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Go on, have fic!
Title: Ceiling Tiles Pairing: Slade/Robin, Red X/Robin Rating: Hard-R Warnings: Angst, non-con, character death
Waking up in the hospital... The hospital? Robin has never needed the hospital before, the med bay in the tower has always been good enough. What happened?
âHey kid.â Red X, in his room, by his bed, staring at him. What? Heâs not scared -- he feels grateful -- but he doesnât know why.
He tries to reply, but his voice comes out hoarse and cracked, like heâs been screaming.
You were. He saved you, brought you to the hospital. You owe him.
Robin doesnât understand. The strange floating feeling that comes with strong painkillers is clouding his mind, sending him to sleep. The last thing he remembers is not being scared, now that he knows Red X is here.
*~*
The bright morning light hurts his eyes, so he tries to roll over, but the cables and tubes feel really weird, pulling and stretching numb skin. Itâs not numb if he can feel it though, is it? Not painless. Something, somewhere, deep down, is hurting. Clawing at his gut and tightening his throat, but Robinâs not sure thereâs any kind of drug that stops that kind of pain.
*~*
His friends came around. They looked awkward and uncomfortable. Starfire brought flowers. None of them told him what happened, and they looked relieved when the nurse ushered them out.
Robin feels bored and restless; heâs analysed the nurses already (dependant on coffee, sensible shoes, apathetic), counted the ceiling tiles (damp in the corner, health hazard), and eaten the bland food (runny soup, dry potatoes, overcooked cabbage) they presented him with.
Now itâs night and heâs not scared of the dark, but he doesnât want to shut his eyes. The deep black solid dark in the corner especially doesnât scare him.
âHey kid.â Red is there again, like he has been these past few nights. Robin doesnât jump, or say anything.
Keeps staring at the corner.
He lies there and Red sits next to him. For a while, they donât do anything, but eventually, Robin has to ask. âWhy am I scared of that corner?â Itâs not a rhetorical question, the kinds you see in films where the character already has the answer deep inside and theyâre just waiting for the great pep talk to make them see theyâre really not fat in those jeans, and oh, the missile code is that cute guyâs number. Itâs the kind where Robin is crying because he doesnât have the answer, but he knows itâs bad. Heâs known itâs bad since he woke up in the hospital, since his friends didnât smile, since he depended on Red X to keep him safe.
His tears catch the moonlight, and theyâre like glass sliding over his skin, and thatâs so familiar, glass slipping down, over, in. Something else... something else sliding in, worse than glass, worse than that, so much worse...
Red doesnât answer him, just grips his hand.
*~* This fight is dragging on for a very long time, and Robin is panting, sweating and his legs are screaming in pain. Slade jumps forward, knocks him down, and then his hand is glittering, close, closer.
Robin screams.
*~*
When he wakes up, his hand is clutching at his face, and finally he can feel properly, feel the raised skin. A nurse is looking at him sympathetically, telling him heâs so lucky there wasnât glass in his eyes, but whatâs a mask for?
*~*
When Red appears this night, Robin is sitting up, looking closer to his normal self, if only because heâs frowning.
âHe...â If Red didnât know any better, heâd say Robin was looking broken. Slipping into the bed next to Robin and putting his arms around him, Red figured that was fair.
âHe did. And heâll pay. I promise, hero, heâll pay.â Red hopes that Robin isnât listening to him, since heâs not sure how to make Slade pay, and the idea frankly terrifies him, but then again, he supposes he doesnât mind being terrified for Robin.
*~*
-Please, no!- Robin is bleeding, he canât see, can barely breath. Slade is pressing down... so hard so close oh god no.
-Get the fuck off him!- Sladeâs suddenly not there, the grasping hands are gone, heâs being picked up...
...
The gravel of the roof top digs in, but that tiny infinitesimal pain is nothing compared to his face. Heâs been ripped open and left to bleed. Is that the roar of his blood in his ears? Has he got enough left for it to roar? Is it traffic down below?
âCome on kid, god, oh shit oh fuck!â The hands grasping him now lift him up, up as the breeze sweeps across his face, into bright light.
...
346 ceiling tiles, damp in the corner...
*~*
The Titans were never old enough to deal with the horrible petty crimes committed in the city they protect. They canât help the woman understand that it was never her fault, canât tell the widower why his wife, so kind , so beautiful, was gunned down, canât tell the shop owner why his lifeâs work wasnât covered in the insurance, canât tell the orphan kids why they canât fly away and find their parents.
They canât tell Robin why they werenât there then, and arenât there now, canât tell him that they donât know how to deal with their leader when he needs them. Canât tell him anything, because theyâre not there.
*~*
In a few days Robin is going to leave. Leave where, he doesnât know. Can he go back to the tower? Is that home? Should he go to Gotham? He doesnât know. Do his friends want him? They donât need him, is he taking up space there unnecessarily? What should he do?
*~*
As it happens, Robin doesnât have a say in the matter. Red comes by, as he usually does, but heâs got a large bag.
âYouâre coming with me, kid.â
So he does.
*~*
Redâs apartment is comfortable; clothes scattered everywhere, plans written in Redâs scrawl, and a few priceless diamonds, here and there.
Robin knows that the diamonds should make him outraged. They donât, and just glitter at him, reminding him of terror and pain and so many things he canât remember, and canât forget.
Heâs staring at them when Slade bursts in, when Slade grabs Red by the neck and snaps him, when Red falls down and doesnât move. Then Slade is picking Robin up and throwing him so that he lands on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Robinâs seen it all before, doesnât need to count, canât, because Slade is over him, blocking the view.
*~*
He lies on his back, strapped down, naked and cold. Slade feeds him of course, but not much else.
There are 657 tiles and only darkness in the corners.