Chapter Text
It was never meant to be like this. This wasn't supposed to happen. Maybe if M'gann focuses on how wrong this is, her mind will bend reality like it's heavy copper wire, the way it did once all those years ago, and none of this will be happening. But her shoulders ache from how her hands have been pulled above her head and the oppressive smell of blood is filling her nose and there are all these sounds coming from ten feet away and it's real, it's all real, she's here and it's not going away.
Alpha squad—Miss Martian, Kid Flash, Wondergirl, Robin and Nightwing—had been assigned to guard a convoy transporting Apokoliptan tech to a secure facility in Metropolis. They had been expecting some trouble, but nothing too major—maybe some enterprising small-time weapons dealers. After all, most of the major villainous players were still out of commission after the fall of the Light.
They were nowhere near prepared. M'gann realizes that now, and somehow it makes her feel even worse. Their convoy was attacked by a massive team of mercenaries as it passed through Gotham. They were well armed and very well trained. And they were led by Deathstroke.
The team managed to hold their own for a while, taking down about half of the mercenaries and preventing the deaths of the convoy's drivers. But it wasn't good enough. Deathstroke got behind Cassie and snapped an inhibitor collar around her neck before she even realized what was happening. In an instant she was down, her body twitching as electricity poured into it. Next was Bart, who was taken out by a brutal blow to the temple and immediately collared.
Two of the mercenaries held guns to Bart and Cassie's heads, and the rest of the team had no choice but to stand down. They were collared, bound, stripped of their communication devices, and thrown into one of the trucks as the convoy was rerouted to an abandoned medical facility on the outskirts of Gotham.
Nightwing seemed to be the first to figure out what was going to happen. The Apokaliptan tech was held in high-security safeboxes. Each safebox could only be unlocked with a different alphanumeric code. The locks were unbreakable and virtually unhackable.
But Nightwing knew the codes. He had been given them in case of emergency.
“You have something my employer wants,” Deathstroke said as they were forced into an old operating theater. Bart and Cassie had to be carried. “I'm going to get it.”
That was hours ago. Hours of sitting on the cold floor, hands chained to the wall above her head and an inhibitor collar heavy around her neck, watching helplessly as Nightwing was tortured. Deathstroke hurt him inventively, in ways M'gann would never even think of. At first, she had struggled and yelled and threatened. Deathstroke had barely spared her a glance, but he pressed a burn into Dick's stomach when he was sure she was watching. Dick twitched and bit through his lip. It was warning enough.
Cassie, Bart, and Tim are next to her, similarly restrained. Cassie is still unconscious. Bart is awake, but his eyes are hazy and unfocused. His head lolls against his shoulder. M'gann is almost glad they're not really aware of what's going on around them. It's too horrible.
Dick is strapped to an operating table now. His legs are raised and spread, his feet locked into stirrups. Even from here, M'gann can see the angry lines Deathstroke beat into his soles. He's naked, completely exposed. One of the first things Deathstroke did was cut his Nightwing suit off him and remove his mask. He doesn't seem to care about Dick's identity, though. Nakedness is just another one of his tools. To make Dick easier to hurt, or maybe to make him feel humiliated and vulnerable. Maybe both.
On her other side, Tim is wide awake and staring. “It's okay,” M'gann whispers to him, over and over. “We'll be okay, just close your eyes. Everything will be okay.” She wishes there was something else she could say, something she could do, but the collar makes her feel so weak and tired. Tim shouldn't have to see this happen to the man he thinks of as his brother.
(Her little brother, not so little anymore, grown up strong and smart and brave but still the child she remembers, trying so hard to be good enough, but still so kind, still laughing and--)
Don't look. Don't listen. It'll be okay. This isn't happening.
Deathstroke is circling Dick, a cane held loosely in his hand. He strikes without warning, beating another line into Dick's foot. Dick flinches, but doesn't scream.
“We could stop, you know,” Deathstroke says. He sounds bored. This whole time he's been cold, wringing grunts and screams out of Dick with professional detachment. “Just tell me the codes, and it's over.”
“No,” Dick says. His voice is barely a whisper. At the beginning, there had been quips and taunts. Now there's just weak refusal.
Deathstroke shakes his head in disappointment, and strikes his feet again. Some of the welts start to bleed.
There are things M'gann wishes she didn't know—that this is called falanga, that it is excruciating, that if Deathstroke aims his cane a bit higher or lower then Dick may never be able to walk without pain again.
