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You know, it's times like this that Dick really is thankful for his ability to pretend to be okay.
They've been working on a case involving Slade Wilson, generally known as Deathstroke.
Within the older generation of Titans, he's also known as the man who blackmailed Robin into being his apprentice for almost nine months when he was fourteen.
To Dick, he's known as the man who used every tool at his disposal to make Dick's life a living hell for eight months, three weeks, five days, twenty-two hours, forty-four minutes, and seventeen seconds.
He's never breathed a word of what happened behind the foreboding walls that still haunt his nightmares.
Donna and Wally might suspect, in fact they've hinted at it a few times, but Dick has always been careful to keep plausible deniability.
He doesn't want to admit what he was forced into doing.
Dick will never forget the suffocating feeling of being pressed into the mattress by a behemoth of a monster as he was torn apart, both figuratively and literally.
Afterall, there are some things that a fourteen-year-old's body is simply not made for.
And Dick was smaller than the average fourteen-year-old boy thanks to the years of intense acrobatics and training he’s done since before he could walk.
Unfortunately for Dick, Slade was not small in any meaning or implication of the word.
No.
Not at all.
So Dick is not handling this case well.
It doesn't help that Damian is now fourteen, the same age as Dick was. He's bigger than Dick was, but still so small.
It makes Dick feel like he's been hit by a truck.
But as far as his family is aware, he's fine.
Spectacular, even.
They don't know anything about his time with Slade, not even that it occurred. They know that he fought Deathstroke a lot with the Titans, but that's all anyone else knows.
Dick has been incredibly careful to bury any trace of evidence six feet deep alongside the child he used to be.
Unfortunately for Dick, despite his best efforts to forget about the entire thing, Slade is an obsessive bastard who just won't leave him alone.
Dick would not be surprised if, even though this case is based in Gotham, it's just one more way for Slade to try and force an interaction with Dick, probably trying to convince him to re-join Slade despite the horror he orchestrated.
But so far, Dick technically has no proof that this is the case, just a rotten feeling in his gut.
And that feeling keeps twisting with every team meeting they have in the cave.
Bruce has called Dick in to help with the case since he's considered the expert on Deathstroke. Tim and Damian were already helping, and it had been just the four of them, but after the latest brutal murder, Bruce has decided that they need Jason too.
It's not going very well.
Dick feels like the net in a tennis match with incompetent players.
Currently, he's trying to mediate an argument about the newest victim, a rapist, which Dick is trying to convince himself is only mildly ironic.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he doesn't have much time to think about it with Jason currently picking a fight about Slade having done the world a favor.
Ha.
Right.
As if.
“Guys, come on, please–” Dick pleads, standing between Jason and Bruce with his hands outstretched, holding Jason back as he tries to get in Bruce's face, who is just standing there stony faced with his arms crossed.
Very helpful.
Tim and Damian, unsurprisingly, are just standing there watching as Dick acts as the hopefully immovable wall standing between two unstoppable forces.
“Look, all I'm saying is Deathstroke might be a bastard,” Jason says, his volume barely quieter than a shout as he shoves at Dick's hands. “But he did us a favor. The world is better off without shitface rapists wandering the streets.”
“Jay, please, I agree with you, not about the means, but that doesn't mean we can just let Deathstroke keep–” Dick shoves Jason back a bit.
He feels like he's being suffocated.
He's stuck in between two men who are much larger than him, which would normally be fine, he's used to it, but at the moment it's just one more reminder.
Bruce interjects, deciding to make things somehow worse. “Of course you would agree with his methods.” Bruce is glaring at Jason as he swells up with anger.
“Bruce–” Dick tries to deescalate the situation, but, unfortunately, both Bruce and Jason seem to have decided to ignore him.
“I'm sorry, are you really trying to say I'm the same as Deathstroke? A supervillain?” Jason snarls.
And of course that's when Tim decides to pipe in. “Well, if the shoe fits.”
Dick currently counts himself lucky that he's the most agile in the family when he darts in between Jason and Tim just in time to stop Jason in his tracks before he can make it to Tim, who looks far too pleased with himself.
