Synopsis she was raised in the shadow of the worldâs deadliest assassin, molded to be a weapon and nothing more. But when a chance encounter with Nightwing pulls her into Gothamâs light, she discovers a freedom she was never meant to tasteâlove, laughter and terrifying possibility of choosing her own path
Her boots squeaked faintly against the floor as she stepped inside, grocery bag hooked at her side. Slade was already waitingâsword at his hip, mask off, one eye sharp as ever.
She dropped the grocery bag into the table, her posture casual, but Sladeâs one good her narrowed.
âYou're late,â he said
She smirked, tugging dump strands of hair from her face âRain. Gotham traffic. Take your pick.â
Slade sifted through the bag, checking the contents with a solderâs precision. âYou followed instructions.â he gave a short nod âGood.â
Normally, that would be the end of it. Normally heâd move straight into strategy, sparring schedules, the next op. But tonight, his gaze lingered, sharp and unyielding.
âYou're distracted,â he said finally.
Her chest tightened. She fought to keep her smirk in place. âLong night.â
He studied her for a moment too long, the silence pressing. Sheâd grown up under the stare; she knew how easily it cut through people. But she couldn't let him see. Not this. Not him
Slade hummed low in his throat, a sound that was half suspicion half warning. âDistraction gets you killed. Whatever it isâcut it out.â
Her jaw tightened. ââŠYes, sir.â
Slade clapped a heavy hand in her shoulder. âGet some rest. Tomorrowâs schedule will be more demanding. But tonightâŠâ he opened the fridge, pulling out ingredients like this was any other household ââŠdinnerâs on me.â
She watched him move through the kitchen, efficient and methodicalâeven in this, his training showed. They ate together in the quiet, his voice occasionally breaking the silence with small talk about weapons upgrades and mission protocols. It was twisted, but it was still family.
She forced herself to answer, to laugh at his dry humor, to act like her mind wasn't spinning elsewhere.
She woke up to the sound of knuckles rapping against her door. Sharp and precise it was her fatherâs rhythm.
âUp,â Sladeâs gravelly voice carried through. âWeâve got a big day ahead.â
She groaned, rolling into her back, eyes heavy with sleep. For a moment, the memory of last night clung to herâthe rain and the almost kiss that still burned like static on her lips. But the moment evaporated as Sladeâs voice barked again:
âMove it. I want you ready in ten.â
Dragging herself out of bed, she stretched and padded toward the bathroom. A shower, her gear, her bladesâroutine movements that wrapped around her like armor. By the time she stepped into the kitchen, she was once again Deathstrokeâs daughter, not the girl on the rooftop who almost lost herself to Dick Grayson.
Slade was already waiting at the table, helmet set aside, maps and dossiers spread out in front of him. He looked up at her, one good eye sharp, the other hidden beneath a patch that somehow made him more imposing.
She slid into the chair across from him, trying to mask her curiosity with nonchalance.
âWe're running two objective today,â he began, tapping the papers with a gloved finger, âFirst, a supply pickup. Routine, but criticalâwe need clean equipment, untraceable.â he slid a folded sheet toward her. âYour contact is already expecting you.â
She skimmed the sheet, memorizing names and locations.
âAnd the second?â she asked
Slade leaned back, folding his arms. âThe second is a test. I want to see how you handle yourself when the job gets⊠complicated.â His gaze bored into her. âWeâll be meeting someone tonight. Dangerous, weapon. No room for hesitation, no room for distractions.
He smirked faintly at her silence. âDon't look so grim. You're blood. Youâll handle it.â
And even though she hated it, some small part of her warmed at the pride in his voice.
Still, the words from the night before haunted her.
She shoved the thought down and nodded, slipping the files paper into her jacket. âAlright. Letâs get to it.â
Sladeâs smirk widened. âThats my girl.â
Slade laid out the rest of the plan, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone that carried both authority and an odd sort of reassurance. She listened, fingers tapping idly against the table, though her eyes stayed locked on the maps.
âYouâll go in first,â he instructed, tracing a glaved finger kver a building schematic. âSecure the package. Iâll cover from a distanceâno interference unless it's necessary.â
She arched a brow. âYou don't trust me to finish it?â
His single eye narrowed, but there was a hint of amusement there. â I wouldn't be sending you if I didn't. I just want to see how you manage without me stepping in. Youâre not a child anymore and if you want to prove thatââ
âThen I have to play soldier,â she muttered, leaning back
His jaw tensed. âNo. You have to play my daughter. There's a difference.â
That silenced her. She hated how much weight those words carriedâhow the could simultaneously feel like chains and like something warm. Slade rarely spoke of her as his child, but when he did, It cut through her armor.
