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It’s the flash of red that catches Slade’s attention.
He knows that particular shade, he’s seen that specific hoodie a million times before. Although usually it’s wearer is standing, towering over his city on a rooftop.
He doesn’t expect to see it crumpled on a rooftop. And when he gets closer — not bothering to hide his approach — he’s certainly not expecting Red Hood to still be wearing it. He thought he’d find an abandoned scrap of fabric, ditched after a fight or torn off to get away.
Instead, Jason is curled loosely on the rooftop, his domino cracked, his muzzle messily re-attached. His arms are purpled with bruises. His boots are gone, his feet are bare and bloodied.
Slade knows what torture looks like. He’s done it himself, he’s survived it plenty of times. The evidence of it on Jason is clear — bruising on his wrists and throat, missing fingernails, burns on his skin.
He nudges Jason with his boot. “Hood.” He says, loudly. Jason doesn’t stir.
Jason’s not dead, Slade’s enhanced hearing easily picks up on his pained, labored breathing. His ribs must be broken, or at least badly bruised.
Slade has a few choices here. He can leave the kid on the rooftop, and hope he gets picked up by a vigilante before a rogue spots him. He can call it into the Bats, although that would have the obvious downside of alerting Batman that he’s in town, which always goes… poorly.
Or he could take the kid home, let him wake up, and then send him on his way.
Slade would be kidding himself if he said he’d entertained any other option. As much as they’re a pain in his ass, he likes the baby bats. Bruce Wayne may have raised a bunch of hooligans, but they’re energetic and fun to fight. Jason, especially, he has a soft spot for. Jason doesn’t bother with his father’s rules, he fights brutally and efficiently with no concern about dealing permanent damage. The few times they’d teamed up, Slade had enjoyed standing back and watching Jason methodically disassemble the goons they were up against. He liked the way Jason would drop them all, would stand there breathing heavily and spattered with blood, and turn to Slade and sneer, ‘too fast for you, old man?’
He liked the way Jason had let Slade push his cock into his mouth afterwards, on his knees in an alleyway, blowing him like he was made for it.
The kid’s almost as big as his daddy, but Slade doesn’t so much as grunt as he hauls him into his arms. He half-expects Jason to wake up or whine or push him away, but he doesn’t even twitch.
Slade has a few safehouses in Gotham. He has the money for it, and he never knows when one will be discovered by the Bat and his brood, or worse, some rogue that has a vendetta. The one that’s closest by is little more than a mattress and some medical supplies. Instead, Slade goes in the other direction — it’s further, but it’s softer, more well-stocked. Slade knows what torture is like. He knows that afterwards, sometimes he needs a couch that’s comfortable, a room that’s well-lit, a bathtub with hot water.
He knows that angry, sensitive Jason will want that too.
Slade can hear it when Jason wakes up. He doesn’t scream or cry out, but there’s a sharp inhale of breath, and then the breathing rapidly increases in speed.
“Jason.” Slade says. He steps back into the living room. Jason is still laying on the couch, but he’s wide-eyed, his hands gripping tightly at the fabric of the couch underneath him. Slade had pried off his domino and removed his muzzle, but otherwise the kid’s still fully-dressed in the bloodstained clothes Slade had found him in.
“Where?” Jason gasps.
“Safehouse.” Slade says. “I found you on a roof.”
“Roof.” Jason repeats. Slade watches as Jason consciously holds his breath, then exhales and takes another, stuttering inhale.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Slade’s seen Batman coach his kids through it before.
“Who got the drop on you?” Slade asks.
Jason lets out another slow exhale. “Black mask.” He says. He loosens his grip on the couch, slowly lets his head lay back on the armrest. “Few days ago, I think.”
It makes sense. Not all of his wounds are fresh, from what Slade had seen. The burns had had a few days to become bright and shiny, seeping pus from the worst of them.
“He tortured you.” Slade asks, but it’s not really a question.
“Obviously.”
“What did he want?” Slade asks. He takes the medkit that he had left on the table, goes down to sit beside Jason on the couch. Jason watches him warily.
“Revenge.” Jason says simply.
Slade makes a face. He’s tortured before, but always for information, or to send a message. Torture for revenge strikes him as distasteful. Childish, even. It makes sense that someone like Black Mask would do it.
“I’m going to stitch you up, and then you’re taking a bath.”
