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It's a generic message, when the line stops ringing. Female voice, recorded, reciting the number he's been staring at for almost a month right back to Jason with mechanical, sharp edges. He takes a breath as it nears the end, deep enough into his frozen lungs it almost burns. Leans onto the brace of his elbows on his knees, where he's sitting on the edge of his bed.
The beep is long, and harsh.
Then there's just the silence of the voicemail in his ear, waiting for him to speak. To— To agree.
"I—"
The words stick in his throat. The voicemail's silence feels like a judgment. He called, didn't he? He looked at that box Slade left, he thought about it, and dreamed, and researched, and he made a choice. He called.
"Okay," he finally manages, in a second breath. "I'm— I'm ready."
God, he sounds like an idiot. What's he supposed to say, though? What's a good way to say that he's decided he's okay with Slade using that rope and tying him up, using— using toys on him, blindfolding him so he doesn't know what's coming? Plus whatever else he decides to do, because Jason sure doesn't fucking know what his plans are, exactly. He decided he was okay with that.
('Okay with' is kind of an understatement.)
He takes another breath, closes his eyes. "Just… I'll be in the same apartment. Whenever." He swallows. "See you."
The rush of humiliation is instantaneous. He hangs up in a rush, drops the phone like it's burning because it might as well be, and buries his face in his hands. He's an idiot. He's an awkward, stupid, idiot that just left the worst proposition on someone's voice mail that has ever been left. Shit. Fuck.
"Oh my god," he mutters into his hands.
Slade's going to laugh at him, he's sure of it. Tease him to hell and back and he'll deserve it.
He should have written a script or something.
Slade's in the middle of a long job in Peru when he gets the message, but it doesn't take much to wrap things up. He ups his time table a bit, after considering the possible repercussions against exactly what he knows is waiting for him when he gets back to the States. (Todd. Aggressive, submissive, firecracker Todd with his tight ass and wrecked voice, all ready to be introduced to the concept of actually handing himself over without making Slade pin and force him, first. Not that he minds that in the slightest; always nice to see one of the Bat's little birds try and put up a fight against him. Even better if their scent reeks arousal the whole time.)
Absolutely worth it, he decides, easily enough. There's only a small chance that anything goes wrong, and if it does, then oh well. Jobs go sideways sometimes; he'll recover, he'll offer a small discount on his services for the messiness, and he'll move on.
It takes four more days to finish up. It stays clean, and he gets on a plane with the rest of the payment already on its way to one of his accounts that same night. Land in Kentucky to stretch his legs and drop off most of his gear, and then he's on his way to Gotham. Simple. Efficient.
He can practically already taste the kid's neck between his teeth.
It's late when he gets there, for a civilian. Pushing ten, but that shouldn't be an issue for Todd; might as well be midday for one of his kind. Last time, he broke in through one of the kid's windows at that lovely fire escape pressed right up against it. Good security, nice traps; nothing he couldn't handle. This time, he takes the stairs. Finds the kid's door, raps the knuckles of his free hand against it.
If Todd's already out cracking heads, then he'll break in. Steal a beer or two, maybe take a nap. Get things set up in easy reach, for when the kid comes home.
He hears the footsteps, though. Slightly hesitant, but approaching the other side of the door. Bare feet against that fake wooden floor that covers almost all the apartment. Not dressed up for the night yet, then. Good.
Slade hears the sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door a moment after the kid comes up to it. It would be polite to pretend that he didn’t, but, well… Slade’s never pretended to be polite for the sake of other people’s comfort before. Why start now?
He aims a slow smirk right at the little circular peephole, and waits.
Eight seconds. Then he hears the click of the lock, the disengage of the security system, and the handle turns. Slowly. Door opens into the apartment, so Slade gets his first real view of the kid when he steps back, opening the door the rest of the way. White tank-top, grey sweatpants. Kid looks good, dressed down in something more comfortable. Top still clings tight enough to get a good look at that nice, tapered waist, and there isn't a pair of sweatpants in the world that could disguise Todd's thighs.
Slade adjusts the bag he's got slung over his shoulder, making no secret of the fact he's enjoying the view. "Hey there, kid."
The kid swallows. "Hey."
