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Chapter Text

Made Peace

You know you have made the right decision when there is peace in your heart. -Sabina Tabakovic

Deathstroke keeps his gun out and loosely trained on the nearest group of smugglers until he confirms with his own eyes that his bank account has grown by another fifty grand. He holsters the weapon and doesn’t miss the big smile his liaison’s face. The man looks downright pleased and goes so far as to offer his hand to the mercenary. Deathstroke just stares at it until the man clears his throat and makes a show of brushing his pants off.

“Right, right,” the man mumbles. “Pleasure doing business with you. You’re free to go.”

Deathstroke shifts his weight just enough to get his armor to rub together. People continue to exit the rundown antique shop fronting an illegal importing/exporting business of fake paintings. They’re mostly European pieces, Van Goghs and Monets and Picassos, but Deathstroke is pleased to see a number of Seminaros and Szyszlos. That, and there’s a very convincing fake Liu Dan that Deathstroke has his eye on for Adeline based purely on aesthetics, not authenticity.

“And if I didn’t feel like leaving quite yet?” he asks before crossing his arms across his chest and making a show of getting comfortable against a wall covered in graffiti.

The liaison makes a face but quickly covers it with another smile. “You’re welcome to stay and watch, of course. You’re already upheld your part of the contract.”

Play bodyguard. Ensure no one interferes with the operation. It’s child’s play. The pay isn’t the best, but easy money is still money, and Slade has a kid’s college education he needs to save up for. (Or a pony. He’s not opposed to spoiling Joey a bit if he’s already got funds set aside for private schooling. And isn’t that what every little kid wants, a pony?) Deathstroke doesn’t understand how the smugglers haven’t been caught yet given how close they’re operating to Gotham, but the assassin supposes there’s things worse than cheating millionaires out of money for fake paintings when there’s child trafficking and serial murders a few miles up the road.

So Deathstroke lingers, watches the operation just a bit past two in the morning, and is about to leave when there’s a commotion down the narrow alleyway that is mostly hidden by the moving van backed up against the rear exit of the antique shop with barely an inch to spare. The liaison had wandered off a while go to help supervise, but he comes striding out of the decrepit building with a big smile on his face. For such a shoddy location and gang, their tech is pretty high end; the liaison must have gotten a call first given the hand that hovers by his earpiece. Deathstroke shifts position and sees two hired hands dragging Robin down the garbage-strewn street, vigilante limp between them while the tips of his shoes drag the ground and catch on cigarette butts. There’s a big bump on the kid’s temple, already purpling and swollen. Deathstroke wonders what happened, because Robin might be young, but he’s a force to be reckoned with.

“Well, well, well, look what we have here.” The liaison grabs Robin by the chin, lifts his head up, and is smart enough not to touch the domino on the boy’s face. He looks to one of the men for an explanation. “What happened?”

“Fire escape broke,” one goon says with a shrug. “Lucky break for us. He hit his head on one of the railings on the way down. Knocked him out.”

And Deathstroke’s trained enough to know when someone’s faking, but nope, Robin’s definitely out cold. For now.

“He was spying,” the other thug mutters before rubbing his bruised jaw. “Got the jump on us, but then the fire escape broke and, well.”

The liaison drops Robin’s head and rubs his hands together in what is obviously glee. “Boss likes art better than human trafficking, but he’s got a list of people who would love to get their hands on a kid.”

Deathstroke can’t help the chills that run down his spine.

“Especially this one. I bet Batman’s sidekick gets ten times what pedophiles would normally pay.”

Deathstroke turns on his heel and starts to walk away. People call him a monster, but he’s got his own set of morals and lines that he won’t cross. Murder is fine in the right circumstances, but selling kids is not. Not ever. The liaison mutters something about the mercenary being a hypocrite, and then Robin comes to with a little groan. He starts thrashing, gets slapped for his troubles, and then the liaison threatens to fuck him if he doesn’t stop squirming like a little bitch, that he has a list a mile long of buyers who would love to test out their new toy and most of them don’t mind sloppy seconds.

