Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dick steels himself as he approaches the door, bringing his hand up to his hair to ensure it was still tied up in a practical but cute bun. Makeup lightly dusts his face, including blush and some mascara. 

For this particular undercover mission, Bruce had decided that being disguised as a woman would be better to let the guard down for the family he was trying to protect, the Garcias. Since it would be a longer mission, it would be useful for him to be friends with the target’s family, and gain their trust—allowing him access to their home, where he can plant monitoring devices. Dick had been almost everyone’s first choice for this job, since he was the best actor and most charismatic, at least according to Babs and Bruce.

He was a little irritated that they both allowed Tim and Steph the opportunity to refuse this mission but had immediately assumed Dick would agree. They had been right, but still, he was upset that he didn’t even get that kind of autonomy. 

The mission had been set to start next Thursday, but the day before had ended with an explosive argument between him and Bruce, so he had decided he needed a break, and he hoped this mission could provide it. 

It was an easy enough mission—just to protect the target, Manuel Garcia and his family. He had been the witness in a high profile killing against a powerful Gotham official, Jane Byrne, and Bruce was absolutely convinced there would be attacks on Garcia carried out by the Court of Owls while they waited for a formal court indictment and decision.

Thankfully, Batman had convinced Commissioner Gordon to provide a sort of witness protection to Garcia—including relocating Garcia and his family to one of the safer Gotham suburbs and monitoring Court hideouts for news of any ordered attacks. Dick was only supposed to serve as a sort of bodyguard, living close by to the Garcias in case of emergencies but other than that, it was a fairly straightforward.

He grabbed the tupperware container of cookies he spent all of the morning baking and smoothed his shirt down, and putting on a brilliant smile. He took a deep breath and walked out the door, turning to his right side and ringing the doorbell of the next door apartment.

Remember who you are. Adeline Keith, 28. Formerly a suburban housewife, now in the process of getting separated from her husband. You’re looking for a new job while you adjust without your husband, and you’re looking for support and friendship. And you need to manipulate them into giving it to you. Let them trust you so you have better access to their home.

Mrs. Cheyanne Garcia is the one to open the door. She gives him a confused but helpful smile. “Hi?”

“Hi!” Dick says brightly, thrusting a tupperware container into her arms. “Nice to meet you! I’m Adeline. You can call me Addie. I’m your new neighbor. I just moved into the apartment next door a few days ago.” He jerks his hand to the left side. “And, I just wanted to give you a quick gift to say hi.”

“Oh, welcome! Come on in,” She says warmly, stepping back so Dick could enter the apartment. It’s very small and homey, decorated well with children’s toys littered around the place. 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Dick says, trying to play shy. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“Nonsense! Welcome in. I’m Cheyenne.” She leads him to the living room, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Addie, right?”

“Yes.” He smiles warmly and sits next to her. “Nice to meet you. I love your interior decor.”

She beams, and from the bedroom area, two kids scamper over to them, the younger boy climbing up to perch on his mom’s lap. The older one, the girl, smiles shyly at Dick. Cheyanne pops the lid open on the container and passes the kids a cookie each before taking one for herself and offering one to Dick.

Dick takes it gratefully, and turns his attention to the kids. “Hi! I’m Addie, what’s your name?”

“Hi.” The girl says shyly. “Rosalia.”

“What a pretty name!” Dick says, turning to the boy. “And you?”

“Danny.” He babbles, and Dick cooes.

“Awwww, how cute!” He shifts, turning to look Cheyenne in the eye. “You know, if you ever need a babysitter, you can just text me. I was a babysitter for a few years and I have a ton of little siblings so I have a lot of experience with kids. For free, obviously.”

She looks at him gratefully. “Oh, that would be lovely! Babysitters are so expensive and it’s been hard to find them around. Feels like years since I’ve had time to go on a date with Manuel, you know, without having the kids there.”

Dick sends her a sad smile, pretending to play dumb as he asks, “Manuel? Is that your husband?”

“Yeah.” She looks at him with a little bit of concern, no doubt alarmed by his quick change in expression.

“Dates are always good in a relationship.” He says, infusing some bitterness into his tone. “I… I’m in the process of getting… separated from my husband. I think part of the reason I decided to leave him was because he didn’t… take me on dates or anything anymore. But overall… it just felt like he didn’t want me around anymore.”

Cheyanne frowns, and puts her hand comfortingly over his. She turns to the kids and gestures for them to shoo. They wave bye to Dick and run back to their bedroom, grabbing some of the discarded toys on their way back. 

She turns her attention back on Dick. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” 

“It’s okay,” Dick says, eyes welling up with tears. “It’s… it’s not a big deal. Sorry,” He let out a wet laugh. “I’m—I’m so sorry for just dumping that on you. I don’t mean to be bitter.”

She shifts so she’s sitting closer to him. “No, it’s okay, honey. I’m here to listen. We’re neighbors, and you’ve already done two things to make my day—bring me cookies—which by the way are really good!” He smiles at that. “And, you offer to babysit my kids? Honey, you’re so sweet. It’s the least I can do for you.”

“Oh… I don’t know,” Dick says, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s a lot.”

“And that’s okay,” She promises. “I’m here to listen. Promise.”

“Okay… I, uh,” he sighs, staring down as he tries to decide what to say, “We… we met a long time ago, and I liked him for the longest time. Ever since I met him I knew he was, you know, the one. But he told me I was too young for him. That I deserved more than him. It took years but finally, finally, we got together and it was… perfect. And I still… I still love him so much. We were so in sync, you know? Like, we did everything together, and he treated me like I was everything to him.”

Batman and Robin—the dynamic duo. 

You can’t take him away! He fair worships the boy! 

We’re more than family. We’re partners. 

I’d rather lose both arms than lose you!

Batman and Robin forever!

Dick looks up at her with an air of desperation. “He treated me like I was everything to him. And… And he still is everything to me.”

I didn’t have the right to call you back.

The right? I’d die for you, Bruce.

We were the dynamic duo… don’t you remember?

Your friends give you a lot of grief for being so ‘how high?’, every time he says ‘jump’ – but I also know he’s never given you any reason not to believe in everything he taught you. 

Have you forgotten how it was? Wasn’t I always there for you?

Cheyenne nods understandingly, and squeezes his hand. 

“He... He had this big painting of both of us commissioned after… after our wedding. It was so huge it took up like half the wall it was on! It was so ridiculous… I used to beg him to take it down but god, he loved it so much.” He pauses, hands coming up to wipe away his tears. “I thought it was so tacky but he loved it. And… And he’d buy me stacks of presents every birthday. Every Christmas. Even for no reason at all. It was like… it was like he adored me.” 

Cheyanne offers him a sympathetic smile. “Of course.”

“And then… something happened. We started fighting. All the time, about the stupidest things. It’s like we used every excuse to just… push each other away. He’d tell me not to do something and then I’d do it just to spite him and we’d both get mad. I wanted my independence and he wanted… God, I don't know. He wanted control. To control me.”

Cheyenne nods sadly. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“He was just so paranoid after Jay died,” Dick continues, and she looks at him, a little lost. “His son,” he clarifies. 

“I see.”

“After that… he became obsessed with keeping me safe and out of harm's way. But I didn't like that. I didn’t like being… possessed. I’d tell him that you’re not my father so stop acting like you are! and he’d get upset.”

I’m not your son, I’m your partner! You can’t treat me like that, and you can’t tell me what to do!

I’m not a kid, Bruce. You can’t treat me like this!

Robin wasn’t your idea, Bruce! It was mine! I sat in your cave and learned—and when you needed my help, I was there! 

I’m not your employee, and I’m not your son. I’m your partner. And if you’re not willing to admit that… maybe we’re done.

“And, right after that… Well, he had other kids from before, you know. And Jay… he ended up getting into a terrible accident. He died. And… and he was only fifteen.” Dick chokes out a sob. “I used to be close with him. He… he looked up to me a lot and I feel like I failed him.” 

I gave Jason my old Robin costume. I should have been there, Kory.

“Oh, I am so sorry.” She draws Dick into her arms, wrapping them around him. He exhales shakily into her neck. He shuts his eyes as she gently rubs at his back. “You didn’t fail him. No one thinks that. Not… Not Jay and not your husband either.”

“But Jay was just so young. I could have done something.” Dick says miserably. “And, when Jay died… It felt like a part of me did too. And, Bruce… he didn’t… take Jay’s death well either.”

C’mon, Bruce—talk. Don’t turn your back on me. I’m here… now.

“Bruce?” Cheyanne asks. “Your husband?”

Dick pauses. Shit. He’d reached too much into his real life for hopeless sob story inspiration.

“Yeah.” He says quietly.  

She nods. “Okay. So he… So Bruce become depressed? After Jay died?”

“Yeah. A little. More than that, I guess. We, uh, kind of blamed each other? He thought I blamed him, I thought he blamed me…” He gazes off into the distance, his hands closing together lamely in his lap.

That hadn’t been a good time for either of them.

Are you blaming me? I left, so Jason replaced me, and because I left he died? No way, pal.

Bruce, c’mon… Lay off, I’m not here to fight.

Then don’t!

Why did you let him become Robin before he was ready?!

Don’t you dare blame me for Jason’s death! Don’t you dare!

“Then... Then we had another fight where he said he never wanted to see me again. Kicked me out of the house,” Dick sighs, “We forgave each other later. He said he’d only said that because he was scared…Scared he would just lose me, too. But since then it felt like something changed. I left him for a while, stayed with some friends.”

She nods. “I see.”

“Yeah. We… We didn't talk for a bit during that, and then he adopted another few kids. He felt bad for their situations and wanted to give them a chance at, you know, a better life.”

“He still sounds like a good man.” She offers.

“Yeah,” Dick says. There’s not another word for how he sounds other than devoted. “He was the best. ” He leans back roughly into the back of the sofa, using that as an excuse to slip a listening device into the crack between the backrest of the sofa. 

“Have you ever tried couples therapy? He sounds like he has a bit of a guilt complex.”

Dick laughed bitterly. “Yeah. I tried therapy for a little but I didn’t find it that helpful.”

She pats his arm again. “I’m truly so sorry, Addie,” the fake name feels like a slap in the face. Everything he just said had been so genuine. It felt wrong for it to be assigned to someone who wasn’t real. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

For a while, there’s silence, and they sit together peacefully. Cheyenne gently holds Dick’s hand and they breathe deeply together.

“I know I was the one who left—the one who, you know, served the divorced papers… But, I miss him,” Dick admits quietly, “I miss him more than anything. I’d do anything for him to come back to me. For things to be the way they used to.”

She pulls him into another hug. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

They sit there for a while, Dick’s tears just a little too real for him to be comfortable with himself.

From the bedroom area, they both look up as Rosalia walks over them, shyly.

“Rosa,” Cheyanne says sternly, “Were you eavesdropping? You know that’s not polite.”

“Sorry.” She sounds so genuinely guilty Dick wants to cry harder.

From behind her back, she pulls out a teddy bear. It’s a fuzzy brown with a golden bow tied around its neck. “For you.”

“Oh, I can’t possibly accept that.” Dick says, shocked. The toy looks new, almost too clean to be owned by kids as young as they are—there’s a shocking lack of marker stains and other unknown stains on it.

She shakes her head. “For you.”

He looks questioningly to Cheyenne, who nods slowly. 

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” He says slowly, trying to convey his appreciation.

“You said you were alone. Now you don’t have to be.” She says, flushing pink.

He looks at her with big eyes. How kind.

She sends him a shy smile and grabs another cookie before scampering away.

Cheyenne sends him a soft smile. “She’s a little shy, but she's very sweet.”

“Yeah,” Dick echoes hollowly. 

The girl, Rosalia, really reminds him of Damian at that moment—the boy who stays quiet until he realizes you’re upset. Then he’d turn the world upside down if it meant you’d smile.

Dick stands up, slowly. “I… I… Thank you!” He calls the last part out to the bedroom. He turns back to Cheyenne. “I should go. Thank you so, so, so much for listening, Cheyenne I—”

“Of course, honey. We’re neighbors.” She sent him a small smile. “That’s what good neighbors do.” She walks him to the door and pulls him into a hug. “If you ever, ever , need anything, or anyone to talk to—I’m here, okay?” 

He nods, and clutches at the teddy bear. “Thank you. Of course.”

“Good. Also, here.” She hands him a piece of paper with her number on it, making him promise to text her later. 

“Thank you.” He sends her a grateful smile, and they step out together.

“Wait!” She cries. “Just wait one more second. I have some leftovers I can get you.”

“Oh, you’ve done too much already, Cheyenne, I can’t—”

“Nonsense! Just wait right here.” She spins past him, dashing toward the kitchen. 

Dick smiles to himself and steps backwards. He frowns as he steps onto someone—or something—and he wheels himself around to apologize. “Oh, god, I’m so… sorry.” 

The words die in his mouth as he realizes that the person he’s stepped on is Slade Wilson.

He’s dressed casually, in light gray sweatpants and a dark blue shirt. His muscular arms are crossed over his chest and he’s smirking. The one eye Dick can see is crinkled in satisfaction. 

Dick glares. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Wanted to talk to you.” Slade says plainly, and Dick can feel himself get more furious.

“Get out!”

“I—”

“Seriously.” He screeches. “Get out! ”

Cheyenne runs back to the door, two big containers of food in her hands. She freezes as she sees the staring match going on between Dick and Slade. “Um… Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Dick says with a false brightness. He turns back to Slade. “Now please, get out.”

Slade steps closer. “Birdie, I—”

Dick leaped back like he'd been struck, subtly positioning himself in Cheyenne.

Did the Court hire Deathstroke to kill or capture Manuel Garcia? Or his family? Shit, shit, shit. 

“Seriously. Get out.” 

But… Slade isn't wearing any of his armor, and he wasn’t carrying any weapons, either. Maybe he’s scoping the area out and he’ll come back later?  

Still, Dick doubted that Deathstroke would let himself be seen by witnesses in the scene of the crime. Especially since he was wearing no disguise.

Well, he might as well just ask.

“Are you here just to—” Dick starts, pretending to choke up, but he finishes the sentence off by subtly finger-spelling K-I-L-L H-E-R? Cheyenne appears not to notice. “Stand here and make me feel bad?” 

“No. Whatever it is you think I’m here for, it’s not for that.” Slade’s eye looks at Dick with such intensity he finds himself truly believing he’s telling the truth.

Dick exhales, trying to calm himself. “Then why are you here?”

“For you,” He says it plainly, and Dick rolls his eyes. “I missed you,” he adds unconvincingly.

Cheyenne looks between the two, her eyes getting wider and wider as she finally draws her conclusion. “Is this him? ”

Slade finally turns his attention onto her and scowls. “I’m sorry? Do I know you?”

Dick looks alarmed. Shit.

“I’m Addie’s neighbor.” Cheyenne says calmly. 

Slade’s eyebrows knit together at Addie and his eyes dart to Dick, who signs M-E. Slade gives him a subtle nod.

Cheynne turns back to face Dick. “Is this Bruce? ”

Dick looks incredibly pained, like he’s been hit in the head with an axe. Slade looks incredibly amused.

“Yes.” Dick says finally. He flashes Slade with a quick P-L-A-Y A-L-O-N-G as Cheyenne turns her attention back on Slade. S-A-I-D W-E D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D. 

Slade looks too gleeful for Dick to be completely comfortable, but he plays along.

Slade turns to Cheyenne. “And you must be?”

“Cheyenne. Your, uh, wife’s neighbor."

“Ex-wife.” Dick corrects.

“Right,” Cheyenne says, with an apologetic smile, “Ex-wife.”

“Not ex-wife yet.” Slade says, and Dick scowls harder. He didn’t mean play along that much!

“Right.” Cheyenne claps her hands together. “How about I give you both some space?” She backs away nervously, and Slade nods. 

Dick grabs Slade by the wrist, trying to drag him out and into his neighboring apartment. Slade doesn’t budge and Dick growls. “Bruce. Move.”

Slade concedes and lets Dick drag him along. 

He nods at Cheyenne and she waves back. “Bye, Addie!”

The door slams shut loudly, the sound ringing the air as Dick drops the teddy bear and pushes Slade up against the door, pressing an elbow against his jugular. He doesn’t even bother locking the door, he’s so mad. 

He flicks out a Batarang from his sleeve, bringing it close enough to Slade’s throat that he could draw blood in milliseconds. “What do you want? ”

Slade smirks at him. “Just wanted to say hi. I missed you, Addie.” He says the last word slowly, leaning down to exhale on Dick’s ear. Dick freezes and Slade uses it as a distraction, grabbing Dick’s other arm and flipping them.

The Batarang clatters as it falls to the floor.

Slade holds Dick’s one arm up above his head—effectively boxing him in so Dick’s front is pressed against the door. Dick turns his head to the side and closes his eyes. Slade leans his head down until he’s whispering directly into Dick’s ear, who tries to squirm away from him. “Did you choose that name on purpose? ”

“No.”

“Then, did you make Bruce the name of your husband on purpose?” He sounds vicious now, hand gripping Dick’s wrist so tight he’s sure it’ll leave marks.

“And what’s it to you?” Dick asks, rather coldly. He’s not in the mood to be interrogated by Slade. He just wants him to get out .

There’s lives at stake. Manuel and Cheyenne. Daniel and Rosalia.

Slade laughs coldly. “Oh, I know you did.” 

“I didn’t!” Dick insisted. “It was… a misunderstanding.”

“You forget I can hear everything.”

“And? It was a misunderstanding.”

“One you failed to correct.”

“For convenience!”

“Oh, little bird,” Slade croons. “I heard you talking to her about your, ah, failing marriage. So sad. Truly touching.” Contrary to what he says, Slade sounds thrilled. “Is that how you see your relationship to him? As a marriage?”

Dick scowls into the door, refusing to let Slade see his face.

“Did you just get so tired of acting like his wife and you just had to be it?” He leaned in closer, pressing his crotch into Dick’s ass. “Is this a little fantasy for you? How sick.”

“Shut up!” Dick yells. He tries to pull his arms out of Slade’s grasp but Slade only holds them tighter.

“And you know what, birdie?” Slade’s lips graze his ear. He’s still growling, his hot breath warming Dick’s face. “You were right. He treated you were his pretty little wife. You took care of the kids for him, did everything he said, centered your whole life around him, only for him to throw you away when he wanted a younger, prettier model.” Slade sneers. “And still, you crawl back to him.”

“Don’t you dare talk about him like that.” Dick hisses. “And you think you’re any better? You’re nothing compared to him. You could climb all the tallest mountains and you still wouldn’t be able to reach his boots!”

Slade continues on, not even sparing a moment to listen to what Dick was saying. “Sit, Robin. Stay, Robin. Beg, Robin. Aren’t you tired of being treated like a bitch?”

Dick snarls at him, trying to yank his hands from Slade’s hold.

Slade laughs again, more cruelly. “Don’t you ever get tired of being his bitch?” 

Dick tries to escape again, but Slade grabs at his hair and tugs it, forcing his neck back at an unnatural angle. A pained cry escapes Dick’s throat.

“No, because that’s what you want, right?” Slade pauses, his voice getting more kindly as he whispers, “You just want to be his forever.”

Dick sobs and Slade tugs harder.

“You gave him your life, Robin. Your soul. Your body. Your devotion. And in return, he gives you nothing. Replaces you. Pushes you away. Forces you to leave.”

 “And still! You crawl back to him.” Slade laughs, sounding nastier now. “How pathetic. Is that what you are? A kicked dog? A pathetic little thing who crawls back to his master? Is that what you are?”

The tears are streaming freely. down Dick’s face now, and he’s sure his mascara is ruined. In fact, he’s sure he looks ruined. ”No.”

“No?” Slade tsks. “Don’t lie, Robin. At least now you have the balls to tell everyone how much you want him, how much you wish you could really be his little—”

“Stop.” Dick pants. He closes his eyes, trying to pull his face away from Slade. His head is pounding, and he’s blurring in and out of consciousness.

“How much you want to be his wife.”

Slade lets go, and Dick’s head snaps forward, almost banging into the wall. He stays there, panting.

“I’m sure you heard it. The news said it. The magazines said it. All of Gotham’s elite said it. And god, how you just wished that were true. You’d sleep every night with your legs spread, wishing you would wake up and find him standing over you, pulling those pretty legs over his shoulders. Hmm? ”

Dick gasps, and Slade brings up a hand to squeeze his throat.

“Wishing he’d bend you over in... his car. Wishing he’d hit you so hard it’d leave your ass so red everyone could see it. See his claim on you.” Slade moves his hand up to pet Dick’s hair gently with his free hand. “And I’m sure he wished for that too. You’re hard to say no to.”

“Stop.” Dick cries, and a tear falls down his face. “Don’t say that!”

“No?”

“He’s a good man!” Dick yells. “A good man!”

“Yes,” Slade says graciously. “The greatest man you know, and all that. But you wish he wasn’t, don’t you? He didn’t kiss you, didn’t fuck you, didn’t love you… Because he’s too good. Infallible. Pristine. But no. You’re right. He is a good man. Too good—too good for a dirty little thing like you—”

“Stop!” Dick screams in anger and jumps backward, kicking his leg out to hit Slade’s thigh. He twirls out from under Slade and tackles him onto the floor. He lands hard on Slade’s chest, his hands moving up to square Slade’s throat. “Don’t you fucking dare! You don’t know anything about him. Or about me!” He adds furiously as Slade smirks.

“Awwww,” Slade cooes, his single eye still crinkled as he smiles, “Still taking the fire for him?”

 Dick freezes in anger, his form is sloppy enough Slade’s able to easily roll them over so Dick is pushed under him. He tugs at Dick’s hair again, which falls around his face like a halo.  

“You look good like this.” Slade admits, eyes drinking in Dick’s ruined mascara and flushed face. “Angry. Fierce. Beautiful.” He grabs at Dick’s face to bring him up to his lips, but Dick, desperate to get control, surges up at the same time. Their noses hit each other, and Dick huffs. Slade pulls him in again for a kiss. “Aren’t you ashamed? I know you only let me do this to you because I remind you so much of him.” Slade pulls away, his eyes dilated and gaze hungry, like a predator.

Dick ignores him and leans up to kiss him again. “Shut up.”

Slade smirks wickedly. “You know who else I heard that from?”

“I don’t care.”

“Miss Talia al Ghul.” Slade says. He sounds entertained. “Or, should I say Mrs. Talia Wayne? Are they still married?”

Dick growls, hands coming up to scratch against Slade’s chest at the mention of Talia—the woman who got everything he wanted twice. He grabs at the material, causing it to rip. He yanks it down and pulls it tight around Slade’s neck. Slade only grins. 

His smile only taunts Dick more, who pulls the shirt off Slade so hard it tears. He tosses it lazily to his side and he pulls Slade closer to him, digging his fingers into Slade’s long hair and sloppily pressing their lips to each other. 

Slade kisses back fiercely and Dick feels so lightheaded he’s dizzy. From the back of his head, Dick hears a loud creak and then an apologetic voice, but he doesn’t care. He pulls himself closer to Slade, like he’s trying to devour him. 

Finally, Slade pulls away, his eyes flicking back towards the door, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. Dick almost growls at him for getting distracted. 

Pay attention to me. Don't you dare look at anyone else.

Not like he did—not like he did when I was right there.

He glowers at Slade, begging him with eyes to turn his attention back on the smaller man. But still, Slade’s eyes stayed trained on the door, and Dick follows his gaze.

His face flushes red as he recognizes the woman who stands in front of them. 

It’s Cheyenne.

Chapter Text

Cheyenne glances between both Dick and Slade. Her face is a bright, blotchy red, a far cry from her usually even toned tan skin. In her hands are the two containers of leftovers she offered to give him. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. You, uh, left this there.”

Dick pushes Slade off of him and tries to stand up. He’s sure he looks utterly debauched—hair a mess, lips swollen, and mascara running. “Oh, god. Oh, god. I’m so embarrassed.”

“It’s okay,” Cheyenne says, sending him a confused smile. “I… the walls are thin, sorry. I thought y’all were fighting and it sounded a bit… physical? I just wanted to, uh, check in. I didn’t realize you were, uh… you know,” Her face flushes ever redder. “Rolling around in the hay?”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Dick repeats, waving his hands around as he desperately tries to explain the situation. How much more had she heard? “I—We—Umm—Bruce would never hurt me. Don’t worry about that.” He says the last part beseechingly, begging her to understand. 

Not willingly, at least. Anything else was what he deserved.

Slade looks at Dick coolly, raising his eyebrow. 

What was it Slade had said earlier? Still taking the fire for him? 

Why was it that even while undercover Dick couldn’t bear to let anyone think badly of Bruce?  

“Oops.” Slade says noncommittally, coming up behind Dick. It’s hard to tell if he’s disappointed she interrupted them or if he truly doesn’t care. It’s embarrassing, sometimes, how much Slade lacks shame.

Dick leans forward to take the tupperware from Cheyenne, sending her an appreciative smile. “Thank you so much, Cheyenne. You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Nonsense!” She waves her hand casually, but her eyes stay warily trained on Slade, like she’s waiting for him to do something. 

Slade steps forward, lightly putting his arm on the small of Dick’s back. As much dignity as Dick has, he finds himself leaning into the touch. 

Slade takes the tupperware from Dick and heads to the kitchen, pushing it into the empty fridge. 

Dick looks at him gratefully. “Thanks.” Dick says it slowly, like he’s uncomfortable saying it. He’s not used to saying it to Slade, of all people.

“I brought some food for you, too.” Slade says quickly. Desperately. “I left it in the car. I can go get it.”

Dick frowns at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He’s not sure if Slade is lying.

“I wanted to, Addie.” Slade’s voice is firm but kind. “I know you… I know you want me to leave but it’s still important to me that you’re comfortable. Provided for.” 

Dick bites his lip. “Okay.”

“Can I go get it?” Slade asks, and Dick nods. 

As Slade reaches down to pick up his shirt, he reaches over to pick up the stuffed animal Dick had dropped earlier and presses into Dick’s arms. Dick holds it tight at his hip the way most people would carry a child.

Slade tugs his shirt on, but the front is incredibly stretched out. The top almost falls off his shoulder entirely.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Slade promises, leaning in a quick kiss to Dick’s cheek.

Dick flinches away, letting out a shudder at the gentle touch. It’s been too long since he’s allowed anyone to caress him like that. 

It almost felt… good. It makes something in his throat swell, something that feels a lot like want.  

Or regret.

Why is it that the casual intimacy of a kiss to the cheek almost gets him to break down? Why not the verbal degradation he’s been forced to endure? Or the physical pain of their fight?

Dick bites his lip so hard it bleeds, trying to distract himself from the craving he feels.

Slade stares at him with what looks like slight concern. There’s no doubt Slade, with his enhanced senses, can smell the blood on his lips. “Addie?”

Dick turns away, and the words catch in his throat. “Why are you being so nice to me, Bruce?” He says the name sharply, as a reminder that they’re both playing roles. It’s not real. It will never be real. “You should hate me. I left you.”

“Because I love you, Adeline.” Slade says plainly, his tone softer than Dick’s ever heard. “I could never hate you.” 

Slade walks closer to Dick, pushing the hair out of his face. He leaves his hand up, cupping Dick’s face and for a moment, Dick forgets Cheyenne is there. The air between them feels electric, and Dick parts his lips slightly as he waits for a kiss that never comes. 

“And, as much as I hate being without you,” Slade continues, “I want you to be happy. And if you’re happier without me, then I’ll do that. Stay away. For you.” 

Dick looks down guiltily. “Oh.”

“But,” Slade says the next part slowly, like he’s cherishing a memory he never wants to let go. “I’ll never forget… how perfect we were for each other, so very long ago.”

A tear falls down Dick’s cheek. 

Slade’s monologue sounds practiced, like he’s rehearsed this before. 

Or, like he’s said this to someone else.

Adeline, Slade had just called him. Because I love you, Adeline.

Dick knew Adeline. He had worked with her several times over the years. Still, he balked at the possibility that Slade needed the domesticity, the forgiveness, and the love from Adeline Kane that Dick wanted desperately from Bruce Wayne. 

Well, at least Slade had it, once. He had it all — a loving wife and family — and he lost it. Lost it by putting his contracts—his own sick mission above what really mattered. 

Love.

Family.

Not too different from Bruce.

But, Dick had given him his all and Bruce hadn’t wanted it. And now, everyone who loved Bruce left him because of how he never treated them as less important than that sick mission.  

But only Dick had ever come crawling back.

Dick wanted it—that love, that devotion— more than anything—but he’d never had it, but Slade had it and threw it all away. Maybe this was their second chance—an opportunity for both of them—for Dick to get what he’d always wanted and for Slade to get what he had back. 

Dick steps away from Slade, but Slade’s eyes stay trained on him.

“I admit, I’ve been such a fool.” Slade says it gruffly, words sounding like they’re chafing against his throat. His gaze is intent, and for a minute, Dick feels like he can’t breathe. “I can’t live without you. I’ve been such a fool for pushing you away. For acting like I wanted to… leave you behind.  You’re everything to me, Addie. Please… come back to me.”

Dick would have been crazy to say no . These were the words he wanted to hear, but just not from the right person. 

“Bruce…” He says weakly. He glances at Cheyenne, whose expression seems to be one of understanding . “I—not now. I shouldn’t.”

“But you want to.” Slade asks, with an air of finality. But Dick can call it for what it really is. He sounds beseeching.

Dick doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust himself.

Slade sighs. “I’ll go get the food now.” He says it quietly, his voice gruff. He almost sounds resigned. “I’ll be right back.”

He heads out quickly, sparing no glance backwards at Dick. The silence is so deafening Dick can hear his heart pound.

The sound of his boots echo around the hallway, and as Slade enters the elevator, Cheyenne grabs Dick by the arm and pulls him a couple feet more into his small apartment. She slams the door closed, but with more urgency than aggression. 

Cheyenne glares at him. “How the hell are you letting that man go?”

“I—What?” Dick said, confused. He had been expecting some kind of confrontation about what she had heard from the thin walls of the apartment. Not this.

Suddenly, he can’t think of anything to say.

“Addie, he adores you.” She says earnestly. “You guys have… You guys have crazy tension and he wants you back so badly! You can just tell by the way he looks at you.”

“Oh,” Dick says slowly. “I don’t know, Cheyenne… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“He misses you, honey. And he doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

 “I… I suppose.” He acknowledges.

“You just bared your heart to me about how much you miss him and want him back! Forgive me for overstepping, but he just did the same!” Cheyenne’s hands flail wildly as she tries to get her point across. “He wants you back! Bad!” She sighs. “I think you should give him a second chance.”

“But—”

“Addie. I saw the way you kissed him.” Cheyenne smirks at him, and Dick flushes bright red. “You both don’t want to move on.”

“But—” Dick can’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t reveal their true identities. He also couldn’t think of anything to retort back in general. 

“Just give him a second chance.” She says, softer this time. “Love isn’t always perfect, but everyone deserves a second chance. You deserve to be happy.”

Dick stays quiet and Cheyenne puts her arm out onto his bicep. A gentle touch, but it grounds him. Makes him feel solid.

“Okay.” Dick whispers. “I’ll… I’ll try.”

She beams at that. “That’s good.”

A knock at the door makes him jolt.

“Come in.” Dick calls, and Slade steps in, hands full of what looks like homemade pasta. He has a winning smile on his face, which only makes him look more dangerous. Cheyenne’s hands are clasped together as she peers over at Dick and whispers, Look how sweet!

Slade heads over to the kitchen, placing the pasta in the noticeably less empty fridge. 

Everyone stays silent, and the sound of Slade closing the fridge echoes throughout the small apartment. 

Slade looks at Dick, his single eye wide with what almost looks like regret. “I’ll leave now if you tell me too. Stay away for however long you want me to. But I miss you. I miss us. ” In the dim lighting of the kitchen, his face is barely visible. Only the too familiar sharp line of his square jaw, deep set eyes and broad shoulders can be seen. This stretched-out sweater reminds Dick too much of a cape.

Dick’s eyes feel watery again. “I…” He looks at Slade desperately, trying to convey how he feels. All of a sudden, he feels lonely . 

