Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Slade woke up slowly and then all at once.

He forced his muscles to stay relaxed and took care to keep the rhythm of his breaths even. Sleep was lingering, heavy on his limbs. Even through his closed eyelid, the room was full of ambient light of day. It was later than it should be.

Slade breathed out, keeping it slow and steady. Nothing was moving. But the alarms were ringing high and fast in his head. Something was seriously wrong.

He let the air whistle a little as it came out, steady as a beat—

Fuck.

It took all Slade concentration to not stiffen.

He couldn’t hear his own heartbeat.

Now that he was concentrating on it, really listening, he noticed something else. Or everything, really. In that everything was… Muffled. And not just because his face was mushed against the pillow. It only covered one ear leaving the other perfectly unobscured.

There should be noise. The regular background beat created by people living their lives crammed in close proximity. A hum from the mini-fridge. A clack of a air conditioner. Hell, in a hotel this big, there was always somebody in movement, whether it was flushing the toilet or preparing for an illicit affair. But now…

Nothing.

Did somebody drug him?

In his own fucking hotel room in a five-star hotel.

Slade was going to kill them. Painfully.

Before getting to that, though.

All of his limbs were accounted for, and Slade felt no restraints on any off them. His clothes were intact, the covers on. The pillow obviously in its rightful place. The sleeping position was natural for him. His body felt—

Hmm. His knee hurt. It was dull pain of used muscle. His back felt stiff, somewhere between his shoulder blades. There was a crick in his neck.

They were not effects of any kind of drugs he could think of. Especially not of any of the few that worked on him.

Slade concentrated on listening again, but still, heard nothing. He was reasonably sure there was nobody in the room with him at least. And regardless. What’s a little risk when the other option was to just keep laying down like a damn buffet.

Slade took a deep breath. He slid a hand under the pillow in pre—

What the fuck was that?

Slade’s eye sprang open and he sat up, pulling the item beneath the pillow. He didn’t keep a knife under his pillow—

What the fuck was his vision doing?

Slade staggered and blinked as the visible world attacked him like a Technicolor kaleidoscope. He couldn’t focus his gaze, the details slipped away as he tried, morphing into a mess of overlapping images. Slade blinked again trying to clear it up.

And froze.

Very slowly, Slade let a breath out. It wheezed a little. Then, with grim deliberation and care usually reserved for the most volatile of bombs, he blinked again.

Eyelashes grazed his cheeks.

Correction. Two sets of eyelashes.

Slade closed his eyes. (Eyes. It’d been more than a decade since he’d last used that plural). He raised up a hand—

And promptly hit himself in the face.

His eyes sprang open. Even with his eyes watering and focusing spottily it was abundantly clear that the hand in front of his face was not his. Skin was too dark, fingers too short, palm too small. And he definitely didn’t have an old scar slicing through the back of it.

Slade looked down. His (not his) body was wrong: the chest not wide enough, arms too short, the bangs flopping over his eyes were goddamn black… Slade grabbed the covers and pulled them off, clambering to stand up. His balance was off, he almost fell off the bed before managing to get his legs under himself. He was too fucking low to the ground.

Thump.

Slade swirled around. That he definitely heard. The sound of something hitting the floor was unmistakable. Slade scanned the room, still a bit hazy. He forced his uncooperative legs to a ready stance, traitorous heart (not his, not his) beating in his throat.

Didn’t matter. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d be fighting at a disadvantage. He could take it, whatever they’d throw at him. And at some point, the time to throw back would come.

Something brushed his leg. Slade jumped back.

“Mrouh!”

Slade looked down. Again.

A small, brown-and-grey-striped cat stared up at him. When Slade just stared back, it meowed again. There was a definite note of demand in the sound.

Okay. This was officially the weirdest kidnapping and/or drugging Slade had had. And that was a high bar.

Slade tore his gaze off the cat and looked around.

He was in a bedroom, a fairly small but cozy one. Red bedsheets, a fuzzy grey carpet. A large closet, a singular nightstand, a chair with a bunch of clothes neatly folded on it. And a mirror.

God fucking dammit. He was at somebody’s home. At least that made the kidnapping and torture scenario unlikely. Small wins.

Slade started forward and nearly stepped on the cat, which made its displeasure known with an indignant screech. Slade frowned. He wouldn’t be stepping on it if it didn't insist on circling on his feet.

“Go away,” Slade said. The voice came out wrong. Too light, too young. It had a raspy quality, like a smoker’s drawl. And an accent. A Gotham one. Hmm.

Slade stepped in front of the mirror. An unfamiliar face stared right back. Young. Strong jaw, a bit crooked nose, probably broken at least once. Black curly hair with a ridiculous white stripe on the forelock. Teal eyes.

Slade had never seen that face before.

The body was muscular but sleek, clearly in top shape. Proportioned. Roughly 6 feet tall. Not unusual for the people in his circles, and pointedly leading to a person he’d met last night. And if he calculated in the bulk added by an armor…

What the fuck was he doing in Red Hood’s body?

Slade deliberately held his breath for a moment, letting the swears bounce around in his head while it sat still in his lungs. Then he let it out.

