The door clanged shut behind Dick as he followed a few steps behind Slade as they entered the holding cell. Dick forced himself to keep his hands hanging loosely at his sides, and not to cross them defensively across his chest. The thing he most wanted to do was put his back into a corner, but he knew that he couldn't afford to appear weak. Weaker than he already appeared, anyway.

Dick had seen this particular precinct's jail cells before, plenty of times, from the other side - but this was his first time on the wrong side of the bars. Besides Slade, there were at least a few other men inside the cell. Dick pictured what he could remember of the holding cell from the last time he'd seen it - well over a year ago now, when Nightwing had escorted a couple of Scarecrow's goons and participated in their interrogation with Commissioner Gordon. Despite spending the last six months learning to adapt, to move forward and come to terms with everything, (and he really thought that he had), this situation, blind and stuck in a holding cell with Deathstroke, surrounded by guys he very possibly had apprehended in the past, he couldn't help but feel frustration and a flash of bitter anger.

Slade turned to face Dick and leaned slightly closer as he said in a low tone, "Two racks of chairs, room about 20 by 30, four other guys, all seated, three doors on the left."

Dick nodded in amaroidal appreciation. He needed some assistance, especially if he didn't want to reveal his vision loss to the other occupants, but he didn't have to like it; to have that help come from Slade of all people was like too much angostura with a gin martini. Still, Slade's information was more than enough to fill in the blanks from his memory, and knowing that there were four other men in the room helped him pinpoint exactly where they were by their soft sounds. He recalled two rows of molded plastic chairs, each row fixed to a metal bench that was then bolted to the floor.

The officers hadn't let Dick keep his cane, not that he'd been expecting them to. They did say that they would put him in a private holding cell when one opened up. The private cells were used for detainees who were unusually violent, combative, or needed mental health screening. Dick was not surprised that they were all full, even before noon on a weekday. It was Gotham, after all. Dick knew why he was offered a private room - his blindness might make him a target, and while the holding cell was observed 24/7 it would take time to enter and break up a fight - but he didn't want any special treatment.

So now Dick was back to wanting to wrap himself up in his own arms and retreat into a corner. If any of these men figured out who he is - Bruce Wayne's heir - or who he was - cop from Bludhaven - then he'd be in a potentially dangerous, at the minimum very awkward situation. Dick wasn't even worried about not being able to see - if he could hold his own against Deathstroke, even if Slade wasn't going all out - then he was sure he'd be able to defend himself and then some from whoever was also in the holding cell. The worry was being able to defend himself without looking suspiciously kick-ass while everything got recorded on CCTV.

Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Slade once again offered Dick another lifeline. "Four open seats, ten feet ahead at 2 o'clock."

Feeling grateful to a man who had insulted him less than an hour ago sucked. Even though Slade probably hadn't meant it that way, the implication that Dick was now permanently benched had stung. Even if that was what Dick himself was slowly coming to accept, to have it tossed out casually over bacon and eggs - like it was a foregone conclusion - had infuriated Dick. And now the guy whose nose Dick had just broken (never mind that it had already healed thanks to Slade's enhancements) was helping him while they were both in jail for fighting each other was just a touch too ironic for Dick's sensibilities. And not the Alanis Morissette kind of irony. The real kind. The only thing ironic about that song was that none of its examples were actually ironic.

Slade cleared his throat, and Dick realized that he'd been dangerously lost in thought. He heard Slade turn again and take slow, measured steps towards the bench. Years of working both with and against the man made his posture, his swagger, his confidence oozing out of every step, easy to picture. The seats groaned in protest when Slade sat down, a couple of chairs over from the nearest end of the row if Dick's mental map was correct.

Keeping his hands calm at his sides, spine straight, chin up, Dick walked to the closest chair and sat down. Two of the other men were having a whispered conversation, just a touch too soft for Dick to pick up more than a scattered word or two. Another man seemed to be dozing from the rough almost-snore pattern to his breathing. The fourth man was the one that Dick felt was the most likely threat - he didn't need Slade to tell him that this man was staring at both of the new arrivals.

Perhaps noticing Dick's unease, Slade rumbled, "Christ, relax, kid," from a couple of seats to Dick's left, not loud but also not making any efforts not to be overheard either.

"Not that easy."

With wry sarcasm, Slade quoted, "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy . . . We must be cautious."

Against his will, Dick felt himself relaxing slightly at the Star Wars quote.

"So, kid, what happens next?"

"They can hold us for up to twenty-four hours before pressing charges or not," Dick said at the same volume.

"I'm not going to press charges," Slade said with a snort.

