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All in all, it doesn't take much for Slade to get Grayson in his crosshairs. Almost sloppy, really, how easy it is to find the kid's current apartment, and from there find a nice, open sightline from two roofs away that gives him an unobstructed view of about eighty percent of the place, minus most of the bathroom and a couple corners. Square floor plan, big windows, blinds and curtains pulled open in both the main room and the bedroom… Really, it's almost gift-wrapped.
Kid walks in at six forty-three, right on time. Just off work from that precinct, where he pretends he makes a difference in this pit of a city, and they give him some form of income that doesn't rely on Daddy-Bat's charity. He’s clocked the usual travel times, the kid’s patterns, the complete lack of a social life (not surprising). Only really took two days, but he gave it a week, just in case.
Slade can respect the desire for independence, even if he personally thinks the kid's liable to run himself into the ground trying to keep both his ‘jobs’ at once. Not that much energy left over for a full-time job when the kid’s running around on rooftops another eight hours or so every night. Only a matter of time till either one commitment or the other suffers for it.
If Grayson had to do some kind of ‘official’ work, though, cop's not a bad career choice. He already has most of the skill set, and he gets to ‘help’ people with his daytime hours, too. Overachiever. Plus — not that he thinks the kid even thought about it at the time — the uniform is certainly a nice bonus. Tight in all the right places, tucked in and professional for that air of authority, and the combination of black and dark blue is very complimentary on him; surprise, surprise. Slade certainly doesn't mind the view. (He doesn't mind the kid in most things. Or without most things.)
Grayson visibly exhales, scratching at the back of his head as he walks further into the apartment. Keys tossed onto the kitchen counter, phone following a second later as he leans his hands onto the edge of the counter. He stays there for a second, back rounded, head low, before pushing up and setting about pouring himself a glass of water.
Slade tracks the movement through the crosshairs of the sight, breathing slow and even to minimize the sway. Kid drains the glass, picks up his phone, and heads back towards the living room. Tosses it down onto the couch when he gets there, ignoring how it bounces slightly on the cushion.
Slade's already reaching for his phone with his free hand, to let Grayson know exactly the kind of situation he’s in, when both of the kid's hands rise to open the top button on that perfect, crisp black shirt.
He pauses.
Grayson’s head is ducked, eyes trained down on his shirt as his fingers deftly pop the next button in line, and the next. He's got on a white tank-top underneath, more of it showing with each button that comes free. It's tucked in with the uniform, apparently. One shoulder rolls, then the other, as Grayson sheds the uniform's shirt, letting it drop off his arms to hang, suspended only by where it's still tucked in at his back and hips. Shirt still managed to hide some of just how well-built the kid's arms are, but the tank-top certainly doesn't.
Slade admires the view, taking a lingering glance down the firm, muscled biceps. Nice scoop of his collarbone visible, too, and the tank-top hardly does much to disguise the rest of the chest it's clinging to.
The over-shirt gets pulled free and tossed across the back of the couch. It pulls up some of the tank-top, leaves visible a little slice of skin above the kid's left hip, just enough to tease at the sharp vee of muscle that would show with just a fraction more of the shirt out of the way. Slade can imagine it well enough, but imagination rarely compares to the physicality of the real thing.
Grayson's hands go to his belt instead, though, working the leather through the restraining loop with a couple quick tugs. The end curves in his hands, pushing into enough of an arc to get the prong free.
Hm. Well, this could certainly be more entertaining than just forcing the kid to stay put for a few hours. Slade's not usually one to pass up a good time, especially when it's dropped so neatly in his lap. Contracts he can find ways to enjoy are always the best ones.
Slade puts the call through as Grayson lets the belt fall open, fingers just lowering to the button of his pants.
He can see the kid react to whatever the ringtone is, hands stilling as he looks up. There's a moment of pause — obvious consideration — before he steps forward and leans down to pick up the phone.
"Hello?" he hears from the phone, laid out just next to his elbow, speakerphone on.
