Chapter Text
The joust had ended, and the crowd began spilling out of the arena. Slade stayed behind only long enough to wipe the dust from his armor and strip off his helmet before wandering toward the food stalls. The Faire was buzzing with its usual chaos, lute music clashing with the scent of roasted meat and spilled beer. He’d walked this route hundreds of times, armor heavy on his shoulders, but something about today felt different. The crowd wasn’t heading for the ale tent or the fire-eater.
They were all pressing toward the lake.
At first, Slade thought it was another mermaid set; the performers had been there for years, half-drunk nobles gawking at women in seashell bras. But as he drew closer, he realized the crowd was thicker than usual, packed five-deep around the water. Parents had their children on their shoulders, grown men were craning their necks, and women leaned so far forward they nearly tipped into the reeds. The cheers rose and fell like waves.
Slade pushed his way through the wall of bodies, more irritated than curious, until he caught sight of the reason.
Not just mermaids. Mermen. There were two of them, new additions that the Faire incorporated to add diversity.
One of the merman in the lake glittered like something carved out of sunlight and water. His tail, blue threaded with silver, cut smooth arcs through the water. When he surfaced, the crowd gasped as though he’d performed sorcery. He grinned easily, tossing his dark hair back, droplets catching the light like jewels. Children squealed when he winked at them, women clapped their hands over their mouths, and men muttered to each other, begrudgingly impressed.
Slade folded his arms across his chest. Pretty trick, but nothing he hadn’t seen before.
When the performance wrapped, the merman pulled himself onto a flat stone at the water’s edge. His chest gleamed with fake pearls and lake water, lean muscle catching the sunlight. He waved to the crowd, playing it up, eating their adoration like it was second nature.
And then his gaze snagged on Slade’s.
Just a flicker, a quick read of the man in chainmail standing still at the back while everyone else clapped and cheered. “Dick!” one of the mermaids yelled, the merman turned to see his co-workers secretly motioning for him that they are heading backstage, and the merman waved back as an understanding. Dick then turned his attention to Slade, tilted his head, a polite smile tugging at his mouth. When the rest of the mermaids slipped backstage, he lingered.
“You look like it’s your first time seeing one of us, are you also enjoying the show, Sir knight?” Dick called lightly, half in character. His voice carried over the water, bright, easy, practised.
Slade’s lip curled faintly. “I’ve seen knights spill blood for half that applause.”
The boy blinked, thrown for a second, then smirked. “Guess some of us don’t need swords to win people over.”
There it was. A flash of something sharp beneath the charm.
Slade gave a short, humorless laugh and adjusted the strap on his pauldron. “Crowds are fickle. Today you’re a novelty, tomorrow they’ll want something shinier.”
Dick’s smile thinned, but he didn’t drop the act. He ran his hands back through his wet hair, the gesture almost theatrical. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just jealous no one’s lining up to see grumpy old knights.”
That earned him a pause, just long enough for Dick to know he’d struck something, before Slade turned on his heel, the spurs on his boots biting into the dirt.
The crowd was still buzzing with praise, kids begging for one more wave from the merman, which the merman happily complied. But for Dick, the warmth of it was dulled by the knight’s dismissal. And for Slade, the applause still ringing in his ears was more irritating than usual.
Days go by, and the more Slade walks the grounds, the more he notices him. The new merman. Sometimes perched on the lake’s rock with the sun glinting off his painted scales, sometimes laughing with a cluster of kids as he handed out seashell tokens. The crowd adored him. Slade told himself it was just novelty, a young, pretty face, but every time he passed, the energy around the lake felt brighter, louder. And every time, Dick’s eyes would cut through the water straight toward him, like he knew Slade was watching.
Then, one afternoon, Slade had a duel scheduled in the main square. The crowd gathered thick around the stage, couples sipping mead, audiences dressed up as mythological heroes and fictional characters. The herald announced the challenge, “Ladies and lords, peasants and nobles of the realm! Gather close, for before you stands not some fair and noble knight in shining armor, but a terror clad in steel, the shadow that stalks the battlefield, the scourge of heroes, the bane of gallant men! Behold! Sir Deathstroke!”
