Work Text:
Slade wanted Dick to slow down in his exploits as Neal Caffrey.
Dick wanted to keep the adrenaline rush going as long as possible.
For someone who had spent more than half of his life traveling, home rarely being a place with an actual foundation, his years in Gotham were more of an outlier than a mark of normalcy, Slade was curious to know what made his most recent exploits different. It had become routine for Dick to spend his days exploring each city and surrounding town when they would stop and set up temporary housing, depending on the area and contract specifics. Dick had no desire to stay locked up in a safehouse or short-term rental and was even more adamant in his refusal to join Slade in the role of Renegade; which left him with the only other option, to go out on his own.
He was a people-person. He loved meeting new people, discovering the little details that made each person unique. Even more, he loved trying out new personas for himself. Changing one detail here, adjusting his accent with ease, and isolating the minute movements in his own posture that could help him settle into a different persona each time. It had become a game he enjoyed, and one he was happily getting better and better at playing.
It shouldn’t have been that surprising Dick eventually found a pattern of differences he would grow to feel most comfortable in. If anything, it was more odd that it hadn’t happened sooner, considering he’d begun playing this game during their first year together. It had been easy to lose the Gotham accent, but even harder to find a new one he could find comfort in.
Slade never questioned Dick, over the years. He’d raise an eyebrow when Dick toed the line of ridiculous and dramatic, the corner of his eye wrinkling when Dick inevitably burst into a fit of giggles – even he couldn’t take himself seriously, all of the time. Other times, his gaze would darken and Dick would catch himself choking on one breath into the next when the rush of feeling wanted-needed-lusted-after sent his blood rushing to his head.
The little shifts that got that reaction never stayed gone for long.
After years of Dick oscillating between personas as if they were mere hats he could trade out on a whim with ease, finding himself settling into one consistently was a stark contrast.
For all that Dick enjoyed dressing up, he never stayed in formal attire long. Not when he had other options. Slade never voiced his thoughts on the matter, but Dick knew he was curious to learn Dick’s reasons. He’d run his palm down the front of a tailored suit jacket when Dick left it on hours long after they’d returned to the quiet of their safehouse, his fingers toying with the lapel before patting it flat.
On the fifth consecutive morning of Dick getting dressed up, Slade stopped short in the hallway between their bedroom and the backroom he’d turned into his latest base of operations. He’d stayed there, watching Dick’s reflection in the mirror above their dresser, stepping into the room only when Dick started to button his shirt. Slade curved around his back wordlessly, his chin pressing into Dick’s shoulder to catch his eye in their mirrored reflections. He’d adjusted the collar on the dress-shirt, closing the last button after pressing a series of kisses down his neck.
It became routine after the third evening spent out late on his own adventure, when Dick returned home, eyes bright and hands eager to tug and pull at Slade. He didn’t bite his lip or try to silence himself when he attempted to walk backwards to guide Slade out of his office and into their bedroom, refusing to break eye contact. Laughter bubbled out of him with each stumble and bump into the walls.
Slade let Dick to have his fun, at the beginning. Usually, by his third or fourth trip over their feet, he’d grow impatient and pick Dick up, his hands curled down and around Dick’s ass, finger tips pressing tighter when Dick locked his ankles, his heels digging into Slade’s back.
All of that to say, Slade more than enjoyed having Neal Caffrey around.
But, that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. Or cautious.
Especially when Neal Caffrey started working on his own.
Dick knew that Slade investigated each of his contacts, even if his husband never said as much. He hadn’t told Dick to stop, in so many words, or tried to get involved in his work. And Dick was more than happy to keep Deathstroke far, far away from Neal Caffrey. If that meant letting Slade do all of the background investigations he wanted, he was perfectly content to share every known-or-suspected alias in his newly-formed network.