Slade adjusts the sight just enough that he's sure he won't miss out on any of the reaction. "Hey there, kid. Don't stop on my account."
Grayson stiffens. His gaze flicks immediately to the window.
Slade can't quite help the smile. "That's right. Crosshairs look good on you, kid. Almost as nice as that uniform."
It only gets him a glare, but he wasn't expecting anything else. "What are you playing at, Slade?"
"Me? Playing? Mm, you know me better than that, Grayson. I don't bring out my rifles to 'play.'"
Grayson clearly does some quick calculations, still staring out the window in his direction. Probably is pinning down exactly which rooftop he's on and what kind of a view he has (and deciding that neither piece of information is favorable to him, if the way his brow pinches is any indication). His weight starts to shift onto the balls of his feet.
"Before you do anything stupid, kid, you should know I only got hired to keep you busy."
That gets Grayson's attention.
"Now, I can keep you busy with a nice conversation, or I can keep you busy with a hospital visit and a messy bullet wound; that's your call, little bird. My word gets kept either way."
Grayson considers it. Slade checks his scope, and picks a nice, thick part of the kid's thigh, just in case the hero feels like being dumb tonight.
His heels settle back on the floor.
"Who hired you?"
Slade doesn't bother answering with anything more than a chuckle.
"What do they want me kept away from?"
"I didn't ask, kid."
"Doesn't mean you don't know. You'd have to know where to keep me away from, to do your job."
Slade cracks a smile. "Maybe I do. Or maybe I knew it didn't matter; it's not happening inside your apartment, is it?"
The kid scowls, wipes it off his face a second later. "It's not like I could stop it. Why not tell me the plan?"
Blatant play, but he doesn't blame the kid for that. "Monologuing is for certifiable, theatrical idiots with too much time on their hands, kid. I'm a professional."
Grayson just scoffs.
Slade checks the time on his phone. "I can think of better ways to spend the next couple hours than you wasting your time trying to get information out of me. You were in the middle of something, weren't you?"
The stiffening of Grayson's shoulders is really lovely. "Are you serious?"
"It's just a suggestion."
"You're holding me at gunpoint; you really think I'm going to strip for you right now?"
Slade can't quite help the grin that tugs at his mouth. "Why not? Are you scared, little bird?"
The kid's eyes narrow. Through the scope, the angle is just perfect to feel like actual eye contact, and Grayson holds it without flinching.
"Not of you."
The phone gets pulled away from Grayson's ear, some button on it pressed before it's dropped back down to the couch. Speakerphone, apparently, because he can just hear the rustle of fabric as Grayson steps back, facing the window and lifting both hands to the bottom of his tank-top.
"Slowly, kid," Slade corrects, at the almost violent pull of the remaining tucked-in ends. "No need to rush."
He can hear Grayson snort. "'Professional,' huh?"
The hands slow. Fingers curling into the white fabric, slowly easing it up along his ribs. Scarred skin over firm muscle; defined abdominals, trim waist, the first hints of the iliac furrow extending out above his waistband. Nice place to rest thumbs, those little grooves are. Sensitive, too.
The tank-top is released. Slade raises an eyebrow as Grayson's hands dip down to the button of his pants, framed between the open hang of his undone belt. A toying flick of his thumb, teasing at the button. The second one actually slips it free.
"You seem to be getting very into this, kid," Slade comments, as Grayson's fingers linger against the zipper, "for being so dismissive of the idea."
The scowl comes back, but Grayson's fingers still take the tab of the zipper between them. "Shut up."
They ease the zipper down, hips pressed forward just enough to draw attention to the slide of his fingers. Black briefs underneath, judging by the cloth beginning to show. Slade's not surprised by the choice. Of course, he doesn't believe the compliance for a second, either. Grayson's not the type to just let himself get ordered around without putting up a fight, and Slade's not arrogant or foolish enough to believe that's changed just because he's the one holding the gun. It's only idiots that fool themselves into thinking things like that.