Slade moves forward, and Todd shifts out of the way to let him in. He tosses his bag off to the side as he hears the door shut, taking a look around. Place is mostly lit up. Kitchen and living room, anyway, with something playing on the flat-screen on mute that Slade doesn't bother to identify. Bedroom door is cracked, but dark. Same for the bathroom. Judging by the smell in the air, the kid is either cooking dinner or just finished; the hour seems just about right for that.
"Cooking something?" he asks, anyway. There's the beep of the security system re-engaging, the manual thunk of the deadbolt.
"Yeah," Todd rasps, then clears his throat. "Pasta."
Slade turns to watch the kid come closer, shying away like he thinks Slade is going to reach out and grab him at any moment, his body language half open invitation, half guarded wariness. Just like last time, then, before he tossed the kid up against a wall and forced him past that struggle into one of a whole different kind. The little message he left inside the box might have spelled out Todd learning to submit without being forced, but Slade expects he'll throw him around a little bit tonight anyway. It's just too much fun not to.
He reaches out, ignoring the wild edge to the kid's eyes as he cups the side of his head, sliding his fingers through that black hair. He tugs him a step closer, meets the small flash of teeth with a smirk. "Take a breath, kid," he orders, keeping his voice low but powerful. "Deep and slow; go on."
It takes an obvious moment of struggle, but the kid does it. In through the nose, and back out through the mouth, lips parting just enough to draw Slade's attention. The tension eases a bit; not all the way.
"Another."
The kid's eyelids flicker, Slade's scent clearly getting into his lungs as he takes another deep breath. His shoulders fall.
"That's it," Slade praises. He slides his hand back just far enough to wrap it around the back of Todd's neck, offer just the lightest suggestion of pressure without squeezing down. It gets him a small shiver.
When the kid takes a third breath, he leans down and follows the air between those lips.
Kid tastes like garlic — pesto, maybe — and whines softly for him almost the moment his tongue slides inside. He can feel the grasp of fingers in his shirt, the flutter of the kid's tongue under his as he leans into it. He didn't get to do much of this the first two times — kid was too likely to bite, and Slade likes his lips intact, most days — but he might have been missing out. He nips lightly at the kid's lip as he draws back, hardly even enough to sting.
The look of the kid when he opens his eye is a sight to see. Eyes still closed, lips parted and just the slightest bit wet from Slade's attention, face flushed in all the right ways. The kid's eyes open, and Slade rumbles low approval and watches him shudder with amused satisfaction. Todd might be the most responsive lay he's had in a long time; it's certainly a nice boost to his ego. "Relax, kid. There's no rush."
Todd swallows again, some of that wildness smoothed out to simpler heat, his whole body canting slightly forwards like he already wants them pressed together. His, "Yeah. Yeah, I know," is just rough enough to make Slade want to steal all the rest of his breath right back out of his lungs.
He takes a look towards the kitchen, can just make out the pot on the stove from this angle, fire still lit under it. "That your dinner?"
The kid nods, slightly delayed.
Slade lets go, sliding his fingers down Todd's neck and pushing lightly at one shoulder. "Go eat it."
Clearly takes a second for Todd to parse that, but then he nods again, starts to turn away. Then pauses, turns back. "Why?"
He's eager. How cute.
Slade lifts his hand to slip his fingers under Todd's jaw, lets himself take a raking look down the length of his frame, voice his appreciation in a deep hum. "When I really get my hands on you, you're going to want the energy. Trust me." The catch of breath he gets for that, the little backwards tilt of Todd's chin like he wants to really bare his throat, is truly delicious. Slade pushes him back a step before the temptation can make him change his mind; kid's not going to fare well getting willingly tied up for the first time on an empty stomach, even if he doesn't know that. "Go on, boy."
Slowly, Todd goes. Slade follows. He takes one of the two seats at the little kitchen table Todd must usually eat at, watching over the wooden island in the middle as the kid falls into clearly familiar patterns. Pot off the stove, draining it into the sink in a rush of steam… Slade eyes the line of his waist, the muscle and skin that the scoop at the back of the tank-top leaves visible, and lets his mind drift back to the last time he was here. He can remember pinning Todd down over that island. He can remember it perfectly. All the squirming, and complaining, and those just-threatening-enough growls the kid couldn't have thought would do anything but make Slade want to take him down all the harder.
The kid puts together a bowl of pasta — pesto, his guess was right — and pulls out a fork, taking glances back at him. Before he comes to the table, he hesitates. "Do you uh— Do you want some?"
Cute.
