Work Text:
"I don't know what to do next," Dick heard Bruce mutter to Dinah, shaking his head.
"I have a suggestion or two," she replied dryly, giving him a small smile to show she was kidding.
Kidding or not, Clark was who he was, and thus felt the need to interject, "We're many things, Canary, but I'd like to think torturers aren't one of them."
Behind them, Jason rolled his eyes. Dick couldn't even blame him; they'd been at this for hours, everyone trying to get Deathstroke the Terminator to reveal his secrets, to tell them where the bombs were before three major cities were blown to hell. Bruce, Dinah, Clark, Diana, Hal, Oliver, Barry—all of them had tried to force Slade Wilson to talk, all to zero success.
None of them would say it, but Dick knew they were all at least slightly impressed by the merc's dedication. Facing the fury of the entire upper-class of the League wasn't an easy thing, and yet Deathstroke had maintained his silence. Jason wasn't the only one getting ready to suggest some tougher methods, before millions upon millions of people died.
Dick had spent the last twelve hours telling himself that he was wrong, that there was no way Slade would listen to him, that he was inflating his own importance and all that would come of speaking up was his own humiliation and having to tell the League—and, worse, his family—what had really happened all those years ago.
Seven years. Seven. Years.
Jesus, what he wouldn't give to go back to fifteen, before Slade, before the Titans, back when it was just him and Bruce against the world. Getting hurt by villains but not being...abused by them.
He was kidding himself, though. He knew that. He was just stalling for time, stalling to protect himself. He'd never wanted any of them to know what happened, and he'd taken great care to never let it get out. Not even Starfire had known, and they'd started dating not even six months after.
He hadn't talked to Koriand'r in a while. If they ended up surviving this, he'd have to give her a call. They were still friends, and he missed her company. If he wanted to talk...well, she'd listen.
"Let me try," Dick said before he could lose his nerve. He immediately regretted it, his throat closing as everyone turned their attention to him. He kept his expression perfectly even, his chin raised confidently, his body relaxed.
"Nightwing, I know you—" Bruce began, but Dick didn't care what he was going to follow that with.
"If it doesn't work, it doesn't work," he interrupted, shrugging a shoulder like it was no big deal. In his peripheral vision, he saw Cyborg frown. Shit, this was going to kill Victor. "We won't be any further behind than we already are. Might as well let me give it a shot."
Bruce considered for a moment, then shared a look with Clark and nodded.
Dick's anxiety grew, and he fought the urge to run. He didn't want to do this, not one single fucking bit. He hadn't had to be so close to Slade Wilson since—
Well. Since.
"Thank you," Dick said, not letting on to how much he wanted to scream. He was Nightwing, a leader, a warrior. He could do this, no problem.
He walked out of the viewing room steady and sure, heading for the door that lead to the room where they were keeping Deathstroke. Everyone would be watching, he knew. Whether it was from the two-way mirror or on a video feed, he had a very wide audience. Hopefully he'd get the information and it wouldn't matter.
Taking one moment outside the room to steady himself, Dick took a deep breath, and then pushed open the door.
It felt wrong, seeing Slade without his mask on. The shocking white hair and eyepatch were far more unfamiliar than the black and bronze mask he'd always had on, no matter what. It used to make Dick want to scream, that mask. He'd wanted to see Slade fall apart, wanted to see the perpetually calm man crack. He'd hated that while he was trembling or screaming or thrashing Slade was still in control, still blank, with that fucking mask.
So yeah, seeing him without it was a little jarring.
Slade looked up at him as he entered, his bored expression morphing into pleased surprise.
"Robin," he said, voice as smooth as ever. Dick contained his shudder; how many times had Slade purred his name, just like that? "Although I suppose you're Nightwing now, aren't you? You've made it on your own, stepped out of the bat's shadow—you've grown into quite a fine young man."
Dick hated—hated—that he felt pride at that comment. He'd acknowledged years ago that he had a problem with seeking praise from authority figures, especially when it came to Bruce. Slade had filled that role for a while, no matter how...screwed up he'd made it.
Dick slid into the seat across from the mercenary, keeping his expression calm and even. Unbothered. Unaffected.
Slade's eye flashed briefly, knowing and smug. Dick fought against the urge to ball his hands into fists, against the urge to punch that expression off the older man's face.
"Tell me where the bombs are," Dick said.
Deathstroke tilted his head. "And why would I do that? If your dear mentor and all of his friends couldn't make me tell them what they want to know, why would I tell you?"
