A small attempt at humor. The poll came down to a close call, but this one ended up winning (I may still do the others since I got started on two of them). Basically the Batfam finds out that Dick has Slade's number. SOme of the inspiration came from one of the early Deathstroke issues where Dick ended up calling or Wintergreen called him (I forget at the moment).

All he wanted to do was sleep. After a slow night of patrol, Dick was ready to embrace the warmth of his bed. The slight insomnia carrying over from the last few days only made the patrol even more exhausting.

So when Tim had dragged him into the study that was currently occupied by Bruce and the other Robins, he was understandably annoyed. Tim guided him to a chair sitting squarely in front of the others. Taking a seat, Dick made sure to make his annoyance known, shooting everyone a glare.

None of them appeared fazed by his exhausted intimidation tactic. In fact, they're stern, concerned glares only made the situation uncomfortable. He didn't know what he had done to warrant their eerily united attention, but he was going to find out.

"What's going on?" Dick inquired, rubbing his eyes.

Dick's phone would land on his lap thanks to a courtesy toss from Jason. Dick looked down at the phone before looking back at them confused.

"Why do you have his number?" Bruce interrogated.

"What are you talking about?" Dick confusingly inquired.

"His number Grayson." Damian repeated, getting into Dick's face. "Why do you have it?"

Damian's aggressive demand didn't help. Clearly their good cop, bad cop could use some work. Coupled with the fact Damian closing the gap, Dick gave him a confused wince.

"Who's number?"

"Slade Wilson's." Jason clarified, getting to the point.

"Huh?"

"You have Slade Wilson's phone number." Jason repeated.

"No I don't."

"Don't lie." Damian ordered.

Dick stared at them for a moment before looking through his phone in an attempt to get to the bottom of their accusation. He intently looked through his contacts, not giving the others any attention. A glimmer of realization dazed his eyes as something came to light.

"Oh." Dick realized, pinching the bridge of his nose as he returned his phone to his lap. "That."

Dick's posture wouldn't change for a few moments before he would fold his arm. He wasn't sure if he should be embarrassed or angry about the situation. However, there was no getting out of an explanation now.

"Why were you going through my phone?" Dick asked, focusing on Bruce.

"We're asking the questions." Bruce redirected.

"You found this while going through my phone. I think I have the right to know."

"I got a new phone," Jason admitted, "and since my SD card got destroyed, I knew you would have at least some of my contacts. So I borrowed it while you were on patrol to jot down Kori, Roy and this family's contact information."

"Okay, and you didn't think of asking me first?"

"I didn't think you'd mind. I mean, I know you have several unusual contacts, but I didn't think you'd have his number."

"What does it matter to you? Don't ou have his number too?"

Everyone's attention fell on Jason. None of them seemed too surprised by Dick's statement, but it was a pretty curious declaration.

"I have his number, because, given my less than squeaky clean reputation, I want to have tabs on my competition. Which is a lot more realistic than you having his number."

"Enough." Bruce intervened. "We're getting off topic."

He was wedged between the two of them, to stop their debate. His attention would shift to Dick.

"We just want to know why you have his number." Bruce reiterated. "You're not one for having criminals on your phone, and the last time I check you and Slade Wilson aren't exactly on the friendliest of terms."

That was Bruce for him, always to the point. Dick knew that he couldn't avoid it any longer. Letting out a defeated sigh, Dick would lean forward.

"Yes we're adversaries, but there's a one out of ten chance that we aren't at each other's throats." Dick began. "There have been times that we've encountered each other as nothing more than bitter rivals. Not to mention, there was a time when I worked with him. Now I originally gave him my number when we called a truce for a particular mission we had both taken an interest in so we could keep in touch. He would later use it when he requested that I help train his daughter, Rose. He doesn't typically call me that often, given that ninety percent of the time we are on opposite ends of a dispute, but it's there if it's ever needed. Plus, Wintergreen, think Alfred with the added perks of being Slade's military buddy, liked to call and check on Joey a.k.a. Jericho while he was a Titan. While Slade may not have kept a keen eye on his kids, Wintergreen always liked to keep tabs on them for him. That's why I have it."

His tale processed through his interrogators' minds. His explanation was detailed enough to get his point across. Even though the notion of Dick having Deathstroke's number wasn't a fond one, it made sense as to why he did.

A yawn escaped Dick's mouth, weary of everything the day was throwing at him. He didn't want to stay up much longer, waiting for some kind of reaction.

"Can I please go to bed now?" Dick begged.

"I think he deserves some sort of punishment." Damian figured. "Maybe not being allowed to sleep tonight."

"No." Jason rejected. "We got what we wanted."

"You're just saying that because you have something in common now."

"Jason's right." Tim stated. "We can be upset with him about this all we want, but he gave us what we want. It sounds like he has it under control."

"Thank you." Dick praised, standing up. "Permission to sleep boss man."

Bruce didn't initially respond, simply staring at Dick, leading to a slightly awkward standoff.

"You can go to bed," Bruce allowed, "but we will discuss whether or not you will be keeping his contact information in the morning."

"Yes sir."

Dick wasted no time vacating the room. Morning lecture or not, he was glad to get to the sweet embrace of slumber.

I hope you all enjoyed this little attempt at a humored oneshot.