Chapter Text
The restaurant was called L'Ombre et la Rose—Shadow and Rose, which was either ironic or intentional, Jason couldn't decide.
It sat at the top of the tallest building in a city that was definitely not Gotham. Somewhere in Europe. Somewhere romantic. Somewhere Bruce had clearly chosen because he thought nobody would follow him there.
They had followed him there.
"Remind me again why we're doing this?" Duke whispered, pressed flat against a rooftop ventilation unit approximately fifty feet from Bruce and Slade's private table.
"Because Dick would have come anyway and we need to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," Tim whispered back.
"I'm right here," Dick hissed.
"Exactly."
The view was stunning. The terrace was draped in fairy lights and climbing roses, candles flickering on every table, the city skyline spread out behind them like something from a postcard. A string quartet played somewhere in the distance—live music, because of course Bruce had hired a live string quartet.
And there, at the center of it all, was Bruce.
In a dress.
Jason's brain had stopped working approximately forty-seven minutes ago and had not yet restarted.
The dress was black. Dark as sin, dark as the space between stars. It clung to Bruce's frame like it had been painted on, silk and linen twisting together in patterns of brier roses and metal thorns. The neckline plunged—plunged—showing off the sharp lines of his collarbones and the controlled grace of his posture. The back was open, a wide expanse of pale skin that caught the candlelight and glowed.
His hair was loose, dark waves tumbling past his shoulders (SINCE WHEN DID HE GROW HIS HAIR???), half-pulled back to frame a face that was unmistakably soft. Unmistakably happy.
Jason had never seen Bruce look like that.
He wasn't sure Bruce could look like that.
"Jay," Stephanie whispered, nudging him. "Jay, you're crying."
"I'm not crying."
"There are tears on your face."
"It's allergies."
"There are no plants up here, Jason."
"The emotional allergies, Steph. It's a thing."
Across from Bruce, at the same candlelit table, sat Deathstroke.
Except he wasn't Deathstroke right now. He was... Slade. Just Slade. In a perfectly tailored dark suit, silver-streaked hair brushed back from his face, eye patch replaced with some kind of smoked-glass lens that caught the light. He looked distinguished. He looked handsome.
He looked at Bruce like Bruce had hung the moon.
"Oh no," Tim muttered, watching through his binoculars. "Oh no."
"What?" Dick demanded. "What is it?"
"They're... they're looking at each other. Like. Looking."
"What does that mean?!"
"It means the way Dad looks at Alfred's cookies. But worse."
"Cookies?! Tim, this is my father—"
"Shh! They're doing something!"
Bruce reached up. Unclasped something from around his neck—a necklace, Jason realized, a delicate chain with a heart-shaped pendant.
He held it out to Slade.
Slade took it. Opened the pendant like a locket. And inside, nestled in black velvet, was the ring.
The black diamond with rubies.
The proposal ring.
Bruce had kept it.
Bruce had kept the ring Deathstroke gave him and turned it into a necklace.
"Oh my GOD," Duke said, and his voice cracked on the oh.
"They're sharing," Cassandra signed, and her hands were shaking. "They're sharing a promise."
"Cass, what—"
"The ring. She knows—" Cassandra's hands moved faster, almost frantic. "He said no to marriage. But he kept the ring. Put it on his heart. This isn't rejection. This is more."
Slade closed the pendant. Strode around the table. And very, very gently, fastened the necklace back around Bruce's neck.
His hands lingered on Bruce's shoulders.
Bruce turned in his chair, looking up at him.
And the way Bruce looked—
"Oh," Stephanie breathed. "Oh, that's real. That's not—that's not fake. That's real."
Slade's hands moved to Bruce's waist. Bruce stood, turning fully into him. Their foreheads touched. Eyes open, staring into each other like they were reading something written in stars.
Bruce cupped Slade's face.
And kissed him.
Not like before. Not the frantic, public, "we-just-broke-the-internet" kiss from the proposal.
This was slow. Tender. Private, even though they were in public, even though anyone could see—
Slade pulled Bruce closer, one hand splayed across his bare back, the other cradling the back of his neck. Bruce's arms wound around Slade's shoulders, fingers threading through silver hair.
They stayed like that.
One moment. Two. A small eternity.
When they finally pulled apart, Bruce was smiling.
Not the Brucie Wayne's smile. Not the slight twitch of Batman's lips that might indicate something resembling satisfaction.
