Title: Stockholm 1/?
Author: Katarik
Fandom: Animated Teen Titans
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Slade/Robin

Summary: What if, during Robin's time as Slade's apprentice, Robin had developed Stockholm's Syndrome?
Disclaimers: DC Comics owns the original characters.
Warnings: DARK. I cannot emphasize that enough. DARK DARK DARK.

*---*---*---*---*

Robin wakes quickly, as he always does now. He�s in enemy territory, after all; laziness is fatal.

Breakfast is promptly at five-thirty. If Robin�s late by more than a minute, he doesn�t eat that day. And they train hard enough that food is *vital*. So Robin is never late, not after his first day. After all, far be it from him to disappoint his �master�.

He arrives in the kitchen at precisely five twenty-nine, still bare-chested from bed. He�d overslept and hadn�t had time to change from his sleep pants. Slade is already there, of course; Robin�s never seen the older man sleep. Or be anything less than utterly alert. Robin sniffs the air: eggs. Toast. Orange juice. A regular American breakfast, except for one thing: the eggs aren't chicken eggs. They're robin eggs.

The *hell*?!? "I'm not eating those," Robin says flatly. Slade turns his head, and Robin almost flinches. He barely manages to hold himself still.

"Will you not, then?" Slade asks pseudo-idly.

"No, I will not."

Slade's eye narrows. "I say that you will."

Robin's eyes narrow back. "I say that I *won't*."

Slade hums lightly. "In that case, kindly remove the skillet from the stove. But don't turn off the heat."

Robin blinks. What's the point of that command? There's no way Slade will just let him cook something else. But he follows it, watching Slade watch him: Robin won't understand the point of the order unless he sees what Slade tells him to do next.

"Turn so that you face me." Slade stands and paces closer. Robin presses back against the stove, but freezes when he feels the heat warming his skin, *just* at the edge of pain.

"Now... press your back onto the burner, and stay there until I tell you to get up." Robin's mouth parts on a refusal; Slade's hand flashes out and grabs his hair. *Yanks* on it, as Slade's other hand shoves his chest and makes him arch over the stove. "If I have to force you down, Robin, you will *not* enjoy the consequences."

Robin swallows. Slade will go through with this threat. Robin's eyes flick to Slade's left wrist, where the trigger that Slade hasn't used--yet--shines threateningly. He flicks his eyes back to Slade and fists his hands on the stovetop. Takes a deep breath and bends backwards at the waist, forcing his back further down.

The first touch of the burner makes him bite his lip to hold back a scream. He can smell his own skin burning; it makes him want to vomit. He keeps his eyes focused on Slade's face, and on Slade's hand still tight in his hair. After about ten seconds, Robin starts to whimper. At twenty, he starts to beg.

Batman taught him how to deal with pain. But concentrated, malevolent *torture*... Robin doesn't know how to handle that. At twenty-five seconds, tears slip past his lenses; Robin hears them sizzle on the hot range over the sound of his own broken pleas. Slade's eye doesn't change and his grip neither lessens nor tightens.

At thirty seconds precisely, Slade's hand loosens in his hair. Robin doesn't move; he hasn't received explicit permission to rise. If Robin pushes his limits again today, Slade will do something *worse*. Robin can't think of anything worse right now, except for the trigger, but Slade could. Robin knows that Slade could.

Slade's eye widens slightly. "... Get up, Robin."

Robin instantly jerks away from the burner, only to scream in agony; his skin has been seared and it�s melted to the hot metal. His movement had ripped away any skin still remaining. Blood from his freshly-wounded back boils away on the burner as Robin falls to his knees at Slade's feet, mind noticing nothing but the overwhelming pain.

Slade gives him a few seconds to stop screaming before nudging Robin in the side with the toe of his boot. "You still need to eat your breakfast, Robin. A growing boy shouldn�t skip meals."

Robin shakes and shudders for another moment, trying to catch his breath to a regular pattern rather than hitching sobs of anguish. He doesn�t dare say a word. Robin goes to the table, standing by his chair to eat his toast. Slade shakes his head and points to the chair.

