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This was great. Just great.
This definitely wasn't how Dick saw his night ending up.
A standard patrol-turned-hostage situation wasn't at the top of his To-Do list, and yet, the universe sure had a funny way of sneaking up on him. Correction: Slade fucking Wilson had a funny way of sneaking up on him.
In hindsight, he should've seen right through the whole charade from the get-go. The conveniently timed warehouse fire. Said warehouse being curiously located farthest from more well-traveled streets. And said warehouse fire being incongruously limited to one corner of the warehouse, where stacks of pallets piled high against the walls. Way to go, Dick. Really earning your keep as the world's greatest detective's closest ally, aren't you?
He'd picked up muffled chatter among the radio waves as he tied up loose ends, quite literally, at an attempted carjacking a few blocks from the hospital. Dispatch reported a warehouse fire in the vicinity of Port Adams.
Far be it from Dick to turn down a little late-night excitement. He'd taken to the skies before dispatch had even confirmed trucks rolling.
The warehouse itself was nothing special. Dingy, rusty, most definitely full of rats and tetanus. A quick once-over of the building had Dick toying with the idea that perhaps this was truly an innocent electrical fire, in which case he was no better equipped to handle the problem than any passerby on the street. Still, he stuck around, poking around inside, trying to positively identify the source of the fire.
He hadn't suspected a thing.
That was until he heard the telltale swoosh of something heavy and metal slicing through the air over the crackling of burning pallets. Then, nothing. For however long it had taken Dick to regain consciousness.
That brought him to his current situation: upside down, dangling by rope-bound feet from a chain, with an all but guaranteed concussion. His eyes protested against the bright glow of the fire in his peripherals, drifting in and out of focus with the pounding in his head.
Dick strained against the bindings on his wrists and ankles, angling for a better look at the chain's anchor point. Not that he figured it would do him any good. The corroding rafters crossed the warehouse nearly forty feet above the floor. The chain creaked and groaned against them, giving off tiny clouds of rust, but gave not even the slightest indication of budging.
He was only suspended a handful of feet off the ground, but not nearly low enough to aid his escape.
Damn it.
He made to reach for the base of his back. His escrima sticks were predictably missing. Not ideal, but expected. Instead, he brushed higher, toward where he kept a small store of wingdings. Gone. Also not ideal.
Whoever he was dealing with knew his tricks. That narrowed things down, but only marginally. Not nearly enough for him to reach any helpful conclusions.
He pulled himself into a pike, banking on the fact that he'd only recently added hidden storage along his thigh. It never hurt to be extra prepared. Skimming the side of his face against his leg, he felt only fabric and the strain of his muscles holding himself up.
Dick felt his heart rate tick higher at the implication: this person knew his weapon stores intimately - and recently.
Heavy, echoing footfalls broke his concentration, drawing his attention across the dusty warehouse floor. From the darkened periphery of the warehouse, distinct orange greaves emerged, followed by dark kevlar and a quite frankly obscene tactical loadout of bandoliers, grenade loops, belts, and holsters. Deathstroke.
Like a villain out of a cheap thriller in the way he toyed with the shadows, keeping his shoulders and head just out of view until he was sure he'd gotten Dick's attention.
"Nightwing. How lovely of you to drop by." He leered, his bisected mask finally bathed in the light as he approached.
"Wilson," Dick muttered, wrists twisting in vain against their bonds once more.
Slade sauntered closer. "My, don't you just sound overjoyed. Careful now, I'll start to get the wrong idea."
"Well, I wouldn't put you in the Top 100 People I'd Like to See Tonight (Or Ever), but sure, you're up there somewhere."
"Come on, Nightwing. I've been dying to catch you like this. You really do look breathtaking in chains." Slade came to a halt a mere half-stride from where Dick hung.
Dick ground his teeth, mouth set in a hard line as he stared ahead.
"Nothing?" The mercenary crowed, taunting. "Never claimed to be a master of verbal foreplay, I suppose."
Nose wrinkled in disgust, Dick ground out, "I'll pass on that, thanks."
