His body shook, although he was not cold, he just felt numb. Indifferent. Rolling onto his side, Robin sunk further into the mattress and pulled his covers tighter around himself. It seemed impossible to get comfortable. His sheets were scratchy and crusty. His clothes were stiff and rubbed him the wrong way, literally. His matted black hair clung to his equally uncomfortable pillow. It took him a moment to realize his skin was slick with a cold sweat and his heart was racing a mile a minute, like it was trying to escape his chest.

His mind and body were at war. His body wanted sleep, but his mind insisted that his body move. Ever so slowly, Robin pulled the covers off and crawled out of his bed. Much to his surprise, his bedroom door was wide open. Very little light trickled in, but it was enough for him to make out where everything was. The little light coated everything in a grey haze, but he was able to see different shades.

As he crawled out, the delicate scabs that had begun to form cracked open and blood seeped out, smearing on his sheets. Once he had found his way out, he took notice of the way his blood looked black against the grey of his bed. Robin's breath hitched in his throat, the whole middle of his bed was painted black as if it were some morbid drawing. Tears sprung to his eyes. What had he done? Clutching his black locks, Robin pulled until his roots protested. He could feel blood gluing his strands of hair together. It was dried and he imagined it was an ugly shade of brown. The whole front of his shirt was stained black, as were his jeans.

Pulling his hair to the point where he thought it might rip from his scalp, he began to hyperventilate. His lungs seemed like they couldn't get enough air. It was a wonder his knees didn't buckle. The image of a dead dog with its vital organs spilled onto the ground popped into his mind. He could not forget the beady black eyes that would never see again. He had killed two living creatures.

Robin felt bile rise in his throat and coat his dry mouth. Clamping a hand over his mouth, he rushed out of the room, up the hallway, and into the dark bathroom. Leaning over the toilet, he vomited until his stomach felt like it had been stabbed. Easing himself onto the floor, he leaned against the wall and moaned. He felt like he had swallowed a bottle of bleach. His stomach began heaving again, but nothing would come up. Spitting into the porcelain throne, he flushed and unsteadily got to his feet.

Exiting the bathroom, Robin walked past Wintergreen's room and entered his own. Not bothering to turn on the light, he walked back to his bed. Robin clutched his queasy stomach and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He couldn't throw up again, he was on a mission. Grabbing the blanket's and sheets in his fists, he yanked them off the mattress in one swift motion and deposited them on the floor like dirty laundry. Seizing his pillows, he threw them across the room. There was no hope for them, they were ruined. He idly wondered if Slade would let him burn them.

He nearly burst into tears when he saw the blood had soaked through into the mattress. Maybe there was a scrub brush under the bathroom sink. With a good amount of elbow grease it would come out. Or at least he hoped it would. Robin was unable to stand the thought of sleeping in the bed with the dog's blood on it. He didn't want to be constantly reminded of what he had done. Moving to his dresser, he pulled out a pair of neatly folded clothes.

Once again leaving his room, Robin made his way to the bathroom. Pausing outside of Wintergreen's door, he heard the man's soft snores. Moving farther down the hall, he stopped in front of Slade's door, but heard nothing coming from within. It was possible the man was in the basement, or maybe he just up and left for the night. Robin honestly didn't care. His only goal at the moment was to scrub away the blood, which in turn would rid him of the terrible memories of the terrible thing he had done.

When he entered the bathroom, he shut the door behind him and neglected to turn on the light. A light that only came on in the dark was plugged in beside the mirror. It radiated little light and gave everything a ghostly look. Setting his clothes on the counter, he slipped off his shirt and was about to put the clean one on when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His hair was matted in places and he had dark circles under his eyes. The puncture wounds were all too visible all over his body. He had scratches everywhere, and he was covered in dry blood. To say the least, he looked like the walking dead. All that was missing was blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth and he could have been a zombie.

Tugging the rest of his clothes off, Robin threw them into the waste basket. Peeling his mask off, he placed it on the counter, but he didn't dare gaze into the mirror again, for he was afraid of what he might see in his eyes. He slowly stepped into the shower and turned on the water as hot as it could go. Grabbing a bar of soap, he began scrubbing every inch of his skin. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, only quitting when he was sure his flesh would split open and bleed. Lathering shampoo into his hair, he hissed through his teeth. Blood dripped to the shower floor, swirled a bit, and then went down the drain.

