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Slade got wind of the contract via a message from Wintergreen. Offered by the Red Hood—apparently a new drug lord in Gotham, god, everyone had to have a gimmick there. Slade studied the red helmet—on one hand, it was a solid choice of headgear. On the other hand, it was red.
Target was Nightwing. Contract was a cool half million.
Slade groaned out loud. What had the kid done now?
There were no other specifics, and Slade tapped out an irritated message thanking Wintergreen for the heads-up as he accepted the contract. The client contacted him near-immediately. At least he didn't like to waste time.
The message was simple: 'Nightwing has been interfering in my business. I want him to be taught a lesson. No permanent damage, no death.'
Short and sweet. Plenty of takers for half a million, though whether anyone could actually fill it would be the question. Nightwing was pretty slippery, if Hood hadn't figured that out already. No doubt this would just make the kid go harder at whatever operation Hood was running. Ah, they'd learn eventually.
Slade typed out a confirmation.
'Half now,' the client responded, 'Half when I get photo proof.'
Slade typed his agreement to that too, and soon two hundred and fifty grand was sitting in his bank account. Slade closed his phone, and headed to Bludhaven.
He managed to get there five hours later, on the cusp of sunset, and scaled the side of Dick's apartment building, easily letting himself in through the window. He could hear humming from the kitchen, and stalked there on silent feet. Dick was half-dancing in place as he stirred a pot of something on the stove, and Slade leaned against the kitchen doorway. He didn't have to wait for long.
"Slade," Dick said—presumably catching sight of him in the reflection of the pot, "This is a surprise. I didn't know you were in town." He twisted in place, giving Slade a smile, "Did I finally manage to catch you for dinner? My stew isn't that spicy."
Slade could smell the unholy abomination of spices and he very much doubted that.
"Here on business, kid," Slade said flatly. The smile sharpened, and Dick abandoned the pot to get closer. Slade wordlessly offered him the phone, contract detailed on the screen.
Dick tensed automatically as he read the lines—the initial contract, the specifics, Slade's acceptance. He looked up at Slade, studying his face for a long moment, before deliberately relaxing and leaning against the table. A languid posture that was all Nightwing.
"Well, this certainly is exciting," Dick said, blue eyes sharp, the ghost of a smile on his face, "Did you come here to teach me a lesson, Slade?"
Slade snatched his phone back. "I came," Slade said flatly, "Because you're an idiot that never stops throwing yourself into danger, and you never watch your back."
Dick snorted, and turned away, back to the pot on the stove. He turned the flame down, until it was at a simmer, and twisted his neck to peer at Slade over a shoulder. "But you do such a good job of watching it for me," he grinned.
"Grayson."
"Alright, alright," Dick hopped up onto the table, instead of taking one of the actual chairs. "Any idea on how to play this?"
Slade glowered harder, "No."
"Who's the client? I've pissed off so many people, it's getting hard to keep track."
"The Red Hood." Dick stilled at the name, a strange expression coming over his face. "Ring any bells?" Slade asked, watching him carefully. He could see Dick's mind working behind the faintly unfocused blue eyes, cataloguing something as he stayed silent. His gaze finally sharpened again, and Slade could see Dick studying him, clearly deciding whether to reveal the information or not.
Dick sighed. "Bruce has a...theory on who the Red Hood actually is," he said slowly. His expression twisted as he stared at the phone, mentally chewing it over.
"And? What does it matter?"
Dick stayed silent for a long, stretching moment before he exhaled. "You remember Jason?"
"Your brother?" Slade asked slowly. The dead one? he didn't say. What would a dead Robin have anything to do with a crime lord—
The Red Hood.
A Robin murdered at the Joker's hand.
"Batman thinks this is—"
"Yup."
"But isn't he—"
"I know."
Slade looked at Dick. At the way he was holding himself a little too tightly, and blinking just a little too fast. "He have some kind of evidence, or...?" Slade trailed off, unable to find a delicate way to ask 'why would he think that the Red Hood is his dead son come back to life?'.
"Nothing concrete," Dick said, clearly displeased with the subject, "But, just—moves he knows. The way he talks. His vendetta seems...personal."
