Work Text:
1:
The swing is infinite.
The motion yawning until time snaps back into place with the sound of knuckles hitting bone. It wasn't a clean, intelligent spar. That notion had gone out the window the moment you'd feigned injury just to elbow Connor in the face then jam your knee into his groin.
You could take Connor.
Pound for pound.
What you had lacked in raw strength, you made up for with a certain feral quality that told Dick that you were a brawler by nature. The jagged cousin of grace singing in your corded muscles with every blow you two exchanged.
Your clasped hands smash down on the back of Connor's skull and the half-Kryptonian goes down with a resounding thud that rings throughout the team's bones. Connor grabs for your ankle, pulling at it to throw you off balance and possibly crush the bone underneath, but you retaliate by stomping the heel of your foot into the crown of his head. There's another sick wet sound ringing throughout the arena.
The fight, if you can still call it that, is all hard brutality. Your hand threads through Connor's hair, yanking him up and showing off his bloodied face to the braying crowds. With a flick of your wrist, you shift your grip. In the space of a breath, Connor's body is colliding with the impenetrable glass walls of the arena. His head lulls back, consciousness drifting out of reach.
The team holds its collective breath. What else could they do as you stand over their friend while they watch helplessly from their own containers? Dick could hear muffled shouts from the cases around him, the rhythmic pounding of a fist against glass, and a body hitting a surface over and over.
That all goes still though when you bear down menacingly on Connor, a knife sliding into your hand. But before your hand even gets comfortable around the hilt, a hand wraps around your wrist, raising it victoriously. Your shoulders relax. It's only visible to Dick because ... well, Batman training.
You glance furtively behind you and you release a relieved breath.
Dick makes a note.
Even if you turned out to be just another run-of-the-mill villain, that was interesting.
2:
The trident in your hand swishes through the air, bright steel cutting an arc of light that looks like it could slice a man in half. Dick narrowly but gracefully dodges with the appropriate amount of flare as he cartwheels out of reach. For good measure, he throws a few bird-a-rangs which you swat away easily.
Artemis groans and Kaldur shouts at Dick to keep his distance.
Dick knows that and he keeps it in mind as he slides under your trident to close the gap between the two of you. The loud, wet squelch of Connor’s face against glass is still very fresh in everyone’s minds but the lack of proximity is necessary.
Why?
Because you see, Dick is running an experiment.
Is it based on previous quantifiable evidence?
No.
Is it safe?
No?
Is it at all advisable?
Bruce swears Dick is the reason he's getting gray hairs. It definitely has nothing to do with the fact that he risks his life nightly and maybe has the worst choice in partners. Ok, Selina isn't that bad but Talia? B, really?
See, his theory is this: you're one of those people who probably got the wrong career test or something and some how winded up with henchman instead of, he doesn't know, pro-wrestler or something. He's very aware of how specific this is and how nonsensical it sounds. But he sort of figured after they assessed Connor's injuries. Nothing fatal. Just cosmetic. Sort of. Just something he could theoretically survive.
You put some distance between the two of you, jumping back, pivoting, then immediately redirect your attention to one of the metahumans on his team. Making short order of slamming the flat side of your trident against Wally’s stomach, slamming Wally to the ground.
The wood creaks from the force, the weapon splintering from the impact. Wally's on the floor wheezing and you take the opportunity to kick him into Kaldur who falls off-balance.
God, you really are graceful.
Dick shakes the thought out of his head and jumps back into the fray. The dance is chaotic, sprawling with frenetic as you maneuver your way out of their attack, sweeping and slamming the flat head of your trident against their bodies.
Inevitably, your weapon breaks. You hurl the head towards Artemis to pin her hand to the wall then slam your foot into Connor's face who still manages a punch that sends you careening to a wall.
You spit blood and draw yourself up. Your limbs coil, ready to lunge at Connor and return the favor when Dick takes the opening to block your path.
You freeze, catching the kick Dick aims at your side, grunting as you force it down.
You stare at him, human and so very confused. "Oh my god, no," you wince, "I'm not fighting a 10-year-old."
"I am 14," he protests, throwing another punch which is actually just a distraction to latch a (possibly explosive) bird-a-rang to your suit.
You catch his hand and wrench the device out of his hand. You squint at it then at him. "Go home, kid," you sigh and toss the bird-a-rang behind you. You really just called him kid even though you are literally only a year or two older than him.