“Oh really, Replacement–” Jason is chomping at the bit.
It's taking everything in Dick to hold him back.
“Look, all I'm saying is if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck–” Tim drawls.
Unfortunately for Dick, the pit revived his brother built like a tank, so he knows he's fighting a losing battle.
He's trying to beat his brother in a game of pure strength, and that's never been Dick's expertise.
Fuck it.
He's got to stop this bullshit.
“Hey!” Dick shouts, as loudly as he can manage.
The entire cave goes silent, save for the literal bats, as everyone turns to look at him with a little bit of shock in their eyes.
It's not often that Dick Grayson resorts to yelling.
“This is not helping anyone,” Dick says, channeling as much of his Daj's no-nonsense tone as he can remember. “Jason, you are right, Deathstroke's newest victim was a piece of shit, but the previous ones were not. The first was a gymnastics teacher and the second was a college kid who was raising his three younger siblings. They've been left without a caregiver in the foster system now. He will not stop, which means that we can't either.” Looking between Bruce and Tim, Dick continues, trying his best to hold back a sigh. “And the two of you need to stop picking fights. We have to work together on this, do you understand me?”
The room breaks into arguments and grumbling, but Dick's run out of patience.
“No! I am done with this,” He says, cutting it off with a sharp wave of his hand. “If you can't say something productive, then just don't bother. Understand?”
Dick waits for everyone to nod reluctantly before adding some incentive. “And if you need additional motivation other than the dead bodies in the morgue, Alfred has mentioned that if we can work together without breaking anyone or anything, he will make a batch of cookies for each of us.”
Alfred has in fact said no such thing, but they don't need to know that.
This statement is met with a grunt from Bruce and at least somewhat less reluctant nods from his brothers.
Thank the gods.
“Now, Red Robin,” Dick says, sending him a warning look. “Catch Red Hood up on the case, without any additional commentary please.”
Dick walks over to lean against the wall with his arms crossed as Damian follows behind him like a little duckling, his typical habit when around Dick.
Dick forces himself to smile at Damian as he ruffles his hair, ignoring the displeased squawk he receives, as he keeps one ear tuned in to Tim's briefing and his eyes on Jason and Bruce.
The briefing is actually going well, which is mildly surprising.
Dick lets himself take a breath, trying to release some of the tension that's been steadily building since he first heard that Deathstroke was in town.
His attempt comes crashing down when Oracle sends news that another body has just been found, this time having been found starved to death in a locked room.
Commissioner Gordon is apparently holding off on examining the scene, wanting to give them time to analyze it first. He generally tries to let them handle the big stuff, and if anyone counts, it's definitely Deathstroke.
Dick tries to ignore his spiraling thoughts as they all rush to get out of the cave. It helps when he has to focus on not crashing his motorcycle while on the road, but it takes every ounce of brain power to drown out the subtle sniping that starts as soon as they all are out of the cave.
Dick stands outside of the building for a moment longer than he normally would have. He's trying to build the courage to walk in despite the overwhelming sense of dread he feels.
It only gets worse as he walks in.
The first sign is the interior of the building itself.
It's scarily alike the main hideout Slade kept him in.
The paint.
The floor.
The layout. There's no windows. At all.
The next sign is his family.
They're silent, which is incredibly uncharacteristic, as they take in the incredibly small room the body was found in.
As he approaches, they part for him like the red sea supposedly did for Moses.
Dick is opening his mouth to ask why when his words die out as he catches sight of the body.
It's a fucking teenager.
He's small.
And a shockingly good likeness to Dick.
He's hurt, clearly having clawed at himself in desperation prior to death.
When Dick can manage to tear his gaze away from the body, the room itself stops him in his tracks, though he masks it well.
It's a million little things.
The scratch marks leaving bloody tracks on the wall.
The evidence of bodily functions in one of the corners.
The clear similarity to Slade's favorite sensory deprivation rooms.
But most of all, it's the writing on the wall clearly done postmortem in what appears to be blood, that only reads Little Bird.
