Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Slade isn't worried. He's not concerned, either, no matter what Billy would probably say if he were here. He just doesn't like being out of the loop, especially when it comes to what's his. Likes it even less when it's something dangerous.

Jason hasn't answered his phone. It went straight to voicemail the second time he called, after the news report came through of the massive floating fortress above Gotham eating itself and disappearing into nothingness. Sucked through a portal, the irritatingly shaky video feed seemed to show. Neither of the kid's friends have gotten hold of him, either, which isn't unusual, just frustrating. The Amazon isn't bad, but she doesn't speak directly to him much. She'd get in touch with him if anything truly catastrophic had happened, though, he assumes. If she were capable.

If he needs to go jumping through to other realms, he'd really like to know as soon as possible. He has an upcoming job he'll need to put off.

No new calls. No answer. No relevant updates on the articles about the disaster.

Damnit. The kid's supposed to be good enough to avoid this kind of shit.

He's a breath away from heading for his gear when he hears the door open. His head snaps around, senses focusing, shoulders drawing up as he waits for— The rasp of metal against the lock. The key. Jason.

Slade moves immediately, striding through the apartment towards the stupid kid. He doesn't even make it into the entry hall itself before the smell hits him, though; blood, distress, pain. Shit. The last two steps are more a run than a walk, hand closing on the door frame to whip around the corner just that bit faster.

The kid's on the floor, back to the closed door, curled in on himself. He's bloody, bruised, shivering faintly and breathing shallow and strained. It doesn't take half the senses Slade has to see that he’s been on the losing end of a fight. Helmet’s gone, holsters on his thighs are empty… There’s torn fabric at his chest, but it’s underneath the wrap of his arms.

It only takes a few strides to cross the last bit of distance, dropping to his knees and reaching out to brush the kid’s sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. “Kid? Hey, look at me.”

Reaction time’s slow — shock? — but the kid haltingly lifts his head, gaze skipping a bit till it finds him. By the expression, the wetness in his eyes isn’t from pain; not completely, anyway.

It takes a moment more, but recognition filters back. Then fresh tears are welling up, the kid gasping in a deeper breath that stutters in his chest. “Slade?” he breathes, desperate in all the wrong ways.

“I’m here, kid,” he murmurs, spreading his hand out to cup the side of the kid’s face that isn’t covered in a darkening patchwork of bruises. The kid leans into the touch, then freezes in place with a sharp whine that slices right into Slade’s ears.

The kid’s a damned Bat; he knows how to take a hit. Slade knows more than most about basic first aid, but anything that can take down Jason is more than likely past his abilities. At least, if it needs delicacy. He can set bones if he needs to, rig a splint, but he’d rather have someone trained do it if the option is there.

Closer, now, Slade diverts his attention to looking the kid over as he demands, “Injuries; talk to me.”

The harder tone seems to wake him up a bit. Jason takes a shallower breath, eyes pressing closed for a moment. “I— Broken right arm, and ribs; both sides, I think. Pretty—” A hard hitch of breath; Slade listens intently, but it doesn’t sound wet or obstructed. Probably just the pain from the ribs. “Pretty sure. Collarbone. Jaw. Leg was hard to walk on; think it’s just muscle.”

Yeah, that all matches up pretty well with what he can see. Arm held protectively against his chest, the bruising at his face, the difficulty breathing… Armor’s still on; must have been hit damn hard to cause damage like that through it. Presumably shattered the helmet too, not that that’s too unusual. Keeps his pa— the kid’s head in one piece, though, usually.

Blood’s pretty minimal, actually. Some from a split lip, and what Slade would bet is a cut on the inside of his mouth from whatever blow presumably cracked his jaw. (Doesn’t look disfigured enough to be fully broken, but it’s definitely starting to swell.) More from a scratch near his temple; all looks much more intense than it is, like any head wound. Otherwise, it all just looks like blunt force.

Could be fallout from whatever happened to that floating fortress. A fall, or collapse of a building.

Slade doesn’t believe that even for the moment he considers it.

“Look me in the eye, kid,” he orders, tilting the kid’s head up and ignoring the low, pained sound that comes between the bloody teeth. Pupils look okay, seem to be tracking alright. Probably no concussion, but he’d rather have someone else check.

Why the hell didn’t the kid go to whatever doctor he’s got in town? Why’s he here? And why the hell didn’t the damned idiot call him?

“You want to tell me what happened?” he prompts. “Or why those teammates of yours didn’t drag you to a hospital instead of here?”

The second the words come out, Slade knows exactly why.

Jason inhales sharply enough it has to hurt. His expression all but caves in on itself, and there’s the kind of raw grief on his face that only comes from one or two things. It’s no real surprise to hear the, “They’re gone,” the kid eventually manages to whisper. “They… I couldn’t…”

Alright then. Dealing with that can come after making sure the kid doesn’t go into shock sitting on their floor.

