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He hears the bedroom door open before anything else but can’t make himself move from the comfort of their king size bed. It’s day three of laying in bed. He’s done absolutely nothing for the last seventy two hours except get up to use the bathroom after asking Jason to keep an eye on Blüdhaven. His phones been off since the text reached delivery status.
That’s really against the rules, the few rules that they’ve set. Regardless of if that’s Bats, Birds, or Mercenaries, he’s not supposed to cut complete communication. Especially since he refuses to disclose the location of the new apartment to Bruce or anyone but Jason. He’s been known to fall off the grid from time to time and when he comes back he’s always in worse shape than before. He should know by now the only way to help himself is to actually ask for help.
But what’s done is done now, Jason could have stopped by if he was really that worried but he didn’t. He knows what it’s like, holing up away from responsibilities and shutting the world out. Jason doesn’t ask questions after the initial text-or maybe it’s that Dick didn’t give him a chance to ask questions before he turned his phone off. Dick literally just hopes that Jason agreed to watch the city, if not he’ll deal with it later.
“Hey,” Slade’s voice is soft and for some reason it strikes a nerve in Dick for the first time in three days because he feels his throat start to burn from the force of keeping his tears at bay. “Dick?”
He’s been gone for a week. Dick didn’t ask questions this time and maybe that should have been a sign for him that things were getting bad again. He’s usually all over Slade trying to figure out where the Mercenary is going and what he’s doing and how dangerous the job is but this time he barely acknowledged the contract when Slade set it down in front of him and told him he’d need to leave for three weeks at least.
And then just like that he was unable to leave the bed. Not because he was physically incapable from an injury he sustained on patrol, but because mentally doing so felt like the hardest thing he’d ever have to face for the rest of his life. He couldn’t even find it within himself to send Slade a courtesy text saying he was turning his phone off. Instead, like a complete asshole, he just went awol and ghosted everyone. And he feels bad about it but not necessarily bad enough to turn his phone on and deal with sorting through the masses of concerned texts and calls he’s probably built up since then.
“You’re home early,” Dick whispers when the bed dips. His voice is rough from disuse and even to his own ears he sounds pathetic, like he’s just seconds from finally crying.
Slade hums, “I haven’t heard from you,” he says and rubs Dick’s thigh and hip over the blankets.“I’ve been worried about you. It’s unlike you to stop texting me about your day unless something is wrong and Jason said he hasn’t heard from you either.”
Dick pulls the covers up further over his head, “You didn’t have to come home and check on me,” he says, “I’m okay.”
“I think it’s a good thing I did,” Slade comments, “How long have you been here?”
Dick swallows, “Three days.”
“Dick,” Slade chastises quietly, “Why didn’t you call me? Have you gotten up at all?”
“I get up to pee and to feed Valentine,” he answers. The right side of the bed where Slade sleeps at least smells like his partner so it’s been slightly comforting.
“Have you been feeding yourself?” Slade moves his hand from Dick’s thigh to his back, “Truthfully.”
“No,” Dick whispers. Its not easy to admit but there’s no reason to lie to the man he lives with. Slade knows when he’s lying before he even says anything anyway.
“Have you eaten anything at all the last three days?”
Dick shakes his head, “I wasn’t hungry.”
“What about your medicine? Have you taken that?” Slade tugs gently on the blankets covering his head and runs fingers through his greasy black hair.
“No. I drank some water yesterday,” Dick mumbles, rolling over slightly to look at Slade. The mercenary shifts to accommodate his new position and tucks a leg underneath himself.
“Okay,” Slade nods, and Dick knows he’s reaching for something positive to say. “That’s a step in the right direction. I know it’s hard but I really need you to eat something.”
Dick sniffles, “My tummy hurts,” he says miserably. “I don’t want to eat.”
“Your stomach probably hurts because you haven’t been eating. Are you anxious about something? Did Bruce say anything to you that would have triggered this? I’ll kick his ass kid I swear.”
Dick wishes he could blame this on Bruce. And maybe at the root of it all, yeah, Bruce could be blamed for a lot of Dick’s issues. For the Daddy (Papa) kink, for the anxiety and depression, for the way he gets lost in cases and doesn’t care about anything but solving it. But right now Dick can’t blame his mentor because nothing but his own stupid chemical imbalance is to blame. And he’s making it worse on himself by just not medicating.
“I’m just sad,” Dick says finally. “I don’t know why. Nothing happened. I was really productive the past two days and then I couldn’t do it anymore.”
Slade takes one of Dick’s hands and kisses his fingertips, “Well I’m really proud of you for keeping yourself occupied and busy the beginning of this week. I’ll make you anything your little heart desires if you’ll eat for me.”
“Anything?”
“Anything of nutritional value, don’t ask me for a bowl of cereal,” Slade corrects. “The last thing you need to do is dump a bunch of processed sugar into your stomach after three days of not eating and not medicating.”
