Chapter Text
~Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine
I'm all ears, take your time, we've got all night
Show me the rivers crossed, the mountains scaled
Show me who made you walk all the way here~
~Chosen Family by Rina Sawayama and Elton John~
Slade Wilson took a sip of his freshly made instant coffee. The steam caressed his white goatee and tickled the skin of his chin, and he inhaled the warmth, settling himself in for a peaceful morn—
“JOEY! Stop hogging the bathroom, some of us have to shower!” Rose screeched from the floor above the kitchen. Her fists rapidly pounded on the door. “JOEY!”
Another door flung open, and Grant’s footsteps stomped into the hallway. “Will you shut up! Some of us are still trying to sleep!”
“YOU shut up and go back to bed!”
“You go back to bed! Why do you have to take a shower so freaking early?”
“Some of us like to get up early and go for a run, dipshit!”
Another door flung open.
“Finally!” A scuffle sounded, then—“Oh my god! Did you take a dump?”
A thump on Joey’s part, and Slade swore he could hear his son’s angry hands signing back.
Rose growled in response, and there was another scuffle.
“Why do you two always have to be so fucking loud every morning?” Grant screamed.
Slade exhaled and set his coffee mug down as the ruckus continued above.
Billy glanced over at Slade from the coffee maker with a slight chuckle.
More yells and thumps sounded above them.
“Given their tempers this morning, I don’t think I’ll be safe if I tried to serve turkey bacon at brunch,” Billy said.
Slade checked his watch and twirled it around his wrist. “I think I'll have to forgo my children’s training today. I have business to attend to.”
“Abandoning me to the wolves?” Billy teased.
More screams, thumps, and yelling.
Slade stood from the kitchen island, leaving his perfectly brewed coffee, the promise of a peaceful morning soured.
Billy straightened, stepping back from the coffee maker. “Oh. You’re serious.” His gaze narrowed. “Slade. You better not be running off doing mercenary business without Grant. You promised him.”
Even he couldn’t hide his grimace, yet the lie rolled off his tongue easily. “I received a contract last night, personally. I’m afraid I must conduct this alone. Tell Grant next time.”
“That’s what you told him last time. And the time before that.”
“The right assignment will come up.”
“You can’t keep avoiding this forever. You’ve been training him for this moment for seven years. If you’re getting cold feet, you should be talking to him about it, not running away.”
Slade ignored him, waving back as he departed the kitchen. “I suggest real bacon. For Grant.”
Billy sputtered. “S-slade! You can’t...don’t you...get back here!”
Slade used his enhanced speed to hurry out of his chaotic house.
Hit Contract:
Price: $30,000
Name: Luca Gomis
Age: 37
Nationality: Roma
Location: Haly’s Circus, currently residing in Gotham City’s Fairgrounds, tour on hiatus after a performance tragedy the month before, now scheduled to resume their tour tomorrow, the next stop would be Metropolis.
The contract's asking price was lower than Slade’s usual rate, and he would normally request additional money if a contract came with a time constraint, but, unfortunately, as much as Slade hated to admit it, even if it was internally, he was avoiding his eldest son, to the point where he accepted a contract in his least favorite city: Gotham.
The reason for his strong dislike of the city was due to the rise of the new vigilante, Batman.
Thankfully, there was a small skirmish at Arkham Asylum that would distract Batman enough that he would never catch a whiff of Deathstroke’s visit. Slade hadn’t crossed paths with the vigilante yet, and never wanted to. He found vigilantes to be the most hypocritical and un-honorable bunch.
At least Slade could tolerate that Boy Scout meta, he respected a fellow country man like himself.
The Gotham Fairgrounds bustled with activity as the members of Haly’s Circus packed up, obviously been given the all-clear to continue their tour. Curiosity had prickled the back of Slade’s mind when he accepted the contract: what kind of performance tragedy would keep the traveling circus in Gotham for a month? The answer proved his first instinct correct: murder, in fact, two murders.
None of the local papers talked about a murder at Gotham Fairgrounds, they only vaguely covered a short snippet about a performance tragedy, alluding to the fault of an equipment malfunction. He’d heard of tourist cities keeping news of local crimes or accidents involving those who weren’t local out of their newspapers so as not to deter future tourists. Slade wondered if Gotham kept this quiet so as to not deter visiting entertainers, as if to keep the myth that only the crazies and the locals attacked each other here.
