A/N: So it has been forever since I have written for FanFiction, and recently I've been inspired to do a Slade x Nightwing story! Yes, there will be slash, and yes I will be using the 'M' rating to its full extent. Please be aware of this and take it as a warning if you are not comfortable with those things! In my story, it has been a year since robin became Nightwing, and I mix the elements of comic book Deathstroke and Teen Titans with the television show. With that being said, enjoy!

UPDATE: As of 1/18/15, these prologue chapters will be combine into two, as well as 'remastered' in a sense.

Summary: Nightwing awakes prisoner next to the man who has haunted him for years: Slade Wilson. They are forced to work together to get out of their situation, and all the while Nightwing must accept some things that may just break the bird completely.


Prologue

The sound of a whistle blowing from afar had stirred Dick into a light trance, his senses slowly coming back to him. His eyes felt heavy, his body limp but the pounding of aching muscles continued to wake his still being. Distorted voices and sounds filled his head, a crack, a gunshot, another loud whistle this time much clearer. Nightwing let out a weak whimper, feeling his voice lost and his mind hazy. Everything hurt, he couldn't move, had he been bound? It was hard to say, but what he did know was that he was moving, and fast. Another whistle and Dick let out another whimper. He was on a train, by the speed and breeze blowing through his thick and greasy hair, he could tell it was a crate. By the humid wind and thick smell of trees, he knew he was no longer in the States, or at least, not in Blüdhaven, and by the throbbing and thick fog within his mind, he knew he had a minor concussion.

All with his eyes closed and his arms bound.

It took all of his strength just to open his bright blue hues that feared the strong sun shining against his face. His revealed face. Dick Grayson had known no enemies, and that fear of his anonymity gone forced him to wake up completely, fighting the burning of his now sensitive eyes and looking around the large crate where masked men surrounded him.

"Well look at that, the bird is awake. Welcome, lad. You were just going to miss the fun." The accent was Australian, and as his eyes began to focus, he could see that the men wore cheap black ski masks, none of them showing any signs of superiority or training. Of course, he couldn't presume, nor let his guard down considering his situation. No leader it seemed, besides the man who spoke, twirling a knife in his hand before approaching another hostage. Dick had quickly reassessed his surroundings and being as he saw the figure, at this point nearly certain that he was dreaming, for the familiar black and orange uniform seemed only to haunt his mind anymore.

"No…" he breathed, but could hardly hear himself mutter the word. A sick feeling filled him, and he wanted nothing more in that moment then to close his eyes and wake up.

"Your little friend has finally joined us, Deathstroke. We all know how much you love an audience." When the man stepped out of the way, Dick could see clearly the familiar and haunting mask, unable to tear his gaze away. But how? Why were they there? Was this some sort of trick? A test? Something sank in the pit of his stomach when the assassin's cold grey eye met the bright blue ones. It wasn't a dream. The mercenary was never losing in his dreams. But that didn't stop Nightwing from praying internally, praying it was not this killer who was now seeing his true identity. And when the masked man leaned down to remove Deathstroke's own mask, a twist of satisfaction and guilt rose within the young man.

Revealed was a handsome yet cold face, thick hair as white as snow with a goatee to match. A thick scar traveled from his forehead to his jaw, across his covered eye. Dick's mind should have been focused on any slip of names, on his surroundings, on anything else but all he could do was stare at the man who had always been just a mystery. Just a mask. A mask that had driven its way between himself and his ex-teammates.

"You're not a very smart man, are you?" It was the assassin alright. Dick knew that voice anywhere, and he could remember long ago as a Titan that same voice mocking him, teasing him, torturing him. Dick still couldn't find himself able to tear his eyes away from the man, watching his mannerisms, trying to see everything he had always hidden beneath the black and orange.

"I'd say capturing the 'world's greatest assassin' is more impressive than smart. Besides," the knife was sent into the man's shoulder, and Dick watched in fear as he hardly made a sound, gritting his teeth and watching the veins in his neck surface. "I'm smart enough to figure out that your healing factors won't help when there's no way for the wound to close." And that's when Nightwing saw it, the other sharp objects sticking into Deathstroke, his uniform thick with blood and pervading the air around them. It made the boy sick, and as he was finally able to tear his eyes away, he looked to his own body, tied up and still in uniform, despite the tears and rips into the expensive material.

