Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Dick left to patrol Blüdhaven, he had been prepared to deal with some thugs, stop some petty crimes, maybe bust up a drug ring: the usual.

He had successfully dismantled a human trafficking ring a few months ago but noticed some suspicious activity picking up at the docks and opted to investigate. He expected maybe some new group would be trying to fill in the power vacuum, and he might be able to nip it in the bud.

He was not expecting Klarion and ancient magic.

After infiltrating the warehouse, Dick easily disarmed the few goons he encountered. The building was suspiciously empty of anything worth protecting. No weapons, drugs, money... just a suspiciously open space with chalk circles drawn on the ground.

No runes (Dick has seen plenty of those in his lifetime).

Just plain circles?

Before he could begin investigating the chalk circles further, he was suddenly struck with the shadowy creeping miasma that accompanied dark magic and the cloying, high-pitched laughter of the witch boy.

Chapter Text

Not many bothered requesting hits in Blüdhaven or Gotham because not many bothered to accept them.

Too many capes. Too much of a risk.

But occasionally, if the pay was good enough, and Slade was particularly bored, he’d take on the challenge as a bit of fun.

So, he was quite surprised everything was proceeding so smoothly on this Blüdhaven hit.

The target was some rich, young, fuckboy, practically living in the VIP rooms of the most exclusive clubs in Blüdhaven. Probably thought his creditors wouldn’t dare to send anyone to Blüdhaven, and that he’d just be able to keep himself off Nightwing’s radar. A fool.

Slade was honestly a bit disappointed it had been this simple. He’d at least expected the opportunity to kick the ex-Titan through a wall or two before he finished the job. To get a light workout. But Nightwing was a no-show, and Slade had no intention of sitting around, so he made to leave. He left the target’s private room leisurely, bypassing the rest of the reserved VIP rooms with far too thin walls, echoing with familiar sleazy sounds.

“No, really look! He looks just like the Wayne kid!”

Slade paused, drawing closer to the door from which the statement rang. The Al-Ghul brat? If Damian Wayne had been captured that could explain Nightwing’s absence—too busy searching for the little demon. And it also ensured the original Robin would be arriving sooner or later. That is, if the demon didn’t free himself first.

 “Shit, you’re right! What the hell?! How—” Another voice exclaimed.

A third chimed in. “Well, that freak’s magic right? Some bibbity-bobbity-bullshit! Who cares how! This kid is gonna be a jackpot!”

Magic? Slade raised an eyebrow at that. Sounds like there were some other big players passing through Blüdhaven tonight.

“What was a millionaire kid doing at the docks?”

“Who gives a shit? He’s a literal golden goose.”

“Hell yeah! How much do you wanna bet Wayne will cough up for him?”

There was a thud, and the following soft cry of a child. Slade’s brow furrowed. That certainly didn’t sound like the Al-Ghul.

“Brat!” One of the voices demanded sharply. “How old are you?”

There was no response, just more whimpering cries, and the sharp crack of a slap.

“Hey, tone it down. Wayne won’t pay for damaged goods.”

“Nah, we send him a picture of the kid black-and-blue, and he’ll be ready to pay more to get him back.”

“Good point.”

“Come on Circus boy—”

Slade slammed the door open. The three men inside froze. Just three common street thugs. Nothing that should have posed any of the Bats any sort of a challenge. The first had their phone out, with a Wikipedia article about “Dick Grayson” pulled open, looking at early photos from when Wayne first took the child in. The young millionaire, barely in his twenties, caught on a public outing with the small eight-year-old orphan he'd taken in a ward. The second was hunched over the first, reading over their shoulder.

The third held a small trembling child of about five or six, nearly dangling him off the ground up by a bruising grip around their tiny arm. Familiar blue eyes widened.

Before any of the thugs could react

*BANG*

Chapter Text

Dick was in quite the predicament.

The initial transformation had left him disoriented. His world spinning, and everything suddenly larger, louder, and strange.

He was smaller—Dick wasn’t sure exactly how far he’d been de-aged, but he could tell it was a significant change. He was even younger than when Bruce had taken him in. And his Nightwing costume had likewise been transformed into some sort of kindergarten uniform: a little blue smock, with a white collar and robin-shaped pin, shorts, and a little yellow hat.

It all felt incredibly foreign—his usually unfailing sense of balance and coordination felt markedly thrown.

It hadn’t helped that Klarion had then grabbed him by the ankles and dangled him upside down while Teekl hissed with laughter.

All around an unpleasant experience.

“Silly little Titan!” The immortal teen teased, waving the de-aged Nightwing around the warehouse. “Lost little birdie. Do you like flying like this?”

Thankfully the swinging was interrupted with a goon came rushing in from outside the warehouse “Boss! Someone took out—"

Before the goon could even finish Klarion hurled the child the newcomer, sending both Dick and the man crashing. The witch boy just cackled at the sight. “It looks like I need some new marching mice. Do as you please with the birdie. Consider it a bonus! Just keep my work secure! See ya later, armadillos!”

And with that, he vanished in a flourish of dark magic.

Typical.

“God, why is everyone in this damn town such a freak?” The goon grumbled, looking down in confusion at the child that had been thrown at him.

In that moment Dick made a decision.

He was not physically capable of taking on a grown man unarmed in his current state. He was going to need (A) a weapon or (B) the element of surprise. And in order to get either, it would be best to play dumb. Sniffling, Dick dissolved into crocodile tears, and the goon groaned in annoyance. “Shit. Why the fuck would I want a toddler?” The grown man ran both his hands over his face, momentarily obscuring his vision.

Dick’s eyes glanced at the easy opening to grab the man’s gun. A well-aimed strike with the butt of the weapon would neutralize—

“Dude! What happened to everyone!” A second thug rushed in, spoiling his chance. “Whoa, what’s with the kid?”

“I dunno! The boss literally threw him at me?!”

Goon #2 looked around, surveying the scattered bodies of their knocked-out peers. “Well, who took out the rest of the crew?”

“Dunno, I guess the boss took care of whoever it was.” Goon #1 shrugged. “He just threw this kid at me.”

Goon #2’s surveillance finally landed on the child, before doing a double take. “Is that...? Dick Grayson?”

“What? The billionaire? He’s like, 20-something?”

“Yeah, but—” #1 hastily pulled out his phone, quickly typing in a search before quickly shoving the results in Goon #1’s face. An incriminatingly perfect picture of his six-year-old self posed with his parents in the promotional art for his official debut at Haley’s. It had been a simple little routine, just a few floor stunts with the clowns as a warm-up for his parent’s main act. The nostalgia of the image made his heart ache for a moment, his parent’s glowing faces, just as he remembered. Always frozen in time, never to age.

Thankfully the henchmen’s frantic discussion snapped him out of that line of thought before he spiraled too far down. They ultimately bundled him under an arm and rushed out to convene with a third. Dick meanwhile waited patiently for an opportunity, all the while playing a whimpering child, with no memory of his adult life and absolutely not a threat. They tried to press him for information on Bruce, but he insisted he didn’t know who that was, that his only home was Haley’s Circus, and that he wanted to go home.

The goons seemed overall satisfied with those answers, still content that regardless of Dick’s memory, Bruce would pay to get him back.

He had no intention of allowing them to ransom him to Bruce. Sure, it would be the easiest way out of this considering Batman would be here in moments if they—wait... since his costume was gone, his tracker certainly was as well...

All the more reason Bruce couldn’t find out about this. If Bruce caught wind Dick, or any of his kids, were captured AND stripped of the trackers in their suits, he’d definitely go back to pushing for implanted trackers. And no one wants to deal with Bruce in one of his overbearing and overprotective campaigns.

He continued to whimper and shy away from his captors as they debated among themselves and put up with a kick and a slap, all the while still contemplating escape routes and magical allies who might be able to reverse whatever this curse is.

When suddenly the door crashed open and Dick was suddenly staring up at the Terminator.

Shit.

*BANG*

Dick was suddenly dropped to the ground as the goon who had been holding him up was blown away. He could hear the blood splatter, but before he could even open his eyes to see it, instantly Dick was scooped back up. He was suddenly slotted against an armored hip, and his head was manually tucked into the crook of the Terminator’s shoulder, obscuring his vision. All the while, there was shuffling as the other two panicked, likely reaching for their weapons before two more shots fired off, though only one pained scream echoed through the room. Dick swallowed anxiously, tense in the assassin’s arms.

Things had gotten much more complicated.

 Knowing Slade, the first had likely been a simple headshot, leaving the goon no time to scream, and the other had been a non-fatal shot, intended to leave the final man alive for questions.

“What happened?” Slade demanded simply.

“I don’t know, I don’t—” *BANG* another shot, another agonized scream. “Klarion! Klarion did something! I don’t know how he found him! Or why!? B-but Klarion made him a kid! I don’t think he remembers anything! He didn’t respond to anything we said about Wayne, only circus shit! I don’t know—”

*BANG* another shot, silence.

Leaving just the child and the Terminator.

Chapter Text

Slade Wilson was a professional.

He was not a man to be swayed by personal emotions or relationships. Granted, he didn’t have many left.

His sons were both gone. (His own fault, no matter how he tried to lay the blame on the failures of others. He failed them both first.)

His relationship with his daughter was virtually nonexistent.

And his... relationship... with Adelaide was not to be spoken of.

And then there was Dick.

Dick was talented.

Slade’s own boys had been talented in their own ways. There had been a time when Slade expected Grant to rise up as his successor, but he’d pushed the boy too far. It had driven Grant to his end.

An end Dick had been there to witness.

On occasion, Deathstroke had pressed Robin, and then Nightwing, to join him. To become his apprentice. (Perhaps even then Slade’s real intention had been, in part, to fill a void). Dick held such potential and was wasting it in his hopeless fight for altruism. 

Because Dick was a good kid.

Just like Joey. Hearts too soft for this world of cruel realities. (His own fault again. It was his failure to protect him).

The kid was a constant in Deathstroke’s work, and a constant in Slade’s life as well. Somehow, he’d witnessed more of this kid’s life than his own daughter’s. Slade had been there to see his growth as Dick struggled to carve out his own identity and as he fought to maintain and redefine it.

Before this moment, Slade had never given any of this much conscious thought. But the moment he laid eyes on the strangely familiar child, held captive, distressed and blue eyes wide in fear; he saw him as one of his own.

He dispatched two of the three thugs instantly (if only he’d been so quick with Joey), then extracted all the information he needed from the third.

He really didn't need much information. (1) The situation was magical, (2) Klarion was involved, and (3) Dick didn’t remember anything. With that in mind, he dispatched the third, holstered his gun, and switched it with his communicator to message Wintergreen. Striding out of the VIP rooms, the Terminator carried a tense, frightened child curled up to one side, and simultaneously messaged Wintergreen an update on his status and needs. His faithful aide responded nearly immediately with confirmations for a hotel reservation and a delivery order. The man really was unparalleled.

A soft sniffle drew his attention back to the child in his arms. The little bird had finally lifted his head. Blue eyes still watery and nervous. “I wanna go home.”

Slade gently placed a hand on the boy’s head and tucked it back down into his shoulder. (Grant’s eyes had been so blue too). “I know kid. We’ll get you home.” He grumbled in return.

It had been so long since Slade had cared for a child, but those core memories never faded. First things first, he knew the best he could give the boy was a bath, dinner, and bed.

Wintergreen secured them a simple, but high-quality lodging in an upscale hotel. The reservation was one bedroom, with a large and comfortable king-size bed dominating the center of the room with an obnoxiously large flat screen directly across the way, a desk to the right, and the bathroom to the left. Simple, but that was all he needed for the moment. After all, Slade had no intention of spending the night here. With Klarion potentially still in the city, Büdhaven was not the ideal place to be right now. The chaotic creature definitely made the shortlist of entities Slade made it a general rule to avoid. Not to mention it was only a matter of time before the Bat realized something was amiss. His only purpose for this hotel was to get Dick to sleep.

The child had been quiet the whole journey here, but Slade could feel the hammering beat of his heart. Although he remained closely tucked into the assassin’s armor-plated chest, Slade didn’t fail to note how the young vigilante’s eyes sharply tracked their route and surroundings. Dick was obviously still tense; it had been a frightening day for him, and the child really needed to be put to bed.

Upon arriving in their room, Slade flipped the deadbolt on the door and locked the chain at the top of the door. If he had intended to actually stay, he would of course set up his own security precautions, but the basics were sufficient for his limited purpose tonight. With that, Slade set the boy down on the bed, removed his own mask, tossing it over onto the desk before crossing over to the bathroom to draw a bath. As the water ran, Slade turned back to see the bed ominously empty. Quickly stepping out of the bathroom however Dick was easily found. The child was lingering near the minifridge, which was tucked in a nook by the front entrance. He jumped guiltily when he realized he’d been caught.

Slade sighed. Children always were fascinated with the temptation of overpriced hotel minifridges. “Come here.”

The boy tensed, glancing towards the bathroom, then up at Slade with apprehension.

It had been so long since Joey was this small. Slade couldn’t remember if it was well, safe, to leave a child this small to bathe themselves. All he could remember was how Grant used to fuss, whine and struggle against being forced into one, and how Joey used to wail and cry about being taken out. But regardless, the trembling child in front of him now probably wouldn’t appreciate having a stranger bathe him.

Slade held his hands up in a gesture of surrender while stating firmly. “I’ll give you your space kid, but you’re taking a bath.” With that he turned his back on the boy again, this time to turn off the water—satisfied that the temperature was warm, but not hot, and the water level probably wasn’t a drowning hazard—then leaving the bathroom wide open, he crossed the main room, giving the skittish looking child a wide berth the whole time. It was a little like dealing with a stray animal. Making himself as unthreatening as possible and giving the child space. The assassin paid the boy no mind, taking up a position at the hotel desk to finish disarming himself, lining out his weapons for cleaning in maintenance. Feigning inattention, all the while, keeping his ears sharp as he heard Dick shuffle over to the bathroom. But when the boy made to close the door behind him, Slade sharply commanded. “Door stays open, I can’t have you drowning on me.”

“But—” Dick started to interject, but Slade cut him off with a wave of his hand (though still without turning towards the boy).

“This isn’t a negotiation. The sooner you get in, the sooner you get out.”

 After a few moments of shuffling feet, there was finally a splash as Dick capitulated and got in the bath.

Slade had barely finished lining up his assortment of knives to polish when the obvious sloshing of the child exiting the bath caught his attention. He didn’t even look up from his work. “You’re not done.”

“I am!” An indignant little voice chimed from the bathroom.

“Do I need to come check?”

“NO!” Dick protested huffily. “I’m clean!”

Slade couldn’t help the smile that cracked his face. “Between your toes? Behind your ears? Bellybutton?”

The smile widened into a smirk when he heard the splash of the boy getting back in and accompanying petulant grumbles.

While Dick was properly finishing his bath, a knock on the door signaled the perfectly timed arrival of room service (just an order of chicken fingers and fries), and Wintergreen’s delivery order—a children’s toothbrush with some cartoon character Slade didn’t recognize, toothpaste, and an assortment of children’s pajamas, in a range of sizes appropriate for 4–7 year-olds. Since Wintergreen of course hadn’t yet seen the young Dick, he had opted for providing plenty of options. Slade placed the dinner on the bedside table and dumped the clothes on the bed. The Terminator was sorting through the overly packed bag for sizable pieces when a little bundle of fluffy white towel shuffled out of the bathroom, eyes instantly alighting on the shiny room service platter.

