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Dick is still as death when Slade enters the hospital ward.
It's the middle of the night, and everyone is sleeping. All of the workers have gone to bed as well, Wayne himself probably sleeping soundly in his bed, leaving Slade for the moment as the sole witness to all the pain the latest metahuman battle has waged.
Not that Slade cares about any of the rest of them. There's just the one occupant, covered in bandages and unmoving, that draws Slade's attention.
There's no chart, nothing to tell him the extent of the damage, but what he can see conveys enough. It's the bandage across Dick's head and covering his left eye, though, that has Slade frozen in place, staring.
He knows what it's like to lose an eye, how much that changes in their world. He knows what a fucking big deal that is, and he had a serum flowing through his veins to lessen the impact. He doesn't know that that's what's happening here—no goddamn papers to tell him what's the fucking damage—but the covering is enough to have Slade's hands flexing, jaw clenching.
At least it isn't a slit throat.
He sits down carefully in the chair by Dick's bedside. There's an imprint in it, like there's been someone sitting in it near all the time, which isn't surprising to Slade in the slightest. If not his daughter, then doubtless the countless other people who care about Dick Grayson and would want to see him well.
Slade sincerely doubts any of them would predict his presence here.
Or maybe they would. Slade doesn't actually know what the kid's told his people over the years. Dick and Wayne barely had any contact these last few years, maybe even longer, and before that it's not like Grayson was overly open with the man. And telling his superhero friends about his connection to someone like Deathstroke? No, Slade highly doubts it. Maybe he told Koriand'r, while they were married, but it's not like it was the same back then as it is now.
Stupid, Slade thinks, looking at the slow-healing bruises, the carefully wrapped bandages. Stupid fucking do-gooder, never able to stay out of a fight.
Slade told him to leave this one alone. When Dick told him about Wonder Woman and Superman coming to see him, asking him to join their cause—Slade laughed. Because it was ridiculous. The fight was over, had ended a decade ago when Superman fucked off to parts unknown. It isn't Dick's job to save the world anymore, and it was laughable that the words of a couple of random supers would change all that around.
But Dick was resolute. No, more than that. He was energized. A spark that Slade hadn't even realized had dimmed in past years suddenly relit, a fire filling him at the ability to do something again, to 'help' people.
He didn't appreciate Slade's argument of this being a bit above his pay grade, what with the army of out of control metas being the enemy he was preparing to face. Yelled for quite a good amount of time about what 'bullshit' he considered that.
Took back on the Robin mantle and joined the fight, despite Slade's arguments.
And now he's here, lying in this bed, so goddamn close to death that Slade wants to smack him.
His heartbeat is steady, at least. And there doesn't appear to be any problems with his breathing. Head wound likely, but apparently no longer severe enough to need routine awakenings because Slade watched for a while before entering and no one came to rouse Dick in that time. Everything looks...recoverable. If it's not, surely someone would be here with him twenty-four/seven, if only so he wouldn't be alone as he passed.
The idea of that makes Slade...uncomfortable. Dick isn't allowed to die, not yet. He might be getting on in years, with wrinkles lining his pretty face and white beginning to streak at his temples, but he's got quite a few more years on him before that should be even slightly an issue.
When he was younger, there was always the possibility of an early death, considering his line of work. Considering night after night he threw himself into battle, leaping from rooftops and taking on opponents twice his strength. It was a possibility Slade had accepted, if with some level of distaste towards the idea.
That changed as he got older, though. Slade doesn't know why, but somewhere between Dick setting down the Robin mantle and now, the idea of him dying became incomprehensible.
"You just had to answer the call, didn't you?" Slade mutters to Dick's unconscious form. "Superman came and asked for your help and you just had to say yes."
This shouldn't be a surprise to him. This is how Dick used to be, after all. Back when true heroes were a thing. Never able to turn a blind eye when he saw something going wrong. But Slade had—adjusted, maybe, to the new way of things. To Dick doing his 'good work' through charities and outreach instead of a mask and fancy weapons. To maybe the occasional stopping of a mugging.