Dick's breath catches slightly.
Fuck.
The evidence that this is some form of ploy to get in contact with Dick has just become conclusive.
Dick can feel his family's eyes on him, but it's all he can manage to avoid panicking.
His hands are shaking, he can tell, but he can't get it to stop.
All he can see is Slade's writing on the wall underneath a mirage of white hair, a piercing blue eye and eyepatch, and scarred muscle.
He feels like he's suffocating from the weight on his torso and the hot breath in his ear murmuring to him, telling Dick how pretty his little bird is when it cries and bleeds underneath him.
Dick hurts.
Every part of him hurts.
It's burning, tearing at him until he breaks into pieces.
It's overwhelming.
He can't process the cacophony of voices around him.
“-wing?”
“-ickwing? Come on–”
“-ightwing?”
“Nightwing, report.” Batman's terse voice cuts through, shocking Nightwing back into the room as he flinches.
Nightwing turns around sharply. “Reporting.” His voice is distant, almost devoid of all feeling as Dick fights desperately to get back into his body.
Batman's mouth tenses. “The scene.”
Nightwing shifts to stand with his feet apart and his hands held behind his back. It's a position that anyone who knows anything about the military would recognize as parade rest, and not one that Dick often takes.
“The victim is a young male teenager. He has self-inflicted wounds on his body, most notably his face and neck. There are scratch marks on the wall trailed by blood, likely from him injuring his fingertips in an effort to escape. There is writing on the wall that appears to be written in blood, likely obtained after the victim was deceased considering there is no significant evidence of blood loss in the room. This is almost certainly Deathstroke's work. Given that, I suspect the room was used as a sensory deprivation chamber prior to death and that the victim was kept for several days before time of death,” Nightwing reports, trying to ignore the voice screaming in his head to run as fast and far as he can.
Batman frowns, opening his mouth to speak when Dick is viscerally forced back into his body as his panic reaches a breaking point.
“Well, my little bird,” Slade drawls, clapping as he appears from the hallway. “Batman certainly has you well trained, that report was almost as quick and succinct as when you were my apprentice.”
The room immediately erupts as Dick's family drops into fighting stances, their questions flying through the room furiously, but in the end Jason's is the most discernible.
“Nightwing, what the fuck is he talking about?” Jason snaps, his tone furious.
Dick can't manage to form words. His voice has been stolen by the monster looming in front of him.
The monster smirks. “Aw, little bird, you never told them about me?” Slade fake pouts. “I'm hurt. You worked for me for nearly nine months as my Renegade. We got so…close.” His eyes look Dick up and down, clearly leering at him as his smirk takes on a lascivious twist.
It hopefully isn't noticeable to his family, since they don't know what that look means. Dick had enough unfortunate experience with it to recognize it immediately.
Even without his experience, he would've known from the familiar twisting nausea in his stomach.
Dick stares at Slade.
‘Close’ is certainly a word to use.
His jaw clenches as he tries to figure out what the fuck to even say to that.
He doesn't get the chance when his family turns on him, both literally and figuratively.
“Nightwing.” Batman's voice is accusing.
“You fucking hypocrite,” Jason snarls as he walks towards Dick, his body language imposing.
Damian crosses his arms, clearly confused. “Ri– Nightwing, I do not understand. What does he speak of?”
Dick's only hope is Tim, but his words make it clear that he is also judging Dick.
“I can't believe you would work with a maniac like Deathstroke. Are you still working with him? Have you been helping him this whole time?”
Dick feels like he's been punched. Does his family really believe that he would betray them like this?
They're delivering a death verdict like they're judge, jury, and executioner without even bothering to ask Dick what happened.
Slade looks far too pleased with himself. This was clearly his goal.
Dick clenches his fists, trying his best to keep his growing rage under control. “Do you seriously believe that I would work with this son of a bitch willingly?”
Thank the gods, Damian shakes his head.
But Bruce doesn't say anything, Jason just curses at him, and Tim fucking shrugs.
“Awww, come on now,” Slade drawls. “You always said yes eventually, hell, sometimes you even begged for it.”
