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Deathstroke doesn’t take vacations.
But during the holidays, he takes it easy. A good portion of the world slows down for Christmas, and while Slade still has jobs he could take, it’s much easier to settle for a week or so. Gives him a chance to train, look into a couple leads he put on the backburner, maybe even watch a movie or two.
With the free time, he never misses the chance to see what his kids are doing.
Worst thing is, they all seem to be so goddamn chummy with the Bats these days. Joey and Grayson. Rose and Todd. Or is it Cain now? This is why he needs to check.
Slade has just finished the last job he lined up before the new year. Something easy, quick, and quiet. He opens the door with his phone in hand, confirming payment, kicks his boots off haphazardly, and drops his gear alongside. He’s not dirty, the job was hardly anything you could get dirty from, but he still ventures to the bedroom to shower. Despite being pretty much unable to get cold, Slade finds something warm to dress in. Sweatpants, and a long-sleeved shirt that isn’t his. Just a tad too tight, but the material is nice.
It’s December, there’s a light sprinkle of snow falling outside. The kind that Slade imagines will turn windy and biting soon, because nothing stays pleasant in Gotham. He has no idea how his kids can stand the place.
This safehouse isn’t his either, not really, his safehouses are a bit cheaper, trashier, meant to be temporary. The penthouse is none of those things. But he uses it more and more frequently. More than the few places he has set up in the city. Because it’s better, because it’s used more often, because he’s not the only one who uses it.
Slade settles on the couch and kicks his feet up. A little break before he risks confrontation with his children, when he inevitably stalks out to find them. The remote is sat perfectly aligned on the corner of the coffee table. He grabs it to click that stupid huge flatscreen on. Tries to, at least. His unimpressed reflection stares back at him.
The door opens when Slade stands to search for batteries. Bruce, since it’s his safehouse, grumbles at the mess Slade has left.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” Bruce says, shedding his coat and toeing his shoes off, setting them properly by the door. He fixes Slade’s while he’s at it, all in a neat line. “I should know these things.”
Slade hums. “Came quietly. No big job. You might not even hear about it.”
Bruce squints at him for a moment, then sighs. “When do you do things that I don’t hear about?”
“You wouldn’t know. You don’t hear about them,” Slade smirks, walking to the kitchen. He’s surprised Bruce isn’t prying more, but a quick glance at the man says he’s got other things on his mind. Thick brows furrowed, frown deeper than usual. “Where are your batteries?”
“What kind?”
“AAA, normal people batteries.” Slade opens a drawer, opens another.
“Why do you leave them open?” Bruce mumbles, following Slade and closing each drawer behind him. “I’m not sure I have any.”
“They are normal people batteries,” Slade mutters, stopping his search. “You don’t watch TV here? Why are you here anyway?”
“The manor is busy.” Bruce says, which explains things a bit. He didn’t arrive in the suit, for one, and it’s the middle of the day. Must have come straight from there. “All of the kids have something going on. Dick is still in Bludhaven, but the rest are home. My house happens to be a good place to host.”
“Their house too,” Slade says. He wonders if one of his are there. He doesn’t ask Bruce.
“I know that,” Bruce grumbles, setting his own things down on the table and pulling a laptop from his bag. “That’s why I left and didn’t kick them out. Not even the cave is safe when they’re all there. I came here to do work for Lucius without interruptions.”
“You left the butler at their mercy?” Slade opens the fridge. Not much. He’s not sure what he was expecting.
“Alfred can handle them better than I can,” Bruce says with that quiet exhale through his nose that Slade has come to know as his laugh. “He cares about what happens to the actual property more than me anyway. They’re not going to burn the house down with him around.”
Slade makes a noise of acknowledgment, searching the kitchen while Bruce watches, making no move to help. Even though it’s his safehouse, and he knows Slade is looking for something to eat.
“Wish you knew how to cook,” Slade says. Or how to eat, he thinks, since that’s definitely part of Bruce’s problem with having food. “This place is always empty.”
