Chapter Text
Dick pulls away, gasping for breath and pressing his face into the crook of Slade’s neck. “Happy now?”
Slade sighs, one calloused hand coming to hold Dick’s back. “You tell me.”
With a scoff, something inside Dick gives way. Its’s the same impulse that made him smash the lens, the same reckless defiance that’s been crawling under his skin for weeks. Again, he tilts his head up and closes the distance before he can think better of it.
Slade’s grip on him tightens, steadying or daring him, Dick can’t tell which.
His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing Dick’s jaw.
It feels almost kind.
It’s unbearable.
Dick pulls back first. “Don’t,” he mutters, and it comes out sharper than he intends.
Slade doesn’t move. His attention—his intensity, his focus—it’s crushing, impossible to block out, and Dick hates how little control he has over the effect it’s having.
His chest tightens, his hands curl into fists. A dizzy, unsteady tension settles in his stomach.
He wants to pull away, to shove Slade back and reclaim the space around him, but the moment he does, he feels a pang of panic, as if letting go was erasing the rare intensity and wonder of being truly seen.
Of being appreciated.
It’s disorienting, and frightening—two things the oh-so-fearless boy wonder hasn’t felt in so long.
The lines between irritation, longing, anger, and shock blur until he can’t distinguish one from the other. He can’t even think clearly enough to articulate it—-the words stay rough in his throat. “I—I—”
Slade leans in a fraction. “You?”
The certainty of Slade’s focus makes him crack, makes him feel raw, and exposed in a way that feels both unbearable and comforting.
He leans back slightly, letting Slade lower him on the bed.
He waits for Slade to move in but he doesn’t.
He waits again.
Am I not enough for him to want to lean in? To go on and kiss me again? Dick thinks bitterly.
But no. He’s not… he’s not looking at me like he’s disappointed… or waiting.
He’s looking at me like he’s asking for permission.
Dick sits up straighter as Slade kneels near the foot of the bed. His head spins. “Slade?”
But Slade’s looking down, his hands coming up to catch Dick’s right ankle. He leans closer, his beard barely grazing the skin there. “Can I?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out.
Slade’s fingers tighten over Dick’s ankle. Dick’s stomach tightens, his hands balling into fists, but he doesn’t pull away.
Slade leans closer, and a feather-light brush of his lips grazes the skin just above Dick’s knee. The touch is deliberate, and Dick’s breath hitches, his thoughts scattering, all full of anger, shame, and longing.
He’s overwhelmed by the intensity of Slade’s attention, by the way he seems to notice every small reaction of his body, including every flinch or sigh.
Slade’s touches are an assertion, like he’s claiming space, claiming him, and Dick’s stomach knots and twists under the weight of it.
He wants to speak, to push him away, but his voice fails. All he can do is sit there, caught between panic and a dizzying pull toward something that terrifies him as much as it entices him.
Finally, he leans back against the pillows, letting Slade continue.
Slade shifts slightly, his lips brushing a line along Dick’s inner thigh—not violent, not demanding, just there.
They’ve been… intimate before but never like this—it’s always been too rough and fast so they could get it over with before they remembered they weren’t the one the other person was looking for.
They had never done it with this much care.
Dick freezes, heart hammering, aware of every inch of skin under Slade’s hands. His breath catches, and he swallows hard, torn between panic and craving.
“Stay with me,” Slade murmurs, voice low and steady.
The words hit Dick harder than anything else could.
Stay, he said.
Not leave. Not anything else.
Just stay.
Dick’s chest tightens, stomach twisting with a dizzy, unsteady heat. He wants to pull away, wants to reclaim space, but it feels impossible.
Slade’s touch isn’t just physical; it’s claiming him in a way he never expected, one careful kiss at a time.
His mind races and stutters, desperate for clarity, but he only finds Slade—only finds the careful, deliberate pressure of hands that refuse to let him go.
It’s intoxicating.
Dick lets himself melt into it, letting Slade guide him without force, without expectation. Every small brush of lips, every lingering touch, every steady hand makes him feel seen in a way he hasn’t allowed himself in years.
And yet, even as he surrenders, part of him is afraid—afraid of how much he’s giving over, how much he’s letting himself feel.
Afraid of wanting more.