Dick sighs, thinks about what’s actually in the pantry and then looks over at the clock on the bedside table. “Today is Elvis Presley’s birthday,” he says looking back at Slade.
Slade raises an eyebrow. “Mhm it is,” he agrees, “Are you deflecting or going somewhere with this?”
“Can you make me a fried peanut butter banana sandwich?” Dick asks. “With bacon. Was that ever confirmed? That he actually likes bacon on the sandwich? Or is that just an assumption people made and it’s too late to back out of it now because diners make a lot of money marketing a sandwich as ‘The Elvis’?”
Slade kisses his teeth, “I don’t know the answer to that one but I can attempt to find out if you’d like me to.”
“No it’s okay,” Dick murmurs, “I don’t think it’ll keep me up at night if I just don’t know.”
“I hope not,” Slade says, standing up. “Do you want to try taking a shower while I make this for you?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” Dick says. “Can I come with you?”
“Absolutely.” Slade pulls the blankets back, “You can take a shower later if you want. For now let’s go brush your teeth at the least, that’ll be a good start.”
Dick hates the way he looks in the mirror when he enters their bathroom with Slade, hesitates when grabbing his toothbrush and just grimaces at himself. He looks terrible, bags under his eyes, his hair is limp and greasy, and his breath is three days stale. It’s all overwhelmingly pathetic and he can’t help the way his throat burns again and his eyes well up. This time he can’t stop himself from crying, a choked little sob that he’s unable to mask echoing in their bathroom.
Slade, whose been putting toothpaste on Dick’s toothbrush for him, looks up and at him through the mirror quickly accessing the situation with one calculating blue eye. “Hey tell me what’s wrong,” his voice is so soft right now.
“Sometimes I don’t know what you see in me because I hate myself a lot right now. I look yucky.”
“Who would I be if I couldn’t love you extra when you find it hard to love yourself? Come here, come be still with me for a minute.”
Dick goes easily when Slade pulls him to his chest and tucks his face against Slade’s neck. It’s a few minutes before he can get enough control over his emotions to mumble, “I love you too. You do so much for me and I wish I could pay you back.”
Slade sighs, “I hate seeing you so sad Grayson. If there was something more I could do for you I would. But we’ll keep going one day at a time. For now I still want you to brush your teeth. If you have to just stand in the doorway so you don’t have to see your reflection that’s okay.”
Dick does, leans against the door frame and brushes his teeth while Slade collects clean clothes for him to wear. Nothing more than fresh sweatpants, underwear, and one of Slade’s own T-shirt’s but it’ll definitely help him feel better if he’s not in the same sweaty shirt he’s had on.
Slade lets him spit in a cup and rinse with another, all without looking at himself in the mirror and then helps him get changed into fresh clothes.
“What if we washed your hair in the kitchen sink while I fry bacon for your sandwich? Do you think you can handle that?” Slade asks. “It’s okay to say no.”
And he wants to, god he wants to say no, but even something as simple as brushing his teeth and washing his hair will make him feel like his life is somewhat put together. So he nods and says, “I think I can handle that.”
“Good boy,” Slade praises and grabs a towel from the cabinets and Dick’s shampoo and conditioner. “C’mon, let me take care of you.”
Dick follows Slade out of the bedroom and to the kitchen where the older man sets the towel and shampoo and conditioner on the counter by the sink. He starts letting the water warm up while he grabs a package of bacon out of their fridge and lays a few strips out in a pan.
“Alright kid,” he says after washing his hands.“Let’s wash your hair.”
He’s compliant while Slade massages shampoo into his hair, taking care to keep it out of Dick’s eyes. Even rinses and repeats because Slade tells Dick constantly that repeating builds up a better lather in his shampoo and Dick’s never really cared enough to find out. But Slade’s right, of course he’s right, the second time Slade massages shampoo through his hair Dick can feel the difference in the damn lather.
He stops briefly after rinsing the second round of shampoo out to flip the bacon, and then he’s back, gently combing an even layer of conditioner through Dick’s hair with his fingers and rinsing that out as well.
“All done,” Slade shuts the water off and grabs the bathroom towel. He towel dries Dick’s hair and then murmurs, “Go put this in the washing machine for me.”
Dick does as he’s told and then comes back to the kitchen. Slade is leaning against the cabinets watching the bacon cook and opens his arms for Dick when he pops back in and Dick easily slots himself into Slade’s arms, melting a little against his chest and listening to his breathing.
“You a massive Elvis Presley fan?” Slade asks, rubbing Dick’s back.
“Not really. Bruce never listened to any Elvis that I can remember. And I’ve never had peanut butter banana on a sandwich before.”
Slade hums, “Might find you’re missing out on something really great.”
“Am I?”
“Well it’s not in my list of top five go to’s for dinner but I’ve eaten food a whole lot worse than fried peanut butter banana sandwiches in my military days. Tomorrow we’re eating a full meal. Good proteins, Good carbs that will last you. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Go get me some peanut butter.” Slade sends him off with a light smack to his ass and then turns to pull the bacon out of the pan and grab bread and a banana.
