When Slade arrives in Venezuela with his damaged ex-Robin in tow, he orders Jay into the shower since the kid smells like dogshit. (He considered hosing the boy down but decided that was too much work when the kid’s arms and legs still functioned. Mostly.) Jay's still traumatized by the last time he set foot in a shower, and just crouches on the floor, unmoving, except for the trembling that shakes his entire frame. While the hot water floods over him, he grits his chattering teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately to think of anything except the feeling of the Clown's hands all over his naked flesh again, those pasty-white fingers crawling over his skin like so many roaches skittering over a pile of trash. An hour later, long after the water turned cold, Jay limps out, covered only by a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s visibly uncomfortable—shoulders hunched, head sagging, eyes downcast behind a curtain of stringy black hair plastered to his skull, scrawny arms crossed over his gaunt chest in a futile attempt to hide his ruined body from view. The kid’s shaking like a leaf; dripping wet, yeah, but still crusted with what looks like dried blood, dirt, and probably his own shit. Goddamn it. Slade's annoyed. That pasty-faced asshole neglected to tell him that he'd have to play nursemaid or he'd have demanded double. Fast as a striking snake, he grabs the kid by the skinny arm, drags him back into the bathroom, rips off the towel, then shoves him back under the shower and turns on the hot water. The pathetic kid lets out a whimper as he stumbles to the wet floor, then he's cowering in the corner of the shower, bony knees pulled up to his chest, fleshless arms curled over his head. Hard to believe this mewling heap of skin and bones is the same loud-mouthed little prick he'd brawled with, who'd given him a bloody nose on one occasion. The Clown really did a number on this brat. Not only is he afraid of his own shadow now, there's hardly an inch of skin not marked by cuts or burns or punctures or abrasions. Slade even spotted some words carved into that skeletal torso. How long had this kid been a guest of that psycho? He idly wonders as he picks up the bar of soap and lathers the tattered oil cloth before tossing it on top of the boy. The boy jolts at that like he'd been kicked in the ribs. Slade folds his arms over his chest and stares down at the sniveling hunk of human Jell-O. "Get yourself clean, or I'm taking you out back and using the hose. Don't think you'd much fancy that." Slade waits for another "yes sir" as the boy slowly uncurls, although he'd already warned the kid to knock that shit off—he wasn't into whatever fucked up roleplay those two had going on. But a trembling hand only reaches for the cloth then starts to scrub his filthy body. Well, at least the kid's obedient.
