AN: Taking another stab at fanfic, this time for Teen Titans. I love the show (and the comics, and the DCU in general, really) and the apprentice arc in particular. The whole abusive/controlling father-son sort of relationship between Slade and Robin is just really interesting to me, so, here this is. I wanted to do my own take on how Dick would be affected by the apprenticeship in the long term. Which, uh, means this isn't a particularly happy story. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it!

Dick stepped away from the body, allowing it to collapse to the floor as he wiped clean his knife on the dark material of his bodysuit. He glanced around the small living room, dark and, now, silent. Not that he had made much noise in the first place. He'd been trained better than that.

'Twenty-two.' He thought dully, sheathing the blade. He'd been keeping count. He didn't know why. This one had been a young woman named Emily Collard. Now she was just a thing soaking abstract blots of red into the carpet. Funny, how that goes. Dick suppressed a bubbling of hysterical laughter, pushing the thick Kevlar of his glove against his mouth. He was past this. He was past this. He took a deep breath, and the scent of blood filled his nostrils. He grimaced and let his hand drop to his side.

Somewhere else in the house, Slade was dealing with their other target. Probably had already dealt with and would be coming to find him any minute. Dick leaned against a wall and closed his eyes, focused on breathing, used the lull of the moment to forget where he was. He didn't often have time to himself. He'd learned to savor it when it was presented to him, regardless of the circumstances. His heart rate had only just begun to settle back into a steady rhythm when approaching heavy footsteps interrupted the quiet. He stood at attention as Slade stepped into the room. The older man paused, placing the body slung over his shoulder next to the one on the floor.

"Good work."

"Thank you, sir."

They set about taking care of the bodies together. Slade had just recently graduated Dick to helping with the cleanup. Dick accepted the new responsibility graciously, as he had been taught. For good measure, the building went up in flames as they left.

Dick couldn't breathe. He pressed his face into the cold floor and choked out another sob. His eyes still burned, regardless. His chest pinched, like a fist had taken hold of it and squeezed, and his stomach felt queasy. It was okay, though. He deserved this. He clung to that as he lay trembling in the corner of his small bedroom. He deserved to feel this way. The one positive he had.

He didn't hear the door open, and he didn't notice Slade's presence until the man had knelt down next to him and placed a hand on his shuddering back. He jolted, sitting up and backing into the wall.

'No, no nonono' He'd managed to keep his composure all the way back to the haunt and until he'd been allowed to retreat to his room. He hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face in them. His mentor's presence was stressful at best on a regular day, but now, he couldn't handle being around Slade another minute, especially not like this.

A short while of slipping through shadowy backstreets later, they arrived back at the Slade's safehouse. Dick had discovered rather quickly that the mercenary had such places prepared in several major cities, both in and outside of the US. Mostly in places where he was most often hired. This one was a simple basement apartment, with three rooms, one kitchen, and one bathroom. As well as an assortment of hidden compartments full of weapons and supplies built into the walls and floor. Dick couldn't say for sure if Slade had informed whoever he was leasing the place from that those were there now. He couldn't say if they would care, either. Or if there even was a lease.

Slade tended not to tell him much.

Dick lay propped up against a couple pillows in his chosen room, reading Cormac Mccarthy. The contract they had been hired for was complete, so as soon as Slade made sure everything was cleared as far as payment went, they would be heading back to California. That wasn't likely to happen until morning, at least, so, until then, he'd retreated to his room to change into pajamas and lull himself to sleep. Reading helped.

"Dick?" Slade's voice called through his door.

"Come in, sir." It was a bit unnecessary, as Slade would come in regardless, unless he asked him to hold on a moment, in which case he would at least do that, then come in regardless, but it was the polite response that was expected of him. Dick stood up as his mentor entered the room.

"Reading?" Slade asked pleasantly. Dick glanced down at the novel he was still holding and hastily placed on the bedside table.

"Uh, yes, sir."

"That's a good one." Slade smiled at him. Dick wasn't surprised, he'd earned more freedoms and privileges over the past couple years, but he was still hardly given access to anything Slade didn't approve of. He smiled back.

