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If one were to look at the relationship between Nightwing and Deathstroke, most people would either flee before they got caught up in some unknown rival game, or two, they would say something along the lines of: Yeah man, whenever I see Deathstroke, Nightwing is usually on his tail. That’s like, a good thing though, no? Because isn’t Nightwing like, the best of the best?
Yes, exactly! Nightwing is one of the best. He is the most perfect, well versed, and ideal enemy a contract killer like himself could have. The passion that Slade feels towards the on again off again arch nemesis business he has going on with Grayson never confused him, in the beginning. It was mostly hate that filled his heart, and a little bit of something extra, something Slade never really liked poking or prodding at. Eventually – and it came to him as a shock, really--, he realized that if Nightwing were to perish and it was not by his hand, he would go nuclear. Oh, he’s done it before, he can do it again. The idea was absurd, preposterous. Nightwing, Dick Grayson, Dead? And it wasn’t Slade that took the insistent shine of hope and love out of his eyes? That was something that never really occurred in Slade’s realm of possibilities. And once he had the thought of it… He did not digest it all that easily.
Slade refuses to think about the other Thing that was simultaneously going on: the fact that he would never allow Nightwing to die by his hand, either. It’s not that Dick was too good (he is, mostly), or that Slade felt as though he can always do better (he can), and always improve (he does) -- he just genuinely does not have it in him to kill the kid. At one point, yes, it was all he wanted to do. It was all he could think about doing. But he’s mellowed out over the years, he became friends with some of the Titan’s, for fuck’s sake.
How advanced, how-- complicated--, it was; this mixed bag of dread and astonishment and adoration and downright fury that he felt when he realized that he loved the vexing, grating, hero. He had known the man since he was practically a boy of eighteen, they had been enemies since the first time Slade set both of his eyes upon him. A romance of this degree should never have been on his radar, but it was, and how Dick managed to slip by mostly unscathed absolutely infuriated him.
However, not one malicious glint Slade may feel towards him could not ever be enough to change the way he perceives him. How he appreciates him, and adores him, and hates himself all the more for it.
What made the things—(things: the indestructible foolishness of it all that he felt) worse was that-- it almost seemed to be reciprocated. They had never gotten the chance to speak about it freely, but then again, the dance that they share on private rooftops in Bludhaven or Gotham told more about what Dick feels then having him open up vocally about it could ever do. The knowing that Dick perhaps felt so agonized and out of control of his own senses in the same way that he did-- it did make Slade feel a little bit better, but it still wasn’t good enough. It hardly made its grand way in the realm Slade was currently trapped in.
Slade praises himself on not being one for the dramatics; he is a soldier, a man, a father. He doesn’t have time to run around and panic about what he felt, or who he felt these things towards, but he here was anyways. He could only describe his current predicament as tumbling headfirst down a flight of stairs, breaking every bone and joint in your body, still not seeing the end of the slope, and being otherwise fine with it anyways.
God, it is just so annoying that loving Dick Grayson fell onto him. It was aggravating that Dick could and does regularly match him mentally, could match him so well he almost knew what he was thinking almost as soon as Slade knew. A flip and a grin and Dick would be three steps a head, laughing and calling him soldier boy all while he’s at it. He was so beautiful Slade genuinely sometimes felt as though he couldn’t be around him without fracturing multiple bones from how furiously he would flex his hands whenever Grayson would disobey him, or backtalk his way out of his destiny and back into the mundane life he liked to live during the days. He wanted to punch Dick Grayson in the face, press his fingers harshly into the bruises that would form, and then kiss him better. He wanted to creep into his skin and live there, being a constant reminder to Dick that this is who loves him, and will probably never stop. He wonders if Dick could understand this mental painted portrait Slade was drawing. Preferably, Dick was the one whispering in Slade’s ears, telling him what colors to paint, what brushes to use, and where to strike the killing stroke.
Sometimes, mostly never, though, the killing machine known as Deathstroke must take a deep breath and relax. He is a master of zen, he’s known how to control every microscopic nerve, muscle, atom, and cell in his very own enhanced body. So with all of this combined… why is he still freaking out, pulling his stark white hair out with his hands, refusing to speak to his kids, refusing contracts that are in any of Nightwing’s cities -- or the Titan’s, for that matter-- just because he has a… crush?
A crush seemed like too light of a word that described what he felt. Being in love with Dick Grayson as one Slade Wilson is in this day and age was something akin to being a whack a mole-- popping up when he thinks he’s safe from the eyes and arms of Nightwing and his comrades, only to get jumped as soon as he think he’s in the clear. Does one understand just how mighty they have to be to get a jump in on Deathstroke? Not many people have done it and live to tell the tale.
Except Nightwing, of course. Slade could not kill the kid even if darkness itself wrapped its filthy tentacles around him, begging and urging him on. Slade couldn’t even kill him when it was just the two of them, in Bludhaven, with no one knowing what was going on between them, low stakes and even lower priced contracts, and with everyone who was anyonestrangely tense and curiously unsure at what was going to happen next between the two of them.
That, to a degree, made Slade feel hotly pleased. If there was one thing about loving Dick Grayson, its that he can keep every single hero and villain on their toes.
Slade thinks, and really, he’s thought this for a very long time: no one can replace Nightwing, not in name, in battle, or in spirit. Everything that Dick Grayson gave was his own, and it was bloody delicious seeing him work in his domain, where he shined the brightest. The next time they see each other may just be, depending on how the weather is, the best day of Slade’s life, or the worst.
He’s betting on the latter, but as Nightwing always does, Slade is sure he’ll surprise him with his answer.