Welcome! So, this was actually supposed to be what my DCU Bang story was going to be, except I got one chapter in and then it decided that it didn't really want to be written any further. I mean, I know what would happen, more or less, but there's not really a story to it so much as 'kid grows up and then there's Tim'. So... Enjoy this little oneshot? XD
Warnings for: casual murder, mentions of underage, possibly forced sex.
Slade makes the kid basically the moment he sees him. There's a certain look to the kid, a too-hard edge to his eyes and his mouth as he worms between the other guests. It's the opening night of a new museum exhibit, and some of the guests invited to the event were a group of under-privileged kids from one of Gotham's less-pathetic schools. For the sake of good media, if anyone here was being vaguely honest. Especially since none of these socialites have any interest in talking with the kids or their watcher unless there's a camera present.
Still, he supposes that a night away from Gotham's rougher areas, with free food and semi-interesting exhibits, is probably a decent enough excuse for them not to care that they're being used.
This kid almost fits in with the rest of them. He's got the same style of clothing, which looks like a bunch of kids dressed up in their Sunday-best by parents, and still miles below every other piece of clothing in the room. He's the same age, he's got the same slightly-unkempt look. But he doesn't belong. He's not with the rest of the kids he's supposedly part of, not even talking to them, and he's not really looking at the exhibits, even if he is slipping between them. His shoes are a pair of too-worn sneakers, not the faded, supposed-to-be-shiny shoes the rest of the male kids have been forced into. He's skinnier too, which is helping him slip between the guests with only a modicum of jostling.
Just enough to hide what he's doing.
The kid's good, he'll give him that. The lifts are smooth, and he gets away with the brushes because he's young and he's got a charming smile, even if it's clearly fake to a professional like him.
It's not his business — more luck to the kid, really — so he doesn't interfere. He's only waiting for a chance to get at his own target, and that just means making small talk and entertaining himself until the opportunity presents itself. The kid is entertaining.
At least until the kid heads his direction. Not specifically, but towards the group he's loosely part of. Well, the kid's been his entertainment most of the night, so he's not quite willing to have to catch him at his work and get the kid thrown out or maybe even arrested. Instead, he excuses himself from the group and steps off to the side, to stand in front of the nearest exhibit. It happens to be unoccupied, and it also happens to feature some shields polished enough that there's a faint reflection.
He watches the kid work through his previous group, and then approach him. He sips his drink, and waits.
When the kid brushes up against him, coming to stand next to him, he uses a bit of his enhanced reflexes. He clamps his arm down along his side, and the kid startles as his arm gets trapped, fingers still in his pocket. Holding his wallet, if he had to guess.
He looks down, keeping his movements idle, and finds the kid staring up at him with something between wariness and a savage edge that makes him think he's about to get kicked in the calf or maybe even bitten, if he doesn't let go.
"Relax, kid," he murmurs, taking another sip of his drink and looking back up at the exhibit. "I'm not going to turn you in."
The kid, to his credit, stays fairly still. He squirms a bit, tries to wiggle out of the pin holding his arm, but stills when it's clear he can't. Then the kid looks to the exhibit too, blue-green eyes slightly narrowed and whatever mind is behind them clearly whirring away to try and figure a way out of their situation. The messy black hair hides some of the kid's face, but he can see enough to watch the emotions flickering over it.
"You don't belong here," the kid says without looking up at him, voice quiet but certain.
"Same could be said for you," he counters, taking a slightly bigger sip of the champagne he's holding. "What makes you think I'm not part of this crowd, kid?"
The kid straight up snorts, and then gives a little shake of his head and glances towards the rest of the room. "Oh please. This whole room's filled with moronic, arrogant, socialites with more money than they could ever spend, who wouldn't notice danger if it walked up and punched them in their perfect fucking teeth. I could've worked this place all night and no one would have noticed."
"Could have?"
The kid glances up at him with a sharp glare, and pulls against his pin. "Well, that's blown now, isn't it?"
He meets the glare with a small smile. "Not necessarily. Are you planning on running out the door when I let go, kid?"
The kid studies him for a second, as if trying to figure out what he's getting out, before spitting a grudging, "No. Walking, probably. And not immediately; it'd look weird to be on my own so I'd find some adult to go a little ahead of."
"That's good thinking," he praises, and the kid looks away again.
"Not my first damn time," is what gets snapped at him.
He studies the kid in turn, and then comments, "It was a good idea to make yourself look like one of the school group too. How long did you plan that?"
A small shrug, another irritable pull of the trapped arm. "Confirmed it about a week and a half ago, since I heard about them getting brought here. Usually a good bet that places like this will try and suck up to Gotham media by bringing in orphans or something; been planning it since the announcement of the new exhibit. Month or so."