“Give me the address for your doctor; you can tell me what happened on the way.”

The kid shies back an inch; as far as the door at his back will allow. "No. No, I— I can't."

Slade doesn't at all like what that refusal hints at. "Nothing's gonna happen, kid. You need a doctor; give me the address."

If Jason was in any condition to be glaring at him, Slade imagines he would be. As it is, the best the kid manages is a weak flash of teeth, quickly falling apart under a fresh grimace of pain. "No."

Stubborn little bastard. "Fine."

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, swipes through the numbers and hits what he wants, sandwiching it between ear and shoulder as it starts to ring. Then he shifts to the side, carefully sliding his arms under the kid's back and knees.

"Brace," he orders, and waits only long enough to see the kid try before he lifts. There's not much he can do but make it quick.

His call is answered three rings later, halfway to the bedroom.

"I need a house call," he says, immediately.

There's a heavy sigh through the receiver. "Why would I do that?" Dr. Villain asks, voice mildly irritated but fully awake, at least.

"Because I'll pay you very well for it." The kid whines, sharp and distressed, as Slade moves to set him down on the bed. "Easy, kid," he murmurs, taking Jason's hand in his and squeezing gently, to offer permission for the kid to clutch as hard as he needs to. "It's in Gotham; I'll send you the address."

There's a moment of pause, but Slade knows Arthur well enough to know that he'll agree. Of course he will; he's as mercenary as Slade is, at heart, and he never passes up the opportunity to learn things he might be able to use later on. Like, for example, who it is that Slade would pay him to treat.

"I'll catch a plane," comes the expected answer. "Tell me about the injuries."

"Broken limb and ribs. Possible other fractures. I'll pay for expediency, Villain. Whatever it costs you, I'll reimburse you."

"Hm. I'll be there within a couple hours, then. You know, I'm not an X-ray machine, Slade. Your mysterious patient will need a hospital to get initial scans."

Jason's eyes are closed, expression tense with pain. Slade still doesn't like the idea of forcing the kid out somewhere public. He could, but the kid's refusal was for a reason. Safety is a moot point with Slade there, but the kid knows that. That makes it not about safety, which means the reason is an unknown, and he doubts the kid’s going to stop and explain it to him. He doesn't agree, but he understands. The kid will hate having his wishes overridden, even if it's for his own damn good.

"You telling me you don't have anything portable that would work?" It's not a growl. Not quite.

Another pause. "It's not ideal, but I have something I can bring. Send me the address; I'll give you an ETA when I have one. Try not to kill him before I get there."

Villain hangs up on him, but that's not surprising. Once he's made up his mind, Arthur's usually reliable. Irritating, but reliable. He'll take efficiency over bedside manner any day.

He sends the address, then sets his phone aside and turns his attention to Jason. There isn't all that much he can do, but he may as well start what he can. Strip the armor off, give the kid a couple painkillers, ice at least the jaw… He isn't going to just sit here like some idiot.

Slade leans down, far enough to press a gentle kiss to the kid's forehead and then further, to lightly scent the uninjured side of his throat. It might be sour with stress, and pain, but the kid’s scent still settles him just a bit. He’s alive, at least. Everything else he can fix.

"I'll be right back, kid. I’ve got you."

The hand around his squeezes tight for a moment. "I know," the kid breathes, head tilting into his in turn.

Slade stays there a couple seconds longer than he should, breathing in Jason's scent and taking the moment to relax just a bit. Then he inhales and straightens, carefully easing his hand free so he can get up and head for the med kit in the bathroom. He never used to have one, but there have been a lot of changes since the kid became more of a fixture in his safehouses. He may rarely need more than a shower and a temporary bandage, but the kid doesn't heal like he does.

He'll be fine.

Whoever did this to him, on the other hand… They won't be. Slade's going to make sure of that, too.

Broken right arm. Five broken or cracked ribs; three on the left, two on the right. Strained muscle at the left hip and thigh. Fractured collarbone on the right side, and fractured jaw at the left. Heavy bruising, on top of all of it. No concussion, or internal damage beyond the bruising. Nothing potentially lethal, only crippling. The kind of damage to leave someone bound to a bed for months, but ultimately left to limp away.

Slade knows a very specific person with that MO. Someone that likes to hit instead of cut, or shoot. Someone that draws his arbitrary line at death, and not an inch before. Just the thought makes him furious.

Villain puts Jason under before he does anything, which Slade hates every moment of, but grudgingly acknowledges as a good idea. The snap of setting the arm is louder to him than any normal human, but he can't imagine the kid could have had any reaction but screaming and thrashing, and the damage to the ribs would have made that dangerous. He could have hurt himself, if he was conscious. The logic of it doesn't make the sight any more pleasant, the kid pale and bruised, completely still apart from the stuttering, shallow pattern of his breathing.

