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The only excuse Dick can think of is how exhausted he is.
He hasn't slept in more than thirty-six hours, hasn't eaten in just as long. He's been running himself into the ground working this case, and it's the only reason Dick can possibly think of for what slips out of his mouth.
Slade's presence in and of itself was a surprise, one that made Dick feel slightly off-balance; it's not every day that they end up on the same side of things, Slade's contract lining up neatly with the goals of Dick and the others bats. They'd all been extremely hesitant to accept the man's offer to work together, but in the end had agreed, if only because it would be easier than randomly running into Slade while they're trying to work.
The last time Dick worked with Slade was many years ago, when he was the mercenary's (unwilling) apprentice. And it's not like that was exactly a pleasant experience for him. So the introduction of Slade into this case he's been working his ass off to get right while Dick is bone-tired and hungry—well, it doesn't exactly help.
He's a professional, however, so he sucks it up. He pushes aside his less-than-enthused feelings and allows Slade to offer his opinion, allows himself to follow his instructions if they're good ideas, allows Slade to get close to his siblings despite how he'd like the man to be very far away from them.
And Slade is a professional, too. He doesn't make any innuendos about their past together, doesn't smirk at Dick like he knows what his presence is doing to him, doesn't do anything other than his part in the mission. He's on a job, after all, Dick reminds himself; Deathstroke isn't one of the most sought-after mercenaries for getting easily distracted while on jobs.
He should've known something was going to have to give. With his physical and mental exhaustion and his anxiety of having Slade around his family, he should've known he was going to fuck up somewhere.
It turns out that that somewhere is right at the absolute worst possible moment.
They've tracked down the human traffickers, they've found the victims, they've located the base of operations. They all coordinate their attacks, everyone with a specific job to accomplish, a situation that is old hat for Dick. They've done this countless times. It should go just as well as it always has.
He's teamed up with Slade and Tim, the three of them entering from the westside entrance of the warehouse and taking down whomever they come across. Their role is to get to the main server room and download the files stored there before the traffickers can try to erase evidence of their past crimes; none of them have any intention of letting these assholes get off easy.
They make it to the server room relatively easily, as easy as these things ever are anyway, and Dick ignores the moments his head spins, pushes past the dizziness—once the mission is over, then he can crash. But until then he needs to stay focused and do his part.
Slade stands guard at the door while Dick and Tim move to two different terminals, working simultaneously to download the files. Dick finishes first, the one he'd been going through less filled than the one Tim had chosen, and so he moves to watch Tim's back while the boy continues to work; there's a door in the back of the room, after all, and though it's barred from the inside, there's always the chance of someone managing to get in.
The sudden lack of action and the steady tapping of Tim's fingers against the keyboard begins to lull Dick, and his mind drifts hazily, his eyes even blurring as they slide out of focus. He feels himself sway a little, his legs suddenly protesting the fact that they're holding his weight. He manages to keep himself upright, fighting against the urge to just sit down and go to sleep.
A crash startles him, head jerking up just as someone shouts, "Nightwing, move!"
He's pushed roughly to the side and he stumbles, working to keep his feet under him and not just collapse to the floor. He registers the gunfire and ducks and rolls on instinct, crouching behind a desk and trying to take stock of the situation.
The gunfire almost immediately stops, however, and then Slade is stepping into view, towering over where Dick is hidden. Dick can't see his expression with his mask in the way, but he can see the way that blue eye is narrowed, cold with displeasure. It makes Dick's mouth go dry, and freezes him enough that he doesn't react in time to stop Slade from grabbing his arm and yanking him to his feet.
"Let's go," he snaps, and shoves Dick ahead of himself towards the door.
Dick stumbles briefly before righting himself, and his eyes land on a pair of bodies, clearly two of the traffickers. Behind them is an open door, the door Dick was supposed to be watching.
Nausea turns his stomach, and he swallows back the bile that wants to come up.
Tim is standing by the main door, his expression pinched with worry as he looks at Dick, and Dick tries to offer a reassuring smile in return. He knows it comes off as more of a grimace.
