Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rather stupidly, Slade pushes the big, red button. 

Nothing about the button says it will be good. But it's been a slow night, with the worst kind of work: corporate secrets. Lex Luthor's top secret, well-polished button is the most interesting thing he's seen all night. 

He pops the glass case, secluded in some laboratory filled with other, more boring things, and the whole place just about reeks of beta . That non-scent that fills the back of his throat, the absence of something important, disinfected away. 

He pushes the button. For a second, nothing happens. The console it's attached to lights up like a Christmas tree, and Slade gets the feeling he's about to be wrapped up like a present and delivered to Lex's doorstep with a bow. 

And then things go a little sideways. Or he goes sideways. Hard to tell, when an ice-pick gets shoved into his cornea and the contents of Slade's stomach begin climbing back up his throat.

When he vomits, Slade has mere seconds to shove his helmet up. It lands with a wet splat. Slade groans. Screws his eye shut and tries to forget there was ever a thing such as light — artificial or otherwise. His head pounds. 

For the longest moment, everything buzzes with pain. If he had to guess, he'd say every cell in his body just got vaporised, dumped in acid, and fed to a dog. And then just as quickly, it stops. 

The world rights itself. Things become calm. Slade can breathe, without the threat of chunks. Cool air washes over the heated skin of his mouth, a pleasant sensation to go with the sudden, sharp scent of garbage. 

He adjusts his eyepatch, just in case he's seeing things. Because there is definitely garbage. He's pretty sure he didn't just throw up half a box of Chinese take-out, carton and all, or the fuzzy, green milkshake that's spilled over his knee. 

"The fuck." Slade growls. Shakes his hand free of undetermined sludge, gloves sticking to black refuse sacks. A dumpster. A snow covered dumpster.

The big, shiny button threw him into a dumpster. 

When he gets back to Luthor's lab, he's going to piss on that button. 

Climbing from said dumpster takes some dexterity, Slade glad that there's nobody about, just an abandoned apartment block and a stray cat or two fighting at the end of the alley. They both clear off when his boots hit the floor, Slade squinting against the lamplight. Ice coats the cobblestones, the air cold against his flushed skin.

It hadn't been snowing when he'd headed in, but a lot can happen in three quarters of an hour, he supposes. Yep. That's it.

The dumpster sits mockingly against a red-brick wall, stinking of vomit and trash. Fitting, he supposes, that he ended up here and not a five-star hotel bed. Typical. 

He takes a couple minutes to double-check everything. His weapons and armor seem intact, and nothing's broken. His insides still feel a little shaken, but he supposes that's to be expected when he's teleported. Or whatever. The flashdrive on his belt is as it was left, though if it still works is another question. 

Could have been Lex's new security, for all he knows. No one can resist a red button. Dumps them outside the building, far fucking away. 

In Gotham, if he had to guess by the wrought iron streetlight staring him down and the graffiti littering the dumpster. Red Hood territory.

Slade dusts off one last time, double checks he didn't forget anything in the trash and then heads for the mouth of the alley in a slow jog. The side-street he's found himself at is quiet, the moon high in the sky and the distant skyscrapers are darkened, not a light on. 

Late, then. Late even in Gotham, where the lights are always fucking on, and people never seem to go home. 

He picks a direction and walks. 

Gotham is, for the most part, quiet. The faint sounds of GCPD getting circles run around them in cheap squad cars, a few windows cranked open with the television turned loud, but not many people. He makes it all the way to a four-way intersection before he crosses anyone, and the only thing he notes is beta.

He keeps his distance, and debates climbing the roofs for a better view. Would save him the slow, drunken backing up the poor guy does, turning into a sprint. Everything still aches unpleasantly, though, and so he keeps to the streets, one eye out for the unfortunate presence of Batman. 

That's kind of the last thing he needs. Explaining that he stupidly pushed the big, red button wasn't how he wanted to spend his Tuesday night. 

By the time he's passed six betas, Slade begins to realise something is wrong.

Six. And that wouldn't be strange, if he could also catch the scent of an Alpha, thick and heavy at the back of his throat. The scent of an Omega, saccharine sweet on his tongue. The streets should be reeking of either, especially the more residential he gets. 

But there's nothing. 

Only that non-scent. Alcohol and greasy take-out stick out like a sore thumb on drunken citizens, so his nose sure isn't broken. But the chemical taste of a designation is missing. He doesn't like it.

That, more than anything, forces him up a fire escape. The whole thing rattles as he climbs up, but he feels better with crisp wind on his face, and the ability to pretend that the streets still smell as they should. It is… worrying, to say the least. 

Nothing proven, yet, though. And he shoves every question from his mind in favour of heading for the docks, and the salty taste of the water in the air. For the familiar scent of a safehouse that should be there, and he'll bite Lex on his forehead if it isn't— 

It is. He is very glad it is. The same run-down, darkened loft, and the route in is much the same. He comes in through the east window and reaches, automatically, for the alarm system. His glove hits plain, flat wall, and Slade feels something unpleasant curl in his gut. 

No security means he's either been cleared out entirely, or he's picked the wrong window. It has been a while since he's stopped by Gotham. Curious, he squints out of the window, snow beginning to fall heavier now. It hits the water and disappears, melting into the same view he's had for years at this hideout. 

Nothing about this is good. Slade steels himself and heads further into the room, flicking lights on as he goes. He's the Goddamn terminator, no amount of Freaky Friday is going to unsettle him. 

The building looks the same. Same walls and chipped plaster. Same dusty windows, blocking out most of the floodlights. But the rest is… gone. 

Stripped bare. The only thing left is half a bag of clothes, a bed, and a dusty laptop. Last he was here, it was fully stocked. Even the fucking fridge is gone. What the fuck is he supposed to do with no fridge? 

The lights work, which is a blessing, he supposes. Probably still some heating he can crank up. But that's not the point , the point is that he's going to wring Luthor's neck when he gets his hands on him. Slade drops his gear and shakes the dusting of snow from his shoulders, finally popping the mask off for good. 

Outside, things are quiet, the world beginning to dampen under a layer of snow. It should be late November. Time to find that out. 

The laptop boots up with a whine, obviously old, a little clunky in his hands. He sets it on his lap once he's gingerly sat on the bed, and gets to work, pleased when he finds the internet still looks the same at least. That's about where everything stops being normal. 

For one, it's December. December first, to be exact. A month has passed. Same year, which is barely comforting right then, Slade flicking his gaze to the window, and the orange hue of streetlights in the snow. 

He is in Gotham. Lex Luthor still exists. Metropolis looks as it should on the few images he flicks through. Information is similar, and simultaneously unsettling. 

Not one mention of a designation. Not one single Alpha or Omega thrown in for context, tucked in beside an age or hometown. When he looks, there's nothing. 

He stays hunched over the laptop for nearly an hour before he dregs up the courage to search for himself. Slade Wilson should be nobody, turning up a handful of old military articles, perhaps. Deathstroke, though, brings up a whole lot more. 

Still active. That's a relief, and Slade breathes the tiniest bit easier. Lasts as long as it takes for Slade to find a picture, and then everything feels that much worse, his headache beginning to return. 

The suit is fucking stupid, for one. Skin tight and accentuating everything, no armour to speak of. From the grainy picture, it looks more like spandex. The sword on his back is chunkier than usual, a gold hilt that sticks above his head proudly, and a holster on his thigh seems to be the only weapons he carries. 

It's not him. That much is obvious. Dimly, he realises, he's not where he should be. 

In no universe of his would he willingly choose to have a bright orange shoulder, that's for damn sure. 

Whoever this was, they were either stupid, new to the work, or both. Slade frowns, and keeps going anyway. Nearly morning, in fact, when he finally sets the laptop down and tries to slow the churning in his stomach. 

Dread creeps up slowly. Has taken its sweet time in worming under his skin but now it's here to stay. Each new article and snippet of information has really nailed that in. 

This isn't home. And frankly, unless this world's Luthor has a button hidden in his R&D, he's not quite sure how to get back. Slade rises, just for something to do, and walks the edges of the loft, treading mud into the stripped concrete floors. The whole place smells of nothing.

Dust and the stale taste of air, and that's it. The safehouse has long been abandoned, for some reason or other. He hates it in a visceral, unexpected way — the absence of everything he's so used to. 

Scent should be soaked into the fucking walls. It's wrong, and Slade's instincts rear up at that, for once. Normally tightly held, they drag him back to the bed, tip him onto his side, and push until Slade's slid his helmet back on, a guard against the unfamiliar surroundings.

Quiet and alone, he can pretend the only scent should be his helmet. Breathes in deep through his mouth, exhales through his nose, and eventually, falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Come morning, things seem just as dire. For one, there's no breakfast, and he is starving. Inter-dimensional travel — what the fuck — takes it out of you, apparently. All his joints ache in a way he hasn't felt in years, or at least not since he last got pelted with a grenade. 

The laptop mocks him from the floor, holding all the things Slade wished he didn't know. In situations like these, with no other options and not much left to give, he'd call Billy. Wintergreen would, probably, know what to do. Or at least give him a drink. 

He resists the urge to boot up the laptop again and instead begins rifling through the clothes. They look about the right size, mostly unwashed if the stains are anything to go by. He even recognises one, from his universe, and that just hurts his head further. 

Out of everything in the room, it's the only thing that smells right. Slade grips the bag tightly, knuckles white, and just sits on his knees for a tense moment. Smells like him. 

An awful lot like him, without the musky edge of Alpha. The only familiar thing in the room, and he touches the clothes carefully, an odd emotion in his chest that he does not have the time to unpack. He finds something close to wearable and makes quick work of changing, then digs through the pockets until he finds enough money to grab something to eat. 

Heading out is awkward, when it's apparently kept snowing throughout the night, and the first step nearly kills him with a quick slide on ice. Slade glares at the spot for a tense moment, and then picks a direction, and mostly walks on autopilot to the nearest diner, not two blocks from his hideout.

The name's changed. 

He wrinkles his nose and heads in, ignoring the glaring differences. Once he'd confirmed it, it's hard not to get caught on things. Nothing has the background scent he's known all his life, the heady mix of Alpha and Omega, broken up by the cleansing taste of a Beta. And the booths in the diner are red, rather than the blue he's used to. 

He pretends it's nothing more than the heavy blanket of snow covering everything, eats his pancakes in silence, and then takes his coffee back to the safehouse. Being around others is a lesson in remaining zen, when he can't quite leash the feeling bubbling in his chest. 

He'll do unspeakable things to Luthor, once he gets back where he's supposed to be. And he cannot consider the possibility that he won't be going home. That isn't a fucking option. He has contracts to finish and a whole, entire world that he belongs with. 

Not here. Not here. It makes his skin crawl if Slade thinks on it too long. His senses go haywire if he lets them, searching for markers that just don't exist anymore. 

Slade drinks his coffee far too fast, nearly burning as it slides down his throat and tastes of nothing except bitter grounds. Better in his universe. The thought barks a laugh out of him, smothering a clench of panic in his stomach that threatens to bring up the precious pancakes. 

He tip-taps on the laptop, and avoids the topic of Deathstroke entirely. He leaves Billy alone, too. The entirety of North America, actually, and spends the morning catching up on the world at large. It's easier, that way, and he can pretend briefly he's simply reading a very strange, heavily edited Wikipedia article. 

Easier to stomach when he's soaking up the events of the last ten years, and it's all familiar like a fuzzy dream. Half-formed facts. Things are twisted, and he'd go mad if he tried to pinpoint where the change happened. 

Somewhere along the way, things did change. But Luthor is alive, and still as much of a slimy bastard even without the false-safety of a Beta's scent, a non-entity, slipping under Slade's nose like a snake. Sitting in his stupid, overcompensating tower, creating useless buttons. 

That's all that matters. 

Luthor's alive. And seems fairly competent. He can fix this. How, Slade has no clue, but that's not his problem right then. This isn't his mess to clean up. 

Night brings the same as morning. Hunger. He has two bucks in his pocket and not much else. 

Petty theft doesn't sound too good right then, when he wouldn't be surprised to find out every citizen owns a death-ray and the web at large simply forgot to mention. 

But there are always other options. And he is in Gotham. This safehouse might be abandoned, but it doesn't mean the others are too. 

He changes back into the suit with a grimace, but it's warmer than the t-shirt and jeans he's been stuck in. Snow's picked up again, and he likes all his fingers and toes remaining attached. Not to mention, it makes all his scars sting. A shower gets bumped to the top of his list almost immediately. 

There's nothing to lock up when he takes the fire escape back down. Feels strange, not hitting the alarm before he leaves. Everything about this is strange. Gotham is quiet, much like the night before, but he's prepared for that now. 

Sticks to the rooftops where he can, and hits the shadows when he can't. Whoever designed Gotham had obviously never heard of New York. There's countless side-streets and dead ends to get lost in, a fucking maze when half of it's changed, and Slade debates picking up a map from one of the run-down tourist stores he passes in the heart of the city. Would make getting around a lot fucking easier. 

He feels slightly more grounded when he finds GCPD, a towering brick precinct with a large, gaudy eagle slapped on the front. He sits on the roof, and watches officers mill in the parking lot until he feels a little cross-eyed from all the lights, and then moves on. 

The nearest fire station is moved by at least two blocks. More elevated roads, tunnels burrowing underneath. A monorail system, of all things, as if Gotham needed more ways to travel. Courthouse is in the same spot, though it's now named after Wayne and that would be funny if it didn't also make him sick, each new thing sticking out like a sore thumb. 

After a while, Slade keeps his head down, and studies the street signs from vantage points. Those haven't changed much. Lead him right to where he's supposed to be. 

A familiar set of houses set into a cul-de-sac, large bay windows and painted white bricks that call Slade closer despite himself. He stands on the sidewalk for a tense moment, suddenly struck by doubt. Any one of them could be his — the other Deathstroke's — or none of them. Of all the choices and possibilities, this other Slade Wilson could have turned away from here and never looked back. 

The loft was a stroke of luck, if he could call it that. 

Snow falls and collects on his shoulders, sliding from his helmet when Slade checks both ends of the quiet street. Little string-lights fill the windows, pulsing in relaxing waves of white and green, a few red. 

Christmas. Now isn't that a thought. He does not feel like Santa when he picks the lock on the front door. But this should be his, with the same stupid curtains and everything, the same half-dead flowers planted in the yard.

With a satisfying click, the door unlocks, swinging open an inch. Slade waits with bated breath, and can't quite resist the urge to peek inside. Not much to view, except a darkened hallway, and the living room door left ajar. 

And then there's the barrel of a SIG Sauer pressed against his mask, someone tall sliding into view from behind the door. 

"You've got three seconds to explain." He says, and Slade's brain just about shorts out. 

Too busy feeling sad, apparently, to notice the scent clinging to the door. Or his mask blocked it. Or any other number of excuses. 

Point was: this was him.  

Slade swallows. "You're not going to believe me." 

The gun pokes him, more insistent this time. "Try me."  He's still down on one knee — stupid — and so the other Slade has the advantage here. He toes the door open, allowing for a better angle to blow Slade's brains out. "Quick." 

Slade's tongue won't quite work and so what comes out, rather than a succinct explanation is this: "I pressed Luthor's button and now it's Christmas." 

The hand holding the gun twitches, curiously free of scars. "Is that a fucking joke?" 

"Uh," Slade chews his tongue. Feels instinct begin to kick in, far too late. "No. Can I try that again?" 

"Get up." He snaps. Jerks the gun up, too, as if Slade is stupid. Kinda feels like it right then. "Slowly." 

He does as he's told, and stamps down the rearing of ugly feelings at that. He was unprepared, that much is clear. But he's not about to get bossed around by this pale imitation. 

When he rises, he's pleased to find he's got the height. Boots add an extra inch, too, and now the gun is angled up, and the man across from him is— 

Staring at him with two blue eyes. Piercing in their intensity, almost slits for a quick second, and Slade can't look away. No blemishes, or scars, barely any lines to speak of, in fact. And his hair is long, brushing the edge of his jaw, a startling steel white. 

He looks both entirely different, and exactly like him. Uncanny valley taken to the extreme, and Slade's stomach rolls, threatening to spill the brief food he's had today. 

"Mask off." He murmurs. And they're both out here, free for anybody to peek through their curtains to see, but this other Slade doesn't seem to care. He waves the gun. "Slow." 

"You're not going to like it." He replies, and hesitates, staring into those twin eyes. 

"I'll be the judge of that." 

It has been… a long day. An even longer night, and he is tired, and hungry, and most importantly — alone. He scrapes the edge of his reserves for the nerve it takes to unclasp his mask, sliding it up and off his head to hang limply in one hand. With the other, he fixes his hair, and doesn't focus on the emotion that flits over the other man's face. 

He picks a spot — the unblemished bridge of his nose — and goes unfocused, and lets him drink in the wounds and marks and the tiredness etched there. He knows what he looks like. Stays that way until, abruptly, the other Slade drops his gun, tucking it back into his jeans. 

"What the fuck." He murmurs. 

Slade blinks. Meets his eyes and finds nothing except shock, a taste of confusion. "Something like that." 

"Luthor." The other Slade adds. Shifts in the doorway awkwardly, shoulders tense. "He do that to your eye?" 

"No," Slade nearly laughs, a hollow thing. Reaches up to touch the patch and thinks better of it, scratching the edge of his jaw instead. "Ex wife." 

Something sharp flickers over his face, quickly replaced by a blank look, Slade leaning around to check the street. "Get in. Be quiet." With that, he disappears inside, leaving the entryway open. 

Slade hesitates for a moment, sparing a glance for the quiet street and its festive decorations under a heavy blanket of snow. Then heads inside, shaking ice from his boots, only to stop short at the scent. 

With one foot, he shuts the front door, and fumbles with his mask, considering placing it back on. 

It is, without a doubt, the most comforting thing he's smelled in over twenty four hours. In a long, long while. Better than the safehouse and its dust, better than his space back home. 

Warm is the only word for it. Inviting, like a heated house on a Christmas night, and Slade's stomach clenches at that, filled with something indescribable. 

It's him, condensed and reduced until it's thick, syrup on his tongue and clogging his airways as he breathes in deep. Him, but new, too, other scents bubbling to the top without the crackle of Alpha to overpower it. Soap and sweat and soft, well worn cotton, the salt of skin that he follows down the hall and into a sizable living space. 

The owner of said scent has taken up residence on the couch, television turned down low, and it's so relaxed he nearly laughs. Comfortable in a situation like this. He wishes he felt anything close, and stays standing, an awkward fixture of the room. 

"Drink?" The other Slade asks, which does pull a laugh from him right then, struck by the ridiculousness of it all. Standing in an alternate dimension, looking at the folded laundry over the arm of the couch, two football teams he doesn't recognise on the television, playing in a stadium he's never seen.

He takes the offered bottle with stiff fingers, and swallows nearly half before he feels even a little human again. The sharp, acidic edge of alcohol bubbles below his sinuses, sliding down his throat to warm his chilled insides. With the suit on, he's not particularly cold, but god does he shake. 

"You gonna make me ask?" The other man asks quietly. Looks at Slade from below, and there's an edge of worry between his light eyebrows, so much younger than Slade looks these days. "The fuck happened. Better yet, how did you find me?" 

Slade passes the glass bottle from one hand to the other, jaw clenching. "I was looking for a safehouse." He replies, rather than tackle the first question. "You abandoned the loft?" 

"Ages ago." 

"Why?" It was a perfectly good spot. That, in all honesty, annoys him, despite it being the most inconsequential of things. 

"Needed more space." The other man answers. And it is getting tired , thinking of him as that, as something other when they're one and the same where it counts. Even if he does have bad taste in gear. 

Rather than answering, Slade rifles through options in silence, one eye on the television. Gotham — possibly — against Star City — maybe — and the home team is losing by a landslide. Typical. 

Wilson, he decides. Because it's easier than anything else he could come up with this late at night, this hollowed out and aching. The scent in the room is nearly flooring. Familiar, a chord that's attached itself to Slade's instincts and begun reeling him in, nothing else to hold onto. And hold on he does, inhaling deeply. Tries to settle the panicked sparks of instincts in his chest with every passing second. 

He knows what'll happen, eventually. What it'll do to him, and the slow, dark descent that he'll be dragged through, gone cold turkey on all the things an Alpha needs. He knows that. 

Slade leans into the scent of the room and pretends it's enough. 

"I pressed a stupid button." He murmurs. "In Luthor's lab. In my… world. It spat me out here." Sighs through clenched teeth. "Yesterday. I stayed at the loft, did some research. Now I'm here." 

There. Everything summed up nicely. With that done, he strides over and flops on the couch none too kindly, suddenly exhausted. 

Wilson stares at him for a long moment. 

"I'll be out of your hair soon." He adds. Raises an eyebrow. "Very long hair, might I add." 

"Hey, don't even start— what are you, a pirate?" He throws back. Twists his mouth and then takes a displeased swig of beer. 

"I'm not the one wearing spandex to work." 

Wilson scoffs. It rankles all of Slade's instincts. "Yours is a bit retro for my tastes. Mine's not spandex, either." He flicks both eyes down, taking in Slade's armour. His very protective, comfortable armour that saves him from bullet wounds on the regular. "Ish didn't make you a suit?" 

"Don't know who that is." He replies, and something flickers over Wilson's face in quick succession. A sore spot, perhaps.

"Wintergreen." He tries, and there's a tense edge there. 

"I know Billy." He murmurs, mouth curled into something close to a smile. He'd have a lot to say about this. Slade takes another long drag on his beer, burying the feeling. 

"Okay." Wilson sighs. "Fuck." 

"You got that right." 

With that sorted, and profoundly described, they both turn to the television to allow things to sink in. Gotham's still getting its ass kicked, and Star City's still winning, and the crowd is a mixed batch of overjoyed and muted.

He lets the television turn blurry and unfocused, nothing more than astroturf and sliding shapes of color — Gotham's bright yellow now, rather than the blue he's used to — while he lets reality take hold. 

In all honesty, he could be asleep. This is all some very weird dream. He's unconscious, surrounded by his own drool and piss, in Luthor's lab. He's drugged, still in that dumpster, half frozen to death under a sheet of snow. 

Even then, he knows that's not true. Can't be true, when he can taste the man beside him on the roof of his mouth, the most visceral of scents and it is not unpleasant, when everything is dull and out of focus. The man beside him is, possibly, the only tether he has to something familiar, and that scares the shit out of Slade right then. 

The long held instincts inside of him practically beg for it. Hold him against his will for it, until he's shifting on the couch, a degree more angled toward him. All the better to inhale through his nose and hold it, both hands playing idly with the label of his beer. 

He's craving something he can't have, and he knows it. Not until he's home, and the paper-thin threads of pack are restored, as loose as they are. Billy's in Vermont, and calls on all the major holidays, and it keeps Slade going. The graves are nearby. Home is home, and he goes there when he's not working. 

It's all he needs, the bare minimum. And it's gone, just that. The fragile strings he needs, snapped with the push of a button. And he is furious, too tired to be furious, and then angry all over again that he's tired. 

Wilson's scent nearly sends him to sleep. Some hysterical part of Slade wants to bury his face in the other man's neck, just for something. He doesn't, and blinks harshly, forcing himself to absorb the score. The cheer of the crowd. The commentator's voice, oddly neutral. 

Slade inhales, opens his mouth. Closes it again without a word. Not even sure what he wants to say, what there is to say. 

"It is what it is." He finally mumbles. 

Wilson snorts. He makes to reply, bottle of beer held high, and stops short. Cocks his head, and it sets Slade's teeth on edge, the sudden focus there. Listens, too. 

The pitter-patter of small feet. A smaller heartbeat. One step on the staircase creaking, and Slade knows before he's looked. Before he's thought, or breathed, or braced himself. 

Blond, soft mop of hair, all mussed up. Gentle blue eyes, and the curve of rounded cheeks, still young. The fragile bow of his mouth, his father's chin. Peeking around the corner with unafraid curiosity, and Slade is broken.  

Slade is split open and carved clean out. He is unable— 

When he exhales, it's in the crisp air of night. Snow on his mouth, his cheeks, his hair. Soaking in behind his ears and the heated back of his neck. Both hands shake when he strips off his gloves, digging trembling fingers into the curbside. 

He isn't anything, right then. Nothing more than muscles contracting and oxygen absorbing. Electrical impulses that drive the body. Anything more than that is gone— stolen. Slit open and bleeding out in the snow. He is nothing— 

"You comin' in?" The words are flat. Voiceless. Somewhere far, far away from the edge Slade has found himself at, down on his knees and panting in snowflakes. 

Everything aches . Even his mouth, filled with hot saliva and the muted, ragged noises that pour out. His hands are numb, except for where they hurt. His knees, sore against slabs of concrete. His insides— 

"Hey," a hand settles on him, and Slade nearly bites, nearly sinks his teeth in but all it does is make him face the other man, caught for a moment in thoughtless pain. "Hey." 

Slade sucks in a sharp breath. Feels the cold that creeps in over his skin. The heat in his chest, and the overwhelming nausea, sweat cooling under the suit. When he turns, it's to vomit fizzing beer and chunks of pancake into the snow, bile burning on the back of his throat. 

There's a growl, growing in intensity. He realises dimly that it's him. That there is the other Slade, and the porch light is on. The Christmas lights are flashing, and it pounds in his head, and Joey is there— 

"Why didn't you say?" He snarls. Doesn't know why he asks, because it makes no sense. This Slade— this Slade doesn't know.  

"Say what." He snaps. The fingers on his neck dig in, only adding to the pressure in his throat. 

He growls again, and spits bile from the back of his teeth. Can't force any more words out, when he is done. Electrical impulses and autopilot movement, and the empty skin that he is forced to inhabit for the time being, and he will kill Luthor when he gets the chance. 

Wilson squeezes his neck. Anyone else, and Slade would do unspeakable things to that hand. Every instinct screams at him to move out of reach. 

"Come back inside." Wilson sighs. "Letting all the cold in." With a jerk of his thumb, he draws Slade's focus back to the open doorway, Joey nowhere to be seen. 

He doesn't know how long he's spent out here, kneeling in the snow.

"No." He rumbles. Shakes his head sharply and forces his fingers to leave the curbside, every joint aching, skin turned red. "I'm not—" 

"You're explaining." He cuts in. "In there, or out here. But you're explaining." This time, when he squeezes Slade's neck, it's shrugged off. 

Climbing to his feet is herculean, Slade's shoulders dropped low when he sways on the spot. 

"This is a fucking mess." He mutters. Scrubs his face with cold hands, and then fumbles for his gloves, strapping back them on. Wishes he had his mask just to cover up with, smother that scent the wind carries over to him. 

"Yeah," the other man agrees lightly. Rocks on his heels with snow under his boots, and regards Slade with a displeased expression. "He's dead, isn't he?" 

For a long second, he can't do anything except swallow saliva and breathe. "Yes." He murmurs, and flicks his gaze to the streetlights, turning everything orange. "Grant, too."

He doesn't move. "Adeline?" 

"Yes." 

Feels like shame, to say it out loud. Tastes like it. Admitting it aloud, watching the drop of the other man's face, like he feels it too — the pain for a brief second. The sour note in his scent. 

Slade steps back. "I should get going." 

"The loft?" He asks, narrows both eyes. "It doesn't even have heating." 

"Got a better idea?" Slade scoffs. The house in front of them is a no-go. Not now. Not ever, if he has anything to say about it. 

Everything inside of him balks at the little boy inside. He should be dead— He can't. Every second he spends lingering on it, the more he has to blink against the insistent sting at his eye. It's a dangerous thought, and he can't stay on it too long. 

Wilson thins his mouth. "Stay here." He waits a beat and then turns on his heel, striding back inside with purpose. 

With him gone, Slade's left to regard the house, feeling awfully vulnerable right then. He wouldn't doubt the neighbours have seen something by now. He stares at the two windows on the second floor, and wonders which is Joey's. If he's up there now, back to sleep or wide awake with the excitement of guests in the house. 

If he's happy here. With this Slade, and the Christmas lights, and the quiet this Gotham seems to hold dear. 

The other man returns a handful of minutes later, Slade's helmet in one hand and a packed back in the other. Dumbly, he takes the offered mask, and slips it on the second he can. 

"What's that?" 

"Doubt you had a chance to pack before you…" he trails off, mouth twisted. "Well. Here's hoping we're the same size." 

When he takes the bag, it weighs heavily on his shoulder, packed full. Feels undeserved. Slade doesn't say thank you, and Wilson doesn't say goodbye when they step away from each other. 

Before he leaves, he catches Wilson's expression. The troubled edge there, and the tense line of his shoulders as he heads back inside. One by one, the lights of the house flick off until it's dark, quiet. 

Chapter Text

Things feel marginally better when he has the makings of at least three outfits, freshly laundered, and a phone. It's nothing fancy, but boots up quicker than the laptop and allows him to see the time when he crawls back into the loft and slumps into bed that night, stomach still a little fragile. 

By morning, he's hungry again, and in need of supplies. Thankfully, there's a bank card tucked into one of the pockets on the bag, along with a handful of cash. He brings the money, and leaves the card for now, not quite sure how he feels about his purchases being shared knowledge. 

The other version of him hasn't rung any bells yet, but it's the principle. Long held habits. Accepting the bag is hard enough, and the feeling of debt sits heavy in his stomach all through a quick run through the nearest supermarket for toothpaste and beer. 

He's standing in the cereal aisle when his phone rings. For the longest time he doesn't even realise it's his , and then fumbles through his pockets to answer, a little surprised to be receiving any kind of call. 

"Surprised you're up." Is how he's greeted, and Slade grabs the first box in front of his face, shoving it into his basket. 

"Of course you have this number." 

"It is my phone. One of them, at least." He replies smoothly. There's the vibrant sound of a television on, the clatter of what sounds like plates. "Just checking you're alive." 

"Why wouldn't I be?" He squints. Heads for the next aisle, and begins stocking up on food for the cupboards, seeing as he has no fridge.

"Looked like shit yesterday." 

He huffs, rolling his eye. "That's just my face." He rifles through the shelves a little more, phone crammed between his shoulder and head. "Anything else?" 

"Was gonna ask if you wanted to come for lunch." Wilson adds, like it's nothing. Like it's normal. Like Slade isn't some intruder on this universe, throwing up in front of his double's house, messing up his nice little life. Like Joey isn't right there. "If you want." 

He curses quietly, and then turns on his heel. "Only if I can borrow your shower." Feels pathetic, how little he has here, how much he has to ask for and it ruffles all his instincts for a hot minute. Slade bites his tongue when he hears the snort of laughter down the phone. 

"Deal." With that, the line clicks dead. 

Slade pockets it quietly and then stares at his basket for a long minute. "Fucker." It doesn't make him feel any better. 

Before he checks out, he grabs an armful of cleaning supplies, and then makes the long walk back to the loft. Getting a car would be a good idea, if he had any plans to be here long enough for it to be necessary.

Rather than head straight over — which feels a little desperate — he gives himself even more reason to shower and gets to work on scrubbing the place clean. If he had to guess, he'd say it's been abandoned for possibly years. A thick coating of dust over almost every surface, and the windows are more than artfully grungey. 

It's possibly the easiest thing he's put his hands to work on. The other Slade was wrong about the heating, too, and the hot water sputters to life after some protesting. Not a lot, but enough to fill the sink and a bucket he finds hiding in the storage closet, which he then drags into the bathroom. 

He starts there and works his way out, and lets the methodical movements switch his brain off for a while. Cracks open all the windows and does his best to dust down most surfaces, scrubs grime from the sink and showerhead. 

By the time he reaches the bed area, the knees of his jeans are soaked and his hands feel gritty. But it's good. Simple. Easier to handle, a running checklist in his mind that gets taken care of one thing at a time, slowly but surely. 

He stops halfway through to eat dry cereal by the handful, a little annoyed by the lack of coffee available. Something to fix another day. He's fairly sure the other Slade will have coffee. 

With that thought, he heads back to work. Thinking about him is… useless. Distracting. Fills Slade's stomach with something uncomfortable, envy mixed horribly with longing, and it's much harder to process than putting sheets on the bed and folding down the corners neatly. 

Reminds him of home, and the quiet ritual after a long week away. The cleaning and straightening. Crossing off the shopping list and paying the bills. Packing a bag for the next mission out, everything as it's supposed to be. Taken care of. Soothes something in his chest when he steps back and the loft looks a little more livable. 

By the time he's done, it's nearly one in the afternoon, and more than time for Slade to get going. He fusses with changing clothes longer than he'd like, unease in his gut when he's forced to leave the suit behind. Keeping it under his clothes would be preferable, but it's a bit much with a jacket thrown on top. 

Rather disgruntled, he shoves on the knitted hat that's been packed for him along with the striped scarf, and sets out into the cold. 

The house looks much the same in daylight, so he's not sure why he was expecting any different. Same bland curtains and same half-alive flowers. He rings the doorbell, and shifts from foot to foot, resisting the urge to listen. All the way over, anxiety had bubbled in his chest and now it's reached its crescendo, nearly choking him. 

Maybe it's just him, or the cold that's creeped in under his borrowed clothes, but it feels like a suspiciously long time before Wilson gets the door. It's wrenched open unceremoniously, and something about Wilson's face says he's been rushed off his feet all morning, hair inefficiently shoved behind his ears and his shirt a little stained. 

"He's out for the afternoon." Is what he greets with, and it takes Slade a long, silent moment to realise he means Joey. "Figured that might be best." 

"Oh." Slade murmurs. Feels the stress in his ribcage deflate almost immediately. "Thanks." 

"Sure." He says. Wrinkles his nose and then motions inside. "It's freezing." 

"I noticed." Slade snorts, tugging off the scarf he's tucked into his coat. Before he enters, he kicks snow from his shoes, glad with the knowledge that he's got spare clothes waiting for him back at the safehouse. 

Once inside, warmth hits him immediately, something that sets his guard down without fight. There's the sound of the television again, and a dishwasher humming in the kitchen, and the overpowering scent of the man beside him, soaked into everything. 

Slade peels off his layers in the entryway, and then holds onto them for lack of anything else to do. 

In daylight, with the lights all flicked on, he can spot the stack of books at the top of the stairs. The framed picture hung in the hallway, and he avoids it without thinking. In the living room, there's a corner taken up entirely by primary-coloured kids toys that weren't there the night before, wilting flowers on the coffee table. More photographs.

The kitchen is far easier to handle. Coffee machine is what registers first, and he dumps his accessories onto the table, already heading for it when Wilson slides a mug into his hands. 

"Thought you might need it." He says. "Two sugars, right?" 

"Guess some things don't change." Slade mutters, and holds the cup close. Should have worn gloves, too, but he hadn't quite realised how much the wind would pick up. 

It's strange, the thought that's been put into this. The winter clothes, and the coffee right out of the gate, and the easy way that Wilson leans against a countertop, arms folded loosely across his chest. 

Slade knows he wouldn't be so kind, if the roles were reversed. 

"I take it you've done some research." Wilson tilts his head, hair falling out from behind his ear. 

"The basics." He nods. "Not much. Some things are different." Some things are not , and that feels like a fact he should mention some time soon. Real soon. 

Not much has changed, but there's a gaping hole where designations should be. A background of Slade's entire life, something so intricately normal that it is flooring to be without. 

If he thinks on it too long, he'll start making uncontrollable noises in the base of his throat, and it'll ruin his coffee. 

"I think you should sit." Slade says, and sips his coffee, savouring the heat. He stays standing, but finds himself a little pleased when the other man moves to sit at the table. 

"You're about to drop a bombshell on me, aren't you?" He asks. Fiddles with his own half-empty mug of coffee. "Go on, then." 

"That obvious?" 

"You did growl at me like a dog." Wilson murmurs dryly, and there's a note of question hidden in there. 

Slade shifts, and looks at his hands. "Nearly bit your hand off, too." 

"You do that often, in your world?" 

He chews his tongue quietly, eyebrows knitted together. "Most know better. Don't… don't do that again." 

"Do what?" 

He shifts. "Touch my neck." Even now, he can feel it, a ghost of the weight and the warm skin across the back of his neck, entirely unwelcome and painfully grounding. "I don't know where to start." Slade admits. 

"May as well just say it." He prompts, when Slade does nothing more than clutch his coffee and think of all the words that won't make sense here. 

He bites his tongue until it tingles. "I'm an Alpha." The words hang in the room quietly, and Slade sighs. "In my… world. There's designations, you're born that way. Each one describes a set of behaviours and instincts. Biology. Alpha is one of them." 

"Wait." Wilson murmurs. Sips his coffee. Looks for all the world like Christmas has come early, amusement in his eyes. "Like a dog?" 

Slade shoots him a look. "I'm not a dog." And then adds, "Omega and Beta are the other two." 

"Sounds like a dog." Wilson comments lightly. It grates on his nerves, but it also settles some of the anxiety in his throat. He's taking it calmly enough. 

"Not a dog." He throws back. Sips his coffee and enjoys the sensation of warmth as it spreads in his chest. Even the mug smells faintly of the other man. "Alpha's are—" he squints. "Controlling. Possessive." Slade frowns. "Protectors and providers." 

It sounds archaic. Even to his ears. It's not wrong, though, and he finds the words slipping from his hands the longer he tries to sum it out. The things that makes him tick, the instincts that are ever-present. 

"There are some biological differences." 

"The growling." Wilson surmises. 

"Yes." He coughs lightly. "We bite. It's a… chemical thing. In our saliva, and scent glands." Stupidly, he gets the urge to itch at the scar across his neck, and the forcefully removed bite mark there. Wilson's eyes slide to it anyway. "Among other things." 

He's quiet for a long minute. Drinks his coffee and looks Slade up and down like a puzzle he's starting to piece together. "Okay," Wilson murmurs. "Alternate universes are weird as fuck. But okay." 

"That's it?" He raises an eyebrow. 

"I'll grill you later." Wilson replies. Smirks over the rim of his cup. "You stink. Go shower." 

"I—" Slade pauses, grips his coffee cup tight. Nothing about the look on the other man's face says anything good, just amusement at his expense and possibly a dose of glee. "I'm not joking."

"I know," he replies, mouth twitching. "But I'm not dealing with this until I've eaten. Go." With a wave of his hand, Slade is summarily dismissed, and yes, it is a lot to digest, but he'd kind of expected more. 

He finishes off his coffee in one quick motion and heads back out, shooting Wilson a sharp look as he goes. 

He pokes his head into various doors upstairs, thankfully managing to avoid Joey's room by sheer luck, and happens upon the shower as his second-to-last choice. In no time, the door is locked and his clothes are on the floor, Slade basking under a nearly scalding spray. 

He's missed this. Feels grimey from the dumpster dive alone, let alone everything after that. And that feels lightyears away, despite how recent it was. 

The bridge of his nose stings when he turns into the water, eyepatch peeled off, and the bite mark ripples briefly into pain until it settles. The other scars littering his body don't hurt quite as bad, but the change in temperature is duly noted, and highly appreciated. 

It's been a long few days. Every muscle aches, since that first drop into another dimension. At least he'd landed in a dumpster, and not been spat out a mile high. 

The soap he finds is gloriously unscented for the most part, just the faintest traces of the man downstairs. And Joey. Now that he's aware of it, it's hard to miss. A clever twist to Slade's own scent, softened and changed ever so slightly until it's own note in the air. 

He splashes hot water on his face until he can forget all about it, and scrubs down with mindless determination. In the quiet moments, it's harder to ignore the dawning realisation that he is uncountable lightyears from home, with nowhere to go and no way to get back, relying on the charity of a stranger. 

He exhales heavily and sets about scrubbing through his hair. Even then, he stays in the shower, eyes closed and every muscle tired. Staying here would be nice. With his eyes closed, he can even pretend it's his shower. 

Blindly, he fumbles for the handle when there's a heavy knock on the door. Evidently, his times up. Slade sighs, shouts his acknowledgement, and then sets on getting dried off again. 

He drips water all over the floor, shoves a towel on the entire mess, and steps back into his clothes while still damp. Combs his hair as much as he cares to, checks everything in the mirror for a short second. The extensive scarring and the sunken, warped edges where his eye should be, and the strip of darkened hair that his other doesn't seem to possess. 

Whatever. 

Looks weird, with his long hair anyway. 

Slade unlocks the door, greeted by cool air on damp skin, and nearly runs straight into Wilson. He holds up the armful of laundry like a protective barrier, an eyebrow raised. 

"That hungry?" 

"All I had was cereal today." He mutters. Flicks his eyes to the clothes, tiny pairs of jeans and filthy socks, t-shirts with dinosaurs printed on the front. "Someone had the fridge removed." 

"In my defense," He starts. "I didn't know you were going to be dropping by." With that, he squeezes past, taking the stairs two at a time. "Pick up any socks I drop, yeah?" 

On the way to the washing machine, he drops three socks and at least one t-shirt. Slade picks them up silently, but is more than grateful when the other man takes them off his hands, shoving them in with a healthy dose of washing powder. 

"That kid goes through more clothes than I can buy." He mutters. Slams the door shut and wipes his hands on his thighs. "Hungry?" 

"You're awfully calm." Slade comments. 

"I'm busy." He corrects. "Kid's out of the house for the first time in weeks. You have any idea how filthy things get, after weeks?" 

It is, possibly, a dick move to say yes. He does so anyway. "Yes." Slade bites back a disgruntled noise at the sudden, sharp descent of silence. 

"Right," he agrees, quiet and muted. His swallow is audible. "Just means you get it. Come on." Head ducked low, he leads Slade back to the kitchen, fresh coffee in the air and two loaded plates of food.

It is not, by any means, a healthy lunch. But it's got greased up, crispy bacon, and it's hot, and that's all that Slade cares about right then. He's eating before he really thinks about it, could nearly moan with how good it is to sit and eat and do nothing else. 

The cereal this morning had been highly unsatisfying. His pancakes got ruined by throwing up. This— right here, this is all he cares about. 

Wilson joins him in silence, and they're both halfway to done before he opens his mouth. 

"What do I call you?" He asks, mouth still half-full of food, which would be gross if Slade wasn't still so hungry. 

He spears a stray strip of bacon on his fork. "Slade." 

"I'm Slade." He corrects, punctuating it with a wave of his knife. "We can't both be Slade." 

He chews considerately, grease and salt coating his tongue. "I've been thinking of you as Wilson." 

"Our last name?" He wrinkles his nose. "Makes me sound like a douche. Also, it's my universe." 

"Last I checked," he rumbles, "your name wasn't written on it. I would know. Kinda fell through dimensions to get here." With that, he sets about filling his mouth back up, then washing it down with coffee. 

The other man squints. "Why don't you go by Wilson, then?" 

"No." 

"Fine." He huffs. "We can't both be Slade, though. It'll get confusing." 

Across the table, the other man squints, and then continues eating. "Middle name?" 

"Same as yours, I assume." 

"Dad named you Caroline, too, huh?" 

Slade blinks, yolk running down the handle of his fork. 

Wilson breaks into a grin. "I'm fucking with you. Joseph, right?" He sips his coffee, humming. "Not bad." 

Of all the options presented, it is the least offensive to his senses. There's nothing wrong with it. Better than suggesting Joey. Better than muddling through sharing a name, for however long he'll be here. 

"Joseph." He repeats. Rolls the word around his mouth with the taste of warm, buttered toast. "I'll live." He finally decides. 

Could be worse. Could be Caroline, for which he kicks the other man under the table. Slade. His universe, he supposes, even if that claim is paper-thin. 

"So, Joseph," Slade drawls, and he winces immediately. 

"Don't make it a thing." 

"What?" Slade laughs. "It's your name. Enjoy it." 

"You're a dick." He grumbles, slouching into his chair a little more. Joseph. That's him, apparently. Just another thing to adjust to, he supposes. 

He's not half as attached to his name as most are, anyway. Hard to be, when he spends more time in the suit, and Slade Wilson means nothing to the world at large. 

He'll get used to it. 

Easier to handle than the surreal feeling every time he looks around Slade's kitchen. Taking in the little knick-knacks and mismatched mugs, the extensive collection of chef's knives in their block, the little blue stepstool by the sink. He frowns, and focuses on his food again, ignoring the smirk that's plastered to Slade's face. 

Feels good, just to eat. Normal. Important. He doesn't remember the last time he ate in company, except maybe when Wintergreen dropped by for his birthday and they shared take-out in the back of his car. Nearly a year ago. 

They both digest in silence, and Slade rises after a while to make even more coffee. It's good. Strange, but good, and he accepts the mug with quiet thanks, one eye on the clock hanging above the window.

"When's he coming back?" 

Slade squints. "Dunno. Told Billy to keep him busy." 

Joseph nearly laughs. "He's with Billy? He live in Gotham?" If there's anywhere Wintergreen dislikes, it's Gotham. Too much drama, or so he's told. 

"Yeah, yours doesn't?" Slade raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me he's still in Vermont." The look that comes over his face is certainly interesting, flickering through emotions faster than Joseph can parse. 

"He likes the cabin." 

Slade nearly inhales his coffee. "He's lying. What'd you do, piss him off?" 

Probably. In many ways. In all the ways that count, and he refuses to acknowledge any of them right then. "How long has your Billy been in Gotham?" 

"Two years." He replies. "Give or take. Needed the help with Joey." Just hearing the name is painful, but he was the one to steer it this way anyway, and it might possibly be a new form of torture. 

"Grant and Adeline." He prods, when Slade doesn't say anything more. And it's obvious they're not here. Not anywhere. "They're dead." And maybe it's just a little vindictive pleasure, to say it out loud, and know he's not the only one. 

"Yes." Slade agrees tightly. "None of your business, by the way." In his seat, he shifts, shoulders tense. 

Joseph nods mutely, and closes the topic promptly. He's too tired to fight, or start splitting open old wounds any more than he already has. "Billy's good." 

"Yeah," Slade murmurs. "Couldn't do it without him." 

"He know I'm here?" 

"You think I could get him to babysit without telling him why?" 

Joseph laughs quietly. "Sounds like him." 

It's nice, in possibly the most painful way, knowing Joey is out. Kicking his feet in the snow, probably. Holding Billy's hand and having a good time. Joseph swallows hard and tries to be happy for him, even if it feels like a knife to the chest. 

"Thanks for the shower." He murmurs. "And the coffee." And the food. He scrapes up the last of it with the edge of his fork and then licks it clean. 

Slade shrugs a shoulder. "I'd like to think you'd do the same for me." 

Joseph snorts. "Only if you asked real nice." Under the table, he receives a sharp kick. "Alpha's don't like sharing." 

"Alpha's sound like dicks." Slade comments, and he tips back in his chair, rocking slightly. "Thoughts?" 

"Probably true." He replies, though there's a hint of a growl there that has Slade's eyebrows climbing his forehead. 

"And you say you're not a dog." He murmurs into the rim of his cup. Sips his coffee loudly, eyes flicked up to regard Joseph. 

"I still think you're taking this too well." He says instead. He's taking things too well, all things considered. 

"Waiting until the kid's in bed." Slade snorts. "Need a minute to sort it out in my head." After a second, he tilts his head. "Got lots to drink. You could come over." 

Joseph drinks his coffee, rather than replying immediately. 

"He'll sleep through the night." Slade adds. 

"Didn't last night." 

"Spent all day cooped up." He shrugs. "Billy tires him out. Offer's there if you want it." 

There are a lot of reasons to decline. The main one being that he's tired. In need of a full nights sleep. And it's a risk. Kids don't fucking sleep, even when they're tired. 

"Okay," he finds himself saying instead. Finishes his coffee before he can think better of it, and nods once. "After I've slept. And there better be food." 

"Got it." Slade agrees easily. 

"I should get going." Joseph adds, and fiddles with his mug anyway, hesitating before he stands. "Thanks for the coffee." 

All in all, they've covered almost nothing of substance. No plans in place. No next step. 

But he's eaten, and been plied with more coffee than his bladder can handle, and had a shower. Things aren't quite as dire as they had seemed before, and when Joseph wraps his scarf back on, fidgeting with his hat, he feels a little better. 

