Chapter Text
Dick and Wally were currently making fun of a painting probably older than their entire bloodline.
“Look, I’m not saying that I could do better. Hell no ,” Wally said. “But, like, is this really good enough to be in the Museum of Ancient Antiques? It sort of looks . . .”
Dick’s reply came all too easily. “Like if Tim and Clayface had a baby?”
Wally let out a laugh similar to the caw of a crow before slapping his hand over his mouth, earning some side-eyed looks and glares of people who couldn’t fathom why anyone would be laughing in the presence of such precious art.
Said precious art was more valued for its age than its beauty, anyway. That was the case for most of the artifacts in the Museum of Ancient Antiques. Part of the appeal was wondering who made the artifacts and guessing how old it was by inspecting the rusty pieces or faded paint. The main appeal for Dick and Wally was turning their heads to the side and trying to determine what the item was originally supposed to be or mean. Just like this painting, which didn’t quite look like it was supposed to be of a man, nor did it seem like there was supposed to be any symbolism behind it. It was just . . . off.
“What did Tim do to deserve that?” Wally practically whispered, like he was accommodating for his small outburst.
“It has Tim’s sleep deprived eyes,” Dick said, shrugging, then smirking at the sight of Wally biting inside his cheek to hold back another laugh.
They moved into the next room and continued their observations.
Dick wouldn’t say it outloud, but he had needed this little break. After leaving the police force, he was having a hard time being able to just relax . Being in Central City with Wally helped take his thoughts off all of that.
Still, his mind wandered. He felt guilty for quitting his job. The whole reason he had even become a police officer was to get an insider’s scoop on who were the big bads in Bludhaven, but now with Blockbuster getting out of control, Dick could only handle so much at a time.
Being a cop in Bludhaven wasn’t easy if you were one of the good ones. So much crime. So many shady coworkers. He hadn’t been able to trust most of them, not knowing which ones were a part of the corruption, and it had been alienating. Dick’s never did well being lonesome for too long.
“I’m getting hungry,” Dick said, shaking himself out of his thoughts before it consumed him. “Wanna take a break and grab something to eat?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” Wally said, grabbing Dick’s wrist and enthusiastically tugging Dick away from the vase collection they were facing. “Being the constantly hungry friend is exhausting , you know. It’s like being in a game of waiting to see who will cave in and admit they’re starving first, except nobody’s playing along.”
Dick winced in sympathy. Before Wally could drag Dick out of the room with the main attractions, two men stepped in front of them.
Wally reacted first, the moment the men attacked. The redhead pushed one of the men back before he could get in a hit. The other man grabbed Dick by the neck and snatched out a gun, causing Wally to freeze up and the civilians nearby to scream. Dick felt the familiar cold metal of the gun press against his temple.
Wally’s face was wrinkled in worry and confusion, and Dick felt the same way. What was this?
Regardless, Wally put his hands up in surrender. “Don’t hurt him.”
Dick wanted to scream at Wally, to tell him to use his speed, but he knew his friend couldn’t do that without jeopardizing his identity.
Then, his heart leaped into his throat as he heard gunshots somewhere further down the museum, followed by more screams. Damn it, Dick had to do something . The man holding a gun up to his head still had his hand on Dick’s neck. It wasn’t exactly a tight grip. Dick’s hands were free. He could—
“Shh, now, Richie,” the man threatening him whispered in his ear through the panicked noise around them. “Nobody is supposed to get hurt. If you behave.”
If you behave. Meaning Dick specifically. Great, so this was a ransom thing. It didn’t sound like a fun time, but this wasn’t Dick’s first time being held hostage for, presumably, Bruce’s money.
But why in a famous museum like this one? Somewhere with so much security? And how did they know he would be here?
Dick gulped, unsure of where this was headed, but somewhat relieved, albeit warily so, that people would remain unharmed if he played this right.
“Okay,” Dick muttered, sure that the gun pressed against his face would leave a bruise at this rate. “I’ll be good. I swear.”