Slade half-expects Jason to get bitchy and contrarian like the feral child that he is, but for once he doesn’t complain. He even pulls up his shirt when Slade asks him where he’s been cut open. There are thin cuts on his jaw, nothing that requires stitches, but the ones on his chest and stomach are a bit deeper, sliced over layer after layer of bruising. Slade disinfects them and Jason takes the pain silently, the only indication that he feels it is the tensing of his jaw.
“Okay.” Slade says. “Bath.”
Slade leaves Jason on the couch and runs the water warm, but not too hot. When he finishes he comes back out to the living room. Jason’s off the couch, on his hands and knees. Slade can see the smeared, bloody footprints from where he tried to walk.
“Idiot.” Slade says, and Jason doesn’t say anything, just keeps his head bowed. Slade doesn’t bother with the bullshit of trying to help Jason pretend to walk. Instead, he just lifts him into his arms, lets Jason press his sweaty brow against his shirt. The kid’s disgusting, covered in sweat and blood, stinking like piss. Slade’s going to have to rinse off after this too, he thinks.
He sets Jason down on the bathroom counter and sets about the task of taking off his clothes. The trademark red hoodie is the easiest part, and his body armor is missing, probably taken by his captors. His compression shirt is still on, but it’s torn and stained and inside-out, and Slade thinks they probably stripped him when they took him, and put it back on before dumping him. Jason keeps tensing when Slade touches his shoulder, like it’s been dislocated and popped back in, so Slade cuts the compression shirt off of him rather than making him lift his arms.
His chest is an absolute fucking mess.
“Pants.” Slade says. Jason’s thigh holsters are missing too. Jason leans heavily on Slade so he can sit up enough for Slade to slide his tac pants down off his hips. He doesn’t have any underwear on.
There are bruises and cuts on his thighs, too. Slade doesn’t bother trying to pull the torn, bloodstained pants over his ruined feet. He cuts them off, tosses them aside. There’s dark rings of bruising around each of Jason’s ankles from where he must have been tied down. One of them is bleeding sluggishly.
“Okay, kid.” Slade says. He guides Jason into looping his arms around his shoulders, and he gently lifts him, and kneels down to lower him into the bath. He tries to move slowly, tries to make sure the kid doesn’t put his weight on his feet, but Jason still whines in pain before quickly biting off the noise.
Jason’s panting by the time Slade has him fully seated in the tub. The water has already turned a reddish brown, bits of flaking blood floating on the top of the bath. Jason presses his forehead to the cool ceramic of the side of the tub, and Slade can see the thin red streaks across his back. Whipped, then. Black Mask really is a sick fuck.
Slade lets Jason take a breather while he wets a washcloth, rubs it against the bar of soap. He starts with Jason’s arm, and he doesn’t protest as Slade wipes it down, carefully avoiding any cuts. The cloth comes away stained, and Slade wets it in the tub again, and moves on to his hand. The remaining nails have blood under them. Jason’s a bruiser, not the kind of kid to bite and scratch, and Slade doesn’t like knowing that he had to.
“Back.” Slade says.
Jason leans forward, and lets Slade run the cloth down his back, avoiding the marks from the whip. Jason shivers suddenly, and the water sloshes as his arm shoots out, reaching out to grab at Slade’s shirt, soaking the fabric.
“You need me to stop?” Slade asks evenly.
Jason shakes his head. Slade keeps going. Jason doesn’t move his hand. Jason lets Slade wipe at his legs with the cloth, scrubbing away the dried blood and dirt there.
They move slowly, carefully avoiding wounds. “You want me to wash your hair?” Slade asks.
“Yeah.”
Jason tilts his head back as Slade slowly runs his fingers through the kid’s hair. It’s greasy with sweat and sticky with blood, and he moves slowly. There’s patches of it missing, like someone pulled it out.
By the time they’re done, Jason has moved so his head is resting against Slade’s shoulder, and Slade’s mindlessly carding his fingers through the kid’s wet hair. He smells clean now, but he’s clearly exhausted.
“Alright.” Slade says. He reaches out and unplugs the drain, careful to not jostle Jason. “We’re done.”
He lets Jason rest for a few minutes more, until the tub is gurgling with the last bits of water swirling down the drain, and it’s clear that Slade is going to have to scrub out the tub if he doesn’t want it to stain. Damn it.