The kid's cute when he's sleeping; but this sure as hell isn't that. It's a bit too similar to other memories Slade has, though the backdrop of his own bed and home leaves him a lot less on edge than a hospital.

Villain leaves them with a couple prescriptions, and instructions for care over the course of the next couple months. At minimum, he stresses, with a sharp glance but also the look of a man who knows that it's not a warning likely to be followed. He also leaves a few million richer. (Nothing, as far as Slade's concerned; Villain's greedy, but he knows better than to overcharge, and Slade has the money to spare. What does he care what it costs?)

Jason stays unconscious for the rest of the night, and Slade watches over him and lets his theories work themselves out.

There are easy conclusions to draw. Only a personal connection could dissuade Jason from using the connections he has in Gotham, for one.

The rage builds, and he lets it.

The kid stirs awake at five twenty-three AM, just as the sun is starting to cast a bit of light through the windows. Slade's let himself lie down on the bed beside the kid, dozing in and out of consciousness, but only until the first off-pattern hitch of breath brings him sharply back up.

His eye snaps open, hearing focusing as he stills, listening, and—

The kid's second breath is shallower, but hitches again, and is exhaled with a low groan. Maybe not fully conscious, but aware enough to feel. It can’t be long till he wakes.

Slade levers himself up, glancing to the bedside table, where the glass of water and pills he set out are still waiting. He'll need those, for certain. Jason's never liked painkillers, but he'll take them this time, even if Slade has to get them in damned needles and inject them himself.

The kid takes another few minutes to come all the way up, till his eyes finally blink open, hazed and slow, but more or less aware. When Slade strokes his fingers down the clear side of his face, he turns slightly into it, breathing out against his hand slower and steadier than the last breaths have been.

"Hey, kid," Slade greets, tamping down all the anger that's been gathering itself behind his sternum to make sure his voice and scent stay calm. "You with me?"

Jason blinks a few more times, gaze wandering upwards till it finally settles on his face. "Slade?"

"I'm here, kid."

There's a tiny shift of the kid's head that's probably supposed to be a nod. "Good," comes the answer, barely even loud enough for Slade's enhanced senses to hear. “Good.”

Slade keeps up the gentle pass of his knuckles down the side of the kid’s face, till his eyes clear a bit, and his brow starts to furrow. Then he says, “Up for some water?”

The answer’s yes, of course. Slade helps him sit up a bit, pretending the kid’s whimper doesn’t make fury flash under his skin and coil at his fingertips. Jason takes the pills without complaint, which tells him more about how the kid’s feeling than anything else, and bit by bit he lets him drain the glass. It’s not cold anymore, but it’s cool enough to be palatable. He certainly doesn’t complain, though he grumbles a bit about not being allowed to hold the glass. His working hand barely lifts, though, so Slade ignores the complaints.

When he’s done, it’s easiest to shift them both back against the headboard instead of down to the bed, his arm around the kid’s shoulders, the kid’s head against his chest. He thinks, judging by how the kid’s head tilts back to all but press his nose into his throat, his scent is probably more comforting than anything else about the situation. It’s been a long time since Slade had anyone seek comfort like that from him, but he’s not unfamiliar with it.

Any omega feeling lost, or rejected, tends to seek out the scent and presence of their pack. Or ma— partners.

That would make all too much sense, if a member of his ‘pack’ had just rejected him. Coming off a sedative, going under the effects of heavy duty painkillers, in pain and grieving for friends, of course an unmoored omega would want to surround themselves with the things that promise safety. First and foremost, their alpha.

Slade’s never believed any of the excuses his orientation uses for why they ‘can’t help themselves,’ or anything similar. The hindbrain, and instinct, are certainly real things, and they can be powerful, but no one is a slave to them if they’re willing to just put in some effort fighting it. However, it’s absolutely true that the more someone’s hurt, and the more desperate they become, the more they lose the will to fight base instinct.

Jason would never do this in a normal night. Never has. If Slade has anything to say about it, he’ll never feel the need to again.

As he relaxes, Slade bides his time. Then, when he’s breathing slow and mostly steady again, expression smoothed out and painkillers clearly working, he asks, “Who was it, kid?”

If he couldn’t hear the upwards tick of the kid’s heartbeat, the silence might make him think he’d waited too long. He knows better, though.

He strokes the top couple inches of the kid’s damaged arm, before the fabric of the sling covers it, and waits. It’s no different than waiting for a target to come through his crosshairs.

Finally the kid shifts, face tilting back down towards his chest. A relatively deep breath, and the admission comes. “Bruce.”

Yeah, the Bat. He thought so.

He chews that over for a few moments, letting the silence be. Must be related to the kid’s recent shot at Penguin; hypocrite could never stand any of his little ‘pack’ killing in his city. Apparently shaking off that leash gets you a beating worse than most of his psychopaths go home with.

