#Do you guys notice that Slade ysed to openly cry and show emotion all the time

[autisticrosewilson]

Heart to Heart

More transfem Grant and angst! Chronologically, this happens before my first excerpts. OOC slide because this is an au where he sucks less. Well. He sucks differently than he did before.

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Someone is following her. Has been for a while, and they're good enough that she hasn't caught a glimpse of them yet.

Greta scans the crowd but no one is ever looking at her, there's no telltale glint from any of the rooftops. She steers clear of every visible security camera but the feeling never lessens.

Their gaze is a prickle up her spine, and no matter how many times she changes her routine or her route home she can never seem to lose the tail.

In the end, the man finds her before she finds him.

"So how mad is he?" She can't meet the eyes of that mask, doesn't want to see what's reflected at her from the blank white lens.

"He's not-" Deathstroke starts but it's two AM and she is so very tired of looking over her shoulder and policing her own every move, lest she make an even bigger mess for herself.

"Of course not," she scoffs, "never mad, just disappointed." Greta quotes. "Always so disappointed." She glares at the sticky tile that's been bothering her all night, but that was the day shifts job and she's firmly refusing to pick up their slack.

"...He loves you." Is what the mercenary says after a moment of silence, gruff and quiet.

It catches her off guard enough that she looks at him. "You don't know that." Is the first thing out of her mouth, before she'even had a chance to process the thought.

"I do." He insists. "You're his oldest, you were the first one he loved."

"Did he tell you that?" She snorts, derisive and on edge.

Jarringly, he doesn't hesitate like she thinks he should. "Yes. He's told me a lot about you."

"..." She stops short, pursing her lips for a moment.

"... He's more sorry than he'll ever admit to you. He's not good with his words, but he wishes he made more of an effort. You deserved it. He'll never run out of things to apologize for to you. He just... doesn't know how to make it right." It's word vomit, desperate and nonsensical. Greta can hardly recognize it as a language she speaks.

Slade? Sorry? As if. She says as much, and the Terminator just sighs.

It's quiet for a while.

"He used to tell me stories about you." She says eventually. Deathstroke perks up, and she almost wants to giggle over how puppy like the gesture is. "I- I didn't know you actually existed, I just thought you were a hero he made up. I thought...that was what he wanted me to be. Like you. Like him. Like a man. " She runs a hand through her messy curls, undoubtedly making the tangles worse. "I tried," her voice breaks embarrassingly, "I was never the son he wanted. I don't want to be his son anymore. Never took him as much of a girl dad though." She sniffles, suddenly glad for the smudge proof mascara she splurged on last week.

Deathstroke looks...lost, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn't sure how. Now ain't that fucked up? She's so pitiful the contract killer thinks she needs help.

Maybe she should start therapy.

"He's an idiot. The biggest fucking moron that's ever lived, and he never deserved you." It's scornful, far too malicious for someone talking about the man who's paying him.

"Careful, he might take that out of your paycheck." She snorts.

He doesn't dignify that with a response. "His number is still the same, if you ever decide to give him another chance. Not that he deserves one." He adds. "But... I think he's more amenable to having a daughter than you might expect."

Greta shifts uncomfortably, tries to subtly wipe her nose and knows she failed miserably When he hands her a tissue, not that she has a clue where he might have gotten it. "I'll keep that in mind." It's not like she hasn't thought about calling before. Or just showing up at their doorstep and seeing how they react. Or sending them a post card or a magnet or something when she travels. Joey would like that, she thinks.

"Weird question but do you like, keep an eye on my brother too...?" She asks him out of the blue.

"Naturally." He admits easily.

"Is he safe?"

"As he can be."

"...is he happy?"

"..."

Greta braces herself against the counter with a wary sigh. "He's mad at me, isn't he?" She wouldn't blame him.

"Why would he be mad at you? He adores you." D assures her.

She shakes her head. "I left him there. I left him there with Slade knowing that if I'm not there he's got no one else to smack around. I left him there with both of them and their dumpster fire relationship. In that awful fuckin house with the nosey neighbors and their vicious kids."

She grips her hair to steady herself.

D is tense across from her, so still Greta bets he isn't even blinking. "He would never hit Joey."

"Course not, just me, right? Poor stupid Grant, never smart enough or strong enough or stoic enough or happy enough. Never fucking good enough." She wants to break something, wants to curl up and cry somewhere. She's starkly aware that she's at work right now.

"...You are so much better than anything he could have made you." He says softly.

She stares vacantly at the counter between them. "I don't think I would have survived what he wanted me to be. I think I would have killed myself trying to be like him and I don't think it would even matter. Sometimes I wonder if he wishes I had, and then he wouldn't have to deal with how ashamed he is of me."

Her fingers dig into her arms hard enough to bruise and the metal counter creaks when Deathstroke mimics the motion, leaving indents of his fingers.

"He never wanted you dead. He loves you so much it hurts to think about." He insists and Greta can't imagine why he's even bothering.

"Good thing I'm not around anymore then, out of sight and out of mind. He can go back to pretending he only has one kid without my constant vexing presence." She drawls bitterly.

D just sighs and it sounds so very tired. "...I'm not here to convince you to go back-"

"Could've fooled me." She sniffles.

"-just think about it." He pleads with her.

She doesn't manage more than a nod before she abruptly decides that this is enough vulnerability for the night, and maybe the rest of her life. Her eyes ache, her face is blotchy and red, her dollar store eyeliner is probably smeared beyond being salvaged. She kicks him out and spends the next fifteen minutes in the bathroom trying to make herself look a little more the strong independent adult she's been trying to become.

The house looks the same as it did the night she ran away. There's a noticeable absence of Joey's toys in the yard that makes her chest ache, the yellow paint is starting to chip, the garden looks too wild and ecologically diverse to be HOA approved.

Things must have gotten bad after she left, for mom to let it get like this.

With a lump in her throat, she approaches the door. It's the most notable difference, the same shade of white as the old one, but it's thicker, the lock so advanced as to be out of place in the gated neighborhood, and there's no windows - just an almost hidden security camera staring at her imposingly.

Her fingers barely brush the doorbell before the door is being flung open.

Greta freezes. There's a girl. 13 or 14, brown skin and eyes. And white hair. Distantly she's aware of shouting in the background, slowly getting closer.

She walks away. She registers the shouts of her name at about the same time she slams the door shut. She floors it, tires squealing on asphalt and probably leaving nasty tracks for Susan to gawk at.

A lot of things have changed since she left, saw wad prepared for that. She's changed to. She's got a science degree. She's legally cha get her name. She's been on HrT for almost 4 years.

Joey's mute. Mom lives in New York.

And Slade has a daughter. A daughter who looks nothing like mom. A daughter too old to have happened after the divorce.

Fuck him. Fuck them both. How could he- why would he- it doesn't- she can't-

Her phone is ringing, despite the fact she put it on DND. She knows who it is without looking, and she just barely refrains herself from launching the damn thing out the window. She'll do it once she gets on the highway, so D can't try to bring it back to her like a cat with a dead mouse.

Passing the Welcome sign feels the same way it did when she was 16 and too stupid to know what she was doing. Like she's lost. Like an ending. Like missed calls and lonely nights and nightmares with no one to put her back to bed.

At least she has a car this time.