Work Text:
It starts like this: Jason, lying in Slade’s arms.
Most nights do. They’re about eighteen months into sleeping together and almost a year into a real relationship — real as in sharing a home, as in soft kisses pressed into hair and limbs tangled together on the couch for late-night TV when neither of them can sleep and hugs from behind while Jason makes breakfast, as in Jason wants to tell Slade things he’s never told anyone else. There are many things he keeps close to his heart, words he doubts he’ll ever have the strength — or the desire — to say out loud. Many of these, he thinks Slade is aware of, at least in some capacity. Many of these, Slade has helped heal without ever speaking of them.
Jason doesn’t want Slade to be one of those things. Doesn’t want this, this irreplaceable closeness, this love, to be something only known to himself, Slade, and the brown-striped cat that’s made a home of their fire escape. It isn’t that it’s particularly difficult to keep it a secret; no one, as far as Jason is aware, even suspects he’s seeing anyone. Well, Dick did think he was dating Roy the one time, but that was cleared up before the night was over. Jason wants them to know, though. Wants to be able to share this incredibly important part of his life, as hard as it is to think about.
Slade is awake. Jason knows he is by the way he’s breathing, by the tightness of his hold — not suffocating, not something Jason would ever struggle to get out of (and that, he knows, is an intentional move on Slade’s part), but firmer than it would be were he asleep. Than it will be, once he falls asleep. This is why Jason isn’t careful when he shuffles to turn around, to face Slade, their noses just inches apart. “Hey,” he breathes, staring into Slade’s eye in the dark of their room. There’s a dim light somewhere, maybe his laptop flashing that it’s finished charging or maybe the motion-powered bathroom light going off for no reason. It’s just enough to see his favorite arctic-blue.
Slade pulls him into a kiss, a greeting of its own. He never hesitates to show affection with Jason, not the way his family does. Never treats him like he’s making Slade walk on eggshells, even on the days he really is. “Hey,” Slade says, their noses brushing when he pulls back. “Too warm?”
(Slade runs hot, always. Jason never used to run one way or the other, but he’s always a little too cold these days. Without evidence to the contrary, he blames the Pit.)
“Nah.” For no real reason, he smiles. “Just thinking.”
“Too much?” Slade asks, tone lilting — an unspoken proposition. Most nights, Jason would take him up on it, but it’s not bad thinking, not tonight.
“No,” Jason says, pursing his lips. Slade lifts a hand to pet his hair, and doesn’t take his eye off Jason. “There’s a family dinner Wednesday.”
Jason’s gone to a few of those — family gatherings, in general; it’s usually not dinner — since he’s been with Slade. They’ve pulled a myriad of emotions out of him, but more often than not, Jason’s a little tenser after each, asks Slade to be a little rougher with him. He knows it doesn’t go unnoticed. This is why it’s no surprise when Slade says, “You don’t have to go.”
“No, I— I know.” Jason swallows. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t expect this to be so difficult; thankfully, Slade shows him patience. “I want to.”
Slade hums, and Jason can tell he’s starting to wonder why he’s bringing this up, but he doesn’t pry. “Did we have plans that day?”
(He’s pretty sure Slade knows they didn’t.)
“No.” He feels like he’s accidentally roped Slade into a guessing game. Oops. With a sharp breath, he spits it out: “I want you to come with me.”
Slade stares at him, eye going wide, hand stilling in Jason’s hair. Anxiety runs laps in his gut — he tries to tamp it down with a deep breath, but every second of silence is making it worse. “You… want me to come to your family dinner,” Slade says slowly, like he’s not quite sure he heard him right.
“If you want to,” Jason says hastily, and suddenly maybe he is too warm, but he doesn’t want to lose Slade’s touch. He feels like he needs to tack on some addendum like You don’t have to, like It was just a thought, but he knows nothing he says now can make this seem casual, so he closes his mouth and waits.
“Jay,” Slade breathes. He looks— he looks like he did back when he and Jason made their relationship official. It’s a rare side of him: awestruck. It’s one of the many emotions he feels lucky Slade allows him to see. “Jay. Of course I’ll go.”
Jason grins. Everything is right, here, like this. Everything important, anyway. “Even if you have to play nice with Bruce?”
Slade wrinkles his nose in displeasure, but he smiles, too. “I suppose.”
(Months ago, Jason would have been afraid. His relationship with Bruce was — is, probably always will be — delicate. Slade and Bruce aren’t exactly friendly, and months ago, he would have feared Slade wouldn’t be able to resist an argument with the Bat. And while he’s sure Slade would be right, would be on Jason’s side, would be looking out for him, he wouldn’t want to think about the fallout: more fraying to the already fragile bond he and Bruce are trying their hardest to hold onto.
Months ago, Jason wouldn’t have asked at all.
Tonight, he curls back into Slade’s chest, secure, because he knows Slade will play nice for him. Tonight, he might be more in love than ever before.)
