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heavy is the head

Chapter 6

Notes:

Guys, I'm legit sorry for how long this chapter took - it fought me so hard... On the plus side, it's longer than the last one, and LOTS OF STUFF HAPPENS.

Also more good news - I've got a beta for this chapter! Thank you to etchbee for taking the time to read this and assure me that I haven't become illiterate overnight, and that I shouldn't abandon this fic, change my name and run away to another country! Any remaining errors are my own.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

That morning in the hot springs turns out to be the last moment of peace Slade enjoys for a while. 

There seems to be an unsettling sort of feeling between himself and Richard after their talk that day, but there’s no particular cause Slade can identify, and scarcely enough time to devote to the exercise. 

Almost overnight, there are a series of incursions on the border between Slade’s kingdom and the wastes occupied by the Demon Clan. They occur independently, far apart enough that they have to be dealt with separately, but at almost the exact same time. Slade’s border guards are, thankfully, prepared to fend off the worst of the attack, but something in Slade’s gut tells him that it had been too easy. That perhaps they’ve missed the point - in looking at the attacks on the border, they’ve missed something else. 

It wouldn’t have been hard for the Demon Clan to send a single assassin to take advantage of the clamour and sneak past the border. It would only take a dedicated person two days on foot to reach the Palace from the closest incursion point on the border - no more than four days from the furthest, and that’s assuming they don’t get their hands on a horse. 

Slade tells both Richard and Rose to barricade their doors before they sleep each night, to keep themselves armed and alert. He believes the guards will do their best to defend the Royal Wing, but he also knows that they may be no match for a well-trained assassin with luck on their side. Slade has his own elite guard, but most of them have been re-deployed to watch over Rose, a couple for Richard, and the remainder to take their place in the mobilised army. The corridors of the Palace are no place for a large scale attack, and eventually, Slade is right to have been prepared. 

The attack comes on a moonless night, three days after the incursions on the border. The assassin is perfectly quiet as they come through the window, but Slade knows his bedroom - he knows what it feels like when someone else is in his space, when someone else is breathing his air. He wakes just as a slick dagger sinks into his pillow, where his face had been not seconds before. 

Without pause, he surges up and tackles the assassin, shouting to alert the guards in the main corridor, and to wake Richard and Rose from their sleep. His first duty done, he turns his attention to the problem at hand. Unexpectedly, the assassin is almost as large as him, taller even than Richard. Their shoulders and chest are broad, but their entire body and face are covered in a thin, clingy fabric that makes it difficult for Slade to catch a hold. It’s difficult to even tell if the assassin is male or female, though their height and weight suggest the former. 

In comparison, Slade is underdressed in his nightclothes, unprotected and unarmed save for his bare greatsword tucked under his pillow. It’ll have to be enough. 

The assassin stumbles backwards under Slade’s weight, but when they surge back there’s another slick blade in their hand, gleaming in the low light of the room. They’re so silent that Slade would have thought them a magical automaton, if not for the slight warmth he can feel through the fabric as they grapple on the floor, close to equally matched. 

There’s a racket as Richard’s door flies open and in the split second of Slade’s distraction, the assassin manages to punch his sternum so hard that the air leaves his lungs in a rush. The next thing he knows, the assassin is off him, tackled by Richard and pinned to the ground while Rose disarms them, writhing beneath Richard like a stuck eel. 

“Poisoned,” Slade gasps, and both Richard and Rose snap their attention to him immediately, assessing whether he means he’s been poisoned. He shakes his head. “The knives are poisoned,” he clarifies, because they need to be careful with what they touch. He doesn’t think he’s been cut, but it had been close.

Once the assassin is disarmed, Richard yanks their mask off none too gently, revealing a handsome, dark-skinned man, with a single lock of white hair curling over his forehead. His face is screwed into an expression of hate as he glares at Slade, but more concerning is the way Richard makes a strange sound deep in his throat, like he’s been hurt. Slade is on his feet in seconds, tugging Richard off and hauling the assassin up into the air with his hands fisted in the front of his shirt. He steps in front of Richard, instinctively using his body as a shield, until he feels hands on his back and on his shoulders. 

It’s unexpected. Richard does not touch him easily, and Rose is by his side. 

“Slade,” Richard whispers, and Slade knows better than to look away from the assassin, but he listens. 

