![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quillpunk- Rating: T
- Categories: M/M
- Fandom: DCU
- Relationship: Slade Wilson (Deathstroke)/Jason Todd
- Characters: Slade Wilson (Deathstroke), Jason Todd
- Additional Tags: Age Difference, Bodyguard Slade Wilson, First Meetings, Pre-Slash, Pre-Relationship
- Status: Complete
- Wordcount: 3238
- Series: Part 1 of SladeRobin Week
- Published on AO3: 2021-10-18
Notes: SladeRobin Week 2021: Day 1 - Bodyguard Slade
Disclaimer: I do not own the DCU franchise or any associated characters, trademarks etc.
Okay, so maybe he'd fucked up.
In his defense, he'd planned for everything, had had fourteen contingencies and had established a prior relationship with the relevant people to smooth over any feathers that he might ruffle. His cover had been well-established and squeaky clean. Every precaution had been taken, every gun and goon accounted for.
He just hadn't expected fucking Deathstroke the Terminator to be there.
So yeah. He'd fucked up.
"Shit!" Jason Todd swore as he rounded the last corner, throwing a smoke bomb behind him as he turned and pulled up his guns. As the smoke began to clear, he was already shooting.
Again, in his defense, his contacts said that Deathstroke was supposed to be on the other side of the planet right now. But no, no; now he was standing squarely behind the leader of the human trafficking ring that Jason had been after for five months. The guy was smart, Jason'd give him that, but how the fuck he'd managed to convince Deathstroke's current client to loan him out for the night, Jason didn't know.
He frankly could not care less. The point was; he wasn't getting another shot like this. All his planning went to shit the moment Deathstroke recognized him, and his contingencies (and they were fucking beautiful) were beyond ruined. That left only one option.
Go in guns blazing, distract Deathstroke with a lot of flashy shit, and—somehow—kill the dickface in the chaos.
Awesome. He was already off to a great start.
Rolling his eyes at his own sarcasm, Jason nudged the last goon he'd downed. The guy wasn't dead, but he sure as hell would wish he was when he woke up. Threat neutralized, at least. Now it was time to find some other assholes to smoke.
Jason proceeded through the hotels long, long hallway until he found the stairs. He kept the AK-47 propped against his shoulder as he moved up toward the top-floor, where the shitface he planned to violently murder (hey, he was setting an example) was hiding with fucking Deathstroke playing bodyguard. Those were just cruel odds, but Jason was willing to bet he could convince Deathstroke he was an idiot long enough for his new plan to work.
It wasn't like they'd ever gone toe-to-toe before. Deathstroke probably already knew most everything about Jason's fighting style that could be found if one went digging, but Jason prided himself on his ability to adapt. And shoot somebody in the face until they flinched, whichever came first.
There were more goons on the other floors, guarding the elevators and the stairs' entrances, and Jason knocked around the cheap knock-offs until they dropped. He barely even had to use his guns, which was good since he still needed the pure firepower. As he got to the higher floors, the goons did get markedly better, but they still weren't on his level.
Sad for them.
"Okay, boys," Jason drawled as he pulled a gun out of its thigh-holster and leveled it at a goon. Behind his mask, he was already smirking. "Get out of the way, and you live."
They did not get out of the way.
The top floor didn't look any different from the lower floors, really. This was a fancy hotel, and even the smaller rooms were still elegant. Jason would know, he'd been staying in one for a whole week now, kicking back and relaxing while he monitored his prey. Well, he'd been relaxing. Until Deathstroke had definitely spotted him while Jason was going back up from the restaurant, about half-an-hour ago.
Jason wasn't in the business of being foolishly optimistic; Deathstroke knew what Jason looked like and he was damn good at his job. Even if he wasn't usually playing bodyguard, Jason had no doubt that he'd be flawless at this, too. So then there was no more relaxing.
And then there was fighting.
Amongst the smoke and the shrill ringing of the fire alarm, Jason stalked toward the classy suit his unfortunate victim was holed up in. The two goons guarding it yelled when they saw him, raising guns and shooting point blank. Well, he'd give them points for initiative but it was pretty unimaginative.
