Work Text:
The news spreads through the hero community like wildfire, and so much of the last three months makes a horrible, horrible sense. It takes longer to filter further, but eventually the news reaches the mercs and Slade has the distinct displeasure of finding out from some half-baked merc he’d kill just because.
“Didja hear?” the man slurs, stepping far too close to Slade. “They got Nightwing, and got ‘em good. Mind control, the heroes say.”
Mind control.
The words drop like stones into a still pond inside of Slade.
“How long was he under?” he asks, keeping his voice idle.
“Months, I heard,” someone else says, as the overly drunken merc stumbles into him.
He shoves the merc off him, and stalks out into the cool, crisp air.
Mind control.
The events of nearly three months ago register much differently.
Slade thought he made the mistake of thinking he knew Dick well enough. Made the mistake of caring for him, and thinking he was cared for in return. Made the mistake of thinking unspoken agreements were enough.
So when he slipped into Dick’s apartment, only to hear the unmistakable noises from his bedroom, it was quite a shock.
Even more of a shock to see two strangers, not even heroes or anyone Dick or Slade knew. His eye scanned the room in less than a heartbeat, and he didn’t bother to linger over the clothes on the ground. He recognized enough to know the kind of clothes Dick wore when he goes to clubs to blow off steam, but Slade didn’t think—
“Slade,” Dick said, grinning over at him, like someone else wasn’t balls deep in him, like there weren’t bruises forming from too-tight grips that Slade didn’t put on his golden skin. “Join us?”
The invitation sliced through Slade, and he showed none of it. He gave a slow smile, glancing around the room again. If this was what Dick wanted, Slade could give it to him.
Slade could remind him of what he’s about to lose.
He knew Dick could take a lot, and the man proved it again that night. Hours they spent together, and never once did Dick give any indication that it was unusual for them to have strangers in their play.
And when he was finally sated in Dick’s body, when the night was finally over, Slade dressed himself and left.
He never reached out to Dick again, and Dick never contacted him.
Mind Control.
Slade knows the kinds of things Dick is capable of sabotaging, the information he could give up, however unwillingly. He watched the public failure of several missions, and now he knows how it happened.
And Slade knows the depths to which people can sink, knows that with perfect control over someone like Nightwing, someone as beautiful as Dick Grayson—
The faces from that night have been seared into his mind, and Slade is grateful, now.
It will make killing them much easier.
But first. First he has to admit his mistake.
Dick was screaming inside his skin, everything out of his control, an unwilling spectator to whatever they wanted him to do. He told them secrets he swore he’d never share, and he did it with a smile on his face.
He hurt his friends, colleagues, rips the hearts out of people who trust him, and he can’t stop himself.
“You’ve changed,” Bruce tells him, disapprovingly, and Dick was praying to any god that Bruce would think about why.
And when Slade showed up, Dick knew, he knew Slade would see this wasn’t Dick.
Slade scanned the room, the men raping Dick, and Dick threw up inside when he invited Slade to join them, like Slade and Dick ever do anything like that.
Oh thank God, Dick thinks when Slade shows up. Please save me. Please.
But Slade—Slade looked at all of them, and Dick watched his one eye turn cold. The hope that he was cold because he knew what was happening, well, Slade put that to rest shortly.
Dick thinks that night is really when he gave up, checked out completely. They didn’t need him, just his mind, and they controlled that absolutely.
He just. Stopped. Stopped thinking, stopped feeling, stopped trying to fight. He went away, somewhere inside of himself, and didn’t bother to come back out. Ever.
Nightwing isn’t back out. Slade waits, surveils his apartment, but no sign of him. No word of him in Gotham, either, but that’s where most of the Bats are visible.
And eventually, Slade has to ask. Has to know.
Batman is usually a huge pain, but tonight it’s useful that Slade can be visible on a rooftop and have a confrontation in under an hour.
“Get out of my city,” Batman growls.
“I’m not here for a job,” Slade tells him. “You can calm down. If I was here for a job, you wouldn’t know until it was too late.” Or ever.