Deathsroke circles again, and for a moment he seems resigned, almost remorseful. But in the next moment that hint of remorse gone. He delivers three more blows to Dick's feet, then hums thoughtfully.
“You know,” he says, dragging the tip of the cane along the inside of Dick's trembling thigh, “I think I've been going about this all wrong.” The cane moves higher, tracing a line up Dick's stomach. “I've been trying to torture you”--the cane flicks over Dick's left nipple, and he flinches-- “but you're actually kind of enjoying this, aren't you?”
Deathstroke lets the cane fall and seizes Dick's chin, turning his face back and forth, examining him. “Mm. Yes, you just love being the center of attention, don't you?”
His cups Dick's cheek in his right hand and trails the other down to his collarbone, a parody of a caress. “I understand now. All those eyes on you, watching you--it's heaven for you, isn't it? That's why you haven't told me the codes. You don't want me to stop.”
“No,” Dick chokes out.
“I don't believe you,” Deathstroke says huskily. His hand travels further down Dick's body, over his chest, then lower, lower...
Surely, he won't. Deathstroke is cruel, and a killer, but he wouldn't do that.
M'gann is wrong. He does.
Dick makes a strangled sort of noise when Deathstroke's ungloved hand closes around his penis. He strokes up and down, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Dick's breath comes in short, panicked bursts. Deathstroke is still talking to him, his mouth right against his ear, but M'gann hears everything horrible thing.
“Mmm, hard already?” Deathstroke murmurs. “You can't lie to me. I can see how much you love this, how eager you are for it. They all can.” He grabs Dick by the hair and wrenches him up, forces him to look his team in the eyes. Dick gives a little cry of pain at the strain on his shouders, but it's nothing compared to the expression on his face: anguished, horrified shame.
M'gann feels like she's about to throw up. “Close your eyes,” she whispers urgently to Tim. This time, she can't bring herself to say that everything will be okay. “Don't watch, don't listen to him, just close your eyes--” But Tim's eyes are wide beneath his mask and his whole body is shaking. He doesn't look away.
“Look at them,” Deathstroke commands, and he jerks Dick's penis harder and faster, sliding his palm over the head. “Let them see you for what you are—an attention-hungry slut.”
Dick shakes his head, either in denial or in an attempt to escape Deathstroke's grip, but it's no use. His breathing is out of control, fast and wet—he sounds like he's choking.
“Cum, slut,” Deathstroke whispers. And with a cry of pure despair, Dick does.
Deathstroke grunts, like he's disappointed. He rubs his hand over Dick's stomach and chest, wiping off the semen.
“Well, that proves it,” he says casually. “There's no point in interrogating you anymore. I'll just have to toss you aside and move on to someone else. The new Robin, perhaps? He seems like he'd break easily.”
“No...don't touch him” Dick says weakly, and his voice is so tiny and hurt that it breaks something in M'gann. She begins to cry.
Deathstroke clicks his tongue. “Liar. If you really didn't want me to, you would tell me the codes. But since you won't, well...” Deathstroke withdraws a key from a pouch on his belt, and begins to undo the cuff chaining Dick's right arm to the table. Dick starts to shake with panic.
“Robin will have to take your place. I think I'll string him up from the ceiling, whip him 'til he bleeds. I bet he'll scream.”
“No, don't--”
“And after I've had some fun, I'll stick a knife in his gut. He'll die slow, in agony, choking on his own bile. And while he's hanging there, I'll fuck you, just like you want. The last thing he'll see is you, bouncing on the cock of the man who killed him, and he'll die knowing what a filthy, pathetic whore you really are.”
“No, no, don't--” Dick is writhing on the table, words spilling over each other in desperation, voice raw with pain. “Please, I'll do anything, just don't!”
“Tell me the codes.”
“Fine, yes, just please don't hurt him. Please.”
“I won't, if you tell me the codes.”
Dick sucks in a ragged breath. “Okay. Okay.” At last, Deathstroke stops. “The first one is bravo two--”
“Slade.”
The name drops like a stone into a still pool, and everything is suddenly quiet.
There is a man M'gann has never seen before standing in the doorway. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and stands with the still confidence of someone who knows he is dangerous. He's dressed almost like a civilian, in a leather jacket and jeans, but his face is covered by a featureless red helmet. In his right hand he holds a gun. With his other hand he drags a medical waste bag.
The man advances towards Deathstroke, his boots loud against the linoleum. The medical waste bag trails behind him. Whatever is in it sounds heavy.