Bruce didn’t want him. Babs left him. Alfred was dead. Tim and Damian don’t need him. Jason didn’t want to be around him. There was no one left for him. Wasn’t this the easiest option? At least Slade cares, a voice in his head seemed to whisper.

Cheyenne looks at him encouragingly. She nods her head subtly, indicating Dick should say yes. 

Dick looks down at the floor. “Fine. Stay. Just for… Just for today.” Just saying the words make him feel like a weight has been lifted off his chest. 

It’s for tactical reasons , Dick thinks. It’s easier to keep an eye on him this way. To see if he really was the mercenary hired to assassinate Manuel Garcia.

She sends him a small, private smile. “I should go,” she says as she mindlessly gestures to the wall her apartment is on the side off. “The kids are there all by themselves and I should go check on them.” She walks over to pull Dick into a hug. He leans into it, breathing in her warm rose-scented perfume. She leans closer to his ear to whisper good luck.

She puts her hand out for a handshake with Slade, which he surprisingly returns. “Nice meeting you, Bruce.”

“Nice meeting you as well, Cheyenne.” He echoes. 

They nod at each other. 

Cheyenne pauses, her face stuck in an obviously calculating smile. “Bruce, Addie—you both must join me and Manuel for dinner tomorrow. I was thinking of making lasagna!”

“Oh,” Dick says. “I don’t know—”

“We’d love to.” Slade interrupts.

She claps her hands together in delight. “Wonderful! You can come over at around 6, if that works?”

Dick forces a grin. “Sounds great,” he chokes out.

When she shuts the door behind her, Dick stares at Slade. 

“What the hell were you thinking, Slade?” Dick’s voice comes as a low whisper, but it’s ferocious nonetheless.

“Getting you better access to the target's house. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

Dick almost growled. “I don’t need your help. I’m fully competent and can handle this on my own.” 

“Then why would you throw away an opportunity as golden as that one? You can plant tracers, cameras, bugs, anything you and your little bat-freaks want in their apartment, but you said no. Why?”

Dick stalks away to his laptop, which is sitting on his kitchen countertop. “Just… stay away and let me handle this.” Slade puts his arms up and comes closer, until Dick stops him dead in his tracks with a glare. “And don’t say you’re only trying to help. I don’t believe that.”

“Why?”

“You’re a cold-blooded, heartless killer. You killed your own son!”

“You don’t believe that.”

“And you’re not denying it.”

Slade’s voice takes a sharper edge. “I didn’t murder Joe and you know that.”

“Do you really believe you set him free or whatever bullshit you tell yourself?”

“He begged me to kill him, Grayson. It was mercy.”

“Is that what you told Adeline, too?”

Slade doesn’t answer. The silence between both of them turns almost hostile. Dick studies the hard set of Slade’s jaw. He looks pained, almost hurt.

 “Sorry,” Dick says quickly. “I overstepped.”

Joey… Poor Joey who had deserved so much better. From his father, yes, but his friends too. Slade was right. Joey had begged Slade to kill him.

Slade still doesn’t answer.

Dick slowly looks down, bringing his attention back to his empty report. He glances at Slade, who hasn’t moved at all, before beginning to type. 

—

It’s almost an hour later when Slade’s gruff voice shakes him out of his stupor. “Here.”

Dick stares at him as Slade puts down a hot cup of chai along with a bowl full of reheated pasta. “What?”

“I said eat, boy.” Slade places down another bowl next to him, before taking a seat there and starting to eat. He pauses to look up at Dick “I didn’t poison it, if that's what you think.”

“I know you didn’t—” Dick interrupts and Slade cuts him off with a sharp flick of his index finger.

“Eat. You have patrol in an hour.”

“Okay. Fine.” Dick says warily. He closes his laptop and picks up the fork before twirling it around and shoveling some into his mouth. It’s good, delicious even, but he won’t give Slade the satisfaction of knowing that. “Why do you know my patrol schedule?”

“I know everything about you.” Slade says plainly. 

Dick scowls. “No, you fucking don’t.”

“I do,” Slade repeats and Dick resists the urge to stab him with the fork.

“Whatever.” He huffs, too hungry to waste time arguing. “Just don’t disturb me on patrol.”

—

“There’s armed men around the left corner. I’ve analyzed their armor and they have weak points where their armor connects. Aim for the joints.” Slade’s deep voice makes it sound like an order, his voice coming tinny from the earpiece Dick was wearing. 

Dick resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he grappled up the building ledge just to leap off. “Thanks.” 

Why Slade insisted on playing his own private Oracle, he’ll never know. Probably to piss Dick off more while keeping control over him and the information he received. Still, as much as Dick hated to admit, it was helpful.

Dick threw the grapple around one of the gunmen, pulling him up while the rope ensured his arms stayed wrapped around him. The other two aimed their guns at him, but he threw an escrima at one of them, hitting him right in the jaw. The man falls, and his partner falters. In that split second, Dick spins his other escrima at his forearm and then lands an uppercut. That man falls too.

Dick perches over them as he ruffles through their pockets for any clues that would help him ascertain if these goons were hired by the Court of Owls or not.  

Most likely not, but there was the chance they decided Talons would draw too much attention. Or maybe that they were meant to be a distraction.

Dammit. He quickly spun around to look at the Garcia's apartment window. Everything seemed to be fine. Not a distraction, then.

“I can see your heartbeat level rising,” Slade’s voice says from the com in his ear. “What’s wrong?”

“Stop it.” Dick says. “You can’t do that.”

“You are in the field. You cannot be distracted. Distraction leads to death. I repeat—tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s almost like you care about me, husband.” Dick says faux sweetly, trying to distract him. He grappled up the building again, perching back on his vantage point of the Garcia family’s apartment.

“I’m trying to keep you alive.” Slade retorts, and Dick laughs. “Now tell me what’s wrong. If it’s a person I can… take care of it.”

Dick almost laughs again. What an idiot Slade was, assuming that something else other than him was on Dick’s mind. “Nothing.”

“A syndicate? A specific mobster?” Slade guesses, “I can deal with them too. It’ll be fun.” 

Slade’s voice in his ear reminds him of long ago, how Bruce would act during undercover missions. Controlling almost to the point of possession. 

Babs would do it too, as Oracle. She’d tell him exactly what to do and he’d find himself doing it. He’d always been obedient, and he’d always liked the unquestioning faith he had in his partner to guide him. Like a dance.

A shiver runs through Dick’s body.

“Tell me.” Slade demands, and Dick still ignores him. 

I liked it, Dick realized. How Bruce and Babs had always monitored my heart rate through their stupidly good suit mechanisms. How they used it against me, telling me what I liked and what I didn't. 

It was soothing—the idea of having your own god and personal savior in your ear always telling you exactly what to do so you don’t have to think about anything but what they told you.

Dick had always been obedient to a fault.

And now, with Slade doing that too… 

“Three hundred yards to your left,” Slade barks, “there’s a small robbery. Two masked gunmen, one hostage.”

Dick jolts to the left and leaps off the building, gracefully throwing his grapple up to wrap around the nearest gargoyle. He cants his hips so he swings up to sit on the gargoyle. “What’s the closest point of access, oh-so-humble-Oracle?”

Slade ignores the jibe. “A window about a hundred feet to your left. It should lead to an indoor balcony that overlooks where the gunmen are."

“Roger that.” Dick says, scaling down to the window.

—

It’s almost 4 in the morning when Dick finally reaches home. He quietly slides the window up and steps in, careful not to make a sound. 

“Honey, I’m home!” Dick calls quietly. 

Silence greets him, and his heart sinks as he realizes Slade has left. 

Dick scans around, noting that the plates are gone from where they were sitting on the table, and the dishwasher is on. He smiles softly to himself.

At least the big idiot had done the dishes before he left.

As he yanks his costume off, he finds himself almost missing Slade’s presence. It had been nice, having someone to talk to. Someone who was looking out for you. 

But he dismissed the thought. He couldn’t just entertain having Slade in his life just because he was bored. The man was a mercenary . 

He was probably only here because of some monetary incentive. Not for you, Dick chided himself. You’re a fool for trusting him.

He crawls onto bed, pulls up the covers and promptly passes out.

Chapter Text

It’s late afternoon when Slade shows up again, this time dressed in a black leather jacket over a black t-shirt and cargo pants. He’s holding flowers in his hand, and for an embarrassing second, Dick almost melts as Slade presses them into his hands. 

“For Cheyenne.” Slade grunts, and Dick nods slowly. 

Of course he’d try to play the gentleman, Dick thought bitterly. An unwelcome flash of jealousy runs through him but he ignores it, setting the flowers in a cup and filling that cup with water.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Did you think they were for you?” Slade asked, voice tinged with amusement.

Dick flushes red. “No!” Slade stares at him, and Dick panics. “If you got me flowers, I’d burn them.” He scoffs. “Though I admit flowers would be easier to deal with than all the creepy things you always do for me.”

Slade aptly ignores him. “And if I did get these for you?” Slade's big hand traces over the petals of one of the flowers, circling the rim of one of the peonies before he slowly presses his thumb into the middle area of the flower.

Dick gulps. “Stop playing games, Slade.”

“Stop being so easy to rile up, then.”

Dick growls and stalks away.

—

Almost an hour later, Dick and Slade stand at the door. Slade raises his arm to ring the doorbell, and Dick takes a minute to rake a hand through his long hair, which is tied together in a loose braid. Light makeup dusts his face, with enough concealer to cover even the worst of wounds. He's dressed casually, with a loose blue dress shirt and black slacks.

Slade is wearing a brown leather jacket over a tank top. It looks unreasonably good on him.

Suddenly, Dick’s breath catches as a man—presumably Manuel—opens the door for them. Dick has seen him before a million times in sneakily taken photos and zoomed in ID cards, but in person, Manuel is startlingly handsome. He’s tall, with messy dark hair and tan skin. A tight white shirt hugs his muscular arms, and an apron hangs loosely around his body.

He smiles at them warmly, but there’s an air of caution around him that Cheyenne lacks. 

Something about the paranoia in his eyes feels very familiar to Dick. 

“Hey,” Manuel says warmly, “You must be our new neighbors. Come on in!”

“I’m Bruce,” Slade says, “And this is Addie.”

Manuel puts his hand out at Slade for him to shake. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Manuel.”

Rosalia steps out from behind Manuel’s leg, smiling shyly at Dick. “Hi.”

“And this is Rosalia!”

Dick crouches down so he’s at her height. “Hi Rosalia! I got this for you.” He hands her a small sticker pack. It’s labelled 100 of the cutest animals in the world and it is apparently very popular amongst the kids at the pediatrics unit Steph volunteered at. “It reminded me of you.”

“Thanks.” She says quietly, holding it up to her chest tightly.

“I got this for Danny.” Dick says, standing up. He hands Manuel another sticker pack, also labelled with 100 of the cutest animals in the world. 

Manuel smiles at Dick, his cheek dimpling. “You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” Dick says, waving his hand. Manuel’s gaze is so intense Dick can feel his cheeks get hot. “I wanted to.”

Slade slowly moves his hand up to the small of Dick’s back, and Dick can feel his face get even redder with the casual assertion of possession.

“Addie?” Cheyenne’s voice calls from inside.

“Yes?” Dick calls back, and in a flash Cheyenne is at the door, pulling Dick into a hug.

“You made it!” She squealed. But quickly, she pulls away. “Sorry, I know I can be a little overbearing but—”

“Not at all, I promise—”

“But… it’s just that… we just moved here too, a little bit before you did and it’s nice to make some new friends, you know? And I was so worried I was being so pushy on you but—”

Dick had read their file enough to know they had moved in almost two months ago, but Bruce had only wanted security for them when Vicki Vale had written an exposition about the court case Manuel was the witness for—the Jane Byrne assassination—which caused it to become an overnight sensation.

There were even talks about a documentary in progress.

“Cheyenne. Seriously, don’t worry.” Dick said, squeezing her hand.

“You promise? ”

“Absolutely.”

She beams at him, before turning to Slade. “Hi, Bruce!”

“Hello, Cheyenne. These are for you.” Slade says charmingly, pressing the flowers into her hands.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” She cooes. “These are so lovely!” She twirls them in her hand and leads them into the apartment, before tilting her head up to kiss Manuel on the cheek.

God, Dick thought. Was domesticity always this easy for everyone else?

 “I’ll be right back,” Cheyenne promised. “I’ll put these in some water. Oh, and Bruce?”

“Hm?” Slade called.

“Thank you so much! Light pink is my favorite color, how did you know?”

Because he’s a sick freak who makes it his business to know everything about everyone, Dick thinks bitterly. 

He does it to me too.

“Lucky guess,” Slade remarks with a quick, smug glance at Dick.

—

Getting through dinner proves to be way less tougher than Dick originally thought. The table is set beautifully, with delicious lasagna, mashed potatoes, and fried chicken legs. He’s starving and exhausted, and it takes all his strength to not just pig out. 

Between bites, Cheyenne smiles brightly at Dick and Slade. “So, what do you both think of the food? I always worry when I cook for new people.”

Dick grins at her. “Honestly, Cheyenne, it’s amazing. You’ve got nothing to worry about, right, Bruce?”

Slade nods appreciatively. “It’s excellent. You’re a great cook.”

She beams. “Oh, it wasn’t just me this time. Manuel made the chicken and mashed potatoes. The lasagna was all me, though.”

“Out of all of the dishes, the lasagna’s the best.” Dick stage-whispers, with an exaggerated wink at Cheyenne. 

Manuel and Cheyenne laugh, and Dick brightens under their gaze.

“But the chicken’s good, too?” Manuel says, mock offended.

“Hmmm,” Dick hums, still play-acting. “I suppose it’s decent. Really brings the meal together. The teensiest bit.”

Manuel exaggeratedly pumps his fist at that and Dick playfully swats at his arm. 

Slade remains quiet, his eyes flicking between Dick, Manuel, and Cheyenne. There’s something about Dick’s charm and Manuel’s easygoing nature that’s starting to eat at him, but he keeps his expression neutral.

Manuel shakes his head. "You sure you’re not just here to make everyone else look bad, Addie?” He asks Dick, smiling as he hands over a glass of red wine. “You’re way too charming to be here for anything else."

Dick leans in like he was going to reveal a secret. “Well, I try not to make it too obvious, but I suppose you’ve caught me.” 

Cheyenne laughs. “Just what are we going to do with you, Addie?”

“I dunno, Cheyenne. Maybe let me gorge myself on this lasagna,” Dick says as he waves his fork at Cheyenne. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever had.” He turns to Manuel mockingly. “But I promise, the chicken wasn’t all too bad, either.”

“Was it so bad that it balanced out how good the lasagna was?” Manuel said, his voice tinged with humor.

“Oh absolutely. A team effort.” Dick says, pretending to be all high-and-mighty the way a food connoisseur would. “Her food takes you out of this world, and yours makes you wish you were out of this world.”

“Well you know what they say,” Cheyenne says, laughing brightly, “Teamwork makes the dream work!”

They all smile to each other at that.

“Well," Manuel continues, "here’s to making it work, with the perfect team!"

Manuel raises his wine glass, with a purposeful glance at Slade, and the meaning isn’t lost on Dick.

“To making it work,” Cheyenne echoes, lifting her glass as well. Dick quickly joins them, and they pause as they wait for Slade to raise his glass.

When Slade finally lifts his glass, his expression remains distant. “To making it work.”

Dinner continues, the conversation flowing more easily now. There are jokes and more laughter, paired with a few glances exchanged between Dick and Slade. The air is still charged, but for the most part, it’s just a regular evening—at least, that’s how it appears to everyone else.

Not to Dick though. He’s noticed that every time Manuel laughs at Dick’s jokes, Slade gets quieter, and Dick swears he can hear Slade’s jaw grind. 

Dick swears he’s actively trying to behave but can't help enjoying Manuel’s attention. 

He isn’t used to being looked at like that—warm and open—instead of coldly evaluative like Bruce usually is or manipulatively sweet like Slade has been recently.

And… he finds himself craving it.

—

“Here, let me get the dishes for you,” Dick says, standing up and gathering some of the empty plates in his arms.

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, Addie,” Cheyenne cooes. “But Manuel’s got it, right, honey?”

“Of course.” Manuel says, standing up. He tries to take the stack from Dick, but Dick turns away. “You’re a guest . Don’t insult us by doing the work for us.”

Dick shakes his head. “I want to help. It’s the least I could do.” Cheyenne opens her mouth to argue, and Dick cuts her off. “I insist.”

“If you insist. But let me help you.” Manuel says amusedly, and they make their way to the kitchen.

Manuel and Dick talk quietly, talking about their kids and other trivial things until the inevitable subject of Dick and Slade’s failing marriage is brought up.

At that, Dick shakes his head. He glances back at Slade and Cheyenne, who thankfully appear in deep conversation. Or at least, Slade looks intrigued while Cheyenne chatters away. 

“I don't want to think about it right now.” Dick says slowly “I’m sure Cheyenne’s told you about the situation. It’s… long and complicated .”

Manuel doesn’t press, but his gaze lingers and his eyes stay kind. “You’ve got a strong presence, Addie. Can’t imagine anyone not fighting to keep you.”

Dick’s breath catches.  “I—Thank you—” He laughs, but it’s shaky. 

He smiles at Manuel a bit too long and when he looks away, Slade is staring at him, his eye as cold as ice.

—

It’s late when they get back to their own apartment. 

The door clicks shut quietly behind them, and Dick stretches his arms lazily. It’s too late to patrol tonight, so he might as well head to bed. 

No big deal. 

He’s had a few too many drinks to patrol safely anyway.

Slade stays three steps behind him, until finally he calls out “Do you always light up like that when someone gives you a compliment, or just when it’s someone else’s husband?"

Dick pauses, his mouth hanging wide open. His first instinct is to brush it off, but the edge in Slade’s voice makes his stomach twist. “What?”

“You heard me.” Slade says coldly. “Was that dinner everything you dreamed of? Getting the attention of—”

“It’s not like that.” Dick says coldly. “You’re reading too much into it. Don’t tell me you’re jealous. ”

“He called you charming. ”

“I tend to have that effect on people,” Dick says sharply. “He’s not the only person to have ever called me that.”

Slade steps forward, closing the space between them in one smooth motion. His eyes, usually so calculating, are now filled with something more possessive. “No wonder Wayne threw you away. You’re such an attention whore you’ll roll over for anyone who gives you the slightest bit of praise and attention.”

“That’s not true!” Dick growls. “Is that what you think of me? You think you can be nice to me for two seconds and I’ll listen to you? Give myself up to you?” He shoved at Slade’s chest. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re desperate .”

“I’m desperate? You keep calling me the name of your ex-wife!”

“And just who were you calling your husband? Wayne?” Slade sneered, “At least I had Addie. You’re just stuck with a crush.”

“It’s not a crush!” Dick says, voice almost a yell. 

“Fine. Your pathetic infatuation.”

Dick wants to snap back, to deny it, but something about the look in Slade’s eyes shuts him down.

“You go on from one person you can’t have to the next…” Slade chuckles darkly. “The way you let him flatter you like that tonight... You love it, don’t you?” His voice drops lower, sharp and bitter. “Too bad, isn’t it? One man you want married and the one man married to the, ah, mission.”

“I don’t want Manuel!” Dick hissed, careful to keep his voice low so the neighbors couldn’t hear. “And I don’t want Bruce!”

“Don’t think I don’t see it, Grayson. You like the attention. You thrive off it.” Slade advances closer, and Dick’s throat tightens. “You need it. Crave it, since Wayne won’t give it to you.”

Dick looks down, face flushed red. “No…”

One of Slade’s hands grips Dick’s wrist tightly, and the other hand harshly pulls Dick’s chin up until he’s forced to stare Slade in the eye. “But, I’m not Wayne , Grayson. I’ll treat you better—” 

“No. You'll treat me like a goddamn prize.” Dick retorts, resisting the urge to scream that Bruce Wayne is a better man than you could ever dream of being, Slade. A better man, soldier, mentor, a better everything. 

Slade’s voice became softer, almost understanding. He continues on, pointedly ignoring Dick. “I can take care of you the way he never will.” He scoffed. “He wants you to devote yourself to him entirely but he won’t commit to you. You’ll lay down your life for him again and again and he will still leave you.”

“No.” Dick says, voice a little frantic.

“But if you let me, I’d never leave you.”

“No!”

“It leaves you dizzy, doesn’t it, sweetheart? He'll use you and use you and use you and then leave you. He’ll never love you, sweetheart. Not in the way you want him to.” 

“And what,” Dick scoffs, “You will?”

“I can. I don’t need to hide behind that mask of good intentions. ”

“ Good intentions? You sick bastard—You're nothing like Bruce,” Dick spat, stepping forward. “Bruce never played games with me—he never—”

“But you wished he did, didn’t you?” Slade steps closer, his gaze never leaving Dick’s.

Dick stills. “I told you. You don’t know anything about me, Slade. Anything .”

“Don’t kid yourself, Grayson. You’ve always wanted someone to own you. Someone you could devote yourself to entirely. Someone who could look at you like you’re more than just a sidekick. I can give you that,” Slade growls. “And I’m not Wayne. I don’t need to pretend I’m anything I’m not.” His voice softens. “I see the way you look at me. It’s not about the mission anymore, is it? It’s not just the role you’re playing there. You want me.”

Dick yanks his wrist away. “Stop. Stop trying to twist it into how I feel. I don’t need you to tell me anything, and I don’t need you.”

“You right,” Slade says, tilting his head to the side, his gaze dark and unreadable. “And is that why you can’t stop coming back to me? Because I’m not what you want?” He laughs cruelly. “Because you’re still holding out for Wayne,” Slade spat the name out like a curse, “who will never see you as more than a replaceable soldier?”

Dick clenches his fist, his chest heaving. “Not a soldier.”

“A tool, then.”

“No!”

“Or is it something else, Grayson? Maybe you’ve realized that when it comes to me, you’re not just a soldier.”

“I was never just a soldier to him, he loved me!” Dick’s breath hitches, his control slipping.

Slade was too close now, and it was all too much. His throat felt too tight and he could barely keep the hurt out of his voice.

“Don’t deny it,” Slade whispers. “You want me. I know you do. I can give you what he never did.”

For a second, there’s silence. 

Then, Dick lunges at him, hands outstretched at Slade’s throat. 

Slade catches his arms easily, twisting and holding them tight against the younger’s back. Dick stares up at him defiantly.

Slade laughs dryly. “Now that wasn’t very—”

Before Slade could finish his sentence, Dick was moving, jumping up and crashing his lips onto Slade’s in a rough kiss. Slade’s grip on his wrists loosens. One arm lets go and locks around Dick’s waist, pulling him in closer. 

“That’s it,” Slade whispers when they finally pull away. His other hand comes up to pet Dick’s hair like a dog. “Good boy.”

Dick glares at him but doesn’t move. He's panting.

Slade’s other hand comes up to cup his face. “That’s it. You're being so good.” He pulls Dick in again.

—

When Slade finally lets him go, Dick crumples to his knees. His lips are sore and bitten, but he still feels hungry.

He wants more, but he doesn't want to say it. That would be admitting defeat.

He looks up at Slade with big eyes, tears streaming slowly until he finally leans his head forward until it’s resting against Slade’s thigh.

“What is it, birdie?” Slade asks softly, stroking Dick’s hair. “Tell me what you want.”

Dick still doesn’t say anything, just leaning his head against Slade’s bulge and looking up at Slade from underneath his lashes. 

“What was that, Grayson?”

“Please?”

“Please what?”

Dick closes his eyes. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Fuck me.”

“I don’t know, birdie. Seems like you’ve been a little too… disobedient.”

Dick looks up suddenly, his eyes flashing with anger. "What?" 

Slade just smirks at him, and Dick stumbles, trying to stand up. “I said , it seems like you were misbehaving a lot today. I don’t know if you deserve it.”

“If you don’t fuck me right now, Slade,” Dick growls, “I swear to god I’m going to bite your dick off and then—”

He yelps as Slade picks him up and throws him down on the sofa. 

Slade towers over him, hands bracketing both sides of Dick’s head. “What were you saying?”

—

He’s on top, his thighs trembling as he moves his hips up and down slowly. 

Slade’s hands grip his hips tight enough to leave bruises, tight enough he can feel it. He slams up erratically, leaving Dick a gasping, sobbing mess.

“ Oh! ” Dick moans at a particularly hard thrust.

With half lidded eyes, he watches as Slade reaches up to cover Dick’s mouth with his hand. “Shhhh. What would the neighbors think?” 

Dick looks at him reproachfully. He’s too far gone to care.

Slade’s hands pull him down again and he’s barely stifling a moan. It’s muffled by Slade’s hand.

Suddenly, Slade rolls them over, boxing Dick in with his arms. Dick’s arms latch around Slade’s neck, hugging him closer. 

When he closes his eyes, he can almost smell the right cologne.

Slade kisses the top of his head and Dick can feel the tears well up. He’s grunting, delicious sweat dripping from his temple. Dick wants to lick it.

Slade slams into him faster and Dick almost howls. He tries to silence himself but it comes out breathy.

“Ah!” He buries his face into Slade’s neck, chanting “Oh, god! Bruce—mmm. Ah, right there!” 

Slade pulls himself out quickly and Dick whines.

Slade’s hand comes down fast against Dick’s cheek.

Slap.

The sound rings across the room.

Dick gasps. His face stings. “What the hell was that for?”

“What the hell did you just call me?”

Dick freezes. His eyes widen until he’s sure he looks as caught as a deer in headlights. “I—I didn’t say—”

Slade smirks. “You did, birdie.”

“Stop,” Dick orders, voice shaking. “Don’t—don’t you dare say anything.” He’s almost hyperventilating now. “Please,” he begs, “Please, don’t say anything.”

It’s too humiliating.

Yes, Slade loved to make fun of him for his infatuation with his ex-mentor. 

But for him to know?

It was shameful.

Dick’s chest rises up and down quickly as he desperately gasps for breath. “Slade—I…”

“Shhhhh,” Slade whispers, voice a soft murmur. “Didn’t I tell you, we both have something the other wants?”

“What?”

“You can say it. Pretend I’m him. I don’t care.” Slade concedes, “Just—”

“You want me to act like Addie.” Dick finishes.

“You don’t have to act like her,” Slade murmurs. “You already are like her. Feisty. Wild. Untamed. ” 

He sounds longing.

“And… she’ll never give me another chance… to love her, to be with her, the way we used to be. And, he’ll never look at you, want you, the way you wish he would.” Slade sighs, “I want her back more than anything. And you want him more than anything. And… I know you think I’m like Wayne. Look like him. Act like him. That’s why you’re here.” 

Yes, Dick thinks. I’m only reluctantly drawn to Slade, not because I want him necessarily, but because it feels so familiar. 

Slade chuckles. “So, like I said, we both have what each other want. All I’m doing is suggesting we give that to each other. Won’t you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Dick shivers. That pet name was a low blow—it was what Bruce used to call him, during undercover missions. 

Like all those times they frequented cheap bars to scope out potential targets.

Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?

Or like that time when Bruce pretended to be a mobster and Dick a hooker in a shady club where Maroni’s men worked.

How much for an hour of your time, sweetheart?

Or, best of all, when they had pretended to be on their honeymoon on that cruise, the one that served as a front for that international sex trafficking ring.

Love you so much, sweetheart.

My pretty wife.

Dick shivers. 

Oh, how he loved to play Bruce’s wife.

Dick bites his lip, turning his attention back to Slade. “I don’t know.”

“Not forever." Slade promises gruffly. “Just for tonight.”

Slade’s bulk around him makes him feel lightheaded, and Dick's body aches. 

He feels too empty inside. 

He’d do anything to get Slade to touch him again. To distract him.

To get himself to forget Slade is not the man Dick so desperately wishes he was.

Slade looks at him expectantly.

“Okay.” Dick whispers. He’s dizzy, the wine still bitter on his tongue. 

He can’t think straight.

But none of that matters when Slade growls, “Perfect,” his head tilting downwards to press dozens of sloppy kisses to Dick’s neck. 

Dick moans as Slade’s teeth sink into his neck, leaving a bite too big to hide. Slade sucks over the bitemark, and Dick sees the bitemark for what it really is.

A claim. 

Slade has marked his territory. 

The message is clear: Dick is his.

It should make Dick mad. He doesn’t want to be possessed—not by Slade. 

But Slade’s right. 

He does like it.

As Slade lazily thrusts into him, Dick zones out, sated. 

That mark, that claim, has fulfilled something in him, something he’s tucked too far away to have ever thought about till now—his need to be kept. 

To be possessed and treasured. 

Something that hasn't ever been fulfilled, not till now.

Chapter Text

They lay together, Slade’s loud snores echoing throughout the bedroom. Slade’s arms are wrapped tight around him, but even with that comfort grounding him, Dick still can’t sleep. 

His eyes flick to the alarm clock on his side.

3:12 AM.

All of a sudden, he feels so guilty.

Guilty that he let Slade fuck him and imagined he was Bruce the whole time.

His stomach churns. Bruce… What would Bruce think?

What would he be more disappointed by—the fact that I wanted his attention so badly I’d project it onto any older man with a similar no-nonsense attitude? 

Or would he be mad that his beloved protégé had fallen in bed with one of the most dangerous men in the world? 

Had let him defile me? 

Over and over again?

Dick felt sick.

He’d hate me. He’d see how pathetic I am. 

He was right for leaving me.

He’s too good for me.

Dick shuts his eyes, trying to keep the tears in. He's gasping, throat closing up as he tries to shove Slade’s stupidly big arm off him and just get away.

The big bastard doesn’t budge.

He’s properly sobbing now, breaths coming out in gasps and tremors running through his body. 

He finally manages to pull himself away, Slade’s arm thudding softly against the mattress.

Dick covers his mouth with his hands as he gasps, wild and hysterical.

He feels so guilty, so dirty, and so undeserving.

A hand comes to wrap and his wrist and Dick almost screams. 

It’s Slade’s hand.

“Calm down, Addie,” Slade whispers, his voice hoarse. He’s definitely not fully awake. He pulls Dick closer again and Dick freezes, trying to slowly move his wrist away.

Obviously not used to so much resistance, Slade’s eye flutters open. 

“Grayson?” Slade asks, confused. His hold tightens and Dick yanks his hand away.

“Get off!” Dick hisses.

“You’re crying,” Slade says, voice flat.

“Well, aren’t you perceptive?” Dick retorts, crawling off the bed.

Slade sits up, hands tightening around Dick’s waist to pull him back. 

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Slade orders.

Dick glares at him, resisting the urge to wipe his tears away. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“I know you don’t. But tell me what’s wrong.” Slade says, and Dick stares at him in shock. His face softens. “I’m not a monster. I care for your… happiness.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I’m not.” Slade repeats. “You’re upset. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Dick doesn’t say anything and Slade’s arms wrap around him, pulling him closer until Dick’s back is pressed right against Slade’s chest. 

Dick bites back a sob and Slade’s hands slip lower, carefully massaging Dick’s hips and stomach. 

“You’re okay,” Slade says slowly. “You’re okay.”

No, that’s never been true.

As Slade’s big hands gently massage his hips, Dick finds himself crying harder.

“Stop,” Dick begs. “I can’t do this.”

”Do what?”

“Have you… take care of me,” he hiccups, “You shouldn’t do that. I shouldn’t let you do that to me.”

“But you are.”

“But I shouldn’t! You’re a criminal and a murderer and a terrible person and a terrible father!”

“I know.”

“You know,” Dick scoffs, “And what? Acknowledging your failures makes you right? Makes it okay?”

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Slade says slowly, “And this is me trying to make them right.”

Dick almost laughs. “I can’t do this, Slade.”

“What was it, then? What you just promised?” Slade sounds beseeching now.

“A drunk mistake.” Dick says firmly.

Nevermind that it took Slade way more than that to get drunk due to his metabolism.

Nevermind that Bruce had trained Dick to have a way higher tolerance than that.

Slade looks at him, the pain obvious in his face. “I don’t want to do this again.”

“Do what, Slade? We’re not together. We’ve never been together. You called me Adeline earlier,” he hisses “And… I’m not! I can’t just pretend we’re…”

“Pretending about what, Richard? That we don’t have something we both need?” Slade cups Dick’s face in both his hands, and leans his face closer. His lips are only inches away. 