“Come here.” Slade ordered passively as he continued sorting through the pajamas, but the child made a beeline straight to the food, peaking under the cover. He raised an eyebrow at the trivial disobedience. Reaching over, he grabbed the boy by the top of his head, making a show of checking behind his ears much to Dick’s frustration. “Hey!” The boy objected petulantly.

“Hmm. Acceptable, kid.” Slade ruffled his wet hair over Dick’s protests, then turned the fussing child’s head towards the clothes on the bed. “Get dressed then you can eat.”

With that ultimatum, he turned his back on the child—again to give him some semblance of privacy—and instead turned towards the TV, turning it on and flipping through channels until he found some sort of children’s program. (Nothing he recognized. It had been so long since he sat down on a Saturday morning, Joey begging to watch Arthur, and Grant whining that he was too old for that). He stared unseeing at the cartoon for a few moments too long, remembering.

“Umm—”

Slade turned sharply back, startled out of his thoughts by the child’s hesitant hum.

Dick was now dressed in a pair of blue-footed pajamas covered in crescent moons, hovering over the uncovered plate of chicken fingers. “Can I eat on the bed?”

He waved an obliging hand and Dick didn’t hesitate to crawl up on the plush bedding with the plate balanced in one hand.

With the boy content with his chicken and cartoons, Slade turned himself back to his weapons and buried himself in the familiar motions of disassembling and cleaning his weapons—reburying those memories. Refusing to acknowledge the deja vu. Rejecting the idea this was some sort of attempt to redo past mistakes.

Refocusing on the present. 

He took his time with his work until the boy slowed in his march through the meal, chicken tenders long gone, the fry-to-mouth motion slowing and eyes drooping.

Picking up the toothbrush Wintergreen has sent, he nudged the boy, jolting him back to attention. “Your teeth better be as clean as your ears.”

Dick scrunched his nose in distaste but snatched the brush and stomped off to the bathroom obediently enough. The kid then took a deliberately long time, petulantly wandering out of the bathroom and making a dramatic show of his brushing. Slade watched raising an amused eyebrow until he finally seemed to grow bored of the petty display and trudged back to the bathroom to finally finish his task.

Trudging back into the main room, he crawled under the covers, sitting up with the sheets bunched in his hands while casting a suspicious glance Slade’s way. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“I don’t.” Slade replied facetiously, crossing the room under the boy’s watchful gaze. He flipped on the bathroom light, closing the door to just a crack, and turned off the light in the main room, leaving just a small sliver of light in the place of a nightlight.

Dick rolled his eyes, unimpressed with the answer, and switched his line of questioning. “When do I go home?”

A moment of silence passed between the two. Crossing the room once more, bright blue eyes looked up at him in the dark, and Slade simply pulled the covers up to his chin. “Go to bed kid.”

Chapter Text

Dick had no intention of falling asleep on Deathstroke’s watch.

He was well-practiced in the techniques required to convincingly slow his breathing in an imitation of falling asleep. (Something Bruce very quickly regretted teaching his preteen). And accordingly, rolled over on his side, facing away from where Slade stood polishing familiar weapons Dick was used to being on the wrong end of, and closed his eyes. As much as he hated the idea of literally leaving the Terminator in his blind spot, it would be easier to pretend to sleep this way.

Based on their evening, Dick felt fairly assured Slade didn’t intend to hurt him. If he had, there would be no need to pester the captive child about washing behind his ears and brushing his teeth. It was probably fair to assume the mercenary intended to return him to B all squeaky clean and healthy in exchange for a hefty “thank you” tip.

But even with that knowledge, it still went against all of his instincts to turn his back on such a threat. He tried his best to slow his breathing but maybe because he felt unfamiliar with his little body, or because of the general stress of the day or the fact that a man who could quite easily be considered his archnemesis was polishing a massive katana behind his back, rather than slowing down, his heartbeat was speeding up.

Ok. Everything is fine. It’s all going to be fine. Sure, he’s cursed with unknown magic, effectively kidnapped by Deathstroke, with no ability to protect himself or to contact anyone, and he can’t even control his own body, but that’s fine. Everything is fine. Rather than gracefully slowing his breath into a facsimile of peaceful sleep, his chest was rattling with increasingly panicked breaths.

Which wasn’t helped when he heard Slade put down his sword and come sit on the bed behind him.

But before his panicked mind could spiral any further, he was shocked out of his thoughts when a surprisingly gentle hand came to rest on his upper back, rubbing calming circles. And then, as if the situation could get any crazier, Slade—Deathstroke the Terminator—started humming.

Something slow and soothing, and vaguely familiar, and suddenly Dick was crying.

Phantom memories of his mother singing him to sleep in Romani. Of his father scooping him up after a tumbling fall while learning how to do back-handspring. Of the first time Bruce held him, as Dick cried himself to sleep his first night at Wayne manor.  

Slade didn’t comment, or stop. Simply humming and continuing that comforting circular motion until at some point, Dick accidentally slipped into sleep.

The last thing Dick could have expected was to wake up in a new bed.

He blinked blearily awake, unsure of the time, before realizing he was no longer in the oversized linen sheets of the hotel. Jolting up he took in his new surroundings, all illuminated by a crescent moon-shaped nightlight glowing against the opposite wall. His new bed was covered in soft blue cotton sheets, decorated with flocks of cartoon sheep, and a matching downy comforter and pillows. The rest of the room was fairly non-descript, like a seldom used guest room, with plain white walls, grey curtains, a pile of shopping bags lined up against the wall, unmemorable furniture, a dresser, lounging chair, a nightstand with an alarm clock and a baby monitor—

BABY MONITOR?

Dick flushed in embarrassment. Sure, he was a child, but he had to be a least five, right?! He didn’t need a baby monitor.

If he didn’t know every room in Wayne Manor, he would honestly think he had been returned because that was such a Bruce move.

He quickly turned the monitor away to face the wall, then slipped quietly out of the bed. He first crept over to the windows, peeking behind the curtains he saw the light of late morning. The sun was already quite high in the sky shining over an unfamiliar tree line and the distant view of a mountain range.

Definitely not Blüdhaven.

Shit.

He closed the curtains hastily, a little frantic. How far could they have gone from Blüdhaven? He’d been out the whole night, if Slade got him directly onto a plane they could literally be on another continent.

And why?!

All Slade had to do was show up at Wayne Manor with a five-year-old Dick Grayson and he could have asked for any amount of money.

Why—What did Slade want?

The only other clue in his immediate vicinity was the bags. Scurrying over, he pulled them open and his heart stopped as he suddenly stumbled on a... potential answer... that he hadn’t expected.

Children’s clothes and shoes.

Toys, race cars, coloring books, and puzzles.

Room décor, glowing-in-the-dark stars for the ceiling.

Stuffed animals, all circus-themed: lions, seals, monkeys, and an elephant.

He hesitantly picked up the little elephant. Brand new, tags still attached and fluffy clean, and his heart ached for Zitka.

Both the real elephant and his worn, ragged plush, which was stored safely back at his apartment in Blüdhaven.

Slade wasn’t taking him home.

“I see someone is awake.”

Dick jumped, instinctively moving into a defensive position, but his unfamiliar body ended up tripping over himself and falling into the plush padding of the stuffed animal pile.

Slade chuckled (assassins can chuckle??!) from his position leaning in the doorway, dressed in some casual grey workout wear looking thoroughly amused. “You certainly slept long enough little bird.” 
“I want to go home.” Dick said immediately, unable to even hide the panic in his little voice.

What he was not expecting was for Slade to kneel down with a frighteningly pitying gaze and Dick instantly knew what he was going to say. He remembered that look. He had seen it on so many faces after—

“Look kid, there was an accident—"

Dick shook his head frantically, clamping his hands over his ears. “NONOnoNOno.” He chanted desperately trying to drown out the old news. He knew. He knew. He didn’t want to relive this. He hadn’t needed it in the first place. He has seen. He had seen the snap. He had seen every agonizing second of the fall. He had seen the impact. He saw them every time he closed his eyes. He didn’t need pitying paramedics and detectives telling him—

Again, Dick was suddenly swept up. “Hush, little bird.” Slade hushed with a gentleness Dick would never have believed the mercenary was capable of before yesterday and again he was melting into tears. Blame it on being in a child’s body, but between last night and this morning, this was easily the most Dick had openly cried in years. With that excuse, Dick let himself go this time. He let himself dissolve into sobs against the Terminator’s shoulder. The full-bodied, empty-minded kind of sobs. Completely lost to everything except the all-consuming feeling of loss he had avoided thinking about for so long. Of his parents. Of Haley’s. And of everything since too. Of so many friends over the years. And even of his childhood relationship with Bruce, which had never been the same since their falling out.

And through it all he was held close as Slade stood up, carrying him off with a gentle bounce in his step and a comforting hand circling his back.

When Dick eventually came down from the throws of his long-brewing meltdown. He lifted his head from Slade’s now soaking-wet grey tee-shirt with a sniffle and found himself in a clean, minimalist kitchen. Still balanced easily on Slade’s hip, the assassin had just been walking in circles to calm him and the not-Zitka elephant was trapped between them.

“Welcome back kid.” Slade murmured softly, producing a tissue and first wiping wet cheeks before holding up a new one to his nose. “Blow.”

Now that Dick had made it through that emotional nightmare, he felt a little more clear-headed to focus on how insanely weird his current situation was.

Still, he obediently blew his nose, then tucked his face back away curling up into the tear stain he made in Slade’s shirt to... think.

Slade thought Dick’s only memories of family and home were of his parents and Haley’s. So of course, if Dick keeps asking to go home, Slade would eventually have to explain that neither were here.

And for some unclear reason, rather than ransoming him back to Bruce, Slade seemed to be... adopting him???

Slade clearly had no intention of bringing him back to Gotham.

And unless Dick admitted he knew who Bruce was, Slade really had no reason to think his requests to go home were to go back to Wayne Manor.

And after that meltdown, Dick likewise had no intention of admitting he was internally he still held his memories as a fully grown adult.

So, in conclusion, Dick was fairly confident he was objectively safe here. Slade at least wasn’t planning to harm him. But getting back, and getting this spell broken, was going to be dependent on him escaping.

That was doable. He's made it out of crazier situations and as Bruce can attest, he was more than well-practiced in running away as a child.

As long as Slade believed he was truly his five-year-old self, Dick held the advantage here he assured himself.

Meanwhile, Slade meandered around the kitchen, still easily carrying the quiet child in one arm, while cutting a bowl of fruit.

“Do you like the elephant?”

She’s no Zitka, but the plushie was nice enough. Dick pulled himself out of his hiding place in Slade's shoulder and nodded.

Slade set him down at the kitchen table, and ruffled his hair in response. Placing the bowl of fruit in front of him, and perching the elephant beside it (so her trunk tipped into the bowl, like she was going to share it with him) as the assassin walked past to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Just a normal domestic morning?

Sure?

Chapter Text

Jason groaned when he saw Bruce’s name light up on his personal phone.

That was never a good sign.

If something good was happening, like a family dinner or whatever, that invite would come through Alfie or Dick.

If the Bat needed a full family team up for a mission, that request would again come from Dick, or maybe Babs or Tim.

At most, the Batman would send Red Hood brief work updates via communicator.

But a direct, unprompted personal communication from Bruce.

Never good.

But not good still necessitates an answer. Jason had been enjoying a relatively quiet start to his morning, tucked in a corner booth of an empty cafè with some Kafka and coffee, but clearly he wasn’t going to get to enjoy them.

As soon as he picked up, he was greeted with a terse: “Both of Nightwing’s trackers went down three days ago. Dick isn’t responding on comms or personal devices.”

If Jason were less mature and secure in himself, he would be pissed at the blatant disregard for any sort of greeting or check-in and immediate, implicit demand for vigilante work. But thanks to his incredible Maturity and Patience, he was able to see past Bruce’s innumerable flaws and focus on the issue of—

“Wait, did you say ‘both’? Do you have two trackers on Dick? We all agreed to one tracker on our suits—”

“Now’s not the time for this.”

Jason grumbled. Bruce was being unreasonably dramatic, as always. “He’s probably with the Titans—”

“I’ve already contacted Titans Tower.”

“Well, then he probably found your stupid trackers, is ignoring you, and took a few days off—”

“He hasn’t been home since the tracker disappearance. No one has come or gone from his unit on the apartment building CCTV. No transactions on his accounts. No movement from his personal phone, satallite shows it's still in his apartment.”

“Well, Tim—

“Hasn’t heard from him either. Neither has Damian. Both have reached out, no resposnes.”

Jason was getting really sick of getting cut off, but he was also getting really concerned. Sure he hadn’t heard form Dick in the past few days, but that was normal enough. They were busy adults and shit, and Jason rarely initiated a conversation.  But the little birds reached out to Dick all the time, and Dick never blew them off. (For Jason too. Even if he didn't call as often, Dick was always there.)

“Ok, shit. That is—that’s not normal.”

“I’m sending Red Robin to Blüdhaven.”

Jason Patiently and Maturely interpreted the silence that followed Bruce’s curt statement to mean “Please Jason, would you be so kind as to accompany your younger brother as back-up, because I’m worried for my sons’ well-being.”

“I’m heading over now.” He huffed, chugging as much as he could of his coffee and throwing down payment on the table before striding out of the café.

“Jason.”

He groaned. Wasn’t the conversation over? Bruce made his passive-aggressive demand and Jason had oh-so-graciously complied with admirable levels of civility. He honestly deserved an award. “What?” Jason snapped.

“Thank you.”

Jason hung up immediately, shoved his phone as deep into his leather pockets as possible and rushed to his motorcycle. (Hoping the hum of the machine and the road would distract him from the childish feelings of surprise and happiness sparked by a simply ‘thank you’ from Bruce.) First and foremost, he needed to find Dick.

Once he connected with Tim in Bludhaven, Red Robin guided the Red Hood down to the docks. “This was where we lost connection with the trackers.”

Jason nodded, following his brother while keeping his head on a swivel.

“What are you looking for?” Tim asked.

“The demon brat.” Jason huffed, still scanning every cargo container they passed. “B may have sent you, but that’s not gonna stop the kid from crashing the investigation.”

Tim winced. “He uh, doesn’t know.”

“What?” Jason paused in his tracks.

“We uh, We haven’t told him Dick is missing.” Tim confessed nervously. “I mean, Dick might not be missing after all. He could just be busy with his own investigation. And Damian will— you know. The brat won’t take it well. It’s—it’s more efficient if we can just, find him before Damian knows this ever even happened.”

“Of fucking course.” Jason mumbled to himself as they slowed to a stop in front of an ominous warehouse. It’s not like it was unusal for Bruce to opt to keep this kind of thing a secret from his own family. “Well in that case, we’ve really gotta wrap this up quick before he figures us out.”

The interior of the warehouse was dark. As Jason only took a few steps in before he nearly slipped on some liquid. “Shit, watch your step.” He huffed to Tim in warning, while trying to shake his boots dry. Not getting a response, he looked back to see Red Robin tensely still frozen in the doorway, the visible portions of his face white as a sheet. “What?”

