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Dick remembers being curious, before all this with Slade started, about the League of Assassins.
How could he not be? The place Damian spent most of his childhood, where Bruce trained before becoming Batman, where Cass and Duke fought and Tim went toe to toe with the Demon's Head. He wondered about it, what it looked like, what the people there must be like after all this time. Hearing about it secondhand from his family members always made it sound so...mystical, so otherworldly. He was curious to see it for himself.
He's not, anymore. Hasn't been for quite some time, and still isn't despite the fact that he's having the chance to visit now. Hell, maybe he even despises the fact that he's here, despite how badly he wanted it once upon a time.
Because right now, he isn't coming here as an avenging hero, swooping in to right wrongs. He isn't coming in the dead of night to enact a secret vigilante mission and then escape with no one the wiser. He isn't any of his siblings venturing into this place to become the heroes they were always meant to be. He isn't a hero, period.
He's Renegade, apprentice to Deathstroke the Terminator. And he is here to ally with the League of Assassins, not take them down.
It's been about eight months since Slade took him, since a chase turned into a trap turned into a conspiracy to fake his death and force him away from everything he's ever known. Slade showed him the news coverage of Robin's 'death', the mourning the world felt, especially the heroing community. He showed him the news coverage of Dick Grayson's 'death' as well, a few months later. The final sign that no one was looking for him, coming for him. Not a single soul knew he was alive or cared to figure it out. All he had left was Deathstroke.
It was hard, watching the coverage of Dick Grayson's death. Watching the camera footage of his older siblings, Bruce, his friends. Watching Damian stand tall and try to look stoic, a hand on Stephanie's shoulder as her lip trembled. Tim's bowed head and blank eyes, and Duke's expressive grief, unhidden unlike the rest of them. Cass and Bruce side by side, powerful and unmoved, but cracked all the way through if you know what to look for.
Dick does.
There's an empty space, too. An empty space for the other dead boy in the family, the loss that came only two years before Dick's own. Jason's grave is so very close to where they're burying the mangled and unrecognizable corpse masquerading as Dick Grayson. Dick thinks if he were actually dead he'd want to be even closer, would want to be buried right next to his big brother and hope that that would let them find each other more easily in the next life.
Not that it matters. Dick isn't actually dead, but no one will ever know. He'll never see any of his family ever again, let alone the last Blackbird.
Well, he might see some of his family. Might see Tim or Cass, Duke or Bruce, Stephanie or Barbara. Might see any of them, still living. But he'll only get to see them if there's a weapon in his hand and he's doing his best to tear them to shreds.
He hasn't had to do that yet. He hasn't even accompanied Slade on any jobs even close to Gotham, nothing that would bring temptation out in him or any Bats or Birds out to play. But Dick's not stupid. He knows Slade would love that, that it's a goal of his. The final sign of control over Dick, that Dick would fight his family at his behest.
Eight months ago, Dick would've said that would never in a million years happen. That he'd die before lifting a hand let alone a weapon to any member of his family.
But there are a lot of things he thought he'd never do, that he's now done under Slade's tutelage. A lot of lines he thought he'd never cross but has stepped right over. And death is not something Slade will ever grant him, no matter how much he acts out. Slade's way is the only way, no matter how long it takes him to get Dick there.
This trip right now is a big step. The first time Dick's attending a gathering of any kind, first time he's been let out of the Bunker for a length of time that isn't mission-specific. Dick can admit Slade chose a good location for a field trip test—where the fuck is he going to go? Who the fuck would lift a finger to help him in Nanda Parbat, if Dick was even stupid enough to try to ask? Everywhere you look are assassins upon assassins, despite the open doors and endless freedom of sand outside. Dick's just as trapped here as he is in his cell, just with more of an illusion of freedom.
Slade's all about that illusion lately. Pretending Dick has more freedom, more choice, more free will than he does. Pretending he hasn't done his job to train Dick so well, pretending this is all normal. Like he's trying to trick Dick's brain into believing they're a team, after everything he's done to Dick. Everything he's done to make Dick as obedient as he is now.