"I'm fine, kid." Slade curls one corner of his mouth up into a smirk. "Food isn't what I'm hungry for."
The blush is really irresistible. So is the way the kid ducks his head, clearly trying to hide it, weight shifting from one foot to the other. Mm. Maybe the food can wait for a minute; it needs to cool down anyway, doesn't it?
Slade gets to his feet, circling the table. Todd sucks in a breath but then goes still, watching him with that bowl held right in front of his chest like some kind of shield. As if that's going to stop him. As if Todd wants it to stop him. There's not a shred of resistance when he takes the bowl from the kid's hands and sets it aside, and he doesn't take his eye off the kid's neck. Not a bruise or a mark except one old, faded scar, pale and so enticingly bare.
"Maybe I'll just have an appetizer," he murmurs, leaning down to nudge his nose in under the kid's jaw, scrape his teeth down the line of a tendon to the tune of a bitten-off gasp.
It's tempting to just bite down, leave an imprint of his teeth and a harsh bruise. He remembers what it looked like the morning after their last time, when the scent of some other alpha on his boy was just enough to make him instinctively possessive and hungry to leave his own mark. There's nothing this time, just the kid's own wood and dark earth scent, flavored by the richness of burgeoning arousal, but that doesn't mean that Slade doesn't still itch to leave some marks on that pretty neck. Or on those mostly bare shoulders. Or his collarbone.
The kid shivers and makes a thick, wanting sound deep in his throat like he has any idea the things Slade would like to do to him, strong fingers grabbing onto his biceps and clinging tight.
Slade takes a slow breath, the kid's scent soaking deep into his lungs.
Yeah, they've got a minute.
He grabs the kid by either side of his waist to heft him up.
Todd shouts at the same time as Slade feels something give under the pressure of his fingers.
He drops the kid, backs up a sharp step as Todd half-collapses against the side of the island, pain flooding his scent with sharp acidity, the hand not braced against the wood pressed tight to his lower right side. Slade smells the sharp copper scent of blood before the kid swears and lifts his hand away from the dark red stain starting to darken his shirt. Kid's hurt. Was hurt, before he ever got here.
Slade feels his jaw clench. "Is there something you want to tell me, kid?"
Todd looks up, pressing his hand back to his side. Straightens up some, though the arm braced on the island trembles a bit. "I'm fine," he bites out.
Slade bares his teeth and steps forward, shoving the kid flat back against the island. It only takes a second to wrench the kid's hand away — ignoring the snarl — and shove the tank-top up his chest. There's a pad over the injury, quickly soaking through, but after Slade tears it away the cause is obvious enough.
"That's a gunshot wound," Slade points out, "with popped stitches."
The kid bares his teeth right back. "Yeah, I fucking noticed when you put your thumb through it, thanks."
Slade swallows back the growl that wants to come free, but only barely. "It wouldn't have, if I'd known about it. What did you think you were going to be able to do tonight, kid? Did you think it wouldn't matter? That this was going to be gentle?"
"I didn't—" the kid starts, but Slade's not in the mood to hear whatever naïve excuse he has.
"You don't play like this with injuries, kid," he snaps, tightening his grip on the shirt. "I gave you my number because I thought you were smart enough to know what you could handle, not so you could pretend that you could manage play like this with a fresh gunshot wound and waste my time."
Todd still looks angry, but there's an ashamed edge to his expression, too. Good. "I— I wasn't thinking, alright?" His hands clench on the edge of the island, head ducking away. Quieter, he breathes, "You don't— You don't give me any fucking room to think."
Slade watches the kid take a deep breath, flinching at the end of it from the pull against the injury. The blood's reached his sweatpants.
His voice is much lower, tight and strained, when he grits out, "I can handle it myself, so how about you just go?" Another flex of fingers against the island, tone dipping into bitter registers. "Just send me the bill for your wasted time, alright?"
It's definitely tempting. He's flown all this way and gotten nothing but a tease. If the kid had just told him he'd been hurt—
Slade grinds his teeth. Lets the kid's shirt go with a small shove of his fingertips into his chest. "You stay right there."
Todd immediately shifts, of course, lifting his head, baring his teeth. “I—”
Slade snarls sharp and furious enough the kid's protest immediately dies, tension pulling him tight and frozen. "I said. Stay."
