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Slade knocks on the door — see? He's capable of learning — before throwing it open. Jason gives him a deeply unimpressed look before disappearing back into the bathroom with a huff, but refrains from reinforcing the lesson with the razor blade glinting in his hand. Slade would smile at that, but for some reason, he's not in a smiling mood.
He crosses over the little room, and positions himself against the doorframe of the bathroom, taking care to not block the exit completely. He leans on his shoulder and crosses his arms. Jason eyes him via the mostly foggy mirror, before focusing back on his own face.
There are numerous ways Slade could start this. A little joke maybe, a comment about how the men are ready, maybe some last assurances. Typically, right about now, Slade would be needling the boss about all the steps that must be completed before the H-hour, poking and interrogating and all-around annoying them to ensure that not one of those small, yet crucial actions is overlooked. Those things are exactly what plans like this fail on: somebody, usually the boss, being too proud a bastard to perform such a common sense action as double-checking. Time and time again, all mighty plans crumble when the tiniest of cogs is left ungreased. Whatever old wife came up with the pride and falling was right on the money.
This time, funnily enough, Slade is not worried about that. Anything Jason said he'd do is undoubtedly completed to the exact degree needed. The plan is ready. The equipment is ready. The men are ready. They are ready.
And still. It feels like there is a pit at the bottom of Slade's stomach, one he's wholly unaccustomed to after so many nights before the implementation that he's lost count. As far as he's concerned, it's just another night. Except this time, something is different.
Jason pulls the blade of his face and reaches down to rinse it under the faucet. When he raises it again, he gives Slade another look, more pointed this time. Slade waits until the blade has stopped its smooth slide across Jason's cheek and risen off again. Getting the boss' throat slit on the night before is not an ideal start for the operation. Or this discussion. Though he doubts there is any good way to start this particular conversation. Better just to yank the band-aid of.
"Barbara Gordon," he says, and watches as, exactly as he expected, Jason's back tenses. "Boss, she—"
"No," is the immediate reply, but Slade has to try.
"Boss, I could get her—"
Jason whirls around. The white shaving cream covering half of his face does nothing to diminish the threat in his eyes as they flash dangerously, almost as dangerous as the flick of his wrist that positions the razor blade for optimal striking. "Nobody touches Barbara Gordon but me."
"Boss—"
"No."
And Slade shuts up. She is the weak point, he wants to say. Every part of the plan has been open to discussion, counter-suggestions, arguments, poking; all in the name of making it bulletproof. While Jason has shot many of the ideas down, it's never happened out of hand without a clear reason. It's been the name of the game throughout that everything can be changed, tweaked, improved, anything, no matter how small or large. Except anything having to do with Barbara Gordon.
"That matter is closed," Jason says with finality that clangs, locks clicking shut and keys being thrown away. "If Barbara Gordon is all you came to discuss, get the fuck out."
He turns his back to Slade and the blade rises to his face again. The slide is smooth again, his hands steady, and eyes staying on his own face. Like Slade isn't there.
And Slade could leave. Maybe he should leave, because if the plan is going to fail, he is completely sure the catalyst will be Barbara Gordon. Because in its heart of hearts, the plan rests on Arkham Knight. There is a Plan B for that, sure: should the Knight falter Slade will step up, as he is paid to do by Scarecrow, the alleged mastermind behind all this, and so the city and the Bat will fall under their overwhelming assault, whether or not Jason is capable or willing to complete his part. At least that's how it works in that cuckoo head of Crane, who, crucially, is all the way back in Gotham. Slade, who has firmly been here by the Knight's side, has his doubts. Crane thinks he has a mercenary army, who only cares for money. Slade knows that while the militia sure is mercenary, it is also loyal. The militia is not Crane's or whoever has the fattest purse, it is Jason's. He's built it, he's trained it, he has — probably without quite realizing it — morphed it into his own image, which, inevitably, includes his morals. If the Knight falls, the militia will fall with him. Slade will keep it together for a hot minute, but that will be borrowed time, no matter what tricks he pulls.
Which wouldn't really be an issue, because if Slade has ever trusted someone to see the whole ordeal through, it would be Jason. Driven, single-minded, focused, prepared, he's all of those things and more.
But nobody's Teflon. And the thing that might stick to Jason's hard coating, scraping through it to the last remaining pieces of softness underneath, is Barbara Gordon. Probably the only person in the world who Jason might look at and decide that her approval is more important than revenge.
