Chapter Text
Robin remembered stumbling into the sunlight like a radioactive zombie from one of Beastboy’s comic flicks, stashing Slade’s uniform out of sight out of mind, and collapsing to sleep off the stress of the past week. Promised the next time Slade came after him, he’d be ready.
Robin awoke to a haze of red. Then heard the Tower's alarm. Emergency.
“It’s him,” Cyborg said through his door, and Robin’s stomach twisted in knots because Cyborg had to be referring to someone else, and this had to be a joke he found anything but funny. This is not what he meant when he told himself next time he’d be ready. “It’s Slade.”
It’s Slade.
“No it's not. That was yesterday,” Robin answered without thinking, gripping his sheets so tight they had begun to ribbon around his fingers.
Cyborg looked stupefied. “…Yesterday?” His good eye narrowed, like Robin had some sort of unchecked virus in him, “C'mon, man, we never fought Slade yesterday.” He began to come closer before thinking better of it, and scanned Robin critically from the doorway. Robin had to imagine his older, more rational teammate probably thought he had a few loose screws jangling around in that head of his. “You sure you’ve been getting enough rest?”
Robin frowned, studying the harsh folds of his sheets for a good minute as he contemplated Cyborg's question. Had he? He had thought so, but considering all the shit Slade put him through the night before (stealing, fighting his friends, going against his very morals, against what made him Robin) and the other few nights before that, he became more and more unsure. His head spun. Robin briefly entertained the assumption he might actually have a concussion. Slade was back when he shouldn't be, and his mind was going a mile a minute: too fast to consider he should probably be taking a break to rest, especially if he thought he might have a concussion in his current state.
Still, Robin nodded shortly, instinctively, and silently slipped past his teammate to the ops room, determined to convince himself maybe he'd just heard wrong, and everything was fine.
--
Slade was there, and the atmosphere surrounding Robin's psyche felt a tad more imposing than usual. He was sure this didn't mean anything; though he thought it was a bit strange for Slade to call the morning after his defeat. Something else occurred to him; Slade's haunt had been destroyed in the wreckage when the Titans got him out... right? Robin frowned and wondered if he'd blacked out during the entire ordeal and just didn't remember. That might explain some things, as well as why he felt he was second-guessing his entire existence for seemingly no reason. Was Slade seriously able to repair the haunt that fast? Robin felt this weird, inexplicable sense of deja-vu he was pretty sure he shouldn’t be feeling at all. He blinked, but the screen didn’t waver like he expected. Pinched himself hard (surely he wasn’t hallucinating this, right?) and—when nothing happened—abruptly came to the conclusion no, everything was not fine.
Robin was living in the worst timeline, it seemed.
“Morning, Titans,” Slade greeted, sounding as threateningly chipper as Robin remembered. Maybe he was still dissociating from the nocturnal sleep schedule Slade had enforced upon him three days ago. “I do hope I didn’t wake you.”
Robin sure as hell hoped so too, not that he thought he'd ever agree with anything Slade said in a million years, much less now. He’d really prefer not being awake, because this wasn't happening.
He held his breath, and pinched himself harder.
It hurt.
For all his efforts trying not to panic, he was sure he was failing so badly, the others could see if they glanced over. It was a good thing everyone was focused on Slade's proposition, then. He would be focusing on that too, if he weren't still stuck up on the fact he had heard all of this before.
Robin took a desperate inhale he hoped no one else could hear, and forced his hands to still. Out. In. Again.
He needed to get a grip.
--
For all he'd been urging himself to get a grip on things, it wasn't working out the way he'd hoped. Four times Robin had woken up, now. Four times he was stewing in denial, still.
“It’s him,” Cyborg repeated said through his door, and Robin tried to ignore the dread twisting through his face when he realized he had mouthed the rest, It’s Slade.
Maybe he did have a concussion after all, Robin concluded, gripping his sheets so hard his hands shook. It would probably help explain why he had the exact same dream four times, now.
(And no, Robin was not starting to lose his mind over this, not that anyone was asking. He was fine. He was fine.)
