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The rooftop is a pleasant reprieve. It takes some sneaking and then some creative use of a stray hair clip to get there. Because Dick doesn’t have lockpicks on him after losing his one set in the watery depths of the storm drains two days ago, when he was breaking into a walled off section of the smuggling tunnels. It’s also where he got an annoying cut that made him break into a clinic for a tetanus shot. Almost missed a check in for that. His current boss has been sending him on pointless errands ever since, no sleep in between. To teach him the importance of always being five minutes early instead of exactly on time, presumably.
Dick’s had a few not very great days. Or day, if you assume the next day starts after a period of sleep.
But he’s this close to being done. He’s found most of the data, wormed his way into all kinds of meetings. He knows things. Many many things. He just has to stick it out until the guy he’s posing as gets sent on an assignment that gives him the excuse to conveniently disappear without too much suspicion.
But that’s not tonight. Tonight he’s already done everything he can, and he still has to wait for the rest of the gang to get back.
So the rooftop. The wind is biting, but to Dick it feels more refreshing than anything. For the first time in days, maybe weeks he feels like he can breathe.
When he sees the shadows move on the far end of the rooftop, Dick stays still. If he just pretends he’s not seeing it, maybe it will go away. He takes another deep breath. The night air feels like a cool, soft pillow against his face. He wants to close his eyes, but keeping a threat in his sight is so much an integral part of his very being that he can’t quite make himself do it.
“Grayson,” say the shadows that have resolved into a familiar shape. Not a sleepless hallucination then. Most likely.
Deathstroke gets closer slowly. Almost warily. It makes Dick relax—if Slade is trying to gauge how likely a fight is, he isn’t here to start one himself. Probably.
Dick hums and tilts his head in Slade’s direction in greeting. Then after another deep breath asks, “Working?”
“On a nice night like this?” Slade deadpans. The next gale almost knocks Dick off his feet. Nice night indeed. But there’s no point in asking again. If Slade isn’t going to spill the details, nothing and no one will sway him. So Dick can stay here a while longer, relaxing and not interrogating Deathstroke, because that would truly be an exercise in futility.
“Pleasure then?” Dick asks after a pause that lasts too long for any normal conversation.
“It always is,” Slade says, suddenly too close, words stumbling just between them, low enough to not be carried away by the wind. Maybe Dick did close his eyes for a moment or two.
But why wouldn’t he? He trusts Slade to be himself. More than he trusts most of his allies on any given day. And Dick knows Slade better than either of them would like.
“You’ll be around?” Dick asks and tries his darndest to not lean against Slade, to not take advantage of the way he’s blocking the wind just enough to make Dick feel warmer by allowing him so close.
“I’m just here to enjoy the view, kid.”
So Slade is not staying. Whatever job he was on must be over already. Or it’s taking him elsewhere.
Dick blinks slowly, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, the heaviness spreading to his entire body. The cut on his calf keeps sending pulses of dull, insistent pain across every one of his nerve endings. He imagines what it would feel like to just—let himself collapse. Maybe against Slade’s reliably immovable bulk, or maybe just on the ground. Dick really needs some sleep. Especially since Slade’s armor keeps looking more and more inviting as a surface to rest against.
With a small shake Dick swats the thought away and leans forward, rests his elbows on the half wall circling the roof. It isn’t much of an escape—Slade takes it as an invitation to step even closer. A presence almost, almost pressing against his back. Slade’s hands on either side of Dick’s elbows, caging him in.
“You sure you’re okay, Grayson?” Slade asks, once again the words passed between them like a secret.
For a moment Dick wants to laugh. But then he might end up saying something he’d regret. He’s as okay as ever. He’ll sleep later. Or when he’s dead. Either of those. Business as usual.
