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Dick wasn’t supposed to be here. It was a bad idea. Even ignoring the sign that said ‘PERFORMERS ONLY PAST THIS POINT’, there were enough reasons he shouldn’t be doing this to make Dick’s head spin. He wasn’t supposed to take a detour on the return to the safehouse. He had been supposed to head straight back from gathering intel and relay it to Slade, then spend the rest of the night in there with him. Dick knew that. Instead, he had seen the great round tent in the distance and adjusted his course.
It was just a quick stop. It wasn’t a big deal. Dick could say that in his head and still not believe it. It would be a big deal to Slade, but Dick hadn’t been able to help himself. It would come back to bite him. He knew it would. Somehow, in the moment, Dick thought how Slade would react would hurt less than going past the tent like it meant nothing.
Dick had arrived before the show. It was scheduled to begin in a few minutes, and those with opening acts were already backstage, ready for their cues. The stars, however, were warming up. Here, hidden behind thick beaded curtains that smelled like plastic and things he’d tried hard to forget, Dick watched the acrobats. A young man and woman, lovers, perhaps, by the way they looked at each other. Lovers always made the most compelling acts, made of trust and connection and heartache. When they let go, audiences always clung with bated breath to the moment they would meet again.
He watched the two of them go through familiar motions. They stretched, pushing their flexibility further and further each time. Dick ached to join them, to step out into the wide space and remember what had once been. It had been so long since he’d really practiced his acrobatics. Longer still since he’d performed. He tried not to think of the Batcave, of Bruce, but there had been a space made just for him, with rings and bars and a trapeze, things that couldn’t be justified as training for real combat. And a net. Always a net, no matter how Dick often had said he didn’t need it.
There was nothing like that with Slade. That was fine. He just missed it.
Dick pictured, for a moment, joining the warmups, and then following them on stage. He pictured the rumble of the crowd as he began, the gasps as he let go, plummeted, just to be caught. Now, it wasn’t the young couple he pictured–or rather, not the same young couple. John and Mary, smiling at him, with the ground far below, a risk that wasn’t real, because all three of them could fly.
Dick cut off that imagery before it could continue, because he knew where that went. Blood and the crowd screaming and a young boy left all alone. His thoughts inevitably drifted to that when he daydreamed of flying, like a wound that couldn’t quite be cleansed. Instead it spread, slow and creeping, to every untainted memory Dick had.
There was no recovering from that kind of loss. Only growing around it. Away from it.
Dick really wasn’t supposed to be here. Any minute now, Slade would grow suspicious as to why he hadn’t returned yet. Recon wouldn’t take that long, not with someone as experienced as he’d made Dick, and it was nearing the time Dick should return.
This had been a mistake, but Dick couldn’t find himself to regret it. Outside, the crowd clamored excitedly as the show started. It wasn’t a large circus, not so experienced as Haley’s, but it was nothing to scoff at. These acrobats, at least, seemed competent. Dick wanted to stay and watch them perform, but he knew he couldn’t. Slade would know the moment he returned that he had gone somewhere unauthorized, and the longer it took to return, the angrier Slade would grow.
Instead, he watched the two of them walk out, hand in hand. In the empty room they left behind, Dick let himself have a moment to breathe and to stretch, an echo. A ghost. Then, he straightened, and he walked out, unnoticed among the comings and goings of a circus mid-performance. No one gave him so much as a second glance.
Dick checked the time on his way out and winced. He was late. In the alleyway where he’d stashed his bike, he fired up the engine and took off, weaving through lanes far past the speed limit. He was going to be late already, and he didn’t need to be further delayed by traffic laws. Finally, he pulled up beside the building that housed their safehouse. The garage door shut behind him, muffling the sounds of the engine cutting off. Dick took a deep breath and accepted his fate. He knew what would happen. Slade made his consequences perfectly clear.
He went up the stairs, to the very top floor, and entered the safehouse. His retina was in the system, in all of Slade’s systems, so there was no problem entering. Once he was in, though he found Slade waiting. Expectant. Already angry. The perfect image of a father staying up for his kid who was far past his curfew. It was almost laughable how much more dire this was.
“You’re late,” Slade said. It was not a question, merely a statement. Dick nodded. “Where have you been?”