His family's disgusted, confused, and accusatory shouts are drowned out by the sight of Slade's smug face.
Dick's face is hot with anger. He's pretty sure he's vibrating with it.
Fine.
They want to blame him for this?
Fuck that.
Dick snorts. “Yeah, that's one way to tell it.” Dick shoves his way through his family, ignoring their grabbing hands, until he's standing in front of Slade. “You want to get out of my way. Now.”
Surprisingly, Slade actually lets Dick walk through the doorway.
His family is shouting at him, but he just can't bring himself to care.
Before he's fully out of sight, he throws one last statement over his shoulder. “What Slade Wilson, in case you didn't know his secret identity, is avoiding saying is that I was a teenager.”
Dick doesn't remember leaving and driving.
He knows at some point he took out his comm to cut off the screaming.
He honestly doesn't actually know where he's ended up, other than it's some rooftop overlooking the bay.
He has dedicated himself to his family for decades, and this is how they repay him?
After all of his literal blood, sweat, and tears.
He practically raised his brothers, and he's been Bruce's loyal soldier since he was in the single digits.
And instead of letting him explain, they believe the words of a fucking mass murderer.
The guy that abused and tormented Dick every minute of the day for months. And still does in his nightmares.
And Slade fucking talks about it like Dick was willing and not blackmailed and threatened into everything he did.
And like he could actually even consent to any of it in the first place given his age.
And begging?
For it to stop, maybe.
Or when Slade forced him by playing with the button that could kill his friends, who were practically family.
What was Dick supposed to do?
He was a fourteen-year-old forced into a horrifying situation and left to deal with it alone, even now.
He isn't sure how long he's been just sitting there, barely keeping himself together as he spirals, when he suddenly senses someone standing behind him.
He's hoping it isn't Bruce but instead one of his brothers, preferably Damian. He's the only one that actually asked him what was going on instead of accusing.
He's in the midst of asking to be left alone as he turns around when he stops.
Shit.
It's Slade.
Dick darts to his feet, falling into a defensive stance as he grabs his escrima sticks off of his back.
Slade just laughs condescendingly. “Oh my little bird. You can't beat me, you know that.”
Unfortunately, Dick does. He's never been able to truly beat Slade, but they are fairly evenly matched in a fair fight.
Slade just is willing, and able, to take significantly more damage than Dick really can or should.
It does mean that Dick can fight much dirtier than normal, but that's Slade's default, so it doesn't really help him in the end.
“What do you want, Slade?” Dick snaps, keeping himself ready to move.
“That's ‘Master’ to you, little bird,” Slade says. “Don't worry, you'll remember soon enough. You're alone again, Renegade. Your family has forsaken you. Once the word spreads, I'll be the only one left by your side.” He smiles slowly, slightly too widely to be considered human. “I'm the only option you have left. You can stand by my side once more.” Slade extends his hand towards Dick. “And without your…” He snorts. “Childish defiance, I can make it good for you.” Slade smiles lecherously.
Dick wants to punch that stupid fucking look off of his face.
“I was a child. A fucking child,” Dick snarls. “Who you decided to torture for months. You made it your mission to break a child. If you think I can ever forget that, much less forgive you enough to work with you again, you are fucking delusional.”
The smile on Slade's face fades into pure rage as he snaps his hand closed into a fist. He snarls wordlessly as he prowls menacingly towards Dick, his steps heavy with weighted threat.
He's cut off by a snarky voice. “Yeah, I wouldn't get any fucking closer if I were you.”
Reflexively, Dick looks to the voice as Slade spins on his heel, pulling out his sword as he finds all three of Dick's brothers standing there with their weapons pulled.
What on earth are they doing here?
Damian makes sense, but Jason and Tim had made their thoughts quite clear.
“We have the Flash, Troia, Arsenal, Starfire, Superman, and Superboy on standby,” Tim says.
“Tt.” Damian smirks. “You are outmatched, Slade. You can either admit defeat now, or–”
Jason cuts him off, gesturing with his pistols. “-After we kick your ass.”