Well. It could be worse. At least Red Hood wasn’t sharing the body with him. Right?
Slade looked into his (new) eyes suspiciously. He was not going to ask his own thoughts if there was somebody else around. That would be ridiculous.

Slade stared some more.

“Mrouh!” said the cat. With some volume added as if that’d make the message better received.

Slade turned around.

Alright. He was indeed in the body of Red Hood. Or, more accurately, in the body of Jason Todd, since this was obviously his civilian apartment.

Only one logical explanation. Magic. Not that magic was in any way logical, but since the traffickers he’d hunted last night were moving rare items by a crate-load, it wasn’t out of the question that some were magical. Also, Red Hood had mentioned something about meta children. Meta wasn’t too far from magical and both paid very well. Slade would’ve bet on an artifact though. The fight had spilled several of various kinds all around the place; that’s what you got with trigger-happy and scared low-level thugs. Though he had to admit, Deathstroke and Red Hood showing up was a valid cause for fear.

Well, him standing right here was some hard evidence for that theory.

Slade hadn’t cared about magic, artifacts, or kids last night when he’d mowed through the mob of thugs. He was being paid to eliminate the ring leader. And since not many mercenaries accepted jobs in Gotham in fear of the Bat, he was getting a lot of money for it. The man hadn’t been there last night, but it had been more of a surveillance operation anyway. Divide and conquer. A scum like that always scurried. And the hunt was half the fun, especially in easy assassination gigs like this.

Except now Slade would apparently have to work for it. In a body of a Bat, even. At least until he’d figure out how to reverse it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

Again, could be worse. At least Red Hood didn’t actively dislike him. Though that might be only due to them not knowing each other. Pretty much at all. Hell, they haven’t even met before last night.

Well, at least that ruled out some kind of magical retribution in the form of magic-enforced couples therapy. Besides, there really wasn’t anyone who’d care enough to try something like that on Slade.

Wasn’t that an uplifting thought.

The cat decided that it had been ignored long enough and let out another long meow. Slade glared at it. It glared back.

The nicely started staring competition was interrupted by a buzzing noise. Insistent one that even Slade’s diminished hearing could pick up.

Slade turned around (the cat meowed and Slade tried hard to not hear a note of triumph in it). There, lying on the nightstand was a phone whose screen was lighting up with an incoming call.

It took his eyes (shit, using that plural was unsettlingly weird) a moment to focus on the number flashing on the screen. It was an unfamiliar one, but it had a Gotham area code and standard length for a semi-public line. Like a hotel.

Slade grabbed the phone and pushed the green button. Just as he brought it to his ear, a familiar voice from the other end growled: “Wilson?”

A tiny bit of tension left Slade. At the very least, his body was still functioning and in this dimension. What a goddamn low bar.

“Todd, I presume,” he said.

A puff of air was audible through the line. Apparently, Todd had had similar worries. “I guess I could say you have something that belongs to me, but that seems to be a mutual issue.”

Slade huffed. “An astute observation.”

Todd took a sharp breath but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a very long and angry yowl from the cat. Todd spluttered. Then he laughed.

“Guess that answers the question of where you are,” he said, humor lighting his tone.
Slade huffed. Todd didn’t bother to acknowledge that, just continued on: “I’ll come to you, and we can figure out how to get out of this mess.”

“Fine,” Slade said. Guess he could stand the kid’s company for that long.

“ETA 40 minutes.”

Slade grunted and went to close the line. The cat yowled again.

“And feed my cat!”

Chapter Text

“A body swap spell,” Slade repeated, “You don’t say.”

Todd's cough sounded suspiciously like an aborted snort. The scruffy wizard glared at him before turning back to Slade.

“Well, pardon me for not being snobby enough for you, would you like the scientific name?” he asked, “Maybe in Latin?”

“Do spells have Linnean taxonomy?” Todd asked.

The wizard’s mouth snapped shut and he squinted at Todd. Todd’s face stayed perfectly placid under the scrutiny. Apparently, he’d gotten better control of Slade’s features during the day. Even Slade couldn’t figure out if the question was genuine.

“Anyway…” said the wizard finally, gaze still lingering at Todd, before he turned back to a small, broken orb laying on the crate they’d all gathered around. “Like I was saying, this seems to be a case of a simple stored spell that was put into a magical artifact, waiting for activation. Break the glass, touch some other person, and Bob’s your uncle.”

He glanced at Slade. “I could explain it in a fancier way, but that’s the gist.”

Slade looked at the orb too. It had taken them a good while to hone on this particular one amongst the small sea of spilled artifacts on the warehouse floor. Apparently, most of them had magic only for show: just enough to ping the radar of somebody with a rudimentary understanding of magic but not enough for an actual effect beyond a light show. That conclusion went well with Slade’s assessment of the skill level of those traffickers.

Unfortunately, there were also some that packed a real punch. Case in point.

“Is it permanent?” Todd asked.

The wizard shrugged. “Probably not,” he said. Goddamn magic users. Why give a straight answer when they could hee and haw instead.

“’Probably’ meaning that it could swap back at any time?” Todd pressured.

