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The row of cells where Wilson is being housed is empty save him, the man as isolated as they could make him. This isn't his final place of imprisonment—he will be transferred to Belle Reve within the next few days—but they were taking no chances, all well aware of just how skilled the mercenary is. It was vital that he not escape, especially with M'gann impersonating him for the summit.
There are guards at the end of the hall, men vetted heavily by the League before being allowed such close access, and their eyes linger on Kaldur and Dick as the pair pass by, but they don't try to stop them.
(Dick's shoulders twitch as they pass, as if expecting to be questioned. As if expecting to not be allowed near the prisoner. Kaldur pretends not to notice.)
As they walk down the hall, Dick's posture begins to shift. The changes are minute, but still clear, and Kaldur watches out of the corner of his eye as Dick's chin lifts, his expression smooths, the line of his shoulders firming. He moves more fluidly, and his eyes are far more calm than the jagged vulnerability he carried when telling Kaldur he had to talk to Wilson.
Kaldur takes a deep breath, squaring his own shoulders, and then comes to a stop in front of Deathstroke's cell.
Wilson is currently upside down on his hands, back lined up with the wall as he pushes himself up and down. There's no hint of strain in his expression or arms, only a light sheen of sweat over his visible skin to show the effort his workout has taken. Kaldur doesn't know how long he's been going, but he knows this is not the first exercise Wilson has run through, and probably has quite a few more to go in his routine.
The mercenary's head turns when he spots movement, and he goes still when he sees Dick standing beside Kaldur. Dick seems to straighten even further under the attention, and he doesn't move as Wilson gets fluidly back to his feet, standing in the center of the cell and looking at Dick with a narrowed, cool gaze.
The cell isn't that big, and it makes Wilson look gigantic by comparison, the already big man looking all the bigger. Kaldur can't help but imagine how often Wilson must've used that size against Dick, how often Dick was on the wrong end of that strength. Too often for it to not keep Kaldur up at night.
"Renegade," Wilson says smoothly, looking his ex-apprentice over, briefly glancing at Kaldur before dismissing him. "This is a surprise."
Dick doesn't have any outward reaction to that—he's far too trained for his responses to be obvious—but his tension is still clear to Kaldur, standing by his side. Probably clear to Wilson, too, considering the man is one of the people who trained Dick's blankness into him.
"I wanted you to hear it from me," Dick says, and Kaldur is impressed by how even his tone is. How unaffected. "Not second-hand from some villain, or from some random hero who thinks you already know." He takes a small breath, the first sign of nerves since they arrived, and Wilson's eye narrows further.
"I gave you up," Dick says. His fingers twitch at his sides, and then go completely still. "I was never loyal to you. The mission I took on was to infiltrate the Light in order to take them down, and you were the path I chose to do that."
Dick braces, preparing himself for whatever Wilson is about to throw at him. His expression is calm and confident, but Kaldur knows that Wilson's anger is going to hit him hard nonetheless. Kaldur is...not looking forward to it, but that's not up to him. It was Dick's decision to do this, and Kaldur won't take it away from him, not even if it hurts.
Wilson tilts his head slowly to the side. He leans back against the metal slab protruding from the wall that is acting as his bed, a thin mattress, blanket, and pillow sitting haphazardly atop it. He folds his arms loosely over his chest, and his lips twitch with something like amusement before his expression falls flat.
"Leave, kid," he says, almost coldly. "We have nothing to talk about."
Kaldur blinks, surprised. This is—not what he was expecting. He was expecting rage, fury, betrayal. He was expecting cruel words and insults, expecting Wilson to rip Dick to shreds for doing this. For pretending to be his loyal apprentice while spending the entire time working for the enemy. He thought Wilson would be so much more...emotive than this cold dismissal.
Dick twitches, and then gives a sharp nod and very suddenly turns on his heels and begins striding back down the hall. Kaldur stares after him, and then glances at Wilson. The man's eye is on him now, dark and sharp, and he offers a wolfish smirk.
Without a word, Kaldur departs, hurrying to catch up with Dick.
