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It is not often that Slade gets to come out on top, morally speaking, when he takes a job. But a human trafficking operation nabbed a wealthy couple’s child, and they were willing to pay to make sure the traffickers died painfully. Slade could understand that — avenging your child’s death.
It was a pretty easy job, all things considered. Clearing out the traffickers, unlocking the caged children, paying them no mind as they fled. If they haven’t found some responsible adult by the time Slade is done, he’ll call in a tip to the nearest police station.
All in all, it takes him less than an hour to clear out the entire operation. Not bad for a day’s work.
Of course, that’s when he turns into one of the last rooms he has to clear and finds one last victim. Though victim might not be the right word, seeing as the prisoner is Nightwing.
The boy is on his feet, chained to the wall behind him. Blood dries a dark brown against his ripped suit, though he’s still wearing his domino. Clearly, the traffickers thought he was more valuable as Nightwing than his civilian identity.
“Well, well, well,” Slade says. “You look a little tied up.”
Slade can see the moment Nightwing goes from drifting in and out of consciousness to fully aware, body tensing in the restraints. He must have been really out of it, to miss all the screaming as Slade cut his way through the traffickers. That, or this place always sounds like that.
“Funny seeing you here,” Nightwing rasps, voice hoarse from screaming.
“No team coming to save you?” Slade asks, looking around the barren room. “Cute.”
“This was —” Nightwing coughs painfully. “Was an individual mission.”
“Huh,” Slade says. “Looks like you’re about as bad at keeping yourself alive as you are your enemies.”
Nightwing’s head snaps up at that. “You going to kill me?”
“It would only be fair,” Slade fingers the hilt of his sword.
Nightwing shakes his head, huffing out a breath. “We didn’t kill Grant, no matter what you want to believe.”
“I beg to differ,” Slade says, calmer than he feels.
Nightwing chuckles a little, wincing when it jars his wounds. “Oh, fuck off.”
Slade takes a step closer. “What was that?” he asks.
“You’re so full of shit,” Nightwing snaps. “We both know whose fault it really is.”
Faster than the vigilante can blink, Slade rushes forward and grips him by the neck.
“My son is dead because of you,” he snarls. One squeeze and he could crush the boy’s throat. “He was 19.”
“So am I,” Nightwing coughs, leaning backward in an unsuccessful attempt to put some space between him and Deathstroke.
“If you and your little band of do-gooders hadn’t fought him, we wouldn’t be here right now,” Slade snarls.
“If you hadn’t pushed him away and into the arms of H.I.V.E. —”
Slade cuts him off, slamming Nightwing’s head back against the wall. “You and your sanctimonious bullshit,” he says. He crowds the boy with his body, leaving Nightwing with nowhere to go. He can hear the boy’s pulse racing — good. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, huh. Think that you’re some sort of hero.”
“I’m not able to save everyone but at least I try!” The boy shudders, unconsciously pulling against the restraints. Tears make their way down his face. He takes a shuddering breath, then another. “At least I fucking try,” he whispers.
It’s like the fight, the spark, has drained out of him. Slade comes to the unsettling conclusion that this is not as enjoyable as he expected it to be.
Slade reaches forward. The boy flinches back as far as he is able — which is, admittedly, not very far.
“Don't touch me,” the boy’s voice wavers.
Slade snaps the cuffs. Then, he steps away.
Nightwing stares at him, body tense, though they both know he doesn’t stand a chance in a fight. Not right now.
“We didn't kill him.” Nightwing’s voice is raspy. “But I'm sorry he died.”
“Yeah,” Slade says. “Me too.”
The two stare at each other. There is a lurid bruise blooming around the boy’s throat. Slade winces to think about all the other bruises the tattered costume is probably hiding.
Nightwing clears his throat. It sounds painful. “Could we maybe do a raincheck on the whole brutal-revenge-for-your-son’s-death thing?”
The boy is trying for his typical quips. But Slade can see that he’s fading fast — it’s almost impressive that the boy is still standing.
“Go home, kid,” Slade sighs.
Nightwing stares at him, eyes deer-in-a-headlight wide, like Slade is going to change his mind the second the boy moves.
“Go home,” he says again.
The boy stares at him for a second longer. Then, he turns on a heel and, as if Slade’s internal monologue had jinxed him, immediately collapses to the floor.
Slade doesn’t know why he finds himself stepping forward, toward the fallen vigilante. Maybe it’s the way the kid bit back a scream when he hit the floor. How young he sounded.
Nightwing flinches back from his approach. “Get away from me,” he says, his voice — and the rest of him — shaking.
Slade ignores him, hauling him to his feet.
The boy thrashes in Slade’s grip. “Let go!” He snaps, trying to sound angry but really just sounding scared.
“Calm down,” Slade instructs. “I’m bringing you back to Gotham.”
And he does, ignoring the way the kid definitely thinks he’s about to be murdered right up until Slade lets him out of the car on Gotham’s main line. Ignoring the realization that all these teenage vigilantes are going to get themselves killed. Ignoring it all, because it is not his problem.
It’s not.
(Which he manages to convince himself up until the next time he rescues a wayward vigilante.)