Work Text:
Dick is already scrambling, fingers slippery with blood and trying to get into the really good (the really really bad) files before someone figures out he’s still in the building and stops him.
The blood is not his. Mostly. Just Jackson’s, and Jackson’s an asshole that a) hates Dick and his seemingly shining rise along the corporate ladder of this little crime empire, and b) had the inexplicable luck of being in the right place at the right time and finding out Dick’s references are very very fake.
Something Dick should have accounted for, but didn’t. The only saving grace is, Jackson hated Dick enough to get stupid abut it. Instead of telling his boss, he went for gloating and murder attempt instead, which means he’s now lying tied up and unconscious in a bathroom. And Dick is here, in one of the offices, trying to get all the stuff that can only be accessed from the internal network before everything gets wiped clean and all his leads go cold.
Weeks of work gone because he didn’t plan well enough.
Not the first or last time it happens, and it still sucks just as much as it always does. At least he’s working this one on his own, so no one else is here to see how spectacularly he’s blown it.
The keys clack softly, and Dick is mentally counting down several separate timers. The seconds until someone notices he’s messing around with files he definitely shouldn’t have access to. Seconds until someone figures out something’s up with the locked third floor bathroom and breaks down the door. Until they raise an alarm and make Dick’s exit a lot more difficult. That one gets two, because it’ll take more time if they try to wake Jackson up and figure out who knocked him out and why. And most importantly, the seconds until all the files finish downloading.
Keeping track of all the times helps Dick stay awake. He’s barely had any sleep in days, both organizing things for his boss and secretly sabotaging them in ways that won’t get him caught and won’t damage his position in the gang. It’s been singularly tiring.
Dick imagines a little chime when that final timer ticks down to zero and the file transfer finishes. He almost sighs in relief. And before he can pull the drive out, a soft click at exactly his six o’clock stops him. Makes him freeze.
There’s a warmth of a hot barrel at the back of his neck. Not touching skin, but so close he can feel the heat.
It’s definitely not Jackson, is Dick’s first thought. All the following ones are a tangle of calculations, trying and failing to guess who it might be. If Dick should try to talk, or if moving, jumping out of the way and kicking the gun out of the holder’s hand has a chance in hell of working.
“One thing I’ll say about this place,” a familiar voice says. “It has excellent soundproofing.”
Dick swallows. There’s no reason to try and hide his reaction, since the chances he could get anything past Slade are very very slim.
Slade, here. In the same city and looking Dick up instead of staying out of his way and outside his radar until he’s done with whatever contract he’s here for.
It’s either coincidence or… he’s here for Dick. And Slade doesn’t really do coincidence, does he?.
“Wonder why that is, hm?” Slade asks. The heat of the gun hovering right above Dick’s spine doesn’t waver, not once, not a millimeter.
“Haven’t the faintest,” Dick answers, wrapping himself in the familiar cloak of antagonistic cheer. He’s spent half his life channeling every negative thing he feels into it, so by now it doesn’t require much thought, making himself sound like nothing’s wrong.
“We could put it to the test. See how loud you have to get before someone comes around to investigate.”
So he really is here for Dick. Somehow Slade searching him out while out of costume and unable to fight back feels more disappointing than the fact he’s actually taken a contract on Dick. Not like it’s something Dick thinks about, but he would have expected Slade to give him a fighting chance the day it came to this.
The gun finally moves, but not away. Slade presses it to Dick’s back, over his shirt. It’s still hot, not enough to burn, but just enough to make Dick feel the lingering afterimage of where it’s touched him. Enough to make Dick wonder who’s been killed by it tonight, and how little time has passed since it happened. Could Dick have stopped it, if he wasn’t running on fumes?
Slade slowly drags the gun halfway down Dick’s back, and then sideways, following the line of his ribs until he gets to the place where Dick’s shirt is wet with blood and clinging to his side.
“It looks like someone’s already had their fun with you tonight, though.”
Dick expects him to press on the wound, but the nudge at the edge of it feels more curious than cruel. Maybe Slade did come here expecting a real fight. A hunt instead of an execution.
Maybe that’s Dick’s chance. His one way out of this.
“Yeah, it’s been busy,” he agrees. “You should have called, I would have found a spot for you in my schedule.”
“Well now, aren’t you considerate, Grayson?”
“So how about a raincheck?” Dick asks, trying not to sound too desperately hopeful. He almost considers adding that he’d be a lot more fun for Slade some other day, but then he realizes what that sounds like.
He’s not some prey, existing for Slade’s amusement. Though that’s what his entire strategy hinges on - that maybe Slade will let him go for the promise of a more exciting hunt later.
It’s a good thing Slade’s behind him and can’t see his expression right then, or the illusion of his pleasant compliance would be irreparably broken. It feels like the expression on his face, before he manages to smooth it away, might be almost as ugly as the mess of feelings constricting around his chest.
The heat of the gun disappears from Dick’s unpleasantly aching ribs. He relaxes and only then realizes how tense, how stiff every muscle in his entire back had become.
Slade steps around him and pulls the drive from the computer. It disappears somewhere inside the many compartments on the Deathstroke armor. Dick thinks he could get it back in a flash, but not without Slade knowing.
“Tempting. But I have you right here. Who knows where you’ll flit off to, if I let you out of my sight?”
Dammit. Dick could promise he won’t go running straight for the dubious protection of Gotham the moment he’s out the door, but there’s no reason for Slade to believe that, and no way to guarantee that the more troublesome parts of Gotham won’t come looking for him even without Dick inviting it.
“Slade,” Dick says, voice almost but not quite breaking. Everything about this feels different now that he can see Slade. When instead of what passes for impersonal for them, he’ll get to look Slade in the eye.