The teenager is past the end of the hall by the time Kaldur reaches him, leaning against the wall. His body is stiff as a board, his eyes fixed on the ground, jaw clenched. His hands are shaking, and he curls them into fists to hide it.
After a long moment, Kaldur says, "He...did not react how I thought he was going to."
Dick barks a laugh, a sharp and humorless sound, and then mutters, "Because he doesn't believe me, Kal. He thinks I'm pretending, that I'm lying to you and all the others. That I'm still loyal to him, and just saying these things so none of you will know."
Kaldur digests that. Egotistical of Wilson, to be so sure of his control over Dick that he would ignore the words coming from the boy's own mouth. Come to think of it, that's not even the slightest bit surprising.
Dick's head lifts, his eyes cutting over to Kaldur. There's an intensity there that Kaldur still isn't used to, despite how often he's seen it on his friend's face over the last fifteen or so months. In return he keeps his own expression calm and open, refusing to play into whatever mind games Wilson fed Dick for so long, whatever dark things are swirling around in Dick's mind right now.
"Aren't you going to ask?"
Kaldur blinks, confused. "Ask what?"
Dick gives a small, bitter smile. His eyes are dark and focused, reminiscent of Wilson's own gaze. It's not a comparison Kaldur likes. "If he's right. If I'm playing you and everyone else, just waiting for the right moment to free my master. Hasn't it crossed your mind that I'm lying to you?"
Kaldur hates, more than almost anything else in the world, how naturally Dick calls Wilson his master. It burns in him for a moment, how backwards and wrong it is, and then drains away very suddenly when the rest of Dick's statement hits him.
"No," he says honestly. "That idea has never crossed my mind."
Dick's expression shifts into something incredulous and doubtful. "Come on, Kaldur."
"I am being serious," Kadur tells him, and wishes he could go back in time to before Dick went undercover, stop him from doing it, stop him from giving himself to a man who would convince him that none of them trust him, love him, as much as they all do. "The idea of you truly working for Wilson has never crossed my mind, Dick, not even for a moment. It's an impossibility."
Dick's brow furrows, and he searches Kaldur's face for a lie. He looks so incredulous, like it doesn't make any sense that Kaldur would just believe him. Like anyone taking his word for it—and believing that he's still a good person—is the strangest thing in the world.
It's only because of that, because of Dick's intense doubt and the vulnerability behind it, that Kaldur wonders if Dick considered it. If it crossed Dick's mind, to still hold onto some scraps of loyalty to Wilson. To help the man escape. To go with him after.
Kaldur will never ask; he'll take his wonderings to the grave. Because if he ever asked, Dick would take that as a sign of distrust, he would think it meant Kaldur believed he would do such a thing, and then he'd close off even more than he already is. A bit of curiosity on Kaldur's part isn't worth that, not even slightly.
"You've given your all to our cause," Kaldur says, when Dick remains silent, just looking at him. "You have brought us here, Dick. So no, I do not think you are lying to us all. I never have, and I never will."
Then Kaldur reaches out and takes Dick's hand in his own, squeezing lightly before continuing with, "He might not believe your words now, but the passage of time will show him how true they are. You've done what you needed to do. So let us be done with him. We could—get some pizza. Or watch TV." Like we used to, before all of this.
Dick squeezes back, a brief pulse before drawing out of Kaldur's grasp. Kaldur lets him go without argument, despite how he wants to hold on.
"Alright," Dick says slowly. His eyes are troubled, and they drift over Kaldur's shoulder, back down the hall of cells. Wilson is out of view from where they are, but Kaldur can still feel his presence like an itch between his shoulder blades. "Yeah, sure. Pizza sounds good."
Kaldur smiles, and hopes it doesn't look as deeply relieved as he feels. "I'll lead the way."
It's quiet in the safehouse.
After fifteen and a half months away, someone else is living in what was his apartment, so when the day ended and it was time to turn in, Dick didn't have that familiarity to return to. Not that he knows if he would've wanted that, wanted to stay in a place that belonged to such a different him. Maybe it just would've made him feel worse.