Chat with: Alfie — 12:31 PM
it’s a yes to dinner Wed but just a quick heads up
you might wanna be sitting down
I’m seated.
great
I’m bringing Slade Wilson
gonna introduce him as my partner
like romantically
I’ll have an extra plate prepared.
thank you
I think it goes without saying that you’re the only one I’ve told, but just in case, I’m not going to tell B who I’m bringing. rather talk about it in person
Understood. I’m glad you’re happy, Master Jason. Truly.
thanks Alf. you’re the best
Jason knows two things for certain about Bruce Wayne:
He’s never hated anyone quite as much.
He’s never loved anyone quite as much.
The latter is barring maybe Slade, but that’s entirely different. It’s because they have that in common, though, that he wants — that he needs — Bruce to know about them. Slade is such a huge part of his life, of his heart, and Bruce is—
Well, Bruce is sort of everything.
That’s his dad, despite it all. Despite every fucked up, broken, horrible thing. Despite Jason. Despite Bruce.
This is what drives Jason to pick up the phone, barely an hour after talking to Alfred, and let Bruce know he'll be having someone over Wednesday. It goes well — Jason suspects Bruce is pleasantly surprised he’ll be there at all. He can only hope dinner does, too.
(Despite everything, maybe it will.)
“Hey,” Jason says Tuesday night, sitting beside Slade on the couch as they finish up their dinner — Jason made stew, because half their vegetables were about to go bad. “About tomorrow.”
Slade glances up at him, pulling his spoon away from his mouth. “Having second thoughts?”
Jason shakes his head firmly. He wants this. Needs this. There’s no taking it back, not now — not when he’s told Alfred, not when Bruce knows he intends to bring someone home. “No.” He purses his lips, glancing down at the bowl in his hands that’s quickly going lukewarm. “Just… you agreed because you don’t plan on ending things, right? Uh— ever?”
It’s easier, to frame it as a double-negative — you don’t plan on ending things — than the alternative, than what he’s really asking: You’re going to stick around, right? It adds a layer of disconnect, in a way; announces the possibility of Slade, in fact, ending things.
“Yes,” Slade says, and there’s not a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Jay, look at me.”
Jason hesitates, barely. Slade brings a warm hand to his chin and gently tilts his face up to meet Slade’s, looking at him like— like he’s never been more sure of anything. “I intend to keep you as long as you want me.”
Jason can’t help it: he grins, letting himself relax into Slade’s touch. “I guess my family’ll have a while to get used to us, then.”
Slade snorts, kissing him once before pulling back to return to his stew. “And I’ll have a while to get used to Bat in-laws.”
That—
Fuck.
“In-laws,” Jason breathes, a ghost of a word. They’ve never— not once have they talked about getting married. Hell, they’ve barely talked about Slade’s first marriage; Jason has pieced together enough about it, about Adeline, from what Slade has said, that he doesn’t feel the need to ask.
“Well.” Slade takes a breath, and, moving slowly, sets his almost-empty bowl on the coffee table. Jason mirrors the movement. “If you’ll have me.”
“Slade.”
“I haven’t bought a ring or anything,” Slade says; he’s avoiding Jason’s eyes. Hypocrite. “But I’m yours, kid. And it’s not like it has to be anytime soon — hell, it doesn’t even have to be this decade. I just think it’d be nice.”
It would be nice, Jason realizes. To be Slade’s in such a tangible way, to have something that says We’re gonna make this shit work as long as the universe allows us. Something that says We’re gonna make this shit work forever. Jason has never gotten to have something forever, not in a way that means anything. He finds he wouldn’t mind this being his first.
Belatedly, softly, he says, “As long as you’ll have me, too.”
Slade lets out a deep breath, pulling Jason against his side. “Like I’d ever say no to that.”
“It’s just gonna be us,” Jason says, his eyes fixed on the bathroom mirror as he combs his hair. Slade is sitting on the bed, watching him through the open en-suite bathroom door. “For couples, I mean. Except Steph and Cass, but— Steph’s part of the family enough that they don’t count.”
Slade hums thoughtfully. “That’s for the best, I assume.”
“Yeah.” Jason drops the comb onto the counter — it falls into the sink. He lets it. He meets his own eyes in the mirror, pressing his palms against the edge of the countertop; it digs into his skin uncomfortably. “Think Alfred made it happen. Less eyes on us is better. This is— it’s a family thing, anyway.”
“Uh-huh.” Slade slinks off the bed to join Jason in the bathroom, wrapping his arms around him from behind. “Meet the family. Except I’ve met them and they hate my guts.”
Jason huffs, tilting his head back to lean against Slade even though he knows it means he’ll have to fix his hair again. “You haven’t met them like this.”
Slade smiles. Kisses his cheek. “That I have not.”
Slade’s hand slides down to Jason’s waistband, fingers tracing the dark, Italian leather of his belt. They’re both dressed up tonight. Not too much — no ties or button-downs — but nicer than Jason’s ever tried to look for a family dinner. Dark cashmere sweaters and chinos. They’re sort of matching; Jason hates how childish the warmth he gets from that realization makes him feel.