(Slade’s well aware his parenting skills leave a lot to be desired — Billy would probably remind him that that’s putting it politely — but this is different. Very different.)

“Slade?” the kid says, uninjured hand coming to his closer thigh and gripping tight. Even through the layer of denim he’s still wearing, the pressure aches a bit. Even hurt, Jason’s strong.

He tilts his head far enough to clear the blind spot of his eye, though the only thing he can see from this angle is the top of the kid’s head. “Yeah?”

Another breath, shoulders tensing just enough under his arm to make it clear the kid’s bracing for something. “Promise me you won’t kill him.”

Hn.

It’s probably better if he doesn’t. The Bats are vengeful little bastards, and there’s quite a collection of them. Not that the thought isn’t satisfying, but it’s ultimately unrealistic. Too many complications, too many consequences. Jason clearly doesn’t want him to, anyway, and there’s no point making a kill that won’t net him any reward.

“Slade—”

“I won’t, kid,” he interrupts, very carefully squeezing the kid’s shoulder. “No contracts on your family, I remember.”

Any other day, Jason would probably argue with him about the fact that he didn’t really answer. That not taking a contract isn’t the same as not killing, and so on. They’ve had that debate about the semantics of it all before. But today Jason only hesitates and then sighs, easing back against his chest.

“Alright.”

The capitulation isn't as satisfying as he wishes it was.

“Could you bring my laptop in here?” Jason asks, a few moments later.

Slade grunts to show exactly what he thinks of the idea of bringing the kid the ability to work. “Only if all you want to do on it is set up something to watch.”

The kid snorts, and then immediately gasps and whines, whole body juddering against his side. Slade grits his teeth and tries to pretend that holding the kid a little tighter is going to do anything to help him. The second whine, softer but pleading, gets him to lift his other hand to cup the kid’s head, cradling it against his shoulder and burying his nose in the black hair.

“Easy, kid. Easy…”

It takes a minute for the kid to stabilize, his breathing finally evening out and the fresh wave of distress in his scent smoothing back to something a little calmer. It lingers in the air, though, and Slade commits that scent to memory, storing it back with all the other things he's going to make sure he remembers. Every tear, every whimper, every injury, cataloged in his head.

Letting the kid work is not his favorite idea, but Slade also knows that the kid does about as well with enforced inactivity as he does. If he doesn't give Jason something to do, the idiot will hurt himself trying to fix the inevitable restlessness. Better something relatively harmless than whatever he might resort to.

"I'll get the laptop." And more water, he silently adds to himself. Maybe soup, too. Kid's on a mainly liquid diet till his jaw is healed, if he has any appetite now, may as well start him on it. "If I come back and find you anywhere else but right here, kid, I’m knocking you back out for at least a week, got that?”

The kid nods, only a tiny motion, but then the grip of Slade’s hand wouldn’t let him do much more than that. “Emergencies only,” is just about as much agreement as Slade expected to get.

He’s as careful as he can be about extracting his arm from behind the kid, lingering a moment to make sure he’s alright before he heads for the living room. Out of sight of the kid, he lets his hands curl to fists. Breathes out the calm and lets the rage have him for a few moments, filling his head with blood and retribution.

No, he won’t kill the Bat. But Jason is his, and no one gets away with damaging what belongs to him. Not without paying for it, anyway.

Jason’s owed retribution, and if he won’t take it himself, Slade will do it for him.

He exhales, locking it all away again, back behind his ribcage where it can fester till he needs it. No need to tip Jason off so soon, and he can't do anything immediately, regardless; for now, the kid needs him. He's not going to leave him behind.

He can plan, though. And when the kid's healed enough to manage on his own?

Then he can strike.

Tracking the Bat is easy enough. He knows about the manor, knows most of his regular paths through Gotham after quite a bit of observation. The Bat's always been a formidable opponent, so he learned what he could over the years, and when Red Hood fell into a bed with him he figured there was a not insignificant chance the Bat might come roaring after him like some offended patriarch. Look for revenge for his son's lost innocence, or some other nonsense. He never did, but Slade had already put the time in to get a surveillance of his own up and running, so he figured he might as well use it.

Of course, now he has access to the Red Hood's as well, and Jason's put a lot more time into this city than he has. Between the two, it's not difficult to make a rough estimate of the times the Bat is out, where he goes, and so on.

Ambushing the Bat on his patrol route, however, is only giving the man advantages he doesn't have to. Why waste the extra effort to fight him when he's in full gear, surrounded by streets and buildings to escape into, when he already knows where his supposed safe haven is? It's isolated, and if Slade does it right, the Bat won't see him coming. Keep him out of the cave, out of his armor, and all he has to deal with are whatever weapons are stashed around the house itself. Those are good odds, as far as he's concerned.

