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Branches ripped at his clothes and pinched his exposed skin as Dick tore through the woods, terror chasing after him with vicious tenacity. Ice-cold rain stung his face as he darted between menacing, looming trees, their limbs stretching grotesquely into the night, clawed arms reaching for him, trying to trip him and slow him down.
His panting breath was loud in his ears, tired, desperate sobs breaking forth when he had the oxygen to spare. Dick flew through the night, sharp terror nipping at his heels, blindly stumbling through the silent forest, hands scraped raw from the falls he took when he tripped over exposed roots and rocks.
The moon barely peeked through the thick cloud cover, and the light that did make it through was captured and blocked out by the shadowed tree-tops. Every ungraceful tumble, every twig he snapped, and leaf he crushed seemed to echo like a clap of thunder; too loud in the quiet of the night.
He was so close, he just needed to make it out of the woods, and he’d be on the outskirts of Gotham, almost home, almost safe, just a little longer-
A flash of orange in the inky blackness froze the blood in his veins, sending him crashing to the ground once more. Pain lanced through his knees, and Dick cried out, panic thrumming through him as he desperately searched for that glimpse of color. The forest stayed empty and dark, and the only sound reaching Dick’s ears was his own harsh panting.
He clenched his fists, willed his heart to slow-
Fingers curled in his hair and yanked him back. Dick slammed into an armoured chest, a sound of pure terror escaping him. Arms wrapped around his stomach and his chest, and a gloved hand, gently, oh so gently, but so threatening, was put over his throat.
Dick’s heart jackrabbitted in his chest, but he did his best to hold still, not give that hand a reason to squeeze (to tighten and dig into the soft skin of his throat, to push onto his Adam’s apple until his chest burned and his vision blurred and he was forced into unconsciousness).
Hot breath hit his ear, and Dick swallowed heavily, pressure on his neck increasing ever so slightly.
“You can’t escape me, Apprentice. No matter how often you run, how far you fly, I will always find you. You are mine.” Slade’s voice was soft, possessiveness sneaking through every syllable. His arms tightened around Dick’s midsection, pressing a wheeze out of him.
Dick didn’t dare make a sound; the refusal stuck in his throat. He wasn’t anyone’s property, and most decidedly not Slade Wilson’s. But saying it out loud would… Slade would be angry, and that would hurt. Dick was so tired of being hurt and used; of being Slade’s punching bag, his puppet, his apprentice, his mirror image, stress reliever, captive, his… his.
Dick wanted his autonomy back.
“You still have not accepted the inevitable,” Slade continued, speaking the words into the crown of Dick’s head. Dick shuddered, furtively tugging on Slade’s restricting hold. Everywhere they touched, Dick’s skin burned. The fingers around his throat constricted in warning, and Dick stilled again. “You belong with me. Fighting will only make it hurt, and I don’t want to hurt you, unless you force my hand. I only break my things once I’m done with them, and you, I am not done with by a long shot. I still have so much to teach you.”
Slade sighed as if this was a burden to him, as if Dick trying to escape the man that kidnapped, blackmailed, and abused him for the past weeks was an inconvenience. Dick cowered, shame coloring his cheeks red.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me. The welts on his back ached, the bruises that had been pressed into his skin pulsed faintly, and his throat… phantom hands squeezed and crushed and wrung and gripped, and a whine bubbled up in his throat. Dick swallowed it back down.
This was pathetic enough already. In just a few weeks, Slade had managed to reduce him to this blubbering mess of terror, so afraid of the man that he willingly submitted himself to the punishments and demands. It was just a little pain. He’s been hurt before. He should be spitting in the mercenary’s face, fighting him every step of the way, and throwing insults like birdarangs.
He was Robin, and Robin didn’t submit.
“He’ll find me,” Dick whispered, not sure what on earth possessed him to say it with a hand around his throat. Bruce would find him, and he’d save him, because it was what they did. Batman and Robin, the Dynamic Duo. No matter the fights, the ugly things they said to each other, Bruce wouldn’t give up on him.
His friends might believe he had turned sides, but Bruce would never. Bruce would know something was wrong, he might even check in with the Titans, and then he’d convince them Dick wasn’t a traitor and he’d find the nanobots and destroy them and everything would be okay-
He went cold all over. The nanobots. Even if he made it to Gotham, Deathstroke would kill his friends. With a shuddering breath, he collapsed, held up by Slade’s strong grip. Slade was inescapable.
Dick hadn’t meant to risk the Titans’ lives. Slade had brought out the belt, and while the hands were bad, getting choked by the belt, again and again and again, being allowed to breathe for a few sparse seconds, before the unforgiving leather tightened again, cutting into his skin and crushing his windpipe, releasing in unpredictable patterns – it was torture.
Robin, in all his six years of crime-fighting, had never once experienced the kind of torture that Slade so casually used to control and punish. Bruises were par for the course; he’d even had the occasional stab wound and been shot once or twice. But this systematic abuse, meant to break him down and strip him of his dignity and sense of self, he had no way to cope with.
So when Slade came at him, belt clutched in his fist, Dick had run. There hadn’t been time to think; he’d been urged by primal terror to flee, get out, get away. There had been no space to think of his friends, and that Slade held their lives in his bloody hands. All he could do was run.
But now he’s been caught, and his brain finally caught up with what was happening, and Dick realized that all escape attempts in the world didn’t matter as long as Slade could murder his friends with the push of a button.
Slade brushed a hand through Dick’s hair. Defeated, he let his head fall back, resting just below Slade’s collarbone. “The Bat won’t come for you; no one will. You attacked your friends, stole from Batman, and abided a villain. They will move on, and you will still be here, with me, where you belong. Because I am all you have.”
Dick shook his head mutely.