He sounded genuinely curious, even amused. Here goes nothing, Dick thought, and plowed on with a bravery he didn't really feel, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Because you owe me," he said quietly.
In an instant, Slade's expression went perfectly blank, unreadable, not giving anything away.
"I owe you," he echoed slowly, not a question but not a statement either, more rolling the words around in his mouth.
Dick nodded, keeping his breathing even, his eyes locked onto Slade's.
Slade licked his lips, briefly hesitant, and then relaxed back into his seat, raising a mocking eyebrow. "And you think I owe you enough to call this job off? I'm getting paid over ten million dollars, Robin. I don't think I owe you that much."
"I do," Dick disagreed firmly, tasting something sour in his mouth. I do, you sick fuck— "And frankly you're getting ripped off—that's less than a dollar for each life you're going to take; I thought you held your skills in higher regard than that."
The mercenary's lips quirked upwards, as if amused by Dick's attempt, but he was holding himself very still. Dick let out a shaky breath; Slade was going to agree with him, he knew it. And it was oddly validating.
"Tell me where the bombs are, Slade, and then we're even," Dick told him.
Slade barked out a laugh and leaned forward, capturing Dick's gaze. "That easy, hmm?" he said with a smirk. "I tell you how to save a few cities and you forget everything I did to you, bygones be bygones?" He shook his head, laughing under his breath. "My, my. How self-sacrificing of you."
"That shouldn't be news to you," Dick said evenly.
For a moment, Slade's expression was sharp and hungry and viciously pleased. It was the expression Dick had always pictured on the older man's face when Deathstroke was on top of him, whenever he'd managed to picture Slade as anything other than a faceless demon sent straight from hell to destroy him.
"No it's not," Slade murmured. The expression held, long enough that Dick started feeling antsy, started feeling his throat closing, anxiety taking over his chest. He could almost feel phantom hands, and quickly brushed the thought away. That would only lead to a panic attack, and he hadn't had one of those in years. He didn't want to start now.
"No it's not," Slade repeated, his voice stronger this time, and his expression shifted back into lighter territory. Dick let out a slow breath, his body relaxing. He hadn't realized he'd tensed so much.
"That's how you came to be in my company, after all," Slade continued. His eye shifted past Dick, sliding intently over the two-way mirror like he could picture the heroes on the other side, before back to the young vigilante in front of him. "So desperate to protect your teammates, you offered me..." amusement danced across his face, "...everything. Well," he amended, as if hearing the protest in Dick's mind, "I suppose offer is the wrong word, but the end result was the same."
"And all of that brought us here," Dick said shortly, uninterested in a trip down memory lane. No one behind the glass needed to know the details, no more than they already extrapolated from what they'd heard. "To you owing me."
Slade, it seemed, did not share his wish to keep things as vague as possible, and smirked when he realized that was what Dick was doing. His eye once again slid to the two-way mirror.
"How much did you tell them? You were so angry back then, so consumed with your own independence and superiority, much like your undead successor is now—I doubt you would've gone running back to the bat for help. And your darling little team..." He shook his head. "They were all so weak; they wouldn't have been able to handle the news, and you would've known that. So have you told anyone?" He tutted in mock concern, his gaze going back to the hero across from him. "I don't believe that's healthy, Robin."
Anger sparked in Dick. "I don't think you have any right to tell me what's healthy," he said tightly. "You have no right to make judgments over any aspect of my life, in fact. Not after all the fucked-up shit you pulled. You had power over me and you abused it, Slade. You know what you did was wrong on so many levels. So I'm giving you a chance here to let the past be the past. Tell me where the bombs are, and the past is all it'll be."
Slade watched him for a while, his expression shifting into perfect blankness, and Dick found it was extremely easy to hold his gaze now. He wasn't a fifteen-year-old boy anymore, just barely keeping his head above water. He'd had years to handle this himself, and Slade owed him. He didn't want to have to forget this, to let Slade get away with it all, but if it saved more than ten million people...
Not a choice at all. Slade was right—he was self-sacrificing; he would always put people before him. Maybe that sucked, but it meant that he was about to save many, many lives.
"Got a pen and paper?" Slade asked in a bored tone, and Dick felt victory surge. He did, in fact, have those materials, and he put them on the table, pushing them within reach of Slade's bound hands.
The mercenary wrote for a while, line after line, which was expected—if you planned to decimate three major cities, you weren't going to leave the job up to just a couple bombs.