“Are you hurt, Richard?” he demands lowly, keeping the assassin suspended so that he can’t reach any more of his hidden weapons. 

But before Richard can respond, the assassin says something in a low, curling language, something that sounds like a curse, and Richard sobs into Slade’s ear, sending a thrum of panic into his heart —

Jason.” 

-

Once the assassin is well and properly secured, everyone troops down to the throne room and the doors are locked. Wintergreen is roused, but apart from him and Slade’s trusted guards, only he, Rose, and Richard remain in the hall with the prisoner. 

The prisoner, who looks like Richard’s brother. 

The brother whom everyone - including Richard - had believed to be dead. 

The whole thing feels too damn convenient, especially since Slade knows of that persistent rumour about the Demon King’s ability to raise the dead. Of course he’d raise Richard’s dead brother. Of course he’d send Richard’s undead brother to murder Richard’s new husband, the king of an enemy state. It would take care of so many problems all at once - distracting everyone from the Demon Clan’s infiltration of every surrounding kingdom until it’s too late. 

It’s just too convenient, and Slade can’t bring himself to believe it. Nor, he thinks, can Wintergreen.

The assassin continues to swear at them in the same twisting tongue, a language none of them know how to translate. Richard stands beside him on the dias, his gaze pinned to the man he thinks is his brother, his eyes dripping with tears and his hands shaking like he’s taken a grave injury himself. 

Slade imagines how he’d feel if someone turned up pretending to be Grant or Joey, and instead of Richard’s obvious grief, he imagines he’d be filled with unyielding rage. If Richard can’t yet find his anger, Slade will be angry on his behalf. He’s sure Wayne would be too, if he were here, in front of this cruel imposter. When the truth comes out, it’s going to hurt.

“Dick,” Rose whispers, catching Richard’s hand and lacing their fingers together, “Dickie, it’s not your brother. It can’t be.” She’s trying to comfort him, but Slade can tell from the look on Richard’s face that he still wants to believe it. Like he’s finally found his brother, and losing him again would be far more than he could take. 

“Richard,” Slade tries, and that seems to be the breaking point. 

The assassin suddenly spits at his feet, and speaks - in the common tongue - “How dare you speak my brother’s name, you betrayer!” 

Slade doesn’t remember betraying anything or anyone recently, so this is an interesting tactic for the assassin to take. He continues swearing in common now, “faithless, oath-breaker, kidnapper, murderer.” The assassin’s eyes flash an eerie green, and the last word has a different weight to it. Slade feels his eye twitch. He’s killed his fair share of men in battle - and some out of it - so in that sense, he is a murderer. But that doesn’t mean he likes the tone of accusation. 

“Richard, if this is your brother, is there anything you can ask him to confirm his identity?” Wintergreen asks after a long moment of silence. “Something only you would know?” 

Richard hesitates for a moment, and then nods. He steps forward and ducks around when Rose reaches out to him, to keep him away from the man lying prone on the ground. Slade knows better than to try. His husband sincerely believes - or he wants to believe that this is his brother returned to him from the grave. Nothing short of proof will convince him otherwise, now. 

Richard sinks to his knees beside the man, and then reaches forward to tug at the lock of white hair lying on his forehead. The man’s face is shiny with sweat, but Richard doesn’t seem to notice, and the man tilts his face upwards, pressing into the touch, reminding Slade uncannily of Rose’s own gestures. 

“Jason,” Richard whispers, and the man makes eye-contact with him suddenly, and a strange sort of recognition trickles into his expression, before being drowned out by rage. “Jason, Jaybird, Little Wing,” he croons, and at the last, the man twitches hard, staring up at Richard again, looking painfully lost and confused. “Little Wing,” Richard says again, “do you remember me?” 

There’s a pause before the man replies softly, “Dickie?” he asks, like he’s not sure. “Dickie, where are we? What happened?” 

But before Richard can respond, the comprehension is gone from the man’s face, replaced once more with sheer rage. He turns to glare at Slade again, like Slade is his target and nothing can distract him from his mission. That might well be possible - the assassin had come through his bedroom window, after all. 

“Slade, maybe you should step outside for a moment,” Richard suggests, clearly thinking the same thing. Slade’s not going to do that. He’s not going to leave his daughter, his husband, and his most senior advisor in a room with a clearly unstable assassin - or at least. He wasn’t, until Richard turns to him and sends him the most pleading look, his eyes red with grief. Slade struggles with his instincts for a long moment. 