He has the time to plan, and observe. Getting cameras inside Wayne manor itself is too much to risk — he'd rather go in a bit blind than tip his hand — but he can study the security, figure out his way in, at least. Take his time and watch for when the others of the pack aren't around. He thought that might be a problem, actually, but the Bat's remarkably isolated at the moment. As it stands, it would actually be surprising to run into one of the brats. Certainly makes his job easier.

Jason heals slowly. Has intermittent nightmares worse than any that Slade remembers disrupting his sleep before. Confesses, after a few days, that his science experiment and Amazon friends went into the portal to save Gotham; he has no idea where they are or if they're still alive. The Bat came at him in the middle of it, and immediately afterwards, with no regard for the potentially lethal situation of the fortress collapsing on Gotham, nor for his supposed son's loss in the aftermath. No, all that mattered was his 'betrayal.'

Despite all the fuss, the Penguin isn't even dead, but Slade has every intention of fixing that, too.

It’s two and a half weeks before Jason’s healed enough to mainly fend for himself, able to stand and move about the apartment by himself, slowly. It’s good enough for his purposes.

In the end, all it takes is letting the kid stay up as late as his habits want him to, then handing him an extra painkiller to take when he’s finally ready to sleep. When he’s sleeping deeply, steadier than nights before, Slade extracts himself from the bed and collects his gear.

He leaves a note on the bedside table with an excuse for his absence, just in case this takes longer than he thinks, or the kid wakes up, and heads out.

Across Gotham, leaving the car far down the road to make the approach to Wayne manor on foot, taking his time with the security as the last couple hours of real night pass. It’s quite a challenge, but not insurmountable. Similar to Jason’s systems, and he doesn’t have to fully break them, just disable or bypass enough to get him inside the house.

The butler’s home, of course, but he’s puttering around in a different part of the home than Slade heads for. Past the completely-secret entrance to his little cave, and up a flight of stairs to the master bedroom. No occupant yet; the sky is just starting to lighten outside the heavy fall of the curtains, so it’ll be a bit yet.

He settles in to wait.

The Bat’s not as silent when he thinks he’s safe. His footsteps are heavier, the opening of the door audible. He doesn’t seem to notice anything till he’s halfway to the bed, and then it’s hard to say whether it’s scent, or just some innate sense of being watched that makes him stiffen.

Slade closes the door he was hidden behind with a push of his palm, and flicks the switch for the lights as the Bat whirls.

“Deathstroke,” he snarls, hands drawing to fists and his feet shifting to a better stance. No attempt to defend his identity; good. He’s not interested in games.

“Batman.” Slade straightens off the wall, stepping to the side to block the door. There must be other ways out, but if he forces the Bat to leap through a window, all the better. “You and I have business.”

“Whatever contract you took—”

“I don’t take contracts on Bats,” he interrupts, and it’s pettily satisfying to see how much the Bat hates that. “I’m collecting a debt, Wayne. Consider me a proxy.”

“For who?”

Somehow, he must not know. Well, that’s the good option, anyway. Either the Bat doesn’t know that Jason has been seeing him, doesn’t understand that it’s anything beyond a few one night stands, or the bastard is so delusional it never crossed his mind that Slade might take issue with his partn— his Bat being hurt. Whichever one it is, it only enforces his opinion that the Bat shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Jason. Not now, or ever. Either he doesn’t care, or he doesn’t understand.

“One of your birds showed up at my door,” he starts, watching the Bat’s face as he continues. “Lost his team to a portal in the middle of the city, right before you tried to see how many bones you could break without crossing your inane line in the sand.”

The flicker of realization is a bit delayed, but it finally comes. “Jason would never ask for this.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” The kid would never ask. But he shouldn’t have to.

He flexes his hands, loosening his grip on the fury he’s been holding onto. Not enough to make him stupid — the Bat’s too good an opponent to fight angry — but enough to fuel the baring of his teeth behind the mask. Enough to let it leak into his voice, and give the Bat just one hint of how furious he is.

“But do you think that’s because he’s already learned from you that no matter how badly he’s been hurt, no one will fight for him?” He snarls, and doesn’t care whether it’s his words or that threat that makes the Bat tense. “Or is it because you’ve taught him that you only hit him because he deserves it?”

The Bat flinches.

Slade goes for his throat.

Chapter Text

The trail of blood he leaves is probably as much the Bat's as his, dripping down from the tears in his suit and his knuckles alike. Off his jaw, too, thanks to the cut on the inside of his mouth that’s yet to heal. He strips the hood of the suit off and lets the blood fall instead of swallowing, takes a sharp satisfaction in leaving his presence and scent stained into the expensive carpets and the marble flooring. He hopes they have a hard time getting it out. He hopes the Bat remembers this for a long time.

