Work Text:
Human trafficking. Dick had run these kinds of assholes out of Bludhaven a long time ago, but they always cropped back up whenever he left town for a bit. And now that he was back from a temporary stay in Gotham, it was time to clean house again.
Most of the victims were out and free, Dick had cracked open the shipping container outside and pointed them to the nearest police station, but they had told him about someone locked up in a cage inside the warehouse, someone who never screamed no matter what they did to him.
Dick had a churning feeling in his gut that it was a hero. There were too many traffickers milling around the warehouse for him to take out alone, but he couldn’t leave a vigilante here for as long as it would take him to go and get back-up. It was stupid, and it was risky, but Dick wasn’t Nightwing because he carefully weighed the odds.
At least the cage was easy to find.
For some reason, he thought they meant a human cage. Something big, built with wide bars, one of those fancy ones the Rogues always had when they wanted to play hostage with a Bat.
Not a goddamn kennel.
Dick forced down his growing rage, and slunk through the rafters until he was right above it. He couldn’t make out much from the thick mesh, but the person inside was definitely too big for it, curled up on their knees, apparently unconscious. The cage was right smack dab in the middle of the large warehouse, and Dick could count at least thirty goons in clear sight.
If Dick just got a second of distraction—
Somebody screamed, loud and distant and terrified.
Everyone snapped their gazes to the far door, Dick included. When the gunshots started, Dick dropped down from the ceiling. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was going to make the most of it.
“We’re being attacked!”
The way half the lights cut out certainly didn’t help the panic. Dick pulled his escrima free as he hit the ground, the world flickering in flashes—gunshots, screams, sudden silence, repeat—rolled up and jabbed both weapons into a different thug. They crumpled to the ground, twitching, numbers three and four got broken ribs and broken noses, and Dick won himself a little bubble of darkness around the kennel.
“No! No! Sto—”
Dick kept one escrima in his hand as he crouched next to the kennel. It was easy to destroy the lock, and also easy to tear the top off and tip it over before hauling out the unconscious body inside.
“Fuck—fuck, it’s De—”
Light blond hair, civilian clothes, a collar, a faded scar under his jaw—“Jericho?” Dick hissed, patting his teammate’s face. He hadn’t gotten any alert from the Titans, but it didn’t look like Joey had been taken in costume. “Joey, can you hear me?”
Blue eyes cracked open and blinked, glassy and unfocused. Dick supported Joey’s face, making sure he was looking up at him, and watched Joey drag a hand up.
“N,” he signed, the call-sign Nightwing had used on the Titans, his lips twitching to a faint smile.
“Hey, Joey,” Dick murmured—and winced at another loud spurt of gunfire. “What’s hurting the most?” He didn’t have time to do a full assess, but he needed to know if he could move Joey.
“Run! It’s—argh—”
Joey briefly closed his eyes, before raising his hand again. He tapped his collar, then a dark patch on his shirt, down below his ribs, then waved a hand at his legs. Dick glowered at the collar—meta-blocking, and also a shock collar judging by the visible edges of electrical burns—peeled up Joey’s shirt to reveal a nasty-looking wound, thankfully no longer leaking blood, and darted a quick glance at Joey’s legs. One ankle looked swollen, but nothing that would prevent movement.
The shouts were getting closer.
“Okay,” Dick whispered, readying his grapple, “I’m going to pick you up now, and we’ll get to the roof. Hold on to me if you can.” Joey nodded, but unfortunately they’d won the attention of some panicking thugs.
Two kept running without a second glance at Nightwing—clearly Haven natives—but the other two stuttered, and one stopped, gun raising with a dark look on his face.
Dick didn’t think, he acted.
He dropped the grapple gun and yanked Joey back, curling around him with his back to the traffickers.
