Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Richard "Dick" Grayson is four years old when he asks, "Mama, why do they go away so fast?"

The boy is staring down at his arm, where just a minute ago a dark blue slash had appeared on his skin, only to vanish within seconds right before his very eyes.

His mama's marks don't go away like that; whenever papa cuts himself on the rigging, Mama's mirroring green wound lasts just as long as papa's actual injury. Dick's always loved watching them go away together, his mama always humoring him and letting him check on the marks day by day until they're gone. Papa lets him do it too, when the situations are reversed.

In fact, no one at the circus has marks that vanish so quickly. But Dick doesn't ever remember having one that doesn't vanish within at most an hour.

(In the future, just after his eighth birthday, his left eye will tingle and the giant, dark blue mark that appears around it will last more than three weeks. He won't know what made that particular injury so special until many years after the fact.)

Mary Grayson hums thoughtfully and hugs her son tightly, trying to think of something to say. Because the truth is, she doesn't know. She and John have talked about it a few times, about how strange their son's marks are, but they've never come up with an answer.

"Well, my little robin," Mary says, and Dick looks up at his mama with wide, trusting eyes, "I think it just means that your soulmate is someone very, very special, and that something special protects them."

Dick considers that for a second, face scrunching up in thought, and then he asks, "Like a wizard?"

Mary can't help but laugh; her little boy certainly does love his fairytales. "Yes, sweetheart," she says indulgently, "just like a wizard."

Dick beams, joy lighting his features, and looks back down at his arm. Together, they watch a thick mark appear, a bruise on his soulmate's skin, and then watch it disappear just as quickly as it came. Another mark follows it, a slash on Dick's side, and then inches into nothingness like a wound closing quickly.

Mary doesn't voice this concern with Dick, but she is awfully worried about why her son's soulmate seems to get so many violent injuries.

"A wizard," Dick whispers in awe.

Slade Wilson is thirty-four years old, married, and has a two-year-old son when a mark appears on his body the first time.

He stares down at it in incomprehension for a moment, the tiny dark blue bruise on his calf that didn't actually happen to him. He brushes a thumb over it, completely dumbstruck, a little in awe, and kind of angry.

Slade is thirty-four years old, a discharged army colonel, a metahuman, a mercenary, and until five minutes ago he'd been 100% positive that he was part of the 8% of the population without a soulmate.

Not having marks had been an asset when in the army, and continues to be an asset in his current profession. Adeline and he aren't soulmates, but they'd thought they both didn't have 'mates, so it never mattered much.

But now this. Now, a tiny bruise on his lower leg, like a baby knocked their calf against something.

He has a soulmate. A newborn soulmate.

He stares down at the otherworldly blue for long enough that he's found, Adeline wandering into the office to find him. From where she's standing in the doorway, she can't possibly see that the blemish on his body is a soulmark, but she knows it can't be a natural wound, because injuries don't stay on Slade, not anymore.

How will that affect his soulmate, he wonders. Will the marks vanish as quickly as he heals? Will so many of them be gone before the child even notices them?

"You have one, then," Adeline observes, putting the pieces together. She doesn't sound upset, just stating a fact.

"It appears so," Slade confirms, and pulls his hand away from the mark, letting it drop to his side.

"Quite the age difference," she adds. Again, not upset, no judgment, just a statement of fact.

Slade nods. "Yep."

"And considering you barely age now..." she trails off, but she doesn't need to finish the statement for Slade to know what she's thinking.

"I have no interest in a soulmate," he tells her bluntly, and it's the truth. A soulmate is a complication he does not need nor want. His life is challenging enough, between keeping Adeline from figuring out what he and Wintergreen really do, and trying to be something of a father to Grant; a soulmate is a problem, and one he is not inclined to seek out.

Jesus; his soulmate is younger than his son.

Adeline smirks at him and shakes her head before turning away. "I know, Slade. I just feel bad for the kid."

"He's cursed," Dick hears the woman hiss, unaware that the young boy is listening. "Mary, you must see that."

"My son isn't—" Mary scoffs, but the woman continues before his mother can continue.

"That is not how soulmarks work," the woman insists, and something uncomfortable clenches in Dick's gut.

Dick is seven years old, and by this point in his life he is quite proud of his marks. There are two things he's absolutely certain of in life: the first is that he belongs in the air more than he does on the ground. And the second is that his soulmate is someone special.

These days, with all the appearances of people with amazing abilities (like Superman in Metropolis, a personal favorite of Dick's), Dick looks at his vanishing marks and sees something that is nothing short of extraordinary. His soulmate might not be a wizard like he originally theorized, but they're still something amazing, and Dick refuses to wear his strange marks with anything other than pride.

Hearing someone say that his fast-vanishing marks mean he's cursed makes him feel uneasy, upset.

"Oh, grow up!" his mama snarls, pulling herself up to her full height, her chin jutting out. "Have you seen the people running around these days? Last week we found out that Atlantis is real, and you want to tell me that my son is cursed simply because his marks go away quickly? His soulmate is probably a—what are they called?—a metahuman, yeah that's it. Dickie's soulmate is a metahuman, he can just heal. I don't need your bullshit superstitions in my house, Anita, get out."

The woman looks like she's going to argue further, but then storms out, slamming the door of the trailer behind her. Mary stands perfectly still for another few moments, breathing deeply, and then rolls her shoulders and sighs.

With unerring accuracy, she turns and makes eye contact with Dick in his hiding spot, and he tenses at having been found out.

"It's okay," his mama says softly. "Come on out."

Dick crawls out of his hiding space with a grimace, shuffling over to stand in front of his mother. Mary pulls him into a ferocious hug and then crouches down to be eye-level with him, cupping his face in her hands.

"You don't believe any of that awful stuff she said, do you?" she asks urgently, searching her son's features.

Dick shakes his head as much as he is able with her holding him, and says, "No, Mama. My soulmate's a wizard." He smiles with the joke and feels proud when his mama laughs and strokes a hand through his hair.

"Yes, they certainly are," Mary agrees, still smiling, and then gets to her feet, heading over to the kitchenette to start on dinner. Dick watches her go, hesitant, and then follows, a question on his mind.

"Why did she say that, though?" Dick asks curiously. "Why does she think I'm cursed just 'cuz my soulmate can heal?"

Mary grimaces and looks back to her son. "Roma can be a superstitious people," she says hesitantly. "Not everyone shares those views, but there are some who think the fact that your marks vanish in the way they do means..." She doesn't really want to say it, doesn't want to put this nonsense in her child's mind, but she and John have always made it a policy to not lie to Dick. Their life is a strange one, and they don't need any secrets from their son.

"Well, they think that the vanishing marks means there's something wrong with your soulmate's soul, or with yours," Mary finishes, watching her son carefully. "That you're cursed. But that's not true, do you hear me, Richard Grayson? There is nothing wrong with you, or your 'mate."

For a moment, Dick considers that. It’s possible, he supposes, that his soulmate isn’t a metahuman, that the vanishing marks do mean that there’s something wrong with his soul. He’s certainly heard stranger things. But...

But it doesn’t feel cursed. It feels...special.

So Dick just smiles up at his mother, sweet and innocent and something Mary wants to protect so fucking badly, and says, “Of course not, Mama. My soulmate has superpowers. They fix themselves. My marks mean that my soulmate is for sure gonna last long enough for me to meet them.”

Mary smiles back at her son and runs a hand through his black locks, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “You bet your butt they’re going to last, my little robin.”

But what kind of person they are when you find them is a whole other matter. She keeps that thought to herself.

Slade takes aim, fires. Takes aim, fires. Takes aim, fires.

The job, one that was supposed to be a simple in-and-out, has very quickly jumped to a complete and utter shitshow.

Ah, well. At least his employer is one who’s always willing to pay extra when the body count goes up.

Still, Slade doesn’t really appreciate the fact that a job that was supposed to be simple now has him going up against a well-run militia, his employer’s intel for this job so far off the mark that Slade would be tempted to kill the man if he wasn’t so fucking rich. He might still, really. Get his money and then make an example of the man.

One of the fighters gets in close and slashes out with a knife, cutting clean through the material on Slade’s side and drawing blood. Slade puts a bullet in the guy’s stomach for it, snarling in irritation.

Not only does he now have a hole in his suit, but somewhere his nine-year-old soulmate now has an ugly mark on their side. The kid doesn’t need to deal with that shit. Every time someone gets a hit on Slade pisses him off, because not only does he have to deal with the fact that he has a knife wound or a bullet or whatever, but he also has to deal with the fact that someone somewhere (a child) lives their life with violent marks just appearing randomly on their skin. It doesn’t matter if they vanish as quickly as his wounds do. They still appear. A kid still has to deal with that.

Frankly, Slade doesn’t know why he cares so much about it. It’s not like he hasn’t killed kids before—what’s it matter if an nine-year-old wakes up with a bullet wound in their leg one day? It’s not like the child has to feel the pain of getting it, after all. It’s just a blue mark on their skin. It doesn’t matter.

Slade doesn’t know why it matters.

He is curious, though. About what the kid’s mark must’ve looked like months back when Adeline shot Slade’s eye out. The shot had been so bad that even his healing hadn’t saved his eye, though it had at least kept him alive, so he supposes he’s alright with having the adjustment.

But what was that like for the kid? His soulmate. The wound hadn’t healed for weeks. His face had been completely distorted for just as long. What had that been like for a child who—up until that point—had never had a mark last more than a few hours?

Slade sneers at himself; it doesn’t matter. Who cares? The kid isn’t important. Having a soulmate doesn’t mean shit unless Slade gives it power.

It doesn’t mean shit.

But during the car ride back to his hotel, Slade catches himself running his thumb over the small marks on his palms and fingers. It’s become a habit these last few years, even more so after Adeline left with Joey and Grant six months ago. He doesn’t know what kind of life his young soulmate lives, but the frequent, tiny marks across his hands make it clear that whatever the kid does, he works with his hands.

It’s disgustingly soothing to brush his thumb across the small, dark blue cuts and barely-there bruises. And as ever, it’s strange seeing something last on his skin, after years of healing so thoroughly that none of his new wounds leave scars. No, the only blemishes on his body anymore are his old scars and all the things his soulmate leaves behind, a roadmap to growing up.

Slade despises it. Why couldn’t he have remained in the 8% of the population without a soulmate? This kid is going to grow up and have this happy little civilian idea of their soulmate, and maybe they’ll never meet but maybe they will, maybe the kid will even be a target of his, and it’s a complication Slade certainly does not want.

