idea--post Chemo and all that bad blood between Slade and Dick, Slade's ended up a prisoner in some underground meta operation. he's spending his time there brooding because the few people on this planet that he loved are all dead and he's not and he's half punishing himself for that
then he spots a new prisoner, a kid with startlingly blue eyes who hisses and spits at her captors in a very familiar way and tells all of them that when her Mommy and Daddy find her, they're all going to be sorry
Slade, for the first time in a long time, finds himself intrigued
anyway I need a Slade gets semi-attached to Mar'i Grayson while on the run around the world fic
Dick: the man who blew up my city has my daughter
meanwhile, Slade is braiding Mar'i's hair because she wanted it pinned back like his
(she took approximately seven seconds to have Slade wrapped around her little finger)
also the delicious whump that would come out of a fic of Slade, enhancements suppressed by a collar but still very fucking dangerous, trying to get this little girl home to her parents
a Slade that's bitter and hurt, that's lost everything that kept him human, that hates the hero community and everything it stands for because it took away everyone from him
that Slade looking at this little six-year-old spitfire and seeing Grant. Joey. Rose. having one split second thought of if my kids were here
mate the sladedick wip you posted got me absolutely UNHINGED!!!!
Slade pretends he doesn't hear Dick suppressing his sobs in the bathroom as he bandages his bruises ribs and disinfecting his cuts. He's gotten back from patrol way earlier than usual. Slade knows the reason. Ever since the Robin boy died, Grayson has been struck by grief – and struck by Wayne. It's the second time the kid goes home with bruises from him. It makes Slade as rabid as a lion on a killing rampage.
He waits until Grayson is asleep next to him in the bed to slip out silently. He needs to think. He needs to think about how he's going to kill that son of a bitch even if it's the last thing he does on this wretched Earth.
Oh God Jelly, I'm FERAL FOR THIS
Dick doesnt want Slade to worry so he hides in the bathroom and does his best to stay quiet 😩💘 But Slade knows because of course he does and he will do everything it takes to make Bruce pay for hurting his little bird AHHHH!!!
Its so freaking good, thank you so much for that!!!! 💕💕
Dick stared at the baby in the cradle, frozen to the spot, unable to breathe. He was so…small. Tiny. His little hand was formed into a fist and he was making soft little breaths and some part of Dick was drowning in happiness. It felt like the world had narrowed down to the little curl of the baby’s mouth and his heart rose and fell with the infant’s breaths.
Nothing else mattered. Not the aches and pains throughout his body, not the dread and anxiety twisting his gut, not the ticking clock hanging above his head. His baby was here and that was enough.
“Damian,” Dick sounded out. Not a name he’d picked—it was ill luck to pick a name before the babe was born, and Dick had no time to think of one before it’d been pronounced. “Dami,” Dick shortened, and that felt better. “Baby bat,” he whispered, the forbidden name hanging heavy in the air.
Damian was a part of the Bat pack, no matter what Ra’s al Ghul thought. Dick was a part of the Bat pack. And it was long past time that they went back home.
Dick adjusted the supply pack so it wasn’t cutting into his shoulders and reached into the cradle. “Shh,” he hummed as he carefully scooped Damian up. “Shh, it’s okay, Dami, Mama’s here.” The babe woke up with a fussing sound and Dick hastily brought him closer. “It’s okay,” he crooned, an eye on the door as his heart beat faster. “Shh, it’s okay.”
Damian’s eyes fluttered open, one hand flailing at the movement, but then subsided, yawning wide and curling closer against Dick’s neck, breathing in his scent and relaxing. The babe made a slight smacking sound and fell silent again, falling straight asleep.
Dick let out a shaky breath and fought the urge to cry. He’d been terrified that Damian wouldn’t recognize him—it had been just a handful of days, Dick knew that, but between Ra’s al Ghul’s gloating and the others’ refusal to tell him how much time had passed, Dick had half-feared that the pup would have no idea who he was. It was part of the reason that had spurred Dick into getting them out now.
“We’re going to be okay,” Dick whispered, drawing the cloak around them both.
The keep was silent, the corridors yawning and empty, and every near-silent footfall rose his apprehension. It was the witching hour, late enough that everyone was asleep, and Dick stuck to the shadows as he avoided the patrols. If he got caught now—well, Dick didn’t put it past Ra’s to throw him in a cell now that he’d served his purpose.
Dick kept glancing over his shoulder, worried that this whole thing was a trap, but no one spotted him. No one shouted or raised the alarm. No one stopped him from crossing the courtyard and slipping out of an unlocked wooden gate, Ra’s al Ghul’s precious heir slumbering in his arms.
“We’re going home, Dami,” Dick breathed out when the keep’s walls finally disappeared from sight. The pack he hadn’t seen in nearly a year, his family, his siblings, Bruce, home. Tears pricked at his eyes as he took a wavering breath. “We’re finally going home.”
~#~
Dick was exhausted. He gave birth just days ago, and while fleeing the League pack had been aided by adrenaline, the effects had long worn off. The brief jolt of fear when he'd been captured by the Defiance pack hadn't lasted long after the alpha agreed to let Dick travel with them.
But the alpha had made it clear they wouldn't take any freeloaders. They were aiming to get through the mountains before the winter storms hit, and Dick swore that he wouldn't be a hindrance. Maybe slightly exaggerated how long it'd been since Damian's birth.
But he would do anything to get away from Ra's. Through the mountain meant back to the valley, back to the Bat pack, it had been nearly a year and Dick desperately wished to go home.
His feet ached. The first few days hadn't been that bad, with frequent stops and an easy path, but there were growing clouds on the horizon and it was clear that time was running out. If they didn't make it through the pass before the storm hit, they'd be stuck here till spring.
And Dick had tried to keep up with the increased pace, he really had, but Damian was a heavy weight tight against his chest, and the pack grew heavier by the hour, and Dick's trembling muscles grew weaker and weaker. He'd expected to fall behind, to slip past the other members of the pack, struggling up the path as the others disappeared from view, but he'd kept his position in a small knot at the back of the pack, with a few of the pack's warriors bringing up the rear.
Some of the others had offered to carry Damian for him, with sincere, open expressions, but Dick wasn't ready to let go of his son. Not now. Not when he still remembered the way Ra's ripped him away just moments after his birth.
But now they were stopped for the night, and Dick could take a moment to breathe. Breathe, and ignore the throbbing pain in his feet and the fire in his muscles and the shakiness and the increasing dread of what tomorrow would bring.
Damian made a sharp cry and Dick exhaled.
His baby was moderately well behaved when Dick was holding him, but gods forbid Dick settle him down, even to clean him up. Damian protested shrilly every time. It was a trial to get him to sleep at night and was definitely the reason that Dick arranged his furs away from the others. This pack was already giving him shelter and food and safety, he couldn't repay them with a wailing babe.
Dick finished cleaning Damian and untied enough of his cloak and tunic to bare a breast. Damian immediately began suckling, and Dick's own stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't picked up his dinner ration.
Dick squinted past the fire, towards the mouth of the cave, where laughter and conversation flowed. The very thought of standing back up and limping over there made him dizzy. He needed rest more than food. And better he not take too much, especially after slowing them down today.
Dick gently brushed the wisps of dark hair on Damian's head. His baby. His son. For Damian, everything was worth it.