The wizard huffed. “Don’t forget that magic takes energy, copious bloody amount of it. Nature wants to return to its natural state and magic does the same. Keeping you two in those bodies goes against the grain and it will snap back at some point when there’s not enough energy to hold it.”

“How long then?” Todd asked. Slade was content letting the kid do the questioning. The wizard was his contact and his responsibility. And fine. Slade probably wouldn’t have been able to pull a competent magic user in Gotham as fast as the kid did. If this wizard was indeed competent. Hard to say with his ilk. So far, he was just as annoying as any other magic user Slade had met.

The wizard shrugged. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t be more than two weeks.”

“Two weeks?!”

“Hey, don’t start with me! That shit was concocted for this exact purpose. Who the fuck knows how long it mulled in that orb, concentrating more and more. Stored spells are powerful, that’s why they are so useful in a pinch. Now that it’s out, it should deteriorate pretty rapidly. It’ll take as long as it takes.”

Todd frowned. “Can’t you de-spell it right now?”

The wizard shrugged again, supremely unconcerned about the situation. “I probably could, after some time fiddling around. Could take a while though. And it would mean feeding more energy to the spell itself, so…”

“So it might just make it stronger and last longer,” Todd finished.

“Pretty much. It’s usually better to just wait these things out, I’ve found.” The wizard shrugged the third time and Slade really had to suppress the urge to force him to keep the shoulders down.

Todd looked like he was mulling something over. Slade didn’t like that look of ponderous constipation on his own face. “When you say feeding the spell energy…” He took a quick glance at Slade.

The wizard made a go-on gesture with his hands. Slade raised his eyebrows. Whatever the kid was thinking, he’d have to spit it out.

Todd apparently came to the same conclusion. “Does my magic feed it?”

“You’re magical?” Slade was surprised, thought maybe he shouldn’t be. Apparently, the Bat’s stance on magic was the same as on metas: absolute no-no in ‘his’ city, unless it was one of his brats.

Todd smiled a little crookedly. “Regular Mr. Mistoffelees.” Then he grinned. A silent and judgmental beat later it dimmed. “Really, nothing?”

What the fuck had Slade done to deserve this?

“Actually,” the wizard said before Slade could really ponder the hypocrisy of it, “you’re not magical.” He pointed to Slade. “He is.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but you, as in you there—“ he gestured expansively at Slade’s body, “--are officially magic-less. Whatever makes him… All That, it’s about as magical as Superman. Not my wheelhouse, lad, call Batman or something. All the magic between the two of you, sans the spell, is on him.” He gestured at Slade.

Slade frowned. He hadn’t taken magic into account in any way. He didn’t feel different. Or charged. Or... Well, he had no idea what it felt to have magic. He glared at Todd. Would’ve been nice to have some warning. He had no desire to breathe fire or whatever the kid’s magic did.

“But that’s…” Todd looked flabbergasted, “My magic is…”

“Yes?” said the wizard when Todd petered off, “Do go on describing the exact flavor of magic you have?”

Todd glared. “Don’t you think you should warn the person currently occupying your body?” the wizard cajoled and grinned, with all the sincerity of a used-car salesman.

Todd glared a little more before looking at Slade. “My magic won’t activate by accident. It’s not that kind of magic,” he said, “And it won’t hurt you, or anyone else. It only comes up in specific situations, and likely, you won’t even notice it.”

Having unknown magic was akin to carrying around a weapon without a fully functioning safety. Not ideal. But the kid seemed sincere. He was trained by Batman. While secret-keeping was probably in his blood, he wouldn’t risk Slade accidentally burning the city down. You could say a lot about the bats (and Slade did), but they were professionals.

Slade nodded. Todd turned back to the wizard.

The wizard sighed. “You can’t blame a bloke for being curious. Anyway, magic not related to the spell won’t feed it. Not without a conscious effort, intention is key. Using magic already in your bodies might even drain it.”

Todd perked up. “Really? Shouldn't we try some magic then?”

The wizard grimaced. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Stored spells don’t typically work well with other magic. They tend to… Let’s say ‘flash’ and leave it at that.”

Todd grunted. The kid was really getting a hang of Slade’s gestures. It was getting disturbing.

“So to sum it up,” Slade said, “we should do nothing.”

“Pretty much,” said the wizard.

Goddammit. Slade really hated magic.

“So…” the wizard said after a beat of sulky silence. “If this was all…?”

Todd sighed. “Yeah. Thanks, John.”

The wizard nodded briskly, looking more professional than at any point during the actual examination or conversation. “One favour repaid,” he stated. Todd nodded.

“In that case. Auf Wiedersehn, and all that jazz.” The wizard made a complicated gesture with his hands and a portal appeared. Without further ado, he stepped into it and disappeared. The portal snapped shut behind him.

Slade would’ve very much liked to shoot somebody right about now. If there would’ve been any mooks remaining in this god-forsaken warehouse…

“So, you want to come back to mine?”

Slade slowly turned to Todd and glared. The kid wasn’t even the slightest bit deterred. “We can set shop there, go over information, and make a plan.”

“We?”

“Yes, as in you and me, w-e, us together, more than one person. You in my body and me in yours, etc etc,” Todd’s voice, well, Slade’s voice had a mocking quality he didn’t care for at all. It was cruel to mock a man with his own voice.