He lifts the kid back to the counter in order to dry him off and dress him. Jason’s eyes are closed, the back of his head resting against the wall behind him, his feet dangling but carefully controlled so he doesn’t hit the burns against the edge of the cabinets below him.
Slade dries him off gently, smears creams on the cuts on his body and the burns on his feet, dresses them with bandages so they don’t get disturbed. Jason barely cracks an eye open when Slade guides his feet through a pair of his own boxers, oversized enough that they’re loose against the wounds on his thighs. They would probably slip down if Jason actually tried to walk, but it’s not like he’s going anywhere anyways.
“You hungry?” Slade asks.
“Thirsty.” Jason says.
Slade has to hold firmly onto the glass to make sure that Jason doesn’t try to chug it. “Slow sips.” He instructs, even as Jason tries to tilt his head back, tries to get more. He’d dumped electrolyte powder into the cup beforehand, and he knows it gives the water a bitter taste, but the kid’s still desperate for more. He bats at Slade’s arm, trying to make him let go.
Afterwards, Slade gives him a protein bar and lets Jason lean against him as he eats it, his eyes continually drifting closed. The kid’s fucking exhausted, but Slade wants to get a little food in him before he lets him pass out.
Slade pulls the protein bar wrapper out of the kid’s loose grip and carries him into the bedroom, careful not to disturb the cuts on his back. He sets Jason down on the mattress, and the kid immediately rolls over onto his stomach, mashes his face into one of the pillows.
“You want me in here?” Slade asks. Jason stills. Slade tries again. “I can be on the bed with you, on the floor in here, or on the couch in the living room.”
“…Floor.” Jason decides.
Easy enough. It’s not like Slade hasn’t slept on the floor plenty of times. This is his most well-stocked safehouse — he has spare blankets and pillows. He grabs those while Jason makes himself comfortable, or tries to, at least. He can hear Jason squirming while he lays out the bedding on the floor. When he looks over, Jason’s face-down, with a pillow shoved under his hips, and another one he’s wrapped his arms around.
“Your ribs hurt?”
Jason nods.
“You want something for the pain?”
Jason nods again.
Slade studies him for a moment. “He give you anything? Any drugs?”
Jason considers it. “Not since he got me. Gave me something to knock me out.”
Which, based on their timeline, was a few days ago. No risk of interaction. Slade goes for the good stuff — the oxy — and gives it to Jason with a shallow glass of water. He doesn’t need the kid throwing up all over his bed. Slade can hear Jason crunching on the pills, chewing on them to make them hit faster. Slade’s pretty sure the bat wouldn’t approve, but he doesn’t say anything.
Jason swallows the bit of water Slade gave him, swishes it around to wash out the bitter taste. He glances up at Slade. “Do you have PEP?”
It takes Slade a second to put together what the kid is asking for. Post-exposure prophylaxis. Christ. “He rape you, kid?”
Jason shakes his head, tongues at his gums and grimaces at the taste. “Had his guys do it.”
“Should’ve told me earlier.” Slade says. His healing factor means he doesn’t have to worry about shit like STDs, but the people around him aren’t built like he is — which means he has that sort of medication in the house. And he knows enough to know that every hour counts with shit like this.
Slade grabs all of the requisite bottles, and Jason watches as Slade shakes out each pill. Slade passes them over, and Jason swallows them silently. Slade gives him more water, and Jason drinks that too.
Gang rape. Fuck.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Jason says.
“You want me to call your daddy?”
“No.” Jason says firmly. “If you do, I’ll leave.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I’ll leave.” Jason repeats, staring Slade straight in the eye.
Slade huffs out a half-laugh. “Alright.”
He stashes the medication back in the bathroom. He doesn’t bother locking up the oxy — even if he did, he’s pretty sure Jason would be able to get at it regardless.
By the time he’s done cleaning up, Jason has rolled back over onto his stomach. His head is turned to the side, so Slade is able to kneel down and take a look at his eyes. They’re open, but the pupils are blown and glazed over. His breathing has evened out too. Seems like the pain medication is doing the trick.
“You want me to leave the light on?” Slade asks.
Jason doesn’t respond. He just closes his eyes.
Slade leaves the light on.
Jason wakes them both up with his nightmares. He doesn’t scream, but he wakes up heaving, gasping for air, and Slade is a light enough sleeper that he wakes up too.