A million levels below what Dick has done now.
What was he even doing at that damn gulag in the first place? Did he really think he could stop it? Did he really think he and a group of random heroes could prevent it from splitting wide open, prevent war from breaking out? And as the tyranny of Wonder Woman and Superman began to rise, did he not question if he was truly on the right side of things?
Slade knows what Dick would say, though. That they were trying their best to prevent loss of life, that they just wanted to save all the people that the new generation of 'heroes' were carelessly murdering in the battles between themselves. That he was doing what he thought was right, that he wanted to help people in the only way he could see working.
He didn't give up Slade, though. When his new Justice League was rounding up uncooperative metas and locking them away, Dick didn't tell them where Slade was. Didn't even try to make Slade face Superman's ultimatum of joining the 'right side of things' or being imprisoned. Didn't ask anything of Slade, nor let any of his allies attempt to.
Slade, on some level, almost wishes he had. If only so there would've been an opportunity to talk about it all again, to maybe make Dick see how insane it all was. Or, if failing in that, maybe even go along with the whole batshit plan if only to keep the damn stubborn fool safe and out of a goddamn hospital bed.
Dick's heartbeat ticks up minutely, and Slade's eye snaps away from where he'd been glaring at the wall to instead lock onto Dick's face. There isn't any change for a few long moments, and then Dick's visible eyelid twitches and flutters open.
Slade just watches Dick orient himself, slowly crawling towards full consciousness and then remembering where he is, what's happened. His lips part, and he takes a dry breath, the corner of his eye pinching slightly. Slade picks up the water bottle that sits on the small bedside table and cracks it open, extending it towards Dick.
The sound of the seal breaking startles the kid slightly, and his eye darts to the side, tracking the bottle approaching his mouth and then following it up Slade's arm and finally to his face.
A slow blink, and then a soft smile grows on Dick's face.
Slade ignores it, pressing the bottle closer and instructing, "Drink."
Dick's mouth opens obediently, allowing Slade to pour the liquid inside, slow enough that Dick swallows it down easily. The entire time, Dick's gaze is locked onto Slade's face, the softness of his earlier smile mirrored now in his eye.
When Dick tilts his chin up slightly, Slade follows the unsaid request and pulls the bottle back, twisting on the cap again and setting it back where it was before.
"Hey," Dick says, pitched low so as to not wake any of his neighboring patients. Not that any of them look particularly well enough to be woken so easily. "No wonder I'm awake—your brooding is always so loud. You and Bruce could have a competition."
Slade gives him an unimpressed look, but Dick is unbothered. His arm lifts, face twitching slightly in what seems like strain, and he holds out his hand towards Slade, palm up. His expression is pure expectancy.
Slade doesn't resist him, unable to with the state Dick is in right now. He places his hand in Dick's own, frowning at how cold Dick's hand seems. The kid's fingers curl around his weakly, and Slade grips back with far more strength, lips pursed as he stares down at their joined hands.
"I'm alright," Dick assures. "Just wait and see, I'm gonna bounce back so fast."
"You're an idiot," Slade tells him, but the insult has the opposite effect it's supposed to because Dick smiles in reply.
It does...settle something inside of Slade, maybe. To see the kid smiling and talking and clearly okay enough to hold a conversation and maintain solid focus. He'd looked like death warmed over, like any moment could be his last. But he's going to be just fine. A slow recovery, maybe, but just fine all the same.
And then, once Dick is back to peak health, Slade can kick his ass for being such a goddamn stubborn do-gooder.
His gaze drifts over Dick's face, lingering momentarily over the covered eye before sliding away again. Dick notices though, because of course he does, and his smile gentles a little as he says, "I got hit pretty hard in the head—a few blood vessels in my left eye burst. It's on its way to healing as we speak; I'm not going to lose my eye."
