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“What is that?”
Slade stares at the neatly wrapped gift sitting on the coffee table. They’d just gotten back to one of Slade’s safehouses after a fun night out bashing skulls in and narrowly avoiding a run-in with the big bad bat himself. They’d gotten a little too riled up in an alley, and Slade didn’t particularly want to get caught by Batman with his dick in the aforementioned bat’s son. He wanted to end the night in a safe house that was a little less ‘bloodstains, mold, no running water’ than Jason’s usual. Because while Slade has dealt with worse, he’s getting tired of fucking on just a beat-up mattress on the floor. Jason will say it’s because Slade’s old and his knees can’t take it; Slade would tell him to shut the fuck up.
He pointedly ignores the part of his brain that urges him to lay Jason down and properly make love to him, to fill him with all he has to offer and get the same treatment back in return. He ignores it because they aren’t there yet. They’re the ‘fuck-on-any-surface-with-enough-room-to-bend-Jason-over-on’ type of lovers, something casual, fun, with no consequences (as ‘no consequences’ as fucking a former Robin can be when you’re still in Batman’s city). They don’t ‘make love,’ no matter how much Slade wishes they would.
Slade doesn’t think anyone other than Jason has been here today. Nothing looks out of place—well, nothing besides that incredibly suspicious package. It’s wrapped in plain brown paper and carefully taped shut. It doesn’t look like a trap, but Slade still eyes it warily as Jason scoops it up off the table and presents it to him.
“A gift, obviously. I saw them at the store and thought they suited you well.” Jason says with a smile that can only mean trouble. Slade wasn’t the biggest fan of receiving gifts; God knows he’s drowning in enough money to fund a small kingdom for at least two generations. He’d rather be the one showering his lover in expensive trinkets and clothes and whatever the fuck else they could ever ask for.
The problem is that when your partner is one of Bruce Wayne’s children (however much Jason tries to deny any relations to his once father figure), it’s hard. Jason, for lack of a better word, hates getting expensive gifts. He says going from growing up with nothing to having everything to having nothing again really killed the appeal of gold and jewels. That’s not to say that he doesn’t like gold watches and expensive chains; it’s just that Jason would rather steal them from some rich schmuck than have Slade spend money to legally acquire the gifts.
They eventually agreed that the gifts they give each other have to be either practical or have some sort of deeper emotional value other than the fact that they’re just gifts. Slade likes the former, and Jason likes both, so it works out well most of the time. Emphasis on most of the time .
Jason has a penchant for buying the stupidest shit for Slade and then coming up with elaborate stories to make the—quite frankly ridiculous, worthless, and idiotic—gifts seem like they have emotional value. The bell pepper-shaped mug that Jason got at the farmer’s market in Texas that Slade is certain he overpaid for? Well, Slade would be a monster to throw away a souvenir from their trip, a trip that would live on in Jason’s memory forever as life-changing and blah blah blah.
And the thing is, Slade kept every single one. His Gotham apartment—and isn’t that something, having a real apartment and not just safehouses in his fling’s city—is filled with all the random hats and trinkets and knickknacks Jason has gotten him. The manipulative little shit has Slade wrapped around his finger, and the bad thing is that Slade wouldn’t have it any other way.
The gift is placed into Slade’s reluctant grasp and opened, only to be almost immediately shoved back into Jason’s with more force than necessary. “No, absolutely not.” Slade scowled at the package of brightly colored boxers, each with a different fruit depicted. His scowl deepened at the far-too-pleased cackling coming from Jason.
The younger man held out the package of underwear again, the grin splitting his face doing nothing to make Slade more eager to wear them. “Why not? You like practical gifts, and underwear is as practical as it gets.” Jason isn’t wrong, but his tone is still too full of mischief for Slade’s liking. “You said you needed more, so I got you more. You’re welcome.” And now Slade really wanted to knock that smug look off his face.
“In what world do those suit me well?” Slade asks with a raised brow.
“Because you’re the apple of my eye . ” The cheesy line has Jason grinning wide enough that Slade is certain he’s been planning to make that joke for a while.