Dick shifts his posture, tilting his head to the side. "You literally beat a two-year-old in a cage match." Confusion ripples across your features. You look around at them then back at him for clarification. Dick shrugs. "Superboy is technically less than two years old but we round it up to make him feel better."
And huh.
Horror unfurls on your face as your eyes flicker to Connor. Dick takes the opportunity to land a hit on your sternum. You don't block it but you grab the side of his neck and toss him towards them. M'gann is nice enough to catch him.
You and Dick stare back at each other, your face etched with horror. Dick, well, he's positively delighted.
Hypothesis proven.
3:
The plan had gone sideways.
To be fair, he wasn't exactly expecting it to go smoothly but he wasn't exactly expecting it to turn into this .
No matter, this isn't Dick's first hostage situation. It's not even his first time as the hostage. He'll just take comfort in the fact that your plan had gone just as sideways as theirs. That's fair, right?
"Wild seeing you here," Dick says. It engenders a look of mild irritation on your face but there's a familiarity there if not some weird, twisted fondness.
"It's not all that wild," you huff, tightening your arm around him.
Well, that's true. Kind of.
Crush, Wally's voice taunts in the back of Dick's head. Interest, Dick always corrects mildly because he knows if he puts any real heat into it Wally would just tease him more. I mean no matter what tone Dick takes Wally is still on his case about it because Dick keeps volunteering to fight you. And well, ok, it looks like that but that's not it. Not really. He just
knows
you. Well, he knows your type.
It's not a bat thing.
It's ... normal to feel familiar with someone who almost biweekly throws you around like a rag-doll but yanno, does it gently because as Dick had discovered, rather quickly, you preferred not to hurt people excessively. No more than you were required, at least.
That little revelation had left Dick bright, sparkling, and positively evil.
He just honestly thinks you've got potential.
Seriously.
You take a tentative step back as the team closes in on the both of you. M'gann is already phasing through the floor and Wally crouches ready to snatch him away from you the second your grip loosens.
"Could you at least look a little scared?"
Dick glances back at you, feeling you consciously fight the urge to wring his neck. "Why would I do that?"
"Worst hostage ever", you mutter too quietly. He only hears it because you're right by his ear. Now, he has to fight down the urge to laugh.
You hiss and click your teeth. "I'll let you go as soon as your teammates stop following me, yeah?"
Dick glances at you again. Not worried. At all. "They’re following because they care ," he says, drawing out the last syllable. You do a good job of not reacting to that, not rolling your eyes at him and curling your lips. Dick is both impressed and unhappy. "You know you could have tied them up more tightly."
You wince. An expletive is mumbled and well, Dick can't contain his laughter.
You hiss again and cover his mouth. "Your friends can fly, right?"
Dick's answer is muffled by your hand.
In an instant, you pitch him off the side and make a break for it.
As you run, you glance back and you and Dick make eye contact as M’gann catches him.
You let out a relieved breath.
4:
Dick crouches low, avoiding the spinning kick and using the momentum, he concentrates his center of gravity forward and shoves the heel of his palm against your chest. The thump of the impact is loud and palpable. It feels exactly like hitting at post after miscalculating the trajectory of your grappling hook. Your limbs go ice electric cold. Your vision goes white from pain and your hearing rings.
You go down hard, your head replete with freeze frames of the fight. Where you could have aimed a kick, what angle you could have landed a punch when you could have just driven Dick's face into a wall.
Whoever this new Nightwing character is, he packs a punch, you think, picking yourself back up and letting out a shuddering gasp.
Dick winces a little. He may have gotten carried away. An apology burns on the back of Dick's throat but then, you clutch your chest and lower into another fighting stance, shaking the pain out of your body. His tongue prickles with the taste of exhilaration. His entire body thrums with excitement.
You put your hands up in a boxer's stance, rolling your shoulders. Dick perks up. He licks his lips in anticipation and mirrors your posture.
You make a slow stride to the side, circling him. It's strange. It's cautious but not the same kind of careful he's used to. You've always treated him like a nuisance before but this caution is for a threat. That's ... surprising. Maybe it's the new suit.
"You look a little traught, (Y/n)."
Your shoulders drop. "The fuck?" You breathe. You squint at him and your face opens up piece by piece with the realization. "Robin?" Your eyes flicker to search his face and you hiss another expletive. You look him up and down for any sign of robin-ness. Now that you look, you can see it.