Bruce gives him a flat look. “Just because I let you use my safehouse doesn’t mean I have to provide for you too. If you want food here, get it yourself.”
“I will,” Slade already planned on getting batteries. He’s not just going to sit around in silence and brood. He’s not Bruce.
Slade steps back into the bedroom to grab his shoes. Forgotten here on one of the few times he came in civvies and left in his gear. Lots of his clothes simply circulate between safehouses, but he swears he loses some of them here, shirts mostly. His shoes are safe though.
Bruce is at the door when he returns, coat on, looking ready to leave. He turns, and Slade scoffs at the sunglasses and hat. He guesses it makes sense, Bruce Wayne needs some sort of disguise if he’s trying to go out without attention. But still.
“That’s my hat and sunglasses,” Slade says.
“That’s my shirt,” Bruce answers. “And this is my safehouse.”
Fair. But Bruce Wayne looks damn ridiculous in a baseball cap. Especially in the cold weather. Guess that’s the point.
“You’re coming with?” He grumbles. But it’s clear Bruce is. Slade would be suspicious. But he’s gotten used to things, since this started. Bruce does things that don’t make sense, and it’s not surprising. “Thought you had–”
“I have nothing better to do,” Bruce cuts him off as he follows Slade out the door. It’s a lie, Bruce just told him what he should be doing, but Slade finds it pretty amusing how much the Batman avoids actual office work.
“My car is warmer.” Bruce says when they step out of the elevator and into the parking garage. Slade nods with a grunt and tilts his head for Bruce to lead.
Sliding into the passenger seat, Slade turns the seat heater on high. Not because he’s cold, but because they’re nice expensive seats and Slade enjoys taking advantage of every luxury Bruce has. “Do you even know your way to a grocery store? Personally, I mean, not just your maniacally memorized mental map of Gotham.”
Bruce actually laughs at that, quiet and rumbling but louder than the engine because it’s stupid expensive. Slade doesn’t really understand the appeal of a quiet engine. Maybe he’s old. The laugh is nice though.
“I’ve been,” Bruce says as Slade flicks through the radio. He skips over Fleetwood Mac on the 70s station because Addy always liked them which meant he never could stand them.
“How many times?” Slade ends up landing on some jazz station Bruce has favorited, which is practically synonymous with Christmas music this time of year. Too much overlap. “Once?”
Bruce rolls his eyes with a huff. Slade smirks.
It’s odd to see Bruce in a mundane setting. Not because he’s Batman—Slade has been over that for a while, they’ve been doing this for a while—it’s more because he’s Bruce Wayne. And billionaires don’t belong in grocery stores. Evident by how lost the poor man looks, trailing behind Slade like a puppy. Maybe Slade should have told him no to coming, because it’s honestly a little grating.
Good thing he’s an efficient shopper, and they get to the self-checkout soon enough.
A hand swipes over the scanner in front of him, and Slade glares.
“You need your own toothbrush,” Bruce mumbles as he drops it into Slade’s bag alongside the batteries. Fancy and electric. “You can’t keep using mine.”
“We’ve shared spit before,” Slade says, which Bruce makes a face at. He squints at the screen for the price. As if it matters at all. “I don’t need to brush my teeth much anyway. I can’t get cavities or anything like that.”
Bruce’s face intensifies.
“That’s disgusting, first off,” Bruce says, “And are you sure? When’s the last time you went to a dentist? Or a doctor, for that matter.”
Slade grumbles and doesn’t answer. Like Bruce can talk. Getting patched up every night because you pick fights with lunatics does not count as a doctor's visit. He swipes his card before Bruce can put any more stupid shit that he doesn’t need at all in the bag. He shoves the receipt into Bruce’s coat pocket just to be petty. He finds himself more irritated by the fact that Bruce lets him.
