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Contrary to popular belief, Nightwing does not actually like beating people up. He doesn’t like 'kicking ass'. Sure, it might feel a little satisfying in the moment when delivering his version of justice. But there’s a tiny little part of him that feels like maybe he’s just as bad as the so-called criminal he’s beating up. Because at the end of the day he gets it done with violence. There’s a part of him that craves it. Then there’s the shame. It creeps like a disease. A disappointment. The satisfying crack of a whip, but the adrenaline crash is never worth it.
The rush is short. The consequences leave him shaking and miserable. He never got permission to carry this out, just inherited the audacity. He’s not sure how much longer he can lie to himself by passing it off as the moral high ground. When the blood on his fist seeps down into his soul, there’s no merit left.
There are no laurels to rest on most nights.
It’s something he has to lie to himself about a little bit in order to keep going on. It doesn’t feel fair. He feels like a bit of a fraud. There’s a moment when he’s delivering a punch where he truly feels like he could lose it all. In a split second, he could forget everything his father taught him and close in on that sweet nagging in his inner thoughts to just put them out of their misery.
No. He’s not a murderer. He’s never been that. He’s not going to start now. Not even if they’re the bad guys.
He feels it right now, fist hovering above Slade's face, fire blazing in billows of smoke just beyond his field of view. His hands shake. He couldn't kill him even if he wanted to. Slade's regenerative power is much too strong to be phased by something as simple as a beating.
The smirk he wears solidifies just how much Slade knows. Dick could deliver one more blow and maybe even knock him out. He could do it just to wipe the smirk clean off his mug.
He hesitates. Always hesitates. The smirk falls, Slade's eyes glaze over into utter apathy. And suddenly Dick isn’t steady or even remotely sure. He could never explain himself. Not with this adrenaline in his veins. His grip loosens on Slade’s suit, conviction ebbing away.
“What are you waiting for?” Slade asks, voice husky and worn, blood practically bubbling from the words he doesn't dare stumble over. He needs to annunciate. He needs Grayson to hear him clearly, no words to waste. Nothing on accident. Everything on purpose.
Dick can’t take his sincerity. It stings.
“Gonna take me to jail like a good copper, little bird?”
Dick wants to hit him again, God he wants to hit him again. He almost wants to hit him as much as he wants to spit on his police badge and toss in out the window on the nearest overpass.
Not that the badge even matters while he’s painted in this façade of black and blue spandex.
He gets up slowly, uncurls his fists; breathes. He won't gain anything from this. Slade hurts already. There’s nothing more that Dick can do to him. There's nothing he can take from him. They’ve lost too much. It doesn’t even make sense that they’re on opposite sides of the playing field anymore.
Just as he draws back and decides that he could never kill such a man, Slade sits up, coughs gently enough to convince Dick that he didn’t do any real damage.
That’s what Dick hates the most about Slade. Slade knows exactly who he is. He knows Dick would never really hurt him. Would never even really want to. It should bother him.
It doesn't.
“Will you be there tonight?” Dick asks, blood rushing to his face without preamble.
Slade smirks again, wiping the thick blood from his beard as he stands upright. He allowed that last punch to land. Dick knows that now.
“Will you behave?” Slade asks condescendingly.
Dick sucks in a breath, unable to locate his wit.
“Because I'd rather skip the game of cops and robbers if we can.” Slade reiterates.
Dick can only nod, trying to steady himself. Trying not to think of Bruce's voice in his head, cursing him, scolding him.
Slade steps forward, grabs Dicks jaw with a shocking softness that most likely will not resurface again tonight. Dick scans Slade's face, watching as a raw, open cut closes up right before his eyes. His breath comes short and shaky as he watches all the damage that he caused fade away as if it never even happened. Damn meta’s.
“Promise.” Slade demands.
He’s suddenly dizzy. It's almost a trance. Can Slade do that?
“Promise what?” He asks, brain slowing, trying desperately to tell himself there’s nothing wrong with forgetting who they both are for a moment. For the remainder of the night.
“To behave.”
“I promise to behave.” He promises, slurring a bit, unintentionally breathless.
Slade rewards him swiftly, tilting Dick’s head back to plant a kiss at the edge of his jaw. And as quickly as he set things ablaze, he’s gone without a trace.
Against his better judgement, Dick leaves his apartment window unlocked that night.