Slade doesn’t take the underwear back, just stares at them with one part disdain, one part curiosity, and two parts grudging amusement. He couldn’t stop himself from pointing at the pack and asking, “Are those peaches? Seriously?” This question only spawns another round of cackles, Jason’s cheeks flushing a rosy color. His laughter is contagious, and Slade can’t help but huff out a laugh of his own.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, brat.”
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Slade really thought that would be the end of it. He had ended up tossing the underwear off to the side in favor of curling up with Jason on the couch and watching whatever bullshit TV series he’s into these days. The night ended with Jason lying on top of Slade’s chest, snoring softly into his neck as Slade trailed his fingers along his spine. It was… nice, everything Slade wanted them to have but didn’t know how to ask for. The boxers were forgotten on the floor next to Slade’s bag, and he thought that was it.
How wrong he had been.
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The urge to hunt down Jason and wring his neck is fierce as Slade glares at his underwear drawer a week later, jaw set with irritation. All his plain black boxers have been replaced with those damned fruit boxers. Not only had his boxers been swapped, but his socks as well. His underwear drawer is an eye-grating pastel rainbow, and Slade can’t help but respect the dedication to this stupid joke. Jason had gone all out on this stupid prank.
Jason must have done this in the few days Slade hadn’t been in Gotham. How he managed that without Slade knowing proved that Slade was letting his guard down a little too much. He knew by now that Jason wouldn’t stab him in the back, and he foolishly trusted the younger man to enter his living space as he pleased. Clearly, Jason had no qualms about abusing that trust to pull his pranks, the devious little snake that he is. Though it was his cunning and clever ways that attracted Slade to him in the first place.
He picks up the pair that had piqued his interest the first time he’d seen them, light pink with peaches. Upon closer inspection, it seems there are even red kiss marks. He takes the pair with him into the bathroom to put on after his shower, not like he had much choice anyway. They fit surprisingly well for what Slade thought was a cheap gag gift, comfortable and breathable. They also make Slade’s ass look good, which, while not something he cares about, Jason will probably love. An idea pops into his head, and Slade smirks as he picks up his phone and snaps a picture to send to Jason.
‘Thanks for the gift, sweetheart. Real practical.’
It takes a couple of minutes for Jason to look at the message, but when he does, he gives some very enthusiastic praise, and Slade can’t get the satisfied look to leave his face for the rest of the day.
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At first, it was just because he had no other underwear and he was in a rush. He begrudgingly grabbed a red and black checkered pair with cherries on them and cursed Jason.
The second time was for the same reason, except this time it was a white and yellow striped pair with lemons.
After the third time Slade had to put on the ridiculous-looking (but also ridiculously comfortable) underwear, he found his regular black pairs at the top of his closet. He’d thought Jason had thrown them away, but apparently, he didn’t go that far. Slade breathed a sigh of relief and happily put on his regular pair… and immediately felt the difference. His black boxers weren’t bad, but they weren’t as comfortable. They did the job, and Slade wasn’t that particular about his underwear anyway. But now that he’s started wearing good underwear, he can’t say he wants to go back.
He had so many pairs (courtesy of Jason doing nothing in small measures) that he had a different fruit for every day. It even got to the point where he started wearing different fruits depending on his mood that given morning. He hated how much he liked them, despite their tacky designs and strange color schemes.
Slade hadn’t told Jason he kept them. He didn’t want to encourage his rather unpredictable lover to start experimenting with even more of Slade’s wardrobe. Underwear is one thing, but if Slade wakes up to a closet full of rainbow-colored clothing, then he might not be able to stop himself from tying Jason up and tossing him into the Gotham harbor.
So yeah, the underwear had become a staple in Slade’s closet. He hadn’t thought twice about putting them on when he went to meet up with Jason one night. They’d patrolled Jason’s territory and only got a little sidetracked when Jason wanted to show Slade his favorite late-night diner. The food was good, and the company was better. Jason’s laughter brightened up the otherwise dreary Gotham night as he told some story from his childhood.
