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“If you agree to this,” Slade pointed at the paper between them, “you’re mine. Do you understand?”
Dick nodded. That. That sounded amazing.
This wasn’t throwing himself off a roof, or cutting his own wrists, or pointing a gun at his head. He was keeping his promise to not kill himself.
But. This was relief. He didn’t have to be responsible anymore. He didn’t have to make decisions. Hell, he didn’t even need to think. Slade’s got him.
Dick wanted to cry.
The contract was…not simple. Dick wanted to keep the trapeze, the gymnastics, the silks. The things that brought joy to his life when nothing else did.
Once upon a time, flying across rooftops would have made that list. Dick missed that time. Now all that it brought him was stress and guilt and the constant nagging that he wasn’t good enough.
So they compromised. Slade let Dick keep the things that brought him joy. And Dick let Slade take everything else. The negotiation had taken days.
Dick signed. The first copy, then the second.
Done. He thought this would be more relieving. Like a weight taken off. But his shoulders stayed tight. His fingers stayed curled tight, knuckles still white. His stomach still turned.
Maybe this was a mistake. Too late now.
Slade folded up the first copy and tucked it away, Dick didn’t bother looking where. He slid the second copy to Dick.
No.
Dick didn’t make a move to take it. He looked pointedly at Slade.
Slade paused, smirked, and took the second copy as well, tucking it away like the first.
“Come along now, my Apprentice.”
Dick forced himself to his feet. The chair slid back with an ungraceful screech. Dick winced. He hugged his arms to himself. And followed.
He grabbed the duffle he packed beforehand. Also part of the negotiation.
The whole bag was probably overkill. It was almost empty. Inside sat Zitka, a copy of The Flying Grayson’s poster, and a family photo from Alfred’s birthday. It was a rare occasion where everyone made it. Even Cass, who was in Hong Kong more often than not.
Dick had debated taking it. Looking at the photo hurt. But. He wanted something from the past ten years of his life. And everything else hurt more.
He glanced at his apartment for the last time. It was messy, but lived in. Photos of his friends lined the walls. Mismatch furniture, collected from various street sides or second hand stores, populated it.
Dick liked it here.
He followed Slade out the front door. Oh, he almost forgot.
Dick dug through his pockets. He pulled out his phone and his keys, and offered them to Slade.
Slade paused again, and took both items. The phone he pocketed. The keys he tossed behind him into the apartment, and closed the door.
This time, it did feel like a weight being taken off. Dick’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
Done. No more.
He reached out, and tucked a finger into Slade’s belt loop. He looked at the floor, too tired to raise his head. He followed using the pull from that connection.
As they made their way down the staircase, Dick felt more and more tension drain from him, until the only thing keeping him from floating away was his finger hooked on Slade’s belt loop and the tingle of fear in the back of his skull.
An unmarked car was parked outside. Slade opened up the back door. Dick climbed in obediently. Slade followed behind him.
“Drink.”
Slade pressed a plastic water bottle in his hands.
Dick twisted the top off. No snap. Not sealed.
He took a sip.
Bitter.
Drugged.
He looked at Slade. Slade looked back.
Dick downed the bottle.
Immediately he felt his vision blur, his sense of balance dipped to one side. He leaned back and tried to keep from toppling over. Then Slade looped an arm around him, and pulled.
Dick fell, head landing in Slade’s lap. Whatever drug it was, it was working fast. Dick didn’t have the strength in his limbs to push himself away.
A hand slid in his hair, petting him.
It felt…really good.
Dick let his eyes slip shut and the drug do its thing.
Yeah. This was the choice he made. He was keeping his promise. He just also gets to not exist.
Truly. A win win scenario.