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Kaldur and Barbara are silent, and Dick lets them process, hip leaning against the table and arms folded over his chest.
He knows he's dropping a lot on them, but he knows he's right, too, and they can handle it. Knows that if this is going to be successful, he needs them in his corner. Kaldur, especially, as team leader, but Barbara—a Bat needs to know. If he's going to be lying to Tim and Bruce, making them think he's a traitor...someone needs to know.
"I understand your point," Barbara says after a long moment. Her voice is perfectly level and her expression gives nothing away, but her eyes are troubled. They've always been so expressive, as long as he's known her, and yet she never has wanted to use the lenses for her cowl that Bruce has, always leaving her eyes uncovered. Dick's never asked her why, but whatever the reason, he likes it—it's steadying, sometimes, to always be able to see her eyes, even if she can't see his.
"But," Barbara continues, "this seems like a drastic measure. Yes, we need to do better than we've been doing; they've been winning far more than we have. But that means we have to go over our system, restructure our training—"
"That won't be enough," Dick interrupts. He offers a half smile, a weak version of his usual grin. "Babs, I've run all the scenarios, okay. For the past year we've been trying to do everything you're thinking; we've been trying to strengthen ourselves and close the distance between us and them, but it's not—it isn't working. It isn't enough."
Barbara looks at him. She asks, "How long have you been planning this," but it isn't said like a question at all.
"I haven't been planning," Dick denies, though really it's no more than arguing semantics. "But I have been thinking about this for a while."
"So why now, Dick?"
Dick's eyes flick over to Kaldur, and Kaldur meets his gaze levelly. "Tula."
Dick nods.
It isn't about Tula's death, not really. Dick wouldn't make this decision over the death of one friend, as much as losing Tula hurt. No, her death is simply the last straw for Dick. The moment of clarity that nothing is going to change. They have lost so many people, Dick has lost a brother, and they're going to keep losing people. It's not going to change. Their enemy is simply too good, and has only been getting better.
They aren't enough as they are. It's not working. And Tula's death was that wake up call for Dick. Seeing Kaldur grieve her, seeing the black mourning band around Aquaman's arm—And yet Dick could barely feel any of it, because he realized he was already bracing himself for the next loss. That he'd already accepted that he'd lose more friends in the future.
And that acceptance...it changed everything.
So all the vague thoughts in his head about getting some inside info from the Light, all the unformed ideas about how that might happen, suddenly crystallized into an idea. Into a plan.
And he isn't impulsive; he sat on it for a little while. Made sure it all made sense, did his research. Thought about it all the time just so he could acclimate himself to the idea, so that he wouldn't flinch at what he was going to do. And then, when he was absolutely sure, he called this meeting.
They need an inside man with the Light. They're simply way too in the dark about what the villains are up to, always a few steps behind. Their small wins have truly just been small. They need some way to at least level the playing field if not completely tip the balance in their favor. And an inside man is the perfect solution.
"We all miss her," Barbara says, soft but still urgent. "We all do. But we can't make decisions out of grief."
"I'm not," Dick disagrees. "You know I'm not, Babs. Her death was just the latest in a long line of deaths. And there are gonna be so many more after her. Something needs to change, and you might not like it, but you know this is a good idea."
"I should go," Kaldur says, and Dick blinks at him in surprise.
"Kal—"
"We all know my father wants me at his side," Kaldur continues as if Dick hadn't spoken. "And with the latest death being Tula's—we can make it seem like I was destroyed by her death. That I blamed all of you for it. Black Manta would not question it."
"You're right, he wouldn't," Dick agrees. "But you're our leader, Kaldur. I have an in, too—if you don't have to leave, then you need to stay with the team. We chose you to lead, remember?"
"So I let you go instead?" Kaldur asks. His voice is quiet, but there is something hard as steel in it as he looks at Dick, and it makes Dick's throat thick. "What kind of leader am I, to allow a person under my command to put himself in danger in place of myself?"
Dick offers him a soft, sad smile. "A strong one."
