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Dick wondered why they didn't just charter the private plane.
Slade had the money. Dick had stolen a quick glance at his bank balance statement. Not a billionaire like Bruce, but definitely enough zeros to acquire whatever he wanted at a whim.
He was just being a cheapskate, Dick decided, and a major jerk.
Why he insisted on taking the beat-up old red Ford Explorer was a mystery.
But what Dick did know was that it definitely had more than one hundred thousand miles on its belt. Not the thousand like the tampered odometer said.
Another known fact was that he hated the truck. The seats were stiff and lined with decades of crumb buildup. It was nearly impossible to sleep on. The windows didn't even roll down all the way, forcing him to endure the feeble current pushed out by the air vents.
The list went on.
The back wiper was jammed. Every time it rained or was foggy or when Slade felt like Dick wasn't pulling his weight even though all they were doing was driving, he was made to go and clean with a rag. Bastard.
The seatbelts weren't functional either. At least he’d be spared the misery of continued existence if he went through the windshield.
He could complain until he was blue in the face and Slade would still refuse to exchange the damn thing for anything that was actually functional.
“Can I please turn on the radio, Master?” he whined.
Slade shot him a sidelong look, slapping his hand as it drifted near the dial.
Dick flashed him a smile, a twisted, uncanny thing that would make children burst into tears at the sight of it. He was getting good at making those faces as of late.
He considered grabbing the wheel. Sweet revenge or digging his own grave? Food for thought. Slade would probably survive a crash so it was pointless. But on the off chance...?
Slade detected the scheme the moment it formed. It wasn't hard considering they were together all the time. Also, Slade didn't hide that he had studied every aspect of Dick for months. He knew him inside out.
“Hands where I can see them. Move and I will tie and toss you in the trunk for the duration of our trip.”
Dick bit back a growl.
He grumbled silently as the truck trundled along. The lurching motion as they struggled through potholes the size of New Jersey was nauseating. Every now and again Slade stepped on the gas to dislodge the tires, causing Dick to bump his head against the roof of the car. He swore Slade was doing it on purpose.
But he couldn't confirm his intentions, because each time he tried to confront him he was stonewalled. He sulked. Eventually the awkward silence convinced Dick to try another avenue to entertain himself with.
Out of sheer boredom, he counted cows. He didn't get past the number of fingers on his hands. There were more corn fields than sentient beings on country back roads.
He fell back on an old pastime from when he was in the circus, traveling from town to town on a cargo train, plume of dark smoke smearing a trail as they chugged along the tracks.
He imagined little men running on utility poles, skiing along the wires and leaping over the portion that crowned the top. One was Batman, the other his trusty sidekick. Well. Ex-sidekick.
But when the sun dipped below the horizon, so too did his source of amusement. It was dark out in the sticks.
Dick didn't mind all that much since he could see stars blanketing the sky. Living in Gotham with all the light pollution nearly made him forget the beauty the night had to offer.
He pointed out his favourite constellations and rattled off trivia.
“Cygnus and Aquila. They're supposed to be a swan and an eagle, but I don't really get the resemblance.”
Slade stared forward.
Dick continued, “In the east they call them the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl, star crossed lovers who can only reunite once a year by crossing a bridge made of magpies. Whatever they're called, it always leads back to birds. Interesting, huh?”
Slade didn't respond. Dick supposed he couldn't afford not to focus on the road, as he only had one eye.
But Slade was definitely listening. He just refused to engage with his chatty companion, seemingly for no other purpose than to drive Dick insane.
It was times like these that made Dick wonder why Slade wanted him as an apprentice. If he wanted an obedient slave that could fight and was pleasant to look at he could just manufacture a robot.
But Slade decided not to use the same technology that gave him his army of 'Slade-bots', as Gar called them. He must really like torturing flesh-and-blood children. Maybe that was his pastime.
It was strange, because sometimes Slade did give the impression that he cared.
He let Dick take Zitka wherever they went, even though he was clearly too old to play with stuffed animals. And on the anniversary of his apprenticeship, he bought him a bag of chips. Coming from the man who enforced daily weight-ins and counted calories for each meal, this was momentus.
Perhaps most astonishingly, he even gave him periodic updates on the Titans and let him send anonymous tips on various criminals and cold cases, Deathstroke excluded of course.
The man was confusing. An enigma.
Dick sighed, the familiar sense of loneliness descending once again. What he wouldn't give for some quality company. He could have wheedled good banter from Bruce if he were here. But Bruce was thousands of miles away in Gotham, not on some dingy dirt road.
Dick kicked his feet onto the dashboard and stared out the window. Slowly his eyelids grew heavy, the day's monotony more exhausting than training.
Dark shadows seemed to come alive, stretching and shrinking depending if they approached or passed.
Once he thought he caught his former mentor’s silhouette standing under the faint glow of a street lamp.
Batman...?
He stirred, his hopes rising, and took a closer look.
Alas, it was only a trick of the mind.
