IvyTheJoker Here ya go! :) Not really the Deathstroke plot.... Kinds is??? Mainly????

Dick gripped the garbage can tightly as another wave of nausea hit, heaving nothing but air as his body tried to deal with the disgust that ran through his system. He'd been stuck to his bed all day, unable to get up and walk around without feeling lightheaded and faint. He was sick to the core, and although Alfred claimed that it must be that he's coming down with something, they all knew that wasn't quite right.

Usually everyone left him alone, letting him rest. Tim stayed, lingering on the chair by the desk, doing his work and reading. The only time he left was when Bruce called, and he was always quick to return.

Tim listened when Dick started shaking from the memories that clouded his mind, and put a comforting hand on his back when the churning feeling in Dick's gut returned along with the memories of blood and pain.

"Oh, God," Dick moaned. "I can't believe I did that."

"He's still alive," Tim tried to comfort. He scooted closer to Dick, holding his brother's hair out of his face. The tips were already wet with spit and stomach acid. "It's not like you--" Tim broke off, unable to finish his sentence.

"But what if they had told me to?" Dick looked so unsure of himself. "What would've I done then?"

"We would have figured something out," Tim reassured. "We always do."

Dick doubted his words, Tim knew, but he didn't say anything. Neither of them did. They both sat in silence. The fears they shared went unspoken for, but the presence laid heavily on their shoulders.

The memories that Tim tried to suppress resurfaced as well, but Tim always had been better than Dick at hiding his emotions. He remembered the amount of blood on the floor, knew that Slade was only alive because he was who he was. Slade... He hadn't made a sound the whole time. Every whip, every stab, every threat-- it was greeted with gritted teeth and determination behind a single silver eye. Right down to the moment the mercenary passed out. Whether the mercenary's body gave in because of blood loss or pain, Tim wasn't really sure.

Nightwing had been the only other person in the room besides the mercenary himself. He had been the man holding the weapons meant to inflict pain upon its victim. Dick had struggled so hard to get out of that position, but Superman persisted, claiming that the one who started the interrogation should be the one to finish it.

"Go," Tim remembers telling Dick. "If you keep on refusing, they'll get suspicious. As long as he won't talk, they won't kill him. They need that Info."

It's the lesser of two evils , Tim remembers telling himself. And there are no other options.

Jason used to say the same thing, sometimes.

Tim hadn't even stopped to consider what would have happened if Slade had spilled. What would he have said then?

"They're already suspicious," Dick whispered, bringing Tim back to the present. "We're one of the only members that have a clean record, Tim. Not a single kill. They know something's up." His face was blank, staring at the blackness at the bottom of the plastic can in his hands. Tim went to wipe some drool off of Dick's lip before Dick pulled away to do it himself.

"We just need more time," Tim faltered.

"We're running out of time, Tim," Dick mumbled. "They're going to force us to prove our loyalty eventually."

Tim didn't answer at first, but he knew what Dick was getting at. What they had forced dick to do had been bad, but it's only going to get worse. "That's loyalty we don't have," Tim finally croaked.

Dick laid his head against the bin. He sighed and whispered, "Timmy... they're going to make us kill someone."