Work Text:
Okay, so maybe he was in too deep.
Officially, Tim Drake was on vacation in Tahiti. Unofficially, he was undercover in Greece to bag three local gangs at once. If he could play the game long enough, meet all the bosses at the same time, he would be able to gather enough evidence to link them each to a much bigger scheme going down in Mask’s shrinking territory.
It wasn’t a favor. It was just… business. Doing this for Hood and for Batman and for his own peace of mind would draw everyone involved a little closer together under the banner of “Thank Goodness THAT Problem’s Been Dealt With”. The jury was still out over whether Hood would just go the petty route by begrudging the supposed glory, but he would still get to kick Mask’s face in with his own steel-toed boots, so really, who was winning here?
They were getting pretty antsy about his cover story, though, and he was sure his youth was to blame at this point. His facts were completely foolproof; his fake past had a very long paper trail, and none of them individually had the resources to trace it all the way back to its source. It was instinct, then, that had them eyeing him sideways as they waited for the final boss to arrive, watching him carefully as he sipped on the expensive wine, widening their nostrils to try taking in whatever designation was hidden behind military-grade scent blockers, and shooting him snide comments that any other immature teenager would have given themselves away snapping back at.
Tim Drake, or Mister Echelon, as he was codenamed here, offered cold stares all around while he leaned back, faking languid relaxation that hid the coiled spring inside while everyone waited. Waited… waited… waiiiiiiited…
“Something must have gone wrong,” someone muttered in Greek, standing.
Echelon raised his hand in a gesture of calm, flicking it around to check his watch. “He is only five minutes late.”
“Five minutes is five too many,” the man snapped, jerking his suit jacket straight. “I would not expect a child like YOU to understand.”
Echelon heaved a put-upon sigh, tipping his glass to give the contents a mournful look. “At least let me finish my wine.”
No one else seemed very committed to leaving, but tension had mounted by the time the third boss actually did walk through the door, and Echelon wasn’t interested in letting that angst stew. He stood up, allowing himself to be searched by the pushy guards as he rolled his eyes at the man in charge.
“Who’s the brat?” the boss muttered, ruffled for some reason. The tension mounted. Something had these people spooked, something that wasn’t Tim Drake, and his presence was definitely not helping.
Belatedly, he wondered if he should have brought someone who looked older.
“Mister Echelon,” he drawled plainly, bored, and shrugged the annoyance off his shoulders as the touchy guards finally stepped back. “I’m the one brokering this deal, Karagianni. For the sake of your men here, I suggest you have everyone else searched. I would hate to feel targeted.”
The man broke out a slimy smile, flashing his gold teeth. “We really wouldn’t want that. Boys?”
The guards performed sloppy checks on everyone else while Echelon properly shook hands, made eye contact, and introduced his associates. Generic, meaningless movements; standard opening maneuvers in a game of chess against an enemy who didn’t yet know what game they were playing. Something was off, something he might later regret missing, but there was no time for investigation; the game was on. He’d had these dance moves down to an art since he was six. Galas really had an awful lot in common with the courtesies of the criminal underworld, even on the other side of the globe. All he needed now was to avoid what he couldn’t see, what was going wrong behind the scenes, until the deal was---
His eyes caught on a familiar head of white hair. His stomach dropped, frustration rising to take the place of earlier confidence. His hesitation earned him what he assumed was eye contact; the mercenary was wearing sunglasses, but it was obvious that he recognized Echelon’s face, and he was already making his lazy way across the bar.
Echelon was going to kill himself.
His stall had not gone unnoticed. The tension mounted, hands diving toward hidden firearms that apparently hadn’t been found by the guards, and he realized belatedly that the off beat he’d been feeling beneath the soles of his feet was a poorly hidden element of surprise. He snapped a quiet string of Greek platitudes, urging them to get on with it, but no amount of damage control was going to salvage the wire he’d tripped; the deal was done before it had even started. A trap was being sprung. He was the damn target.
“It’s done,” a low growl reverberated around the table.
Echelon forced himself to stay relaxed; visible tension would only spur everyone into action. Deathstroke’s voice had frozen them in place. He clocked six reactions before turning his attention to the least of his problems, the asshole smirking at him with crossed arms. At least three of the men recognized Slade Wilson by sound alone. That wasn’t good.
“You do realize,” he snapped back, trying to keep his voice in a threatening depth. “that I’m BUSY?”
Wilson cocked his head for a moment, his expression indiscernible behind his sunglasses. Echelon’s frayed instincts could practically feel the mercenary’s gaze darting around. He saw something the omega didn’t. That was even less good.
Surprisingly, the alpha’s next words pitched into a note of grudging respect. “You said triple for a confession before death. I got both. My other client will go batshit if I don’t get your go-ahead on the next step, and he doesn’t like waiting.”
