Work Text:
The Batmobile raced down the Bowery, taking the corner sharply. Dick gripped the side of the car as a delighted smile spread across his face. Behind the wheel was Damian, driving them toward a robbery at Gotham’s Merchant Bank.
They were Batman and Robin tonight, returning to their old team dynamics. It was the first time in months that Dick had patrolled alone with Damian. A fact he mentioned often.
Ever since Bruce returned from the timestream, things had shifted between them. Damian stepped back, encouraging him to give Bruce a chance, but after four years of partnership, that was easier said than done. It’d been them against the world for so long that he didn’t know how to work with a Batman he didn't trust. That’s why nights like tonight, when it was just the two of them, were so special—it rarely happened.
As they approached their destination, one of the screens flashed red, signalling they were less than five minutes away. The bank’s silent alarm had gone off, indicating a possible break-in. Damian slowed down as they got closer, quietly parking behind the building to keep the element of surprise.
A mechanised voice crackled through the comms into their earpieces. “Batman, are you receiving?”
It was Tim.
He monitored the lines, providing intelligence and hacking services from his Clock Tower. His steady presence often kept their more temperamental team members in line.
“Oracle, what do you have for us?” commanded Damian, his tone as no-nonsense as ever.
“I accessed the bank’s surveillance footage. You’re looking at ten armed assailants and a driver. Their van is parked across the street.”
“Get anything off the plates?”
“Unfortunately, no. They lifted them from another vehicle, but luckily for us, they weren’t clever enough to cover their tracks. It’s been reported as stolen.”
“Copy that. Let us know if you find anything else. Batman out.”
Damian grappled up the side of the bank with Dick hot on his heels. They landed silently on the roof, blending into the shadows like streaks in the night. There were several entry points, but Damian signalled for them to enter through a large industrial-sized air duct.
Dick went first, effortlessly bending his body to fit into the tight space. Below him was a vent. He grabbed a screwdriver from his utility belt, removed the bolts, and lifted the vent cover to clear the way. Then, together, they slipped into what looked like a manager’s office. Dick landed on a large oak desk, surrounded by several banking awards.
At least he knew they were in the right place.
Damian pointed to the ceiling, indicating where he should go. Dick took a running leap and flipped onto the rafters. Carefully, he crept along the wooden beams to where the robbers were working. Below him, eight of the ten men were armed with automatic rifles, while the other two were busy opening the safe to access the bank’s gold bullions. If they succeeded, it would be worth millions.
Timing it precisely, Dick and Damian dropped dual canisters, unleashing a thick cloud of gas. As soon as the cans hit the ground, the armed men turned around to investigate, only to be met with a face full of toxins. It was a fast-acting sleeping agent designed to render them unconscious.
Without giving the men a chance to recover, Dick dove into the fray, using a rebreather for protection. With a click, he extended his retractable bō staff and struck the nearest robber in the guts. The man crumpled, clutching his bruised stomach. Opposite him, Damian did the same, hitting several of them at once.
Together, they worked efficiently: Dick would smack the robbers toward Damian, who would then finish the job with a sharp jab to the head. In less than a minute, all eight men lay unconscious on the floor without a single bullet having been fired.
The two men inside the vault remained unaware, so they crept up behind them, blending into the darkness. They struck swiftly, knocking both out with simultaneous blows.
After zip-tying all the robbers with makeshift handcuffs and clearing the gas from the area, Damian contacted Tim, who dispatched the GCPD to their location. Once they arrived, the police quickly apprehended the robbers, including the getaway driver, and took over the crime scene. They could handle the rest from there.
Damian pressed a button on his suit, activating the Batmobile’s auto feature. It navigated to their location by locking onto their GPS coordinates, then stopped directly in front of them before unlocking its doors. Damian slid into the driver’s seat while Dick took the passenger seat. They sped down the street, quickly losing sight of the bank.
“Good job tonight, Robin,” Damian said, offering a rare compliment.
“Well, we are the best,” teased Dick.
Unlike Bruce, Damian truly understood him. They worked in perfect harmony, anticipating each other’s needs before the other even realised them.
“I should patrol with you more often,” Damian admitted. He’d been avoiding Gotham to give Bruce space to adjust, but that meant he wasn’t around as much. “It's just that—”
A mechanised voice cut him off mid-sentence. “Batman, are you still in the area?” asked Tim, slightly panicked.
“We are,” replied Damian, frowning deeply. He disliked the frantic tone of Tim’s voice, sensing that something was wrong.
“I’ve received reports that Deathstroke’s on the outskirts of the Bowery.”
“Copy that. I’ll handle him. Batman out.”
Damian sped towards the outskirts, breaking every traffic law along the way. When they got within range, he slammed on the brakes and pulled up on the far side of an abandoned tenement. Damian unlocked the driver’s door but left the passenger door shut.
Dick quickly realised he planned to face Deathstroke alone, as he often did when he considered an enemy too dangerous.
“Stay put,” ordered Damian. “You’re sitting this one out.”
Dick stood his ground, not willing to let Damian face Deathstroke alone. “No, I’m going with you.”
