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Onset of the Disperia strain of Ivy’s pollen is brutal, but at least it’s predictable: First comes the labored breathing, then the increased heart rate, then the confusion and disorientation. The fever kicks in last. All in all, it takes about fifteen to thirty minutes.
For Slade, it takes three.
Dick knows it takes three because that’s how much time passes between leaving Slade in the crumbling ruins of the ship’s cargo hold and running right back into him above deck.
Usually, Dick would’ve stuck around for a fight, if only to keep Slade distracted longer. But the situation was delicate, so he’d set off the explosion and fled the scene in an uncharacteristic forty-five seconds.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Nightwing,” Slade had shouted after him.
“Oh, you know me,” Dick had said, voice muffled by his respirator, swinging between two creaking shipping containers and out through the top hatch. “Places to go, people to see.”
In hindsight, he should have noticed how warbled Slade’s voice had sounded, should have grown suspicious when Slade didn’t give chase. Should have found it odd that he had two full minutes to himself to run through the rest of his checklist: Initiate the recorded message over the intercom—Warning. Chemical emergency. Evacuate immediately—change into his crew uniform, and get back up on deck with everyone else to file out into a lifeboat.
But he’d been distracted. Blowing the hold up was the backup plan. He would have preferred a safer disposal method, but finding Slade guarding the shipment meant he didn’t exactly have the ability to check all the shipping containers for the one he was looking for, and with the twinkling lights of Bludhaven’s harbor already starting to take shape over the misty horizon, he didn’t have the time, either.
The thing about pollen: it spreads. It’s why it’s so dangerous, why the moment Dick heard a shipment was headed for Bludhaven he’d opted to come take care of it at sea rather than wait ’til it got to port and risk an even bigger emergency.
All in all, plan B seemed to be going okay. The explosion wasn’t big enough to compromise the ship’s integrity, so the only thing he had to do was make sure everyone on board could evacuate safely.
He wasn’t planning for everyone on board to include Deathstroke the Terminator.
Slade’s appearance on deck is enough to cause a stir among the crew members. Of course it is—it’s just a standard cargo ship. There should be no reason for Deathstroke to be on board. Dick spares some anger for whoever decided it was a good idea to stuff a crateful of dangerous drugs in with the ordinary screws and metal fastenings that this freighter is carrying.
Dick’s first instinct upon seeing Slade is to pull his cap over his eyes, half forgetting that Slade doesn’t remember him anymore.
His second instinct is to pull his cap right back up when he spots the massive crack running down the middle of Slade’s mask.
Dick pauses. Slade is standing off to the side, a very nervous-looking officer wringing his hands and speaking to him in a hushed, frantic voice.
“Deathstroke, sir, m-m-my boss won’t be very happy to hear about this.”
“Shut up and tell me what the hell was in that crate,” Slade growls.
“I don’t know, sir, I-I wasn’t told. What, uh, appeared to be the—the issue?”
“Some dust,” he mutters. His voice sounds strange through the cracked mask. Dick can hear his breathing from here—hard, rough pants.
Dick’s stomach drops.
What makes Disperia so lethal is its feedback looping effect. The healthier the victim, the more quickly they die. A stronger heart is better at passing the toxin around the body. A more robust immune system will step up its attempts to fight it harder and harder, raising the victim’s body temperature higher and higher until they burn alive in their own skin.
Slade is healthy as they come. Dick speeds through the mental math. If exposure was three minutes ago and he’s already displaying symptoms, it means the pollen is burning through him five to ten times as fast. Lifeboats will take them to shore in an hour. Without intervention, Slade will be dead by then.
And it would be Dick’s fault.
It’s not even a question. Dick turns back, pushing against the current of evacuating crew members.
“Excuse me,” Dick says. “Is everything alright?”
Both of them swivel.
“Who the fuck are you,” Slade spits.
Funny how much friendlier he’d greeted Dick-as-Nightwing just a few minutes earlier, with crossed arms and a low, drawled looking for something?
