Chapter Text
At fifteen years old, Dick Grayson was a beautiful boy. Her beautiful boy with his golden skin, dark hair, and mischievous blue eyes. His allure wasn’t just what he looked like; it was ingrained into the way that he was. Charming, endlessly charismatic, Dick Grayson walked into a room and drew attention with his confidence, smile, and effortless kindness, all while revelling in the spotlight. If Dick liked someone, it wasn’t long before they gravitated towards him.
Rachel Wayne looked at him and saw her boy, her child. It never really occurred to her that other adults would look at him and think differently.
She sat in her office, eyes flickering between her computer screen and the papers on her desk. WE business was always time-consuming and tedious, no matter what project they might have been working on, and she was so focused on her work, it took her a second longer than it usually did to realise Dick was hovering at the door.
Immediately, she knew something was wrong. Dick hasn’t been hesitant to walk into a room she occupied since his first year of living here. Ever since he grew comfortable in Wayne Manor, Dick had no sense of privacy, rushing into rooms without knocking and climbing into her bed without asking. Even during the times where they were fighting – playfully or otherwise – he would stomp into her room or her office just to continue whatever argument they had, huffing as he grew frustrated before walking away. It took him an hour before he came back just to start the fight all over again.
(Rachel would never forget the fight over Barbara sixteen’s birthday party, celebrated in one of Gotham’s underage clubs. Dick had wanted to go and had been invited, but Rachel had set her foot down on account of him not even being fourteen yet. Underage or not, she knew exactly what was going on in those clubs; where did he think she hangout whilst she was a teenager?)
“Dick,” Rachel said. “Is there something wrong?”
Dick entered the office slowly, walking in that unique toe-to-heel way of his, fidgeting with his fingers as he sat down across from her. Red flags waved in front of Rachel’s vision, taking in how stiff and small her son looked.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Dick said, never looking her in the eyes.
Rachel turned her computer screen off. “What about?
She tried to think about what could have made him this nervous. Nothing had gone wrong in last weeks patrol, and he also hadn’t looked particularly gloomy when she picked him up from school.
Dick interrupted her train of thought. “It’s about our last mission.”
She kept her face still, frantically trying to remember if anything went wrong with Dick’s team last outing. While she was in charge of arranging most of Young Justice’s missions, she wasn’t in control of all of them. Anyone on the Justice League mentor roster could send them out, including Aqualad, who Rachel thought was doing a great job leading their team. Aside from Robin, he was her favourite.
(Rachel remembered the disappointment she felt when she realised that Dick was making moon eyes at Wally West of all people. If he had to develop a crush on a teammate, couldn’t he have chosen calm, sweet Kaldur’ahm instead of worry-inducing Wally? In the end, she was just glad it wasn’t Conner; that would’ve been awkward.)
“What about your last mission?” Rachel asked, extremely concerned. She hadn’t been the one to debrief their last mission and had yet to read their report on it.
“I, uh, I,” Dick swallowed nervously, “I might have left a few things out of it. On purpose, I mean.”
“That’s not like you,” she said slowly. “I’m sure you had a justifiable reason for doing, so I want you to know I’m not angry. However, I’m concerned as to why you would do that.”
Dick began picking at his nails, knee bouncing as he tried to find the right words. Rachel didn’t push, forcing her body to relax into her chair.
“Well, it was a renaissance mission.” Rachel winced; renaissance and Young Justice always ended up with something exploding. “Yeah, I know. But things were going right for once. Nothing blew up; nobody passed out, no sudden drowning attempt. We were almost done, and I was sure nobody saw us.”
A black pit began forming in her stomach. “Somebody did.”
Dick nodded, usual golden skin growing ashen in the midday sunlight. “I was alone in the control room, wrapping up a few things when he introduced himself as Deathstroke.”
Rachel’s blood roared in her ears, her entire body heating up in rage as the name registered.
Deathstroke.
Slade Wilson.
Slade fucking Wilson.
League of Shadows associate Slade Wilson was alone in a room with her son.
Slade Wilson, the sick fuck who liked it when the people in his bed was young and malleable.
Too young.
“What then?” she heard herself ask, her voice strained with effort. “Did he do anything to you?”
Please say no. Please be honest about it.
