Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's really hard for Dick to fight the urge to let his knee bounce, his body so filled with anxiety that it's desperate for even the slightest outlet of the sensation, but he can't let himself show any weakness. He's already in a rough enough spot, already putting himself between a rock and a hard place. He doesn't need to give even more ammunition to his opponent.

Though maybe he needs to switch gears, stop thinking in terms of 'opponent'. That won't help him tonight, will only serve to put him even more on edge. Not that he thinks he'll be able to reach anything even remotely resembling calm. He'd like to, believe him, but he's too practical to think this meeting will cause anything other than nightmares for the next few weeks and quite a few bouts of nausea.

It's his own damn fault. It's his own damn fucking fault.

The faint creak of a window hinge makes Dick drag himself out of his head, body going perfectly still. His heartrate ticks up, and he breathes purposefully and evenly to force it back to normal—he's competing against super-hearing, after all. It'll be ammunition just like bouncing his knee would be. Cool, calm, and collected is the image he has to portray, even if it's the exact opposite of what he's really feeling.

Heavy footsteps in the hall, coming closer. A large figure in the doorway. Far too familiar orange and black armor. A cold blue eye scans the room before coming to rest on Dick. It pins him in place, unyielding, and Dick locks his reaction down tight, simply blinking placidly back.

Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, the man who held Dick captive three years ago, raises an eyebrow and leans against the wall, casually folding his arms over his chest.

"This meeting better be worth my time, Grayson," Slade says, observing Dick was a bored expression. Honestly, he's not pulling it off—Dick knows him too well to buy that boredom. He knows how Slade really feels about this midnight meeting, what his reaction must've been when he got the message that Dick wanted to make a deal. He knows there's no way Slade is feeling anything other than thrilled.

"It is," Dick says. He knows it is. He knows Slade. He knows that glimmer in Slade's eye, and that tiny upturn at the corner of his mouth, and the slouch of his body against the wall. He knows what each and every detail about Slade's behavior means—both in relation to the world and in relation to Dick, specifically.

He knows, because Dick's very survival once counted upon him being able to correctly interpret Slade's moods.

"Well don't keep me waiting, kid," Slade drawls. "What could Nightwing possibly want with little ol' me?" His lips twitch in a brief smirk. "I'm sure it's not just to reminisce on old times, as nice as that sounds."

Dick keeps breathing. He keeps his heartrate steady. He prevents his knee from bouncing and his hands from shaking. Reminisce. Nice. They definitely remember their time together very differently, not that that's in any way surprising. Slade was certainly having far more fun back then than Dick was.

"I hear you've got a new gig," Dick says. "Enforcer for The Light." He puts an edge of mocking in his voice, like he's close to rolling his eyes at the supervillains. As if they aren't a massive, overwhelming threat that's made Dick do things he never thought he'd ever have to do. Just idiots with a silly name. "You think they won't drop you like they did Sportsmaster the second you do something they even remotely dislike?"

Slade doesn't look impressed. "Crock was an emotional idiot. We both know I don't have that problem."

"Right," Dick says sarcastically, his pulse speeding up, "because you'd never react to the death of a child by waging war and trying to drag as many people down with you as you can."

Slade takes a threatening step forward. Dick pops instantly to his feet and backs up, heart pounding hummingbird fast in his chest. Slade smirks at him, easing back in a relaxed posture once more, and Dick burns with embarrassment at his instinctive fear response. He's Nightwing, goddammit. Not a scared child. Fuck.

"It's fun when you pretend you have teeth with me," Slade says. There's a flash of teeth, sharp and wolfish. His eye is lidded. It sends a chill up Dick's spine. "Go ahead, do it again. Try to pretend you have the upper hand here. Try to pretend you'll ever have the upper hand. You can BS being oh so strong and mighty with your little friends, or your gimmicky villains, but I know different. Don't I, little bird?"

There's a ringing in Dick's ears. It's really, really hard to keep his shit together when Slade Wilson is looking at him like that and talking to him like that. Just him and Deathstroke the Terminator alone in a safehouse in the middle of the night.

Dick hasn't been alone with Slade in three years, not since his friends rescued him. They've interacted a few times, whether that being through a fight or some other kind of mission, but there was always someone else there, multiple someones. Always a buffer that could and would jump between Slade and Dick if they found it necessary—which they always did. Any words spoken between Deathstroke and Nightwing have had a healthy protective presence around them.