"Why would your little brother put a contract on your head?" Slade asked. He didn't remember a whole lot about the second kid in the traffic light suit, but he'd heard the way Dick talked about him, and the Jason Todd he'd described wouldn't have shelled out half a million to order an assault on Nightwing.
"...He said no permanent damage?" Dick tried. Slade flicked his forehead for that, and Dick gave him a dark look, rubbing the mark.
"Undead brother or not, it's still a problem. I can withdraw from the contract, and you can probably fend off any other takers, but if Hood is escalating, it's not going to stop."
"You don't have to withdraw the contract," Dick said, lost in thought again, "This—this is an opportunity. Bruce hasn't been able to manage to get at Hood. And here we are."
"An opportunity to get at Hood? He wants to see you black-and-blue, and I'm not talking about your uniform."
"Hood's angry," Dick said slowly, "We know he's angry. But...predictable. He's set himself up in Crime Alley, and he expects them to follow his rules." Something slow curved along Dick's lips.
"You have an idea."
Dick turned that smile on him, and Slade almost shivered. It was all Nightwing, dangerous and sleek and calculating.
"Great," Slade exhaled, "I'm not going to like this part, am I."
"Oh no," Dick said, still smiling, "You're going to like it. A lot."
"If you're wrong, a drug lord has blackmail on Nightwing. If you're right, your little brother is going to try to murder me."
"Shut up and send the goddamn photo, Slade."
Jason was in the middle of plotting out an attack on Black Mask's latest shipment when his phone dinged. He absently unlocked it, still planning his entry method, the likely number of guards, how many thugs he could take out with a few well-timed blasts—
It was Deathstroke. Jason grinned behind the helmet. It had been only nine hours, the man worked fast.
'Contract completed' was the message, followed by a picture attachment. Jason waited for it to load—Nightwing had been a fucking pain in his ass the past week, and while he had special plans for Batman and the Replacement, he was willing to outsource Nightwing's pain. Deathstroke had a great reputation, and Jason was willing to fork over a half million to make...
Nightwing...
Pay...
For a long moment, he didn't know what he was looking at. There was just—too much, too many things to focus on, he kept—he hadn't been expecting this—what the hell was this—
Black and blue—tattered, but the pattern of Nightwing's costume was still recognizable. The mask. The—the—
Jason fumbled at his helmet and tore it off, gagging as more and more details of the picture registered. He couldn't—that wasn't—
Nightwing's mouth, lips bitten bloody, open in a scream.
The tear tracks on his face, gleaming in the low light.
The bruises, the pattern of fingers around his neck, the—the fucking bite marks visible through the tears in the uniform.
The sticky shine of fluids Jason absolutely did not want to identify.
The cuffs twisting arms painfully far, shackled to opposite posts of the bed, wrists red from how desperately he was straining against them.
The bottom half of his uniform was gone completely, spread thighs decorated with red-raw impact lines of what had to be a goddamn cane—
The way the picture was perfectly angled to highlight the escrima stick shoved up his ass.
Jason didn't lose his dinner, but he spent several seconds bent over, face pressed to his knees, taking shuddering breath after shuddering breath as he tried to block it out. No. That wasn't real. That couldn't—Jason had never asked for—he said no permanent damage.
Rape's not permanent damage, something insidious whispered, and Jason felt sick to his core.
Dick was—Dick was crying.
Jason hadn't—he'd never thought—he just wanted Dick out of his way—
The phone vibrated again, and Jason blindly fumbled for it—if it was another photo—and saw that Deathstroke wasn't done.
'I can turn it back on,' the next message said.
Typing...
Typing...
'If you want to hear him scream.'
Jason slammed out a 'no' before he could do something incredibly stupid, like shoot his phone. He took a shaky breath and typed out 'that's sufficient'. Fuck. Fuck.
He wanted to curl up into a ball. He wanted to scream. He wanted to—
'My payment?' Deathstroke asked.
Jason saw green. Oh, Deathstroke would get his payment alright. Courtesy of a bullet to his head. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths, and tried not to puke. He could see Dick's tears every time he closed his eyes. 'Cash,' he typed out, 'Two hundred fifty, as agreed. You can pick it up in Gotham. Two hours.' Not enough time to get everything set up, but Jason could barely hold onto to coherence amidst howling rage. He typed out the address, and started going over his inventory.