And one can't go to a confrontation with the Bat with damaged armor. Not with any hopes of winning.
Jason rinses the blade again and goes for the last bits of remaining shaving cream, tilting his jaw up and steadily scraping the hair under it. He shaves like he does everything else: steadily, confidently, with perfect awareness of his body. He uses the blade with skill, giving himself a closer shave than many would dare, blade sliding smoothly over places where the tiniest of errors in tilt or pressure would do serious damage. Finally, he lowers the blade and rinses it again, very thoroughly. Then he, equally thoroughly, wipes it dry and puts it neatly on the counter, perfectly aligned. Typical. They'll torch the whole place tomorrow, and yet everything in Jason's bathroom is in perfect order. He runs a quick hand over his face to check for the results of the shave and washes the remnants of the cream away. He pats his face dry and straightens up. Arkham Knight, ready to conquer.
He's still not looking at Slade.
"Jason."
"Yes."
"What happens after?"
Now the eyes snap to him through the mirror. Slade can almost see the rapid calculations going on behind them. Slade knows the plan inside out, as well as Jason, including a few things he's sure Jason doesn't know he knows. And they both know neither of them favor idle questions.
"Batman will be dead, and Gotham a ghost city, just like it deserves," Jason finally says, slow — like he's still trying to work out Slade's angle but playing along until he finds it. "People go elsewhere and it remains as a monument to Batman's failure. The city of fear." If Slade didn't know him so well, he wouldn't notice the tiny pause before, "Like every other city on the Eastern seaboard."
Slade says nothing, just waits for Jason to continue. As long as the troops get deployed as planned, nothing that happens in ACE Chemicals matters. If the Bat can't prevent the very first part of their plan, he is the lousiest guardian ever known and definitely not worth the tens of millions they have spent in preparation of the multi-frontal assault and the numerous contingencies for every step. That is also the reason Slade knows his contract with Scarecrow is fulfilled to the last dot even though there sure are some configuration differences in the machinery they'll haul to the plant, compared to what was requested. If Slade's estimations are correct, and he's confident they are, the final batch of the fear gas will never deploy, significantly reducing the size of the resulting cloud. Likely enough to spare any of the cities surrounding Gotham. The cities where — completely incidentally, he's sure — all the upstanding citizens of Gotham will evacuate to after their little opening number at Pauli's.
"You'll get your money," Jason continues, now obviously annoyed. "I'll trigger the final payment in the morning, and it will arrive at midnight, as agreed. I keep my word."
"I know," Slade says, and he does. "And you?"
Jason frowns. There's a long silence when his eyes drill into Slade's, searching, and like he's wont to be, suspicious. "What do you care?"
What does he care? He doesn't, of course. Jason has been an exceptionally good boss, by any measurement, and an interesting person to work with on top of that — not to mention fun in bed. Despite how easy it would have been for such a mission to fall into the most boring routine known to man with all the inevitable repetition and Jason's anal-retentive tendencies, there's been something new to do and figure out every day. Slade has flexed his skills, fulfilled his contract, and earned what he's been paid, which has also happened perfectly on schedule and as agreed — both of which have been somewhat of an issue in the past, at least until Slade made his opinion on renegotiation payment terms painfully clear. Jason was one of the few bosses who never needed the reminder. Slade wouldn't mind working with him again.
"You have a fully trained, extremely competent group of mercenaries under your command," he says. Even though the troops are explicitly hired for this one job, Slade's absolutely sure more than two thirds of them would follow the Knight wherever he wanted to lead them. "The possibilities are endless."
Jason's frown doesn't clear, but he also doesn't answer. For reasons Slade doesn't even really know, he pushes. "So what will you do?"
And Jason. Jason looks away. The little cold pit in Slade's stomach twists.
"I'll figure it out," says Jason, the Arkham Knight whose plans have sub-plans and post-plans, the combined number of accounted-for contingencies stretching towards infinity. "Doesn't matter."
Slade feels like his fingers are tingling, almost like they're numb even though he has not crossed his arms nearly hard enough to cut the blood flow. No plans 'cause it doesn't matter. "Do you have an exit?" he asks.
Now Jason looks at him again, through the mirror. "Why?"
