Robin tugged the hood lower over his forehead and ducked into the apartment building. Hurrying to Slade's door, he knocked, his chest tight, feeling somehow more conspicuous in jeans than he'd ever felt in his bright uniform.

The door clicked open, and Robin slipped inside. As Slade shut the door behind him, the tension in his chest released and Robin sighed.

'Don't you look normal.' Slade closed the door softly.

Robin shot him an irritable look, shoving back his hood and digging in his belt for his mask. 'I see you haven't bothered with plain clothes.' He turned away to yank off his glasses and stick his mask on. His shoulders sagged. Better. For one thing, he could actually see without the dark, tinted visor of the Ray Bans. But also he just felt … naked, without his mask.

Not that you mind Slade seeing you naked.

Robin suppressed the warm shiver that went down his spine, and ignored the heat pooling in his lower belly as he turned back to Slade.

'I assure you, I looked like a perfect civilian when I arrived,' Slade said.

Robin shrugged. 'Dunno why. We turned up in our uniforms last night.'

'Last night was an emergency,' Slade said. 'I don't make a habit of advertising my safehouses. We were lucky we weren't followed before, and I don't want to risk it again.'

'So that means … ?'

Slade held his gaze levelly. 'We will be walking back out of here in plain clothes.'

Robin's stomach swooped. 'You're gonna take your mask off?'

He got the impression Slade was smirking. 'I can hide my face without a mask.'

Robin raised his eyebrows—but before he could ask, his communicator rang. He snatched it up, angling the camera away from Slade. What were the Titans calling for now? An emergency? He flipped it open.

JUMP PD

His heart stuttered. He glanced up at Slade, turning the screen to show him the name.

Slade's grey eye widened, but he nodded. 'Answer it.'

Robin turned the screen back before hitting the answer button, blocking Slade from view. 'Robin here.'

'Robin, it's Officer Bartlett. We met at the crime scene the other day.'

Robin recognised the officer with grey hair, and nodded. 'Something wrong?'

'Sort of.' On the small screen, Officer Bartlett tugged his shirt collar. 'We've got more information on that Thomas Newton case. There was another killing.'

It felt like someone had closed their hand around Robin's throat. The blood crept out of his face, his skin growing cold. 'Who?'

Officer Bartlett's grey brow furrowed. 'Another kid. Older this time, closer to your age.'

'Can you send me the details now?'

He nodded. 'I'll send them on through. Just look after yourself, kid.'

Robin tried to force his lips up into a smile, but couldn't manage it. 'Sure. Bye.'

The screen went dark.

'Another killing,' Slade said. 'I hadn't heard about it.'

The communicator screen lit up as Robin got the details through. He opened them with a tap, and scanned over the first few lines. His eyes widened. 'You wouldn't.' He handed the communicator to Slade. 'It was in Gotham.'

Slade took the communicator, fingers tracing briefly over Robin's, sending a flash of warmth through Robin's body. Robin watched, mouth dry, as Slade read over the report.

'This happened when you were in Gotham,' Slade said.

'I know.' Robin covered his face with his hands. 'Shit. Shit. I was there. The killer came for me—he came after me and I got away, so he went and killed someone else! This is my fault!'

'Don't be pathetic, Robin.' Slade held the communicator out, but Robin didn't take it.

'W-what?'

Slade sighed. 'Unless you personally branded—' he glanced at the communicator, '—"SLUT" into Jack Harvey's chest, I don't think you can claim the credit.'

Robin took the communicator. 'What?' His voice was hoarse.

'They even used my symbol for the S.' Slade rolled his eye. 'Creative.'

Looking down at the screen, Robin's stomach turned as he was faced with the autopsy photos. Officer Bartlett was right; this kid was older than Thomas Newton, his shoulders broader, his jaw stronger. Jack Harvey. Seventeen. He looked like a football player; probably on the school team. And branded blood-red over his heart was the word the killer whispered in Robin's ear.

SLUT

Robin blinked. The screen was blurry. Then he realised it was because his hand was shaking.

Surely Bruce knew about this? The report said Jack Harvey had been dressed in a cheap Robin costume, just like the last victim. No way would that go over Bruce's head. He would know.

So why hadn't he told Robin?

Swallowing, Robin took a long breath to steady himself, then hunched over his communicator and started to type.

'What're you doing?' Slade stepped closer, and Robin skittered back.

'I'm logging into Batman's computer system. I wanna see if he's got any more information.' If he's got any information at all. Robin glanced up. 'I'm not letting you see how to log in.'