When Slade came back from a contract that had taken him almost a month to complete, his eye narrowed because he had definitely caught wind of Neal Caffrey’s incident with a princess and having to make a naked escape through her window with only a serving tray for cover, Dick happily listened to Slade’s opinions on the matter. It was one of the first times they’d actually talked about Neal Caffrey directly.
Dick found it hilarious. Slade called it juvenile and an amateur mistake. He spent the following week rehashing Dick’s training, sparring with Dick in the morning and watching him run through the drills that had become muscle memory after so many years of routine before he’d interrupt with a directive, modifying the drill to be more challenging. Dick wasn’t complaining; training with Slade was more about keeping up his skill set and less about being used in mercenary work. When the drills were very, very different from the sessions Slade put him through when he was a teenager, it was easy to go along with just about anything Slade wanted to throw his way.
By the time Slade needed to travel back to the East Coast and use their safehouse in New Jersey, Dick was ready. It was only his second time coming back to the state since leaving when he was eighteen, but he shed Dick Grayson-Wilson and put on his Neal Caffrey armor with relative ease. He spent most of his time in New York City, re-establishing the connections he’d started to form when they’d been in the area a year prior and Dick had been trying to do everything he could to combat his fears of being found.
It was during that three-month stay that Neal Caffrey became better acquainted with Mozzie. They’d completed two of their own jobs together in that time and were becoming fast friends. Dick caught himself feeling happy in ways he hadn’t in years; he enjoyed, and loved, the life he’d built with Slade, but that life meant he had few friends outside of their family. His rapport with Rose and Joey wasn’t anywhere near as easy as the one he’d managed to establish with Mozzie. And, now that Neal Caffrey was sticking around, it meant that Dick could allow himself room to truly care for the man. It wasn’t a fast friendship he’d be dropping once the contract was done, leaving behind a shadow of a man and the ghost of an alias.
Matthew Keller and Neal Caffrey met, almost two-months into that trip.
Mozzie made his distrust of the man known, without hesitation. Slade begrudgingly shared similar sentiments. Wintergreen wasn’t able to find anything damning enough to make Dick decide to cut ties from the man, in the end. Honestly, Dick thought Keller was only rough around the edges because he’d never had a partner who could help shape and finesse his tactics, relying on brute strength and force of will rather than any actual logistical planning.
Luckily for Neal Caffrey, Slade’s next contract was sending them back to Europe. More specifically, the south of France.
Keller wanted to take a run at the World Backgammon Finals in Monaco. He all but demanded Caffrey go with him, detailing how much better their odds were with a three-person team than taking a run at it with his latest partner.
Dick figured it’d be a fun time, at any rate, and was quick to say yes. Mozzie was adamant about staying removed from any job done with Keller, and Dick promised he’d send word to Mozzie to confirm he hadn’t been thrown off a cliff into the Mediterranean Sea when his back was turned, when all was said and done.
Slade nearly made the same request. Dick smirked, eyes bright with amusement, when he swore he saw the other man bite his tongue to keep himself from admitting it. He openly laughed when Slade took the bait, lunging forward to pick Dick up and set him on their kitchen counter. The kitchenette in their New Jersey home was small, and Dick had to lean forward to keep his head from banging into the low-hanging cabinet. Slade used the position to his benefit.
Safe to say, Keller was the furthest thing from his mind for the rest of the night.
Over the next year, their paths continued to cross. Slade said the man was becoming infatuated with Caffrey. Mozzie said Keller was showing early signs of obsession that would burn them in the end. Dick brushed them both off.
In that time, Slade acquired a safehouse in New York City and Neal Caffrey was becoming increasingly familiar with the five boroughs. They’d had several conversations, and arguments, on the topic, but Dick managed to get Slade to agree to put down roots and settle their base of operations in Manhattan. The only condition he held firm was that no one associated with Neal Caffrey would learn the address. Especially not Matthew Keller.
Mozzie was just starting to make his pitch to Dick to go after Vincent Adler when Slade caught wind that the FBI had begun connecting the pieces that were the exploits of Neal Caffrey. Dick told him they were fine, and to focus on his job and to leave the White Collar business to him.