“It smells like blood.”

One of the pros and cons of his hood’s full coverage was the way it dampened his sense of smell. Still, Jason’s stomach churned at the implications of what he’d stepped in, and the fact this was the last place Dick had been.

Tim pulled out a flashlight the duo was greeted with the sight of a horrific array.

A ring of white chalk circles ran around the room, and between each layer, runes written in a variety of dried and fresh blood, now smeared under Jason’s boot.

And this last place they had any proof Dick had been.

“S-shit.” Tim’s voice warbled, face completely ashen.

Although Jason felt similarly shaken, something in the back of his mind vaguely registered that for the moment, (And only this moment. Because they were going to find Dick. He had to be ok. He had to.) Jason was the big brother. So he had to step up.

“Keep it together Timmers.” He clapped a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Dickie’s a pro. He’s dealt with plenty of weird magic shit.” Jason spurted out assurances with his best attempt at a carefree tone, thankful for the full coverage of his hood so the other couldn't see his own expression. “He can take care of himself. H-he’s—We’ll find him.” Shit. He really wasn’t good at these encouraging speeches. It didn’t help that it all felt like a lie—he couldn’t even convince himself. Jason didn't know how Dick did it—how he managed to face shit like this with a smile and a quip and keep the rest of the family afloat?

For all that Jason called his brother the Golden Child, logically he knew Dick put in a lot of work to maintain that perfect image, to be a pillar for his family. There was a lot Dick didn't tell his younger siblings, to protect them, to be the big brother they needed. And now that he wasn't here—Jason was sickeningly aware of how heavy a burden that was. How unprepared he was to carry it himself. How badly he needed Dick back.

Perfectly timed to break the tense silence, a goon wandered in flicking on the lights and then freezing when he noticed the vigilantes. “Shit!”

As he turned to run, Jason cocked his gun and the man (wisely) froze. “Perfect. We’ve got some questions. If you value your kneecaps, you’ll answer.”

“I don’t know anything!”

Jason dramatically moved his gun from pointing towards the man’s legs, up to his eye level. “That’s unfortunate. In that case—”

“BUT I’LL TELL YOU ANYTHING I D-DO KNOW! ASK! ASK YOUR QuESTION!”

“Nightwing was here. What happened?”

“I wasn’t here, I mean, I was, but I ran. I saw him Wednesday night." The goon stuttered frantically. "H-he took down my rotation partner, and I ran. No one has seen him since. No patrols. No raids. Nothing.”

Jason’s stomach churned, he stormed (every step sticky with the blood—what could be Dick’s blood) until the barrel was pressed to the goon’s head. “What. Happened. Here.”

“MAGIC?! I DON’T KNOW! Our boss does magic, b-but I Don’T know what it is.” The man cried. “T-the only other thing I know about Wednesday is that two of our other guys ran off and got killed. B-but not by Nightwing. I mean, obviously, he doesn’t—. I mean, N-no one knows where Nightwing went. But after Nightwing disappeared, two of the other guys from our warehouse were uh, trying to sell some kid, and Deathstroke killed them.”

“A kid?” Tim suddenly jumped in, finally looking a little less pale, eyes focusing now with information to analyze. “Where did the kid come from? Is this a trafficking operation too?”

“N-no. We’re just guarding the building, and boss is doing—” he gestured vaguely at the ground. “W-whatever this is. We’re just paid to guard it. I-I don’t even know where the blood comes from.”

“Then where did the kid come from?”

The goon shrugged shakily. “I don’t know.”

Tim continued to press. “What did the kid look like? Hair color? Eye color? Skin tone—”

“I don’t—I don’T Know!” The man insisted frantically. “I didn’t see any of this. All I know is my cousin saw them go into the Vita—” he stumbled for a moment, remembering they weren’t Haven locals. “The Nella Vita, a big-time club downtown. They had some kid, and they said he was a jackpot. And then they were found dead like, an hour later in the VIP rooms after Deathstroke passed through.”

That was something Jason wanted to narrow in on. In his Robin days, there were a lot of details about Dick's personal life that Jason wasn't privy too, but he did know Dick's relationship with the mercenary was complicated to say the least. “How’s Deathstroke involved in this? And where did the kid go?”

The goon was seriously getting riled up by this point. “I DoN’T KNOw. He was just there. Killed some Silicon Valley rich kid with a hit out on his head. Then he killed the others, and took the kid.”

“He TOOK THE KID?” Tim and Jason both chorused. They exchanged a glance, both sharing the same idea.

“I DON’T KNOW!” The goon wailed, finally dissolving into tears, and Jason rolled his eyes.

“Congrats man. You get to keep your knee caps.” He sighed, holstering his gun and waving a dismissive hand. “Go turn yourself in.”

“Yessir Mr. HOod.” The man nodded his head in desperate gratitude before running for his life.

The vigilante duo didn’t even bother to follow or make sure the good did as he said—they had a lead.

Within an hour Tim had secured hallway footage from the Nella Vita VIP floor.

At 01:32:54 a.m. a fully armored Deathstroke exited his target’s VIP room.

At 01:33:16 a.m. he paused besides another door.

At 01:34:47 a.m. he entered.

At 01:36:03 a.m. he exited, with a small, black haired child tucked in his arms.

At 01:36:07 a.m. the child lifted his head, and for 4.1 seconds, the cameras caught a very familiar, teary-eyed face.

Chapter Text

There was definitely something wrong with Dick’s brain.

It had to be the magic. That was the only explanation.

Even Stockholm Syndrome couldn’t account for the way Dick was falling into a comfortable routine here.

He might have his memories, but his physiological and emotional responses were still genuinely those of a child.

That was the only explanation for why he genuinely giggled when tickled or actually fell asleep for naptime, or how when he let his guard down, he was actually having fun getting caught in his escape attempts.

Dick’s first attempt came on his second day when Wintergreen arrived.

Dick instantly liked the elderly British man.

One. Because he was old and British and Dick would be lying if he said he didn’t miss Alfie.

Two. Because Wintergreen was very clearly not happy about the kidnapping he was complicit in.

The shock on his face when the older man laid eyes on Dick for the first time was truly comical, before quickly reigning it into a gentle smile. He’d arrived with groceries and more supplies.  He asked Dick how his morning was, and made some friendly small talk, clearly trying to gauge how comfortable Dick was with the situation. Dick played nice enough, after all, Slade had been treating him well.

“Mr. Slade is very nice and he makes very good waffles. Elinore likes them very much.” He declared holding up his new elephant.

Wintergreen was visibly relieved, which Slade seemed to take mild offense to if his eye-roll was anything to go by. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

Then Dick came back with the killer strike, biting his lip, turning his water eyes to the side, and clutching Elinore tightly. “But we want to go home to Haley’s.”

Wintergreen turned a baleful gaze at Slade who easily slipped between the two, scooping Dick up again with practiced ease. “It’s time for the little bird’s nap.”

“Of course, Slade.” Wintergreen agreed taciturnly. “Then I think we should speak.”

Dick waved goodbye over Slade’s shoulder, before tucking his face down to smirk into Elinore’s plush. He didn’t actually expect Wintergreen to change Slade’s mind (he’d already heard about the man from Joey, and understood he was uncontestably loyal to Slade. And Slade clearly wasn’t going to be swayed by his puppy dog eyes), but he was content that the mercenary was definitely going to get a talking to about kidnapping other people’s magically-de-aged kids.

So, Dick graciously allowed himself to be tucked into bed with Elinore without putting up a fight. (He’d pitched quite the fit the first time Slade tried yesterday). But after Slade turned off the lights and closed the door, he only waited a few minutes before squirming his way out of bed, slipping his pillow under the covers. A rudimentary cover, but in the dark, and through the grainy picture of the baby monitor, it would do. He then crawled along the floor to the window, careful to stay out of the view of the monitor. He wiggled his way under the curtains that hung over his window, peaking outside a black Bentley SUV sat in the driveway that hadn’t been there the day before.

Perfect.

Slade had taken him for an evening walk that first day, and Dick quickly realized the most difficult part of any escape was going to come after he got outside the house. They were currently staying in a large, modern cabin isolated deep in a mountainous forest. There wasn’t even a proper road to follow leading out of the clearing in which the cabin was nestled, and it was impossible to tell how far it would be to the nearest bastion of civilization. All Dick had managed to discern was that based on the position of the stars, they were likely somewhere in the upper range of the Rocky Mountains. Idaho or Montana, or perhaps even over the border into Alberta or British Columbia.

Thankfully the weather was moderate enough this summer. If it were winter, Dick really would have no chance of getting out.

Unlatching the window was a bit of a struggle for his tiny fingers, but he eventually managed it. Then likewise fumbled his way through wiggling out the window screen. He then easily slipped out the window and tucked the screen away behind a bush—it would be a waste of time and effort to put it back in the frame. There was no way his little fingers would manage. Getting it off in the first place and been hard enough.

Dick then darted over to the car. He had to jump up and down to catch a glimpse in the window and confirm, much to his relief, that Wintergreen hadn’t bothered locking the door. With that confirmed, he scurried inside without fear of setting off an alarm. The car was irritatingly neat, with nothing easy to hide under, except for a spare tire in the back. Good enough for a five-year-old. He easily tucked himself into the ring, content to wait until Wintergreen personally and unknowingly chauffeured him back to civilization.

He waited quietly and maybe actually napped a little until he was jolted awake by the back hatch of the SUV popping open. Before he could react the tire was dragged out of the car and he was suddenly dangling as if on a tire swing, hung from Slade’s arm rather than a sturdy tree.

“Where were you planning to fly to little bird?” The Terminator asked with an amused eyebrow raised.

“Haley’s.” He huffed, burrowing deeper into the tire in defiance.

That did little to prevent Slade from scooping him out, carrying him like a sack of potatoes under his arm. “We’ll continue this discussion after you finish your nap. In your bed.”

The later conversation was just a “no.”

“But Mr. Slade,” Dick whined over breakfast the next day. “I wanna gooooo somewhere!” Preferably somewhere public. With cameras that Tim or Barbara could hack.

Dick begged to go, anywhere. An amusement park, the movies, mini-golf, even the grocery store. Slade easily dismissed the pouting child’s request, citing their distance from everything. Their cabin in the Rockies (confirmed) was over an hour’s drive from civilization through portions of unpaved road and twisting mountain lanes.

“But Mr. Slaaaaaaaade—”

Deathstroke simply picked him up by the scruff of his collar and carried him out to the porch and set him down. “Then go on.” Dick looked up at the giant man in shock, little blue eyes wide. Slade just grinned slyly. “You’ve got a five-minute head start.”

And Dick dashed.

He knew he didn’t have a chance of actually making it down the mountain or anything, but it could be a good survey expedition.

And it ended up being a lot of fun.

And quickly became a fairly regular game over the next two weeks.

Dick doing his best to dart about, climbing trees, and finding hideaway holes. He became intimately familiar with the surrounding forest, telling himself it was to aid him in his next escape attempt, and not just to find more hiding places for the next game of hide-and-seek. With his much smaller body, he found many new ways to hide and disguise himself, making use of the environment to compensate for his lacking strength.

Slade meanwhile took his time, offering telegraphed movements and crunching steps in the leaves, leaving Dick just enough time to rush from his hiding place and duck, weave, and scramble away. At least until Slade decided it was time to wrap up, then the Terminator showed his true hand, closing in on Dick with silent and unstoppable speed.

Slade would often snatch Dick straight out of the air as he leaped from one branch to another, flipping the kid around (and Dick couldn’t be blamed if it made him giggle) then letting him swing from his arms as the Terminator walked them both back to the cabin.

When they weren’t playing hide-and-seek outside, Slade often took Dick down to his basement training den, where the assassin assembled a child-sized set of uneven bars, a beam, and even rings, and set him loose.

It was—interesting—relearning what his body could do? Trying to remember what he had learned when and what his body was capable of. He fumbled his way through awakening the muscle memory, walkovers, pullovers, and front mill circles, (and lots of contortions he'd almost forgotten he'd been able to do) and honestly, the hours really did melt away as he lost himself in familiar motions. No missions to go on. No injury still in the process of healing. No fires to put out or lives in his hands.

He needed to escape... If Bruce or the others had noticed he was gone, they must be so worried. But not right now. The time would come. He didn't really have much he could do right now given their location so... he couldn't be blamed for not trying super hard right? It was ok to just, be here, in the moment, with no responsibilities, no expectations, just waking up to waffles, practicing acrobatics and stretches he thought he'd lost years ago, exploring the forest, hair ruffles, and naps. God, naps are so underrated. It was almost scary how easy it was to forget he hadn't chosen to come here. Easy to forget that this was all being facilitated by the hulking mercenary who was cutting through practice bags just a few feet away, at least until his massive shadow appeared looming over him.

Usually, Slade prompted Dick with a question about his form or dismount. He acted interested in the things Dick and genuinely listened? And something about it always got Dick to open up, excitedly pouring out little technique difficulties, or the parts he found the hardest or the most fun with full five-year-old enthusiasm he couldn’t contain. Slade would prompt him to show off whatever he had been talking about, and then he’d ruffle his hair and offer to teach him something in turn.

Dick had dreaded the offer the first time Slade had guided him over to his side of the training room, half-expecting the mercenary to put a gun straight in his hands. Instead, he’d been slowly walking Dick through proper hand positions to form a proper fist or various open hand strikes and foot positions to kick with the instep, ball, heel, or blade of the foot. Dick had to remember to make novice mistakes and threw in some exaggerated balance over corrections—just to not seem too knowledgeable. And Slade continued to surprise him, catching him before he fell and firmly but slowly correcting mistakes with a patience Dick never would have guessed the man was capable of. Though the perfectionism he expected of the world’s greatest mercenary did peak through in the way Slade would keep the both of them working until Dick reached a level of accuracy he found satisfactory and suddenly Dick would find himself swept up over a sweaty shoulder and carried off for dinner.

If things didn't change soon, if Slade intended to actually keep him confined to this cabin as winter approached, Dick would have to do something drastic. 

But until then maybe it was ok that each night when he got tucked into bed with Elinore he found himself sinking into it a little bit easier.

Chapter Text

“Slade. This isn’t sustainable.”

The mercenary ignored Wintergreen as he continued loading his car for the trip. Wintergreen’s car was already packed full of fresh groceries, and Dick was currently fast asleep already buckled into his carseat in Slade’s. His mentor, friend, and aide had been enthusiastic when Slade alerted him that he was taking in a child who needed a home. Wintergreen was far less enthusiastic when he realized who the child was.

Wintergreen continued to supply him everything he needed, but always with an accompanying expression of concern. That Slade elected to ignore.

Wintergreen first objected that Dick’s family would surely be looking for him.

On a ‘moral’ level, Slade felt no compunctions about keeping the boy away from Wayne. The man already had his chance, and he’d fucked up the kid with his vigilante bullshit and self-sacrificing dogma. On this go around Slade intended to teach the little bird to be more selfish. No more running into burning buildings to save strangers, or carrying the weight of other’s lives from his childhood. Slade would keep him safe, pushing and training him at home, not throwing him out onto the streets fighting loons. And then when Dick was grown, he could pursue his own wishes and find means to challenge himself, for his own edification, and not out of a shitty martyr-complex born sense of obligation. He would raise a hunter, not a martyr. Slade had no doubt he could provide the boy with a better life.