Dick turns away. “Stop.”

“I pretend you’re Addie, yes, but,” Slade lets out a scoff, “you keep pretending I’m Wayne. You need this just as much as I do.” Dick opens his mouth to argue, but Slade cuts him off with, “Don’t lie to yourself, kid. And don’t lie to me. I can hear your heartbeat.”

Dick’s eyes get blurry with tears. “Don’t.”

“Isn’t this just everything you wanted?”

Yes. It is everything he’s wanted—everything he’s wanted for years, but Slade isn’t Bruce.

“You wanted this. I’m just giving it to you.” Slade looks at him kindly, more kindly than Dick deserves. “Don’t you think that after everything you do for everyone else, you deserve some comfort? Some rest? Someone who will give you what you want?”

“I don’t—I don’t need that from you.”

“I suppose not. But you want it, don’t you? And I can give you that.”

“Lay off, Slade.” Dick pushes him away, sitting up on the side of the bed. “Just… just leave me alone.”

He makes his way to the kitchen, collapsing into one of the swivel shakes and passing out immediately, head down against the cold marble countertop.

—

Dick wakes up with a start as his phone vibrates loudly from behind him.

Shit, I must have left it in the bedroom.

He climbs off the chair and limps there, pushing his way to the nightstand to grab his phone. He purposefully ignores Slade, who’s sitting up in bed, staring stone-faced at his laptop.

It’s Damian calling him.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dick says, forcing a smile. “What’s up?”

There’s a long pause, but Dick can still hear the faint, almost static-y sound of someone breathing quickly.

“Grayson,” Damian says finally. His voice is small and tight, his formality an obvious attempt to mask how he’s upset. 

“Damian?” Dick asks, his posture immediately shifting. He’s sitting up, spine straight as a ruler. Damian never called him unless something was seriously wrong. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

“I am uninjured,” Damian responds stiffly, before pausing again. Dick could practically see him, phone in his tiny hand standing in the corner of his room at Wayne manor, trying desperately to remember how to ask for support—something he never had much practice doing.

“Alright,” Dick says exhaling softly, “What’s up then?”

“There has been an… altercation,” Damian says slowly.

Dick is sure he chose the word altercation as a careful and more palatable alternative to argument or fight.

“Alright,” Dick says quietly, trying to encourage Damian to share more, “With who? Tim?”

“No. Not Timothy,” Damian says quickly, “With Father.”

Dick freezes. 

Fights with Tim were standard, often ending with relatively small bruises and wounded egos. However, an altercation with Bruce, especially one that prompted a phone call—that was the equivalent to a Category 10 hurricane in the Wayne family household.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Dick asks, voice gentle.

“It is not important,” Damian insists, and Dick frowns. His voice had cracked on the last syllable, and that’s enough to betray how hurt he really feels. 

“Damian—If it’s affecting you it’s important to me.” 

Damian stays silent again.

“What I mean is, you’re important to me.” Dick reiterates, “So, tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Okay,” Damian says quietly. He clears his throat, a tiny but frustrated sound coming out, “My father and I are not speaking to each other since patrol yesterday. His mood has been intolerable for days. He finds fault with everything,” he lowers his voice, “Especially with me,” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Dick says, and he hopes Damian can understand how deeply he means it.

“And… yesterday, we had a… disagreement. Today, breakfast was a disaster, and… I do not think—I do not at all wish to have lunch with him,” Damian continues, “Can you… are you… available to retrieve me?”

Retrieve me.

Like he was an item left in the wrong location.

Dick’s heart clenched. “Now?”

“Yes,” Damian says immediately, “As soon as possible.”

Dick bites his lip. “I—I admit that might be hard, I’m working the Garcia case right now. I can’t leave here until I get someone to cover for me.”

“I can pick him up.” Slade interrupts.

Dick glares back at him.

“Is that Wilson?” Damian asks, voice laced with confusion. “Why is he there?”

“He’s, uh, doing—”

“Surveillance.” Slade finishes. He flashes his laptop screen at Dick, and surprisingly, it’s split between a transcript from the audio bugs he planted in the Garcia household and between three of the hidden cameras he’s placed during dinner yesterday.

“For free?” Damian’s voice cracks adorably.

“Yeah, uh, he owes me.”

“For what?”

“For not killing him when I should have.” Dick sends Slade another glare, but Slade doesn’t flinch.

“You can try, Grayson.” Slade even sounds amused.

“If you cannot collect me, I can take one of Father’s cars,” Damian volunteers, “And then I’ll come to—”

Dick sighs. “You are not stealing any of Bruce’s cars.”

“Then come pick me up,” Damian whines.

“I can’t leave now, honey. Can’t you ask Steph?” 

“Her last class ends in four hours,” Damian sulks.

“I can pick him up,” Slade volunteers again.

Dick glares at Slade again. “I’m not letting you out of my sight! I still don’t fully believe you weren’t sent here by the Court to,” he looks around and lowers his voice, “assassinate Manuel Garcia!”

Slade smirks. “Do you really think I’m that bad at my job? If I wanted him dead he would have been dead already.”

Dick flushes red as he tries to think of a retort. “I don’t know! Maybe you’re here to distract me so I can’t save him.”

“Why? Is it working?”

Dick’s mouth hangs open. “You little—”

“Richard!” Damian demands. “Give the phone to Wilson.”

Dick looks helplessly between Slade and the phone. “I’m not giving it to him. Just say it… He can hear you anyway.”

“Tell him that if he is being paid to assassinate Manuel Garcia, I can pay him double to not do that.”

“With what money? Bruce is not letting you use his money for—”

“My allowance!”

“You don’t have an allowance!” Dick retorts.

“From my mother!” Damian’s irritation is clear through his voice.

Slade grabs the phone out of Dick’s hand. Dick tries to snatch it back but Slade grips his wrist with the other hand, forcing Dick to look him in the eye. “Both of you, listen. I am not being paid to kill Garcia.”

“And we’re just supposed to trust you when you say that?” Dick retorts. 

He tries to grab the phone back, but Slade pulls it away. 

“I swear,” Slade says, his one eye earnest. He stands up, eyes locked onto Dick’s as he puts the phone and speaker and addresses Damian with military efficiency, “Now, listen, al-Ghūl. Your brother will be there to pick you up in 30 minutes.” Dick’s mouth hangs open and Slade takes that as an opportunity to tuck some of Dick’s hair behind his ear. “I’ll stay here and watch the surveillance. If anything suspicious turns up, I’ll let Richard know immediately. If anyone suspicious shows up, I will, again, let Richard know immediately and keep them away from the Garcia’s. Okay?” He directs the last part at Dick, who’s still gaping at him. “Now, you go get ready, get your things, and tell your dad that you’re visiting your brother. How long do you plan to stay?”

“I—However long I can.” Damian says, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“You’re welcome to stay a few days, Dami.” Dick says gently. “I’ll have Bruce call your school and say you’re sick. How about… you stay here for the next two days?”

“I’d like that.” Damian sounds so grateful it makes Dick’s heart break.

“Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour, honey. Just let me go get ready.”

“Alright.”

“Bye, kiddo. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Damian mumbles.

The call cuts, and for a second, there’s silence. 

In the cold apartment air, he swears he can feel the ghost of Damian’s bruised pride.

It’s bitter.

He’s always wanted Damian to get more comfortable with reaching out for help and support, but he never wanted it to come from this.

He knows exactly why Bruce’s temper is acting up. He knows exactly why Bruce is intolerable to be around.

This happens every time.

He knows exactly why Damian—why everyone else around Bruce—is getting stuck in the crossfire.

It’s because of him—and Slade.

Bruce knew, and he knew how much control he was losing over Dick. He didn’t like it, and so he was lashing out.

Lashing out at Damian, and who knows who else. Probably Tim, Babs, and Steph too.

Dick sighs. 

He never likes playing damage control.

It makes him feel like a battered wife, left to placate and clean up a house with too many punched-in walls and broken bottles. 

Smile and soothe him, promise you’ll never leave him, and try to focus the brunt of his anger on you so no one else gets hurt.

Of course, Bruce will calm down eventually, but the remnants of his rage will always be there, as obvious as a black eye or a cracked wall.

But, first things first—Slade.

Dick stares up at him incredulously. “How… Why would you promise to do that? You didn’t… you didn’t have to help me…”

Slade stares at him, his eye as clear and cutting blue as the sky. “He needs you.” Dick blinks and Slade sighs. “I admit, I’ve made a lot of mistakes with my parenting, but what I regretted the most was not being there for my kids when they needed me. I don’t want Damian to end up like Grant.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Slade looks away. “Grant… he used to call me. Tell me to visit. I’d ignore him. Thought it was for the better. That he’d be happier with Adeline,” he sighs, “And you know how that turned out.”

Dick doesn’t say anything. He’s only met Grant once, and it hadn’t exactly been the most peaceful interaction.

A shame, that Grant had been lost to such violence. The poor boy had only made the mistake of looking up to his father. Of wanting to be like him.

“Your kid… he needs you, Grayson. You have to be there for him.”

“Okay. I—Okay.”

Slade leans in, gesturing at Dick’s rumpled clothes, and bringing one hand up to trace over the lovebite he had left yesterday. 

Dick flushes. 

“Now go get ready.”

—

The tires of Dick’s beat-up old car crunches to a halt on the pristine gravel of the manor’s driveway, and he lets out a deep exhale.

I’m here, he texts Damian, stalling the car. He doesn’t want to get out of the car. 

He doesn’t think he can face Bruce right now.

Coming, Damian texts back almost immediately. 

Even if Dick doesn’t want to face Bruce right now, he’s still dressed his best—even under the fake identity of Addie: an off-the-shoulder black dress that hugs his hips and a white cardigan. Mascara lines his eyelashes and blush dusts his cheeks.

For the mission, Dick tells himself. Absolutely not to look pretty for Bruce.

It’s just for the disguise.

The door swings open to reveal Damian’s small sweater-covered body clutching an oversized backpack. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful.

Overcome with emotion, Dick throws the door open to run to Damian’s side. 

Damian sprints forward immediately, dropping his backpack and leaping into Dick’s open arms. They stay like that for a second, nestled against each other.

“Missed you.” Damian whispers.

“Me too.” Dick whispers back.

He pulls away as he spots Bruce hovering inside. 

Something inside Dick aches to see him—they haven’t talked since that argument they had last week.

Bruce is as handsome and imposing as ever, broad frame bracketed in a plain black shirt and gray sweatpants. More lines crease his face than Dick has ever seen before. There’s a purple bruise on his left forearm.

He steps forward intently, his stormy blue eyes tracing up and down Dick’s body, lingering on his face. Dick can feel his face flush.

“Bruce,” he says curtly. 

Bruce’s eyes snap up to meet his.

“Dick,” Bruce says back.

He reaches his hand out, but Dick flinches back. “Let’s go, Damian.”

“Dick,” Bruce repeats weakly.

“What?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, so Dick just huffs and turns around, picking up Damian’s backpack and ushering Damian to the car.

“Dick…” Bruce calls again. “Won’t you come inside?”

He missed me, Dick thinks giddily, but he doesn’t look back. Damian climbs into the passenger seat, and Dick leans over to set his backpack in the backseat.

“Dick,” He repeats.

“I have to go back,” Dick says quietly, “I’m on duty.”

“Dick,” Bruce says, this time, voice an order.

“I… I don’t have time for this.”

For you.

“I need to talk to you,” Bruce says finally.

I need you, is what Dick’s traitorous brain hears.

Dick sighs. He leans closer to Damian, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll be right back,” he promises. 

Damian pouts, and Dick resists the urge to kiss his nose. “Fine,”

Dick turns back to Bruce. 

“Make it quick,” Dick says slowly.

Finally, Dick turns and heads inside, letting Bruce catch his wrist and pull him inside. 

He feels his heart flutter. 

The press of Bruce’s fingers against his wrist feels too intimate—like a stolen moment. For anyone else, he’s sure what this would look like. What this would be.

A man pulling his lover inside for one last kiss before goodbye.

But it’s obviously not. 

Not for them.

Dick swallows and lets Bruce drag him to his office. He’s cornered now, Bruce’s bulk covering the only exit. 

He looks up at Bruce, meeting his intense gaze.

“Slade Wilson,” Bruce says, voice low, calculating, and dangerous, “Deathstroke, the Terminator.”

Dick swallows dryly. “I–”

“Several times over the last week, there have been many hour-long slots where a confidential, encrypted signal was sent out using a frequency favored by Deathstroke the Terminator,” his eyes flare, making him look almost predatory, “It’s point of origin has been triangulated to identify it coming from your apartment building. But you know that, don’t you?”

“And?” Dick tries to say coldly, his back ramrod straight and heart pounding.

Of fucking course Bruce is monitoring me.

“From your apartment,” Bruce repeats, “I take it he knows about the Garcia mission?”

“Yes—and so what if I’m working with him?” Dick retorts.

Bruce’s nose flares. “What else have you told him? He’s dangerous. Untrustworthy.”

Of fucking course, Dick thinks, this isn’t Bruce asking me if I’m okay, this is him asking me if I’m a liability.

“I’m an adult,” He says harshly, raising his index finger up until it's less than an inch away from Bruce’s chest, “You can’t tell me who I can do what with,” Dick laughs bitterly, “You're not my partner. You gave up that opportunity long ago.”

Bruce continues on like Dick hadn’t said anything, tone still brusque and emotionless as he typically was when he read out mission reports, “I’m just trying to assess the information I’m receiving and trying to minimize collateral damage. Is he threatening you?”

“What? No!” Dick exclaims, “Bruce, he’s not—he doesn’t have any ulterior motives. Just trust my judgement. Just—just trust me!”

“Your judgment has been compromised since you’ve gotten… romantically involved Wilson,” Bruce says, tone utterly flat and almost disinterested to the point of accusation. “He’s a master manip—”

“I am not romantically involved—” Dick tries to interrupt, but Bruce’s look of contempt leaves his mouth dry.

“Sexually involved with Wilson,” Bruce corrects, tone even more clipped and utterly icy.

Again, it feels more like an accusation than a fact, and Dick blushes. “I—”

“Wilson is a master manipulator,” Bruce continues, “He doesn’t do anything without calculating a hundred different strategies to most efficiently complete his contract. He cares about nothing—and no one—over his contract. You know that.”

A familiar sinking feeling settles in Dick’s stomach.

“His presence in your life is not a coincidence. It’s a strategy... He’s using you,” Bruce says finally, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Dick says desperately, “You’re just mad because it means you can’t control me anymore. That I’m not giving you my life, my soul… my body and my devotion. You’re worried I’m giving it to him.”

Bruce’s voice is almost kind now, as if Dick isn’t seconds away from tears, “Dick. He doesn’t want you. He’s using you. He wants to distract you from your mission. Don’t mistake his strategic choices for genuine interest.”

And there it was—the final, crushing blow.

In Bruce’s eyes, it was impossible to even fathom how anyone would want Dick for who he was. No, he always had to be a weapon, a tool to be manipulated and wielded, but never an equal.

Never a partner.

It was humiliating.

Bruce wasn’t even jealous of Slade—jealous that he had Dick all to himself, had received his undivided attention and sweet smile for days.

Bruce was disappointed, almost mocking, that his dear soldier had stupidly let himself get manipulated into a situation as obviously set up as this.

Dick felt sick. 

“I need to go,” Dick says sharply, “Damian’s waiting for me.”

Bruce nods his head slowly. “Go. Keep me informed of any… developments.”

—

The ride back to Dick’s apartment is long and uneventful.

Damian expertly dodges Dick’s questions about what’s been upsetting him, and Dick uses his silence as an opportunity to nervously chatter away about the Garcia mission and Slade’s sudden eagerness to help him.

Damian finally perks up when Dick mentions he gets to pick his own fake name if he chooses to join Dick on his mission. 

“Really?” Damian asks, “I get to pick?”

Dick smiles. He, like Damian, loves acting jobs. “Of course!”

Devin is the name Damian selects, and Dick nods in affirmation. It’s a pretty name, and easy enough to remember.

From then on, Damian is slightly more excitable, telling Dick about the new chapter update in his favorite manga and about how he hung out with Maya Ducard over the weekend.

By the time Dick parks the car behind the apartment complex, Damian’s silent again, face held an expression Dick can’t read. 

He turns to face Damian, undoing his seatbelt but staying sitting down. “Before we go in, I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing,” Damian mutters unconvincingly.

“Damian… something’s upsetting you—and it's not just about your father, is it? Tell me. Let me… let me try to fix it for you.”

“Yes,” Damian says sulkily, “There is more to it than just him, but there’s nothing you can do.”

“Let me try at least,” Dick begs, “Is it about school? Vigilante-ing? What’s going on?”

“School,” Damian says quietly.

Dick squeezes his hand. “Tell me what’s going on. Let me try to help.”

“I—Everyone…” Damian shuts his eyes. “Everyone at school makes fun of me because… because I’m different.”

Dick frowns. “Different?”

“Weird!”

”You’re not weird, honey.” Dick tries to say soothingly.

“I’m not weird?” Damian scoffs, “At school, I don’t have friends! No one likes me. I don’t… I don’t understand their jokes and I don’t understand a lot of what they say. And… and…”

“Dami, lots of people like you. Me, Jon, Maya, Steph, your father, Cass, Tim—we all love you!”

“That doesn’t count! You guys have to put up with me. We’re family. I meant at school!”

“Have the kids there been mean to you?”

Damian laughs incredulously. “Mean to me?”

“If they’re… what they… Damian, what they think of you doesn’t matter. They don’t know you the way we do–how kind and brave you are!” Dick tries to pull him closer but Damian shoves his hands away. “You’re the—”

“They make fun of me, Richard! What don’t you understand? They don’t include me in anything and they call me different. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong!” Damian’s chest is heaving, face stricken and near tears.

Dick’s heart wrenches. “You’re not doing anything wrong, kiddo.”

“Then why can’t they treat me the way they treat everyone else? Why don’t they like me?”

“Damian,” He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sure they do…”

“What can I do to make them treat me the way they treat each other? They all… They all understand each other! Like it’s easy. They know how to make people laugh… They know when to laugh… They know what to say… I can’t do that!”

“It’ll get easier, Dami. You just have to give it time. Ignore them, they don’t understand where you’ve come from or how much you’ve grown.”

Damian growls. “I—I don’t expect you to understand… Everyone loves you,” he scoffs again, “You’re easy to be around. Easy to love.”

Dick makes a sound like he’s been punched in the throat. “That’s not… Do you think you’re not?” 

“Whenever you’re gone, father is intolerable. He becomes cold and unforgiving. Everything gets criticized. Everyone gets criticized—because we’re not you. It’s because he loves you and he misses you. He always wishes you were back there, with him,” Damian says slowly, “But if I were to leave, he’d be happy. He doesn’t love me—he tolerates me.”

“That’s not true… he’d miss you so badly, kiddo. You’re so easy to love. What gave you the idea that you weren’t? Did… did someone say something?” Bruce’s name is unsaid, but it echoes between both of them.

What did Bruce do now?

How did he hurt you too?

Damian doesn’t say anything and Dick rambles on, “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

Damian tsks. “If I told my mother that I was upset at how I was being treated by my peers, she would tell me that Al-Ghūls are warriors,” he recites, “And that I shouldn’t be bothered by something as silly about what my peers—no, people who are undeserving of even being addressed as my peers—think of me. And… I know I shouldn’t! But I do!” He’s crying now, tears streaming down and hiccups interrupting every sentence.

“What about if you talked to your father about how he makes you feel?”

Damian laughs coldly, his sneering interrupted by tiny hiccups. “Do you really think he’ll understand?”

Dick stares at him, stone-faced, “I at least think you should talk to him.”

“He’s the very reason I feel so bad about this! Yesterday, when we got into a disagreement, he was the one who told me this is why I wasn't easy to be around! I… I’m sure he also meant that’s why people didn’t… like me!”

“I’m sure that’s not what he meant, Damian.”

Damian shakes his head. “It’s definitely what he was thinking, and least. And he was probably right! I can’t deal with the fact that everyone in school hates me. Now my father does, too?”

“Bruce doesn’t hate you—”

“He should! I’m… I’m sure he thinks I’m arrogant and selfish and a curse on everyone I love! Mother gave me up for a reason and Father will soon too, I fear. You… you should stay far away! You deserve more than… than being stuck loving me!”

“Damian,” Dick says, voice full of hurt, “Nothing you do could ever make me stop loving you. You’re my son. My Robin. I chose you.”

The weight of that statement hits Damian like a sack of bricks. “I—” His shoulders slump, and he hiccups again.

Dick tugs him closer until Damian is enveloped in his arms. “You’re not doing anything wrong, I promise. You’re not a burden at all. I love you. I chose to love you. Every day! And, kids at school… Kids at school can be cruel, but what they say isn’t true. A lot of them are only so mean to you because they’re insecure about themselves.”

Damian scoffs.

“And yes, you’re different from them—you’ve done more than any of them could have ever dreamed of. If they make fun of you, or are mean to you, that’s okay! They don’t know the real you, not the way I do. Not the way Jon and Maya and Steph do.” Damian rolls his eyes and Dick continues, “We know the Damian that takes in every stray animal he finds. The Damian that looks out for all the homeless kids who live near Park Row—who brings them food, clothes, and water. We know you, Damian. You're the best artist I know, and the sweetest, bravest, most dedicated boy I know,” Dick pauses, “You… you gave up your life for me.” He laughs bitterly, “And, I’ll never forget that. I still haven’t forgiven you for that.”

“Sorry,” Damian mutters, “But I’d do it again in a heartbeat!” He snaps back.

Dick sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Oh, Dami.”

Damian curls into his chest, letting Dick pet his hair as he cries.

“It’s not your fault,” Dick whispers, “People will always say hateful things. People will always misunderstand you. But that reflects nothing bad about you, okay? It is not your fault when this happens.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me you understand.”

“I do,” Damian says stiffly.

“It is never your fault if you’re being treated badly by someone, okay?”

“Okay,” Damian repeats, and they settle against each other, Dick rubbing small, soothing circles on his back.

“And that goes double for Bruce. I know he’s your father but that doesn’t give him an excuse to take out his anger on you. Understood? Even though he doesn’t mean it, that doesn’t make it okay.” 

“Al–Alright.”

“Now, next time he does anything or says anything, let me know. I’ll drive up and give him a piece of my mind.”

“You’re such a den mother,” Damian mutters, but he looks thankful nonetheless. 

“It’s because I love you,” Dick says sternly, “And your safety and happiness is more important to me than anything.” 

Damian rolls his eyes, but Dick pulls away until Damian stares back at him. 

“I mean it, Damian.”

“Yeah,” Damian says quietly, “I know you do.”

Chapter Text

As Dick and Damian enter the elevator up to Dick’s apartment, Dick’s phone starts ringing. The caller ID reads SW.

Dick picks it up with a cold but urgent, “Yes?”

“Targets are on the move,” Slade says, tone clipped, “Said they’re heading out for lunch with the kids.”

“Where to?”

“Luigi’s Finest Pizzeria.”

Dick curses. “How do we want to follow them?”

“Beat them there. They haven’t left yet, and I know you’re always dying to show off your driving skills.”

Dick lets out a delighted laugh and hits the close doors button on the elevator, selecting the button for the lobby. 

“Get there early, get a booth next to the door and act friendly so they sit with you,” Slade orders, “I’ll join you there twenty to thirty minutes after you both reach.”

“On it,” Dick responds, “Should we force them to stay in public? Or should we encourage them to come home fast?”

“Hmm,” Slade muses, “My in-home defenses are pretty good. I added an electroshock factor to the window. To ours and theirs. Anyone with an unidentified biosignature will get—”

“Tasered,” Dick interrupts, “I get the idea. But how high is the voltage? I don’t want—”

“Not high enough to kill, if that’s what you’re worried about, birdie.”

The nickname makes Dick blush. “I was just checking! When did you even get time to install—”

“Hold on,” Slade says quickly, voice dropping into something almost dangerous, “Someone’s at the door.”

Dick frowns, opening their front door camera feed on his phone.

“Face rec says it’s Mia Elder. She’s 32 years old, recently divorced, single mother and our neighbor—”

“Three doors to the left,” Dick interrupts, “I know. I memorized all the identification details about everyone on our floor and six floors above and below.”

“Impressive.” Slade says, and Dick can hear the smile in his voice. 

Dick leads Damian back to the car, filling him in on the situation. Damian cocks an eyebrow impressively high when Dick tells him Slade’s code name is Bruce. 

“He chose that?” 

“Yes,” Dick says quickly, praying Damian can’t tell how red his face is.

“On purpose?” Dick nods again, and Damian frowns. “Oh.”

Dick doesn’t know why he’s trusting Slade’s intel—other than the obvious reason that it would upset Bruce. As he drives, Slade stays on call with him, and Dick puts the phone on speaker. 

He listens as the doorbell rings shrilly through the phone. 

The door creaks as Slade opens it. 

“Hello?” Slade’s deep voice says to the woman at the door. He sounds so genuinely confused it’s a bit endearing.

He’s a good actor, Dick thinks, I mean, he must have been to keep his mercenary job a secret from the real Adeline Wilson. 

His real wife.

The thought sours his mood.

Was he enough of a good enough actor that he could lead me on for days, only to serve his own ulterior motives? 

Kiss me and cook me food just to make me think he cares? 

Get the opportunity to kill or capture the Garcias several times and not do it? 

To what? Let me get my guard down around him?

Help me care for Damian? 

Why?

Just so he’d look better?

So I’d let my guard down?

“Hi!” comes a warm, Southern-accented voice, breaking him out of his thoughts. “I’m Mia! I live down the hall. Just wanted to say hello and welcome!”

Slade responds, polite. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bruce.”

There’s a second of silence.

“Sorry but—uh—is the eyepatch real?” she blurts.

From the car, Damian’s eyes widen comically and Dick holds back a snort.

“Yes,” Slade says curtly. 

Obviously unable to tell if she’s being intrusive or rude, Mia starts stuttering, “Oh my god, sorry… that was so rude of me! I am so, so sorry. I—It’s very rugged. Makes you look very tough? Very handsome—in a rugged way”

Dick blinks. Did she just…?

“Thanks,” Slade replies, smug and far too amused.

Dick’s eyebrows twitch.

From the corner of his eye, Damian murmurs, “She’s flirting with him.”

Dick stares at the screen, eyes narrowing. “No, she’s not,” he says quickly, like he’s trying to reassure himself.

Damian just raises an eyebrow.

“I—uh. Sorry.” Mia says to Slade. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.” She pauses before trying again for small talk, “So, what, uh, brings you here to this apartment complex?”

“My wife,” Slade says slowly. Unhurried.

Dick goes still.

He tries to pretend that Slade calling him his wife hadn't sent an immediate shiver down his spine. 

The way he said it, was just so so casual, yet possessive. 

Affectionate, and almost covetous, like a claim.

It leaves Dick feeling warm, treasured, and dizzy in a way he hates.

My wife, my wife, my, my, mine.

Mia’s voice perks up immediately. “You moved to be closer to her? Oh, lucky girl!”

“Yeah,” Slade says, his tone laced with amusement. “I’m trying to convince her not to leave me.”

Dick’s jaw drops open, scandalized. He stares at the screen, mouthing, Is he serious right now? at Damian.

Mia’s silent again, and Dick’s sure she’s staring at him blankly. “You’re funny,” she says slowly. “So where is she?”

“She’s, uh, actually not here right now,” Slade clarifies, “She’s out. Well, you can say hi if you want, I’m calling her right now.”

Dick grabs Damian’s shoulder. “Did he just throw us under the bus?”

Damian shrugs. “Probably not. Well-intentioned sabotage, maybe.”

“Addie," Slade interrupts, "you’re on speaker. This is Mia, one of our, uh, new neighbors.”

“Hi,” Dick chirps, cringing at how fake he sounds, “I’m Addie. I wish I was there in person to say hello but I’m out getting lunch with our youngest.”

“Hello,” Damian says politely. 

“Introduce yourself, honey,” Dick stage-whispers to Damian.

“I’m Devin,” Damian says.

“Hi Devin, Addie! Nice to meet you!” Mia beams. Her voice gets quieter as she turns back to Slade, “You both have kids?”

“Yes,” Slade says tiredly, “Several, in fact.” 

Dick has half a mind to scold him for being so dry.

“Oh, how precious!” Mia says, clapping her hands together, “You know what? We’re having my daughter's birthday party next Sunday, and we’re hosting it in the rec room.”

“The what?” Slade asks. This time, Dick is sure the confusion isn’t an act.

“Oh, you know! One of the communal spaces? The little building next to this apartment complex? It has some rooms people rent out for parties,” Mia explains, “Why don’t you all join us?”

“Oh, we couldn't,” Slade tries to reason, “We don't want to intrude.”

“Nonsense! A lot of the kids in this building are coming! It’ll be a great place for your son to make some new friends before school starts. And, you know—since their parents are also coming—for you both to meet some of your other new neighbors. We have a very active and, uh, tight-knit community here.”

“I, uh, I can see that," Slade admits, "But, I don’t know if we can. Addie’s the one who does all the event scheduling. I don’t even know what we’re doing then.”

“We’re free,” Dick says immediately. “And we’d love to come.”

Mia had said all the kids would be there, meaning the Garcia’s probably would as well, and Dick had a hunch Cheyenne wasn’t someone who ever let her kids skip a birthday party.

Plus, if I can push Slade out of his comfort zone, maybe he’d start to be more obvious with just how many of his acts were pure goodwill and how much of his acts were manipulation tactics.

“I thought your brother was coming over for dinner on Sunday?” Slade snaps back at Dick.

“That’s on Saturday,” Dick responds sweetly. “But anyway, thank you so much for inviting us, Mia! We’ll definitely be there.”

She gives them a quick goodbye and a cheerful see-you-soon! before heading back to her apartment. The moment Dick hears the sound of the front door closing with a soft click, he jerks up straighter in the passenger seat, eyes narrowing and tone dropping to something too haughty to be casual. “You know she was flirting with you, right?”

Slade’s voice is innocent. “Oh, was she?”

“Oh, please,” Dick mutters. He stares intensely at the steering wheel like it personally offended him. “She called you handsome and rugged. That’s Southern-woman-speak for I would climb you like a tree."

“Huh,” Slade says, pretending to be thoughtful. “I thought she was just being polite.”

“Polite does not involve flirting!”

“She doesn’t know we’re married,” Slade says dryly. “It’s not exactly on the doorbell plaque or anything.”

“That’s because you were never supposed to be here!” Dick mutters under his breath. “It’s just a cover! One that you ruined!”

Slade’s voice turns smug. “Just a cover? You tell that to your reaction.”

Dick flips him off through the call screen and makes a sound of frustration. “Oh, fuck off.”

—

Damian swears they’ve broken at least six different traffic laws by the time they reach Luigi’s Finest Pizzeria, but Dick just laughs, unfazed. He speeds into the parking spot like it’s a pit stop at a race, and switches the gear to park with flair.

Inside, the pizzeria is warm and bustling, filled with the smell of garlic, tomatoes and melted cheese. Thankfully, they manage to snag a prime booth by the front window—the perfect spot to be noticed by unsuspecting neighbors.

Damian slides in with little fanfare and immediately pulls out his oversized sketchbook, flipping to a blank page. Dick watches him for a moment, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he watches Damian sketch out vague shapes with confident strokes.

From the corner of his eye, he watches as the Garcia family’s car pulls in. “Right on time.”

“I could have gotten us here faster if I was driving.” Damian mutters, sketching out vague shapes.

“I’m sure.” Dick says, ruffling his hair. Quite fondly, he thinks back to Damian’s brief obsession with taking the Batmobile for joyrides.

It had always translated to at least a few heart attacks a week for him and Bruce. 

Bruce.

He feels a flush of shame as he thinks back to his and Bruce’s confrontation, and he stares down weakly.

Screw him.

Is it that hard to believe someone—anyone—would want me for who I am? I’m not a soldier, and I’m not just a tool.

Can’t he see I’m more than that?

Or is he just assuming everyone else sees me the same way he does?

The thought sours his mood immensely.

When the waiter approaches, and Dick waves him off with, “Can you give us a few minutes? I’m waiting for…” he pauses, giving the waiter a frantic smile, “For my husband,” he says quickly.