But not this time. This time, it's just Dick. No one even knows he's doing this, because he knew they'd lose their fucking minds and never let him do it. Not a single soul is aware that Dick's meeting with the man who held him captive for five months. But more than that—no one knows Dick is making a deal with that man.

Dick's not a complete moron, so he did put some contingencies in place. His absolute worst case scenario for this meeting is the one that appears almost nightly in his nightmares: Slade taking him again. And if that were to happen...there are contingencies. The main one being that if Dick leaves this apartment without imputing the correct "All Clear" code into his phone, then the motion sensors and cameras will trigger an alert that goes out to Batgirl, Troia, Wally, Zatanna, and Miss Martian, giving them the full details of this meeting and exactly how to find him.

He's just...really hoping it doesn't come to that. He cannot even begin to describe how much he's hoping it doesn't come to that. The time he spent with Slade was unequivocally the worst period of his entire life, and the very idea of having to go through that again...

He'd rather die. No hyperbole—he genuinely would rather die than find himself captive of Slade again.

But he's not that fifteen-year-old boy he was back then, and honestly Slade's not the same as he was back then, either. Different interests now, more removed from Grant's death and his subsequent Robin obsession, not that Slade ever allowed himself to connect those two events in his head. They're not in the same circumstances that led to Slade kidnapping Dick in the first place, and their engagements since then have just been different.

It's because of that that he thought it safe to arrange this meeting at all. That Slade's first instinct isn't to grab Dick and run now like it was back then. That Slade would stop and listen, would actually make a deal instead of jumping into action.

And, hell, he's been right so far. Slade's delighted he got this call, and he's happy to talk and taunt. Even his threat of movement was just that—a threat, not action carried out. Just something to screw with Dick because he could. It doesn't make Dick safe—not even close—but it does make Dick feel a little more...stable.

"I called you here to make a deal," Dick says evenly. "You're working with Black Manta right now, right?"

"You know I don't discuss clients," Slade says. His tone is vaguely chastising, like a teacher chiding a student, and it rankles.

"Sure," Dick agrees, "but if I were to, say, offer a contract where I paid you to just...ease back on your reaction time if something were to go wrong around Manta, would you be interested? You don't even have to do anything, not really. Just—" He huffs a slight laugh. "Well, I'd be paying you to not do something, really."

Slade tilts his head. "This have anything to do with the Atlantean? Manta's kid?"

Dick doesn't react. "Only in that he's around Manta, sure."

Slade smiles, slow and smug. "He's still yours, isn't he?"

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. "I don't—"

"Oh come on," Slade scoffs. "You forget I know every fucking thing about you? You forgetting everything you told me about your little team? You think I'd buy your bullshit? Kid, you're better than that."

Nausea churns in Dick's gut. Yes, yes he remembers. He remembers withstanding and withstanding and withstanding until it just got to be too much, until the pain and torment and abuse reached a level that he just—he just needed a break. And Slade wasn't asking for state secrets, wasn't inquiring after secret identities, he just wanted to know about the team. He just wanted to know them. And it meant that telling Slade how much M'gann loves to bake kept Slade from whipping him that night. Countless little details like that saved Dick so, so much pain. It kept him alive.

It also means he knows Kaldur like Dick knows Kaldur. His defection was probably already extremely suspect in Slade's mind for a number of reasons, and now Dick being here asking about Manta? The final little puzzle piece Slade needed.

Which, well, fuck it, this doesn't actually change anything. Not like Slade wouldn't figure it out at some point very soon, considering what Dick's trying to hire him to do. He has to keep moving forward.

"Would you be interested in a job like this or not?" Dick asks.

"You can't afford me," Slade says, careless and sure.

"You forgetting who my mentor is?" Dick shoots back, smiling, projecting a confidence he doesn't truly feel. "The Bat's coffers aren't exactly light. I could buy an entire nation if I wanted to—I think I can afford your fees."

Slade laughs, grinning. He takes a lazy step forward, and this time Dick holds his ground. Slade's expression is pure indulgence, like he wants to pat Dick on the head for that moment of bravery, and it makes Dick want to hit him.

"Daddy's ever so supportive these days, I know," Slade says, and fuck him fuck him fuck him. "But you seem to be forgetting who's filling my coffers right now. You think the Wayne money comes close to what the Light has on tap? I mean, come on, kid. Luthor alone would be giving you a run for your money, let alone every other contributor—including multiple world leaders."