It isn't worth a fight. Fighting never goes Dick's way. But sometimes Slade pretends he's not watching like a hawk and Dick wants to throw a knife at his head just to prove no, I'm not your little apprentice, I'm not your loyal dog, I don't accept this, I will always fight you—
He would've, eight months ago. Six months ago. Five. But there's a reason they've gotten this far, gotten to a field trip, and it isn't because Slade's delusional. He knows how broken Dick is. How trained. He knows he has him exactly where he wants him.
Dick knows, too.
So he behaves, just as Slade wants him to. He stays silent, a step behind and to the right, hands folded behind his back. He tracks threats and stays ready and keeps half an ear on the conversation Slade's having with Ra's al Ghul, the rest of his attention on the never-ending supply of assassins moving in and out and around them. Slade isn't worried, he has a long working relationship with the al Ghuls, but Dick's job is to have his master's back so that's what Dick will do.
He...he's loyal. It's disgusting and painful and makes him fucking hate himself, but Slade trained him well. Is still training him well, every time Dick has a single misstep. He's loyal. This is his master and he hates him and he's loyal.
They're in a training atrium of some kind, Slade and Ra's discussing some sort of job that sounds like it'll pay a lot. It's sort of interesting watching the League assassins train, the wide array of weapons and styles being honed. Dick can see Damian in them, if he focuses. Can recognize the foundations of a lot of the skills Damian had but transitioned into non-lethal for his new life as a hero not Heir to the Demon. He can see a little bit of Cass, too, if he really looks, but she's a force unto herself, not locked into League styles. If anything, he's sure some of them are trying to emulate her, not the other way around.
Ra's and Slade reach some sort of understanding and bid each other goodbye for the moment, apparently until dinner in a few hours. An attendant steps forward and tells them to follow him to their guest quarters, and Dick makes sure to memorize the path and anything he notices along the way—Slade will surely ask him about it once they're alone.
Sure enough, as soon as the door has closed behind them and they've done a sweep of the rooms, Slade turns to Dick with a raised eyebrow.
Running it all through is easy, something Dick was doing with Damian and Bruce from his first days as Robin. Number of people, weapons, escape routes, potential weaknesses. They're not attacking the headquarters of the League of Assassins but if something were to go wrong, what would they do?
After he's done speaking, one corner of Slade's mouth curls upward and he nods in approval. "Good," is all he says, but that one word is enough to make Dick's heart race with pride.
The shame follows quickly after, but it doesn't negate the pride.
Despite Slade removing his mask, Dick doesn't dare take his own off in turn. Dick Grayson is dead, Robin is dead, and there are enough people here (namely, the fuckers in charge) who know both those identities that Slade isn't risking anything getting out. Not when Talia al Ghul can't be trusted to keep her mouth shut if using his identity could get her something she wants from Bruce or Damian. And not when Dick still dreams about his family rescuing him, and wouldn't stay at Slade's side if given the choice between him and the Bats if they learned he still lived.
So they go down to dinner like that, Slade with his mask tucked into his belt and Dick with his still firmly in place. He misses his domino mask; this one, which connects to the rest of his Renegade suit like Batman's cowl just open on top letting his hair free, restricts his movement in a way he doesn't like. He's certainly adjusted to it after months of training with it, but it feels so constricting. He's never not perfectly aware of it and what it means.
Hell, that's probably part of it for Slade. Another way to psychologically hit Dick about how different things are now. Make it slightly harder for him to turn his head, narrow his field of vision just slightly with the extra Kevlar, and Dick could certainly never mistake himself for Robin. No one could. His current suit and style don't look a fucking thing like he used to.
The dining room for dinner is grand, but the actual grouping is small. Just Ra's, Slade, and Dick. Supposedly Talia will be joining them, but she's wrapping something up and will be along shortly.
Dick tunes everything out when Ra's and Slade start talking again. Sitting down hurts; his back is still raw from the last punishment Slade doled out, and the wounds are itchy and painful against the hard-backed chair. He doesn't show any signs of it though, he knows better. He just sits quietly and eats his food with perfect table manners and tries to be nothing more than the perfect little apprentice so Slade doesn't look bad in front of the Demon's Head.
