Chapter Text
Roman Sionis took another sip of whiskey, minding the teeth of his mask. “I suppose that I simply do not understand you, Mr. Wilson.” He replaced his glass on the ebony desktop, the action as final as the descent of a guillotine blade.
Slade Wilson, sitting unmasked on the other side of Sionis’ desk, only studied his own drink.
“The world’s most deadly mercenary,” Sionis continued, his voice low, “Cannot manage to kill the Red Hood. It makes no sense.” A pause as Sionis flicked a nonexistent bit of lint from his black leather gloves. “Explain that to me, Deathstroke. I’m interested in what you have to say.”
Wilson stared over the other man’s shoulder, out the window and into Gotham’s obsidian night. No stars were visible, of course, only the hollow glow of skyscraper windows and the blinking red dots that warned of the metal leviathans’ presence. When Wilson spoke, it was with a flat affectation. He wondered how noticeable the shadow under his eye was in the room’s dim lighting.
“Killing the Red Hood is not in my contract, Mr. Sionis.” He would not call Sionis sir-- Wilson was all too aware of what kind of people referred to Black Mask with that title. “You hired me to be your bodyguard.” Just as you hire anyone who will do anything for money. I simply come with a higher price tag than most.
Sionis made an amused noise in the back of his throat. “But there’s nothing in our contract saying you have to let him live, now is there?”
“No, Mr. Sionis...there is not.”
Sionis rose to his feet. “Then why,” he said, voice dropping to something darker than dark, “Did you not put a bullet through the brat’s skull when you fought him an hour ago? You certainly had the chance.”
“Yes,” murmured Wilson. “I did, didn’t I?” He watched as Sionis stepped out from behind the desk, but what he saw was Red Hood diving for cover in the warehouse, the man’s broken helmet and dark hair and the furious, frantic eye beneath the two. The iris is Lazarus Pit green, and that is when Wilson knows.
He wonders if Batman knows. If Nightwing knows. Knows if their broken, bloodied bird has come back from the grave to send others to their own. Wilson wishes he didn’t know. It would have been so much easier that way. He would have killed Red Hood, but he would not kill Jason Todd. He would not kill Dick Grayson’s brother.
This is what happens when you get tangled up in the intricacies of connections. Of people.
He had somehow ended up an occasional ally of the Titans, but he’d reasoned he could handle it. These people were Joey’s friends, his son’s friends. Besides, there weren’t that many members on the team.
But then new connections began to form. New teammates, new allies, new relationships. New threads in an ever-growing spider’s web that seemed hell-bent on making things complicated. More people that his wretched heart made him care about.
Wilson would never admit it out loud, especially not to Wintergreen or Joey or Rose, but he finds himself missing the days when he didn’t care about anyone. About himself. It was a terrible way to live--it was scarcely a life at all--but he knows why he preferred it: he had no bonds to break. Espcially not the kind that broke by him fucking up.
And now, here he is, in Black Mask’s penthouse, in the dead of night, caught in the spider’s web with bats and birds and and heroes and villains and vigilantes and--
Sionis sat down on his desk, perching himself directly in front of Wilson. “Penny for your thoughts?” Sionis said, purring like a wild cat that had just bitten into a warm carcass.
Wilson closed his eye so as to not to have to look at Sionis’ belt buckle--or anything below it. He was tired. Tired of thinking, of working for Sionis, of everything. Maybe the Joker had it right: no tortured past, no nagging conscious; nothing but chaos and a clown’s cheerful smile.
Wilson spoke, voice emotionless despite it all. “My thoughts, Mr. Sionis, are worth more than a penny.”
Eye still shut, Wilson brought his glass to his mouth and drank. The whiskey tasted expensive. He swallowed it all, and heard Sionis’ tailored suit shift against varnished wood.
"Hm. You have yet to answer my question, Mr. Wilson.”
Wilson dropped the empty glass when Sionis wound his gloved fingers into Wilson’s silver hair and pulled. Head forced back and eye wide open, Wilson met Sionis’ unreadable gaze and found himself able to think only, Good the glass didn’t break. It’s probably part of a set.
Then Sionis was speaking.
“Why didn’t you kill the Red Hood, Slade?” He sounded almost playful. “Do you feel some passing affection for him, is that it? Does Deathstroke have a boytoy?”
He could overpower Sionis in an instant. Wilson knew this as surely as he knew that he had no desire to do so.
I am so very tired.
“No, Mr. Sionis.”
“Than what is it?” Sionis pulled Wilson’s head back farther, examining the seated mercenary’s face. “I’m not a fan of 20 Questions…” Sionis laughed. “Particularly not when there are much better things I could be playing with you.”
Wilson averted his eye at that, prompting another chuckle from Sionis.
“Would wearing a blindfold make it easier for you? I won’t be offended if you say yes.”
“...Precious few things,” Wilson said, “Have been easy for me lately.”
Sionis appeared to grin as he bent closer to Wilson. “And that includes,” he breathed, mouth now only centimeters from Wilson’s ear, “Killing Gotham’s newest vigilante, doesn’t it?”
Wilson could feel the strings constricting around him, could see the monstrous crimson web expanding to ensnare Sionis. But that, I suppose, is exactly what Black Mask has wanted.
“Yes,” Wilson whispered. “It does, Mr. Sionis.”
“Why?”
