine that with if he was partially ethereal and also his shadow occupied the same space as his body."

That, at least, seemed to help. Dick knew it wasn't a very exact description, but it was, as Tim would say, a vibe. He let Babs consider in peace. He knew better to interrupt her while she was concentrating on something like this, something both delicate and important, with a lot of moving pieces. Finally, she sighed, and focused back in on the here and now. She returned to her keyboard, and datasets, and her brisk questions.

"How long do we have?

Easy. Dick rattled off a date almost 10 years in the future.

"That's the announcement. The Audit is a year later, to the minute. But before the first scout shows up? Hard to say. I know that Superman reported one a year or so from now, but we know there were more before that - we just didn't know it at the time. I don't know where or when the first scout appeared."

They worked together to input every appearance of the Auditors that Dick could remember. There didn't seem to be any predictable pattern to it. Babs noticed the same thing, but didn't seem put off. Instead, she set a few programs running, and then turned to face him. Her expression was deadly serious.

"Okay, I need to let that run. In the meantime, I have another question, and I want you to really think about it, okay? Don't just answer. Take your time. Ready?"

Dick nodded.

"Can we stop them?"

Stop them? Dick almost laughed out loud, but Babs' expression stopped him. She meant it. Dick considered what he remembered of the Audit itself.

A lot of the memories were blurry. Dick knew that trauma would do that, push aside details in order to make space for bigger, scarier recollections. He wished he could remember better, though. He knew he'd spent the morning in Gotham, that it was the last time that he'd seen Alfred or Bruce, but he couldn't remember what they'd done. Had breakfast? Skipped it? They'd been run so ragged trying to prevent disaster, hoping that they'd done enough. Dick knew that he'd agreed to take Damian out of Gotham, out to the Kent farm, which had become their backup base of operations.

And it had. There hadn't even been news coverage; it had been too sudden. One minute, Dick had been in a gas station, trying to coax Damian into picking something to eat, and the next the power was out.

They knew immediately. The clerk behind the counter had broken down into tears. Dick had wanted to comfort him, but didn't know how. Neither he nor Damian took any food from the shelves, just bolted to the car and tried to call Bruce.

They knew they wouldn't get an answer, but somehow Dick hadn't expected the dead silence - not even a ringtone, no near-silent buzz of a disconnected call. Dick peeled them out onto narrow country roads while Damian tried every backup communication they had.

A few radio signals still worked. They were able to confirm that Tim was alive, somewhere, though they didn't know where. A handful of the Justice League could confirm that some of their allies were alive.

They couldn't reach anyone in Gotham.

Dick knew, then. But Damian had been so stubbornly insistent, inventing increasingly ridiculous scenarios in which things were bad, but salvageable. He hadn't been able to bring himself to say anything.

Everything after that, the Kents and the farm, the messages that trickled in, the reconnaissance missions and frantic resistance, was a blur. For months after the Audit, Dick's only memories were of bolt-holes and strange, specific changes to everyday life that he hadn't expected. The stars re-appeared as cities lost power. Electronic billboards broke down, and Dick realized suddenly that he'd gone weeks without seeing an ad. Little things. Huge things. Every memory was washed with helplesnesses, a bleak hollowness that went beyond anger, beyond grief.

They had tried everything, and it hadn't mattered at all.

Could they stop them?

Dick traced the familiar lines of Barbara's face, set in her trademark burning determination. He thought of all of the impossible things they had accomplished in the past. He remembered the ruins of the Clocktower.

"No. No, I don't think we can."

There was a long moment of silence while Babs grappled with his certainty. He let her process without interruption. Finally, she nodded sharply.

"Alright, then. We need to prevent this "Audit", then. It's a plan, at least."

Dick swallowed, overwhelmed by the enormity of it.

"If we can 'pass' the Audit, then we could prevent it from ever happening." It was something he'd considered a lot, in the years that had followed - how things would have been different, if humanity had been able to get it's fucking act together. The Auditors always, always followed through on whatever they communicated that they would do. If Earth could meet their exacting standards, then they would leave well enough alone. If. Always that one critical word. If. People hadn't exactly been altruistic, the first time around. Dick tried to focus on breathing through his nose.

Barbara was pulling up new programs and opening separate databases, invigorated to have a direction to move in. It was too much, more energy than Dick could deal with. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"What do we need to do?" Babs asked, and Dick shook his head. He leaned over his knees, trying to recapture the calm, floaty feeling he'd been drifting just an hour ago. When he didn't answer, Babs stopped typing, and leaned over to put a hand over his neck.

"I know, it's a lot. But if we can get through this part, we actually have a shot at this. I mean it, Dick. We can do this. I wouldn't lie to you."

Tears pricked the corners of Dick's eyes. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop them.

"I wouldn't lie to you," Babs said, squeezing his hand once. "It's going to be alright."

She'd really believed that, back then, when he'd been preparing to wrestle Damian into the car to leave the city. She believed it now, too. Dick's breath shuddered in his chest.

"Oh, Dick. Here."

Babs shifted him a little closer, so that his forehead was pressed against her shoulder. She didn't put him down again - twice in one day would be more than he could handle. She just let him gulp down air and refuse to cry until he managed take in a full breath. Then, very quietly, she murmured another question against his ear.

"Who did we lose?"

Dick's throat felt raw.

"Everyone."

He didn't look up, just focused on the feeling of her hoodie against his forehead. Babs sighed, and stroked his hair, just barely prickling his scalp with her short fingernails.

"I was in Gotham, wasn't I?" she asked gently. It was an easy enough conclusion, that Gotham would be one of the first cities to be targeted. And Oracle couldn't do her job from anywhere - she needed access to cameras and backdoors and data. She'd prepared the Clocktower with their help, then holed up to see it through. Dick had never seen her again.

Dick just nodded.

The night was soft and still around them. Somewhere in the distance, a muffled siren wound its way through the city. The screens flickered, and Dick and Barbara breathed together. Dick stayed right where he was, forehead pressed to Babs's shoulder, until his neck started to ache.

That tiny pain helped, brought him back to his body. He managed to sit back up, wiping the crusty tears out of his eyes.

"We can't let it happen again," he said. It wasn't a determined declaration, just a statement of fact. Barbara nodded.

"You've already changed things, just by being here."

Dick tilted his head one way, then the other, trying to work out the crick in his neck. He snorted.

"For all the good it will do."

Babs's expression was positively wolfish. Something panged in Dick's chest, something suspiciously like hope.

"Just one win, Boy Wonder. That's all we need. Call it proof of concept."

And Dick could tell by the changes on her screen, by the sudden spread of details - coordinates, timestamps, blueprints - that she was starting to formulate a plan.

"What are you thinking?" he asked cautiously.

A program announced that it was finished running with a silent, flashing alert. When Babs pulled it up, she grinned in dangerous determination.

"The first scouting mission. I'm going to find it, and we're going to intercept it."

Dick couldn't interpret everything that she was doing, but he could hold his own. Whatever the program had been doing, it had been helping narrow the field, identifying patterns in the Auditors' scouting missions that neither magic nor technology had managed to find.

Then again, Barbara hadn't had this information before. If there was anyone who could take a string of random locations and times and extrapolate a future from it, it was Oracle.

Dick let the hope sprout.

"We need a team."

***

They didn't sleep that night. Barbara ran analysis after analysis while Dick caught her up on some of the people he planned to recruit. He was surprised, when he mentioned Stephanie by name, that Barbara had met her before.

"She comes into the library all the time," she explained. They went back and forth for a while about who they could leave out of it, who they might be able to give another choice, if they could. Dick realized with a sinking feeling that almost all of the people he would someday call family were already too far in to ever back out. Damian had been born into this life, as had Cass. Stephanie might choose another path, if she had the support she needed - but she would always be on the backup roster. She wouldn't accept anything else, once she was part of the family.

He explained that Talia had a kid that he'd mostly adopted, although he left out the part about Bruce being Damian's father.

"You want to go after him?"

Dick tilted his head back and forth. He did want to go after Damian, wanted it so badly it made his bones ache. But he couldn't afford to fuck it up, and he wasn't ready yet.

"Yes, but not yet. I have another extraction first, before I can take on the League."

He explained his plan to intercept Cass. It was years too early, but Dick was confident on this one. Cass had been waiting for a chance, any opportunity to slip through her fathers' fingers, long before Batman had showed up. She would be confused and wary, but she would also be able to tell that he meant her no harm - and she would know that he was capable of protecting her. Barbara agreed with his plan, up until he told her who he planned to take as backup.

"Absolutely not."

"Babs, please. Trust me on this one." Dick needed Slade in his corner for this one. He didn't have any illusions about his ability to face off against Lady Shiva, if it came down to it. And Cass would be able to read his body, would know that even though he was soaked in violence, he could protect her. That he wasn't cruel, and that he cared for Dick more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

"No! Take Tim! If you can't take Bruce - and I get why you can't, okay? - take Tim. He's ready for this."

Dick realized suddenly that he'd left out a pretty significant piece of information. He scrunched his nose. There was nothing for it, he was going to have to rip off the bandaid.

"I can't take Tim," he said, and something in his tone alerted her that there was more to say. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Why not?"

"So I need you to promise not to freak out." Dick knew it was a mistake as soon as he'd said it. He could see Babs's temper sparking in her eyes, and he held up his hands placatingly. "Okay, no, just… look at it like this. You chose to be Batgirl."

Babs nodded slowly, still suspicious. Dick lowered his hands.

"Okay. So if after you were shot, how would you feel if you looked out at Gotham one night and saw another girl in the suit? If Bruce gave it to someone else?"

The temper flared from a spark to a full-on blaze, but Babs didn't snap. She spoke glacially coldly, every word precise.

"He has no right."

Dick couldn't agree more, and he let Babs see that in his expression. He lowered his voice, not trying to calm her down, just counterbalancing the tension crackling between them.

"You're right. He doesn't. But he made Tim Robin, and he had no right to do that either."

Dick could tell that Babs had never though of it that way, just from the widening of her eyes in surprise. Her reply was cautious, testing out the truth of the statement.

"We all know that Tim made Tim Robin. Are you saying you're mad at Tim?"

Dick shook his head. "No, no absolutely not. I'm not. I'm not."

He could see the pieces starting to to line up.

"What are you saying?"

Dick made a last-ditch effort at keeping the conversation from escalating to violence.

"Deep breaths, okay?"

Babs's voice was shaky now, just on the cusp of figuring out what was happening, not understanding yet, but knowing that something was wrong.

"Richard John Grayson, I swear to god-"

Dick interrupted her.

"It's Jason. Jason's alive, and the first thing Talia told him was that Bruce replaced him."

Of all the silences that night, this was the first they hadn't shared. This silence sat ringing and heavy between them. Babs was just staring at him, eyes wide, one hand halfway to covering her mouth. He held her gaze, trying desperately to convey calm and control and joy. Jason was alive.

"Christ alive," she whispered, and tears were starting to spill over her lid line. "You mean it."

Dick nodded, and then gripped her hand tightly when she reached for him. Babs didn't find comfort in being held, in a hug or an arm around her. This was what she needed, when things were too much. He squeezed tight enough that her hand was probably going to hurt a bit in the morning.

"Where is he? I want to see him. Right now, Dick, I want to see him."

There it was, that unspeakable emotion turned into frantic energy, turned into something to do instead of something to feel. Dick grabbed her other hand.

"I will bring him to you. I swear I will. But not yet. He's safe. He can't be in Gotham yet, but I'm figuring it out. I sent him with…" Dick hesitated. "A friend.

Barbara was still demanding, still insistent, but she let him hold on to both of his hands, and the tears were staining her cheeks now.

"Who? Who on Earth could be better for Jason than his family?"

Slade is his family, Dick thought, but wisely didn't say. This Slade didn't know Jason from Adam. But he would, and it was only a matter of time before Slade was just as willing to put his life on the line for Jason as he would have been for any of his children.

Dick struggled to find an excuse, or a lie, but Babs didn't let him. Her voice went low and furiously cold.

"You can tell me, or I can find out. And if I find out, Dick, it is not going to go well for you."

Dick sighed.

"Slade. I sent him with Slade."

There was a beat of silence, and then Babs was yanking her hands away.

"Wilson? You sent Jason with Slade Wilson? World's deadliest mercenary Slade Wilson? What the actual fuck, Dick?"

Dick fought the urge to splutter out an explanation. It would do him no good here. Instead, he dipped into a well of quiet, confident command that he'd curated in his years leading the Resistance.

"I know it makes no sense, but I need you to trust me. I love Jason with my entire heart, and I couldn't bear to lose him again. There is literally no one I trust more to protect him. Not even Bruce."

Babs voice cracked. "Not even me?"

Dick didn't touch her again, but he did lean forward, caught her eye.

"No. Not when the pit makes him so angry that sometimes I can't even stop him before he hurts himself. He grew up tall, Babs. Big, like Bruce."

Babs finally noticed the tears, and started scrubbing them away with her sleeve.

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit," Dick agreed. "Slade can keep him from hurting himself. And Jason can't kill him, which he'll be grateful for when he levels out a bit. And Slade might have a temper, but he never hurts someone on accident. Never."

"No," Babs spat, her voice shaky now. "He just hurts people on purpose."

Dick kept his voice steady and his gaze calm. "Yes. When he has a contract, or when someone has harmed him or his family. I know you have no reason to believe me, but they have a lot in common. It will do Jason good, to be with someone who understands him."

"Understands what, Dick?" Babs snapped, and Dick could feel the whiplash of her fear and relief and confusion behind the words. Dick's throat felt tight.

"Someone who gets what it's like to grow up being told that you're never going to be anything. Someone who gets what it's like to have nothing. Someone who understands being willing to die for your mom, even if she can't or won't love you. Who understands being willing to kill for her. Who was taught violence first, and had to learn everything else after."

Babs was staring at him now, open confusion on her face. Her hands were still buried in the sleeves of her hoodie, which were damp with tears.

"You know him really well," she finally said accusingly. Dick snorted.

"Yeah, he's my brother."

Babs shook her head, and now she was sly and knowing. "No, not Jason. Slade."

There was a beat where Dick tried to find the words, tried to figure out whether he should break the news immediately on the news of another huge revelation, or if it was better to wait. She didn't give him a chance to decide.

"You slept with him, didn't you?" she accused, and she didn't seem to know whether she was upset or just scandalized. Dick almost laughed, feeling shaky now that some of the storm had passed.

"It's worse than that, I'm afraid."

"Christ Almighty."

Dick grinned, and enjoyed the dawning confused disgust that she was experiencing.

"I married him."

That, evidently, was the breaking point, because Babs jabbed a finger at the door. "Get out of my house. Right now, before I beat your ass."

Dick was almost laughing as he dance out of the way of her swat, replacing the chair and retrieving their dirty dishes. She was spitting mad, but it wasn't the sort of poisonous anger that spread. Dick could leave, and come back, and be sure of his welcome.

She was scowling, but still managed to reassure him. "I love you so much. I will reach out when I know more. If I look at your smug face for one more second I am going to lose my shit."

Dick left, feeling good for the first time in a long time.

Chapter Text

Jason was eleven again, but this time a little to the left.

Some things were so specifically familiar that his sense memory was rioting. Others were just off enough that he couldn't quiet the strange, niggling sensation that something was wrong. It was as though he was staring at a painting where something was off, but he couldn't put his finger on what.

The brusque mission brief was just a little more military than what Batman would've done, but otherwise it was exactly the same. Jason was informed of what would be happening, his agreement presumed. Slade wasted no time and fewer words, and didn't bother to explain any details that he expected Jason to be able to fill in himself. They both kitted up while Slade filled him in, efficient in every detail. Jason half-expected to have his hair ruffled and his neck squeezed, just a touch of submission to steady him before patrol - which was clearly insane. Even the thought of it was strangely repulsive, not even laced with the faint, undeniable longing he'd felt even when he was so angry with Bruce that he could howl. It just felt odd, wrong in a way he couldn't place, even though he knew it had to do with his new, awkward dominant instincts.

Slade cut off his train of thought by passing him a bag with heavier body armor than Jason had ever used before, and a range of weapons that would have given Bruce an aneurysm. Jason smothered the sharp spike of pleasant appreciation as he checked each weapon over, and was forced to admit that it's exactly what he would've chosen for himself - if he had more money than God, and weapons contacts to match. While Slade had supplied a few long-range firearms, most of what Jason set about holstering was meant for close quarters, where Jason's bulk and training was one of his best advantages.

All in all, the similarities were worse than the differences. Jason was smart enough to know that Slade and Bruce were foils of each other, both the epitome of stern, perfectionist masculinity. It seemed reductive to call Jason's prickly response "dominant issues", but hey. If the shoe fits, or some shit.

Jason slept most of the way to Prague. He woke in the back of a sleek jet with a domino mask over his face, he had a lurching moment where he thought he was in the Batplane, eleven years old and alive. Then his memory, capricious bitch that it was, caught up to him. Jason wasn't sure what his chest was doing, what was happening to his hands and his heartbeat, but he didn't care. He did the same thing he'd been doing since he opened his eyes and saw nothing but green: he took every scrap of floundering feeling and calcified it into rage.

He knew that Slade noticed the greenish cast to his eyes, but he acknowledged it neither by word or gesture. Something in his body wanted to fight Slade, just for the hell of it, just to see if he could. Jason clenched his fists and forced the anger down to a simmer. He had to remember to use it, rather than letting it use him.

It wasn't hard to find the abandoned crypt that Dick had set up a temporary base in. Nightwing used the same system of encryptions and messages that Batman had always used, just updated for the times. Another grating detail.

Nightwing was already hip-deep in plans by the time they arrived. It was a small mercy, since it meant that he just flashed Jason a cheerful smile and a wave, rather than trying to crush his ribs in a hug. Jason's scowl deepened. Even this was familiar, the angle of Nightwing's body as he leaned over a desk, attention absorbed with the data on a screen. The suit wasn't exactly the same, but it was damn close, still a skin-tight travesty of a costume painted in black and blue. Jason thought that maybe Nightwing had lost the finger-stripes for a while, but found he couldn't remember for sure.

Goddamn tire iron and its goddamn concussion.

It was Slade that shook Jason out of it, just by crossing over into Nightwing's space and looming over him. There was no mistaking that dominant, possessive posture for anything else, which was both a relief and an annoyance of its own. Jason didn't know what Nightwing was playing at, working with someone who'd tried to kill him so many times - then again, he wasn't really sure what Dick was doing working with Jason. Glass houses, or whatever.

"Thanks for coming," Nightwing finally said, straightening up to redirect the mission data from the computer screen to a larger projected hologram. Jason shrugged. Slade chuckled.

"You're the one paying, birdie."

Jason thought that maybe Nightwing was amused by that, but realized he couldn't read Dick's expression as well as he used to be able to. Had he lost the trick of it, or had Dick gotten beater at masking? Hard to say.

"Still. I'm glad you're here. Both of you."

That expression at least Jason could read. It was a sappy sort of fondness, held in check only by the knowledge that Jason certainly wouldn't welcome any demonstration of that fondness. Jason grunted, and took up his spot on Nightwing's other side.

"As you know, this is a retrieval mission. We're only going to get one chance at this, which is why I wanted your help. If we fuck this up, we will lose this asset forever." Nightwing was uncharacteristically grim. Jason started collating his questions about this asset.

"What you don't know," Nightwing continued. "Is that we're retrieving a child."

Slade's arms dropped from where they'd been crossed across his chest, and he looked like he was going to protest, but Nightwing cut him off.

"She was raised by David Cain."

Jason rocked back on his heels. He wasn't exactly sure what his instincts were screaming at him to do, but it all seemed to revolve around doing an incredible, visceral amount of damage to Cain's personage. There was no way that girl had experienced anything other than horrific abuse.

Slade looked like he'd been carved from slightly astonished, suspicious stone. Nightwing shot them both glances to gauge their reactions. Jason took his opening to swear.

"What the fuck?"

Every question he'd been formulating had been replaced by a newer, more urgent question. Since when did David Cain have a daughter? Why were they retrieving her? How were they going to convince her to leave? Who had Jason opened his mouth to start demanding answers, but Slade got there first, and Jason had to admit it was a pretty good question to kick things off with.

"How do you know this?"

Jason would've had to have been both blind and deaf to miss the sudden tension in the dim room. The line of Dick's shoulders tightened, and Slade's tone was carefully neutral, so far removed from the low, commanding tone that Slade used when he was acting as a dominant that he could only be doing it deliberately. Jason knew that he and Dick had a weird, checkered history, and that the dynamic between them was unique and fraught. What he didn't know was what the fuck was going on. So Jason shifted his stance a little, less than a half-step back into a posture that took up less space, was easier to ignore. It wasn't the same as the way he'd been able to practically disappear as a submissive street rat, but it wasn't bad, either.

"I can't tell you that," Dick said shortly.

And there was that looming, authoritative tone that Jason had expected it. He had to grit his teeth against it, to keep himself from starting a useless fight right then and there. He was used to terrified defiance, but this urge to meet every dominant with relentless stubborness was new. Jason decided it was better than the alternative, as long as he could keep it in check. He dug in his heels and didn't move, except to shift to intervene if necessary.

"That wasn't a request."

Jason hadn't really internalized before what a powerful dominant Slade was. It was making his teeth itch, but Dick didn't back down. It wasn't surprising - Jason didn't think he'd ever seen Dick submit, not in the years they moved in each others' orbits. He'd been the one to teach Jason how to keep his head in the field, how to manage the yawning need to be good enough. By the time he was done, Jason's control had been iron-clad.

Dick turned to give Slade his full attention. He didn't fold his arms or straighten his shoulders or threaten Slade's power in any way, but he didn't curl up to appease him, either. It was non-engagement. Jason wondered if it was the suit, if being Nightwing made it easier.

"I have an informant, and I won't risk them by telling you more than that."

The impasse that followed felt horrifyingly, intimately long - but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Jason couldn't see Dick's expression from this angle, but he watched Slade narrow his eyes, putting pieces together, before finally nodding.

"Fine. That's all I needed to know any way."

Jason wasn't sure what conclusion Slade had reached from "I have an informant", but it wouldn't be relevant unless something went tits-up.

Dick returned to their planning with a satisfied focus. The plan was simple: tail Cain, whom Dick had already located, until he lead them to the girl. Take Cain out of the picture, stuff the girl in a Batjet and get her back to Gotham. Dick seemed convinced that the girl would come willingly, and although Jason questioned that assumption extensively, Slade didn't.

It was uncanny, watching the two of them put the finishing touches on their loud outs. Slade held out a hand mid-sentence and Dick deposited an earbud in it. Dick gestured behind his back, and Slade tossed him a flash-bang without looking. Jason wondered how many times they had worked together while he was dead.

"Do you have-" Slade started, and Dick handed him a rifle. Slade grunted.

"Hey Slade, could you - " Dick said, and Slade turned to check the safeties on his suit.

Jason didn't want to think to hard about why Slade knew where all of the safeties that protected Dick's suit from being taken off were. He was starting to feel slightly queasy, even as he moved through his own preparations. It wasn't until they were ready to move out that Slade spoke up.

"You need a call-sign, kid. Can't use your name in the field."

Jason growled at him, and was ignored. His jaw tightened painfully. Dick watched them both, a fair distance away. Jason couldn't tell what he was thinking, but it was pretty fucking clear that he was feeling uncertain.

The truth was Jason been avoiding thinking about it. He'd intended, early on, to pick something for Gotham, something to scare the shit out of Bruce and his little birds. But that had been before Dick had killed a man for him. And since then, Jason had just… refused to think about it. He'd come up with a new plan; he always did. He would just have to focus in a little, make the Bat pay while leaving everyone else out of it. It gave him a headache every time he tried to think about it.

Now Nightwing was watching him with something like pity. Jason flipped him off. Dick just shrugged.

"Don't look at me - I haven't had had a lot of identities to pass along. You've pretty much caught up to me."

Fuck that, like Jason would ever want to be Robin again. Like he just wanted Dick's cast-offs. He snorted.

Slade cocked his head, and Jason knew from his smirk that he wasn't going to like whatever came out of his mouth.

"Well, he hasn't caught up quite yet."

***

Cass darted through the night, silent and invisible. Almost.

She was being followed. Two men, she thought. One was her father - she would always know. The other was new, and strange. He wore his body like it didn't belong to him, but it did. He was faster than her father, as though he could see her better. Cass didn't like it.

He would lead her father too her, make it impossible to disappear. She needed to disappear.

Cass knew what a lie was. She didn't know if she was a good liar, but she was about to find out. It was hard to lay a false trail without talking to people, but Cass didn't mind. She ducked into alleys, left signs of movement, doubled back. She twisted her face toward the river whenever a man was close enough to see. She traced most of a path towards the secret dock she had arrived at.

Then she waited for the right moment, a pool of shadow inside a larger shadow. She saw a flicker of movement, a flash of a gesture that could only be her father. She melted away behind him, running back the way she came. She hoped he missed her.

She would stay here tonight. Her father would move on to the next city. She would sleep, just a little. She would leave with the morning shadows.

Cass slipped into the ruins of an abandoned church that she had found two days ago. It was silent, and still, and dusty. There was a secret compartment behind the altar. Cass could sleep there.

There was a sound. Cass's knife was already leaving her hand. Her heartbeat went faster, just a little faster. She was too good to get scared.

The knife disappeared into the darkness. The man who wasn't her father stood between her and it, and he was holding his hands up and talking. He was wearing armor that he wasn't used to. It was black, with a little bit of orange on the chest. He was carrying too many weapons.

The words, the sound of his voice - both of those were meaningless. He could be trying to lie. But Cass couldn't tell why. He didn't want to fight. It was disappointing. Cass wanted to fight, to see if she could beat him. She knew she could.

But he was worried about hurting her. Foolish. He couldn't hurt her.

Nobody had ever worried about hurting her before. It didn't make sense.

He was moving closer, and Cass knew he was trying to make her do something. She cocked her head to the side, another knife held loosely in her hand. What did he want her to do? He didn't want to fight. He didn't want her to fight. Did he want her to run away?

Cass turned on her heel and was almost out the window before the other two men appeared. Now her heart thundered. They snuck up on her. No one could sneak up on her. Her body screamed danger at her. There was no time to run. It was too late.

So Cass vaulted backward, over the men's heads, and started to fight.

The biggest man was fast. She thought she had seen him before, with her father. She remembered his sword, at least. He was faster than her. But he wasn't a better fighter.

The smallest man was equally dangerous. He moved differently. He moved like her. He wasn't talking, wasn't making any sound at all. The other two men were shouting at each other.

They both stepped back to guard the exits. She and the smaller man circled each other. He smiled at her. Cass had never seen a smile like that before. He was sad and happy and relieved and angry and hurt and lonely. He wasn't worried about hurting her. Neither was the biggest man.

He was worried, though. Worried about her. But not that he would hurt her.

Cass didn't understand. She asked a question the only way she knew how.

He knew where she would be before she even moved. She tried to bring him to the ground. He defied gravity. She lashed out at him, and he danced away. He did not try to hit her, or grapple her. She was better than him. But he knew. He knew everything about her. She couldn't reach him. She couldn't get away. He knew everything about her.

Cass realized that she was crying. She didn't know why. Her chest felt strange and painful, even though she hadn't taken a single hit. The man slowed, moved out of her reach. He wanted to reach out for her. He wanted to hug her.

Cass had seen people hug before. She had tried it, once. Her father had hit her so hard it knocked out one of her baby teeth.

She stepped carefully closer. The man held out his arms.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Cass moved. She didn't wait for her father to say anything else. She didn't wait for him to lunge for her.

Neither did the men. Almost simultaneously - almost - they descended on her father. He was angry. If he caught her he would take her back, or kill her. She should run.

Cass crouched in the shelter of a shattered windowsill and watched.

She had watched her father fight many, many people. He always won, except three times. He almost always killed anyone who fought him, or made her do it.

Cass could already tell that he wasn't going to win.

If it had been one of the men, then maybe. Maybe he would kill them. The first man especially. He needed more training. The biggest and smallest men did not need more training. Cass had never seen people fight together like that before. She leaned forward for a better angle.

The two men loved each other. Cass had seen that before, too. The man with the sword protected the smaller one. The smaller man trusted him. He left his back open so that he could move faster, hit harder. The bigger man was always there.

Cass had seen a man and a woman dancing on a bridge once. This was just like that. It was like their bodies were connected. And they were both angry - even more angry than her father.

The fight was over quickly. Her father was on the ground. He was snarling, still angry, but scared now too. The smallest man was holding him in place. He talked to the other two men, then shrugged.

The biggest man took out a gun and shot her father through the head.

All three of the men were relieved. The bigger two men were also satisfied.

Cass was… something. Her head was very quiet. Her chest still hurt.

Her father was dead. He couldn't chase her anymore.

The three men were looking for her. They were all worried. The man in the black-and-blue suit looked up and found her immediately. They locked eyes. He did not call to the other two to give her away. He held out his arms again.

Cass landed softer than a cat. The other two men froze while she took slow, careful steps across the stone floor. Then, very hesitantly, she moved close enough that their chests touched.

The man didn't sweep her up. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She froze. He was warmer than she expected. She didn't know he would be warm. She lifted her own arms, and tentatively pressed her palms flat against his back.

He turned his face against the top of her head to hide his tears, but Cass heard them anyway. He wasn't sad. He was happy.

Cass was sad. But she thought she was also happy.

Chapter Text

Slade didn't need to watch Jason out of the corner of his one good eye to see how tense he was. He didn't like the Renegade suit, though Slade didn't know whether he was ornery about wearing Slade's colors, or whether it was the fact that the name had belonged to Dick first. Honestly, Slade didn't really give a shit. He figured he'd always get a kick out of stealing away the Bat's little birds and marking them in his colors. 

Regardless, Slade had bigger concerns right now. There was only one "informant" that Slade knew of that would have been able to give Dick a lead on the girl, and Dick was right about one thing: that tidbit of information was dangerous. Slade was going to shake Damian until his teeth rattled. Ra's wouldn't hesitate to slit the boys' throat just because they shared blood. 

Slade's timetable for an extraction had just shot up. Which meant he was going to have to rearrange his plans.

Jason interrupted the silence with an abrupt demand - the exact one Slade had been waiting for. 

"Well, old man? What's next? We gonna rescue a few kittens, maybe help some grannies cross the street?" His voice was laced with the commanding tone that the doctors tested in order to determine dominance, but it was shaky and unpracticed. Slade fixed him with a level look.

"If you wanted to let your brother get himself killed, you should have said something before the mission. Complaining after the fact is for cowards and fools."

Jason took a sharp breath, ready to retort, but his brain caught up with him. That was happening faster and faster these days, his thoughts finally outpacing the flash of Lazarus green. Good. Jason's cunning would serve him well, once he got himself under control.

"Fine. Whatever. What's next?"

Slade turned his attention back to the control panel, pretending to consider for a moment. 

"I have another job lined up. See how well that training holds up in the field."

Jason's body language was still a dead giveaway for his emotions. Probably always would be, by Slade's measure. He all but came to attention, like a bloodhound given a scent. The boy was always so damn eager to prove himself. All of the bats were, and Slade would wonder what the hell the Bat was doing with them all - if he didn't already know. Slade might be in the running for the worst father in the world, but his closest competition was Bruce fucking Wayne.

"What are we doing?" Jason demanded. Slade shook his head sharply.

"Not we. You. I've got someone I need you to keep an eye on, give her some training if you can - and she's not going to make it easy."

The last bit was as much throwing the kid a bone as it was a legitimate warning. Jason might have felt sidelined, being left on babysitting duty, and an ignored Jason was a dangerous, impulsive creature. The challenge would help keep him occupied.

Slade snorted to himself as he shifted their course. Jason was watching him suspiciously. It was a healthy instinct, if misplaced. If there was one thing that Slade could do to set Jason up for success both as an operative and a dominant, it was to give him someone to protect.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Slade fixed him with his sharpest, coldest smile. 

"It means," he said, "that I am going to be running a blackout mission, and while I'm gone, you're going to keep my daughter alive."

*** 

Dick curled up at the end of his couch and watched Cass sleep.

She'd stayed awake for the whole trans-Atlantic flight back, too wary to sleep. Dick could understand that. Then, within moments of being convinced to at least sit down, she'd been asleep.

Dick couldn't believe how young she looked. It was different somehow, than it had been when he was twenty-two and actively training the new cadre of Titans. He'd assessed them by their size and coordination, accounted for growth spurts and hormones swings - but he'd never stopped to just see them as children.

Cass couldn't be older than fourteen. Dick thought she was probably closer to twelve or thirteen. The best they'd been able to figure, she was around Tim's age, and he'd just turned fourteen. If she was a kid in his gym, she'd be just starting to get the hang of the beam and the fixed rings.

That's not fair, Dick allowed, fingercombing his greasy hair back into a ponytail. If Cass was at my gym, she'd be training for the Olympics.

Still, Dick was surprised at how viciously he didn't want to bring Cass to the Cave. It was ridiculous. There was nowhere better suited to training a young vigilante than Bruce's state-of-the-art hideaway. Dick had found the Cave at ten, and started training seriously shortly after. 

Maybe that was why. Maybe Dick wanted Cass to have more time than he had.

Dick sighed, and levered himself up to start a pot of coffee. He was tired enough that his ever-aching joints would lock up soon if he didn't stretch, but he doubted he'd get any sleep tonight. There was too much to do, and he needed to decide what to do with Cass before she woke up. 

He watched the coffee drip, letting his mind go fixedly blank as the trickle fell into the pot. Just for the time it took to brew, Dick let himself rest, leaning over the counter. Once the button flashed blue, he poured himself a cup and took it to the rickety chair in the corner, behind the equally-rickety table. He could see just the top of Cass's head from here, a little tuft of black hair shifting ever-so-slightly with her breathing.

She didn't need training. Not really. There were things she needed to learn, information that had been left out of her education, or deliberately withheld, but she wasn't going to need much in the way of practice. What Cass needed - what she had always needed, that Dick had once been too blind to see - was stability, and purpose. She needed to learn how to be a person.

She wouldn't learn that in the Cave. 

And if Dick was being completely honest with himself, he wasn't ready to give her up yet. He knew how much it would help her, what it would mean for Bruce - but he just couldn't. It was stupid, and selfish, Dick knew that. But the truth was, once Cass and Bruce had each other, everything would change. They had always understood each other, from the very beginning, without the need for words or experience. They saw each other, because they were the same. Dick could acknowledge how poorly that would go for Tim, and still acknowledge how much it would hurt him. How much it hadhurt him. 

