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Slade stares at the boy on the bed, listening to the steady pound of his heart. It's stronger than it was an hour ago, or even fifteen minutes ago; the serum Slade injected him with the week before is doing its job, despite how hard Dick tried to make that not be so.
The white bandages wrapped around his forearms are tight and pristine. Slade was the one who did them; he couldn't stand having the doctor touch Dick any more than he had to, allowing the man to finish stitching up the long wounds and then putting a bullet in his head before bandaging them himself.
Killing the doctor was—maybe unnecessary. But Dick tried to kill himself, and there is violence roiling under Slade's skin. The world is lucky that he's stuck here in this room and not out there, or many more people than just one doctor would be dead, too.
He almost didn't make it in time. Dick timed his attempt well; he knows Slade's schedule by heart, after months of getting used to it. They'd even reached a level of trust where Slade knew Dick wouldn't try to escape if left on his own for a few hours. Didn't have to be locked up in his room—they both knew Dick wasn't going to try to run.
Slade had been victorious over that. He finally got Dick to stop fighting, to obey. He finally made the kid his. He lorded it over him, drove the point home again and again so Dick couldn't ignore what he's become, what he is now.
Dick wasn't going to run. But Slade didn't consider the other means of escape.
He was so close to not making it in time. Another five minutes and Dick would've been too far gone for even the enhanced healing from the serum to pull him back from the edge—Dick certainly did his job well. He almost succeeded; Slade walked into the bathroom to find Dick limp and lying in a pool of his own blood. He looked so small there. Looks so small now, in the hospital bed.
"Slade."
Slade doesn't bother looking up, simply grunts at Wintergreen. He doesn't care about whatever the man has to say. He should leave before Slade's fury gets turned on him.
"I cleaned up the bathroom," Wintergreen continues, far too used to Slade's moods to be intimidated by the way Slade's acting. "Kid did most of it himself, actually; in the tub with the showerhead running...most of the blood was already gone by the time I got to it. Probably would've taken care of itself completely."
Of course it would have. Because Slade taught Dick the consequences of leaving messes behind.
Apparently that lesson applies to trying to murder yourself as well as killing others.
Wintergreen sighs when Slade doesn't respond. "Maybe you should take a walk before you speak to him."
"Goodbye, William," Slade says tightly. He has no interest in any advice from his friend. Wintergreen's presence here was only ever—disruptive to Dick's progress. Too much of a bleeding heart in Billy for him to be completely okay with everything Slade was doing to Dick. Not that the hypocrite ever cared enough to do anything about it, just to make a nuisance of himself when Slade was trying to train Dick right. He doesn't get a vote on how Slade deals with his apprentice.
Another sigh, and then Wintergreen is gone, leaving Slade once more alone with Dick.
It takes another half hour, but eventually Dick starts exhibiting signs of waking up. His pulse begins to change, his eyes shifting under their lids. It has Slade pushing upright from where he's leaning against the wall, closing the distance until he stands at Dick's bedside, arms folded over his chest.
Dick makes a quiet noise, and then his eyes flutter open. He blinks, disoriented, up at the ceiling, looking confused and foggy, and then his gaze drifts over to Slade.
The confused fogginess lasts for another couple beats, Dick simply blinking at him as Slade stares back silently. Then, reality seems to catch up with Dick, because his heart skips a beat and then picks up, pulse thrumming a little faster and eyes a little wider as he clearly remembers what happened.
Then, almost all at once, Dick's body calms down again. He droops against the bed, limp and helpless and broken and everything that twelve hours ago would've made Slade climb on the bed with intent and a grin. Now, he only continues to stare.
"Master," Dick says, the word barely more than a rasp. Probably needs water, or ice chips or whatever. Slade doesn't go to get any.
Instead, he uncrosses his arms, leaning down. He braces one hand on the pillow beside Dick's head and the other on the rail of the bed, bringing them close together as he tells Dick, "You don't get to kill yourself. Did I give you permission to die? You're mine. You don't have the right to take your life, because it isn't yours—your life is mine, kid. You don't get to take it from me."
Dick's eyes close tiredly, his head tilting on the pillow. For once, Slade doesn't try to force him to pay attention, sure that they have a long road ahead for Slade to reteach Dick exactly what being his means. For now he straightens again and heads for the door, needing to burn off some of his restless energy. He'll check back in later; the wounds should be completely healed in a few hours.
"I'm going to keep trying."
Slade pauses in front of the door, one hand on the knob. Dick's voice is weak, the words barely there, but still Slade catches each of them perfectly.
"What?" he says flatly, dangerously. He turns back to look at the boy on the bed.
Dick doesn't avoid his gaze like he usually does, these days. Doesn't look afraid or angry or resigned. He just looks—tired. Exhausted. His eyes are dead, the once-vibrant blue dull and devoid of the fire that drew Slade to him in the first place.