Slade entered, armored and sword at the ready, he was a crowd’s favourite due to his villain persona and mysterious presence, so he wasn’t faced when he heard more cheering than booing. The match had barely begun when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of glitter and pearls near the back of the crowd.
It was them, the “sea nymphs”. A troupe of mermaids and mermen who sometimes traded their tails for flowing skirts and tunics so they could wander the Faire and still be in-character. They still shimmered with body paint, jewels braided into their hair, and among them was Dick.
The first thing Slade thought of when he saw Dick walking around without his tail, was he’s pretty tall, but Slade still towers over him and everyone else. Dick looked otherworldly, sleek dark hair still damp but it was styled artfully to accentuate his siren-look, beads catching the sunlight against his throat, his eyes lined in silver eyeliner in order to enhance the blue of his eyes. He leaned against a post, casual, arms folded like he wasn’t impressed. Like he hadn’t bothered to clap when his friends squealed and applauded Slade’s opening move.
Slade’s opponent swung; he blocked without thought, his focus slipping. His ears caught the laughter of one of the mermaids as she shouted, “That’s your cue, Sir Deathstroke!” Her hands clapped eagerly. But Slade’s gaze flicked back to Dick, to that deliberate look of disinterest, chin tilted up in mock boredom. It was bait, he realized. The kid wanted him to notice.
So Slade fought harder, each strike sharper, each flourish more dramatic, the kind that sent the crowd roaring. And though Dick never moved, never clapped, Slade saw it: the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was holding back a smile.
The clash of steel rang one final time before Slade’s opponent stumbled back, disarmed and defeated. The crowd erupted into cheers, some jeering for the villain knight, others shouting his name as though he were their dark champion.
Slade circled the arena with his sword raised in a mock salute, savouring the adoration and boos alike. His gaze, however, wasn’t for the audience at large, it kept drifting toward the edge of the crowd, where the sea nymphs stood out among the throng.
Dick clapped politely, a little too stiff, his smirk too sharp. Slade caught the faint arch of his brow, unimpressed. Or pretending to be. That amused Slade more than any applause.
A slash of red interrupted the moment as roses showered the field. Fairegoers tossed them toward their champion and villain alike. One bloom landed at Slade’s boot, its stem long and green against the churned-up dirt. Slowly, deliberately, he bent down, scooped it up, and twirled it in his gloved fingers.
The crowd leaned in, expectant. Slade’s armor clanked as he strode across the arena, his eyes never leaving Dick. The mermaids at his side whispered, giggling as the villain knight approached. Even Dick’s mask of disdain faltered for a heartbeat, something flickering in his expression as Slade stopped before them.
With all the weight of performance, Slade lifted the rose, held it aloft as if to crown the fair merman with it, then, at the last second, angled his hand and pressed the bloom into Donna Troy’s palm.
The crowd gasped and laughed, some booing at the bait-and-switch. Donna looked surprised, then delighted, showing off her prize to her friends.
Dick only scoffed. His jeweled arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowing at Slade in a glare sharp enough to cut. Then, with a disdainful flick of his hair, he turned on his heel, leading his friends away from the arena.
Slade chuckled low under his breath, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as he watched the retreating sway of glitter and pride.
“Oh, I see how it is,” he muttered to himself, before raising his sword again to the crowd as though nothing had happened.
That night Slade received a text from one of the Renaissance Faire managers to meet them early in the morning to discuss a new storyline that they want Sir Deathstroke to be involved in. Slade arrived at the Renaissance Faire’s creative hall, the wooden door creaking under the weight of the many scrolls and props stored inside.