It just means that the little bird will choose his moment carefully. Maybe try to distract him, first. Maybe by, say, 'stripping' with a little more charm than he otherwise might aim at someone pointing a rifle at him.
Unfortunate to take his gaze off that tantalizing strip of underwear, but better not to get too into the show. Once he's looking, it's not hard to catch the little darts of Grayson's eyes towards the door to the bedroom, and down at the phone. The Nightwing suit is in there somewhere, most likely; if the kid could get to a blind spot with either that or the phone… Well, it wouldn't do him any good (Slade won't have any problem making his shot through a wall, and the infrared setting for the scope will make sure the kid can't hide), but Grayson's exactly the kind of determined idiot to try anyway.
Slade adjusts his aim, waiting for the next glance.
Grayson flinches sharply to the side at the crack of the shot.
Slade calmly loads another round, as he listens to Grayson swear up a storm, grasping tightly at the outside of his right bicep with his other hand.
"Slade, what the hell?!"
"It's just a graze," he dismisses, settling back down. The kid's glaring. "Just figured I'd remind you that I'm paying attention; it didn't look like you believed it."
"You're a massive prick, you know that?"
Slade chuckles. "I've been told, yes. Are you done looking for a way out now, little bird? Or should I hang up and call nine-one-one for you?"
The kid's jaw works, hand tightening. There's just a hint of blood showing between the spread of his fingers.
"Fine." Grayson pointedly inclines his head towards his arm. "Can I wrap this, or are you going to shoot me if I move, too?"
Bathroom likely has whatever kit Grayson's got stashed in his house, but probably best not to let him out of sight, even after the warning.
"Sure, kid. Kitchen sink's behind you; dish-towel or tank-top, that's your call."
Grayson aims a truly entertainingly heated glare his direction before stepping forward to grab the phone. The stalk towards the kitchen is all stiff shoulders and petulant drama, right up to that sink, where the kid finally takes his hand off his arm to start the water. Honestly, it barely nicked him; hardly even needs a bandage, and it wouldn't bleed for long without one. He doubts it will even scar.
(Brat.)
The kid washes the graze off, then chooses — to Slade's amusement and enjoyment both — to strip off that white tank-top and start tearing a strip off it. Nice view, watching the muscles in his arms flex to do it. Not to mention all that other skin suddenly on display.
Slade slides the crosshairs down the kid's side, appreciating the trim waist all the way down to the nice curve of the backside it leads to. With the zipper down the pants are dipping low on the kid's hips, hiding the curve of the ass somewhat with the slack but making up for it with the band of briefs that's both exposed and not quite hiding the start of the shadow between his cheeks. Not a bad view at all. He'd love to get his hands on that. Shame the kid won't play nice if he leaves the rifle behind.
(Not tonight, anyway.)
"Done, kid?" he asks, when the kid's finished tucking the end of the 'bandage' in. A neat thing, given that it's made out of uneven strips of once-a-shirt fabric. Grayson's always been handy.
"With this? Yeah, I'm done." Grayson turns towards him, one hand rising to point his direction as the kid glares. "Whatever shit you think you're going to get out of this, that's done, too."
Kid's always looked good angry, too.
Slade glances down to the phone when it buzzes faintly against the rough concrete of the roof. Incoming text. His employer.
"Don't be a spoilsport, little bird," he replies, carefully shifting to reach over and tap the message open.
'Do you have eyes on Nightwing?' it says.
Slade rolls his eye. Employers never trust his word; he already confirmed that he was in position, so they could start the trade they're so desperate to keep Nightwing out of. Why would anything have changed?
"No. You don't get to shoot me and still expect me to play along with your game, Slade."
He texts a quick affirmative back, before resettling behind the scope. "It's a graze," he corrects, as he does, "it barely counts as shooting you."
"Slade…”
He smirks, lets his voice dip into a drawl. "Do you want me to apologize, kid? Describe how I'll make it up to you, next time?" He tracks the faint red flush that crops up on Grayson's cheeks. "I'm sure I could come up with something to make you forget it even happened. You know how inventive I can get."