Dick was damn near fifty, and he still didn't know if he would ever stop aching for Bruce's approval, or his affection. 

Dick drained the last of the coffee, dregs and all. It was a selfish choice, but in this instance, it was also the right one. Dick needed to help Bruce sort himself out a little before he brought Cass into the mix. He and Tim needed to be on solid ground, or at least not wildly shifting ground that crumbled with every argument. Cass needed time to acclimate, to watch kids movies and practice words and eat ice cream. Or whatever else she wanted. Dick already had tickets to the ballet.

Three weeks. Three weeks should be enough time, Dick figured. He would've needed more, if he was really twenty-two and trying to navigate everything for the first time. But now? With everything Dick about Bruce, about what it was like to watch your world fall apart and your family die? Now, all Dick needed was three weeks.

*** 

Batman's paranoia was his greatest strength - but it was also his greatest weakness. Tim figured that was pretty normal. If you got good enoug at something, it usually swung back around to bit you in the ass. Like one of those snakes eating its own tail, or something.

It was just as true for Tim as it was for Bruce, or else Tim wouldn't be huddled in the Cave while Batman was in Metropolis, hacking into the Batcomputer databases. The hacking itself wasn't unusual - sometimes Bruce set Tim's illicit access to files as a prerequisite for including him on a case. At first, Tim hadn't been able to tell the difference between information he was allowed to burrow into, and what would get him ingenuine trouble. He'd mostly worked it out by now, and he knew for a fact that this was the second one. If Bruce ever found Tim digging through these files, he would bench Robin indefinitely.

But the thing was, Bruce was suspicious and brilliant and an excellent liar. Which meant that when he really wanted to hide something, he did it in the most convoluted, innocuous ways. And Tim needed to know what was so important that Bruce had both disguised it as a programming hotkey setup, and then only saved it on an actual removable hard drive. What the fuck was up with that?

Tim had his suspicions, which he'd dutifully set aside until he had more information. He executed a particularly clever by of deencryption with a satisfying key click, and then leaned forward to watch the file unspool before his eyes.

"I should l is ten to my suspicions more often," he muttered to himself as cowl footage played in a small window. Tim recognized it immediately as the alleyway outside of Dick's New York safe house. The timestamp was well after Tim had arrived, but before Batman had appeared to shuffle them both home.

Tim watched the drizzling, staticky rain bounce off of awnings and pavement. The stillness was interrupted by the sound of a door opening, and Deathstroke appeared, sans mask. Just as he was about to disappear from Batman's view, another body leapt down into the alley, landing on light feet in spite of his bulk. Tim couldn't make out his face; he had the hood of his red hoodie pulled up, and kept himself angled in a way that meant he avoided cameras by habit. 

Tim could only make out what they were saying because Batman adjusted the sensitivity of the audio recording in that moment, the sound going staticky and overwhelming, but sensitive enough to at least pick out the words.

"That can’t fucking happen again,” the man in the red hoodie spat.

Wilson turned around to face the man. It was harder to hear what he was saying; Tim only caught bits of it. 

The first part of the sentence was static. “- part? Do you mean the part where," more static, " - Dick - " static again, "-skin off?” Tim didn't love the combination of Dick's name and the phrase "skin off", but he could only assume it had to do with the angry burn Dick had sported for days after that encounter. 

The man in the red hoodie braced himself, almost as though he were about to throw a punch, but he didn't. They both shifted, half-step forward into a range that would give Deathstroke a distinct advantage. Tim chewed his lip.

“Or do you mean -" Tim made out from Slade, then the next clear bit was, "-didn’t have the faintest idea what to do?” There was a beat where Tim thought the conversation might be overridden by violence, but then Slade something else again, and all Tim could make out was, "little zombie," and "dominant.”

That did it. The man took a swing at him. Tim watched the movement, then rewound it and watched it again. There was something about it, the shape of it, the momentum - it reminded Tim of something and he couldn't remember what. He filed it away to figure out later.

It was a solid hit, but even Tim could see that it was a joke to Deathstroke. There was a crash and a thud as the man hit the wall just across from Batman's vantage point. It was close enough that the rest of the conversation was at least intelligible. 

“First lesson, kid? Control yourself."

The man hauled himself to his hands and knees, but didn't make any move to stand. Tim still couldn't make out his face, but his body language looked… defiant, maybe? Tim was still working in his reading people skills.

“Think you’re such hot shit?” the man in the red hoodie spat. “Show me.”

Tim watched Slade fold his arms, and tilt his head consideringly. “I have contracts,” he pointed out. The man didn't seem to care

“I’ll come. Hell, I’ll even help. That-” he gestured back to the safehouse, “-can’t happen again.”

What couldn't happen again? Getting interrupted by Robin? Whatever had transpired in the safe house before Tim had arrived? Something else? Slade had already poked fun at the man's dominance, so did it have something to do with Dick's drop?

A sweep of headlights interrupted the moment, and Slade jerked his head.

“Come on, then.”

The footage followed the two men as they left the alley, and then ended abruptly as soon as they were both out of view.

Tim's mind was racing as he dug through the rest of the files. Most of it would be incomprehensible to anyone not used to working with Batman's insane filing system. He could feel connections forming in the back of his mind, even while he kept his focus on the details, letting the patterns fall into place without conscious input. 

Something very strange indeed was going on here, and Tim didn't like what he was starting to suspect. It was time to start watching Dick a little more carefully.

Chapter Text

Dick spent the first four days of his three-week timeframe just introducing Cass to life in Bludhaven. He couldn't remember the specific gaps in her knowledge, and this Cass was younger than his had been, so he played it safe and assumed that everything was new to her. 

He was pretty much correct. Cass knew what a TV was, but not how to work it. She would food if she was hungry, but had never seen the inside of a grocery store. Her only concept of clothes were either as armor or disguise. There had been a time when the breadth of her inexperience would have scared Dick shitless. Now, he was buzzing with low-level stress, worried but not unsustainably so. He never pushed Cass to learn anything she wasn't interested in - a tactic that was possible only because he knew her well enough to read her expression rather than relying on words.

He chattered at her all the time, remembering how good sheer exposure had been for her. The only exception was when they trained. The first time Dick had took her to the floor above his apartment, which he had bought and refitted when he moved in, she was tense and wary. Dick didn't let it offend him - Cass's experiences with training were painful at best. Instead, he silently showed her where he stowed his supplies and the training mats, then turned his attention to his own regimen. 

Since Dick had been away from patrol more than a few days, he started slow, checking in with every part of his body. He folded himself over his legs, tilted backwards into an easy handstand, stretching and warming up. He could always feel the difference after even a few days of light work, and this was no exception. His flexibility was important, of course, but so were the minor shifts in muscle mass and fat. Dick had long since learned to accept those constant changes in his body, even if he would never be thrilled about them. That was alright, though. It was his job to take care of himself, to give his body what it needed to keep him alive and well. Appreciating his body was Slade's job.

Dick shook off the thought, making a mental note that he probably needed to find a way to go under at some point soon. Meanwhile, Cass circled him suspiciously. She was always graceful, always aware, but now she was ready to pounce - or ready to run. Dick didn't pretend to ignore her, but he didn't interact with her either. It was enough for him that she knew that this space was available to her, if she wanted it, and that she could come here even if all she wanted was time away from words.

Once Dick was warmed up, and his left knee taped for extra support, he took to the rings. He had settled, more or less, back into this body, but his balance was still just a little shot. A little was all it took, so Dick resigned himself to an evening spent falling, and started a basic routine that he'd used to train Jason, and Tim, and Damian, and even Steph. As expected, he fumbled it more than once, slipping from his steady grip to tumble to the mats below. Each time he fell, he focused in on the movement that had tripped him up - reversing his grip, pulling a leg up for momentum, tucking his head - and practiced that movement over and over again, reminding his muscles of the memory they carried. 

Cass had settled into a corner of the room to watch, and had relaxed enough to run through her own set of stretches. Dick grinned at her, delighted by the similarity between them. He too could never sit on the ground without pressing his weight into his hip flexors. Cass's mouth twitched up in the corners. 

Dick returned to his routine, feeling bolstered. He could do this. He was going to sort everything out.

*** 

Dick debated for a long time before calling Bruce. It was a risky play, and Dick only gave it fifty-fifty odds of actually working out. But the potential benefit was too good to pass up. 

He called on the Bruce line rather than the Batman one, since he was looking for a personal favor. Bruce answered on the fourth ring, as was his habit. He couldn't take the chance that someone had stolen Dick's phone, called him, and might thing that Brucie Wayne was anything resembling attentive or prompt. Paranoid bastard.

"Dick! What's up, champ?" he greeted jovially. Dick rolled his eyes.

"Hi to you too," he replied, releasing Bruce from the need to play to any potential audience. The difference was immediate and palpable.

"Did you need something?" he asked, and his voice was back to its usual brusque interrogation. For a split-second, Dick braced for the annoyance that tone used to inspire in him, but nothing came. Dick knew Bruce better now, since raising his own kid to adulthood. It wasn't personal; that's just how Bruce's voice was.

"Yeah, actually, if that's okay." There was still time to back out, tell Bruce he was just swinging by for dinner or some trinket from his rooms. 

It was harder to choke out the words than he expected. He'd had a lot of practice, nearly twenty years of trying to learn how to ask for what he needed - and for what he didn't need, but wanted. He'd come a long why. By the time Damian was a teenage, Dick had been able to say things like, "Hey, that's giving me a headache - do you mind watching it somewhere else?" and "I think I need to eat before we have this conversation - I'm seriously hangry," without blinking an eye.

It was different, talking to Bruce. Everything was different with Bruce. Dick felt like he was showing his underbelly to some indifferent, unpredictable predator. 

But Bruce made a listening, humming noise, and that gave Dick the courage he needed. "It's been a few weeks since I've gone under, and I don't want to bother Leslie at the clinic." It was as good a lie as any, since it had the benefit of being true. Bruce would know that Dick was ommitting details, but not what they were. Dick cleared his throat. "If that's not too much trouble."

Dick knew that Bruce was surprised, because he was silent for a long moment. Dick could imagine his expression - the blank mask he used while he was working through a sudden onslaught of emotion. Dick held his breath.

Finally, Bruce exhaled, and Dick could hear it from the other end of the phone. 

"Of course, Dick. Anytime you need. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Dick agreed. They didn't exchange goodbyes, or even discuss a time. Dick knew Bruce's schedule. Dick hung up the call, and led his head loll back against the couch in relief. 

Cass had appeared in the doorway of the spare room where she was sleeping. She was staring at him in perplexed curiosity. She gestured to the phone, and then to her mouth, obviously wanting to know about the phone call.

Dick managed a wry grin for her. 

"I talked to Bruce - the one I told you about. I asked him for a pretty big favor, and I was nervous, but it's okay. You're sure you'll be alright on your own for a few hours?"

Dick only asked for his own comfort; obviously Cass would be alright. She obviously felt the same, since she just made an unimpressed face at him. It was exactly the same one Dick remembered, minus the eyeroll - Dick had refrained from teaching her that particular habit. It seemed unfair to Stephanie. 

"Well, okay then."

*** 

Dick had a plan, but he'd run enough missions to know that a plan wasn't worth much. Good situational awareness and accurate intel were better guarantors of success. He reminded himself of that as he let himself into the manor. He had a goal, and a plan, and more importantly, he understood what was going on - with Bruce, with Tim, even Alfred. He knew that Bruce was burying his grief under anything he could find, that even genuine coldness or criticism was a front for a much deeper hurt. He knew that Tim was barely hanging on, clinging to his purpose as Robin like a lifeline. More importantly, he knew now how to reach both of them, in ways that he hadn't been able to fathom in his youth, lost in his own aching grief. 

Dick had done his grieving for Jason, twice over. He could set it aside now. 

Finding Tim was easy enough, and Dick made sure to stop long enough for Tim to explain the program he was working for school with distracted enthusiasm. He didn't cut Tim off, or let his mind wander. He stood next to Tim's chair, arm around his shoulder, and asked questions until he ran out. Only when Tim had exhausted his explanation did Dick explain that he was only here for a bit, and that Bruce was going to put him under for a little while. Tim's mouth twisted a bit at that, but Dick was pretty sure it was just confusion, a recalculation of Tim's vast and varied resevoir of information about the world. Just in case, though, Dick ruffled his hair.

"You're welcome to come hang out if you want. You can give B some pointers," Dick teased. It was a gentle rib, and Tim flushed a pleased pink, a little uncomfortable with the attention, but craving it more. It had the added benefit of reminding Tim how well he'd done after Dick crashed in his safehouse. He'd been groggy and disoriented coming up, but Tim had been right there, keeping him steady. 

Tim shrugged, and Dick wondered whether he would decide to drift downstairs to join them, or whether he would need a few more opportunities to get comfortable with the idea. Dick knew he might not be the best submissive for a young dominant to practice with - he was hard to put under, and then fell hard when he did - but it would do Tim good just to be around, just to see the example Bruce could set. 

It would do Tim good to see Bruce being a parent, and it would do Bruce good to associate Tim with family and safety.

"We'll just be in the den, baby bird. No pressure."

Dick kissed the top of Tim's head, and then headed down the hall to Bruce's office.

He didn't knock, and didn't step all the way in. He just cracked the door and poked his head in long enough to see Bruce staring at paperwork he wasn't seeing. Dick felt a pang of sympathy for him. Neither of them even if knew if Dick could go under for Bruce anymore, and if this didn't work, it was fraught for both of them. Knowing Bruce, he was trying to plan for every eventuality, every possible thing that could go wrong. 

Dick interrupted him. 

"Hey, B. Just letting you know that I'm going to get settled in the den. I invited Tim to come hang out, if he wants. No rush."

Dick didn't wait for a reply, just ducked away and let Bruce come to him in his own time.

*** 

Bruce was well aware of the trust Dick was placing in him. He felt it like a weight, like a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He wasn't sure why, wasn't sure why now, after all these years, Dick was willing to give Bruce another chance. He thought it had something to do with the spectacular entrance Dick had made a few months ago, already so far dropped he was incoherent. Maybe Bruce had done alright. Maybe that had been enough for Dick to decide to try again. 

Bruce set aside his work, carefully capping his pen and logging out of his computer, the insistent rituals soothing him. The pressure of his impatience, pressing against his need for things to be done correctly had always been a balm for him.

Bruce couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. He'd laid out all of the facts, and he couldn't identify what was causing his unrest - but he knew there was something. Dick seemed different lately, in a way that Bruce didn't understand. He didn't seem angry, or upset, or lost - if anything, he was more himself, both more like the child Bruce had taken in, and the adult he'd become. Bruce thought maybe he was an ass for thinking it, but he couldn't help but be suspicious. What had happened to cause such a change?

Time for that later, Bruce reminded himself. Right now, Dick had asked for his help, and Bruce was going to do his level best to provide it.

Bruce only debated a moment before detouring to his room to change. He knew how the human mind worked, how much the trappings of time and place and smell and sight could impact them. He dug out an old pair of GU sweats from the back of his closet. He hadn't worn them in years. 

It had been simple once, to ease Dick down into that space where he just trusted, was content for Bruce to just take care of him. But it hadn't been simple in a long time. Bruce remembered well the struggle between them, while Dick desperately needed to submit and simultaneously was too angry with Bruce to manage it. Bruce had tried everything, read every parent blog he could find, study after study of adoption and trauma and inter-family dynamics, but every trick he found only worked once. Instead, Dick had practically vibrated out of his skin trying to kneel, could barely choke down any food Bruce provided, flinched away from Bruce's hand in his hair. By the time Dick had put his foot down, Bruce was almost relieved. They'd fought about it, but finally managed on a delicate compromise that relied on Dick promising to go to Leslie's clinic if he couldn't find a dominant that could take care of him. 

Bruce had known for years that Dick wasn't exactly keeping up his end of the bargain. He'd never said anything, knowing that Dick would just point out Bruce's own hypocrisy - Bruce hadn't let anyone submit to him since Jason. He couldn't be trusted with it.

But obviously Dick had decided otherwise, and Bruce wasn't going to let his doubts stop him from making the effort. He could at least show Dick that he was willing to try, even if mending the broken thing between them took time. He would try.

Bruce stopped at the kitchen, as much for a bracing nod of approval from Alfred as for bottles of water and apple juice. He stuck a few granola bars in his pockets. They'd never stopped stocking them, even though Tim didn't eat them. Then, finally, Bruce made his way to the den.

Dick had indeed settled in. The lights were turned down low enough to be cozy, but not so low that they would make Bruce hypervigilant. Pillows had been arranged on the floor. Dick was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the armchair, flipping through Netflix. 

Bruce was grateful for it. The transition was always the hardest part for them, the change from Dick-and-Bruce to Batman-and-Robin to dominant-and-submissive. The lines between family and vigilante had always been messy, with them. With all of them.

Bruce cleared his throat. Dick glanced up, his expression soft. 

"Hey, B. This alright?"

Bruce nodded and picked his way over to the armchair, careful not to muss up any of the pillows. He set the bottles and the granola bars on the side table while Dick scooted forward to give him room to sit down. He used to curl up in the chair to wait for him, after patrol, and Bruce would offer to sit with him - but Dick liked being on the floor, liked sprawling out, liked the position it put him in if he was trying to relax. 

Dick was taller now, tall enough that when he leaned back against the chair, he could tilt his head back over the cushion to grin up at Bruce. Bruce swallowed, and brushed hair off of his forehead.

"You want to watch something?" Dick asked. It was a good idea, an excuse for them to sit quietly together for a while, if nothing else. Bruce held out his hand for the remote.

Dick whined, but there was no heart in it. If it was up to him, they'd flip through options all night without ever picking something. Besides, making decisions was Bruce's job - at least while Dick allowed it. 

Bruce selected a documentary about mushrooms. Dick didn't really care about mushrooms, but the colors and animations looked engaging, and that mattered more for Bruce's plans. Dick scooted back a bit, resting his head on Bruce's knee. 

"This okay?" he asked, and his voice was strangely quiet. Bruce didn't answer, but he did start gently untangling Dick's hair. It always managed to snarl by mid-morning, no matter what Dick did with it. Dick relaxed a little. 

They sat quietly through the first part of the documentary. Bruce was aware that they were both giving most of their attention over to the energy in the room. Dick was actively trying to relax, and Bruce was actively trying to exude calm and protectiveness. It hadn't turned tense and odd, at least. 

Ten minutes in, Dick shifted a little, and Bruce took advantage of the opportunity. 

"Come here," he said firmly, and reached down to help Dick rearrange the pillows, one under his knees, and one between his heels and thighs. Dick sighed as he leaned forward again, resting his weight against the chair and Bruce's calf. 

Bruce's chest felt tight, wound up like a clock was wound - because it needed the pressure in order to work right. He rested his hand gently on Dick's crown. His palm felt warm. Bruce knew, from long study, that the feeling in his ribs was affection and pride, probably. The lump in his throat was something else he couldn't really identity, but he tried anyway. Relief, maybe? Regret? 

Bruce decided it didn't really matter. No matter how old Dick grew, he would always be Bruce's family, his responsibility. It felt good, to do right by someone for once. To remember that he was capable of it. His earlier worries had dissolved. Whether Dick hit subspace or not, this was what he needed, and Bruce could do that for him.

There was a flicker of movement in the doorway. Dick looked up, the moment broken, but not gone. Bruce shushed him, and nodded at Tim, who was watching them warily. 

"You can come in, Tim. We're watching a documentary about mushrooms."

Tim hesitated. Bruce saw it unfold in front of him, that Tim would reinforce his own loneliness by walking away, because he didn't know how to do anything else. Bruce felt a sudden pang of sympathy. He knew that Tim probably needed more socialization than he was getting, outside of his time as Robin - but it hadn't been a priority, absorbed as Bruce was with his training, ensuring that Tim would stay alive.

And right here was a chance to change that. Bruce might not have a lot to offer, but he could make sure Tim sat and watched a movie with them. 

"Tim. Come sit with us."

Bruce kept his tone inviting but firmly out of command territory. Tim considered for a moment - real debate, not defiance - and then nodded. He walked tentatively to the couch, hands hidden completely in the sleeves of his hoodie, and curled up on the end furthest from them.

Well, it's something, Bruce thought wryly. If the subtle press of Dick's forehead into Bruce's thigh was any indication, Dick was pleased with this development. Bruce returned his attention to stroking Dick's hair. It was the easiest, simplest way to relax him that Bruce knew of, and Dick had lost the hazy feeling he'd started to sink into when Tim had appeared.

They watched another half-hour of the movie, Dick's eyes drifting shut. Occasionally, Bruce shifted his hand from Dick's head to his neck, testing his reaction time, checking for the sudden, limp trust of subspace. Dick was certainly loose-limbed and resting, but still too aware. Bruce hummed thoughtfully. If Dick hadn't gone under by now, this probably wasn't going to do it. Bruce was reluctant to move, not wanting to risk interrupting again. 

Tim made a small sound, a bid for Bruce's attention. When Bruce looked up, Tim was looking at Tim, and he made a gesture, mouthing "Can I?"

Bruce debated for a long moment. Tim had very little practice as a dominant; it was possible that he could do more harm than good. On the other hand, Dick would probably be pleased if Bruce let Tim try, even if it wasn't succesful, than if Bruce denied him.

Bruce nodded. 

Tim shifted closer, angling himself so that Dick was partially facing him. 

"Hey, Dick, how are you doing?"

Dick made a mumbling sound that Bruce thought was "okay". Bruce kept his face carefully even. Talking to Dick wasn't the tact he would've taken, but that was alright. He could feel the certainty of it in his bones - whatever happened, Bruce could handle it. 

"Good, that's really good. Can you do something for me, Dick?"

Ah. Perhaps that made some sense. Dick loved to feel useful, loved to help.

"Can you remind me what chitin is?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. The documentary had covered that some fifteen minutes ago. He watched Dick's expression, eyes still closed, furrow in thought. Bruce had forgotten how focused topspace made him feel, how patient. He could wait for Dick's answer all night, and never even feel the passage of time. 

"I's in mushrooms. In the cells. Keeps 'em from collapsing."

Tim grinned. "Yeah, that's it. Good job."

Dick lifted his head enough to crack his eyes open, watching Tim suspiciously.

"You quizzing me?"

Tim laughed, quiet but real, and nodded. "Yeah, I am. I want to test how much you retain while you're all float-y. That ok?"

Dick shrugged, then nodded. It was a good ploy. Bruce felt a surge of pride for Tim, for thinking of it. It would require Dick to focus some of his attention, and allowed him to feel like he was helping Tim, without risking the possibility of failure if he forgot or missed a question. Either way, it was data for Tim.

It wasn't until Tim pulled his phone out that Bruce realized maybe it wasn't entirely a ploy. Even better. Tim was a detective at heart; no data he gathered would be wasted. 

"Can you tell me three mushrooms that glow in the dark?" Tim asked next. 

Dick didn't speak for a long moment, his words coming out slow and syrupy. 

"Armillaria gallica. Mycena chlorophos. Panella stipticus."

Tim made a note, and Bruce realized he'd turned the keyboard sounds on so that Dick could hear him. Reinforcement. Bruce stroked Dick's hair at the same time, nodding at Tim to indicate that he was onboard. It felt good, like stretching a long unused muscle, to reinforce Tim's plan.

The questions continued, growing more challenging as the documentary played. Dick's voice went more hazy and mellow with each question. The first time he missed a question, his eyebrows scrunched for a moment before Tim interrupted again.

"That's really helpful data, Dick. Thank you. Ready for the next one?"

His answers started to grow vague and quiet enough that Bruce couldn't imagine Tim was actually copying them into his phone. Maybe he was recording decibal or enunciation. Both could be useful metrics. Bruce himself was practically purring with satisfaction at the puddle of submissive at his feet.

By the time the credits rolled, Dick was fully under. He was aware enough to respond to questions or commands, as evidenced by how he sprawled out on the floor when Bruce told him to stretch out his legs. His eyes were glassy when he looked up at them, and a lazy half-grin was etched into his face. He reached up and made a grabby hand at Tim.

Tim froze, his eyes flitting to Bruce in panic.

Bruce raised an eyebrow to convey his amusement. 

"I think he wants a hug," he said drily. Dick agreed with this statement with an affirmative sound. Tim had to cut the most awkward figure Bruce had ever seen, trying to lean down to hug Dick without squashing him or leaving the couch. Dick yanked, and Tim yelped as he was pulled to the floor. But Dick just shoved and pulled at him, dragging him back to the armchair, so that he lean sideways against Bruce's leg, with his own legs draped over Tim's lap. 

Tim was so baffled by this turn of events that he looked like a startled deer. Bruce reached out slowly to ruffle his hair.

This had gone very well indeed.

Chapter Text

Tim couldn't be sure whether Dick was fiddling around with his relationship with Bruce on purpose, or if it was just a side effect of what Dick happened to be doing. Either way, Tim wouldn't be mad, he just didn't know, and it was driving him crazy.

Things had shifted ever since Dick came over to the manor and asked Bruce to put him under. Tim had been nervous about it, but knew it was a good thing. After all, Tim had taken up Robin because Bruce needed someone to watch out for. He'd always known that Dick was the most logical option, since Jason had died. So it was good that Dick had suddenly started coming around again, even if Tim couldn't figure out why.

Tim shoved his heels against his desk, twirling his chair around while he thought. Everything came back to that weird encounter with Deathstroke in New York, and the mysterious third person. It was after that night that Dick had… changed? Tim couldn't put his finger on exactly what the change was, but the facts were irrefutable. Dick smiled 26% more, visited the manor at almost triple his previous rate, and he lost his temper at least 40% less. That wasn't even mentioning the shifts in his patrols. Nightwing's arrest assists had gone down significantly - but when Tim looked into it, it turned out the reason was that Nightwing was having a much higher rehabilitation success rate. The people he prevented from committing petty, violent crimes were being re-arrested less and less. Plus, Nightwing was definitely juggling at least three or four major investigations in Bludhaven that he hadn't cross-referenced with the Bat systems. Tim stared at the ceiling as he spun in slow circles, not really seeing it.

Dick's weird new habits were also aligning pretty neatly with Bruce's new behaviors, and Tim couldn't figure out whether that was causational or relational. He knew he shouldn't look a gift horse in the teeth, or however the saying went, but it was like picking at a scab. Tim just couldn't rest until he'd figured it out.

Tim sighed and returned to the case he was building on his desktop. He'd disentangled this one completely from Babs' systems - no easy feat, since it still needed electricity to run and internet access - but worth it, when he was investigating something that he wasn't ready to share yet.

If the changes in Dick's data were odd, Bruce's were downright baffling.

Bruce had instigated no less than eleven separate conversations with Tim in the week following the Mushroom Documentary Incident, none of which had been related to vigilantism. Three were mostly questions about schoolwork, which Tim had only barely managed to dodge. Six were fumbling attempts at what could only be categorized as small talk - awkward, but Tim had enjoyed them anyway. The other four had all been brief follow-ups on Tim's experiences as a dominant.

Things had changed on patrol, too. Batman had started delegating more, assigning Robin to talk with victims and witnesses, especially submissives and switches. They'd patrolled six times in the past week, and Robin had only had to distract Batman from doing real violence twice. That was a 230% reduction from the same time last year. Some of that could definitely be chalked up to the fact that as far as Tim knew, Dick was the first person Bruce had allowed to submit to him since Jason died. He'd been nearly punch-drunk the next day, more mellow than Tim had ever seen him. He'd patted Alfred's hand.

So things were going well, and it was all down to whatever was going on with Dick. The thing that Tim couldn't find any evidence for was whether or not Dick was doing it on purpose.

What Tim did know was that both Dick and Babs had signed off for the night, with a code that meant that they didn't want to be interrupted unless it was an emergency.

Tim could count on one hand the number of times that had happened since he'd become Robin, and all of them were before Dick and Babs had broken up.

Which meant they were up to something.

Spying on Babs wasn't easy, and required more legwork than Tim typically liked - but virtual monitoring was out of the question when it came to the Clocktower. Tim waited for the cameras in the Cave to show that Bruce had been out for at least a half hour, and then checked his pack and shoes and slipped out the window.

Bruce would know he'd left, of course, that the excuse of an essay due tomorrow was a cover, but that was alright. Tim had made sure to sneak out for any number of innocuous reasons pretty early on, when he was staying in the manor. Sometimes, he just ducked back over to his room in his parents' house; sometimes he went up to the roof with a blanket and a mug of coffee. Occasionally, he went on a forbidden patrol or met up with someone that Bruce didn't approve of, just so that it wouldn't seem too suspicious.

It meant that when he had real cases to investigate, he had more freedom of movement.

Getting to the Clocktower without a vehicle took nearly an hour - Tim had to walk to a bus stop, then take the bus deep enough into the city to disappear before train-hopping. He hoped Dick and Babs were still there by the time he managed to get there.

Tonight, at least, he was in luck. Tim scaled a building with a hidden little rooftop garden with a good eyeline to the Clocktower, and watched the dim light from the Clockface for nearly twenty minutes before he deemed it safe enough to make a move.

There was a very narrow window of approach, a deliberate blindspot that Babs left for sneaky birds to use, or foolish enemies. She'd know in an instant if he actually breached the building, and she would review the footage tomorrow, but for now, he could go unseen. Tim nestled into a little nook created by a piece of trim meeting a roofline, and dug out his favorite listening device.

Sometimes the old tricks were best. The device that Tim attached to the bottom corner of a window that couldn't be seen from Babs' living room was basically an inverted cup, except with a pair of earbuds that let Tim hear everything going on with crystal clarity. Tim's attention jumped into the middle of an ongoing conversation.

"-sure?" Dick asked, and he sounded intent, focused. There was a brief silence where the device couldn't pick up the whisper of Babs' keyboard before she responded.

"No. But it's a good bet, and we don't lose anything by checking it out."

Dick sighed, and Tim closed his eyes, fighting the urge to visualize what was happening. He didn't want to risk coloring his information with preconceived notions.

"You're right. Okay, hit me."

Another brief pause. Tim squeezed his eyes shut.

"Two days from now. The coordinates are in the Monongahela National Forest, I'll send them your way."

"Do we have a time?"

"A window. Somewhere between 1800 and 2400."

A six hour window, for something happening in either Virginia or West Virginia, depending on the coordinates.

"Okay. Okay." Tim was still trying not to assign body language to a conversation he couldn't see, but he was pretty sure Dick was running his hands through his hair. He did that, when he sounded this stressed. There was a moment of quiet.

"We're not ready," Dick finally said, this time very softly.

Babs' response was equally gentle. "We never are."

***

Babs had been worried about Dick bringing Cass with him on what might be the single most important mission in their plans to stop the literal apocalypse, but Dick had insisted. He needed backup, and he didn't have a lot of other options at this juncture. Jason was doing god-knows-what with Slade in Chicago, Bruce and Tim were finally managing to build something approaching a relationship, and this was too delicate to trust anyone but a Bat with.

Besides, if this went as planned, they wouldn't be fighting at all. Dick's plan was to show the Auditors that humanity could be trusted, not that they would attack anything they didn't understand at the slightest provocation. As an adult, Cass had had an edge when it came to dealing with the Auditors - some understanding that she could never put into words, that ran along the same lines as her innate interpretation of body language. However alien they were, they were still thinking beings who took up physical space, after a fashion, and that meant Cass could read them. At least a little.

Dick had tried his best to explain the situation without mentioning the time travel, but wasn't sure how successful he'd been. Instead, Cass had fixated on the fact that they were going hiking.

Which indeed, they were. Dick and Cass waved to the national park bus driver who dropped them at the trailhead that would take them most of the way to Babs's coordinates. They were both kitted out like campers, partially to avoid suspicion, and partially because it was possible that they might actually need to camp. Cass had taken particular delight in picking out everything from her backpack to her hiking boots, and she struck a charming figure in mismatched shorts and socks, her hair tied back with a badana that she had insisted she needed. It soothed something in Dick's chest, to be able to provide things for her that she wanted, to do simple things like run to the REI and show her how to stow her supplies for best carrying capacity. Dick had never been one to lean into the domestic steroetypes about submissives, but there was no denying how much it mattered to him to be able to care for his family.

He was in high spirits by the time they ducked away from the trail. He'd spent the better part of the past hour trying to teach Cass how to whistle, and even shifting their attention to moving silently through the underbrush wasn't enough to dampen his optimism. They would find the scout, communicate with it, and then go home. Easy in, easy out, and then at least they would increase their odds of changing the future.

When they got home, Dick would start bringing more people in. Tim, definitely - maybe Jason, too. Donna, Wally, and Roy would all be good candidates too, either naturally adaptable or with some timefuckery experience under their belts. Eventually Dick would need to read Bruce in too, but he wanted to give Tim time to adjust first. Slade would need to wait until Dick had managed to at least get him back into bed on a regular basis. Sex really softened him up, made him go fond and protective, even if it didn't make him any less of an asshole.

And wasn't that something to look forward to? Nothing would ever replace the intimacy that Dick had come to rely on, the all-consuming trust that they'd shared. But it was fun to plan a seduction, rather than the other way around - especially since Dick was coming at it with such an advantage. All of Slade's preferences, his secrets and weaknesses and kinks and tastes, were right at Dick's fingertips. He was really looking forward to exploiting them.

The quality of light was just starting to shift when they found a secluded place to settled in. They'd agreed not to wait at the exact coordinates, in case something went wrong, but the spot had a good view of the surrounding area, which was only sparsely vegetated. Ecology wasn't Dick's strong suit, but it seemed like maybe there'd been a forest fire or some other event in the area some years back. They'd be able to see if an Auditor appeared within a mile or so - Dick explained to Cass the ripple of light to keep an eye out for, and she nodded her understanding. They took up positions back-to-back, scanning the scenery, and Dick's focus pulled him down, in, until any nervousness he felt was swept away in the rhythm of his breath.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait.

***

Tim could admit that he was a city boy. Of course he was, that's where the cases were. Also the crime. Well, most of it, at least. He'd gotten a little sidetracked in town by a cold case where a woman had definitely murdered her husband, but he'd still managed to more or less keep up with Dick's trail. He knew better than to follow closely enough to see or be seen, but Dick had a subdermal tracker, just like all they all did. Hacking the signal hadn't been hard.

