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Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Sure, just give credit where it’s due.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the DC Comics characters and aren’t making any money off of them.
Notes: Heh. Going through some old files of mine, I found this. Thought I'd repost it for kicks. If tentacles squick you, don't read. Serioulsy. - xoxo MEL
SUBORNED - PART 1
Nightwing crouched in the shadows of the docks, silent and watchful. The sun had sunk hours ago and this stretch of the waterfront was empty and still. In the distance, the bells of a warning buoy rang deeply. The sound carried over the water, warped and twisted by harmonics into something resembling a low moan. Nightwing crouched lower and waited.
He’d been tracking this network for weeks, ever since they had flooded the market with their new designer drug, heaven. The newcomers had displaced old networks, routed established gangs and turned the underworld on its head. At least two gang wars had erupted so far over heaven and Nightwing knew that was just the tip of the iceberg.
He had seen the reports on the drug. It was a synthetic that went right to the pleasure centers in the brain. It was instantly, psychologically addictive. Prolonged use of the drug could lead to cerebral hemorrhages, stroke and death.
Nightwing knew the DEA and the police were working triple shifts to try and get a fix on the new supplier, but so far they hadn’t had any luck. Their hands were tied by procedure, their focus blunted by the distractions of other cases. Not so with him. After he had seen what heaven did to people, finding the source and shutting it down had become his number one priority.
Still, it had taken him weeks to get this far. The dealers had led him to the distributors and there the trail had gone cold for days. Eventually, one of the distributors had run dry and needed to resupply. Nightwing had bugged the woman’s apartment and knew when and where the meet would go down. All he had to do was follow the woman to the rendezvous and he would, hopefully, be able to climb another rung on the ladder, find out who was behind heaven and shut them down.
It was after midnight now and the distributor was due to meet her contact any time now. The docks were a logical place. This time of night there was no one around. And if the drug was being brought in from outside the States, imported through Canada or the Bahamas, there was little chance anyone would spot the transaction at this point. Once a boat slid past the Coast Guard patrols, getting to shore was cake.
There was motion on the water. Nightwing moved forward. He watched a figure emerge from the water and climb a ladder onto the docks. Water streamed off a slick black diving suit. A satchel was hung over the man’s arm.
Nightwing frowned and adjusted the lenses in his mask, magnifying the image. The distributor’s contact wasn’t wearing any kind of diving gear. If he had come ashore from a ship, it would have to be anchored nearby.
Damn, thought Nightwing. I need a closer view.
He touched his gauntlet, his lenses reverting to their normal status. The warehouse roof he perched on was the closest to the meet, so getting closer without being spotted was going to be a challenge. His uniform would provide some camouflage, but he would need to move slowly and carefully.
Having made up his mind, Nightwing headed for the edge of the roof.
* * * * *
There were no lights on this part of the docks. Nightwing was grateful for that, as he edged closer to the rendezvous. The dealer had taken possession of the satchel and was turning away. Scowling, Nightwing moved closer. He toggled his microradio and tried to raise Oracle, but all he got was static.
Great, thought Nightwing. I’m in a dead zone.
The dealer was gone now, hurrying from the meet but her contact didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He stood on the dock, watching the woman walk away. Then, he turned and sat on the edge of the dock, his back to Nightwing.
Instinct, more than anything else, made Nightwing hesitate. Something didn’t feel right about this. The meet was done, the dealer had left. Why was this guy still hanging around? Did he have something else planned? Another meet maybe?
Nightwing hesitated. He stood, statue-still, in the dark and debated what to do. Fade back into the dark and watch, or take out the mule and get the names of the higher ups behind the drug?
His decision was pretty much made for him when the man seated on the dock turned and looked right at him.
“You can come out now.”
Nightwing remained stock still.
The stranger sighed and pointed at him. “You. I see you. Come out.”
Silently, Nightwing swore. He moved forward. “How did you spot me?”
The man grinned and tapped the flesh beneath his eyes. “I have excellent night vision.”
Nightwing frowned. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m not in the mood for games,” warned Nightwing.
“So what are you in the mood for?” Asked the stranger.
“Answers.” Nightwing flexed his wrists, his escrima sticks sliding into his hands. “Tell me what I want to know and this’ll go a lot easier.”
“You’re awfully cocky, aren’t you?”
Nightwing was close enough now to see the stranger’s face. The fellow was Asian with short black hair and fine features. His skin was a warm golden brown. He wore a simple black wetsuit that covered him from his throat down to his knees.
“I’m trying to give you a chance,” said Nightwing. “Will you talk?”
The man cocked his head, regarded Nightwing with an amused grin. “No,” he said and jumped into the water.