“I work alone,” Slade said.

“Correction, Deathstroke works alone. But there’s a hell of a philosophic debate to be had on who is Deathstroke right now. I’d say you have about a 50/50 chance.” The kid grinned.

“I. Work. Alone.”

The kid had the nerve to sigh. “That’s not a reason to be difficult,” he said with patience and rationality dripping from every syllable, “We shouldn’t let those fuckers get away with it. We can work around this, with just a little cooperation, if you can pull it.”

Slade turned around and headed to the door.

“C’moon!” the kid yelled, “Don’t be like that.”

Slade didn’t falter, just continued on. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around.

“We—“

Bang!

The rest of whatever the kid was about to say disappeared into a gasp as he staggered back, crashing to the floor. His hand flew up and slammed to his shoulder, covering the red rapidly seeping into the fabric of his shirt.

Slade clicked the safety back on and put the gun back in its holster. The kid was staring at him, eyes wide, making his own goddamn face look much younger, more vulnerable. Fucking magic. Again.

“I work alone,” Slade said, this time slow and soft. “Don’t get in my way.”

The kid swallowed, the surprise on his face morphing into the beginning of anger. Slade didn’t stay to wait for an eruption. He turned around, again, and went. This time, there was no movement behind him.

Chapter Text

The phone buzzed on the table just as Slade eased out of a stretch. He had to hand it to the kid: this body was considerably more flexible than Slade had expected based on the muscle mass (that was definitely nothing to sneer at). Nowhere near the sanity-defying levels of the pretzels Grayson routinely pulled himself to, but impressive nonetheless. He bent in lots of ways that Slade simply didn’t. Apparently, the Bat training didn’t skimp on acrobatics for Grayson’s successors either.

The phone buzzed again. Slade sighed. He’d hoped that the kid had finally gotten the message in Slade’s continued silence. It had been nearly a day since the last attempt at communication. But no, simple common sense was too much to ask for. Then again, what could he really expect from a horde as stubborn as the bats?

Slade slowly stood up and rolled his shoulders. The body felt… Good. The lack of reach still bugged him and would need attention when the fighting would start, but the power this body backed, especially combined with the speed and flexibility, was adequate for Slade’s purposes. With a little more practice Slade would have a good working knowledge of what he needed to compensate and how to do it.

The phone buzzed again. Fine. He’d see what the brat had to say.

Slade opened the chat and skimmed through the older messages, most reporting on the progress of healing of the body or asking him to answer the phone. After the latest (‘are you seriously gonna leave me on read?) there was a new addition: a picture.

Slade blinked. He would’ve happily lived on without ever seeing that kissy face on his own features. Especially paired with huge adoring eyes. Staring at a cat of all things.

Goddammit. At least the cat seemed suitably unimpressed as Slade’s own goddamn arms clutched it tight against his chest.

Goddamn impostor.

Wait. Slade looked closer at the picture. Was that nail polish? With glitter?

The phone buzzed again.

A creeping apprehension was filling Slade’s mind as he rolled down.

The next message was a video, all of 30 seconds long. The thumbnail showed a tidy living room Slade had seen a couple of days ago. The room was empty, camera pointed to the free space in front of the couch.

Slade gritted his teeth and pressed play.

For a second the screen stayed empty. Then Slade, or rather his body walked into the frame, and Slade, the one holding the phone, wanted to throw the phone into the nearest wall.

Slade on the screen grinned, more broadly than Slade ever had in his life. Just looking at it hurt his cheeks.

“Well howdy there,” Slade on the screen said, every syllable drawled to the maximum length and then tortured far beyond the breaking point. He struck a pose and put his hands on his hips. Hips covered by skin-tight yoga pants with a pink leopard pattern that hurt Slade’s eyes even via the tiny screen. The movement draw even more attention to fake Slade’s mid-drift where his fucking belly button was available for anyone to gawk below a short shirt. The fucking shirt, Slade was not going to—

“Welcome to Slade’s yoga studio,” the torturous voice continued gleefully, “We’ll be going through all the basics together, don’t cha worry, darlin’.” The phone crackled dangerously in Slade’s hand.

The Slade on-screen grinned — how the fuck did he manage to make it wider still? -- and had the absolute audacity to wink. Wink! With only one eye!

The video, mercifully, ended, but it stayed on a still of Slade in all of his fucking glory, standing in a middle of a floor. Wearing… Wearing a fucking crop top. Slade spend a moment deeply regretting that he somehow knew the right word for that garment.

Morbidly curious, Slade leaned in a little, what was it that was written on the shirt…

Something definitely cracked on the phone. His cheeks tingled, a wave of warmth spreading on them.

Babygirl. Written in sparkly, pink cursive.

The phone buzzed again.

Slade rolled down. There were several other clips.

The thumbnail for the latest one was a close-up of Slade’s face. Showing up his hair in symmetrical pigtails. The text below read: There’s singing in this one.

Before Slade could think, his thumbs moved and he sent out a single word: Stop

Got your attention, huh? was the an answer. Three threatening dots appeared and resolved with a new line. I will send these to everyone.