Jason grasps tightly at the sheets below him, twists his hands in the fabric. Slade watches from the floor. He doesn’t move.
“You okay, kid?” Slade asks, once it seems like his breathing has leveled out a bit.
Jason nods, and then throws up on himself.
“Gross.” Slade says, mostly for his own benefit since Jason is too busy staring wide-eyed at the bed in front of him. He leaves the kid to himself, walks to the bathroom and runs the bath for the second time that night. There’s still flakes of blood decorating the inside of the tub.
When he gets back he catches Jason trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
“Don’t.” Slade growls, and Jason looks at him like a child caught stealing food.
There’s sick on Jason’s bandages and his borrowed boxers, so Slade cuts off the bandages and carefully eases him out of the boxers. Jason seems blessedly unbothered by being undressed, and he casually picks at one of the cuts on his jaw while Slade slides the boxers down over his feet.
The more difficult part is actually lifting Jason without getting sick on himself. The kid is anything but helpful, because he’s a contrarian little shit and is clearly pissed that Slade won’t let him fuck up his feet even more.
“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Slade grumbles as he carries him to the bath.
Jason snorts humorlessly. Slade is a little less gentle when he lowers Jason into the tub this time, and even enjoys a brief moment of satisfaction when Jason scrabbles at the side of the tub to take the weight off of his feet.
This time Jason is more alert, despite his nightmares, and so he’s able to clean himself off while Slade sits on the floor next to the tub. Slade could get up and leave, but it’s not like he has anything better to do — either way, he’ll need to come back and cart him around once he’s done.
So he sits while Jason runs the cloth across his discolored chest, and doesn’t say anything when Jason lets out a sigh and then lays back, letting his head loll against the rim of the bath. He moves stiffly, like someone in pain. Slade reaches out and flips the tub drain to let some of the lukewarm water out, and then turns on the water as hot as it will go. Hopefully that’ll ease some of the muscle pain. When the tub is hot again, Slade re-covers the drain, and then turns off the water.
The bathroom is quiet, except for the noise of the last bits of water dripping from the faucet.
Jason rolls his head to the side to look at Slade, and his eyes catch on something. Slade turns around to see what he’s looking at.
His bloodied pants, stained and torn, sitting discarded on the floor where Slade had cut them off of him earlier that evening.
It’s too late to hide them, and Slade isn’t sure if Jason’s about to freak out or what. Instead, Jason clears his throat. “Can you grab my cigarettes?” He asked. He gestures vaguely toward the pants. “From the pocket.”
Slade hates smoking indoors, hates the way the smell lingers. It ruins his heightened senses and gives him a goddamn headache, but he can allow the kid a smoke or two. He reaches out and drags the pants over, fishes through the pockets until he produces the carton of smokes. It’s dented, the cigarettes inside bent and a few stained with blood. There’s a beat-up plastic lighter stuffed in the carton as well, and Slade hands that and a cigarette to Jason.
Jason lights up with a practiced ease, and Slade gets up to open the window and let out the worst of the smell.
“Fucker wouldn’t even let me smoke.” Jason says dazedly.
“Black Mask is a sick freak.”
“No kidding.” Jason takes a slow drag, and ashes into the tub. Slade doesn’t say anything. “Never been whipped before him. When he, uh,” Jason exhales, “brought those assholes in, you know? When I was tied down. He told me they were going to rape me. I didn’t even believe him, he’s such a fucking coward.”
Slade keeps watching Jason, sees the way his throat bobs as he swallows, as he lifts a hand to his mouth to take another drag. “Fucker beat me with a tire iron afterwards.” He says, conversationally. “He wouldn’t even hit me in the head to knock me out.” He sounds casual about it, unbothered, even as the hand holding his cigarette trembles.
“You want me to take care of him?” Slade asks.
“No.” Jason says. “I’m going to do it.”
It’s pretty much what Slade expects. He know what revenge from Red Hood looks like — he’s seen the bodies. He can only imagine that Jason is already planning a scene of spectacular violence.
Jason takes another drag, and then examines his shaking hand detachedly. “I can’t believe he pulled my fingernails out.” He says, gazing at the wounds with dark eyes. “It’s so goddamn cliche.”
“They’ll grow back.”
“I know.” Jason says softly, tilting his head back against the rim of the tub, sinking further into the warm water. “It’s not the first time they've been pulled out.”
“You okay, kid?”
