Chapter Text
A few weeks ago, Slade had dropped the kid off in a city he wouldn't be familiar with and gave him a three hour head start before Slade would come looking. He did a decent job of it, with a hunter like Slade after him.
He picked up his trail pretty quick, but he already knew the kid was wickedly sharp. It wasn't particularly surprising. He'd gotten the best of Slade before, when he was only thirteen, though it'd been an effort aided by a team. The kid already had years of training under his belt, first by a elite group of pretentious assholes, and then by Batman.
Slade knew how intense that training was, he'd seen it up close several times now. An examination of the boy's larger skills in different environments were useful to him, especially when it consistently surprised him. Kid was damn near perfect at a lot. Swordfighting, hand-to-hand, long-distance weapons, guns. He lost, within the perimeters Slade set, because Slade was still enhanced and knew plenty of his little tricks. He'd always be faster, and stronger, and larger, and have decades more of brutalizing life in him.
Slade found the kid outside of the nearest town by the city in two days, in a monastery. He'd been dressed up in thrifted clothes and disguised as a simple boy taking advantage of the offer of shelter, and as soon as he saw Slade he'd bolted. Slade caught up to him— once outside— and a decent fight ensued before Slade had pinned him down to the floor and ripped apart his clothes. Damian cursed at him for a good while before his voice broke apart into panting moans, his ass split by Slade's fingers rolling in deep.
He's a lot more willing like that, Slade's cock buried inside his tight ass. It ends up that way more and more often now, because it's the only thing that gets the kid to shut up for a few hours and fucking listen.
Damian's still not always partial to Slade's company— he hates him, for reasons Slade doesn't think even the kid knows. Besides that he's stuck with Slade just being his best option of ally, with the situation he put himself in. Irritatingly, Slade likes him just fine.
Talia was right about one thing, Damian was straight potential, all wrapped up in a loose fist. He was dangerous, instinctive as much as he was deliberate, and quick as a whip. Had spent too much time with the bats to avoid inheriting the Robin snark, and Slade bets he wouldn't lose it no matter how many months he spent with Slade.
The skills to navigate a mountain and it's surrounding forest would be a different ballpark all together. Kid likely has some experience, being put through survival and endurance activities regularly as a small child, but he's bound to be rusty after spending the past four years confined mostly to Gotham, Metropolis, and New York.
The kid knows how to disappear, Slade will give him that. He had to look real hard to find him that time, but with an urban area filled with people and resources, it's easy to blend in just as easy as it is to get lost.
This time, the goal is to remain uncaptured by Slade for a total of five days, with a five-hour head start. Slade packed the kid's supplies himself, and let him know he'd realize if something had changed.
He didn't bother keeping the tracker a secret; kid would find it sooner or later. It could be activated from both directions, for in the case Damian found himself in more trouble than he could handle and for when Slade needed it to access his location in the case he did last the whole five days, which he severely doubted would happen.
It isn't just a survival game— Damian has to utilize misdirection and psychology to stave off the eventual confrontation, and he'll have to be as observant, and as deliberate about evasion as Slade will be about hunting him. He'll have to take advantage of every hour he has of a headstart to get one over on Slade.
Despite the kid's solitary existence, it's strange for him to be so alone. There had been one moment where they'd both been quiet in a makeshift camping site, a measured miles away from his target somewhere in the forest. Damian had been arguing for an hour against Slade's current mission despite knowing it wouldn't ever sway him. Slade isn't sure the behavior is exactly an adherence to Batman's precious rules, but more an argument for himself to follow them, despite not agreeing with it anymore.
Either way, it didn't ever change the outcome. Slade had a job, and he would do it whether the kid liked it or not. They had been quiet, in the aftermath, until the kid started up again. His voice, usually so abrasive, became soft, dark pebbles of his eyes glaring in the light of the fire and glinting like twin moons.
"Everyone is so separate, everywhere else," He said. "All rampant with blood. People die all of the time and no one cares how, or if, or who was the someone that did it. At least when people died in the league, it was for a reason. But people like you can kill without one. No cause. It's how humanity is allowed to be, because there's no use in stopping just one person," He looked away from the fire.
"Then there is some parts of humanity that hates that part. And they are right to hate it, but are they right to think they are better? They're so convincing about making you be apart of it, and making you feel right for being involved in something bigger than any individual want or pain. Nothing else matters, besides the suffering or the prosper of the collective."
Slade watched him go quiet again. He knew that look, the emptiness that comes from trying to peer too long through a screen of smoke. Slade hasn't felt a need to handle any emotional responsibility of the kid's clearly explosive range— he hardly was equipped to handle his own kids', and he was never the best at words when it came down to it. His mind was built for many things, especially acquiring new skills, but comfort wasn't one of them.
"You miss it?" Slade asked.
Damian glanced at him. In the presence of the warm fire, his hands were free of gloves for once, tanned fingers running back and forth over each other, fidgeting in slow turns and twists. He shook his head. "I don't know."
Slade knew, with a strange feeling in his chest. The truth about the kid was that as refined and dangerous as he might be, he was as lost as any freshly fourteen-year-old boy would be. He grew up with expectations on him so big that the only way to survive was measure up, and now this frustration inside him, what was right or wrong when it came to providing justice, conflicts with the support providing the motive in the first place.
