Chapter Text
Week One
It’s freezing.
Cold presses up against his cheek and shoulder. Over the past hour, it’s spread, sinking its claws into his skin. The cotton tee, sweatpants, and polyester socks aren’t nearly enough to keep out the chill. He doesn’t want to be dramatic, but if his bones turned to ice, he wouldn’t be surprised.
His shoulder aches, bruised and stiff. He’d roll over to the other one if it didn’t feel the exact same. He’s choosing the lesser evil, it would seem. There’s been a lot of that this week.
The shackle around his ankle is tight and uncomfortable, the chain attached to it even more so. Every time he so much as twitches, it clinks against itself. Meta-grade, Slade had called it, which Dick’s come to know means, ‘it’s just magic’. There’s no keyhole for him to try his hands at picking. The metal is seamless, there’s no chips, blemishes, or even a seam.
His attempts to mimic the incantation Slade uses to release it have been unsuccessful. So for now, this isn’t coming off unless Slade wants it to.
He’s nurturing a deep hate for it. For the entire situation, really.
Slade at least had the decency to turn the lights off to let him sleep. It’s probably nighttime. It’s hard to tell without windows, but Dick has a decent internal clock. He’s only been here for about an hour, and he’s not too worried about Slade showing up. So far, he’s given him plenty of time to stew with the lights off; this is about the fifth time it’s happened. The fifth day of his captivity.
As far as prison cells go, he can’t complain too much. The chain and room are leagues above Scarecrow’s or Two-Face’s hospitality. A few bruises are better than a pit of acid or snapping alligators. Though, to be fair, he was the one in danger there. Now, his friends are on the line. It changes the game. In fact, it doesn’t feel like a game at all.
Logically, he knows that. He’s known that ever since he took a bat to the skull and woke up with a TBI, two fractures, four broken ribs, and a split ulna at thirteen. Nonetheless, he can’t deny that he tends to separate it still. B called it compartmentalizing. It’s the only way most heroes can cope. Dick’s good at coping.
Scratch that.
He’s usually good at coping. He’s been a performer since the day he was born. But this… this is a lot.
The cell is roughly thirty by forty feet, carpeted with on-brand orange training mats and rimmed with racks upon racks of weapons. It’s an armory as well as a training room.
It’s a mockery, is what it is. His tether only extends out ten feet. Leaving him twenty feet away from anything useful. Twenty feet away from anything that could be used to shoot, stab, or gravely injure.
The chain’s origin is secured to a smooth concrete wall, free of handholds save for the bolt. He’s already spent his fair share of time tugging on it with nothing to show for it. He’ll keep at it, of course, but that’s shaping up to be a long-term plan.
The shortest-term plan is equally frustrating. Just waiting it out. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to get the jump on Slade, steal back the remote, and get out of here without him activating some contingency.
It’s a tall order. Dick’s backed himself into quite the corner. Pinned by his own stupidity and ego. If only he could go back a week and pummel his past self into his stupid evidence board.
It’s clear the Titans aren’t on par. They were never on par. Slade had been six steps ahead the whole time, and now— well. Now he has what he wants.
Dick shudders.
An apprentice. How had he missed that?
It all makes sense now, of course. The puzzles meant to goad him into the mystery. The feeling that only he could make the pieces fit together. What had he been thinking?
Not very much, apparently.
The floor hasn’t gotten any softer, and his shuffled attempts to find an ounce of comfort prove to be worthless. He can’t help but think of his own bed, back in the tower. Piled up with two quilts and a throw that he’d bury himself in.
He’s always run cold, albeit warmer than Bruce. Kori always took it as an excuse to loop her arms over him while they lounged on the couch. She’d take his hands with a concerned expression and ask, “And you’re sure humans aren’t cold-blooded creatures? It feels like you might freeze to death!” And then Dick would laugh and swat her away, despite her arms being so warm.