Dick's gut twists. "You wouldn't even be discussing this if you weren't interested," Dick says, but honestly, that's a shot in the dark. Slade might just be here for his own amusement.

"I don't know about that," Slade drawls. "Watching you try to outsmart an international criminal organization all by yourself is pretty entertaining even without a payday." Asshole. "What else you got, kid?"

Fuck, okay. Okay, he's considering it. What does Dick have other than money? Nothing that would mean jackshit to a mercenary like Slade. Money is what motivates him, he won't give a shit about Dick's other resources. But if Slade's asking...

Then he already has a price in mind.

"What are you after?" Dick asks.

Slade smirks, pleased. He walks forward, slowly closing the distance between them, and Dick forces himself to hold his ground. He can't show weakness. He can't be weak. The moment he breaks will be the moment Slade pounces, and then everything's lost. He's already faltered too many times.

"You know what I want," Slade says with a slow look up and down Dick.

Dick scowls at him. "The day I willingly act as your apprentice again is the day I tell Red Arrow to shoot me in the skull."

Slade's smile is sly when he meets Dick's gaze. "Not what I was referring to, kid. You're thinking too big picture."

He takes another, pointed, step closer. Dick stares at him. Slade's tongue darts out to wet his lips. Dick sucks in a sharp breath of air.

"No," Dick says, voice strangled, stumbling back. Static fills his mind, an echo of panic that's making his vision blur and his entire body vibrate like he's being hit with a current of electricity. "No, no, you must be joking, no."

"Kid," Slade says, fond and condescending, watching Dick's panicked retreat with nothing more than amusement. "You're the one who came to me."

"You're insane," Dick says. His gaze darts desperately from Slade to the window on the opposite side of the room to the hallway that leads to the front door and back to Slade again. "Not a chance in hell. Never again!"

"Fine, then fly away," Slade says, gesturing towards the window. "Good luck with your mission. Obviously whatever you needed my help with wasn't important—I'm sure your braindead little friend will be fine."

Dick freezes, staring at Slade with wide eyes. He's panting harshly, and he doesn't know when he started breathing like that. He doesn't know when he stopped keeping his hands from shaking, all of him shaking. This can't be real. Slade can't be propositioning him right now. There is no fucking way.

It's been three years since Slade held him captive. Three years since he was abducted and tortured and conditioned and—and raped. Three years since the last time Slade Wilson pinned him to a bed and fucked him while Dick begged him to stop.

Dick still doesn't get what the point of that was, and believe him, he's thought about it a lot. It wasn't just plain horniness—there are a million competent fighters out there who would gladly have sex with Deathstroke. It wasn't just sadism, because Slade was getting those jollies off in every other element of Dick's captivity, starting with beating him to a pulp in the morning and whipping his back to ribbons in the evening. It wasn't an avenue of breaking Dick down, because honestly he seriously had that fucking covered. Slade didn't need to rape Dick to control him.

So why did he?

It's kept Dick up more nights than he'd care to admit, because if he can't find a logical reason, then the answer is Slade did it because he wanted to, and that is...it's just so, so much harder to accept than if Slade did it for a purpose. He doesn't want that to be the answer. He doesn't want the powerful, dangerous assassin to have raped him at fifteen years old just because he wanted to.

It's hard to deny now, though. Now, when Slade is standing in front of him and asking Dick to offer his body up in place of money. What is that if not Slade doing something just because he wants it?

It's insane. This is insane.

But Slade's also—not wrong. Kaldur is...in a bad way, right now. M'gann scooped his brain out and left him a husk and now they're on a fucking clock before the entire operation is blown wide open. If Psimon gets in there and sees Kaldur's memories, everything will be on fire. But if they don't let a psychic see Kaldur, then they've basically killed their best friend. Which means they need to get a psychic they can trust in the door, and...

And Deathstroke is watching everything like a hawk. There's only so much Artemis can do, only so much Dick can do, when eyes as sharp as that are keeping close. They need to get M'gann to Kaldur, they need no one to interfere while she does her thing, they need people to look the other way when strange shit starts going awry on Manta's ship. They need a fucking lot, and none of it will happen with Deathstroke working against them.

Dick set up a meeting with the demon from his every nightmare in order to help his friends, his team, his mission. He is the leader. He is the one who has to make the sacrifices.

He just...He just thought that sacrifice was going to be monetary. Was going to be an excess of nightmares and panic attacks for a few months while he got over this meeting. He didn't think Slade would—that he'd want—that he'd try—

"You can't ask me this," Dick says hoarsely. His eyes are stinging and he hates himself for it. "Please don't ask me this."

