Work Text:
The first knock at his door wasn’t quite enough to alert Slade that he had shown up again. In fact, neither were the next few. It wasn’t until the fifth knock that Slade jolted awake, head snapping towards the entrance and a deep scowl settling across his weathered features. Of course, he always had to show up in the middle of the night when the mercenary finally managed to get some shut-eye. With a grunt he pushed himself off the couch and trudged towards the front door, footfall heavy on the creaking floorboards. THUMP, again, heavier this time. “Darliiiing? I’ll catch a cold out here… you know how dreadful the weather is today..” There was a dramatic sniff on the other side of the door, and Slade could practically see the lithe man on the other side pouting, his brows drawn together and arms curled around himself. The older man leaned against the door as he looked through the peephole, and surely enough Joker was doing just that.
“Clown. It’s..” He paused, taking a moment to lean back and squint at his watch. “It’s two in the morning. What do you—” Slade cut himself off, taking a moment to better examine the clown through the peephole. Bruised, red staining his clothes, and a bloody nose, sigh. Against his better judgment, he swiftly unlatched the lock and opened the door for him. “Christ, just get your ass in here before you bleed out on my porch.”
The Joker, obnoxiously bright as he always was, tilted his head up to meet Slade’s eye and grinned. “Finally! You men do have manners..” He reached up to adjust the lace collar of his shirt before stepping inside, paying no mind to the rough shape he was in. This was normal, of course, just an average night for the clown. Slade would never fully understand how he had the energy to run out—night after night—just to get beaten within an inch of his life by the Bat. “Ohh, how I’ve missed you.. how long has it been..? Ah…”
Wilson raised a hand to silence him. “Hardly forty eight hours. You couldn’t behave for even two days?” He knew the answer to that, didn’t expect Joker to respond. He simply rested his hand against the small of the clown’s back and nudged him towards the old leather couch with a grunt. “Don’t bleed on my pillows. I’ll go get a towel.” He pointed a gruff finger at him, a silent order to stay, before he slowly backed out of the room to head towards the bathroom.
He came back with a towel, red to prevent staining, and a first-aid kit tucked under his arm. “Shirt. Off.” Slade tossed the towel at the clown’s face and kneeled on the floor in front of him. He dropped the first-aid kit on the ground and looked up at him expectantly.
“You can’t just tell a lady to—”
“I said off.”
Joker knew better than to keep arguing, deftly undoing the clasps of his vest and shrugging it off. “Asshole..” He muttered, uncaring if the mercenary even heard him. After he’d removed the vest and set it aside, Slade reached out and helped him unbutton his lace shirt, calloused hands tugging it off his shoulders so he could better reach a nasty gash on Joker’s middle.
“Yeesh.” Slade’s lip curled, a mild flash of discomfort crossing his face before he schooled himself back into a more neutral expression. “Bats fucked you up pretty bad this time. You gonna give it a break?” He flicked the clasp off of the first-aid kit and opened it up, reaching for the antiseptic and shooting the clown a look. “Lean back.”
Joker shuddered as the cold air hit his skin, watching Slade through halflidded eyes. He leaned back, but didn’t dare look away from the mercenary. “Nnh, hardly, I think he only broke one rib this time.. I could’ve taken more but, ahh, you know..” He winced when the cold alcohol hit the gash, worrying his lip with his teeth and biting back a noise.
“Only one.” The mercenary deadpanned with a slow shake of his head, but he didn’t comment any further, padding at the wound with the towel to dry it off. “You can hold onto me if you need to.” His voice was barely a whisper, before he added, more coldly, “I’m probably going to need to stitch you up.”
That was about all the warning Joker had received before Slade began reaching for the needle and sutures. “Ahh- now hang on a minute—!” The younger man’s hand flew to his shoulder, nails digging in just enough to bite. “Can’t you— ahh, don’t you have pain medication? Or something?” He hissed out between gritted teeth.
The mercenary looked up, arching a brow. “You can handle a broken rib, but draw the line at a little needle?” He drawled, the corner of his lip twitching in a way that was almost teasing. Certainly a rare expression, one that hardly anyone saw from him nowadays. “Oh, fine. Suppose you’ve earned it.” Slade shook his head and set down the needle, rising to his feet with a grunt. “Don’t touch my shit.”
“Mehmehmeh.. dontouchmyshit..” The clown watched him retrieve a bottle of pills from the kitchen cabinet and bring it back. “Thank you.” Joker extended a hand and closed his fingers around the pill shaken into his palm, tilting his head back and swallowing it dry. “Now, I suppose you can continue.” Slade grunted and picked up the needle again, shaking his head.
The process went about as smoothly as it could have gone, with Joker’s constant squirming and yelps. At the very least, Slade was good at closing wounds, having done it many, many times prior, even before he had become a mercenary. Once he finished, he leaned back, narrowing his eye to examine the now closed wound. Good enough, it should heal nicely if Joker can stay out of trouble for a bit. He tilted his head up to meet the clown’s halflidded gaze, patting his knee. “All done. Now get lost before I—”
Joker cut him off with that stupidly endearing pout he only ever pulled out when he was about to ask for an idiotic favor. “Ohh, well… I was thinking I’d stay tonight..” He sniffed dramatically, brows drawn together. “You wouldn’t boot out someone on death’s door, would you?”
Christ, Jack made him a moron. “Oh, for God’s— fine. Just stay on your side of the bed this time.” He knew the clown wouldn’t. He never had. Slade rose to his feet with a heavy sigh, extending a hand to help the younger man to his feet. “I’m assuming you’ll want fresh clothes as well, your highness?”
The Joker’s lips immediately quirked up, slowly spreading into his signature manic grin. “Well, since you’ve so graciously offered it… yes.” He tightened his grip on the mercenary’s rough hand, thumb tracing the scars that littered them, and followed him back into the bedroom. By now it was practically theirs, God knows that Slade hardly had a bed to himself anymore nowadays. Hadn’t since Jack exploded into his life with glitter, and lace, and that shrill voice that was becoming less grating and more.. comforting to hear.
The old mercenary guided him to the bed, setting him on the edge and helping him out of his bloodstained pants. Slade remained silent, peering up at him for just a second too long before brushing his lips against a bruised knee and standing back up. Stay. Joker did, remained silent— thankfully—even as he was helped into an old pair of Slade’s sweats that had to be tied tightly just to stay on his hips. Even as the raggedy old sleep shirt was tugged over his head, and his arms were guided through.
And when he was finally tucked under the covers, with Slade climbing under beside him, Jack stretched languidly into his space and settled against his chest. His hair tickled the older man’s jaw, but he didn’t shove him off. Instead, Slade simply curled a heavy arm around his waist, tugging him that little bit closer and laying a half awake kiss to the crown of his head. And even if it was just for the night, even if it wouldn't last, neither was alone.