Slade was right about weather in Gotham. The snow has turned into something sharp and stinging, wind pelting it into them as they come out of the store. Bruce shivers next to him as they start their way back to the car, pulling his coat tight and high on his face. He looks like Batman, then, Slade has seen him do something similar with the cape a few times, when he pulls it up to cover the only visible part of his skin. Makes him look inhuman, just a dark fabric and kevlar monster. It’s much less intimidating this way though, the sunglasses make him look like a bad spy.
“You patrol in this weather, don’t you? I didn’t think you’d be all that affected,” Slade says. He certainly isn’t, which earns him a real glower from Bruce.
“The suit is heated,” Bruce mumbles, muffled by the fabric pulled over his mouth, no doubt red-nosed. Slade laughs at his misery, until what little he can see of Bruce’s face lights up marginally.
Slade follows his gaze and grumbles. “We don’t have time for some cafe, I bought meat.”
“It’ll take less than five minutes for me to get a hot coffee, Slade.” Bruce glares at him, then points out, quite correctly, “It’s just as cold out here as it is in the frozen section.”
“Gimme your damn keys,” Slade grumbles instead of admitting wrong, shoving his hands into either side of Bruce’s pockets, all up in his space. Bruce makes it easier by not moving at all, shuffling into it if anything. Slade is a very warm man. “I’ll get the car warmed if you get me something.”
Bruce hums, considering, as if Slade didn’t just offer him a good deal. “I can remote start it.”
Slade rolls his eye, crumpling the receipt he forced in earlier. “I’ll pull around.” He says, and Bruce promptly backs up to hand Slade the keys, which weren’t in his pockets. Just fisting them in his hand like a paranoid freak scared he was going to lose them. Compulsive bastard.
“You must think you’re funny,” Slade grunts—less than five minutes later—when Bruce hands him some whipped cream frothy hot chocolate monstrosity as he slides into the passenger seat. “I meant the same thing as you.”
Bruce smiles discreetly into his coffee, black as that little cruel, conniving heart Slade isn’t sure he even has. “You didn’t specify, I got you the special.”
Obviously with the knowledge that it’s not what Slade wanted. It’s… not that bad actually, but still too much sweetness for Slade to really enjoy.
“I was going to cook for the both of us when we got back. Would it kill you to do something nice?” Slade says to Batman, and Bruce Wayne.
“For you? Yes.” He answers.
Slade grumbles the whole way back to the penthouse. He throws away his empty cup in the bin of the parking garage when they head up.
“How come you’re here watching a movie with me instead of back home with you brood?” Slade asks, mouth full of pasta, a bit under half way through the movie.
“I told you they’re busy at home,” Bruce says, swallowing his own bite before speaking. What good manners. “And I’m busy with work.”
“We’re watching Lethal Weapon.”
“You have no idea how many things I need to do before the new year.”
“Like wrap the presents of your ten thousand kids?” Slade says. “Because Christmas Eve is tomorrow, you might want to get on that.”
Bruce glares at him, harshly.
“Or does your butler do that for you? Do you even pick the presents?” Slade asks.
“Do you even have presents for yours?”
Slade takes a bite of food so there’s some cushion between his teeth as he clenches his jaw way too tight. “They don’t tell me what they like. Anything I could get them, they don’t like anyway. I’m sure your kids will appreciate some gadget shit.”
“They appreciate being away from me,” Bruce says. He sets his fork down on his plate, not even half-way empty. Slade doesn’t think his cooking is all that bad, Bruce just isn’t hungry. When is he ever? “If I want them all to be there for Christmas day, then it’s better I stay away until then. So I can’t screw anything up in the meantime. They don’t want to see me right now.”
Slade stares at Bruce. As much as he plays up their size difference—in combat, sex, or anytime the teasing seems fit—Bruce is only a few inches shorter than him. But at this moment, Bruce looks almost small. Hands clasped in his lap and staring forward at the TV. Shoulders square but somehow hunched. It’s almost like the posture he has as the Bat, but it’s not working here. No armor, poor defense.
Slade tugs at Bruce’s wrist where the knives of his gauntlet would lay if he were in gear. Bruce resists at first, but there’s nothing cutting into Slade’s hand, so he keeps pulling.