He can’t say that he’s a big hugger. They’re nice, nicer than he’d like to admit, but growing up with Bruce had definitely put a dampener on the whole thing. B wasn’t big on physical affection and, on patrol, preferred it if Dick had his own perch. Maybe he’d accidentally applied some of that in his personal life, too.
Now, he only wishes he’d stuck to it more. Maybe starting the Titans had been a bad idea in the first place. B was of the opinion that if anyone managed to get their hands on him, he’d already failed. Robin is flighty, quick, untouchable.
And now, in the cool dark of Deathstroke’s compound, he laughs. Totally empty of humor. Guess it was only a matter of time before he flew too low, got too bold, and ended up getting caught in a snare.
He really wishes B were here to yell at him about it.
“You should eat, Robin.”
Dick lifts his head.
Deathstroke the Terminator, Slade Wilson, stands over him, arms folded over his chest plate. The fluorescents glint off the surface, turning the two color split into three. From the floor, Slade looks more akin to a giant. His head blots out the lights, casting Dick in a wide shadow that crawls up the wall at his back.
Dick leans back, knocking the base of his skull against the concrete wall.
“And you should stop leering over me like a ghoul,” he snaps.
He’s sitting cross-legged against the concrete wall, ankles loosely crossed, arms draped over his knees in something that might pass for relaxed if someone didn’t look too closely.
The paper plate between them lies undisturbed from when it was first set down. Cold, dry rations looking closer to kibble than actual food. The plastic cup of water beside it sits perfectly still. Lights reflect off it in a dull shimmer.
If it were another day, he’d be trying something different. He can see it in his mind’s eye. He’d start to rise, roll past Slade, and spring up to his feet. One elbow to the spine, one to the knee, and pummel his skull until he passed out.
Today, he thinks of the remote burning a hole in Slade’s pocket. The thought keeps him seated.
Not enough to stop him from planning.
Slade hasn’t reacted. He’s as rigid as the wall at Dick’s back. If Dick didn’t know better, he’d say the man wasn’t even breathing.
“I haven’t poisoned it,” he says, after a moment. “Same as any other of your other meals this week.” His tone is casual, light. Like all of this is just idle chit chat.
“Well,” Dick bares his teeth in something resembling a smile. “Today could be the day.”
A slow breath expands Slade’s chest plate before it slowly sinks back in a noiseless exhale.
“You’re of more use to me alive.”
The mask tilts. The eye-slit disappears into shadow. Dick has the distinct impression he’s being evaluated.
“Now eat.”
Dick looks down at the plate. His stomach twists. Whether from the smell, stress, or general nature of the whole week, he can’t tell. Or maybe he just wants to see how far Slade will let him push. “And if I refuse?”
“I kill your friends.”
There’s zero hesitation. Apparently, the line isn’t very far.
He lets out a disbelieving huff. “Over water and rations?”
“Over anything I deem disobedience, little bird.”
“Losing your trump card over some breakfast seems a little idiotic.”
“I am not an unprepared man.”
For a threat, Dick has to admit it’s not bad. He reaches for the cup and drains it in one go. It’s lukewarm, metallic. If it was poisoned, he hopes it’s quick. He eyes the plate. “Finally taking a leaf out of Batman’s book?”
“He has good taste.”
Dick feels his smile twitch.
Slade’s stare rakes over him. The intensity raises bumps on the back of his neck. Slade’s not just any rogue; he’s basically a meta. He’s sure to hear Dick’s increasing heart rate, the tremor in his breath. If only he could see behind the mask, he might be able to dissect what’s going on in his head.
He takes a bite. The dry mass crumbles in his mouth. He forces himself to swallow.
Why him?
It’s been looming over him all week. Why would Slade go to all this trouble? There are people who can bend metal, fly, and read minds. Yet Dick is the one chained to a wall.
Dick isn’t special. He likes puzzles. His parents are dead. Everything unique about him is who he knows. Could that be what Slade’s after? Leverage against Bruce? It’s possible.
“Finish,” Slade says, “then we can train.”