It took longer for Tim to figure out the bus route that he needed to take than it did to figure out where Dick was going. He seemed to be following a trail out from the main road that cut through the forest, and Tim could only assume that at some point he'd go off-trail entirely. Tim wasn't looking forward to that. He was already runny-nosed and a bit sunburned, and way thirstier than he expected. He hadn't brought much in the way of equipment; Robin ran around Gotham all night with nary a drop of water, so he just hadn't though about it. But the sun felt hotter out here, with the buzzing insects and rocky path.

Tim almost missed the spot where Dick had left the path, and only caught it because he was walking slowly and watching the map. There was no path through the underbrush to mark his passing, which Tim was pretty sure was like, not normal. People in movies always talked about tracking in nature, right?

After he ducked away from the path, Tim's pace slowed considerably. He kept having to stop and course correct, which meant that he was taking what had to be the least friendly route possible. He had to wade through two creeks and scramble up a rocky hillside before he managed to get close enough to really start his search.

It was almost full-dark by now, so Tim paused to eat a protein bar and dig out his night-vision goggles. They were sleek things, lighweight without sacrificing power. He closed his eyes long enough to let them adjust, then flicked on the goggles.

And panicked almost immediately before he realized that the threatening white shape haloed in green was just a deer, which bounded away the moment he moved. His heart was still thudding by the time he started picking his way carefully closer to the spot where Dick's tracker indicated that he was. It turned out that night vision in a forest wasn't nearly as helpful as it was in the city. There was just so many creatures, skittering up trees and burrowing into the ground and-

Tim's train of thought was interrupted by what he could only describe as a sudden prism of light, blinding him momentarily through the goggles. There was a sudeen cacophany of sounds, birds fleeing and animals shrieking. A low humming shook the muddy ground at his feet, working up to his knees, and Tim's pulse thundered. He moved without thinking, throwing himself down, looking for cover, trying to get his bearings.

The light was gone, but Tim knew exactly where it had come from. He wasn't sure why; maybe it had to do with that strange humming. There was a rhythm to it, somehow, almost imperceptible, but it made his hands shake and his heart race. Wherever the light had come from, that was where he would find Dick.

It was the work of moments to wiggle his way up over a crest of a rolling hill, and Tim was forced to blink until his eyes adjusted again.

In the middle of what Tim supposed could be called a clearing, was a person.

Only it wasn't a person.

It wasn't a person made of light - Tim had seen files on metas like that before. But it was the only thing he could think to compare it to. The person wasn't giving off light, they were light. But also a person. Tim could feel his brain screeching, scrambling to make sense of what he was seeing. Part of his mind insisted 'human human human', and another part said 'hot bright hot bright' and another part was flooded with sheer animal fear.

And there, in the lengthening shadows, was Dick. He was in civvies, crouched low, both hands held up placatingly. He wasn't armed. Tim recognized that stance, knew that Dick was trying to communicate, trying to assure whatever this thing was that he meant no harm.

The procedures were very clear on what Tim should do. He held his position, and didn't interfere, and kept his attention flickering around the surrounding trees. Dick didn't need Tim to know what he was saying; he needed Tim to keep watch while he was distracted.

Tim put his back to the light-creature-person so that he could slip his goggles back on. It was too dark for him to make anything else otherwise. For almost a full minute, Tim thought this was going to be routine, that Dick would make a friend, and then lecture Tim for following him, and in the morning they'd all go home.

A flash of movement caught Tim's eye, and this time, it was distinctly human. He could make out just enough of the person - small, smaller than Tim - to see the moment that they spotted him. And then they bolted, and Tim knew exactly how dangerous that deadly grace could be - especially if Dick wasn't expecting it.

Tim didn't think, he just moved, using one hand to launch himself over a fallen log while he flicked out his bo staff with the other. It felt like long moments, but in reality was probably only a few breaths, before he collided with the smaller person. They both hit the ground hard, but Tim hit harder as the girl - he could see now that it was a girl, not much older than him - rolled under him and kicked up, using his momentum to hurl him into the ground.

There was another flash of that prism-light, and Tim could hear Dick swearing, but there wasn't room for distraction. The girl was circling him now, and Tim knew he was outmatched. All he could do was buy Dick time. He threw himself into the fight.

Things moved so fast after that that only later was Tim able to piece together the order of events.

He landed a hit behind the girl's knee.

She lashed out with an impossible kick.

Dick collided with Tim, knocking them both to the ground.

The light-being unleashed a flare of light and sound that whizzed over both of their heads.

The girl turned, and Dick yelled something, and the light-being turned to face her.

She managed to dodge most of the second attack, that strange burst of light-heat-cold-vibration, but not all of it. She hit the ground.

The light-being disappeared.

Everythign that followed was colored with the crystal-clarity of functional shock. Tim was familiar enough with it at this point to identify it, even as it was happening. Dick had the girl up in his arms before Tim had even managed to scramble to his feet. Everything was suddenly much too dark, and Tim realized distantly how cold it was. Dick was moving, tugging Tim along with him with the arm that didn't have the girl slung over his shoulder. Tim moved automatically, collecting his staff and the two packs that they passed as Dick ushered them out of the clearing. Dick was talking, but the words weren't as important as the tone.

Tim would have expected him to be angry. He didn't sound angry. He sounded desperate.

They couldn't afford to run back to the trailhead; it was too dark, and the risk of injury was too high. But they kept a brisk pace. The journey passed in fits and starts, and then suddenly they were in range of communicators again, and Dick was arguing with someone from his end. By the time they reached the trailhead, the familiar shape of the Batjet was waiting in the shadows behind a set of outhouses. Tim stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from giggling.

Batman demanded a report the moment they were onboard. Tim gave it, as best he could, while Dick triaged the girl. She seemed to be somehow both burned and bruised at the same time. Her collarbone and right arm were definitely both broken. She blinked awake for a few moments in the hour it took them to get back to Gotham unseen, and Dick's palpable relief was like a damn breaking.

He started laughing, only he wasn't laughing - he was sobbing. All of the adrenaline hit Tim at once, and panic bloomed in his stomach. Batman glanced over his shoulder, no doubt ready to bark out orders, but Tim shook his head. His hands were shaking, but Dick was curled over his lap, hysterical and hurting. Tim unlatched his harnass, and crawled over the seats to the pocket of space at the rear of the jet. Tim used one hand to replace where Dick was holding a makeshift splint in place, and use the other to tug at Dick's shoulder, pulling him close enough to keen into his shoulder.

Tim wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Dread washed over him, and he watched the girl blankly while Dick sobbed the rest of the way to the Cave.

***

Batman wasn't certain exactly who the girl that his eldest seemed to have somehow secretly adopted was, but he had his suspicions. There was nothing of Cain in her features, but she looked very like her mother. Like her mother, she had a fighting spirit, and it took only a few minutes to stabilize her strange injuries and sedate her back into a healing sleep.

Dick's tears had dried up the moment they'd landed, too focused on helping Alfred with first aid to waste time with them. Only once they mopped up the last bloody rag with antiseptic, did Dick seem to come back to himself. He collapsed into one of the chairs that Bruce kept near the medbay for that exact purpose. Tim reappeared - Bruce had noted him leaving, but hadn't had time to ask where he was going - with damp rags, water, and pockets full of granola bars. He'd taken the time to change and scrub down, his hair still wet and curling around his ears. Bruce pulled off the cowl, and managed to nod in thanks as he took one of the bottles of water. Tim had to hold it insistently out to Dick before he would take it. Bruce didn't understand how he'd missed it before, the markings of Tim's dominance. He was a natural. Bruce would have to make time to tell him that he was proud.

After Dick had eaten and wiped off the worst of the dust, he managed to lean forward over his knees and actually look at them both.

"I expect you have questions," he said simply. Bruce bit back his instinctive response, which was a barrage of questions all along the lines of "what the hell do you think you were doing?". He wouldn't have thought to do so even a week ago, but watching Tim eye him warily made him swallow the words. He did have questions, but there was one that was more important than all the others.

"Are you both alright?"

Chapter Text

Dick didn't remember most of the explanation he gave. He had enough presence of mind to ask Babs to help out, and then everything after that was a blur. Small details loomed large in his vision - the beeping of Cass's heartrate monitor, Tim's bitten-down nails, the way that Bruce's collar had rolled at the throat. He spilled out words about Cass, about her father, about working with Slade to retrieve her. He knew Babs interrupted him before he could spill the beans about Jason. At some point, Bruce moved him to a cushioned mat on the floor, laying on his back with his eyes closed, while Bruce sat cross-legged next to him. Tim slipped away for a little while; when he returned, he kept handing Dick apple slices that Dick barely remembered eating.

Whatever excuses Babs gave for the Auditor scout mission must've been a work of art, because Bruce didn't question it. There was not a lick of suspicion in his questions - impressive, when it came to Bruce. His only real complaint seemed to be that Dick had gone alone, with an untested teenager as backup. Dick tried to find the words to explain that Cass wasn't untested, that she was better trained than any of them, but couldn't find the words without revealing more than he wanted.

"You could've told me, chum," Bruce said quietly, his hand a comforting weight on Dick's shoulder. Dick shook his head.

"Too many variables," he managed to say. Having his eyes closed helped, kept him from getting distracted the occasional flutter of bat wings.

He expected Bruce to be angry, to remind him in cool, distant words that Dick wasn't to operate on his own, that he was expected not to keep secrets. But instead, Bruce just sighed.

Oh, disappointment. That was somehow much worse.

After that, Bruce turned his attention to Tim. Dick's stomach lurched as his body tried to prepare for a fight, to be ready to put himself between them, but Bruce didn't so much as raise his voice.

"You know how reckless that was, right?"

Dick couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that voice. Probably since before he'd been fired the first time. Stern, but also genuinely curious - Bruce was looking for a problem to solve, not berating an errant child.

Good, Dick thought distantly, that's good.

He didn't catch Tim's response, but Bruce kept his replies low and calm, just shy of dominance, but definitely leaning that direction.

"What was going through your mind, to make you decide to go alone?"was Bruce's next question. Dick could answer that, but once again couldn't find the words to explain that "alone" was Tim's default state, not the other way around. A better question would have been, "What would make you remember to ask for backup?" Instead, Dick just reached out and patted Bruce's knee reassuringly.

When Tim's voice wavered a little on his plaintive, "I don't know," Dick flipped his entire body in the other direction, sprawling over Tim's lap.

"Shhh," Dick yawned. "It's ok. Good job, Robin. Debrief in the morning."

And putting action to word, Dick closed his eyes and refused to be moved until Bruce picked him up to carry him to bed.

***

The cave was strange. Cass had been in many strange caves in her life, but this one was different. It was sad, but not wrong. She didn't pull the needles in her arm out, even though she didn't like them. She sat up, though, swinging her legs over the edge of bed.

The moment she moved, the bat-man (Bruce, she remembered Dick telling her) turned to watch her. He was wary, but not afraid. Cass frowned. Most men who knew to be wary were also afraid. She thought maybe he was the reason the cave felt so sad.

He moved very carefully as he came closer. He was trying not to startle her. Cass's feet itched, warning her to run away. She decided to be brave instead, and stayed where she was. The bat-man didn't come close enough to reach her before she could run.

"Hi, Cass," he said. She nodded her head, and her mouth formed the word "hi," but she didn't say it. "I'm Bruce. You're safe here. Dick is sleeping upstairs."

He wasn't lying. He was very worried about Dick, but also affectionate. The way that Dick was worried and affectionate towards Cass. That was alright.

"Would you like the line out? We were just waiting until you woke up," Bruce said. He gestured to the needles. Cass nodded, and then started the process of carefully untaping them. They were easy to pull out and disconnect from the line. When she looked up at him again, Bruce was surprised and worried. She frowned again. He had said she could take them out.

"Okay, great. That's good. Dick says you don't like to talk. Would you like a tour of the Cave?" The word sounded different in his mouth. Special. Everytime he said cave, he meant this Cave. Like a home, Cass thought maybe. It was a pretty interesting Cave. She nodded.

Bruce retrieved a pair of slippers from a cart by the bed, and held them out to her. Cass knew what slippers were for, because Dick had explained them to her when she saw them in a move. She set them on the floor and then carefully stepped into them. They were very soft, and warm.

Bruce led her around the Cave, never closer than his arms' reach, and explained things as she saw them. He told her about the Batmobile and the Batcycle, the giant penny, the dinosaur, even the glass cases of suits along one wall.

One of the cases made him even sadder. Not just sad, tired. Tired like he was dying. Cass reached out a trembling hand and touched his elbow. He was startled, and sad sad sad. She gestured towards the case, making a question face. He shook his head as though he didn't want to talk about it, but Cass could tell that he did.

"Jason. My second son. He died."

Cass frowned again. She thought that name was familiar. When she thought of it, it sounded like Dick's voice in her head. She would have to ask him later.

A boy appeared at the top of the tall stairs. She recognized him immediately, and bolted for the safety of a pillar before Bruce could react. When she dared to glance around her cover, the boy was sitting on the top step, his hands held out. Bruce was standing between them. Bruce was trying to tell her safe, and the boy was trying to tell her sorry, but also "back off". Cass emerged slowly, but didn't get any closer to the boy. He was dangerous. Not as dangerous as Dick or Bruce, but more dangerous than most teenagers. He wasn't as fast or strong as Cass, but the way he watched her made the hair on her neck tingle.

"Cass, it's alright, it's just Tim," Bruce said. His voice was very quiet, but also a little scared. Scared of her, maybe, but not quite. Cass watched Tim. He held out his hands to, showing her that they were empty. She could tell he wasn't carrying any weapons.

"Sorry I attacked you," Tim said, and he really was sorry. "I thought you were going to attack Dick."

Cass blinked a few times. She had been trying to sneak up on the alien. But when she thought about it, she could see how it would have looked like she was sneaking up on Dick.

That was a pretty good reason to attack someone, Cass thought. She nodded sharply, then took a few steps closer to Bruce again.

"Dick thought you might want some time to yourself to train. Would you like that?" Bruce was trying to distract her. That was okay. She could train and watch Tim at the same time. Besides, training meant that people would stop talking at her. She nodded.

Bruce showed her a training area that was like Dick's but much bigger. Cass immediately kicked off the slippers and moved to the center of the mat.

Dick had been teaching her new things - new ways to fight, but ways to fly, too. She had been watching videos of people dance, and learning how to copy them. But all of that was too new, too confusing. Cass had been training her whole life. Maybe if she showed Bruce and Tim what she could do, they would be scared of her. The thought made her stomach tight. But when she thought of keeping it secret, that made her feel worse.

Cass stepped into a crouch, and threw herself into one of the routines her father used to make her perform for visitors. It was very fast, and easy to trip. If Cass wasn't paying attention, she didn't put enough power behind her movements. She didn't have a knife, but that was alright. Sometimes she had killed people without a knife.

She was barely winded by the time she returned to the center of the mat. Bruce and Tim were still watching her. Bruce didn't look scared. If anything, he looked more worried than before. Sad-regret-safe radiated from him.

Tim was scared of her. Not scared like she would hurt him. Scared like… something. Like he wanted her to leave. Like she was going to say something mean to him. Cass raised her eybrows at him. She wasn't going to say anything mean.

Dick appeared on the stairs behind Tim, and Cass was relieved to see him. He looked tired and sad, a little empty inside. He looked like that, sometimes, on rainy days. Cass didn't know if was raining.

"I told you she was good, Bruce," Dick said, and his grin was proud. Cass grinned back, and curtsied. Like the ballerinas did after a ballet.

"I never doubted you," Bruce said. Cass snorted. That was a lie, but not a mean one. "If she's going to be in the field with us, then she'll need more training. She needs to know how we operate."

Dick shrugged. "It's up to you, Cass," he said, sitting to let his feet dangle over the stairs. Cass tilted her head, thinking. They had talked about it before, a little bit. Dick said that she could come with him, when he went out at night, if she wanted. He said she could take her time to decide. He said he wouldn't be mad no matter what she chose. He said she could change her mind any time.

She watched him from the fire escape sometimes. He flew so easily, like he was free. Cass wanted to be free. She could always change her mind. If she ran away they would never find her. She might be lonely though. That was a new word she had learned.

She nodded.

"Yes. Train."

***

Dick could tell that Tim was harboring some resentment. In the ensuing weeks, Dick did his level best to root it out before it could fester. He moved back into the manor on at least a temporary basis, and tried to spend every spare minute with Tim. Cass's training was in good hands with Bruce - as far as Dick knew, Bruce had never lashed out at her in any way that felt dangerous to her. Maybe it was just because she could always tell what he meant, rather than listening to what he said.

Either way, Dick would have to have been blind not to see the shift in Bruce's behavior. It was small - he was still a stern and unforgiving teacher, still brusque and distracted - but it was real. He was treading the water of his grief, instead of clinging to his anger like a lifeline. Dick couldn't believe what a difference it made, just to sit at Bruce's feet for a night.

Dick tried twice more to let Bruce put him under, but neither could be counted a real success. Dick was too tired, actively numbing the panic that had burrowed in his ribs after screwing the scout mission so thoroughly. Babs had told him that she had it, that he didn't have to worry - but he wasn't ready to consider whether that was true or not. Instead, Dick ignored it. Occasionally, something caught him off guard - a piece of news on the TV that he remembered, a particular song on the radio - and reminded him that he was on borrowed time. But the thought was quashed as quickly as it appeared, and Dick pressed on.

Bruce had tried to determine Cass's dynamic, which Dick could have told him was a waste. He was worried about her social health, though, and Dick couldn't fault him for that. So he took Tim upstairs and they watched shitty TV while Bruce administered the tests that any student in an American school would have taken at 6, and then again at 12, and finally at 18. As expected, none of them must have yielded conclusive results, since they were both gone long enough for Bruce to have also attempted the EU standard assessments, the tests used throughout most of Brazil and Argentina, and even a series of scenarios most commonly used in southern China.

When Cass reapeared, she seemed nonplussed, and Bruce was pensive.

"So?" Dick asked,not bothering to pause the movie. Tim huffed and turned on the subtitles.

Bruce shook his head. "Nothing. You're right. If she ever had a dynamic, Cain trained it out of her."

Dick shrugged. Cass had never seemed bothered by it, so Dick had always taken his cue from her. Surely she couldn't be the only person in the world with no dynamic at all, but she'd never seemed to care about finding others.

"Well, now you know. Sit down and watch Real Housewives with us."

Bruce's eyes narrowed at the screen.

"Of Gotham?"

"Of course not," Tim cut in scornfully. "Metropolis."

Bruce made a judgmental humming sound, but he came and sat with them, and they watched three episodes before Alfred announced that it was time for dinner.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet night in Gotham, cold. It was a good night for a field test - far enough into autumn that most people didn't want to be out at night, but not yet into October, when the Rogues were most active. With Bruce and Tim already gearing up, and Cass pulling on her gauntlets, it was the closest to the Cave that Dick remembered that it had been in months. It wasn't exactly bustling, wasn't the hub of people leaving for and returning from patrol, filing reports, fixing gear, and placing bets that lived in Dick's heart. But it was close.

Dick, already kitted out, reached out to help Cass adjust the full hood that hide her eyes and mouth.

They'd just finished putting the finishing touches on her new suit. Dick nearly tripped every time he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. It was nothing like any of the suits that she had worn as a teenager or adult. Dick had tried to get her to pick a name to go along with it, but she just shrugged and pointed to his fingerstripes, and the blue accents under her arms and cape.

Dick sighed.

"Well, I guess you can always change it later. Let's start with Bluebird, and we can go from there."

He didn't know whether Cass would ever be Batgirl, or Orphan, or even Black Bat. Too much had changed for her, and he could only hope that it was for the better. He watched her slip up next to Tim's side, just in the range of his vision, and wait patiently for the rest of her assigned gear. Tim didn't even hesitate to pass her a grapple gun, quietly pointing out the modifications he'd made to account for her weight, height, the length of her limbs. It had taken him a few weeks to warm up to her. It wasn't until she agreed to teach him some of what Lady Shiva had taught her, in exchange for writing tutoring, that he'd come around. Now, the two were inseperable, partners in mischief. With their heads bent over the utility belt that Tim had so painstakingly crafted for her, Dick couldn't help but feel that he'd made the right decision. For Cass and Tim, at least, he'd made the right decision. God knew that they both could've used a friend at thirteen.

The shift from Bruce to Batman was palpable, a silent signal that it was time to focus up. Nightwing shifted automatically, turning to watch, mind already racing out ahead of them.

"Robin & Nightwing, I want you to run Route 6b," Batman informed them. Nightwing nodded, grateful that Bruce's perfectionist tendencies which meant that even when a route was change or retired, no new route was ever given the same designation. Eventually, the route names became more and more colorful as they became more and more varied - by the time that Damian had appeared, the route that covered the Narrows, the Bowery, and Newtown had been called "Not It". Dick remembered a time, when he was first starting out as Robin, that the patrols had followed almost exactly the same route every time, down to the timing. Tim probably didn't remember that kind of routine; they couldn't afford to be that predictable anymore. Now, patrol routes covered specific points of interest, based on projected crime for the night. Nightwing couldn't remember all the specifics of Route 6b, but Robin would. He could follow Tim's lead.

"Bluebird and I will take Route 3a. Light patrol only; this isn't the night to overreach and put yourself in danger."

Nightwing nodded his agreement, and Tim rolled his eyes. There went Stephanie's chance of teaching Cass the same trick.

Still, it was a good idea - it put Nightwing and Robin on the riskier parts of the city, which gave Batman room to focus on Bluebird. It also sent the message that Nightwing and Robin were all Batman needed in order to keep eyes even on the worst parts of the city.

Besides, there were no indicators that they should expect major disturbances tonight, so it was a good chance for Robin to be seen in the Narrows and the Bowery. Nightwing had vague plans about that, hoping that if the communities that lived there got used to Robin, they'd help ease the transition from Tim to Jason, when he finally returned to claim them.

Nightwing and Robin took their respective bikes, while Bluebird got to enjoy her first ride in the Batmobile. Robin peeled out in front of him, and Nightwing laughed as he gave chase.

***

It wasn't until they were swinging from the ledge of one skyscraper to the steeple of another that Nightwing realized that this was the first time he'd patrolled Gotham in two and a half decades. He shot a second grapple to pull his momentum down and around, trying to cut under Robin and hit the roof before him. The building he was aiming for didn't exist, and Nightwing didn't realize it until the grapple was twisting uselessly away from him, the cord wavering behind him.

It would be generous to call the noise he made yelp. He just barely managed to pull his knees up in time to course-correct, and rolled into his landing with the grace of a newborn baby bird. He sprawled on the rooftop for a moment, catching his breath. Shit, he'd forgotten how much Gotham had changed. How much it would change, in the coming years.

Robin's concerned face appeared in Nightwing's line of vision.

"Are you… good?" he asked dubiously.

Nighwing waved him off. "Yeah, tried a new trick. Wanted to beat you here." He pulled his feet up, and then used his momentum to flip back upright without having to use his hands. He flashed Robin a smile. "Won't be trying that one again!"

He could tell that Robin was still suspicious, but they were thankfully interrupted at that moment by Oracle.

"Nightwing, Robin, there's a disturbance in Cherry Hill Park. Unclear what the cause is, but I've got footage of a couple teenagers and a few maintenance workers running out of the gate looking scared out of their minds."

Robin snapped to attention, automatically orienting his gaze so that he was looking out over the city, towards the direction of Cherry Hill Park.

"Any reports?"

It was unlikely, in this part of Gotham - most people never called in problems unless they were big enough to warrant vigilante intervention. The police were just as likely to be a danger as whatever they were reporting.

"Not yet. I'll keep you updated."

Together, Robin and Nightwing shot silently into the night, tracing curving arcs towards their destination. Without having to say a word, they split just out of sight of the park; Nightwing swung northwest, making for a stand of trees that stood tall enough to leap to from a nearby apartment building. Robin dashed south, vaulting a section of fencing that was obscured by shrubbery.

There was no sign of people - if anyone was left in the park, they were keeping a low profile.

"Nightwing, Robin," Batman barked in his ear, "Do you need backup?"

Nightwing automatically checked for eavesdroppers. "Hold on backup," he murmured back. Until they knew what they were dealing with, it was useless to guess at what kind of backup they might need.

Nightwing dropped silently from a tree to patchy grass, and started a systematic search of the park. Robin was no-doubt doing the same; they'd meet in the middle

It was never quiet in Gotham. There were too many humming billboards, distant sirens and less distant shouting matches. In a park as small as this one, the noise should barely have lessened by the time Nightwing cleared the first section of stubborn greenery.

He realized he could hear his own breathing. His hand flew up to his earpiece, and he called out, "Ivy!" an instant before Robin did. They were both moving, Nightwing's feet loud on the gravel pathways as he dashed for Robin's location. Batman and Bluebird were on their way, but it would take at least seven minutes for them to arrive

Seven minutes was a lifetime in a fight. Their best chance at minimizing damage waa distraction. Nightwing caught sight of her first, lounging menacingly on a twisted branch fifteen feet in the air.

He'd forgotten how extra her leafy-siren getup was. She'd abandoned it so fasy after getting together with Harley that Nightwing had to wonder if getting Harley's attention had been the point. But here she was, in all her seductive, green-tinted glory. Nightwing didnt even try for subtlety, calling out as soon as he was in earshot.

"Hey Ivy! What gives?" he imbued shouted. She fixed him with a predatory gaze that made his hackles rise.

"Fancy seeing you here," she practically purred. It felt wrong, coming from her, unbearably fake now that Nightwing knew what she looked like when she was really trying. He grimaced, then shrugged. his eyes darted between leaves and vines and roots that creaked as they grew. The secret to Ivy's plots were always in the plants.

"Well, you know, people were running away screaming, so I figured I'd better cone check it out." His eyes caught on a distinctly scaly patch of bark on a rapidly growing trunk. His mouth dropped open.

"Holy shit," he cut off Ivy's reply, "Is that Lepidodendron?"

She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion, but Nightwing brushed it off, trying to figure out what the fuck she was planning to do with extinct mega flora.

"Yes," she snapped. "How do you know that?"

Nightwing ignored her question, dodging grasping vines to get closer. The texture was fascinating, almost like snake-skin. Harley had once tried to steal a fossilized piece from a museum as a present for Ivy. It was much more vibrant in real life.

"Okay, yeah, that's cool," he admitted. "Have you ever considered like, a real career in botany? Because this is rad."

He may have overestimated the level of familiarity this version of Poison Ivy would tolerate, because she swiped her hand and Nightwing had to duck under a club of woody-stemmed vines.

Just five more minutes to go. He hoped Robin was ready with a backup plan.

Nightwing tried to keep up the banter as he slide under vines and launched himself from branches in an attempt to reach Ivy, but the rhythm was all off. She wasn't even snapping back, just snarling and sweeping her perch further away every time he got close. He managed to keep her attention for several more minutes before her head snapped to the side in sudden distraction.

Batman and Bluebird. The nearby plants must have alerted her that they were close. Thankfully, a moment's distraction was all Nightwing needed.

He tackled Ivy off of her branch and twisted in the air to disperse the momentum of their fall. Ivy was incredibly dangerous, but she wasn't a fighter. Close quarters was his best bet.

Except that as soon as they landed, the scraggly grass shot up around him, trying to tangle him with a thousand tiny threads. He yanked one hand free and grabbed for Ivy where she was backing away, but his ankle was unceremoniously pulled out from under him.

"Sorry, Boy Wonder," she purred again, her fake-sultry mask firmly in place once again. "I can't afford to have you following me around."

And then she blew him a fucking kiss. Nightwing tried to yank his rebreather into place, but the grass was still wrestling him, and he only managed to duck his face against his shoulder before the cloud of pollen settled.

"Nightwing!" He heard Robin call out. Ivy was already gone, and the grass went limp when she disappeared. Nightwing immediately started wiping off his face, clearing his mouth, nostrils and eyes. He held up a hand to show Robin that he was alright.

"'M fine," he coughed. "Ivy's got pollen. Don't know if it's a new formula."

Robin, reassured that Nightwing wasn't oin immediate danger, tore off after Ivy. Hopefully Batman would catch her, but Nightwing didn't have high hopes. She was crafty.

"Nightwing, symptom report," Oracle snapped. Nightwing flipped back into the ground to assess.

His throat felt a little scratchy. He was maybe a little unreasonably annoyed that Ivy had gotten away. There was no sudden, inexplicable lust though, no needy keening in the back of his throat. His head was throbbing a bit, but he couldn't tell whether it was the pollen or just the coughing.

He reported all of this dutifully to Oracle, just in time for Batman to inform them that they were done for the night. Ivy had escaped, and they would need to regroup. Nightwing hauled himself to his feet and set off back towards where he and Robin had stashed their bikes.

Robin fell in beside him before too long. It was standard operating procedure after someone infested an unknown substance. Nightwing wouldn't be allowed to be alone until he was given the all-clear. He also wasn't allowed to run across any rooftops, which made their return trek slow going. Between that and the required symptoms updates every five minutes, Nightwing was in for an annoying night.

***

Getting into the League of Assassins wasn't the hard part. The hard part was getting out again, especially with a tagalong that weighed fifty pounds soaking wet. The kid was five, for chrissakes, and had immediately tried to steal a sword off of the first ninja that came after them. It was ludicrously too long for him, and he grumbled about it until they were attacked by another ninja carrying much more usable knives. Slade wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled, but there was no time. Speed and silence were of the essence.

The only reason they managed it at all was because they both had memories of secret passages that would only be discovered in the next ten years or so. It wasn't until they emerged into the craggy desert landscape that Slade rounded on the kid.

"The Bats?" he snarled. "You passed information along to the Bats? Do you know how risky that was, or did you just not care?"

Damian scowled right back, his face a tiny, chubby thundercloud.

"I did no such thing," he declared. Good to know that prissy attitude was hereditary, not learned.

"Do not," Slade threatened, "Lie to me. Dick managed to track down Cassandra."

The surprise on Damian's face wasn't a lie. Slade's stomach sank.

"Cassandra Cain?" he asked, and even he couldn't fake that kind of confusion. Which meant that he hadn't been Dick's informant after all.

Watching Damian put together the pieces was like watching his own thought processin the mirror.

"Oh no," the kid whispered, and Slade was inclined to agree.

They were out of communications range, and this was a conversation Slade wanted to have in person. The nearest city was almost twenty miles away, across shifting sands and rocky terrain. If they hurried, they could be in Gotham in three days.

It took them two.

***

Dick was tired of being prodded at. His headache had gotten worse as he kept coughing, and while his bloodwork had turned up definite signs of something being wrong, they had no clue yet what it was. He was tired and grouchy and just wanted to sleep. Being tired made it hard to keep his own thoughts on track. It was like wrangling cats to keep them from straying to all of the things he was trying so desperately not to think about. He kept getting hit by the occasional wave of hopelesness when his mind wandered too far, and then he'd have to wrench himself back to the present moment by whining at Bruce. Cass and Tim had already been dismissed to clean up and head to bed.

He could tell Bruce wasn't doing much better. Not knowing things always made Bruce tetchy, and being worried about any of them made him a downright nightmare. But still, Dick couldn't stop griping at him. It was safer than the alternative. By the time that Dick tried to sit up and escape the medical bed when Bruce's back was turned, Bruce had lost his patience.

He whirled on Dick and shoved his shoulder back against the mattress.

"Lay down," he snarled, and the command was resonant with dominance.

Dick swallowed at the sudden rush of dizzy adrenaline. Bruce had already turned back around. That wasn't right; Dick didn't want to be ignored. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a rusty keening sound. Bruce clenched his jaw and didn't respond. Dick swallowed against nausea. He hated it when Bruce was made at him. He hated it when Bruce ignored him.

Bruce was too far away to reach, standing two feet outside of Dick's arm length at an analysis station. Dick tried wiggling his fingers at him, but Bruce either didn't see or didn't care. He swung his shaky legs over the side of the bed, suddenly determined to cross the few steps to Bruce's back and bury his face the familiar cape.

But then Bruce did move, turning back to Dick and shoving again. This time Dick's butt hit the bed with a bounce.

"I said stay down," Bruce snarled, and this time there was real heat in it.

Dick's throat clenched. His eyes were burning. He didn't understand why Bruce was yelling at him. He tried to scramble away, backwards on his hands, but hit the edge of the bed and almost toppled over. He was keening again. He tried to clap his hands over his mouth, but it didn't stop the sound.

Then just as quickly, he snatched his hands away. He wasn't supposed to stifle his sounds. That was a rule. He clutched his hands in the sheets, and watched Bruce's face turn from anger to confusion.

"Hey, Dick," he said, and the anger was gone. Dick wasn't sure what he'd done right, but he wanted to keep doing it, if it meant Bruce wasn't angry anymore. He kept his hands clenched tight. "It's okay, I'm sorry. You're alright. I was just worried. Dick, can you tell me what's wrong?"

Dick opened his mouth, because Bruce asked him a question, but he couldn't make any sense of what the question was. He closed his mouth again, his chest tightening. Words were hard, sometimes. He shook his head.

"I know, chum, but I need to know what's going on," Bruce said, and he crouched so that he was eye-level with Dick, hand braced on the bed but not touching.

Had Dick done something wrong? If he was being good, Bruce would put his hand on his shoulder, or his knee. So he must have done something wrong.

He tried to open his mouth again, but still no words came out, just that high-pitched whine.

There were rules about talking. Dick was sure there were. He tried to remember. He missed what Bruce was saying, and that made him shaky and scared. He couldn't remember the rules.

Almost without thinking, Dick flattened one hand against the bed and smacked it one, two, three times. That was the rules. If Dick was upset or scared or didn't know what he was supposed to do, he could tap out. He was certain that was a rule.

But Bruce kept talking. His head was tilted and his voice was worried and he kept asking Dick questions that Dick couldn't answer, and Dick was starting to feel nauseated. His head was swiming.

There was rules for that, too. There were a lot of rules, because Dick could remember a lot of rules. Even when he was confused and hurt and scared, he was good at remembering the rules. Even when he was a brat, he at least remembered the rules, even if he didn't want to follow them.

Dick didn't understand what was happening. Bruce was very scared. Dick was very scared. And Dick knew what he was supposed to do when he was scared.

He was out of the medical bed in an instant, dashing across the Cave, skidding to a stop in front of the nearest communications panel. Bruce called out after him, but Dick barely heard it. His hands were shaking. He was crying. He thought he heard Babs' voice, asking him even more questions.

It took him two tries to type in the code, even though it was muscle memory. He snatched up an earpiece from where it was charging and jammed it in his ear.

The line was silent until it connected. Dick didn't even wait for a greeting.

"Cadendo," he gasped. Falling.