The gunfire started a split second later, and Dick bit down on the wheeze as bullets slammed into his back, each landing with the force of a kick from a steel-toed boat. It felt like his spine was being pummeled—the armor doing its job to stop the bullets from ripping him open, but nothing could stop the force crashing into him, again and again and again and—
A scream. No, a howl, harsh and loud and agonized, and everything in the warehouse went deadly still when it cut out.
“D—Deathstroke,” someone gurgled out, deafening in the sudden silence, “Run.”
Dick immediately snapped his head up. It was difficult to tell in the semi-darkness, but that was definitely orange-and-black, scything through figures like they were blades of grass, and everyone in the vicinity ran for the opposite doors. Dick was frozen for a stretching second before Joey groaned and broke the spell.
Dick darted his gaze back down, and saw the slowly pooling red under Joey’s left leg.
“Fuck,” Dick cursed, immediately putting pressure on the wound—no exit wound, so the bullet was still inside, but the priority was stopping the bleeding—and rifled through one of his pockets for the bandages. Stop the bleeding, then get him out—hospital or Leslie?—and Dick immediately ducked back over Joey when someone passed too close to them.
The man stumbled when he caught sight of them, movements faltering for a moment before he raised the gun.
Dick blinked, and there was a broadsword jutting out from the man’s chest.
The orange and black mask turned towards Dick as the man choked and gurgled, spasming uselessly. Dick stared back. The last time he’d been face to face with the world’s deadliest mercenary…Grant Wilson had breathed his last in front of the Teen Titans.
Dick was suddenly consciously aware of his bloody hands, the open wound he was applying pressure on, Joey’s harsh, wheezing breaths.
Deathstroke yanked the sword out in a jerk. The body fell, but before Dick could so much as flinch, the mercenary turned away.
Fuck, something pinged in the back of his head. Stop him, Nightwing demanded as Deathstroke stalked further into the warehouse. It didn’t matter how many bullets they fired at him, the mercenary kept moving, sword twisting and slashing inhumanely fast, the blade swirling in a dance that belied its size as bodies dropped in its wake.
Deathstroke was going to slaughter everyone in the building if Dick didn’t stop him, he was going to kill every last one because—because—
Joey’s face had gone slack, bruises evident against his sallow skin, the collar tight around his throat, dried blood and dirt flaking off—how long had he been missing? How long before one of the most dangerous men in the world realized that his son had been taken?
Dick wound the bandage around Joey’s leg with trembling fingers, and tried to ignore the screams. The silence. Dick—couldn’t stop Deathstroke. Not like this. Not alone.
There had been thirty men in the building five minutes ago.
Dick finished tying off the bandage, and checked to make sure Joey wasn’t bleeding from anywhere else. He should—should still get the boy out of here, get him to a hospital and away from all the violence—those men had died in an instant—and Dick shifted into an upright kneel, his back pulsing with dull waves of pain.
Deathstroke. Was right. In front of. Him.
Dick hadn’t heard a thing.
He would’ve screamed if he wasn’t frozen like a deer in headlights, not even daring to breathe as he stared up at the mercenary. The signature orange-and-black armor was liberally splattered with blood, the sword practically drenched in it, and yet Deathstroke moved slowly as he crouched over his son.
Dick twitched when Deathstroke extended a hand, but didn’t dare stop him. The mercenary brushed the edge of Joey’s cheek, leaving behind a bloody smear, before his fingers dropped down to the collar and stilled.
Dick, a foot away from the man, rooted in place, desperately wanted to disappear. Deathstroke had been terrifying enough when Dick had a whole team behind him, but now Dick was alone. Alone, and the person who’d protected them the last time was unconscious on the ground, unable to do anything to stop his father from shoving his sword through Dick’s gut.
Deathstroke ripped apart the collar like it was made of ribbon.
Dick couldn’t suppress the half-horrified-half-terrified sound, and after Deathstroke dropped the mangled remains of the collar, the single eye-hole swiveled to face him. Dick didn’t complete the blink before the sword point was digging into the softness just below his jaw.
