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Dick had stopped fighting the kneeling. Slade is an egomaniac with enough pride to run a small kingdom. Scratch that. A large kingdom.
If Slade wanted Dick on his knees he was going to get him there, willing or not. There were better ways to spend hiss energy than fighting battles he'd already lost.
It’s just kneeling. It’s not like Dick has any pride left to protect.
Another evening passed much like every other. Slade sat on his throne, reading reports while Dick knelt at his feet, his forehead resting lightly against the base of the throne. He's careful not to touch Slade. Every inch of distance he could maintain felt like a tiny act of defiance.
Slade had noticed. Apparently amused, he'd begun trapping Dick between his legs whenever he worked. He doesn't touch him, but he stays just close enough that Dick can feel the warmth radiating off him.
Dick hates that he’s grateful for that.
Dick feels Slade’s hand approaching before he sees it. His shoulder tenses. Something cool nudged gently at his lips.
“Open,” Slade says.
Dick looks up. Slade wasn't even paying attention. His eye remained on the report in his lap. One hand lazily holds a slice of apple in front of Dick's mouth as though this was the most natural thing in the world.
Dick stares. Is he fucking kidding?
“No.”
Dick smacks the hand away. The apple flys across the throne room and hits the ground with a quiet splat.
Only then does Slade look at him. Dick's chest heaved. His whole body trembled with anger. He has dealt with indignity after indignity. He’s endured the collar. The leash. He’s tolerated kneeling at Slade’s foot. He will not let his captor hand-feed him like a dog.
“Okay then,” Slade says calmly. He turns back to his reports.
Dick blinked. That was it? No punishment? No backhand across the face for striking him? No lecture about respect? Dick remained frozen for a long moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It didn't.
Slowly, he leans his head against the base of the throne once more. Every muscle in his body still trembled with adrenaline, but he forced himself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Just like Bruce taught him.
A bit later, Slade sets his report aside. Hiz gaze settled on Dick.
“Hands, pet,” he orders.
Dick closes his eeys. He hates that command. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts both wrists, palms turned inward. It was the most vulnurable position Slade has every taught him. An invitation to be restrained. To surrender the use of his hands without a fight. But there are better hills to die on.
Slade takes his wrists without a word. Gold cuffs clicks shut around them with practiced efficiency. A short chain joins them together before Slade threads it through a metal loop set into the base of the throne.
Dick tugs his wrists experimentally. The chain went taut immoderately. He could raise his hands barely an inch before the metal stopped him.
God.
Dick hates him.
Dick hates him so much.
Dick glares at the chain linking his wrists to the throne. Slade is an egomaniac and a sadist. It wasn't as though Dick could go anywhere. Between the fortress, the guards, the contract, and Slade himself, escape wasn't exactly on the table. The chains serve one purpose. Slade enjoys seeing him wear them.
Dick couldn't think of any practical reason to shackle him to the throne. It wasn't security. It was theater. Another reminder that Slade could take away even the illusion of freedom whenever the mood struck him. Just another way for the bastard to enjoy watching Dick suffer.
A servant enters carrying two dinner plates. Dick eyes the trays. Maybe this is his punishment. It wouldn't be the first time Slade made him eat at the foot of the throne instead of at a table. Public humiliation is one of Slade's favorite hobbies.
The servant stops besides the throne. Instead of setting Dick's plate on the floor, both plates were placed on the throne's broad armrest. Dick frowns. Slade picks up a fork and started eating.
The smell hits him almost instantly. Roast beef, buttered potatoes, fresh vegetables.
Dick’s stomach growls. Traitor.
As much as Dick hates to admit it, the kitches of the Iron Fortress were leagues beyond anything a war torn Gotham was able to supply near the end. Since his surrender, Dick had eaten better than he had in the previous two years.
Dick hates that too.
Slade finished his meal in unhurried silence. Then he reached for Dick's untouched plate. Dick waited for it to be set on the floor. Instead, Slade cuts the meat into neat, bite sized pieces. He spears a piece with a fork and brings it to Dick’s mouth. The food smells even better up close.
“Open, little bird,” he says.
This again.
“Fuck you,” Dick spits. Dick jerks against the chains. The rattle loudly against the base of the throne.
“Okay,” Slade says. He puts the fork into his own mouth instead. He chews, swallows, and spears another bite.
“Either you eat from my hand, or you don’t eat at all," he says. He holds the fork out again.
"Your choice."
“I’d rather starve,” The answer comes without hesitation.
“If you insist,” Slade says, lowering the fork. The servant takes the plate away. Slade picks his report back up. The conversation was over.
Dick sits there, wrists chained to the throne, seething.
Night settles over the fortress. Servants extinguished lamps one by one. The halls grew quiet. Slade stands, stretches once, and gathers the reports under one arm.
Dick waited. The cuffs stays locked around his wrists. Slade walks past him.
"Good night, little bird."
The heavy doors close shut behind him. Dick stares.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
No answer comes. Eventually, Dick shifts onto his side, curling into the smallest shape the chain would allow. The stone bits into his shoulder and hip. His stomach growls, a sensation he hasn't felt in over a month.
He closes his eyes. Fuck him. Fuck him and his entire stupid fortress.
The next morning, something cool nudged gently against Dick's lips. Still half asleep, he opens his mouth on instinct. Sweet. Pineapple.
He chews once. Twice. Then his eyes snap open.
Slade is looking down at him, one corner of his mouth curled in unmiskable satisfaction.
"Good morning, little bird."
Dick froze. The tast of pineapple still lingered on his tongue. He had swallowed before he had thought about spitting it out. Slade is already holding another piece out. Dick moves to knock it away. Metal snaps taut. The chains catch his wrists before they rose more than an inch.
Dick stares at his bound hands. Then the fruit. Then back at Slade.