Gingerly touching his head, he pulled his hand back and examined the blood on the tips of his fingers. Tracing his finger along the cut, he was surprised at how small it really was. He could have sworn he'd need stitches, but at further inspection none of the wounds were that bad. Dick stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, and then he stood in the cold for a while. It was as if the water could wash away what he had done. He felt dirty, no matter how clean he was.

Turning off the water, Dick stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel off the rack. He quickly dried off and began to dress himself. Slipping on a black t-shirt and a dark pair of baggy jeans, he wondered when Slade was ever going to guess his size right. Dick kneeled before the sink and pulled open the cabinet door. Rummaging through toiletries and unused bottles of shampoo, he produced a scrub brush, a washcloth, and a fresh bar of soap. Soaking the soap in the sink, Dick wrapped it in the washcloth. Grabbing his mask in his free hand, he was once again on his way to his room.

Dick was halfway down the hall when he heard a strange noise. Instantly his muscles tightened and he was ready to attack or be attacked. He held perfectly still for a few moments before realizing there was no immediate danger. Dropping his fighting stance, Dick moved to the end of the hall. Peering into the kitchen, he had to blink several times to confirm what he saw. Slapping on his mask, Robin stepped into the shadows of the hallway and contemplated what to do next.

Without much thought, he stepped into the kitchen. The curtains were pulled to the side and moonlight spilled through the sliding glass door and illuminated the kitchen and dining area. Slade stood with his back to Robin. He was leaning over the counter, but what made the scene odd was the fact that Slade was not wearing his mask. A cell phone was pressed to the man's ear, a real, honest to God, cell phone. Robin was giddy for a moment. The phone could be traced, and he could be found.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that," he heard Slade say. The man's shoulders tightened. "I need to go."

Robin almost ran when Slade turned around, but some invisible force kept his feet rooted to the spot. He felt like he should have looked away from Slade's face, but he could not. Maybe it was the sympathetic look he gave him. Robin pretended not to see it. He felt his hope dissipate when Slade sat the cell phone down. The thing was older than dirt, it was highly unlikely that it could be traced. But he still held onto a little hope.

Slade motioned to Wintergreen's spot at the table. Robin sat down and folded his hands in front of himself. It was a habit he had formed over the last couple weeks to prove to Slade he was not going to pull anything. The man sat down across from him in his usual seat. He also folded his hands in front of him, but Robin doubted it was to show he wasn't going to make a move. Slade could jump over the table and pin him faster than the Flash could sneeze.

"Are you angry with me?"

Robin was taken aback. "Why would I be angry?"

"I threw you the knife."

His face darkened. "I should have been able to fight them off."

Slade sighed. "Dick, it was you or them."

Robin was done discussing the subject, Slade could tell by the expression that was written clearly across his face. Above the stove, in green numbers, 3:34 AM flashed. The moonlight made Robin look even paler than he really was, but the darkness concealed the fact that he was shaking, just as his mask hid the tears that welled in his eyes. He wanted to wipe them away, but that would expose the fact that he was crying. So he stayed still and played with his thumbs.

Lifting his eyes to look at Slade's face, he became confused. Slade did not look the same as the last time he had seen him without his mask. The man's hair was no longer white-blond, it now had a salt and pepper look to it. His face was worn, probably from all the unspeakable things he had seen and done. Slade waited patiently for Robin to begin speaking again. The man's patience infuriated Robin.

Instead of stomping around like a two-year old and throwing a temper tantrum, Robin bottled up his feelings and tossed them out the window. Figuratively, of course. He blinked the tears from his eyes and let them soak into the fabric of his mask. Gritting his teeth, he mentally punched himself for being so weak and exposed. Four months earlier, he would have taken his anger out on Slade. But he had changed, if it was for the better he could not tell.

He forced himself to stop being an angsty teenager and to deal with life. Batman would have told him to get over it. So why should he expect anything less from Slade? Robin felt his mouth twitch upward in a smirk, but he kept his eyes focused on his intertwined hands, unwilling to look Slade in the eye.

"Did you go gray after all that time with me?" Robin asked jokingly.

"You really believe that I'd show you my true identity?"

"Wearing a blond wig won't do much for you."

Slade raised an eyebrow. "Just as you wearing a mask will protect your identity from me?"

"Touché."

Slowly unlacing his fingers, Robin reached up and began to peel off his mask. He crumbled the piece of fabric in his hands and shot it into the garbage can. A small, almost hysterical, laugh bubbled out of his mouth. He had never thought that Slade would do normal things, such as taking out the garbage. Dick had always figured the man had spent all his free time plotting how to make his life miserable.

