WHO: Slade Wilson, Quentin Coldwater, Jason Todd WHEN: March 25 WHERE: A bookstore, then a doc warehouse WHAT: Slade is just screwing with Jason at this point. WARNINGS: Kidnapping, Violence, Guns, Language
Slade Wilson could be a very patient man. It came with the territory of being one of the world’s leading assassins–at least back home. He was fairly certain the title still applied in the current situation but he was being mostly on his best behavior. Watching. Waiting. It was cute how people thought they could simply keep tabs on him. Grayson, however, continued to be a hobby and now the kid was missing.
Well. That just wouldn’t do. Slade had told Dick once that it was always going to come down to the two of them. No one else needed to know his motives or his reasons for interest in the former Boy Wonder. And now, frankly, he was pissed off that the Red Hood had managed to lose the kid in some way so patience went out the window and he needed a way to let off a little steam while those in the know waited to see when Dick Grayson would show back up and just what that would even look like.
He had paid attention to who popped up, both over the network and in person, like little meerkats (or a game of whack-a-mole if he wanted to be funny about it).. And Slade noticed something interesting. The Bats tended to keep their circles closed and outsiders at a particular arms’ length – just enough to hopefully keep civilians out of harm’s way. Wasn’t that why Grayson had been making himself purposely annoying? The man with the longer hair and anxious body language had gone to the apartment in what was presumably an attempt at moral support or even comfort. That made him more of a strategic target than, say, Donna Troy.
So Slade waited. And he slid up behind Quentin Coldwater while browsing a bookstore and a large hand clamped around the man’s elbow. “Make a noise and I’ll put a bullet through your kidney,” Slade said in his ear even as he quickly guided his little target toward the back where a bathroom and an employee break room were located. It also led to a loading area because building designs were kind like that. An alley was easier to control than the open street or even a bookstore that wasn’t entirely empty. The threat was a good one, he thought, if the man knew anything about human biology. It was possible to survive if one got help quickly enough and the shot was clean enough. It was also very possible to bleed out both internally and externally. And all of that was even assuming Quentin had two functioning kidneys to begin with. Which would be awkward if Deathstroke chose the wrong angle, gun pressed as it was to the man’s lower back.
Once outside, there was a car waiting and Slade turned Quentin to shove his back against the rear passenger door. “Jason Todd,” was all he said, one blue eye watching for the most minute of facial expressions at the name.
There was a gun against his back.
That's what kept going through Quentin's mind over and over, instead of a dozen or more spells he could have easily done with his hands just at his sides. And that was even taking into consideration the circumstances for any one of them, although he couldn't have called any of them ideal. The pain of the sudden collision against the side of the car finally interrupted the repeating thought, and now he was faced with the barrel he'd felt against his back. An unhelpful series of memories surfaced:
He'd been face to a face with more than one dragon, not to mention the Beast of Fillory, and he'd killed a god. Yet he'd never been as afraid as he was in that moment of very human violence he was being threatened with. It broke something in his brain, apparently, because he arched a brow and actually laughed. "This is about Jason? I thought you were hung up on Dick."
Slade just blinked slowly, unimpressed. It wouldn't be the first or last time that someone laughed because either they were nervous or they were cocky. "Hung up on would be the wrong word," the older man said drily. "But he lost the kid, we need to have words, and you clearly have a connection so you get to play bait so he comes at me from a particular angle."
He smiled then. And it was both empty and threatened violence at the same time. "It's cute that they keep thinking I can only focus on one thing at a time. And I need you to understand that I will put a bullet in Todd's brain and I will do the same just as quickly with yours. I give zero fucks. So behave, no one gets hurt," Slade went on almost too quietly; too gently. Still, his free hand came up and bracketed Quentin's neck, able to apply his thumb against a carotid artery without much effort. It wouldn't fully restrict the blood flow but it was exactly the threat Slade meant it to be: Quentin was not going to be a match for a very calm, very capable assassin who was much bigger than him.
And then Slade gave a small shrug and yanked Quentin forward only to turn him just enough to slam his head against the car, aimed perfectly to knock the kid out in one go. His grip shifted to hold Quentin by the front of his shirt so he didn't slide to the ground. He propped Quentin against the car, forearm and elbow holding him up there while he tucked the gun away before rifling through pockets. Phone. Still so quiet and casual, he smirked faintly at the biometric unlock. Well that was easy. Slade opened the same passenger door he'd been previously pinning the kid against and tossed Quentin in like he was nothing more than a doll. Whistling quietly, Deathstroke opened the trunk to grab the duct tape and then got to work.
