Chapter Text
Slade hates Gotham. Detests it. The shit stain of a city very often seems like an island all on its own: you either live in Gotham and never leave, or you don't live in Gotham and never come.
The streets are confusing, half the street lights don't work, the smog over the city is often thick enough to block out the damn sun, and if you aren't on the WE cellular network chances are you aren't getting cell reception. Which is absolute utter bullshit because the WE network is absolute crap basically everywhere else.
But maybe Slade should have purchased a prepaid plan for his trip here.
As it stands, it's three in the morning, no one's on the street, he has already parked his car in a lot because his GPS said his hotel was close, and he is very lost and in a place that is very much not the Diamond District. Although considering how much he paid for parking, his car is definitely in the Diamond District, and he's only been walking for twenty minutes at the most, so he's not really sure where he got turned around.
Can't find out either, because without his car to boost his cell’s signal with provided wifi, his cell reception is non-existent. And he's taken too many turns to be able to get back to his car smoothly. He'd been listening to his phone's GPS, not realizing it was leading him down street names that don't exist, thinking that when navigation didn't line up perfectly, it was just because of slow service. Turns out, his phone was under the impression he was in Miami, Florida, as opposed to Gotham, New Jersey. Utterly fucking useless.
Which is why when he turns the next corner and sees some kid spray painting the side of a building, he has nothing but relief. Despite the fact that it's more proof that he's not in the Diamond District anymore.
“Hey,” Slade calls out just to be ignored. “Kid,” He tries again. “I'm talking to you, you little shit,” is his final try, not because he thinks it will work but because he's ready to slam the kid's head into the same wall he’s spraying his paint on.
The kid still doesn't spare him a look. “Not a kid, Grandpa, and I don't have any money, so keep it the fuck moving unless you wanna know how easily I can give you a concussion with a can of paint.”
“What you can do with a can of paint, I can do with one hand,” Slade threatens. It's true he's not dressed as Deathstroke right now, but that hardly means he isn't dangerous.
“You wish you had my artistic talent,” the kid says, and whether he’s purposely misunderstanding the threat or just stupid is anyone’s guess. He finally steps away from the wall, but it’s to study his graffiti, as opposed to addressing the threat that is Slade.
Which is when Slade finally pays attention to what the boy had been spray painting, which is very clearly Batman sucking the Joker's dick. The picture itself is crude, but Slade can’t argue against the kid having artistic talent.
“What do you think?” the kid asks, rubbing at his chin with one hand as he continues to hold the can of spray paint in the other. “Feel like I shoulda made Joker’s dick thinner. Looks too much like I’m complimenting the bastard.”
Slade has no idea how to respond to that, so he ignores it. “I need directions.” The kid interrupts him with a snort before he can explain further.
He does, at least, finally turn his head to glance at him. “You don't say,” the kid replies flatly, pointedly looking him up and down, most likely taking in his expensive suit. “Well, golly gee, mister, I'd love to help you out. Unfortunately, I've already given my last fuck for the day, so you'll have to find someone else to walk you home.”
“Not asking for you to walk me anywhere, just need some directions,” Slade clarifies, despite the fact that the remark had been sarcastic. “And I’ll pay you for your trouble.” Because money gets shit done, and he’s got plenty of it.
It has the kid perking up considerably as he turns around to face him fully. “Well, what about that? I think I might’ve just found a fuck to give. How much ya got?”
“A twenty for some directions.”
The kid looks Slade up and down again before he scoffs. “Think that fuck just flew away. Might be able to find it again for fifty.”
The audacity of this little fuck. Trying to hose Slade just because he’s in a well-tailored suit instead of dressed in ripped jeans and a paint-stained shirt. “Or, you can give me directions and, in exchange, I won’t put your head on the curb and stomp on it.”
It does nothing to intimidate the stupid kid. Instead of looking scared, he’s gone right back to glaring. “You can try,” he says, puffing out his chest and dropping the can of paint. “Then you won’t have to worry about being lost cause you’ll have a bullet in your fucking head.”
