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Deathstroke had only been talking to the gangster for two minutes, and he was already regretting several recent decisions.
"You knew the deal, Mikelson," he told the scruffy-looking brunette who still refused to look him in the eye. "Two hundred grand up front, and an additional fifty when the job was done. That was per your request. Because you 'didn't have the money then.' I trusted you to acquire the last fifth of my rate over the past week. For your sake, I hope you have it now."
Mikelson bit his lip. Apparently, he ran his own little gang at the north end of Crime Alley, and had hired Deathstroke to take care of one of his rivals for him. But he must not have been as tough as he postured, because he looked like he was about to faint. "I—I don't quite have what you asked for," he stammered. "But I have something else. Something better." He turned and gestured towards a large molded box behind him.
Slade resisted the urge to shoot the ceiling in warning. "I don't barter," he said instead. "Payments are made in money. What part of fifty thousand dollars cash did you not understand?"
"I promise you. It's worth it."
There was an earnest look on Mikelson's face, and Slade sighed. If it was weapons or drugs, and enough of them, he could probably pawn them off for a greater profit anyway. He could give him the grace of a single look. Still, he wasn't stupid, and there was always the possibility of a trap, so—"Fine," he said. "Open it. Show me what you think I'll take instead of money."
Mikelson visibly relaxed at this. Whatever he had, the gangster clearly expected the hard part to be even getting Slade to look inside. He seemed to actually believe in his offer. Which also meant it probably wasn't a trap, but Slade was still going to let him open it himself. It would be foolish to risk it.
The lock was quickly undone, and Mikelson pried back the lid. "Voila, Deathstroke. Nightwing. All yours. And we all know how much you hate him. He's worth more than fifty grand, isn't he?"
Slade peered into the box, hardly believing what he was hearing. Sure enough, curled up on his side with his wrists and ankles bound, lay Dick Grayson. He looked unconscious—drugged, probably—and bruised. His suit was torn, parts of the fabric stained red with blood, and one of his wrists was swollen underneath the ropes.
What the fuck.
"Pretty, isn't he?" Mikelson looked proud of himself. "One of my contacts in Blüdhaven managed to trick him with a recording of one of the other Bats, altered to sound like Robin was in danger and begging for help. Nightwing fell for it, of course, and, well! Here he is now. You'll understand that I had to take first dibs, but I didn't break him too badly. I made sure to leave that fun part for you. He does fight, though, so you might want to keep him drugged. He almost bit my boy Davy's cock off. But still. Definitely worth the money I owe you, no?"
Slade slowly turned to face Mikelson. "No." He didn't waste another second before firing two bullets straight into the gangster's neck. Blood sprayed onto the wall behind him, and Mikelson collapsed lifelessly to the ground. Slade just knelt beside the box. "What am I gonna do with you, kid," he murmured. "What am I gonna do."
He eventually decided on bringing Nightwing to his nearest safehouse. It was only a few blocks away, and one he didn't mind having to abandon when this was all over. Slade still had no plan for what he was going to do next, but it was pretty obvious he had to do something, and he reasoned he could cross the rest of the bridges as he came to them. So he cut the bindings around Dick's wrists and ankles, scooped the still-unconscious hero up into his arms, and headed for his car.
When he reached the tiny apartment, Slade carefully lay Dick on the couch. He had no idea how long it would take for the drugs to wear off. But a few fingers to his neck confirmed that Nightwing's pulse was steady, albeit a bit fast, so even without knowing what he'd been given, Slade could estimate that it wouldn't be too long. He sat down in an armchair and began to clean his gun. Time to work out what to tell the kid.
Sure enough, maybe ten minutes later, Dick scrambled off the couch with fear in his eyes, clearly trying to distance himself from Deathstroke. He seemed on the border of hyperventilating, yet very determined to keep himself under control. "You," he said. "They sold me to you?"
The phrasing made Slade's flesh crawl. Sold. So Dick had been told what he'd been captured for. Not to mention what had already been done to him. "Relax, Nightwing," Slade responded, doing his best to keep the disgust from his voice. "I’m not gonna rape you." He would have him willingly if Dick ever let him, but even an idiot could tell now was not the time to suggest such a thing.
Dick was still breathing heavily. "Then… why am I here?" He glanced at the safehouse door, which Slade had padlocked behind him when they'd entered. For safety. "I'm not going to work for you, either."
"You're here because that asshole was selling you." Slade slid his gun in his holster and stood up. "And that means that if I didn't take you, he'd find another buyer. I took care of him, but he didn't work alone, and you were too vulnerable for me to dump you on the streets. Believe it or not, Nightwing, I have no wish to see you dead."
"I’m awake now. You can let me go."
Slade shook his head. "I said vulnerable, not unconscious. Your wrist is still broken, and we both know those drugs are still in your system. If Mikelson's lackeys come after you, you'd be recaptured in an instant."
Dick clenched his jaw. His mistrust towards Slade was obvious, and Slade couldn't even blame him too much for it. "My wrist isn't broken," he said, holding it up and twisting it around as if to prove his point. Slade pretended not to notice his wince.
"Fine. Merely injured, then. Doesn't change the fact that you'd be fighting one handed. And half-sedated."
"If you care about me so much," Dick replied, stepping closer with sudden confidence, "then let me call Batman! I'd be safe with him. Don't pretend you're not burning this safehouse anyway."