Once satisfied, having taped Quentin's wrists and hands tightly behind him, he slapped a piece over the man's mouth, engaged the child locks, and closed up the car. "Hope you like Country," he commented to no one listening as he got into the driver's seat and turned up the radio. Windows locked in place, Slade drove off.
He was a methodical man. He had already set the plan for the where and when and it was easy to put Quentin Coldwater in place. The warehouse was empty (naturally) and Slade dragged a chair into where a beam of sunlight lit the space. "There we go. Nice and pretty perfect for dramatic effect, don't you think?" It was a rhetorical question and the man settled Quentin into the chair, calmly taping him into place. He snapped a picture from Quentin's phone and sent it to Jason Todd, not bothering to hide any of the metadata. "Let's see how well he uses that brain of his," Slade commented and then put the phone on the ground, just out of reach, so Quentin could see if Jason attempted to text or call. He slipped into the shadows to wait.
So, it wasn't really like Quentin had made a calculated risk in saying what he did. He'd always been bad at math, regardless. It's just sometimes his mouth had a way of getting him into things he wasn't actually prepared to get out of. Like being menaced, knocked out, and swimming through periods of consciousness that he was pretty sure were glimpses of Hell itself, what with the Country music and the deadly assassin assaulting his ears with his attempts to sing along. Honestly, losing the battle against his pounding headache and getting pulled back under was for the best.
What was less for the best was finally coming to and discovering that his avenue for freeing himself was now effectively cut off for real. It didn't matter if the perfect spell came to mind—it didn't, by the way, because it would have just been even more cruel irony—without his hands, it was useless. He didn't know if the asshole knew about it, or if it was just normal kidnapping protocol. God, he'd been kidnapped; a thing he'd never thought could happen to him, but now somehow seemed inevitable on the bucket list of life experiences. He glared and grunted something obscene in Slade's direction at his taunting, for all the good it did.
How very damsel in distress, he thought wryly, even as he wiggled a little to test his bonds now that Slade had moved off. Q wasn't sure whether to be relieved, touched, or alarmed when his phone began to vibrate and chime like crazy.
It wasn't like Jason had been expecting Quentin to be able to pick up when he called. It was honestly more that he was expecting Slade to answer and taunt him about it. Jason wasn't completely sure how he'd figured out that Quentin would be a good way to get at him, but... there they were. With a picture on his phone that he'd very quickly traced with cell tower pings, Jason had done exactly what he knew that Wilson wanted him to do.
He busted the door down, because Jason Todd didn't swipe right on subtlety.
Of course he hadn't left immediately when he got the picture. First he'd had to get suited up, because like hell was Slade not willing to put a bullet in him. Or several bullets. Then there was the detective work, because a cell phone ping couldn't tell you exactly where someone was located. Civilians usually could, though, if you found the right person at the right time, and this time had been no exception.
That, or the jerkoff was making it easy on him, which just pissed Jason off more. Not enough to turn down the information, though, especially when he successfully got inside and saw Quentin sitting right in a beam of light, like a spotlight on a stage. Okay, yeah, he had to give Slade that one. He knew how to stage a scene. Could have been a director.
Jason was in full body armor, but he wasn't wearing his mask... mostly so that Quentin would recognize him and know that it wasn't some kind of stranger coming for him, but also so that there was a slight chance in keeping his identity secret for at least a little while longer. The body armor made him look even larger and more intimidating than usual, though, a side of him that he'd never actually planned on Quentin seeing. He hurried over to him anyway, one hand dropping to the handle of one of his guns in case danger emerged before he got there.
All Slade did was let the click of a safety echo through the space. Sure, it wasn't necessary but he was having a bit of fun with the dramatic flair.
"How'd you lose the kid, Todd? Where's your brother?" Slade rumbled, his voice echoing just enough to not be pinpointed. The last word was a sneer.
Okay, look, when a guy kicked in a door and started advancing, evidently there to rescue a certain tied-up someone, sometimes that someone's body got really confused and reacted in super, super inappropriate ways that Quentin was just going to ignore for now because the danger was still very, very, very real, but damn did he want to climb that guy like a goddamn tree.
