Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blüdhaven is never Slade's favorite city to work in, what with his complicated relationship with its resident vigilante.  But the contract he'd accepted was more than worth his time, and Slade wants the money.  

His target isn't the easiest pick either — a  Wayne would doubtless have actual, competent security, and the awareness that they were a target.  Probably.  They might also be involved in some sort of crime ring, like at least half of Gotham's upper class was, but Slade hadn't found anything in his cursory check and he doesn't care to dig deeper.  It isn't going to affect his job, after all.

Blüdhaven doesn't really have a downtown, but Slade imagines that if his current surroundings were less dirty this would be it.  Several tall, once glittering office buildings and a sad, half-dead park.  Yeah, Slade hates this fucking city, and his view of the streets through his finder's scope does nothing to change his mind.

Timothy Wayne is scheduled to finish his meeting with the CEO of some shipping company in about fifteen minutes and walk out the front doors.  It's the closest event Slade could find in his schedule, and, as much as he hated Blüdhaven, operating in this city is almost always easier than getting involved with Gotham's crazies.  Nightwing included.  

His wait isn't boring, at least.  Something blows up, and he watches a mugging.  In broad daylight.  In the "better" part of town.  Shame for everyone but Slade Nightwing couldn't be out twenty-four seven.  Maybe he'd wait around afterward for a victory beatdown.

Ten minutes.

Five minutes.  

Slade resettles his position.  He's a little bit disappointed in Nightwing, if he was being honest.  Usually the man showed up by now.  Even during day contracts, he seems to have a preternatural sense for whenever Slade was trying to make a little bit of money in his city.    Oh well.  Hopefully, missing a contract wouldn't throw Nightwing into such a tizzy that he'd refuse Slade's advances.  It's not like Slade always makes sure to schedule an extra day into his trips in the city, no, not at all.

Slade checks the time one more time.  3:30pm.  Go time. 

"Hey, Deathstroke!! What're you doing in my city?"

Slade doesn't bother to turn.  "I'm busy, little bird."

"I see that!"  Nightwing's body presses against his own, leaning over his shoulder.  He's definitely trying to distract Slade, but it would work better if Slade wasn't so determined to finish this contract before he had to go into Gotham to deal with it.

 Slade refuses to move until Nightwing's black and blue fingers wave in the view of his finder's scope.  "We've been over this.  I can't let you kill people in my city."

Slade sighs heavily.  Glancing at the lobby to ensure Timothy Wayne hasn't left yet, Slade rolls sideways, forcing Nightwing to let go, and sweeps a leg low.   He doesn't dare drop his gun, lest Timothy Wayne stroll out the door and into a car while Slade's tussling with Nightwing.  

Nightwing easily rolls to his feet, leaping at Slade with his escrima extended.  "You know, I don't really appreciate you going after Gotham's favorite family."

Of course Nightwing had been extra motivated by his target being a Wayne.  Slade needs to finish this fight, so he ignores Nightwing's kicks in favor of grabbing at his escrima sticks.  They're certainly electrified enough to take down Slade, but his suit is insulated and Nightwing won't have a chance to touch his bare skin. "So is it true then that the Waynes fund your little crusade?"

Nightwing shrugged, flashing a sharp grin at Slade that made him stumble.  Just a little bit.  "Maybe I just want to help the people who've done so much for my city."

 Slade snorts, grabbing one of Nightwing's hands in a tight squeeze, yanking the man forward.  That move would probably work better if 'Wing didn't have the balance of a tightrope walker.  "I'm sure the billionaire playboy Wayne helps the city by stumbling drunken into fountains."

Nightwing laughs, dropping his escrima to yank his hand out of Slade's grasp.  He's down to one, but Slade's running out of time.  Nightwing's free hand, rather than reaching for his fallen escrima or Slade's gun or literally any of the other useful things it could be doing, snakes its way around Slade's wrist, attempting to pull him in.  "Oh sure, Wayne doesn't do much, but their company still does.  Am I not allowed to feel patriotic about my hometown?"

Slade lets it, because the full force of his weight slamming into Nightwing allows him to slam the man into a nearby wall (of some storage shed). "I thought you'd graduated from that when you moved to pants."  Slade's still holding a rifle in one hand, so he uses his body to pin Nightwing instead, slamming his armored wrist into the hand still holding an escrima stick.  

"And you were disappointed about that, I know."  Nightwing lets out a grunt of pain, dropping his other escrima.  Slade catches it with his free hand.  The electricity is always nice to turn back against him.  

Slade presses him a little farther into the wall, careful to angle his weight so that it's pressing into just the right places.  "Careful, there, or I might start to think you want more than a fight." Slade really doesn't have time— perhaps a blow to disable Nightwing long enough for Slade to make the shot?  

Nightwing laughs.  "You always want more than a fight," he teases.

Slade shrugs.  "You're not always willing to give me more."  He jams the escrima stick into Nightwing's chest, careful to activate just enough electricity to stun the man.  No need to ruin the mood of the night.  Slade might like Blüdhaven just a little bit more, if everything goes to plan.  It would certainly be a productive night for him.

Nightwing wheezes, crumpling into the wall, and Slade takes his chance to drop him and turn around.  He raises his gun back to eye level, crouching near the end of the roof.  No time to get a better position.  Where is Timothy Wayne?

"Yeah, well what I want is for you not to kill my people.  It just so happens that's usually the best way to get that."

There's a few men in the standard black of security, weapons pretty blatantly strapped to two of their bodies, and two more in plainclothes.  They're in the middle of a group of black cars, so Slade zeroes in on the middle one.  Its passenger door slams shut,  a man matching Timothy Wayne's appearance lounged in the front seat.

Slade curses, and fires two shots.  One to shatter the glass of the windshield, another for Timothy Wayne.  He already knows he's too late, since that car survives the streets of Gotham, and— the first bullet simply bounces off the bulletproof glass, and the second follows.  

The cars speed away as the bodyguards climb into their own vehicles; a fleet of four in all.

And Slade swears Timothy fucking Wayne turns from the front seat to look directly at him, almost thirty stories up and with absolutely no way of knowing Slade's location, and wink .

If Slade had been even thirty seconds earlier, he would have been able to make the shot before Timothy Wayne got in the car.

He snarls, already turning to deal with the ruiner of his chances, and staggers backwards.  One of Nightwing's escrima is still under Slade's feet, so there's no way he should have weapons, and yet—

Slade drops his gun to block the blow from a fucking bo-staff, stumbling backwards.  He'd just hit Nightwing with electricity less than a minute ago, how is the man still up?  The next blow comes before Slade can draw his sword, forcing him to stumble backwards.  

Even then, this fight shouldn't be too much of a problem, Nightwing's still stunned and Slade's target has gotten away.  All this probably means is they'll have slightly more angry sex tonight, that's all.  He's pretty sure that's still on the table; it's not like this is the first time Nightwing's distracted him and wanted to gloat afterward.  Best of all, there's no time limit on the contract so Slade'll just track Timothy Wayne down in Gotham.

