Work Text:
The first time Dick visits Slade’s house—his actual home, instead of a random safehouse—things are… surprisingly normal.
The log cabin looks almost picturesque, Dick thinks as he approaches on foot. He's sweating buckets, having to wear hiking boots and pants in the middle of the summer, but even still, he can appreciate the sight in front of him: a cozy home with a stone chimney, surrounded by lush grass and towering trees. Like a discount store landscape painting brought to life.
The forest is even chirping and cawing around him as he walks along the stone path to the front door, as if all of nature is cheering him on in his adventure to go and get some. Or, at least, that's what he likes to think nature is doing.
Or maybe it's just been a while since he saw his boyfriend.
His new boyfriend, since they turned their weird, kinda friends-with-benefits relationship into an official, romantic relationship a week ago. He still feels warm and fuzzy inside, repeating the word in his head.
It's almost funny, he thinks, that he feels warm and fuzzy while approaching an isolated cabin in the middle of the woods, occupied by the world's deadliest mercenary. Not that he's nervous; as much as people like to act like Slade is some unstable, depraved maniac, Dick knows better. In his opinion, Slade is more like a grumpy old Mastiff than a violent sociopath (an opinion that is consistently met with threats of violence from his boyfriend).
Either way, Dick has never gotten to just have a normal, domestic relationship, and he's just happy to finally be able to have a shot at one with Slade. Societal (or really, familial) judgment be damned.
He marches up the steps onto the porch and approaches the front door—but he jumps as it swings open before he can even knock.
His vision is suddenly filled with a broad, muscular chest. Slade is leaning against the edge of the doorframe, his body on near full display with the shorts and tank top he's wearing. Dick's eyes trace over every inch of lean muscle, and the way Slade's pecs are outlined in the tight top, and—
A deep voice pulls his mind out of the gutter.
"You plan on standing there forever?" Slade asks with the slightest hint of amusement in his tone. Dick tilts his head up to meet his boyfriend's gaze and finds a smile pulling at Slade's lips.
"You startled me," Dick replies with a faux-pout. "I was waiting for an apology."
"Well, you eye-fucked me, so I think we're even," Slade counters.
Rather than comment on how that math totally doesn't add up, Dick chooses to step forward and wrap his arms around his boyfriend in a tight hug. The type of hug you give when it's been a whole entire week since you last saw your boyfriend. It'd be near bone-crushing on a normal person, but one of the many perks of dating a meta is being able to hug as hard as you want without worry.
He feels Slade return the embrace, an arm wrapping around the small of Dick's back even as the older man scoffs. "You're like an octopus," Slade mutters under his breath. "A really sweaty octopus," he adds.
"Well, how am I supposed to keep away when you answered the door wearing this?" Dick replies, voice muffled with his face squished against Slade's chest.
After one final squeeze and an unamused glare from his partner, Dick breaks away to enter the home properly.
The air conditioning is running inside, and it's like heaven against his skin as he kicks his boots off onto the shoe tray by the front door. He finds the entrance leads straight into the living room, and he's able to get his first taste of his boyfriend's real sense of decor (rather than the generic crap he keeps in the safehouses).
There's a shiny leather couch and a sleek acacia coffee table perched in front of a fireplace, with a TV mounted above the mantle. Overall, a minimal, but sleek take on the standard log cabin living room; the type of place an old couple would retire in, which, in Dick's book, really isn't all that bad.
That is, so long as he continues to pointedly ignore the creepy stuffed bear's head mounted on the adjacent wall. That little decor choice certainly isn't contributing to the atmosphere, in his opinion.
At first, Dick thinks the small chill that runs up his spine is because of their ominous little bear friend, with its unseeing, glassy eyes. There's nothing else abnormal in sight as he steps back to Slade's side at the edge of the living room, next to a hallway he assumes branches off to the bedroom(s).
It's only a couple of seconds later, after the last of the heat of the summer sun dissipates from his skin, that he realizes the chill was less metaphorical, and more that, well…
It's fucking freezing in there.
The A/C system must have been installed by Dr. Fries himself because it has to be, at most, fifty-five degrees. Maybe less. Can a normal A/C even keep a house that cold? Dick can't help but think that the answer would be a resounding no.
