Work Text:
“Slade!” Dick shouted, voice hoarse. Sweat gathered around his hairline and his body trembled even as he slammed his left shoulder against the wood door of Slade’s Providence safe house. “Slade! Please, you have to let me in! I have a-- just let me in!”
When Dick slammed his body again the door again, it swung open and Dick tumbled through the threshold to splay across the floor. He blinked and saw well worn, but sturdy, black boots. In that moment, he could've kissed them.
“I don’t have to do anything,” Slade rumbled from where he towered above Dick. One of the boots disappeared and Dick sat up to watch Slade kick the door closed. “But you’ve piqued my interest. What do you want, kid?”
For the first time several hours, Dick allowed himself to relax, which meant collapsing back onto the floor, muscles sore from how tightly he’d been wound. “Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope,” Dick sighed, eyes fluttering closed.
“The truth, Grayson,” Slade warned, prodding Dick's side with his boot.
Dick’s eyes shot open. “That’s my fucking problem! I can’t lie. I can’t even keep my mouth shut half the time.” Dick sat up and wrapped a hand around Slade’s ankle and whined, “Slade, I can’t even boy hostage like this, much less Nightwing.”
“You’ve never been able to keep your mouth shut,” Slade said, shaking loose of Dick’s grip. He walked away, and Dick scrambled to his feet to chase after him. "Presume I believe you. What, exactly, caused your alleged affliction?"
“Slade, I’m serious!” Dick snapped. “I was cursed by a witch!” An acolyte of Circe’s, but no need to air out Diana’s dirty laundry in front of Slade Wilson.
He followed Slade into the kitchen, where Slade was pouring two glasses of rye whiskey on the rocks. Slade placed both glasses on the kitchen island.
“Presuming you’re not full of shit,” Slade murmured, sipping from his glass, “why did you come here?” He pushed the second glass towards Dick.
“You already know all of the details about me, the family, and my vigilantism. I can’t be any more compromised than I already am around you,” Dick babbled, making a face at the offered glass.
Slade snorted. "I'm sure I could find some way to compromise you further. What's the face for, kid?"
As easily as it had since his unfortunate run-in, Dick's mouth fell open. “I don’t like whiskey; I only ever drink it when I catch you in a bar so you’ll let me suck your dick,” Dick blurted before clapping a hand over his mouth and flushing underneath his olive skin. Slade blinked and then smirked.
“Is that why you’re here instead of with Daddy?”
Dick narrowed his eyes and lowered his hand. “No. I'm here because I don’t trust Bruce, and I want to protect what little privacy and secrecy I have left."
After another sip of his whiskey, Slade murmured, "So what? You saying you trust me?"
"Yes," Dick said, without any hesitation or resistance.
There was a pregnant pause as Slade tilted his head and considered Dick.
“You can stay,” Slade finally said. Dick beamed, but then Slade added, “If you tell me who told you my whereabouts.”
Dick bit his lip until the skin split, but nevertheless the truth tumbled out: “I found Wally through Damian, and then Joey through Wally, who refused to say, but he did direct me to Rose, who called Wintergreen and lied to him for me, which is not her or Wintergreen’s fault, so don’t do anything to them, take it out on me.” Dick sucked in air.
Slade cocked his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting I would harm my children or colleague for divulging my location?”
“Yes,” Dick said, with a wince. He tried to close his mouth but his jaw fell open, “I have no doubt you would.” Slade grunted and Dick added with a grimace, “I’m sorry. It’s fair, but that doesn’t mean I should say it”
“Don’t apologize,” Slade said, tossing back the rest of his whiskey. “I like you honest. It's a good look on you.”
Dick would have flushed again, but he was distracted when Slade’s hand dipped below the kitchen island. Dick watched with furrowed brows until he heard a click. Followed by several more clicks and scrapes and groans as every window, door, and garage in the house locked down with the swiftness one could expect from a mercenary’s base.
Dick swallowed. “Did you just lock me in?”
“Yes,” Slade said. He turned his back and opened his refrigerator, pulling out a pitcher of what appeared to be lemonade, complete with picturesque floating lemon slices. From the cabinet, he procured a mason jar with a handle. Dick never took Slade for being a purveyor of HGTV. He said as such out loud and Slade poured the lemonade into the mason jar with a snort. Then, he offered the glass to Dick. “You should hydrate.”
Dick eyed it distrustfully. “Is that laced with anything?”
Slade shook his head. “No. It’s lemonade. Since you don’t like alcohol. You trust me with your life, but not with a glass of lemonade?”
“You locked me in,” Dick shot back.
“To protect you,” Slade said sweetly. “You’re compromised. Nothing can come in or out, so your secrets are safe here.”
There could be surveillance, there could be bugs, Slade was most definitely enjoying this too much. Nevertheless. “I trust you. I know I shouldn’t trust you, but I do,” Dick conceded as he took the lemonade from Slade. He gingerly sipped it and then took several gulps as the sweet, tart liquid cooled his throat.
“Good boy,” Slade cooed, snagging Dick's neglected whiskey for himself.
“Don’t call me that,” Dick muttered, even as he settled on a bar stool across the island from Slade. Slade raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t like it?”
Dick’s jaw twitched as he tried to resist. He made it half a beat before he blurted, “I like it a lot, but it’s a bit much for casual conversation and I don’t want you to think it’s okay to call me pet names in front of anyone in the family. It's bad enough you called me 'little bird' in front of Bruce once. He didn't speak to me for a week.”
Dick pointedly drank several gulps of lemonade while Slade smirked.
“It's cruel of him to withhold affection from you. I can't imagine being so cruel to you."
"Well. You have. You've stabbed me before," Dick shot back.