He doesn't move, pinning Todd in with bulk and threat, till he gets one small nod. Good; so the kid has some sense of self-preservation. Not that anyone would know it from this display.
Restraint scene with a barely stitched gunshot wound; that would have gone well.
Slade stalks across the apartment, shoving his way into the bathroom to extract the first aid kit from under the sink. Much more in here than any civilian would have, so it should have everything necessary to fix the mess the kid's gotten himself into. He'd be a pisspoor vigilante if it didn't.
The kid's where he left him, but he's grabbed a dishtowel from somewhere to press against his side, eyes pressed shut right up till he apparently hears Slade coming. The kit clacks loud enough to make the kid flinch when he throws it down on the island, flicking open the fragile little plastic 'locks' and shoving the lid open. It's nothing but tightly grasped restraint that stops all of it snapping apart in his fingers like twigs.
Old stitches will have to be cut and pulled loose, new ones put in. Fresh antiseptic, and covering. If he was nice he might see if there's a local anesthetic in the kit, but Slade's not feeling particularly charitable towards the kid. Irresponsible little bastard, trying to go through with this with a hole in his side. It doesn't take anything but goddamn common sense to know that wasn't going to work.
"What are you doing?" Todd asks, staring at him as he starts pulling out the supplies he'll need.
"You want me to leave you to bleed out in your kitchen?" he bites, shoving the kit off to the side a few inches. "Shut up and take a breath, kid."
"Wha—?"
The kid yelps when Slade grabs either side of his hips and hefts him up onto the island, pitching forward and slamming a clearly reflexive palm into his chest. Aches, but it's not enough to do anything to him. (Irritating, though.)
He grabs the kid's wrist and twists it away, flashing his teeth and snarling deep enough to make anyone flinch, even a stupidly brave, idiotic, bird with minimal self-preservation instincts.
"You're going to keep your mouth shut," he demands, not giving the kid a chance to say a damn thing before he continues, "and I'm going to fix this. You understand?"
He can see that automatic urge to argue that all the Bat's little birds share start to rise up, see the shift of Todd's shoulders as he starts to bristle at the order. But then, with more sense than Slade can remember seeing Grayson ever manage, the kid settles back down. Takes a breath and nods, lips pressing firmly together.
"Good." Well, at least the kid is willing to listen to orders when they're in his best interest. Even if he did make an incredibly stupid choice. Slade can reward that, at least. "You're going to tell me if it's too much for you to handle." He pauses. Catches the kid's eye. "Aren't you?"
There's nothing in the kid's scent — too much pain for that — but there's a small bob of his throat, almost a swallow, and a flicker of his eyes that Slade doesn't have any trouble reading. Even hurt, kid can't help reacting to an order. Idiot. (Cute, and obviously so naturally into this it's a wonder he didn't know before, but an idiot.)
Todd nods again.
Slade reaches for the set of safety scissors, first. Shoves the tanktop up and tucks it in on itself to keep it out of the way. Right, old stitches out first.
The kid takes it well. Obviously he's used to being stitched up, and he knows how to breathe through it and avoid flinching or jerking. It's relatively quick work; looks like it was small caliber, clean through-and-through to the kid’s side with no real complications, and the angle of the exit wound means it was just high enough that his fingers didn’t press into it when he tried to lift the kid. Looks like Todd was lucky. Relatively. Birds usually are.
"When did this happen?" Slade asks when he's done, as he tapes down the fresh pad over the kid's side. Looks new. Kid obviously got it after he called, so sometime in the last few days.
After a moment of silence, the kid says, "Last night."
Yeah. That sounds right.
The kid exhales when he pulls his hands away, sagging slightly as his hand comes to his waist, carefully pressing itself over the bandage. Slade packs the kit back away, cleans the scissors and needle off with one of the sterilization wipes and tucks everything back into its place. He watches Todd take a deep breath, shifting just enough it's obvious he's testing his range of motion before stilling with a wince.
"No powder burn," Slade comments, snapping the kit shut.
Todd looks up at him, brow furrowed.
Slade lifts an eyebrow. "There's no powder burn. No broken ribs, either. Caliber's too small to get through armor like you have without it being point blank, so what stupid stunt did you pull to get shot in a civilian get-up?"
Kid's expression shifts almost immediately to annoyance, and the scoff is sharp and in the middle of a flash of teeth. "I was listening in on an arms dealer and some idiot in the middle of the negotiation got called out as a rat. Everyone started shooting. Crowded bar; me and about seven other people got hit." The kid shakes his head. "Just shitty luck."