He met Wally’s troubled gaze. Dick tried his best to convey with his eyes that everything would be okay. Bruce would pay up. He always did, and that’s if Batman didn’t get there first.
But they weren’t in Gotham this time.
The man next to Wally, who was now holding a gun of his own, brought a hand up to his earpiece. After a moment, he smirked. “Alright. It’s time.”
The barrel of the gun was released from Dick’s skin, only for the hand on Dick’s neck to tighten as he pulled Dick backwards and swirled him around. Away from Wally.
“Dick!” Wally shouted from behind him.
Out of instinct, Dick tried to turn his head to look back at his best friend.
The hand remained firm, restricting any motion. “Keep moving, pal.”
There were other, innocent lives at stake, so Dick reluctantly obeyed as he was guided out of the room. The walk down the hall felt like an eternity, until he heard, and even felt , a deep rumble in the walls.
His captor said nothing and continued moving like normal, so Dick didn’t bother asking about it. Instead, he let his eyes fly back and forth, memorizing his surroundings in case he got the chance to escape. They made a couple of turns, and they didn’t feel random. This man knew where he was going.
The man halted, tightening his grip on Dick’s neck to ensure he followed suit. He threw open a door, pushed Dick in the room, and let himself in before closing the door behind him.
“I'm gonna pat you down. Behave ,” the man said, showing Dick the gun as a reminder of his power. Like Dick would have forgotten.
“Mhm,” Dick said, biting his tongue to let out a snarky comment. He stretched out his arms and let the man pat him down and remove his phone, wallet, keys, and any nick-nack from his pockets.
Satisfied, the man nodded. “Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to a chair in front of a desk. This was someone's office.
Dick's brows furrowed, but he sat.
The man huffed, smirking and surveying Dick up and down. He looked far too proud of having hardly done anything.
Dick observed the man in return, taking note of his hazel eyes and brown curly hair, along with the mole on his lower left jaw. All things the police could use to identify him when this was over.
“Now, look, pal,” the man said. “This is how things are going to–”
“Just give me the damn phone and I'll cry and plead for Bruce like I know you want me to,” Dick said, rolling his eyes before he could help himself. God, he had done this more times than a person should ever have to in one lifetime. It was especially more humiliating as an adult. “Or take the video. Whatever. Let's just get this over with so everyone can get home safe.”
The man stared, his mouth hung open in an indignant echo of a smile. He shook his head repeatedly. “Oh, no, no, no, no, you brat. You don't get to give me orders. Hah! You wish!” He laughed, a slow and deep noise. “You think you really get what this operation is all about, don't you? That's cute. Really.”
So this was more than just ransom. Of course, it had to do with the museum.
“Would you like to share with the rest of the class, then, what your grand plan is?” Dick questioned, quirking a brow.
“You'll find out soon enough,” the man responded, looking satisfied at Dick's displeasure of being in the dark.
Usually Gotham villains jumped at the chance to reveal what their master plan was. Dick was still getting used to dealing with people who weren't criminally insane. What a life.
“But since you’re so enthusiastic about doing the hostage video,” the man said, “then, let's start with that.”
Dick should have just listened, but now that he had confirmation that something else was going on, how did he know if any other hostages were safe? If there even were any other hostages? It could all be a lie.
“Where's my friend?” Dick demanded. “The redhead? What did you guys do to him?”
The man frowned, and for a split second, Dick saw nervousness flash across his face.
Dick's body moved faster than his mind. He lunged forward, tackling the man to the ground. The gun fell to the floor and skidded a few feet away. “If you hurt him—!”
His captor tried to reach for his gun, but Dick beat him to it.
“Hey, now!” The man panted, putting his hands up innocently. “Look, he should be fine. I—“
Dick didn’t have time to be standing around, twiddling with his fingers. He knocked the man out with a swift whack of the barrel of the gun and immediately headed out of the room, following the path he had memorized earlier as best as he could.