Slade notices the tremor in his hands and leans back slightly, whispering just above a murmur, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Dick breathes out.
Slade’s hands slide higher, tracing along Dick’s thighs with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes his muscles tighten and his heart pound.
Dick swallows hard, trying to keep control, but Slade’s gaze pins him in place—intense, dark, unyielding. It’s the kind of look that promises everything without saying a word.
“You’re tense,” Slade murmurs, lips brushing just shy of his knee, and the heat of it makes Dick shiver. “Relax for me.”
Dick’s hands clench the sheets. “I… I—”
“Shhh,” Slade interrupts softly, pressing a kiss to the side of his leg, deliberate and slow, drawing a shiver straight through him. His other hand moves to massage Dick’s hip, firm and purposeful, grounding him even as the touches set him alight. “You like that,” Slade murmurs, voice low, almost teasing, as his hand slides higher along the curve of Dick’s thigh.
The deliberate pressure sends a jolt straight through him.
Dick’s breath hitches. “I—” he starts, but words fail him. It was the same motion Slade had done to him not even minutes ago, but it feels too different now.
That was fast and raucous, just teasing.
It wasn’t this private, or intentional.
Slade kisses higher, his beard tickling the skin of Dick’s thigh. His other hand presses into Dick’s hip, grounding him even as the heat spreads through him, unrelenting.
Dick’s chest hammers, mind spinning. He so desperately wants to pull back, to reclaim control—but the intensity of being truly seen, truly wanted, pins him in place.
Bruce is but a faint echo in his mind.
A faint feeling of his promised disapproval haunts Dick, but why would that matter when Slade’s intensity feels so good?
When all of Slade’s attention is on him?
“You’re so wound up,” Slade says softly, almost a purr. “Relax. Let me take care of you. You made a big choice. You’re conflicted. But it was the right choice. And I want to show that to you.”
His hands find Dick’s hips again, steady, patient, reverent. The way Slade looks at him now isn’t hungry—it’s almost aching.
There’s something raw in his gaze, something that looks like longing, and it unsettles Dick more than anything else could.
“I used to do this for her,” Slade says after a moment, voice quieter now, distant. “When she was mad. When she needed to be reminded that someone was still… here for her.” He lets out a low chuckle, one that sounds more sad than amused.
Dick’s gut twists before he can stop it. The image of Slade’s hands on someone else—of him speaking this same way, touching this same way—hits him square in the chest
It's a reminder that nothing has ever been truly his.
Slade’s attention—or love, even—was hers first. From the way he talks about her, it's obvious it might still be hers now.
He hates how fast the jealousy comes, how instinctive it is.
Hates how badly he wants Slade’s attention to stay right here, on him.
Slade’s eye flicks up, and he must see something in Dick’s expression, because the faintest smile touches his lips. “Don’t do that,” he says softly. “Don’t compare yourself to her.”
“I’m not,” Dick lies, voice rough.
“Sure you are,” Slade murmurs. His thumb traces a slow, grounding circle against Dick’s hip. “You don’t like knowing how much she mattered to me.”
Dick’s throat tightens, the words catching before he can swallow them down. “I don’t like knowing you still care so much about her.”
Slade tilts his head, studying him with faint amusement. “Jealous, are we?”
“Of your tragic love story? Hardly.” Dick forces a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, you really know how to set the mood.”
That earns a quiet laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “You think I’m sentimental,” Slade says slowly. “But I’m just being honest. You don’t like that.”
“I don’t like being compared,” Dick snaps. “I mean, who does?”
“Then stop acting like you need to win.” Slade’s tone sharpens, though his hand doesn’t move. “She’s gone. You’re not.”
Dick scoffs. “You make it sound like I should thank you for the privilege.”
Slade’s smirk returns. “Maybe you should.”
“Right,” Dick mutters, rolling his eyes, but the jab doesn’t land. Slade’s still watching him—too closely, too calmly—and it’s infuriating how easily he can read him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Only because you’re so bad at pretending.” Slade leans in just enough for Dick to feel his breath, the faint trace of amusement gone from his voice. “You know, she used to lie better. But she never fought this hard to convince herself she didn’t care.”
“Now you really can’t help comparing, can you?”
