The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material possessions. I like my material possessions...

Notes: Ok. So after a long wait (Were you even waiting?) Chapter fourteen is here and.. well, Slade rants a lot. In his head. You'd rant too, if you were him. He makes a pretty stupid decision in the end, too. Well, stupid to us, because dramatic irony is a kick in the face. But to himself, he made the right decision- at least for the time being, anyway. what decision am I talking about? Go read already.

Oh, and this whole chapter is in present time. There is absolutely no flashbacks. This was done so that people will not be confused when I refer to Joey-inside-Robin's-body as simple 'Joey'. You do remember that Joey stole Robin's body, right?

Reviews should be received by me, from you, after you finish this fic. They make me smile and make me write faster. It's true.

Thanks for reading and reviewing and being a spiffy audience.

Slade's POV

We eventually reach my bedroom after what seems like an eternity of holding hands and brushing shoulders in the dark, bitterly cold cog-infested hallways of my enigmatical compound. The boy next to me is still gripping my hand, small fingers lacing in between my own ones, but I don't look at him. We halt at the door, and I find myself fumbling with the meat-locker-like metal handle; I open it and right away, my living-dead son slips under my arm and prances into the room in a queer show of excitement. He twirls around several times on one tip-toe, imitating a ballerina. The black robe that I lent him flies up around his slender naked body; I quietly admire the sight of unrepressed or perhaps exaggerated enthusiasm. He eventually loses balance in his twirls and purposely dives backwards onto my bed, pale legs and thighs flying up in a jumble of oversized clothes and bedsheets.

I watch from the door way, hand still resting on the bitterly cold handle, unmoved; I've long since drip-dried, all but my hair, which still remains a shaggy, damp mess of spikes and tangles framing my face. The towel around my waist feels clammy and I'd really like to rid myself of it... but to do that, I'll have to step into the room, and stepping into that room, next to that boy, means facing something that I burried long ago and that I'd never suspected I'd have to confront again.

What the hell is going on? Things were going exactly the way I'd intended for them to. Robin would give in, I'd fuck his little brains out, he'd pledge is undying devotion, the end. How did it all become so awry?

I can still remember him; Robin, drenched and wet, shaking; so thoroughly helpless and, to my delight, begrudgingly willing. I remember the way the water curved down the immature muscles of his body; how conflicted his body language was, so frightened and surprised, and yet, in a way, incensed at the sight of me and the situation I forced him into. The eyes behind his mask, a vague picture of bewildered arousal and mistrust... I realize now that I should have gone slower- but it's difficult to do that when the opportunity is right there, ready and practically begging to be taken advantage of.

Like I once explained to Batman, there's no more opposition; no one standing in my way anymore for me to grasp what I want. So what is holding me up? Why am I taking so long?

I remember it began going wrong when I asked to take off Robin's mask. It was, in retrospect, a simple request, and Robin should have been grateful that I stooped down low enough to even ask him permission. I only did this because I knew that Robin could not refuse such a request from his Master, and the end result was imminent. Like I premeditated he would, he caved and obliged, and immediately, I was glad that I had asked; that I had waited. Because Robin's eyes were... amazing. He was amazing. It was like I had unlocked some sort of holy treasure, and only I held the key. His eyes were blue and dazzling little puddles, but even more than that was the emotion they held. All of the pain and fear and uncertainty of a fledging young boy; being hidden for so long and then being exposed in a sudden moment of intimate desperation... there is no way to describe it enough to deliver justice.

And at the moment, I was glad that I hadn't taken away his virginity just yet. Because those eyes might not have been the same explosive shade they were if I had.

It was the most foolish type of love at first sight. The part of me that I had been trying to kill off, the human me that I often do not even admit even exists, was aroused for a brief moment, as though it was suddenly dowsed with cold water and woken up in startled confusion. It was the sort of moment cheap love songs are carved out of. And I was certain that that breath of fresh air had been the stuff of love.

But then something became.. strange. The moment I felt that feeling, it was utterly shattered and killed off; crushed by another; by jealousy, something I'm definitely not a stranger to. But it wasn't my own emotion this time around, and I quickly realized this. Then, in a split second, it was gone; but before I could feel relieved, I saw Robin's muscles twitch- I saw the fear on his face, the very look I must have just held myself- he pleaded with me to help him, but it was too late. Robin knocked himself unconscious, and woke up seconds later as another person.

Supposedly, my late son, Joey.

But more on that little fable later on.

Joey is inside Robin's body; of course, Robin's body looks the same as it always has, on a purely physical level. Still short, slender and strong, same round perfect ass, same black hair resting down the sides of his face; the only difference I can find is that his eye color has changed. No longer that eruption of sincere azure, his eyes have warped into a drunken moss-color, obviously a symbolism of his current possessed state.