When he finished writing, Slade put the pen down and read over the list one last time, then looked up at Dick. "You probably hate me, for what I did," he said smoothly, that tone so very familiar. "But I don't mind that—if anything, I wish you hated me more. Clearly I didn't do a good enough job, considering you're sitting there, talking like a mature adult."
"You always wanted me to hate," Dick said tiredly. "You always wanted me to be so angry. You thought if I did, if I was, then I'd follow your lead and accept the darkness in me. But all that did, Slade, is remind me of what I really value in life."
"But don't you want me dead?" Slade asked curiously. "You can't honestly say that you wouldn't prefer me in the ground, after everything that went down between us. I infected your friends, made you go against everything you stand for, made you commit crimes and attack those you love, made you seek my approval, and then I made you—"
"Give me the paper, Slade," Dick said on a sigh. Surprisingly, the mercenary did, and didn't attempt to jerk it back once Dick reached for it.
Dick headed for the door, the list of bombs grasped tightly in his fist. Before he could actually get out into freedom, Slade stopped him with his words.
"Have you had sex with anyone else?" Deathstroke asked. "Since me? I know you were a virgin when we came together."
Dick drew in a sharp breath, his eyes going wide. Until this moment, he'd managed to keep it vague, managed to make sure that even if anyone had suspicions, they couldn't confirm what they thought. But Slade wasn't going to let him get off so easy, of course not. He couldn't let Dick keep that much dignity.
With a deep breath, Dick turned back to face him. Slade was smiling, condescending and smug. "Was that necessary?" he asked, his jaw clenching.
"It's an honest question," Slade said, tilting his head. It was not.
"Even if it was, I don't owe you an answer," Dick told him, eyes narrowed.
"Their loss, if you haven't," Slade mused. "The sight you made, splayed under me..." He shook his head. "I can't even imagine how these seven years have improved your physique."
Rage made Dick's blood boil, hot enough to make his vision white out for a moment. How dare he—?!
"Kudos to everyone else for resisting, if so. But be honest, between friends..." He leaned in, as if they were sharing a secret. "Batman never—?"
Slade laughed breathlessly, victoriously, when Dick punched him, which made Dick's rage even greater. He went for another hit, not caring that his target was chained to a table and couldn't fight back.
But before his fist could connect someone grasped his arm tightly, tugging him from the room. Dick didn't fight, allowing whoever it was to maneuver him out of the room, his eyes fixed on Slade's knowing gaze before the door slammed shut between them.
"Here," Dick said quietly, thrusting the list out to the person, not looking at them. "The bomb locations. Distribute it immediately, so we can get them taken care of as soon as possible. I'm gonna go home. Call me if you need me."
"Nightwing—"
Oh, of course Clark had been the one to go in and grab him; no way was Superman going to let a prisoner get beaten up in his care, no matter what the prisoner had done.
"It's done," Dick interrupted. It's done. "If you need any additional assistance, call me." He started to walk away and then stopped, hesitating. "I'd...post a guard outside his door, if I were you."
There was a pause. "Why do you say that?" Clark asked cautiously.
"Because some people who don't share your dislike of killing just saw that conversation," Dick replied, keeping his voice perfectly calm, unaffected. "If you want your prisoner alive come morning, I'd take the precaution."
He walked away before Superman could say anything more, and was eternally grateful that no one else tried to stop him, either.
Dick felt their presence before he heard them, and they didn't say anything as they approached where he was sitting at the edge of the rooftop.
He'd almost forgotten, after spending so long in Blüdhaven, how beautiful Gotham could look from up high. It was gloomy and foggy and dark and no matter what there was always some sound of a less-than-legal activity going on, but it was home, and it was comforting.
They sat around him, close enough that he could reach out and touch them if he wished but not crowding him. Jason on his right with Barbara next to him, Damian on his left, and Tim standing behind the youngest Robin.
None of them spoke, for which Dick was grateful. He didn't know what he'd say if they asked him about it. He'd never talked about it, never spoken of what happened. Where would he even start?
"Green Lantern and Flash are currently guarding Wilson's cell," Damian told him. Dick glanced at his little brother, who was glaring into the far distance, his lips pursed.
"Ah," Dick replied, because he didn't know what he was supposed to say to that. He didn't know what Damian's point was by telling him that, considering he'd been the one to suggest protection for Slade. Dick wouldn't put it past Jason and Damian to conspire to come up with a very permanent end to their Deathstroke problem, and though Dick himself wasn't a killer, he appreciated the caring that went into their thought processes.