It's the same smarmy little bastard but taller? This fucking brat.
Dick makes the first move, throwing wingdings your way.
You duck and weave, launching yourself at him.
"The hell?" You hiss, elbowing him. Your face is flushing something awful right now. You can feel it.
"The heck do you mean the hell?" He says catching you by the wrist.
You scowl at him and grab his shoulder, using it as leverage to pull yourself up and wrap your legs around his neck. "I thought you were dead."
"Isn't that a good thing?" Dick asks, falling back to try and shake you off.
You tighten your thighs around his neck in response. "Fuck, buddy, everyone thought you were dead. They thought I did it. Jesus." There’s a little bit of heat behind the words, almost enough to cover the strange sense of relief you feel.
Dick hears you rambling on but he can't quite bring himself to pay attention. He's ... Well, he's a little distracted. He swears it's by the lack of oxygen and not the fact that he's between your thighs. Fuck, they're very firm though. Dick's face flushes under the domino.
Wally may have been on to something.
It's a little embarrassing when Dick passes out, his vision blotchy and his limbs numb.
You huff, feeling him go limp between your legs, slapping him lightly to check. He could be playing dead or he could actually be dead and you have no fucking clue which would present more problems. You have time to mull it over as you drag him away to somewhere safe and hidden from your colleagues.
When you crouch over him, you smile a little. It's fond and soft and fleeting. You wipe it off the moment you hear someone approaching.
"Welcome back, birdy."
+1:
It's a flurry of limbs and steel, blood and the bitter taste of adrenaline. Deathstroke smashes the hilt of his sword into the side of your head and does it with such force that it sends you careening through a stack of crates containing God knows what and into the concrete wall. The sound of your skull crashing into the hard surface piercing through the air.
"It's not the time to throw a fucking tantrum, kid," Deathstroke says, sheathing the blade.
You turn your head blearily to the kids huddled at the far end of the port. They look so small. The twisting pain in your chest overcomes the possibly serious concussion you have and you spit your reply, in a jagged collection of syllables.
You draw yourself up and crouch low, ready to fight. Flexing your right hand, you wince feeling the dull throb of fire-scorched skin on your right hand. This wasn't how you'd planned your grand betrayal. It wasn't honestly supposed to be a grandstanding sort of even but maybe Robin— Nightwing— Dick Fucking Grayson has rubbed off on you.
Deathstroke clucks his tongue and rolls his shoulders. Shoulders tensing, you feel your fight-or-flight instincts go into overdrive but it only takes a second glance to your side, your eyes catching on the bruises on the kid's faces and hell, now you've really screwed the pooch.
Wiping the blood off your lip, you grin wolfish at the man. "C'mon old man, you didn't think I'd play lackey forever, did you?" You sweep low, the motion beautifully smooth but Slade knows how you operate so he knees in the face. He grabs you by the hair and slams your face to the ground.
The pain comes in waves, overwhelming your neurons. It's tempting to pass out from it. Fuck that. You grab for one of the knives strapped to his leg, driving it into his arm right where the nerve should be.
He draws back with a gasp and you fall to the floor with a laugh. It's wet and sticky from the blood in your mouth but it feels so much like a release.
You brush your hair back and brandish your carnivorous smile, none of that acrid fear on the back of your tongue showing on your face. You can see it irks him maybe even more than the fact you've just inconvenienced him by damaging a nerve. Good.
You scowl and the kids seem to get the hint because they book it somewhere else, maybe somewhere a certain terrible influence is. There's a voice in the back of your head that reminds you that you've never won a fight with Deathstroke. There is no chance in hell you're leaving this fight alive.
Well, you think, at least there's no chance he is leaving this fight with his dignity intact. His dignity for your life? Seems like a fair enough bargain given the situation.
His dignity and the kids' futures, a voice, so very Grayson-like, whispers in the back of your head. You make a disgusted snort. On the off chance, you make it out of this alive, you're going to kill him.
The next few seconds are a blur of movement. Falling back on instinct as you fight down the urge to run. You throw all your weight into your blows but it still feels distinctly like punching concrete. Just like always, you fight raw. You are teeth and fire and blood as you scrape together whatever semblance of fight you have left.
The old man is having more trouble than he's willing to admit. You land blows in quick succession and pull dirty tricks you've learned from friend, foe, and people in between. There is nothing more dangerous than someone with nothing left to lose.
Still, it's not enough.