“Do you want sliced bananas or do you want your banana mixed in with peanut butter?” Slade asks when Dick returns with a jar of Peter Pan.
“How’s it supposed to be made?” Dick asks, looking up at him. “You’re the one whose eaten it before.”
“Do you want my opinion or do you want Elvis’s opinion?” Slade asks. “I’m not looking up how to make a sandwich. You’re getting slices unless you change your mind in the next five seconds.”
“Mushy has bad texture.” Dick pulls himself up to sit on the counter to watch the process. “I bought something but I’m not going to tell you what it is until later.”
“Should I be worried? Knowing you it’s probably secondhand,” Slade says turning around to grab butter out of the fridge. “Did you buy it from a goodwill?”
“I bought it at a dead woman’s house. Don’t worry I had it cleansed and blessed by a professional so there’s nothing scary about it. It’s haint free and I paid a hundred bucks for it.” Dick’s smile makes it hard for Slade to be upset but he knows he’s probably going to hate whatever it is Dick’s got himself into this time.
“Have you been eating peanut butter straight out of the jar again?” Slade asks, ignoring Dick’s previous statement for the time being.
“No!”
“Then why is it so separated...and wet?” Slade mixes it together briefly before spreading it onto two slices of bread. “Next time just spit in it. It has the same effect.”
Dick ignores him this time. Gets down instead and finds a can of wet cat food in the pantry to feed Valentine with. She’s quick about making herself known once she hears the snap of the pull tab, collar jingling when she runs down the hall and scales Slade’s counter tops.
Slade drops her immediately onto the floor. She knows better than to walk on the counter tops when he’s home. She’s most likely got free rein over the entire apartment when Slade isn’t home but he’d rather not think about it. Valentine is likable but she’s not that likable.
Tonight’s good enough for paper plates so he doesn’t have to do more dishes later and after he’s finished frying two sandwiches and Dick’s got Valentine fixed up, he starts the water again to wash the pan he used.
“Food, medication, water,” Slade drops a pill in Dick’s hand. “Go sit down, take both plates with you.”
“Do you want to watch The Human Centipede Two with me?” Dick asks from the doorway of the kitchen, Slade’s back already turned to wash the pan he used out.
“Absolutely not, poppet.”
“Okay,” Dick agrees easily, voice trailing as he gets further away. “Maybe something else.”
Something else isn’t any better Slade decides when he sits down on the couch next to Dick. His next pick is The Poughkeepsie Tapes, much milder than the human fucking centipede but disturbing nonetheless.
And peanut butter banana and bacon is definitely not Slade’s favorite but if he doesn’t eat Dick won’t eat so he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and settles back to watch Dick’s dumb movie and eat.
“Let’s roleplay,” Dick decides, sitting up. They’ve made it about halfway through the movie and Dick’s thankfully eaten everything on his plate. “I’ll be Cheryl Dempsey and you can be Edward Carver but I’m still gonna call you Papa.”
Slade pauses the movie, “let’s not and say we did. Why don’t you show me what you bought off a dead woman and had cleansed before you brought it into my house.”
“Oh! I forgot about that.” Slade settles back into the couch while Dick leaves the living room. It sounds like he goes to the bedroom and if he’s been hiding whatever this is in their bedroom Slade’s going to be pissed. Dick can say he cleansed something all he wants but until Slade sees it, he can’t trust its really been done all that professionally.
Dread pools in Slade’s stomach when Dick comes back down the hall with what looks like a large art frame. It’s turned around so he can’t see what it is yet but Dick’s design picks are never good.
“What is it?” Slade asks quietly, scared to find out.
And Dick turns around what has to the the ugliest Velvet Elvis Slade has ever seen. There’s no way to even describe it...the whole thing is just completely tacky. And perhaps the worst part is how the black velvet background that gives the stupid painting it’s name looks stained and grayed. Probably from cigarette smoke and some kid’s boogery fingers touching it to see how soft it actually was.
“I’m sensing a theme here,” Slade comments. He’s unable to put any enthusiasm in his tone this time, sometimes Dick has to know that he’s pushed Slade to his limit and anymore pushing will have disastrous results. “You paid a hundred bucks for that?”
Dick nods, “It was in her boudoir. Imagine masturbating below Elvis every night. Imagine fucking below the Elvis.”
“Imagine burning it.”
“No way Slade. I’m hanging this above our bed and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“What’s next? Mirrored ceiling tiles? This isn’t 1974, Dick, it’s okay to let the past go. I’ll even take you to Graceland if you get rid of it.” Slade really can’t relive the 70’s again, or the 80’s, or hell the 90’s either.
“Whatever. You aren’t going to stop me from doing this,” Dick shrugs and starts back towards the bedroom again. “I’m going to get my phone, start the movie again.”
Slade sighs, unpauses the movie and rubs his forehead. He feels a fucking migraine forming and he’s definitely going to blame it on Elvis Presley. Dick’s got absolutely nothing to do with this.