A real smile. Small. Soft. Human.
"You know," Slade said, and his voice carried across the terrace, low and rough and fond. "We could just tell them we know they're there."
Bruce laughed.
Laughed.
"Oh no," Dick whispered.
"THEY KNOW?!" Jason hissed.
"They've probably known the whole time," Tim said, grimly. "Bruce always knows."
"THEN WHY DIDN'T HE SAY ANYTHING?!"
"Because he's Bruce, Jason. This is probably entertaining for him."
Bruce turned slightly. Not enough to look directly at them—he was too professional for that, but enough that his profile caught the light, and they could see the amusement written across his face.
"We're not going to acknowledge them," he said to Slade, loud enough to carry. "They wanted to stalk us. They can watch."
Slade's visible eye crinkled. "Cruel."
"Practical." Bruce reached up, adjusting Slade's tie with practiced fingers. "They'll learn eventually."
"Will they?"
"Probably not. But I can hope."
He pulled Slade down for another kiss, shorter this time, but no less intimate, and then they sat back down at their table like nothing had happened.
The waiter appeared with wine.
The string quartet played something soft and romantic.
And fifty feet away, hidden behind various architectural features, the entire Batfamily stared in stunned silence.
"We're not going to talk about this," Tim said finally.
"Agreed," Duke nodded.
"Never," Jason added.
"Ever," Dick finished, and his voice was hollow. "We are never, ever going to talk about this."
"We're going to pretend it never happened," Stephanie agreed. "We're going to go home. We're going to bury this memory so deep that not even Batman can find it."
Cassandra signed something that looked suspiciously like I told you so, but nobody had the heart to argue.
They watched for another hour.
Not because they wanted to.
But because Bruce looked happy.
And maybe—just maybe—that was worth everything else.
---
+1: Bruce
(Or: Something Like Peace)
Later that night, much later, when the city had gone to sleep and the only lights were stars and distant streetlamps—
Bruce lay in a hotel bed that cost more than most people's apartments, wearing nothing but the necklace and soft silk sheets.
Slade's arm was draped across his waist, warm and heavy. His breathing had evened out, sleep pulling him under, but Bruce was still awake.
Watching.
Thinking.
The necklace rested against his chest, the pendant warm from his skin. Inside it, the ring. The promise. The choice.
He'd said no to marriage.
He'd meant it.
But he'd kept the ring.
Because marriage was forever. Marriage was promises. Marriage was everything Bruce had failed at, everything he'd run from, everything he'd watched burn.
But this—
This was different.
Slade didn't want to fix him. Didn't want to save him. Didn't want Bruce to be someone else, something softer, something easier.
Slade just... saw him.
The darkness. The violence. The need.
And stayed anyway.
Bruce turned his head, pressing his lips to Slade's temple.
"You're thinking too loud," Slade murmured, not opening his eyes.
"You're supposed to be asleep."
"You're supposed to be quiet."
Bruce huffed something that might have been a laugh. "The family was watching tonight."
"I know."
"They're terrified."
"I know that too."
"They think you're going to hurt me."
Slade's eye opened. Just a crack. The blue-green visible even in the darkness.
"Are you?"
"Are I what?" Bruce asked, confused.
"Are you going to hurt me?" Slade's voice was soft. Unguarded. The kind of voice Bruce had only heard in moments like this—dark hotel rooms, stolen hours, the space between missions. "Because you will, you know. You'll hurt me eventually. That's what this is. That's what we are."
Bruce was quiet for a long moment.
"Yes," he said finally. "Probably."
"Good."
"Good?"
Slade shifted, pulling Bruce closer, tucking Bruce's head under his chin like Bruce was something precious. Like Bruce was something worth keeping.
"At least we're honest about it," Slade said. "At least we know what we're getting into."
Bruce closed his eyes.
The necklace was warm against his chest.
The ring, the promise—hummed with something like hope.
"Slade?"
"Hm?"
"I'm glad you proposed."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because you kept the ring, Bruce." Slade's lips pressed to Bruce's hair. "And I know what that means."
Bruce didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
Outside, the city glittered. Distant and beautiful and theirs, in whatever broken way two broken people could claim something.
Inside, Bruce Wayne the Batman, the Dark Knight, the man who had spent his whole life running from anything soft—let himself be held.
And for the first time in a very, very long time—
He didn't want to run at all.
---