"Did you get the files? You okay?" Dick asks, trying to distract.
"Yeah," Tim says hesitantly. "But are you okay?"
Dick's attempt at a smile tightens. He doesn't really have an answer for his brother.
"I suggest this conversation happens once we're out of here," Slade says, and though the words are spoken calmly, his eye is still icy as he looks at Dick, the line of his shoulders stiff. Dick barely suppresses a shudder; that used to be so familiar, when he was younger. He spent months as Slade's apprentice, and the man's anger—and disappointment—was never an easy thing to handle. Especially when punishments were sure to follow.
Tim nods without a word and then leads them back the way they came. Over the comms Dick can hear the various teams checking in, declaring the all-clear or their current status, and Tim relays the same. He leaves out how Dick almost got them killed through inattention.
Bruce has vanished with Damian to go talk with the commissioner by the time Dick, Tim, and Slade emerge from the warehouse. Stephanie and Jason are talking nearby and Cass is a little further away, securing a man who lays groaning on the ground at her feet.
"Get what we needed?" Jason asks when he spots them.
Tim holds up the flash drive in his hand. "Yup! Got it all. Once we sort through everything we can send it over to the police; there's a lot on this and their organizational system is shit."
"Awesome," Jason says. "Then we might want to get out of here soon—B called the cops and they'll be here within ten minutes."
Dick hears Stephanie say something in response, but it comes out vague and muddled to Dick's ears. He feels himself sway again. God he's exhausted.
A hand wraps around his bicep, tight enough to hurt, and Dick's head jerks up to see Slade right beside him, holding him in place. He's pulled his mask up enough to reveal his face, and his expression is hard.
"What is the matter with you?" Slade demands, voice lowered enough to not draw the others' attention.
Dick doesn't know what to say. His heart is thudding in his ears, body frozen with—not quite fear, but an uneasy, anxious feeling that used to be so familiar to him when he was under Slade's command. He doesn't like that he's feeling it now. He hates it even more that he can't seem to be able to force himself past it.
Slade's eye narrows and he releases his arm, stepping away from him, giving him room to breathe. Dick sucks in a slow breath gratefully, trying to clear his head. Slade is still close enough to tower over him, made all the bigger by his armor, and Dick might be twenty-seven now but he feels fifteen, can practically picture the hideout around him, his master coldly demanding why he messed up in training or on a mission.
"Well?" Slade asks, voice still hard, a little louder than before. His displeasure is painfully obvious. Once again, Dick has to suppress a shudder; that tone always led to pain. Slade's anger and disappointment always led to pain.
"Hey, leave him alone," Tim says, but Dick can't look away from Slade's face, from that familiar expression that says Slade is upset with him, really upset with him. What is the matter with him, how could he have messed up so thoroughly?
Slade ignores Tim too. "You've been off your game the entire time," he says harshly. "You have been distracted and slow to respond, and now you almost got yourself and Red Robin killed! You had one very simple job, and yet you spaced out like an amateur! You're supposed to be better than this."
Dick stares at the ground, hands folding behind his back. He hates the way tears are pricking at his eyes; it makes him feel childish and weak. Slade's right, he's supposed to be better than this. He's an expertly trained vigilante, not someone who allows two gunmen to get close enough to almost kill his little brother and himself. If not for Slade, they'd both be dead.
"I—I know," Dick stutters out. He sounds so small, God, how ridiculous he must seem. How weak. Slade detests weakness more than almost anything. "I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean?" Slade demands. "Well that's good, I'd hate to think you purposefully acted absolutely useless while you were supposed to be doing your job."
Dick can almost see the hideout around him, can almost smell the metal of the whole building, can almost hear the clanging of the cogs up above. It's so familiar, Slade standing in front of him pulling all of his failures to light, and Dick is so tired—
"I—I'm—"
"Deathstroke, lay off," Jason snaps. "This isn't the time. We all make mistakes, shit happens."
