Work Text:
It's been five weeks since Slade set foot in the US.
His job took longer than it was supposed to, a simple assassination turning into a clusterfuck that put him right in the middle of a political uprising. His client gave him more money in order to remain engaged, of course, but only after Slade held a gun to his head and demanded something more. Slade absolutely did not get paid enough to protect a shitstain of a man while people tried to behead him, but so is the way of life.
All in all, Slade has had a very exhausting five weeks, and the worst part of it is that for the last three, he hasn't heard a single word from Dick.
Now, while Slade is working—especially on challenging jobs—he doesn't typically keep in steady contact with Dick. It's simply not a feasible thing, but it's also not radio silence between them. Oftentimes Dick will still send Slade random messages while he's away, even if Slade can't respond.
But the past three weeks?
Nothing.
Slade is not quite concerned, because it's possible shit's been going down in Gotham and Dick has been too wrapped up in it to reach out. Dick can be a terrible workaholic, so it wouldn't be surprising. But Slade is always one to look at worst-case scenarios, and his mind can't help straying there now.
It's not like Wayne would tell him if something bad happened, either. The man has never approved of his and Dick's relationship, and Slade wouldn't put it past him to be petty enough to keep any injury of Dick's (or even something worse) from Slade.
So the instant Slade lands at JFK in New York, he gets in a car and heads for Bludhaven.
The route to Dick's apartment is a familiar one by this point, and he parks in the alley beside it before heading up the fire escape out of an old habit. The window is locked when he reaches it, but picking it is incredibly easy, and he slips inside Dick's apartment, closing the window behind him.
And then he has to pause, because the apartment is in chaos.
There are files and random papers strewn about, covering the coffee table, the couch, the armchair, and a large portion of the floor in the living room. One wall, which used to house an abstract painting Dick loves, is now filled with a working board, various colored strings connecting different parts in a pattern that probably makes sense to Dick, but reads like gibberish to Slade.
There's a rushed edge to Dick's handwriting when Slade looks closer, an almost desperation, and it has Slade rubbing a hand across his face, muttering, "Shit," under his breath.
It's in that moment that Dick himself enters the room. He looks like a mess, matching the state of his apartment. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, and his hair is limp and greasy atop his head. The sweatpants and t-shirt he wears are heavily creased in a way that tells Slade Dick probably hasn’t changed clothes in a while. His feet are bare, and one of them has a cut across the side, blood rust-colored in its dryness.
Dick doesn't seem to notice Slade's presence at all, walking past the older man like he's not even there, attention fixed on the wall. His eyes scan over some of the pinned papers rapidly, and then he reaches forward, unbinding one of the strings and shifting it to connect to a different pushpin further along.
He steps back, eyes scanning again, and then moves quickly over to the couch. He grabs a file and discards it, grabs another and flips through the pages. He yanks one of the papers out and heads right back to the wall, forcefully pinning it in place by the new string point.
When Dick begins to head back towards the couch, eyes fixed on another stack of files, Slade catches his arm to stop him. Dick startles, eyes going wide as he jerks around to look up at Slade, and it takes a few moments longer than it should for recognition to pass over his features.
"Slade," Dick says, blinking. His eyes flick past Slade towards the couch and linger there for a second before locking back onto Slade. "When did you get here?"
"A few minutes ago," Slade tells him. "When was the last time you slept, birdie?"
Dick frowns at him and pulls back. Slade lets him go.
"I dunno, a while," Dick says, shrugging a shoulder carelessly. He steps around Slade and crouches down, sorting through some of the papers on the floor. It's clear that Dick forgets about Slade's presence almost immediately, sucked back into the case he's currently working. Slade couldn't give less of a shit about whatever the case is, he cares about the fact that Dick is clearly not okay.
When Dick stands back up, carrying a few files and attention back on the wall, Slade stops him. He takes the papers from the younger man's hands, which once again startles him. By the time Dick's once more recognized Slade's presence, Slade has already put the files on the floor and taken ahold of Dick's arm again.
Dick furrows his brow at him and tries to tug away, but this time Slade doesn't let him go. "Slade—"
"Time for a break, kid," Slade says.
Dick's furrowed brow deepens into a frown. "No, I have work to do. I'll take a break later."