The bo-staff is aimed directly at his head.  It wouldn't kill him, but it would hurt like a bitch.  Slade ducks, finally reaching for his sword, only for Nightwing to follow up the move with a furious flurry of blows.  He's fighting more like he's trying to take Slade down, not to end the fight.

Slade's not quite sure how it happens, but he ends up on his back, Nightwing's bo-staff jabbed directly into the chink in his armor at his neck.  It won't do much to take him down permanently, but it's more so the fact that Nightwing is standing above him with a weapon at his neck that causes Slade to freeze into place.  

"I'm only going to say this once," Nightwing says coldly.  Slade's only heard that tone a few times from him before— when his little bird drops his teasing manner to truly reveal the anger that simmers underneath at any moment.  "Drop the contract on Tim.  You harm a hair on his head and I'll make you regret it."

Tim , not Timothy Wayne or any other formal full name.  Slade can hear Nightwing's message loud and clear, but he still doesn't see why he shouldn't take the contract.  How hard can it be to kill one trust fund baby?

Nightwing's gone before Slade can blink.  He can hear the schink of the Nightwing's grapple, of course, but the point isn't for Nightwing to disappear

No, the point is to show Slade exactly how angry he is— by leaving him alone and very turned on.  Fuck.  He always loves Nightwing's anger.

Chapter Text

Slade spends about ten minutes staring at his front door camera.  He'd known taking a contract in Gotham was a bad idea before Nightwing had gotten irritated at him, but none of Gotham's craziness had prepared him for the Red Hood banging on the door to his safehouse at 7pm at night.

First of all, how had he even found his safehouse?  Second of all, if the crime lord had a job for Deathstroke, why would he not just use the normal online channels?  Slade considers whether he's just going to turn his security system to active, but, alas, he doesn't feel the need to make an enemy of a crime boss, especially when said crime boss is probably willing to pay a significant amount of money.

Slade still takes the luxury of changing into his armor and strapping as many weapons as he can fit onto him before answering the door.  He doesn't even bother to hide the blatant hand on his gun. "What do you want?"

The Red Hood stiffens a little bit as Slade answers the door, clearly adjusting his stance to something more defensive.  Wonderful, so he's not even dealing with an idiot.  This Gotham-somebody genuinely thought it was a good idea to bang on Deathstroke's door.  "I heard you're trying to kill Tim Wayne."

Slade feels the beginnings of concern.  Just because his search hadn't turned up criminal connections for the Wayne family doesn't mean they don't exist.  Au contraire, in Gotham the Waynes could be the leaders of some large crime ring and Slade could have no idea.  "Yes," he confirms cautiously.  

"I want in."

Okay, so the Wayne family, or just Timothy in particular, had managed to irritate Red Hood.  Perhaps it had something to do with the Jason Todd-Wayne foundation, which funneled large amounts of money into improving crime alley. (Slade had spent an irritating amount of time trying to determine if it was a crime front or not.)  Crime lords don't tend to appreciate it when someone else interferes with their territory — perhaps that's the problem?

"Why?"  Slade's not against help, necessarily, especially help from a Gotham native, but he also has no desire to get involved in local drama.  Especially since he's pretty sure Red Hood is occasionally a bat, despite having attempted to murder the third Robin.  Nightwing laughs every time he brings it up.  

Hood growls.  Through the modulator in his helmet, it actually sounds a little bit like Batman's angry growl.  Slade's begrudgingly impressed.  "I have a score to settle with him."

Slade debates for a moment, but his desire to be professional wins out over the itching curiosity.  It is not his business how a crime lord whose territory is Park Row and Timothy Wayne get into a fight aggressive enough for Red Hood to have a score to settle.  "I do not need help with the contract," he says finally.  Help would be appreciated, but Slade's not willing to split on the contract, especially when he's sure he can still get this done.  It's not like Nightwing is going to show up to interfere again.

Red Hood stares at him for several seconds, and Slade prepares for him to attack.  Instead, the man laughs. "I don't want your money," he said curtly.  "Consider this my desire to get revenge, and nothing more."

Slade remembers the heads in a duffle bag and how far, exactly, Red Hood is willing to go for whatever he considers justice.  The Bat still hadn't found the Joker's body.  "I wouldn't say no to a temporary alliance," he settles on.  

The Red Hood nods decisively.  "Great!" he says cheerfully.  Slade can almost picture him grinning maniacally under the helmet.  "Did you know he takes his skateboard to the park near Robinson every Friday?"

Slade does, actually.  "The park that Poison Ivy controls?" he asks dryly.  Slade's pretty confident he can take her, but he doesn't wish to take risks with her pollen, nor with Harley Quinn's or any of the Bats' revenge.

Red Hood pauses. "I can deal with her."

Slade doesn't need to consider.  Even if this is an attempt to double cross him, he can handle the Red Hood and Poison Ivy.  Besides, the point of allying with a local had been exactly for this scenario.  "Fine," he says.  

Red Hood whoops.  Slade is reminded eerily of his own children.  He swears no one over the age of thirty sans Nightwing (who's definitely not that old) would make a noise like that.  How old is Hood, again? "I'll see you then?"

This is the person who took out half of Gotham's underworld in a few weeks?  Slade's not judging at all.  Definitely not.  "Very well."

When Friday comes around, Slade finds himself crouched on the roof of a nearby building, sniper's rifle trained on a skatepark.  He'd already spent several hours here, scoping out the location.  The park had slowly emptied out as the evening went on, and as it hit seven pm, Red Hood joined him on the roof, his own arsenal of sniping rifles and other artillery strapped to him.   Half of it had been missing when he'd showed up to Slade's safehouse.  

The park is currently empty.  Slade's very tempted to start questioning Red Hood's intel, but he'd found the same information himself.  So instead, he puts up with a crime lord crouched next to him on a rooftop and breathing in the heavy smog and waits.

At seven twenty two, two dark haired men walk into the park.  One is clearly Timothy Wayne, a skateboard tucked under his arm.  He's talking in animated gestures to the other man.  Slade recognizes the second as Richie Wayne.  Hmmm, unfortunate to have a witness, but Slade's not willing to kill any more Waynes than necessary.  He's already going to have to avoid Gotham for a few months after.  

Red Hood pulls out a specific rifle, clearly prepared for this specific event, and sets it up.  

Slade would rather make the kill, so he aims his own.  This should be easy; especially without having to deal with Poison Ivy.

Timothy turns towards them, cupping his hands around his mouth.  "I can see you, you know."

First of all, how?

Secondly, the kid had been fucking winking at him on that rooftop.  Somehow, this civilian trust fund brat is good enough to pick out sniper's nests twenty feet up in the air.