“Help me!”

Deathstroke ignores the cry that’s clearly directed at him, but he does slow his pace a bit when Robin starts to call for Batman. There’s no way Batman doesn’t know where Robin is, that the kid doesn’t have some type of tracker or emergency beacon on him. There’s no way that Robin came all the way down here by himself without some plan for backup incase things went south. Right?

But Robin’s cries grow more desperate, and Slade stops at the end of alley when the kid starts absolutely screaming for his father to come and help him. He knows Robin is a phenomenal actor, but this isn’t an act; Robin’s screeching and crying for real, unable to get his arms free when where they’ve already been bound behind his back way too tight and threatening his circulation, unable to get any weight on his swelling ankle which may or may not be broken, on top of what may be a pretty bad concussion.

Deathstroke hears Robin get slapped again followed by an order to gag him before he wakes up the neighborhood. Robin starts to scream, and that’s when Deathstroke knows that Robin came here alone and doesn’t have a tracker or beacon on his person. That if he gets taken, Batman will find him, but only after days of investigating and researching. By then, it will be too late. Deathstroke keeps walking, but the first step is hard.

“Papa, help me!”

Deathstroke actually stumbles. He turns just enough to see Robin being gagged then dragged to the van with a promise that if he ruins any of the art, he’s going to regret it. They’re leaving in twenty minutes. Deathstroke can’t get the voice of Joey calling for help out of his head. The absolute need in his gut to protect his son even though Robin is nothing but a kid who knows the dangers that come with this line of work. That every time he put that mask on, this was always a possibility.

Slade sighs loudly and pulls his gun free of its holster. The group should have shelled out another fifty grand and kept his services as an escort. But they didn’t. He’s under no obligation to do anything; he’s already been paid. So he goes for the silencer, clicks off his safety, and then heads into the shop, intent on cleaning the place from the inside out, because no one’s so much as flinched at the mention of rape or kidnapping or trafficking a child. And Slade isn’t exactly surprised, but still…

By the time he gets to the van, Robin’s quiet. There’s a little needle on the floor, uncapped, and Slade picks it up with caution and makes a mental reminder to tell Batman he’ll need to get the kid a round of screening for transmittable diseases. The needle looks clean and there’s a trace of pale violet liquid pooling at the tip. Slade lifts his mask just enough to try and get a whiff of what might have been inside, but he can’t smell anything except a faint mix of acidic chemicals that burn the inside of his nose. He shows it in a pouch for analysis and then goes for Robin who’s curled up beside the glass-framed Liu Dan Slade had been eying.

“You’re safe now.”

He slices through the bindings effortlessly with a knife and then waits for Robin to do something, at least stretch his arms and legs out, but he doesn’t move. He’s totally limp, unresponsive, and doesn’t even twitch when Slade pinches his thigh. So Slade takes the blindfold off, wraps Robin up his cape, and then picks him up with care and cradles him against his front. He’s sure to grab the end of the canary-yellow fabric and cover Robin’s head with it just to make sure he can’t get a glimpse of the bodies still bleeding out and slowly cooling outside the van. He knows Robin has seen worse, but Slade doesn’t feel right if he doesn’t at least try.

“Alright, kid, let’s go.”

Slade’s got a room in a one-star hotel. It’s perfect for quick jobs, and this close to Gotham, no one bats and eye when the fully armored mercenary simply strolls through the front door with Batman’s sidekick in his arms. Robin starts to sniffle once he’s settled on Slade’s bed, and Slade goes for the landline that connects to the front desk and might be able to dial 911.

“I will give you eighty bucks if you come to my room with a mug of hot chocolate,” Slade says simply. “Not that cheap shit, the proper packet mix with little marshmallows. And if you try anything funny with it, I’ll kill you.”