There was a pause, just a tiny one. Dick thought he might throw up. Then a voice more familiar than his own heartbeat.

"I'm coming, little bird. Hang on."

Chapter Text

The nondescript sedan that Slade had hot wired was not built to maintain the speeds he was subjecting it to. Damian did not object, just braced his feet against the dashboard so he could use both hands for the oversized phone. Hacking in a moving car was hardly a challenge, but he could admit that there was something unsettling at feeling their velocity without being able to see over the windshield. He hadn't enjoyed being five the first time around and he certainly didn't appreciate it now.

Damian dismissed the discomfort to focus on the relevant facts: namely, that Richard knew them, and he was in distress. Damian would gladly suffer the indignities of childhood many times over, if it meant that he would get back even a piece of the Richard he remembered.

Damian didn't waste energy cursing when Slade took a corner fast enough to slam him into the car door. As far as he was concerned, they couldn't reach the manor fast enough.

Instead, he focused on downloading the images he would need in order to distract Father and Alfred. They had only minutes left before Damian was dropped at the Manor gate, and this time, he would be prepared.

***

People were trying to talk to him, but Dick was far enough away to ignore it. They tried to follow him, but he had climbed higher than anyone could reach. He kept his back to the rough nook he was curled up in, eyes darting as he watched the movement below.

Slade was coming. Dick could hold out that long. He could ignore his achy, trembling chest and choked throat and shaking hands, as long as Slade was there to catch him afterwards. Something was wrong, something that Dick could only feel but not understand. He didn't know if he was in danger, or in trouble, but he felt it the way that he felt a bad landing before he hit the ground.

Slade would take care of him. Even if he was in trouble and was going to get punished, Slade would still take care of him.

People were yelling now. It made Dick's ears and belly hurt. He curled up tighter, watching, ready to run or fight or hide. Everyone was watching him.

Slade was coming.

***

Bruce knew full well that there was no way of getting Dick back to the ground until he was good and ready. They'd done this song and dance before. Dick was in no danger of falling - he never was.

It didn't make it any easier to unclench his fists or relax his jaw. Bruce knew that he was crashing, yanked suddenly out of a topspace he'd barely registered building. He couldn't bear to take his eyes off of Dick, even for a moment, in case he needed to lunge across the Cave to catch him or hug him or…

Bruce cut off that line of thought with a shake of his head. Dick was hiding, out of Bruce's reach while an unknown chemical pumped through his body. He wasn't wearing his suit, didn't have the protection of his gloves or his thermal insulation or any of the other advantages that would keep him safe. Dick was in the Cave, and Bruce couldn't keep him safe.

A flash of movement from the the stairs told Bruce that Tim had returned to the Cave when Bruce didn't show up, and was hovering fretfully near the stairs. Bruce knew that Tim probably needed reassurance, but he was too busy arguing with Barbara to give it.

"This is critical information," he gritted out. He could see Oracle shake her head on the screen out of the corner of his eye.

"You don't make that call," she insisted again, she had been for the past eight minutes. He knew she was tracking the call that Dick had made; what he didn't know was why she was refusing to share vital information.

Bruce didn't know where Dick had found the time to meet a new dominant, never mind how long this had to have been going on for Dick to react so viscerally. He'd moved with the speed and efficiency of well-drilled practice. It was the sort or thing that Bruce expected from Nightwing in the field; a planned reaction, a controlled response in the face of total overwhelm. And Bruce had no idea who had taught him that.

Bruce would have given up on interrogating Oracle entirely if he could shift his attention long enough to wrest partial network control from her. Either an unknown was about to show up at the Cave, or Dick was waiting for a rescue that would never come. Bruce was pleased with neither choice.

Tim drifted closer, and caught Bruce's eye. He flashed a surreptitious hand-signed question. Bruce nodded imperceptibly, and Tim out of the cameras' view to start his own digital investigation while Bruce kept Barbara distracted.

"You know who he called," Bruce said again, "And you're going to tell me."

Barbara was scowling at the screen now. "Yes, eventually. But not until I know more. I'm not going to betray Dick's confidence on a whim."

Bruce kept up the argument, still watching Dick all the while. He had all but disappeared into the shadows of his perch. Tim typed furiously.

The door at the top of the stairs opened silently. Bruce didn't bother to turn an look at Alfred.

"What is it?" he demanded, disguising the tiny, instinctive flash or relief that still insisted that Alfred had the solution for every problem.

"Master Bruce, there's a young man upstairs I believe you should speak to," was Alfred's reply, and Bruce could tell from the barest fluctuation in his voice that Alfred was worried.

This wasn't the time, though. Whatever the problem was, Bruce could deal with it after Dick was retrieved and preferably resting. When he opened his mouth to say so, Alfred cut in again - an unspeakable rudeness from a man who valued courtesy above nearly all else.

"Master Tim is more than capable of keeping an eye on Master Dick. I will be pleased to escort you upstairs, Master Bruce."

All three of them - Bruce, Tim, Barbara - stopped what they were doing to watch Alfred in shock. It wasn't a request, or a suggestion. Bruce could count on one hand the number of times Alfred inform him of what would happen. One of them had been the day of his parents' funeral. Bruce nodded dumbly.

Tim shot him a baffled solute, and shifted so that he could see Dick and his laptop at the same time.

"I'll be right back," he informed Barbara, mouth slightly numb. "Wait here. Keep an eye on Dick."

Absurd. What else would she do? He stood and followed Alfred upstairs.

***

As far as distractions went, Slade knew from experience that "surprise kid" was a good one. Between Damian and the photos of Jason he'd procured, Wayne would be distracted for at least a half-hour; longer if Damian could keep him guessing.

That was all Slade needed. He didn't have all of the override codes for the Cave, but he knew Dick well enough, knew his habits and training and quirks, well enough to make do. Getting in wasn't the hard - convincing Dick's overprotective family not to attack him on sight was going to be the hard part.

Every cell of Slade's body was still, coiled with anticipation. Hearing Dick's voice, his pained and familiar safe word, had plunged Slade into a clarity colder than a mountain lake in winter. Dick was here, and falling, and he wanted Slade to be there. Every other fact of the world was irrelevant.

The now-smoking sedan screeched to a shaky stop, and by the time Slade had stepped out, there was a tranquilizer gun pointed at his face. The middle Robin, the one that Ra's was always obsessed one, was holding it with a steady aim and a pale face that meant he knew how useless it would be to try to shoot Slade. Oracle's face was splashed across a bank of screens, and from the focus on her face as she typed, Slade's false identities and safehouses were going up in flames at this very moment.

Slade couldn't find it within him to care. He breathed in cool, artificially dry air, and each breath carried the faintest trace of Dick, the peculiar smell of a person's skin unique to them. Slade could feel each tiny pulse of blood in every one of his veins, vivid against the his otherwise absolute stillness. No motion was wasted, no thought distracted. Slade's attention flickered from one perch to the next, until he caught a trembling movement tucked away in one of Dick's favorite hidey holes. He managed to remember to lift his hands in the universal gesture for peace before taking a step forward. The whisper of a knife touched the back of his neck; probably Cassandra, to have gotten so close without catching his attention. He would be pleased by that later.

Now, he only had eyes for his husband.

"I'm here, little bird," he said, and his voice was still and echoing.

There was a flash of shaky movement, and Dick was falling.

Slade's heart simply stopped beating as Dick launched himself from sixty feet in the air without a grapple gun or net. No spike of fear or rush of adrenaline followed. There was no possible outcome where Slade didn't catch him. Slade could see Dick's trajectory before his feet had even fully left his perch.

Slade simply put himself where Dick would be, heedless of the superhuman speed required to get there. A dense mass of muscle and silent tears slammed into his chest, and Slade spun them both to dissipate the force of Dick's fall.

Dick's trembling arms clutched over Slade's shoulders, Dick's thighs clamped hard around his waist. Slade didn't need to support Dick to keep him from falling, but he did anyway, curling one arm under Dick's ass, and let the familiar comfort of Dick's weight seep through him.

Dick's breath panted hot and quick against Slade's neck, too-fast and muffled. Slade felt wild with worry, and rooted to the spot with sheer relief. Dick was hurt and trembling and scared, but he was here. He knew Slade, remembered him, trusted him. There was no reason for Slade to reign in instincts and habits that he'd carved into his very being.

Slade used his free hand to grip Dick's hair, tight enough to sting, and guided him closer, let Dick bury his face completely against Slade's exposed skin. The slightest turn of his head was enough to press his lips directly against Dick's jaw, sweaty and tear-stained.

"Hush, little bird. I'm here."

***

Tim hadn't ended up as Robin by panicking in a crisis.

Wilson wasn't hurting anyone, and that was the most important thing. Cass looked smug and pleased, watching the baffling tableau that Dick and Wilson made, an asymmetrical silhouette against the harsh lights of the Cave. Most importantly, Oracle was sending information directly to Tim's laptop, which he could still see without lowering the tranq gun.

He obviously hadn't been succeeding nearly as much as he thought in hacking her systems, because she was using the links he'd establish to send increasingly insistent commands.

But Tim just couldn't let himself bundle Dick out the door with Deathstroke, no matter how non-threatening his behavior. Tim was missing something, and important piece of context that he couldn't shake loose.

NOW, ROBIN. BEFORE BRUCE COMES BACK.

He couldn't let Wilson take Dick. He couldn't chase Wilson away, even if he'd been convinced that was the right choice. Tim had never seen Dick cling to anyone like that. He'd never seen anyone let him.

But Wilson showed no intention of moving, not even to whisk Dick away. His entire attention was focused on Dick, muttering in Dick's ear too quietly for Tim to make out. Dick was still trembling, but the full-body tremors had stopped, and he was clutching the mercenary so tightly that it had to hurt.

Tim couldn't let Dick and Wilson leave, and he couldn't separate them. When you eliminate the impossible… Tim's brain supplied helpfully.

He cleared his throat.

The look Wilson shot him was deadly, a clearer threat than any Tim had ever faced. Dick didn't even notice. Tim took a deep breath.

"Bruce is distracted, but he won't be for long. You can get from the Cave to Dick's room without ever going downstairs, but you'll have to make it fast."

It was the only place Tim could think of that wasn't teeming with cameras. Bruce would find out that Tim had invited a murderer into the manor, and Tim was certain he wouldn't enjoy those consequences. But even Bruce wasn't dumb and stubborn enough to start a fight once a distressed submissive was bundled up in a room he associated with safety and privacy.

At least, Tim was pretty sure, and that had to be good enough for now.

***

Slade, Slade, Slade. Dick's heart was pumping his name over and over, filling his veins with giddy relief. Dick's arms and legs were already sore from gripping so tightly, but he didn't let go even when Slade murmured something in his ear, then started walking. Dick swayed with the motion, ignoring the nausea that followed. Any awareness of movement or space was swept away by a tide of safety that rose so fast and thick that Dick was drowning in it.

Slade, Slade, Slade, filled up the space of Dick's mouth, his lungs, between his ribs. He was crying again, and his hazy reaction was just, "Slade likes when I cry."

The thought, even as fuzzy as it was, swamped Dick with another wave of relief. His whole body hurt, joints and muscles aching. He was sticky with sweat and tears. His head pounded and his heart raced and he knew that something was wrong. But Dick didn't need to solve it. There was nothing to figure out. Slade would take care of him. All Dick had to do was what he was told.

Slade had told him to hold on tight, so that's what Dick did. He ignored the change in movements and sound and muffled conversations. He dug his fingers into the muscle of Slade's shoulders and held on tight. He locked his ankles around Slade's thick waist and held on tight. His knuckles burned with pain, and his skin itched, and he held on tight.

Dick held on tight until Slade's fingers tangled again in his hair, and his voice cut through the haze.

"Good boy. Now let go."

It was harder than holding on tight, because Dick didn't want to. But he didn't hesitate, relaxing his fingers first, then his toes. His wrists, then his ankles. It didn't matter how long it took, as long as Dick did as he was told. It didn't matter how much he hurt, as long as he was good.

He'd only got as far as his knees and elbows when Slade started to shift him, lowering his body weight carefully to the floor. He never let go, keeping his broad hands on Dick's waist and shoulders.

"Shh, shh, you're alright."

Dick realized he was whimpering. That was fine. He choked it back. Slade centered Dick's weight over his bent knees. The carpet was gentle, but Dick's knees still throbbed with the syrupy-slow wrongness that clung to him.

"There you go, little bird. Kneel for me."

Dick could kneel. He knew how to kneel. He scrambled, eager to obey, wanting so desperately to be good. Dick shifted his hips, setting his knees shoulder width apart. He knelt up, back straight, eyes closed. He rested his hands flat in his thighs and let the sigh of relief drift away from him. It hurt less, somehow, like this.

The position felt wrong on his body, like it had when Dick first learned it. But he knew it was right, perfectly correct in every detail.

Slade must have agreed, because he reached down to stroke Dick's hair and trail his fingertips over Dick's upturned face. Every brush of his fingers over Dick's forehead and cheeks and jaw were like candle-flame licking at his nerves, the painful heat banked to a pleasant warmth. Dick's mouth fell open. Slade traced it with his thumb. Dick shuddered, the first time in long moments. He couldn't see Slade's face, and that made the touch sweeter.

"What am I going to do with you, my sweet boy," Slade murmured. Dick didn't answer, just stayed still, exactly where he was, as the touch disappeared. Slade could do anything he wanted with him. It was a certainty deeper than faith, truer than religion. Dick would let Slade rearrange his bones if he wanted, and feel nothing but pleasure at having Slade's hands so deep in his body.

"I am very angry with you, birdie."

The weight of those words was gravity around Dick's ribs, but he didn't move. Punishment or reward, Dick didn't care, as long as it was Slade giving it to him. Slade moved, displacing the air directly in front of Dick as he knelt. Dick swallowed a keen. He could feel Slade's breath on his face. He hurt.

"But I also missed you, my precious bird."

And then Slade was kissing him, open-mouthed and wet, licking immediately into Dick's mouth. Dick groaned and opened his mouth wider, trying to press his lips closer. Slade's tongue swiped across Dick's teeth, tasted the tender skin behind his lips and under his tongue. He pulled back just enough to bite, catching Dick's already-swollen bottom lip between his teeth. Dick's breaths were too shaky to sustain any sound, but his broken gasps were just as loud. Slade dove in again, alternating between plundering Dick's mouth and nipping at his lips.

Dick's hands didn't move from their place on his thighs. He leaned in, wanting to be closer, wanting to touch. Slade's hand fisted in Dick's hair, hard enough that the pinching of his scalp brought tears to his eyes. It was perfect.

"Impatient," Slade chastised, and heat rose in Dick's face. He fought the urge to squirm in Slade's grip. "Needy thing."

Dick gasped, struggling to stay afloat on the crest of Slade's judgments. Slade saw right through the heart of him, past his flesh and bone and into the aching, gasping emptiness in his soul. And instead of being repulsed, it turned Slade on.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Daddy's going to take care of you."

Every clenched muscle and seized tendon in Dick's aching body went limp. He swayed into Slade's grip, overwhelmed by the sudden lack of pain. He only hurt where Slade how wanted him to. How his Daddy wanted him to.

Dick's breaths leaked from his lungs in slow waves. He let himself go almost totally lax, keeping just enough focus to stay upright. Daddy had told him to kneel, so Dick would kneel.

"That's it, little bird," Slade encouraged, his voice rough with pride. It washed over Dick, a cool shiver of pleasure. "You want to be good for me, don't you?"

Dick couldn't speak - and wouldn't, unless he was allowed - but he couldn't stop the cracked keening sound that clawed it's way out of his chest. The pain in his scalp tightened. His eyes were still closed. He was being good.

"Stay right there. Keep breathing, but don't move otherwise."

Dick felt Slade's absence the moment he stepped back, like an open door on a winter's day. He didn't move. He breathed. He wanted to open his eyes, wanted to know that Slade was still there - but he wanted to be good, too. Daddy wouldn't leave. That was the rules. Daddy would never leave him alone without telling him.

It was only a few moments, but Dick had fallen so far into his own submission that it might as well have been hours, by the time that Slade returned. Dick could feel the shift, the difference that the warmth of Slade's skin made when there were no clothes to block it. He wanted to touch, to reach out and feel the skin and hair and rare scares with his hands, with his mouth. His stomach yawned with wanting, but he didn't move. He breathed.

"Good boy. Hands."

Dick almost swayed with the pleasure the approval sent rolling down his spine. He caught himself just in time, lifting both of his hands instead. He held them up in front of him, just above the level of his eyes, like an offering. When Slade's larger hands curled over his wrists, Dick shuddered at the touch. He was so warm, hypersensitive to every touch.

Slade gripped his wrists tightly, squeezing once, before moving them to lay flat against his own thighs. Dick's throat worked tightly, forcing out a high, needy sound. Slade's muscled thighs were as familiar to Dick as his own body, rough with hair and warm to the touch. Slade's hands returned to Dick's hair, this time stroking and pulling gently. Behind his closed eyelids, Dick's eyes rolled back in his skull.

"Hold on, little bird."

Dick didn't need to be told twice. He shifted his weight forward so that he was braced against Slade's thighs. If Slade stepped back, Dick would fall. He didn't do anything else, even open his mouth, no matter how much he wanted to. If Daddy wanted his mouth, he would tell him.

His reward was the heat of Slade's velvety cock resting against his cheekbone. Dick nearly choked on his gasp. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, to keep from opening them. One of Slade's hands tangled again in his hair, holding Dick's head just where he wanted it. The other came to rest at the base of his cock. Slade rocked his hips gently, sliding the length of his cock against Dick's cheekbone, the hollow of his check, the line of his jaw. Dick swallowed hard, mouth suddenly full of drool. Slade trailed the head of his cock across Dick's mouth, and for a moment Dick thought he would be allowed to suck it. Then Slade slid his cock to the other side of Dick's face, smearing precum across his opposite cheek.

"Look at you, perfect boy," Slade rumbled. Dick twitched, skin tingling. He felt sensitive, achingly aware of all his delicate skin - the undersides of his wrists, his neck, his nipples, his cunt. He whined again, and Slade groaned.

"Open up for me, sweet boy."

Dick's mouth dropped open immediately. He craned his neck, trying to reach for what he wanted. Slade yanked his head back, but didn't reprimand him - just slid the tip of his cock into Dick's waiting mouth.

Tears prickled in Dick's eyes. It just felt so good, the heat and weight of him, the familiar salty taste. He filled Dick's mouth so perfectly. Dick couldn't resist pressing his tongue up against the curve of Slade's cock, clumsy and awkward, but eager. Slade cursed and slid deeper, heedless of the way Dick's teeth brushed along his shaft. Dick opened his jaw as wide as he could, tried to seal his lips around the width of Slade's cock, and only managed weak suction.

Out of practice, Dick's mind supplied, which didn't make any sense. But Dick settled for bobbing up and down on Slade's cock, letting drool and precome wet his lips and chin. Slade let him set the pace for a long time, the muscles of his thighs jumping while he sighed above Dick's head. The sound of it - Slade's deep breaths, the wet slide of his cock - made Dick's cunt twitch.

Dick had managed to get Slade's cock nearly to the back of his throat before Slade used his grip to start moving Dick at the pace he wanted. There was a messy, gasping moment where Dick lost the rhythm of it, but Slade didn't let up. He fucked Dick's mouth slow and deep, pressing far enough bag to nearly gag Dick on each thrust. Dick tried to swallow, wanted to feel Slade in his throat, but only managed to make his gagging worse.

"Hush, little bird, just let Daddy fuck your mouth," Slade said, and his voice was a little hoarse now. "Don't try to do anything."

It was exactly what Dick didn't know he needed. He relaxed his weight against Slade's thighs, and let his mouth fall all the way open, and let himself be used. The tears were beading on his eyelashes now, clumping them uncomfortably. He was burning beneath his suit, his cunt growing hot and slick. Slade curled both hands around the back of Dick's skull, and fucked Dick's moans back into his mouth, setting a pace too fast for Dick to even begin to keep up with.

Slade didn't say anything else, just pulled Dick as far down as he could go without gagging and came into the wet warmth of Dick's mouth. The taste was as unpleasant as it always was, but Dick swallowed anyway, wanting irrationally to take some part of Slade into himself, desperate to catch some of his come before it dripped out of his mouth and down his chin. It was impossible to keep up with, but Dick choked down as much as he could while Slade stroked his hair and let his cock soften in Dick's mouth.

"Good boy," he murmured while Dick painted at his feet. "You want Daddy to take care of you now?"

Dick choked back a sob of relief, and let Slade kneel to take his weight. Slade would take care of him.

Chapter Text

Dick was heavier than Slade remembered; he was healthier, carried more fat and muscle on his body than he had in the past few years. It was a satisfying feeling, to lay his husband out on the bed with the ease of long practice, and know that he was well and whole. The muscles of Dick's neck and back eased as he was enveloped in a no-doubt familiar scent - the sheets were a powdery, fragrant clean that spoke to old money.

He knew, in his mind, that Dick wasn't the naive young hero that Slade had thought; he was Slade's partner. This young slip of a thing knew every one of Slade's secrets, was vicious and competent and endlessly compassionate. He was a survivor.

But knowing it in his mind was different than feeling it in his body. Dick was so young, the lines of his body softer than Slade remembered, his skin still smooth and unwrinkled. He looked innocent, his expression so trusting that it made Slade's heart twist in his chest.

Dick's eyelids fluttered and his head lolled back, exposing the tendons of his neck for Slade's attention. Slade crowded Dick into the mattress, not quite using his own bulk to press him down, then leaned down to rest his lips under the line of Dick's jaw.

His skin was so soft. Slade could feel the tentative, submissive whine in Dick's throat vibrating against his chapped lips. It wasn't the desperate, belligerent submission that had characterized Dick in his younger years - it was surrender so devastatingly complete that Slade wanted to howl. Here was the trust that Slade had earned. Here was the submission they had built together.

Slade sunk his teeth into the tendon of Dick's neck, hard. He didn't draw blood, but Dick gasped and jerked beneath him, hands tangled in the sheets. His eyes were still closed. Slade hadn't given him permission to open them. He groaned against the bruise spreading on Dick's throat, overwhelmed with the weight of Dick's faith in him. Slade traced his mouth lower, letting his breath puff hot against Dick's sensitive collarbones, before biting down again, worrying a dark bruise just under the first. Having Dick's flesh between his teeth,warm and fluttering, made his cock ache with want.

Dick didn't move even as Slade adjusted his weight, shifting plane of the mattress enough to free his hands. Slade knew he was one of the most dangerous men in the world, and while the thought filled him with satisfaction, nothing made him feel more powerful than having Dick sprawled out underneath him. This vicious, unstoppable creature, needy and gasping in Slade's bed - it was the greatest triumph of Slade's life.

Dick was still draped in threadbare, comfortable sweats, his hair fluffed out in curls that meant he'd only been out of the shower an hour or so. Whatever had triggered this sudden crash, there was no evidence of it on Dick's body, no bandages, no visible wounds. His age was emphasized by the way he looked with his eyes screwed shut, and his shoulder peeking out from his oversized t-shirt. He was barely older than a teenager, his body untouched by the grief of years. Slade was seized by a sudden need to see, to touch all of the changes, map the absence of beloved scars. He had wanted to get his hands on this perfect, powerful body for years before Dick had fallen into his arms - and here was his chance, offered up on a silver platter.

Slade ran his hands up the tender skin under Dick's arms, just relishing the texture of his skin, the shape of his muscles, the minute evidence of broken and healed bones underneath. He didn't even have to tell Dick to keep his hands where he pressed them into the pillow next to his head - Dick knew the rules. When Slade arranged Dick to his liking, Dick damn well stayed there until Slade told him to move, or his body gave out.

The position made Dick's shirt ride up, and Slade shifted back to get his hands on the exposed strip of stomach. Here, Dick's skin was soft and unbroken, lacking the ropy scars and puckered remains of bullet holes that once decorated him. Slade wanted to taste him, so he did. He spread his broad hands across the shape of Dick's ribs, and leaned down to lave his tongue from Dick's belly button to his solar plexus.

He even tasted different, just a hint of some artificial body wash that Slade disliked intensely. Dick had stopped using strongly-scented or chemical products less than six months after they started living together, once he discovered how sensitive Slade's enhanced senses were to them. Still, Slade couldn't help but dive in for more, tracing his lips and tongues over unblemished skin, feeling the give of Dick's belly under his mouth. He had always loved the rounded parts of Dick's body, where they yielded at his touch, and had silently mourned their loss as food became more and more scarce. They had all changed, in the future, adjusting to a harsher reality that their bodies were never meant to endure.

But here Dick was, whole and well, with none of the years of heartbreaking loss carried in his spine. Slade nearly shuddered with the enormity of it, this miracle that was so far beyond anything he could have imagined. It was like waking up from a nightmare, except now Slade had a chance to do better. He could change the course of Dick's life, drown him in the affection that he had been craving his whole life, protect him from the worst of the storms that plagued him, and in turn Dick would smile at him like Slade was the goddam sun.

Even this, Dick sprawled out beneath him, was a new chance. It had taken them years to get this point - their early relationship had been a clash of teeth and violence, satisfying but harsh. Their first time together had been as much a fight as a fuck. Slade couldn't regret it, not when it had turned into this. But he wondered, in the years since, what it would have been like to be slow, take his time, devour Dick but by bit until he screamed. Slade was essentially a selfish man, and this chance to have both, to write a new beginning to their story without overriding the old one, was too tempting to pass up.

Dick squirmed, digging his shoulder blades & hips into the bed, arching up towards him, trying to press against the shapes that Slade was tracing with his tongue into his stomach, his ribs, his chest. Dick was trying to choke back his whines without stifling them, a habit that he'd never managed to shake no matter how many times Slade told him to be loud. His whimpers were sweeter to Slade than any morning songbird, the pitch of them all familiar desperation. Even if he was still capable of words, Dick wouldn't use them unless Slade demanded it.

"You don't even need your mouth to beg, do you?" Slade whispered against his ear. Dick shivered and his hands twitched in the sheets where he was holding them so obediently. "Such a desperate little boy for me."

Dick choked on a gasp, his face flushing a pretty shade of red. Slade watched his mouth work useless while he traced the curve of his surgery scars with both thumbs. Slade slid Dick's shirt higher, then lifted his shoulders up from the mattress long enough to pull the shirt off entirely. It exposed the gooseflesh that trailed down Dick's arms, the fine tremors of want that ran through his whole body. Slade was already getting hard again. “Don't worry, boy. Daddy knows what you need." 

It wouldn't be what Dick wanted - but he rarely wanted what he needed. Dick was all impatience, all frantic need. But Slade intended to take his time, enjoy this properly. This time, Slade would do better.

Slade groaned, and leaned down to lick one of Dick's exposed nipples. The feeling there was distant, Slade knew, so he nipped hard and pulled, until Dick's whines turned to deep-throated groans of pleasure. He ignored the other nipple, pebbled in the cool air, just for the asymmetry of it. Slade knew he wasn't imagining how much more sensitive Dick was, how unused to this intimate pain his body was.

Slade knew that Dick had always preferred forceful dominants, even if he wasn't willing to submit to them entirely. The women he'd dated before Slade had had a taste for power, even perhaps a bit of pain. But neither of them could give Dick what Slade could. None of them could hurt him without an ounce of regret or shame, overwhelm him, deny him - none of them had ever fucked him the way Slade could. As far as Slade knew, none of them had ever fucked him at all. Dick hadn't started sleeping with men until his engagement blew up spectacularly.

Which meant that this sweet body, with its soft skin and warm cunt, had never been fucked at all. Slade's cock twitched at the thought, and he vented his lust on Dick's belly, biting hard and pressing his thumb into the stain of blood that spread under the skin. Dick helped, his hips jerking up into Slade's chest. His little bird was too far gone to appreciate what this particular fuck meant, but that was alright - Slade was perfectly capable of enjoying this opportunity while taking car of his boy at the same time.

"You don't even know what you need, do you?" Slade taunted, sweet and filthy while Dick writhed. "Sweet boy's never been fucked before, doesn't even know what to ask for."

The words themselves were probably hazy to Dick, but the tone was enough to make him whimper, needy little high-pitched sounds. His eyes were still closed. Slade lifted one hand to Dick's face, swept his thumb over that lovely cheekbone. "Open up, boy. I want you to watch me touch you."

Slade could see the moments it took for the words to sink in, for Dick to make sense of them - but the moment he did, his eyes snapped open, revealing a dazed expression. Fuck, Dick was being so good, when he so often fought it tooth and nail. Slade rewarded him with a trail of kisses from his bellybutton to his waistband. It was the work of moment to pull down the elastic to Dick's knees, revealing his pretty, wet cunt and swollen clit.

Slade was fully hard again, and knowing that eventually he was going to bury himself in that tight, slick cunt made his balls ache. Ignoring the sensation in favor of shifting down the bed to bring him closer to Dick's twitching hips made him want to snarl in satisfaction, especially when Dick was watching him, open-mouthed and panting. He was the picture of a perfect submissive, needy and gasping, soft-eyed with pleasure and gratitude. It wasn't something that Slade enjoyed seeing on anyone else - because no one else had ever made him earn it the same way. This shivering, devoted boy could knock Slade's feet out from under him, and instead he tilted his head back for Slade's hand. On Dick, it was the most erotic thing Slade had ever seen.

Another time, Slade would have enjoyed painting Dick with pain, biting and twisting and bruising, until Dick came so hard her cried. He could fuck Dick past oversensitivity into true torment, and Dick would only thank him for it in the morning.

But not tonight. Tonight, Slade was going to take care of his bird.

Slade ran his palms from Dick's knees to his thighs, thumbing over the spot where the ghost of a vicious electric burn should be. Dick's muscles jumped under his hands. His cunt was already so wet that it was smeared into his pubic hair, making the cut of his thighs damp with his want. He smelled incredible, earthy and sticky-sweet, and Slade down closer just to take in the scent. It was so satisfying to tease Dick with just his warm breath ghosting over his lips, his thighs, his mons. Dick's clit was just peeking out from the fold of his lips, and Slade darted his tongue out to swipe over it once.

Dick sobbed, his whole body spasming. Slade groaned, and finally leaned down to taste his boy properly. Dick's debauched cries were perfect, made Slade want to grind down into the bed, made him want to burrow his tongue deeper. He slid his tongue insistently into the seam of Dick's cunt, opening him up to get to the tender heat inside. When he flicked his eye up to Dick's face, Dick was still watching him with single-minded effort, even through the tears that were clumping his eyelashes, trickling down from the corners of his eyes.

Fuck, Dick was pretty when he cried. Slade wondered if he'd ever cried in bed before. Slade managed to keep his attentions steady only through sheer force of will, fighting down the instinctive part of him that wanted to bite and fuck and claim and own. Instead, he licked gently, tracing the same path from the bottom of his cunt to the top, over and over again, one side and then the other, ignoring his stiff clit. Dick writhed and pleaded wordlessly, but he kept his hands exactly where Slade had put them.

Slade used that maddening, languid rhythm to pull Dick all the way to the brink of an orgasm, and then flattened his hand over Dick's belly.

"I'm going to make you come, boy. Are you ready?"

Dick was nodding, although Slade suspected it was just because he recognized the tone of a question. He was tempted to ask again, to force Dick to work through the words, but impulse stopped him. It was a cruelty that Dick would enjoy, but Slade found himself inclined towards mercy.

Slade lowered his mouth again and pressed the flat of his tongue hard against the underside of Dick's clit, and then held it there while Dick's cunt clenched, and he came crying on Slade's tongue.

"Very good boy," Slade murmured, and then dove right back in, lapping up Dick's overstimulated whines as he dug his tongue deeper, eating his pussy with more devotion than he'd ever given any god. He was honey-soft and supple in Slade's mouth, his folds giving way to his tongue and lips, his slick sticky on Slade's tongue. Dick made no objections, but his heels dug furrows into the duvet as he tried to ride Slade's mouth, and he gasped with arousal and disappointment when Slade just moved with him. Slade made him come again, this time with a thumb brushing over his clit, over and over again.

Dick's strangled sounds were becoming truly desperate by the time Slade eased back to make room for his fingers. His chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath, but Slade didn't give him the chance. Slade knew exactly how many times his boy could come before it truly became more than he could bear, how to tell when Dick was right on the brink of "too much", and he was nowhere close yet.

Slade took his time tracing Dick's folds with one finger, pressing closer and closer to his still-fluttering hole.

"Is this what you need?" Slade asked, infusing his voice with sympathy. "You need Daddy to put something inside of you, show you how it feels?"

Dick's nodding was frantic now. His skin was feverish all the way down his chest, covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

Sinking his middle finger into Dick's cunt was a goddamn revelation. Slade knew, logically, that Dick was no tighter now than he would be in ten years, but it didn't matter - it was the way that Dick reacted, the keening that tumbled out of his mouth, that made it so perfectly filthy. It was as though Slade's finger was truly the first thing that Dick had ever had inside that perfect, lush cunt. Dick was trying to jerk his cunt closer, trying to fuck himself on Slade's finger, and for a few moments, Slade let him. It was intoxicating, the awe and overwhelm scrawled over every line of Dick's body.

Slowly, Slade worked another finger into that slick heat, and started working them gently against Dick's insides, tracing the texture of him. He avoided the spongy spot behind Dick's pelvic bone, determined to make him come again just from this before pushing to that new height.

"Give me another, little bird."

It was the work of minutes before Dick's cunt was clutching greedily at his fingers, and Dick sobbed his way through another greedy orgasm. Slade's cock was pulsing with blood with the feeling of it, Dick convulsing on his fingers.

Slade didn't even let Dick come down before he started massaging that sensitive tissue tucked so deep that Dick could never reach it on his own. It was possible that Dick's body had never come this way before, and when he wailed brokenly just moments later, Slade had to shift back from the mattress to keep from coming himself.

Slade kept his fingers right where they were, a comforting weight inside Dick's body, while Dick panted and his heart raced, reluctant to slow. He had kept his watery gaze exactly where Slade wanted it, and Slade rewarded him by leaning up to dip his tongue into Dick's slack mouth. He kissed Dick unhurried for long, slow minutes, until Dick was limp underneath him, and only then eased his fingers out of Dick's body, drinking up Dick's distressed whimper at the motion.

Slade could hear the rhythm of Dick's blood in his body, smell every shift of sweat and arousal, and he knew that Dick was hovering right where Slade wanted him. If this was the body that Slade had been playing with for so many years, he would have slapped Dick's haunch to make him shift onto his hands and knees, and then fucked him hard and rough until they were both spent.

