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The rooftop was quiet, Gotham’s usual cacophony muffled by the early morning fog. The mission had been routine—intercept a weapons deal, neutralize the buyers, send the seller running. Nothing that should have required Deathstroke the Terminator’s presence.
Yet there he stood, across the adjacent rooftop, perfectly still.
Batman had his back to him, crouched over a downed smuggler, securing restraints. The Batfamily fanned out across the rooftop—Nightwing nearest to Batman’s left, Red Hood covering the rear, Red Robin on comms, and Robin perched on a higher ledge, scanning for more threats.
No one had spoken since they’d realized who the silhouette belonged to. No one moved.
Because Deathstroke wasn’t attacking.
He was watching.
Cassandra was the first to notice it—the tilt of his head, the slow drag of his visible eye down the length of Batman’s spine, the way it lingered just below the belt.
She signed to Dick, her fingers sharp with disgust: Looking at Father’s rear.
Dick blinked. Then his head turned toward Slade like a gunsight.
“No,” Dick whispered, too low for Batman to hear. “No, absolutely not.”
Jason followed Dick’s gaze, then looked at Slade, then back at Batman’s ass—which was, objectively, very prominent in the armored suit at this angle. Jason’s face cycled through confusion, horror, and then cold, volcanic fury.
“Oh, hell no,” Jason growled, raising his pistol.
“Jay, don’t—” Tim started.
Too late. The shot went wide, intentionally, maybe—and shattered a chimney pot three inches from Slade’s head.
Deathstroke didn’t flinch. His eye barely moved from Batman’s posterior.
“That’s it.” Jason chambered another round. “I’m killing him.”
“Get in line,” Damian snarled, dropping from his perch with a sword already drawn. “Drake, tell Father to stand up straight.”
“Why me?!” Tim hissed, already opening his comm channel. “Batman, we have a situation.”
“I see him,” Batman said without turning around. “Terminator is not our primary objective. Stand down.”
“He’s looking at you,” Dick said, his voice strained and high. “Like—looking looking.”
Batman finally straightened, turning with deliberate slowness. The fog curled around his cape. “I’m aware of what he’s doing.”
Across the gap, Deathstroke raised one hand. And gave a slow, appreciative thumbs-up.
A sound escaped Jason. It might have been a scream. It might have been a laugh. It was probably both.
“That’s it,” Dick said, suddenly calm. The calm of a man who had decided something terrible. “I’m going over there.”
“Nightwing, don’t—” Batman started.
Dick launched himself across the gap, escrima sticks sparking.
Slade didn’t raise his weapon. Instead, as Dick landed in a combat roll and came up swinging, Slade sidestepped once, caught Dick’s wrist on the second strike, and said—loud enough for the whole family to hear—
“Tell your father I like the new suit. Very supportive in the back.”
Dick made a sound like a punctured kettle.
From their rooftop, Tim had buried his face in both hands. Damian was throwing shuriken—not at Slade, but in an arc around him, like he was trying to draw a boundary line between Deathstroke and Bruce’s entire existence.
And Jason—Jason had pulled out his phone and was recording.
“For the group chat,” he shouted. “This is going in the group chat.”
Batman turned sharply. “Red Hood, delete that.”
“Absolutely not. This is blackmail material for years.”
Deathstroke tilted his head again, eye still fixed on Batman’s lower half. Then he did the unthinkable.
He winked.
The fog chose that moment to thicken, swallowing the Terminator in a gray shroud. When it cleared thirty seconds later, he was gone.
Silence.
Then, very quietly, Tim said: “I need therapy.”
Damarin sheathed his sword with a decisive click. “I will find him. I will remove his other eye. With a spoon.”
Dick walked back across the ledge, his face expressionless in a way that was somehow more terrifying than rage. “Bruce. Bruce, look at me. Tell me you don’t know what that was about.”
Batman pulled his cowl lower. “Mission debrief in thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”
He grappled away into the fog.
Jason lowered his phone, replaying the footage. A slow grin spread across his face.
“The Bat-ass is official,” he said.
Cass nodded solemnly. Then she signed: Father has nice glutes. But I will never say that out loud again.
No one asked her to.