It’s the same thing he’s been angry about for the past nine years. He doesn’t think he’s going to stop being pissed about it any time soon.

Once he reaches his hotel, he strips out of his uniform and takes a shower to wash off the sweat and blood. When he gets out, he sends a quick message to his employer alerting the man to the update in the situation (see: utter shitshow), and then heads into the bedroom to catch a few hours of sleep before his plane back to the states.

As he makes his way out of the bathroom, something large and dark blue catches his eye in the mirror. He turns, frowning, and then freezes at what he sees on his stomach.

That’s...a stab wound. And not his own, it’s obviously a soulmark, which means that somewhere a nine-year-old kid has just been stabbed. His fucking soulmate just got stabbed.

How—why—who—where—

Slade glares at the mark, teeth bared, as if his fury alone could make it vanish. Nine-year-olds aren’t supposed to get stabbed. They’re supposed to cut their hands falling on a playground and get bruises by bumping against things too hard, not get stabbed.

Where the fuck is this kid? Is someone taking care of him? Is Slade about to watch his soulmate bleed out?

Slade is forty-three years old, an accomplished soldier and an infamous mercenary, and he’s never felt as fucking useless as he does in this moment.

Dick Grayson is nine years old when his parents fall. He is nine years old when he’s taken in by Bruce Wayne. He is nine years old when he becomes Robin and gets justice for his mama and papa by finding Tony Zucco.

He is nine years old when he almost dies (the first time) because of a stab wound, and nine years old when he learns that Bruce expresses concern and worry by yelling and looking angry.

So really, it’s a big year for him.

Dick loves Bruce, he really does. After watching his parents die, the boy had thought nothing would ever be good again. But living in the Manor with Bruce and Alfred, being Robin, it makes his life so much more than he ever could’ve imagined after being removed from the circus. They become his family faster than he thought possible; Dick might’ve lost a mama and a papa, but he gained a dad and a grandfather.

It’s not the same, it will never be the same, but it’s certainly not nothing, either.

He’s been working as Robin for about ten months when Bruce first notices the oddity in his marks.

Bruce isn’t a huge fan of the topic of soulmates—it hadn’t been hard to notice—so Dick’s never really brought it up. And he’s become so used to his vanishing marks—and used to people around him knowing about it—that he barely thinks about it anymore. At least, not until he’s sparring with Bruce one day (the man’s just started letting him be active again, after the shitshow that was the stab wound) and suddenly his guardian's eyes lock onto Dick’s neck, his brows furrowing.

“What?” Dick asks, unable to see the spot Bruce is fixated on. “What’s wrong?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything for a second, still staring and making Dick quite concerned, but then he says, “A soulmark just appeared. And then it...vanished.”

Dick blinks at him. “Right,” he says, because duh, of course it did. That’s how his marks work.

But when Bruce’s eyes snap up to meet his own, Dick remembers that this isn’t the circus, with everyone who already knows about his strange soulmarks. He and Bruce have never talked about soulmates or anything like that. Bruce doesn’t know.

“My soulmate’s a metahuman,” Dick says with a hesitant smile. He knows, by this point, Bruce’s stance on metas. “Or, at least, that’s my theory, since I haven’t actually met them. They can heal really fast—my marks always vanish quickly.”

Bruce hums thoughtfully, his eyes flicking back down to Dick’s neck for a moment before meeting his gaze again, and says, “I suppose we’ll have to make an exception for them, then.”

Dick blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

There’s a hint of a smile on Bruce’s face as he turns away, heading for the showers. “I don’t like metas in Gotham Dick, you know that—this someone will simply have to be an exception.”

Dick watches his guardian go, a warm, happy feeling growing in his gut, a smile growing on his face to match.

Slade’s been throwing a couple theories around in his mind, about what’s going on with his soulmate.

Not that he cares, of course. It’s just some random kid. It doesn’t matter.

He’s just...curious. Curious, about the situation, about why a preteen child has gone from small bumps and bruises and cuts to stab wounds and broken bones and large bruises that aren’t hard to deduce, that obviously came from fists, and—on two very memorable occasions—fucking bullet wounds. Because obviously that’s all normal shit for an eleven-year-old to get.

Slade’s curious. That’s it. He doesn’t actually care.

So, he has a couple theories about it. Just to pass the time. And neither of them are particularly pleasant.

Theory One: Abusive household. The bullet wounds are a little out there for this theory, but not unheard of, and everything else seems to fit. The bruises, the broken or sprained bones—someone’s hurting this kid, and the odds say that it’s child abuse. Now, Slade’s not claiming to be Father of the Year, but he never laid a hand on Grant or Joey, and the idea that his soulmate’s parents are hurting them—

Theory Two: The kid is on the streets. A recent change, of course, considering this shit wasn’t always happening, and one that would fit the more violent injuries his soulmate is getting. The world’s not a kind place, certainly not to the less fortunate, and if the kid is homeless and lives in a city, then all the injuries make sense.

Neither option makes Slade feel even the slightest bit good.

(Sometimes, when a truly awful soulmark appears on his skin, Slade wishes he had something far more definitive to go off of so that he could find the kid and take them away from whatever hellhole they’re living in. Slade’s life is far from easy, but the kid would have a home, and learn to defend themselves, and they’d be safe.

Not that Slade cares, or anything.)

It’s only been two years and Slade’s already absolutely done with this fucking shit.

Besides, he has an actual job to do that doesn’t involve worrying over a person he’s never actually met.

Speaking of jobs—Slade really fucking hates Gotham.

The city in and of itself is dirty and dark, with a strange mix of gothic and modern architecture that in no way makes any sense. The people who live there are not only—as a whole—assholes, but they’re also strangely defensive of their shit city. The police vacillate very rapidly between corrupt, moronic, and actually good, and it’s always a tossup of which of them you’ll encounter on any given day.

And none of that is even touching upon the crazies that make up the Gotham villains, and the even crazier man who acts as Gotham’s hero.

Slade’s only encountered the Batman once in the four years since the vigilante starting running around, and he has absolutely no desire to ever do it again.

Gotham is trouble, and Slade cannot wait to leave.

Unfortunately for him, luck is most certainly not on his side, because two hours into his wait (lying on a rooftop, sniper rifle snug in his grip, eye on his target's apartment), there's movement in the corner of his eye.

Slade, never one to ignore his instincts, rolls to the side, avoiding one of those goddamned bat-knife-things that embeds itself in the rooftop where Slade's leg had been only moments before.

He gets fluidly to his feet, ready for a fight, and examines his opponent. Batman looks exactly the same as he did three years ago when they last (and first) met, all intense brooding and strength hidden under his cape, but what's absolutely unexpected in the child in green, yellow, and red perched on the chimney just behind the Bat.

Slade had heard that Batman had taken on a protégé, but he hadn't quite believed it, and even if it was true, Slade had been expecting someone...less brightly colored. And older. Not this tiny, little thing in front of him, barely into double digits.

"I have to say," Slade comments, eye sliding between the pair, "when people started talking about the kid fighting at Batman's side, I figured that was hyperbole. That your tagalong was simply a little young, and the villains were bitter about being taken down." He chuckles, shaking his head. "But no, you actually are dragging a child out into the field." A smirk plays at his lips. "How delightfully dark of you."

Batman, who had gone tense at the topic, shifts slightly, putting himself a bit more firmly between Deathstroke and the kid. Behind him, Slade sees the kid make a face, clearly disgruntled. It's almost adorable.

"It's not your concern," Batman growls out. "And you aren't finishing your contract tonight, Deathstroke."

Slade rolls his eye, resisting a sigh. At this rate, he's going to have to come back for his target at another time; the Bat's got his scent tonight, and unless he takes the vigilante down (time consuming, not a guaranteed win) and the kid with him (unknown, probably extremely easy), he's not fulfilling his contract now.

Instead, out of curiosity, he decides to poke at the apparent weak spot. "So is that your kid you're dressing up like a traffic light and throwing at criminals, or did you just pick one up at random?"

The kid bristles. "The colors have meaning," he insists, chin raised proudly.

"Robin," Batman barks, head turning ever-so-slightly towards his protégé, and in that moment of partial distraction Slade lunges forward.

The kid, still facing him, pops instantly to his feet at the movement, but the Bat is—for once—slower, and Slade socks him across the jaw, following it up with a punch to the gut.

The Bat's no weak opponent, however, and recovers quickly, the fight beginning in earnest.

Slade has to admit he stops paying attention to the kid at that point, all his focus on the fight; Batman is one of the few people who can give him a run for his money, so the kid certainly takes a backseat in terms of importance.

But it's clear that Batman is splitting his focus, because soon after the fight gets dirtier the hero growls, "No." Slade thinks for a moment he's talking to him but then he realizes the kid—he called him Robin, didn't he?—had been moving to step in, provide support.

A worthy goal. Probably would've worked, too, since Slade had turned all his attention to the Bat. Instead, Batman did nothing except reveal his boy's position, and show his hand.

The Bat growled No, to keep the kid out of the fight, to keep him away from the danger he knew Deathstroke was. The Bat growled No, and showed his priorities. Robin's safety came before the fight, before having an edge against an assassin.

Good to know.

Slade whirls around, turning towards the direction Batman's chin had twitched when speaking to his protégé. Sure enough, there the kid is, a glare twisting his features as he watches the fight, muscles tensed and twitching. He looks surprised to see Slade turn his attention towards him, but to his credit the kid shifts immediately into a ready stance, jaw setting as he prepares for the assault.

But Slade isn't here to play fair.

His gun is already in his hand as he turns to face the boy, and he fires. The bullet tears through the skin of his leg, clipping his femoral artery. Exactly where Slade wanted it.

It's a weak spot in the kid's (otherwise well-armored) costume—bare legs lead to easy injury.

The kid cries out and his leg buckles, sending him to the ground. There is a lot of blood, but it does the boy (and his training) credit when his hands immediately go to the wound, even in as much pain as he must be, in order to stem the bleeding.

Slade steps out of the way, giving Batman a clear path to race to his protege's side, which he does with a sharp call of the kid's name.

"He'll bleed out in minutes, Bat," Slade says calmly, stating what they all know. "So do you want to keep trying to catch me, or do you want to save his life?"

Batman, oh-so-devoted, doesn't even spare Deathstroke one last glance as he scoops the kid up in his arms and vanishes off into the night.

