He’s been in Norway for two months.
Or at least he thinks so.
Hours blur into days. Into weeks. Months. By the next time he emerges from the next blizzard, that count has already doubled to four.
The steadily growing pile of firewood, in the little shack by his cabin in the mountains, is on the verge of reaching its tipping point, scraping up against the tin ceiling, like a tongue to the roof of his mouth. Winter isn’t close to being over any time soon, not this far north at least, but he’s already so tired of hibernating, wasting the days away under blankets, breathing wet little clouds into the creaking room as the winds rage on outside.
Christmas had passed a little after his arrival, the first one he’d spent in pure radio silence after so many years. It feels like an almost distant memory, now so far from December, but that pain of it still stings. He didn’t even have time to try and log a big enough tree to decorate with before the first storm had hit his side of the rocky slope.
He pushes his soggy spoonful of havregrøt (oatmeal porridge) around the bowl. Stares are his own reflection in the silver. Forlorn.
He’s… not just bored.
It wouldn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone to hear that the Dick Grayson is feeling lonely, least of all to himself. That clock had been steadily ticking away in his mind before he’d even touched down in Oslo. There’s only so much a hot water bottle can do to replace the warmth of another human being. Or, humanoid at least. Honestly he isn’t the pickiest.
The isolation hasn’t been too bad. He’s had worse, usually while imprisoned as a cape or kidnapped as a Wayne, this isn’t that big of a deal, and it’s not like he’s anywhere close to running out of firestarter material, or anything.
It still burns though. Like dry ice against the eczema on his elbows. His experience with Ivy’s pollen barely scratches the surface of reality.
He takes another mouthful, twirling the spoon in his hand thoughtfully.
Earlier, while tuning his radio before bed, he’d come across a distant channel from a larger town, miles away. At first, he’d been suspicious as to who would bother to be so active on the late night airwaves—especially when no one would dare brave the roads at that hour—until the host began to list what Dick summarised as a calendar update with announcements of all the various upcoming nightlife events across the region. By the end of the broadcast, it turned out most were located in the closest city, obviously, but there were still a handful in the valley and surrounding villages around him.
One, in particular, had stood out.
Dick stands and heads to the kitchen to wash up. With breakfast done, he douses the fire, ready to get a move on in case the weather abruptly changes. Strapping a pair of black and blue snowshoes over his boots, and an empty gas can to his back, he yanks down his goggles and steps out the door and into the fresh snow. It’s dark out, but his electric lantern’s solar batteries must still have some juice in them, because it flicks on without any preamble as he picks it up off the porch after a quick shake to get the fine dusting of snow away.
Across the slope, the smattering of trees hiding his place from view have thinned out a little, courtesy of his panicked lumberjacking as he’d begun to run out of things to keep himself busy with earlier in the month. The village is still hidden from his view, on the other side of the mountain, which makes the radio a little spotty; but the reverse is true also, and his hiding spot has stayed pretty much unobserved so far.
He hopes.
Pausing, he scans for potential heat signatures, then stomps past the tree line after finding nothing but a lone arctic fox, and begins to make his way around the mountainside.
*
Just past noon, he reaches the edge of the village, huffing slightly at the icy pangs of air against his nose and throat. He fumbles with his thermos for a drink, hands caught inside his thick gloves. After pushing down his infinite scarf, Dick sips until he’s content, forgoing his rationing after remembering he can refill while here anyway.
There’s still another half-day ’til he needs to show up though. Dick frowns with a sigh as he fastens the bottle back to his hip.
He stops by the mechanic first, and takes his time, checking the diagnostics sheet on his watch as he picks out the right parts to repair his newly acquired snowmobile with. Or, well, not so new. It was something he’d found lodged under a heap of snow near the base of the mountain after that blizzard on the first week of his arrival. He’d searched for days to find any survivors—but there were none, so he’d appropriated the vehicle for safe keeping.
…Annnd to keep any search parties away from his cabin.
He finds the parts, pays, and crosses the road to the gas station next. Thankfully, the afternoon sun is warm enough to stop the fuel lines from freezing, so he slides out of the straps holding the jerry can to his back and fills it up. The price is steep, but it’s a small sacrifice to make to keep his generator running during the next snowstorm. He taps his prepaid card without a second thought. His solar chargers can only do so much when the sun is missing, and he’s not inclined to risk losing power to his security system.
