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He considered taking something in his room – preferably something that could smash – and throwing it in a fit of rage against his bedroom room. He wanted to watch it splinter into little pieces, to make a sound so sharp and bright that it hurt its ears. He wanted this adrenaline to surge up and out of his body so badly. He whirled around after the door had cracked shut behind him, throwing himself onto his bed and screaming into his pillow.
Bruce couldn’t do this. Take Robin away from him. Robin wasn’t his to take away; it belonged to him, it was given to him by his mother, and there wasn’t anything he could do to change that. Still, a fit of rage consumed him, and he smacked his fists into the soft pillow, his screams not dying down. They were muffled, but he was sure that if Bruce, or even Alfred, made the decision to follow after him, they would hear him as clear as day.
He almost sobbed. The pain in his chest nearly ricocheted up towards the recovered wound in his arm, sparking with a short burn. It made him remember that moment; the moment in which the Joker had fired the gun, and the bullet had ripped through his arm like butter. The pain that had consumed him was unlike anything ever before, and his eyes had rolled to the back of his head before a scream could even teeter on his tongue. Bruce had brought him back to the Manor, and he’d woken up in bandages and painkillers being forced down his throat by a very worried Alfred.
Dick had been ready to crack a joke about the whole situation. Perhaps make Alfred chastise him lightly, with worry evident in his tone but his eyes softening with amusement. Bruce would have been sterner, but Dick would have analysed his body language and seen him relaxed, flowing with relief.
That wasn’t what happened at all.
. . .
“I can’t let you be Robin anymore, Dick,” came Bruce’s voice, uncharacteristically quiet. Alfred had stopped pouring the tea, and Dick’s grin barely even had time to drop from his face before an involuntary response spilled from his lips.
“What?”
Bruce’s eyes weren’t soft, but they weren’t hard. He couldn’t read him like this.
“I said,” he repeated. “I can’t let you be Robin anymore.”
He almost laughed. That was ridiculous. This had to be some kind of joke.
“What do you mean?” He whispered, shifting against the bed. “If this is about the Joker, I mean, come on, Bruce, I’m—”
“You’re not fine,” he interrupted, eyes narrowing in a slight touch of frustration. Alfred moved silently, setting the teapot down on the tray. “You are never fine, Dick. You were shot, and it won’t be the last. This life is too dangerous for a child like you.”
He gawked at that, his own air of anger licking the back of his neck. “Child?” He released a trembling exhale. “Bruce, I’m not a child. I can handle myself.”
“You were shot,” Bruce reiterated. “You could have been killed.”
Words were spluttering from his lips as panic clouded his judgement. Too many thoughts were beginning to swirl around in his mind once he realised that this truly wasn’t a joke. That he was serious about this, about taking Robin away from him.
He sat up abruptly. “Bruce, I’m fine. Look, it doesn’t even hurt anymore…”
At the sight, Alfred stepped forward. “Master Dick, please don’t aggravate your wound.”
“No,” he snapped, waving the butler off. “There have been plenty of times I could have been killed since being Robin and you never batted an eye. This is nothing different. Don’t you dare take this away from me…”
Bruce leaned back. Dick’s gut pooled with horror as he witnessed the pitiful glow in his sharp eyes disappear. He swallowed, shaking his head.
“Bruce, please…”
He stood to his feet, turning away. “You’re fired, Dick.”
. . .
Lifting his head from the pillow, Dick gasped for air. He fisted it tightly and shook on top of his bed, grinding his teeth together to stop himself from shouting once more. He wanted to scream at Bruce to give him Robin back. He wanted to plead and beg just as much, too. To see his face soften and regret hold him back. He wanted him to wrap him up into his arms and comfort him for even suggesting the idea in the first place.
“I was worried,” Dick wanted him to admit. “I was scared I was going to lose you. I don’t want that to happen again. You’re my partner.”