"For if everything goes tits up—"
"It won't—"
"Humor me," Slade interrupts and straightens up. "If," he starts counting with his fingers to have something do with his hands that isn't just swinging them around like and idiot, "the commissioner stops the tanks and the air transport on the city border; if any of the reputable members of the Gotham Rogue Gallery decides to tattle to the Bat or anyone else; if Scarecrow betrays us; in short, if something goes wrong in a way that's not recoverable, especially early on when we haven't established a solid enough foothold to hold on. Do you have an exit route?"
"I'm not going to cut and run," Jason hisses.
"I know you won't," Slade says. This is a battle to be fought to the bitter end — at least if exposure to goddam Barbara Gordon is kept to a minimum — but there are scenarios that are simply not winnable, no matter how well prepared they are. With the Bat in play, all the bets are off. "But you can't trust any of the Rogues, least of all Scarecrow, no matter how much he pays."
"I'm not an idiot."
"I know—" Slade stops himself, tired of the repetition. They could go round and round on this, Jason never giving an inch, and them never reaching the point either. The point being that Jason needs an out. A dependable one. "Listen. If things do implode catastrophically, not that they will," he presses over Jason's obviously upcoming counter, "use one of mine."
Jason stills, quiet and tense. Slade knows he's moving them into unknown territory, but hey, it's not like this is the first time. Hopefully not the last either. He likes surprising the kid. "Call Billy Wintergreen. He's my broker, and extremely trustworthy. He'll get you out, of the city, of the country, wherever you want to go. The emergency line is every other digit of my army ID, starting with the second number and repeated twice."
Jason gives him a deeply dubious look. "And how the fuck am I supposed to know your fucking army number?"
Well, luckily, Slade has an answer to that. He steps forward, right behind and a little to the left of Jason and pulls out the loose chain from under his shirt. The little tags dangling on it clink together, the fluorescent light glinting off the few places the metal is still shiny after all these years of wear and tear.
"Here," he says, and pulls the chain over his head. Jason stares, but not a word comes out. He also doesn’t move, so Slade does it for him and hooks the chain over his head. He lets go before it looks too much like a garrote. The tags drop like stones. Jason catches them from the air before they hit his chest and looks down. Slade knows the text on them by heart. Sometimes he thinks that he can spout the name and the number even if nothing else remains in his head. The repetition requires no thought, just instinct.
"These are your dog tags," Jason says, which is rather obvious and thus not the kind of thing Jason tends to voice out loud.
"It's the most practical solution," Slade says, and something settles on his chest as he looks at the tags in Jason's hand. "They will fit under your armor without issue. Nobody will suspect you would use Billy. And you don't have to memorize the numbers a day before the big day."
Jason examines the tag a while longer before letting go. They fall on his chest, settling right between his pecs, at the perfect height like they belong there.
"They are yours, though," he says.
Slade scoffs. "Sentimental pieces of junk." The army betrayed him. It gave him his enhancements and some of his training, so at this point, Slade considers it a fair trade, but there are no warm and fuzzy feelings. It's just been a habit to keep wearing the tags, especially for the added advantage when working with ex-army guys, but it's nothing more than that. They are just pieces of cheap metal. "Besides, you can give them back to me after."
"If we meet again," Jason says.
And just like that, the almost forgotten pit yawns at Slade again. Come morning, Jason will leave for Gotham to kick the plan into motion, Slade will stay behind to supervise the equipment transits and scrapping of evidence, and then they’re on. Even when they will be in the same city, their paths will not cross again. "Yes," Slade says, in lieu of anything less inane to say. "You know how to contact me."
"If I ever have another plan big enough to require the expertise of Deathstroke the Terminator."
"Well, you know me, boss. Gotta have enough excitement."
Jason huffs, half amused. He moves, as if to leave the bathroom, but Slade grabs him by the hips. Not too hard though, because a razor blade to the neck would be a nasty end to the evening.
"I didn't come here to watch you shave," he says, and without effort his voice drops to a lower register.
Jason raises an eyebrow, and keeps any kind of blade to himself. But the faint pink on his cheeks, the way he licks his lips, make it clear that he knows full well what's going to happen next. So why bother talking about it? Instead, Slade unceremoniously yanks Jason's pants down.
The kid's sharp inhale is nearly covered by the loud ripping noise of the lube packet whose contents Slade dribbles generously on his cock. Jason, very onboard with the program, widens his stance as much as the pants settling on his ankles allow and bends over the sink, gripping the edges. He's not looking at himself, but through the mirror at Slade’s arms. Which is fine, because it leaves Slade free to look at his face at that crucial moment when Slade's cock nudges his hole, and slowly starts pushing in.