"When was the last time you slept? Ate? Took a shower? I haven't heard from you in three weeks; have you been running yourself into the ground?"
Dick scowls at him and tugs again, more sharply this time, but Slade's superior strength keeps him easily in place. "And I haven't heard from you in five weeks but you don't see me complaining."
Slade ignores the tone and looks Dick over again. He's tense, wound up, muscles shaking with exertion under how exhausted he must be. Bath first, Slade decides. That'll be a good middle ground, make it easier for Slade to then get Dick to eat something and sleep.
"Little bird," Slade murmurs. He lifts his other hand and cups Dick's cheek, which Dick leans into with a soft sigh, despite his previous irritation. "Come on, just a short break. Come back to all this with some fresh eyes."
Dick's gaze is searching as he looks at Slade's face, and then something Slade doesn't quite understand flashes through the boy's expression. Before Slade can attempt to figure it out, Dick is pushing himself up slightly on his toes and kissing Slade, free arm wrapping around the back of Slade's neck.
Slade doesn't pull back or force Dick away, but he doesn't kiss back, either. Dick notices after a few moments and ends the kiss, confusion painted across his face.
"That's not what I'm here for, little bird," Slade says gently.
"Then why are you here?"
Slade doesn't allow himself to be offended by the implication that he only ever comes around for sex, because Dick isn't in his right mind at the moment. He doesn't need a discussion about the state of their relationship, he needs care.
"Come on," Dick says when Slade doesn't immediately reply, arm tightening around the back of Slade's neck. He rolls his hips forward, grinding himself against Slade. "You want me to take a break? Fine, let's take a break."
Slade sighs. Trust Dick to try to distract from the problem. It's also far more telling than the kid probably realizes; if Dick has reached the point of thinking that Slade—and, really, everyone—would only show up in order to have sex, then he's fraying. He's insecure and desperate, running on fumes. He's probably clinging to the case he's working to keep himself in some form of order.
Slade doesn't know what happened to bring Dick to this, but he doesn't need to. It's not important. What's important is Dick.
"No, Dick," Slade says, as gently as he can manage, and then he waits a beat, two beats, three—
Dick releases him roughly and jerks back. He's scowling, but it doesn't look nearly as angry as the kid probably wants it to. No, instead it looks terribly desperate, on the edge of breaking, and Slade's heart breaks for him.
“Then what do you want?" Dick demands. "I have shit to do, Slade, I have to—I just—"
Slade tightens his grip on Dick's arm, not enough to hurt but enough to be forceful. Dick whimpers nonetheless, hyper-sensitive at the moment. Slade slides his hand down Dick's arm and wraps his fingers around Dick's wrist instead.
"I've got you, boy," Slade rumbles, and takes Dick's other wrist in free hand, fingers wrapping easily around it. He lifts both of Dick's hands and presses soft kisses to his knuckles. Dick's breath hitches. "It's alright, I've got you."
"I have to—I—" Dick says again, but he's leaning against Slade now, not trying to pull away anymore.
"Come on," Slade says, and pulls Dick gently along. "Why don't we get you cleaned up?"
Despite his earlier resistance, Dick follows him pliantly, allowing Slade to take him to the bathroom. Slade turns on the water in the bathtub, putting his hand under the spray to test the temperature until he's satisfied, and then leaves it alone to heat and fill.
Still pliant, Dick doesn't fight when Slade takes ahold of the bottom of his shirt and pulls it up, lifting his arms to allow Slade to remove his shirt entirely. There are old bruises across his chest and stomach, and Slade doesn’t ask where they came from, instead crouching to pull down Dick's sweatpants, then helping the younger man step out of them.
While he's down there, he examines the cut on Dick's foot. It doesn’t look deep and it's basically healed by this point, the blood clotted over it making it look worse than it is. So he leaves it alone, rising back to his feet.
Dick looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, the almost-manic desperation from before having completely left him. Maneuvering him into the bath is easy, moving carefully to avoid splashing water everywhere. Slade switches off the water as Dick settles, the boy's head bowing forward as he curls in on himself.
Slade places a hand over the back of Dick's neck and kneads at it with his fingers, soothing some of the tension that clings there.