Dick eyed her nervously. “He talked about you,” he said, frowning. “But not Batman you. He called you Princess Rachel but in a really gross way. Like he knew you. Said something about he didn’t think you had the guts to go as far as you did. I didn’t know what he meant by that.” Dick shook his head.
“I’m happy that you don’t.” Rachel did know, and she wasn’t happy about the comparison. “Is there anything else? Did he touch you in any way?”
“He touched my cheek, said,” Dick took a deep breath, “said he saw the appeal. Rachel, he knew you by name. He didn’t even mention Batman.”
Her sweet boy, afraid and uncomfortable, yet still thinking about her.
Rachel tried to calm herself down, anger simmering beneath her skin. She was itching to hurt something. No, someone, and she knew who she was going to hurt.
Slade Wilson was alone in a room with her son, had touched him, had probably loomed over him as he talked. He had made Dick nervous enough that it took him a week before he could tell her.
Rachel remembered being seventeen and angry, stupidly eager to prove to Ra’s that she was worth keeping around, that she was willing to pick herself – broken and bruised – from the ground every single time she fell. Ra’s had kept her mostly isolated from the rest of the League, but sparring with Slade was common. Large and brutal, Rachel would leave their matches with more cuts and bruises than she would’ve liked, practically crawling to Talia and her rough but soothing hands. Still, Rachel felt safer in the sparring ring than she did in the hallways.
Slade didn’t walk much as he prowled with selectively silent steps, and he took great delight in making people feel small as he loomed over them. He hunted, stalking people he thought weaker than him, practically fed on their fear.
After years of losing, Rachel beat him to the ground, knife at his throat as he kneeled in front of her, bloody teeth bared in victory.
(Still, nothing ever got rid of the burning sensation his gloved fingers left behind.)
Rachel slowly stood from her chair and walked to Dick. She crouched in front of him, taking his hands in hers. (She thinks back to the days where touch was awkward and fragile: him, yearning for contact not knowing how to ask; her, aching to hold him, yet so afraid and uncertain of it.) His fingers whitened as he squeezed, shoulders falling forward as he nestled his face into the juncture of her shoulder and neck. Rachel, in turn, kissed him on his hair.
“Slade Wilson,” she whispered against him, “otherwise known as Deathstroke, is a horrible person Dick. I know him from my days in the League.” Dick stiffened, recalling everything she had told him about those days. “Remember how I told you about how Ra’s made me fight someone as an initiation?”
Dick nodded, head still resting on her shoulder, his breath warm on her skin as he spoke. “Yeah, you had to fight a man to the death to be his heir. You won that fight, but you didn’t kill him.”
“That man was Deathstroke.” Dick sat upright and frowned, hands still in Rachel’s. “I didn’t know it at the time, but he was being considered to be Ra’s heir. He had been preparing Slade for years until he met me. He pitted us against each other, and I thought it was just another spar, but when I beat him, Ra’s demanded I kill him. I couldn’t do that and – “
(I should’ve, though. Should’ve humiliated him the way he liked humiliating me. He would’ve have gotten near you if I did.)
“-You ran,” Dick murmured, “Blew the place up and came home.”
Rachel’s heart fluttered as he referred to Wayne Manor as his home. He’s been doing it for years, but it always warmed her when he did.
“Yes,” she said, loosening one hand before brushing her fingers through Dick’s hair. He leaned towards her palm. “I wounded him badly enough that he would have spent months in the infirmary. But with the explosion… Dick, to be honest, I had hoped the explosion killed him.”
Saying it out loud was relieving but not satisfying.
Dick stared at her, and Rachel couldn’t decipher what he was thinking behind those sky-blue eyes of his. Was he disappointed in her for wishing death upon Slade? Was he calling her a hypocrite for teaching him that Batman and Robin can’t kill their adversaries? Was he thinking her weak for being afraid of someone like Slade?
(Rachel was a hypocrite for teaching him those lessons, especially with how she yearned to track Slade down, choke the life out of him. Maybe get him on his knees, loom over him the way he liked to tower over her, the way he towered over Dick. Make him feel oh-so small, holding a knife to his throat and tell him how pretty he looks on his knees, doesn’t this feel more natural, Slade?)
“I understand,” her son said softly. “It’s like with Tony Zucco.”
Oh, but it wasn’t because Dick wasn’t actively planning his death.
