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Dick wakes up handcuffed to the headboard of a bed that is definitely not his own. The first clue is, his bed doesn’t have the kind of headboard you can handcuff someone to because his bed is a mattress on the floor of his bedroom.
Actually, he cranes his neck to inspect the cuffs better, and they’re not handcuffs. It’s padded custom cuffs instead, which might be good, if they weren’t also fitted so perfectly to his wrists that even dislocating his thumb wouldn’t let him wiggle his hand out. The locking mechanism is also something that looks too complicated to be pried open with as little reach as he has right now.
All of this is bad. Very bad, but not as bad as the fact he doesn’t have his mask on. He definitely remembers having it on when he was last conscious before this.
What he remembers is Nightwing fighting a gang of unusually tenacious gun smugglers and then nothing. Someone got in a lucky hit and knocked him out, maybe? But nothing hurts more than he’d expect it to. A few new bruises to add to his collection, but nothing that feels serious.
But he’s here, restrained and maskless, in a room he doesn’t recognize. He maybe panics a little and has to focus on breathing slowly before he can start coming up with an escape plan.
Then Slade Wilson walks into the room.
“What the—” Dick doesn’t get much further than that, mostly because he doesn’t know where to start, and his mouth feels clumsy and out of practice. Concussion? The low-key panic pumping adrenaline into his veins is also slightly distracting. It’s not a contract on his life, or he’d be dead already. ‘Unless the client wanted to finish you off personally’, an extremely unhelpful part of his mind adds in a whisper.
It’s the lack of a mask that still bothers him the most. If Slade hands him over to a client, he’ll have a chance to escape, no matter what said client wants with him. Anyone other than Slade will get careless and overconfident, and give him the opening he needs. He just has to survive that far. But the mask. If the contract includes unmasking him…
He doesn’t even know what he’s going to do about it. Pretend he isn’t Nightwing and has no idea what’s going on? He doesn’t really have options.
Slade gets closer and Dick only notices that he’s in civilian clothes then. He feels slow. He should have a plan at this point, something. Instead he feels heavy. Tranquilizers? That would explain the lack of new injuries.
“Drugs?” he asks, hoping Slade will feel what would be overconfident on anyone else and an absolutely warranted amount of confidence for Slade and explain his plan.
“Not yet,” Slade says ominously.
Dick watches warily as Slade picks up a water bottle from the nightstand and opens it. And presses it against Dick’s lips. “Drink.” Dick doesn’t really have a choice so he does. Slade makes him drink the whole thing. Afterwards Dick feels a little more clear-headed, so he assumes the water was probably not drugged.
“Why am I here?” he asks. Ultimately that matters more than how he got there.
“I had a contract in your city,” Slade says, pointed like that should mean something. Only Dick is pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to interfere, courtesy of having completely missed that Slade was even in town. When Dick doesn’t interject, and probably has an obviously confused expression as well—he can’t exactly feel his face as well as he should—Slade goes on. “Imagine my surprise when you didn’t show up. I set the sniper nest up somewhere challenging just to make it interesting for you.”
Is Slade—? Does he sound offended that Dick didn’t interfere with his contract? That makes no sense, so whatever is wrong with Dick must be affecting his hearing as well. Though he does wonder where Slade managed to set up that would have been a challenge to get to. He almost wants to ask for a rematch just to find out.
“So…”
Slade keeps looking at him with a dissatisfied expression for so long Dick starts to feel the creeping urge to apologize.
“Did you know you’ve had a low grade fever for several days?” Slade asks out of nowhere.
That… would explain the slowness and the way Dick has been feeling more exhausted than usual. And taking more hits than usual too.
“Toxin?” Someone could have poisoned him during his patrols probably, but Dick can’t figure out when exactly.
Slade snorts disdainfully. “No. Now drink this,” he orders and pushes a spoon of some kind of syrupy liquid in Dick’s face. He does, because the only thing not playing along would get him would be more bruises.
The thing tastes like— “Cold medicine?” Dick asks, confused.
“Yes.”
Slade makes him take two more spoonfuls of the syrup. Then he arranges the blankets over Dick and leaves the room. Dick lies there in the silence looking at the ceiling and contemplates the fact that Deathstroke just tucked him in bed until he drifts off into sleep.
The next time he wakes up he feels slightly more aware. Which lets him appreciate with even more horrified disbelief that apparently Slade kidnapped him to give him cold medicine and tuck him in. It’s just—impossible. Whatever the real reason is, Dick needs to figure it out soon.
