Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Joseph goes home. As much a home as he can call it, at least. The loft will do. He digests in silence, both physically and metaphorically, and then crawls into bed with single-minded determination. 

Keeping a sleep pattern seems pointless, and he is tired. It's only once he's under the comforter that he realizes he still has the hat on, and the scarf. With not much heating to speak of, Joseph elects to keep them on, curling on his side with a rumble. 

If he presses the edge of the scarf against his mouth, under the bump of his nose, that's his own damn business. Eventually, he warms up enough to drift under, despite all the coffee. Despite the constant buzzing in his skull, Slade's face stuck in his mind like a broken record, and how tiny Joey's socks had felt in his hands. 

When he wakes, it's dark. Snow's picked up again, sticking to the loft windows like glue. Behind the veneer of white, orange streetlamps do their best to creep in, leaving the darkened room in a strange, dusk-like quality. 

Joseph, to put it mildly, feels like shit. If he could, he'd call it a cold. Weather like this, coupled with the stress — it would be a cold. 

He frowns, looks at the scarf that's still hanging from his neck. Presses it to his mouth again, breathing in deep. Only the faintest traces of Slade linger, warm like honey to his senses. Fading. 

Not good. He knows that. 

"Fuck," he mutters. 

Rather stupidly, he'd thought it might take longer than this. More than this. But that was stupid, more proof that he's not fucking qualified to get out of this mess. 

Take an Alpha out of a pack, and withdrawal sets in. 

Take an Alpha out of a universe, and withdrawal hits like a fucking truck, quicker than he can blink. Because there's nothing. Not a single scent. Not one solitary action that so much as looks like pack. 

Joseph fights the nausea that bubbles up. Focuses on the scant traces of Slade, and heads for the bag still stuffed into his closet. He changes, ignores the urge to stick his head into the duffel and scream, and then heads out. 

Slade's no doubt started without him, and by now— Joey will be asleep. He better be. He can't take a repeat. Billy will have no doubt tired him out, traipsing across Gotham in the snow all morning, Joey's little fingers turned red on the cold and his small, soft nose equally pink. 

Joseph itches to see him. Feels sick when he thinks too long on him. 

With a soft growl, he heads out again, locking up in the dark. Misses the patch of ice this time, but holds onto the railing for dear life. He'd rather not die of embarrassment in another universe, or worse yet — have Slade find out, and laugh at him, smugness in his eyes. 

Picking his way across Gotham is tricky when everything's slush under a fresh layer of snow, ice mixed in for an extra fun obstacle course. With the weather, the place is empty, though. Damn near silent, save for the faint hum of cars in the distance, a few brave bar-goers having the time of their lives in little red Santa hats. 

When he makes it to Slade's, the place is dark. The only light spills out from drawn curtains, beckoning him inside, and Joseph lingers at the door for only a moment before trying the handle. 

It clicks open quietly, swinging into the hallway on silent hinges. Warmth hits him full force, Joseph shivering once as he enters, extra careful to close the door just as quietly. In his peripheral, the staircase is darkened, books still stacked near the top, a jacket thrown over the bannister. 

He exhales, and braces for the experience of breathing in. The lingering scents of an evening meal hang in the air, soft and homely, the sharper taste of alcohol when Joseph lets it in. Slade. Joey. A new, distant scent, and it takes him a moment to realize it's Billy. 

It's been so long since he's seen him. Been anywhere close to him. 

"Hey," Slade murmurs, startling Joseph. He rounds the corner on quiet, socked feet, raising an eyebrow. "He's sleeping." 

"I know." Joseph replies. If he listens, he can hear him. The soft, quiet breaths upstairs. Safe. Alive. He wants a drink in hand, and to forget all about the little boy upstairs. 

It feels like a mistake coming here. Also, possibly, the right thing to do, when his insides finally begin to unclench, soaking up the atmosphere. 

"Billy's here." Slade adds, then heads back the way he came. 

Joseph follows, removing his boots after a moment's consideration. Too loud. Warmth seeps into his toes as he pads through to the living room, Joseph's fingers cold when he removes them from his pockets. 

Definitely not good. He can hold on, though. As long as he needs to. 