Red Hood hisses and shoots.  Slade's shot follows seconds later.  He'd like to claim the kill, after all.   

Red Hood's shot hits first, exploding all over Timothy Wayne with some sort of silly string?  Slade's not actually sure.  It coats Timothy Wayne's chest and head, and yet the brat still manages to place his skateboard between himself and Slade's bullet and why is that skateboard bulletproof?  What the hell?

"Ugh," Timothy growls.  "Hood! I know this is your fault!"

… Not even an acknowledgement of Deathstorke's assassination attempt.  Timothy is madder about Red Hood's nonlethal prank.  This is the crime lord's revenge?

Rather than take another, killing, shot, Red Hood leaps from the top of the building, using his grapple to land in front of Timothy Wayne.  Slade suspects he chose a deserted location on purpose.  "You changed my ringtone, you little brat," he hisses.  "Deal with my revenge!"

Red Hood is mad because Timothy Wayne has access to his phone and changed his ringtone.  That makes total sense.  

"By allying with someone trying to kill me?" Timothy apparently has some common sense and crosses his arms over his chest.

Hood waves a hand through the air.  "It's not like he's going to succeed.  And it meant you were distracted enough for my shot to hit."

Slade has so many questions.

Timothy Wayne looks feral, back hunched and face set in a scowl. "Fight me then, bitch!"

Okay, so Timothy Wayne is the type of rich kid who thinks their year of karate enables them to fight an assassin trained crime lord?  Slade will get a good shot in at the end of the ass-kissing then—

Okay, how did Timothy block that blow? 

Why does his skateboard go over fifty miles an hour?? What the hell? Is that thing a goddamn rocket?

A man sighs from next to him.  Slade doesn't quite jump, per say, because he had heard Richie Wayne climb the building and settle into the sniper's nest next to him, but does startle at the sheer audacity of someone who, by all accounts, is an airheaded playboy.  

"You get used to it," Richie Wayne says.  He flashes Slade a blinding smile.

"Timothy Wayne fighting a crime lord?"

"Yeah," Richie Wayne sighs, looking all for the world like he needs a strong drink.  "It's Timmy Drake-Wayne though.  And— God, are they really going to irritate Ivy?"  

Thanks to Timothy's apparently motorized skateboard, the two brawling assaultants are currently rolling around on the ground near where Ivy's large vines take over the park.  They're still close enough for Slade to get a shot off, but he doesn't think he'd be able to pin down Timothy while they're rolling around on the ground.  

"So there's no chance of me getting a shot tonight?"

Richie snorts.  "Nah, they'll be at this for at least an hour and they'll probably cross half the city.  Can't say I'm very sorry, though, I like my little brother alive."

Slade turns towards him flatly.  "You're not going to try and stop me or him from hurting him?"

Richie grins like Slade's made a joke.  "Do I look like I can stop Deathstroke the Terminator?" He pauses. "Well," he reaches out a hand, allowing it to skim the front of Slade's breastplate.  "Unless I'm able to offer you something else, of course."  His voice has dropped, and Slade is hit with the full force of a young, attractive man who knows how to get what he wants.  

Which is to say, Slade's incredibly tempted, but if Nightwing can't convince Slade to drop the contract, Richie doesn't stand a chance.  Even if his blue eyes are entrancing and Slade's never seen Nightwing's.  

"A contract is a contract," Slade replies flatly.  

Richie pouts.  It shouldn't be as attractive on him as it is.  "Well, if you're ever in town and not trying to kill one of my brothers, do let me know."

Somewhere under the blood rushing south Slade manages to note that even Richie sounds confident Slade's not going to be able to kill Timothy Wayne.  "Hmmm, maybe."

Richie's pout slides into a smirk.  "I can be very convincing," he promises.  Slade has no doubt he can be.  He's probably not quite Slade's type in terms of what he enjoys in bed, but for someone with that face and an acrobat's background he can almost definitely make an exception.

"You don't seem very concerned about your younger brother."

Richie shrugs.  "I'm honestly glad it's not me this time."

Slade does show his surprise, this time.

"The newspapers used to call me Boy Hostage.  Hasn't hurt any of us yet." Oooookay, that explains the nonchalance, then.  Of course Gotham's wealthiest family routinely has brushes with the city's rogues.  It's even conceivable Red Hood's ringtone got changed the last time he kidnapped Timothy Drake-Wayne.  

"Do the Bats usually save you?"

"Yep!" Riche tilts his head, and gives Slade a chilly smile.  "Unless we save ourselves, of course."

That's a threat.  This pretty playboy is threatening him.  It's hot of course, Slade loves it when his partners have fire, but— a man who's entire reputation is in alcohol, stunts, and girlfriends is threatening him.  

"I used to bring down chandeliers," Richie muses.  "Of course the poor circus buffoon Brucie adopted didn't know better than to swing on the fragile ceiling lights."

That's still a threat.  Clearly the foolish Waynes of the newspapers are just a persona, but who is this person confident enough in their skills to threaten Deathstroke?  Casually? Slade's impressed.

"Must make you incredibly flexible," Slade muses.  Is he sure he can't get Richie Wayne into his bed without giving up the contract?

"Indeed," Richie says.  "I slip right through people's fingers if they don't give me what I want."

Why must the world conspire against Slade?

He leans down to pack up his sniper rifle.  Yet another failure.  Why had Slade decided to get involved with Gotham again? He can't even see Red Hood and Timothy fighting in the distance anymore.  

"Perhaps I'll see you around then," Slade says cockily.  

Richie takes a long, slow look at him, and laughs. "I doubt it."  He stretches a little, approaching the edge of the building.  He turns to look at Slade, and for the briefest of seconds, his facade drops.  Something cold and calculating peeks out. "And Slade?  If you hurt my younger brother you'll regret it."  

Slade shivers.

The cheery smile is back.  It gives Slade whiplash at how good the persona is.  Slade hadn't even been aware exactly how much anger was lurking underneath.  It's terrifying.  It's intriguing. "Not that you'll be able to, of course!"

Before Slade can ever begin to muster a response to either of those statements, Riche steps off the edge of the roof, leaning backwards. His laughter echoes over the edge.  Slade doesn't bother to look.  He already knows the child acrobat caught himself.  

It leaves Slade with a dilemma, because the more he interacts with Timothy Wayne the more he knows the man is a terrifying unknown.  At this point, all the Waynes are.  But Slade also needs to complete that contract.  He refuses to be the butt of a joke, let alone one where people are convinced he can't murder someone.  

(Slade searches up Richie later, and several long, long hours later, he finds Dick Grayson, last of the Flying Graysons, math olympiad and detective at the BPD and GCPD, working as a consultant to both given his residence in both cities.  He pictures the terrifying image of Nightwing and Detective Grayson, because that was undoubtedly who Slade had met on the rooftop, working together and shivers.)