“It’ll be fine,” Jason says, watching Slade’s hand in the mirror. “It’s gonna be rough at first, but when they realize how serious we are they’ll get over themselves. They’ll— B will catch up. Eventually. After he catastrophizes enough.”
Slade hums, tilting his head to kiss Jason’s jaw, then the side of his neck. “I agree.”
“Slade,” Jason groans, closing his eyes.
Another kiss to his neck. “Yes?”
“If we fuck, we’re gonna be late,” Jason says with a huff, though he makes no effort to peel Slade off him.
“Good thing we’re not fucking, then,” Slade says, like a liar.
They fuck.
Miraculously, they’re not late. Only a few speed limits are violated to ensure this. They’re actually a few minutes earlier than planned, which Jason figures is good: more time to get things settled before dinner.
He’s really fucking nervous.
Slade takes his hand the moment they get out of the car — he knows, of course, how bad Jason’s freaking out inside, even if he won’t say it. It helps, a little. Jason leads them up the path to the front door and has to hold his breath when he knocks, even though he knows it’ll be Alfred who answers. Slade squeezes his hand a little tighter.
“Master Jason,” Alfred greets, a warm smile gracing his face. Jason doesn’t — won’t — look past him into the house.
“Hey, Alfie,” he says, hastily untangling his hand from Slade’s to pull Alfred into a quick hug. When he breaks from that, too, he says, unnecessarily, “This is Slade.”
“Mr. Wilson.” Alfred extends his hand for a handshake, which Slade accepts. It brings the tiniest bit of relief to Jason’s chest to see everything going well so far, even though he knew this would be the easiest part. “It’s a pleasure to have you. You can call me Alfred.”
And then he steps away to let Jason and Slade in.
He steps away, and no one else is in the foyer, because why would they be, and Jason’s heart is fluttering so anxiously in his chest he feels like he might be sick. Alfred leaves the two of them be to take their shoes off, and Jason takes Slade’s hand again and has to suck in a few deep breaths before he says, “Might as well go in. Someone’ll come out here anyway if we don’t.”
“Alright,” Slade says, and lets Jason lead the way.
Jason sort of hates that the Manor still feels like home, after everything. He can hear Tim and Steph laughing over something in the other room and the temperature and lighting and everything is just right and Slade’s here, his— his Slade, his person, and he barely gets a second to mull over this before Bruce—
Fuck.
Bruce is standing in front of the two of them, staring at Jason like— well, like Jason just brought Slade Wilson to family dinner. Slade squeezes his hand tighter, but doesn’t say anything; he lets Jason have the first word. Because it’s clear Bruce won’t be the one to break the tense silence.
Jason takes a breath. “Hey, dad,” he says, lightly, and look, he knows it’s a dirty move, but it felt like the right thing to say. That’s what this is, after all: he’s introducing Slade to Bruce because Bruce is his dad. It has the expected effect; Bruce’s eyes widen in surprise, then soften, and he parts his lips like he’s going to speak but Jason beats him to it. “This is my partner, Slade.”
“Jason,” Bruce says, breathing out each syllable like it hurts to speak. For what feels like the first time so far, he glances at Slade. With a small nod, he greets, just as breathless, “Slade.”
“Mr. Wayne,” Slade says, putting on his politest voice. “Thank you for having me.”
(Jason really, really loves this man.)
“Yes,” Bruce says, swallowing. Jason’s not sure which one of them is feeling more right now, honestly. “You’re… partners?”
And what a word that is. It’s the most accurate word for both of them: they’re partners in life, in love, in work. Jason knows that’s not what Bruce is asking, though. “Boyfriends,” Jason clarifies, and Bruce’s gaze flickers down to their joined hands. “About a year, before you ask.”
“A year,” Bruce repeats, slow. Jason knows he’s running over every possibility he could’ve noticed in his mind. Jason also knows he looks like he might start crying. He really hopes he does not do that. “Jason…”
“B.” Jason sighs, quiet. Probably, Bruce’s awkward discomfort is the best-case scenario — no one’s screaming yet! — but that doesn’t mean he likes it. “Please.”
“Okay,” Bruce breathes, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I… trust you, Jay. I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to do this.”
(Jason’s pretty sure that’s code for We are having a long discussion about this as soon as Slade is out of earshot, but he’ll take what he can get.)
Jason smiles, his shoulders relaxing just a bit. “Thanks, B,” he says, and he realizes, crushingly, that he really, really wants to hug him.
Bruce would let him. He knows this. Bruce would let him, but Bruce would probably start crying and Jason— he can’t handle that right now. Maybe, maybe a hug goodbye, assuming dinner goes okay. A hard maybe. For now, he squeezes Slade’s hand a few times and says, “Let’s go break it to the others.”
So Bruce leads them out to the living room, where everyone is apparently gathered — that makes everything a lot easier and a lot harder, Jason thinks. For a very brief moment, he gets to just look at them, at everyone, at his family. Steph, Cass, Duke, and Tim are sitting in a circle on the big couch, giggling about something. Damian’s slumped against Dick’s side in an armchair, watching him do something on his phone.