About fifteen minutes into dinner, the door opens. Dick glances up to track the newcomer, and upon seeing Talia is about to turn back to his food dismissively, but then a second person follows her in. And Dick goes utterly still.
Nearly three years ago, Jason Todd AKA Blackbird followed a lead about his biological mother and ended up killed by the Joker, blown up in a warehouse a million miles from home. Dick is not the only member of his family who blames himself for Jason's death, but that doesn't lessen the feeling of blame. Jason was his big brother, his best friend. He let Jason tell him 'no' about going with him to find Sheila. He kept Jason's secret for too long. And Jason died.
(Dick wonders, sometimes, if Jason's death is what gave Slade the idea to fake Dick's own. That when he decided he wanted Robin for an apprentice, he looked at what happened so recently and how no one in the universe would be expecting to see Blackbird ever again, and thought that was a pretty neat way to cut Dick off forever and give himself all the time in the world to train Dick the way he wanted.)
Jason died.
And yet, walking in behind Talia al Ghul, is Jason Todd.
He looks a little different than the last time Dick saw him. He's bigger, for one, much taller and more muscular, maybe almost as big as Damian or Bruce instead of the lithe underfed frame he seemed locked into from his time before the Manor. His face has lost some of the youthful roundness. There's a shock of white in his hair, right up front. His once-blue eyes are instead a bright green.
Different, yes. But unmistakably Jason Todd.
A large hand settles just above Dick's knee, grasping firmly. Dick flinches and looks over at Slade, but his master doesn't even glance at him, just squeezes slightly as he continues to eat with his other hand like there's nothing amiss.
A warning, Dick realizes. A warning to keep his mouth shut.
Dick's heart is racing, and he fights to keep his breathing even. Did Slade know? Did he know Dick's brother was alive, that he was here? He couldn't possibly have—there's no way he would've taken Dick to the League if he thought he might encounter his family, his dead family besides. Slade has control of him but not so complete yet that it would be nothing to dangle his apparently-not-dead brother in front of him and not get a response. He wouldn't spring this on Dick in the middle of dinner with Ra's al Ghul when anything could happen, not a chance. He didn't know. He couldn't have known.
(He's probably fucking pissed about that. Dick would find it funny, if it wasn't so...not.)
Slade's hand tightens even further on Dick's thigh, enough to be painful, and Dick looks down, staring at his plate as Talia and Jason sit down across from them.
How is he here? How is he alive? Dick saw his body, went to his funeral—fuck, what is he even saying, the rest of his family could say the same about him, and Dick's obviously not dead. Did the same thing happen to Jason? Did the League steal him? Has he been here the whole time? God, how do Bruce or Damian not know? How does Tim not know? How has Talia kept it to herself for so long when this is prime material to manipulate her son and ex-lover?
Is Jason okay?
He looks okay, when Dick pulls himself together enough to risk a glance up. He looks...strong. And mindbogglingly at ease. He sits down in a relaxed posture and starts eating immediately, conversing with Talia about training in between bites. He acknowledged Ra's with a bow of his head when they arrived but has since then just eaten and exchanged words with Talia, sparing Slade and Dick no more than a cursory, hard look. He doesn't look like he's in pain, or afraid. He seems—serious, focused, but not wary. Not worried about being hit at a moment's notice like Dick is.
Then again, it's been nearly three years for Jason, if he's been here the whole time. Dick can only imagine how casual Dick will seem around Slade if given two more years to practice.
Dick's ears are ringing. He feels the almost overwhelming urge to cry, and just barely swallows it down, ignoring the lump in his throat and trying so fucking hard to pretend to be normal.
But it—it's Jason.
"So what's with the capes?" Jason asks after about ten minutes, ten minutes of Dick sitting in absolute torment and just barely holding back from screaming his brother's name or simply throwing up.
Talia arches a brow, amused, so much like Damian. Ra's only blanks placidly. Slade meets Jason's gaze, unbothered, when Jason stares at him.
"Show a little respect," Slade says, but it's his casual tone, not his threatening tone. "I'm Deathstroke. I'm working a deal with your...benefactor?"
