Chapter Text
Just about everyone in Gotham's vigilante field was familiar with the shadiest side of the city's economy: the kidnappings, trafficking, and human auctions that Batman and Robin worked so hard to take down. They popped up like roaches in abandoned buildings, dark piers, and every other place shady cops could be bribed to not look at too closely for a while. Dick had investigated several on his own, in the past. He'd dismantled them. Made sure that those responsible were arrested, so they couldn't hurt anyone else.
The last thing Dick expected was to wake up inside one himself.
And yet that seemed to be his current reality. He'd seen enough of them to recognize the situation, even with his head thick and groggy like he'd been drugged. Dick was in what appeared to be an empty warehouse, bound to a chair by coarse rope around his wrists and ankles that didn't let him move in the slightest. To either side of himself he could see others in a similar position—no doubt also being auctioned off, victims that in any other circumstance he’d be trying to save. And in front of them all, on crappy metal folding chairs facing the makeshift stage, sat an audience of Gotham's worst.
Dick blinked, trying to shake off the fog clouding his head. Batman was going to be pissed. He couldn't even remember what had happened. The drugs were making his memory fuzzy, but he could vaguely recall fighting someone in an alley, and some sort of smoke grenade being thrown in his face, and then…
And then nothing. The "smoke" had evidently been something more sinister than he'd expected. Sloppy. Bruce would surely be giving him a long lecture as soon as he got home. Robin had to be better than that.
That was, if he ever made it back to Batman in the first place. It seemed the announcer had finished with the person ahead of him, because he headed towards Dick, a grin on his face as the spotlight shifted to illuminate him. Dick squinted. Even through his domino mask, the brightness made his head throb.
"And here," the man was saying, placing a hand on Dick's shoulders, "we have the ever-elusive Robin, Gotham's favorite native bird! Or least favorite, as it may be. I know a fair few of you might carry a grudge."
That got a smattering of chuckles from the crowd. Dick's stomach roiled.
"That's right," the announcer went on. "Batman's partner, up for sale to the lucky highest bidder! And remember, once he's yours, you can do anything." A cold hand suddenly caressed Dick's cheek, the other tracing its way down his chest. He tried to struggle, but it was useless. The drugs were still sedating him too much. "That's right, anything," the man repeated. "Kill him or keep him, he can be yours. What better way to get back at Batman than via a pretty young thing like him? Truly, I don't think any of us expected the birdie to be quite this handsome of a prize. Do I hear fifty thousand? Sixty?"
It had to be a nightmare. That was all Dick could cling to, the desperate hope that this was nothing more than an awful dream and he would wake up safe and warm in Wayne Manor where none of this had ever happened. He was fine. The announcer's words were distant, the pounding of his heart drowning out the noise of the auction, and Dick could almost pretend it wasn't happening at all.
And then the announcer roughly patted his head. "Sold!" he cried, gesturing into the audience. "For one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, to the man in the second row. You can collect your purchase after the auction."
Dick followed where he was pointing. The moment he spotted the man in question—the man who'd just bought him—his blood froze in his veins.
The black and orange mask was unmistakable. Deathstroke. Slade Wilson. A dangerous mercenary, the type Bruce didn't dare let Robin get near. Apparently his track record with teenagers was… rather unsavory. Bruce had been sparse on the details, but Dick could piece it together anyway. Slade was a predator. He hadn't crossed paths with Batman yet, but Bruce was always preparing for the day he'd face him, and it didn't seem like he expected an easy fight.
That was the man who'd bought Dick. He could torture him, murder him, rape him if he wanted, and if Batman thought Slade was a genuine challenge to take down, what could Dick even do? His utility belt and gloves were gone. No weapons. No equipment. Just him and a man without morals.
His new owner.
A needle plunged into Dick's neck, another sedative, and he could barely even try to fight it. Only one thing ran through his mind as the world around him began to darken: he was, without a doubt, completely and utterly screwed.
Dick woke to find himself inside a small windowless room. There weren't any more ropes around him—nor other bonds, for that matter—but a quick test of the door found it locked, and solid.
A cell.
Right. Dick took a deep breath. He could be smart about this. Make good use of his time, and do his best to find clues or a potential means of escape. He just had to take stock of what he had, and what he could use.
The room itself was rectangular, maybe twelve feet long by five feet wide. The walls were a smooth stone, the floor and ceiling both made of concrete, and over his head was a square fluorescent light with no visible off switch. A thin cot took up a large chunk of the floor space. The rest of the room was empty, except for the locked door to get out of the cell, and another door off to the side that led into an even-smaller bathroom. That, too, was sparse, containing only a toilet, shower, sink, and a toothbrush. There wasn't even a towel.
