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Dick was nineteen years old when he first met Slade Wilson.
It was the annual ceremony celebrating first responders. It was Dick’s first one and he was giddy with nerves and excitement. He was one of the youngest honorees to ever be awarded and it was kind of a big deal. The news was there, as was most of the station and even members of the police and fire department. He was dressed in his nicest uniform, the one with the least amount of ominous stains and the smile hadn’t left his face since he entered the banquet hall. This was quite the start to his EMT career.
“Congratulations,” said a deep voice from behind Dick. He turned swiftly, perhaps a bit too fast. The soda in his cup spilt over the rim just a tiny bit.
Dick recognized the dress uniform of the Gotham Police Department, but not the man who wore it. He was taller, perhaps even taller than Bruce, and at least a few years older than him. His hair was silver and perfectly styled, the one eye Dick could see a stormy grey. The other was hidden mysteriously behind an eyepatch, almost begging Dick to ask the story behind it. He stood almost at attention, perhaps ex-military, and he had a smile on his face that was probably meant to be comforting but seemed wrong on his face, almost as if he didn’t smile enough to make it look natural.
“Thank you…” Dick trailed off, searching for the man’s gold name tag for his name.
“Sergeant Wilson. But you can call me Slade.”
He offered Dick his hand and Dick reached out, allowing the man to hold his hand for a few seconds too long before finally shaking. When Slade let go, Dick could swear he still felt his touch on his skin.
“Dick Grayson.”
“Yes, I’ve heard a lot about you. Your father is Doctor Wayne, is he not?”
Dick usually hated when people diminished him down to just his adoptive father, but for some reason he couldn’t find it in himself to mind this time around.
“Yes, he is.”
“He must be very proud of you, then.”
Dick could say he never thought much about it, but that would be a lie. Nearly every day Dick wondered if Bruce was disappointed he’d gone into EMS instead of medical school. Bruce always insisted he was smart enough to be a doctor, but that wasn’t where Dick’s heart lied. He’d tagged along with Bruce a few times during his shifts; Bruce had wanted Dick to see first hand what he was missing out on by not going to medical school. Dick saw how much time Bruce actually got to spend with his patients and it wasn’t nearly enough in his opinion. He wanted to be there for people at their worst moment, not just check in on them after the nurses had done all the work. While he respected Bruce and what he did, Dick knew he could never bring himself to stay in one building for seventy hours a week. He needed to be outside, on the go, talking to people. Bruce still didn’t really understand, but he stopped bringing up medical school, which was a win in Dick’s book.
“You'd have to ask him, I suppose,” Dick responded, hoping that he wasn't coming off as bitter.
If Slade noticed or minded, he didn't show it.
“I hope we meet again, Richard.”
Dick wanted to point out that they had a very likely chance of seeing one another in the future, considering their lines of work, but Slade had walked away so quickly Dick hadn't been able to get the words out. When he turned his head to watch the sergeant disappear into the crowd, he noticed Bruce coming towards him. He wasn't sure if that was a coincidence or not. He didn't care enough to read into it.
Dick had returned to work perhaps sooner than he should have. Donna had told him to take another week but if he stayed in his apartment alone any longer he was going to lose his goddamn mind.
He'd torn Slade Wilson’s card to shreds, so tiny that they were almost indiscernible in his kitchen trash can, despite the fact Dick took the trash out immediately after, before Wally could even get the chance to see. He didn't want to take any chances.
Dick knew he should tell someone. He should tell Wally or Bruce or really anyone. But he also knew that the minute he even mentioned Slade's name that everyone would begin to overreact, as they had a habit of doing when it came to the man.
They never believed they were overreacting, and maybe they weren't, considering the circumstances, but it was just a card. A card, albeit, with a rather threatening one sentence message, but a card nonetheless.
If it escalated past that, Dick decided, then he’d say something. But for right now it was just a card and Dick had too much on his plate to be making mountains out of mole hills, or greeting cards for that matter.
He needed something to distract him and work was always the perfect remedy for that, even if it meant Donna seemed rather unhappy with him when he walked through the doors of the station.
“Don't you even think about clocking in!”
“I was medically cleared!”