“Maybe I like seeing you riled up.”
“You’re saying you like seeing me pissed off.” Dick scoffs and Slade grins.
“Same thing,” he says easily.
Dick gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “God, you’re insufferable.”
Slade’s hand tightens at his hip, a subtle reminder of who’s in control. “And yet, here you are.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
Dick narrows his eyes. “When you were with Adeline, did you mouth off at her like this?”
“No,” Slade chuckles darkly, “but she did let me put my mouth somewhere else.”
Dick scoffs. “You’re a dirty old man.”
“You say that like you don’t want to find out what she liked so much about it.”
“You really think you’re that good, huh?”
“I don’t think,” Slade says confidently, “I know.”
Dick looks at him with contempt, and Slade crawls up to the bed, pushing Dick back until he’s laying flat against the mattress. Slade leans over him, his arms bracketing Dick’s smaller body.
“Oh, yeah?” Dick asks coolly. He slips his ankle between Slade’s legs and flips them to the side—Slade’s back is now against the mattress and Dick’s legs are straddling his chest. Slade’s hands coax Dick up till he’s kneeling right over Slade’s mouth. “Why don’t you show me?”
Slade pushes his nose up, his hands gripping Dick’s ass. He tries to pull Dick down closer and lift his mouth upward, but Dick jerks back, moving his hips higher until they’re just out of reach. Slade tries again and Dick jerks away again.
“Brat.” Slade grumbles.
“Too slow,” Dick teases. “I’m just making you really work for—” He’s cut off as Slade surges up again quickly, tongue pressing against Dick’s hole. “Oh! Slade!”
The last word is a moan muttered through half-lidded eyes.
Slade lets out a chuckle, causing Dick’s thighs to vibrate. “Have I earned it yet?”
“No,” Dick lets out, breath gone as Slade swirls his tongue more firmly. Slade’s beard chafes against him, and Dick’s sure it’ll be irritated and red tomorrow but god, he hopes it leaves marks.
Slade pulls him down further, his tongue breaching even further. Now, Dick’s sure he’s just babbling, holding one hand over his mouth to silence himself.
“You’re horrible,” Dick hisses. It cuts off into a moan. “Horrible!”
—
The next morning, Dick wakes up alone.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the gray half-light pressing through the blinds and the ache in his chest that feels like a bruise he can’t find. His throat tastes like regret. The pillow still smells like Slade.
He blinks hard, trying to remember what time it is, but his mind just replays the night in broken flashes—hands, heat, silence, a moment that felt too careful to be real. Then the echo of his own voice, whispering stay.
He drags a hand down his face. “Idiot.”
The sheets are a mess. His body is sore. There’s a space beside him that’s too warm to have been empty for long. He should be relieved, but instead there’s this sinking weight in his stomach—that same old drop that always comes when he realizes he’s done something Bruce warned him about.
He pushes himself upright, feet hitting the floor. The shards of the broken camera glint near the door like tiny accusations. Every step crunches a little.
There’s noise in the kitchen.
He exhales.
He’s still here.
He exhales through his nose. He’s still here.
And the relief that runs through him makes him furious. Dick forces himself up.
Fuck.
He told himself it wouldn’t happen again.
He told Bruce it wouldn’t happen again.
And yet—here he is.
Dick stops in the doorway, every muscle tensed on instinct. Slade’s barefoot at the stove, shirtless, wearing low-slung black sweats like he owns the place. The picture of casual arrogance. He’s frying eggs, two mugs already filled, moving with the same easy confidence he has a fight.
Dick leans in the doorway and watches for a moment. “I didn’t expect you to still be here.”
“Sure you did,” Slade says easily. “You turned off the camera.”
Dick says nothing.
Slade moves easily, bare feet on tile, the picture of comfort. It feels wrong, and so domestic, and it burns.
“You weren’t supposed to stay.”
“You didn’t ask me to leave.”
Every word feels like a trap, and Dick keeps stepping into them. “You weren’t supposed to come back, anyway.”
Slade walks over, handing him a mug. “But you wanted me to. So, here I am.”
“I didn’t want you to! This—none of this—was supposed to happen!”
Slade leans against the counter, arms crossed, eye fixed on him. “And yet, here we are.”