Rachel stood, pulling Dick with her before embracing him, tucking his head beneath his chin. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he wrapped his arms around her. God, he was growing so tall. He used to come up to her hip, and now he was almost looking her in the eyes.
“I want you to know, Dick,” she said, breath disturbing his hair, “That what Slade did was wrong; he never should’ve touched you.” He tried to interrupt, but Rachel shushed him. “It doesn’t matter if it was just the cheek. He touched you when you didn’t want him to, and while you haven’t told me what exactly he said, I know how he operates. He makes a person feel small, and he likes doing it. I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to keep you safe from him.”
Dick squeezed her waist, trying to hide that he was crying. “Did he – ”
“No,” she was quick to say. “Ra’s wasn’t good for me, but he definitely kept Slade away.”
Rachel refused to say that it was probably to ensure that, if she grew pregnant, the child would be his. Her heart ached for Damian.
Instead, Rachel held her son, hugging him fiercely to her chest, silently promising him that Slade would never be a problem.
The opportunity presented itself all too quickly.
There was some intergalactic issue Clark and Diana were called to deal with. That got rid of anyone rushing to stop her plans. Dick was staying with his team at the Mountain, something about exposing Kaldur, Conner, and M’gann to more pop culture because apparently Mama Mia is a cinematic masterpiece, B, and it’s tragic that they don’t know that.
It reminded Rachel of when she and Barry educated Arthur about famous fish movies. The poor man was in tears, shouting about the misrepresentation of sharks for weeks.
Thankfully, Gotham was as quiet as the city could ever be. And after weeks of searching, Rachel finally got a locked location of one Slade Wilson.
And as such, here she was looking down as Slade went about ordering workers to load cargo she knew were guns. The workers were Shadows, which made blending in all too easy. Rachel didn’t keep much from her League days, but the tight-fitting black uniform – hugging her figure more intimately than the Batsuit – and the katana strapped to her back carried too much weight to get rid of. The beautiful silver dagger burned against her thigh.
(Don’t think about Damian. Don’t think about Damian. Don’t!)
Today was about Dick.
Silently, Rachel slipped from the shadows and joined the rest of the assassins on the ground, staying in the back. If this were a regular bust, then she wouldn’t have been nearly as discreet, attacking from above and scaring them away. Today required a bit more stealth.
Quickly, Rachel fell in routine with the rest, muscle memory taking over as she followed what the rest of the assassins were doing. They were nearing the end when Rachel caught sight of a familiar figure standing next to Slade.
Talia Al Ghul was the kind of woman that walked out of an ancient portrait of a goddess with dark brown skin and long black hair always styled to perfection. Seeing her was a shock to Rachel’s systems as the memories of them rushed to the front of her mind.
Talia teaching her how to braid.
Talia’s calloused hands holding hers as she cleaned the opening wound on her knuckles.
The way their fingers would linger on each other as they trained.
Smiling softly as they talked in all of the languages they knew.
The one hard kiss they shared before Rachel ran, Talia’s honey-brown eyes watching her sadly –
Rachel’s brain stuttered. She vividly remembers Talia’s eyes – at first glance, like the bark of the large tree Rachel loved to read under back home, but softening into honey brown as the light reflected from them. Talia now didn’t have brown eyes. In their stead was viridian green eyes, glowing unnaturally in the moonlight. They were the same cold shade of Ra’s eyes.
Lazarus pit green.
Rachel wanted to cry. Ra’s couldn’t punish her, but he could punish his daughter for not stopping her from leaving. Someone he knew Rachel would mourn.
But the eyes explained why Talia was working with Slade. From their time together, Talia hated Slade, which Rachel understood. Talia fought for Ra’s respect where Slade was just given it.
Rachel knew she was caught when those bright eyes caught hers.
“You there!” Talia pointed to her. The assassins stopped moving. “With me.”
Rachel didn’t hesitate, following Talia as she walked away from Slade gaze. She kept her stance relaxed as she passed the others, not wanting to draw more attention to herself. Once Talia was satisfied with the distance between them and the others, she turned around to face Rachel.
For a moment, the two women just stared at each other, each of them drinking the other in. Rachel wondered what Talia was thinking. What did she see as she stared at Rachel? Was her heart beating as quickly as Rachel’s was? Could she even remember Rachel as fondly as she did Talia?
Talia stepped forward, hands lifting. Rachel tensed, but instead of fighting, Talia gripped the mask hiding everything except her eyes. Rachel’s skin tingled in the air before Talia cupped her cheek.