Slade growls, eyeing all four of them. After a moment, he huffs, sheathing his sword as he turns to sprint away over the rooftops.
Dick and his brothers watch until he's out of sight, afterwards falling into staring at each other awkwardly.
Dick stays ready to fight, even after his brothers put away their weapons. He doesn't trust that they're not just here to arrest him.
In the end, it's Jason who breaks the tension, approaching slowly with his hands outstretched soothingly. “Dickie, it's okay, he's gone. You're…safe.”
Dick flinches.
Safe.
Right.
Tim and Damian follow Jason, each clearly trying to ooze a calming aura, but Dick doesn't trust it. They stop a couple of feet outside of Dick's reach.
“You are, Dick. We are so sorry about how we reacted, we should've trusted you,” Tim says. “You can put those away, we promise.” He gestures to Dick's escrima sticks.
The sticks in question are shaking violently in his hands.
He's not safe, not with Deathstroke around.
He can't be.
Don't they know that?
“Richard,” Damian says, a strange pleading note in his voice. “Those are unnecessary. I shall protect you if it is required, I swear it.”
Dick meets Damian's eyes. He looks resolute, in a way that looks a bit strange on a young teen’s face.
Damian nods.
Honestly, Dick doesn't remember making the choice to drop his escrima sticks. He doesn't even really feel it when they leave his hands, he only realizes that they did when he flinches from the sound of the sticks hitting the rooftop.
“I'm fine,” Dick hears someone say through tight breaths. “I'm fine, it's fine– I– I can't–”
Dick is gasping.
There's not enough air.
Everything hurts.
He feels like he might throw up.
His brothers are watching him with increasing levels of concern as he falls into pieces.
Like a puppet who had its strings cut, Dick collapses onto his knees, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to hold himself together as he breaks into shuddering sobs.
It's Damian who tries to approach, but Dick is too far gone.
Jason pulls him back gently when Dick flinches back violently as he gasps out, “No, please–”
Dick barely registers it when Jason gently pushes Tim and Damian, who are watching with pale faces, back several feet. Jason murmurs something soothingly before turning to walk back towards Dick with his arms outstretched. Once he's a few feet away, Jason slowly folds himself to sit on the floor with his legs crossed as Dick watches warily.
“Dickie,” Jason says calmly, his voice low. “He's gone. I promise. And if he comes back, we'll take care of it. You are not alone, not anymore. We've got you. You can fall apart as much as you need to, we're not going anywhere. But I need you to breathe, or else you'll pass out.”
Dick shakes his head desperately. “Can't–” breathe.
“I know. Just try.” Jason tilts his head, a strange sorrow in his eyes. “We're going to try and inhale for four seconds.” He mimes taking a deep breath in as he counts, restarting with far more patience than Dick ever would've expected when Dick can't manage it.
He walks Dick through a breathing exercise with calm assuredness despite how long it takes for Dick's breathing to no longer be dangerous, even if it is still shaky.
There are still tears dripping from his face, but it no longer feels like he's shattering into a million pieces with every breath he takes.
Jason smiles at him. “Good job. Is it okay if Damian and Tim come sit with us? We won't get any closer if you don't want us to.”
Dick looks at the brothers in question. They're standing together, watching with ill-concealed worry on their faces.
Well.
They've already seen him break down, so he can't do any more harm by letting them come closer.
Some ‘big brother’ Dick is.
After a moment, Dick nods, watching as Damian and Tim hesitate, waiting until Jason beckons for them to come closer to approach. Tim sits beside Jason, but Damian hesitates as he goes to do so.
“Richard,” Damian says haltingly. “Do not feel pressured to do so, but if you would like to cuddle me, I shall allow you to do so this once if it will help.” Damian's nose scrunches slightly, seemingly unconsciously.
Dick laughs through his tears.
His kid is so sweet.
And honestly, a hug from his kid sounds really nice.
He nods, reaching his arms out for Damian, who comes to sit beside him. Dick wraps his arms around him, burying his face in Dami's hair. He's genuinely surprised when Damian shifts and returns the hug, wrapping his arms around Dick and burying his face into his chest.
