Note: Written during a Nor'easter snow storm. Temperature outside: 3 degrees, F.
Cold Night
Man it was cold. Really cold. Not just merely cold but the kind of cold where not only did your nose run and your eyes watered but the kind where everything that leaked from your face froze. The kind of cold where your fingers hurt and your feet went numb. The kind of cold that hurt.
Nightwing was on a stakeout, watching from a rooftop to see if the usual jewel thieves would score another heist against Harry Winston or maybe decide to hit Tiffany's a block down the street instead.
And it was really, really cold.
And it was snowing.
And the wind was blowing causing the snow to hit him in the face and sticking. It was took cold for the ice to around his mouth and nose to melt.. The windchill factor was something like seventeen below, Fahrenheit.
This sucked. And he'd been here for three hours without seeing anything other than an occasional plow go by below. What had been a thermos of hot coffee was gone, he had to pee. The hand warmers in his gloves had gone cold.
Enough was enough, standing to get the kinks out of his legs, he radioed; "I'm coming in."
"Negative, stay on site."
"No point."
"Stay on site." The connection was cut. Goddammit, it was getting colder, he was edging into hypothermia and there was nothing to be gained by his staying. 'Worse case scenario was that they'd catch the crime ring a few days later.
Screw it. "I'm coming in." No response, not that he expected any. Whatever.
Mounting his latest cycle he privately bemoaned it didn't have an enclosed cab with hot air blowing and heated seats.
Soon. He'd be there soon. He'd strip on his way to the shower and let the hot water run over him until it was gone; should take about forty minutes since he'd had that oversized water-heater installed a couple of months ago.
No—wait. He'd call in for delivery first so it would arrive just as he was drying off, wrapped in that slightly twee but damn it was soft and warm robe Barbara had given him for Christmas. Comfort food, that's what he wanted, something hot, maybe smothered in artery clogging gravy and heavy with carbs. Maybe some refined sugar for dessert—maybe some really rich brownies which he could nuke for maybe thirty seconds so they'd be all kinds of soft and warm as he chewed.
Hell, maybe that could just be dinner. Okay, nah, protein, he'd start with some protein but, whatever, it had to be hot and something he knew he shouldn't ever eat as long as he lived.
Then he remembered; "My damn brain is probably frozen"; his apartment house was part of that power blackout because of the storm. Power had gone out around lunchtime and, according to reports, was still out.
But, okay; "'Doesn't matter. I'll go to the Clock Tower, hang with Barbara."
Taking the next exit, careful not to skid on ice, he was there in twenty minutes. He was the only driver on the road.
If possible it was even colder at the Tower than it was on Miracle Mile. Using the code, he let himself in to find just an under the counter work light on in the kitchen. Computers and everything were off and the place was empty. Damn. Of course. Knowing Barbara she'd probably been dragged, complaining, pissing and moaning to someplace her father thought would be safer, warmer, more secure or something until the weather improved.
Damn.
And he was still chilled through and hungry. He was also lonely.
Okay, he could deal with this. His first thought was that he'd just fix himself something from whatever he could find where he was, use her shower—or maybe her whirlpool tub—and hunker down. But...nah. Sighing, he re-zipped his leathers, wished his helmet was lined with down and left the building.
So—where?
He kick-started the machine and headed out, shivering, unsure for the first half mile or so, smiled to himself, nodded, and gunned the engine.
Twenty minutes later he was pulling up to the far garage door, let himself in, parked the bike then let himself in through the kitchen door, savoring the warmth, shedding outer layers as he went. Okay, most of the lights were out, the kitchen counters cleaned, wiped down from their last use but considering the time that was no surprise.
He went through several rooms, all dark and empty or with the occasional small light to show the way. No one home? Could be.
He kept looking as he went upstairs to change into comfortable and warmer clothing. Shower? Soon. Or—better yet, how about a long soak in the Jacuzzi? There was a small chance that the water was cold if no one was around but, hell, maybe it was ready for use. Considering where he was, the odds were pretty good.
Making his way through the maze of corridors to the conservatory he was greeted with lights, voices and the sounds of water gurgling with a bit of splashing thrown in for good measure. Silently opening the glass door, he stood a moment just taking in the scene.
Oliver and Arthur were stretched out in lounge chairs, talking and drinking tall, frosted glasses of beer. Alfred was circulating with plates of what had to be his home-made snacks. Donna, Diana and Dinah were all sitting comfortably in the (hot) Jacuzzi, looking like they were gossiping—which would be indignantly denied if so accused. Wally looked like he was asleep in the hammock while Garth did lazy laps and Bruce was reading what appeared to be the Wall Street Journal by the glass table.
"Yo, Wing! Where the hell you been?"
"Hey Roy, working, not that you'd know anything about that."
"Bite me, grab a suit—or not—and warm up or cool off."
He looked around, trying to wrap his mind about what he was looking at. Paused a moment then, "So...what's going on?"
Donna smiled, looked at him as if he was an idiot, something she knew wasn't true. "We were all on a city-wide stake-out to wait for that arms shipment that was supposed to come in tonight but, seriously, Dick; have you been outside? It's cold. This water's like a hundred and five degrees; we're not stupid; no one in their right mind would go out in this if they didn't have to."
"So what about the arms?"
"We intercepted a radio message a couple of hours ago; the ship is icebound and Kal has them. All done."
"So the party moved here?"
"'You know anyone who makes better munchies than Alfred?"
"Good point."
1/6/14