Slade reminds himself that he should not draw attention to himself by killing this kid. Batman’s out tonight, and his job will go a lot easier if Batman doesn’t know he’s in town until after he’s performed his required kill. The one he’s actually being paid for.
But, fuck if he isn’t tempted.
“Ask your fucks how many of them give a shit about you dying,” Slade says before he runs forward, planning to grab the kid up and slam him against the wall. Just because killing him is a bad idea, doesn’t mean he can’t rough him up a little. A lesson in respect in exchange for those directions he needs.
It should be easy. Most people, when faced with two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle coming at them like a freight train, will freeze. Just for a few seconds. Just enough time for their body to have that ‘oh shit’ moment before it reboots and does something useful. And Slade’s only a few yards away from the kid. A few seconds is all he needs to already be on him.
Except the kid doesn’t freeze; he ducks and dodges to the right. It’s downright impressive. But impressive or not, the kid’s still stupid. Instead of running away, his next move is to try and sucker punch Slade in the back of the head.
Slade easily grabs his wrist before it can make contact, picks the dumbass up by the neck, and slams him into the pavement. There’s an audible crack as the back of his head meets the ground. In another completely unexpected twist, the kid doesn’t close his eyes against the pain, letting Slade watch him go cross-eyed for a moment. Looks like the kid’s earned himself a free concussion to go along with Slade’s lesson in respect.
But the kid’s quick to prove that he didn’t learn a fucking thing.
“Fuck. What the fuck, you asshole?” he wheezes. Like Slade had just shoulder-checked him while passing by, as opposed to giving him what might be a fractured skull.
The kid’s stupid as fucking shit. He’s surprised the idiot’s not already dead with the mouth he has on him.
But Slade’s also mildly impressed. And, for some unfathomable reason, Slade’s anger has, somehow, some way, turned into amusement instead. “How the fuck has someone not killed you already?” he asks as he lets go of the kid and straightens back up. He debates helping the kid up before deciding that he’s not quite that far past his initial anger.
“I’m too much like a cockroach, according to dear ole dad,” the kid answers, slowly sitting up. He makes no move to actually stand. He reaches for the back of his head with a wince and scowls when his hand comes back bloody.
“You’re going to need stitches,” Slade says, making no move to check to see if he’s right. The loud crack that echoed off the alley’s walls when the kid’s head met the cement had been enough of an indicator. But the amount of blood that’s currently pouring from the kid’s new wound is also solid proof of the need for stitches.
The kid scoffs. “Gotta shave your head for that, right? Hard fucking pass.”
Vanity. From this fucking kid with ripped jeans and a stained shirt. Slade’s rendered speechless at the kid’s utter fucking stupidity.
“I don’t need anyone around here thinking I’m a fucking Nazi,” the kid continues, his face scrunched up in what he probably means to be a glare but just looks like a grimance.
And Slade’s not familiar enough with Gotham to know if that’s a valid concern the kid should have, but he kind of suspects it is.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been so rough.
“I have some surgical glue in my car,” Slade offers. Applying it will be tricky. Kid’s definitely going to end up with glue in his hair. And Slade will have to be the one to apply it for the kid, since it’s on the back of his head, which Slade is very much not looking forward to. But it means the wound can be sealed up without the kid having to shave any of his hair off.
The kid doesn’t look the slightest bit appreciative of the offer. He gives an incredulous, single-syllable laugh. “The nice act is unnecessary, you fucking psycho. Hundred bucks if you want directions, otherwise, fuck off.”
This motherfucking kid.
“You get me back to my car, I’ll take care of your cut, and then you give me directions to my hotel,” Slade negotiates. “After that, fine; you’ll get your hundred dollars.” He’s not agreeing to the new price out of guilt because Slade doesn’t feel guilty. He’s just tired and impatient to get to a bed.