He was so focused on the babe that he didn't register the footsteps until they stopped right behind him.
Dick half twisted in an immediate jolt of fear, keeping Damian out of view as he looked up. And up.
The alpha was looking down at him, expression a faint scowl, single eye burning.
"You didn't eat dinner," the alpha said. There was a bowl of something hot and smelling mouthwatering in his hand.
"Ah," Dick said, unsure how to continue. Was the alpha looking for acknowledgment? Apology? What—
Dick's train of thought stuttered to a halt when the alpha crouched, placing the bowl next to Dick.
"You need to eat," the alpha said, tone faintly disapproving, "To keep your strength up."
Dick flushed at this reminder of how he'd slowed them down and ducked his head. "Thank you," he said softly. Gruff and terse as it was, it was still kindness, of which Dick had seen none in the League pack.
Only an obsession with power and victory. Ra's hadn't cared for Dick beyond the powerful heir that Dick could birth him. He certainly wouldn't sit with Dick as Damian finally detached and Dick laid him down in the furs while he covered himself back up.
He certainly wouldn't have stayed as Damian realized his mother was no longer holding him and started crying, high and thin.
Dick attempted to shovel the food down his throat as fast as possible, heat creeping up his shoulders the longer the alpha stayed, watching him scream.
"Sorry," Dick said in a breath between spoons, "He doesn't like being put down."
The alpha made no visible sign of his annoyance. "May I hold him?" he asked instead.
Dick almost choked on the stew. No, was the instinctive response, no, no one would ever take Damian away from him again, no, especially not another alpha—
But Dick was keenly aware that he was here on the alpha's sufferance, and Dick ducked his head in a nod.
He couldn't breathe as the alpha reached out and picked up the crying babe.
He was gentle. Practiced, in a way that spoke of long time with babies. A little rocking and Damian quieted, looking with wide eyes up at this new person.
The alpha chuckled. Dick stared.
"What's his name?"
This time, Dick didn't choke, fear worn down to alertness but not panic as the alpha lightly tickled the babe's belly, showing no ill intent.
"Damian."
"Strong name," the alpha hummed, tapping one of Damian's little fists. The babe immediately caught the finger. "For a strong babe," the alpha smiled.
That was too close to what Ra's had said. Dick scraped up his last few spoons of stew to avoid a response.
"How old did you say he was?"
Dick swallowed. The alpha was looking down at the babe, not at him, and Dick frantically tried to remember what he'd said. He'd implied that it had been more than a month for sure.
"Five weeks," Dick said.
"How strange," the alpha looked up, blue eye pinning him in place, gaze level and hard. "Because the last time you told me six weeks."
Dick went cold. He couldn't breathe. Damian was still in the alpha's arms—an angry alpha's arms, a few feet away yet so far from Dick's reach.
"How old is he really?" the alpha demanded, voice even but steely.
Dick's gaze didn't move from his son. "Two weeks. I think."
"You think?"
"I don't—" Dick swallowed, paralyzed, "I don't know. How many days. No—no one told me."
Something flashed in the alpha's eye, angry and dark.
"Please," Dick tried, mouth dry. He couldn't look away from Damian. "Please, I swear I can keep up. I can. Don't make me leave. Please." Ra's was undoubtedly out there, looking for him. Looking for his heir. And if he caught Dick—
Ra's had already gotten what he wanted from Dick. And Dick couldn't leave Damian all alone.
"I do not appreciate being lied to," the alpha said coldly, and Dick made a choked sound. He needed Damian back, please, his baby, Dick wanted him back—"Unexpected information causes delays. And our window for getting through the mountains is short."
"I'm sorry, alpha." Dick couldn't think. His head was ringing and his mouth was dry and his babe was in someone else's arms.
The alpha made a grumbling sound and reached out to hand Damian back. Dick snatched his baby with alacrity.
"Our pace tomorrow will be slower," the alpha said, straightening up, "Get some rest."
Dick stared at his departing back, thoroughly confused.
~#~
Their pace was indeed not as punishing, but Dick got very little rest with a demanding babe. The alpha must've said something to the others, because Dick's rations suddenly increased—he was being fed more than nearly anyone else—and one of the pack's healers approached him to give him a check up, but the alpha made no mention of the punishment for the lie.
They were a few days from the pass, shielded from a flurry of snow by the half tunnels they were walking through, and Dick had used the abundance of fires to take the time to air out his furs and wash his clothes. His little nest was in a corner as always, and he was facing away from the pack as he nursed Damian.
Footsteps, echoing through the stone. Dick glanced back, and froze when he caught sight of Slade.
The alpha's gaze was narrowed on Dick's back. For lack of anything else to wear, Dick was in the loose silks he'd worn in the League pack, too flimsy to do anything but entice. Dick's mouth went dry as the alpha stepped closer and knelt on the edge of the furs.
Dick abruptly turned away, heart rate skyrocketing.
No, was the overriding thought, but Dick was unattached and clearly fertile, and taking up pack resources to boot. It was only reasonable that he had to do something to pay for his place, and Dick knew that he was attractive. This shouldn't be a surprise.
Dick squeezed his eyes shut and suppressed the shaky breath. The alpha's anger at the lie made somewhat more sense—he wanted to know whether Dick was still torn up from the birth. But there were other things they could do, so the alpha didn't have to wait.
Fingers skimmed Dick's shoulder, sliding the sleeve of the silks off. The other sleeve was already off so Damian could feed, and the silks dropped to pool around his waist, leaving his top bare.
Dick choked down the sob. This wasn't Ra's. Slade had never hurt him. This pack was kind. This wouldn't be the League all over again. No one would hurt him here.
Fingers stroked down his back, catching and sliding on the scars that littered his skin, tracing patterns and making Dick shiver. Just scars, Dick reminded himself, shaking off the memory flash of pain, the agony, the way Dick hadn't been able to move for days afterwards—
"Who did this?" growled a very angry alpha.
Dick responded to the tone before the words, half curling around Damian with a shudder, pulling free of Slade's touch in the process. The alpha didn't follow, and when Dick twisted to meet his gaze, the alpha's rage was clearly visible.
Dick could feel the whip strikes against his skin, every last one.
"Those are recent," Slade nearly snarled, "Only months old. Who did this?"
How was Dick supposed to answer that? Slade had made no probes when Dick had asked to cross the mountains with them, and Dick knew that the alpha had assumed that Dick's pack was dead. If he knew that Dick was running...
"I—it was another pack," Dick said slowly.
"Which pack."
Determined to not let him evade this time, then. Dick held Damian tighter. "The League," he said quietly.
~#~
They were at the pass, sheltered in a cave smaller than their usual. A storm had blown in—a weak one, but strong enough to halt their approach before midday. Dick had seen the alpha and his inner circle conferring, all of them visibly agitated, before they'd been given the order to stop.
It was a good decision not to attempt the pass in the middle of a snowstorm. The problem was if another storm followed before this one stopped, they were stuck. Trepidation and frustration ran through the entire pack.
Dick stayed in a corner, back against the wall, tracking the unrest. His arms were aching but he kept rocking Damian—he didn't want to risk frustration turning on a screaming infant.
The pack settled after a few hours, grumbles pacified, order restored to keep moods cheery. Most people dropped off to sleep in preparation for the hard day's trek in front of them.