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. 

Chapter Text

Joseph really hates Slade. 

Not for anything personal. He's not particularly impacted him in any way. If anything, he's been uncharacteristically welcoming for a man such as they are. 

No, he just hates when he opens his big, stupid mouth. His huge, ridiculous mouth, talking absolute nonsense, and somehow being right. 

Lex Luthor Hospitalized is the headline. Joseph nearly shoves his fist through the laptop. 

The article amounts to little more than fluff that says we don't know and leaves with nothing more than an innocuous guess at the time he may spend at Metropolis General.  

Joseph launches his phone at the wall instead, the little fucker leaving a dent in the drywall. "Fuck." He says, and starts pacing the stupid fucking loft, with it's stupidly clean windows. 

"Fuck." He says, as he starts rummaging through the kitchen. "Fuck." 

Fucking Superman. Fucking Luthor. Fucking ridiculous, villainous battles on the great streets of Metropolis. 

"Fuck." He says, and slaps the buttons of the coffee machine until it stutters to life under duress. "Fucking fuck." He says, around a mouthful of dry cereal, soaking up all the saliva pooling in his mouth. 

If the man didn't have a breathing tube already shoved down his throat, he'd rip his fucking head off. And then he'd go straight to Slade and do the same to him for opening his stupid mouth. 

"Jesus fucking Christ!" He snarls, and goes to fetch his phone. Slade's phone, even. Because he has nothing here. Nothing at all. Pretty much all he has is his fucking cereal, and he is going to stuff it down Slade's throat until he's still coughing it up at Easter. 

The thing's survived, of course. Wouldn't expect anything less. Rather blindly, Joseph hits Slade's number, and barely waits for the line to connect before he says, "You motherfucker." 

Slade laughs. "I knew nothing about this." 

"You caused this." He snaps. Paces a hole into the floor, from window to window, his hand clenched tightly around the phone. "Why don't you just go ahead, go on, say at least it's not raining while you're at it. Fuck." 

"Joseph." Slade says, voice slow. "It'll be fine, alright?" 

"No, it fucking will not." He snarls. He can hear the chatter of a television in the background, grating on his nerves, Joseph's teeth aching when he clenches his jaw. "What the fuck am I supposed to do." 

"He'll live, alright? Just— it's a few weeks. You'll live." 

"I have a fucking life to get back to, you idiot." 

"Yeah, well, that's not happening right now." Slade sighs, breath crackling over the phone. "So just calm down. This isn't going to get him out of the ICU any quicker." 

"If he doesn't live, I'm going to fucking kill him." 

Silence. "Right." And then, "He'll be fine. They're not going to let Lex Luthor die."

"Fuck." Joseph hisses again. It's about the last intelligent thought left in him right then, a box of cereal clenched in one hand and his coffee taking a pathetically long time, and the pressure between his temples only grows. Pounds into a headache the longer he stays on the line and listens to the vibrant tones of a child's television show. "Fuck." 

"You want to come over?" 

"No, I don't want to fucking come over. I want to be out of here." He snaps, and hangs up before he's thought about it. 

Silence fills his ears. 

"FUCK." 

Joseph hates mornings. 

He hates mornings more than most anything. He hates mornings here, of all places. This universe. This loft. This stupid, uncontrolled body. 

Warm blankets pulled up to his chin and he's still cold, curled on his side in sweatpants and a cotton shirt. With a grumble he sticks the tip of his nose under the blankets too, willing his skin to heat up. 

Really needs to get the heating up and running properly, if it's going to keep snowing. Joseph screws his eye shut briefly, feeling the patch dig into his eyebrow on the other side. Forgot to take it off, apparently. 

Light spills through the opened curtains, and Joseph fucking hates every iota of the sun — open curtains. 

Tiredly, his mind rolls that little fact over and over. 

Opened curtains. 

As far as he's aware, he doesn't even have curtains. Or blinds. He barely has windows, if he's being honest. They're more Slade's. 

Joseph curls up tighter. "The fuck." 

"Good afternoon to you, too." 

"No." 

Slade laughs. It grates on every nerve, Joseph's toes curling. He bites back a snarl. 

Really, truly hates mornings. Afternoons. Whatever, he hates waking.  

Hates being awake, actually. Saliva pools in his mouth and every muscle feels both chilled and overworked, stiff when he mashes his head under another pillow and ignores the other man. 

"Got you some curtains." Slade adds, unhelpfully. He sounds far too chipper to be in Joseph's physical proximity right then. Sour bastards only, at the moment, were allowed in his loft. "And some more coffee." 

Joseph grunts. Under the blankets he fumbles blindly until he can pop the patch off, fully committed to falling back asleep. Ignoring this whole day. 

The conversation they'd had two days ago, mostly consisting of the white-noise words Slade had said — whatever those were, he couldn't remember — and Joseph's own uncreative expletives helpfully drifted into his mind. It didn't help. Luthor was still, as far as he was aware, in the ICU with a tube shoved down his throat. 

Joseph was going to piss down that tube if he didn't wake up soon. 

"Got you some clothes, too." Slade says. Sounds closer now, hovering near Joseph's— he refuses to call it a den. But it is slathered liberally in his scent, and warning bells go off the second Slade starts tugging at a blanket. 

"I'm going to rip your hand off." He snaps, and yanks the blankets back. "Go away." 

"How old are you?" Slade scoffs. "Get out of bed." 

"I'm forty-five, for your information. You can't make me get out of bed." 

"You're a child, is what you are. Get up. Coffee's on." 

"Didn't ask." Joseph growls. 

"Then I'll drink it myself." If he could, there would be a slammed door, so Slade instead stomps away with a muttered insult. Joseph squeezes his eye shut. 

"Christ." He mutters. 

He really hates— all of this. Hates Slade being here. Hates the fucking curtains he never asked for. And most importantly, how the fuck had he installed them without waking Joseph. 

From the kitchen area, he can pick out the sound of little porcelain mugs, a teaspoon getting thrown into the sink. Slade's rich voice as he hums quietly, the noise right from his chest. Outside, the crunch of snow under feet, and the slow roll of waves against the docks. 

Inside Joseph's ribcage, his heart beating a touch too fast, thumping under his skin, in the soles of his feet and the pads of his fingers. Sweat sticks his skin together valiantly when he tries to uncurl, the back of his knees damp. 

Joseph huffs, only to take a deep inhale of the sheets. Bland laundry detergent and his own scent fill the bed, soothing only the slightest amount. It's not a den. Not even close. 

But, then, he hasn't had one of those in years. 

He hears Slade mutter fucking finally the same moment he flings the blankets off, pushing himself up to hang his feet over the edge of the bed. His head pounds briefly, every stray beam of light like a little knife being shoved into his skull with the skill and precision of Joseph's own hands. 

The front of his shirt is soaked through, and he's sure his back is the same, the cuffs of his sweatpants sticking to his skin when he stands, knees protesting. 

"Wakey-wakey." Slade says, his voice too loud for how distant he is right then, leaning against the kitchen counter. Mug of coffee in hand, he smiles over the rim with amusement. "You look like shit." 

"Fuck off." Joseph grumbles. 

His shuffle to the shower is undignified, and slow. Feels good to strip off his clothes and step under scalding water, though, the tops of his shoulders turning a blister red. Drain is clogged, because of course it is, and so water pools at his feet, beginning to defrost him bit by bit, loosening tight joints. 

Joseph leans against the white tiles, letting it wash over him, drowning out Slade's low humming as he fiddles with Joseph's loft. 

Withdrawal is a bitch on the best of days. Hitting like a ton of bricks, quicker than Joseph can keep up with, not a single suppressant in sight? Little bit worse. 

He inhales hot steam, willing his lungs to listen to him for one fucking second and start bringing in actual oxygen. Nothing tastes the same, smells the same, feels the same. The closest he gets is a bed full of his own scent, and that's it. Outside, there's nothing, and it's starting to show. 

He's barely been here a few days. A week, two weeks from now, and it will not be pleasant. 

Four fucking weeks, maybe longer, and he can't take that. As much as he'd love to, his instincts need a little more than nothing. The slightest scent on a sidewalk would do, but no, he has to be stuck here. Stranded. 

A dull ache pulses in his fingers, nails dug into the tiles of the shower, skin starting to sting and turn numb. With a swallowed growl, Joseph unglues himself from the wall, reaching blindly for the unscented soap. 

He dries off in silence afterwards, methodical and probably a little too rough, the pads of his fingers dug into tense, aching muscle. Showering helped absolutely nothing, not that he really expected it to. Not much he can do, when it's hormones and instinct, not an injury he can tend to. 

He wants to climb back into bed, sleep the rest of the day away. Strongly considers it when he steps out of the bathroom, cool air hitting damp skin immediately, eyeing the bed in it's corner for a long moment. 

"Don't even think about it." Slade says. "We've got shit to do." 

"You might," he says. "I don't." Keeps his blind side to the wall, away from Slade's unblemished gaze, and slides the patch back on before his skin's even dried. 

He finds a mostly clean set of clothes. Ones that don't smell like sweat and sleep, at least, tugging the shirt on first and then shimmying into the jeans in record time. If Slade looks, well, that's his own fucking business. For all intents and purposes, they're the same, and Joseph doesn't particularly give a fuck regardless. 

Too tired to, if he's being honest. 

Again, he looks at the bed, imagines himself curled under the blankets, stupid curtains drawn tight to block out the light as it reflects off the docks. 

"Coffee." Slade reminds him quietly. "You look like you need it." 

"Oh, do I?" 

"Are you always this petulant?" Slade throws back. "Can I have that forty-five year old back, not the toddler that's stolen his body?" 

Joseph's teeth grind. He closes the distance in a few long strides, maybe a little too close for comfort. Slade doesn't flinch, but he has to look up to meet his eyes, an inch or two between them. The tension in Joseph's chest is traitorously soothed by that little fact. 

He takes the offered mug silently, sniffing it once before taking it with him back to bed. Feels better there, even if it isn't a den. It's a space, only his, and it's comfortable enough if he avoids the broken spring on the left side. 

"Really?" Slade drawls. 

Joseph grunts. He's barely in the mood to be awake, let alone hounded for his life choices right then. He grips the coffee tight and fusses with the blankets until he's reasonably covered, the comforter draped over his shoulders. Coffee tastes good at least, better than what he'd bought before.  

"Are you coming off something?" Slade asks, quiet. Joseph blinks. 

"What." 

"Drugs." Slade says. "Are you coming off drugs?" 

"That's one word for it," he mutters. Sips his coffee in silence as Slade stares a hole through him, waiting on more. 

"You always this much of an asshole?" Slade prods. "Give up this easily?" 

"Oh, fuck off." He snaps. Slade barks a laugh, grating on all his nerves. "Don't you have other things to be doing?" 

"Yes, actually." Slade shakes his head. Scuffs his shoes on the floor before he just— heads over and sits on the end of the bed. Joseph nearly kicks him off, except he's right, he's not five.  

Slade smells enough like him that it doesn't exactly set him off. He smells like Joseph, or maybe Joseph's just started smelling like him, wrapped up in his clothes and his loft and his fucking— curtains. Anyway, it's not too offensive to his senses, so he puts up with it.

He drinks his coffee in silence and so does Slade. He doesn't want to talk about it. The thought is daunting, tiring. 

In his universe, he wouldn't need to spell it out. In his universe, it wouldn't even be happening. Slade wouldn't be here, Joey either. And Joseph would be himself again. 

Not this sweating, shivering mess, curled up under blankets. Wanting nothing more than to shuffle closer and steal some of Slade's warmth for himself. Some of his comfort. 

"Fuck Luthor." He finally growls. Hangs his head and sighs heavily. 

Sleeping some more sounds real good. 

"Fuck Superman." Slade adds. "Did he really have to put him in the hospital?" 

"He's an ass in my universe, too." Joseph murmurs. "Alpha bastard." 

Slade snorts. And then, quietly, "When'd you last eat?" 

Joseph growls low in his chest, doesn't care if it gets him a raised eyebrow. Stares at the dregs of coffee in his mug and tries to remember what hunger really feels like. He squints. 

"We're having pasta for dinner." Slade tries. "Invitations there, if you want." 

Joseph grunts. 

Not fucking likely. Joey'll be there. The headache behind his eyes pounds a little harder. 

"Alright," Slade sighs. "Well, when you pull your head out of your ass — you know how to call me." 

"Sure," he mumbles. Watches Slade dump his coffee in the sink quietly, and then leave with nothing else said. He knows should do literally anything besides set his coffee on the nightstand and roll back under the comforter with a groan. 

Joseph's out like a light in a handful of minutes.

Chapter Text

He does eventually pull his head out of his ass, as Slade had delightfully put it. A little late, sure, but it happens. And if it's at a time where Joey will surely be off to bed, well, that's his own business. 

He doesn't call, and instead busies himself around the apartment for a little while longer. Until it becomes clear he's doing nothing but busying himself, wasting time. Joseph showers for the second time that day, rearranges the small contents of his cabinets. Reads a handful of articles on Luthor's condition, until it does nothing more than darken his mood further. 

He makes the walk to Slade's in tense silence, and tries the doorhandle without knocking. Waking Joey would be a bad idea. It's late. And from what he could remember, his Joey had always been a bit of an early riser, early to bed to match.

Slade pokes his head around the corner of the kitchen. "Saved you some." He says. Ducks back into the kitchen.

Joseph frowns, equal parts annoyed at being so fucking predictable apparently, and warmed at the care. He toes his boots off in silence, following the sounds of Slade clunking around in the kitchen. He squints when he enters the room. 

"Why are there guns all over the table?" 

"Wanted to count them all." Slade snarks. "Why do you think?" Beside the admittedly nice collection is, indeed, leftovers. 

Joseph hovers for a moment, eyes caught on the weapons, Slade's packed bags in the corner. The pot of pasta. He is hungry. Food wins out briefly, still warm when he grabs a bowl. 

"You're leaving." He states, somewhere between inhaling pasta and dragging a chair close enough to sit on. 

"Yeah," Slade shrugs. "Billy's going to watch—" He stops, winces. "Billy's coming in the morning, before I head out." Sets his hands on his hips for a second, surveying the firearms before he rather randomly plucks a handgun from the table and tucks it into a bag. 

"You still take contracts." He replies. Which should be obvious. He knew that, in a sense.

They are the same, after all. Slade is Slade, and Deathstroke isn't easily put down. Not even for a kid like Joey. He frowns. 

Slade narrows his eyes. "Yes." And then, "I'll be back two days at the latest." 

Joseph chews his pasta quietly, eyes flicking to the weapons. Back to Slade, an unimpressed expression fixed to his face, and yes, he is entirely hypocritical. He knows that. He is fine with that. 

"He's going to miss you." 

Slade nods, hair falling out of where it's been tucked behind his ear. "You can save it, heard it all from Billy twice over." With that, he sets into motion again, crouching to unzip his duffel and start rechecking the contents. 

It's keeping busy for the sake of it, and the scent of upset is unmistakable in the air, Slade's hands rooting through his bags on autopilot. Joseph frowns harder. 

"He know you're leaving?" 

"Will you drop it?" Slade snaps. Rounds on one heel to glare sharply. 

He grits his teeth, fighting the urge to bare them. He's not a fucking animal. Instead, he sets his half-empty bowl down quietly, shifting in his seat until he's facing him squarely. 

Slade smells like anger and anxiety, wrapped up in one acidic mess, a crease etched between pale eyebrows. He grits his teeth and meets Joseph's gaze flatly for a long, tense moment, before returning to his bags. 

"If you want to get your panties in a twist, be my guest—" 

"Oh, that's rich—" 

"When I'm trying to help." He cuts in, a low noise in his chest. Not quite a growl but it's right there, lurking in his throat, tired and all he can hear is Slade's angry, beating heart, see the tension in every muscle, the back of his mind nearly screaming aggressive.  

"What." Slade bites. 

"He know you're leaving?" 

"Yeah, 'course he does." He mutters. "I don't disappear on him. He knows I'll be back, too."

Well, that changes his plan a little. Not that he'd had much of one besides find something to do. He fiddles with his bowl for a second, repressing a sigh. 

"I can take the contract." He tries. 

Slade scoffs, the bastard. "No." He zips up the bag, as if to punctuate his words. Annoyance written all over his face. 

"I know how to handle a—" 

"No." 

"Fine." Not that he thought it would work , but worth a shot. It's late, and he's fucking tired, and Slade is glaring at him— it cuts far sharper than he'd expected. More evidence he is far too deep in withdrawal. Joseph chews his tongue. "You can't leave him with Billy for two days." 

"Done it before." 

"Yeah, but it's not— Billy's not his father." He huffs. "It's not the same, and you know it." 

"I don't have any other choice." Slade rises, heading for the cabinets, flicking them open in quick succession. Produces a bottle of whiskey, half-empty, and sets it on the counter with a pretty impressive growl. 

Joseph swallows. "Let me look after him." 

Something soft and squishy inside of him flinches at Slade's bark of a laugh, the inside of his mouth tasting rotten. "Not a fucking chance."

"Why the fuck not." He snaps. Nearly rises from his seat, but that would just be a fight, and he's not trying to have one. Not his fault Slade's— well, that Slade is much like him in all the wrong ways. "I know how to take care of him, it's not like—" 

"Can you even say his name?" Slade says, each word drawn out and slow. He pours a generous glass of whiskey and takes it in one go. "I don't leave him with anyone." 

"In my universe, I was his— I was Joey's father. I know what I'm doing." He says. Hates the flicker of emotion in his chest, a tight band that constricts and tightens, his tongue heavy. "Slade, I'd never let—" 

"Never let anything happen to him?" Slade says, flat. He holds his gaze, cold and pointed, two blue eyes that feel like a punch to Joseph's gut. 

He snarls. "Fuck you." Digs his nails into his thighs, for lack of anything else to do, when all he wants is to rip Slade's throat out with his teeth for a blinding moment. 

"I can't take that risk with him." Slade replies, just a touch softer. "You know I can't. It's Billy or no one." 

For a moment, he can't speak, can't form any sounds besides the snarls stuck in his chest and the wounded, quivering noises that he refuses to let out. His teeth feel too big for his mouth, and all he tastes is thick saliva, and all he can see is the defeated slant of Slade's shoulders. 

He nods once, sharp. Every limb feels stiff when he stands, mechanical. Untethered and not at all in his control. Slade gets closer, or Joseph moves, or the kitchen suddenly gets a lot smaller — he's staring Slade down, the other man meeting him head-on, lips tight. 

Close enough he can smell the sweat on him, the conditioner in his hair and Joey's warm, soft scent clinging to his shirt. Hear the beat of his heart, ticked up and ready to go. Slade squares his shoulders. 

"Next time you say that," Joseph says, quiet, not quite trusting himself to talk any louder. "I will not hesitate to rip your throat out and bury you with Grant and Addie." 

The corners of his eyes tighten. "Noted." 

"Good." He grits out. And then, "Don't die on your contract." 

He snags the whiskey on his way out, and makes it all the way to the end of the street before his hands start shaking. 

Chapter Text

He wakes at 6:36 AM to a phone call from an unknown number. 

Joseph debates flushing it down the toilet for the sheer gall of ringing this early in the morning, while his mouth tastes like middle-shelf whiskey, and his withdrawal has started up it's daily headache-and-sweat routine. 

Instead, he answers. Doesn't bother sitting up, and mashes it to his ear with a growl. "What." 

"Good morning." Comes the cheery reply. Wintergreen. Joseph groans. 

"Why are you calling?" He grunts. Presses his face into his pillow to muffle his louder groan. "Did Slade die? Is that what this is?" 

"Hardly." Billy snorts. In the background, there's far too much noise, a television most likely, mixed in with the clattering of plastic. 

He squints. Plastic spoon against plastic bowl. Hasn't heard that noise in years. Too fucking early to be hearing it now. 

"I was told to call—" He cuts off, briefly, muttering something unintelligible. "Rather, I was told to apologise on his behalf, but I've made the executive decision to let Slade deal with his messes on his own." He sighs. 

"So." Joseph grunts. "Why are you calling?" 

It is far too early to be reading between Billy's words, or Slade's particular brand of bullshittery. Joseph wants to be asleep again, blissfully unaware of the world at large, or the insistent restlessness in his body, an itch he can't scratch. 

"Offer's up to babysit, if you want it." 

Joseph nearly swears. Thinks better of it and bites the cotton case over his pillow with a growl. "How do you put up with him?" 

Billy laughs. "Offer's there if you want it." With that, he hangs up, leaving Joseph in glorious silence. 

It lasts for all of five seconds before his bladder makes itself known, and then he's sliding from his bed to stumble to the bathroom. A shower sounds good, too, blistering hot and an effective dampener of everything wrong in the loft. Everything wrong with Joseph. 

Under the steam and the heavy pressure of water, he leans against the tiles, and debates going back to bed after. 

Even as he thinks it, he knows he won't. Can't. Even if Slade's a dick, Joseph can't— he can't turn this down. Even if it feels like pulling open a scar with his bare hands just to poke and prod at soft, bloodied flesh. 

He scrubs until his skin feels raw and scentless. Washes his hair twice. Takes a moment to scrub gently at the fused, scarred skin where his eye should be, and then spends another five minutes trying to find any semblance of calm. 

The shower has never sounded so loud, oppressive, steam thick and heavy in his airways. He curls his hands into fists until it aches, knuckles straining, and wills his knees to stay locked. 

"Fuck." Joseph mumbles. A persistent stinging behind his eye prompts him to move, blindly fumbling for a towel to dry off with in record time, cool air doing the rest. 

He combs his hair. Does it in the mirror and everything. Fiddles with it until he can practically hear Billy's teasing in his ears about nerves. Picks through his clothes and gets dressed in silence, both wanting it over quick and never wanting to leave the fucking loft. 

Anything not to face Joey again. What an impression he must have made when he first arrived. 

Once his shoes are on, there's no reason to linger. Joseph stands in his loft anyway, keys in hand, the metal digging into his palm sharply. 

He takes the longer route to Slade's house, extra care taken to avoid the quickly multiplying patches of ice and soft, crunching snow. By the time he gets there, the tip of his nose is numb, and his hands are firmly stuffed into his pockets. 

Surprisingly, they're out in the yard. 

Billy leaning in the doorway, a large mug of coffee cradled in his hands protectively. Not half as chipper looking as he'd sounded on the phone. He waves half-heartedly at Joseph's arrival, and then inclines his head to the particular corner of the yard that— 

Joseph swallows. Forces himself to look. To acknowledge. He can't say yes and then— ignore the kid. Or have a fucking breakdown. Just for a moment, Joseph stays outside the yard, a hand on the fence, taking him in. 

He's bundled up enough he can barely put his arms down, but doesn't seem to mind, engrossed in his task. Dusting snow off Slade's half-dead flowers, making a little clearing with gloved hands, knees soaked through with melted snow. 

There's little flecks of white in his hair, on his red, soft cheeks, scarf wrapped around his throat tight. Alive, and breathing, and— 

He stops there. Pushes it back, the weight of Billy's eyes heavy on him for a tense moment, and then he's moving, pushing the front gate open with numb hands. 

"Billy." He greets. Turns his head slightly. "Hey, Joey." 

That gets his attention, little hands paused in patting what appears to be a small mound of snow. God knows why, or what he's doing, at seven in the morning. The entire street is still quiet, dampened by the snow, little Christmas lights blinking in the windows. Wide green eyes fix on him, the spitting image of Slade for a brief moment, cutting right through Joseph. 

He is broken all over again, split open and bleeding in the snow, thrumming with the urge to run. 

And then Joey's scrambling to his feet, slipping on the snow as he comes forward. 

"Now, just—" Billy starts, obviously meant for Joey, but cuts himself off when the little boy stops short, a respectable distance away. "Good lad. This is Joseph, friend of your Dad's." 

He holds his hand out, his little gloves soaked wet. Joseph does not flinch. Joseph forces himself to look, holds his gaze, not shying away in the slightest. He can do this. He can.

The slight weight of Joey's palm in his nearly breaks him all over again.  

Just as quickly, it's over, Joey skidding on snow as he heads back the flowers in the corner. For all it's cold outside, Joseph feels far colder under his layers, frozen still for a minute. 

A hand settles on his arm, briefly, squeezing tightly. Billy. Joseph blinks, refocusing on that familiar gaze, noting for the first time that it's not coffee in the other man's hands, but hot chocolate. There's little marshmallows melting on the top.

"Let's get you in." Billy says, sparing Joey a glance. "Back in two, Joey." He waits for a nod, and then turns on his heel, dragging Joseph along. Not hard to do, when he feels about as weak as a lamb, unsteady all of a sudden. 

Billy leaves the door open, and Joseph does his best to keep an ear out for Joey as he heads for the kitchen. The kid is almost entirely silent, not a word spoken, he realises dimly. 

"He shy?" He asks, voice thick. 

Billy fiddles with the coffee pot, tongue caught between his teeth for a moment. "He didn't tell you." In his chest, his heart picks up notably.

"Tell me what." 

For a terrible moment, he thinks Billy won't answer. He just messes with the coffee pot more, his back a tense line, silent. And then he says, "Joey's mute." With a hiss, the machine starts. 

All he can think, really, is at least he's not dead. Which isn't fair, he knows. But he'd rather this, than that. And then it sinks in, a stone in his stomach, Joseph looking to his feet. 

"He's hurt?" 

"No," Billy sighs. "Not physically, at least. After— Well, after, the boy won't say a word except to his Dad." 

"He can talk." He squints. Tries to hear the boy outside, painfully quiet in the snow, still dusting off flowers and blades of grass.

Joey's heart beats strong and sure in his chest, lungs bringing in crisp winter air. Alive. It's the best sound he's ever heard, possibly, knowing what he knows.

"Oh, he can. He chooses not to, I think. Not to anyone besides Slade, at any rate." 

"He doesn't talk to you?" 

A shrug. "I don't push it." And then, "Sugar?" 

"Sure." He grunts. Drags a chair from the table to sit heavily, kicking snow from his boots. He squints at the clock, not even half past yet. 

It's going to be a long day, that's for sure. 

Joey is a beautiful child. Always was. He can't stop looking. It's possibly putting the kid off, the intensity with which he stares, but he doesn't particularly care. 

Wants to burn into his mind the sight of him. Alive, healthy. Happy when he smiles with all his teeth, neat little white teeth and red gums, snow caught in his curls. The smiles he gives Billy are particularly bright, nearly fucking blinding, but the ones he gives Joseph are something special too. 

And he's fucking curious. Not afraid in the slightest when he takes Joseph's hand and drags him down to the little corner of the yard he's working on, pulling until he falls to his knees beside him. Cold seeps through his jeans immediately, soaking into his knees, and that'll be sore later but he doesn't care in the slightest. 

Joey's hand remains in his for the time it takes to demonstrate lightly brushing snow from fragile petals, clearing it from between each flower. 

He's got no fucking clue why Joey's doing it, and apparently neither does Billy. But that hardly matters. All that matters, really, is Joey's little fingers wrapped up in his, ice cold, and all he wants to do is get him warm. Get him scented—

Joseph clears snow from flowers for half an hour, until even his hands are numb and pained, silent for the most part. Joey doesn't seem to mind, building some odd, lumpy version of a snowman. 

After a moment's consideration, Joey picks up a few small stones and smushes them into the thing's lopsided head. 

"Good job." He says. Joey blinks at him, looks to his snowman, and then just as quickly rises, taking Joseph's hand with him. "Cold?" 

There's no reply, but he must be. Even under all his layers, Joey's cheeks are flushed and the tip of his nose is tomato red. His gloves are soaked through, Joseph squeezing his fingers with great care. 

"Let's get you in." He tells him, but Joey's already off, dragging him along and kicking his shoes against the first step before he enters. 

For a child as young as he is, he's awfully polite. In some ways, at least. The weight of Joey's hand in his is missed immediately, Joseph stripping off his gloves and kicking off his boots while Joey works on all his layers. 

"Need help?" He tries, when he's watched the kid struggle with the catch on his zip for at least a minute. There's a pout to his mouth, but he's patient, trying again and again. 

Joey pauses. Nods once, and then bunches his coat in his hands, pushing it away from his body. 

"Having trouble?" Billy asks curiously, lingering at the other end of the hall. 

Joseph drops to one knee. "We're fine." It takes some fiddling, especially with his numbed fingers, but he manages to untangle the edge of Joey's scarf from the zip after a small fight. 

Joey pokes him in the chest. 

He squints. "What?" For that, he's poked again, this time a small smile playing at the perfect curve of Joey's mouth, lips starting to regain some color. 

Billy snorts. "You were growling." 

That's news to him, at least. Curiously, he makes another noise, not quite a growl, more of a rumble. Joey grins, starting to shuck off his jacket with excitement, holding it out. Joseph takes it, and then the scarf, and then the hat on his head, a little bemused. 

"You know where all this goes?" 

Billy takes a little mercy on him, holding a hand out for the garments. In the five seconds it takes to hand them over, Joey's off, one hand on the stair railing as he stumbles and takes steps two at a time. 

Joseph raises an eyebrow, watching him go. Soaking up such a simple sound, little feet on a set of stairs, dampened by carpet and Joey's wet socks. As soon as he's gone, Joseph feels— cold. 

He shakes his head. Resists the urge to follow the kid up. Billy fixes him with a knowing look, and then pointedly says, "Let me know when." 

"I'm fine." And he is. Couldn't be more fine, when he's wanted nothing more than— than one more day. One fucking more day. Any kind of day, rain or snow, the most boring day on Earth, that day to be relived again and again. Anything would do. 

And this is better than all of that. 

Joseph shakes his head, removing the rest of his layers in silence. Upstairs, there's a handful of thumps and bangs, nothing too concerning, and then Joey is back on the landing. 

"Hey, kid." He says. Watches Joey watch the foot of the stairs. Rather determinedly, he starts the trip down, one hand on the railing as he sets both feet on every step. 

He remembers Joey doing that, too. Something about coming down that always froze him for a second, extra careful with each step. He remembers a lot, as much as he wished he didn't. Remembers how it always made him sigh, impatient at the bottom of the stairs, always something important to go and do. 

He swallows heavily, an unease under his skin. "C'mere." He mumbles, and meets Joey halfway up the stairs. The kid freezes, and then takes his offered hand, squeezing tightly. "One step at a time." 

They make it down at a steady pace, and Joey gives him a bright little smile before he slips out of Joseph's grasp again. Fumbles with the door handle before he's tumbling on through, poking his head back out a moment later. 

"Looking for Billy?" He tries. "Kitchen." 

At that, Joey heads off, skidding on fresh socks round the corner. Joseph follows at a more sedate pace, hanging back when he enters and finds Joey moving his hands in a frankly incomprehensible pattern. 

It takes a moment to click, and once it does, he feels a little stupid. "He signs?" 

"Some." Billy answers, in between following Joey's fingers. "It's too early for lunch." Joey's hands pause, and then restart, bouncing on his heels slightly. "It's too cold for ice cream, lad. Your Dad let you eat ice cream on a snow day?" 

Joey nods enthusiastically. Joseph raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorway in amusement. He doesn't need to see to know that Joey's eyes are wide, pleading little orbs of green, nearly irresistible if not prepared for. 

Billy brushes it off with professional calm. "I don't think so. Why don't you show Joseph your toys, instead? I'll start lunch in a bit." Joey cocks his head. Not quite a sigh, but his shoulders rise and fall in a put-out motion. 

"Am I really that bad, kid?" He asks, can't fight his smile when Joey jumps slightly, turning on his heel. 

A grin plays at the edges of his mouth, caught between happiness and valiantly pouting. It hurts. Joseph grips his biceps tightly, nails dug in. He tilts his head, offering his own small smile. 

"Off you go." Billy prods. For good measure, he makes a shoo motion. 

Joey leaves with one last, pleading look before he's taking Joseph by the fabric of his jeans, dragging him along with determination. Back up the stairs. To one of the storage closets, which towers above even Joseph's head once he's inside. 

Stuffed to the fucking gills with toys. Christ. 

"Those eyes of yours get a lot done, huh?" He murmurs. Joey's hand tightens on his thigh, a particular gleam in his eyes, starting to bounce on his heels again. 

Joey starts tugging on the large tubs, sticking his hands in at random to tug out all manner of things. After a second, Joseph nudges him back, picking a box at random to pull out. 

It's filled with— 

"You like trains?" He squints. Little wooden train tracks and neatly painted trains fill the bucket, along with a few dozen plastic building blocks, obviously from a different set. Curiously, he plucks a train out, finding it to be metal, rather than the plastic he'd assumed. A few are wooden, too, a mismatched set. "Alright." 

They make it to Joey's room relatively safely, though the kid's obviously out of patience, tugging on the bucket and attempting to all but climb in until Joseph hefts it out of his reach. The tub is descended upon immediately, Joey dumping the whole lot out without ceremony, a furrow between his little, light eyebrows. 

Joseph watches for a moment, trying to parse the order in which Joey lines up the pieces before him, before declaring it a lost cause and taking in the room. It's nothing extravagant, just a kid's bedroom. 

A single bed pushed into the corner, a small desk opposite it. Clothes piling out of the laundry basket, a half dozen toys strewn across the floor. Light blue walls with a framed picture on one that draws him in close. 

Joey, younger than he is now. Joseph studies it silently. The grin on his face is toothy and carefree, propped up on Slade's hip, a hand fisted in his shirt. Blue sky takes up most of the frame, and then behind them, the ocean, rolling waves and a handful of swimmers. 

A vacation, if he had to guess. Gotham doesn't come with sandy beaches like that. 

He doesn't remember ever taking the boys on holiday. Joseph studies the picture until it turns blurry, unfocused. Tearing away from it is nearly impossible, Joey's grin and Slade's matching smile, hair a little shorter, face a little less haunted. 

Joseph bites his tongue and drops to one knee beside Joey, picking up a few pieces blindly to help. 

By the time Billy calls them down for lunch, Joseph's built most of a winding train track without Joey's help, the kid spending most of his time making trains collide with his hands and busying himself with the other contents from the box. 

It's the most peaceful thing he's done in years. Feels like cutting off a limb when he has to stand, breaking the quiet spell, Joey already picking which train he'd like to bring down to lunch. His mouth moves silently, little breathy noises escaping as he mouths words to himself. 

Before they leave, a hand curls into the edge of his shirt, tugging him back down. Joseph leans in, meeting Joey's inquisitive eyes, receiving a poke to the chest. 

Obligingly, he rumbles, a soft noise that he hasn't made or felt the need to make in years. A noise he'd so rarely given his Joey, or Grant. Joey, now, grins brightly, a puff of breath escaping him. It's so easy to take it for what it is. Joey's laugh, even silenced, bright and happy. 

He made him laugh. He did that. Joseph rumbles again, close to a purr, watching Joey rock on his heels before he's tearing off for the stairs, pausing at the top. One hand on the railing, he turns, his other hand held out, fingers wriggling in invitation. 

"Let's go, kiddo." Joseph says, voice warm and low, and feels something loosen in his chest that's been tight for too long. Takes his hand firmly, patient with every step. 

Lunch is a lively affair, if only for the simple fact that Joey can't sit still. Each time Billy plunks him back into his chair, it's a matter of minutes before he's sliding off again, still clumsily spooning food into his mouth. 

He prods and pokes Joseph from nearly every angle. Tries twice to join Billy on his seat. Gets food nearly everywhere, and somehow still manages to always be chewing at least some of it.

The only thing he sits for is the little pot of yogurt Billy sets down in front of him, holding his spoon with great focus in his fist. 

After that, it's television time, Billy helpfully switching from the news to something far more appropriate at incredible speed. As soon as there's a sing-a-long, Joseph may as well not exist for all Joey pays him any mind, bouncing on his feet and moving about the room with boundless energy. 

He sits, and watches, and feels a little like he's being ripped in half, watching Joey dance. Somehow, he manages to paste a smile on whenever he catches his gaze, and it nearly feels genuine, right up until Joey's turned his back on him and that smile slowly drifts off his mouth. 

Billy comes in, sometime, places a cup of coffee in his hands that he finds himself grateful for. Gives his hands something to do besides fiddle with the hem of his shirt and tap against his elbow in time with the music. 

After that, it's finger-painting in the kitchen, which Billy rather smartly declines to partake in. It's possibly the messiest thing he's ever done, even counting all the years of blood and gore, and there's paint in both their hair by the time Joey's had enough. 

"Time for a bath?" Billy suggests, eyeing the streak of blue through Joey's soft curls, green and red all the way up to his elbows. 

The skin of Joseph's cheek feels dry and definitely painted-on when he answers. "I'll clean up?" 

He snorts. "Taking the easy route, I see." 

Joseph flashes his teeth in a grin, starting to collect little paint pots. Finger painting never used to be so messy in his universe, he's sure. A little afraid to touch anything, he takes it all to the sink, elbowing the faucet until it starts running. 

Once they're gone, Joey stumbling up the stairs ahead of Billy, Joseph checks the clock. Nearly time for dinner, if he had to guess, and there's no doubt the bath will be a thorough job. 

Slade probably wouldn't appreciate a red-and-green child. He doesn't exactly envy Billy right then, hearing the bath begin to run. And then his phone rings away in his back pocket. He squints. Billy upstairs, means—

Joseph dries off in a hurry, streaks of paint on Slade's little red dish towel. "Hello." He greets, as soon as he's swiped to connect. 

"Thought you might let it go to voicemail." 

"Figured you felt shitty enough." He replies, which is true, he supposes. But a part of him had answered without thinking, without hesitating. Just wanted to hear his voice, even through a crackling and fuzzy line, in the middle of God knows where. 

"Yeah," Slade agrees quietly. And then there's just the puff of breath, Joseph's eyes slipping closed for a moment. "I am sorry." He finally offers. 

His hip rests against the counter, leaning heavily for a moment. "I deserved it." He swallows heavily, letting his hearing drift upstairs for a moment, to Billy's voice and the splash of water. 

"No," Slade murmurs. "Fuck, of course you didn't, it's not— not your fault, any more than it was mine. What happened to them."

Rather than agree, he hums. Sighs. "He's fine by the way." 

"I figured. Or you'd have been calling me." Slade murmurs, a laugh to the edge of his words, a little hollow. 

"Billy's giving him a bath." He adds. "Finger painting." 

"Yeah, he likes painting." Slade says. Despite him not being there, Joseph can see clear as day the little smile that would tug at Slade's mouth. Warm and proud, head ducked for a second, becoming a full grin. "How are you?" 

He blinks. "I'm fine." 

"You don't sound fine." 

"I'm tired," he admits, because it's fucking true and— "Billy woke me at half six."

"Yeah, Joey always gets up—" 

"—Early, I know." He sighs. "Kid never changes." With his phone precariously squashed between his ear and shoulder, Joseph bumps the faucet back on, scrubbing at the paint until it turns the sink a brown-sludge mix of color. "Never mentioned he doesn't talk." 

"Ah," Slade mumbles. "In my defense, I'm used to it. He talks to me." 

"So Billy said." He hums. Sets his hands to work mechanically, and pretends this is normal. Nothing more than washing little pots of paints and scrubbing small brushes against his palm. 

They're not talking about how fucked up their— Slade's little boy has become. How it's their fault. How Joey won't even talk to Billy, and he fucking loves Billy. Joseph grinds his teeth. 

"He's doing good." Slade finally says, as if that makes it any better. "Better than before." The line crackles, a heavy sigh into the receiver. "You sure you're okay?" 

"I'm fine." He repeats. Shakes each pot out, setting them down with the rest of the dishes left to dry. Grips the edge of the sink tightly, head bent. "Haven't you got shit to be doing?" 

Slade hums. "Figured I'd check in. I'm doing just fine." 

"We're fine."

"Alright," he agrees. "Tell Joey I miss him." 

"Will do," he nods. Fumbles with the phone for a second, a little stilted when he says, "Bye, Slade." Waits for the equally stilted goodbye in return and hangs up, exhaling heavily. 

Upstairs, there's louder splashing, and it doesn't take much extra hearing to pick out Billy's voice turned stern and a little bemused. He leaves them to it, and sets about poking in the fridge, ready to forget all about Slade's call. 

He does, by some miracle, manage to cook dinner. It hasn't even been that long since he last cooked properly, for other people, but he feels rusty. Especially in the kid department. 

Thankfully, Joey isn't too fussy, though he does pick around the carrots like he's personally offended. Scoops the rest into his mouth dutifully, every last bite, and manages to sit for the entirety of the meal. 

There is, however, a toy train between them. For some reason. Joey touches it occasionally, mostly when Billy is talking over his head in the middle of cutting up his food for him. 

"So you can—" Billy waves his fork, apropos of nothing. Motions to all of Joseph in his entirety. "Growl." 

He shrugs. "Obviously." Under the table, Joey's socked feet bump his shins, swinging out from his chair. "It's normal for an Alpha." 

"But not others?" 

"They can. It's just not as frequent." Without Slade, he finds himself a whole lot more open to discussing it, if only for the absence of dog jokes. "We can make a lot of noises." 

"Oh?" Billy prompts idly, though he keeps an eye on him even as he leans over to push a slice of carrot onto Joey's spoon. "Eat up." 

Not needing words, Joey tips the carrot off his spoon. 

Joseph makes a noise in his chest. Warning rumble. Soft. "Eat, or I keep your train until bedtime." Joey eyes him, green eyes squinted, before he scoops the carrot up again clumsily. "It's not that bad, kid." 

Joey makes a face as he chews. Joseph rumbles again, pleased, the one that Joey seems so damn interested in today. 

"Y'know, if I said that, I'd get tears until bedtime." Billy mutters, ruffling Joey's hair fondly. The kid grins, littly milky teeth on display, spoons more carrot into his mouth. 

Joseph pointedly eats his own carrots as he gets back to the matter at hand. "It's another way of talking. I guess. Different growls mean different things. Can't use them interchangeably." 

"I take it there are ones for kids." Billy notes lightly, amusement flickering through his eyes. "Seems to work on him, at any rate." 

"Think it's just 'cause I look like Slade." He shrugs. Winces, when Joey's head pops up, curls bouncing. He eyes the doorway, already making to slide off his chair. 

Billy holds him steady, and Joseph snags his foot under the table between his own. 

"He's going to call tonight." Billy says. "Dad's going to call at bedtime." He repeats. Joey frowns. "On the phone." He signs as he speaks, Joey taking note quietly, but there's a distinctly upset edge to his face now, bottom lip starting to quiver.

Joseph clears his throat lightly. "Want ice cream?" All over again, he's disappointed. In Slade. In himself. 

The only one doing good here seems to be Billy, and isn't that a fucking surprise after his Wintergreen— Well. After. Joseph rises without an answer, heading for the freezer with single-minded determination. 

"He hasn't finished his dinner." 

"A little dessert before dinner never killed anyone, Billy." He throws back. Behind him, he hears Joey make another valiant attempt at escaping. "Ice cream. What's the sign for ice cream?" 

Billy must sign it, because there's the clatter of spoon against plate, Joey suddenly sat still. Joseph can't quite help his smile.

He knows— certain phrases. Useful things, when it comes to sign. Not… ice cream. Joseph digs through the freezer until he finds the tub. Turns it over in his hands and frowns. Chocolate chip cookie dough. He'd kind of expected vanilla for a— He squints. "How old is he?" 

"Four. Nearly five." Billy replies, not missing a beat. "He didn't tell you that either?" 

"Nope." He sighs. Rummages through drawers until he finds one of Joey's spoons with the larger, coloured handles. After a moment's consideration, he sets it into the larger of the two bowls, bringinh them over with a raised eyebrow. "You think he told me anything?" 

"Well," Billy says, a little huff of amusement. "He never was one for words." 

"Mm." 

"I see you share that." Billy takes the offered bowl, setting it down to possibly the most excited wriggling Joseph's ever seen, Slade entirely forgotten for the moment. 

Kids are fucking weird. Easy, at the same time. At this age, at any rate. Over their teary-eyed moments in a heartbeat with the right distraction. He'd never really struggled with these years, it was everything after that he apparently had no clue how to handle. With one hand, Joey shovels ice cream into his mouth, seemingly holding it on his tongue, and with his other hand begins pushing his train along the tablecloth. 

Joseph watches for a moment before tentatively trying his own. Too sweet for his taste, melting on his tongue and making his teeth ache after a few mouthfuls. Joey doesn't seem to mind, clumsy when he spoons a chunk of cookie dough into his mouth. 

"Anything else different?" Billy prods. 

"You're awfully interested in this." He comments. Pushes his sleeves up and sets his elbows on the table, which he's sure Slade would have something to say about. Joey copies him after about thirty seconds, hunched over his bowl. 

Billy shrugs. "Not every day you meet a man from another universe." For the first time — which says a lot about how fucking together Joseph is today — he realises Billy's in a t-shirt. Entirely at odds with his own Wintergreen. 

Joseph doesn't remember the last time his Billy had looked this relaxed. Open. He plays with the edge of Joey's hair that's curled over his ear, leaning back in his seat, for once in his life not looking tired.  

"You like it here." He says, quietly. 

"Wouldn't be here if I didn't." Billy agrees, momentarily serious. Holds Joseph's gaze like it's important, something he needs to know. "I take it I'm not in Gotham, over there." 

"No," Joseph spoons a little more ice cream to his mouth. Cold and sweet, making his teeth ache. "Haven't seen you in a while." He admits. 

"Whatever it was," Billy sighs, eyes flicking to the table. "I'm sure it'll work out."

"Yeah," he agrees without feeling. 

Billy taps the table between them. "If he knows what's good for him, it will." With that, he shifts in his seat, turning to Joey. "Did you show Joseph your trains?" He signs again, laughing when Joey attempts to sign back with his spoon still in hand. 

And just like that, the heavy weight in Joseph's chest is gone again. Replaced with something a little like normalcy. Joey, Billy, and a family dinner. Joseph sits back to watch the kid sign with enthusiasm, occasionally piling ice cream into his mouth. 

A haphazard, surreal family dinner. But it'll do. 

"I really need to pee." He announces. It's half-six, and only halfway through Joey's supposed nighttime routine. Which consists of watching television until Slade calls. Sitting directly against Joseph's bladder. 

("Why me?" He'd asked, careful not to discourage the child clambering onto his lap without a hint of hesitance. "You don't want to sit with Billy?"

"You're new." Billy had replied, watching with pure amusement. "He doesn't bite.") 

So there he was. Effectively stuck. Joey might cry if he moves, or worse, Joseph might cry. Moving was bad. He knew that much. 

Moving meant giving up the small, fragile weight against him. Meant giving up the soft brush of Joey's hair against his throat, leaned against him, eyes fixed to the television with tired attention. Little socked feet rub against his thigh, Joey curled up tight under his blanket, and yes, it was nearly illegal for him to move right then. 

Slade would probably castrate him, for one. And again, Joseph wasn't entirely sure he could fight off the pressure behind his eyes already threatening to spill. Tentatively, he held Joey a little tighter, one hand placed over his stomach. 

Kid had a fucking stomach ache. Big surprise there. Had bounced around for the half hour it took Joseph to wash dishes and Billy to get things ready for bed, and then he'd crashed, tired lines under his eyes. 

Every blink was slow and unfocused, one hand half crammed into his mouth, Joey's feet tapping a little beat against his thigh. Joseph wasn't sure he could handle another half hour. 

It was fine in the morning. Too tired to process. Too fucking cold to care. And the toys had been enough of a distraction, in their own way. Joey's laugh had nearly undone him, and after that it was a long series of nearly-undoings. 

Joseph was tired. Probably about as tired as Joey, except in a much more bone-deep way. For the thirtieth time in as many minutes, he leans down, rubs his chin against the crown of Joey's head. 

Real tired of pretending he doesn't want this kid soaked in his scent, that extra edge on top of Slade's that sticks to Joey like nothing else. Billy doesn't say anything, though he does raise an eyebrow when a rumble starts in Joseph's chest, soothing and low, barely audible. 