Get low, get in close, punch them, knock them out. Nothing complicated about it—sometimes the simple tactics worked best.
And it was time for the show's highlight.
Jason kicked the door open and started shooting.
Wildly, with absolutely no thought about it, he kicked in some smoke bombs while he was still shooting, snorting behind his helmet as guards yelled at him. He moved further in through the smoke, dropped another smoke bomb from his pocket, and spun in a circle, shooting every shadow he saw.
When the smoke cleared, there were a lot of dead people. Jason waited to see if he'd feel bad about it, but these goons weren't like the ones downstairs. These guy had some of the leader's trust, which meant they'd done some bad shit. And Jason was glad they wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else.
The lectures he'd inevitably get when he got back to Gotham would be super annoying, though. Oh well. Some things were worth a little pain.
He kicked another door open—the one his victim was hiding behind the last time Jason looked at his video feed—and promptly got shot.
In the head.
"Ow," he deadpanned, starting to grin behind his mask. "That hurt."
The goon who shot him looked at him, horrified. Jason rose an eyebrow, uncaring that the guy couldn't see it. The guy gulped and rose his gun, starting to shoot again. Jason used the age-old tactic of getting in too close for a gun to be effective and knocking him out. And then he was through the doorway.
And the fuckface that was his target was on the other side of the room.
With fucking Deathstroke standing beside him.
"So," Jason drawled, tilting his head in Deathstroke's direction. "You come to places like this often?"
"It's been known to happen," Deathstroke answered, voice flat.
The target Jason was going to kill was almost shaking in his boots, but he still managed to smirk and gloat, "You're out of luck, assassin! I have Deathstroke the Terminator protecting me," and strut out from behind his desk. What an idiot.
Jason snorted, "If you don't know who I am, you're the one who needs luck."
With that, Jason aimed the AK-47 straight at his target and pulled the trigger. No bullets hit him, obviously, but it was very cathartic to feel the gun's kickback in his hands and listen to the bullets ripping the furniture apart. Scraps of sofa and desk flew through the air as he continued to shoot at the target being carted around like a rag doll by Deathstroke.
He dropped a smoke bomb (damn, he only had two left now, he hadn't packed for fucking Deathstroke) and then dropped a stink bomb right after. The AK-47 was now out of bullets, so he threw it out the window—it was cool, he had more—and pulled out his other other guns.
Spinning around wildly, he started shooting as soon as he caught sight of Deathstroke. He backed away with every shot, eventually having to just vault over a couch to get out Deathstroke's hand-to-hand combat range. Then Deathstroke pulled out his own guns and yeah, this was not gonna be pretty.
The next several minutes were a blur. Quick movements, jumping to stay out of close combat range, ducking bullets and angling himself so he could still take shots at the target. This was a ruse, after all. He needed to make Deathstroke think this battle was do or die.
Out of bullets again, Jason threw away the guns and pulled out two more. He continued to shoot, taking a running leap to get to the target and jumping, shooting in the air. Deathstroke successfully pulled the target out of the way. Jason clicked his tongue and threw his whole gun (now out of bullets, too) at the target.
The target shrieked and hid under a table.
Jason continued to his furious battle with what was widely regarded as the best mercenary in the world. Things got a little confusing for a bit there, as his mind took a backseat to good, old-fashioned muscle memory.
He ran out of guns and bullets, so those were thrown away. Out came the knives and then he and Deathstroke got to have some nice, sweet fun. It was exhilarating, fighting somebody who was so very, very deadly. Somebody who would, no hesitation, kill him at the slightest mistake. Jason was walking a tightrope here, and damn, he'd missed it.
Finally, the opportunity he'd waited for came. They were on the other side of the room from the target, the son of a bitch still hiding under that table, and Jason had his back to the target, was squarely between the target and Deathstroke. There was no way for Deathstroke to intercept anything in this position.
In one smooth motion, Jason pulled back one of his hands holding a knife, turned around and pushed back so that his back met Deathstroke's chest (to keep the man from stabbing him) and flicked his wrist.
