[Fic] make a mercy out of me (DCU)
- Fandom: DCU
- Pairing: Tim Drake/Slade Wilson
- Tags: Deal With a Devil
- Word-Count: 1136
- Status: Complete
- First Published: 2023-09-28
- Disclaimer: I do not own the DCU or Batman and make no profit from this—it is solely a hobby for fun, with no financial compensation.
Summary:
This, Tim thinks, could be going better.
Notes:
- For Sandrine.
Fandom Gift Basket 2023
Prompt: Slade/Tim + Maybe Tim's offering himself up to ensure Slade's help
(title from Curses by The Crane Wives)
Work Text:
This, Tim thinks, could be going better.
Slade Wilson skulks around his target like a particularly big bug, something no amount of swatting will kill. It's been hours, and Tim hasn't had a single opportunity to interact with his target; and neither has anyone else on this mission. And it's getting tiring—the bass-heavy music combined with the persistent smell of smoke and the alcohol he's been drinking is making his head pound in time with the music. The darkness helps a little, a protective cover that allows him to relax while he nurses his drink and tries to think of a way to get this over with so he can go home and conk out for the next twelve hours.
Tim's inclusion in this mission is a last minute thing, a hurried add on when Dick abruptly had to take off for outer space, and the mission was left floundering without him. It's not a particularly charitable thought, Tim knows, but he's barely recovered from his own last mission and isn't in a particularly charitable mood.
And now it's been four hours that he's been sitting here, unmoving, waiting, waiting, waiting.
Swallowing the rest of his drink, the taste of blueberry lingering on his tongue, he licks his lips. "I'm heading in. Stay away from the target and move in when I give the signal."
"But—" one of the new Titans try.
"We've been here long enough. This isn't working." Tim allows no argument, no debate, and tellingly nobody tries. He attempts not to think about that; what it means, what he is now, how they see him. Attempts not to drown in wondering, looking at every action he takes from every angle. It won't do any good, and his body aches, a low-grade pain radiating through half his limbs and the other half only painless because it's gone numb.
It's been, all told, a pretty horrible week.
Slade doesn't react to Tim approaching but then, he's better than that. There's no indication at all that he even recognizes Tim and for a second, doubt seeps in beneath his skin. Is he making a mistake, approaching a man like Slade? Probably. Is Tim's headache getting worse and his stomach cramping from the lack of food, his mouth so full of the taste of alcohol that he aches for a glass of soda, lemonade, water, just anything to wash it out? Also true. Is the combination a lack of patience that might be hazardous to his health?
Maybe.
Snagging Slade's tie, Tim pulls until Slade gives in and lowers his head, their foreheads impacting with a gentle noise. Slade eyes him expressionlessly for a long second, Tim's stomach swooping, and then the man smirks. It's a slow, steady movement, Tim's grip tightening on the tie, and he breathes in through his nose pretending he doesn't feel the knife in Slade's hand when it lands on his waist. "Don't move," Tim says, and it turns raspy when Slade's fingers dig into his flesh, wrinkling his clothes.
Slade raises a pale eyebrow. In the club's darkness it's barely visible, Slade's corner just enough out of the way that no light shines directly on them and they're left in a shadowy, smoky, state, dark clothing blending into the background and breathing creating clouds of ash.
"You'll do better than that," Slade says, and it's no less a command than it is a statement of fact. Tim's nostrils flares, his eyes narrowing slightly. Through the earbud he hears his temporary teammates panicking, asking questions he can't, and selfishly doesn't want to, answer. Slade grips his shoulder with his other hand, fingers splaying out so they touch the bottom of Tim's neck, and he inhales sharply.
But Slade's expression is just a bit too musing, just a bit too considering, for Tim's peace of mind. Rather than allow it time to grow, he tugs on the tie and stands on his toes, nuzzling their noses together. "Don't move," he repeats, voice low and breathy, just a tiny bit hoarse. It doesn't travel beyond them, and he feels Slade's knife sting his skin, cutting through his clothes, when Slade squeezing his waist tightly. The fingers move over his neck, too, a shudder traveling down the length of his spine, and the sound of his heartbeat echoes in his ears.
The world is, startlingly, quiet.
Slade changes his grip, curls his hand around Tim's neck entirely, but doesn't move it. Doesn't try to make him move, and Tim presses into the touch, perhaps, just a bit too much.
A bit too tellingly.
Slade huffs, a breath escaping his nose and tickling Tim's cheek, and he pulls his knife back, at last, but his grip doesn't change. The warmth of his large body is—addicting, perhaps. A welcome respite from the aching coldness of his last mission, and Tim is exhausted, hungry, two steps from disregarding the mission parameters to approach the target himself if the newbies don't start moving. Behind his back, he forms the 'go ahead' sign once more and finally there is a reaction in his ears.
He relaxes, a little.
It's a mistake.
Slade spins him around so Tim's back strikes the wall, losing his grip on the tie, and for a second Tim isn't entirely sure how this is going to go. Slade has never really been someone Tim has interacted with; it's always, always been Dick. To the point that, sometimes, Tim wonders if Slade even knows his name. (Of course Slade does. Deathstroke can't not know the names of Gotham's bats. But still. He wonders.)
But there's no violence. Slade doesn't cut, or punch, or press. Merely holds Tim still while Tim's team scurries through the club to the target, Slade never looking away from him.
Tim's breath is raspy, hitching in his throat. The touch is--grounding. Solid, in a way a lot of things aren't in his life. Not with battle after battle, fear after fear, the sinking realization that he can't follow everyone he loves, can't keep them safe, not in a universe that continually gets bigger and bigger, worse and worse threats on the horizon, where the magnitude of every danger is perpetually increasing.
He sighs, exhales, drops his weight against Slade and is effortlessly held up. Blinking, the exhaustion sneaking up on him and dragging down his eyelashes, Tim wets his lips and his stomach squeezes tight when Slade's eyes follow the motion.
"I think," Slade drawls, deep and rough, his hand gentle on his neck and fingers softly caressing him. He shivers, can't not, watches Slade intently when the man smirks and continues after a cruel break, "You're coming home with me tonight."
Yeah, Tim thinks, lips parting and Slade's eyes once more following the motion.
That sounds like a plan.
Notes:
i ended up rewriting this, actually, but it's so much better now. no regrets, only Vibes™ (what did i do with the characterization, tho? what did i do???)
XD