“Then what do you want?”
“Nighthing,” Slade says shortly. “He’s not back out after the mind control.”
Batman goes unsettling still across from him.
“Is he dead?” Slade asks bluntly, because there’s been no sign of Dick Grayson, either.
“Why?” Batman finally asks.
“We had…an encounter. In hindsight, it makes sense he was under mind control,” Slade admits, trying not to grit his teeth. But as much as he hates himself for not seeing it, Batman had months and didn’t see it either. “I wanted to clear the air,” Slade adds delicately.
“He’s fine,” Batman says. “Just not patrolling. He’s—recovering.”
Lie.
“No, he’s not,” Slade says. “When you’re in recovery, you at least make a public appearance.”
Batman is silent for a long moment.
“All you need to know is that he’s not available,” he says with heavy finality.
An unpleasant idea occurs to Slade. “You don’t—you didn’t lock him up, blame him for what he did?”
“No,” Batman snaps, heat in his voice. “Get out of my city tonight,” he adds, before turning and dropping off the rooftop.
Well, now the only option Slade has is to break into the Manor. Or the Cave. Possibly both.
If Dick isn’t there, he can start searching other places. But if Dick truly is recovering, for months, it will be at home.
It’s both harder than it should be and not as hard as Dick (and Wayne) would want for Slade to get inside the Manor. He knows he’s likely tripped some alarms, but no one is nearby; he at least made sure of that.
The house is too damn big, but just as Slade is thinking he’ll have to leave and try again another night, he opens a door and sees Dick.
Dick, eyes closed, golden skin pale, cheekbones too defined.
“Dick,” he breaths, stepping forward.
“Not another step,” a British voice says, and Slade turns his head to see a shotgun leveled at him.
“If I wanted to hurt him,” Slade points out. “You’d both be dead.”
“Nevertheless,” the man says, studiously polite. “You will not approach him.”
Slade glances between Dick and the man who must be Alfred.
“You know who I am?” Slade asks him, because although he came in casual clothes, he’s a bit distinctive.
Alfred nods without taking his eyes off Slade.
“Then you should know that won’t stop me,” Slade says, gesturing at the shotgun. “It might not even hurt me.”
“We all do the best we can,” Alfred says simply, although his eyes are shadowed.
Slade looks back at Dick. “He’s not asleep, is he?” Slade asks.
“No, he is not,” Alfred agrees sadly.
“Is there brain damage?” Slade asks.
Alfred hesitates, and then says, “Not that we’ve found.”
Slade watches Dick’s chest rise and fall a few times before something inside of him snaps.
“Look,” he says firmly. “I’m going over to see him. You can shoot me, but it won’t stop me, and I’ll have to stop you. I don’t want to hurt you, or Dick, or anyone else here tonight.”
Slade pauses, eye fixed on Dick still.
“Dick wouldn’t want me to hurt you,” Slade says quietly. “And I’m sure Batman is on his way here.”
The only one of the Bats that’s not comatose with a chance of stopping him.
“So, are you going to shoot me?”
Slade can see Alfred waver, and then the older man says, “Not unless you hurt him.”
“Good enough,” Slade says, and strides to the window and locks it, then slides the nearest bookcase in front to block it.
Alfred watches him silently.
Slade moves the dresser in front of the door, and then finally, finally approaches Dick in bed.
“Dick?” he says softly. “It’s Slade. I’m—I’m here.”
He doesn’t want to be vulnerable in front of an audience, but this might be his only chance with Dick. Slade sits on the bed next to Dick, hears Alfred shift minutely just outside his peripheral, but focuses his attention on Dick.
“I’m sorry,” Slade whispers to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize. I should have realized.”
Dick’s chest rises and falls undisturbed, unmoved by Slade’s confession. Slade takes his hand and bows his head.
“Wake up,” he tells Dick. “Please, wake up.”