"Lay back for me," Slade murmurs, pulling lightly, and Dick moves with it, allowing Slade to lower him into the water, hand braced on the back of his neck to keep him from going under completely. Dick blinks up at him as Slade brushes his hair back into the water, wetting the greasy strands and sliding his fingers through them. Dick sighs softly, eyelids fluttering, but still keep his gaze locked on Slade's face.
Slade lets him look, pulling him back up so that his head is out of the water, his hand on the back of Dick's neck completely taking Dick's weight. If Slade let go, Dick would drop right into the water. Casual signs of trust like that are not something Slade will ever really get used to.
He grabs the shampoo bottle and squeezes some out onto Dick's hair, scrubbing it in. When he's satisfied he's gotten it all, he lowers Dick back down, brushing his hand through Dick's hair to wash out the shampoo. Bubbles begin to surround Dick, and Slade sees the boy idly playing with some of them. His chest is hitching in a way that indicates uneven breaths, that indicates impending tears, and Slade keeps sliding his fingers through Dick's hair, waiting for what he knows is coming.
Sure enough, it only takes another twenty seconds before Dick is crying, eyes squeezing shut as tears begin to leak down the sides of his face. Slade pulls Dick up carefully, sitting on the edge of the tub to better pull Dick into his arms. Dick buries his face against Slade's shirt, one hand reaching up to grip at the fabric as well, and Slade ignores the spreading wetness, petting Dick's hair and murmuring soothing nonsense under his breath.
Whatever put Dick in this state, Slade is going to find it and destroy it.
"I've got you," Slade says. "I've got you, little bird."
"Please," Dick keens. "I'm—please, Daddy—"
Slade pulls Dick closer and brushes a kiss across his forehead. He's not surprised by the use of the term; usually they talk first about what they're going to do in a scene, but when Dick gets like this—he doesn't need sex or a formal scene. He needs his daddy to take care of him. And Slade will always look after his boy.
"Let it out, boy," Slade rumbles. "You can fall, I'll catch you."
Dick looks up at him with those beautiful blue eyes of his, wet with tears and red-rimmed, and then pushes up slightly on his knees to press his lips desperately to Slade's. Slade pushes him back gently, kissing his cheek instead; Dick is slipping into a mindset where he wants to please Slade, and he thinks kissing him, having sex with him, will make Slade happy with him. But they don't need that, not tonight, so Slade gently pushes him back down into the water.
"Let me get you cleaned up," Slade says. "We can go from there, okay?"
Dick nods, settling again. He's not crying anymore, not actively at least, and Slade kisses his forehead once more before leaning away to grab a washcloth and body wash. He wets the cloth in the water and then squeezes out some soap, scrubbing it until suds appear.
He's gentle as he takes Dick's arm and rubs the cloth over it, moving the cloth in slow, even circles, slowly moving his way up towards Dick's shoulder and repeating the process there. Dick relaxes into it with a sigh, body curving towards Slade, and allows Slade to move him how he likes to get at all of him with the soapy cloth.
"Good boy," Slade murmurs, and the last of the tension in Dick's shoulders fades away.
Once Slade has washed away the last of the soap, he helps Dick out of the bath. Dick stays still while Slade dries him off with a towel, and remains compliant as Slade leads him to the bedroom, pushing him gently to sit on the bed.
When he's sure the kid is good for a moment, he turns towards his dresser and grabs a fresh pair of underwear and clean pajama pants, and then—after a moment of thought—grabs one of his own t-shirts.
Dick allows Slade to help him into his underwear and pajama pants, once again watching him silently, blue eyes just a little bit wide. When Slade pulls the t-shirt down over Dick's head, Dick holds it to his nose and inhales deeply, smiling when he recognizes the scent as Slade's cologne.
"Thank you," Dick says almost shyly, and Slade smiles, leaning in to kiss Dick's temple.
"You're welcome, little bird."
Slade reaches over to the bedside table and opens the bottom drawer, taking out the familiar objects inside and bringing them over to Dick, who watches avidly.
Slade takes Dick's right wrist in his hand and picks up one of the leather cuffs, sliding it on. He threads the belt through the buckle and begins to tighten it.
"Who do these belong to?" Slade asks quietly.
Dick flexes his wrist, staring down at the black cuff almost reverently as Slade picks up the second one. He whispers, "They belong to me."
Slade hums, nodding. "Very good." He slides the second cuff onto Dick's left wrist, threading the belt into place. He asks his next question as he tightens it; "And when you wear them?"
