Hey! So uh, welcome back to this thing. This monstrosity of a creation. Haha, I can only say that I hope you enjoy it (because I definitely enjoyed writing it).
Warnings for this chapter include: abuse, brainwashing, and non-sexual nudity of a teenager. Nothing explicit.
It's impossible to keep track of time, is the first thing he figures out. Whatever kind of bunker Slade is keeping him in, there aren't any windows, and no clocks as far as he can find — except the stopwatches Slade uses to time him sometimes. Everything is grey concrete and steel, muted colors and silence and the only thing that breaks all of it up is Slade. Sometimes it feels like Slade's visits are days apart, and sometimes it feels more like mere hours. The meals are similarly spaced out, sometimes long enough between that his stomach aches with hunger, and others so close to each other that he isn't even hungry, though he quickly figures out that if he shuns a meal, the next won't come until he's nearly ready to plead for it.
It's all bland, nearly tasteless stuff, but it keeps him alive and he's not stupid enough to complain about that. He's almost positive if he complained, he wouldn't get fed at all. At least not until Slade had the satisfaction of making him beg for it, however long that took.
Things can always get worse, is the second thing he figures out.
If he's not in his cell then Slade is by his side, guiding him between rooms with a hand at the back of his neck or his shoulder, voice nearly always calm and collected, more than often amused. He learns to fear the times when Slade's voice rises, learns to shy away because that means anger, and anger means violence. Not the systematic, precise violence of 'discipline' — when that just means pain, and he prefers the pain to the humiliation — but outbursts of it if that anger is aimed his direction, or he's in the way.
Slade breaks his left wrist, two ribs, and three fingers before he learns that lesson. Two more ribs before he learns how to slip into the sort of complete surrender that will stay Slade's hand.
At first, Slade only puts him through drills. One after another until his muscles burn and he can barely stand, before feeding him — most of the time he's too worn out to even care that Slade makes him eat off a plate on the floor instead of a table — and then leading him back to his cell. More times than he's comfortable with, his legs give out under him and Slade ends up carrying him back, leaving him on the cot with a parting drift of fingers through his hair and a murmured word or two about how well he's done that day. Or how badly.
After a period of time he can't name and isn't comfortable thinking about, Slade starts sparring with him sometimes. It's painful, taxing, but it stirs a kind of joy in his chest to be fighting again, even if it's at such a disadvantage and he always loses. In a way, the spars become bright points in the haze of pain, exhaustion, and fear his life has become. Slade will point out his flaws, correct his form, but never criticize him unless he's done something genuinely stupid. And the ruffles of his hair, the touches to his jaw and the murmured praise whenever he pulls off something impressive or lands a solid hit, those…
He can't bring himself to hate how good those make him feel.
His anger slips from his grasp, temper unable to survive the pain it brings whenever he lets it show. He buries it, surrenders to Slade's demands and accepts the relatively gentle backhands as simple reminders of his place when he makes mistakes. He'll take those backhands over true discipline any day, and he tries to take those reminders to heart and watch himself to make sure whatever he's done wrong doesn't happen again.
But the silence, when Slade isn't there, eats at him. It eats at him and he doesn't know how to combat the loneliness that slowly sinks into his bones. Doesn't know any way to fix it but to speak one day, at the end of Slade's training session while the older man is putting away the wooden staves they were using.
"Master?" he dares to ask, and Slade puts the staves up on the hooks they're stored on before turning to him.
"Yes, boy?" Slade says, not showing any irritation at his bravery, which makes it easier.
He swallows, struggles to hold his ground because as usual, his legs feel one step from collapsing underneath him, and he's coated in sweat. "Can I stay, Master?" His voice comes out quiet, almost a plea.
Slade approaches, single eye narrowed behind that ever-present mask, and he almost drops to his knees in automatic reaction to that look. "What do you mean?" Slade asks, once he's standing in front of him.