Slade dropped didn’t drop it. He scrutinized their plans before giving the okay for Dick to run them; not that Dick waited for his approval. Dick knew their plans were solid, but was more than happy to let Slade think he was having a say in the matter if it kept the man’s paranoia at bay.
Which only meant that, when things finally started to go to complete and utter shit, Slade’s annoyance was amplified. The smug looks he’d shoot Dick were bad enough, making it clear that he knew he was right all along. Refusing to admit there was ever an issue, Dick went toe-to-toe with Slade nearly every second of every day that the man was home.
It was only thanks to Matthew Keller that Slade was finally able to redirect his energy away from Dick.
Slade had been in the middle of negotiating a contract when Mozzie called him; considering the man never spoke to him, and preferred to pretend Neal Caffrey had no entanglements with Deathstroke the Terminator, it was alarming in its own right.
Finding out that Keller was threatening Caffrey and his husband had decided to not use any of their methods of relaying a message for help, was more than enough to set Slade off. Mozzie would later deny it, but it was in that moment that he grew real respect for the man.
By the time Slade located Dick and stormed the basement of an apparently abandoned apartment building, guns drawn, his husband was standing in front of a broken chair and was rubbing his wrists. Torn strips of rope laid at his feet, a discarded rag with dried blood only steps away. Dick didn’t say a word at first, letting Slade press close. He hadn’t holstered the gun in his right hand, but pocketed the one in his left so that he could use his hand to tug on Dick’s chin, bringing his eyes to meet the shadow of his own mask.
The racket Mozzie made, stumbling through the path Slade left in his wake, broke the still that had fallen around them. Slade ignored the wide-eyed look Mozzie shot at him now that he was up close to them both and questioning what he was doing, loosening his grasp on Dick only after he’d brought his hand up to palm at the bottom of Slade’s mask in similar fashion.
“I told you not to trust Keller,” Mozzie was ranting. Slade wouldn’t say it out loud, but Dick knew by the sharp turn of his masked-face he would have been happy to share the message..
“There’s nothing he can do that I wouldn’t be prepared for,” Dick shrugged off the concern. “Trust me, I was fine. You didn’t need to call in reinforcements.”
“You missed the last two check ins. Unlike you, I prefer to keep all of my body parts attached and threats far, far away from myself,” Mozzie looked at Slade pointedly. His eyes lingered on the gun Slade still hadn’t holstered, the light catching both the handgun and Slade’s Deathstroke armor.
“Keller wouldn’t–”
“This guy would,” Mozzie looked back at Dick before gesturing back at Slade to elaborate for him.
“He’s correct,” Slade spoke, voice low.
“Stop it,” Dick shook his head, walking past the two to pick up his discarded suit jacket, thrown haphazardly over a stack of boxes. Shrugging it on, he reached in and held up a stack of papers triumphantly, “Everything we need is in here.”
“Keller just left it here for you?” Mozzie didn’t try to hide the incredulity.
“He didn’t know it was in here,” Dick explained, putting the paper back into the folder he’d taken a quick scan of. He picked up the cardboard box with one hand, “What are you waiting for? Let’s go,”
“This conversation isn’t over,” Slade started. Dick had already turned his back to him, whistling as he strode through the broken door. The frame was hanging on by half a nail and sheer force of will.
“Neal!” Mozzie admonished, giving Slade a wide berth when he scuttered past him to fall in step with Dick. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly during their walk out of the building.
Slade was only happy Mozzie couldn’t see the repeated eyerolls he made in response. Dick would accuse him of trying to rile the other man up only to then also accuse him of refusing to let Dick make his own connections outside of his world. Both were topics Slade had no desire to listen to Dick prattle on about.
::
The issue with Keller didn’t go away. Not even when Dick landed himself in jail and refused to let Slade bust him out.
