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Slade doesn't usually show his face when he breaks into Dick's place.
He's done the whole 'dramatically waiting in the dark to ambush Dick' thing a couple times, but more often than not, he's long gone by the time Dick gets home and finds something amiss.
A message written on the bathroom mirror that only becomes visible when the condensation from the shower steams up the surface. The waste bin full of bloody rags and gauze that Dick might never have noticed if he hadn't needed the first aid kit himself and found it raided. A knife pinning a newspaper clipping to the wall, Stay out of it! scribbled across in angry red letters, a warning Dick doesn't bother to heed. Bottles of beer gone missing from his fridge so often that Dick keeps it well-stocked these days even when he doesn't have plans to have people over.
One awful time, when one of the local crime families put a price on Nightwing's head, he comes home to find the body of one of their enforcers slumped down on Dick's kitchen floor in a pool of his own blood, throat gashed wide open with a sword. To this day, Dick isn't sure how the man learned his identity or found out where he lives, just like he doesn't know if Deathstroke just happened to have a contract on his would-be-assailant or if it was meant to be some twisted kind of favor.
He tells himself that he prefers the ambiguity of not knowing either way, that that's the reason why he never asks, why he never does as much as acknowledge the visits.
And hell, he can't always be sure that it's Slade. But the alternative is that there are multiple people making themselves at home in Dick's apartment when he isn't around, and that's... not really something he wants to consider.
Rather the devil he knows.
Bruce would have a few stern things to say about Dick's unconcerned attitude to having one of the world's deadliest mercenaries walk in and out of Dick's home like he owns the place. He'd tell Dick how reckless it is to discount the threat Deathstroke poses. But what Bruce doesn't know, he can't berate Dick about.
He'd be wrong, anyway. Dick is perfectly aware of just how dangerous Slade is; he's fought Deathstroke often enough not to underestimate him, and he bears the scars from those encounters. But it's not like Dick could stop him if he tried, short of maybe enlisting the help of the Justice League, and he's not really willing to go to that length just to keep Slade out of his apartment.
Or at least, that's how he usually feels about it.
It might be worth reconsidering, he thinks, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he squints at the bulky shape sprawling on top his mattress. It's dark in the room, but not dark enough that Dick can't make out the familiar splash of orange, the distinct shape of Deathstroke's armor, taking up more than half the bed.
What freaks Dick out the most isn't even that Slade is in his bed. It's that Dick didn't hear him come in. That he must have been so exhausted and worn out from patrol, must have crashed so thoroughly that he slept right through not only the home invasion – which, fair enough, Deathstroke is known to be stealthy when he bothers to try – but also didn't wake up when three-hundred-something deadly pounds of muscle and metal settled down right next to him. Slade could have cut Dick's throat before Dick even knew he was here.
But he didn't.
And maybe that's the part that unsettles Dick the most and has been quietly freaking him out for longer than he cares to admit: knowing that he's been giving Slade countless opportunities to get to him, if Slade wanted to get rid of Dick or cash in a contract, and that Slade hasn't used a single one of them. What is Dick supposed to do with that?
He watches Slade's chest rise and fall with every steady, even breath, a stillness about him in his sleep that he never has while awake. Even when he isn't on the move, perched on rooftops lying in wait with a rifle or observing a target, he's always radiating the kind of tightly coiled tension that feels agitated, on edge. The serenity of watching him sleep feels unreal, almost intrusive, but Dick can't stop himself from drinking it in.
If sleeping in full Deathstroke getup is uncomfortable at all, Slade's posture doesn't show it. He's still wearing his sword, trapped between his back and the covers. Only Slade would take a nap lying on top of a fucking sword.
This, it turns out, is where Dick draws the line.
"Slade, wake up."
He reaches across the bed, giving Slade's shoulder a firm shake before pulling back almost immediately in order to minimize the risk of having his hand cut off.
"What?"
Slade doesn't sound happy to have his sleep disturbed. Well, tough luck. Dick would have liked a few hours of uninterrupted rest too, but since Slade got in the way of that, turnabout's fair play.
"No armor in bed. And definitely no sword. My apartment, my rules."
He straightens his back and glares at Slade, the unwavering sternness in his tone all Nightwing. But out of costume, stripped down to his boxers with his hair flopping into his tired eyes, the effect is probably lost.
Slade doesn't look particularly intimidated, anyway, and even through the helmet, the amusement swinging in his tone is obvious. "Wanna clarify that one for me, kid? Is that a no to armor in the bedroom in general, or just for sleeping?"
Dick blinks.