Batshit, Echelon realized, buying a few seconds of time by straightening his vest. Wilson was giving him an out. No, not only that--- Wilson was giving him a smokescreen. The three bosses were already shooting him slightly frightened glances, reassessing. If this kid had Deathstroke’s business, Deathstroke’s respect---
The mercenary was probably going to get something significant out of this deal, but it was the best out available that wouldn’t blow this operation right out of the water, so Echelon heaved another deep sigh as he appeared to come to a reluctant decision. “Five minutes to close this deal.”
Wilson flicked two fingers in acknowledgement, retreating to lean against one of the wood pillars at an irritated tilt. His back was turned now, but the protective body language was obvious to anyone who’d dealt with professional bodyguard services before.
The subtle cues were piling up to put Mister Echelon in a VERY respectable position of power. He wondered bitterly, as everyone relaxed away from their hidden weapons, what he was about to have to pay for that.
Wrapping up the deal after this little interruption was a fine matter of playing to the collective awe before it faded away. Echelon got what he needed with smooth words and perfectly controlled hints and the ignoring of fragile surface tension by the skin of his teeth.
They would have killed him on the way out, changed their minds once he had the records in his possession, if the mercenary hadn’t quietly paced back into the edges of everyone’s buzzing instincts right as Echelon was giving his final handshake. Jerking a somber nod, Echelon lead the way out, bristling with Deathstroke at his back, but realizing logically that he had no choice--- A bodyguard would take up the rear, and that was apparently the game. They left the fracturing good nature of the winery, took a few turns down the street at a brisk pace, and left the crime lords behind.
Tim snapped out his staff the moment he felt Deathstroke’s pace shifting. The mercenary’s hand slapped heavily onto his nape, gripping, and Tim fought the panicked wave of dizziness like he’d been trained to do as he brought up a tidy swing---
“NO,” Deathstroke growled lowly. The sound reached straight past Tim’s ears, down his spine, and into the depths of his bones. He whimpered as the staff fell from nerveless fingers. He’d never encountered a command like that, not even from Batman.
Instead of beating him to hell or kidnapping him into one of those suspicious white vans everyone always talked about, Deathstroke pushed him, guiding his movements by the tight grip on his nape. “Just keep walking; they’re still watching us.”
“Y’ got me out already,” Tim tried to protest as he went along with it for now, plotting his next move. Maybe a kick between the legs would buy him the two seconds he needed…
“Not your guys.” Wilson’s voice tightened. “MY guys.”
Tim considered that for a second until it made sense. “People’re tryna kill both of us tonight? What’a small world.”
Grumpy, Deathstroke shoved him at a nice car with clearly bulletproof windows as soon as they exited the maze of alleyways into an actual street. “Just get in.”
Even more grumpy, Tim did so, but only because it was better than being shot by enemies that weren’t even his. He crossed his arms as soon as he was buckled in the passenger seat, eyeing the dashboard for a trap.
Wilson got in, locked the doors, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He didn’t turn the car on for a while. He just stared at the road ahead, completely still.
Tim’s annoyance mounted. “I charge by the hour, y’kno---”
A light slap, extremely gentle for the amount of force Deathstroke was actually capable of, backhanded Tim across the face. Fast. He fell silent, more stunned by the audacity than the pain, and left himself wide open to being grabbed. Deathstroke gripped his chin in an iron hold, exposing his huge canines in a snarl, and Tim shut his fucking mouth.
He’d never felt smaller in his entire life.
“That,” Wilson growled slowly, spitting every word like acid. “was incredibly stupid. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. I smelled that setup a mile away. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a smear on someone’s boot by now if I hadn’t stepped in.”
Tim scowled to cover the burning in his eyes. The scolding didn’t mean much coming from someone he didn’t know or respect, but the reminder that he was alone did kind of ache. “What do YOU care? One less Bat to deal with, right?”
The asshole let him go with a verbal growl, starting up the car. “I don’t actually want you dead. How much sleep have you had?”
Tim crossed his arms tightly. His chin stung. “There are other reasons for being sloppy.”
“Were you poisoned, then?”
“…….Okay, so I could have gotten better sleep.” Tim fingered his panic button, glancing at the mercenary in his peripheral. “You shouldn’t be driving with only one eye.”
“You’re not as good a liar as you think you are,” Deathstroke said lightly, ignoring him to maneuver perfectly into traffic headed for the bridge. “I can smell it on you; you’re going into heat.”
Tim sneered to cover the spike of anxiety. So he was a little overdue. He had taken three rounds of suppressants before tonight. His system would hate him for it later, but it was better than dealing with that pack bonding crap on the other side of the globe with no pack. “What kinda creep wants to know?”
