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Slade shoots the second-to-last member of the gang in the middle of the forehead and turns his gun on the last one, who immediately starts babbling and pleading for his life.
“No no no please please — I– we got something really valuable on our last job! Yeah! And — you can have it I swear, just don’t kill me, I swear please—”
It’s really quite pathetic, and Slade’s trigger finger itches to just end this contract and get out of the city. It’s taken an unreasonably long time to track this gang down in the first place, and this is most likely an empty bluff, a last desperate attempt by the man at saving his own skin. But Slade is, frankly, bored, and his curiosity’s been piqued.
If it’s a lie, Slade can amuse himself by shooting out his kneecaps before killing him.
And if not, well, the slog this has turned into has more than earned him a bonus. Staying in Gotham longer than necessary attracts hazard pay.
“Show me,” Slade tells him, not lowering the gun.
The man’s eyes widen a little. “Yes! This way! Thank you, thank you—”
Slade tunes out his yabbering, and huffs a laugh at the way the man stumbles and recoils back when he almost trips over his buddy’s corpse on the ground. The man — constantly looking back over his shoulder, and jumping when he sees Slade still following close behind with a gun trained on his head — leads him into a smaller room with blacked out windows and no light.
He flicks the light on, revealing a sparse, dusty room with some loose clothing strewn in a pile and – huh.
That’s a sensory deprivation tank.
And, from the glimpse of red, green, and gold in the heap of clothes beside it, Slade has a good guess who’s inside. He feels a flash of foreboding.
“It’s in there, man,” the man says, wringing his hands.
Slade steps up to the side of the tank, examining it. The lid is bolted shut. A thick power cord leads away from it — to a room with a generator, no doubt. From the corner of his eye, he sees the man edging backwards towards the doorway. Hm. Not as much of an idiot as he looks, then.
Slade leans over the tank and pulls back the first bolt. The man takes another step backwards, over the threshold of the doorway. Slade doesn’t turn towards him as — bang! — he shoots him straight to the forehead, and the man sprawls to the ground with a thump, dead before he reaches it.
Contract fulfilled.
Now to deal with the mess they’ve made.
He unbolts the tank lid and pulls it open. Inside, floating in the epsom salt soaked water, blinking dazedly at the sudden influx of light, is a naked, dark-haired kid. He looks about eleven years old. His face is tearstained, and he’s shivering even though Slade knows the water is heated to body temperature.
Even without the mask or... any other clothes, Slade recognises that kid. That’s Robin.
So this all just got a lot more complicated.
Objectively, this is not Slade’s problem. His contract is over and it has nothing to do with Robin. But with Robin comes Batman, and while Slade wagers his chances are still pretty good against the Bat, he does not need the headache right now.
With a beleaguered sigh, Slade holsters his weapon and pulls the kid out.
He’s expecting Robin to struggle, to fight him like a feral cat. The kid’s got no reason to assume Slade isn’t an enemy, after all, and the little bird is fierce and well-trained by all reports. He’s prepared to just drop the kid on the ground.
He’s not prepared for Robin to burst into tears, throw his arms around Slade’s neck, and bury his face in his shoulder.
Unbidden, Slade’s arms adjust to seat the kid more comfortably, one arm under his thighs, the other cradling his head. The way he used to do with Joey, and Grant when he was younger. Robin clings desperately, shaking with hiccuping sobs, each breath wet and hitching.
Well. Shit.
Slade should just let the kid go, and leave. Hanging around in Gotham makes him antsy enough as it is, nevermind with the Bat missing his precious bird. But something stops him — maybe the way the kid reminds him of Joey, or how he melts against Slade when a hand cards through his wet locks of hair, going completely limp in his arms — and instead he finds himself sitting on the edge of the tank, tucking Robin up against his chest, gently hushing him.
He spots a flash of yellow in Robin’s ear, and he pulls a pair of soaked foam earplugs out. The kid gasps and shivers as the full force of ambient sound returns to him. That Robin didn’t realise to pull them out speaks to the state he must have been in when they put him in there.
How long was he in that tank, blind and deaf and isolated from the world? Was it hours? Longer?
Robin still hasn’t even properly looked at him. He can’t have any clue who his rescuer is. He’s a weepy, clingy mess, clutching at Slade with a white-knuckled grip, burrowing into his warmth. Touch-starved and hopelessly tactile, leaning in to Slade’s hand as it strokes his hair and rubs soothingly down his back.
Slade pictures what might have happened if the gang had pulled Robin out of the tank instead of him. The kid is naked, and yet completely pliant to a stranger’s touch. Slade knows, knowing the kind of men they were, how that would’ve likely played out. And he can’t help overlaying Joey’s image onto him, though the kid is maybe closer to Grant’s age. Abruptly, he wishes he’d killed them all much more slowly.
Robin is wet and shivering. Some clothes are in order.
“Time to get dressed, kid,” Slade tells him. Robin jumps a little at the sound of his voice, but otherwise makes no move to follow the suggestion.
Slade tries to move Robin off of his lap, but the kid only whimpers and clutches him tighter.
Damn it.
Begrudgingly, Slade gathers up the pieces of the kid’s costume and does his best to redress him himself, which Robin in no way makes easier. The kid absolutely refuses to let go, though he otherwise moves where Slade adjusts him, submitting completely to his limbs being manipulated like a doll. Slade gets his shorts and boots back on this way, but the tunic and gloves are complete non-starters if Robin won’t release his desperate grip around Slade’s neck.
