Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason panted softly, but quickly enough that the filter of his helmet wasn’t enough to stave away the humidity his exertion created.

Block. Hit. Duck. Kick. Hit. Block. The disciplines, form, and targets changed, but the pattern remained. Block. Hit. Duck. Kick. Hit. Block. This fight was eventful but monotonous. Formulaic, designed to exhaust. This wasn’t a fight, it was attrition.

“If this,” Jason grunted, blocking one of his balaclava-clad assailant’s kicks, “your idea,” he landed a hit, “of training,” he ducked, rolling back to his feet and executing a kick, catching his assailant squarely in the groin, “it fucking sucks,” Jason finished, wearily blocking a punch from his left.

“If I had arranged this,” Bruce growled, landing a hefty blow to another faceless foot shoulder’s trachea, “you would know.”

From the neighboring rooftop, only a few stories higher than the one on which Bruce and Jason fought, a melodic voice called, “You’re so vain, you think this fight is about you, don’t you?”

Jason took advantage of a block to jerk up, only to see Dick Grayson perched with his legs dangled over the edge. For a self-indulgent moment, Jason imagined him falling and shattering those long, elegant legs. Then a kick caught him in the stomach, and he returned his attention to the task at hand.

“Shoulda known this was your handiwork, Renegade,” Jason grunted, slamming the face of one of his assailants against the concrete guard around the roof. The assailant crumbled to the ground, mask wet with blood, and Bruce, despite the distraction of his own grapple, audibly snarled his disapproval.

Jason glanced up at Dick, in his red-breasted uniform and visible smirk. For all the inky depth in his uniform, not even the Stygian night could swallow the glow that Dick emanated.  Effortlessly, casually beautiful, like an advertisement or a lounging panther. Jason’s vision bled green.

“Or, rather, Deathstroke’s work. You don’t do jack shit but chase him around, after all. How’s that wrinkly, old cock serving you?” Jason spit.

“Red Hood!” Bruce shouted, whipping his head to glare at Jason, and taking a punch to the face for his efforts.

But Dick just laughed. Jason didn’t have time to soak in the sound, he barely caught a fist before it landed, and in his next breath he was once again engaged in the larger squabble.

“He’s not old, he’s older,” Dick retorted. “He’s like wine, or 2001: A Space Odyssey. He ages well. Or, maybe he’s Pulp Fiction and just timeless.”

“Whatever,” Jason panted, breaking his knuckle across someone’s teeth. The teeming mass of fighters was becoming too homogenous, too monotonous. They had long since ceased to be people and Jason threw them and crushed them and crunched against them with abandon. For all Jason knew, they weren’t people. Some sort of drones (shockingly realistic drones, with bones and arteries, programmed to emit gurgling moans when their tracheas are crushed) or maybe a hive mind monster. Could even be regenerating clones: with each one felled, a new one took a swing. “You’re a fucking tool.”

“You always were an angry kid,” Dick mused, the ongoing soundtrack to the drawn-out fight. Jason found himself hitting even harder, fighting even dirtier the longer they were forced to listen. “Quick to punch, always something to prove. You came back tall, Little Wing, but you’re still looking down on yourself. You should try loving yourself, best damn thing I ever did. You can insult Slade all you want, but at least Slade treats me as an individual, an asset, a partner. Don’t forget what you are to B,” Dick taunted.

“Nightwing!” Bruce shouted in warning. When Jason spared him a glance, Bruce was noticeably panting, nearly heaving, flecked with blood and bruises and bone fragments. He was also hunched, favoring his left arm, limping. Bruce was ugly.

“Just another ‘good soldier,’” Dick finished with a tsk. “I think you’ve at least earned ‘above average soldier,’ you did rise from the dead only to slide right back under his thumb, after all.”

“Enough,” Slade announced, materializing behind Dick. At first, Dick leapt to his feet in what Jason presumed was shock. But then Jason watched as Dick wrapped his arms around Slade’s neck and he realized Dick’s jump was enthusiasm, not surprise. Around them, the masked fighters withdrew in droves, collecting back into a single individual.

“Multiplex,” Bruce hissed. “Didn’t take you for a mercenary.”

Danton Black backpedaled away from Bruce, towards the rooftop exit. “It’s hard to apply for grants when you’re a supervillain,” Danton shrugged. “Lab expenses are a bitch. Deathstroke?”

Slade kept one arm wrapped around Dick, but with his other hand he lifted his cellphone and made a show of tapping his thumb across the screen. “Your money’s been transferred. It’s been a pleasure.”

Danton grinned and saluted before disappearing.

“We gonna chase him?” Jason wheezed, adrenaline leaving him shaky, drained, and sore. Bruce didn’t look much better.

“No,” Bruce grunted. “Deathstroke. Grab Deathstroke, go!”

Jason sprinted across the roof, but Dick leisurely reached into Deathstroke’s thigh holster, drew his gun, and shot Jason in the thigh. Jason hit the ground with a tumble.

“What the fuck, Dickface!” Jason howled.

Slade sighed. “Put it away, Renegade. We have what we need, let’s go home.”

Obligingly, Dick returned the gun and released his grip on Slade to draw his grapple. He shot it, but before diving from the roof, he called down, “Pressure and a little bit of the good stuff from Penny One will take care of that, Little Wing. I’ll see you around.”

And then he was gone, leaving Bruce to hunch over Jason while Jason gasped, “Fucking dick.”