He grunts, hauling the can back over his shoulders, straps dig uncomfortably through his coat as he buckles them together in the front, before setting off for the next stop.
In the library, a quiet murmur greets him after the doorbell jingles. He dumps his gear next to the entryway, but the librarian doesn’t look up beyond that, and Dick takes the chance to slip into the blindspot of the cameras across from him. He’s not here for the computers per-say; too risky, and he doesn’t need them when he’s got his satellite phone on him, and a sturdy laptop back at the cabin, but what he doesn’t have—
Dick grins as the small hobby nook comes into view.
He hadn’t had room to pack a sewing machine. Hand stitching his clothes every other week has been really getting on his nerves. Taking a seat in front of the singular, old machine, he takes off his pale camouflage vest, then his coat with a small shiver. He picks up a seam ripper from the table, ready to gut the lining like a fish, and watches as the rubbed-raw threads fall apart like wet tissue paper under his shaking hands.
*
By the evening, the fog has fully set in around the village, and with it, thankfully, stealing away the blinding shine of snow. Unfortunately, however, it’s also snowing now, and Dick huffs out a sharp breath as he hurriedly jogs, loud crunching footsteps leaving deep prints along the path.
Dick enters the pub, sighing at the gush of heavy, warm air over him as he opens the door. He leans over to unstrap his snowshoes and scuff his boots against the welcoming mat, shaking them before they can melt and leave a wet trail across the nice wooden floor. He props them up near the coat racks and scans the tables for the group. The usual corner in the back, the broadcast had said. You know the drill. But which corner? He frowns, eyes darting between the two shadowy zones.
Both tables are full, and every patreon’s state of dress is practically indistinguishable, a blend of hi-vis vests and jackets covering every thick and puffy coat. He scratches his cheek and shrugs to himself, heading over to the bar to order. The least he can do is get a hold of something to wring his hands with while he scopes it out.
“Unnskyld,” (“Excuse me,”) he calls out, waving.
“Ja? Hva er det du trenger?” (“Yes? What do you need?”)
“Har du noe gløgg? Kan jeg få litt?” (“Do you have any mulled wine? Can I have some?”) Dick says, hopping up onto one of the empty stools.
“Ja, selvfølgelig!” (“Yes, of course!”) The bartender scoffs, gesturing at the calendar on the wall. It’s still decorated in drawings of snowflakes, the final days of winter.
“Tusen takk,” (“Thanks so much,”) Dick laughs and checks the menu next to it, dropping a handful of coins once he figures out the correct amount. His drink is handed to him and he spins in his seat as he tastes it, feeling the scalding warmth soothe his throat. He drags his gaze across the tables again, then sighs and gets up.
He’ll have to take a closer look for this.
Mustering up the Grayson-confidence, he walks in a smooth, confident gait towards them. Casual, but not too rowdy. Seamlessly absorbed into the atmosphere. The pub isn’t very big, but it’s the only one in the village, and in a place with less than eight hundred permanent residents—it’s actually pretty crowded.
There’s a large fireplace, burning to one side, opposite the bar, and he feels the warm whoosh of air brush him by as he passes it. Its heat has drawn many of the wandering guests to it, and the path to the back is clearer now that he’s passed beyond its range.
It takes him just a second of eavesdropping to realise the second table is the right one, he waves at the blonde woman at the head of the table and leans down to ask her. She confirms it, and also hands him a lacquer card after noticing his blank gaze sweep across the group. His bones ache as he takes the last remaining seat. A quick glance down at the card shows an address, email and phone number. A business card—for a BDSM club based in the nearest big city. At least that confirms he hasn’t missed out on any here…
He pockets it and returns to surveying the gathering.
Dick doesn’t know much about the villagers, he can recognise a few people—storekeepers he’s met before—in other areas of the pub, clustered together in little pods. But here, everyone is a stranger.
At least he thought they were.
A single, grey eye catches his attention, and Dick freezes. His eyes widen as he almost visibly flinches at the sight of one Slade Wilson, sitting across the table from him like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
He feels like he’s been dropped head first into the icy river outside. He feels like he’s fallen into the burning fire inside.
He feels. He feels awake.
Slade must’ve already spotted him earlier—or worse, already known he was here—because he doesn’t react at all until Dick’s brain comes back online and he puts his glass down, jerking his head towards what he assumes is the toilets. He watches as Slade sighs and slides from his seat, like he expected this reaction. Like Dick is another one of his predictable marks. He stands to snag Slade’s forearm with his grip and pull him away from the table, giving an apologetic smile to the confused glances from the rest of the group as they leave.