"Wintergreen gave it to me, before we left. I'm about halfway through." He paused, fidgeting a little as he stood there in his pajamas. Slade was dressed in a nice button up and slacks, with a coat nestled in the crook of his arm. "Are you going somewhere, sir?"

"We're going somewhere, yes. Get dressed, wear your good clothes." Slade gave him a pat on the shoulder, then turned and exited, closing the door behind him. Dick stood still for a moment, then walked over to his suitcase.

"Dick, look at me." The boy shook his head. Slade sighed and reached forward to coax his head from behind his knees, tilting his face up to look him in the eye. Dick sniffled, adjusting his sitting position and hastily wiping the tears from his face, as Slade gazed at him levelly, patiently, his arms now folded and resting across his legs. Dick noted hazily that Slade had changed out of his uniform. Dick still wore his, now slightly bloodstained, save for his mask, which he'd discarded on the floor.

After a few moments of composing himself as best he could, the former Boy Wonder returned his gaze. Usually, at times like these, Dick would muster up as defiant a glare as possible. Right now, he just didn't have the energy. Nor did he see the point anymore. Slade had won, so Dick just looked at him. Like he was told.

This time, their trip through the streets of Boston was decidedly un-shadowy. Dick watched the neon street signs pass through the tinted windows of Slade's car. They cheerily illuminated the groups of people walking beneath them. It all gave him a bit of cognitive whiplash after their earlier activities. He lowered his gaze to his own hands and kept it there the rest of the drive.

His surroundings became a bit harder to ignore when they parked and started walking among them. He focused on following after Slade, who had a rather quick gait, wondering what they were doing. They usually didn't sightsee, and Slade didn't tend to take him along to meet their clientele, save for some of the times when Slade knew them personally.

"Here we are." Slade announced, stopping at the arched entrance of some building. He sounded rather pleased with himself. Dick almost bumped into him, but backed up a step and turned his gaze to a golden plaque near the glass doors, reading 'The Capital Grille'. A restaurant? So were they meeting someone?

Dick stayed quiet until they were seated at a white clothed table towards the back of the restaurant. He looked around at the other patrons apprehensively. He hadn't been allowed out to a place like this in ages. Being around so many people made him antsy, but the atmosphere was warm and friendly and it brought back far away memories of his years growing up in Gotham. His former caretaker used to bring him to places rather like this. The memories sent a pang through his chest, but they made him smile. Slade noticed.

"It's a nice place, isn't it?"

"Uhm, yeah, but," Dick faltered, "Why…?"

"I thought we should celebrate." Slade smiled before turning his attention to his menu. Dick looked at him incredulously. His rewards for good behavior, or for doing well on whatever task Slade had assigned him, were generally things like, free time, or temporary access to privileges he didn't usually have. This was unprecedented.

"Thank you, sir, but I'm still…confused." Dick fiddled with his napkin. "I mean, it was just another job."

Slade chuckled. "I wasn't just thinking of that." He held up a hand to silence any further questions from Dick as their waitress walked over with glasses of water for the two. The young woman greeted them warmly and Slade did likewise to her, before placing orders for the both of them. Dick hadn't bothered to touch his menu. When she left Slade continued, "Tomorrow, it will have been exactly five years since you became my apprentice."

Dick straightened up in his seat. "Really?" His voice was, thankfully, steady and perfectly polite, but everything suddenly felt very surreal. Had it been that long? He'd been fifteen at the time, almost sixteen, and now his twenty-first birthday was coming up. He'd been living under Slade's guidance for about a fifth of his life, now. Dick ran a hand down his face. "Wow, I, uh, I didn't realize."

"I know. Regardless, I thought this would be a nice surprise. You've earned it." Slade gazed at him with a sort of fatherly pride, a look that always gave Dick the impression of an artist admiring their own work. "You really are like a son to me, and I know the transition was…rocky, at first, but you've come such a long way. I'm proud of you."

"I…thank you." Dick managed. He meant it, too. It was comforting that there was someone who liked the person he had become, more so that it was the person whose opinions on the subject actually mattered. He quietly wished for their food to arrive as quickly as possible.