Finally, the bell on the door jingles as the Garcias walk through the door.

Cheyenne’s bright eyes scan the restaurant until they rest on Dick, who pretends to be very interested in what Damian is sketching.

“Addie!” Cheyenne calls cheerfully. Her smile truly lights up the room. It’s so truly genuine it makes Dick feel guilty. 

“Cheyenne?” Dick asks, pretending to be confused. “Oh my gosh, what a lovely surprise!” He scoots over, gesturing for them to come over and sit in their booth. “Here, why don’t you all come sit with us?”

“Oh, we don’t want to intrude,” Manuel says politely, glancing around the crowded restaurant.

Dick waves his hand, “Nonsense! We haven’t even ordered yet. I’m still waiting for… Bruce.” The name leaves a funny taste in his mouth, but he doesn’t let it show.

“Well… in that case, why not?” Cheyenne exclaims, sliding in the seat next to Dick’s. Danny and Rosa follow, sitting on the bench opposite to her.

Manuel sits down with his kids, extending his hand out to Damian for a handshake. “I don’t believe we’ve met yet, little buddy. I’m Manuel.”

Dick hides a smile. He knows Damian must have liked the handshake—he loves being treated like an adult.

“I’m Devin,” Damian says politely, “Nice to meet you all.”

“Aww,” Cheyenne cooes, “He’s so polite.”

“Just like his mama, right?” Dick asks, leaning down to press his face against Damian’s sweetly.

Damian’s ears turn red, but he leans into Dick nonetheless. 

“Just like his mama,” Cheyenne repeats with a smile.

—

Almost twenty minutes later, Manuel, Cheyenne, and Dick are in deep conversation about Killer Moth’s break-in at Gotham World bank in Bristol. “Honestly, I don’t even know if he wants to be a supervillain, or if he just likes costumes,” Manuel jokes, and Dick laughs.

Cheyenne sips her drink, amused. “I’m still stuck on the part where he sprayed moth pheromones inside the vault.”

Dick grins. “To be fair, I think that was the distraction part. He just didn’t think through how it’d attract actual—”

That’s when the door swings open.

Slade.

Dick glances up, and involuntarily, he straightens a little in his seat. 

Slade walks in like he owns the place, and his imposing height and presence immediately draw the eyes of everyone in the restaurant. 

Gothamites don’t scare easily, but they definitely notice—and even in a city where clowns carry rocket launchers, Slade Wilson is still definitely the kind of man who turns heads.

Dick glances up and involuntarily straightens a little in his seat. 

Slade walks right up to them, sending the Garcias a quick nod. He leans down to ruffle Damian’s hair—who scowls and swats at his hand—and leans in to press a kiss to Dick’s cheek, who as much as he tells himself to, can’t seem to lean away. “I see we have company.”

Slade grabs a chair from a nearby table and pulls it up to the booth—his bulk won’t fit in the minuscule booth they’re all sitting in.

He rests his arm behind Dick’s seat, and the gesture itself is casual, almost lazy, but Dick can feel the weight of it like a brand.

It’s nothing too obvious. Just enough for anyone watching to know who he’s here with. 

Just enough to make Dick’s breath catch.

Cheyenne smiles at Slade apologetically. “Sorry to intrude—this was totally impromptu.”

Slade shakes his head. “None of that.”

“Truly,” Dick adds, “We’re so glad to have you join us.”

—

When the pizza comes, they eat slowly, with lots of laughs and stories exchanged. The Garcias are easy to be around—loud in a comforting way, full of stories and warmth. Manuel’s in the middle of recounting a grocery store argument between two old women over cantaloupes, complete with impressions, and everyone’s busy holding their stomachs in laughter.

Everyone but Dick.

He forces a smile, picking at his crust, but he avoids looking directly at Manuel. Every time his gaze hovers that way, he finds himself flinching inward.

He doesn’t know why. It’s not like Manuel did anything wrong—he hadn’t, not at all. That awkward tension from last time wasn’t Manuel's fault. It had been Slade, reacting like a territorial wolf.

Still, something sits heavy in Dick’s chest. An ache. A guilt that makes no sense.

It feels like cheating, his subconscious whispers, that’s why.

Dick pinches his thigh hard. 

It’s not fucking cheating because me and Slade aren’t together.

Get your shit together, Grayson!

Give none of your loyalty for the man who only cares about money. 

Give none of your heart to a man who acts like he doesn’t have one.

You know he definitely doesn’t care about you.

—

When all the slices are finally gone, Cheyenne claps her hands and beams. “Okay! Who’s up for the mall next? We’ve been putting off back-to-school shopping forever, and I could use another adult opinion.”

Dick agrees instantly, voice bright. “Sounds like fun.”

He turns to look at Slade intently, wondering—hoping—if this is the moment Slade will stop indulging the fantasy. It was the perfect moment for him to drop the facade—for him to stop pretending.

Back-to-school shopping wasn’t a phrase that should come easily to a man who’d buried most of his children.

Dick sat up straight, watching intensely as he waited for Slade’s smile to drop. 

For Slade to just admit he’s just performing. 

For Slade to confirm what Bruce has been saying all along.

But Slade just turns to Damian and hands him a napkin. “Back-to-school shopping,” Slade repeats, the words slow, a little distant. “Haven’t done that in… a while.”

The weight behind the words makes Dick’s chest clench. 

From his right, Cheyenne smiles, “Well, get ready to get your steps in. These two are ruthless when it comes to shopping,” she nods a head toward her kids, who are already buzzing about which stores they wanted to hit first.

The moment of silence shatters when Manuel stands, digging into his jeans for his wallet. “Alright, let me grab the check for y'all.”

“No,” Slade says quickly, tone final. “Let me.”

Manuel waves him off. “We’re the ones who crashed your lunch plans. The least we can do is cover the bill.”

Dick cuts in, “Now, that’s not a fair statement at all—”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Cheyenne says sweetly, dabbing Danny’s face with a napkin. “Besides, you did just agree to come with us to the mall.”

Dick scoffs playfully. “Maybe I just love shopping.”

“Maybe,” Cheyenne teases. “But that’s not it, is it?”

“What else could it be?”

Cheyenne’s deep brown eyes crinkle as she smiles at Dick. “I dunno,” she says slowly, “you’re just... very kind. Giving. It’s not easy for you to say no if someone asks for help, is it?”

“I—” Dick finds himself unable to answer, his mouth feeling instantly dry. “I… No?”

Slade smiles, his sharp canines making it look almost predatory. “He’s always been like that,” Slade says pointedly, “And it’s not just with small errands or favors—he’ll always bleed out trying to fix someone else's mess,” he pauses for a second, and an exasperated smile breaking out on his face, “Especially if he loves them.”

The word love echoes in Dick’s head and his cheeks flush red. “I—Oh.” He looks down.

He can't tell if he's truly embarrassed or if he's just playing the part, but most of all, it irritates how just one compliment, one word of praise from Slade makes his heart flutter. Makes his face red. Makes him feel like a blushing bride, all bashful and demure.

Slade gives him a fond smile.

Damian stares at Dick and Slade, expression unreadable. Then, abruptly, he stands up, scraping his chair back louder than necessary. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Damian says quickly. “Be right back.”

He backs away from the table, eyes flicking between Dick and Slade with the sharp, quiet calculation of someone finally realizing something he really didn’t want to.

Dick’s stomach drops.

No.

No, Damian can’t seriously be thinking—

“Honey, wait!” Cheyenne calls after him, already scooting out of the booth. “I’ll come with you, too.” She gestures for Rosa and Danny. “Let’s all go. We can wash our hands too.”

Damian pauses, reluctant, but doesn’t argue. He disappears with the rest of them toward the back hallway, the sound of children’s chatter fading around the corner.

Dick exhales slowly, trying to shake the tension out of his shoulders. When he peers back at Slade, the older man is still glaring at Manuel, who’s at the far counter swiping his credit card.

Slade’s eye softens as he turns to face Dick. He steps closer. 

“It’s nice,” Slade murmurs softly, “Being out. Like this. With you.”

Dick stiffens, smile faltering. A spark of panic flickers in his chest.

No.

No, he thinks, don’t say that. Don’t make this harder.

Dick immediately grabs his glass of lemonade, but it’s already empty. He fidgets with the straw anyway, needing something to avoid looking at Slade. He tries to keep his voice even, and almost dismissive. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Slade. It’s just for a cover. A mission. We both know that. So whatever this is”—he gestures vaguely between them—“just… stop. I don’t even know what game you’re playing… I don’t even know if I trust you.”

Slade doesn’t flinch. He leans in, voice low. “Why not?” he says. “It’s believable, isn’t it? Makes a damn good cover.”

Yes, Dick thinks.

“We work well together. We are good together. There's chemistry. Trust. More." Slade’s head tilts ever so slightly. “Doesn’t it ever feel tempting?”

Dick’s breath catches. Just for a second, he lets himself look at Slade—and he knows Slade can see the hesitation in his eyes. Before he can speak, a quick, familiar flash of black hair moves quick as a ninja from the bathroom hallway's door to behind a pillar. Damian's good at stealth, no doubt, but Dick recognizes him easy—he's been in the business longer than Damian has been alive.

He's watching us, Dick realizes.

“Damian’s watching us." Dick says under his breath, "Don't do anything. He's... he’s a kid, Slade. Don’t make him think this is—” he swallows again, “—more than what it is. Don't drag him into something this complicated."

"Complicated?" Slade leans in further, and there’s no smugness in his voice now. No manipulation. Just something raw and strangely bare.

"You know what I mean, Slade."

Slade sighs. “Is it really that hard to believe?” he asks softly. “That I’d want something like this?”

Dick doesn’t answer.

“I’m not manipulating him,” Slade continues, “And I’m not trying to manipulate you.”

“So you say,” Dick mutters, but the fight’s gone from his tone.

Slade turns to him, voice becoming almost beseeching. “It’s true.”

—

“Look!” Danny calls out, voice bright with excitement as he tugs insistently on his mother’s sleeve. He’s pointing at the large display window of the toy store—inside, a picture-perfect family of dolls sit at a miniature dinner table, all smiles and plastic casseroles under warm golden light. “Can we please get more LEGOs?” he asks, eyes wide and sparkling, lower lip already starting to pout.

Manuel doesn’t even hesitate. “Sure.”

Cheyenne turns toward him, giving him a look that’s only half-heartedly reproachful. “Didn’t you just get a new set for your birthday, mijo?”

Danny just flashes her a mischievous little grin, knowing he’s already won.

“Please, mama?” Rosa chimes in, clasping her hands together for dramatic effect.

Cheyenne sighs, exasperated but not truly annoyed. “Fine,” she relents, allowing herself to be tugged into the store.

Dick chuckles softly and follows, glancing back to make sure Slade and Damian are right behind him.

As soon as they step inside, Rosa and Danny dart to the back corner of the store like kids on a mission, already tugging Damian along between them. He lets them, surprisingly tolerant, as they start pointing out the various LEGO sets they’ve either gotten, want for Christmas, or insist are totally necessary to complete their existing collections. Damian listens to them with more patience than Dick would have expected.

Meanwhile, Slade’s standing just inside the threshold of the store, completely still. His eye moves slowly around the space, scanning the walls and shelves stacked floor-to-ceiling with toys of every kind—stuffed animals, science kits, miniature train sets, action figures in every color.

“Oh, sweet mercy,” Slade mutters under his breath.

Dick turns toward him and catches his expression, one that’s achingly close to grief.

“How did—when did all this get so… much?” Slade murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. His voice is strained, like he’s seeing something far beyond the bright shelves and plastic packaging.

Dick swallows hard. 

He knows what Slade is thinking back to—of course he’d be thinking of how much of Rose’s childhood he missed, the years where he didn’t see Grant and Joey grow up, but more than that, all the toy stores he never took them to, the birthday parties he never saw them have, and all the gifts he never was able to give them. 

Right now, Dick thinks, he looks like someone who’s stumbled into the life he might’ve had too late to live it.

In a moment of pity, Dick reaches out and slips his hand into Slade’s much larger one. Their fingers curl together without resistance, and Dick looks up at him cautiously. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

Slade doesn’t react.

Across the store, Cheyenne catches their eyes and waves them over.

Dick squeezes Slade’s hand once before gently tugging him toward the LEGO section.

“Come on,” Dick says, voice low. “They’ll want to show you their favorites.”

Slade lets himself be led, wordless, until they stop in front of a bright wall of LEGO kits.

“I want this one,” Rosa declares, pointing proudly to a colorful toucan set near the top shelf.

“What about this one?” Danny asks, holding up one with roses. “It has roses!”

Cheyenne laughs, “You just want it because it matches your sister’s name.”

Danny beams. “Exactly! Then we can be twins!”

Dick smiles at that before turning his eyes over back to Slade, who still looks very much longing. He hates that his heart jumps just from seeing Slade hurt or upset.

He steps a little closer. “You okay?” Dick asks, voice low. 

Slade’s head tilts, just slightly. “It’s just been a while,” he murmurs, “Since I’ve… stood in a place like this. Like a father.”

Dick swallows hard, heart twisting. “You were a father,” he says, not quite able to stop himself. “You are one.”

Slade scoffs. “Not a good one.”

Dick falters. His instinct is to reach out again, to give comfort, but his own wariness roots him in place. 

He doesn’t want to fall for another performance. 

He doesn't say any more, but he does keep his hand entwined with Slade's as a small consolation.

—

In the evening, all who are left is Dick and Damian. The Garcia's had left to go home, and Slade had promised Dick he'd follow them, insisting that Dick spend more time with Damian. It was unnerving, but not unappreciated. 

Now, Damian and him sit side-by-side on the hood of his car, watching as the sun starts to dip behind the skyline. It casts long shadows over the city, and from their spot at the highest level of their parking garage, the view is absolutely stunning.

“You’ve been quiet,” Damian finally says, breaking the silence.

Dick exhales through his nose. “I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“About Father?” Dick stays silent, and Damian continues, “He got to you, didn’t he?”

Dick frowns. “He talked to me. That’s all.”

A flicker of something unreadable crosses Damian’s face as he meets Dick’s eyes. “You think he’s lying? About Wilson?”

Dick says nothing.

“So you do think he’s here for a contract? That he’s here to kill the Garcias?”

“I don’t know what I think,” Dick admits, voice rougher than intended. “But it’s not off the table. You saw how close he’s getting. To Cheyenne, the kids—”

“To you?” Damian interrupts sharply.

“I—” Dick pauses, brain failing him as he tries to think of what to say back.

“Is that what you’re scared of?”

“I’m not scared,” Dick finally says, “I just… don’t trust him.”

Damian studies him for a moment, then presses on. “Then why let him stay so close? Why not just push him away? Tell him to leave you alone?”

“Honestly? I—I’m not so sure I want him to,” Dick admits. “I mean, I know what Bruce thinks of him—that he’s a master manipulator who only cares about money. That everything he does is calculated. That he’s very obviously using me for something—info or leverage—and I’m the fool for even considering that he really isn’t.” His voice gets heavy. “For even considering that he’d have a genuine interest in me."

“I'm not saying Wilson's not good," Damian says cautiously, "He's the best. Marksman, combat tactician, all of that. But liar? I don't think so," he exhales, swinging his feet and leaping off the hood of the car. "Maybe... maybe he’s not pretending, Richard.”

"Really?" Dick says. He means it to be sarcastic, but the look Damian gives him is genuine, so genuine it hurts his heart.

“Yeah. I mean... he's... he's always been drawn to you, so that's not true," Damian says slowly, opening the passenger seat door. "I think he means it. I really do."

—

Later that night, Damian and Dick are sprawled together on the battered queen-size bed, the fan rattling at full speed as it pushes around the thick, humid air. The sound is not quite loud enough to mask the quiet, slow sounds of Damian’s breathing.

Dick smiles down kindly at him, feeling a sudden but fierce burst of affection for the boy—this small, stubborn boy who had come into his life like a whirlwind. He leans down to kiss his forehead but, as he stares at Damian’s sweet sleeping face, all he can see was what he never had. 

Bruce’s undeniably thick eyebrows and long, crooked nose. 

His high cheekbones and sharp jawline. 

Talia’s golden tan skin and long lashes. 

Her almond eyes and dimpled smile.

Damian is Dick’s son, yes, but first he is Talia’s. 

Not only is Damian Talia’s, Bruce is Talia’s.

Undeniably hers.

Jealousy courses through him, and he’s almost seething again. 

Talia, the woman that replaced him. The woman that had everything he so desperately wanted.

She’s not only Damian’s parent, but also Bruce’s partner.

Everything Dick had to fight for.

At least she didn’t get the version of Bruce that stayed, Dick thinks bitingly, he left her too.

The thought leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

But what does it matter, when Damian will never be his son the way he’s Talia’s. 

No matter how many times Damian has come to him, crying. 

No matter how many times Dick held him after his nightmares about dying. 

No matter how many days he skipped work because Damian asked for him. 

No matter how many parent-teacher conferences he went to when Bruce didn’t. 

When Talia didn’t.

Dick pulls his arms tight around Damian’s sleeping body and draws him in, burying his face into Damian’s raven hair. He inhales sharply, and a tear slips down his face. Then another. Then another.

I’m sorry, Dick keeps on thinking. You could have been mine. You should have been mine.

His body shakes quietly as he cries, trying his best not to wake up Damian.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Slade’s gruff voice breaks the silence. “You okay?”

Dick startles, twisting his head toward the doorway. Slade is there, half-shadowed in the arch, expression unreadable.

“Yeah,” Dick whispers, forcing the word past his throat. “Fine.”

Slade steps closer, slow and careful. His hand rests gently on Dick’s hip, grounding but mostly unobtrusive.

“Really?”

“I’m fine,” Dick hiccups. He tucks his nose further into Damian’s hair, turning away so most of his face is covered. “Just go.”

But the words ring hollow.

Slade doesn’t move. He stands there, just watching.

Dick’s shoulders shake again, his fingers tightening protectively around Damian. “Go!”

Slowly, Slade turns to leave.

Good.

Dick watches him from the corner of his eye, uncaring if he’s going to the couch or leaving the apartment entirely.

When he’s out of sight, Dick’s shoulders shake, and he lets out the sob he was holding in. 

Bruce’s voice echoes in his head, sharp and cold. He doesn’t want you. He’s using you.

Dick’s fingers tighten around Damian’s sleeping form, clinging to what little comfort he can.

Don’t mistake his strategic choices for genuine interest.

Dick’s arms curl even tighter around Damian, desperate for genuine comfort he knows won’t come from anywhere else. Slade would probably comfort him. But Dick would never know if it was genuine or not. And he wants—god, he wants—to believe that it's real.

For at least someone to tell him he’s more than a pawn. More than a weapon someone to use and discard.

Of course, Bruce could be wrong about Slade. It could just be him acting out on his bitterness and jealousy in that controlling way of his.

It's a tempting thought—Bruce being jealous, and Slade really caring, but of course, maybe they both aren't.

Maybe Bruce is right and Slade is using him, and Dick is just so desperate for someone to choose him—for someone to stay—that he's playing the fool even considering any of it could be real.

The thought hurts.

—

He’s still awake an hour later when his phone buzzes.

It’s a text from Bruce.

Bring Damian home tomorrow, it reads. And if you haven’t already, cut ties with Slade Wilson.

—

By noon, they’re driving up the long, familiar path to Wayne Manor. The silence in the car is comfortable at first, but as the manor comes into view, it tightens around Dick’s neck like a noose.

“Pick you up on Saturday?” Dick asks quietly, trying to keep his voice casual. “For the party Mia was talking about?”

Damian shrugs, not meeting his eyes.

When they trudge to the door, Damian leans into Dick’s side as they wait for the door to open.

 When finally Bruce opens it, his eyes scan them both carefully, slow and deliberate. His gaze settles on Dick with measured calm.

Damian steps in first, still pressed into Dick like a tiny shadow. Dick follows, his spine stiff.

“How was it?” Bruce asks, eyes on Damian. “Did you enjoy?”

“Yes,” Damian mumbles, voice weary. He doesn’t step away from Dick, even once inside.

Dick helps him peel off his jacket and hangs it by the door. 

Neither of them speak much. 

Bruce watches as Damian climbs up the stairs to his bedroom. Then, after a pause—too casual to be truly casual—he asks, “And with Wilson?”

Dick’s shoulders tense slightly. “What about him?”

“Have you dealt with him?” Dick doesn’t answer, but Bruce continues anyway. Dick's eyes stay trained on the wall, and a thud echoes throughout the manor as Damian slams the door to his room hard. “Have you realized now that he’s using you?”

Dick exhales through his nose. “Yes.”

Bruce steps closer, expression unreadable. “That he doesn’t truly want you?”

Dick lets out a small, tired laugh. It’s not bitter. He just sounds tired. “Of course.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. Maybe he was expecting a fight. 

Maybe he was hoping for one. 

But Dick doesn’t give in. “I know what he is, Bruce,” Dick says softly. “I know what he’s done. What means he used in the past. You don’t have to remind me.”

Bruce studies him. “Then why—”

Dick shrugs a little, staring down. “Look, I’m not trying to start a fight, Bruce. Not tonight. I’m tired. Damian’s tired. And whatever point you’re trying to make—”

“I’m not trying to attack you or ruin your life, Dick.” Bruce snaps, voice tight, “I'm not trying to hurt you. I am trying to protect you,”

Dick huffs, eyes flicking back to him. “Yeah,” he says, but there's no heat behind it. “That’s what makes it worse.” He lets out another huff, this sharper. “God, Bruce. You think I don’t know? Who he is? What he does?” Dick continues. “You think I haven’t done the math? What would he even want me for? I’m not naïve, Bruce.” He meets Bruce’s gaze, eyes steady but hollow. “I’m a has-been hero with more baggage than utility. I'm not an asset anymore. Not to you, and definitely not to him.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No,” Dick replies, voice low, "But it’s what you meant. He’s a killer. A strategist. He doesn’t waste time unless it gets him something. And yeah—I get it. I’m being used.” He shrugs. “But sometimes,” Dick says softly, eyes drifting down the hallway toward Damian’s room, “I guess being used feels a little better than being ignored.”

Bruce blinks. “If you knew… if you knew he doesn’t actually care about you… that he never did—”

Dick’s eye twitches. “I don’t know, Bruce! Maybe I just like the attention! Maybe it felt nice that at least someone would try to be around me! That someone would care enough to do nice things for me! But of course. Why would he? Why would anyone?” He scoffs. “I know that, Bruce! I’ve… I’ve known it from the start! You’re just saying out loud what I’ve been thinking to myself every single day!” 

“Dick—” Bruce's voice sounds pained but Dick doesn’t let him say another word.

“I knew it, okay? From the start. I knew and I let him stay anyway. Isn’t that pathetic? Aren’t I pathetic?”

Bruce steps forward, voice quieter. “You’re not—”

“Don’t,” Dick snaps. Then, quieter, he adds on, “Don’t take it back now. You said what you meant. That night.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Dick says, “You just didn’t have to say it out loud like that. Not again.”

They both fall quiet again.

Dick glances up the stairs, toward where Damian had gone. His expression softens. “I’m tired, Bruce,” he says finally. “Tired of defending my choices. Tired of trying to prove there’s more to me than what people want to use.” There’s no anger in his voice, only quiet resignation. “And… I didn’t come here for a lecture. I just came to bring Damian home.” He turns toward the door. “I’ll check on him tomorrow,” Dick adds. “Just text if he needs anything.”

He opens the door, and a burst of cold air cuts in from the outside. He steps forward without hesitation.

This time, he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Slade’s sitting on the bed, hands flying as he folds clothes into his duffel. Dick watches from the doorway, trying not to let anything show on his face, including the heaviness of his tongue and the inexplicable sadness he feels as he watches him.

When the hell did Slade move half his closet in here?

Had it been that many days?

“Bodyguard gig,” Slade starts, not even looking up at him. “I leave tonight.”

“Where?”

“France. Rouen.” He glances over his shoulder as he folds a black shirt with military precision.

Dick huffs. “That’s far.”

“I’m only there for two days.”

“Halfway across the world. For only two days,” Dick echoes flatly, as if that somehow makes it better.

Slade turns fully to look at him now, face unreadable. “You’re… okay if I take that job?”

Dick laughs sharply. “What, you need my sign-off now?” He pushes off the doorframe, stalking a few steps into the room. “I’m not your handler. Or your… anything.”

“You could be,” Slade says plainly.

“Don’t.”

Slade arches a brow. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like this is something.”

Slade shrugs a shoulder, mouth twitching at the corners. “Could be something. Feels like something.”

Dick shoots him a glare. “You can go, Slade. I’m not stopping you. “You—you don’t have to ask me for permission,” he snaps. “You can leave anytime. God, I’m glad you’re leaving. You can leave anytime you want. Hell, I want you to go. I don’t even—” He cuts himself off, voice breaking. He tries again. “I don’t even want you here.”

Slade’s mouth quirks up. “My heart breaks.”

“Whatever,” Dick mutters.

Slade stands slowly, moving in until they’re face to face. “Careful, birdie. You keep talking like that, and I might even think you’ll miss me.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Dick scoffs, turning and stomping away before his voice—or face—betrays anything more.

—

He spends his first day without Slade in bed. 

He doesn’t bother showering. Doesn’t bother eating. He just sits, his laptop propped up against his knees.

It's open to the Garcia family’s surveillance feed, and he’s watching them bitterly as Manuel and Cheyenne slow dance in the kitchen.

Dick groans and rubs his face.

He misses Slade.

The apartment feels too empty without him.

He curses himself and gets up. Stop being pathetic. 

Stop acting like a… a housewife waiting for her husband to get back from the war. 

He’s at work.

He’ll come back.

His chest tightens at the thought, and he hates the way that single possibility—he’ll come back—makes his heart flutter.

He should stay far, far away from me, Dick thinks, as much as I don’t want him to.

—

At noon, his phone buzzes as it gets a call. He picks it up, blinking at the name.

SW.

His fingers hesitate for a split-second before he picks up.

“Hello?” Dick asks, cautiously.

There’s no answer for half a second, and in that silence, Dick imagines a dozen terrible things.

What if something went wrong? What if he’s hurt?

What if he’s injured? What if he’s been captured? 

What if—

“Hey, sweetheart,” Slade’s voice purrs through the line, smooth and infuriatingly calm.

Dick exhales hard and sinks back onto the bed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Slade replies, amused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dick scowls, already regretting asking. “I don’t know. Maybe because you never call?”

“Were you worried?” Slade’s voice sounds teasing.

“No!” Dick snaps. “I just… wasn’t expecting you to call.”

There’s a chuckle on the other end, low and knowing. “Right. You sound real unconcerned.”

Dick pulls the blanket further over his body. “Go do your job.”

“I am,” Slade says, still lounging in that infuriating drawl. “Just figured I’d check in. Make sure the bed’s still warm without me.”

Dick glares at the ceiling. “Unbelievable.”

“That a yes?”

“Bye, Slade.”

But before he can hang up, Slade’s voice cuts in, now quieter and unexpectedly soft, “I’ll be back soon.”

Dick doesn’t respond. He shouldn't. 

He can’t.

He wants to laugh. Or cry. Or scream.

He does none of those things. Instead, he turns his face into the pillow and just breathes, shaky and shallow.

He hates how the way his breath catches—sharp and unmistakable—is more honest than anything he could’ve said. 

“Yeah,” Dick says, rubbing his eyes, “Well. Don’t call me in the middle of the day just to play games.”

“I’m not playing anything,” Slade says firmly. “I told you, I’m checking in.”

“Why now?” Dick asks, finally. His voice cracks. “You said you’re coming back. So, why call today? It’s only been one day. Why not tomorrow? Or the day after?

There’s another pause, and it's longer this time. 

Dick almost thinks he won’t answer.

“Because,” Slade says finally, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you earlier.”

He sounds painfully honest.

Not at all sarcastic or playful or anything else that could have made it bearable to hear.

Dick closes his eyes again and sinks down, his face pressing  into the pillow.

His breath catches somewhere between a curse and a cry.

“You’re such an asshole,” he whispers.

—

The apartment gets dark at nightfall, but Dick refuses to turn the lights on. He keeps pacing, his restless energy making it impossible to sleep. He keeps glancing at the door like Slade might come walking back through it early. 

He doesn’t.

That’s when the phone rings again. The screen lights up brightly, providing an eerie spotlight to the dark room around him. 

It’s Bruce.

Dick sighs. He picks up, trying to keep his voice casual. “Hey.”

Bruce wastes no time. “I assume Wilson is gone?”

Dick blinks. How the hell does he already know?

“Excuse me?”

“I received intel that Deathstroke has taken a job in Rouen. France.” He pauses, “I trust that means you’ve followed through on our last conversation?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yeah,” Dick says eventually, voice flat. “He’s gone.”

“You kicked him out?”

Dick’s jaw tightens. “Yes. I kicked him out.”

A pause.

“I know that wasn’t easy,” Bruce says, quieter now, almost gentler. “But you did the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth.

You don’t get to be proud of me. Not for this. 

Not when you’re the one who made me choose.

But all he says is, “Thanks.”

“Still, stay focused,” Bruce continues, “No distractions. We can’t afford any compromises. This case is still too important—we need Manuel Garcia’s testimony to put away Jane Byrne’s murderer. It could devastate the Court, to have it stay so public.”

Dick forces a nod even though Bruce can’t see it. “I understand,” he says softly.

—

The next day at midnight, Dick hears the door creak open. There’s the soft shuffle of boots on hardwood and the faint creak of a shoulder bag being slipped off.

Dick doesn’t move from the kitchen counter, where he’s been sipping a smoothie and watching the Garcia family’s apartment surveillance feed for what feels like hours.

Slade just walks in like he never left, grabbing a cup, filling it up with water, drinking it, and setting it down like was just another normal night.

No fanfare. No questions. No apologies.

Dick doesn’t look up. “You’re back early,” he says flatly.

Slade’s tone is just shy of being smug. “Wrapped things up faster than expected.”

“How convenient,” Dick says dryly. “Any other reason?” he prompts.

“No,” Slade says with a smile, “I just figured you’d miss me too much if I was gone longer.” Slade adds, his voice laced with challenge.

Dick doesn’t respond.

Slade steps closer, eyes sharp but unreadable. “Did you?”

“No,” Dick replies immediately. His heart’s pounding too fast and he’s sure Slade can hear it. He wills his face to stay still. But his voice softens, involuntarily. “...You did… you said you’d be back.”

Slade’s mouth twitches. “I told you. I always keep my word.”

—

Dick spends the next day alone, much too scared of what he would do if he were alone with Slade for any longer.

Slade’s presence in the apartment almost feels softer—like less of a challenge or an inconvenience but rather it almost feels like Slade belongs there with him.

It’s embarrassing. 

Because Slade is right.

He does have something Dick wants. And it’s getting tempting—too tempting—to grab him by the collar and kiss him until they both forget how dangerous this is.

But Dick doesn’t give in.

Instead, he throws himself into patrol. He dives off rooftops and into alleyways like it can make him forget the man waiting for him at home. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He ignores the aches, ignores the fatigue and just keeps moving.

And yet, Slade won’t leave him alone.

As it gets later and later into the night, he keeps on hoping Slade will call it a night and leave. But no, even at three in the morning, Slade’s voice is still in his ear, giving him instructions and information.

“Two targets up ahead,” he says calmly, “One’s armed, one’s watching the alley.”

Dick grits his teeth. “I know.”

He stays out even longer, but Slade’s still there—still tracking him, still giving orders like it’s his job.

It’s 4:37 a.m. when Dick’s exhaustion finally outweighs his pride. 

He cuts the comm line without a word and heads back to the apartment. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going to be waiting for him when he walks back through that door.

—

He climbs in through the window quietly, peeling his mask and uniform off. As he slips into more comfortable clothes, he takes in his surroundings. The apartment’s lights are dim and the only sounds he can hear are the hum of the broken AC and Slade’s fingers typing against his laptop somewhere in the other room.

Sleep’s not an option. His body’s exhausted, but his mind is running laps.

So why not just stay up?

He immediately throws himself down on the sofa, tiredly clicking open the news. 