Dick wasn't one of them.
His instincts had been bad enough after fleeing Ra's' pack, a new mother running on hyperawareness, but Slade's pack had provided a stabilizing effect. Dick had never forgotten that this wasn't his pack though, that he couldn't fully let down his guard, not with a baby to take care of, and the hypervigilance was keeping him awake.
He was exhausted, but something inside him wouldn't let him sleep.
The alpha and his warriors crept through the cramped cave in regular intervals, and Dick dully watched them go. The fires had dimmed down by the time the alpha stopped in front of Dick.
"You aren't sleeping," the alpha said.
"Can't," Dick whispered, because he was so exhausted but he just couldn't. He couldn't even keep looking up at Slade, his head drooped down, too heavy to lift.
"Come with me," the alpha turned on a heel and walked away.
It took a moment for Dick to register the command, and several more to lever up on aching feet. He stumbled after the alpha, drained and aching, and nearly walked into his back in a daze.
"Get in," Slade ordered, and Dick looked past him and at the pile of furs. Slade's pile of furs.
Dick's heart beat stuttered.
It took him a stretching moment to figure out how his limbs worked, but he jerkily crawled into the nest of furs. Damian and his little basket went to the side. He told Slade that he couldn't sleep, it made sense that the alpha wanted to burn off some restlessness, he—
A hand dragged roughly through his hair as he was covered by furs. "Sleep," the alpha said, "No one can touch you here."
No one could. He was in the alpha's nest, no one but the alpha could come after him, and Ra's wasn't the alpha, and Slade was walking away.
Something loosened in Dick's chest. Pack, safety, warmth.
Dick didn't remember closing his eyes.
~#~
Something woke him up a little later, or maybe it was a dream, hazy and dark. The scent of alpha became stronger, the warmth winding around him and pulling him towards the source of heat, and Dick fit comfortably in the hollows. He was out before he could try opening his eyes.
~#~
Dick woke up slowly. He was warm and safe and protected, utterly secure and content. The air smelled like alpha-mine-care and Dick was cradled in warmth.
Something had awoken him though, and Dick resurfaced to hear a thin, hesitant, hiccuping cry. Someone was making shushing sounds as Dick struggled all the way awake, Damian on his lips.
There was a figure crouched over the basket. Dick had a single moment to panic before he recognized the figure, and Emma pushed the basket closer to him with a soft smile.
"He's hungry," she said quietly, and Dick wriggled free of the furs to sit up. There was something wrapped around him, though, and it tightened around his waist as he tried to get up.
Damian made an actual cry, and Dick abandoned getting free to reach for the basket. Emma passed it over, her lips quirking, and Dick had his clothes shifted to allow Damian to latch on and start drinking before he stirred all the way awake.
"Alpha doesn't want to get up," Emma said teasingly, and Dick blinked at her.
These—these weren't his furs. He was sitting in the middle of camp, not a corner. And the pressure snaked around his waist was an arm clutching him tight.
Dick stared down at the sleeping alpha's face with numb surprise. Slade had curved around him, Dick tucked snugly in his grasp, and he didn't let go, even as he cracked open his eye.
"Alpha had a long night," Slade said gruffly, his arm tightening around Dick's waist.
"Of course," Emma agreed too easily, still grinning, and Slade made a low rumble as he pushed upright.
He stayed pressed against Dick, hand moving up to cup Damian's head as the pup sucked busily.
The rumble changed to something distinctly pleased as Slade plastered himself against Dick's back, tucking Dick into his arms and resting his chin on Dick's head for a moment.
"Good morning," he said quietly, and for a moment, Dick was in a different life. A life where he could've woken like this every day, where he didn't have scars, where he wasn't running, where he wasn't terrified that his babe would be ripped from his arms.
"Good morning," Dick returned softly, relishing the moment for as long as it lasted.
~#~
"He's never going to learn to walk if you keep that up," Grant calls out, throwing a handful of grass at Slade. Slade ignores him, hands firmly around Damian as the baby coos at a flower.
Dick snorts from his position in the grass. He can look away from Damian now, can leave him with Slade without the clenching worry, but Slade's taken up the overprotective role in response. "You learned to walk just fine," Wintergreen says dryly, walking over, "Alpha, our scouts have a report."
"Grant can take care of it," Slade says without looking up. Damian is making grasping motions at the flower.
Grant groans but gets up. "Can't believe I've been supplanted as the favorite child," he grumbles as he walks away. Wintergreen goes with him, leaving only Slade, Dick, and Damian in the little meadow.
"Mama!" Damian waves at him. Dick grins and waves back, laughing as Damian attempts to fight Slade's grip to get back to Dick.
Slade leads him back slowly, and his mouth is quirked in a small smile as Damian collapses on Dick's stomach.
"Mama, fo," Damian shows him the tiny fistful of petals and Dick kisses his little forehead. Damian giggles, and Dick could never think he was Ra's' child like this.
Slade stiffens, straightening suddenly.
"Slade?" Dick calls out slowly, tightening his grip on Damian.
"Someone's here," Slade says evenly, staring at the trees and Dick hurriedly sits up, Damian curled in his lap. He can't see anyone, but there's the faintest prickle on the back of his neck, like someone is watching them—
A dark blur drops out of the trees.
Dick scrambles up with Damian immediately, stepping back as Slade steps forward—and freezes when he recognizes the hard green eyes and the flash of white in dark hair. "Jason?"
"You know him?" Slade asks tersely, which on anyone else would be a shout. Jason's watching like he's ready for a fight.
Dick doesn't care about either of them. That's his brother. He's here.
"Jason!" Dick says again, happy and hopeful and desperately worried that this is just a dream, "Jaybird!"
Jason moves forward as Dick moves forward, but Slade steps in between. Jason immediately growls, low and deep, and Dick snaps into alertness.
"Slade, no, he's my brother," Dick explains, a mollifying hand on the alpha's arm. Damian is peering curiously from where he's perched on Dick's hip.
"Brother," Slade repeats, and it doesn't exactly sound happy, but he steps to the side and Dick runs at the first member of his pack he's seen in over a year.
Jason barely manages to catch them instead of letting them tumble over, and Dick goes from smiling to sobbing, clutching at his brother, tightening his grip on Damian, something in him unclenching at the familiar scent of pack, home, safe.
"Dickiebird," Jason says, voice hoarse and cracking, and Dick cries harder.
Dick slowly pulled the longsleeve on, keeping his movements even to avoid flinching or showing a grimace of pain on his face. His teammates wouldn't care if he was injured--would, in fact, sneer at him worse, though Dick could feel Desmond's eyes on him, relentless in smug satisfaction.
The Bludhaven Blockbusters had lost, not that it mattered much to them in the standings. It was a well-fought game--the Blockbusters had a great offense, courtesy of Dick, but the Jokers' defensive lineup was no, ha, joke. The score had been close, no team getting more than a two-point lead, until the last period, where Desmond let in an astonishing number of goals.
Almost like he'd been paid off to do so.
"Ready to make up for our loss, Grayson?" Someone wolf-whistled from the other side of the locker room. "You have to be good for something, and clearly winning isn't it."
