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Slade can be a patient man, and something this important calls for patience. Weeks turn into months before Nightwing is spotted in Gotham, and still Slade waits. Waits for the wayward bird to stray far from home, yet again.
He can accept that the Titans didn’t kill Grant. Grayson would have told him anything, did tell him anything, and there was no reason for the hero to hold out.
But that doesn’t mean Slade is done with him.
And eventually, Nightwing swings out over Bludhaven and Slade books an express ticket.
Someone lands behind Dick and he spins, ducking low. Bludhaven crime has been slow, and Batman and Robin come out a few times a month with him, but he’s still a little jumpier than he’d prefer. But what happened is behind him, and—
Deathstroke stands behind him on the roof. Dick’s mouth instantly goes dry. He stares blankly at the monster that haunts his dreams.
“Hello, Nightwing,” Deathstroke says, and deliberately curls the fingers on his right hand.
Dick’s eyes flick from Deathstroke’s hand to his face, back to his hand, and he’s off the rooftop before he’s made a conscious decision to run. There’s no crack of a gun behind him, but Dick tries to be unpredictable all the same.
But when he glances back, the mercenary has vanished, and doesn’t seem to be following him. It’s not enough. It’s Deathstroke. Dick—Dick can’t go to his apartment, because the man surely knows where it is, and Dick can’t—he won’t—
He’s back in Gotham in less than an hour. He doesn't take anything from his apartment.
Slade’s never felt a strong drive as an alpha. Adeline was an alpha, and the two of them met each other on even footing on every battleground. He enjoys being with omegas, certainly, but he’s never felt like a pull like this.
Grayson’s caramel scent has lingered with him since that day, the feeling of his body pressed against Slade’s, and when he turned and ran—
Well, he shouldn’t run from a predator.
Dick doesn’t tell Bruce and Jason why he’s in the Manor, but Dick isn’t the only one to have seen Deathstroke that night in Bludhaven.
“You don’t have to go back,” Bruce says, and Dick doesn’t meet his eyes.
He could stay in Gotham, in the Manor, knows Bruce and Alfred and Jason all want him to stay. But he can’t live his life in fear, can’t give in, can’t let the memories overwhelm him.
“I have to go back,” Dick whispers, staring at his hands that now ache in cold weather.
“It’s not safe,” Bruce argues.
Dick can’t stop a snort. “Nothing we do is safe,” he points out.
“What will you do if he comes for you again?” Bruce wants to know.
It’s Dick’s darkest fear, that Slade isn’t done with him. That Slade wants to hurt him more for Grant’s death, intentional or not. That Slade—
“He let me go,” Dick says, trying to convince both of them. “And he didn’t even chase me in Bludhaven. He was just…being an asshole.”
The conversation doesn’t end there, and wouldn't end at all in Bruce’s mind until Dick agreed to move home or at least to Gotham.
“I’ll wear the damn tracker!” Dick finally shouts at him. “But I am not staying here!”
And he doesn’t. When Deathstroke is seen in the Middle East, Dick makes himself go back. His apartment is untouched; the only scent present is Dick’s. Bruce also comes back with him, upgrades his security, and when construction starts the next week Dick is pretty sure Bruce bought the entire building.
He should be angry, should be outraged, offended, but it makes him feel safe to have an alpha caring for him like that. To have Bruce caring for him, when he thought he’d lost that forever.
Slade vanishes into the background. He returns to Bludhaven, but doesn’t confront Grayson. Instead, he studies him, more than he had before. Now, instead of deciding how to take him down, Slade is looking at his body with increased interest.
The flexibility. The strength in him, even though he’s an omega. The drive to work all day and go out at night, and even Slade isn’t quite sure when the little bird sleeps.
The thought of all that bent to Slade’s desire, submitting to Slade in the way an omega should submit to an alpha. After all, it wasn’t hard once Grayson was in heat to get the acrobat begging.
Rape is a poor torture tool in Slade’s opinion. It’s often expected, and it’s easy to throw up a mental defense against. He would never stoop to something that plebeian in an attempt to get information.
But to take what he wants for sheer pleasure? To feel that body fight and ultimately yield? Slade isn’t above that, not at all.
Dick tells himself Slade isn’t still interested in him. It’s been months since he’s seen Slade, but Dick is acutely aware that it’s been almost as long since Deathstroke has been spotted anywhere. Bruce would tell Dick if anyone in the JLA had found him, and if Slade is laying low…
Dick just—doesn’t think about it. He has problems of his own in Bludhaven, problems that require Nightwing’s full attention. And each night that goes by without Slade showing up winds Dick up tighter, but also makes him more hopeful that he’s not coming back.