But considering their conflicting personalities on a psychological plain, Robin verses Joey, it nearly painfully apparent that he is a completely different person now. His mannerisms have gone from boyish to girly; from careful and respectful to careless and insubordinate. From stand-offish and even a little prudish to clingy and sexual. It's not hard to place the differences, differences not even Robin could ever fathom to fake or to act.

But it's still difficult to wrap my head around; hard to grasp, because it is not something that I can prove. Not in a logical way, and that's what worries me. I am not in control of the situation anymore, as I am accustomed to. I have no escape, no trap door, no backup plan, nothing; I hate it. It's like a psychologist getting psychologically examined by a toddler; I am usually the one playing with emotions, utilizing weaknesses and making other people's weak points my strength. But there is no way to tip the scales anymore, no way of getting out of becoming hurt again. I'm sitting in the palm of this kid's hand, because I want my Apprentice back; because I need to know if it's Joey. I want answers. Not only about how this all happened, but...

...But about how he felt back then. Back when things were better for us. When he was still alive and beautiful.

My thoughts are snatched away from me when I see the boy sit up on my bed, still curling his hair with his fingers. The whole front is now a mess of black curls, staying in place because of the dampness of his hair. His new curls bounce obscenely with his newly colored green eyes, and I hate the look of it. They are virtually nothing compared to the sincerity of Robin's, the picture of them still fresh and vibrant in my mind's eye. They're dull and placid and ugly and don't do his perfectly shaped face justice.

He notices that I am no longer following him, and twists around and looks over at me. He gets a calm look on his face as he leans back on his elbows, legs whether intentionally or not, spread open wide beneath the lazy concealment of his robe, providing a more than gratifying view.

"Papa.." His chest is exposed from the loosely hanging fabric of his garment, and he swipes a hand down Robin's lightly muscled chest as he stares up at me with a catty look in his eyes. His hand dips lower, disappearing under the fabric of his robes with a small giggle in his throat. I stay where I am though, frozen, my hand white-knuckled gripping the door handle as though I may float away and drown if I don't hold on to it with everything I have.

He bounces a few of the newer waves in his hair and smirks darkly. His voice rings with a childish kind of chiding that can only come from someone with the mindset of an elementary school student.

"What's wrong? I promise I won't bite, Papa."

I twitch because I vaguely recollect saying that very thing to Robin earlier, in an attempt, if I remember right, to corner him into succumbing to me. My own son is mocking me. Making me feel as vulnerable as I'd made Robin feel just a little while ago. An efficient, neat way of taking revenge. He's got an invisible collar around my neck, and he knows just how to yank it to make me heel.

I feel more of my internal defenses getting knocked down; I can barely stand it. I'm stronger than this, but the situation has boiled over far too much for me to control without burning my hand.

My hand feels numb, and a small piece of me doesn't believe that it's my own hand reaching behind my back and shutting the door; shutting myself in with this thing that holds no physical threat, but an emotional bomb that definitely won't kill me, but will leave a pretty nice scar in its wake.

I amble over to the bed, taking longer than I should. I sit down on the edge of it, one leg bent and resting on the top while the other hangs down the side of the mattress. He crawls towards me with a small little smile on his face, but I turn away; it's hard to look at him. He grasps my arm, but I give him nothing but a cold apprehension.

I'm scared. It's all too weird and uncomfortable and... well, I just never fathomed that this part of my life would come back to haunt me. It almost makes me want to laugh at the irony and the nice, neat little sucker punch to the face karma's delivering.

He gives a disappointed sounding sigh, flirty and sarcastic, and I feel his arms, covered in hanging black fabric, slip over my shoulders from behind me. He's on his knees, brushing his hand through my hair while the other rubs a finger along my thigh.

"Papa, please don't be cross... you know how much I've wanted you. How much I love you. I never want to let you go. Never again..." I feel his breath on my neck as he strokes my scalp; then a shiver when he starts kissing the back of my ear and brushing his second hand against my hip.

God, I hope this isn't a dream. A false sort of hope is starting to rise in my stomach like helium, grasping at straws; not caring that this kid is strange, that I know nothing about him, that he took Robin away from me; just the association with Joey makes me want to trust him; to trust something after being deadened for so long.

And so I ignore whatever it is in the back of my head telling me that something isn't quite right.

He curls himself around me, clinging to me for support while he moves to plant himself squarely between my bent and slightly spread apart legs. He straddles me, shifting and brushing up against me; making himself comfortable. As he does so, he reaches up and cups my face, tenderly stroking my visible cheek bone and peering into me. I look down at those alien-like green eyes and every time I do, I feel a sense of sorrow that is indescribable and makes me want to sieze away from him, but at the same time, makes me want to please him in a way that will make that expression vanish.

There is still a small part of me that hates seeing Joey sad. Hated and still hates seeing him cry. And I know that I'll do anything to keep him from doing so.