Kaldur, Artemis, M'gann, and Barbara all individually invited him to stay with them, and he turned them all down, pretending he didn't see the disappointment and worry in their gazes. Pretending they were just casual offers and not the pleading he knew they were underneath.
He feels guilty about telling Artemis no, if nothing else. Because she just—Wally was the love of her life, and she just lost him. She could probably use the company, and he probably owes her it, after how she stuck by his side through such a shitstorm. But he's in no state to provide comfort, or whatever else his friend might need. He hasn't yet been able to process Wally's death at all, and there's simply too much in his head right now to make space for it.
And his family—
God, his family.
Dick knows he needs to go see them. He needs to—he needs to thank Barbara for keeping his secret, and he needs to let Tim scream at him, and he needs to accept all the hugs and chastisements from Alfred, and he needs to explain everything that happened to Bruce.
Kaldur and Babs were the only people who knew about Dick going undercover, a tiny circle that only grew a minute amount when Artemis and Wally were brought in. Not even Bruce...He might've had his suspicions, he might've wanted to hold onto the hope of Dick not having actually betrayed them, but Dick was—convincing, he knows. He gave the mission his all, and that meant fighting Bruce and not holding back.
(If he held back, Bruce would know, and that couldn't happen. So he—so he put to use the horrible skills Slade was teaching him, and he fought Bruce with everything, knowing Bruce would be good enough to survive it, praying Bruce wouldn't let Dick hurt him out of some misplaced attempt at reaching him—)
And now Bruce is back from Rimbor, and Tim and Alfred are at home, and Dick is avoiding them all. Because he can't—he doesn't know how—he just—
And there's Slade.
Slade, who doesn't believe him.
The look on his face is keeping Dick awake, staring up at the ceiling of his quiet safehouse, sitting on the clean and impersonal couch that furnishes it. He just dismissed it immediately. He was surprised at first, to see Dick standing next to Aqualad, but then he just looked at Dick, like he was seeing through him, and he didn't—he didn't believe it for a second.
That little smirk he gave, before pulling up a cold façade like he was humoring Dick, like he was just playing along...
He didn't—not for a second.
Dick doesn't know what to do with that. He was preparing himself for all manner of reactions, trying to brace himself for Slade's anger, the vitriol that would be turned on him, the vitriol he deserves—but instead he got faith. Simple, immediate faith.
It shouldn't make him feel warm. It shouldn't make him feel guilty.
It was a mission. From day one he was lying to Slade, deceiving him, using him to get into the Light and give the heroes a leg up. He did whatever he needed to make Slade believe it, all so he could betray him and rip apart everything the man was working towards. That was the point from the very beginning, the bond between him and Slade was never real.
So he shouldn't feel this way. He shouldn't have that spark of warmth at having Slade's complete and utter trust. Not satisfaction over completing his mission goal, but happiness at having Slade trust him.
(It's not dissimilar to the warmth Dick feels when Kaldur shows how much he trusts him, how he trusts him as easy as breathing, like it was never in doubt. Like Kaldur truly never stopped looking at him the same way he did before all this. And yet still, Dick questions that at every turn, while Slade's trust is just a fact of the universe—)
And then the guilt that has no place inside of him, the guilt that shouldn't exist, at having betrayed Slade. Because it was—that was the point. That was the whole point! He was always going to betray Slade! He never for one second was joining Slade because he wanted to. So there shouldn't be—he shouldn't feel guilty. He should be proud of how well he did his job, that Slade truly doesn't doubt him, even after hearing Dick say it himself.
He should be proud.
He can't stop picturing Slade's face. Dick said I was never loyal to you and Slade didn't even bat an eye, didn't consider it for an instant.
(Kaldur isn't considering it either, but from the other side. Both of them are so sure that he'd never betray them, and Dick wants to scream because how on Earth did he get this kind of faith when he's a lying double agent snake—)
Dick needed to tell Slade. He needed to look the man in the eye when he learned what Dick had done, he needed to be there. Slade deserved to hear it from him, and deserved to be able to have his reaction with Dick. What Kaldur said about Slade accepting it eventually—no, that misses the point entirely. He can't—it can't be eventually. It can't be a sudden moment of realization in his cell in Belle Reve. It can't.