Jason's mouth opens into a little 'o' and his eyes nearly roll back when the head of Slade's cock breaches him. It is magnificent, like always when they do this; Jason's almost scorching heat, the way his rim hugs Slade, clenching and relaxing in waves. It feels almost like it's pulling Slade further in, even if the initial stretch seemed almost impossible, like Slade would never fit inside. But just like every time, Jason allows him to push in, to carve a place for himself and fill the kid to the brim, like nobody has before. Like every time, the little crinkle of concentration between Jason's brows relaxes as his body finally, after the initial resistance, yields.
Slade slowly pulls back a bit before pushing back in, a little deeper this time. He carefully angles his hips for the best results, and Jason's back arches, hips tilting against the delicious drag over his prostate. Slade keeps the thrusts shallow and gentle, pulling back when there's resistance, and every time on the next in-stroke, he gets a little further in with a little smoother slide. He reaches for the second packet of lube and pulls out completely. Jason makes an angry sound that cuts into a little adorable squeak when Slade dumps the lube on his cock and the crack of Jason's ass. When he pushes back it, the wet squelch is obscene. Jason pants, and leans a little further over the sink, propping one of his hands against the mirror.
"Get on with it," Jason snaps, predictably reaching the end of his patience. It would be more commanding if his voice didn't crack into a moan on the last syllable.
"Yes, boss," Slade says and slides in, in, in. Jason keens, but Slade doesn't stop, pushing through until he bottoms out. Then he stills, firmly holding Jason by the hips and keeping his own hips carefully unmoving. Jason shivers, the wave of it seemingly rising from his toes and traveling all the way to his head. Slade runs a warm hand gently over the quivering muscles of his back as he breathes, a little shallowly, in fast, tightly controlled inhales. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the contractions stop. The next exhale is long, a little shaky. Then, starting from his neck, his whole spine arches down, as if pulled by gravity, melting like it's liquid instead of bone and sinew. Slade has seen it many times, and every time, it's gorgeous. And he's the only one who gets to see it.
Even if this is the last time.
Slade's first thrust back in comes a little sharper than he intended, and Jason's face nearly smashes onto the mirror. Jason braces and pushes back against him, losing that beautiful relaxation, moving in counterpoint to make the smack of flesh against flesh harsh and echoing on the tiles. His eyes are closed, mouth opening to pant, and he doesn't look, like it doesn't really matter who's behind him as long as the cock hits the right places. Casual, practical, efficient. He leverages himself back hard enough to force a yelp out of his own mouth. At counterpoint, the dog tags swing forward and nearly smack into the mirror.
Driven by a sudden insistent instinct, Slade bends forward and plasters himself against Jason's back. The kid's eyes slam open, catching Slade's through the mirror, and while he looks surprised, there's no objections when Slade's arm wraps around his torso and pulls him up, straightening them both. Jason whimpers quietly, when Slade's cock slides just a little bit deeper in. Instead of pulling out, Slade grinds, and Jason's whole body spasms. His head drops back on Slade's shoulder as he rises on tiptoe. His head turns to the side and up as he pants, and the horrible brand on his skin that Slade mostly forgets in the day to day is suddenly right in front of his eye. It's stark now, nearly white against the reddened skin around it, deep and wrinkly and permanent.
Slade's not exactly sure what comes over him. Temporary insanity, maybe caused by lack of oxygen in the humidity, short circuiting his better judgment; maybe some weird bout of pre-mission jitters. Because through all of this, from the very first encounter they'd had, he has known that some things are off-limits. He has pushed and prodded, certainly, poked and tested the line, danced right up to it and balanced on the farthest edge. But some things are Not Done. Like taking off Jason's shirt. Like touching The Brand.
Jason freezes under him, stilling like a statue.
Well. In for a penny…
Slade kisses the brand again. The puckered skin is surprisingly cold under his lips. It's somehow simultaneously wrinkled and drawn tight, different from most scars Slade has dealt with. Which is not surprising, come to think of it. Most of the others were made by cutting, slashing, stabbing. This was made by fire-hot metal.
Jason's not breathing.