“I don't care if the goddamn Surgeon General cleared you, you shouldn't be working!”
Dick sidestepped Donna’s attempts to keep him from the time clock, which was a bit more difficult than he was expecting. She had rather sharp elbows.
“You were shot, Grayson!”
“Yes, I'm well aware.”
Dick was successful in his endeavor, much to Donna's chagrin. She shoved him in the shoulder, watching expectantly for a flash of pain to cross Dick's facial features, but none came. His shoulder was a dull ache at this point and he'd taken enough Tylenol that morning so her plan was fruitless.
“See? I'm fine, Donna.”
She didn't look like she believed him, which was valid. Donna had a way of seeing through his bullshit. But her argument lost its merit rather quickly and she obviously didn't have a backup plan, so she resided.
“Just… take it easy. Okay?”
“I'll make Tim do all the lift assists.”
She rolled her eyes as she walked away, back towards the garage, leaving Dick alone in the lobby with an inability to admit that perhaps his shoulder did hurt a tiny bit after all.
Dick was twenty years old when he said yes to Slade Wilson asking him out on a date.
He couldn’t say he remembered the specifics all too well; really all he could seem to recall were his sweaty palms and racing heart.
And saying yes, of course.
Dick never in a million years could have imagined a man like Slade having interest in him. He agonized over his outfit, wondering if each selection was too casual or too formal. Still living at the manor at the time, he even went so far as to infiltrate the other residents’ wardrobes, without permission, of course. In the end he’d settled for simple yet put together; a patterned button down that wasn’t as loud as the others that lined his closet, his nicest pair of slacks, a pair of shoes he’d gotten specifically for an event that had never happened, and a pair of sunglasses he’d stolen off of Jason’s dresser while he was at school. He’d grabbed one of Bruce’s leather jackets on his way out, not minding that it was a bit oversized on him.
In the end it’d all been worth it when Slade picked him up in a car that was far too nice for any cop in Gotham to own and told him he looked beautiful.
Not good. Not even just great. Nothing generic of the sort.
Beautiful.
No one had ever called him beautiful before.
Perhaps because it wasn’t an adjective often given to men, but Dick couldn’t say he minded the slightest. It somehow fit and Dick spent the entirety of the ride to the restaurant repeating Slade’s words in his head, imagining what it would be like to hear him say that every day. What every day could be like with Slade at his side.
Dick fell hard and he fell fast. Dinner was a blur of uselessly polite small talk and too many glasses of wine, so much so that Dick’s cheeks grew a rosy red and he began to giggle more so than usual. He recalled Slade’s deep chuckle that seemed to be rooted in his muscular chest as he helped Dick into the passenger seat.
“You’re a bit of a lightweight, little bird.”
That had sent Dick into yet another fit of uncontrollable giggles as Slade buckled his seat belt and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, his face unbelievably close to Dick’s, so close that he could feel the heat of his body, could smell the expensive aftershave he used on his neck and the one scotch he had drank on his breath.
That was the first time he had called him “little bird” but most certainly not the last time, not even that night.
Dick was twenty years old when he had sex with Slade Wilson for the first time.
“Shouldn’t you be on a call right now?”
Dick let the door to the garage close sharply behind him, barely getting into the room before Wally looked up to meet his eyes. He was hunched over the hood of a Transit, a bit of oil smeared across his nose that was unbelievably hot.
“Hello to you too.”
Wally tossed aside the tool he’d been using in exchange for a rag to wipe his hands, straightening out as he did so.
“I don’t want to jinx it,” Dick continued, leaning his head on Wally’s shoulder. “But today is rather… Q word, if you catch my drift.”
“For you, maybe,” Wally wrapped an arm around Dick and brought him in closer. “I have six ambulances to fix up.”
“I think Barbara is holding back,” Dick admitted, because he wasn’t sure there was anyone else he could verbalize this to.
Or perhaps he just couldn’t stand to admit it to anyone but Wally.
“Can you blame her, though?”
Dick didn’t answer right away, but he also didn’t attempt to escape Wally’s embrace, like he might if Wally’s words deeply pissed him off, which they would have even a week ago.
“Everyone is treating me like I’m made of porcelain.”