He was expecting it to be something more dramatic, honestly, with the Gotham vigilante penchant for throwing themselves into dangerous situations at the drop of a hat. Giving their armor to a child to get them out safely, or jumping in the way of a mugger's bullet in the middle of some walk to a coffee shop. Something dumb and heroic and ultimately stupid. Something that could have easily been avoided with just a little bit of foresight. Slade would like to find some reason this was the kid's fault, but he has to admit — to himself, at least — that for once it doesn't sound like it had anything to do with the self-sacrificing instincts they've all got drilled into them.
No point in addressing any of that.
"Take a breath," he orders, stepping close enough to wrap his hands around the kid's hip, safely below the wound. He waits just long enough for Todd to follow his instruction — and grip his shoulder with one bracing hand — before lifting him off the island.
There's a quiet hiss from the kid, but Slade gets him settled back on his feet without anything drastic happening. The kid stays steady on them, too. Good.
Kid should still get food in him. He'll need water, too. Probably took some painkillers already, but Slade should check on that. He'll rest easier if he gets something in his system to dull the worst of the pain out. Obviously, the kid can hardly be trusted to take care of himself. He tried to go through with all of this while injured, so obviously his sense of what he's currently capable of is intensely far off the mark, and as far as Slade’s seen, no Bat is particularly good at taking care of themselves. He can think of a few injuries Grayson's had that he should never have been in the field with, for starters; doubtful that Todd's any better about it.
"Taken anything?" Slade asks, eyeing the taped pad with a critical eye. Seems fine. Movement didn’t seem to make it pull anywhere. No blood showing through.
"Not since this morning."
Slade grunts. Kid's bathroom probably has something nice and heavy duty; drug tolerance obviously isn't as good as someone like him, but even humans build immunity when exposed to enough of something. Kid should know what will work for him, so that should work fine; he can put the kit away and grab whatever’s there.
He takes the kit in hand, then orders, "Go sit down," with a tilt of his chin towards the living room. Better if the kid doesn't have to move too much once he's settled; no point making him go from the kitchen table over to the couch.
The kid frowns, but Slade doesn't give him any chance to argue. He heads for the bathroom, making short work of storing the kit back where he found it before he gets into the medicine cabinet above the sink. Yep, like he expected; almost a full pharmacy in here, not to mention a few more specialized looking bottles with handwritten labels on them like 'Scarecrow' and 'Poison Ivy - #4'.
Christ, it's a wonder any of the Gotham brats are still alive.
He takes a bottle of Hydrocodone and heads back. Whether he understood the intention or not, the kid apparently decided to do as told, because he's relocated to the couch. He's shed the tank-top on the coffee table, tucked himself into a corner of the couch with his head lying back against the back of it. Expression has some easy-to-read pain in it, at least until Slade gets far enough into the room for the kid to notice and focus on him. It's not precisely hidden, but it is minimized to the edges of his look, making way for wariness and a slightly stubborn edge that looks like the kid might start challenging him all over again.
Slade tosses the bottle onto the couch next to the kid. "I'm sure you know your own dosage. Take it."
There are a few moments where Todd obviously weighs complaining against just doing what Slade's demanded, probably for no real reason other than that he’s bridling at being ordered around at all. Kind of entertaining, since the kid had every intention of letting Slade tie him up and make him helpless tonight; taking a few pills is hardly going to make him any more vulnerable than he already signed up for. Good to know that even if he’s not consciously drawing lines between it yet, the kid can differentiate between Slade ordering him around in a scene and being ordered around outside of one. Even if it is working against what’s actually in his best interest, right now.
As if the kid wasn’t going to take painkillers anyway.
He heads for the kitchen as Todd gives in and opens the bottle. Glass of water first, filling it off the jug the kid's got inside the fridge. Then Slade picks up the bowl of pasta still sitting on the counter. The bottom of the bowl's still warm; it should be fine to eat. Not as if the kid is really going to complain about a slightly cool bowl of pasta, and if he does, Slade's entirely willing to cuff him over the head for prioritizing all the wrong things.
Todd looks up when he comes back, in the middle of closing the bottle. Presumably he swallowed a few pills, but if the brat decided to fake it, so be it. It's not like Slade is responsible for him sabotaging his own recovery.