Joey leans into it, ear pressed flat to his chest. Blinks long and slow and for a moment he thinks he really has fallen asleep, but then Joey shifts, focusing on the screen in front of him. 

"Waiting on—" Billy mouths Slade, more than enough explanation. 

"Time?" 

"He's pretty punctual about it." Billy shrugs. "Never missed it." 

He nods, just another excuse to press his chin to Joey's soft hair. Flexes his fingers against Joey's arm, thin against his palm. This close, he can hear as easy as anything the heart that beats in his chest, slow and relaxed. 

He reaches down and grips his wrist anyway, feeling for the pulse. Fragile little bones under his fingers that are so breakable, Joey such a delicate child. 

He never wants it to end. Wants to be fucking gone, because this is the worst kind of torture. Feels like holding a cold corpse again, Joey's soft hair under his chin, the tip of his nose buried in Joseph's throat. 

He holds him tighter and allows himself, briefly, to sink into Joey's presence. He might be light, but he fits perfectly into the circle of his arms. Might be silent but every soft puff of breath is affirming, a gentle reminder of his life, precious and fragile in Joseph's bloodied hands. 

And then Billy's phone rings, shattering the peace in his chest for the first time in— in fucking years, Joseph's rumble rising to a growl so quick and sharp it breaks in his chest. He swallows it down as quickly as he can, Joey blinking awake in confusion. 

He'd fallen asleep. Joseph wishes he could rip his own throat out for a hot second, or throw Billy's phone out the window. But it's Slade. His father, his actual father, not the piss-poor stand-in, shiny and new and therefore interesting. 

Pretty soon, he'll get tired of Joseph, and Joseph will never tire of him. Not for as long as he's here, in this universe. 

Joey shifts. He knows it's selfish to hold on, only prolonging the hurt, but fuck is it agony to let go. The loss of his pulse. Joey clambering from his lap, taking his blanket with him, standing small against the couch as he rubs his eyes. 

Billy pushes out of his chair with a groan, flicks the television off. "Let's get you to bed, yeah?" He asks, Joey's arms already held out to be scooped up with a grunt. Over the top of his head, Billy meets his eyes, something soft and pitying in his gaze. 

Joseph grips his thigh tightly. "Goodnight, Joey." 

In return, Joey waves, already curling over Billy's shoulder, blanket fisted in one hand. And then they're gone, Billy's phone no longer ringing halfway up the stairs only to restart a second later. 

He could listen in. Hear Joey's soft, sweet voice, just this once. As soon as he thinks it, he dismisses it, curling his knee against his chest with a huff. It's not meant for him, or even for Billy, and listening in is only hurting an already hurt boy. 

Joseph flicks the television back on, flipping over to the news. For the first time since he arrived here, he'd forgotten to check the news, too busy with Joey to even consider it. 

Luthor's still in hospital. The world is still spinning. The Justice League are still a bag of dicks. 

He flicks it off again once he hears Billy's steps down the stairs, plunging the room into silence. He keeps his ears on that, almost to the point of white noise, and not whatever's being spoken upstairs. 

"Drink?" Billy prods, poking his head through the doorway. "No?" 

"Think I'm going to go." He shrugs. Uncurls from around his knee, gritting his teeth briefly. "Same time tomorrow?" 

"Probably. Want me to call?" 

"No, I'll be there." He sighs. Six-thirty. Wonderful. At least he's tired enough to sleep well tonight, he's sure. And Slade should be back tomorrow, day after at the latest. 

Despite his words, he doesn't move for far too long, fingers gripping the couch cushions. Billy fixes him with an unimpressed stare. 

"Wouldn't hold it against you, if you weren't." 

"I'll be there." He repeats. Firmer, as if that makes it more concrete. 

"I believe you." He shifts on the spot, slightly. Visibly considers the next words out of his mouth. "Just think about what you're doing to yourself, too." 

He makes it back to the loft in one piece, somehow. Leaving Slade's home had felt a little like stripping off armor, no more protection between him and the reality of the day. Of seeing Joey, of holding him, and all the little moments that had been too much to let in at the time. 

Joseph doesn't particularly remember the walk back to the loft, or unlocking the door, or flipping on all the lights. He swallows heavily, the emptiness of the room colder than ever. Sits on the edge of his bed and can't quite move for a second, elbows resting on his knees heavily. 

He needs to get changed. There's snow soaked into the cuff of his jeans, the top of his hat. Soaking into his hair and what little bared skin there is, scarf wrapped tight around his throat, nearly suffocating. He fumbles it off in silence, dumping it on the floor. 

Doesn't help any, when it feels like his coat is choking the life out of him. Numbly, he fumbles the buttons, tugs the zipper down, stripping his gloves off when it gets too hard. Squints against the lights in the room, too fucking bright, inhaling sharply once his coat is on the floor. 

He unlaces one boot in near silence, nothing more than a sniffle or two from the cold. Kicks off the other with another sharp inhale, mouth tasting of salt. Breathes in through his nose with a growl. It's a struggle, getting his socks off when they're so fucking blurry, half his vision gone and what he does have is being blinded by fucking tears, of all things. 

He should be fucking happy. Should be over the Goddamn moon. He got that one more day, the thing nobody else ever gets. He fucking got it.  

Joseph throws both socks with a growl, breath coming fast and hard now, and scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. A sob in his throat tears out, and then another, and he can't fucking stop— 

Joseph sits on the edge of his bed, and sobs until his throat hurts and his sleeves are soaked, pressed to his face. Until he doesn't remember crawling over the top of the comforter, curling up tightly and missing the fragile, precious weight of Joey in his arms. 

Chapter Text

As promised, Joseph is up and ready. Feels like shit that's been ground into the sidewalk on a particularly sweaty, sticky summer day. But he is up. Awake, coffee, clothes. 

Even after showering and scrubbing himself within an inch of his life, his face feels dry and tender. His throat still hurts. Both sleeves of his shirt had been damp in the morning, quickly stripped off and chucked into the pile of other unclean clothes on the floor. 

But he felt marginally more alive, after some sleep and some distance. Ready as he ever will be, more than ready for that particular kind of pain that seeing Joey brings. The kind he could endure forever, if the fucking universe would let him. 

Billy doesn't call, which is nice. Trusting. Joseph wouldn't have believed a word he said last night, if he were hearing it from someone else. 

He's halfway to Slade's house, slipping on patches of ice, when he receives a text instead. 

Bad day. Quiet when you come in.  

Joseph squints at it, unease in his gut, and then sets about walking a little faster, ice be damned. Bad day could be any number of things, but he doesn't particularly like the thought of any of them in tandem with Joey.  

He'd been so… happy. Toothy grins and silent laughs, a bundle of energy that didn't stop moving until he crashed. And then he was just— sweet. A little behind, maybe, but what kid wasn't at one thing or another. 

Joey — his Joey — had never had particularly bad days. Tantrums, sure. Fucking lungs on that kid for days when he wanted to, and a bad case of cholic when he was small, but Joseph mostly remembered the happy kid. The polite kid, all his pleases and thank you's because he was raised right, creative and inquisitive. 

Joey didn't have bad days, not really. 

Which made this an unknown situation, in Joseph's personal opinion. And he sure as shit wasn't prepared for it. 

Slade's house is quiet from the outside. There's no little boy in the yard, or Billy clutching a mug of hot chocolate. Snowman's still there, though, missing it's eyes now. Inside is nearly as quiet, Joseph straining to make out the quiet shuffle of Billy's feet on the floor. 

Joey's soft, hitching breaths. Crying. 

Joseph tries the handle with great care, thankful when it doesn't squeak, and lets himself in, the scent of Joey strong in the hallway. Sweat and the salt of tears. He toes his boots off in silence, socks damp, and leaves his coat on the stairs with the rest of his things. 

Upstairs is silent, that much is clear, and so he heads for the living room on quiet feet. Nudges the door open, spotting them immediately, and has to fight down a displeased growl at the sight of Joey's tired, bloodshot eyes, his cheek pressed into Billy's shoulder. His whole face is red, even, been crying for a while— 

"Hey," he greets, a little surprised by the softness of his own voice. Billy doesn't startle, simply keeps up his slow circuit of the room, Joey slumped against his side. "What's wrong?" 

On the next turn, Joey's eyes shift up, focusing on him properly for the first time. Soft green looking so tired, every blink slow. One hand fisted in the sleeve of Billy's shirt, still damp, his legs a little limp where he's held. 

Joseph tilts his head, shutting the door behind him quietly. 

"Bad night." Billy answers, though his words are soft, soothing in tone. Bounces Joey a little in his arms. "Has them sometimes." 

And then Joey bursts into tears again, big sobs that wrack through his thin frame. Billy looks to the ceiling briefly, and then he's shifting Joey a little, up against his chest, and Joseph is frozen like an idiot, his chest clenched so tight he can't breathe. 

Before Grant, some tiny part of him had been worried he wouldn't hear the kids crying in the night. That he'd be too tired, too deep asleep. He was a fucking idiot then, and still one now, jolted the moment he hears Joey's wails. It's a sound he can't help but hear, can't block out in all it's piercing intensity. 

It calls to him, as much as his own Joey's cries had. Exactly how his Joey's had. Feels like ripping open that old wound all over again, nausea roiling in his stomach. Billy raises an eyebrow when he steps up close, head bent when he slides his hands in between Billy's. 

"Give him," he mumbles. Isn't sure Billy even hears it over the sobs, Joey's voice cracking and hoarse. The most noise he's heard out of the kid. Still got the lungs, even if he doesn't use them often. "I've got him." 

Billy hesitates, which is frustrating when he can feel Joey trembling. And then he's handed over, fitting in Joseph's hands like he belongs there. Curls against his chest and wails, hot puffs of breath against his shirt, snot and tears smearing into it immediately. 

He couldn't care less. Slips his arm under Joey's thighs and his other hand into his hair, holding him tight when he starts up a rumble. The one Joey likes so much, soft and slow, turning over in his chest. 

"Hey, buddy." He murmurs. Presses his chin to the top of Joey's head, rubbing it carefully. Earns himself another sob, Joey's fingers fisted in his shirt tightly. 

Billy mouths Slade, and that says it all, he supposes. Joseph nods once and then takes up Billy's previous task of circuiting the room in slow, measured steps. That had used to be a pain — two in the morning walks round the block with a screaming baby over an upset stomach, when Adeline had inevitably kicked him out of bed. 

Now, he'd do it forever, if he had to. 

He leaves the living room, takes the stairs, around each room and back down, all the while keeping up the soft growl in his chest. After a short while, he hears Billy in the kitchen, no doubt fixing coffee for the both of them. 

Might be a long day, he supposes. A very long day. It's barely seven, and Joey's already hit the red-faced point of his crying, breaths coming quick and fast. Over-tired, no doubt. Still in his pajamas, little soft cotton pants with spaceships down the leg, a matching top that's mostly unbuttoned. 

It makes his chest hurt something fierce, and his ears hurt even worse after a half hour of it. He keeps rumbling anyway, keeps talking in quiet, soothing tones — absolute nonsense, but it's sweet and comforting words pressed into the crown of Joey's head, the heated edge of his rounded cheeks, still damp with tears. 

Eventually, he gives up on the walking. Takes them up to Slade's room instead. Stands in the doorway briefly before he's nudging the door shut, ignoring the strong scent of the man himself in favour of flipping the comforter down, settling them both on the center of the bed. 

If he's anything like Joseph's own Joey, well, this is the best spot. The only spot he could possibly calm down. Joey's wails go a little louder, eyes scrunched tight when Joseph tips his head back to look at him proper. 

"Hey, kiddo." He murmurs. Strokes a thumb over Joey's cheek, momentarily silencing his sobs, and then the kid's back at it, nose red and dripping. With a sigh, he leans over to pick through the nightstand in the hopes of finding tissues.  

He finds none, and has to settle with his sleeve instead. Joey puts up with as well as a kid crying his eyes out can, and the longer Joseph fusses over him the quieter Joey gets. Can't go on forever, he knows that, even if it has been going on for a long time. 

All night, maybe. But he'd seemed so calm in Joseph's arms last time, ready and waiting for Slade's call. The kid in his arms now was the polar opposite, a hollowed out little shell that sets his head on Joseph's chest and coughs wet, raw little noises out, eyes bloodshot and tired. 

His own eyes feel gritty and tired. Up early and— well, last night wasn't his proudest either. He kisses the heated skin of Joey's forehead, still murmuring quiet words, and settles into the headboard with a heavy sigh. Joey coughs again, small hands still fisted in his shirt, and finally stops his sobs. 

The hitching breaths slow the longer Joseph rubs his back, feeling the small bumps of his spine and the sharp jut of his shoulder blades. The salty, sharp scent of tears clings to him, nearly overwhelming the scent of Slade, and it only makes sense for Joseph to try and bring a little of that back. Tugs the comforter up and over the kid's shoulders, tucked in firmly against his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. 

Eventually, even that slows. It's a hell of a lot lighter outside now, winter sunlight pouring in through the blinds, early morning by the time Joey's breathing finally, blessedly, evens out in sleep. 

He must fall asleep, too, curled up in Slade's bed, surrounded by the scent of Joey, because the next thing he knows he's being tugged awake. By his beard, specifically. 

Little fingers curled into the edges of his beard, tugging curiously at his chin like the kid's never seen facial hair before. It's not even that different from Slade's. Joseph watches Joey watch him, still feeling the pull of sleep, and nearly considers letting it take him under again.

And then there's fingers in his mouth. 

Joseph makes an affronted noise, making to pull away. Instead, Joey follows. Pokes at his teeth.

"Wha—?" Little hands push into his mouth further, running against his teeth, a supremely uncomfortable feeling. Joey sniffles. "Kid." He garbles. 

The hands withdraw, which is good, though they're now covered in his spit. Joseph grimaces. Now that there's no fingers choking him to death, he gets a proper look at the kid. 

Straddling his waist, sitting up and forward to loom over Joseph, his face is still reddened and tender. Still bloodshot and tired when Joey rubs at his soft green eyes with the back of his hand, curls sticking up at odd ends. 

But he's not crying, at least. Joseph reaches out, pressing his palm to the back of his neck, squeezing gently. 

"Hey, Joey." He mumbles. Clears his throat when it's clear his body is still sleeping. "How you feeling?" Of course, he doesn't answer, but he does lean in again, and it takes Joseph far too long to realise he wants a hug. 

He embraces him gently, ever so careful when Joey feels so damn breakable in his arms, all thin bones and soft skin. The kid sighs into his neck, a quiet puff of breath that has Joseph rumbling again, running one large hand up his back.

"How about we—" He stops, tilts his head. "Watch a movie? Does that sound nice? With Billy." 

The kid perks up at that a little. Yawns into Joseph's throat, not bothering to make a move, and so Joseph carefully shuffles them both from the bed. Takes a little work when he feels all kinds of stiff, his muscles aching after sleeping propped up against the headboard.

The scent that radiates from Joey now helps, just a little. Back to its usual. Less tears, more warm and safe child. Slade's scent is thick in the room, too, buried in the sheets and the walls. 

Without it, he probably wouldn't be half as calm, he knows. 

Downstairs, he finds Billy in the living room, sat in the armchair looking like he doesn't know what's hit him. Joseph raises an eyebrow, shifting Joey onto his hip. 

"You sleep last night?" He tilts his head, sliding his gaze to Joey.

"A little." He murmurs. "Got up around four." 

"Should take a nap." He prods. "Time is it, anyway?" 

"Nearly twelve." Billy shrugs. "Slept in here for a bit. Made some lunch, if you're hungry." 

Joseph shrugs a shoulder, hefting Joey up a little higher. "Does that sound good, kiddo? Have some lunch with me?" He asks quietly, voice turned soft like it had this morning without his thinking about it. 

Joey nods barely an inch, but it's good enough for them, Billy pushing himself from the armchair with a groan. "Sounds good to me, lad." He leans in close, presses his mouth to the top of Joey's head before he shuffles past them. 

Joey settles down, melted against him nearly. Doesn't move when Joseph slumps into the couch and flicks on the television, turning the volume down low. Kid's probably got a killer headache. He flips through channels until he finds the one they were on last night, leaving it there until Billy returns with lunch in hand. 

A large plate of sandwiches, as it turns out. A few healthier options that Joseph immediately shuffles to the side of the plate in favour of a good old peanut butter and jelly, cut into squares. 

"Open up,"  he murmurs. Waves said sandwich in the kid's face, and then pressing it to his mouth when he ignores it entirely. "Fingers out of your mouth, kiddo. C'mon, or I'll eat it." 

At that, Joey chews his fingers harder for a moment. Visibly debates listening to him, because, kids. And then he opens his mouth, accepting the peanut butter sandwich with a wrinkled nose. They're both due a bath after this, most likely. 

Still snot and tears on his shoulder and sleeves, still some on Joey's little pajamas, and it would be good for the kid to have a scrub anyway. Something about getting clean could be so resetting, Joseph had found. Washing away the scent, and the feel of all the dark, horrible things inside of him. 

Joseph feeds him in small bites, and pretty soon Billy's taking up the armchair again with his own sandwich in hand. When Joey takes a break just to breathe, he nudges the remote over to Billy, trusting him to find something suitable to watch. 

Apparently, that's Beauty and the Beast. Joseph nearly rolls his eyes. Rethinks it at the last moment when Joey shifts, blinking at the television in brief confusion before his mouth twitches into a smile. Barely there, still a little hollow. But it's a smile nonetheless. 

That small action lifts a weight off Joseph's chest instantly. World's not ended, and Joey will be okay. He knows that. The kid moves stiffly until he's sitting properly on his lap, plate between his knees, and for all the world Joseph might not fucking exist , with the way Joey gets sucked into the movie. 

Billy texts him, sometime during the first musical number. Thanks. Think he needed that. 

He raises an eyebrow. Texts back with only one free hand, the other helping to load Joey up on peanut butter. A nap?  

Billy snorts. Shakes his head, rather than texting back. He ignores Joseph's curious stare, instead flicking the armchair into a reclining position with a sigh. Whatever. Hardly the time to get into what Joey needs. 

He's calm, he's smiling in little fits and starts. It's good enough. And Slade should be back today. That thought brings a whole new feeling — some horrible mix of excitement and anger, waiting on the edge of his seat. 

Fucking instincts. Fucking Slade. 

Just being here with Joey was difficult enough. Adding in Slade's own presence, and it was… too much. Would be too much, watching him parent Joey. Watching Joey be his. 

Rather than sequester in that thought, Joseph begins a quiet noise, closer to a purr than a growl, and Joey leans back against him like it's the most natural thing in the world. Comfortable. Even starts feeding himself, picking the lettuce out of his ham sandwich with a frown. 

Joseph eats it for him and settles in for the movie. 

"Why should I bathe him?" If he sounds like he's whining, well — he is. Fuck it. "You did it just fine last night." 

"He wants you." 

"He's trying to eat paint, Billy." Joseph informs him dryly. "He wants nothing except to find out what green tastes like." 

Billy's mouth twitches. "If he wanted me, he'd have asked." Tilts his head, leans in like it's both the best news he's ever heard and a state secret, "Therefore, he wants you." 

Joseph crosses his arms. Fidgets on his feet. Doesn't even know why he doesn't want to. It's hardly the first time he's bathed a kid. Not the first time he's bathed Joey, four years old and as slippery as a bar of fucking soap.

He just doesn't. 

The kid's still trying to eat paint, too, which he wasn't yesterday but. Today seems to be a difficult day, so he'll cut him some slack. It's all non-toxic stuff anyway, which he was glad to find out. Whole house seemed child-proofed. 

Joseph couldn't even figure out where Slade kept all his guns. 

Billy smiles with all his teeth, the bastard, and straightens out his shirt. "Joey, lad," he says, holds Joseph's gaze coolly. "Joseph's going to run a bath. Twenty minutes and then we say bye to the paints, okay?" 

Joey pauses, hand dipped in a pot of blue. Eyes Billy with wide eyes, bottom lip caught between his little, milky teeth. And then he nods, feet swinging in his seat at the table. 

"See? Nothing to worry about." 

Joseph feels his eye twitch. 

He'd showered some time after the movie, taking advantage of Joey's sleepy mood to pass him off into a pile of blankets on the couch with a handful of toys. Seemed content to stay there while Joseph scrubbed down in record time and stole a few more of Slade's clothes. 

The sweatpants were a little tight, and the shirt was definitely too tight in the arms. But they fit, and were more than fine for the day he'd had with the kid. Slow. Quiet. All that energy and life drained out of him, his silent little boy with a head full of bad memories. 

Quietly, Billy had pulled him aside. Said it started with a nightmare. Always the same nightmare, and it didn't take a genius to figure what. He was only four. 

The longer he thinks on it, the more he feels like his skin is too tight. Constricting. Painful. Like he wanted to bite— something, anything. An animal, angry. 

Joseph doesn't stomp his way upstairs, but he gives Billy his middle finger once he's out of Joey's view, earning himself a barked laugh. "You're making dinner!" He calls out. 

"We'll see." Billy replies, just before Joseph's out of his sight. 

He sets about turning the faucet on full, waiting for it to heat up before he grabs a bottle of soap and dumps it in. Has no clue if the kid likes bubbles. Doesn't remember if his Joey had. 

He grinds his teeth, and blocks out the synthetic, sweet scent of soap and green apples. Joey doesn't smell like that to him. Smells like… warmth. Home. Like he's Joseph's, soaked in his scent, that particular shade of it that means family. Pack. 

Dimly, he realises, he doesn't want to wash it off. 

He watches the water, doing his best to think of nothing but that. Running a bath and the simple task of ensuring it's not scalding. Empties his head of every angry, possessive urge. Joey isn't his. Never was. Not this Joey. He swishes the water around with one hand, letting the cold faucet run. 

Checks it with his elbow like usual, dries off after. Dumps the entire basket of bath toys that take up one shelf in. And then all that's left is to collect the kid. Joseph frowns. 

Both knees protest when he rises from his position on the floor, aching and stiff. Slade's shirt feels— too tight, constricting on his lungs and the set of his shoulders. But it smells like him, and soft laundry detergent, and Joey. 

Billy's in the middle of disposing of all the licked paint when he enters the kitchen, Joey helping to stand on his tip-toes and dump paint brushes over the edge of the sink. "Ready?" 

"All good," he nods. Frowns a little at Billy's smile. "Joey?" He's mostly ignored, the kid depositing brushes one by one into the sink, water turned a murky brown color when Joseph comes closer. 

He lets him finish in silence, and grimaces when two painted hands are held up in offering. Clothes change number two might be in order after this. Joey moulds to him the moment he's picked up, setting his head on Joseph's shoulder, one hand back to playing with his beard. 

"Bath time." He says, bouncing the kid slightly to get his attention. "No splashing, huh?" 

Joey doesn't respond, but that's fine. He has a feeling he'll be ignored anyway, after all the noise of the bath yesterday. Worth a shot at laying down some ground rules anyway. 

Once they're in the bathroom, Joey's wriggling to get down. He lets him after a moment, watching in bemusement as Joey attempts to shuck off his shirt and peel off his socks at the same time. It ends in the kid sitting on the floor, halfway out of each item. 

"Kid," he snorts. "Let me help." He gets an affronted huff, but Joey holds his arms up, allowing Joseph to strip his shirt off and then his socks, and Joey manages to get rid of the rest without any more falling down. 

For how terribly the day started, he'd never know it by Joey's grin alone when he's deposited into the bath. There's an immediate shuffling of bath toys, picking out his favourites — a rubber boat and a handful of bath crayons  — before he sinks in up to his chest, something bright and carefree on his face. 

With a grunt, Joseph gets to his knees beside the bath, sinking his hands into the small mountain of bubbles. Joey ignores him in favour of scribbling over the tub walls. 

"Any guesses what Billy's making for dinner?" He asks, when the silence gets a little much. Joey nudges Joseph's arms out of the way to work on a small collection of trees he's drawing. "I'm hoping it's pasta." 

The kid draws one last tree before he drops the crayon, switching to black with intense focus. 

"Or maybe chicken. You know, I don't know if Billy can make good chicken." He cocks his head. Watches quietly as Joey makes— well, it amounts to a few ovals and circles, all black. Right in the middle of a patch of trees. 

While he's distracted, Joseph grabs the soap and a sponge, starting with Joey's reddened cheeks. The kid avoids half-heartedly, but sits still eventually, letting himself be scrubbed clean. 

By the time Joseph's searching for the no-tears shampoo, Joey's switched to orange, the large crayon held tightly in one fist. He works the soap in carefully, one hand cupped under Joey's soft curls to keep it from his eyes, and finds his mind going a little quieter. Runs his fingers through blonde hair with a calm kind of focus, the tips sticking on end when he tugs on it. 

Joey drops the orange crayon, searching the water for another, and it takes Joseph an embarrassing amount of time to realise what he's looking at. Deathstroke. Black and orange, two white spots for eyes. Holding a black little blob — a gun, he assumes. 

So he knows. 

Somehow, that doesn't surprise him. Though it leaves him with an uncomfortable sensation in his chest, Joseph a bit slow in returning to scrubbing his hair clean. Leaves him feeling something close to sad. 

He's only four. Too young to know what his Dad is. A killer. A mercenary. To know it well enough to put it on a bathtub wall, right beside all the other things little kids should be drawing — trees and flowers and soft blue skies. 

Joey's tongue sticks out when he moves onto other, more childish drawings, and ignores Joseph's attempts to rinse his hair entirely. Little blobby dogs and a couple cats and even an airplane. Normal things. Kid things. 

Once most of the soaps out of his hair, Joseph plucks up a crayon of his own, much to Joey's amusement. One of those little breathy not-quite-laughs. He's certainly no artist, but he can do good enough in a pinch. 

"What's this?" He asks, pointing the blunt end of his crayon at the little ice cream cone he's drawn in bright pink. 

Joey squints, and then answers, his hands repeating the same sign as yesterday. 

"Very good." He grins. Scrubs out the ice cream to start on a cat. Gets as far as the ears before Joey's already moving, water sloshing in the bath. Joseph tilts his head. "It's not Batman." 

It is definitely not Batman. Joey scrunches his nose and signs for it again, anyway. 

"Goes meow." He adds, and is so very glad Billy isn't there to hear his cat impression. 

The lighting up of Joey's eyes is worth everything, way too excited over a simple cat, and yeah, that's water sloshing over the sides of the bath to land squarely on his lap. Doesn't even catch the sign that Joey makes but he knows he's got it anyway. 

Joseph grins, and swaps to a slightly easier to see color. It keeps Joey's attention for a good twenty minutes, and then it's apparently his turn, scrubbing Joseph's own doodles out to put down his own mystery items. 

By the time he's managed to squint and guess his way through all the little, disproportionate pictures, Billy's poking his head into the bathroom with a raised eyebrow. 

"Checking you hadn't drowned." He informs him lightly. "Ready for dinner?" 

"Yeah," he nods. Turns to Joey's little pout. "What'd you make?" 

Billy snorts. "Can't smell it from here?" 

"All I can smell is apples." He replies. "Ready to go, kid?" He's wet up to his elbows and his sweatpants are uncomfortably soaked through, and gets even worse when Joey lets himself be carried out of the bath, dripping water everywhere. 

The kid even shakes his hair out like— well, like a dog. Joseph wraps him in a towel as quickly as possible and carries him back to his room to find clothes. The crown of his head smells like strawberries, his damp skin like sweet apples, but his pajamas are all Joey. 

Warm, soft. Home. He resists the urge to bury his nose in the clothes once he finds them, instead helping a wriggling and apparently hungry four year old into them with a few warning growls. All it does is make Joey grin, fighting a little while Joseph tries to get him buttoned up. 

Teeny, tiny plastic buttons weren't made for hands like his, it seems. The kid gets through them quicker than Joseph does. 

It is pasta when he carries Joey down the stairs, little socked feet kicking him in the thigh every step of the way. "Told you." He whispers conspiratorially, when he sets him down in front of a bowl of macaroni cheese. 

"Told him what?" Billy asks, slightly suspicious. 

"Pasta." He replies mildly. "Had a feeling." 

"Something wrong with pasta?" He asks, nudging a healthy serving of vegetables onto Joey's bowl. The kid frowns, and looks to see if anyone else gets carrots. 

Joseph sends him a knowing look. "Kids eat, like, four things. Money on pasta or chicken for dinner." 

"I count five, at least. Pasta, chicken, ice cream, sandwiches and gummy worms." 

"Those his food groups, huh?" He pokes at his own plate, spearing a little carrot on his fork pointedly. "Eat up, kiddo." 

Joey watches him eat his carrot first, before he even tries his. Billy settles in at the head of the table with a sigh, kicking his feet out under the table. 

"Had a good bath?" Billy asks, eventually, once they're all well into eating. 

Joseph snorts. "Think so." 

Joey nods, spoon shoved into his mouth. He bites it to free his hands, signing at Billy with a lot of speed. Somehow, the other man follows along, though Joseph only catches a few words here and there. 

"He drew you pictures, huh? What did he draw?" 

Joseph sits back, bowl cradled in one hand, and watches quietly as Joey talks. So easy with Billy. Comfortable. Would be, when he's known him so long. 

All he remembers of his own Joey is— Billy had been close. But not this close. An exciting outsider when he'd visit. A pain when he'd take Joseph on a few missions here and there. 

This feels like the comfort of family, Joey at ease when he signs, when he gives his not-quite-laughs. When he listens with rapt attention to Billy's smooth voice, signing as he goes. 

It's nice. Soothes a discomfort in his chest, somewhat, that Joey's got this even when he doesn't have Slade. Not left with a trustworthy stranger, but more of an… uncle. A better arrangement than he'd thought at the start of this.

Slade doesn't turn up after dinner, or in the forty-five minutes spent in front of the television. But it's clear Joey notices, not quite sitting still when he clambers on Joseph's lap, jerking at every little noise outside. 

Billy gives them an extra half-hour in front of the television, obviously waiting on Slade too, before he sighs. "I should call." He murmurs. Sets his hand on the top of Joey's head, leaning over the arm of the couch. "Joseph's going to put you to bed, lad. Alright?" 

That is not, apparently, alright. Joey frowns, bottom lip caught between his teeth, light eyebrows tugged together sharply. 

"I'll give Dad a call." He says, soothing. Signs a little that Joseph doesn't catch, but it makes Joey relax a little, leaning into his chest with a softer look. "Alright, off to bed with you." He looks to Joseph. "Read him a book and leave the nightlight on." 

It sounds simple. It is simple. 

Joseph does not agree that it is simple. Halfway up the stairs Joey starts sniffling, his expression tightened into something between upset and angry, teeth clenched when he sucks in a sharp little breath. 

"C'mon, kiddo." Joseph rumbles. Places the palm of his hand flat between Joey's shoulders, the kid so damn tiny it nearly spans his entire back. "Don't want your Dad coming home to you in tears, huh?" Joey sniffles harder, as if to disagree. 

He really hopes Slade is back soon. Not caught-in-traffic soon. Not one-more-mission soon. Soon, like, next hour kind of soon, or preferably right now, and a part of Joseph hopes he hears the front door swing open by the time he's nudging Joey onto his bed. 

Little fingers dig into his shirt stubbornly, leaving Joseph to pry them one by one from his clothes, as much as he'd rather not. He's already in pajamas, thankfully, and only kicks his feet in frustration when Joseph sets about tugging the comforter down and then back up over him. 

Joseph rumbles in warning, leaving the bedside long enough to pluck the first couple books he finds from the shelf. Flicks the little nightlight on and then switches off the lights, plunging the room into a soft glow, Joey sitting at the head of his bed with an accusatory look on his pudgy, reddened face. 

"I know it's not great," he says, aiming for light. "But I won't tell if you don't, if we read until Dad gets back?" Cocks his head, Joey's soft green eyes narrowed to wet little slits. "We can stay up for him together, alright?" 

He hovers at the edge of the bed, books in hand, and Joey blinks at the room for a moment, thinking. Fiddles with the comforter bunched around his waist before he sniffles again, both hands rubbing at his eyes with a small nod. 

"Alright," Joseph murmurs. The bed creaks when he settles on it, which is not a comforting sound, but it holds after a tense moment. He sighs, leaning against the headboard. "Let's dry those tears, buddy." 

It takes nothing at all to shuffle Joey closer, up against his side. He sits still for it, when Joseph runs a thumb over the soft skin of his eyelids, wicking away the tears collecting at the corners. 

"All better," he murmurs, giving the kid a moment to settle before he cracks open the small book. Knights And Dragons, not one he recognises but after a while kids books do all start to blur together, and it was— a long time ago, that he'd last read any. 

Joey's hair tickles his throat, plastered to his side as Joseph reads in quiet, measured words. Small words for a small story, little words that he reads aloud into the crown of Joey's hair, one arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Eventually, Joey kicks a leg over his middle, and a hand into the front of his shirt again to play with the buttons. 

He makes it through two books before he realises Joey's fallen asleep. Soft puffs of breath against his neck, his hands turned lax in his shirt. A comfortable, warm weight, exhausted after a long day, which Joseph can't help but sympathise with. 

He keeps reading anyway, a quiet rumble in his chest that's more vibration than noise — seems to work on Joey just as good as any other kid from his universe. Feels nothing but natural to do, wrapped up tight in Joey's scent, tucked into his bed to read stories. 

No surprise when he falls asleep, too, his mouth pressed to Joey's soft waves of hair.

The next thing Joseph registers is a voice, rough but hushed. Not Joey's. He growls in his throat, holding on a little tighter to the little body pressed against his, curled around him like an octopus. 

A hand touches his hair, fingers warm and then tugging. "Hey," comes the voice again. Disrupting the thick, heavy blanket of sleep, comfortable for the first time in… a very long time. "Don't growl at me." 

Joseph grunts. "Leave me alone." And then cracks open his eye, taking in the little blue bedspread and— and Joey, tucked against his chest. And Slade, leaning over the bed, something unreadable on his face.

"Hello to you, too," Slade murmurs. That same hushed tone, not wanting to wake Joey. A tired smile tips at his mouth, hair pushed behind his ears a little. 

Joseph blinks. The suit is on under his shirt, peeking out over the unbuttoned collar. "Just got back?" 

"Yeah," he shrugs a shoulder. Jerks his head slightly. "Downstairs?" 

He hums. Joey's nearly entirely on him, but he's also drained. And four. It takes some careful, slow maneuvers, but Joseph slides from the bed in silence. Misses it's warmth almost immediately. Misses Joey— 

He bites the tip of his tongue and buries that thought immediately. Later. Not here, not now. Not with Slade sizing him up, still holding his mask in his fingers. Not in this house. 

Joseph rolls his shoulders out, a little stiff after such a cramped bed, and sends one last, long look at Joey before he makes his way out. Safe, tucked up to his chin in his comforter. Finally free of the tired lines beneath his eyes. 

Slade doubles back after him to kneel at the edge of the bed, an intimate moment that Joseph feels unwelcome watching from the doorway. The quiet words Slade speaks and the gentle, soft kiss he presses to the kid's forehead aren't for him to be a part of. 

He leaves him to it, taking the stairs two at a time. Billy's nowhere to be found, and a quick check of his phone reveals that it's a lot later than he thought. Nearly two in the morning. 

Probably sent him off to finally get some sleep. With no Billy, and Slade still upstairs, Joseph finds himself at the coffee pot, scrubbing sleep from his eye with a groan. Not enough these last few days, and— everything else, meant coffee was definitely in order. 

He makes up enough for the both of them, just in case, before collapsing into one of the table chairs with a grunt. Debates putting his head down for a few moments. That would be nice. 

Slade could wake him up with a hand in his hair again and— 

Joseph sips his coffee and sits up straight in his chair, working out the aches in his spine. He's halfway to done when Slade finally slinks back downstairs, this time free of his suit entirely, sweatpants and blank, white t-shirt on. 

Looks tired even when he offers up a quiet word of thanks, snagging the offered coffee to sit opposite him with a groan. Joseph nearly jumps out of his skin when a heel lands between his thighs, propped up on his chair. 

"Do you mind?" 

"My house." Slade reminds him lightly. Groans again when he tips his head back and— bares the entirety of his throat, free of bruises and bite marks and the ugly, chemical scars that remove them. Just stubble and pale, vulnerable skin. 

Joseph coughs lightly. "Billy tell you about Joey?" 

He hums. "He has bad days." Says it flatly, a tired, plain fact of life that he's grown used to. "Should be alright tomorrow." And then, "Thank you." 

"For what?" 

Slade snorts. Cracks his neck. "Billy told me you calmed him down. Twice." And quieter, "Said you were good with him." 

He sips his coffee, an uncomfortable rock in his gut. "Sure." He nods, and avoids the gaze that Slade levels at him. "Thanks."

"I mean it." He turns his mug in circles between his fingers, steam still swirling from the rim. He lets the silence rest with those words for a long minute, drinking his coffee in silence and his bare foot pressed between Joseph's damn thighs— 

"How was it? Any trouble?" 

"The usual." Slade shrugs. "Got held up in traffic as soon as I hit the roads, of course." He mutters. "Was supposed to be back at eleven." 

"He missed you." Joseph murmurs. "Said we'd wait up for you, but he fell asleep after a while." 

"I bet." Slade snorts. "He was on the phone to me at five. Had Billy up even before that." Even as tired as he looks, he's happy too. Smiles easy and relaxes into his chair with a relieved sigh, content to let things fall into silence again. 

Joseph lets him have it for the better part of a half hour before he rises, removing Slade's foot from his seat with a pointed look. Receives a grin that's all teeth in return, and an offered mug to be washed. Joseph takes it with a displeased noise, hearing Slade slide from his chair and pad out of the room. 

Finds him in the living room with an armful of blankets, dumping them on the couch. 

"What are you doing?" He asks. Watches in bemusement as Slade clears the floor of stray toys. 

"You can stay the night." He replies lightly. Avoids Joseph's look of incredulity. "Armchair or couch, your choice." He shrugs. "Billy likes the armchair." 

"I don't think I'll fit on the couch." 

"I fit." Slade informs him with a huff. "You'll make do." 

"I can walk home." He throws back, eyebrows knitting together the longer he looks at the blankets. Soft. Covered in Slade's scent. Joey's, too. 

They probably huddle up under them, when it's real cold. Watch movies and have afternoon naps. 

"It's nearly three." Slade dusts his hands off, shoves them into the pockets of his sweats which only drags them a little lower. Baring a nice strip of tanned skin, a silver dusting of hair that slips under the waistband of his underwear— 

Joseph makes a displeased noise. "Fine." 

"You could just say thanks." Slade murmurs, and claps him on the bicep when he slinks past. "Goodnight, Joseph." 

He's already up the stairs by the time Joseph's tongue unglues from his mouth with a quiet, "Night, Slade." 

With that, he's left to flick the lights off, plunging the room into darkness. Hardly a problem when his eye adjusts in a second, Joseph picking his way over to the couch with a frown. 

Den, his mind supplies stupidly. Not a den, he corrects, and straightens out the blankets, Slade's scent over years soaked into the damn things. He swallows heavily. 

Bundles one up by the arm of the couch, anyway, to bury his face into. The rest get arranged around him, and the largest he pulls up to his chin, tucked under his feet when he squishes onto the couch, knees bent. 

It shouldn't be so comfortable, crammed in on a mid-range couch in a mostly unfamiliar home. But there's a bone-deep exhaustion in him that starts dragging him down the moment he takes deep, open-mouthed breaths, evening out as time goes on, the whole house quiet. Slade and Joey asleep upstairs, safe and home. 

Joseph downstairs, wrapped up in that feeling, falling into sleep over a matter of minutes. Definitely feels like a den, when he thinks about it, later.

Chapter Text

For once, he wakes slowly. The calmest sort of waking he's had since he first arrived here. It's quiet and comfortable, even with Joseph awkwardly crammed onto the couch. His left foot is cold, sticking over the edge, but the rest of him is pleasantly warm. 

Bundled under blankets that ooze with Slade's scent, Joey's scent. Even the cushions have that honey-warm scent clinging to them, sinking into Joseph's skin, the roof of his mouth, his own clothes. Slade's clothes, actually, but they're as good as his right then. 

He hums, buries his face in the nearest blanket, and feels boneless. Good. Feels fucking good, a pleasant sort of ache in his muscles, the kind that comes not of stress but the final absence of it. He hums again, more of a purr, and pulls all the blankets in tighter. 

Slowly, sound filters in, the rest of Joseph's senses finally starting to wake up too. Slade's quiet, tired voice, too faint to make out any real words, upstairs. In his room, or maybe Joey's. 

Grunting, Joseph blinks his eye open, the room taking a moment to come into focus. A room that's still bathed in darkness, but there's light trying valiantly to peek it's way in, bright and crisp, and a few things have moved. 

The armchair's reclined, for one. Wasn't last night. His eyebrows tug together, not quite sure how he feels about that — Slade opposite him, watching him. Joseph sleeping. For God knows how long. 

More worrying, it hadn't woken him. 

He buries his face in the blankets again with a soft groan. Twists until he's facedown, one arm hanging over the edge to brush against the carpet. 

With slight surprise, he realises he's hard. Not much, but still— hard. Joseph inhales through his mouth, exhales through his nose, and reminds himself he cannot jerk off in someone else's home. No matter how novel it felt right then to be relaxed and aroused, aching slightly the more he melts into the couch. 

Nope. No. 

Joseph groans. Makes a conscious decision to ignore it. There will be other, future times, appropriate for such things. Not here, wrapped up in Slade's blankets. And God, if he'd seen, Joseph would never live it down. 

A pleased, instinctual place in his chest hoped Slade saw. Hopes he stared and wanted. 

With that thought, Joseph shakes his head, lifting himself up onto one arm. Enough to scrub a hand over his face, a rough scratch of stubble on his jaw, his eyepatch a little askew. Quietly, he tugs it back into proper place, combs through his hair, and sits up with a grunt. 

Briefly, his spine aches, stiff and sore. Joseph sits and waits for it to pass, helped along by the healing factor, and then drags himself from the— den. His temporary den. Whatever. It helped some, if the absence of a headache is any indication, the itch under his skin lessened. 

In the kitchen, door left wide open, he can hear Slade a little clearer. The soft meeting of skin on skin, and Joey's breathless laughs, Slade's quiet, smooth voice as he sings Patty Cake. He can't quite help a smile at that as he sets about making coffee and toast, taking both to the table with a yawn. 

It takes five minutes before he flicks his phone on and catches the time. Ten forty-five. Both eyebrows climb his forehead. Joseph scrubs at his eye, adjusts his eyepatch, and the time still reads the same. 

Not so bad, considering what time he went to sleep. But, well. Ten is a long time. He'd half expected Slade to wake him, send him on his way. Not keep Joey occupied upstairs, just to give Joseph a little peace. He sips his coffee, eats his toast, and listens to the sounds upstairs. 

Slade's laugh when they mess up their clapping. Joey's proper laugh. The kind of laugh a kid should have, not soundless little grins. The laughs Slade gets every day, when they're alone. Coldly, Joseph tunes out, the sudden realisation hitting him straight in the chest that at any moment Joey could talk and that— 

That's not for him. That's for Slade. Just the two of them. 

He eats in silence. Finishes his coffee. Washes out his mug and then simply stands at the sink, stretching the sleep from his muscles with a groan. Stands there and let's the quiet soak in, the feeling that he could… get used to this. 

Good mornings with long lie-ins. Soft, crunching snow outside and the hot, bitter taste of Slade's favourite coffee. A house full of little kid's toys, Joey blessedly alive. 

Joseph frowns, places his mug back in a cabinet where he found it, and heads upstairs to knock on Slade's door. 

"Come in," comes the shout, a little surprised. 

Joseph hesitates, and then nudges the door open, poking his head inside. Finds Slade still in bed, leaning against the headboard. Joey, straddling his middle, leaning back against Slade's raised knees, hands still up for the next clap. 

"Morning." He greets gruffly. Slade grins. 

"He lives." Gently, he pats his hands against Joey's, absently restarting their pattern. "Sleep okay?"

"You'd know. Been watching me sleep, have you?" He asks, pushing the door open a little wider. Leans against the doorframe and watches as Slade keeps his eyes on him but matches every pat of Joey's hands square on, even as the pace picks up. 

"My house. Wanted to check the news." He shrugs a shoulder. "Didn't wake you, did I?" 

"Somehow, no." He shakes his head. Joey claps a little faster, toothy grin on his face, still in pajamas, hair ruffled. "Can come downstairs. Didn't need to hide up here." He adds, jerking his head to the side. "You guys eaten yet?" 

"Joey's had cereal." Slade answers dubiously. "I was thinking we could head out in a bit. Grab something to eat." 

Somehow, he feels a little floored by that. By the obvious we that includes Joseph. Slade, Joey, and Joseph. Tongue thick in his mouth, all he can do is nod, pushing off the doorframe with a grunt. 

"Sounds good." 

"We'll be down in a bit." Slade turns back to Joey, smile tugging at his mouth. "Got to get you all dressed up." 

At that, Joey wrinkles his nose, missing the next beat of their clapping. With a grin, Slade's fingers snake under his shirt, starting to tickle. Joseph watches for as long as he can bear to, Joey wriggling away as hard as he can, before he slips out of the room on quiet feet. 

Another twenty minutes pass before Slade's carrying Joey down the stairs, a basket of laundry held under the opposite arm. He sets that down first, and then Joey, running a hand through the kid's soft hair. 

"Go play, alright?" He nudges him, pointing at the living room. Signs after something that Joseph doesn't catch, already hefting the laundry up to go dump it in the washer. "You got it?" 

"Yeah," he replies over his shoulder, Slade trailing behind him. "Any idea where we're going?" 

"There's a pretty good place near the Wayne building." He says idly, splitting off to go look at the mail on the edge of the kitchen table. "Joey likes the milkshakes there." 

Joseph raises an eyebrow. "You really want to go there?" Fiddles with all the buttons on the washer tucked into what is basically a hall closet. 

"Yeah?" Slade says. "Why not?" 

"Well—" He bites the tip of his tongue. "Wait, what do you mean why?" 

"I mean why." And then, "This some alternate universe thing?" He snorts. "What's he gonna do, drag me out of there with his bare hands? A stranger?" 

Joseph blinks. "Thought you didn't know, for a second." Sets the washer on and stands with a grunt, poking his head into the kitchen. 

"Of course I know." Slade murmurs. Discards most of the mail promptly. "Didn't move my kid to Gotham and not know." And then adds, a little defensively, "He keeps the mob in check, so I don't have to. Less to worry about with Joey." 

"And you trust him with that?" He snorts. 

"Trust him? Hell, no." Slade throws him a sharp look. "But if there's anyone more dedicated to wiping out crime, I'll be moving to their city next." 

He says it flatly, pure truth, and that does something to settle Joseph's nerves just a little. Keeping Joey safe is— paramount. For the both of them, it seems. He nods mutely, and then shoves both hands into his sweatpants, realising dimly he needs to get dressed. 

"Can I borrow some clothes?" He asks lightly. Slade looks like he wants to laugh. Joseph narrows his eye. "I'm borrowing clothes." 

"Sure." He snorts. "Help yourself." 

It's nearly lunch by the time Slade's revealing that he does, in fact, own a car. It's parked at the end of the street, a little scuffed up, identical to all the other well-used family cars surrounding it. Joey clambers in with snow still on his little rubber boots, and fusses minimally when Slade gets him buckled into his booster seat, a picture book placed in his hands to distract him. 

Joseph takes the passenger seat and has to slide the seat all the way back just to fit his knees. "You'd think Billy doesn't have legs." He grumbles, earning himself a laugh from Slade, his own seat appropriately slid back. Not crammed against the dashboard. 

Flicks on the radio, finding a music station, also apparently for Joey's benefit when the kid discards his book and immediately begins wriggling behind his seatbelt. With that, Slade starts up, pulling onto the road smoothly. 

