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“Oracle to all points. Batman’s vital signs just spiked into the red zone. And not the ‘impaled-by-a-Kryptonite-batarang’ kind.”
Nightwing’s fingers froze over his keyboard. “Define ‘not the impaled’ kind.”
A long, pained pause from Barbara. “The… elevated heart rate, endorphin-flood, respiratory-interruption kind. The kind you usually need a partner for.”
Red Robin’s voice cut in, dry as old bone. “So what you’re saying is, Dad’s getting lucky.”
“On a rooftop,” Oracle confirmed. “With a very familiar biosignature. One I’m not naming until I’ve had coffee.”
Jason’s comm crackled. “It’s Deathstroke, isn’t it. I fucking knew it. I owe Roy twenty bucks.”
“No one bet on Slade Wilson,” Damian hissed. “Father has standards.”
“Had,” Tim corrected.
Up on the unmarked rooftop overlooking the industrial district, Bruce Wayne’s standards were currently pinned against an HVAC unit, one gauntleted fist twisted in Slade Wilson’s tactical harness, the other gripping the edge of the metal housing hard enough to leave dents.
Slade’s mask was off—discarded somewhere near the fire escape. Bruce’s cowl was pushed back just enough for Slade to bite along his jaw, rough and deliberate, stubble scraping against stubble.
“You came alone,” Slade murmured against his throat, one armored thigh pressed between Bruce’s legs. “Left the little birds in the nest.”
Bruce’s breath hitched. He hated that Slade could do this to him—strip away the control, the contingency, the cold calculus. Hated how good it felt when Slade’s gloved hand clamped around his hip and shoved.
“They don’t need to know,” Bruce managed, voice wrecked.
Slade laughed, low and dark, and kissed him again. It wasn’t gentle. It was bruising, demanding, the kind of kiss that said I’ve been thinking about this since the last time you tried to break my spine. Bruce met it with equal ferocity, because that was the only way this worked—two apex predators deciding, just for a night, not to kill each other.
Slade’s other hand slid down, palming Bruce through the armored suit in a way that should have been impossible but wasn’t, because Slade knew exactly where the seams were. Bruce’s head fell back against the HVAC unit with a dull thunk.
“Slade—”
“Shh.” Another kiss, slower this time. Crueler. “You wanted this. You called me.”
Bruce had. A encrypted frequency, three words: “The usual place.” Pathetic. Desperate. And Slade had come anyway, because Slade Wilson was just as broken as he was.
Bruce hooked a leg around Slade’s waist, pulling him in, and Slade groaned into his mouth—a real sound, unguarded. Bruce chased it like a drug.
They were so tangled in each other, in teeth and tongue and the slick slide of leather against Kevlar, that neither heard the soft thwip of a grapple line.
“Well,” said a voice from the edge of the roof. “This is going to require so much therapy.”
Bruce went absolutely rigid.
Slade, annoyingly, did not. He just lifted his head, mouth slick, and turned to look at the intruder with the lazy satisfaction of a cat caught mid-yawn.
Dick Grayson stood on the parapet, arms crossed, domino mask doing absolutely nothing to hide the look of exhausted betrayal on his face. Behind him, three other figures landed in quick succession: Jason, Tim, and Damian.
Tim was already on his phone. “Oracle, I’m sending you a photo. Prepare your ‘I told you so’ dance.”
“Don’t you dare,” Bruce snarled, shoving Slade off him so fast he nearly toppled the HVAC unit. His cowl was askew, his lips were swollen, and there was a very visible bruise forming on his neck.
Jason leaned toward Damian. “Pay up, demon brat.”
“Father,” Damian said, voice trembling, not with sadness, but with the controlled fury of a child who had just watched his entire worldview collapse. “Explain. Now.”
Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it. For once, the Dark Knight had absolutely nothing.
Slade, unhelpfully, picked up his mask and saluted the boys with it. “Evening, kids. Your dad was just leaving.”
“Leave,” Bruce hissed at him.
Slade smirked, leaned in, and pressed one last kiss to the corner of Bruce’s mouth: soft, almost tender, in a way that made Dick cover his eyes, Jason shoved a palm against Damian's eyes with no regard for his sight, and Tim mutter “unsubscribe.”
Then Slade stepped back and dropped off the roof into the night, laughing.
Bruce stood there, cowl half-off, suit rumpled, dignity in absolute tatters.
Jason broke the silence. “So. Family meeting. I’m making popcorn.”
“I’m burning the manor down,” Damian said.
And Dick, the eldest, the one who had seen Bruce at his worst and best, just sighed deeply and said, “Dad. We need to talk about your taste in men.”
Bruce Wayne, the goddamn Batman, pulled his cowl back over his face and seriously considered jumping off the roof himself.