"It's no fun when you don't scream." The man mocked with amusement, and for a moment Dick thought of the Joker, but there was no way he was behind this, then again, the clown was as crazy as he was unpredictable.

"Then again, we always have your bird, don't we? His screams were certainly sufficient before." The man stalked towards him, leaving Nightwing to look up, eyes wide with fear. Screams? Before? His body did hurt...had he been tortured? There was no way for him to know, not with his mind's ache distracting him from the rest of his body that was nearly numb due to the tight ropes around him.

"Who...who are you?!" His throat was dry, his voice weak, and still he stared up at the man, trying his best to be as strong as he would have been with his mask on.

"Mm, don't remember, do ya? Well that's no fun." Dick felt worthless then, weak, and for a moment he wondered if this was it. If this was his fate to die next to his greatest enemy. When his blue eyes shifted to land on the assassin, his heart skipped a beat to see the man with the handle of a knife in his mouth, the blade dripping with his blood. When their eyes locked, and the assassin gave him a small nod, Dick needed nothing more. No explanations, no uncertainties. There was a small trust in that moment, although it had been pulled from the desperation from their current predicament.

"No fun? Was I tied up when you beat me? Afraid to cut the ropes?" He wheezed, knowing he would have to endure a little more to give Deathstroke the time. Never in his wildest dreams would he be helping the assassin, especially in such dire circumstances. But that was it, the situation was dire and he needed to get out however he could. He would figure out the rest, later.

"Hmph, I see Slade's cheek has worn off on you. Pity. You've got quite the smile, Dick." A hard blow met with his jaw, forcing the boy to spit up a mixture of saliva and blood. He didn't dare look at Slade who he hoped didn't hear his name. But what was the point now? His face had been revealed, and if they both made it out alive, that was only just another nightmare to come.

"Is that...that all you got?" Dick forced a smile, unknowing what he was doing, but all he knew was that he had to survive. He had to figure this all out, he had to know what had happened. And if it meant being beaten to an ounce of his life, so be it.

With that, another blow was delivered. Over and over. But the boy had taken punches like this before. It had been part of his training, and although his whole body and mind screamed in pain, he kept it going. More blood trickled out of his mouth, his flesh swelling and bruising, his hair beginning to dampen with blood. As sick as the thought seemed, the idea that it wasn't Deathstroke behind the kicks and punches had actually made it bearable. It wasn't until the man kicked him in the ribs, which had for some reason crippled his body in unimaginable pain and forced him onto his back with a shout of agony. Something was broken.

And before he could do anything else, he was hoisted up and thrown against the wall of the crate, cringing at the pain and the snickers of the men behind them. It was then that the sound of ripping flesh sounded in Dick's ears, forcing him to look over his shoulder to see a very angry Slade sticking a knife through the mouth of one of them. What happened after that was a blur, quite literally. Deathstroke moved effortlessly around the cabin, opening throats, twisting and breaking limbs, kicking men onto the track and stealing a gun once he had gotten the chance. As he worked to clear them of their captors, Dick found the man who had been speaking and beating on him, gurgling blood and clutching his chest.

"How do you know me?" Dick asked him, crawling against the pain until he was over the bleeding man, his chest heaving with all of the sudden adrenaline. "How do you know my name?!" He shouted desperately, feeling his eyes cloud up before a strong arm wrapped around his middle, hoisting him over the large shoulder of Slade who shot the man one last time in the head.

"No! No! I wasn't finished! I can't- let me go!" the boy shouted desperately, the scene that had quickly happened before his eyes no longer processing in his head.

"You'll get your answers soon enough." He heard the man say before he leapt off of the train, landing on the thick gravel that slid them down into the woods. Slade took off in a sprint, still carrying the bound boy who noticed the weapons still lodged into the assassin's body. He had half a mind to lodge them deeper, to stop the man, to at least force him to drop his body.

But he was weak, he could hardly breathe against the pain that blanketed him, and hardly see through his blurry eyes. It had felt like ions before they finally stopped, however, and Slade dropped to his knees and set the Boy Wonder down before moving away. Picking up his head that was thick with an uncomfortable fog, he watched the mercenary move to a small stream, dipping his hands into the water and washing it over his face.

"You're just...going to leave me here?" Dick grunted, squirming against the tight ropes that proved futile. He then watched the killer pull one of the knives' from his back turning around and leaning down to cut the rope with the bloodstained blade, a sight that forced Nightwing to gape, expecting a different outcome.