Assuming he made it out alive.
"I didn't lose him," Jason retorted; he was still moving toward Quentin, but slower now, looking around the room to see if he could pinpoint where Slade was. "If you didn't take him then, fuck, maybe he did get sent home."
It wasn't the answer that Jason wanted, but recon had pointed toward it not being Slade. How many other options did he have here? Like Slade had said, this wasn't Gotham. There weren't villains lining up to get a piece of Nightwing.
Jason drew his own gun, clicked his safety off too as he put his body between Quentin and the vague area he thought Slade's voice had been coming from. He was probably wrong.
"Everyone was quick to point out that he wasn't," Slade said, voice coming from a slightly different location. "Begs the question: why not you?"
For such a large man, Slade Wilson was fast. Thrown projectiles were launched from his position in the shadows - his version of their stupid batarangs and whatever Nightwing was calling his these days - and he was already on the move from a different angle. Sure, guns were fun but damn did he like the up close and personal and he had some rage to work out. Jason Todd made a fine punching bag as Slade came up on him.
Jason was already moving, but a second too late to block the punch from hitting. He staggered back a step, but holstered his gun and came up fists swinging. He wasn't going to land every blow, but if he could land the important ones...
The explosion of violence was breathtaking. Or it would have been literally if Q's mouth wasn't sealed shut. This wasn't his world. Outside of Kady—god love her, even though she'd knocked him out cold in one shot that one time—no one used their fists to get this kind of thing done. He'd swung from making a sympathetic noise at Jason to one of alarm when he'd seen movement. He didn't know people could even move this fast outside of movie effects or with the aid of a spell. All Q could do was watch, powerless, as they moved in and out of his field of vision.
And for what? What was the point of any of this?
The point, though Slade couldn't say he knew (or cared) what his little hostage's brain was thinking, was that he was pissed that Grayson was missing and neither he nor Todd knew where the Bluebird was. If Grayson was going to fall at someone's hand, it was supposed to be his. That was their fate.
Slade turned in a graceful motion and got an elbow up. Regardless of whether or not he made contact, he dropped down into a leg sweep. The motion to dodge an elbow to the face or general head area typically meant planted feet.
As soon as he saw the elbow coming, Jason knew what was going to follow it. It was what he would have done, after all. He had a decision to make...
And he made it, turning his head to take the elbow to his cheek instead of his nose as he danced his feet back out of the way. The blow to his face left his head ringing, but it was better than being on the ground and defenseless.
Playing defense would only get him so far, though. Jason set his shoulders, leaned forward and barreled toward Slade, ready to get him with a shoulder in the gut and knock him backwards... or at least potentially position himself at a better angle. It was leaving Quentin uncovered, but he needed to end this fight as fast as possible.
Quentin Coldwater was an afterthought, sitting there making little alarmed noises. Slade smirked a little at the choice having been made; they all had the same core teachings. Taking one hit to avoid a worse situation was a no-brainer but not everyone could think one step ahead, much less multiple. Unlike Deathstroke. Who had his gun out and fired off two shots in quick succession before Jason had even reached him. A third followed a half-second out of pattern and was aimed away from him without looking, the bullet hitting the ground between Quentin's feet. It was a warning; Jason had left the man uncovered and Slade wasn't one to ignore it.
He could have gone for the headshot but didn't. He could have gone for something the bodyarmor didn't cover enough... but didn't. At worst, Todd would be bruised -- unless the boys had failed to procure actually-decent body armor in this area of the world. His aim didn't waver and Slade didn't move as he watched Jason patiently. "You didn't answer the question. Why not you?" he taunted.
"How the fuck should I know?" Jason retreated, for the moment, because he wasn't enough of an idiot to believe that the next shot at Quentin would be so harmless, and the idea of something happening to him... it burned in Jason's gut almost as much as the pain from the bullets' impact burned in his flesh. "Because the Powers That Be decided that he needed to get away from you, probably!"
There was a small voice in the back of Jason's head that questioned that, that questioned whether maybe Dick was better off away from Jason, too. He ignored it.
"Just breathe," he murmured to Quentin as an aside, still totally focused on the fight. "Don't struggle, it'll only make it hurt worse. I'll get you out once he's down."