Kaldur's lips thin, and he looks away, squinting at the wall. Dick stares at him helplessly, trying to figure out the right thing to say here. He and Kaldur have been—well, they've been something, recently. Something that's been building for a while, Dick thinks. And fuck they absolutely had no time for relationships with how much they always have to do, and then Dick was unsure if Kaldur's feelings for Tula were still romantic—
So it never was given a name, the something between them. It was just...safety, and peace, and understanding. Kaldur is the team's leader, and Dick is the second in command, and unless you're in those roles you can never actually get it, but they just—they do get it, and get each other. There's almost no one Dick would rather have at his back than Kaldur, and he knows the feeling is mutual. Knows this can't be easy for Kaldur.
But this isn't about them. It isn't about Kaldur's need to keep everyone he can safe, with the wound of Tula's death still so fresh. It isn't even about Dick's urge to take everything on himself. It's about the team, and the Justice League, and all the people they're all sworn to protect. It's about an opportunity they have to take.
"We need to do this," Dick says softly. "We can't—honestly, guys, do you have better ideas? Solid plans, not just the hope that we can do better? Because if you do, I'm all ears."
Silence.
Dick doesn't try to fill it.
"He wouldn't just believe you want to join him," Barbara says after a while. "I mean, I know Deathstroke has wanted to recruit you, but he's not stupid, and not blinded by familial ties like Black Manta would be. Why do you think Deathstroke won't just laugh in your face?"
Dick's shoulders relax, a quiet breath easing out of his chest. Asking that question means she's on his side, in his corner. He knew she would be, eventually, but he didn't know when that 'eventually' would be. And everything is better with Batgirl on his side.
"Because I'm not going to go to him," Dick says, and that answer is apparently interesting enough to get Kaldur to look back.
"What is your plan, then?" Kaldur asks curiously. "Specifically."
"Deathstroke told me once that he and I are a lot alike," Dick says, aiming for unbothered. Barbara makes a face. "He's of the belief that I am going to eventually snap and not be able to handle the hero stuff anymore. He thinks it'll wear at me and break me down. So I'm going to give him exactly that."
Barbara's lips quirk in amusement. "You're going to pretend to be unable to handle being Nightwing anymore?"
"I'm going to pretend that I'm more fragile than I am," Dick corrects. "That I'm close to the edge. That I'm hanging onto the hero shit by sheer force of will. He wouldn't be able to resist picking that will apart." He snorts. "Like a shark who thinks he smells blood."
"I need you to tell me you're sure," Kaldur says. Dick looks to him, meeting his serious, sad gaze. "Because this will not be a weekend undercover, or just a rough month. You are volunteering to go undercover with a dangerous criminal organization. To let all of your friends and family believe that you have turned against them. You will likely have to do horrible things, all the while pretending that that is your new way of life, and fight against those you've stood by for years. So now is not the time to be brave, Dick. You need to be sure."
Now is the time to be brave, Dick thinks. Because yes, I'm sure, but I'm also scared as fuck.
"I'm sure," Dick says firmly. "I can do this. If you guys have my back, then I can do this."
"Of course we have your back," Barbara says firmly, and though Kaldur doesn't say anything, his expression perfectly echoes the support.
"Good," Dick says on a breath. "Good. Then I guess we should talk specifics, huh?"
"Lay it out for us," Barbara confirms with a smile. It's clearly forced, but Dick appreciates it nonetheless, and he takes a seat at the table, ready to answer all their questions.
"It's late," comes Kaldur's voice, and Dick only hums in vague agreement, having heard him approach. Noise echoes through the cave that makes up their memorial grotto, and Kaldur hadn't been attempting to sneak up on him besides. "You should rest."
"You sound like Alfred," Dick says wryly as Kaldur steps up beside him.
"A compliment," Kaldur replies, and Dick can hear the smile in his voice, "seeing as he is one of the few people who can boss Batman around."
That draws a bit of a smile out of Dick, but it fades quickly. His eyes haven't strayed from the hologram in front of him, the sight of his little brother, so bright and fierce and strong. Jason died far too young. So many people have died far too young. And Dick is going to do everything he can to protect the rest of them.
"If you ever want out," Kaldur says softly, "you only have to say the word. And I will get you out."