He moved quickly and easily through the hurrying chaos of the circus crew shouting and packing. Despite the busyness, they moved almost with a melancholy, that Slade thought if he stood still in his Deathstroke uniform and waited until someone saw him, they wouldn’t care.
He’d seen this with his first military unit, after his first commanding officer had gotten killed in the line of duty, defending...Slade refused to dwell deep in those memories, but he remembered how despondent the rest of the unit had been that the higher-ups had no choice but to disband and separate the remaining members of the unit to new units and locations.
The circus lost someone they truly admired and respected, and, dare Slade even venture to think, loved.
“I’m fifteen years old now, Dad! That’s how old you were when you killed for the first time. This is my crowning moment! My chance to kill and make a name for myself in the mercenary world.”
“Let me find the right assignment first, Grant.”
“Come on! You can’t keep delaying the rite of passage! Unless...do you think I'm not ready?”
Slade blinked out of the memory, and gritted his teeth as he watched the members of Haly’s Circus move on, a few talking in murmurs, lifeless, and the fear, the unbidding fear surfaced, that this is what Grant would become when he killed.
The first kill is always the hardest. The next will be easier. Grant should be here. This should’ve been his first.
Slade shoved all his fatherly instincts and thoughts down in the deep pit of his mind, and summoned forth his collected, rational business mind.
Deathstroke slipped past the boxes and crates. His fingers slipped down to his utility belt, thumbing between the handgun and the knife, wondering which would be the better kill, and thought for a group of circus folks, the knife would be more honorable.
Luca Gomis looked older than the photo provided to Deathstroke, his hair wilder and a darker shade of brown. He was shouting at a man with a shorter stature, who threw a bundle of knives into a straw-filled wooden box, before he shoved a sharp finger up at Luca.
Deathstroke hid in the shadows of the still-erected performance tent, the flaps gently smacking the pole against the breeze. He waited. Waited for the shorter man to stomp off. Watched as Gomis threw his head back in a dramatic fashion, running his fingers through his hair. Thumbed the knife from his belt, pinching the blade between his forefinger and thumb.
Target was alone.
The perfect time to stri-
Deathstroke caught the corner of the tent flap that smacked against him, but the weight of the forward velocity caught him off guard. He went barreling into the performance tent, knife lost, a tear in the fabric. He immediately bounded back up, and turned toward his foe, curious to see who managed to sneak up on him.
Had Batman arrived?
Had Gotham birthed a new meta?
Sunlight poured through the tear of the tent, a beam that sliced through the darkness, onto a small child, at least eight or nine, with greasy jet-black hair, sporting grey sweatpants and sweatshirt that read GPW: Gotham Prison Ward.
“Tony Zucco sent you, didn’t he?” the boy snarled.
“I don’t disclose details of my contract. It’s business,” Deathstroke said.
The boy lifted his hand, and between the knuckles of his first and second finger rested Slade’s knife.
Impressive.
“Take your business elsewhere,” the boy threatened. He whipped the knife toward Deathstroke, and it whizzed past him.
Not so impressive.
Deathstroke rarely ran into children during his hits, and when he did, they either cowered or recklessly fought. This one was the latter. “You missed,” he said, bored.
And the boy smirked at him, and that smirk sent a thrill running down his back.
“Wasn’t aiming for you.”
An object came hurtling down from above, and Deathstroke took a step back as it crashed onto the floor. A trapeze bar.
The boy disappeared.
Deathstroke felt motion behind him and turned, blocking an attack at the rear. He caught a trapeze bar with his hand, and tore the weapon from the boy’s hands. The boy rolled to the ground and sprung up, with another trapeze bar in hand and this time, dove the butt of it into Deathstroke’s stomach.
If he hadn’t been wearing armor, that would’ve punched the wind out of him. He could’ve blocked that, but it was easier to allow reckless children to attack him and wear themselves out.
Deathstroke swung his new weapon toward the boy, and the boy easily flipped out of the way.
He ducked onto the floor and bounced up with a spring in his legs, and flew up, quicker than Deathstroke expected for a small child, and the bottom of the trapeze bar slammed underneath his chin.
