I own nothing, especially not Teen Titans. Hope you like this nonsense.

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The man was pacing between two windows, both lit, neither curtained. Stick a bull's eye on him and you'd have an ideal target.

He'd thought of that himself.

Which was appropriate. Tonight was going to be his first kill.

Behind him Slade quietly unclipped a strap, and swung his bag off and down to the roof. "Robin. Concentrate. Is he there?"

Oh yeah, concentrate. Easy. Breathe. Count the windows. Check they were going to murder the right person. That he was going to murder the right person. "Yes sir. Ninth floor, third in from the left." Dick clenched his teeth and forced himself to turn around. "Dark hair, five foot three."

For the Titans.

Slade was hunched over, unpacking the pieces of his gun, and without turning round he held up his hand, "The tripod."

Dick had carried that up himself, he unclipped it from his back, and held it out, a little awkwardly. Slade didn't take it.

"We have a schedule." He stood up and strode to the roof edge. Watching, Dick saw him stare down at the man in the room. Slade folded his arms. "See the bag on his desk? He just arrived. Right on time. You have to appreciate consistent timetables." He chuckled, and Dick grunted. Slade was enjoying this; whatever else he really seemed to like his work. "Assemble the gun."

Dick shivered and looked back at Slade, at the building behind him, and the city flat out after that. If he ran now he could jump and scale the side, make it to the street, he could be out of here and- Slade would kill the Titans. On the other hand, he could push Slade. One well-placed kick. Right now, one shove, over the edge. He itched to try- but he'd miss, he'd fail, and they'd pay.

Stomach tight and kneeling on the rooftop, Dick fitted the pieces together. They were going to kill that man. He'd gone past panicking by now to cold unavoidability, this was happening. Without thinking he snapped the telescopic sight on, almost breaking the clip.

"Good job." Slade was watching him. "Though remember the equipment's expensive. Try not to break it. Also, think about where you set up. Back here…" He crouched beside Dick, examining the line of sight, "you're more likely to graze him, but it'll mean aiming high. What does that mean?"

"I'd-"

"Speak up."

"I'd risk missing the brain. Putting him in a coma." Now he was feeling sick. Awful, head aching sick. He swallowed. For them. "Then we have to go after him again, it's difficult." He was going to throw up. Ending a life. "That's a messy job."

"That's right. And we don't get good reputations through messy jobs. Think things through next time. Before you make a mistake."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. We can fix it. But you won't always have the luxury of time."

He was at his worst were when he tried to act like a teacher.

Walking past, Slade easily picked up the gun, stand and all, and carried it to the roof edge, setting it straight. Dick followed.

The sight of it- the aim and the trigger and the bullets waiting inside- Dick started to shake, his hands first, till he clutched them into fists, when it spread up his bones and to his blood. He couldn't, he couldn't, couldn't do this.

"Slade-" the wind whipped up again, he raised his voice over it, "Slade- I-"

He stopped himself. Slade hadn't reacted; if he hadn't heard then did he really want him to?

Do it. Don't think about it.

If it came to it, the guy down there had probably done something to deserve this.

That's right, rationalise.

The Titans were heroes. They were worth more. He knew them.

But-

"Slade- I can't."

This time he definitely heard, turning round and staring that blank one-eyed mask at him. He'd always thought the single eye hole was weird. Why give away a hint to his identity like that when he was so careful with everything else?

He tried to meet it. "I can't." There was a buzzing in the back of his head. Not quite painful.

Slade folded his arms. "You will. Now." There was a sudden, harder edge in his voice. When he was in a good mood (which Dick had seen mainly seen on other jobs- normally when he was killing someone or about to kill someone or had just killed someone) it was easy to forget how quickly he could go scary. Not that he had forgotten. He looked down and shuffled to the gun, still staying as far back as he could.

"Line up your sights."

Breathing slowly he lay behind the gun, staring as straight down the crosshairs as he could. But his hands were shaking too much, he couldn't focus. The back of his throat was dry, but he couldn't even swallow. He had to get away from here. Dick fell back, leaning on his hands, dizzy, "Slade, I'm going to pass out."

"You are going to do as you're told."

"I'm trying-"

"Remember what's at stake for you."

He hated him. He hated-

Not just now.

Dick shut his eyes and nodded, this wasn't so bad. He'd seen Slade shoot people. Or stab them, poison them, choke them, not smash them (too dirty, Slade had said). How much worse would it be to pull the trigger himself? He pushed himself to calm down and lie back in, to put his eye back on the sight and shift his weight till he was comfortable.

He found the trigger. The man in the office was standing still now, talking into a phone, his free hand crossing his waist. What was he talking about- no. That was not a good idea. Stay away from thoughts like that.

Focus. Aim. The gun felt delicate, too light, not enough to be a weapon.

Dick swallowed and pulled the trigger.

And as he did- maybe the wind picked up, and maybe not- the gun moved in his hands and the bullet spun out at an angle, and where there should have been a dead man there was a live one behind a shattered pane of glass, staring out across the roof towards them, his phone still at his ear.

It didn't matter if he saw them or not. Most people can tell when someone's shooting at them. The man moved quickly and jumped out of sight behind the window ledge.

Pushing himself off the ground, Dick was shaking, "Slade I-"

"Pack up the gun." He was furious. Robin scuttled to do what he asked. "By now he'll have contacted the police. We can't do anything else tonight."

"I'm sorry-"

"Hurry up."

Slade watched the streets as Dick fumbled at the bag, zipping and unscrewing, keeping his head bowed. Whatever trouble he was in would triple if Slade saw him grinning, but he couldn't help it. He was suddenly, desperately happy.

For tonight, for now, he'd won.