Deathstroke's healing factor was going to be a problem, as much as Jason wanted to go slow, wanted to take his time—he was better off aiming a rocket launcher at the mercenary and firing the moment he was in range. Jason could rig the warehouse to explode—let Deathstroke try to come back from that.
'My associate will be there to pick it up.'
Jason punched the table—the burst of pain cleared the haze, but did nothing against the ripping-tearing-screaming inside his heart. He began typing an argument—no, Deathstroke was going to come in person, so Jason could tear him to pieces—but stalled. The mercenary would get suspicious if Jason kept changing the terms.
He settled on a bland confirmation.
If Deathstroke trusted this associate with two hundred and fifty grand, then Jason could break him for information, find out where the mercenary was hiding, and put several bullets through his skull.
And find out where Dick was.
Jason was forced to open the picture back up again, searching for clues—the bed was large, and it didn't look like cheap hotel room trash. Dick would've—Dick would've broken the posts in that case, instead of turning his wrists red. Jason could catch only half a dresser, and there was nothing on it.
Which meant that Deathstroke had him. Probably in the same safehouse he was holed up in. Which meant that Dick was still there, still chained to the bed, still—still in pain, even if Deathstroke had stopped hurting him—
There was nothing stopping Deathstroke from continuing. It could even be why he was too busy to come in person, he could be hurting Dick right now. Jason almost pulled up the messages to demand Deathstroke let him go—and stalled again.
Fuck. That would be suspicious too. Jason took a ragged breath, and buried his head in his hands. His cheeks were wet. He didn't know when he'd started crying, but there was a lump in his throat and Dick was screaming, ragged sobs and choked-off whimpers, and the dull whine of the escrima, the one he'd heard so many times before—
He was going to stick Deathstroke's head on a pike.
He needed to find out where Deathstroke was, and where Dick was, if they weren't in the same place. He went through his inventory almost on autopilot, organizing his tools in order of use because he knew that the green would take over the moment he set eyes on Deathstroke's 'associate', and he had to get the information out before killing him.
He couldn't fail. Not again. Not—he never thought he had to specify—he'd known that Deathstroke had some fucked-up thing for Dick, and clearly the monster had taken the opportunity handed to him.
The opportunity Jason had handed him.
No—no, he'd never meant to—he hadn't—all your fault, his mind hissed at him, slow and vicious, and he could hear Deathstroke laugh as Dick writhed on the bed, and it was high and ringing and—
He had to calm down. He had to—he needed to kill Deathstroke. He needed to find Dick, to get him free, to—what was he even going to say, how could he even look his brother in the face after—after what he did to him, how could he even begin to apologize? Dick would hate him for the rest of his life—and Jason had thought that Dick had already hated him, but that paled in comparison to the dark, distant way Dick would look at him now.
Jason had become the Red Hood to make Batman pay, to show him that he'd failed Gotham, to clean up the streets his way—and in return, he'd become nothing better than every Rogue before him.
He crumpled to his knees and began to sob.
By the time the meeting time rolled around, Jason had managed to compose himself. For a given definition of compose—red-rimmed eyes were concealed behind the red helmet, hitched breaths translated to crackles through the voice distorter, and he kept his twitching finger off the trigger of the gun.
Banking down the green was the most difficult thing he'd done since waking up in a Lazarus Pit, but if Jason lost both Deathstroke and Dick because he ended up killing the only link to them, he would never forgive himself.
Patience, he begged the fury howling inside of him, thick with rage-guilt-what-have-I-done. He couldn't mess this up. He couldn't.
Fuck Black Mask, fuck Batman, fuck the Replacement, fuck the—the Joker. His priority was Dick.
He paced in front of the table—the tools were hidden inside a briefcase. The chair was pushed against the table, cuffs not visible from the front door. He knew that anyone Deathstroke trusted with his money would be unlikely to give him up. Would be terrified of giving him up. Jason just had to make them see that it wasn't Deathstroke they had to be afraid of. They could choose the mercy of a quick death, or suffer all the ways in which Jason could be creative when his family was on the line.