Soon after he wakes up, Slade enters the room with a plate in his hand. Whatever it is, it smells delicious and Dick wants it. He regrets that thought almost instantly when it turns out Slade actually intends to feed him.
“Come on, you can loosen the chains at least, what am I going to do, take you down with a fork while handcuffed to this bed?”
“All evidence points to you not being able to feed yourself.” Slade makes him drink another bottle of water first, and then it turns out he actually isn’t bluffing, the bastard. He feeds Dick the pasta dish piece by piece. It’s delicious and Dick hates it. He can feel his face warm up from both humiliation and anger.
Slade glances at his flushed cheeks with vague interest, but doesn’t comment, just feeds him until the plate is empty.
“Good boy,” he says on the way out of the room. Fuck, Dick is glad he doesn’t look back and so misses the way Dick’s face is glowing. Who says that?
Soon after Slade comes back with more cold medicine and Dick takes it obediently. And then starts complaining about the cuffs.
“I mean, I need to use the bathroom. You’re just going to leave me here?” It’s not really a lie, either.
“Fine,” Slade growls after a long pause, and reaches for some kind of switch behind the headboard. The chains unlock from the cuffs and finally let Dick move his arms.
“Seriously, you had to think about it?” Dick isn’t happy with the cuffs staying on, but not being chained up is a definite improvement. He sits up carefully, and when nothing bad happens, swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Don’t push it,” Slade warns. Then he helpfully shows Dick where the bathroom is. “All the windows are armed. I’m sure you can get them open, but think carefully if you can do it and get out before I get notified and come to drag you back.”
Honestly Dick wouldn’t be able to do it fast enough even if the windows were completely ordinary, so he doesn’t have to think long to decide not to test Slade’s patience that way, not yet.
He takes his time in the bathroom, though. On a whim he takes a shower and washes off all the fever sweat and instantly feels ten times better. He checks himself over and finds no suspicious bruises, no injection marks or anything else. When he shuts the water off and gets out of the stall, there’s a pile of clothes on the counter. Dick pauses. He didn’t hear Slade come in. The door is still locked. Creepy.
But the clean clothes are calling him, and the ones he had on before are mysteriously missing, so Dick shrugs and gets dressed.
The clothes very obviously belong to Slade. They’re ridiculously large on Dick and as used as he is to form-fitting, he kind of feels like he’s swimming in them. They’re clean and comfortable, though.
When he gets out of the bathroom, Dick finds Slade reading something on his tablet in the living room. The place looks a lot more homey than safehouses usually do. More homey than Dick’s actual apartment, too. Dick sits down on the sofa with a huff.
“So how long are you keeping me here?” he asks, mostly curious. The bizarre situation has chipped away at Dick’s initial sense of danger.
Slade hums and looks up from his tablet. He runs his eye over Dick with visible satisfaction and then goes back to reading with another noncommittal hum. Dick keeps waiting for some kind of explanation and in the midst of it falls asleep again right there on the sofa.
The next time Dick wakes up, he does so slowly to the feeling of strong fingers running through his hair again and again. He can’t remember ever feeling as relaxed as he feels right then. He can’t remember when the last time he slept so much was either.
Slade, because it can’t be anyone else, keeps touching his hair and massaging his scalp for another minute, two and Dick decides he isn’t above feigning sleep to keep him going. Unfortunately there’s a distant beeping sound from another room and Slade does stop.
“Time to get up for dinner,” Slade says and tugs on a lock of Dick’s hair. Then he gets up and leaves. Dick keeps his eyes closed for another minute before he gets up with a sigh. There’s a blanket that wasn’t there when he fell asleep, but he doesn’t even try to think up any other explanation than Slade tucked him in, again.
When Dick finds the kitchen, Slade is standing at the stove, stirring something. Dick peers around him.
“Pasta again?”
“Still better than every food item you have ever had in your apartment.” Slade turns the heat off and moves the pan. “Sit.” By now Dick is mostly used to following Slade’s commands without the rush of indignant anger he would normally feel when ordered around by anyone, and doubly so when ordered around by Slade. He sits down
“That’s not true, by the way. I’ve ordered veggie pizza to my place.” Dick puts his elbows on the kitchen table and rests his head against his hands.
Slade looks over his shoulder with an unimpressed expression and Dick gets the impression his stay here just got longer. It might be enough to alert someone and come looking for him. Or it might not be—he hasn’t spoken to anyone from his family in, oh, weeks? He can’t remember. So no one might notice if he goes missing for a few days. Hopefully days. He hasn’t forgotten that Slade never answered that question.
