Work Text:
Oliver had grown increasingly nervous in the hours since returning from work. He had paced around the apartment twice, rearranged all the three items on his kitchen counter and downed two drinks to try to calm his nerves. He was fairly sure that had only made it worse.
Now, he was back to pacing, fighting down the urge to start rearranging furniture. His mind screamed at him to get himself together. He had nothing to worry about, really, he had the upper hand. This was his city, his home, he knew the ground better, he had friends close by.
Oliver dropped down into a chair, hands cupping the back of his own neck. He hadn’t really told anyone about the visitor he expected that evening, or about the call he had received the previous night directly after returning from a patrol. He hadn’t hesitated to agree to meet Slade. Then, as soon as he had hung up, the internal panic had set in with a fury.
The sound of a single knock on the door startled Oliver so much he physically flinched and shot to his feet. Heart pounding, he looked around the space, taking a couple deep breaths to try to bring his adrenaline back to a normal speed. He ran a subconscious hand over his tie -he had hung his suit jacket after coming home and now simply wore the dress shirt, sleeves pushed up and a plain tie- and started walking to the door.
He flipped the lock and pulled the door open, stepping aside wordlessly and allowing Slade to move past him into the apartment. Oliver focused on closing the door behind him, giving himself another short moment to try to pull himself together. When he turned again, the Australian was studying the apartment with careful precision. Hearing Oliver walking back, he turned around again.
“Nice place,” the casual compliment was unexpected. Casual conversations had never really been their thing. Occasionally on Lian Yu, a random topic would be breached but typically, there had been more important things to discuss. Oliver was about to respond when his phone rang abruptly. He cleared his throat, glancing at the device lying down on the table.
Slade made an inviting gesture towards it, signifying he wouldn’t take any insult at Oliver taking the call. The archer crossed to the table and picked it up, his finger hesitating over the accept button as he glanced back to the Australian. “You can sit anywhere.” He lifted the phone, taking a few steps away as he answered.
One short conversation with Rene later, Oliver hung up, turning back towards Slade as he pocketed the phone and left the small kitchen. The Australian was seated in a chair by the window, one foot propped up. Once again, the casual nature of this meeting hit Oliver. Speaking to Slade like this was familiar and unfamiliar all at once. “Sorry, that was work.” He said. Slade shrugged, obviously not finding the profession of gratitude necessary.
“Don’t apologize,” he replied. He didn’t meet Oliver’s gaze, instead studying his hand with what seemed like an unnecessary level of focus. “I appreciate the meeting.” The awkwardness seemed to deepen in the next few moments, neither willing to look the other in the eye. Finally, Oliver grasping for something, anything, to help him, cleared his throat.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked, already stepping towards the kitchen. And that was how, five minutes later, he was seated across from Slade Wilson, both of them with glass in hand, bottle set on a side table, discussing the whereabouts of Joe, and exactly what Slade’s plan was.
They went through three drinks each before the conversation took a sudden, and not entirely welcome turn.
“And how are you going to explain your absence to your friends?” Slade asked the question abruptly, rotating his glass slowly and watching the amber liquid swirl. Oliver froze, staring at the Australian trying to gauge the meaning of the question. Slade glanced up. “I’m assuming if you had told any of them about this meeting there’d be fortifications and security all over this place.” Oliver dropped his gaze, a little annoyed the Australian had picked up on that.
“That’s not a concern,” he said dismissively. He saw the faint smirk on Slade’s features and glared once at the Australian, standing. “I’ll let Felicity and Diggle know before I leave, they’re not going to start a manhunt.” Oliver took both empty glasses turned away, crossing to the kitchen and turning on the tap water, rinsing out both glasses before filling them. He heard the light step behind him as Slade stepped into the kitchen, he offered the Australian the glass again, this time full of water. Oliver rested both hands on the surface behind him, leaning back against the countertop. Facing the man once again. “Although I’m surprised you’re interested in that detail.”
“They have reason to not like me,” he said calmly. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be tracked for the next year.” Oliver shook his head, there was a faint, pleasant buzz in the back of his mind. He wasn’t drunk, but the alcohol was having some effect, even if it was minor. “I’m sure my being here makes certain things…complicated.” Oliver barely refrained from rolling his eyes.
“Complicated is a nice word for it,” he said, sarcasm evident. Slade shrugged and Oliver sat on the edge of the counter, still facing the Australian. He looked down at his hand, rolling his fingers absentmindedly. “They may not trust you, but they’ll respect my decision.”
“That’s their mistake,” Slade muttered. Oliver was momentarily taken aback even as the smile cracked at the corners of his mouth.
“Are you saying I make bad decisions?” he challenged, words holding an amused note of incredulity. Slade looked back at him.
“Your life is a collection of bad decisions, kid,” he replied, then added. “Although in this case, that’s fortunate for me.”