Slade had felt impossibly fond at that moment. He’d held Jason’s hand and looked at him in a way that couldn’t be described as anything other than lovingly. Late-night diner runs and holding hands, this is what Slade really wanted. The sex was good—better than good, it was fantastic — but Slade would be satisfied staying like this forever. Jason had faltered when Slade intertwined their fingers, but he didn’t pull away, just kept talking after a brief moment of pause. Slade didn’t know what that reaction meant, but he hoped it meant something good.
Things had gotten a little more heated when they got to Jason’s safe house near Diamond District. Slade was a little busy sticking his tongue down his young lover’s throat to think about anything else as they stumbled through the front door. Jason’s face was red, and his eyes had that fucked-out vacantness to them that Slade loved to see. Despite how fiercely he tries to deny it, Jason is weak to kisses.
“You’re so pretty, Jace,” the older man whispered as he pulled Jason’s head back by his hair and pressed him into the entryway wall. His actions were rewarded with a breathy gasp and those shiny teal eyes blinking at him. “But do you know where you’d look even prettier?” The question was met with a curious hum as Jason’s brain caught back up to him. A smile stretched out across the younger man’s face, and he nodded, flipping them around to push Slade against the wall and slowly sinking to his knees. He licked his lips as he leaned closer toward Slade’s crotch, nuzzling against his hip, so close yet so far from where Slade really wanted him.
Slade wasn’t sure how he’d managed to get Jason like this, open and willing to take what Slade had to give him. The older man had seen a lot in his time, but he’d never met a person as eager to please as Jason Todd. A man who doesn’t need to lower his head to anyone but would drop what he was doing without thinking twice for Slade if the man asked.
He doesn’t deserve him, but Slade isn’t willing to let Jason go. Slade would have to be dead for that to happen (not Jason because he’d proven that not even death itself could keep him down).
“Is this where you want me, Daddy ?” Slade could only groan lowly and lean his head back against the wall behind him. He tangled his fist in Jason’s curls and tugged at them in the way he knew would get a response, another gasp followed by a wanton moan, music to Slade’s ears. “Getting warmer, doll,” a smirk spread across Slade’s face as Jason shivered and rushed to unzip his pants.
The younger man made a show of slowly untucking Slade’s shirt and trailing kisses along his waist, nipping and sucking on the skin like he was showing his affection through those soft pecks. Slade sighs and relaxes his muscles. If he closes his eye he can almost pretend they're more than just bedmates, that these kisses are full of the love and tenderness that he dreams about.
The sound of his fly being unzipped, followed by Jason’s hands freezing in place on his hips, has Slade opening his eye and looking down with a questioning brow raise. Jason’s eyes are wide with disbelief, and a thick cloud of horror falls upon Slade as he realizes what Jason is looking at.
His boxers, light blue with bananas. Jason just pulled down Slade’s pants to find light blue banana boxers . The bulge from his dick only accentuated the big banana on the front.
The seconds tick by in silence until Jason is absolutely howling on the floor, tears streaming down his face as he clutches his stomach. Slade can only scowl as his face flushes red, and he stands there, exposed and the most humiliated he’s ever been in his life.
“Shut the fuck up,” the lowly grumbled words only quieted Jason by a minuscule amount. “I forgot I put them on…” Jason shakes his head, still laughing but composing himself enough to stand and lean against Slade’s chest before he can escape out the door or into the bedroom to sulk.
“I love it. I thought you’d throw them all away. You just surprised me.” Jason smiles up at Slade, his expression pleased, delighted by the fact that Slade had kept them. Maybe there was more to it than that, but Slade was honestly too embarrassed to keep looking at Jason’s face. “Hey, look at me,” Jason says, voice softer and fonder than it has any right to be. “I’m not making fun of you, old man. I’m glad you like them. You sent that picture, and I assumed that was the end of it.”
Slade shakes his head, opening his mouth before closing it with a frown. “I keep all your gifts, kid; I haven’t thrown a single one away.” The words are little more than a muttered confession, but Jason’s heart soars all the same. He leans forward and rests against Slade’s chest, looping his fingers through the belt loops of the older man’s pants. Slade stiffens, as if preparing to break out of Jason's hold on him, but he stays put.
