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The sound of running water and the hum of conversation filled Jason’s ears as he stood over the kitchen sink. Soap suds covered his hands as he washed the dishes. Outside, through the open window, a warm summer breeze tickled his hair. Sunset had already come and gone. Now, twilight had set in. Only a faint orange glow ringed the horizon.
They had a dishwasher, of course. Slade hated chores—excluding his obsessively detailed maintenance routine for his guns, armored suits, swords, etcetera, etcetera. Jason didn’t mind it. There was a certain peace in the rhythm of routine.
And besides, on a night like this? He was more than content with the mundane.
Rose, Joey, and Soren were playing cards at the dining table. It was actually just a game of house rules Uno, but with the tension of high-stakes Poker. Slade’s oldest three living children bickered and chattered, loud enough to drown out the music from Joey’s vintage vinyl spinning around on his record player. Mason Williams, Jason thought. They were at ease, laughing even when Rose cursed at Joey’s +4 card.
His pack’s warm scents filled Jason’s nose. Their own happiness made him smile as he set the last dinner plate on the drying rack.
“What a day,” Wintergreen said, leaning against the counter beside Jason. The beta of their pack looked older these days, but the warmth in his gaze was the same as it always was. “Congratulations, dear boy. This is a remarkable milestone.”
Jason glanced at the mostly eaten sheet cake still sitting on the counter. Orange and red, and themed around Winnie the Pooh. Joey had designed it as a surprise gift, flying it all the way home from an upscale bakery in Manhattan. Happy first birthday Blythe! He could still picture the colorful buttercream letters, and he smiled helplessly again. His child with Slade turned one year old today. His child. His daughter. It still felt like a dream even after all this time. If it was, then it was the best one that Jason ever had. “Thanks.”
“He’s fallen asleep on the sofa, him and the little one.” Wintergreen nodded to the couch, where Slade’s distinctive pure white hair shone against the cushions. “Go. Allow me to finish cleaning up. You both deserve the rest.”
“Thank you for everything, I’m grateful,” Jason said. He dried off his hands and turned to stand beside Wintergreen.
Wintergreen clapped him on his shoulder, smiling as broadly as any dignified old Brit could allow. “He’s happy with you. Happier than I’ve seen him for a long time. I’m grateful to you and the life you’ve built together—all of this, this is more than I could have ever asked for. I’m able to retire in peace, knowing he’s found his own.”
“Are you? Retiring, that is.”
“Not yet. I have a few good years left in me, and I want to finish my journal.”
(Wintergreen’s journal had been a work-in-progress for the past… three decades as he documented his globetrotting adventures with Slade.)
“But this, I feel, will be the happiest chapter I’ll ever write.”
Jason chuckled lightly. Whatever shitty 60s-era spaghetti western movie that Slade was watching played on their muted television. That high-stakes game of Uno continued at the table. “I agree with you on that one, Billy,” he said, and walked over to his mate.
If anyone had asked him just a few short years ago, Jason would have said that a future like this was a fantasy. He probably would have laughed at the idea. Good things and happy endings never happened to people like him. He would never get a taste of that life. But he had Slade now, their own child and Slade’s family, and the shaky foundations of peaceful familiarity with the Bats. This was more than he could have ever asked for.
Five years ago, Jason returned to Gotham as the Red Hood. Angry, bitter, fresh from the Lazarus Pit and Talia’s training, and completely fucking alone. A gangster called Black Mask was the top crime lord at the time. Desperate to keep his position and unable to defend himself, Black Mask struck a deal with Lex Luthor’s Society: three metahumans would assassinate the Red Hood. Deathstroke the Terminator would lead them. It didn’t work out, of course. It actually ended in a pretty spectacular failure for the Society.
That was the first time that he ever laid eyes on Slade. Deathstroke fought him on the roof of an abandoned apartment building until they came to a standstill, sweating and bleeding, their sharp teeth bared under their masks. Electricity sparked. Still, nothing happened that night. Not even a conversation. The could’ve-should’ve-would’ve ache of a missed chance haunted Jason until the very last moment with Batman. Slade found him in the rubble. Slade came back for him and never left. They built a life together: crime lord and mercenary together like they should have been that first night.
Now, Jason’s mate held their pup in his arms and everything in his life felt right.
“I can feel you staring,” Slade grumbled. He opened his one blue eye.
Slade was stretched out on their couch, reclined against the pillows, with his feet up on the coffee table. Casual clothing clung to his lean frame. Pure white hair had fallen in his face from his impromptu nap session. He scowled at Jason, looking no less like Deathstroke even with a one-year-old baby asleep on his chest.
Jason knelt down beside him on the couch, stealing a kiss from his familiar chapped lips. “Ready to tuck her in and call it a night?”
“That time already?” Slade hummed. He rested his hand on Blythe’s back, pressing a kiss to her little head. The smile on his lips revealed more than his grumpy exterior could ever hide. “Damn. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You are getting up in years, babe. Do you need a bedtime now too?”
Slade snorted, running a soothing hand through Blythe’s tresses. Like they had expected during his pregnancy, their daughter inherited his pure white hair, just like Rose and Soren did. But Blythe had Jason’s thick, curly waves and his eyes. Only time would tell if she got any of his other features, but Jason was certain that she got his nose. “Mind your manners, Little Alpha,” Slade drawled lowly, “I made you a father.”