--
"Disappointing, Robin. I expected a little more from you," Slade tsked through the Titan's main screen monitor, sounding unapologetic as ever. Or maybe it was just him.
"Like I care what you—" he had begun to snap habitually—without thought—and stopped. He had done it again. Robin’s heart raced. His breathing felt shallower than it should.
"But since I control the detonation,” Slade interrupted as if he were oblivious to Robin's self-induced panic which Robin desperately hoped he was, "time, is not on your side."
The terminal cut before Robin had a chance to numbly dissect just how true the man's statement was becoming.
--
Robin busied himself ripping through bot after bot in the warehouse like they were ribbons. Fear and anger wrapped chains around his heart and squeezed with every hit he landed.
It couldn't even be called a fight. Less than a minute, all his foes were decimated, Robin realized, but still, he raised his staff for another blow.
Starfire intercepted him. Robin stared at the metal in his hands and desperately tried not to think about how all this had happened eight other times before.
"Robin," she said, worry overtaking her when he didn't look up, "You may stop now. We are victorious."
There was a small, reassuring smile on her face that shouldn't be there. Robin felt like he might be sick—he already knew he was probably going crazy.
"Slade's got his finger on the button still, and we've got nothing!" he remembered snapping, mere days ago, not fully aware he had done so again. "Does that sound like a victory to you?"
He was about to stalk off when Beastboy loudly and heatedly came to her defense:
"Hey! Just because you're trying to catch Slade doesn't mean you have to act like him!"
Robin froze like he'd been slapped. The world tilted like someone had taken the ground and mistakenly put it on a forty-five degree axis.
Good, Robin. You're becoming more like me every second.
No. No.
Robin squeezed his eyes shut. His fists trembled uncontrollably where they were glued to his sides.
He was nothing like Slade.
"Don't you ever compare me to him." Robin's hand sliced through air where he stood from Beastboy, glaring down and gritting his teeth through the laughter overwhelming every dark corner of his mind, like Slade had been right behind him the entire duration of their argument. His voice rose just as fast as his temper slipped away from him. "He's trying to destroy the world. I'm trying to save it!"
All you care about, you destroy.
And Robin pushed the guilt down, shoved it somewhere no one would see, and tried not to think about how Beastboy was right.
--
Slade hadn't changed a bit. Which was at least something Robin could (surprisingly) feel slightly relieved about, because he wasn’t sure he could handle more of the man’s twisted mind games on top of the fact time was looping over and over and he didn’t know the first thing to make it stop everything else.
“So, do we have a deal?”
It wasn’t much of a solace. Robin grit his teeth and sneered. Like Slade was giving him any choice. Robin hated having to go through this again, but it would be over before he knew it. This deal couldn't last forever.
It took a few heartbeats to realize he’d snarled that last bit out loud.
Well. Shit.
Slade’s expression took on a sort of mocking amusement Robin was all-too-familiar with. Slade leaned closer, as if about to tell him an earth-shattering secret, and Robin immediately felt every nerve in his body boil with bloodcurdling rage.
“Oh, it can,” Slade told him menacingly, and Robin stilled—a little more terrified than angry, now—wondering when everything Slade said had started to sound less like a threat, and more like a promise.
“And it will.”
--
Slade’s word was beginning to become more and more absolute as Robin tried vainly to forget where he was, what he was doing against his will, and who’s company he was with.
Days were always long. Training, mostly. Mental tests and physical exercises. Resting whenever he had a chance, because Slade would only send him out at night. Nights were longer and ruthless than Robin remembered. He used to enjoy them patrolling with Bruce before he up and left. He immediately burned that thought out of his head before he could entertain it further.
Robin took a deep breath that didn't really make him feel any better. He'll go home, Beastboy and Cyborg will fight over the ethics of tofu sausage on pancakes, and he won't see Slade the next morning.
"Attack, apprentice," Slade told him through their com link. He stood off against his friends, a permanent scowl painted on his face, but not because of them. Never because of them. Robin was getting sick of hearing Slade’s voice in his ear (when had that of all things become a constant, a crutch?), yet he aimed the blaster anyway and fought down a scream while he was at it. "It's the only way to save them. Attack with everything you've got."