Nightwing swore and ran forward but the stranger was nowhere in sight. The harbor waters were still and smooth as glass. He scowled and sank down on his haunches, glaring at the black water. He tried his radio again, but it still wasn’t working.
How the hell did that guy spot me? Nightwing wondered. And where did he vanish to so . . . ?
Nightwing’s question was cut off as something long and thick erupted from the black waters before him and struck him across the face. The blow was hard, filling his vision with stars. He rolled with it, his body reacting automatically to the impact, going limp.
Blinking his eyes, Nightwing tasted blood. He tried to stand, tried to see what had struck him, but was distracted. The dock shuddered, shaking Nightwing off his feet. He fell on his back, hard, knocking the wind out of him.
In front of him, a monster was pulling itself onto the dock. It was large and dark, vaguely humanoid with a strange, octopodal head. Large black eyes gleamed in a fleshy elongated skull frilled with a dozen thick, black tentacles. Beneath its head, the creature’s body appeared humanoid. It had two arms and two legs and, Nightwing realized belatedly, it was dressed in a skintight black diving suit.
The thing’s tentacles waved and one of them shot forward, moving with lightening speed. Nightwing rolled to the side, heard the crack of wooden boards breaking and splintering. His vision was clearing now and his thoughts were more ordered.
Shapeshifter, realized Nightwing. Amphibius? He wondered, rolling away from a barrage of tentacle strikes.
The creature was moving forward now, taking slow steps. Its black eyes fixated on Nightwing, shining with human cunning.
“Who are you?” Hissed Nightwing, rolling to his feet and assuming a defensive stance.
Wet, warbling laughter met his question. “Most people call me Squidface,” said the creature.
“What are you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
The tentacles moved again, rippling and elongating. They flashed toward him, cracking like whips. Nightwing moved, a blur, using his escrima sticks to bat them away. Twisting and turning, he moved with a dancer’s grace.
But for all his speed and agility, some of the tentacles got through his defenses. He took a solid blow to the gut and another across the face. Unlike the first strike, these left behind a clear, viscous fluid. Nightwing wiped some of it off his face, scowling. Where the blow had struck, his skin was tingling.
Squidface laughed and raised his tentacles. They glistened and dripped with more of the fluid. “Sorry about that, but this is my first superhero fight and I’m kind of excited.”
Freak, thought Nightwing. He circled to his right and Squidface turned, following him. The shapechanger’s tentacles rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
If he’s an amphibian, thought Nightwing, then he’s probably sensitive to light and sound. A couple of flash-bang grenades ought to stun him long enough for me to take him out.
Nightwing’s hand dropped to one of the compartments concealed in his uniform. He kept an eye on Squidface, but was still caught by surprise when the criminal attacked.
The creature’s tentacles stiffened and then shot toward Nightwing. He reacted automatically, bringing his escrima sticks up, prepared to bat away the appendages.
None of them touched him. They jerked to a stop, inches away from Nightwing and spewed streams of the viscous fluid. It caught Nightwing right in the face. He cried out and felt droplets spatter his tongue. His mask was completely covered, rendering him effectively blind.
Quickly, Nightwing moved to wipe his face clean. His skin wasn’t just tingling where Squidface’s fluid had struck, it was burning.
Some kind of acid? Nightwing wondered. Or an irritant?
The creature’s tentacles wrapped around his arm. Startled, Nightwing realized he had been standing there, staring at the goo on his hand. Squidface’s tentacles coiled around Nightwing’s forearm, tightened drastically. Desperately, Nightwing slammed them with the escrima in his other hand, but his blows had no effect.
Squidface laughed and more of his tentacles exploded toward Nightwing. Growling, Nightwing fell back, hoping to pull the laughing shapechanger forward, onto his face, but Squidface might as well have been nailed to the dock. The villain didn’t move an inch and his tentacles were wrapping tight around Nightwing’s other arm.
“Look what I caught,” chuckled Squidface. “Come here, you.”
And he retracted his tentacles, jerking Nightwing toward him. Struggling futilely, Nightwing fought to free himself from the tentacles. He was dragged closer and closer, his boots skidding over the water-slick wood of the docks. When he was close enough, he lashed out with one foot, aiming a kick at Squidface’s belly. One of the tentacles binding Nightwing’s arms shuddered and split in two, the new segment catching Nightwing’s leg and jerking it up and back. The sudden shift in weight made Nightwing stumble and scramble to remain standing.
“Hmm. You’re a fighter.”
Squidface sounded pleased. This close, Nightwing could smell the creature. It reeked of the sea, of salt water and raw fish and something else. A scent Nightwing couldn’t place.
He struggled against the tentacles binding his arms, but it was useless. His leg was still held in one of the things, forcing him to balance on one leg. More of Squidface’s tentacles were splitting, dividing into two and three smaller limbs that coiled tight around his arms and torso. From a distance, Nightwing realized he must have looked like some insane mummy.