"When I wear them," Dick whispers, running his fingers over the cuff, "I belong to you."
Saying the words makes Dick go almost boneless, pitching forward against Slade. Slade catches him effortlessly, stroking his fingers up and down Dick's spine.
"I've got you, boy," Slade says. "I'm here with you, you're safe."
He picks up the last item he'd taken from the drawer and lifts it to Dick's neck, carefully sliding the leather collar into place without forcing Dick to move from his position. Dick lets out a soft, happy noise when the collar's buckle settles in place, his hands tightening where he grips at Slade.
He allows Dick to cling to him for a little while, pressing soft kissing to the parts of his face Slade can reach, and then pulls away slightly, getting to his feet. Dick blinks up at him and then takes his hand when he offers it, and Slade uses the grip to pull Dick up, then leads the way to the kitchen.
Completely unsurprisingly, there is not a lot of food in the kitchen. Slade turns to look at Dick, who is still sitting on one of the stools of the kitchen island where Slade placed him, and asks, "When was the last time you ate something, kid?"
Something guilty flashes across Dick's face, an incredibly vulnerable expression that Slade is honored to be allowed to see; despite how many friends Dick has, and lets many more think they know him, there are very few people who have seen Dick genuinely without his walls up. Slade knows he is lucky to be on that short list.
"I don't know," Dick answers hoarsely. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry."
Slade moves over to him, cupping the back of Dick's head and pulling him to rest against his chest.
"It's alright," he says. "I'm here now. I've got you." I won't let anything hurt you.
He waits until the tremors running through Dick's body have stopped before pulling back, moving back over to the fridge and eyeing the meager items critically.
He decides on making a pot of pasta; simple and easy on the stomach. Dick folds his arms on the island and rests his chin on top of them, watching as Slade moves around.
When Slade's done, he fills a bowl with lightly-buttered pasta and heads over to the table, sitting down and then looking to Dick. "Come here, boy."
Dick follows the instruction immediately, rising from his stool and making his way over to stand beside Slade, looking at him expectantly. Slade reaches up, brushing his knuckles gently down the side of Dick's face, enjoying the way Dick's eyelids flutter, the boy leaning into the touch.
"Kneel," Slade instructs. Dick folds gracefully to his knees, head tipping back to look up at Slade, and Slade brushes his hand briefly over Dick's hair in approval.
Slade picks up his fork and spears one of the noodles with it, then lowers his fork to Dick's mouth. Dick doesn't hesitate to take the bite, pink tongue peeking out as he does so.
"Very good," Slade murmurs. "Just like that, boy."
Dick hums, a pleased sound, and leans his head against Slade's thigh. Slade places his free hand over the nape of Dick's neck, holding firmly but not painfully.
Piece by piece, Slade slowly feeds Dick, giving long enough between each bite to make sure Dick's stomach doesn't rebel against the food. Dick remains compliant and gentle at his feet, taking everything Slade has to give him, and once more Sade is filled with how honored he is to have this; Dick Grayson kneeling willingly at his feet, willing to do whatever he asks of him. It's a heady sort of power to have anyone place their life so thoroughly in his hands, and the fact that it's Dick makes it so much sweeter.
When the bowl is empty, Slade stands and moves over to the sink, giving it a cursory cleaning before going back to where Dick remains kneeling on the floor.
When he sees the look Dick is giving him, he offers the boy a gentle smile. "You did well, boy. So good for me. So perfect."
Dick lets out a soft whine, pressing into the hand Slade places on the top of his head, eyelids fluttering. Slade looks past him towards the mess of a living room and purses his lips thoughtfully.
Normally, he'd make Dick clean it up. The act of putting everything back where it's supposed to be would not only help some of Dick's scattered thoughts, but it would also give Dick something to reach for, a goal to hit and then feel accomplished about. But the way Dick was so consumed by whatever he was working on earlier—Slade doesn't want to risk Dick seeing the files and getting pulled right back in. His boy is finally looking centered; Slade can't ruin that.
It pops into his head—Dick's room was rather messy, too. Nowhere close to the chaos of the living room, but still enough to need cleaning. An easy task for Dick to accomplish, something for the kid to be proud of once done. Excellent.