He had a good point, but Slade was still loathe to let him out of his sight after what had happened. "Good try. How about this. You manage to get this phone from me"—he held up his burner— "and I'll let you keep it. It'll prove you're good enough to make it back to the Bat."
Dick glanced down at his injured wrist and grimaced. "I thought you were trying to help me."
"I am. Making sure you don't get snatched before you can make it home is, in fact, looking out for you." Slade tossed the phone over in his hand, then slid it into a pocket. "There's leftover Chinese in the fridge, and I just washed the bedsheets if you want to sleep off the rest of that sedative." Dick didn’t need to know that the bedroom window was locked down tighter than Fort Knox.
"How do I know you won't hurt me if I take you up on that offer?" Dick's voice shook, and Slade couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid. He'd already been through too much.
So instead of getting angry at the continued distrust, Slade sighed. "Nightwing. If I wanted to have you, I'd have done it while you were still in Mikelson's box, or just after you woke up. I've got no reason to do it now. Why would I untie you?"
"But—"
"Look. Maybe you think I want you, and that's why you're so suspicious. And maybe I do. But if we ever fuck, Grayson, you're going to be begging me for it."
"I’m not."
Slade threw his hands up. "There you go. So I’m not going to force you." Not after everything he'd just done to rescue him. He moved to the couch that Dick had vacated, avoiding a fresh bloodstain, and grabbed the TV remote. "Get some rest. It'll be easier to get my phone if you're less exhausted and the drugs have worn off."
His hesitation remained obvious in Dick's expression, but after a moment, he headed for the bedroom. Slade watched him go.
He really did want the best for the kid. If Nightwing hadn't managed to get the phone from him by tomorrow evening, Slade decided he would call Joey to contact Batman and let him know where they were anyway. Taking that long would probably mean Dick was more hurt than he realized, enough to need a real medical check-up, and there was no way Dick would trust him enough to go to Deathstroke's own doctors.
But that was unlikely. Dick seemed determined, and it wasn't like Slade was going to defend the phone as hard as he could. This was only to prove that Dick had recovered enough to evade regular criminals, not someone like Deathstroke. Even if he was in top condition, Nightwing would need some serious luck to beat him if Slade were actually trying. And Dick was far from top condition, even if he slept off some of his aches and pains and Slade made him a nice breakfast in the morning. So Slade would leave the burner more attainable than he normally would, and Dick would probably have it by midday. He'd make the call, Slade would leave, and Batman would collect his protégé. Simple. Slade relaxed into the couch, turning the television onto a wildlife documentary. He had a long evening ahead of him.
Except just then, to his left, the window shattered. Slade already had his gun drawn and pointed at the noise before he'd even fully stood up. "Drop it."
The intruder—a wiry redhead in a grey ski mask—slowly lowered his own gun to the ground, then raised his hands. "I just want Nightwing back. You didn't pay for him."
Damn it. How had he been followed? Slade must have gotten sloppy, being so distracted by the thought of what had happened to Dick. He'd have to take more care with such things in the future. "Pay for him?" Slade growled. "He was the payment. That means I get to do what I want with him. You one of Mikelson's?"
"I was," the man responded. "But you killed him. That fulfilled his debt. And it means you stole Nightwing from us. We just want him back."
"So you can sell him for more than fifty thousand."
"Nah." The man had the nerve to grin. "I was actually planning on keeping him for myself. He's got quite the body, you know?"
"Yes," Slade agreed, and fired three shots. Two into the man's heart, and one into his brain. He was dead on the spot.
A few moments later, Dick stumbled out of the bedroom, clearly awoken by the gunshots. "Deathstroke?"
"Change of plans," Slade replied. "You're going home."
Dick furrowed his brow. His confusion was clear even with his eyes hidden behind his mask. "But I thought you said…"
"That was before I knew they were actively after you." He reloaded his pistol. "I was afraid they might be able to grab you before you could make it home. But I’ve got no idea how big that gang of theirs is, and I’m not getting pinned down in this safehouse if they converge on here. Did you leave anything in the bedroom?" Dick shook his head. "Good. Then let's head downstairs." Slade stepped through the shattered window and out onto the fire escape. "I'll drive."
"I don't understand," Dick said as they reached the car. He slid into the passenger's seat and looked at Slade. "They're after me, so now you're letting me go? Seems like that's only safer for you, not me. I should have known you only cared about protecting yourself."
"Quiet." Slade glanced at him. "If you got the phone, I would have turned you loose to go to Blüdhaven or wherever you wanted. I wouldn't stick around to make sure Batman got to you before anyone else. So I wanted to make sure you could fend for yourself first. Now I see how bad of an idea that would be."
Dick pressed his lips together and looked down. "So you're not letting me go."
"I’m not letting you go alone. Not when you're their prime target." Slade pulled the car to a stop less than a block away from Wayne Manor. Close enough that he could keep an eye on Dick until he was safely inside. "Go back to Batman, Nightwing. I’m sure Daddy misses you anyway."
Dick seemed almost in shock as he opened the car door. He floundered for words for a second—the sedative still probably hadn't totally worn off—before managing a "But what about you?"
"Me? Don't worry about me." Slade smiled. "I think I've got a gang to finish off."