“They’re scared, Dick. They worry about you.”
Dick knew he should feel grateful for having so many people in his life that cared that deeply about him. And he couldn’t help, of course, but to feel as if they were making up for that particular period in his life when they hadn’t been able to be his support system, when he had been so isolated, so alone, that the only person there had been-
No, Dick was in no mood to think of him right now. He couldn’t even think his name, couldn’t even bring himself to picture his face, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit pathetic.
“I know,” Dick finally said, resting his head against Wally’s shoulder. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it-”
“I know how your brain works, Dick,” Wally cut in. “We all do.”
And maybe, for the time being, that was enough.
Dick was twenty years old when he moved in with Slade Wilson.
Bruce had been against it, vehemently so. They’d only been dating for a little over three months, after all, and Bruce had only met Slade a handful of times, mostly at charity events. Dick argued that Slade was very busy and next in line for a promotion, so it was hard for him to find time to come over to the manor for a family dinner. Any excuse Slade gave him he parroted back, believing every word he was saying despite the doubt on his father’s face.
“If it doesn’t work, I’ll get my own place, or come home,” Dick had argued as he sorted through his books, picking only a select few to take with him.
Slade didn’t like clutter; he had said so when Dick had woken up with a hangover after their first date. There weren’t many personal mementos or keepsakes collecting dust on shelves; Slade seemed to believe in uniformity and possession only when absolutely necessary. Perhaps Dick could get him to bend a bit, but he didn’t want to overtake any part of the minimalistic apartments.
“You won’t be able to afford a place on your own, not on an EMT’s paycheck.”
“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dick had said sarcastically.
He was well aware he fell a bit short financially if left to his own paycheck. He could probably afford a place over in Park Row, but Bruce would never allow it. While Dick appreciated everything Bruce did for him, especially financially, he couldn’t help but feel like a burden at times. He was an adult, he should be making it on his own, not still living in his childhood home.
“You know what I mean, Dick,” Bruce placed a heavy yet comforting hand on his shoulder, forcing him to pause with his sorting and packing. “I worry about you.”
Dick didn’t say anything in response because he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t make him cry frustrated tears.
“Just know that you will always have a home here, no matter what.”
Dick never got a chance to reply to anything he had said before Bruce left the room, leaving Dick alone with his own muddled thoughts until Slade came to pick him up an hour later.
He’d carried the two boxes Dick had, old computer paper boxes with handles and lids that Dick had taken out of the hospital recycling. Dick rolled his suitcase behind him and took one last look at the manor’s exterior as Slade loaded his luggage into the trunk of his car.
“Ready, little bird?” Slade asked, accented by the slam of the trunk closing.
“Yeah,” Dick replied, his eyes not leaving the window that Dick knew was in Bruce’s study. He couldn’t see the man, but he knew he was up there watching, just as Dick was.
Dick got in finally, watching the manor become smaller and smaller as they made their way down the long winding driveway and towards the city. He watched until the manor was covered in trees, invisible to prying eyes passing down the main roads.
The ride was silent, not even music filled the eerie quiet. No one said anything until they had reached the penthouse apartment and set down their burdens.
“Leave the unpacking for later,” Slade had said, wrapping his hand around Dick’s wrist to stop him from diving into one of the boxes. “Let’s order dinner. Thai?”
“Okay,” Dick had relented, because he did have to admit that he was hungry and a bit too tired to deal with unpacking his meager belongings.
Slade passed him the television remote as he went to find a takeout menu in one of the kitchen drawers. And they had a lovely evening, though the packing never really happened as Dick imagined it would. They never did it as a grand event, Slade never showed him a shelf for his books or a drawer for his toiletries. It seemed only the things Dick really needed were allowed out, and only in the smallest and most unassuming way possible. The boxes got pushed into the coat closet, untouched and unseen, and the apartment continued to look as if only one person had ever lived there, if one didn’t look too closely, that is.
Kory was in the kitchen chatting with Roy, which wouldn’t be too odd, but only if they worked at Dick’s station, which they did not.
“Hi?” Dick leaned against the doorway, watching as Kory stirred a pot of something on the stove as Roy flipped through a magazine someone had left on the table.