"Papa.." He leans up and kisses me, tilting his head up planting one right on my lips. But he doesn't remove his afterwards, staying them, decidedly beginning to kiss me harder and fuller and more passionately, until I feel Robin's small tongue poke its way past my lips to brush and lick and tug at my own, his breath hot and smelling of mint and chlorene and just... young boy. "Mm-mmh.." I don't bother to fight it, and I let him take me with his mouth; I can practically taste his hunger, his need for this, like he's been waiting for it for years.

His smaller tongue probes me, taking the initiative; and god, part of me wishes this were Robin doing all of this, while the other half is pleased that Joey is here with me. His hands are resting at my hips, playing with the knot securing my towel. The sensation of having him resting in my lap, having Robin's body sitting so pertly in my lap, is too magnificent for words. I remember a time, he sat on my lap in my chair as though he were my pet; but it was never like this. Never so close, and never so intimate. I keep having to remind myself that it is not Robin, but it's difficult.

I contain my excitement, though, because honestly, the part of me that appreciates logic is outweighing the part of me that is turned on; at least right now, and if I ever want to get to the bottom of this little self-contained mystery, I'd better act upon it before it's too late. I know full well that self control is not my strong point.

"Joey-" I practically have to pry his mouth away from mine, and he tries four more unsuccessful attempts at kissing-or smothering- me again; I dodge all of them, and when I turn back to look, his head is hanging as though I'd reprimanded him, his face looking like he's about to burst into tears. But before I can get a word in edge-wise, he's wrapping his arms around me and squeezing like a child hugging their favorite stuffed animal. He buries his face against my chest.

Hiding.

He whimpers, and to someone other than me, it might have sounded fake; hollow. But I want it so badly to be real, I carelessly ignore it. When I don't comfort him like he expected, he mewls, "Why don't you love me, Papa?" his voice is high-pitched, squealing with the pinch in your throat you often get when you try to hold in a fit of sobbing.

He snuggles up to me in working but also forced show of attractive vulnerability and he whispers in a diseased voice, his gaze directed upward,

"All I wanted.. was to be loved.."

"Joey..."

I hold his shoulders and shake him a bit. He's looking away, sniffling with tears draining all over his face and from his nose. His shoulders are shaking, and the sight is pitiful at best. His abnormal green eyes look strange though, growing more and more into a queer color that I cannot name.

He hasn't grown up a day. Why am I so pleased with that?

"I'm sorry, Joey. I just can't believe... it's a little hard to let it sink in.."

I feel something warm get lodged in my throat as all of the most powerful feelings of remorse, regret, longing, love, lust.. they all intertwine and make me feel like I should be sick all over the place with the intensity of them. I can't keep myself from spilling what I've wanted to say for so long. And in the middle of my speech below, I end up holding him in my arms. What I began as an attempt to explain my disbelief, it soon becomes a declaration of feelings I am not supposed to have anymore.

"...I just can't believe it's you. That you're with me again. I thought you were dead. Why wouldn't I? You died in my arms, and it was all my fault. How did this happen?"

Joey looks blatantly hurt all of the sudden, pounding his fist on my chest with flimsy strength. He's obviously not used to the body, because if Robin had done it, I'm sure it would have hurt a far deal worse. His fragile assault feels like nothing but a tickling feather against my battle-scarred chest.

"Why does it matter how? Why aren't you happy that I'm back? Why can't you love me the way you used to?" I almost want to flinch from his passionate battery of emotional vocalism. He tosses himself dramatically onto his stomach, landing with kicking legs like a child throwing a tantrum. I've never heard such loud, high-pitched crying in my life. Joey was never like this as a child.

He's certainly taken the needy part of his psyche to.. an extreme.

"Joey.." I try to soothe him, brushing a hand down his back, down to the small of it where it eventually curves into his butt. Robin's ass is the perfect size, compact and so small; I imagine my whole hand could fit around it if I tried it out. I can practically feel my body temperature rise with that thought and the agonizing suppression of all that I've ever wanted to do to this fucking little body.

I don't know how long I can hold out.

..So maybe I'll play into his hand and develop a strategy later..

"..Can you forgive me?" I ask in a low voice, fingering the sash of the robe and tugging on it little by little.

He turns only his head around to look at me, craning it. Tears are still draining everywhere, and if it were Robin, I'm sure I would have to laugh at the sight, because I don't think I've ever seen Robin truly lose his cool. I remind myself again.

He sniffles, his ugly green eyes avoiding my own. "... you were about to replace me... I couldn't help wanting to stop you..."

He sits up on the bed, his half-erect boyhood peeking up from the bottom of his robe. I take a hard swallow of air to keep myself from reaching out and touching him. That's just what he wants. Just what I want, and just what he knows I want. But the fatherly, lovesick part of me that is weak and stupid can't help but feel bad, seeing the flushed face of my apprentice and the distraught mental state of my son, and with its bleeding heart, abandons my own quest for answers in favor of a far easier and enjoyable alternative. He's obviously unstable, and probing him for information may only worsen his condition.