"I'm going to try again," Dick repeats, as if Slade's response had been a real question and not a warning. "I'm not...this isn't a cry for attention or an attempt to incur a punishment. This is—" His breath hitches, and he looks away briefly before swallowing and once more locking his gaze onto Slade's. "This is me being done, Sir. I—I can't. I can't do this anymore. I just can't."
Slade's hands curl into fists at his sides.
Dick's eyes close. When he whispers, "I'm going to try again," the words sound like a promise to himself.
"Kid," Slade says, and is taken aback by how gutted his voice sounds. It's just—the kid is his, his and his alone. His to command, to wield, to fuck, to train. His to destroy and build back up. His to kill, even. Dick doesn't get to just decide to be done, that's not how this works. Slade took the choice of decisions from him. Slade took him, owns him. Dick's life hasn't been his own since the moment he agreed to Slade's terms.
Dick knows all of that. Knows everything he is belongs to Slade.
And yet.
Slade moves towards the bed again. Dick's shoulders tense at his approach, but his eyes don't open, and he doesn't flinch away when Slade places a hand over his forehead.
Instead, he makes a deep, wounded noise and presses weakly up into the touch.
"Please," Dick says hoarsely, blinking wet eyes open and fixing Slade to the spot. "Please, Slade, don't make me keep doing this. Don't make me try again. Once was hard enough, once was hard enough. I—don't want to." His voice cracks. "Please, Slade, I don't want to kill myself again."
"So don't," Slade snarls, but his touch stays gentle.
Dick chokes out a laugh. "Better that than everything else. Because maybe I don't want to do it again, but I can't do everything else. Do you—do you understand? I'd rather try over and over again than keep living this life."
This time, it's Slade's eye that closes. "Kid," he says, and feels like it's the only thing he's capable of saying.
"Please," Dick whispers. "Please don't make me. Please do it for me."
And there it is.
Slade's lips curl back from his teeth. He looks down at Dick hatefully, his veins thrumming with rage. Dick doesn't get to do this to him. He doesn't get an out. His life is Slade's, now and always. The kid doesn't get to—
Ask him to take it.
"Look at me," Slade says gruffly, and Dick's dull eyes meet his. There's a desperation in them, but a certain kind of brokenness that is—not the kind Slade wanted.
"Tell me you can't take this," Slade says. "Tell me you really can't live past what's happened, can't live as what I forged you into. Tell me that."
"I can't take this," Dick says immediately, breath quickening. "I thought I could make it through but I can't. I can't be this thing you made me. I can't survive the things you do to me."
Slade searches his face, the features that are crumpled with a bone-deep pain that isn't physical, that Slade can't fix. Pain caused by his hand, yes, but not the kind he likes. Not the kind that makes Dick scream and Slade's blood sing.
This isn't something Slade can correct. Dick's given up in a very different way than how Slade wanted him to. And Slade can lock him in a padded room, shove fucking antidepressants down his throat, but it won't make a damn difference. It won't change everything Slade's done to the kid. Won't make it easier for Dick to live with what's happened.
"Tell me again," Slade says quietly. He's being pathetically sentimental, hoping Dick gives a different answer. Thinking that maybe if he asks enough, Dick will realize he actually is fine and doesn't need to die. It's nearly delusional, and he hates himself for it.
"Please," Dick says, voice breaking. "Please, Slade, I can't take this. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore. You—you took everything else, just—just take this too. Please, Slade."
Those blue eyes look more alive right now, begging for his death, then they have in—Well. In a very long time.
"How do you want it?" Slade asks quietly.
Dick starts to cry, but it doesn't seem sad. It seems like release. It makes Slade sick to his stomach.
"Can you—do it yourself?" Dick asks, breath hitching. "Look me in the eye."
Slade nods silently. He pushes the button on the side of the bed, waiting as it lifts Dick upward into a vaguely seated position. He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls Dick towards him, the boy going pliantly.
He wraps his hands around Dick's neck. Dick melts into the touch, meeting his eye steadily. He looks so fucking grateful that it makes Slade want to look away, but he doesn't, granting Dick this much. He's denied Dick everything he wants for eight months; this, in his last moments, he can do, no matter how much he hates it.
"Will you bury me?" Dick asks.
Slade breathes evenly. He keeps breathing. He strokes the side of Dick's neck with his thumb, and Dick shivers. "Where do you want to be buried, kid?"
Something vulnerable and unsure creeps into Dick's expression. "Will you—Gotham?"
Fighting down the urge to sigh, Slade nods. "I can do that."
"The cherry blossoms are so beautiful there," Dick says faintly. "I still dream about them sometimes."
He shouldn't look so relieved. Dick shouldn't be so happy when they're discussing what Slade's going to do with his fucking corpse after he's dead.
"Thank you," Dick whispers. He presses into Slade's hands. "Thank you, Slade."
"You're mine," Slade tells him seriously. "And you served me well."
Dick shivers again. His eyelids flutter like they want to close, but they stay open, fixed on Slade's. "Thank you," he says once more, the words like a prayer.
Slade snaps his neck in one quick movement. A burst of pain and then nothingness.
"Goodbye, Dick," Slade says softly.