A Renegade Knight

CHAPTER VII

Slade had to admit, when he had imagined how Nightwing would react when released from Renegade, he hadn't imagined this. The boy was silent, his eyes fixed on Slade's face, a look of utter hatred in the blue orbs. Unlike every other time they had done this, he didn't struggle against the thick leather which held him against the wall. He didn't swear or cry. He didn't even acknowledge how close he had come to killing his own brother. Instead, he let the quiet devour everything as he played the silence game.

Well two could play at that game. Looking around the lab, really an old chemical testing room, Slade spotted several items he had needed in the last few days. He pulled them over to the restrained hero. For the first time since being released, Nightwing looked away from Slade's face, glancing down at the tray. Like many villains, Deathstroke was not above using torture to get what he wanted. However, the items were not torture implements, but rather medical implements.

Picking up a glass bottle, Slade quickly studied the young hero's injuries. The cut on Nightwing's upper arm was not very deep but was still leaking blood. Red Robin had aimed to cripple, not kill. Most normal people would have left a wound like that to heal on its own. But Slade Wilson had been a soldier. He had seen many seemingly minimal injuries turn bad, seen strong men reduced to nothing, all because of a badly treated scratch.

Twisting the cap off the bottle, Slade once again met Nightwing's gaze.

"This will sting." Was the only warning he gave as he poured the liquid over the wound.

Taken by surprise, Nightwing gasped through gritted teeth, trying to hide his expression from his captor. Slade smirked.

Turning back to the rest of the objects, Slade slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and picked up the tweezers and needles. Like Jason, Slade was good at basic first aid and competent at stitching up flesh. Using one hand to separate the ripped fabric of the Renegade costume, Slade got to work, sewing up Nightwing's injury with steady hands.

Nightwing made no sound, instead turning his head away to stare at the closest wall. Finishing his work, Slade quickly tied off the knot and dropped his tools, turning his back to retrieve a bandage.

"I didn't think you had it in you to be so quiet, Grayson." He said over his shoulder, picking up the bandage in one hand. Turning back to Nightwing's side, he began to wrap up his work, ignoring the costume in the way.

"I only let you out to have someone to talk to. Renegade is sadly not so good at conversation." He mused. Nightwing's jaw twitched. Breaking his gaze away from the wall, he stared at Slade, eyes blazing.

"I have nothing to say to you." The hero growled in a low tone.

Stepping back from his work, Slade smiled.

"Well that's a pity." The mercenary mused. "Because really, our chats are the only reason why I don't just let Renegade have complete control."

If Slade hadn't known Richard Grayson as well as he did, he might never have seen the flash of fear cross the younger man's face. It was possibly the boy's greatest fear. For almost all of his life, Dick Grayson, later Robin and later still Nightwing, had been aware of just how skilled he was, of how people saw him. To lose control over himself was the worst thing that could ever happen, not just for Nightwing but for the whole hero community.