Slade didn't need this. It had been amusing when he'd first ran into you, some lost little assassin from the League, alone and with a rather vicious temperament. What he hadn't been expecting was for you to imprint on him like some duckling rather than go on your way and leave him to his business. He kept finding you in places he shouldn't - rooftops where he'd been setting up his sniper rifle, warehouses where he was taking on contracts, and even worse, his own damn safehouses.

You were a skilled fighter, that he couldn't discredit. When he'd realised you weren't leaving him alone, he'd relented and let you join him on a few missions to satisfy your curious edge. You were a pretty useful tool when it really came down to it, and he'd managed to wrap up some contracts a lot quicker than he'd been expecting when he let you loose. Good at following orders, eager to impress. But that's all it was - useful.

So useful, he apparently felt the need to tuck you in for the fifth night in a row, gently carding some of your hair from your forehead with a deep sigh. He didn't want to admit it, but he'd grown more fond of you than he would've liked. Perhaps even protective, considering he'd spent the entire afternoon cleaning your injuries and wishing he'd given the people who hurt you on his latest contract a more painful death.

You were obviously troubled, troubled enough to have imprinted on someone like him, and in a lost state after having run away from the League of Assassins. His thumb strokes the hard crease in your brow, trying to get you stop frowning in your sleep, but it instead rouses you from your slumber. He hums apologetically.

Sorry, kid, Slade murmurs, withdrawing his hand. Didn't mean to wake you.