'Oh, Robin. And I thought we'd learned to trust one another.' But Slade's eye was crinkled in a way that meant he was smiling, and he didn't come any closer, instead taking a seat on the corner of the bed.

The bed …

A ripple of tingles raced over Robin's skin and he shook himself. How dare he think—think about that? There were more important things. A boy was dead.

Because of him.

He tapped the last button and closed his eyes as the communicator loaded. Don't be pathetic. It was a weirdly comforting. Of course Slade would see it as taking credit. But he was also right. Self-pity wasn't helpful right now. That was why he didn't like the Titans worrying about him. It didn't fix anything. It just made them all miserable.

The communicator beeped as it loaded up the front page for the Batcave. Robin opened his eyes, and got to work tapping through Bruce's folders. The titles were unhelpfully cryptic—deliberately so, because if someone unsavoury snuck into the Batcave's system, why should Bruce make it easy for them? But Robin knew Bruce too well, and located the right folder in a few seconds.

He tapped the folder, and the screen flickered. Then—

ACCESS DENIED

Robin stared. What? Bruce had never denied him access to a folder before. Scowling, Robin tapped a few more keys. Whatever. Bruce had clearly lost his edge if he through a little thing like denied access was going to stop Robin from reading whatever he wanted. As if Robin hadn't spent the last several years watching Cyborg kick down every type of cybersecurity known to man.

A few more clicks and … yes! Robin straightened, scrolling through the same details from the police report he'd just read. Bruce had taken notes, covered each page with theories and messages and notes. At the end of the report, Bruce had made a separate document for suspects.

'Let's see who the bad guy is,' Robin murmured.

He tapped the first link—

DEATHSTROKE

Robin frowned as the page loaded up, because that sounded familiar …

And then the picture came up on the screen, and his stomach sank into his feet. 'Oh crap.'

'Anything you feel like sharing?' Although Slade hadn't moved, his tone was obviously impatient. He was respecting Robin's privacy, but he clearly wasn't happy about it.

'Batman's number one suspect.' Robin turned the screen around. 'It's you.'

Slade drew tall, pulling his shoulders back, and for a moment Robin thought he saw a flash of concern in that single grey eye. But then Slade nodded. 'That makes sense. My symbol was branded into both victims.'

Robin snapped the communicator closed. 'You don't get it. Batman is hunting you. Batman.'

'So is Falcone.'

Robin snorted. 'Falcone's nothing. Since Jason died, Batman breaks kneecaps first and asks questions later. You're screwed.'

For a moment, Slade was utterly still. Then, so quietly it was almost a whisper, he said, 'Since who died, Robin?'

'Since—' Robin stopped.

Robin's heart stopped.

He said Jason.

He told Slade Jason's name.

For a moment, he could almost imagine Jason rising from his grave just to give Robin the ass-kicking he deserved for being so fundamentally stupid. He'd never slipped up before, not once, not even when he was eight years old and he first put on those dumb green shorts. Bruce would skin him alive.

'I told you that you need to sleep more,' Slade said. 'You're making stupid mistakes.'

And in an instant, the horror flooded out of Robin, and all the loathing he'd momentarily directed at himself went shooting outward. Outward at Slade. Outward at everyone who'd fussed over him the last few months, demanding that he eat, that he sleep, that he be normal when nothing was normal anymore. That he keep on living as if nothing had changed when Starfire was gone and his brother was dead.

'I can't,' Robin snapped. 'I've tried. I can't sleep, so you and everyone else can stop telling me to.'

Slade rose to his feet, and for a moment Robin shrank as he was reminded just how huge Slade was. How Slade hadn't always been an ally—wasn't exactly an ally even now. Of how hard Robin knew he could hit. Hard enough you could swear your ribs had cracked and your lungs imploded.

Slade said, 'You slept fine last time you were in this bed.'

Robin tried to speak, and choked, blood rushing into his face. 'That was—that was different.'

He waited for Slade to push further; to drag some kind of painful admission out of him. That he'd liked it. That he wanted it again. Wanted more. Robin's breath stuck in his throat, and he wasn't sure what he'd say.

But as Slade stepped closer, he only said, 'What's in the bag, Robin?'

Robin let out a breath. Relief, or disappointment? He pushed the thought aside, swinging the rucksack off his shoulder. 'The armour you gave me.'

Slade's eye thinned as he smiled. 'I'm touched.'