“Don’t release his restraints,” Slade tells his daughter eventually. Rose nods her understanding. She has her sword out and primed, and both Wintergreen and Richard are also armed, though Slade has his doubts about Richard’s ability to raise a sword against the man who looks like his dead brother. He looks away from Richard and steps into a small alcove behind the throne, from where he can hear the conversation but can’t be seen. 

“Little Wing,” he hears Richard say again, in almost a singsong voice. “Won’t you come back to me, little brother? Baby brother, won’t you come home? I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers, and Slade - 

Slade steels his heart. He knows better than to hope for miracles - there are no such things. 

Hours pass as the sun rises and Richard keeps talking to the man, pleading and crooning and begging in turn. In between his forced-idle chatter he asks questions, simple things like what Jason’s mother’s name is, or where he went to school, or what his favourite food was, but the man doesn’t respond a single time. Slade takes this to mean that his suspicions were right, that this person is an imposter, but Richard doesn’t give up, doesn’t stop talking until his voice physically gives way. 

That’s when Slade re-enters the room and the assassin’s attention turns to him and he begins to swear again. He uses the same three or four words over and over, which makes Slade think that even if the man isn’t Richard’s resurrected brother, he might still be a victim in this, his mind so deeply manipulated that he doesn’t even know his own thoughts anymore. Ultimately, there’s no use interrogating a man who doesn’t even know his own cause. 

Slade arranges for the man to be held in the cells beneath the Palace, and thankfully Richard doesn’t protest. Slade doesn’t know what he’d have done if his husband pled leniency for the imposter, but at least Richard’s grief has not overridden his common sense. Or at least, that’s what Slade thinks, until Richard follows the guards down to the assassin’s cell and then sinks down outside it, and continues talking. 

Slade doesn’t want to leave Richard there, but he knows that the assassin seems to respond better in his absence. Even if he’s not really Jason, there might still be information to be gleaned from him, and perhaps Richard is the one most likely to get it out of him. Of course, a small part of Slade thinks Richard is also the most likely one to break the man out of his cell and release him without permission, but he hopes Richard remembers that doing so will put everyone at risk - including Rose, who might be his favourite person here. 

He can’t spare Wintergreen, but he lets Rose remain with Richard, extracting a promise from both of them that they will return to the main level no later than dinner. In the evening, Slade sends his own elite guards to watch the cell in exchange for Richard returning to his own room to sleep. It’s been a long time since he needed to bribe anyone to do anything, but it seems like he’ll soon be getting used to it. 

The following morning, before the sun is up, Richard returns to the cell and insists on taking the prisoner breakfast with his own hands. Slade wants to reassure him that they’re not going to poison the man, but he doesn’t think Richard would believe a single word from his mouth now. He’s so deep in his desire to reunite with his brother that he’s lost sight of everything else. 

-

Long days pass, and the man slips into a sleep from which he does not wake. Several physicians are called down to the cells but save from confirming that his vital functions are ordinary, they shed no more light on the matter.

Richard tears himself asunder, trying to devote attention to his usual duties and to the people of Slade’s kingdom, while also spending as much time as humanly possible with the sleeping assassin in the cells. Slade lets it go on for three days until the circles beneath Richard’s eyes continue to darken, before he finally puts his foot down and relieves Richard from most of his duties. On top of the preparations for the upcoming war, Slade, Rose and Wintergreen work overtime to ensure that his absence is not noticed by the general public. 

After that, the only time he sees Richard is when he only joins them for dinner in the great hall, and then when he returns to their rooms in the evening, where he doesn’t approach Slade for any further games of chess. He only politely wishes Slade a good night before retreating to his own room to sleep. As far as Slade can tell, he’s just sitting beside the assassin's cell and watching him sleep and he can’t help but think Richard is losing his life chasing the dead. Despite this, he forces himself to remember the terms of their arrangement. Richard isn’t supposed to have any duties here, save for those he chooses himself. Richard is his husband in name only, a King-Consort on paper only. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s a grown man, old enough to make his own decisions. He is not Slade’s to censure or advise. 

Rose grumbles, but Slade tries not to begrudge him for it. After all, if his sons appeared to be resurrected, he’d likely neglect most of his duties in favour of them too. 