Dick had scored four goals despite the Jokers' defensemen attacking him like a school of piranha on chum. The fact that they'd marked him so closely had let the rest of the line-up score as well. Desmond was the one who lost the game.
Not that Dick was stupid enough to say that out loud. He was well aware he had no friends here.
Dick finished changing into the longsleeve and sweatpants and closed his locker before walking out of the room. His side throbbed with fierce intensity on every step and he had to force himself not to limp. He was pretty sure he'd broken something when he'd been shoved against the boards, elbow slamming into his side, but there was no way he was going to go to the medic to get it checked out.
He'd get this over with and ice it in his hotel room. Along with the rest of his injuries. And whatever else he picked up along the way.
"What took so long?" Redhorn barked the moment he stepped out. "Come on, they're waiting." He marched off, not looking to see if Dick was following, and Dick had to jog to keep up.
His whole body ached, but nothing as much as the hollow inside his chest. Dick loved hockey. He loved the ice. He loved the game, as brutal as it was, didn't mind limping away with a broken rib or five in exhilaration. He'd been prepared to accept the messy politics of the game, the omnipresent corruption, the money, the paparazzi, and even the more unsavory aspects, like the winner's room that was all but an open secret in the league.
Dick didn't think he liked hockey any more.
The ice was no longer an escape, winning didn't bring any joy, and Dick could feel a part of himself get leached away as he fell over and over in the same trap, stuck in the mire instead of skating above it. And all because of one scorned woman.
"Richard," the low voice called out from the darkened corridors. Dick flinched, but he managed to suppress the hiss as his chest tightened. Redhorn paused as the woman unfolded herself from the shadows, striding forward with a bright red smile. "Mi amor, you played so well today," the woman hummed, catching his face and kissing both cheeks. Dick didn't move, carefully frozen still. "It's such a shame we lost, no?"
Dick didn't say a word. In a world of sharks, Catalina Flores was the biggest one in the shiver. Desmond's orders had probably come directly from her.
"It is a shame," Catalina murmured, voice dropping even lower as a manicured fingernail stroked down his cheek. "I wish you did not have to do this, Richard." Lie. "Won't you change your mind, mi amor? Come with me and I promise you'll never have to do this again."
Dick stepped back, controlled so it didn't look like he was jerking himself free of her grip. "No," he said, the same thing he said every time she made this offer. Even the first time he could tell she was bad news, but he didn't realize how bad until he'd seen the consequences of spurning her.
Catalina's smile dropped away to a hard look and flashing eyes. "Very well," she said, voice cold. "Enjoy your time with Wilson, then."
Dick had to fight not to blanch. Wilson? Slade Wilson? One of the oldest players in the league, still at the top of his game, strong and fast enough that rumors of doping had swirled unconfirmed for years? The Jokers' star defenseman, and the very same defenseman that Dick had outwitted with a flashy trick to get his fourth goal?
He could still remember the seething fire in Wilson's eyes. The man had checked him twice as hard after Dick had shot the puck through his legs, and he was the reason half of Dick's left side felt like it'd been crushed. And that had been Wilson on the ice, with restraint.
Dick felt faint. But Redhorn was moving so Dick had to follow behind him, leaving Catalina and her burning glare behind. The numbness was coming on fast this time and Dick welcomed it, cocooning himself in the fog so he didn't end up hyperventilating.
It had been a couple of weeks since the Blockbusters had lost a game, since Dick had been on the receiving end of hatred and not just scorn, and a part of him wondered how long he could survive this.
Catalina wasn't going to stop. She clearly wasn't getting tired of him, and his frequent rejections were just making her angry. Maybe he should give in, accept whatever protection she offered and sell his soul.
He was already in hell anyway.
They approached a plain door and Dick suppressed the panic and hung on to the numbness. It was getting easier and easier to draw himself down into it, and harder and harder to come out. "Get to the hotel when you're done," Redhorn growled, turning away without a glance. "The team's leaving at six in the morning."
That was it. No instructions on how he was supposed to get to the hotel, or what would happen if he was late, or any kind of support at all. Just abandonment in the middle of the Jokers' stadium. Dick luckily knew his way around Gotham, but he wasn't sure how many pieces Wilson would leave him in.
Dick waited until the sound of Redhorn's footsteps had faded away before he reached out and knocked on the door.
The sound felt muted. Disconnected. Everything was moving a step behind his mind and Dick blinked when the door opened to a silver-haired man nearly twice his size.
Part of Dick was fascinated by the disparity. As a winger, Dick was smaller than his teammates, built for agility and not so much for slamming people against the boards. Wilson was clearly built for his job, a steel wall of muscle towering above him, with ice blue eyes scanning over Dick before settling on his face. "Come inside," Wilson said.
The room was tamer than most others Dick had seen, looking more like a hotel room than a sex dungeon. There was a drawer set next to the bed that was clearly for supplies, and a mini fridge, and what appeared to be an attached bathroom. Dick followed Wilson all the way to the bed and stopped when Wilson turned to face him.
"So, Bludhaven's hotshot new left wing," Wilson said. This time, his scan was more of a leer, gaze dragging over his body. "Think those flashy tricks of yours are cute, kid?"
Dick didn't answer. He knew better than to engage. Wilson already wanted a punching bag, he didn't need to make things worse.
"I'm surprised no one's beaten that out of you yet," Wilson mused. "Though I suppose it's my turn to give it a go."
Dick didn't back away as Wilson stalked closer, no matter how much he wanted to.
"You shot four goals," Wilson said, eyes burning. "How about we start with payback for each one?"
Wilson's grip was stronger than Catalina's, easily shoving him back against the bed as he bent down. His kiss was equally aggressive, harsh and plundering, and Dick retreated deeper into the fog and let it happen.
There was no point to the fear, it wouldn't save him, it didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. All Dick could do was try to brace for the pain that was going to follow.
Wilson shoved, hard, and Dick fell back on the bed, sinking instantly into the soft material. He barely managed to struggle up on his elbows before Wilson crawled on after him, straddling his thigh and shoving him back down, big hands wrapping around his ribs.
Dick couldn't help the gasp of pain.
The grip disappeared immediately, but the throbbing pain was high and searing and Dick instinctively, ineffectually, tried to curl up, hand pressed to his ribs and blinking against his prickling eyes. Fuck, that hurt, and Dick was suddenly concerned about his ability to take this punishment. They hadn't even gotten started.
"What happened?" Wilson demanded, still straddling Dick. "Are you injured?"
"I'm fine," Dick said thickly, or tried to say, the pain made everything even more disconnected.
Wilson just scoffed, tugging at his shirt. "Get this off and let me see. I don't want your team to accuse me of damaging their precious star forward."
The numbness made it hard to muddle through that sentence as Dick obediently tried to pull his shirt off. Was Wilson saying he wasn't going to injure him? Clearly he didn't know the priorities of Blockbusters' management very well, which was great for Dick if it meant Wilson wasn't going to be that rough.
Dick hissed as he tried to pull the shirt up, it was more difficult when he was practically pinned to the bed, and he ended up letting go and trying to breathe past the black spots in his vision when the pain grew too large to ignore.
"Christ, Grayson," the harsh voice said as Dick stared at the ceiling and tried to blink the stars out of his eyes. "Why didn't you get this treated?"
"It's fine," Dick said, and had to stifle a gasp as Wilson pressed down against the throbbing ache.