"Superman should just guard the door himself," Jason said with a snort, shaking his head. "Right now I think he's the only one still one hundred percent in the Killing is Wrong category—even Flash seemed pissed off enough to contemplate the idea."
"We've been considering a mutiny," Tim told Dick matter-of-factly. "I mean, it is Superman, so not exactly easy, but Bruce still has a supply of Kryptonite that is easy to get to. Anyone else that sides with him we can easily have countermeasures against; Bruce's paranoia had to pay off at some point, plus we're pretty great at what we do."
Dick squinted out at the city, fighting against the burn in his eyes.
In the grand scheme of things, Dick wasn't all that special. He didn't have powers, he wasn't the greatest fighter in the world nor was he one of the most brilliant minds, he wasn't immortal or from another race or anything like that. And yet here we was, surrounded by those people, explaining to him the murder they wanted to commit for him.
He couldn't help it—he laughed, tilting his head up to smile at Tim. Red Robin looked briefly surprised before he smiled back at the elder vigilante.
"As much as I appreciate the fact that you're all willing to take on the league," Dick said, looking back out at the city and feeling a bit more relaxed than he had before, "I don't believe that would be wise."
"Screw wise," Barbara muttered, so quiet Dick barely heard it, and he looked to her in surprise. She met his gaze steadily over Jason's shoulder, unwavering. He sighed and looked down, kicking his feet absently at the side of the building.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
A jolt went through his family.
"You're sorry?" Jason asked incredulously. He wasn't wearing his mask, his black and white hair ruffling in the faint breeze. His face was so much harder than it used to be, before his death, before the Joker. Understandable, but sometimes Dick wished he could see that fire-fueled but still innocent boy again, instead of this grown, betrayed, skilled man with far too much anger under his belt. "What could you possibly have to be sorry about?"
"I didn't come to you," Dick said. He lifted his head and watched as the bat signal went off in the distance. They all paused, and then dismissed it; Bruce would check it out, and call if he actually needed them. For now, this was where they needed to be. "I was in way over my head, and instead of reaching out to you and Bruce and Barbara I decided to handle it all on my own. And this makes us look so much weaker. If one of Batman's people can be so easily manipulated—"
"Do shut up, Grayson," Damian told him. His tone was bored, uncaring, but his hands were balled into tight fists and shaking faintly against his thighs. "We don't say stupid things in this family if we can help it."
Dick winced. This must be so hard for his youngest brother. Damian looked up to him, and Dick had always done his best to be an excellent role model for him. But this? What he'd let Slade do to him? That must've dropped Damian's opinion very low indeed.
"He's doing that thing again," Barbara said dryly.
"He totally is," Jason agreed.
"No doubt about it," Tim added.
"I can't tell which one of us they're talking about," Damian muttered, narrowing his eyes at his siblings.
"No one blames you, Dick," Barbara said quietly. "Least of all us, definitely not Damian." Damian blinked, looking surprised. "This doesn't make us think any less of you. You were put in an impossible situation—protect yourself, or save the lives of your team. It was no choice at all. Any of us—" she glanced around, making sure she wasn't misspeaking, "—would've made the exact same decision."
Dick shuddered at the very thought of Slade getting his hands on his family. Tim was only a year and a half older than Dick had been when everything happened with Slade—if Deathstroke had laid a single hand on him, Dick would've been pushed to murder.
He could understand, then, where his brothers were currently coming from.
"It was terrifying," Dick told them, his voice barely more than a whisper. No one said anything, for which he was immensely grateful. "I was only fifteen, leading a team on my own, and suddenly they were dying because a sociopath wanted me as an apprentice and the only thing I could do to stop it was let him..." He trailed off, falling silent.
There was something else he wanted to say, something else he wanted to get off his chest, but he wasn't sure if it was too much information, wasn't sure if his twelve-year-old little brother needed to hear anything more than what he'd just said.
"Say it," Jason gently encouraged. They all knew what was going through his mind, and were accepting it. "Don't worry about us fucks; just talk."
Dick hesitated for a moment more before saying, "It's been seven years since it all happened and he's still the only person I ever had sex with." He rolled his shoulders. "Shit, he messed with my head so much. He wasn't lying earlier, when he said he made me crave his approval. I did; I spent a month working for him, and every once in a while he reminded me so strongly of Bruce..."