“Slade… I appreciate it. I bought half that junk for shits and giggles.” That much was obvious. Slade figured that out after receiving a box of jalapeño chocolates even after telling Jason that he fucking hated them. “But you kept it, and that makes me really fucking happy.”
Jason’s sincere smile was enough to curb Slade’s embarrassment, and he huffed out a breath before pulling Jason into a hug. The younger man went easily as he was pressed even closer to Slade’s chest. They stayed like that for a while, the air tense with words still left unsaid but not entirely unheard. They clearly had more to say, but neither wanted to be the one to start. How do you tell your fuck buddy that ‘hey, I want to kiss you and not just when your dick is sending me to heaven?’ There was time to figure that out, just later.
At some point they got tired of standing in the doorway and migrated to the bedroom to change their clothes before curling up on the couch. Jason tends to lead them to the couch when he isn’t particularly in the mood to fuck. Not that they haven’t done their fair share of horizontal tangoing on the couch, but Jason doesn’t like the idea of his siblings crashing at his place and sleeping on cushions stained with his cum. Slade personally found the idea of Grayson unknowingly sleeping on a couch Slade came on hilarious but relented nonetheless.
Jason laid with his head on Slade’s chest, breathing slowly as he relished in the feeling of Slade’s left hand on his lower back and his right hand in his hair, fingers twirling and lightly tugging the white patch at the front. Slade’s hand on Jason’s head stops as Jason raises his head to look at Slade, a glint in his eyes as he smiles impishly.
“Orange you glad I bought you those boxers?
Slade shoves him onto the floor with more strength than needed, but even that isn’t enough to stop Jason’s loud cackling.
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“ Slade, get down !” Jason’s voice— Red Hood’s garbled mechanical growl, to be precise—rings through the comm line, the sharp command startling Slade as he knocks out another one of the armed thugs lurking around a corner. The amount of men swarming them means that their info was way off. ‘Their’ meaning the Bats, Slade would never get put in this situation on his own because he’s better than going in with a half-cocked plan.
Slade drops to the ground without a second thought, just barely dodging a bullet to the head. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough to dodge the bullet that lodged into his hip thirty minutes ago. He’d been busy shoving Robin out of the way of a grenade, the explosion just a distraction to take his attention off other armed men swarming the shipyard. He barely had a chance to question how some supposedly random gang had guns and ammo strong enough to get through his armor.
It hurt his pride more than it hurt his body. Deathstroke , a man who many called the best hitman in the game, was caught by a bullet while saving Robin of all people. He’d been working with the Bats because Jason had asked for his help, and Slade reluctantly agreed, if not only to piss Grayson off. The way the older bird’s brows furrowed as he watched Deathstroke and Red Hood fight with a practiced ease had a satisfied smirk stretching across Slade’s face.
They were in the middle of a fight with a gang that cropped up just outside of Gotham. It was originally Hood’s case, but the Bats had nagged him into letting them help. He’d only agreed on the condition that Slade could tag along, stating that he trusted the mercenary to watch his back more than them when it came down to it.
It took a lot of effort not to jump for joy at the words, how easily the younger man declared Slade to be someone who he could rely on in a pinch. To be trusted wholeheartedly by a person who would rather cut his own dick off than leave his safety in the hands of another, it was an honor bestowed upon few other people. Slade had earned that trust somehow and had no intention of losing it. Maybe that’s why he jumped in to save the little brat so easily. Jason trusted him to keep him safe, and Slade wasn’t going to allow him to act recklessly because his little brother had a bomb go off in his face.
Slade doesn’t have much time to think about his wounded ego before he’s being pulled into the cover by Jason, hissing when his side aches where the bullet entered his body. They rush towards a narrow alley between two buildings, Jason dragging a limping Slade along as he grows progressively sluggish. After setting Slade on the ground, Jason checks to see if anyone followed them before kneeling at his (partner? lover? companion?) ally’s side.