The woman from earlier mouths at them with a frazzled expression, that they’re not supposed to hook-up at munches, but Slade waves her off with a short, “ikke bekymre deg, Sigrid, det er greit.” (“don’t worry, Sigrid, it’s okay.”)
She seems to trust him, because she sits down instead of continuing to try to follow, and he shoots Slade an even more perplexed look.
When he’s finally dragged them ’round the bend, Dick snaps, “Slade? What the hell, you’re not supposed to be here.”
Slade looks at him, pointedly, says, "why not? It’s a free world.”
“It’s a bounty, isn’t it,” Dick glares in return, then drops it with a quiet, hopeless sigh, “no way there’s one for anyone else out here though, it’s me isn’t it? But I thought—”
He should be pulling out a weapon. There’s a knife in his boot, escrima sticks in his coat, a Wing-Ding in each one of his cargo pockets.
But he doesn’t.
Slade scoffs, voice low, “as if the world revolves around you, Grayson.”
Dick straightens and gives Slade a slow once over. The older man is dressed similarly to the rest of the clientele, sans the eyepatch. That doesn’t mean anything on its own, Slade knows how to blend in when he needs to, but… his swords aren’t on him. This close, Dick can see a faint lump that he knows is a hidden weapon, not misplaced wool, but it’s still not comparable to the firepower Slade would usually tote around. A stealth mission, maybe. But even so—
“That woman—the whole table, they all knew you,” Dick says, wracking his brain as he stares up at Slade, “how long have you been here?”
“Do you really think that’s any of your business?”
“Slade.”
His lone eye rolls. “I landed here yesterday, Grayson. I haven’t been stalking you. There’s no bounty.”
“On anyone?” It doesn’t seem like a lie, but he could be wrong. He could just as well be losing his touch.
“No one.”
Dick’s hand is still on Slade’s forearm. He doesn’t remember that it’s there at all until he relaxes, and it slides down the sleeve and into Slade’s awaiting hand.
He doesn’t pull away.
“So you have been here before then,” Dick concludes, “why?”
“Why are you here?” Slade shoots back, “is this really where you’ve been hiding this whole time?”
“That’s classified.”
“Really,” he says dryly, raising a brow, “and to think; I just answered all your invasive questions.”
“No you didn’t, you haven’t told me why you’re here, only what you aren’t here for,” Dick says, he tries to pull away, to cross his arms, but stops when Slade’s still hands abruptly come alive, curling to lock them together, his thick knuckles keeping Dick’s own trapped below them.
“Looks to me like we’re both here for the same thing. You came to our table, kid." Slade’s expression slowly crooks into a smirk, like he’s been waiting this whole time to point that out.
He blanches at the reminder. “That’s—”
“Has the cabin fever set in that badly?” Slade’s thumbs shift, and then he’s pressing gentle circles into the skin of Dick’s palm, just beneath the callouses decorating the base of his fingers. “So lonely you had to go looking for some fool to help? To hold you down?”
Dick shivers.
“Cold, little bird?”
“...Yep.”
The swirling pauses, and he feels a blunt nail digs into his skin. “Really,” Slade says, indulgently, and Dick nods. It’s not a question. It’s impossible to hide anything from him, like this. Dick’s spent half his life trying. But it’s especially difficult when he’s just— so—
Well, his answer—pointless as it may be—isn’t a lie either. He sways towards Slade’s body heat, nose almost touching the zips and buckles down the middle of his coat. “Stop it. You still haven’t answered me,” he whines, “come on.”
Above him, Slade is silent for a moment, before sighing. It tickles Dick’s bangs, poking out from under the fur trim of his hood. “I’m here for my annual skiing trip, kid,” Slade says, in an exasperated huff of air, “and now I’ll have to find a different resort; one you Bats can’t track.”
Skiing?
“Oh.” Dick blinks, and is opening his mouth before he can stop himself, “wait—you don’t have to. All my trackers are disabled.” Is this Slade’s idea of a vacation? He’d would’ve thought he’d have preferred… a warmer climate. Then again, skiing isn’t that much of a step away from golfing, and Slade has the money—and hair—to match those preferences. He’s been on enough of Bruce’s staged trips to know the typical demographic targeted by those getaways. “And this is a solo op, ’s not like I advertised my destination before going. My plan, my rules.”