Slade stared. He’d never been blackmailed with his own body before. Two could play that game. He wrote: I’ll run your naked body through Gotham Central park.

That’ll hurt you more than me, good luck not getting poisoned by Ivy.

Before Slade could reply, another message came:
I will send them to Teen Titans.

Slade stared. His ears were burning. If the likes of Grayson and his ilk got ever saw those… Or even worse, goddamn Harper. Slade would… Slade would…

I will go on a killing spree. Slade threatened the first thing that came to mind.

The reply was almost instantaneous:
You do that and I’ll shave your fucking beard

Slade stared.

Want to see how much of a babygirl you’ll be then?

And a few seconds later: Answer the fucking phone.

The phone rang. The number flashed on the screen for a long moment before Slade accepted.

“I will kill you,” he said as soon as the line connected.

At the other end, Todd snorted. “That’s been tried before,” he said, not the slightest bit thrown. Before Slade could do more than bristle at the implications (he was the world’s greatest mercenary and assassin, he could eliminate one brat as easily as breathing), the kid continued:
“Now, the way I see it, I have some issues I’d like to air with those shitheads. I’d assume you’re in the same boat. We can help each other.”

“I don’t need your help,” Slade growled. It sounded less impressive with his new voice.

“Sure,” drawled his own goddamn voice, Slade wanted it back, “How have you been sleeping? Have the nightmares started yet?”

Slade froze. His sleep had been… Less than optimal. He’d startled awake almost hourly, alternatively gasping for air or trying to struggle free from the covers. The only things that Slade remembered were the feeling of immense, black pressure from all directions and flashes of green so sickly it’d made him dry heave more than a few times.

“’Cause I have been sleeping like baby,” Todd continued, “a happy non-colicky baby. And I don’t seem to need much sleep now either, I’ve been on a fucking cloud nine. Incredible, especially energy-wise. Which is actually pretty good, ‘cause I can’t figure out how the fuck you drink your coffee. I made maybe five different kinds this morning, and all of them tasted like shit. Anyway, no nightmares, no nothing. And they had to go somewhere, right?”

Todd let the silence continue for a moment, before he continued, in a less harsh tone: “The way I see it, we can actually make this less fucking miserable, if we just work together. A little. If we pool our resources, we’ll find their hidey-hole in no time. I’ll borrow your equipment, you’ll borrow mine and neither of us gets killed fighting in an armor that doesn’t fit.”

Slade grunted.

Todd took that as an encouragement. “You’ll get your target, I’ll get a load of child-trafficking shitheads off the streets, everybody is happy. Well, except them. And afterward, we can go back to annoying each other until this spell whizzes out.”

Slade gritted his teeth. All that was good and well, but there was a major obstacle in any cooperation with a bat.

“My contract is for killing,” Slade said.

“Yes. You said that,” Todd said with a note of impatience.

“Red Hood can’t kill that person for me to get the money. It has to be Deathstroke.”

“Yes.”

“As in,” Slade empathized like explaining to a child, “my body.”

“I will fucking kill him for you if that’s what you need.”

“Really?” Slade said, with the full inflection of skepticism in his voice. Satisfyingly, the kid’s voice played that particular note well.

“Really,” Todd snapped, “That’s what I said. I’ll repeat it: I will kill that fucker for you. And in exchange, you don’t kill while in my body. Deal?”

Slade huffed. A no-killing rule, what a surprise. As for the other part… Sure. He’d believe that when he saw it. But fine, maybe this was the only way to get something done. He wasn't the only one an agreement bound. “Deal.”

Todd took a deep breath. “Good,” he said, “Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Text

Slade had to admit that the kid was efficient. And maybe even competent. He’d seen hints of that in their initial not-planned team-up, but now Red Hood was living up to the expectations.

Todd pulled a knife and wiggled it between the window and the frame. After barely a moment, he pulled it back, grabbed the window, and slid it open. The kid looked at Slade. Expression was hard to sparse under the mask, but Slade was pretty sure Todd was grinning.

“Courtesy of Gotham warehouse design,” Todd whispered, barely audible. He didn’t wait for a reply (not that one was forthcoming), instead slipping into the warehouse, silent as a ghost. Huh. Seemed like the kid had also been practicing: he compensated well for the longer limbs and heavier body.

Slade followed the kid into the darkness of the interior. He had to blink a few times for his eyes to adjust. Damn, he missed his eyesight, lopsided as it was.

The catwalk below him was narrow and creaky, running along the length of the warehouse right by the roof. Sometimes Slade wondered if the bats have adapted to the architectural design of Gotham or if the architecture contorted to suit them. Slade wouldn’t put that kind of blatant favoritism past this blasted city. Courtesies, indeed.

Slade kept to a low crouch and moved forward for a better vantage point. The kid had stopped right on the optimal spot, waiting for him wrapped in shadows and silence. He was perfectly still, blending in so well that even Slade had trouble seeing him, his eyes almost sliding right over the spot. Anybody below didn’t have a chance of spotting him.

Slade pulled his gaze away from the kid and peered down. Looked like the kid’s intel was good.