It’s not the injury itself that’s the main issue; getting shot is basically a requirement in this line of work. It’s that Slade can usually walk off this sort of thing, literally and figuratively. Jason has seen Slade get shot in the thigh, dig out the bullet, and then sprint after the man that shot him. The fact that he can barely walk after a hit that would never do this to him on a normal day means that the problem lies in the bullet itself.
Jason curses as he pulls both his and Slade’s helmets off. “Slade, look at me. Hey, old man!” His words are met with a grunt and a hand moving to press against the wound. Slade’s eye opens, but it has a haziness that is jarring when Jason is used to an almost predatory sharpness being directed at him. Shit, whatever the bullet is made of—and probably laced with—is having a serious effect on him. What it is doesn’t matter right now; what matters is Jason getting it out in case it’s something lethal. The others are competent enough (no matter how much Slade doubts that) to survive long enough for Jason to do a minor surgery on his (boyfriend? suitor? admirer?) teammate.
Deft hands make light work of pulling off Slade's armor, only being met with minor grunts and… whines of protest? Never in Jason’s life has he heard Slade Wilson whine. It’s honestly kind of jarring and, admittedly, kind of cute. As cute as a deadly and morally gray mercenary can be.
There’s a hole going straight through Slade's hip, and if Jason wasn’t equipped with borrowed (read: stolen) bat gear, he wouldn’t have been able to cut open the rest of the material making up the infamous Deathstroke uniform. Slade doesn’t seem to care, or he can’t find himself enough to care. The weakened merc doesn’t move as Jason slices open the skin that tried to heal over the bullet and digs his knife in to get it. While it is a pretty rushed and messy job, Jason tries to be gentle. Slade doesn’t seem too pained, but that might just be because his body is too weakened to show the usual signs.
Slowly, the bullet is dug out and put in Jason’s pocket. Bruce would probably have something to say about putting evidence in his pocket and not somewhere more secure, but Jason honestly couldn’t give less of a shit when his (friend? fuck buddy?) partner-in-crime was in such a state. The bullet wound has closed up, which means it didn’t interfere with his healing factor; it just weakened him, severely at that. They don’t know how long it will last or how Slade will feel while the effects still have a hold on him.
“Slade? Old man? Can you hear me?” It’s hard to keep the worry from bleeding too heavily into his words, but Jason tries not to panic. Slade is damn near unkillable; something like this is far too little to take him down. Those words are immediately proven right as Slade groans and opens his eye again, his jaw twitching like he’s trying to muster up the strength to speak. Jason lets out a long breath and smiles at the older man, putting his hand over Slade’s.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you get your ass handed to you this badly in a while. You losing your touch?” The disgruntled huff and twitch of Slade’s jaw tell Jason that he’s at least coherent enough to get annoyed. “The bullet is out, but we’re getting out of dodge. Because as sexy as you look lying in a grimy alley, that’s kinda my thing, and I can’t have you stealing my schtick.” Another grunt, followed by what looks like a shrug. Now that he isn’t (as far as they know) in active danger, he looks like a lethargic cat. He’s still trying to gather enough of his wits to speak coherently, muttering something to himself. The younger man hums curiously and leans over for Slade to mutter in his ear.
Jason sweeps his sweaty hair out of his face, and he leans closer. “What did you say?” Slade seems to regain enough of his sense as he repeats his words much more intelligibly. “Are… they okay?” Jason’s brows furrow in confusion, turning to face his muttering partner. Who is the “they” he’s talking about? Surely not the other bats because Slade usually doesn’t give them more than a passing thought when on missions together, however infrequently that is.
“Who’re you talking about?” A grunt, one that usually means he doesn’t want to have to repeat himself. Jason can usually interpret these things, more often than not. He’s spent years with Batman, the man who would grunt and huff rather than actually communicate like a functioning human. But Jason is far too tired and worried about Slade to play the guessing game. “Use your words or you're not getting an answer, pal.” Another grunt, because apparently Slade has enough energy to be a stubborn bastard about the stupidest shit.