Billy is there. And it is him, the same man Joseph's always known. Steady when he stands, an appraising edge to his eyes. The makings of stubble and a perfectly styled moustache, meeting Joseph nearly head-on. Slightly shorter than his Billy, he notes.

When he smiles, it's nearly unsettling. There is no— frustration. That look that asks him things he can't fucking answer. Wants him to be more than he is. Joseph has never tried to be anything more than he is, and Billy's always wanted more. 

They stand two feet apart for the longest moment. Billy, amused, and Joseph nothing but tense. Another shiver runs down his spine, this time repressed. 

"I thought you were joking," Billy says, his eyes sliding to Slade. "Or gone daft." 

Slade snorts. "You really think I could make this up?" 

"No," he shakes his head, gazing at Joseph again. Eyes flicking to the patch, his throat. Joseph's feet all the way to the crown of his head. "You never did have a good imagination." 

"Thanks," Slade mutters. "You two going to stare at each other all day?" 

Billy's mouth quirks. Joseph shifts, eye narrowing despite himself. 

"Take a picture." He mutters. Shoulders past Billy to take up most of the couch, opposite Slade's claimed armchair. "You look the same. Figures." 

"Do I?" He asks lightly. "Do I also put up with your shit?" He adds, a slight edge to his tone, obviously displeased by something.  

The lack of a scent on him makes Joseph want to growl. He's sick of it. All their nothing. He'd take anything at this point. 

"Not half as much in my universe." Joseph replies. "He get you babysitting often?" 

"When needed." Billy says, and takes the open space beside Joseph, a respectable distance away. Crosses one foot over his knee, as always, and then unbuttons the top of his shirt with a sigh. "Getting a bit much for me, if I'm being honest. That boy's surely got some energy." 

Slade hums. "Don't I know it." He tips back an amber glass, swallowing heavily. "Want some?" 

"Sure," Joseph says, grateful when Slade pours a healthy dose, handing it over quietly. It burns on the way down, chemical in the back of his nose, a reprieve from the fucking warmth of the place. The heavy scent of Slade, familiar and nearly overpowering. 

Even his clothes smell like Slade. 

Sitting across from him, the other man relaxes, tipping his head back. Throat bared, vulnerable. Joseph can't quite tear his eyes away. He sips the next mouthful, whiskey heating his insides. 

Billy shifts on the couch, just a fraction. Enough to face him. Joseph resists the urge to stiffen. To growl, as he always does, when Billy stares for too long. 

"He said something about a dog." 

"Good fucking God." Joseph snaps. 

From the armchair, Slade laughs, voice rich. His throat bobs, a distracting motion, Joseph momentarily gone silent. 

"I was mistaken." Slade says. He lifts his head with a groan, tilting to the side, working out the stiffness. "Apparently he's an Alpha." For good measure, he waggles a few fingers. 

Drunk. Or near it. He can see it now, the relaxed edge to his mouth. The slower tracking when Slade meets his eyes, amused. 

Joseph finishes his glass and holds it out for more. Drunk sounds good. As drunk as he can get, anyway, and he's pleased to find at least another two bottles on the small table beside Slade's seat. 

"It's got nothing to do with dogs." 

Billy hums. "Of course." 

"It doesn't." 

"He growled at me." Slade supplies lightly. "What was I supposed to think? I thought he was some— some werewolf man." He chokes, turning a funny shade, and Joseph grins with all his teeth. 

"Werewolf man?" He repeats. 

"Shut up." Slade mutters. "Anyway, you've got to admit. It's similar." 

"In what way?" Billy asks. He raises an eyebrow when Joseph fixes him with an unimpressed stare. 

"Nothing. Werewolves are fiction." 

"For all I know, you're bullshitting. Maybe you just like growling." Slade points out. "I haven't seen any proof." 

Against his better judgment, Joseph narrows his eyes. Leans forward when he says, "You want proof?" 

Slade scoffs. "Why, you growing hair where you shouldn't be?" 

Joseph smirks. "Let's just say some universes are more generous than others." 

It takes a second — Billy definitely chokes on a laugh — and then Slade's eyes snap to his. Unfocused and dismayed. 

"Bullshit." 

"You'd love that." Joseph snorts. Swirls his glass, ignoring the insistent burn in his chest, not quite agreeing with the alcohol. "I've got proof. Up to you if you want to see it." 