The warehouse was in frantic movement. They were packing. Crate after crate was checked, then either abandoned or sealed and moved closer to the doors and arranged in uniform high stacks for easy transport. People were not running, but every movement hinted that they just might burst into a sprint at any moment. The tension was palpable.

Slade allowed himself a smile. They were spooked. Good.

And there, near the door, gesturing all over the place and not-so-efficiently guiding the men, was his target. The ringleader of this little gang, a wanna-be big-name smuggler who had stepped on just one too many toes in his pathetic scramble for fame and money. Even from this distance, Slade could see that the man didn’t look too healthy. He was sweating under the hard lights, switching nervously, rubbing his hands alternatively together and to his thighs. All together unable to stay still.

It was nice to see that the prey knew the hunter was coming. And dreaded it.

“Ready?” Todd asked quietly.

Slade looked at him. Todd looked back. A set of eyebrow twitches was lost under the helmets.

“No other questions?” Slade finally whispered before the wordless exchange got completely ridiculous.

“We covered everything already, didn’t we?” Todd whispered back pointedly.

Sure, they did. But that’d never stopped Grayson or others from the kid’s ilk from taking any opportunity to hammer the ‘rules’ home again.

Todd tilted his head. The gesture was annoyingly familiar.

“So,” Todd whispered, “ready?”

This time Slade just nodded.

Todd pulled a smoke grenade from his belt (well, Slade’s belt, but semantics), flicked off the safety, and threw it. The clamber of it hitting the ground nearly vanished into the surrounding noise, but the white smoke that burst out couldn't be missed by anybody with eyes. Somebody yelled, the target whirled around, face twisting in fear.

Time to hunt.

Slade jumped down from the catwalk, seeing Todd do the same at the corner of his eye. Slade pulled two guns from his holsters, took aim, and shot, fast and ruthlessly. Knee-cap, shoulder, hand, another shoulder, both knee-caps of the man trying to hit Todd’s back with a stray crowbar. One hit nicely to the thigh, that’d leave a mark. Slade followed up with a kick to the chest and didn’t wait for the body hit the ground before moving on.

There was a gurgling scream amidst the white smoke, one that in Slade’s experience meant a painful sword wound. Good, Todd was doing his part.

At the same moment as the thought arrived, Todd became visible in the smoke. He wasn’t moving Slade’s body like Slade would’ve, but had obviously figured out the longer reach of his temporary body and used it accordingly. He moved smoothly, continuously, flowing from one maneuver to the next, combining power with grace, flawless technical moves with haymakers suited for all out-brawls in dirty bars. And he wasn’t shy. When he hit, the target stayed down. Huh.

Slade ducked and jammed his elbow up, hitting a thug trying to sneak up at him nicely right under the jaw. Fine, peripheral vision had its uses. But honestly, he’d rather take his senses back. The thug staggered backward but didn’t fall down. Slade sighed and kicked, hitting the man right on the chest and down he went. With his actual body, the power of the punch would’ve been just perfect for a black-out hit. Apparently, he didn’t need to compensate quite as much. Though maybe it was better to err on the side of caution this time; he doubted the kid would accept a contract breach due to an accident. Especially one caused by clear incompetence. And Slade was more professional than that, thank you. If he broke a deal, it was on purpose.

The man on the ground groaned pitifully. Slade looked around. Amid the lazily swirling smoke, there was no longer movement, not counting some bodies switching on the floor. Looked like the onslaught had ended. Time to finish the contract.

“Don’t come any closer!” a high voice yelled, nearly breaking at the end. “I mean it!”

The kid laughed, low and mean. “Not much you can do about it,” he said.

Slade followed the voices to the middle of the warehouse.

The target had tried to escape, but retreated when they had cut the escape routes. Now his back was against a high and steady stack of crates. Slade could’ve climbed them, easily, but this shithead obviously couldn’t. Which meant that he had nowhere to go.

The kid’s head turned slightly as Slade appeared. He had been waiting. The sword was ready but not raised at his side. Ah. Time to see if the kid could keep his part of the deal.

The kid raised the sword and cheekily saluted Slade. Then he stepped forward.

The target screeched. His hand darted back and the next thing Slade knew something small flew through the air and slammed on the ground. There was a sound of something breaking. The target yelled, but this time it sounded purposeful.

“Oh, fuck” said Todd.

Black smoke poured out of the item. Except it wasn’t really smoke, looking too much like an inky liquid for that, even as it rose like a cloud. And it wasn’t really black either, more like a shiny reflective piece of pure nothing. Nothing that didn’t disperse, instead forming a steady shape in the air.

Oh, fuck.

The blackish inkiness surged forward. Todd dived left, dodging a— something that tried to hit him. The inkiness pulsed and by the next blink, it had doubled in size.

Slade flung back as part of it flashed toward him. Heat, pressure, prickling like electricity scorched his chest. Slade crashed down to the floor, and without thought rolled left.

It didn’t even hit him! Fuck, that thing had an aura.

“I recommend dodging!” Todd yelled.

Slade gritted his teeth against the unpleasant feeling spreading in him. It wasn’t really pain, but it left a prickling in its wake as if trying to steal the strength of his muscles. He didn’t bother to waste his breath on replying, just raised to a crouch and pulled the guns.

