slade would've been pissed right the fuck off, if he wasn't so high. after a successful mission, you two agreed to celebrate. a couple drinks, a night without responsibility spent in one of his safehouses with some shitty television and shittier food. you'd brought some edibles in, leaving them on the counter.

how was he supposed to know there was weed in them? of course, after returning from your shower and finding a good chunk of the tray missing you panicked. you couldn't tell slade! he'd have you beheaded! so gradually, he began to feel... off? strange? unusual, that's for sure.

he actually laughed at one of your jokes? that was uncanny enough you'd pinched yourself, wondering if maybe this was some sort of dream.

now, slade was melted into the confines of the couch. his lips were quirked up into the slightest smile, a hand resting over his eyes as he exhaled a breathy laugh in response to something you'd said.

he knew he should be upset. how could he be, though, when the deathstroke was reduced to a high, giggling mess? "never tell anyone about this," he said, his hand lazily falling into his lap and his singular eye cracking open to cut you a glare without any real fire behind it.