"You're black and blue all over, and you haven't applied anything. Why didn't you go to the medic first?" There was something approaching alarm in Wilson's voice.
"I'm fine," Dick repeated. Amy would've slipped some painkillers in his bag and he could ice it when he got back. "Why do you care?" Dick couldn't stop himself from saying. "You're the one that caused it."
Silence.
That was a stupid thing to say. Especially when he was flat on his back underneath the defenseman, utterly at his mercy. A slow, creeping cold slithered in past the numbness and Dick couldn't even shiver.
Wilson hadn't moved. His fingers were still resting lightly on what was probably a black splotch on Dick's chest, just waiting to dig in. Dick had the sudden--and chilling--realization that the state of his body probably gave Wilson a very clear picture of how little Blockbusters' management cared about his injuries, as long as he could still skate.
"Look, can you just get on with it?" Dick said, brain-to-mouth filter completely on vacation.
The fingers moved up, skating across his ribs up to his collarbone. "I didn't cause this," Wilson said, quiet.
Dick didn't know what he was pointing to. He tried to crane his neck past the balled-up fabric of his shirt to see, but the movement just pulled at his ribs.
"The one that looks like someone tried to take a bite out of you," Wilson clarified. "What the hell, Grayson? Got a vampire partner you haven't mentioned?"
"Don't have a partner," Dick exhaled, flinching as Catalina's image popped before his eyes. He thought he knew what Wilson was pointing to, but a lot of the Blockbusters liked to use teeth. Liked to mark him.
"Then who the hell did this to you?" A pause, and Wilson's voice grew darker. "The Blockbusters haven't lost a game in weeks."
Dick exhaled and reached for the numbness again. It flooded him, stronger than before, until it no longer mattered that he was pinned underneath a man that intended to fuck him as payback for scoring past him. "Doesn't matter," he said, voice light and almost floaty.
"What doesn't matter?" Wilson sounded thoroughly pissed off now, but that was a problem for Future Dick. Present Dick was dissociating too hard to care.
"Winning or losing," Dick said. Introduce the idea of sex for punishment, normalize it, and people would twist it for all manner of things. Winning just meant that Dick would go to the person on the Blockbusters' line-up that wanted him, and there were a lot of people that wanted him.
Wilson's fingers disappeared and his weight shifted off. Dick waited for him to come back, another hard kiss, more bruising touches, more pain. He wondered if he could get back to the hotel before six. He wondered about how Bruce was doing, whether he watched Dick's games or just blocked out all mention of him after Dick had left his coaching to make it on his own. He wondered if it would be this bad on any other hockey team.
He wondered if he could go back in time, to little eight-year-old Dick Grayson who loved the ice, and shake him and tell him not to go into hockey.
Wilson was taking an awfully long time. Dick lifted his head up, and lifted all the way up to sitting when he didn't spot the defenseman anywhere in the room.
A bang of the door showed where he’d gone. Wilson was glowering now, fury roiling off of him like a stormcloud, but Dick could only stare, unconcerned. He didn't even flinch when the man advanced on him.
"Get up," Wilson ordered harshly, pulling Dick to his feet and tugging his shirt back down. "Come with me."
Dick didn't try to fight the casual manhandling and merely trotted after Wilson.
They were leaving the room. Dick didn't understand why, and everything was moving too slow for him to form the words to ask. Wilson seemed to know where he was going, darting frequent glances back as if to check that Dick was still there, and Dick followed him, confused and unable to care.
The hallways weren't familiar, but they were starting to get noisy and when Wilson pushed through a door to the sound of loud conversations, Dick realized he'd brought him to the Jokers' locker room.
The thought should've caused shrieking alarm. Instead, all Dick could feel was a dull pang as he obediently followed Wilson inside.
"Done that quick?" someone jeered as they strode further into the locker room--the majority of the team was still here and Dick's gaze skipped past faces, deliberately not counting them. "Oooh," there was a chorus of wolf whistles as they spotted him behind Wilson. "Did you bring him to share?"
Everything felt so far away. Even the ground. Dick felt like he was falling and falling.
"Shut up," Wilson snapped. "And go get Fries." Wilson turned back to Dick and pushed him back to an empty bench. "You, sit down."
There was another round of heckling. "Did you break him already?" someone laughed, followed by crude comments about their relative sizes.
Wilson ignored them, crouching in front of Dick. "Can you raise your arms?" he asked. Dick started to lift them but they started trembling the moment they reached shoulder level and Wilson grabbed his arms and pulled them down. "Never mind," he said, "lean forward and duck your head."
Dick did as he was told, forehead hovering next to Wilson's shoulder as the man curled his fingers in the back of Dick's shirt and pulled it up. He managed to get it off without any input from Dick, and Dick watched as his arms speckled with gooseflesh.
He didn't feel cold. He didn't feel anything.
Dick didn't hear laughter anymore. There was a low whistle and footsteps and suddenly a small crowd surrounding Dick and Wilson. Their faces were all blurry. Dick didn't try to make them out.
"Damn, Wilson, what did you do?" someone asked, hushed, and there was a minor scuffle when Wilson aimed an elbow at the speaker.
"Fries is on his way," another voice called out.
"Why didn't you just take him to his own team?" someone else muttered.
"Couldn't find them," Wilson said, voice hard and flat.
More silence.
Another voice, quiet. "Jones said that he didn't see any of them still here when he left."
A round of sharp inhales and low what the fucks. "They just left him?" someone asked, sounding horrified.
Wilson was watching him, stare narrowed and intense. Dick held his gaze, still and quiet, waiting pliantly. His eyes were a cold blue with flecks of gray. He had wrinkles on his face. His hair wasn't actually all gray, some of it was a blonde so light it was indistinguishable at first glance.
"Something's wrong with him," someone said abruptly.
"Uh, yeah, we can see that something's wrong with him--"
"No, I meant, look--" something snapped in front of Dick's face. He blinked but didn't move. "See? He hasn't said anything since he got here. He hasn't even twitched."
"Wilson, what the fuck did you do?!" the tone was higher, harsher. Wilson broke his stare with Dick and straightened to turn on the speaker, an argument of growls and hisses.
Someone else settled in front of Dick, bald, with a crinkled frown on his face. "Hello, my name is Victor Fries," he said, voice slow and calm. "Can you tell me where you're injured?"
Where wasn't Dick injured was a better question. Dick mutely pointed to the giant developing bruise on his side, because that was what had caught Wilson's attention.
Dick didn't flinch when Fries began prodding at the wound, tiny jolts of pain fizzling out in the numbness. Fries frowned, and then frowned even deeper when he met Dick's gaze. Dick didn't realize that the volume of the argument between the Jokers had risen and fallen until someone abruptly sat down on the bench next to him.
He turned, blinking at Wilson. Wilson glowered back. "Well?" he rumbled, turning the glare to Fries.
Fries looked upset. "Richard--can I call you Richard?" He waited for Dick's slow nod to continue. "Do you know where you are?"
Of course Dick knew. "Jokers' locker room," he rasped. There was abrupt silence, which was the only reason he realized how noisy the room was before then.
"That's great," Fries smiled tightly. "Are you feeling cold?"
Dick looked down at his goosebumps. "No," he answered honestly.