Shot, shot, shot, three bullets right to the center. The thing didn’t even flicker. Fucking rubber bullets.

“Do you have anything that works on that?” Slade yelled, though he doubted that regular bullets would do much more of a dent either. Faintly, he could see the target covering behind the entity against the crates. Slade shot again, this time aiming for the target. The man flinched and screamed, but nothing reached him. The bullets didn’t go through the entity, not even the parts that were a bit transparent. Fuck. That’s it for that idea.

Todd rolled and sprang up from a crouch. He seated the sword on its scabbard and planted his feet. He yanked his arms wide open and forward, palms up, fingers wide and—

Nothing happened.

“Oh, c’moon!” Todd wailed, “That’s so clearly soul-tied magic!”

The black inkiness surged again and Todd ducked, hitting the ground shoulder first. When he came up, he re-threw the sword and slashed. It was a neat, beautiful slash, but the effect was about as pronounced as with the bullets.

Slade rolled again and took the shots he could, even though it amounted to nothing more than a waste of bullets.

“S!” Todd yelled, “Ditch the guns! Think of swords!”

What? How was that supposed to be helpful?

Slade didn’t have time to show his indignation, but Todd probably got the gist, because the next thing Slade heard was a string of curses. Detailed and creatively used.

Slade would appreciate that more if he wasn’t so busy dodging.

Slade rolled and ducked behind another stack of crates. They needed a plan. And they needed it now. Fucking magic.

“Heads up!” came from the left.

Slade moved and half a second later Todd crashed hard to the side of the crates. He didn’t stop to take a breath, just pushed out: “Okay, a crash course on my magic: stand like I did. Think of swords. And evil.”

“This is the special situation then?” Slade asked.

“Yes,” said Todd, “and I rather risk whatever mess John was talking about than let that shit get away with this. How about you?”

Something hit the stack and the crates wobbled dangerously. They couldn't stay.

Todd didn’t wait for an answer and continued to explain, talking fast, “Think of how much you want the rid to the world of that thing and—“

The explanation broke as Todd looked up. Then he pushed and Slade tilted back. Slade used the momentum to roll and stood up on the other side of the crates.

“Just try it!” Todd yelled and darted to the thing, brandishing the sword again. He docked a tendril of whatever, and sliced and dashed as he went, whirling around like a fully trained swordsman. He didn’t bother with theatrics, just efficiency and dealing as many hits as possible, dancing around the counterattacks.

And none of that made even a dent.

A tendril smacked Todd right on the middle of the chest and the kid staggered. Ouch. Slade’s skin was still prickling after only a close contact. He wasn’t eager to find out what an actual straight-on hit did.

Fuck it. Wasn’t like he had any better ideas.

Slade widened his stance and opened his arms like a second-grade wizard trying to show off.

Alright. Swords.

Slade took a deep breath and visualized his favorite sword, extending from his hand. He missed it. After so long, it was more than a weapon. An extension of his own limbs, full of deathly purpose, honed and kept with care. Blade always sharp, the balance perfect.

Slade looked at the thing. He didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t of Gotham. It was alien to this place, and whether or not it had the capacity to know it, only a weapon. A shield brandished by a man who was evil. Slade didn't put much stock on white and black differentiation of morality, especially when it came to people. But it didn’t matter if someone was really evil in their heart. It mattered what they did. And trafficking… That was undisputedly high on the list of evil acts.

The world would be better without the man in it. He would enjoy it, sure, but that didn’t make the act any less righteous.

The thing aimed at Todd again. Their fight was making the air charged, the pressure of it pushing on Slade’s skin. The kid rolled and sliced, but kept close. He was distracting it. Or maybe he was annoying it, at least. If such a thing could be annoyed. Waiting for… Well, Slade, apparently.

And what the fuck ever was supposed to happen.

“And now what?” Slade yelled.

Todd took a quick look back. “You call that trying? Concentrate!”

Goddamn brat.

“Think of…” Todd dodged another slap. The entity shivered again, making electricity tingle in the air. “Purpose! Justice! Evil!”

Slade pushed out a breath. That was the opposite of helpful. He still had no idea what was supposed to happen. But he looked at the thing. And then really looked at it.

It wasn’t his target, but it was an obstacle. It didn't matter how hard it would be to get past, impossible even. It mightn't be the most noble of pursuits, but Deathstroke never backed down.

The target would die tonight.

And that thing was in his way.

The air tingled as he drew it into his lungs, letting it fill him up, center him.

But the feeling didn’t stop there.

“Wha…” Slade said, gaze snapping to his hands.

“Let it happen!” Todd yelled.

Slade’s skin warmed and then it burned, all along the veins in his forearms. His chest constrained, suddenly heavy, as a pulse of the tingling, much more powerful, run through it.

For a millisecond, everything stood still.

Then he was holding two swords.

By reflex, his grip snapped tight over the handles.

The swords glowed. Then they burst into flames.

Suddenly Slade felt hunger, a deep and haunting yearning. A drive, a need to— to—

“Heads up!” yelled Todd.

Slade looked up just as Todd sprinted past him.

Leaving the way to the entity clear and open. If the thing had eyes, Slade was looking right at them.