As he rounded a corner, a voice from behind stopped him in his tracks.
“And where do you plan on running to?”
No.
No, he must have misheard.
“Every exit is barricaded, kid. There’s no way out. For you and us.”
Dick blinked frantically, his eyes locked on the wall across from him. He wished he could, but there was no denying who that voice belonged to. He willed himself to turn around, and was greeted with the dreadful sight of Slade Wilson in his Deathstroke armor.
“So, I’ll give you a choice,” Slade said. “You can either give us a chase and end up with a beating, or you can turn around and go back, and we’ll count this as strike one out of two.”
Dick’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish as his lips tried to form some words. Any words.
This was the man who had tormented Dick during his time as Robin when he was with the Titans. He had forced Dick to be his apprentice to keep his friends safe, only for Dick to find a loophole and escape with his and the rest of the Titan’s life intact. It was nothing major–his time as Renegade had been short-lived and tame for the most part–he had endured much worse–but the feeling of being trapped like that, of Slade’s control over him–wasn’t something a person could just shake off.
Even into adulthood, after Dick had become Nightwing, he and Slade crossed paths. Thankfully, the man had gotten over his apprentice phase, and the tension between them was closer to what was typical between two enemies. But it was never quite there. No, even at their most antagonistic moments, Slade always had to make some comment about Dick’s abilities. Whether it be praise for a brutal attack or a scolding for holding back. He did it as if he was still Dick’s mentor–as if he had ever truly been his mentor.
And, yet, despite all those years and the history between them, Dick had thought Slade had never discovered his identity. How wrong he had been.
How long had Slade known?
Dick’s fear must have been apparent, because the mercenary’s eye crinkled just the slightest bit. “Oh, you know who I am, don’t you?”
What?
Then, it hit him. Slade didn’t know who he was. Right now, he was just looking at innocent ol’ Dickie Grayson.
Dick could almost cry of relief. Why Slade was even a part of this was certainly a question floating in his mind, but it wasn’t important right now. This made things much easier. It could even work in his favor. He just needed to continue acting like a scared billionaire’s son in the presence of the world’s greatest mercenary. It shouldn’t be too hard.
To answer Slade’s question, Dick dipped his chin slowly, his eyes wide.
“Good. Then you know what to do.”
Dick wanted to punch that cocky look off Slade’s face. Not that he could see his face–it was masked–but Dick could just tell by his silver eye and tone of voice that he was enjoying this. Of course the man enjoyed having power over helpless civilians. He was just like the rest of them.
Unfortunately, Dick had a role to play, so he shoved down his pride and walked past Slade with his head lowered and trudged his feet all the way back to the room he had just escaped from. He heard the mercenary follow behind him, and spared the man a glance to find him casually resting a hand on the holster of his gun.
“That goddamn brat,” the man from earlier spat as Dick approached the door. Dick’s footsteps slowed, trying to delay the inevitable, but Slade pushed him forward. The curly-haired man, now pissed, grabbed Dick and shoved him into the same chair.
“How’d he even get away?” Slade asked. “You’re armed. He’s not.”
“He caught me by surprise, alright?” The other man said defensively. Dick watched with great satisfaction as he tenderly rubbed the part of his head where Dick had hit him. “He’s a snappy one. Mouthy, too.”
Slade glanced at Dick, then looked back at his co-worker, unconvinced. “He hasn’t said a word to me .”
Dick swallowed. He hadn’t even realized that. Subconsciously, he probably didn’t want Slade to recognize his voice. But he had spoken to plenty of people as Nightwing that knew Dick Grayson, and they hadn’t suspected a thing.
They hadn’t been Deathstroke, though.
The first man scoffed, crossing his arms. “Whatever. Are we gonna do the video or what?”
The two men looked at Dick expectantly.
Dick sighed. It was now or never. “Not like I have a choice, do I?”
Not while Slade is here .