But Dick deserved better, for what was essentially their first time, again. Slade would be damned before he denied Dick anything he deserved. So instead, he knelt back, sliding his hands down from Dick's shoulders to his ass. It was easy to lift him, to pull him over Slade's lap where he was kneeling on the bed.

"Watch me, little bird," he reminded Dick, and wrapped on arm around his waist while lining his cock up with Dick's cunt with the other hand.

Slade hadn't seen Dick's face the first time he'd fucked him - Dick had been mostly smashed against a brick wall at the time. So Slade took full advantage now, meeting Dick's eyes with an intensity that made Dick shiver while he slid the head of his cock over Dick's sensitive folds. He pushed in slowly, parting Dick's cunt around the shape of his cock before breaching the his still-tight entrance.

Dick's eyes fluttered, and he barely managed to keep them open, the rest of his face lax with overwhelmed pleasure. It was the most beautiful expression Slade had ever seen. He was going to make it last as long as he could. He felt perfect wrapped around Slade's cock, still twitching with the aftershocks of his last orgasm, snug and soaking wet. Slade wanted to fill him up in one sharp movement, but resisted. Instead, he pulled Dick closer by inches, until he was fully seated in Slade's lap. Slade shifted the angle, and set his focus to fucking his little bird deep and gentle until he collapsed.

***

Slade was moving so slowly. Dick felt so good, hadn't realized how much he had been craving Slade's cock buried in his belly until this moment. Every inch of Dick's skin was tingly and overwhelmed, sensitive and feverish. His neck and nipples and thighs still throbbed where Slade had worked bruises into him. His cunt was stretched open around Slade's cock, spread so wide that he could barely even clench down. Dick tried anyway, desperate to pull Slade in deeper, aching for Slade to fuck him harder, faster, anything.

Dick's hands were fisted in the sheets, now fully above his head from the way that Slade had pulled him closer, and Dick clutched them desperately to keep them there. He was being good, he was being so good, not even closing his eyes when Slade's attention tipped over into too much, more than Dick could bear. Dick was trying so hard, and Slade was still barely even fucking him.

Dick tried to shift his hips, press deeper, but the angle that Slade was holding him at made it impossible. He didn't know what sounds he was making, but he could hear them pitching higher, more desperate. His skin was still sticky from tears, and they were already threatening to spill over again. It took a monumental effort to work his tongue, to remember the shape of "please," to gasp the word out in between mewling sobs.

"Aww, sweet boy. Don't worry, Daddy's got you."

The lump in Dick's throat swelled, and without his input, his eyes squeezed shut again. He belonged to Slade. Slade could fuck him however he wanted. Dick didn't understand, didn't know what he was doing wrong. He struggled to open his eyes again, and managed to fix them on the hollow of Slade's throat. His hands were fists now, his fingernails digging in hard enough to bruise, hard enough to bleed. Slade could fuck Dick however if he wanted, and then if Dick was good, Slade would give him what he needed.

But Slade just kept rocking in and out of him, inexorable and slow, barely enough to keep Dick hovering on the edge. He was already so sensitive, so overwhelmed. He didn't know how long he could stay still. He wanted to reach for Slade, wanted to feel his skin under his hands, cling to him, bounce in his lap. He wanted Slade deep and hard and inevitable, carving space out of Dick's body for his cock.

Slade's pace slowed, and then stopped. Dick sobbed. Slade shifted them both, not pulling out, but leaning closer. Dick realized his eyes were closed again. He couldn't make himself open them. Slade's hand closed around his wrist, and then he pulled Dick's hand closer, gently bending the fingers back. Dick could feel tiny pricks of blood rolling away from the crescents where his nails had pierced the skin.

"What's wrong, little bird?" Slade murmured, pressing a kiss against his palm, licking away the blood. Dick shuddered, and tried to make his tongue work again.

"Please," was all he could manage, but this time, once he forced it out, it was like an eruption, a never ending stream of "please, Slade please, oh Daddy please," that he couldn't have cut off without cutting off his own air supply.

Slade was still and silent for too long. The tears gathering behind Dick's eyes spilled out, and suddenly Dick was sobbing, crying so hard he was hiccuping. He was being so good.

"Oh sweetheart," Slade said, and leaned over enough that he could press Dick's blood-smeared palm against his own chest, over his heart. "You don't want to be loved gently, do you?"

Dick shook his head. He couldn't breathe, he was crying so hard. Slade lifted Dick off his lap, pulling his cock out with an obscene sound. But before Dick could panic, Slade's hands were on his hips, flipping him over, pulling him close again.

"Alright, birdie. I know what you want."

And then his cock slammed into him, deep enough to hurt. Dick gasped, and his belly clenched with how good it felt. Slade's grip was tight around his hips, digging painfully into bone and muscle, yanking Dick back with every thrust. Dick could hear his Slade's balls slapping against his skin more than he could feel them, and it made him keen. Slade was so deep, shoving hard into his cunt, forcing him open. It was perfect.

"Is this what you needed, boy? Needed to be fucked like a slut?"

Dick moaned in agreement, face buried in the duvet. This was exactly what he needed. He couldn't even tell if he was coming, too overwhelmed to feel whether his cunt was twitching with orgasm or just trembling from being fucked so deeply. It didn't matter.

Slade's grip tightened impossibly, making Dick choke on a gasp of delighted pain, which made Slade growl in turn. He shoved deep into Dick's belly, rhythm stuttering. He thrust once, holding Dick against his skin, then pulled back just enough to fuck in again, coming hot and sticky into Dick's cunt.

Dick collapsed, only Slade's hands holding him while Slade spilled inside of him. He was pressed so close that Dick could feel the twitch of his balls as he emptied them. Euphoric lassitude crept over him, weighing him down into the duvet as Slade carefully pulled out. He didn't have to move at all as Slade shifted his body, situating him further up on the bed so that his feet wouldn't hang off when Slade straightened his knees.

The bone-deep satisfaction made Dick want to purr as Slade crawled up the bed next to him, petting down Dick's spine. Dick was sweaty and sticky and perfect, and Slade knew it - he made no move to clean them up, just let Dick enjoy the feeling of being used.

Slade stretched out alongside him, lifting Dick long enough to situate a pillow between Dick's cheek and the bend of Slade's arm. It was an easy routine, comfortable, and Dick followed it without thinking, making contented little sounds.

Slade chuckled. "Should've known better than to decide for you what you want, kid."

Dick made sleepy sound of objection. Slade had stopped calling him kid a long time ago. Dick had insisted on it. Slade just smiled against the palm that he lifted to his mouth.

"Perfect boy. Perfect for me."

That, Dick could agree with, and he was smiling lazily as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Alfred had made a great many preparations in the event that he, himself, experienced any of the ailments that aging brought upon a man. Should he suffer a stroke, a heart attack, pernicious cancer or infection, he was confident that the household would continue to run, once the disturbance had settled.

Somehow, Alfred had overlooked the possibility that Bruce might have a heart attack. This was an unforgivable oversight, given the positively clammy expression on Bruce's face. Death and dismemberment, injury and capture, Alfred was prepared for. But for Bruce to keel over in sheer shock? Up until now, Alfred would have found the notion laughable.

Alfred would never admit to any slight palpitation himself, though he could hardly be blamed if he did. It wouldn't do, not when Bruce was staring at a digital photo of his deceased son, handed to him by a son he hadn't known existed.

Alfred had come to terms with Bruce's propensity to collect stray orphans, but really. This was beyond the pale. It was impossible to know exactly what one ought to do in a situation such as this, where the silence was so thick as to make breathing difficult. Which meant, of course, that the only possible recourse was to put on a kettle.

"I will return shortly with tea. I daresay we need it."

***

It was possible that Damian had miscalculated slightly. There was a cup of tea already cooling at his elbow, and Alfred had disappeared into the kitchen to put on the kettle. It was an alarming oversight from the normally unflappable butler.

Father wasn't moving at all, except to flex his hand around the phone that Damian had handed to him. It was an older model, and likely wouldn't survive the pressure of Father's shock if he didn't keep catching himself and relaxing his fingers. Father's attention kept darting from the phone, to Damian's face, then back again.

Damian sat silent and perfectly still, unable to convince his body to do anything particularly useful. Instead, he fixated on tiny details that all felt surreally out of place. Father's hair was too long, just by two inches or so. He was wearing a pair of shoes that Damian had never seen before. There was no tiny scar just above his lip, and the way that he was sitting in the unfamiliar chair belied that his hip had never been dislocated. The lines of his face were odd, too, although Damian couldn't tell if that was physical fact, or simply the strangeness of the expression.

Damian realized, with a squirming, sinking feeling, that Father looked… not young, but younger. The man sitting in front of him didn't match the towering presence that Damian remembered, like the blurry outline of an image just out of focus. Damian remembered Father as a stern, distant dominant, concerned with order and safety above all else. He had softened some in later years, but it was unsettling to see an open emotion on Father's face, nevermind one so overwhelmingly raw.

Neither of them spoke the whole time that Alfred was gone. Father took a series of deep, shuddering breaths that smoothed out into a familiar meditation, and when his expression shuttered into intense curiosity, Damian breathed a sigh of relief. That, at least, Damian was accustomed to. Father swiped through the series of photos, all carefully chosen, cataloguing every detail. Damian had been thorough in his selections. Each photo could be cross-referenced with public records, was difficult to doctor with current technology, and when viewed in order, they painted a clear picture of a young man far from home, lost and confused. It wasn't the best work Damian had ever done, but it would do.

Alfred's return broke the silence. Father straightened suddenly as Alfred cleared his still warm cup of tea and replaced it with another. The faint clink of china was comforting to Damian in ways that no other sound ever could be. Father's attention, now broken from the phone, fell heavily on Damian.

"You said Talia didn't send you," he said, and his voice was gravelly in a way that Damian was surprised to realize meant that he was scared.

Damian shook his head, and accepted a new cup of tea.

"No. She would be angry to know that I am here. She is no doubt already looking for me."

Father watched him in silence, an oppressive tactic that would undoubtedly have worked on Damian if he was truly five years old. Damian wavered for a moment on how long would be appropriate to wait before pretending to break, but he was saved by the appearance of Timothy in the doorway.

If Father looked young, Timothy looked like a child. Damian realized with faint surprise that he must have a growth spurt coming soon, because he was much shorter than Damian ever remembered seeing him.

His presence was a comfort, since it meant that Slade had managed to secure Richard. Damian stifled his instinct to sag in relief. They were all quiet while Alfred poured for Tim as well, and then instead of retiring to the kitchen, removed himself to an unobtrusive chair in the corner. A wise choice, given the circumstances.

"Tim. Is Dick-" Father caught himself with a sharp glance at Damian, but Tim waved him away.

"He's, uh. He's fine. Trust me. I wouldn't leave him if he wasn't, I swear."

And then the strangest thing happened. Father… softened. Just a bit. Just for a moment, a tiny tilt of the head that was the approval of an older dominant family member to another. Damian blinked in surprise. He was certain that Father and Timothy's relationship had been distant and strained for many years, even after Damian's own arrival on the scene. How odd. Was this Richard's doing?

Damian's mind immediately clamored with questions, and the memory of Richard's cracked voice, gasping his safe word over the line. Damian cut that line of thought off.

"Damian has just arrived from Nanda Parbat," Father informed Timothy, and it was a fascinating distraction to watch Tim turn the pieces over and start to click them into place. "Talia al'Ghul is his mother."

It was barely a moment before Timothy's eyes widened.

"Holy shit, B! Does that mean-"

Father cut him off.

"I believe so, yes. Under the circumstances, a DNA test is in order." Father didn't incline his head in question, but he didn't loom in threat either, and that was nearly the same thing. Damian nodded agreeably. It was a reasonable precaution.

"In fact," Father added, and his voice went strangely flat. "I foresee a lot of DNA tests in our future."

***

Dick lounged in the grey space between waking and sleeping, content to shove his nose against Slade's chest, muffling his yawns. Anything further away than his own skin might as well not exist, and it was perfect. Dick was blanket-warm and groggy, his eyelids still heavy with submission, and Slade was rubbing one strong hand up and down his spine, occasionally pausing to squeeze his neck to keep him in this lovely, pliant space.

Dick's jaw cracked with another yawn, and he instinctively smashed his mouth against Slade's skin and bit down, just a little, just to feel the resistance of his muscle. The resulting chuckle vibrated through Dick's cheekbone.

"Oh, now you're awake," Slade teased and Dick shook his head. He made a grumpy "uh-uh" sound, but refused to rise to the bait. Slade would poke and prod and needle him out of bed eventually, but not yet.

"No, by all means, take your time," Slade said sarcastically, but he made no move to shove Dick off the bed. "We don't have any important things to do today. Or important things to talk about."

Dick's eyebrows furrowed, and he bit Slade harder, then dug his fingernails into Slade's hip for good measure. If Slade wanted him to wake up and have important conversations, then he should stop pushing him gently back down into subspace.

As though reading his mind, Slade's hand shifted its rhythm so that he was tugging at Dick's hair - still affectionate, but less soothing. Dick growled and managed to crack one eye open to glare at him.

The slant of light in the room was disorienting. Dick realized suddenly that he didn't know where they were. The bolt of adrenaline that shot through him was fighting through a thick slog of murky relaxation, so all he managed to do was gasp and open his eyes.

Slade chuckled again. "Ah, there it is. Why don't you tell me where we are, boy?"

The momentary disorientation coalesced into a familiar room. His room. His room in the manor, which had been destroyed for more than twenty years.

No, that wasn't right. Dick wasn't fifty years old and living out of ruined buildings. He was twenty-two, and…

And Slade was here. Here, in Dick's bed in the manor. Which meant…

Dick felt a rush of relief so intense it was almost sickening. His whole body tightened with it, and Dick realized that he was gripping Slade hard enough to bruise another man.

Slade was smiling down at him, and it wasn't an entirely pleasant expression. Dick didn't give a rat's ass.

Slade was here, and he remembered him, and Dick wasn't alone anymore.

Dick burst into sudden, sobbing tears. Slade swore softly under his breath, but shifted Dick closer, and resumed his rhythmic petting.

"Hush, birdie. I know. Hush, now."

Dick didn't know why Slade ever bothered. Dick had never once quieted upon being told. But it was a familiar comfort, a well-worn thought, fond and threadbare. He couldn't have stopped the shuddering, wet crying if he'd wanted to - and he found that he didn't particularly want to. Slade was solid and reassuring and warm beneath him, around him, steadier than bedrock, sterner than mountains. Dick sobbed, and when something inside his heart cracked, what poured out wasn't bitter bile, but spring-sweet relief.

Dick cried himself hoarse, then wiped his face against Slade's chest hair. Slade didn't even sigh, which just went to show how truly pathetic Dick must look.

"Don't think you're not in trouble. You should have called me," Slade informed him, but there was no heat in his voice. Dick nodded dumbly. That was alright. He was in trouble all the time. Being in trouble wasn't so bad, not when it was Slade. They'd work it out. Dick would argue his perspective, Slade would argue his - and Dick's punishment would range from pure delight to acute catharsis, depending on how close they came to agreement.

But first-

"Damian," Dick gasped, finally managing to disentangle himself from the sheets enough to sit up. He tried to corrall his limbs enough to sit up, to stand, but Slade stopped him with an iron grip around his waist.

"Is fine," Slade informed him firmly. Dick ignored him, trying to slip out from his grasp. Slade retaliated with a grip on the back of his neck so tight that Dick could feel it like anesthesia down his spine. He shivered. "Damian is fine. He's here, just down the hall. You can see him once you've showered, and eaten."

Dick made a sound of protest, but Slade shushed him.

"You're not going to see your kid smelling like sex, little bird. Shower first, I promise he will still be there."

And if Slade promised, that was good enough for Dick.

***

On any other morning, Alfred would likely be more than a bit displeased to have such a potentially dangerous enemy appear in his kitchen. On this particular morning, having alr eady been briefed by Tim, Alfred found displeasure was all he could manage. Goodness knew that Dick had had his heart broken before, and he certainly would again, but Alfred knew Wilson to be a man who never did a job halfway. If he broke Dick’s heart, Alfred couldn’t be sure there would be anything left by the time Wilson was done. 

So when the man himself appeared in Alfred's kitchen, with a polite request to put together a tray for Dick while the man himself was showering, Alfred decided some preventative measures wouldn’t go amiss. His own breakfast preparations were well underway, which provided a perfect opprotunity for Alfred to assess how this largely unknown man would approach his mission. Alfred had learned that you could learn just as much from how a man fed his family as how he defeneded them.

Alfred fetched a tray, and indicated the pantry and fridge, then retreated to his own preparations while Wilson worked. In his experience, with men as cunning as Wilson, a subtle approach was called for. Bruce was an exceedingly clever man, but even he had the disadvantage of having been raised to glance over the help. Wilson would have no such compunctions. Even a tactful conversation would show Alfred’s hand, and there was no guarantee that Wilson would take an old butler’s protection into account as he made his choices in regards to Dick's well-veing.

No, a light touch was called for. Alfred began sifting through the tea options, looking for a particular blend. He kept half an eye on Wilson as he did so, and to his mild approval, Wilson moved carefully and respectfully, clearly searching for specific items, but placing everything back precisely as he’d found it. It only took him two tries to find the serving ware, and he quickly began assembling a tray. 

Alfred found the blend he was looking for - a particularly fine breakfast blend that had been a gift from Wintergreen. It was an expensive luxury that Alfred rarely indulged in, but it was the only thing Wintergreen would drink. Alfred didn’t open the tin just yet, setting the pot to boil first. 

Wilson had assembled a range of foods, and was quickly portioning out small bites of each - no more than two or three slices of the same cheese, a bare handful of blueberries, less than half an apple. Alfred bit back his disapproval and waited for the end result.

He was glad he did. Wilson might be taking only small portions of each item, but the sheer number of them more than made up for it. One bowl held a selection of fruits, a flat try boasted various cheeses and breads. A single pack of instant oatmeal was loaded with walnuts. Whether by design or chance, Wilson had selected Dick’s preferred artificial peach flavor. As he continued to assemble the breakfast tray, Alfred was forced to consider that it was in fact by design.

Everything he touched was something that Alfred knew for a fact that Dick could eat without any trouble. The boy’s appetite could be fickle at best, and his eating habits were a source of constant struggle, but Alfred had managed to work out a few predictable patterns. High sugar and carbohydrate content in the mornings were easier than most proteins. Dick often managed half a serving of something before his stomach rebelled, and he had to switch to something else - a problem that Wilson had dodged neatly with his smorgasbord. Anything heavy or greasy turned master Dick’s stomach of a morning, so Wilson had substituted traditional breakfast bacon or sausage with yogurt, sweetened with just a touch of honey. This, he transferred to a sturdy plastic bag, and snipped off one corner. Alfred raised one eyebrow in silent question. 

Wilson shrugged. 

“Less dishes,” was his only explanation. Alfred supposed that was true - Dick had always insisted on tubes of brightly-colored, sugary yogurt as a child, but he’d since grown out of the habit. This was an admirable compromise.

Alfred checked the temperature of the water, and finally turned his attention to the tea. He kept a surreptitious eye on Mr. Wilson as he cracked the lid and let the scent waft through the kitchen. He caught just the barest pause as Wilson picked up the familiar smell. He glanced over his shoulder at the tea, and then at Alfred. He didn’t do anything so obvious as nod, but his head dipped ever-so-slightly. An acknowledgement of a dominant to an unknown threat. Alfred returned the gesture, pleased that they were of an accord. 

He was even more pleased when Mr. Wilson sighed as he finished the tray with a bowl of abominably sweet cereal and a small carafe of milk - no doubt in deference to Dick’s insistence that soggy cereal was a crime before god. Alfred had to admit, it was one sure-fire way to kickstart master Dick’s appetite, if he was having a particularly difficult morning. Momentum was the key with master Dick, Alfred had found - if one could just start him eating, it was easy enough to keep him eating until his dietary requirements were met. It was something that Alfred had learned over the course of many years, and after a great deal of trouble. He wondered when Mr. Wilson had had the chance to do the same.

Alfred let out his own small sigh as he ruined the tea with an unconscionable amount of honey and cream. It was the only way to get master Dick to drink the thing, no matter how good for him it was. He handed the cup off to Mr. Wilson as he prepared to take the entire affair back upstairs. He once again had a very young boy to feed, and that meant he would need to triple his breakfast portions again.

Alfred sighed, and pulled out a packet of bacon he'd been saving for the weekend.

Chapter Text

Damian was waiting for Slade at the top of the stares, arms folded in a childish imitation of his adult mannerisms. Slade narrowed his eye, but jerked his chin in the direction of Dick's bedroom, and allowed Damian to open the door for him. He didn't even bother clotheslining the brat when he darted around Slade the moment he passed the doorway. Truth was, sometimes Slade wished his kids were half that happy to see him. There were no shower sounds, so odds were good that at least Dick wasn't going to slip in the shower and bust his head open. He might not be dressed yet, but Slade doubted any of them cared. Privacy hadn't exactly been a high concern after the Audit. None of them had room to be body-shy, not even the ever-reserved batling.

Slade's theory was proved correct by muffled happy shouts and what sounded suspiciously like crying. Probably Dick, if Slade had to guess. Slade busied himself stripping the sheets and remaking the bed, then setting up the tray on a desk that hadn't seen a laptop in years. By the time the two of them emerged, Damian clinging to Dick's neck, the room had been tidied and Slade was ready to force-feed Dick if necessary.

Instead, Dick settled on the floor by Slade's feet, cross-legged, with Damian on his lap, and leaned his head against Slade's knee with a content sigh that Slade could feel in his bones. Slade indulged him by scratching his scalp for a few moments before handing him a piece of toast. Dick refused to let go of Damian to take it, and just looked at him with bright, watery eyes and opened his mouth. Slade nearly growled in pride, and broke the toast into pieces, popping them into Dick's mouth one at a time. They continued this way, Slade feeding Dick bits of breakfast while Dick hummed to Damian, for long minutes. Slade could feel Dick growing lax and easy again, slipping just under the surface of submission. It was, if Slade was being honest, one of Slade's favorite looks for his bird. Like this, Dick could plan missions and participate in conversation, could be trusted to train or perform, but stayed calm and eager, obedient to a fault. He didn't indulge in it often; it was too precarious, too easy to fall too deep or get yanked back up unexpectedly. It was an unlooked for gift.

Dick managed about two-thirds of the tray before Damian started to get restless. Dick sighed, and it echoed through their little trio. This was likely to be their last moment together for a long time, but they knew when it was time to face the music.

They had work to do.

***

It didn't take long for Wilson to emerge, gripping Dick's hand possessively. Damian was draped over Dick's back, clinging like a backpack. Tim had a pang of jealousy, that he'd never been small enough to do the same when he knew Dick. Together, the three of them painted an odd picture as they emerged into the family kitchen, something that Tim couldn't put his finger on. Bruce and Cass obviously felt the same, because Tim could see them trying to identify details, follow the pattern.

It wasn't until Wilson pulled out Dick's chair and planted an absent kiss on the top of his head before taking Damian from him effortlesssly that Tim realized it. Slade popped Damian into the chair next to Dick, then slid into the one on Damian's other side.

They looked like a family.

Alfred cleared his throat, and began bringing dishes to the table. This was a familiar routine, comforting in a way that helped ease the lump in Tim's throat. Dick's tired, affectionate greetings helped, too. Bruce was watching Wilson with the wariness of a fight, but Wilson was ignoring it, instead reaching out to pull dishes closer to Damian's short arms. Tim could tell that it was deliberate, that Wilson was pushing Bruce's buttons for the sake of it. He shifted in his own chair, unsure of how to manage the rising tension. Cass, too, seemed wary.

Then Dick smiled at Bruce, the simple, easy affection that was the trademark of his loyalty.

"Hey, B. Thank you."

Dick didn't say what he was thankful for, which meant they didn't have to talk about it. Smart. Tim filed that away for later.

Just like that, the air softened. Bruce was blinking in quiet confusion while Dick nudged plates his way. Cass turned her attention to her food. Tim watched Wilson and Damian.

Something still niggled at him. It wasn't just the ease with which they circled each other. Dick was comfortable with lots of folks, though Tim didn't know when he'd had time to get so cozy with Deathstroke. It was something else. They barely spoke to each other, passing dishes and utensils absently. Wilson nodded his thanks to Alfred as a plate of bacon was added to the table. He took a few slices, and then passed it over Damian to Dick, who also took some. Damian never looked up, and neither of them offered him any. Odd. Tim realized that Damian didn't have any meat products on his plate - no sausage, no gravy with his biscuit, no ham quiche.

Vegetarian, Tim realized. And both Dick and Slade knew it. More than that, they accounted for it, easily, without thinking. Habitually.

Damian couldn't be older than five. Most children didn't develop dietary preferences so young, especially strict ones like vegetarianism. Habits tended to take months to form, especially for people like Dick who had ADHD. By Tim's count, this one habit would have started at least a year ago.

A year ago, when Tim could account for huge portions of Dick's time. There simply hadn't been time for Dick to form a habit of not passing Damian meat at the breakfast table.

Except that time wasn't a limited resource, was it? Tim knew that better than most. Time wasn't even linear, mostly. Kind of. Just because the past Tim remembered didn't have time for this, didn't mean it hadn't happened - it just meant it hadn't happened yet.

"Oh my god," Tim whispered, and everyone froze with forks midway to their face or hands outstretched for biscuits. Tim realized he wasn't being tactful, but didn't manage to swallow the words before they leaked out. "You time-travelled!"

There was no gasps of outrage, and only Cass seemed truly surprised. Bruce was still blinking, the only sign of how quickly his mind was working. Dick dropped the biscuit on his plate with a sigh, and then turned to Wilson.

"I told you he was going to figure it out," he complained, and then reached for the butter.

Chapter Text

Cass had seen a rockslide once. A goat had kicked a stone down a mountainside, and it made an avalanche. Some of the rocks were smaller than Cass's finger, some were as big as her whole body. It took a long time to stop. Most of the rocks had settled on a rough ledge that Cass later learned was called granite. Her father had turned away after the rocks stopped falling, but Cass knew. She knew it wasn't over, knew that the granite was going to crack a moment before it did. She could see it, the weight of the rocks pushing down while the granite tried to push up.

Bruce looked like granite.

Tim was upset-excited-confused, Dick was wary-relieved-soft, and the man with him was smug-aware-confident. Dick was pretending that he was only buttering toast. Tim was trying to ask questions. Damian was watching Cass. Even though he was very small, he didn't move like a child. He wasn't afraid of her. He was watching her like they were talking. Like she was saying something.

"Bruce hurt," Cass announced to the table. She knew it was the wrong word, but it was the closest thing she could of. She could hear the awful, echoing sound the granite made when it cracked.

Damian and Tim both startled and tried to talk at the same time. Dick stopped pretending and looked at Bruce.

"Wait, you're hurt? Did you get injured on-"

Bruce cut him off. It wasn't because he was impatient. Cass didn't think he even heard Dick.

"Jason," was the only thing he said. Everyone at the table stopped moving. Cass could even hear Alfred behind her freeze. The silence was too long, Cass could tell.

"How long have you known?" Bruce's voice was very quiet and very dangerous. Still like rocks.

Dick thought about lying, but only for a second. He breathed out and told the truth.

"About six months," he said, and his voice was soft like blankets. Cass was frozen to her seat, her body ready to fight, but no target. The next silence was too long too.

"You didn't tell me," Bruce said, and this time his voice was shaky. Like tripping over his feet. The granite didn't crack. Cass didn't hold her breathe, even though she wanted to.

"No," Dick whispered, and he was telling the truth again. The truth hurt Bruce, but it also made him less scared. Cass thought that was good, probably. "I was going to wait. Maybe another six months, maybe a year."

"Why?" Bruce demanded, and the crack was very quiet. Cass didn't think he was broken at all. Just sad. Before Dick could tell the truth again, Tim interrupted.

"The red hoodie guy!"

Both Dick and Damian flinched. They were both very frightened. Cass slipped a knife into her sleeve to join the batarange she already had. The man with Dick flicked his eyes to Tim's face.

"Jason was wearing a red sweater at the safe house in New York," he observed, and his voice was very calm, but he was trying to make Dick feel safe. Cass didn't understand why, but it worked. Both Dick and Damian relaxed. Cass didn't think anyone else even noticed they were scared.

"I should have realized," Bruce whispered. His eyes weren't looking at the room. He was looking at something else. Bruce stood abruptly. He didn't even know why. His mouth said, "Excuse me, won't you?" but he didn't notice. He walked away, and it was the same way that Cass's body did things sometimes without her telling it to.

Tim scooted his chair back to follow him, but Cass shook her head.

"No. Wait. Needs to…" she trailed off, trying to remember a word that Dick had taught her a few days ago. "Like fighting, in here," she tapped her head. Dick's hand was very steady when he put it on her shoulder. It was nice, comforting.

"Process?" he asked gently. Cass nodded sharply. That was the word.

"Yes. Process."

Alfred chose that moment to return to the table and take Bruce's plate away. He returned with a pitcher of lemonade.

"Last time Master Bruce was allowed to process on his own terms, he designed a bat-themed persona," Alfred said, and even though he sounded annoyed, he was relieved-proud. "Perhaps Cassandra could check on him in a little while."

***

Jason fucking hated Chicago. It was like a knock-off version of Gotham, where everyone thought they were tough shit, but literally no one carried a gas mask. Like, what the fuck?

There were perks, though. Jason could admit that much while he raced after Rose, dodging bullets and delapidated fences. He still thought it would be better to take to the rooftops, but Rose had some sort of plan, so they kept ducking down sidestreets and back alleys. It was really fucking weird, running blind in a city when Jason had no idea what was a block in front of him. Gun to his head, he would never admit he missed Gotham. But, well. Chicago certainly wasn't cutting it.

Rose slide down another alley so fast even Jason nearly missed it. The assholes chasing them were too close for him to pull the same move without blowing her hiding spot, so he made for a friendly-looking fire escape dangling well above his head. Bolting up the rusted metal bought him enough time that he was out of sight by the time he cleared the roofline, so he dived over the opposite edge of the roof and made his own hidey-hole.

The guys following them weren't even proper henchmen. They didn't have a bit or anything, just a gang sign and access to a truly annoying amount of firearms. When they didn't see Jason immediately, they charged off in what they thought was the most likely direction, which - ah. Jason could see it now, with a better vantage point. They were throwing themselves right into an ambush set by whatever two-bit gang had employed Rose to help them out this week.

Jason sighed, and started the climb back down to street level. Rose was already waiting for him, distinctive hair tucked up under a hat, weapons alreay disappeared to wherever the fuck she kept them about her person. Jason had never once seen the outline of so much as a knife, but she also never seemed to run out of weapons, so. Maybe Jason would convince her to teach him someday.

She was grinning at him in that vicious way she had that had the opposite reaction it ought to, in Jason's opinion. That kind of ferocity should get his blood up, but instead, it just made him want to grin back.

Before Rose could open her mouth to take a jab at him, one of her burner phones rang. She answered it brusquely, and her responses were terse. Her eyes flicked to Jason more than once.

"Yeah. No, fuck off. Nah. Sure. You owe me."

Rose crushed the phone under her armored boot and folded her arms. Her grin went, if possible, even sharper.

"I've got another job, if you want it."

Jason shrugged. He already had a job, technically, and it was keeping her alive. Where she went, he went, more or less. Now that she had stopped giving him the slip every other day. If they were cleaning up the streets in the meantime? That was just the cherry on the sundae.

"Sure," he agreed. "Though I want to shower first."

Rose hummed thoughtfully, and her expression was downright predatory. "You sure? Job's in Gotham."

Jason swore the whole way back to their shared safehouse, but he didn't say no.

Chapter Text

Bruce had always been better at thinking when he was moving. He'd talked with a few therapists about it, in the early days, but ultimately had found his training in meditation and combat more helpful. If he had his way, he'd be flying over the Narrows right now, ready for the fight that always seemed to find him on days like this.

But Batman couldn't afford to prioritize his wants - not when there was a known murderer in his home, who knew his name and put his hand on the back of Dick's neck like it belonged there. Bruce tried to remind himself that time travel introduced more factors than he could possibly account for in such a short amount of time. His fists his the punching back, a stuttered, erratic rhythm. For all Bruce knew, this Slade Wilson was some sort of magical reproduction of the Deathstroke that Bruce knew.

Unlikely, he was forced to admit. He bore down on the punching bag with more intensity. His thoughts were racing, not just through his mind, but his body. They pooled in his chest and curled his fingers and soured his stomach. This was nothing new for Bruce, but it never got any easier. The thoughts would roil and bubble under the surface until he found a thread to pull on. The thud-wham of his knuckles against the compressed sand was the only steady ground that Bruce could stand on. The ferocity of his upset was leaking out all around him, and he was helpless to stop it.

Three strikes sent the bag reeling out of his reach.

Jason was alive.

A vicious combo sent the bag whirling in circles.

Jason had been dead, and now he was alive, and Bruce hadn't known.

The bag stilled, only to fall victim to a series of strikes that would easily kill a grown man.

Bruce had a son that he didn't even know.

The bag creaked under the abuse.

Dick was romantically involved with a man who, without exageration, was the world's deadliest mercenary.

Fists weren't enough. Bruce's elbows and knees thudded into the bag.

Tim had been neglected for months. Now that Bruce saw it, he couldn't stop unseeing it, no matter what he did.

The bag didn't split. Bruce wished it would, but of course, he'd built it specifically so that it wouldn't.

Cassandra's history, at least, wasn't on Bruce's shoulders.

Maybe it should be, Bruce's mind whispered viciously to him. After all, you've failed to stop Cain before.

The bag flew backwards, and without the burden of conscious thought, Bruce adjusted to meet its return arc. Instead, it froze in mid-air, Cassandra herself appearing behind it, holding it.

Bruce wasn't even breathing heavily. Cass was perfectly still, watching him with her head cocked to the side. He wanted to turn his back on her, hide his mire of thoughts from her knowing gaze. He noticed that he wanted to in the moment before he did it, and froze instead. He couldn't bare to be seen like this, but he knew he shouldn't turn away from her, either. He didn't know what he was supposed to do instead. So he just stood, fists clenched at his sides, and met her eyes.

It was nearly painful, the flayed-open feeling of sustained eye contact. Cassandra hardly blinked. Bruce knew he was doing something wrong, but didn't know what. He'd learned his lesson about his ability to be a parent, but he'd hoped to be better than this, at least. A mentor, at least. Someone who could be relied on.