But how could Dick possibly convince him? Slade, he—he trained Dick well, and the man certainly knows that. Anything Dick said, Slade would just assume it's one more piece of the pie, Dick giving his all to convince the heroes that he's docile and on their side before he could help Slade escape.
He doesn't know how to do it. But Dick needs this. He needs—he needs to explain it to Slade. And it doesn't count if Slade doesn't believe him.
It's the eyes on them. The people watching who Slade thinks that Dick needs to keep up an act for. Remove the eyes, and...
Dick gets to his feet, heart thudding as the plan solidifies in his chest. He grabs his short swords and rebuckles them into place as he heads for the door, the only piece of his outfit that was out of place, even if Dick had been lying on the couch for a few hours. He hadn't been able to get himself to relax enough to remove his armor, not even his boots or gloves.
It's still—strange, though. To not be wearing the suit Slade gave him, made him, gifted him. He spent so long in it, fighting and training and—so many other things. He got used to the weight of it, the weapon placements, the shape of the mask. And now everything is different, and Dick feels—wrong.
He hadn't been able to bring himself to lock away his swords like he did with the rest of the weapons Slade adorned him with. They were—these swords are his, are...personal, were an important gift in a way none of the rest had been. They're perfect, an extension of Dick's self by now, and he couldn't get himself to set them aside for a pair of escrima sticks he hasn't wielded in over a year.
No one's asked him about the swords yet, despite the fact that Dick hasn't tried to hide the fact that he's wearing them. He's noticed a few glances, a few lingering looks at the lethal weapons he chose in place of the dull, but he's ignored them all. He's already stripped so much of himself, torn away so much of the new him for better consumption. This was one step he just couldn't do.
(No one's said anything about him not putting back on his Nightwing uniform, either, and he is disgustingly grateful for it.)
Getting to a zeta platform doesn't take long, and he types in his newly reinstated code, throat thick when the electronic voice declares him a name he doesn't deserve any more. He forces himself to shake off the feeling as he steps through the zetabeam, the world around him flaring white before fading, leaving him in the JL base where Slade is being held instead of a Bludhaven back alley.
He strides through the silent, empty halls, pulling up his wrist computer as he walks, carrying out his plan without a hitch in his step.
First step is making the guard by the cells leave. There's only one for the night, and he's a redundancy anyway; no one is concerned about Slade escaping at this point, not with the summit over and not from this fortress, and the guard is just a tiny extra precaution. The guard knows it, too, so when he receives a message from who he believes is his superior officer telling him to go to the cargo bay to help with some transport, he doesn't hesitate to do so.
Next is the cameras. He sets up the ones in Slade's cell and the halls around it to record, taking about a minute of footage before stopping. It's nothing from there to replace the live feeds with the recordings, making everything Dick does from here on absolutely invisible.
Last but not least is cutting out the microphones, and then he has himself a perfect deadzone, no eyes or ears around to hear his conversation with Slade.
Honestly, if Dick actually were a traitor, the League would be fucked. Because that was way too damn easy.
Dick cuts off that line of thinking as his brain automatically begins plotting out how he would do an escape, if that's what he was here for. Because it—it doesn't matter if he could pull it off. That's never going to fucking happen. He doesn't want it to happen.
He takes a few deep, even breaths as he walks down the short hall of cells, shoulders squared, forcing his heart into something slower and more even. It's—different, not having Kaldur here with him. That was a buffer he hadn't even realized he needed, a comfort that makes him feel weak for wanting, and everything seems so much more...real without Kaldur here. Just Dick and Slade, and not a single soul otherwise.
Slade is sitting on his bed when Dick reaches his cell, one leg bent up with an arm loosely braced on his raised knee, other leg hanging over the edge of the bed and swinging faintly through the air. His eye locks onto Dick as soon as he appears, and the blue sparks with pleasure.