To make matters even more convoluted, at the same time, the Demon Clan takes the bait and reaches out to Kyle for an alliance. She pretends to accept and Slade is uneasy at the thought of relying only on Wayne’s relationship with her, but he has no choice but to trust in the hope that Wayne won’t turn on him, not with Richard still here. Besides, he has no way to make an overture of friendship to Kyle himself - he has nothing strategic to offer and she is famously independent. 

The one ray of light in the matter is when Richard informs him that he will not be writing to Wayne about Jason’s apparent resurrection. Even Richard knows that Wayne will throw everything aside if he thinks Jason is alive here. Either that, or Wayne will accuse Slade of conspiring against him to distract him from the war, and that would be a disaster too. They can’t take that risk until they’re sure that this is in fact, truly, Jason. The good news is that it means even Richard has a sliver of doubt as to the assassin’s identity. The bad news is entirely everything else. 

The master plan works itself into existence through correspondence between Slade, Kyle, and Wayne - or at least, Drake, who has a very strategic mind. This is apparent even in writing, and Slade idly wonders if one day he might meet the kid. If he doesn’t want to be heir, and when Richard returns to Wayne after the war —

He pauses to process his own thoughts.

It’s true. There had always been a deadline for this arrangement, one that expired with Slade’s death. But after this war, there’s really no reason for Richard to remain here. This marriage is all politics, and Slade isn’t cruel enough to keep someone’s son away from him for no good reason. Even if it will be embarrassing for him. Even if it will hurt. He’s already resigned to it, he realises, because subconsciously he must have known the truth. 

Perhaps Wayne will allow Drake to visit for a while, once he has his original crown prince back. If Drake agrees to step down, that is. God, that sounds like it’s going to be a mess. Maybe Drake will come to Slade just to get away from the disaster of his divorced brother coming back to take the throne from him? Will Wayne allow it? Or will he insist that Drake remain his crown prince? Will Richard return to Slade just to stay away from his father, in that case? 

And all of that assuming Slade even survives the war. 

He’s getting ahead of himself, but in the end, he’s fully aware that he’s working with an ever-shortening timeline. He’s nowhere near as young as he’d been when he earned the title “Deathstroke”. 

He sighs and sets aside all his useless thoughts, all his fears and doubts and regrets - there’s no point to any of them. All he can do is prepare the best he can, given the circumstances at hand. Everything else is irrelevant. 

-

Slade’s grandfather had implemented the practice of having at least one night every week when everyone could choose to take their dinner privately with their families or their friends. At that time, it had been a way for close-knit clans to maintain their bonds even though they were supposed to be loyal to just one king, but the practice had stuck. Even now, once a week, families in this Kingdom collect food from the kitchens and return to share it with their loved ones without the pressure of society around them. 

Usually the Royal family dined in public regardless, but it’s an option he’s glad for, on nights like this. 

Rose charges into his bedroom without knocking but it’s a familiar thing, and Slade takes comfort in it more than anything else. Dinner will be sent up from the kitchens in a while, so until then he just sits and enjoys spending time with his daughter, listening to her rant about her day, her friends, the council members, whichever fool had crossed her the wrong way and how she’s planning on dealing with them. 

In the low light of the room, Slade can see her mother’s features in her, the shape of her mouth, the way her eyes snap like fire when she’s angry. He lets her rant, only interjecting when she clearly wants a response, and when she’s done, he pours her a glass of wine. 

She stops mid-sentence, and stares.

“Papa?” She asks, faintly, and Slade isn’t surprised. He’s not much of a drinker himself - unless he’s with Wintergreen - and he hadn’t encouraged the vice in his children either, but these are exceptional circumstances. He remembers the first glass of wine he ever shared with his own father, a few short months before he passed, in distressingly similar circumstances. 

“Sit down, kiddo,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady and gentle. As gentle as he knows. She’s so young still, and she doesn’t deserve this burden, but there’s no alternative. There’s no one else left. 

“Papa?” She asks again, sounding afraid all of a sudden. “What’s going on? We never drink together…” 

Slade swallows back the bitterness on his tongue and presses a glass of wine into her hand, and waits for her to drink. It’s a good wine. It’s a shame she’ll never enjoy drinking it again. “Sweetheart,” he starts carefully, but her face screws up into a frown and she stands up, banging the glass on the table harder than she should. 