Slade squints. "Having a bigger— that doesn't prove anything." He finishes his drink, setting it on the coffee table. "Bullshit." 

"Really." Joseph murmurs, voice dry. He shifts, thighs spread wide, and smiles that little bit more when Slade's eyes dip lower. "Not even a little curious?" 

Slade's eye twitches. "Billy, don't drink all the fuckin' whiskey." With that, he rises, fixing Joseph with a challenging stare. 

He rises slower, and follows when Slade clears out of the room with a muttered curse. It's a bad idea, and he's not sure what even possessed him to offer. He's not anywhere close to drunk right then. 

And then he's in the hallway, Slade blocking the way to the stairs. He fixes him with an unimpressed stare, Slade's eyes flicking down to Joseph's belt. 

"Bathroom'll wake him." Slade says, voice hushed. 

"Here?" Joseph asks, a little incredulous. In the hall, as if this wasn't a supremely bad idea to begin with. "No fucking way." 

"What, bark too much for your bite?" Slade says, head cocked. He sways on the spot lightly, one hand resting on the bannister for support. "Come on then." 

Joseph bites his tongue. "This is stupid." 

"The longer we stay out here," Slade replies, "the more of my whiskey Billy drinks. So get it over with. What's a little dick between— whatever we are. Doppelgangers." 

Joseph frowns. "It's not little." Slade fixes him with a challenging eyebrow, sliding a step closer. "It's not." 

"Prove it." He lifts his chin, meeting Joseph's gaze steadily. Slade's mouth twitches a fraction, the spitting image of his own smile for a second. 

"I'm— this is—" He mutters, but still reaches for his belt, aware of the heat that rises under his cheeks. This is fucking stupid. Somehow, Slade gets even closer, enough that Joseph can scent the whiskey on his mouth, the heat that radiates from his skin. 

He unbuckles in silence, and bites his tongue until it burns. It takes a few strokes before he can feel it, the slight knot at the base, enough to see, but not enough to do much of anything. He glares at the wall, and lets Slade have a moment of silence.

"The fuck is that." Slade mumbles. 

"My dick, you asshole." 

"Yeah, I got that." Slade doesn't so much as look his way, eyes fixed on Joseph's hand, and by extension — his cock. Standing nearly close enough have the tip bump against Slade's abdomen, it is confusing, the swirl of emotion in his chest.  

Joseph wants to lean in. 

Joseph should not lean in. 

He holds, and turns a deeper shade of red, glad that he isn't a fucking teenager anymore when Slade continues to stare. It's not much, but the bump at the base of his cock is distinguishable. Different. 

"I take it you don't have a knot." Joseph finally says, just to break the silence that's fallen, and that drags Slade's eyes up. 

"You fucking knot?" A laugh is buried in the words, but mostly shock, Slade's eyes bright and blue and wide. "You mean—" 

"Do not—" 

"—like a dog." 

If one could put his dick away angrily, Joseph manages it. He buckles his pants again, and feels a loss in his chest. An urge, denied. He wishes Slade had reached out, perhaps, put that warm skin on his. 

It's the withdrawal, he knows that. Feels it sitting in his chest like a ticking bomb. Joseph leans in, close enough he can see the shades of Slade's eyes change from vibrant to icy. 

"I showed you mine." He murmurs. Stupid. Bad. Wrong. Joseph grits his teeth. Definitely the withdrawal, running away with his mouth like a fucking idiot, and Billy has probably confiscated all the whiskey by now. 

"What, worried you were wrong?" 

"I'm just saying," Joseph hums. "Proof is proof." 

"Fine," Slade mutters. He ducks his head, fiddling with his belt. "Fuck. Fine. And then we never speak of this again." 

With his belt undone, Slade shoves his jeans down, and produces his cock. Joseph doesn't know what he was expecting, but finds himself staring anyway. 

It's not the uncanny valley of dicks, but they are similar. No knot to speak of, but otherwise functionally the same. He's half-hard in his hand, the tip of his cock a little red.

"I guess some universes are more generous." He murmurs, a little smug. Meets Slade's eyes with amusement, and backs up a step when the other man opens his mouth. 

Slade frowns. "Fuck you. It's cold." 