Dick is pretty sure, or maybe hopes, that they're both ignoring the feeling of his tears wetting Damian's hair.
After a couple of minutes sitting in silence, Dick decides to ask a burning question.
“Where's B?” He mumbles, keeping his face hidden.
When he doesn't get a response, he lifts his face to find his brothers silently arguing with anger written into their expressions. In the end, it's Tim who loses.
“B– He– Well, that's, uh–” He says, stumbling over himself as he gestures wildly.
Jason interjects, taking pity on Tim. “What Timmers is trying to say is that B is a judgmental asshole who can't get his head out of his own ass.”
Dick's mouth wobbles as he nods, putting his face back in Damian's hair to hide his renewed tears.
“You must not worry, Richard,” The teenager in question mumbles into Dick's chest. “Alfred will surely inform father that it is improper to wear his ‘ass’ as a hat.”
Startled, Dick laughs wetly, squeezing Damian gently. Damian rubs his back awkwardly as Tim speaks.
“But we're here. And we're listening if you want to talk. Like we should've done in the first place.”
“Damn straight,” Jason pipes in, his tone a blend of assertive and contrite.
Damian sniffs judgmentally. “I would like it to be known that I was always listening, it was only these plebeians who doubted you.”
Jason laughs gruffly. “Okay, you little shit.”
“You're right, but did you really have to say it?” Tim asks, his tone ever-so-slightly whiny.
Damian pulls back from Dick's chest, who can picture the fabulous side eye Tim and Jason are currently getting perfectly.
“Obviously. I cannot have Richard doubting my loyalty.” Damian's voice has a subtle undercurrent of insecurity that Dick doesn't think Tim or Jason caught.
Dick smiles sadly into Dami's hair. “Never, my little Robin,” He whispers, making sure that only Damian can hear.
They sit in silence for a few minutes as Dick tries to decide if he wants to talk about it and what he wants to say.
He doesn't want to burden his brothers, but he's so tired of carrying this by himself like Atlas carries the sky.
He can't do it anymore, and they deserve an explanation.
“It was when I was with the Titans.”
It takes Dick a minute to realize that he had started talking.
He feels Damian shift slightly as he hears Jason and Tim do so.
Following in their footsteps for once, Dick pulls back slightly, just enough that his words won't be muffled by hair while keeping his face as hidden as possible.
“We encountered him in the field, and formed a mutual…obsession. I didn't think much of it when he lured me away from the other Titans during a fight until he knocked them unconscious to tell me he had infected them with nanobots that could kill them at any moment.”
Dick hears someone, he's assuming Tim, inhale sharply as Jason curses under his breath and he feels Damian stiffen.
“He told me he would kill them if I didn't become his apprentice, and I tried to call his bluff but he…proved that he was not lying. And I mean, what kind of a choice is that? So I–I became his apprentice, his…Renegade.” Dick stops, needing a minute as his throat tightens.
“I would've done the same thing, Dick. You did what you had to,” Tim reassures, his voice thick, as Jason and Damian murmur their agreement.
Dick nods into Damian's hair.
He's not entirely convinced that he couldn't have found some other solution, but he doesn't think his brothers would react well to that information.
“It was…” Dick shudders. “Absolute hell. He used every method possible to break me.” He knows his grip on Damian has tightened, but he can't manage to loosen it. “Anything from physical pain and torture, like dehydration, food restriction, over training, days spent in sensory deprivation chambers, and inflicting ‘punishments’ for not meeting his expectations.” Dick forces himself to take a moment to calm his breathing as he shakes.
His brothers wait patiently, seemingly understanding that he's not done.
Dick forces himself to focus on the feeling of Damian in his arms and the smell of his hair layered over the stench of Gotham.
“That doesn't even touch the mind games he played. And I mean, I was a teenager. A teen's mental state is kind of rocky anyway, but when you add on mental torture, that quickly becomes a nightmare of its own.”
Dick buries his face fully into Damian's hair again. He doesn't know how to say the rest of it.