Chapter Text

Slade is nearly at his wits end, and he's only tried to kill Timothy Drake-Waybe twice.  Nightwing interfering with his contract was to be expected.  Red Hood insisting on helping was not.  

 Slade would have been happy to add a strike in potential criminal connections and move on.  Anyone who drew the attention of Gotham's crime bosses didn't live very long, and Slade was happy to speed that along (and finally collect on the contract).  Then Hood had gotten into a fist fight with Timothy Wayne, and Slade had been threatened by Richard Grayson-Wayne.

Anyway, Slade regrets taking a contract that had anything to do with Gotham.  He should have known better than to assume Gotham's most famous family would be an easy target.  Last he'd heard, Gotham had some sort of undead cult and they'd clearly survived that too.  

Yet, he'd accepted the contract and he couldn't fail it, so—

It isn't as easy as he'd hoped to get into the Wayne Enterprises building in Gotham.  They have guards and metal detectors at every door, and in order to progress from the lobby area into the actual building you had to have proof of what you were doing in the building.  It makes sense for a city with Gotham's level of crime.  It's just… irritating.

No match for Deathstroke, though.

With all the high-rises around Wayne Enterprises, Slade considers just breaking the window of Timothy's office, but it's on the 91st floor.  Well, that and the fact that after Timothy Drake-Wayne's bulletproof car, his choice to fistfight Red Hood, and the motorized skateboard, Slade doesn't trust the man not to have either bulletproofed or otherwise booby trapped the window.  

"Mr. Cassidy?"

Slade gives the security guard the fakest smile he can.  This alias isn't his finest work, given that he'd put in about the work needed to establish Theodore Cassidy with a military background (to explain his loss of an eye) and a boring company about teamwork something something being a good leader.  

The guard looks back down at his ID, puts it through a scanner, and hands him a visitor's badge.  "Please clip it on your jacket, easily visible at all times.  You will have to swipe it in the elevator in order to get to your desired floor.  Have a good day."

Slade resists to pull his pistol out of its carefully designed and hidden pocket in his briefcase to shoot the god.  His fucking audacity, to sound so bored?? Slade put hours of effort into this alias after Timothy Drake's previous stunts, and the guard doesn't even bother to ask him why he has an appointment with a shareholder (whose office is also conveniently located on the first floor) or how he lost his eye? What a disappointment.

Still, he clips his badge onto the lapel of his perfectly groomed jacket.  Until he's got his pistol to Timothy Wayne's head and this whole miserable contract is over with, he will not break character.   He can't fucking deal with this anymore.  

Theodore Cassidy, military man who founded a company about leadership, cleanly slips through the guards and doesn't set off the metal detectors in the slightest.  It galls Slade not to have his swords or knives on him while going up against an opponent who is somehow still an unknown, but his briefcase only has one pocket and Slade prefers to bring his gun.  

Theodore Cassidy also enters the elevator with little fuss, makes polite small talk with the irritating woman in the elevator who asks if he'd served in the military, and steps out onto the 91st floor after the slowest elevator ride he's ever taken.  

He walks slowly and confidently towards Timothy Wayne's office.  He had scoured the internet for the floor plans — they had been significantly harder to find than Slade had expected, and it's yet another mark that the Waynes aren't as naive as Brucie and Richie Wayne allowed themselves to be seen as.  The office had been Bruce Wayne's before it had been Timothy's, after all.

Still, Slade finds the correct room with no problem.  Clearly, Wayne security isn't all it's hyped up to be, if he could get here with ease.  

"Hello, how may I help you today?"  Timothy's secretary, Tom Fox, greets him.  

"Theodore Cassidy, here to see Mr. Wayne." Bullshit, of course, because despite Slade's attempts he'd been completely unable to digitally edit Timothy's schedule or create an appointment for himself.  The shareholder currently using work hours as an excuse to cheat on his wife had been his second best plan.  

Ms. Fox taps on her computer for several long seconds.  "Do you have an appointment? I wasn't aware Mr. Wayne anticipated visitors today."

Slade gives her a chilly smile.  Irritating nobodies in the way of his goal.  He would simply step around her if not for the concern that the door is locked and meta-proof.  It wouldn't be very surprising, after what Slade had learned about Timothy Drake-Wayne.   He needs the secretary as his insurance.  Whether she comes willingly or not is her choice. "There are some things your superior does not inform you about.  I can assure you, Mr. Wayne is expecting me." To try and kill him again.

Slade's not expecting his speech to work on Lucius Fox's daughter, but he's confident he can get her to open the door to ask Mr. Wayne, at the very least.  That's all the opening he needs.

Ms. Fox offers him a sharp smile of her own.  "I'm afraid Mr. Wayne doesn't take visitors who don't have an appointment.  Would you like me to help you schedule one, Mr. Wilson?"

Slade pulls his gun.  Ms. Fox knows who he is.  Slade recognizes this on an instinctual level, and, besides, his second plan had always been to threaten Ms. Fox.  Still, it takes him a few seconds to reconcile the woman's cool and professional demeanor with the fact that she knows who he is yet she'd still denied him entry.  (It reminds him of Richie Wayne, and Slade doesn't like that.)

"Bring me to Mr. Wayne."

Ms. Fox blinks at him.  "I'm sorry, as I said you do not have an appointment and threatening me will not increase your chances.  Would you like me to help you schedule an appointment?"

Slade genuinely has no basis for her sheer audacity.  It's worse than Nightwing, somehow?  Slade hadn't imagined it could be genuinely possible for someone to be less scared of him than a Bat and yet here was Tam Fox.  

"I don't think you understand," Slade leans over the desk so that he's in her personal space, pressing the gun into her chest.  He's so fucking sick of this contract and this whole city.  "Why don't you just let me in to see your boss and maybe you'll get to go home to your father tonight, hmmm?"

Ms. Fox just stares at him. "Yeah, no."

"What?"

Something jabs into his side, and before Slade can press the trigger on his gun, electricity races through his body.  It's like the first and only time Nightwing had ever jabbed him with his escrima before Slade had electricity-proofed the suit.  But Slade's wearing a suit now, not the Deathstroke armor, and he crumples to his knees.

TAm Fox stands above him, grinning, tossing some family blurry object from hand to hand.

This — this shouldn't be possible.  The serum had meant that no normal taser could take Slade out.  How—

"Damn, Tim wasn't really joking about how he'd juiced this thing up."  Tam Fox looks thrilled.

Slade blacks out.

He wakes up in a GCPD cell with Nightwing laughing hysterically in the corner.  

"What?" Slade snaps.  His voice is far too rough for it to be actually intimidating.  

Nightwing just laughs harder.  He's flitting from shadow to shadow, and it's causing his laughter to ring.  Slade's getting mocked for being taken down by a secretary with a taser strong enough to down Deathstroke.  He fucking hates Gotham.