“Robin, this isn’t up for discussion—"
“I’m not leaving you,” interrupted Dick. “Batman needs Robin. We’re stronger when we fight together.”
Damian hesitated, looking down at him with an unreadable expression. Maybe he was considering Dick’s plea, or perhaps he realised Dick wouldn’t listen. Either way, the outcome was the same.
“Fine. But do exactly as I tell you. I mean it, Robin; if I say to run, you run. Got it?”
“I understand,” Dick said, suppressing a smile. He needed to show he was taking the situation seriously.
“Let’s go.”
They grappled from building to building, heading towards the location Tim had given them. Deathstroke was a rare sight in Gotham. He usually only surfaced when he had a target, and even then, they didn’t always know until the body was found hours later.
Dick understood how dangerous he was, perhaps more than he should have. He’d faced him several times with the Teen Titans, thwarting his plans in Jump City. Damian was aware of this too, as he frequently checked on them at the Tower, but he didn’t know about the times Dick faced Deathstroke alone. He never informed his team or logged those encounters in the database because deep down, he knew what they would say: he was putting himself in unnecessary risk.
The times when Deathstroke sought him out often centred around testing his skills, and Dick, well, he enjoyed the fight. It challenged his abilities, pushed him beyond his limits, and made him a better fighter. Above all, there was a magnetism about their spars that drew him in. He couldn’t quite explain it; there was just something about the man that lowered his defences, breaking down the barriers he'd kept up for years.
Knowing that Deathstroke was in Gotham and closer to him than ever was enticing in ways Dick couldn’t explain, especially for someone like Damian, who never strayed from the mission.
Dick didn’t have a clue how to bring it up, so he simply didn’t.
“Do you have a visual, Oracle?” Damian asked through his earpiece.
“Just a moment,” Tim replied, scrambling to find him. “He’s on—wait—yes, he’s on top of the Crestmont building.”
“Stay behind me,” ordered Damian. “Don’t make a move unless I say so.”
They climbed the Crestmont building, a 1940s apartment complex, and sat on its ledge. Nowadays, it functioned more as a local drug den than anything resembling a home.
Deathstroke stood across from them, dressed in his signature orange and black ensemble. He held a pair of twin katanas, complemented by various pistols strapped to his thighs. Dick suspected he likely had many more weapons hidden on his body; far more than he could see, at least.
Damian unsheathed his blade and held it out in front of him, aiming it squarely at Deathstroke. Dick did the same, extending his bō staff.
“Funny seeing you in Gotham,” said Damian. “I thought rats typically stayed underground.”
Deathstroke snorted, amused despite himself. “Well, if it isn't discount-Batman. Couldn’t afford to send the real deal?” He turned his head toward Dick, locking eyes with him. Dick’s heart raced as excitement pooled in his gut. “I see,” he narrowed his eye. “You couldn’t face me alone, so you brought along your little Robin.”
“Not so little anymore,” Dick argued, feeling slighted. Since turning fifteen, he’d finally had a growth spurt, catching up to his classmates at school.
“Robin,” warned Damian.
Right, don't engage.
Dick remained silent as Damian took the lead once more.
“What're you doing here?” demanded Damian.
“I’m afraid you’re too late.”
Deathstroke stared directly across from the Crestmont building at the only window that wasn’t boarded up. A shadow, suspiciously resembling a human, flickered inside the room. Was it his target? Or what remained of them?
Without lowering his sword, Damian spoke into his earpiece. “Oracle, what’d you see?”
“I’ve got a heat signature. Someone is definitely inside, but they’re not moving.”
“Damn it,” Damian whispered under his breath. He raised his sword, tightening his grip on the hilt.
They’d have to investigate, if only for the slim chance that the guy was still alive. But that would mean letting Deathstroke get away—something Dick knew Damian wouldn’t be happy about.
“This isn’t over,” growled Damian, having made his decision.
Deathstroke radiated smugness. “We shall see.”
Damian shot a grappling line to the neighbouring building. Then he wrapped his arm around Dick’s waist and swung over to check on the victim. Dick watched as Deathstroke stalked away, vanishing into the night. A hollow feeling filled his chest, as if he’d missed something important.
When they landed on the windowsill, Dick paused. His senses were still warning him that something was off. It wasn’t the quiet of a crime scene nor the chaotic energy of a life-threatening injury; rather, it was an instinctive feeling of danger.
“Wait.” He tugged on Damian’s cape, stopping him from stepping into the room. “I don’t think we—”
An ear-shattering—BOOM!!!—erupted from the room, shaking the foundations as glass shattered outward. Damian took the brunt of the blast, hurtling toward the ground at breakneck speed.
Dick shot a grappling line and dived, managing to catch him one-handed. He slowed their descent, but not enough. The strain tore his arm from its socket, dislocating his shoulder.
Pain, sharp and intense, travelled up his neck like a thousand tiny needles piercing his nerves. He released the line, dropping the last six feet to the ground. Damian landed face down, unmoving.
It was a trap. Of course, it was. He should have known.