But no, mistakes don't happen, not with Slade's apprentice. Slade's apprentice is supposed to be perfect—Slade never accepted anything less. Failure and mistakes were punished immediately, forcing them out of Dick until he was what the man demanded he become. Slade's apprentice was supposed to be strong, without flaws. Dick was supposed to be strong.
"Not with me," Slade says coolly. Dick cringes. He hates that he cringes.
"I—"
"The next words out of your mouth better be an explanation," Slade says, still so cold, "and you'd better hope that I like it."
I require an explanation for your failure today, Robin. And you better hope I like your answer.
"I'm sorry," Dick says hoarsely, staring down at the ground between his feet and Slade's. "I'm—Master, I'm sorry."
If he was looking at Slade, he would see the surprised blink, and then the slow smile that crawls across the man's face, pleasure radiating out of him. If he was looking at his siblings, he would see their confused expressions, how unsure they are over what Dick just said, how none of them could think of a single thing to do in response.
But he's not looking at any of them. He's staring at the ground, which is looking suspiciously more and more like the floor of the hideout. He's staring at his shoes, which look far more like the ones he wore as Robin than the ones he wears as Nightwing. He's staring at Slade's boots as the man steps closer to him.
He braces for a hit. Sometimes his apology would be enough, if the infraction was small enough or Slade was in a good enough mood or Dick seemed sufficiently apologetic. But almost getting himself and another killed? Going out into the field and facing armed gunmen while five seconds away from collapsing? This would absolutely incur a punishment. His master does not take kindly to stupidity.
"Thank you for the apology," Slade murmurs. A hand cups the side of Dick's neck, large and warm even through the glove, and Dick holds his breath. This could easily turn violent, it wouldn't be hard for Slade to choke him like this, wouldn't be the first time— "Good boy."
Dick's head snaps up, eyes wide. Praise from Slade was always so rare. It happened occasionally, always filling Dick with a strong sense of accomplishment, but very few and far in between, and certainly not after a colossal fuck up.
But Slade's expression isn't cruel or angry anymore, instead he looks—pleased. Satisfied.
"I—Sir?" Dick says hesitantly. He doesn't want to ruin it if this really is happening, if Slade really isn't pissed anymore.
Slade's satisfied expression deepens, the curl of his lips nowhere close to the sneer Dick keeps expecting. "I certainly trained you well, didn't I? My, my. It's alright, Richard. I accept your apology."
Relief floods Dick's system, and he has to fight the urge to slump under it, not wanting to show more weakness than he already has. He doesn't want to risk Slade still punishing him.
"What the fuck is going on?" someone demands.
Dick's brow furrows in confusion, and he looks to the side to see a group of people standing there, watching. The blurry hideout around Dick fades away, and he blinks rapidly as he remembers who they are, where he is.
"Jason," Dick mumbles. His head is killing him all of a sudden, and he grimaces, resisting the urge to knuckle at his forehead.
It's...been a long time since he had a flashback so tangible. Even longer since it happened in front of other people. He's never wanted anyone to see him like this. And he definitely never would've wanted it to happen in front of Slade.
Fuck, he's mortified. He just called Slade...he just...
He needs to sleep. And eat. That's it, that's all that's happening. He just needs rest. He would never...he doesn't want—
"Let go of him," Jason says harshly.
Slade's hand slips off Dick's neck and then he takes a step back, regarding Dick and the others with a cool eye. Dick can't meet his gaze, embarrassed beyond belief.
"You're welcome," Slade says, looking at Jason, "by the way. Considering your brothers would be dead without me, after the way Grayson behaved in there."
Dick cringes again. He wants to go to sleep. He wants to apologize again. Despite how his stomach gnaws with hunger, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to keep anything down right now.
"Yeah, thanks." Stephanie is the one to respond, her tone very far from gratitude. Slade snorts.
"Then I suppose I'll see you kids around," he drawls, and turns to go. He offers Dick one last lingering look. His voice is only loud enough for Dick to hear when he says, "I'll see you soon, Robin."