It was the longest they’d ever gone without the other. Even compared to the years between the of Dick’s apprenticeship and falling under Bruce’s version of house arrest, and his later attempts at normalcy in Bludhaven.
That’s not to say they didn’t have contact. There was one year where Rose claimed to be bored and got herself a job working in the prison to pass the time. Joey passed letters to Dick through her, sharing his disgruntlement at not being able to do the same. If only so that he could also ridicule Dick for being dumb enough to actually get caught, after all of their years spent operating outside of the law.
Wintergreen posed as a psychologist a handful of times, especially when he decided Dick needed to hear from someone who could appreciate his decision. Not in so many words, but Dick grasped what Billy was trying to say. He understood why he made the choices he had.
A lot of things had been spiraling out of control in the weeks leading up to Peter Burke catching him. Things with Adler and Keller were no longer toeing the line of fun, the damage they were causing outside of the games was too much for Dick to want to participate anymore. But by then, Neal Caffrey was in too deep to be able to just remove himself without consequences.
Slade’s earlier resentment for the man only worsened with time. They had begun fighting again; actually fighting, not the arguments which turned into play or sex. Heated disagreements that spanned days, and sometimes contracts, that never seemed to reach a resolution.
Dick was more than aware that they hadn’t fought like that since their first three years together, when he’d finally put down the Renegade suit and declared he would never work with Slade under his own free will.
Peter Burke forced them to stop, interrupted the downward spiral they were headed for, and Dick was thankful for it. He assumed Slade felt similar.
Kate had known Slade. She didn’t especially like the guy, but she understood that for whatever reason Neal Caffrey was involved with the man. One morning, when the sun had barely broken the horizon, Kate asked Neal non-too-bluntly if Slade was his sugar daddy. He’d rolled into the city two days prior and had only just left an hour earlier, if Dick could take a guess. The mug he’d used was still warm, but the coffee was tepid at best.
Slade had let himself into the latest Caffrey apartment that first day, cleaning his handguns when Kate entered alone. From what Dick could deduce from Kate’s questions, given hours later when they were back at work with Vincent Adler, he hadn’t bothered making any small talk with her or offering an explanation for who he was and what he was doing in Neal Caffrey’s home.
Dick found the image of the two amusing, enough. The thought of Slade actually explaining polyamory or an open marriage was too surreal, in any reality.
Kate’s concern never faded into fondness for Slade, but she did grow to enjoy his company when he came around. Dick never doubted that she would; Slade was too damn good at what he did to not be able to impress her, especially when she first agreed to a threesome and got to experience Slade first hand.
When he found himself behind bars, Rose was happy to assist him in communicating with Joey but refused to help him make contact with Slade for her own amusement, Kate helped Dick. Just as many of their visits were for themselves, but Dick wrote the letters he sent her for Slade. Replies weren’t reliable, and time passed far too-long between messages for Dick to be truly content with the system, but he appreciated each contact when it did come.
Maybe it was what they needed, in the end. Being forced to sit with their own thoughts and feelings, while also having to communicate with each other if they wanted to have any contact during Neal Caffrey’s four-year sentence.
In the end, it was ultimately because of Slade that Dick made the attempt to break out of prison. Kate never learned the code to understand their letters, but Slade had gotten intel that there were people looking for Kate and Dick decided he would be far more useful to her outside of his cell than inside it.
Later, Slade would chastise him for acting so brash. He’d later share that he and Wintergreen could investigate on their own, and had been planning to. Rose had voiced an interest in the job, now that she was no longer working for the state. Apparently, she’d grown to like the girl when they’d had chance encounters during her visits.
Dick didn’t think Kate knew who Rose really was, but he never outright asked, as things were.
Things didn’t play out the way Dick had anticipated, but things rarely did in his life. After so many years, he’d learned it was better to roll with it than to lament the facts. Which was why, given the window of opportunity, he took the chance to make a deal with Peter Burke and the FBI.