"Perhaps,” Slade cleared his throat, settling down on a bar stool and leaning forward in his interest, “but tell me again, how did you decide on the name Robin? And did Bruce know when he replaced you?”
Dick set his jaw. "No," he ground out. "I don't want to tell you, because you already know the answer. I have to tell the truth, Slade, I don't have to hash out all of the details."
"No," Slade shrugged. "But you can. You have my full attention."
Dick blinked. He opened his mouth. He closed it. "Oh."
An hour later, Dick's breath was short and his eyelashes wet.
“And Jason,” Dick spit vehemently, “does not have a monopoly on anger or dying or being pissed at Bruce. If he thinks Bruce's distrust is so awful, I would love to see him with Bruce's trust, and his demands, and his expectations. I've taken the cowl, I've arrested my siblings, I've been berated and punished for stepping outside the arbitrary boundaries he's placed on me. Jason has no fucking clue.”
“It's admiration and jealousy, little bird. Jason does chase after your hand-me-downs,” Slade cooed, refilling Dick’s glass. “Your mother’s name, Harper, Koriand’r. Brothers can be so difficult, Joey and Grant took each other’s toys too.”
“Kori isn’t a toy,” Dick muttered. “She was my fiancée.” Dick crossed his arms on the counter and buried his face in them. “Babs was also my fiancée. I’ve had too many fiancées, Slade,” he whined.
Slade snorted. “You’ve had two. At least you’ve never been married, I assure you, it's worse. Get off the counter, we can go settle down elsewhere.”
Dick lifted his head, jaw still, unfortunately, slack. “Don't say that. I’m really attracted to your ex-wife. Whenever you describe her, she sounds like she’d cut out my tongue after heisting all of my assets.”
“She has her own assets, she wouldn’t want yours,” Slade said dryly. “You’re insatiable.”
“You sound jealous,” Dick teased. Slade blinked.
“Do you want me to be jealous?” Slade asked, lips curling up.
Dick shot him a glare, but, courtesy of the curse, his mouth fell open: “Yes. And I think you’d be right to be. You're not my only gentleman caller, Wilson.”
The grin fell from Slade’s face. “Oh? Please, share.”
Dick’s eyes widened and he let out a pitiful, desperate whine. “Slade...” he pleaded. "Don't make me. It was a joke, I promise. I don't have gentleman callers. I don't even have gentlelady callers."
“Little bird,” Slade cooed, cupping Dick’s face as Dick ground his teeth. Slade massaged Dick's jaw with his fingers. “I want names. Share, don't hold back on me now.”
After a brief struggle with his tongue, Dick conceded with a dirty look, "Lucas, Richard, although he really just wants to brutalize me, Thomas, and Tiger. Tiger may be wishful thinking,” Dick ducked his head from Slade's grip to hide a grin. “Tiger’s so mean, I miss him.”
“Your list is light,” Slade murmured, standing and walking around the counter to wrap an arm around Dick's shoulders. “Do you want me to be meaner, little bird?”
“No,” Dick said, leaning against Slade. “Be nice to me.”
Slade looped his other arm under Dick's knees and lifted him so that Dick could nestle his face against Slade’s neck. “How do you want me to be nicer? What do I need to do?”
“I don’t know, throw me up against a wall, ravish me. You have enhanced intellect, you’ll figure something out,” Dick murmured.
With a snort, Slade chided, "That doesn't sound very nice, little one."
“No, it is," Dick insisted. "Just don’t tie me up or gag me. Everyone always wants to tie me up and gag me.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Slade offered blithely. He carried Dick to the bedroom and laid him down on the comforter. Dick grinned and stretched out, arching his neck and moaning obscenely.
“This mattress so soft for an old man,” Dick cooed. “Too soft. How’s your back? Did you throw your back out? Is that why you tossed me on a bed instead of throwing me up against the wall? Have you considered lower back exercises for seniors?”
With an eye roll, Slade crawled over Dick and lowered himself on his forearms, so that he could whisper in Dick’s ear. “I should shave my beard, maybe it’ll make me look younger.”
Dick’s eyes grew comically wide. “No!” He nearly wailed. “I like your beard! What happened to being nice?”
Slade hummed, "Respect your elders," and unbuttoned Dick’s jeans, sliding them off his hips and legs. Dick helped by wiggling his hips and lifting and curling his legs. Once off, Slade folded the pants and slid from the bed to place them on a nearby desk while Dick wiggled out of his shirt and threw it on the ground.
“Really?” Slade chided, picking up the shirt and folding it too. “You’d think you were spoiled by a butler.”
“Sometimes I feel guilty for riding on the fact I spent my early childhood in the circus even though I spent most of my life with Bruce’s credit card in my school bag,” Dick babbled. “Especially around Jason. I think sometimes I’m hostile towards Jason because he reminds me of shortcomings in our approach to criminal justice.”
Slade snorted. “You are a bastion of unnecessary guilt,” Slade promised. “Don't invite your brother into my bed. He’s obsessed with you as it is, I wish you’d add him to your list of men I need to physically disable.”
“Slade! That’s not what that list is for!” Dick chided. “And Jason isn't into me. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for being so absent when he was Robin. And then I arrested him several times. Several. You’re wrong, Slade.”
“Oh,” Slade cooed, cupping Dick’s face. “You believe that.”
“Yup,” Dick chirped, breaking out into a grin when Slade lifted Dick’s legs and hooked them over his shoulders. "I believe it. I believe you should also hurry it up because I've wanted to crawl you like a tree since you let me in." Dick clapped his hand over his mouth and burned scarlet.
"Oh, little bird," Slade murmured, pulling Dick's hand away and pinning his wrist to the mattress. "No need to censor yourself. You're only being honest."