Slade smiles, sharp and pleased. The face of Dick's horrors. "It's your choice, little bird. Weigh the consequences of what will happen if you don't. All I want is one night."

"One round," Dick snaps back immediately, and feels like he walked himself into a trap when Slade inclines his head in ready agreement.

"One round," he agrees, and Dick flounders because wait what no he didn't actually mean— "But it's however I want it."

"No, we're not doing this," Dick says. "I...I'll find another way. A way that doesn't include you."

Slade only arches an eyebrow. Dick feels like he might throw up.

"You don't have to do a thing," Slade says, and he begins stalking forward, closing the distance Dick just put between them. "You never did before, right? Just say we have a deal and I'll take it from there."

"I'd rather die," Dick chokes out, stumbling away. His back hits something solid and he has a single moment to curse himself for his inattention before Slade is right in front of him, pressing him against the wall.

For a moment, Dick isn't eighteen, he isn't in this safehouse. He's in Slade's base and he is fifteen years old and Slade Wilson is smirking at him as he pins Dick's struggling, writhing form down like a cat with a mouse, letting Dick exhaust himself with fear, both of them knowing what's about to happen—

"But you wouldn't be the one dying, would you?" Slade murmurs.

Kaldur. Kaldur and Artemis. Kaldur and Artemis and then M'gann is as good as dead when she learns her actions led to the deaths of two of her friends, she wouldn't survive it. Dick's friends, his people, the ones he's supposed to lead and coordinate and protect. The people who are counting on him to handle this, to have a solution. The people who will die if Dick doesn't make sure they have the Light's enforcer on their side.

"One round of s-sex," Dick says, burning inside at how he stutters. "And in exchange, you agree to do absolutely nothing to prevent Miss Martian from restoring Kaldur'ahm's memories and then freeing herself from captivity. You will not act, you will not advocate against her, you won't do a single thing to jeopardize what she's trying to do or...or anything involving Kaldur's allegiances."

Slade smiles at him. It looks like pride.

"Whenever your Martian turns up, alright," Slade agrees. "I'll let her do what she needs to do. And I'll keep quiet about your adorable little spy. I accept the contract. Do you?"

Dick swallows heavily. His heart's beating so fast he can feel it in his fingers, his toes, his ears. The urge to run as far and as fast as he can is nearly overwhelming.

But he learned long ago there's no true escape from Deathstroke. There's only the best of a bad situation.

"Yes," Dick says.

He barely gets the word out before Slade is crashing their mouths together. One hand grips the back of Dick's neck, the other settling on Dick's hip. He grabs Dick firmly, possessively, and kisses him like he wants to consume him. Dick is pinned painfully between the wall and Deathstroke's bulk and armor. Nowhere to go as Slade steals the air from his lungs.

Dick whimpers, and Slade grins against his mouth before shifting to trail open-mouthed kisses across the line of his jaw. "Keep making noises just like that for me, birdie. Good boy."

Slade rolls his hips forward, grinding against Dick. Tears prick Dick's eyes and he does his best to breathe, to not tip all the way over into panic. But it's next to impossible—the man who kidnapped and raped him three years ago is now planning on having sex with him again, and Dick is letting him.

He's really glad Slade didn't demand his active participation in this, didn't make it part of the deal that Dick had to take initiative. Was it a moment of kindness, to say Dick didn't have to do a thing, just bear through it? Or was it sadism, Slade enjoying the idea of Dick not wanting this? Dick doesn't know. He doesn't know which reason would be worse.

The hand on the nape of Dick's neck slides over his collar for a moment before finding the catch of his suit. Dick jolts like he's been hit, going rigid, but he doesn't try to stop Slade from grabbing the zipper and dragging it slowly down the length of his spine. Dick doesn't know when Slade removed his glove, but he can feel Slade's bare hand on his skin, and it makes him shudder, nausea churning.

Slade leans back just enough to be able to pull Dick's suit down, yanking the sleeves off and then shoving it down Dick's thighs. It's a strange sight to watch Deathstroke drop to his knees, but that's what Slade does next, lowering himself to the floor and trailing wet kisses along Dick's body as he goes. He nips at Dick's hip while he tugs Dick's boots off, tongue dragging over his stomach as he tosses Dick's suit to the side, his underwear with it.

