Chapter Text
Dick paused for a moment to stretch when he landed on the rooftop—it was going to be a long stakeout to uncover the whispers of a new drug operation near the docks. None of it had hit the streets yet, but the rumors didn’t sound good, especially when anything with that kind of money sunk into it usually led back to a culprit in Arkham.
Dick had barely settled into position when the back of his neck prickled. Dick straightened slowly, slipping an escrima stick out of its sheath. There were very few people in the world that could sneak up on him.
Orange and black on the opposite roof. Dick resisted the urge to swear.
“Slade,” Dick said flatly, “I didn’t expect to see you in Gotham.”
There was a burst of static in his comm before Hood’s voice came through, “Excuse me? Did you say Slade?”
“Money calls, little bird,” Slade said, unholstering a gun.
“Nightwing, please tell me that that’s not the goddamn Terminator,” Hood snapped, “Why the hell is he here anyway?”
“What’s your contract?” Dick asked, shifting to the edge of the rooftop and casting a glance at the warehouse he was supposed to be watching. Batman was out on Justice League business, Hood was benched with broken ribs, and Red Robin and Robin were patrolling a stretch on the far side of Gotham because no one was going to make the mistake of leaving Jason and Damian alone together.
It was supposed to be a quiet night. A stakeout, maybe stop a few muggings, but nothing serious. That, Dick realized, was probably exactly what Deathstroke had been banking on.
“Security,” Slade answered easily, “Specifically to keep the Bats away.”
There was a lot of money being sunk into these drugs if they could afford to hire Deathstroke to come to Gotham.
“I’m more of a bird than a bat,” Dick countered.
“I’m well aware,” Slade said, probably smirking behind his mask, “Unfortunately you still fall under mission parameters. Going to stay and fight?”
“Nightwing,” Hood growled, “Get out of there, or I’ll kill you myself.”
Dick bounced up on the balls of his feet and vaulted the distance to the roof of the warehouse. “Now I’m really curious,” Dick said. Slade didn’t pause before he followed, and Dick dodged the first shot. “Who in Gotham has the kind of money to afford you?”
“I don’t ask questions,” Slade growled, and Dick ducked behind the rooftop access shed—Slade would never let him get through the door, which meant he had to find a window. “Are we really going to play this game, Nightwing?”
“Red, Robin,” Hood snapped, having clearly given up on getting Dick to leave, “The docks. Deathstroke’s in town and Dickwing’s about to do something stupid.”
That wasn’t entirely fair. Slade knew he was here, he’d tell his employer that Nightwing had showed up, and their plans of a quiet, discreet stakeout were ruined. Dick was trying to salvage what intel he could before the whole operation jumped to the next level of paranoid.
Dick hooked the grapple on the edge of the roof and swung off of it, holding the line as he rappelled down, looking for a window—the line vibrated and Dick barely caught the edge of a ledge before the line snapped completely.
“Asshole,” Dick snarled up at the black-and-orange mask peering over the edge of the roof, knife in hand. The knife disappeared and was replaced with a gun and Dick scrambled through the window before he was shot.
He didn’t manage to get far—only registered that he was in a file room, the door was on the other side, and dived behind a filing cabinet as he heard the whine of a grapple.
“We both know how this is going to end, little bird,” Slade said, sounding almost bored, “Leave now, and I might not shoot you.”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Dick called out, scaling the next cabinet and clinging out of sight.
“You want my undivided attention, Nightwing, you just had to ask,” Slade laughed and Dick cursed as the cabinets shuddered. He jumped free before they hit the ground, unfortunately leaving him with no cover between him and Deathstroke.
“You get one last chance, kid,” Slade said, raising the gun, “Leave.”
“You hate working in Gotham,” Dick said, edging towards the door, “Last time you were here, you tried to convince me that the city gave you hives.”
“I got hazard pay,” Slade shrugged, “And the Bat isn’t in town.”
Dick dove for the door. Slade shot, missed, and cursed as Dick avoided his lunge enough to twist the knob and dive out into the hallway.