Or Slade would take Jason down, instead, and then if they were lucky? He'd decide he didn't need Quentin anymore and let him go. If they weren't lucky…
That brought a laugh out of Slade. "Once I'm down?" he asked, incredulous. "You think I'm anything like those little hasbeen druglords and such that you handled in Gotham? Heads on silver platters, wasn't it? Oh. Sorry. In a duffel bag."
He advanced on Jason, gun pointed still without him looking at where it was aimed and any Bat or adjacent would know he didn't need to look in order to aim properly. "I don't appreciate the insinuation that I did anything with Grayson. If I had wanted either of you dead, you'd already have been done and dusted weeks ago. But, see, now I'm just ticked off." The gun was suddenly spun on a finger and holstered. He folded his arms against his chest. "What do you know about disappearances here? You're a detective and you've been here longer," Slade said, evenly, "so use that brain of yours without being too busy being angry at me. What are the chances he waltzes back in? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?"
"I—" but the words on the tip of Jason's tongue would have been a lie; he did know about disappearances around here, had seen the announcements just like everyone else. Had seen one person come back already, even if he didn't remember the time he'd been there before. Hell, would it matter if Dick remembered being there or not? They'd already known each other.
Shit. Jason should have been asking questions instead of yelling at anyone that tried to give him some kind of constructive help that wasn't putting the blame on Slade.
"Okay. Yeah. Fine. God, no wonder you're obsessed with Dick, you're just as annoying as he is." Because he wouldn't be Jason Peter Todd if he could keep his mouth shut when he was supposed to, but Slade was right. If he'd wanted to kill him, he'd have done it already.
"Obsessed is still too strong of a word. He's at least smart enough to keep up," Slade drawled, voice low and gravely. Condescension dripped from every word. And then he started walking, giving both men his back. Sure, Jason could draw his gun to shoot but what kind of message would that send to the bound little nerd in the chair? What would Dick Grayson say? The Golden Boy had his rules and everyone knew it. Besides, Slade was confident enough to hear the slide of the holster and be on the move before Jason even got a shot off. "Get some ice on the way home. I'm sure your freezer is out," came the parting words over his shoulder.
Jason stood in place, vigilant, until he was positive that Slade was gone; then, he turned to face Quentin in the chair. "I'm so sorry, shit, this is gonna hurt no matter how fast I do it so..."
Gloved hands gentle, he cupped Quentin's jaw with one hand and plucked at the edge of the tape over his mouth with the other until he had enough free to get a decent grip between his thumb and index finger. "Deep breath. One, two..."
He pulled before three. Of course he did. You didn't give someone time to tense up over it and make it worse, you got it over with. Still, he muttered, "sorry, sorry, sorry," over and over as he practically threw himself to the ground to start working on untying him.
The sudden departure of his kidnapper still had Quentin's head spinning. Somehow, the flare of anger at being nothing more than a pawn in whatever object lesson this had been made the sharp, face-spanning sting of the tape removal slightly more liveable. His eyes still watered a little, but he kept most of his swearing inside his head as he sat still for long enough for Jason to cut him free. He looked down for long enough to see the concrete dust on his pants leg before standing.
No mystery where that had come from, but he didn't actually want the memory of a bullet hole so close to him in his memory, so he didn't try to catch a glimpse of it.
Would have been nice to say he'd stood cleanly, but his shoulders hurt from being tied up for an unknown amount of time and, well, he'd just been fucking kidnapped. So, yeah, he wobbled a little but stuck the landing. Or standing. Whatever. He rubbed at his wrists for a second, then over his cheeks and chin. "At least I won't have to shave for a few days."
Yup, jokes. That's what he went with. He turned in a wary circle, very aware he didn't have anything close to the acuity at this kind of thing as Slade or Jason (or, he now suspected, Dick), but needing to see for himself insofar as he could. It ended with him staring at Jason.
Jason who was almost a literal tank in all that body armor. Body armor that now had a noticeable dent. Q frowned at it, both the cause and because it wanted to be back in its original shape again. This, at least, was one thing he could do. His fingers were already moving in a tut he knew like breathing.
The metal popped back into place and smoothed out. It only brought him a moment of relief, incongruous in the present situation. Disappointment fought itself to the forefront, and Quentin's shoulders sagged as he admitted in a small voice, "I was out getting you a book."