Slade grabs Jason’s hand and places it on his hip before gesturing with his own shaky hand to a wide tear revealing his undergarments. “Are the boxers okay? They’re… my favorite pair.” Slade seems genuinely distressed, and Jason has to fight through his shock and bewilderment to actually look at them. It’s those same peach boxers again, which sucks because those were Jason’s favorite too. There’s a quarter-sized hole from where the bullet shredded through the fabric, and the entire left side is stained with blood that had managed to escape before the wound healed over.
Trying to seem serious despite how badly he wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, Jason shakes his head solemnly. Slade got shot and taken down for the first time in forever, and he’s more worried about his underwear than anything else. “I hate to break it to you, big guy, but they’re definitely trash now.” Slade seems to deflate, and he honest-to-fucking-god pouts. In all the years Jason has lived, died, and lived again, he has never seen Slade pout. Just another thing that a drugged-up and delirious Slade will do, apparently. “Didn’t I get you like fifty of those? I’m pretty sure getting rid of one pair would be doing yourself a favor.”
Slade doesn’t take too kindly to those words, if the grunt and slight shake of his head mean anything. “You gave them to me.” Those five words, spoken as if they meant something more, make Jason turn away. ‘You gave them to me’ as if that’s a real reason, as if that fact made the idea of throwing them away unacceptable. The old man doesn’t seem to care about the lack of eye contact as he continues, “I don’t… I can’t throw them away. You gave them to me; you gave them to me, so I can’t.”
“Why does it matter if I did or not?” Jason knows that he’s setting himself up, that Slade isn’t even all the way there, but he can’t help but fish for answers he’s not even sure he wants. He wants to hear it. He needs to hear it. More than he needs air or water or food. God, he needs to hear it.
But Jason isn’t religious for a reason. God obviously doesn’t give a shit about what he wants or needs because Slade chooses that exact moment to jolt over onto his side, throw up, and then pass the fuck out. Jason has to, once again, sit with the consequences of his own actions and pretend like it doesn’t hurt like hell.
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The memories of the night before immediately find Slade when he wakes up from the drug-induced nap he took after getting shot. Usually that’s a good thing for him—remembering the night before that is. He likes to be able to recall every detail of his missions so he can make the appropriate next move. He likes to be able to remember the faces and noises Jason makes when Slade says something to intentionally offend him. He likes to remember what they were doing before, during, and after their nights together. His good memory has never failed him before.
Until today. Because how could he have embarrassed himself that badly ? Getting shot could be forgiven considering he was saving the kid, but saying embarrassing shit before puking and passing out? Slade might as well skip down and settle down in a place where Jason will never be able to find him.
Well, maybe he will. Jason is more than capable of tracking Slade down. It’s how they met in the first place. The Red Hood needed help from Deathstroke, and he hunted the mercenary halfway across the planet before Slade got fed up and tried to put a bullet in the younger man’s head. How they had managed to not only get through Hood’s mission but also all their subsequent team-ups is a mystery to Slade. One he doesn’t care to solve because, in the end, it doesn’t matter. Slade hasn’t been this happy in years.
The first thing Slade sees when he opens his eyes is the ceiling of Jason’s West End apartment. He can tell because there’s a bullet hole the exact size of the rounds fired from Jason’s favorite guns right above the bed. Jason had been dosed with fear toxin and attempted to put a bullet in Slade’s head when he leaned over him to wipe the sweat from the younger man’s forehead. Jason had felt bad and apologized, but Slade was more impressed by how he was able to shoot so well while so out of it.
The second thing that gives him a hint to his current location is the amount of sun coming in through the large windows, even though Gotham isn’t the sunniest place on the east coast. Jason only has one apartment with windows this big. Slade personally dislikes how much light shines onto the bed and subsequently into his face when he’s trying to sleep in the morning. Jason absolutely loves it; the warmth of the sun, however slight it might be, seems to give him more energy and puts a spring in his step.