“Hey Dick,” Roy greeted nonchalantly, not even bothering to look up.
“Not that I have any issue with it whatsoever, but what’re you doing here?”
“Oh, we finished a call a few blocks away and decided to have our lunch here!” Kory explained. “Here, try this.”
Dick never got the chance to ask what “it” was before Kory shoved the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir whatever it was she was cooking in his mouth. Whatever it was, it was spicy, but delicious.
“Good,” Dick said, for lack of better adjectives. “Let me guess who else is here…”
“He’s rooting through your locker,” Roy turned a page obnoxiously.
“What? How the hell does he even know my combination?”
“Tim, probably.”
Dick didn’t even have time to formulate a response that would most likely have far too many expletives in it before Jason found his way into the kitchen, munching on one of the protein bars Dick knew he kept a box of in his locker as a “just in case” snack.
“Oh, I thought you were still off on medical,” Jason said when he saw Dick, having the decency to look at least slightly guilty about his stolen food.
“Got cleared early,” Dick responded. “Just couldn’t stay away.”
“Naturally.”
Dick elected to not comment on Jason’s sarcasm because he knew deep down that he was right.
“Well, there’s plenty of soup, if you’d like to join us for lunch,” Kory offered.
“Sure, not like I’ll have a call any time soon.”
“Stop being a workaholic for once in your life and just relax,” Jason said as he finished off the protein bar and threw the wrapper in the trash. “Where’re your bowls?”
“Same place they’ve been forever,” Dick found a seat next to Roy, who had tossed the magazine aside in favor of Kory’s cooking.
“If it were me, I wouldn’t come back until the chief busted down my door,” Roy nonchalantly stated, as if Dick had asked, which he hadn’t. Roy was the type of person to offer unsolicited opinions, which was usually, at most, a mild annoyance, but Dick couldn’t say he was in his signature cheery mood, so he said nothing.
“It’s okay to need more time, you know,” Roy continued on a much more serious note. “What happened was pretty crazy, so you shouldn’t feel like you have to bounce right back.”
“I need something to focus on,” Dick admitted. “I can’t keep staring at the television and lying around the apartment. I need to do something.”
“Find a hobby, like a normal person.”
“Dickhead is anything but normal, I’m surprised you haven’t figured that one out yet,” Jason smirked as he passed out bowls and spoons for everyone.
“Okay, Mr. Overtime,” was Dick’s half-hearted attempt at a rebuke, but even he could tell that his tone was too flat for teasing, so it just came out more exhausted than he would’ve ever intended it to.
“Just know that if you ever need to talk, we’re always here,” Kory poured soup into Dick’s bowl, perhaps a bit too much, but he didn’t say anything, just watched as the murky liquid rippled against the edges of the plastic.
“I know,” Dick dunked his spoon in, disrupting the circular pattern the soup had been making, sloshing it around haphazardly and without much thought or care.
The others probably wanted to say more or, better yet, hear more from Dick exclusively, but he wasn’t quite in the mood.
Despite always loving Kory’s cooking, he could really only take a few bites before making up an excuse to leave that was so thin they must have taken pity on him by allowing his leave.
Dick was twenty-one years old when he told Slade Wilson he was going to enroll in paramedic school.
He’d expected excitement from his partner as he explained how he’d get more hours and better pay, how it’d be a lot of work but worth it. Slade had sat in his recliner that Dick so often curled up on his lap in, a stern expression on his face. When Dick finally ran out of things to say he finally noticed the lack of encouraging smile that he had thought he’d see when he stopped pacing and moving his hands around expressively.
“I’m not so sure it’s a good idea, little bird,” Slade had finally said, stroking his beard as he did. He reminded Dick of a strict father rather than a loving boyfriend, all of a sudden.
“What?” Dick had asked, because he wasn’t so sure he’d heard correctly.
“I’ve just been promoted to Lieutenant and with that comes more hours and responsibilities at the station. With you working part time we can ensure necessary chores around the apartment are completed.”
Dick could feel his heart sinking deeper and deeper in his chest, all the way down to his stomach as Slade spoke.
