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Grayson was late. Slade knew this, because he had broken into Dick’s apartment nearly an hour before and Slade made a point to be punctual, never too early. After half an hour had passed, Slade conceded that he’d simply have to wait, and he’d stripped down to his briefs and crawled into Dick’s bed, to doze while he waited.
His patience was rewarded when, eventually, he heard the window scrape against the wood frame. Slade opened his eye and watched as Dick, lit by the soft dawn glow, stumbled into the room, his scent thickened by sweat and sour with distress. Dick acknowledged Slade with a grunt but shed his uniform down to nothing before staggering into the bathroom without further ado.
Slade listened to the beating water as Dick showered; from where he lay he could smell foreign blood and Dick’s soap and above all, that rich, sweet floral scent that was just Dick.
The Bat must have kept him out late. That was the only explanation, given the hour and Dick’s evident exhaustion. Dick was an athlete, he was careful to avoid overexertion, especially given that his athletics generally took place in high rises. The only person who could drive Dick to nonverbal exhaustion outside of a wide-scale catastrophe was Batman, and if Slade’s place in Dick’s life were just a touch more fixed, maybe he would have confronted Bruce over it. As it was, Slade just tamped down the possessive irritation that licked up his core.
The water stopped with a squeak of the faucet, and after a few minutes Dick emerged in a towel. An ugly bruise painted his chest. Another discolored his right shoulder. When Dick dropped the towel to crawl into bed, Slade caught another, massive bruise that sprawled across the right side of Dick’s ass, up towards his hip. Dick gingerly settled down on his left side and kicked the blanket aside enough that it draped over his thighs but not his torso or hip.
“Kid,” Slade murmured, hesitant to pull Dick as close as he would otherwise. Slade’s hand hovered over Dick’s side, which appeared unmarked. But with those kinds of bruises elsewhere, Slade wasn’t about to discount the probability of internal damage.
“Rib’s’re fine,” Dick mumbled, wiggling back to slot himself against Slade’s body, and then wiggling again until Slade placed an arm around his side. Slade’s hand splayed out on Dick’s stomach and Dick’s eyes fluttered closed. Since his shower, any sign of distress was gone, replaced by sheer fatigue.
“Long night, little bird?” Slade murmured into Dick’s damp hair. Dick sighed.
“Jason had a run in with Scarecrow,” Dick murmured by way of explanation. The line of his body was tense, Dick was clearly sore. “He was such a tiny kid. Now he can throw me.”
Dick lapsed into silence and if not for his controlled breathing and stiff shoulders, Slade could have mistaken him for having fallen asleep. But no, Dick was too tightly coiled, too uncomfortable.
In an effort to soothe him, Slade craned his neck to kiss the side of Dick’s neck, just under his scent gland, but froze when Dick hissed in pain. Slade sat up. Long lines of reddened bruises were surfacing, ringing Dick’s throat.
“Where was Batman?” Slade near growled. Dick sighed without opening his eyes.
“Chasing Crane. I kept Jason contained until Tim could procure an antidote. The one we had on us was outdated. I think B felt bad about the whole thing, because he made Jason and I patrol until Alfred started making threats. Trying to get us to sweat out any further tension, I guess.”
Slade settled back onto the bed, pulling Dick flush against himself even though Dick’s eyes shot opened and he sucked in a sharp breath. Slade wrapped his hand around Dick’s throat, over the bruises, and Dick whined.
“Slade,” Dick whimpered, reaching up to hook his fingers between his skin and Slade’s hand.
“He’s not fit,” Slade asserted, not for the first time. Dick clawed and pulled at Slade’s fingers, and so, eventually, Slade released his grip on Dick’s throat. Dick sat up, shielding his throat with his hand and glaring at Slade.
“I thought you didn’t own me?” Dick muttered, dropping his hand.
“I’m reevaluating my position,” Slade shot back, sitting up as well. “Let me bite you.”
Dick narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“I can kill Bruce,” Slade offered.
“You won’t,” Dick snapped.
Slade shifted forward, crowding Dick back against the headboard. A low growl rumbled deep in Dick’s chest as Dick’s sharp blue eyes trained on Slade. Slade pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Dick’s scowl.
“Settle down,” Slade murmured, pulling back to meet Dick’s glare. Dick’s growl continued to reverberate, and so Slade laid down flat on his back and bared his throat. He held the position until he felt Dick’s weight on the mattress shift, and then Dick was crawling on top of him. Slade bit back a smirk and held his tongue as Dick settled with a knee on either side of Slade’s torso, the growl quieting to a grumble that could almost be mistaken for a purr.
A beat, and then Dick rolled his hips against Slade, Dick’s slick dampening Slade’s briefs. Slade deepened the arch of his throat to hide his grin.
“I’m tired, Slade,” Dick chided, even as he continued to rock against Slade. Slade hummed. “I want to sleep,” Dick insisted. Slade fisted the sheets and Dick’s breath hitched.
“Then sleep, little bird,” Slade said, even as Dick scrambled to shove Slade’s briefs down Slade’s hips to bunch at his thighs. Slade remained still, complacent. Placating.
Slade remained pliant, even as Dick sunk down on him.
Tim told Jason to sit still at the Manor, but Jason hadn’t pulled any punches when ensnared in Crane’s newest cocktail. He’d felt every hit, and Dick had disappeared before Jason was lucid enough to realize what he’d done.
It was only right to come check on Dick, even for a moment. If need be, he could take Dick to his, Roy, and Kori’s island. Kori had the tech to right this.
But when Jason found Dick, Dick wasn’t alone. From the window, Jason could see that Dick was tangled up in sheets and limbs, morning light showcasing the deepening bruises painting his shoulder, smattered across his sternum. The arm slung around Dick’s waist tightened possessively, and Jason’s eyes trailed up to meet Slade’s. Without his eyepatch, Slade gaze was even more jarring than usual. Jason bared his teeth but hesitated to enter.
Dick, battered, bruised and pretty, breathed deep and relaxed from where he sprawled. His long lashes appeared to brush his cheekbones and his hair fell over his face in gentle waves. Eye still trained on Jason, Slade dipped his head down to nose at Dick’s sensitive scent gland, right behind his ear. Dick stirred, arching his neck to shift, revealing a dark purple hand print, Jason’s hand print, around his neck. The bruise wrapped around the olive column of his throat, but it was concentrated over his trachea, a killing hold. Jason recoiled, and Slade smirked.
Dick’s eyes remained closed, but Jason could read his lips as he murmured, ‘Babe, stop.’
Slade murmured something into Dick’s ear and Dick relaxed again, melting against Slade as if he belonged there.
But he didn’t, and Jason felt a growl build in the back of his throat near involuntarily. And, never one to concede, Slade held Jason’s gaze.
‘Fuck you,’ Jason mouthed.
Slade just smirked against Dick’s skin.