Who knows? It may be like the effect of the Lazarus Pit; a temporary period of psychosis after being revived.

The theory dawns on me, and suddenly the apprehension of this boy is gone. The suspicions dissipate like snow on a hot summer's day. Like a weight taken off my shoulders or a breath of fresh air, I wonder why I never thought of it before.

This strange, crazed, temperamental and unstable Joey is probably just temporary. I'll have the real thing back to myself soon enough.

More false hope bubbling to the surface and creating epileptic butterflies in my throat. Just temporary. Just temporary. Just temporary.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't have to understand."

What's that? That's the faint smell of bullshit spilling out of my mouth. But maybe he won't notice. Indeed, the look on his face is one of pleasure and foolish contentment. Temporary Joey isn't the smartest tool in the shed I suppose.

But then, my thoughts and my words are conflicting. I do want answers. But then, on the other hand, maybe I really don't have to understand him. He's in Robin's body, and he's just sitting there, waiting for me; offering himself, and I haven't had a good fuck in a long time. No struggle and no drama. Not what I imagined my first time with Robin would be like; but then, it's not really Robin, so it's perfectly alright. Robin's mind will still be full of purity, and I'll get what I've obsessed over for the passed year.

Yeah. No struggle. No drama. No Robin. I can deal with that.

Can't I?

All I'm doing is throwing away everything I've worked on with Robin for the passed half year. The spite hits me like a slap in the face, but I choose to ignore it. I need to take a position on the motion and stick with it lest I get caught up in both sides of my own argument. An argument neither side can win.

I'm not even sure what I'm talking about anymore.

"Papa? Are you listening?"

I shake my head a bit and small droplets of water go everywhere. "Nnh?"

"I want you to kiss me." His voice is sullen and pouting and delectable-sounding, and most noticeably, forcefully innocent.

The request is so juvenile and forceful that it seems begrudgingly easy to accomplish. I lean down swiftly and plant one right on his lips. I stay there, feeling his warmth. Kissing him. Kissing Joey. I realize that I can really tell that it's Joey, because I recognize the way he leans in so sharply up when we kissed. Like he's always eager. Because I never gave him much attention? That must be the case.

But I had secrets. I had a white picket fence to maintain. How could I have ever given him the affection he wanted back then? It was impossible. We were father and son, and society wanted to keep us in those parameters. There was no room for... this.

But now?

I can give him everything he wanted but never received from me. I owe him that much. I only killed him, after all.

Joey sighs against my mouth. Both our eyes have slipped shut; more mint and chlorene and boy scent filters through my nose and up to my brain. I feel the man-made curls of Robin's black hair against my cheek as he turns his face ever so slightly, and slips his tongue into my mouth. He massages mine with his own, illicitly hot and wet and so very small, tilting his head even further up into mine.

I feel Joey's hands pushing on my bare chest with limp strength. He continues petting my mouth with his tongue, while I lean down across the bed, resting my body weight on my elbows. He straddles me again, one of his fingers rubbing idly against the center of my chest. He breaks the kiss, his swampie-looking eyes opening lazily while he leans down abruptly to worship my chest, tracing the hard, definite lines of my muscles with his finger. First I feel his breath, then his lips, sowing half-parted kisses against my right nipple.

"Hmmn..." I mouth, placing a hand on the back of his neck and stroking the back of his hair, still straight and spiked with dampness as it should be. I stroke it in my fingers, scratching the back of his scalp. He teases me with chaste kisses, incredibly soft and fleeting only to be replaced by the next tingling little smooch. My hand grips the back of his head harder than I really mean to, and I must shake and groan like a perv when he dips his head lower.

He rubs his cheek against my abs; cut, defined muscles sloping down the curve of my body and gradually disappearing between my hip bones. I suck in a breath of air, causing them to flex and appear even more articulate than before as he works on worshipping each muscle with a lingering kiss. His nose brushes against my navel as his head pushes lower.

He comes to a halt and admires the rising bulge between my legs, a small, prudish giggle coming from below. My cock is pushing up the soggy fabric of the towel into a peaked tent. He looks up at me, a smirk on his face, obviously pleased with himself. I brush my hands through his hair some more, affirming him and urging to him to go on with a vague, lazy nod of my head.

He unfastens the knot of my towel, causing my breath to hitch for a moment. Uncovered and leaning backwards on my elbows, I glance down and see my own familiar, swollen erection, totally exposed in to the room. The surrounding air is cold in comparison to the warm, rushing blood inside it, causing it to burn into a hot, blushing color. Joey marvels at it like he's never seen one before. I affectionately scratch behind his ear and apply a bit of pressure on the back of his head, trying to lower him down. But he pushes back into my hand, a futile attempt at fake resistance. Or is he truly apprehensive? I wouldn't blame him. Even though he'd be an adult if he hadn't died ten years ago, his essence is still that of a child. He's going to have to get over it quick.