With the ropes now cut and resting in the dirt, Dick forced himself to sit up after some time, his body trembling slightly, a sick wave of nausea sweeping over him at the realization of his current state. He had been kidnapped, it seemed, tortured, his identity revealed, and all next to the one man he hated most. But he was not a foolish boy, there was no time to complain, to cry, to shout at the man or even at himself. There was no feeling bad for himself either, and so with that in mind, his attention shifted to Deathstroke who was still occupied with the water.

Slade wasn't one to keep his mouth shut, at least in Robin's experience, yet here they were, sitting away from each other in silence. Nightwing began to desperately stretch his limbs, all the while watching Slade remove the weapons from his body as if they were nothing but splinters.

"You'll die if you do that. Bleed out and we don't have-." But the man was quick to cut him off.

"I'll heal." Dick set his jaw at that. I'll gladly watch you drop dead, the boy thought. But there was a small voice inside him that was sure to remind him who had gotten him off of the train. Perhaps the man would have to be trusted for now, but it was unclear as he may very well be in even more danger by the assassin's side.

"I don't know where we are, why I'm with you, or who the hell took us but somehow this is your fault. You did this. They know my secret identity. You know- my face- I want answers, Slade!" Dick suddenly shouted, growing strength back in his nerve more than anything as his thoughts began eating at his unclear mind.

"You're not in a position to make demands of me, Dick." Slade hissed his name, a glint of satisfaction in his dark eye. He had finished pulling out the last blade, tossing it into the dirt before rising to his feet. Dick sat up, his eyes narrowed as the man walked towards him, kneeling in front of him as if to study every feature on his face. Nightwing did the same, his gut churning all the while as he tried his best not to tremble or show any sign of pain in front of the man.

"Dick Grayson." He then said. "You know, the photos are really nothing like the real thing are they?" Slade smirked, the same smirk Robin had imagined he hid beneath his mask every so often. But Dick's eyes grew wide, his lips parted.

"You...you knew? The whole time?" Slade's smirk quickly faded.

"I'm offended you think me so daft. I, on the other hand, was sure that Bruce would have told you about me." That made the boy sick. He knew of Batman, and yet he never once revealed or used this information against him. It didn't make sense, and that's what pained the boy the most in that moment. He had been vulnerable the whole time.

"I didn't need his help." Nightwing replied, looking away from the assassin's hard face. Even at his worst, nothing boiled more than the idea of Batman's help. Slade scoffed.

"Of course not. Well as much as I'd love to catch up with my favorite bird, I'm afraid we have work to do." Slade rose then as if the bloodied knives sitting in the dirt had been pulled out of Nightwing. It had certainly felt that way for him.

"Work? What do you- I want answers Slade. I wake up in a train beaten and tied up next to you, I deserve an explanation considering you seem to know what's going on."

"Fair enough, but we have no time to waste. Can you walk?" There was a fear then that if Dick had not been able to get on his feet, Slade would leave him for dead. And so as the boy struggled to pick himself up, he growled in frustration when his body fought against his will. When Slade surprisingly offered his hand, Dick pushed it away.

"No. I can do this." And so he fought every muscle in his body and followed behind Slade, clutching his side and wheezing heavily. Ribs broken, harsh blows to his back, and never mind the short beating he had just endured not he train.

"Amanda Waller, does that ring any bells, Dick?" Nightwing wheezed, glaring at Slade as they began walking through the forrest. It had occurred to the boy that Deahtstroke seemed to know exactly where he was going. That felt uneasy, but still he said nothing until his name sounded again.

"Don't call me that. Don't say my name, ever." The man disregarded his words and shrugged slightly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. She runs Task Force X, more commonly known as Suicide Squad, a little gang she paid me to be on. Surely you've heard of them. Well, unlike the other members, they spared me the whole micro-bomb in the neck and when I had the opportunity to change my little contract with them on a mission, I took it." Nightwing grit his teeth.

"You turned against them." Dick put together quickly. "And now they want revenge on you. I knew this was your fault." Dick tripped on the last word, feeling his face grow hot in hopes that Slade didn't see his weakness.

"Not exactly. Amanda knows not to play with fire, but I can't say the same for Captain Boomerang. He didn't take kindly to my betrayal. That was his men. This is his territory." Dick had heard of that name before, though the villain had never posed a threat in the past.