Slade charged.

Powerful strives ate up the distance. A tendril struck, Slade slashed. An otherworldly howl tore through the air, and a powerful thrill of elation ran through Slade. He didn’t stop to look at the impact, but something hit the ground behind him. Slade took the last strive and launched himself into the air. He pulled his arms forward, swords striking out, blades gleaming eagerly—

The blades hit the center mass of the inkiness simultaneously. Barely a millisecond later Slade’s weight and momentum hit it too. The flames flashed high.

And the entity stumbled.

A crackling like lightning hit and for a moment Slade saw only white. His eyes slammed shut as a thin, wordless wail pierced the air.

Slade’s feet hit the ground and he tilted forward. He let go of the swords to brace and made a somersault. The skin on his arms tingled again, and a sharp satisfaction drummed in his chest.

Slade turned around with the last bit of the momentum, ready to—

Nothing.

There was nothing.

Where the mass had stood there was only an empty batch of the warehouse floor. No blood, no matter of unclear origin. Not even a dent or blackening on the floor.

Slade blinked.

Then he looked at his hands and the floor he’d crossed. The swords were nowhere to be seen.

The tickling, tingling feeling all over his skin, pulling his insides had vanished too. Slade hadn’t even noticed how consuming it was before it was gone.

The sound of heavy footsteps threw his attention.

Todd walked through the newly freed floor with steady steps, attention unwavering. “Anything else you’d like to try?” he asked, using Slade’s low voice to its full extent. The kid looked a hunter, every inch of him.

The target whimpered. He was still cowering against the crates, face rapidly flickering from expression to expression. The most prominent one wasn’t hard to decipher: shock.

Todd pulled a gun.

“Wait!” screamed the target, now pure fear. “I can pay—“

The man’s head snapped back. A single bullet hole appeared on his forehead. He fell back against the crates and slid down to the floor, a pool of red starting to form.

Todd lowered the gun and holstered it.

Slade’s eyebrows rose. Well.

Todd turned around and looked at Slade. “You okay?”

Slade frowned. Why wouldn’t he be? He grunted and stood up.

“All Blades can be a bit intense — Whoa!”

Slade staggered. The world tilted.

Everything went black.

***

There was something on his chest.

“Mrouh!”

Slade’s eyes snapped open. For one stretching moment, he couldn’t see, but then he focused on a round head of a cat. Right in front of his face.

“Mrouh,” said the cat.

Slade blinked. There was movement only on the left side of his face.

The cat screeched as Slade sat up, dislodging it carelessly. Slade had more important things to check than the cat’s ruffled feathers. Like his hands, his chest, his hair, his body.

He was back.

“Hey,” said a voice. Slade’s head snapped up.

Todd was standing by the door, smiling slightly. He looked tired and worn, the same way Slade felt.

“Todd, I presume?” Slade asked, just for the final confirmation.

Todd cracked a slightly wider smile and moved into the room, “Yup. Happily back where I belong.” He sat on a chair and the cat immediately jumped up onto his lap. It glared at Slade, full off indignation, before settling down. Well, looked like they didn’t need to settle the staring competition right now.

“You brought me to your home?”

Todd shrugged. “You already knew where I lived. And no offense, but you’re not exactly easy to cart around when unconscious.”

Slade grimaced. Fainting like a Victorian lady, pathetic. These last couple of days were not his finest.

“Impressive work with the All Blades,” Todd said, stroking the cat.

Slade raised an eyebrow. He didn’t need his ego stroked, thank you. Todd shrugged again. He didn’t seem pitying, just matter-of-fact. “They can be a bit much. Soul-sucking magic and all that.”

Slade squinted. Questions were lining up behind his tongue but he kept them back. He was not going to touch on that. Todd could keep his weird magic and manifesting-in-presence-of-evil swords. Slade would happily leave such things to somebody else. Even though flaming swords might come in handy…

“Oh, that reminds me, I took a picture,” Todd said. “Of the dude. In case you need to prove he’s dead. I send it to you already.” He indicated Slade’s phone that was lying on the coffee table.

Slade spared it a glance before focusing on a more important part of the situation. “You kept your end of the bargain,” he said.

“Of course I did. Good riddance. World’s not going to miss him.”

“You killed him.”

Todd narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so hung up on that?”

Slade squinted back. Wasn’t it obvious? “You, a bat, killed a person.”

“Correction: Deathstroke killed a person.”

“That’s semantics.”

Todd shrugged, again. “Good enough for me. B can’t get huffy about that. At least not to me.”

“That’s why you don’t kill?”

“What can I say? That’s family for you, gotta keep the peace.”

Slade harrumphed. Todd grinned.

“Would you like some tea? We can do a debrief.” His hand stilled on the cat and he licked his lips, fast, before continuing. “Or watch a movie.”

So very casual.

Slade eyed Todd. The kid was supremely annoying and dangerously devious. Those videos might present a problem at a later date. The man was a liability Slade didn’t need.

He was also a person who unwaveringly kept his end of a bargain. And was competent. Deathly. Flexible. And pretty.

“Yeah,” Slade said slowly, “I could stay for tea.”