But instead, Bruce had kept his distance and dismissed Dick’s pleas every time he asked, and it would only result in a feisty spat between them that led to Dick unlocking his window and speeding off into the night to blow off some steam. His fingers itched. He needed Robin. He needed to get rid of these pent up emotions blocking the stream of his throat.
His breath hitched when there was a light knock on the door. It clicked, and slowly swivelled open a jar.
“Master Dick?” Alfred called out softly, leaning into the room a fraction. “May I come in?”
Dick sucked in a strained, ragged breath between his teeth, shaking with anger. “No, Alfred. Please, just please. Leave me alone.”
The butler lingered for just a moment. Dick couldn’t control the emotion in his voice, and he collapsed back into the pillow and tried to bite back his frustrated screams once again, cheeks flushed from the intensity.
“As you wish, Richard.”
The door clicked shut, and he didn’t hear Alfred’s quiet, descending footsteps down the hallway. Guilt tore into his chest, but he stopped himself from screaming at the man. He hadn’t wanted to do that, but he knew what Alfred would’ve said, even if he had come to him for comfort.
“I am sure Master Bruce is just as worried about what happened as I am,” something along those lines. Dripped in sympathy and spoken in that smooth, calming drawl of his. “I will speak to him, of course. Please, give him some time, Richard.”
It wouldn’t be enough. Dick needed more than that.
“I won’t let him do this,” he wouldn’t say, but Dick wanted him to anyway. “Believe me, I won’t. I will knock some sense into him. Don’t you worry, Richard. Now, get some sleep.”
He knew Alfred was doing his best. He hadn’t arrived in time to see the spat between them that had happened mere moments ago.
. . .
“Talk to me, Dick.”
He stilled. He’d snuck out once more, donned a mask on his face and relieved some of the built up tension in a classic Robin style, yet cruising alone. Yet this time, he had taken one too many hits and ended up wandering back to the Manor half concussed and bleeding from his head. Bruce had been furious upon seeing him clambering up the steps. Alfred had swept into the room like pouring rain and carefully dragged Dick away to take care of his wounds and pop him a pleasant painkiller in the Batcave.
Dick had carefully sipped on some tea, having felt better, but the moment he saw Bruce wandering through the Cave with his Batman attire on, he had felt a wave of bitterness crash into him.
Everything that had happened, the very reason he had been sneaking out in the first place, came flooding back to him in hot flames. He swallowed, setting the cup down on the tray Alfred had left, and that’s when Bruce had spoken.
He turned slightly to look at his eyes behind the cowl.
“What do you want me to say?” He spoke again. Dick tried not to wince. He hadn’t had a normal conversation with him for weeks now. Had been jumping the fence at the school he attended and shutting himself away in his room until he kicked open his window in the dead of night and fled to any danger he could sink his teeth into. He was having thoughts of leaving. Leaving for good.
Leaving behind these inferior feelings and living a life he owned. Because clearly, Robin wasn’t his. Clearly, Robin was an employee, a sidekick, somebody that Bruce could fire if he so wishes, and there be nothing Dick can do to get that back.
He wanted to be selfish. He was losing control.
“Give me Robin back,” he whispered quietly, his voice shaking. He saw a slither of emotion behind Bruce’s mask, but it was gone. Not even his shoulders seemed to sink, just a margin, or his body shift an inch. Nothing. Bruce wasn’t going to change his mind.
“You know I can’t do that,” he finally answered after Dick felt like the air was filling with hot ash. He sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head.
“Robin is mine,” he gritted out, emotions welling up in his chest in an unstoppable surge. He wasn’t going to cry; not in front of Bruce. “You can’t do this.”
“I can,” he levelled with a slither of harshness. “And I will. I’m not having this discussion, Dick. When you’re feeling better, go back up to the Manor.”
The Dark Knight’s cape bellowed behind him as he made a move towards the computer. Dick’s eyes watched with an estranged fury, unable to stop the pull to follow him. His footsteps were light and swift, catching up to the man in mere seconds. He whirled around and grabbed his arm.