Deathstroke whirled his weapon and slammed the boy onto the ground, pinning him down with the butt of the trapeze bar against the boy’s chest.
The boy kicked the back of Deathstroke’s knee, causing him to sink down to one. He bounced up for a punch, but Deathstroke was quicker and aimed the barrel of a handgun between the kid’s eyes. The kid froze before he released an angry pant. Dark sapphire eyes glared back.
“Leave now before I shoot you,” Deathstroke said.
The kid fought well, impressed him even, but Deathstroke had no patience for reckless fools.
“Will you?” the kid tossed back. “Nobody paid you to kill me.”
The mouth on this boy.
“I didn’t say I would kill you.” Deathstroke clicked off the safety.
The boy glowered back, undeterred, as if daring Deathstroke to follow through on his threat.
A thought occurred to Deathstroke. Perhaps this wasn’t a reckless kid. Perhaps this kid has already seen the most frightening thing in his life, and Deathstroke aiming a gun at him didn’t conquer any fear.
The ghost of a smirk played on the boy’s lips as several beats passed. The glower softened. “If you can’t tell me who sent you, can you at least tell me why whoever sent you wants Luca dead?”
“Sorry, kid, it’s...”
“Business?” The kid moved, fast, and smacked the gun from Deathstroke’s hand. “Nobody touches my family.”
“According to the file, Gomis has no family.”
Anger blazed in the kid’s eyes, and he attacked.
Deathstroke parried and blocked each one. He’d seen this type of combat style before, one that was designed for the stage, and he wondered if this kid picked up the universal fighting stances from the circus combat stage fighters, because it was evident he knew the moves, but incorporated his own style into a unique aerial-type, a style Deathstroke was unfamiliar with.
The moves, the threats, the resilience, the quick thinking, this boy had so much potential, that if it could be molded and perfected, he could grow up to be a frightening force to be reckoned with.
“You don’t understand family, don’t you, big scary man in a mask?” the boy taunted between kicks and punches. “All of us here are outsiders, all of us here are family, and nobody touches any of us without the rest of us rising up!”
The back country where Slade grew up in taught everyone that family values were important, but Slade learned the truth that they were only important in maintaining the imagery and ideal of one.
This boy here...fought for family. He meant his words.
Unlike Slade’s childhood home, unlike the military where he’d grown up in, family was not an ideal.
Is that what I’m doing? Maintaining the imagery of my own family?
Deathstroke snapped out of his admiration and thoughts with a growl. Damn this boy for distracting him! He slammed the boy onto the performance floor, and dirt flew up around him.
The boy’s back spasmed from the impact, mouth open, unable to draw air into his lungs, but Deathstroke knew he would.
The flicker of sunlight illuminated a huge patch of dried puddled blood behind the boy.
“Enough,” Deathstroke growled. “I have never turned away from a contract, and I won’t stop now. That witness is as good as dead.”
The boy widened his eyes and rose up into a sitting position, arm around his stomach. “Wa-wait...”
Deathstroke turned and stormed for the tent flap. The threat had been immobilized.
“He’s not the witness...”
Deathstroke froze. Shit. He gave up a detail of his contract. Did he need to kill this boy? He glanced over his shoulder.
The boy had slowly gotten onto his feet, and Deathstroke widened his good eye at the boy’s resilience. He must be in so much pain.
“I’m the witness. I’m...” The boy’s jaw clenched. “Tell Zucco I won’t talk, okay? Don’t kill Luca. I won’t talk.”
“Begging doesn’t work on me, kid.”
He grunted with pain, eyes searching over Deathstroke’s outfit. “Money does.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them. “The trapeze bars. Take them. Gothamites here are morbid and sick. They’ll pay you more than whatever Zucco is paying you.”
Deathstroke scoffed. Kid had heart, but—“Bargaining doesn’t work on—”
His analytical mind finally put all the pieces together, and he cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. The boy’s sweatshirt, the talk of an overpopulation issue at Gotham’s Orphanage where the newly intake of orphans are taken over to Gotham Prison Ward for boarding, the trapeze bars, the boy’s skills, of the performers who lost their lives in this very tent.
“You’re of the Flying Graysons.”
A glimmer of tears shone in the boy’s eyes at the mention of their names. He lowered his chin, his silent gesture a confirmation.