He's almost certain the whole thing is incredibly strange, because why would somebody want their home to feel like a giant walk-in refrigerator? But, he notices Slade is still looking as comfortable as ever in his tank-top, arms folded casually over his chest as if nothing is amiss.
Dick instinctively wraps his arms around himself, feeling goose bumps prick at his skin, to which he receives a questioning look.
"Bit of a chilly reception," Dick says, a bad pun the only way he can think to broach the subject.
Slade rolls his eye. "I thought Batman would've taught you to endure the cold."
Dick decides to ignore that comment and instead asks, "Are you… Not cold?" Maybe it's a stupid question, because obviously Slade isn't, but he feels like he has to ask.
"I'm fine. The enhancements raised my body temperature; it keeps me warm."
And, well, oh.
In hindsight, he probably should've put this one together sooner. He's definitely noticed before, in the nights they've spent together, that Slade runs warmer than the average person. Sometimes it felt like he had a personal space heater in his bed when they'd spoon after sex, and, well, Dick always runs cold anyway, so he didn't question it too much.
He is only just now, however, fully considering the implications of having a meta boyfriend when it comes to simple, everyday life. Sure, he's thought of being able to give stronger hugs—and he's had some experience living with metas during his time with the Titans—but Slade's always been pretty unique with his artificial enhancements and all. More so, it wasn't something Dick ever had to consider when they were just hooking up, really.
Now that he is thinking about it, though, he finds he's almost excited by the idea. Navigating meta quirks sounds a lot more fun than the other abnormal things he's dealt with in his romantic endeavors.
And normalcy is overrated anyway.
"I think," Dick starts, shivering for emphasis, "that I'll need skin-to-skin contact, or I'll freeze to death."
Slade, as expected, doesn't look even slightly amused. "There are sweaters in my closet."
Dick slips his cold hands under his boyfriend's tank top, solely to steal some of his body heat and not at all to as an excuse to feel him up. "But babe," he whines, "a sweater's not gonna be enough to save me."
"There are socks too," Slade replies, removing the offending hands with a glare.
"Killjoy," Dick mutters. "Well, why do I have to wear a sweater? You don't keep your safehouses this cold, can't you just turn the A/C up?"
Slade scoffs at the question, as if surprised Dick has the audacity to question someone's rules in their own home. "My house, my thermostat," he replies. "Now do you want a sweater or not?"
"Okay, Mr. Krabs, I won't touch the thermostat," Dick says, with an eye roll for emphasis. Normally, he might be offended by a partner's refusal to bend to his whim, but there's something oddly sincere in the way Slade communicates. The way he's so straightforward and uncomplicated (at least, in verbal conversation), unlike everybody else in Dick's life. It's refreshing.
"I don't understand that reference, and I don't want you to explain it to me," Slade mutters as he turns and heads down the hallway.
Down the hall and through a door that's slightly more ornate than others, Dick is greeted by the master bedroom. It's just as he expected based on the rest of the house, with a queen bed on a simple wooden frame, a nice little landscape painting above the headboard, and a bearskin rug at the foot of the bed.
He's not sure if it'd be better or worse if the skin were from the bear in the living room.
"Closet's over there," Slade says, pointing to the only other door in the room, as if Dick, the trained detective, wouldn't have been able to figure that one out himself. "Knock yourself out. I have to tend to our dinner."
"Thanks, babe," Dick replies, blowing a kiss to Slade's back as his boyfriend exits the room.
Of course, Slade isn't a man to spare expenses, and the closet is an expansive walk-in. The closet storage and shelves are all made from the same wood as the cabin itself, creating a nice uniformity to the space that is oddly satisfying.
He rifles through the hanging sweaters with fingers stiff from the cold, until he spots a thick, fuzzy wool sweater that looks like it could've been knit by somebody's grandma. There's a matching pair of wool socks on the shelf below, and Dick immediately knows he's found his pick.
The sweater hangs down to his thighs once he tugs it on over his shirt, and the socks are, similarly, about four sizes too big, but they're also unbelievably soft and cozy. It does feel slightly weird wearing winter clothes in the middle of the summer, but he has, without a doubt, done weirder and worse for love.
Besides, it's almost thrilling, at least to him. Getting to share a casual, intimate moment with Slade, who's normally the most guarded person on the planet. Getting to see into the mercenary's life and live it with him, instead of being a pining outsider.