Dick looks to him, and finds Kaldur looking sadly at Tula's own hologram before the Atlantean turns to meet Dick's gaze. He sees pure honesty in the man's expression, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that Kaldur would move heaven and hell to get Dick away from Deathstroke if Dick needed that. And Dick will never take him up on it, but having that kind of strength at his back does help.
"I know," Dick says, equally soft, and offers Kaldur his hand. "Suppose we'll see each other on the other side."
Kaldur takes his hand and grips it tightly, shaking with something that feels so very final. "On the other side, my friend."
He spends a few nights being reckless on patrol.
Intel tells them that Deathstroke is going to be in Gotham on Sunday night for a job, which means starting Thursday, Dick starts taking some hits. Blows that he could avoid but doesn't. He picks them well—nothing that will cause him actual damage—and then forces himself to let them connect, bearing every one with barely more than a grunt.
Because he has to be in rough shape when Slade comes across him. He has to have clearly been spiraling, and bruises really help sell that picture.
But that's the easy part. The hard part is the two weeks leading up to it, having to act off around his teammates. It's a hard line to walk—he has to be off enough for them to be able to remember it, view it as a sign when they learn about him 'turning against them', but he's known for keeping things close to the vest just like all the Bats; sudden shows of emotion would be wildly out of character and get a lot of attention.
So he settles for simply being closed off. Small ways, more and more each day, giving the appearance that it's been building for longer than two weeks. And all things that, right now, can easily be explained away or ignored, considering everything going on. Nightwing being a little short with people or a little rough in training doesn't hit top of the list of things to address, not even close.
(Later on, he knows, they'll all wonder if they could've stopped him from leaving if they'd just talked to him. If one of them had asked if something was wrong, if someone had picked up that something wasn't right and stepped in. For a little while they'll blame themselves, and that's an outcome Dick just has to live with. A few hurt feelings are an acceptable cost.)
He spends Saturday with Tim and Alfred. With his mission so close, he doesn't have to fake how subdued he acts through the day, his mind occupied and weighed down. Tim and Alfred shoot him a few looks, but they don't ask, and Dick soaks in their company like a sponge, aching with the knowledge that he's about to lose this for so long.
Sunday afternoon, Bruce asks him if there's anything he wants to talk about, and Dick tells him, "I'm so fucking tired, B," before leaving, ignoring how badly he wants to explain. How badly he wants his dad in his corner.
(They can't take any chances. Bruce is an expert actor, but a father's heartbreak is hard to fake—he needs to believe that Dick has turned against him. And if all of this means that he believes that he's failed another son...Well, Dick can't think about that right now.)
Sunday night, Dick suits up as Nightwing, hating how it feels like it's the last time.
He's rough on patrol. Doesn't hold back as much as he usually does against the thugs of Gotham. He beats them black and blue, punching most of them into unconsciousness before moving on. He's Dick Grayson, hanging on by a thread. So close to snapping. He's tired and breaking and violent. That is what he is now. That is something Slade Wilson can work with.
It takes a few hours, but eventually Dick's neck prickles in the way it does when there are eyes on him. He knows it isn't Batman or Robin—both of them are currently by the docks, following a tip about a sighting of Two-Face—but he doesn't let himself falter, doesn't give away that he's noticed. He continues on.
The next fight he finds is three men in an alley who had a woman pressed up against the wall, horrible smiles on their faces. He feels absolutely no remorse as he jumps into action, brutal in a way that would have Bruce yelling at him, that would have Dinah sitting him down for a talk. Wild, a raw kind of violence instead of his usual precise grace. Practically screaming that all is not well.
The woman runs at some point, but Dick doesn't stop. He beats the three men into the ground, covered in blood and definitely unconscious, and he follows the third one down to the ground, giving a strangled scream as he keeps punching the man's face.
He ignores how ugly it makes him feel. He ignores the nausea that rises when he hears the man's bones crack, when he sees the spraying blood. The fact that he's currently still hitting a man who is down and out.
The man won't die. But his recovery is going to be a long, long process, if he ever fully comes back from the amount of trauma Dick's given his body tonight.
Acceptable cost, Dick thinks, and then has to fight back a hysterical laugh at how horrified his thirteen-year-old self would be with him.