The worst part of the next day wasn’t when Alfred changed his dressing, or when Titus tried to crawl in his lap, or even when Jason tripped on his way to the bathroom. It was when Jason turned on the television.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jason ground out.

 On the television screen, Dick, a Henley replacing his night’s attire, shot the camera a dazzling smirk and wink. He was waiting outside of Damian’s private school, likely to pick up Damian for their weekly arcade binge. The image of Dick shrank as talking heads tittered about Dick’s endearing history with his youngest sibling, how down to earth Dick remained even after years of privilege, how his boy-next-door aesthetic was both innovative and timeless.

“Oh, are they on about Dick’s shirt again?” Tim asked, pausing on his way through the room. “Last week they were in a whole thing about whether or not he wears mascara. There are forums dedicated to what he leaves the house in.”

“It depends on if he shaves,” Jason grumbled, hating himself for knowing Dick’s foundation and mascara preferences.

“He’s trying to teach me how to contour, since I can’t grow a beard,” Tim supplied, flopping onto the couch next to Jason. “How’s your leg?”

“Don’t fucking contour. It doesn’t matter, it just encourages fucked up industries when the stupidly rich buy into useless fads. My leg’s got a hole in it, thanks for asking.”

There was silence as Jason flicked through channels, until he landed on a Pantene commercial starring Dick as one of their first male brand ambassadors. They watched until the commercial’s end.

“Why does he let this happen,” Jason snapped venomously. Tim kept his gaze trained on the television.

“I don’t know. I think Pantene pays him a ton of money, and when he signed the contract, he needed a new suit,” Tim theorized. “Maybe they mail him products, you know he hates running errands.”

Jason closed his eyes, took three deep breaths, and then sighed, “No, Tim. I meant, why is Dick still in the public eye? Why’s Damian spending the day with him? I fucking die, and I’m replaced before the dirt on my grave settles. Dick fucks off to become a mercenary’s trophy wife, and all of you act like he’s wearing eyeliner and listening to Korn.” Jason’s voice raised as he spoke, and he punctuated himself by chucking the remote against the wall. The remote exploded into plastic and rubber shrapnel. Tim didn’t flinch.

“Only Alfred and Bruce think it’s a phase,” Tim corrects. “Just. For the record. And Bruce and Dick never got over your death, least of all Dick. He blamed himself for that, and he really should have been there, I get why it bothers him. But then Desmond got murdered and Dick also blamed himself for… you know. Desmond and that thing. And he just got too far away for us to anchor him.”

That thing. That thing where Dick was sexually assaulted next to the corpse of his rogue. It happened before Jason returned, but he’d been briefed.

“Yeah,” Jason said. “That thing.”

“Besides,” Tim continued, blissfully rerouting the conversation. “It’s good for our alter egos. Nightwing disappeared, but Dick Grayson is still around. And maybe Nightwing didn’t disappear, not completely. Maybe Dick’s playing a long game.”

“Maybe he’s not,” Jason retorted. “He shot me in the leg.”

Tim shrugged. “It was a really clean shot. You know he’s a good marksman, could have been worse. And he probably wasn’t supposed to even be near you when everything went down last night. From what B told me, Slade seemed pretty annoyed.”

The television was stuck on some children’s cartoon since Jason destroyed the remote. He doubted Tim would walk across the room to change the channel for him.

“I’m going to be pissed if he shows his face here today,” Jason warned.

“I know,” Tim said, patting Jason’s knee on his good leg. “You know you’re stuck learning your colors until you find a way to tell Alfred you destroyed the remote.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, glaring up at the ceiling. “I know.”

"You think he'll forgive me?" Dick asked, sweaty, naked, and draped on Slade's bare chest. It had been a full 24 hours since he'd shot Jason, and he hadn't heard anything from the Manor about Jason's condition. The shot itself was mild, but Jason always did have a penchant for drama.

Slade's eye was closed and his breathing deep, but Dick knew he wasn't asleep, not quite yet, and so he braced himself with one arm on the mattress and lightly dragged his nails across Slade's right pec for attention. Slade's eye opened. 

"Should I declaw you?" Slade mused. Dick dug his nails in deeper and nipped Slade's chin. 

"No," Dick murmured into Slade's beard. "You can spank me if you want." 

"No," Slade said, closing his eye again. "You like it too much." Dick huffed. He continued to prod and claw and nip at Slade, until Slade swatted him and chided, "Settle down, little bird. He'll be nipping at your heels again as soon as the hole in his thigh closes." 

Dick flopped to curl up next to Slade, nestling in close. At Dick's prompting, Slade began dragging his fingertips up and down Dick's spine. Dick relaxed, resting his head on Slade's shoulder and keeping a leg slung over Slade's. 

"He came back," Dick breathed against Slade's skin. 

"He did," Slade offered. "I'll ask you what I did before: does his return change anything?" 

Dick did not answer for a time, content to soak in Slade's attention. Finally, after what must have been several minutes, Dick said, "No, no really. Not for us." 

Slade hummed. "Good boy." 

Chapter Text

When Jason woke, his mattress dipped with the weight of someone else.

A glance to his left revealed that it was just Dick, seated in a chair, with his head pillowed on his crossed arms on the bed by Jason’s side. The immediate fury that licked up Jason’s core quelled with Dick’s gentle breathing and slack expression. Dick’s eyelashes were so long, they nearly rested on his cheek, and his hair was silly and mussed.