“Red Hood,” Deathstroke says. His voice is calm, but his body has slipped into a fighting stance. “What brings you here?”
“This is my territory,” the stranger says harshly. “And I want you out. Your deal's off.” He tosses the bag towards Deathstroke. It lands on the linoleum with a wet thunk.
Deathstroke considers the man and the bag for a several long seconds. Then, finally, he says, “Then I suppose I'm done here.”
A strange, bitter anger fills M'gann's stomach. After all of that, after everything that he did, Deathstroke is just done? M'gann wants to throw him against the wall until his body is a sack of shattered bones, wants to rip apart his mind from the inside out, or at the very least, wants him to show that he has some inkling of what a monstrous thing he's done. Her vision swims, and Deathstroke is still talking.
“Though there is, of course, the matter of payment,” he continues.
The man draws a smartphone from the pocket of his jacket and tosses it at the mercenary. “Information for the wire transfer is on there. Anything else?”
Deathstroke's gaze falls on Dick, who is still strapped naked to the table. Her friend is eerily silent now. M'gann can't even hear him breathing.
“No, I suppose not,” Deathstroke says. He begins to pack up briskly. At the same time, the stranger begins to approach M'gann and her teammates. As he moves further into the room, he is able to take in the whole scene—the semen on Dick's stomach, the tremors in Tim's shoulders, the tear tracks on M'gann's cheeks. She can't see his face, but his shoulders start to shake with what she thinks is rage.
“Slade!” he calls again, and this time his voice is tight with fury.
“Hmm?” Deathstroke replies casually. He's almost out the door.
“I thought you had standards,” the stranger bites out. He gestures accusingly at Dick. “Lines you wouldn't cross.”
Deathstroke sighs. He looks at Dick now, too, his expression unreadable. Almost regretful. “I do,” he says evenly. “I would never have touched the children.” And then he's gone.
On the table, Dick starts to cry.
The stranger runs to M'gann's side and kneels in front of her. He pulls out something thin and metal from his jacket and reaches behind her neck, fiddling with the lock on her inhibitor collar.
“Thank you,” M'gann says, but he doesn't say anything in return.
The collar falls off, and her power floods back into her so suddenly she gasps.
“Free the kids,” the stranger says brusquely, “and get out of here.”
“But Nightwing--”
“Those two need medical attention, and fast. I'll take care of Nightwing.” The man turns away from her and moves towards Dick, clearly intending for the conversation to be over. But M'gann's not going to just let some stranger take Dick from her like this, not after...that. She can't name it, not even in her own mind.
M'gann struggles to stand, her limbs still weak and uncoordinated from hours in an inhibitor collar. “I won't—”
“It's okay, Miss Martian.” Tim's voice is soft, but it startles her into silence anyway. It's the first time he's spoken in hours. “We should do what he says.”
M'gann stares at Tim is surprise. She would have thought that he would be just as opposed to this as she was, if not more. He has to know something she doesn't, if he trusts this man. “Who is he?” M'gann whispers.
Tim hesitates. He isn't looking at her--he's watching the stranger as he approaches Dick. The stranger puts a hand on Dick's shoulder, and Dick twitches and shudders. M'gann almost lashes out then, almost throws the stranger against the wall and finally, finally does something to protect Dick. But then Dick stills, leans into the touch as if it's his lifeline.
“He's...an ally,” Tim says at last. “It's complicated. But he won't hurt Nightwing. Not like this.”
M'gann has to accept that for now. “All right,” she says. With a pulse of power she breaks the inhibitor collars around her teammates' necks. While Tim frees Bart and helps him stand, she looks over Cassie. The girl is still unconscious, but her breathing and heartbeat are steady. M'gann breaks her bonds and carefully levitates her, trying not to move her too much. She reaches out with her mind to call the bioship, then leads the remains of her team out of that terrible room. Tim half-carries Bart, who is troublingly unsteady.
Just before they leave the room, M'gann takes one last look at Dick. The collar is gone and the shackles on his hands and ankles are undone, but he hasn't moved. He's still staring straight up at the ceiling, his face twisted up in grief. The stranger is speaking softly to him, saying things M'gann can't hear.