Wilson made a low growling sound. There was a scuffle of movement and something soft hit Dick in the face. It was the purple and black of the Jokers' colors and Dick stared at Wilson when the man wrapped it around his shoulders.
"Richard," Fries said, and Dick's gaze swung back to him, ignoring the towel. "Judging by the bruising, I think you have some broken ribs, though we'll need an X-ray to make sure. I've been informed that your team has already left, so I can drive you to the hospital and you can call them to meet you there--"
"No." Dick's fingers were trembling. He stared at them, lost in the shudders.
"Excuse me?"
"No hospital." Dick had to clear out his throat. "I'm fine." He was so tired. Everyone was staring at him, and he didn't know why. He just wanted this night to be over.
"Richard, you really need to get it checked out--"
"I said I'm fine."
Wilson scoffed loudly at that. "You're not fine," he said, daring Dick to argue.
Dick had to let go of the numbness, pushing up to his feet, but exhaustion swooped in to take its place, leaving him ragged and still distant. Clearly Wilson didn't like the bruises, but there wasn't anything Dick could do about that.
"You don't get to tell me that," Dick said evenly, watching Wilson's eyes flash and knowing he'd be paying for that soon enough. "You won. You get the night and nothing else. So either take your spoils or leave me alone."
The locker room was dead silent. Dick realized he had a towel around his shoulders, one of the big, soft, fluffy ones, and he suppressed the urge to huddle further in it. It was cold and he had to fight not to shiver.
There was probably a more diplomatic way to play this, he could've gotten that ride and then ditched them there, but Dick was so very tired. He just wanted it over with.
"Fine," Wilson snapped. Some of his teammates made protesting sounds, but Wilson levered up, shooting them all dark looks. "Fries, give me some painkillers and an ice pack." The medic mutely did as he was told, shooting Dick undefinable looks. "Come on, Grayson, let's get back to the room. Can't miss out on my spoils."
He twisted the words into a nasty sneer. Dick would've felt afraid if he had the energy to, but he didn't even have enough to imagine what Wilson had planned. He just followed the man silently back through the same hallways, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, until they were back next to the bed.
"Take these." Wilson handed Dick the painkillers and a bottle of water. Dick thought about pointing out that Wilson didn't have the authority to drug him either, but lost the impulse under the exhaustion. He swallowed the pills.
"Now get in bed."
Dick crawled up on the bed. "Do you want me to take off my pants?" he asked, trying to stifle a yawn.
"No." Wilson casually manhandled him until Dick was on his back, on a pillow, watching Wilson draw the covers back.
Wilson got in after him, and pressed the folded towel to Dick's ribs--Dick hissed at the sudden shock of ice, but then gradually relaxed as the numbing set in.
"What do you want me to do?" Dick said, or thought he said. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his attention focused on Wilson. The man was shifting on the bed, sitting next to him, drawing the covers over them, a warm, burning presence at Dick's side.
"Close your eyes," came the order. Dick followed it. Maybe it would be easier if he wasn't watching.
He didn't know when the darkness slipped to unconsciousness.
The sounds of the fighting have greatly died down in the past few minutes and Dick still hasn't managed to unlock the door. It's fucking barred from the outside, he's managed to figure that out, and strong hinges too, if it held against his battering.
He got free of the manacles—there was enough sweat to wrench his hands free, even if one wrist is scraped and bleeding and the other has a dislocated thumb—and he managed to get his clothes back on, but this stupid fucking door.
Dick blinks furiously, jaw tight. The entire room is soaked in his scent and he doesn't know if the fact that the smell of heat has overpowered the smell of his emotions is a mercy or not. His fingers are trembling, his breaths are too high, and his entire body is sore in ways he's trying very hard not to think about.
He just needs to get out.
There's a part of him pointing out that it's not that simple, that he's still on a ship in the middle of open ocean, that he has no idea who's attacked the Blockbuster or why, that his situation will not greatly improve outside this small cabin, that he may be locked in here but at least he's alone, but Dick ruthlessly suppresses that voice.
If he thinks too hard about it, he will break, and he didn't get to be one of the youngest fucking captains in the Royal Navy by shattering into tiny pieces at every difficulty.
Dick pounds on the door in frustration—and realizes, too late, that the sounds on the other side of the door have ceased.
Oh fuck.
Dick edges back when he hears scrabbling at the door, grabbing the letter opener off the desk—not a real knife, but it has a sharp edge and Dick needs something—and willing his fingers to stop shaking as the door is unbarred and finally opened.
The people peering inside aren't Desmond's men. Their attire is too colorful to be privateers—one part of Dick relaxes, the other part tenses up.
Corrupt privateers to pirates.
Frying pan. Fire.
Both pirates immediately wrinkle their noses, discreetly coughing at the abrupt influx of concentrated heat scent. Dick hasn't left the cabin in two days.
This should be his opportunity to attack. Strike while they're distracted, and get free. His grip on the letter opener is weak in his less-injured hand, and he tightens it as much as he dares. But on his first step, pain goes lancing up his spine, and by the time he grits his teeth through the spike, the pirates have recovered.
"That's a Navy uniform, isn't it?" one says to the other, slowly grinning.
"A captain's uniform," the other rejoins, eyes tracing the distinctive gold detailing on his collar.
"I thought we already killed the captain of this saltwrecked heap," one narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not the captain of this ship," Dick says tersely, affronted at the very thought.
Both pirates—he can't tell designations, he can't smell anything over the too-syrupy scent of his heat—look at each other and shrug.
"You're still a captain," one pirate says, and she's smirking, "and our captain loves to have fun with pretty omega captains."
The chill that goes down his spine is colder than last time. Sharp and icy with intimate knowledge of what exactly she means. The reasonable part of him points out that he cannot hope to take them on both, and the entire ship after that. The illogical part of him just attacks.
He doesn't want to go back to that, he can't go back to that, he will do anything to avoid spending the rest of his life shackled to a pirate's bed, one day was bad enough. He's a good fighter, he's a great fighter, but he's fighting his lingering post-heat, the stabbing pains between his legs, the bruises all over his body, the sharp, throbbing bites around his neck, and a bleeding wrist.
One of the pirates grabs the hand with the relocated thumb, and the world goes white.
When it comes back, Dick has been disarmed, arms wrenched behind his back, and is being marched out.
The yawning horror is enough to seize the breath from his lungs. The heat scent is a mercy now, to hide the scent of his blinding terror under the cooling scent and smells of sex he hasn't been able to rub off. It's heavy and thick, and more than one pirate coughs or turns away as he's dragged out.
The ship is full of dead men. Dick doesn't recognize all the bodies lying on the deck, but they're all dressed in privateer's uniforms. The pirates seem jubilant and victorious, vastly outnumbering their prey, and Dick realizes why that is when he catches sight of the hulking ship next to the Blockbuster.
He loses his breath. He's seen the Deathstroke too many times to not recognize it, even at night and lit only by the moon. And that means the pirate captain he's being dragged to face is—
"Captain, we found this one in the captain's cabin," one of the two holding him calls out to the silver-haired man supervising the looting, as Dick digs his heels against the deck, the frantic beat of his heart pounding no, please, no.
Captain Slade Wilson of the Deathstroke turns and goes dangerously still when he spots Dick. Dick's last, desperate hope that maybe he's too disheveled to be recognizable dies an ignoble death at Slade's slow smile.