"There, now, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about." Dick almost broke eye contact, but thought better of it. Slade was probably in a good mood at the moment, but it didn't pay to test him.

Slade scoffed. "Clearly." He paused, then, his voice softened, "Look, I know this was…difficult for you."

Now Dick made a noise of disbelief. "You made me kill someone!" He hissed, in a flare of his old defiance. It died out just as quickly as it had sparked and he deflated, his breathing growing more erratic. "I…I killed someone."

"You fulfilled a contract. It's what we do. And I'm very proud of you." Slade placed a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed it and smiled warmly. Dick felt like he was going to vomit.

"But, I don't- I didn't want to-"

"Dick." Slade warned.

"No!" Dick weakly attempted to push his mentor away, then, unsuccessful, held his hands to his head. "I can't, I can't do this anymore!" He choked. All that he wanted in that moment was for Slade to leave him alone, just this once. But a deeper part of him felt this was a fitting punishment for what he'd done. What Slade had made him do? What he had allowed to happen? He teetered between blaming the man in front of him and blaming himself, and it was all just too confusing. "I can't…"

He was trembling again. Slade held onto his other shoulder, steadying him. "You can, and you will. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But-"

"You didn't do anything wrong." Slade repeated. It was odd to hear someone sounding so sure of something when Dick himself felt so lost. He fidgeted uncomfortably in the mercenary's grip. He supposed the man was sincerely trying to comfort him, but he only felt more sick and jittery. He didn't deserve comfort. It was getting harder to think clearly.

"How…can you say that?" He managed.

Slade sighed. "You worry too much over this ridiculous, overbearing, arbitrary sense of morality that the Batman imposed on you."

"He didn't…" God, what would Bruce think of him now?

Slade ignored him. "You agreed to obey my every command, did you not?" Slade tightened his grip on his protégé's shoulders when he received no answer. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make the boy pay attention. "Answer me, Dick."

Dick swallowed, with some difficulty. Then, "I did."

"And I commanded you to kill that man, didn't I?"

"Yes…"

"Then you followed through, didn't you?"

"I did, but-" He suppressed a sob. "Please…"

Slade moved one of his hands to his captive's face, brushing away a stray tear. "Dick, you gave up your life to me." He lifted his hand further and gently, comfortingly, stroked the teen's dark hair. "The only thing that you'll ever need to worry about is doing as I say."

Dick drew in a shaky breath, intending to argue, but the next sound out of his mouth was a wail. The tears he'd been barely holding in all came flooding out and he collapsed forward, sobbing. Slade caught hold of him before he could collapse in on himself completely, wordlessly pulling the teen into an embrace. Dick tensed, unsure of what to do but too exhausted to care. Slade had never hugged him before. He cried harder, pressing his face into Slade's over shirt in spite of himself.

"Shhh," The older man rubbed his back soothingly. "These things will get easier with time. Next time won't be so bad."

Dick didn't want there to be a next time. But it wasn't as if what he wanted counted for anything, anymore.

"I actually got you something." Slade fished around in his coat pocket for a moment before producing a small white envelope. He slid it across the table to rest in front of Dick, who picked it up gingerly. He opened it and let its contents slide out onto the tablecloth in front of him. An ID and a passport.

Next to the picture of him smiling blankly with a fading bruise just barely visible on his cheek was the name 'Richard Wilson'.

"Oh." Dick said quietly.

"It will make things a lot easier for us whenever we need to leave the States." Slade paused a moment, seeming to consider something, before plucking the card and passport from Dick's hands and slipping them back into his pocket. He smiled. "You can have them when we're travelling."

"Thank you…" Dick trailed off as their dinner was served. Slade had even gotten him food that he liked. This was more kindness than he was used to. Some choked small, repressed and bitter part of him spoke up.

'How very sad.' It said.

Dick didn't say anything, though. He just ate his dinner gratefully, without another word, trying to distract himself from the people he would have to hurt this time a few days from now, and how, despite what Slade had said more than once over the years, he'd yet to learn to like it. But he couldn't distract himself from the fact that Slade had also said it would get easier, which it had, and that only made him feel worse.