"So," Slade says, when they're well into the city proper, quiet neighbourhoods left behind in favour of gridlocked Gotham streets.

 He fucking hates Gotham roads, if only because they're riddled with potholes and a winding, circuitous hellscape. Getting anywhere takes about half an hour longer than it should. 

"So?" Joseph repeats. 

"I think we should go shopping." Slade announces. Exhales tightly. "You need stuff." 

"Stuff." Joseph repeats. Doesn't like the sound of this already. He doesn't need stuff. "I don't need stuff." 

"You're living out of my clothes." Slade replies plainly. Not hurtful, but blunt. Joseph's lip curls a little. "And the loft's looking pretty bare." 

"No point furnishing a place that's going to be empty soon." He throws back. Looks out the passenger window, eyebrows tugged tight together. His reflection stares back at him, a little tired, in need of a shave, hair a little unkempt, falling out of its usual shape. 

"I think," Slade says lightly, and Joseph's entire expression tightens. "We need to prepare for—" 

"No." He says. Rolls the window down with a vicious motion. Joey kicks the back of his seat, playing with his seatbelt. "We're not talking about this." 

"We are." Slade informs him tightly. "I've been thinking and—" 

"And nothing." A growl catches between his throat and his teeth, muted. A real growl. Not the kind he gives Joey, soft and comforting. He'd rather not scare the kid. "I'm not staying, and you're not buying me— you're not buying me stuff." 

Slade flexes his fingers on the wheel. "This isn't up for discussion. Joey needs new clothes, too, and we're getting you some. Even if they're only used for a week." 

With that, he thins his mouth, ignoring the low noise in Joseph's chest. 

Joey kicks his seat a little more, and Joseph sets his arm on the open window, fist propping his head up. 

His anger's dissipated some by the time Slade's turning them into a busy parking lot, a short walk from the towering Wayne Enterprise building. Fizzles out into nothing when Joey's being lifted from the car and set down, the kid tapping his feet in a small slush puddle like it's the best thing since— well, since Christmas.  

Slade taps his foot between Joey's lightly, splashing a little snow onto his shins with a grin. "Remember the rules?" He asks lightly. Joey pauses, and then takes his hand, little fingers already turning red. "No letting go," Slade murmurs. 

Joseph hangs back as Slade gets to one knee, holding Joey's gaze. 

"No strangers, no wandering off." He adds. Reaches up to run his fingers through the kid's hair, smoothing it from his forehead. "Look after Joseph for me, yeah?" 

"What?" 

Slade sends him a sharp look. And then at Joey, a wink. "Think you can do that, buddy?" 

Joey chews his lip, and then nods vigorously. 

"Alright, let's go." He says, rising with a huff. "There's a strawberry milkshake with your name on it, kiddo." At his height, he has to dip slightly to hold on, Joey picking up the pace with extra splashes of slush courtesy of his rain boots. 

The parking lot is busy, but it's just cars, and the… movement of Gotham only hits him once they're on the sidewalk. Up until now he's stuck to late night streets, Slade's quiet neighborhood. The diner close to the loft, which is slow on the best of days.

He's not been in the city proper since he arrived and it feels like a brick to the head. Joseph has to pause just to let it filter all in — loud and grating, pollution thick in his throat, so many people. All of them so damn close, too close, and the distance between him and Slade, Joey's small hand in his, is too much. Too far. 

He definitely knocks shoulders with someone as he takes long strides to catch up, and Joseph wishes they'd all read the damn signals, take the fucking growl in his throat for what it is, the set of his shoulders and the scent pouring off him as the warning it should be. Wishes he knew what any one of them was broadcasting, too. 

Aside from the usual language, easily faked, they're blank slates. Strangers. Unknowns. Slade catches his eye, turning mid-way through a word, and his smile freezes, dies a little. 

"You okay?" 

He bites the inside of his cheek. Slides into Slade's space, and then to Joey's other side, the kid splashing along without a care in the world. "Fine." 

"Don't look…" He starts, and then pauses, light eyebrows tugging together. "We'll be there soon. Not far." 

"Sure." He grunts. Keeps his eye on the top of Joey's head, bundled up in coat and hat, doing his best to ignore the feel of eyes on him. 

Almost physical in their intensity, which is stupid. A look can't feel like anything. It crawls down his spine anyway, the knowledge that he sticks out. An unknown, to everyone else. Large and imposing, a scowl that he can't shake from his face. The eyepatch, and the splash of scars across the bridge of his nose, severe in the Gotham daylight. 

When he chances a look, nobody is looking back at him. Busy with their own lives. On their phones and buried in their conversations, bags of Christmas gifts held closely. All red-nosed and sniffling, the cold bitter and sharp, ignoring him. 

Even then, Joseph can't shake the sensation. 

Grateful doesn't begin to describe how he feels when Slade turns them down a quieter side-road, stopping to let Joey squelch his way through melted snow puddles and slush on the roadside. It leads them ever closer to that towering Wayne building, cutting through the sky like the world's most blatant overcompensation. Or perhaps like ownership. 

He'd never liked it, anyway. 

It was ugly in his universe, it was ugly here. And it's CEO was less than pleasant to deal with, in or out of his tailored suits. 

Slade points out the place when they're two blocks from the skyscraper, a little dessert place crammed in between a jewellers and a clothes boutique, small enough there's only four tables. Joey bounces ahead, still gripping Slade's hand, and fumbles to push the door open on his own. 

Quietly, Slade nudges it open above him with one hand, sending Joseph a wry smile. 

Cautiously, he follows behind, distinctly aware of how much space he takes up in the small room. The whole place smells like pastry, sweet ice cream, cold condensation, the backroom humming with a half dozen freezers. 

"Hey," Slade greets. Reaches down to heft Joey onto his hip when he approaches the display case, buckets of ice cream lined up neatly, and above them, small squares of cake and other delicate looking desserts. There's even a quarter of pie left in the corner, pumpkin and particularly festive looking. 

Just the sight makes his teeth ache.

He's only a little surprised when the woman behind the counter greets Slade by name, and then Joey, already working on large scoops of strawberry ice cream. 

"Cream?" Slade asks, bouncing Joey slightly in his arm. "Why am I even asking?" He huffs lightly, teeth flashing in a quick smile, and then he looks Joseph's way. "What're you having?" 

He blinks. "I'm fine." 

Slade's face smooths slightly, eyes narrowing. "You're getting something." Behind him, a milkshake the size of Joey's head is being made, the whole room filling with sweet strawberries, thick on Joseph's tongue. 

All considered, it's making him a little nauseous. The noise and the scents and the claustrophobic room, Slade still watching him. 

"Whatever's good." He finally says. Shifts on his feet and shoves his hands into his borrowed jeans. It's evidently the wrong answer, earning him a small frown. "And coffee." 

"Right," Slade replies. "Take Joey." He adds, practically holding the kid out like an offered bag of groceries. 

Bemused, Joseph settles him on his own hip, pleased when Joey grins. Less pleased when he reaches up to fiddle with the strap of his eyepatch. 

With a sigh, he picks the table furthest from the display cases, tucked into the corner with the spare packets of sugar and creamer. Sets Joey down at the window seat and promptly takes the seat beside him, cutting off the kid's wriggly escape tactic. 

"Soon," he says. "Milkshake in a minute." 

Joey frowns. Sits still for exactly three seconds before he's kicking his boots and flopping over the table to grab the menu and turn it over in his small hands. Joseph watches, more than a little bemused, as the kid manages to keep himself occupied with a slip of laminated paper. 

Keeps him from escaping, at any rate, but he's intensely grateful when Slade returns, two coffees in hand. He takes the seat opposite them, and plucks the menu from Joey's hands as soon as he's unburdened. 

"Hungry?" He turns it right side up, and knocks boots with Joey under the table. "Sit still, bud. Want a grilled cheese?" 

Joey nods enthusiastically and then snatches the menu from his father's hands with a grin, looking it over like he can read a word of it. Joseph turns it right side up for him, anyway, and then leans over to grab a handful of sugar packets for his coffee. 

"Come here often?" He asks lightly, blowing over the rim of his mug. "Awfully friendly." 

"When we can." Slade nods. "Joey likes it, at any rate." 

He hums. "I can see that." He doesn't really know what he expected. A run-down diner maybe, some greasy spoon. A bar with really good nachos during the day. 

Instead, the place is light. Clean and sweet-smelling, a relaxing sort of background noise to the small store. Wide windows that look out onto the street, somehow blocking out most of the chatter and intensity of all the people walking past. 

Pretty soon there's a steaming slice of pumpkin pie in front of him, a large scoop of vanilla beside it. Joey's milkshake comes with a spoon and a mountain of whipped cream, which he promptly sets about demolishing with laser-focus. 

Slade gets a chunk of tiramisu. Eats the first bite slowly, savouring, and Joseph finds himself watching as he licks the back of his spoon clean, tongue red and wet and talented— and Joseph's withdrawal is back with a vengeance, it seems. 

He grunts, digs into his pie with a little force, and has to admit the ice cream is good. Cool on his tongue, creamy rather than outright sweet, balancing the warm spice of the pie. 

"Good?" Slade asks, voice a little thick with all the tiramisu. "They've always got good pie. Billy practically eats half of one in one sitting." 

He nods, not quite able to answer just yet when his mouth is still full of pastry and pumpkin, sticking to the roof of his mouth slightly. 

Slade laughs quietly, flicks his eyes to Joey. "You gonna save some for me?" 

The kid pauses, mouth sticky and covered in pink ice cream, spoon fisted in his hand. And then goes right back to eating, working his way through the scoop of ice cream above his milkshake. 

"Some for Daddy," Slade says, leaning over the table. "C'mon kiddo, you know I love strawberry." 

"Can't get your own?" Joseph asks, a little amused. 

"Tastes best when we share." Slade answers seriously, holding Joey's gaze, eyes turned wide and pleading. He grins with all his teeth when the kid very carefully spoons the smallest possible amount of ice cream up. 

He takes the offered spoon carefully, licking it clean with a hum. Joseph drinks his coffee, willing the thick taste of vanilla to pass. 

"See, sharing's good. Thanks, kiddo." And then, conspiratorially to Joseph, "We're working on it." 

"On sharing?" He asks, fighting a smile. 

"Someone likes keeping things all for himself." Even as he says it, he doesn't sound particularly annoyed. More amused than anything, matching Joey's crinkle-nosed little smile. 

With that little parenting lesson done, apparently, Slade returns to his tiramisu with a slight moan. A moan. He sucks on his spoon and looks like he's in heaven, and fuck if that doesn't take Joseph's mind to somewhere far more intimate. 

He focuses on his pie in silence, working through it mechanically. Still tastes good, even with the discomfort in his stomach like knots. Eventually Slade slides from his seat with a quiet warning not to touch his tiramisu, slinking over to the counter to order three grilled cheeses. 

He frowns, stares at the half-eaten tiramisu. Looks at Joey's demolished milkshake. 

Joey looks back at him, strawberry smeared up to his cheeks, all over his small knuckles. 

"Is your Dad trying to stuff us?" He asks, laughing when Slade's head pokes around the corner. 

"Don't turn my kid against me." He points a finger, eyes narrowed. "Joey, you want tomato on your grilled cheese?" The kid shakes his head, earning a frown from Slade. 

"He's already had one of his five a day." Joseph points out. "Strawberries count, right?" 

"Not in ice cream." But he drops it there, returning back to the counter, Joseph free to send Joey a grin in peace. 

When he returns, it's with three plates balanced in his arms, bottom lip caught between his teeth. "Someone take the third." He grunts, leaning down slightly for Joseph to pluck up the plate and set it in front of Joey. 

"That's pretty sneaky." He comments. 

"What?"

"The salad." Joseph snorts. And then, "Eat up, kiddo." Joey scrunches his nose, pushing the salad — tomatoes included — to the side with a sticky finger. "Salad, too. 'S good for you." 

The kid fixes him with a look that says he doesn't believe a word of it and then, sticky hands and all, picks up a quarter of grilled cheese and stuffs it into his mouth. Little legs kicking under the table, coat half-off, hair still a ruffled, snowflaked sort of mess. He looks… content. 

Happy. 

Joseph idly picks up his half of grilled cheese, melted butter dripping down his fingers, and watches the kid watch the world outside in silence. Granted, he'd only seen Joey on a good day once, but he seemed far calmer here, not as much jittery energy. 

Less wriggling, too. 

Slade's boot knocks against his under the table, dragging his attention along. "You okay?" 

"Fine," he replies. The truth, he realises dimly. He does feel fine. As relaxed as Joey, in a way. Now that the scents and sounds have had time to settle, it's not so bad. "So. Shopping?" 

"Yeah, he's grown out of half his winter stuff." Slade jerks his head in Joey's direction. "Needs some sweaters and socks, and more gloves. Probably shoes, too." 

"Basically everything." 

"And you need clothes." Slade adds. Again. He nearly glares when he meets Joseph's eye, mouth set in a hard line. 

He stares back, a mouthful of cheese and tomato turning to mush on his tongue, saliva pooling in his mouth. Tastes sharp and unpleasant. "Fine." He swallows, bites off another large piece. Chews in silence until he doesn't feel like his next words will be growls. "Joey's stuff first." 

"Sure," he agrees easily. Sends Joseph the most pleased sort of smile, teeth flashing for a brief second. 

Shopping, as it turns out, means a mall. It's not far, at least, barely enough time to buckle Joey in before they're piling out of the car again, Joey's hand firmly in Slade's. 

"Try not to get lost." Slade says, shooting Joseph a smirk when it's obvious the words are for him, not the four year old. 

From behind Joey, he flips Slade off. 

This time of year, everything's decorated. Glittering and Christmas-esque, red and green and gold. There's lights strung from the ceiling and the most uselessly large Christmas tree at the center of the entrance, decked out in tinsel and baubles. 

Faintly, under the general chatter of the mall, he can hear festive music playing. 

Joseph wrinkles his nose and steps up beside Joey, a hand smoothing over the top of his head. He seems happy enough, peeking around Slade's legs to stare at the tree and it's glittering decorations. 

First stop is the kid's section of the first clothes store Slade drags them into. Which is far too busy, in his opinion, about half a school's worth of kids and their parents packed into the aisles. 

Slade inhales deeply. Squeezes Joey's hand. "Up?" He asks, voice pitched quieter. Joey nods once, lifting his other arm up, fingers wiggling. 

Rather than be settled on Slade's hip, he's lifted up and over onto his shoulders. It's extremely odd, looking up at the kid, Joey's face a little tight, his hands burying in Slade's hair. 

"Okay?" Slade asks, both hands set on the kid's rain boots. "No moving about, alright?" He looks to Joseph. "Make sure he doesn't hit his head on anything." 

"Sure," and then, "You know what we're looking for?" He sets a cautious eye on the crowd, still just out of range of all the other people. He prefers it here, where he can see them all, and the scent is a bother but not yet overpowering. 

"Of course I do." Slade replies with conviction. "Grab a basket, let's go." 

He does as he's told and then promptly follows Slade, doing his best to breathe through his mouth, and keep his shoulders to himself. Kinda hard when he's broad and everyone is so fucking close, but in a way it helps. 

Paves a way for Slade, anyway, too busy chatting about clothes with Joey to do much else. He must be getting replies in the form of hair tugs, because the kid's absolutely silent, not even a smile on his face. Joseph watches him quietly, too. 

Gone is the content little boy, replaced by this stiff copy. Mouth set in a thin little line, fingers curled into his father's hair. Not even kicking his boots, as he's done all day, Slade's hand wrapped around one small shin, thumb rubbing over his little jeans. 

He looks… empty.

Joseph doesn't like it, and can't quite help a displeased almost-growl at the next person that gets too close to where Slade's rifling through t-shirts. If he stands guard a little, well, that's his own damn business, and Slade doesn't even notice enough to poke fun at him for it. 

The basket is filled pretty damn quickly, Slade picking out things with precision and a near preternatural sense of what Joey's fine wearing. He gets exactly one no, and that's to a harmless pair of black trousers, for some reason. 

Slade turns on him eventually. Doesn't take a genius to figure out it's his turn. 

Joseph grumbles the entire way to the adult section, which is thankfully quieter. Much quieter, and a whole lot less festive than the tinsel thrown over every rack of clothing. Almost looks bland in comparison but that's fine by him. 

"Go wild." Slade says, waving a hand. "What size are you?" 

"Don't know." He replies absently. Thumbs a tag on a pair of jeans, squinting. "Think the measurements are different." 

"What?" 

"Different inch groups." He flicks the tag over. Looks at the jeans like they might fit, but might also not, and he'd rather only do this once. 

"Try some stuff on." With a grunt, he hefts Joey off his shoulders, prying his hands from his hair. Instead, his trousers are held onto tightly, Joey peering around the clothes for— other people, probably. "I'll keep him busy." 

Joey frowns. 

"C'mon, kiddo. Need to find a Christmas present for Billy, remember?" He shoots Joseph a sharp grin, taking Joey's hand again to lead him off, leaving Joseph with a basketful of kid's clothes and a sea of strangers. 

"Wonderful." He mutters, watching Slade's back as he retreats with Joey in tow. 

With a grimace, he turns back to the clothes, throwing the jeans into the basket. Now all he needs is a shirt and maybe some underwear. Slade's fit… all wrong. 

After a while of mindlessly flicking over tags and guessing at sizes, he thinks he might just have an entire outfit. One whole outfit. That's pretty good in his opinion. Maybe not Slade's, who seems to think he needs a whole wardrobe. But still. He doubles up, enough for two outfits. Even better.

He even forgets — for the most part — how every piece of clothing smells like dozens of hands, rather than the almost sanitised scent he's used to. Or, even, an actual designations scent. Or Slade. 

Festive music plays over the speakers, drowning out the chatter somewhat, and for a brief second it feels like Christmas anywhere. Shopping for his kid, picking up a few things for himself, a nobody in the crowd of other shoppers. 

It feels like home, in a way even home hasn't felt in years. 

He throws a handful more items in his basket and then heads out to find Slade, his scent buried under everyone else's. It would be alarming, but it's not that big a store, and Slade tends to stick out the same way he does. 

Tall, broad, white haired. Hard to miss, sometimes. 

And the fact that they've gone shopping for Billy helps narrow things down, at least a little. He crosses the kid's section and heads for the more… home-oriented things. Bath towels and little sets of china mugs with snappy slogans on the sides. 

He has no clue what he'd get Billy. Hasn't got him anything more than a good bottle of rum in years, and then drank half of it in front of a television with the man. 

Hasn't even seen him for Christmas in at least two years. 

More and more, he kind of hates the music and the tinsel, and the pumpkin pie turning to acid in his stomach. When he finds Slade, he's sure his face is pinched, if the raised eyebrow he gets is any indication, Slade peering at the bottom shelf of a bunch of kitchenware on one knee.

"Find anything?" 

"Yeah." He sets the basket down with a thump. Eyes the coffee mug in Slade's hands. "You?" 

"Still looking. Joey wanted to get a candle." Beside him, the kid's still clutching the candle. One of the big kinds that burn all week, cradled in his arms. Sea salt and jasmine. "Said we can't get him just a candle." 

He opens his mouth, shuts it again. Crouches down on Slade's level to say, "Back home, he's got a cabinet full of candles." 

"What?" 

"Likes them with a bath." He shrugs. "Told me once on his birthday. After a lot of whiskey."  

Slade looks nearly scandalised. "He's not said anything to me." 

"Nope." Joseph flicks an eye to Joey, holding his candle rather protectively. "Probably told your kid, though. Didn't he, bud?" 

Joey gives him a secretive little smile, more than enough of an answer, and then hefts the candle up to dump it in Joseph's basket, on top of all the clothes. 

Slade stares at the candle, mouth parted, and then shakes his head. "Better friends with my own kid." He grumbles, but shoots Joey a grin anyway. "Good choice." 

"Got everything?" He asks. 

"Think so." Tilts his head lightly. "You need anything else?" 

"Got enough." Joseph shrugs. A couple more bits of clothing is probably enough to keep him going.

Slade makes a strangled noise. Something between a laugh and a cough. Color rises high on his cheeks, eyes a little wide, and Joseph glowers. 

"It's not that funny." It's not. It's just a shirt. A very tight shirt, but that's not particularly comedic in his opinion when it was bought with Slade's money. "Stop laughing." 

Slade makes a sound like a fucking hyena, truly undignified, and covers his face with one hand. "I told you to try it on." Between two fingers he takes another look, and devolves into snorts again. "What size is that?" 

"Large." Joseph growls. "I told you— it's the sizes are wrong— and stop laughing." 

"I'm not." Slade blatantly lies. "I'm not, just— Okay. We can't have you out like that." 

He crosses his arms, another growl low in his throat, the sleeves uncomfortably tight around his biceps. The hem keeps rising up a little, cool air on the thin strip of skin bared. 

Slade swallows heavily. Scrubs at his face. "Christ." He mumbles. Flicks his eyes over the plain t-shirt. Mutters, "Gonna get jumped if you leave the house." 

Joseph blinks. Narrows his eye, looking down at the shirt, more than a little confused. "It's not that bad." 

Slade coughs, scrubs at the side of his face. "You've got others that fit, right?" He asks. His usually controlled face is a little more… twitchy. Pink at the edges, his mouth not quite sure what it wants to do; frown or smile.

Joseph nods, raising an eyebrow. Uncrosses his arms with a grunt. "Fine, fuck this." He grumbles, and promptly strips the shirt off over his head. 

He chucks it on the bed, and then rifles through the multitude of shopping bags until he finds the next shirt he'd bought. Slade had damn near insisted he try at least some of the clothes on, to be sure he had actual outfits. Now he was barely looking at Joseph, gaze averted when he pulled the next shirt down his chest and tested the fit. 

Much better. Less… choking. Wouldn't cut the circulation off his arms, either. 

"There. Happy?" 

Slade blinks. Looks at him for a long moment, mouth in a thin line. "As a clam." He replies, a little gruff, and then gathers the discarded shirt into his arms. And then does absolutely nothing else, standing in the middle of the room looking for all the world like he's just been hit in the head. Kicked in the crotch, maybe, colour high on his cheeks but the rest of him is pale. 

"Looks good on you." He mumbles. 

"Thanks." Joseph mumbles back. Internally, all he can think is weird. Rather than linger in the absolute, deathly silence of the room, he nods once sharply and says, "I should get going." 

"Right," Slade agrees. Visibly comes back online, looking around the room for a second before he grabs what bags are Joseph's and shoves them into his arms. "Nice seeing you." Pats his bare bicep lightly. Turns on his heel with another light cough.

He raises his eyebrow again. Double weird. "Sure." 

Chapter Text

For the fifth day in a row, Joseph is plagued by his own dick. 

That first time, it had been almost… nice. A reminder that his body wasn't entirely insane, and still capable of the greater pleasures in life. Easy enough to ignore. The second morning was less easy to ignore, and had taken a lukewarm shower to dispel. 

By day five, he was sick of it. 

Absolutely, entirely sick of it, and didn't feel ridiculous in the slightest when it was ten in the morning and he was growling down at his own tented boxers. His own. Not Slade's. Thank things above for that, when the pressure in a well-fitting pair was nearly unbearable right then. 

An icy shower did nothing except make him shiver slightly, and ignoring it did even less than that, Joseph pulling on clothes with a grumble. Jeans that fit properly, and a shirt that was only slightly tight across the chest. They didn't smell like Slade at all, and he told himself every morning that he was fine with that. 

Slade's clothes were back at Slade's house, being laundered by Slade. To be worn by Slade again, Joseph's scent sticking to them faintly. And hadn't that been an event for his senses. 

So he had these fucking clothes, and bedding that smelled only of his own hormones, and a loft that was… painfully quiet. Agonisingly quiet. Slade had slipped into radio silence, which was fine. In line with what he'd expected when he first arrived. Not a call, and only one text to let him know he was going to be out of town two days ago. 

Quiet. 

Which left Joseph to his own thoughts. Never a good thing, but especially not now. Things had been— maybe not busy, but occupying. A lot to let sink in, all the while keeping Joey from eating more paint and trying not to fucking fall apart the moment he left. There had been enough to keep him busy. 

Now, there wasn't much at all, besides turning the memories of the last few days over in his head on repeat. The long, torturous time he'd spent with Joey. The moments after, when Slade had— when Slade had built him a den. When Joseph hadn't felt so good in fucking years, putting the current state of him into stark relief. 

He was falling down an extremely slippery slope, and had no clue how to stop it. Only a matter of time. Looking down at his hard-on, firmly trapped in his jeans, he thought it might not be that much longer anyway. It wouldn't fucking go down. He was forty-five, not fifteen. 

With a growl, he eats breakfast mechanically, cleans up at least some of the mess of his loft — as it turns out, with nobody to visit, it's real easy to let things slip — and then finds himself back in bed, leaning against the headboard. 

Sits with his thighs wide and itching to close. He doesn't even know why he's fighting it, except maybe that the very thought pisses him off. It feels like laying down and giving up to inevitability, to instinct. Being that dog that Slade jokes he is. 

He doesn't want to go into a fucked up rut, with nothing and nobody to ease it. He doesn't. 

But it's unbearable, staying like this. Ignoring biology for however long it takes for his body to get the hint. He stares at the ceiling and unbuttons his jeans, tugging the zipper down with fumbling fingers. A sharp little growl of displeasure in his throat that dissolves the moment the pressure has eased, fuck, so damn hard he can practically feel his blood pulsing. 

He lifts his hips enough to shove his jeans down slightly, not even to his thighs, and the moment he gets his hand around himself is fucking glorious. On par with all the good things in life, like whiskey and the satisfaction of a contract well done and sinking into a tight, slick Omega— 

Joseph groans, grits his teeth until his jaw aches. Strokes himself from tip to base, a little incredulous when it feels like he might come then and there, just from that. From his own fucking hand, wrapped tight, just dry and warm skin. The crown of his cock is already wet, dripping precome, easy to drag down the length of his cock with one thumb. 

He grips the sheets with his other hand, and when that does nothing to dispel the tightness in all his muscles he grips his hair instead, eye screwed shut tightly, little pops and spiderwebs of color behind his eyelid. Squeezes his cock tight, just under the head, and bucks his hips up in sharp, frustrated thrusts. 

It's good, but it's not the-real-thing good. Not even close. His hand is no Omega hand, a little smaller, a little softer. Not any other Alpha's hand, strength behind the grip, nearly competitive, Joseph's hand shoved down their pants too. It's not—

He bites back a groan, and tries to reorder his thoughts when they slide to Slade. How different his palm might feel, and if he'd have something to say about the guttural noise in his chest or the thick, hot length of his cock. The slight, barely-there swell of his knot the longer he jerks himself off in quick, punishing strokes. 

Twists his fingers into his hair, prickling sensation over his scalp, pale in comparison to someone else's strong grip in his hair. Pulling him forward for a crushing kiss, or pushing him down for the heat of his mouth on their skin, and he can't stop thinking about Slade's hands— 

If he'd be strong and sure. If he'd do Joseph the same as he likes it himself, a similarity even between universes, heat pooling in his gut like a damn bottomless well. If he'd need a little direction, a reminder to keep his hand wrapped tight around Joseph's building knot. His desperate, unbearable knot that would have him embarrassed if he wasn't ready to come right then and there. 

Hasn't knotted his fist since he was a fucking teenager, for one. And not over someone else quite like this. He groans again, strokes quickening, orgasm building until his thighs are tensed and ready to snap. Dimly, quietly, he thinks about the shirt, tucked against his stomach. How it'll get ruined, if he knots. How terrible he'll feel after, washing his orgasm from a shirt that— that Slade bought. 

If he fucking knew, he'd never speak to Joseph again, probably. Maybe not about the shirt, but if he knew about how much damn space Slade takes up in his mind, pushing all other thoughts to the sidelines in favour of quick, terrible flashes in time with his fist. 

He fumbles the hem of his shirt, keeps working his cock with his other and growls in frustration — tucks the edge of his shirt between his teeth, safely out of the way, cool air hitting overheated skin, abdomen tense. Tips his head back against the headboard with a grunt. Brings both hands to his cock now, one wrapped around the base to squeeze his knot, nearly a vice the wider it swells, hot to the touch and so sensitive it nearly hurts. 

With his other, he works his wrist in quick motions, none too kind with himself the closer he feels to that perfect orgasm— scratching that itch he's been feeling since he arrived, desperate for it, a noise in his chest that vibrates all the way to the tip of his tongue. Joseph curses through his teeth, not quite tipping over the edge despite how badly he wants. 

Wants nothing more than to come and be done with it. That rising tide of heat that he's been fighting off since day one that pounds in his head wants. His toes curl in the comforter, Joseph's head tipping back further to bare his throat, biting down on soft cotton fabric. 

He wants it with Slade's scent, and there is none. Slade's talented fingers, and the sharp, quick smile he sometimes shoots Joseph. The particular swirl of his tongue over a dessert spoon, wrapped around his cock, drooling down his knot— 

He grunts, comes without guilt or thought beyond yes, yes, yes— 

Not the explosive orgasm he'd expected to ruin his shirt, but instead steady, powerful pulses in time with the constricting of his half-swelled knot, dripping over his knuckles thickly. He groans, throat trembling, and works his cock through it with one hand, the path a little slicker the longer he comes. 

It feels so good. It feels like having his insides scraped out, a sudden fire that swallows every nerve whole. A dim, stupid part of him thinking Oh, no. Too hazed out to care, breaths coming in heavy, laboured exhales, every nerve shocked and stinging pleasantly. 

His cock gives a last, valiant pulse, Joseph's hand shaking where he holds himself, hot skin buzzing. Dazedly, he cracks his eye open, taking in the same ceiling as before, the same room around him, that warmth turning to a hollow afterglow. And now he was, well and truly, fucked. 

Give in once, and that slippery slope becomes a dead drop, he knows that. Can feel it. Wants to fuck his fist again, slick with his own come, knot aching something fierce in his fingers. With a grunt, he pulls his hand free, hissing toward the ceiling at the shock of cold air against his knot. Really cold air. 

Shakes his knuckles out tentatively, a splatter of come against the comforter — great — before he forces his head up, skull feeling like a twenty pound weight. He grunts, letting the shirt escape from his teeth, two neat puncture marks from his canines in the hem. 

"Uh." 

He blinks Some horrible part of him that nearly whimpers, nearly claws its way to the forefront, half-drunk on the need to scratch that itch again and again and again. This time with Slade. Standing in his doorway, pale as a sheet except for the scarlet beneath his blue eyes. Little snowflakes melting in his hair, dusting his broad shoulders with the incoming draft. 

He wants to sink into the mattress and disappear. Wants to cry, maybe. All he can think is not now, not here. Slade's eyes locked not on his, but lower, Joseph's hands frozen uselessly in the air, his cock still full and hard, resting against his abdomen heavily, barely a dent made in the need curling inside his stomach. Knot still going down, reddened and prominent.

Slade blinks, shoots his eyes up to meet Joseph's, wide and shocked. Lips parted slightly for his tongue to run over his chapped lips. 

"I—" He starts again, the words dying in the air. It's enough to snap Joseph into motion, grabbing the comforter, a noise tearing out of him that he isn't even aware he's making until Slade's moving back again — a sharp, furious snarl, all teeth and horrible, acidic intent. The real kind he hasn't given Slade since day one. 

He hates it. Hates how much better he feels, blanketing the heat under his skin, the building rut, how fucking hollow he is with that one snarl. Slade's mouth snaps shut, but he doesn't move. Keeps his eyes firmly up.  

"The door was— you left it unlocked." He breathes. "I didn't— I wasn't—" 

He bares his teeth. Wishes he could burn the embarrassment out of him, cheeks heating up exponentially. "Learn to fucking knock."

He presses down hard on his dick through the comforter, praying it to die already. If anything, he's getting harder, because of course he is. His instincts don't know a willing partner from a wooden chair right now. 

Slade's here, and he's staring at him in absolute silence, heart rocketing around in his chest. His eyes flick down again, barely a split second, back up when Joseph's snarls again. 

"I— Uh. Fuck." Slade mutters. "Shit, I'm sorry." About three minutes too late, he slaps a hand over his eyes, turning on his heel for some semblance of privacy. Paper thin privacy, but still. 

They both know Slade can hear the hammering of his heart. Joseph digs his fingers into the comforter until his knuckles ache, and then promptly thinks fuck this. Discards the comforter entirely and slides from the bed to buckle his jeans again, uncomfortably damp, before he storms to the shower. 

Slade can leave if he wants to. Hopes he fucking wants to, otherwise Joseph might just die of embarrassment. Found jerking off by his own universal counterpart. Once he was home — which he was more determined to do than ever — he was purging this moment from his memory with buckets of whiskey. 

Traitorously, his erection remains for most of his shower, only finally going down when he turns the water ice cold and full pressure. With a satisfied grunt, he leans forward to set his head on the shower tiles and wonder what the fuck his life has become. 

Even more traitorous, he can't stop replaying Slade's red, wet tongue sliding over his bottom lip on repeat. How fucking good that would feel around the tip of his cock, licking the come from his skin and—

And Joseph is leaving the shower. Joseph is towelling off in silence, wasting time by brushing his teeth and combing his hair back with his fingers. He's taking as long as possible because his senses must be deceiving him. Must be playing ridiculous, incredibly funny jokes on him. 

He redresses in silence, leaving the soaked underwear on the floor.

Slade is still there, he can hear it. Heartbeat slowed only a little, but it's so much louder with the front door kicked shut. Shucking off his coat and his scarf and making himself comfortable. Truly, the funniest joke he's ever heard, because this universe is not that cruel. 

He combs his hair one last time, tucking the loose strands behind his ears. Good enough. Still looks like shit, in his opinion, but he can't really sink lower in Slade's regard, now can he? 

Not after he saw— Well, what he saw. How long he was there is another question entirely. And at least he doesn't know he'd occupied Joseph's mind for every last moment of it, too busy sinking into that thought to realise the fucking front door swinging open. 

Just another sign of a fast approaching rut. The knowledge settles in his gut like a rock as he nudges the bathroom door open, on guard the moment he's facing the other man again. 

Slade's face does a thing. Goes slack and then smooths out entirely, his eyes frozen to Joseph's face firmly. His jaw works silently. 

Joseph waits it out, one hand buried in the pocket of his jeans. He'd rather not be first to speak. 

Slade doesn't look like he wants to talk either. Keeps his distance and then flicks his eyes to the bed, to the floor. Back to Joseph. "I really—" 

"Let's not do this." He cuts in. Would really prefer never having this talk. At all. Ever. He can practically see it now, all the dog jokes and prodding questions and yes, Slade, that is my knot. He grinds his teeth, aware the tips of his ears are burning. "Why are you here?" 

"I did need to talk to you." Slade says. Licks his lip again, a quick dart of tongue before he shrugs sharply. "Told you, I'd been thinking about your… situation." 

He nearly rolls his eye. "This about the clothes?"

"No." Slade ducks his head. "No, this— You're not gonna like it." 

"Oh, great." He mutters. Shifts on his feet tensely. "Not that I like any of this 'situation'." 

"So, I spoke to Batman." Slade expels , like a long-held breath. Thins his mouth, shoulders hunching in slightly. 

He grits his teeth hard enough he swears they might crack. "Batman." Joseph repeats. 

"Yes. And you can— stop glaring at me." 

"You spoke to Batman." He repeats, again. "About me." 

"Yes." Slade bites out. "Listen, this is good." 

"I don't see how this is good. He knows I'm here—" 

"He knows I'm here and hasn't done jackshit." Slade points out, unhelpfully. "And he pointed me in the direction of the Flash. Apparently he's had some experience with dimension travel." 

"Oh, good." He growls. Unbelievable. First, not knowing how to knock. Now… this. Half the fucking Justice League on his case. Grand. He curls his hands into fists, taking a seat on the edge of the rumpled bed to glare at him more comfortably. 

Slade rolls his eyes. "That's where I was, the other day." Carefully, he picks his way across the room, a little closer. "Flash sent me off to speak to Cyborg. Because of the— the button? Thought he might know something about the tech. He didn't." 

"And this helps me how, exactly?" He arches an eyebrow. This is preferable to discussing his masturbation, at least. A new reason to be irritated with Slade. 

"He sent me back to Batman. Felt like I was on a damn merry-go-round." He huffs. Looks off to the side. "He called up Superman. And they've agreed to take up your case." 

He blinks. "They what." 

"I said, they agreed to—" 

"I fucking heard you." He growls. Been doing that a lot today. Growling all over the place. Wants to keep doing it, if only to make Slade leave. 

He needs a minute. Or ten. Or a week to figure out how he feels — half relieved and half pissed off to high heaven, because what. It all mixes together in his chest, leaving him nauseous and wrecked, like a thousand pound weight's been lifted from his shoulders only to get the wind knocked out of him. He chews the inside of his cheek. 

"What's the catch?" 

"I asked," Slade shrugs. "Said one less Deathstroke was enough." 

"Ouch." He deadpans. Looks at his thighs, eyebrows meshed together. He doesn't want — or need — their help. Doesn't really want Slade feeling like he has to— has to sneak around and do this for him either. 

Doesn't want him in debt to the League, most of all. 

And how pathetic. How low he's fallen that he needs to rely on them. He hates it. But Slade's right, at least. There isn't much of a plan otherwise, and so far he's been sitting on his hands about it. Wasting time. The longer he stays, the harder it gets to leave. 

"So." Slade inhales. "They want to see you, tonight. Talk shop." 

"Tonight." He repeats. Because that seems to be all he's good for now. Parroting back Slade's words and silently digesting the trajectory of his life. 

Kind of wishes he was back in bed, properly. Sleeping. Unconscious and not dealing with any of this. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. 

"Fuck." And then, "Okay. Where?" Fine. Fuck it. Fine. Can't exactly get worse, now can it? And he can suffer through the humiliation, if it means getting home. 

He can lick his damn wounds in his real home. 

Slade breathes out in relief. Nods once, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets. He's still a little pale, a little wide-eyed, snow melted by now to make his hair curl at the edges, around the shell of his ears. Tip of his nose a little red, a nice contrast to the blues of his eyes. 

"Wayne Enterprises building." He tilts his head. "Just Bats and Superman." 

Dimly, all Joseph can think is how badly he'd like to wind his fingers into that hair. See those eyes up close. 

"Fuck," he mutters, quietly. "Alright." 

Chapter Text

Slade picks him up at eleven sharp, knocking rather lightly on his window. Once they're up on the roof of the loft, he has a handful of small, delicate little gadgets shoved into his hands. 

"Comm, in case we get seperated." Slade informs him lightly. He's determinedly looking out to the distance, nearly turned the entire way from Joseph. "And that should send me a live feed." He adds, nodding once when Joseph places the tiny camera to the edge of his helmet, small enough it all but blends in entirely. 

He pops the mask off to place the comm in his ear, hearing it crackle to life. "You think they'll do something?" 

"Not to me." He shrugs. "You? I don't know." He doesn't sound too worried, and well— it's less than Joseph would do, in his shoes. He doesn't have quite the same understanding with his own world's League. 

"And if we do get separated—?" 

"Reconvene at the city limits." He shrugs. "You don't check in at the half hour mark, I assume they've taken you up to the Watchtower." 

"And what's the plan then?" 

Slade snorts. "Get you back." Obviously. "But they shouldn't. They didn't seem… hostile. Curious, is more like it." 

"Right." He sighs. Hears the small click as Slade activates his own comm. "Ready?" 

Over the comm, his voice is a little tinny. Flatter. But it works well enough. "If you are." 

He nods once. Rolls his shoulders out, feeling strange for once in his suit. Normally, this is the most comfortable state to be — well protected, familiar. These last few weeks have been the longest he's gone without it in years. 

Slade leads, which is fine. He's awfully easy to follow on foot, bright flashes of orange even in the shadows. And they're not too far from the meeting point, the damn thing looming in the skyline. 

Getting to the top of Wayne Enterprises is easy enough. Long, but easy. The security is… suspiciously light, tonight. 

He kind of wishes Batman wasn't such a paranoid asshole. They could be doing this in one of the minimalist little conference rooms. Hell, down in the lobby. Nobody's fucking around to look twice at Slade breaking in with expertise borne of familiarity, let alone stop them.

"Come here often?" He asks lightly. He wouldn't know the first thing about Wayne's large, towering building besides what he already knows about breaking and entering. 

Their meetings tended to happen on grimy Gotham rooftops, with far less… talking. He was a posturing asshole, and Joseph didn't like it one bit. 

"Sometimes." Slade answers, leading him through the frankly oversized lobby. Everything was shiny, even in darkness, and his boots keep squeaking on the floor. 

Point for Slade's suit: it didn't muffle his voice as much. 

Still strange to see him in it. Skin-tight and nearly all black, practically lightweight compared to Joseph's armour. He'd thought that, at least, until Slade had explained while picking his way across Gotham. 

Not lightweight, just a hell of a lot more advanced. Could take a hit off Superman a lot better than Joseph's could. Even then, he still preferred his, even if it did look a little bulky compared to Slade's. 

But it was that durability that had Slade leading the way, seemingly knowing exactly where he's going. Just in case.

"Really?" Joseph deadpans. "The elevator." 

"You want to climb the stairs, be my guest." He shrugs. Adjusts the holster on his thigh slightly, seemingly unbothered by being in the Bat's building. "Can you calm down?" Presses the button with a huff.

He growls slightly. "Can you be a little more alert?" 

"They just want to talk." Slade hums. "Don't know what your League is like, but I don't think they're the same." 

"Doubt it." The elevator makes a cheery little ding! and Slade heads in first, snorting when Joseph takes a moment to look it over before he follows behind. "And you didn't give me all this stuff if you thought they just wanted to talk."

And then the door slides shut silently. Fucking music begins playing. All Joseph can think of is that morning. 

Dick in hand and Slade's eyes on him. The fact that they still haven't talked about it. Joseph had been sure to shut that down the very moment Slade had made to apologise, not quite looking him in the eye. 

It's all that's been on Joseph's mind for the last countless hours, circling through with embarrassment and arousal. Fighting for ground against the thought of this little meeting and what it might mean. 

As much as he hates it, there's a tiny spark of hope buried in his mind that hangs onto this meeting like a lifeline. 

He chews his lip, well covered under the helmet, and chances a look at Slade, equally stiff in the elevator. The suit looks extremely out of place under white lights and the large, polished mirror behind them both, stark black and orange material that curves to every muscle like a second skin. 

He'd thought it looked stupid, the first time he'd seen it. Still did, a bit. 

Less so, now, he had to admit. And it was something else to see him move in it, gaze sliding down to Slade's hand, his fingers flexing over the top of his holster, not bulky and meant to punish quite like Joseph's gloves. 

Better than any grainy picture he'd managed to find that first night. 

He snaps his head forward, teeth sinking a little harder into his lip. Rut. Right. That little thing. Distracting him, pulling his attention in directions it shouldn't be. Pointless directions. His insides were a little confused, and rightly so, when Slade had seen his dick. It would confuse anyone for a while. 

It's certainly confused all his instincts, leaving Joseph with the very difficult battle of erection versus protective cup.

The elevator dings again. The music stops. Slade and Joseph exhale at the same moment, twin held-breaths. He shoots him a quick look before sliding from the elevator, taking a sweep of the quiet, dark hallway. 

He gets as far as one step left and then gets dragged the other way immediately, Slade's fingers wrapped around his wrist. Dumbly, he follows, and finds himself at a fire escape stairwell. 

The fucking roof access is left open. He kind of hates that. Insufferable. Slade toes it open, poking his head out for a moment before he drags Joseph into the open. This high up, it's almost quiet. If it weren't for all the wind, Gotham's weather as sour as it's protector. 

He shakes Slade's hand off his wrist, heading onto the roof proper. There's not many places to hide, but there's enough and he can hear him. Can catch his scent, once he's far enough from Slade — sweat and skin and leather. Bit of blood, salt and sharp when he really focuses. One thing an upcoming rut's good for he supposes, senses firing on all cylinders. 

Slade follows him a few paces. Far more at ease than Joseph can bear to be, really. Almost relaxed, hand not even on his weapon, while Joseph can't quite release his grip on the gun at his hip.

Maybe this League is different, but it's still the League. Hardly friendly with the likes of Joseph. And after— well, they'd not looked too kindly on him then, either. As much as he'd like to have the same faith as Slade, it feels like a shot in the dark. Handing over his weaknesses to an enemy. 

"We don't need to tell them about—"

"Be quiet. He's already here." He mutters. Curls his hand a little tighter on his gun, ready. Louder, "Planning to watch all day?" 

Internally, he cringes. Not his best. It's night time. 

There's a slight uptick of breath, a little too vague to pinpoint under all the wind, and then a very pointed scrape of boot against concrete. Behind him. Joseph nearly rolls his eye, but it would be wasted under the mask. 

He looks much the same. Same stupid cowl, same stupid cape. End of. 

"I almost didn't believe you." Same gravel, something smooth running beneath it that's a dead giveaway to anyone with half a brain. You don't grow up in Gotham and sound that put-together without a little help. Almost thoughtful, he tilts his head. "Two of you." 

Slade shifts on his heels. "Where's Superman?" 

"Couldn't make it." He replies. 

"Great." Slade deadpans. And then, when neither Joseph or Wayne pipe up, he adds, "Well, this is cosy." 

"It's not meant to be." Wayne replies. Which could be a terrible joke, or simple fact. Just listening to him is… grating. Difficult. His head hurts in that too-much-pressure sort of way, crammed into his helmet for the first time in two weeks. "Want to tell me how this happened?" 

Slade tilts his head, angling to Joseph a little. 

Dimly, he realises he doesn't want to be here. Explaining this again, when he's run it over in his mind so many times. On this rooftop, tired and beginning to ache, muscles stiff, unable to unwind even a little. 

He sighs between his teeth. Resists the urge to pop the mask off and inhale refreshingly cold air, if only to wake him up a little. Shock him out of the heat that's been steadily rising under his skin since this morning. "Was in Luthor's lab, in my… universe. Pressed a big, red button. It spat me back out here." 

Batman makes a quiet hm. Whatever that means. "What were you doing in Luthor's lab?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"It might." He shrugs a shoulder lightly, and Joseph gets the distinct impression he's being studied. Heavily. A nice little anomaly for Wayne to work out. A mystery to unravel. "Anything could be of importance." 

"There's not exactly much to go off." He replies, voice dry. "I wasn't even supposed to be in his lab. It wasn't a planned attack, or one of Luthor's convoluted little schemes. I pushed a button. That's it." 

Wayne's head cocks even further, which is just starting to look a little ridiculous and then he shifts slightly, angled to Slade. "He pushed a big, red button." The faintest hint amused, the bastard. 

"Let's not get caught up in the—" Slade stumbles a little in his words, mouth twitching. "The details. Ever heard of this happening?" 

"Most tend to stay away from the big, red buttons." Wayne replies. "I'll take a look in my files. See if I can dig anything up. Any chance it could be magic?" 

"Magic." Joseph deadpans. 

"I'll take that as a no." 

"You have magic here?" 

"Unimportant." Wayne replies. Fucker. 

"No, hang on—" He steps forward, more than a little annoyed when Slade's hand closes around his elbow. He's awfully touchy today. "Could that get me back?" 

"Possibly. I'm not the expert authority on magic, but there's usually a cost." He frowns ever so slightly. "And it still leaves the problem of Luthor, with a device capable of… this."

"I'll take care of it once I'm back." He snaps. "Luthor can wait. I need to get home."

"I can't trust you to do that, and you know it." Wayne says, slowly, like Joseph is stupid and a child. 

"Hey, you don't even know me, asshole—" 

"And you don't know me." He sighs, ever so slightly. "Magic is the last option. For now, we'll pursue the technological side. See if our Luthor has anything similar." 

He grits his teeth hard enough his jaw aches, heat rising that little bit more under his suit. Stuffy and claustrophobic. Slade's grip would be bruising if it wasn't over layers of kevlar and leather, holding him back as he leans in. 