He seemed to notice her pause, because his tone softened a fraction. âLook, I know Iâm hard on you. But in not raising you to be soft, or reckless, or ordinary. I'm raising you to survive. You understand?â
She nodded slowly, through her chest twisted.
âGood,â he said satisfied. Then, almost as if to change the subject, he stood, moving toward the kitchen counter. âYouâll need fuel. And we can't have you fainting in the middle of a job.â
Minutes later, the two of them sat down to plates of eggs, toast, and coffee. It was almost domesticâwrongly so. A father and daughter sharing a quiet morning, if not for the fact that their conversation revolved around weapons, timing, and disguises.
She pushed a piece of toast around her plate and finally asked, âDo you ever wonder what it wouldâve been like? If we werenât⊠this?â
Slade didnât look up. He chewed, swallowed, set down his fork. His eye hardened.
âNo,â he said simply. âThis is who we are.â
Her stomach sank, though she forced a smile. âFigures.â
But as he began laying out contingencies for the mission, she wasnât really listening. She was thinking of blue eyes, of a voice that told her she deserved to be more than a weapon.
The city was slick with rain as she moved through the alleys, boots silent on wet concrete. Sladeâs voice crackled faintly through the comm in her ear.
âEyes sharp. Timing precise. Donât take any unnecessary risks.â
She gave a faint nod, even though he couldnât see her. âUnderstood.â
The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. She crouched atop a nearby rooftop, surveying the perimeter. Guards were scatteredâtwo at the front, three patrolling the sides. Perfectly routine. She slipped down the fire escape, moving with the fluid grace Slade had drilled into her since she could walk.
Every step, every breath, was measured. She entered through a side door, shadows swallowing her as she ghosted past crates and stacked pallets. The targetâan unmarked crate with sensitive equipmentâwas tucked near the back, under the dim light of a flickering bulb.
Sladeâs voice came again, steady and calm. âPackage secure?â
âAlmost there,â she whispered, not taking her eyes off the two guards stationed near the crate.
She waited, watching their movements, then slipped forward. With a swift flick of her wrist, the first went down, silent and precise. The second barely had time to react before she was behind him, arm across his chest, and he crumpled to the floor.
Crate in sight, she lifted it into her arms. Heavy, but manageable. She pressed herself against the wall, scanning for any movement.
âYouâre slow,â Slade said, tone teasing, though there was no mistaking the edge in his voice.
She smirked. âI prefer precision over speed, sir.â
The retreat was just as careful. She moved through shadows, silent and undetected, until she reached the rooftop where Slade had instructed her to meet.
He was already there, waiting, his arms crossed. âGood. You handled that cleanly.â
She set the crate down, chest rising and falling slightly from the exertion. He stepped closer, one hand resting briefly on her shoulderâa reminder of both approval and ownership.
âYouâre learning,â he said. âYouâre my daughter, and Iâm proud of that. Donât forget it.â
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. âYes, sir.â
Sladeâs gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer, then he pivoted, leading the way through Gothamâs maze of rooftops. âNext up is the secondary objective. Keep your head, and follow instructions. No improvisation.â
Her grip on her katana tightenedânot with fear, but focus. Sladeâs presence was both a comfort and a weight. She was his daughter, his creation, and his pride. And tonight, she had to prove it once more.
The second objective went smoothly. The contact they were supposed to meet was in position, the exchange seamless. She moved with the precision Slade had drilled into her for yearsâtiming, observation, discipline. Not a guard saw her coming, not a single crate was mishandled, and the package was secured without incident.
Slade watched from a nearby shadow the entire time, silent but present. When she rejoined him after the handoff, he simply nodded, a rare faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âClean and efficient, exactly as planned,â he said. âI could not have asked for better execution.â
She smirked faintly, masking the small swell of pride in her chest. âAll thanks to your training.â
âNo,â he corrected, his single eye catching the dim glow of streetlights. âThanks to you. You performed like my daughter.â
The words settled over her like both armor and a weight she hadnât realized she carried. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
Later, back at the safehouse, Slade had his own version of a celebration. Nothing elaborateâjust the two of them, leftover pizza and whiskey. He poured two glasses, the ice clinking faintly, and for a moment, it almost felt like a father and daughter sharing a quiet evening.
They ate in silence for a while, comfortable and easy. Then, halfway through his second glass, he sighed deeply, staring at the amber liquid in his glass.
âYou knowâŠâ he began, voice slurred slightly, âyour mother⊠she wouldâve been proud.â
She froze, fork halfway to her mouth. He never mentioned her mother. Ever.
