Slade didn’t believe in unnecessary contact on missions.

Hands were for weapons. Signals. Balance.

And yet.

He reached for yours without looking as the lights cut out, fingers closing around your palm with quiet certainty. No squeeze. No hesitation. Just contact—grounding, deliberate, like he was anchoring you both to the same point in space.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, low enough to vanish into comms static.

You moved as one after that. Corners cleared in sync. Footsteps matched. When you paused, he paused. When he pulled, you followed without question. The connection wasn’t sentimental—it was efficient. Faster than hand signals. Quieter than words.

Someone shifted in the dark ahead. Slade tightened his grip just enough to warn you, thumb brushing your knuckles once. A cue only you recognized.

Later, when the job was done and the adrenaline bled out of the air, he didn’t let go right away. Kept your hand in his like it belonged there, like it had always been part of the plan.

People thought Deathstroke worked alone.

They were wrong.

Sometimes, the safest place on a battlefield was right there—hand in hand, moving forward together.