He scrolls through reports of the new Robin-themed and Signal-themed burgers coming to Batburger, how Lex Luthor spotted on vacation in Peru, and oh—BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE SPOTTED DOWNTOWN GETTING ROMANTIC DINNER WITH OLD BEAU TALIA HEAD.

“You okay?” Slade asks, peering over at him from his spot at the dining table, “Your heart rate just spiked.”

“Yeah,” Dick says distractedly, “I’m fine.” He clicks the link open immediately, scanning over the article hungrily.

Yesterday, the notorious playboy and owner of Wayne Enterprises was spotted in Bamonte’s Bristol location with Lexcorp CEO Talia Head. The pair were dressed impeccably, with her in this season’s Vivienne Westwood and him in a Saint Laurent suit. Now that’s a power couple!

Is this meeting solely about business, or is this the chance for these old flames to rekindle their romance? Now that’s the question we’ve all been asking! Two years ago, the amicably separated pair had announced they had been raising their son, Damian Wayne, in secret, far from the prying eyes of the public.

Amicably separated, my ass, Dick scoffs. He scrolls down as fast as he can to land at the paparazzi's photos.

His breath catches—it’s undoubtedly Talia and Bruce. 

In the photo, she’s glowing. It’s caught her midlaugh and she looks effortlessly radiant in a way Dick could never hope to achieve. To top it off, to make it even more painful than it is, Bruce is smiling at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters. 

His hand rests casually on her thigh beneath the table, just visible past the bright white of the tablecloth.

He used to smile at me like that, Dick sulks, like I was the center of his world.

He looks down again at his phone, and he frowns as he sees a new message from Bruce. 

It reads, I trust you remember what I said.

Dick stares at it for a long time.

One message. No context. No acknowledgment of what’s plastered across every tabloid.

Are you back with her? Dick texts Bruce back, You weren’t going to say anything?

The texts are read within seconds, but Bruce gives no reply.

He waits.

Finally, Dick growls, and he lays back down on the couch, putting the phone over his stomach and closing his eyes as he waits.

Five minutes pass. 

Then ten.

Then suddenly, his phone buzzes.

He snatches the phone up fast, some part of him stupidly hoping maybe Bruce had a change of heart.

The text reads, Stay sharp, Dick. Don’t let your judgment slip.

Dick stares at the screen like it just slapped him.

That’s seriously it?

“You sure you’re okay?” Slade calls again.

“I’m fine,” Dick says gruffly.

 “You’re clearly not.”

Dick tears his eyes away from the screen. “I promise I am.”

No—there’s one more text. It reads, Don’t disappoint me.

Dick gasps. How dare he? How dare Bruce act like he’s the one who gets to be disappointed?

Not when he’s the one going on dates with his almost war-criminal ex-wife!

He’s the one who just told Dick he was compromised, all because of his emotional attachment to Slade? Because of their sexual relationship? 

“You sure?” Slade asks again.

“I’m fine!” Dick snaps.

Slade lifts a brow. “Your heart says otherwise. It’s pounding.”

Dick huffs and tosses the phone onto the other side of the couch. “My heart says it wants you to shut up.”

Slade hums, his eye stays trained on Dick, no doubt to wait and watch for any more of Dick’s stupid bodily reactions to betray him. “Right.”

I’ll fucking give him a bodily reaction to betray how he feels, Dick thinks angrily before adjusting himself so he’s laying upside down on the sofa, his legs up against the sofa’s backrest. He arches his back slightly and lets his loose shorts pool down around his thighs.

Slade’s eye flicks toward his legs, his gaze sharp and most definitely appreciative.

Dick spreads his legs slightly more and turns his neck to look away from Slade, whom he’s sure is still staring.

And then he sees it.

A small, circular camera mounted on the door’s peephole.

Dick stills.

It’s barely noticeable, and not one Slade ever mentioned. Dick has had access to all the camera feeds—every damn camera, and every damn microphone. He studies it further, and he’s sure it’s a small circular recording device planted around the peephole on the door. 

Has it always been there? Or did I just never notice?

From where it’s planted, it has an almost perfect view of most of the house, especially the kitchen, dining area, and even the bedroom if the door is open.

Its very presence feels threatening, and Dick imagines it looming, like the eye of a disapproving god. He can almost see it—the eyes behind the lens. 

Ones as cold and judging as they are deep blue.

Bruce…

No, he thinks, that can’t be true. 

Can it?

Well, only one way to find out—might as well see if anyone’s watching.

Slow and languid, he turns his eyes back to Slade. Slade’s still staring at his legs, transfixed. 

Dick smirks and slides his legs off the backrest, standing up and walking up to Slade.

He’s deliberately slow. Sultry.

He doesn’t know who he’s giving more of a show for—Slade, or the camera.

“What’s this, birdie?” From his seat, Slade straightens. His eyes never leave Dick’s hips. “Feeling bold?”

“You tell me,” he murmurs, voice a whisper. He stops close to Slade, leaning down so their faces are inches apart.

Slade pushes his chair out. “Come here, then.”

Dick climbs onto his lap, straddling him. He knows what he’s doing.

He knows exactly how Bruce would react if he saw this.

And that’s the point.

Let him squirm in his seat watching, Dick thinks, Let him hear how much better Slade treats me. Let him watch me be wanted.

Let him realize what he pushed away.

“Let me guess,” Slade murmurs, hands coming up to grip Dick’s waist, “You saw something you didn’t like.”

“No.” He’s quiet again, looping his arms behind Slade’s neck and leaning in, slow, taunting. He stops just before their mouths meet. “I just realized there’s someone here I do like.”

Slade grins. “That right?”

Bruce chose Talia, Dick reminds himself. It’s not cheating if he’ll never want you back.

His eyes flick up, and he sends one last glance at the camera.

You watching, Bruce?

He turns back to Slade boldly, looking at Slade through his lashes.

“Kiss me?” He implores sweetly.

“What was that?” Slade asks smugly.

“Kiss me.” Dick demands, and Slade chuckles.

“Yes, captain.” He says, before he’s leaning in to capture Dick’s lips in a messy kiss.

Not even a second later, Dick’s phone starts vibrating violently from across the room. 

Dick ignores it, but it continues buzzing.

Slade pulls back, grinning against Dick’s lips. “What if it’s important?”

“What if it’s not?”

Slade’s eye gleams. “What if it’s him?”

Dick stiffens. His fingers grip the material of Slade’s shirt tighter. “That's not what this is about.”

Slade leans in, mouth brushing Dick’s ear. “Then go on. Prove me wrong. Pick it up.”

Dick growls. “No.”

“Pick it up,” Slade insists.

“No.”

The phone buzzes again. And again. 

Finally, Dick groans and slips out of Slade’s lap, stomping over to grab the phone.

Bruce, the caller ID says.

Dick looks back at Slade

“It’s him.” Dick huffs. “I’m not picking it up.”

Slade doesn’t even blink. “Pick it up. Now.” 

His voice so familiarly low and authoritative Dick finds himself obeying automatically.

Bruce’s voice instantly booms from the phone, “Dick. What are you doing.” His voice is positively icy.

Dick sits down on the couch with a loud sigh. “Nothing.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. Really.” His tone turns sarcastic. He waits, but Bruce doesn’t respond. “What is this, a friendly check-in? Or are we doing full-on surveillance right now?”

He can imagine Bruce frowning at him sternly. “I’m just checking in.”

Dick hums, noncommittal. “Five-o-clock in the morning? That’s a little early for a check-in, don’t you think?”

“I’m only checking in,” Bruce says evenly, “because I care. Because I know this might be hard for you right now.”

Dick doesn’t say anything.

“This isn’t easy. I know I may have upset you, but—”

“Oh, may have?” Dick laughs, “You know what else did upset me—you and Talia! Back together and you didn’t even tell me?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Right,” Dick sneers. “Because you get to play house with Talia, but I get emotionally compromised for letting someone touch me.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you,” Bruce adds hastily, “Wilson… He’s different. I don’t want him manipulating you. You know what he’s like, Dick.” 

Dick barks a hollow laugh. “Right.” He throws another glance at the peephole camera. “So, you’re looking out for me. What does that include? Controlling what I can and can’t do? Keeping tabs on me?” He pauses. “Are you, I don’t know, watching me right now?”

“No.” Bruce says, almost too quickly. “I’m not watching you.”

Dick smirks. “You sure? Because you seem very up to date.”

“Really? Are you admitting something, Dick?”

“Are you?” Dick shoots back. “How did you know I was awake?”

“I didn’t. I just called.”

Dick hums. “Of course. How funny.”

A pause. “Why’s that? 

“I don’t know.”

“What’s this about? Wilson?” Dick doesn’t answer, and Bruce goes on, “I mean, you told me he left.”

“He did.”

“And you said you handled it.”

“I did,” Dick reiterates. “Like I said I would.”

“So then why would I need a reason to watch you at all?”

Dick hums. “I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause before, you seemed real invested in what was going on in my apartment. Is that still true?” 

“Is that a joke?” Bruce’s voice cracks. “I did that for your safety. You were blindly trusting a man who tried—not very long ago—to kill your friends. I’m worried about your judgment. So, are you currently doing anything I told you not to do?”

“No,” Dick says immediately. Confidently.

“Really.” Bruce echoes, voice flat. “So, you told me he left.”

“He did,” Dick stresses, “I handled it. Like I said I would.”

Slade finally moves closer, walking over with slow, deliberate steps. He grabs Dick by the hips and throws him down into the sofa as an easy show of strength.

Dick doesn’t fight it. He lets his eyes stay fixed on the camera by the door, jaw tight.

Bruce’s voice comes back, sounding very strained now. “So, Dick, give me an update. How exactly did you… handle it?”

Slade leans down slowly, lips grazing Dick’s jaw, and his beard scratching Dick’s neck. Dick’s breath stutters as Slade drags a kiss along his neck.

“Oh, you know…” Dick murmurs, eyes half-lidded, “Sent him packing. Told him to get lost.”

“I see,” Bruce replies, his voice cold. “And you’re still taking this seriously?”

“I’m always serious,” Dick says.

“Really.”

“I said I handled it. Why don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you. I just want to… make sure you’re okay,” Bruce continues, “Earlier… you sounded… different,” his voice tightens. “You almost sounded… distracted.”

Dick’s heart lurches. He knows. He fucking knows.

I fucking knew it.

His gaze flicks again to the camera, daring Bruce to say it. 

To admit it.

Still, nothing.

“Oh, you know, just tired,” Dick says finally. “Long day.”

Slade keeps nipping at his neck, his fingers digging into the skin of Dick’s hips, pushing his shirt up.

“I hope you’re taking this seriously,” Bruce says, tone clipped. Slade’s hands dip lower, and Bruce’s tone sharpens. “You cannot afford to be sloppy with him.”

Dick tilts his head and holds back a bitter laugh. He can feel Slade grin against his neck, teeth grazing lightly as if to say go on, play along.

“Oh, I’m not being sloppy,” Dick murmurs, voice low and syrupy sweet. “I told you, everything’s under control.”

Slade moves down, lower, way lower, and Dick tenses. Slade presses a possessive, almost reverent kiss to Dick’s navel, the hair of his beard tickling Dick’s stomach. 

Silence stretches on the other end. Bruce still says nothing. 

So Dick waits. He wants Bruce to confess that he knows—so he can shove it back in his face.

What happened to trust? What happened to not being a goddamn hypocrite?

Lecturing someone was one thing, but it was another to go around and do the exact same thing.

Especially if the thing in question included getting back with the one-and-only rival of the person you had just lectured.

Dick gets broken out of his thoughts as Slade leans in, rolls Dick’s shorts down and presses a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of Dick’s thigh.

Then, he bites down hard on his inner thigh, and Dick gasps before he can help it. 

He presses his palm over his mouth too late, trying to muffle the sound.

Bruce says nothing, but Dick knows he heard.

The silence stretches thin between them, and finally, Bruce’s voice breaks through—calm, but deadly sharp.

“You’re breathing hard. Are you hurt?”

In between Dick’s legs, Slade huffs out a laugh. 

He’s enjoying this, the bastard.

Dick forces a breath, struggling not to either laugh or cry out. “No—I told you, Bruce, I’m just tired.”

“Well, you need to be careful,” Bruce says finally, voice carefully measured. “You’re emotionally compromised. That makes you vulnerable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dick says hoarsely.

“Don’t be reckless, Dick.”

“Never am,” Dick breathes.

Another pause. Then Bruce adds, too smoothly, “I just want you to be safe, Dick. That’s all.”

Slade just bites harder, like he's a dog marking his goddamn territory.

Dick clenches his jaw. “Safe,” he echoes finally, voice bitter and clipped. “Got it. It’s all handled.” 

He barely has time to recover before Slade grabs Dick’s free hand to press it against his crotch, which is rock hard. Dick chokes out a cough.

“Funny,” Slade murmurs, “I don’t feel handled.”

Dick’s eyes snap shut for a second. His grip tightens on the phone.

He prays Bruce didn’t hear that.

On the other end of the line, Bruce is dead silent.

“Dick,” he says eventually, voice deceptively calm. “Are you alone right now?”

Slade looks up at Dick—eyebrows raised, lips curled in mock innocence. “Oops. Too loud?”

Dick swallows hard, jaw tense. He ignores Slade. “What kind of question is that, Bruce?”

“A simple one,” Bruce says coolly. “Yes or no.”

Slade presses another bite to Dick’s thigh. He drags his tongue over it slowly and Dick twitches.

“I already told you,” Dick says as carefully as he can. “He’s gone.”

“So you’ve handled it,” Bruce repeats, his voice darkening slightly. “Meaning you should be alone, no?”

“I am.”

Slade chuckles low in his throat, teeth grazing the skin just below Dick’s navel now. “Mm. You should tell him,” he murmurs. “If he’s watching, give him a show. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Dick glares down at him, furious and flushed. 

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice is sharper now, clipped. “You said you were taking this seriously.”

“I am.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!”

“Is he there with you?”

“No!”

Again, there’s silence on Bruce’s end. Heavy, loaded silence. Dick can almost imagine him gripping the Batcave desk so hard his knuckles turn white.

“Dick.” The name is a warning now. “Is. He. There. Right. Now.”

Dick exhales sharply through his nose. “I told you, he left.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Bruce’s voice is quieter now. “I know what this is. You think you’re proving something. That I don’t control you.” There’s a thud—maybe Bruce slamming his hand down on the desk—”You’re letting him compromise you, just to prove me wrong?” he adds, “You—don’t even—can you hear what you sound right now?”

“Oh, he’s hearing himself just fine,” Slade mutters, teeth bared in a smug smile. 

“Dick,” Bruce says sharply. “Tell me the truth. Right now.”

Slade bites down again—hard—and Dick gasps, back arching involuntarily.

“He’s in the room, isn’t he?” Bruce almost sounds desperate now. “Isn’t he? Admit it!”

Dick’s chest rises and falls quickly. His face is flushed, his hand gripping the edge of the couch like it might hold him back from sliding further.

Slade finally speaks again, voice rough and amused. “Ask him why he can’t just see for himself, sweetheart.”

Dick stares at the ceiling, fury and adrenaline and guilt making his stomach churn. “He’s not here,” Dick repeats to Bruce.

Bruce’s voice comes in again, loud and razor-sharp. “Dick. You think this proves something? That I was wrong? That he gives a damn about you?” He doesn’t wait for a reply as he yells, “You’ll regret this, Dick. Maybe not tonight. But soon. He’s not worth it—he doesn’t deserve you!”

Dick flinches, and the last word echoes in the background, presumably in the Batcave.

Still, Bruce doesn’t hang up.

Dick wants to scream. 

He just fucking wants Bruce to say it—say he tapped into the surveillance feed, say he’s been watching like a coward through a camera instead of facing him.

Finally, Dick pulls his body away from Slade’s mouth, his brain hazy. “I told you, Bruce … everything’s under control.”

Bruce growls and his voice cuts out without a goodbye. No warning. Just gone.

Dick stares at the screen for a long second before setting the phone down on the table like it’s radioactive.

His chest rises and falls, sharp and uneven. He’s flushed—still burning from Slade’s hands, Slade’s mouth, and Slade’s fucking audacity.

He’s feeling guilt, anger, and something he doesn’t exactly want to name.

Slade leans back on his heels, watching him with that infuriating smirk. His hands still trail idly up Dick’s legs, shameless and slow.

“So,” he says casually, “how’d the check-in go?”

Dick doesn’t answer.

Slade tilts his head. “He say hi for me?”

Dick grabs the nearest decorative pillow and hurls it at him. Slade dodges it with ease, laughing.

“Aw, come on,” he says. “Don’t be sore. He started it.”

Dick stands abruptly, muscles tight. “You—” he shakes his head, dragging a hand through his hair. He points at the camera. “You knew he was watching.”

Slade raises an eyebrow. “Of course I did.”

Dick turns away. “You wanted him to see.” Dick’s hands are shaking now. From fear or accomplishment, he can’t tell.

“And you didn’t?” Slade scoffs.

Of course I did, Dick thinks. I just didn’t think you’d be so obvious.

“He was trying to get you to say it," Slade presses on, "That you wanted me here.”

Dick’s voice is simmering with frustration. “Well, I wasn’t going to give him that.”

He plays along to the part Slade thinks he’s following. For this to work, he needs Slade to think it’s real. 

That I am choosing him.

“Of course not,” Slade continues, stepping closer. “Because part of you still wants to be his good little soldier.”

Dear god, here we go again.

Dick looks away. “Slade,” he hisses, “Quit it.”

”The golden boy. His obedient little soldier who follows orders, doesn’t entertain”—his voice drips with innuendo—“his enemies, and doesn’t disobey his master.”

Dick’s jaw tightens.

Slade leans in closer, voice low, rough with amusement. “Or, maybe you want him to admit he’s watching. Because then he’s the one who broke your trust. Not you.”

Dick flinches like he’s been struck.

Slade watches him for a beat, then leans back again, voice quieter. “You’re both so predictable,” he says, not unkindly. “You think this is about me. It’s not.”

Dick’s fists curl at his sides. Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Then what is it about?”

Slade shrugs. “Control. Shame. Love. Guilt. Take your pick.” He stands and crosses the room, stopping just in front of Dick. “You’re trying so hard not to be exactly what he wants you to be—who he’s made you be,” Slade murmurs. “But he’s still living in your head. Still pulling strings. Still deciding what you’re allowed to want for yourself.”

Slade’s hand reaches out to tuck Dick’s hair behind his ear.

“Stop waiting for him to say it,” Slade continues, “He never will.”

“I know,” Dick says sharply. “Okay?”

Slade shakes his head. “Not that. He’s never going to say that he’s watching. That he knows you’re… freer—more satisfied—here because that hurts him.”

Dick closes his eyes. 

Stop.

I want Bruce to be jealous.

I want to hurt him.

I want him to feel more regret than he ever has in his life. 

“He’s still trying to be the man you want him to be. He could already be it, even. But he can’t do that to himself.” Slade scoffs. “It’d make him feel too guilty. It would eat him alive. That anger we just heard from him? It’s not just anger, no, sweetheart, that was jealousy.” Slade steps closer, the air between them tightening. His voice drips with heat and accusation.

Dick stares at the ground. He thinks back to what Slade said that first day—

“He’s jealous.” Slade repeats, tone heavy with certainty. “That wasn’t control slipping—that was him choking on the idea that you might actually want this. Want me. Want something that doesn’t start and end with his approval.”

Dick opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His throat works silently around a denial that never quite forms.

He can’t say no, not when it rang so obviously clear, so desperate, in Bruce’s voice. 

Which is good, he tells himself, that’s the goal. Bruce should be jealous.

Slade is just a tool to get there, no matter how sweet or earnest he’s been being recently.

Then why am I so apprehensive?

“That camera?” Slade continues, “It wasn’t about your safety. Or his trust. Or protecting you. It was about keeping his claim on you. He wants you to be his but he won’t do anything about it. He can’t do anything about it. But he can keep you from having anyone else’s.”

Slade pushes Dick’s chin up, so they’re staring at each other.

“You don’t know that,” Dick says weakly. 

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

“I know enough.” Slade’s hands find his hips, anchoring him. Grounding or branding—it’s hard to tell. “And, you just showed him how easy it was—how willingly you let him go.”

Dick scoffs and pulls away. “What do you know, even? First you want me to realize how terrible Bruce is and make me admit to myself that he’ll never love me and now you’re explaining to me about how I should forgive him?”

Finally, Slade sighs. “I told you,” he says, voice startlingly genuine, “I’ve made mistakes too. Lied to the love of my life about how I was feeling. What I was doing. What she was to me. And it made her hate me—I love her more than anything and she hates me.” He sighs, “I don’t like Wayne. But… I understand him.”

What?

First he’s all ‘you can use me for anything!’ but as soon as I try to use him to make Bruce mad—to make him jealous—to make him realize I am even more capable of hurting his feelings as he is at mine! Then Slade switches up and is all ‘I feel sorry for him’?

What the hell?

“You…?” Dick scoffs, “Understand him?”

“I know you’re angry, kid. And you should be. But you’re holding onto something that’s only going to hurt you in the end.” Slade gazes at him, his eye hollow. “So let go of him. Let him realize how much you mean to him. Let him realize how much he’s hurt you. Let him apologize. And you—let yourself be happy. Without him. And if that never happens—if he never apologizes, if he never treats you better—you’ll still be happy,” Slade promises, “I’ll keep you happy. Make you feel treasured. Admired. Taken care of.”

He doesn’t say the word loved, but it echoes in every word he says.

Dick shivers. 

Finally.

We’re back on track.

His hands come up to rest against Slade’s broad chest, hoping Bruce is still watching from the camera.

“I’ll give you everything you want and more,” Slade continues, “Everything you crave and more.”

”Yeah?” Dick’s only half listening.

Slade leans in again, and Dick lets him, until their noses touch and their breaths intermingle. His hands rest again on Dick’s hips.

He wants nothing more than for Slade to shut up. He doesn’t need his pity or explanations or vows.

He just wants to put on a performance. And he needs Slade for it.

He just wants Bruce to watch as Slade gets everything he could have had. 

“I promise,” Slade continues, and Dick rolls his eyes.

Shut up.

Dick cuts him off by tilting his head up, and slotting their lips together. Suddenly, Slade pulls away—and Dick’s frowning—but then Slade’s laughing again and he’s leaning in, throwing his hands around Slade’s neck, and pressing their lips together hungrily. Dick moans as Slade tries to devour him.

He doesn’t think of what he’s just done. What it looks like. 

What Slade thinks he’s doing.

All he can think of is Bruce and Talia.

Bruce was jealous, Slade had said.

God, I hope so.

From the back of his head, Dick can feel it—Bruce, somewhere, maybe watching, or maybe not. 

Before, the thought would have been enough to haunt him. To hold him back.

But now, it frustrates him. Makes him want to provoke Bruce.

To see how much betrayal he can make Bruce feel. 

But Slade…

I promise, he had said, like a vow. Like an oath. Damn—even like one of the godforsaken contracts he never went back on.

It made it feel real. 

Unbreakable.

Somehow, it was the things Dick had been craving for ever since he was a kid, praying his future partner would promise him the world the way his parents did to each other.

But again, wrong man.

Finally, they pull away and Dick stares, long and unblinking.

What am I missing? To make this look even more real?

Slade looks at him expectantly, his eyes flickering between Dick’s lips and his eyes, which are still trained on the door.

The camera, of course.

”One second.” In a clean, fluid motion, Dick pulls away and crosses the room, heading to the biometric reader near the coat closet.

It clicks open with a soft hiss, revealing the neatly organized contents inside.

Batarangs.

He picks one—small, weighted perfectly for a precise throw. He runs his thumb along the edge. It’s familiar. Comforting.

A haunting symbol of who he used to be. 

To who he used to look up to and love more than anything. 

To who he’s still desperately, trying not to become—the man he still can’t seem to leave behind.

His jaw clenches. His fingers tighten.

He walks back to the center of the room, draws back, and then throws it forward.

The batarang flies forward with surgical precision and slams into the camera. The lens shatters instantly, sparks flickering once before it falls to the floor in pieces.

Just like that, the eye feels gone.

Dick stands there for a moment longer, staring at the lifeless remains of the device. His chest rises and falls with sharp, shallow breaths. The weight of it doesn’t vanish—it never completely does—but something in him loosens.

Finally, he exhales.

Behind him, Slade’s mouth tugs up in a smile.

Dick turns back to him. He doesn’t quite walk back to him, but rather he walks over to the door to the bedroom, where he beckons Slade forward with a finger. 

Prove you choose me, the motion seems to say. 

Like a dog, Slade bounds forward without hesitation, immediately closing the distance between them.

Dick doesn’t back down. His heart is still thudding like a drum in his chest, and the taste of everything—his anger, desire, guilt—is still thick in the air.

Slade stops in front of him. 

Dick’s mouth opens to interject—but Slade’s hand slides to the back of his neck first, dragging him closer before he can finish the sentence.

Dick jumps up and Slade catches him easily, his arms holding up Dick by his legs as he moves them to the bed. His hands hold Slade’s shirt tight, and he's cupping Slade's face as he presses kiss after kiss to Slade’s lips, ignoring the hollow feeling of guilt in his throat.

Chapter Text

Dick pulls away, gasping for breath and pressing his face into the crook of Slade’s neck. “Happy now?”

Slade sighs, one calloused hand coming to hold Dick’s back. “You tell me.”

With a scoff, something inside Dick gives way. Its’s the same impulse that made him smash the lens, the same reckless defiance that’s been crawling under his skin for weeks. Again, he tilts his head up and closes the distance before he can think better of it. 

Slade’s grip on him tightens, steadying or daring him, Dick can’t tell which.

His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing Dick’s jaw. 

It feels almost kind. 

It’s unbearable.

Dick pulls back first. “Don’t,” he mutters, and it comes out sharper than he intends.

Slade doesn’t move. His attention—his intensity, his focus—it’s crushing, impossible to block out, and Dick hates how little control he has over the effect it’s having.

His chest tightens, his hands curl into fists. A dizzy, unsteady tension settles in his stomach. 

He wants to pull away, to shove Slade back and reclaim the space around him, but the moment he does, he feels a pang of panic, as if letting go was erasing the rare intensity and wonder of being truly seen.

Of being appreciated.

It’s disorienting, and frightening—two things the oh-so-fearless boy wonder hasn’t felt in so long.

The lines between irritation, longing, anger, and shock blur until he can’t distinguish one from the other. He can’t even think clearly enough to articulate it—-the words stay rough in his throat. “I—I—”

Slade leans in a fraction. “You?”

The certainty of Slade’s focus makes him crack, makes him feel raw, and exposed in a way that feels both unbearable and comforting.

He leans back slightly, letting Slade lower him on the bed. 

He waits for Slade to move in but he doesn’t.

He waits again.

Am I not enough for him to want to lean in? To go on and kiss me again? Dick thinks bitterly.

But no. He’s not… he’s not looking at me like he’s disappointed… or waiting.

He’s looking at me like he’s asking for permission.

Dick sits up straighter as Slade kneels near the foot of the bed. His head spins. “Slade?”

But Slade’s looking down, his hands coming up to catch Dick’s right ankle. He leans closer, his beard barely grazing the skin there. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out.

Slade’s fingers tighten over Dick’s ankle. Dick’s stomach tightens, his hands balling into fists, but he doesn’t pull away.

Slade leans closer, and a feather-light brush of his lips grazes the skin just above Dick’s knee. The touch is deliberate, and Dick’s breath hitches, his thoughts scattering, all full of anger, shame, and longing.

He’s overwhelmed by the intensity of Slade’s attention, by the way he seems to notice every small reaction of his body, including every flinch or sigh.

Slade’s touches are an assertion, like he’s claiming space, claiming him, and Dick’s stomach knots and twists under the weight of it.

He wants to speak, to push him away, but his voice fails. All he can do is sit there, caught between panic and a dizzying pull toward something that terrifies him as much as it entices him. 

Finally, he leans back against the pillows, letting Slade continue.

Slade shifts slightly, his lips brushing a line along Dick’s inner thigh—not violent, not demanding, just there. 

They’ve been… intimate before but never like this—it’s always been too rough and fast so they could get it over with before they remembered they weren’t the one the other person was looking for.

They had never done it with this much care.

Dick freezes, heart hammering, aware of every inch of skin under Slade’s hands. His breath catches, and he swallows hard, torn between panic and craving.

“Stay with me,” Slade murmurs, voice low and steady. 

The words hit Dick harder than anything else could. 

Stay, he said. 

Not leave. Not anything else.

Just stay.

Dick’s chest tightens, stomach twisting with a dizzy, unsteady heat. He wants to pull away, wants to reclaim space, but it feels impossible. 

Slade’s touch isn’t just physical; it’s claiming him in a way he never expected, one careful kiss at a time.

His mind races and stutters, desperate for clarity, but he only finds Slade—only finds the careful, deliberate pressure of hands that refuse to let him go.

It’s intoxicating.

Dick lets himself melt into it, letting Slade guide him without force, without expectation. Every small brush of lips, every lingering touch, every steady hand makes him feel seen in a way he hasn’t allowed himself in years.

And yet, even as he surrenders, part of him is afraid—afraid of how much he’s giving over, how much he’s letting himself feel. 

Afraid of wanting more.

Slade notices the tremor in his hands and leans back slightly, whispering just above a murmur, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dick breathes out.

Slade’s hands slide higher, tracing along Dick’s thighs with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes his muscles tighten and his heart pound.

Dick swallows hard, trying to keep control, but Slade’s gaze pins him in place—intense, dark, unyielding. It’s the kind of look that promises everything without saying a word.

“You’re tense,” Slade murmurs, lips brushing just shy of his knee, and the heat of it makes Dick shiver. “Relax for me.”

Dick’s hands clench the sheets. “I… I—”

“Shhh,” Slade interrupts softly, pressing a kiss to the side of his leg, deliberate and slow, drawing a shiver straight through him. His other hand moves to massage Dick’s hip, firm and purposeful, grounding him even as the touches set him alight. “You like that,” Slade murmurs, voice low, almost teasing, as his hand slides higher along the curve of Dick’s thigh. 

The deliberate pressure sends a jolt straight through him.

Dick’s breath hitches. “I—” he starts, but words fail him. It was the same motion Slade had done to him not even minutes ago, but it feels too different now. 

That was fast and raucous, just teasing. 

It wasn’t this private, or intentional.

Slade kisses higher, his beard tickling the skin of Dick’s thigh. His other hand presses into Dick’s hip, grounding him even as the heat spreads through him, unrelenting.

Dick’s chest hammers, mind spinning. He so desperately wants to pull back, to reclaim control—but the intensity of being truly seen, truly wanted, pins him in place. 

Bruce is but a faint echo in his mind.

A faint feeling of his promised disapproval haunts Dick, but why would that matter when Slade’s intensity feels so good?

When all of Slade’s attention is on him?

“You’re so wound up,” Slade says softly, almost a purr. “Relax. Let me take care of you. You made a big choice. You’re conflicted. But it was the right choice. And I want to show that to you.”

His hands find Dick’s hips again, steady, patient, reverent. The way Slade looks at him now isn’t hungry—it’s almost aching. 

There’s something raw in his gaze, something that looks like longing, and it unsettles Dick more than anything else could.

“I used to do this for her,” Slade says after a moment, voice quieter now, distant. “When she was mad. When she needed to be reminded that someone was still… here for her.” He lets out a low chuckle, one that sounds more sad than amused. 

Dick’s gut twists before he can stop it. The image of Slade’s hands on someone else—of him speaking this same way, touching this same way—hits him square in the chest

It's a reminder that nothing has ever been truly his.

Slade’s attention—or love, even—was hers first. From the way he talks about her, it's obvious it might still be hers now.

He hates how fast the jealousy comes, how instinctive it is. 

Hates how badly he wants Slade’s attention to stay right here, on him.

Slade’s eye flicks up, and he must see something in Dick’s expression, because the faintest smile touches his lips. “Don’t do that,” he says softly. “Don’t compare yourself to her.”

“I’m not,” Dick lies, voice rough.

“Sure you are,” Slade murmurs. His thumb traces a slow, grounding circle against Dick’s hip. “You don’t like knowing how much she mattered to me.”