"Captain Grayson," Slade says, voice dropping to a more predatory tone. "What a pleasant surprise."
Of all the pirate ships and all the pirate captains, did it have to be this one?
"What brings you here?" Slade asks, stalking closer. Dick automatically presses back, but there's nowhere to go, his captors' grips are too tight. "Supervising this ship? Watching over your interests? I have to say, I thought you were too straitlaced for smuggling."
Dick manages to suck in a breath, enough to say, as evenly as he can manage it, "I don't answer to pirates." His voice is hoarse but at least it doesn't crack.
"You're at the mercy of my crew, Captain Grayson," Slade smirks. "We'll get you to answer one way or another." He steps closer, until he's in Dick's personal space, and takes a deliberate sniff. "Or was this a tryst, hmm? Is that why you don't want to answer? Are you ashamed?"
The words are pointed and sharp and Dick's armor has already been stripped. He can feel each one sink in.
"Fuck you," he spits as loudly as he can to cover up the tremor in his tone. His captors take offense to the tone and Dick is forced down with an angry snarl, hitting the deck on his knees with a lance of pain that goes straight through him. Dick can't suppress the way he arches, face twisted around a mostly silent scream.
When the flare of agony recedes, he's trembling, taking in ragged breaths and trying not to shiver. It's a grim reminder of what awaits.
Dick sets his jaw and tries his best to glare as Slade crouches, still looming over him. He jerks back—first a flinch and then more desperate—as Slade reaches out, but between the pirates holding his arms and the deck below his knees, there's nowhere to twist or turn as Slade grabs his collar.
The alpha rips the cloth down with barely a thought, leaning in with an inscrutable expression as he grips Dick's neck in a powerful hand, and Dick is too weak to fight the grip. Slade tightens the grasp to bare Dick's neck and Dick just squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for the bite.
He knows what it feels like. He knows how his limbs will get weak and trembly, how the world will narrow down to the alpha who bit him, how the submission will steal away any chance he has of fighting back. How it will leave him all too aware of what's happening to his body.
Dick blinks up at the starry night sky, everything blurry, and waits. And waits. And waits.
He can feel Slade's hot breaths against his collarbone, igniting fresh throbbing in the bites that Desmond laid down, can feel the alpha's firm, inescapable grip tight against Dick's throat, can feel the nose pressed against his skin.
Can hear Slade breathing deeply. Inhaling deeply.
The grip shifts, tilting Dick's head the opposite direction, and he tenses again, but Slade doesn't bite down on this side either. He's just....sniffing Dick. Scenting him. Deeply, past the overpowering smell of heat and sex.
Dick feels dizzy when Slade releases him.
"Let him go," the alpha growls, and this close, Dick can smell the rage in his scent. His heat scent is getting weaker, tugged away by the wind, and Slade's overpowering fury is acrid and thick. The pirates immediately obey their captain, and Dick's arms are released.
Dick doesn't dare to wrap his arms around himself despite how much he wants to, doesn't dare to reveal that much weakness in a pack of sharks, but he can't help the slow exhale when the burning flare of Slade's attention moves off him and onto his guards. "Where exactly did you find him?" Slade growls, and Dick winces at the deep alpha timbre to his tone.
"In the captain's cabin," one of them answers, "It was barred from the outside. We heard pounding on the door and opened it. And he had this." Slade reaches up and takes the—letter opener, spinning it between his fingers with a frown.
Dick blinks in surprise when Slade offers it back to him. He doesn't understand. Is this—does Slade want him to fight? Dick might ordinarily be good enough to give him a fight, right now he's in no state for a challenge. He can't even sit without feeling the throbbing ache inside of him, much less attack. But being armed is better than weaponless and Dick reaches out to take the blade.
Slade catches his wrist. Dick freezes, but Slade's attention is on the cloth wrapped around his wrist, and the pirate captain gently tugs it free to reveal the scrape beneath it. Dick winces at the sight—he's all but flayed off a patch of skin below his thumb, and there are cuts extended up the back of his hand.
The alpha makes a low, warning rumble, and Dick barely clamps down on the appeasing keen. He's too raw to be calm with the full force of an angry alpha in his space—he's been attacked and held captive and assaulted and the violations have stripped him bare. The threads of defiance he's clinging to are slipping out of his grasp.
There's a part of him—a small part, growing ever larger and ever louder—that just wants to submit and make it all stop.
“Take him to my cabin,” Slade demands after he straightens up, anger unfurling hot and thick, and Dick is too busy trying to breathe in the presence of overpowering rage to register his words. Until he’s hauled up to his feet and pushed towards the boarding plank.
Something inside him goes cold, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Perhaps he should be grateful that Slade’s taking him to his cabin. Desmond told Dick he’d throw him to the crew once his heat was over, and Dick has no illusions about his ability to survive that.
Dick keeps a firm grip on the letter opener and doesn’t struggle against his captors. He only has one solid chance, and he can’t waste it here. He forces himself to keep breathing and keep moving, even when his feet touch the deck of the Deathstroke.
"Hands off, Rick," someone shouted from the other end of the table, "Slade wouldn't like you sniffing around his bird."
Dick let the words wash over him. He gripped the knife a little harder, and focused on his meal. They were too close. Too close, and it felt too hot, even though the fire was a little distance away. He needed to breathe.
"Screw Slade," Rick called back, and Dick suppressed the flinch as the man's arm came around his shoulders. The grip was inescapable. "If he doesn't want to make a move, well, we're not going to wait for him to!" There was a smattering of laughter. It rang too loud in Dick's head. "Isn't that right, Your Highness?"
It took only one blink for Dick to twist, a flare of pain traveling up his spine, the knife blade against Rick's throat. "Let go of me," Dick said, his voice strangely level, "Or I'll slit your throat."
The laughter died awkwardly. Rick's eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed, the smile dying to something that looked more...searching. But he made a dramatic show of lifting his hand off, his voice still light.
"Determined for Slade after all," he said loudly, and the chuckles echoed up and down the table, though it sounded oddly flat. "Don't worry, Your Highness, he won't mind if you've already had some fun."
This time, Dick couldn't hide the flinch, and there was something contemplative in the gazes of the men around him.
Dick turned back to his meal. He didn't relax his grip on the knife.
~#~
The teasing stopped. They stopped touching him, and started watching him. It felt like a tension crackling in the air, a tension in the air, and Dick half-held his breath as he moved like nothing was wrong.
He knew they were waiting. Turning the corner into the tent where he was supposed to sleep, it shouldn’t have surprised him to see that Slade was already inside. But it froze him to the spot, a knee-jerk of fear, and he had nowhere to run.
Not that he could run.
Slade merely stared at him, gaze inscrutable, scanning Dick like he could lay him bare with just that one, piercing eye. Dick, lightheaded and wavering even with the crutch, certainly felt naked under the regard.
“What do you want?” Dick forced the words out, clipped and sharp. Some part of himself was already curling up, begging no, please, stop, but it was locked away. He wouldn’t beg. His dignity was the only thing they hadn’t yet managed to destroy, and Dick refused to lose it too.
“No one in this camp will touch you,” Slade said, his voice level, and Dick felt himself go rigid. “If any of them hurt you, they know they will answer to me, and my displeasure should you be harmed.”