“I mean logically, agreeing to help you isn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made about you in my life,” Oliver countered. This time, it was Slade’s turn to be taken aback, watching Oliver with a suddenly unreadable expression. The archer spread both hands wide. “You started it.” He said.
“Are you drunk?” Slade asked abruptly. This time, Oliver did roll his eyes.
“No,” he said. “But thank you, for that concern.” That was truthful, at least, although maybe he was a little less censored than usual. “I still remember risking my life to go get herbs and keep you alive though.” He added, and Slade’s uncertain expression dropped with almost a comical quickness.
“And that’s what you call a bad decision?” he asked, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Because I remember quite a few others.” He took a drink of water as Oliver shook his head.
“No. Really when I said that I was referring to the sex but you seemed about to go into shock,” he replied breezily. He gave Slade credit for not spitting out the mouthful of water he had just sipped. He did, however, momentarily choke on the water, coughing several times. Oliver stayed casual, completely unconcerned. He gestured towards Slade. “Maybe I should have just tried that when you attacked the city.” The Australian set the glass down firmly.
“Drunk or not,” he said clearly. “You’ve had enough to drink.”
“Maybe,” Oliver agreed easily with a small shrug. “Although I think according to your logic, I don’t necessarily need alcohol to make bad decisions.”
“I think I prefer you without any ethanol in your system,” Slade commented dryly. “You’re a lot easier to deal with.”
“Boring,” Oliver said. He glanced towards the clock. More time had passed than he had realized. “Though I should warn you that the team’s probably not going to handle well to seeing you on the streets.”
“I should get going,” Slade agreed. Oliver reached out his hand, intending to take the glass. Slade glanced down at it, and it was a moment before he passed over the tumbler. Without sliding down from his seat, Oliver turned, depositing both tumblers into the sink. When he turned back around, Slade was still in the same place, albeit now standing straight. “I’ll send you flight details,” he said. Oliver nodded, and yet still, neither of them moved, both trapped in hesitation. Oliver leaned forward, trying to detect any sort of emotion in Slade’s body language. He was surprised when in response to his own small movement, the Australian seemed to also shift a little closer.
“It really is getting late,” Oliver said. “You know, cops start making rounds, vigilantes everywhere, you can run into a lot of trouble out there.” Slade just looked at him.
“No.” He said.
“What?” Oliver asked innocently.
“One of us has to be the mature one,” Slade replied. Although the archer noticed he was not noticeably closer than he had been a few comments previously.
“Are you saying I’m not mature? I'm pretty sure you're not much soberer than me.” Oliver said, the light note that had flitted into his words betraying any injured dignity he might have tried to insert. Slade raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” he said bluntly. Oliver chuckled at that, and at the obvious war between Slade’s pride and want. He leaned back a little, dropping his head against the wall and looking at Slade.
“Okay,” he said. The Australian’s eye narrowed.
“Okay?” he repeated suspiciously. Oliver shrugged easily.
“As you said, maturity,” Oliver said, fighting down the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Very important.” He didn’t move, and neither did Slade, the clock ticked by the seconds. Slade stepped closer, arms still crossed, staring at Oliver with a dark gaze.
“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” he said dryly. Oliver leaned forward, hand closing on the unzipped edge of Slade’s jacket, the Australian didn’t shake off his hold, instead, he stepped closer.
“Uh huh.” Slade’s hand rested on his thigh, its weight and warmth making it hard for Oliver to continue the conversation. He looked down into the Australian’s face, adrenaline racing. As Slade leaned forward, his hand tightened perceptibly. The grip wasn’t painful, but Oliver was unable to stifle his small gasp at the sensation. His hands ran up the front of Slade’s shirt, palms passing over the defined muscles obvious even through the material. His fingers laced together behind the other man’s neck, he felt Slade’s subtle shift, and drew satisfaction that the Australian wasn’t as composed as he appeared.
“Expecting any visitors tonight?” Slade asked. The question, although it seemed casual, there was an underlying promise to the words that had Oliver struggling to keep his control. The Australian’s hand reached up to curl around the knot on Oliver’s tie. It was an undeniably dangerous position; the archer knew Slade could kill him in a heartbeat. He felt the light pressure as well as Slade used his hold to pull Oliver in, shortening the space between them.
“No,” he replied honestly. With every hard beat of his heart, Oliver felt as though his brain was screaming at him that this was a terrible idea. This was different than his previous, light remarks earlier. You’ll regret it. But to hell with regret, he’d deal with it later. He lowered his head, lips passing against the side of Slade’s jaw, he nipped at the skin, the hand on his leg tightened. Oliver moved again, his lips almost touching Slade’s. “No visitors.”
“Good,” it was just one word, but the sudden shift in Slade’s tone, and the damn implication it held caused Oliver to writhe inside. Before he could even think to reply, Slade pulled him in until their lips met, the taste of the alcohol still lingering on both their tongues. Oliver slipped off the counter, his hands trailing over Slade’s shoulders and tangling in the collar of his jacket. He felt the Australian’s hands slide down to his hips, pulling their bodies impossibly close together. There was more than simply passion in that moment, more than the tinges of anger and hatred that plagued their history. Old emotions threatened to resurface, things neither of them really wanted to feel again.