On a practical level, Slade was likewise confident the Bats wouldn’t be able to find them so easily. It only took about a week for the Bats to really start moving. It surprised Slade a bit, considering how entirely absent the Bat was the first time Dick was running around with the Titans back when he was a teenager. After countless other kids, it seems Bruce was finally clued into checking in on his first son.

Red Hood and Red Robin had made appearances in Blüdhaven, then returned to Gotham. Soon after Batman made an appearance with magic users in tow.

The Bat and Zatanna could waste their time chasing after Klarion, but they’d be shit out of luck if they tried to find Slade.

When he wanted to disappear, he knew how to do so. There was a reason Deathstroke the Terminator had survived and thrived for so long in his business. He could only be found when and how he choose to be. Disappearing was easy.

The issue was Dick didn’t want to disappear.

This had been Wintergreen’s next objection: the boy wanted to leave.

This of course Slade understood. The little bird wasn’t meant to be a homebody. Slade wasn’t going to be able to keep him tucked away in this mountain cabin forever. It was something the two shared in common—Slade and Dick were both built with too much potential and drive to sit idle. It was one of the things he’d always admired about the boy. Even at such a young age, he was so driven, pushing himself every day on his gym equipment, challenging himself with his acrobatics, and calculating escape routes and hiding spots. If Dick just used this drive for himself, instead of the useless crusade against the endless shit of the world, he’d be unstoppable. It was one of the things that infuriated him as he watched Dick waste it all in the Bat’s shadow. The little bird needed to be able to fly.

The ‘escape attempts’ had begun almost immediately after their arrival at the cabin. It was cute really, and Slade quite enjoyed the hide-and-seek. But this of course was another reason taking Dick anywhere was too great a risk. In any less controlled environment, or left under other supervision, Dick would almost certainly fly off.

Just the day before, while playing hide and seek, the child had managed to double back, by walking in his own footprints, and escape the woods back to the cabin where Dick then broke his way into the air vents. A feat that had certainly required forethought and planning based on the handmade tool he used to unscrew the grate, made by gutting a toy car. For anyone without Slade’s level of enhanced senses, it likely would have been near impossible to find the little acrobat in the walls. (For Slade though, it was still incredibly easy to follow the familiar rhythm of his child’s heartbeat and breath, then punch his way through the drywall and vents to pull the boy out giggling and kicking).

And to be fair, Slade was feeling stir-crazy in his own way as well. Even when he had his family and lived the life of a good and loving father and husband, it had never softened him really.

He needed the thrill of the hunt. The challenge. He was a hunter deep down. He could never be satisfied sitting at home every night—he needed to be challenged.

Sooner or later Slade would need to take a job. Not just for the money, but for the exercise.

And this was the reason for their trip. They couldn’t stay in this cabin forever, so now was the time to switch things up and move over to another of Slade’s many properties. A private island in the Pacific. The change of scenery and climate would do well to excite and distract the little bird, and the location was suitably isolated to eliminate any possible disappearing acts and no chance of being spotted by the public.

(That was another major difficulty—the boy had been a public figure basically his whole life, so even as a child, Dick’s face was easily recognizable in any public space. It would draw questions even from civilians. And then the real issue, the Bats. If his little bird was caught on any public camera, it would only be a matter of time before they would be on their trail.)

After getting the little bird settled, Slade intended to leave him in Wintergreen’s care for just a few days so he could take a quick job in Japan—his first in the month time since he’d taken in Dick.

“Slade.” Wintergreen sighed tersely. “Have you even considered how little we know of this magic?”

At this question, the mercenary paused, his grip on the suitcase he was loading tightening. Seeing the hesitation, Wintergreen continued. “We don’t know if it’s permanent. What if he simply reverts back to his natural age after a certain period? Is he currently aging normally from this point on? Or what if the curse does not allow him to grow, and he’s rather frozen in time? You can’t build up the plans for the future without an understanding of what’s afflicting him.”

“Having a better childhood isn’t an affliction,” Slade growled, resuming his work loading the car. But the point was valid. He hadn’t actually considered the details of the magic involved. He generally avoided magic as a rule, and in this instance, when he encountered Dick maybe he did rush to see the conclusion he wanted. Sloppy. Operating based on optimistic assumptions would eventually get one killed in the field. It wasn’t how Slade operated.

But for some reason, when he saw the little bird, he only saw what he wanted to see. The chance to raise a child again. To do better. By himself and by Dick.

But he hadn’t appraised the actual reality of the situation and all the unknowns.

Slamming the trunk shut he paused for only a moment, peering through the back window to see the little tuft of black hair peeking over the edge of the car seat. “Everything will proceed as planned for now.” He grumbled, not looking at his friend but feeling his judgmental gaze on his back. “The vacation. The job. But I’ll take the magical issue into consideration.”

There weren’t many magic users Slade could even consider reaching out to. They were all either entirely chaotic and untrustworthy like Klarion—forces of madness Slade was not about to willingly approach and expose his business to—Or if they were even partially rational they had surely allied with the capes at some point. Even if the few Slade had on occasion worked with that rode a more morally grey line than the Bats would normally accept, like Constantine, were certainly more likely to snatch Dick away and bring him back to the Bats than answer the question and let Slade continue on his way.

He slipped into the driver's seat and watched as Wintergreen made his way to his own car, to depart down the mountains to the small airport where Slade stored one of his jets.

He adjusted his rearview mirror to see Dick, head lolling down against his shoulder as he slept.

Slade had plenty of contacts. He'd find a magic user. He'd get his answers.

He turned in his seat, reaching back to gently shift the boy's head back into a safer and more comfortable position.

But first things first, he was going to get his little bird to their next home.

Chapter Text

Tim wasn’t stumped. He wasn’t—

He could find them.

This was his specialty. He would find them.

But it turns out, Deathstroke was very good at covering his tracks. Even after a week of searching Tim still couldn’t find the mercenary's off-shore accounts—or his safehouses. Which was fucking insane, and pissing Tim off.

Bruce had brought in Zatanna to investigate whatever Klarion had been up to, and she and Constantine were taking over on that front. The magic users had confronted the slippery witch a few times since, but all that they’d managed to weasel out of Klarion about Nightwing was an off-handed shrug and laugh that he didn’t know where the baby bird had flown off to. No hints on whether he had worked with Slade, or where they could be, or even the effects of whatever magic had been used. All they had was the stammered second-hand retelling from some Blüdhaven goon and seconds of grainy footage of a crying child version of their big brother. Zatanna assured them that she was confident that whatever the original spell, she would be able to restore Dick to his natural state. But still, the lack of information gnawed at Tim.

Meanwhile, Tim had been glued in front of his computers in his room in the Manor, trusting Stephanie, Cass, and Damian to cover most patrols. Jason had dug into his underworld contacts (well, the few he had left now that it was widely known he ran with the Bats), but had hit pretty hard dead ends. Normally requests and contracts filtered their way up to the mercenary through a rotating chain of contacts and burner phones that vetted the client and made finding the end of the string nearly impossible. And to top it all off, all these requests were being met with declines. Deathstroke was already difficult to contact when he was taking contracts, but since Dick’s disappearance, he’d gone completely silent. Typically, Deathstroke moved from job to job nearly instantaneously, switching seamlessly between long-term and short-term gigs and even juggling multiple at once at times. This sudden silence was making tracking him even more difficult.

Tim didn’t notice his stomach growl, too focused on rewatching all the CCTV footage from Blüdhaven the night of the incident. Eyes strained at familiar grainy pixels of Blüdhaven streets, zooming in to identify every license plate entering and leaving the city.

“Knock Knock.” A familiar voice chimed and Tim jumped in his seat as his room was flooded with light from the hallway. He was forced to squint at the sudden change in lighting. He glanced in confusion at his open window to see the sun had set—he hadn’t noticed it had gotten so dark.

A blur of purple and blonde whirled in, snatching the coffee mug from his hand and replacing it with a water bottle and a bag of takeout.

“Steph!” He objected as she disappeared back out of the room with his mug.

“Someone’s got to keep you fed and watered.” She called out over her shoulder. “More caffeine after.”

With a sigh, he did crack open the water bottle and considered his dinner.

All Tim had found on Deathstroke so far were a couple of hunches: a couple of private airplanes across different continents with suspicious purchase and flight histories, a couple of weapons suppliers who saw spikes in sales right before major jobs Deathstroke had committed—but Tim couldn’t even be affirmatively 100% sure any of it was him. If the mercenary would just MOVE Tim would have more opportunities for a chance to catch security footage, a money trail, a loose-lipped client, or a slip-up somewhere along the way.

But if Deathstroke simply stayed still—Tim was beginning to worry if he would be good enough to save his brother.

“Earth to Tim.” He jolted as Stephanie reappeared with his refilled coffee mug.

“Oh, uh, thanks Steph.” He reached for the mug, but she held it out of his reach with a raised eyebrow.

“Jason said to make sure you finished the water first.”

With a groan, he turned back to the bottle he’d only taken a sip of, then started chugging.

“I don’t think that’s what Jay had in mind, but I’ll take it.” Steph held out the mug and took his empty plastic bottle in exchange.

“Look I’m hydrated, and now I can get caffeinated and find Dick.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder. “I know you will,” Steph said softly with confidence that did something to Tim’s nerves. The confidence his family had in him.

The pressure. He couldn’t let them down. This was the value he brought to the family; this is what made him an asset.

The pride. They believed in him. The greatest detectives and heroes in the world said he could do it.

Tim gripped his coffee mug tighter. He had to find them.

This was his specialty. If he couldn’t do this much for his big brother—why was he even here?

“We’re heading out for patrol. If you’re not in bed when we get back, I’m not going to stop whatever Jason decides to do. He said something about locking you up in one of his safehouses, tying you to a bed, and cutting the wifi.”

Tim snorted at the threat. “I’m trembling.”

“Seriously, go to sleep.” Stephanie huffed, flicking his ear before turning to leave. “We don’t want Dick coming home to another zombie brother.”

Jason still tended to be a bit more... brutal... with the scum of Gotham than the rest of his family. He’d made his promises to not kill (or super horrifically maim), and he was genuinely dedicated to it in the sense that it kept the carefully balanced equilibrium of their family relatively stable. And he knew Damian was the same. He had been raised in violence but refrained for the sake of his love and respect for his father, and for Dick.

So, Jason was not expecting the crunch and the following gurgle as Robin crushed a drug trafficker’s windpipe.

“SHIT!”

Thankfully the scene seemed to scare off the rest of the goons Red Hood had been fighting, as the rest ran for their lives and Robin staggered back from the gurgling man in front of him.

“O, we need emergency medical stat. We got anyone who can do an emergency tracheostomy?” Jason called into the comms, hearing Barbara’s rapid typing on the other end. He knew how to in theory, but he really didn’t feel qualified to cut into this man’s throat. “Blackbat and Spoiler are just a block over, on their way.”

Just as she finished speaking, the pair arrived and Jason breathed a sigh of relief as Cass quickly got to work. Bless her steady assassin-trained hands.

“What the hell happened?” Stephanie asked, voice laden with concern as she looked at Jason.

“I don’t know. But I’m gonna find out.” He sighed in return, looking over at his trembling youngest brother. Damian had melded back against the alleyway walls, fists clenched in his cape and eyes hollow.

Steph looked between the two boys and then nodded, “I’ll take care of things on this front.” She thumbed over her shoulder in the direction the other goons had run. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

“Yeah,” Jason grumbled trudging over to stand beside the smaller boy against the wall and taking a deep breath trying to channel all the self-help books he’d been reading before delving into whatever this shit show was going to be. “Hey kiddo,” Jason cringed at himself. His normal ‘Demon’ or ‘Demon brat’ seemed like it would be a bad call right now. But ‘kiddo’ felt really weird. How did Dick do this kinda shit? Priority one: relocate before emergency services and cops got to the scene, ‘cause this was probably going to be quite the talk. “Do you think you can walk?”

“I’n NOT a child.” The kid hissed, the blank eyes from before replaced with petulant rage. Jason tried not to sigh in relief. Still not good. But a least this was more of what he typically saw from his youngest brother.

“Sure, kiddo.” He tried to put a hand on his shoulder, to guide him out of the alley but Robin knocked his hand aside violently before pulling his grapple and taking off.

“Well, shit.” Jason huffed, chasing after him.

Luckily, (and heartbreakingly), catching the tiny assassin was unusually easy given his emotional state. Sloppy landings, uncoordinated reactions, and poorly planned attacks made it all too easy. Damian only made it over two rooftops before Jason managed to catch up to the Robin on the run and get the feral kid pinned. Jason wrapped one arm around the kid’s front, catching both hands and pulling Damian’s back to his chest. Damian’s feet were kicking violently in the air until Jason sat down heavily, depriving his dangerous legs of any targets and trapping the kid in his lap.

“Look, Dami, I’m not going to give you some lecture on morality or any of Bruce’s shit but—”

“I—I know you’re hiding something from me.” Damian’s voice uncharacteristically wobbled, for once sounding like the child he was, which caught Jason off-guard, along with the change in conversation.

“Huh?”
“You’re all—Father—Everyone—” The ever-eloquent assassin child stumbled, the clenched fists Jason held pinned were shaking and green eyes starting to well with tears. “S-something has happened to Richard.” Jason sighed. Cursing Bruce and his secrets. Cursing himself for going along with it. Using his free hand, he slid off his helmet and Damian continued. “H-he hasn’t been responding. Father says he’s working on his own mission. But—but he always responds. Father is clearly off-kilter. He’s searching. Drake is being even more... Drake than usual. Richard—he’s—he’s—”

“Kid,” Jason released his grip on his brother’s wrists, instead opting for an actual hug. He turned the shaking boy in his lap as the kid struggled fiercely against the tears threatening to spill over his domino mask, and tucked him under his chin. It turned his stomach. He’d never seen the Demon Brat this vulnerable. Dick always said he was just a kid, but all Jason ever got out of Damian was snark, bravado, and death threats. But seeing him now, struggling to hold himself together in the face of the fear and uncertainty of his big brother’s disappearance and the secrecy and isolation he was receiving, Jason just saw a scared kid. “Yeah. We’re looking for him now.”

Damian’s breathing hiccupped in a strangled sound that broke Jason’s heart as the boy almost collapsed against his shoulder, hands moving to grip the edge of Jason’s jacket. “I-Is he--?”

“He’s alive. We’re confident about that at least.” Jason assured him, hesitantly rubbing the demon brat’s back. Bruce probably still wouldn’t want Jason to spill all the details, but Jason was sick of his secrecy. Like so much of his well-intentioned bullshit, it was just making things worse. As many of his self-help books reiterated, even when truths are difficult, they provide a better basis for the healing process than uncertainty. “He was de-aged to about five or six years old. Something magical. Should be easily reversible. Only problem is Deathstroke took him.” He confessed. “We’ve been trying to track his whereabouts, but haven’t managed to find them yet. Given their, uh, history, we’re pretty sure Deathstroke’s not going to kill him. He’s probably trying to raise a mini-merc.”

Damian nodded along with this information, face dour but shaky breaths evening out. “C-certainly. Wilson values talent.”