But here Deathstroke is, sounding almost like he cares. Dick has no idea what to do with that. Not like he can distract Slade by listing his current progress in excruciating detail, mostly because Slade doesn’t give a fuck about the op Dick is working. There’s also the fact that unlike almost anyone else Dick knows, Slade would see right through it and would not hesitate to call his bullshit. And Dick’s too slow to make up a good lie. As if lying to Slade ever worked for anyone.
So Dick just shrugs. “As good as always.”
Not quite true. Dick has been better. The world is half floating around him. He feels so heavy, too heavy to fly. But he has a pack of stims left. He’ll get the job done.
Still. It feels weird to be asked. By Slade.
Headlights break the silent gloom of the street beneath them. Dick almost lets himself collapse then.
“Well, break’s over. I’m back to work,” Dick says. “See you.” Maybe. It would be an interesting experiment—if Slade’s presence would feel as strangely comforting again. Sometime. For now Dick has things to do. Criminals to pickpocket without getting caught.
He is about to twist out of the cage of Slade’s arms, when Slade for the first time does touch him.
“I don’t think so,” he says, and suddenly there’s an arm around Dick’s neck, a chokehold that’s so perfect Dick knows it’s over the moment it starts.
He still tries to fight, to get out of it, a desperate jolt of adrenaline driving him. Panic he wouldn’t have thought he was capable of as exhausted as he is. He’s too tired for anger, so a messy mix of feelings that’s not quite fear and not quite pain of some kind spreads like liquid ice through his limbs instead.
It’s not even failure that burns the worst; it’s the feeling of betrayal. He wants to know, wants to shout ‘why?’ and then—was all the fake concern necessary? It’s such a pointless stab of extra humiliation, making Dick feel safe before springing the trap. Slade would have no reason to—
Maybe he doesn’t know Slade at all.
He passes out too fast, exhaustion dragging him down as much as the lack of oxygen.
-
And then Dick wakes up. The room is light and airy, fresh air and the scent of clean laundry. His body feels—fine. Rested in a way that always feels strange after too many sleepless nights. No pains and aches at all. Even the wound on his calf feels tightly bandaged and numb with some type of mild painkiller.
He feels exceptionally well, actually, or he would if it weren’t for his hands being handcuffed to the headboard. Dick gets out of the handcuffs in a minute and leaves them on the bed. Everything feels too surreal to get his mind on a sufficiently paranoid track. Especially when he walks out of the room and finds Slade, sans armor, lounging on a sofa, drinking coffee and eating toast.
He’s dressed in a t-shirt and gym pants. In a flash Dick realizes the soft clean clothes he himself is wearing must also belong to Slade. Which would be fine, but it leads Dick to finally noticing that he feels very clean, like someone’s bathed him while he was out cold. Someone that’s almost definitely Slade. Dick can’t quite decide if a shower or a sponge bath would be worse, so he just forces himself to stop thinking about it altogether.
“Slade,” he says, cautious. He has no idea why he’s here, but clearly he’s still alive. That’s either very good or very concerning.
“Morning,” Slade says, and actually smiles like he’s illustrating that the morning really is good. If it's morning at all—the angle of the sun through the curtains looks wrong. Most likely it’s afternoon already. “Sleep well?”
Dick grits his teeth and doesn’t answer, and definitely doesn’t imagine Slade undressing and bathing him. Dressing him in his own clothes. Putting him to bed. Dick imagines none of it.
“Why am I here?”
There’s a plate with a stack of toast on the coffee table. Dick steals one to distract himself and also because he’s suddenly ravenously hungry. Figures. He can’t remember when he last ate anything other than energy drinks. Stealing Slade’s toast has the added benefit of making Dick look less concerned with the answer than he really is.
“You seemed like you needed a break.” It sounds too honest. For a moment Dick remembers the way Slade made him feel on that rooftop, just by staying with him for a few calm minutes.
Then Slade’s smile gets wider and wilder, and Dick remembers that Slade doesn’t do that kind of honesty unless it’s a lie. He’s only concerned when he’s being paid to look concerned.
“So you kidnapped me?”