He’s gone through a lot of loss in his life, buried a child, but to see Dick alive and yet lifeless—Slade should have known better than to get entangled with someone else. And he can’t do anything here, won’t be allowed to do anything here.
There’s a noise at the window, and a faint scraping at the door.
Slade bends down, and slips his arms under Dick. The man weighs less than he remembers, feels colder than he should be, and is mutely limp in his arms. Slade hugs him, holding him tight, and hears Alfred exhale behind him.
And then—
“Alfred! Open the door!” Wayne’s voice filters into the room.
“Don’t you dare,” Slade tells him, unwilling to let go of Dick just yet, unwilling to say a final goodbye.
“He won’t wait for long,” Alfred points out, but doesn’t move.
Slade carefully squeezes Dick just a bit tighter, and brushes a gentle kiss on his cheek.
“Wake up,” he whispers into Dick’s ear, but the man still doesn’t move.
With all his inhuman strength, Slade braces for the moment he has to let go, has to release him to his convalescence. Or more likely, to his hospice.
He breathes in deeply, kisses Dick’s cheek again, and starts to withdraw. But before he can slide his arms out from under Dick, before he can fully release him, Dick’s arms come up and wrap around Slade’s back.
Slade freezes, the noises outside the window and door come to a halt, and he can’t hear Alfred breathing.
“Dick?” Slade asks, hope beating in his chest. “Little bird?”
The arms around Slade tighten a bit and Dick mumbles, “Slade?”
Alfred takes a sharp breath.
“Open this door,” Wayne demands, more quietly.
“Little bird, I’m here,” Slade tells Dick.
“You’re here,” Dick says groggily. “You’re here.”
Slade dares to scoop Dick all the way up, managing to get the lithe man settled in his lap.
“Perhaps it’s time to let them in,” Alfred remarks.
“Go ahead,” Slade says, focusing on Dick’s face, the way each blink makes his eyes focus a bit more.
“I’m not sure I can move the furniture without a lot of noise,” Alfred says, and Slade notes his shotgun is now on the floor. “Loud noises with a patient in this condition are ill-advised.”
Slade scowls for a moment, smoothing the expression out when Dick focuses on his face.
“Slade?” he asks again, and Slade kisses the top of his head.
“Yes, I’m here,” he says.
And then he sighs, looking around the room. Wayne isn’t going to wait much longer. Hood is probably debating kicking in the window, and Robin is likely coming up with some bizarre extraction plan. Knowing he’ll regret this, Slade gets up, holding Dick, and uses his foot to push the dresser away from the door.
“Well done,” Alfred tells him, and Slade doesn’t need affirmation from an old, British man, but he won’t deny it feels a little good.
This is a man who’s cared for Dick nearly his entire life, and sat with him, the last line of defense.
Slade draws the line at unlocking the door, and settles back into bed with Dick.
“Do you need me to unlock it?” Alfred inquires, slightly raising his voice, and a moment later the door swings open.
“Get away from him,” Batman growls, and Alfred tsks at him.
Both Slade and Batman turn to him.
“No costumes in the Manor,” Alfred says chidingly. “Especially in a recovery room.”
“Alfred,” Wayne says, a controlled snarl. “That’s Deathstroke holding Dick.”
“Mmm,” Alfred says. “And his presence woke Dick up. I think that’s rather significant.”
“Or maybe he had something to do with Dick’s mind control,” Robin says, slipping in through the door.
Slade snorts. “I’ve never needed mind control bullshit to get what I want from Dick, or anyone.”
A beat while the words register, the tension in the room ratchets up, and Slade rolls his eye.
“Not like that,” Slade tells them, with a whisper of discomfort that it was like that, under the mind control. But not on purpose, never on purpose, and Slade so rarely makes mistakes, and the ones he does make—cost him. They cost him dearly.
Hood bursts through the door as Dick reaches up a hand and pats Slade’s face. Every Bat in the room goes still.
“I didn’t want to,” Dick tells Slade. “I didn’t want to do it.”
“Of course not,” Slade says, bending over the slight burden in his arms. “Of course not.”