Which is to say, Dick is happy to wear a sweater and let Slade have his cold house. He'll get his revenge when Slade has to deal with his cold feet at night.
Dick wanders back out to the kitchen, a content smile on his face as he takes a seat on one of the wooden barstools at the kitchen island. His partner is preparing their dinner as promised, pulling a hot tray of food out of the oven.
Their dinner is really just takeout Slade had gotten delivered (God knows how), but it's heartwarming that he's going through the effort of warming the food up properly—rather than just throwing it in the microwave like Dick probably would've. Then again, between the two of them, Slade always had the more refined palette (the snob).
"Are you going to help, or are you just going to sit there?" Slade asks without turning around, his attention moving to a pot on the stove.
Dick opens his mouth to say something snarky in response, about how he doesn't know where anything is in Slade's house, but he sees the silverware and place-mats have already been laid out on the island. Though he also spots a bottle of what looks like radioactive hot sauce, labeled "Ass Destroyer," and proudly boasting its "three million scovilles".
"Is this for you?" Dick asks with amusement in his voice as he picks up the bottle of sauce. It's ridiculous, and gaudy, and unlike anything Slade would ever buy. And it's also ridiculously spicy, like, destroy all the flavor in a meal spicy, if Dick remembers his scovilles correctly.
Slade cranes his head over his shoulder to see what Dick is holding. "Yeah," he replies, turning his attention back to his cooking.
Dick waits for an explanation to come, but, of course, one doesn't, and so he asks, "And what's the deal with that?"
"It's hot sauce, Grayson. I'm sure you know what it's for."
"Don't be obtuse," Dick says, in his best stern voice—the phrase is definitely not built into his vocabulary because it's something Alfred would regularly say to him growing up. "You know what I mean."
"It's… unfortunate that it has such a ridiculous label, but it's the hottest sauce on the market. I like it," Slade offers, as if that explains everything.
"And you, just, put the hottest sauce in the world on your dinner? And that's enjoyable for you?" Dick asks.
His partner finally turns to fully face him. "I'm starting to think you didn't know I'm a meta," he says, the sarcasm thick in his voice.
"I've met plenty of metas who don't drown their food in hot sauce," Dick counters.
"Fair enough," Slade replies with a shrug. "Maybe it's more a side effect of the serum."
"And what, exactly, is the side effect? It makes you crave hot sauce all the time?"
"No," he replies, as if that would be ridiculous. "When all of your senses are enhanced, normal food gets a little boring. So I spice it up."
For reasons Dick could never fully explain, he can't help but think that's the most adorable thing he's ever heard. That his meta boyfriend apparently loves crazy hot sauces with ridiculous names, and keeps his house at near-freezing, and can definitely hear when Dick enters the room just by his heartbeat. It's nowhere near normal, but it's also so… intimate, and refreshing, because there's no pretense behind it. It's all just so Slade, all the man he loves with all of his heart.
Maybe he went into the day expecting normalcy, but he's somehow much happier with what he's found instead.
He can't help from strolling over to his boyfriend, planting a kiss on Slade's cheek. "You're so cute, babe, with your little quirks," he says.
"Babe?" Slade questions, even as he returns the kiss. "What's with the pet names all of a sudden?"
"What," Dick asks as innocently as he can, "would you prefer honey? Sweetheart? Cuddle bug?"
Slade hums, pretending to consider the offer. "My name works fine," he eventually replies, deadpan.
Dick grins. "Whatever you say, babe," he says, and Slade rolls his eye in response.
A comfortable silence settles between them after that, even though they're both standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at one another. Dick, however, is sure there isn't anywhere else he'd rather be; even with the tip of his nose cold from the A/C, and a bottle of "Ass Destroyer" hot sauce taunting him from the kitchen island, and a partner who can most certainly hear how his heartbeat is picking up.
Dick wonders if this is what domestic bliss is supposed to be like—freezing to death in a grandma sweater while his boyfriend commits war crimes on his taste buds. He finds he doesn't care, because either way, he's happy for once. Just happy, with no strings or impending doom attached.
"Something on your mind?" Slade asks.
"Just thinking about how lucky I am," Dick replies, leaning in for another kiss.