Across the street, the light in his target's apartment goes on, and Slade smirks; seems this night won't be a failure after all.

Hours later, safely out of Gotham and in an apartment registered to an alias of his, Slade relaxes, pleased with a job well done, and mulls the whole meeting over in his head.

The existence of Robin is certainly interesting. The colors, the name—all of it is so opposite to what Batman is. Robin was...bright. Batman is most certainly not.

When the adrenaline's rundown and he reaches a point where he can actually go to sleep, Slade stripes and pulls on a t-shirt and fresh boxers and—

Freezes.

There's a new soulmark on his right thigh. It's a gunshot wound, he recognizes it well enough. His soulmate was shot tonight.

It's over the femoral artery.

In his line of work, Slade doesn't typically believe in coincidences. Coincidence is often an excuse people use to get out of things, to escape paying him or to escape his blade. It never works, because the universe is rarely so lazy as to provide coincidences of that magnitude.

And yet in this moment, Slade begs for this to be a coincidence.

Because—no. No. There's simply no way. He can't be...His soulmate cannot be a vigilante. A hero. There is no way they were matched up together, no way the universe or god or whatever you want to say picks 'mates put them together. It's not possible.

But the soulmark is exactly where he shot Robin. And the hero looked somewhere between ten and twelve, and his soulmate is eleven. And mentions of Robin began about two years ago, right when the marks appearing on his body took a turn for the violent.

Something cold settles in his gut.

Did he just...

Did he just kill his soulmate?

Bruce benches him for five weeks after the altercation with Deathstroke, which Dick feels is a little excessive, but he bites his tongue; Bruce only ever yells the way he did when he's terrified, and Dick knows how close he really was to death—another thirty seconds and he would've bled out, right there in the batmobile.

He would've if Bruce hadn't taken the initiative to cauterize the wound until they could reach the batcave and could actually treat it. He'll always have a small burn scar high up on his thigh, and though Bruce only looks at it with guilty eyes, Dick can't help but be a bit proud of it—he might not've actually fought Deathstroke, but barely anyone gets shot by the Terminator and lives to tell the tale.

(Batman demands he alter his costume so that his legs are covered with some amount of protection, after the whole affair. Even though it pains Dick to give up the style reminiscent of his Flying Grayson outfit, he agrees, recognizing the logic in it after what happened.)

Life goes on, anyway. Another child hero pops up, and then another; according to Bruce, who returned from a Justice League meeting with a wry smile, the heroes were inspired to do what they're doing by the existence of Robin.

Dick doesn't think he stops smiling the entire week after learning about Speedy and Kid-Flash.

(He never tells Wally about it, but the first time they met out of costume, Dick had been examining him to see if he had any marks that matched injuries Dick currently had.)

(Dick does this with every hero he meets with a regenerative capability, to no luck. He refuses to give up hope; it's a big world—universe—out there, and he's young; he has time to find his meta.)

Years pass, and Dick becomes better and better. He's Robin, the first teenage hero, and can kick the ass of just about everyone he comes across. He makes Bruce proud every day, he knows he does, and can't feel anything other than overwhelming pride when Batman tells him that one day he'll not only join the Justice League, but lead it.

He's fifteen when he and a group of other young heroes form the Teen Titans. And suddenly the world is so much bigger, with his own team to lead, his own people to look after, and he's constantly anxious about it but he's also never felt more right, more sure of himself, as he does then.

His marks continue as they always have, vanishing quickly and never leaving a trace. Whoever his soulmate is, they certainly live a dangerous life. His soulmarks might leave quickly, but that doesn't stop Dick from seeing a lot of them when they're there, and he knows what stab wounds and gunshot wounds and bruises caused by punches look like. His soulmate spends their days getting hurt, and not even the fact that they heal quickly lessens Dick's anxiety over their safety.

It makes him wonder how they feel about him, seeing all these violent things appear on their skin, having to watch them heal at a normal, human speed. Dick feels helpless with his situation; he can't imagine how they must feel.

He rubs his thumbs idly over his wrist, where just a minute ago was a mark Dick is pretty sure came from a bone breaking skin was, already healed. He wonders if his soulmate still feels the pain of all these injuries, or if it's dulled or even gone.

"Earth to Rob!"

Dick's head snaps up, his face relaxing out of the frown it had apparently scrunched into while staring at his wrist. Wally's standing in front of him, looking exasperated, and beyond him in the rest of the Titans, hanging out on couches and beanbags, fighting over snacks and drinks and what music to play next.

It's one of the rare nights where there's no emergency, none of them have other obligations; they can just be a bunch of teenagers having fun. Dick doesn't typically drink—Bruce's training certainly drilled everything that could go wrong into his head—but on nights like this, with just his best friends around, he allows himself a few drinks. Allows himself to have fun.

Contrast to what Roy jokes, Dick does know how to have fun.

"Yeah, Wall?"

Wally cocks his head, brow furrowing in concern. "You okay, man? You seem...out of it."

Dick winces. Usually, he's excellent at keeping everyone from knowing when he's at less than 100%. He blames the alcohol for his slip this time.

"Sorry. Yeah, I'm good. Just..." He glances down at his wrist, rubs his thumb over the (blank) skin one last time, and then lets his hand fall.

When he looks back up, Wally's expression is sympathetic; Wally's one of the only people who really knows the weirdness of his marks; Dick doesn't hide it, per say, but it's not something he talks about, either. Besides, the uniqueness of it certainly doesn't help with a secret identity. It's not like the marks last long enough for people to take note, but if someone were to notice Robin's soulmarks vanishing quickly, and then Dick Grayson's vanishing quickly, well...

"C'mon," Wally says, nodding back towards the couches. "Roy's ranting about the stupidity of soulmarks as a basis for love; it's entertaining as shit."

Dick cracks a grin, but he's feeling antsy. There's a restlessness to him now, ever since that mark appeared on his wrist, the knowledge that somewhere, his soulmate is in danger, is fighting. Probably not for their life—not with that healing—but no one is completely infallible.

A soulmark appears on his forearm; a bruise, like his 'mate blocked something hard from heading towards his face.

It disappears as quickly as it arrived, and when he looks up he sees Wally grimacing.

"Nah," Dick denies with a forced grin, "I think I'm gonna go out, do a quick patrol of the city."

To his credit, Wally doesn't argue; he's known Dick for long enough to know he won't change his mind about this, knows that Dick needs to move right now.

"I'll cover for you," his friend agrees immediately, sending him a smile, and then zooms back over to the couches and the rest of their team.

Dick makes his way to his room, gets into his Robin uniform, and heads for the rooftops.

It's a quiet night—the whole reason they were letting themselves relax—but it's still New York City, and NYC might not be Gotham but it's still got its fair share of crime. Dick tackles everything he comes across with gusto, putting in quick calls to the police for every criminal he takes down and ties up.

Two and a half hours later, he sits on the top of a gothic building that reminds him of Gotham, staring out over the city that he and his team have made their home.

"Why Robin?"

Dick goes tense; he hadn't heard anyone land on the rooftop behind him, hadn't been paying attention. Stupid, stupid—

The hero whirls around, eyes tracking where the voice came from, and then goes even tenser still. Because right there, barely fifteen feet away, is Deathstroke the Terminator.

Dick's upper thigh twinges faintly in memory of the last time they met.

"Deathstroke," Dick says, and is proud of himself for how calm and unbothered he sounds, despite the way his pulse is now fast as a jackrabbit, adrenaline beginning to flood his veins. This is not a man he wants to fight one-on-one, and not as taken aback as he is right now; he's good, but he knows he would lose this fight.

"What are you doing here?"

The mercenary tuts. "I asked a question first."

Why Robin? Dick wonders why that matters to the man, why Deathstroke is here at all. He doesn't even look like he's expecting a fight, posture perfectly relaxed, leaning back against the rooftop stairwell access. Dick wishes he could see the man's face; he's always been so much better at reading people when he could see their eyes.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks hesitantly.

Deathstroke shrugs a shoulder loosely. "It simply doesn't track, is all. Your mentor is Batman. That redhead who just joined your team is Batgirl. I simply don't see how Robin—and those bright colors you're wearing—fit in with the whole theme."

Dick knows he's being mocked, but he's been doing this hero gig for just about six years now and insults to his name and his costume no longer affect him. He's honoring his family, and he doesn't give a shit what anyone else says; besides, he always ends up kicking their asses, so what does it matter?

"It has meaning," Dick states, because it's not like he can tell this assassin the true meaning behind it, can't explain. He's not a moron.

Deathstroke hums thoughtfully. "So you said. Something personal, then. Must be very important, if the Bat lets you go out dressed like that." His head dips slightly, as if he's scanning Dick's outfit. "It is good to see the addition of pants, however—was that my doing?"

There's a mocking edge to his voice, but there's something else there too, some other emotion Dick can't quite identify.

"Why are you here?" Dick asks instead of answering Deathstroke's question. He shifts slightly; his body is still amped up, and the lack of a fight, of danger, is sending his brain mixed signals.

The mercenary doesn't speak for a little while, making Dick's anxiety grow at the utter blankness, and then he says, "I'm not here to kill you, little bird; you needn't worry about that."

Before Dick can respond with some (hopefully witty) comment about how he's not worried, Deathstroke is already moving, darting towards him. For a man so huge, he's surprisingly fast, getting in close before Dick's had much of a chance to do anything. But Bruce has trained him well, and he kicks himself into gear.

The fight is over almost embarrassingly fast, but when Deathstroke pins Dick to the rooftop (on his stomach, wrists held firmly behind his back) he says, "Well done," and sounds like he means it.

Dick despises the rush of pride he feels, having a man as skilled as Deathstroke tell him he's not a bad opponent.

All the same, Dick yanks against the hold, feeling for any weaknesses. He's completely unsuccessful, and his heart beats even faster, his breathing picking up slightly; pinned by Deathstroke the Terminator is certainly not a safe place to be.

"Relax, kid," Deathstroke murmurs, ever so close to his ear, "I'm not going to kill you."

"Funny," Dick says, a little breathless, "but that's not the vibe I'm getting from you."

Deathstroke doesn't say anything else. He shifts on top of him, not loosening his hold on his wrists, and there's a sound like a blade being pulled out of a sheath.

Dick stops breathing.

But the killing blow doesn't come. Instead, there's a small, sharp pain on his forearm, the blade just barely cutting him, and then silence.

Frankly, Dick has absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on, but he's not being killed on a rooftop not even in Gotham, so he's willing to roll with the punches.