Her touch on the stranger's mind is soft and light, like a loose sheet settling over a bed. She finds the shape of his intention, feeling for the sharp edges of cruelty or maliciousness. There aren't any. But his mind is strange. It's touched by something foreign and unknowable that sets her teeth on edge, yet it's somehow familiar. Like a quilt made out of squares of an old t-shirt, rearranged and sewn together with acid-green thread. She knows this mind. Or rather, she knew a version of it. It belonged to someone she knew, and trusted. She can't quite place his identity, but M'gann is sure now that whoever he is, this man won't hurt Dick.
Next to her, Bart sways and almost falls. Tim struggles to keep him upright, and the worry is obvious on his face. M'gann knows they have to leave.
The facility is eerily silent as they move through it. They pass by several unconscious mercenaries, most secured with zip ties or cuffs. Several of them have been beaten brutally, but M'gann feels no pity.
Near the exit, they encounter a grizzlier sight: a massive, headless corpse and a gory machete. They have to step over the body to reach the door. Tim looks vaguely sick. Up close, M'gann recognizes the dead man—Bruno Mannheim, sadistic and occasionally cannibalistic leader of Intergang.
She knows what was in the bag now.
Heroes don't kill people. That was one of the first things she learned when she came to Earth. But M'gann can't deny her dark satisfaction.
The bioship is waiting for them just outside the door. M'gann lays Cassie down in the medical bay and directs Tim to do the same with Bart. She sets up heart rate and blood pressure monitors and fluid IVs while Tim calls up to the Watchtower and gives a sit rep.
As M'gann takes her place at the controls, she hears Batman say “and Nightwing?”
“With Red Hood,” Tim replies. He's trying hard to keep his voice steady.
Batman doesn't say anything. His mouth is set in a hard line, the rest of his face carefully blank. It's an expression M'gann recognizes, though she hasn't seen it often. It's the one he wears when he is really, truly angry. To his credit, Tim doesn't look away.
Then the moment breaks, like a snapped rubber band. “Fine,” Batman says. “I trust your judgement, Robin. Batman out.” The holoscreen blinks away, and Tim collapses into his seat.
It hits her, then, whose mind she felt under that red helmet. It's impossible, it's beyond impossible, and yet. She's so sure.
“Robin,” she says, “was that--”
“Yeah,” he cuts in before she can finish. “Yeah, that was Jason.”
She has so many questions, but she settles on: “How?”
“We don't know,” Tim says. “He doesn't really know, either. It's a complicated situation.” His voice has a tight, flat quality that M'gann has come to recognize. Dick and Barbara get it, too. It's the tone that means: This is family business. You wouldn't understand.
M'gann doesn't push him. He's been through so much today—she won't ask any more of him. There will be time for more questions later, when they are both less worn out and raw.
A green glow shines through the windows of the bioship--Rocket and a Green Lantern have arrived to pick up the Apokaliptan tech. M'gann is startled to see them at first. She had almost forgotten why there were all here in the first place. Rocket waves at her as she passes—M'gann manages to wave back, but barely.
Neither she nor Tim say a word as she eases the ship of the ground. As they rise, a dam inside her breaks, and she's flooded with too many emotions to name—relief, worry, anger, fear, pity, all of what she had supressed with the consuming thought of get the team safe, now threatening to spill out.
“Nightwing will be okay,” she says. “Everything will be okay.” It's both a declaration and a prayer.
This is probably the worst Jason's ever seen Dick, which is saying something. He's covered in welts, bruises, and little burns, and Jason is sure that if he turns him over, his back will be worse. Just looking at his feet sends sympathy twinges through Jason's soles. His hair is sopping wet and plastered to his forehead—leftovers from water boarding. Three of his fingernails are missing.
His mind is in a bad way, too. Dick's eyes are glazed and unfocused, and he's sucking in breaths so fast he's choking on them, on the verge of hyperventilating. Tears are leaking down his cheeks. He doesn't even seem to realize that it's over. Dissociating, Jason thinks.
At least none of the physical damage looks permanent.
“Nightwing,” he whispers. “It's over.” Dick doesn't respond. He doesn't even seem to see him.
“Nightwing,” Jason tries again. Still nothing.
Jason knows he shouldn't do this, but he can't think of anything else. He gently puts a hand on Dick's shoulder. Sure enough, Dick jerks away, his breath stuttering and catching.
“Dick,” Jason whispers softly and urgently. “Dickie, it's okay, it's me. It's Jay. You're okay.” Finally, Dick hears him. His breathing slows, and his body stills.
“Jay?” he whispers.
“Yeah, it's me. Just relax.” And Dick does—he closes his eyes, leans into Jason's touch like it could offer him some comfort. Like he trusts him.