None of the Titans have seen him, and Dick spends time at the Tower with them, running a few joint missions. He doesn’t tell them about what happened, not in detail, and no one pushes. When his heat comes, and he goes back to the Manor, a couple of them pull him aside to make sure he wants to go back.
“Heading back home?” Roy asks him, not even trying to be casual.
Roy knows very well what it’s like to have a problematic relationship with a mentor, and he was one of Dick’s favorite people to have in a heat nest. Maybe he’ll ask if Bruce is open to others joining them in the nest, after this heat.
“Yeah,” Dick tells him, easily meeting his gaze. “It’s better now.”
Roy bumps his shoulder, and lets the topic lay. They trust Dick to know his own mind.
Something itches at Dick’s instincts, and he lands on a nearby rooftop. He slowly spins, scanning the city streets and buildings. Nothing he can see, but something just feels off. He turns to give the rooftop one last glance, and Slade’s silhouette shocks him to stillness..
Slade’s leather and whiskey scent is strong, the wind at Slade’s back blowing his scent to Dick. Part of his mind is cataloging: no blockers, no sword, three visible guns, likely seven knives—
“Nightwing,” Slade says, and his voice sends memories slamming into Dick.
His fingers ache, his core burns, he wants—
“Stay away from me,” he says, but his voice is weak, trembling. He thinks to push the emergency beacon, and doesn’t even care if Slade sees him do it. In fact. “Batman is coming,” Dick tells him.
Slade tips his head to the side.
“You think he can get to you before I can?” He sounds amused.
Dick’s breath comes short and fast, shivering as ice slides through him. But Dick is fast, Nightwing is fast, and sometimes running is the best option.
“Yes,” Dick says, and throws himself off the building without even looking.
He focuses on unpredictable movements and speed, but something hits him in the leg less than a minute out. He reaches down while he’s midair, and pulls out a small dart.
A tranquilizer?
No. A wave of heat washes over him, too fast and too hard, and Dick stumbles when he lands next. But he doesn’t stop moving. He wants—he wants a nest and an alpha but he doesn’t want Slade, not any part of him, he won’t let—
When Dick glances back over his shoulder, Deathstroke is close, too close. Close enough that Dick feels like he could have closed on Dick by now, so is he chasing him?
Deathstroke is chasing an omega in heat throughout Bludhaven, and the fear that skitters up Dick’s spine is primal. He doesn’t think Slade wants to torture him for information, not this time.
The longer he runs, the foggier his thoughts get. One of his last clear thoughts is that whatever the hell Slade gave him, it’s far more fast acting than the last dose he got.
He’s soaring, flying, running, fleeing.
Safety. He wants safety.
Slowly but surely his path turns towards his apartment. His nest. Filled with protections from an alpha he trusts.
If he were clear headed, he’d know better than to let Deathstroke corner him anywhere.
But he doesn’t know better. He’s terrified, running, trapped in an eons-old pattern of hunter and hunted. And like the hunted, he goes to familiar ground.
Slipping through his window, he slams it behind him. His head clears at the sense of safety, and he abruptly realizes he’s anything but safe here.
Back out the window? Out through the door? How long has he been running? Is Bruce nearly here?
A small voice deep inside whispers, is Bruce even coming?
Of course he’s coming. He has to be coming. He promised.
Deathstroke’s outline fills his window, broad and armed, and that small voice dares to ask, what if Bruce can’t protect me?
None of the protections on the window seem to stop Deathstroke, and Dick has a wild thought of how long and how carefully this alpha has been watching him.
“We didn’t fucking kill your son,” Dick tells him, voice nearly a snarl.
“I know,” Slade says, unruffled, facing Dick across his living room.
“Then what the hell do you want?” Dick spits at him, and realizes his arms are wrapped tightly around his abdomen.
He wants to run, he should run, but Slade’s scent coils around him, halting him in place.
“I’m here for you,” Slade says, a thread of heat in his voice as his eyes rove over Dick’s body.
Alpha, his hindbrain whispers, the heat fog starting to rise up again.
“No,” Dick snaps out, to himself and to Slade. “No.”
“I don’t think what you want much matters here,” Slade says, amused and confident, starting to move across the living room.
Stalking his prey.
“No,” Dick says again, but it’s more of a whisper.
He should have kept running, he should have—his body trembles with the sudden onset of heat, and his mind yearns for an alpha.
“No,” Dick pleads, taking a stumbling step backward as Slade approaches.