"Alright, kid," Deathstroke says on a sigh after a little while, "I'm going to let you go now, and then we're going to go our separate ways. If you attack me, I will take you down, and then we'll repeat this process. So are you going to play nice or is this going to get violent?"

Dick considers his answer to the question, and then reluctantly agrees. "I won't fight."

Deathstroke continues to hold him in that position for a few seconds longer, and then releases him, immediately moving out of range in case Dick decided to attack anyway. Dick doesn't, though, simply gets to his feet and frowns down at his arm, examining the wound Deathstroke gave him.

It's barely anything, really. A simple flesh wound, bleeding more than it's actually worth. This is...well, it's nothing. It's pointless. Dick has absolutely no idea why the mercenary did it, why he took the effort to trap the vigilante only to create such an insignificant gash.

"Why?" he voices, mystified.

But Deathstroke doesn't answer his question. "Look after yourself, kid," he says, and then is gone, just as quickly as he appeared.

Slade holds off for four years—

(four years of avoiding Gotham like the plague, of denying the obvious, of his heart stopping whenever there's a serious soulmark on his body and Robin isn't seen for a little while, of following the news of heroes just to make sure the kid is okay, of reading everything there is about the Teen Titans once the team forms)

—before he can't anymore. He spends almost a week in New York, watching the young heroes (and fulfilling a contract), waiting for Robin to be alone, and then lands on the rooftop behind him. He has a plan. He has to know for sure, has to set this unease in his mind to rest.

He's taken aback by the relief and amusement he feels seeing that Robin's costume now involves pants, the same sleek armor now over them that covers the rest of his body. He's taken aback by how genuinely curious he is about why Robin, about the colors of the costume. He's taken aback by how impressed he is by the kid's skills, even though he still wins the fight.

All of this makes him want to turn back, to leave this be. Maybe it won't be better if he knows for sure. Maybe it will be so much worse.

He takes the kid down, pinning him firmly, and pulls a knife free from his belt. The kid goes painfully still at the sound, not even breathing, and Slade doesn't understand the sudden urge he feels to calm the boy.

Instead, he cuts a small wound on Robin's forearm, and then peels off his own glove, pulling back the suit to check his skin for a matching mark.

Sure enough, there it is. A perfect mirror of the gash he just put on Robin himself.

Slade takes a moment to close his eye and breathe, before freeing the boy and stepping away. He barely hears Robin's question, barely takes note of his confusion and wariness.

"Take care of yourself, kid," he says, and then he (runs) leaves, dialing Wintergeeen by memory as he scales another building.

"Deathstroke?" Billy questions.

There's a moment where Slade debates keeping this to himself, letting it die with him. But that's not...it wouldn't...he can't...

"We have a problem," he says seriously, and then hangs up. A minute later, he receives a set of coordinates, and is then on the next flight to Texas.

"Why Texas?"

A few hours later he's freshly showered and changed and eating something Wintergreen put in front of him. It's the first thing he's said since he appeared in his friend's safehouse, and they both know it's simply a distraction.

"Slade."

"You hate the heat," Slade muses, "so I don't see why you'd choose to spend any time here."

"Slade," Billy repeats, exasperated. "What's the issue?"

Slade purses his lips, looking down at the plate in front of him, and doesn't answer. But Wintergreen isn't an idiot, not even close to one, and he can feel the other man examining him intently, reading cues and picking up clues that probably no one else would notice, except maybe Adeline.

"Is it about them?" Wintergreen asks, and when Slade's eye flicks up in question, he sees his friend glancing at the dark blue slash on his forearm, the perfect match to the wound he gave Robin.

Jesus. He gave it to Robin. He purposefully hurt his soulmate. Jesus.

"I found them," Slade grunts back. "Him."

To Wintergreen's credit, he doesn't react at all save the minute widening of his eyes before he gets that under control too, expression perfectly blank and calm, open. Billy's always been good at that.

"Ah," Billy says. "And I'm assuming that the problem is more than just the fact that you detest the fact that you have a soulmate?"

His voice goes up at the end in question, and Slade shoots him an irritated look, which doesn't bother the other man in the slightest. Slade's never made a secret of the fact that if he had a choice, he'd get rid of his soulmarks all together. Too much of a hassle. Too much of a complication.

Well, Slade thinks wryly, if it wasn't a complication before, it certainly is now.

"Yes," Slade grudgingly admits. He doesn't continue, though, and Wintergreen doesn't say anything either. He's planning on waiting him out. And Slade knows the bastard will win, which just makes his bad mood worse.

"It's Robin," Slade finally says, practically spitting the words out. "My soulmate—" he taps harshly at the mark on his arm. "It's Robin, as in Batman and."

Now Billy does react, sucking in a sharp breath. "Fuck."

Slade laughs bitterly, and stabs his food with a fork. "My thoughts exactly."

A long moment of silence, and then— "Did you tell him?"

That startles a bigger laugh out of Slade, and he looks up at his oldest (and only) friend incredulously. "Are you kidding me? Do you seriously think I'm going to tell the fifteen-year-old hero that I, Deathstroke the Terminator, am the one the universe says is his perfect match?"

Wintergreen blinks at him, looking surprised. "Are you afraid of rejection?"

Slade snorts. "No, Billy, quite the opposite." He rubs a hand tiredly down his face. "He's been doing this hero gig since he was nine years old; he has the potential to be more, I've seen him fight, and not just against me. But he is very firmly a hero, and a pretty idealistic one at that. He's the type of kid that loves the idea of his soulmate; if he learns I'm it, he will try to give me a chance. And that, Bill, is not good for anyone."

The other man hums thoughtfully. "How do you know? You've never had a conversation with him."

Slade looks at him, unimpressed. "And I haven't had a real conversation with Superman, either, but I know that Big Blue buys into the soulmate shit too."

Wintergreen rolls his eyes. "Buys into. Oh, grow up. It's not some Valentine's Day, Hallmark Holiday bullshit, Slade." He shakes his head. "And I don't see the harm in getting to know the kid."

"He's fifteen," Slade hisses.

Billy throws up his hands. "I didn't tell you to fuck him, Slade, Jesus fucking Christ. I said get to know him. Like it or not, he is your soulmate, which means there's potential there, something that makes you a match, a mate. I think it's worth having a conversation over." He shakes his head again, sighing. "And frankly, you cranky old bastard, I've always liked the idea of you actually having someone out there that matches you. The fact that he's a hero?" Billy cracks a grin. "Well, I think that's just fantastic."

"It is not fantastic," Slade growls back. "It is a problem. How am I supposed to do my job, Wintergreen? I certainly can't take any more contracts in Gotham, there's too much opportunity for figuring it all out. And let's say I do do what you want, let's say I tell Robin he's my soulmate." The word is dripping with derision. "I still come back to the point of how the fuck am I supposed to do my job? He'll want to save me or some bullshit, show me the errors of my ways, and that's just—"

He cuts himself off, chuckling without humor. "It's good that I know, it makes it easier to manage, especially since I now know to avoid Gotham. But no, Billy, I'm not going to tell him. This is going to stay right between us, is that understood?"

Wintergreen meets his hard glare with one of his own, but eventually sighs and nods, backing down. "It's your soulmate, your decision."

"Thank you."

"Just keep what I said in mind," Billy urges quietly. "A conversation wouldn't kill either of you."

After a moment, Slade nods, assenting to consider it.

But it turns out, he doesn't have to consider it for long. Because just eleven months later, his son Grant pops up out of nowhere, targeting the Teen Titans.

Chapter Text

Dick ends up telling Bruce about the encounter, because knowing his mentor, it's more than likely Batman would find out anyway, and then be angry Dick didn't tell him himself.

Bruce frowns down at the wound—not even deep enough to need stitches, already scabbing over—looking troubled. He doesn't have any answers for Dick as to why Deathstroke would do something so odd, and since it's not like Dick can just ask the mercenary himself, Dick is forced to move past it.

Life goes on the same as it always did, just like after his last encounter with Deathstroke. The Teen Titans expands, admitting more members, introducing them to new kinds of people—such as an alien warrior princess and a half-demon sorceress.

Because, you know. That's the world they live in, apparently.

Things between him and Bruce begin to feel...tense. Dick has been leading his own team for quite a while now, and at sixteen years old there's a lot he wants to experience outside of Gotham that Bruce tells him he's not ready for. Bruce tells him it would be better if he stayed mainly in Gotham, at his side.

There's friction now that didn't used to be there before, and it makes Dick miss the years when they truly were partners, when he felt like an equal in their relationship as Batman and Robin. Bruce's orders begin to feel like orders, and Dick finds himself drifting away more and more.

He takes comfort in the fact that at least his soulmarks haven't changed. Without fail they'll appear and vanish quick as anything, and Dick stares at his skin long after they've gone, knowing that his soulmate is out there somewhere, fighting and alive, and one day they'll actually get to meet. One day he'll get to ask about what happened to make a mark stay on Dick for weeks, what kind of life he leads that puts him in so much danger, what he thought when Dick's injuries started to get worse.

For now he simply has to be content with what he has.

It's been almost a year since that strange meeting with Deathstroke when a villain going by the name Ravager appears, targeting Dick and his team.

He doesn't expect Deathstroke to show up as well.

He watches, mainly. Hidden in the shadows. But Dick can feel the man's eyes on them, can catch flashes out of the corner of his eyes of the man's suit. Dick doesn't know why he's reappeared, why he's so focused on this enemy, this battle.

But Dick understands grief when he sees it, and as Ravager is dying, Deathstroke comes out of nowhere and holds him until he's gone—this was personal.

Deathstroke doesn't say a word as he gathers Ravager in his arms and lifts him. He looks them over, his gaze lingering momentarily on Dick, and then he simply turns and walks away.

Koriand'r protests, but when Raven holds her back and tells them all they need to let him go, Dick doesn't have it in him to protest, staring after the mercenary until he's not even a spec on the horizon.

Grant is dead.

It's nearly impossible to think of those three words together, to make sense of the fact that his eldest son is dead. He thinks the words again and again, trying to convince himself of their reality, trying to remind himself that he was actually there for it to happen, that he could hear Grant's heart stop and feel his lungs still.

He stands in front of Grant's headstone for hours, long after Wintergreen has left him to his grief, trying to let it really sink in that Grant is dead.

He was only eighteen.

HIVE wants Slade to take on Grant's contract. They know, somehow, that Ravager is—was—his son, and they think it only right that he pick up where Grant left off.