The peace doesn’t last, of course. Everyone seems to look up at the same time — Bruce conveniently makes himself scarce for this — and then it’s a sea of voices over voices, everyone talking at once. Dick almost elbows Damian with how fast he stands up. Damian shoves him for it.
“Slade,” Dick says, tense, stepping in front of them. “What are you doing here?”
Jason speaks before Slade can: “Hello to you too, Dickhead. Slade’s here for dinner like the rest of us.”
Dick’s face might be worse than Bruce’s, actually. Probably because Bruce at least knew Jason was bringing someone. Dick looks from Slade to Jason to their joined hands, and horrified, he says, “No. Absolutely not. There’s no way.”
Slade lets go of his hand and puts an arm around his waist instead, planting his hand just high enough on Jason’s hip to be decent. “Been a while, Birdie.”
An unreasonable pang of jealousy goes through Jason’s chest at that. He knows Dick and Slade have history, of course. And he knows Slade is here for him, is literally holding him, but still. It’s a tough feeling to shake. With a sharp breath, though, he tries his best. “Last I heard, it’s Alfred’s kitchen. I don’t think you really get a say.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Dick says, and Jason does, of course, but he shrugs anyway. “Jay. He’s— you can’t— with Deathstroke—”
“Civillian names in the house,” Jason reminds him, just to be a douche. “Holy shit, you’re taking this worse than B.”
Dick looks pissed, and it sucks, because Jason doesn’t even really want to start a fight, honestly. He opens his mouth and that’s exactly the moment Tim decides to slide up beside him, blinking up at Jason and asking, “You’re fucking Deathstroke?”
“Thank you!” Dick says, at the same time Jason corrects, “Dating, actually.”
Tim glances between them, wide-eyed. “Damn. I hate that it makes sense.”
Dick groans, running one hand over his face. Jason glances around the room: everyone’s watching, obviously. Bruce and Alfred probably are, too, in the other room. Steph looks highly amused — Duke, too, but with a hint of confusion. Damian looks annoyed. Cass looks… like Cass. Her expression is slightly soft — Jason smiles at her, and she smiles back.
“Slade is my partner,” Jason says. He’s spoken it more times tonight than he thinks he ever has, oddly enough. It feels nice. “I’d appreciate it if you’d all at least try to be normal about that.”
“Genuine,” Cass says, quiet. Slade breathes out a laugh, and it makes Jason smile, too.
“Jay,” Dick mumbles, rubbing at his forehead. “What, so you’re— in love with him?”
This time, Slade decides to get a few words in: “With each other, yes.”
Dick grumbles. “I didn’t ask you.”
“Yes, Dick,” Jason says, exasperated. He knew it’d be tough telling Dick specifically, but this is just frustrating. “I’m in love with him.”
Slade squeezes his hip tight, and Jason just knows a smile is accompanying it. Dick, however, seems to be allergic to removing his hand from his face. “Why?”
Why does Jason Todd love Slade Wilson? Why? It feels laughable to even ask — how couldn’t he?
Because Slade is intelligent and strong and so unbelievably talented. Because Slade sees Jason as a person in a way Jason’s not sure anyone ever has. Because Slade cares. Because Slade sits with him on his worst nights, when his vision is tinted green and his hands won’t stop shaking and he says the worst, harshest things he doesn’t mean. Because Slade listens to him sob I hate you over and over and over and all he does is pull him to his chest and hold him tighter. Because Slade makes sure he eats even when he doesn’t want to do anything but lie in bed. Because Slade makes him want to eat.
Because Slade is letting Jason bring him home for family dinner even though he knew it’d be this messy.
“He takes—” Jason sucks in a sharp breath, staring at Dick. “We take care of each other. Look, I don’t have to justify my relationship to you. I don’t care if you like him. I just wish you wouldn’t look like you’re in physical pain every time you look at us.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Slade offers, drumming his fingers on Jason’s hip. Dick looks entirely unconvinced. “Not intentionally. Not ever. I’ve loved Jason for two years at this point. That isn’t changing.”
Dick says something, but Jason’s not sure what, his mind spinning with Slade’s words. Two years. That’s— that’s before they ever even slept together. What the fuck. Slade’s loved him for two years and he’s finding this out now, standing in the living room of the Manor mid-argument with his almost-brother, and he thinks he needs to sit down.
“Okay. Why don’t we sit down,” Slade says, and sometimes it freaks Jason out just how easily Slade can read him, but right now he just follows him to one of the couches and leans into his side. Cass sits on Jason’s other side before Dick can — thank fuck, because he really doesn’t want to deal with that — so Dick sits by Slade, instead, far enough away that someone could comfortably sit between them.
“Happy for you,” Cass says, offering Jason a soft, genuine smile. “You’re happy with him.”
“Yeah,” Jason says, huffing out a laugh. “I really am.”
In the end, Dick agrees to behave, though begrudgingly.
“I’m… it’s good that you’re happy,” he says, slightly hesitant, as though he’s unsure whether or not that’s okay to say. “Even if it is with Slade.”