"What's the usual take?" he asks idly, considering taking another sip of his drink. It's not like the alcohol is nearly enough to affect him, even if he drank the whole bottle and not just a glass. Shame they're not serving anything harder.
The kid pauses, and when he does speak there's a bit of a snarl to his words. "Enough. Get me through a couple months, if I stretch it pretty thin. Less, if the prick gangs start charging me 'safety tax' again. Assholes."
"You're a street kid."
The gaze that looks up at him is angry, but as unyielding as steel. "What the fuck does it matter if I am? You as much of a jackass as the rest of the rich bastards in the room? Going to judge me just because I don't have a mansion?"
"No," he answers truthfully. "I have friends from all reaches of life, and I've seen enough to know that wealth doesn't play any role in who has talent. You've got talent, kid." He releases his pin, and it takes the kid just half a moment to pull away, taking a step to the side and mostly out of immediate grabbing range. At least until he reaches out and snatches his wallet back from between the kid's fingers, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't—"
"Save it," he says with a smirk, tucking his wallet back away. On an inside jacket pocket, this time. "I'm here on work too."
The kid peers at him, rubbing at his arm a little bit. "Work, or work?"
He gives a quiet laugh. "Work. Not your brand of it though."
A snort, and then the kid lets go of his arm and asks, with a dark kind of curiosity, "What's the take?"
He drains the last of his champagne, turns more fully towards the kid. "A couple hundred thousand, assuming I pull it off smooth. I will."
The kid's mouth drops for a second, then snaps back up into a thin line. "That confident?"
"That experienced," he counters, and then looks up past the kid towards the rest of the room. Singles out his target, and tracks the man's movements as towards a more sheltered part of the exhibit room. "Watch and learn, kid."
He moves past the kid, taking a circular path around the room so he's not just barrelling towards his target. He pauses to exchange a few words, laugh, wait for his target to get to one of the more secluded sections against the wall, where there are benches to rest on. Then he grabs another glass of champagne from a wandering wait-staff, and heads towards the benches himself. Most are taken by couples — and they're spaced out to allow for private conversation — so he doesn't have to make up an excuse for why he approaches the only half-occupied bench of his target.
"May I?" he asks, with a practiced smile. Of course the target nods, and he fakes a sigh of relief as he sits down, stretching out his left leg and rubbing at his knee, as if it's some old war injury. Most people are sympathetic towards veterans, and reasons for his dismissal aside, he is one.
The man takes a sip of his own drink, obviously glancing down at his leg. "Which war?"
He offers a rueful smile. "Too many. Just gets stiff if I stand too long, you know?"
The man gives a laugh, looking out towards the room and shaking his head. "Boy, do I. I've got this old shoulder injury that just—"
The knife goes in smooth, right between ribs and up into the heart without a sound. The man doesn't even jerk, just dips his head and slumps a bit, and he eases the body back against the wall, tilting his head to an angle that could be mistaken as napping. Then he tugs the man's jacket back around, to cover the stain as he draws the knife back out and slips it away into the inside pocket of his jacket with easy practice.
He smiles, offers a few more inane words to keep up the pretense for anyone looking, and then gets back off the bench. It only takes him about a minute more of circling around, exchanging small talk and then dropping off his glass, to get back to where the kid is standing. Different exhibit now, with a better angle of where he was. The kid's eyes are a little wide, fixed on him as he walks back up.
"Did you…?" The kid glances around, makes sure that no one is nearby, and then finishes, "Did you kill him?"
"Yes," he answers plainly, tilting his head a bit to study the kid. There's shock there, and some fear, but also a more than a hint of what he's almost positive is awe. "Scared, kid?"
The kid looks back towards where his target is sitting, swallows, and then the fear melts away and the kid meets his eyes squarely. "No."
"You should be."
If anything, the kid just stands a little straighter to face him. "I'm not your target. Prices like that, I'd bet you don't kill unless you're paid for it, or someone's personally offended you, big time. I'm a Gotham street rat; nobody wants me dead that bad."
He gives a soft laugh, and then reaches out and ruffles the kid's hair, too fast to stop for someone without trained reflexes. The kid pulls away, grimacing, and he smirks. "You've got guts, kid. Interested in dinner, some place less pretentious than this?"
The kid gives him a look that pretty much screams that he's not trusted. "Mom told me to never go off with strangers," the kid mocks.
He offers his hand. "Slade Wilson."
After a moment, the kid takes it. "Jason Todd." For a teenager — he'd guess twelve, adjusting for malnutrition stunting his growth a bit — the kid's grip is pretty strong. "You pay, and I don't owe you a goddamn thing for it. If you're expecting favors you can fuck off right now."
Another laugh pulls its way out of him. "Little boys aren't my type, kid. Add at least a few years, some muscle, and a good shower, and maybe I'd have been interested."
"A good—?!" Jason glares up at him. "I am not that bad, old man!"