“This is the second time I’ve found you over the body of one of my children,” said the low, harsh voice.
Dick didn’t attempt to speak. He wasn’t sure if he could make words come out.
“How did this happen?” It was a demand, not a question, and Dick slowly uncurled his palms. Open, empty. Not a threat.
Not like anything was a real threat to Deathstroke, but Dick was dealing with an extremely dangerous and volatile predator. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, as calmly as he could manage—clearly not the response Deathstroke wanted, and Dick broke off at the subaudible growl.
“Don’t know?” the mercenary asked, tone poisonous, “Didn’t send him in here, undercover? It’s not your fault?”
“I didn’t—”
“It’s never your fault, is it, Nightwing?” Deathstroke snarled, and Dick shifted uneasily—he needed to get out of here—
The touch of steel under his jaw vanished a second before a gauntleted fist crashed into his face.
Dick hit the ground on his back, and the brief throb of pain along his cheekbone was overshadowed by the shrieking fire that exploded down his spine.
Something was cracked or broken. Possibly multiple somethings. Maybe even his spine, it was difficult to tell when he was writhing on the ground, clawing at the cement floor and trying not to scream. Flipping over onto his stomach tore a strangled sob from his throat, and when he could think through the pain, he was panting against the cold floor, his back a throbbing, pulsing inferno.
Dick did scream, harsh and broken, when a boot pressed down on his spine.
“Who are you going to blame this time, Nightwing?” Deathstroke growled, “HIVE again? Joey himself?” The boot pressed harder, and Dick lost the ability to breathe. “How many people are you going to sacrifice to the altar of your honest mistakes?”
His vision was growing dark. No, Dick wanted to force out, I didn’t do anything—but that hadn’t worked the last time, and it wouldn’t work now. At least Joey was still alive. At least there was no team standing behind Dick, no heroes that Deathstroke could cut through as easily as breathing, no one he had to protect.
Darkness pulled him all the way down.
Consciousness unmercifully snapped back in, but it still took several stretching moments for Dick to convince his body to move.
Everything ached, a solid wave of pulsing pain down his back when he tried to shift, and it took Dick a couple of blinks before he realized that his wrists were stretched above his head. Dick squinted at them, gleaming gray resolving into handcuffs through a ring in the wall, and weakly tugged at it.
It took him nearly twice as long to get out of the cuffs as it normally would, but they finally unclicked, and Dick braced his free hands on the ground.
He realized several things in quick succession. One, his back did not appreciate that and something was most certainly broken. Two, he wasn’t wearing his Nightwing suit and in fact seemed to be wearing nothing other than a pair of sweatpants. And three, the last thing he remembered was Deathstroke’s growl, which made the innocuous room he was in approximately ten times more terrifying.
Getting upright was a struggle, but panic and dread were good motivators.
The room was barren aside from the thin mat under him, and wooden floorboards creaked as Dick limped to the door. The handle turned easily under his testing hand, and a frisson of disquiet ran down his spine as he poked his head out.
It look like a generic townhouse, nothing amiss at first glance. Dick crept out of the room, heading for a window—first figure out where he was, and then how to get out—and halted as a shadow detached from the wall.
Tall and broad. Scowling. And unarmed—not that that meant anything.
Dick tried to unstick his mouth, but only managed a hoarse, “Deathstroke.”
“Nightwing,” Deathstroke said flatly. Dick immediately stepped back when Deathstroke moved forward. “It’s good to see you awake.” He didn’t sound pleased at all. “It’s a bit difficult to extract your revenge from the hides of your enemies when they’re unconscious.”
Dick’s stomach dropped to somewhere below the Earth’s crust. “Joey?” Dick dared to whisper, “Is he okay?”
“Okay?” Deathstroke sounded incredulous, “He spent days as a prisoner of human traffickers and you think he could possibly be okay?” Disbelief sharpened into rage in that single eye. “Maybe you should spend some time in his shoes,” Deathstroke said silkily, “So you know how it feels.”