That does the opposite of encourage. His entire body aches from the last week of ‘training’. There’s no lesson. No instruction. Dick half-thinks it’s just an excuse for Slade to beat him into the mat. Nonetheless, the Titans are on the line. His soreness isn’t exactly on a list of priorities.
He clears the plate quickly, in a dull hope that it stays down. Once empty, he pushes it aside.
Slade bends to collect it. It’s as his hand reaches out for the edge of the plate that Dick’s brain clicks. Finally taking in the details and painting a picture Dick has been dying to see this past week. A rare smile curling the corners of his mouth.
Well. Slade did say they’d train after he’d finished.
This probably counts.
Dick lunges.
His muscles fire on instinct, sending him launching across the narrow gap, chain dragging behind him. He throws his entire weight forward, using the slack like a garrote as he twists, slips past Slade’s side, and snaps the metal line around his throat.
Dick scrambles behind him, driving his knee into Slade’s back and hauling back the chain with both hands with every bit of strength he has.
It works.
The strangled, choking reply is the most satisfying sound Dick’s heard in months.
The victory is short-lived.
A hand shoots back, seizing Dick by the collar with horrifying ease. Slade hurls him over his shoulder, and the world goes upside down. Dick hits the ground with a WHUMP. Dick’s grip on the chain is gone. His lungs struggle to intake air again— but he rolls with the impact. Preparing to bounce up—
The chain jerks.
His foot is yanked out from beneath him so violently he doesn’t even gasp— just slams down on his shoulder. Pain spikes through his neck and ribs, spindling down his arm and spine. The room bursts into white, fractured stars.
“Shit—” he heaves, rolling onto his back, breath scraping raw in his throat.
Slade stands over him, the chain wrapped around his fist.
Dick fumbles backward on instinct, palms tense against the mats. Slade pulls. Dick yelps as he’s dragged forward, losing the silent tug of war.
“That could’ve gone better for you,” Slade remarks. Dry as dust. He lets the chain slacken. “That was sloppy from start to finish. Really, if it weren’t for the principle of it, I wouldn’t even punish you.”
“Principles,” he spits. Dick props himself up on his elbows, breathing hard. “Don’t talk like you even have an idea of what honor is.” Ten feet isn’t enough distance, let alone the four feet between them now.
“Honorable enough to keep my word—” Slade reaches into his cargo pocket, pulling out a familiar remote. “—Unlike you.”
Dick’s stomach plummets so fast he feels like he might vomit. “Wait.”
Slade doesn’t answer right away. His thumb drifts over the device. Methodical in the way it hovers over the buttons.
Dick’s pulse spikes. His mouth goes dry. “Please.”
The fluorescent buzz is more noticeable, filling the space between them with a hollow drone.
Slade’s head tilts. “I really should, shouldn’t I?” He asks softly. “You just broke our contract.”
His heartbeat still thumps like a rabbit, but Dick heaves in a deep breath. Forcing it to slow down. “You never said I couldn’t try,” he grits out. “I haven’t talked to my friends, and I haven’t disobeyed a direct order.” Under his breath. “Asshole.” Slade will hear it; he knows he will.
Another moment of Slade’s appraisal, before the remote slips back into his pocket. Dick’s stare lingering on its outline.
“You’re correct, of course.”
The relief nearly makes his arms go boneless. He regrets it as his foot is dragged back violently, the chain pulled again.
“So, how’s this—”
Dick loses his posture again, dragged even closer. He could count the seams on Slade’s boots if he wanted. His head feels seconds away from exploding. His vision laser-focused on the threat.
“—If you try that again, the Teen Titans will be reduced to Teen Titan.”
He forces himself up again, fingers curled into the mat. He hisses. “Don’t leave yourself open for a cheap shot, then.”
The chain snaps upward— Dick’s leg jerks higher, leaving the floor. His lower back screams. Panic sparks under his ribs, hot and bright. If Slade hoists him up any further, he’d look like a fisherman’s catch. His breath hitches. He’s quickly losing sight of rationale in favor of blind panic.
