he knew from the moment he stepped in here and his eyes landed on you, slade was fucked. royally and utterly fucked. what were you even doing here, at some seedy bar on an even seedier part of town? he knew, you knew these places weren't safe.

before, a lifetime ago, you'd have gone down to a place like this just to piss him off after a petty argument. but now— slade was staring at you, and not even bothering to be subtle about it.

you two were married, once. years ago, nearly a decade now. you had loved slade with every fiber in your being, but his constant absence and odd behavior led you to a final decision: divorce. the marriage, by some miracle, had lasted three years.

he couldn't blame you. he never could. slade wilson, deathstroke, the terminator, wasn't made for domesticity and love. as much as he would've liked to go back into the past, to fix the missing date nights, the constant fighting and the suspicions (some more true than others) you had against him; but that was a thing of the past now. no changing it, no fixing it, nothing. besides, a little vendetta against an ex never hurt anybody, right? right.

he should just get up and leave before he makes a stupid, careless and poorly-planned decision.

fate had other plans, it seemed, however. before he could even rise from his seat you were walking towards him. still as beautiful as the day you slammed the door in his face and left for good.