Chapter Text
By the time the paralyzing effects of the tranquilizer begin to wear off, Talia’s blood has long since dried on Damian’s face. Suspended by his chained wrists and shackled by his ankles to the floor, he wouldn't be able to wipe it off, anyway.
The cell is damp and musty, just like every cell he's been in before. Despite the familiarity of it and the fact that he has only ever been put in cells to be punished or trained, Damian doesn't know what’s in store for him this time. It was predictable with Grandfather, at least; Damian would be tortured, or whipped, or forced to sit in the dark and think about his failures.
This isn’t the League. This isn’t training, or punishment, or anything at the hands of his grandfather. This is Talia trying to bring Damian to his father. This is Slade Wilson killing her and taking Damian instead.
Damian shouldn't cry. He knows he shouldn't cry. But there's nothing that can stop the burn of tears welling in his eyes. Not when his mother is dead. Not when he failed her.
He doesn't realize he's shaking until the cell door opens and Slade Wilson says, “You look nervous.”
It takes more effort than it should for Damian to lift his head. He meets Slade’s eyes, and despite all the grief and guilt, his blood runs hot. Slade’s mask is off, and he’s smirking at Damian, like he’s so smug that Talia is dead, and Damian hates him.
You killed my mother, he wants to say, but he can't stop shaking and he can't open his mouth, if only because he's not sure he could hold off the tears. He pulls his trembling lips back and bares his teeth.
Slade’s mouth curls into something akin to a smile. “I’m almost impressed,” he says. “Your mother planned for every contingency. Even me.” He stalks towards Damian, each step heavy and resounding. “But she underestimated the lengths I would go to.”
“Traitor,” Damian spits, voice choked. It's all he can say.
Slade chuckles as he stops before Damian, looking him up and down. “Aren't you going to ask me about my plans for you?”
Of course Damian wants to ask. Of course he wants to understand why. Why Slade ambushed them. Why he killed Talia. But Damian knows there is no answer that could grant him peace, so instead he says, “You will pay for this.”
Slade hums thoughtfully. Then, before Damian even realizes he's moving, Slade grabs him by the chin and meets his eyes with an unyielding stare. “Your mother’s blood is on your face,” Slade drawls, but there's enough of an edge to his voice to know he's deadly serious. “You know you shouldn't push me.”
“I’ll kill you,” Damian promises, and hopes that his mother would be proud of the fact that his voice doesn't waver. She's dead and he's captured and he did nothing to stop any of it, but he doesn’t waver. Even defeated, he is strong.
Please, Mother, let him be strong.
“No, you won't. Not yet.” Slade tightens his grip on Damian’s chin. “But with my guidance, you just might be able to try. Someday.”
“Your guidance,” Damian repeats caustically, even as his heart beats just the slightest bit faster. He doesn't know what Slade means, and it's starting to scare him.
Slade gives him a mocking smile. “So you are listening. Good.” He lifts his free hand and places it on the back of Damian’s head, keeping him even more firmly in place. “And you’re going to listen to everything I say. You’ll do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. You’ll fight for me. You’ll be my apprentice. In return, I’ll train you to be your best self.” He pulls Damian closer, chuckling at his failed attempt to struggle away. “Sounds like a fair deal to me. Doesn't it?”
Damian’s heart thuds as he stares at Slade. He can't possibly expect Damian to agree to this. He can't. He killed Damian’s mother.
“No,” he says, feeling suddenly distant from himself. “No. I will not.”
Slade’s face hardens. “I’m not giving you a choice, boy.”
“I’ll kill you.”
Slade finally releases Damian, only to backhand him hard across the face. “Enough.” He threads his fingers through Damian’s hair and pulls. Damian barely chokes back a cry. “You’re mine now. Not Ra’s’, not Talia’s. Mine . So do what I say.”
“You’re a monster,” Damian says through grit teeth, his tears fighting for release once more. “A traitor and a coward. I will not.”
Slade stays silent for a long moment, his face hard as Damian glares defiantly at him. Then he scoffs and releases his grip on Damian’s hair, stepping back. “You’ll learn.”
Without another word, Slade leaves the cell, the door locking automatically as it slides shut behind him.
Damian struggles to breathe in the silence for a long moment, before the tears finally, shamefully start.
He wants his mother.
—
Three years later.
When Damian wakes, he's still handcuffed to the bedpost. The blankets are strewn about haphazardly, curtains drawn across the windows, and Slade is nowhere in sight. Usually, Damian might wonder what Slade is intending to do by leaving him alone in his bed, but he can't bring himself to care right now.
Quietly, carefully, Damian adjusts, curls onto his side and angles himself just enough that he can peer through the bathroom doorway and see a hint of himself in the mirror.
In the early days, Slade had allowed him a handheld mirror. Damian would sit and stare into it after every beating, every fucking, taking note of every detail on his face just to remind himself that he was real. That he was still Damian. Then he'd broken it and cut Slade with a shard of the glass. He was never given the privilege again, only able to look at himself on the rare occasion that he was allowed to use Slade’s bathroom. Slade even took away the mirror in the bathroom that connected to the tiny room he kept Damian in.
Now, Damian strains for just one long look, just enough to remember what he looks like, but the memories he has never seem to match up with what he sees in the mirror anymore. He can't make out all the details of his face from here, but he sees a tight, dark scar across his cheek where there never was one before, and hair that falls in rich waves past his chin, longer than he ever liked it.
He doesn't see himself. Only what Slade’s made him.
He swallows against the gnawing, empty feeling in his chest and looks away.