It takes another swallow to force himself to speak, to remind himself that now it's not a plea, he's been asked a question and that means he has to answer. "I want to stay up here with you, Master. Please? Not— Not forever, but can I just— just today?"
Slade reaches out, tilting his head up with fingers under his chin, still studying him. "Tell me why you want that, pet."
He bites his lip, tries to form the thoughts in his head into cohesive sentences and fails. "Silence," he ends up blurting, and then wincing. "I— I would rather be up here than down there, Master, please. It's so quiet down there, I'm alone and I— Please let me stay. Please."
Slade gives a quiet chuckle, and he relaxes a little at the sound. Slade's laughs have different sounds, and this one is safe. "Are you lonely, my pet?"
"Yes, Master," he answers, pairing it with a nod small enough that it won't dislodge Slade's hand.
The hand under his chin slides around to run through his hair, and then to lightly grip the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and surrenders to the touch, dipping his head a little bit. "As you wish, my boy. Come on, let's get you washed off, and then you can stay with me while I work."
"Thank you, Master," he immediately says, opening his eyes and managing to dredge up half a smile because Slade insists he be polite.
Slade leans down, wordlessly gathering him into powerful arms, and he closes his eyes again and relaxes into Slade's chest, grateful for the chance to rest and give his legs a break. He almost drifts to sleep while Slade is carrying him, before coming awake when Slade jostles him a little bit. He cooperates as best he can with Slade easing him to stand on his own feet, even if his legs shake a little bit at the renewed strain.
He's in a bathroom, a real bathroom, with tile beneath his feet and a walk-in shower in front of him. He hesitates, stays still as Slade moves forward to turn on the water and tugs a glove off to test the temperature. He almost wishes that he'd kept his eyes open on the walk over, because he's not certain where he is.
He takes a moment to look around, to register the neat line of shaving products and soap beside the sink that's behind him, the large towels hanging on the wall, the toilet with its lid still up. Slowly, he comes to the realization that this is Slade's bathroom, in whatever portion of the bunker his master actually lives in. He's never been here.
"Boy."
He jerks a bit, whipping his head back around to look at Slade, who's stepped back out of the shower. Slade motions him forward, and when he obeys Slade's wet hand presses between his shoulder blades, guiding him over the slightly raised ledge and into the spray. He expects it to be cold — every time Slade's washed him off, it's been with cold water — but when it washes over his shoulders it's almost hot instead.
He lifts his head, shoulders easing down as he tilts his face into the spray and just stands there. It feels so good that he finds himself smiling, really smiling, as he leans into the water.
Eventually Slade coughs, and he startles again. He opens his eyes, looking over to find Slade leaning against the counter of the sink, watching him. For the first time in a while, the fact he's not wearing anything embarrasses him. He ducks his head, reluctantly stepping back so he's out of the spray of water. He immediately feels too cold, and can't help shivering a little bit. He wants to step right back under the spray, but Slade clearly thinks he's taking too long, and he only really needed to rinse off.
He starts to move out of the shower, and Slade shakes his head, making him freeze up in place, unsure what's wanted from him. Slade nods towards the spray, arms crossed but it doesn't really look threatening, just casual.
"Go on, pet. Get clean; enjoy it." Slade's voice might be low, but it's clearly a command.
He dips his head in obedience, stepping back under the spray before he takes an actual look at the recessed shelf in front of him and the bottles on it. When he reaches for the one labeled as shampoo, he takes a glance over at Slade to make sure it's alright before he touches it. When there's no warning sound, or narrowed eye, he cautiously picks it up. Still nothing, and he relaxes and squeezes some of it into his other hand.
Working it into his hair is like heaven, even though he ends up having to go back for more since what he has isn't enough to spread through everything. His hair is longer now, and he doesn't like to think about that too much because that brings up troubling questions about how long he's been here. Questions he doesn't really want to know the answers to. He tries not to think about anything that doesn't focus on the present, because if he did he's pretty sure he would have gone insane a long time ago.