Dick's heart is in his throat, and he forces his voice to be level when he says, "The cameras and microphones are off." Slade's gaze flicks around the roof of his cell, looking at the cameras pointed at him, clearly taking note of the way the red On lights are now dark. "The guards are gone. It's just you and me."
A slow, slow smile crawls across Slade's face, so deeply satisfied that Dick can't help the way his heart starts to speed up. Slade swings his folded leg over the side of the bed and gets to his feet, languid and relaxed like a cat. Looking at Dick like the canary in his paw he always managed to make Dick feel akin to.
"Good boy," Slade murmurs, and the pure approval and pride in his voice makes a shiver run down Dick's spine. He hates himself for it, god is he sick with himself for it. But he can't deny that the reaction happens.
"So what's the plan?" Slade drawls. "You gettin' me out tonight, kid?"
Dick almost can't speak. That—confidence in Slade's voice, how sure he is that this is Dick coming to talk to him as an ally. How expectant, that Dick is going to get him out. The idea of not doing so, of failing Slade, of going against him so thoroughly—
Deep breaths, Grayson, Dick tells himself. You can do this. Just say what you said earlier.
"I set this all up so that you would believe me this time," Dick says, and Slade arches a brow, not yet understanding. Still looking so happy with Dick. "There's no one watching, no one I could possibly be performing for. So maybe this time you'll understand I'm telling the truth when I say I gave you up."
Slade stares at him, the humor and delight slipping from his expression, leaving behind something perfectly blank. Dick's heart is fucking pounding, and his fingers feel numb from the anxiety flooding his system, and still he forces himself onward.
"I was undercover, Slade. I took on the mission to infiltrate the Light because I was in an excellent position to do so, what with your interest in me already made perfectly clear. I used you to get close to the League's enemy, and spent our entire time together reporting back on your actions, and those of the Light's. I was never loyal to you."
And then he waits, barely breathing.
The look on Slade's face is—flat. Cold. Darkening to rage with every second, and god is Dick so very familiar with Slade's anger after all this time. He has to bite his tongue against the apology that wants to escape him, has to lock his legs against the way his body wants to drop to his knees. It's just a conditioned response. It's just—it isn't real. He can do this. He can do this.
Very, very slowly, Slade stalks towards the glass wall of the cell. Dick stands frozen, eyes locked onto the mercenary's face, chest tight as Slade braces his large hands against the glass and leans in. Then, quiet but so very clear, he says, "Come here."
Dick's feet are in motion immediately, obeying the command without conscious thought. His entire body is thrumming with fear, and he fights through the panic to remind himself that there's a wall of glass between them thick enough to survive near anything, and that Slade has an inhibitor collar on to boot. The man can't touch him. Can't do a goddamn thing to him. He's perfectly safe. And he—he doesn't have to do what Slade tells him to.
And yet still he moves, not stopping until he's in front of the glass, barely a foot away from Slade. He wants to break the eye contact, but he can't look away from Slade's sharp gaze, the cold blue eye that is boring into him. This close up it's so much worse, but he doesn't back away, doesn't do a thing, waiting for whatever his master is going to do next.
Slade just looks at him for a long moment, examining him like he's trying to pick the best way to rip Dick to shreds. His lips twitch briefly in a sharp, vicious smile, before it fades away again.
Eventually, with a certain kind of intense intimacy in his voice, Slade says, "I own you. And when I get out of here, you and I are going to have a long talk about the meaning of loyalty."
Dick's eyes are wide, his lungs burning with the need for air that he can't get himself to draw in. It's—the fucking sureness in Slade's voice, that he'll escape, that he'll get out of here. And why wouldn't he think that? He's Deathstroke. No prison has ever managed to hold him for very long in the past, what's to say it would this time, either?
A long talk about the meaning of loyalty.
No, no it's—it's over. He did what he wanted to do, he told Slade, he made sure Slade understood. He knew Slade would be pissed, and this is—this is a normal reaction, for being faced with a betrayal. But Slade is locked up and it's done and Slade words are—are meaningless. His threats are empty. It's. They're empty. Slade will stay in prison and Dick will work to rip out all the tendrils the man left of himself in Dick's brain. And everything will be good again.
