Work Text:
The Future Is Ours
Dark Alliance
By Nightwing_subs
DOUBT
It was the longest walk that the former acrobat and skyscraper-jumper had taken in his life. It was also the one he had waited for, if he had cared to admit it, in those days when the nights of Gotham were still ruled by a gentler, kinder Bat.
But he did not expect that same Bat to be by his side, as he was now, that the moment had come. In truth, he had always thought that his choice of partners would alienate his father and make him the sole traveler in his journey. Then again, he had always thought, too, that it would be Babs or Kory who would be the one taking the walk and it would be he who would be waiting at the foot of the altar.
Something…cracked inside him, an anger and confusion that threatened to splinter off like a pebble from the mountain of unquestioning acceptance that his "parents" had entrenched in his spirit. Dick Grayson flinched, halted, and for a second, he almost fumbled.
His throat was dry, his fists started to clench and unclench, and as his eyes glimpsed the Bat's new partner standing beside his own a few paces away, his heart thumped just a bit faster.
Then the Bat was on his side, as he had always been in the hell that had been this year, his none too gentle hand descending on Dick's shoulder like a blanket of comfort or a chain of confinement. It did not matter that Bruce was dressed in his finest thousand-dollar suit, that hand held power even if it was not encased in Kevlar glove. That straight muscled body that pinned him while walking by his side was still the same armored tank that beat Joker to a bloody pulp and held himself upright like an immovable judge while the Martian Manhunter was doused to his death in flame.
Bruce Wayne, whatever was left of him in the first place since his parents were gunned down in Crime Alley, was gone. Only the Bat remained.
"It's ok, Dick," the Bat purred in his ear even as he gently but firmly dragged him a few more steps to his destination.
It's going to be ok, Dick told himself, as his once agile feet lumbered as if they had a mind of their own as he took one step after another toward the edge of the carpet, each step as heavy as the heart sinking inside him.
It's going to be ok, he intoned in his mind, as Lex Luthor, standing across him, winked at him with a barely hidden glee that almost seemed obscene amidst the solemn tone of the judge who repeated the dreaded vows.
It had better be ok, he bit his lip as like a blind man, he signed, without even reading the contract, that was thrust in front of his face.
Then the pieces of paper were gone, Luthor's face faded from view, the Bat's hard clasp on his shoulder disappeared, and he found himself face to face with a one-eyed, white-haired mercenary who looked too huge and bulky for his Armani suit.
As if from a thousand miles away, Dick heard the judge intone something about a kiss and a bride but he barely made sense of it as Slade Wilson pulled him into his powerful arms, hugging his body with a force that closed all distance between them, and devoured his mouth with an intensity that left him breathless.
After what seemed an eternity, their lips parted, and Deathstroke's mouth was hovering a few inches after his own. "It's going to be ok, Dick," he whispered.
And suddenly, for a few seconds, Dick Grayson honestly and wholeheartedly believed it would be.
HOPE
(I have a price, and they have bought my soul.)
Slade Wilson repeated the damning words silently in his mind for the thousandth time, without protest or passion, the military cadence of his monotone drowning out any self-condemnation.
That indifference alone was a miracle. Five years ago, he would have killed without question anyone – hero, villain, sorcerer, or god – who would even suggest such an unspeakable thing. A year ago, as the earth was falling into ruin and he found himself unmoved at the charred body that had once been his only daughter, his inner warrior still managed to spark some embers of murderous indignation at the two men who boldly asserted, risking their lives, that he could be their slave.
Not that they had the idiocy and the audacity to say that to his face. Luthor called it a permanent, unbreakable contract. Wayne said he was inviting him to be part of his family.
But they all knew, as his hand silently stroked the sword that could either spell life or death for the three of them, that they were seeking his subservience. His strength and power at their side as they shaped the world to their ends.
(I have a price, and they bought my soul.)
It was just a statement, a concession to a fact, that no longer hurt nor should be argued with.
For how can argue with the seductive sculpted body of perfection, splayed invitingly before him in sleep, with only a white sheet thrown haphazardly over it as flimsy protection?
(Mine), Wilson thought, the mixture of pain, pleasure and satisfaction cutting into his heart like a knife. He reached over and brushed the younger man's forehead in a tender gesture that would have shocked both his allies and enemies. (They may own my soul, but I own him.)