“And our Golden Boy has plenty of that.” Jason agreed, feeling better seeing the way Damian was already composing himself as he processed the facts of the situation. “No immediate danger, but we are all worried. We’re going to get him back.”

“Why didn’t Father—why didn’t anyone tell me.” Damian growled, but with his reddened eyes and cheeks it really looked more like a pout.

“Well, for one, we all underestimated how long it would take to find the fucker. Bruce seemed to think we’d find them and have Dickiebird back before you even knew to ask where he was.” Jason continued with frank honesty in his answer. “And, for some reason I can’t possibly imagine, B thinks if you find out your Batman is missing, you’re going to run off without back up.”

“Well, as—,” Damian’s already reddened face blushed further, and that scowl Jason now saw a pout deepened. “As my Batman, it’s my job as his Robin to find him.”

Jason rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair at the same time. “What is it with you and Timbit and that Robins are supposed to ‘take care of Batman’ shit. You’re children. Batman’s a grown ass man—” He paused. “Well, I guess Dick’s not right now.”

Jason couldn’t help but imagine an itty-bitty Batman-Dick and tween Robin-Damian. A tiny, cartwheeling, quipping cowled bat and a (comparatively) looming red-and-green-and-yellow menace with a katana and a murderous scowl.

Shit. That’s actually super cute.

While he was distracted Damian popped up, nearly headbutting Jason as he suddenly jumped to his feet. “Woah there!”

“Well, hurry up Todd. We need to get back to the Cave so I can find Richard since you all clearly can’t manage without me.” Damian declared with a resolution that didn’t quite match the way he was still fiercely rubbing at his eyes.

Before Jason could quip back, a familiar cowled shadow loomed over them both.

“What happened down there?”

Damian froze, the color draining from his face once again and Jason sighed, both implicitly knew what would happen next. Robin had nearly killed a man tonight: he would be benched. And even though Damian now knew about the hunt for Dick, Robin wouldn’t be allowed to work the case when he was so clearly ‘compromised.’

“There was nearly a fatality tonight. What happened?” Batman grit out, patience clearly thin though he was doing his best to actually ask questions rather than jump to accusations. Baby steps Jason could appreciate.

Hopefully, that patience would hold. Jason rose to his feet slowly, grabbing his helmet, slipping it back on, and letting the mechanical voice modulate his tone. “My bad, B. Been stressed since—you know.” He kept his back to the Bat, not wanting to watch the microchanges in his scowl and panic over interpreting them. Instead, he kept Damian in his peripheral vision, watching the kid look back at him in shock. “Didn’t mean to. Wasn’t trying to break your precious rule old man.”

After a moment of tense silence Jason was surprised by a hand on his shoulder, rather than a screaming match. “It’s a good thing you had help on hand.” Jason looked over his shoulder in shock, unable to read the complicated expression under the cowl (Dick was always so much better at it than he ever was). “Head in. Make sure Red Robin gets to sleep to.” Bruce grumbled.

Shit. This was the nicest way B has ever benched anyone. 

And as if it couldn't get any crazier.

"We're all stressed. So it's all the more important you pace yourself." Bruce grumbled awkwardly. "Nightwing wouldn't want you or Red Robin to be... operating as you currently are."

Normally Jason would chafe even at this weirdly-diplomatically-delivered command, but he actually did want to check on Tim. And he totally wasn't blushing to be on the receiving end of such awkward fatherly concern. He wasn't doing it because Bruce was worried about him. Because obviously, he's not. He's just going to check on Tim. “Fine.” He huffed, shrugging off Bruce’s, and roughly ruffling Damian’s hair in passing (taking advantage of the kid’s uncharacteristically distracted state). “Oh, by the way. I spilled the beans to Robin, so have fun explaining our current progress. He’s got some opinions. See ya.”

Just after midnight, eastern time, Tim was alerted one of the planes on his watch list was moving.

It was a personal jet, kept at a small private airport in Alberta in hangar seven. The only connection Tim truly had between it and Slade was that the plane was suddenly purchased the same week as a newsworthy Deathstroke hit in Edmonton a few years ago. The plane was purchased shortly before the deed, and flew out of Alberta for the first time shortly after. It had been purchased under the name of a man who had died in the 80s, and paid for in cash.

Truly, nothing about it could be connected to Deathstroke directly. It was at best a hunch based on circumstantial assumptions.

But still, Tim immediately alerted Oracle, and working together, and coordinating with Cyborg as well, they were able to set satellite eyes on the small plane as it set off towards the West.

With eyes on target, and assured they could track the plane throughout its flight, quickly Tim set about finding all local CCTV cameras from the originating airport—and was rewarded with grainy images of the entrance. All completely empty. No one entered or left the lobby in the last hour. Likewise, the camera outside hangar seven showed no movement—the large metal doors were closed and unmoving even to this moment. Yet, the plane that had been housed in hangar seven was now in the air and in the sights of their satellites. Hacking into the airport's flight records, there was no record of the plane taking off.

Someone had doctored the footage and the logs, and done so nearly immediately. Erasing any evidence of whoever had come and gone.

Tim smiled. Sometimes, the absence of information is just as telling.

Chapter Text

Slade hadn’t taken a vacation in a while. He usually found himself bored lazing around on his own, but that wasn’t a problem with Dick around.

The child was initially upset when he woke up in a new location. But a big bowl of cereal and the promise of tidepools to explore at the beach sufficiently distracted the boy.

The beach house on the private island backed straight up to the ocean, with a front deck built on the sand, and extending out into the ocean as a pier. Just beyond the pier lay a series of tidal pools that any child would be eager to explore. (Years ago Slade and Adeline would bring Grant and Joey here. They had both been so fascinated with watching and poking at the little fish and sea anemones). However, Dick hadn't made it to the pools yet. He spent the morning digging, building castles, cartwheeling in the sand in front of the house first, and enthusiastically bringing shells back to Slade where he and Wintergreen sat reclined in lounge chairs on the deck. After hours of this play Dick finally petered out, and now the boy was passed out asleep on Slade’s chest. The mercenary ran a hand through familiar black locks—locks that now that Slade was paying attention, hadn’t grown in at all over the past few weeks.

Careful not to disturb the dozing child on his chest, Slade pulled a towel over him to shield the boy from the sun. “Have you managed to contact Faust?”

“Not yet. These magic users are quite... elusive.” Wintergreen sighed into his drink, thumbing through the pile of shells on the table between them. The frustration with their business passed quickly though as he smiled at a perfect sand dollar Dick had brought them.

Slade didn’t press his friend on the matter. The other man deserved to enjoy this as a vacation too, after all that he’d done for Slade over the years. Dick could stand to be frozen in time for a few more days. And then he would have the magic-user amend the spell.

He just needed to check for any potential magical complications with whatever had been cast on the boy and restore Dick's ability to age at a natural rate.

Slade had never really considered relying on magic before. He of course couldn’t practice it, and had no desire to learn—he lived for the thrill of the hunt and physical challenge, magic seemed antithetical to that. And Slade had no desire to rely on a magic user, or anyone else, to do things for him. All his achievements were of his own making. But in this instance, he needed to. Fixing this was beyond Slade’s power.

And now that he was going so far as contacting a magic user, it was giving him some ideas.

Rose.

Slade had missed out on her childhood the first time around.

Visions of five-year-old Dick holding a little Rose’s hands as she learned to walk danced through his mind. The two of them pattering around the house. Dick trying to teach her little gymnastics games. She already saw him as an older brother and mentor, Slade could make it so they really were siblings. Besides, DIck loved being a big brother, it’d be good for them both. It would distract Dick from his escape attempts as well if he was mother henning a toddler the way he used to fuss over all the subsequent Robins.

As if sensing Slade’s thoughts about him, Dick stirred.

“That wasn’t much of a nap.” Slade criticized lightly as the young boy blearily wiggled out from under the towel.

“You said we’d go to the tide pools.” Dick huffed, fighting his way awake in childish determination.

“They’re not going anywhere kid, you can see them tomorrow. Bath, then dinner.”

“But Slade!”

Before Slade could shut down his whining, Wintergreen nudged him with his own half-full glass. “You still have a drink to finish, let the boy have his fun a little longer.” The older man smiled indulgently at the boy.

Dick beamed at Wintergreen, then turned expectantly back to Slade. While the Terminator wasn’t one for negotiations, he honestly couldn’t say he minded this compromise. He waved a dismissive hand and Dick bolted. Picking up his glass, he found it now filled to the brim and Wintergreen looking particularly satisfied as he topped up his own drink as well.

Slade reclined with his drink, eyes closed, relaxing in the sun. The peaceful breeze, crashing of the waves, and pattering splashes of little feet as Dick climbed around the tidepools.

Breathing in and out the salty air—

“Ah!”

A cry, elevated heart rate, the slight hint of the scent of blood.

Slade had Dick in his arms in moments.

The little boy immediately started wriggling, trying to escape. “I’m fine!” He whined, but Slade ignored his protests, inspecting for injury.

There was just a minor pinprick of blood on one index finger. Looking down he spotted the culprit, a shuffling little crab scurrying between the pools. He lifted his foot to crush the annoyance, but now Dick screamed. In stark contrast to the tiny yelp the boy gave with the thing pinched him, the boy wailed at its potential demise.

“NO! NOOOOO! DON’T HURT IT!”

Rolling his eyes, the Terminator considered still crushing the crab. An early lesson on the importance of retribution. Payback slights ten-fold, and you’ll never be slighted.

Other lives should never be valued as highly as one’s own.

Slade had no intention of allowing Dick to grow up with the Bat’s shitty martyrdom fixation and obsession with the moral value of human life.

But it had been an otherwise lovely day, and a crushed crab doesn’t come anywhere near conveying any of those important lessons. It would just mean a crying child and Slade getting the silent treatment through dinner.

“Look here,” He gripped the boy's chin and turned his face up. “You are worth more than a crab. Its life has no value. I will not tolerate the existence of any threats to your well-being, but for today, the crab may live.”

He placed the boy back down in the sand, expecting the little bird to resume his play. But to his surprise, Dick instead looked back up at him with a confused expression that morphed into an angry pout. “But even if something hurts me, that doesn’t mean you can hurt it back. I don’t want—I don’t want anyone to get hurt. You’re really strong, and... and you should use that to protect people.” He crossed his little arms and tilted his head up to look Slade in the eye with all the authority his tiny form could muster. “Don’t hurt anyone. Or I’ll—I—”

Before the boy could crystalize his threat, Slade snatched him right back up, dangling him upside down by the ankles before tossing him off the pier into the ocean, in a fit of shrieking giggles. His little moral tantrum was instantly forgotten as he came swimming back chanting “AGAIN! AGAIN!”

Slade wore the kid out like this, tossing him back into the water over and over as he squealed in delight until he received no whining when he carried the boy inside, and instead of protesting the boy contentedly tucked himself into his shoulder.

Bath and dinner were easy with Dick barely keeping his eyes open. At least until Slade stated it was bedtime.

“I’m not going to sleep.” Dick declared firmly as he helped Wintergreen clear the dishes.

Slade raised an eyebrow at the brazen statement. Dick never failed to entertain. “Oh, really?”

“If I go to sleep, you’re going to do something sneaky.”

Slade barked out a laugh, ruffling his hair. “You’re not wrong, kid.”

“Where are we going next?” Dick asked excitedly.

“You, are going to spend the day here with Wintergreen tomorrow. He can take you back to the tidepool.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed in confusion, clearly zeroing in on the avoidance of Slade’s location. “You’re not coming to the tidepools?”

“I’ll be at work for the day.” He pinched the boy’s cheek, just hard enough to make the kid fuss in protest. “I expect you’ll be better behaved for Wintergreen. No hide-and-seek. Now get to bed.”

“No.” Dick’s little voice warbled, he practically dropped the cup he had been carrying into the sink and running to latch onto Slade’s leg. “Don’t go.”

“Little Bird,” Slade pulled him up into his arms, and Dick instantly latched on with a furious grip. “I’ll be back in 48 hours.”

“No, don’t leave. Don’t leave me behind.” The voice warble was turning to full tears now, and Slade was genuinely surprised. He had anticipated leaving Dick would be difficult for logistical reasons, but he hadn’t anticipated such an emotional response from the boy. Of course, Adult Dick had plenty of abandonment issues that Slade had never hesitated to pry into back when he was tormenting the young hero in his Titans days. But Slade had understood those stemmed from events Young Dick wouldn’t remember like Haley’s Circus leaving him in Gotham, Bruce’s many failings and the numerous times he’d tried to fire Dick, and the lost friends over the years, and so on. He hadn’t expected such fear from the boy he was taking care of now.

“I’ll be coming right back to you, Little Bird,” Slade assured, carrying the sobbing boy to the training room. Despite being a vacation home, Slade of course made sure any place he stayed was properly supplied for a workout. And among these supplies, he quickly found an old analog timer, rubbing soothing circles on the sobbing child’s back as he babbled pleas for Slade to take him with him.

By the time Slade carried the boy back to his bed, those tears has slowed enough that Slade could nudge Dick’s face out from its hiding place in his shoulder. “Look here.” He held up the timer and made sure Dick’s water eyes watched as he set it for 48 hours and hit start. “Before this timer runs down, I will be back for you.” Dick took the watch tenderly, watching as the numbers already started ticking down, the seconds flying by. “I give you my word, as a professional.”

The child looked surprised and pacified, but only for a moment before he turned back to Slade. “Are you going to hurt someone?” Dick sniffled.

Slade raised his eyebrows at the strange question. But then again, Dick is a bright child, and he’s seen the way Slade trains. Although he hasn’t explicitly told Dick about his line of work, he has likely figured out that Slade’s lifestyle can be violent.

“No crabs will be crushed,” Slade answered honestly. No crabs. Just some mid-level yakuza.

Dick though was reassured by this promise, turning back to the stopwatch.

“Now go to sleep,” Slade commanded, tucking Dick back into his chest. “It will cut 8 hours off that time.”

Surprisingly Dick didn’t quip back, and obediently nuzzled in and closed his eyes, clutching the timer to his heart.

Once the boy was well and truly asleep, Slade slid out of the bed and made sure the kid was tucked in comfortably. He then synced his own watch to match the timer’s countdown. He’d take it as a challenge, internally setting his own goal of 40 hours.

With one final look at the boy bundled up with his old stopwatch, Slade placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Time to gear up.

Chapter Text

When Dick blinked awake in the middle of the night Slade was gone. Blearily rubbing his eyes, the first thing he did was find his manual stopwatch. 43 hours 38 minutes and 28 seconds left. He cuddled Elinore tighter.

Dick has been a vigilante for over a decade. He’s been, captured, tortured, diced through hours of battle and training, and still come out standing.

But being a five-year-old was proving to be the most exhausting experience of his life.

All it took was one short ‘business trip’ from Slade and Dick was melting down.

He should be upset that Slade was taking a job because it likely meant someone would be hurt. Even if the job wasn’t an assassination, whether it was infiltration or some short-term bodyguard deal, Dick should still be trying to stop him because Slade was a dangerous criminal. But really, the only reason Dick wanted him to stay, was because he didn’t want the man to leave him.

Slade had been... a surprisingly decent guardian?

More than just enjoying this vacation from all his other responsibilities, Dick was genuinely surprised by how close he felt he’d grown to Slade.