"That's not good enough." He snaps. Bares his teeth even though it's pointless. Wayne just looks at him, stupid cowl stuck in that slight scowl, nearly unreadable. "If there's something that can get me back—"

"It's not an option." 

"So that's it? Just leave it in your capable hands." He sneers. "And wait?" In his peripheral, Slade shifts, uneasy. His hearts beating pretty damn heavy in his chest. "No fucking way." 

Wayne stares at him for a long, quiet moment. Just them and the frigid Gotham air before he says, "Alright." 

"What." Slade mutters.

"What do you mean—" 

"You said you found it in Luthor's lab." His pale mouth twitches slightly, a small uptick that tells Joseph he's exactly the same kind of dick he was back home. "I heard he's not home right now." 

"So?" 

"So, you broke in once. Do it again." Wayne tilts his head, taking a step back, slightly. "We can cross it off our list. I'll check my files later." 

"You just want an excuse to break into Luthor's place." Slade says, a little amused, a little long-suffering. 

"I don't take pleasure in it." Wayne throws back. He does, but that's hardly the point. "Coming?" 

Joseph works his jaw silently for a moment, trying to think of a reason not to. Besides the insistent fear that it'll lead to a whole load of nothing. A dead end. Better not to know and have hope. He grits his teeth. "Fine." 

Slade makes a small, affronted noise. Joseph shoots him a quick look, and then steps away, putting a little distance between them. 

"You should head back." He says. "I'll stay on comms." The longer Slade stays silent, the stiffer he gets, waiting on— something. He doesn't even know what. 

This might be it, and staying on comms might be the last thing he says face-to-face with Slade. 

There's no doubt in his mind he'd hit that button in an instant, if he found it. No goodbye's, no lingering. He doesn't belong here. 

With the mask on, Slade's face unreadable, his voice is sure and smooth when he replies, "I'll keep watch." And then he steps away, hesitating once before he heads for the roof access again on silent feet, not looking back. 

Good. He chews his lip until it hurts. "Let's get this over— of course he's gone." Joseph sighs, and follows the scent of kevlar and blood with a roll of his eye. 

"On your—" Slade cuts off. Joseph almost wishes he'd shut the fuck up. He dislocates a glorified lackey's kneecap with irritation, not bothering to look when he crumples to the floor. 

He knows what's on his damn right. He's not fucking entitely blind.

And honestly, Bats is pissing him off too. It was his fault they'd tripped the alarm in the first fucking place. This floor had been nearly empty, until Wayne had set it off by touching a damn door handle and— 

And now he was just watching. Practically leaning against the nearby wall, comfortable, stupid cape looking even more stupid in the red-washed lights. While Joseph had a half dozen men dogpile him,  because even with bulkier armor, he's still Deathstroke.

That had been fun. Slade had hissed in sympathy, and then gone entirely quiet until Joseph had flung a few off and body-slammed the rest into the wall. Whatever Luthor's paying them must be good, because they all got up again, sans a few teeth or brain cells. 

Really, this was just even more reason to piss down Luthor's breathing tube. 

Sirens wail on this level of the building, painful and piercing, beating his ongoing headache into nearly a full blown migraine. He feels like shit baked into the sidewalk, damp and sweating under his suit. And all the fucking adrenaline is only making him fucking hard, as if his life couldn't get any fucking worse, his rut bubbling under his skin and desperate to overflow. 

"I know what I'm doing." He snaps. It comes out entirely like a snarl, earning a tilt of Wayne's head in his peripheral vision. With a grunt, Joseph plants his boot on the lackey's head, hard enough to knock him out clean. "And you—" he snarls. 

"I'm shutting the alarm off." Wayne replies, unbothered. It looks more like texting on his gauntlet, but hey, what does Joseph know about Bat tech. 

Someone tries to very quietly plant a hunting knife in his shoulder blade. 

Rather helpfully, Slade says, "Thought you knew what was on your right." 

"He came from behind!" Joseph growls, all teeth this time when he adds, "And its a fucking four-way hallway." With that, he rounds on the brave individual, nearly towering above him, which isn't very hard when he's about five-foot nothing with patchy facial hair. 

And then he tries to slip a butterfly knife into the tendon of Joseph's thigh crease, one of the few unprotected areas on his suit, and Joseph realises he's one of those lackeys. 

"Well," he grunts, his strike easily dodged, "Aren't you full of sharp things." The other man grins, which is always insufferable in paid muscle — nevermind that Joseph is often paid muscle. He doesn't do the cocky grin, thinking he's the shit before he's met his match. 

"Really?" Slade snorts. "Just hit him and let's get on with this." 

"If you insist." He huffs. Wayne had said no guns. Fair. No sword, less fair. And he certainly isn't bound to Wayne's asinine wishes, anyway — the man uses sharpened bat-themed throwing knives daily. 

The little lackey's heart beats like a hummingbird's when he unsheaths his sword, long and sharp and pointed directly at the thin strip of the man's bared neck between his pseudo-militia outfit. It's pathetic. 

Joseph grins, cocky. "I've got sharp things, too." 

The alarm switches off. The lights turn white again. Joseph nearly bites his tongue off in frustration, watching a small flash-bang land at his feet. They both turn away from the grenade, Joseph growling as he covers his eye, but doesn't waste the out he's been given. 

"Let's go." Wayne says, turning heel sharply. 

His ears still ring slightly when he follows, between the stun grenade and the alarm blaring for the last twenty minutes his hearing's just about had enough. Add in Slade's commentary, interspersed with what sounds suspiciously like snacks, and Joseph's ready to never hear anything again.

"This way." Wayne murmurs, quieter, somehow moving incredibly fast and not making a damn sound. 

Joseph can do that too, but it takes a lot more focus than Wayne's giving it, eyes still focused on the corner of his gauntlet. There's a small screen embedded in it, a floorplan in blue up beside a heart rate monitor. 

"Fancy." Slade comments. 

"Don't get jealous." Joseph grunts. Wayne looks at him briefly, mouth parted slightly, before he turns the next corner sharply and continues on. 

There's a handful more guards to take care of, and then Wayne stops at a set of elevators. 

"Should take your weight." Wayne murmurs before he presses the button lightly. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean." 

"Your armour probably weighs over half of what you do." Wayne replies. 

"I can take it." He mutters. Another elevator, another awkward ride up a rich asshole's skyscraper. "'S not that heavy." 

"Because you have greater muscle—" Wayne pauses for the ding! of the elevator when it arrives. "—and bone density." 

"And you know this how exactly?" He watches, curious, as Wayne sweeps the small elevator with a careful eye. "And I'm not going to break the damn elevator." 

"Just thinking about the cables." He throws back lightly, almost conversational. As if that's obvious. "Lex likes to cut corners on his construction. Give me a hand." 

"What—" 

"Hand. Up." He points to the roof of the elevator. "We're not taking the elevator. Only reason they haven't shut it down is so they can box us in." 

He frowns. Looks at the very small service hatch. 

"Unless you want to get rushed in a steel box on the fortieth floor." Wayne hedges. "Get me up." 

"Fine." He mutters. Really hates how Wayne smirks, ever so slightly, so reminiscent of his other self when he postures and leaks Alpha-scent all over the damn place. 

At least this one says nothing when Joseph crouches, lacing his fingers together to boost Wayne up by his boot. The other settles on his shoulder, surprisingly light for all the armour Wayne wears, high enough for him to work on getting the hatch open. 

It takes a few minutes, Joseph left to do nothing besides play furniture. He can see his reflection in the polished, metal wall of the elevator, and wonders what the fuck he's doing. Wayne's cape keeps brushing against his helmet. 

Slade's been awful quiet, too. 

And then Wayne murmurs, "Ah-ha." 

"Got it?" 

The sound of metal hitting metal is enough answer. Joseph shoves him up and through rather unceremoniously, glad to be free of the task. Wayne grunts, but takes it in stride, boots light on the top of the elevator. 

"There's no fuckin' way I'm fitting." 

The cowl pokes back down through the hatch, Wayne's white lenses staring back at him. And then there's a gloved hand in offering. 

"I'm not—" He takes the hand tightly, and sets one boot against the nearest wall of the elevator. "—fucking fitting."

"You swear a lot." Wayne comments. And then starts the laborious process of helping Joseph up, both feet planted on two corner walls by the time he's working one shoulder through the hatch. 

"Only when I want to run someone through with a sword." He grumbles, no real heat, feeling an awful lot like a ragdoll filled with cement. The armor is a hindrance, that's for sure, but so is the width of his shoulders. 

Wayne makes a quiet, displeased hm. Yanks a little harder on his arm. Between the two of them, he fits both shoulders through with a little squealing of metal — the pads over his shoulders making good friends with the edges of the hatch. 

After that, it's a matter of pulling himself through, more than a little embarrassed. 

"You know," Wayne says, dry. "Not every day you get to find out what your life is like in another universe." 

"Hm." He dusts off his arm lightly, then follows Wayne's gaze to the cables, climbing up and up in the dark elevator shaft. 

"That bad?" 

Rather than answer, Joseph takes a grip of the closest one, head tipped back. "How many floors?" 

"Labs start about ten floors up from here." Wayne shrugs. "Rest is accounting, offices. I'll look at those later." He takes a hold of the next cable along, considering for a moment. "I give it six minutes." 

"What?" 

"To get to the labs." Wayne shrugs. And then starts climbing. "Unless you think you'll be slower." 

Oh. "Fuck you." Joseph snaps, and starts climbing. 

He makes it there first, by about 3 seconds. Wayne doesn't even look put-out. 

"Anything look familiar?" 

"Why would it?" 

"Might give us a clue, if he was working on the same projects." Wayne replies, though he mostly seems focused on all the other things in the room. Mainly the reams of paper available, and briefly, the contents of a chiller they find, filled to the brim with little vials.

"Are you stealing—" He frowns, and then thinks better of it when Wayne slips a vial into his belt. "Do your own cases on your own time. Help me find this fucking button." 

"This is my case." Is all he says, and then heads for one of the adjoining little offices with his lockpick out. 

He's going to set the alarm off again, and Joseph's not taking care of it this time. Might even trip Wayne up. That would be a nice sight. It stays with him, almost soothing, as they find dead end after dead end. 

No red buttons. Not even red switches. There's… nothing. 

He knew it was pointless. He knew it. And he came anyway. This Luthor was behind on things, or had never dreamed bigger than his own universe. He didn't have the answers Joseph needed. 

The comm crackled to life around the time he was slapping little trays of paper down on desks, looking for anything more than company memos.  

"You're still looking?" He sounds— off. A little flat. 

He freezes, slightly. "Where the fuck did you go?" 

"Fell asleep." Slade clears his throat, a little thick, and sighs. "You know it's, like, two in the morning." 

"I am aware." He huffs. Opens and shuts drawers with nothing more than a cursory glance at their contents. No buttons hiding in them. "Batman's a dick, by the way." 

Slade laughs, quietly. "He hurt your feelings?" 

Joseph grunts. Acutely aware of the particular way Wayne's parsing through a desk of his own, very obviously listening. "Decided it was a good idea to trip the alarm and stand back." 

A beat, and then, "I was assessing your capabilities." 

"You were being a dick." 

Wayne goes hm again. Joseph considers throwing the sizable paperweight on the desk at his head. 

"He's helping." Slade reminds him, almost placating. "Don't antagonise him." 

"I'll do what I like." He throws back. Which is, again, not his smartest comeback, but it's late and he's aching in new and interesting ways and things feel more… hopeless than ever. He's looking through desks for nothing and he knows it. "Fuck this." 

Slade hums. "At least it's off our list." 

"So we're back where we started." 

"Call it a night?" Over the earpiece, he hears Slade yawn, jaw cracking. He frowns a little harder. 

"Yeah," he agrees, a whole lot more muted. Nothing here. No way to get home. Really, nothing's changed. 

But it still brings out the longing tenfold, meaner than ever. He'd hoped, and it got him nowhere. 

Wayne turns slightly, apparently pieced together enough to say, "You go. I've got other business to take care of while I'm here." His mouth is a thin line, face blank besides the artificial glower on the cowl. 

"Yeah, you have fun with that." He mumbles, and makes his way back through the labs quietly. Kind of hopes he runs into a guard or two, any last stragglers. Anything to hit something. 

"We'll get you home, Joseph." Slade says, when he's halfway down the building, apropos of nothing. Oddly gentle. Tired. 

"Sure." He agrees. Feels none of it, fingertips a little numb with pins and needles. Under the suit, he's burning up, and his breath is difficult to keep level by the time he's outside and walking along pavements. 

He climbs the nearest building with a fire escape and then peels off the helmet. Faces it toward him, the small camera attached to the edge. "I need some…" He pauses, not quite sure where he's going with it until he opens his mouth again. "Some time. Don't— Just leave me be, for a while, Slade." 

As soon as he says it, he feels— worse rather than better. Like cutting off the last of all he has, Joseph plucks the communicator from his ear and throws it into the alley below, along with the camera. 

It's a bad idea. He knows it, even as he does it. But there's a cold, empty part of him that feels like it's right. Pouring salt in his wounds, because that's how it should be. 

He'll leave it with the League, as little as it means. No plan and no leads. Go back to his borrowed loft and deal with whatever his body is trying, desperately, to throw at him. Suffer it alone, and Slade won't fucking know and that's what counts.

Chapter Text

If Joseph thought it was bad before, it was a fucking roaring fire consuming every space in his body now. Water could fucking boil on his shoulders, paper would singe. He was drowning in it, and a cold shower did nothing besides make it even more unbearable. 

Quick little reprieves of ice hitting his skin, quickly burned away by the rut. Even standing was painful, but laying in bed was twice as worse, fucking alone and all of Slade's clothes gone. Not a thing left for Joseph to wrap himself up in, even if it would just… delay the inevitable. Make it worse. 

Every day he'd put it off, he was paying for it tenfold now. 

He knew that. He knew he'd done this. Didn't make it any easier when he wanted to peel off his skin, crawl out of it and fucking die unless someone touched him. Anyone. He'd take Luthor right now over being alone, skin buzzing and pulsing and too damn tight for his frame, impossible to ignore with every breath. 

His rut shouldn't be half this bad, he knew. He'd spent many of them alone before, and they hadn't been pleasant but they'd been bearable. Spent even more with others. Sometimes fucking and sometimes not, and that had been fine. Good, even. Scent and skin-on-skin were more than good enough. 

This was… this was deprivation, leaving him shaking and nauseous, food a long-forgotten need in the last— however many days it had been, he didn't know. Time had passed and Joseph had forgotten things like food and clothes. 

There was the blessed relief of a cold shower, and shivering in his bed as he burned inside out, desperate for a touch. Any touch. A fucking fight would do. He'd half thought of calling Slade, and then it had hurt his damn head just to look at the phone, fingers shaking, and he knew what he'd sound like. 

Broken, desperate. Begging, exhausted. 

Joseph had no clue what he'd do, if Slade had rejected him. Put the phone down and told him to handle it on his own. That's what Joseph would have done, in his colder moments, before. He knows that. Slade… Slade might be different, but they're both Wilsons. Sometimes, they're the same. 

So he hadn't. 

And this was— this was the third shower of the day. Or night. Couldn't tell, the curtains were all pulled, light lancing through his skull every time he got a glimpse of it. And it was the third shower only if sagging against the shower wall and periodically flicking it on and off counted. 

But it was cold, and soothing, and let him breathe for once without the painful, rote noises he couldn't stop for the life of him. Raw, disused little whimpers and whines that grated on his nerves, noises of some other Alpha, one that he shouldn't be. He was better than this. 

He was supposed to be home by now. Two weeks was long enough. More than enough, in his hazy, delirious opinion. He should be home. He wanted home. Ached for it in a way he hadn't in all these days spent with Slade and Joey, a stabbing pain right through his ribs, twisted in his lungs like a knife. 

Joseph breathes through his nose, exhales through his mouth, saliva dripping from his tongue. His teeth ached. Everything ached. He wanted home, or Slade, or fucking Billy— 

"Hey." He stares blankly, mind like molasses. "Joseph?" The back of his neck prickles, warm and damp with sweat even under the spray of a shower. 

Slade. 

Another one of those broken, foreign noises, caught in his throat and just quivering there. He hates it. He never wants to leave this shower. Feels like he'll die if he doesn't see Slade, if he doesn't get a single touch— 

He slips twice on the wet floor, and nearly forgets his sweatpants before he's fumbling for the door handle. Cool air hits his skin, water dripping from his hair, a last reprieve down the heated column of his throat. Realizes dispassionately that he has no shirt and looks— unwell. Pale, with dark circles under his eye, and crescent-moon marks dug into his forearm from the night before. 

There's no part of him he'd want to touch, if given the choice. 

Joseph grips the edge of the doorway, knees like rocks, every movement taking far fucking more energy than it should. He'd like to be back in bed. Curled up under sheets that smell of nothing but him, a safe scent at least. 

But he can nearly taste Slade on his tongue, not two feet away. Red cheeks and pale skin, buried under a heavy coat and knitted scarf, hair curling at the edges of his hat and practically soaked in that honey-warm scent that Joseph's been needing.

"Hey," Slade says, again, voice a little thin. Eyes flickering up and down Joseph's frame, carefully blank, giving nothing away. "Are you..." He trails off quietly.

Joseph's teeth slide against each other, speech feeling all kinds of wrong in his mouth. Foreign and stilted, words forming slower than he'd like. "What are you—" He swallows, thick saliva caught in his throat. "Why are you here?" 

Minutely, Slade's jaw tenses. "I was… I was worried." His eyebrows knit together. "Joseph—" Takes a step forward, scent practically dripping off him, closing that horrible gap between them. 

Joseph's stomach clenches. Digs his nails into the doorframe and wills himself not to lean into those last few inches and press himself to every inch of Slade. Bury his nose in the corner of his throat where it would be strongest— and no, that's not right, because Slade isn't— He bites his tongue until he tastes copper. 

Wonders dimly when Slade got so close. Enough to reach out and touch him, watching Joseph carefully for his reaction to the warm palm against his cheek. He couldn't breathe even if he wanted to right then, lungs petrified in his ribcage, trying desperately to reconcile the burning need with the reality of Slade, finally, blessedly touching him. 

But at least his mind is blank. Briefly and wonderfully quiet to take in the soft texture of skin against his, five warm points of pressure that are better than any frigid shower or sweat-soaked bed. 

A groan slips out past his clenched teeth, Joseph tilting into the touch. 

"You want to tell me what's wrong?" 

He exhales, presses stubbornly harder into Slade's hand. "Not really." Relief, is the only word for it. A settling of the churning in his stomach the longer he just stays and soaks up Slade's presence. 

"You look sick." Slade says tentatively. Slides his hand up a little further, palm flat against Joseph's forehead. "Burning up." 

He grunts. Looking sick is a gross oversimplification of how he feels right then. He knows he looks hollow, tired. Bruised under-eyes and unshaven jaw, stiff and sluggish.

"I'll live." Joseph mumbles. Lets his eye slip shut briefly, just long enough to really sink into the touch. Nothing but physical sensations and the thick, heavy scent filling his nose, making his head swim. "Don't need to stay."

"You're joking." Slade mutters. And then taps his cheek. "I'm not leaving until you tell me— I need to know, alright? You can't just… disappear like this." 

"Not your problem," he mumbles. Nearly snarls when Slade's touch slips from his skin, only to reappear on the center of his chest, fingers splayed wide, skin still damp. Joseph hangs his head, too fucking tired to care how it looks, watches Slade's fingers rise and fall with each breath. 

It's hypnotic, the easy way Slade moves with him, fingers pressed across the broad expanse of his chest. How Joseph's whole world narrows down to that point as the seconds tick past. Skin-on-skin and the metronome of Slade's breathing and the scant half foot of space between them. 

Joseph sways closer, no resistance from Slade when he's close enough to touch, palm still caught between them. It feels so fucking good he could cry. Joseph chokes back a noise behind his teeth, expression crumpling once it's buried in Slade's shoulder.

Sturdy, strong. Slade's frame against his, not budging an inch even when he can't help pressing closer. Crowding his way in, one inch at a time, the glorious feel of another warm body against his turning Joseph's knees weak.

Slade's skin is soft and heated when he gets his mouth on it, a press of lips and nose to the crook of his neck, nudged beside his coat collar and scarf. Pure, unfiltered scent, filling every sense that Joseph possesses until he's dizzy and unbalanced with it, tension starting to chip away. 

Joseph sighs, nearly sobs. Good, is the only word for it. Pleasant, like sitting by a fire after a cold day, or warm pumpkin pie coating his tongue. Basic and as simple as sitting down and eating, hungry and being fed. His fingers tremble when he grips the back of Slade's coat, wishing for less layers, more skin. More of Slade pressed to him. 

As if he knows exactly what he's thinking, Slade pushes back against his sternum. "Let me— I should take this off." He mumbles. Pushes again, firmer this time, and Joseph has enough sense left to move with it, no matter how much it makes his skin sear and his muscles ache. 

Slade makes it quick at least. Strips off his scarf and hat, shucks his jacket and then he's reaching back out to draw Joseph in, this time so much firmer. So much better. This time, there's bare skin available and Slade's throat easily accessible, a heady offering that he takes without thinking. 

Minutes pass in blissful silence. Absolute quiet, where Joseph doesn't think, and nothing feels wrong. The racket in his chest is dampened, however briefly, and the instincts in the back of his mind peacefully go to rest for the first time in so fucking long. Joseph's nails dig into Slade's bare skin, up beneath his shirt, and he's gripped back just as hard, Slade's hands all over him. 

In his hair and over the tense lines of his shoulder blades. Tracing down his spine with blunt nails, the calloused pads of his thumbs digging into sore muscles. Slade's mouth at his ear, breath puffing out warmly, hitting the underside of Joseph's jaw in a way that makes him shiver. More than good. 

"Better?" Slade murmurs. Rakes his nails up the back of Joseph's hair, still damp. 

He works his tongue in his mouth for a moment, stuck for words before he settles for a hum, eye shut tightly. Wraps his arms a little tighter around Slade, palms flat against the sides of his waist. 

His rut's certainly not going anyway any time soon, not by a long shot. But it's… softer. Sharp edges receding the longer they stay like that, Joseph's knees locked and his head swimming. Easier to bear, warmer to sink into. Let it happen. 

Quietly, Slade shifts, chin settled on his shoulder. "Is that you purring?" He asks. Soothes the sudden tension in Joseph's spine with talented, gentle fingers.

Joseph grunts, in between bouts of— purring. A slow rolling noise in his chest, less like a cat and more like far-away thunder. He leans in a little closer, settling his weight further onto Slade, the other man stumbling back a step. And then another, and another, Joseph following closely, stopped only by the sturdy wall that Slade walks into. 

Yes. Good. That purr grows a little louder, a little throatier. Slade makes a small, affronted noise, and then settles down, letting Joseph crush into his space without fight. It strokes some part in the back of his mind, makes saliva pool in his mouth when he pants against Slade's throat and tastes his skin, starting to get their limbs all tangled up. 

Slade's feet knock against his, Joseph pressing that little bit closer. Thigh between Slade's, keeping him pinned to the wall, where he'll stay and Joseph can touch, and it's good, good exactly how he needs, Slade, Slade, Slade— 

"Oh," Slade mumbles. A tiny noise in his throat that Joseph chases with his teeth, warmth rising under his skin that little bit more. Likes it, he thinks, and repeats the motion, wants that scarlet flush on Slade's throat again, the jolt of his fingers in Joseph's hair. 

Endless satisfaction rises in his chest when Slade bares his throat with a shaky exhale. Let's Joseph scrape the wet, sharp points of his teeth to fragile skin, tongue pressed flat to taste him. And then Slade's fingers tighten in his hair, drag him in closer, sending a shock of pleasure across his scalp. He groans, sucks hard on Slade's pulse, gratified when the other man bucks against him. A perfect slide of body heat that he feels in every singing nerve-ending, making Joseph shiver.

He's hard when Joseph grinds his thigh against him, Slade making a choked off noise high in his throat. Arches sharply toward Joseph, head tipped back, rocking against him with a bitten down groan.  

Arousal coils in his gut the longer Slade bucks against him, not quite able to take the lead but damn well trying. A little bite when he presses his mouth to Joseph's shoulder, teeth blunt, a ripped out moan in his chest that's nearly buried under Joseph's growl. There's something so powerful in knowing it's him. All him, making Slade this way. Pinning Slade to the wall and making him moan, throat turned nearly scarlet for all the scrapes of teeth and hungry hickeys. 

"Joseph," he moans, clenches his thighs around Joseph's and grinds down with singular focus. "Can I— oh fuck—" Slade's fingers tremble on his skin, fisted in his hair and clawing at his waist and it is so fucking good, and all Joseph can do is chase that feeling. That satisfaction, bringing Slade to the edge, that heat pooling in his gut driving him on. 

"Yes," he says, and it sounds unrecognizable to his ears. Far-away and toothy, some other hungry animal that speaks only in snarls. "Want you to— gonna make you come for me—" He grips Slade with punishing tightness and moves him, takes him by the hips and makes him ride Joseph's thigh at a punishing pace.

Distantly, he hears Slade's breathing hitch. Feels the bite of his nails in the meat of Joseph's bicep. The moment Slade goes taut, lungs heaving. Knows when he comes, and feels the rush of satisfaction, the heady, dizzying, perfect good, so good of tipping Slade over the edge, soothing the last of his rough edges away. Pleased, listening to Slade's gulps of air, practically tasting the electric on Slade's skin. 

Joseph mouths at his throat, itches to sink his teeth in, hold him close and still shaking while he comes down. Slade groans. Tips his head back with a dull thunk against the wall. Joseph leans against him warmly, a rumble in his ribcage, boneless as if he's the one who's had his orgasm. 

Slade strokes through the short strands of his hair, tugging slightly. "Fuck." He mumbles. Exhales heavily. "You okay?" 

He rumbles again. Words are… difficult, right then. He feels too good for words. Distantly, he realizes he's lifted Slade, and clenches his fingers into the meat of his thighs. 

"Take that as a yes." Slade tugs on his hair again, sending a shiver down his spine. He doesn't sound— angry. He sounds as calm as Joseph feels. That's good, he thinks. How it should be. Makes the noise in his chest climb an octave, rough enough to slide right into Slade's chest too. 

Joseph nips at Slade's racing pulse idly, wrapped up in the feel of him for long minutes. In his grip Slade shifts slightly, a strangled sort of noise in his throat when Joseph suckles hard. 

"Gonna make me go again," Slade mutters. And then, "You didn't— I can—" 

He bites, just enough pressure to stop Slade in his tracks. Not enough to break skin, no matter how much he wants. How fucking beautiful Slade would look, all marked up, as his, all his. How good it would feel to have a real claim to someone. The Alpha in him wants, such a rush of need it makes his knees a little weak.

Experimentally, he grinds forward. Slade moans, but it's strained, oversensitive. "Don't need to." He finally says, words thick and slow. "Wanna make you— come again for me." He punctuates it with another roll of his hips, more pointed than the last time. 

If he can't bite, he can— he can do that. Can make Slade moan for him again, and again, and again until he's sobbing.

In his arms, Slade curses quietly. "No way—" and then cuts off with a groan, hips twisting in Joseph's hands to escape the firm, insistent friction. 

He's hard too, a hot, heavy weight between his thighs that is easy to ignore when he's got— when he's got Slade, making such pretty, needy noises against him, exactly what he needs, so fucking easy to grind his hips against and force another orgasm out of him. 

Slade arches against him, rising up against the strong line of his body with clenched teeth. Joseph bites bluntly at the curve of his neck, the sharp jut of his collarbones, body on autopilot for the time being. It feels second nature to pin Slade to the wall and rut against him again until he's trembling, voice hoarse when he says, "Joseph, I can't— oh fuck, oh fuck—" and grips his skin with bruising quality. 

He wishes there were less layers between them as Slade quickly falls apart for a second time. All that hidden skin that he can't get to, can't put his mouth on and memorize like he craves. Can't open Slade up and fuck into him like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing, fuck him until Slade can't even consider crawling from Joseph's bed, locked on his knot and begging for it, yes, good, clawing at Joseph's shoulders and whimpering when he calls him Alpha— 

He shudders, cock throbbing something fierce, and drives himself against Slade hard enough it must hurt, mind a hazy mix of arousal and need. He barely hears it when Slade groans his name and comes for a second time, thighs squeezed tight around Joseph's waist. 

Again, that rush of satisfaction. Tipping Slade over the edge, even with layers of clothes between them. He hums appreciatively, feeling Slade's breath pant against his neck, gone lax against him. He groans when Joseph squeezes the muscle of his thigh, fingers tangled in Joseph's hair to tug lightly. 

"Gonna kill me." Slade mumbles. "Fucking hell, Joseph." 

"Rut," he sounds out against Slade's throat. "In a rut." There's a reason he wasn't supposed to tell Slade that, knocking around the dark recesses of his mind, but it seems so… unimportant. 

He didn't push him away. Didn't look at Joseph that way that he hates. He'd… touched him. Touched him so good, made Joseph's senses practically sing. And he wasn't pulling away now, either.

"What?" Slade murmurs. Tugs on his hair again, dragging him up just that little bit. Joseph grumbles and burrows his nose further into the crook of his neck. "What's a rut?" 

Joseph squeezes his thigh again. "Explain later." He sighs. Inhales deeply the scent of Slade, tinged with sweat now, arousal soaked into his clothes. 

"Alright," Slade agrees after a moment. "You gonna put me down?" 

"No." He mutters. Nothing sounds worse than some distance between them. He shifts his grip, one hand sliding back under Slade's shirt to map out the tense lines of his back, each dip and rise of his spine. 

He settles with his palm flat between Slade's shoulders, the other gripping his ass, and then inhales deeply again before he forces himself to move. Slade makes a noise of protest, but goes blissfully quiet when Joseph takes slow, stiff steps toward the bed. 

It's not graceful by any means, but it ends with Slade beneath him, laid out on sheets that smell like Joseph. The Alpha in him nearly melts, a chant of yes, yes, yes in his mind. Slade raises an eyebrow when Joseph just hovers over him, hair a little tangled, mouth bitten red and wet, thighs still locked around Joseph's waist. 

"What're you waiting for?" 

Joseph blinks. Tilts his head, taking in the— marks he's left. All the hickeys already starting to heal, the scrapes of teeth along the thin skin of his collarbones. Slade's eyes bright and blue, a little amused, full of heat when he flicks his gaze lower. 

He makes a noise in his throat, reminiscent of the whimpers of earlier, and sinks down until all he can feel is Slade. Buries his face in the junction of his neck, snakes his arms under his waist, and finally lets go of the tension in his chest. 

Slade makes a small sound, questioning. But his hands slide up Joseph's back anyway, coming to rest just below the curve of his neck. It's nice. Just laying there, all the contact he could ever possibly want, warmed inside out and no longer burning. The last few days feel… distant, something horrible that happened to someone else, not to Joseph. 

Slade's sanded all those rough, horrible edges down. Taken him apart and put him back together right, and now that the Alpha in him is finally satisfied, he's exhausted. Beyond exhausted, even, with Slade crushed chest-to-chest under him, starting to soak up his scent, warm and pliant in Joseph's arms. 

In the dark, wrapped up in the heat of another body, it takes no time at all for Joseph's mind to start drifting, and then quickly fall into unconsciousness. 

Joseph doesn't wake, so much as rise to the surface of a very nice hot spring, or an endless well of warm syrup, or Slade's rising and falling chest, bare-skinned. Hot and still a little sweat-damp against his cheek, all the way down to the waistband of his sweatpants. 

Gentle fingers card through his hair on autopilot, little winding patterns that Joseph follows idly, enjoying the simple sensation while he mentally rights himself. He remembers, in a way that makes his head ache, the long hours and days. How badly he'd burned under his skin, how he'd sobbed into his sheets until he couldn't anymore, and no amount of digging his nails into his skin had helped any. 

He remembers after that, too. Slade. Slade against the wall. Slade, coming for him, shaking apart on his thigh with hoarse moans. In his bed, holding Joseph close. Slade, Slade, Slade. Even his name felt soothing as it rolled around his mind. 

"Purring again," Slade murmurs, voice right beside his ear. It makes him shiver, just a little, and he realizes belatedly he's chilled where the comforter is tugged down to his waist. 

He grunts. Reaches down with stiff fingers to tug at the comforter, only to have Slade pull it all the way up to his shoulders. He makes a noise, pleased, and doesn't even consider opening his eye when Slade resumes his light touches. Doesn't want to… break the spell, or give him any reason to stop. 

"It helped, right?" He asks. Traces the tip of a finger down the line of Joseph's spine, then back up when silence follows. 

He doesn't want to talk, so he doesn't bother. Grunts once, and then burrows his nose into the crook of Slade's neck a little firmer. 

"You…" He trails off. Sighs, ever so quietly, and turns his head to press his mouth to Joseph's damp temple. "You wanted that, right? What we did." 

What. He frowns minutely, something a little anxious curling in his chest, marking the warm, floaty feeling of before. "'Course." He mumbles, voice thick with sleep. "You?" 

Slade nods a little. "Just checking." And then, lighter, "Billy's got Joey for the night." He taps the base of Joseph's spine in a little beat, letting the sentence sink into the room. "Figured might need to stay." 

He mouths at Slade's throat. "Talk too much." 

Slade's chest rises on a silent laugh. Bare. Warm skin that sticks to Joseph's when he shifts, distributing his weight a little more evenly. He'd rather not crush Slade entirely, even if it is an appealing thought. Trapped, in his bed. All bare skin for Joseph to touch, and put his mouth on, listening to Slade's soft, smooth voice. 

"When'd you take your shirt off?" He mumbles, eyebrows cinching together. 

Slade had definitely been clothed, earlier. He would remember if he had been naked. They'd have fucked, if he'd been naked. 

Slade shrugs the shoulder currently under his head. "You were dead asleep. Got cleaned up." Came back to bed, after. Slid right under Joseph again, let himself be pinned to the mattress. His fingers rise up, skipping over his neck rather thoughtfully to sink into Joseph's hair. 

It's infinitely soothing. He'd never realized just how relaxing it could be, Slade's fingers tracing patterns that his mind follows along behind. 

"You knew this was going to happen." Slade states, a little flat. A statement of fact, rather than an accusation. 

Apparently, the nice hair touching was a trap. Designed to get him soft, pliant. Unprepared. He grunts, neither agreement or disagreement. 

"And didn't tell me." Slade adds. His fingers still. "Why the fuck would you do that?" 

"Not your problem." He mutters, eye still firmly shut. Maybe he could fake falling asleep again. He's certainly exhausted enough for it. A few more minutes of quiet and he'd be out like a light. 

Slade huffs. "You sure about that? 'Cause it sure looks like my problem from where I'm lying." When Joseph can't think of much to say to that, he sighs. "You could have said something, instead of— of disappearing. That's why you needed time, right? You knew this was coming." 

The words scrape at his insides, a small stinging irritation. He bites the tip of his tongue, not quite sure what he could say. Finally, he mutters, "It was none of your business." 

And then Slade hooks his thigh over Joseph's hip, takes him by the hair, and flips them over. That gets his eye snapping open, teeth bared, stomach clenched at the sudden movement. 

"None of my business." He repeats. Looks awfully stern, mouth thinned, even with hickeys over the expanse of his throat. "Wasn't that when you were eating my food, sleeping on my couch, and living in my apartment." 

"Oh, fuck off," Joseph snaps. Tucks his chin down and glares sharply, aware of the sudden bite of Slade's fingers in his hair. "You basically forced me to. I told you I didn't want your charity." 

"Didn't put up much of a fight." Slade throws back. Expression tight, but there's something else bleeding in at the edges, in the tilt of his eyebrows as he looks Joseph up and down. "You're a real asshole, you know that?" 

"I am aware." He bites out. 

Slade's grip tightens that little bit more, thighs bracketing him in. "You think it's noble or some shit, this suffering in silence act? You looked half dead, Joseph." 

He narrows his eye. "Worried, are we?" 

A rough shove, and then Slade's fist lands in the mattress beside his head. "You fucking think?" Breath a little hard, he pulls back, still glaring. "In case you hadn't noticed, I've done nothing besides help you. Some fucking transparency would be nice." 

He grinds his teeth, watches Slade watch him back in silence. He's incredibly warm, stripped down to clean underwear. Even through his sweatpants, he can feel the heat of his thighs, Slade seated fully in his lap. 

It's very difficult to stay mad, like that. 

"You'd done enough." He finally says. Reaches out to grip the other man's thigh when he opens his mouth, no doubt ready for another round. "I didn't want to put more on you. And this isn't exactly— it's not fucking easy on me, alright? With— when there's no one that has any clue about this shit." 

Slade drops his head, just a fraction. Flicks his eyes to Joseph's hand, fingers splayed wide over the top of his thigh. "If you'd explained, it wouldn't have been this bad. Would it?" He asks, firmly. Dares Joseph to lie with a sharp look. 

"Probably not." He agrees quietly. "Not supposed to be like this, to begin with. It's… there's no— no pack. Or— it's missing everything an Alpha needs to avoid this kind of rut happening." Quietly, he runs his tongue over his teeth, swallowing heavily when Slade just sighs, ever so slightly. 

"It's getting better, isn't it? You look better than when I found you." 

"You didn't find me." He snorts, avoiding the question for now. Is it better? He has no fucking clue. "I was in the bathroom." 

"For all I knew you were in a ditch somewhere." 

"Pretty big ditch." He mumbles. 

Slade glares. But his fingers loosen, smoothing through his hair once. Snaps the strap of his patch against his skin. "Touching helps, yeah? Or was it— you didn't exactly come, did you?" 

"It helps." Joseph exhales heavily. Sets his other hand on Slade's thigh, too. "Scent, as well." 

"Would anyone have done the job, or did it have to be me?" He asks, which is a very fucking unfair question when they're face to face. Joseph doesn't quite stop the flinch in time, Slade's head cocking as he takes note. "Why me." 

"Don't know." 

Sure, anyone could touch him. It might even get him through. If he'd wanted that, he'd book back-to-back massages and call it a damn day. But that wouldn't scratch the itch, not even close. Wouldn't be half as relaxing, even now when he's flat on his back and being interrogated. 

Slade makes a noise, displeased. 

"You just…" He licks his lip. Looks to the ceiling, easier than the man looming over him. "Feel better." He finishes a little lamely. 

"In what way." Slade prods. 

"Jesus, I don't know, okay? If I knew, I'd tell you. You're the closest thing to familiar, apparently, up here—" A little roughly, he taps his temple, a growl on his tongue, "—and that's what I need in a rut. Happy?" 

Slade stays silent for a moment, gaze flicking down and then back up to meet his gaze. "I think I know enough to know you've been stupid, yeah." He sets a hand on Joseph's chest, enough of a surprise to make him jump slightly. "And enough to know I can help." 

With that, he pats Joseph once, and then slides from bed with a stiff groan. Joseph watches him, not quite able to move yet, feeling as though he's still weighed down. 

Slade sends him a look. "Coming? You need a shower." His fingers hook into the waistband of his underwear, just before he elbows the door through to the bathroom. 

Joseph stares, a little blank. A little bit playing catch up, when he thought they were arguing and apparently… they were not. Maybe Slade's right. Maybe he is stupid. 

Apparently, he can move, although it's hardly graceful. Not too bad in bed, but once he's upright all the aches and pains of before reignite. Stiffly, he stretches, wincing with every new sore spot making itself known down his spine. 

"Fuck," he mumbles. Feels a little lightheaded, hearing the shower click on, water hissing. Rut's definitely not completely gone, but he's hardly surprised by that revelation. 

He manages to hobble his way to the shower, and has to pause in the doorway just to process. Mostly to process the sudden reality he's found himself in, Slade naked and wet and making small moaning noises every time the water hits his shoulders just right. 

His alternate reality counterpart, showering, waiting for Joseph to join him. Right. 

He strips off as silently as he can, and would hesitate if he didn't feel even more stupid lingering outside of the shower buck naked. Instead, he shoulders in, the space cramped, and ignores Slade's very put-upon mutter of, "Did I invite a football team in?" 

He takes up more than enough space, sure. But Slade's not exactly small either. And the shower was definitely built for solitary nights after a contract or two. They make it work in the close quarters after a bit of shuffling, Slade applying himself very firmly to Joseph's front. 

The water's nice, nearly scalding but it's good on all his aching muscles. But it's not half as nice as Slade's hands settling on his skin, curled around his hips. 

Intently, he is aware, Joseph's cock is pressed to Slade's hip. Slade's cock is pressed to his. He can feel all those muscles now, all that soft skin he'd wished for before. Free of scars and only a light dusting of hair that leads down, thicker over his thighs. 

"You fixed the drain." Slade comments. 

He raises an eyebrow. "It was full of your hair." Slade makes a disgruntled noise when he tugs on a lock of it, curling around his jaw. 

"Leave my hair alone. Some of us grew out of the military cut." He reaches up to wind his fingers into Joseph's hair again, pulling a soft sigh out of him effortlessly. "Can I get you off?" He asks, absolutely apropos of nothing. 

"It's really bothering you, isn't it?" Joseph mumbles. Turns his head down into the touch, eye slipping shut briefly. "Don't need to." 

"You sure," Slade hums. "Or did you bring a weapon into our nice shower?" 

"I don't need to." Joseph replies. Leans into Slade's bulk, water hitting his shoulders at the perfect angle. "Really." At least this way, Slade can't stare at his cock again. He's hard. Has been hard since two fucking days ago, if he's being honest. "It doesn't… I get just as much out of this, without it." 

Slade rakes his nails up Joseph's scalp. "So you really don't care if you get off or not?" 

"Not right now." He murmurs. Goes forward that last inch and thunks his head down on Slade's shoulder. 

"Oh." Slade mumbles. "Thought you were being stupid again." A tension Joseph hadn't realized was there melts out from the man against him, his touch a little firmer. "Alright." 

And then he goes quiet. Cards his fingers through Joseph's wet hair and holds his hip, and keeps them pressed together from head to toe. 

It's… good. Really good, in fact. He stays like that for long, soothing minutes, the room slowly filling up with steam. Slade's steady heartbeat that he can hear if he really listens, syncing their breathing up the longer Slade simply holds him. 

"Can't believe you're so calm about this." He mumbles. Turns his head to mouth at Slade's throat again, irritating the hickeys there. 

"Well," Slade replies. "Once in a lifetime and all that. Don't see this whole thing happening twice, do you?" 

"Not really." Joseph confirms. That would certainly be something. He really would fucking kill Luthor, if it happened twice. This was bad enough. But it feels a little less hopeless now, within reach. 

They stay like that for a little longer, the knots working out of his back with a little help from Slade's skilled, firm fingers, and he feels— almost better, when he steps out of the shower to dry off. More alive than he had yesterday. A little odd, feeling like he'd missed a step somewhere. A missed opportunity of sorts, wrapped up in Slade and not taking him up on the offer. Even as hard as he was, there was no real urge behind it, too fucking tired to when he'd rather slide back into bed and sleep for the next year. 

Slade stays back in the shower while he redresses, which might be intentional, and so Joseph clears out to let him dress on his own. Dress is a light term, anyway, when Slade emerges in his underwear again and nothing else. Joseph's underwear, actually. The longer he thinks about it, watching Slade pad around looking for his clothes again. 

A hot curl of possessiveness in his gut that wasn't there before, Joseph realizes slowly, and thinks oh no. 

"I was thinking," Slade says, shuffling one leg into his jeans. "Can't leave Joey with Billy all day today." 

He hums absently. 

"You should come and stay with me, while this is going on." He says it so casually. Extremely casually. Joseph tilts his head from where he's climbed back into bed, listening to his heart skipping around in his chest. "Can have my bed, if you need." 

"Oh, really." He says dryly. "Missing me?" 

"Awfully mouthy for a man who couldn't pick up a phone for two days." Slade throws back, which is fair. But there's a fresh red tinge on his cheeks when he looks at Joseph, tucking hair behind his ear. "Offer's there, if you want it." 

If he wants. Of fucking course he wants. Goddamn he wants, even now, with his rut turned down to a low simmer, starting to ease off a little. He turns on his side, bunching a pillow under his head. Smells like him, but a little like Slade, too. Them together. 

"Said Billy had him for now though, right?" 

"Yeah," Slade nods, pausing with his shirt half tugged down his chest. He pulls it down, straightening it out. "Had something in mind?" 

"Don't know about you," Joseph murmurs. "But I could do with another nap." It takes a moment, and then Slade's sliding under the comforter with him, elbowing him slightly until Joseph lets him slot into place beneath him. 

"Sounds good to me," Slade sighs. "You really know how to tire a man out." 

"You really were worried." He teases, but he knows it's truthful, too. In the way Slade angles towards him, eyebrows creased. How he can't stop flicking his gaze over Joseph's face, searching for something. 

"Maybe." He finally sniffs. Laughs when Joseph prods his side with two fingers. "Goodnight, Joseph." 

"Is it night?" He has no fucking clue. The curtains are very effective and time means nothing. 

"Go to sleep." Slade amends quietly. There's a brief struggle, and then Slade's arm is thrown over his shoulders, tugging him down, nudging his head until it's pressed to the junction of his neck. 

He sighs once, exhaustion starting to creep in, Slade a comfortable warmth under him. 

Chapter Text

"He knows." Joseph mumbles. For the thirtieth time. "Slade." 

"He doesn't know." Slade responds, also for the thirtieth time. "And so what if he knows?" He fluffs the pillows a little firmly. 

"So he— Why would you want him to know?" He squints, arms crossed, and sways on the spot a little. He feels worlds better than the day before, but the trip over here had felt like too much before he'd even climbed in Slade's car. 

It was worth it, though, for the small wave Joey gave him, and the soothing balm of being in Slade's bedroom, the room a little darkened because he couldn't stop squinting. Billy had squinted right back at him, gaze flicking up his body once before he'd turned on Slade slowly, eyebrow raised in questioning. 

"Why do you care if he knows?" Slade throws back. Nearly punches a pillow. He has no clue why he's even fluffing them — Joseph could sleep on a rock, if he tried hard enough. "It's not like we fucked." 

"Well, no," he says. Curls his nails against his skin, looking at a point on the navy comforter. "But still, I just— I could see it in his eyes." 

"Uh-huh." He clears the collection of coffee cups crowded around his alarm clock, and kicks open the ensuite door just long enough to check nothing is too horrifying. "You sure you don't want anything to eat?" 

"I'm fine." He mutters. "It's normal." He adds, when Slade looks ready to push. "I'll get something to eat after." 

"Alright," Slade agrees. Hugs his armful of coffee mugs a little tighter. "Shout if you need anything." 

And then he's gone, and Joseph is left alone in his bedroom. Unsupervised, even. That's what it feels like. A rogue child left to his own devices. Joseph sighs, hangs his head briefly and then crawls under the sheets with a groan. 

He'd slept for fucking who knows how long with Slade after showering, and then stayed in bed for most of the day, until the last possible minute. Nearly napped in the car. Except without Joey, Slade apparently drove like Batman was on his tail. On icy roads, in Gotham.  

So no nap there, but close. 

He was dead on his feet and more than happy to sleep, face smushed into Slade's awfully comfortable pillows, the room dimly lit and peacefully quiet. Safe, even, when in the back of his mind he knew Joey, Slade, and Billy were a few rooms away. 

He does sleep fantastically, in fact. Feels far more human than before, when something wakes him. He growls anyway, mostly on principle. 

"Oh, stop." Slade mutters, accompanied by the ruffle of fabric. "I'm trying to be quiet, alright?" 

"The fuck," Joseph mumbles. Scrunches his eye tight, curling around his pillow. "What are you doing." 

"Coming to bed?" On cue, the mattress dips to his left. "You slept a while." 