Instead, Cass was down in the Cave, checking on him.

"Granite," she finally said, as though it was a satisfying conclusion. Bruce blinked. He wasn't sure how to even begin communicating his confusion. Cass nodded once.

"Okay to crack. Still rock, after."

With that baffling piece of advice, Cass sent the bag swinging back to him. Bruce caught it, unsure of what to do.

Then, Cass did the most confusing thing of all. She smiled, bright like a spring morning. She fell into a fighting stance and nodded.

"Play together," she announced. Bruce couldn't do anything but send the bag back her way with a simple, well-worn combination of strikes. She slipped out from its path, then sent it arcing in a new direction with a flashy kick Bruce had never seen her use in the field.

Play, indeed.

It was easier, to avoid the pitfalls of his mind, with another person to watch. Bruce couldn't fall into practiced rhythms, or repeat motions, or do anything predictable at all - Cass didn't allow it. Soon, he was pulling out forms he'd abandoned for their ineficiency, just to keep up with her. Cass's own strikes were more dance than fight, though the power behind them was staggering.

The swamp of toxic thoughts was still there, bubbling below the surface. But for at least a little while, Bruce was able to keep his footing above them.

Just for a little while.

***

Dick didn't want to meet without Bruce, which Barbara decided was probably for the best. Besides, she had a feeling that this whole conversation ought to happen in person, and getting to the manor took her a lot longer than it used to.

Bruce had offered to build her a car she could drive without having to use her legs, but she'd refused. She wasn't taking his pity or his blood-money. She would accept his increasingly outlandish offers when he made them out of only affection, and not before. So she had to wait for a car, the same service she always used. Transportation services in Gotham were surprisingly corrupt, and Barbara put a lot of effort into keeping just this one on the up-and-up. It was worth the effort to be able to get around the city without worrying if she was going to be mugged by some asshole who didn't see anything beyond the wheelchair.

The ride to Wayne Manor was quiet, once they left the city proper. Barbara never failed to be struck by it, a strange disquiet that came on gradually as slums turned to thriving communities, then finally to wealthy suburbs. She'd noticed it even as a teenager; it was part of what made her stitch that yellow bat onto her chest in the first place. She couldn't have known then that Batman wasn't really from the city, not the way that she was. The unsettled feeling had only grown over the years.

Now, finally, maybe it was time to do something about it.

Dick answered the door himself. He hugged her immediately, without even bothering to help her inside first. It was annoyingly charming, just like everything about him. It didn't keep her from clocking the kid in the hallway behind him, pretending not to be keeping an eye on Dick.

Or maybe keeping an eye on her, she was forced to revise as she wheeled herself over the specially-made lintel. He was young; couldn't have been more than - what? Seven? Barbara didn't know much about kids. She remembered Dick telling her that Talia had a kid, remembered the look on his face when he admitted that he wasn't ready to rescue the kid yet. Whoever had donated their DNA to him, this kid was Dick's.

She could see it, though, the shape of Tali in his face. And something else, too, just a trace of it. Barbara narrowed her eyes. The boy stared straight at her, unabashed. When she was close enough, he stuck out his hand in a stilted mimicry of adult courtesy.

"I am Damian al'Ghul Way-" he cut himself off, but that was all Barbara needed. He looked mortified at the slip, and the expression was so obviously Bruce that Barbara couldn't suppress a snort.

"Oh, so you're Bruce's kid," she teased, and she didn't think she was imagining it when his shoulders relaxed.

"I wasn't sure whether I should say so," he admitted, and it looked difficult. "We haven't done any blood tests yet."

Barbara snorted again, while Dick picked up pillows that had been tossed on the floor between her and her preferred spot in the sitting room.

"You mean Bruce hasn't pulled his head out of his ass and admitted that you're his yet," she corrected, and Damian relaxed even further.

"Something like that," he agreed. Within three exchanges of pleasantries, he had gone from awkward and wary to relaxed and cheerful. Barbara narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She gave him enough breathing room to settled in near the cold fireplace before she caught him off guard again.

"You know me, don't you?"

Damian blinked in surprise, the exact way that Bruce did, but it passed almost immediately.

"Forgive me, I had forgotten that Dick already discussed the circumstances with you."

Hearing such formal words out of a maybe-six-year-old's mouth was a trip. Barbara thought if she filmed it and put it on social media they would make a killing.

"Sure. So how long have you known me?"

Damian shrugged. "Most of my life? Twelve years, give or take. We worked very closely together, once I… calmed down."

A new, broad figure appeared in the doorway, softened only by a sardonic eyebrow. Barbara had never seen Deathstroke in the flesh, and she understood immediately what Dick had meant as a teenager when he described Wilson as menacing. He took up space, light, and was more visibly dangerous than a resting jaguar. Barbara relaxed her hands in her lap.

"You mean once you stopped trying to prove yourself by assassinating everyone within arms' reach," Wilson corrected. Damian sighed a world-weary sigh, comically weighty for a child of his size.

"Yes, Wilson. Once I stopped trying to assassinate everyone, we all got along quite well."

Barbara realized belatedly that Wilson had chosen this approach on purpose, to undercut his own threatening… vibe. He took a seat on the couch next to her, just out of arms' reach, and had to lean forward to offer her his hand.

"We're familiar as well," he informed her. His expression was neutral, but Barbara thought she caught just a hint of an accent in his voice. Something that would certainly be well-hidden if he was suspicious of her. She shook his hand. It was huge and calloused, but perfectly politely firm. "Slade Wilson."

"Barbara Gordon," she replied. "Although you already know that."

Wilson dipped his head in acknowledgment, and Dick kicked off the doorframe he'd been leaning against.

"Alright, now that everyone's caught up, there's someone else I want you to meet, and I bet you're gonna like her."

Barbara was annoyed to get so settled only to be immediately shuffled off to the Batcave, but she bit her tongue. She was looking forward to meeting Cassandra Cain.

Chapter Text

"How long do we have?" Dick murmured to Slade under his breath. He was tucked under Slade's arm watching everyone get settled. He felt the shift of Slade's shoulder when he shrugged.

"Half-hour? Fifteen minutes? Depends if they hit traffic."

Dick shot his husband an unimpressed look, but couldn't actually be dissatisfied with the quiet humor in Slade's voice. Like Jason gave a rats' ass about traffic. And with Rose as his backup? They'd be lucky if they didn't shut down the bridge. Dick had already delayed as long as he could; giving Bruce more than a few hours to stew was bad news. Better to point his deeply repressed emotions towards a case.

Dick ducked out from Slade's hold to take a tray from Alfred. Tim was already carrying a platter of what looked like club sandwiches, and a huge bowl of what looked like berries. It was a valiant effort to pretend that the Batcave was a comfortable and convenient place to host a meeting about the end of the world.

Give it a few years, and Bruce would make a concession to their growing family by installing a conference table that doubled as a tactile map. In the meantime, they were all left to fend for themselves, pulling up a set on computer chairs, workout equipment, or the floor.

Bruce, of course, was planted at the Batcomputer, studiously pretending to ignore everything going on around him. Dick could see the evidence of his emotional processing staining his shirt under his arms and down his back, and Cass was sitting on the counter next to him swinging her feet, so it couldn't be too bad.

Which was good, because Dick was pretty sure it was about to get a whole lot worse.

If he could get everyone through this meeting without serious harm or vows of vengeance, he would count it a win. He was shooting for "no punches thrown", but he'd take what he could get.

With flagrant disregard for the typical rules governing food and the Batcave, Alfred set up the food on a sterile table Bruce used for chemical experiments. It would have to be re-sterilized, but it was worth it to watch Tim tentatively take a sandwich and a fistful of baked chips and squirrel them away like he was going to get caught eating downstairs. Cass beckoned to him, but Tim just shouted, "Ge' your'n" through a mouthful of bread.

Dick waited for everyone to settle, Cass and Damian both with food, and Alfred with a cup of tea, before clearing his throat. Bruce tried to continue ignoring him for all of ten seconds before going still, then swiveling the chair around. Then, in true Bat fashion, he took immediate charge.

"We're missing critical details."

Dick sighed. Clinical detective Bruce was really best-case scenario here. Slade shifted his weight behind him, and Dick could tell just by that subtle movement that he was preparing to attack, if Dick needed. Dick deliberately released the tension in his shoulders and hands, to let Slade know to stand down. Tempers were already running high; it was going to take all of Dick's many years of negotiation experience to keep things on an even keel.

His body wasn't helping. Dick hadn't had a chance to rewire his nervous system, to teach himself to stay easy and relaxed in the face of Bruce's disappointment and frustration. Besides that, Dick had sat cross-legged at Bruce's feet for an entire afternoon just last week, so he was feeling particularly vulnerable.

Safe, he reminded himself. Bruce wants me to be safe.

After all, this Bruce had never hit him.

Before that train of thought could crash through his plan, Dick turned his attention to the bank of screens displaying whatever data Bruce thought was relevant.

"You're right," Dick said calmly. "You want to do a summary first, or jump straight to questions?" He even managed to keep the question sincere, instead of a sardonic reminder that not everyone in the room knew what was going on. Babs had obviously sent him her own file before she left the Clocktower.

Bruce watched Dick inscrutably. Dick kept his body loose, open. Not quite submissive - he had no intention of manipulating anyone with his dynamic - but close. Just a reminder, that Dick was Bruce's family, and that he was responsible for his family's well-being. So instead of lowering his eyes to the floor or pressing his palms to his thighs, Dick just kept his expression soft, and his hands loose at his sides.

Finally, Bruce nodded.

"Tell us what happened."

Finding the words was harder than Dick had expected. He didn't even bother trying to explain the experience, how strange his body had felt, how unmoored he had been. He stuck to facts, and let his eyes drift between jagged shadows of stalagmites.

He'd woken up some 20 years in the past. He provided dates, as near as he remembered them. He explained the Audit in broad strokes, along with what they knew of the Auditors - which wasn't much. He skipped most of what had happened after the Audit, except for his relationship with Slade, and his pseudo-adoption of Damian. Dick didn't think he could begin to find the words for it. He sketched out the shape of the shabby resistance they'd formed.

It wasn't as thorough as the accounting he'd given Babs, but he was feeling lightheaded, a little. Detached from his body, just a touch to the right of the space he was actually occupying. The moment he stopped, Slade stepped up behind him, close enough to splay one rough hand across the bottom of Dick's ribs.

"Slow breaths, Richard."

Dick shut his eyes, unable to look at Bruce's expression while he obeyed. The touch was grounding, a trigger to remind him to focus on the awareness of the soles of his feet where they touched the ground. It was silent in the Cave for few moments, until Dick opened his eyes again.

Tim was watching him with sharp curiosity. Dick could see him spinning theories already. Cass was wary and watchful, which Dick appreciated. It meant he had backup if anyone's temper flared. Babs was all wry sympathy, and Alfred so stoic he had to be hiding his reaction.

Bruce was watching him.

No, not him. Bruce was watching Slade, standing directly behind him, fully a head-and-a-half taller than Dick. He was bristling a bit, but Dick was surprised to see that Bruce's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, back ramrod-straight. After all these years, it was still unnverving to realize how easy it was to read Bruce's body language, when he went to such great lengths to hide it.

Bruce was annoyed, and wary, but he was also analyzing Slade, looking for information, trying to see what he'd missed. Dick knew better than to hope he was trying to understand their relationship, but it was a start.

"We're still missing something," Bruce announced, and Dick shrugged. He knew what Bruce meant, but didn't have any answers for him.

"Magic, I think. Other than that, I don't know," he said. Bruce's attention stayed fixed on Slade.

"No," he agreed. "But he does."

Dick froze. Bruce was right. Dick had no idea how he'd traveled backwards time. But Slade and Damian did.

It was obvious, once he thought about it. Slade had gone for Damian before Dick could even follow up on his carefully laid on plans. Neither of them had expected Dick to remember the future, but they each expected the other to.

Dick barely turned his head to look at Slade over his shoulder.

"Ahh. Keeping secrets, are we?" he said, and it could've sounded teasing. It didn't. It sounded deadly serious, low and silky. To his credit, Slade glower or loom. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of the fight they would be having later.

Damian spoke up, and it was only the tiny child's voice shaping his words that kept Dick from outrage at him, too.

"It was our decision. Dick had no part in it, and would not have chosen thus. We anticipated that it would be much more difficult, but ultimately, it was quite simple. It took us two months or so to find the warlock Constantine. Another week to gather materials. And then the spell simply… worked."

Dick was almost dizzy with the way his memory of another Damian, a little older than this one, transposed on top of the stiff, scared kid in front of him. It was like looking at a picture through a negative. Dick couldn't help it. He was on the floor next to Damian before he made the decision, and tucking Damian into his arms was the easiest thing in the world. He was small enough to fit perfectly, even with his arms still wrapped around his knees, small enough to envelope completely, small enough to protect. Dick hooked his chin over the top of Damian's head and murmured soothing nonsense until he felt Damian relax. Even then he only pulled away far enough to kiss the top of his head. He didn't look in Damian's face, didn't force him to make eye contact.

"I'm so sorry you had to do that, Dames. I'm sorry I wasn't there."

It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Dick had probably died, or something close enough. Maybe brain-dead was more likely, but what did Dick know about time-travel magic?

That was the only reason that Slade and Damian, who had agreed that it wasn't worth the risk, would turn to time-travel as their last resort. Dick would probably be angry at them later, but for now? For now he was just going to hold this tiny baby Damian and be grateful for the opportunity.

It was, of course, in that moment that the sound of screeching tires echoed down the long entrance to the Cave proper. Everyone was on their feet faster than thought, excepting Babs and Alfred, who still moved from tense to fight-ready in the space of a breathe. Even Slade looked wary - which made sense, given his relationship with his daughter.

Babs figured it out before Bruce did. She had an advantage, since Dick had already told her how big Jason had gotten. Bruce may have seen pictures, but they wouldn't help with motorcycle helmet hiding that distinctive white streak.

It was strangely unsettling that the helmet was black, instead of red.

Rose, of course, was visibly Slade's the moment she hopped off the bike and shook out her hair. She acknowledged him with a terse nod and a clipped, "Dad."

Jason took longer, parking the bike properly. Dick could read the reluctance in every line of his body. Jason was ready to flee at any moment. Dick couldn't help but notice that Rose had placed herself between him and the exit.

Bruce was frozen, half-way through standing, as though his mind and body had simply disconnected. Dick had never, in twenty-odd years, seen anything like it. Jason obviously hadn't either, because he was just standing, arms-crossed, glaring at Bruce like he could burn a hole in his forehead. Dick knew intimately how much fear and confsion and hurt lurked behind that glare.

So Dick did what Bruce couldn't, what he never could, and crossed the distance to Jason. He moved slowly enough not to startle him, but not slow enough to give him a chance to dodge gracefully, and wrapped both arms around Jason's middle.

Jason's jacket was little more than a leather motorcycle jacket, not the armored monstrosity of Dick's memory. It made it easier for Dick to rest his forehead against Jason's sternum, nudging obnoxiously.

"Jesus, Dick," Jason griped, but hugged him back. "What the fuck are you looking at, old man?"

Dick almost giggled. Some things never changed. His snort cut through the charged silence, and then Dick heard Bruce sigh. When he disengaged, Bruce had managed to stand upright, and was watching Jason with sheer longing. It was too much for Jay, too intense when he was ready to cut and run the second things got too real.

"He'll be less annoying if you let him hug you," Dick whispered to Jay, too quiet for anyone but Slade ot hear.

Jason snorted and shoved Dick's face away.

"Fat chance," he muttered, but he did relax a little, winding his way into the Cave under the pretense of examining the changes.

"Sick dinosaur," was all he said, even though his eyes lingered on that damning display case. Dick saw him clock Tim, and Damian too, but he didn't seem capable of acknowledging them, so Dick let it lie.

Bruce didn't respond, just watched Jason prowl around while Rose wandered over to her father to punch his shoulder in greeting. Babs was practically vibrating, waiting for Jason to make eye contact so she could lure him over for either a hug or a punch to the face, either way.

It was Tim who finally broke under the awkward silence, blurting into the echoing cave.

"So! Time travel, huh?

Jason and Rose both snapped to attention.

"I'm sorry," Jason growled. "Did you say time travel?"

Chapter Text

Tim had a policy of not deciding when a day was the new weirdest day of his life. It just happened too often, and his rating system had fallen apart.

Today was tempting him to revive it. Just for this one, surreal conversation. Tim was sitting on the practice mats, a half-eaten carrot stick in his hand, watching his childhood hero who had died and come back to life, snipe passive-aggressively with Batman. Also, Deathstroke was there, and a woman who was evidently his daughter kept trying to argue with him about something unrelated. He was ignoring her and watching Dick with the kind of obsessive attention that Tim was used to seeing from B on patrol.

Also Dick was trying to bring the conversation back around to averting the actual apocalypse, but kept getting about a sentence in before Bruce had some sort of non-sequitor question that had to be answered. And then rehashed, and then disputed, and then finally logged into the file that Babs was updating.

So apparently Tim had actually survived the apocalypse, which was cool as hell. But then he died like six months later, which was demonstrably less cool. Seemed like Jason had done better, surviving something like ten years. And of course, the six-year-old sitting cross-legged on the cold Cave floor, had done better than all of them.

Damn, Tim needed to train harder.

After the sixth distraction, something snapped in Dick. He didn't shout, barely raised his voice at all, but something about him… shifted. Tim narrowed his eyes, trying to place it, but he couldn't. It was as if Dick was taking up more space, somehow, or more like he could take up more space but he was deliberately controlling not just his own body, but the air in the room.

It reminded Tim of Batman, but more. More complex, more commanding. Tim shivered. It was a little disquieting, but somehow less unsettling than Batman himself ever was.

"Stop."

The Cave went quiet, the Jason and Barbara's bickering dying out. Tim wasn't the only one who saw the sudden change. Dick was watching them, turning to look at each in turn, and his gaze had a physical weight.

"There's a time and place for settling our personal grievances, and this isn't it. I will have a full report ready before the end of the day." The Cave echoed, usually, but every one of Dick's words sank into the silence like stones into a still lake. Even Cass looked wary. "But to sit here griping at each other and being belligerent about our questions is a waste of our time."

The way he said it was a sharp, sobering reminder.

Time was the only thing they had, and it was going to run out. A decade felt like forever to Tim, but he knew it was just because humans had pretty poor time sense until their thirties or something. He realized with distant surprise that he would be twenty-five when the apocalypse happened. Huh.

When Tim started to considering everything that they might do, though, the years started to look really short. They knew next-to-nothing about the Auditors, and gathering intel took time. Negotiations or resistance plans took time. If there was going to be a full-out assault of the magnitude that Dick was describing, they were going to need reinforcements. Tim weighed the possibility of world unification in that amount of time, but set it aside as impractical. They were going to have to make do with what they had.

"I've already told Babs this, and I expect none of you will want to believe me, but I'll say it anyway. We can't find the Auditors."

Tim chewed his tongue. It wasn't that he didn't believe Dick, just that time travel introduced the possibility that there were factors he wasn't considering.

"I know some of you-"

Tim knew he wasn't mistaking the sharp look that Dick shot him.

"-will want to focus your attention on the Auditors themselves, and that's fine. But our best, and only hope, is to prevent the whole thing from ever happening."

Dick waited to let that sink in. Rose Wilson looked thoughtful, and a little suspicious. Bruce just looked suspicious. Jason was still glaring with an intensity that Tim's memory had tarnished, but not forgotten entirely. Cass looked curious, and maybe confused? She was a tough read, and Alfred too. Wilson was inscrutable, at least to Tim. He hadn't taken his eyes off of Dick the entire time.

Preventing the Audit completely was, if possible, and even more daunting undertaking than preparing for a fight. Tim's thoughts were starting to whir and spin in his head, turning each other like cogs. From what Dick said, the Auditors had taken offense at pretty much every global issue that humans had been trying to solve for hundreds of years. It wasn't impossible, Tim didn't think. He was already sorting through challenges, risks, opportunities, trying to decide what could be done quickly, what needed to be sorted out before other problems could be approached. Crime statistics, imperialist violence, climate change factors - all of them had at least theoretical frameworks for testing and implementing solutions.

The problem was, even in the best-case scenario, it would take more than ten paltry years to solve even a single one of these problems on a global scale. At least three, off the top of Tim's head, would need several election cycles, and for key members of two generations to die peaceful deaths of natural causes.

So they needed time. Not stop the Audit, but delay it.

"Can they be communicated with?" Tim asked, barely noticing that he was speaking out loud.

Dick's attention was heavier than a lodestone. Tim was pretty sure lodestones were heavy.

"To a degree. At least, they seem to understand us perfectly well, and there were some reports of their scouts communicating in the early days. At some point, they stopped being willing to interact with us at all. Maybe two or three years from now."

Tim managed to drag his eyes back to the present to meet Dick's gaze.

"Could we negotiate with them?"

***

It was such a simple plan, Dick kept turning it over in his mind, looking for the flaws. Trust Tim to cut right to the heart of the matter.

They needed more time, so the plan was to buy time.

Negotiations required concessions, so they needed something to negotiate with.

A problem they could sink their teeth into turned out to be exactly what everyone needed to focus up and drop their problems at the door. They were huddled around the bank of display screens, each to their preference, punting ideas back and forth.

"If we reduced the global temperature by even one degree-"

"While the US keeps bombing every fucking country that won't fall in line? Forget it, we need better international agreements first."

"So then we focus on the US, focus on domestic affairs."

"What, and just let the rest of the world rot?"

Something about Rose's question tickled the back of Dick's brain. He was pacing, tracing a wide arc behind everyone but Slade, who had pointedly refused to put his back to anyone. When he caught Dick's eye, there was a question there, but Dick shook his head. The idea needed time to percolate.

"Okay, so then we focus on industrial weapons manufacturing, kill two birds with one stone."

The tickle grew into a buzz. Dick kept pacing.

"Weapons manufacturing isn't even the highest contributor to climate change!"

"Well, we fixed the ozone layer, right? How did we make that happen?"

"Oh interesting question actually, it was a matter of policy…"

And on and on, back and forth, disparate ideas, but tumbling into place like puzzle pieces dumped from a box. They all had to get out of the package before the process of sorting and identifying could start.

"Gotham."

The thought coalesced as a single word. Dick moved behind Babs, indicated a link between three of the stronger ideas.

"A lot of the international weapons trade goes through Gotham, and a decent part of the manufacturing happens nearby. We have the highest crime rate of any city in the country, and we're in top ten of the world. We're the only city in the US to make the top ten list of cities contributing to pollution. Violence against minorities is at an all-time high."

None of them was a stranger to Gotham's flaws, but hearing it was never pleasant. In this instance, though, instead of exhaustion seeping into his veis, the thought flickered in Dick's chest, like a curious candle-flame.

"It's proof of concept."

That was what Babs had said, before that first disastrous mission to intercept the Audit scout. It was like finding the end of a tangle of yarn, and pulling loose. Everything was straightening into place.

"We're thinking of this all wrong. We can't negotiate with the Auditors the way we would another human. They don't want anything from us, there's nothing we can give them."

It was just like the moment that Dick's feet left the ground before he lept, knowing that everything was perfect. Dick could feel the rightness of it in every line of his body. This was going to work.

"Proof of concept," Barbara repeated, already replacing the display with all the relevant data on Gotham's population, crime rates, unemployment, and pollution.

"We're still going to have to act globally," Rose reminded them, but she was leaning in over the chair Tim had pulled over, watching the screens with interest.

"Yes," Damian added. "As well as nationally. Some of these problems won't be solved without outside assistance."

Dick agreed. Even Slade pushed off from the Cave wall and came to stand next to Dick, assessing the highlighted data. Everyone was quiet for long seconds, the sound of Babs's keyboard underpinning their thoughts. There was another consideration, too, one that had been sitting like a stone in Dick's stomach since he came back.

"We also need to think - well. I can't speak for everyone, but I know I can't do this forever."

The keyboard stopped, letting the silence expand as everyone turned to him warily. Dick swallowed, suddenly realizing the enormity of what he'd broached. It was the greatest taboo of their work. Everyone of them knew, somewhere in their bones, that they would grow old. If they were lucky.

But they never, ever talked about it.

Dick scrambled to explain. The words were slippery, and the more clear he tried to be, the less sense he made.

"I just mean - the point has always been to make things better, right? We do this because Gotham needs us. Because we want the world to be better than it is. And it's not. It's not better than when we started."

If anything, it was worse. And Dick didn't know if that was just the way that history went, if things just always got worse and they were just slowing the rot, or if it was them. If they had made Gotham worse somehow.

They didn't talk about that, either. They hinted to it, occasionally pointing out homicide rates or unemployment numbers in hushed voices. But there was no solution, nothing more to do than they were already doing. So they didn't talk about it.

They never talked about how they were running out of time - not just Gotham, but them.

"Look, I know. Okay? My good knee only has fifteen, twenty years left, max. My bad knee could go any day. One bad landing, one bad hit - not even magic could fix it." He was grasping for something just out of reach, bumping it away with his fingertips. Everyone was watching him still, and only Damian seemed to understand at all. "I didn't understand that when I was twenty, but I get it now."

Dick turned frantically to Bruce, who at least should understand, even if he resented Dick bringing it up.

"B, I don't know how you do it. I know how much it hurts. Every damn day, and even the best willpower in the world isn't enough to let you sleep at night."

Bruce's eyes went stormy, his brows drawing together in protest, but Dick rolled right over his objections.

"I get it, Bruce. I remember being 35 and wondering how the hell I hurt so bad when I was still so young. Bruce. I know what it's like, the first moment when you ask your body to do something, and it just can't. Something you used to be able to do, something you relied on - and you just can't anymore. And I don't want you to have that moment while Two-Face is holding a gun to your head."

Dick ran out of breath before he ran out of words, and suddenly Slade was there, a hand draped over the back of his neck. Dick gasped, the overt dominance the only thing keeping him anchored. When Dick managed to meet Bruce's eyes, they were still. His expression was utterly blank.

And then, suddenly, Bruce stood. For a split second, Dick thought Bruce was going to hug him, but he didn't. But he did reach out a hand, hesitating, and then dropped it.

"I didn't know, Dick. I promise you I didn't know, when we started. I never wanted you to hurt this much."

With a strangled sound, and the slightest push, Dick stumbled forward and fell face-first into Bruce's awkward embrace. He realized distantly that he was crying.

He hadn't realized how isolating it was, with Slade's regeneration and Damian still ten years younger, to be the only person he knew to grow old in his battered body. He'd thought of Bruce often, in those later years, wondered if he too couldn't sleep at night because of his back, if one day he just didn't bounce back from a pulled muscle anymore. If Bruce had also collected a thousand tiny hurts that he carried with him everywhere. He had never thought to ask.

But now he could.

Dick tucked his head into Bruce's sweater and sobbed.

***

By the time Slade and Bruce hashed it out over sleeping arrangments, Dick had pretty much cried himself dry and managed to crawl back out of the wavering subspace his sudden breakdown had dropped him into. He'd been pretty out of it for the past hour or so, barely noticing when everyone dispersed and Damian reappeared with a pair of packed bags. Dick had been so caught up in the pleasant haze of listening to Bruce and Slade converse in mild, carefully-reserved tones over his head that he hadn't even bothered trying to figure out the words.

It was nice, to not have to put himself between the people he loved. Comforting.

Eventually, Damian came and sat next to him, curling into him while Bruce carefully extracted himself from where they'd settled on the middle of the floor. The rumbling conversation went distant. Dick knew that Bruce and Slade were probably just walking away so that he wouldn't hear them fight - so he just clutched Dami tight and petted his hair. It was a gentle way to come up, which was good, because Dick was feeling wrung out. He was docile as a lamb when Damian took his hand to guide him to a non-descript sedan that he and Slade had presumably stolen. Damian had to climb over Dick's lap to reach the seatbelt, but Dick managed to click it in himself.

"Fuck, Dami-" Dick realized as his first coherent thought. "Do you need a carseat?

Dami shot him a look of such venom that Dick could only laugh. It was unsettling, to see such ferocity in such a cute, round face - but also comforting, for Damian to do something so deeply familiar.

"Try it and see what the consequences are," Damian snarled, and hoisted both bags into the back seat. They were almost the same size as him. Dick must've still been a little out of it, because he was fully weeping again by the time that Slade opened the drivers' side door.

"Look at him," Dick insisted, gesturing at where Damian was buckled in next to the bags. "He's so small!"

Slade shot him an amused and long-suffering look.

"Yes, little bird. That's how children are."

Damian's glare, if possible, grew deeper, and even more adorable.

"The backpack is bigger than him," Dick insisted. He was right, too - Damian had packed Dick's Gotham-U duffel, which by sheer volume had to larger than him. How he'd dragged it downstairs, Dick couldn't be sure.

Slade glanced in the rear-view, and smirked.

"Well what do you know," he agreed. "It sure is."

They were most of the way into the city proper before Dick yawned and stretched, and was summarily handed a bottle of water and a protein bar. He tackled both of them in small increments, watching their surroundings.

"Bowery safehouse?"

Slade shook his head. "New Gotham."

Dick perked up. The New Gotham safehouse was a penthouse with all the luxuries, including a jetted tub and a stunning view. It would be a comfortable place to regroup, plan their next steps - and just be together, for the first time in a long time.

Chapter Text

Dick had to climb into the back seat to unbuckle a sleeping Damian by the time that Slade parked in the private garage. It was a testament to either Damian's deep trust of Dick, or his total exhaustion, that the baby assassin barely stirred when Dick hoisted him onto one him for the elevator ride.

It was a strange silence that fell between Dick and Slade while they worked together to get everything upstairs. Dick was hyper-aware of the domesticity of the scene, the little details that echoed through every suburban couple. Dick unpacked Damian while Slade fetched the bags and locked the car. Dick shifted to hit the elevator button, and Slade placed an absent kiss on top of his head while they ascended.

Slade did the initial security sweep and disarmed while Dick got Damian settled in on the deep sectional sofa facing the Gotham skyline. They traded when Slade returned, Dick conducting his own sweep while Slade fetched blankets and set the kettle on.

So perhaps not just like every suburban couple.

But there was something, wasn't there? Dick mused as he curled his fingers around the steeping mug of tea brought him and watched the rain drip down the window-glass. It was late evening, not dark yet, but the rain made everything soft and reflective. He pulled a bit of Damian's blanket over his toes and listened for the sound of the shower that Slade liked to take every night before bed. There was something about that, about this, about this exact moment, that Dick couldn't shake. It was a typical quiet evening in, something that a million people could relate to.

But it didn't feel typical. It felt specific, the details of it standing out more than the form. The fact that Slade took his showers unbearably hot, because he'd rarely had the luxury growing up; the way Damian slept most soundly under a heavy blanket; the black tea that was a poor substitute for Dick's preferred blend, but the closest thing Slade had to hand - those were the brushstrokes of this moment.

Dick sipped at the scalding tea, willing to risk burning his tongue rather than risk bitter, over-steeped tea. The penthouse was nowhere near as large as the one Dick had shared with Damian, occupying one of the many new-build apartment highrises that had sprung up in Gotham over the past few years. It was closer, though, less echoing. The cheerful plinking rain drowned out nearly everything else, even to Dick's well-honed attention. He could hear the shower shut off, the slide of the shower-curtain, but little else.

It made Dick's teeth itch.

There was too much he couldn't see, wouldn't be able to hear coming. It wasn't an unusual paranoia; Dick had long since learned how to breathe through hypervigilance. It was annoying, though. As far as he knew, this particular safehouse had survived intact until the building underneath it collapsed - it was secure enough even for Batman. Dick wanted to relax on the couch with his husband and his napping kid, without every stray lick of air making the hair stand up on his neck.

Dick sighed and set the tea aside - just in time, since Slade appeared behind him and leaned over his shoulder to kiss him. Dick jerked in surprise, but Slade gentled him, just pressing one hand against the vulnerable side of Dick's neck. Slade's wet hair tickled Dick's cheek and collarbone, and he swatted Slade away.

"Nuh-uh," Dick whispered against Slade's chest. "You know the rules, soldier boy." Slade knew better than to let his wet hair touch Dick's skin, because it made his skin crawl.

Slade tangled his fingers idly into Dick's hair.

"Mmm, you might have to remind me," he said, voice low and silky. Dick rolled his eyes, and hid his fond smile in the soft henly Slade wore. As if Slade would forget.

"It was in our vows, does that help?" Dick prompted. A half-dozen of those tiny promises had been all they had exchanged, half-dead and running on adrenaline during a mission gone spectacularly wrong.

Slade dropped to his knees, elbows braced on the back of the couch so he could look Dick in the eye.

"Are we still married, then, little bird?" It wasn't until Dick pulled back enough to see the intensity of Slade's expression that he realized how serious Slade was. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Wet hair be damned, Dick curled one hand gently around the back of Slade's neck and rested his forehead against Slade's. Their breath puffed together, warm and quiet in the space between them.

"Of course we are," Dick murmured. He tiled his head, pressed his dry, chapped lips against Slade's. They barely moved, just stayed pressed together like that, the gentlest pressure passing between them for soft-stretched moments. When they parted, Dick pushed a few silvery strands off of Slade's forehead. His fingers were slow and careful as they brushed over sensitive skin around the twisted, ropy scars where his eye once was. "Did I make you think otherwise?"

Slade was still watching him with that searching, piercing intensity.

"You weren't wearing a ring."

Dick gaped at him, and had to bite back his protest into a hiss to keep from waking Damian.

"Are you serious? Slade, I barely ever wear my ring! A ring which, may I remind you, doesn't exist yet." Slade had commissioned the ring for him, he'd said. It was simple, a tiny sapphire set in the thinnest band of silver alloy that Dick hadn't been able to identify with all the tools at the Cave's disposal.

Slade made a noncommital sound, but didn't disagree, which meant-

Dick narrowed his eyes, searching Slade's one blue eye closely.

"It doesn't exist yet, right?"

Slade just smirked and tried to press in for another kiss. Dick turned at the last moment so that Slade's lips were pressed against the hollow of his cheek.

"Nuh-uh, no. Slade, you told me you had that ring made," Dick insisted. Slade hummed against his skin, shifting his attention to litter kisses along his jaw.

"I did."

Slade never lied to him, but he could pull of a hell of a misdirect. Dick had grown pretty canny to it in the past couple decades or so. He tugged a handful of Slade's hair insistently.

"And what did you have that ring made from?" Dick asked sharply.