Typical creepy warehouse, Gotham edition. The hallway extended into a series of catwalks over the warehouse floor, where bubbling tanks of an eerie, indigo liquid frothed and hissed. Dick immediately headed for the catwalks—if he could get a sample of the drug—
Slade jumped the railing, easily landing in front of Dick to block his path. Dick drew his escrima sticks, and attacked.
Dick had never won a hand-to-hand fight against Deathstroke, but the point wasn’t winning—Slade was trying to keep him away, Dick was trying to get information, both of them were on a precarious catwalk above chemicals of dubious provenance and if there was one area in which Dick was better than Slade Wilson, it was acrobatics.
Dick leapt up onto the railing, jumped above Slade’s punch, did a handspring just to irritate the mercenary before twisting down in a knife strike aimed at Slade’s feet. Slade stepped back and caught Dick’s next strike, not even flinching at the blow as he stepped into Dick’s space with a vicious elbow at his ribs—Dick nearly bent in half to avoid it, and it still slammed in his side.
Dick moved on automatic, gasping out a wheeze as he twisted, one escrima snapping out at Slade’s neck, the other slamming down on his mask.
There was a sharp crack.
Dick froze. Shit.
Slade very slowly reached up and removed his mask—there was a crack through the one eye hole, rendering it pretty much unusable—before tossing it aside. His face was expressionless, one icy eye narrowed.
“Sorry?” Dick tried.
“Do you know how much it costs to make those masks?” Slade asked, his voice low and steady. Dick edged back a step. Talk, or run?
“Slade, your contracts are worth hundreds of thousands, I don’t—”
Run. The answer was run.
Dick ducked the jab at his face, escrima lashing out, but Slade was faster and—
The escrima hit the floor and clattered off the catwalk to sink into the nearest vat of bubbling chemical. Dick bit through his lip in an effort not to scream.
“Break something of mine,” Slade said coldly, “And I’ll break something of yours.”
Dick exhaled through his mouth and resisted the urge to make a quip, clutching his broken arm to his chest as he staggered back a step.
“Nightwing?” Hood asked slowly, “Status?”
The vat of chemicals hissed. Dick and Slade both turned towards it, just in time to watch the chemicals froth and bubble and release a huge gust of blue fog.
Dick scrambled for his rebreather with his one working arm, squeezing his eyes shut as the haze enveloped the catwalk, holding his breath until colored spots began dancing on the inside of his eyelids and he sank to his knees, unable to suppress the desperate gasp for air.
It smelled like fruit. Something Dick had tried once or twice, tropical perhaps. And the world was shifting around him and his arm was screaming and the blue haze was everywhere and there were shouts in the distance and—
A low, furious growl. A monster stalking out of the mists—towering over Dick, silver fur and a scar slashing through one eye and a face twisted in a snarl to showcase gleaming fangs.
Dick stumbled back in shock and nearly unbalanced—his right arm seared through with agony as he—
No. His right wing throbbed, hanging limp and wrong, and Dick’s startled shout came out as a high squeak.
He swallowed and tried to shift back. Nothing happened. He tried again, but it felt like something was blocking him, walling him off from the part of him that was human, and no matter how hard he pushed, it refused to give way.
A low rumbling that got louder and louder and louder—Dick chanced a glance up—and up, because the artic wolf was terrifyingly large even when he was human and from the owl’s vantage point, it was the stuff of nightmares—to see that Slade was enraged.
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t even be a contest. Dick had seen Slade hunt as a wolf, but as fast as he was, he couldn’t fly. Dick curled his broken wing closer to himself, hopped back a step, and failed to suppress his shudder.
The shouts got closer, accompanied by booted footsteps thundering through the hallways. The blue haze was slowly dissipating and Dick edged another step away from the murderous wolf, calculating the likelihood of gliding with one working wing.
The rumbling cut out. Dick cast a panicked glance at Slade, but it was too late—the wolf attacked, jaws opening wide, and Dick’s frantic flutter only sent him sprawling against the catwalk as the jaws came down and everything went dark.
