Chapter Text
Unlike the rest of Gotham, Slade's reasons for knowing the day Richard Grayson turns eighteen are… if not necessarily innocent, then at least chaste.
"To my Renegade," the tag on the package reads. "Should you ever find need of it." The weapon inside is a simple 9mm pistol. Nothing the Bat would ever approve of. Nothing Dick would ever procure for himself, for fear of his father's disapproval. But he knows how to use it; Slade made damn sure of that during his time as the kid's trainer. And if something deep inside him purrs at the thought of Dick being safer for his intervention, surely that's just his satisfaction at protecting an investment.
What Slade's not expecting is the sight that awaits him when he returns to his safehouse after delivering the present: the birthday boy himself, waiting on Slade's doorstep in civvies.
"If you're here for a fight, you're a bit underdressed, kid," Slade tells him.
For all his visible composure, Dick's heart is jackrabbit fast. Fear bleeds into the edges of his carefully controlled scent, faint enough that a normal human wouldn't smell it. Still, he stands his ground and looks Slade in the eye, holding out a sheathed knife.
Slade nearly takes the offered blade to examine it, but a glint on the pommel catches his eye before he can raise his hand. It's a jeweled dagger. An omega's dagger.
After decades as Deathstroke, Slade is well past caring what the general public thinks of omegas, especially male omegas. He knows he's strong, both in body and in mind. Knows he's damn good at what he does. Some of it's just Slade, like the way he stopped bowing to alpha's commands well before he first joined the military. Some of it's the serum, leaving him large and strong enough to be mistaken for an alpha when he has his blockers on. Most people who survive meeting Deathstroke assume he's an alpha. The Titans know better. The Titans were there when he scented the body of his dead son one final time.
Dick's own scent is souring with uncertainty the longer Slade watches him, but he doesn't lower his hand. "I turn eighteen today," he tells Slade, as if it explains anything.
"Happy birthday, kid," Slade replies. Ignoring his every instinct—easy with his years of practice—Slade turns his back on the young alpha and walks into his safehouse. He locks the door behind himself.
Dick stares despondently at the dagger in his hand. Does Slade not return his interest?
Maybe it's the present itself, he thinks. Yes, it was a blade, but it was still a distinctly omegan blade. Slade keeps his designation close to his chest; Dick doubts anyone knows outside of Adeline, Wintergreen, and the handful of Titans who were present for Grant's death. They'd all agreed that wasn't a thing to be shared.
He contemplates his options on the ride back to his apartment. He could give up, set his sights on someone else. It's the best plan. The logical plan. Slade is a hired killer thirty years his senior. There's enough bad blood between them to flood a river. But the very thought of giving up—of pursuing another without knowing that he's done all he can to win Slade over—rankles. He'll accept it, he decides, if Slade formally rejects him. If the omega tells him he's not interested, declines his courtship outright. But until then, he'll find a better way to woo him.
Dick's thoughts are brought up short when he walks into his apartment to find a package on his kitchen table. Simple wrapping, black paper with an orange bow. The tag is arranged to be visible without needing to disturb the box in any way. "To my Renegade, should you ever find need of it."
Any concerns of traps or threats are discarded as he gingerly unwraps the gift that his chosen omega left for him. His brain has whited out, all thought discarded in a haze of "My Renegade, mine, mine, mine."
Inside, he finds a 9mm pistol, the same gun Slade trained him to use.
He takes it out reverently, clearing the chamber in practiced movements. He'll have to get a cleaning kit without Bruce noticing, he thinks. Even if Dick has no intention of ever firing the weapon, he can't allow a gift from his omega to fall into disrepair.
The weapon doesn't leave Dick's hand until he's settled in bed, resting it on his nightstand. He can barely tear his eyes away from it, from the proof that Slade wants him in return. The ambivalent response to his suit must mean that his first courting gift was unsatisfactory, not that Slade intends to decline him. Now all he needs to do is figure out how to court Slade properly, and the omega will finally be his.
There's a box on the front step of his safehouse when Slade opens his door the next morning. It doesn't sound like a bomb. No hum of an electrical signal in the air as he approaches it. Besides, the very distinct shade of blue ribbon wrapped around it gives him a decent clue as to the sender.
Really, what good is superhealing if he can't be a bit impulsive now and then? He picks the box up and takes it inside.
The tag is simple, "To Slade." None of the frills or cheek he'd expect from Dick. Still, he knows the handwriting. Inside the box lays a pitch black whetstone. It's good quality, on par with what Slade selects for himself. And it really is about time to replace the one he keeps with his gear.
It's a good apology, he decides, for whatever game the kid was playing yesterday by calling attention to his dynamic so blatantly. He adds it to his bag as he leaves Bludhaven for his next contract. And if something deep inside him roils as he tosses the handwritten tag and Nightwing-blue ribbon into the trash, he's got plenty of experience ignoring any omegan instincts that still crop up now and then.