Jason doesn't answer the question, doesn't clarify who the fuck the al Ghul's are to him. He just says, "I know who you are. You're the guy who wouldn't leave Robin's team alone."
Dick doesn't react. He doesn't fucking move. But still, Jason's gaze flicks over to Dick. It has Dick frozen, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest. It's Jason, Jason is right there. His big brother is alive and looking at him and Dick could fucking scream.
Slade's hand tightens further.
"And what are you, his sidekick?" Jason asks disdainfully. Shame burns sour in Dick's gut. "A tip, kid—kids don't tend to live long around him. He tell you anything about his actual children?"
Slade goes rigid, eye turning to stone. Simultaneously, Talia leans forward, and the way her arm moves under the table makes Dick wonder if Jason now has a restraining grip on his leg, too.
"Jason, please," Talia says, somehow managing to make it sound like this is all casual and like Jason didn't just bring up the single largest pressure point Deathstroke has to make him kill a bunch of people. "Can't we just enjoy a dinner for once?"
"Maybe if you'd stop inviting mass murderers to dinner, Talia," Jason returns, sickly sweet, perfectly threatening. Dick marvels at it; he could never speak to Slade that way. What the fuck is Jason's deal with these people? "But it kind of makes me want to vomit sitting across from Terminators Senior and Junior. Especially considering I'm a little suspicious about your movements, Deathstroke, when Robin died."
"I don't care if you're suspicious," Slade says coolly. "I was out of the country when the bird croaked, not that it's any of your concern. Who are you, exactly?"
Jason's smile is a cold, malicious little thing. His eyes seem to glimmer. "Come now, we're all friends here. I know you know who I am. You know exactly why it's my concern. And you might have the rest of them fooled with your job in another country bullshit, but Robin told me all about you. And you might be too chickenshit to admit you killed him because you don't want heroes dogging your every step, but I know how obsessed you were. I know about the weird little game of cat and mouse the two of you had. And I know that if Robin was going to chase anyone down the way he was when he died, it wouldn't be for some two-bit criminal who got lucky and blew up a building. It would be for you."
Talia has a calculating look on her face. And though she says nothing, she turns that calculating look on Dick.
"I'm flattered," Slade says, hard as stone. "So glad your brother thought so highly of me. A shame, then, that you weren't there to help him if you knew all about me. Who knows how different the outcome could've been if you'd stepped in?"
Jason's expression changes in an instant, looking like he's been slapped, eyes wide. Dick wants to hug his brother. He wants his brother to hug him. He wants to erase the last eight months, the last three years.
Slade's lips curl upward, satisfied with his blow landing.
"Alright," Ra's cuts in smoothly, before Jason can come up with a reply as his face starts to twist with anger. "Clearly there are some strong emotions, but I trust everyone knows how to behave themselves."
It's a very good threat when coming from a man like Ra's al Ghul—he doesn't have to say much to be understood.
Slade inclines his head in agreement, though the coldness in his gaze doesn't fade even as he slides his posture back into something relaxed. Jason's expression is mulish, anger clearly simmering right below the surface, but he doesn't try to say anything else. Whether that's his own self control or from the way Talia has inched herself closer to him, Dick doesn't know.
Talia is still looking at Dick, though. Occasionally glancing at Slade, but mainly just watching him. Dick decides to stare back at her, because fuck her, that's why. He's never been able to form a defined opinion on Talia—having heard way too much about her over the years, both bad and good—but he has to say he's disliking her even more right now considering she might be holding his brother captive and might've faked his death. In which case she can really go fuck herself.
(Sorry, Damian. But he'd agree, if he knew his mom was doing this stuff.)
"Jason, I see that you're finished," Talia says, despite the fact that Jason's plate still has a good amount of food on it. "Why don't you retire early? We can speak more in the morning."
Jason glares at her, clearly angry at the obvious dismissal. But he listens, pushing roughly to his feet and taking an aggressive bite of a bread roll as he does so.
"Fine, talk death and destruction," he says with a heavy eye roll. His gaze lands on Deathstroke. "But don't think this is the last conversation you and me are gonna have on this topic. You hear me, cyclops?"