He knew. They knew. Dick had seen it across all their faces, but he didn’t—he wasn’t—he didn’t want to hear what they had to say, he didn’t want to hear what Slade had to say, and especially not when he was still a goddamn prisoner.
“I killed Bane,” Slade said slowly, and this time Dick could recognize the fury beneath the steady tone, “I should have made it slower.”
“Bane didn’t touch me,” Dick snapped back, unable to stop the bite to his tone, “So if you’re here to defend my honor—”
“He hurt you,” Slade said evenly, “Or his men hurt you. Or someone else. I can play a guessing game if you’d like, but it won’t change the fact that you were hurt, Dick.”
Dick stayed where he was, cold and almost-shivering, still frozen to the spot.
“It wasn’t your fault, and you—”
“You don’t know what happened.” His voice was soft, but no less poisonous. “I don’t need your platitudes, Slade.” He couldn’t stop the trembling. “You weren’t there.”
Slade’s expression spasmed for a moment, there and gone before it settled back to its stillness. “If you require medical attention,” Slade started again, but Dick cut him off.
“I require nothing from my captor.”
There was no flicker in Slade’s expression this time. “Very well,” he said, still level, “You’re free to change your mind at any point.”
“I don’t—”
“You were raped,” Slade said, and the bluntness of his words shocked the air from Dick’s chest. He was really lightheaded now, and he had to grab the edge of the stool to slow his collapse when his balance failed him. Slade didn’t move forward to catch him, nor did he offer any support, but he crouched after Dick, sitting cross-legged as Dick clung to the stool in a painful kneel.
“There are physical wounds in addition to the mental ones,” Slade continued, and Dick didn’t know how he could keep his face so blank. “I doubt Bane gave you any treatment. Villain can give you something for the tears, and ensure that infection doesn’t—”
“Stop,” Dick rasped, unable to hear that steady voice, unable to—the memories of pain overlapped, and he ached, inside and out, and he just—couldn’t.
Surprisingly, Slade stopped.
“What do you want?” Dick asked quietly, raw and wounded. He barely had the strength to keep his pain locked away, and Slade had a way of breaking the locks.
“For you to feel better,” Slade answered, “For you to feel safe.”
“As a hostage in a bandit camp,” Dick almost laughed.
“No one here will hurt you, Dick, ransom or not,” Slade said quietly, and Dick squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel something inside him begin to splinter.
“And I’m just supposed to—believe you?” Dick’s voice was hoarse and cracking, “Trust the word of an outlaw?”
There was a soft silence.
“Have I ever lied to you, little bird?”
The first sound was too agonized and harsh to be called a sob, but they kept coming, tearing themselves from his chest as his cheeks grew wet, and Dick clutched the stool just to have something for his fingers to grip.
They shuddered through him, all the tears he hadn’t spilled in front of Bane, the sobs he’d refused to surrender to, and yet here he was, crying in front of Slade, in front of the man who held him prisoner, in front of the man who’d promised him safety.
He could hear Slade move, but Dick stayed where he was, kneeling on the ground, letting his anguish carve out of him. The movements came closer, and before Dick could brace himself—a slap, a punch, a kick—something heavy and dry was draped across his back and wrapped around him.
Slade was careful not to touch. Not even an accidental brush of fingers. Dick lifted his head, everything still blurry around him, and saw Slade retreat. “Do you require anything?” Slade asked when Dick met his gaze, his voice still carefully distant. “Food? Water? Medicine? More blankets?”
Dick shook his head numbly. He felt exhausted and drained, as though once the emotions burst through, there was no stopping them until he was washed out.
“Okay. Just call if you need anything,” Slade said evenly, and straightened, heading for the entrance.
Dick didn’t know what had possessed him. Why he did it. But there was a small corner of his mind that screamed at the thought that Slade was leaving, and Dick reached out and grabbed Slade’s leg.
It was stupid. Slade was keeping him prisoner. He was just as dangerous as Bane. He wasn’t a man that could be trusted.
“Dick?” Slade could rip his leg free from Dick’s grip as easy as breathing, no matter how hard Dick tightened his fingers into the material of his pants. Dick didn’t answer him. Couldn’t answer him.
Slade tugged his leg free, and Dick let his hand fall. The hollows inside him stretched. Everything was a wash of tears, and his heart felt like it was fracturing into pieces.
Slade took a seat next to him, close enough to brush the edge of the blanket, but facing away. Dick was thankful for that, he didn’t think he could handle the pressure of Slade’s searing gaze, and that all-seeing blue eye, and something swelled in his throat as he tried to swallow.
No. No more tears. He had to—had to stop crying, and regain his composure and just—he had to stop. He couldn’t afford weakness. It had already cost him too much.
Slade didn’t say a word. Just stayed in place, his breathing low and steady, hands crossed in his lap, looking away from Dick. Didn’t make a single sound as Dick shifted in place to take the weight off his knees, and leaned farther than he had to—to rest his forehead against Slade’s shoulder.
Slade just adjusted to bear Dick’s weight better, and didn’t say anything as Dick’s tears soaked his shirt, constant and unending.
The waves were roiling, dark and choppy, the grey skies offering poor visibility, but at least two of his children were easy to spot. Slade forced forward towards a flash of light hair, ignoring the sinking boat behind them, and didn’t let himself focus on the sinuously rippling scales just below the water.
His children. He needed to get to his children.
“Papa!” Rose cried out, high and thin, and Slade reached a hand out, snagging her shoulder and pulling her towards him. “Papa,” her voice cracked, nearly strangling him with her grip as she shuddered.
“Shh,” Slade hummed into her ear, twisting to scan the waves again, “Just breathe, sweetie. I’m right here.”
“Dad!” This time it was Grant, hoarse and afraid, and Slade struck out towards the sound, his heart squeezing. “Rose!”
“Grant!” Slade called back, and ignored all the flashes of color that were rippling around them. “Joey!”
“I have Joey!” Grant called back—and Slade finally saw him, a bedraggled Joey clutching his shoulder.
There were maybe five meters of distance between them, but it felt like crossing the ocean. Slade’s fingers finally closed around Grant’s, and something settled inside his heart when he dragged his two sons close. The franticness and desperation eased slightly, and in their wake slid cold, hard fear.
Rose was crying, her head tucked against the side of his neck. The waves were rough enough that it was draining to keep treading water, and Grant fit Joey in between them, shivering as he looked out onto the waves.
Onto the dangers that lurked underneath.
Twice Slade felt movement under his feet, a whisper of a touch as he kicked out. Grant jolted, like he’d felt it too, pressing back until they were all in a tangle.
Slade tried to curl around them, as if he could keep them safe if they were all in his arms, as if he could do anything to stop the monsters from surrounding them in all directions, as if they couldn’t be yanked from his grasp as easy as breathing.
Everything was cold. His children were in danger, and he couldn’t protect them, and his bones felt like they’d been carved from ice.
So many flashes of color, dark and rippling and terrifying under the grey waves, visible in any direction Slade cared to look, and he didn’t know how many there were, but even one would be enough to kill them all.
A dark head broke the surface, blue eyes stormy and narrowed. “Slade Wilson,” Dick said flatly, “You’re a long way from home.”