Dick only realizes he's crying when Slade gets to his feet again and licks the tears from his cheeks. Slade's pupil is blown, the look on his face nothing but predatory hunger. Dick feels like a prey animal caught in a trap, the hunter standing before him. It's not an unfamiliar feeling for him, when it comes to Slade. Deathstroke always in control and Robin doing his best to keep his head above water.

"You're gorgeous," Slade breathes, an edge to his voice Dick doesn't understand. He doesn't have time to try to figure it out, because in the next second Slade is lifting him, strong arm under Dick's ass and forcing Dick to wrap his legs around his waist to avoid falling. Dick buries his face in Slade's neck as Slade carries him down the hallway; it makes him feel childish and young, but hell, if Slade was against something like that, he wouldn't have raped a fifteen-year-old. He wouldn't be having sex with an eighteen-year-old now.

Slade finds the bedroom on the first try, and wastes no time in throwing Dick on the bed. Slade's on top of him in the next instant, faster than Dick can blink, and Dick has to fight against overwhelming panic as Slade's hands grope over his body, feeling up every part of him with an obsessive sort of thoroughness. He kisses Dick, too, sucking on his tongue and licking his teeth and taking Dick's mouth for his own like he plans to do with his body.

Slade presses hard down against him, and Dick lets out a pained hiss when the hard lines of the Deathstroke armor cut into his skin. Slade pulls back and smirks slightly, then lifts into a high kneel to start removing his armor.

"Don't worry, little bird," he says, "I won't fuck you in it. I know how much you don't like that."

As if there's any of this that Dick does like. Also, what a just...incredibly fucked up thing to say, to know. Knowing that it causes Dick even more pain—physical and mental—to have Slade fuck him while dressed in the armor he uses to kill people, the armor that haunts so many nightmares for so many people. Knowledge you only get when you've raped a person enough to know how they respond to different forms of that specific torment.

Dick can do nothing but shiver, naked on the bed, while Slade strips himself bit by bit. It's dizzying to watch—it's not that Dick forgot how big Slade is, he could never forget what it felt like to have that mass against him. But it became...less real, these past three years. Just something to ruin his dreams, a large monster there to hurt him in his worst nights. The exaggerations of nightmares made it feel so unreal.

But now here they both are again, and Dick is forced to confront the sheer size of Slade. It's—it's just—it's...it's terrifying.

He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to watch.

Slade doesn't try to make him open them, doesn't force Dick to be more present. He allows Dick to turn his face to the side and grip the bedsheets in his fists and try to go somewhere else far away mentally. He does exactly what he said he was going to do—he takes it from there.

Dick's legs are thrust apart, Slade moving between them. He hikes one of Dick's legs up around his waist and lets the other fall to the side, baring Dick for his view. He hums a pleased, deep noise, fingers stroking up Dick's inner thigh, leaving goosebumps in his wake. The touch leaves momentarily, then returns, poking at Dick's asshole.

It's pure instinct that makes Dick gasp and try to jerk away, moving to scramble up the bed. But Slade was clearly ready for that; his arm clamps down on Dick's leg around his waist, forcing him still, and then leans bodily over Dick to press him harder into the mattress. It's very hard for Dick to breathe—he doesn't know if that's because of his panic or the heavy weight on his chest.

"You're cute when you fight," Slade chuckles. His eye crinkles at the corner as he stares down at Dick, their faces mere inches apart. "But we had a bargain, little bird."

Dick knows that, he knows. He didn't do it on purpose.

In the distraction, Slade pushes a slick finger into Dick's ass. Dick gasps and jolts, a strangled noise escaping him. He tries to jerk away again, but there's nowhere to go, not when a super-powered mercenary is pinning him to the bed. There's nothing to do but take it.

Slade pumps his finger in and out, in and out, in and out. It's not nearly as rough as Dick knows Slade's capable of, but it's not gentle, either, and Dick does his best to breathe in time with the finger fucking him.

One finger soon enough becomes two. Slade never stops watching him, whether that be his face or his heaving chest or the tremble of Dick's thighs as Slade fingers him. It's like Slade can't get enough of the sight of Dick here with him like this. Was he always this focused, when he used to fuck Dick? Dick can't remember. He just knows he hates it, and he closes his eyes again to try to find some level of escape.

Two become three. Slade spreads his fingers, stroking Dick's inner walls, thrusting harder now as he stretches Dick. He doesn't know when in that little shuffle Slade put lube on his fingers, where Slade even got the lube in the first place. Did he bring it with him?

