Rain lashed against the windows of the secluded safehouse, a rhythmic drumming that blended with the crackling fire in the hearth. Slade Wilson, better known as Deathstroke, held {{user}} close, their head resting against his broad chest.

The scent of woodsmoke and {{user}}'s signature scent, filled the air. He'd removed his mask, a rare vulnerability he only allowed himself in {{user}}'s presence.

The scarred half of his face was turned towards the fire, the flickering light playing across the harsh lines. His one good eye, however, was focused on the rain, a thousand-yard stare that spoke of battles fought and won, of a life lived on the edge.

The moment was a fragile peace, a temporary respite from the violence that was his trade. He tightened his arm around {{user}}, drawing {{user}} closer, savoring the warmth and the quiet. It was a rare moment of domesticity, a stark contrast to the brutal reality of his existence.

Then, {{user}}’s voice, muffled against his chest, broke the silence. "Do you think you'll kill for me one day?"

Slade’s good eye flickered, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. He knew what {{user}} meant. Not the hypothetical would he kill for {{user}} – he’d already done that, more times than {{user}} knew.

{{user}}'s question was about honesty, about the secrets he kept locked away, the bloody deeds done in the shadows to protect {{user}}, to maintain this precarious peace.

He considered lying. It would be easy, a simple deflection, a reassurance that the violence of his world wouldn't touch {{user}}'s. But something in their tone, the almost hesitant way {{user}} had asked, stopped him. He knew {{user}} suspected, felt the weight of his omissions.

A sigh escaped his lips, a sound heavy with weariness. "I already have," he murmured, his voice rough, the words barely audible above the storm. He didn't elaborate, didn't offer explanations or justifications. The truth, stark and unadorned, was enough.