A gloved hand lifted the mask, revealing a predatory eye, glinting in the firelight. "Ah, I should've remembered," He let the insinuation hang in the air like a cruel joke, "You'd rather skip to the good part."
With another lecherous sneer, Slade closed the remaining gap as Dick thrashed, sensing from the cocky roll of his shoulders that Dick was not going to enjoy what was about to hit him.
Rough hands held him by the sides of his head; scratchy stubble pricked his chin as a rough mouth laid ruthless claim to his own. Ice lanced through his veins at a prick over his sternum, followed by telltale ripping and a rush of air against his bare chest. He wanted to vomit - to scorch every point where the mercenary's skin contacted his own.
Instead, he did the next best thing he could think of: he bit down, hard.
BANG
The report of a gun echoed off the warehouse walls as Slade reared back with a shout, blood already beading at the corner of his mouth. Dick's head snapped to the entrance of the warehouse, the tension leaving his shoulders near-instantly.
Jason.
"Hood. You're a bit outside your jurisdiction, aren't you?" Slade growled, swiping at his split lip.
Jason leveled his pistol at Slade's chest. "You're fighting a bit outside of your weight class, aren't you?"
"Don't tell me you weren't aware of Boy Wonder's penchant for biting off more than he can chew."
Dick scoffed in indignation. "You couldn't take me on my worst day, asshole."
"Wouldn't you like to find out?" Slade called over his shoulder, an unnerving promise in his voice.
Jason hadn't stopped walking, single-minded determination in his stride. "You'll never get the chance."
BANG
Slade was on the ground before the echo died, a pained wheeze following him down.
Dick rolled his eyes. "You've got to be kidding. All that armor just to be taken out by a rubber bullet?"
"Who said it was rubber, Dickie-bird?" Jason stepped over Slade's quivering form, his boot sending him lurching to his side as he passed. He triggered the release on his mask.
Sure enough, the floor was stained with telltale crimson splatters. Dick followed the trail to where Slade had come to rest, hissing strings of obscenities foul enough to make the Devil wash his own mouth out.
"Jay! You-"
Soft lips swallowed his disbelief and silenced any further protests. A gloved hand came to rest on the side of his face, fingers tangling in his hair.
The adrenaline drained from his body, leaving him lightheaded as his muscles slackened against his restraints. He groaned in protest, chasing after the feeling as Jason pulled away. "You okay?"
Dick nodded, eyes unfocused; whether from the concussion or exhaustion, he couldn't be sure.
"Alright, you'd better hold on. Let's get you down from there."
His arms fell from their bindings as they were cut away, finding purchase on Jason's shoulders. His focus narrowed to the small points of contact between them. Solid. Warm.
Dick faintly registered the sound of another bullet being chambered.
BANG.
Like a ragdoll, he plummeted away from the now-severed chain, his momentum halted by solid arms wrapping around him.
"Fuck." Dick forced himself to refocus on his surroundings.
Jason chuckled as he carefully set him on unsteady feet, arm around his waist for stability as blood rushed back into his limbs. "Later, Goldie. Gotta take out the garbage first."
He hummed at the promise, dragging his eyes back to Slade's quivering form. "Are you sure a rubber bullet wouldn't have gotten the point across?"
"Nasty creeps get the real deal, Wing." He gave the mercenary another spiteful kick before he crouched, reaching for Dick's discarded bindings.
Once finished, as sirens howled in the distance, he rose and placed his helmet back on his head with a devious grin. "Race you back to mine?" He challenged.
"How about we see if we can beat the delivery guy?" Dick countered, showing Thai takeout en route on his phone.
"You're so on, Dickie-bird."
With that, they sprinted into the alley, grappling into the skies.
Yeah, this was exactly how Dick should've expected his night to end up. Business handled, a few new bruises added to the collection, a rousing chase, and the promise of takeout while tangled up on the couch in the near future.
The cherry on top? Slade fucking Wilson's balls getting a one-way ticket to the afterlife. Courtesy of one Jason Todd.