Watching Slade cook is calming and Dick almost falls asleep again. He has to finally admit he really is sick and the constant scratchiness in his throat isn’t just from that one thug that tried to strangle him last week.
This time when Slade finishes serving Dick his food, he sits down to eat with him. Doesn’t even try to hand feed him, which Dick was ready to stab him with a fork, if he tried that again.
“What day is it even? Because I have a date, so someone will start looking for me when I don’t show.” Date is an overstatement honestly, as Dick had only agreed to it to get into a club that he suspects is one of the distribution points for a new drug. But he doesn’t want to say his family will be looking for him and be proven wrong.
Slade glowers at him for a while before answering. “No you don’t,” he says with chilling finality.
“Uh, yes I do.” It’s an extremely stupid thing to argue about, but he’s starting to feel extremely petty about the continuous lack of any actual answers.
“I took care of all the distractions.”
“Distractions?” Dick asks because he does not like the way Slade flashes a grin that looks very much like a threat.
“The trafficking ring. The new branches of Gotham mobs trying to expand. The League assassins hanging around the east edge of the city. The group of officers getting the confiscated product back to the local mob. The gun smuggling operation. The date.” Slade lists the last two with obvious disdain. Other than the date, it’s a list of everything major Dick has been investigating in the last month. More than a month. He swallows and tries to think. That first short conversation, where he thought Slade sounded offended.
“Distractions… that made me miss your contract?”
“Yes,” Slade says and doesn’t elaborate. Dick wants to ask what exactly Slade did, and at the same time he really really doesn’t want to know.
He thinks about it, though, when Slade tucks him in again later that night and after a moment of hesitation presses a kiss to Dick’s forehead. The kiss feels tender, affectionate and very threatening.
“You can leave when you convince me you have learned to take care of yourself. I won’t tolerate a sub-par challenge.” Slade says and leaves the bedroom.
Dick stays awake as long as he can with the cold medicine making him even more sleepy. The feeling of danger is back, which means Dick has regained some common sense. Enough of it to be scared at how little he wants to leave this place where Slade keeps taking care of him.
It takes almost a week before Dick’s throat no longer feels like he’s swallowed glass and until he no longer sleeps most of the day. He’s gotten used to Slade’s wide variety of pasta dishes and to wearing Slade’s clothes, and the fact that he gets tucked into bed every night. It’s very weird and also very easy to get used to.
It’s after dinner and Dick is curled up on the sofa, head resting against Slade’s shoulder, Slade’s fingers running through his hair absently as they watch a nature documentary when it hits Dick—
“Is this a date?” God, it is, isn’t it? They’ve had a nice dinner and are now snuggling and watching something mindless together. Come to think of it, that’s what they’ve been doing every night for the last four days.
Slade’s fingers stop. Dick sits up so he can see Slade’s face.
“I don’t date,” Slade says, voice low and dangerous in that special effortless way only Slade has. But his expression is more on the side of ‘duh’, so yeah, even Slade thinks it’s obvious they are dating. Well, kidnap-dating, because Dick is still technically here because Slade kidnapped him. But that’s details compared to the very huge fact that Dick is dating Deathstroke.
Oh no, what if that’s why Slade was so insulted when Dick didn’t show to mess up his contract? Did Slade think him taking a contract in Dick’s city was also a date? Did Dick stand him up?
Dick falls on the sofa cushions with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe you keep using the same date idea over and over.”
Slade tugs on his hair sharply. It does nothing to shut Dick up and Slade absolutely should have known this about him.
“I hope you are at least going to take me somewhere fun now that I’m no longer sick, or I’m going to feel totally underwhelmed.”
Slade tugs on his hair again, growls and turns up the volume on the documentary.
“I can’t believe,” Dick speaks up so he’s still louder than the narration about manatees. “That you still haven’t even kissed me yet.”
Slade pulls him up and back against his side, and kisses him firmly on the mouth. It’s a really nice first kiss, as far as first kisses go. Dick was kind of expecting something with a lot more violence and tongue, but this is good too.
“Now shut up,” Slade orders and puts his hand back in Dick’s hair.
“Sure, okay.” Dick snuggles against Slade and looks at the floating squishies on the screen.
Somewhere outside this apartment a lot of people are probably dead because Dick missed a date he didn’t even know about. But every time Slade’s fingers trace over his scalp, Dick’s thoughts slide away from that fact.