He was weak last time, knew no one was coming, no one knew where he was, but—but they’re in his apartment and he pushed his panic button and—and Bruce is coming.
Dick can hold on.
Alpha.
“No,” he says, shaking his head hopelessly, backing up into the kitchen counter.
“You can keep fighting,” Slade offers lightly, with an unsettling smile. “Makes my victory that much sweeter.”
Dick’s fingers throb as nausea lurches through him.
“Don’t hurt me,” he begs in a small voice, and Slade looms over him.
The large alpha laughs. “Oh, little bird,” he says, and lays his hand on Dick’s cheek. “That’s up to you.”
Trembling, Dick’s eyes slip shut and he can’t stop his body from swaying closer, pressing into that heat.
He hates being an omega.
A burst of will, and he tries to push Slade away, but he might as well push on a brick wall for all the good it does. And as much as he’s pushing at him, his body is still melting at the thought of an alpha keeping him safe, taking care of him during heat.
Not like that, some part of his mind shrieks, but it’s buried too deep.
They’re in his bedroom, Slade’s hands all over his body, and Dick is—he’s arching, away or towards Slade, even Dick can’t say. His costume comes off, piece by piece, and when Slade’s warm hand runs along Dick’s arm, a mewl escapes him.
Slade laughs, low and dark, and Dick bites his lip. Slade moves away from him, and Dick mourns the loss of contact even as he knows he should welcome it.
When Slade sits on the bed and raises a brow, Dick forces himself not to move.
“Don’t you want me to make you feel good?”
Dick shakes his head. No. I want Bruce. Please go away. But the words don’t come out.
“Be good for your alpha,” Slade commands him, voice deepening.
Biology means Dick just wants to give in, but he’s not—he can be more than his biology—“You’re not—you’re not my alpha,” Dick forces himself to say, trembling.
“Mmmm, sweetheart,” Slade says softly. “Don’t make me punish you.”
Dick flinches.
The crack of each finger—the lack of oxygen—the warmth of Slade’s skin given and taken away—
“Don’t do this,” he whispers, helplessly.
“Be a good omega, and come to your alpha,” Slade tells him, his quiet voice layered with menace.
Dick wavers, and then takes a small step forward, praying Bruce is about to burst through the door.
“Actually,” Slade says, thoughtful. Dick’s breathing ticks up. “I want to see you crawl.”
Dick shudders. He doesn’t—he does want an alpha, he knows this feeling, he wants to be safe and warm and loved, and all Slade offers him is—
Even when they’re in heat, I’ve been known to tear my partners without care.
His body wants to be with an alpha, to be comforted and warmed, to feel the security, even if it’s false. If he fights, he’ll still lose, and the pain—he doesn’t want to feel the pain that Slade will inflict on him.
That Slade has inflicted on him before.
Tears pressing at his eyes, Dick slowly drops to his knees, lowering his gaze.
“Good boy, Richard,” Slade says softly, and Dick isn’t sure when he started shaking or if he’ll ever stop. “Now, crawl to me.”
Dick can hardly support his weight as he makes his way across his bedroom floor, arms trembling. The worst part is, the closer he gets to Slade, the stronger his body feels. Whiskey flavored alpha scent, head radiating—Dick’s body knows what it wants, even if Dick doesn’t want it.
When he reaches Slade’s feet, he intends to stop, to make Slade order him, but his body doesn’t stop. He curls himself around Slade’s legs, the very model of a submissive omega.
Slade runs his hand over Dick’s hair, and he hates that his body relaxes. Relaxes, and prepares itself for—for what Slade is about to do.
Dick has had sex before, has occasionally had sex in heat, but—
Even in heat, his partners were careful, respectful, gave him so much control.
Slade will do none of that.
“Please,” he murmurs into Slade’s leg, pressing his face hard against the mercenary as tears slip out of his eyes. “Please.”
“I’ve got you,” Slade says softly, comfortingly, and reaches down and picks up Dick so very gently.
Alpha.
A strong, confident alpha.
“Don’t cry,” Slade says, laying him on the bed and swiping away his tears. “Not yet.”
Dick would do anything to make this stop, but Slade doesn’t want anything from him, not this time.
At least, he doesn’t want any words. What he wants—
Slade pins Dick’s hands above his head. Dick turns his head, pushes futilely against the alpha most of him is craving. Slade leaves Dick’s wrists pinned in one of his hands, and uses the other to turn Dick’s head so Slade can—so Slade can—
The kiss is heat, fire, passion. Need unfurls through Dick, stronger than before, and he arches again under Slade’s body.
“Please,” he gasps, but he doesn’t know what he’s begging for.