It wasn't just the almost violent claiming of Dick Grayson's body in this past week of their voluntary seclusion that marked him as the mercenary's possession. A date, two signatures, two witnesses, and an officiating judge made it all legal. Wilson grudgingly admitted that he owed Lex Luthor that much, and with him the millions of men and women who preferred what the old world had called the "alternative lifestyle." For these man who had squashed their desires or consummated them under the cover of night, away from prying eyes and malicious mouths, that particular Luthor bill had been a godsend.
(I don't have to hide anymore), Wilson thought, and the smug satisfaction that crept in made his caresses of the too-beautiful face a little less gentle. He rubbed a thumb over Dick's lush lips and his finger stroked the flesh under the boy's chin.
It was only a very small movement, but the sleeping figure stirred, and moaned a little.
(He's so sensitive…), Wilson shook his head in wonderment, as his hand glided from Dick's neck to his collarbone. A soft mewl followed, and Dick's breathing started to quicken. A contact slut. The mercenary remembered the less flattering description that his colleagues had once attached to the Batman's son. The kid always had a hard-on whenever he fought; that too tight Kevlar of his would bulge every single time he landed a kick on a mobster's face or swung a batarang on Joker or his goons. The way he'd maneuver close, too close, to his opponent's face, grinning that gorgeous smile, tempting his enemy to come to him---it was like he was begging them to come after him, ensnare, touch, and bind him until he could fly no more.
Before Luthor's law legalized homosexuality and made its open discussion acceptable even among his peers, Wilson had heard a few snide remarks from the villain's ranks that they would like to do more than touch Nightwing. (If he weren't fighting, he'd be fucking), Harvey Dent once grumbled.
But everyone knew the unspoken rule: touch Nightwing, and the Batman and his whole damned clan would come down hard on you.
And Deathstroke would not be far behind.
So the lusting villains kept their silence.
At the flush of memories, Wilson allowed himself a grin as his touch now settled on Dick's impressive pectorals, petting them, stroking them, enjoying how that impressive chest automatically arched upward to meet his cupping hands.
Blood flowed down to his groin and made his manhood rise as more memories set in. More recent memories. The suite thundered and rocked with their shouts of passion whenever Wilson took his spouse to bed. Neither was there any shyness or hesitation when Dick offered himself up for his partner's pleasure. After years of uneasy sexual tension, their eternal game of pursue-and-run, the dance of sensuality that they both avoided, apology was no longer needed. Nor was there any more opposition – legal, moral, familial – outside their bed chamber.
(Mine, he is mine), Wilson basked in that realization as he bent down to lick the valley between the boy's muscled pectorals, the enticing flat line of flesh that Psimon once admiringly called his "boy cleavage."
Almost on cue, in sync with Wilson's growing assault on his chest, the slumbering Dick began to squirm and whimper.
A cry of need and surrender that rose in sensual volume as the syringe that Wilson grabbed from the nearby bedpost plunged into that lean six-pack abdomen.
Dick opened his eyes, totally awake now, in surprise and pain. He instinctively tried to sit up at the sight of the needle penetrating his bellybutton and the blood seeping out of it. "Slade---?"
"Shhh, kid, don't fret," Wilson mumbled as he leaned down to silence the boy's question with a kiss that was as possessive and surely aggressive as the instrument moving in and out of his body, a prelude to a much greater possession in the hours to come.
The syringe was also one more part that he had to fulfill in his long and complex contract. (You're mine. They own my soul, and you're my price.)
TRUST
Batman grinned, his bright white teeth glimmering in stark contrast to the darkness of the night and his ghoulish uniform, the muscles that stretched his mouth to his ears incongruous and totally out of place under his black cowl.
In the old days, Superman would have given away his superpowers for a year to see such an unseemly smile on his friend's face. The Arrow family would have probably held an all-night binge. Wonder Woman would have allowed what were once dead hopes for a romance to flutter, if only for a minute.
But the old days were gone, the old rules were being rewritten, and in this new Gotham, Batman could allow himself to smile. If it weren't so out of character, he would probably have thrown a jump line and swung down the roof of the 50-storey skyscraper that he was standing on. In unrestricted, thoughtless jubilation.