“Drew Gibson,” Dick says cheerily. “I’m the ship’s medic.”
The officer must know it’s a lie, but the only thing he says is a relieved “oh, thank God” before scrambling off to a lifeboat.
“I don’t need your help,” Slade says, turning to follow the officer.
Dick jogs after him. “All due respect, I can hear your breathing from here.”
“I’ll live.”
No, he won’t. Dick steps in front of Slade’s path, stopping him with both hands to his chest. “Please. At least let me examine you. For my peace of mind, if not yours.”
Slade is silent for a moment, looking down at Dick’s hands like he can’t believe someone would dare. It’s a gamble, sure, because regular civilians like Drew Gibson are supposed to be afraid of superpowered mercenaries like Deathstroke the Terminator. But Slade’s ticking closer to certain death with every passing second, so it’s a gamble Dick makes.
It pays off. Slade huffs a short—if strained—laugh. “Persistent, aren’t you. Fine.”
Dick nods and beckons him against the bulwark, out of the way of the thinning stream of crew mates. “Okay. Can you take off your mask for me?”
Slade unfastens the mask and pulls it off his face.
No matter how many months it’s been since Spyral, Dick will never get used to the feeling of looking straight into the eyes—eye, in this case—of people he once knew, without seeing even a single shred of recognition. His former neighbors, the barista at the coffee shop he used to frequent, the other regulars at his gym—none of them pay him any mind.
It’s the same with Slade. Not even a spark.
Dick shoves down the strange disappointment and leans in closer.
“Your pupil,” he says. “It’s dilated. Eight millimeters, I’d guess.” When Slade doesn’t pull away, Dick lifts two fingers to his newly-exposed neck, feeling for his pulse. “Your heart is racing. Any other symptoms?”
Slade’s pupil grows impossibly larger once Dick puts his fingers on him. Too late Dick remembers that he should be minimizing any skin-to-skin contact. He drops his hand like Slade’s neck is made of hot coals.
“Breathing,” Slade finally says, stilted.
“Got that one. Anything else?” Dick prods. “I heard you mention dust—with your pupils and your breathing, I’m thinking it might be a pollen of some sort.”
“Those don’t affect me.”
“Those affect everyone.”
“You don’t know me,” Slade snaps.
Yes, I do, and you know me, Dick says to the Slade-who-remembers-him in his mind. I just told you—places to go, people to see, remember?
It’s a bad habit. Hey Brenda, he’ll greet internally, walking into The Bludhaven Bean. How are the kids? Yeah, I’ll have the usual.
But Brenda doesn’t know his usual anymore, and Dick’s not supposed to know about her kids, so instead it’s can I have one americano, please, no, no milk, yeah, I’ll do some sugar, thanks.
With Slade, it might be funny if it weren’t so frustrating.
“I know that you’ll die if you don’t get help,” he says instead.
“You don’t know me,” Slade repeats, taking a step to the side. “We’re done here. Out of my way.”
Three minutes to onset means Slade will hit peak in twelve to eighteen. Dick just doesn’t have the time to waste. He catches Slade by the wrist, and this time he doesn’t let go.
“Please,” Dick says. “Let me help you.”
He watches Slade’s throat work through a hard swallow, watches Slade’s eye follow the line of his arm down to where it meets Dick’s hand. Dick nudges down the corner of Slade’s glove with his pinky finger. Slade inhales sharply at the touch of skin to skin.
Always have to be the hero, don’t you, Slade-who-remembers-him would’ve said.
“Fine,” Slade-from-right-now says.
He lets Dick drag him down the stairs, stiff and quiet behind him. By now all the crew mates have made it to the deck, which means there’s no one in their way as they descend towards the sick bay. Clearly, whoever ordered the shipment didn’t have the good sense to inform the officers of what they were carrying, but hopefully someone at least thought to inform the medical staff that they should keep a pollen antidote in their supply.
“Okay,” Dick says once they reach the sick bay. “We’re looking for—”
The moment he turns, Slade shoves him up against the wall and kisses him.