“But-”
“It’s a bit selfish of you, Richard,” Slade only ever used his full name when he was upset. “When we began this relationship, I was under the impression that you were a team player.”
“I am,” Dick said, a bit defensively. “I just-”
“And we both discussed what my promotion would mean for the both of us and agreed that, with me working more hours, you would take on more responsibilities here.”
“Yes, but-”
“So I think it to be a bit unfair that you’re springing this paramedic nonsense on me, even after the arrangement we had both come to agree to just two months ago.”
Dick didn’t know what to say and couldn’t help but feel ashamed at Slade’s accusations. Perhaps he was being selfish, but when Donna had told him she was thinking of moving up, he couldn’t help but seriously consider it for himself, especially after his supervisor wrote them both letters of recommendation. Even Bruce seemed pleased when he mentioned it at family dinner the previous week, offhandedly at first to gauge responses and then much more enthusiastically when it seemed everyone was in agreement. It was that dinner that made him feel confident enough to finally decide to enroll and he had, immaturely, might he add, assumed Slade would also be on board. That had, evidently, not been the case.
With Slade working much more since his promotion, Dick had begun doing the majority of chores, including laundry, general cleaning and tidying, cooking, and shopping. Dick was not the domestic type, but Alfred had taught him everything one needs to know if they are to make it on their own, and Dick couldn’t help the swell of pride he felt at seeing Slade’s smile when he saw what Dick had made for dinner or his uniform shirts, ironed, starched, pressed, and hanging diligently in the closet.
Dick liked being useful, he liked helping, which is probably what brought him to his particular line of work in the first place. But he couldn’t help but feel as if he was being tugged in two opposite directions, one side his sense of duty to the people of Gotham and the other his love and admiration for Slade.
“My supervisor thinks it’d be good for me. Everyone I’ve mentioned it to has-”
“So I’m not even the first person you bring this up to?” Slade’s voice was dangerously steady. The calmness of it all put Dick on edge, like one might be if they were anticipating a hurricane.
“I spoke to my family-”
“Whom you don’t even live with anymore, thus making their opinion on the matter next to useless. They do not live here, they should have no say in our finances or responsibilities.”
“They’re my family, they have a right to know what’s going on in my life-”
Dick was twenty-one when Slade Wilson hit him for the first time.
It was hard and fast and hurt like hell. Dick couldn’t remember much except the burning of his cheek and the rage within Slade’s one good eye.
“This is the last time you bring this up,” Slade stood. “Understand?”
Dick nodded, but he was too distracted to truly know what he was agreeing to. He felt Slade’s hand tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, a familiar move that Dick usually leaned into.
This time he flinched.
The day dragged on brutally with no calls. One would think it a miracle to get paid to do basically nothing, but Dick was never the type to sit idle for long, hence why he chose this line of work in the first place. Even playing around with the training VR game with Tim to see who could get a set of vitals on their digital patients the fastest grew old after the first few rounds.
“We could go get milkshakes, like we did that one day, remember?”
Dick didn’t want to mention that the only reason they’d gotten milkshakes that one shift was because it had been Tim’s first unsuccessful cardiac arrest call, so he shrugged instead.
“We could go stand post at the mall and then-”
“I think I’m going to go home,” Dick said suddenly, standing from the couch he’d been lounging on next to Tim.
“What? Why?”
“Tell Donna I left early. I’m sure there’s another medic available you can ride with.”
“But-”
“I’ll see ya, Timmy.”
Dick ruffled Tim’s hair into a rat’s nest, distracting him long enough to clock out and slip out into the garage. Wally was in the supply room when he passed, reorganizing a cart of bandages when Dick peaked his head in.
“I’m leaving early. I’ll make that pasta you like for dinner.”
Wally looked up, his hands frozen over his wares. “You’re leaving?”
“Wasn’t like I was going to get any calls.”
“Right, but-”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
Dick half expected Wally to follow him out, to demand him to talk about what was bothering him, but he didn’t. He was probably well aware of the fact that the only thing that would accomplish would be forcing Dick to close himself off even more.