“You want to make this right,” he snapped, trying to keep his voice from bordering on exhausted and fearful. “Just give me Robin. I’m supposed to be your partner, and I still can be. So the Joker shot me, who cares? It could have been so much worse, Bruce. So much worse, so just see that I’m okay and let me be Robin again. Please, I need Robin.”
He wasn’t expecting Bruce to shake him off so harshly. The man snapped away, lurching his body defensively as if he was trying to access another attack. That in itself made Dick’s stomach rip with nausea; as if Bruce didn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust you enough to have Robin.
His jaw set, and he watched something unreadable pass over the Dark Knight’s masked face for just a fraction of a second, before it disappeared.
This time, his voice had risen a level. He was starting to get angry. “Go upstairs, Dick. Now.”
“I don’t understand,” he hissed, expression twisting into frustration.
“You are a child,” Bruce snapped. “Don’t think you have any control in the matter. Acting out will not help you. Stop being immature.”
“A child,” Dick scoffed, gawking. “I wasn’t a child when you taught me how to fight crime. I wasn’t a child when you talked me through how to withstand torture , and I most certainly wasn’t a child when I was in a position that could compromise your identity.”
“Just what are you implying?” Bruce asked, dangerously.
Dick withheld his tongue. “Let me be Robin.”
The Dark Knight’s jaw clenched, and he could see the muscles tensing instantly. Dick wasn’t surprised by the shouting match that had devolved after that. He refused to back down, and he was determined to get his word in whether Bruce liked it or not. He didn’t.
“You’re fired, Richard,” he’d spent, figure looming over him, as if the darkness was backing him up. His voice boomed around the cave. “Get out.”
Dick had struggled to hold back his tears. He could feel them burning his eyes, teetering along the edges and ready to spill over. He grit his teeth, spitting Bruce one final glare.
“Fuck you, Bruce.”
He’d fled before the tears could fall. He’d breezed past Alfred along the way, having arrived too late with a pitiful expression on his face, calling out his name fruitlessly. Dick entered his room, slammed the door shut, and thrown himself into his pillows to scream. Why couldn’t Bruce see this his way?
He didn’t understand why this was happening.
By the time it crept over midnight, Dick had packed a backpack stuffed full of his clothes, thrown it over his shoulder, and slipped out of the window. Maybe it had been an impulse, and maybe he was making a mistake, but he needed to get away from everything. He needed to get far away from this place and let these billowing emotions out before he did something he might sorely regret.
He stripped himself of any trackers so Bruce couldn’t follow him, but it was probably useless. No doubt the Dark Knight had him tagged, whether he knew or not.
Dick was thinking clearly, but regardless, he scaled down the wall, flipped over the fence, and fled into the night. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind, surfing from one train to another with small intervals, watching Gotham City blur through the windows as his mind ran a mess. He briefly thought of Alfred, and guilt poked at his belly. He had left a letter for the butler, who no doubt would discover his absence first, but the more days he spent hopping from one place to another, the more a pave of selfishness began to open up.
He knew he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t fathom why Bruce had decided to fire him, and every time he thought about it, the fewer answers he seemed to grasp. Hopelessness consumed his stomach, making him feel queasy. Bruce had never been one of the most loving fathers a boy could ask for; it had been hard to fight for his attention and tear it away from Gotham crime even on a good day.
But they had been partners as much as they had been father and son. And Dick was beginning to realise that from the very beginning, that hadn’t been much.
He left the train before the doors closed, needing some fresh air. His gaze swept across his surroundings, keeping himself alert, and began his journey from the train station. He took note of any street signs and tried to formulate his location in his head. Far for Gotham, but in distance for the Dark Knight to find him if he tried hard enough.
Far enough not to be recognised too easily, so he peeled off his cap, keeping it clenched in his fingers. It felt freeing to finally let his locks loose, the wind blowing through them sweetly. He’d have to pinpoint a hotel, or something similar of the sort, just for the night, and get his bearings. Clean up a bit, and let a passing train take him wherever it was headed.