The door opened, directly on time. Jason turned to face the newcomer as they walked inside, slow and unhurried—he would be calm, he wouldn't let the green take control, he would be—
Blue eyes shone under a knit cap tugged over dark locks, and the scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face wasn't enough to hide the familiar features.
What. The everloving. Fuck.
Jason blinked, as if that would make the image change. It didn't.
"Mr. Hood," chirped a familiar voice, a voice that Jason kept hearing screaming. "I'm here for Deathstroke's payment?"
Jason wondered if he'd hit his head in the morning. Maybe he'd never put out a contract. Maybe Deathstroke had never attacked Dick. Maybe Dick wasn't standing in front of him in the most barebones disguise Jason had seen, blinking at him like Jason didn't have a photo of him tied down and crying.
"Mr. Hood?"
Jason had admittedly not given the photo much scrutiny. It had definitely looked like Nightwing at his horrified glance, but—but maybe it was a lookalike? Could anyone fool Deathstroke? Did Dick give up the suit? But then what was Dick doing here? Was he working for Deathstroke?
"Hello? Mr. Hood?"
Jason jolted, and aimed the gun at the stranger. At—no, it didn't make any sense, it couldn't be Dick. Because if it was Dick, then the person in the picture couldn't be Dick, and—
And it didn't matter. Whoever the person in the photo was, Jason had paid for their rape and torture, and he had to free them.
"Move," Jason said, gesturing roughly with the gun. The blue-eyed man raised his hands in casual surrender, and followed Jason easily. He made no comment about being forced into a chair, though Jason caught the flash of a wince across his face. He stayed silent as Jason clicked the cuffs closed around gloved wrists, and merely examined his new jewelry as Jason stepped back.
"Well," he said, "This is a surprise."
Jason reached out and roughly hauled the scarf down, revealing the man's features. That was—that was definitely Dick.
Unless he'd been cloned? If Deathstroke had a clone of Dick Grayson working for him, then that was—that was worse than everything Jason had been imagining so far, oh god, now he really was going to puke.
"Is all this necessary?" maybe-clone-Dick asked, blinking at him, "I'm just here for the money."
"There is no money," Jason growled, forcing out as much malice as he could in his tone.
"Really?" maybe-clone-Dick was too calm. Jason didn't like it. "That's a shame. Deathstroke isn't going to be pleased."
"Deathstroke's going to be dead when I'm done with him," Jason hissed, and grabbed the first tool—pliers—before stalking closer. "Where is he?"
"Why do you want to know?" clone-Dick asked, leaning away from the pliers as Jason got closer. His tone didn't betray any unease.
"Because he screwed up a contract," Jason snapped, before freezing. The high collar of the man's shirt had ridden down when he tilted his head back, and Jason could see finger-shaped bruises on his neck.
Dick's expression twisted all the way to a grin. "Oh, Little Wing," he said softly, "I didn't know you cared."
Jason's mind stopped working. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't—incomprehensible incoherence filled his senses as too many questions jostled for position.
Dick just watched him, smile soft and sad and a tiny bit hopeful. The hope was salt over the open wound that was his heart.
"The fuck," Jason managed to force out.
Dick shrugged his shoulders back, relaxing slightly. "It was kind of rude to send Deathstroke after me," Dick scolded gently, like—like Jason didn't get a fucking picture of him brutalized and crying and tied to a bed and—and Deathstroke said he'd screamed—
"The picture," Jason croaked out, because he couldn't have hallucinated that, it was seared into his mind, far too vivid to be a hallucination.
"Slade has opinions on light and shadows and camera angles," Dick said conversationally, "You don't even want to know how long it took before he had a photo he was satisfied with."
No. No, Jason did not want to know. Jason very much did not want to know. Jason—Jason didn't understand, how was Dick here? Had he escaped? Had he—had he found out about the meetup and wanted to confront Jason in person? And how was he so goddamn confident it was him, Jason knew he'd been dropping clues, but Dick was talking to him like they were brothers.