“Can you call Batman?” Jason asks suddenly. His voice sounds hollow. “I would, but Mask smashed my phone.”
“Yeah.” Slade says. “I’ll give him a call.”
Slade leaves Jason to smoke while he calls Batman from the kitchen. If Jason were in any condition to be transported he’d drop him off somewhere, but he’s barely okay to be carried from the bedroom to the bathroom. At least Bruce has the ridiculously overbuilt Batmobile to transport his damaged kids around in.
He liked this safehouse. He takes a minute to look at it, really enjoy it. He’s not going to be able to come back after giving the address to the Bats.
And then he dials Batman.
“Deathstroke.” Batman growls, immediately, and Slade rolls his eyes at the dramatics. Christ, no wonder the kids are they way they are, they really learned from the worst.
“I found one of your birds.” Slade says.
“Hood. Where is he?”
So Batman knew Hood was missing. “Stinking up my bathroom with cigarettes.” Slade says. “I have an address for you.”
Batman is silent for a beat. “No need.” He says. “Oracle has your location. I’ll be there shortly.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Batman.
It takes all of ten minutes for the Bat to show up at his living room window, and Slade would’ve been startled by the gentle tap-tap at the glass if he hadn’t heard the almost-too-soft noise of his boots hitting the windowsill.
At least he’s not stupid enough to break the window or try to force it open — Slade’s got the typical home defense system of any vigilante, which is to say that it’s overbuilt, paranoid, and extremely effective. He unlatches the window to slide it open, and Batman climbs into the room, pushes his cowl back before Slade even has a chance to finish re-locking the window.
“Where is he?” Bruce Wayne asks.
Slade gestures to the closed bathroom door.
Bruce doesn’t bother to knock. Slade watches as Bruce pushes the door open, hears Jason’s quiet, “Dad?”
Hears Bruce say, softly, “I’m here.”
When Slade walks to the bathroom door Bruce is lifting his son out of the water, careful not to knock his feet against anything. Jason has his face buried against his father’s throat.
“Towels?” Bruce asks.
Slade pulls one down from the linen closet.
Jason doesn’t seem willing to let go of his dad, and Bruce doesn’t seem to want to give him up either. Bruce sits down on the couch with the kid practically in his lap, carefully drying him off. Slade leaves the two of them alone for a bit, takes the time to get suited up and grab his gear. When he walks back into the living room Jason’s asleep, and Bruce still hasn’t put him down.
“Black Mask?” Bruce asks.
Slade nods. “A few days, sounds like.”
“We couldn’t find him.” Bruce says. “None of the usual places— and his tracker—“ Bruce cuts himself off, falls silent.
“Kid’s resilient.” Slade says, suddenly uncomfortable with this whole situation. He’s not equipped to deal with some Bat family feelings. “He’ll pull through.”
“He shouldn’t have to be.” Bruce says, very quietly. He tucks a lock of Jason’s hair behind his ear. “Do you have his clothes?”
Slade gives Bruce the cracked red muzzle, the stained hoodie, and the remains of Jason’s pants. Bruce looks looked like he might be sick, for a moment, and then his face smooths over. Jason wakes up a bit when they dress him in a pair of Slade’s sweatpants. His eyes are glassy with pain and exhaustion, and he watches Slade for a while before his gaze flicks over to Bruce, and then his eyes slide shut. After they finish dressing him, Bruce rewraps his wounds with all the careful tenderness of a father.
“Nightwing is going to come here with the Batmobile.” Bruce says. Jason’s asleep on the couch. “Given the circumstances, I’ll ignore your operating in Gotham this time.”
Slade resists the urge to roll his eyes, and instead just wholly ignores what he says. The Bats are full of shit.
“Slade.” Bruce says, and pauses like he’s expecting a response, which makes it pretty difficult for Slade to pretend that he’s not completely tuning out everything he says.
“What.”
“I appreciate you taking care of my son.”
“I didn’t do this shit for you. I did it for him.”
“…I know.”
“Keep a better eye on your fucking kids, Wayne.” Slade says. He pulls his mask back on, grabs his bag of gear.
Fuck. He really liked this safehouse.
It sounds like Bruce is trying to say something else, but Slade doesn’t care about listening to him try to string a sentence together again. He takes one last glance at Jason. He's asleep on the couch, his bruised face peaceful.
And then Slade is out the window, into the cool night.