There are a lot of things he's sacrificed for the sake of survival and his own sanity. Pride, dignity, loyalty, shame… Any name that isn't 'boy,' or 'pet,' or whatever else Slade feels like calling him in a day.
He washes the shampoo out, goes back for conditioner and then soap, while it sits. The scent, something vaguely minty, smells sharp and almost overpowering to his senses, and he tries not to breathe too deeply while he's holding it. He sets to work washing all of it off afterwards, and god the way he feels actually, really, clean brings a small smile to his face.
"How long do you want to stay under the water, pet?" Slade asks,
He turns his head to look at Slade, searching for any sign of disapproval as he considers his words. Then, just honestly answering, "Until it gets cold."
Slade laughs, shakes his head. "Well, I'm not going to give you that long." Slade pushes off the counter, straightening up and announcing, "I'll be right back, pet. When I am, you'll get out of there. Clear?"
He nods. "Yes, Master."
He watches Slade leave the room, and then turns back to the water and steps more fully underneath it. He runs his fingers through his hair just to feel it, relaxing under the spray until he wants to just lie down on the tile beneath it and rest there. He almost does, before he hears the tap of boots against the tile and looks up to see Slade walking back in.
It's still reluctant, but he reaches forward to the knob and turns the water off. The cold hits him and he shivers, before Slade is clicking his tongue and beckoning him out.
"Come on, boy," Slade orders, pulling one of the towels from the wall.
He steps out of the shower, and Slade wraps the towel around his shoulders. He closes his eyes, stands still as Slade starts to dry him off, ruffling his hair and then moving down to get the rest of him. He tries not to flush, but is pretty sure he fails, when the towel moves down between his legs. Luckily that only lasts a couple moments, and then there's a rough drag down each of his legs, and then it returns to work at his hair a little more.
"This is getting long," Slade comments, as the towel gets discarded and a hand replaces it, fingers combing through his damp hair. "We'll have to cut it soon enough." It's not a question so he doesn't offer his opinion, just lets Slade lead him over to the sink and press a packaged toothbrush and half-used tube of paste into his hand. He follows the silent order, as Slade stands at his back, doing something with his hair. It takes him a couple seconds, and a glance in the mirror above the sink, to realize that Slade is looping his hair up into a messy half of a bun, contained by one hairband.
The taste of the toothpaste is as overpowering as the soap was, and he winces at the drag of the brush against his gums. Slade's been letting him brush his teeth, but not with toothpaste and not for as long as he should have, so it's a little painful. Nothing compared to what he's already been through though.
"You've grown," Slade continues, one hand lightly gripping his shoulder. "Take a look, pet. You've gained a few inches since we met. Filled out too; not so thin anymore."
He looks up, and realizes as he straightens up that Slade is right. He doesn't look absolutely tiny anymore in comparison to Slade's bulk, not with the extra muscle on his frame and his added height. He's still smaller, and he doubts he'll ever tower as tall as Slade, but he doesn't look like a child anymore. There's a sharpness to his face he doesn't remember from before, a length to his limbs that's unfamiliar now that he's looking at it, and he's never been this defined before. Exhausting, yes, but clearly Slade's brand of training is working, at least physically.
He leans down to spit out the toothpaste and rinse his mouth clean before straightening back up. "Woah," he murmurs, raising a hand to trace over the new lines of his jaw.
Slade lets him look for about a minute, and then squeezes his shoulder and pulls him away from the mirror. He goes without complaint, and Slade leads him out into what's clearly a bedroom. What's clearly Slade's bedroom. The bed is made with a military sort of precision, everything in the room just in its place, and up above the head of the bed there are two mounted, crossed swords that still look dangerously sharp. Slade leads him to the center of the room before letting go, and he takes the hint and stands still as Slade circles around the bed.