If he was here, in Jason’s room, he’d likely crawled in through a window. Jason doubted that the family would have allowed Dick near Jason right now, not with Jason’s wound still so fresh. Thigh wound.

Dick ground his teeth in his sleep. It was something they all did. Bruce treated it as if it were just an inclination, but Alfred and Jason exchanged what they knew about stress responses, about PTSD. Alfred had told Jason that Dick never ground his teeth until after a few months in the Manor. He had night terrors from his parents’ death, sure. But the teeth grinding came with the little green boots.

Jason listened to Dick grind his teeth and mulled over how terribly he wanted to punch Dick’s pretty face. Dick shot him. Dick left Bruce, condemning Jason to Dick’s role, to Dick’s place as Bruce’s crutch and the brats’ big brother. Dick neglected Jason when he was Robin, as if Bruce’s behavior was Jason’s fault, his responsibility.

And maybe Bruce was Robin’s responsibility. Jason remembered taking care of his mom, feeding her, trying to keep her dressed and warm while she shook. Bruce wasn’t catatonic, Bruce wasn’t addicted to heroin. But he was emotionally fragile, hyperviolent, fixated.

Jason hated Bruce. Hated the way Bruce’s eyes turned cold, and sometimes glassy. Hated overhearing Alfred beg Bruce to eat. Once, Bruce was doused with a cannister of Crane’s special brand of extra strength psychological fuckery, and Bruce had clung to Jason and wept while Jason tried to drag Bruce somewhere quiet with arms made thin by malnourishment. They’d never spoken of it again, and a few weeks later, Jason tolerated the Flash’s mutterings about Batman’s impenetrability. The Flash didn’t know, none of them knew. Not like Robin did. Batman was so weak, he had to make himself bigger and scarier than everyone around him. He was so weak, he leaned on his children to keep himself upright on nights when his teeth grind.

Dick stirred, and Jason glanced down at him again. Dick had been by Bruce’s side longer than any of them, at a younger age than any of them. Maybe that’s why Jason hadn’t shoved him to the ground and snapped his neck yet.

“Hey,” Jason snapped. Dick jerked away, scrambling to sit up while still heavy with sleep, “You’re a fucking dick, you know that?”

Dick’s wild eyes fell on Jason and his frown fell into an easy smile, which he wiped with the sleeve of his shirt. “Hey, little wing. I know,” Dick murmured. “How’s your leg?”

“You shot it,” Jason supplied helpfully, sitting up so that his back rested against the bed’s backboard. Dick stood, arms out and hovering as if he wanted to help, but also as if he knew that Jason was still considering gouging his eyes out.

“I had to,” Dick murmured, dropped his hands. “We’re in town for a few days. We’re not finished yet, and I don’t want you hurt in the meantime.”

Jason’s eyebrows raised. “But I did get hurt.”

“’Tis a scratch,’” Dick winked. Jason scowled.

“So, what about Bruce, then? I didn’t see you gunning him down,” Jason retorted.

Dick sat back down in the chair and clasped his hands in front of himself, which he always did when he wanted to touch but knew he shouldn’t. Jason had been to enough Titans meetings as a teenager to recognize the gesture. “Don’t worry about Bruce. I’ll take point on him this time around. Just. Just rest. Hang out. Alfred’s book club didn’t meet this week, I’m sure he has some opinions he’s dying to share about whatever tomb they had for this month.”

“Just because I shared a hobby with Alfred as a kid,” Jason ground out, “does not mean you can force me off the field and call it square. I have an operation to maintain, Dick. I have dealers on the ground, one’s I protect and manage. Who’s gonna do that while I’m laid up with my brother’s love spurting blood all over my sheets?”

“Me,” Dick said, without hesitation. Jason’s eyebrows raised. “I’ll watch your territories and keep them safe while you heal. I’ll update you daily—I told you, we’ll be in town. I can take care of this for you.”

Jason blinked. He kept waiting for Dick to laugh or roll his eyes or rip off his face to reveal Bat-Mite. Dick Grayson didn’t facilitate drug deals. Dick Grayson used to be a cop, used to be Nightwing. Dick Grayson tied up drug dealers.

But Renegade shot Red Hood without batting an eyelash.

“Fine,” Jason ground out. “I don’t like not having a choice, Dickie. You’re lucky I don’t break one of your legs for this.” Jason clenched and unclenched his fists as he spoke. Dick’s eyes flicked to them, and then to Jason’s face again.

“You came back,” Dick whispered. “I’ll have both of my legs lopped off before I let anyone take you away again.”

Jason couldn’t breathe for the force of that claim. He furrowed his brows at Dick, searching for any indication of deceit or hyperbole, but all he saw was dark, ugly resolve. An unwelcome warmth squirmed in Jason’s chest, only bolstered by the simmering childhood crush Jason never managed to dislodge.

But then Dick was standing, and Jason was able to blink away the enthrallment long enough to notice that Dick was moving, picking items up from the ground.

Dick shoved a plush elephant at Jason. Jason just blinked at it, so Dick placed it on the bed. “That’s for Damian,” Dick instructed. “It’s from Haly’s.” He placed a camera on the bed too, “for Tim, there are already photos in the memory card for him to edit.” And then Dick leaned down and picked up a much larger item, and Jason’s jaw fell open. Dick placed the item on the bed too. “That’s for you. It’s a sword.”

