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The wind blows across the snow-covered mountain as the man known as William "Bill" Wintergreen sits inside his tent, a small, stainless steel thermos cradled in his hands. A single bead of sweat rolls down his forehead from under his fur-lined winter coat - true to his name, the ex-soldier is acclimated to colder temperatures. If he could, he would have worn something lighter, even in this weather. If only the climate were behind his discomfort...
Lifting the warm container to his lips, he lets the tea inside splash gently against his mustache. It’s as scrumptious as ever - a recipe he's been brewing for many years. Slade’s favorite, in fact. Billy barely notices. He keeps his eyes peeled on the horizon as he sips, squinting against the blinding white of the snow. Slade should have been back hours ago. While it isn't unlike his hunting companion to disappear for long periods of time, the recent blizzard has Wintergreen concerned. Half their tech is frozen, made useless by the rural environment. If they don't get off the mountain soon, there's a good chance things might become even more dangerous - and as skilled as Billy is at the art of survival, even he knows that he'll likely die first.
Bill reaches down with a gloved hand to sift through his coat pockets, searching for his handie-talkie. Though worn and outdated, the set has a great deal of sentimental value to Wintergreen - they were technically owned by the United States government, dating all the way back to the Vietnam War. There isn't a piece of equipment on this planet that William isn't able to fix up - a single-channel piece of equipment like the AN/PRC-6 hadn't been hard for Billy to upgrade, even after forcing it back into working condition.
"Wilson, this is Wintergreen…do you copy? Wilson to Wintergreen, do you copy? Over." He speaks into the banana-shaped device, pressing it firmly against his ear. The garbled sound of radio static is all he gets in return, per usual. Even on Slade's best nights, his communication skills are limited. Wintergreen has always been the one to navigate social situations. Wilson spoke through actions rather than words, even before the experiments - a silent demon whose bloodshed conveys his feelings towards the world. Wintergreen shouldn't be worried.
And yet, here he is.
"Slade…if you're out there, I’d appreciate contact. It's been six hours. The sun is already halfway through the bloody sky!"
A few moments pass. Wintergreen hears nothing. He shoves the comm back into his jacket, frustrated. If Slade is going to drag him out on these crazy missions of his, he's going to need a lot more information, he tells himself. He's an analyst, after all - a man of devoted study and research. As gifted a strategist as Slade Wilson is, there are times Wintergreen wishes he’d let others simply catch up. He's beginning to feel useless - as if he's here only to serve as a housemaid of sorts. If you can call a collapsible tent a house. Africa had been much better, apart from the constant, blasted heat.
A man of action and patience - that's what Slade Wilson is. If Billy is going to find him, he supposes that he will have to temporarily be the same. With a disgruntled huff, the academic tugs on his boots, unzipping the tent and stepping into the snowy wasteland outside. He stows the tea in his backpack - if Slade is hurt, both of them will need hydration. Snow can be boiled, but nothing beats a cup of tea, cold or otherwise.
"Slade...if the wind doesn't kill you, I will!" The Brit shouts, trudging into the snow with bitter determination. Billy recalled the first time he had met Slade - back when it was his duty to make sure the Yank was prepared for war. He had used the same tone back in the boot camps - back when Slade's hair was still blond; before the experiments stripped him down to...well...this. Sure, Slade could now beat Bill in combat eleven times out of ten, but it had come at a cost. Slade is still stubborn, yes - but now he is cold and unpredictable. Sliding his backpack over his shoulders, Billy clenches his teeth, a determined look on his face. Where can he even start?
"You couldn't kill me if you wanted to."
Will spins around, nearly losing his footing in the freshly fallen snow. Glaring up at the mountain top above, he squints until he's able to see his former protege clearly. He shields his brow, the sun reflecting the assassin's orange and blue armor into his eyes. Billy scowls, shouting upwards. "You know that communication works both ways, friend. There's a button on your talkie, use it!"
Slade scowls from beneath his mask - while Billy can't see it, he's known Slade long enough to guess. "That sounds like a you problem. I'm fine, thanks for asking." The Terminator growls back, sarcastic as usual. Billy brushes it off - he knows better than to take Slade’s insults personally.
"You going to come down and drink some of this tea, or am I going to have to make a new batch by myself?" Wintergreen shouts back as Slade descends the mountain.
"What is it with you people and your goddamn tea?" Slade huffs. He removes his helmet, revealing a pair of stark blue eyes - eyes that secretly soften Wintergreen’s frustration.
Bill offers Slade the thermos. "Fresh pot, just a few minutes ago. You find whatever the bloody hell it is you're looking for?"
The Terminator flashes him a satisfied smile, devoid of warmth yet proud of his exploits. "And then some, Bill. And then some…"
It's only then that Bill notices the patches of blood staining Slade's armor. A chill runs down his spine as he passes the cup to Slade, wondering who - or what - the crimson flecks belonged to. He chooses not to think of it, instead nodding in Slade's direction.
"Good. Get some rest. We should leave in a few hours."
"No. Start packing," Slade huffs, brushing his companion aside. "We're headed back to Gotham."
The white goateed man enters the tent, cracking open his ammunition crate without another word. As the steam from Bill's coffee rises through the snow, he watches the snowflakes drop onto the tea's surface, melting in milliseconds. His lips press together, eyebrows furrowing into a frown. Changing Slade's mind is impossible at this point. He'll talk with Slade some other time, he promises himself. Right now, there's no time for tea - the Terminator is on the hunt, and all Bill can do is try to catch up.