At the door, the butler waits. Shotgun in hand, lifted but not quite aimed at him, mouth and eyes cast in the same hard expression.

Slade eyes the shotgun, and how he's holding it. He might be older, but his grip's confident and accurate; clearly the master's hatred of guns doesn't extend to this little chess piece any more than it extends to Jason. It could do some damage. The Bat fought well, and he's relatively badly injured; his reaction times might not be good enough right now to avoid the blast. Thanks to the Bat’s tech, the suit's not working, and he'd rather not have to pick out a bunch of shrapnel from his chest before it seals itself in. Rather not kill the old man, either; Jason usually speaks fondly of him.

"I take it that the fight is concluded?" the butler asks, only the slightest waver to his voice. Concern, not fear.

He doesn't answer, circling closer through the entryway, but keeping his distance. If Jason cares for the old man, maybe it's mutual. Maybe he'll understand why Slade’s done what he has.

The butler's finger shifts on the trigger, lifts it the last inch to be properly aimed. "Not another step, please."

Slade stops, though more so he can look the old man in the eye, rather than any care for the shotgun. "Your red bird showed up at my door a couple weeks ago," he starts, and sees the raw worry that flickers through the old man's eyes. "Fractured collarbone and jaw. Broken ribs. Broken arm. Apparently, he had a big fight with daddy Bats."

By the way the old man recoils a bit, barrel of the gun dropping an inch, he didn't know. Or at least didn't know how bad it was. Good.

"This was a warning." Slade flashes his teeth, but keeps his voice cold. "If he lays a hand on what's mine again, I'll finish it. Make sure he understands that."

The butler studies him for a few more moments, then seems to make a decision. "Oh, there will certainly be a conversation," he says, as he lowers the shotgun. Slade's only taken his first step towards the door when he asks, "Am I to understand that Master Jason is 'yours,' then?"

Slade pauses again, reevaluating the steel in the old man's eyes. "Yes. He is."

"I see. Does he know that?"

He can feel the tightening in his expression, but the anger that starts to light at the denial of his claim only has time to begin to stir before the old man speaks again.

"I will make sure that my ward understands that he is not to repeat his behavior. However, in turn, I wish you to understand something as well, Mr. Wilson." The grip on the shotgun shifts enough to be threatening once more. "That boy is as much my grandson as any child will ever be, and if you harm him in any way, know that my retribution will be just as certain as your own. I may not be enhanced, Mr. Wilson, but I am not without experience when it comes to hunting." One eyebrow arches, thin and refined over the steel of the old man's eyes. "Do we have an understanding?"

Hm. Not what he was expecting. He'll have to look into the butler when he has a chance; he’s never in the field with the others, so he’d just never bothered. Now, though, he thinks that he might have missed something important in the history. Alfred Pennyworth, butler to the Wayne family and acting guardian to the young, orphaned Bruce Wayne when his parents were killed. And…? What, before that?

"I'm not going to hurt the kid," he says, instincts refusing to let him look away from what they've decided is the relevant threat in the area. He doesn’t get much scent from the old man, but the Bat did break his nose too so that’s not surprising. All he’s really getting right now is blood.

“Then we will never need to continue this conversation.” The butler nods pointedly towards the door. “Have a good night, Mr. Wilson.”

Slade eyes him a moment before before he echoes the nod and heads for the door.

He’s pushed one side of it half open before the butler suddenly says, “Oh, I have some first edition books that Master Jason collected as a boy. Would you have Randy send me your current address so I can forward them to him?” Slade’s mind works exactly fast enough to make the connection just as Pennyworth adds, “Wintergreen, that is.”

For once, Slade feels slow. His eye narrows as his mind works, trying to piece together… How would they possibly…?

“He has my number.” Pennyworth shifts the shotgun to one hand, held safely vertical. “Pass my well wishes on to Master Jason.”

Hm. Interesting.

“I will.”

There are no further comments before he gets through the door, leaving it open behind him as he descends the few initial steps and then turns towards passage to the underground garage. The car he left on the road was a stolen one anyway, and with how his thigh burns with every step — probably not broken, but unpleasant to walk on — he’s not inclined to walk the whole way down the road.

Wayne’s got plenty of cars; he can afford to lose one.

It’s a beauty. New, impeccably clean, smooth lines and powerful engine. Roars when he takes it out of the garage, and down the driveway. The gate’s open, so he doesn’t bother to slow.

He’s tempted to slam it into a wall somewhere, once he’s tearing through the streets of Gotham proper, but the pain that still flashes through him with every bump makes him think better of it. He’s not inclined to try diving out of the car while he’s in this kind of shape. He takes it into lower Gotham instead, leaves the keys on the seat and the doors unlocked; whatever lowlife finds it can have it, as far as he’s concerned. At least for as long as it takes for some Bat to follow whatever tracker is in it and reclaim it.

