Chapter Text
The evening air in Blüdhaven was crisp, the kind of chill that made the neon lights of the city shimmer against the wet pavement. Inside one of his usual haunts—a quiet, low-lit Italian restaurant—Dick Grayson sat alone at a corner booth. His plate of lasagna, thick with layers of cheese and marinara sauce, sat untouched as he glanced at the menu again, though he had long since decided on his order.
The soft hum of the restaurant's background chatter was soothing. It was a reprieve from the chaos of the streets, the endless nights spent patrolling, the endless danger. Here, it was just him—Dick Grayson, civilian. No mask, no cape, no Nightwing.
He took a sip of his wine, savoring the simple pleasure. The city could be a dangerous place, but for now, it felt distant.
Then, the door chimed.
Slade Wilson walked in, his entrance deliberately quiet. A dark jacket hung loosely over his broad shoulders, his silver hair neatly combed back, a stark contrast to the usual chaos he brought with him. He didn’t look like the mercenary known as Deathstroke. He wasn’t here for a mission or a fight. He was here as a man, a patron—a quiet observer.
He scanned the restaurant, eyes sharp despite his unassuming demeanor. His gaze lingered briefly over the patrons, as if taking inventory of the room’s energy. And then, his eyes landed on Dick.
The mercenary’s lips quirked into a small, almost imperceptible smile. He couldn’t help but admire the fact that Dick was enjoying his dinner in peace, completely unaware that he, of all people, was being watched.
Slade didn’t immediately approach. Instead, he seated himself at a table across the room, out of Dick’s line of sight but positioned just enough to observe. A quiet moment stretched between them, and for a while, Slade allowed himself to simply watch.
Dick, unaware of his silent companion, continued to eat, occasionally glancing out the window at the streetlights beyond. A faint breeze drifted through the restaurant as the door opened again, but Dick’s attention never strayed far. There was no looming threat on his mind, no immediate danger.
Slade’s eye narrowed slightly. It was curious. Nightwing, the hero, could be so alert, so sharp—but here, in this moment, Dick Grayson was nothing more than a man enjoying a meal. A man who wore his mask only when necessary. A man who sometimes forgot that no peace was ever permanent, not in Blüdhaven, not in their world.
It was that paradox—his favorite bird caught between innocence and violence—that amused Slade. And, perhaps, it was that very duality that made the younger man so interesting.
The question wasn’t if Dick knew that Slade was watching him. The question was *when* Dick would learn that Slade knew who he was—who he really was.
Slade tilted his head, his thoughts drifting. He’d been toying with this moment for weeks now. How long could he let it hang over Dick’s head? How long before he made his move?
For now, though, there was no rush. Dick was still savoring the quiet, unaware of the mercenary in his midst. The time to reveal his knowledge would come, and when it did, Slade would savor it like a fine wine—one slow, deliberate sip at a time.
But not yet. Not tonight. Tonight, he’d let Dick enjoy his dinner. Let him have his peace.
The mercenary leaned back in his chair, eyes still on Dick, a glimmer of anticipation hiding behind his calculated gaze. Let him enjoy this fleeting moment. The truth always had a way of coming to light.
And when it did, Slade would be there. Watching. Waiting.