"Come with me, little bird," Slade says. "You can stand."
Dick does so, and then follows as Slade leads the way back towards the bedroom. Slade glances around, taking note of the piles of clothes, the scattered notebooks, the half-closed dresser drawers.
"I want you to do something for me, baby," Slade says, and Dick turns to him, something hopeful in his eyes; yeah, Dick just wants to be a good boy. Just wants to make someone happy with him, to be good for someone. Slade will never deprive him of that feeling, because Dick is never anything less than absolutely perfect.
"Clean up your room," Slade instructs, keeping his voice gentle. He brushes his hand through Dick's hair, and the boy sighs, leaning into it. "Nice and tidy for me, little bird."
Dick nods and turns away. He eyes his room critically and then his chin juts out with determination in a way that makes Slade smile.
Slade stands by the door, arms loosely folded across his chest, and watches as Dick methodically cleans his room. He folds the clean clothes and puts them away, then puts the dirty clothes in the hamper. He compiles all of the notebooks into a neat stack and places them on his desk, then cleans up some of the clutter on his desk. He makes the bed, and Slade has to smile again because the tight corners and neat lines are all military regulation, just the way Slade taught him.
Such a good boy.
When he's finished, Dick turns back to look at Slade. His right hand is clasped around his left wrist over the cuff, applying enough pressure to truly feel it. Grounding himself, Slade knows. The presence of the cuffs and the collar has always helped with that, a physical representation of the fact that he's wanted. That Slade has him. That he can let go and know that someone is going to be there to take care of him.
Slade will always, always take care of him.
Slade steps forward, pulling Dick into his arms when he's close enough. Dick goes easily, folding into Slade's embrace, lightly gripping at Slade's shirt.
"Excellent job," Slade tells him, and Dick's breath hitches. "You did so well, you should be proud."
"Thank you, Daddy," Dick says, tightening his grip, and when Slade looks down at him he can see the edge of a smile on the boy's face.
"You're welcome, baby." Slade kisses his forehead, then his temple, then his cheek, then his ear. He nips lightly at the lobe, and Dick laughs, smile widening.
"Why don't you lie down on the bed on your stomach?"
Dick looks at him curiously, but follows the instruction, climbing onto the bed and lowering himself down, pillowing his head on his folded arms and looking back at Slade over his shoulder.
Slade follows him onto the bed, moving to straddle his thighs. He pushes Dick's shirt up to his shoulders and gently runs his hands up and down the boy's back, tracing the scars that paint Dick's skin, a study in survival. Dick lets out a soft sigh, eyes sliding shut, relaxing under Slade’s touch.
After a few minutes of that, Slade presses more firmly, kneading at the muscles of Dick's back, starting up by his shoulders and slowly making his way down, taking his time to make sure he addresses everything. Dick continues to hum and sigh beneath him, expression perfectly calm as Slade methodically massages him, putting just as much attention into the task as he would one of his jobs.
When Dick is completely relaxed beneath him, not a single tense or raised muscle in sight, Slade leans down and presses a kiss between Dick’s shoulder blades, then to the nape of his neck. Dick shifts slightly, eyes half-lidded as he looks back at Slade over his shoulder, an almost drunken smile curving his lips.
"How are you feeling, boy?" Slade asks, kissing Dick's temple.
"'M good, Daddy," Dick says. "'M really good. Thank you."
Slade kisses his shoulder. "You're welcome, little bird. How about we get some sleep, hm?"
Dick nods and allows Slade to shift him into a seated position, and Slade pulls down the sheet and comforter before maneuvering Dick underneath them. He stands and walks over to flick off the light, then stripes down to his underwear. When he returns to the bed he slides in behind Dick and pulls the boy against him, back to chest.
"Do you want these on or off?" Slade asks quietly, reaching over to tap one of the cuffs. Dick curls his arms against his chest, pulling Slade's with them and trapping Slade there, which brings an amused smile to Slade's lips.
"On," Dick says, voice beginning to slur as sleep creeps up on him. Slade nods and kisses the nape of Dick's neck.
"On it is, then. Get some sleep, little bird."
"G'night, Daddy," Dick mumbles.
Slade pulls Dick more tightly against himself, feeling something inside of himself calm now that Dick is truly okay and in his arms.
"Goodnight, my little bird."