"What." He tenses, slightly. "What time is it? And why are you— I'm fine, I don't need you to touch me." He forces out, aware of how tight his throat feels. He doesn't need it quite so much anymore, and he'd rather not think of how desperately he had wanted it. 

"Uh, I know." Slade deadpans. "It's my bed. I'm not sleeping on the couch in my own home." 

"You said—" and yeah, that was cool air invading his blanket burrito, and Joseph ground his teeth, fighting the urge to growl. "Nevermind." Slade jumped in, tucking the comforter over his shoulder. 

In the dark, Joseph could see him damn near perfectly. Including the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

"Asshole." He says. Tugs on the comforter a little, gaining an inch. 

"What, nervous?" Slade snorts. "It's sleeping in a bed, Joseph, not prom night." 

"I can smell when you're aroused." Is all he says, slow and pronounced. Highlight of his day, if he's being honest, watching Slade's face cycle through a dozen emotions. 

It settles on some brand of confidence, that smirk of his back but wider now. Intentional and definitely hiding the way his heartbeat's picked up. "Can you, now?" 

"Yeah," Joseph tips his head slightly forward. Closes the short distance between them until they're half an inch apart. This close, he can't feel a single breath, Slade's lungs temporarily frozen. "And it's keeping me awake, so calm down or sleep on the couch." 

With that, he turns around, tugs the comforter a little harder, and does his best to return to sleep. 

But— Well— He can tell when Slade's worked up. Can practically feel it, like an electric current in the air, or a pulse of heat every time Slade breathes. So maybe Joseph isn't quite as over his rut as previously thought, because it may as well be a flashing neon sign to Joseph's brain. 

He hears Slade sigh. Flip over onto his back, shoving his pillow into a comfortable position. And then he just… lays there. Heart ticked up, thighs spread enough one brushes the back of Joseph's. Occasionally licking his bottom lip, audible in the incredibly quiet room. 

"So you can…" Slade starts, voice wavering. "Every time?" 

"It's not always obvious." He grunts. Buries his nose in the comforter, just to escape the thick, inviting scent he knows is pouring off Slade. 

"And you never thought to mention that?" He asks. Sounds more curious than anything. Shifts in the bed, thigh a little more firm against Joseph's. Bare, if he had to guess, heat radiating even through Joseph's sweatpants. 

"Hardly seemed relevant." He mutters. Scrubs at his face with a groan. "When was I supposed to mention it?" 

"Like any time before I just got into bed with you." Slade informs him lightly. "Fuck."

"Don't feel bad," Joseph feels a little compelled to say. It's hardly the most comfortable information to divulge. "S'not like I mind." 

Slade's quiet for a long moment, heart thudding in his chest, and then he rolls over. Right up until he's pressed against Joseph's back, erection and all. He can feel his breath against his nape, feel a hand slide over his hip to curl into the waistband of his sweatpants. 

Joseph sighs. "Answer's still no. I don't need to." He turns, just a little, shoulder bumping back against Slade's where he's plastered to his back. 

"Just 'cause you don't need to," Slade tries, voice pitched a little low. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't." His fingers dip just a little, slipping in enough that he gets at bare skin, Joseph's mind temporarily going a little blank. 

"Or I could get you off." He finally says. Places his hand over Slade's to tug it up, sliding his fingers between Slade's. 

"Again?" 

"Wanna try that response again?" Joseph snorts. 

Slade's forehead thunks against his shoulder. "You haven't let me even once." He mouths at him through the fabric of his shirt. "Starting to think you—" 

"It's not that." He sighs. Squeezes Slade's hand, pressed to his sternum. "I am actually too tired." 

There's a beat of silence, and then, "Okay. Sorry, I'm being an ass." Slade presses his mouth to the curve of his shoulder. "Mind if I stay here? 'S warm." 

"It is your bed." Joseph replies. 

"Funny. Not what I meant." Blunt teeth sink into his skin, and then Slade moves. Shifting briefly on the bed until he's curled up behind Joseph properly, feet sliding between his. 

It's odd, for sure. Uncomfortable for the first few, quiet minutes. Slade doesn't move, and as far as he can tell, falls asleep quickly once he's settled. Breathing soft over the back of Joseph's neck, fingers curled together in his. 

It's strange, unfamiliar. But he could see himself getting used to it, and that's worrying. Joseph grips his hand a little tighter, burrowing into the comforter for a few hours more sleep. 

"Hey, kiddo." Joseph greets, still scrubbing sleep from his eyes. It's fucking early. But Joseph had slept a near fuckton, and Joey always was an early riser. 

He squints at the top of the stairs, and Joey squints back at him. A mug of coffee in one hand, a plate of toast in the other, and a vague plan of crawling back into bed with Slade for a quiet morning. That would be nice. 

Joey would be nice, too. 

"Need a hand?" He asks, keeping his voice hushed. "Stay put." With that he slides more than walks on socked feet to the living room, setting his breakfast aside before taking the stairs two at a time. 

Joey takes his hand without fuss, rubbing at his eyes with his other. He gets them downstairs in one piece, flicking the television on down low so they don't wake Slade, and then curls up on the armchair with his coffee. 

Joey seems happy enough to wake up on his own time, not particularly surprised to find Joseph still at his house. He seems to take most things in his stride, anyway. He'd call it resilience if it didn't seem a little more sinister than that. Indifference to most things, after what he'd been through. 

He sips his coffee and eats his toast and watches Joey for long enough that he feels almost stupid for not noticing earlier. "You put the tree up?" 

There's a particularly large, kind of ugly Christmas tree in the corner of the room. All it's lights switched off, but the tinsel and shiny, red baubles are eye-catching enough on their own.  A tiny little star sits at the top, crooked. 

Joey blinks, looks at the tree, and then smiles ever so slightly. There's a handful of gifts wrapped and shoved under it. One of them is very obviously the candle for Billy. 

A little coldly, he realises Christmas really isn't that far at all. And he's spent more time than he ever thought here. Joseph frowns on his next sip, staring at the tree, not quite sure what bothers him so much about it except that it does. 

It really does, actually. He's not angry. But there's a discomfort in his stomach, tied into knots. Joey looks between him and the tree quietly. 

"You like it?" Joseph asks. Jerks his empty plate toward the tree, sitting a little crooked and… not very well decorated. The tinsels uneven. Too many baubles. He's no expert, but he'd thought you faced the best side to the room. 

Then again, maybe Slade's as shit as he is at things like Christmas. 

Joey looks at the tree, then back to Joseph. His mouth curls, shaking his head sharply before looking away. 

"Yeah, me neither." He agrees. Sighs heavily, eyes on the tree. "Your Dad do that?" 

A quick sign yes. 

"Right," he snorts. "Back in a minute, kiddo." With that he shuffles from the armchair to take his dishes and mug to the sink, leaving them to be washed later. When he returns, he shuts the living room door, mostly to keep the noise from drifting upstairs to Slade. 

He's done a lot, recently. For Joseph. The least he can do is let him sleep. 

Joey's picking at the tinsel when he looks, pajamas ruffled and still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He flicks a little bauble, watching it swing on the branch. 

"Want to fix it?" He asks, coming close enough to rest his palm on the boy's hair. "I think we could do better, yeah?" 

Which is how he finds himself undoing a Christmas tree quietly at seven in the morning, little strips of tinsel shedding all over his shirt. Getting in Joey's hair. In his opinion, they do pretty good, manage to keep everything neatly organised — mostly Joey's influence, if he's being honest. Joseph sets all the little decorations on the floor, the kid sorts them into piles. It's a system that works without words. 

He feels almost content. Just the soft sounds of clinking Christmas lights as Joey untangles them, Joseph taking a moment to look at the empty tree, not quite sure where to begin. 

In another life, maybe, this would be him every year. Some other universe he's not seen yet, where Joey's all grown up. Where Grant is still there. And maybe they'd visit, help put up the tree because he can't decorate for shit and that's— that's fine. That's good enough. 

That other man, who'd have no clue what he's got in all the small, simple things. All the time he's got. 

Joey offers up a particularly large ream of tinsel, and starts winding it around the closest branch he can reach. Joseph kneels to help, turning the tree periodically, and lets the kid figure out what goes where, Joseph working behind him to fix the awkward spots. 

Tinsel, baubles, lights. And lastly, he plucks the star up. "Want to put it on?" He asks, breaking the silence they've fallen into for the better part of an hour. 

He gets a quick little nod in response, which is more than enough for Joseph to heft Joey up high so he can attach the little star to the top. It sits crooked, but looks like it'll hold, so he considers it a win. 

"Much better." He grins, sharing a glance with Joey before he's set down again. "I think we did pretty good." 

"What on Earth are you doing." 

Joseph freezes, ever so slightly, and then can't help a smile when he turns, finding Slade leaning through the doorway with a sleepy squint. 

"Fixing your tree." He answers. "It was looking sad." 

"My tree was fine." Light eyebrows knit together. "Me and Billy did it." He eyeballs Joseph for a second longer and then flicks his gaze down to Joey, holding out an arm. "Breakfast time, buddy." 

He goes easily, lifted up onto Slade's hip, and then it's just Joseph, the quiet television, and the tree. It's good. It's the sort of thing he never did, but for a first attempt, he's pretty pleased with it. The presents under the tree are haphazard, if in a charming kind of way. Too much tape, corners a little torn here and there. 

He kneels down, flipping the tag over on a particularly large box, finding it predictably for Joey. The next two are for Billy, one of which is the candle, a large tear at the glass rim heavily taped over. A small, square box sits behind the whole lot, and curiosity itches in his chest just a smidge too much. Joseph flips the tag over, nudging the oversized bow stuck to the top out of the way and finds his own name scrawled down. 

Joseph. For him. 

He flips it over, and then back, suddenly taking in the box a little differently. It's wrapped nicely, red and white paper with a golden bow slapped on it, and a little heavy when he holds it in both hands. 

A present. For him. He looks at the tag again, frowning. From Slade. Probably bought while Joseph was locking himself away, a thought that settles in his stomach like a rock. He frowns, placing the gift back where it came from, tucked behind all the presents for Slade's family. 

Somehow, he's managed to make it into that list, too. Even just for now, one little Christmas in many. 

"Hey," he starts. "Can I take Joey out?" It's a simple enough request, but by fucking God his stomach is in knots. 

Slade's head pops up, where he's tapping away on a laptop at the kitchen table. "Is that safe?" 

Oh. Joseph's teeth clack together sharply. "I won't let anything happen to him." 

Slade's head tilts barely an inch. "I meant you." He taps a few more times at his laptop. "Is your rut finished?" Joseph leans harder on the doorway, arms crossing. "I'm just asking." 

"It's not done," Joseph allows. "But it's better." Miles better when he's had all morning to sit on the couch and watch kids programmes, wrapped up in the scent of Slade and Joey, the quiet noise of Slade getting chores done around the house. "I should be fine." 

"Should be." Slade repeats. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, visibly thinking. "Take Billy with you." 

"I'm not bothering Billy just to go shopping." He squints. "He just watched Joey for us." Even as he says it, he flushes a little, distinctly aware there must have been a conversation about that. One he was too rut-stupid to even focus on, probably. 

"I'm not letting anyone take Joey out on a should be." Slade snorts. He flicks the laptop shut. "Take Billy, or go yourself." When he looks at Joseph, it's soft though, resting his elbows on the table. "I know you'd keep him safe, but I—" 

Joseph pushes off the doorway. "I know." He replies, quiet. "I'd do the same." 

"I don't want you pushing it, Joseph." He admits. "That's all." 

Slade nods, looking at his hands, then back to Joseph, brighter. "What's this for, anyway? Shopping." 

Joseph snorts. "Wouldn't you like to know." Keeping it secret is hardly important, but it's more the principle. 

"I would." Slade raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Up to something?" 

Joseph raises an eyebrow of his own, taking  a step back. "You'll find out later." And then, jerking his head, "help me get him ready?" 

"Sure," Slade agrees. "Take him off my hands. Please." 

"He's not that bad." Joseph snorts. "Kids usually have a lot more tantrums. He's practically an angel." 

"He's on his best behaviour when you're round." Slade mutters, shaking his head. "The trouble that kid gives me." 

That— he could kind of believe that. When Joseph heads back to the living room, Slade follows at a more sedate pace, and there's a smile on his face he can't quite scratch off.

Before long, they're dressed and ready, waiting in the car for Billy to turn up, which he does amicably on time. Joey's happy to see him at least, and looking more than a little excited to be out for the day, buckled into his booster seat. 

"I'm driving?" Billy raises an eyebrow, adjusting the driver's seat.

"He's being a mother hen." Joseph grunts. From the passenger side. Under strict orders not to drive, for some reason or other. 

"Right," he mumbles, as if that's perfectly normal. "What's this for, then? Couldn't stand to be there any longer?" 

He snorts, buckling up. "We're getting Slade a present." He shrugs. "As a thank you." In his seat, he twists until he can see Joey chewing on a mitten with intense focus. Probably didn't hear a word, but Joseph grabs his attention anyway, just in case, and asks him to keep it secret.

They make it to the mall in reasonable time, the parking lot busy and full in the run up to Christmas day. Billy takes Joey's hand the moment they're out of the car, leaned to one side for a better grip. 

"Any clue what you're getting?" Billy asks once they're inside, unzipping his coat with one hand. 

"No," Joseph shrugs. It couldn't be that hard. They were the same person, after all. In some ways, at least. "What'd you get him?" 

"Haven't," Billy replies, and then quickly drags them toward a homeware store near the entrance, sales plastered in the windows. 

"What?" 

"I haven't." He shrugs. "He's hard to buy for." 

"No, he's not." Joseph frowns. Nothing springs to mind, looking at nice little sets of pots and dining room table chairs, but he's sure something will stick out soon. 

"You have any ideas you'd like to share?" Billy winces.

"Why," Joseph laughs, "so you can steal them? No, thanks." He squints at the aisles, peering down a few before deciding, "Split up, I'm sure we can find something." 

Billy squeezes Joey's hand. "Sounds like a plan. I'm sure Joey knows what Dad would like." That last bit he addresses to the kid, a little pleading, and Joseph grins before he heads off the opposite way from Billy  

The first few places he checks are kind of pointless. Slade has enough towels and hand soap, he's pretty sure. Beddings seems like a no, too, and he leaves that corner of the store entirely when he finds himself staring at a selection of curtain rails. It's hardly the personal touch he'd like it to have. 

Repay Slade, in some way. Give him something useful. It's the least he could do. 

Little bit annoying he's having to do it on Slade's dime too, the credit card tucked into his pocket practically burning a hole through his jeans, but it's better than nothing. He's not sure he could live through Slade handing him a gift, nothing to give him. Joey's eyes on him, probably Billy there too. 

Joseph trails through the store, poking his head around aisles and corners, and only realises when he's back at the bathroom-themed items that he's not bothered. It's crowded, loud. A lot of people just like him, desperately trying to pick out a worthwhile gift, and it doesn't scrape down his nerves. 

He feels like his old self, in a sense. 

A little brittle at the edges, sure. Taking in too much, the sounds of the store and outside in the rest of the mall mixing together, but it's bearable. The soap and cologne doesn't quite make him nauseous, only uncomfortable. 

Joseph shoves his hands in his pockets, soaking that little fact up. All in all, he feels… better. Settled inside. 

"Anything?" He startles, just a little. Billy's hand settles at his elbow, a light squeeze before it's gone again, and Joseph doesn't crave it like he had before. 

"Not much." Joseph eyes the bag slung on Billy's shoulder. "You guys?" 

In Joey's hands is a small box. An assortment of paint brushes, meant for walls. 

"He keeps saying he wants to do up the house." Billy shrugs, hefting the bag a little higher on his shoulder, about twenty little pockets on the outside of it. If he had to guess, a toolkit. 

He kind of wishes he'd thought of that. That's useful. Joseph frowns slightly. "Sounds good." He tips his head, offering Joey a little smile. "Dad can paint with you, how about that?" 

It takes a second to click, and then the kid's practically vibrating on the spot, Billy holding onto his hand a little tighter.

"You guys head on," Joseph shrugs. "Checkout will be long, anyway." 

"You're sure?" 

"Yeah, I'll meet you for something to eat? Kid's probably going to be hungry soon." They may as well while they're here, anyway. 

Once they're gone, Joseph swivels on the spot to glare at a row of little sponges and hair products. This entire corner of the store smells like lavender and citrus, neat little bars of soap stacked on each other on one side, and he picks through them carefully, testing each one. 

None of them really scream Slade, and it's hardly useful. Once it's done, it's done. No more soap. It takes another ten minutes of going over shelves before he stumbles across it. A box tucked into the bottom shelf, latched shut. 

He takes one careful look at the box, flipping it over for a list of the contents, and then decides it's the one, shoving it under his arm and heading for the checkout line, which is torturously long. 

On his way down to the food court, he makes a quick detour into the toy store he passes, more than a little pleased having got himself two gifts. They eat and Joey probably gets more frozen yogurt than he should be allowed, but he's willing to bend the rules for the self-satisfied smile the kid wears all the way back to the car.

On the way home, Billy suggests they stop off and grab Joseph's things, obviously already filled in on the new… living arrangements. If anything, he seems mostly amused, pulling off to head for the docks after a quick check-in with Joey. 

He helps Joseph pack most of the stuff into the car, Joey for the most part sitting still while they arrange and rearrange to fit, and it becomes increasingly clear that he's amassed a small collection of personal belongings. Somehow. 

There's the toiletries and the toothbrushes, the spare set of towels. All the clothes, numerous as they are, most of them Slade's but on loan, and the sets Joseph bought last time. The plates and cutlery and mugs for coffee. The shitty laptop and Joseph's uniform shoved into a duffel. 

It's not a lot, but it's more than he'd thought he'd be bringing over, plus a hoard of canned food and cereal. 

Joseph shuts the trunk with a firm hand, rounds back to the car and climbs in, letting Billy start the short drive home. To Slade's, for the foreseeable future, however long that might be. 

Slade pours him a drink once Joey's gone to bed, and Billy's headed home, which Joseph gratefully accepts. It's not been a long day, but it feels like one in a way. 

At least he'd got Slade a gift. Hiding it had been a pain, nearly every closet and space taken up by Joey's clutter or Slade's fucking ironing board, but he'd managed. All he had to do was find the time to wrap it, alone. 

"You want the couch tonight?" Slade asks, setting the bottle on the table between them. An innocuous question, but God if it doesn't make the air in his lungs feel a little thicker. 

Joseph tips his drink back, fighting the urge to pick apart Slade's carefully blank expression. There's a small mountain of tape and wrapping paper between them, and a half dozen unwrapped gifts for Joey, which is apparently the agenda for the night. 

Joseph tugs a box close, finding it to be a Rubik's Cube, and answers as calmly as he can, "I'd rather not." 

A beat passes, and then Slade breathes out, soft and measured. "That's fine." He mumbles. Shoots Joseph a look, mouth tentatively curved into a smile. "I'm sure we can find you a spot somewhere else."

"Pass me the tape." Joseph says, rather than continue that path, flipping the box over in his hands. 

It's a nice, square box. Easy to wrap. He cuts and measures and lays it all out on the table in silence, Slade occasionally holding down  a corner of paper. It should be easy. He's seen well-wrapped gifts before. 

It is not, actually, easy. 

He ends up with something that looks square, all of the box covered, but the edges are puffy with crumpled paper and far too much tape. He frowns. Flips it over on the table. 

Slade snorts into his drink. "Nice try." 

"Like you're doing any better." 

Slade's given up on his. It sits there, half wrapped, looking awfully sad for what is simply a folded blanket. Beside it is a stack of paints and brushes, being studiously ignored on the to-be-wrapped list. 

Joseph tears into the paper and starts again, the quiet starting to get to him in a way. 

They should talk about it. Now that he's clear-headed, it would be good to talk about it. But honestly, he doesn't fucking want to, and he's pretty damn tired of the whole last few weeks entirely. Tired of thinking about it, let alone talking it out. 

So, he'd gotten Slade off. Multiple times. And fallen asleep on him. Woke up with his hands in his hair, tracing little patterns over his skin. Showered with him, nothing more than just showering. 

If he's being honest, it's the nicest — gentlest — way anyone's touched him in a long time. 

He doesn't need to go saying that, though. More than anything, Joseph would like to keep that little fact wrapped up tight, taped down at the fucking edges and— 

"Not bad," Slade murmurs, eyebrow raised at the newly wrapped box. Joseph slaps a bow on the top, sticking to the paper with a small square of adhesive, and slides it to the other side of the table. "Wanna try the bike?" 

"Fuck off," Joseph snorts. There is a bike, and he is not fucking wrapping it. "Put it in a bag." 

"I'm not giving him a bike in a garbage bag." Slade throws back, though he does frown slightly. "Think I can hide it out back?" 

"Depends," Joseph tugs a little stack of paint pots over, wrapped in clear plastic. "Does he go out there?" 

"Not really." He shrugs. "Can see it from his bedroom, though." He looks at the bike for a moment longer and then rises, muttering a quick be right back. 

Joseph makes it most of the way through the paints and brushes without any outside commentary, Slade shaking snowflakes from his hair when he returns, cursing about the ice. Gotham's definitely bad for it, when it wants to be. Sweltering summers and biting, horrid winters that could drag on far longer than they should. 

Joseph liked to be in warmer climates during those times. The Middle East was lovely this time of year, in his opinion. 

With a sigh, Slade snags his own pile of presents and gets to work, downing his whiskey in one mouthful. For the most part, they work in silence, and that's nice enough. Better than talking, even if his head circles inevitably back around to— to warm skin and how Slade had sounded when he came, breaths trembling and nails dug into Joseph's back. 

He frowns, tapes things down a little harder. His own gift sits wrapped and ready under the tree, which Slade had raised an eyebrow at but said nothing. It was clearly labelled for Joey, anyway. 

They're most of the way through when Slade finally pipes up, his voice quiet. "Do you miss them?" 

Joseph pauses. Let's the words sink in before he looks up, finding Slade staring mostly at his half-empty glass. "Stupid question." He finally says. "'Course I do." 

"Right," he nods, absently. "Was just thinking it was easier when—" Slade stops. Drags his fingertips over the rim on his glass, and Joseph gets the feeling this won't be over any time soon so he sets down the scissors, snagging the bottle of whiskey instead. "Addie was fuckin' ruthless with wrapping paper." 

Joseph grunts. Hardly the direction he'd like to go with that, but okay. Adeline's efficiency with wrapping paper was the least of the things he looked back fondly on, if there was anything at all. Addie. Joseph's teeth grind, just a little. "Grant." Is all he manages to get out, not sure where to go after that. 

It's the fucking black hole in both their lives, Joseph just has an extra. It leaves him nauseous just going that far. 

Slade taps his glass with his fingernails, a quiet little pattern. "Yeah." He inhales, finally lifting his head, some kind of brave face on. "Pretty sure he hated Christmas, anyhow." 

"Every kid likes Christmas." Joseph shrugs. And then, quieter, "It's always going to be hard." 

"I know." Slade replies. "Billy helps out, and I'm not too bad at cooking." He shrugs. Looks at the small mountain of presents like he's only just noticed they're there, dragged back to the here and now, then tugs his phone free, squinting at the screen. "Getting late." 

"Like you don't work nights." Joseph points out, leaning back with a heavy exhale. All things considered, he's not tired, but he is relaxed. Lethargic, almost, and never wants to leave the comforting embrace of Slade's couch. 

"Should head to bed," Slade mumbles. With a huff, he scrubs at his face. "Need to get some things for Christmas dinner." He grumbles. "Like a turkey." 

Joseph snorts. "You don't have a turkey?" 

"I've been kind of busy." 

"It's two days away." 

"I've been very busy." Slade corrects, and shoots him a slightly pointed look. Joseph thins his mouth, a little rankled, but rises when Slade does to start putting presents under the tree, all neatly labelled and semi-neatly wrapped. 

Once that's done, Slade clears away the glasses and whiskey, Joseph switches off the lights and then follows him upstairs. To what is, essentially, their bedroom. Isn't that a thought. 

Odd, and definitely not how he saw this little accident going, but he finds he doesn't want to complain when he's changed and sliding under the sheets beside Slade. It's more comfortable than it has any right to be. Joseph tugs the comforter over his shoulder, Slade flicks off the bedside lamp, and then the room is dark. Quiet. 

Relaxed. 

Joseph turns on his side, one arm shoved under the pillow. Slade's turned away from him, settled down after stretching over to the bedside table, head bent forward just a little, oddly… distant. 

Just as he thinks that maybe he is the only one comfortable here, Slade shifts. Reaches back under the comforter to take Joseph's wrist and drag it over his hip, just close enough without being outright cuddling. An invitation. 

He hesitates, and then shuffles closer, picking up the barely-audible sigh. "You okay?" Slade tenses, and then forcibly relaxes against him, shifting until his hips fit just right against Joseph's.

"Fine." He murmurs. Squeezes Joseph's wrist before he let's go. "Try not to sleep in. Need you to watch Joey." 

Rather than grumble at that, he nods once, trying to find a mostly comfortable position with the eyepatch still on. Eventually, he manages, and let's his breathing start to match Slade's, content. 

Chapter Text

One bony little foot slamming into his stomach has Joseph waking with a grunt, though not by much. About half, he'd have to guess, because all he can think for a split second is that Grant is so getting sent back downstairs for this. 

And then the rest filters in, and Joseph jerks awake-awake with a groan, pushing up on his elbows to not get hit by any more limbs. Slade seems to be doing his best to make sure that doesn't happen, one arm around a very energetic Joey's waist to drag him over to his side of the bed. 

Christmas. 

Joseph groans a little louder and flops back into the comforting, warm embrace of a mattress and some pillows. If sleep could take him again, that would be great. Beside him, the scuffle ends, Joey tapping Slade's arm to be let up. 

He doesn't need to look to know it's stupid o'clock. How the fuck Slade can smile to brightly is Goddamn beyond him. Joseph frowns, tucks the comforter under his chin, and grumbles in his throat. 

"Morning. Merry Christmas, bud." Slade says, far too fucking cheerful. He lets Joey up slowly after pressing a firm kiss to his forehead, letting him crawl from the bed with a huff. He pets Joey's hair. "Go play, buddy. Be over in a minute." When he doesn't move an inch, Slade sends him off with a little motion of his hand. Blessedly, Joey goes, and then Slade promptly flops back against the bed too. 

"He don't know how to knock?" Joseph grunts. Steals an inch more comforter. "Time is it?"

"Shh," Slade says, hushed. "Not a word." 

Joseph hums. Sleep tugs at his eyelids and he's sure he could go for a few more hours at least. Christmas is meant for doing whatever the fuck he wants, and usually that means sleeping until noon and doing his best to get shitfaced all afternoon. Hasn't woken up this early on Christmas in a long fucking time. 

Slade's hand smacks into his cheek, jerking him awake again, and this time Joseph does growl. "No fallin' asleep." Slade mumbles, while clearly falling asleep. "Got shit to do." 

"No, I don't." He mumbles back. Warm fingers poke his cheek, annoyingly prodding him away from sleep. "Fuck off." Joseph huffs, turning onto his side. 

Slade yawns hard enough his jaw cracks. "Nap later. Need to get up." There's a brief, wonderful moment of silence, and then Slade rolls out of bed, stretching as he goes. 

Joseph cracks his eye open long enough to take in the rise of his shirt, the swell of biceps and Slade's ruffled hair, and then buries his face into the comforter. "Go away." 

"Nah," Slade mutters. One hard yank and the comforter is gone, which is practically criminal, and then he dodges when Joseph kicks his leg out. "Get up." 

"Fine," he mutters. Groans again, pressing his palm to his eye until he sees stars. "Fuck, fine. Go away." It's so damn cold, creeping in under his sweatshirt, now that the comforter's gone. "Put the heating on." 

"Sure," Slade nods. Scrubs a hand through his hair, still looking mostly half-asleep when Joseph shuffles to the edge of the bed. Gently, Slade reaches out and touches him, straightening out Joseph's hair with one run-through of his fingers. And then he just looks at him, tired and oddly open. 

"What?" Joseph prods. Squints up at him, too fucking tired to start unpacking whatever's going through Slade's head. 

"Nothing," Slade shakes his head. "Let's go." 

He lets Slade handle Joey, and takes the stairs downstairs while rubbing a hand over his face, shuffling through to the kitchen to source some coffee. He manages, and makes a mug for Slade too, taking both to the living room. As penance, Joseph steals the armchair, listening absently to Slade trying — and failing — to get Joey's teeth brushed. 

Joseph starts in on his coffee, and he feels marginally more awake after a few minutes of quiet. Flicks the television on in preparation of Joey's return and then kicks back, staring at the ceiling to begin dissecting the slow, barely-there onset of nerves. 

Of course there's nerves. He nearly rolls his eyes at the mere thought. He knew there would be— a certain discomfort with today. It's usually worse, but well, it's still early. Lots of time to get it all out, he's sure. 

Joseph sips his coffee a little more, then digs his phone out to squint at the time. Not quite as early as he'd thought, but still too much in his opinion, just past eight o'clock. 

He's halfway to falling back asleep before the front door swings open audibly, Billy kicking snow off his boots the same time he shouts his season's greetings up the stairs. Joseph groans. 

"How'd you get in?" He calls back, rather than a greeting. 

"Key. Had one longer than you." Billy replies equally loud, which is true. Because Joseph doesn't have one. Pokes his head into the room, looking far too cheerful for the time, too. Between Joey, Slade, and Billy, he might just die. Too much grinning at eight in the morning. "Sleep well?" He raises an eyebrow, obviously pointed. 

Joseph's lip curls. "Wouldn't you like to know." He cuddles his coffee close, a little put-off by the crisp winter air Billy's managed to bring with him. 

As if he can sense it, Billy enters the room fully, leaving the door to the hall wide open. "I come bearing gifts, you grump." Deftly, he chucks a wrapped gift into Joseph's lap, nearly taking out his coffee in the process. 

It's square and squishy, and wrapped terribly. Joseph frowns. 

"I forgot to get you something." 

"Nevermind," Billy shrugs. Sets another square gift on the couch, patting it gently. "Having you wear it will be more than enough." 

That doesn't sound good. 

He looks between the man far too smug for his own good and the gift. It's just paper and tape, not teeth and knives. Joseph frowns and rips into it none too kindly, distinctly more unimpressed the more the present inside is revealed. With an even deeper frown, he shakes it out, holding it up to the morning light pouring in through the windows. 

A Christmas sweater. Billy's grin practically splits his face. It's red and green in a horrible pattern, little reindeers dancing around the hem. All in a particularly vibrant eye-sore kind of dye, like looking at the sun but worse, the colour of Joseph's nightmares, it's hideous. Billy couldn't look prouder. 

Joseph huffs. Downs his coffee with a glare over his mug and then strips off his sweatshirt, sliding the abomination over his head and tugging it down, the fit a little too snug in some spots. 

"Well, don't you look lovely." Billy snorts. Tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "A good choice, if I do say so myself. Brings out your eyes." 

"Eye." He corrects, shooting Billy another sharp look, and gets only a shrug in reply. He tugs at his sleeves, pulling them down a little roughly, and adjusts where it feels like it's trying to choke him. "Kind of glad I didn't get you anything." He adds.

"It's not that bad." He rolls his eyes. Tugs the other gift closer, this one obviously for Slade and— 

And maybe Joseph does get it. He can't exactly deny the small spark of amusement he gets at the thought. "Should give it to him. Sure Joey would like to see it." 

After a second, Billy hops up, taking the parcel with him. Joseph settles back into his armchair, a little lighter than before, even if the sweater is scratchy and smells faintly of plastic. It takes a few minutes, and then he hears it, Slade's voice rising in pitch upstairs. 

"—told you to stop doing this." Slade groans, to which Billy laughs, and then there's the sound of paper being shredded and Slade's groan turns that little bit more pained. "Insufferable. I'm keeping your gift to myself."

Ten minutes later, Slade is downstairs, cradling a mug of coffee and looking like he hopes his turtleneck abomination would swallow him whole. It suits him, at least, fitting far better in all the correct spots. When Joseph stands, his rides up just a little too much, and the shoulders protest at the slightest movement. 

Knowing Billy, that was on purpose. 

Joey gets his own too, which is admittedly kind of adorable. More green than red, with tiny snowmen patterned all over, grinning up a storm when Slade helps get it on. He fishes his phone out long enough to snap a picture, much to Slade's annoyance, and then heads off to make more coffee, Billy trailing behind him. 

"Settling in alright?" Billy asks, leaning a hip against the counter. "He's not driven you mad yet?" 

Joseph grunts. "Doing his best to." Which is probably a little mean, when Slade has been… unreasonably accommodating in some areas. Most areas. Especially his bed. But still, the early morning's were a pain and it had only been a few days. "We're fine, won't be for long anyway."

Billy hums. Takes his coffee when it's ready, blowing over the rim to cool it down. Joseph lingers before taking a seat at the table with a sigh, waving him over when it becomes clear Billy is content to just stand there. 

"Now I'm just saying," he starts with, which is never really a good sentence. Especially from Billy. Especially with that earnest sort of look, fingers flexing on his coffee mug. Joseph frowns. "Hear me out, alright?" 

He hesitates. "Alright." 

Even then, Billy just chews his lip and sips his coffee and doesn't fucking say anything. Joseph resists the urge to step on his foot. It's too early and too unexpected for this sort of nervousness on Billy's face and— "What if it was for longer?" 

Joseph snorts. "It's not going to be." 

"But if it was—" 

"It's not going to be. The Justice League are on it, and they'll find something—" 

"I don't mean like that." Billy injects lightly. Wraps his fingers a little tighter around his mug, looking off to the side for a tense moment. "I mean, if you chose to stay." 

"What." 

"It's hardly out of the realm of possibility, Joseph." 

"Yes, it is." He narrows his eyes. "Why would I choose to stay?" 

"You could be happy here." He says. Simple as that. A possibility. Joseph nearly scoffs. "You look happier." 

"Because I'm not in withdrawal." He says, leaning forward. Sets his elbows on the table with a frown. "Billy, I belong in my universe." 

"To go back to what?" He throws back. Sips his coffee and raises two sharp eyebrows. "Far as I know, you work and not much else. Is that really any sort of life?" 

"It's a life." He bites out. "Wasn't aware you were an expert on it, Billy. What the Hell is this?" 

"Friendly advice." He replies. Holds Joseph's gaze for a moment longer and then deflates, slumping into his chair. "You look better." 

Joseph frowns. "Thanks." 

"Better than when you got here." With a sigh, he tilts his head toward the hall, voice a little lower. "I know for a fact he wouldn't mind. There's room enough for the two of you in one universe." 

"For a fact." He repeats. As if they'd talked about it. He's not even ready to unpack half of what Billy's saying, let alone that they've apparently discussed him enough to get to this point. "Why are we talking about this now?"  

"Why not now?" 

"It's too early for this." He grumbles. "Can we talk about this maybe after I've eaten enough for a small family?" 

Billy opens his mouth. Pauses. "I'll hold you to it." And then leaves his chair quicker than Joseph's ever seen him move, striding out of the room with purpose. 

Joseph curses. With a bit of a glower, he finishes his coffee and then sets about breakfast for everyone just for something to do, rooting around in the fridge and cabinets until he has the makings of pancakes. It's Christmas, he can make an effort. 

He's not exactly great at pancakes, or waffles. And damn rusty with a bowl and whisk, but it can't be too hard. Eventually, Slade appears, leaning over his shoulder with a frown. 

"What's that." 

"Pancakes." He grunts. Getting there, anyway. For now it's just a bowl of flour and eggs being beaten into submission, a few puffs of flour spread across the counter. 

Slade frowns a little harder. "Why so many eggs?" 

Joseph raises an eyebrow, pausing. "This is a fine amount of eggs." Slade leans a hip on the counter, peering into the bowl. "It's fine." 

"You're making fucked up omelettes, is what you're making." When he flicks his gaze up, he's nothing but amused, the high rise collar of his sweater vibrant and distracting, covering the column of his throat. "Give it here." 

Joseph doesn't get a choice, because Slade's hand slides the bowl out from under him, and snags the whisk with a hint of strength. He takes it all to the garbage and dumps it out, giving Joseph a pointed look. 

"Watch and learn."

"I know how to make pancakes." Joseph throws back, a little disgruntled. "I have made them before." 

"Then your memory is failing you, in your old age." 

"Please," he scoffs. Wrinkles his nose when Slade slips past him to grab the bag of flour. "I'm not that much older than you." As if it's needed, Slade roots around behind all the cutlery until he finds measuring cups, running a knife over the top once they're filled. "Never heard of doing it by eye?" 

"You can't make good pancakes and do it by eye." Slade murmurs. "One or the other, Joseph." With great focus, he sifts through the flour lightly, somehow not spilling even a speck. Joseph nearly rolls his eye. "You want anything in them?" 

"I was making breakfast." 

"I'll let you flip them if you're good." Slade drawls, mouth twitching, dodging away when Joseph makes to hit the back of his head. 

"Yeah, fuck you," he mutters. Crosses his arms and watches in silence as Slade puts in exactly one less egg, the bastard, whisking it up with one hand. 

It's when he's melting butter in a saucepan that Slade next pipes up, facing away from him, Joseph left to pick through the fridge for options. "Sorry about Billy." He says. Stirs the pot a little more before switching the heat off. "Sometimes he can be a bit… optimistic." 

"You heard that, huh?" 

"I hear everything in this house." Slade snorts. "Yeah, I heard him ask you to stay." 

"He didn't ask." Joseph shifts, a little uncomfortable. With a frown, he peers into a half-finished packet of blueberries, setting them down. "He said it was an option." 

"But it's not." Slade finishes for him. 

"It's not." Joseph agrees, chewing his tongue when Slade doesn't add anything else, and just keeps stirring his pot. "I have to go back. Do you have chocolate chips?" 

"Yeah, uh—" he breaks away from the stove to rummage around in a cabinet, throwing a pack of chocolate chips at Joseph's chest. "Don't mind Billy, alright? And come help me stir this." 

He does as he's told, coming to Slade's side and commandeering the whisk while he trickles melted butter into the bowl. "My pancakes would have turned out fine." He mutters. 

"Mine are better." Slade replies lightly, absolute fact. "Sweater suits you." He adds, knocking their shoulders together. "Very huggable." 

"Oh, fuck off." Joseph bares his teeth briefly, earning a laugh from Slade. "He do this every year?" 

"Did it on my birthday, once." Slade shrugs. "I still have no clue where he finds them." This close, shoulder-to-shoulder, he can see the small crinkles at the corners of Slade's eyes, and the light dusting of flour on the edge of his chin. Can catch the scent of Slade's soap when he shakes his head, setting the pot on the counter. "Why are you beating it to death? It's pancake batter, doesn't owe you money, Joseph." 

Joseph blinks. Looks at the bowl in his hands, a wet mixture splashed up the sides, over his knuckles. "You told me to stir it." 

"Stir." Slade repeats. "Give me that, you brute." He slips the whisk from Joseph's hand easily, fingers warm, and does exactly what he was doing except slower. "Before you leave, I'm showing you how to make good pancakes, I swear." 

"Pretty sure you're just letting me embarrass myself." Joseph points out. "Doesn't it need milk?" 

Slade pauses. "Go get milk. And the measuring jug." Joseph resists the urge to roll his eye again, grabbing what he needs in silence, setting them on the counter with a flourish. "Thank you." Slade says, mouth twitching. 

"Show me the magic, then. Master of pancakes." Joseph grumbles, waving a hand at the plain bowl of batter. It even smells plain. 

Slade tips his head back and laughs. "I like that," he announces. Nearly waves the whisk in Joseph's direction, aborting when batter splatters off the end. "Master of pancakes." He huffs another laugh, mouth curved into a wide smile, and the sound is… pleasant. Does something to Joseph's stomach it hadn't earlier, like barbed wire but warmer, digging into his insides. 

Tentatively, he smiles back, meeting Slade's gaze, that feeling intensifying. Slade breaks first, head ducked while he measures out milk, allowing Joseph a moment to put ingredients away in silence. 

"Master for short." Slade says, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing, and Joseph's brain screeches to a halt. His sweater becomes about ten times tighter, scratchy wool nearly irritating.

"In your dreams." He finally chokes out. Mentally, he curses. Shoves the bag of flour into the back of a cabinet blindly, and then shoves his hands into his pockets. "Half and half?" 

"Sure," Slade replies, voice a little slow. He grabs a second bowl and splits the batter, dumping a healthy amount of blueberries and chocolate into both. "Go grab Joey for me? Billy too, actually. He'll open the presents if we leave him alone." 

"He's a grown man." Slade shoots him a look. The tips of his ears are a little red, probably fucking overheating in his sweater like Joseph is. "Go. Shoo." 

"Got it." Joseph snags a small handful of chocolate chips on his way. "Master." He adds, Slade ducking his head again, bent over his bowls of batter intently. 

Joey comes easily enough, mainly because he gets scooped up and carried to the kitchen, but there's no fussing at least. Billy follows behind after flicking the television off, pulling out a chair beside Joey to commandeer the bottle of syrup Slade throws his way. 

They move well together. Years together, here at a kitchen table and away in warzones, tends to do that. It's something he's not sure he ever had with his Billy, a looming grey cloud of a thought when there shouldn't be. 

If he could, he'd forget all about his universe. It would be that much easier to enjoy the moment right here. Slade passing pancakes over his head, dumping a few on his plate while he's at it. Billy and Slade's voices, chatting across the kitchen, and Joey's feet swinging on his chair. 

It's nice. It's overwhelming. Everything he wanted. Joseph stares at his pancakes and wonders why now of all times he needs to be plagued by that thought. 

"Syrup?" Billy waves it in his face, the word innocuous. His expression is pinched though, scrutinising Joseph. Without waiting for a reply, he drizzles a heaping amount onto his pancakes, nearly drowning them. 

"I don't really like syrup." Joseph informs him lightly. Syrup drips and oozes to the edge of his plate. "Thanks." 

"My pleasure." Billy grins. "You do like syrup. Because he likes syrup." 

"Not everything is the same," Slade calls from the stovetop, nearly waving his spatula. "We're not twins." 

"He's into syrup." Billy repeats. "What self respecting man wouldn't be?" He adds a little more to Joey's stack, too, which seems to make the kid's entire day. 

Fuck presents, fuck Christmas. Syrup, apparently, is where it's at, in Joey's mind. 

He scoops a little off Joey's plate with his spoon, earning a betrayed, wide-eyed look. Joseph licks it clean while holding eye contact. "You'll be having enough sugar later." 

"Spoil sport." Billy grumbles. 

"He's right." Slade snorts. "Or did you forget about dessert tonight?" 

"I didn't forget." Billy throws back. Joseph frowns, raising an eyebrow. "I thought we'd start early. It's Christmas, let the boy have some syrup." 

"I think he's fine." Joseph says, nudging Joey's plate. "Eat." 

Finally, Slade joins them, two blueberry pancakes on his plate, and melts into the chair beside Joseph with a sigh. 

"I'm tired already." He announces. "How am I tired already." Still slouched, he pokes his pancakes with a fork, then snags the syrup for himself. "Do you think the syrup cancels out the blueberries?"

"We'll say no." Billy replies lightly. "Had a late night?" 

"Something like that." He says, slicing his stack clean in half and then again, shoving nearly a quarter into his mouth somehow. Joseph cuts into his a little neater, wincing when all he can taste is melted butter and thick, sweet syrup. "Time did you get up?" Slade adds, his words muffled behind pancake. 

"Early enough." Billy shrugs. "I'll catch some sleep later."

"On my couch." Slade adds. 

"If you'd like." He waves a forkful of pancake across the table. "I don't live that far." He shrugs. "A trip and back won't take long." 

"You always disappear on Christmas." Slade comments, frowning around a mouthful of food. There's syrup on the edge of his mouth, sticky and sweet. Joseph bites down on his fork. "What do you even do." 

Billy's mouth twitches. "Have you considered I keep the charade just to watch curiosity eat you alive?" 

Slade opens his mouth, looks Joey's way to the boy attentively listening, and then settles for a displeased look. "Keep your secrets." 

Rather pointedly, Billy shoves pancake into his mouth, setting his fork down with a light clatter. Slade snorts, and then focuses on Joey, nudging his plate. 

"You get another," he says, ever so slowly. "If it has blueberries." 

Joey's nose wrinkles. Somehow, despite having a fork and his pancake cut into neat squares already, he's a little… sticky. Around his mouth and his fingers and his hair. Curls stuck together at his crown, which will be a pain to brush out in a few hours. 

Joseph settles in to watch Slade bargain on a few blueberries, more than a little amused. Slade's right at least — the pancakes are good, once he scrapes the syrup off. Better than whatever Joseph would have thrown together at any rate. 

Across the table, Billy catches his eye, an eyebrow raised. He squints, and pops another bite into his mouth. 

"Any guesses on what he got me?" Joseph says, rather than pick back up the obvious topic on Billy's mind. 

"Same he gets everyone," Billy snorts. "Socks. Gloves, because it's cold." 

"Hey." Slade injects. And then goes right back to battling Joey's fork for a square of pancake, letting the kid have it after a few clashes. 

"Good bottle of gin?" 

"How festive." Joseph deadpans. 

Not that his was any more festive. But still, he felt reasonably sure about his pick. No take backs once it's wrapped and placed in with the rest of them anyway. 

"Well," Billy grins, "It's festive to some. Unless you plan to head to bed with the under-five's." 

"Never heard of a food coma?" Joseph looks at his plate. "A nap is sounding good already." 

Slade points his fork at him, a little sudden. "Agreed." 

Once everyone's finished eating, and Joey's back in front of the television with one unwrapped present — a small puzzle box — Slade gives him a look, eyebrows raised. "Going for that nap?" 

Joseph scratches his neck. "Maybe later." He nudges the kid's foot until there's space on the couch, settling into it with a groan. "After lunch." 

"You've got room?" Slade snorts. He flicks the volume up a little, and then promptly kicks back on the armchair, setting it to recline. He blows a stray lock of hair from his face in a huff. 

Billy pokes his head in, leaning through the doorway. "Back in a few." 

"Sure," Slade gives an extremely lazy thumbs up, eyes still on the ceiling. "Have fun." 

"Doubt it." Billy snorts. "Don't open anything without me." 

"After lunch, you know that." Slade says. "Don't be late." 

"Will do," Billy replies lightly, and gives a quick two-finger salute before he slips out again, making a quiet exit from the house. 

Joseph shifts on the couch, slouches a little until he's far more comfortable, and settles in to watch early morning cartoons and digest for the next hour at least. 

Lunch is light, at least, though Joey manages to fit a sandwich into him, working on the second somehow. Joseph chokes down a sandwich and then shuffles over to help Slade with the turkey, and then promptly gets handed an armful of vegetables. 

"You really think he's going to eat all these?" It's certainly an optimistic bunch, but the chances of Joey trying even half of it seems about nil. 

"He better." Slade mumbles, shooting the kid a look where he swings his feet at the kitchen table. "He used to." 

"Kids do go off food, you know." Joseph replies. Snags a cutting board and a knife, setting about separating everything up a little. "Are you doing stuffing?" 

"Yeah?" Slade shrugs. "It's not hard." 

Joseph frowns slightly. "Pretty sure I never bothered." He peels a handful of onions and gets to chopping, regretting that particular choice almost immediately. 

Slade shuffles an extra foot away, taking the turkey with him on it's tray. 

"I didn't either, if it makes you feel better." 

"It doesn't." Joseph grunts. Already, his eyes sting a little. Top secret enhancements are apparently no match for some onions. 

"I just mean, I only started when it was just me and Joey." He shrugs. "Felt like I had to make an effort."

That— he can see that, at least. The first Christmas after he'd lost them had been… beyond bad. Cold and empty, the kind of day he'd have liked to skip. Having it be him and a little kid, empty chairs at the table like horrible reminders, might have been infinitely worse. 