The other man’s exhalation was hot against Wilson’s skin, whiskey and wealth and power so maddeningly suffocating.
He could tell him. Tell Sionis the truth about Todd and Grayson and Wayne and a hundred others. Watch the ripples spread across the web as the flies thrashed. Finally tie that blood-red string into a noose around his own neck.
But Slade Wilson never told the truth.
“Red Hood…”
Deathstroke dealt in half-truths, versions of the truth. It might take him years to admit full truths even to himself. Tonight, it had taken him just over an hour and a half.
Dark hair under a mask, eyes full of hate. Flame-bright flashes of a young man willing to fight the entire world--and burn in the process.
Sionis could never know one truth, but he could know another. He could know Deathstroke’s. Wilson would hang himself, but the rest of the web would be undisturbed. There was some solace in that.
“Red Hood reminds me of my son,” Wilson said quietly. “My son Grant.”
Sionis straightened back up, releasing his hold on Wilson’s hair; the mercenary’s head dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sionis.” I’m sorry, Grant.
“For what?”
“For my…” Failure. “Unprofessionalism.”
Roman Sionis considered the other man for a short eternity. He really did appear exhausted. When Sionis placed a finger under Wilson’s chin and tilted his face up, he found a half-lidded eye and a blank expression. Sionis smiled.
“I will consider accepting your apology.” Sionis took a sip of whiskey. “Tell me what happened to Grant.”
Keep his name out of your mouth, Wilson thought at Sionis, a dull pulse of anger fading as quickly as it had come. He had no fight left in him. Not tonight.
“Grant died. When he was 19.”
Sionis brushed a thumb across Wilson’s cheek. “How?”
“You don’t deserve to know.” Wilson didn’t manage to put any real venom in his words. What would be the point, anyway? He was only stalling. Staving off further painful emotions. He suspected Sionis would grow tired of this faux-gentle interrogation soon.
“And you, ” Sionis said, “Ought to remember who is in charge here. Whose commands you obey.”
He backhanded Wilson across the face, hard.
“Who is paying you.”
A leather-gloved hand around Wilson’s throat.
“And who you made a contract with.”
The hand tightened.
That was fast, thought Wilson. He made no attempt to struggle in Sionis’ grip.
“Whether I deserve to know is irrelevant. If I ask you a question, you answer it--with the truth.” Sionis straightened his tie with his free hand. “I say “jump,” you say, “how high?” It’s simple.” Razor’s-edge laughter as Sionis further tightened his hold around Wilson’s neck. “Simple enough that I shouldn’t be having to teach you.”
With darkness starting to gnaw at his vision, Wilson choked out a joyless chuckle in return. Here we go.
“Tell me something, Mr. Sionis: do you enjoy this more--” a rasping breath “--or less if I don’t fight back?”
A small eternity of silence. Wilson could sense the gears turning in Sionis’ head: keep trying to pry his armor open, or have some real fun? When Wilson saw a pink flash of tongue from under Sionis’ mask, he knew the choice had been made. The string linking he and Sionis was dyed crimson, but not with love.
“Well...” Sionis pretended to mull the question over. “In your case, it’s about the same.” He ran his thumb back and forth along Wilson’s lower lip. “Though I’d get the most enjoyment out of having your wrists bound to my headboard and a spreader bar between your legs.”
Seems like the entire goddamn universe wants me tied up, Wilson thought hazily. It would have been funny under different circumstances. Who am I kidding? It’s funny under this circumstance, too. His lungs were on fire, throat healing even as it was being crushed. Wilson mustered an insolent smirk.
“Do I...still get...t-that blindfold you mentioned earlier?”
It was hard to tell, but for an instant, Sionis appeared almost taken aback. Then he began laughing, letting go of Wilson’s neck a moment later. The mercenary could scarcely hear Sionis over the sound of his own gasping coughs.
“You really are full of surprises, Slade.” Sionis stood and shrugged off his suit coat. “I like that about you. Makes things much more... exciting.”
Wilson offered no resistance when Sionis seized his upper arm, dragging him none-too-gently to his feet. Act the part, Wilson told himself, turning his face away when Sionis’ knuckles ghosted over the cheek he had struck.
“Not even a bruise,” mused Sionis. “I’ll have to find a better way of leaving my mark on you.” Wrapping his free arm around Wilson’s waist and pulling him close, Sionis hummed, “A brand would last longer, don’t you think?”
For a moment, Wilson thought-- hoped-- that he had misheard Sionis. Or that the man was kidding. He’d heard the rumors about what Black Mask did behind closed doors, and none of those partners had had a healing factor.
“You’re funny, Mr. Sionis.”
Hot breath on the side of Wilson’s neck. “I’m not joking.”
Than I’m not acting, Wilson realized. He didn’t bother concealing the shiver that ran through him.
Sionis’ laugh was deep enough to reverberate within Wilson’s bones, the dark-honey rumble warm and vulgar. “Don’t be nervous, sweetheart.” A kiss just beneath the mercenary’s jaw. “I know you’ll enjoy it.”
Wilson supposed he should tell Sionis to stop, that he didn’t want what he was being given, what he was being drawn into. Instead, he wordlessly let his head loll back, further exposing his throat to Sionis’ teeth and tongue.
“That’s right; behave for me and everything will be juuust fine…”
As Sionis led him to the bedroom, Wilson doubted it.