No,” she says imperiously. She continues before Slade can reply. “I’m not doing this, Papa. Nothing’s going to happen to you! You’re going to come back, so you don’t need to do this!” Her voice is raised and her eyes are ablaze and her hands are clenched into furious fists by her side. Her entire body is radiating pain and anger and fear, but she comes easily when Slade pulls her into his lap, tucking her head under his chin the way he used to when she was much younger. 

“Sweetheart, I’ll do everything I can to come back. I promise you, I don’t want to leave you alone. But it’s a fight, and—”

She finishes the sentence before he can. “In a fight, nothing is certain til it’s over. I know, Papa.” 

He can’t remember how many times he’s used the adage. Maybe - if he’s fortunate - he’ll be around to hear her tell the same thing to her kids. 

“I hate this,” she whispers after a moment. 

He covers the back of her head with his hand and pulls her even closer. No child should have to bear this shit, he thinks. How outrageous. How painfully unfair. “I know, Rosie. I’m sorry for it. This life is unkind, and maybe your mother was right to leave when she did, but… But I’m glad you stayed, sweetheart. Even though things are hard, and painful.” Life is painful, but that doesn’t make it any less worth living. 

She sucks in a deep breath and stays pressed against him for a few minutes before finally pulling away. She stands up, downs her glass of wine, and then sits down across him, her back straight and her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Alright Papa,” she says. “What do we need to discuss?” 

“Brave girl,” he praises, and pours her another glass. She already knows most of what he’s going to say, but it’ll be different hearing it from her father compared to her tutors, or reading it from dry books. If nothing else, he wants her to have the memory of this night, the memory of his voice telling her these things. The knowledge that if nothing else, Slade loves her, and that he’s proud of her. These are the memories that will help, if he’s no longer around to remind her. 

“First. You will be Queen. It is your birthright, and you are ready for it. You know everything you need to know, and anything else you can learn along the day. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Never let anyone make you doubt your own decisions, or your own thoughts. Okay?” 

She nods and scrubs the tears from her eyes, and Slade pretends he doesn’t see them either. If she cries, he’s not going to be able to finish this discussion, and he doesn’t think they have much time left for it. 

“Second. Be careful of whom you trust.” His own father had told him to trust no one but himself but that had been fucking miserable, and lonely, and he’s allowed to not want his daughter to go through the same thing. “Choose your friends and advisors wisely. Take their words at face value, but always verify. Anyone who gets offended when you seek to verify is not to be trusted. Trust is a process. You build it over time. It’s not a precondition of anything - a friendship, a relationship, nothing. You don’t have to promise blind faith in exchange for anything. Do you understand?” 

She nods again. 

Slade nods in response and drains his own glass before topping it up. “Third. Marriage.” The twist in Rose’s face makes him snort with laughter, and that’s when he thinks - she’s going to be okay. She’ll be a good Queen, and she’ll be happy. Happier than he ever was, even if he doesn’t return from war. She’ll be fine. 

-

It turns out that the Demon Clan has weapons which no one - not even Wayne, with his extensive knowledge of foreign warfare - has ever heard of. Most of them follow the usual formulation of stick plus blade, but there are certain things which are almost definitely based on magic.

Magic, he thinks, which is something he and his allies are sorely lacking, assuming they’ve been honest about their abilities.

Kyle writes to say that she’ll try and instigate the Demon King to pick a fight towards the tail end of winter. She’ll tell him that Slade’s inferior warriors will struggle to fight in the cold, but in truth the Demon’s desert people will be particularly ill-equipped for winter warfare. In that, no one is more experienced than Slade, but he understands the unwritten warning. That he’ll be taking point in the fight, since Wayne and Kyle are both less experienced. He’s sure that his marriage to Richard plays no small part in the decision - no one but his own kin would grieve overmuch if he died in battle. They’re allies but Slade is no fool. 

The plan mostly comes from Wayne - or Drake - and a small part of Slade’s mind wonders what the hell Wayne is doing, leaving his kid to make these decisions. Things with Richard are still too tenuous for him to ask, so he sticks the question in a corner of his mind and leaves it there - his own curiosity is not worth the potential for upsetting Richard if he asks. 

Drake proposes for Kyle to actually go into the battle supporting the Demon Clan, to face Slade and Wayne wherever they stand. He even proposes for them to make it look good, or real, as much as possible while minimising loss of life. He says they should wait until the Demon Clan is well and truly surrounded by enemy armies, and while the Demon King still thinks he has an ally at his back, they should turn the tide and lay siege. 