Slade smiles coldly. "I look forward to it."
Jason snorts, derisive, but doesn't comment further, walking away.
Dick wants to call out to him. He wants to tell Jason who he is, where he's been, beg his brother to take him far away from here. That he's sorry for letting Jason go to Ethiopia alone and he's sorry he let himself get tricked by Slade and he's sorry for whatever's happened to Jason since his death ("death"?) but that he's here now and please, please, take him away from Slade—
Slade's hand is a vice grip on Dick's thigh, and Dick says nothing, watching his brother unknowingly leave him behind without a word.
As soon as the door closes behind Jason, Talia looks at Slade and says, "It is Richard sitting beside you now, is it not?"
Dick freezes.
Slade's lips thin, and he leans back in his chair, finally removing his grasp from Dick's leg. "I would like to keep that in this room, if you'd be so kind, Talia."
"Remove your mask," Ra's demands, gesturing at Dick. Dick glances hesitantly at Slade, but before Slade can say anything, Ra's says, "Now, child."
Thankfully, Slade inclines his head in approval, so Dick reaches up and pulls off his mask, letting it fall to hang off his neck. He runs a hand through his hair to smooth it out, and for the first time in eight months he looks someone other than Slade in the eye with a bare face.
"And I thought Talia's venture with the Todd boy was foolish," Ra's sneers. "What kind of stupidity is this, Deathstroke? You will bring the Bats down on your head with more than a vengeance when they learn what you've done with their youngest."
"If you weren't hiding one of your own, this wouldn't have even come up," Slade says coolly. "So whether or not you approve of her venture, clearly you're going along with it and have a dead Bat under your tutelage as well." His gaze shifts to Talia. "So if we all just keep each others' secrets, there's no harm done, hm?"
"We didn't fake his death and kidnap him," Talia says, matching Slade's tone, and Dick almost wants to laugh because—huh? Is Talia chastising Slade for what he's done? After everything she's done, she's somehow taking the high road here? The woman's got a messed up sort of code and Dick will never understand where she stands.
Apparently feeling the same thing, Slade does laugh, teeth flashing. "Honestly, Talia, do you really think you're in any position to make moral judgements? You?"
Talia sneers at him and opens her mouth to retort, but Ra's cuts her off. "Enough, this is beneath you both. It is certainly beneath me. Deathstroke—you should've informed me of exactly who you were bringing under my roof. We've already reached our bargain; you can stay the night, but I want you both gone first thing in the morning."
"Understood," Slade says curtly.
Ra's' eyes turn to Dick, looking him over critically. Dick stares back, wide-eyed, and Ra's sighs. "The Detective has been pitiful since the loss of his littlest bird, my grandson even more so. I would hate for their grief to turn here."
"It won't," Slade answers. "None of the Bats or Birds will ever know we were here, at least not from the two of us. I have no intention of anyone learning about Grayson for quite a long while to come."
Ra's nods, satisfied. Talia doesn't look pleased, but she doesn't say anything.
Slade pushes back from the table, and Dick instantly does the same. A gesture from Slade has Dick pulling his mask back up—a little out of place, but it'll do in a hurry—and then he follows Slade to the door, a step behind and to the right.
But a yearning desperation rises in him, faster than he can control, and he stops walking, turning to look at Talia. "You really didn't hurt him?"
You didn't fake Jason's death? You didn't take him from his home and refuse to let him leave? You didn't torture him and abuse him until he complied with your every whim? You aren't responsible for the pain living in Jason's eyes?
Talia's expression softens, seeing all of Dick's questions and probably more. Her voice is gentle when she says, "No, Robin. This is not a cage—he can fly free when he wishes."
Slade's hand, heavy and possessive, lands on Dick's shoulder. "It's Renegade, now," he says coolly, and Dick's eyes lower to the floor in deference.
"Of course," Talia agrees, perfectly cordial.
"Yes, Master," Dick says as firmly as he can manage. Slade squeezes his shoulder sharply once and then releases.
When he turns for the door, Dick follows, and he doesn't look back.