"You were—you were cuffed—you were—you—Deathstroke—"
Dick took pity on him. "I've been sleeping with Slade for almost a year now," he said gently, "Usually we use rope, but Slade decided that the handcuffs were a better artistic choice."
Artistic choice. For the photo. The photo of Dick screaming and crying and tortured—except the Dick in front of him was calm and composed, and Jason couldn't quite reconcile the two.
"He didn't hurt you?" Jason asked, and he couldn't name the feeling welling up inside of him, but it was overwhelming him, and he felt like he was clinging to a raft in the midst of a raging ocean.
"Well, he hurt me a little," Dick said slowly, "But that's because I wanted him to."
It crashed into him, and Jason barely managed to catch the edge of the table before his legs gave out entirely. His gasping breaths sounded like mechanical wheezes and he was trembling all over and—and it didn't matter, none of it mattered because Dick was okay.
Dick wasn't tied up and being tortured. Dick wasn't scream-sobbing in agony. Dick wasn't looking at him with wide, distant eyes, empty of anything but dull hate.
"Jason?" Dick called softly, and it drew him back.
He couldn't—Dick was in a relationship with Deathstroke? With a man that had sent him a picture like that—and Dick had been bruised all over, and clearly in tears—and casually threatened to make him scream?
"The escrima," Jason gasped out, because he couldn't forget—
Dick's expression twisted up to one part embarrassment two parts judgement. "Kink-shaming, Jaybird, really?" he chided lightly.
Oh god. Oh god. Jason had not wanted to know that. He was never going to be able to look at Nightwing's escrima sticks again.
He half-collapsed against the table, still shivering, but he could breathe again, the knot in his chest slowly loosening. "Deathstroke?!" Jason wheezed, trying to accommodate he's a mercenary and are you fucking serious and you let him tie you up in one strangled word.
"We can continue to talk about my sex life, or we can talk about how you're alive," Dick said, glancing around them and lingering on Jason's helmet, "And apparently a drug lord now."
Jason was very much okay with a topic change, he could not deal with that particular revelation right now—Dick is okay and I didn't get him hurt were the only two things he could focus on—but in the wake of relief flowed the echo of green.
Batman—the Replacement—the Joker—make them all pay.
"No," Jason said abruptly, straightening up. He wasn't going to talk about it. He wasn't—he could leave Dick out of this, he couldn't—he couldn't hurt him, not with the terror and horror of the last two hours seared into his head, but Dick wasn't hurt, and Jason wasn't going to let him stop his plan.
"Jason—"
Jason took a step back. "Not having this conversation," Jason said louder, "And fuck you for letting me think you'd been tortured."
A part of his mind pointed out that if Deathstroke had not been sleeping with his target, then that was exactly what would've happened to Dick. Jason told that part of his mind to shut up.
"Jaybird, you can't just run away—"
"I can, actually," Jason said, turning away, "I can just leave you cuffed to that chair and walk out. I'm sure you can get out by yourself."
A beat of silence.
"You're right. Slade's hanging around here somewhere, I'm sure he can help me out."
God-fucking-dammit.
Jason twisted on his heel and snarled at Dick's shit-eating grin as he stalked back. He unlocked the cuffs quickly, and stepped back to flee.
Dick lunged forward before Jason could jerk back, and his brother wrapped his legs around him, fingers searching for the latches of the helmet. Jason staggered back and tried to pry Dick's hands away, but the helmet came off first.
Jason met Dick's gaze, completely unobstructed, for the first time in years. "Little Wing," Dick said softly, one hand against Jason's cheek, eyes glimmering with tears—and slumped against him, burying his face against Jason's neck and clinging to him like a koala. "You're alive," came the hoarse gasp and Jason could do nothing but hold his brother as he cried.
Jason blinked furiously—his eyes were beginning to prickle again—and tried to pretend that the weight of Dick in his arms, alive and well and whole, wasn't immensely reassuring. He failed miserably, and squeezed Dick closer.
The gasping breaths stuttered, and Jason reluctantly drew back. "You don't need to cling to me like a monkey," he grumbled.
"You're—you're the perfect height," Dick managed between hiccups, "B—B stopped giving me piggyback rides when—when I was sixteen."