He never could have imagined it working out as well as it did, but their partnership was the start of a new journey for Neal Caffrey that Dick was eager to try.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, then, when Matthew Keller didn’t stay away. Dick knew that Caffrey was notorious in his own right and Keller had an affinity for sticking his nose into business that was successful and completely unrelated to him.
“You are not making a contract to yourself to put a hit on Keller,” Dick had his back to Slade, cooking at the stove in his new apartment thanks to June Ellington. Or rather, thanks to Slade’s decades-past rapport with the late Byron Ellington.
“I’m not saying I agree with the idea, but I will concede I can appreciate the desire to do so,” Mozzie was seated at the table, taking a generous sip of the red wine he’d poured only after the bottle had been able to breathe for some time.
“You,” Dick spun around, spatula in one hand, “agree with him?” He pointed at Slade with the plastic utensil.
“Far weirder things have happened, Neal,” Mozzie chastised.
“Working with the federal government, for example,” Slade’s tone was bitter but he was smirking. It was a conversation they’d had half a dozen times in the last two weeks, alone, now that Slade was home and between contracts. For someone who was worried to death about staying under the radar, he’d lamented that Dick was toying with fate too much in his exploits as Caffrey.
Dick was adamant it was the perfect ruse. Dick Grayson and Neal Caffrey were so different from one another, on paper, that no one would think to look for him by the man’s actions. Even if government databases were hacked and being monitored by Bruce – he wouldn’t expect to see Dick fall to a life of villainous crime, at least not one that led him to getting caught, and by that logic should be okay.
The fact that no one had come looking for Dick when Caffrey entered the system was evidence enough.
“We’ve managed to go almost six years without Slade killing Keller,” Dick shut off the stove, pouring the food into a serving bowl seamlessly. He placed it on the table, between Mozzie and Slade, before taking the seat at the end of the table. “There’s no reason that can’t continue.”
“There’s always a first time for everything,” Mozzie reminded, his spoon full of food held high. He quickly lost interest in the topic, however, when he insisted on knowing what Dick used to season the dish.
Dick was happy to follow the change in topic.
::
Unfortunately for them, Keller didn’t know how to leave well enough alone.
::
Keller had taken Elizabeth and Peter was not okay. Hell, Dick was not okay. Mozzie was not okay. Things were very, very far from being okay.
Elizabeth was smart, and she was quick at improvising. Dick kept reminding himself of that fact throughout the entire search for her.
He also kept remembering how absolutely ridiculous Mozzie was. Dick didn’t have a need for the treasure, Slade’s work providing more than enough for them; but, the rush of adrenaline at being the owners of something thought to be only a story was a feeling he didn’t realize he could grow to crave. Initially, the chase for the music box and then finding the treasure kept him more than on his toes. It was like he was soaring through the Gotham night sky all over again, with each heist they had to pull to get to where they were providing that same heady feeling.
And then it all came crashing down when Adler caught up to him, Peter, and Alex and the U-Boat. Dick had invented his own homing beacon by that point, with a call button in the soles of his shoes, but he didn’t want to risk calling Slade in too early. Or, creating a false sense of security that he’d be coming for them only to be hit with the reality that Slade’s current job had him over eight-hours away.
It ended up working out for them, in the end, and Slade all but demanded that he talk through the specifics with him days later when he’d returned. To identify the flaws in the plans and all of the ways things could have gone to complete and utter shit, and how relying on luck was going to get him killed one of these days. Dick didn’t care to argue differently–he enjoyed seeing how protective Slade could get.
And he knew Slade knew that he knew that.
That didn’t help them now, as it were, with Keller demanding the treasure that Dick did not have and putting Elizabeth into harm’s way to do so. Unlike last time, Slade was home. While their actual house was outside of Neal Caffrey’s radius, Slade was more than okay with spending time at June’s. At least when Burke wasn’t going to be around. While Dick was comfortable with sharing Slade with those he slept with, he was otherwise keeping a firm line of separation between the two worlds. Or, rather, with the federal government, in any case.