He’d thought he knew the man after years of conflict. From Robin to Nightwing, Dick had fought Slade for years and even trained with him. He knew his moves. Dick understood the way Slade fought—brutal power in hand-to-hand dominating the flow of the fight, direct physical attacks paired with psychological torment. He knew the way the man could twist words to shatter minds, finding hidden weaknesses, then pouring out poisonous words to target them. Slade was a man Dick knew was motivated by the promise of a challenge, money, or honor.

And a man who had failed all three of his kids.

Although Dick had not known Grant well, Joey had been a dear friend, and Rose was like another younger sister.

Dick had known Slade was a father. But he’d never really imagined Slade being a father.

But after being fathered by him for over a month, Dick had seen sides of the mercenary he’d never imagined existed. Joey had confided in Dick about some of his happier childhood memories—things he could barely remember but held onto dearly. But even Joey had understood the man in his memories wasn’t the Terminator they fought. And Rose, of course, had no reference of a domestic Slade.

Maybe Slade had been a loving, doting father once many years ago, but Dick would have assumed that man was long gone.

But every day Dick was here, he was proved wrong.

From indulgent hair ruffles to training, Slade was pampering him.

At least by Deathstroke standards.

Slade did run the house on a regimented, military-like schedule and required Dick to make his bed and do little chores at high standards, he did so with a surprising amount of patience (Because it must take a lot of patience to watch a child remake their bed five times before deeming it acceptable) and a SHOCKING amount of positive affirmation. Every well-done chore, flip, or new sparring technique received a gruff “Well done, kid,” or “Very good, Little Bird,” and a pat on the head.

Things reminiscent of warm smiles, back pats, “Wonderful, Chum.” It had been so many years.

Dick had to get home.

Even if... Even if things were nice here. Even if it meant no more easy morning breakfasts, no more easy cuddles, and no more being picked up and tossed high in the air...

All that Dick was enjoying was coming at a cost. A cost to the rest of his family. They had to know he was missing by now, and a family of paranoid and well-trained vigilantes did not handle disappearances well. Just the thought of his little brothers or Alfred losing a single wink of sleep over him made Dick sick with guilt.

Taking a deep breath, the little vigilante sat up. He'd enjoyed this long enough. Squeezing Elinore tighter for strength, he looked at the stopwatch. This was an opportunity. This was the first time Slade and all his super-human powers weren't looming over any escape attempts. And he even had clear notice of when the mercenary would return. This was his best chance--or at least it would be if they weren't literally on an island.

If... if Dick really couldn't do anything... it wouldn't be so bad when the timer counted all the way down. Slade would be back, and they could go to the tide pools together. He'd found a chest filled with old toys, and there were heaps of bubble supplies, a jug of bubble juice, and dozens of different bubble wands in various shapes and sizes. Slade would definitely find a way to make a training exercise game with those. Reaction time and hand-eye coordination to pop bubbles on the beach, it would be fun

But the whole time... His family, his Bat and birds must be worrying.

Slipping out of bed, Dick quietly crept out of his room and down the hallway towards the kitchen with Elinore under one arm and the watch hung around his neck. Normally he wouldn't bother with something so direct, but without Slade's enhanced senses in the building, it went perfectly. Wintergreen didn't stir as he tip-toed past his room. When he got to the kitchen Dick took his time exploring, considering possible tools he might be able to use. He was disassembling a blender when he heard the flip of a latch. 

Not from Wintergreen's room down the hall.

But from the living room.

Slipping from the counter and into the shadows behind the fridge, Dick grabbed a knife from the block on his way to the floor. Elinore clutched to his chest with his left, and the knife poised and ready in his right. He crouched quietly, invisible with his size in the dark straining his ears to catch the slightest whispers of boots treading softly in the adjacent room. He tightened his grip on the weapon. If there was an intruder, that meant they must have some means of transportation to the island, which meant Dick now had the chance to hijack it.

He waited patiently. The intruder was taking their time it seemed, at least until Dick caught faint whispers-There was more than one. 

Shit. 

Dick held his breath as a hulking silhouette stepped through the doorway.

In a familiar red helmet.

"Jay?" Dick gasped, frozen in his hidden corner.

The helmet snapped towards him.

But before either could so much as move, Jason was sent flying through the kitchen window.

Dick blinked in shock as Wintergreen tore down the hall like a train and bodily sent the Red Hood straight through the dainty curtained windows over the sink. Sure Wintergreen was a sizable man, and Dick knew he had fought along Slade's side years ago, but still, he had not expected that.

Wintergreen spotted Dick immediately in his corner spot but turned back towards the living room as Red Robin stepped through the doorway next, bo staff in hand. "He doesn't know you." Wintergreen declared, pulling a knife from the same block and squaring up to face Tim. "Stand down. Frightening him will do you no good."

Tim scowled but didn't back down. Circling closer, Wintergreen rotated accordingly, but the moment his back was towards the sink Jason came rocketing back through it once again. And with that, the two were brawling in the broken glass on the floor.

Dick still blinked in shock at the madness unfurling before him, but before he could figure out what his next step should be, another figure came diving through the window, executing a roll Dick had personally trained him to perfect. And Dick found himself scooped up in his littlest brother's arms.

"I understand this comes as a shock Richard, but you are being rescued. You're welcome."

Chapter Text

Holding a de-aged Richard Grayson was a surreal experience.

Damian was trained to handle all forms of unexpected situations, but this was...

Richard was his eldest brother. His Batman. His...

He would never say it aloud, even under threat of death, but... a father figure.

And now, here he was tiny and helpless in his arms.

Well. Not completely helpless considering the knife in his hands.

The small hands gripped the handle, and maintained the tilt of the blade with a professional looking ease. Damian nodded approvingly. Even as a child, Richard was clearly naturally disposed to protect himself and others. That or Slade had been training him to be a mercenary over the last month.

That’s right. Focus.

“I understand Wilson has been holding you captive, but you are safe now. You do not remember, but we are your family.”

“Woah there, brat.” Todd interjected gruffly as he held Wintergreen in a grapple and Drake tied the man down. “Don’t overwhelm him.”

Damian looked down at the wide blue eyes blinking up at him in awe. Richard was looking up to him! He was Damian’s responsibility now. He was the big brother. His heart hammered at that thought for a moment, before he turned his attention back to Jason’s comment. Focus on the mission.

Damian shrugged. “Tt. Richard is not distressed. And explaining the situation truthfully is clearly the best solution.”

“I have brothers?” Richard asked enthusiastically, and Damian nodded proudly with a pleased huff. Even as a child Richard was quite observant.

Beaming, Richard looked away from him for the first time to look at his other big brothers, but the shining grin instantly dropped. “Hey! Don’t be mean to Mr. Wintergreen!”

Todd and Drake had managed to subdue, tie, and gag the old man. Took them long enough.

“Don’t worry little Big Bird.” Todd laughed, patting the old man on the back, and ignoring how their captive glared. With a bit of effort he lugged their hostage into the living room and dropped him at the couch. “He’s fine. Nice an comfy.”

“We’re more worried about you Dick.” Drake interjected, crossing back to Damian in the kitchen. “Deathstroke has had you captive for over a month. Are you o.k—Damian! Did you give him a knife?!” Drake snapped.

Damian quickly shuffled out of reach, keeping Richard and his knife out of Drake’s range as he tried to snatch the weapon away. “No. I did not. He came with the knife, and he’s holding it correctly so there’s no harm in him keeping it.”

“You can’t just give a kid a kitchen knife!” Todd declared firmly, joining in their huddle.

“Exactly.” Drake chimed.

“It’s not designed for a fight. If he actually stabbed someone with that, his hand would slip right up the handle into the blade. He needs something with a proper hilt.” And with that he pulled out a switch blade from a pocket to hold out in exchange.

“NO!” Drake was furious but Damian had to concede Jason had a point, and gently peeled the kitchen knife from Richard’s little fingers. As he and Todd exchanged blades, Drake, the cruel, scheming, snake snatched Richard from Damian’s arms during the moment of distraction.

“You two can not be trusted with a child.” Drake huffed.

Damian didn’t hesitate to dive in and try to snatch Richard back, and was met with Drake’s foot as the other struggled to fend him off. “Give him back!”

“Back off!”

“Aim for the back of his knees!” Todd helpfully chimed in.

“No, no, no!” Richard wailed, now distressed, and all three older boys instantly froze. Watery blue eyes and quivering lip. “Don’t fight!”

“Hey,” Todd slipped in, scooping Richard away from Drake and bouncing the boy on his hip. “No tears. Just brother’s roughhousing.”

Damian glared balefully as the duo. His rightful job of holding Richard snatched away. Obviously, he had the skills to take Richard back, but that would only upset his target.

Drake meanwhile repented, slipping in against Todd’s side and rubbing Richard’s back. “Sorry, Dick. We shouldn’t have fought in front of you.” Damian scoffed. That could hardly have been considered a fight. “This has probably been a really hard month for you. I can’t imagine what Slade has put you through, but you’re safe now.”

Richard however beamed. “I’ve had a great time!”

“What?” All three scoffed with varying degrees of disbelief.

The little boy nodded enthusiastically and held up the elephant in his hands. “Mr. Slade has been very nice! And he got me Elinore! But he doesn’t let me go anywhere.” The smile turned to a pout, but still, overall he seemed content with his position, much to his brother’s confusion. “I wanna go places. Are you going to take me somewhere?”

“Shit, Dick.” Todd laughed. “You really just want to get kidnapped?”

“Jason!” Drake snapped. “He’s five!”

“Shi—I mean shoot.”

Richard meanwhile giggled childishly, ducking his face behind Elinore the elephant. And Damian used the moment pulling the boy away from Todd with a huff. “Tt. Obviously, we're taking you somewhere. We’re taking you home.”

*BOOOOOM*

An explosion rocked the air, and the group instantly turned to the sound. Todd leaped through the broken window, to assess the situation. Damian held Richard tighter, and Tim readied himself to defend them.

But only silence followed the initial explosion.

Until Jason reentered moments later, this time through the front door. “The old man is gone.” He grimaced. “And there’s massive fucking plume of smoke coming from the direction of our plane so...”

Silence dragged between them one again before young Richard’s voice chimed.

“Shit.”

Chapter Text

From the moment Slade touched down, he got to work. For as much as this mission was a chance to hunt and keep his skills sharp, he was on a time schedule.

He’d initially planned on waiting in the yakuza enforcer’s home, with his own katana ready for a true battle between swordsmen. (His target was well known for his personal collection of famous blades, and his penchant for using them on those who wronged him). A nice workout.

But now instead Slade set up a sniper’s nest on the rooftop opposite his target’s office. Quick, clean, simple.

The Terminator lay ready with his sniper rifle aimed for the building, watching his target through the scope as the yakuza enforcer paced angrily around his office.

Slade scowled as he suddenly noticed a presence approaching, far later than his enhanced senses would usually catch.

“Where is he?”

Slade didn’t bother looking up from his scope. “My target? Across the street. Why don’t you run on over there and help him.”

The Batman was unamused. “Where is Nightwing?” He growled.

“How should I know? Probably off do-gooding like you trained him to.” Slade clipped back, keeping his voice neutral. But maintaining indifference was difficult when the image of the Little Bird playing at home with Wintergreen, not running around on Batman’s pointless crusade, danced through his mind. He couldn’t help the lazy smirk on his face. “I’m just here to do my job.”

The Batman struck out with a kick aimed at the rifle, but Slade quickly dodged away with a roll, jumping to his feet and striking back with the butt of the gun, narrowly missing as the vigilante side-stepped back.

Slade may be older than Bruce, but the other man was unenhanced. He was aging, passing his prime. And Slade wouldn’t hesitate to remind him of that. He smirked as stillness returned—both men standing just out of each other’s reach. “I hope you’re not under the impression you can stop me?” From this assassination, or from keeping the little birdie.

He didn’t sense the next attack until it was practically on him.

The sharp burn of a blade cut through his calf, barely missing its intended target, his Achilles tendon, as Slade just managed to switch his weight to the other foot and swing with the rifle at an unexpected assailant behind him.

A faceless batcowl greeted him—Cain.

Figures, not many could sneak up on the mercenary. Seems Batman wasn’t quite so arrogant as to challenge Slade alone.

A fight with these two combined would be an excellent challenge—but it would drag on and Slade simply didn’t have the time.

But he could indulge for a moment. They might be enough to give him a hard fight, but they weren’t enough to keep him here. Without any more banter, he lunged for the girl.

And so he indulged. Relishing in the combat, alternating between raining attacks on one Bat, before being forced to defend as the other tore into him.

It was as he held the Bat pinned, with the Black Bat wrapped around his neck, choking him, that Slade’s enhanced hearing easily picked up the message transmitting through their comms.

“So, uh, update—We’ve got Dickie but lost the batplane. We need extraction.”

Priorities flipped immediately.

Slade needed to get back.

He released the Big Bat and tried to toss the Smaller one. But even as he did so, Batman called into his comms. “Titans—”

Before he even finished the rush of wind that portends the arrival of a speedster drew Slade’s attention away from Cain and the Bat who were hastily retreating.

West was quickly followed by the rest of the not-so-Teen Titans; Raven, Troy, a green falcon, and the Tamarian with Harper in tow.

“Long time no see.” West quipped, but Slade paid it no mind—his focus was solely on the retreating Bats. Every second wasted here was a second they gain getting to his kid. He didn’t bother acknowledging the new arrivals. Instead, he moved to leap from the roof but was intercepted by an arrow he easily caught and threw aside.

“I’m not interested in a reunion—” Slade started before getting blasted with the flaming heat of Tamarian fire.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Tim and Damian continued to passive-aggressively battle each other to hold Dick as Jason wrapped up sending out the update on their status.

“Ok, we’ve got two Bats on the way,” Jason announced, running a tired hand through his hair, before turning back to the bickering duo and child. Shit, he really didn’t appreciate having to be the adult in the room. “Will you two knock it off?” The duo froze, Tim holding Dick’s hands and Damian his feet, leaving the child suspended between them, giggling as if them playing tug-of-war with his limbs was a fun game and not deeply concerning.

“Look, put him down. He probably has a lot of questions about what’s happening.” Jason scolded before turning his attention to the dangling baby. “My name is Jason, and these idiots are Tim and Damian. I want to be clear we’re not kidnapping you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dick replied easily, still content with his position hanging between Tim and Damian. “You said you’re my brothers.”

Jason could only stare back at the strange scene in confusion. “And you don’t have any other questions?”

Dick seemed to ponder for a moment, letting his head hand upside down before simply chiming. “No.”

“Ok, well.” Seeing the easiest way to handle the situation, Jason pivoted toward the bedrooms. “It’s past your bedtime, we should put you back to bed.”

“NOooOoooO!” Dick whined, kicking his little feet and thus causing Damian to drop them, leaving him dangling by the arms from Tim’s hands. He then turned watery blue eyes up at Red Robin. “I don’t wanna go to bed. Can’t I stay up?”

“It’s going to take the old man hours to get here still, even in the jet.” Jason rolled his eyes at the pouting. Tim was obviously melting for it—and the teen dumbass probably couldn’t in good conscience tell Dick to go to sleep when usually it was the other way around. “Tim. No.”