He frowns and chops a little more aggressively, eyes watering the longer he watches his hands work. "So you learned to cook." 

"I am starting to hit my limit." Slade admits. "Pretty sure I'm fuc— fudged after he starts school. I can do pasta and pancakes, Joseph." 

"And turkey." 

"And turkey." Slade agrees, and then promptly shoves his hand into the turkey. Joseph wrinkles his nose and dices things up a little more. 

Slade makes a face at what he pulls out and then promptly dumps it in the trash, heading for the sink with a frown. He's sure, without a doubt, Slade's had much worse on his hands, but the expression is enough to make him laugh despite the stinging at his eyes. 

"Shut up," Slade mutters. "You done destroying those onions?" 

"Just about." He replies, giving it a quick pass through again before stepping away to clean his hands and then promptly wipe at his eye with the hem of his sweater, scratchy wool irritating it a little further.

"Use this," Slade mutters, and then there's hands on his face, nudging Joseph's out of the way. He holds still for the wet cloth pressed to his face, Slade careful while he does it. "It's not that bad." 

"Pretty sure it is." Joseph grumbles, and ducks his head a little further for Slade to reach, a hand settling on his shoulder to keep him steady. "Don't you have a processor?" 

With no vision left, all there is is Slade's scent, warm and inviting, the faint beat of his heart. The pull of his lungs and the way Joseph just wants to lean in until they're chest to chest. 

"Oh, we do." Slade says, dispelling that particular image in Joseph's mind. When he stops fussing over Joseph's face, there's a hint of amusement on his face. "But you're just so good with a knife." 

Joseph narrows his eye. "Bastard." A small growl accompanies his words, Slade's smile only growing, lingering when they both stand close for a moment, Joseph's chest all tight and uncomfortable. 

And then it's gone as soon as he turns away, back to the heap of vegetables he's due to chop up, Slade wiping his hands off before he gets back to work on the turkey in silence. 

Not five minutes later, a small plate is sliding onto the counter by his hip, Joseph freezing for a second before he scoots the chopping board away. "All done?" 

Joey nods, up on his tiptoes to peer over the edge.

"Want to help?" 

"No," Slade cuts in, shooting Joseph a frown. 

"He can peel a potato." Joseph replies. "I wasn't going to give him a knife." 

"He's four." 

"Nearly five." Joseph points out. Shoots Joey a small grin, the kid eyeing the food a little curiously. "I was going to supervise, don't get in a twist over it." 

"Still a no." Slade grumbles. "He can help with the turkey. How does that sound, bud?" 

After a beat of silence, Joseph mutters, "Because raw meat is so much safer." Slade leans over to punch him in the arm with a sharp look. "I'm just saying. Potatoes can't poison him, he could peel one. I would hold it." 

"How about we ask him?" 

"Sure," Joseph murmurs, setting his knife aside to lean against the counter, a little amused when Slade gets down on one knee. 

"Joey," he says, voice gone all soft and inviting and Joseph rolls his eye so hard his head aches, "do you want to help Daddy do the turkey? Or Joseph with potatoes." The last bit, he delivers flat-packed and wooden, bastard. 

Joey chews his lip. And then quite clearly signs Billy's name. 

"He's gone to have a nap, we can't bother Billy right now." 

Joey's nose wrinkles, and then he promptly leaves, grabbing his toy train from the table before he goes . Slade frowns, making a face up at Joseph. 

"Kids can be cruel." Joseph laughs. 

"More than." Slade agrees. "Lucky he's cute." 

They're still working through Slade's exhaustive list of things to prep up for dinner by the time Billy returns, looking a little more fresh-faced and sporting his own sweater. His, at least, looks nice, and seems soft when Joey clambers all over him and rubs his cheek on his shoulder. 

He keeps the kid occupied at least for long enough they can get finished up, Slade giving the kitchen one last look before he strides over to the fridge and offers Joseph a beer. "We deserve it." 

"Do we?" He murmurs, but takes the offered bottle. 

"Yes," Slade mutters, producing a bottle opener from the cutlery drawer. Pops the lid off his and licks the foam that fizzes out before offering the bottle opener to him. "Fucking hate cooking on Christmas." 

Joseph pops the cap off his beer with a sharp canine, ignoring the offered opener. "Only once a year, at least." He mumbles, taking a swig. 

Slade watches him silently for a second, hand still outstretched and then discards the bottle opener with a tight expression. 

"What?" 

"Nothing." Slade replies. He shakes his head as if he's clearing it, and then slumps into a chair at the table, groaning. "I know you're missing an eye, but you're really blind sometimes, Joseph." 

He flinches at that, shoulders tensing. "What." 

Slade looks down at his bottle, rather than up at Joseph, picking away at the label quietly. He licks at his bottom lip, only speaking when Joseph shifts on his feet, his voice a little wry. "You really have no clue, do you?" 

Joseph clenches his teeth, not sure how to respond when it turns out he doesn't need to. Billy wraps his knuckles on the doorway, a little apologetic. 

"Lad's going to consider a life of crime if we don't open some presents." He informs Slade lightly. 

"Is he now." Slade intones, mouth curved. "Taking after his father." 

"I'd rather he didn't." Billy throws back. Gives Joseph a quick look and then ducks back out. 

"Let's go," Slade sighs. He takes a last gulp of beer, throat working heavily, and then heaves back to his feet. He takes Joseph's beer too, not quite meeting his gaze, and slides them to the far end of the counter. "Before he gives Catwoman a run for her money." 

Joseph raises an eyebrow, following behind. He'd not heard much of any Gotham cape or costume, let alone the more criminal types. This universe was quieter, that was for sure. 

Quiet enough Slade could reasonably carve out a corner of it and stay. In a little suburb of all places. 

Joey gets his gifts first, which Joseph mainly hangs back for, watching from the sidelines as his face shifts through various phases of childlike wonder . Slade is tentative, eyes trained on the kid as he inspects and then rips into each gift, but every time a smile curves across his mouth, eyes softening. 

It's almost enchanting, watching it happen every time, as if he expects any different. Like clockwork, Slade grins a mile wide, inching a little closer to read the back of a box of Lego or read out all the colors on his paint set.

It's good. Settles something in his chest he hadn't realised was un settled. Even then, Joseph can't quite help the pang of bitterness, a pool of anger in his gut that burns his insides like acid. Witching from the outside-in pales horribly to being there, watching his own son open presents in a Christmas sweater and little yellow socks, a megawatt smile on his face. 

He watches until he can't, and excuses himself to finish the rest of his beer in silence, only coming back when he's absolutely sure that acid doesn't show on his face. One look from Slade and he feels like it's all on display anyway, Joseph climbing over a mountain of wrapping paper to claim the armchair. 

Billy's got his candle out, nearly the size of a small bucket, and Slade's tearing the last of the haphazard paper from his toolkit with a frown. 

"What's this for?" He asks, holding the bag up like it personally offends him. 

"It's customary to say thank you." Billy points out. "It's that toolkit you keep needing. Has a hammer and everything." 

"Why would I need— is this about your window?" 

"You've been saying for about eight months you'll fix it." 

"I was busy." Slade huffs. "And I put up Joseph's curtains not long ago. It's not like I'm avoiding doing—" 

Billy laughs, cutting in. "He didn't ask for curtains, Slade." 

"I didn't." Joseph agrees. "Still don't know how you put them up while I was sleeping." Joey shuffles on his knees to the edge of the armchair, placing a small figurine on the arm. "Hey, kiddo. What've you got?" 

"You were dealing with stuff, apparently." Slade mutters. "Looked like you were dead." 

"Thanks." Joseph mock-growls. A small, plastic man begins a climb over his knuckles, Joey's bottom lip caught between his teeth. He keeps his eye on that, and nudges Slade with his foot where he's knelt on the floor. "Just say thank you." 

Slade sighs in one calming exhale. "Thank you Billy. Your gifts are always so… thoughtful." 

"Glad you agree." Billy grins. 

"Has he opened mine yet?" Joseph asks, raising an eyebrow as Joey sends the little figurine up his forearm. Whatever he's doing, it seems to occupy his attention fully. 

"Tried to make him wait." Slade says. "But I thought he was going to start crying or something, so—" He finishes by waving a hand at the unwrapped, opened box, half its contents spilled over the floor. 

It's not much, a small train set with extra pieces to fit in with the rest of Joey's collection. He's more than a little pleased to find half a track constructed, a few trains lined up and ready. 

Slade sets the bag aside with a narrowed look, and then shuffles on his knees back to one of the few remaining gifts. Joseph's.  

He wasn't worried, right up until Slade sets his eyes on it, flipping the tag over with a raised eyebrow. Tentatively, he shakes the box, and Joseph's heartbeat skyrockets. 

"It's not much." He says, before he can forget how to talk. With a frown, he sets the recliner upright. Joey makes his small figurine jump off the edge of his arm and to the floor, busying himself with a handful of other plastic figures. 

Slade shoots him a questioning gaze, and then very carefully tears the tag off, followed by the wrapping paper. It's stupid to have his heart in his throat the longer Slade just looks, and then he rounds on Joseph with knives for eyes. 

"Are you trying to tell me something?" He asks. Flips the box over, reading the back again. 

A straight razor kit, stainless steel and leather, all wrapped up in a locked box. It had looked nice when he'd bought it. Useful. Something Joseph would appreciate. 

Slade touches his jaw a little defensively. "Is my beard bad? Billy." 

"It looks fine, dear." He drawls, mouth curved in a wide smile. 

Joseph bites the tip of his tongue as Slade pops the box open, taking in the contents. The displeasure on his face melts away ever so slightly, replaced by an echo of what he had opening all the others. Soft and full of warmth when he looks up to meet Joseph's eyes. 

All that tiredness and sadness wiped from his face and it's so stark once it's gone, that Joseph isn't sure how he missed it. The inside of his chest does that thing again, barbed wire and oozing heat, and he realises distantly that Slade is nothing short of handsome right then, back to picking apart pieces of the kit. 

It's good that Slade isn't looking, because it means he doesn't get to see that realisation slide over Joseph like a blanket of snow. Some piece he hadn't realised he was missing clicks into place with finality, a new and unfamiliar spin on the last few weeks. 

Ah. 

Across the room, Billy raises an eyebrow. 

Joseph nearly curses out loud, only thinking better of it when Joey pops back up at his side with two small, wooden trains. 

"Thank you," Slade finally says, the box resting on his lap. Blue eyes a little wide and mouth red, matching his cheekbones and the sliver of his throat visible and— and Joseph really is fucking blind— 

"Welcome." He replies gruffly, busying himself almost immediately with taking the offered train and not meeting Slade's gaze.

Chapter Text

For the thirtieth time, Joseph squints at the box under the tree. Slade had, rather seriously, told him to wait. Open it later. 

After Joey had gone to bed.

Which added points in favour of Billy's theory on gin, at least. But still. It stares back at him. Almost mocking, endless possibilities inside red and green wrapping paper. Billy claps him on the shoulder and shuffles him off to go help with the last of dinner, Slade stuck in the kitchen for the foreseeable future with him, and says he'll watch Joey in the meantime. 

It's said with a certain amount of amusement, which just makes Joseph squint harder. 

He finds Slade bent at the waist, peering into the oven with a frown and is hit all over again with the realisation — has been hit with it dozens of times, every fucking time he looks at Slade — that he is, apparently, into Slade. 

It shifts things ever so slightly, a minor earthquake in Joseph's thought process. Somewhere along the way, Slade had gone from a stranger to someone he knows and he… likes what he knows. Likes what he sees, when he looks at him. 

Doesn't help he's got a great ass, either. 

Joseph frowns and ignores where he's still bent over, fiddling with the heat on the oven.

Dinner is not a complete disaster, which is nice. Slade looks particularly proud of himself the whole way through, and only occasionally nudges Joey to eat his vegetables. 

The kid eats so much he barely has room for dessert, and has the look of an oncoming food coma by the time Slade's dragging him upstairs for a bath. 

All in all, it's been a good day. The best kind of day. Joey even allows Slade to carry him up to bed with minimal fuss and a sleepy wave over his shoulder at Billy and Joseph. 

All's going well, in fact, Joseph warmed inside and out and more comfortable than he's been in weeks, and is right in the middle of grabbing another beer when Slade makes a strangled noise from the living room. He considers leaving it, uninvestigated. 

Billy laughs, faintly, and he knows he can't, Joseph popping the cap on his beer before sliding it along the counter and heading off to investigate. 

Slade's halfway in the door when he finds him, a hand on the frame. "What—" He pauses, shouldering in along with him, stopped dead.

“You’re joking.” Slade murmurs. Joseph concurs. “Billy.” 

“Yes?” He replies, way too amused. Joseph can barely hear him over the thudding in his ribs, head full of static and cotton wool and a nice little mantra of no. “I thought it livened the place up a bit.” 

“You’re dead.” Slade mutters, eyes still glued to the little bundle of mistletoe tied to the doorframe. Right above their heads. Both of them, Slade close enough he can almost feel the heat radiating from his suddenly flushed face. Joseph’s skin feels scratchy and tight the longer he watches him, all his sharp teeth suddenly too big for his mouth, choking him the longer he just looks.  

Slade flicks his eyes to Joseph, and pauses, lips parted. It feels a little like there’s a grenade above their heads, suspended for what feels like eternity before it all explodes. What he wouldn’t give for it to explode a little sooner. His nails dig into the hem of his stupid sweater, matching Slade’s. 

“We don’t have to.” Slade finally says, voice tight. Eyes wide and bright, looking for all the world that much younger than he usually does. 

Up until now, he hadn’t managed to think of a single word to say. Anything at all to get him out and away from this, Billy’s eyes burning into his skull like a fucking laser and Slade’s— Slade’s hopeful face, red tongue running over his lip the longer Joseph just stands there and stays silent, taking up all the damn air in the room. 

“Joseph,” he mumbles. Eyes crinkling when he smiles slightly. “It’s okay.” 

“No,” he finally says, and barely recognizes his own voice. Rough and deep, rolling off his tongue like a lazy growl. “It’s okay. I— it's fine. I want to.” 

“Oh.” Slade mumbles, frozen. 

Later, he doesn’t even remember which of them leans in first. Who slide their hands in the other’s hair. If it was Slade who nudged him against the doorframe, or Joseph who couldn’t keep upright. For one fantastic moment, kissing Slade is like coming home after a long day. He wants it every day, just like this. Slade’s warm mouth and the inviting, soft sigh he makes, letting Joseph angle just right and dip further into his mouth, careful with his teeth until they’re scraping over Slade’s bottom lip. 

Slade kisses back as good as he gets, slotting just right against him. Not fighting against him, only waiting his turn to slide his tongue into Joseph’s mouth, mapping him out with a quiet hum. For as long as it lasts, all Joseph registers is the warm slide of Slade's lips against his, the closeness nearly overwhelming. Drowning out the background hum of tense he’s lived with for so many weeks. Joseph sinks into it without a second thought, a soft noise in his throat, chasing the taste of Slade’s mouth. Distantly, he hears Billy cough a little awkwardly. 

And then the doorbell rings. 

He rips away with a snarl, pure instinct, only stopped by strong hands in his hair. Slade tugs him back from making for the door, eyes wide and mouth red, a little damp. His long hair a little mussed up. Because of Joseph. He did that. Slade’s scent is warm and rich like honey. 

The bell rings again, and this time no amount of strength from Slade keeps him back, Joseph’s teeth dug into his lips as he strides down the hall. His mouth buzzes pleasantly, his first kiss in… months. Pulled away from that for the fucking doorbell— 

He wrenches it open a little roughly, a growl on his tongue, and it nearly dies behind his teeth as he takes in the man on their doorstep. The man on their porch is sporting slick, shiny hair and reflective, squared sunglasses at night and stupid, bleached teeth in a blinding megawatt smile, and Joseph’s first urge is to feed him those teeth. 

A hand winding into the back of his sweater does the trick, rearing Joseph back just enough he can remove himself from the instinctual urge. The anger at being interrupted. Wayne’s smile only grows. Bastard. And it is Wayne, standing on their porch, on Christmas evening. While Joseph was too busy kissing Slade until he couldn’t breathe. 

The man’s even holding a gaudy box that looked professionally wrapped, tucked corners and an oversized bow slapped on top, held tightly to his chest. For Christmas, Wayne’s gone with the very festive option of: black turtleneck with black slacks and matching black sunglasses. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, voice rough, that growl back behind his teeth. Slade’s hand remains fisted in his sweater, his grip a rare show of strength. Wayne flicks his glasses up like a douche, blue eyes bright and clear. 

“Playing Santa.” he replies. For a moment, it’s nearly striking, the difference in tone. The cadence rolls off Wayne’s tongue like velvet, warm and smooth, and entirely at odds with the bat. And then he grins, teeth flashed, hefting the gift a little higher. “He gone to bed?” 

Slade elbows Joseph until he’s shuffled from taking up the entire doorway. “What is it?” There’s a crease between his eyebrows, concerned, but hasn’t kicked Wayne’s ass all the way back to his Porsche sitting curbside. 

“I’m sure he’ll like it.” Wayne replies in a complete non-answer. “Mind if I come in? Or did I miss all the… festivities.” The corner of his mouth twitches, damn well knows what he’s doing, and it sets Joseph off again, leaning out of the doorway and into the crisp, quiet night air. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“No.” Slade answers, the same moment Joseph snaps, “yes.” 

Wayne arches an eyebrow. Adjusts his stupid sunglasses in his hair. “Glad to see you two can agree on things.” Without waiting for an answer, he shoves the gift into Joseph’s arms, and then promptly flicks his sunglasses back down. All that’s missing is a piece of gum for him to chew like an ass. “Merry Christmas.” 

He looks down at the box, then back to Wayne. “Why are you here?” It’s a perfectly reasonable question, all things considered. Billionaires don’t end up on little suburbs like this by accident, and they certainly don’t come knocking on Slade’s door for nothing. 

Wayne looks back at him like he’s an idiot, and probably not worth his time. “I did ask to come in. And you weren’t home. Where you’re supposed to be.” 

“I moved.” He bites out. “Not that it’s any of your business. And how the hell did you know where I was, anyway?” 

“Everything in this city is my business.” Wayne replies. Joseph rolls his eye so hard he’s fairly sure he’s strains something. “May I?” 

Slade tugs on his sweater, gentler. “Let him in.” The tightness around his eyes makes Joseph feel a little better, at least. He’s not the only one on edge about this, at any rate. Having a Bat, the Bat in Slade’s house — in Joseph’s territory his mind helpfully supplies, which is untrue — isn’t a pleasant thought. 

Even less so when Wayne dusts ice off his shiny, leather shoes and murmurs, “Cozy.” 

Slade ignores it with far more grace than Joseph can manage, setting the present down on the stairs, flicking his gaze up to the landing. “Kitchen.” He decides, quietly, taking the lead. 

Wayne offers him a tight smile when he shuffles past, sizing Joseph up briefly, not bothered in the slightest when he’s followed closely through the house. 

“All goo—” Billy pauses. “Oh.” His frowns matches Joseph’s, leaning against the kitchen counter with a crease between his dark eyebrows. 

Once he’s inside though, cornered in the kitchen by Slade with his arms folded, somehow intimidating even in his gaudy sweater, the smirk is wiped off his face, replaced with a distinctly more Bat-like expression. The set of his shoulders is tense, matching Slade’s stance as good as if he’s got the height for it. 

Evidently, he doesn’t like being in their space, either. Especially without the cape and cowl. “We’ve been looking into your… sudden appearance.” He finally says, leaning back against the counter, a slight frown to his mouth. “Luthor woke up." He adds. 

That's news to him, but he's been a little… preoccupied lately. And Slade doesn't like the news on where Joey can see it. Too stressful for the kid. 

"It'll be a long time before he can talk, let alone give us what we need. For now, he's a dead end." He shrugs a tight shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. Whatever it is he wants to say next, he doesn't like it, expression pinched. "We might have a fix. I don't like it, but it's probably our best bet." 

"What is it?" He asks slowly. At his side, Slade leans ever so slightly closer, arm pressed up against his. 

"We have access to a Mother Box." He exhales. "It might be able to get you home, but it's risky. And we'd need to take you in, run some tests." If possible, Wayne frowns harder. 

"Take me in where." 

"Justice League Headquarters." He replies. 

Joseph squints. "Which is where." 

"Space." Wayne replies lightly, not meeting his eye at all. Joseph nearly shakes him, except that's a bit useless, and he's caught between absolute gratefulness at a possible solution and being sent… into space. With the Justice League. 

"When do you need him?" Slade asks, crossing his arms, fingers dug into his biceps. "Does it need to be now?" 

"As soon as possible would be best." Wayne says. "But we can wait." He tips his head, looking them both over with an inscrutable gaze. "Enjoy your Christmas, at least." He says this with his eyes on Joseph, the edges of his mouth softened. 

"Sure." 

"You going to tell us what these tests are?" Slade cuts in, shifting on his feet. 

Up until now, Billy's been uncharacteristically quiet, but he pushes away from the table with a sigh, brushing past Joseph to reach the coffee machine. 

"I think it's best if we all take a moment." He says, interrupting Wayne before he can even begin an explanation.

"I can't stay long." He replies. "Busy night." 

“Crime booming tonight, is it?” Joseph snorts. 

“You’d be surprised.” Wayne murmurs, but his mouth tips up into a tired smile, leaning a little heavier against the counter. There’s faint circles under his eyes, darkened, and a healing cut on the edge of his mouth. 

Now that he looks — properly looks — it’s obvious that Wayne is… different. Younger, under the tiredness. Either that, or he’s started the process of covering the grey at his temples, and found miracle concealer. Joseph doubts it. All the little marks of time, faint scars and a roughness at his jaw, the uneven ridge of his nose where it’s been broken a dozen times. The scars over his knuckles aren’t even close to the cross-hatched mess of before. 

Joseph narrows his eye. “How old are you?” 

Wayne pauses, tilts his head. “How old do you think I am?” 

He frowns. Looks at Slade. “Why is everyone here younger?”

“Jealous?” Slade smirks. 

“Well,” Wayne drawls. “Nothing wrong with an older man.” 

“Quite right.” Billy cuts in, promptly shoving a mug of coffee into Wayne’s hands and then Joseph’s. “Sit.” When neither of them move, he elbows Joseph, prompting him to move. 

He does with a grumble, slouching into a chair opposite Slade. Just as it starts to sink in, only a little — a solution, right there, a possibility — Slade’s foot knocks against his, drawing his attention. A gentle, almost encouraging expression on his face, eyebrows tugged together. 

“Let’s just hear him out.” Slade murmurs, shifting over when Wayne takes his seat, cradling a mug of coffee. 

Billy sits beside Joseph, and then all eyes are on him, as if Joseph has any kind of answers. Wayne folds up his sunglasses, tucking them into his pocket with a frown.  

"How much do you know about Mother Boxes?" He asks, wincing slightly. 

"Never heard of one." Joseph shrugs. "What's it do?" 

Wayne rubs at his neck, tongue caught between his teeth. "If I tried to explain everything a Mother Box could do, we'd be here all day. Short end of it is, we haven't found a limit yet, and they're very good at summoning Boom Tubes." 

"Which is." Slade prompts, when Wayne doesn't elaborate, too busy staring at Joseph for a flicker of recognition. 

"Teleportation." Wayne replies. "They're reliable, and as safe as teleportation can be." He shrugs lightly. "Travelling through dimensions, as far as we know, leaves… an energy signature. Radiation. And you — yourself — are from a different universe." 

"You think it can get him home?" Slade's nose crinkles, visibly mulling the idea over. 

"We're hoping the Mother Box can get something off him, yes. Anything that can point us in the right direction." Wayne sips his coffee, looking to his hands for a moment. "If it was a case of sending you to another universe, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We could probably do that." 

"But it's getting me to the right one." Joseph finishes, a little more somber. 

"There's a lot of choice out there," Wayne agrees lightly. "And we don't want to choose wrong." 

"What happens if you do choose wrong?" Slade asks, leaning forward slightly. "What, he's stranded? That's it?" 

"Hopefully, somewhere hospitable. Or, he ends up in a universe with no life, or somewhere he can't survive. Somewhere we can't reach him. Or he gets lost in the space between universes." 

"Delightful." Billy murmurs around the rim of his mug. 

"So you're just guessing?" 

"We're narrowing our options." Wayne says. "There's never going to be a hundred percent on this. Not unless — and I really mean unless — you have a homing beacon hidden somewhere." 

Joseph grimaces. "Sorry to disappoint." 

"Then it's our best bet to get you at the Watchtower. Run some tests, see if we can pick up anything that might point us in the right direction." 

"And if you can't?" 

"Then we're not sending you anywhere. Back to the drawing board." Wayne states, holding his gaze. "Otherwise you'll either end up dead, or some other Justice League's problem." 

"Great." Slade mumbles. He rubs at his face with a small groan, the heel of his palm dug against his eyes. 

"Okay." Joseph nods. "Better than nothing." It is, even if he'd prefer something more concrete. If this is the best they can offer, he's not about to turn it down. 

Even if the thought is a little sickening, locked up alone with the League in space isn't the worst thing to have ever happened to him. There's a long laundry list taking precedence on that one. 

"Glad we agree." Wayne says. 

"How long until you need him for those tests?" Slade nudges, an eye on Joseph, unreadable. He's usually so open that it's almost jarring seeing it all locked away. 

"Theoretically, as long as he wants to wait." Wayne shrugs. "Realistically, I've got other cases to work on, and I'd really like to…" He trails off, wincing. 

"Get me out of your life?" Joseph snorts. "Feelings mutual." 

"Well, then. Best case scenario, after the new year." 

Little over a week, which sounds like a lifetime and also— too soon. Suddenly incredibly real when it's put into concrete, firm words, Joseph's teeth dug into his tongue. A week. 

"Until then," he says slowly. "Would my suit be any use?" 

"Your suit?" Wayne parrots, tilting his head. "It came with you." 

"Sure did," he nods. "Don't know if it'll be any use." 

"Wouldn't hurt."

Not that he likes the thought of handing over his suit either, but it's something. Any small piece could help, he knows that. Doesn't mean he has to like it. 

Likes it even less once Slade's brought it down in a duffel, setting it on the table in front of Wayne with narrowed eyes. "I find out you've done anything else to it—" 

"I am aware, yes." Wayne mutters, already unzipping the bag with an inscrutable look. "You hardly scare me, Slade." 

Joseph nearly rolls his eye. "That everything you needed?" 

"It'll do." He pokes around the contents of the bag a little more, and then promptly zips it up. "We'll take a look. Be in touch." 

"Don't turn up like that again." Slade mutters. 

"I brought presents, didn't I?" Wayne clicks his smile on again, all teeth and red mouth, slinging the bag over his shoulder when he stands. 

"Because I'm sure you'd love it if I brought Robin a gift or two." Slade drawls, earning himself a sharp little look. 

"Don't try it." He says, more as parting words, and gets ushered out by Slade just as calmly as he wandered in, taking Joseph's suit with him. 

He tries to feel any semblance of okay with that fact, eye narrowed, and only moves when Billy nudges his room-temperature coffee over on the counter. 

Between Wayne's visit, and Billy's… festivities, he'd all but forgotten the gift. Right up until Slade plucks it from under the tree with a tentative smile. Billy himself is long gone by now, ushered out the door by Slade with a few raised eyebrows, Billy's grin bright and very mused. 

Joseph takes it like he's been handed a bomb. A nice, wrapped bomb, with his name written on it. 

"It's not as nice as— as what you got me." Slade shrugs. "But in my defense, I didn't think you were getting me anything, anyway." 

"So you opted for minimum effort." The box in his hand rattles faintly when he shakes it, Slade wincing. 

"Not too hard." 

"It's fragile?" 

"Open it and find out." He snorts, settling down on the couch beside him. Real close to him, in fact, shoulders pressed together between layers of scratchy wool. Contentment in every relaxed muscle and the easy slope of his shoulders, leaned into Joseph’s side as he watches Joseph’s hands gently tear through wrapping paper. 

He snorts a laugh. “Billy’s money was on gin.” 

“And you?” Slade asks. 

He turns the bottle over, reading the label. Not gin, but whiskey, and he definitely won’t be complaining about that. He doesn’t recognize the make at all, and chalks it up to universal differences, setting the bottle on the table proudly. “Thank you.” He says softly, a little warmed that Slade even thought to get him a gift in the first place. 

Slade shrugs. “It’s not much. But I thought you deserved it, after… all that.” 

“All that.” Joseph repeats. Understatement, for sure. "You can say it." He huffs, a little amused. Even then, all he can think of for a moment is how Slade had felt. Pressed against him, a soothing presence compared to the itching, burning need in Joseph's veins. 

Sitting beside him with a bottle of whiskey, he knows that need isn't gone. Simmering quietly under the surface, a hot current in his ribs whenever he spends too long looking at Slade. At night, when he's close enough to touch and Joseph can— 

"Did you mean it?" He asks, when Slade doesn't pipe up. Tilts his head to avoid looking at him. 

"Mean what?" 

He nearly laughs at himself. The sudden spark of nervousness in his gut. He's not a teenager, proven even more by the fact that he can reach out, open up that bottle of whiskey and take a honey-warm mouthful to soothe his nerves. 

"The kiss." He gets out gruffly. 

Slade shifts on the couch beside him. When he looks — when he forces himself to really look — Slade's eyebrows are soft and knitted together, red lips parted, visibly computing. There's an entire process that he misses happening inside Slade's head, an important weighing of his options. 

Joseph feels like he can't even breathe or he'll disrupt it. 

"Yes," Slade murmurs. Looks from Joseph's gaze to his mouth, back up again. "Wanted to for a while." 

Oh. "Oh." He mumbles. He knew that. In some distant sort of way. Little moments clicking into place, again and again, and— and Slade had kissed him. Had moaned against him, and sounded so strangled when he'd come against his thigh. 

And Joseph just wasn't the sort of person Slade should want to kiss. Thick cut scars marking what should be — what is, on Slade — a handsome face, one eye, and somehow managing to be more grey than Slade even though they're both silver haired to begin with. 

There's a lot of things. He could count them all fucking day. Joseph stares back at him for a moment, commits the softened angles of Slade's face to memory. Just in case. And then he leans in, intending to be gentle but Slade makes a soft, surprised noise and he can't help crushing closer, crowding Slade into the side of the couch. 

He opens up for it after a moment of hesitation. Tastes like dessert and a slightly bitter aftertaste of coffee, kissing back like he's been thinking about it since that stupid mistletoe, or even longer. Melts into the couch with a muffled sigh. 

Joseph shifts until they're slotted together from hip to mouth, and lets the anxiety in his gut begin to uncurl. Kissing Slade the second time is just as good as the first, warm and welcoming, made all the better by the quiet of the house , alone for once. Makes it feel all the more real. 

Joseph digs his teeth into Slade's bottom lip briefly, careful with the sharp points of his canines, and doesn't miss the hitch in his breath at that. Even through thick layers of ugly sweaters, he feels the exact moment Slade's nails dig into his bicep, his shoulder, holding on tight.

"I take it—" Slade grunts, pulling back and taking his mouth with him, Joseph frowning slightly. "Take it you liked your present." 

A slight smile plays on his lips, knows damn well what he's doing, and makes a surprised noise when Joseph crushes their lips together again. This time, it's a lot hungrier than the last, and Slade isn't stopping him, which means he wants it, and Joseph isn't entirely insane yet. 

He wants this. Just as much as Joseph does. Arches up just right when Joseph's hands grip his waist and drags him by his hips entirely flat under him. Slade takes it with a breathy laugh, his own hands winding into Joseph's hair. 

"Glad you noticed," Slade chokes out, right around the time Joseph's mouth settles on his jaw to suck marks and bruises into his skin. "Thought I'd have to get a sign." 

He bites down thoughtfully, running his tongue over the spot after. "Weren't very obvious." 

"I asked to get you off." Slade grumbles. "How could I be any— fuck—" He bucks up with force, Joseph's palm slotted between his thighs. 

He had. But that had been different. Tinged with shame and the aftershocks of his rut. Not like this, how he wants it to be. Clear headed, and still wanting him. 

Joseph palms Slade through his jeans, nips at his throat with sharp teeth. "Sorry." He mumbles. Buries his nose in the junction of his shoulder, breathing in deep, contentment and arousal and Slade all wrapped up in one inviting package. 

"It's fine." Slade mumbles. "Got there in the end." And then, voice a little high, "can I get you off now?" 

"Yes," he breathes, a little overwhelmed with how suddenly he wants that, a jolt of heat right down his spine. Slade's fingers curl in his hair tighter before one goes blindly wandering, taking a path between them right down his chest. 

He expects him to head straight for his pants, freezing a little when Slade's hand slips under his sweater instead, fingers splayed wide. Distantly, he remembers that same sensation, buried under a haze of rut and desperation and wanting any warm body that'll do. It's so much better this time, clear and real and Slade's hand ends up all the way at his collarbones, starting a path back down with a pleased hum. 

Only when his hand is free again does Joseph allow himself to settle, Slade's thighs forced a little wider to accommodate. Even through a few layers of denim, he can feel how hard he is, Slade grinding against him in a slow roll of his hips. 

"Getting me off, or yourself?" He asks, more than a little amused, voice hushed despite being alone. 

"Can't I do both?" Slade murmurs. When he tips his head back, his throat is bitten red, eyes bright and blue and watching Joseph with heat. "C'mere." 

He doesn't need to be told twice, sinking into Slade's warmth like a hot bath on a bitter December evening, a moan in his throat when Slade's hand finally slides into his pants, not much room to work with but he grips Joseph's cock with blinding surety and strokes him in short, sharp inches. 

"Fuck," he hisses, frozen, processing. Of all the things he'd thought about, this wasn't one of them. This was new and electric and Slade's fingers managed to stay talented even in a confined, simple handjob. 

Against his jaw, Slade leaves bites of his own, wet kisses and panted breaths, hips still grinding up. He shifts, just enough that they can both get what they want, Slade rutting into the hard edge of his hip with a groan. 

"Quiet," Joseph mumbles. 

Despite that he lets out a low, guttural noise of his own through clenched teeth. It takes some effort, and a lot of brain power he doesn't have, but he unglues his hand from the couch to unfasten his pants and shove his underwear down around Slade's hand. 

All he can do is look for a second, Slade's fingers wrapped around him in a tight circle, barely breaking stride when he switches the angle and jerks Joseph off against his abdomen, precome spread over the reddened crown of his cock. Slade exhales shakily, turns his head to slide his mouth against Joseph's, drawing his attention. 

It's in between Slade's tongue dipping into his mouth and a perfectly executed twist of his wrist that Joseph's edges start getting frayed. Feels like he's burning up in a stupid Christmas sweater, wants it gone, Slade's off too. Bare skin for him to touch, mark him up with bruises and bites. 

Joseph shudders when Slade thumbs the tip of his cock, humming into his mouth. "Gonna knot for me?" 

All the air in his lungs evaporates, Joseph's teeth sinking into the soft skin of Slade's lip. It takes real effort not to come apart right then and there, Slade’s hand moving in double time to really bring him to the edge. “Not like this.” He mumbles, a hot curl of pleasure in his chest at the sight of Slade’s mouth bitten raw and wet. Slade’s hand misses a beat. “Not unless you want me to fuck you.” 

“Well,” Slade murmurs, flicks his eyes down. “I think I’d have to move for that.” 

Joseph hums in agreement. Drops his head down, nose pressed to the column of Slade’s throat. “Maybe another time.” He agrees. A short spike of anxiety in his stomach reminds him there might not be a next time. He thrusts into the circle of Slade’s hand, enjoying the next, fresh wave of pleasure. 

It takes less time than he’d like before he starts taking over, setting the pace in quick, sharp rolls of his hips, hand sliding down to wrap around Slade’s, not sure in the end which set of fingers belongs to him. If it’s him making low, shallow breaths or Slade, or who comes first— Slade grinds into his hip almost painfully, and holds tense and trembling against him, and Joseph spills over Slade’s knuckles with a choked off growl. 

Against his throat, Joseph pants, one hand dug into the fabric of the couch. Under him, Slade extricates his hand gently, his other sliding through Joseph’s hair, almost petting but not quite, a pleasant sort of feeling when he’s fairly sure his legs won’t work for the next twenty minutes at least, still shuddering his way through the last of his orgasm. 

Not his finest, but it’s fucking good with the familiarity of Slade pressed against him, quiet besides their breathing and the thundering in Slade’s chest, starting to slow the longer Joseph just listens. Slade tugs at a lock of hair, then smooths it down again, shifting under his bulk with a soft grunt. 

“We should do that again sometime.” He mumbles into Joseph’s temple. “Upstairs, maybe.” 

“What,” he grumbles, “don’t like the couch?” 

“Not really.” 

Despite that very good idea, Joseph elects to stay put for as long as he can, feeling a little boneless and intending to enjoy that as much as he possibly can. Eventually, though, Slade nudges his bicep, gentle at first and then a little firmer. 

It takes some grumbling, and careful maneuvering, but he makes it back up onto his knees, grimacing more than a little at tucking himself back into his pants for the time being, mouth a little dry at the sight under him. Slade still a little flushed, red marks already beginning to fade on his jawline. Joseph’s come painting his abdomen, sweater tugged up, thighs spread wide. If a position could say fuck me, this would be it. 

He chews the tip of his tongue and stumbles from the couch, helping Slade up to start dragging him upstairs. A shower, a change of clothes. It’s late, and been a long fucking day, and he needs time to— to think about this. About whatever the fuck just happened, and if he wants to do it again. 

That’s the plan anyway. It lasts all the way up to the landing of the stairs, and then he finds Slade’s mouth again, presses him against the nearest wall with a muted growl, not quite able to stop once he knows he’s allowed. Slade grins into his mouth and kisses back twice as fervently, dragging him by the hem of his sweater to the bedroom. 

Chapter Text

The week between Christmas and New Year's is quiet, to say the least. Quiet in the kind of way where Billy disappears to go do something for a few days, most likely sleeping off a food coma, and Slade's more than happy to spend his days in a pile of toys with Joey. And Joseph ignores the growing anxiety in his stomach with increasing force. 

It's quiet because there's not an argument in sight, and nothing particularly eventful happens, and Slade kisses him around every corner like he can't get enough. First thing in the morning before rolling out of bed, and up against the kitchen counter after lunch, and for long, quiet minutes once Joey's gone to bed. 

Kisses him on the car ride over to visit Grant, too. It feels cold and wrong, Slade's mind somewhere else entirely, and Joseph waits outside at the cemetary gates for the half hour Slade spends there, everything covered in crunching snow. 

He doesn't kiss him on the car ride home, but he does squeeze Joseph's hand as they're walking up to the front door, and he manages to squeeze back with numb fingers.  

It is — relatively speaking — okay. If they don't talk about it. Which they don't. It's not exactly the elephant in the room, but more like the muffled but screaming hostage shoved in the coat closet. Slade carries on business as usual, and so Joseph does, too. 

Peace lasts all the way until the day before New Year's Eve, which he counts as a win. It lasts right up until there is another ring at their doorbell, just Joseph around to answer it. Upstairs, he can make out the sounds of Slade getting splashed with water, a little disgruntled. 

He doesn't even get out a greeting, or a threat, before Wayne's poking him very firmly in the chest. "You're an idiot." 

Joseph narrows his eye sharply. "The fuck are you doing here." 

"Delivering wonderful news." Wayne replies, his tone flat. He looks pissed, eyebrows pinched together, shoulders tense. He shoves his hands back in his pockets. "Can I come in?" 

At least the sunglasses are gone. There is, however, a hickey on his jaw and an all-black outfit again that makes him look about as pale as the fucking snow. 

Joseph makes a displeased noise and then shoves the door open winder, allowing Wayne to shuffle in, knocking snow off his shoes. Like the last time, he gives the hall a quick look around, declares it homely this time, and then heads for the kitchen. 

Joseph follows while glaring a hole into the back of his head, only stopping short when Wayne flicks something onto the table. 

"Any idea what this is?" 

He squints. "Is that rhetorical?" 

Wayne fixes him with a look cold enough to kill. "You could have started with this." He huffs. Peels off his gloves and throws them down beside the small, black flash drive. "Are you that stupid?" 

He leans over the table. "Apparently." He states. "The fuck is this?" 

"It's yours." Wayne sighs, looking at the ceiling. "Don't recognise it?" 

And then it clicks, Joseph plucking it from the table with a frown. It is his. From Luthor's lab. It's only been a month, but he barely recognises it now, except that it's small and matte black and filled with whatever he was even there to steal. A whole dump of files. 

And then he'd pushed that button. 

Joseph feels a little nauseous, staring at the small piece of home in his hands. "What's on it." 

"The schematics for Luthor's button." Wayne states lightly. "And most of the way home." 

"You're joking." He mumbles, can't tear his gaze away from the small, square chunk of metal and plastic in his palm. "Tell me you're fucking joking." 

"I'm really not." Wayne sighs. He reaches out to take it back, not quick enough to stop Joseph from closing his fist around it, holding it close. Home. Right there in his hand. 

Joseph's ears ring painfully. His hand weighs about twenty tonnes, holding onto the most… precious object in all his life. More valuable than any paycheck, or a weapon that never fails. This is it. 

He exhales sharply through clenched teeth. 

"Joseph," Wayne murmurs. Reaches out again, his fingers closing around Joseph's, a little chilled from the weather, prying his hand apart until they're both looking down at the innocuous missing piece. "We're going to get you home." 

For the first time in a very long month, he believes it. With absolute certainty, he'll get home. No more guessing, no more waiting. No more missing home, when it's within his reach. 

"Okay," he mumbles, surprised by how thick his voice comes out. Watches as his fingers tremble a little. "When." 

"Still need some time," Wayne gently takes the flash drive back, tucking it into his coat pocket. "But soon. Hell of a lot quicker than we would need without it." 

"Okay." He replies dumbly. Can't really think of much else to say. Wayne looks back at him with a faint hint of concern, mouth in a comforting sort of smile, barely there. "I need to sit." He announces breathlessly, and then does just that, collapsing into a seat heavily. 

Wayne slides into the seat opposite him smoothly. Under all the hair product and effortlessly smooth skin, he looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, his smile a little more forced than it had been last time. He links his fingers together on the table, shoulders hunched forward. 

"What." Joseph mumbles. 

"Looked a little pale." He replies lightly. 

"You're one to talk." He huffs. The urge to set his head on the table is nearly undeniable. "I just wasn't expecting— I'd forgotten all about it." He admits. 

"You had other things on your mind." Wayne replies, more than a little kind. 

"Yeah." He agrees. "This whole time." 

"Don't feel too bad." Wayne shrugs. "I don't think we could get it to work without Mother Box technology anyway. You'd have needed our help regardless." 

"I really didn't— Didn't want your help." He shrugs. 

"Yes." Wayne smirks slightly. "That was obvious. You don't like me." 

"It's…" He grimaces. "It's not you." 

"The other me." 

"He's a lot less helpful than you are." Joseph replies, mouth twisted. "Won't give an inch on anything." 

"I'm sure he has his reasons." Wayne tilts his head. "He may also simply be a dick. That's not out of the realm of possibility." His smile is ever so slightly— embarrassed, looking younger than Joseph's ever seen him for a split second, quickly replaced by the same calm exterior. 

"Might be." He snorts. Definitely within the realm of possibility. Equally likely that Joseph is just an asshole too, and they bring it out in each other. 

Something to find out when he gets home. He frowns, realising that it's a when and not an if anymore. A truth. One he can't stop any more than he can make it happen now.  

It's in Wayne's apparently capable hands. 

"Before I go," Wayne murmurs, reaching into his pocket. "Give me your number. Saves me a trip down next time." He flicks through his phone at an almost blinding speed, and then flips it toward Joseph. 

"I don't know it." He squints. It's Slade's phone, anyway. Wayne waits silently while he digs it out of his pocket, eventually finding his number and tapping it into Wayne's. 

Wayne pockets it again smoothly before he rises, setting a palm on the table. For once, it's Joseph looking up at him, feeling a little lost and hollowed out. "It'll be over before you know it, Joseph. We'll get you home." 

"Yeah," he says, mouth numb. "Sure. Thanks." 

He follows Wayne back to the front door on numb legs and doesn't hear a word he says, and continues to stand there in the crisp air, inhaling and exhaling in sharp, short bursts until his fingertips feel like ice. 

It's Slade coming back down the stairs on quick, quiet feet that snaps him out of it, Joseph dusting a light layer of snow off his shoulders. 

"Everything okay?" He asks, voice hushed, pausing at the foot of the stairs. Flicks his eyes over Joseph, worried. "What was that?" 

"Bruce stopped by." He says. 

"And?" He steps closer, eyebrows tugged together. "Did they—" 

"He just came by to get my phone number." He lies. Isn't sure why until Slade leans in and kisses him, a little slower than usual, pressing Joseph up against the wall. "It's fine." 

"Sure," he mumbles. Pulls back with wide eyes. "Thought they'd— It's fine. Was that all?" 

"Yeah." He replies, nodding sharply. Slade moves when he straightens up, keeping an eye on Joseph with concern. His heart is beating a little heavier in his chest, notes of panic that Joseph can't help but feel too. 

"Okay." Slade exhales. Reaches out and takes his hand, dragging him along the hall. "Hungry?" 

"I could eat." He agrees, letting himself be lead along. 

Lying hadn't even seemed like an option, until he'd felt Slade against him, heart beating in double time and anxiety painted over his features. There was no point worrying him, when Wayne had already said it might take a while still— Slade didn't need that on top of everything else. 

Billy appears at six in the evening on New Year's Eve with a bottle of champagne and a handful of sparklers, handing one off to Joey almost immediately. The kid scampers away like he's been given a live bomb, unlit, and Joseph watches the whole thing unfold with an unimpressed stare. 

"What?" 

"We bought some this morning." He frowns. "He didn't want them." 

"That's because you're not me." Billy grins. "Champagne?" 

"It's too early." He frowns harder. It does look nice, if anything. "Put it in the fridge." 

"Where'd your sense of adventure go?" He huffs, but does as he's told, along with all the other drinks Slade's managed to stockpile the last few days. 

"Well—" He starts, only to get cut off by Billy holding up a hand. 

"Let me guess, dimension travel?" 

"Bingo." He deadpans, resting a hip against the counter. "What gave it away?" 

"It's not been that bad." He scoffs. Crosses his arms, feet planted. "Look me in the eye and say it's been terrible." 

Joseph squints. "It's been terrible, Billy." 

"Okay," he shifts. "Tell me you regret ever pushing that button." 

Joseph raises an eyebrow. "Billy, I regret it deeply." He holds his gaze for as long as Billy scowls at him, a little put-out, and only breaks when Slade pokes his head into the room. 

"What're you regretting now?" 

"Nothing." He replies. Shoots Billy a sharp look. 

"Who gave Joey a sparkler?" He looks squarely at Billy anyway, the other man smiling a mile wide. 

"That would be me." 

"He was trying to eat it." 

"Ah." 

"Yeah." Slade grumbles, and then just as promptly leaves, his footsteps a lot louder now. Faintly, he can pick out the sound of Joey scrambling on socks, no doubt on a mission to keep his sparkler. 

"What was it you were saying, again?" Billy asks, when they're alone again, an eyebrow arched. "How terrible it's been?" 

"Billy, I don't know if you noticed, but this hasn't exactly been a pleasant experience." He grinds out. "Pretty much the opposite, actually." 

"Be that as it may." He allows, voice slow and enunciated. "It's been good too, I'd say. Slade's liked the company. Maybe a little too much—" he adds quietly, earning a glare from Joseph, "—and I know Joey's warmed up to you quite well." 

"And you?" 

"My favourite grump." He flicks a sharp, amused smile. "It's not been that bad." 

"And I'd still like to go home." He replies, leaning back to grip the counter. "It's been fun, can't last forever." 

"The only one here saying you should go is you." He points out. 

