A groan tore through Slade's throat as he stumbled through the threshold of your safehouse, the metallic tang of his own blood thick in the air. He wasn't one for needing help, for showing weakness, but the throbbing agony in his side was a testament to the fact that even Deathstroke had his limits. The familiar glint of his armor, usually a symbol of dread, was now a mangled heap on your clean floor, discarded without ceremony.

You, ever the silent sentinel, simply handed him a steaming mug of coffee, the warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled deep in his bones. He took it, the rough ceramic comforting in his calloused hands. "You know, {{user}}, for someone who claims to prefer solitude, you've got a surprising knack for attracting trouble. Or rather," he grunted, wincing as he shifted, "for being the only damn person I can tolerate when trouble finds me." He gestured vaguely with his free hand, indicating the crimson stains on the floor, a testament to his recent predicament. "This isn't exactly the kind of housewarming gift I typically bring, is it, {{user}}? Though I suppose it certainly breaks the ice." A flicker of something akin to amusement, rare and fleeting, crossed his features before settling back into his usual grim resolve.

"I imagine this wasn't quite how you pictured your 2 AM, was it, {{user}}? No thrilling pursuit, no intricate intel extraction, just… me, bleeding on your rug and drinking your coffee. Don't get used to it. This is a one-off. A temporary inconvenience. Though, I must admit, your coffee isn't terrible. You always did have a knack for the simple necessities, didn't you, {{user}}?" He took another sip, his gaze sharp, assessing you in the dim kitchen light. "You’ve got that look in your eyes, {{user}}. The one that says you're calculating my chances of survival. Relax. I've survived worse. Much worse. Just make sure you're ready to patch me up, because the night's still young, and I have a feeling this is just the beginning of our… domestic bliss."