He waved a hand lazily, a faint laugh in his throat. âIâm drunk, okay? Iâm not making sense. Just⊠wanted to say it.â
Her chest tightened, a mixture of surprise and something she didnât want to admitâcuriosity, nostalgia. She watched him wobble slightly in his chair, the usually unshakable mercenary undone by alcohol.
âAlright, enough of that,â she said gently, sliding around the table to steady him. âLetâs get you to bed before you embarrass yourself.â
He chuckled, leaning on her as she guided him toward his room. âYou always were⊠good at taking care of me.â
âDonât get used to it,â she muttered, though her fingers lingered on his shoulder just a second longer than necessary.
Once he was tucked safely into bed, she lingered for a moment at the doorway, staring down at the man who had raised her with relentless precision and pride. A strange mix of admiration, frustration, and love swirled inside her.
In the morning the apartment was unusually still. No barked orders through the thin walls, no sharp knocks rattling her door, no schedule thrust in her face before she could even rub the sleep from her eyes.
She sat up slowly, blinking at the pale light filtering through the blinds. Slade hadnât come pounding on her door. Not once.
She crept down the hallway, half-expecting to hear the metallic scrape of weights or the clatter of a weapon being cleaned. Instead, the living room was empty, and from down the hall came only the muffled groan of a man too hungover to move.
Heâs not dead, she reassured herself, listening for the faint sound of shifting bedsprings. Just suffering.
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. The great Deathstroke, undone by whiskey.
For once, he wasnât breathing down her neck. No drills. No orders. No carefully laid plans. Just silence.
She decided to take it as a gift.
Moving back to her room, she pulled open her dresser, sifting through the few outfits she owned that werenât combat gear. The rare luxury of picking clothes for herself made her pause longer than she wanted to admit. Eventually, she settled on something simpleâdark jeans, a fitted jacket, boots that didnât creak with concealed blades. Still practical, but almost⊠normal.
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Without the armor, the mask, the weapons, she almost looked like anyone else her age. Almost.
So this is what a day off feels like, she thought, tugging her hair into place.
The question that lingered wasnât what to do with her time, but who she even was without a mission hanging over her.
By midmorning, she couldnât take the stillness anymore. The air outside was sharp with the promise of rain as she slipped into Gotham. She walked aimlessly at first, letting the city swallow her. Crowds pressed, neon lights flashed, street vendors shouted over each other. For once, she wasnât hunting or being hunted. She was just another shadow in the crowd.
She caught sight of him across the streetâDick Grayson. Not Nightwing this time. Not in his blues, not in a mask. Just⊠him. Hands in his pockets, head tilted as Bruce Wayne spoke beside him. The two were unmistakably mentor and protĂ©gĂ©, even out of costume.
But when Dickâs eyes lifted and found hers, the world stopped.
Her heart lurched with a memoryâthe way he had looked at her the night before, rain dripping from his hair, lips parted, just a breath away from hers before her fatherâs voice shattered the moment.
She blinked, tearing her gaze away, slipping back into the current of the crowd like smoke through fingers. But she didnât make it far.
âHeyââ His voice cut through the city noise, closer than she expected.
She turned, and there he was, jogging to catch up with her, a little breathless but smiling like he couldnât help it.
âYouâre persistent,â she teased, lifting an eyebrow, though her pulse betrayed her calm.
âYou noticed,â he said, falling into step beside her. His grin softened into something more searching. âSo⊠youâre not working tonight?â
She tilted her head, amused at how quickly he asked. âSurprisingly, no. My fatherâs⊠indisposed. So you donât have to tail me through alleyways and rooftops tonight, bird boy.â
He chuckled, but didnât look away. âMaybe Iâm not here to follow you.â
âOh? Then why are you here?â she asked, smirking as if daring him to say it.
His answer came without hesitation. âMaybe I just wanna spend more time with you.â
The words landed heavier than she expected. For a moment, her chest tightened, her walls threatening to crumble. She looked away first, pretending to study the passing lights. ââŠDangerous answer.â
âIâve been told I have a type,â he said, smirking, though there was honesty in his tone that made it sting.
She exhaled through her nose, lips quirking despite herself. ââŠYouâre insane.â
âMaybe,â he admitted. Then, more carefully: âCome with me. Just the two of us. No missions.â
Her first instinct was to say no. To turn away before the ground slipped any further beneath her feet. But the city buzzed around them, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like more than Sladeâs weapon.
Reluctantly, she nodded once. âFine. But if this is some elaborate trick, Graysonââ
He raised his hands, smiling wider now. âScouts honor.â
She rolled her eyes. âPretty sure you were never a scout.â
âGuess youâll just have to trust me.â
Her laugh was short, disbelievingâbut real. Against every part of her better judgment, she let him lead her into the crowd, her steps falling in line with his.