You're tired from taking down the others and your head is still spinning from the concussion. Both you and Slade can see that. You both know how this fight is going to end.
Dick has a different point of view though.
Dick enters by landing a perfectly executed flying kick to the side of Slade's face.
Naturally.
There's a look of awe on your face and Dick, the showman that he is, can't help but wink at. You dart your eyes away from his face. If Dick were less inclined to memorize your gestures, he would have dismissed it as you simply refocusing on Slade but he is inclined and the smugness that wells up in him is golden.
Months of flirting with you and goading reactions was in fact worth it just to see those little signs of returned affection.
"I hope you don't mind me cutting in," Dick chirps.
You let out an incredulous breath but you smile at him. See, Dick isn't one for puppy love (lies) but that small smile sends him up the air. "Missed me?" He asks, the giddiness pulsing through him loosening his tongue.
"Sure," you say, shaking your head. You turn your attention back to Slade who looks livid but briefly you glance at Dick. "This is all your fault by the way." But before Dick can wring a clarification out of you, you launch yourself at Slade.
Dick huffs, running ahead of you. It occurs to you that you've never seen these two fight. Slade swings at him, his fist like lead, but Nightwing dodges beautifully, an impressive arc of his body into a backflip that he uses to kick the underside of Slade's jaw.
You slide underneath the whole thing and make a grab for one of his other knives. The old man hadn't been stupid enough to leave one of them embedded in your body. He's old but not senile.
Unfortunately for him, you're not stupid either.
You stab him in the side then withdraw the blade, kicking his back once Dick is out of the way. *If* you had the energy, you would gut him just to slow him down. It's not like it would kill him. Still, you're running low and even with Dick's help, you know you need to end this quickly.
You regroup and Dick flicks his eyes towards the crumbling ceiling a few meters away. That would work. Dick slips you one of his wingdings. You take his hands, spinning and flinging Dick towards Slade.
This wasn't the best plan. Admittedly, it was a terrible plan but it's all you had at the moment.
Dick lands flawlessly on Slade's face, using it as a springboard for a flip that lands his heel on top of the man’s head.
There's a tiny bit of hope in you, springing from how much of a joy Nightwing is to witness in a fight.
But there are too many unknowns and too few knowns.
It really was a stupid plan. It relied on Slade being stupid and he certainly isn't that. He sees what you two are going for, lowering his center of gravity and raising his sword above his head. Dick is still midkick, careening towards the path of the blade. What you do next comes to you in quick snapshots.
Your pivot, pushing the full weight of your body forward, knocking Slade out of his stance.
Cold metal tears through flesh. Hot, searing pain cleaves through your shoulder as you both fall to the concrete floor. Tears. Your eyes are leaking from the pain of it. No time for that. You scramble to get up and pin him down, the blade still sawing through your flesh. Your expression as you look down at him is manic with fear. Looks like you were gonna end up dead after all. Good effort, Nightwing, you think.
Slade grabs your face and slams it to the ground. He pushes himself up ready for the killing blow when Dick steps behind him, electrified escrima sticks pressed to Slade's temple.
There's a loud thud near you and in your splotchy vision, you think you see Slade go down.
Huh.
You won.
"What the actual fuck, Wing?"
You side-eye Dick 'they'll be fine with it' Grayson. He ignores you in favor of trying to salvage the situation. You wish him the best of luck because Tigress is not having any of it. It’s impressive that she has a rebuttal for every single one of Dick’s bullshit. Must have had a lot of practice.
You look blearily at the team of heroes surrounding you and wonder how it took them this long to notice you.
“We can trust her.”
“Wing, for the last time, we can’t trust her and we absolutely can’t take her with us back to HQ.”
For the last time.
You are now confused, lost in the middle of a conversation you'd just stumbled upon even though you feel like you'd been part of it longer. That . It's a strange, invasive feeling that makes you irritable and that wasn't ideal when you had multiple flavors of discomfort already whirling around in your head.
“Well, we can’t just leave her to the Light,” Dick bites out.
You reach out and brush your hand lightly on Dick's gauntleted hand. The movement causes everyone to shift into a defensive stance including Dick who steps just a little in front of you. "Dick, it's ok, I get it. I'll just mosey on."
Your face is scuffed up and the skin of your right hand is singed. You can't see it but you can feel the blood leaking down your arm soaking into the fabric of your uniform. It's fine. It's fine. You just very badly want to pass out in a room that isn't a cell. That's all you need.