Jason wishes he were better at this.
Looks like the replacement vouched for him, because Miss Martian frees the rest of her team and get them ready to leave. Jason is pretty sure he made the right call in insisting that he be the one to take care of Dick. Wondergirl and the new Kid Flash (guess he's not the only dead sidekick to get replaced) are in a bad way. They need the full attention of Miss Martian and the League's doctors, and they won't get that with a traumatized Nightwing to worry about. Besides, Jason can't think of anything worse than facing Batman immediately after a night like this. Not even Dick deserves that. Jason might not be great at this whole comfort thing, but he's way better than fucking Bruce.
The inhibitor collar is easy enough to take apart with his picks. One of Dick's cuffs is already undone—Jason will have to ask the replacement about that later—so he moves around to Dick's other side and gets to work. As he works, the lock clangs a bit, and Dick goes stiff as a board. His breath catches, and he doesn't exhale.
Fuck. Okay. Jason can find a way to deal with this, somehow.
“Just unlocking your other cuff, Dickie,” Jason murmurs. “You'd think I'd be better at doing this quietly, huh? But these are some tough sons of bitches.” Talking seems to help a bit. At least, Dick starts breathing again. So Jason keeps going, mindlessly narrating his actions as he frees Dick's wrist and moves on to his ankles.
What's left of the team shambles out of the operating room just as Jason finishes. At the door, Drake shoots him a look over the top of Kid Flash's hair. To the kid's credit, his gaze his pure fucking steel. It says: I'm trusting you. If you make me regret this, I'll make you pay.
Jason tilts his head slightly. Message received.
Miss Martian is looking at Dick, not him. She doesn't need to stare him down—he knows that she could rip him apart in an instant, and that she wouldn't hesitate if he did anything to hurt her friend. Not that he would, not when Dick is so vulnerable like this. He just hopes she knows that.
The others leave, and Jason is faced with a challenge: how to get Dick up and out of here without aggravting his injuries. His feet are a mess. There probably won't be any lasting damage, but he definitely can't walk on them right now. And there's still the issue of his back.
“All right, Dick, time to get up,” Jason murmurs. Dick doesn't respond, but he doesn't freak out, either. He seems to have retreated somewhere deep in his head again. Maybe that's for the best, for now.
“Just gonna take your feet out of these stirrups, and then I'm gonna help you sit up.” Jason eases Dick's left foot out of the stirrup, mindful of the welts on the soles. His leg spasms and contracts. His thighs are horribly cramped—he must have been bound like that for a long time.
It's going to be impossible to carry him out of here if he's crimped up like a pillbug. “I'm gonna have to loosen your legs up a bit, Dick,” Jason says, and starts massaging the cramps out of Dick's thighs. “Jesus, man, what have you got in here, cement?” It's not his best joke, but Dick isn't really listening.
He's tries to keep his touches light and professional. After a few minutes work, Dick's legs are loose enough that Jason can slowly uncurl them. Dick's feet dangle over the edge of the table, like he's a gangly teenager on a too-small bed.
Jason eases him upright, and can't help but wince. Dick's back is absolutely covered in dried blood. Jason runs his hands over the tacky mess, checking for still-bleeding wounds. He doesn't find any. Slade was careful. Didn't want Dick to go loopy with blood loss—that would probably have ruined the fun. In some ways that makes things easier. Jason wasn't looking forward to field surgery.
“Okay, up we go,” Jason says, positioning his hands under Dick's knees and behind his neck. It will be better to do this quickly. He pulls Dick into his arms and lifts him in one smooth movement. Dick squirms a bit but then settles, leaning his head into Jason's shoulder.
It's startlingly intimate in a way that would have seemed impossible when Jason first exploded back into Batman's world, sick with rage and grief and trying to excise some of his pain by pounding it into someone deserving. Back then, he couldn't look at Dick without wanting to bloody his knuckles on his stupid, beautiful face. He still feels that violent, directionless hurt course through him sometimes, when he thinks of how he'll always be the un-favorite, the mistake, the unwelcomed prodigal son of their fucked up little family.
But not now. When Jason looks down at the battered man in his arms he feels rage, but not at him. For him. But rage isn't what Dick needs right now. He needs painkillers, and food, and sleep, and needs someone to treat his wounds and make him feel safe. He needs to be out of this room.
Jason gathers Dick a little closer to his chest and leaves.