In other words, there was very little that Dick could use to escape. All he had been granted were the barest necessities. His mask had been left on, but that was the only good thing about his situation. He hadn't found any cameras in his search either, but that didn't mean they didn't exist.
With a sigh, he sank down onto the bed. He could figure this out. There was no other choice; hope was all he had left. His gloves were missing, the lockpicks were stripped from his boots, and even his distress beacons were gone. Dick couldn't remember if he'd pressed them before he'd been captured the first time—damn drugs still messing with his head—but it was too late now, so who knew if Batman was even coming for him. He'd definitely notice Dick was missing, but without a location… well. Dick wasn't too enthusiastic about being found soon.
Still, he tried to swallow his fear. Deathstroke was probably watching, and he didn't want to appear weak. Not when the mercenary likely wanted him scared. Predatory types often relished in their victim's terror. And Dick had no intentions of being an ideal victim.
The door cracked open. Dick snapped his head up, muscles tense. If he had to make a break for it, he would.
But the person who'd entered his cell was not Slade. Instead, his visitor seemed to be a boy close to Dick's own age, or perhaps a year or so younger. Sixteen? Dick couldn't tell. He had curly blonde hair, and was carrying a bottle of water and a granola bar, both of which he set down by the door.
"Hello?" Dick said, a trace of confusion entering his voice. He'd expected to be alone except for Slade. And yet the boy seemed vaguely familiar—had he been sitting next to Deathstroke during the auction? Or did Dick recognize him from somewhere else? The sedatives still lingering in his system kept him from being sure.
The boy gave him a small wave in return. He moved his hands, and it took a moment for Dick to recognize it as sign language. "Can you understand me?"
"I… guess," Dick replied. Bruce had taught him a decent amount of ASL, but he was far from mastering it. Was this kid deaf? "Do you read lips?"
The boy shook his head. "I can hear. Just not speak."
Mercifully, he signed slowly enough for Dick to be able to follow along. "Okay." Dick nodded carefully, processing that. "Who are you?"
After a moment of hesitation, the boy replied, "I’m Joey."
"Right. Well, hi, Joey, my name is Robin. …Did Deathstroke buy you too?"
"No." The boy—Joey—looked back at the door. "I should go," he suddenly signed, turning to leave.
"Wait!" Dick called after him. His mind raced with alternate possibilities, none of them good. "If he didn't buy you, then why are you here? Do you know what he did buy me for?"
But Joey just pressed his lips together, and left him alone.
Dick tested the door as he collected the meager supplies. Locked. Naturally. Still, some food and water was better than no food and water, and he couldn't deny that he was grateful.
He tore open the granola bar wrapper as he sat back down on the bed—there wasn't really any other place to sit in the tiny cell—and tried to think.
Joey was… an interesting complication. He claimed not to be bought, and yet Slade had him anyway. For some reason. The thought suddenly occurred to Dick that a kid who couldn't yell was the perfect victim, and the idea made him sick. Maybe Slade hadn't bought him. Maybe he'd just snatched him off the streets, or found him in an orphanage that didn't ask all that many questions of prospective parents. There were too many ways to acquire vulnerable children in Gotham.
After a short while the door opened again, and this time it was Deathstroke. "Tell me about Batman," the mercenary demanded. He certainly didn’t waste any time.
"What about him?" Dick gave Slade his best glare. "How he's going to find you and send you to jail forever?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of his identity. Location of your base, plans, and other things along those lines." Slade's voice sounded unnervingly calm, even as demanding as it was.
Dick scoffed and crossed his arms. "And you think I'll just tell you?"
"It's worth asking, is it not?"
"No," Dick shot back, "it's not. I'll never tell you anything."
He half expected to be hit for that. But instead, Slade just laughed. "Good. I knew you had the potential to be a great apprentice. Your loyalty is an encouraging sign."
Dick's eyes widened. What? He floundered for words for a second. "Why don't you take the other boy as an apprentice?" he blurted.
"The other boy?" Deathstroke's one-eyed gaze narrowed.
"Joey. Why not train him? He's clearly been here for longer."
"How do you know about Joey?"
Deathstroke's voice was cold, and Dick's heart dropped. He might have just gotten the kid in trouble. This was not good. "I," he started, trying to backtrack as dread flooded through him, "he—"
"Joey is none of your business," Slade went on. "You should never have seen him in the first place. Did he seek you out?"
Now Dick was seriously regretting ever bringing him up in the first place. He had to try to shift the attention off him before Joey suffered for his mistake. "You want me as your apprentice," he repeated, his mouth dry.
Slade scoffed. "Ah, now you're willing to talk. Yes."
"Why? What makes me a good apprentice? Is that what you bought me for? Surely you can't believe I would ever agree to work for you."
