Chapter Text
A hush fell over the arena, a pause in the endless rush of assassins that Rose was battling against. She took the moment to register her injuries. Strain on the gunshot in her shoulder, the gouge in her right thigh, no longer bleeding, but hindering her range of motion beyond that which she normally preferred. One blood-stained hand dragged across her forehead, catching some of the sweat from her mask, smearing the crimson stain from her skin into the fabric. Her single eye darted around, catching sight of Deathstroke and the Commander of this particular branch of the League of Shadows. So he had followed her, coming in to assist. Part of Rose was bitter, she could handle this task alone, the other half was touched. Slade Wilson was many things, but an affectionate father was not one of them. Though their own relationship was fraught with betrayal and distrust, he cared. This proved it, if nothing else did.
Once the scene above the arena was acknowledged, the onslaught began again, and Ravager let herself fall back into the pattern of the deadly dance she had accepted. Twin blades spun in stilted harmony, the occasional missed note as weariness and sheer numbers began to drag on even her own enhanced abilities. Still, she could not fail, not with him there, watching, fighting his own battle parallel to hers. She may hate her father, but she would not be the disappointment that he thought she was. A severed head flew over her shoulder and she stumbled, one knee hitting the ground as the group of trained killers converged upon her. Rose panted, a twisted laugh escaping her lips as she forced herself back upwards, spinning cuts raining outward against her opponents, driving back those that did not fall at her feet. The corpses were piling higher now, making the blood-soaked terrain that much more dangerous. She had to spare attention to her footing, rather than just to the bloodbath she was causing. There was no notice left to spare for the paternal echo of her battle happening above.
Seeing Slade take an injury, from the looks of it a particularly grievous one, did weird things to Rose's insides, leaving her all flustered and conflicted. Part of her rejoiced, a sense of vindication flooding her synapses with endorphins. He'd visited so much sorrow and torture upon her over the years, that it was hard not to feel that petty flush of joy. He had been the monster in her nightmares, stalking her across continents, threatening everyone she ever dared love that wasn't him. On the other hand, this was her father, a man that was supposed to be a stand up figure, the epitome of all that was strong in her world. He had taught her to be strong, ruthless and deadly. The skills she'd learned at his knee having kept her alive through the most dangerous periods of her existence. Neither one of the figures he represented were something she could turn her back on.
Despite all the influences in her life, despite their arguments and opposing views, she was first and foremost the daughter of Slade Wilson. Struggling to fight off the exhaustion pulling at her bones from the injuries she took, the one-eyed young woman turned and cleanly sliced off the head of Slade's opponent. Perhaps the wounds he'd given the man were enough to keep the assassin down, but she wasn't taking any chances. Slowly, pain clouding her thought processes, she gather up the weapons that she and her father had scattered about the place in their respective battles. She would leave nothing that belonged to either of them behind, besides the blood that now stained the wooden structures.
Sliding off her mask, she used it to tie the weapons together in a bundle, clipping it to Slade's bandoleer. He was bleeding profusely, and she simply didn't have the equipment or training to deal with it. Sliding a hand under each of his arms, she half hauled him up, staggering backwards step by uncomfortable step, dragging her father from the arena of death.
The wet echo of his cough, the slow hiss of his wheezing, these sounds concerned her. Rose knew what it felt like to have a lung penetrated, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation. Nor was it one she could repair with some bundled cloth and a little pressure. She searched his new, much younger face with her own, the wrinkle in her brow the only real sign of emotion on her face. It would be enough, though, for him. Slade was the one who had taught her to keep her emotional responses in check, so he would know the signs of her agitation.
Perhaps the clearest sign of her distress, beside the modulations in her tone and her actually calling him Dad, was that when Slade took her hand she simply held onto his, their two calloused palms gripping each other as well as the bandage strapped to the older mercenary's chest. If she had been thinking straight, she never would have allowed it. Rose barely let anyone touch her these days, particularly the man whose continuous plots and vendetta's had shattered so much of her trust in other people. But right now, they both needed the contact.
Holding a scrap of her tattered mask, she carefully wiped the blood and sweat from Slade's face. "We can't stay here too long, it's too close to the carnage. Can you heal this? Or do we need to find you a sawbones...?" Rose's nimble mind was already sorting through, and discarding, options. There were a few almost reputable underground 'doctor's that she might be able to take her father to, the trick was finding one who wasn't in the employ of someone who wanted either of them dead. She thought perhaps she knew of one working down the street from the Grin N' Bare It, but could they make it there in time?
It was strange, this calm, almost tender moment between Rose and her father. Maybe it was his injuries, or her own, that permitted them to, for a short while, be gentle with one another. They had both nearly dies today, and not by the hands of one another. Perhaps that was the rub. These days, only a Wilson killed another Wilson, a precedent set up by the man hacking up blood with his head resting in her lap.
Rose knew better than to trust her father, she knew that every kindness he showed, even if it were genuine, had an ulterior motive buried somewhere underneath. Tonight they had worked together, rather well in fact, but she would not rejoin his crusade. The last time he had attempted to sway her to his side, she had lost the small semblance of family she had built up around herself, and that was not a scenario she wished to repeat. Her father brought sorrow and death, it was his legacy, and it was something she wanted no part of.
"I'm... I'm glad you'll heal, dad." There. It was said. Rose Wilson-Worth didn't have the tongue for loving phrases, the tendency stomped out of her early on by her father's betrayal, but in her own way, that stuttered phrase was an admission of sorts. Despite all he had done to her, despite all he had done to her brothers and her friends, there was a flicker of love in her shriveled little heart for the man who had sired her.