"I told you so," Nightwing whispers, and before Slade can respond, he slips out.

Slade's relieved he's gone.  He cannot stand for this. He won't.  He doubts the bars can even stand up to his strength—

Laughter cackles down the hallway, different in timber but equally as mocking as Nightwing's. For a second, Slade thinks the vigilante has decided to come back less than five minutes later, but instead someone else has decided to immediately humiliate Slade.   He almost does a double take at the cop who stands in front of his cell, wearing a GCPD uniform that fits like sin and dangling the keys to Slade's cage mockingly.

Detective Grayson just laughs.  "I told you you'd regret it," he tells Slade smugly.  

Slade's not quite sure whether he'd have the man pinned to his wall in a kiss or with a knife to his throat.  Maybe both.  It's infuriating and the exact same thing he feels about Nightwing.

Chapter Text

After Slade escapes the GCPD cell and sulks in a brand new safehouse for a day or two, he considers his options again.  Escaping the GCPD cell had been incredibly frustrating, given that he'd been stuck in one of the cells designed for a Gotham crazy.  He'd had to wait until they tried to move him to escape.  Humiliating.  

Against his own will, he does seriously consider giving up the contract.  Slade does know when to cut his losses, and three failed attempts certainly speaks to a tactical retreat.  Here's the thing though— somehow, all three of those defeats had been sheer luck.  True, Timothy Drake-Wayne is clearly some sort of insane paranoid genius, given the motorized and bulletproof skateboard and his secretary's taser, but he'd done nothing that made Slade think a simple attack couldn't take him out.  

Of course, ignoring the man's ability to spot and laugh at his sniper's nests.  Slade will just use his sword instead.  Sure, Timothy obviously does have some combat skills based on his ability to fist fight Red Hood, but that seemed to be… playful.  (He does not want to know.)

It only takes another few hours of research for him to discover an appearance of Timothy's that isn't a) in the Diamond district — buildings are too tall for sniper's nests —, b) Park Row — Slade wants to be nowhere near Red Hood's territory—, or c) Blüdhaven —Slade is not willing to face further humiliation at Nightwing's hands.

Timothy's apartment is not only in Crime Alley but also likely booby-trapped. There is no way that the brat doesn't have some sort of security in his apartment after he gave his secretary a meta-level taser.  

Thus, Slade instead targets his favorite coffee shop.  It's not an ideal location by any means, considering that Slade's determined that the safest way to murder this brat is to put a sword through him given how the two sniper's nests worked out, but it's away from the kid's sources of strength.  

Slade sets up his sniper's nest on a neighboring rooftop.  He appears at 5 in the morning— hopefully well before the trust fund brat goes to work.  The coffee shop opens at 6, and Timothy Drake-Wayne pulls up in an Audi at 6:07am.  Slade's grateful he decided to be early because he'd been sure no kid that wealthy would get up before nine.  Isn't Drake-Wayne a teenager too?  Don't people that age naturally not wake-up until midday?

It works to Slade's benefit though.  The streets aren't dead at 6am, but they're not nearly as busy as they would be at the beginning of the white collar work day.  Since Slade refuses to risk a sniper's rifle, the emptier streets will give him faster access to his target.

Slade graciously allows his target to order coffee for the last time while he scales down the building.  He'd placed little bugs on the desk earlier.  They aren't needed for the murder, but Slade can't help but be just a little curious at who this damned kid is.  

"Hey, Alicia!"

"Mr. Drake-Wayne.  The early morning usual?"

Timothy sighs. "Just Tim, and yes please."

The bartender, Alicia, makes a sympathetic noise. "You didn't sleep last night?"

Tim's sigh is louder.  "Past two nights.  Six shots of espresso should help, though."

Slade has many questions.  Like why someone's letting a teenaged majority shareholder of a Fortune 500 company get away with not sleeping.  Or why six shots of espresso is his standard order.  It doesn't particularly matter.  A sleep deprived teenager will be easier to kill.

"Here you go, Mr.Drake-Wayne."

"Thanks, Alicia."

Slade lingers in the shadows outside the coffee shop, tucked into the alley next to it.  He's pretty sure a few passerbys spot him anyway, but they just send him strange looks and move on, as if masked assassins in alleyways are merely irritating.  Has he mentioned he hates Gotham yet?

Tim Drake-Wayne steps out of the coffee shop in a perfectly tailored suit with a cup of coffee.  Slade moves out of the shadows, enjoying the schink of his blade as he unsheathes it.  "Timothy Drake-Wayne," he growls.  He wants to see the boy tremble before he kills him.

"Oh fuck you!" the boy yelps, and immediately takes off down the street.  No fear.  No hesitation.  

Slade books it after him, but the brat has a few feet on him, and it becomes immediately obvious that he's much more familiar with these streets than Slade is.  No matter, Slade's significantly faster and it will only take a few more alleyways for him to catch up on Timothy's initial lead.

There's people in these alleyways.  Most of them avoid the two of them.  Someone spits at Slade.  Footsteps thud next to him, and for a second Slade wonders if he's somehow passed the brat, and then a fucking knife rockets for his face.

Slade slides to a stop, and Timothy fucking Drake-Wayne skids around a corner and disappears.  

An honest to goddamn actual assassin is standing in front of him, in the only unoccupied alley they'd been through so far.  There's a multitude of weapons on her that she no doubt knows how to use, and a sword in her hand as she launches herself directly at Slade.

He curses, bringing his own sword up to defend, entirely unprepared for an assassin. 

"Stay away from him!" the assassin hisses.  Slade can't make out her face from behind her face wrap, but her voice sounds robotic, like there's some sort of voice modulator.  

How the hell does Timothy Drake-Wayne know an assassin?  Slade had looked after the Hood incident, and he hadn't been able to find a smidgen of criminal connections then, even with Hood's involvement to use as a starting point.  Once might be a fluke, two is not.  

"Stay out of my contract," he snaps, swiping at her.  She dodges easily.  

"No can do."  She scowls at him, locking her sword under his and flipping it in a move Slade clocks as half-Bat and half-highly trained assassin.  She's not just one of Ra's run of the mill, no, the woman in front of him is better than good.  

"Did he pay you to defend him?" They exchange another few blows, and Slade gains a little bit more of the upper hand.  She's incredibly good, but Slade has the advantage of decades and enhancements on his side.

The assassin backs up.  She clearly senses her loss.  Good.  Maybe he can convince her to leave.  "He wishes he did," she scoffs, and pulls a fucking rocket launcher off her back, pointing it directly at his face.  "But I do happen to like my boss."

Slade stares at her.   Fuck.  Timothy Drake-Wayne had assassins on his payroll?  Who he apparently isn't actually giving money too?  What is this clusterfuck?  

"I'm not your boss."  Timothy Drake-Wayne is lounging against the end of the alley, coffee cup still in one hand.  He takes a casual sip of it.  