Deathstroke loomed closer, his mask betraying no emotion. "You ask a lot of questions for one unwilling to answer mine. I didn't buy you solely to be my apprentice. That is simply a… bonus. No, I purchased you for more… personal… reasons. And you will work for me, in time. Everyone has a breaking point."
"I don't."
"If you say so. We shall see what a night without dinner does to that resolve." Slade turned on his heel and left, the lock clicking shut behind him.
Dick leaned back against the headboard and hugged his knees. Just what layer of hell had he wound up in? No dinner was one thing, he could take that, but…
'Personal reasons.' Deathstroke's words echoed in his head. There weren't too many ways to take that, especially considering what he already knew of Slade's proclivities. He had been trying to deny it, but this was essentially confirmation. Deathstroke planned to rape him. And unless Batman came to rescue him in time, there was nothing Dick could do to stop him. Slade was too well-trained, and Dick was both defenseless and on unfamiliar turf. He was a fish in a barrel.
He tried to prepare himself as best he could. Running through potential escape plans in his mind, planning how he could bite Slade's cock off or go for his remaining eye or anything else left vulnerable—but realistically, Dick knew it was futile. Deathstroke could just drug him if he got too combative. And he was probably strong enough to not even need to in the first place. Which meant all he could do was brace for the inevitable. And what sort of a plan was that? Batman had taught him how to endure torture. Dick could handle that. But this… this…
Once again, his cell door opened, and Dick practically jumped. He didn't need to. It was only Joey, holding a plate with a peanut butter sandwich, and a bottle of juice tucked under his arm. "For you," he signed with his free hand.
Dick furrowed his brow, considering the food carefully. Slade wasn't planning on giving him dinner. It was possible this was poisoned to test if Dick could listen to directions. He had no clue who Joey even truly was. "Why are you helping me?" he finally asked, not making a move to take the plate.
Joey just shrugged in response, and set it and the juice on the ground.
He was probably a victim himself. Perhaps Joey had convinced himself it all was okay, ingratiated himself into Slade's household, earned himself certain privileges. Became a servant instead of his apprentice. Or maybe he was just trying to earn Dick's trust to make it easier for Slade to enlist him. Hell, he could have drugged the food so that Deathstroke could fuck him.
But Dick was hungry. Tentatively, he climbed off the bed and grabbed the plate. A quick inspection of the sandwich didn't reveal anything obviously wrong. Of course, that didn't mean it wasn't tampered with.
Joey shot a glance over his shoulder at the door. "Hurry," he signed. "He won't be happy I fed you."
So Joey claimed. Dick still wasn't sure if he could trust him, but at this point, refusing could do more harm than good. He took a cautious bite, relaxing somewhat as it tasted normal. None of the sweetness of most sedatives, nor bitterness of most poisons. The juice was sealed, too, which Dick was grateful for as he drank it down.
When he was finished, he handed back the plate and empty bottle. "How did Deathstroke get you?" he tried again. "Were you living on the streets?"
Joey shook his head and put a finger to his lips. It was clear he didn't plan on explaining—though whether because he couldn't, or just didn't want to, Dick couldn't tell. Then he gave Dick a tight, apologetic smile, and left the cell without another look back.
Dick leaned back on the bed and let out a long sigh, trying to relax. Joey was still a mystery. And that could potentially be a problem. But after a short while had slowly passed and Dick still didn’t feel like he’d been drugged, and even though his concerns remained about what Deathstroke would do—not to mention Joey's place in it all—he could at least take solace in the fact he hadn't been raped yet.
Which really wasn't much comfort. But it was something.
Exhaustion sank deep into his bones—not a sedated kind of tiredness, but the drained feeling of the aftermath of adrenaline—and Dick knew he couldn't fend off sleep for much longer. Especially because he had to be well-rested if he needed to fight off Slade, which was a distinct possibility. Plus, he was a light sleeper, and he most likely hadn't been drugged, so he could wake up if he needed.
Dick was still on edge. This wasn't safe. But he needed to sleep. And so, tense and paranoid, he let himself drift off.
He was awoken in what was presumably the morning by Slade bursting into the room. "Get up," Deathstroke demanded. "Be ready for training in ten."
"Training?" Dick rubbed his eyes, barely processing anything. He'd badly needed the rest.
"You're my apprentice, whether you like it or not. Don't make me regret purchasing you. Trust me, that auction could have gone far worse."
Could it? Dick thought bitterly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Still, he got himself ready for the day. No point in testing Slade's patience.
And sure enough, ten minutes later, Slade was back. He led him from the cell down a short hallway to an open space on the floor. "Attack me."
Dick hesitated. He didn't have any weapons or equipment, but it didn't seem like Deathstroke did either. And if it was just hand-to-hand… Dick could do his best.