He laughed humorlessly. "And you know what's even worse? Today I went in there and he told me I'd grown into a fine young man, and I actually felt proud. He abused me physically and emotionally and sexually and took away my free will and yet his praise still felt good. How fucked up is that?"
They were all silent for a moment, and this time the quiet felt stifling.
"That's not all that unusual," Tim said. "You were basically a hostage, and Deathstroke your captor. Your mind started to adjust to his wants in order to survive mostly intact; it's a kind of Stockholm Syndrome, really. And just because it was years ago doesn't mean it wouldn't still impact you a little. The important thing is that he doesn't have control over you anymore."
Trust Tim to always come back to him with a reasonable explanation for something Dick couldn't wrap his head around.
He smiled, and felt far calmer than he had in a long while. His family would always back him, and he couldn't even begin to describe how much that meant to him.
"Promise me something," Jason said, and his voice was lighter, thankfully breaking the heavy mood that had been building and building.
"What's that, Jay?" Dick asked, glancing at him.
"If a psychopath ever infects somebody you care about with killer nanobots, reach out. I have a bullet with their name on it, don't you worry."
Dick's eyes crinkled and he bumped his shoulder against his younger brother's, a silent thanks.
They sat there for the next hour, just watching the city, and his siblings crept closer around him, sensing that touching was okay now. He leaned his head on Jason's shoulder, held Barbara's hand when she reached out, slung an arm around Damian (against the younger boy's halfhearted protest), and leaned back slightly against Tim's legs.
For a little while, life was good, peaceful.
Of course, it couldn't last forever.
Bruce called him as he was heading back to his apartment, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. He didn't hesitate to push decline; he'd spent a few hours with his siblings and didn't feel like dealing with the great Batman at the moment. That conversation could come later.
Almost immediately after Bruce called again, then again. On the fourth call Dick picked up, slightly exasperated, and said, "Let's talk tomorrow, Bruce, I'm really not in the mood."
"Dick—" Bruce began urgently.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Dick insisted, interrupting, and hung up. He put his phone on do not disturb then, uninterested in any more attempts at contact.
When he got back to his apartment he slumped against the door, rubbing a hand down his face, and took a moment to attempt to unwind.
"I need a shower," he muttered, shaking his head, and headed down the hall towards his bathroom, peeling out of his suit on the way. His mask went last, tossed onto the top of the toilet.
He hissed as he stepped into the shower, cold water hitting him hard before slowly warming to the burning hot he wanted. He sighed in pleasure, letting the water sooth his aching muscles, trying to wash away the stress of the past twenty-four hours. It was over though, it was gratefully done, and Dick wasn't going to have to deal with Slade Wilson for a long, long while, maybe not ever.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back into the spray and letting out a slow breath.
His eyes then flew open when he heard a floorboard creak down the hall, the one he always knew to avoid near the door to the kitchen. He turned off the water and opened the shower curtain, listening carefully, but there was no other sound.
He easily could've imagined it; he was just a little jumpy, and the shower had been pretty loud in his ears—the sound he heard was probably nothing.
Deciding to go with that, Dick stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel to dry himself off. There were a pair of gym shorts hanging on the back of the door and he pulled them on, not caring about underwear at the moment, or whether or not the shorts were actually clean. Laundry could come later.
Rubbing his eyes, he left the bathroom and headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water before collapsing in his bed. He had plans to sleep for at least twelve hours, and definitely wanted to be hydrated beforehand, after the clusterfuck of a day.
He rounded the corner and barely dodged the punch thrown at his head, jerking back at the last second.
The fight that followed was all instinct. His opponent was fast and he couldn't see them with all of his apartment lights off, only a vague shadow shown by the pale beam of moonlight coming through the window. Punch, block, kick, feign, jump, strike, and on and on and on. There was no time to think, not with the way the man was coming after him, and that sent a rush of adrenaline flooding through Dick's veins.
He'd always liked fights like this, fights where he and his opponent were both so skilled and so fast that they couldn't stop to consider strategy for the next play, all they could do was fight. It always cleared his mind, made him feel sharper, on the edge. And this fight in particular, it felt familiar. He couldn't place it, but he knew he'd done this dance before.
After what felt like a lifetime, his attacker got the upper hand. Even feeling wide awake now, Dick was still exhausted, and eventually he didn't move quickly enough to avoid the leg that swept his feet out from under him. He went crashing to the ground and rolled to the side to avoid the immediate follow-up punch, but didn't miss the one right after that, slamming into his stomach and knocking the wind out of him.