When Peter demanded Dick do whatever he had to, to get Elizabeth back and make things right, Dick called Slade first. The call didn’t take long, not that he’d expected it would. Slade was going to finally get a chance at Keller; like hell he was going to let it go up in smoke.
While Peter and Dick were looking for Mozzie, Slade paid Keller a visit. It didn’t take much work to locate the man. It was only unfortunate that Elizabeth wasn’t with him; Slade couldn’t kill him until he was certain she was safe.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t maim, threaten, or otherwise harm.
Slade’s answering smirk was appreciated only by himself, but the care he gave to make sure each hit landed with expert precision and force was more than satisfying once he’d gotten the man to himself. It didn’t take long, which spoke volumes for the kind of people Keller kept employed.
Shameless cowards, without an ounce of loyalty between them.
It worked to his advantage, in any case. Not that Slade needed one.
By the time Keller was hunched over, one hand clutching his side and the other trying to wipe sweat from his brow only to realize he was bleeding, he had looked up at Slade in unbridled fear. Beneath that, there was confusion.
“What the hell?” Keller spit out blood. He didn’t entangle himself in the world of vigilantes, mercenaries, or metas, but that didn’t mean he lived under a rock and didn’t know the most popular information. Like the name of one of, if not the most, lethal mercenary. Given their line of work, it was considered important to know the barest of details when there were people out there who could kill you without explanation if you stumbled upon their own work without cause.
Slade didn’t care to answer him.
“What, Burke has a mercenary on speed dial, now?” Keller squinted up at Slade, his left eye beginning to swell. “Didn’t think the guy had it in him. Consider me impressed.”
“Try again,” Slade landed a kick that sent Keller in the opposite direction, both hands moving to clutch at what were likely broken ribs.
“Mozzie would do it but even that hack wouldn’t get into a deal with someone like you.”
A second kick, this time to Keller’s shoulder, forcing him to fall on his back and look up at Slade. Slade stared Keller down from behind his raised gun, lifting his mask off so that the man would be looking him in the eye. He wanted this cocky lowlife who’d been nothing but a thorn in his side for nearly a decade to see how completely unbothered he was by him and his attempts at a fight.
“You’re trying,” Keller coughed on the word, face contorting in pain with each spasm of his diaphragm, “to tell me Caffrey is behind this?”
“Neal and I have an agreement,” Slade answered coolly. He’d have to talk to Dick about it later, and likely do a whole lot of things for the man before he’d be anywhere near okay with Slade telling Keller the truth, but Slade was done playing games. His smirk was full of teeth, twisting into a sardonic smile.
“You hurt my husband, I get to hurt you,” Slade enjoyed watching Keller’s eyes widen impossibly more in shock. “You hurt my husband’s friends, I have more than enough reason to take matters into my own hands.”
“You can’t kill me,” Keller choked on the words. “You need me.”
“The Russians need you more than I do,” Slade tilted his head. He’d found out about Keller’s debt in his brief search for the man. “Tell me why I shouldn’t hand you over on a silver platter.”
“Burke’s wife’s dead if my men don’t hear from me every hour,” Keller winced when he sucked in one breath to say everything at once. “Whether you kill me or hand me over, you still need me to get her.”
“Caffrey cares about Burke and his family,” Slade crouched down, the barrel of his gun settling against Keller’s sternum. He turned the safety off, finger poised on the trigger. Without taking his eyes off of Keller, who looked impossibly more alarmed, Slade pulled the man’s phone out of his pocket. He’d grabbed it from his jacket when they first started.
“Call. Elizabeth walks.” Slade’s voice left no room for argument. Keller, apparently an optimist, opened his mouth but stopped short when Slade dragged his gun up, the barrel resting on his bottom lip.
Slade smiled.
Keller took the phone with shaking hands, navigating to his recent calls with one press of a button. The phone’s ringing was punctuated by the wet, aborted breaths Keller kept trying to take.