"So where do I come into all of this?" Dick asked, trying to stand straight but failing hopelessly.

"Well, you don't, not really. He must have mistaken you for someone I care about." Slade's tone was flat despite the words sounding utterly ridiculous to Dick.

"How is that possible?" Slade narrowed his eye at that.

"What is the last thing you remember?" when Dick didn't answer, Slade stopped and turned around to see the boy clutching to a tree, wheezing and trying to keep himself up.

"I… don't know." Dick finally answered, trying to think back to a mix of scenes playing his mind, when a strong hand moved around his waist. The movement made him flinch as it was unexpected, the man's hand rested gently over his hip, as well as lifting the weight off of his feet to make easier for him to walk. His other arm was thrown around the assassin's broad shoulders. Dick could smell the stained blood that stirred his stomach, and just as well he could smell something else. A familiar scent, one he couldn't seem to forget when the two fought against each other. He wanted to tear away from the man, to push through the pain rather than letting the assassin touch him, but he couldn't deny that the help was…well…better. "I was leaving Blüdhaven...I was going to Jump City." It was blurry but memorable. He was going to see Starfire, he suddenly remembered, hoping more would return instantly, but a wall was hit.

"Hm. Well perhaps you had some unwanted guests waiting for you, as I did. It's hard to say." Deathstroke explained, but the words had meant nothing to Nightwing as he knew he could not be trusted, even though he had helped him.

Dick scoffed then, dropping his chin and staring at the ground they continued to trek. "Now I remember why I left that city in the first place."

Slade chuckled.

"The lack of criminal creativity?" The man replied sarcastically.

"No...you."


Dick Grayson had no idea how they had made it out of the forrest, how he had managed to stay as conscious as he did, or how Slade was able to survive all of his wounds. For now it didn't matter too much, not when everything felt so peaceful. He was on his back, on something soft, the air around him was cool and relaxing. He didn't want to open his eyes, and yet he was sure that if he did he would awake to everything simply being a dream. But as his body began to wake, as well as his throbbing injuries, he knew that would not be the case.

It didn't take his detective skills to figure out he was right. As soon as the sound of a door closing had reached his ears, he knew then and there that he was somewhere unfamiliar. The scent of the bed was not his, nor was the small room he had determined was not his own. The door sounded to close. Reluctant to open his bright blue eyes, he finally gave in, staring at a cream colored ceiling where a smoke alarm was directly above him. Sitting up, he let out a yelp that was quick to wake him up, his hand finding his side where he could feel the swollen flesh. Squeezing his eyes closed, he fought the nausea that stirred from the pain, trying to file through his memories; how could he not remember what happened to him?

"I can't imagine you're in that much pain, Nightwing." The familiar and dark voice crept up his spine and forced his eyes open. Lifting his chin, he watched a half-naked Deathstroke moving to stand in front of a mirror. Dick was speechless, quickly forgetting his company as his eyes roamed over the tall and broad form of his enemy. Deep scars scattered over his muscular torso, stopping where only the pants of his uniform covered him. There had been no sign of the knife wounds from before. How was it possible? He was combing his seemingly wet hair, and it didn't take long to figure out that they were in a hotel. Slade had just taken a shower, as if nothing was happening. "I've broken your ribs before, what's so different now?"

Dick growled at the thought, at himself, for being in this situation. "They're fine." he lied, glaring at the man through the mirror. "Where are we?"

"A nice little hotel in Australia." Dick wasn't surprised at the vague explanation, as he would find out for himself later. "I figured you needed some time before we confront our friend." That forced the boy to look down at himself, realizing he was shirtless as well, and the minor lacerations upon his flesh were tended to. That made him angrier. The man seemingly helped him yet again.

"He's your friend. I shouldn't be here. I have nothing to do with this." Dick fell back into the pillows and folded his arms, glaring at the man's back, still trying to find any sign of markings from the earlier wounds.

"Do as you like, then. Though I am a bit disappointed, Nightwing. You get captured, tortured, and you don't feel an ounce of anger? No lust for revenge?" Slade scoffed and continued combing his hair.

"I don't care about revenge. I'm not like you." Slade said nothing at that, but Dick could see the amusement on his face. Secretly, he did want to find who had done this to him. He wanted to take down the Boomerang, to find out why he knew his identity, and why he had any part in this. But he did not want to grant Slade the satisfaction…he couldn't work beside Deathstroke. All the while, as Dick was lost in his thoughts, his eyes had been burning into the face of the mysterious man, something that did not go unnoticed.