Slade breathes against the brand. "J for Jason," he murmurs, right into the skin so brutally violated. He's not sure how much feeling Jason has in it, so he carefully traces the bottom curve with his lips. "You," he whispers, "don't belong to anyone but yourself." Jason's sharp inhale feels like the rattle of a gun in the cramped room. Slade kisses the brand again. It is fully healed, now; it was old even when they met the first time, God, that's years ago now. As far as Slade's concerned, it's always been part of Jason, intrinsically linked to who he is, what he wants, and what drives him. It's as much of a monument to his indomitable will as it ever was some kind of twisted brand of ruin and ownership by the Clown. The Clown may have forced it on him, but it is not up to that despicable bastard to define what it means now. "None of them —" the Bat, the Clown, Scarecrow, take your pick —"has a say in who you are."
Jason's heart beats hard under Slade's hands, his body still tight, tight, like a bird on the verge of taking flight. Except Jason is a phoenix, rising from the ashes where other men would've burned out, doing, deciding, living, long past what the Clown ever imagined for him.
When Jason breathes, it's shaky. But he still doesn't pull a knife. Doesn't run.
"I got you," Slade murmurs, and Jason shivers. He slowly slides his hands around Jason's torso, pulling them even tighter together, tilting slightly back. And Jason… Jason lets him. Inch by inch, he leans back and lets Slade pull him up to his toes, and take all of his weight. Slade's hand settles in the middle of his sternum, pressing down steadily. The metal tags dig into his palm, and right under them is the steady, if a bit fast, beat of Jason's heart.
Slade breathes in the scent of the kid's shampoo, filling his lungs with it. He flexes his hips forward, gently, and Jason sighs, melting further into his arms, nearly molding against him, a perfect fit.
Slade slides his free hand down the plains and valleys of Jason's stomach. The muscles of his Adonis belt quiver under Slade's fingers, anticipating where the road leads. Slade kisses the thin skin behind Jason's ear and takes hold of his cock. Jason makes a sound like all air is punched out of him when Slade wipes his thumb over the head and rubs where the precome is dripping out in fat pearls. Jason shivers and shifts, and Slade hushes him. "I got you," he assures in a whisper. Then he wraps his hand around the shaft and starts stroking.
Jason makes an aborted little noise, and his hand comes up, reaching backward and grabbing Slade's hair. His fingers tangle in, but he doesn't pull, just holds on. Slade grinds in, a counterpoint to the steady rhythm of his hand, and Jason cries out. Slade latches onto the skin right in front of him, nibbling and working on it, making his own little mark. It will fade and disappear, but for tomorrow, it will be there, blatant and clear right next to the brand.
Jason moans, loudly, when he finally lets go. His grip tightens momentarily, sending sharp little bolts of lightning through Slade's body, suddenly reminding him anew how hard his cock is in its snug, and wet, and perfect hiding place inside of Jason's body. Sweat beads on his skin, the moisture in the air of the still damp bathroom making it so much worse (better).
Jason clenches around him, tight, tight, tight.
"Slade," he says, voice cracking. His thighs start to shiver.
"C'mon, baby," Slade says, twisting his wrist on the down stroke. And Jason comes. His mouth opens in that perfect 'O' as his back arches against Slade, fingers in his hair tightening into a sparkly little sting. His come spurts out, once, twice, and a third time when Slade purposefully grinds against his prostate, making him keen and twitch. White stripes stain his shirt, high enough to reach the middle of his chest and the back of Slade's hand. And if his hand hadn’t been right there, the little tags right underneath.
"Gah," says Slade, and his cock, still inside Jason, twitches. Which sends another little shock through Jason, before he finally slumps against Slade, breathing hard.
Slade slowly lets go of his cock. He bends forward just enough to allow Jason's heels to reach the ground, but keeps his hold even when the kid takes his own weight again.
"Boss," he says before the last bits of satisfaction disappear from Jason's half-lidded eyes. "Let me take you to bed. I want to—" Slade stammers to a halt. Fuck you suddenly doesn't seem to fit.
Jason shifts, inadvertently clenching against the cock inside him, and for a moment, his face goes slack again. Slade wants to see it again. He doesn't want the night to end yet.
"Let me take you to bed," he repeats. "Let me make you feel good."
Jason blinks. "Uh," he says. "You don't normally… ask."
Slade asks plenty. Maybe not in that many words, but that's semantics. And the finer points of communication skills are furthest from his mind right now. Right now, he wants Jason on the sheets of his ridiculously narrow little bunk, looking up at Slade, the little metal tags riding up his chest in the rhythm of the thrust of Slade's cock into him as he carves his way in and leaves his mark, one last time.
"Well, boss," he says, "Let's make it a proper farewell."