“I can see that,” Jason said. He picked it up and unsheathed it just enough to catch the signature on the blade. “Oh. Fuck, Dick, what did you do?”

Dick shrugged, already headed towards the window. “It’s a trophy, from a contract I completed with Slade. He said I could take something. Night, Jay.”

“Night, Dick,” Jason whispered. When the window clicked shut, Jason was still staring at the symbol etched into the blade.

This was League of Assassins steel.

“So, he just left afterwards?” Tim asked, again, as he popped the camera’s memory card into his laptop’s reader. “He didn’t even say hi to the rest of us.”

Tim and Jason were on their own for breakfast, Bruce and Damian were away on a company retreat and Alfred was taking a rare vacation that morning to go to an antiques auction. And so of course they were eating French toast and cereal on the den’s surely irreplaceable furniture as Jason relayed some of his night’s encounter. Tim didn’t need to know about the stolen sword.  

Jason shrugged, leaving his mountain of French toast on the loveseat to limp to the plush chair Tim was perched in.  Jason reached over and snagged Tim’s mug, stealing a sip. He made a face and returned it to the side table. “Black?”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night,” Tim muttered. “Someone set off alarms all over the grounds, I was trying to track—oh. Oh, it was probably Dick, huh? And he didn’t even say h—” Tim cut off with a choked noise. Jason furrowed his brows and leaned over Tim’s shoulder.

“What? What’s on it? He said they were for you to edit, I figured they were landscapes.” Jason tilted his head. “They are landscapes.” They were. Fog laden mountain peeking over the tops of Asiatic architecture.

“Jason, look,” Tim hissed, clicking on a photo near the corner of the screen so that it expanded.

There, a bit blurry in the background of the hastily snapped photo, was Lady Shiva.

“Holy shit,” Jason said.

“He took pictures of a League holdout,” Tim murmured. “Slade let him do that? What were they even doing there?”

Jason crossed his arms. “Maybe Big Bird was right,” Jason muttered, turning and staggering back to his seat. His thigh was throbbing already, and it was still early.

“About?” Tim asked, still sifting through the photos, each one more revealing than next.

“He said he and Slade were partners. Equals. Maybe they are.” Jason gingerly settled back onto the loveseat and picked at his food. He wasn’t terribly hungry anymore. “Maybe he doesn’t need permission.”

Tim scoffed. “Slade’s a manipulative, obsessive control freak, he doesn't have 'partners.' He has a leash on Dick, I’m sure of it. Which means, Dick risked himself to get this to me.  And it means he’s gathering evidence. He’s undercover, Bruce was right,” Tim’s voice pitched in his excitement, and he was quick to begin backing up the photos, after which he would fileshare them for downloading into the Cave’s setup.

Jason grunted. “Slow down, shortpants.”

“Actually, I wore leggings,” Tim corrected. “Only you and Dick wore the hot pants.”

Jason abandoned his plate to the floor and whistled. Titus bounded over and accepted the offering of food greedily. Ace was nowhere to be seen, but Jason still wrapped his leather jacket around himself tighter. “Whatever. Just. We don’t know that Dick’s not giving us bad intel or stringing us along. Don’t get excited yet.”

When Jason looked up, Tim was glaring at him.

“You don’t even want Dick back,” Tim accused. “You’ve gone out of your way to isolate him and push him away. Of course, you don’t want us to take this for what it is, you love to hate him.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, “It’s not like that, Tim—”

“It is!” Tim snarled from over his laptop. “But you don’t understand, Dick was never your—you don’t get it, you didn’t know him like we did. He was pulling Damian off the brink while you were shoveling heads into a duffel bag, so get over yourself.”

Jason slung himself to his feet, bullet wound be damned, and roared, “I’m trying, you, ungrateful brat!”

He caught the flash of fear in Tim’s eye before he even registered that he’d reared back his own fist. He remembered seeing that look, before Dick disappeared and Jason was ready to come back into the fold. When he was tearing up Gotham while Dick played Batman. When Dick couldn’t get there in time and Tim was left to fend Jason’s anger.

Jason dropped his arm, took a deep breath, and stepped back, stumbling as his thigh burned. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m trying,” he murmured, voice quiet.

Tim blinked at him, jaw set. Titus began a low growl, unsure of the location of the threat but ready for it, nonetheless.

“It’s okay,” Tim finally muttered, closing his laptop. “Sorry. I know you and Dick have your own thing too. I’ll be in the Cave.”

When Tim was good and gone, Jason let out a shout of frustration and punched a throw pillow. The force of it landed too much weight on his bad leg, and he crumpled to the ground with a strangled whimper. Titus licked his face.

“Yeah,” Jason murmured, reaching up and scratching Titus behind the ear. “I think it’s time I sleep at a safehouse for a little while too.”

“You’re dressed,” Slade said, leaning against the doorframe. Dick turned from his vanity to flash Slade a megawatt smile, made even more charming by his well-tailored suit. “Are you wearing your vest?” Slade wasn’t talking about the blue silk suit vest.

“Of course,” Dick murmured, striding over to wrap his arms around Slade’s neck. It was his favorite thing to do; it only served to emphasize Slade’s height and maximize their skin-to-skin contact. “I always dress well when I expect I’ll run into an ex.”