The kid blinks at him for a long while. Long enough that Slade starts to worry that maybe a trip to the hospital should be in this kid’s future.
“Money up front,” the little idiot eventually says.
A laugh forces its way up Slade’s throat. Mother of shit. He wonders if everyone in Gotham is this much of a lunatic or if the kid’s just special.
Slade gives him a hundred-dollar bill.
The kid smirks as he shoves the bill into his pocket. “Knew you were loaded,” he says, like Slade’s just confirmed that the kid solved some great mystery. “Pack up my shit for me,” the kid demands as he slowly stands up. “It’s the least you can do after splitting my skull open,” he says when all Slade does is glare.
And Slade doesn’t take orders from little shits. Except the kid’s unsteady on his feet, and Slade’s pretty sure if he leans over for the duffle bag on the ground, he’s just going to end up falling on his face. So, yes, Slade will pack up the loose fucking cans of spray paint, and he’ll pick up the damn duffle. He’s also going to tell the kid what a rude little shit he is. “If you were less of a brat, less people might feel compelled to crack your skull open,” Slade advises.
The kid just shrugs, looking unconcerned. “Maybe. Are you getting my shit or not?”
“Ungrateful little shit,” Slade replies as he grabs the bag and starts chucking the cans of spray paint into it. He’s certain the kid’s going to snark back. Something about not being grateful for getting a concussion, or how he would’ve been grateful had Slade not bothered him in the first place. But he doesn’t say anything. And when Slade’s done packing everything up, he turns to find the kid just staring at him in a daze.
He’s tempted to ask if the kid’s okay. He thinks about suggesting a trip to the hospital again.
“Let’s go,” he says instead of doing either of those things. He hands the duffle bag off to the kid as they head out of the alley and onto the main street. “I parked in the garage on the corner of Fifth and Clifford.”
The kid laughs, loud and vicious. “No, you did not!” he exclaims, like it’s some kind of scandalous thing. “Oh, man, you are so fucking dumb. No way your rich fuck car makes it through the night. I’d be surprised if it isn’t already in a chop shop by now.” He sounds delighted by the prospect.
Slade’s tempted to slam the kid’s head into the pavement again. Fortunately for the kid, Slade needs him for directions. He tries to distract himself from his annoyance by worrying about his car instead. He hasn’t been parked there long. Maybe an hour at the very most. But he’s fucked if the kid’s right, and someone’s already stolen it. He’s in a bad part of town with no cell reception in the middle of the night. All he needs is for the kid to steal his wallet to make his night complete.
The thought makes him paranoid.
He brushes his hand over the left side of his chest and feels his wallet still sitting in the inside pocket of his suit.
Good.
But he still might not have a car anymore. He’s about to complain that the kid’s moving too slow and demand that he hurry the fuck up. But then the kid sways, then stumbles, and then he’s going down.
Slade takes two quick strides to reach the kid and yanks him up by the back of his shirt. He stumbles into Slade’s chest but manages to keep his feet under him. More importantly, his face doesn’t meet with the pavement. No harm done.
The kid throws up on Slade’s shoes.
‘Karma,’ a part of Slade's mind insists. That's what he gets for throwing some kid around who isn't used to dealing with metas.
“That's your own fault,” the kid mutters unapologetically, unknowingly matching Slade’s own thoughts.
“If you pass out on me before we get to my car, I'm taking back my hundred bucks,” Slade says instead of offering up his own apology.
“Didn't agree to take you to your car,” the kid replies, still leaning into Slade. “Said I'd take you to the parking garage. Not my fault if someone's lifted your car before we get there.”
It's something Slade doesn't need to be reminded of. “If you keep dragging your feet, it will be your fault my car's not there,” he argues.
It finally gets the kid to push off him and stumble a few steps up the road before he seems to straighten himself out. “If you wanted me to go faster then you shouldn't have given me a concussion, asshole,” he mutters, but he does quicken his steps.