I own you.
"You're wrong," Dick says, and despite himself his voice shakes. "I don't—I'm not yours, it was all a lie. And you're never getting out of here."
And Slade laughs at him, malicious mirth sparkling in his eye. It's such a superior sound, and it shuts Dick down, the bravery that propelled him forward shriveling under the force of Slade's derision.
"Oh, kid," Slade says, chuckling. "You have no idea what you've started." A flash of sharp teeth, wolfish and predatory. "All that work I did on you—guess there were training wheels on, huh? You let yourself be molded into exactly what I wanted you to be. But I know now, kid. Guess I'm going to have to up the ante next time. No more going easy on you."
The idea of Slade ever having gone easy on him is absolutely laughable, but it's—but the threat is real. Without Dick letting Slade make him his apprentice, without him going along with it (as much as he could, with everything Slade was throwing at him, was doing to him—), it will all be so much worse. If Dick is really, truly fighting...Fuck, he can only imagine what Slade will do to him.
(And then there's the niggling fear, the anxiety lodged beneath his ribs, that wonders if he could give his all to fighting Slade. Because it—because Dick might've been letting it happen but that doesn't mean it didn't happen, it did, he lived every fucking moment, and Slade dug himself in deep in Dick's brain. Hell, Dick can't even ignore a simple order to walk forward when he's the one with the power! How could he fight, if Slade had him again? Could he do a single goddamn thing?)
"You—" Dick starts, barely more than a croak, and feels so small at the smirk that pulls at Slade's lips. He clears his throat and tries again with, "No, you're not getting out of here. I'm not—you won't touch me again."
The look on Slade's face could almost be described as pitying.
"Dick," Slade murmurs, the tone intimate and familiar, the look in his eye softening to match it, and Dick—his heart aches, his eyes stinging. He always coveted moments where Slade looked at him like that, treated him softly, and Dick can almost feel Slade's breath on the back of his neck, his callused hands cupping Dick's hips—
"Stop," Dick says sharply, far more breathless than he means it to come out. "Stop it."
"You know I'm going to get out of here," Slade tuts. "You might want to live in denial, but you know I am."
And he—he does know. There's no way Slade's going to be in prison very long, a couple months at the most before he escapes, it's absolutely going to happen. And then he's—then he's going to come for Dick and he's going to hurt him and it's going to be hell all over again but worse—
"I'll give you one chance," Slade says, soft and coaxing. "One chance to make it easier on yourself, kid."
Dick's mind is racing. He can't stop himself from asking, voice no more than a whisper, "How?"
"One way or another, I'm going to be a free man," Slade murmurs. "And you can save yourself a lot of pain if you help."
Dick stares at him. "...What?"
"If I have to do it all myself," Slade says lowly, "then when I track you down, all I'm going to remember is how you betrayed me, and that's going to go very poorly for you, Dick. But it can hurt a lot less if you prove you haven't been a complete waste. If you open my cell right now, kid, I will be so much easier on you than I will be if you don't."
Dick's heart is in his throat. He thinks he's shaking, but he isn't sure, his head filled with static. He can't think, he doesn't—he doesn't know what to do, he—he doesn't—
The lock on Slade's cell wouldn't be hard to hack; this model is one Dick's worked with before, would take him maybe a couple minutes. A few more to ensure Bruce didn't put in some extra failsafes, and then navigating the rest of the base would be easy, with only a skeleton crew currently on shift and Dick's skills working towards making sure they go unnoticed. He could do it.
No, he can't do that. He can't do that.
It hurts more than anything Dick has ever experienced to turn his back on Slade. He begins walking back down the hall, his breathing hitching as he takes one step, two, three...
And then draws short. He's frozen, unable to move, unable to get any further. He can't—he just turned his back on Slade, he wasn't dismissed—and Slade is going to hurt him, he's going to torture him for betraying him, because he will escape and he won't show any mercy because Dick is spitting in his face, is turning down the chance Slade is offering him—
Dick's vision is blurring. He hates how afraid he is. He was Nightwing, Renegade, he's so much better than this, so much more fierce than this.