They were attending a wedding ceremony and reception for a mobster’s daughter. A classic caper, and one which Dick could no doubt count on Helena to interrupt. All the better: as capable of espionage and subtlety as Helena could be, she had a short fuse and her brand of chaos would provide excellent cover for the quick fix Slade had been paid to perform.

“You will run interference,” Slade reminded him, wrapping an arm around Dick’s waist. “Without any dramatics. I don't want you to get caught up in the bloodshed beyond what you signed up for.” Dick frowned.

“I know, we’ve talked about it. We've negotiated everything, Slade, i don't want to keep re-hashing it.” There was no point in trying to drop his arms, with Slade clinging to him so tightly, so Dick nipped Slade’s ear to show his displeasure instead. “You’d think you’d trust me by now.”

Slade snorted. “It’s hard to lie to me, kid. I trust that you want this,” Slade said, threading fingers into Dick’s coiffed hair with his free hand, “I just don’t trust you know what’s good for you lately.”

“You don’t have to patronize me just to get me to call you daddy,” Dick muttered dryly, wiggling out of Slade’s grip and frantically running his fingers through his hair to try and fix the damage Slade wrought on his pompadour.

Slade grunted and watched Dick’s preening for a moment. Finally, he murmured, “How was your conjugal visit.” Dick froze, and then smirked.

“Jealous?” He asked, pulling his sunglasses from his pocket to check his hair in their reflective lenses. “It wasn’t conjugal, I’m not sleeping with Jason.” He pocketed his sunglasses and beamed up at Slade. “As you already fucking know.”

Slade raised his eyebrows, but Dick’s smile didn’t waver. “Your face is going to get stuck like that, kid. Let’s go.”

That pulled a laugh, a genuine laugh, from Dick.

“Alright, alright. Let me just grab my escrima.”

After a few minutes of painstakingly hiding the escrima sticks under his slacks, Dick joined Slade at the door and they walked out of the safehouse together, looking like the picture of impropriety as they crossed the manicured lawn of one of Gotham’s nicer suburban neighborhoods. Dick waved back at a kindly neighbor who was watering his lawn. Dick recalled from the studying he did on the subdivision that, that neighbor had a penchant for arson.

“Do you think the house is going to be okay while we’re gone?” Dick asked Slade, when Slade opened the door to the car for Dick. Dick slid into the passenger seat. Slade didn’t answer until he’d closed the door and entered from the driver’s side.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Neighborhoods like these encourage residents not to shit where they sleep.”

Dick frowned. “You gave me a list of the residents and their charges and told me to pick as many as I liked. I picked, like, seven.”

Slade started the car, adjusted the rearview mirror, and peeled from the drive way. “Don’t worry, pretty bird. You’ll get your mice. We just have to wait until we’re ready to leave.”

Dick hummed his satisfaction and leaned back his seat, closing his eyes. “Good. I want to get ours, I want them to get theirs, and then I want to leave, permanently this time. I hate this town.”

“Whatever you say, kid,” Slade said. “Everything we're doing here is for you, after all.”

Dick smiled lazily and opened his eyes to look up at Slade, "You really are so good to me, you know." 

Slade grunted noncommittally, but then he placed a hand on Dick's thigh and Dick threaded their fingers together.

Chapter Text

Dick was in Jason’s bed.

He wasn’t wearing clothes. 

“Hey, Jason,” Dick cooed, voice saccharine, from where he lounged on his side, his back arched for no discernible reason. Jason’s throw blanket was draped alluringly over Dick’s hip, veiling his groin but still displaying his Apollo’s belt and the dimples above his ass. Jason swallowed.

 “No,” Jason muttered, from where he stood across the room, leaning against the wall. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, but he could still see Dick. “This is bad.”

“How so?” Dick asked, his tousled hair falling in waves around his face. Jason grimaced, dropped his hand.

“It’s creepy. Put on- Put on clothes, or something,” Jason demanding, gesturing vaguely at Dick. Jason blinked, and Dick was wearing his Nightwing uniform, without the domino mask.

“Better?” Dick asked, batting his eyes. Jason scowled.

“No. No that’s somehow worse,” Jason groaned. Dick frowned with an elegant turn to his mouth.

“What about this?”

Jason let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. “No. No, it’s still your Nightwing getup, you just added the finger stripes. That’s definitely worse.”

Dick looked at his gloved fingers. “I always liked the finger stripes. I’d have kept them, but Babs told me it looked like—”

“It was suggestive, yeah,” Jason muttered, pushing off from the wall. “It doesn’t matter, this isn’t realistic. You compartmentalize too hard to have sex in-costume.”

Dick stretched, and then he was wearing a tight, bright blue muscle shirt and conspicuously taut black briefs. “You have great taste,” Dick offered. “This color really brings out my eyes.”

“Christ,” Jason hissed, cupping his mouth and looking away. “Did you stuff your boxers?”

“They’re not boxers, Jay,” Dick said, glancing down at himself. “They’re briefs. And no, this is how you see me. What you think I have.” Dick smirked and rolled on his back, rising into a backbend. Jason spared him a glance and immediately regretted it. He blinked longingly at Dick's thighs.

“Don’t do that on the bed, it’s not a solid surface. You’re going to fuck up your back,” Jason chided. Dick responded by kicking into a handstand and then spreading into a split.  

“You’re making excuses,” Dick said, his shirt sliding down, revealing the trail of hair leading from his abdomen to his groin. “You like gen ed lit, right? I can always talk Oscar Wilde to you.” Dick waggled his eyebrows.