Slade looks at him, incredulously. “Little bird… that’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“You said there wasn’t a bounty on me.”
“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity, there’s bound to be someone looking for revenge in the future. Could be an easy few million, for all I care.”
Dick leans closer, looking up to catch Slade’s eye. “And waste a good chunk of it keeping me alive in the meantime? That’s not your style Slade.”
“Hm, not if I got you to do the work for me. You’ve been off-grid long enough, I’m sure you have the supplies already. Enough for a month at least. It wouldn’t be hard.” Slade pulls up Dick’s right hand, closer, pressing it against his side, right over the firearm hidden beneath the layers.
He feels his face break into a grin at the threat. That’s more like him, not that winter sports douchebag. “I think you’re forgetting what you told me last year.”
Slade stills, face sharpening. His eye narrows. “And that’s not why you left?”
Dick startles. “No, I told you. This is just—this is just a mission.” He draws back slightly. “That’s all. I don’t… I don’t care about that,” he exhales a brittle laugh, “I mean, I do. But not as much as I would’ve. Before.”
It was a complete coincidence. The week before take off, a chilly day in the middle of November, he’d confronted Slade over something Barbara had tipped him off on. Slade disposing of anyone who’d posted bounties on him. He doesn’t know what changed—why he can’t feel anything but flattered anymore—but even at the time it was comforting to know. Privately. That someone could have his back, without hovering over his shoulder like Bruce always did.
They’d left off that argument in a good state, he’d thought. He didn’t bother Slade any further about his new proclivities, and Slade hadn’t sabotaged his mission by turning up and putting them on the radar.
…Maybe Slade hadn’t shown up for a different reason though.
Maybe he’d—
He’s—
Slade is kissing him.
Dick gasps as he rushes back from his thoughts when Slade’s lips touch his.
His own chapped ones.
There’s a wet swipe against them, healing, and his embarrassment over the fraying state of his skin fades in the blink of an eye as he kisses Slade back.
He tugs at his hands and Slade lets them go free, reaching to pull Dick closer as Dick’s hands sink into his hair. The energy overtaking him all of a sudden would be nausea inducing, if that symptom hadn’t been trained out of Dick decades ago. Slade is half tongue, half teeth, and entirely everything Dick has been longing for these past couple of months.
Slade’s hand moves under his hood, to the nape of Dick’s neck, squeezing, and Dick jolts under the grip, head tipping further back when he feels a tug at the base of his overgrown hair. He’s already panting. It’s humiliatingly easy to see how unstable he is when every breath he takes is followed by a cloud of vapour.
They must look like two smokers, in a back alley, mindlessly clawing at each other after every puff. Dragons breathing in the night.
He can’t—he can’t feel the cold anymore.
There’s still signs of it all around him, whenever Slade switches to nuzzling against his cheek he can open his eyes; see the frost all over the window next to them, the snow piling higher and higher outside. It hasn’t gotten any slower. And the crackle of the fireplace is still fading away with every heartbeat.
The solid shape of the knife against his calf is still—there.
It should feel cold.
But the sheer relief overpowers all of it.
He feels like he’s a kid again, like Robin. The night—morning—after Bruce and Alfred had successfully devised an antidote for Ivy’s pollen for the first time. That pure rush in his veins as the prickling, scraping pain disappeared in a slow wave. A tsunami over his head.
Slade, towering above him, now. Cure in hand.
A loud thud reverberates out along the floorboards, a few steps away from them. It takes Dick a second to realise it’s one of the restroom doors, another to break away from Slade, and another to crack his eyes open, gazing at the string of spit between them; a gondola cable strung upwards to Slade’s lips, slowly crystallising in the middle, clear with a sparkle of white, like his beard.
”Kuksuger,” (“Cocksucker,”) a man spits under his alcohol-filled breath. The ice shatters.
“Ikke rør meg,” (“Don’t touch me,”) Dick snaps back when the man knocks into his shoulder, stumbling and pulling up his pants as he passes them by, voice slurring. Slade’s body jerks, as if to chase after him—or pull out a handgun—and Dick tightens his grip in response, squeezing his biceps as he says, “wait, Slade. Don’t.”
“Fine.”
Dick watches him glare at the back of the man’s head until he disappears out of view, and nudges him again, “hey, look at me,” until Slade’s attention is back on him. “Earlier. When I left. Did you think I was upset?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh?”