The knife buried itself in the target's head.
Deathstroke's arms clamped down around him, holding him harshly, pushing his arms down to his sides. "There's no way he survived that," Jason said, slumping in the hold now that his job was done.
"No," Deathstroke agreed.
The arms tightened around him to the point it was painful and Jason grimaced, but made no move to escape. He had thrown literally everything he had at this man, so it wasn't like he had much choice, anyway.
"You're very good," Deathstroke said. Jason didn't know if that was supposed to be a compliment, but he was starting to have trouble breathing over here, so he just nodded in vague agreement. Deathstroke continued, "It's a shame we never fought when you were a bat, I bet we could have made some sweet memories."
Jason scoffed, "Yeah, no, you'd have destroyed me. I rather think this is a much more memorable first meeting."
"Well, you're right about that."
Abruptly, Deathstroke's grip was loosened enough for Jason to be spun around. It was a little unfair, how much bigger than him this man was. Jason was big himself, but he still felt like he was being towered over. It also maybe made his mouth water a little, but that was neither here nor there.
Face to face with Deathstroke, the other man grabbed him with one arm and used his other hand to pull off his own mask. Deathstroke looked just like he did in the pictures Jason had been shown years ago, when he was still Robin. White hair, eye-patch over one eye, beard as white as his hair. He really hadn't changed at all.
Deathstroke rose the visible eyebrow at him, literally looking down on him and wasn't that a bitch. Finally, after a tense staring contest, Jason shrugged and reached out with his suddenly free hand to pull off his helmet.
It clattered to the floor behind him. "Satisfied?" Jason asked, leaning back as much as he could while still caught in Deathstroke's grip, and gave the other man his most condescending expression. It was a work of art, in his opinion.
Deathstroke—real name Slade Wilson—snorted. "Very," he said and let go of Jason.
Jason narrowed his eyes. He quickly put some distance between them and glanced around the room. Everything was chaos. The furniture was just as torn to pieces as the people, bullets littering the floor and knives stuck in walls where they'd been thrown. But the target was dead. Jason had managed to kill him, had driven himself to the brink—but it was worth it.
He swayed a little on his feet, the adrenaline beginning to leave him. Frowning, he picked up his helmet and put it under his arm. Deathstroke had gone over to Jason's target and kicked at him, but he really was very dead.
"You've put me in a bind, kid," Deathstroke said, sheathing his sword.
Jason would have gulped, if he was still a kid. "Did you actually have a contract with him?" Jason hadn't heard anything about that, but if he had... well, Jason was fucked.
"No, my client was doing him a favor," Deathstroke said and walked back over to Jason. Jason narrowed his eyes and stood his ground, refusing to let himself be cowed just because this man had more experience than him. Jason was fucking lethal, okay.
"Then what's the problem?" Jason asked.
He shouldn't be sticking around like this, much less having an actual conversation with a renowned mercenary who wasn't known for appreciating people interfering with his contracts. Jason should have been out of here the second Deathstroke had let him go, should have taken the opportunity to jump out the window. It was already broken, anyway, so it would have been easy.
But—well, there was a lot of buts. Most importantly, he'd maybe missed going toe to toe with someone like that without it being personal. There was no personal stakes to that fight, not to either of them. Jason would have been pissed if he'd lost, sure, but then he'd probably also have been dead so what did that matter.
Deathstroke shrugged, "He'll probably try to kill me now."
Jason rose an eyebrow, beginning the process of retrieving his surviving knives. It didn't seem like Deathstroke planned to stop him, anyhow. "And that's my problem how?"
Deathstroke didn't move while Jason searched through the room, just standing still and staring at him. It would probably be unnerving, if Jason was a normal person. As it was, the unflinching attention just made his stomach tingle (almost on the edge of unpleasant). As soon as he was done, he parked himself across from Deathstroke and stared back. Let it never be said that Jason backed down from challenges.
"You gonna kill me?" Jason asked, biting the (figurative) bullet.
Deathstroke tilted his head, his eyes dragging over Jason's body. Jason just rose an eyebrow and waited him out. Finally, Deathstroke said, "It wasn't in my contract to keep him alive."