He knew for a fact that Adeline still had Slade's mothers' ring, which he'd evidently kept in storage after enlisting. Slade finally relented, turning his attention to capturing Dick's free hand with his own and thumbing over his knuckles. It was distracting, especially to Dick's suddenly-young hormones, but Dick preserved. He fixed Slade with a flat stare.

Slade chuckled. "Nosy little bird, aren't you? Do you want it back?"

"Do I-" Dick spluttered indignation. "Do I want my wedding ring back? Yes, Slade, I would very much like my wedding ring back."

One side of Slade's mouth twitched up in a smile that was so genuinely affectionate that it made Dick's heart twist.

"Then be patient. After all, how often does a man get to propose twice?"

Dick wisely kept any remarks about Adeline behind his teeth. However many times Slade had gotten back together with his ex-wife was none of his businesses, and Dick had said everything he had to say about it a long time ago.

"I am not a patient man," Dick warned Slade, only to be ignored in favor of another kiss. This one was more deliberate, searching, Slade's mouth warm and firm against his. Dick barely had to respond at all, just let Slade kiss him and kiss him, Slade's hair starting to dry in his grasp.

Damian twitched, and Dick managed to wrench himself away.

"Nuh-uh, no," Dick choked out. "We are fighting."

To be honest, Dick didn't really feel like fighting. He knew, logically, that he was probably going to be pissed in the morning, after he had time to process everything. He was pretty sure he remembered Slade saying that he was mad at him the night before - God, had it only been last night?

Dick deflated, and let Slade bring his hand up to his mouth and kiss each of his knuckles gently. He was in no state for anything right now, not until he was sure that he'd completely metabolized whatever bullshit of Ivy's had sent him crashing so hard. It was probably at least part of the reason he was still so hazy and tired. He patted the couch cushion next to him.

Slade was there in an instant, already reaching for the matching pillow at the end of the couch to tuck against his hip. Dick would take cuddles however he could get them, but Slade had strong feelings about things like strained inter-costal muscles and cricked necks. It was easy to settle in, a silent shuffle that didn't require words. Dick half-leaned, half draped himself over Slade's side and lap, letting his head rest on Slade's chest. It was so, so comfortable; the ideal position for couch cuddling that had been perfected over many years.

Slade wasted no time scratching his fingernails against Dick's scalp, a firm, rhythmic pressure that had Dick damn near purring. Dick knew from experience that Slade would still be stroking his hair when he fell sleep, and it was reassuring in a way that he didn't know how to voice. No one else had ever done that for him before Slade, just noticed something he liked and did it without being asked, for as long as he could. Slade never seemed to get tired of him, never seemed to bore of the tiny details of Dick's life. All of Dick's preferences, from how he took his tea, to his weapons, to how he liked to be touched - every single one was noted and logged in Slade's memory. No one had ever made him feel so seen.

Dick settled in to the staccato of the rain and the gentle rhythm of Slade's breathing, and slept.

***

Slade had always been a light sleeper, but Damian had been trained from birth by the League of Shadows. So it was only a mild shock to the system when a clatter and a string of curses in Arabic woke him, rather than the slight motion of a child disentangling himself from his clingy parent.

Dick shot up like a meerkat, half-way over the couch before Slade could put a hand on his shoulder. There was no danger, but Slade knew well how little that meant to men like Dick. His bird's pulse was rabbit-fast and his eyes frantic, but he relaxed marginally when he was that there was no intruder.

Damian was on top of the counter, holding his hand still under tap water - it wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. The pan on the floor surrounded by scrambled eggs was a pretty good clue too, in Slade's opinion. There was silence for a beat, while Dick recalibrated and Damian scowled at his burnt hand.

Then Dick burst into startled tears.

Damian's head shot up, chubby face already red with frustration, and Slade could see the impending breakdown from the kid too. Dick was scrambling out from the tangled blanket, trying to get to Damian, and he was going to trip and brain himself on the floor if he wasn't careful. Slade caught him round the waist and firmly pulled the blankets away, then carried him over his shoulder to the counter. He planted his still-sniffling husband next to his equally distraught son, and sighed internally while he went to fetch the burn cream.

He'd forgotten what kids were like when they were this little. Joey in particular had been prone to crying over every tiny catastrophe. Grant had been more prone to anger, but even he had his fair share of sobbing tantrums. Slade wouldn't pretend that he had ever been particularly adept at handling them; but then, Damian probably wouldn't care much either way. The best thing Slade could do for him was treat the burn and provide some food for them all.

When Slade returned, Damian was curled up fully in Dick's lap, burnt hand sticking out awkwardly from the tangle of limbs. If it were anyone else with their face buried in a kid's hair while perched precariously on a counter, Slade might've worried about a fall. As it was, he just padded closer, avoiding the splotches of egg on the floor, and set both cream and bandageon the counter nearby. As predicted, Dick's arm shot out the moment Slade was in range and hauled him close.

It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, with Slade half-leaned over a counter that dug into his hip and balance askew. Dick had one arm curled up over his shoulder and the other tucked around Damian's waist. He turned his face from Damian's rowdy curls to scrub his cheek along Slade's stubble. Slade stood there for long minutes, while Dick's breath hitched and stuttered. If Damian cried, it was silent and still - Slade seemed to remember Dick mentioning something to the effect, in regards to Damian's childhood.

Slade had been a poor excuse of a parent, but at least his children never had to hide their tears from him.

Dick finally released him with a final warm peck to his jawline. When Slade pulled back far enough to see his face, it was swollen and tear-stained, but Dick was smiling. Damian, predictably, softened his scowl when Dick turned that trademark grin on him.

"Sorry, sorry," Dick choked out, voice still wet. "I just. I panicked, and then I realized - Damian was making us breakfast."

Damian flushed a little under the weight of the awe in Dick's voice.

"It was a poor attempt," he muttered. His face was still suspicously damp. Dick grabbed his face between both hands and planted a firm kiss right on the top of his head, which Damian allowed with poor grace.

"It was a fine attempt, Dami. It was just. I think I finally just realized that this is real." Dick reached out a hand to Slade without looking. Slade took it. Of course he did. "That you're both here. That-" Dick's breath caught, and he closed his eyes. Breathed through it. Managed to say, with a waiver, "-that we're safe."

Safe was always relative, but Slade wasn't inclined to disagree. They'd been living on the knife's edge for a long, long time - even by Slade's reckoning. Dick felt things deeply truly, so it was easy for Slade to imagine whatever cool relief Slade carried in his belly was a pebble compared to whatever Dick was feeling. He tangled his fingers in Dick's hair, hard, and tugged his face back far enough for a long, messy kiss.

Damian made a disgusted sound and wiggled out of Dick's hold. Just as kids ought to, when they were disgusted by their parents. Slade hid his smile by pressing against Dick's mouth.

***

Even inspecting Damian's burn - mild - and cleaning up the eggs - messy - couldn't puncture the lightness in Dick's chest. It was morning, and the sun was painting Slade and Damian in bars of golden light as they bickered quietly over breakfast preparations. Dick was entrusted to make coffee. Even that was a fresh joy, the simple machine a convenience that Dick was grateful for. The scent of the roast floated up through the penthouse while Dick caught Slade and Damian each in turn as they passed by his spot leaning against the island. They could both tell how soft Dick was feeling, how fragile, because they tolerated his constant reassuring hands with good humor.

Dick had read a fairytale once where a girl was blessed by a witch, so that every time she opened her mouth, flowers and jewels came out. He'd thought at the time that it sounded unpleasant. Now, Dick felt like there was something alive in his lungs, unfurling up into his throat, choking him - but it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. Whatever the growing thing was, Dick just knew that it was beautiful, like the mountain laurel blossoms that proliferated in all of Gotham's parks. It was fragrant, and delicate, and all Dick wanted to do was savor it.

So that's what he did. He helped set plates out at the dining table, forks to the right and knives to the left, just as Slade always did. He sat down with his family, and barely noticed what he was eating, content to just bask in the slow morning. He couldn't remember the last time they'd all sat down together, rested and fed, and just talked quietly amongst themselves.

There were plenty of things they needed to talk about; but they would keep until after the dishes. For now, Damian just talked about spices, and Slade contributed with his knowledge of regional dishes, and Dick listened. They'd probably had this exact conversation before - Damian was particularly interested in regional foods, local customs around flavors and meals. Dick didn't mind at all.

Even when the energy in the room shifted as they dried the last few dishes, Dick couldn't bring himself to be upset about it. He poured himself and Slade more coffee, and dug Oolong out of the cupboard for Damian. They settled silently on the sectional, close without touching.

"Where do we start?" Dick finally asked.

"I think we should start with why the fuck you didn't call me when you woke up thirty years in the past," Slade said pointedly. Everything still felt mellow, gentled over by the window-glass warming under the mid-morning sun. Dick knew, objectively, that Slade was pissed - to be honest, Dick was too - but it felt distant. Like a problem for another day.

Dick snorted. "I did call. Kind of."

Slade's brow furrowed. He hadn't replaced his eyepatch yet, and one of his eyebrows pulled down further than the other. Dick knew he was playing with fire. If there was one thing Slade didn't appreciate when he was angry, it was Dick's casual dismissal. It had gotten them into trouble more than once. Still, Slade wasn't the only one who'd fucked up in this scenario.

Ah, there was the anger. It felt slow and sticky, like molasses, rather than the pan-flash temper that Dick was used to. Damian twitched but didn't interrupt, and Slade's voice was tinted with warning.

"Way I remember it, you got your ass kicked by a couple thugs, then ignored me when I showed up to check on you."

Dick's eyebrows shot up and he set his coffee down. Is that how Slade remembered it? Because Dick remembered a double-dose of Stop-Drop and still shivering with fever in the closet after. "Ignored you? I all but picked up the phone and begged! I knew you were in Blud; what, were you planning to pass up an opportunity to show up and gloat while I was injured?"

Slade fixed him with a stern look. It wasn't as effective with his hair slightly puffy from falling asleep with it wet. Or while Dick was still feeling prickly about the fact that they could've been together this whole damn time if Slade had just used his words.

"Dick."

Dick retrieved his coffee, holding it over his chest for moral support. He didn't like that tone of voice.

"Dick, tell me you didn't deliberately get yourself hurt to get my attention."

Dick snorted again. "Oh, easy. It wasn't deliberate. I intended to just look hurt. But. Well. Damian isn't the only one whose body isn't exactly the way he remembers it." Dick held one hand for a fist bump. Damian ignored it. He looked increasingly tense and miserable, checking the phone that Babs had supplied him with at regular intervals. "I misjudged my mass, took a shot through and through my calf. So that was real, but it was a genuine mistake."

Slade practically snarled. Dick's eyebrows shot up. Damian decided that discretion was the better part of valor, muttered something about Drake being there to pick him up, and bolted. Part of Dick's attention went with him; always had, always would. But if Tim was picking him up, that was probably fine. Right now, Dick had an unreasonably angry mercenary to deal with.

They both waited until Damian cleared the door to tear into each other.

"What the fuck were you thinking-"

"When were you planning on telling me-"

Their fights were always like this, urgent and messy and immediate. Slade was on his feet immediately, prowling the room like some overgrown jungle cat. It was adorable and also one of his most annoying habits. Dick glared, arms folded as he hosited himself up onto the back of the couch.

"Fine, fine. You go first, by all means," Dick said at the same time that Slade asked, "Planning on telling you what?"

Dick threw up his hands. "That I died, to start with! Or that you literally threw us all back in time! Or that you were planning to go rescue Damian the whole time! Take your pick!"

And that must have hit a little too close to home, because Slade hissed a curse and turned his back on Dick to clutch the granite countertop hard enough it cracked. Dick's anger fell from a frothing boil to a simmer in the space of a breath. Slade never turned his back on Dick when they were fighting.

But Dick had never died before, so.

Dick's issues would keep. He knew better than to walk up behind Slade while he was angry, while he felt out of control. Slade might be better about keeping violence to the field, but that control took a toll on him. He was liable to bolt when spooked, and the last thing he needed right now was to be alone. Dick swallowed the frustration in his voice, took a few deep breaths while Slade eased his grip on the countertop.

"You know I would never to choose to leave you, right?" Dick said gently, after they'd both had time for a few breaths. Slade didn't turn around, but his head turned enough to be able to see Dick out of his peripherary.

"I know that, little bird," Slade allowed, and his voice was rough. "It wasn't your fault."

Dick hopped down from the couch, approaching slowly to take up a spot not behind Slade, but on his left.

"Haven't we had a conversation about how no one's allowed to take responsibility for anyone's death before? I'm pretty sure we've covered this one."

Dick's voice was light, gently probing, but Slade cut him off sharply.

"Don't."

So Dick didn't. He just stayed next to Slade, close enough to feel his body heat, the in-and-out scrape of his breath. He stared at his own hands, clasped together and resting on the table. He was still trying to figure out which scars he was missing.

"You want it to be my fault?" Dick offered finally. "You can take it out on my ass, if you want."

It wasn't the kind of offer Dick made very often - he wasn't in the habit of accpeting punishments he hadn't earned. But this wasn't about punishment, not really. This was about the fact that Dick had apparently died and Slade hadn't been able to prevent it. Sometimes Slade just… needed to hurt him. Needed to control how Dick was hurt, where and how much, needed Dick to trust him to do it. He was angry now; maybe afterwards he'd be able to look his grief in the eye.

"Should take it out on your ass anyway," Slade muttered, and a tiny fern of relief unfurled in Dick's throat. He leaned his head against Slade's shoulder, and he didn't shrug Dick off.

"Okay," Dick said softly. Slade didn't speak for a long moment, just looking down at Dick, who in turn was watching the sun glint off of nearby buildings .

"Just like that?" Slade prompted. Dick brought up one hand to curl his fingers around Slade's forearm. He nodded.

"Just like that." What else was there to say? Slade knew damn well that neither of them needed punishing; which meant he knew damn well that Dick was indulging him. That suited Dick just fine.

"I'm still angry at you. This isn't going to be pleasant for you," Slade warned. Dick bit back his instinct, which was to bury his face in Slade's throat and whisper, "No, you're not. You're not angry, you're hurt. And I'm so so sorry."

But you didn't stay married to someone for damn near thirties years without learning a little of what they need, how they see the world. So instead Dick just snorted.

"Wilson if I was only interested in you when you were pleasant we never would've gotten married."

That finally got a chuckle, a hoarse, warm sound that Dick treasured. Slade leaned over and scrubbed his morning scruff against the top of Dick's head. Dick melted under tha attention, and only danced away when Slade swatted his ass.

"Go on then. Shower, dry your hair."

Dick shot him a jaunty salute. It was a pretty standard scene prep, for them. Dick was anticipating the follow-up even as he sauntered away.

"And Dick? Leave your clothes in the hamper."

Chapter Text

Prepping for a scene was no different than prepping for a job - except that with Dick as the center of his attention, the stakes were immeasurably higher. Slade knew damn well that Dick was humoring him; that was fine. It wouldn't be the first one of them used a scene to vent their frustration, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

The low buzz in Slade's blood was only partially anger. Truth be told, he knew this whole situation was his own fault. The time-travel spell had needed power, and power didn't come from nowhere. Slade had made the call, and that made it his responsibility.

More than the responsibility, there was the phantom weight of Dick's breathing, vacant body in his arms. Even now, with Dick humming under his breath a room away, Slade could feel it. He could see Dick's slack, empty face, a pulse with no passion behind it. He had thought he was prepared for the possibility of Dick's death - after all, Slade would outlive anyone as long as he wasn't killed first - but he hadn't been prepared for that. Nothing could've prepared him for the shell of his husband's body, with the soul long gone.

But Slade could think of something that would chase it away.

Slade moved through the motions of turning down the sheets and fetching the towels and digging the box out from the bed felt. It was a well-worn path of movements, like a threadbare flannel. Slade sorted through the options he kept stocked in his frequent safe houses. None of it was as specific to Dick as he would like; most of what Slade had purchased at this point in his life had been meant for anonymous, one-time submissive, so it was luxurious but generic. A mental list started to accumulate as Slade worked.

He'd need a collar, of course - several of them, if Dick's history with destroying clothing was any metric. Plugs and dildos and vibrators, of course; there were a few specific shapes and textures that Dick preferred. The impact and sensation tools he had on hand for now would do. Slade set aside a few bags of clamps. Pain wouldn't be enough for this; Dick enjoyed it too much. Slade wanted Dick's discomfort, the tiny sounds of displeasure and frustration. Maybe that would be enough to quiet the scratching in Slade's chest.

None of the cuffs he had on hand would work for Dick Grayson, but Slade did have black rope, and plenty of it. He checked it all over, ensuring that it was still supple and tied off correctly. He hated having to pause mid-tie to sort out his rope. He didn't have enough length for anything complicated, especially if wanted to keep Dick from wriggling out. Dick wouldn't, not once he went pliant and eager to please. But knowing that he couldn't get out, feeling it, helped Slade's little bird relax. It made him feel secure.

Slade could feel the anticipation rising in his throat, the same singular focus that settled over him just before a dangerous mission - both thrill and disquiet. He wrapped a length of rope to each of the bed frame's four iron legs. The blow dryer hummed to life in the bathroom. Slade emptied the bag of clamps and tested the tightness, adjusting a few so that they sat just at the edge of Dick's tolerance.

Dick hated clamps, the steady, bruising feeling that sunk into the skin without ever touching the deeper muscle. It seemed like a fair premise, given how much Slade had hated watching Dick's eyes, hoping that they would open again in spite of knowing that they never would.

The bathroom fan clicked off. Dick padded down the hallway on near-silent feet. Slade could only hear the movement of Dick kneeling outside the door because of his own enhanced hearing. Slade let him wait, just for the routine of it. With the door closed, Dick could neither see nor hear what Slade was doing. He couldn't prepare for it, couldn't plan or strategize. It was a reminder that right now, Dick wasn't a bat - he was Slade's little bird.

When Slade opened the door, Dick was kneeling just where he ought to be - two feet away, eyes on the floor, hands resting on his thighs. Some dominants preferred a formal posture, trained their subs to joke their wrist behind their backs and keep their spines straight, knees spread.

Dick needed no such strict positions to be breathtakingly elegant. And besides, he got enough of strict training from the Bat. It was Wayne's greatest folly that he had never figured out that all Dick needed was a light touch. This was proof of it. Dick knelt so beautifully, muscles relaxed, breath even - and at the slightest twitch of trouble, he'd be in his feet and ready to fight. So much power, knelt at Slade's feet like he'd earned it.

Slade hummed low in his chest, an approving dominant sound hard-wired to send dopamine and oxytocin flooding through a submissive's brain. Dick wasn't far under enough to whimper yet, but Slade saw the deep breath he took in response.

"On the bed. Face-up, eyes closed."

Slade a never had to clarify an order or give it twice, unless Dick was too far under to make sense of words. He wasn't just clever; he was used to fieldwork, and under more stressful situations than the bedroom. The first time Dicked snapped to one of Slade's orders, Slade's cock had jumped at the rush of arousal. It never failed to inspire, watching Dick rise fluidly to his feet and make his way to the bed - eyes still closed.

Dick settled into the center of the bed, arms loose by his sides. It was a luxury to simply watch him breathe, to trace familiar plays of light across his skin. Dick didn't so much as twitch when Slade laid a hand on his ankle, pulling his leg out and down, towards the corner of the bed. His skin was warm and alive under his hand, his muscles twitching in minute response. Slade could have tied Dick's ankle off then, but it seemed a waste to rush it. Slowly, Slade moved to the opposite leg and repeated the motion. Dick didn't even try to anticipate the motion.

Fuck, he was being so good.

Slade rewarded him with a long stroke of his fingers across Dick's wrist as he positioned it where he wanted. After all, the purpose of this scene wasn't just to satisfy Slade's displeasure; it was also a reminder of who Dick belonged to.

Finally, with the other hand, Slade cradled his wrist in one hand and fetched the rope with the other. It wasn't enough to simply tie it around Dick's wrist; Slade laid the rope in short lengths of overlapping diamonds, wrapping a net of knots from wrist to elbow. It was tricky work, delicate, to keep the knots tight without pinching a nerve or cutting off blood flow. Slade's focus narrowed, only a sliver of it spared for the sounds of the penthouse, the city outside. Everything else was Dick, the texture of his skin and the pulsing of blood in his veins.

Only once Slade released his arm and tapped the back of his hand twice did Dick move, shifting to tug and twist at the rope. There was a moment when Slade thought he might slip out of it, but the tension held, and Dick couldn't ease his hand through without dislocating his thumb. His body sank further into the bed. His eyes stayed closed.

Slade moved on to the opposite leg next, like tightening the lugnuts on a wheel. Dick's ankle was easier to secure, since he had no opposable digits. The trickiest part was pulling it tight enough that Dick to keep Dick open and exposed, without straining his joints. It was made harder by how flexible Dick was. Thankfully, Slade knew Dick's body better than his own.

It was almost meditative, trussing Dick up and securing him to the bed. Slade could feel it having the same effect on Dick, slowing his heart rate, his body starting to soften with the flood of hormones telling him to relax, to submit, to take what he was given.

Which was exactly what Slade wanted. He was going to give Dick more than his bird thought he could handle, ease him right to the edge of his tolerance, then send him soaring. By the time he was done, Dick would be sobbing, and Slade would be nothing but satisfaction.

Slade fetched two of the clamps from the bedside table and let them warm in his hands. He traced the lines of Dick's muscle with two fingers, testing the give of his skin. Dick's heart rate stuttered as he made sense of the clamps and figured out what was coming.

"Hush, birdie. Do you know why I tied you up?"

Dick wasn't far enough under to be totally incoherent yet.

"Nossir," he managed, and his voice was breathy but clear.

Slade chuckled, leaning close so that his breath ghosted across Dick's collarbone.

"I tied you up because the only thing I want you to worry about is keep in your eyes closed. Got that, sweetheart? You can writhe and whine all you want, just keep your eyes closed."

The effect of Slade's words was profound, making Dick shiver and swallow. He nodded, and choked out a garbled, "Yessir."

"Good boy."

It was a selfish bit of praise, because the whine that came out of Dick's mouth made Slade salivate with want. He could see the effort it took Dick to listen, to unlock the tension in his body and sink back into the mattress. Watching Dick struggle to do as Slade told him was sweeter than any drug he'd ever taken. It made Slade's blood rise, warm and vicious under his skin. Lust was far too simple a word for what Slade felt, watching Dick twitch and pant in his bed.

Dick's reward was two loose clamps fixed gently over the tips of his middle and ring fingers - not painful at all, but unavoidably present. Slade couldn't pull the skin across his hand or forearm with the ropes in the way, but he traced the line he imagined, trailing his fingers over the bumps of rope. He gave Dick a moment to figure it out, to connect the clamps on his two fingers to the stripes that dropped down his uniform. The second Slade saw him realize, he pinched the skin above his elbow and placed the first clamp.

Dick gasped, and twitched, but didn't speak. Slade paused a moment, to let him settle, for the anticipation to build, then quickly added the next clamp inches away from the first. This time Dick hissed, no doubt waiting for the sharp snap of pinching pain to settle into a dull ache. Slade continued like that, pausing unpredictably in order to fuck with Dick's ability to adjust. If Slade was too predictable, he ran the risk of his bird falling into the trance-like retreat that he used to withstand interrogation, and Slade wanted Dick here, fully present for what Slade was doing to him.

The first line of clamps arced up Dick's arm and down his chest, the signature shape of his Nightwing suit traced across his body in bruises. Slade spared a long minute after the first half was done to stroke Dick's hair in approval. He was gasping and trembling like he'd never been touched before. Well, Slade supposed that Dick's body probably hadn't been getting the affection he needed for a long time. Still, Slade had managed to satisfy Dick's touch-starvation before, and he would do it again. After he broke him apart into tiny pieces and rearranged them to his liking.

The next line of clamps went faster, Slade mirroring the opposite side with brisk efficiency. Every sensation in Slade's body, already enhanced by the serum, was staggering. The creeping itch in his chest was spreading, prickling through his body, still not satisfied. The noises squeezed out of Dick's throat were intoxicating, devastating - but still not enough to make Slade forget how silent the nights had been without him.

Dick's uniform had never sported any distinctive designs below the Nightwing symbol, so Slade was forced to be creative for the next line of clamps. It wasn't a hardship, not when Dick twitched and tried to curl away the first time Slade pinched the outside of his thigh just above the knee.

Slade slapped his thigh, open-handed and hard enough to mark, vicious in his satisfaction. A trickle of relief dripped down his spine.

"You can't get away from me, boy," he reminded Dick, who was clenching his jaw against the slow build of pain. He actually cried out when Slade nipped the clamp around his skin. It was a sudden, choked sound, but full-voiced, and desperate. It was a balm to Slade's anger.

"Does it hurt?" Slade asked, cruel and lascivious. Dick nodded frantically, the sounds of his reply turned into nonsense by his staccato breaths. Slade trailed his hands up Dick's thigh, leaving a line of clamps in his wake, all the way up to where Dick's thigh muscle met his iliac crest. Dick was gasping now, moisture starting to gather on his eyelashes. Slade wanted to howl with it, ferocious and delighted.

The first tear escaped when Slade switched his attention to Dick's other leg. It was as though a dam broke, each new clamp sprouting a new wave of tears. Dick was to far gone to even sob, whinging and hiccuping while tears carved tracks down his cheeks. Slade wanted to lick them. He wanted to line his cock up with Dick's exposed cunt and fuck him without warning. Instead, he flicked the clamp connected to Dick's right nipple, and drank down Dick's scream with heady satisfaction.

"How does it feel, little bird?" Slade murmured. He toyed with the clamps at random, flicking them, pulling them, easing them open just a little only to let them spring shut again. Dick either couldn't make out the question, or couldn't find the words to respond, because he just shuddered and wailed. The dark thing in Slade's chest purred. The best was still to come. Slade reached one hand down to Dick's cunt, and swiped through his lips at the same time as he yanked off the first clamp.

Dick shrieked. It was such a perfect sound, so viscerally gratifying down to Slade's bones, that he almost missed the way that Dick yanked at his ropes, and then froze. Just for a moment. Just a twitch of motion. Then he was wrenching at them, trying to tug his hands and feet free, strugglin with real intent for the first time. Slade laid a heavy hand across his solar plexus.

"Dick, stay," he rumbled. But Dick didn't seem to hear him at all, and Slade suddenly realized what was happening.

Dick wasn't squirming in pleasant agony. He wasn't even crying anymore. His breaths weren't short and gasping because he couldn't bear how Slade was making him feel.

He was having a panic attack.

Slade didn't curse, but it was a close thing. The recriminations were immediate, incessant, pounding in Slade's head as he gripped both ends of one of the ropes and snapped it apart with his bare hands.

Foolish, selfish, of course being tied up would make Dick panic.

Slade hadn't tied him up in years, for that very reason. It wasn't safe, with the Auditors around every corner. The risk was too high. That didn't just go away because Dick was back in a new body.

Dick thrashed on the bed, and Slade struggled to hold him still enough to reach the rest of the ropes without pressing on the clamps still clinging to his skin. His little bird had gone completely silent, except for his ragged breaths, and was fighting like hell. Only the fact that he was exhausted and hurt and out of his mind with fear and subspace let Slade match him, finally freeing him from the rope and managing to wrestle his way behind Dick, holding him in place so that he didn't land on the clamps. Slade could feel his own heart pounding in something suspiciously like fear.

"Dick, little bird, it's me, you're safe," Slade repeated, over and over again, shifting with Dick's futile writhing. It was a grim repetition, in the face of Dick's abject panic, but Slade couldn't take the clamps off until Dick was settled enough that he wouldn't tear skin away in the process.

It felt like an eternity before Dick's energy waned, his voice finally giving out to near silent whines of animal fear. Every muscle in Slade's body was clenched tight enough to crack bone, if the serum hadn't reinforced them. He tipped Dick's finally unresisting head back against his shoulder and started carding his hands through Dick's hair. It was Dick's favorite thing, to be pet and stroked gently. Slade murmured in his ear gently the whole time, until Dick's body went slack enough to feel the fine tremors running through his muscles.

Slade gritted his teeth.

"You're alright, little bird. I have you. I'm going to take the clamps off now."

Whether Dick understood him at all, Slade didn't know, but he needed to say it. Taking clamps off hurt worse than putting them on. But they had to come off, or Slade risked real damage. Slade started with his arms.

Dick started crying again when Slade eased the first clamp off. Even with the pressure of his fingers to keep the blood from flowing back into the pinched skin too quickly, each clamp made him twitch and whimper. Slade moved as quickly as he dared. He might as well have been carving a sliver of his own heart out with each clamp. Dick clearly didn't understand what was happening, why Slade was still hurting him, and the sounds he made were abject begging, pleading for a comfort that Slade couldn't give him.

Selfish, cruel, unforgivable, Slade's mind spat. His earlier satisfaction had turned sour in his stomach. By the time he managed to take off the last clamp, Dick had gone completely limp, giving in to whatever demons chased him in his own mind. Slade managed to rearrange him, pulled him to rest face-down against his own chest, wrapped up in his arms. If Dick woke up didn't want to touch him, Slade wouldn't blame him. For now, Slade knew what to do when a scene went wrong, and it was give his bird as much affection as possible. He would keep Dick hydrated and warm and most of all, not leave him alone for even a moment. Dick would rest, and eventually he would resurface.

All Slade could do for now was hold him.

Chapter Text

Dick couldn't move.

His body dutifully registered pain, and cold, and his chest felt as if it was full of worms. Even his ribs writhed wetly against a heart that couldn't beat and lungs that couldn't breathe. He tried to fight, to yank himself free, but all that happened was more pain, echoing down his limbs, pounding in his chest.

One wrist finally wrenched free, but Dick was trapped again a moment later. This time it was by hands, huge and calloused, heavy muscle locking him in place. Dick tossed and howled and tried to wrestle free, over and over again, barely twitching while pain bloomed across his body.

Dick was too far gone for words, but a familiar voice seeped into his skin, murmuring promise and comfort. With that context, the body holding him down snapped into place.

"Sl'de," Dick managed to choke, and realized he was sobbing. He turned his head, trying to nuzzle into Slade, abandon his own broken body to make a new home in Slade's chest. Slade obliged him, as he always did, shifting Dick to a better position to burrow close, heedless of the sticky tears.

Dick shook and cried and gritted his teeth against each swell of sharp, despairing exhaustion. He was too unmoored to even know what he was afraid of, why he was hurting. Keeping his head above the endless waves dull anguish was more than he could bear. When his sobs turned to hiccuping gasps and threatened to hyperventilate him, only Slade's insistent hands calmed his heart enough to allow his lungs to expand. When Dick's jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone, it was Slade's gentle fingers that eased his teeth apart.

Dick shuddered and leaked tears until his body gave out.

Slade's rhythmic stroking slowed, and then gradually stopped as Dick slipped into a stupor. Dick heard his long sigh as though from very far away. The cogs of his mind were trying to turn again, creaking and protesting being frozen in place.

Slade was here. Dick could rest, if Slade was here. Slade would keep watch.

Dick felt Slade shift, the pressure of his arms moving underneath his body, but only in a vague way. When Slade stood, lifting Dick with him, Dick just turned his face into Slade's chest. Whever Slade was taking him, at least he wasn't leaving Dick alone.

The bathroom lights were too bright, and the fan too loud. Dick whined and tried to cover his ears, but Slade caught his one free wrist, and the next moment the fan was gone. The light disappeared a moment later.

Dick swayed in Slade's hold, body aching, hollowed out. The sound of running water registered dimly. A bath. Slade was drawing a bath.

That sounded nice.

And it was, when Slade gently lowered Dick into the steaming water. It stung, for some reason, making Dick hiss, but Slade's hands never left him. That was alright. Dick could rest, as long as Slade didn't leave. Slade always protected him.

Dick slumped against the sloped tile, only his face and knees peeking out from the water. The heat was soaking into his muscles, relaxing them, freeing his mind up from trying to suppress the stiff pain. Slade didn't speak, but he made wordless sounds as he poured water carefully over Dick's hair, wetting it until it stuck to his ears and neck and jaw.

Dick hummed in approval. Slade made a sound that was probably relieved.

That was good.

Slade kept up the rhythm of washing and rinsing with practiced hands until the itch of sweat was gone, leaving only Dick's aches to distract him. He hated the clamps, hated not being able to get away from them, how constant and unchanging they were - but he'd always enjoyed the bruises after. Slade was as skilled in this as all things, so by the time Dick managed to track the pattern the bruises made across his chest and arms, they were astonishingly neat splotches of purple-black. He lifted one vague hand to touch one of the bruises on his chest, not even wanting to press into it, just to feel it under his fingers - but Slade caught his hand.

"No, Dick. No more pain."

Dick's hand went limp in Slade's grip. His vision was clearing, the gnawing ache behind his eyes indicating how long he'd been crying. He managed to take a deep breath, and felt fully awake for the first time since the rope had touched his wrist. Awake, and horribly, achingly hollow.

"Okay," he whispered. He knew Slade couldn't promise that - there would be more pain, from his hands or another's. Life was just like that.

But it wasn't worth it to argue with him.

Dick allowed himself to be manhandled, lifted from the bath and dried well enough to be bundled off to bed again. Usually, it made him glow with satisfaction, and the feel of Slade's hands nudging and pushing where he wanted Dick was enough to have him purring by the time they settled in under the covers.

Tonight, he couldn't even summon a bit of satisfaction. He didn't even feel cold, just - just heavy, like his chest was made of concrete.

They lay together for a long time. Slade stroked his hair and let him breathe, never shifting away, never growing restless. Time ticked by, with no clock to mark it. There wasn't even a shift in the light, with how well the windows kept the city out. Only the bone-deep awareness that Dick had trained into his body told him when it was going on evening. He still didn't feel any better.

He wished that was unusual. He wished, with sudden ferocity, that this whole experience was entirely new, even if it meant it was frightening.

But it wasn't. Dick had been hounded by this empty-chested, snarling feeling his whole life. He could break free of if it sometimes, but it always dragged him back under. He knew, from long years of experience, that a good nights' sleep wouldn't help. He would still feel distant and tired when he woke. His chest would still ache and his fingers and toes would still feel disconnected from his body the day after that, and the day after. There was always a chance, on nights like this, that it was the last time. That Dick wouldn't ever breathe free air again.

"It's bad," he finally managed to whisper. He didn't know how long it took him to work up the energy, but it was a long time. Slade nodded.

"I know."