The chairs in Slade�s kitchen are high-backed wood. Smooth, gleaming, smelling faintly of lemon oil, and they will hurt like hell. Robin doesn�t have a choice.

He sits very straight in his chair. His toast tastes like blood; Robin realizes, after a few bites, that it�s because he�s bitten straight through his lip and the dripping fluid is getting all over his food.

Robin eats the eggs. He thinks it�s appropriate that they taste like blood.

When he finishes the meal, Slade goes to a cabinet and pulls out a syringe. "Local anesthetic; the burn will need cleaning and medical attention. You need a painkiller first."

Robin doesn�t say anything, but he glares slightly. It�s Slade�s fault that Robin requires medical attention in the first place. He forgets his anger when the drug hits and his back goes numb: the relief from the pain is so soothing that he doesn�t even mind Slade�s hand heavy on his shoulder, keeping him walking smoothly despite numbed muscles.

They head to the infirmary. Slade silently cleans and treats the burn while Robin lies on his stomach and is very grateful to whoever invented anesthetic. "No further training for today, Robin. Go back to your room. Stay there and study Sun Tzu until dinner. Lunch you may have in your room. I wouldn't recommend sleeping on your back for a few months."

Robin doesn't say thank you as he leaves. He feels Slade's eye on his branded back. When he returns to his room, Robin gets out Sun Tzu and begins to read it. This version is in Chinese; Robin has to make notes and focus on translations. Hours pass; Robin is undisturbed. His back hurts. He begins to wonder if anyone else is still here. Then Slade opens his door with lunch. Robin tries to ignore the trickle of relief, shifting so that his back is to the wall. The motion hurts, but it�s better than being vulnerable to Slade.

Beside the bowl of what smells like truly excellent chicken noodle soup is another syringe of anesthetic. Robin stretches his hand towards it, but winces and stops moving instantly. Stretching any of the skin on his back is a *bad* idea. Slade tsks and pushes Robin flat on the bed, ignoring the slight resistance and slipping the drug in. Robin closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

He's brought back to Earth by Slade's fingers tilting his head; something nudges his mouth and Robin parts his lips obediently. A spoon slips in; the soup it holds hits his stomach like glory. Robin tries to follow the utensil with his head, but soft laughter echoes near his ear. "Patience, Robin." A few seconds later, the spoon returns with more soup. Robin lies on his stomach and lets Slade feed him; he doesn't have any other options. And the soup is even better than Alfred's.

When the spoon stops returning to his mouth every few seconds, Robin blinks his eyes open (when had he shut them? when had he gotten that *comfortable* with this situation?) and watches Slade leave. His back doesn�t hurt any more, thanks to the anesthetic, and his stomach digests contentedly. His mind wants to go back to drifting; Robin�s eyes slide closed again as he slips dreamlessly into sleep, will fighting every second of it.

*---*---*---*

Slade stands outside the door, pondering. He can break Robin; the boy�s refusal to move until Slade told him he could is proof enough of that. Burn away the boy�s altruistic ideals with the truth of his own fears and motivations; shatter everything that Robin relies on until there�s nothing left for him but Slade and what Slade chooses to give him.

But to do that, Slade will need to insure that Robin has no contact with anyone except Slade himself. Slade�s studied psychology and he knows various disorders... such as Stockholm Syndrome. A fledgling plan begins to grow more detailed, and Slade smiles coldly behind the mask.

*---*---*---*

Robin stirs back into awareness several hours later, with a dry mouth and an aching head. The soup was drugged; it *had* to have been. There is no other explanation. There�s a glass of water by his bed and a note: Dinner is at seven, as usual. Do *not* be late.

Robin snarls and sniffs the water. It smells fine. He tentatively takes a tiny sip, holding it on his tongue. It tastes like regular water: clear, cool, refreshing. No hint of another drug. Robin swallows the sip and starts to gulp the liquid, sighing in relief as his symptoms begin to decrease.

It�s already six-thirty. He hasn�t trained today, so he doesn�t need a shower. Good thing, too: soap and water on his back would *hurt*. For that matter, so would fabric. He can�t wear a shirt until it�s healed at least a *little*: pus and dried blood would make the cloth stick to his skin and rip his back open even more. That would be... bad.