His mouth is urgent, rough, scorching against Dick’s. For a moment, Dick stands there stricken, opening his mouth and letting Slade kiss him. It’s—not exactly what he intended, but he sees why that’s the conclusion Slade drew, with Dick dragging him down into the underbelly of the ship without explanation except that he planned to help him—
Dick needs to help him.
Dick gives Slade a firm push to his sternum, sending him stumbling backwards. Slade’s pupil is dilated to the point of concern, skin flushed, hands twitching against Dick’s shoulders where he’d grabbed him. But he doesn’t lean back in. Only stares at him, eye dark and hungry.
“I—was going to say, we’re looking for a small green bottle,” Dick says, swiping a hand across his mouth self-consciously.
Slade’s hands drop to his side. “Ah.”
“You don’t have to—you can wait there.” Slade’s intense stare follows Dick as he sidesteps to the medicine cabinets and starts digging around, sneaking glances at Slade every so often.
None of the other Disperia victims Dick has observed has ever been able to resist the pull of human touch once they’ve hit their peak. Not a single case. But then, Slade’s got superhuman healing. Why not superhuman willpower, too?
Usually that would be a pain, but Dick is grateful for it now. Slade is strong enough that if he weren’t able to resist it—that clawing, burning need—there would be nothing Dick could do to stop him.
Dick swallows, sweaty hands sliding over pill bottle after pill bottle, boxes of bandages and reams of paper.
All things considered, Slade’s being remarkably well-behaved since he thinks Dick is a random civilian. Slade-who-remembers-him wouldn’t be such a gentleman. He’d probably already have Dick bent over the counter in a headlock, saying something like this is your fault, Grayson.
And of course, he’d be right, but Dick would still have to push back. Probably say something like If you didn’t take contracts for shady drug traffickers too stupid to carry antidotes for their own cargo, then I wouldn’t have to— and Slade would say Have to? Oh, come on, kid, don’t pretend you’ve never thought about it. And of course, he’d be—
Dick wrenches open another cabinet, harder than he needs to.
He would have to. He does have to. If he can’t find an antidote, well—the alternative is letting Slade die, and that’s just not going to happen.
The clang of metal brings Dick back. Behind him, Slade has stripped off the top half of his armor. He’s so drenched in sweat that his hair is sticking to his chest.
Dick turns quickly back to the cabinets, chest tight, but maybe he’d looked for too long or maybe Slade’s just reached the end of his rope, because in half a second there are two broad hands wrapping around his waist and a burning body pressing up against him. Even through two layers of clothing, Dick can feel Slade’s cock against his ass, hard and hot.
He hopes that somewhere in another universe, Slade-who-remembers-him is appreciating the decision he’s about to make. God, he can see the smug look on his face now, hear his mocking. Too good for your own good, or something like that.
Gulping, Dick switches to looking for a lubricant.
It’s a good thing this is Slade-who-doesn’t-remember-him, and so he’ll only ever think of this as a strange, accidental encounter with Drew, the medic from the Jutland, if he thinks of it at all. This won’t affect their… working relationship.
There’s something nice about that. Because Dick would never. And yet—back when he was training Rose and Slade would watch them fight, arms crossed in detached amusement—and Dick would get a good hit in and watch Slade’s chin tilt up in approval, just like that—and when it was over and he was panting with exertion, sweating rivers, when Slade would sweep his eye up and down until it met Dick’s, and Dick would just know what was going through his head—
It’s not like it didn’t cross his mind, too. But Slade would hold it over him for the rest of his life, and that was enough to shut those thoughts down.
Now, though.
“Find it?” Slade grits out.
“No,” Dick says. “But I found—”
The moment Slade spots the small bottle of lubricant Dick pulls out, his hands tighten painfully around his waist. “You don’t know—what you’re offering,” he says, voice low. “I’ll break you.” But his words are belied by the jerky snap of his hips against Dick.
Slade-who-remembers-him would laugh at the thought of breaking Dick. Slade-who-remembers-him might even want to do it.