He does. My eyelid flutters and my fingers twitch when I feel the warm and the soft of his small hand touching at the base of my length. Slender fingers curl around, grasping at it like a child fascinated with a new toy. His entire hand is unable to fasten around the whole thing, but he tries to anyway. He squeezes softly, feeling, curious; every brief, chaste little touch sends my mind reeling. The teasing is too much to bare.

After a few more meandering strokes and shy touches, his grip becomes more firm, and more confident. He strokes me with both hands, up and down, creating swift, gratifying friction that sends shivers through my limbs and makes my mind shudder. I bend my back into him, and he goes a bit faster; he avoids the tip of my arousal. He saves that spot for his lips, which descend to kiss and suckle at the very stub of my swelling erection. My hand convulses behind his head as I throw back my own, groaning out his name, clutching at the covers. I look down and see his pink tongue flicker out of his mouth, tasting the bead of pre-cum at the tip. Then his lips close around me, the hot slickness of his mouth causing me to arch my back off of the bed. He pumps the base of me with quick, excited strokes with both hands.

This causes me to sit up straighter, leaning on a single arm while I push his head closer and deeper with the other. He resists initially, pushing back against my hand; it a takes a moment, but I'm sure he realizes what I want him to when he moves his working hands to grasp my knees in a sort of mindful preparation.

I feel a small smile curl onto my face at his obedience; then I realize with mild displeasure, again, that this is not Robin submitting so fully to me, but Joey. A deformed Joey at this, who would probably do this at any time if asked.

Yeah, No thrill, no win, no long-coveted-finally-owned. But I convinced myself that I could live with that if it meant talking to the real Joey, and I'm sticking with that.

There's nothing wrong; except it's just too easy. He's too easy.

But I'm already pushing my hips forward at a slow pace, shoving Joey's (Or Robin's, if you want to get technical) head between my thighs. He doesn't oppose this time, instead, conversely helping me by bobbing his head up and down to the rhythm of my hand behind his skull. His mouth is barely large enough to accommodate me, and the very fact is proven when I feel my cock kiss the back of his throat.

Joey gags, opening his mouth, suddenly letting a gust of fresh air into the hot, persperous cavern of his mouth. I take the opportunity to thrust in further, forcing him to violently deep throat me. I tilt the back of his head, roughly grinding myself into the back of his mouth, literally fucking his throat. It's vibrating with his own panting, pulsating with the need to either vomit or swallow, and my manhood is sensually raped in the process.

"Ohh, Joey..-! Ah..!"

I come with a vulgar-sounding moan, even for me, squeezing the back of his head and spilling myself into his mouth. Most of it goes down his throat, but what doesn't dribbles down the side of his mouth and down his chin. I see the flustered look on his face accompanied by my seed slipping down Robin's face, and it nearly makes me orgasm a second time.

But then I remember that it's not Robin.

Joey carefully takes me out of his mouth, licking his chin clean in the process. God's sedative does it's job; I lay down, resting on my side, propped on one elbow and closing my eye. Joey immediately, like a puppy, takes the opportunity to crawl near me, rolling on his side as well as if we're newly weds spooning. I drape an arm around him in a casual embrace, mostly because, well... he was a trooper. I doubt Robin could have handled such a thing without having a mental break down.

But then, that's what makes that kid so interesting, isn't it? It's the challenge.

I wonder when I started forgetting that? It seems so important now.

That, just then.. it just felt like fucking a whore.

Ten years ago.. it was different. Joey was forbidden fruit. Something I could reach for, but never grasp. A sexual taboo. I eventually picked that fruit, in my den, under the comforters, but...

Yeah. It definitely is different.

It's just not... Joey. It's not Robin. It's something I can't name anymore, but it definitely isn't innocent or intriguing. It's just a simple fuck.

What is it? What is it? What is it? What is it?

I need to know, or I'll go insane. But I'm still a little apprehensive about probing him for answers when he's so wrong in the head.

He snuggles up to me; I notice he's very silent for a long time. But then, I wonder, maybe he's going back to normal; shy Joey, who doesn't babble so consistently like this.. thing. I'm quickly proven wrong.

"I... I'm leaving." He says, his voice shaking and quickening. He clings to my arm like it's a flag pole during a tornado.

I immediately sit bolt-upright. "What?"

"The Kid's waking up."

I realize after far too long that 'The Kid' means Robin.

"What... 'waking up'?"

"Yes," says Joey, sitting up as well, legs bent in front of him, "I knocked him unconscious in the shower. But he'll only stay K.Oed for so long."

My mind races with questions.