Robin shrugged. 'I didn't want to get shot again.' He set the rucksack at his feet and unzipped it, tugging out one of the arm guards. He bent it experimentally, and it moved without resistance. Eyes fixed on the armour, Robin muttered, 'Someone broke into Titan's Tower. They took your mask. The one you used to drug me that time.' He flicked his gaze up, venom creeping into his tone.

Slade, however, was unapologetic. 'And, naturally, you suspect me?'

'No, actually.' Robin lowered the arm guard, dropping it back into the rucksack. 'But I bet the Titans do. Raven didn't even want to tell me—I guess she thought I'd go Red X on them again. But why would you bother breaking into the Tower to steal a broken mask when you have that one?' He nodded at the mask Slade was wearing. 'Cyborg says there's no more of that drug in it, and it's not like you're sentimental.' He folded his arms. 'Besides, if you got into Titan's Tower, you wouldn't skulk around the basement. You'd find a way upstairs and smother us in our sleep.'

'A shot to the head is cleaner, actually. Less struggling,' Slade said.

Robin grimaced, expecting fear to tighten his chest, or for his stomach to flip. But no, he realised with mild horror, he was actually learning to tell when Slade was joking. 'Remind me why I work with you again?'

'Because I'm the only one who can help you catch this killer. Who I presume is the genuine mask thief.'

Nodding, Robin shifted to the desk in the corner of the room, leaning against it. His leg didn't hurt, exactly—Raven's magic really had done wonders—but it ached, all the way down to the bone. 'So this lead of yours?'

Slade nodded, reaching back to lift a familiar pile of black clothing off the bed. 'Put this on under your plain clothes. The armour, too, although you shouldn't need it. I can tell you with some authority, it doesn't protect against psychics.'

Robin took the clothes, eyes widening. 'Psychics?' He set the pile down on the desk, unzipping his hoodie and tugging off his boots. 'Like Raven?'

'Madame Zara's … gifts … aren't the same as Raven's, no.' Slade hesitated. 'Unless Raven has recently taken to holding tea parties with the dead.'

Robin's spine locked. He was back there in an instant—his dark room, the black candles flickering, the chalk lines on the floor. They way everything smelled of smoke and burning wax right up until Raven burst in.

'No,' he said slowly, tugging his jeans down to reveal the green leggings underneath. 'No, Raven doesn't do that.'

He unbuckled his belt, hanging it over the back of the desk chair. Then he hesitated, because Slade was watching, and despite the fact he'd spent half a night here naked from the waist down, the idea of taking his clothes off in front of Slade sent heat shooting into his face.

'Go on, Robin,' Slade said softly. And it almost sounded like a threat. Go on … or else.

A deep breath. Robin reached up, gripped the back of his shirt, and pulled it over his head. He tossed the shirt down on the chair, goose bumps breaking out all over his skin. He hadn't really looked at himself in the mirror for a long time, definitely not without his shirt on, and when he glanced down he was surprised to see ribs where muscles used to be.

Shivering, Robin pulled off his gloves and dropped them on top of the shirt. He could just grab the black-and-orange shirt now, but … Slade was still looking at him. Still staring. And that stare didn't hold any pity, or any apology. Just hunger. Hunger, like he wanted what was in front of him so bad he almost couldn't hold back.

Heat and cold flooded through him, one chasing the other, and Robin's hands felt near to trembling when he hooked them under his leggings and slowly peeled them down. He kicked them off one foot, and the other, and straightened, wearing nothing but his boxers—

And before he could take a breath, Slade swept forward, and pinned him against the desk.

Robin's head spun. Slade pressed closer, his body warm and solid against Robin's waist. The desk dug into his ass, and Slade gripped his hips in both hands. Robin's breath went shallow as Slade lowered his head so Robin could see the shadow of his lips moving behind that dark mask.

'After we've dealt with the psychic,' Slade murmured, 'you will come back here, and strip for me again, and I will fuck you until you scream.'

He pressed his hips in a little harder, and Robin almost screamed right there. He strangled the sound off, a hoarse, croaked whimper.

'Agreed?' Slade hissed.

Robin nodded. When he thought he could trust his voice, he said, 'Yes.'

Slade drew back, and Robin shivered, his knees buckling. He grabbed the desk with both hands before he could do something truly embarrassing, like collapse out of sheer sexual frustration.

He took a few deep breaths, then reached for his apprentice uniform. The room was cool, and that helped as he fought to calm the pounding of his blood; the ache in his cock.

'What I wouldn't give,' Slade said quietly, 'to hear you say "yes, master".'

Robin managed to summon a withering look. 'Don't push your luck.'

Although he suspected, if Slade did that to him a second time, he'd say anything to make sure he didn't stop.