He launched himself at Slade, trying to find an opening.
Deathstroke blocked nearly every move. A few punches and kicks found their mark, but they seemed to barely have an effect on Slade. "Pathetic," Slade said, striking Dick back faster than he could react. "A pretty boy like you can do better than that."
So Dick tried again. And again. And every time, he was thrown back, more bruised than before. Without any batarangs for support or grappling hooks to use the space to his advantage, Dick wasn't able to overcome the size and experience difference between the two of them.
Plus, Dick was beginning to get the impression Slade wasn't entirely… normal. And not just in a 'creepy child abductor' way, but in an 'enhanced reflexes and probably a healing factor way.' If Dick ever got home, he'd have to tell Bruce to update Deathstroke's file.
But that was looking like a big 'if.' Slade tossed him to the ground, hard, and all the air was knocked out of Dick's lungs. When he didn't immediately get up, Slade kicked him, too. Dick couldn't hold back a cry of pain as his boot connected with a fresh bruise.
"Come on." Slade kicked him again. "Back on your feet. I don't like wasting money."
Dick tried. He really did. But he was so tired, and even the abstract idea of moving made him ache. If he could just have a minute or two, then maybe…
Slade didn't want to wait a minute. He grabbed Dick by the collar, hoisting him upright. Then he followed it with a backhand slap across the face. "I told you to get up and keep fighting. Failure is not an option. Do you hear me?" He raised a fist to strike him again, and Dick flinched, but before Slade could bring it down—
He heard a clap from the side of the room. Slade let go of Dick with an annoyed sigh before turning to face the sound, and Dick looked too.
It was Joey. Signing too fast for Dick to keep up with, but clearly agitated about something.
And Slade seemed to understand it. "I’m not hurting him, I'm training him," he snapped back. "Return to your room. This doesn't concern you."
Dick was paying close enough attention to catch Joey's words now. "You promised me you'd rescue him as my birthday present," he was signing. "That you wouldn't touch him."
"Do not test my patience, Joseph. You have no idea what I saved him from. I granted you one favor because it would suit my own purposes as well. It was not out of altruism."
Joey made a face. "I thought it was because you loved me."
Slade sighed heavily and turned back to Dick. "Robin. I’m afraid we have to cut this training session short. Return to your room and recover. I expect you can find it yourself. And if you abuse my trust and attempt to escape, I will not grant you such permissions in the future. Understand?"
Dick nodded, still bewildered from what he had seen. Just who, exactly, was Joey? He was too young to be Slade's lover… right? But then again, he'd bought Dick, so who knew. Dick wouldn't put it past him.
He did go back to his cell as instructed. The exits were certainly locked anyway, and he'd only be caught and punished if he tried. Slade was probably expecting an escape attempt, so for now, it was better to wait and earn that little bit of trust. Especially considering how hurt he was at the moment. Still, he didn't waste the opportunity to make a mental map of the route in his head.
Once back in the room, he sat down, mind racing. So Slade had bought him because of Joey. Was Dick expected to pleasure them both? Did Joey want him so Slade would have someone else to hurt besides him? But he hadn't seemed all that afraid of Deathstroke, either.
It all made no sense.
Roughly twenty minutes later—Dick estimated; he didn't have a clock—Joey reappeared at his door. "He's still going to train you," he signed. "But I think he'll be less harsh on you about it."
Dick sat up. "Why?"
"Because people train better when they're given time to recover."
"No, I mean… why does he even listen to you? Half an hour ago I thought he was going to work me to death. But then you convinced him otherwise."
"Oh." Joey paused. "I’m his son."
Dick froze in shock. So Joey wasn't a prisoner. He didn't just want to direct Slade's ire to someone else. That one answer had created a whole host of new questions.
This whole situation was befuddling. Was Joey as bad as his father, wanting someone else to abuse? But everything he had done didn't seem bad. Was he there to help, or only waiting for Dick to drop his guard? There was no way Dick was about to fall for some white knight scheme. He needed to know more. "And… you wanted him to buy me? For you?"
Joey flushed. "I should go."
"Wait!" Dick scrambled off the bed. "I don't understand. What do you—"
But before he could finish, the door shut in his face. Dick heard the lock turn a moment later, and he sat back down on the bed, the words unsaid heavy on his tongue. What do you want from me?
But the truth was in that click of the lock. Dick wasn't bought to be Deathstroke's plaything, he was meant to be Joey's. And sure, Joey was being kind, for now, but who knew when the other shoe would drop? Dick wasn't naïve. He knew Slade. And he knew the type of person Slade would raise. It was only a matter of time before Joey abandoned the nice-guy persona, and Dick's nightmare would worsen.
He curled up on his side, dreading the passage of time.
Wayne Manor had never felt so far away.