The older man gets onto the bed, back against the headboard as he retrieves a laptop from the end table just to his right and sets it in his lap, flicking it open. The snap of fingers, and the point of them down towards Slade's left side, is enough order for him. He heads forward, trying to ignore the ache in his muscles as he slips onto the bed and, guessing without any further hints, lies down at Slade's side. His head is near Slade's hip, body stretched out along the length of Slade's leg and past it. He closes his eyes, presses his face against Slade's armor, and then something warm and soft is settling over him. He pulls his head up, catches sight of a black blanket spread over him, and most of Slade's legs, before his head is pushed back down by strong fingers.
"Relax," Slade orders. "I'm going to work, and you may stay as long as you keep yourself still and mostly silent. Understood?"
"Yes, Master," he answers automatically, and then pauses before adding, "May I ask one question, Master?"
Slade grunts, tugs a little bit at his hair in what's probably supposed to be warning, but nods. "Go ahead, pet."
The words don't come easily, and they're not really smart, but he says them anyway. "Master, this is a lot of rewards in one day. Did I do something right?"
Slade looks down at him, and then slides gentle fingers over his scalp. "You asked to stay, pet."
It's a simple answer, and for a moment all he can answer with is a soft, "Oh." Then, he manages to turn his head to look a bit more fully up at Slade. "I'd like to stay more often, if that's alright, Master?"
"Fishing for more rewards?" Slade teases, and even though it doesn't sound serious, he still shakes his head.
"I don't like to be alone," he admits.
Slade's fingers pause, and then stroke through his hair, down towards his ear and then his neck. "We'll see, pet. If you behave, I don't see a reason why you can't spend more time up here."
He sighs in relief, tilting his head into Slade's hip and rubbing it against the armor a little bit. "Thank you, Master."
He doesn't have to ask for it the next time, or after that. It becomes fairly regular for him to lie next to Slade as the older man works, fingers occasionally combing through his hair or stroking down along his neck and shoulders. Usually until he falls asleep, slipping in and out of consciousness, curled in against Slade's leg.
He stays still as Slade cuts his hair back down to shorter lengths, and the lack of it against his neck feels strange after so long, makes his head feel lighter. Slade takes to trimming his hair every once in awhile, and he learns to stay still, to let Slade turn his head wherever it's wanted, to stay just where Slade puts him until he's pulled somewhere else. The face that looks back at him from Slade's mirror is almost familiar now, instead of the near stranger that he saw when he first looked.
He gains another inch, gets used to the feeling of Slade standing behind him, of hands on his shoulders and the squeeze of fingers against the back of his neck when he's done a good job. He lives for those moments, for the times when Slade leans down and whispers in his ear how well he's done, how good he's been. There's a dull ache in his chest that he can barely even remember the cause of, and that firm, sincere praise helps to ease it.
Every word of praise makes him feel like he's done something right, like he's cared for. It almost frightens him how easy it is for him to want more of it, but he shoves those thoughts down like everything else that no longer fits into his world.
Slade is the only part of his life that makes sense anymore. The only source of… of anything that isn't silence and a small square room of concrete. He can't afford to jeopardize that.
Eventually, one day, Slade guides him to sit on the bed instead of lying down. He follows the guide of fingers that tilt his head up, raising his gaze to meet Slade's as the older man stands in front of him. He doesn't move when Slade slides fingers back into his hair, brushing it back from his eyes.
"Do you know how long you've been here, pet?" Slade asks, voice almost uncharacteristically soft. It unnerves him a little bit.
He swallows, curls his fingers into the blanket beneath them. "No, Master," he answers, and then adds on, "I— I try not to think about it."
He can guess at the time it would have taken his hair to grow, or his broken bones to heal, or how long it must have been for him to have grown the inches he has, but he doesn't want to. He's not sure he wants to relate all of this to time, to make it real. If he makes this real…
Slade watches him for a moment, and then tells him, "A year. It's been a year."