He reminds himself that it’s a good plan. Risky, but not overly so - no more than most battle strategies that have won wars.

Only a few more letters are exchanged before a date is decided in the second month of the new year. Cold enough that desert-dwellers will struggle; not so cold that supplies will spoil while they’re marching. Slade’s people will deal with it better than they cope with the heat, at least. 

After that, the days start moving quickly, roaring past him so fast that sometimes it’s a little difficult to breathe. Even New Year’s Day disappears with little recognition or acknowledgment, but there’s nothing for it. He keeps his head high, his expression steady. His people must not know that he’s afraid. He hugs Rose, accepts counsel from Wintergreen, and watches as his husband - as Richard grows paler and wanes like the moon by his brother’s bedside, until finally, they reach the eve of their journey to the field of battle. 

There’s not much to pack, really, so Slade’s personal preparations are quick. He rises that morning to find Richard gone, as usual, and takes a few moments in his private bathroom to finally cut his hair. Long hair is a luxury reserved for cease time. There will be no time for grooming on the road, and even less call for it during battle, where long hair will be just one more vulnerability to be leveraged. 

No, this is going to be a hard enough fight as it is. He doesn’t give himself any time for regrets or for second thoughts. He is a warrior king, and this is what is expected of him. He’ll never be the type to stand back while his men march ahead. He crops his hair short and wonders if maybe, in another life, Adeline would have helped him with it, to make sure he didn’t look like a fool. Even in his imagination, it’s unlikely. Towards the end, she hadn’t wanted to spend any time with him if they weren’t coupling like cats in heat. Richard would probably have helped him with it, if not for his brother, if he had known about the custom. He won’t ask it of Rose, so Slade decides to do his best and just walk away from the mirror. If it’s uneven, so be it. 

The day passes surprisingly slowly. There’s no more work to be done, and he’s ordered most of his soldiers to return home to spend some time with their loved ones, with the knowledge that there’s a chance they may never do so again. He obeys his own orders and spends time with Rose, though they sit together in the throne room, keeping forced smiles on their face, putting a calm facade on for their people. It’s enough though, because Rose shoots him teasing glances and he rolls his eyes back, and they hold hands between their thrones and it’s enough. It’s enough. 

There’s a vaguely celebratory air when both lunch and dinner are grander than they have been in a while. Celebratory, or Slade thinks, funereal. What a cheerful thought. 

Richard appears for dinner as he always does, but for the first time in weeks he seems to notice that something is different. For his flaws, a lack of intelligence has never been one of them. To his credit, he doesn’t ask out loud but comes to his conclusions silently, as his face goes pale and almost stricken. Slade wants to comfort him, but it’s too public, and in truth he’s feeling pretty stricken himself at the thought of his potential impending death. 

At the end of dinner, Slade excuses himself, and everyone in the hall stands to offer him one last toast. He will be gone before the sun rises the following morning, and everyone here knows they may never see him again. 

Richard and Rose follow him to the Royal Wing, and as if by mutual agreement, he and Rose wish each other a good night before parting ways, as if nothing unusual was going on, as if this night is just like every other night and this isn’t their last chance for a private farewell. It’s better that way, Slade thinks. They’ll both have to be up early in the morning, and there’s no point in dragging this out. Slade has already told her everything he needs to say. 

Richard follows him into his room, but unexpectedly lingers instead of excusing himself to his chambers immediately. Slade isn’t sure what he’s up to, but in all honesty, Slade is exhausted too. It’s been a quiet day, but the months before that have been long and hectic, and even though he’d tried to convince himself not to worry about Richard, he had. He’d worried almost constantly, about him spending time with the assassin, about what would happen once Slade went off to battle, about what would happen if he didn’t return. The worrying has tired him, and he doesn’t want to do it anymore, so he doesn’t stand on tenterhooks. 

He slowly begins to remove his jewellery and doesn’t look at Richard in the reflection of his mirror, but when he turns around, he can see Richard’s hands clenched in tight fists in front of his chest, a tic in his jaw where he’s grinding his teeth, or maybe chewing on the inside of his cheek. After a moment he says, “I’m sorry, Slade.” 

Slade feels his brows furrow in surprise. That’s unexpected. “Sorry?” he repeats, or asks. 