"It's rude to stare." Dick felt himself blush as the man caught his gaze through the mirror, still thinking about the man beneath the mask, and who it had been all this time. "Not what you were expecting?" Slade then asked as if he had read the boy's mind. Dick had imagined hundreds of faces, hundreds of voices, of smirks and growls. None of them were his.

"I don't know what I expected. After a while, it was just the mask I saw. Forgot there was anyone beneath it." Slade turned around at that, his bare chest in view, leaving Nightwing to study the scars and muscles rippling beneath his skin ever so subtly. Part of him searched for any damage he might have inflicted on the man over the years. But it didn't seem so.

"There are some who would still argue that there isn't." He replied with a smirk. Dick narrowed his eyes then, sitting up in the bed once more, this time carefully, unable to relax so close to the man who had tormented him and his friends for so long.

"I don't get you, Slade. You spent years trying to kill my friends and I, you wanted nothing but destruction, and yet, all this time, you knew who I was…who they were. You've had every chance to off me, to leave me, now you're helping me, asking me to help you take down your enemy-." That had been on his mind as well. The man made his life a living hell, yet the way he helped him on the train, in the forrest…even now…it didn't make sense.

"Asking you? Dear boy, I simply assumed you'd do what anyone would do. And is that what you tell yourself, Dick?"

"I told you not to-."

"I never wanted you dead, boy. And your Titans? I know you simply want to include them in this, but they were never part of this." Slade motioned between them, leaving Dick to give him a confused and nearly horrified look. "They were merely nuisances. I only wanted to train you, to show you your true potential, but there was only one way to get your attention, wasn't there? How could I ever convince you to see things my way if I didn't show you my true potential?" The man asked the boy who continued listening silently, blood boiling beneath his own bare skin.

"You thought showing me what a psychotic killer you were, that I'd be more tempted to join you?" Dick hissed, fingers clutching the sheets beneath him.

Another snicker from the assassin who had finished combing his hair. The man suddenly dropped to the ground next to the bed, beginning to do push-ups as if he weighed nothing. "No. But I did think you would stop at nothing to find out who I was. To do anything you had to stop me. To train with only me in mind." He stopped mid push-up and looked to the ex-Boy Wonder. "And I succeeded in that." A smirk before he resumed his workout, huffing slightly with every repetition. Dick sat there silently, clenching his jaw and refusing to believe the man's words.

Everything that he had gone through, that his team had gone through, it couldn't have all been for him. It wasn't true. "Eventually, you'd realize that there was no taking me down, not with your team, and not with your training." The assassin continued. "Enter: Nightwing."

"I didn't leave because of you." Dick growled, wincing at the sharp pain felt in his side. "I grew up." he then said beneath his breath, looking away and trying to forget.

"Of course not. Just know I'll still be waiting when you realize no matter what you do, I'll be unstoppable."

"Didn't think you were the boasting type, Deathstroke."

"It's well deserved, don't you think?" he continued his work out, not breaking a sweat despite the number Dick had been counting internally.

A long silence filled between them then, aside from the controlled breaths the assassin was releasing. It then occurred to the boy that perhaps this was his chance to find out more of the man. To succeed where he hadn't in the research he had ever done over the years.

"How did you heal so quickly? The wounds you had…the blood you lost…you shouldn't be alive." Sade grunted before folding one of his arms behind his back, continuing his push-ups with only one arm. "Never mind doing push-ups…"

"If I told you, that would ruin the mystery, wouldn't it? Besides, it's nothing the Bat can't explain."

"He doesn't know everything." Dick retorted, crossing his arms.

"Heh, your resentment to him is quite amusing, Dick. I'm tempted to hear the story of your falling out, but I'll leave it to my imagination." A few more push-ups before Dick growled at his failure.

"I don't know why I thought you'd tell me-."

"Military experiment." The assassin answered simply. That made the boy's eyes widen, his blood rushing with what felt like excitement.

"What would the military want with you?" Was all the boy could gather from the small answer, spitting out the insult he couldn't control. The military was for honorable men, fighting for their country, not for men like him.