I don't want him to leave, but I don't particularly want him to stay. I want my Apprentice back, but... having Robin means throwing away the past. Throwing away Joey. -And throwing away any chances of me understanding how all this body-switching-back to life situation happened.. and I'm not one to let things simply drift away into obscurity.

Joey sounds like he's having trouble speaking. He suddenly lurches forward and grabs my shoulders. Robin's pale face and its alien green eyes are looking up at me desperately. "I can feel him coming to.. I only have a few more seconds!" His voice starts changing from the squeaky-high pitch of a ten-year old to the normal, slightly lower pitch of a teenager. He's losing control.

"Wait-! You have to explain to me how this happened. I don't want you to-"

He touches my lips with his finger. "I'll still be lying dormant in his body. I just can't talk or control him when he's awake. You'll have to do something. If you want to talk, I'll... I'll... I'll listnnh to youhh..."

His words start to mumble together; his eyes flutter, and he's passed out; his body falls over and plops on the bed and I almost want to laugh at it. Then I realize that 'Joey' is gone and I feel anything but the need to laugh. In fact, I feel the need to strangle something; to kill something and stop it from breathing. Because I hate feeling so mixed up.

But the transition between boys is apparent and surprisingly speedy. Joey's personality is gone, and I know, it's strange that I can tell just from the way he's sleeping. Maybe I'm just that obsessed.

He groans; his right leg twitches awake before the rest of his body, pushing his foot and ankle across the covers in a lazy-way of awakening. Then his fingers convulse; his eyebrows skew together in the way a little boy's does when he hears an alarm clock at six in the morning. Then his mouth purses together, his shoulders flex, and his eyes crack open.

His eyes are azure blue and crystal clear. The sight takes my breath away momentarily. Then I'm struck dumb. Robin again. He's back. A wave of relief crashes in my brain and leaves a foamy trail of guilt in its wake.

"Sl... Slade...?" He sounds groggy. But you could never tell that his body had been possessed by my dead son only a few seconds ago. He looks like nothing any worse than a simple afternoon nap had ever befallen him in the last few hours.

He sits up, teetering with fatigue; I lean in and help him. He must find my assistance strange, because he gives me an inquiring look, his shoulders curling up in a defensive way. No doubt, he's starting to remember what happened in the shower. I'm sure the fear he felt when Joey invaded his body is flooding back to him.

He covers his mouth with his hand for a little while in self-preservation; then he fingers the black robe he's wearing with curiosity. "What's... going on?"

I smile at him, touching his shoulders; this is Robin. The real Robin. It's refreshing. I look into his eyes, and I'm relieved that nothing ill happens. "I'll explain it to you later."

He rubs his eyes, curling his knees up a little out of habit when he's in my presence; shy. Still shy. Still scared. If I were in one of my usual moods right now, I'd have to slap him in the face for being insubordinate. But now, all perversion subsides and I'm left with just a fatherly feeling of relief, like a father reunited with his child who got lost in the museum or the subway, or the grocery market. I truly thought for a while that he was lost, too far gone for me to reach.

"Robin, stay here. I'll be back. Don't leave." Robin nods his head slowly, looking a little freaked out on account of the shaken tone in my voice. But it's true. I'm not who I am usually when I'm around Robin. I'm like a snail, flipped onto its shell with it's sensitive underside exposed. The past is catching up with me, and I don't want to make the sort of decision I have to.

I grab the towel, mashed and damp and plastered down against the bed from me sitting on top of it. I tie it around my waist, for Robin's sake, and really, just because I have a little more class than that. But not much.

I leave the room without looking back at Robin, returning to the hallway. I walk into one of the many supply closets, wrenching open one of the metal doors; it opens with a loud clang, and inside is a fresh uniform. The closet door has a grungy mirror hanging in its interior, hanging sideways. The reflective is mired by mold and rust. I put the entire outfit on, excluding the mask for a brief moment.

I reach out and straighten the mirror's angle to get a better look at myself. I idly stroke my beard, biting my lip in self-thought. It's not a bad picture; tan skin, high cheek bones, and choppy grey hair jutting out in natural, short spikes... it really is no wonder young Robin is so smitten with me. I look at my eye, its glossy blue iris cold and seemingly unfeeling. I sneer at it, and it glares back. I turn my back on my face after a moment, reaching down and grasping my mask in my gloved hands; I hold it out in front of me like an artist critiquing his own work. I touch the black side of it, and soon enough, painful memories of Adeline come shooting back like a barrage of gunfire into my mind.

I shake them away, briefly touching the eye socket, then trailing my fingers across the steel grates at the bottom that serve as a filter to change my voice. I put it on, and the very moment I slip it back into its proper place, I'm transformed into the monster that I am on the inside.

I've never felt that I deserve the face I was born with. In my youth, I was blonde, curly, blue eyed, straight-laced and religious, handsome - an immaculate little Aryan. While age and a nice dose of chemicals from years ago have turned my hair straight and grey, my eyes remain blue and bright and contradictory; I am not as beautiful on the inside as they make me out to be.