How do you begin to tell your younger brothers that you were horrifically abused sexually for nine months?
It's Tim who eventually breaks the silence, his need for all of the information clearly overriding his want to be patient. “How long were you with him?”
Dick takes a deep breath. “Eight months, three weeks, five days, twenty-two hours, forty-four minutes, and seventeen seconds.”
“Dickie.” Jason's voice cracks under the weight of Dick's words.
Damian's shaking slightly. Dick wishes he could tell if it's from anger or tears, but he doesn't want to leave the hair's safety to check.
Tim clears his throat. “How did you manage to escape?”
Dick stays silent, trying to figure out how to say that he hadn't cared about dying by the end so he got himself infected to force Slade's hand.
“Dick?” Jason asks.
Damian tries to pull back, saying, “Richard?”
Dick lets Damian pull back enough to see Dick's face. He's not sure what his face looks like, but whatever it looks like is enough to twist Damian's face into concern as he raises a hand to Dick's face.
“Richard? You do not have to say if you do not want to.”
Dick sighs, looking between his brothers. “I– Look, by the end, I just needed to get out and I honestly didn't care how, so I–I got myself infected with the nanobots, so if Slade wanted to kill the Titans, he'd have to kill me too. So I got out, and the Titans helped me remove the bots from all of us so Slade didn't have power over me anymore.”
His brothers look like he just punched them in the stomach.
“Sorry, I–” Dick says, his breathing stuttering as he looks away from his brothers. “I know I could've found some other way out, but I just couldn't–”
“Nonono,” Tim cuts him off, making Dick look back at them. “Sorry, we're not judging, we promise. Right?” He waits for Jason and Damian to agree before continuing. “You did the best you could in an awful situation, and I mean, you couldn't have been older than what, probably about sixteen?”
It's Dick's turn to clear his throat as he looks at Damian, tucking his hair behind his ear.
Damian looks at Dick, cocking his head with an expectant raised eyebrow.
Dick's mouth twists. “Fourteen,” He mutters.
Damian's face drops as Jason and Tim ask him to repeat himself.
He was really hoping he'd only have to say it once.
Damn it.
Clearing his throat again, Dick says it again, closing his eyes. “Fourteen. I was fourteen.”
His statement is met with shocked exclamations from both Tim and Jason as Damian grips Dick's forearm tightly.
Dick focuses on ignoring their frantic words, but he's interrupted off when Damian whispers to him.
“Baba.”
Dick's eyes fly open, immediately locking onto Dami's, who is watching him intently.
“You must breathe. You have ceased doing so.”
Oh.
Oops.
Damian starts tapping out a breathing rhythm onto Dick's forearm as Tim and Jason's words drift into silence.
Luckily, it doesn't take long for Dick's breathing to settle back out this time. He wasn't necessarily hyperventilating, he just had forgotten that he needs to breathe.
Once his breathing has been deemed acceptable, Damian nods decisively before folding himself back into Dick's side, who promptly buries his face back into his hair.
Jason speaks, his voice strangely heavy and unsure. “Dickie, I'm sorry, I have a question. You didn't say anything about it, but– Slade implied–”
Dick stiffens.
Fuck.
He had hoped his brothers had forgotten about that.
Unfortunately, it seems that his desperate hope is unfounded.
“Jason, what–” Tim says.
“I have to ask–”
Their voices are cut off by Damian. “Richard? Baba? You are not required to explain, but I do not…understand.”
Dick's mouth twists. Gently, he lets go of Damian, pushing away so he can stand. He turns and walks to the edge of the building, standing there for a minute before sitting down, staring unseeingly at the bay.
His brothers follow, questions falling from their lips as they come to stand behind him.
Dick shakes his head sharply, cutting their words off. He just breathes for a few minutes, watching the heavily polluted water. At some point, his brothers sit on the edge beside him, carefully giving him some space.