"Not that cold." He hums. A little displeased when Slade begins putting everything away again. 

It's, at most, an inch difference. Maybe a little more in width. Not a competition, but he's still winning regardless. 

With that, he turns on his heel, pushing the living room door open with the air of a man well-endowed and incredibly pleased. It'll keep him going for a while at least, if nothing else. Alpha instincts can be a little simple at times. 

Behind him, Slade sputters quietly, careful not to wake Joey. 

Billy, on the couch, has commandeered a full bottle of whiskey to himself. He holds it close when Joseph flops onto the couch, head falling back with a grunt. 

"Well?" Billy asks, voice muted. "Proof?" 

"He's got a weird dick." Slade announces. 

"And…?" Joseph prods, not lifting his head. 

Slade audibly shifts on the spot, standing in the middle of the room no doubt, possibly with hands on his hips if Joseph had to guess. 

"He is a tiny bit bigger." He finally says. "Not a lot. And anyway, it's not the package, it's how you use it." 

"Keep telling yourself that." Joseph replies lightly. 

Beside him, Billy makes a noise, somewhere between a cough and a laugh. He buries it under a mouthful of whiskey and stares at his knees for a long moment. "Well this is quite the day." 

Joseph snorts. "That's one word for it." Wordlessly, he holds out his hand, pleased when Billy hands over the bottle without a fight. He presses it to his mouth and washes the saliva pooling in his mouth away, packed full of fucking hormones. "You can wipe that look off your face, too." 

"What look." Slade replies. 

Joseph hands the bottle back, Billy's thanks quiet and more than a little irritated. "The one on your face." He replies, and leaves it at that, his ears picking up the sharp creak of Slade's armchair as he shifts. 

Billy coughs. "As riveting as this is," he sighs, "do we have a plan?" 

"Yes." Joseph says, the same moment Slade says no. Which is bullshit. The plan is very simple. "The plan is very simple." He says. Hears Slade's scoff. "Find Luthor. Have him make a button." 

"Just like that?" Billy questions. "And if he doesn't?" 

"He doesn't have a choice." Joseph replies, a hint of growl in his throat. Billy raises a perfect eyebrow, willing him to continue. "He doesn't." 

"Under threat of death." Slade says. "Luthor would rather pick death, than listen to someone else." 

Joseph snorts. "Who said anything about death? I'm not that stupid. I'm not going to kill the only asshole who can get me home." 

"So, what exactly, is your plan." 

"I'll figure it out." He huffs. 

Slade's laugh is loud and amused. "So you have no plan. You're kidding me." 

"I said," he growls, leaning forward. "He doesn't have a fucking choice. I'm not asking. I can't stay here." 

"Agreed." Billy murmurs. Both of them turn to eyeball him, the other man's shrug slight. "Two of you is two too many." 

"Hey, no whiskey for assholes who insult me." Slade grumbles, and then makes no move to confiscate the drink. "You can't just demand he take you back. When he says no, then what?" 

"I don't fucking know, okay." Joseph huffs. "You got any better ideas?" 

Across the room, Slade laughs into his drink. Not exactly comforting. He shakes his head, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. 

"I think we need a better plan than just ask him. Luthor's an asshole, he's not going to give you anything without something in return." 

"Do I look like I have fucking anything to give?" Rather annoyed, Joseph waves down the length of his body, nothing but Slade's clothes, Slade's loft, Slade's shitty laptop to call his own. 

Slade squints. Says, like he's an idiot, "You're from an alternate universe." 

"And?" 

"Surely you know something." Billy adds, shifting in his seat. He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, tilting his head. "That may be of interest to a man like Luthor." 

He probably does. Joseph grinds his teeth a little, thinking. Travelling between one universe and the next is a blur at best, difficult to even remember. Nothing of use there, when most of his memories consist of vomiting in a dumpster. 

And well, everything about his universe, while obviously superior to this one— he can't see it being too useful to Luthor. And he's not about to step under a knife for Luthor's curiosity. 

"How about we figure it out in the morning." Slade interrupts, an eyebrow raised. "Luthor isn't going anywhere." 

He's right, at least. Doesn't sit any better with Joseph, but he's got a point. With a sigh, he commandeers the whiskey again.