Dick presses his lips closed together instead, and glares at Slade with as much hatred as he could manage, which is a lot.
Slade shrugs, and pops the second piece of pineapple into his own mouth instead.
Lunch came and went. Then dinner. Then breakfast again. Every meal ended the exact same way.
Dick kept his mouth shut. Slade ate his own meal. The chains stayed on.
After the first day, the hunger stopped feeling sharp. By the second, it settled into a dull, familiar emptiness. Dick knew this feeling. He’s long used to beating his body into taking less than it needs and not complain about it.
By the third day, sitting up to fast made the room tilt. His thoughts came a little slower. Theres a faint ringing in his ears if he moved too quickly. It feels kind of like welcoming an old friend. This is what captivity should feel like. Not full stomachs. Not warm blankets. Not quiet evenings in front of the fire.
When Slade holds food to his mouth, Dick presses his lips closed. He doesn't have the strength to argue anymore. But this. This he can still do.
“Okay,” Slade sounds almost resigned. For one impossible moment, hope flickered. Does this mean Dick won?
Slade stands from the throne. He kneels down in front of Dick. A hand slipped through Dick’s hair. Normally he'd shove it away. Today, he barely has the strength to tense.
Slade's fingers close around Dick's nose. Dick's eyes widened. He holds breath. Thirty seconds. Sixty. Ninety. His lungs began to burn. He keeps his mouth shut. One-hundred. One-twenty. His vision starts to blur around the edges. One-thirty. His body is shaking now, desperate for air. One-fourty. Dick gasps open, drawing in desperate air. A piece food was inside before he'd finished inhaling.
Slade's hand leaves his nose to cup his jaw, holding his mouth closed. Dick tries to spit it out. He couldn't. His body was too busy trying to breathe. His throat works in instinct. He swallows. Only then does Slade let go.
Dick doubles over, coughing in huge, desperate gulps of air. His eyes waters. He hates himself for swallowing. He hates Slade more.
“You left me no choice, kid,” Slade says. His voiced remained infuriatingly calm.
“I took too long acquiring you to let my pet starve to death.”
Dick sucks in another shaky breath. “Fuck y-“
Another piece of food is shoved in his mouth before he could finish. Slade's hand close gently, but unyieldingly, over his jaw.
“Here’s the deal. Either you eat from my hand, or I force you,” Slade says.
Dick meets his eye. Hatred burns there. He doesn't waste what little strength he has left on another insult. He just glares, keeping his mouth shut.
“Okay,” Slade says, and reaches for his nose again. Dick twists away as far as the chains allows. It wasn't far. He couldn't use his hands. He couldn't push Slade away. Couldn't strike him. Couldn't even turn his head more than a few inches before the chain stopped him.
So he fights with whatever remained. He clenches his jaw, he holds his breathe, turns his head. Every bite is a struggle. Every swallow has to be forced from him.
The plate is emptied.
The routine settles into place.
Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner.
Slade chains Dick to the throne. If Dick refuses to open his mouth, Slade closes off his nose until instinct won. If Dick tries to spit the food back out, a steady hand holds his haw shut until he swallowed. Every meal ended the same way.
Afterwards, Slade unlocks the chain from the throne but leaves the cuffs in place for a few quiet minutes. Dick leans against the throne then, too drained to sit upright, while warm fingers combs slowly through his hair.
Dick hates that part the most. Dick hates it because it doesn't hurt.
By the end of the week, the hunger has gone away. Dick’s stomach is no longer yelling at him. His wrists, no longer rubbed raw from constant struggling, has a chance to heal beneath the gold cuffs.
Dick reports to the throne room the next morning, just as he’s had every morning before. Nothing has changed. He takes his usual place beside the throne. Slade fastens the gold cuffs around his wrists. The chain is threaded through the ring at the base of the throne.
A forkful of breakfast stops in front of his mouth.
Dick stares at it. It was going to happen anyways. The past week had proven that. He can't stop it. All refusing had accomplished was making Slade close off his nose until instinct overrode pride.
Dick looks at the fork. Then closes his eyes. This wasn't surrender. This was efficiency. This was conservation of energy. The outcome wasn't changing. At least he can make Slade stop making his gasp.
Very slowly, he opens his mouth. Slade slides the bite inside. Dick chews. Swallows. It tastes...
God.
It was delicious. Warm, perfectly seasoned. His traitorous body notices before the rest of him does. The knot in his stomach loosens, muscles relaxing without his permission.
He hates that.
Slade says nothing. He simply prepares another bite. Dick stares at it for a long moment. Then, before Slade can move it closer, Dick leans forward just enough to take the food himself.
Carefully. Deliberately.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. Heat crawls up the back of his neck and his face. This was not surrender. This was allocating resources. Picking his battles. Pride doesnt fill his stomach. Refusing would not change the outcome. All it had earned him was a week of gasping for air.
He swallows the second bite. The food tasts just as good as the first.
Dick wonders. Where was the line? Yesterday he'd sworn he'd rather starve. He'd meant it. He remembers meaning it. Just like he remembers meaning it when he'd refused to kneel. When he refused the collar. The leash. He'd meant every one of those refusals. None of them had lasted. So where was the line? At what point could he no longer say he's picking his battles and admit he'd simply...given up?
Would he know when he crosses it? Or would he only realize afterwards, looking back at a trail of reasonable decisions that somehow led here?
The food is delicious. His stomach is full. His nose no longer throbbed from being pinched shut. His lungs don’t hurt from dragging in desperate breaths. His body, traiterous thing that it is, has accepted the bargin long before his pride had.
When the last bite is finished, Dick remains staring at the floor.
A hand settles gently into his hair. His shoulders locked.
“Good boy.”
Dick wants to bite that hand.