Dick’s throat tightens, the words catching before he can swallow them down. “I don’t like knowing you still care so much about her.”

Slade tilts his head, studying him with faint amusement. “Jealous, are we?”

“Of your tragic love story? Hardly.” Dick forces a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, you really know how to set the mood.”

That earns a quiet laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “You think I’m sentimental,” Slade says slowly. “But I’m just being honest. You don’t like that.”

“I don’t like being compared,” Dick snaps. “I mean, who does?”

“Then stop acting like you need to win.” Slade’s tone sharpens, though his hand doesn’t move. “She’s gone. You’re not.”

Dick scoffs. “You make it sound like I should thank you for the privilege.”

Slade’s smirk returns. “Maybe you should.”

“Right,” Dick mutters, rolling his eyes, but the jab doesn’t land. Slade’s still watching him—too closely, too calmly—and it’s infuriating how easily he can read him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Only because you’re so bad at pretending.” Slade leans in just enough for Dick to feel his breath, the faint trace of amusement gone from his voice. “You know, she used to lie better. But she never fought this hard to convince herself she didn’t care.”

“Now you really can’t help comparing, can you?”

“Maybe I like seeing you riled up.”

“You’re saying you like seeing me pissed off.” Dick scoffs and Slade grins. 

“Same thing,” he says easily.

Dick gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “God, you’re insufferable.”

Slade’s hand tightens at his hip, a subtle reminder of who’s in control. “And yet, here you are.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

Dick narrows his eyes. “When you were with Adeline, did you mouth off at her like this?”

“No,” Slade chuckles darkly, “but she did let me put my mouth somewhere else.”

Dick scoffs. “You’re a dirty old man.”

“You say that like you don’t want to find out what she liked so much about it.”

“You really think you’re that good, huh?”

“I don’t think,” Slade says confidently, “I know.” 

Dick looks at him with contempt, and Slade crawls up to the bed, pushing Dick back until he’s laying flat against the mattress. Slade leans over him, his arms bracketing Dick’s smaller body. 

“Oh, yeah?” Dick asks coolly. He slips his ankle between Slade’s legs and flips them to the side—Slade’s back is now against the mattress and Dick’s legs are straddling his chest. Slade’s hands coax Dick up till he’s kneeling right over Slade’s mouth. “Why don’t you show me?”

Slade pushes his nose up, his hands gripping Dick’s ass. He tries to pull Dick down closer and lift his mouth upward, but Dick jerks back, moving his hips higher until they’re just out of reach. Slade tries again and Dick jerks away again. 

“Brat.” Slade grumbles.

“Too slow,” Dick teases. “I’m just making you really work for—” He’s cut off as Slade surges up again quickly, tongue pressing against Dick’s hole. “Oh! Slade!” 

The last word is a moan muttered through half-lidded eyes.

Slade lets out a chuckle, causing Dick’s thighs to vibrate. “Have I earned it yet?”

“No,” Dick lets out, breath gone as Slade swirls his tongue more firmly. Slade’s beard chafes against him, and Dick’s sure it’ll be irritated and red tomorrow but god, he hopes it leaves marks.

Slade pulls him down further, his tongue breaching even further. Now, Dick’s sure he’s just babbling, holding one hand over his mouth to silence himself. 

“You’re horrible,” Dick hisses. It cuts off into a moan. “Horrible!”

—

The next morning, Dick wakes up alone.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the gray half-light pressing through the blinds and the ache in his chest that feels like a bruise he can’t find. His throat tastes like regret. The pillow still smells like Slade.

He blinks hard, trying to remember what time it is, but his mind just replays the night in broken flashes—hands, heat, silence, a moment that felt too careful to be real. Then the echo of his own voice, whispering stay.

He drags a hand down his face. “Idiot.”

The sheets are a mess. His body is sore. There’s a space beside him that’s too warm to have been empty for long. He should be relieved, but instead there’s this sinking weight in his stomach—that same old drop that always comes when he realizes he’s done something Bruce warned him about.

He pushes himself upright, feet hitting the floor. The shards of the broken camera glint near the door like tiny accusations. Every step crunches a little.

There’s noise in the kitchen. 

He exhales.

He’s still here.

He exhales through his nose. He’s still here.

And the relief that runs through him makes him furious. Dick forces himself up.

Fuck.

He told himself it wouldn’t happen again.

He told Bruce it wouldn’t happen again.

And yet—here he is.

Dick stops in the doorway, every muscle tensed on instinct. Slade’s barefoot at the stove, shirtless, wearing low-slung black sweats like he owns the place. The picture of casual arrogance. He’s frying eggs, two mugs already filled, moving with the same easy confidence he has a fight.

Dick leans in the doorway and watches for a moment. “I didn’t expect you to still be here.”

“Sure you did,” Slade says easily. “You turned off the camera.”

Dick says nothing.

Slade moves easily, bare feet on tile, the picture of comfort. It feels wrong, and so domestic, and it burns.

“You weren’t supposed to stay.”

“You didn’t ask me to leave.”

Every word feels like a trap, and Dick keeps stepping into them. “You weren’t supposed to come back, anyway.”

Slade walks over, handing him a mug. “But you wanted me to. So, here I am.”

 “I didn’t want you to! This—none of this—was supposed to happen!”

Slade leans against the counter, arms crossed, eye fixed on him. “And yet, here we are.”

Dick laughs, sharp and humorless. “You make it sound like fate.”

“Not fate,” Slade says quietly. “Just choices.”

Dick looks up at him, jaw tight. “Yeah, well, some choices are mistakes.”

“Do you really need a reminder of what we did last night?”

“No!” Dick exclaims, face red. “Stop! You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

Slade raises an eyebrow. “Harder for who? Wayne? Or you?”

Dick doesn’t answer.

Slade leans back against the counter and sips his coffee, watching him.

“I know how he operates,” he says. “He tells you to cut ties. Then he waits to see if you obey.” Dick swallows hard. “You think he hasn’t come given you a visit because he suddenly trusts you and forgives you?” Slade continues. “No. He’s watching to see how long it takes you to come crawling back.”

Dick turns away, running a hand through his hair. “I need to focus on this case,” he mutters. “I need clarity. Not you telling me what you think of Bruce.”

Slade steps closer, lowering his voice. “Like I said yesterday—Wayne wants control. I just want access.”

“Access,” Dick repeats, “To what?”

Slade’s grin is wolfish, but his eye gives away his hesitation. “Whatever you’ll give me.”

For one terrible second, Dick remembers the night before—the sound of Slade’s voice when it wasn’t mocking, the way he’d looked at him like he was something worth wanting.

He shuts it down fast. 

“Pack your shit,” Dick says sharply. “I need you gone.”

He hates how Slade doesn’t even look surprised. “You sure about that?”

Dick doesn’t answer.

“I know you’re not throwing me out because of me,” Slade says quietly. “I know you’re doing it because he got in your head. Yesterday, you were so—”

Dick crosses his arms. “Don’t put this on Bruce.”

Slade scoffs. “Why not? This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what you think you’re supposed to want.”

Dick glares. “You don’t know that. You’re twisting this.”

“Am I?” Slade tilts his head, eye narrowing slightly. “You keep saying you don’t want me here, but you haven’t moved. You keep saying it was a mistake, but you can’t stop looking at me. You think that means I’ve got some kind of control over you?” He leans in, voice dropping low. “No, sweetheart, it means you don’t.”

Dick’s breath comes short. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me I’m wrong,” Slade says quietly. “Tell me you didn’t want it.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Dick grips the edge of the counter so tightly his fingers ache. He wants to shout, to throw the mug, to hit something, but all he manages is, “You should go.”

Slade’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, searching, dissecting. Then, finally, he nods. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Dick lies.

Slade’s expression doesn’t shift, but his tone softens just slightly. “You’re trying to convince yourself of that.”

“Get out,” Dick says again, his voice breaking halfway through. “Please.”

“If you really wanted me gone, you would’ve told me to get out last night.”

“That was different.”

“No. That would have been honest. This?” He steps in closer, drops his voice to a low murmur. “This is a performance. A last-ditch effort to make yourself feel clean again.”

Dick flinches like he’s been struck.

Slade watches him carefully. “You think throwing me out will make it better. But it doesn’t undo what happened. It won’t make him forgive you. And it sure as hell won’t make you forget.”

Dick turns away, jaw clenched. “Just go!”

“I will,” Slade promises, “When you stop lying.”

Dick stares at him. His breath comes heavy and his chest feels too tight.

Slade just watches him with cool interest.

“Fine,” Dick finally snaps. “Pack your shit.”

Slade nods once. “Alright.” He turns and walks toward his gear bag, kneels beside it and starts folding things slowly, methodically. Slade zips the bag closed and looks up at him. “I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Good,” Dick says. But it sounds weak, even to him.

The door shuts behind Slade with a quiet finality that echoes louder than it should.

For a long time, Dick doesn’t move. The air in the apartment feels wrong—too still, too cold. He tells himself it’s better this way. That he needs it to be this way.

Dick scrubs a palm over his face. You wanted him gone. You said it. You meant it.

Still, he doesn't know if he’s trying to remind himself or convince himself.

He wonders what Bruce would see if he walked in right now. A man trying to get his head straight? Or a failure too lost to crawl back to the light?

Too defiled?

Dick rubs a hand down his face, the motion automatic, like maybe if he presses hard enough he can erase last night from his skin. But it’s still there—the phantom touch, the way Slade had looked at him like something worth knowing, worth keeping.

And god, that’s the worst part—because for one second, in all that mess, he believed it.

He stands too fast, dizzy from the motion, heart pounding. The quiet is unbearable. Every sound—the hum of the fridge, the whisper of traffic outside—feels like it’s mocking him.

He grabs a shirt from the floor, pulls it over his head, and paces.

He tells himself this was a mistake. He tells himself he’s in control now. He tells himself he doesn’t need Slade.

But then he catches sight of the bed again. The sheets are tangled, the pillow still dented from where Slade’s head had been. 

And the control he’s so desperate to reclaim slips right through his fingers.

He presses his palms against the wall, bowing his head. “You wanted him gone,” he mutters again, softer this time, as if repetition will make it true. 

But the echo in his chest doesn’t sound like conviction. 

It sounds like remorse.

—

For a while, Dick stands there, not moving, the apartment suddenly too big for him. All he can hear is the frantic beat of his own heart.

He forces himself to breathe. 

In. 

Out. 

In.

Out.

Slowly. Controlled, he tells himself. 

You’ve done this before. You’ve watched people walk out before. 

You’ve buried worse.

He turns to the counter. Two mugs. Two plates. The simple, domestic symmetry of it makes him feel sick. He grabs one mug, Slade’s, and moves to dump it out.

He blinks as he finally processes the faded design on it—Mr. 

And of course, Dick’s own mug reads Mrs.

The laugh that comes out of him is hollow. 

“Real funny,” he mutters, but his throat closes around the words.

The stupid, faded lettering is staring up at him like an accusation. Mrs.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything. 

Except it does.

It feels like undeniable proof—obvious, domestic, intimate proof—that somewhere along the way, their dynamic twisted into something that looked too much like a relationship.

For a moment, Dick just stares. His chest tightens, something sharp and heavy pressing in behind his ribs. He wants to throw it, to smash it like the camera—but he can’t. The mug stays in his hand, trembling, the word burning into his palm like it’s been branded there.

He stares into the dark swirl of cold coffee at the bottom. His reflection stares back at him, distorted by the curve of ceramic, warped by the surface tension.

He should throw it out.

He should smash it—smash it like he smashed the camera, but he doesn’t.

He just holds it, thumb pressed against the word Mrs., tracing it like it’s a wound. 

The heat’s long gone, but he can still imagine it—the warmth of Slade’s hand as he passed it to him that morning, the faint scrape of a calloused thumb against his knuckles.

It’s ridiculous. 

Dick’s chest aches. He rubs a hand over his sternum like he can scrub the feeling away. “You wanted him gone,” he whispers again, like a mantra. “You wanted him gone.”

He sets his mug down and reaches for Slade’s. 

Mr. stares back at him, unblinking. Still, it feels like it’s not a joke, not just a title. 

It feels like a claim—a reminder that last night wasn’t just… careless. 

It was deliberate. And in its quiet, domestic way, it mocks him.

Dick imagines them side by side: the mugs touching on the counter like bodies pressed together in silence, unspoken, impossible. Mr. and Mrs. 

It’s ridiculous. 

Laughable. 

And yet he can’t stop imagining what it would look like. 

He shakes his head, trying to banish it, but the image keeps coming: Slade in an apron that he’d never, ever admit to owning, chopping vegetables with a deliberate care, humming a song Dick doesn’t recognize. 

Slade picking him up and putting him on the counter, pressing kisses to his lips and feeding him small bits of whatever Slade was cooking as Rose and Damian rolled their eyes and called them old saps.

They would dance together after dinner, content in each other's arms. At night, he’d have the same hands that were usually so rough and demanding, be so gentle and tender it would drive him crazy.

And somehow, impossibly, Dick wants it. Wants it so badly that it makes him ache.

Dick’s chest tightens as the fantasy continues, and he hates that it does. He hates how tempting it is. 

The part of him that screams This isn’t real. This can’t be real is drowned out by the image of Slade, impossibly close, impossibly soft, impossibly attentive.

Finally, his eyes find the mugs again—sitting side by side like they belong together. 

Mr. and Mrs.

And suddenly he hates that they’re touching.

He moves one—his—a few inches away, and sighs. 

The distance between the mugs shouldn’t really mean anything, but it does. 

It feels like it's the only thing he can control right now.

Chapter Text

It’s dark when Dick finally steps out. 

It’s been almost a full week since Slade left and Dick isn’t doing any better. He’s thrown himself into surveillance, but the Owls still haven’t made their move.

Bruce keeps hinting that he wants Dick home, but Dick’s made no move to do it. What he needs right now is space.

He recoils as he steps into a puddle.

As he looks around, he scoffs. The gray of the city makes it feel like he’s witnessing a funeral—like the city is mourning Slade’s departure with him. 

He frowns.

Don’t think about him.

You’re just getting air. 

Don’t think about him.

Don’t think about how the apartment’s dead silent with him.

Don't think about how much you miss waking up in his arms.

Don’t think about—

And that’s when he spots them.

Manuel and Cheyenne, coffee cups in hand, their kids bundled in matching yellow raincoats, giggling at the pigeons by basketball court. 

It’s so domestic it almost hurts to look at.

For a second, Dick just stands there, his chest tightening. He hadn’t planned on being seen, hadn’t planned on being found in this state. He knew they were outside, that’s why he followed them, but he didn’t think they had stayed this close.

He tries to think of anything to hide behind but Cheyenne, bright as ever, spots him before he can duck away. 

“Hey, stranger!” she calls, voice carrying through the air like a bird's song in the spring. “You’ve been laying low.”

Dick forces a smile. “Yeah. Just—been busy.”

Manuel chuckles, shifting Rosa on one hip. “It really has been a while! Is Bruce keeping you locked up all day or something?”

The name lands like a punch.

Dick’s stomach tightens. He’s not sure how to react—how to stay in control of himself, or how to keep the act from falling away. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “I—I—He…”

Cheyenne notices the change immediately. She’s seen enough of him upset to know when something’s off. 

“Is he okay?” she asks gently, her voice soft with concern.

Dick nods. Then shakes his head. Then laughs. “Yeah. No. He’s—he’s… he’s gone.”

A beat.

Manuel tilts his head. “Gone…?”

And just like that, Dick’s hands are shaking before he even realizes it. His keys slip from his grip, hitting the ground with a thud. “I told him to leave,” he hears himself say. His voice is hoarse. “And he did.”

Cheyenne moves before Manuel does, stepping in close, laying a hand on his arm. “Addie…”

“I didn’t think he actually would,” Dick whispers. He presses a hand over his mouth like he can hold in the heaving breaths and desperate gasps, but it’s useless. “I told him to go because I thought that would make it easier. Cleaner. Like if I just did it quickly, it wouldn’t be real. But it is. God, it was real. All of it. And now he’s just—gone.”

Cheyenne pulls him into a hug before he can stop her, and he doesn’t fight it. He lets her wrap her arms around him, lets himself fold forward, lets his body shake, lets the grief pour out of him in ragged, ugly breaths.

"I’m so sorry, honey," Cheyenne murmurs, rubbing his back gently.

His throat tightens as he fights to keep his voice steady. "I... I miss him," he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yesterday… I thought about him all day. How could he leave me? How could he just let me… ask him to leave?”

He looks up at Cheyenne, whose lips are thin. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

He’s trying desperately to follow the same story he told her all those days ago, but all he can do is hear himself stutter and cry. “I said I wanted him to leave—god! That’s never been true. Since the second he’s waltzed back in like nothing was wrong and he tried to do everything to fix it… To care… I…” Dick nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat. 

Still, he doesn’t know if he’s talking about his real feelings anymore or if he’s just lost in the act. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter. 

—

They spill into Manuel and Cheyenne’s apartment, the door clicking shut behind them. The lock turns with a soft thunk. 

Dick’s jaw is still tight, his eyes on the floor. He feels raw hollow.

Cheyenne walks over and sets a mug of tea in his hands. “Drink this,” she says softly.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

Cheyenne joins him, crossing her arms. “So, you and him had a fight?”

Dick exhales. “You could say that.”

She tilts her head. “Bad one?”

He laughs softly. “There’s no good kind with him.”

“Can you fix it?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. 

Fix it? I don’t even know what it is anymore.

Bruce is mad at me. He probably won’t trust me anymore.

Slade’s gone. But I was the one who made him leave.

What do I even have left?

Who do I even have left?

“I don’t know,” Dick finally answers, and his gaze drops to the floor, his voice suddenly hesitant. 

“Just… just tell us more,” Manuel adds. His hand rests lightly on Dick’s shoulder, which makes him feel even guiltier.

“I—I thought it was simple before,” Dick continues, his voice trembling slightly, "I kept him at arm’s length, kept pretending that I didn’t need him, because if I didn’t let myself need him, it wouldn't hurt so much when things went wrong—like they inevitably would. I thought if I just kept up the distance, I’d be fine. I wouldn't be risking anything. But... but when it got real—when it was real between us—I pushed him away because I couldn't handle it. I thought if I just told him to go, if I just walked away, it would make it easier. Cleaner. Like if I could just be brave, I could fix it, and I'd be okay."

“But?” Cheyenne asks. 

“He’s there, all the time, right in front of me. His attention is… real, and it’s so damn genuine. It scares me, Chey. It’s like… I’m not sure I can handle it. Or… I guess I can’t tell if its real. Like, if I give him that much of me—if I let him in like that—he’s gonna destroy me. Hurt me again.” He looks up, an expression similar to a man praying for absolution. “I had to make him leave!”

Cheyenne’s lips purse, and Dick’s expression gets more desperate.

“I had to! I had too, Cheyenne, I had to,” he hiccups, “Oh, god. I’m scared I’m gonna let him in too much and I don’t know how to deal with that. I don’t want to need anyone like that. Not again. Not again when it went so wrong last time.” 

Cheyenne’s hand doesn’t leave his arm, though, steadying him.

“I pushed him away because I didn’t think I could be enough for him,” Dick admits in a barely-there whisper, his voice thick with guilt. “I didn’t think I could give him what he needed, and I couldn’t—couldn’t—risk him walking away. Not when it feels so real, not when he’s actually there for me. Not when it feels too much. I… I just don’t know if I’m ready for that,” Dick admits, his voice quieter now.

“I get it,” she says softly, her voice gentle but firm. “I get why that scares you, Addie. But you’ve gotta understand something. Bruce—he’s not just some guy. He’s not just gonna disappear on you. He doesn’t work like that. You know that, don’t you? You’ve loved him for how long?”

“I don’t even know how long it's been.”

Cheyenne’s hand squeezes his arm, her touch warm and steady. “See. You don’t have to be ready, not all at once. But you’ve gotta stop pushing him away if you want to have a chance to make it work. Because Bruce isn’t going anywhere. He wants you, Addie. And I know you want him, too. You’ve built such a beautiful life together. He’s not going anywhere.”

Cheyenne’s words settle between them, heavy and well-intentioned.

He’s not going anywhere.

Dick nods because that’s what she needs from him. 

Because correcting her would mean explaining too much, far too much, and explaining too much would mean admitting that this was never just about him.

He can still hear it—Bruce’s voice, clipped and controlled, like it always gets when he’s already decided he’s right.

He’s manipulating you.

You can’t see it because you want to believe him.

Slade Wilson does not change. 

Not for you. 

Not for anyone.

Dick hadn’t even argued with him. God, he’d wanted to. 

But the attention Cheyenne called “beautiful” had never felt like a trap.

But it doesn't matter. 

Now, Dick would never feel it again.

He’d chosen Bruce’s approval over his own certainty.

Over what he wanted.

He wasn’t sure which part hurt more.

He was ashamed.

Sensing his apprehension, Cheyenne smiles, her hand squeezes his arm again. “He’s not going anywhere,” she repeats, softer this time. 

Dick swallows. “Right.”

Cheyenne opens her mouth to continue, but something outside cuts her off—a faint thud. It's almost imperceptible.

Dick freezes.

“Mommy?” Rosa asks, taking a step back from the window. She grabs her brother’s hand. “What was that?”

Manuel frowns.

“Stay here,” Dick says immediately to Manuel and Cheyenne. He’s already standing. “Don’t move.”

“Addie?”

“Don’t move!”

The defenses—he and Slade had installed them weeks ago—they’re going off like crazy, making his phone buzz intensely.

They had set up everything—hidden tripwires, thermal sensors—all designed to detect one thing: Talons.

There’s a faint smell of ozone, and Dick had a smug feeling some of the lighting traps had gone off as planned.

He turns back to Garcia's, his voice low and controlled. “You need to get down. Now.”

Cheyenne’s eyes widen. “What? Why—”

The window explodes inward with a crash. 

Dick dives forward to tackle Rosa and Danny out of the way. Rosa gasps and Danny wails.

Dick’s heart stutters. 

Are they hurt?

He surveys them, but thankfully they look fine—just scared. He glances up at their parents, who are wearing equal expressions of shock and fear.

A Talon crawls in through the window, its blade flashing in the dim light. Another pulls itself up, following the first one through the broken frame.

“Manuel Garcia,” the Talon hisses, “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

“Shit!” Cheyenne grips the edge of the kitchen counter, fear clear in her eyes. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Rosa screams.

The Talon advances, and Dick grabs the first thing within reach—a chair—and swings. The impact rings out, sharp and brutal. The Talon stumbles.

Dick ducks, pivots, sweeps its leg, and slams an elbow into the attacker’s ribs.

Another Talon lunges from the window. 

Dick twists, tackling it down to the floor and punching its face in. He’s breathing hard now, every move automatic. He’s panicking—he doesn’t have his sticks, doesn’t have the suit—but he’s still Nightwing, even if no one in the room knows it.

More Talons crawl in from the window and he swears he can feel the color drain out of his face.

Their icy gazes turn to Manuel, skipping over Cheyenne and the kids as they crawl closer.

“Daddy!” Danny wails. 

Shit!

None of Dick’s weapons are in the Garcia’s apartment. 

It’s all one door over, in his. 

But to leave their side would be signing their death warrant.

I’ll have to make do with my fists.

Unless… I can draw the Talons into my apartment.

But how?

“Follow me!” He yells, picking up Danny. He grabs Cheyenne’s hand with his other arm and pulls them all to the apartment exit. Manuel picks up Rosa and follows, but not before picking up the broken-off chair leg.

The Talons' focus stays tight on Manuel, and they creep closer, whispering. “Manuel Garcia, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

They’re ignoring Cheyenne and the kids still, Dick notes. 

They find themselves at a crossroads in the hallway. Do they fight, or run?

As another Talon lunges at Manuel, Dick makes a call—if it's the right one, they’ll see in a few minutes—or seconds. Manuel hits it in the face with the chair leg, and it stumbles.

“Cheyenne,” Dick says, voice tight, “I’m sorry. For lying to you and Manuel. I… I hope you can forgive me.” 

Cheyenne’s eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. “What?”

“I'll explain later. Just take the kids and run!” Dick yells. He pushes her toward the stairwell and grabs Manuel. He yanks him over to the door. 

Manuel yanks his hand back. “Addie, what?”

“I promise,” Dick says calmly, forcing himself to sound more sensible than he feels, “I’m here to protect you all. I’m Ni—Batman sent me. Just—just please listen!”

As the Talons pour out from the apartment into the hallway, circling them, Dick locks eyes with Cheyenne, begging her to believe him. 

“Please, Cheyenne. Run.” Dick says beseechingly, and she nods. “They’re after him. Protect yourself and the kids. Please! Run!”

“Okay,” she says shakily. “I trust you.”

The Talons turn their attention back on Manuel—thankfully disregarding Cheyenne and the kids—and Dick exhales a sigh of relief.

Two Talons lunge at Manuel, and Dick pushes him into his own apartment. He watches to make sure the door to the stairs click shut behind Cheyenne and the kids before he slams his own apartment door shut and locks it.

He runs to the coat closet, and Manuel is still staring at him in shock. 

“Addie?” Manuel asks. “Addie—what?”

Dick’s too busy suiting up, pulling his suit on and a domino mask. He grabs his escrimas and wingdings, as well as two extendable staffs, tucking them into a utility belt Slade had specialized for him. He grabs some smoke bombs just in case, too.

“Addie?” The fear is clear in Manuel’s voice.

The scratching noises against the door get louder.

“You’ll be safe. You’ll all be safe. And that’s a promise.”

“Nightwing.” Manuel breathes. His mouth hangs open. “Addie—if that’s even your real name, I mean—but you’re… you’re—you’re Nightwing?”

Dick sends him a sad, understanding smile. He hopes it comes off as charming as he tries to make it feel.  “I told you, have no fear. I’ll protect you.”

He turns to the side to toss Manuel a broadsword—one of Slade’s.

“They can’t die. Don’t be scared to use it.”

“O-Okay.”

“Just stay behind me.”

The door crashes down from the force of the Talons, and Dick surges forward, turning his escrima’s electricity settings to the highest. 

He takes one attacker by the throat, slamming him back into the wall. He snaps its arm and twists backward, doing a back hook kick to take down another Talon. 

The apartment becomes chaos as Talons flood the space in a blur, their armor and lanky limbs, boots pounding against tile and hardwood as they fan out. Dick moves without thinking, and electricity crackles along his escrima sticks as he spins, striking fast and hard.

One Talon charges. Dick ducks low, sweeps its legs, and drives both batons down into its chest. The current surges, and the Talon collapses in a twitching heap.

Another comes from behind.

“Manuel—down!” Dick shouts.

Steel whistles through the air, and Dick twists just in time, the blade just grazing his side. Pain flares sharp and hot, but he grits his teeth and retaliates, slamming his elbow into the Talon’s helmet and following through with a kick that sends it crashing into the wall.

And they just keep coming.

Manuel stays where Dick told him—pressed to the far wall, broadsword clutched in shaking hands, eyes wide but determined. When a Talon breaks past Dick’s guard, Manuel swings.

The impact is clumsy but effective. The Talon stumbles back, hissing.

“Good!” Dick calls. “Just like that—don’t hesitate!”

His breathing is ragged now. His shoulder aches. He can feel blood soaking into the suit, warm and slick, but there’s no time to think about it. One Talon feints left while another lunges right—and Dick moves without hesitation, throwing himself between the blade and Manuel.

The knife drives into his side.

Dick gasps, the world tilting as pain explodes through him. He barely hears Manuel shout his name. He stumbles back, ripping the blade free with a strangled sound and slamming it straight into the Talon's neck. It drops.

But another immediately steps forward, blade raised in attack.

Dick braces himself.

Suddenly, the window behind the Talon shatters inward.

A muscular figure crashes through in a storm of glass and rain, intercepting the strike mid-swing. The blade sinks instead into dark armor.

He’s cloaked in all black, moving so fast all Dick can see is a blur of movement taking down Talon after Talon.

Bruce—oh, Bruce must have forgiven him. 

Bruce will save us.

He’ll protect us.

“Batman.” Dick croaks, and the figure turns around. “No,” he breathes, a tremor running through him. 

It’s Slade.

Not in his Deathstroke suit but rather a black catsuit with a silver utility belt. His eye meets Dick’s and for a moment, Dick can feel his worry before his face hardens again and he’s whirling around, hand outstretched.

The Talon barely has time to react before Slade drives his sword straight through its chest and kicks it aside like trash.

“MOVE!” Slade barks, already staggering.

Dick doesn’t.

“Slade—!”

Another Talon lunges, and Slade turns just enough to take the blow fully, shoving Dick back hard. Slade pivots on his heel, rips the embedded blade free with a sharp grunt, and uses the momentum to spin—his sword flashing in a brutal arc. Two Talons go down hard, crashing into the kitchen counter as Slade backhands another with the hilt of his weapon. Bone cracks beneath armor. 

“Stay. Down.” Slade growls.

Dick leaps forward, swinging his escrima sticks in a flurry of electricity and grace, taking down the four Talons in front of him and Manuel.

Still, more crawl in.

“GET OUT!” Slade yells, and Dick dodges an attack, rolling on the floor, and scrambling up in time to see Slade drop to one knee. The smell of something bitter—acid?—permeates from his suit, which is fizzing green, revealing the muscled skin underneath. 

“Get him out of here!” Slade snarls. “NOW!”

Dick’s heart slams against his ribs.

“No—no, we can fight them off—”

“Grayson!” Slade snaps, voice sharp even through the pain. “That’s an order. They’re not done. This acid… My healing can deal with it. But it will kill you both, do you understand? Now, get Garcia somewhere safe. I’ll hold them back.”

Blood darkens Slade’s side, spreading fast.

Dick’s hands shake.

Manuel is staring, frozen in place.

“Manuel,” Dick says urgently, grabbing his arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“But—him—”

“I’ll come back,” Dick promises, voice breaking. He hopes Slade knows how much he means it—how much he doesn't want to leave Slade all by himself. “I swear.”

Another Talon drops from the ceiling vent.

Slade turns to meet it, jaw set as he lunges closer.

Dick doesn’t think anymore. He pulls Manuel toward the grapple, fires it through the shattered window, and yanks them both out into the cold air of the night. 

—

“Oracle! Batman! Robin! Anyone!” Dick shouts into his comm, wind roaring in his ears. “Is anyone here? I need backup—now!”

“Here,” Babs and Bruce answer in unison.

The relief hits him so hard his vision blurs.

“Oracle—where’s the nearest safehouse? Who’s closest? The target needs protection. There are too many Talons.”

“There’s one in half a mile,” Babs says instantly. “I’m routing you now.”

Thank god for Oracle.

“Can you track Rosalia, Daniel, and Cheyenne Garcia? I sent them down the stairs—are they out?”

“I’ve got them.” Babs says almost immediately. “Almost a block down. Bruce, I’m sending you their location.”

“I’ll take them,” Bruce says. “Robin, meet us at the safehouse.”

“Copy,” Dick answers, already moving.

“Contact me when you all arrive.”

—

The apartment is wreckage when Dick returns.

Talons lie scattered, unmoving—but so does Slade.

Dick skids to his knees beside him, hands already pressing down on the wound, panic clawing up his throat. Panic claws up his throat, sharp and dizzying.

“Slade!” he yells. “Hey—hey, look at me. Look at me!”

For a horrible second, nothing happens.

Then Slade’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, and finally lock onto Dick’s face.

“Thought,” he mutters weakly, “I told you to leave.”

“Shut up,” Dick snaps, voice breaking despite himself. “Stay with me.”

Slade exhales, a shaky sound that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much to hear. Somehow—somehow—a faint smirk pulls at his mouth.

“You always were,” Slade says softly, “bad at following orders.”

Dick’s chest tightens painfully.

“Why,” he demands, voice trembling despite his best effort to keep it steady. “Why would you do that? You left. You walked away. I made you! You didn’t have to come back.”

For a moment, Slade just looks at him.

Dick’s chest aches.

Slade’s gaze softens, just a little.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you needed me.”

Dick swallows hard, tears blurring his vision.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Dick whispers.

Slade’s breath hitches. “Bossy.”

Dick averts his eyes. It feels too… intimate. He watches Slade’s bruises, but they’re not healing. His eyebrows knit together. The smell of acid is still there, and his skin looks burnt. 