Dick doesn’t want to beg, isn’t going to beg, and he has to push away the unwelcome suspicion that for him, it might actually work. Might change the outcome. He wishes he could be the kind of person that didn’t care about pride or spite or, hell, he’s not even sure what exactly is holding him back. Doesn’t want to know. But then, if it was easy for Dick to say the words, it wouldn’t be something Slade might spare him over.
“Grayson.” Slade looks him over, evaluating, cataloging the damage Dick’s already taken tonight. It’s not too bad, but even the slightest disadvantage in a fight against Deathstroke is one too many.
“See, I would be done for the night, but you’re here, messing things up,” Slade says. And for a dizzying moment Dick thinks, hopes this really is against all odds a coincidence. That maybe Slade didn’t come here for him.
“Contract was only to take out everyone working for Trell—”
Which would be a good thing, if it didn’t until very recently include Dick, even if he was there under very false pretenses. But that’s very different from having a contract on Dick, specifically.
“—and I’m not sure that covers you. But then again, I wouldn’t want to blow a contract over some misunderstanding.”
It’s like Slade’s saying all of it just for the chance to watch Dick’s jaw clench in anger at the hope being dangled before his eyes and then pulled out of reach again. Dick seriously considers just punching Slade. Maybe he’d get the satisfaction of getting a couple of good hits in before ending up on the floor.
At least Dick’s made the whole circle from despair right back to anger. Anger is a lot easier.
“I think,” Slade says after a pause, when Dick remains silent, “it’s best if I take you with me. Just to make sure.”
He looks Dick over once more, and apparently finds him injured enough he doesn’t even need to be restrained. It would be an incredibly stupid mistake for someone else. Slade, though, can probably really deal with anything Dick could try. Maybe Dick trying something so Slade has a reason to teach him a lesson is exactly the goal.
So Dick keeps his mouth shut and walks where Slade tells him to, all the way out the building. Slade takes them on a route that has some bright red stains in the stairwell, but is otherwise free of any evidence of Slade’s mostly finished job. Dick makes a note of it, but doesn’t bother wondering why. Bruce likes to say no one out-thinks Deathstroke, so there’s no point in trying. Normally Dick wouldn’t agree, but tonight he knows he’s too tired to keep up.
He even gets in the car when Slade tells him to, since running would be a waste of energy better saved for talking his way out of whichever employer Slade is about to drop him off with. A rival of Trell’s, presumably. Depending on what Slade’s going to say, Dick might be able to talk his way into their good graces of yet another criminal operation and do some more spying.
But he can’t plan on only that. Slade might not be about to kill him, but he’d definitely get a kick out of dropping Dick in hot water and watching him flounder.
The irregular flashes of mismatched streetlights and his own exhaustion lull Dick into a doze. He wakes up when Slade’s already pulling the door open for him, and staggers out of the car and upright on his own power.
It’s dark, but Slade doesn’t have to drag Dick along. Even without light, and having no idea where they’re going, Dick knows how to listen and follow someone so seamlessly. As if they just happen to be walking in the same direction side by side.
By the time his eyes adjust, they’re at their destination. But even before that, Dick realizes he isn’t being taken to anyone. He knows the place.
An old safehouse of Deathstroke’s that’s supposed to be abandoned after it got burned. Not even by Nightwing—Slade happened to get in the middle of some messy feud between League assassins that time. Dick wouldn’t have thought Slade would ever use the place again, now that it was known. No one did, most likely. Ugh, Dick makes a note to start doing some kind of follow up on all the known safehouses, boltholes and previous evil lairs anyone has ever used in the city.
When he walks into the apartment and stops, Slade finally, for the first time all night, touches him. A hand on his upper arm, guiding him to the very bare kitchen.
Slade lets go and gets an overstuffed first aid kit from a cabinet. Dick is still reeling at his expectations getting overturned, again, so he doesn’t resist when Slade crowds him against a counter. Nor when he grabs Dick’s sides, low enough to avoid the injuries, and lifts him up so smoothly Dick might as well be light as a feather.
Dick could ask what the hell Slade is doing, but it’s very obvious, even if it does seem extremely unlikely. Maybe he’s still asleep in the car, dreaming.
It's not just the first aid that’s making Dick’s head spin. It’s like Slade is using the opportunity to touch as much as possible. Nothing too forward, even—that might be easier to deal with. Easier to understand why. But Slade just, just touches him. Patches the superficial wounds too carefully, slowly. Cleans scrapes so small that even Dick himself would probably just ignore them. Runs his fingers along bones he knows aren’t broken, just to double check.
Dick lets him, and watches his face in the low light. He’d almost feel guilty about assuming the worst of Slade earlier, if he had any kind of certainty things aren’t about to take another turn any moment now.
By the end of Slade patching him up, he’s had so much careful, measured touches he almost wants to pull Slade close, push against him to have any kind of point to it all. A resolution. Anything that would get rid of the shaky tension that’s been building inside him all night, since the moment Slade put a smoking gun to the back of his neck.
He doesn’t, of course, because he’s spent far too much time perfecting his ability to not give into impulses of any kind. But he wants to, and knowing that he does is almost as bad as giving in.
“There,” Slade says as he smooths a band-aid over a shallow scratch on Dick’s temple. “Almost good as new. I’ll remember to call ahead next time.”
His voice makes it clear he’s going to do no such thing, ever. But. He’s standing between Dick’s thighs in a dimly lit kitchen, so close that Dick can feel the heat of him, somehow harder to ignore than the heat of a glowing gun.
Dick isn’t going to ask, just like he’s never going to beg. But he crosses his ankles behind Slade, trapping him. And the corner of Slade’s mouth curls up into something like a smile. Like it’s exactly what he was waiting for, and yet didn’t expect.
He doesn’t make Dick ask or admit to anything more than he already has, with that one move.