Slade could probably smell it on him, if he tried, once Dick got close. He didn’t bother lying. “The circus.” Slade had doubtlessly noticed that it was in town–it was hard to miss. Dick could do a lot of things, but he had never been able to lie to Slade.
Slade nodded. He was calm, outwardly, but Dick knew he was furious. He tried not to flinch when Slade beckoned him closer, forced his step not to falter. He expected a backhand, a nerve pinch, something, but instead he got–nothing. Slade just looking at him. Watched him brace himself. “Unauthorized.”
Dick nodded again.
Slade turned and started walking. Dick hurried to keep pace, falling into step behind him. He had come expecting a beating, not whatever this was. Slade never delayed his punishments, not without a reason, such as being in the midst of active combat. This was–not that. “Slade?”
Slade silenced him with a look. Dick didn’t dare speak again. They passed their room, kept going, past the space they used. At the end of the hall, Slade opened a door. Dick had looked into it earlier–it was just an empty room. Some of their safehouses had those, extra space. Unneeded. Dark foreboding rose up Dick’s throat, and he threw Slade an anxious look. He wouldn’t–he hadn’t messed up that badly in a long time–surely this didn’t qualify.
“In,” Slade ordered, and Dick looked up at him with wide eyes, suddenly a lot more scared. He’d thought Slade would beat him, he’d thought Slade would put him on his knees to remind him of his place, he’d thought–
“Slade,” Dick said again, pleading this time. “I don’t–”
“In,” Slade said, with no room for negotiation in his voice. This time, he pushed. Normally, Dick’s balance would have held up, but he was already thrown off, and Slade put force behind it. Dick stumbled forward, still trying to plead for mercy without a word.
The door shut.
Locked.
Dick stood there for a moment, in the dark room. Slade hadn’t locked him away in months. This was worse. He’d thought–God, how was he supposed to know a brief excursion to watch the acrobats would lead to this? Dick hated being alone. He hated it.
Dick stared at the door. It didn’t open.
Dick didn’t know why he thought it would.
The first day wasn’t that bad. There was no food, but there was water, which meant Slade had planned this at least long enough to stash some beforehand. Dick rationed it out carefully. Slade had left him for–days before, long enough that Dick had lost track. There was no window. The lights never turned off. He was upset, overanxious, but it wasn’t bad yet. Dick entertained himself; he meditated, and he tried not to think too hard. He tried not to think about the acrobats’ stretch routine, modified to fit this space. That wouldn’t help.
The second day was worse. It was hardly the longest time he’d gone without human contact, but he was hungry and his head hurt and he couldn’t even hear Slade. The walls weren’t particularly thick, so he should have been able to hear him walking around, but there was nothing. Either Slade was taking care to be silent, or he was gone.
Dick really hoped it was the first one. He didn’t even want to think about the possibility of Slade leaving. He wouldn’t. He had spent so long molding Dick, shaping him into something better, something deadly. He wouldn’t throw all that away.
Right?
Around day five, or at least as close to that as his internal clock could tell him, Dick began to spiral. Really spiral. Slade was leaving him here. He hadn’t heard another human voice in an eternity–his own had cracked and gone hoarse, and now he couldn’t speak. Not well, anyway. Dick fit his hand around his throat and squeezed, eyes tightly shut, pretending he sounded the way he did because Slade had choked him as punishment instead of–this.
He was light-headed from the lack of food, and his sleep–if it could be called that–was fraught and restless. He wanted Slade. He wanted him so badly it hurt, like a rope had wrapped around his chest and tightened with every breath. Slade had left him here, in the neverending light and empty room. The only sound was his heart beating, the harsh rasp of his breath.
Maybe Dick would die here. Maybe Slade had finally hit the breaking point of what he would tolerate from Dick, and he had given it up. Slade would never free him. Not even if he was done with Dick. So Dick would die here, stewing in the rejection. Even Slade, who had been so set on him for so long, wouldn’t stay with him. Dick drove him off, like he did everyone else. He only had a quarter bottle of water left, and he was debating just drinking it and sealing his fate. What did it matter if he ran out of water sooner rather than later?
If he’d stayed at the circus, if he’d gone out into the spotlight like he’d fantasized about, maybe Slade would have been angry enough to kill him outright rather than let him rot like this.