"Insolence doesn't look good on you, Nightwing." Slade hissed in return. "I joined when I was sixteen. You see, I was just as skilled before Deathstroke. My seniors saw that. And they also saw a soldier who would do whatever he was ordered to. Including agreeing to an experiment that would test the immunity of truth serums. Put me in a coma." Another grunt and he switched arms before continuing. "It stopped truth serums alright, but it turned me meta. My reflexes faster than any, my strength doubled, my senses heightened, and above all, I could use 90% of my brain capacity when the average human uses a mere 10. Turning an already lethal weapon into an indestructible one."

"You aren't indestructible." Dick quickly said, still gathering the rest of his story.

"What proof have you otherwise, Dick? The experiment also heightened my healing factors. That's why I'm not dead. That's why I'm still moving while you can hardly get out of bed." Dick turned red at that. Was he envious perhaps? But he wouldn't say anything to jeopardize all the information he was finally learning. If he could find more, he would.

"They turned you into a weapon, yet from what I've gathered, they didn't end up using it." Dick then added.

"Even the Army was smart enough to know what they had created. Trying to kill me would prove futile, and keeping me would be jeopardizing all they had tried to keep secret. So instead, they kicked me out." With that, the man moved to his feet, his chest reddened slightly. "Get on your stomach." He then ordered, pointing to the floor.

Dick snapped out of his gaze, one he had been holding for far too long as he was still taking in the assassin's true appearance. "What? My stomach- you're crazy. I'm not taking orders from you."

"Don't be ungrateful, boy. If I was going to do something, I'd have done it. Now get on your stomach." His voice was sinister this time, leaving Dick uncertain of what was to come. It was then that his senses returned, being in a hotel room with his enemy.

"No, I don't trust-." But as soon as he saw the man stride forward, Nightwing was quick to move out of the bed and onto his knees. His body screamed at him as much as his alerted mind had. Laying flat on his stomach, his arms in front of him. Bright blue eyes watched Slade's feet approach until they had walked around his side, no longer in sight. "What are you going to- agh!" Before the boy could finish, he felt a large hand grab hold of his right shoulder, another taking him by the wrist and pulling it in a way the boy had always believed unbendable. He was sore, and by the feel of it, tight. Deathstroke was stretching him it seemed, though his body shot with pain and recognized the feeling only of torture.

"Relax." Slade purred. "Deep breaths, you'll hurt yourself if you resist." As the words slipped from his mouth, he moved his knee over Dick's lower back, as if to keep him still. It was not a strange position for them, how many times had he almost broken his arm by the exact movements? Yet the assassin's hands were firm and gentle, the warm skin upon his own sent a shiver down Dick's spine. The more human the man seemed to be, the more it twisted the Boy Wonder's gut.

Another wince of protest before Dick dropped his chin to the carpet, allowing Slade to slowly bend his arm however he wanted. And after a while, the pain subsided, his muscles stretched in places he didn't know were even there. Why was he doing this?

"I need you fit to take on Boomerang and his men." Slade then said as if reading the boy's mind. "You may not have my healing powers, but I'll at least have you on your feet soon enough." Nightwing didn't answer, and instead focused on his breathing, focused on the hands that were upon him until he finally spoke up.

"So they kicked you out of the Army…then what? You were angry? You wanted revenge against them?" Dick asked, wanting to continue their conversation.

"Quite the contrary, Dick. I was unhappy, of course. I had spent a good time of life fighting for them. Fighting in general. It was what I was good at, what I loved more than anything. I wanted to go back, but they wouldn't let me. I didn't understand, at first. I was young and full of bloodlust. Something I had not really felt so strong before the experiment. I thought that was what they wanted…it wasn't." he explained, pulling his arm back farther which had forced a sound from the boy. "My, my, flexible, aren't you?" Dick nearly screamed at the comment but elected to ignore it for his own sake.

"So what did you do?"

"I took things into my own hands. Learned there were people out there looking for that same bloodlust. People who would pay a pretty penny for my services. Alas, Deathstroke was born."

"It sounds like Deathstroke was already there. You just released him." Dick said subconsciously unaware of his words, but was made aware when he heard Slade chuckle and release his arm, moving to his other side to do the same to his opposite arm.

"I suppose you would know about that, wouldn't you? Surely Robin was stirring around in Dick Grayson when he watched his parents die." Dick frowned at that, painfully aware of how much Slade seemed to know about him.

"You knew this whole time…I just…don't understand. Why didn't you ever say anything? Use it against me? Use it against Batman?" His eyes shifted and his head turned slightly to look up at the towering man who was still focused on his arm.