A presence in the alley, and Dick knows he's got him.
He pretends to not notice though, instead panting raggedly as he finally stops punching. His knees press into the man's chest, firm enough to feel the man's heartbeat. His gloves are covered in the man's blood, and Dick stares down at it for a moment before pushing to his feet. He kicks the man's side none too gently with a sneer, and lets the nasty expression grow when the man groans in pain, even passed out.
"Damn, kid," Deathstroke says, and Dick whirls around as if surprised by his appearance, shifting automatically into a ready stance. The mercenary is just standing at the mouth of the alley, head cocked as he looks over the scene in front of him. No weapons drawn, nothing aggressive about his posture. Not that that lessens how much of a threat the man is.
"Deathstroke," Dick says shortly. "What are you doing in Gotham?"
"A job," Slade replies. "But that's old hat. This, though. This is new. What's wrong, kid? Have a fight with Daddy?"
Dick sneers at him, letting it be hateful and angry, none of his usual attempts to cover his feelings in the field with a quip or clever statement or bright grin. Fragile and close to breaking. Hanging on by a thread.
"If all you're here for is to throw back and forth some insults," Dick says from between gritted teeth, "go find another sparring partner. I'm not in the mood."
Slade hums, strolling forward. Dick doesn't let himself back up.
"I can tell," Slade says, and Dick can't quite identify the tone of his voice. His head drifts, and even without seeing his face Dick can clearly tell that he's giving an exaggerated look to the three men on the ground. Dick stiffens his shoulders, like he doesn't like what he's been doing getting so much attention.
"I heard about the Atlantean girl," Slade continues, offhand, and Dick bares his teeth at him. "One more death, huh, kid?"
"Don't talk about her," Dick snaps, and gets the impression of a smirk in response. "You don't know anything."
Slade laughs. "How many have died under your command?"
That—hits harder than Dick would care to admit. His eyes sting as all their names rush through his head, all the friends and teammates and innocents who have died when at Dick's side, or following orders given by him.
So he uses the feeling. That's what this is all about. Fragile. Breaking. Close to the edge. Every negative emotion, every doubt—Dick's going to need them all, no matter how much it's going to hurt.
"Either throw a punch," Dick says, and lets some of the raw heartbreak creep into his voice, "or go away."
Slade finally stops moving forward, coming to a stop just a few feet away, right on the other side of the collapsed thugs. He tugs his mask up to his forehead, and Dick sees that ice blue eye scan him appraisingly. He bristles under the attention, baring his teeth again.
"What stopped you from ending him?" Slade asks, nodding down to the man Dick beat, sounding genuinely curious. "Because it seems like you came pretty damn close." Dick makes himself flinch, and Slade catches it. "Aw. Worried Daddy will be upset with you?"
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" Dick snaps.
"I always told you this would happen," Slade says, almost infuriatingly calm in contrast to the way Dick is acting. "You didn't believe me, kid. But I told you that the hero life wasn't meant for you."
"You're wrong," Dick seethes. "This isn't—I'm not a villain because I beat up a would-be rapist!"
"But you're tired of it all, aren't you?" Slade says, eye boring into Dick, and it makes Dick's mouth dry. "How long have you been spiraling, Grayson? Because two years ago, you would've laughed in my face at the idea of you ever doing this to another human being."
Dick can hear the man at his feet still breathing, but it's strained and thick. He needs a hospital. His life isn't in immediate danger, but he needs a hospital. Dick comforts himself with the fact that Bruce will make sure it happens, even if Dick can't be the one to.
"Doesn't mean anything," Dick says hoarsely.
Slade snorts. "You always took on all the pain in the world. It was always an eventuality that you'd have to turn that pain outward. A beautiful ticking bomb."
"Stop it," Dick says, but makes his breath hitch. Vulnerable. Breaking. "Just—you—you have no idea what you're talking about."
"No?" Slade says, head cocking. "So you aren't out here barely stopping yourself from killing criminals? Because it looks to me like you're hanging on by a thread."