“So,” murmured Squidface. “Which one of the Gotham vigilantes are you?”
Nightwing said nothing and the villain sighed, tightened his grip around Nightwing’s arm, hard enough to grind the bones.
“Like you said, we can do it the hard way or the easy way,” said Squidface. His human limbs crossed his chest and the large black eyes glistened intently. “It’s your choice.”
Nightwing ground his teeth, and said nothing.
After a few seconds, Squidface shrugged. “Fine, we do it the hard way.”
He didn’t sound disappointed.
Nightwing tensed, an involuntary response that he instantly regretted. This Squidface, he wouldn’t be the first villain to try and beat answers out of him. Automatically, he fell into the mental state he had learned, to dissociate his body from pain.
Pain that did not come.
The tentacles slithered and moved, oozing more of the fluid. Nightwing could feel it, weighing down the outer layer of his uniform. Small tendrils coiled across his throat and chin. He jerked his head away, grunting, waiting for the pain.
The tendrils found their way to the collar of his uniform and began to slide down it. Despite himself, Nightwing jerked in surprise.
“What the hell?”
Squidface laughed. More of his tentacles were joining the first two, slithering wetly inside Nightwing’s uniform. The masked hero gritted his teeth. Whatever the fluid was the tentacles oozed was starting to affect his skin. It was tingling like mad. He squirmed and tried to recapture the proper mindset.
His efforts were stalled when a small tentacle brushed one of his nipples. A startled gasp escaped the hero. Squidface chuckled.
“Like that?”
The motion of the tentacles inside his uniform changed. Their movements became more sinuous, stroking his chest and now his belly with deliberation. His skin was buzzing from the contact with the fluid and Nightwing grunted and tried to twist away.
“You look uncomfortable, hero,” murmured Squidface. “Let me help you.”
The tentacles inside Nightwing’s uniform changed. He felt them stiffen, suddenly becoming larger and more powerful. Their texture shifted from leathery smoothness to stone-like coarseness. They bunched and strained and Nightwing gasped as they ripped his shirt apart, tearing apart the bulletproof fabric as if it were wet paper.
“What the hell are you doing?” The question exploded out of Nightwing, more from surprise than anything else.
In response, Squidface reached out with his human hands and caressed Nightwing’s chest. His fingers, long and slender, fasted upon the masked man’s nipples. Gently, the villain teased them. Nightwing gasped, his body involuntarily betraying him. His nipples hardened beneath the other man’s touch.
“I’m not sure anymore,” said Squidface.
His tentacles slithered over Nightwing’s bare torso, still large and coarse, but moving gently now, exploring the curve of muscle and bone.
“I. . .”
Whatever Nightwing meant to say died on his lips, replaced by a low moan as the first of Squidface’s tentacles slid beneath the waist of his tights. The villain swore and brushed the palm of his hands across Nightwing’s chest. It was slick with fluid, the olive skin mottling gently. Nightwing gasped and, to his utter surprise and mortification, leaned into the villain’s touch.
Squidface’s hands slid down Nightwing’s chest, to his heaving belly, to the waist of the hero’s tights. His tentacles were teasing the flesh there, just above the fabric. A softer fabric than what he had worn against his chest.
Slowly, watching Nightwing’s face, Squidface slid his hand lower. Nightwing gasped, full lips opening to reveal startling white teeth.
“You’re hard,” murmured Squidface. His hand rested possessively over Nightwing’s groin.
“Can’t help it,” grunted Nightwing. “Don’t want to, but . . .”
“I know,” said Squidface.
His tendrils moved down, sliding beneath the fabric of Nightwing’s tights, tearing them off. Beneath them, the hero wore an athletic cup. A sensible precaution in his line of work, Squidface realized. He tore it off, stripping Nightwing until the only thing he wore was his boots and his mask.
“You’re hot,” murmured the villain.
Nightwing’s response was guttural. Tentacles were slithering over his exposed flesh. They coiled around his thighs and arms and suddenly, Nightwing was being lifted in the air.
“Ah!” The cry escaped him, involuntarily, as one of the appendages slithered over his balls.
He squirmed and thrashed now, some remnant of defiance flaring into hot, desperate life.
“Why is this happening to me?” Moaned Nightwing, trying to slip free of his enemy’s grip.
“This?” Asked Squidface. His hand caressed Nightwing’s prick, swollen and red, jutting up from his body like a fleshy rocket.
“Oh God . . . ”
“My fault,” said Squidface. His hands slid to Nightwing’s thighs, pushing them wider apart. His tentacles gripped them firmly.
“What?” Nightwing was finding it hard to think now. He was hyper aware of his body, of the tentacles coiling around his thighs and arms. “What do you mean?”
