A Ghost from the past

Chapter 10: We don't deserve redemption

Deirdre's clinic

"Slade."

"Alive and kicking, no thanks to you," Slade Wilson, in civilian clothes walked into the small living room of her formerly most trusted friend with a tray of tea and what seemed to be an honest smile on his face.

"It was years ago, get over it Slade," Deirdre scolded in English, her thick Irish accent weighing on each word, "and it was your fault."

"You're pregnant?" Slade could tell real from undercover, this was real.

"Slade," Meg repeated, her blood running cold, her breaths coming short, her eyes seeing spots, the room spinning, and then darkness.

Meg slowly regained consciousness, she was on a couch, without her wig and glasses, her legs were up, and her head was heavy.

"Okay, there we go." Slade Wilson was still there helping her, "easy, sit up."

"Get away from me," Meg pulled her gun to his throat.

"He's here to help," Deirdre took away the gun, "just listen to him."

"Help? Slade Wilson? Deathstroke? The man I poisoned and left bleeding in the desert wants to help me?"

"I told you to leave, and I told you I wouldn't hold it against you," Slade reminded her.

"You told me, and I quote, 'go fuck yourself you ungrateful little bitch, I should've killed you when I had the chance, I've seen your face, I see you again you're dead,' so no you didn't tell me to leave and that you wouldn't hold it against me," Meg snarled at him.

"You've always taken things too seriously, but you sent someone, so all's forgiven," he then turned to Deirdre with the most important question, "she's really pregnant. How is she really pregnant? It shouldn't be possible-"

"Hmm," Deirdre fixed a pillow behind Meg's back.

"D? This shouldn't be possible," Slade pressed almost accusing.

"I couldn't," Deirdre answered shortly.

"How many others?" Slade asked.

"I'm right here," Meg hated it when people talked about her like she wasn't there, especially those two, it felt like another unwanted trip down memory lane.

"Just her," Deirdre said before going to the kitchen.

"Why?" Slade asked.

"You know why Slade," Deirdre came back took the rifle case and checked the contents, "since when do you use a 9?"

"It's not mine," Meg answered.

"Listen to him," Deirdre glared at them both and left, "don't put your dirty boots on my crochet, either of you."

"Talia's in town," Slade took some distance from Meg seeing as she might attack him at any moment.

"I know, she'll be limping from now on," Meg laid her head back.

"I should've known," Slade shook his head, "she doesn't know you're alive, I wasn't sure you were either so I suggest we keep it that way. Since you started shooting off kneecaps you're leaving Gotham with me-"

"You're not my commanding officer anymore, I don't take orders from you," Meg warned him, "I'm not leaving."

"Why must you be so stubborn?" Slade sighed, "You are in one of the most dangerous cities in the world-"

"Bitch please, we survived Caracas, Bialya, Qurac and North Korea to name a few," Meg dismissed him, "Gotham is just a playground for idiots playing Halloween."