And Slade...wants to. His son is dead, and it's because of his fight with the Teen Titans. He knows that it's because of what HIVE gave Grant, that it was inevitable that the serum would burn him up from the inside out, but rational thought has taken a backseat. All he can think of is the fact that the Titans all stood around and watched as Grant was consumed.

He wants to take the contract. He wants to take out his anger on them all. Maybe if he takes them down, he'll be able to rip out some of the damn guilt that is threatening to take over his mind.

Grant wanted to be just like him. He idolized Deathstroke, looked at the job of a mercenary as something glamorous, and Slade knows that's his fault. Grant never would've considered becoming someone like Ravager if not for Slade's actions.

So yes, Slade wants to pick up the contract. He wants to finish what his son started, and take out some of his rage on the ones who were there for his death.

But every time he goes to pick up his phone and accept HIVE's offer, he finds himself stopping.

Because taking down the Titans means taking down Robin.

He knew this would be a complication. He knew having the kid as his soulmate would get in the way, would make doing his job a thousand times more difficult. It makes him almost irrationally angry, because Robin would be his biggest target, as the leader of the team. He'd be the one Slade really wanted to take down for good.

But the very fucking idea of trying to kill him—

Slade's son is dead, and there isn't a damn thing Slade can do about it.

He doesn't know how he's supposed to tell Adeline. They haven't spoken in years, not since she shot out his eye. He's seen Joey a couple times since then, much to Adeline's hatred, and the boy has passed along some messages that he's sure Joey is censoring, but he hasn't actually talked to her. And now the first time in seven years is going to be because their son is dead?

He's severely tempted to not say a word. Grant ran away, after all. Cut off contact with all of them, never wanted to see the family again. It's not like Adeline is going to notice Grant's absence. What's the point in making her mourn when she could just continue on as she is?

But Wintergreen once again proves himself an utter bastard, because he goes and tells Addie anyway, probably knowing Slade would convince himself he didn't have to. Fucking dick.

Adeline shows up in Slade's safehouse, and he doesn't ask how she knew where he was, doesn't ask why she's there, just lets her fist connect with his face, grunting faintly as the cartilage in his nose breaks.

She's earned one free shot, that's for sure. From there—well, if she wants a fight, then Slade will give her one.

"He's dead because of you," she hisses, once a good portion of the furniture in the apartment is destroyed, both of them a little bloodied, and Slade can't even muster up enough rage to tell her she's wrong.

He can barely even convince himself; there's not a chance in hell he'll convince her.

Once a month has passed, once Slade's really managed to bottle up all the nasty, vicious emotions Grant's death has dragged out of him, then he makes a plan.

He can't go after the Teen Titans. He just can't. But he sure as hell can go after the people who gave Grant the serum in the first place.

Slade is very good at what he does. HIVE might be a bigger opponent than he usually goes after, but it doesn't change much in the way he does things. Just provides extra threads that he has to keep track off to take it all down.

He encounters the Titans a couple times while he works. HIVE is running scared as he takes them apart bit by bit, and the heroes and trying to go after the organization in their own way. It's personal for them, probably. Since HIVE sent someone to kill them. But it's sure as hell not as personal as it is for him.

They try to stop him. They try to do their little hero thing and take those responsible down alive.

Slade regrets having to knock Robin out, teeth clenched as he wraps an arm around the boy's throat and takes him down, but it's necessary. It's the only way to get him out of the fight.

There are marks on him later, when it's all over. Not as large or dark as they would be if Slade put his hand around Robin's neck, but still splotches of color that show the kid was suffocated. That Slade suffocated him. Another injury he doled out to his so-called 'perfect match'.

He pushes it from his mind. He finishes the job he set out to accomplish.

Then he does his goddamn best to move on.

Dick doesn't quite know what to do with himself, after Jason's death.

They'd been building a real relationship, before Dick took that mission that sent him off into space. They'd reached a point where Dick truly could call him his little brother, where Jason was more to him than the kid wearing his colors. The kid he wanted to get along with, get to know. They'd been hanging out regularly. Things between him and Bruce might've still been extremely rocky, but things with Jason were good.

And now Jason is dead and Dick wasn't even on the fucking planet when it happened. Didn't get to attend the fucking funeral because Bruce couldn't get his head out of his ass long enough to send a transmission and let Dick know what the hell was going on. Made Dick find out from a file online, three months too late.

And then he had the audacity to blame Dick for Jason's death.

Kori does her best to help. She gets him out of his head, gives him things to focus on instead of his grief, instead of the guilt gnawing at him, wondering whether or not Bruce was right and he should shoulder some of the blame for his little brother's death.

The team does its best to help. They surround him, always with an idea of something fun to do, always with an invitation for Dick to engage with them, whether socially or on a mission.

He appreciates how hard they're all trying. And it does help. Grieving is simply a very slow process, and Bruce has pushed him away so thoroughly that he can't even turn to his father to go through it together.

Dick starts picking fights he knows he can't win. He starts throwing himself into bigger and bigger danger, taking less and less care. Because maybe if he has no choice but to put his all into a fight, if he can only feel the pain of physical blows, then he won't have to stop and deal with all the shit in his head.

He goes on like that for a while, somehow managing to walk away with his life each time only to go out the next night and do it all over again.

Until the next fight he picks is with Deathstroke.

He's only encountered the man a few times through his life, and almost all of those occasions have ended up with him down on the ground, often down for the count. Dick's improved quite a lot since then, he knows he has. He's forced himself to be better, stronger, faster.

But he's not in the headspace to think three steps ahead and take the mercenary down, the way Bruce would want him to. No, Dick doesn't give a shit right now. All he knows is that Deathstroke is trying to kill someone in the city Dick has recently claimed as his own, and he's angry and tired and just wants a fight.

Deathstroke knocks him flat on his back, the lens covering his eye narrowed as he stands on the opposite side of the roof and just watches, allowing Dick to push himself to his feet without interference.

He barely touched him. He only did what was necessary to end the fight, and then backed off. Dick doesn't understand it. This man almost killed him when he was eleven years old, and now he's Mr. Nice? Deathstroke isn't known for his mercy, and definitely not for his patience when people get in the way of his contracts. He should be trying to really take Dick down, not...whatever this is.

"Go home, kid," Deathstroke says when Dick shifts back into a fighting stance. "I don't care about whatever's goin' on in your head to make you think you're actually in a state to be a threat right now—just go home."

"I won't let you just kill someone," Dick says firmly.

"With the amount of injuries you currently have I'm surprised you're still standing. You're right that you're not going to 'let' me do it, because you couldn't stop me anyway."

The anger that rises in Dick has nothing to do with Deathstroke and everything to do with Jason and Bruce and a stupid glass case in the Batcave, and a legacy that was never supposed to be a legacy but now feels so wrong without his little brother to fill it.

"I'm not injured," Dick bolsters, but it's a lie. The last few weeks have not been kind to him. He's not been kind to himself. His ribs ache on nearly every breath, half his body is covered in bruises, he's pretty sure his wrist is sprained from when some asshole grabbed him a little too hard—he's very far from the best shape of his life. But like hell is he going to admit that to Deathstroke.

The mercenary lets out a quiet sound like a sigh. "Look—"

Dick doesn't care about what he has to say. He attacks again.

He knows he's sloppy, practically projecting what he's going to do before he does it. He knows the mess in his head is making him an extremely easy target for someone like Deathstroke. That the man is basically humoring him by not knocking him on his ass again. But Dick just—he just doesn't care.

Deathstroke does get bored of the 'fight' eventually and plants a solid kick to Dick's chest.

On a good day, a hit like that would still send him stumbling back, maybe even take him off his feet. But right now? With his ribs already injured? The kick is like fire, pain radiating from the spot Deathstroke's boot connected, taking Dick's breath away. His vision turns spotty and he gasps for air, his lungs refusing to listen to him.

Distantly, he hears someone curse, but Dick's ears are ringing and his head is spinning and he—

Blacks out.

When he comes to, he's no longer on a random rooftop in Bludhaven but instead lying on something soft.

He keeps himself calm, giving no signs of having woken up, just like Bruce taught him. He tries to take stock of his surroundings; somewhere nearby he can hear someone moving, the faint clink of glasses, the gurgle of some sort of liquid. His chest feels cold, and he realizes he's been stripped of the top half of his uniform.

Panic sparks, and his hands fly up to his face, relief hitting him instantly when he feels that his mask is still in place.

He risks opening his eyes, wincing at the bright light that hits him, and the shifts, trying to push himself up onto his elbows. That is immediately proven to be the wrong move, because his chest lights up with pain, leaving Dick gasping.

There are footsteps, someone taking a few steps in his direction, and then a deep voice saying, "Don't try to get up, you'll only make it worse."

When Dick doesn't feel like he's going to pass out anymore, he twists his head, looking over to where Deathstroke stands, the man's arms loosely folded over his chest, watching him.

Dick's brow furrows in confusion. They're...in an apartment. Dick's lying on the couch, his uniform stripped down to his waist, an ice pack and a bandage sitting over his ribs. The cut on his side he'd only given cursory treatment to is bandaged as well.

"Where...?" Dick begins to ask, gaze drifting back to the mercenary. "Why?" he settles on instead.

Deathstroke shakes his head and turns away, walking over to the small kitchen he must've been in before. The gurgling he heard before, Dick sees, is a coffee pot, and Deathstroke pours out two mugs before reentering the living room and passing one over to Dick. Dick takes it wordlessly.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Deathstroke says bluntly after a minute of silence. "You're damn lucky it was me around and not some people who'd like to see you dead."

"You've tried to kill me," Dick mumbles. The coffee tastes good, and he inhales the smell of it, memories of breakfasts in the Manor's nook drifting back to him.

Deathstroke doesn't acknowledge the words. Instead he pulls up his mask, just over the bridge of his nose, and takes a long sip from his mug.

Dick examines the lower half of his face. Caucasian, at least mid-thirties, the small white beard adding at least another decade to that estimate. He doesn't seem bothered by how obviously Dick is looking, only stares back from behind the opaque lens.

"You keep going the way you're going," Deathstroke says eventually, "and you're gonna wind up dead. You really hate the Bat that much?"

Dick jolts at the words, and then lets out a short breath when the movement makes his chest flare up again. "What?"

"The way I see it, he just lost one bird. Looks like he's not too far from losing another."

Of course he knows about Jason's death; everyone probably does, by this point. Hell, most of the goddamn world knew about his death before Dick did.

