Dick stared out the window.

This was the closest he got to the outside world these days. Once, when Slade had been with him, he'd opened the window and let him sit on the sill. Slade wasn't with him now, the locks were back on.

His wrist was still aching, he winced as he rubbed a finger over it absentmindedly. There was a stain from the dried blood he'd scratched off his knuckles, the skin over them had split in some spots, blistered in others, but the calluses were starting to grow strong enough that he wouldn't have to deal with it much longer.

Wintergreen had called out that dinner was ready about half an hour ago, but the man wouldn't make him come. Dick almost wanted him to, it'd remind him of where he was, who he was with.

The past months felt... hazy. Time was wrong. He could've got here two months ago, two years ago, two days ago, he couldn't remember. The facts were there, he could stick a timeline to everything, put dates of every event, but it didn't feel right.

March eighth, he was captured. March twelfth, Slade rescued him. March thirteenth, he woke up. March fifteenth, the newspapers headlined his death. March twentieth, he hid behind a tree with his hood drawn up, watching his funeral from a distance.

He didn't know why he hadn't stormed over to Bruce and announced that he was alive, that he was fine. Every time he'd thought of it a wave of nausea and anxiety had overwhelmed him and he'd found himself stepping away.

March twenty-first, Slade took him in. March twenty-second...

Everything got weird after that. Every day ended with him falling asleep and finding it harder to remember where things had started. He couldn't remember the taste of Alfred's cookies anymore, or the sound of Wally laughing, or the colours of the furniture in the mountain, or the texture of his Robin suit. He was forgetting things. Slade said it was normal, that you forget things over time if you are not reminded of them.

But he was forgetting more than that...

He couldn't remember the day Bruce met him, in the orphanage. He couldn't remember his first trip to the hall of justice. He couldn't remember when he'd found the Batcave. It was all starting to slip through.

Slade opened the door, walking in slowly and quietly. He sat next to him on the window seat.

"you need to splint your hand."

"it's fine," Dick said, not looking anywhere but out the window.

"you sprained it," Slade said, "you need a splint."

He reached out, as soon as his fingers touched Dick's skin he flinched away.

"I said it's fine!" he sneered.

Slade gave him an impatient look, "you need to look after yourself."

Dick rolled his eyes, crossed his arms.

Slade sighed through his nose and left the room quietly.

Slade was the one who'd inflicted the damn wound, why the hell was he annoying him so much about healing it?

Slade returned after a few moments with the first aid box. He sat next to Dick again, levelling a dry look on him that clearly expressed his lack of patience for Dick's stubbornness.

He held his hand out for Slade, who took some antiseptic and put it on a cloth to wipe at his knuckles.

"you should've washed," Slade said, wiping away the blood stain and cleaning off the slight traces of dirt around the split skin, "you could get an infection."

Dick didn't say anything.

Slade sighed, somewhere between annoyed and unsurprised, as he took a black wrist splint form the box and wrapped it round Dick's hand, securing it with the strip of Velcro. He held a hand out and Dick placed his other hand in it for him to clean as well.

"what brings you to the window today?"

Dick raised an eyebrow, "take a guess."

"you can't go out there."

"you do all the time."

"it's dangerous."

"I can handle myself."

"not against the people who will attack you." Slade didn't bother looking ap from Dick's hand, he could have this conversation with him in his sleep.

"well, we don't know if we don't try."

"no."

"you're not my father-"

"no," Slade said, "I'm not. Which means I don't need this teenage rebellion shit."

"rebellion is stupid stuff, inconsequential," Dick scowled, "I would like to leave the damn house and see something other than these grey walls for a change, that's asking for basic human-"

"Dick," Slade cut in, "I won't argue with you on this."

Dick scowled, "why do you even care?"

Slade paused, sighing as he put away the pink-stained rag he was cleaning hi knuckles with. Dick took his hand away, rubbing at the space below his thumb absentmindedly.

"Wintergreen made dinner," he said as he stood.

"I'm not hungry."

Slade pursed his lips and walked, "get some sleep."

The door closed behind him. Dick stared at the lock on the window.

It would be so easy to break, to pick. He could do it in a minute tops if he wanted and then he'd be free.

Why didn't he?

As soon as he thought of it the notion as swept under the rug. Like a blanket was dropped over his mind. every thought of escape was built up and then swept from the base in one fell swoop. He frowned. His head ached, right at the temples, but he continued to stare at the lock.

Why didn't he escape?

It's dangerous, a voice in his head said. You can't go, you'll get hurt. You can't go, you're friends will be in danger. You can't go, you can't go, you can't go.

Dick absentmindedly rubbed at his head staring at the lock. It was new. Brand new. Unscratched, there wasn't a speck of dust on it. the area around it had been disturbed, the glass was smudged, there was a scratch on the window but the lock seemed untouched.

He reached out, holding it in his hand, looking at the surface. It had never been picked or touched, but the window had clearly been opened by force before.

And Dick remembered looking at the lock when Slade let him out, once. It was old, it was rusted, it was-

He remembered.

He had picked the lock, he'd forced the window open, he'd run off into the night.

He had to get away. He had to get to Bruce.

The small voice at the back of his mind told him no, was trying to sway him back to Slade, but he knew what it was now. He knew it wasn't his thoughts, it was planted in there by someone, someone who was trying to make him forget, bit by bit.

He had to go, he had to run-

Dick stood, staring at the window. The door opened behind him and he turned and-

Slade landed a kick straight to his gut, he went flying back into the window seat.

He struggled to his feet, but Slade grabbed his arms and shoved him to his knees.

"he's a tenacious one, isn't he?" a voice asked.

Dick was struggling, grunting and holding back screams of frustration as he tried to free himself of Slade's grip.

"you told me that last time would work, that he'd forget-"

"I told you he should," corrected the voice. Dick didn't recognise the person it belonged to, "but he has proven himself very good at healing from every memory wipe I attempt."

"I don't care what you do, just make it so he stops remembering," Slade grunted.

"yes, I suppose it's time to ignore the patient method, and just scrap the whole thing," the person said, kneeling in front of Dick. He scowled, glaring at the person in front of him.

"I'd say this won't hut a bit," they said, fingers light on Dick's temple as they smiled, "but I don't make a habit of lying."

and it hurt, stabbing pain lancing through him, his head felt like it had been set on fire.

And with the pain everything was burned away.

Eventually he fell limp in Slade's arms, breathing heavy. Slade dropped him.

"is it done?" he asked.

"yes," the man said, "he won't remember a thing."