Series: Redwing Universe
Title: In Mercury Morning
Author: Katarik
Fandom: Animated Teen Titans
Rating: R
Pairing: Redwing [AU Nightwing]/Slade

Summary: Perhaps if Slade had known who would be offered the ring after him, he might have changed his mind.
Disclaimers: Katarik owns Redwing and the situations in which he is involved, save for those times in which he's somewhere Yami no Kaiba or Cosmicastaway put him. However, the characters from which these characters sprang are not Katarik's and she is recieving no pecuniary benefits from this work.
Notes: This is an AU. Slade's POV on events in In Darkest Night by Yami no Kaiba.

*---*---*---*---*

... *Damn* the boy. Had he no control, no *semblance* of decency? Where had he gotten power like that, anyway; Redwing’s as human as Slade is. Moreso, so where... oh, God.

Akayin’ur. The boy’s a Lantern.

Oh, God. This is all Slade’s fault. Oh, God.

The city’s a *wreck*. People screaming, begging, dripping blood and tears and pieces of vital organs. His team doesn’t know how to handle it. Slade’s been in the Army; he’s seen worse. Besides, Hell isn’t complete without a red-garbed demon.

Demons are what the JLA has trained him to handle.

"Redwing."

The boy *smiles*. Dear Christ. "Slade. If you take one step forward I slit her throat."

He wonders sometimes what Redwing might have been if Slade had found him before the boy could kill those people. He can’t afford to wonder that now. "What do you want?"

"A promise, Slade. I'll let the little girl go unharmed... in fact, I'll let *all* of these people go. All you have to do is promise me, my God on High, that when I do, it's just me and you."

He doesn’t hesitate, though his mind shudders in horror at what the boy has called him. Though his heart wonders at the fact that the boy doesn’t *know*: it’s always been just him. "You have it."

"*Good*", Redwing whispers, and the emerald light flickers and dies. Slade's team rushes forward to catch people; Slade himself doesn't move. "Let her go, Redwing."

"I was about her age, wasn't I? When we first met. Her parents were murdered just like mine. Do you think that if I hurt her, she'll love me as much as I love you?" The boy drags the flat of the blade the smallest amount along the child's throat; Slade follows it with his eye as his breath catches in his lungs. He's... not fast enough to save the girl if Redwing decides to cut her.

"You said you'd let her go if I promised. I promised, Redwing. Now let her *go*." He’s banking on the boy not wanting to lie to his God. It’s a foul taste in Slade’s mouth to use Redwing’s obsession, but he has no choice.

"Answer me first. Do you think she would? Because I do, and wouldn't that be so nice for a change, to have someone love *me* instead of the other way around?"

"She's not like you, Redwing. She would only hate you." She’s not *fundamentally fucked-up*.

"Mm. I did this for you, you know. All this, I did so that you would come. I killed so many today; I'm not even sure how much you have to hit me."

... These people are on him. Redwing’s on him. *Everything* the boy destroys with the ring, everyone the boy kills: at heart, it’s all about Slade.

*Damn* the boy. And damn Slade, too.

Redwing lets the kid go, moving the blade and shoving her roughly, and Slade *jumps* at him. Redwing goes left, like Slade had known he would, and the girl stumbles out of their way. The boy’s fast, though, dodging and bending under the hits. But he leaves an opening, and Slade can *use* that.

He rams downwards with his elbow, hearing Redwing grunt with pain. Slade doesn’t *care* that the killer managed to slice through Kevlar, though some part of his brain notes that Redwing has better supplies now. The JLA will have to look into that.

Then Redwing stops fighting. Slade’s angry enough and guilty enough that he *doesn’t* stop, eventually slamming the assassin to the ground and kicking him hard enough to hear bone smashing.

But he’s not just furious, he’s also worried and curious. So he kneels by Redwing, clenching a fist in the boy’s gore-splattered black hair. The reminder of what had happened before he arrived makes Slade grind Redwing’s cheek into the asphalt. "Why do you keep *doing* this?" His voice sounds so harsh and hoarse: guilt and rage and pain.

Slight pause before Redwing answers; Slade hears a slight swallowing sound, and he can smell the boy’s blood. "Do it for you. Because I love you."

Slade's hand jerks in shock and horror. "No, you don't. *You* can't love anything, you dirty little murderer." He knows that isn’t true, not really. The child Redwing had been had loved his parents, after all.

"I love it when you hurt me," Redwing murmurs with a red-tinted smile. "It feels good. When you break something, or bruise me so bad it takes *weeks* to heal... Every time I move, I'm reminded of you."

Slade feels his eye widen, and he immediately lets go and backs away. Ah, *Christ*, is that why Redwing always stops fighting him? God, God... Slade feels his throat tighten as his stomach heaves slightly.

Redwing’s eye narrows and his face twists. Then there’s a flash and… a *green* version of Slade. Light construct, something whispers in the back of his mind. Holding the boy *down*, kneeling on his back. That’s got to hurt.

Redwing *wants* it to hurt.

Slade inhales shakily, creeping horror and realization forming in his mind as the green version of himself dissipates and the boy rolls over. Redwing has no control. Anything he thinks of, anything he *wants*, happens. And what he wants... is Slade. What he wants is for Slade to hurt him.

Redwing smiles and gets to his hands and knees, clearly about to stand up again. "Love you. Love you more then *she* did."