Dick couldn’t swallow. His throat was too thick. There were a lot of people he’d pissed off in his tenure as Nightwing. If Deathstroke was going to sell him, he’d get no shortage of takers. Dick couldn’t stop his mind from stuttering over all the increasingly horrifying possibilities as he stumbled back—
“What are you doing out of bed?” Deathstroke snapped, and Dick froze. What, him? He wouldn’t really call the mat he’d woken up on a bed—oh, Deathstroke was glaring over Dick’s shoulder.
Dick half-turned, unwilling to put his back to the world’s deadliest mercenary, especially when it was bruised like a target, and saw Joey slowly limp down the hallway. Joey smiled when he met Dick’s gaze, a soft expression tugging at the bruises and scrapes on his face, but the expression firmed when he looked at his father.
“You’re coddling me,” Joey signed, “I’m fine. Stop threatening Dick.”
“You are not fine,” Deathstroke hissed, and Dick’s gaze darted back as Deathstroke surged forward, “You have a twisted ankle and a gunshot wound, you needed fourteen stitches total, and you were in a shock collar. Don’t tell me it’s not his fault!”
Dick looked at Joey too late to catch what he was signing, but Joey’s eyes were flat and narrowed the same way his father’s were. “No,” Deathstroke snarled, “I’m tired of you covering for the Titans. I lost one son to them and I will not lose another.”
“Grant made his own choices,” Joey signed furiously, and Dick nearly choked. Deathstroke’s expression screamed murder and Dick didn’t know whether he should press back into a corner and pretend like he wasn’t here, or get between his injured teammate and his mercenary father.
“Don’t—”
“He got himself killed. He knew what the drug would do. He didn’t care.” Joey’s expression was just as angry as Deathstroke’s. “I won’t let you hurt my friends because you feel guilty.” The last bit was vehemently signed.
“You won’t let me?” Deathstroke repeated, slow and dangerous.
“No,” Joey signed sharply, “I won’t.”
The stillness that hung in the air was suffocating. Joey crossed his arms, still scowling, but Deathstroke’s expression had gone blank, emotions flitting across it too fast to see. Dick didn’t know if he imagined Deathstroke’s fingers twitching towards a weapon he wasn’t wearing.
“I think I’ve indulged you with this hero business long enough,” Deathstroke said flatly, “I don’t know why your mother put these ideas into your head. You’re done.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I can raze Titans Tower to the ground.”
Dick sucked in a sharp breath and even Joey seemed to hesitate a moment before he rallied, “Finish the job your son started?”
“It destroyed him! It will destroy you. And there is nothing more important in this world than your safety,” Deathstroke growled.
“What about my happiness?”
“You can’t be happy if you’re dead!”
“You can’t stop me,” Joey signed stubbornly, “You can destroy all the buildings you want. I will never stop trying to be a hero.”
“Joey—”
“Hurt my friends, and I’ll never talk to you again.” Dick appreciated the sentiment, but judging by Deathstroke’s snarl, the mercenary considered that an acceptable trade.
“I just want to keep you safe!”
Joey raised his chin challengingly, throwing the scar underneath it into stark relief. “And a great job you’ve done so far.”
The mercenary went dangerously still. Dick was moving before he consciously registered it, and it took four heart-stopping steps before he was between the two of them, facing Deathstroke with his back to Joey.
Deathstroke’s face looked like it was carved from stone. “Move,” he said with a voice of grated gravel.
“No.” There was no way either of them stood a chance against Deathstroke, not even together, but Dick was not going to stand by and watch his friend be hurt.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Deathstroke said, almost quiet, and Dick didn’t recognize the threat until Deathstroke moved, too fast. Dick stumbled back a step, but he wasn’t going to be able to dodge—
Deathstroke’s movements stuttered strangely, freezing right in front of him, and Dick turned on instinct, right on time to catch Joey crumpling like a sack of bricks.