No, Dick had no interest in talking about his feelings, because he couldn’t even begin to think of how he would verbalize them without sounding like a petulant child. How could they even begin to understand in the first place? How could they know what it’s like to feel so useless, hanging around the station like a waste of space? Dick had been naive to think he could just walk back in there after a few weeks and that everything would be back to normal. When were they finally going to stop treating him like he could break at the slightest touch?
Dick put his helmet on, hesitating for a moment before he put the key in his bike. He stared at the building, as if he were looking at it for the last time. He was overreacting, that had to be it. Maybe it wasn’t everyone else acting odd, maybe it was just him.
Maybe he should just see that therapist Barbara recommended to him.
There were a lot of maybes and Dick just didn’t have the energy to try to sort through them all. He was tired, though it wasn’t an exhaustion that was the product of not enough sleep. It ran deeper than that, right through his skin and organs and veins and nestled deep within his bones; a weariness that had been growing ever so slowly over the years and had finally overtaken so much of his body, had dug its roots so far down that it would be impossible to separate one from the other.
Dick ended up at his apartment eventually, though he couldn’t remember the ride at all, which was concerning. He hadn’t dazed out of existence that badly in a long time, not since-
“Hello, little bird. You’re home early.”
The words were like nails on a chalkboard to Dick. His body reacted quicker than his brain as he swung himself off of his parked bike, turning so that he was face to face with him. He removed his helmet, though a part of him wanted to keep it on for protection, though Dick knew that was a ridiculous thought.
“You can’t be here,” Dick’s voice held no edge in it. He didn’t sound confident, he sounded as if he were afraid to be speaking out of turn, like a child at a strict dinner table.
Slade looked the same, which was to be expected. It had only been a few years, after all. How much can one person truly change within that timeframe?
“Did you get my card?”
Slade was moving closer and closer to Dick, his steps calculated. There was nowhere to go; Dick’s apartment parking lot was nestled in an abandoned lot that had once housed a building; now it was paved over, the three surviving buildings walling off the parking space. There was only one way in and one way out and Slade was standing right in front of it. Dick must’ve been dissociating so badly on his ride that he hadn’t even noticed Slade’s car parked.
Nevertheless, with each step forward that Slade walked, Dick took one back, all the way against the exterior brick of his own apartment complex. Dick’s hand dug into his pocket and grabbed his phone out. Slade hummed in amusement at the sight.
“And who will you call? The police?”
Dick was suddenly aware of the fact that Slade was wearing his work uniform, as if he’d just stopped over after his shift ended. The sight of it was one Dick never would have guessed that he’d forget.
“I’ll call-”
“You’ll call no one,” Slade reached out, his palm up. He was watching Dick expectantly, waiting for the obedience that they both knew, deep down, had never fully been irradicated.
“This is what will happen: you will give me the phone. You will get in the car without any of your typical theatrics. And then, we will go home.”
“I have no home with you anymore,” Dick spat, his fingers wrapping tighter around his phone. “We’re done. Leave me the fuck alone.”
Dick should have anticipated the punch, should have predicted that Slade would get violent. It was his usual go-to if verbal and emotional manipulation didn’t work right off the bat. Dick knew all his tricks, had learned them, committed them to memory, but when it really came down to it that didn’t seem to matter.
It never seemed to matter to Slade.
Dick fell against the wall, his shoulder digging into a broken brick as he slid down onto the filthy pavement. The phone was dropped at some point but Dick was more concerned with pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding than he was with Slade digging the heel of his boot into the cracked screen.
“You never liked to make things easy on yourself, huh, kid?”
All Dick could smell was his own blood. All he could taste was blood. Everything was red, red, red. He was suffocating on the red, feeling as the thick liquid clogged every hole in his body until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t-
A cloth was covering his nose and mouth and at first Dick assumed Slade was cleaning his face up. There was a sickly sweet smell to it, one Dick couldn’t pinpoint, but it made his eyes droop, his body going slack as it slumped against the wall. He could see the outline of Slade standing over him, could feel the man’s rough hands maneuvering him, could just begin to make out the sickly sweet lies he whispered into his ear, but Dick had no energy within him, no fight to speak of.
The world around him darkened until eventually it all faded.
Dick was twenty-seven when Slade Wilson forced himself back into his life.