Dick shudders and says nothing, still unable to meet his eye. And then Slade is gone.
None of them say a word about what they witnessed.
Dick doesn't know if it's out of a weird sense of respect for something that is clearly causing him distress or because they plan to pounce after he's gotten some sleep and can actually form coherent sentences.
Whatever the reason, Tim drives him back to his apartment in Bludhaven, not even forcing him to go to the batcave to face Bruce, who would surely sense something was off and force it out of him. For as nosy as his siblings can be, Dick's grateful that they can also have moments of letting things go when it's needed.
By the time Dick arrives back at his apartment—waving off Tim's offer to make sure he actually gets there—his vision is blurring, his stomach cramps are almost debilitating, and he's barely keeping himself on his feet. The fact that he isn't completely delirious by this point really is sheer force of will.
Sleep, he decides, will be first. He doesn't know if he can trust himself to actually fix food—he might set the kitchen on fire or give himself food poisoning—so that's a task for when he has all his mental faculties in working order.
There's someone standing in his living room.
Dick blinks at the figure for a long moment, trying to figure out if it's real or if he's hallucinating, but the figure doesn't change, doesn't waver or vanish. Just turns to face Dick as he enters the room.
"Slade," Dick says dumbly.
"Shut the door," Slade orders.
Dick does it, blinking at the man. He leans against the door, using it to keep himself upright. Slade walks closer, stopping about three feet away, and cocks his head as he examines Dick.
"When was the last time you slept?" he asks.
Frankly, Dick doesn't remember exactly. No more than sixty hours ago, no less than thirty-six. It's somewhere in there. So he shrugs a shoulder, not able to muster up the energy to say any of that. He doesn't even know if he could manage to get it out and have it sound coherent.
Slade sighs. "And going by how empty your kitchen is, I'm going to assume you haven't eaten, either. I'll account for those as contributing factors."
He doesn't wait to see if Dick is going to respond, instead strides forward and takes Dick's face in his hands, tilting it this way and that, examining him with a critical eye.
Dick frowns and bats at his hands, which does nothing to get Slade to release him. "Ge'off," Dick mutters.
"Is that any way to speak to your master?"
Dick flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. "This isn't real."
Slade barks a laugh. "Excuse me?"
"This isn't real," Dick repeats, words slurring slightly. "I'm twenty—twenty-seven years old, not fifteen. I'm Nightwing. You're a criminal. You're not my—"
Slade's fist slams into Dick's gut, and Dick wheezes as the air rushes out of him. His knees buckle and Slade steps back far enough to allow Dick to drop, watching dispassionately as Dick tries desperately to breathe and finds himself unable to.
"How are you supposed to talk to me, boy?" He clicks his tongue. "And you were so good earlier."
Dick curls in on himself. He feels Slade standing close, towering over him like he has countless times before. A punishment doled out for disrespect.
"I'm sorry," Dick wheezes. "M-Master, I'm sorry."
A large hand settles on the top of Dick's head, and he flinches automatically, but Slade only pets his hair. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Good boy. I've always hoped for something like this. Over the years I've tried to...Well, no matter now. You clearly still remember your training; even if you've been resisting in your daily life, the unconscious mind always remembers. Sleep deprivation can do wonders for bringing things like that out."
Dick works on getting his breath back slowly and evenly, not forcing it. Hyperventilation would not be good. But that punch certainly didn't help with his stomach cramps.
"Your behavior from today will be corrected," Slade says firmly, still petting Dick's hair in a facsimile of kindness. "You were sloppy, irresponsible, careless. Pathetic."
Dick's shoulders hunch. "I'm sorry, Master."
Slade hums. "I know. And that's very good, Richard. I told you already, I accept your apology. But you still need a course correction. It's good that I'm so generous as to offer to do such a thing for you, isn't it?"
Dick sucks in a shaky breath. Slade always appreciates gratitude. "Th-Thank you, Master."
Another hum, clearly pleased. Slade pats him on the head. "There's my boy."