So...the newspaper didn’t disclose the whole truth, a member survived. Deathstroke should’ve figured it out sooner, instead he allowed himself to be distracted by the boy’s talent.
Police sirens sounded from outside of the tent.
Grayson stiffened, jaw clenching.
“They’re here for you,” Deathstroke said. “Better run now if you want a head start.”
Grayson glared, fists curling at his side. “I won’t run. Mr. Haly will get in trouble if I do.” He huffed. “What will you do about Luca?”
The two warriors stared each other down.
“You’ll fight me to the death, won’t you?” Deathstroke said.
Grayson’s fists shook. “I told you. Nobody touches my family.”
Shame suddenly filled Deathstroke as he saw what it was about the boy that truly distracted and allured him: his honor.
Deathstroke held honor as the highest esteem of character, and vowed he would only respect and honor in return those he believed to have more honor than him. It was why he never conceded to Jackal’s demands, why he refused to work with some vigilantes and villains, and why people couldn’t bargain with him. Their honor never matched Deathstroke’s level.
Contracts. Getting paid. The mercenary work. It revealed the strength and integrity of Deathstroke’s honor, and his reputation was measured by that.
Before Deathstroke, Grayson stood with honor, with radical acceptance, by stepping up to do what needs to be done by doing right by others, his honor measured by the strength of his moral integrity.
This warrior stood before him as perhaps the most honorable warrior Deathstroke had faced, and for the first time, Slade found humility.
The sirens grew louder, voices echoed outside the tent.
Grayson kept his stance and gaze on Deathstroke.
Still, perhaps, one more test.
“You won’t talk?”
“No.”
Deathstroke twirled the bar in his palm. “I won’t kill him.”
“I can’t trust you’re telling the truth.”
“No. You can’t. You have heart, kid, but don’t test the limits of my generosity.”
“We shake on it?”
Deathstroke chuckled. “If it’ll ease your anxiety.”
Grayson approached him, and the boy’s hands were so small in his Deathstroke’s gauntlet. His leather creaked as they shook hands.
When they released their hands and stepped back, Grayson suddenly seemed so uncertain. “Um, thank you?”
Deathstroke’s brows shot up from behind his mask. It’d been a very long time since he’d been thanked.
Grayson turned toward the tent’s entrance, and his shoulders trembled. “I should...turn myself in.”
Deathstroke made sure to disappear in the shadows before the boy glanced back. He kept to it, in the distance, as he slipped back outside, as he watched a crowd gathered by the police car erupt in alarm and relief when Grayson walked out.
He watched as a few, Luca Gomis included, give the small boy hugs, and offered words that never once eased the tension in Grayson’s shoulders.
None of them knew the lengths Grayson went to save one of their own today. None of them knew the strength of his heart. His honor. His integrity.
None of them would go through the same lengths to ensure Grayson stayed with them, their close-knit family. Deathstroke knew the legal systems were complicated, and for a group that was constantly persecuted and spat upon by society, the chances of them keeping Grayson with the circus were slim. A prisoner on death row had a better chance of being released on parole than Grayson had to remain with his circus family.
Deathstroke wondered if the system would break Grayson’s honor, or strengthen it.
It wasn’t his problem any longer.
He glanced down at the trapeze bar, the sunlight glistened off the engraved words: The Flying Graysons.
He broke a contract for a child.
A child that was no longer his problem.
Walk away.
Go home for dinner.
There’s nothing left here.
Slade watched Grayson, a pinching feeling in his heart, as an officer put the young child in the backseat of his vehicle, as if Grayson were a criminal, and it set Slade’s teeth on edge.
Walk away, Slade.
His fingers tightened around the trapeze bar.
Honor is stepping up to do what needs to be done. He’d done that as a father when Adeline died, when Lili deposited his surprised daughter into his hands before she succumbed to her fatal injuries, when Wintergreen had been sent on a suicide mission and he got himself disbarred from the military for disobeying orders to save his friend.
Honor is realizing that his contract here wasn’t finished.
Walk away, Slade. You’re finished here.
The memory of that cocky smirk surfaced.
Damn it.
The glimmer of tears among the blazing fury.
I haven’t done what needs to be done here.
His honor wouldn’t let him walk away.