Something in his chest cracks, and he sucks in a sharp breath, staring up at Slade's mask, at the single eye staring down at him. He grips the blankets tighter, trying to reconcile the thought of… of a year. A year trapped inside concrete walls, under the touch of gloved hands and with only a voice that he's learned to read as well as an actual expression to break up the silence and the solitude. A year.
He snaps to attention when Slade's other hand rises to that black and orange mask, fingers pressing into hidden catches and there's a soft hiss as it comes loose. He stares as the mask falls away, tracks it as it gets tossed to the bed at his side and then raises his gaze back up to Slade. To his face.
Short white hair and a white, carefully trimmed beard. A face that he'd probably guess at late thirties or early forties, with an eyepatch crossing over it and covering where Slade's right eye would have been. That single blue eye, now paired with the rest of a face, looks down at him, studying his reaction. He just stares, until Slade cups his jaw and speaks, soft and low.
"My name is Slade Wilson. As a mercenary, I go by the name Deathstroke."
Distantly, he can register the feeling of his world cracking around him. He takes in a shaky breath, stares up at a real face and feels his shoulders start to shake as well.
"Your… Your name is Slade," he breathes. "You— God, it's your name."
"Who is Slade?!" rebounds in his head, circling around in the angry voice of a child he can barely relate to anymore. He shudders, looking at that white hair, the blue eye, the sharp jaw and the actual shape of a mouth that's been speaking, whispering, praising, and criticizing him for… God, for a year.
He gasps in a breath, helpless under the gaze of that eye, and feels the burn of tears in his eyes. At his own stupidity, for never realizing that 'Slade' was more than just some alias. At the fact that it was literally right in front of his face and he never even considered it. At the fact that Slade literally told them his name and he was still so hopelessly ignorant that he didn't see it.
Slade lets go of his jaw, and before he understands the movement the older man is sitting down next to him, gathering him in against a broad chest and cradling his head against one armored shoulder. He trembles, releasing the low, helpless sound of pain as Slade — Slade — holds him, head turning down against his and real lips pressing to the top of his head.
"It's alright," Slade murmurs, holding him a bit tighter and shifting them backwards onto the bed itself. "Let it go, boy. What's already happened is done with; I don't hold you responsible for the failures of your past."
He squeezes his eyes shut as Slade pulls them both down to lie against the bed, and goes willingly when he's pulled into the older man's chest, tears slipping from his eyes as pain swells to the front of his mind. He curls his fingers against the reinforced fabric of Slade's armor, can't get a grip but it doesn't really matter when he buries his head beneath Slade's chin and just shakes.
Slade's fingers stroke through his hair, the other arm holding him tight, flat against his back. "That's it," Slade whispers, against the top of his head. "That's my good boy. Just let it all bleed out, pet. I'm here; I have you."
He shakes harder, gasps in a breath that catches hard, and then screams into Slade's chest.
When he wakes, alone in Slade's bed and feeling hollow and drained, there's a pile of neatly folded orange and black clothing beside him.
He looks at it for a moment, reaches out and touches it to make sure he's not dreaming. It's soft, almost more like pajamas or some kind of workout clothing than anything substantial, even if it's patterned like Slade's uniform. It smells like laundry detergent, freshly clean and neutral, with none of Slade's scent clinging to it, nor anyone else's.
He holds it long enough to make sure it's not going to vanish between his fingers like plumes of smoke, and then slips it on. And when Slade reappears, when he sees the glint of pride in that blue eye and the obvious satisfaction, it feels right.
When Slade presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, gathers him into a loose embrace, and whispers, "That's my boy," the warmth in his chest is foreign and familiar all at the same time. The graze of a hand down the length of his spine comes with the murmur of, "Welcome back, Apprentice; you've earned it," and he presses himself harder against Slade.
"Thank you," he whispers back, against the curve of Slade's neck and shoulder. "Thank you."