“I know my father said you got away,” Talia whispered, leaning her forehead against Rachel’s, both women melting into each other. “But I worried either way. I am happy to see you alive and well, my love.”
My love.
The words caused butterflies to erupt in her stomach, and Rachel couldn’t resist the urge to pull Talia closer to her. If only they had been reunited any other time, then Rachel would’ve kissed Talia she only had once before, pulled her closer and forget the world. Allow themselves the time for those once lingering fingers to bruise into each other’s skin, lips to do so much more than secret smiles, hands to tangle into each other’s hair.
Sadly, it is now that they see each other again.
“Talia, I’m sorry,” Rachel whispered in reply. “God, I’m sorry.” Sorry for running away without you. Sorry for leaving. Sorry for what Ra’s did to you in my stead. Sorry that remembering you hurt too much to think of you.
“I know, my love,” Talia said.
With that, Talia leaned forward and caught Rachel’s lips underneath her own. Without hesitation, Rachel reciprocated, fingers digging into Talia’s spine, pulling their hips together, so close Rachel couldn’t tell where she ended, and Talia began. Talia’s hands dug into Rachel’s hair, tugging teasingly at the roots as their tongues danced together. Rachel groaned when she did it again, lips detaching from Talia’s as she leaned into.
That didn’t stop Talia, who tugged on the tight uniform, exposing parts of Rachel’s neck. Quickly, she latched onto the available skin, biting and licking everywhere she could sink her teeth into. Lax and pliant under Talia, Rachel didn’t even notice when she forced her knee between Rachel’s legs, ever so slowly, raising it to her crotch.
Rachel moaned quietly as Talia released her skin from between her teeth. Her hands slid from Rachel’s hair and onto her cheeks once more, but she kept her knee right where she held it.
Leaning their forehead against each other once more, Talia smirked proudly at Rachel’s flushed cheek. “As much as I would love to continue, my love, I know you are not here for me.”
Inhaling deeply, Rachel tried to calm her racing heart. “No, I’m here for Slade.”
Talia frowned. “Why?”
“He touched my son.”
Something must have shown on Rachel’s face because that proud smirk was on her plump lips once again. She dropped her knee. “Oh, my love, seeing you now, I know my father will rue the day he found you in that prison cell.”
“I hope you don’t.”
“No,” Talia said. “As cruel as it may be, I am forever grateful to have met you when I have.”
“Then,” Rachel hesitated, “Will you – ”
“I will help you.”
“No,” she said quickly. “This is something I need to do alone. Will you come with me? Afterwards?”
Talia observed her, green eyes burning just as gently as her once brown eyes did. “I cannot stay.”
“I know.” For all that she hated her father, Talia was an ambitious woman and wanted to be the Demon’s Head. Rachel would never ask her to give up what she had been working years for.
“Then I will wait for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Slade will be staying behind after the cargo has been taken. Target him then.” She kissed Rachel harshly. “Make it hurt, my love.”
Talia released Rachel from her embrace and walked back to where Slade was waiting. Rachel could hear them speaking, but she didn’t bother to pay attention, mind still whirring from Talia. A shiver trailed down her spine, her entire body shaking from the memory of Talia pulling on her hair.
Thank God Dick was gone for the weekend.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the League assassins to finish, and by the time the place was empty, the heat of Talia was replaced with cold indifference.
(Rachel refused to acknowledge the excitement bubbling in her veins, ignored the way her fingers twitched with eagerness instead of nerves.)
Not once since that day in her office did Rachel doubt her choice. There were no nightmares, no second guesses, and no cold feet. She always knew she could kill someone–and get away with it – but she never considered her lack of disgust at the thought of going through it.
Hence why, when she approached Slade, his back to her, her heart was as steady as the grip on her weapons.
“Wilson,” she shouted, swinging her katana with a vengeance. Slade jumped, but he was too slow to evade her swing. The sharp blade slid through his exposed skin, blood staining his clothes. “That was for my son.”
Slade cursed and tried to arm himself, but Rachel didn’t allow him the time to. She swung again, and again, and again, missing his neck every time. He had brought his arms to defend himself but the katana sliced through his skin with every cut. Throughout it all, he managed to grab his weapon.