As Slade entered, his sharp eyes immediately caught a familiar flash of dark hair, Dick, perched almost regally in a corner, fidgeting with a prop trident and clearly trying to look unbothered, just like Slade, he was dressed casually, but he doesn’t need his jeweled costume to catch the attention of the room.
Slade’s lips tugged into a half-smile. Of all the surprises, seeing Dick here wasn’t entirely unwelcome. It was… complicated.
A host of creatives and coordinators turned toward the two actors, waving scripts and storyboards. “Glad you could both make it,” one of them said. “We’ve been reviewing the crowd reactions, and we noticed… your interactions on the pond, during performances, and even with the jousting audience, people really enjoy it.”
“Some were even making tiktok edits of you guys,” one of the interns added, showing Slade and Dick some of the videos that made both of them cringe internally.
Dick’s eyes flicked to Slade, a brief smirk tugging at his lips as his attempt at maintaining neutrality. Slade only raised an eyebrow.
“We want to develop a storyline,” the coordinator continued, “where Sir Deathstroke, that’s you, Slade, is sent by your king to capture the Merpeople's prince and retrieve a magical chalice, which grants wishes or power. You’ll need to interact with him, negotiate, fight, trick, maybe even ally, depending on how the story unfolds. But we want it to play off your chemistry.”
Slade’s gaze sharpened at the mention of Dick’s character, the plan suddenly more intriguing. “So… I’m tasked with capturing him,” he said dryly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. He caught Dick’s eyebrow quirk in response, the prince already didn’t seem too impressed with the idea of being ‘captured.’
“Yes,” the coordinator said, pointing to the storyboard. “And we want the audience to feel tension, banter, and the slow burn. It’s going to be fun, dynamic… messy in a good way.”
Dick crossed his arms, lips twitching as he tried not to smile. “Fun,” he repeated, voice clipped, but there was a spark in his eyes that betrayed excitement, and maybe… a little challenge.
Slade’s half-smile widened. “Oh, I think we can manage that,” he said softly, letting the threat, the challenge, and the unspoken amusement hang between them.
One of the creatives cleared his throat behind Slade, muttering, “You two are going to drive the audience crazy.”
Slade’s gaze lingered on Dick, and in that moment, both of them silently acknowledged it: this new storyline wasn’t just about the faire’s fantasy. It was about them. And that realization made the game far more interesting than either of them were willing to admit.
The rehearsal hall was quiet, lantern light casting long shadows across the polished floor. Dick adjusted his costume, trying to make it sit right, every movement deliberate and precise. He kept glancing at the entrance, already anticipating Slade’s arrival, and sure enough, the heavy clink of armor announced him before he even stepped fully inside.
“You’re the merman prince everyone’s raving about,” Slade said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and subtle disdain as he studied Dick. “Funny… looks like a lot of hype for someone barely out of the water.”
Dick’s tail flicked irritably. “And you must be the villainous knight that everyone thinks is intimidating. Cute armor. Does it come in small sizes for all your overcompensation?”
Slade’s brow quirked, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Overcompensation, huh? That’s rich coming from a guy wearing glittery scales and fins. Tell me, does your tail have a mind of its own, or is that just you trying to distract me?”
“I don’t need a tail to distract anyone,” Dick shot back, voice sharp and confident. “Unlike some people, I don’t have to hide behind heavy metal and cheap bravado.”
The tension in the air was almost tangible, but beneath it, there was an unspoken game, a challenge neither wanted to admit they were enjoying. Slade circled slowly, careful to stay just outside of striking distance, his gaze appraising, studying, teasing. Dick mirrored him, tail swishing slightly in irritation, fists clenched but ready to dart away or strike if needed.
“So, this is what the Faire wants,” Slade said, finally breaking the silence, “two arrogant performers pretending to hate each other for the sake of the audience. Should be easy, considering how fake your scowl looks.”
Dick’s laugh was sharp and cutting. “Fake? You’re the one who can barely keep a straight face behind that helmet. Admit it, Sir Deathstroke, you’re bored by all this pomp until I show up.”