Slade had set the stoker down and leaned forward, tapped his leg. "You need a purpose, boy? Come and let me give you one."
The kid stood and climbed into his lap, face shadowed with the flames behind him. They both had layers on, combatting the cold of the night, and Slade worked his hands up and down the kid's waist until they slid underneath shirt and hoodie and coat, small body shivering at the touch of his fingers.
His skin was soft, despite the flesh connected by thin, invisible scars on his ribs, belly, and back. That time around he hadn't used any teeth, mouth wet on the solid stretch of the kid's chest. The crackle of the fire was drowned out by Damian's shallow breaths, quick like a bird's. He'd tugged the boy's hips close, flattening his front against his, to grind his ass against Slade's growing erection.
He had a pretty bruise dappled along the length of his hip, from getting slammed in a spar. Slade laid him down on the cot in the tent and kissed it hard enough that the kid swore, glared down at him in the darkness. He'd chuckled and rubbed his mouth and beard against the smooth flesh of his pelvis. That little bit of pain made the kid harder, he could tell, though it's not like it takes much for the teen to get hard enough to leak.
Pants and underwear peeled down, Slade squeezed the easy flush of his ass apart, pretty and sore from the abuse of a few days ago. He lapped and sucked at his hole until he was writhing and trying to squeeze Slade's head with deadly thighs. He needed it a little sweet, that night, and Slade gave him sweet.
The next day, Slade got his mark, and returned to camp at sundown. He found Damian shirtless, slashing a tree apart into twigs, voice hoarse with every huff of movement. As soon as Slade got close, the kid whirled around and lunged for him. Slade caught him around the wrist and shoulder, of which Damian snarled wordlessly and twisted out of.
He let him fight for a while to work out that restless energy. Slade could only have so much patience for handling outbursts, and eventually slammed the boy to the ground.
He turned him on his stomach and smoothed his palm over the rigid line of his spine, lingering over the parts he knows titanium lies beneath. He rucked down loose pants clinging to narrow hips, intrigued by the immediate sight of warm skin. He didn't bother commenting— It'd interrupt the youthful raucous streaming from Damian's mouth.
He wasn't sweet, that time. Damian left the ground only because Slade hooked his arm through his legs and hefted him up, and his stomach to chest was smeared by soil and rubbed raw after getting fucked into the dirt for the better part of an hour. His chin was streaked with drool, cheek endearingly red even after his flush drained away.
Then he pulled his shivering body over his lap and kept him down with long strokes through his hair, neck and back. He gets charmingly slack after he comes, losing that iron-clad control over his limbs.
A week later, they found themselves with an upgrade, though not for long— a remote cabin at the edge of the woods. The kid isn't quite nervous, watching the deadline get closer by the hour, but Slade can tell it's all he can focus on. He has some time to kill where Damian doesn't, and sips whiskey while he watches the kid stare out the window.
"We're not keeping whatever animal you decide to befriend out there," Slade tells him.
"Believe what you like, Wilson," Damian grumbles, head lowering closer to tight shoulders. Not a denial, not agreement. Slade snorts.
"If I find you with a deer, it's new name will be venison."
The kid scoffs. "I wouldn't remove an animal from the wilderness where it belongs. Especially not into your hands."
"Put yourself in my hands, didn't you?"
Damian turns around. "I'm not an animal."
"You're a bird," Slade says, unbothered. He gestures towards the bathroom with his free hand. "Speaking of, go take a birdbath. It'll be the last one you have for a while if you last as long as you expect."
"Which I will," Damian says.
"Mm." Slade masks his skepticism by sipping. "I trust you won't let it be boring."
The kid's lips curl into a smug smile. "Yes, sir."
The kid exits his shower twenty minutes later, skin clean, fresh but his scent absent of any identifiable notes. Smart boy. His hair is a ruffled dry, damp at the thick of his scalp where the air doesn't quite penetrate. Even after the kid loosened up about wearing uniforms following the first few months, it was still odd to see him be occasionally domestic.
When they had the comfort of a more expensive hide-out, the boy wandered about during his free time bare-foot in soft cotton and earbuds plugged in. It was only when he'd felt Slade was far enough away from him— he only caught a glimpse of that softness through camera feeds, checking in while out chasing leads.
Slade kicks his feet up on the coffee table as Damian crouches to lace up his boots by his pack. It was necessary to travel light, with a timed survival mission like his, and the kid didn't really need much anyway. Slade catches his eye and crooks a beckoning finger. The kid drags his feet on the way over, a heavy sigh expelled.
"Brat," Slade says. "Want a kiss goodbye?"
Damian's nose screws up, the skin across his cheeks warming an unwilling pink. "No."
Slade smirks. "You're right, no reason to when I'll be seeing you in a few hours."
Damian scowls. He lunges forward into Slade's lap, and Slade only just manages to set his glass down on the side table so it doesn't spill. Their lips press together, hesitant. Slade curves a hand under his ass, giving it a soft squeeze. A gusty breath casts over Slade's face, the kid pulling back with parted lips. He leans forward to lap his tongue over his bottom lip to make him jerk his head away.
Amused, Slade leans back, and pats his butt before the kid can spring out of his lap. Damian wipes his mouth furiously with the back of his glove, hustling over to grab his bag and head for the door.
The door slams on his way out. Slade checks the time, and sinks into the warmth of his seat.