This, Jason figures, is the best he’ll get out of Dick tonight. That’s okay: they have plenty more family dinners to look forward to.
Steph is a bit more enthusiastic. “Congrats,” she says, grinning wide, appearing at Jason’s side while he’s showing Slade the Manor’s library. “Rich and strong and sweet. I think you won, Jay.”
Beside him, Slade startles, craning his neck to look over at Steph. “…Sweet?”
Steph snorts, raising her eyebrows at him. “Uh, yeah. What else do you call this?”
Jason laughs, because she has a point. Slade’s sweet with him in a way Jason never thought possible before he had it. Of course Steph’s right: she walked in on Jason explaining to Slade how he used to sit up here and read when he was mad at Bruce — on Slade watching, listening, soaking in his words with more understanding than anyone’s ever given him. And here’s the thing: Slade’s not good with reading. Between undiagnosed (but very likely, in Jason’s unprofessional opinion) dyslexia, poor education, and a general lack of practice, he’s partially illiterate — he can passably read restaurant menus and text messages, but picking up a novel is much more daunting of a task. He’s not particularly interested, either. But Jason is — Jason cares about reading so much it hurts, sometimes, and Slade cares about it in association, lets Jason read out loud to him and explain classic-novel references and tell him about sitting in the library as a kid, because he cares. Because he’s sweet like that.
“You should see him when we’re alone,” Jason offers. He gives Slade the chance to process confidently being called sweet by the absolute whirlwind of a woman that is Stephanie Brown — a woman he’s proud to call family, even if it’s a little different than being family with Dick or Cass.
(That’s okay — they’ll be sibling-in-laws eventually. Jason’s sure of it.)
Steph grins, gaze flicking between Slade and Jason. “Tell me all about it later. For now, I think Damian wants a word.”
Oh, shit. Jason hadn’t even noticed him, but when he looks away from Steph, there he is: standing a few feet from them with his arms crossed over his chest. Jason nods at him, and Damian ignores him, leveling a glare at Slade. “Deathstroke,” he greets, terse.
“Robin,” Slade replies, sounding slightly amused. Jason tugs him over to the leather chesterfield to sit; Damian tucks himself into a chair across from them, not taking his eyes off Slade.
“I’d like to spar with you,” Damian says flatly.
Slade smiles, looking unsurprised, somehow. Jason’s definitely surprised: he’d expected the brat to have something rude to say. “Sure,” Slade says, and won’t that be a sight. Squeezing Jason’s side, he adds, “You’ll have to come over sometime. We’ve got a pretty impressive armory.”
It’s true, but— Slade’s going to show Damian his weapons, just like that? Jason’s chest goes warm at the thought. He’s not entirely sure why.
Damian nods slowly, glancing from Slade to Jason and back to Slade. “I’d like that,” he says, only mildly apprehensive. “Thank you.”
“You can meet our cat,” Jason adds, leaning his head against Slade’s shoulder.
Slade hums in contest. “It’s not our cat. You can meet the outside cat that makes us buy it food.”
Damian scowls. “Cats shouldn’t be outside.”
“We got it fixed,” Jason assures him.
“That isn’t the only issue,” Damian says, condescension laced in every word. “It could get injured or killed in any number of ways: cars, predators, parasites, villains, rabies.”
Jason snickers, not because Damian’s wrong — he’s very correct — but because he’s been trying to convince Slade to officially adopt the rascal for months now. “What do you say, Slade?”
“Hm.”
Damian’s glare only intensifies. “Feral cats are also dangers to wildlife. Especially birds. If you refuse to care for it properly, I’ll take it.”
Slade shifts, huffing out a breath. Jason can’t help but find amusement in Damian managing to make him so uncomfortable. “…I’ll order a litterbox.”
Jason grins, squeezing Slade’s wrist. “Great. You can meet our cat, Dami.”
Despite himself, Damian’s lips curl up into an almost-smile. “I look forward to it.”
I’ll have a while to get used to Bat in-laws, Slade said.
Jason presses a kiss to his palm, moments after Damian leaves them alone in the library, and thinks that he’s doing pretty damn well so far.
“Hey. Jay.”
Jason blinks his eyes open, blearily remembering where he is — shit, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He slowly stretches, his leg cramped, and shuffles to face Duke, Slade’s arm still wrapped around his back. Duke snickers. “Dinner’s about done. Alfie sent me to round you guys up.”
“Oh,” Jason says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Thanks. We’ll be down in a minute.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Slade,” Duke says, grinning. “Didn’t get to say hi earlier, what with Dick hogging you.”
Slade shifts — did he fall asleep too, or just let Jason rest? — giving Duke a polite nod. “Duke, right?” he clarifies, even though Jason’s sure he knows. He sounds sleepy; one point towards having slept, too. He’ll ask Duke later. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Right. No, we haven’t,” Duke says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I thought I was Jason’s favorite brother, but apparently—”
“Oh, fuck off,” Jason interrupts, laughing. “I didn’t even tell Cass.”
Duke raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t count. She probably already knew.”
“Fuck off.”
They’re the last to make it to the dinner table, despite Duke’s warning.