Slade’s smirk deepened. “Maybe I’m bored… maybe I’m just curious how long it takes for you to realize that your big, shiny performances is not as special as everyone thinks.”
“That's rich coming from you,” Dick replied smoothly, stepping a fraction closer. “If I want to see two overgrown men sword fight, I'd rather watch it from a laptop screen.”
For a moment, they stood there, sizing each other up, the clashing of egos palpable. Slade tilted his head, watching Dick with a mixture of amusement and something sharper, admiration masked by mock irritation. "You're a real delight aren't you.”
Dick scoffed, flicking his hair back with a dramatic flourish. “Oh, I'm just getting started, knight. Just wait, by the time this show is over, I’ll have you chasing me across every stage in the Faire.”
Slade chuckled lowly, the sound carrying in the empty hall. “Bold words. I like it. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
Even off-stage, away from scripts and audience expectations, their rivalry was electric, a game of wit and dominance, each trying to push the other just enough without giving in. And yet, in the midst of their banter and careful movements, the smallest flicker of something else passed between them, unnoticed, unacknowledged, but undeniably there.
The sun was just starting to dip behind the makeshift towers of the Renaissance Faire, casting a golden glow across the arena where the crowd had already gathered. The air buzzed with excitement; families and tourists whispered eagerly, waiting for the day’s main performance. Dick’s tail glinted in the last light of the day as he slipped into the water, carefully maintaining the poise and grace they had drilled countless times in rehearsal.
Slade, in full knight regalia, adjusted his armor and walked onto the arena floor, his movements confident, each step deliberate. Even though the crowd cheered for the spectacle, his eyes immediately found Dick among the performers. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked, the practiced animosity from rehearsals now on display for everyone to see.
The show began, scripted actions unfolding with precision, but as soon as Slade approached Dick for their staged confrontation, Dick shifted slightly off the expected path. A subtle flick of his tail, a glance that lingered just a moment too long, and a barely audible smirk made Slade’s jaw tighten.
The arena was alive with excitement, the crowd buzzing at the anticipation of the climactic scene. Slade, fully armored and in his villainous knight persona, strode confidently to the center of the stage, sword and fishing net in hand as scripted. His deep voice rang out, perfectly enunciating his lines: “Hand over the chalice, merman prince, or face the wrath of King Defiance!”
From the water, Dick surfaced, jeweled tail glinting, poised to follow the plan: he was supposed to give a speech about honor and chivalry to Slade, completing the choreographed exchange. But today, a flash of mischief crossed his face. He tilted his head, arms crossed, and for a heartbeat… did nothing.
Slade’s eyes narrowed under the mask. He had expected compliance, a smooth continuation of their rehearsed choreography. Instead, Dick smirked and quipped, off-script, “I don’t think so, knight. You’ll have to earn it.”
A murmur ran through the audience, and Slade had to think fast. Improvising, he advanced, voice low and dangerous yet maintaining the act: “Earn it, you say? Bold of you to defy Sir Deathstroke.”
Dick leaned back slightly, deliberately holding the chalice just out of reach, teasing. Each movement was calculated: his tail flicked gracefully, water droplets glinting in the sunlight, his posture confident yet defiant. It was an unexpected challenge, and the subtle spark in the air between them became tangible.
Slade moved closer, circling Dick, keeping in character but letting the tension flare. He improvised his gestures, a sweep of his sword, and his “failed” attempts at trying to capture the merman’s tail as part of the duel choreography, all timed so the audience would see drama, while the two performers were locked in a silent, charged battle of wills.
Dick met every move with sly defiance, refusing to bow or hand over the chalice, pushing Slade to react in real time. The improvisation heightened the intensity; their glances lingered just a second too long, their proximity electric, and the crowd mistook it for spectacular chemistry, unaware of the private rivalry fueling it.