But Slade is Slade, and undercover or not Dick could never...could never fight him, never stand against him, and it—it hurts and it's going to hurt so much and Dick is such a fucking failure who can't walk away from a villain trying to manipulate him.
'Trying', like it isn't working.
Dick glances back over his shoulder, unable to keep his eyes off Slade for so long, and finds the man smirking at him. He looks so—amused, a sadistic humor twisting his features as he watches Dick's internal torture. Like this is funny, like Dick nearly crawling out of his skin is something to laugh about.
"You know I'm not bluffing," Slade says, not bothering to suppress his smirk. "Your choice, kid. Let me make what comes next easy on you. Show me you can be good, and I won't have to break you once I'm free."
Dick's breath shudders out of him, and his eyes slide closed, and he finds his feet carrying him back. His hands lift, and one settles on the electronic lockpad, the other reaching towards his wrist computer and pulling out one of the chords to plug it into the pad.
His eyes open again, and there's a roaring in his ears as he settles into the familiar patterns of hacking, focusing his whole attention on it instead of the way he's shaking, on what he's doing, on the way his heart is going to pound right out of his chest. Just a simple hacking job. Something he's done countless times before. It's nothing else. Nothing else happening. Just hack the lock.
It beeps and clicks, and then disengages with a thunk, the green light going dark.
Dick stares down at it, almost uncomprehending, and then the horror hits him, and his head snaps up just as the door begins to open.
He can't move, no matter how badly he wants to, his feet stuck in place like lead, his muscles locked tight. And as Slade steps through the door, smiling at Dick with a hooded eye, Dick knows he should fight, should run, but he just—fuck he can't move why can't he move.
Slade begins to stalk forward, and a jolt goes down Dick's spine before he finds himself stumbling back, eyes wide as Slade matches him step for step. It isn't long before Dick's back hits the wall, and he draws in a sharp breath, helpless as Slade continues to close the distance between them, grinning like a shark.
He can't believe he did that. He freed Slade. The man who beat him, tortured him, put a gun in his hand and starved him until his aim shot true. The man who pinned him down and fucked him hard, who made Dick like it. The man who forged Dick into a perfect weapon and carved a space for himself in Dick's very being. The nightmare that's going to stalk Dick's dreams for the rest of his life.
And Dick set him free.
"Please just go," Dick says hoarsely, panic strangling him. "Just—just go, Slade, please."
Slade smirks at him, and then he's boxing Dick against the wall, hands braced to either side of Dick's head. And fuck he's so much larger, his sheer mass so much more than Dick is or will ever be. This close, with Slade's body beginning to press against Dick's own, Dick feels small and young and so very insignificant. He has to bite the inside of his cheek against the urge to cry like a child.
And through his panic, through his terror, Slade just watches him idly, head tilting as his eye slides leisurely over Dick's face.
"What are you going to do to me?" Dick asks, his words breaking halfway through, and shudders when Slade strokes a gentle finger down his cheek.
Slade hums, thumb brushing over Dick's bottom lip. "I'm going to punish you," he says, tone offhand. His lips twitch. "But you did open the door. So maybe there's some hope for you yet."
Dick squeezes his eyes shut, and when Slade wraps a hand around the back of his neck and tugs him away from the wall, Dick follows limply, remaining docile as Slade drags him down the hall. Everything is going distant, fuzzy, and he lets it, not wanting to be present for this any longer.
Slade's hand squeezes down, nails digging into the nape of Dick's neck, and it yanks Dick right back into awareness against his will.
"No spacing out on me now, kid," Slade purrs, lips against Dick's temple. "I'm going to need your head to get us out of here."
No, no Dick doesn't want this, he doesn't want to do this, he just wants to go home, he wants his dad, he wants Kaldur. He doesn't want to help Slade escape, he doesn't want what's going to come next—
"Kid," Slade says, a little colder, a warning, and Dick pulls in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering back open.
"Yes, Sir," Dick croaks, and turns his attention to his wrist computer to pull up the base's schematics, searching for the best path to get his master out of here.