Dick laughs, sharp and humorless. “You make it sound like fate.”
“Not fate,” Slade says quietly. “Just choices.”
Dick looks up at him, jaw tight. “Yeah, well, some choices are mistakes.”
“Do you really need a reminder of what we did last night?”
“No!” Dick exclaims, face red. “Stop! You’re making this harder than it has to be.”
Slade raises an eyebrow. “Harder for who? Wayne? Or you?”
Dick doesn’t answer.
Slade leans back against the counter and sips his coffee, watching him.
“I know how he operates,” he says. “He tells you to cut ties. Then he waits to see if you obey.” Dick swallows hard. “You think he hasn’t come given you a visit because he suddenly trusts you and forgives you?” Slade continues. “No. He’s watching to see how long it takes you to come crawling back.”
Dick turns away, running a hand through his hair. “I need to focus on this case,” he mutters. “I need clarity. Not you telling me what you think of Bruce.”
Slade steps closer, lowering his voice. “Like I said yesterday—Wayne wants control. I just want access.”
“Access,” Dick repeats, “To what?”
Slade’s grin is wolfish, but his eye gives away his hesitation. “Whatever you’ll give me.”
For one terrible second, Dick remembers the night before—the sound of Slade’s voice when it wasn’t mocking, the way he’d looked at him like he was something worth wanting.
He shuts it down fast.
“Pack your shit,” Dick says sharply. “I need you gone.”
He hates how Slade doesn’t even look surprised. “You sure about that?”
Dick doesn’t answer.
“I know you’re not throwing me out because of me,” Slade says quietly. “I know you’re doing it because he got in your head. Yesterday, you were so—”
Dick crosses his arms. “Don’t put this on Bruce.”
Slade scoffs. “Why not? This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what you think you’re supposed to want.”
Dick glares. “You don’t know that. You’re twisting this.”
“Am I?” Slade tilts his head, eye narrowing slightly. “You keep saying you don’t want me here, but you haven’t moved. You keep saying it was a mistake, but you can’t stop looking at me. You think that means I’ve got some kind of control over you?” He leans in, voice dropping low. “No, sweetheart, it means you don’t.”
Dick’s breath comes short. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong,” Slade says quietly. “Tell me you didn’t want it.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. Dick grips the edge of the counter so tightly his fingers ache. He wants to shout, to throw the mug, to hit something, but all he manages is, “You should go.”
Slade’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, searching, dissecting. Then, finally, he nods. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” Dick lies.
Slade’s expression doesn’t shift, but his tone softens just slightly. “You’re trying to convince yourself of that.”
“Get out,” Dick says again, his voice breaking halfway through. “Please.”
“If you really wanted me gone, you would’ve told me to get out last night.”
“That was different.”
“No. That would have been honest. This?” He steps in closer, drops his voice to a low murmur. “This is a performance. A last-ditch effort to make yourself feel clean again.”
Dick flinches like he’s been struck.
Slade watches him carefully. “You think throwing me out will make it better. But it doesn’t undo what happened. It won’t make him forgive you. And it sure as hell won’t make you forget.”
Dick turns away, jaw clenched. “Just go!”
“I will,” Slade promises, “When you stop lying.”
Dick stares at him. His breath comes heavy and his chest feels too tight.
Slade just watches him with cool interest.
“Fine,” Dick finally snaps. “Pack your shit.”
Slade nods once. “Alright.” He turns and walks toward his gear bag, kneels beside it and starts folding things slowly, methodically. Slade zips the bag closed and looks up at him. “I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Good,” Dick says. But it sounds weak, even to him.
The door shuts behind Slade with a quiet finality that echoes louder than it should.
For a long time, Dick doesn’t move. The air in the apartment feels wrong—too still, too cold. He tells himself it’s better this way. That he needs it to be this way.
Dick scrubs a palm over his face. You wanted him gone. You said it. You meant it.
Still, he doesn't know if he’s trying to remind himself or convince himself.
He wonders what Bruce would see if he walked in right now. A man trying to get his head straight? Or a failure too lost to crawl back to the light?
Too defiled?
Dick rubs a hand down his face, the motion automatic, like maybe if he presses hard enough he can erase last night from his skin. But it’s still there—the phantom touch, the way Slade had looked at him like something worth knowing, worth keeping.