And, caught between no choice and no tomorrow in sight, Robin obliged the man he hated most.
(It was funny: how effortless it was it to fool everyone around him into thinking he hated Slade more than he hated himself.)
--
He had continued to count, not knowing why when he was so desperate to convince himself none of this was real. So far, Robin was up to thirty-two.
“Robin!” Starfire’s frantic call, distant and full of distress pulled him back to reality, but by then, it was too late. Robin grit his teeth and bit back a yell as he fell through and landed roughly on his shoulder—the one that had been yanked. He rolled on instinct as a fist smashed down clumsily where he had been, and clambered to his feet to harshly face his accuser, teeth bared in a snarl.
Cinderblock came barreling through the wall to engage him on Slade’s orders. Stellar.
Robin found himself in an awful mood, but this time, Slade had nothing to do with it. He wasn’t focusing on the fight as much as his mind was whirling.
How was he supposed to stop everything from happening as it had before? How was he supposed to prevent it from happening again?
Robin's eye twitched. Why was he thinking so hard about this?
It didn't matter, not now. Something had to change, and quick. Robin was going to go batshit insane otherwise.
Wait. That’s it!
“Star!” Robin called out, getting a bizarre, desperate idea that filled him with a sliver of hope. “Come lend me a hand!”
It was clear she had a question burning in her eyes, but she nodded, trusting him to know what he was doing, not that Robin had any clue.
He very well couldn’t beat Slade by himself, but maybe he didn’t need to.
--
Robin woke up before the alarm, determined to ignore time had been resetting in the first place. If he didn't think about it too hard, it wasn't happening, and that's just how it was. In fact, Robin would say that's how it had always been. Today, he had woken up with cricks and aches in eighteen new places. Still felt the burning of the probes in his blood, long after the ordeal was over.
His room lit up, washed in bleeding red.
“It’s him. It’s Slade.”
You’re fucking kidding me, he thought, massaging his temples a little too roughly. Not for the first time, Robin wanted to scream.
He did not want to do this. He did not want to go downstairs, because Robin had a very chillingly good idea what was happening to him, here.
Let it be known: Robin would rather be sucked into the future or spat into the past than deal with those less familiar time-altering shenanigans. Much less deal with time-altering shenanigans that decided repeating the worst day in his life as a Teen Titan was a fun pastime.
(And, while that was something he was decidedly not ready to face in any shape or form, the truth he was truly stuck playing the part of Slade's little loyal apprentice for a good, long while was getting harder and harder to deny with every passing day.)
--
Despite having told himself he wouldn't think about this too hard, Robin felt his walls begin to crack, and knew it wouldn't be long before they crumbled.
Another day, Slade kept promising, over and over again.
In a sense, he had been right.
The colors he hated to wear so much were back. The neckplate wrenched his shoulders straight. His belt was nothing more than a mimic; his entire suit was designed and tailored to fit him specifically.
Slade had been gunning for him right from the get go. This entire time.
The realization made Robin sick. He didn't think he could breathe without coughing dust.
"I know you think it's bad now," Slade's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, like a speaker system with surround sound. The shadows in the haunt had started to bleed orange, and the gears remained as omnipotent over Robin's head as ever, reminding him of his sealed deal. "But trust me," the hiss came over Robin's shoulder as he set his jaw and vowed to refuse curving into the madman's demands this time, no matter what Slade did to chip him down, "You're learn to like it."
He kept his fists stubbornly glued at his sides, the Kevlar gloves a second skin he wasn't allowed to peel off, and slowly let out a breath.
Robin didn't want to admit he was scared. Terrified. His anger was real, but it was also a front to hide his fear from Slade. A fear he never quite managed to get rid of.
He didn't fear Slade as much as he feared the longer he was trapped here, the more he would wear down and become the very image he despised in himself.
You'll learn to like it.
Robin's greatest fear was becoming Slade.
And Slade had all the time in the world now to make that fear a cold, true reality.