Deathstroke gave him a very exasperated glare. “I’m on good terms with your brother.”
Tim blinked rapidly. “What?”
“Todd. We’re business partners. I know he’s fond of you, and I don’t want the Bat on my case, either. There are your answers for why I care. So?”
Tim tried to wrestle back his mental control of the situation. “So?”
“Is someone coming for you, or am I about to make a very unfriendly call to our mutual annoyance? I’m sure Grayson would love to know about this little operation you’ve likely kept a secret.”
Tim narrowed his eyes as the mercenary’s impassive patch slid in and out and into sight under the passing yellow lights of the bridge. “You WOULDN’T.”
A vicious smile curled across Wilson’s face. “That would be a fun show to watch from a distance.”
Tim weighed his options carefully, trying not to let his fury, part of which he knew was irrationally hormonal, dictate his actions. Deathstroke had absolutely no qualms about messing with Nightwing; the threat, though mild, was a real one. He would enjoy hanging the possibility of physical harm over Red Robin’s head until the biggest bird showed up with crackling electricity at his fingertips.
Tim knew that Deathstroke wasn’t going to hurt him. The vibes he’d gotten so far were almost smugly… paternal?... and even in forcing him out of a mutually fucked scenario, Wilson had used very minimal force. He could have hurt or manipulated Tim in ten different ways by now, all without lifting a finger, but the most he’d done was tell Tim off for being sloppy.
It was weird.
“What are my other options?” Tim asked casually, easing a little as an overwhelmingly grumpy alpha scent that should not have been reassuring filled the compact space inside the car.
“You don’t get out of this without calling someone to come get you,” Wilson answered just as casually. “You don’t have to tell them I’m guarding you until they arrive, though.”
Tim sat up, so suddenly indignant that he forgot about his act of cool decorum. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“I’ve brought entire governments to their knees!!!”
“So have my own children, and believe me, they could have done with supervision in the meantime.” Wilson gave him a truly irritating smirk. “Consider this my fulfillment of a favor. When you can take care of yourself, you won’t need to hear from me again; Bats will be happy--- If there is such a thing--- and my partnership with your brother can move on in peace. This is an absolute win all around. I suggest you take the option that involves the least amount of coercion.”
Tim slumped into his seat with a distinct sulk. He was too tired to try outsmarting this asshole. People thought what they wanted to think, and Deathstroke obviously thought of him as a child. The absolute nerve. “Where’re we going?”
“To the outskirts of the city.” Wilson pulled off the main road as he said it, taking an exit ramp into a quiet neighborhood. “I have a safehouse here.”
“You have a safehouse everywhere,” Tim snarked at far below his level best.
“It’s nice to be rich.”
The area they pulled into a few minutes later was startlingly nice. When Tim thought “safehouse”, he usually imagined “run-down apartment building with a rat problem that no one would look at twice”, but Deathstroke’s definition was clearly a bit different. This place had two floors, a balcony, a small gate… even a fountain. The rest of the houses on this street were of a similar caliber, lit up for display on the outside but all quiet within.
Tim steadied himself on the car door as he got out. Now that the adrenaline had run its course, he really wasn’t feeling great. Those suppressants hadn’t--- Oop---
A huge hand rested on the curve of his back, smoothing warmth down his spine as his body involuntarily coughed up the little he’d had for lunch into the perfectly trimmed hedge. “How many did you take?”
“Three,” Tim croaked grumpily, but that irritation was quickly dissolving. A spike of anxiety shot through his chest. “Didju drug me?”
“No.” Wilson’s hand on his shoulder, the other on his forehead, and it was so blissfully cool--- “This isn’t me. Your system feels safe enough to process the crap you’ve been putting it through. Come.”
Tim swayed dizzily after him, following the mercenary up the steps, through the huge oak door, and down the front hallway. It was all somewhat familiar, the fancy posh shit, but the neutral colors were on the warmer side, and the lamps had forgone the harsh white lighting for a soft yellow glow.
“Come,” Wilson reminded him when he paused to blink at the wooden chandelier. Tim trotted to catch up, traitorous warmth pooling in his stomach at the softness that had entered the formidable alpha’s voice. He reminded himself that this was supposed to be a dangerous situation, a practical hostage scenario that would set anyone else on edge.
Anyone in their right mind, probably.
“Sit,” Wilson told him, and Tim sat. He rested his forehead on the cool countertop, but it sorta shocked his already cold-warm-cold nerves, so he forced himself to sit up instead. Everything was a little bit fuzzy. Why was he here again?
“Call your brother,” Wilson ordered quietly, dropping two charcoal pills into Tim’s limp hand.