The deep breath Grayson takes makes his pectorals stand out very invitingly, and the exhale flexes all those lovely abdominals.
Another buzz from his phone.
'Are you sure?'
Slade frowns. He sends a second confirmation, just the same simple 'yes' as the first. Probably just a paranoid criminal, same as any other; thinks every odd sound is his vigilante nemesis, come to ruin his day. (Even more ridiculous because Slade's not even sure that the kid actually had this second-rate idiot on his radar to begin with, not more than peripherally, anyway. A branching-out weapons exchange can hardly be at the top of Nightwing's priorities in a city like this.)
(It will be now, though. Kid hates losing. The second he's out from under the crosshairs, Slade imagines he'll get right to work figuring out who hired him. Shouldn't take him long. Slade will be long gone by then, though, so what does he care?)
"You really want to spend the next couple hours just sitting on your couch, kid? Boring way to kill time, far as I'm concerned, but that's up to you."
"I'm not rewarding you for being an asshole."
Slade chuckles, mostly to himself. "Why not? You've done worse than that with me before, haven't you, kid? Did I touch a nerve tonight?"
"Yeah, a nerve in my arm. By shooting it."
"Someone's sensitive," he mocks.
He happens to be looking at Grayson’s face, so he catches the roll of eyes. The kid holds up both hands in what’s certainly not surrender but might be called temporary acquiescence, taking a testing step back out of the kitchen and pausing for a moment, apparently to see whether he's going to let the movement happen. Slade decides not to comment, and Grayson only waits a beat before taking his silence as permission and heading back across the living room to the couch. Immediately, he kicks both feet up onto the coffee table and crosses his arms over his chest, staring resolutely across the room at the television hanging on his wall.
Black screen. Remote not anywhere within reach.
Slade doesn't bother to hide his amusement when he drawls, "Your choice, kid. Shame what you're missing out on, though."
Kid can certainly hold a grudge. Lucky that Slade finds that cute as opposed to annoying; nothing quite as fun as making Grayson slowly give under his touch, piece by stubborn piece, when he's so determined not to. It's highly enjoyable.
Grayson doesn't react to him beyond a tightening of his jaw. Just stares across the room, the only movement in him the rise and fall of his chest — slow, steady — and the slightly restless tap of his fingers against one bicep. Kid can be still when he wants to (he's got all that Bat-learned discipline to draw on, can stay still and silent for hours if the situation calls for it), but it's not his natural state; all that energy has to find an outlet somewhere. Here, it's in those tapping fingers, and the brilliant mind obviously spinning away behind the pretty eyes.
Probably still thinking of ways he can get out of this. Or, if he's decided to wait it out, already working on figuring out who hired Slade to begin with.
Slade settles down a little more comfortably against the concrete. Kid's not going to make a run for it now, not unless Slade gives him some reason to think he can. Won't hurt anything to settle in a bit, long as he keeps an eye out.
Maybe tomorrow he can drop in on the kid, gauge just how annoyed he is in person. (Maybe take a few steps towards 'apologizing.' A few physical steps.)
He's got another contract lined up after this, but he's got a day to spare. And if the kid's too pissed off to handle (in a fun way, anyway) he can head off, come back whenever his business next takes him through the state. That'll give Grayson time to cool off. No harm in seeing if he can use that heat to his advantage while it lasts, though.
"You might want to pick up that call you're about to get," the kid says, out of the blue.
Slade pauses. "Excuse me?"
His phone buzzes against the roof, as if on cue, as Grayson turns his head to look right at him. Arches an eyebrow as if he can hear the buzzing, even though Slade knows there's no possible way he can at this distance. And yet, he knew that it was about to ring.
Could be an extraordinarily lucky guess.
(Sure, and the kid could sprout bulletproof wings and fly off to escape him but that's not particularly likely either.)
(Coincidence isn't a common word in their line of work.)
"I'm still going to be watching, kid," he warns, shifting to reach for the phone.
"I know."
