Chapter Text
Undercover missions could so easily go wrong, Kaldur and he had known from the very beginning. It was why they had intended to send Artemis as support as soon as possible. No matter on which side her father stood, he would never kill his daughter, and that, if nothing else, would have bought them time. They had been blindsided by the easy solution. No one involved had thought about the one code of honor villains loved to fulfill.
“Why does Richard Grayson call for Slade Wilson?”
Dick watched the man through the reflection of the glass facade, and with a last glance down at the streets, he turned to the mercenary in his hotel suite.
When Kaldur had told him Deathstroke was the new security chief, Dick had nearly cut the operation short. With all their problems, Slade was the last thing they needed to top the list, but there was no way he could pull them out without the Light growing suspicious and neither could he overbid the Light with money. This time he would have to pay with something of value.
He could give Slade information, but they were losing Mount Justice already, it would leave them too vulnerable. Even if Slade gave him leverage, made him do a handful of odd jobs that didn't go against his nature completely, Dick couldn't spend time away from Gotham. With Batman gone the crime was so high that it nearly overwhelmed Barbara, Tim, and him daily.
He couldn't endanger Kaldur and Artemis because of a stupid mistake. Their mission was difficult enough. Enemies surrounded them while they were forced to fight against their friends. Every day, they had to be what they were not, what they had sworn to never become.
“Drink?” Dick asked, even though he knew the answer.
He hadn't shared his worry when Kaldur had remained unconcerned by the exchange of security chiefs.
“Tell me why I am here, Grayson.”
Dick smirked, and the good eye narrowed ever so slightly while he seized the mercenary in front of him up. The designer clothes fit his body; made him look as if he could command the room with the twitch of a finger but hid the deadly muscles underneath. If not for the white hair, no one would have ever guessed how old he was.
“I heard about your new employer, and I have an offer to make,” he spoke bluntly, knowing it would only hinder him if he tried to avoid the subject. Slade hummed, and Dick went on.
“I’m not asking for betrayal, just for a small favor.”
“I don’t do favors.”
“I’ll pay you,” Dick replied offhandedly, and by now Slade looked at him in open amusement, tilting his head to the side.
“How do you plan to overbid the Light?”
How? Indeed. He had no clue if he could convince Slade that this would be worth it. All he could hope for was that he had learned enough from Bruce and Selina over the years. But what had Selina told him when he had asked how she got Bruce to fall apart so easily? No one is immune to charm. And, well, once Dinah had told him he could raise a pulse in a department store mannequin; had to count for something.
He stepped closer, a slow smile pulling on his lips, and held his hand out, palm up.
“Give me your hands.”
Slade only raised an eyebrow, real emotions hidden behind an as always carefully constructed mask.
“Come on, humor me,” he said, a small laugh catching in his throat, and he wiggled his fingers, “I couldn't defeat you in a fight even with an advantage.”
Always target their ego, make it personal.
“What are you planning?” Slade asked, but eased out of the defensive posture, and Dick locked their hands together without losing eye contact or his smile.
It was uncomfortably easy to see Slade as more than a reluctant ally, as more than one of his enemies. Slade had always blurred the lines.
“You know me so well that you forget how much I know you too,” Dick spoke softly, licking his lips and placing the warm hands on his hips. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest at the blunt action. It wasn't uncomfortable per se, but this wasn't who he was either. He swallowed, mentally doing the same to his nerves. “I know you want me.”
Dick captured the nearly unnoticeable widening of his eye and the tensing of muscle when Slade kept a smile off his face.
“I can give you what you want,” he promised, stepping closer until he could feel the heat of the broad body without touching him and guided the hands over his ass, squeezing. His face was burning, and he was thankful for his tanned skin. Slade kept watching him, not betraying anything, but the grip stayed on his hips when Dick let his fingertips brush over the strong hands.
“If you let me,” he whispered into his ear, breathing against his skin. He was growing hot under his suit, wished he had taken off his jacket before. It was a strange mixture of embarrassment and arousal that all but made him shudder.
“Try harder,” Slade spoke, amusement going under in a deep rumble, and Dick hummed, trying to hide the hitch catching in his throat when Slade kneaded his ass. "If I wanted sex, I would go to a sex worker.”
Dick chuckled, guiding the hands back to his hips and up, up, up. It was a lie; Slade would never let a stranger touch him but…
“This isn’t about sex,” he purred, clasping the hands around his throat with a sharp smile, “It's about control.”
His stomach dropped when he saw the flicker of lust and something more... dangerous. Heat pooled between his legs. Perhaps Wally had always been right to call him a dog. He was certainly heating up like one.
“What do you say?” he asked, a murmur softening his voice as if speaking too loudly would destroy everything he was working so hard for. The skin under his ear tingled when Slade caressed the spot, and he tilted into the touch without intention. His mouth grew dry. He didn’t dare turn his gaze away from Slade.
“I knew you were desperate the moment Wintergreen said your name, but now I can’t even imagine what trouble you are in.”
Dick kept his silence, a thumb tracing his cheekbone as Slade studied his face. Nothing betrayed that the last words had been a lie, but he knew anyway.
“How often?” Slade asked after agonizingly slow seconds passed between them. One hand stayed at his throat, a finger pulling him forward by the loop of his pants. Dick didn't fight against the closeness, kept plastered to his front as if he belonged there, the answering hardness the only proof that Slade was not feigning interest.
He pursed his lips and finally broke eye contact to find a reasonable decision. It wasn't as if he had ever paid for any service with his body before or thought he ever would.
“Once a month as long as,” he bit his lip in unease, gazing back at him, “the operation lasts.”
“Only fixed amount,” Slade responded dryly, and Dick felt some of the pressure ease from his shoulders at the familiar humor.
He grinned, shrugging a shoulder. “Fine by me. Four. Not more, not less.”
Slade hummed. “Your body, your decision.”
Dick would take him by his word the second they spoke about the details.
“Yes or no, Slade?”
The demanding tone earned him an amused chuckle.
“Tell me what you want me to do.”