That’s fine: Alfred’s still plating the last of the food when they make it downstairs and into the dining room, where everyone’s waiting for them. Even Babs is here; she must’ve shown up while he was asleep. She smiles at him like Slade’s presence is no surprise at all, and when she opens her arms, he doesn’t hesitate to bend down and pull her into a tight hug.
Cass, the delight she is, has left the seat beside her open. Jason takes it — this puts Slade between Jason and Damian, and for what it’s worth, no one seems to mind. Who can really be upset with Alfred’s cooking in front of them?
He’s made a feast for the big announcement, complete with Jason’s favorite: homemade bread from the sourdough starter Jason helped him grow. There’s brisket and rice and fried asparagus and vegetable stew and fruit salad and so much more, and things are mostly quiet as everyone fills their plates.
Alfred sits only when everyone is served, and as he does, it hits Jason: this is what he’s been looking for, all this time. Mending things with Bruce felt like mending a piece of his heart. Learning to love Slade felt like filling in another. This, sitting in the dining room where he discovered what it meant to truly be fed — this, sitting alongside the man he loves, alongside his entire family; this feels like the beginning of the final piece is starting to form.
“Thank you guys,” Jason says, because he feels the words will linger heavy in his throat all night if he doesn’t spit them out. “For, uh. For having us over.”
“You’re always welcome, Jason,” Bruce says, like he means it. Jason swallows air and waits for the other shoe to drop — but it never does. “This is still your home.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jason mutters, glancing down at the table. “You know.”
Slade touches his knee, lightly, under the table. It makes everything a little easier. Slade makes everything a little easier.
“I, for one, am glad you’re happy,” Tim says; beside him, Dick hums a quiet agreement.
(I intend to keep you as long as you want me, Slade told him.
Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it.)
Dinner goes better than Jason could’ve imagined.
There’s only one little blip, when the conversation, as it often does, accidentally slips into work-talk; Alfred smoothly redirects, though, and that is the end of that. Everyone helps clear the table, and then they scarf down cherry and apple and key-lime pies, latticed beautifully by Damian — he blushes and mutters to himself when Slade compliments the latticework, staring at his lap in flustered disquiet. Slade pats his shoulder. Miraculously, he allows it.
There is a warmth in Jason’s chest he never thought he’d be allowed to feel again. God, does he feel it. He feels it when he thanks Alfred for the meal, and then everyone — even Slade — follows suit. He feels it when Duke and Steph start to argue over whose turn it is to do dishes and Cass chimes in that it’s Tim’s, actually. He feels it when Slade licks the tip of his thumb and rubs it over the corner of Jason’s mouth, wiping away the last of his dessert.
He feels it, most importantly, when Bruce thanks both of them for showing up, and the smile in his eyes doesn’t falter when he looks at Slade.
Jason isn’t stupid. He knows Bruce isn’t happy about any of this. It’s clear he’s been moderately uncomfortable since the moment he spotted Slade, and Jason’s still pretty sure he’s waiting to get him alone to discuss things, but he’s trying. He’s not starting a fight.
(I trust you, Jay.)
It’s all he can ask for.
“Jase,” Tim says, and Jason jumps a little. He’s squatting close to the kitchen floor, introducing Slade to one of Damian’s cats. “Slade.”
“What’s up?” Jason asks, looking up at him as he runs his hand over the cat’s soft back.
“We’re playing Uno. C’mon. We already dealt you cards.”
Jason grins, grabbing Slade’s wrist and tugging him off to the living room behind Tim. Sure enough, everyone — barring Bruce, Alfred, and Babs (Dinah called, Dick explains) — is gathered in a circle on the floor, cards splayed out in front of them, just enough space cleared for Jason and Slade to squeeze in. They settle into place, thighs bumping, and Steph points a green four at Slade, explaining their house rules.
“No jump ins,” she says, very seriously. Duke solemnly nods. “For safety. Stacking is allowed. Draw until you can play. If someone calls Uno before you, draw two. Got it?”
Slade nods, and with that, they play.
Damian is out unbelievably quick. Slade is losing unbelievably quick.
“The fuck,” he says, gesturing at the stack of cards. “You can’t put a red plus-four on a yellow plus-two. That makes no sense.”
“Yeah, you can,” Duke says, squinting at him. “They don’t have to be the same color. They’re the same number.”
Slade stares at him. “Two and four are the same number to you?”
“No,” Duke laughs. “Not the same number literally. The same mechanic. They serve the same purpose.”
Jason nudges Slade’s side. “You’re not winning this one. Draw six.”
Begrudgingly, Slade does.
The game lasts approximately an hour and a half. Cass and Dick fall in second and third place, then Duke and Jason, until Steph and Slade are at each others’ throats. Jason’s pretty sure Steph is having the time of her life. She’s got Cass draped over her shoulder, probably helping her cheat, but he can’t say anything, considering he’s been half asleep on Slade’s arm since the moment he got out.
Jason gives up for the both of them the moment Slade has to draw eighteen cards. “Face it, old man. She’s not gonna let you win.”