"Eat your dinner," he orders, setting the bowl down right in the kid's lap as he takes a seat on the other end of the couch. Water goes on the coffee table, on one of the little wooden coasters the kid's got scattered over it. Coasters, cooking, overall neat house... Domestic, isn't he?
Todd stares at him as he picks up the remote, taking his first real look at what the kid's got playing on the TV. On-demand streaming service, looks like. Something episodic. By the way it's shot, Slade's first guess is it's some kind of romantic comedy. Well, to each their own, he supposes. It's not what he's intending on watching; there's probably something on the service relatively mindless but with enough realism to it to be something resembling interesting. Doing work on his phone will fill the rest of his attention.
"What are you doing?" the kid asks, after he's gone back to the main menus of the streaming service and all its little title cards advertising its library. Tone is confused, more than anything else.
Slade kicks his feet up on the coffee table, crossing one ankle over the other. "I'm not interested in paying some exorbitant fee for a short-notice midnight flight. I don't see the point in carting myself off to some Gotham hotel for the night, either. You're the reason I'm in this city, and your apartment is perfectly functional even if I'm not getting what I came for. Quit complaining and eat your dinner, kid."
The, "Oh," is barely loud enough to be considered an answer. There's a clink of metal on ceramic as the kid twists the fork stuck in the bowl between his fingers. "I—”
Slade pages through options, and waits.
"Sorry," the kid mutters, finally. "Didn't think about it today, and I didn't really… I didn't think you were going to show up."
Slade takes a glance. Shoulders hunched, head lowered, fork still spinning in his fingers. Mm, consider him completely unsurprised that the kid's got some self-worth issues. "Said I would, didn't I? I was in the middle of a job; took a bit to wrap up."
"It's been five days. I thought—” Kid doesn't finish the sentence.
"Thought what?" he asks, after enough silence has passed to make it clear that the kid has no intention of saying anything unless pushed.
The shoulders curl a little further. If he was normal, Slade might actually struggle to hear the, "That you'd decided I wasn't worth it."
Christ.
'Self-worth issues' doesn't begin to cover it, does it? Kid's a mess. A lethal, handsome, alpha boy so wrapped up in all the issues his adoptive family's left him with he doesn't see his own value. Slade wouldn't be surprised if there was a little bit of self-hatred wound up in there, too, for being gay (and add a little extra layer for the kink, plus the final cherry on top of being submissive in said kink). Probably still thinks some part of this, if not the whole bundle, is some comment on who he is as a person.
Talking a Bat-Brat through an internal crisis was not on his to-do list tonight. Maybe dealing with sub-drop, if the kid took a dive, but shit like that normally comes after the fun part. (Not that he hadn't considered that Todd might have a bad reaction to ropes. Heroes get tied up often enough; have to be some unpleasant memories there. It was always more likely than not that some kink he showed the kid was going to hit some forgotten trigger; nature of the game when it comes to people like them.) He's not… unprepared. Precisely.
Different tangent than he was expecting, though.
Slade sets the remote down, crossing his arms. Considers what he wants to say. Todd fidgets, beside him.
"Kid," he starts, turning his head to look over, "I'm not desperate. There are plenty of people that want to sleep with me. Plenty of alpha boys that get off on being thrown around by someone older and stronger, just like you." Todd looks up, through the black and white strands that fall in his eyes at this angle. "I'm rich, I'm attractive, I'm powerful, and I'm honest about what I want. When I want sex, I can get it. When I want to tie some alpha boy up and fuck him till he begs, I can." The flush that warms the kid's cheeks is cute, really. Slade catches that shy, blue-green gaze, and raises a sharp eyebrow. "I don't have to take hours-long flights out to this cesspool of a city and risk getting the attention of your little Bat friends just to have some fun, and if you think I'd risk rushing a job just because some random boy called me for a hook-up, you don't know my reputation very well."
He snorts, reaching back down for the remote as he turns his eye back to the TV. "I don't usually buy full introductory sets of toys for people, either. Usually not worth my time to walk them through all the baby steps of self-discovery; most don't hold my interest for long enough for them to figure out what they want.”
Kid takes a bit of time to piece it together. Long enough for Slade to find some movie about a king reclaiming his throne, or something. He doubts it will be any good. Fight choreography will probably be laughable. It's not as if he's expecting cinematic masterpieces or anything, scrolling through a streaming service at midnight; it'll do fine.
