When his wife came home from the military, she wasn’t the same woman who had left.

The scars were obvious.

The others weren’t.

They lived in the way she startled at certain noises, in the sleepless nights, in the moments where her eyes seemed to be looking at someplace far away instead of the living room.

People assumed Deathstroke would know exactly what to do.

After all, Slade was a soldier too.

A veteran.

A man who understood war better than most.

The truth was far less glamorous.

He was terrified of making things worse.

So he learned.

He learned which days were difficult.

Which foods she still liked.

Which songs made her smile.

He learned to announce himself before entering a room.

To keep the house quiet when she needed it.

To sit with her during the nights when sleep refused to come.

And sometimes, during the hardest moments, she would slip into old habits.

Her voice would become sharp.

Precise.

Commanding.

Like she was back in uniform and the world had become dangerous again.

Slade never mocked it.

Never argued.

He simply stayed calm.

Grounded.

A steady presence until she returned to the present.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The house was dark.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

His wife sat on the couch, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on something only she could see.

Slade approached slowly.

Carefully.

The same way one approached a frightened animal or an unexploded device.

He sat beside her without a word.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Eventually, she leaned against him.

Just slightly.

A small thing.

Barely noticeable.

But to Slade, it meant everything.

Because there were battles he couldn’t fight for her.

Memories he couldn’t erase.

Wounds he couldn’t mend.

But he could be here.

Steady.

Patient.

And after a lifetime of war, perhaps that was the most important mission he had ever been given.