“I want to go to the tide pools!” Dick announced puppy-dog eyes in full force. “Mr. Slade promised he’d take me and I’m not leaving without going.”

Tim turned his best imitation of Dick’s puppy-dog eyes Jason’s way and Damian crossed his arms definitively. “Well, then we must go if it is required to get Richard off of this island.”

Under the weight of two sets of puppy-dog eyes and a determined Damian, Jason cracked. “Fine.”

And although he had initially been reluctant, as he stood knee-deep in the tidal pools under the stars, watching a young Dick poke carefully at sea anemones with Damian and Tim gather an ever-increasing wealth of sea shells—he was happy. Jason had left his combat boot on the deck and stood barefoot with pants rolled up in the shallow water. His brothers were likewise wading in the waters, staying mostly dry (although he could see the rolled edges of Dick's blue flannel pajamas were darkening with seawater at his knees.) He couldn’t remember the last time any of them had such a peaceful moment. Not planning a mission. Not investigating a case. Not bickering or fighting. Completely dependent on someone else to pick them up, and having no escape options. Just being together, at peace. Maybe Deathstroke was on to something with the island getaway. With no means of escape and no one else to disturb you, being trapped at a beach house certainly forces you to relax. (Well, no one except Wintergreen, wherever the old man is hiding and waiting for Slade’s return).

“OH! OH! LOOK JAY!” Dick squealed and Jason snapped back to the present.  “What is it Big Bird?”

Dick pointed excitedly at a tiny black fish with a distinctive white stripe running around its middle. “It’s cute! It looks like you!”

Jason certainly did not blush at the strange compliment.  Yeah, maybe they all deserved a good island vacation—a nice intentional one with no magical curses. An opportunity to be together without the stresses and demands of their vigilante life.

“Nah,” Tim chimed in from further along the pools. “He looks more like this.” He pointed at a hideous lump of a sea cucumber and Damian nodded in agreement.

“Very astute observation Drake. It captures both his outward appearance and personality.”

Scratch that. The kids aren’t invited to Jason’s next island vacation.

He kicked up a splash of seawater, catching Tim completely off-guard. 

Damian laughed at Tim's predicament, but Jason was a fair older brother who dealt out just punishments. He rushed before the little assassin could react, scooped him up, and tossed him out of the tide pools and into the ocean.

And thus began the ocean battle. Well, at least it was a battle for Jason, Tim, and Damian. Dick mostly cheered and splashed and asked to be tossed too.

When they returned to the beach house, soaked to the bone Dick happily guided them to the bathrooms, pointing out along their way where the towels were stocked in the linen closet and the extra soap in the laundry room. They then split up among the bathrooms to take turns showering between the Jack-and-Jill near Dick's room and the master bathroom.

The shower was quick, but even for the short moments, Jason trespassed through the master bedroom, he couldn’t help noting how strangely domestic the whole place was. And how foreign it felt to walk through such an intimate space.

“I was expecting this to be some sort of villain lair, not a vacation house.” Jason mumbled as he returned kitchen where the rest of his brothers waited, eyes catching on a hanging portrait on the fridge of a strangely young-looking Slade Wilson with one little blonde boy on his shoulders and another on his hip.

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, looking at another picture of a beautiful beaming woman with one of the boys in her arms as they worked on a sandcastle. “It feels weirdly more intrusive than invading a base or a compound.”

Damian only sniffed in disdain. “If he didn’t want intruders, he shouldn’t have brought his hostage here.”

"I wasn't a hostage." Dick's voice was surprisingly small and somber. Freshly bathed the kid was dressed in a new fluffy set of polka dot pajamas and his new Elephant set in his lap, he fidgeted with the toy as he mumbled. "It was...I don't think he wanted anything in exchange. Just a family. It was nice."

Jason pondered that response for a moment. They had embarked on this rescue mission on the assumption Deathstroke would be training Dick in some brutal militaristic brainwashing kind of way. Finding that he'd instead been 'raising' Dick in a domestic vacation house with family pictures, fluffy pajamas, and toys really was a welcome surprise. Maybe Slade wasn't as big of a piece of shit as he thought--though he had still kidnapped his brother. "I'm happy you had a nice time Dick, and more than that we're all so happy you're safe." Jason began, kneeling beside the child and explaining. "But even if you had a nice time, Slade did take you away and hide you from your actual family."

Dick nodded sadly, his sweet little face conflicted as he admitted. "Yeah, Mr. Slade did say I couldn't leave."

Tim winced. "That's usually a sign of a kidnapping."

"We would play hide-and-seek, where I would try and run away and escape into the woods and Mr. Slade would hunt me down." Dick sighs fondly as if thinking of happy memories.

The older boys all exchanged concerned glances. "Ok, the more we talk the more concerning this gets."

And with that, they brushed aside the topic in favor of more child-friendly activities. There would be plenty of time to debrief when Dick was back to his regular age (assuming he remembered any of this).

An hour or so later Damian and Dick were seated at the kitchen table, papers splayed out in front of them, as the now older boy walked his de-aged brother through the process of drawing an elephant.

“B should be here in fifteen,” Jason announced, looking up from his communicator.

As if on instinct Dick stopped his scribbling and started packing away the colors. (Jason couldn't help but wonder if this was a new habit drilled in by Wilson--the big brother he knew was not nearly so orderly)

“Well, then I guess we better clean up.” Tim followed the child’s lead with a reluctant huff, looking around and spotting a broom leaning up against the cupboard.

All of this only prompted Damian to scrunch his nose in distaste. “Why should we clean up Wilson’s base?”

With an elaborate flourish, Tim mindlessly twirled the broom as if it were his Bo staff and Dick beamed in delight, clapping in applause. Tim was caught off guard by the acknowledgment, before turning it into some sort of game-and-show as he alternated between sweeps and twirls and Dick giggled in glee.

Meanwhile, Jason could practically see the petty gears turning in Damian’s head as he watched Dick applaud Tim’s impromptu show.

The youngest (well, normally youngest—second youngest today) stood sharply and stomped over to the knife block.

“Woah there Dames—”

"What are you gonna do?" Dick asked, actually sounding concerned for the first time that evening.

"I'm a master of throwing knives." Damian declared, twirling a paring knife, and looking for a target to show off.

“Yeah, well you were raised as an assassin, that's less a party trick and more—”

Damian puffed up indignantly, eyes briefly flashing with embarrassment and concern as he shot a nervous look little Dick’s way.

Jason immediately understood his youngest brother's fear that such a revelation would frighten the five-year-old and was about to throw in a more child-friendly explanation when Damian cut in, pointing an accusatory finger Jason's way. “And Todd was a crime lord! He’s killed people too”

Surprisingly, despite having virtually no reaction to the ‘assassin’ reveal, little Dickie gasped dramatically at the ‘crime lord’ line pointing a tiny finger his way. “Naughty! Don’t do naughty things anymore!”

"You wound me." Jason gasped in mock offense. "I've been living on the straight an' narrow for...hmm a couple of days at a time now."

Tim set his broom aside and scooped the child comfortably up onto his hip as he stage whispered to the boy. “And that’s why I’m your favorite. I don’t cause problems like these two.”

Jason rolled his eyes as he ushered his younger brothers out the door. “Don't let him fool you, Tim's the most unhinged of us all.” 

The group settled down on the deck, Damian managing to snatch Dick away from Tim, looking up at the stars as they caught the first glimmer of the Batplane among the stars in the sky.

Jason looked down at the boy in Damian's lap. It was difficult to tell in the dark but the child's eyes were wet. "Ready to go home Dickie?"

Slade emerged from a sewer in East Tokyo, battered, tired, and fucking furious. It had taken well over an hour simply to escape the Titans and even now they were surely hunting through the sewers or divining his location with the demon girl's magic. He'd surely lost any chance he had to catch the Bats before they reached his island. 

But that was ok. 

This wasn't over.

Because he knew exactly where they would go next.

Chapter Text

Dick tried to prepare himself as the Batplane approached. Batman was here to the rescue, and Dick couldn’t give anything away about his memories.

He’d come close with Jason, nearly saying his brother’s name, but thankfully the other seemed to dismiss the mistake. Batman’s paranoia wouldn’t miss any slip-ups like that. Dick had to be ready to treat him like a stranger.

And he really thought he could do it.

Until Bruce stepped off the plane.

Not Batman.

But Bruce, without the mask, stripped out of the top half of the batsuit to the plain black undershirt and carrying a well-loved and worn stuffed elephant in hand. And for a second Dick saw the man in his early twenties: a gentle smile painted on his face but eyes betraying both nervousness and uncertainty as Bruce stood outside the police station waiting to officially take in a grieving eight-year-old he was wholly unprepared for.

Not the Bat. But the man—the stupid, emotionally constipated man who gave him a home, family, and purpose when his whole world had all been ripped away.

And Dick broke down. Any ability to form a coherent thought, much less a sentence, was instantly lost as he reach out his arms in a childish and desperate plea that Bruce rushed to answer. He was instantly scooped out of Damian’s arms and tucked into Bruce’s and all Dick could do was wail and clutch to the older man.

A large, calloused, and oh-so-familiar hand gently wiped his cheeks, and Dick struggled not to dissolve again at the aching nostalgia. Of being held, protected, and treasured without the burden of years of resentments, disappointments, misunderstandings, and estrangement. Without the pressure to hold himself together, to be an adult, to be a hero, to be a leader. He could just lean into familiar arms and be held.

“Do you recognize me, chum?” Bruce asked softly, voice tinged with a tender mix of surprise and hope.

“No!” Dick shook his head vehemently, even amidst his emotional turmoil he held fast to his lie. Instead, he choked out, “B-but you—this—you feel right.” And that was the truth. He burrowed his face into his shoulder, buried in the familiar scent of sweat, Kevlar, oak, and Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, and being eight and being carried out of the Batmobile half-asleep after a long patrol. When the world was smaller and warmer. “I feel like—like I missed this so much and I don’t know—I don’t know how to say—”

“Shhhhh,” Bruce hushed gently. “It’s all right now, chum. We’re going to get you home and get you back to normal. It’ll all be better—"

“But, it won’t be better.” Dick choked out as the tears began to flow even more fiercely with the reality that he would soon have to face all the things he’d been able to avoid facing for the past month. “When I'm grown up I'm- What if— What if who I am grown up...”

Is a disappointment? Is a failure? Lets down his family and friends?

It was selfish and childish but it was all he could think of. Wouldn’t everything be better to just stay like this? To be a Little Bird forever? No responsibilities, no expectations, no way to disappoint anyone. Just, to be safe and loved in his father’s arms. Just him and Bruce, and his brothers and sisters, and Zitka and Elinore,

and Slade?

That was another whole can of worms. Everything he thought he’d known about Slade had fundamentally changed and he genuinely grieved the idea of Slade coming home to the empty beach house, the empty cabin—

It was silly to say it wasn’t fair when Slade had technically kidnapped him but, maybe a part of Dick wished he could have both? That everyone could get along together and come to a big family dinner?

That was a comical image: Bruce and Slade sitting at opposite sides of a long dining table with all their kids in between. It would just be a ticking time bomb.

He couldn’t live in both worlds—people would be hurt either way, and it’d be his own fault—

Dick was pulled out of that spiraling train of thought as Damian interjected with an offended scowl. “You want to know who you grow up to be? You’re Nightwing! You’re one of the world’s greatest fighters! A hero!” His youngest brother declared proudly. “The very idea that you could grow up to be anything less is ridiculous!”

Dick couldn’t help the blush that flushed his cheeks at Damian’s praise, but he still couldn’t be swayed by that praise alone. Sure, Dick had been trained by some of the best, but being a good fighter that still didn’t make up for all the people he knew he’d let down in his lifetime—

“And you have so many friends who are dying to see you!" Now Tim jumped in too. "The Titans, they’re your grown-up friends. They’re helping us right now.” Dick blinked back in shock at that announcement. As adults and busy heroes in their own rights, getting any of his former teammates together could be pretty difficult. “They helped us find you. They’ve been so worried since you disappeared. You lead them as a team, and so many others too. You’re a real leader and role model and—” Tim flushed a bit, glancing away. “And you inspire a lot of people. Including me.”

Now Dick was slack-jawed. Sure, he led teams, but that didn’t mean he did it well! “B-but what about my mistakes?" He insisted. "I-I I mean what if I mess up and people get hurt—”

“No!”

“You’d never—!”

Tim and Damian both attempted to deny it, but Jason cut them both off.

“Tone down the sappiness.” Jason scoffed, shoving Tim lightly before turning back to Dick. “Despite what these kids would have you believe, you’re not perfect. But hell, no one is.” And then a blush began to creep up his neck as well, his voice growing softer with a twinge of bashfulness. “But you come pretty close most the time, especially as a brother. So, uh yeah. You grow up pretty good.”

Dick’s brain was shutting down and tears were welling in his eyes as he looked between his brothers when his sister caught him off-guard with a gentle hand at the back of his head. Amidst the initial cacophony of Bruce’s appearance and his meltdown, Dick had somehow missed when she slipped out of the plane to join them. But now he couldn’t miss her tender smile as she simply said. “You are very loved.”

And as if the moment couldn’t be any more overwhelming, Bruce squeezed him tighter, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head as he murmured softly, “You grow up to be the greatest man I’ve ever had the honor of knowing.”

And then Dick was sobbing again—but this time from an overwhelming and awed feeling of being so deeply loved by his family and friends.

It was all too much. It had been an incredibly long day, from a full day of fun on the beach to melting down over Slade’s departure, and then a full night of fun playing with his brothers as well before now facing the most unprecedented assault of love from his family. He really couldn’t be blamed for blubbering himself to sleep in Bruce’s arms before they even reboarded the Batplane.

Dick blearily blinked awake hours later, still in Bruce’s arms. He was nestled into his chest, with Zitka in his arms as Bruce sat to the side letting Jason pilot the plane. With a considerable amount of effort, Dick managed to rub the sleep from his eyes and peer out the windows to see the familiar skyline of Gotham approaching.

“Good morning, chum.” Bruce greeted him softly, helping him sit up properly and helping him face the windows more comfortably. “We’re almost home.”

As the Batplane neared the hidden Batcave entrance, Dick perked up at the sight of a familiar jet waiting for them, hovering outside the secret doors. “The Titans?” Dick asked half in disbelief even though he knew the answer.

“Yes!” Tim chimed, “Those are the friends I told you about!”

“And I didn’t invite them to the cave,” Bruce muttered gruffly.

“Come on, old man.” Jason scoffed. “You couldn’t seriously expect them to settle for a post-mission debrief without seeing the baby.”

Bruce still grumbled but with the familiar click of a few codes the cave entrance slowly opened and the Batplane flew in with the T-jet following close behind.

As soon as they touched down on the landing pad Dick was practically trying to launch himself out of Bruce’s lap to run for the door—he still couldn’t really believe some of his friends had come! It was usually pretty difficult for them all to get together, so he was excited to see who had come! The very thought that a couple of his friends had the time to help had him bouncing in excitement.

“Dick,” Bruce called trying to catch him as he dashed off, but the doors were already opening, and in a fraction of a second Dick was scooped up in a rush of Speedester-induced wind as Wally tore into the batplane.