Everyone stares at you.
You shrink a little under the weight of their attention.
"You know his secret identity and haven't shared it with anyone else?" Connor asks slowly with a brow pitched up almost to his hairline.
There's a tickle of memory there, a vague recollection that it was supposed to be a something. What’s the word? "Yeah," you pause, trying to figure out why this was suddenly so important. "I've known for a little bit..." You give up on trying to guess. "Uh, anyway I can go ..."
There is a palpable shift in the air.
"You're injured," M'gann says slowly, the first to lower her defenses. The others follow suit, still weary but not ready to attack. You tense with the change in the atmosphere but Dick being in your corner puts you a little at ease.
"I'm serious. It's fine. I can—"
"What," Dick says sharply, "are you gonna call an Uber from 10 thousand feet over the Atlantic?"
You wrap your arm around yourself in a gesture that is too vulnerable not to look like you're hugging yourself.
"When we land then," you amend, "I'll—" What can you do? You've just betrayed the biggest crime organization in the world with no plan for the fallout whatsoever. You're scared but you can't find yourself regretting it. Not when you're so sure the kids you rescued are going somewhere safe. "I have a few safe houses," you lie. You try to wrack your brain for any country to disappear to. The concussion is making that very difficult.
"You have one in Bludhaven, right?" Dick suggests, very pointedly.
You nod.
"That's settled," he says, clapping his hand on your shoulder. "If you'll excuse us, (Y/n) is still very much bleeding."
He drags you off to the medbay before anyone can formulate any reasonable argument against it.
You shift uncomfortably like the ground beneath your feet would collapse and given you're on an alien ship the assertion isn't wrong. The sheer discomfort you display in a place Dick would consider safe, and oh God is that rare, feels so wrong.
"Safe houses, huh?"
You wince. "I was a little overwhelmed," you sigh. The heat of embarrassment flourishes over your body.
Dick snorts, "Let's get you whelmed then, yeah?"
"Weirdo," you mutter under your breath but you take the hint and sit down.
It surprises Dick that you don't fight him on treating your wounds like you usually do. Maybe, he reasons, you've had enough fighting for today. What does surprise him is that you know exactly what to do before he instructs you to do it.
"You know how to do this?" He prompts but really he's asking, "Has this happened before?"
"Not him. I—" Breathe. "— Don't worry about it. It's the cost of training ..." You shrink a little knowing how that sounds but you know following it up with "It's ok. My healing factor always keeps me from dying" would only start another argument. A very long, very stale argument that you two have had before.
He was Robin back then. It was weird getting lectured by someone a foot shorter than you.
The conversation turns to silence because neither of you know what to say to make things ok. Not at the moment. You fix your gaze on the door and soak it up.
"I have some safe houses in Bludhaven you can stay in," Dick says, bandaging up your hand. He squeezes your wrist gently to assure you this is a genuine offer.
Your throat is tight. You glance towards him, not his face but more his chest. "You know if I turn out to be what they think I am, you're shit out of luck."
He does this easy one-shouldered shrug. "Lucky, you're not then."
You make an exasperated noise in the back of your throat. "God, you're an idiot."
"Say that to my face," he says and the grin in his voice is so clear and crisp that you feel just a little bit of petty energy flow into your veins. Getting in his personal space, your foreheads pressed together and your lips barely touching. "You're—"
Well, Dick tried.
He really did. He swears by that. Maybe he didn't try that hard but he tried. He leans in, closing the gap, his lips touching yours, taking in the heat of your skin before quickly pulling away.
You gape at him, tripping over thoughts that come too fast for your mouth to shape them into words.
He can't wipe the grin stretching from ear to ear off his face. That time, he can admit, he didn't actually try at all.
"You were saying?"
You bluster and protest about a concussion. Dick is listening but he is definitely glowing in his smugness. "About those safe houses."
You gape at his nonchalance but you're tired and you have never in your life won an argument against Dick. "Fine. Only for a few weeks. Just til I get my feet under me again."
"Alright," he flicks his gaze towards you, "You know they would trust you more if you told them you were our informant."
Your face falls a little. Right. You forgot about that card. You hitch your working shoulder. "Need to know basis."
"Like my name?"
"How do they know I wasn't just calling you a dick?"
Dick hums a little. "You would do that huh."
You smile again. It's that little thing that only lives in the corner of your lips because stretching it more might make it break. "You know me so well."