From there, it’s a simple matter of hotwiring the next car he comes across, and taking that back across Gotham to the actual safehouse. Or, close enough, anyway. Around the back, into the garage beneath the building so that people are less likely to see him. Gothamites are smart enough not to make a fuss about someone in costume, anyway. Not like Metropolis, that’s for sure.

It’s close to eight AM, anyway. A lot of the city is up and running, but it’s slightly too early for the nine-to-five crowd to be out, and too late for the ones due to work at eight or earlier. No one joins him in the elevator up, and no one’s in the hall that leads to the apartment.

The smell of coffee greets him when he walks in the door. Kid’s up.

Probably couldn’t get back to sleep, but was still drowsy from the extra painkiller Slade used to put him out. Normally the kid prefers tea in the mornings, not anything stronger. He closes his eye for a moment and listens, as he shuts the door. Kid’s in the kitchen. Making breakfast, if he had to guess. Good.

“Slade?” he hears Jason call, as he heads for the bathroom. He flips the water of the shower on, starts to strip out of the weaponry and the suit.

He leaves it all in a pile on the floor, stepping under the spray and biting a hiss back between his teeth as the water sluices over partially-healed gashes. Some have come open again with the removal of the suit; damn Bat and his tech. Nothing that won’t heal, though, and he did what he set out to do.

“Slade?!”

The grunt he answers with probably can’t be heard under the water. He braces a hand on the wall of the shower, ducking his head under the water and letting it stream down his back. He breathes out, lets the world dim for just a second. His thigh aches, among other things. Ribs, arm, shoulder… Bat packs a punch, that’s for sure. But he’s already seen the evidence of that.

“Jesus.”

He opens his eye, tilting his head to look past the water to where Jason’s standing in the doorway. His eyes are wide, even past the lingering bruising. Slade watches him look from the crumpled, bloody suit to where he’s standing under the water, then again.

He steps closer, left leg still hitching a bit as he steps down. The arm that isn’t in the sling braces against the counter to keep him stable as he carefully shifts around the heap of the suit. Slade feels that low fury bleed back into his stomach, but all he has to do to turn it into vicious satisfaction is remember the Bat lying on the floor under him, bleeding and broken. He's paid back all the injuries the bastard dealt out; he's been warned.

The kid’s gaze jumps across his skin. Then it settles on his face. “What did you do?”

Slade examines the kid's face. Anger, desperation, fear, it's all easy to see mixed up in those expressive eyes; the kid's got his heart on his sleeve. "Paid the Bat a visit," he answers, deciding on truth. He'll learn soon enough, anyway.

The leg almost buckles under him as Jason steps forward, but he steadies without needing help. "Slade, tell me you didn't—"

Kid can't seem to finish the sentence, but he doesn't need him to.

"Relax, kid. He's alive." He shifts enough to get his head out from under the spray and look down at everything else, deciding whether more than a rinse is a good idea. Soap will sting like a bitch; might as well wait for the cuts to heal first, take a real shower in the morning. There's not much grime that hasn't washed away anyway; suit took most of it. He can wash that later too. “Promised you, didn’t I?”

Jason doesn’t look entirely convinced by that. "What did you do?"

Slade flicks off the water and straightens, ignoring the pull of whatever ribs are damaged as he takes a deep breath, combing his hair back along his scalp with the arm the Bat didn't do his best to dislocate and break. Fracture there, definitely. Been a while since any normal human managed to do real, lasting damage to him. Particularly without a gun.

He steps out of the shower, letting the bath mat beneath his feet take the pink-tinged water trickling down. He’ll replace it. Jason just looks at him, gaze flicking between the already healing bruises and the places blood is still beading.

He follows the gaze to a particularly nasty slice along his ribs, trickling blood down his side and bruised dark around its edges by the subsequent, repeated blows aimed at that point. That would be the damaged ribs, too, most likely. Bat certainly knows how to target weak points, whatever they might be. That’s fine; so does Slade.

“Fought him,” he answers, lifting his head to look Jason in the eyes. “Beat him.”

Jason’s chin lifts just a bit, worry still clear in his voice. “And?”

Slade lifts his hand so he can reach out, tracing the healing bruises along the side of Jason’s face. Sickly yellow now, mostly faded. “Hurt him. He’ll be down a couple months, if he’s smart. Just the same as you.”

Under the brush of his knuckles, Jason swallows. “Why?”

There’s a rumbling growl building in his throat, and he lets it out. Possessive, dark, urged on by the pain and the scent of blood and the victory. The kid shudders. “Because you’re mine, kid.”

He can hear the kid’s heart pounding, see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows again, more thickly. Stands his ground, though, and there’s a note of challenge in his voice when he says, “Yours? Is that what I am?”