Robin’s still weepy by the time he can start to move his limbs, but Slade’s taken off most of his armor and lets Robin leans against him while he helps the kid sip at his drink. Robin’s trembling from head to toe and can’t quite manage the mug by himself, so Slade keeps his own hand cupped beneath the white ceramic for support and helps Robin bring it to his lips.

“You wanna rinse off?” Slade asks once the cup is empty. “You smell like garbage.” Robin probably landed in a trash bin when the fire escape broke. Slade smooths a hand through Robin’s hair and frowns at the bump. “The hot water will help. And you’ll feel better after. Promise.”

Robin nods tentatively, and Slade grabs one of his clean shirts from his suitcase and unfolds it in hopes that some of the bathroom heat will seep into the cotton. He lays it out beside the sink, turns on the shower, and then helps Robin take off most of his uniform before carrying him into the bathroom. He sits him on the lip of the tub and then closes the lid to the toilet and sits down backwards. He rests his elbows on the tank and makes a show at staring at the wall. Robin takes the rest of his clothes off and Slade doesn’t miss him out of the corner of his lone eye obviously debating removing his domino. But eventually Robin takes it off, lays it on top of the rest of his clothes, and the slips into the shower.

Slade turns his head when the water shuts off not even two minutes later. Sure, he’s familiar with navy showers, but this is ridiculous. Robin’s already grabbing for a towel hanging just beyond the curtain, but his movements are jerky and his hair is only half wet. He keeps missing the terrycloth and staring at a spot beyond the assassin’s shoulder.

“Slade, I don’t… I don’t feel so good…”

Robin takes the curtain down with him when he starts to seize. Slade jumps into the tub after him, intent on keeping him from hitting his already bruised head on anything else, and is careful to turn him onto his side thirty seconds later when the seizure stops. Slade’s pats himself on the back, because as soon as Robin’s in the proper recovery position, all the hot chocolate he had sipped at so carefully makes a reappearance. Robin’s too out of it to do much but blink and mewl once he’s done vomiting, but Slade’s big enough to manhandle the kid without too much effort. That, and cleanup in a tub is a breeze; just another quick rinse, a new change of clothes which consists of one of Slade’s shirts that’s more than big enough to be a nightshirt, and then Robin’s all wrapped up in the slightly scratchy comforter and being plied with water and the baby aspirin Slade always keeps on his person.

“Sleepy,” Robin mutters fifteen minutes later from Slade’s lap.

“How’s your head?”

“Hurts more.” That’s definitely a sniffle. “I wanna go home.”

Slade just wraps him a little tighter in his blanket burrito. Normally he’d just drop Robin off somewhere quiet and out of the way, but the kid’s definitely having a bad reaction to the drugs so there’s no way the mercenary’s leaving him alone, not even for a second.

“You have a phone number the calls Batman directly?”

Robin shakes his head and Slade leans over him just enough to see his lower lip start to wobble.

“Alright, alright, calm down. You’re alright. You’re fine.” Slade smooths back the kid’s hair. “If you’re tired, go to sleep.”

“My ankle hurts. And my head.”

Slade sprints to the ice machine and comes back with two baggies. Robin seems much more content with the ice and even lets the assassin bandage his ankle. Slade turns all the lights off, makes himself comfortable in bed with his new companion, and tucks him in a best he can, intent on keeping a vigil. He’ll bring the kid home once he’s slept off the rest of the sedative.

“Too quiet,” Robin mutters as he fists a blanket beneath one cheek with a frown.

“How about I tell you story? You like knights and dragon?”

Robin hesitates and then nods.

 “Let me get a book and I’ll read to you until you fall asleep.”