The assassin shrugs.  "I don't know, I defected from Ra's to you, sure seems like you're my new boss."

What.

It seems the questions will just not end for Slade, and he can't even rid himself of the source of his problems with a fucking rocket launcher pointed at his face.

"No matter," the assassin says.  She refocuses on Slade.  "Give up the contract and leave him alone."

Slade considers it.  He'd promised himself just one more attempt, and it's all too clear there's something weird going on with this kid.  With the whole Wayne family in general, if he's being honest.  

Because here's the thing Slade had been trying to ignore.  Nightwing knows him well, and that at the end of the day, Slade is a mercenary and will continue to be a mercenary.  So while he stops Slade's contracts all the time, he's never that defensive over a single person, let alone furious that Slade had tried to hurt someone.  Which meant, likely, that Ngihtwing stopping him isn't a coincidence because Timothy Drake-Wayne knows Nightwing.

He also knows Red  Hood on a basis that's definitely some sort of friendship, one where attempted acts of muder (and silly string) are treated as a prank.  Timothy has demonstrated hand to hand skills too. 

And him supplying his secretary with a meta-grade taser implies that he both finds a need for her to have one and that he knows how to source or make them.  Slade's leaning towards the latter— perhaps he should have paid a little bit more attention to how much money Bruce Wayne gives the Justice League, and how competent a nineteen year old has to be to run a company for two full years.  

It's all too likely, then, that Timothy Drake-Wayne is already involved in the Gotham cape scene, the very thing Slade sought to avoid.  Worse, he's probably responsible for supplying, at least partly, the Bats with their gadgets.  And is friends with assassins.

Really, all signs point to the fact that Slade should give up the contract.

Timothy Drake-Wayne scoffs. "He couldn't take me if he tried."  The brat takes another sip of his coffee, and Slade changes his mind on the spot. How dare this teenager claim that he could stop Deathstroke from killing him. 

Slade growls at him.   "I'm going to end you, kid."

Timothy Drake-Wayne doesn't even bother to look concerned.  "Yeah yeah, let me know when you're actually trying."

Slade lunges at him.  The rocket launcher he'd forgotten about puts a fucking rocket into his face.  He crashes back against the walls, whatever that's under him crumbling under the onslaught of his launch and the rocket.  Things churn and crunch in him, and pain the likes of which Slade hasn't felt in a way races through him as his body begins to repair itself.

He stays conscious long enough to be greeted with the side of the assassin and Tim walking away together, laughing.

And he wakes up in the same position, because Gotham is such a hellhole that no one even bothered to call the cops for an explosion.

Chapter Text

Slade has no idea why Timothy Drake-Wayne would enter a sketchy warehouse, unaccompanied, merely two days after looking a world-renowned mercenary in the eye and daring said mercenary to try to kill him.  Maybe the trust fund brat does have a death wish.  Slade doesn't really care; the brat's going to be dead by the end of the night one way or another.

He enters through a window on the side.  It feels like he's stealing from the Bat's playbook, and he hates it, but this demon child has had a whole host of tricks up his sleeves and a little caution might be useful.

Slade lands on the second story walkway with a silent thump.  Underneath him, something clicks.  He's already moving, but the ground continues to click under him as pressure plates activate.  He dodges the first bullet, and the second and third lodge in his armor, but the fourth scrapes the side of his neck, leaving a sluggishly bleeding cut.

The bullets all come from his left— a small slit in the wall, with a camera under it, aiming the bullets.  Slade dodges another and slams his sword into the slit, cracking the drywall inwards.  He feels metal under his sword, and slices clean through it and the camera for good measure.

So Timothy isn't completely unprotected then.  Exactly what kind of warehouse does he keep to have this much security?  Is this a trap?

Slade pauses, and looks around the unassuming white walls.  He can hear the hum of machinery everywhere around him.  It's definitely a trap.  He's entered a small, white room.  Dusty boxes sit in the corner, and there's a door opposite him.

Slade is going to muder this fucking little bastard child and then string his corpse from the rooftop.  What kind of funhouse had the brat concocted?  Actually, forget that, who is Timothy Wayne?  How does he have access to these resources?  Slade still thinks it's likely that the brat supplies the Bats with their tools, but that doesn't quite explain the child's sheer audacity.

Slade steps closer to the door. He can hear pressure plates continuing to click under him, and the slit in the wall makes some sad shuddering noises as it fails to send more bullets at Slade.  Whatever.  Slade's gonna murk this demon brat and then the world will be at peace again.

Then the vents open up and jump what smells like raw egg juice onto him.  Slade does manage to dodge a little bit of the liquid, but he'd thought the only trap in the room was the pressure plates and potentially the boxes.  Instead, the goddamned brat had rigged the pressure plates to a secondary location.  

There's nothing much Slade can do about the traps, that's the worst part.  He'll have to pay more attention to details, smells, and see if he can hear the changes in machinery, but Slade's not specialized in sneaking into places that are booby trapped specifically to keep him out.  Usually, places don't even have metahumans in mind when designing their defenses.  

Egg juice slowly soaks through his armor.  His suit is waterproof, so it's not on his skin, but it squelches as he steps towards the door and slams the door open.  Something clicks.  Slade steps back in a rush, only for feathers to dump down on both sides of the door.  They stick to the egg juice in clumps, and it's a horrible realization when Slade realizes exactly what kind of trap Timothy Drake-Wayne has set up for him.

Slade is going to murder that brat.  

None of the traps so far have been even remotely lethal, so Slade's reckless as he storms through the door and into the main part of the warehouse.  

It's not the main part.  Someone put walls into the open area of the warehouse, turning it into a walled maze.  

Slade screams.  He can't even see the fucking brat, and god only knows what other disasters are in this hell building.  He'd already been tarred and feathered , because apparently Timothy Drake-Wayne is a fucking psychopath.  

"Ready to give up?" Timothy's voice comes from the walls.  There's probably speakers or something; Slade doesn't really care.  The idea that the brat is watching him make his way through this funhouse makes him want to scream.

Slade curses at him in multiple languages. "I;m going to disembowel you," he promises.

Timothy cackles.  It bounces around the room, no doubt coming from multiple speakers, high and eerie.  It's very similar to the Robin laugh that Nightwing had taught his demon siblings, and Slade hates it just as much in this scenario.   

There's two doors leading out of this room and deeper into the warehouse.  Slade chooses the one aimed towards the front door, which he apparently just should have taken.  He can't hear the brat over the hum of machinery in the walls, so he's going to have to explore all the rooms — manually.  

Slade's about halfway through the room when batarangs fly out of the wall, aimed directly for his face.  Slade dodges most of them and lets the last few imbed themselves in the feather mess.  He crosses the room in a few steps, slamming open the next door.  No kid.  

There is an anvil though. It's thankfully easy enough to step out of the way off, but having to step over it just makes Slade more enraged.  What kind of teenager thinks it's funny to drop anvils on people??? 