His stomach drops.

“This isn’t healing,” Dick says quietly, dread creeping into his voice.

Slade coughs weakly. “Their reinforcements,” he mutters. “Had some powerful venom on the blades. Clever stuff. Messes with my healing abilities. Might take longer than I expected.”

Dick’s hands press harder, like defiance alone might fix it. “I’m calling Batman,” he says immediately, thumb already moving toward his comm.

“No,” he says immediately—still weak, but sharp enough to cut. “Don’t.”

Dick freezes. “Don’t what.”

“Don’t call him.” Slade exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Bad enough I get taken down by a bunch of glorified zombie assassins. I don’t need an I told you so hovering over me.”

“This isn’t about your pride,” Dick snaps. His thumb hovers over the comm anyway. “This is about your life.”

Slade lets out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t sound so strained. “Not the first time I’ve scared you so bad you ran back to him, is it?”

“I’m not scared,” Dick says instantly. “That’s not funny. “You need help. Professional help. Bruce resources and help.”

Slade’s fingers curl weakly around Dick’s wrist, stopping the motion toward the comm. His jaw tightens. “I’m asking you.”

Dick swallows. “And I’m saying no.”

He gently—but firmly—pulls his wrist free.

Slade’s hand drops back to the floor, fingers curling in on themselves like he knew this was coming. His mouth twists into something that tries very hard to be a smirk and doesn’t quite make it.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “You never could leave it alone.”

Dick doesn’t answer. He can’t. 

"You never could leave him alone." Slade says bitterly, voice almost... jealous.

But still, Dick's chest feels too tight, his heart pounding so loud it’s drowning out everything else. His thumb presses the comm.

“Batman,” Dick says immediately, voice breaking through the channel. “I need you. Now.”

Slade closes his eye.

For a second, Dick thinks he’s lost consciousness.

Then Slade exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself for something. “You really don’t listen,” he mutters. “Brat.”

“What do you need?” Bruce says immediately. He sounds worried.

“Slade… he needs medical attention. Can we… move him to the cave?”

Dick glares down at him. “You don’t get a vote.”

“I very much do,” Slade mutters. “I’m the one bleeding on the floor.”

Bruce doesn’t hesitate. “What are the extent of his injuries?”

Slade opens his eye just enough to shoot Dick a look. “Don’t you dare tell him.”

Dick ignores him. “Multiple blade wounds. Some kind of venom—healing’s slowed or stopped. He collapsed after the fight.”

There’s a pause.

“Dick,” Bruce says carefully, “is he conscious?”

“Unfortunately,” Slade answers dryly before Dick can. “And listening.”

“I’ll send an extraction now,” Bruce says, “Expect the Batwing in less than two minutes.”

“Affirmative.” Dick says, dizzy with relief.

“Stay with him. Keep pressure where you can. Alfred’s prepping the med bay.”

Chapter Text

The Batwing is loud. 

Too loud.

The engine’s vibration rattles through the floor and straight into his knees, buzzing up his spine until his teeth chatter. The cabin lights flicker faintly overhead, stark white against the blackness outside, and all Dick can smell is fuel and blood and something sharp and metallic that burns the back of his throat.

Dick’s kneeling on the floor between jump seats, hands coated with blood as he presses down on Slade’s side, whispering his name over and over like a prayer.

He still doesn’t respond.

Slade’s breaths are still shallow, and his skin pale under the harsh cabin lights. The venom has done its work—whatever’s left of his healing factor is fighting a losing battle.

Dick’s vision keeps blurring. Slade’s eye is moving slowly, fluttering open and then closed again.

Dick leans down closer, hand pressed over his mouth to silence his desperate, gasping breaths.

Slade’s eye flutters closed. 

He rests his head into the crook of Slade’s neck. “Please,” he begs. For who, or what, he doesn’t know. He knows it will take a miracle to heal Slade.

“Please,” Dick begs again, louder. This time it’s to Slade “Stay.”

He still doesn’t move.

“Slade!” Dick yells again, he’s hiccupping now, ugly sobs escaping his mouth as he crumples closer to the man. “This is my fault,” he whispers, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I shouldn’t have left, shouldn’t have made you leave… oh, god… if you wake up,” he breathes, voice cracking as he leans closer, lips near Slade’s ear, “I’ll—I’ll stop running. I’ll listen. I swear. I won’t—” 

He chokes on the words, breath hitching painfully as Slade’s body stays painfully still.

“Slade!” Dick howls. He tightens his grip, almost like he’s trying to physically hold Slade together through sheer will. “Slade!”

—

Bruce moves quickly, fast enough that Dick barely registers him at first—just the heavy thud of boots until Bruce’s hands slide beneath Slade’s shoulders and knees.

“No—” Dick chokes out instinctively, “Wait. Bruce, wait—”

Bruce pauses, just for a fraction of a second, his grip firm but careful. 

He looks down, taking in the way Dick is clutching Slade. 

The blood on Dick’s hands. 

The way his shoulders are shaking.

How absolutely destroyed he looked.

Bruce exhales through his nose. His hands slide up Dick’s wrists, firm and unyielding, prying his fingers loose one by one. Dick’s gloves peel away with an awful sound.

Bruce’s grip is strong as he slides his arms beneath Slade’s shoulders and knees, lifting him with practiced ease. 

Slade’s head tips back slightly, and his body is completely limp.

That’s when it hits Dick.

“He’s not waking up,” Dick whines, voice pitching dangerously high. “Bruce, he’s not waking up—”

“He’s breathing,” Bruce emphasizes.

“But…”

“He’ll be fine,” Bruce repeats gruffly. 

His eyes flick back to Dick, noticing how close Dick is standing to Slade.

How desperately he’s holding on.

Something aches in Bruce’s chest.

It feels an awful lot like loss.

Dick doesn’t look up. “He’s cold,” he says, voice strained with panic. “That’s bad, right? That’s—Bruce, that’s bad—”

Bruce doesn’t answer, instead he lifts Slade onto the medbay and immediately starts stripping the suit off his body. 

His eyes locked on Slade’s unmoving form with an expression Dick can’t read—and that’s what scares him most.

Dick’s breath stutters. “You’re mad,” he blurts. “I know you are. I know I wasn’t supposed to let him come back, I just—I didn’t have time, Bruce, they were everywhere and he—he took the hit for me and I thought—”

“Dick,” Bruce says, firmly.

Dick flinches anyway. “I’m sorry,” he rushes on, words tumbling out faster. “I’m so sorry, I messed everything up, I should’ve listened to you, I should’ve made him stay away, I didn’t mean to—”

Bruce looks back at Dick harshly, and Dick pauses. He slowly slides down, until he’s sitting against a cabinet with his knees to his chest.

He knows what he looks like—how terrified he must look.

His mask is gone. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and rain, eyes wide and glassy and wrecked. There’s blood on his hands—some of it Slade’s, some of it his own—and his chest is heaving so hard it feels like it hurts.

“I don’t trust him,” Bruce starts. “And I never have. And I know he’s not good enough for you,” Bruce continues, voice low but unwavering. “He puts you in danger. His motivations are purely defined by his need for money. Money, revenge,” he pauses, “and his obsession with you.”

The last sentence is almost a growl.

“Him choosing to help you one time does not make up for the hundreds of people he’s hurt—including your closest friends and allies. You should contain your worry.”

For a second, Dick doesn’t say anything, but his gaze is still so hurt Bruce falters. “He saved me. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, instead scanning Dick’s body for injuries. He ignores the question, focusing on the wound on Dick’s side. “You’re hurt.”

“Answer me,” Dick whispers. “Doesn’t it count for anything? He’s trying—I mean, you out of anyone encourages criminals to take second chances… Just… why not for him?”

Bruce just stares at him, eyes sorrowful and expression longing. His gaze is so intense Dick turns away. He picks at the floor next to his boot. 

“Why not for him?” Dick asks again, tiredly.

“Dick…” Bruce starts, but he doesn’t know what to say.

I can’t forgive him for taking you away from me, maybe, Bruce thinks. 

That I don’t want any of your respect or appreciation or admiration or… love… to go to him when it should be mine.

When you should be mine.

“I,” Bruce starts helplessly, pausing as Dick tilts his head prettily. Even with the blood caked over his hands and body, and sweat dripping down his cheeks, he’s still the most beautiful thing Bruce has ever seen. “I can’t…”

Thankfully, Bruce is interrupted by the sharp clicks of Alfred’s boots getting louder, indicating that he’s coming down the stairs. Bruce steps back from Slade immediately, letting Afred take over. 

He doesn’t spare Slade another glance.

Dick does.

It’s intense, like if he looks away, Slade will disappear. Bruce frowns. Something ugly—protectiveness, guilt, maybe even jealousy—coils in his chest.

“Dick,” Bruce orders. “You’re coming upstairs.”

“No,” Dick says instantly. “I’m staying with him.”

“You’re injured too. You need to rest.”

“I don’t care.” Dick sounds close to tears.

“You’re exhausted.”

“I don’t care!”

Bruce kneels down next to him, gripping Dick’s shoulders gently but firmly. It forces DIck to face him. “This is not a negotiation.”

Dick’s vision blur as his eyes fill with tears. “Stop it! You can’t do that—you always, always decide what you think is best for me,” he says shakily. “You never ask what I want.”

“That’s not what this is about—this is about your health!”

“No! You don’t trust me,” Dick continues, “You don’t think I would want to be near him while he could be dying?”

“No!”

“Why? Scared he’s going to make me choose him over you in his sleep?”

Bruce’s voice drops. “That’s not—”

“He’s passed out! Maybe even fucking dying!”

“No!”

“No? What the fuck do you mean no?” Dick hisses in frustration as he stands up abruptly. Bruce moves closer to steady him, but Dick pushes him away again. “No!”

“Dick,” Bruce pleads, and Dick whirls around to glare at him.

“No!” His expression softens as he sees the genuine distress on Bruce’s face, although Bruce’s expression turns into one of fear.

“Please,” Bruce begs.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says harshly, limping closer to the medbay. 

“Dick…” Bruce repeats. He sounds panicked. 

For one horrible second, Dick turns away, stepping forward only for his ankle to twist completely to one side. He gasps, and his breaths stutter once, twice—and then his body gives out completely, dropping forward, right into Bruce’s waiting arms. 

—

When Dick’s body goes slack in his arms, Bruce’s heart lurches violently. “Dick,” he breathes, panic seeping into his voice despite himself. He presses two fingers to Dick’s neck, counting, grounding himself in the steady thrum of his pulse. “Dick—stay with me.”

Alfred appears almost instantly, concern etched deep into his face as Bruce waves him off.

“Fainted,” Bruce says lamely, to Alfred. “Exhaustion.” He hauls Dick into a bridal-style carry and turns to move him up the stairs, to which Alfred promises that he’ll look after Wilson.

—

Dick barely stirs as Bruce carries him upstairs. 

Bruce adjusts his grip instinctively, careful of the injury at Dick’s side. His head lolls sweetly against his shoulder, curls damp with rain and sweat and blood in a way that makes him look like an out of place angel.

He takes the stairs slowly, to savor the feeling of Dick in his arms. It’s a feeling he’s denied himself for so long it’s been painful. 

How have I been living without my light?

Dick’s breath ghosts warm against his collarbone, faint and uneven, and Bruce matches his pace to without thinking.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

It reminded him of a breathing exercise Dick used to make him do. Something his parents did together before shows—they had the superstition that breathing together made your hearts beat in sync.

Bruce sighed as he lays Dick down on the bed with care, easing him onto the mattress and kindly pulling the blankets up around Dick’s shoulders. He smoothens them into place with hands that feel steadier than he feels.

He stays standing long after, watching the slow rise and fall of Dick’s chest. He counts the breaths like he used to, when Dick’s nightmares left him shaking and lonely, clinging to Bruce like he was the only solid thing in the world.

Bruce had promised then that would always be there for him. That he should always go to him for help, for comfort—but now, more than ever, that wasn’t true.

It pains him.

He perches on the other side of the bed, staring down at his hands like they’re personally betrayed him. Hours pass, and Bruce still doesn’t sleep. 

He can’t.

He thinks about the way Dick had screamed Slade’s name in the batwing. The sound still echoed in his head. It was a desperate sound, one that was unguarded but still infused with so much care and worry. 

It was a sound Bruce hasn’t heard directed at himself in years. 

He swallows, hard.

Why was Wilson there when I wasn’t?

What does that reflect on me?

How can I live with myself, now that there’s no way I haven’t lost Dick?

Why Wilson and not me?

The answers come immediately, cruel in their clarity.

Because Wilson didn’t hesitate, didn’t tell him it was wrong for Dick to love him.

To want him.

Bruce’s fingers shake with anger as he imagines it, Dick’s breathy pants against the crook of Slade’s neck as the man—

Enough.

His stomach drops, and there’s a bitter tinge in his mouth.

Wilson…

No wonder Dick chose him. At least he didn’t make his love feel like something that had to be earned—and push him away needlessly, endlessly—instead of just communicating.

He almost laughs, he feels so bitter.

Why is it always like that, with us?

Why does everything I do make him more miserable?

If I can’t be the one to give him my attention, then Dick pushes himself too hard, clings to anyone who chooses him, and keeps coming back to me with hope in his eyes despite everything.

And me… without him I’m miserable too.

Every refusal of mine carves something from him. 

I’ve built my life on restraint and principle and control, and all it’s ever done is leave the person I love most standing just out of my reach.

We’re both trapped in this—by me.

He can’t move on, and I won’t let him, and I can’t move on and he won’t let me.

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, breath shuddering quietly out of him. For one dangerous moment, he lets himself imagine what it would be like to stop denying it. 

To choose Dick the way Slade just did, the way Dick wanted—without any hesitation, without any conditions.

It would be pure and perfect, like Dick is. 

It would be happy, like Dick should be.

The taste of his tongue in his mouth sours. When he finally opens his eyes, he makes a choice, reaching out and brushing his thumb lightly over Dick’s knuckles where they rest against the blanket.

I can’t do this. 

I can’t give up everything I stand for just for the chance for me to be happy. 

I don’t deserve it.

And he deserves more.

“I love you,” Bruce whispers so quietly it feels like a confession meant only for the dark. It’s painful to admit. “I’m sorry.”

The words hang in the air between them, useless and unanswered, offering no comfort—only the truth of what Bruce will not change.

Finally, he leans back, knowing with sick certainty that when morning comes, he will still choose restraint and denial.

And Dick will still be the one paying for it.

—

Dick wakes up to the smell of antiseptic.

For one disorienting second, he thinks he’s still in the med bay—then he registers the soft sheets, the dim lighting, and the grandiose curtains.

Bruce’s room.

He jerks upright too fast, dizziness crashing into him. His head throbs. There’s a blanket pulled carefully around his shoulders that he definitely didn’t put there himself.

Bruce is sitting on the bed, next to him, hands clasped together in worry. He looks tired.

“Easy. You collapsed,” Bruce continues calmly. “You’re dehydrated. You lost blood. Alfred insisted you rest.”

Dick swallows.

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, suddenly hyperaware of where he is—whose space this is. 

It’s too private. 

Too close.

He hasn’t been here in a long time.

Especially now, he feels like he doesn’t deserve to.

Dick swallows. “How long was I out?”

“Almost six hours.”

“Oh.” Dick exhales. “Slade?”

Bruce answers immediately. “Still unconscious.”

The word still lodges in Dick’s chest.

“In a coma?” Dick asks quietly.

Bruce nods once. “Yes.”

Dick’s hands curl into the blanket. “That’s… that’s bad.”

“His health isn’t improving,” Bruce admits. “But, it’s not deteriorating either.”

“Can I—” Dick starts, and Bruce’s face hardens. He waits for Bruce to continue, or cut him off but he doesn’t

Dick frowns. 

“You won’t let me see him,” Dick says quietly.

Bruce doesn’t deny it. “No.”

“Why?”

Bruce looks up at him then, eyes hollow. 

He looks human in a way Dick doesn’t see often. Less like Gotham’s fiercest protector and more like a man who doesn’t know how to fix his own mistakes. 

“You need rest. You collapsed,” Bruce continues. There is a fear in his voice that makes Dick shudder. “Your body shut down before your mind would let you stop.”

“I just need to see if he’s okay.”

“No,” Bruce says. He hopes he doesn’t sound as selfish as he feels. 

“Even now?” Dick asks. “You don’t trust him? Even after he took that hit? For me?”

Bruce’s voice drops. “Especially now.”

Dick shakes his head, frustration bleeding through. “He saved my life!”

“And I am glad he did.” Bruce snaps, “But that doesn’t make him any safer for you and that doesn’t mean I want him anywhere near you, and I know can’t trust you to listen to me for once and stay far away from him.”

“Why!”

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Well, he’s done more for me in the last few weeks than you have in the last few years!”

Bruce flinches. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m sorry,” Dick mutters. “That came out wrong.”

Bruce turns his body a little further away from Dick, and Dick reaches out a hand to Bruce’s shirt sleeve.

“I didn’t mean it, I promise,” Dick adds on. Bruce’s face stays hurt, so Dick continues on. “You’ve done so much for me—more than I could ever say, Bruce. I love you, you know that? I’ll always love you.” 

One of Bruce’s hands twitches. “I know,” he concedes.

I love you too, is what Dick knows he means.

They sit in uncomfortable silence, until Dick steadies himself long enough to convince himself what he’s about to do will be worth it if he can see Slade.

“Bruce, I want you to be honest with me. Just tell me. Stop using circular reasoning about who Slade is and why you don’t want me to be with him and tell me the truth.” He shuffles up until he can lean closer to Bruce, cupping his face with one of his palms. Bruce leans his head into Dick’s palm. 

Bruce wets his lips. “I…”

“Don’t I deserve it?” Dick whispers, and Bruce melts.

“I don’t trust him,” he starts, “with you,” he says again, softer this time. “Because I don’t trust myself to keep you safe when he’s involved.”

Dick frowns. “What does that mean?”

“When you’re hurt, when you’re scared, I don’t want you to go to him. When you want comfort, I don’t want you to go to him—I can’t even bring myself to think about it. Why is he doing what I should be doing? Why are you going to him and not me?”

He sounds so broken, and desperate Dick’s breath catches. “You’re jealous,” he says before he can stop himself.

Bruce looks up sharply.

“No,” he says immediately. Then, after a second. “I’m afraid.”

Dick’s chest aches. “Of him?”

Bruce shakes his head once. “Of what you’re willing to give away to feel chosen.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want for myself,” Dick whispers, voice tight.

“No,” Bruce agrees. “But I do get to decide what I can give.”

He stands, turning slightly away like he needs the distance to say what comes next.

“There are things,” Bruce says slowly, “that I will never be able to give you.”

Dick’s heart sinks.

“Not because I don’t care,” Bruce continues, voice low and laced with something like regret. He’s talking fast, like the speed will cancel out what he’s saying. 

For the first time of his life, he almost sounds unsure. 

“Not… not because I don’t want to. But, because what you’re asking for is wrong. Things Wilson can do for you—be for you—has done for you, even. I can’t give you that—I shouldn't!" He finally looks back at Dick. “It would make me someone I refuse to be. But I want to, dear god, I want to.”

Dick swallows hard. 

He moves closer to the edge of the bed to catch Bruce’s sleeve. “Bruce,” he breathes, but Bruce just stares down. “You—”

“I shouldn’t,” Bruce repeats, “And I know I should be happy for you, that you can get everything you need from him. And it’s selfish of me to not let you be happy because I can’t bear the thought of you being happy without me—”

“Bruce, I love you!” Dick interrupts. He’s clutching Bruce’s sleeve like a lifeline now. He clambers to his knees, pulling Bruce closer and closer until they’re less than a foot apart.

“You shouldn’t!” Bruce begs. 

“Why can’t you let yourself be happy too?”

“I can’t! It’s not right! You know I can’t—”

“Bruce,” Dick says, so utterly heartbroken Bruce’s heart aches.

“It’s not right,” he says firmly, “I can’t.”

“So I just—” Dick’s voice breaks despite himself. “I just have to stop wanting it? Wanting you?”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. It feels like decades before he opens his mouth again. “I need you to stop expecting it from me.”

That’s somehow worse. 

The implication isn’t that Dick is wrong to feel this way—it’s that Bruce feels that way too but he won’t let himself act on—let himself or Dick be happy.

“I don’t know how,” Dick admits quietly. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Bruce’s voice softens. “I know.”

“I have loved you for longer than I’ve known what love is. You’re—you were everything to me.”

Bruce shuts his eyes.

“Don’t you want me to be happy, Bruce?” Dick tries again desperately. “Nothing makes me happier than you do.”

“I would give anything in the world to ensure your happiness,” Bruce whispers. “I’d burn it down, if you asked. Anything. But I can’t give you this.”

Dick turns away so Bruce can’t see the tear fall, but Bruce only settles in closer. He places a reassuring hand on Dick’s back, and Dick lets out a sob. 

“Bruce,” Dick breathes, shaky. “Please don’t… I can’t…”

“I’ve got you,” Bruce murmurs, voice rough. “Just—stay.”

He tries to twist away but Bruce doesn’t let him, pulling him closer and closer to his warm embrace. 

A sob tears out of him, sudden and ugly, and he tries again to pull away, shame burning hot and ugly in his chest.

But, Bruce doesn’t let him go. He pulls Dick closer, his arms solid and warm around his body.

Dick breaths come in staccatoed hiccups, and his heart aches. 

Please, he prays, please.

How much more can I take?

Dick clutches at Bruce’s shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric like he’s afraid if he lets go he’ll disappear entirely. His heart feels too big, too full, like it might split him open.

How much more can I take?

He cries until his chest aches and his throat burns and there’s nothing left but exhaustion. By the time his breathing evens out, his eyes feel swollen and dry.

“You okay?” Bruce asks, and Dick mumbles something.

After a tortuous few minutes of Bruce trying to get Dick to speak, he gets the message. 

He finally stands up to leave, hesitating at the door. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce starts. “For the ways I make this harder than it has to be.”

Dick doesn’t look up.

“Me too,” he whispers.

Chapter Text

Slade wakes to a harsh, burning pain, a bitter smell, and bright lights. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all—his awareness is dragging itself up through layers of heat and pressure and the piercing ache that stems from his ribs. 

His vision swims before sharpening, and he flinches. Finally, the overhead lights resolve into a sterile glare that feels entirely out of place in the cavernous darkness around him.

He stares at the scattered bloody bandages and gauze littered across his body, and then across his shoulders and into his background, where he spots a mechanical dinosaur and oversized penny.

He almost scoffs. 

It comes out more as a faint exhale through his nose, restrained by the tight pull of stitched flesh and bruised muscle.

It’s been a while since he’s been in the Batcave. 

Slade tries to sit up, his nose twitching as he hears a low, controlled heartbeat get closer and closer—Wayne.

He approaches with barely veiled contempt, staying a safe distance away, where he begins to rummage through drawers. 

“You always did have terrible hospitality,” Slade grumbles, when he’s sure Bruce is close enough to hear him. “No food for the patient? I’m starving.”

“You’re awake.” Bruce says, voice flat. He grabs an object from the drawer and moves slowly closer to him. 

Slade’s mouth twitches. He’d smile if it didn’t hurt. “You disappointed?”

Bruce’s long refusal to answer only makes his answer more obvious. “Almost.”

—

It’s only a few minutes after Bruce leaves when Dick huffs and collapses backward.

He rubs his eyes and sighs, shuffling off the bed and into the shower. He hisses as he tries to put weight on his ankle, opting to limp over the massive tub.

Each step sends a dull reminder of the injury up his leg, but he ignores it, more focused on the need to move, to act, to do something that isn’t thinking about what just happened. As he perches on the side and watches it fill up with water, he tries to ignore how his heart aches.

I’m sorry, Bruce had said. For the ways I make this harder than it has to be.”

“Yeah,” he mutters to no one. “You should be.”

When he sinks into the water, it’s too hot at first—burning against his skin, turning it red—but he doesn’t move lower the temperature.

It feels good.

He lets it soak into his bruises and cuts and the ache under his ribs that has nothing to do with injury.

His head tips back against the porcelain, and he bites his lip, hard. Droplets trail down his jaw, mixing with the faint sting of whatever antiseptic residue still clings to his skin.

He drags a hand over his face, wiping it away more out of habit than necessity.

Fuck Bruce.

—

By the time he gets out, the water’s gone cold.

His joints feel stiff from sitting but he pushes himself to the closet anyway, drying himself quickly and throwing on the first thing he finds—an oversized sweatshirt that smells of Bruce’s cologne (and as of now, antiseptic)—and heads for the cave before he can think better of it.

Dick hears them before he sees them.

Yelling.

Of fucking course.

The voices echo throughout the cave’s structure, bouncing off the stone and machinery. He can’t tell what they’re shouting about at first but it's unmistakable that the topic is heated.

Dick slows near the medbay, leaning slightly against the wall to steady himself, and listens. His fingers curl lightly against the stone for balance, and his ankle screams in protest.

Bruce was saying, “You manipulate him. Use his loyalty—his need to be wanted.”

Slade’s smile is thin, almost predatory. “And who taught him that need?”

The anger in their voices is grating, and it’s evident it’s layered with years of unresolved tension that neither man has been willing to let go of.

“I didn’t teach him that—I inspired it in him. And for good reason! He needed to obey me because my goal was to keep him out of danger, but you—you’re a danger to him.”

Slade’s eye darkens. “No. I’m a danger to the illusion you built.”

“You don’t care for him the way I do. You only care for him because he’s vulnerable and you want to exploit it,” Bruce snarls. “Because you’re a monster who hurts—”

Slade laughs, loud. “All that but you send him away when he wants too much. Which one of us do you think hurts him more?”

Bruce opens his mouth, getting cut off as Dick lunges forward.

“Stop.” He cries, voice hoarse.

Both men freeze and stare at him.

Dick stands in the doorway, pale, and shaking—he knows his eyes are rimmed red, and his posture unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with physical injury.

“Stop,” he says again, softer now. “Please.”

Bruce turns instantly. “Dick—you shouldn’t be here. You should be resting.”

Dick doesn’t look at him. He finally lets himself look at Slade. “You’re awake,” he breathes, stumbling forward towards him.

Slade’s expression changes immediately—like a man watching the sun rise through stormclouds. He sits up and leans toward him.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

"yeah," Dick says, swallowing hard. “You scared me.”

Something flickers in Slade’s eye—guilt, or maybe even something dangerously close to tenderness. “I know.”

“You both were fighting,” Dick says, voice trembling. “About me.”

Bruce softens immediately. “Dick, you know I can’t trust him.”

Dick nods, like he expected that. “I know.”

“He puts you in danger. He doesn’t think about the cost to you—”

“Yes, I do,” Slade cuts in, eyes never leaving Dick. “Every second.”

Dick’s eyes soften.

Bruce cuts in, voice sharp. “Don’t you dare speak to him like that. You don’t deserve to.”

Slade laughs once. “How funny…. You’re trying to dictate how I speak to him? You’ve been speaking for him for years. I actually treat him like an adult.”

Bruce steps closer to Slade, dangerous. “You treat him like a prize.”

Slade scoffs. “You treat him like property.”

Dick’s hands curl into fists. “Stop fucking talking about me like I’m not standing right here.” He laughs again, sharp and angry. “Do you hear yourselves? Is this just a competition to you? Who gets to say they know what’s more best for me.”

“That’s not—” Bruce starts.

“Grand gestures do not make up for the fact that either of you don’t respect my boundaries.”

Slade stiffens. “I respect you, at least.”

Bruce moves instantly, inserting himself between them. “That’s enough. I respect him more than anyone else—”

Dick shoves his hand into Bruce’s chest—not hard, but deliberate. “Stop. Both of you shut up!”

Bruce freezes.

“I’m done,” Dick hisses. “Done! Just stop!" he growls, pushing away both of their hands, "Tell me when you’re both ready to treat me like a person instead of a possession you’re fighting over, okay? Don’t pretend your both’s need for control can be equated to—”

Slade exhales sharply. “Running away doesn’t—” 

In an instant, Bruce lunges forward, causing Slade to falter. There’s a soft hiss, the sound of a needle piercing skin, and Slade’s body jerks.

“Wayne!" Slade growls, "What did you—” Slade’s voice cuts off as his muscles lock, then give out, and he drops back onto the cot, unconscious.

Dick stares.

In Bruce's hand is a now-empty syringe.

“Bruce—what the hell?”

“He needs rest,” Bruce says, too quickly.

“That’s so unfair!” Dick snaps, stepping back. “You didn’t even let him finish—”

“He interrupted you.”

“So did you!” Dick hisses. 

Bruce looks at him blankly.

Dick growls. “You’re unbelievable! You're such a... such a hypocrite! Did you know that?”

Bruce reaches his hand out towards him. “Dick—”

“No!” Dick reprimands, tugging his hand away. He stalks away from Bruce, going back up the stairs to the manor. “Unbelievable!”

—

He’s standing in front of his old room when Bruce finds him again. 

The door is slightly ajar, the familiar space inside untouched in that way that makes it feel preserved rather than abandoned—like a room frozen in time.

Like the version of him who used to live here never fully left.

Of course, Dick can hear his footsteps before he sees him—even though as always, they’re deliberate and quiet.

But Dick hears. 

He always notices.

Yet, he doesn’t turn until Bruce stops a few feet away.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Bruce says quietly.

Dick snorts. “Pretty sure that’s not just your professional opinion.”

Bruce exhales. “Dick.”

“That is my name,” Dick says flatly, eyes on the wall. “Good job.”

Bruce doesn’t rise to his mocking—he just steps closer anyway, slow enough that Dick could tell him to stop if he wanted to.

He doesn’t. 

That’s the problem.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

“I didn’t come to argue,” Bruce says finally. 

“Noted,” Dick mutters, eyes fixed on the floor. “Your timing’s very convenient. Very heroic of you. Slade’s close to out cold, so you get the easy win.”

Each word lands sharper than the last, building momentum fueled by frustration that’s been building up, along with his resentment.

Bruce stiffens.

“Oh wait—you made sure of that, didn’t you?” Dick calls, and Bruce doesn’t answer.

“Sorry,” Dick adds, not sounding sorry at all.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Bruce says, voice quieter now.

“Oh, sure. Not at all,” Dick mutters, voice rough. “Then why? You just… couldn't resist? Didn’t want to be too far from me?”

Bruce reaches out, hesitates, then rests a hand on Dick’s shoulder. It’s warm, familiar in a way that makes Dick’s chest ache before he can stop it.

In spite of all the anger he carries for Bruce right now, it’s still comforting—it almost feels like his body remembers it before his mind can argue.

“I know… I know I could have handled that better,” Bruce says quietly. “With him. With you.”

Dick huffs a laugh. “Wow. Acknowledging your mistakes? Slade really must be out cold.”

Bruce almost smiles.

Almost.

“You’re taking advantage of this,” he tries again.

“Of what?” Bruce asks.

“Of the fact that the other guy in this weird emotional cage match is currently immobile,” Dick says, tilting his head. “If Slade could talk, you’d be posturing right now. Or stuck dick-measuring.”

Bruce’s mouth twitches—just barely, but Dick catches it.

The reaction is fleeting, involuntary, and that alone is enough to confirm Dick has gotten under his skin.

Aha.

“Mine’s bigger,” Bruce says, dry as anything.

Dick lets out an incredulous snort. “I don’t exactly have a frame of reference,” he shoots back. “I might just… have to see it to believe it.”

The words slip out before he can fully filter them, carrying a tone that sits somewhere between a challenge and provocation. It’s more sultry than he means it to be, also.

“You would be impressed,” Bruce murmurs, softer now. His voice drops slightly, losing some of its urgency. There’s something more personal in it now—less defensive and more intimate.

Dick’s eyes flick up. “Careful,” he says, voice dropping into something almost playful. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce smiles. Instead of answering, he leans closer, dangerously close. 

The movement is slow, intentional, giving Dick every opportunity to step away.

Dick closes his eyes. 

God, its unfair.

Bruce tilts his head toward Dick’s, and Dick can feel the space between them shrink, hear the almost-breaths.

They’re inches apart. 

Too close.

Dick swallows. 