...Did he plan for this to happen?

The idea of that brings tears to Dick's eyes again, and he squeezes them shut tight, clenching his fists into the sheets beneath him. And everything only gets worse when Slade pulls his fingers out of Dick's ass and shifts into a new position.

When the blunt head of Slade's cock pokes at his ass, Dick can't help the whimper from escaping—he's barely able to keep himself from begging Slade not to do this. Slade only shushes him, like someone soothing a wounded animal, and then slowly begins to press his cock forward.

Dick is bigger now than he was the last time they were together, so he feels like it should be easier for him to take this than it used to be. But it's not, it's really not. It pushes the air from Dick's lungs, makes his entire body arch to try to get away. Inch by inch Slade shoves his large cock inside of Dick, splitting Dick open around him, making a home for himself in a place no one should ever touch.

"Goddamn," Slade says, when he's all the way inside, hips pressed flush with Dick's ass. Dick can't breathe. "Damn, kid. Look at you. Fucking spectacular."

He doesn't waste any time from there. He drags out much faster than he initially pushed in, gives an offhand warning of, "Deep breathes," and then he fucks back in, snapping his hips with a brutality Dick should've been expecting but still catches him off guard.

Dick yells, thrashing because he can't stop himself, but Slade is completely unbothered. He thrusts into Dick again and again, hard and fast, not pausing a single moment like Dick's struggling is about as challenging as a puppy trying to play tug of war. Sweat is slicking Slade's forehead and his eye is burning down into Dick with lust and pleasure and something deeper, something darker, that Dick really doesn't want to name. His hands dig bruises into Dick's flesh, everywhere he can reach. He fills Dick's vision, his mind, his body, his everything.

"Mine," Slade breathes, and if they weren't currently doing what they're doing, Dick might've protested. Might've found it within himself to argue. But right now...Dick can do nothing but look away and try to not burst into tears.

Slade curves closer, kissing him sloppily as his thrusts pick up in speed but lose consistency. They share the same breath. Slade presses his forehead against Dick's own. Then Slade comes inside of him, grinding in as deep as he can go while he fills Dick up with his release.

Everything is still for a long moment, after that. Slade pants roughly, and Dick trembles, and neither of them say a word while Slade rides through the aftermath.

When Dick feels less like he'll crack completely into pieces if he speaks, he says, "I've held up my end."

Slade goes still, then he laughs. The sound vibrates through Dick's body and Dick can see a flash of a grin on Slade's face when Slade shifts back slightly. He presses a brief, fleeting kiss to Dick's jaw, then sits back on his haunches, looking Dick over like the cat that caught the canary.

Dick gets his elbows under him and wiggles himself away, shifting to lean against the headboard, knees folding up to his chest. The space between them, as meager as it is, helps Dick feel a little bit better. Even if his ass is throbbing.

"I'll admit, I'm impressed," Slade says. He lounges where he sits, uncaring of his own nudity or what he just did. "Though I shouldn't have expected anything less, not when it comes to you."

"Soon there will be a mission to capture Miss Martian," Dick says. "You will probably be the one sent, but if you're not initially, then make yourself the person sent. You'll capture her without any real damage and you'll take her to Kaldur'ahm and Tigress, and then you'll do nothing. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, you will not stop what my team does. You will not help others stop my team. You will just sit and do nothing."

"I get it, kid," Slade says, waving a hand through the air. "Your little friends will be fine under my watch—never much cared for Manta, anyway. Serves him right if he's led a fox into his henhouse."

Dick nods sharply. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his hands are shaking, and he's barely stopping himself from vomiting, but he's in control. He has it handled. And he got what he needs—what his team needs. That's all that matters.

Slade gets to his feet and starts redressing, casual and slow like he has all the time in the world. Dick sits frozen in place, watching, unable to stop himself from being ready for an attack. He's coiled tight as a spring. But Slade doesn't pounce, doesn't even look at him, not until he's completely clothed and with every piece of armor back where it's supposed to be.

Then, Slade turns an appraising eye on Dick. It drags up and down Dick's body, a smirk curving his mouth.

"This was fun, kid," Slade says. He truly sounds like he means it, like it's that simple for him. Like they just had some fun fucking around. "Let me know if you want any more bargains in the future—I'm sure I could come in handy for your little crusade."

Then he's gone, slipping down the hall and back out the way he came, vanishing into the night.

Dick is unable to get himself to move for quite a while longer.