Dick looks at him like he just walked in on them fucking. “Ew.”
“Fuck’s your problem?” Jason asks, leaning further into Slade’s side, because it’s not like he loves PDA, but it’s worth it to piss off Dick.
“You call B that,” Dick says slowly, blinking at him.
Jason pauses. Processes. Bursts out into laughter, because holy fucking shit. He does. He absolutely calls them both the same nickname, and somehow never noticed until right now, until Dick brought it to light.
“Jay,” Slade says, slow and tentative. “Please tell me that’s not true.”
Jason half-laughs, half-groans, burying his face in his palm. “I swear it’s not intentional.”
Steph — who is starting to scoop up the cards, after Jason surrendered for Slade — snickers. “Holy daddy issues, Batman.”
Jason’s gonna fucking kill her.
In the end, it’s Slade who proposes they go home.
Jason’s sleepy enough that he’d probably stay at the Manor if he’d come alone. But he didn’t, and as courteous as everyone was tonight, he’s not stupid: he knows Slade’s nowhere near welcome to stay the night.
Bruce isn’t in the room — he’s upstairs, somewhere, talking to Damian — when Slade suggests they leave. Jason thinks this is on purpose: this way, he only has to say goodbye to Cass, Babs, and Alfred, the others all off who knows where. He’s sure everyone knows when they leave, though; they linger in the foyer for a few moments longer than necessary after putting on their shoes, Slade holding Jason against his chest. Jason not quite ready to go.
“Wait,” Jason says, the word tumbling out of him without much say on his part. “Just— wait here. I’m gonna say bye to him.”
(He doesn’t have to explain whom. Slade knows, of course. Slade knows.)
He’s breaking the no shoes in the house rule when he rushes upstairs, boots on, but he doesn’t particularly care. He just— he needs to do this. He’s going to be thinking about it all night if he doesn’t.
He finds Bruce and Damian in Bruce’s bedroom, the door open, and pokes his head in as if asking for permission to enter. Bruce waves him over, and just as quick, Damian slips out of the room, which is probably a good thing. Just in case something blows up.
“Hey,” Jason says, stepping in front of the California King. Bruce is sitting on the edge of it, looking up at him with an expression he can’t quite place. “Slade and I are heading out.”
“Oh,” Bruce says, soft. He looks a little confused; Jason figures he didn’t expect him to seek him out, which. Fair. “Drive safe. Thank you for coming. Seriously.”
Jason breathes in, and out, and stares at Bruce, wordless. What can he say? What is there to say? Jason hates him and loves him and more than anything else, needs him. It’s what brought him to dinner tonight. It’s what brought him upstairs, here, now.
It’s what brings him to sit down beside Bruce — beside his dad — on the edge of the bed, and pull him into a crushingly tight hug. “Thanks,” he mutters into Bruce’s shoulder, breathing him in. He smells like home. Jason swallows back tears.
“For—” Bruce chokes on a breath, wrapping his arms around Jason, tentatively at first, then tight. “For what?”
“You know,” Jason mumbles, fisting his hands into Bruce’s shirt. “Trying. With Slade.”
“Jay,” Bruce breathes, pressing his face into Jason’s hair. Jason’s not going to cry. He won’t. “He’s… he’s good to you, isn’t he?”
Jason laughs, because it’s an understatement. He’s pretty sure no one has ever been better to him. “Yeah,” he says. “He is.”
“I can tell,” Bruce says, rubbing his hand up and down Jason’s back. “The way he looks at you…”
There are tears in his voice, and Jason pulls back because he’s pretty sure if Bruce starts to cry, so will he. “Well. I don’t wanna keep him waiting.”
Bruce nods — stops touching him the moment Jason pulls away. “I’ll see you, Jason,” he says, swallowing. “I love you.”
Jason has to stand, at that. “Yeah. Love you too, dad.”
The tears come the second Jason and Slade step foot into their home.
This is fine: there’s no reason to hold them back, not here. Jason is slightly surprised — proud, even — that he managed to contain them so long at all.
Slade pulls him into a hug, tight against his chest, and Jason presses his tearstained face into Slade’s shoulder, and he knows. This is what he wants, forever and fucking ever. The kitchen’s only lit by the dim automatic nightlight plugged in next to the toaster, because Jason’s tears didn’t wait for the lights to be turned on, and Slade presses his lips to Jason’s hair, and Jason loves him and loves him and loves him.
They can’t linger in the doorway forever. Slade flicks the light on and helps him out of his boots and directs him to the kitchen island, where he sits, face buried in his arms, while Slade fills him a glass of water. His crying has slowed; it comes back when he breathes too sharply or thinks too hard about tonight, but it’s not as overwhelming anymore. He watches Slade pop ice cubes out of the plastic tray and rubs his eyes with his cotton sleeves and coaxes his body into breathing right again.
“Earlier,” Jason says, when Slade slides the cup over to him with a knowing look. “Earlier, when you were talking to Dick. You said— you told him you’ve loved me for two years.”