“I never do.” Before he speaks in a low, backward incantation. Dick’s head snaps to attention, but it’s already too late. He hardly catches a word before the shackle unlatches, and Dick crashes to the ground in a heap of limbs.
The release still doesn’t feel like freedom. Dick twists over himself to scramble backward, scooting several feet back before he’s aware he’s doing it.
Slade doesn’t move to stop him.
“Get up.”
Dick stays rooted to the mat.
“We’re going to spar.”
“We’ve sparred all week.”
“We spar every day.”
Dick opens his mouth. I can’t do that, dies in his throat. His jaw clicks as it snaps shut. Dick is more than used to rigorous training schedules, but considering Bruce maxed out at two-hour sessions, compared to Slade’s five, it doesn’t feel like a fair comparison. This is closer to actual torture than training. The only thing remotely funny about it is that it’s on brand.
That eye hasn’t left him. He can feel it dissecting him. Peeling back layers of skin to get a better look inside his head. It’s violating.
“Sparring is designed to sharpen your skills,” Slade continues. Seemingly satisfied that Dick won’t interrupt. “While yours were adequate for your old life, they’re not for me.”
Dick grimaces, finding the motivation to pick himself up again. Slade talks like his standards are remotely within this solar system.
“You’re going to push yourself to and past your limits,” Slade says. “And if you fail…”
A small pause.
“I will explore other solutions.”
“Other solutions,” Dick says slowly.
“I still have a few contacts at my old base. The old formula would be difficult to reverse-engineer, but I’m sure that—“
Dick’s stomach flips over itself, his heart launching into his throat. When he speaks, it’s pure venom. “If you get that serum within a fucking mile of me, I’m gonna—”
“—It’s as I said,” Slade interrupts smoothly. “It’s only if you fail to get results.”
Slade’s hands splay out in front of him, as if he’s being reasonable.
“I expect the best, Robin.”
Dick takes a half-step forward. Watching and waiting for a weapon to be drawn. Slade doesn’t even twitch toward the racks. He looks relaxed and loose. It’s a trick. Everything about Slade is a trick.
“Your only goal is to win.”
He snorts. “That’s generally the aim of a fight.” His feet inch forward, assuming a circle around the mercenary. Slade mimics the turn.
“Hero types don’t always see it that way.”
“Oh yeah?”
“They fight to subdue,” Slade says. “To delay. And if that fails, they draw back.”
Dick rolls his shoulders, shaking out some of the ache in his fingers. “That’s me,” he hisses. “Hero-type.”
Slade shrugs.
“And you know what?” Dick raises his chin. “We come out on top a hell of a lot more than you people do.”
Slade rolls his head, neck cracking. “Is that so?”
The circle is getting tighter. Each person measuring the other.
“Does that make you a special case, then?”
“No,” Dick barks. “Because I’m getting out of here no matter what.”
“Then do it.” Dick can hear Slade’s smile from behind the mask.
Dick hesitates. Only for a second. It’s the closest Slade has ever sounded to being excited. It doesn’t make sense. Dick isn’t losing anything from trying to beat the shit out of him, unless you’re counting bruises. He pushes the hesitation back.
It’s just sparring. And if Slade wants a fight— by god is he going to get one. Who knows, maybe Dick will even get lucky.
He doesn’t.
Three hours in and he’s flat on the mat, gasping for air, drenched in his own sweat and blood. He can’t lift his head.
“Too slow.”
Dick makes a gurgled sound, maybe some sort of reply if his mouth wasn’t full of blood. He’s choking on iron, nearly drowning in it.
“Get up.”
He rolls onto his stomach, blood pouring from his lips in thick drops. He plants an arm up. The elbow buckles. His shoulder shrieks as he pushes up. Hit after hit, targeting weak points, or starting a bruise anew.
Dick manages one knee. Then nothing. His legs fold before he manages to stand. The world, his cell, tilts. Dick prepares for the sound of his skull cracking against the sweat-coated mats—
Arms catch him. Slade hauls him to his feet before he folds like a rag doll.