With a huff, Jason crossed his arms and shot Dick a glare. “I died,” he retorted. Dick blinked at him, so Jason elaborated, “A lot of the authors I read, I was introduced to through school. High school.” Jason looked away pointedly, but not before seeing Dick crack a smile. Even upside down, his smile was disarming.

“Jay, it’s okay. Even if I weren’t a construct of your unrequited desires crafted by your subconscious to punish you for wanting what you can’t have, I know, and I’d understand.”

Jason began pacing. “Whatever. You’re not as cute as you think you are, and this is a fucked-up dream. This is what I get for eating after 2 am. Weird, fucked up, lucid dreams.”

“’The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful,’” Dick recited, in a low, silky voice, flexing his abdominals. “I like that quote. So do you. ‘S that why you imagine me with such a monstrous cock, Jay?”

Jason made a strangled noise. “Dick,” Jason whined pitifully, pressing himself against the wall. Dick winked at him and then lowered himself out of his handstand split. He slid from the mattress to the ground, onto his knees, and spread his thighs.

“Or, if you prefer,” Dick purred, “’Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling.’”

Jason woke up in a cold sweat.

Dick was grinding his teeth.

He did it often, Slade had heard him frequently enough. But he hadn’t heard it since Dick left the Bat, at least not during the nights they shared. And now, tonight, after a blood-drenched day, Slade couldn’t sleep for Dick’s gnashing of teeth.

Slade sat up. “Wake up, kid,” he barked. Dick stirred, blearily blinked up at Slade. Unimpressed, he nuzzled his pillow and began to drift again. Slade cocked his head. “Grayson.”

“No,” Dick muttered.

“You’re loud,” Slade submitted. “You need to talk?”

That prompted Dick to open his eyes. “Oh. Who are you and what have you done with Slade Wilson?” Dick teased. Slade didn’t smile, so Dick burrowed himself into Slade’s side to avoid his withering gaze. “’M fine.”

Slade settled back down into the sheets. Dick remained glued to his side, and Slade didn’t try to dislodge him. Eventually, Dick’s shoulders relaxed, and his breathing evened out.

A couple of hours later, Slade woke up to thrashing.

He shifted and Dick managed to knee him in the kidney. Slade grunted. Dick continued to writhe and mutter under his breath, but Slade couldn’t discern what he was saying.

For several minutes, Slade let Dick act out whatever nightmare he was experiencing. Finally, Slade sat up and left the room, settling on the couch in the living room instead. He’d just begun drifting to sleep when Dick, nearly soundlessly, appeared at the arm of the couch.

“You left,” Dick whispered as if he were afraid of waking the otherwise vacant household. He certainly didn’t have any qualms about waking Slade.

“I did,” Slade murmured, without opening his eye.

Dick crawled onto the too small couch to settle on top of Slade. Slade bit back a noise as Dick settled, but once Dick finished curling up against his bare chest, sleep once again tugged at Slade. Slade tamped it down.

“Nightmare?” Slade asked. Dick shifted.

“Yes,” Dick mumbled. “Finger stripes.”

Slade opened his eye. "Finger stripes" was Dick’s safe word; whatever he dreamt, he didn’t want to discuss it. Slade stroked a hand through Dick’s hair until he felt Dick melt against him.

“Go to sleep, little bird. You offered to take up Jason’s nightshift; you have to wake up in a few hours.”

Dick groaned. “Fuck, I did. Do you want to come with me?”

“Afraid to tour the big bad Red Hood’s territory alone?” Slade mused. Dick bit his nipple and Slade grunted. “You used a mafioso as a human shield against Huntress today. Don’t tell me you’re worried about his dealers.”

“No,” Dick retorted, even as Slade swatted his ass over the bite. “Jason runs a tight ship. It’ll be too quiet; I just don’t want to get bored." Dick paused a beat. "And she wasn't going to kill him, or me. It was just a crossbow bolt to the shoulder; she has better boundaries than anyone gives her credit for. So. Not a human shield. ”

"A crossbow bolt," Slade repeated slowly as if speaking to a child. "One that would have otherwise hit you. Had you not deflected it. With the mafioso." 

"Slade," Dick warned. 

"Little bird." 

Both men fell quiet, and Slade could hear the steady pattering of rain against the window. Dick fidgeted against his chest, restless. Oh. That’s why Dick didn’t want to patrol alone.

“I’ll come with you,” Slade murmured. “But I’m not touching the trash.”

Dick nuzzled Slade. “You won’t have to lift a finger. Unless you want to fuck on a rooftop. We could fuck on a rooftop.”

Slade snorted. “No. We can’t. Go to sleep.” He tossed an arm around Dick if only to encourage him to relax. Dick shifted again, but otherwise quieted down.

Lulled by the rain and the warmth of their bodies on the tiny couch, they finally succumbed to sleep.

Slade dreamt of flaying Catalina Flores alive.  

Chapter Text

“Nn, fuck,” Dick sighed, threading his fingers through Slade’s hair and tugging lightly. Slade grunted and quickened the slide of his fingers inside of Dick, furiously circling and swiping Dick’s prostate with the calloused pads of his fingertips.