Chapter Text

He should just walk away. Pretend he hasn’t seen anything. He got the intel he came for, time and date for the next shipment from Italy of more Renaissance fakes that he’ll pass along to the competition, so he doesn’t need to stay. He could leave whenever he wanted. But the warehouse is old and most of the windows are busted, so conversation from down below easily carriers to the roof only one story above. And Deathstroke’s been in the same vicinity of Black Mask so he’s heard some truly vulgar things before, but the lukewarm threats and lewd remarks are getting under Slade’s skin, and he can’t figure out why. Or why he can’t just walk away.

Nightwing’s hanging from a support beam with his wrists tied together just high enough that he’s forced onto the balls of his feet to keep contact with the floor. Most of his suit is torn from an early detonated grenade that had killed the goon and caught Nightwing in the blast zone. The vigilante is still stunned, groggy, and obviously not with it given the fact that he could easily either slip the ropes or simply haul himself up and kick the man circling him like a shark, well-within striking distance. But there’s blood trickling out of Nightwing’s nose and he’s got a bump on his forehead that suggests he hit something harder than the grenade had hit him.

“-so pretty,” the man continues to say as he flips a knife between his fingers. He’s obviously well-acquainted with the blade and stops in front of Nightwing. “But a few bruises don’t deter from the… other bits.” The knife trails from the vigilante’s left collarbone down his front, tracing the stark blue pattern before just barely digging into a tear and slicing the suit. There’s holes peppering the material from the blast, and Deathstroke can physically feel his blood pressure start to rise as the man cuts out the bird symbol with care and then slices a little more until he’s got a window across Nightwing’s front. The intent is obvious. “Is there any part of you that isn’t handsome?” the man all but coos as he draws the back of the blade across one nipple, flips it around, and then drags it straight down the vigilante’s front.

The sound of material being sliced seems to echo in the warehouse and then stops. Nightwing’s suit is cut from his chest down to his hips. It’s there, but it’s barely covering anything, and all it takes is a few gentle tuts and tugs to expose most of his torso.

“I can think of a few people who might be interested in me cutting a bit more,” the man notes a he continues circling the vigilante.

He stops just long enough to cut out a rectangular bit out of the back of Nightwing’s suit, right at his lower back; Nightwing doesn’t even flinch when the tip of the knife briefly dips into one dimple of Venus and draws blood. Deathstroke grinds his teeth together, because now Nightwing’s going to have to go for another blood test and ruin whatever schedule he already been on.

“Since we’re alone, I guess a sneak peek couldn’t hurt,” the man continues with a smile. “Need to make sure you’re up to par and all that. Can’t have anyone making up numbers.”

The knife gets passed to the opposite hand and then trails up what’s left of the suit between Nightwing’s legs. The vigilante just huffs a bit, and that catches the man attention. He removes the blade and takes a step back.

“You think you’re the first person to threaten to molest me? Or actually do it? Pathetic.”

The man’s eyebrows shoot right up, but a vein in his forehead begins to twitch and his grip on the handle tightens to white-knuckling.

“Ah, he speaks.” The man smirks. “So you’re asking for something a little rougher than just measurements?”

Nightwing spits at his feet. “Bite me.”

The man must have an ego or a short temper, because he grabs Nightwing by the hair and pulls the knife right up against his domino. “Even as good looking as you are, I’m not into men and I’m not quite sure I could get it up. This beauty here, on the other hand, is always hard. What do you say to that?”

God, Nightwing must be punch-drunk or something, because he smiles a little. “Bet that little baby knife is still bigger than you. It’s kind of cute.”

That earns an indignant howl, and Deathstroke clips a grapple to the nearest stable looking ledge before attaching the other end to his belt and hurling himself through the half-broken skylight window before Nightwing can get a knife up his ass or something else cut off.

Deathstroke hits the floor in a crouch and startles the man enough to get him to stumble away from Nightwing.

“Deathstroke!” The man is clearly aware of the mercenary. “You’re… Why are you here? My contract with you ended two months ago.”

Deathstroke draws one sword and then nods. “True, but I was spying on you this time,” he replies. “The Falcone family wanted intel on your next shipment.”