He couldn’t move his wings. He could barely even twitch them, and his broken wing was folded against him, twisted painfully and stuck there because Dick couldn’t stretch it out a millimeter before it brushed against sharpened canines.
He let out a panicked hoot, and hastily stifled the sound at the growl reverberating through his bones. One instant—one moment of instinct, one deliberate act of cruelty, and teeth would rip through his wings and crush his bones and leave him broken and bleeding in agonizing pain.
He couldn’t even see where they were going. He heard snatches of shouts, he could feel them moving, but the noise lessened, the wolf near silent as it padded through the hallways. Dick heard the soft whine of a door creaking open and the soft click as it closed and—
His cage opened and Dick squawked as he tumbled out onto the ground, feathers almost scraping against pointed teeth as he scrambled not to fall on his broken wing. Dick managed to get his talons on the ground and straighten, woozy from panic and pain.
He gave a soft hoot of surprise at finding the icy blue eye far too close to his face, stumbling back and keeping his broken wing as still as he possibly could. He was tucked in a corner behind a box, a window letting in moonlight behind Slade. Dick saw a path between Slade and the box and hopped towards it.
A paw slammed into the ground in front of him, and Dick froze.
It pushed at him until he was forced back to his position in front of Slade. They were in what was probably an unused storeroom, given the amount of dust in the air, and Dick skittered back a couple of steps the moment Slade removed his paw. He needed to find a way out, had to claw out a window maybe and—
Another paw, cutting off his escape. Slowly tugging at him, claws brushing against feathers, until he was back in front of Slade.
Dick brushed free when the claws were no longer in his vicinity, turning away from Slade as he hopped forward, his broken wing dragging against the ground and—
A limb, laying across his path, claws out.
Dick twisted his head until he could see Slade. The wolf looked amused, baring his teeth in an approximation of a grin. Dick’s feathers flared and he twisted back, jabbing forward with his beak, quick and hard.
The temperature in the room dropped. Dick couldn’t entirely hide his whimper as the paw disappeared from sight, blood glistening on silver fur. He tucked his head under his unbroken wing as he heard the wolf move, waiting for a paw to slam into his side hard enough to send him across the room—or claws to rake down his wings—or—
Or jaws closing around him, teeth biting down with a warning growl as darkness enveloped him, warm and wet and—
The jaws loosened. Dick was back in his original position, tucked away in the corner, with Slade barring his path. A heavy paw landed on his head, not enough to hurt, but claws out as a warning.
Stay. Slade’s meaning was very clear.
Dick gave a quick bob of his head, his wings twitching as he sucked in a sharp breath, trembling in place. The paw was removed and Slade regarded him for a long moment before apparently deciding that Dick wasn’t going to move.
The wolf stood up—Dick had never really registered how massive he was, how one paw was practically the size of Dick’s head—and padded over to the window, jumping up enough to peer out of the glass. Dick wasn’t sure who or what he was looking for, but wasn’t inclined to test Slade’s patience when the wolf had about two hundred pounds on him and was clearly not in a good mood.
He tried to shift back again, and ran headfirst into the mental wall. Though if Slade was still affected, then the effects were going to last for quite some time.
The wolf abruptly turned away from the window and back towards him—Dick hopped back a step, his heartrate ticking up, but Slade barely even noticed, jaws yawning wide again.
It didn’t matter how slowly, deliberately, or gently he closed his jaws, Dick was still stuck inside a wolf’s mouth and it was taking all his now-ragged self-control not to start desperately crying out for help.
His broken wing was pinned underneath him and jolted unpleasantly with every stride as Dick’s thundering heartbeat echoed in his ears. Dick lay tense and still, dread twisting inside of him every time the sharp edge of a canine brushed against a delicate feather. Dick had no idea how a gigantic silver wolf was managing to sneak through the warehouse, but there wasn’t a single shout of alarm as he weaved through the hallways.