"Can't you walk?" Jason snapped back.
Dick was conspicuously silent for a stretching moment. "It's a little uncomfortable to walk right now," he admitted.
Green gnashed its angry teeth. Murder Deathstroke moved right back onto his priority list. Jason couldn't believe that no one had tried to stop Dick from getting into bed with one of the world's most dangerous mercenaries. Did Bruce even know?
Well, if he didn't, Jason was going to make absolutely sure that he did.
Getting Jason to come back to the Cave had gone smoothly after that. He had glanced suspiciously at all the nearby vantage points when he led Dick out of the warehouse, but Slade was nowhere to be found. Dick knew he was watching somewhere—that had been the compromise when Dick had suggested walking into a warehouse alone to meet the Red Hood—and Dick flashed a quick hand signal behind his back as Jason fiddled with the motorcycle.
All clear.
Dick couldn't even put a name to how deliriously happy he was. He'd suspected—and those tense seconds after they sent the photo, waiting for a response, wondering if they'd have to get Oracle to scrub the photo before anyone else got their hands on it, and gods had that been embarrassing to contemplate—and Hood's sudden shift after the photo had suggested—
But Dick hadn't known for sure until Hood had done a double-take when he first spotted Dick.
And now they were in the Cave, and Jason was coming home, and—and riding on a motorcycle had been a bad idea, but Dick managed to not hobble too much as he tugged Jason into the Cave proper.
Bruce was standing at the Batcomputer, expression rigidly controlled but surprise evident—Dick hadn't managed to fire off a warning, and Dick entering in civilian clothes, followed by the Red Hood—
Then Jason took off his helmet, and surprise turned to stunned shock.
"Jason," Bruce said, sitting down heavily in the chair. There was a big difference between suspecting that a murderous crime lord might be your undead son, and seeing said child for the first time in four years. Jason's steps stuttered, and Dick gently nudged him forward again. "What—how—you're—you're here—"
Jason froze, and even Dick's elbowing couldn't get him to budge. He'd gone pale, swallowing thickly as he stared at Bruce. Bruce wavered in place, clearly torn between staying where he was and getting closer, and Dick linked his arm with Jason's, providing support and also making sure his little brother didn't get the chance to run away.
Jason opened his mouth, clearly hesitant, and inhaled shakily. "Dick's fucking Deathstroke," he said.
Dick froze. Bruce stared at Jason, and then at Dick, clearly blindsided and struggling to switch tracks.
"For almost a year," Jason said, and Dick had forgotten that one of the parts of having a little brother was the desire to strangle them.
"What?" Bruce said, still staring at Jason but pausing to shoot Dick increasingly confused and suspicious looks.
"And you don't even want to know what he does with his—" Dick squeezed his arm in warning, but Jason stuttered to a halt before the correction, finally registering the very curious fifteen-year-old standing behind Bruce.
The Cave hung in a growing awkward tension.
"I see you got a new kid," Jason said with artificial brightness, untangling his arm from Dick's and pushing him into the path of Bruce's stare. "We'll just get acquainted while you and Dick have a conversation." Jason gave Bruce a wide berth before grabbing Tim and tugging him towards the stairs. Tim blinked at them, letting himself be dragged away. "Come on, kid, you can find Alfred for me. You like snickerdoodles?"
"Yes?" Tim replied hesitantly, following after Jason.
"Fantastic. I need something to forget this night ever happened."
"But—"
"We don't want to be there for that discussion, trust me."
Bruce watched his formerly dead son disappear up the stairs with his newest ward, and slowly turned back to face Dick.
"Deathstroke," he said flatly.
Dick really, really didn't want to have this conversation with several bruises peeking out from his collars and cuffs.
"Jason's alive," he said, forcing a smile to his face, "And he's home! And he's the Red Hood, but we can deal with that later. We don't want to miss the cookies."
"Dick—"
"Look, Slade isn't here right now, but Jason certainly is. Are you going to let him leave without talking to him?"
Bruce's face shifted into alarm, like he hadn't even considered that Jason wasn't here to stay. Attention successfully distracted. Dick grinned in victory.
He would have to make sure to swipe a few cookies for Slade.