“I’ve got you,” Slade murmurs into his neck, before biting him.
Dick cries out, abruptly aware that he wants Bruce, please, help me, please—
Slade licks over the bruise forming on Dick’s neck, and unwanted heat slithers up his spine.
“This will be good for you,” Slade promises, and Dick shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
“You need it,” Slade tells him.
“No,” Dick says, as strongly as he can.
And then suddenly the weight and heat and comfort of the alpha is gone, he’s cold and alone, and a keen escapes him.
“Are you sure?”
Slade is standing next to the bed, and Dick is—he’s hurting, he’s desperate, he’s weak, but Bruce is coming, right? Another keen escapes him.
“Ask me to come back,” Slade tells him, watching him with far too much satisfaction.
Dick bites his lip. He doesn’t—he won’t—he can’t—he hurts—
“Please,” he sobs, shivering on the bed.
“Please what?” Slade’s voice is painfully disinterested.
“Please come back to the bed,” Dick says, chest heaving, hating himself.
Bruce has to be close.
Slade sits down, and Dick immediately curls around him.
“And what do you want me to do?” he asks Dick, petting him, calming him against his will.
I want you to go away but Dick just begged him to come back.
He can’t—he can’t say it, he can’t ask, he can’t—
“Whatever you want,” Dick whispers, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Slade’s satisfaction. “Just—don’t leave me.”
“Of course,” Slade says, reassuringly. “I won’t leave you.”
He lays Dick out on the bed again, kisses him, grinds their hips together, and Dick—Dick tries as hard as he can to pretend he’s with someone else.
Slade flips Dick over, and despite himself Dick misses the weight.
“I’m here,” Slade promises, draping his body over Dick’s back, and god help him, it’s comforting.
“Get off him,” a voice growls, and Dick is shockingly cold and alone, but there’s a hint of pine in the air.
Bruce. Alpha.
Dick flips himself and presses into the headboard, arms tight around his knees, watching Batman fight Deathstroke.
But it’s not just Batman. There’s a riot of colors in the room, and Dick knows Bruce brought help, brought others, because Deathstroke is that difficult, but Dick is—he’s in heat and he feels so, so alone, and a keen escapes him.
Bruce is at his side in an instant, stroking him, drawing the sheet up to cover his body.
“You came,” Dick whispers, pressing against Bruce even though he shouldn’t. “Be—careful. Deathstroke, he’s—Don’t stay with me, you have to fight—”
“Shhh,” Bruce tells him again. “We’ve got it handled.”
With a trusted alpha by his side, Dick can see what’s happening. Flash. Green Lantern. Superman. Black Canary, Green Arrow.
It should feel like overkill, but to his terrified mind it feels like barely enough. But even without Batman, they’re having no trouble containing him, and he’s swiftly bundled out of Dick’s apartment.
Dick is peripherally aware of Bruce, Batman, talking with others, but he’s burying himself in the heat and the comfort of crisp pine and the surety of his safety.
“You came,” Dick mumbled, not sure when his head ended up in Bruce’s lap.
“Always,” Bruce promises. “Do you want to stay here, or move back to the Manor?”
Dick thinks, and then says, “Pomegranate?”
Bruce laughs, carding his hand through Dick’s hair. “Back to the Manor, then, kiddo. Alfred will get you what you want.”
“And Jason?” Dick asks, like Jason’s presence wasn’t a raw wound six months ago, like he didn’t feel like Bruce moved on and stopped caring about him by finding someone new, and giving them his old name.
“Jason’s safe at home,” Bruce tells him, helping Dick sit up. “And he’ll come into the nest if you want.”
“And Roy,” Dick murmurs, reluctantly letting Bruce dress him in loose clothing.
“Roy Harper?” Bruce clarifies, and Dick nods.
He’s feeling…secure. And petulant. And he wants all the comfort.
“I like Roy,” Dick tells Bruce as Bruce princess carries him down to the waiting car.
“I’ll call him,” Bruce says, stifling amusement.
His amusement is loving, warm, and safe, nothing like Slade’s predatory amusement. It makes Dick feel loved, and that’s all he wants right now.
He almost believed no one would come for him.
Later, he’ll ask about Slade, ask what happened to him. The JLA wouldn’t kill him. And Bruce will tell him Hal took him to a prison on another planet. It’s not—there’s still a thread of worry, but he’s so far away, and it sounds like he’s got enough problems of his own.
“Maybe he should take Joker, too,” Dick tells Bruce.
“I considered it,” Bruce replies, ruffling his hair. “I’m still considering it.”