This room only has one door and another pile of boxes.  This set is suspiciously clear of dust, so Slade ignores them and charges straight for the door.  Y'know, which refuses to open.  It strains as Slade kicks it, but apparently someone reinforced it.  

He makes several attempts, but nothing budges.  

"You're supposed to look for the key!" Timothy says over the speakers.  

Slade cusses at him again.

The kid just laughs.

The key is obviously in the boxes.  The trapped boxes.  Slade stomps over, peering at the three columns of neatly stacked boxes.  Yeah, no.

He turns around and tries the door he just came through.  It, somehow, is also locked.  So Slade kicks it.  Punches it.  Throws his whole body weight into it.  Yanks on the doorknob. It just will not fucking move.

The kid laughs again.  "The key, Slade!"

Slade doesn't bother to curse at him this time.  He grabs the closest box, yanking it out of the stack.  It feels suspiciously light.  

It's empty.

So's the next one.

And the one after that.

Slade slams the fourth on the floor.  It's heavier than the rest.  He tears the flaps open to find some sort of white soupy gunk inside the box, completely filling it.  It's sweet-smelling, and Slade would dare to say it might be whipped cream, but—

He grabs the next box.  It's also heavy.  If the fucking brat is gonna expect him to root through a box of whipped cream—

He tears the flaps off this box too, and something explodes into his face.  Slade coughs as fucking whipped cream gets into his mouth and through his eye slits. He wipes some of it away with the feathered hand, but the taste of it won't leave his mouth, and it obscures the uppermost portion of his vision.

Forget about murdering, Slade's gonna make the brat wish he never existed.  

The rest of the boxes are empty.  Slade throws some of them at the walls, just to vent.  Then he sticks his hand in the box of whipped cream. It's disgusting.  It oozes between his armored fingers and slowly soaks through the glove, leaving it sticky.  It takes him several too many seconds to find the key in the bottom.

It fits in the lock for both doors.

Slade slams the one forward open, barrelling into the space before another door trap can come after him.

The walls open, and the door behind him clicks shut.  He can't get out that way.  Rows upon rows of guns pivot to look at him.  What the fuck?  Has the kid finally decided to point something lethal at him?

Slade springs at the nearest set before they can fire.  Hopefully his suit can tank enough of the hits to allow him to disable all the guns.  

The closest set fire— and splatter him with red paint.  He slashes his sword through the first set on the right, and the ones further down hit him with green, blue, yellow, purple.  It's a rainbow of colors soaking into his suit, covering the feather and whipped cream.  Slade shreds each and every one of the guns, swinging his word at them in reckless abandon until he's leaving a dripping trail of muddy brown colors as he stalks at the nearest door, slamming it open.

Only to find the largest room he's been in so far.  It looks like some sort of climbing gym, with levels and handholds built into the walls.  A few ropes descend from the ceiling, and, standing in the center of it all, is Timothy Drake-Wayne.

"Hi, Slade," Timothy waggles his fingers.

Slade throws himself directly at the kid.  

Timothy cackles, vaulting backwards.  "Not so fast.  I haven't had all my fun yet."

Slade charges at him.

The kid grabs one of the ropes, lifting himself up like an acrobat and vaulting over Slade's head.

"Aren't you going to fight me?" Slade challenges.

The brat smiles.  "Lights!" he yells.  The room immediately floods with bright, bouncing lights.  It's more than enough to rub up against Slade's enhanced eyes, bouncing off the white drywall and tiled floor directly to cause him a headache.  "Camera." A singular recorder swivels out of the wall, pointed directly at Slade.  Music begins playing, loud enough that he can barely make out the demon's voice over it. 

"Action!"

And, to fucking disco lights and some 80s song, Timothy Drake-Wayne pulls a bo-staff from nowhere and launches himself at Slade.

We're no strangers to love.  You know the rules, and so do I.

"So," Timothy says.  "Let's talk about your relationship with Nightwing."

Slade just growls at him, lunging at him with his sword.  The kid dodges it with ease, spinning his bo-staff around in a way that's frankly terrifying.  He dodges into one of the dark spots created by the disco lights.  Slade's eyes can't adjust fast enough to track him.  

Something hurdles out of the darkness.  Slade dodges, allowing it to hit the ground next to him and immediately burst into a voluminous cloud of purple glitter that clogs Slade's sight.  

He can hear something, but can't move fast enough to avoid several whacks from the bo-staff.

"Wrong answer!" Tim yells cheerily.  Slade charges through the glitter directly at the child monster.

I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling.  Gotta make you understand.

"So," Timothy says again, dodging around his strikes in the exact same irritating way Nightwing does.  "Are you dating Nightwing?"

Slade pulls a gun out to shoot at the kid.  It still misses! "I don't see how that's an iota of your business," he snaps.

The kid laughs, reaching for one of the ropes and scaling up it.  He swings around above Slade, darting directly through the disco lights and onto one of the perches built into the wall. "Wrong answer!"

Another object is lobbed at Slade.  He's careful to put more space between him and its landing space this time, but that somehow hardly matters as a second glitter bomb explodes exactly where he'd moved to.

Slade rolls low, out of the glitter, only to see an object descending from the heavens and to feel Tim's bo-staff crack into the back of his head.  Slade stumbles, swinging his sword around.  He's not quite sure where the kid is since he can't hear him over the blaring music, but it doesn't matter.

Never gonna give you up.  Never gonna let you down.

"So, despite your frankly terrible history, you're somehow dating Nightwing," Timothy begins again.  He doesn't even wince as Slade finally manages to land a clean strike on his stomach.  His sword meets more resistance than he expected, which means the brat is apparently wearing some sort of armor under his suit.  

"I'm not—" Slade starts, and then hesitates.  He's… not exactly sure what he's doing with Nightwing.  It had definitely begun as enemies of convenience, that much he's sure of, but somewhere along the way he'd met Wing's siblings and stayed over for breakfast one too many times to be casual.  Plus saved his little bird's life a few times.

Slade dodges another strike of Timothy's bo-staff.  

But Nightwing had never allowed Slade into his actual life, his civilian life.  He'd cited his brothers as the reason he refused to part with the secret.  Slade understands, he really does, but he'd figured that makes it pretty clear what they were.

"You're dating," Timothy says flatly.  "He has, like, pictures of your dates in his apartment."

What dates had they gone on again?  

"Never mind that," Slade snaps.  He scores another few hits on the brat.  Somehow, he still has no idea what his goal is.  He'd expected this torture chamber to be the kid's way of convincing him to drop the contract, but instead the demon is lecturing him on his relationship with Nightwing.  

Timothy cackles, and all the lights in the room cut out.  Slade breathes a sigh of relief as his vision finally begins to adjust.