Robin shifts off the bed, carefully trying to move the muscles in his back as little as possible. He hisses and bites his still-sore lip with every motion.

When he reaches the kitchen, it�s six fifty-five. He stands in the doorway and blinks: there�s been rather a change in d�cor.

Robin�s wooden chair has been replaced by a backless--thank you, *God*--chair. It still has arms, though, and on the arms are shining steel manacles, blood-chilling as Slade�s single eye. On the legs, too. He also has no silverware.

"As you may have noticed this morning, Robin, even everyday objects can be weapons. You demonstrated your unwillingness to obey simple commands, such as eating your breakfast, unless forced to do so. Therefore, you are no longer permitted silverware or freedom of movement until I deem you trustworthy."

Robin manages to control his snarl, but not his glare. "Then how do you suggest I eat?"

Slade shrugs one shoulder gracefully from where he's standing at--oh, God; Robin feels himself shake a little--the stove. Robin thinks he can still smell burning flesh and boiling blood. "You can either eat it with your mouth like a dog, or you can try to convince me that it's worth my time to feed you."

Robin glances at his already-filled plate: Salisbury steak saut�ed with broccoli, served over egg noodles. He can manage to eat that on his own, 'thanks' all the same. He glares at Slade's back again and sits down. He can hear Slade moving behind him, and he somehow manages not to flinch when the manacles are fastened onto his wrists and ankles with a terrifyingly final 'click'.

Slade moves back to what Robin thinks is the stove. A few seconds later, he brings his own plate over to the table and sits down. Picks up his knife and fork. Robin glares at his pasta; his stomach clenches slightly. He's hungry again, and it smells *really* good. Besides... what will Slade do if Robin refuses to eat *this* time?

So he hesitantly leans down and tries to ignore the clicking sound Slade's utensils make on the plate, focusing instead on how *difficult* it is to grab food with just his teeth. He licks sauce from his cheek and feels more on his nose and chin. Slade, to his credit, neither laughs nor speaks, treating this dinner as though it's nothing unusual. Robin realizes, with a creeping horror, that eventually it won't be.

Dinner takes longer than normal, given that Robin can�t *move*--he can�t move, he can�t move, he *needs* to move; there�ll be time to be still when he�s fucking *dead*--and also that he has no silverware. Slade finishes long before Robin does, but he says nothing. He merely begins looking over what Robin assumes to be business that he himself isn�t privy to; Robin finds himself being slightly grateful for Slade�s silence and chastises himself firmly for the thought.

He finally finishes eating... in a manner of speaking. The table has sauce and meat and pasta all over it near Robin�s plate and Robin is fully aware of the fact that his face is sticky with sauce that he can�t reach. Or wipe away with a napkin, because he *still* can�t move.

Slade stands; Robin clenches his bound fists, expecting a mocking comment. Slade says nothing, merely unlocking the manacles. Robin resists the urge to punch Slade a good one, instead slipping off of the chair and staring heatedly at the floor.

Slade�s still blessedly--unnervingly--silent, pressing the small of his back--Robin flinches; the hand�s a little too close to the burn for him to be even a *little* okay with that--and guiding him towards the sink. Robin goes quite willingly, bending from the waist and scrubbing his face clean. His back hurts; the anesthesia�s wearing off. Flare of pain every time he shifts, every moving muscle making him hiss and tense.

"After you clean off the table, we will go to the infirmary and look at your back again," Slade tells him emotionlessly from somewhere several feet behind him. Robin nods acquiescence; he was the one that had made the mess, after all, even though it�s *completely* Slade�s fault. It�s also not worth fighting over.

He gets a wet cloth and starts wiping away the mess, irrationally glad that Slade�s already moved Robin�s plate and made this a trifle easier. He has never entirely appreciated just how many everyday actions pull on the skin and muscles in the human back, but he is *entirely* aware of that fact now.

This action takes longer than usual, too. Slade is patient, standing some feet away and riffling through papers. Robin finishes and puts the cloth in the sink, running water over it to clean it. When he's done, Slade puts down his papers and gestures Robin to leave. Robin hesitates; he doesn't want Slade at his back. He's vulnerable enough already.