Dick’s neck arched, his mouth parting and legs tightening around Slade’s waist. Slade’s perked, and he leaned down to nuzzle Dick’s neck, his beard scratching Dick’s skin like he knew he liked. He nibbled Dick’s neck and manipulated his fingers inside of Dick, ever increasing the pressure and pace while Dick’s breath came out in staccato bursts. Dick’s core rippled and then tightened, and he fisted Slade’s hair before—

“Okay, okay, okay,” Dick sighed, releasing Slade’s hair to shove at his shoulders. “That’s enough, that’s good.”

Slade paused. Then, he glanced down at Dick’s dry (but for the slick of sweat) stomach and pelvis. Slade slowly slipped his fingers out of Dick to brush lightly over his balls, thumb the base of Dick’s still-very-much-present erection, and skim through the soft trail of hair leading to his navel. Dick shuddered.

The disgruntled grunt escaped Slade’s throat before he could swallow it.

“Sh, sh, sh,” Dick shushed, sitting up to kiss the corner of Slade’s mouth, massaging the back of Slade’s neck. “It was good, thank you.” Dick patted Slade’s hip, and Slade obligingly swung his leg so that he wasn’t caging Dick to the mattress with his body.

“Kid,” Slade all but growled in his frustration.

Dick spared him a warning glance, all raised eyebrows and pursed lips, before sliding from the bed and stretching, arching his back to climb his hands down his hips and thighs until he could grip his calves.

Slade shut his lips into a scowl. He sat up in the bed without bothering to hide his appraising focus as Dick took several deep breaths while holding the perturbingly vertical backbend. He watched as Dick eased out of the position to bend over and touch his toes in a far less impressive feat. Then, with a smirk at Slade, he prowled towards the bathroom with that cat-like grace of his.

“I call the first shower,” he announced, closing the door behind him.

When the shshshsh of water on tile shifted to accommodate Dick as he stepped into the spray, Slade ran his fingers through his hair and scowled.

Never, in his entire career as a sexually active adult, did he fail to bring his partner to orgasm (at least not beyond the intentional edging that Adeline enjoyed on occasion.) Since his very first fuck at age 13, he’d managed to satisfy his partners, usually more than once per tryst. It wasn’t difficult, casing individuals and their most exploitable vulnerabilities came second nature.

Dick Grayson was no exception before that woman.

If anything, Slade used to have to find clever routes around Dick’s overexcited youth. Before the gnashing teeth, the aversion to rain, the solo showers, the flickering eyes, the flinching, the tension, the—

“Slade?” Dick poked his head out of the bathroom, his hair slick and skin dripping water. He wasn’t wearing a towel, choosing to shield the bulk of his body with the door instead. “Do we still have that jasmine oil for the diffuser?”

Before Dick couldn’t so much as clean himself without pseudoscience by way of aromatherapy.

Slade grunted and reached for the nightstand. He opened the drawer and pulled out the tiny glass bottle of jasmine essential oil. He also pulled out a white-capped, orange bottle. Dick bounced over for the oil, leaving damp footprints in the carpet. He took the oil from Slade but shook his head when Slade jiggled the pill bottle enticingly. The clatter of the pills hadn’t changed since Slade first bought them from one of his contacts in pharma, and that meant neither had the volume.

“It’s just a beta-blocker,” Slade had said, the first time he offered them to Dick.

Dick had shaken his head then too.

Slade had hoped that Dick would eventually delve into the bottle if he left it out, away from prying eyes (including his own.) But that’s what Slade got for wishful thinking.

Slade returned the bottle to the drawer, and Dick returned to his shower, the paltry attempt at mitigating the raw, mangled part of himself that threatened to swallow him whole gripped tight in his white-knuckled fist.

Discontent with relaxing into the mass of pillows that Dick insisted on, Slade fished his tablet from the sea of bedding and settled down to filter through outstanding contract offers. While Slade marketed himself for all sorts of unsavory operations, he was a renaissance man, after all, perhaps it was time to pick a concentration.

Jason needed a respite from himself.

“Take a vacation,” Tim offered, pointedly elbowing Jason when Jason tried to hop up and perch on Tim’s desk. The jab only served to send Jason jerking back, onto the desk and into one of Tim’s monitors. “Christ,” Tim muttered, even though Jason caught and steadied it.

“The thing about a vacation,” Jason said, patting the monitor in apology before hopping to sit on the desk regardless. “If I go: damn, there I am.”

Tim frowned, although he’d turned his attention back to another one of his monitors, where he was playing security footage from a recent crime scene. They were on hour four of seventy-two. The crime itself didn’t happen until hour seventy, but thieves tended to case their marks at least once in the days prior to their heists.

“Do you think that guy in the yellow baseball cap looks suspicious?” Tim asked, pausing the feed and squinting at the pixelated image. “He’s taking a lot of pictures.”

Jason leaned forward to look, only to grimace. “Yeah, but he’s not taking pictures of the exhibits, or the exit and surveillance points. Look,” Jason pointed, and then traced a line from the man to the nearest solid object in his line of sight. A woman slightly bent over to investigate the details of the display.

“Oh, gross,” Tim balked.  “So, not a thief, just an asshole then.”

“Yeah,” Jason agreed, straightening. “Get me a screenshot of his face and I’ll be on the lookout. I could use a good punching bag.”

Tim shook his head. “I’ll give you his picture, but you can’t just punch him around. You need to pick on somebody your own size. Or, again, go to the beach and meditate or something.”