"You're not that good either." He nods towards the exit. "You wanted to walk out next to an adult, didn't you? Come on, kid." He turns and heads for the massive archway that leads to the main doors, and he can hear Jason follow him after a moment with an aggravated huff.
"So what kind of food?" the kid asks, coming up beside him. "You promised somewhere less pretentious."
"That I did. Do you have a preference?"
Jason thinks about it for a moment, then proclaims, "Chili dogs." He glances over at the kid, raises an eyebrow and just gets rolled eyes in answer. "You asked," is what gets grumbled at him.
"That's fair," he concedes. "Alright, so we'll do that. Know a good place, kid? Gotham's not really my city."
"Do I know where to find good food in my own hometown?" The kid gives him this look that's somewhere between irritated and disbelieving. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
Two older ladies passing by shoot Jason, and then him, a very disapproving glare.
Jason snorts, completely ignoring the look. "Yeah, old man, I know where to get food. Paying and everything, promise." They're heading down the main steps of the museum, and Jason gets a bit ahead and then calls over his shoulder, "Coming, Gramps?"
He smirks, feels a weird little rush of fondness for the spirited, confident little brat. "Yeah, right behind you, kid."
"So, Slade…"
Slade, sitting at the other side of the booth, raises an eyebrow. "Yes?" the old man responds, arms crossed as he leans back into the corner of the booth. The suit jacket is off, so he sticks out a little less in the mediocre diner than before.
Doesn't help much, honestly. This place doesn't usually see over six foot tall guys in formal wear come through, unless they're mob bodyguards. Slade could totally pull off mob bodyguard, if he was with someone else. But no one's going to mistake him for mob. No way. He's too small, too skinny, and not in nearly fancy enough clothing. Even a mob boss' kid would be in better clothes than he is.
"Was that guy the only reason you were in Gotham?" he asks, over the soda between his hands. Food's not there yet.
He's not stupid enough to think there aren't strings attached to this, but he's not stupid enough to turn it down either.
Free food? Frankly, even if Slade is an asshole pervert, and is expecting a blowjob or something for this, he'd probably go along with it. The guy doesn't seem like the kind of prick to make it hurt, and he's taken worse before. He might be able to go, but he's not quite suicidal enough to piss off the guy that he watched murder someone not even an hour ago. Especially not an actual professional killer, even though the guy being a pro means that he's probably not in as much danger as he could be.
Morons who murder people in alleys — he's seen that before — are more likely to go crazy and kill other people, he's pretty sure. The one danger is that Slade might kill him because he's an eyewitness, but that doesn't seem all that likely considering that Slade's the one who told him to watch to begin with.
Also, why the fuck would you feed someone before killing them? With how good this guy is, Slade could have taken him out at any point. What would be the point in waiting?
"More or less," Slade answers, with a small smirk. "I have a friend in town that I might play with if I run into him, but I'm only really here for the job."
"A friend?"
Slade gives a quiet chuckle. "Well, he might disagree with the word. What about you, kid? I'm guessing you're not still in Gotham by choice."
He snorts. "How the fuck would I get out of this place? Gotham's not a place you leave, old man, not once you're stuck here. I'll be here till whenever I get offed; smart money says it's before I'm old as you."
"You know, I'm not actually that old," Slade says, with that same smirk. "Hair's misleading. I've got a daughter about your age. Two sons, older than that, but I haven't seen either of them in awhile."
"They run off on you or something?"
Slade's arms uncross, one arm coming up to rest on the table, the other down on his legs. "Not exactly. One's dead, and the other is currently a vigilante with the Teen Titans." He about spits out the sip of his drink, and Slade gives another low laugh. "Not exactly what you were expecting, huh, kid? Thought you Gotham types were used to anything."
"Not—" He stalls out, staring at the old man, and then comes to a realization he probably should have much sooner. "You're not just a professional, are you?"
"Depends what you mean," Slade counters.
He chews over the question, considers the likelihood of it getting him killed, and then spits it out anyway. "You're one of those masked types, aren't you?"
Slade smirks, dips his head a bit. "Nailed it in one. Relax, kid, I'm not one of the crazy types you've got here in Gotham. Not like the Joker, or Poison Ivy or anything. I'm just a mercenary with a fancy suit and a little extra advantage; guy's gotta make a living." Slade's arm extends, offering him a hand. "Deathstroke."
He stares at Slade's hand for a second, then hesitantly shakes it. Doesn't get yanked over the table and gutted, so there's a plus. "So, the 'friend' you mentioned… Batman?"
"Nightwing," Slade corrects. "Kid's pretty damn good, for his age. I've been messing with the Teen Titans on and off since I met them, whenever I get paid for it. Lots of contracts out on heroes, these days. Or, sometimes I'll help them out, if they're not part of my job. It's a pretty normal back and forth."