"As I said, it was not my intention to destroy you, or Dick Grayson, I'm not even concerned with Bruce Wayne or his nightly activities. You see, Dick, I've known your deepest secret and I've kept it. As much as I know you don't want to admit it, but you've unknowingly trusted me with it. And it's that trust that I was sure you would rethink our encounters. Rethink whatever you've thought of me." With that, Dick looked away, closing his eyes and trying to focus on his breath once again. He wanted to refuse it all, he wanted to hate the man more than he ever had. But he found that difficult.

"You don't like my answer?" Slade then said after a moment, releasing Dick's arm, "Sit up and spread your legs." Dick followed his order silently, still thinking over all that has happened along with Slade's words. When his legs were spread, he leaned forward, stopped by the pain in his side until the assassin's hands were felt on his back, pushing him down further.

"I left because I didn't belong with the Titans." Dick suddenly said, his voice soft. "They were my friends but…I was above them. And Jump City…it wasn't my home. Neither was Gotham. I needed to be better. I couldn't just sit around waiting for something to happen. I couldn't live in Batman's shadow." Another sound breathed from his lips when he was pushed further down, his legs and back burning until they slowly stretched for the man. "I expected you to follow me. Everywhere I went, I waited for you to show up. I did train with you in mind. I wanted to beat you. I wanted to prove myself to everyone."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it seems I didn't need to show up after all." Slade replied, amusement tinged in his smooth voice.

"No. You didn't. And even now, after all that training, what have I learned if I can't even remember waking up on a train, captured and my identity revealed…next to you." Slade chuckled at that, and at that point, Dick's stomach was pressed to the carpet, stretching as far as he could with Slade's warm breath on the back of his neck. He tried not to shiver as he closed his eyes.

"Well, you've learned the identity of me. You've even learned a bit of my backstory. Not many people seem to survive to tell the tale either. But above all, boy, perhaps you've learned to be as big of a threat to a man who is angry enough to attack me." His voice got lower then. "That is a compliment, by the way." And with that, Slade pushed off of the boy and got to his feet. "On your fists, you need to circulate your blood."

And without any thought, Dick obeyed, moving into a push-up position and moving himself up and down, the corner of his eye watching Slade sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed. "One arm, now." he then said, watching as Dick struggled at first until moving into a slow rhythm.

"I have, but part of me is wishing I didn't. I thought what I wanted was to expose you, to see who you really were…and now that I know-." Dick was conflicted. How was it that within a few moments, he was confiding in the very man he had convinced himself to hate so much?

"Don't flatter yourself, boy. You don't know as much as you'd like to think you do. Regardless, you're disappointed? Wished I was the nightmare that haunts you in the night? Or are you just surprised at how handsome I am?" Dick rolled his eyes at that, yet at the same time couldn't help but glance at the older man who was certainly not what he had always expected.

"I just wish you still had your mask." Muttered Nightwing, thinking it would be easier to look upon that than the smirking man beneath it. The boy then switched arms on his own accord. Slade kept silent at the remark until Dick suddenly stopped and moved to his knees. His eyes were wide, staring at his hands.

"How…how did I do all of that? I couldn't even move before-."

"It's all mental, Dick. Your real injury is in the ribs, there's nothing I can treat for that with what we have. Everything else just needed to wake up, including your mind. When there is a greater pain, we tend to forget all else. I wonder what hurt more, boy. Thinking of your parents or the team you had left to fend for themselves." The whole conversation, Nightwing suddenly realized, was just a sick way of Slade to get him back into motion. But Dick couldn't find himself to be angry.

"So that was the trick, get me to take my mind off of my side by bringing up tragedies? Huh, I guess you really are the same Slade." Dick then said, accepting of what Deathstroke had done to him.

"Was there ever any doubt of that, Dick?" Slade raised his brow and smirked, watching Dick rise to his feet, stretching on his own for a moment.

"I hope you aren't expecting a 'thank you'." He then hissed, darting his eye's to Slade who tilted his head to the side, observing the boy for a moment.

"And here I thought Robin, the teenage boy without manners was all grown-up." Dick couldn't help the twitch at the corner of his mouth, but quickly caught himself and instead pushed his fingers through his raven-black hair.

"So…now what? What's the plan?" The boy asked. Slade smirked at that.

"Now, we wait."


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