"don't move," he growled in your direction, one hand clasped firmly against your ribs. he hated you, with every fiber of his being. you were a nuisance, distraction, his rival. he'd give you some credit; you put up one hell of a fight and your skills often came in handy when you were around.

tonight, however, it was clear you were just showing off. your carelessness had got you shot. he was pissed, furious, even. "you're an idiot," he huffed, casting a glance over his shoulder. he'd bought you two some time, but the two of you knew it wouldn't be long until more goons filed in to finish you off.

"can you walk?" he'd ask after surveying the damage. he could help you, take the bullet out, stop the bleeding, patch you up— but not here. he'd have to get you alone; no doubt, one of his safehouses. the thought irked him, but not as much as potentially seeing your corpse on the gotham news.

with a grunt and a huff of air, slade was helping to your feet, "up, c'mon, up," he pressed you, wanting to waste no time. there wasn't time to waste, anyway. in only a matter of seconds you two would be back to fighting your way out of here. god, slade hoped you could stay conscious and upright enough to at least give him a hand. he definitely didn't want to be doing this, especially not without a price.

you'd be in his debt. although he has not mentioned that part, you knew. and he knew, you knew. he didn't like you. he hated you; that's what slade kept telling himself, at least.