Dick makes sure he sounds halfway between skeptical and outraged, but really, kidnapping someone for reasons that only make sense to himself sounds exactly like something Slade would do and has most likely done on multiple occasions. What’s his real reason this time, though?
“I’m not keeping you. You’re free to go,” Slade says. The smile on his face is a challenge. It makes Dick expect a trick. He is definitely not going to try and walk out the front door and fall into whatever trap this is.
So Dick sits down on the nearest chair and steals another toast and smiles back.
When Slade finishes his coffee and gets up, he passes behind Dick. Dick doesn’t tense up at first, but then Slade’s fingers trail across Dick’s shoulders, an almost casual friendly touch. Except for the fact it’s coming from Slade. Slade, who doesn’t do that, not even with people that aren’t his on again off again enemies.
Then Slade slides his fingers into Dick’s hair just long enough to tug once, firmly and then let go. He leaves the room without a word, and Dick stays there, frozen, his whole body feeling electrified all of a sudden.
Vague images, more feeling than anything, trickle through his mind slowly. Of someone undressing him, strong hands lifting him up, moving him, then water. Goddamn. Dick was really doing his best not thinking about that part. He puts those wisps of memory into a box and packs it away in a dark corner of his mind. For later. Or never.
Slade is out of the room and doesn’t seem to be coming back right away.
This might be the perfect time to check out the windows. Dick is pretty sure he can see the actual front door of the apartment from where he’s sitting. He should investigate it. Escape while he can.
Even if this isn’t a trap, even if it’s just Slade getting his kicks from messing with Dick’s mind a little, as one does, Dick still should leave as soon as possible. Should get back and find out what this has done to his cover. Maybe he can even use this as his exit, but he needs to go find out. Finish the op, tie up loose ends.
When Dick gets up, though, he doesn’t check out the front door or the windows. He follows Slade instead. Finds him two doors down, in a home office, sturdy desk, bookcases and all. So this isn’t Slade’s most disposable safehouse. That, or it belongs to someone else.
Slade looks up from his tablet with an almost expectant expression. Dick carefully judges the distance between them, the position of the furniture between them, and leaps.
He surprises Slade with his attack, but that doesn’t give him much of an advantage. He only gets a few good hits in before he lands face down on the desk, Slade’s weight keeping him down, Slade’s hands on his wrists. Surprisingly Dick is pretty sure he’s not even going to have new bruises. Now that he thinks about it, even his neck feels fine. No damage from Slade choking him until he passed out.
On one hand, Dick feels vaguely insulted at not being taken seriously. On the other hand, he’s glad he won’t have to cover up a huge bruise around his neck.
Though strangely Dick almost feels cheated at there being no bruise to examine later.
Slade shifts until he can speak right against Dick’s ear. “Seems like you still need to take that break. Learn to relax.” Slade gathers Dick’s wrists in one hand and slides his free hand around Dick’s waist. And then lifts Dick up and drags him down into his lap when Slade sits down.
“A break.” Dick breathes, not quite able to make himself sound unaffected. “That sounds more pleasure than business.”
“It always is with you, Grayson.” Dick can hear the smile in Slade’s voice. Still, he’s pretty sure Slade isn’t quite lying.
Huh. Maybe he really did kidnap Dick for no other reason than to make him take a nap.
And maybe Dick does need a break. Maybe not exactly a sitting in Slade’s lap kind of break, but... Slade definitely seems to think that’s the type of break Dick needs. Or just the type of break that Slade would most enjoy. And Dick seems to have fallen right into his trap, completely incapable of resisting.
Or that’s how Dick is going to remember it later. When he’s no longer relaxing against Slade’s chest, resting his head on Slade’s shoulder. When he’s not tilting his head back until his neck is a pretty arch, inviting Slade’s lips to trace all the places he managed not to leave bruises on the night before. Dick is almost sure Slade will take that invitation.
Turns out he knows Slade well enough to guess right.