“No,” Slade repeats, “just thought you wanted some space. Didn’t think I’d see you sit down for a munch in the middle of nowhere so fast.”
“You were here too,” Dick frowns, “I didn’t know we were exclusive.”
“Neither did I.” He brushes a lock of hair from Dick’s face. “Are we?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, Slade’d kill him for less. He gives it a long pause, but he isn’t actually thinking about it, Dick already knows his answer. “Yeah,” he says plainly, “are you keeping mercenaries off anyone else’s backs?”
Slade smacks him upside the head, but it’s dull against the woollen padding. “Yeah. My kids.”
Leaning back, he scuffs the boot of his heel against the floor as he belatedly ducks—just for the sake of it. “That doesn’t count!”
On the tips of his toes, he reaches up again to pull him down, the red in Slade’s cheeks heating up the tips of his nearly frostbitten fingers in seconds. Dick kisses him again, rubbing their foreheads together as he tries to climb inside his furnace. His pumping heart. Clinging to Slade’s shoulders as he kisses him back.
“You shouldn’t have left your drink on the table,” Slade grumbles when they finally peel apart, “I’ll buy you another, come on.”
“What, we’re not fucking here?”
“I’m not losing my good standing with Sigrid over this.”
“Not what you were thinking when you almost shot the damn guy,” Dick says as he trots after him.
“Hn. Don’t think she’d care.”
A good number of people have left since he’d dragged them off, it seems, with the rest of the room creeping closer towards the dwindling embers of fire as the night draws to a close. Dick plucks his glass from the mostly empty table as they pass, skipping past Slade to sip at it in front of him, taunting. Slade doesn’t pause, just stares at him, and in the next moment he’s grimacing as the lukewarm taste hits his tongue. “Bleh, never mind.”
At the bar, Slade’s face turns pensive as they wait, sitting on the stools. Dick bumps him with his elbow. “Okay, what’s wrong now?”
Slade takes the bottle and a few shot glasses handed to him by the bartender, then pushes Dick’s own drained-and-refilled glass of gløgg (mulled wine) towards him. Dick takes a sip, revelling in the spicy burn as he swallows, and tilts his head curiously when Slade’s frown gets worse.
“Slade?”
“I’m not here to interfere with your mission, kid.”
Dick smiles, “uh, yeah-duh, I know. You told me.” He sits, waiting, watching as Slade uncorks the bottle and begins to pour his own line of drinks.
“I want you to come back with me.”
“To… the ski resort?”
“Yes.” Slade shifts in his seat to face him fully. Dick’s already completely turned towards him, having shifted that way the moment they sat down, feet folding halfway onto the stool. Slade leans forward to grip his knee. “I can bet that it’s nicer than whatever shoddy cabin you’ve hunkered down in,” he says, voice low. Dick can see him watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye, saving Dick’s cover from being blown in case he happens to understand English. “But if you don’t want me interrupting, I get it. I don’t exactly wish upon the heavens for you to show up during my work either.”
Seriously?
Dick scoffs and shoves at his shoulder, “well, I on the other hand do want to interrupt your ’work’. Guess I’m gonna have to accept, huh?”
Slade expression falls away into a snort, and he turns to start tossing back his shots.
The pub is closing soon, and Dick knows the bottle Slade had paid for isn’t even close to being enough to have any effect with his enhancements. He settles in to watch as the final stragglers gather closer in horrified laughter as Slade speeds through it.
So much for blending in. At least everyone still here will be too drunk to remember it.
He pushes his glass towards Slade. Better to stay sober if he really did mean that invite.
*
Later, he follows him out into the night, sliding his gloves back on as they go. Slade takes his jerry can off of him, without asking, leaving Dick to carry only his own bag. The cold air singes his nose and whips at his eyes, but he doesn’t feel so numb when he looks again, at Slade, and sees the green hues of the aurora borealis reflecting for a second in his eye when he turns back at the pause in Dick’s crunching footsteps.
He squeezes the frames of his goggles, not yet ready to pull them down.
Here under Slade’s shadow, the snowflakes can’t touch him, drifting aimlessly in his peripherals. He blinks up at his face, hidden and still and quiet, backlit by the moon above the valley. “You really want me to stay at your lodge?”
Slade looks towards the lights, the artificial ones crawling up the mountain’s grand slope.
“...It’s up to you.”
Dick trails after the warmth.