"I think," Slade snaps, stalking closer to the kid who's much, much blinder in the darkness than he is and crowded against a wall, "you should be more concerned with your impending death."

The song finally trails off, too, and the 80s torture finally ends.  

"Actually," Timothy begins.  Through the pitch-black room, he meets Slade's gaze and grins.  It's a true Gothamite grin, fangs out.  His perfectly white teeth somehow glimmer in the darkness.  

Salde raises his sword.  The brat is finally, finally cornered.  He's going to put his sword straight through Timothy's dead heart into the wall.  

The song begins again, and the kid cackles, reaching backwards and grabbing one of the handholds on the wall.  "I think the topic makes perfect sense."

Slade lunges forward.  The brat skitters up the wall like a Bat, laughing, and the fucking lights begin strobing in bright flashes.

A full commitment's what I'm thinking of.

The kid's somewhere above him, but Slade can't quite make him out.  

"Why?" Slade drawls, backing away from the wall in hopes to make the brat give away his position.

Never gonna make you cry.  Never gonna say goodbye.

A thud.

Then, bo-staff cracks into Slade's head, neck, and a foot slams him directly into the ground.  Timothy stands over him, a sharp blade sticking out of the end of his bo-staff wedged directly between Slade's chestplate and mask.

"Because I need to make sure you're good enough for my older brother," the kid drawls slowly.  Bo-staff in hand, peering down at Slade from the flashing lights, he looks like a Bat.  "And give you a little taste of what might happen if you hurt his feelings."

Timothy Drake-Wayne is a Bat.

Red Robin grins down at him.  "We clear?"

"Clear," Slade croaks, trying to wrap his head around how the brat he tried to murder is a vigilante and definitely knew he was there the whole time.  

Timothy flutters his fingers, and then, in true Bat fashion, he's gone.

Chapter Text

"Oh my god, are you okay?" 

Slade blinks blearily through the lights at the black and blue figure who'd just dropped from the ceiling and is clearly trying to hide his laughter.  "Why're you in Gotham?" he asks, and then his brain slowly computes that Nightwing is Dick Grayson-Wayne.  Slade has no idea what to do with that.

Nightwing taps something on his gauntlet, and the light sand song, finally, finally, stops.  "He called me to let me know you'd made another assassination attempt.  He made no mention, of course, of the fact that he'd thrown a remodeled Riddler's warehouse at you."  Nightwing pauses.  "Why'd we even let him keep one?"

Slade groans. He slowly pulls himself to his feet.  Most of the temporary injuries the brat had given him are already healed, but none of the absolute mess of liquids Timothy had thrown at him are gone.  "Is your brother insane?"

"Yeah, although the rickroll was a nice touch." 

"The what?" Slade asks instinctively. 

Nightwing freezes.  "My brother?"

Slade reaches forward at Nightwing's panic, and then pauses because his fingers are dripping paint.  Still.  "He fights like only a Bat could," Slade says ruefully.  It's far too obvious in hindsight.  "And there was the thing with Red Hood.  And the assassin."

"Tim knows an assassin?" Nightwing yelped immediately, and then sighed.  "Of course he does.  Stupid question." He pauses.  "Yeah, don't ask me about the thing with Hood.  I don't know what they're doing."

Slade quirks an eyebrow. "You don't know why your brother's friendly with a  crime lord."

Nightwing just looks at him, and laughs.  "Hood's one of my brothers too."

Why is the world like this?  Of course Slade had not missed that Hood's teasing could be interpreted as brotherly.  He'd just completely missed the fact they're actual brothers.  Nightwing is involved too, naturally.

Nighting pauses. "I suppose you were going to find out anyway."

Slade thinks that's as close as he's going to get to 'I should have told you before this.'  "Yes," Slade agrees, "Preferably before I killed your brother."  

Nightwing winces. "Yeah…."  He smiles tentatively up at Slade.  "I did say I could be very convincing."

Slade almost chokes. "You are," he agrees.  "I find myself very tempted."

Nightwing slides forward, placing his hand directly in the middle of the sticky paint feather egg mess covering Slade's suit.  "Perhaps then I could convince you to come back to my apartment?"

Slade removes his mask, careful to tilt it so that the various liquids on it slide onto the ground instead of onto him.  He's mostly successful; there's definitely still whipped cream around his lips.  "You can," he agrees, and then, because Nightwing (Dick!) is taking this very well and Timothy's words ring in his ears.  "As long as I can bring you to dinner, afterward."

Nightwing smiles.  "Really?" he asks.

Fuck, they really both have been toeing at this, haven't they?  And it took 'Wing's younger brother literally beating his head in with a bo-staff for Slade to realize (and allowing him to figure out their identities.  Slade's like 80% sure that was intentional.)

"Yeah, little bird."

Nightwing beams and pulls himself closer to Slade, running his hands through the liquid dripping down him, and then those hands are pulling him close.

"Wait," Slade says,  "The paint."

Nightwing stares at him.  "Do I look like I care?"

Then they're kissing.

Despite Slade's absolutely terrible night, this makes up for how horrible the past few weeks have been.  For the rocket launcher, the taser.  All of it.  

"Hah! See I told you I could get them to work it out! You owe me a favor, demon brat!"

Slade separates himself from Nightwing, glancing slowly at the two figures tucked into one of the hidden perches.  

Red Robin and Robin both peer over the edge of the nook at them.  Red Robin has the widest smirk on his face while Robin's arms are crossed over his chest.

 "Ttt.  I helped you with plenty of the traps for this. I owe you nothing."

Nightwing narrows his eyes at the two of them.

"But it was my idea to put that contract out that ensured it!"

What.

"Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne."  Nightwing moves his hands to his hips, glaring up at both of them.  "You did what?"

Red Robin winces.  "Ooop, I think that's our cue to run!  Have fun, lovebirds!" Red Robin and Robin both pull out a grapple and disappear.  

Nightwing twitches like he's considering running after them, but he turns back to Slade.  "I trust the contracts over then?" He says with the biggest sigh Slade's ever heard.  "I;m sorry for my brothers."

Slade smiles wryly.  "Well, you did warn me not to continue going after him." And no, Slade was definitely not attracted to both Nightwing and Dick Grayson threatening him in their own ways, what are you talking about?  Nightwing's civilian identity being brazen enough to talk back to Deathstroke is only a turn on.  

How Slade had missed the similarities in their speeches, complete with the dramatic exit, is, of course, his own failure.  To be fair, he had been a little distracted.  

Nightwing smirks.  "I trust you have been cautioned."

Slade laughs.  "Actually, I believe you were about to seduce me.  Before I slipped through your fingers."

"Oh, I was, was I?"

"You were going to show me why I shouldn't go after you brother," Slade breathes.  "And then we were going to get dinner."

"Well, after you get that Pride flag of colors and feathers and is that egg? Eww.  Get it off you.  No night stuff in my civilian apartment."