Dick shakes off the shiver that runs through him. “I can take more than you think,” he says, and unzips the front of his uniform jumpsuit.
The permission seems to fracture whatever self-control Slade has left. He growls and shoves his own pants down, trying in vain to do the same to Dick’s before realizing it’s connected to the top—and then he just rips the jumpsuit down its back seam until Dick’s ass is exposed, pressing his hips forward again.
Fear shocks through Dick like an ice bath. He’s misjudged Slade’s presence of mind, if Slade thinks Dick can take it without lube.
“Wait,” he says dizzily, but Slade doesn’t wait. He grips Dick by his thighs, squeezing them together tightly, and then fucks right into the crevice he’s created.
It shocks a moan out of Dick, which makes Slade thrust in again.
And again, again, again. Dick crosses his legs so it’s tighter and Slade makes a noise more wounded than Dick’s ever heard from him—and Dick’s landed plenty of blows that would’ve been fatal for anyone else. It’s almost embarrassing, how private the sound should be, how it’s Dick hearing it.
Dick has never experienced Slade in anything other than in complete and utter control. And now that Slade’s not, Dick can guess at what was powering Slade’s superhuman discipline earlier. He’s sure Slade would rather die than have anyone see him like this—hands gripping Dick like a lifeline, plastered against Dick’s back, head tilted down against his shoulder, rutting into his thighs with wild abandon.
Seeing Slade raw, animalistic, desperate—it feels strange, wrong.
And it feels hot.
Dick is suddenly aware that his cock, which had started stirring the moment Slade kissed him, is now standing at full attention. It brushes against the stainless steel counter with every rock of Slade’s hips. Slade probably doesn’t even notice. It’s the Disperia making Slade so single-minded in his pursuit of pleasure, but Dick thinks he might just be like this, anyways, if this were happening differently.
Or maybe he’d be the opposite, chasing a reaction from Dick like he always is. Come on. Doesn’t it feel good? he’d say, and he’d half be talking about the sex, half about whatever crazy slip of Dick’s morals led him to get him in bed with a killer mercenary.
It’s really good that Slade’s not going to remember this.
Slade’s hips stutter for a moment and then he comes, right there in between Dick’s thighs. Dick doesn’t waste a second, grabbing the lube from earlier and slipping a hand behind him. With the pollen augmenting Slade’s already superhuman recovery speed, there’s no telling how long Dick has before Slade’s ready to go again.
He’s got two fingers inside when Slade realizes what he’s doing. The groan he lets out is so deep and rumbling that Dick thinks for a moment that something in the ship has given way.
Slade’s cock is still only half-mast and harmless for now, so Dick lets Slade lift him up onto the counter and manhandle him into a new position.
It’s awkward. He’s sitting practically sidesaddle—thighs parallel with the table, feet hanging off the edge, one elbow propping him up against the wall—but it works. It’s hot in the sick bay, and the cool metal under him is a nice contrast. Dick’s other hand is free to keep prepping himself, and his thighs are free and waist-height, easy for Slade to—to use.
Because by the time Slade’s got him into position he’s hard again already, leaning over Dick and pinning him with his sheer mass, thrusting into the sticky mess he’d left between Dick’s thighs. Dick’s face burns. How long has it been? Twenty minutes, maybe? If the pollen’s onset was sped up by a factor of five, Slade’s definitely hit his peak. It should burn through him in another thirty minutes, at that rate.
Thirty more minutes of Slade’s body against his. Of Slade learning down to bite his shoulder, hot breath on his neck, hotter cock in his ass—maybe even his palm against Dick’s cock, which is throbbing insistently against his stomach, now—
Jesus. It’s really, really hot in the sick bay.
Understanding creeps up on him as slow as the heat curling under his skin. One moment he’s leaning his head against Slade’s chest, feeling the slide of Slade between his thighs, adding another finger, and the next his eyes are flying open.
Stupid, stupid.
He forgot the first rule of pollen: it spreads.