Oh. Jason hated that, the way that Quentin's voice sounded right then. He hated the way he seemed to be shrinking into himself.
There were a million things he wanted to say; he touched the place where Quentin had repaired his armor and let his fingers linger like he could feel some kind of difference there. He needed to at least say thanks for that, because that had just saved him so much time and effort on repairs. Without thinking, his hand dropped to touch the back of Quentin's hand instead, where those clever fingers had worked literal magic.
"What book were you looking at?" And somehow, that was the question that came out of Jason's mouth. Smooth, Todd.
"A couple, actually." Books. Yeah. Books were comfortable territory. Sure, Quentin couldn't stop staring at Jason's hand covering his, but whatever. He'd just been through An Event. He got to be a little weird about things. "I was debating between What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew and This is How You Lose the Time War. The first, because, y'know, Austen, and the second—just because it's really beautifully written, and I thought you might like it. That it could be a distraction."
Q paused, just for half a breath, and forced his gaze up. This time there was steel in it. "He's wrong, you know. About this being on you to figure out. I still don't get what his deal is, but he's a psychotic asshole, and you don't have to listen to him about whatever bullshit he was on."
That... honestly, that was one of the nicest things that Quentin could have said to him. He was wrong; Jason should have been investigating. That was what he'd been trained to do. And instead he just reacted... but. It was nice.
"I'll try not to let it get to me," he lied. "And... thank you. For thinking about getting me a book."
He couldn't help it. He tightened his fingers on Quentin's just for a second, before he let them drop away. "How about you come over to my place? We could... put something on Netflix for some background noise, and either we can talk or we can... not talk."
There were ways that Jason could think of to spend time that didn't involve talking, but he wasn't quite... he didn't exactly know how to suggest that. He didn't even know if Quentin would be interested in that after he'd just been held captive.
"Or, I mean, if you want to... being close to me, it's going to... keep making you a target," Jason admitted. "It might not always be Slade, but there's usually someone that wants to hurt me. The people I care about are the best way to do that."
Q was really glad that Jason was already thinking about next steps, because it hadn't even occurred to him that he'd be going back to—not an empty apartment anymore, really, but one that still felt lonely despite the Doctor's very large personality inhabiting it. He nodded even before Jason finished putting the idea out there. "Yeah, no, no, Netflix and talking or not talking or not talking would be perfect."
His stomach swooped at the implication, and he swallowed once, then decided: screw it. Quentin got his fingers hooked under the neck of Jason's armor—still so many questions about that—at the same time he went up on his toes and planted his relief and gratitude and certainty that he was right where he wanted to be with who he wanted to be with right on Jason's unfairly gorgeous mouth. Not moving back much, he reasserted the sentiment verbally: "You don't scare me, Jason Todd, and you won't scare me away."
Woah. Okay. That was... Jason was pretty sure that was a first, for him. Someone else taking the lead. He... yeah, he definitely liked that. Or maybe just the kiss, which he was too surprised to respond to properly until Quentin had already pulled back that crucial fraction of an inch. "Uh. Yeah. I... want to sound a lot smarter than I do right now about this, please do not tell Dick how terrible I am at this when he gets back.
"I probably should scare you. I'm not exactly the good guy in most people's stories. Slade wasn't completely wrong about me, what I'm like. I have anger issues. Not... I'd never, never... god. I'm fucking this up. I'd never hurt you but I'm going to do some really dumb shit that pisses you off." And he'd lie to him, but Jason couldn't just tell him he'd be lying. That kind of defeated the purpose of a lie. "But..."
Ah, fuck it. Jason leaned in to close the distance between them again, a searing kiss. Maybe he didn't know how to do this actually liking someone who he might be able to have something with thing, but his first lover had at least made sure he knew what he was doing when it came to the physical side of things. He'd just have to... improvise some parts of it.
In the moment between Quentin steeling himself for Jason's rejection and his mind already supplying him with a dozen or more arguments for why they could at least try, he hadn't been ready in the slightest for the way Jason kissed him. A soft, surprised sound left him even as his knees threatened to turn to water along with his spine. Maybe this whole thing was a weird trauma response, but it didn't feel like it—at least not from Q's end.
As far as he was concerned, he could live quite nicely in that leading pause while they figured out what this could be.