Slade's car is, miraculously, according to Jason, still in the parking garage when they get there. And Slade glues up the kid's head as promised. He mentions the hospital, and the kid laughs like Slade's telling a joke.
So Slade lets it drop and mentions the hotel he's staying at instead. The kid, surprisingly, gives the directions Slade needs without any further prompting. “I'll even do ya one better,” the kid offers with a grin. “Across the street from your hotel is a twenty-four-seven diner. Ms. Lucinda owns it. If you talk to her, she’ll let you park there for twenty-five bucks a night. And everybody around here knows not to fuck with her or anything on her property.”
Ms. Lucinda. Slade has to hold back a laugh. It’s weird to hear the punk ass kid put that amount of respect around a name. It definitely lends some weight to the claim that no one fucks with this Ms. Lucinda. “Alright,” Slade replies, holding back his laugh. “Appreciate that.”
They’re done. The kid’s wound is treated to the best of Slade’s ability, and Slade has his directions. And even if those directions are bullshit, it doesn’t really matter because he’s back in his car with working wifi and he’s got a place to park that’s right across the street from his hotel.
And the kid was very clear about not wanting to go to the hospital.
So, Slade leaves the kid and goes on his way. It's not until he's trying to check in at the lobby of his hotel that he realizes that while he still has his wallet, all of his cash is missing. There's no doubt in his mind that the kid is responsible for it. Little asshole owes him $500, and if he doesn't have the cash to pay it back by the time Slade finds him then he's happy to take payment in the form of a few broken bones from the little thief.
Then, as if that wasn't enough, three days after Slade’s started staying at the hotel, he learns the parking lot across the street is shared between the hotel and the diner, no extra fees necessary for hotel guests to park there, and the woman Ms. Lucinda doesn't even fucking exist. Even more, as soon as he learns this, the woman he's been paying disappears.
And Slade refuses to be made into a fool.
Unfortunately, it's hard to find a street kid when he doesn't even know his name. Slade checks around the street he originally found him on, and asks around for him, but he doesn't make any progress.
He’s still in Gotham two days past his contract when he gets a call from his daughter.
“Rose,” Slade greets, combing through traffic cameras in his hotel room, still trying to find the piece of shit kid who not only stole from him, but also conned him into giving away another seventy-five.
“I thought you said you wouldn't be gone longer than a week,” Rose snaps. “It's been ten days. I didn't come stay with you so I could parent your kid, asshole. I have a life too, you know.”
Slade tries to hide his irritation. “Don’t act like it’s such a hardship. Respawn’s at school most of the time. What do you do? Cook him dinner and make sure he goes to sleep at some point before morning? In exchange for staying at my house rent-free? Sounds like a real challenge.”
“I do more than that, asshole. He’s been home all day for over two weeks now. And who's watching him from morning until night with no breaks? Fucking me.”
Slade stops going through the pictures on the city server that had been laughably easy to break into. He frowns as he processes this new information and tries not to be livid over it. “Why the fuck isn’t he in school?”
Rose has the audacity to huff at him. “Man, you’re really aiming for that father of the year award, aren’t you? You realize it’s June? And kids don’t have school in the summer? You need to come home and parent your damn kid before I drop him into a dumpster and leave him to fend for himself.”
She hangs up before Slade can come up with any sort of response.
He ends up packing his shit and heading back to Kentucky that same night. He can always take another job in Gotham once he makes sure Rose isn't going to burn the house down out of spite. Good chance it’ll still be standing when Slade gets there, since she hadn’t specifically threatened that this time, but it is normally her go-to move anytime she feels like Slade’s wronged her in some way, so he can’t be sure until he gets there and verifies it for himself.
Besides, Slade’s more than capable of breaking back into the Gotham City servers while he’s comfortable at home. He can figure out the kid’s regular haunts, so when he comes back, he’ll know exactly where to look for him.
That little shit is going to regret the day he ever met Slade Wilson.
TBC