Dick lunged, but his grip slipped as he automatically bent to take the fall, and he unbalanced, hard. And hit the ground, back-first.
Everything whited out.
Dick didn’t know whether he was screaming, but his back erupted in fire as he seized against the ground, clawing uselessly at the floor and trapped by Joey’s limp body. The hellfire was unending, waves of pain drowning him, over and over and over as he gasped for breath. He didn’t register any movement until the weight on him shifted off, and he opened blurry eyes to see a figure crouching over him.
“Dick?” asked a voice much softer than Deathstroke’s usual growl. Dick squinted.
“Joey?” he croaked out.
“Yes, it’s me,” Joey said in Deathstroke’s voice, with a look of concern that stretched oddly on the mercenary’s face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Dick grunted, and bit down on the shriek as he rolled over onto his stomach. Fuck. He kept his head pressed against the wooden floor and focused on breathing, in and out.
“I can hold him here,” Joey whispered, “But you need to run, Dick. He’s really angry. I told him you weren’t involved—I was stupid and decided to check out a lead undercover without telling anyone, and they found my panic button—but he’s still really mad.”
Really? Dick hadn’t noticed.
He levered up onto his elbows, and it took several stretching moments to recover from the effort. “How long?” Dick asked hoarsely.
Joey was silent. Dick craned his neck, ignoring the unpleasant jolt at having Deathstroke’s face so close to him, and let Joey help him up.
“Long enough,” Joey pronounced finally, but his face was more expressive than Deathstroke’s was, and Dick could see him tiring.
Dick let out a slow breath and hobbled over to half-collapse on the couch next to Joey’s limp body. He wasn’t getting very far, not like this, and it would just be an angrier Deathstroke tracking him down.
“I can’t take you with me,” Dick said plainly. He didn’t think he could lift a bag of flour, much less a limp vigilante.
“I’ll be fine,” Joey snapped, “You need to leave.”
“I’m not leaving you behind,” Dick said, quiet but firm. The rage on Deathstroke’s face…
“He’s my dad, he’s not going to hurt me,” Joey was almost growling, “You on the other hand, he will kill, so you need to leave—”
“Joey,” Dick gave him a level stare. The Titans didn’t leave anyone behind. Joey looked furious, but his control was already slipping, and finally he made a harsh, choked sound before Deathstroke’s face went slack.
Dick curled his fingers into the couch.
There was a stretching second of stillness, and then—“Joey,” Deathstroke growled, low and angry.
Joey tried and failed to get up, and Dick was forced to catch his friend’s arm again. Joey shrugged him off without even looking, signing fast, “Stop. I already told you it wasn’t their fault. You don’t get to take your anger out on a convenient target.”
“It’s not a target of convenience,” Deathstroke’s glare was boring a hole in Dick’s head, “And they didn’t even come for you. What’s the purpose of a team if you’re still left on your own?”
“They didn’t know!”
“That’s even worse,” Deathstroke said flatly, “I found out, and I was half a world away.”
Joey’s expression split to a snarl, “I’m serious. If you go after the Titans, if you hurt Dick, we are done.”
Deathstroke considered him for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was almost…soft. “If it keeps you safe, if it keeps you alive…maybe I’ll pay that price.”
Dick swallowed, tracking escape routes even though it was useless, but Joey—Joey’s expression turned ugly.
“Maybe Mom should’ve finished the job.”
Deathstroke jerked back like he’d been shot, blue eye going wide, and Joey’s expression flickered, anger sputtering and dying to leave shock and guilt. “No,” Joey’s signs were slower, shakier, “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
But Deathstroke was already turning away.
“I didn’t mean it,” Joey signed, eyes wide and shining, to his father’s back, but Deathstroke didn’t stop, walking out of the room and disappearing from sight. “I didn’t mean it,” Joey turned back to Dick, definitely crying now, “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t mean it.”