"And you're… buying me a chili dog? You've gotta be fucking kidding me. Jesus."
"Said I would, didn't I?"
Which is when the food arrives in the form of a stressed looking waitress, who sticks around just long enough to ask if they want anything else — Slade answers 'no' for both of them — and then vanishes back to her other customers. He stares down at the chili dog, debating the idea of poison versus the idea of free food. Well, when would Slade have had time to poison his food? It's way more likely that he got poisoned during the handshake or something.
"Why are you telling me any of this?" he asks while he looks down at the chili dog in its little paper tray, before he looks up at Slade. "Am I like, going to get gutted when we step outside or something? Because I'm pretty sure supervillains only tell you about themselves when they're planning on killing you."
Slade is smirking again, and gives a small shake of his head. "No, kid. I'm not going to kill you, promise. Honestly, you remind me of my daughter a bit and you're entertaining, so that's why I'm talking to you. My identity's already blown to just about everyone who's important anyway, so telling you isn't going to do anything to me, and I already told you: mercenary. I'm not the 'gut a kid in an alley' type, Jason. Sometimes I just like a night away from the job."
He narrows his eyes. "Says the guy who just killed someone, on a job."
Slade laughs, a little louder this time. "Touché. Eat your food, kid, and stop looking at it like it's going to kill you. I thought you already decided you weren't in danger because I wouldn't kill someone without getting paid for it."
"Maybe I reevaluated," he spits back, mostly just to be contrary. "Masks are pretty much crazy as a rule; no matter what word they call themselves."
"Batman?"
"Come on, it's in the fucking name. He's batshit; he's literally dressing up as a bat and beating people up in the middle of the night. Sure, it's scumbags, people who deserve it, but he's just a guy under that mask. There's no way he's not nuts, especially going up against psychos like he does." Slade's watching him, and he squirms a little and adds, "I mean, I've never met the guy, but he can't be totally sane to be doing this in his free time. On top of a job and everything he's gotta have in his actual life? Totally crazy."
"Well, you're not wrong," Slade murmurs, with that same smirk. "Kid, what would you think of getting out of Gotham, for good?"
He freezes, isn't naïve enough to actually feel hope at the question so just narrows his eyes again, staring at Slade. "How? With you? No offense, but if a masked 'mercenary' is asking to take me out of the city and off alone, I think I'd be pretty damn stupid to agree."
"Yes, with me." Slade turns a bit in the booth, facing him more directly. "You want straight, kid? Alright. You've got spirit, you're talented, and you're more than likely gonna end up on the wrong side of a bullet or a blade before you even hit twenty in this hellhole of a city. My daughter's getting close to being able to head off on her own, for whatever she wants to do, and I like having a student around the place. It'll be rough, painful, and I will kick your ass until you learn to stand up to it, but you'll come out of it with skills you can only dream of. That sound like a decent deal to you, kid?"
"You…" He swallows, stares across the table. "You want to take me off to… to god knows where, and teach me to be, what? Like you? A mercenary?"
"Whatever you want to be is your business; I'm just offering you the training." Slade's holding his gaze with that single blue eye, and he can't bring himself to look away. "It won't be easy, kid. I'm not offering you some kind of vacation, or paradise."
He swallows again, ducks his head away, and then finds it in himself to counter, "Oh yeah, because my life's fucking charmed right now. Just a walk in the park."
It only really takes a moment to think about what he'll be heading back to, if he says no. A fucked up, abandoned apartment. No water, no heat, only populated by him and the single blanket he managed to swipe from the donation bin of a church, and every second there's the possibility that some bigger, nastier kid is going to come through his door or one of the windows and drive him out. Or, that he might get caught stealing and the cops might beat him bloody, or worse.
Gotham's not… There's no future for him here; he's known that since long before his mom died and his dad vanished.
"Alright," he agrees, looking back up. "Deal; I'm in. So, what do we—"
"Eat your food," Slade interrupts, with an actual smile. "Got anything we need to pick up from wherever you're living?" He shakes his head, and there's no judgment in Slade's expression, which is definitely nice. "Alright. Eat, then we'll head back to my hotel to pick up what I left there, and we can be out of Gotham tonight."
"And this doesn't come with favors or anything? You're not going to like, get me in a plane and then tell me I'm repaying you with fucks or something, right?"
There's no reaction from Slade, which really is kind of impressive. No pity, no anger, no nothing except that little smirk. "No. Told you, kid; you're not my type. My daughter would crucify me if I ever went mad enough to try, so you're safe."
"Uh-huh."
Well, even if the old man does want to get repaid like that, it shouldn't be that bad. He can deal, and this is a real chance. A chance to get out of Gotham, to get the hell out of the ditch he's been stuck in his whole life, and probably always would have been. That's worth the risk.
Besides, it's kind of nice to have somebody recognize that he's good at what he does.