Ducking into a nearby hotel, Dick counted his cash and booked an overnight room.
He threw his stuff on the bed, taking a quick, pleasant shower. It was nice to finally scrub the grime from his skin and the dirt in his hair, and almost felt uplifted after changing into some fresh clothes. He tore open a bottle of water and took a multitude of greedy swigs, feeling the coolness slide down his throat. Dick turned on the television for some mindless background noise. It was autopilot for the majority of the evening.
He nibbled on some of his food, not finding himself that hungry. His diet had been non-existent in the process of getting as far as from Bruce as possible, but he found it holding itself back. Maybe there was still a flood of anxiety coursing through his veins.
To stop his jitters, Dick left the hotel room and visited a small shop on a corner street, before promptly returning with a bag of more water bottles. He swiped the card and let himself in, and the moment his feet crossed the threshold, he could sense something very wrong.
It wasn’t just that his television was off, or that the lights had been switched off. It was a cold prickling at the back of his neck, telling him there was someone there. If that hadn’t been enough, the voice from the darkness made his blood run cold.
“Hello, Robin.”
He flicked the light on. The man sitting on the chair, nonchalantly counting the bills from his bag, didn’t have his mask on, but it was impossible not to recognise him. He knew that suit, and he knew that voice. He swallowed as fear washed through him, but it was replaced with something far more dangerous. Excitement. Adrenaline.
“What…” He murmured, tensing. He wasn’t in his costume; he was simply Dick Grayson, a normal civilian. He kept his act with profession, but he could feel his pulse racing against his skin no matter how hard he tried to keep it under control. “You have the wrong person…”
Slade tutted. His sharp, silver eye tore away from the money, meeting Dick’s own blue ones. It sent a horrible shiver rolling down his spine.
“You and I both know there’s no use in playing dumb, boy,” he drawled, setting the bills on the desk. Dick’s eyes naturally drifted to his bag, too far out of reach. He didn’t have his weapons, and he had no way of signalling Bruce without his utility belt. He had been itching for a fight, and he would get it; just not one he was going to win. His throat felt dry and raw when he swallowed. Why was Deathstroke here, of all places? Had he been following him?
Slade smoothly rose from his seat, slipping a knife out from his belt. It glinted under the stark hotel lights, and Dick’s heart sped up once he started stalking towards him.
“Come quietly, and there'll be no need for a fight,” the mercenary ordered. There was coldness to his voice, but a flash of danger in his eyes that made Dick almost stumble back into the half open door. He gripped the handle in a vice grip.
He needed to find Bruce. He needed Bruce to find him.
The Dark Knight could have held out in a fight with Deathstroke long enough to get them both to safety. Perhaps Robin might. But Dick Grayson couldn’t.
He suddenly felt very stupid.
Slade must have noticed Dick’s flight kicking in, or perhaps he didn’t care. He leapt forward with the knife swinging towards him, and he barely even had time to launch himself into the hotel corridor and twist his body out of trajectory. He smacked against the wall and instantly righted himself, but Slade was already coming in for another blow that nicked him.
The blade cut his cheek, instantly drawing a thin line of blood, and he bit back the hiss on his tongue.
Slade smirked, and slid the weapon away. Dick put his fists up. “What, no witty remark?”
Deathstroke’s attacks were relentless. Dick couldn’t find any opportunity to attack, and narrowly twisted out of the way of a punch or a kick that was swinging for his head. Knuckles drove into his stomach and Dick staggered backwards, gasping for air, before Slade’s leg flew through the air and connected to his ribs. It sent him crashing into the wall, rocking his brain and ripping the air from his lungs in a single second. He dropped to one knee, but launched himself out of the way to avoid Slade’s fist.
It cracked into the wall as Dick flipped backwards, creating some distance between the two.