“Okay,” Dick said quietly, “Okay, Joey, I believe you.” Joey was sobbing, taking heaving breaths, and Dick automatically reached out to pull him into a hug. “It’s okay,” Dick said, wincing as Joey clung to him a little harder than his ribs would’ve liked, “It’s okay.”
Joey pulled back to sign, face blotchy and fingers trembling, “It’s not. It’s not okay. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
Dick darted a glance at the hallway, but there was no mercenary in sight. “Brought what up?” he asked gently. An unpredictable Deathstroke was an even greater threat.
Joey shook his head, swallowing thickly, and brought his hands up again. “After this,” he pointed to the scar on his throat, “Mom was angry. I was hurt. They were arguing, I think, or fighting. I don’t know. Mom—” Joey mimed a gun and pointed it at his right eye.
Dick stopped breathing.
“She was trying to kill him.”
Yeah, Dick figured. There was no way to non-lethally shoot someone in the face. And yet Deathstroke had somehow survived.
“I didn’t mean it,” Joey signed, miserable, and Dick pulled him back into the hug.
He tensed when Deathstroke came back into view, face hard and expression blank. Joey fought free of Dick’s grip, and Dick was forced to help him up before he faceplanted on the ground in his desperation. “I’m sorry,” Joey signed at his father, “Stop, please.”
Deathstroke’s expression was a steel wall. “I called your mother,” he said, tone flat, “She’ll be here before noon to pick you up.” He had a bag slung over a shoulder, and was clearly dressed to leave. “I won’t attack your Tower.” He didn’t spare a single glance at Dick.
“Dad, please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Deathstroke didn’t acknowledge his words, and headed for the door. Joey limped forward to block his path, “Please. Please, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, Dad, please.”
Deathstroke moved to brush past him, but Joey lunged forward and—hugged him. Arms wrapped tight as the awful, choked sounds of Joey’s sobs filled the silence. Dick was frozen in place, utterly helpless, not even daring to breathe too loudly in the fear that it would make things worse.
Deathstroke was also a statue, but he unfroze in inches. First an arm across Joey’s back. Then the other, cradling the back of his head and pressing him closer. Dick almost turned away when the world’s deadliest mercenary bent his head to press a kiss to his son’s hair.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” Joey pulled back to sign, face tearstained, “I don’t want you to die.”
“Okay,” Deathstroke said softly.
“And thank you for rescuing me,” Joey added.
“Always,” and the quiet surety made Dick want to turn away and clap his hands over his ears, or head back to Gotham to give Bruce a hug.
“I’ll call you after Mom comes,” Joey signed with a wobbly smile, wiping at his face, “Stay safe.”
“You too,” Deathstroke instructed, tugging at a lock of Joey’s hair, before Joey stepped aside and they watched the mercenary leave.
Joey sniffed when the door closed shut, wiping at his face again with shaky fingers. “It’s going to be okay,” Dick said quietly, “I’ve said lots of shit to Bruce I didn’t mean. He’s your dad. He’ll forgive you.”
“I still feel awful,” Joey covered his face and sank back down on the couch, “But thanks.”
Dick had to take some slow breaths of his own—this was the second time he’d come close to being killed by the same mercenary, and the second time that Joey had stopped him—and he took a seat next to Joey with a low groan. The adrenaline comedown was going to hit him hard.
“You should probably leave before my mom gets here,” Joey said, eyes slipping to half-closed.
Dick blinked, and considered the new piece of information he’d learned about Adeline Kane. No poking the mama bear it was.
“Why,” Dick groaned as he levered back up again, “Do you have such terrifying parents?”
“Says the son of Batman,” Joey signed without looking, “Or did you forget what happened that time you nearly got crushed by a building?”
Dick growled and stalked out in lieu of acknowledging that Joey might have a point.