“I'm not talking details, I won't, or maybe can't. I've already said that Slade tortured me, but what I didn't want to say is that he also did so…sexually. It was, uh, incredibly fucked up. It fucked me up. For a long time.” Dick purposefully ignores his brothers’ reactions beside him. “It was relentless. And horrifying. Still is, to be honest. I was fourteen, and small. And he was…not.” Dick breathes deeply, trying to curb his growing panic. “There was a lot of damage. A lot of scarring. Some of the damage is…permanent. I, uh, didn't tell anyone. After I got medical treatment from the Titans for my other injuries, I used a fake ID to get some care at a clinic out of town, but there was only so much they could do.” He shrugs, somehow caught between complete numbness and the verge of tears.
Damian scooches closer to him, offering steady support even as his normally controlled breathing falters.
“Dick, I am so sorry.” Tim's voice breaks, accidentally revealing how close he is to tears.
“Dickie,” Jason says, his voice rough. “That's really fucked up. I'm sorry.”
Dick huffs a laugh that's barely more than an exhale.
“I have one last question. Will you sleep better if he is dead?” Jason asks.
Startled, Dick looks at his brother, who is watching him steadily.
Dick gapes at him. “I– But Bruce–”
Jason shakes his head sharply. “Fuck Bruce,” He snarls. “What do you want?”
“But he–” Dick says, gesturing around. “-He has enhanced healing and regeneration. How–”
“We'll find a way. If you will be able to rest easier because he's dead, we'll figure it out.” Jason has quiet surety in his voice.
Dick can sense that Damian and Tim are watching the exchange intently, but strangely, neither offer any push back to Jason suggesting fucking premeditated murder.
Dick isn't sure what to think about the fact that what Slade put him through is bad enough that all three of his brothers want the man dead.
“I don't–” Dick flounders, baffled by what's occurring. Turning to Tim, he asks, “And you're okay with this?”
Tim opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before responding. “I– Look, allegedly, this is not the first murder that I've helped cover up or the first body I've helped hide.”
Dick blinks.
He had known that he and his brothers hold more loosely to Bruce's morals, and mostly pretend to do so to pacify him, but he didn't know the extent.
Wordlessly, Dick nods. He twists his mouth, looking back out at the bay. After a minute, he builds the confidence to speak.
“I– Do I have to respond now?” He asks.
He doesn't have a single clue what he wants.
“Of course not,” Tim assures him, as Jason snorts in the background, with a faint tinge of affection.
Dick nods. He's fucking exhausted. His entire body just feels incredibly heavy.
Luckily, Damian seems to read his mind. “I believe this amount of emotions calls for a uh, what Richard would refer to as a ‘sleepover’.”
Jason groans dramatically, but he doesn't argue.
“Who's place are we going to?” Tim asks.
Slowly, Dick, Tim, and Damian all turn to look at Jason.
They've never been allowed to his place, but Dick's is too far, Tim's is a disaster zone, and the penthouse is out for obvious reasons.
Jason catches their expecting eyes. “No– You're not seriously suggesting– No fucking way, you hear me?”
The other three exchange conniving glances.
Well.
Dick's not going to waste this opportunity.
He pulls his puppy dog eyes on as he brings the slightest of tears to his eyes, a task that's disgustingly easy at the moment. “But Jay,” Dick says, with a slight tinge of whining toned down by his exhaustion in his voice. “My place is too far, and Tim's is a mess, and we can't go to the penthouse,” He pleads. Allowing some of his very real discomfort at the idea to show, Dick wraps his arms around his torso. “I don't want to be somewhere that Bruce or Slade can access.”
He keeps up the appearance of a kicked puppy until Jason groans, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Fucking fine!” Jason pushes himself off the edge of the roof to walk back across it as he grumbles.
Behind his back, Dick exchanges silent high fives with Tim and Damian as they all stand to follow Jason, pulling out their grappling hooks.
Before jumping off the roof, Dick sends one last look at the bay.
The faintest traces of the sunrise are starting to show.
A promise of a new beginning.
Just like Dick has with his brothers at his side.
A chance to heal.
To recover.
Dick lets himself smile softly before turning to follow his brothers across the rooftops, a strange sense of hope filling him.