A bomb was set to go off the moment they entered the room. Maybe there was a target inside; maybe not, but ultimately, it was meant for them. Or perhaps just for Batman. Deathstroke hadn’t expected Dick to be there.
Shit, Batman.
He still hadn’t gotten up.
Dick hurried over to Damian, flipping him onto his side. He had a gash on his head where a piece of debris had struck him. Luckily, his cowl absorbed most of the impact, but he’d been knocked out cold.
“Batman, are you there?! Robin?” Tim called frantically over the comms. “Can either of you hear me?”
Dick didn’t have time to respond. He opened his utility belt, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder, and grabbed medical supplies. He pressed a square of gauze to Damian’s head wound, temporarily stopping the bleeding.
“Batman? Robin? Please answer me!”
The throbbing pain in his arm grew worse. Dick grabbed a roll of bandage and attempted to secure his injured shoulder. After tying the knot, he pressed a finger to his comm, responding to Tim’s pleas.
“Oracle, it’s Robin. Batman’s hurt. We need an evac, now!”
“I’m redirecting Black Bat your way. Hang on.”
Dick let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, we’re gonna—”
The hair on the back of Dick’s neck stood up. He spun around, instantly realising he was being watched.
From the shadows, Deathstroke stalked towards him. A flicker of something like glee flashed in his grey eye. Had he come back to finish the job?
“He’s back,” said Dick.
“Don’t engage,” warned Tim, a sense of urgency in his tone. “Black Bat will be there in less than five minutes.”
He might not have a choice in the matter.
Dick had lost his bō staff in the explosion, so he grabbed Damian’s blade and wielded it in front of him. He crouched low, blocking Batman from view.
“Stay back,” Dick demanded, infusing as much authority as possible into his voice.
“Or what?” teased Deathstroke, eyeing his hastily wrapped shoulder with a pointed look. “You’re down an arm. What sort of threat could you possibly pose?”
Not much, the more cynical side of him mused. But he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Dick flicked a Birdarang at Deathstroke’s blind side, distracting him just enough to leap forward and strike at his chest. His blade connected, but it didn’t pierce his armour.
Dick rolled with his momentum, grimacing as his shoulder hit the ground. He twisted his body to launch into another attack, aiming for Deathstroke's thigh. This time, however, Deathstroke countered the move, completely deflecting him.
“Good, but not good enough.”
Deathstroke slashed with his dual katanas, forcing Dick to flip backwards to evade them. From that moment on, the strikes never stopped. Dick quickly went on the defensive, narrowly avoiding getting cut. His shoulder ached fiercely, but he pushed through, never once lowering his sword.
The familiar well of excitement bubbled in his chest, just as it had during previous sparring matches, but this time it felt different. Deathstroke kept pushing, refusing to relent, until Dick’s back pressed against the wall. He was cornered, and with Damian out of action and Cass still on her way, no one was there to save him.
Dick was alone.
He bared his teeth, staring into Deathstroke’s dual-toned mask, unafraid. Just a little longer, he thought. Dick only needed to last a few more minutes before help arrived.
Deathstroke strode forward and seized his neck, pinning him against the wall. He lifted Dick with his enhanced strength, choking him. Dick’s feet scrambled to find a foothold. Desperate, he wrapped his legs around Deathstroke’s waist in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his neck.
“It would be a shame to clip your wings, Robin.”
Deathstroke tightened his grip, further choking Dick.
Black spots clouded his vision as he gasped for air. He clawed at Deathstroke’s hand, trying to pry his fingers loose, but it was like grabbing at concrete—impossible.
“Let…me…go…” wheezed Dick. He squeezed his thighs, desperately trying to make him stop.
Deathstroke stepped closer, his mask inches from his face. With his free hand, he brushed Dick’s hair back, tucking a few strands behind his ear.
“No.”
Dick’s eyes bulged. He would choke to death if he didn’t get oxygen soon.
Suddenly, a Batarang whistled through the air and struck Deathstroke in the back of the head. He immediately released Dick, who collapsed onto the alley floor. Dick took deep breaths, filling his lungs with much-needed air.
“Get away from him!” roared Damian.
He must’ve woken up in the last minute or so and gained enough awareness to help out. Dick weakly staggered backwards, managing to stand beside Damian. Then, a screech from a motorcycle's tyres signalled that Cass had arrived.
The odds had turned; now it was three against one.
Deathstroke, aware of this, decided it was best to leave. “Until next time.”
He used a grappling hook to scale the building, disappearing over the edge. His solitary eye shot a look at Dick that he knew all too well. They weren’t done yet. Not by a long shot.
Dick let him go; he was completely drained. His shoulder throbbed with waves of pain, and bruises were already forming around his throat. Damian looked just as grim, with dried blood staining the side of his face red.
“Let’s get out of here,” croaked Dick, his voice hoarse.
Together, he and Damian limped to the end of the alley, flagging down Cass. They’d be alright. Help had arrived. As for Deathstroke, the next time they met, Dick wouldn’t let him gain the upper hand. He had a grudge to settle.