The man just frowns. “I know you got that information then. Why show yourself?” He glances at Nightwing and then smirks. “Don’t tell me, you wanted to put an offer on him? Or call first dibs?”

“Not quite.” Deathstroke pulls his swords apart.

“Seriously?” the man demands. “You’re here to… to what? Save him? He’s screwed up more than a few on your contracts!”

Deathstroke shrugs. The man takes another step back. The assassin takes one step forward.

“You kill people!” the man all but screams. “You kill people for money!”

“Yes, and?”

“You can’t seriously be thinking of saving Nightwing from a little sexual assault just because you find that repulsive!”

Deahtstroke nods. “I am. And I do.” He jerks his chin. “I suggest you leave before I decide to use these.”

The man flees. Deathstroke cuts the line with one sweep of his sword, and Nightwing lands on his hands and knees. One hand tries to gather up what remains of his suit.

“I had everything under control,” Nightwing mutters as he tries and fails to get to his feet.

“This was much easier when you had a cape,” Deathstroke counters before stowing his swords and scooping the vigilante up into his arms when Nightwing gets to his feet and then stumbles right into him.

Nightwing must be feeling pretty crappy, because he doesn’t fight the mercenary. He just squirms into a more comfortable position and then rests his cheek against one plate of armor and shuts his eyes.

“Hey, kid, you dying on me?”

Nightwing just shrugs as one hand tries and fails to keep the edges of his suit together. “Of embarrassment.”

“Ha-ha-ha.” Slade doesn’t have anything useful on his person to cover Nightwing with except one of those emergency foil blankets, but considering the vigilante might be toeing the edge of going into shock, it can’t hurt.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nightwing almost demands, but his voice is low and quiet, just shy of slurring as Deathstroke leans them both against a wall so he can grab at a pouch on his thigh.

“Wrap yourself up in this as best you can. You have a place nearby?” Nightwing shakes his head. “Figures.” Slade sighs. “We’ll go to my place then.”

“I’m fin- OW!” Nightwing jerks and slaps at the mercenary’s hand when he goes for a bump on the younger man’s head. “What the hell?”

“You’re not fine.” Slade heads for the door. “You got caught up in a grenade, and some pervert just verbally and physically assaulted you.”

Nightwing shuts up.

“Falcone put me up in a nice hotel. Penthouse suite. You can rest for a few hours before heading home.”

Dick’s neck deep in a bubble bath housed in a massive claw foot tub with Slade carefully dabbing at a small scrape at his hairline when he asks.

“Why didn’t you just hit my emergency beacon?”

Slade’s already showered and changed into sweats. He’s kneeling beside the tub with tweezers and antiseptic, wholly focused on his task. His eyepatch lays forgotten on the massive marble vanity.

“Hn?”

“I know you know where it is on my suit.” Dick waits for Slade to move onto his neck before sitting up a bit more. “You could have just left me.”

Slade won’t meet Dick’s eyes. He shrugs. “Could have, would have, should have.” He butterfly bandages a nasty cut on Dick’s neck shut and then starts to cleanup. “I’m getting you a drink. Everything from your collarbones up needs to stay dry. You hear me?”

Dick nods and then leans back against the bath pillow. He’s not surprised by luxurious suite given Slade’s employer, but Dick is surprised that Slade ran him a hot bath and added something from a little bottle he had pulled from a suitcase that wasn’t labeled but was filled with some type of pale green liquid that smelled vaguely like pine needles. The water had stung his broken skin at first, making Dick keenly aware of all his abrasions, but now it’s soothing. In fact, all his cuts soaking in whatever Slade had poured into the bath to make it bubble feel better already.

Dick’s almost dozing by the time Slade returns with two tumblers of pale amber liquid and perfectly square ice cubes. The glasses are exactly the same, but one glass has about four fingers of liquid while the other only has two. Dick gets offered the glass with more, and he looks up at Slade in confusion when the man sits himself on the edge of the tub and then takes a sip.