For once, she wasnât Sladeâs daughter. For once, she was just a girl in Gotham, walking beside someone who made her forget the chains at her back.
The diner he chose wasnât glamorous, but that was the point. Greasy booths, chipped linoleum, a neon sign buzzing weakly outside. It smelled like coffee and fried food, and it felt⊠safe. Normal.
She sat across from him in the corner booth, fingers wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate heâd insisted she try. The warmth seeped into her palms, and she watched him lean back, grinning at something as simple as a slice of pie.
âYou really dragged me to a place like this?â she asked, smirking over the rim of her cup.
He shrugged. âWhat, youâve never had diner food?â
âI have. But not like this.â Her gaze flicked around the room. âWithout keeping an eye on exits. Without expecting someone to come through the door with a gun.â
His smile softened, and for a moment he just looked at herâreally looked. âThen tonightâs different.â
Her throat tightened, so she cut the silence by stealing a fry from his plate. He gave her a mock glare, and before long they were bickering lightly over stolen food, trading jabs that felt easier than breathing. For the first time in a long time, she laughed and didnât immediately regret it.
By the time they left, the rain had tapered into mist, leaving the streets slick and shining under the lamps.
They walked side by side in quiet, their voices lowering with the cityâs hush. He told her some dumb story about Bruce trying to blend in at a carnival. She told him a half-true memory about climbing rooftops as a kid, how the city always looked different from above. Somewhere along the way, their hands brushed. Neither pulled away.
She hadnât realized how much time had passed until she caught the hour on a glowing clocktower. Her stomach dropped. âShit. I should go.â
She turned abruptly, already calculating how to explain this absence to her father. But before she could take more than two steps, Dickâs hand closed gently around her wrist.
She froze, glancing back at him. His eyes held hers, steady but searching.
Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, thick with something unsaid, something inevitable.
She drew in a shaky breath, her defenses warring with the heat rising in her chest. Finally, she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. A test. A goodbye.
But when she pulled back, his face was closer than she expected. The space between them was gone in an instant.
Their lips metâhungry, reckless, like the city itself had been holding its breath for this moment. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, his hand sliding up to her jaw. The kiss deepened, no hesitation left.
For the first time, she wasnât thinking about Slade, or missions, or consequences. Just him. Just them.
And it terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her.
The thrill of the kiss lingered on her lips the whole way home. The echo of his touch, his voice, his laughâshe replayed it over and over in her mind until the city swallowed her again. By the time she slipped into the apartment, the warmth of that stolen night was already colliding with a different kind of heat: dread.
He sat in the living room, half in shadow, the only light the faint glow from the TVâthough it was off. He didnât need noise. He didnât need distraction. His mask was on the coffee table, his single eye fixed on her the moment she stepped through the door.
âWhere have you been?â His voice was calm. Too calm.
Her stomach tightened. She forced a shrug, moving to set down her bag like it was no big deal. âOut.â
âOut.â He repeated the word slowly, like tasting it for poison. âYouâve been gone all day. Not like you.â
She bristled under the weight of his stare but kept her expression carefully neutral. âYou said I could take the day.â
âI didnât say you could disappear.â
His tone was sharp enough to slice the air. She bit back the urge to snap at him, reminding herself that anger was exactly what he wantedâa slip, an opening. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. âI needed space.â
He stood, heavy boots echoing against the floor. Even without his armor, he was imposing. Towering. âSpace from me?â
Her throat went dry. She wanted to say yes. Wanted to say you suffocate me, you control me, I canât breathe. But the words died before they reached her tongue.
Instead, she smirked, masking the storm inside. âMaybe I just wanted a normal day. Not everythingâs about you, you know.â
Sladeâs eye narrowed, sharp as a blade. He studied her in silence, the tension stretching thin between them. Finally, he chuckledâa low, humorless sound. âNormal.â He said the word like it was a foreign language. âYou think you get to have that?â
Her chest tightened. The echo of Dickâs lips against hers burned hotter at those words.
Slade stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of whiskey still clinging to him from last night. His voice lowered. âNormal doesnât exist for people like us. Donât forget that.â
He brushed past her, heavy hand lingering on her shoulder just long enough to remind her who still held the leash, then disappeared down the hall.
She stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the door heâd left half-closed.
Her fingers lifted, almost unconsciously, to her lips.
Normal. No, maybe she couldnât have that. Not with Slade. Not with the life heâd carved her into.
But tonight with Dick had felt close enough to taste.
And for the first time, she wanted more.
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