"But you think I will?"
Slade turns on the movie, unmutes the thing and immediately turns it down a bit. No need for it to blast. Then he takes a look over at the kid, not bothering to hide how he takes his time appreciating the muscle in the kid's arm and side, and the pale stretch of his neck. He'd still very much like to put his teeth in that, if it wouldn't mean that the kid would almost inevitably pop those stitches right back out. Todd's not in any condition to do much of anything sexual. Or strenuous. Or flexible.
"Yeah, kid," he says, letting his voice come out a little low, over the opening lines of the movie, "I think you'll keep me interested."
Todd blushes.
Slade tosses the remote back down and settles into his side of the couch. "Now shut up and eat your damn food, kid. Skipping a meal isn't going to make you heal any faster."
The kid actually does it, this time. Starts with a small bite, then seems to recognize that he's actually pretty hungry and begins to devour it. If Slade hadn’t had two teenage boys, he might worry the kid was going to choke, but it's remarkably similar behavior, actually. Never seemed to hurt his boys, so he can’t imagine it’s going to hurt a trained adult vigilante, either. Just makes him roll his eye the same as he did back then. It's like they think they're going to starve if they don't get the food in them immediately.
The bowl's empty in the span of a couple minutes. Water follows suit pretty quickly. It's about at that point that the painkillers apparently start to kick in. Slade can hear the kid's heart slow, little by little, and the way Todd's head is tipping back against the couch is an obvious indicator. He's probably going to pass out soon enough; better if he doesn't do that sitting up, tilting sideways at every second.
Slade offers a hand across the length of the couch. "Come here, kid."
Todd blinks at him. Looks at his hand, then back up at him with an expression more on the side of lack of understanding than wariness. It isn't till Slade quirks an eyebrow up that the kid startles into movement, lifting a hand to take his and shifting slightly his direction. A firm pull gets him further over, before Slade guides him down to lie along the couch, head in his lap. Kid has an impressive blush lighting up those cheeks, but he doesn't vocally complain and the slight resistance to being pulled down is hardly strong enough to be an active attempt to get loose. There are lots of things Todd could target down there to make his displeasure clear, if he really wanted to be free. Kid's not the type to take something lying down — all puns aside — if he really doesn't like it.
"Comfortable?" Slade asks, combing his fingers through the kid's hair.
Kid fidgets slightly, toes pushing against the opposite arm of the couch. It's a bit short for him, but his legs aren't too badly curled. "Little cold."
Slade grunts, casting his gaze around the living room. There's a blanket on the couch with them, actually, haphazardly thrown over the back of it, like the kid might have been using it recently. (Grounded with a bullet wound, he probably was.) It's only one stretch of his arm to reach it, and a flick to throw it over the kid. It's soft, black, nice and big enough to cover him toes to shoulders with a good foot of extra still left over. Kid immediately relaxes a little when it settles over him, feet shifting to get it wrapped around them, head pushing against his thigh as he pulls it close and settles down with everything below his neck covered.
It's just a little too tempting for Slade to keep his hands to himself, and the way the kid shivers when he trails his fingers down the side of his throat is enough to make him smirk.
"Aren't you pretty down there?" he teases, tipping the kid's chin up with a finger.
The blush is almost instantaneous. Flushes Todd's cheeks, and there's a faint hitch to his inhalation as he stares up, not even slightly resisting the suggestion of Slade's finger. How easy it would be, to wrap his hand around that throat, pin the kid's head to his thigh and hold him still. Make him struggle a little to get a good breath.
Mm, but he wouldn't hold still. Wouldn't be able to.
Shame.
Slade lets the tip of his finger trace up, following the line of the kid's jaw to brush over the shell of his ear just light enough to get a shallow suck in of breath and a small twitch. Oh, he's going to have a lot of fun finding all these little sensitive spots when he actually gets the chance to have the kid all tied up. Every single one.
For now, he turns his attention back to the TV, and reaches out to pick the remote up and turn the volume down some. He'll hear it fine, and it won't stop the kid from falling asleep with drugs like that in his system. Slade doesn't think so, anyway, though it's been a while since he was in a position to take note of something like that. In his experience, regular humans will fall asleep through just about anything with enough extenuating circumstances, though.
"Get some rest, kid," he orders, letting his voice dip to lower registers. "Nothing's happening tonight."