Dick rolled his eyes. "I know that, but you're not the only one who gets a say. How many other people were in that diner?"

Slade shifted. "Even in your current situation, you should know that."

"I do know that." Dick's tone of voice was scathing. "It was rhetorical. Just making a point about multiple witnesses."

A quick breath huffed from Slade could have either been a snort of frustration or a stifled chuckle. "Sorry."

He didn't sound sorry. He sounded quietly amused.

"Saying shit like that is why I punched you in the first place," Dick said and finally gave in to the urge to cross his arms that he'd been fighting since first stepping foot in the holding cell.

Another brief exhalation, and Dick could just picture the smirk on Slade's face. But the following "Sorry, kid," did sound more genuine at least.

Dick decided to take that as the olive branch it was and changed the subject. "Did you call anyone?"

"Just Wintergreen. If Rose ever hears about this . . . You?"

Dick smiled and tucked that little tidbit away for future use. "B, on two different numbers, but he didn't answer. Finally had to leave a message on the house landline."

"You still have one of those?"

"You've met Al . . . er, my butler. He's a bit of a traditionalist and no one wants to argue with him about it."

"I can understand that. Throws a mean punch." Dick heard the sound of skin rubbing skin and thought that Slade was probably ruefully rubbing his jaw where Alfred had once so memorably hit.

"I imagine someone from my family is going to show up soon. If I'm really unlucky, more than one. And a lawyer," Dick sighed. Getting into a fight in a diner was hardly his finest moment, and the loss of impulse control from his brain injury could only excuse so much. He was not looking forward to whatever Bruce would have to say.

"Well, that's fan-fucking-tastic," Slade drawled. "I always love spending time with your family."

"Just wait. I bet someone will be here within the hour."

No one bothered Slade and Dick, and Dick could only attribute that to the rather imposing physical presence Slade projected. If any of the other detainees had noticed anything off about Dick, no one said anything while Dick was so obviously with the mercenary. Yet another thing to be grateful to Slade for, whether or not Dick had asked for it, something Slade was undoubtedly very smug about. Sometimes Slade really did deserve to be punched.

Dick's prediction that some combination of Bruce, Tim, Alfred and a lawyer would show up proved incorrect. In fact, out of all of his family members arriving, the last person he expected showed up in the most unexpected manner.

Slade and Dick had been in the holding cell for about an hour and a half - Dick's watch had been removed but his internal clock was fairly accurate - when he heard loud sounds of metal against metal, a jingle of keys, and bolts being thrown in a massive lock. The atmosphere tensed as everyone paused whatever they were doing to see the newcomer.

"Who is it?" Dick asked, hopeful that perhaps a bailiff was coming to get him out.

"Relax, kid. Just another prisoner," Slade said.

After the door swung closed again, in a voice with a touch of rasp and Gotham accent that Dick would recognize anywhere, the newcomer asked, "Who's the black sheep of the family now?"

"Jason. Oh my God." Dick wasn't sure if he should feel relieved to have his little brother here or exasperated. Because this was definitely not a coincidence. Jason hadn't been arrested when he was putting heads in duffel bags and running a major crime organization, so the odds of him being arrested in the middle of the day and just happening to be booked into the same precinct that Dick was in would be vanishingly small. Jason must have done something deliberately to get himself here.

Jason strode over. "Move your butt." Slade slid down one seat, Dick did the same, and Jason took a seat next to Dick. "I thought you'd be happy to have me here," he said with a grin in his voice.

"I am," Dick admitted. Sitting between Slade and Jason was safe. Well, at least they wouldn't let anyone else hit Dick. If anyone was going to punch Dick, it would be them.

"Golden Boy got arrested. For brawling." Jason could sound just as smug as Slade, Dick reflected. "How easily the halo tarnishes."

Dick had to laugh at that. "I got arrested, but so did you. And you actually got yourself arrested on purpose, just because I did. Pretty sure I am still coming out ahead."

Jason sighed and bumped Dick lightly shoulder to shoulder. "When I told you to relax, enjoy yourself, let your hair down, this is not exactly what I had in mind."

Dick shrugged. "Maybe I just miss police stations." He spoke in a low voice, hoping not to be overheard, but feeling safe enough between the other two to risk making the joke that alluded to his previous job.

Jason grumbled. "Just because you used to be a cop doesn't mean that you need to end up on this side of the bars. Any number of careers would let you hang out in police stations." Jason seemed to have no concerns at all about publicly acknowledging that he was buddies with a former officer.

"So what did you do to get yourself thrown in here?" Slade said.

Jason chuckled. "Tried to jack the commish's tires when I heard that my older brother got himself arrested."