But this irreconcilable image was only meant for Lex Luthor. It was only with him that the internal war that the caped crusader had fought his entire lifetime stilled, and the Batman and Bruce fused into one
"It certainly didn't take him long," Batman shook his head in disbelief, "My estimate was that he would remain incommunicado with Dick for at least a month."
"Well," Luthor drawled, the happiness in his face mirroring Batman's, "Slade has always been a man of his word. He always fulfills his contract. But…in this case, I think his intention was less than professional."
Batman nodded in understanding, and in confirmation of a suspicion both of them had held. "This is something he also wanted."
"And he had to tell someone the good news, even if it's us," Luthor chuckled.
The old folks had described Gotham's midnight as black as hell, but not even its pall could dampen the glow that its two main leaders were exuding. Luthor, unused to standing in the open-air chill that penetrated through his flowing coat and tailored pants, kept walking around, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes darting to the bright lights of their city below them. Finally, no longer able to contain himself, he slapped Batman on the shoulder. "He's finally ours, Bruce," the tone with which he said it almost made it sound like as if he opened a champagne bottle.
"An ally for life," Batman mused, then he asked, hesitating for just a second, "Did he mention Dick at all, how he's doing?"
But Lex only shrugged his partner's worries away. "Slade will make him come around. That's his job…and they're part of his life now. Besides, it's not like we haven't done the math. This new condition fits Dick's profile to a T. It's what he's needed all along, if the old world had allowed him the freedom to even consider it."
Batman nodded again, the face no longer smiling, but the granite features not yet totally reverting to its famous grimness. "My son needs it. He will want and accept it," he said in total conviction.
"This new alliance will also be good for Gotham, for the world," Luthor added.
The stoic face almost cracked again into the shocking smile. One thing that made Lex different from him, thought Batman, was his sense of drama, his uncanny ability to seemingly exaggerate even though his feet remained firmly planted on the ground (And that's why he's the politician and not you, sir) his late beloved butler's chiding words came back to him.
Batman just raised an eyebrow, indulging Lex one of his favorite past-times: speech-making. He was not disappointed.
"We have taken the major cities of North America, Bruce," Lex exulted, his arm sweeping across the canvas of blinking lights below them, flickering like candlelight at their feet. "We have shaped a new world. But if there's one thing my father taught me is that empires can last forever only if they have the right heirs. Our former friends on both sides of this war only saw the campaign, the treasures they could loot or the cities they could protect, nothing more. But I'm talking about legacy, a legacy that can break boundaries and create unity where there once was only division."
He took one step forward, entering into his lover's space. "This boy will be something to behold."
Batman closed his eyes. It was fortunate that Lex's visits to his nocturnal patrol were rare; the mere scent of the man threatened to break his control. The billionaire ruler excited, strengthened, and weakened him like no man or woman ever did. It took him a few seconds to focus and re-assert the conditioning of a lifetime, and his innate analytical instinct kicked in.
"This boy would certainly be an excellent fighter, and he could have Dick's acrobatic prowess. Then there'd be Wilson's metahuman powers, his strength, agility, reflexes, healing power. With that assassin, you, and me mentoring him, his skill in leadership, strategy and tactics, and detective work would be unparalleled. And I mean boardroom battles as well, not just skirmishes with superhumans."
"A true Renaissance man," Luthor mused. "But let's not forget your son's one invaluable contribution: his idealism. Our campaign will end one day, Bruce, and when the coast is clear, the world will need a new leader who can see in both the dark and the light. This boy will embody the best of humanity without the condescending rose-colored glasses of your humans or the bleak depraved pragmatism of my criminal allies."
Luthor reached a hand into his coat and drew out the two wine glasses and vintage cognac he had been saving just for this occasion, a grand event that had taken one long year of planning and one night of consummation. He gave one glass to Batman and poured him a drink, "To your – our – grandson, Bruce."
Batman downed the liquid in one gulp, relishing the flame it burned in his throat. The obsessive-compulsive in him would have argued that there was still a fraction of a chance that the fledgling fetus could still grow into a girl. But he also knew that after Ravager's demise, Deathstroke would not want a daughter for a long time – and the assassin had made that plain when he himself programmed the DNA in the nanobites that he would inject into Dick during their honeymoon when the moment was right.
So the world's greatest detective conceded. "To a new generation of humanity," he said to his lover and sealed it with a kiss.
end