[@infernal-fox asks: what happened between Slade and Nightwing [in And Monarchs to Behold]?]
It was a favor to Raās al Ghul.
Eventually heād learn that sentence never ended well for him. He told himself that every time he bowed to a whim of his old mentor. Eventually heād learn, but it still always felt like something small and easy at the timeāa dinner meeting to discuss potential future prospects, but with no binding agreement. An exchange of data over a common nuisance with Talia as a go-between.
A request that Deathstroke the Terminator use his house as a way into a brief assassination.
Oh, it wouldnāt take place at his house, no need to worryā but if Deathstroke could simply use him as a door into a party, well, that would minimize danger, and he knew how Bruce always loved to keep Gotham feeling nice and safe. Heād even ask that Deathstroke make it look like an accident, so that no alarm over more high-profile murders in Gotham could be raised.
Raās knew how Bruce felt about that sort of thing.
(Talia knew how Bruce felt about that sort of thing, he thought, and didnāt put it past her to scold her father into some semblance of civility.)
ā¦but all the same, heād yet to learn his lesson, and decided a debt was a debt, and heād never been good at paying debts off.
So Deathstroke would have a safehouse and stepping off point in Wayne Manor for one night.
ā¦Deathstroke would not have a safehouse in the Batcave. That was off limits still, and Bruce would stay up all night on vigil if he had to, but aside from the Batcave, Bruce hadā¦ recently acquired more to worry about.
ā¦Dick was twelve, now. Starting to want to venture out on his own. Sometimes he did so without permission. All Bruce could do was try and make sure he kept as safe as he could. Was as trained as he could. Gave him a warning, even though the rule was no one out more than an hour from the manor at nightā
But it was daytime, and Dick was awake at the breakfast table on the day of the Terminatorās presence, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and pouring milk into his cereal at the big mahogany table. Some splashed out the side of the bowl.
There were bruises under his nightshirt from the days before. They showed whenever he shifted and his neckline fell or his sleeves rode up.
There wasnāt any butler to make their guest an omelette or benedict, or even to set out the bowl of cereal before Dick awoke alongside orange juice and bacon.
Dick just blinked his bleary eyes at Deathstroke, and passed down the multigrain animal shapes to him, and dug into his breakfast.
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