He accepts the incoming call, Grayson's line minimizing to be on hold beneath the number of his current employer as he carefully adjusts his crosshairs. Just in case.
"Yes?"
A voice that is distinctly not the man who hired him says, "Hey there, Deathstroke. How's the roof?"
Over the phone isn't a context he's heard it in before, but it's not hard to recognize Red Hood's mechanically filtered, Gotham-accented drawl.
Only a couple reasons Grayson's black sheep little brother would have the phone of the man that hired him. Slade doesn't particularly like any of the scenarios that come to mind, and he likes what Grayson's foreknowledge of the call implies even less.
(It was easy. Open curtains, easy access to sight lines, predictable schedule, starting to strip directly facing the window almost the moment he got home…)
Slade unclenches his jaw enough to say, "It's got a great view. Almost manufactured."
(The kid was goddamn playing him.)
"He figured you'd like that.”
Grayson must have spotted him while he was watching, must have figured out who hired him and pulled his brother in to be on hold as backup, for when they made their move. Little bastards.
His hand threatens to tighten, staring down at Grayson's face, hint of a victorious little smirk framed perfectly in the center of that black crosshair. He takes a quiet, slow breath. Carefully pulls his finger to the outside of the trigger guard.
"I take it you have something you want to propose to me, Hood?" he prompts, not making that much of an effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
They should know how thin the ice they're walking on is.
"Matter of fact I do. Now, talking to this jackass over here— Oh, right. Say hi, jackass."
The voice of his employer comes through in a shouted, garbled mess of syllables. Angry, mostly, so presumably he's not bleeding out onto the floor yet.
"Great, thanks, buddy. So, my understanding is he hired you to keep Nightwing busy for a few hours; half up front, half when he was done, right?"
Hard to say whether Grayson figured that out himself, or whether Hood's reputation for not sticking to the Bat's moral restrictions pried it out of his employer after a pointed gun and a couple implied threats.
"You're well informed."
"I try."
Bat-brat arrogance. Well-founded but still occasionally absolutely infuriating.
"You're going to want to get to the point soon," Slade warns.
To his credit, Hood listens.
"How about you take those crosshairs off of Nightwing, and I convince our mutual friend here that you fulfilled your contract and he should pay you the rest of what he owes?" There's a brief pause, a shout in the background. Hood's tone turns a little pointed, a little distant like he's talking at someone else instead of right into the phone. "Not your problem that he wasn't smarter about what he was asking for. Nightwing's not here, is he?"
Another angry shout.
"He'll come around," Hood says, very casually. "What do you think, Deathstroke? We got a deal?"
Slade adjusts his grip on the rifle. Fantasizes, for one indulgent moment, about taking the shot. Just one nice, clean one through the leg. Enough to put Grayson down for a month or so. Enough to teach him not to pull shit like this again.
He exhales. Clicks the safety on with a swipe of his thumb. "I expect to see that payment show up. Soon."
He can hear the grin in the, "Nice doing business with you."
"Don't test my patience."
He ends the call. The one waiting on hold to Grayson pops right back up, open and ready.
Grayson's gaze flicks down to his phone, like there's some audible cue or notification that's let him know it. Or, more likely, Hood's been sending him update texts. Explains the look now. Explains how he knew down to the second when his brat of a brother's call was going to come in. Pre-planned, the whole thing.
(Kid knows him.)
"I'm not a fan of being manipulated, kid," Slade starts with.
Grayson gets to his feet without any apparent heed for the tone of his voice. "And I'm not a fan of being held at gunpoint or shot, so I guess we're even."
"Is that right?"
Grayson picks up the phone and comes to the window. Smiles, charming and just sharp enough to give a hint of the mind behind those looks.
"Yes."
The blinds drop into place with one tug of Grayson's free hand.
Slade doesn't have the time to say anything else before the kid hangs up, his phone flashing once and then going dark against the roof.
He sits back on his heels with a shake of his head, scoffing under his breath. Fearless little bird.
It was well done. He can admit that.
…
Next time, he won't give the kid the chance.