“Let her go,” He spoke the words fast, tilting his head back to get as far from the muzzle of Slade’s gun as he could from his position.
“Boss, she’s already–”
“I don’t care, let her go, now,” Keller slammed the burner closed, effectively ending the call. He let his body slump against the warehouse floor.
Slade didn’t move back, his knee pressed against his chest now that he’d moved his gun to Keller’s head. He did pull out his own phone, eye locking with Keller’s when the ringing tone caught his attention. Reminded him just who was leaning over him.
“Hey,” The voice came over the line clearly. The tone was all Dick, but Keller wouldn’t catch the difference between the two. He sounded exhausted. “Now’s really not a good time, babe.”
Later, Slade would pour himself a drink to celebrate the new look of terror that fell over Keller. Apparently, he hadn’t fully believed what he’d said about his husband. Now, however, his attention was pulled to more pressing matters.
“Elizabeth is okay,” Slade started. He frowned when Dick cut him off.
“I know, she's in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
That was quick.
“That happened quickly.”
“She staged her own escape plan,” Dick almost sounded proud, if the wet laugh was anything to go off of. Unlike Keller, who was choking on his own blood, Dick was likely near tears now that the adrenaline rush was crashing.
“Keller called it off,” Slade spoke succinctly. He ignored the look Keller was giving him.
“Did he, now?”
Slade knew that voice. The tone of, what did you fucking do now, sweetie , that was leading and saccharine sweet. Waiting for him to talk himself into whatever hole he’d dug for himself. Slade stopped himself from running a hand through his hair only by sheer force of will, remembering who he was in front of.
“Yes.” Slade didn’t think any of the other details mattered.
“Should we send an ambulance to you, too?” Is he alive ?
“He can decide that for himself.” Yes, but I’m not letting you help him for even a second .
“Peter is sending men to your location,” Of course Dick had pulled up his location. “He’ll want to interrogate him, himself, I imagine.”
“I’ll make myself scarce,” Slade could hear the high pitch tones that were always a tell that some set of alarms were growing near, thanks to his advanced hearing. He leaned into his knee that was still pressing Keller into the floor, smiling when the action made the other man groan in pain, to push himself back to his feet.
“You did not need his help to stand up, old man,” Dick’s voice was teasing but quiet.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Slade pulled his mask back on with one hand while the other pocketed his phone.
Deathstroke the Terminator scaled the building, using the roofs to make his escape before anyone caught sight of him. Soon after, Slade Wilson was enjoying afternoon tea with June Ellington on her rooftop terrace. If anyone asked, she’d happily share the details of their afternoon together, hours spent reminiscing and sharing old stories from the time when Slade and Byron ran together, no matter how brief of a stint it actually was.
Keller lived, albeit barely. While Peter Burke demanded two uniforms be at his side at all times, as he was sticking by Elizabeth’s side for the next foreseeable future, Mozzie turned over the treasure to a contact with the Russian organization that had been tracking Keller. They were more than happy to make it sound as though Keller himself turned in the priceless items, returning them to their original home in Russia. It saved Keller’s skin, but it guaranteed Mozzie and Caffrey’s names would be kept out of the story.
Somehow, Neal Caffrey got credit for the capture of Matthew Keller. Mozzie was more than happy to remove himself, and his name, from the entire ordeal, on both sides of the table. When initially questioned, before passing out on the ambulance ride to the hospital, the only thing Keller said to the police was Tell Caffrey I’m done .
While Peter questioned Neal’s involvement, the extent of Keller’s injuries more than alarming, he’d had his CI by his side throughout the entire ordeal. Besides Caffrey being notoriously nonviolent, and Mozzie having nowhere near the leverage to make half of the injuries, he reluctantly let it go. If only because Elizabeth told him to.
Matthew Keller, on the other hand, would find it very hard to forget that Neal Caffrey was involved with Deathstroke. Even if no one believed him.