It was only a matter of time for the cloud of dust from the cargo hold to make its way through the ship, especially in the enclosed space below deck.
Damn it, damn it. Does he have enough time to see Slade through the worst of it, then get in a lifeboat to Bludhaven, call an ambulance, call Bruce? He pulls his fingers out of himself, furiously embarrassed.
It’s the wrong thing to do. Dick only realizes that it must read as an invitation when Slade’s fingertips dig hard into Dick’s hips, and he readjusts his grip—
“Wait,” Dick says, but Slade’s already slamming in, all in one go. Dick howls.
Slade doesn’t slow his pace. He fucks Dick with the same crazed abandon as he fucked his thighs earlier, except now he’s inside him and still not holding back, not even a little bit. Maybe he’s grown certain Dick can take it, and despite the uncomfortable, sudden fullness, Dick flushes with an inexplicable pride. Or maybe Slade’s just too far gone to care about whether or not Dick can take it, not thinking about anything except using Dick like a toy. Dick flushes with—something else.
It’s probably only a two or three minutes before Slade comes again. Two or three out of thirty or so. How long—? Dick reaches up to press two fingers underneath Slade’s jaw, feeling for his pulse. Already slowing. Good sign. Very good sign. Two fingers become a whole hand, rubbing Slade’s neck. It’s so thick and muscular.
Fuck.
He means to draw his hand back, but the feeling of the damp hair at the nape of Slade’s neck is so compelling that his fingers decide they want to stay a while longer. No—he can’t stay longer. Dick needs to get them both in a lifeboat as soon as possible. He needs—he needs—
Dick tilts his head up and pulls Slade down by the neck, finding Slade’s lips with his own. It’s a slow, sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that feels like it shouldn’t belong to people like him and Slade. And it doesn’t. It belongs to Slade and Drew Gibson, and it’ll disappear the moment they leave here, because the next time Dick sees him they’ll be back to Nightwing and Deathstroke. Deathstroke. God, this is Deathstroke. This is not good. Dick needs to stop this.
With all the strength he has, Dick pulls away, gasping like a fish. He only makes it a few millimeters. Slade rests their foreheads together.
“You okay?”
They’re the first words Slade has managed to speak in several minutes. A very good sign. Two orgasms and he’s already more in control. Already acting a lot more like the Slade that Dick knows and—well, like the Slade that Dick knows.
“I need—above deck,” Dick says, still combing his fingers through Slade’s hair. “Open air.”
Slade looks at him intently.
“Your pupils,” he says.
Dick nods. “I need.”
“I know,” Slade says, and picks Dick up by the hips, carrying him bridal-style out of the sick bay and up the stairs. The feeling of come dripping down his thigh makes his cock ache so terribly that Dick can’t help wrap a hand around it, gasping against Slade’s chest—
Fuck! Dick wrenches his hand away. He needs to get in a lifeboat, get to shore. He needs to call Bruce. He needs Slade to kiss him again. He needs to find an antidote. He needs Slade to murmur something soothing against his neck and lay him down on a damp metal platform, to slot himself between Dick’s parted thighs and line his cock up with—
“That’s not,” Dick says weakly. “I meant—we need to—”
“Relax, kid,” Slade says. Slade-in-control acts a lot more like Slade-who-remembers-him. That gruff voice. Those certain, confident movements, pressing Dick’s thighs into the metal. Even that handsome line starting to pull at the corner of his mouth.
Dick shuts his eyes. He can’t think when he’s looking at Slade. “Lifeboats. It’s an hour back. I can—”
“I said relax,” Slade says, and pushes inside him, slow and steady, in one long stroke that sucks all the air from Dick’s lungs.
Oh, god. Dick tilts his head backward, threading his hands through Slade’s hair and pulling him closer, frenzied, fevered. He wraps his legs around Slade’s back and pulls him in like that, too, arching up towards him, begging with his body, begging with his mouth.
“Please,” he says. “Please, Slade.”