And god, that’s the worst part—because for one second, in all that mess, he believed it.
He stands too fast, dizzy from the motion, heart pounding. The quiet is unbearable. Every sound—the hum of the fridge, the whisper of traffic outside—feels like it’s mocking him.
He grabs a shirt from the floor, pulls it over his head, and paces.
He tells himself this was a mistake. He tells himself he’s in control now. He tells himself he doesn’t need Slade.
But then he catches sight of the bed again. The sheets are tangled, the pillow still dented from where Slade’s head had been.
And the control he’s so desperate to reclaim slips right through his fingers.
He presses his palms against the wall, bowing his head. “You wanted him gone,” he mutters again, softer this time, as if repetition will make it true.
But the echo in his chest doesn’t sound like conviction.
It sounds like remorse.
—
For a while, Dick stands there, not moving, the apartment suddenly too big for him. All he can hear is the frantic beat of his own heart.
He forces himself to breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Slowly. Controlled, he tells himself.
You’ve done this before. You’ve watched people walk out before.
You’ve buried worse.
He turns to the counter. Two mugs. Two plates. The simple, domestic symmetry of it makes him feel sick. He grabs one mug, Slade’s, and moves to dump it out.
He blinks as he finally processes the faded design on it—Mr.
And of course, Dick’s own mug reads Mrs.
The laugh that comes out of him is hollow.
“Real funny,” he mutters, but his throat closes around the words.
The stupid, faded lettering is staring up at him like an accusation. Mrs.
It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except it does.
It feels like undeniable proof—obvious, domestic, intimate proof—that somewhere along the way, their dynamic twisted into something that looked too much like a relationship.
For a moment, Dick just stares. His chest tightens, something sharp and heavy pressing in behind his ribs. He wants to throw it, to smash it like the camera—but he can’t. The mug stays in his hand, trembling, the word burning into his palm like it’s been branded there.
He stares into the dark swirl of cold coffee at the bottom. His reflection stares back at him, distorted by the curve of ceramic, warped by the surface tension.
He should throw it out.
He should smash it—smash it like he smashed the camera, but he doesn’t.
He just holds it, thumb pressed against the word Mrs., tracing it like it’s a wound.
The heat’s long gone, but he can still imagine it—the warmth of Slade’s hand as he passed it to him that morning, the faint scrape of a calloused thumb against his knuckles.
It’s ridiculous.
Dick’s chest aches. He rubs a hand over his sternum like he can scrub the feeling away. “You wanted him gone,” he whispers again, like a mantra. “You wanted him gone.”
He sets his mug down and reaches for Slade’s.
Mr. stares back at him, unblinking. Still, it feels like it’s not a joke, not just a title.
It feels like a claim—a reminder that last night wasn’t just… careless.
It was deliberate. And in its quiet, domestic way, it mocks him.
Dick imagines them side by side: the mugs touching on the counter like bodies pressed together in silence, unspoken, impossible. Mr. and Mrs.
It’s ridiculous.
Laughable.
And yet he can’t stop imagining what it would look like.
He shakes his head, trying to banish it, but the image keeps coming: Slade in an apron that he’d never, ever admit to owning, chopping vegetables with a deliberate care, humming a song Dick doesn’t recognize.
Slade picking him up and putting him on the counter, pressing kisses to his lips and feeding him small bits of whatever Slade was cooking as Rose and Damian rolled their eyes and called them old saps.
They would dance together after dinner, content in each other's arms. At night, he’d have the same hands that were usually so rough and demanding, be so gentle and tender it would drive him crazy.
And somehow, impossibly, Dick wants it. Wants it so badly that it makes him ache.
Dick’s chest tightens as the fantasy continues, and he hates that it does. He hates how tempting it is.
The part of him that screams This isn’t real. This can’t be real is drowned out by the image of Slade, impossibly close, impossibly soft, impossibly attentive.
Finally, his eyes find the mugs again—sitting side by side like they belong together.
Mr. and Mrs.
And suddenly he hates that they’re touching.
He moves one—his—a few inches away, and sighs.
The distance between the mugs shouldn’t really mean anything, but it does.
It feels like it's the only thing he can control right now.