Dick drew his knees to his chest and buried his face between them, tricking himself if only for a moment that someone else was here, that it wasn’t just him, but the illusion lasted for less than a heartbeat, and Dick was still where he was. Alone.
He tried screaming. He shouted and pleaded until his throat was raw and all he could do was whisper, but the door remained locked, and the lights remained on. He wished they were off. Then, at least, he wouldn’t have to look at himself. That made it worse, somehow, looking down at himself and seeing what he’d become. What he was reduced to. Dick would give anything for Slade to let him out, to let him in his bed, to let him be his, but that meant nothing, because Slade already had all of him. There was nothing left for Dick to give.
Please, he mouthed to the empty room, half-prayer and half death rattle.
If nothing else, at least let it end.
Day six was nothing but a blur. He drank the rest of the water. He trembled and sobbed, too dehydrated for real tears, and fought to breathe without knowing why.
And on the seventh day, the door cracked open. Dick was on his feet in an instant–and for an instant. His knees buckled, and he fell to the floor. As the door swung wide, Slade’s shadow loomed. Dick pushed himself upright, graceless in his desperation. Nothing at all like he should be, like Slade had made him to be. “Slade,” he said, eyes wide.
“Kid,” Slade said, tilting his head. “Came to check if you were done cooking.”
“Please,” Dick said, trying to make his way closer. Slade watched him impassively. It hurt just to speak.
“Are you ready?” Slade asked, sounding only distantly curious.
Dick nodded so fast he thought his head might come off, or something equally ridiculous. He was. He was ready, and he was sorry, and he had learned his lesson.
“I don’t know,” Slade said, slow and considering. “I could throw you another bottle of water and leave you for a few more days. Couldn’t hurt.”
“Please,” Dick said, shaking his head. “Please, Slade, I’m ready.” He couldn’t stay here any longer. If Slade was going to leave him, he would–he didn’t know. Something drastic.
“You can beg better than that.”
Dick could. He shuffled forward and sank to his knees before Slade, letting gravity do the work that his twitching muscles couldn’t, staring up at him. “Please, master,” Dick murmured, soft.
Slade smiled, barely a crinkle in the corner of his eye. “Good boy.” Like Dick weighed nothing, Slade picked him up, pulling him off the floor. Dick curled up tight in his arms, shaking like a leaf. It was pathetic, but he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t force himself into stillness. Slade, at the very least, didn’t seem to mind. Not this. Not when he’d done this to Dick, and Dick had performed for him, under the neverending light.
The safehouse made Dick feel alien and raw, because it hadn’t changed. Their weapons were in their place, one of Slade’s guns partially dismantled on his cleaning mat. Dishes drying by the sink. Dick’s clothing still alongside Slade’s, indistinguishable in every way save size. Dick thought that it had been seven days, but he wasn’t sure, and the safehouse seemed like no time at all had passed.
Slade set him on his feet, let him pick his clothes, steadied him as he changed into clean things. Didn’t let him shower. Never stopped touching him once. Not when Dick drank the water Slade allowed him, not when he ate the same, and not when he laid with his head on Slade’s lap on the couch. His touch was more real than the rest of Dick was, forcing him back into his body, leaving his fingerprints between Dick and the rest of the world.
Slade’s anger had never lingered after punishments–it was a clean slate. Dick had been forgiven. He just–he didn’t know why it was that bad. Slade knew what isolation did to him, and he doled it out carefully. Dick didn’t know why stopping to–seeing the–this had merited it, but he knew better than to ask.
But, as always, Slade knew he was thinking anyway. “Do you know why you earned that?”
Dick shook his head. He had known he had disobeyed, that his actions had warranted punishment, but not that. He’d–he wouldn’t have done it, if he had known, but he guessed that was kind of the point. He shuddered and pressed his face to Slade’s stomach.
Slade’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck, tightening to near bruising. “You wanted to go back. That’s why you went to the circus. But you can’t go back, little bird. This is where you belong.”
Dick knew that. It had only been a daydream, a brief fantasy that lasted only a few moments. But he had–he had wanted. He knew, though, that this was where he would stay. There was no going back. He was Slade’s. He wasn’t Robin, or a Flying Grayson, or even an acrobat. He was just Slade’s.
Slade ran his fingers through Dick’s hair, and Dick drifted off, finally relaxing enough to sleep.