Finally, after a tense moment that felt like an eternity, Slade had enough, and actually timed Dick’s movements so that the merman actually got caught by the net, and Slade had to half-drag the merman close enough to him so that he could snatch the chalice, the entire time Dick was putting more force in his splashes as a retaliation to make sure Slade was soaking wet as he feigns capture. Slade manages to wrestle the chalice from Dick’s hands and holds it aloft, voice booming: “Alas! The chalice is mine!”
Dick feigned defeat, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. Slade’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he handed the chalice to the next part of the scene, though the lingering tension between them hung in the air like a current the audience couldn’t see.
As they moved to finish the scene, Dick whispered, just loud enough for Slade, “Not bad, but you’ll have to do better than that next time.”
Slade’s jaw tightened, and though the crowd erupted in applause, only Dick knew the smile he caught under the mask, a promise of the continued war of wits and tension that had just begun between them.
Backstage, the air smelled faintly of sea salt and costume polish as Dick finished rinsing the last traces dirt off his mermaid tail, peeling off the heavy prosthetics and slipping into a loose hoodie that was far more forgiving than the glimmering fins he had worn for the show. He dabbed at the remnants of makeup on his face, the shimmer around his eyes catching the dim light as he worked. Just as he was about to toss the sponge aside, a shadow fell across the doorway. Slade’s tall frame filled the entrance, arms crossed, eyes sharp, radiating that controlled tension Dick had come to recognize all too well.
“You really went off-script today,” Slade said, his voice low but cutting through the quiet hum of the backstage area. There was a hint of incredulity there, but beneath it lingered a faint edge of something else, something harder to name.
Dick leaned casually against the counter, letting a smirk curl over his lips as he met Slade’s glare with deliberate nonchalance. “I did what the script said,” he said smoothly, voice light, “just… not exactly in the order it was written.” He tossed the sponge into the sink, turning to dry his hands, making no effort to hide the defiance in his posture.
Slade’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation passing over his otherwise controlled expression. “You realize that’s not how it’s supposed to go,” he said, stepping closer, the air between them thickening. His eyes, dark and assessing, traced Dick’s form, lingering on the way the hoodie hung loosely over his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, the spark of mischief in his eyes. Despite himself, Slade felt the pull, the charm, the fire, the way Dick’s very presence seemed to draw him in while simultaneously testing his patience.
Dick tilted his head slightly, meeting Slade’s gaze with a teasing glint. “I just thought it might… spice things up,” he said, voice dripping with playful defiance. His boldness was infuriating, yet undeniably captivating, and Slade found himself caught between wanting to scold him and wanting to lean in closer, to feel the warmth radiating from him.
“You’re reckless,” Slade muttered, though his voice had lost some of its bite. He took a slow step nearer, the tension between them a tangible thread, tight and electric. “And annoyingly talented at it.”
Dick let out a soft, amused laugh, eyes flicking down briefly before back up, daring him. “It’s part of the charm,” he whispered, a mischievous undertone threading his words. Slade’s lips twitched, not a smile, exactly, but the faintest acknowledgment that, despite his frustration, he couldn’t look away.
Slade exhaled slowly, a faint hum of frustration escaping his lips. He stepped just slightly closer, close enough that Dick could feel the faint brush of Slade’s coat against his arm. Every instinct screamed at him to pull back, or to lean into the heat radiating from the other man, but Dick didn’t. He let himself stay, daring Slade to react, to break the taut line that stretched between them.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The backstage hum, the dim light, the faint scent of makeup and damp costume, everything seemed to heighten the suspended energy. It was a dance of fire, a silent acknowledgment that their rivalry was more than it appeared, that every glance, every word, every subtle move carried weight far beyond the script.
Finally, Slade straightened slightly, taking a measured step back, as though reminding himself they were still in a professional space, but the fire in his eyes betrayed the calm he was trying to project. Dick, for his part, let a small, satisfied smirk curl across his lips, knowing he had won this round of silent, smoldering power play.