Todd shifts, squirms a little as he adjusts his position, then stills with a little hiss between his teeth. Stops moving after that.
For about a minute.
Then there's a quickly-drawn half a breath, like the kid's about to say something. And a rush, as it goes right back out without a word.
At the second sharp inhale that goes by in just the same way, Slade says, "Spit it out." He doesn't really need to look down to see the embarrassment, but he does anyway just to aim a crooked eyebrow at the kid and enforce his demand. "Now."
Todd shifts, still almost completely covered by the blanket. "You—” The kid takes a deeper breath, clearly steels himself. "You know that I'm not going to just heal by tomorrow, right?"
Slade levels the kid with the flattest look he can muster. "I do have a passing familiarity with how human bodies work, surprisingly."
Todd's too embarrassed by that to really manage a glare, but he tries. Slade just snorts, lifting his arm to hook over the back of the couch. He'll give it till the end of the movie. Then, either the kid will be sleeping light enough to wake back up, or he'll be out firmly enough to carry him to the bed. He can get the full night's sleep there, then Slade can be up early enough to maybe heat something up for the kid for breakfast before he flies back out.
Reminds him, he should take a detour to the kitchen after he puts the kid to bed to put away the rest of that pasta he made. Maybe he'll give it a try. Smelled good.
"Sorry I didn't tell you."
Slade looks down.
Todd squirms a little more, gaze resolutely turned away from him but obviously able to feel his attention. "I just— I wasn't thinking about it, and after the first couple days I didn't think you were going to show, and then— Then you were here, and I— I can't think when you're around. You just… just take over." The kid huffs out a breath. "I didn't even remember."
Poor Todd. Little overwhelmed alpha. Still, it's—
"Flattering." Slade shifts his other hand over so he can tuck some of the kid's hair back behind his ear. "Maybe you should pay more attention to injuries."
"Maybe you should actually tell someone when you're going to show up at their door to make sure nothing's changed," Todd snaps back, then freezes under his fingertips.
Hm.
Kid's got a point. Not exactly a stable life Todd lives, and there's always the possibility that something takes him out of commission, or he has some mission planned, or any one of the myriad of things heroes inevitably fall prey to. Slade can't assume the kid's always going to be around, let alone in any condition to play. He can't assume that the kid will always have the energy, either, with the regularity disasters seem to occur in Gotham. It's a waste of his own time to come out here if the kid's not going to be able to do anything fun. Wouldn't work to rely on the kid having time to tell him about issues, either. Slade might not choose to get involved with messes like heroes do, usually, but he's well aware how ragged it can run them. He's taken advantage of that quite a few times.
"Alright," he agrees.
Todd's gaze jerks up to him.
Slade raises an eyebrow. "I'll let you know when I'm coming by. If you don't confirm, I won't show up. Fair?"
Todd stares for a long moment. Then swallows, gaze dipping away, shading his eyes with those relatively long lashes for a moment. "Okay."
Good, that's settled.
"Alright. Now go to sleep, kid." He bares the smallest hint of teeth, to threaten, "Don't make me scruff you."
Todd's huff of an exhale definitely sounds amused, but he turns his head and closes his eyes even as he says, "Pretty sure that would have the opposite effect."
Slade lets his lips tug up, since the kid's not looking. It might. Might get to all those Bat-trained instincts, make him fight to get free. Or, maybe it would make him drop like he did last time, hard and deep enough it took some prodding to pull him back up enough to answer questions. Kid's so sweet under all that tough attitude it's a wonder anyone falls for the act at all.
Mm, then again, he's got the skill to back it up. Sweet under a firm hand and the right words, maybe, but in a fight Todd is still one of the most lethal humans around. Kid wouldn't be half as much fun as he is if he wasn't dangerous; Slade's always appreciated a fight. Or some challenge. Or just knowing that the boy under his hands could be that, if he didn't have them so firmly in hand. A boy that can handle and appreciate a few bruises is always a nice bonus, too. (Or more than a few.)
Todd's breathing shifts. Deeper. Slower, in increments.
Till the end of the movie. Then he'll make sure Todd gets tucked into bed, make sure he doesn't immediately sabotage his recovery in the morning, and Slade can fly back out on the flight he planned for. Simple enough.
Slade leans more heavily into the back of the couch, and strokes the kid's hair in slow, careful cards of his fingers.
He can wait.