“And I’m grateful.” Jason nuzzled his cheek, breathing in the scent of omega and milk. He touched their hands together as he listened to Blythe’s steady breaths.
Blythe hadn’t been planned. Jason never thought that he could be a father—not after his violent death, magic resurrection, and dip in the Lazarus Pit. No one came back whole from that. He resigned himself to that reality. Some things would always be out of his reach, no matter how much he wanted them. Slade had three children, and his pack welcomed him. They were enough. It had been a big surprise to everyone when Slade’s scent changed a month after his last heat. Slade ultimately chose to keep the pup, and their little family grew by one.
“Take her for me and we’ll call it even,” Slade yawned into his fist in a rare display of normal human levels of fatigue.
Jason complied and took Blythe, welcoming the weight of his baby daughter in his arms. She was growing so fast. A healthy alpha girl. His daughter, his child, his world rested her sleeping head on his shoulder. She smelled of milk, of Slade and himself, and a hint of her own developing scent.
Slade stretched, yawning again with a flash of his sharp omega fangs, and finally stood. “You’re turn to do all the work.”
“Bossy asshole,” Jason muttered.
“Don’t fucking swear in front of our daughter.”
Jason kept his laughter down before he woke up Blythe. “We’re lucky her first word wasn’t a curse with you around her.”
As they walked up the stairs to the nursery, the card game ended with Rose loudly challenging Joey to Mario Kart to break their Uno tie. They were lucky that Slade was done with the television now. (Hopefully Mario Kart wouldn’t end in disaster. Joey tended to cheat.)
Jason and Slade had spent more time debating the color scheme of the nursery than they had debating Blythe’s name. In the end, Joey designed a gender-neutral jungle theme and painted murals of colorful animals all over the deep green walls. Rose obtained a vast collection of plush toys from… somewhere, and Wintergreen arranged to bring Slade’s old nursery furniture from Grant and Joey’s childhoods to their new home.
Blythe’s crib once belonged to both boys some decades ago. Handcrafted and well-loved, it had withstood the test of time and metahuman children. Jason laid her down gently after checking her diaper. They had stayed up much later than usual. No wonder that she was so tired. Their usual nightly routine would need to wait—there was no point in waking her now.
“How are you feeling, Jase?” Slade asked, as he leaned against the nursery doorframe.
Jason stared at their little pup and brushed a curl from her sleeping face. “I can’t believe it’s been a year.”
“Pups always grow too fast. Next thing you know, she’ll be walking and talking back.” Slade walked over, wrapping his arms around Jason’s waist. He chuckled at his rolled eyes then pressed a kiss to the mating bite on his neck. “I’m happy too, sweetheart.”
They stayed like that for a minute longer.
“I never thought I’d get to have this,” he said.
Slade hummed. He already knew. “If you’re asking me for another, you know that ain’t happening again.”
“Oh, I know. This is more than enough.” Jason turned around in Slade’s arms and kissed his perfect mate. His warm touch meant everything. “One Todd-Wilson is more than the world can handle, anyway.”
A purr. Slade took his hand and squeezed him. “And the other pack?” he questioned. “You haven’t opened their mail.”
The conspicuous pile of baby gifts was neatly stacked in the corner of the nursery beside the changing table. All were postmarked out of Gotham or Blüdhaven. They arrived sporadically after the… uh, messy reveal of Slade’s pregnancy at a Wayne Pack dinner. More came after Blythe’s birth and then on her first birthday. His former pack’s scents still clung to the packaging. Jason hadn’t opened any of them. Not yet.
“Dick wants to throw another birthday party for her at the Manor.”
Slade tensed subtly. Although they had all made some progress, Jason was still the Red Hood of Gotham and Slade was still Deathstroke. That fun fact made for awkward dinners with Bruce “I am the night” Wayne and the rest of the pack. Meals over the dining table could not repair everything. (Or even most things.) They agreed once they learned about their baby: no Bat would see Blythe before they were ready. What that meant was, well, open to interpretation. Jason’s alpha instincts railed against bringing his daughter to see his once-family. So did Slade’s own omega protectiveness.
“What do you want?” Slade finally asked.
What did he want?
“I’m not ready. Next year, maybe, or a few years after that. You know I’m not even sure about going to dinner most months.” Jason rested his head against Slade’s chest and let his mate hold them. Blythe laid asleep and peaceful in her crib. Everything that he had ever wanted was under this one roof. “I want her to know them. Just not yet.”
“We’re not in any rush.” Slade didn’t mention the long, painful years of rebuilding with his older children. Different families. Different sides of the same coin. His relationships with Rose and Joey could best be described as a work-in-progress despite all the years. Slade spent most of that time fucking up even now. He was not a man exactly known for an omega-like nurturing instinct. He was trying. Trying more than anyone would have thought Deathstroke the Terminator capable of. Change was a choice, and a process. So was healing.
Jason grinned and reached up to press a kiss on Slade’s lips. “The night is still young, y’know,” he said, “we have a lot to celebrate.”
“You’re happy?” Slade asked.
“More than I can say.”
Slade’s goatee scratched with his kiss and smile. “Good.”
Blythe cooed in her sleep. Summertime breezes sighed in the warm night air outside. Downstairs, the sounds of Rose, Soren, and Joey playing (and arguing over) Mario Kart echoed up the stairs. Jason threw his arms around Slade and pulled him in. This had been a good year.