Slade gives a short nod, and doesn't say anything.
"I'm alright, Slade," Dick reiterates, voice barely more than a whisper. "You can yell at me later if you want to, just, right now can you just—can you..."
Slade gets to his feet, shifting forward to instead sit on the bed by Dick's head, extending his legs down the length of the bed carefully so as to not press against any potential injuries. He doesn't pull from Dick's grasp, but with his free hand he strokes the kid's hair, getting a pleased hum in reply, his eye fluttering closed.
"Go back to sleep, kid," Slade murmurs as he feels Dick begins to sink deeper into the bed.
"Not a kid anymore," is Dick's slurred response, words spoken countless times before, his face turning to press against Slade's hip.
"Sure," Slade says, amused, and watches Dick drift right back off to sleep, his cold hand still holding Slade's own.
It's to the feeling of being watched that Slade wakes up.
Decades and decades of training have him not moving or giving any signs that he's awoken, instead taking stock of the situation.
He's upright, back pressed against what feel like metal bars. There's another body against his own, warm breaths puffing against his hip at even intervals. A hand in his. Knees aching faintly from having his legs straight for so long.
And a person standing a few feet away, their eyes locked onto him.
Slowly, sensing no present danger, Slade lets his eye slide open. It's the Wayne medical ward, with Dick still asleep beside him. The woman standing at the end of the bed has her hands on her hips, unearthly green eyes impossible to read. Her long black hair—the same exact shade as Dick's, while she carries her mother's eyes—is falling in waves over her shoulder, and she flicks it back under Slade's attention, looking just as powerful as he knows her to be.
"Are you here to hurt him?" Mar'i Grayson asks, just as straight to the point as ever, but her lack of ire or glowing hands suggests she knows the answer already, and isn't predicting a fight.
So Slade shakes his head. "No," he says. "Though I suppose you never wanted to find your father in bed with another man."
Mar'i simply snorts at Slade's dry attempt at humor, shaking her head. Her hands fall from her hips and she steps forward, sitting gracefully on the bottom corner of the bed. She looks at Dick, probably checking his status, and Slade waits for whatever is going to come next.
As far as Slade is aware, Dick never told Mar'i about the pair of them being...a thing. Probably a combination of lingering shit about Korand'r and the fact of who Slade is, and Slade's never begrudged him that secrecy. But the cat is unfortunately out of the bag now, thanks to Slade's mistake in falling asleep beside Dick.
"I knew he was seeing someone," Mar'i provides after a minute or so of silence. She tilts her head, looking back to Slade. "I mean, he's good at keeping secrets, but it's been years now since I first suspected something was going on with him and he trained me well enough that I was able to figure out the general cause. Don't think I would've guessed you, though."
Slade isn't overly surprised, really. Daughter of two of the most prolific superheroes, she was bound to have some skills. Not like Dick would've settled for Mar'i just being able to shoot a few starbolts.
"And your perspective on this?" Slade asks.
Mar'i shrugs a shoulder. "I'm not really one to judge. If you make him happy, then you make him happy. Besides," she continues, lips curling upward into a mischievous smile that reminds Slade of her father at her age, "I've started seeing someone I'm pretty sure my dad won't approve of, and I'd really like to throw this in his face when he finds out."
Slade snorts. She would likely get along swimmingly with Rose—he'll have to make sure they never meet.
Mar'i stands, brushing off her pale purple dress despite there being not a spec on it. She truly is something, a lovely mix of her two parents. Korand'r's grace, Dick's fluidity, and both of their fire.
"I'm going to get some coffee," she informs him. "And if you don't want to be seen by my grandpa, I'd suggest you be gone by the time I get back."
Slade nods, and then watches her walk out of the ward before turning his attention back to the still sleeping Dick. His hand brushes once more through hair.
He will leave soon, as Mar'i suggested. But after a few more minutes.