He has enough sense left to make a half-hearted attempt to push back. There’s no strength behind it. If Slade let go, he’d be a puddle. “A disappointing performance, Robin.”
Dick pants, forehead inches from resting against the armor. His lungs stutter, and his breath drags. He knew training would be hard. He’d expected it.
It’s something else entirely to try to pace yourself through it and find that you have no choice but to give it your all. The unfortunate side of things is that his ‘all’ has a short time limit.
Slade is strong. Everyone knows that. He’s an army experiment gone rogue. Enhanced strength, reflexes, and intelligence. He’s an apex predator.
Dick has been trained by the best, but he has to admit that he’s nothing in a fight with this guy.
“You’re done for the day,” Slade says. “I expect better moving forward.” He half-guides, half-drags Dick to the edge of the mats.
“Batman was too lenient with you.”
If Dick had the breath to spare, he’d scoff. Bruce is a founding member of the Justice League. Gotham’s protector. He strikes fear in the hearts of the entire criminal underbelly, worldwide. Lenient is not a word in Bruce’s vocabulary.
However, Bruce never left him a broken mess on the mat, either.
They move into the compound, leaving the cell behind. Dick drags his feet, leaning heavily into Slade. The walls are hard, cold concrete. The floor and ceiling as well. The fluorescents here are still present, hooked up with tight wiring. Dully, in the distance, he can hear the clank and whir of metal machinery.
A steel depot is a handy place for a villain hideout. A level three subbasement inside a steel depot is even handier. The air is heavy, weighed down by the smell of oil, iron, and gunpowder.
The walk ends with the click of another door, and Slade leans him against the entry. He manages to hold himself up based on spite alone.
“Be quick,” is all his jailer says.
The bathroom is grimy, but compared to the rest of this place, it could basically be heaven. At least it has hot water.
Slade has the decency to stand guard outside the door. Not that it means much. There isn’t a lock.
He fumbles with the shower controls, relishing in the crash of water against his scalp. Peeling off his clothes is comparable to peeling off his own skin. He bites his tongue to withhold a whimper. He can’t raise his arms to tear off his shirt, and struggles for upwards of a minute before he yanks it off.
Finally stumbling into the shower has him slumping against the tiled walls. Legs giving out on him halfway through. His whole body throbs. Pain layers over sharp bruises and hand-shaped marks. No cuts tonight, save for his bloodied mouth. Just strained muscles.
Nothing permanent, at least.
He tips his face to meet the spray dead-on. It’s nice. A hot shower has been part of his routine since the Flying Graysons. Slade doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know that under the stream of water, he can almost feel normal. It’s the closest thing to safe there is here.
If Dick closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s somewhere else. Usually, it’s Titans Tower. Tonight, it’s the Manor. He can imagine leaving the shower, opening the door to his cold bedroom. It’s always quiet after patrol, but his radio quietly sings along to Britney Spears. His homework is spread over his desk, and his bed is warm.
Thump.
Dick exhales, lifting an eyelid. Someone’s fucking impatient. The side of his head knocks against the tile. Tears sting in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezes them shut again.
What kind of shit hero breaks after a week?
He forces himself to breathe, flicking off the water and dressing in the clean clothes set out for him. It’s always the same. A black tee and sweats. Thank god. He’s not sure what he'd do if Slade started shoving in orange.
They’re both loose on his frame, seams worn from use. He doesn’t need to ask who these once belonged to. Grant Wilson had been bigger than him. But not by much.
The thought sits heavy. He’s wearing a dead boy’s clothes. It drives a wedge into his throat.
He catches a look at himself in the mirror. One eye is swollen half-shut. The other, a black eye. His usually tan skin is pale, and his mouth is bright red. Black and blue decorate his jaw and collarbone in ugly patches. Like wearing blue sleeves, they extend from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers.
He’d look more at home in a morgue.
It’s only been a week.
When he opens the door, Slade is waiting.
“You’re not done for the day.”