“Oh, you’re precious!” Wally cooed in excitement, staring back at him in awe as he held Dick hoisted up under the armpits. Then, before Dick could even giggle he was whirled out of the plane and into the cave where he was shocked by all the familiar faces. "Behold! Our Robin!" Wally announced proudly

Kori, Donna, Roy, Raven, and Gar all stood at the base of the jet and Dick could only gape back in awe as some of his dearest friends, some of whom he hadn’t seen in months if not over a year, crowded around him.

“Oh Dick! You’re too cute!” Kori beamed, plucking him from Wally and cuddling him close which Dick automatically reciprocated, wrapping his arms around her neck.

He couldn’t help a couple of watery-eyed sniffles as he took in the fact that nearly their whole original team was here, from their earliest adventures to their first mission as the New Teen Titans. They must have dropped everything else in their busy lives just to assist in his rescue and—

“What are you waiting for?” Damian chimed in with a huff as he and the rest of the family disembarked the Batplane. “Where is Zatanna? We ought to correct Richard’s state immediately.”

“Aww come on, give them a minute.” Jason ruffled Damian’s hair much to the younger’s displeasure as he breezed past to join the Titans. “I’m sure they appreciate the chance to see little Dickie.”

“Yes,” Donna smiled warmly as Kori handed him over to her, and Dick happily wrapped his arms around her in turn. “After all, before he was your big brother, he was our little brother first.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead and Roy ruffled his hair and he almost cried with the sheer affection he felt for them all.

“Yeah, Robbie was the baby of the group when we first started.” Roy smirked and Dick couldn’t help smiling along with him as he was flooded with memories of running around on the simplest of missions with Roy, Garth, Donna, and Wally back in their middle school days.

A camera flash snapped as Gar smirked into his phone camera. “Cyborg is on duty at the Watchtower. He demanded pics.”

Raven smiled as well, looking over at the photo. “This is certainly a memory worth preserving.”

“Do we really need to turn him back?”

“Zatanna is upstairs with Alfred.” The whole group jumped as Stephanie whirled around from Bruce's chair at the Batcomputer. "But I'm certainly not in any rush." She smirked reaching out with expectant grabbing motions for her chance to hold him. Donna smiled and set Dick down on the floor (the first time his feet had touched the ground in hours honestly) and he darted over to hug her as well. Stephanie squeezed him close before tickling his sides, which instantly had him squealing and wiggling with laughter. 

This set the standard for the next half hour or so as everyone battled for turns hugging and tossing him around and taking a few pictures. As they headed upstairs Dick felt ready for what was to come, all his previous fears and concerns drowned out by the high of cuddles and laughter.

The manor was quiet as they emerged through the office. 

Nothing too surprising there, given the giant expanse of the building and the fact only Alfred and Zatanna should be home. So they moved towards the sitting room—

And Deathstroke was there.

Fully armored and masked, though with several notable burns and tears marring the suit, the Terminator stood between two chairs, on his left was Alfred, who was tied to an armchair, head hanging forward, and a dried trickle of blood down his face.

On his right Zatanna was likewise bound at the wrists and ankles but with the addition of a gag to prevent her from invoking magic.

And the ominous specter of armored orange and black hovered behind them, a blood-stained katana resting tensely at the magician's collar bone, pressing into the flesh nearly enough to pierce skin.

“Let’s keep this simple,” Deathstroke growled. “Hand over my kid.”

Chapter Text

The sitting room was momentarily frozen as some of the world’s strongest fighters and most powerful beings were forced to hold themselves back as Slade pressed his blade to their friend’s throat.

“Take Dick back to the cave,” Bruce commanded, shifting to hand Dick over to Damian who nodded seriously as he reached out to receive him, for once not arguing back about being sent to retreat.

Instead, it was Dick who objected. “NO!” he cried, using the moment as he was passed between his father and brother to twist out of their grasps and run into the center of the room—the center of the stand-off.

And then he froze. Unsure of what he could even do to stop the impending fight in his child-sized body. 

“Very good, Little Bird.” Slade adjusted his stance ever so slightly, closing the distance between them just by a few more inches and holding out his non-sword-wielding hand to reach towards him. “Just a little closer, and we’ll be going home.”

“Dick!”

“Don’t get any closer!”

“Rob!”

“Dick, get back here, quickly before—"

Both sides nearly surged forward, hands reaching for weapons.

“NO!” Dick wailed again, trying to hold out his hands as if to stop the impending violence. Looking at how tiny his hands were, how small he felt between all these powerful forces he loved on both sides, Dick was almost overwhelmed with how useless he felt to stop the people he cared about from hurting each other. And then tears were spilling again because that was just all he could seem to do in this little body. Instead of standing up to fight or protect either side, all he could do was drop his face into his little hands and cry. “Don’t hurt each other!”

Maybe if he wasn’t so overwhelmed Dick would have noticed all these powerful people dropping to their knees at his command.

Batman was instantly on his knees reaching out for him on one side, and Slade likewise had dropped to one knee, dexterously flipping his grip on his blade to maintain its deadly point towards Zatana while holding it behind his back.

“Dick—”

“Little Bird—”

“Slade,” Dick interjected, turning his back on Bruce to focus on just one thing at a time while struggling to suppress his tears again. Why did this all have to be so hard? He had made his decision, he was ready to grow up. He just needed... he just needed to say goodbye. “T-thank you.” He stuttered out through hiccupping attempts to hold back his tears. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, I-I’ve had a lot of fun, but—"

“And it’s not over.” Deathstroke pulled off his mask, revealing his true face. Slade. The man Dick had spent the last months with. Who played with him, fed him, smiled at him, and held him close, and now he was looking at him with such earnest and fervent eyes that set Dick’s lip trembling treacherously again. “It doesn’t have to be over, Little Bird,” Slade assured him, voice soft and coaxing but firm just as it was when he insisted it was time to clean up and get ready for bed. “Just come over here, and I’ll set everything right. You’ll forget all this and—”

“But I don’t want to forget!” Dick cried.

It had honestly been tempting—the idea of starting over. To stay this small, to leave behind every regret and mistake he’d made before, every argument, every time he failed to save someone, every burden he’d carried so poorly, and to curl up safe in a guardian's arms.

But— there was so much he couldn’t give up. There were so many good times too. He didn’t want to leave behind those memories, he didn’t want to grow up without those experiences: growing up with the Titans and all the adventures they’d shared from late-night pizza runs to toppling criminal organizations, being a big brother for his siblings and watching them grow not just as vigilantes but at people, even the struggles of being Bruce’s first child came with too many precious memories—like bullying Bruce into things no responsible parent should have allowed like ice cream for dinner or fighting crime, or the first time he’d nervously offered him a gift on a Father’s Day (a cheap mug from a school sale. Dick had crossed out the “Dad” in “World’s Best Dad” and just written on “B” and Bruce had cried). He didn’t want to give up those memories and relationships simply because he had a few regrets and fears.

If the past few hours had taught him anything, it was that these memories and experiences weren’t only valued by him—but also by all of these people, his family, and friends who surrounded him. They had come together to bring him back because they loved the man he was. Even if the hard parts hurt, even if he had regrets about some things, Dick didn’t want to leave his life behind. He didn’t want to pretend he didn’t remember their relationships and histories. He didn’t want to start over, he wanted to appreciate what he already had with the people he loved.

And maybe, based on everything everyone had been saying, maybe some of those regrets, failures, and shames… well maybe they didn’t think so much about them as Dick did. Maybe his problems were a little bit smaller than he thought, and the love and support from his family and friends were a bit bigger than he’d realized.

“I don’t want to forget B. I don’t want to forget my family. I don’t want to forget my friends.” Dick sniffled. If he just returned to normal, he’d have it all, he’d have their pasts, their lives, their love—every relationship that mattered except...well...

Slade.

And suddenly the sniffles were sobs again. “But I don’t want to say goodbye to you too!”

Slade seemed taken aback by the outburst, and Dick took that as his cue to continue. “I loved playing hide-and-seek. I loved the songs you hum. I loved... I loved it all. I just want all of you to... to get along?" Dick knew that was too ridiculous to ask? Slade was a deadly mercenary, a clear enemy of his family and everything they worked for. Even just today, he'd invaded the manor and attacked Zatana and Alfred... “I want you all to stay! Slade I want you too- But—but –I.” Suddenly frustration was rising to the front of his conflicting emotions. “But I just told you! I just told you not to hurt people!” Dick stomped an angry foot at the thought of the last conversation he’d shared with Slade before the man had left on his mission barely 24 hours ago. Sure this wasn't the mission Slade had set out to work, but the same request not to hurt anyone should surely apply. “You said you wouldn’t hurt anyone!”

In an unspoken capitulation to Dick’s implicit demand, Slade gingerly lowered his blade, placing it on the floor at his side. “You’d been kidnapped, Little Bird—” Slade began to explain in a conciliatory tone but scoffs from behind them cut that off.

“You kidnapped him first, fucker!” Jason snapped and instantly Alfred pulled his head upright. “Language, Master Jason.”

“Alfred!” “Alfie!” “You’re ok!” There was a wave of relieved exclamations from everyone.

“No need to sound so surprised.” Alfred huffed and Slade rolled his eyes at well at the dramatic displays of relief.

“See, no permanent maiming. Your friends have survived much worse than this.” Slade assured him. “No crabs were crushed.”

“Still wasn’t very nice of you,” Dick grumbled, crossing his arms with a pout.

Slade cocked an eyebrow. “Well, your rescuers weren’t particularly nice to Wintergreen, now, were they?”

Tim snorted. “If we’re pointing fingers, he put Jason through a window first.”

“Let’s not talk about that.” Jason huffed.

Ignoring his brother's commentary, Dick plowed on. “I don’t want to choose between you.” He confessed, looking down at the plush carpet of the study, rather than the man he was speaking to. “I don’t want you to hurt each other. I just want—”

“Little Bird,” Slade reached out, using a finger to tilt his head back up before telling him plainly, but gently. “We’re not all going to get along. I’ve done a lot of ‘not very nice things.’ And that’s not going to change.”

And deep down, Dick had already known that would be the answer. Rather, the real question he dreaded was something else. Dick’s next words escaped as nothing more than a broken whisper. “Mr. Slade. When I grow up... Will you still... when I'm grown up again—will you still like me?”

“Little Bird.” Slade pulled Dick fully into his arms. The mercenary squeezed him tightly, almost uncomfortably so with his enhanced strength, and let out a bitter chuckle. “You’re not going to like me very much. I’m not a good man.”

“But you could be!” Dick insisted, burrowing deeper into the hug. “I know you can. You can be good, I've seen it. You could stay. I’ll still want to be your friend! I promise!”

At that Slade gave a proper laugh, pulling back and pinching his cheek just hard enough to make Dick wiggle in protest. “It’s sweet that you think so.” He placed a gentle hand on Dick’s cheek, tilting his head to press a soft kiss to his crown. With that, Slade rose to his feet, cutting the ropes on both Zatana and Alfred with ease, and walking out the door of the study. Dick had only just begun to reach his arms after the retreating figure when he was suddenly scooped up, this time by Bruce again as the man pressed him to his chest and rushed to Alfred’s side. And just like that everything was passing in a blur as Dick’s view of Slade’s back was obscured by the wave of friends and family rushing in and around to check on him, Zatana, and Alfred. The rush of hugs, questions, and assurances only seemed to wash over him as he realized Slade had just left. Dick bit his lip to keep from sniffling—Dick had made his own choice. He’d told Slade he wanted to be with his family and grow up. But still, he had hoped maybe Slade would stay? Even just for a few moments later. To actually say goodbye. But that had been a ridiculous thought.

“B?” He murmured into Bruce’s shoulder.

“What is it, chum?” He asked instantly, worry heavy in his voice and Dick hid his face in his shoulder as he asked. “Can you make me big again? Please.” He desperately hoped that once his physical state was restored, maybe then this wouldn’t all feel like so much and maybe that stinging disappointment would go away.

And surprisingly, it actually did help.

Or maybe it would be more accurate to say after Zatanna had restored him to his proper age, Dick was simply too inundated with love and attention to linger on it for long. Alfred had insisted everyone should stay for dinner, and everyone insisted that Alfred should be resting not cooking, so after a suggestion from Dick that he hadn’t had any form of takeout since his... involuntary vacation, the evening turned into a buffet of different take-out orders. Dick lost count of how many orders they placed, but by the end of it, the dinner table was crowded with friends and family passing around everything from pizza to chow mein to chicken wings. There wasn’t time to linger on sad thoughts or potential feelings of abandonment when Roy was trying to prove he could still meet his wing-eating record from his teens or when Beast Boy was introducing the rest of the family to the concept of the Pizza Sandwich (two slices of one type of pizza with a single slice of another type of pizza in the middle).

After dinner, no one was really willing or ready to leave or go to their own bedrooms, and instead, everyone piled into the living room scrolling through movies as people fell off to sleep one by one. The last thing Dick remembered before sleep took him as well as the quiet drone of the tv, the whispering voices of Donna and Raven, the familiar warmth of Kori against his back, Damian’s full body pressed into his side and Tim’s head resting on his thigh and the familiar silhouette of Bruce approaching with a blanket— The only things he had room to feel were peace, warmth, contentment, and love.

That one night turned into a long weekend. Not that Dick was complaining. After all that emotional exertion, it was nice to just relax (as an adult with full control of his motor skills and at least better control of his emotional state) with his family.

It was only after several restful but busy days with his family that Dick finally made it home to Blüdhaven. He trudged up the stairs to his apartment, both excited to collapse in his own bed and dreading the inevitable purging his kitchen would require. After over a month away his leftovers would surely be alive and fighting for dominance in his fridge by now. But thankfully he was coming home packed with Alfred-cooked leftovers (and Zitka), so he didn't need to rush to the grocery store.

It wasn’t going to be fun, but it’d be better to handle the kitchen sooner than later—because once Dick touched his bed he didn’t intend to get out of it for at least 24 hours. 

As soon as he crossed his threshold Dick reluctantly made a beeline for the kitchen—where he froze. His counters... were clean?! There was a fruit bowl he definitely didn’t own sitting out on the sparkling clean countertops. With fruit in it? Hesitantly Dick inched towards the refrigerator, cracking it open not to find new forms of mold but instead fresh produce and a set of prepped meals in neatly stacked Tupperware Dick instantly recognized. “Slade?” He called out hesitantly hopeful, as he quickly circled his home finding his living room and bathroom tidied up as well, but no mercenaries in sight.

When he entered his bedroom Dick’s heart skipped a beat at a familiar sight—Ellie sat tucked partially into his otherwise neatly made bed. And on his nightstand sat a new burner phone and a perfect sand dollar. Approaching quickly, Dick snatched up the phone to find was completely empty, with no messages or notes, except for a single saved contact number. 

With a smile, Dick tucked Zitka in beside Ellie and snapped a photo to send. "Thanks for the grocery run! And for bringing Ellie by. She and Zitka are already best friends."

Almost instantly the '. . .' of a pending reply popped up on the screen and Dick waited anxiously for a reply until, after several moments, it disappeared. But Dick didn't intend to let the mercenary slip away from a conversation that easily. "Thanks for all the meals too. Alfie actually sent me home with a bunch too, so I've got more food than I can manage alone. Would you want to come by for lunch sometime?"

'. . .'

'. . .'

'. . .'

' Tomorrow at noon. Wintergreen will come as well.'