And Slade could make him let go. He could rip him off and force the rest of his costume back onto him.
Traumatising the kid any further isn’t likely to keep him off Batman’s radar.
“At least let’s get your mask back on, kid,” Slade sighs despairingly.
Robin shakes his head, which Slade feels rather than sees; the kid’s face is still pressed tight against Slade’s neck, which has long since become damp with his tears. Slade picks up the mask and holds it up, but Robin won’t even turn to look at it.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Slade coaxes, in a tone he hasn’t used in years. “Just lift your face up for a second for me. It’ll be quick, I promise.”
Robin’s grip tightens. Slade strokes his back soothingly.
After a moment, the kid reluctantly peels his face off Slade’s neck. His eyes are red and puffy, shiny with tears, a deep, brilliant blue.
Robin allows the mask to be pressed back on, and Slade runs a finger around the edge to reseal the glue down. As soon as it’s secure, Robin goes straight back to trying to bury himself in the juncture of Slade’s neck and shoulder.
Slade rolls his eyes. This fucking kid.
There’s nothing more Slade can do, really. Robin needs a pickup. He’s willing to bet Batman’s kid doesn’t go off on his own without at least half a dozen panic buttons on him to bring the Bat bearing down should anything go wrong; a quick search of the kid’s belt proves him correct. It looks like Robin didn’t get a chance to use it before the gang stuffed him away in that tank. Maybe they got the drop on him and knocked him out before he could press it, or maybe the kid’s just stubborn and was holding off until it was too late.
Not Slade’s problem. But it’s a quick way to offload his current inconvenience. Slade presses the panic button and settles in to wait for Batman.
He doesn’t have to wait long.
It is, by Slade’s count, approximately ten minutes from pressing the button until Batman’s arrival. In that time, Robin’s tears finally stop, but his clinginess does not; he keeps himself firmly plastered against Slade, arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
Batman’s looming presence fills the doorway, silent except for the beating of his heart. The rate is elevated slightly, which for a man with as fastidious control over his own reactions as Batman has, is practically frantic.
Batman has likely been missing the little bird for hours. And he would’ve had to pass all the recently-dead corpses of the gang members to get here, only to find him curled up in Deathstroke’s lap, damp and half naked and trembling. Slade has no idea what conclusion the Bat is drawing from all of that, but it’s unlikely to be anything that paints Slade’s involvement in a positive light. He stares Batman down.
“What happened to him,” Batman growls, with that flat intonation of a demand and not a question.
Slade tilts his head towards the tank; the fabric of the cowl bunches ever so slightly, not quite hiding the momentary frown in reaction Batman wasn’t able to fully suppress.
“I’m sure you’ve got a better idea than I do how long he was in there. Unless you don’t keep track of your bird,” Slade drawls. A muscle tenses in Batman’s jaw. “Must’ve been a while, to get him like this. Tactile little thing now, isn’t he? So needy.”
Batman’s impeccable control of his emotions is slipping. The man is so tense he’s almost vibrating in place, and it must only be the shield in the form of his protege — so vulnerable and helpless in Slade’s arms — that’s preventing him from charging forward and attacking.
And Slade can’t help remembering a knife to his own kid’s throat, and the desperate fear that consumed him when he couldn’t quite reach him in time. Batman must be feeling that same fear, not quite able to hide it, must be longing to cross the distance and snatch Robin away from him. Slade could snap the kid’s neck before he took so much as a step.
Not that he’s going to. But Batman doesn’t know that.
And, well. Slade doesn’t like the Bat, and his brat has been an inconvenience, and Slade’s getting stuck in some memories he’d rather leave buried and unexamined. And even with his line of work, he doesn’t get too many opportunities to push a taunt as far as this.
“Imagine.” Slade drops his voice low. “What could have happened, if someone unscrupulous happened to pull him out of there first? What do you think he would do, just to keep someone touching him?”
Batman snarls, and Slade’s grin stretches wide, relishing getting properly under his skin. “You—”
And he stops, because — ever attentive — from Slade’s arms, the kid lets out the tiniest little whimper at the sound of raised voices.
Slade will deny it later, but something in his own heart clenches at the noise.
“Give him to me,” Batman says, after a moment. “What do you want, Deathstroke?”
Slade could — should — exploit this further. Poke at him again, or demand something substantial, or at the very least get some non-interference guaranteed while he clears up the rest of his business in Gotham. He’s got the ultimate bargaining chip against the Bat right in his hands, squeezing Slade’s neck as tight as his bony little arms can manage.
He’s getting too damn soft.
“Call it a favour owed,” he says gruffly. “Trust I’ll come collecting one day.”
He gets to his feet, hauling Robin up with him. Slade has to get right into Batman’s space to pass the kid over, and Robin only releases Slade when Batman wraps his own arms around him and pulls him into an embrace.
“Easy, chum, I’ve got you,” the Bat murmurs.
Robin’s face screws up again, and with a hitched breath and a small cry, he wraps all his limbs tight around Batman and begins to sob with a force that rattles his tiny frame.
Slade steps back, giving them space. Batman wraps his cape around the kid, staring Slade down, his expression back to that smooth mask. It’s a bit late for that. Slade’s already seen it drop.
Then again, he supposes he let down a bit of his own facade, tonight.
“Deathstroke,” Batman utters. His jaw works for a moment, then he falls silent.
It’s as close to a thank you as he’s going to get. Slade nods in response.
He steps over the still-warm bodies he left in his wake as he leaves.