A/N: Hello! I'm back after an unexpected and unfortunate last week. My beau's dad was in a bad car accident and spent the night in the hospital. He's okay now (nothing broken, but he was unconscious for an unknown amount of time, so needless to say, it scared the piss out of us). So, basically, I didn't worry about publishing anything last week - I did get a bit of work on Sladomasochism, though! Not a lot, but it's a start! Okay, I'll shut up now and let you read.

Slade downed the drink in a single gulp, grabbing the bottle for a refill. "You know I won't leave you here."

Robin lowered the half-empty glass, finding with some discouragement that it was far too strong to swallow whole, as Slade seemed to have no trouble doing. "I think Bruce is dead."

"So? You going to give up because of it?"

"No. That means that Rose is alone. You need to go find her before anything bad happens. What if she tries to come after you?"

"She's strong," Slade replied gruffly. "And she's got a good head on her shoulders. I told her to stay put, and she will. Wayne Manor is secure, and she knows how to handle any trouble that might find its way in. There's plenty of food, and she knows to purify any water before drinking it – that is, if Bat's personal reservoir and treatment system ever failed. Thank god for the Joker poisoning everyone's water so often. Bats was well prepared for this disaster."

Slade threw his head back again, downing his third glass.

"No place is safe. You know that."

"No place is safer than Batman's fortress," Slade shrugged. "And by now, she's probably healed up well enough to run for it, if she had to. And she knows how to fight if it comes to that."

"So did my team." Robin threw back the rest of his drink, coughing as it burned his way down his throat and created a warm pool in his belly. He tapped his empty glass against the table and Slade gave him a generous refill. The teen gave him a long, weary look as he drank. Finally setting the empty glass aside. "Do you think Bruce is dead?"

Slade tipped his sixth glass upright and drained it. "Yes. I think that's a strong possibility."

Robin was silent for a long while, looking contemplative while Slade continued to drink away the bottle. Glass after glass went by in silence, the man occasionally pouring a bit into the teen's cup.

"You don't age, do you?" Robin finally asked.


"And you can't die."

"I can die," Slade corrected him with a slight slur in his tone, tipping the bottle vertically to refill both their glasses and spilling some over the table. "I just don't stay dead."

"But you can get drunk?"

"This is bourbon, kid," Slade pointed a finger at the hero, not particularly caring that he spilled half his drink in doing so. "It'd get Superman piss-faced."

"Can Superman get drunk?" Robin asked his cup rather thoughtfully.

"He can die, I'll tell you that," Slade snorted into his own drink and Robin glared.

"So he's dead? You saw him?"

"No. Just rumors. He stepped up when the metas started turning, and soon joined the ranks. Or so the story goes."

"This world is so fucked," Robin sighed and slouched against the table, staring at the corpse across the surface before turning his attention back to his bloody hand. "Sheriously, Slade. It's fucked. We're fucked. M' fucked."

"You fucking love that word, don't you?" Slade asked wryly.

"I fuckin' do." Robin raised his head and gave a crooked smile. "I fuck-fucking love fuck. It'sha a fucking great word and a fucking great hobby." He looked thoughtful for a moment before he slouched back down in his chair. "I fucking miss fucking."

"I'll fucking bet," the villain lifted the empty bottle and peered into it with a bleary eye and unsteady hand. "It's fucking gone."

"Fuck-in' gone," the teen repeated in a sing-song breath, his eyes closing. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Oh, no you don't," Slade kicked him from under the table and the hero jolted, but did not raise his head. "No sleeping."

"M'not sheepin."

"God help you if I have to get up, Boy," Slade growled as he began to tip dangerously to the side.

"I don't imagine thatshou can get it up, Slade," Robin chuckled. "You're dru-nk."

"Ah, see, this is the kind of enthralling conversation that I would miss out on if I left you behind," he righted himself before falling, but cursed the empty bottle while he did so. He rarely drank to excess, and even less frequently to the point of certain intoxication, but damned if he wasn't shit-faced.

Robin gave a short huff. He managed to keep the smile on his face, but his eyes darkened considerably. Perhaps it was the slur or the glare in his blue eyes, but he seemed intent on making his response especially vicious. "So, what? Yer' going to babysit me until my hand heals? That won' work. We don'ave nearly enough stuff."

"I'll just have to make a run for one of your caches. You said it's not far, right?"

"I get there by jump-ables."

"I won't need them."

"Fuck'n wastin' your time 'f you ass me," Robin brought the empty glass to his lips, then stared at it speculatively.

"I won't leave you here," Slade responded gruffly and leaned against the table.

It hadn't been a particularly large bottle that they'd drained, but a combination of little food, dehydration from his work on the roof, and the abysmally high alcohol content of bourbon made for the perfect storm of asinine decisions. It was enough to poison anyone but the most devout alcoholics, probably, and although it wouldn't kill the villain, he was starting to wish that it would. Slade had been drunk before, certainly, and he wasn't immune to being an idiot while under the influence, but his thoughts at that moment were a masterpiece of stupidity in comparison – after all, being drunk was bad, but being drunk and sentimental was far, far worse.

Slade grabbed the teen's hand roughly and looked at him with a serious glare, "I'm not going to leave you, Robin."

Robin stared at the table with long, contemplative expression that shifted seamlessly between hopelessness, fear, and turmoil. His lips quivered slightly as he lifted his glassy blue eyes to meet the villain's gaze and spoke very softly, "M' gonna fuckin' barf."

A/N: Way to fucking ruin the moment, Boy Wonder.