Tim squinted at them for a moment, decided they were probably just meant to soak up the suppressants and acid and whatever other shit shouldn’t have been in his twisting stomach, and accepted the juice box to swallow them with. “Deathstroke buys himself juice boxes?”
“Kid… your brother.”
“He’ll freak out.”
“Your other brother.”
“Oh.” Tim thought about that while he sipped on his juice. Would Jason pick him up? Would Jason even care? “Don’ think he likes me all that much.”
“Neither do I.” Wilson bent over to give Tim a truly unamused look. “Guess what I’m doing?”
Tim scowled stubbornly. “Not bein’ helpful.”
“No, saving your life certainly doesn’t fall into that category.” Deathstroke pulled Tim’s phone from his pocket, planting it in his hand. “CALL him.”
Surly by now, but unwilling to risk chasing away the increasing stability that was coming from a very unlikely external force, Tim texted Jason his coordinates instead. After a beat, he added reluctantly, “In heat, safe for now, gonna nap.” Then he turned his notifications off to avoid any further repercussions.
“Done?” Slade asked quietly, resting a hand on the back of Tim’s neck.
Tim unspooled with a glare. “Y’re bein’ manipulative.”
“I,” Slade said patiently, much more soothing for some reason now that Tim followed his instructions. “have been a father three times.”
“A shitty one.”
“You win or you learn, kid. C’mon, there are nesting materials in the inner bedroom downstairs. I haven’t used it, it’s windowless, and there’s an ensuite bathroom if you want it.”
“I’m not nesting here,” Tim balked even as he slid from his seat to trail after the alpha like a ruffled duckling.
Slade considered him with one eye, an amused tilt to his mouth. “There’s a television, a mattress warmer, and a mini refrigerator.”
“Fuckin’ LEAD with that.”
Slade sighed deeply, ushering Tim into the correct bedroom before turning around again. “Spoiled little brat. I’ll order pizza.”
Slade Wilson, Tim decided muzzily, wasn’t all that bad. No way in hell the omega was taking a shower in unknown territory with a supposed-to-be-enemy at his back, though. He just rooted around in every corner of every piece of fancy furniture until he’d found all the available nesting materials, then dumped them haphazardly on the bed. He considered the setting very deeply for a moment. Something was off. He shoved and huffed and pushed until the huge bed was in the corner instead of the middle. Better.
By the time Slade reentered the room, Tim was fortified behind a perfectly structured wall of a soft nest he didn’t even remember building. The loneliness was spiking with a vengeance now, true warmth setting in as his scent began to cry out pathetically for pack. He reined his instincts in before they could force him to make a mortified chirp. Slade, for his part, worked his jaw a few times at the door before properly coming in, staying well outside of the nest as he reached over to hand in a hot pizza, bottles of water, and painkillers. Was that a…?
Tim snatched the hoodie close, taking deeeeeep sniffs of the red material until he was dizzy again. He nestled back into the corner of the nest, trying to keep his eyes from welling with stupidly emotional tears. “This’s Jason’s. Why d’you have Jason’s hoodie?”
Slade glanced away, uncomfortable for the first time all evening. “He’s my pup.”
Tim blinked several times before deciding that he was not going to ask for clarification, nope, that was neither his business to know or in his best interest to find out. He buried his face in the hoodie to hide, nodding.
Slade Wilson was trying to take care of him. What was his LIFE?
“I’ll keep watch,” the alpha was saying, turning away, leaving---
Impulsively, Tim chirped.
Slade froze where he stood, back turned.
Tim could feel the blush creeping from his neck to his forehead. It was too late to back out now. He doubled down, chirping louder, and veeeeeeery cautiously tipped his chin up.
Slade turned around, his face an impassive expanse of stone, and leaned over to reach into the nest. He swiped his wrist quickly down either side of Tim’s neck, leaving behind protect-defend-possess. Then he very quickly stalked back out.
Tim curled tightly over the hoodie, trying to ignore the phantom sensation of a comforting hand on his nape, and told himself that everything would make sense again when his brother showed up.
“Timbooooooo.”
Tim struggled to pry his heavy eyelids open, snarling.
“Easy.” A quiet scent intruded on the nest via ungloved wrist. Tim sniffed it, suspicious. “Easy, Timberlina; I’m not gonna move ya. Wilson’s taken pretty good care of you, huh?”
“He’ll bite you,” a distant voice warned doubtfully.
Tim’s eyes crossed as the comforting omega scent finally registered. He scrubbed his cheek against a warm hand, a soft, shy, shaky purr vibrating to life in his chest.
A deep chuckle preceded a reassuring weight settling at his back, curling around his body like a very cuddly shield. “I’ll risk it.”