The grip on his hair turned painful, and Dick hissed through gritted teeth. Slade turned his head to look him in the eyes. “The longer you fight this, the more I’ll be forced to hurt you. If you just accepted this new reality, you could learn to like it, too. Don’t you feel the thrill of the chase, the wild freedom of knowing you are better than them, of planning a heist and watching it pan out perfectly?”
“Batman will come for me.” Dick narrowed his eyes, forcing as much defiance into his gaze as he dared. “And when he does, he will take you down, and you will spend the rest of your life in a cold cell, while I forget all about you.” His heart beat in his throat, body trembling faintly. Sometimes, Slade thought his defiance was amusing and would let him get away with it.
The mercenary smiled calmly, a subtle quirk of his lips. “You have too much faith in him, kid. Wayne doesn’t deserve your loyalty.” Dick flinched at the deliberate use of Bruce’s name.
With an unexpected shove, Slade pushed Dick away from him, and Dick stumbled but stayed on his feet.
“Why don’t I show you?” the mercenary said, something dark and foreboding in his voice. A clamped a hand over the back of Dick’s neck, and started leading him through the woods. Dick bit back a confused sound, heartbeat picking up. His hands were clammy, sweat beading on his forehead.
Slade was leading him towards Gotham, out of the forest and into the city. Dick tried hard to control his breathing, fear taking root low in his throat. What was going on? Why would Deathstroke risk this?
They took to the roofs, heading steadily forward, and the entire time, Slade’s fingers dug uncomfortably into the side of his neck. Dick wanted to ask what they were doing here, what Slade hoped to achieve by this, but the words failed to form.
Gotham was beautiful, always would be, especially from up high. Where most people saw smog, dirt, and crime, Dick saw glittering lights and the potential for something better, something great. He wouldn’t let Deathstroke taint this city, Batman’s city, with his evil cruelty.
In the distance, there was the smooth glide of a reinforced cape, the lithe strength of Batman in motion, and Dick froze. Too far away to make out details, but unmistakably him, was Bruce.
His stomach did a funny tumble, and Dick threw himself forward, scream building up in his throat. Slade’s hand pressed over his mouth, harshly pulling him into his chest. He twisted Dick’s arm behind his back, his iron grip burning into Dick’s skin. Dick choked on his tongue, Slade pushing his arm higher and higher until Dick was sure his shoulder would dislocate, pain stealing the breath from his lungs.
“Make a sound, and I will string you up from your neck for the rest of the night,” Slade threatened, and Dick nodded his head rapidly, tears brimming in his eyes. “Keep watching.” Slade released him, and Dick almost collapsed at the mercenary’s feet. With legs like jelly, he obeyed Slade’s command, eyes roaming over Batman’s familiar shape.
Dick didn’t understand the point of this, aside from making him wish for something he couldn’t have. Bruce was right there; all he had to do was call out, and Batman would swoop in-
…
A smaller figure, clad in radiant red, yellow, and green, flew across the rooftops behind Batman, safely inside the man’s great shadow. The punched-out, agonized sound couldn’t have come from Dick, could it?
What?
What was… who was – Dick rubbed his eyes, but the image didn’t change. There was a Robin flying behind Batman. A Robin that wasn’t him, that was wearing his colors, grabbing onto his father’s cape, laughing where Dick should have been laughing and flipping across rooftops.
“This is what your loyalty is worth,” Slade remarked coldly, putting a grounding hand to Dick’s back. “His name is Jason Todd. Wayne adopted him three weeks ago. Robin returned to Gotham right after.”
No. No, Slade was lying; this was a trick, an illusion, a farce to make Dick obey, to steal what hope he had left. Bruce wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. Three weeks ago… Dick had been missing for four. Was this why Bruce hadn’t come for him, because he got a new, shinier model that didn’t fight with him, that hadn’t been stupid enough to fall for a villain’s trap and pathetic enough to fail every escape attempt?
Why would Bruce do this to him? Dick wasn’t perfect, but he thought… he had been sure that- Bruce was supposed to be his dad. How had everything gone so wrong? When had he disappointed Bruce so badly that he gave up on him?
Batman and Robin moved further away until Dick couldn’t make them out from the shadows anymore.
The silence that enveloped Dick, thick and unnatural, blurring out the nighttime noise of a busy city, pressed heavily on his chest. His breath hitched, and he wailed. The sound echoed across the rooftops, Slade’s warning to keep his mouth shut a dull presence in the back of his mind. It didn’t matter anymore. Bruce wouldn’t come for him; he had given up on Dick, and moved on, and Dick couldn’t help weeping. He was alone, utterly and completely alone.
Slade gently cupped his face, thumbs wiping away his tears. The warmth of his skin – when had he taken off his gloves? – seared into Dick’s core. “On your knees,” Slade commanded, and Dick obeyed. With a pleased sound, Slade pushed lightly against the back of Dick’s head. There was no fight left in him, and Slade barely had to apply pressure for Dick to rest his head against Slade’s thigh, closing his eyes in defeat.
“Batman replaced you. Your friends have forsaken you. No one is coming, Dick,” Slade said, and Dick exhaled shakily at the sound of his name. “I am all you have now. Why are you fighting me, when I am the only one who still wants you?” He carded through Dick’s hair, gently massaging the back of his skull. “I won’t ever abandon you, kid. You are mine.”
The words burrowed under Dick’s skin, sharp and painful and precise. Tears stained Deathstroke’s armour where Dick’s face was pressed against it.
“I don’t want to be yours,” he whispered helplessly, fingers grasping at Slade’s legs.
“I know.” Slade tilted his head back, brushing his thumb across Dick’s lips. “But you will be anyway.” And Dick didn’t know how to deny the man anymore. What was the point when no one was coming to save him?