Turning over in bed and sitting up takes a lot more than it should. As soon as Slade has moved to plant his feet on the floor, it feels like his head is being split open and his body is being weighed down. He knows this feeling. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time…
It feels like he has a cold.
Body aches, fatigue, a headache, a mild fever. For the first time in forever, Slade has been afflicted with a common cold. From getting shot with a bullet that was probably supposed to do much worse. From what he can remember (“ You gave them to me, you gave them to me, so I can’t” ) it took around thirty minutes, and then he was going down hard. Things didn’t work out for them because Slade was pulled out of trouble before they could even find out the results.
Fuck, it might have been a lot worse if Jason hadn’t been there to get the bullet out when he did. Another thing he owes the kid for. Speaking of the kid, where the fuck is he? He was the one to bring Slade back and change him out of his gear, but the other side of the bed is cold, Slade is cold, so he didn’t sleep here.
The bedroom is the same kind of organized chaos that is in all of Jason’s apartments. Homey and lived in but neat enough that you can tell that things are left that way intentionally. The only missing part is the owner of the apartment and all its secondhand contents. Slade starts hobbling towards the door on heavy legs, groaning as his head throbs. It’s the sort of pain that’s there but not overwhelming. It’s annoying more than anything, but at least Slade is fully coherent and able to think clearly.
The hall bathroom, kitchen, and entry are all vacant. Slade slowly makes his way into the living room, breathing out a sigh of relief at the sight of Jason lying on the couch, eyes focused on the clock on the wall. He doesn’t seem distressed, but something about his body language says he’s agitated or unsettled. He’s stretched across the cushions in dark jeans and one of his “Deathstroke Approved” orange sweaters. He’s dressed to be comfortable, but he doesn’t look relaxed in the slightest.
“Jason,” Slade says slowly from a few feet away from the couch, stepping closer with heavier footsteps than usual. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve got that look on your face again.” Jason sits up faster than Slade expected and stands up, urging the older man to sit on the couch before settling down next to him. He looks relieved, sure, but he doesn’t relax, and he won’t look at Slade.
“What’s wrong with me ? You’re the one who looks shit, old man.” Jason’s scowl doesn’t look even half as convincing as usual, and his sharp tone cuts Slade in a different way. He sounds like he’s hurt, and Slade knows exactly why. He knows what he said last night. He knows what he didn’t say.
“Thanks, brat, just what I want to hear first thing in the morning.” He tries to sound sarcastic, but Jason’s wince must mean he took his words seriously. Shit. “Hey, I‘m just messing with you. I would be worse off without your help, so really, thank you, Jason.” A nod and a shrug, not at all what Slade wants. He needs to say something else, something more , but those words don’t come easy. It’s easy to show his affection (because he can’t even stomach admitting what he feels for Jason is “love,” the fear of rejection is too much for a coward like him) through gifts. He would kill for Jason—he has before, not that they talk about that. He has and will continue to stain his hands red for the kid, but he can’t muster up the fucking courage to tell him that he wants more with him.
The living room is quiet and awkward as Slade sits back on the couch and Jason looks anywhere but at him. Eventually the younger man gets too antsy and stands up. “I’m gonna go get some stuff and swing by B’s…” He trails off, stepping back and away from the couch. Slade furrows his brows, frowning. “So soon? Can’t that wait?” Jason isn’t usually eager to spend too much time with his estranged family. He’s grown fond of the newest Robin and that Cain girl, but even then he’s still reluctant to go see them when they’re at his former home. He must really want to be away from Slade, and that just won’t do.
Jason, of course, does not take the hint and keeps moving towards the hallway, with much wider steps now. “It’s… important. Gotta get you that medicine, and B probably has it by now. Mystery antidote making is his and Timbit’s specialty after all, sooo…” Jason tries to sound normal, but he looks tense, like he’s itching to get out of here. “I’ll be back.”
Slade barely has time to come up with a response before Jason is leaving, and that isn’t right. This isn’t right. Slade just knows that if Jason leaves, then something is going to change, because Jason is probably convinced things won’t change. But that’s not true, and Slade can’t let him think that for a moment longer.