He can feel his pulse in his throat, his chest, his hands—the anger and frustration and something along the lines of longing thrumming inside him. 

He thinks he knows what will happen if he closes the distance.

Bruce hesitates, and the moment stretches. 

Dick opens his eyes just a fraction. 

He sees as Bruce’s gaze drops to his lips.

Dick swallows. 

He feels the pull, the magnetic draw of Bruce’s nearness. He can almost feel the years of restraint snapping all at once.

Finally, Bruce tilts his head even closer, and Dick can feel the space between them shrinking, hear the almost-breaths.

They’re now inches apart. 

Dick’s pulse spikes. He wants—he wants—to close the distance. 

He knows Bruce wants it too. Knows it from the taut line of his jaw, the softness in his eyes, the subtle hesitation in his eyes.

“Too scared to… kiss me?” Dick whispers. “I thought Batman wasn’t scared of anyth—mmm!”

The kiss cuts him off mid-word.

Bruce makes a broken sound against his mouth—his hand tightening on Dick’s shoulder, pulling him closer like he can’t stop himself anymore.

Dick’s fingers fist in Bruce’s shirt, dragging him in, desperate and furious and wanting all at once.

It’s messy—years of almost spilling over in one reckless, waited-for moment. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them, and Dick tilts his head slightly, chasing the angle instinctively, and Bruce follows without hesitation.

Bruce’s hands tighten around his waist and Dick is leaning closer, his arms coming up to rest on Bruce’s shoulders, letting himself chase it, letting himself be devoured.

—

Bruce is the one who breaks first.

He always is.

It happens all at once—like something inside him snaps back into place. His grip loosens, his mouth stills, and then he pulls away like he’s been burned.

His absence is immediate, and Dick feels it almost violently.

His hands twitch where they had been gripping Bruce’s shirt, fingers curling into empty air before he forces himself to still them.

Dick’s breath stutters.
He knows he’s already leaning forward chasing something that’s already gone.

They’re still too close—foreheads almost touching, breaths uneven—but the shift is unmistakable. The space between them feels larger than it actually is, like distance has already reasserted itself even though their bodies haven’t fully separated yet.

Still, he can see how Bruce’s eyes are blown wide, dark with something raw and unguarded that Dick has never been allowed to see for more than a second at a time.

“Don’t,” Bruce says, voice low and rough, like it hurts to get the word out.

Dick lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t?”

“Don’t say anything.” He whispers.

Bruce takes a step back. Then another.

Distance.

Always distance.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Bruce says, but there’s no heat in it—just regret.

Dick stares at him. “That’s what you’re going with?” he asks, incredulous. “I shouldn’t have done that?”

Bruce drags a hand down his face, like he’s trying to physically reset himself. “This can’t—”

“Don’t,” Dick cuts in sharply, the word echoing Bruce’s earlier one. “Don’t you dare do that thing where you pretend any of this didn’t just happen.”

There’s a crack of frustration underneath Dick’s words now, no longer just reactive but insistent, demanding that Bruce acknowledged him. 

Acknowledged what they just did.

Acknowledged that he liked it—craved more, even.

“I’m saying it shouldn’t have.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is to me.”

“You kissed me back,” Dick says after a moment, and Bruce doesn’t respond. “Wasn’t it good?” He prompts, “Didn’t it feel right?”

The questions aren’t just rhetorical—they’re searching, pressing against the walls Bruce is trying to rebuild in real time.

Bruce looks up at that, and something in his expression softens again. For a second, Dick thinks—and no.

“I… I spoke the truth before.” Bruce says calmly. “I… I can’t bear the thought of anyone else having you. And especially not him—”

“So have me!” Dick hisses, his voice sharpening, the words driven by frustration more than anything else, as the solution was so obvious to him that Bruce’s resistance was incomprehensible.

Bruce steps back again. “But, I made a mistake.”

Dick goes very still. “A mistake,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Dick laughs, sharp and hollow. “Wow,” he mutters. “That’s—okay. That’s good. That’s really good.”

“Dick—”

“No, no, I get it,” Dick cuts him off, holding up a hand. “It’s fine. It’s just—” he gestures vaguely between them, frustration bleeding through, “What? You spend years acting like this thing between us is too—what, I don’t even know—” His hand drops back to his side, fingers curling into a fist as he struggles to articulate something that is both so obvious yet impossible to pin down.

“I said it was a mistake.”

“And I’m saying that’s bullshit!”

Bruce’s mouth opens.

Closes.

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

“What are you so scared of?” Dick lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I love you!”

“Dick—”

Bruce says his name like a warning, like he’s trying to stop the moment from tipping further—but he doesn’t step forward.

“No, listen to me,” Dick cuts in, and this time his voice rises—not loud, but firm. “You don’t trust him. Fine. I get that. I don’t even completely trust him either! But instead of dealing with that, you tried to remove how I felt by removing him.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly. “That’s not what happened.”

“It is,” Dick says immediately. “You knocked him out. You made the decision for me because it was easier than letting me decide where I stand.”

Bruce’s expression flickers.

“You know… I would’ve left him,” Dick says. “For you.”

Bruce’s eyes flicker again at that.

Dick continues before Bruce can respond.

“Up until just now? If you had actually chosen me—fully, without pulling away,” he scoffs, “Without calling it a mistake?—I would’ve walked away from him. But you didn’t,” Dick says.

Bruce doesn’t answer.

“And now…” Dick exhales, slower this time. “Now I realize something… That you won’t change. I don’t want to keep doing this,” he continues. “Pulling me close when it suits you, pushing me away when you get scared...”

Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly. “That’s not—”

“Don't lie to me Bruce. We both know I know you better than that." Dick's head drops as he lets out a heavy sigh. "Fuck! I should have listened to Talia,” Dick hisses, almost to himself, his words landing with a different kind of weight now—like something he'd remembered, then reconsidered, and finally understood.

He lets out a slow breath, shoulders easing slightly, like something has finally clicked into place—even if it isn’t what he wanted.

“I’m done waiting for you to choose me,” he says quietly. “I’m going back down to the cave.”

To Slade, Bruce realizes.

“Don’t follow me. Please, Bruce. I need space.”

—

Dick limps down the main stairs, and each step feels heavier than the last—not only from his injury, but from the weight of everything he had just left behind. 

The echo of Bruce’s voice, the kiss that shouldn’t have happened and did anyway, the realizations that he had taken years too long to get to…

They replay in fragments rather than as a whole memory—broken pieces that his mind keeps circling back to, as if trying to reconcile what just changed with everything that came before it—and the years that built up to it.

By the time he reaches the medbay again, his expression has settled into something more contained.

His eyes sweep the cave, which is dimmer than before. He crosses the room, slower this time, still favoring his ankle slightly, before perching at the end of Slade’s cot.

He studies Slade’s face—he looks unguarded, like he usually does when he’s sleeping.

It makes Dick miss waking up by his side.

Makes him miss all the small things Slade’s done for him—the massages and comfort and cooking and sex and the kisses and all the things he’d been wishing for with Bruce that he had been so blind to seeing how Slade had provided it all.

He exhales slowly, resting his hands loosely against his thighs.

Slade…

He sighs and scoots down, shuffling so he’s laying down and tucking his lithe body against Slade’s body. The movement is careful, mindful of both Slade’s and his injuries, but it’s also instinctive—like returning to a place his body already recognizes as safe.

The acrid smell of antiseptic and acid burns his nose, but he ignores it, choosing to press a kiss to Slade’s cheek instead.

He lingers there for a moment before turning on his side. He grabs Slade’s arm and tugs it until it’s wrapped around his body.

It’s familiar, it’s grounding, it’s enclosing, it’s familiar, it's all too much.

His eyes well up with tears and he buries his face deeper against the cot.

The big idiot, he thinks.

The thought isn’t bitter at all. If anything, it’s softened by something like a reluctant fondness, tangled up with frustration that now feels less sharp than it used to.

The steady rise and fall of Slade’s chest under his cheek, the faint warmth of his body, the subtle shift of breath against his hair—it all blends into something calm enough to quiet the noise still lingering in Dick’s mind.

Dick closes his eyes, and exhales, his shoulders loosening without conscious effort.

The tension he’s been carrying—since seeing Slade’s plight, since the kiss, since the realization—starts to drain out of him in a way that feels less like relief and more like acceptance.

Chapter Text

Dick shuts his eyes as he tries to sync to Slade’s breathing almost unconsciously—it’s comforting, and the shared rhythm makes the cave outside of their cot feel distant, almost muted.

He waits as minutes pass—maybe even hours—for Slade to wake up, but still doesn’t. 

Whatever Bruce dosed him with—it must have been strong.

He sighs and leans closer into the man, crinkling his nose as the acrid smell of antiseptic crawls gets stronger.

Ugh.

Then, finally, the fingers resting near his side twitch—it’s only barely perceptible, just a small, involuntary adjustment, but Dick feels it, and his heart leaps.

It picks up as the arm around him shifts a fraction more, and Dick doesn’t dare look up, doesn’t dare move in the hopes that it won’t somehow break it. Might undo whatever fragile, quiet understanding that he hopes they have.

—

The first thing Slade registers when he wakes up is warmth—not the clinical warmth of the fluorescent lights but something else.

Someone, he then realizes.

Someone who is pressed against his side, their nose dipped into the crook of his shoulder, and their breathing slow and even. 

He doesn’t have to look to know.

“…Dick,” he murmurs, voice rough with disuse. “You’re warm.”

Dick lets out a wet laugh. He doesn’t lift his head, letting his breath tickle Slade’s neck. “Slade.”

Slade exhales into his hair before pulling back to survey him, and he swears can feel something different about the younger man.

Not in the obvious ways—Dick still looks wrecked—still bruised and exhausted, his ankle still wrapped and eyes rimmed red, but he looks a little more at calm.

Tired, but at peace, like he’s accepted a truth that he should have seen a long time ago.

“You’re still here.” Slade says slowly, and there’s a faint softness in his tone now, and he shifts slightly beneath Dick—adjusting in a way that brings their bodies a fraction closer, his arms settling more securely around Dick’s waist to pull the younger man closer without asking.

“I am.”

“Hm,” he scoffs, “Well, you make a decent pillow.”

“Hmph.”

“You know, earlier, I thought the Bat was going to kill me. I’m honestly quite surprised I woke up at all,” Slade teases, and Dick bites his lip at the mention of Bruce.

“Not this time.”

“Oh?” Slade smirks, “So there’s a next time?”

“Shut up or next time I’ll be the one to kill you.” Dick threatens, jabbing a finger at Slade’s bandaged chest. Instead of bringing his hand back down, his fingers curl faintly against the fabric beneath him of their own volition.

Still, Dick doesn’t move away. If anything, he relaxes further into the contact, letting the warmth between them seep into his bones.

“I was worried about you,” he finally admits. 

The admission isn’t dramatic, but Slade’s expression shifts—it’s not exactly triumphant, but not exactly not either. 

He understands what’s being given.

“I know,” Slade says gruffly, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever do it again.” Dick orders and Slade chuckles.

“Yes, Captain.”

Finally, Dick’s gaze flicks briefly to Slade’s mouth, and Slade leans down, meeting him halfway.

This kiss is different from the one upstairs, Dick thinks.

Slower.

For the first time in a long time, it’s not born from anger or desperation but from something more intentional, something that promises more.

—

Behind them, someone sighs rather loudly.

“Are you two incapable of maintaining appropriate spatial boundaries?” A young voice calls, cutting cleanly through the cave. 

Dick recognizes it immediately, his body freezing in place as he calls out, “Damian!”

Damian steps closer, his gaze flickering between them, taking in everything—their proximity, Slade’s arm around Dick, and the fact that Dick is practically draped over Slade with very obvious disdain.

“I had assumed,” Damian says flatly, “that while under medical supervision, you would refrain from—this.” He gestures his hand around vaguely, as if the situation itself is not worth specifying.

Dick inhales sharply and coughs, which sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a laugh. “Good morning to you too, kiddo,” he manages.

Damian does not look amused.

“I fail to see what exactly is good about this morning,” he replies curtly, crossing his arms. His lip curls up as it flicks over Slade again, and the way Dick is still half-curled into him. “You were both injured. Badly. Father wasn’t letting me visit until I took 8 hours of rest. And now, when I sneak in here, I return to find you two… like this.”

Slade, for his part, doesn’t even attempt to look ashamed. If anything, he looks vaguely entertained.

“Kid,” Slade says evenly, “if it makes you feel better, your brother started it.”

Damian’s brow furrows and Dick elbows Slade sharply. “Don’t.” 

“I am not interested in discussing this,” Damian cuts in immediately, though there’s the faintest hint of color high on his cheeks. “Get up. Both of you. You look ridiculous. Or at least sit properly.” 

Dick ignores him, his gaze flicking between his grumbling stomach and Damian’s obvious concern for him and his smile widens into something, something soft and a little hopeful. “Dami—”

“Fine.” Damian concedes, “I will bring food.”

“Oh, joy,” Slade says lazily.

Damian scoffs, but there’s something tighter underneath it. Something that isn’t just annoyance. Dick recognizes it immediately, and his chest tightens. 

“Hey,” Dick says, softer now. “I’m okay. We’re both okay.”

Damian nods, his face betraying an expression that feels far older than it should be—protectiveness.

It’s a familiar look, one he sees usually on Bruce’s face instead of his son’s.

He glances as Slade as Damian saddles closer, bringing his index finger up to Slade’s nose—an action Dick is utmost sure that Damian picked up from him.

“If you worsen his condition,” Damian says to Slade coldly, “I will personally ensure you regret it.”

Slade studies him for a moment. Then, very unexpectedly he nods. “Noted.”

Surprisingly, it doesn’t come out mocking or dismissive, and it’s sincere enough to make Damian hesitate.

“Good.” Damian says as he turns. “Do not move.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “We’re in the med bay, kiddo. I don’t think either of us is running away to anywhere.”

Damian ignores that, but he does stick up his middle finger. “Additionally, when I return, I have decided that you should remain under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Whose observation?” Slade asks, amused. “Your father’s?”

Damian finally looks up, and creases his lips in disgust. “Mine,” he answers, like it’s obvious.

“Yes, doctor.” Dick sighs—he knows there’s no use arguing—and he pretends not to notice as Damian’s chest puffs out with pride at the comparison to his mother and grandfather.

As Damian scampers up the stairs, Slade turns to Dick to let out a small laugh. “Got yourself a good guard dog,” he remarks.

—

Dick sits on the edge of the medbay cot, one foot braced carefully on the ground, the other slightly elevated. His ankle still aches, but it’s manageable now—background noise rather than the agony he’d been in yesterday.

Across from him on the other side, Slade is awake—fully awake—and he’s watching Dick carefully.

Dick glances up from where he’s been fiddling with a strip of gauze in his hands.

“…What?”

Slade’s mouth twitches. “You’ve been avoiding eye contact for the last few minutes.”

Dick scoffs. “I have not.”

Slade raises a brow and Dick grimaces.

“You’re thinking about something,” Slade says. “Tell me.”

Dick huffs softly, glancing down, and then hesitates.

For a brief moment, it looks like he might deflect—say something light, brush it off, change the subject. His mouth even opens slightly, but then he stops himself.

Slade deserves to know the truth.

After all that he’s done for me.

Put up with—for me.

Even if it ruins this.

He sighs. “Slade, I need to tell you something.” He can feel Slade’s eye hone in on him, and he rubs the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose. “It’s about… what happened earlier,” he adds.

Slade’s expression shifts just slightly—he looks more guarded now. Attentive. “Go on.” 

Dick looks at him, then away again, as if gathering the words—and the courage.

“After Bruce and I argued,” he begins slowly, “I went to my room. I was… not in a great headspace.”

Slade’s gaze softens, just the slightest trace of understanding in the way his eye settles on Dick. Still, he doesn’t interrupt, or rush him—which Dick appreciates, more than he realized before.

When he speaks again, his voice trembles just slightly, though he tries to steady it.

“I thought I was done—done trying to figure things out with Bruce, done pretending it could go back to how it was. I’m tired of it, Slade.” He shakes his head slightly. “I was tired of playing the same game, doing the same damn dance around him.” He looks up at Slade, his expression raw. He knows he’s being vulnerable right now. “So I kissed him,” he says simply.

Slade doesn’t react immediately—but something sharp settles behind his eye. 

“Is that so?” Slade asks coldly.

“It was stupid,” Dick rushes. “I wasn’t thinking—I was angry, and he was there, and I just—”

Dick leans against the cot, one hand absently brushing against his legs. He’s trying to process the words himself, even as he speaks them. 

“It was stupid. So stupid. But we were so close, Slade, and—hell, I was so angry, and frustrated, and I thought—no, I didn’t think—but he was right there—and I just—” He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair, voice becoming almost hysterical. “I kissed him. Bruce. I kissed Batman!”

Slade still doesn’t interrupt, but his gaze is colder now, and the air between them is thick with unspoken things.

Dick freezes under Slade’s stare, starting to babble, “He pulled away. I mean—he always does. And I let him, because that’s what we do. We mess things up, then we come back to each other, and act like nothing happened. I—I don’t know what to do, Slade,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

His chest feels tight. 

He wants to say more—wants to pour out everything that’s been bubbling inside him since the kiss, since the confusion, the overwhelming pull between two things that have never been so different and yet so similar at the same time.

“I wish it could be easier,” Dick mutters.

Slade’s eyes lock with his, and this time, there’s a softness there, just a flicker of something that Dick can’t quite place. 

Maybe understanding. 

He isn’t sure.

“You’re not the only one who wishes things were easier, Dick,” Slade says lowly.

Dick shakes his head slightly. “It… it that was a mistake,” he adds, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “Kissing him, I mean. I just…”

Slade crosses his arms over his chest. His tone is cold. “You wanted to kiss him,” Slade cuts in.

Dick hesitates. “Yeah. Then. Or, at least I thought I wanted to. I know that’s not what I want now,” he finishes lamely. He knows how bad it sounds now that he’s said it out loud.

Slade's jaw clenches.

There’s a shift in the air. He doesn’t look surprised, but the edge in his voice thickens. 

“And what exactly was that supposed to accomplish? Was it a power play? Some desperate move for validation?” His voice is hard, a challenge, as if he’s trying to poke at Dick—trying to make him explain his betrayal.

Dick scoff, “I don’t know what it was supposed to accomplish. All I know is it happened. It was stupid. Can we just… move on?”

“Move on? Move on? Then you stop trying to play both sides. Either you figure out what you really want, or you end up getting fucking nothing. I’m not wasting my time with someone who’s stuck in the same fucking loop.” He steps closer, his eyes never leaving Dick’s. His tone is grating—familiarly so—and Dick found himself flinching. “Why did you kiss him? For clarity? Did you think that moment was going to fix everything?”

“No,” Dick answers, frustration giving way to something darker. 

Slade shakes his head. “I’m not your backup plan, Grayson.”

Dick’s jaw drops open. 

The hypocrite!

“Why does that bother you so much?” Dick demands, voice rising. “You literally said that you didn’t care—”

“That was before! Not now,” Slade hisses, “Not after all that we’ve—all that we’ve… All that I’ve done for you!” he pauses, his frustration clear in every word. “ I’m not here to hold your hand while you figure out your feelings for someone else!”

“I literally was just about to tell you that I choose you!”

“After he rejected you,” Slade growls.

“That’s not—”

“Again!”

“Slade,” Dick hisses. “Why does that bother you so much? You literally said—”

“Why? Because I care for you, Grayson!” Slade roars, “And… I thought you cared for me!”

The silence that follows is immediate, and Dick stares at him, the words hitting him like a ton of bricks. 

“I do,” he admits quietly.

“Clearly not enough,” Slade hisses. 

“That’s not fair—”

“Then what is this?” Slade gestures sharply. “What am I to you?”

And that hesitation—that fraction of a second—is all it takes. Slade exhales sharply, something shutting down behind his expression and something cold settling in. “Right.”

“No—”

“No! Don’t say anything. You’re smart, you figure it out.”

“Slade,” Dick repeats quietly. He feels like crying. “I’m sorry! I told you already… I was just trying to figure out what he wanted—what I wanted, and I didn’t expect it to happen. And I—” He runs a hand over his face, exhausted. “I told you—I don’t want to keep hurting you. I didn’t want to keep dragging you into this mess but you…”

Slade gives him a hard look, his mouth twisting into a hard set, grim line and a mocking glint in his eyes. 

“What do you want?” Dick begs. “Is there anything I can do to make things right again?”

Slade stays quiet.

“An apology?”

He hesitates.

Slade’s not usually this much of a cruel man, but even then when Dick is looking at him, his eyes wide and wet, but still, still Slade can’t find it within himself to dim the white hot rage—no, jealousy—that he feels in his chest. 

The silence between them stretches, sharp and unforgiving.

“Slade.”

Slade just continues to stare at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice cutting through Dick’s heart like a knife. 

“You know what, brat? You figure it out. I’m not standing here waiting for you to decide if what I can give you is enough. If you’re so concerned about me, then stop asking for my permission to feel whatever the hell you’re feeling. You made your choice when you kissed him. Live with it.”

Dick’s throat tightens, words catching somewhere between panic and regret.

Slade turns toward the stairs to the manor..

“Figure out what you want, Dick.”

And then he walks away, leaving Dick’s heart shattered in pieces along the floor. He stands still for a moment, the echo of Slade’s final words hanging in the air like a weight he can’t shake off.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, feeling the sharp sting of rejection. 

He feels... lost.

Till finally, as he watches Slade walk up the stairs, something inside him snaps. 

He’s not going to let this go. 

Not like this. 

Not after everything.

Never again.

 Not after all the times he’s run and kept his distance, trying to protect himself by building walls between them. 

He’s done with that.

With a sudden resolve, Dick moves toward the exit, his footfalls echoing loudly in the cave. His ankle still throbs, but the pain doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is fixing this—fixing them.

He sees it for what it is—the realization that Dick has been running from the truth for far too long.

From Bruce, from Slade, from himself.

From what he wanted—no, not just what he wanted but what he deserved.

And now he was just letting him walk away?

No.

“Slade,” he calls, “Wait!”

He limps closer to the cave’s exit, dreading the climb up the stairs.

“Slade!” Dick calls again, more desperate this time, pushing through the weight in his chest. His ankle aches with every step, but he doesn’t care. He’s not thinking about the pain anymore. His heart is racing, and the words are coming fast, tumbling over each other in a rush. “Just—just listen to me, damn it!” His voice echoes sharper this time, cracking at the edges as it bounces off the cave’s walls.

Again, Dick’s breath comes in shallow bursts, his chest tightening as he steps forward, reaching out like he might touch Slade—like he might finally bridge that space between them. “Slade!” he calls again, more desperate now. “Just—just listen to me, damn it!”

He lets out a pant. “I’m sorry,” Dick calls out, “You’re not my backup choice. I choose you fully! Completely! You!—I should have realized that ages ago!”

Slade doesn’t stop. The distance between them feels wider than it should be. 

Wider than it is.

That’s what makes something inside Dick crumple. It’s a sharp and sudden feeling of panic that makes his heart drop. “Please! “Slade!” he calls again, voice cracking, “I’m sorry!  I should have realized that a long time ago! I love—oh!” 

On the last word, his ankle snaps to the side and he howls in pain, trying to adjust himself as he then steps on his pajama pants, which almost sends him tumbling backwards and down the steps. 

Thankfully, in that split second, an arm had snaked around his waist, securing his balance and position against that all-too-familiar chest.

Hesitantly, Dick looks up. 

Slade’s eyebrows are knit together in worry, and his arm stays tight around Dick. “Careful. You almost fell.”

Dick almost laughs.

Of fucking course Slade would catch him.

Of fucking course.

Almost automatically, Dick’s fingers have curled into the front of Slade’s shirt without him realizing it. It reminds him of laying in the medbay with Slade, and it’s a weirdly comfortable thought. 

Intimate.

Slade shifts slightly—just enough that it feels like he’s about to step back, to put distance between them again, but Dick doesn’t let him.

His grip tightens, not entirely forceful, but enough to stop him. “Don’t,” Dick says, “Please.”

Slade stills, and then tries to pull his hands away, but Dick doesn’t let him. He forces him to look down, to meet his gaze, and he looks at him—really looks at him—and says it.

“I love you.”

He says it with hesitation this time, no deflection, and Slade goes completely still.

“I mean it,” Dick adds, quieter but steady. “Not because of him. Not instead of him, or in spite of him. I’m done running,” Dick says softly. “I know I want you.”

Slade’s lips press together, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. 

He doesn’t step forward quite yet, but there’s a softness in his gaze now that wasn’t there before. A crack in his defenses. 

“You’re a mess, Dick,” he says quietly, almost like he’s remembering the first time they ever had this conversation, so, so long ago. 

“I know.”

“But so am I.”

Dick’s heart skips a beat. “I know. I know… I… I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t care... that I don’t want this. Us.”

Slade looks away, his jaw tightening as he seems to process the words. 

His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for Dick, to pull him close again. To do what he wants, what he’s wanted for so long to, with no guise.

Dick leans closer, and this time, Slade doesn’t step back.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore, Slade,” Dick says again, his voice lower, more vulnerable this time. “Yes, I kissed Bruce earlier, and I regret it. So much. I shouldn’t have done that—not because of how it will effect us now, but because how that’s not what I want anymore. And I’ve known that. I suppose I’ve just been trying figure out what I want for myself... and you—” He stops himself, swallowing hard. “You’ve been there for me in that time... And, I still do still want you to be there—If you’ll have me. Please.”

Slade’s gaze flickers back to Dick’s eyes. He stares at him for a long moment, his features tense, then finally he exhales heavily through his nose. “You don’t make this easy, Dick.”

“I never wanted to,” Dick admits, his voice quiet. “But I’m trying. For real this time.”

For a moment, neither of them moves. 

Slade’s lips quirk into something almost like a smile, a wry tilt that only he can pull off. “Good.” Then, before Dick can process it, Slade steps even closer, his other hand coming up to cup Dick’s jaw gently.

“I don’t want to walk away from you, either.” Slade murmurs, his voice a low rasp.

“Then don’t,” Dick’s breath catches in his throat, his voice almost a whisper. “I want to make this work.”

Slade steps closer—slower, deliberate—until he finally closes the last of the space between them until there isn’t any left to hide behind.

“I don’t want to walk away from you either,” Slade says, voice low, rough around the edges.

Dick’s chest tightens.

He leans down, and when he kisses Dick—slow, deliberate, and full of every unsaid word between them—it feels like the world—their world, on the batcave steps—has righted itself, just a little bit. 

The kiss deepens—not thorough the urgency Dick feels or the burning feeling in the pt of his stomach—but more of a sense of familiarity. The tension eases out into something steadier, as he pulls Slade closer, his arms wrapping around Slade’s shoulders as he tries to devour the man, like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

To stay here.

Slade’s grip shifts, one hand settling more securely at Dick’s jaw, the other at his waist, anchoring him in place.

His fingers tighten slightly against Slade’s shoulders as he leans in closer, closing what little distance remains, his breath catching as he lets himself press into it—into him. When their lips finally part, it’s only by inches—barely enough to breathe.

Slade doesn’t pull away completely, Dick notices. He keeps him close, close enough that Dick knows he’ll never let him go.

—

Dick limps down the main stairs, and each step feels heavier than the last—not only from his injury, but from the weight of everything he had just left behind. 

The echo of Bruce’s voice, the kiss that shouldn’t have happened and did anyway, the realizations that he had taken years too long to get to…

They replay in fragments rather than as a whole memory—broken pieces that his mind keeps circling back to, as if trying to reconcile what just changed with everything that came before it—and the years that built up to it.

By the time he reaches the medbay again, his expression has settled into something more contained.

His eyes sweep the cave, which is dimmer than before. He crosses the room, slower this time, favoring his ankle slightly, before perching at the end of Slade’s cot.

He studies Slade’s face—he looks unguarded, like he usually does when he’s sleeping.

It makes Dick miss waking up by his side.

Makes him miss all the small things Slade’s done for him—the massages and comfort and cooking and sex and the kisses and all the things he’d been wishing for with Bruce that he had been so blind to seeing how Slade had provided it all.

He exhales slowly, resting his hands loosely against his thighs.

Slade…

He sighs and scoots down, shuffling so he’s laying down and tucking his lithe body against Slade’s body. The movement is careful, mindful of both Slade’s and his injuries, but it’s also instinctive—like returning to a place his body already recognizes as safe.

The acrid smell of antiseptic and acid burns his nose, but he ignores it, choosing to press a kiss to Slade’s cheek instead.

He lingers there for a moment before turning on his side. He grabs Slade’s arm and tugs it until it’s wrapped around his body.

It’s familiar, it’s grounding, it’s enclosing, it’s all too much.

His eyes well up with tears and he buries his face deeper against the cot.

The big idiot, he thinks. The thought isn’t bitter at all. If anything, it’s softened by something like a reluctant fondness, tangled up with frustration that now feels less sharp than it used to.

The steady rise and fall of Slade’s chest under his cheek, the faint warmth of his body, the subtle shift of breath against his hair—it all blends into something calm enough to quiet the noise still lingering in Dick’s mind.

Dick closes his eyes, and exhales, his shoulders loosening without conscious effort.

The tension he’s been carrying—since realizing Slade’s plight, since the kiss, since the realization—starts to drain out of him in a way that feels less like relief and more like acceptance.

—

"Dick?" Damian calls suspiciously. 

The soft echo of his footsteps against the concrete of the floor is swallowed by the quiet sound of bats in the cave, and his eyebrows furrow as he spots Dick and Slade noticeably not in the medbay but holding each other on the stairs instead. 

“I leave for ten minutes,” Damian’s voice rings out, flat and unimpressed, “and I return to find that not only have you both ignored my instructions, but you’ve somehow left your cot.”

Dick startles just enough to pull back, breath catching mid-laugh as he turns to face Damian. 

And there he is, standing a few steps down from the entrance, arms full of Alfred’s Earl Gray tea and some tasty looking avocado toast sandwiches in a tray that looks far too carefully balanced, on his hands.

Damian’s expression caught somewhere between irritation and something far less guarded—something closer to relief, and once again, Dick sees it immediately and something in his chest gives.

“Damian” The word breaks into something lighter, warmer, and before he can stop himself, he’s moving—the lunges fast enough that his ankle protests—but not enough to stop him.

“Hey—careful!—” Slade starts, but Dick’s already there.

He closes the distance in a few uneven steps and then wraps his arms tight around Damian.

“Grayson! He starts, but Dick just laughs, utterly delighted. The kind of laugh that spills out of him before he can think to hold it back. 

“Oh, my sweet boy, how I missed you,” Dick says into their embrace, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Damian freezes “…You saw me less than fifteen minutes ago,” Damian replies stiffly, though the edge in his voice doesn’t quite land the way it usually does. 

He’s glad Slade can’t see his face right now, from where it’s tucked into the crook of Dick’s neck—he’s entirely sure his eyes are watering.

Dick just hums, pulling back slightly but keeping his hands on Damian’s shoulders, looking down at him with something soft and fond and entirely unguarded. “Still counts.”

Damian’s lips press together, clearly fighting something—annoyance, maybe, or the very obvious urge to shove him away on principle alone.

Instead, he adjusts his grip on the tray with a small huff. “You are insufferable.”

But he doesn’t pull away.

Behind them, Slade watches the exchange, something quieter settling into his expression—something observant and fond.

Dick finally steps back, though not far, his grin still lingering as he gestures vaguely to the tray. “So, is that for us, or were you planning on eating all of that yourself?”

Damian scoffs. “Why would I give perfectly good food to someone who refuses to follow my basic instructions?

“Wow,” Dick breathes, hand to his chest. “And here I thought you cared.”

Damian rolls his eyes—but there’s that flicker again. That same reluctant softness.

“I do,” he says, quieter, before announcing louder with a huff, “Sit down before you collapse again. Both of you. Back in your cot!”

Dick doesn’t argue this time, and he limps down toward the medbay, letting his arm wrap around Slade’s shoulder to use the man as a crutch.

“I love you both,” Dick announces, and both men turn to him slowly, with matching expressions of exasperated fondness. ”I really do.”

Slade just presses a kiss to his temple. “We know, birdie. And we love you too.”