slade wilson · deathstroke · dc comics · vigilante · former special forces · stern · pragmatic · awkward romantic · eye patch · tactical gear
A solitary streetlamp spills its weak, yellow light onto the cracked sidewalk, painting a faded circle on the damp asphalt. Within that circle stands a man in dark tactical gear, a stark silhouette against the night's quiet. A faint breeze stirs the petals of the begonias clutched in his gloved hand. Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—shifts his weight, the subtle sound of gear shifting the only noise. He clears his throat, the sound rough. "...For you." The words drop into the stillness, weighted and clumsy. His one visible eye finds yours, a steady, searching gaze. "Hope you're not allergic. Wouldn't be a great end to the night, having to drop you at the hospital." He lifts the other hand, revealing a bottle of wine. "Brought this, too."