“They made me,” Dick says, voice getting stronger. “They made me, and I thought you could see, but no one—no one saw it wasn’t me.”
Slade’s throat is tight but he still says, “I’m sorry,” and smooths a hand over Dick’s hair.
Wayne moves a step closer.
“No one saw,” Dick says, and his voice cracks. “I didn’t—I didn’t—they—”
When he starts to cry, he turns his face into Slade’s chest, and Slade holds him tightly. Wayne comes and sits on the edge of the bed, Hood and Robin slip up near the edge. Dick cries, silent hot tears, and Slade holds him, murmuring reassuring things.
When he looks up, Wayne’s face is shuttered, painfully locked off, but Hood looks openly murderous. He meets Hood’s eyes, and has a feeling he and Hood will be working together in the upcoming weeks, and sees a welcome acceptance from the man’s expression.
“Is he going to be okay?’ Robin finally whispers, and Dick flinches in Slade’s arms, pushing himself up with frighteningly weak muscles.
“Tim?” he asks, looking around. “Tim, I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Robin says, bravely but with a waver. “We know it was mind control.”
“I hurt you,” Dick says, voice breaking, muscles giving out as he drops back into Slade’s lap. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t notice,” Wayne says, and Dick shivers in Slade’s lap. Slade tightens his arms protectively around the younger man. “I should have noticed.”
“You said I’d changed,” Dick says into Slade’s shirt. “But no one ever—ever asked why.”
For a moment, Slade meets Wayne’s eyes and their expressions are mirrors of pain.
“I have water for you,” Alfred says, and Slade had almost forgotten he was there. “Cucumber water, your favorite. Before you tell me you’re not thirsty, you must drink at least two sips.”
There’s a fatherly, loving sterness in his voice that Dick responds positively to, letting Slade help him sit up and reaching for the glass. He drinks it all, and Alfred hands him a small bowl of fruit. Dick eats it, leaning up against Slade’s broad chest.
After his first bite, he quietly asks, “Did you catch them?”
Silence in the room is his answer, and he presses a little tighter into Slade.
“I know their faces, little bird,” Slade tells him. “Hood and I will take care of it.”
Wayne makes a small noise, but doesn’t openly object.
“Did I get anyone killed?” Dick asks, in the smallest voice Slade has heard him use.
“No,” Robin says quickly. “No, no one died, and it wasn’t you.”
Slade can tell Wayne would like him to leave, but Dick is pressed up against Slade so tightly it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Dick finishes his bowl of fruit, and an awkward silence falls over the room.
“I thought you’d notice it wasn’t me,” Dick says, tears starting to drip down his face again, and Slade’s heart fractures in his chest.
“I should have,” he tells Dick, and kisses his head. Dick curls up in Slade’s lap, buries his head in the man’s chest again, and Slade strokes his back until Dick is in a true sleep, a healing sleep, not the horrifying comatose state he was in before.
Slade doesn’t usually ask for permission, doesn’t usually ask for much in general, but he asks, “May I stay with him?” Dick’s fingers are wound tightly through Slade’s shirt.
Wayne studies him a moment and says, “Are you armed?”
Slade arches a brow. “If I’d wanted to hurt any of you, I would have,” he answers, and Wayne inclines his head in acknowledgement.
“If Dick wants you gone—”
“I’ll leave,” Slade says, glancing down. “I only came—to say goodbye.”
“Unnecessary, as it turns out,” Alfred says briskly. “Still, no costumes in the manor. At least Mr. Wilson had the sense to wear civilian clothes. The three of you, off.”
When they don’t move, Alfred adds, “I have no intention of leaving them alone. So go.”
His stern, paternal voice works on all the Bats, Slade notices, as they move silently into the hallway.
Alfred moves forward, props a few pillows behind Slade to make it easier to recline, and dims the lights.
“You’ll have to move the bookcase tomorrow, Mr Wilson,” Alfred tells him. “We like all our rooms to have at least two exits.”