Some people say that eyes are the gateway to the soul. For normal people, that may be a correct assumption. For Robin, it is so painfully true that he'd rather hide behind a mask than risk showing what his eyes may leak out of his heart. But for me? My eyes are just a false representation.

Steel grates and black contacts in my mask are more my style.

Plus, the mask makes what I am about to do much easier for me.

My footsteps clamber painfully loud in the silence of my base; I slide my metal-covered fingers across the walls. The hallway's ceilings are all enormous, and above my head I can hear the spurts of steam and the intercourse of cogs and gears and pulleys and machines, all with a duty. Some control obstacle courses; some control utilities and power generators - some are just there to make distracting noises. But I like them. They're ugly and loud and absurd, just like the man who put them there.

I reach the medical hall, really just an oversized room with no door. Inside there is a single light flickering on and off, spasmodically illuminating the dingy surroundings. There's a cot in the corner hooked up to an I.V. machine. A desk sits in the center of the room. A shelf against the side of a rusting wall has medical supplies. A second shelf on the opposite wall holds medicine; that shelf is laughably vacant with only a few little empty yellow bottles, their contents long ago spilled across the surface of the shelf and onto the floor.

I step across the room, stepping on and thus obliterating some of the scattered pills littering the floor. I stand at the desk and shift through its drawers swiftly, searching; it takes a few minutes, but by the second one, I've found what I need.

I take the object in my hands, clutching it to my chest; then I step to the other end of the room, to the shelf with medical supplies, and find the second thing I need. I step backwards to the desk and I put them both together: and what do I have?

A syringe filled with sedative.

The overhead light creaks in the dismal silence, making a sound like a dying bird; the light's flickering has become even more inconsistent. I don't notice. I'm at the desk, staring at the needle in my hands; staring at the clear liquid loaded to the brim inside of it; facing my own self doubt. I can see my own reflection in the barrel of the syringe, warped into the shape of the reflective cylinder.

I don't know if I can do this.

But I have a decision to make. Not a clear one, and not one that I can easily make up for if I have any regrets; it's one that has to come from the gut. But in its essence, when you peel away everything, there is a very simple, concise question with only two possible answers and only one correct one.

Robin or Joey?

They can't exist at the same time; it's impossible. If one will live, then the other must become a dormant shadow. There is no alternative solution in sight.

Yeah, it's simple. Either way, I lose.

I squeeze the syringe in my hand, nearly breaking it. It doesn't, obviously, and I curse it for its composure; my shoulders hunch, and a single sob escapes my mouth and echoes in the placid room - I carefully shudder away the rest of them.

I turn on my heels and retrace the way I came, through the door, through the halls, and back to the bedroom. I reach the meat-locker door again, but I don't enter immediately. I just stand there, in the darkness, my hand resting against the handle with its broken padlock, stock still. I lean my masked head against the door and give myself approximately seven good minutes to change my mind before I can go back on what I have decided that I want.

I don't, of course. After what seems like hours of hanging my head and simply listening to myself breathe, I decidedly push open the door with a fumbling jerk; It opens louder and more shoddy than I meant for it to, but I realize that it doesn't matter. Robin's fallen asleep.

I admire him from the doorway; his skinny legs are delicately bent across the covers, the robe creased up to his thighs. His hands are wrapped around himself in subconscious loneliness, and I'm sure he got tired of waiting for me to return. I see him swallow in his sleep, a look of discomfort on his pale face.

My heart aches because I know this is the last time I'll see him sleep so peacefully. I don't wish to disturb him.

I step into the room with indecisive intent; but the moment my steel rimmed boot hits the floor, Robin's whole body twitches; I suppose Batman taught him how to be a light sleeper. He's immediately awake and alert. His blue eyes burn a whole through mine.

"Slade? What..."

I step towards him, not bothering to hide the instrument in my hands. He doesn't notice. His eyes are fixated for the time being on my mask, which he hasn't seen in quite a long time. The appropriate look of fear materializes on his features, and he goes so pale that he looks even more sickly and malnutrition than he already is. (Which should be impossible by now.) I'm pleased that the mask can still strike such a cowardly look on his face; I'm his brain equates it only with pain and fear and suspicion.

"Why are you wearing that again?" He asks, inching backwards on the bed towards the wall that serves as a headboard for the bed. He was getting too comfortable with my face; it just goes to show you how much Robin's comfort and 'love' with me was merely based on a purely physical level.

I take a few heavy steps towards the bed, and Robin finally notices the syringe in my hand. I don't bother to hide it from sight; it's a personal rule of mine not to strike from concealment. But Robin's eyes go wide with surprise, because I'm quite sure he has no idea what I'm going to inject him with, and that scares the shit out of him.