“Are we celebrating something?” Dick asks as he cradles the tumbler with two soapy hands.

Slade thrusts two pills at Dick. “You not dying. Open. Pain. Antibiotic.”

Dick opens his mouth and lets Slade place the pills on his tongue even though letting a mercenary who’s kidnapped and blackmailed Dick in the past isn’t really a good idea. Dick closes his mouth with a frown; he isn’t much a drinker and can’t really appreciate a fine whiskey, but any liquid is better than no liquid, so he goes to take a sip to help wash the pills down and is surprised when sweetness bursts in his mouth.

“I’m not ten, Slade,” Dick snaps while the man stares down at him.

“You really think I was going to let you drink and take pills at the same time?” Slade rolls his eye. “What would you have enjoyed more right now, at this very moment: a few shots of whiskey or plain old apple juice?”

Dick busies himself with his drink and doesn’t dignify that with a response. He can feel the pain pill starting to take effect fifteen minutes later, and five after that his stomach starts to complain about taking the antibiotic on an empty stomach. Dick’s been nauseous on meds before, but he must not hide it enough because Slade dips his hand into the water, deems it too cold, and pulls the plug before gathering the empty tumblers and placing them on the vanity and going for a towel.

“I’ll order room service,” Slade says as he holds the towel open. “Don’t bother with the bubbles,” he adds when Dick grabs the sides of the tub, slowly hauls himself up, and then starts trying to flick the foam off. “It’s a special blend that’s promotes healing.”

“I thought you healed pretty quickly,” Dick notes as he tucks the towels beneath his arms and lets Slade help him out and onto a fluffy bathmat that feels downright sinful on Dick’s toes.

“I do.”

Dick lets Slade help pat him dry before he gets wrapped in one of the spare hotel robes with the logo embroidered on the collar.

“Come on, you need to sit down before you pass out.”

Dick can’t disagree; he’s achy all over and while one of the pills is keeping the sharpest pains at bay, he still feels like crap. He takes Slade’s offered arm and doesn’t protest when the other goes to his waist for support. There’s a heating pad already warming the massive California king bed, and Dick immediately shoves it to his lower back while Slade props him up with a handful of pillows. There’s some old black and white movie already playing on the flat screen, and Dick makes himself comfortable before accepting the offered room service menu. Slade slides onto the bed, mindful to stay on top of the covers.

“You’re getting yogurt.”

“What am I, eight?” Dick briefly looks up to find Slade engrossed in an identical laminated menu. “I want carbs.”

“You can have carbs, but you’re getting yogurt because you’re on antibiotics.”

Dick just groans softly. “If they don’t have peach or strawberry, I won’t eat it.”

“They have both. Pick one.”

“Peach.” Dick goes back to a list of appetizers. “And disco fries. Extra gravy.”

Slade makes no comment, but he does order himself an omelet. “Twenty minutes.” Dick just blinks when Slade takes his menu from his hands and then gently lays him down. Slade tugs one of the blankets up to Dick’s neck and then runs a hand through his hair, mindful of the bump. “Can we ice that before the food comes?”

Dick, unfortunately, falls asleep with a bag of ice on his head and completely misses Slade getting up to get their food, him returning to bed, and only wakes up because Slade touches his shoulder.

“Food. Eat.”

Dick does, and he wants to tell Slade off for stealing some of his food, but it’s not like he’s paying for the food or the room, so he supposes Slade is entitled to a few fries. By the time their trays are empty, Dick’s almost delirious from the pain pill. He lets Slade remove the heating pad (fire hazard, he says) and turn off all the lights before the man gets back into bed, this time under the covers. There’s a book tucked under one arm, and Dick scoots just close enough so he can see the pictures illuminated by the lone bedside lamp that is still on.

“Once upon a time,” Slade begins, and Dick doesn’t get any further.