Richard glances at him and then makes unflinching eye-contact. His gaze is sorrowful and full of regret, like he’s only a few minutes away from shedding tears. Slade hopes he doesn’t - he’s never been good at comforting people. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’ve been neglecting my duties to you, to the kingdom.” 

Slade shakes his head automatically and tries not to notice how strange it feels with short hair. “There’s no need to apologise, Richard. The terms of our alliance were clear - you have no duties here, and are free to spend your time as you wish.” 

Even though Slade wishes that Richard wanted to spend more time with him, or with Rose, rather than with the comatose assassin. Then again, if the man really is his brother… 

Richard shakes his head in response and squares his shoulders against Slade’s freely-offered forgiveness. “No, Slade. I’ve let you down, and I’m disappointed in myself. I asked for those responsibilities and shirked them at the first moment something—” here his breath hitches but he doesn’t stop, “something happened. That man - he may be my brother, or he may not, but there’s no excuse for what I did. I’m ashamed of myself, and I pray for your forgiveness.”

Slade hadn’t really been angry at Richard. Not for his behaviour or actions or lack thereof in the past months, since the attempted assassination. He had been a little upset, but he’d recognised that it was his own fault for having hopes and expectations that - well. Maybe he’d had no basis for his hopes. Richard is a good man- strong and noble and handsome - but ultimately a man just like Slade, with flaws and vulnerabilities. As much as he’d longed for Richard’s company and his attention, Slade had known full-well that in his place, Slade would have done the same thing. And Slade is many things, but he tries not to be a hypocrite.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Richard. You’re a guest here—” Slade tries to offer further absolution, but at that Richard flinches, and Slade stops talking. 

“I’m so sorry, Slade. I—” he struggles with words, trying to say something which Slade can’t understand or anticipate - he can’t complete Richard’s sentences. “I don’t want to be a guest,” he says finally. Slade tries to keep his expression blank, his face clear of any emotions. Of course, he knows that Richard doesn’t want to be a guest here, but Richard continues. “I want to be your husband and I want to belong to this Kingdom, but I’ve let you down. And now,” Richard says, as if he hasn’t noticed the helpless shock on Slade’s face, “now you’re leaving.” His breath hitches. “You’re going to war, and I’ve missed so much, and you’ve - you’ve cut your hair,” he whispers, taking a step closer and lifting his hand to Slade’s cheek, his fingertips brushing gently against his jawline where his hair curls. 

Slade swallows hard and doesn’t move, remains as still as a man who has a bird resting in his hand, for fear that even a breath might scare it into flight. 

Richard blinks and his eyes glimmer with unshed tears, his lashes beginning to clump together. 

Even when he’s crying, he’s lovely, Slade thinks, and hates himself for it. What kind of cruel creature is he? 

“I’ve missed so much,” Richard says again, his voice sounding thick and almost painful. “How can I ever make it up to you?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, Slade knows. He knows it. Because honestly there’s nothing to make up for - Slade has already forgiven Richard for the grief he’s caused, can hardly blame him for it, and anyway there’s no such thing as “making up” for mistakes. There’s only changing your behaviour and using your actions to show that you won’t make the same mistakes again. 

But… 

Slade has a fair chance of surviving this, but there really are no guarantees in war. Richard may never have a chance to change his behaviour. And underneath everything he’s greedy, and craven, and so goddamn tired… 

“A kiss,” he says, like a fool. 

Richard goes still and Slade digs his hole deeper. “For luck,” he adds. “It’s customary,” he lies. After all, what is custom? His father’s wife had kissed his father before he set off for war - is that not enough? 

God, he’s a fool, he thinks as Richard remains frozen in place and Slade takes a step back, shaking his head. “I apologise,” he says, swallowing back guilt and shame and — “you don’t owe me anything, of course.” 

“No!” Richard cries, too loud, enough that Slade almost flinches. He should have expected a rejection but it still stings more than it should. “Don’t apologise,” Richard continues and then surges forward, pressing himself into Slade’s space, making him twitch. “Please, Slade,” Richard says, sounding almost desperate, “husband,” he adds, and the word cuts through Slade’s mental armour like a hot knife through butter. “A kiss,” he repeats, and then, “as many as you like, to ensure you return home safe.” It’s a mercy that he’s adopted Slade’s transparent excuse instead of calling him out on it - Richard is kinder than most. 