"It's stupid that I wear it," he said. "You know my identity anyway."

Dick wanted to cry, but he couldn't find it in himself to. What identity? He wasn't Robin anymore. Robin had probably died in the crashed taxi, back in December. But why did he pretend? To protect himself? To hold onto his old identity? He didn't even know, but it was stupid, and he had to stop acting like a child. Finally Dick raised his eyes to look at Slade. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he turned to gaze at the moon, wondering who may be at the Watchtower.

Wonder Woman, Superman, Martian Manhunter, maybe even Batman. Were they searching tirelessly for him? Or were they on some top secret mission that was of the highest importance? It felt like his still beating heart had been ripped from his chest and was being beaten with crowbars. Were they even still looking for him, or was he a lost cause?

Dick clenched his fist so tight his nails dug into his palms and drew blood. Glaring at the moon as if everything that happened to him was its fault, he wiped his bloody hands on his jeans. So what if they weren't looking for him. He could save himself. Dick could not stop the rush of anger he felt towards the Justice League and himself. Maybe if he had trained the Titans harder he would have been out of there weeks ago. But mostly he was angry with the League. They were experienced, they should have found him.

"Why'd you pick me to be your apprentice?" Dick asked on a whim.

"Why do you think?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, there's nothing really special about me. Sure, I can do flips, and I guess I'm pretty smart. But other than that, I'm pretty average."

Slade shook his head. "You're very intelligent, I've seen you get out of some bad situations. Your first apprenticeship, for example. You are agile, and can move with whatever punch is thrown at you. You are exceptionally strong-"

"Strong? I couldn't even fight off two dogs without…" he trailed off, unable to finish. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he took up playing with his hands again.

Slade ignored his unfinished sentence. "I have seen you take out men twice your size. Not to mention you are the only non-superpowered member of your team, and you can take on all four members at once and win. You are strong."

Dick's heart fluttered at the mention of his team. He would give anything to see them, just one more time. He would give into Slade if it meant seeing his friends again. It was strange, but life with Slade wasn't all that bad. Once he had gotten through the beating phase things were almost normal. Scoffing, he rolled his eyes at himself. Life with his worst enemy, yeah, that was completely normal. But he still couldn't help but think that there were worse people than Slade out there.

When had his thoughts changed so drastically? Had it happened over time, or all in one rush? He didn't know, and he honestly didn't care to find out. What would the Titans think of his change of thoughts? Dick didn't ponder on the subject for very long because thinking of his friends made his heart shatter like broken glass. Sighing, he shoved his hands in his pockets, no longer caring to keep up appearances.

"How much longer?"

Slade was confused. "What do you mean?"

"When is my first-" he hesitated, "…mission? Last time, you started me off right away."

"Patience," was all that Slade said.

Resting his head in his hands, Dick closed his eyes. He was suddenly overcome with a skull splitting headache. He would have killed for some aspirin, but decided not to test Slade's limits by asking for some. Instead, he began to drift off to sleep right then and there, sitting at the table. His mind could no longer hold on to what was being said. It was like someone had flipped a switch and he had shut down.

"What's this?"

Dick jumped slightly when a warm hand rested on his shoulder. Peeling open his eyes, he gazed up at Slade, who was now standing behind him. When had he moved? Slade was pointing at the scrub brush, which Dick had honestly forgotten about. Picking up his heavy head, he took it in his hands and examined it as if he had never seen one before.

"It's a scrub brush," he said sleepily.

"You don't say," Slade remarked dryly. "Why do you have it?"

"To get the blood out of my mattress." Dick yawned. "I can't sleep with it there."

"Apprentice?"

"Hmmm…?"

"I asked you if you were alright."

Furrowing his brow, Dick sent Slade a confused look, only to be returned with a concerned expression. He didn't remember Slade asking if he was okay, but then again it didn't help that he was half asleep and had a heck of a headache. Rubbing his eyes, he stretched his stiff limbs and rested his head on the table. Slade squeezed his shoulder and brought him back to the present. It took him a moment to remember what they had been discussing.

"I'm tired," he groaned. "My head hurts."

What happened next was a complete blank to him. The next time he opened his eyes, he was alone in the living room, lying on the couch with a warm blue blanket draped over his small body. The first rays of the morning sun filtered through the window and cast upon his face. A cup of water and two aspirin were sitting on the coffee table. He took them and ease back into the couch and let himself drift off to sleep.