Slade never tried to reassure him, never tried to go face-to-face with the gloomy, sullen hound of his depression. He just… stuck around. Kept on, never feeding the damn thing, but never trying to chase it away either.

"What if it doesn't get better?" Dick asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard in the stillness. Slade shrugged one shoulder, careful not to dislodge him.

"Then it doesn't get better."

Dick tried to consider that. He had literally travelled back in time. He had his family back. He had the world back, and the thought only made him want to cry. Dick didn't know what to do. Live like this, probably. Survive, even if it meant every day for the rest of his life felt like this one. He knew, logically, that they probably wouldn't - that he would have other good days, more bad ones, mostly middling ones. But probably wasn't certainly.

Slade was watching him. Whatever he was thinking, Dick couldn't read it behind his eye.

"I wasn't trying to take on something that wasn't mine," Slade said finally. Dick's face furrowed in confusion. Slade did this sometimes, starting a conversation in the middle, usually when Dick was tired or distracted. Dick figured it was easier for him that way, if he could pretend that Dick might not remember, or might be too tired to be angry or worse, sad.

"What?"

Slade sighed, and traced his fingers over the bruises down Dick's left arm. His eye was fixed on the ceiling - a sure sign that he didn't want to say whatever he was planning to say, but felt like he had to.

"We agreed. Neither of us could take responsibility if the other died."

Dick's stomach churned unpleasantly. He knew exactly how much they'd both meant that particular agreement, but he thought it was the effort that counted. He'd hoped that maybe Slade would remember the sound of Dick's voice, insisting that it wasn't his fault.

But he'd gone and died anyway, and even though Slade had literally turned back time to fix it, here they were, both miserable anyway. Dick buried his face in Slade's chest, and felt the steady rise and fall of his breathe. He focused on that, let the rhythm of it soothe him. He nodded to show that he was still listening, that Slade could keep going.

It took a long time. Slade just breathed, and stared at the ceiling, and held him close, for so long that Dick wondered if he was going to fall asleep.

"It was my hands. Magic like that? It needs power. Life."

Dick froze, fingers digging into Slade's ribs. He was still so sluggish, his mind refusing to move any faster than his heart was beating. He couldn't make sense of what Slade was saying, but he knew he had to.

It needs power.

That much was familiar. Magic needed to come from somewhere, just like electricity or heat. Laws of the universe. The bigger the magic, the more power it needs. But why-?

Slade pushed on.

"You were already gone. Maybe if there'd still been hospitals, it would've been different. Doesn't matter now. But your body will still alive."

Slade's voice was distant, and Dick didn't know if it was because of how he was speaking, or because of how Dick was hearing him.

It needs power. Life.

A spell like that, turning back time? Dick hadn't given much thought to how Constantine had pulled it off. But even the most powerful spells could run off of human life - or rather, death.

It was my hands.

Dick realized he was trembling. He couldn't stop, and Slade didn't squeeze him tighter. Dick dug his fingernails into Slade's ribs, sharp enough to draw blood only to heal over a moment later.

"Slade," Dick tried adjust his head so that he could look at Slade's face, but only managed to catch the bottom of his chin and jaw. "Slade, look at me."

Slade didn't look at him, but he did reach down to press Dick's hand hard against his chest, stilling the tremors and digging his fingernails in harder.

"Slade. How?"

Dick didn't know why it mattered, only that it did. That it was important, that it mattered to Slade. He tried himself that he didn't want to know, that it didn't matter.

But of course it did.

Slade took a long time to answer. Dick knew that the only reason he kept breathing was because Dick was there, curled up against his chest. When Slade went still like this, cornered by his own thoughts, he often stopped breathing entirely.

"How?" Dick asked again, as gently as he could.

"Don't ask me to choke you," was Slade's only answer.

Dick had to swallow down a scream, or a burst of tears, or… something. He didn't know. He could imagine it, suddenly, with a clarity that horrified him. The choice Slade had made, how he would have cradled what was left of Dick close and stopped his air, just for a chance to get him back.

Somehow, Dick had always known that it would be Slade who killed him.

No words mattered. They both knew that. But Dick still needed Slade to know, to understand that Dick would put his throat in Slade's hands a hundred times over, if he asked it. It wasn't a matter of trust or logic anymore - it hadn't been for a long, long time. It was just the way the universe was.

So Dick moved slowly, nudging Slade gently as he lifted one of his husband's broad, calloused hands from where it curled around Dick's wrist. Dick could tell the moment Slade clocked what he was doing, because he tried to twitch away - but he didn't yank his hand from Dick's grasp, even when it would have been the easiest thing in the world to do. He watched Dick with single-minded intensity as Dick brought his hand up to rest just above his collarbones, fingers curled up towards his neck. Dick shifted two of Slade's fingers until they were pressed right against his adam's apple, so Slade could feel it when he spoke.

"Okay," he said.

That was it. He could only agree. He wouldn't ask Slade to choke him, if that's what he needed. But he wasn't going to let him get stuck on this, waste their second chance wallowing. Dick was still tear-sticky and achy from his drop, but having Slade's hand on his neck, just resting, eased the submissive instincts still roiling in his stomach.

Eventually, they would sleep, but for now, they just lay in the dark together and breathed.

Chapter Text

Rose wouldn't give Jason the fucking keys. It was easier to seethe about it than consider that she might be right, so he held on while she weaved through Gotham traffic and half-hearted onstruction, and boiled with rage.

Dick and his fucking dramatics. Jason had a plan. Most of a plan. The details kept changing, but that wasn't the point.

At the very least, Jason deserved a moment of fucking … something. A beat to show everyone that yeah, he was alive and weren't they all shocked? Just a few minutes to let it sink in, before he disappeared back into the night or shot Bruce in the knee or whatever the fuck he decided to do. He hadn't made up his mind yet. That wasn't the point.

Jason deserved to decide how he wanted to come back to life, and instead, Dick decided to drop the news that he'd fucking time-travelled. Back from the god-damned shitting apocalypse.

So Jason got the scraps. A slightly constipated expression on Bruce's face, full-on tears from Babs that Jason couldn't do anything but acknowledge awkwardly. No cathartic fistfight or thrilling chase, no mystery and carefully-controlled reveal. Just a thousand old memories clamoring for a space in Jason's new body, his new life.

He should've damn well stayed in Chicago.

The abandoned office building that Rose took them to had been cleverly retrofitted to house a hidden garage and a snug safehouse. It wasn't much more than a workshop, a few beds, and a kitchen, but it was good enough for the likes of them. She ignored him, except for jabbing her finger in the direction of the bathroom.

"Shower. Don't come back out till you've got your head on straight."

Jason snarled, but he'd learned the hard way that there was no arguing with Rose. She didn't flinch when he slammed his helmed onto a worktable, just rolled her eyes and started rummaging in the cabinets for food. She wouldn't cook it, thank god - that was Jason's job - but at least she could see what was stocked.

The hot water didn't help Jason's temper. It choked his throat, made his fists clench and his toes curl. Ever since he'd woken up, his body had been brimming with anger, and nowhere for it to go. Whether it was the Pit or the trauma of dying and coming back to life, or just normal fucking hormones catching up to him late was anyone's guess.

Didn't Buce deserve at least some of that anger? Shouldn't he have to carry at least a portion of it, for everything he'd done?

Jason only gave up on the shower when it became clear that he was going to scald his skin off if he kept it up. He emerged damp and still vibrating, determined to at least take a stab at normalcy, if just to keep Rose off of his fucking back about it.

She took one look at him and rolled her eyes again.

"Alright, champ, fine. If that's how it's gonna be, fine by me."

Jason didn't know how she did it, always looking right through whatever act Jason put on. But he couldn't deny he was relieved. The red-hot feeling in his body cooled, sharpened, as he followed her through a creaky door to a bare room with a mat covering the floor. Rose shed her shoes, but otherwise gave Jason no warning or time to prepare.

In the space between one thought and the next, they were fighting. There wasn't room for rumination or plots, because Rose was too damned fast. Of all the people Jason had trained with, Rose was one of the few he didn't have to worry about hurting - she was just too good.

So he didn't. He let the veneer fall away, and let himself just be angry.

Jason craved the impact of violence, but Rose was too canny for that. Jason hit hard, hard enough to do real damage - so she just didn't let his blows connect. A glancing hit there, a lunge redirected to a roll there and that was all. Jason was drunk with it, suddenly just as furious with her, with the air between them, the mat under their feet. He knew it made him sloppy, but he didn't give a single fuck. Rose certainly didn't. He had no idea how long he chased her around the room, attempting to grapple or hit or even bite, but he knew the moment she decided they were done.

She slid past him smoother than water, and suddenly her entire weight was hanging from his neck and shoulders, heavier than a submission grip, more brutal than the praise of a firm hand.

"Yield," she said, simple and stern.

And Jason yielded.

It was submission, and it was nothing like submission. Jason's body didn't do that anymore, didn't flood him with the chemicals that would make the world go soft and safe and hazy. But even dominants could be overpowered; even submissives could fly high on focus and power. Jason's mind didn't still so much as grind to a halt, suddenly aware of his trembling, exhausted body.

Rose pulled them both down to the mat, forcing Jason down flat on his belly.

"Good," she said, and one word of praise from her was enough to chase the host of the anger away. Jason was left, empty and tired and his chest aching with long-neglected grief. Rose ruffled his hair, and sat on the mat next to him for a long time while Jason caught his breath. While he packed that grief away where it belonged, where it would wait until it was safe to open it.

Finally, he flipped over to sprawl on his back.

"Fuck. Sorry, I just- fuck. Thanks, I guess," Jason finally managed. Rose shrugged.

"You're welcome, I guess," she said. "Can't have you snapping at every tiny fucking thing. Plus I'm hungry and I am not eating burnt chili again."

"That was one time," Jason muttered, but let her pull him up. She laughed.

"Yeah, but it was a very memorable time."

Jason… couldn't argue that. So he didn't, just set to work turning the canned goods she'd found into an actual meal. Rose took advantage of his distraction to take her own shower, and emerged with soaking hair and clad in her version of pajamas - a tank top and sweats.

She perched on the edge of the counter while Jason worked, a habit Jason hadn't been able to break.

"So. Nightwing & my dad. Apocalypse. Sheesh."

Jason groaned.

"I don't really want to talk about this, Rose." He kept his eyes firmly on the pot that he was stirring occasionally, even though it didn't really need his undivided attention.

"Yeah no shit. This one's for me, dumbass."

Fuck. Jason squeezed the wooden spatula, hard enough to indent his palm. He pulled two bowls out of the cabinet, spooned a careful amount of makeshift stew into each. He nodded as he handed Rose her bowl. He didn't look at her as he took his own seat at the folding table, but that was alright. She knew he was listening.

"Did you notice that 'Wing didn't say what happened to me? Or Joey?"

Jason cursed himself again internally, but shook his head. He hadn't noticed that, too caught up in his own issues. Rose shoved a mouthful of stew into her mouth and then had to make "ha ha haaa" sounds to try to cool it off, just like she always did.

"Yeah, something pretty fucked up must've happened. Probably didn't have anything to do with aliens or whatever."

Jason winced. Rose was alarmingly correct.

"And did you see Dad? Barely looked at me. You know how weird that is? Like, he's a weird guy. Can't show affection worth a damn. But he kind of watches me, you know? When he thinks I'm not looking. Since he got back from his little time-travel adventure, though? Not so much."

Rose was right. Whatever had happened? It must've been bad.

Jason wanted to ask about it. Poke at the question to see what moved. Provoke Rose into exploding with whatever feelings she was mulling over about the whole situation. Knowing you'd died horribly was one thing; knowing that you would die horribly was another.

Not on Jason's fucking watch.

"Probably explains why he shipped me off to Chicago to keep your ass out of trouble," Jason offered by way of apology. Rose snorted.

"Oh, sure, that's what happened."

Jason stood to collect her bowl when she held it out, splitting the rest of the pot's contents between them.

"That's how I remember it."

The rest of their evening settled into a familiar routine of ribbing and chores. Rose washed the dishes, Jason checked the security. Rose did weapons maintenance, Jason took care of the bike. They chatted idly, sometimes dropping a conversation for whole minutes only to come back to it mid-thought later. It was the easiest fucking thing Jason had ever known. It was even easy, when they were both finished, to settle into bed next to each other.

Even the first time they'd done this, when Jason wasn't sure whether he was more afraid that she had some sort of expectations or whether she was going to cut his balls off if he breathed wrong, it had been easy. She'd just turned her back to him and told him not to grope her, and that had been that.

Even now, they slept back-to-back, both of them feeling a little easier for having someone looking the other direction. Like keeping watch, or pretending you didn't see the other person crying. Fuck if Jason knew.

"I don't know how we win this one, Rose," Jason whispered long after they'd turned the lights off. He knew she was still awake. Her answering scoff sounded tired.

"What, you can come back from the dead, but you can't do a little community building? Fuck that, go to sleep."

So Jason did.

Tim's brain was waterlogged with information. Fully past its saturation point. He couldn't think, it was all just stuff to remember, clogging up all of his neurons. The second Bruce was distracted arguing with Deathstroke about Dick staying in the manor that night, Tim slipped away, fingers already itching for his keyboard.

The desktop he kept in his bedroom wasn't Cave-levels of good, but it was fine for the sort of work Time needed right now. He booted up the stripped-down database program that Babs had helped him customize so that he could visualize information in a way that made sense to him, connecting it all like an intricate web that he had minute control over.

Both fact and speculation were dumped in one long string of typing. Tim started roughly at the beginning of the day, but followed his thoughts wherever they took him, trying to just get it down fast enough that nothing got away. The Audit and the Auditors, time-travel, every detail of that future timeline, every interaction he'd noted between Dick and Wilson, every expression of Jason's that he'd recognized plus those he hadn't, everything he already knew about climate change, violent crime, systemic injustice, gender equity, racial bias, rising ocean levels and voting fraud, failures of education and medical malpractice - every single issue that Tim had ever noted, even in passing, was finally getting its day in the sun.

If there was something useful here, Tim would find it.

The training regimen that Bruce kept to in order to ensure that his body would keep functioning even if his mind failed him, and vise versa, was intense. But events like today were proof of its necessity. Later, Bruce would review the cave footage to figure out exactly how he had let Dick, Jason, and Damian all leave within so much as lifting a finger to stop them. He would analyze everything he had done, everything that Wilson and his daughter had done, find the flaws in his approach. Next time, he would be ready.

Right now, his body simply moved, following Cassandra's tense shadow up out of the Cave, into the kitchen where she waited with Alfred. He sat at the head of the table. He didn't flinch when Alfred laid a rare hand on his shoulder.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said, and Bruce's body coukd his head to show that he was listening. "Master Timothy has retreated to his room. I believe him likely to spend the entire night working, if no one interferes."

Bruce's body nodded, made the course of action, followed through. He pushed out his chair and stood and nodded to Alfred as he left. He walked up to Tim's room. The door was closed, so Bruce knocked.

Tim's muffled "come in" was delayed rnough that Bruce knew he must be working. He would've needed a moment to hide his data, as he always did when there was a chance Bruce might look over his shoulder.

Bruce opened the door. He picked his way across the floor and sat on the edge of the bed facing Tim.

"Hey Tim. Alfred sent me up to check on you."

When in crisis, tell your allies the simplest truth, leave out the details. Need-to-know only. Tim winced. Bruce recalculated, without thinking about it, without considering. His mouth moved and words came out.

"It's okay to be overwhelmed. It's been a big day."

Bruce wasnt even sure where those words had come from. Dick, maybe? He could do worse than to use Dick's strategies to talk to Tim.

Tim didn't respond, but his shoulders did loosen a bit. He shrugged noncomitally. His chair weaved back and forth, and he didn't look directly at Bruce. That was for the best. Bruce opened his mouth again, but this time no words came out. He shut it again. He was just exactly within arms reach to drape his hand over one of Tim's skinny shoulders.

His palm didn't land at the junction of neck and shoulder, like he would have done for Dick or Jason, habits of dominance that were as easy as shaking hands. Instead, Bruce's hand landed on the outside of Tim's shoulder, bracing, respectful. It was a gesture for acknowledging another dominant, not so different than the motion Brucie used when he was charming board members and potential vendors.

It wasn't lost on Tim, who straightened abruptly under the contact. His eyes snapped up to Bruce's face. Bruce just nodded. He couldn't think of anything to say, but Tim didn't seem to mind. His expression was open and exposed in a way that Bruce hadn't seen in a long time now. He nodded again, and hoped that Tim understood how proud he was.

When Tim's face cracked into a timid smile, Bruce's face did too.

Cassandra hovered. It was a new word, and she liked it. It was like lurking or waiting, but harmless. Gentle.

She hovered in the kitchen. Alfred sent Bruce up to check on Tim. Cass could tell that Bruce was only part-Bruce, but that was okay. Tim didn't need Batman. He just needed to be not-alone. Alfred was very good at that. He always knew how to give people what they needed.

Cass couldn't do that. She knew all of the problems that everyone had been yelling about. Violence and hunger and injustice. She knew those. But everyone had ideas how to solve them. No one knew for sure. Alfred always knew.

So Cass hovered. Maybe if she watched Alfred, she could learn.

Alfred watched Bruce to go, and sighed. Tired, tired, tired. But also proud-relieved.

"Well, my girl. That went better than expected," Alfred said. Cass nodded.

Alfred watched her, still and straight. Like a structure, something that didn't bend or move on it's own. A tree, maybe. A sturdy one.

"And shall I guess what you are hoping for?" Alfred asked. His voice sounded teasing, but Cass could tell it was genuine. Cass tried to open her mouth to explain, to tell him that she didn't know what she was hoping for. She wanted to know how he did it.

But the words were too hard. Even Cass's hands, when she tried to use them, were too small. Too precise, not broad enough. So she shrugged again.

And maybe Alfred could read bodies the way she could, because he seemed to understand.

"Ah. Well, these are extraordinary times, aren't they?" His gesture for Cass to follow him to the counter was small. Cass moved slow, so that she wouldn't startle. "And it is difficult to know what can be done, in the face of such-" Alfred trailed off. It was the kind of quiet that people used when they were thinking of a word. Cass waited patiently. "-such reckless hate."

Cass had never heard Alfred sound like that before. Not tired. More than tired. Like sick, but in his chest. Sick heart. Cass lifted her hand, slowly, carefully, placed her fingers directly over his sternum. She could feel his breathing through the many layers of his clothes, but not his heartbeat. She cocked her head to the side in question.

Alfred side, and pressed his hand over hears for a moment. When he let go, Cass did too.

"Yes, my dear. I'm afraid I am heartsick. I am an old man, and I have seen many terrible things. One never stops hoping that they will get better, that the next generation will be wiser than your own."

Cass didn't understand, but that was okay. Heart-sick. She understood that. She didn't like to be alone when she was heart-sick. Alfred took a breath, like pulling on a pair of gloves.

"Well, now. I have yet to find an ill that a good cup of tea can't improve. Fetch me that tin, will you?"

Cass followed each of Alfred's instructions precisely. She learned how to prepare the pot for boiling, how much water to use. She learned how to measure the heat just from the steam. She learned that there were many different kinds of tea, and they all had to be made differently. This time, she learned Earl Gray. It smelled good. Like mornings and breakfast and being outside in the sun.

And as she sat at the kitchen table with Alfred, sipping their tea in silence, she turned over his words in her head.

I have yet to find an ill that a good cup of tea can't improve.

There were more teas to learn. Cass could learn them all.

Babs worked through the night more often than Leslie would have liked, and tonight was no exception.

There was always more to be done. Babs had learned the hard way that she couldn't be the only one to do it, so she relied on informants and automated programs and a complex system of prioritization to keep her focused on what was most important.

The problem now was that it was all the most important.

They had a calendar year to make real, measureable improvements to Gotham, and they didn't have a metric on what "improvement" meant. What would an invasion of judgemental, all-powerful aliens care about? Number of violent deaths? Number of people hospitalized with malnutrition or dehydration? Graduation rates? Incarceration percentages?

Babs took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. She reminded herself that they were still at the pre-operation phase. She didn't have to make decisions yet, just gather information. Thorough information was the difference between success and defeat. Babs just had to track it down, compile everything they might need, highlight the early patterns. It wasn't different than what she did the rest of the time, even if it was on a larger scale.

No one else could do this. No one else had the access, the skills, the experience. There was so much that Babs couldn't do anymore, but only she could do this.

So when her eyes started to burn, she put her eyedrops. When her head started to droop, she brewed another pot of coffee.

Only she could do this.

Chapter Text

Fleeing the room when Aba and Wilson started fighting like that was a self-defense tactic that Damian had developed early and clung to like a lifeline. There were just some things he never needed to hear, even if it meant following Timothy around downtown Gotham, navigating a bus system that was frustratingly similar but not quite the same as he remembered.

Neither of them was old enough to drive. The trip to the Clocktower took nearly a full hour.

It was odd, having to look up to Timothy again. Damian just couldn't stop noticing how small he was. Even slouched against the rail in the elevator that lead up to the Clocktower, Damian's head barely cleared Timothy's waist. Thankfully, everything in the Clocktower was designed to be reachable from a wheelchair, so Damian had no trouble reaching any of the elevator's buttons. Timothy was watching him, of course, and Damian might even have missed it if he wasn't so used to it. Instead, he decided to ignore it. He was curious to discover later what Timothy observed about him, and between the two of them, Damian had always been more comfortable with silence.

Damian was glad of that advantage now. He knew, logically, that Timothy posed no real threat to him - he was not yet the formidable fighter he would grow into, nor yet a powerful dominant. More than that, he had no reason to treat Damian with aggression.

But the body that Damian had been abruptly dumped back into was very, very well practiced in treating anyone older and larger than him with suspicion and wariness. It didn't matter that Timothy wouldn't pull a poisoned blade on him; the close confines of the elevator was enough to make Damian's teeth clench.

It was a relief to abandon the elevator in favor of the Clocktower's wide-open space. Everything here was farther apart than the norm in American homes, designed to be easily accessible by wheelchair - the face that it also made it easy to fight, to watch one's back, that was merely a pleasant bonus.

Damian had never spent as much time here as some of the others. Stephanie and Cassandra both had lived with Barbara at varying points, Tim had trained hard under Oracle for a stretch of time in his late teens, and Dick retreated here whenever he needed to hide from both Father and Wilson. Damian was pleased at the chance to learn it anew, and to meet Barbara again - with less people around to muddy the waters. Putting even just Jason and Father in a room together was a fraught exercise; Damian was still surprised that their little get-together in the Cave with everyone currently involved hadn't ended in outright violence. This was better. Timothy and Barbara were… restful. Not predictable, exactly, but direct, sharp-edged, easy to follow. Damian didn't have to worry about currents of emotions running dangerously fast under the surface where he couldn't see.

For instance, it was very easy to tell that while Barbara was wary and concerned about a child suddenly appearing in her life and casing the Clocktower with the habit of a professional, she was also already considering everything that could possibly go wrong and how she could be prepared for it. It was the way she watched him as they emerged, clear-eyed and focused, even through her apparent exhaustion. Barbara moved to the open living space clustered around a low coffee table, and so Damian followed suit, greeting her politely before settling on one end of the sofa. It was a deliberate choice - Damian remembered that Timothy didn't like to sit close enough to another that they might brush up against each other by accident. This would go better if Tim could settle comfortably in the arm chair and not be on edge the entire time.

"It's good to meet you, Damian. Well, to meet you again," Barbara said gently. Damian almost wanted to begrudge her that, but he had to admit that it was probably just her Batgirl training showing - they all learned to approach children carefully, or they suffered Bruce's awkward training sessions.

Besides that, it was just good to see her alive.

"I am pleased to see you again, as well," he told her gravely. Timothy handed her a mug of coffee as he settled, and then fixed his attention on Damian.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I mean. It's weird to meet you. But like, good."

Damian inclined his head in agreement. It was, in fact, weird.

"I understand. Aside from the complications of time travel, it was uncomfortable for everyone to learn that Father had sired a child."

Timothy nearly snorted out his coffee. Damian was unsure whether it was the thought itself, or Damian's casual use of the word 'sire'. He'd always struggled the most with Damian's particular use of English. Barbara just sighed.

"I suppose that's as good a place to start as any. Your mother is Talia?"

It was more a question of confirmation than inquiry. Damian nodded.

"Yes. I am currently six years old, nearly seven. I believe that their relationship was conducted over the space of roughly a year, though I've never been able to confirm it."

Timothy pulled a face, and this time it was definitely at the thought of Father in a romantic relationship. Timothy had a long and difficult road ahead of him.

"You'd think with how strict he is about dating, he'd learn how to wrap it," Tim muttered. Barbara stifled a life. Damian rolled his eyes. He'd heard it all before, and it had long since lost its original sting.

"I believe that my existence is all the incentive he will need in order to practice more caution in the future," Damian informed him archly.

There was a beat of silence, and then laughter. Damian's lip curled up in a smile. It had taken him many, many years, but he'd finally gotten the hang of the basics of humor. In this instance, it was an excellent tool for breaking the tension, everyone settling back so that they could really dig into their shared goals.

"Man, that is a weird thing to hear a six-year-old say," Tim complained. "No offense, man. But like. You're so small."

Damian sighed, aggrieved. "I am aware. But I am not, in fact, six years old. I am twenty-eight, and I would prefer for everyone to attempt to remember that."

Barbara set her coffee aside in order to pull up a selection of databases on the TV screen facing them.

"Well. I can't help you with that, but I did at least get your legal identity sorted out."

It was much the same as it had been - Damian had always had the advantage of not needing forged documents. Bruce Wayne was in fact his father, and it wasn't uncomon for children born abroad to be lacking birth certificates. There were forms that were easy enough to fill out, and then fast track - especially if you were Oracle.

"We'll need a blood sample for the paternity test," Barbara reminded him, "And I thought you'd prefer to give it voluntarily."

Damian nodded. "Yes, thank you. I'll leave you with a sample. I would also request a small range of undercover identities, capable of holding up to varying levels of scrutiny. At least one of them should be linked to one of Richard's identities."

"You're six," Tim protested. Damian shrugged one shoulder.

"Plenty of time to make them convincing, then."

Barbara was already logging the details. She had everything set up so that identities didn't take too long to start, at least. Damian would have at least one set of documents by the end of the week. Perhaps a bit longer, if Gotham City hadn't yet managed to switch all of their databases over to digital. Damian couldn't remember precisely what year that had been started, but he did know that it had taken at least eight years to complete.

Both Tim and Barbara had that particular look on their faces - the one the mean that Tim was trying to sort through all the details of what had happened, and why and how, and who had known, and Barbara was planning for what came next, for every possible eventuality, no matter how remote. Damian wasn't a fool; he knew that they were suspicious of him, of the situation as a whole. Just yesterday they'd suffered both Deathstroke and his daughter's presence in the Batcave, and now Ra's al-Ghul's grandchild was sitting in the Clocktower.

That was even harder to swallow than time travel. At least they had a frame of reference for time travel, files on it, stories from their magical and speedster friends. But everything they knew, everything Father had ever taught them, was telling them to be cautious, to verify every detail, that this whole thing was just too many remarkable things at once to be taken at face value.

Bats didn't believe in miracles.

So Damian submitted to their distracted, rapid-fire questions with as much grace as he could. Yes, he was certain that he had been conceived under perfectly normal circumstances, if a relationship between his parents could be considered normal. No, he wasn't inclined towards murder. Yes, he was certain that he wasn't a sleeper agent or something equally ludicrous. Yes, he remembered the Audit, and the apocalypse that followed. No, he didn't want to talk about it, but yes he would answer their questions as best as he could.

Thankfully, they were both too busy asking their questions and sorting through his answers to care much about Damian's natural brusqueness. He had come a long way from his first childhood, but Damian would never be as inclined towards social niceties as Richard, or even as skilled as Father. He had benefited greatly from therapy, but he still found social engagement taxing, even through the lens of reports and mission planning.

It was one of the reasons he worked so well with Richard - they barely needed to speak at all to work together, and even when Richard was prattling away, he had absolutely no requirements of Damian besides his presence.

When Damian's feet started to go numb from dangling off the couch, he pulled them up and tucked his feet underneath him. When his stomach started to rumble, Tim paused to order them pizza. Damian nearly spoke up to request Thai food before he remembered that food delivery services weren't common enough to accommodate every possible taste yet. Even in Gotham, the only restaurants that delivered were the ones that kept drivers on staff themselves. Pizza would have to do.

In truth, Damian wasn't even certain what to hope for from this little rendezvous. He just knew that the longer everyone had to ruminate on things without intervention, the higher the odds that someone would do something rash. That, and Richard had definitely needed time alone with Wilson, and Damian wasn't ready to face the Manor yet.

Perhaps he was not ready to face Barbara and Timothy yet, either. The longer their questions went on, even with the food as a buffer, the more Damian could feel exhaustion pulling at his eyelids, the more his skin started to feel too tight. He knew that his first childhood had thoroughly beat out any consideration for his own physical comfort; he'd often tolerated long bouts of attention from his grandfather during training, and retreat had never been an option.

But back then, Damian hadn't known any better. He hadn't known that not everyone grew tense and frustrated just from being perceived. No one had ever noticed that his neck and shoulders grew tense after being required to speak for too long, or that he dug his fingernails into his palms hard enough to bleed when things were too loud, never mind told him that it mattered. Richard had been the first.

Now, Damian knew that he was dangerously close to over-stimulation, and probably drop too, if he wasn't careful. His presentation had been frustrating early, having manifested six months earlier than he remembered. It wasn't really cause for concern; stress, neglect, and abuse were all factors in early presentation. Personally, Damian thought that something about twenty-eight years worth of memories in a child's body was probably stress enough, aside from the condition the League kept him in.

It was Timothy who finally interrupted his own questions to check on him.

"Woah, Damian, you good?"

Damian nodded mechanically. Then he paused, tried to pay attention to his body, and had to immediately retreat. He shook his head.

"I- I am- Do you have more questions?" he asked. Barbara set her keyboard aside and wheeled close enough to reach for him. He flinched away, but managed to grab her hand before she could pull it away.

"Nothing that won't keep," she told him sternly. "Damian, what's wrong?"

Damian swallowed hard, twice, to clear his throat, and kept his eyes fixed on the map of Nanda Parbat splashed across the TV.

"I am. Overstimulated. That is all," he told her carefully. He did not want either of them to panic, thinking him triggered by discussion of the League or his history. Barbara shifted her hand so that it was closed around his ridiculously small one. It made Damian both want to keen and flee. "And dropping, as well. Perhaps."

Barbara swore under her breathe, tried to censor herself, and then remembered that Damian wasn't actually six and could probably be allowed to hear a few curse words. Tim was sitting straight up, gaze fixed on Damian.

"Aren't you… a little young for that?" Timothy asked. Damian tried not to bristle at the question.

"Yes," he informed them. "I believe my mind's memories are impacting my body in some ways. I." Damian swallowed, struggling to find words, his too-small body shivering with the overwhelm of trying to ask for things, when it only knew retribution for such boldness. "I- Dark. Please. The lights."

Thankfully, that was enough for both Timothy and Barbara. Timothy didn't even have to leap up from the chair to reach a light switch, since Barbara had everything wired so that she could control it from her keyboard.

The overhead lights cut out, leaving only the ambient glow of Oracle's many screens. It wasn't ideal, but infinitely preferable. Damian closed his eyes and crossed his hands across is chest. Tapping his fingers against his opposite elbows was an old coping mechanism that he hadn't been forced to use in many years - but it was the only one that his body could summon.

"Dames?" Timothy's voice startled him with it's closeness, even quiet as it was. Damian did not open his eyes, just nodded to show he was listening. "Do you want some blankets?"

Damian nodded. Weighted blankets wouldn't be common household items yet, but he seemed to remember that Timothy also benefited from the closeness and weight of at least a duvet. The blanket that Timothy draped over his front seemed to be some sort of quilt - not weighted, but heavy enough to help. Damian pulled it tight around him, tilted his head back against he couch, and focused on ignoring everything around him.

There were few things Babs had experienced more surreal than a baby assassin having what appeared to be some sort of combination shut-down/subdrop on her couch. Tim was watching with hawk-like vigilance, which she could admit was pretty endearing. Tim was barely more than a kid himself.

Damian was asleep within minutes, which was the best corroboration of Dick's time-travel story that Babs could have asked for. No way a kid raised by Talia and Ra's al-Ghul would let himself fall asleep in a stranger's company.

No, Damian trusted them. Trusted her.

Exhausted as she was, that cut through.

This seven-year-old kid trusted her, because in another life, she had earned his trust. Which meant there was still work to be done.

Babs gestured quietly for Tim to come sit next to her so he could help her without the two fo them having to talk aloud. His own laptop was hooked into her network, which allowed him to start on whatever tedious parts of identity fabrication that Babs sent him. Tim would be a deft hand with computers someday, if Babs ever found the time to teach him. He had the perspective for it, seeing every part of the whole simultaneously. He understood how systems operated, motion and direction and connection. He understood how information talked to itself.

Damian would need more than just civilian identities though. Bruce and Dick were fools if they thought they would keep Damian out of the field entirely; and Damian was a fool if he thought he was going to be allowed full latitude in a seven-year-old's body. Which meant there were quiet allocations to be made towards sturdy, flexible fabrics and appropriates for gadgets and weapons. Babs didn't know enough yet to be able to make specific choices for Damian's style, but that was alright. He had time to grow into himself. For now, the basics would do, something to hide his civilian identity and keep him agile and safe.

Commissioning a new suit was a tricky business, since it meant sending innocuous requests to several divisions within WayneTech R&D tha twould all eventually find their way to Lucius's desk. He would be able to get everything assembled with no one the wiser, but he didn't appreciate having to do it on a rush. Hopefully the measurements on this one would be enough to make him kick it up on his to-do list.

Tim leaned over Babs's shoulder to give silent input on her overall designs. She kept it deliberately simple - no flashy colors or distinctive emblems. She had her suspicions about what identity Damian had run around under in his early days, but she didn't want to rock the boat by bringing it up. Babs started with simple neutrals, blacks and browns that could be updated or embellished easily, and a silhouette somewhere between the silent, baggy clothes the League used and the classic Batman shape. Damian could meet with direclty with Lucius to make any adjustments.

Know what it reminds me of? Tim messaged her.

What? She replied, sending off the last few messages, disguised as internal requests.

Tim replied with a picture of a tiny, adorable pipistrelle bat.

Babs looked from the picture, to the rough design, to the kid asleep on her couch. She was forced to agree.