Slade shakes his head. “Just one will do,” he concedes, because he can’t let Richard use this to atone, now that he knows how much Slade wants it. He’s been good, on his best behaviour for months now, he’s not going to let this one moment of weakness ruin it. 

Richard’s expression remains clear but his gaze feels heavy and intent, and when he steps even closer to Slade it takes all his strength to remain in place instead of fleeing. Richard’s hand comes up again to cup his cheek and after that, Slade doesn’t know who initiates the kiss. 

All he knows is that they end up in the middle, mouths pressed together chastely in a strange mimicry of the first - and only - kiss they’d shared, standing on the dais in the throne room on their wedding day. Richard’s eyes are closed, and Slade thinks he’ll never be able to forget the feeling of his eyelashes against his cheeks. 

The kiss stays chaste and innocent for long moments and Slade is about to draw back - he must have used up all his luck in just receiving this - but then Richard makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat and his lips part and his tongue flickers out to touch —

There’s an animal inside his chest and it won’t let Slade back away, even when his brain knows better. Heart pounding, Slade can’t help but kiss back, pressing his tongue forward and meeting Richard’s, surging together by unspoken mutual agreement as if - as if they’re consuming each other. Slade is - has been - starving for this and it seems like Richard’s appetites match his own if the way he kisses is anything to go by. Slade wraps his arms around Richard’s waist, tentatively at first but then more confidently when Richard leans into him, letting Slade bear his weight without pulling back for a breath. It’s less of a battle, more of a dance between them, pushing and pulling and warm and perfect. Slade’s chest aches in the same way it hurts to press a bruise, and he never wants it to stop. 

They kiss until Richard is moaning into his mouth, high and desperate little noises that go to Slade’s head like the strongest of liquor, until their bodies are pressed against each other and their thighs interlaced, and Richard’s fingers are buried in his hair and he’s - they’re - 

They’re getting carried away. They’ve gotten carried away. 

When Slade pulls back, using every drop of his iron control, the first thing he sees is that Richard’s lips are swollen and pink. Anyone who sees him would know what he’s been doing and Slade is struck with a bolt of shame. He’d broken all of his promises - to himself and to Richard. 

Slade takes a step back, and then another, and resists the urge to stare down at his own feet. The least he can do is hold his head high in the face of his mistakes. 

Richard’s face is open and when he opens his eyes he looks dazed, and Slade’s entire focus is on the way his tongue flickers out to lick his lips. Slade is once again blown away by the knowledge that the sweetness lingering on his own tongue is the taste of forbidden fruit. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers, because he is. Because he sincerely regrets it, not least because he doesn’t think he can ever go back to being the person he was before he kissed Richard. He bows, lower than a King ought to bow to anyone, and Richard’s sharp inhale is almost as loud as the pounding of his heart in his ears. 

“Please,” Richard whispers, but Slade closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what Richard is asking for, but he doesn’t think he has anything left to give. “Slade,” Richard says again, reaching out to touch him. 

Slade stands up and backs away even further, careful not to move too quickly. Richard’s fingertips barely graze his arm and that’s probably for the best. He’d taken advantage, lost control of himself and the situation. It’s best not to let it go any further. 

“I think you should - we should retire,” Slade suggests quietly, keeping his gaze averted, staring at a point above Richard’s head instead of making eye-contact. “We have an early morning.”

Richard’s breath hitches audibly, but he doesn’t speak. From the corner of his eyes Slade sees him pull back his arm, cradling it against his chest as if he’s been injured. “Alright,” he whispers, and Slade tries not to sigh in relief that Richard seems to have understood - this is the worst possible time for any of this to be happening. They don't even have much time to discuss it. Slade is going to war tomorrow. 

It’s best if Richard doesn’t get too attached to a man who may soon be dead. 

Notes:

WELL??? JASON'S HERE, AND WE HAVE *drumroll* THE KISS. PLS VALIDATE ME. The rest of this fic has been plotted, I swear I know what I'm doing (kinda) - I know I'm beginning to sound unhinged, but all love is appreciated <3

Notes:

oh my god this fic is out of control i've got SO MANY IDEAS help

if anyone's got time, i'd LOVE a beta for this - i feel like Jason Todd himself would be disappointed in me for the quality of this writing but my dude I wrote it on a bus after one metric fucktonne of coffee so…

still, any love (comments, kudos, incoherent shouting, whatever) would be appreciated <3