Slade steps closer, sliding his fingers through the kid’s hair and leaning down towards him. There’s an urge there, to touch, to scent, to dig his teeth in, but he restrains it as tightly as he restrained all that anger that his mat— Jason’s injuries first woke in him. He holds the kid’s gaze, forces his touch to stay gentle, forces himself to keep enough distance between them to give the kid room to breathe, even if he doesn’t want to.

Yes, he wants to say. Yes, the kid is his, but it’s not that simple. It’s all been… easy, with Jason, but never simple. (Simple has always bored him, anyway. Who would want a mate that never challenged, or argued, or fought back? That just rolled over and gave anything he asked for, without desires of their own?)

He lifts his other hand, ignores the flash of pain that it causes up through his shoulder and collarbone so he can wrap his fingers around the back of the kid’s neck, rub his thumb along the side in a small circle. He keeps it far from the scent gland behind and beneath the kid’s ear, and everything a touch like that would say.

“You’re living in my home, aren’t you?”

Jason’s head is tilted back. He inhales a little shakily, shoulders tense. “And what does that mean?”

It means his. His Bat, his omega, his. It means the kid fits just right under his arm while he sleeps, one of the only people he’s trusted to watch his back in a long time. It means the kid’s lethal, and competent, and has enough backbone to stand up to him. It means he’ll rip out the throat of anyone that tries to hurt the kid, no matter who they are, no matter what he has to do. To hell with the Bats; the kid is his pack, not theirs.

He breathes in, pushing all that aside. “What do you want it to mean?”

The kid’s eyes widen. “I— Are you asking if I…?” He trails off, staring. Slade doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial of what he’s implying, watching the way the expression on his face shifts rapidly from confusion, to disbelief, to something delicate and hopeful. “You want that?”

Slade knows the sound he makes is noncommittal, the hum even-toned and not any true answer.

But the kid knows him better than most, and the way his breath hitches and his whole body leans in towards the touches says plenty back, even though he says, “Me? Why would you—?”

He cuts the kid off with a lower rumble, leaning in to brush his nose along the kid’s jaw, get a lungful of his scent. Warm and sweet, familiar enough now to settle some of the post-fight restlessness still lingering in his bones. He takes another breath, dips his head a little further to nuzzle lightly at the kid’s throat. Slowly, with the kid’s scent heavy at the back of his throat and skin warm under his hand, the urge to bite and take and claim recedes. The tension in his back eases.

“Slade?”

He gives a low grunt. He’s comfortable; the kid’s safe, and here with him. What else matters?

Jason exhales heavily. Then the kid shifts forward and leans into him, head resting on his shoulder and arm wrapping around his back. “You’re an asshole,” he mutters, but he’s clinging, entire side lined up against his chest.

Slade makes another noncommittal sound, closing his eye and letting go of the kid’s neck to wrap it down over his shoulder instead, holding him close.

“You’re bleeding on me,” the kid says, eventually. A little muffled.

“It’ll stop.”

The kid snorts. Slade listens, but beyond what feels like a wince against his neck, it doesn’t seem to disrupt the kid’s breathing or anything. The ribs are doing well. “Yeah, alright. What else is there?”

Slade shrugs, careful not to disrupt the kid’s weight. “Nothing that won’t be gone by tomorrow. I’ll heal.”

Jason inhales like he’s going to say something, but just breathes it out in a sigh instead. A few more moments pass before the kid says, "Slade?"

He strokes his fingers through the black hair. "Yeah, kid?”

The fingers against his back contract, nails digging into his skin for a moment before they release. "I do want it to mean that."

Slade tilts his head down, but the kid isn't looking at him. Before he can say anything to express his approval, or just drag the kid into a kiss, Jason exhales and pulls away, taking a cautious step back and pushing his hands away. He watches the kid breathe in and then lift his chin, meeting his gaze with much clearer challenge than was there before.

"When you can ask," he says, firmly. "None of this communicating-by-silence bullshit. Ask, verbally, and then maybe."

A warm mix of amusement and fondness makes him smirk, regardless of the pain of healing bones. "Understood."

The kid's cheeks color slightly, but he nods. "Good." He shifts, glances towards the door. "There's food in the kitchen, if you want?"

The kid's meals are always good. Coffee sounds decent too, and then maybe he can convince the kid to spend a few hours relaxing with him, maybe watching something. Well, the kid can watch something; he'll watch the kid.

“Sure.”

He’s taken two steps towards the door when the kid says, “Hey!”

Slade turns back, eyebrow cocked. “Hm?”

Jason’s gaze flicks pointedly downwards. “You are not sitting your naked, wet, bleeding ass on the chairs. Put some pants on.”

Slade’s eyebrow rises a little further. He glances towards the suit on the floor — bloodier than he is, really — and then to the towels, on the opposite side of the bathroom, back next to the shower.

He grabs the hand towel from the rack by the door on his way out.

“Slade!”