They moved out of the kitchen without breaking apart, movements clumsy. Slade’s jacket finally slid free, dropping to the floor as the two stumbled past it, hardly noticing. Oliver could feel bruises forming where Slade’s hands gripped, but he could care less. He steered their movement, instinctively headed for the bedroom. They caught the edge of a side table, and the lamp on top toppled to the floor, with a crash. The noise and disruption caused them to part momentarily. Slade glanced down at the shattered glass.
“That’s going to-god damnit kid.” Whatever he had been about to say was lost in the curse as Oliver’s lips moved down, trailing kisses and nips over his neck. The archer couldn’t refrain his smirk against the Australian’s skin. Slade had the upper hand in so many things, and Oliver was pleased he could still draw such reactions from the older man. His hand trailed up underneath Slade’s shirt, exploring the taunt skin. Impatiently, Slade pulled him back into movement. They made it through the door of the bedroom. before any more clothing was discarded.
Slade easily thumbed through the bottom buttons on Oliver’s white shirt, his attention forced to undoing his tie and letting it fall to the ground without missing a step. The archer pressed him back, one hand trailing up under the hem of Slade’s shirt to grip the material pulling it upward. Somehow, he finally managed to get rid of the belt in his way. Oliver broke away from the kiss for just as long as it took for one of them -by that point, he had no idea who was contributing more effort to the endeavor- to pull the Australian’s shirt fully off and out of the way. Oliver moved closer again, this time, he nipped the side of Slade’s neck, sucking the skin gently. Slade cursed, and in a moment, Oliver’s back hit the wall with some force. Slade’s hand came up to capture Oliver’s jaw, pulling their lips back together. Unceremoniously, his free hand pushed the dress shirt off of Oliver’s shoulders. The sleeve cuffs caught around Oliver’s wrists, and for a moment, he was clumsily entangled in the shirt and Slade used that to his advantage, pressing the archer flush against the wall and trapping his arms behind him.
Oliver’s heart was beating erratically in his chest, the frantic pattern feeling as though it would pound out of his body at any second. With his arms trapped behind him, the archer had limited ability to move, and crooking his knee, he pressed his thigh against Slade’s groin, feeling the Australian’s entire body move in response to the pressure. Hands pressed him back against the wood.
“You are so-” Slade’s sentence trailed off, but Oliver guessed whatever he had been about to call him wasn’t complimentary. He laughed breathlessly at the Australian’s halfhearted annoyance. Fingers dug into his ribcage in response to his amusement. Slade muttered something and Oliver finally managed to get one arm free, twisting it out from behind him and hooking a finger through on of Slade’s belt loops, pulling the Australian closer.
“Too much for you, old man?” he asked teasingly. Slade scoffed his response, reaching down to catch Oliver’s hand, twisting it free of its grip. The white dress shirt dropped to the floor and the Australian’s fingers mapped out the bared skin, tracing every scar with a light touch. Oliver could feel every trace of his fingers, the touch felt like a hot brand trailing against his body. Oliver pressed off the wall, the wood was digging uncomfortably into his back, and he had no desire to stay in such a position. Slade relented, and they moved across the room, headed for the bed, still pressed impossibly close. They were close when Oliver leaned in to kiss Slade again, lips firm and unyielding.
Unfortunately, unfamiliar as he was with the room layout, the long shadows on the edges of his vision made Slade assume the bed was closer than it actually was. He reached out a hand, shifting his weight, expecting to feel the mattress. At the same time, Oliver, feeling the movement, shifted forward against Slade. The Australian’s hand did not connect with any surface, and off-balance, he stumbled, causing Oliver to pitch forward. Not expecting the archer to fall, Slade stepped away, trying to find support until his legs buckled, knocked out from under him by Oliver. The archer’s head smacked off the side of the bed, close enough now to add insult to injury. Oliver, landing face down, didn’t move for several seconds, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Slade, pushed himself up, moving to his feet.
“You’re an idiot,” there was no sting to the words, and there may have even been an exasperated fondness.
“I think this was easier without furniture,” Oliver said, he rolled to his knees, the traces of humor still obvious in his eyes. Slade shook his head, unable to hide the smile on his own features. He bent down, meeting the rising archer halfway, hand slipping around Oliver’s waist to pull the younger man to him. This time, they made it to the bed without injury, Oliver sliding onto the mattress, hands going behind him to make the feat easier. Slade followed.
Oliver shifted, but before he could straddle Slade, the Australian moved, rolling enough to push Oliver back into the pillows and mattress, hands on either side of the archer as he leaned down again. As Oliver kicked off the rest of his clothes, his hands felt the body on top of him, still familiar after so many years had passed.
Oh yeah, he would definitely going to regret this come morning.