Dick didn't know where Slade was taking him—their fights usually ended more with bruises than with severe bodily injury, but Slade was a mercenary. He worked where the money took him, and Dick had no illusions that if the pay was good, he’d put a bullet in Nightwing’s skull without a second thought. Was Dick being dragged to whoever was running this operation—a test subject for their new drug, or a warning to scare the Bats away?
One set of fears was soothed by a harsh, mechanized voice, “Let him go, or I’ll take out your other eye.”
Hood was supposed to be at home, the reckless little—
“Do you think I’m fucking joking?”
Dick held his breath. Slade did not take kindly to ultimatums, and Dick was still locked in the grasp of very sharp teeth, fully aware of how easy it would be for Slade to snap—
Honestly, Dick half-expected Slade to spit him out, and had been mentally preparing for the burst of agony of his broken wing slamming into gravel. Instead, Slade’s head lowered and his jaws opened, slow enough for Dick to regain his feet before Slade let go and stepped back.
The docks were cold and Dick shivered in the sudden chill, his wings flaring. His shift was still blocked, and he wasn’t pleased—he was wet and cold and his broken wing hurt and he’d just spent the last several minutes being almost eaten. Footsteps came closer and Dick let out an unhappy screech before a gloved hand scooped him up, tucking him against warmth and a familiar scent.
Dick burrowed further into his brother’s jacket and shivered, feeling Jason’s heartbeat pulse under his feathers.
“If you shoot me, I’m going to have to shoot you,” Slade rasped and Dick twisted to see him standing on two feet, gun out. “Leave. Take the little bird back to its nest and wait for the drug to wear off.”
Jason hesitated, very clearly torn between getting Dick back home and shooting Slade on principle.
“I’m being paid to keep you away, not to fight,” Slade said, regarding them coolly, “Go home, kid.”
Dick made a soft, unhappy sound, and Jason’s grip tightened. Dick was half-worried Slade would make a smart comment as Jason lowered his gun, but the man managed to restrain himself to a smirk.
“Robin, Red, I have Nightwing, I’m heading back to the Cave,” Jason muttered into his comm as he backed away to his bike. Slade watched them leave and made no attempt to stop them. Dick buried his head into Jason’s jacket and let out a low, shaky exhale.
“Jesus Christ, N, I told you to stay away,” Jason hissed as he tried to tuck Dick into a small bag without aggravating the broken wing. Dick made an angry hoot and jabbed the armor right below where he knew there were several broken ribs. “Oh, don’t talk. I wouldn’t have had to come out if you didn’t decide to piss off the fucking Terminator.” Dick made a soft, indignant sound. “No, I don’t care that he hasn’t killed you yet, it’s like a cat playing with a mouse. He’s going to pounce one day.”
Dick knew that.
It ended up being five hours laid up on the bed, struggling to breathe through the pain of a broken wing, before the mental wall vanished and Dick could finally shift back.
His whole body was sore, his arms and legs were covered in thin scrapes, and Dick nearly threw something at Jason when his brother slowly straightened out the broken arm.
“This happen before or after you shifted?” Jason asked.
“Before,” Dick hissed, covering his face with a hand to hide his wince, “I broke Slade’s mask. He wasn’t pleased.”
Jason made a low grumble as he splinted the arm, of which Dick only recognized ‘eye’ and ‘shoot’.
“The drug,” Dick said wearily, “It forced us to shift. It was in the air. Blue. I’ll look at a color chart later.”
“Tim already took blood samples, remember? He’ll figure out what it is. You need to rest.” Jason pushed Dick back against the bed and Dick let him, sprawling boneless as the painkillers finally kicked in.
His phone chimed on the bedside table and Dick blearily hunted for it, squinting at the screen and hazily unlocking it.
A text from an unknown number.
‘Next time you break it, you buy it.’
Dick felt his lips twitch, and managed to fight the haze of the painkillers long enough to send a response.
A grumpy wolf emoji, a pirate emoji, and a single word.
‘Thanks.’
No reply. He wasn’t expecting one.