Dick forces himself into a seated position, ignoring the pain, glaring up at the mercenary. "You don't know what you're talking about," he hisses, baring his teeth.

He doesn't know that Bruce probably wouldn't give a shit right now, that he hit Dick and blamed him and kicked him out of his home—he wouldn't care if Dick worked himself to the bone, if he wound up dead. What does it matter if Bruce loses another one of them?

"You need to find a way to move past this death," Deathstroke says bluntly. "People die, kid. Only way out is forward."

He sets his mug down and turns for the window.

"Who was he to you?" Dick blurts out suddenly. Deathstroke pauses. "Ravager, I mean. Grant Wilson. The way you went after HIVE..."

The way he went after HIVE made it pretty damn clear that Ravager was important to him. Deathstroke held him while he died and then systematically destroyed the organization responsible for sending him out into the field; you don't do that for people who are casual acquaintances. You do that for people you love.

Same thing that has Dick ignoring the want to sneak into Arkham each night and get revenge for Jason.

Deathstroke looks back to him, something considering in the tilt of his head. Then he reaches up and pulls off his mask.

Dick is stunned for a moment, lips parting, and then he quickly takes the man in. A head of white hair that matches the beard, an eyepatch covering one eye, the other a gray-blue. The white hair and serious expression make him look older, but his features are young, late thirties at the most. He's handsome. Some similar features to...

"Grant was my son," Deathstroke tells him.

"Oh," Dick says quietly. "I...I'm sorry for your loss."

Deathstroke looks at him for a long moment, and then says, "I'm sorry for yours."

Dick offers a hesitant smile. "Why did you...why did you help me?"

He didn't have to. It's not even like Dick would've died, just woken up in a hell of a lot of pain sometime later. Would've taken him a while to make it back to his apartment, but he would've been fine. Deathstroke didn't have to bring him here, or treat his injuries. He chose to. Dick doesn't understand why.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Deathstroke warns.

"I've never understood that expression," Dick says lightly, brightening his smile. "It originates from the Trojan Horse, but I mean, they definitely should've looked the gift horse in the mouth. Would've stopped them from bringing the Greeks right into their city. Not looking in the horse was a big mistake."

There's something on Deathstroke's face Dick can't identify no matter how hard he tries. Amusement, maybe? He can't be sure.

"Take better care of yourself," Deathstroke says, pulling his mask back on. "The next time you try to fight me, you better be at the top of your game. That will be a fight worth having."

Dick finds that his smile is real as Deathstroke takes off through the window.

"Incoming!"

Slade lets out an exasperated sigh and ducks, swerving out of the way as a blue and black blur swings through the air and lands a solid kick to the chest of one of the goons doing their best to surround Slade.

The fight is over very quickly. Nightwing moves to tie up the attackers who are still alive, and Slade watches him idly, wiping off the blood on his blade on the shirt of one of the dead ones.

Nightwing grimaces when he looks at the people Slade killed, but doesn't react otherwise past giving Slade an annoyed look.

"New suit," Slade comments. No more yellow. No more ridiculous mullet, either. Just a blue design over his chest that extends up towards his shoulders and then down his arms. It looks good. Definitely far better than that first one, with the high collar that was way too easy to grab in a fight.

Nightwing smiles at him. "Mmhm. I kinda miss the yellow pattern, but I do love the finger-stripes."

He wiggles his hand as if to demonstrate, and Slade sees that the blue goes all the way to the tips of his middle and ring fingers. Slade simply hums, and then glances around, walking over to where the head of this little operation lies dead on the ground.

He can feel Nightwing's eyes on him as he crouches down and rifles through the man's pocket. He finds what he's looking for and slips it into his belt. "Something I can help you with, kid?"

The hero's nose is scrunched up, gaze on the dead guy, and then he drags his eyes up to meet Slade's. "Was passing by, saw the fight. Couldn't resist dropping in."

No, Slade bets he couldn't. Same reason Slade can't resist tracking Nightwing down when he has a contract in Bludhaven and letting the kid know about it.

At least Slade knows why, though, even if it's a dumb goddamn reason. He wonders if the kid is ever confused, if he ever wonders why he's so quick to accept Slade's presence when he should be cautious.

It's been a couple years now, since the second Robin's death. Even more since Grant's. Slade has had far more interactions with Nightwing than he ever meant to.

He intended to keep his distance, as he'd been doing for years. He intended to not even take jobs in the Mid-Atlantic if he could help it, since Nightwing seemed to pop up in just about every city there—a shame, since contracts in New York and Gotham tend to pay extra.

That had been the plan. Stay far away from his soulmate. Don't get wrapped up in the little hero whom he's unfortunately tied to. Ignore all the wounds that show up on his body. Don't pay attention to any villains boasting about hurting the Titans or the Bats.

The plan was unsuccessful.

Mainly because he didn't count on Nightwing's persistence, and how bad Slade would be at turning him away.

The kid doesn't know they're soulmates, Slade is sure of it. He would've said something, if he knew. He sees him, sometimes, rubbing his arm or his side where Slade knows he himself got an injury recently. Knows that means Nightwing thinks about his soulmate. He would've said something, if he knew. He doesn't know.

Which makes his companionable interactions with Slade...confusing.

Slade knows he messed up, the day he patched the kid up. He shouldn't have patched the kid up. He should've left him there; he was fine, after all. A little bruised and broken, maybe, but he would've lived.

But Slade kicked him harder than he meant to. Forgot, for a moment, about the soulmark bruises that still littered the skin of his chest. And then Nightwing was wheezing and dropping and Slade—couldn't leave him there.

It only caused problems. It changed something, for Nightwing. For himself. He shouldn't have patched him up, and he shouldn't have waited with him until he woke up, and he shouldn't have told him about Grant. He shouldn't have tried to make the kid feel better.

That was two years ago, and since then Slade has had far more interactions with Nightwing than he meant to.

He's taking jobs in the Mid-Atlantic. In New York, and Blud, and Gotham. He tracks the kid down. He's being...sentimental. And it's only served to make the kid more determined to—he doesn't know, be his friend, maybe? What Nightwing thinks that will achieve is beyond him but still it happens, still the kid willingly engages with him and doesn't tell him to fuck off when Slade pops up in his life.

Slade avoids Billy if he can, these days. The man is far too smug, even when he doesn't say a single word.

And an extra problem is that the kid isn't really a kid anymore. He's not eleven or fifteen or even nineteen. He's twenty-one, a real adult. He looks like a real adult. He looks...

Well, he looks good.

It's messing with Slade's head. Because he remembers that ridiculous traffic light of a child, and how much he felt like a child. How Slade couldn't picture him as anything else, could barely even comprehend that the kid would grow up, because he was so small and needed protection and Slade felt—something he doesn't really want to put a name to.

That something is a hell of a lot different now.

Now, he notices the curve of Nightwing's ass when the kid bends over to handcuff some unconscious goon. He notices his muscled thighs, and thinks about how nice they feel wrapped around his waist when the kid tries to pin him when they fight. He thinks about pinning Nightwing against a wall and fucking him senseless.

He doesn't have time for something like this. He doesn't want to get involved with a hero, let alone one who's his soulmate.

Slade knows how he could get Nightwing to leave him alone. He knows exactly what to say, how to crush any good feelings the kid might have towards him, how to make him feel used and manipulated and weak. He knows the kid well enough, by this point, and Nightwing's always worn his heart more on his sleeve than he lets people realize.

He's vulnerable to people he respects. And somehow, he respects Slade.

Slade tries to not fool himself though. He knows he'll never do it. He doesn't want to watch Nightwing's smile crumble because of him. Doesn't want to see the kid break.

So he's stuck in this ridiculous limbo, caught somewhere between enemies and...whatever the hell they're 'supposed' to be.

"How's Jericho?" Slade asks, mainly to distract himself.

Joey started attending college in NYC last year. Ended up finding his way to the Titans. Considering the power he possesses, Slade isn't surprised that he ended up in the world of capes. He just hadn't been sure which side his second son would fall to—follow in his footsteps, like Grant, or become something else.

He's been doing well on the Titans. They talk, sometimes. Rarely and awkwardly, but there's...some communication. Nightwing helped with that. Continues to help with that.

Ridiculous fucking do-gooder.

"He's good," Nightwing says, smiling in that way he always does when Slade broaches the subject of his family first, instead of making Nightwing offer up the information. "Made the Dean's List, actually. You've got a smart kid. And he's fitting in with the team really well; he's good at making friends."

Slade grunts an acknowledgement and turns to walk away. He has a client to go meet, and Nightwing's presence shouldn't change that.

Undeterred, Nightwing jogs to catch up and then falls into step with him. Slade glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but the kid's attention is up on the sky, head tilted towards the sun. Gotham and Bludhaven tend to have more cloudy days than clear; kid must enjoy soaking in the light when he can get it.

"So you gonna tell me what you took," Nightwing asks lightly, "or do I have to play twenty questions? Twenty questions tends to end with a fight, though, so the first option is probably the best, don't you think?"

Slade rolls his eye. "Stay out of my business, kid."

Nightwing snorts. "You know I can't do that. Besides, you're in Gotham. Would you rather have my nose poking around, or Batman's?"

Batman might be better, actually. He doesn't think about Batman's ass when they fight. And he certainly doesn't feel bad doing his best to beat him up.

Any marks he leaves on Nightwing appear on his own skin, too. It's hard to not ruminate on them when he can't escape the reminders of what he's done.

"Batman's nose certainly talks a lot less," Slade says dryly.

Nightwing puts a hand to his heart in mock offense. "Well I never."

Slade sees the kid's eyes flick down, eyeing his belt. Calculating the odds of whether or not he could actually manage to get what Slade took from the dead guy. The odds are not good.

He goes for it anyway.

Slade lets him get halfway before catching his wrist, a hold Nightwing immediately twists out of, other arm already reaching. There's a smile playing at his lips, excited for the fight to come.

Damn if Slade isn't feeling that same excitement.

Dick rubs his eyes, stifling a yawn, trying to focus on the words in front of him.

He's read the same paragraph five times now, not taking in any of the information. He wants to have all of this memorized by the time Bruce arrives to take him to breakfast, which is in three hours, but he's really not taking in any new information.

Sue him, he's been up for quite some time now, and a busy patrol only made the exhaustion worse. He only just got in half an hour ago, and saw the file sitting on his kitchen island where he'd put it earlier so that he wouldn't forget to go over the details and commit the important parts to memory, but lo and behold he forgot about it anyway and so now here he is at five in the morning trying to make some sort of sense out of the case when he can barely read a full sentence.