Thanks Slade, Dick thinks, trying to bring himself some levity in the middle of this tense situation. I appreciate the compliment to my abilities, even if you have no idea that's what you're doing.
"Leave me alone," Dick says, injecting the tiniest thread of pleading into his voice, and Slade's focus narrows in, chasing the weakness like the predator he is. "Fuck, Slade, just—I don't have time for your mind games, okay? I—I don't—I just—"
"Kid," Slade says, and the way he softens his voice makes Dick want to laugh or cry and he has no idea which. He steps closer, and Dick goes stiff but doesn't pull away as a large hand cradles the back of his head. It almost feels like Bruce's hand, and Dick uses that, pulling up the feeling of father-comfort-safe to make himself sway just the tiniest bit into the grip, like an unconscious action.
"How long have you been going this hard?" Slade asks, still soft and coaxing. "How long have you been drowning with no one noticing?"
Dick's breath hitches. "I'm...No, you—leave me alone, Slade, please. I don't want to deal with you right now."
"Come on, Grayson," Slade says, scratching his fingers gently over Dick's hair. "Let me patch you up. You can come right back out here and punch some more criminals if you want after."
Dick knows, with more certainty than he's ever known anything, that leaving with Slade right now means never leaving him. There's no returning to punch criminals, no returning for anything. That even if he wasn't planning on going undercover, even if this was real, there would be no escaping Slade if he went with him. But Slade sure does a good job of pretending to be telling the truth.
"Why?" Dick says harshly. He jerks out of the hold, and Slade lets him go but doesn't move away. "Why the fuck are you acting like you give a single goddamn shit about what I'm feeling?"
"I want you at my side," Slade says seriously. "You know that. And I don't know what Batman's convinced you of, but when you're partners with someone, that means taking care of their mental state too, not just how well they can fight."
That—okay, that's...a clever line. Using Bruce's emotional incompetence, bravo Slade. Fucking manipulative bastard.
Dick bites back the instinct to defend his mentor, instead looking away like the words hurt. Which...they do, a little, but Dick isn't the fragile bird Slade thinks he is right now, and a dig about Bruce isn't going to shatter him.
(What does scare him, though, is wondering how much a line like that will impact him in two, four, six months. Because he isn't ignorant to the fact that Slade will be influencing him in truth by then. Dick will stay in command, will work against the Light, but in order to capture the king, Dick has to sacrifice a few pawns along the way. And his mental state is definitely an acceptable sacrifice.)
Slade touches him again, his shoulder this time, and the gentle squeeze of his hand makes Dick's throat feel thick.
"Why are you doing this?" Dick says miserably. "Just—hit me."
"No, kid," Slade says, and gently begins to draw Dick forward, slow like he's trying not to scare a rabbit. Dick lets himself be moved, wrapping an arm around his middle in a very young and vulnerable action that he thinks might be a little over the top, but Slade doesn't seem to see anything fishy with it.
"Why?" Dick asks again, fragile and shaky this time, and Slade's free hand tilts his head up to meet his level gaze.
"Because you're one of the strongest people I know," Slade says gravely. "And I'm not going to let you run yourself into the ground, you hear me? You're too good for that."
Dick can't breathe for a moment, and for the first time he regrets this plan. Because that's—he knew Slade would manipulate him, knew the man would pray on his insecurities, but it's—Christ he didn't consider the practical part of that, which is how much it hurts to hear someone say that to him, how badly he wants those words to be true—
He wants to go home. He wants to tell Bruce everything, and get his dad to hug him. He wants to define the 'something' with Kaldur. He wants to open his mouth for once and tell the people around him what's going on in his head, what he needs, so that Slade Fucking Wilson wouldn't have such an easy job of stepping on his pressure points.
Despite all that...He knows he can do this. A few self-worth issues aren't going to make him break, not with so much on the line. He can handle whatever Slade is going to throw at him. He can handle the pain—physical and mental—that's to come, as Slade works to break him down. He can do it. Because not doing it is simply not an option.
"Come on," Slade says softly, tugging him a little closer, over the bodies at their feet. "Let me take a look at your injuries."
Mouth dry and a stone in his gut, Dick nods, and allows Deathstroke to lead him out of the alley.