“Of course your kids want to see you,” Slade says, near sneering, drawing Bruce to his chest. It’s easier to see his face like this. The couch is nice and big, deep enough that they can lay like this comfortably, while Slade threatens to break Bruce’s wrist. “You know whose kids don’t want to see their father during the holidays? Mine. They don’t want to see me. Ever.”
Bruce huffs, resting there for a moment. Tension melting out of him. Helps it melt out of Slade too. Slade presses his fingers into his back, careful now, right near the scar along his spine. Bruce had told him once, that it still hurts sometimes, or more like Slade had figured it out. A wince during a fight makes sense, a wince when had Bruce arched just a little too hard into one of Slade’s thrusts into him had made Slade slow a moment. Slade hadn’t wanted it to hurt. Not like that. He realized then, in the middle of fucking Bruce into the mattress. Must've be months ago now. Slade had said nothing, when it happened, just readjusted their position, a hand under Bruce’s back as he leaned over him to bite at his neck, distracting Bruce with a different pain. Bruce came undone under him, eyes fluttering and nails digging into Slade’s shoulder blades. The punctures there would heal in seconds, Bruce's back never will.
That was the first night Slade had slept at the safehouse, and he had woken to Bruce at his front, his back to Slade’s chest. There was no sun streaming through the windows, painting Bruce’s skin golden in the light, like some kind of movie where Slade realized something more. They don’t work like that. Slade didn’t feel like that anyway. There was rain pelting the windows, and the room felt slightly chilled. Slade had pressed his hand atop Bruce’s back. His skin always feels cool to Slade, when he runs twelve degrees hotter than him. It’s like touching a ghost, sometimes, with Bruce. But he had come alive under Slade’s palm, groaning like waking pained him. Maybe it did.
Bruce rumbles now the same way he did that morning, closing his eyes for a moment. He opens his mouth, and Slade hopes it’s not an argument about whether or not Rose or Joey wants to see him. They had made it clear, separately. Slade would almost think they planned it, because they both mentioned the other sibling when they spoke, that Slade needs to stay away from the other too. They didn’t even grow up together and they seemed on the same page of a book that Slade apparently didn’t get to be in.
After this, he is still going to check in on them.
Bruce doesn’t argue, but his face is pinched. “Maybe we just don’t talk about this.”
Slade really thinks Bruce should be back with his kids, instead of here, with him of all people. It’s really a wonder, how long this has lasted. Not just their situation, but the fact that they haven’t had sex yet, and they’ve spent hours together.
Suddenly, Slade’s brain points out to him how odd this is. What the hell are they doing? They went shopping together, shared warm drinks in the cold air like a goddamn couple, and then Slade came home and cooked dinner for Bruce? So they could watch a movie?
It occurs to Slade that they need to have sex.
That’s what this situation is meant to be. Slade has to amend that.
Not talking about this is the best option. For once, Slade will thank Bruce, but only in the privacy of his mind.
Slade grunts, pulling Bruce a bit higher so that he can bury his face in his neck and inhales. He’s got that expensive aftershave that Slade forgets the name of, despite having used it a couple times while here. It’s… fresh. Woody, maybe? Slade’s sure Bruce could tell him all the intricacies of his scent profile if he asked, but he’d much rather sink his teeth into the crook of Bruce’s neck.
“Keep it below the neckline,” Bruce hisses as Slade licks over the bite. “What are you doing? Is this the only way you know how to not talk? We’re watching a movie.”
Slade grunts, ignoring everything but the first and last part of that sentence. “It’s winter, you can put on a turtleneck. I’ve already seen this, and you don’t care.”
“Slade.”
“Your kids know you’re nowhere near celibate, Bruce.”
“Slade,” Bruce tugs at his hair, somewhere between keening and growling. It always feels good. Good to know Slade can get the Bat worked up nice and quick like this. Maybe it’s easier because they both get keyed up from any form of arguing. “Your mouth is– big. I’m not celebrating Christmas like this, someone will see.”