It's just been...really rough, recently. A lot of loss and pain. And the most recent one—

Joey's not even been dead a week.

Dick's trying to keep it together for his team, because they need him. They need their leader right now, in the way he wasn't there for them when Donna died. But it really does feel like he's treading water recently, barely keeping his head above water, and there's just so much he has to do, so much he's responsible for—he doesn't have time for a breather. He barely has time for sleep.

It's on the tenth reread of the same paragraph that he finally gives up. He'll just have to handle the half-concerned half-disappointed look Bruce gives him when he asks if Dick has any thoughts on the case. Bruce's thoughts about him really are the least of his worries; what's one more insult on top of injury?

He manages to take a shower, for what feels like the first time in a while. Yanks on some sweatpants and stumbles down the hall to his bedroom, looking forward to getting a few hours of sleep before having to start a new day.

He pulls up short as he passes the entrance to the living room, heart stopping when he sees that there's someone there, but it only takes him another moment to recognize Slade.

He hasn't seen Slade since it happened. He wanted to...help, somehow, but there was nothing he could really do. Slade dropped off the face of the earth, and Dick had too much on his plate to try and track the man down.

"Hey," Dick says softly, stepping further into the room. "It's good to see you're in one piece."

Slade looks over at him, expression eerily blank. Dick isn't scared of Slade, not after all this time, but it's still chilling to see him look so...menacing. He is Deathstroke, after all. One of the most feared men on the planet. Just because he's Dick's...frenemy, or whatever, doesn't mean he's stopped being dangerous. Doesn't mean he won't turn on Dick one day, if the incentive is good enough.

"Hey, Grayson," Slade returns, voice low.

It's been about a year since Slade learned his identity (after the utter shitshow Dick's life was post-Blockbuster, and Slade gave him a place to stay) but Dick is still not used to hearing his name come out of the man's mouth. It's...nice. Is always nice.

Dick stops a few feet away from him, looking him over. He looks fine, of course—takes a lot to make Slade look anything else—but there's something coiled about the way he's holding himself, tightly wound. He doesn't seem okay.

Hell, how could he be? His second child is dead.

"You want something to drink?" Dick asks. "I have coffee, tea, hot chocolate..." He trails off, and when Slade says nothing, adds, "Something stronger?"

Slade looks away from him, squinting out the window for a moment. It's raining, and the sound of it fills the silence. Dick goes back and forth on whether or not he hates the rain.

"You look like you haven't slept," Slade says eventually.

Dick crooks a tired smile. "Not all of us have superhuman regenerative abilities."

Slade hums, acknowledging. He looks back at Dick, eye dragging up and down his body in a way that almost makes Dick startle. Slade walks closer, not stopping until he's right in front of Dick, forcing Dick to tip his head back to meet his eye.

"Slade?" Dick murmurs questioningly, brow furrowed.

The man's expression is still unreadable, and it comes as a complete and utter shock when he bends down and kisses Dick, one arm wrapping around his back to tug him close.

Dick's eyes go wide, stunned still. Slade takes advantage of his pliant mouth, kissing him deeply, stealing the breath from Dick's lungs and drawing a soft noise out of him.

Because it's not like—okay, Dick's definitely looked at Slade this way. Has for quite a long time. He's wanted...Well. He's wanted this. He's wanted to pull Slade close and kiss him, wanted to do far more than that. So the fact that Slade wants him too—that's pretty fucking amazing.

Dick melts into the kiss, hands cupping the back of Slade's neck, allowing Slade to back him up until he hits the wall, a gasp ripping out of him as he slams against it. The kiss turns hungrier, deeper, filthier. Dick feels light-headed just trying to keep up, and this is—

It's wrong. There's something wrong here. Slade is tense, practically shut down. He's shoving his leg between Dick's thighs and grinding it forward, kissing him almost desperately and giving Dick no room to think or breathe or—it's just wrong. Dick knows Slade, far better than the man would probably like. Slade isn't like this, not with him.

Dick jerks his head to the side, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Slade is not deterred, mouthing at Dick's jaw as he grinds his thigh against Dick's crotch, making heat pool in his gut.

"Slade," Dick gasps. "Slade, wait, c'mon—"

He cuts off with a sharp noise when Slade's teeth dig into his neck, and then he shoves at Slade's shoulders. It's like trying to move a mountain, and for the first time in a long time, Dick feels a spark of fear around Slade.

"Slade!" Dick shouts. He wraps a hand in Slade's hair and yanks, drawing a hiss out of the mercenary. "Slade, fuck, stop it, please—"

The man goes still. He's breathing harshly, sharp bursts of hot air on the side of Dick's neck. He doesn't pull back, but the hands he has on Dick's hips stop gripping so tightly, and his leg eases back, letting Dick close his own.

Dick takes the opportunity to calm his racing heartbeat, to work through a few breathing exercises. When he's sure he's calm and in control, he tentatively prompts, "Slade?"

Slade's breathing doesn't even out. His jaw is clenched, air going sharply in and out of his nose. He's twitching slightly. He keeps his face tucked into the curve of Dick's neck.

Dick hesitantly strokes his fingers through Slade's hair, his other hand resting on Slade's upper arm.

Slowly, the tension starts to seep out of Slade's body. He stops breathing so roughly. The pounding of his heart against Dick's chest begins to steady.

Venturing a guess, Dick murmurs, "I miss him, too."

Slade's hands on his hips tighten and relax again. He presses a gentle, feather-light kiss to the spot he bit before, and then slowly draws back.

Dick is reluctant to let him go, but doesn't try to cling to him, letting the man step away.

They simply look at each other for a long moment.

"Stay," Dick says softly. "I have a guest room. You're...I don't think you should leave. So, stay."

Slade's hands clench into fists at his sides. He squints out the window again.

He says, "Okay."

Slade's on a job when the marks begin to arrive.

He's in civilian attire, acting as a bodyguard for some millionaire who is sure there's a plot to kill him (there is, Slade's simply waiting for the hired killer to strike). It's easy money; all he has to do is wear a suit and keep an eye out while the millionaire goes about his business, so he's feeling pretty relaxed, all things considered. Bored, even.

Then the skin under his pointer finger's nail turns blue with a soulmark.

Slade frowns at it, wondering what Dick's gotten himself into. Slam his finger in a car door? Must hurt like a bitch.

But then, just fifteen seconds later, the same thing happens to his index finger.

His gut clenches as he stares at it, trying to come up with another explanation. Because he knows what the most likely scenario is, now. Someone's ripping out Dick's fingernails. He's being tortured.

He keeps his cool. Dick's a vigilante, he's very good at getting himself out of sticky situations. And he has practically an entire clan at his back, who are surely working tirelessly to find him and rescue him. Dick is going to be fine. Slade can't allow this to distract him from his job.

By the time it's over and Slade is back at his hotel room (eight hours and thirty-seven minutes since the first mark appeared) there are...many more soulmarks littering his body.

He strips and takes them all in with a cold eye, noting the burns, the cuts, the puncture marks, the bruises everywhere.

And, right before his eyes, he watches another slice cut across his stomach.

The torture is still going on. It's been eight and a half hours, and Dick is still there.

Slade packs quickly. He books the first plane back to the states, and spends the six hour flight perfectly still, eyes fixed ahead so he won't be tempted to check for more marks while there's nothing he can do.

He lands in New York immediately grabs a car and heads to Bludhaven. He calls Dick from the road, and gets no answer. His apartment, when Slade breaks in, is empty, and clearly has been for a little while.

Whoever took him still has him.

Slade checks the hidden compartment where Dick keeps his night job materials. The Nightwing suit is absent, as are his preferred batons and usual tools. So the abduction happened while he was Nightwing, not Dick Grayson.

He checks the trackers in the suit, but they're offline, because of course they are. Next he hacks the security feed on the roof of Dick's building; it shows Dick leaving for patrol at his usual time, and not returning. He follows Dick's usual patrol route, moving camera by camera to find where something went wrong.

Why hasn't he seen any sign of the Bats? Shouldn't they be all over this? Dick has been missing for at least fifteen hours—where the hell are they?

He pushes it from his head; it's possible they've all been taken, or at least enough of them that it makes finding them extremely challenging, so Slade forces himself to focus instead on the task at hand.

He finally finds something, about halfway through Dick's regular patrol. Dick engages in a fight with a group of thugs, and someone takes the opportunity to shoot a dart of something that makes Dick collapse right into the hero's neck. Going by the way the thugs all freak out, that someone is not with them.

Slade continues to follow the trail. It takes him to Gotham.

He's been there all of ten minutes before Batman finds him. It's a little early in the evening for the Bat to be out, but Slade supposes needs must.

"What are you doing here, Wilson?" Batman growls.

"Your job, apparently," Slade replies. He really shouldn't antagonize the Bat, not when they really do have a common goal right now, but it is honestly too hard to resist. "Missing any birds lately?"

The silence that follows tells Slade all he needs to know—Wayne has no idea that his son's been captured. Disappointing, but he can't claim to be surprised. Dick and Wayne are on good terms these days, he knows, but there's still distance. Wayne probably thinks he's giving Dick the space he needs. He's overdoing it just a little too much.

Case in point, what's happening right now.

"Nightwing's been taken," Slade says bluntly. Batman tenses. "I'm currently tracking the people who have him. If you'd like to step up to the plate, by all means, you're welcome to join."

Batman's eyes narrow, displeased. He doesn't want to work with Slade, not for anything, especially not when Slade is poking at him. But this is Dick, and while the distance might exist, that doesn't mean Wayne wouldn't do everything in his power to get him back.

So, the vigilante nods sharply and strides over to him. "What do you know?"

Slade lays it all out for him. He doesn't explain how he found out, and Batman doesn't ask.

They work well together, oddly enough. Neither of them are big talkers when it comes to the work, both have an obsessive eye for detail...and both of them are dedicated to finding Dick as soon as possible.

Once they've located the right place, taking down the people inside is child's play.

Batman barks at him to avoid kill shots, but Slade ignores him easily, taking out everyone the way he wants to. These people have been torturing Dick for over sixteen hours; they don't deserve mercy. When Dick's well enough he can yell at him if he wants to, but for now this is the right solution.

