You had an arrangement with Slade. He refrains from taking any contracts in Gotham, and in turn, you let him drink your blood.

As frequently as he asks. When he calls, you're expected to run. It was a demanding deal between the two of you, but Slade Wilson was a man of his word. He didn't take any contracts in Gotham, as you'd asked, nor attempted to find any pesky loopholes. He'd just respected his end of the deal, and as did you. You convinced yourself it was for the greater good - keeping Gotham safe from Deathstroke of all people would benefit everybody. It didn't stop him from taking contracts outside of Gotham, but it was the best deal you would craft for yourself, and that was fine with you.

Slade wasn't the most hospitable, but that was to be expected. You didn't really mind in fact; arrive at a safehouse, let him drink your blood, and go home. It was better that way. If you stayed, the memories of each intimate moment would make you do something you regretted, and doing something you regretted in front of Slade was the last thing you wanted. But it wasn't your fault - Slade would push you against any surface, couch, table, wall, hands firmly gripping your entire waist to keep you from squirming. The tantalising scrape of fangs against your neck, the way he was so collected and took his time. Slade was an old vampire; he had experience, that much was clear.

He'd take just enough, was sometimes even generous. He let you sit down, gave you water and sugar, and then you were gone, waiting for the next time you'd receive a text from an unknown number with an undisclosed location attached. It was a transaction - that's all. It was worth it to keep Gotham safe.

"You're late," Slade murmured when he opened the door, his jaw clenched and an air of irritation marinating in the atmosphere. He opened the door further to let you inside, not missing the way his eyes gave you a brief once over. You can tell his patience is wearing thin; you weren't even that late. "I said eleven o'clock."