DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to DC and not me. I'm just borrowing them for a while to spin a tale.

Put Me Out of My Misery
By firewolf
June 2010

"Ba—Oracle, please say it ain't so." Nightwing pleaded with her over the private line.

"And a good evening to you too, FBW. But what are you on about?" Babs answered sweetly, easily guessing what the beleaguered man referred to, but playing dumb for the fun of it.

"Br—Batman! Isn't he having you set up surveillance and cameras around that—club case I'm working on?"

"Oh, that one." She immediately pulled up on screen the camera which Robin arranged for her to be directly pointing at a stage. Mmmmhmmmm, these current specimens gyrating on the stage at the club were fine specimens too. But nothing beat her boy's perfect ass. "Well, I can't lie. I have been working on it. We've got great views outside and inside."

"Please tell me you're not making a recording."

Babs crossed the fingers of both hands. "'I'm not making a recording.'"

"You're only just saying that!" Nightwing yelled at her over the line. "You don't mean it!"

"Now, now, FBW, you know I have to record every camera angle we can possibly get for studying later."

"Then what's the reason for the four pointing on the stage?"

Oh, so that's what happened to those four cameras. Fortunately, she had Batgirl plant another eight. "Awww, FBW, you know I'll always watch your back." And that drool worthy ass, and those powerful legs and...

"Just—just tell me you're not going to sell the recordings."

"No, of course I'm not going to sell the recordings." Babs told him haughtily. "What do you take me for?"

She could hear Dick starting to breathe a sigh of relief thinking he should have known he could count on her in his hour of need. The poor boy really should have known better.

"I'm neither mercenary nor selfish; I'd share it for free."

Babs prudently dropped the connection before Nightwing's scream of despair could break her eardrums.

Really, Deathstroke should have known better than to follow up on this lead for a chance to tease Grayson. But let it not be said that Slade Wilson didn't have a sense of humour which demanded he drop in on his sometime enemy to needle him about his cases.

"What do you want, Slade?" Nightwing turned to glare at the mercenary grumpily as he leaned dejectedly against an alley wall.

Deathstroke blinked at him with some surprise, he hadn't realised Nightwing spotted him trailing him and had just waited for him to catch up. Before he could open his mouth to speak though, Nightwing took one look at him and pointed a finger almost at his nose.

"Oh, no. Don't *you* start. This is already enough of a nightmare." The younger man told him determinedly. "I'm going to really beat you up something fierce if you're here to tell me you've got a contract here in my city too."

'Beat *him* up? Well, he could try.' Slade coughed in amusement when he realised how high strung Grayson was. So the rumours were true after all. "Oh, I'm just passing through to see the *sights*, kid."

Nightwing stared at him. "Oh, God, kill me now. You heard too? Is this all over the villain community too?"

Deathstroke waved him off. "Your identity's safe, kid. Your guys have been discrete so it's been quiet on that front. I heard the gossip in the higher corporate community about the Wayne heir on an—embarrassing case."

Nightwing had his face buried in his hands. "I wanna die. I don't know what could be worse anymore."

"Hey," Slade grinned at him, "if the Hero community knows, then you'll have a lot of support and backup from them, won't you? That must count for something?"

"Black Canary's organizing hen parties." The hero practically sobbed while Deathstroke desperately tried not to laugh.

"I can't do it, Slade. I can't." Nightwing was wailing so pathetically, Deathstroke was starting to feel sorry for the poor kid. "I mean, not only will I have to dance in front of a bar filled with people I've practically grown up with and—and *strip* for them. I might—Oh God, there'll be patrons who'll want me to—to *lap dance* for them—"

Deathstroke's brain sort of short circuited at the word 'lap dance' and he didn't hear the rest of Nightwing's rant. Instead, a very alarming vision of what he imagined Nightwing's butt would look like unclothed flashed before Slade's eyes (yes, even the absent eye) and stayed in the forefront of his mind.

Daaaaammmmnnnn—he'd always been a ladies' man but Slade wasn't exactly immune to admiring damn fine looking bodies no matter the gender. And Nightwing's ass was known across their very select community as 'Damn Fine' indeed. And the idea of having that really *damn* fine ass, near nude and gyrating inches from a patron's appreciative eyes—well—it might just be worth it for him to reconsider his steadfast stance on his own sexuality and consider 'experimenting.' Given the attention he was suddenly paying to another male's anatomy, Slade rather thought it evident that he was—*maybe* a little—'Bi'. Maybe—?

His little reverie, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed by Nightwing. And Deathstroke was sadly too stunned to realise his danger.

A rather swift few pounding minutes later...

Slade tipped over and crawled out from a garbage can while desperately willing his head to stop ringing. He could not believe what the kid did to him. And just how the hell did Nightwing beat the shit out of him so thoroughly and quickly? He hadn't been that distracted by his thoughts about Nightwing's naked butt, had he?

But for crying out loud! Stuffing him head first into a *garbage can* of all things. That was downright insulting. Did he have a death wish or—Oh—so he did.

Deathstroke grinned broadly under his mask as he dusted his uniform off as best as he could. He'd be doing the kid a favour if he killed or injured him, so Slade determined that he'd let this one slide.

Now if he could just wheedle out details of when Officer Grayson was to perform, Slade figured he'd have a bit of fun and mingle with the crowd of heroines who'd no doubt be attracted to the idea of watching the best ass in their community strip for them. Slade was quite sure a fun night was to be had by all.

"Sorry, kid. You're not going to have me get you out of this predicament that easily."

"Fooey, you're no fun." Nightwing's disgruntled voice drifted down to him from the roof of the building he was standing beside, making Slade spin around in startled surprise until he located the hero. "And here I was helpfully staying nearby so you didn't need to waste much effort trying to hunt me down."

Slade laughed loud and hard. "You're not getting out of this on my ticket, kid." The mercenary quickly scaled the wall to join the younger man on the roof top. "I figure you'd suffer more if I leave you unhurt and intact."

"Are you sure I can't persuade you to shoot me even a *little* bit?" Nightwing held up his fingers in a pinching gesture. "You know, a *teeny* *tiny* flesh wound would do the trick? I'd beg and say 'please'?"

Slade grinned at him. "Not a chance. In fact, I just volunteered to be the best bodyguard you'll ever have."

"I swear you're the meanest bastard alive, Slade." Nightwing sighed dejectedly as the older man clapped him on the shoulder in false comfort. "And here I was thinking I could count on you to put me out of my misery."

"Nothing doing, kid." And if Slade had anything to say about it, maybe he'd just quietly see if he could locate this serial killer too and take him out. It would be worth a couple of months of laughs to stick Grayson in a strip joint for a whole lot longer than he hoped was necessary. Slade thought there'd be a good number of ladies who'd be pleased about a scenario like that too.


Thanks for reading.
Cheers, firewolf