They find Dick in the basement. He's strapped to a table in a dark room, shaking faintly, covered in blood and sweat. He doesn't look at them as they approach, doesn't even seem to realize they're there, and when Batman puts a hand gently on his wrist, Dick lets out a fearful whine, cringing away as much as he can in his bindings.

Batman snatches his hand away, sucking in a sharp breath.

Slade pushes past him. He puts his hand on Dick's shoulder, ignoring the sob that escapes the kid, how the shaking gets worse.

"Dick," Slade says softly. He kneads at his shoulder gently. "We're going to get you out of here. It's over. Look at me, kid. It's over. Your idiot father is here too, all the bad guys are down, so just take a deep breath. That's right, there you go. Just breathe."

Dick slowly follows his instructions. The shaking doesn't stop, but his gaze does drift up to look at Slade, brow furrowing as he tries to focus.

"Sl'd," Dick slurs, head lolling to the side.

"It's me," Slade confirms. "You with me, kid? We're gonna move you now; I need you to not freak out on us."

Dick blinks heavily, and then he gives a slow nod. "'M okay. Y'here. 'M okay..."

His eyelids flutter as he passes out, and Slade wastes no time in beginning to undo the straps binding him to the table. Batman steps up to do the same, starting at his feet, and they make quick work of everything.

Slade lifts Dick into his arms before Wayne can even try. The Bat gives him a long look, jaw clenched, and then nods sharply and turns for the door, leading the way back out.

Slade stands at Dick's bedside, arms folded over his chest, frowning down at Dick's still form, focusing on the sound of his heartbeat, his lungs filling and deflating. He's alive, and mainly in one piece. He's gonna recover just fine.

The door opens and closes behind him, Wayne's expensive shoes clicking against the tiles as he steps up beside him, arms crossed similarly, expression serious as he looks down at his son, gaze sweeping up and down his body, lingering on the visible injuries.

Then his eyes shift to Slade's hand. To the soulmarks left by a pair of broken fingers and a few ripped-out nails. His frown deepens, but he doesn't look surprised.

"How long have you known?" Slade asks.

Wayne meets his eye, then looks back to Dick, settling on his face. "I've had my suspicions since you gave him that cut." His eyes flick briefly over to Slade. "You were testing it, weren't you? You almost murdered him, and then you had to be sure."

Slade doesn't react to the reminder of the fact that Dick almost died because of his bullet, refusing to rise to Wayne's bait. "And yet you never told him."

"Neither did you."

Slade's lips curve into a wry smirk. "So we've both betrayed his trust, then. That's good. I'd hate to be the only one he's going to be mad at."

Wayne sends him a withering glare, but says nothing in response.

They stand in silence for a while, just watching, both of them reassuring themselves of Dick's Alive status. He's going to recover just fine. Will need to go through physical therapy for the broken fingers and is coming away with quite a few scars, but he's going to recover.

"I want you to stay away from him," Wayne says.

Slade offers a lazy blink. "You know that's not going to happen."

Wayne sighs through his nose. "Yes I do." A pause, then he adds, "But if he wants you to leave him alone—"

Ignoring the way his gut twists, Slade calmly replies, "He'll never have to see me again."

"Good. There are quite a few people who will hold you to that."

Slade inclines his head, understanding the shovel talk, as odd as it may be.

Silence falls over them again, but this time, neither of them break it.

Dick does a majority of his recovery in Star City, crashing with Roy and Lian.

He misses his family, and is sad to leave them, but being out of Bruce's reach is far more desirable right now then having his siblings around him. He knows they understand, anyway; Jason was even the one to buy him a plane ticket.

Dick thought the days of Bruce keeping big things from him were behind them. But no, it seems he's simply been shockingly naïve, because of course Bruce still had a secret, and of course it was unbelievably important.

"I just wanted to protect you," Bruce told him when it all came out, and even four weeks later the words still make a well of rage rise up in Dick. Bruce has known the identity of his soulmate for a decade, and never said a word. Watched Dick admire his soulmarks and listen to Alfred's stories of his soulmate with a smile, and kept silent.

So no, Dick doesn't stay in Gotham. He checks himself out of the hospital at the earliest opportunity and heads right to his friend's house, sure that Roy Harper will never welcome Bruce into his home without Dick's approval. And maybe not even then.

Dick spends half his time recovering and half his time trying to work out what he's feeling.

Because Bruce isn't the only one who lied to him. Slade did too.

For years. For years, they have been friends. Dick put his trust in Slade, against the advice of countless people. He put his life in Slade's hands time and time again. Invited him into his home. Allowed him to know his fucking identity.

And the whole time, Slade was lying to him.

It's a really hard thing to grapple with. Because this is information that, normally, would make him overjoyed. His soulmate! He actually knows who his soulmate is! And it's Slade, someone Dick would've quite happily entered into a relationship with!

But Slade's known since he was fifteen. Has been pretty sure since he was eleven. That they're soulmates. That they're—

He never said a word. He forced Dick to be oblivious, to think his meta was somewhere out there, less and less likely to be found with each year that passed. He made Dick wonder if Anita was right all those years ago, if there really was a curse on him and his soulmate didn't exist at all.

He forced Dick into that. For more than a decade.

It's hard to be happy about learning the truth when the truth is wrapped up in something so ugly.

He spends a long time in Star City, long enough that he's able to put on the Nightwing suit and go out on patrol with Roy. And Roy never complains, never looks impatient, never acts like he's waiting for Dick to leave. He listens to Dick rant about Bruce and Slade and soulmates, and then provides alcohol so they can do it all again while drunk.

But eventually, Dick can't hide anymore.

He goes back to Bludhaven, taking care of his city for the first time in months. Jason, Tim, and Cass have been taking turns patrolling Blud for him, so he's known it was in good hands, but that's nothing compared to actually seeing it in one piece with his own eyes and being able to swing through the streets like he did before everything went wrong.

Bruce stocks his fridge and sends him a message saying it's good to have him back, but doesn't push past that. Showing some emotional intelligence for once, apparently. Or maybe Alfred was responsible for keeping him controlled.

On his third night back in Blud, Slade shows up.

Dick's sitting on the roof of a high-rise, legs kicking faintly against the side, staring up at the sky. From this high up, he can actually see the stars.

He hears Slade land on the roof somewhere behind him, then his boots crunching against the gravel as he approaches. He steps up next to Dick and then slowly sits down beside him, giving Dick ample time to tell him to fuck off. Or simply push him off the roof.

He'd survive, after all. It would hurt like goddamn hell, but he wouldn't die.

"You're looking better than the last time I saw you," Slade says after a little while.

"Really? I thought that was a good look," Dick replies with a smile, but the words fall flat, and the smile doesn't reach his eyes. He still has no idea how he feels about any of this. He's angry, so angry. But he's also...relieved? Hopeful? It's a mean combination. An unfair one.

Figuring there's no reason to beat around the bush, Dick says, "I had the right to know."

Slade nods. "You did."

Dick lets out a sharp sigh and then looks at him for the first time, frowning. Slade's mask is off, sole eye locked onto Dick's face.

And Dick tries to find a difference, now that he knows. Tries to find some sign of his soulmate, of something new, something...special. But it's just—it's just Slade.

Same man who patched him up when he didn't have to. Same man who always lets him know when he has a contract nearby, and taunts him into getting involved. Same man who took him in when his world was falling apart and let him stay with him. Same man who showed up in his apartment grieving someone they both loved with no idea how to handle it.

"I'm mad at you," he says.

Slade nods again. "You have every right to be."

Dick's frown deepens. "You just—you understand, right? Why I'm pissed? This is something you can grasp?"

"It was a breach of trust."

Dick laughs, a little broken. "Well, yeah, duh. Good, you've gotten that part. But it's not like you stole something from my apartment, Slade, you deceived me for over a decade. That's—it's hard to get over, you know? That you've known for so long, and left me in the dark. Forced me to stay in the dark."

Slade doesn't say anything. Dick takes a few deep breaths.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" he asks.

Slade just looks at him, and Dick lets out a helpless noise, shifting his gaze back to the sky. Slade doesn't even know if he would have. He might've kept it a secret for the rest of their lives.

"I'm sorry."

Dick's eyes dart back to Slade's face, surprised. Slade doesn't really do apologies. He'll make up for things he knows he did wrong through actions or gestures, but he never actually says the words.

"You were going to take it away from me," Dick whispers. "Ever finding my soulmate—you were going to deprive me of that. You were right here and you made me think..."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"When you came over after Joey's death, you kissed me. Tell me why."

Slade looks at him for a long moment. "Because I wanted to."

"Because you knew I was your soulmate, and would probably say yes?"

Slade shakes his head. "Because I wanted to, Dick."

Dick searches his expression, looking for the lie and finding nothing. Just...honesty. What a rare concept.

"You could've saved us a lot of trouble, you know," Dick says. "What with the whole, you apparently having feelings like that for me, thing. Telling me 'hey, guess what, we're soulmates!' would've really made things a lot simpler."

Slade smirks at him. "When have I ever made things simple?"

Dick snorts and looks away again. "Well, you've got me there."

Slade sighs. "Look, kid, I..." He shakes his head. "You were a—complication that I didn't want. Not having a soulmate was a good thing in my line of work. Having you...that made everything more challenging. So I didn't want to know you. Didn't want to be anywhere near you. But you..." He huffs a laugh. "Hell, kid. You're pretty damn hard to stay away from, you know that?"

Dick smiles reluctantly. "Don't say flattering things when I'm mad at you. It's distracting."

"That's not a very good incentive to stop."

Dick chuckles, shaking his head, and meets Slade's gaze once more. He considers him for a long moment, debating.

He says, "I'm gonna be mad for a while, just so you know. There's probably gonna be some pettiness, and a couple passive-aggressive remarks, maybe some punches thrown. You know, the usual."

Slade nods cautiously. "Alright."

"But that doesn't mean I don't...want you around. That I don't—want you. If you...still want me too, I guess."

Slade lifts a hand, moving slowly, giving Dick time to bat it away if he wants to. When Dick doesn't stop him, he brushes his fingers through Dick's hair and then cups the back of his neck, drawing him closer.

Dick puts a hand on Slade's chest, keeping the kiss gentle, slow. Slade's hand is firm and large, and Dick feels...safe, in his grasp. Feels calmer than he has in a long time.

"See," Dick says on a breath when they finally part, "if you'd gotten your head out of your ass, we could've been doing that years ago."

Slade laughs. "And so the passive-aggressive remarks begin."

Dick is still smiling when Slade drags him back in for another kiss.