Slade stops for a moment, trying to figure out what that means. It’s about the visible mark, because Bruce never has a problem with Slade biting anywhere else. What does he even mean, that Slade’s mouth is big?
“Do you think your kids are measuring the size of your hickeys?” Slade laughs, can’t stop laughing even as Bruce explains.
“You have no idea what it’s like living in a house full of detectives. They notice things, things I didn’t teach them to look for–” Bruce huffs and puffs, putting his hands on Slade’s chest to push himself off and away. Slade just pulls him back, hands settling on his back again, luring him in with warm massaging fingers.
“You’re damn paranoid,” Slade snickers, because really, that’s ridiculous. If they even noticed at all, what the hell would they even do with that information? Just means Bruce is sleeping with someone who is bigger than his usual. Slade is pretty sure it’s just women for Bruce nowadays, and the women tend to be smaller than Bruce, it’s hard not to be. Slade doesn’t really know though, he doesn’t give a shit about any Gotham gossip rag.
He tugs at Bruce’s shirt. “Take this off so I can get my mouth on you below the neckline then, if you’re so worried.”
Bruce grumbles, but it’s easy to get him up for it again with Slade slipping his hands under his sweater to really dig into his back. It’s too easy.
Slade is mouthing at Bruce’s collarbone as soon as the skin is free, Bruce’s sweater draped somewhere on the back of the couch. His body is so goddamn good. Slade doesn’t want to think about anything but this right now. Not a job, not Christmas, not the fact that his kids may or may not be at the house of the man in his grasp. That would be stupid.
Slade grins into Bruce’s skin when he feels hands tugging his own shirt—Bruce’s shirt—off. He obediently releases his grip on the other man to pull it over his head, then he’s right back on him. Teeth nipping like he wants to chew on Bruce’s bones.
“C’mon,” Slade mumbles, moving back up to Bruce’s mouth. “Haven’t done anything all day.”
Bruce makes a noise, annoyed, but doesn’t pull away. Instead he presses against Slade, bare torsos flush together with lips melding.
“You’d live,” Bruce murmurs into the kiss. Dragging his hands down Slade’s chest to his sweatpants, easily pulled down so he can palm at Slade’s dick through his boxers.
“Are these mine too?” Bruce leans back slightly, Slade has to look to be sure.
“No,” he murmurs, more focused on pulling Bruce’s own pants down his hips, greeted by the same brand he wears. Which he may have copied from Bruce, after the first time they did this. Slade had seen Bruce in them and thought they looked good, then he grabbed him, touched around and decided they felt amazing. “Expensive clothes are a luxury, good boxers are a must.”
It doesn’t matter really, because they have those off too in a couple minutes. Movie forgotten in favor of grinding together like teenagers.
“Just this,” Slade breathes, thrusting up into his hand, wrapped around his and Bruce’s cocks. He digs his free hand into Bruce’s ass, pulling him forward into it. The drag is delicious. Regeneration makes Slade’s palms softer than they should be, gliding over them, smearing precum to slick things up.
“Just this,” Bruce repeats, grinding down into Slade’s cock like he’s fucking the man. His hands are calloused, offering glorious dual sensation when he grips one to the armrest near Slade’s head, and the other over their tips on one of Slade’s downstrokes. Rubs his thumb right into his slit and then Slade’s, who groans out like Bruce really is fucking him.
“Could cum like this,” Slade growls, drawn back to the pale skin of Bruce’s neck. So damn pale in the winter he looks like a vampire. It takes an unbelievable amount of restraint not to sink his teeth in and act like one, though he doubts Bruce would care right now.
He licks over one of the marks he left already instead, planting his feet into the couch cushions to get the leverage to really drive up against Bruce and his hand. It shouldn’t be as rough as it is, but they make it that way.
“You’re going—to break—the couch,” Bruce manages, breathing heavy and hot. Slade can feel the muscles of his hips, rippling as his thrusts stutter. Close.