So good. It feels so good. Slade’s cock inside him, Slade’s hand on his waist, the other flying to his neck—
Only when that hand tightens around his throat and the sensation tips over into painful does Dick remember. He’s not supposed to know that.
“Who the fuck are you.” Slade’s voice is low and deadly, just the right amount of rough, and so in-charge. And his hand is so, so strong. Slade squeezes it. “Who the fuck sent you.”
Rational thought slips through his fingers like sand. Like Slade’s hair was, just a moment ago. His soft hair.
“You know me,” Dick chokes out.
“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Slade spits.
It’s good that Slade doesn’t know who he is. It’s really good. Dick needs to protect the identity he tried so hard to claw back into his control, he needs to breathe, he needs, he needs, he needs—
“You know me,” Dick repeats with the last of his breath, “places to go, people to see.”
An eternity stretches. Dick watches the reflections of the ship’s lights dance in the slowly-expanding iris of Slade’s eye, the bright blue no longer entirely swallowed by pupil. And then—in the span of a heartbeat—his pupil goes tiny like a pinprick and then bounces right back, like a ball tossed in the air, coming to crash back down.
“Nightwing,” he finally says.
He takes his hand off Dick’s throat. Dick’s half sorry to feel it go.
“Slade,” Dick says.
“What the fuck did you do to me,” he demands.
“Long story,” Dick says. “I’ll explain after—after you—”
Even gone as he is, Dick can’t say it, face flushing. He knows exactly why Slade was able to resist so long. Because now that he’s not the anonymous Drew Gibson, he’ll have to live with someone seeing him like this. With Slade seeing him like this.
Slade, who’s definitely going to hold this over Dick’s head just like he’d feared, if the slow, dark smirk spreading over his face is any indication. That smirk is painfully, achingly—and worst of all, somewhat reassuringly—familiar.
This is the Slade that Dick knows. Slade-who-remembers-him. Slade who looks at him the way he looks at him when he’s Nightwing. That combination of cool scrutiny and predatory interest that makes Dick’s skin prickle.
Instead of finishing his sentence, Dick wraps his legs around Slade and pulls him in deeper.
Slade laughs harshly. “Thought you were better than taking advantage of someone with amnesia.” Even that voice is the right one, now. Amused, but pissed the hell off. Even as he says it, he thrusts his hips up, just once. Dick moans at the feeling, tries to roll his hips down to replicate it. Slade doesn’t let him, holding him firm. “Well?” he says.
Dick whines. “Not taking advantage. You. You’d’ve burned up from the inside out. This strain. You felt it. You would’ve—” and then his cock jumps, thinking about how much Slade had felt it. The desperate way he’d ripped Dick’s jumpsuit open. Dick needs it. Dick knows Slade needs it too, so why isn’t he moving? He finds his words again. “Couldn’t let you die.”
“Christ.” Slade exhales low and long. “You’re too damn good for your own good, kid.”
“There it is,” Dick says deliriously. He’s so out of it that he’s even imagining that a fond crinkle is starting to form at the corner of Slade’s eye. Slade is—so fucking good looking. Dick wants to feel that beard scrape against his mouth again. Dick wants him to start fucking him again.
“Sure, whatever you want,” Slade says, raising his eyebrows.
Oh, he said that out loud.
“Yeah, you did.”
Dick groans, head lolling. This is really not good. He’s still not even at his peak. The worst of the effects should last two to three hours, for him. So it’s not just thirty more minutes of fucking Slade. It’s two to three more hours of fucking Slade. What part of this is he saying out loud?
“All of it,” Slade says.
“Damn,” Dick says, feeling the word take shape in his mouth. “Damn. I need to stop talking.”
“For once in my life, Grayson, I don’t think I want that.”
Grayson. Not kid, not Nightwing.
It’s so heartrendingly familiar that when Dick opens his mouth it’s a tossup whether he’ll laugh or cry or moan or all three.
“Slade,” is the dark-horse winner of that tossup. “Move already.”
Laughing, Slade does.