Slade takes the seat beside him, waving for Jason to take a sip of his water. He does. “I did,” he confirms, placing a strong hand on Jason’s upper back. “I have.”
“That’s.” Jason squeezes his eyes shut, processing. “That’s before we ever fucked.”
“It is,” Slade agrees, his words slow but certain as though he’s trying to sink the idea into Jason’s mind like water seeped into the earth. His fingertips drumming against Jason’s spine. Jason who still smells Bruce, whose mind will probably convince him he smells like Bruce until he scrubs his skin raw in the shower. After that, even. Jason who knocks the glass cup onto the countertop so hard it spills and Jason who falls against Slade’s side. Jason who keeps falling for Slade again and again and again.
Jason, eyes tear-sore and pressed into Slade’s sleeve, mumbles, “I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t want you to know,” Slade says. “It wasn’t— well. You know how I felt.”
He does.
After the first time they fucked — hot and hasty after a job together, unplanned and unexpected — Slade had rolled over, looked him in the eye, and told him, succinctly, to go home. Get home safe. Something stupid like that. And Jason did, without complaint, because it’s not like he’d expected anything else; he wasn’t interested in deluding himself with the idea that Slade would want more. He didn’t… he wasn’t even sure, yet, whether he wanted more. Whether the tight feeling in his chest was because he wanted anything real or because he wanted Slade, in particular.
“Yeah,” Jason says, shuffling to sit up straight and wiping at his eyes. “I guess.”
Slade warned Jason, when they first got together, that this wasn’t going to be easy. Jason had laughed, because obviously not. They’ve always been explosive, both too brash to work things out calmly. Jason had laughed because he didn’t expect things to be easy — because it was ridiculous for Slade to imply he did. He’d laughed and shaken his head and told him, I don’t want easy — I want you, and Slade had kissed him, and that was the end of that.
He was wrong, though, both he and Slade alike: loving Slade might be the easiest thing Jason’s ever done.
Slade presses his lips to Jason’s temple and then stands, tearing a paper towel off the roll to clean up the small spill. “It went well,” he says, balling up the paper before tossing it in the trashcan. “I like your sisters.”
Jason laughs. “Sister. Steph’s not… she’s a friend. But they seem to like you too. And it— it did go well. Better than I expected, at least.”
“Hard to be disappointed when you’re anticipating the worst,” Slade says, leaning against the countertop. Jason just snickers, and at no further comment from him, Slade prompts: “You know, my favorite part of you seeing Wayne has always been the recuperation sex…”
Jason rolls his eyes and slides off the stool. They barely make it to the bedroom doorway before Slade’s mouth is on him. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chat with: Tim — 9:54 AM
[6 attachments]
wtf
hate that you take pictures good enough that I can’t complain
a thank you works
how did you even get that angle
I don’t remember you being in the room
a magician never reveals his secrets
maybe you can teach slade how to use a cellphone and have matching bgs
shut
“Slade,” Jason says, an entire ten hours later, because he can’t stop thinking about it.
Slade glances into the bedroom from the en suite bathroom sink, where he’s washing his hands after taking Jason apart with them. “Hm?”
“You know how to change the lockscreen on your phone, right?” Jason asks, tilting his head to meet Slade’s eye, cheek pressing into the pillow.
“My password?” Slade asks, shaking the excess water off his hands before grabbing a washcloth to wet.
“No,” Jason says, chuckling. “The picture. You know, yours is… colorful blobs.”
“Oh.” Slade frowns, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and starting to gently wipe Jason down, the warm washcloth making him shiver. “I could probably figure it out.”
Jason sighs and shuts his eyes.
To: Tim — 8:21 PM
I hate when you’re right
Like most every other night, Jason’s lying in Slade’s arms again.
They’re both shirtless, so Slade’s warmth envelops him, his chest pressing into Jason’s back, his chin hooked over Jason’s shoulder. They’re half-watching an ocean documentary on the TV, and in Jason’s lap is a soft, brown cat, purring like a motor. They’ve been calling her Dami. Slade has one hand on her back, mindlessly stroking her striped fur; the other is on Jason’s thigh.
“So,” Jason says, shuffling on Slade’s lap to glance back at him. The motion startles Dami, but only enough to stifle her purring for a moment — when Jason settles, so does she. “Alfred’s doing a big breakfast Sunday.”
Slade kisses Jason’s hair and squeezes his leg. “Are we going?”
Jason swallows. In the light of the TV, Slade’s painted a sea-blue to match his eye. He’s looking at Jason in wait, but not impatience, and rubbing his thumb over Jason’s thigh through his sweatpants, and he’s loved Jason for two whole years at this point, and he’s gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.
On the end-table, his phone lights up with a notification, and his new, first-ever custom lockscreen shines in the dark room: Jason, bright-eyed, one hand in Slade’s, the other tracing the bookspine of Frankenstein. Slade himself is mostly cropped out, but Jason knows what he looked like: watching Jason like he’s the whole damn world. He knows because that half of the photo is his wallpaper.
“Yeah,” Jason says, watching the screen go dim again. “Yeah, I think we will.”