Maybe it was because he’d barely rested, or eaten anything to satisfy his stomach, but Dick was already feeling a lethargic pull on his muscles and his breathing had become laboured and shallow. He forced himself to stand, staggering backwards as Slade continued towards him.
The man looked like he hadn’t even broken out into a sweat.
“Surely you can do better than that, Robin.”
The sound of his vigilante name set something alight in his heart. It sparked a fire in his chest, burning bright in the pits of his belly until he was almost shaking with anger. It was rubbing it in; the fact that he wasn’t Robin anymore. The fact that Bruce had taken it away from him. Dick wasn’t sure if Slade had done that on purpose – the man was always one step ahead. Who knew if he was already aware of what happened between Batman and Robin?
He clenched his fists, blocking an oncoming punch and swivelling out of the way from another swift jab. Each attack pushed Dick back along the hotel corridor, slamming against the walls and being forced to throw himself out of the way to avoid Slade’s relentless strength and speed.
He squinted, his muscles aching. Sharp breaths poured out of his throat, legs burning as he backed up.
“Come on, boy. This isn’t a fight you’ll win,” Slade hummed, his fingers cracking as he clenched his fists. He hadn’t drawn out any of his weapons, yet Dick was severely lacking. He needed a way to contact Bruce. Even if he could escape for just a moment, just brief him on where he was, what was going on, that he needed help.
Dick’s back hit the window and he braced himself as Slade swiftly stepped forward and launched himself towards him. His boot slammed against his chest, and Dick felt the glass on his back instantly shatter from the force, gravity tugging him down. He flipped as the cold night air rushed past his ears, reaching for anything to grab onto.
His fingers slipped through air.
His body crashed into the large lidded bin against the wall of the alleyway, the force shaking his bones and the glass splinters digging into his skin. A scream of pain tore from his throat, the world spinning and rolling past his eyes until the concrete forced him to a stop. His banged up ribs made him gasp through a bloodied lip for air, his windpipe strained. A horrible cry left him.
He wasn’t sure how far he’d fallen, but it felt like his limbs had gone numb and his vision was still spinning.
He didn’t hear Slade drop down beside him, but fingers winding through his hair jolted him from his delirious state. He was jerked upwards, staggering to his feet as the mercenary shoved him forward, making him groan. He stumbled to steady himself, the sharp intake of breath making his ribs hurt.
Blinking sluggishly, Dick wobbled into a weak fighting stance. Slade was staring at him, eyebrow quirking.
“Haven’t figured it out yet, have you, Robin?” He drawled, tilting his head. Dick’s shallow breathing became fuzzy in his ears, and the more he kept his gaze focused on the man, the more he seemed to be tilting and swirling on the spot.
“The blade was laced with quite a potent drug,” he grabbed the knife, smoothly flipping it and catching it by the handle. Dick’s body felt heavy. Even the panic in his veins was struggling to get him moving. “All it would take was one little scratch.”
His fingers trembled as they traced the cut on his cheek. When he drew it away to look at it, his vision had become choppy and he swayed to one side.
“You…” His tongue was too thick. He sucked in a quivering breath. “No…”
Slade approached him with silent footsteps. Dick drew back, his teeth clenched and punch aiming straight for his face. The man caught it effortlessly, jerked it behind his back, and snapped his arm around Dick’s neck. He flailed instantly, scratching at his suit, but the moment Slade began to apply just the right amount of pressure against his throat, he knew the fight was over.
He choked on a gasp, his legs buckling from underneath him, making the man’s grip tighter around his neck. Dick wanted to say he put up a valiant fight, but everything was going dark and he could barely even move his limbs anyway. He could feel his eyes rolling to the back of his head, the blood building a hot pressure behind his eyes. Slade didn’t release his merciless hold for even a second.
It was regret that last registered in his thoughts. Regret for leaving the way he did. Even though being away from Bruce was what he needed, he regretted being strong enough to cut off all ties he could.
Dick went limp in the man’s arms.