Whipcrack of utter, outraged fury and Slade's hands are around Redwing’s neck in under a second. Slade slams a fist into his injured side before holding Redwing’s head *still* by the boy’s hair as he squeezes with his other hand.

"You say you love me? I say you're *nothing*, Redwing. *Nothing* to me. And I'm going to *prove* it." He’s lying. He wishes to any God or any demon that would listen that he wasn’t.

Slade releases Redwing’s hair so that he can push the assassin over onto his back. Anger and pain and a guilt that scrapes his heart open are whispering to him of the *perfect* way to punish Redwing. To *really* hurt him, the way he’s hurt everyone else. When the boy opens his eyes, he receives a stinging slap to his raw cheek.

"Keep your eyes closed, Redwing. Or I'll leave and *never* come back." He couldn’t do that, not really. But Redwing doesn’t know that. Slade takes off his gauntlet in one swift motion; he can’t wear it and do what he’s contemplating.

The boy obeys instantly, and he must be thinking of something *bad* because all of a sudden there are greenly-glowing skeletal *hands* and Redwing whimpers and jerks but he doesn’t open his eyes.

"*Redwing*", Slade hears himself say, and touches the boy’s cheek. He wants to hurt Redwing, yes, but… the hands are a child’s nightmare. Slade can’t hurt a child. But he can hurt a murderer.

The hands vanish and Redwing relaxes into Slade’s fingers on his bleeding skin. "Love you."

The killer’s voice is soft, trusting, and it makes Slade so *angry*. His fingers tense on Redwing’s face, and he makes his decision. Moves his hand up to the boy’s parted mouth. "Lick it, Redwing."

His tongue’s so warm. Slade shivers slightly as the muscle traces over his hand, lingering on his fingers and palm. Slade closes his eye and focuses on the little girl, her brown eyes so wide and afraid and Redwing’s knife shining silver at her throat.

He presses his other hand to the killer’s crotch, face twisting when he feels arousal through the Kevlar. His fingers press harder and Redwing’s tongue licks harder as the boy’s hips push up. "I could give you so much *pain*, Redwing. And right now, I wouldn't *care*." There’s very little he *couldn’t* do to the boy writhing under his hand.

Redwing scrunches his closed eyes and *whimpers*--such a pretty sound; Slade *shouldn’t* want him to make that noise again--when the pressure of Slade’s hand on him lightens and then leaves altogether. Slade's knuckles stroke against his stomach, and then yanks down the boy’s bloodsoaked tights and his jock.

"But you *like* pain, don't you?" Slade moves his hand away from Redwing’s mouth; the boy’s head rises from the ground and tries to follow.

"Yes," Redwing whispers, pushing up with his hips. Another flicker of light, but then Slade curls his spit-slickened hand around Redwing and the vague image flickers out.

"Then you don't *deserve* pain, Redwing. Not after all *this*."

The boy’s crying, wet tears tracking down his skin as his fingers scrabble for purchase on the cement street and his hips roll desperately. God, he’s so *beautiful*; Slade thinks of Adeline's corpse and any arousal disappears as bile washes into his throat.

"You think I *enjoy* hearing you've killed someone? Do you think I *enjoy* getting envelopes filled with hair in my mail?" Slade *twists* viciously and slips his gauntleted hand around Redwing’s neck, fingers digging *in*. "I don't love you, Redwing. You make me *sick*." With one of those sentences, he’s lying. With the other, he’s not. Slade makes himself sick, too.

He’s also not being kind, or gentle, fingers moving roughly and using every trick he ever learned. And he’s learned a very great deal in his time.

Redwing screams so *beautifully* and spills blood-warm onto Slade’s fingers. Warmer than Adeline’s blood had been when Slade had gotten there; if he hadn’t stopped to catch a petty thief, would he have been able to save her?

Slade lets go of Redwing’s throat and grips his shirt, dragging him up, while the other hand, wet and slick with the boy’s own come, takes the boy’s right hand--Redwing’s torn his fingertips, scratching and scrabbling against the cement; the ring Slade should have taken is vivid against Redwing’s gauntlets--and holds it against himself. Slade’s never been so glad in his life to have an armored suit, and the image of Adeline in his mind makes his eyes burn. "I *don't* love you."

"I don't--"

"Open your eyes," Slade tells him. And when Redwing *does*... there’s a slow, dawning horror in his face at neither seeing nor feeling a reaction underneath his palm. Slade is glad of that, with a fierce, vicious joy that makes him nauseous.

"Love you," he whispers, turning his face away from Slade.

Slade sighs and pushes him away. "I don't love you." He doesn’t want to. He’d give almost anything to have spoken the truth just then.

"... I know."

Slade pulls Redwing’s pants back up and hauls him to his feet. Redwing doesn’t fight, body gone limp and tears dampening his face again. When Slade rips the ring from his finger, Redwing doesn’t even look at him. He just stares at the floor and cries silently.

Slade hands him to Jinx and tells her to take the boy to Arkham. She looks at him. Slade looks back. "... I had to."

She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Jinx is a smart girl.

When they’re gone, Slade looks at the ring in his gauntleted hand. Clenches his fist around it and closes his eye. He can’t...

Brings his come-covered hand up to his mouth and licks the white stains away. Salty, bitter; he shouldn’t be doing this, he *shouldn’t*... *Bites*, hard, and breaks the skin.

Blood and semen.

*Redwing*.

--Fin.