Dick leans against the doorway. He’s regained enough strength to stand on his own at the very least, but it’s a tentative strength. He has the feeling the wind could take him out right now. If only there were any wind. “You said I was,” he mutters, glaring up at him.
Slade’s eye drifts over the bruises, his jaw, and down to the leg he’s favoring.
“Sparring,” Slade clarifies. “Yes.” He steps forward before Dick can react. His hand lands on Dick’s shoulder. Firm.
Dick recoils on instinct.
“But not everything is about how hard you can hit someone,” Slade says smoothly. “Apprentice.”
The word feels like a bat to the ribs. Like someone feeding his brain into a blender. He can feel something inside of him trying to snap.
Slade steers him back down the hallway. His pace is strangely slow enough to accommodate for Dick’s limp. He doesn’t stumble until the pain in his ribs flares. To his small relief, he doesn’t get barked at.
The hallways here are easy to memorize; the problem is that he hasn’t been let out to go anywhere else. His world, for now, has been the training room, hallway, and bathroom.
His captor had been oh-so-kind to welcome him with a boot to the skull before he’d woken up chained. He thinks it’s still the steel depot they’d first fought in. The air tastes the same, and the distant machinery clunk is all too familiar, but he can’t say it’s the same with one hundred percent surety.
The door swings shut behind them, locking with a heavy click. Dick notices the books immediately. There’s a whole stack of them beside the chain on the floor. He stares.
“Seriously?”
“Read them all before I return,” Slade says, voice irritatingly even. “And we won’t have a problem.” Slade gestures to the chain. The hand lifts. Dick’s knees nearly collapse in relief before a blend of rage and curiosity takes its place. He turns on his heel to look Slade in the eye.
“You’re leaving?” He can’t help the interest infecting his tone. Maybe this is an opening.
Slade chuckles. It sounds genuine. The most human Dick has ever heard him. Like he already knows what Dick is turning over in his head. “Don’t get your hopes up, little bird.” He can still hear the smile. “I’ve hired someone.”
“What.”
“It won’t be long.” He gestures for him to move again, but Dick holds his ground. “Three days at most.”
“I need my mask.” It’s sharp. His domino had been taken from him the moment Slade had the opportunity. Without it, he feels totally exposed. It doesn’t feel like trained-by-batman-Robin, it feels like citizen-in-distress-Dick-Grayson.
“She knows who you are,” Slade hums. “And the consequences of going back on her word.” Slade steps forward, as if attempting to herd him closer to the chain.
“Who is it?” Instead of moving back, he steps sideways.
It’s a bad move. Slade’s hand strikes, lightning fast, grabbing the front of his shirt. “That,” he curls, dragging him toward the wall. “Is none of your concern, little bird.”
The shackle snaps closed around Dick’s ankle before Slade hurls him to the floor. His head snaps sideways, the mats slamming into his cheek hard enough to make his vision flicker. Pain fires down his spine in a massive wave. His whimper of pain is immediate, and so is the regret.
Is this all he is to Slade? A punching bag for when he gets bored? Does he actually want an apprentice? Maybe Batman will end up finding him in tiny little pieces. That’d be something. Dick half-wonders what his expression would be. Probably blank, but Dick would like to think he’d at least shed a tear.
Who knows, maybe Batman is already looking for him.
“Slade?” Dick rasps, lifting his head.
Slade has crossed the room, already hovering a hand above the doorknob. His mask looks over in a silent ask.
“Wherever you’re going,” Dick forces a crooked smile. “I hope you lose the eye.”
It’s silent for three beats of his heart. He can feel it pounding in his ears.
“Well,” Slade hums. “If I do, you’d lend me one of yours.”
Dick opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His heart rate bleeds into his fingers.
“You can hope all you like.” Slade’s hand closes around the doorknob. “But no matter what happens to me— if someone rips my head off my shoulders or burns my remains—“
The door creaks open.
“I’ll come back for you, Robin.”
A beat.
”I promise.”
The door shuts.
And Dick is alone.