It takes him a moment too long before the implication of Slade's question sinks in, but once the idea's been planted, it's hard to stop the assault of mental images. The intensity of their usual clashes, but with different stakes. Where losing doesn't have to mean that someone else pays the price, where it's not life or death, stopping Deathstroke or dealing with the guilt. He thinks about how exhilarating it would be, the rush of the fight without the fear of the ramifications. Letting Slade take him down, and knowing the consequences will be confined to this room. Knowing that if he falls, he'll land softly.
But that's not— He isn't going to let himself consider that, not with Deathstroke of all people. Not while he's half-asleep and too tired to think straight, not with the bulk of Slade's body within arm's reach.
Dick swallows and tries to infuse a firmness into his tone he doesn't truly feel. "That's not a distinction that matters right now."
He half-expects Slade to push the matter, but he just shrugs. "Fair enough. We'll revisit it some other time."
Any protest Dick was going to make dies on his tongue when Slade starts disassembling his suit.
Shit. When Dick said 'no armor in bed', he thought Slade was just gonna get up and leave, not—Not comply by stripping down.
The helmet drops first, then the orange-and-black plates come off one by one, metal clattering against metal when Slade sets them down on the floor next to the bed, hidden weapons piling up on the nightstand. Dick can't bring himself to look away. He tells himself he's only watching because it might give him a tactical advantage one day to know where Slade keeps his blades stashed away or where the armor's potential weaknesses are. Truth is, watching Slade undress is a mesmerizing sight, all controlled strength and layers of relentless rigor stacked over one another.
The black undersuit is the last thing to drop, Slade pulling it off far too gracefully and casually. There's nothing vulnerable about his nakedness. Most people look softer once their masks and suits come off, shedding the persona they put on with the Kevlar and the reinforced fabric and the helmets. Not Slade. Even with the armor and the undersuit and the weapons all gone, he's still every inch Deathstroke. Still as deadly, as implacable.
When he sets the sword down, for just a few seconds his back is angled towards Dick. Taut muscles and skin marred with a web of old scars, displayed in the moonlight filtering in through the half-closed window shutters. Dick's fingers itch to reach out and trace the fine white lines and the rugged scar tissue, feel the roughness of the raised edges.
Before the impulse can take hold, Slade sits up again, facing Dick.
"See, Grayson, I can play by the rules." A flash of white, more a show of teeth than a smile. There's mockery in his tone, and the raised eyebrow above his good eye is all but a challenge. "What now?"
"Now we— Now I go back to sleep."
He forces himself to relax enough to make a show of lying down, but his heart beats so loudly that he's sure that Slade's heightened senses will pick up the sound.
The tension in him won't unwind, not while that single eye is staring down on him. Dick can't help feeling like he's being measured, like Slade is searching for ways to test his resolve, chinks in his composure. They won't be hard to find, if Slade looks closely enough.
Dick doesn't know what Slade sees that makes him decide not to force the issue, but when the mattress shifts under the other man's weight and he settles down, some of the apprehension that's been holding Dick in its grip begins to seep out of his body.
They lie side by side, Dick on his back, and Slade turned towards him.
It's... weird. Not the weirdest thing Dick has experienced – he's grown up in fucking Gotham where every day brings six weird things before breakfast – but it probably makes his personal top ten list. He refuses to turn on his side to face Slade, stubbornly starring at the ceiling, and there's no way he's going to fall asleep like that, no matter how heavy his eyes are and how much his body and his mind are longing to sink into unconsciousness for a little while.
But the fatigue takes its toll anyway, dulling his caution and loosening his tongue. "Why are you here?" he asks before he can stop himself. "Don't you have a safe house in Bludhaven?"
Slade has safe houses everywhere he occasionally takes contracts, and he's in town far more often than Dick would prefer.
"You mean other than this one?"
Other than— What the hell?!
"My apartment isn't your safe house," Dick protests. The noncommittal grunt Slade gives in response isn't particularly reassuring. "Seriously, Slade, you can't—"
Dick falters when an arm lands around his midriff.
His fight or flight reflexes rear up like a wary animal caged inside of him and he tenses, but all Slade does is pull Dick towards him until Dick's back is pressed against Slade's front. With his arms caught under Slade's hold, that arm like an iron chain around his body, Dick finds himself effectively trapped. But Slade is warm and solid and his callused hands aren't ungentle, and it's been too long since Dick has been held. The panic he knows he should feel doesn't come.
"Sleep, kid," Slade orders, gruff voice huffing hot breath against the back of Dick's neck.
The part of Dick that's been fighting villains three times his size since he was a kid rebels against obeying a command – any command – from Deathstroke, even one that's perfectly in line with his own plans. But it's still dark out and quiet, and he feels more comfortable than he's been in longer than he's willing to admit.
He can always fight Slade in the morning, he tells himself, as he drifts off to sleep.
End.