Slade's eye narrows and Robin walks through the door. Slade stays behind him, only breaking the silence to tell Robin where to turn to reach the infirmary.

When they get there, Robin doesn't move towards the medical bed. He stands there and watches Slade look at him mildly. "Robin, either you will lie on the bed so that I can look at the burn again, or I can *assure* you that it will become infected."

Robin flinches slightly, but stands his ground. "Tell me why you burned me."

"I didn't. You chose to burn yourself, rather than face the consequences of what would have happened had you not. And, had you simply eaten your breakfast like a good boy, your punishment would have been unnecessary. Your choice, Robin... not mine."

Robin knows that's bullshit. But a little voice in the back of his head says that Slade's logic makes sense. Robin tells the voice to shut up. But... if that was the rationale for branding him... Robin turns and lies on the bed. He's pushed Slade's rules enough for today, and he can't afford another injury like this one.

Slade hums. Robin tenses when Slade probes lightly at his back, hissing at the touch. Slight sting of a needle pushing into his shoulder, but the anesthetic inside takes effect soon and he relaxes. Slade's fingers still hurt, but the pain's not much and the burn does need daily attention. Hourly would be best, but that's not happening. At least Slade was kind enough not to make him train today.

"You won't train for about a week, I think. Instead, focus on military strategy. And make certain to keep the burn clean." Slade's voice takes on a lecturing tone. "Burns are the most likely wounds to become infected. Therefore, it will be necessary to check it at least twice a day. Do you understand me, Robin?"

"Yes," Robin answers. He already knows this information, but he inwardly rejoices over the break. Even though once it's over he'll have lost some of his edge and Slade will be able to pound him into the ground even *more* easily. Still... he's better now than he was before. Slade's training, much as Robin hates to so much as *think* it, is useful.

"Good. Then get up; it's time for you to sleep."

Robin can�t move properly: his muscles are numbed. When he tries to rise he stumbles, and only Slade�s quick reaction keeps him upright.

Robin glares fuzzily. Slade makes a very soft sound that might or might not be amusement; Robin�s glare sharpens. He�s absolutely certain that Slade is smirking behind the two-faced mask.

Slade�s hand stays on his shoulder. Robin considers shrugging it off, but� he still can�t move properly. If he shrugs off the supporting hand, he�ll probably fall. And Slade will be angry.

So he doesn�t indicate any objections, and they walk out of the infirmary to Robin�s room. Slade�s hand doesn�t let go throughout the trip.

When they get there, Robin stops dead in the doorway. He can feel the heat of Slade�s body just behind him and the chill of the man�s armor. But Robin is *far* more focused on his bed.

Straps. What look to be Kevlar straps. On his *bed*. "What... what are *those* there for?!?" he hisses furiously. There�s an undercurrent of fear in his mind; he hopes it didn�t sound in his voice.

"It�s quite simple, Robin. I don�t trust you not to run away just yet. Therefore, I am taking measures to prevent that action. And so you have a choice: either I break one leg, and re-break it when it heals, or you are tied to your bed until I know that you won�t run."

... Slade�s voice sounds so calm, so matter-of-fact. The man�s a fucking *sociopath*. Robin swallows. "S--straps." If his leg�s broken, he�s going to have a much harder time escaping. And it would *hurt*.

"Then get on the bed, Robin."

He moves forward, hesitantly. He *doesn�t want to do this*, he wants to get the fuck out of this scary place and go back to the Tower where it�s light and friendly and where he has at least the *potential* to be happy.

Lies face-down on the bed. Slade�s fingers move lightly on him, buckling the straps and tying down his limbs; Robin manages to shift testingly. They are Kevlar. The bindings criss-cross over his body, trapping his arms and legs but not touching the burn.

"Sleep well, Robin. I�ll come in and loose you in the morning."

Robin snarls silently. He can hear Slade moving towards the exit. The door clicks shut, and he is left alone.

In the dark.

Unable to move.

With no one else in the entire compound.

Robin almost wishes that Slade would come back, if only so that he�d have something to *do*.

--To be Continued.

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