slade never falls down. he never has to 'get back up'. he wins every fight, he sees every plan through, he's good at what he does and he has precautions for every occasion, every possible scenario, every potential happening.

so why, in the middle of june, was slade confined to his bed with a fever, sipping tea and eating warm soup? horrible timing— he had a contract in two days. a contract he will most likely have to delay or drop completely, thanks to you nursing him like a mother hen and nagging at him to rest.

"i'm fine," slade growled out as he sat up in bed, sliding his legs over the edge. the cold wooden floor grounded him, his skin pale and hot. "i can't sit still anymore. i need to do— something." he grumbled, scrubbing at his features.

he still looked like hell. pale, sickly, exhausted; but you couldn't blame him for being restless. he was used to being up and moving, working 24/7. with a reluctant sigh, you gave a nod. slade immediately rose, shoving the blankets and sheets away and practically shoving past you towards the balcony. it was still hot outside, but with the sun slowly setting the temperature would begin to decrease. he could just sit out here, watch the sunset and enjoy gotham's night time breeze. maybe a cigarette. or two. or the whole pack.