"Slade—" 

"Slade wants what you want." Billy cuts in, wrinkling his nose. "If you wanted to stay, he'd have you happily. We both would." 

Not quite sure how to handle that, he avoids it entirely, sending Billy a sharp look before he brushes past him, heading off to find Slade. Billy can keep his very unwelcome thoughts to himself, especially now, when everything seems like it's happening too fast and all at once. 

Ever since Wayne's visit, his phone has felt like a live grenade in his pocket, and Joseph's been loathe to be seperated from it for longer than a shower. 

It's fucking torture, never knowing when he'll call. When it's time to go. And even more stupidly, his little lie weighs on his mind every time he so much as looks at Slade, no clue in his mind that things are so much closer than he thinks. 

He finds Slade with Joey in the yard, teaching him very firm fire safety rules, holding the sparkler at arms length. Joseph leans in the doorway and considers putting a handful of snow in Slade's hair. 

He doesn't get the chance, Slade noticing him quickly, a smile on his face when he looks up at him, knelt by Joey's side. "Why so sour?" 

"Nothing." He shrugs. "You have a lighter?"

"Billy probably does." Slade shrugs. "For all those candles." 

As it turns out, he does have one, and Joey's face lights up like Christmas came twice when it's lit. He commits it to memory, sticking on the outskirts, and tries not to feel like he misses them already — he's not even left yet. There's nothing to miss yet. 

But he will— He really will. He'll miss Slade, but more than that— 

He commits Joey's smile to memory and tries to pretend he'll see it again and again, every day of his life, the way he knows Slade will. 

It's late-late by the time Slade thinks it's suitable to bring out the paper lanterns. Of which there are four, one each. 

"Fireworks are too loud," Slade had murmured while Joey was occupied a half hour earlier. "Freaks him out." 

It's a good substitute, and a lot less likely to get the cops called on them. Though it is Gotham, so he's not even sure they'd turn up on a night like tonight. 

Joey tugs on his pants leg until Joseph hefts him up onto his shoulders for a better view, kicking his feet against Joseph's chest until they're pinned down. "Careful." He grumbles, grimacing when Joey digs two little hands into his hair and pulls. 

But, well. He's there. A sturdy, small weight across his shoulders, fingers icy cold and so damn happy. He leans forward hard enough to nearly fall right off Joseph's shoulders when Slade kneels down to light up the first lantern, holding it aloft until it can float under its own power, a warm orange glow emanating from it. 

It's well dark by now, and faintly he can hear the sounds of fireworks. Closer to the city center in the lead up to midnight, and up further out, closer to the county line where it's all grassy hills and park space. Joey doesn't seem to pay it any mind, eyes fixed on the small lantern in Slade's hands, Joey's heart fluttering in his chest in excitement. 

"You watching?" Slade asks, which of course he is, Joey tugging at Joseph's hair. "Which way do you think it's gonna go?" 

Joey pauses, and then must point in some direction he can't see, because Slade grins and lets it go. It drifts silently up, carried by the crisp wind in the air, a faint little light that Joseph follows for as long as he can. 

"Better luck on the next one, bud." Slade says. 

He lights Joey's for him, but then hands it off over Joseph's head, which doesn't seem very safe— but Slade grins at him, face painted in an orange glow, and the risk seems a little more worth it. The urge to lean in and kiss him how Slade's done countless times is nearly overwhelming, as natural as breathing. Joseph tilts his head back instead, watching Joey's small hands finally let go of it, paper crackling and crinkling a little in the quiet night. 

It's… peaceful. Not the excitement of fireworks but just as pleasant, something just for them and Joey while the rest of Gotham lights fuses and gets a little loud. This is quiet and tugging at Joseph's ribs the longer he watches Joey's lantern on a backdrop of navy and thick, grey clouds, not a star in sight in a city like Gotham.  

For a brief moment, he forgets this isn't his home, and realises maybe he's okay with that. 

Rather valiantly, Joey makes it all the way to half past eleven. Which is a pretty big feat considering his age, dozing off on Joseph's arm to the sound of a kids boxset Slade had thrown on, a blanket draped over his thin shoulders. He'd rather die than move him, Joey's breaths soft and safe, one hand holding onto Joseph's wrist, but Slade makes the choice for the both of them with a regretful grimace. 

As soon as he's gone, Joseph flicks the television over to Gotham's coverage of the night, and Billy heads off to grab the drinks. By the time Slade pads back downstairs, they've both had their first glasses over and done with, starting in on seconds. 

Slade raises an eyebrow at Joseph's coffee mug of champagne, and then pours himself some too, flopping into the couch beside him. "Who's doing it this year?" 

"Who do you think?" Joseph snorts. Universal constant: Wayne pushes the big, red button, and sets off a fuck-tonne of fireworks while simultaneously shaking hands with the Mayor. 

Other cities rotated. Had a whole roster of officials and minor-celebrities to do it. Gotham, apparently, had one man. And he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else on a night practically made for petty crime and disorderly drunks, under the megawatt smile and sharp, icy eyes. 

Ever so slightly, he can make out about three-quarters of the man, animatedly chatting in the freezing fucking cold to someone off-screen, a news anchor busy recapturing the night front and center on the screen. 

"You think he enjoys doing that?" Billy asks, grimacing. 

"What, you wouldn't?" Slade murmurs over the rim of his mug. "Freezing your balls off just to push a button?" 

"I don't know." Billy says. "Joseph, how did it feel?" 

He stares at Billy long enough that Slade coughs, elbowing him. "Wouldn't recommend it." He finally deadpans, busying himself with a mouthful of sharp bubbles. 

He settles back in to watch the lightshow and the growing excitement in the crowd and the particular brand of tension that only Gotham can create during a happy event, like it could all go to Hell at any moment so they may as well enjoy it while it lasts, and— and somewhere along the way, Slade sinks down into a slouch and sets his head on Joseph's shoulder, a much heavier weight than Joey had been. 

And nobody stops him, or anything. Billy doesn't even say anything. Slade sips his drink, heart a steady beat in his chest, reeking of contentment and warm body heat and nothing else happens. Outwardly, Joseph is relaxed and breathing easy. 

Inside, there isn't much internal thought beyond alarm bells and a hysterical idea to put his arm around Slade like a fucking high schooler. 

Rather than act on that particular urge, drinks his drink and keeps his eye locked on the television, hoping Slade can't hear his heart beating against his ribs like a drum. It's stupid. It's a head on his shoulder. But between that and all the kisses and the— the times he'd gotten Slade off against him, and the way Slade looked at him sometimes— it painted a very vivid image. On tonight of all nights. 

He swallows heavily and tries not to be a fucking creep, Slade's scent starting to seep into his sweater, the crown of his head an inviting spot to just turn, just a little, and rest his chin there. Joseph frowns at the television, not hearing a damn word, and only drags his attention from the body beside his when the crowd gets a lot louder, and the countdown's started. 

Joseph rings in the new year with champagne in a chipped coffee mug, his dead son asleep upstairs, his best friend sitting across from him and Slade's mouth mysteriously on his. Warm fingers cradle his jaw, Slade pushed up just enough to dip his tongue in and make it count. 

Joseph nearly spills his champagne, and kisses back as soon as his mind catches up with the rest of him. Slade breaks first, grinning against his mouth, a quiet laugh under his breath, infectious. 

"Happy new year." Slade says, eyes bright, and then promptly sinks down again. Tucking himself up against Joseph's arm like he belongs there. 

"Happy new year." He murmurs in reply. 

"You, too." Billy grunts. 

"Feeling left out?" Slade drawls, cocking his head. "Want a kiss, Billy?" 

"I'm quite alright." He barks a laugh, lifting his mug to grin into it like an idiot. Joseph stamps down the embarrassed edge in his chest at that. 

It's certainly one thing to kiss Slade, touch him on this very same couch — and fuck if that doesn't make his skin heat perpetually — but it's definitely another with someone baring witness to it. A new layer of real on top of everything else. 

From Billy's amused look, he doesn't seem to mind, at least. 

Joseph looks from him, down to the crown of Slade's head, hair curled at the edges and soft enough to bury his fingers in.  Listens to the faint pops of fireworks, and gathers his measly courage just enough to lift his arm and place it over Slade's shoulder, tugging him in close.  

It's Slade's turn to freeze, a tense line of muscle against him. And then just as quickly, he relaxes, sipping at his drink. 

Billy elects to sleep on the couch, which seems like a smart choice. He's definitely drunk, which is a change from his own Wintergreen, who has consumed enough whiskey over the years to seem immune to the effects now. This Billy flops into the couch with a blanket and slurs a quick goodnight, eyes heavy and unfocused, out like a light before Joseph's even finished collecting all the bottles. 

Slade's not drunk, but he's pretty damn tipsy, and makes the smart choice to let Joseph carry all the breakables. As open as Slade is usually, this is definitely a new side, easy and relaxed and has no problem with putting his hands on Joseph. 

For the most part, he ignores it, busy setting beer bottles and half-finished mugs of drink on the counter without making too much noise. Slade touches his arm, wraps his hand around Joseph's elbow, and when that isn't enough, an arm around his waist. 

"You okay?" Joseph asks, when Slade just leans against him. 

"I'm good." Slade murmurs. Sets his head on Joseph's shoulder briefly. "You?" 

"Good." Joseph agrees. "Tired?" 

"Something like that." Slade hums, and then rubs his cheek against Joseph's shoulder like a fucking cat, and there's a hand sliding down his forearm to link their fingers and— 

And he's said it before. If he's looking out for it, he can tell when Slade's— when he wants— Joseph stares a little blankly at the bottles all lined up neat, heat rising under his skin. 

"Want to go to bed?" He finally asks, mouth stuck together like glue. Slade's hand squeezes his. "You sure?" 

"You don't want to?" 

"Didn't say that." Joseph mutters. "Just want you to think about it." 

"I am." Slade drawls. "A lot. You want to?" 

He squeezes Slade's hand back, making a soft noise of agreement. Why the fuck not. Once in a lifetime chance, he supposes. But that's not quite it, either, when he pure and plain wants to. When he's been avoiding the thought of it for what feels like so long, pushing it to the back of his mind, never lingered on because it had felt a little impossible. 

Apparently, not as impossible as he'd thought. 

"Yeah," he finally murmurs. Nearly rolls his eye at the way Slade tips his head back and grins, mouth red and wet, more than easy to lean in and kiss him slow, tasting alcohol and Slade. 

The drinks haven't done much to Joseph, a peculiar little difference in their enhancements, but he feels drunk and dizzy the longer he kisses Slade, walking him back a few steps in the quiet kitchen. It's fucking heady, swiping his tongue against Slade's and knowing it's all for him, just for tonight. 

Just as long as he's here— 

Joseph cuts that thought off almost immediately, biting down on Slade's lip with a low noise in his chest, fingers still linked together. Slade's thumb runs along the back of his palm in soothing, slow motions, breaking their kiss long enough to catch his breath and say, "Upstairs. Now." 

He follows where Slade pulls him, more focused on capturing his mouth again halfway down the hall, and on the second step of the stairs, manages to get his hands under Slade's shirt when they're on the landing, all hot skin and that particular flavour on his tongue that he wants more of now that it's been offered. 

Finally having it— all of Slade, it's fucking intoxicating and not at all where he thought this trip would end, but he finds he doesn't care. When he's home, it won't matter, and he may as well take what he can while he's got it. 

Slade's sturdy when Joseph presses him against the nearest wall, breathing turned heavy, but he kisses back twice as hard, buries his other hand in Joseph's hair and drags him down hard. Bites back on Joseph's mouth, a hint of strength he's barely demonstrated, and rolls his hips against Joseph's hip with skill. 

"I said." Slade murmurs between kisses. "Bedroom. C'mon, let's go." They're about two feet from the room and it feels so very far, the urge to turn him around and fuck him right then and there against the wall nearly overwhelming.  

If they were entirely alone, he would. Make Slade come apart, up on his toes and full of his knot— 

He growls lowly and drags himself away, taking Slade by the hand. 

"Finally." Slade mutters, stumbling behind him. "Thought we'd never get here." 

He agrees, but it hardly needs saying. Getting here hadn't crossed his mind four weeks ago with Joseph throwing up in the snow, hollowed out and wrecked, Slade a stranger. He pauses at the foot of the bed, sheets unmade, smelling faintly of the both of them. 

It registers as their bed. He wants Slade in it. 

Beside him, Slade kicks off his socks, and fumbles with his shirt, which is a good direction, a very good direction. Perfect, even. He grins when Joseph's hands knock his out of the way, tugging his shirt off, working on his pants instead. 

"In a hurry?" Slade asks, voice hushed. 

"Don't turn into a brat." Joseph mutters. "Not cute." Too busy putting his hands on Slade's skin, palms splayed wide on his sides, up his ribs. There's no scars, no marks. All healed, his skin smooth and soft, giving easily when Joseph tugs him closer. 

Slade leans into him easy when Joseph leans down and sets his mouth on his throat, sucking a bruising mark into the skin there. It won't last, but it is a nice thought. Mark him up for real, with teeth and saliva, even if there's no one around to recognize it. Joseph would. 

He'd know, and Slade would, and that's what would matter. He scrapes his teeth over the thundering pulsepoint in Slade's neck and digs his nails into his hips, his mouth heated and practically buzzing with the urge to sink down into a few baser urges. 

Slade tips his head back for easier access, occupied with getting his hands on Joseph's clothes. Cool air hits his overheated skin as Slade tugs his shirt halfway up his chest, dragging his nails along the ridges of his abdomen, skating past healed scars. 

He can't help a shiver at the light, teasing touch, pausing with his teeth around the jumping tendon in Slade's neck. His shirt gets unceremoniously shoved up a little further, Slade's fingers finding the claw marks across his chest, tracing them out blindly. 

He hopes he doesn't ask. Hopes he moves on, a conversation they don't need to have. 

Thankfully, he does, and busies himself with both pushing Joseph back a few steps and getting a handful of his chest, mouth curved in a wicked smile when he drags Joseph's mouth over for a filthy kiss. The bed's close, and he hits it after a few more steps, more than glad to collapse on the edge and drag Slade down with him. 

Slade's on his lap for only a moment, long enough to really drive home how fucking hard they both are before he's pushing up onto his knees, taking Joseph by his jaw for a claiming kiss, hands rough. With nothing else to do except tip his head back and take it, his hands slide along Slade's hips, down to the curve of his ass, firm muscles tense. Slade makes a breathy noise against him when Joseph digs his fingers in with a growl. 

It takes a little strength, but he manages to yank him back down, Slade groaning when Joseph grinds him down, barely any friction with so many fucking layers. Slade seems to agree, working on Joseph's shirt again, enough to tug it over his head and throw it somewhere behind them, finally pressing bare skin to his. 

Joseph feels like he's burning up, like he's in the middle of a second rut, like he's going to go fucking mad if he doesn't get them as close as he can. Drags Slade in real close and lets him circle his hips down on his cock, perfect friction that sends sparks up his spine. Better than his rut, or that time on the couch, or any of the times Slade's driven him to hardness. 

This time's different. This time he can hook his fingers into Slade's pants and start yanking them down, shove his hands in where he can reach and grip him hard enough to bruise. This time he can bite at Slade's jaw and bury his nose against his pulse and rock his hips up, chasing that feeling, pushing them both a little further. 

"Fuck," Slade gasps, sounds wrecked already. His fingers spasm in Joseph's hair, muscles wound tight. "Gonna come now if you don't— don't fucking stop." 

"Good." Joseph replies, voice rough, just as fucking wrecked. He sets the pace, and Slade lets him, rocking their hips harshly, and it's not quite enough to get him off but it works just fine on Slade. 

Slade who makes obscene, muffled noises. Who doesn't fight when Joseph grinds him down with a punishing grip, hard enough it must hurt, wringing pleasure out of every nerve for the both of them. Slade who shakes apart in his hands so fucking perfectly after a few quiet, hurried minutes, thighs spread wide and a broken noise in his throat. 

He pants against Joseph's shoulder when it's over, pliant and boneless, skin starting to turn damp and sweat-slick. 

"You okay?" Joseph murmurs, mouth buried in the junction of his neck. Slade grunts. 

He waits as long as he can manage — not long at all — before he shifts, sliding an arm around Slade's waist tightly. It takes some maneuvering, but he ends up with Slade under him, center of the bed — their bed — and that feels… right. Feels good. How it should be. It settles something nervous and anxious in his chest when he brackets Slade in, hips buried between his thighs. 

"Better?" Slade mumbles, cracking an eye open, bright and blue, the corner of his mouth twisted. "You didn't come." 

Joseph snorts, leaning down to take his mouth again. "Wanted to come in you." His hands find Slade's hips again, drawn there like a magnet, lifting them a little to grind against. Slade hisses into his mouth, oversensitive. 

"Hurry up, then." Slade murmurs, attempting to kick out of his pants, going quiet when Joseph settles his weight on him from hip to collarbone. 

"You're really not calling the shots here." He murmurs back. Bites at Slade's bottom lip slowly, tugging gently. "Be quiet." 

As much as he likes Slade's mouth, and all the pretty noises that pour out of him, he's had enough of feeling two steps behind him. Under him, Slade's breathing gets a little quicker, flushed red down unmarred skin that Joseph drags his mouth across with a pleased hum. 

Slade lets him, fingers weaving into Joseph's hair, and arches up perfectly with a whine when Joseph begins tugging the last of his clothes off, finally fucking there for Joseph to drink in and feel, to put his mouth on, teeth scraping over the soft inside of his thigh. 

Despite his orgasm, Slade's still hard, cock an irritated red curved up against his stomach. Joseph takes his time, even if it becomes painfully obvious where he wants his mouth next, and suckles hickeys into perfectly unmarked skin. Laying his claim with every bite of teeth and hot, wet kisses until Slade's hips are rocking against air. 

The urge to sink his teeth into the tense muscle of his thigh is nearly overwhelming. Joseph pins Slade's hips to the bed instead, and finally puts his mouth where he wants, a choked noise writhing out of Slade's throat. He's hot and heavy against Joseph's tongue, careful with the sharp points of his teeth, and shudders beneath him as he sinks down, down, not quite able to take it all. 

It's been… a while. A very long while, in fact. He might be a little rusty, but Slade doesn't seem to notice if the way he groans and buries his fingers in Joseph's hair is any indication, fighting to buck up into the heat of his mouth. 

It's not anywhere close to full strength, and a simple warning growl has Slade's fingers trembling against his scalp, nails dug in. 

"This doesn't seem fair." Slade gasps. Joseph presses his tongue to the underside of Slade's cock heavily, a hot line of pressure. "Pretty sure this isn't fair." He mumbles. 

He sinks down again a few more times, working Slade up, and finally pulls off with a wet pop to say, voice thick and low, "Trust me, it'll be fair." 

More than, in his opinion. And it's hardly as if this is torture for him. The opposite, even, Joseph grinding his insistent erection against the bed as he slides a hand down to grip Slade and stroke his cock, mouth following behind. 

Oversensitive and overworked, Slade doesn't take long, but he does muffle his noises into a pillow when he arches up and comes again, Joseph's hand a tight circle around his cock, a light scrape of teeth to the soft crown, swallowing only when Slade's cock stops pulsing against his tongue. 

Slade looks all kinds of wrecked when Joseph drags himself up, panting hard, pillow in a death grip. A light sheen of sweat across his chest, hair tangled slightly at the tips, alcohol on the edge of his mouth when Joseph leans in close and dips in, slower and filthier than the last time. Unhurried as he blindly works open his pants, kicking them off with a huff, Slade's helping with a soft, pleased sigh. 

It's all kinds of flooring to finally be here, skin to skin, hands full of Slade, senses full of Slade. Nothing between them for once, and now that he has it— Joseph can't help hesitating. His kisses his falter and his hands slow, distinctly aware of his cock slotted in the sharp edge of Slade's hip, hard and dripping precome. 

"Wait," he mumbles. Exhales loudly, and then kisses Slade a little more anyway. He wants. Wants so damn bad, almost buzzing out of his skin with it, tenfold worse than his rut but so much more pleasant. "Wait, Slade—" 

"Shut up." Slade murmurs. "It's fine. It's okay." Kisses him back slow and lazy, palms cradling his jaw. 

"I think I need to explain—" He mumbles. 

"You really don't." Slade snorts. "I'm well aware that you're a bit… different. It's okay." He says it incredibly quietly, just for Joseph to hear. "I know what I'm signing up for." 

"I know, but—" He sighs. Looks down, between them. All their little differences piling up when they're pressed so close, no room for pretending. No amount of kisses and touches is going to cover up the littered scars, the failed bite. The place where his eye used to be, and the patch that hides it. 

In comparison, Slade's a blank slate. Joseph hasn't felt like one in a very long time. 

"If you don't fuck me." Slade murmurs, voice level. "I will go and fuck Bruce. Or Billy. Or the dildo in my closet." He finishes, eyebrow raised, serious enough it makes Joseph's mouth twitch. "I want you." 

"Sure you don't want that dildo?" Joseph tilts his head, distinctly aware of the heat rising under his skin, all the places they're connected. 

"Does my dildo have a knot?" Slade asks pointedly. "Lube's in the bedside." He adds.

He hesitates a second more, studying the sharp lines of Slade's face, the bruised edges of his mouth and the bright, blue of his eyes. And then he grabs the lube, popping the cap to spread a healthy amount over his fingers. 

The last time he'd fucked an alpha, they hadn't bothered with it. And it had been a long time since he'd had an omega. At this point, lube was as foreign as finally touching Slade, slick and cold between his fingers as he pulls back to sit on his heels. Slade helps — if he can call it that, when it makes his head white-out for a moment — by hooking a hand under his knee, pulling it toward his chest, throat bared and heart beating loud in the room.

On display, ready and waiting for him, all Joseph wants to do is bury his cock in him already. 

Slade's tight, tense when Joseph works his fingers in quietly, watching intently as they disappear inside. Burns hot on the inside, muscles trembling a little, and a gasp claws out of Slade's throat when he works a second finger in without a pause. 

It's a little intoxicating, seeing Slade open up for him, feeling as he relaxes inch by inch. Listening to the soft, quiet moans he makes, hips grinding down on Joseph's fingers in small, sharp movements. A shudder runs through Slade when Joseph's other hand joins his, pressing his thigh flush to his chest, drinking in the sight. 

He's so close, and the feel of Slade's heat around his fingers as he works him open is almost unbearable, cock heavy and aching between his thighs. It's probably a little too fast, a little too rough when he curls his fingers inside. Probably, but Slade moans for him anyway, head tipped back, starting to get hard again. 

He lasts until the muscle in Slade's thigh is jumping under his palm, his sounds turned a little more desperate. Slade grips the sheets tightly when he pulls out, clenching on nothing. Heat curls in Joseph's gut at the sight, quick when he slicks himself up, just enough that it won't hurt. 

"Want me to turn over?" Slade asks, breathing a little heavy. He lifts his head with a grunt, eyeing Joseph's hand as it works over his cock. 

He pauses, squeezes his cock, wringing little sparks of pleasure from his nerves. Splayed out under him, Slade looks fantastic, even if it is a little strange. He's no omega, and there's no need to do it how it's always done. They can do it like this— just them, bodies fit together perfectly, Slade's eyes on his. 

"Like this." Joseph murmurs, voice a little rough. "Want to see you." He adds, earning himself a slight smile. 

Slade's smile widens when he leans over and takes his mouth, shifting until they're slotted together, both of Slade's knees hooked on his shoulders. It's so good, all of Slade's body pressed to his, the noise in the back of his throat as Joseph lines up, the slight resistance as he pushes in. 

He expects more than there is. It doesn't take much for the crown of his cock to slip in, spreading Slade wide, a tight ring of muscle clenching around him. Hot is the only word for it, Slade's body working to accept him inch by inch, Slade's mouth gone slack against his. 

It feels like claiming, some deep-seated part of himself that purrs in satisfaction at that. Finally. He winds his hands in Slade's hair, brackets him in, and buries himself in Slade like he's made for it, one smooth stroke that has a choke clawing out of both of them. 

He stills, lungs burning a little, and feels Slade do the same as he adjusts. "You okay?" He finally asks, well aware that his voice is muffled in the sheets beside Slade's head, resting heavy on him. 

"Am I—" Slade breathes out shakily. "Am I okay?"  

Joseph grunts. Takes his answer when Slade's hands slide to his back, nails digging in sharply, and the knee hooked over his shoulder tightens slightly. 

"I'm folded in half and feel like your cock is in my— ah— don't move—" Slade clenches hard, breath stuttering to a halt, another round of pleasure licking up Joseph's spine. "I need a minute. Been a while." 

He nods slightly, turns his head to bury his nose under Slade's jaw, pressing lazy kisses there. "I'll wait." He mumbles, more than pleased to, enjoying the warmth and the closeness, the softness of Slade's hair between his fingers and the honey-sweet scent under aftershave and soap. 

"You better." Slade mutters, no real heat, and angles his head back for better access. 

He wonders, if Slade feels anything close to how he does. If it's a little overwhelming, and better than expected. If he feels carved open and filled up all at once, and the weight of Joseph inside him is like a bright point of focus. 

Bit by bit, Slade's grip loosens, no doubt leaving half-crescent marks on Joseph's skin. Leaving his own little marks, for however long they last. He scrapes his teeth over Slade's throat, nothing more than vulnerable, thin skin to protect him, and waits for Slade to finally start shifting under him. 

As much as he's able, anyway, when he's effectively pinned, filled to the hilt. Soft, broad hands slide into his hair, tugging slightly at the short strands, sending a little ripple of sensation down his neck. The first roll of Joseph's hips makes them both shudder, and the second makes him grind in all the way firmly. 

Slade's nails skitter over his hair, finding somewhere to hold, and he moans when Joseph pulls back, snaps his hips forward, perfect noises to drive him on. He doesn't plan to go hard, but the pace he ends up at is undeniably hard, sharp and heavy thrusts that make the sounds in Slade's throat stutter and falter, little half-bitten off words, along for the ride. 

He chases those noises, wants them as loud and clear as he can make them, all the small ways Slade's body responds to him. The arch in his spine when he circles his hips and hits that spot inside of him, and the harsh way Slade bites his own lip raw, the marks he leaves along Joseph's shoulders, somehow always staying clear of the spot across his nape— thoughtful even when he looks far gone, and it makes something hot like lava drip through Joseph's veins. 

He's too focused on Slade's body for long minutes to even realise he's responding in kind, the hold on Slade's hair a little harsh, the bite of his teeth over Slade's jaw possessive and hungry. The growl in his chest that climbs, and climbs, and climbs the closer he gets to falling over the edge. 

Every snap of his hips brings him that little bit closer, heat pooling under his skin, his mouth starting to buzz a little. He wants to bite, to claim. To keep. To stay. Wants Slade under him for as long as he can, filled with his cock, carved open wide on his knot and whining for it— 

"Want you—" Slade gasps, sounds wrecked, still hushed. Buries his mouth in Joseph's shoulder with a broken noise. "Want you to stay." 

The snap of his hips nearly drives Slade up the bed, cutting off anything else he'd planned to say. Joseph fights the urge to sink his teeth in with a snarl, pressing his lips to Slade's throat instead, harmless. God, he wants. 

"Joseph." Slade's breath stutters. "Please." His heels dig into the middle of Joseph's back, trying to hold him in but he's so close— 

"Yeah," Joseph replies, voice rough. Wants, wants, wants. Buried in Slade, all he wants is to stay. Never fucking leave. 

He drives into Slade again, and again, knot starting to swell and that tell-tale buzz under his skin as his orgasm approaches. Pins Slade down with all his weight and fucks him until he can't anymore, finally locked together, feeling Slade's walls tremble as he struggles to adjust. He's so fucking tight it makes Joseph's head white-out for a glorious second, panting against his throat like he's ran a marathon, every point of Slade's nails scraping his skin only adding to the overwhelming sensation. 

He groans, muscles locked tight, and tips over the edge. 

Joseph's never much believed in destiny— that's for crackpots and people far more romantic than him. But if asked, he's a little more open to it than he was a month ago. When Slade's body feels made for him, and the sounds of him coming down are better than anything, and a push of a button sent him here. Of all places. Of all universes. 

Here. 

Every pulse of his knot makes his nerve endings ache. Slade makes him ache. If he could, he'd get closer, sink his teeth in and claim him how he should. Here is where he ended up. Here is where he wants to stay  

Joseph makes a strangled cry against Slade's throat, rocks their hips together for lack of anything else to do, no other way to wring out the sensation and the restlessness and the need to move. He crushes the instinct to bite with hungry, sharp kisses, sucking a harsh bruise against his pulsepoint, mouth wet and pooling with saliva. 

Slade holds him through it, which feels a little wrong but— nice, too. Warm and gentle, only adding to the weightlessness of his orgasm, bringing him down with skilled fingers in his hair and the slow return to normal of his breathing. 

"You should stay," Slade murmurs, and Joseph can't help the crumple of his expression, the ache in his chest. "Want you to." 

It takes slow, quiet seconds for him to find his words, voice a little slurred. A little wrecked. "Want to." He nuzzles against Slade's throat, the safety there. 

Of course he wants to. And hearing it from Slade is like hearing the magic words. Smoothing out the ruffles and wrinkles with a few simple words. 

Slade's fingers card through his hair in soothing motions for the rest of it, lying in silence, seemingly comfortable to stay where Joseph's put him. It's nice, almost good enough to sleep to, his head a pleasant sort of empty. That racket in the back of his mind finally put to rest. 

They both feel it when Joseph's knot pops out, Slade hissing quietly, Joseph with a displeased sound in his chest. But it means he can rock his hips again through the last of his orgasm, Slade more than filled, his hole loose and tender when Joseph finally eases out, clenching down on air. 

He exhales shakily, moving only enough for Slade's thighs to slip down, peppering a few more kisses to his shoulder when he groans. Under him, Slade stretches out briefly, and then pushes at Joseph's chest until he tips onto his side. 

It's nice, the way Slade settles them down, this time tucked under Joseph's chin with a quiet sigh. He's lax and boneless when Joseph gathers him a little closer, slides his arm under Slade's head, nuzzling the crown of his hair. It's nice. He wants to stay. 

"Gonna sleep?" Slade murmurs. 

"Yeah." Joseph rumbles. There's no way he won't, when he feels equally boneless, finally settled inside too. When things feel so right, Slade curled against his chest, warm even without the comforter thrown over them. 

"Good," Slade mumbles. And then, even quieter, "Like your knot." 

A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly. "Thank you. Goodnight, Slade." 

Slade presses a kiss to his collarbone, mouth curved into a tired smile. "Night, Joseph."

Joseph wakes how he went to sleep. Wrapped up around Slade like a blanket, naked and comfortable. The soft scent of him is nice enough to stay right where he is, nose buried in the top of his head. 

He would. If his phone weren't ringing somewhere on the floor. Slade's right here with him, so it's not him, and that drastically narrows down the amount of people it could be. 

Billy's probably still sleeping off his drinks downstairs. The sun's barely peeking through the window, warming Joseph's back, scratches all healed. 

He knows what it is. He just doesn't want to answer it. 

Slade makes a displeased moan against his shoulder, starting to wake, and that's all the prompting Joseph needs to start untangling himself. Put some distance between them, as much as he hates it. Slade grunts, and turns onto his front, face buried in his arm. 

Miles of smooth skin, hickeys gone and whatever damage Joseph did to him all healed. The phone's still ringing, but Joseph just stands for a moment, watching him. He wants to crawl back into bed. Cover them both up. 

He bends to find his pants with a grunt, shuffling them on. The ringing stops, and then restarts not a moment later. 

"Joseph." Slade mutters. "Answer the damn thing." 

"Yes, dear." He replies, dry. Slade flips him off, and then tugs half the comforter over himself with a pitiful whine. If Slade were thinking — which he clearly isn't, tired and worn out — he'd be a lot more alert, and throw that phone at the wall. 

Joseph shuffles into the hall before he swipes to answer, voice rough but hushed on the landing when he answers. "What is it?" 

"Morning." Comes the reply, faintly amused. "Late night?" Bruce adds lightly.

"Figured you'd be… partying, or whatever it is you do." He says, shifting on his feet. With a wince, he gently shuts the door to their room, moving closer to the bathroom. 

"Retired a little early. Had a few things to take care of." Wayne says, barely suppressing a sigh. And then he's just— quiet. Barely even breathing loud enough to hear. 

"What is it?" Joseph asks, though he already knows in the pit of his stomach. Knows it like he knows his answer already. 

He doesn't want— 

"We got it." Wayne murmurs. Sounds so proud and so tired. "Last night. I thought you might appreciate having your celebrations, first." 

Joseph nods, though Wayne can't see it. Has to close his eye and lean against the nearest wall, some unfamiliar feeling crawling up his throat, hot and salted like tears. He inhales, and exhales. Feels like he's out there on the snow again in those first few nights, numb and shaking and thinking about Joey. 

Joey. 

Joseph holds the phone tight enough it might just crush in his palm. Crumble into little bits of metal and plastic. And Wayne's voice would stop rattling off a time and a place, and the game plan, and how they got it. He's going home. 

"Joseph," Wayne says, a little softer. "Did you catch that?" 

"Yeah, I got it." He says. He sounds normal, like nothing is wrong in the world. His hands are trembling. His stomach is churning. When he opens his eye, it's the same hallway with the same occupants and Joseph is going home. 

"You still want to go through with this?" Wayne asks. 

"Yeah," he murmurs. Can't keep his head up anymore, guilt curling in his gut like a snake, wrapped around his insides. "Sure. Let's do this." 

"Alright." He agrees, and then promptly hangs up. No pleasantries and no goodbyes. 

Joseph fucking wishes he had that luxury. 

With the call over, he pockets the phone and simply leans against the wall for quiet, thoughtless minutes. Soaking up the acid in his throat, making peace with all his stupid, reckless choices. A fucking button, and he's left here, feeling hollowed out and empty. 

Across the hall, his son is asleep. Stayed up late to ring in the new year, too little and too innocent to manage. Tucked into bed by another man. Another him. Not his son— but he wishes it were. 

Much like the first time he'd seen him, unable to say hello, to even look at him without feeling nauseous, all angelic features and soft, bright curls of hair, he's not sure he can say goodbye either. 

Not again. 

There's a faint thump next door, muffled curses. There's Slade opening the door in last night's pants, hair tangled, missing all of the marks Joseph left on him, that little claim gone. Left behind last night, along with— 

With what was ultimately a fantasy, and nothing more. Alone, just the two of them. Pretending they could be something else. Pretending Joseph belonged between his thighs, pressing feverish kisses to his mouth.

"Hey," Slade says, voice hushed. Looks Joseph up and down a little frantically. "What was that." 

He'd lied, last time. This time, he straightens out, looks at a point on the carpet with furrowed brows. "Wayne called." He says. Drags his gaze up, Slade's face careful, paused somewhere between hopeful and lost. "They got it." 

"Oh." He says, incredibly quiet. Stares back at Joseph, neither of them wanting to say it first. 

It's certainly a rude awakening, if nothing else. He looks tired. Joseph wants to kiss him, small kisses to his mouth and his cheeks, and usher him back to bed. Curl up under the comforter until Joey wakes. 

"I need to go." Is what he says instead, voice level but firm. He watches Slade's throat work, expression still stuck in-between emotions. 

"When?" Slade replies. His hand flexes on the door handle, tense.

"Said to meet in a few hours." Joseph chews his tongue for a second. "Are you coming?"

A flinch crosses over him, quickly replaced by a calmer sort of expression. Clearer. Hiding. Joseph fights the urge to frown. "Of course I am." He says, and then heads back into the bedroom, leaving Joseph alone in the hall. 

He follows, dragging his heels a little, and finds Slade in the middle of rooting around his closet. Even without saying anything, the air is thick with Slade's displeasure. His anger. 

"Looking for that dildo?" He asks lightly, and knows the moment he says it, it's the wrong thing. Slade freezes and the room drops about ten degrees. Joseph shifts on his feet, not sure how to— what to say, or how to fix it. 

How to make Slade not mad, when he doesn't want to leave it like this. 

"I don't know." Slade finally replies slowly. "Might need it in the future." 

"Slade."

"Joseph." 

"Will you—" He sighs. "Will you look at me?" He still doesn't, staring at the contents of his closet, shoulders drawn up tight. He looks geared for a fight, and they haven't— they've not had that in quite a while. "Please." 

When he speaks next, Slade's voice is a little like ice, sharp. "Did you know?" 

"Did I—" 

"Don't bullshit me." He snaps, somehow still quiet, aware of Joey in the other room. "You don't look surprised." He does turn to look at Joseph then, a shirt balled up in his hands, eyebrows tugged in close. "So did you know?" 

"Yes." He frowns, has to force himself to meet Slade's eyes. "Last time Wayne was here, they'd made some progress. And I— Slade, you can't get pissed off because I wanted to forget about it for a while." 

"You let me think—" He bares his grit teeth, and then somehow manages to angrily put on a shirt. "I thought you wanted to stay." 

It's his turn to bare his teeth, swaying on his feet a little closer. "I do. I didn't lie about that." 

He does. He does. He just— can't. 

Very briefly, Slade looks a little broken. And then his face hardens. "But you want to go, too." 

"You would, too." Joseph mutters. "I'm missing so much here, Slade. Ever since I got here, I have had to fight every instinct, I have had the worst rut of my life, I've been alone, and I have to—" He grits his teeth, throws up his hands and thinks about putting a hole in the nearest wall. "I have to look at you. With him. Every day." 

Slade opens his mouth, so ready to argue, and then closes it with a soft clack of teeth. Looks so defeated for a moment, the two of them watching each other, waiting. 

It's Slade that breaks first, bringing a hand to his face. Scrubbing at his eyes with a huff. "You're alone there, too." He murmurs. "I'm not stupid." 

Better than here, he wants to say. But that's not quite true, either. He has no fucking clue where he wants to be, when everything here is so familiar but different at the same time. Inside, he feels a little torn apart, pulled in both directions.  

"I want you to stay. You could. We'd figure it out." Slade murmurs, squeezing the bridge of his nose before he deflates, sighing. "But not if you don't want to be." He finishes. 

"I didn't lie, last night." Joseph bites out. "I meant it. But I can't—"

"I know." Slade cuts in, soft. "You can't." 

He turns, rummaging through the closet again until he finds another shirt, throwing it Joseph's way lightly. 

"Get dressed. I'll wake Billy." 

He's killed countless people, done terrible things for money. Caused so much misery. And none of it comes even close to the kind of monster he feels like, looking Slade in the eye as he tells him he wants to leave before Joey wakes. 

He's so quiet. Just looks at Joseph with resignation, murmurs his agreement, and leaves his coffee on the kitchen counter to go slip his suit on under his clothes. 

It's a cowardly move. 

All the more proof he doesn't deserve to be here. That he can't stay. Joey doesn't need him in his life. It's Joseph that needs Joey. 

He's better off — more than — with Slade. At least he's got the courage to say goodbye when he needs to. At least he still visits Grant. 

Joseph empties their mugs into the sink, scrubs them clean, and means to meet Slade at the car before he's stopped by Billy leaning through the living room doorway. 

"A moment?" 

Joseph frowns. "If you're going to tell me to stay—" 

"I'm not that foolish." Billy mutters. Takes Joseph's arm and drags him into the room, mouth set in a thin line. "Can't say goodbye to a good friend?" 

"Billy." He grumbles, allowing himself to be drawn into a firm hug. It's a little strange— they're not the hugging type, and Joseph's too tall, but it's good too. A small reprieve from Slade's coldness. 

He smells faintly of champagne and aftershave, and pure Wintergreen that makes him ache for the one he knows just a little. When he gets home, he has no idea if he'll even see him. If he even noticed Joseph was gone. 

He hugs Billy back, squeezing tightly. "Don't let him do anything stupid." He mumbles. 

"I'm not a miracle worker." Billy laughs. He's smiling, ever so slightly, when they part, both of them straightening out. "But I'll do my best. You take care, too." 

"I'll try." Joseph ducks his head, nodding. "See you around, Billy." 

"Same to you." He replies, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

As ever, Slade has impeccable timing, leaning into the room. "You ready?" 

"Yeah, coming." Joseph grunts. He gives Billy one last nod, and then follows on Slade's heels, pausing at the foot of the stairs for only a second.

He could go upstairs. Press a kiss to Joey's forehead. Catch his scent one last time. He wouldn't even wake. 

"Let's go." Slade murmurs, halfway out the door. There's a crease between his brows, and his heart's beating so loud. But his hand is outstretched too, waiting on Joseph. 

An offering. 

He hesitates, and then takes it, Slade's warm fingers enveloping his in a firm hold. He leads him out into the cold, and then to the car, and starts it in silence. Pulls out and puts the house in their rearview. 

Joseph feels— nervous. Nauseous. Excited and terrified. So damn guilty he could be sick. He puts his sight on the windshield, jumping slightly when Slade's hand lands on his thigh, squeezing through the layer of fabric. 

"I'm not pissed off." Slade murmurs, his eyes also on the road. "I had a good time." 

"Me too." Joseph agrees, the words falling from his mouth quietly. 

"Good." Slade squeezes his thigh again. "I'm glad." 

He kind of prays for a car crash. For Wayne to call and delay. A little more time to sit in silence with Slade and feel his thumb running over his thigh, listen to him curse at red lights, watch the snow turn to slush under car wheels. 

But it's just a car ride to the outskirts of Gotham, and it's over before Joseph knows it. He climbs out of the car in silence, stomach in knots, soothed only a little when Slade rounds it to stand by his side. 

It's an empty road, near the county line, nothing and nobody for a long while. But it's where they were meant to be. 

"He said here, right?" 

"Yeah." Joseph frowns. 

"Okay." Slade chews his lip. "So we just wait?" 

"Guess so." 

Slade shifts on his feet, dirt and gravel crunching under his boots, a little restless. Joseph looks up, not much to see besides grey skies and a hint of rain soon, Gotham at it's finest. 

"I'm—" Slade cuts himself off as soon as Joseph looks at him, mouth twisted. The smile he gives him is complicated. "I'm gonna miss you. Joey is." 

"I know." Joseph murmurs. "I will, too." 

He's so close. More than close enough to lean in and kiss that confused smile from his mouth, slow and savouring. A little echo of the night before. Slade kisses back like he means it, and that little thought digs itself into his ribs, refusing to let go. 

"I see you've been busy." 

Joseph nearly feeds Wayne his teeth. Slade's hand on his shirt holds him steady, keeps them close. "How the—" 

"Same way you're getting to the Watchtower." Wayne says, practically strolling up to them. It's a damn good thing the road's deserted, too, Wayne in the suit with the cape and the cowl and the glowing, white lenses. "Boom tube." 

Slade's fingers tighten in his shirt. "How long have you been standing there?" 

"Long enough." Wayne shifts slightly. "Ready?" 

"As I'll ever be." Joseph nods, stepping out of Slade's hold. "We going now?" 

"He's coming?" Wayne asks lightly, nodding in Slade's direction. 

"You can't stop me." Slade bites out. It's a little odd, seeing him hostile to Wayne for once. Feels like they've flipped for a moment, a hard edge in Slade's eyes as he shifts stances. "I'm coming with." 

"Just asking." Wayne replies placatingly. 

He explains how the boom tube works, even if it does feel like the dumbed down, shorthand version of things. And then he smirks slightly, and Joseph's entire stomach feels like it's going to crawl out of his mouth, the world flipped on its head. 

Slade groans. Joseph blindly holds onto his shoulder in a death grip, doubled over as the world stops spinning so fucking much. 

"You get used to it." Wayne informs them, more than amused. When Joseph looks, he's upright and still fucking smirking, not worse for wear in the slightest. 

"Hate you." Slade mutters. Looks a little pale when he straightens out, unfastening the top button on his shirt. "That fucking sucked." 

It did. 

But it also felt familiar. 

He's felt that before, and it sends his heart thumping against his ribcage, an electric shiver down his spine. Close enough he can taste it. Home. 

He looks to Slade, mouth set. "You okay?" 

"I'll be fine." Slade grunts. He collects himself quietly, and follows when Wayne leads them down a white hallway, and then another, all windowless rooms and it hits him quietly that he's in space. 

Fuck travelling universes. He's in space. It stops him for a brief moment, the shock of it on top of everything else. It's only Slade's hand on his wrist that gets him moving again, dragged along until Wayne stops at a door and punches in a code about twelve digits too long. 

"After you." Wayne murmurs, stepping aside. 

He drags his heels. It's Slade that tugs him along. Head held high, shoulders back. How he's managing it, Joseph's got no clue, strength in the line of his spine and the sharpness of his eyes. Compared to that, he feels a wreck. A coward, through and through. 

"Where is everyone?" Joseph asks, surprised when his voice comes out clear and steady. 

"I thought you might appreciate not having an audience." Wayne shrugs lightly, following close behind. "And I'm fairly sure they're all sleeping off hangovers." 

He's not sure what he's expecting to walk into, but the room is fairly… plain. A bunch of white desks, two computer terminals in the corner. A small, metal box held in place on the furthest desk, and a duffel bag most likely containing his things, beside it— 

He nearly feeds Wayne his teeth again. 

"You think you're funny?" Joseph snaps. 

"Only a little." Wayne replies, dry. "It's a design that serves its purpose, nothing more." 

At least this button won't fuck up his life more. He hopes, anyway. It's shiny and scarlet, drawing his attention no matter how far he turns to face Wayne to watch him tap away at the computer in silence. 

Slade looks at it, too. The grenade in the room. His ticket home. Something in his chest tugs horribly at the sight, drawing him in close. 

"Don't touch it." Wayne mutters. "It's not ready yet." 

"I wasn't going to." He throws back, ignoring the fact that his hand was itching to reach out. To feel it for himself, no longer an elusive idea of going home. Real and touchable. 

"Joseph," Slade murmurs, having moved over to his side. Close enough he can catch his scent, can see the way his breathing has turned stiff and measured. 

"Yeah." He nods, slightly. There's not much else to say. They've said it all. That salt taste is back in his mouth, crawling up his throat when he looks at Slade, commits his face to memory. 

His face, but different. So much more different than he'd realised when he first arrived. Him, but different. 

He offers him a slight smile, trying for reassuring, and Slade matches it ever so slightly. The fingers on his wrist slide down to take his hand, lacing their fingers tightly. 

"Say hello to Wintergreen for me, yeah?" He asks, smile faltering. "Go buy a house, too." 

"I like the loft." He grumbles. 

"You'll like the house more." Slade squeezes his palm. "Trust me." 

Behind them, Wayne clears his throat, Joseph moving only enough to accommodate him at their side. Keeps Slade's hand in his, because he's pretty sure its the only reason he's not trembling like a fucking leaf. 

"Ready to go." Wayne says, head tilted toward the button. "Whenever you are." 

"You sure its safe?" Joseph asks, mouth twisted. He grabs the duffel, slinging it over his shoulder. 

"I'd go through with you, if it'd make you feel better." Wayne offers lightly. "You'll be fine, Joseph." 

"Sure." He agrees. It'll be fine. Or it won't, and he'll— he'll do this all over again with a different universe. 

But he's pretty sure it won't be the same with a different Slade. 

He inhales heavily, feeling Wayne's gaze like a physical weight at his side, but turns his head to look at Slade instead. Makes sure it's what he sees when he lets go of his hand. Bright, blue eyes and too-long hair, staring back at him when he presses that big, red button again. 

And just like that, he's gone, and Joseph feels— Joseph feels nothing, for a blinding moment. There's nothing, and then it hits him all at once. The pain, the nausea. The dizzy, unsettled feeling in his bones. 

There's asphalt and dirt under his palms. Cold, bitter rain on his back, puddles soaking into his knees. He breathes out through his mouth, waiting tense, terrifying moments for the sick roiling in his stomach to pass. An inhale tells him all he needs to know, scents filtering in, so long since he last experienced it. 

He's finally home.