“You’re going—” Slade starts to mock, because he’s an asshole. And speaking is a little hard for him too, but it’s more fun to play it off. “—to cum.”
There’s no answer to his teasing, just panting and the wet sound of them together. Slade leans up to press his mouth back against Bruce’s, swallowing down the choked noise he makes as he spills over them.
Rather than let him go, Slade clamps his hand down tighter around the both of them and thrusts hard. He won’t let Bruce escape it. The sound that comes out of the man, pained and overstimulated, is what Slade needs. To see the Bat broken down, eyes screwed shut and panting an inch away from Slade’s face. He gets the urge to flip them, but he’d be too uncoordinated right now, risk tumbling off the couch.
“Stay.” Slade hooks his arm around Bruce’s waist, growling as he cruelly ruts up into that softening cock, teetering on the edge. The spend of Bruce’s orgasm helps the slide. It’s messy, indecent. All the things they shouldn’t be doing with one another, they will do today, might do tomorrow. “Let me—” Slade starts, and Bruce is kissing him again. He kisses like he means to, something that always makes Slade feel not hot but warm, different from the heat coiling inside him. It’s a feeling to ignore, when Bruce shudders, pressing his weight down hard into Slade in a last ditch effort to get him to finish already.
It works. There’s only so long Slade can hold on when Bruce is licking into his mouth and heavy and solid against him. He cums, adding to the mess between them until Bruce sags into him fully. Spent, is how Slade feels.
“Need a shower,” Bruce grumbles into Slade’s neck, pushing off of him a minute later and grimacing at the feeling of separating, tacky.
“You can,” Slade murmurs, eye already back on the movie. “If you want to miss one of the worst marksmanship scenes I’ve ever seen.”
“There are so many reasons I don’t care about that at all,” Bruce says flatly, already walking away.
Slade gets up to wipe himself off a couple minutes later, taking the plates to the kitchen with him. Bruce ate five bites, if that, and Slade wonders how he even functions the way he does with such little food. It’s not just his cooking, he knows that.
He finishes the movie while doing all that catching up he said he would on his laptop. He’s still there when it’s over, until it occurs to him that he hasn’t heard anything. Like Bruce leaving.
It’s late, and Slade already decided that stalking his kids can wait until tomorrow, especially if they’ll have settled somewhere for Christmas Eve. He’s not really tired, but it doesn’t stop him from padding through bedroom to actually shower, testing out his new toothbrush, and sliding into bed where Bruce is laying.
He’s asleep, which is surprising. No patrol then? The man doesn’t even wake when Slade presses up against his back, just to test how dead to the world he is. Cool to Slade’s touch, like always.
When Slade wakes in the morning, it’s dark. He can hear the wind howling, and knows the snow must be heavy, coating Gotham in cold and misery.
He laughs, realizing something that has him shaking Bruce awake. The Bat is anything but a morning person, and Slade is going to make it worse.
“It’s our anniversary,” Slade says, unable to control himself. It was snowing like this then too, all over the docks, had Bruce sliding in it after that explosion to the warehouse. God, that’s funny.
Bruce turns over to scowl at him, hair dried messy from when he lied down last night after his shower. He growls, sleep so thick that his voice is more gravely than it even is as the Bat. “What?”
“Merry Christmas Eve,” Slade snorts, and Bruce just turns back and hogs the covers around himself. Fifty million bucks would be a nice Christmas present to himself, it’d be so easy now. Too bad the offer isn’t up anymore.
He strokes a hand down Bruce’s back. That’s alright. It wouldn’t be worth it right now anyway. If he’s going to take Bruce out, it’ll be the fight of his life. Not in bed together on Christmas Eve. That’d be a pretty shitty present to the Bat’s brood, which wouldn’t help Slade with Joey and Rose at all.
He doesn’t go through all the reasons he wouldn’t kill Bruce right now. Easier to settle on those three—the money, the fight, and the kids. There’s nothing else keeping him from ending the man where they lay. Nothing.