Jason chose to take that as a no.
"Well, this was fun," Jason said, just about done waiting around for... whatever it was he waiting for. He put on his helmet and began to walk in the direction of the door, taking the opportunity to kick his dead target while he was at it, and said, "We should do it again sometime," as he left.
And came face to face with a bunch of goons aiming guns at him.
Sighing, Jason brushed his hair out of his eyes. One of the goons actually shrieked at the motion and the guns wavered as they aimed at him. "Seriously?" Jason demanded, glad that he'd gotten his helmet on at least. Maybe he should have paid a little more attention to what was going on out here, but they'd seemingly done a good job of staying out of sight.
He threw himself back into the room he'd just left right as a rain of bullets befell his previous location. Quickly vaulting through the room, he called, "Change of plans," to Deathstroke just as he threw himself out the broken window.
And fuck, he was up high. It was exhilarating, free-falling through the air. It took a bit of twisting to get himself oriented right and then he pulled the trigger for his parachute, it unfolding perfectly.
He was close enough to the ground by the time a bullet tore a whole through the parachute that it didn't kill him. Lucky him. Dying really sucked.
At the ground, he took off in a sprint toward his get away vehicle (one of three), tearing through the group of pedestrians that were crossing the road. The fact that there were no cops around was a testament to something alright, but Jason was too busy running for his life to worry about that right now. No, he threw himself onto his bike, glancing behind and clicking his tongue irritatingly when he saw the person chasing after him.
Should he wait? Offer them a ride? It might get him some bonus points, but it might also get him killed.
Fuck it.
"Get on," Jason called out to Deathstroke, the other man not even waiting a second before he was climbing on behind Jason. Jason immediately drove off, the bike purring contently beneath him. It was a shame he couldn't keep it.
Deathstroke's arms curled around Jason's waist, the grip tight but not strangling. He moved in tandem with Jason when they took the corners at way faster speeds than recommended. The warmth against his back maybe affected Jason more than he'd expected, but it was workable. Jason was a wizard at pushing his desires aside in order to focus on the goal.
For some twenty minutes, Jason soared through the city, going in circles to throw off any followers. He was good at this, and it didn't take him long to be satisfied that he'd thrown off any trackers. So he turned the bike toward his safe-house, slowing down to a more cruising speed that wouldn't get them pulled over by the nonexistent cops.
Finally, he rolled to a stop in an alleyway. For a moment, nothing happened. Deathstroke sat still behind him, his grip tight and warm. Jason waited to see what the other man would do, his heartbeat speeding up slightly despite all of his attempts to stop it. A different kind of warmth curled tight in his belly.
"Thanks for the ride," Deathstroke murmured, his voice soft.
Jason clicked his tongue. "You getting off anytime soon?"
Slade laughed softly at that and it took a moment for Jason to make the connection, purely because he hadn't fucking meant it that way, you asshat. "You getting off with me?" Slade asked, and his hand spread over Jason's stomach and damn it, that was fucking unfair.
For about three point four seconds, Jason seriously contemplated stabbing this asshole in the kidney and leaving him here. It wasn't like it would kill him or anything, but it might let Jason ditch this city without much trouble. But—well, Slade was deadly. And stupidly attractive. And he apparently found Jason hot, too. So.
"Yes," Jason said. He cleared his throat and knocked his hand against Slade's. "I'll get off with you, now get off the bike, asshole."
Slade laughed again. He climbed off the bike in one smooth motion, pulling Jason with him. His hands settled on Jason's waist, the fingers drawing small circles over his shirt. Jason pulled his helmet off, letting it drop to the ground after a quick look around to make sure they weren't being watched.
Slade dragged him closer, and Jason pulled off Slade's mask, dropping it next to his own helmet. He looked at that face, felt his own breaths stutter in his throat at the intense gaze Slade was staring at him with. Licking his lips, Jason smirked when Slade's eyes followed the motion.
The kiss was warm, and the steady grip Slade had on him was scorching, and the heat in his belly spread like fire.