It wasn't hard from there for his opponent (far bigger than him) to pin him to the ground, both of his wrists grasped tightly in one fist above his head (that barely moved no matter how hard Dick pulled; how strong was this man?), the man sat astride his thighs, easily keeping his lower body in place by his sheer weight.
A very, very familiar weight—
"Hello again, little bird."
A shudder ran down Dick's spine and he briefly squeezed his eyes shut (no, no, no, this can't be happening—) before raising his gaze, seeking Deathstroke's own in the dark. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could faintly see the shine of bronze on Slade's mask, the outline of a sword strapped to his back.
"How did you escape?" Dick asked tiredly. He shifted in the hold, searching for any weak spots, but—as expected—he was very thoroughly pinned.
"Friends in high places," Slade said, a hint of a smirk in his voice, and Dick narrowed his eyes.
"There's no way I would believe somebody in the Justice League let you out," the vigilante scoffed. "So did you kill anybody on your way out?"
"Thank you for the guard, by the way," Slade said, completely ignoring his question. "It was nice to see how much you cared about my wellbeing."
"I should've let Red Hood murder you," Dick snarled back.
Slade hummed, low in his throat. "Probably," he replied, tone contemplative. "But if you had we couldn't be in this delightful position right now, so I'm pleased with the outcome."
"What do you want, Slade?" Dick snapped.
"What I've always wanted," the mercenary murmured. He lowered himself slightly, bringing his face closer to Dick's until he could feel the other man's hot breath on his cheeks, nose, lips. "You, where you belong, by my side."
"Me, as a hostage, working under you," Dick snarked back. Slade made it sound like they'd been partners, instead of what actually happened—Dick's choices taken away from him, forced into stealing and hurting and fucking all under threat, all to keep his friends alive. Their relationship had in no way been consensual, and Slade implying that it had been was insulting.
Slade sighed, shaking his head as if Dick was an argumentative child refusing to see reason. "It doesn't have to be like that, Robin. You and I would be an incredible partnership, I know it. So do you, you have since the first time we met. Why fight it? What does the Bat give you that I can't?"
"Well, lack of rape, for one thing," Dick snarled. He jerked his arms, attempting to pull himself free from Slade's grip, and let out a sound of frustration when the enhanced mercenary moved no more than a few centimeters.
"You could learn to like that, too," Slade said quietly, heat in his voice.
Dick's throat closed, fear flooding his body. In their current position, Deathstroke could so easily... "It won't be like last time," Dick warned. "I won't just let it happen; I'll fight you every single step of the way."
"Oh, you did more than let me, if I recall," Slade mused, hints of amusement in his voice. "Some active participation definitely occurred. Just like you started to enjoy stealing and fighting for me, you started to enjoy what we did in the bedroom."
"That wasn't enjoyment!" Dick shouted back. Tears pricked his eyes, angry and desperate. "I was fifteen, and you held all the power. I did what I had to to keep my friends safe, and you know that! I didn't enjoy having you on top of me, inside of me. You know that, you do, you have to. Why else would you have given me the bombs today? You know. I didn't do any of that by choice. Please just...please..."
Dick squeezed his eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed, wanting this to be over, and Slade didn't say anything for a while. Dick heard a faint rustle and the mercenary shifted his weight ever-so-slightly. Not enough to give Dick any leverage for escape, but enough to make him curious about what was happening, and he opened his eyes again.
Slade had removed his mask, and the faint moonlight cast shadows across Deathstroke's face, making his eye look far darker than Dick knew it to be. His expression was unreadable as he examined Dick, and the younger man let him look, examining the other in turn.
"Someday," Slade said quietly, "you'll come to me. You'll realize that none of them could ever possibly understand you, all of you, and that you don't fit this stupid hero mold you're forcing yourself into. You'll see that you belong at my side, and I will accept you with open arms."
Dick opened his mouth to shoot some scathing remark back at the mercenary, but nothing came out, the words dying in his throat.
Slade leaned in even closer and Dick tried to cringe back from him but there was nowhere to go, only hard wood beneath him, and he held very still as Deathstroke pressed his lips against his forehead, a disgustingly intimate and gentle action.
"But until then," Slade sighed, pulling away, "I suppose I'll see you on the battlefield, little bird."
In one fluid motion, the mercenary got off of Dick and headed for the window and the tiny balcony attached to it.
He was gone before Dick had enough feeling in his limbs to move.