The real fight began, both swinging angrily in a familiar rhythm. Left. Right. Duck. Swipe. Twist. It was a wild clash of swords simmering with new and old anger. So focused on Slade, Rachel didn’t even flinch when his blades cut her open rare times. All she cared about was getting this man down.
Seeing her chance, Rachel went low, ducking from his katana and twisting behind him in a quick succession of movements, swinging her blade across the back of his knees. Slade shouted, legs shaking as he stumbled forward. Rachel grabbed his hair, nails digging into his scalp and harshly bashed his head against the ground. He flailed, clutching uselessly at his weapon.
Rachel stomped on his hands, delighting herself at the crackling of his fingers breaking beneath her heels and his pained shout. She didn’t stop there, repeating the motion with his other hand. She stepped back, chest heaving at the adrenaline in her veins.
He didn’t shout this time; instead, he laughed. Frustrated, Rachel grabbed his hair again, yanking him to his knees, glaring down at him.
“Well,” he drawled lecherously. “Is this all you’re teaching that boy of yours?”
Rachel responds with a swift punch to his cheek.
Slade swayed with the effort to keep himself upright, blood trailing down the corner of his mouth as he spat to the ground. A small white dot glistened amongst the red.
Quickly, Rachel pulled the silver dagger and held it by his throat. “Remember this?” she snarled.
Slade blinked at it slowly. “Yeah,” he smiled, “You stole it from me.”
“Oh no,” Rachel chuckled. “I won it when Ra’s gave me what you wanted. The League. I thought it would be funny to return it to you.”
“What?” Slade asked, eyeing how close the dagger was dancing to his throat. “You couldn’t kill me all those years ago. You think I’m scared you’re going to kill me now? From where I’m sitting, you’re still that scared little girl from all those years ago.”
Rachel dug the sharp tip into his neck. Slade winced and hissed as blood trailed down his front.
“You’re wrong,” she muttered. “You and Ra’s were right about my ability to kill; both of you were wrong as to what will drive me to it.” She pressed harder onto his skin. “You touched my son, and I know exactly what kind of sick fuck you are.”
“He is very pret – ”
The dagger went through his throat, exiting underneath the base of his skull.
She pulled it out. His wide felt flat.
“As I said, you’re wrong,” she said, watching listlessly as Slade’s corpse fell sideways.
In her teenage years, she had fantasised about killing Joe Chill, using the same kind of gun he used to murder her parents. She had it all planned out the day she found out about his release, yet she couldn’t go through it. She had even felt sick seeing him die that day, and that fantasy had always been blurred by guilt.
But now, she stared at the body that was once Slade Wilson, bruised knuckles, bloodied blades; she felt nothing but satisfaction.
Movement behind her made her turn her back to the body. There Talia stood, pride in her eyes as she took in Rachel’s stiff form. There was something else in her look, something hotter than hatred. And as she gave Rachel her hand, she understood what it was.
Desire.
Covered in blood and sweat, body still shaking from her first kill, Talia wanted her.
There was no shame when she took Talia’s hand in hers.
Rachel was home a day later than she planned, exhausted and sated in a way she hadn’t been in a long while. Different kind of bruises stained her skin – she was overly aware of the ache between her legs, the handprints on her thighs, hips, and rear.
Alfred had given her a questioning look as he took away her League uniform, but he hadn’t said a thing about the blood covering the clothing or the weapons, and for that, she was thankful. But from the twinkle in his eyes, Rachel knew he wouldn’t have said anything negative about it either.
She had just gotten dressed – everything covered away – when her bedroom door swung open.
“I’m home!” Dick shouted, jumping in her arms.
Rachel scrambled to catch him and had only had a second before she had a fifteen-year-old boy clinging to her.
“Did you miss me?” he asked.
Rachel replied by dropping him.
Dick hit the ground with a thud! “I’m taking that as a yes. You’ve been here the entire weekend, and you have no life outside of me.”
“Did you enjoy the slumber party?” Rachel asked with a smile.
Her son groaned. “It’s a sleepover, not a slumber party. Because it was all of us. A slumber party is something only girls do.”
Rachel couldn’t resist sending him a sneaky grin. “Oh, I know.”
Dick scrunched his nose in disgust. “Gross!”
She watched as he stomped away with all the flair only a teenager could muster, feeling content.
Dick was safe and happy.
She would do anything to keep it that way.
At fi