"Please don't... Why are you.-! Slade!" I pounce on top of him once I reach the edge of the bed, grabbing his struggling limbs and pinning him. I keep him still, lurching out a hand to grab at one of Robin's skinny, struggling arms- He lashes out, kicking and screaming out of pure reflex; I wrench his arm nearly out of the socket, taking out my frustrations on him. He screams in pain, shutting his eyes, forcing the tears out of them and down his cheeks. I carefully ignore them, distracting myself from my Apprentice's pain while I push up the material of one of his sleeves all the way up to his bicep. I pull his arm straight, locking it at the wrist, causing it to become rigid and immobile.

"Please, Slade- I'm scared! I don't know what's-- Aahh!" I plunge the needle deep into his skin, into the middle of his arm near the joint. Robin cries in pain, and then stifles it away with a stiff upper lip. A good soldier. All he has for comfort are his tears, which spill past his eye lashes and dribble down his chin.

I pluck the needle from his skin after a good while of waiting for the solution to filter through the needle and into his veins. I discard it on the floor and sit down on the bed beside him, holding him steady; I can already see the sedative taking its effect on him. He tries to lean away from my touch, but is far too weak to protest.

"Why, Slade...? I thought..."

"You thought wrong." I take off my mask, tossing it to the edge of the bed in disdain. I don't need it anymore.

He whimpers, his face contorting with strain and his shoulders shaking. I shoosh him. He knows what's happening, even if he doesn't know exactly why.

God, it's too much to bare with a straight face. Have I told you how much I hate seeing children cry? Especially kids as beautiful as you. Someday I'll tell you. Someday, I'll tell you everything, and why I had to do what I'm doing to you right now. But not now, and not soon.

It's hard, but I've got to keep it convincing. I know he's watching, and he's waiting to come out again.

I squeeze both of his shoulders, a bitter and lopsided grin playing across my face as I try hard to speak without losing my composure. "Didn't you know? I love someone else. You never stood a chance against him. "It's difficult to say, but I'm used to saying harsh things. I'm a bastard, so it comes perfectly naturally to break his heart. But despite my casual tone of voice, I begin to cry along with him. Not sobbing, but just silent tears that communicate all they need to. My Robin. We're both blubbering fools for each other.

His sobbing starts to die down as he looks into my eyes. His lips pucker, like he wants a kiss, but then they go back to normal while his eyes start fluttering with drowsy heaviness.

"Slade.." he mumbles groggily, his head growing heavier and leaning to one side, "I'm sorry..."

I smirk to myself, straightening up a bit with a shaken voice, "What for?"

"Sorry.. - wasn't...good enough.." It takes him so much effort to say the last of it before he exasperates, falls dead unconscious, his once rigid body now going limp in a forced laxation.

I hold his body in my arms, crying to no one but myself. I burry my face in his chest to hide my tears, wiping my cheeks on the robe he wears. I've never felt so small, so frustrated, so utterly fucked up. I'm human and it's unbearable. I wish I could simply go back to being nothing but a cold machine-like thing, but because of this Joey matter, I can't. In order to resolve this, I must feel, and I can't let myself run away from pain anymore.

The transition, again, between boys is marvelously speedy. Robin's body goes from lax to alive in only a few minutes; Joey's obviously getting more skilled at using and controlling the body. He awakens like someone who'd been trying to fake being asleep- far too easily, and far too expectantly. It only takes him a few stretches of his arms and legs to get used to it, all the while keeping his eyes closed. There's a pompous, defined little smirk on his face that communicates that Robin is gone once again and has been now replaced by 'Joey' for the second time.

Take a deep breath.

"Sorry it took so long."

I incredulously look away, because it's hard to look at Robin's face spoiled by such marring expressions.

"Don't be. I wasn't worried." This makes me look up at him sharply, wondering what exactly he meant by that; immediately, I wish he hadn't, because he meets my gaze with a far more confident one. His eyes turn from blue to impaired green, and for a fleeting second, I'm sure the whites of his eyes rotted into the color black.

I look at him with an Inquiring stare, "Weren't worried?"

He bends his legs femininely together, habitually curling his hair with his fingers. His voice is mocking and his gaze is defiantly obstinate.

"Yeah. I knew you'd choose me."

I've made the wrong choice.

-FIN-(To be continued!)

Notes: Oh goodness. Slade made a boo boo. He's getting annoying to write. He rambles and describes too much! I wish I could go back to writing Robin for just a little while. He's so much easier.. (le' sigh) Slade is a very difficult character to stay in character, and even though I know I didn't do it, I attempted. Rawr. I'm starting to hate having to write silly Joey/Robin's lines. I can never find the right witty/mocking little things for him to say.

The Rwy'n dy garu di arc shockingly concludes next chapter!

Thank you SO MUCH for reading. Please, be courteous and leave a review. I love them. Again, thanks for being such loyal and spiffy peeps, and patient to boot..