"Don't you think that's taking sibling rivalry a bit far?" Slade said.

"Anything he can do, I can do better."

"Yeah you wish," Dick said. "So what's the real reason?"

"Just wanted to look after my big bro. I wasn't sure if you and Slade would still be fighting."

Dick stiffened. "You better not be here because of -"

Jason cut him off before he could finish. "Nothing to do with that. I know you can take care of yourself. But I'm never sure about the weird frenemy thing you two have going on, and I wanted to be here to guard your back. Especially since Bruce seems to be letting you stew for a while."

"How mad is he?"

"Well, first he was really mad at Slade here, then he found out that you threw the first punch, so now he's more angry at you."

"Great."

"I doubt he's forgiven me entirely though," Slade grumbled, but didn't sound too perturbed.

Jason snorted in amusement. "I got the feeling from Tim that he's not going to bail you out, so unless the D.A. decides to not press charges, you'll be here until you get someone else to come bail you out."

"You realize that you could have just bailed me out instead of getting yourself arrested?"

"I'm not spending my money on you!" Jason laughed. "I might not get it back; I think you're a flight risk."

"Hardly," Dick said. "You used to be so generous."

"Whoever says crime doesn't pay is lying. Not exactly rolling in the dough since I went straight."

Dick cleared his throat. "Straight-ish."

Slade turned a sudden bark of laughter into a cough.

"Got something to add, old man?" Jason said.

"Maybe we should change the subject?" Slade ventured gruffly.

"Sounds good. How about you explain to me why you decided to fight my brother who has brain damage?"

"You said it yourself - he threw the first punch." Dick heard Slade shift. "And what do you mean, brain damage?"

"What did you think? That the only thing that got damaged when he hit the brick wall -"

"Rock," Dick interjected to attempt to keep the story straight, but Jason kept on talking as if Dick hadn't said anything at all.

"- was his occipital lobe? The area of the brain that handles visual processing? Well, genius, think again. Any blow that jumbles one area of the brain that hard is gonna affect other areas too. Like scrambled eggs."

"I'm still here," Dick protested mildly. He was actually enjoying listening to Jason's rant, but he couldn't let too much of that enjoyment show.

"Quiet, I'm on a roll. It's not like he just got a little concussion. There are still long term changes."

"Such as?" Slade asked.

"Temper, for one. Easily angered, easily provoked, more aggressive and volatile than before. Irritable. Poor impulse control and lowered inhibitions."

"You make me sound like such a joy to be around."

"Shut up, it'll probably mean that you'll walk from beating up an old guy in a restaurant. You're actually pretty much the same as before, most of the time, but can you honestly tell me that you would have hit Slade in front of civilians - kids - out of uniform before?"

Dick shrugged. Jason had a point, but the changes to Dick's personality and cognitive abilities were sometimes harder to deal with than the vision loss.

"Sorry, kid, I had no idea," Slade said quietly.

"Did you even try to find out?" Jason snapped.

Slade hesitated for a moment, as good as an admission.

"It was going okay until he provoked me," Dick said.

"What did I do?" Slade asked in a belligerent tone.

Jason answered, "Normally I'd probably say just showing up with your stupid face, but he's blind, so it must have been something you said, brainiac."

"I was trying to be nice."

"You implied that I wouldn't be able to go back to N-" Dick self-edited quickly, stopping himself from saying Nightwing, "normal life."

Slade snorted. "Kid, you never had a normal life. You were born a circus brat. You just need to find a new normal."

"He's gotta point. Your sense of normal is pretty warped, and you are a circus brat."

Dick's lips twitched into a small smile. "Well, you're riffraff and a street rat."

"I don't buy that," Jason retorted.

Dick bit his finger to stop from laughing out loud, which would attract unwanted attention from the other occupants of the cell.

"What?" Slade growled.

"The scourge of the underworld just quoted Disney's Aladdin."

"You started it."

"You're both brats," Slade said. "So any other symptoms or side-effects still hanging on?"

Dick frowned. "I'm not sure that I should really be telling you anything else."

"Now that I know that there's something to look for, it's just a matter of time before I find out everything anyway," Slade said.

"No wonder you're so popular," Jason muttered. "You're just like Regina George."

"Raise your hand if you've ever been personally victimized by Slade Wilson," Dick said, raising his hand.

Dick felt Jason raise his hand too. "One time he punched me in the face. It was not awesome."

Dick chuckled. "One time, Alfred punched him in the face, and that was definitely awesome."

"Am I ever going to live that down?" Slade grumbled.

"No," both brothers answered simultaneously.