“Oh my god,” Jason cooed, leaning his head back to grin at the ceiling. “You’re so fucking right.”

“I usually am,” Tim murmured, not tearing his gaze from the footage. “I’d recommend a beach in the Pacific. Getting out of the city works better when you go way out. You could go to the Maldives.” Tim frowned. “Wait, don’t do that. It’s a honeymoon destination. There’s like 100 islands in French Polynesia, maybe try there?”

Jason hopped off Tim’s desk and ruffled his hair. “No, you, dork. You’re very wrong about the vacation, especially with that isolated beach bullshit. No, you’re right that I need to pick on somebody more up to the task. Thanks, Timbo.”

Tim rolled his eyes and fixed his hair without sparing Jason a glance. “You missed the point, but whatever. Don’t get, like, killed.”

Jason gave him a little salute and started for the door. But then he nearly tripped over a discarded boot. He bent down and picked up the offending shoe, surprised to find it was a piece of Tim’s Red Robin uniform. The Red Robin uniform, which, like all their uniforms, should have been stored behind lock and key when not in use. He looked back at Tim, who’d tucked his legs in so that he could prop his chin on his knees while staring at the monitor screen. He looked so small in his oversized sweater and leggings, his bare feet barely poking past the seat of his chair as curled in as he was.

Jason didn’t really notice before, but Tim’s eyes were bloodshot. Deep bags sagged underneath, his cheekbones standing out in stark definition. He’d told Jason he’d only been at it for four hours, but looking at him now, at the several empty coffee mugs scattered on every available surface and the dirty clothes piled into corners as if Tim had started to clean up but then gave up halfway through, Jason didn’t believe him.

“Hey, Tim?” Jason asked, gingerly placing the boot back on the ground.

Tim grunted acknowledgment but remained engrossed in his task.

Jason opened his mouth. Then he closed it. After a pause, a pause Tim didn’t even seem to register, Jason said, “Don’t forget to, like, eat or whatever.”

With a grunt, Tim gestured vaguely to a pile of takeout boxes perched on a few of his external CPUs. CPUs which ran hot, and who knew how long those leftovers had been sitting out. Tim certainly didn’t.

And, despite the distressing scene, despite the cry for intervention that emanated from the room, Jason left. When Jason made it to the sidewalk, something ugly twisted his stomach.

‘Don’t forget to, like, eat or whatever.’ It sounded so awkward coming from Jason’s mouth. Disingenuous, pitiful.

He thought back to Tim’s advice, the fact that Tim even gave him advice. That Tim wanted him to meditate and that Tim, even while absorbed in work, humored Jason’s unannounced visit in the first place.

If someone were to glance their way and see past the disparity in their physical stature, would that someone know who was the big brother?

Jason thought back to when Dick was around, actually present and around, not just the imitation of Dick that Damian got after school sometimes, or the hollow-eyed Dick that attended public appearances with a charming smile that belied his estrangement. The Dick who would have noticed Tim’s state as soon as he’d walked in and seen him. The Dick who caught whenever Damian was injured, even when Damian hid his limps behind an acid tongue. The Dick who would antagonize and needle the others just as soon as he’d hug them or wrap their sprains.

Dick wasn’t a big brother when Jason was Robin. But he’d grown into the role, he learned to perform it just as well as his quadruple somersault. Because after Jason died, he needed to, and Dick knew how to step up where he was needed.

Jason knew how to save himself, and there wasn’t room for passengers on his lifeboat.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jason set out towards the alley where he’d parked his bike and helmet.

Hours later, under the cover of night, Jason lounged on a roof, listening in on Black Mask’s conversations in the high rise across the street. He didn’t intend for this to remain a stakeout, but Black Mask wouldn’t wander close enough to the floor to ceiling bulletproof windows on which Jason wanted to test his newest ammunition patent.

Going through the patent office with required an alias and was a headache, but it was worth it every time he got around to suing the unsuspecting thieves who thought they could rip off the Red Hood’s cache. Gotham thrived off subverting criminal justice, but mobsters were shit at evading well executed civil disputes.

Black Mask had been shouting at Ms. Li about an uncooperative supplier for about ten minutes, and Jason was just about lulled into apathy when Black Mask growled, “Any word back from Deathstroke on our offer? He’s usually not such a fucking hard ass for repeat customers. But I’m going to fucking lose it if I don’t have a fucking head on my desk by Monday.”

Jason perked, gripping his left headphone and pressing it tighter against his ear.

“Yes, he rejected the offer,” Ms. Li murmured.

“Then just raise it, what are you waiting on?” Black Mask growled. “Throw in a case of champagne and a prostitute, I don’t care, I just want it done.”

“I’ve already attempted further negotiation, but he is, per his people, otherwise in engaged in a personal project and as such he is restricting additional contracts to those whose subjects are perpetrators of sexual violence.”

Jason could hear the blood rushing in his ears. His jaw tightened and shame clogged his throat.

“He what?” Black Mask exploded, gesturing wildly. “He’s a fucking assassin, not Mother Theresa!” He grabbed a mug from his desk, strode towards the window, and threw it so that it shattered against Gotham’s skyline.

He was still too far away for maximum satisfaction, but Jason took the shot. The window shattered, and Black Mask’s expletives grew severalfold.

Jason slumped back and scrubbed his face.

“Yeah,” he murmured as Black Mask, assuming Jason’s involvement, cursed his name. “Same.”