“It’s important because I care about you, Jason.” Slade doesn’t let how embarrassing saying that is stop him, and Jason clearly hears him well enough because he stops dead in his tracks and stares wide-eyed at Slade.
“Last night… You asked me why I didn’t want to throw the underwear away, why I don’t throw any of that stuff away. It’s because I care about you, and I like how your face lights up when you see all that junk in my apartment. And yeah, it is junk, but it’s junk that reminds me of you, and so I can’t get rid of it. I want all of it, and I want you , Jason.”
Without wasting too much time, Slade stands and steps closer to Jason, who has his eyes glued to the other man’s face. His fists are clenched, but he seems more surprised than angry or put off, so Slade keeps talking. If he stops now, he’ll lose his nerve and his one chance to get this right.
“I’m not good at… whatever this is. The talking part. But I… I love you, Jason. And I don’t want you to think that just because I can’t always say that I don’t always feel it. You’re so damn good, kid, better than a man like me deserves. But I want you anyway, no matter how much shit you fill my apartment with or how many times you throw off my missions because you’re a stubborn know-it-all.” Jason’s lips twitch up into a smile at that, and Slade takes that as an opening, slotting Jason against his chest.
“I don’t want sex to be the end-all, be-all. Sure, I like fucking you, but I don’t want that to be it. I want to make you happy.”
Jason has made Slade the happiest man he’s been in a long time. He was half convinced that he’d never get to feel this close to another person again. Life had gotten bland, and no amount of work really got his blood flowing. Red Hood making his life miserable for a month straight as they nearly got themselves killed during that first job turned out to be one of the best things to ever happen to Slade. And he would tell Jason that if it wouldn’t make the kid even more insufferable.
Maybe he would. The idiot’s shit-eating grin was worth the amount of headache it would cause Slade.
He loosens his hold on Jason enough to allow the younger man to look at him. Jason has that look on his face that Slade has never been able to decipher. He’s seen that face every time they’ve gone out on what could be considered dates, rooftop picnics, and late-night movie marathons. Like he’s trying to cherish every minute of the time they spend together.
Jason swallows and ducks his head, his face the reddest Slade has ever seen him blush. He knew Jason was embarrassed by sappy shit, but it never stops being charming. He squirms and avoids eye contact like a high school kid and not a grown man that has seen some of the worst horrors the world has to offer. It’s a shame that it’s mostly because of how little affection he receives, especially when he’s one of the best people Slade has ever met.
“Quit the sappy shit, you bastard; I get it.” The grumbled response is cute, but Slade needs a real answer. He steps back, tries not to let the way Jason stiffens sway him, and settles him with a firm look. “What was it you said last night? ‘ Use your words? ’ You gotta talk to me, kid.”
Jason’s eyes widen, and he tries to sputter out a response. Slade can’t help but laugh despite the way it makes the throbbing in his head more prominent. Jason doesn’t take too kindly to this because he shoves him back towards the couch and drags the older man down onto the cushions. “If I didn’t like your dick so much, I would beat your ass for laughing like that.” The younger says this as he lies on top of Slade, face buried in the man’s neck to hide his flushed face.
Words don’t come easier to either of them, but Slade can see that for the ‘I love you’ that it is. He just keeps smiling as he drapes an arm over Jason’s back. “Sure thing, brat.”
-------------
“So how did you even end up choosing fruit boxers in the first place?” Slade can’t help but ask as they both lie curled up in the bed. He had gotten too achy to keep lying on the couch, so they moved back to the bedroom with only a minimal amount of teasing from Jason. A text from Tim confirmed that the medicine still wasn’t ready, so Slade was going to have to ride out his ‘cold’ until it was.
Jason snorts a laugh as he sits with a book in his lap and Slade leaning onto his side. “I was originally looking to get you a bunch of ugly shirts and then take all your usual ones, but I figured I’d start small and work my way up to irritating you more.”
“ ‘Start small? ’I better not find all my shirts gone.”
“Mhm, sure.”
“Jason.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“ Jason. ”
“It’s nap time, old man.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”