Uh yeah so like three years ago I had an account on here and basically I got locked out of it and so I stopped updating my fic and then one day I was like 'let's finish that thing' so that's what this is

This ( s/7734330/1/Basic-Skill) is the first part of the story you should probably read it first if you want to understand what's happening here

Also this chapter was sort of written with the idea of getting my head back in the game so it's kind of exposition-y

/

"You're quiet."

Oh hahaha.

"I know. I know. Repeating my jokes. To be fair, it's not as if you're giving me much new material."

'To be fair', Dick didn't want to be fair. The doctor – Call-me-Arnold with his sweaters and his glasses and his collar ruffled from taking off his tie so Dick couldn't strangle anyone with it – was the third one he'd had since he'd arrived. The others had given up fast but Call-Me-Arnold seemed to have dug in for a long campaign. Their sessions took place across a table that was welded to the floor, between them was a thick sheet of bullet proof plastic, and standing in each corner of the room was an armed guard. Because you're a criminal.

That wasn't why Dick was angry. He'd proven that they needed to keep an eye on him, that he was dangerous. It was logical, and he wasn't going to get angry about logic. His anger was Call-Me-Arnold's fault.

It was his fault because he was enthusiastic: because his colleagues had failed to fix Dick. Dick was famous. Solving the case of the spoiled brat who tried to murder a superhero would make Call-Me-Arnold famous too.

No matter how far he'd fallen he'd never expected to relate to the Joker.

(If this ended with him in a purple tux and Call-Me-Arnold in facepaint and a Harlequin clown costume he really would go mad.)

"I don't think you're a bad person Richard."

And now he knew for certain that Call-Me-Arnold was an idiot.

He'd been here two weeks. It felt longer. He felt older. Taller. Thinner. That part was true anyway. Though he'd tried to keep exercising it wasn't easy to get what he was used to. The prison food was basic nutrition only: not enough protein to keep up his muscle mass. He was dying slowly here. He thought about complaining, but that would mean breaking his universal silent treatment.

And his whole thing now was acting like he didn't care about anything.

Your whole thing now is really not caring about anything.

After all. It's temporary.

Slade's going to get you.

Like these counselling sessions. Why should he bother playing along? The doctor- even if he'd been good enough to help him, even if Dick had needed help- only knew what Bruce had told him:

Dick had been having a 'rough time'.

Dick had vanished.

Dick had resurfaced after breaking into Titan Tower and stabbing teen heroine and complete stranger, Raven.

He'd pieced all of that together from what Call-Me-Arnold and his two predecessors had said to him, and discovered from it the only useful thing he was likely to learn from incarceration; Bruce- Batman- hadn't put him here with any hope of rehabilitation. If he'd wanted to, he could have found a doctor he trusted. Someone who could be given enough of the truth to have a chance of helping fix whatever Bruce thought had snapped in his brain.

But he hadn't.

This wasn't about moving on with his life, no matter how much the doctors and the posters on the walls told him that the future was ahead of him. This was Batman throwing a tantrum. This was Batman being a Batbaby.

Dick fought the urge to sneer at his own joke.

Maybe he really was turning into the Joker.

"-talk to me. I think we've had a really productive session."

Dick let the guard stick the gun in his back, stood up and walked to the door. Down the hall. He could smell the greasy unpleasantness of lunch.

It had occurred to him that he could start talking. Let Slade kill the Titans.

A little part of you is so angry with them that you-

He didn't want them dead. He didn't.

But it wasn't fair that he should be here, that he should have done all of this for them – stabbed Raven for them- and they'd not had enough faith to trust him back.

It hurt.

He could, also, talk about something else. Give up Batman. Slade would like that.

But it wouldn't work. Bruce wouldn't have sent him here if there was a chance it might.

What's one more crazy person saying they're Robin?

It was probably good. Dick wouldn't kill the Titans- wouldn't kill Bruce.

But he was so angry. Angry about right now, angry about Zucco and angry about everything in between, this betrayal had dug open all the old resentment he hadn't realised he had and now-

If he could ruin Bruce's life?

The only thing that he knew for sure was stopping him was that he didn't want Bruce to think he cared.

That scared him.

In the food court, Dick made to walk to the queue. The guard stopped him and gestured to the other line- the one for people with pills to take with their meal.

"Not so fast. You've got meds."

What?

Had Call-Me-Arnold put him on something? Great. Now he had to start throwing up after meals. No way was he ingesting anything that hack prescribed.

"Grayson. R." The nurse smirked. She knows who you are. She hates you too.

Nobody liked rich brats attacking Superheroes. Big shock.

"You're on… let's see… Vit. C… B1, 2, 3… 6, Folate. Biotin. Pantothenic acid. Damn. Full set." She handed him a paper cup of ugly capsules and another with water. "You pregnant or something?"

He ignored her, eying the pills suspiciously. Different sorts and so many of them. Could be they were all fake to hide the real one, that this really was just Call-Me-Arnold, but the prison thought he was ordinary, right? So why would they bother?

Sudden, sick hope clutched at his chest. You aren't even pretending anymore. He looked the nurse in the eyes and emptied the cup down his throat in two mouthfuls, water between them.

You don't even care that you shouldn't want his 'rescue'.

And why should he? He didn't belong in here. At least out there, at least beside Slade he had a chance of getting the trigger. Getting the Titans safe, then-

Leaving them all.

He wasn't going back. Not ever.

You're not getting that trigger off him either. You'd be leaving one prison for another. And if you don't kill for him it's only a matter of time till he gets sick of you and shoots you himself.

But he didn't believe that. Slade wouldn't kill him. Not after all of this. Not before he could think of something. Slade was honest. Slade didn't care about him, didn't pretend to care about him, but he was invested.

He was watching.

He knew he was losing weight in here. Wanted him strong so he'd changed his medical requirements and got him supplements.

It could have been Batman.

It hadn't been Batman.

Maybe that certainty should have scared him too.