“You ever seen that Japanese woodcut?” Asked Squidface, quietly. His hands were stroking the juncture of Nightwing’s thighs, slowly and methodically, where the skin was softest.
Nightwing made a noise and writhed in the tentacled embrace.
“The one with the fisherman’s wife and the squid? Those are my ancestors. The squid was a spirit-animal. Great-grandfather liked humans. A lot. I guess I take after him more than I thought.”
“Aaaaah!” Nightwing arched up as his dick was grasped by the villain. “Oh shit!”
He lifted his head, stared down his torso, covered with teasing slithering tentacles, to his cock. It was pulsing, bouncing in time to his heartbeat. Squidface’s tentacles rose, splaying up and out, lifting Nightwing even higher in the air, exposing the all-too human mouth hidden beneath them.
That mouth opened, descended upon Nightwing’s rampant flesh. A scream erupted from Nightwing as he spasmed in the villain’s grip. A tentacle coiled around his throat, another pressing against his lips.
Squidface sucked him, his tongue as serpentine and flexible as his tentacles. Gasping, Nightwing’s thoughts dissolved into animal instinct. The tentacle pressed against his lips moved forward, filling his mouth. It tasted like salty leather. Nightwing, his eyes rolling in his head, bit down.
Shuddering, Squidface’s human hands dug into Nightwing’s thighs. The hero’s scream was muffled by the tentacle pushing into his throat, but it was still audible. He came, howling like a banshee, flooding Squidface’s mouth with his seed.
Choking, the shapechanger reeled back. His appendages tightened on the nearly naked hero, depositing him on the wet dock. The wood was cool and slick beneath Nightwing’s knees, he fell forward, his arms numb, unable to support his weight. He moaned around the thick stalk filling his mouth, pushing deeper now, into his throat.
Squidface’s other tentacles were moving over his body, teasing Nightwing. A slender tendril slid between Nightwing’s clenched buttocks, brushed his anus. Nightwing gasped, eyes flying open, at the sensation.
“Did you like that, hero?” Squidface asked softly. He knelt behind Nightwing, laid his hand on his captive’s back. Shivering, Nightwing moaned, his voice muffled by flesh. Slowly, deliberately, Squidface slid his hand down Nightwing’s back, to cup a firm buttock. He squeezed the muscular rump, his tendrils teasing the puckering anus.
“I could take you, hero,” said Squidface. “I could have you right here, on your hands and knees, and no one could stop me.”
Groaning, Nightwing could not think of a response. His jaw was stretched wide, aching, around the column of flesh plunging now, into his throat.
“And you would love it,” said the villain.
His fingers teased Nightwing’s opening, his tendrils prying the buttocks apart. The fluid his tentacles secreted glistened against the young man’s olive flesh. Among its properties, it provided a natural lubricant. He could have used it to slide his entire hand into the hero’s ass.
“You might like that,” hissed Squidface. “All decked out in your fetish gear and your little mask.”
He drew back, his tentacles retracting, shrinking and growing back together. The thickest of his appendages was the one buried in Nightwing’s throat, pumping salty slime into the masked man’s belly. It left Nightwing’s mouth with a wet plop.
Standing, Squidface stared down at his victim. Nightwing lay, exhausted and naked, on his belly. His limbs were badly bruised from Squidface’s tentacles and his body glistened with the shapechanger’s secretions and his own sweat. He made no move to rise, just lay there, shivering.
“Were you looking for heaven, hero?” Asked the villain.
His flesh shifted, shrinking, grew paler as his body reverted to its human form. Once the change was complete, Squidface squatted and ran a finger down Nightwing’s ankle. His bones were fine, his feet surprisingly delicate.
“You found heaven,” said Squidface, calmly. “I produce it whenever I shift.”
He drew his hand back, examined his fingertip, coated in the glistening fluid. Blandly, Squidface popped the finger into his mouth, sucked it clean.
“You know all about it, I bet. How it can be addictive. Heh. Did you talk to the junkies? I bet you did. I bet you felt for them. Well, now you can empathize with them even more. How much heaven do you think you have in your bloodstream? Hmm?”
Squidface stood and a cruel smile flitted across his face. “Do you think you’ll beat it? Overcome the need for it? Hero?”
Nightwing did not answer. He lay, shuddering. Eyes shut, muscles twitching.
“If you don’t,” said Squidface, “come find me. If you can.” He walked to the edge of the dock, paused to look back at the naked hero. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
With that, Squidface stepped off the dock and plunged into the midnight waters, leaving Nightwing naked and spent.
* * * * *
Spring had turned sticky hot in New York. Roy Harper undid another button on his shirt and exhaled. He preferred the summers out west. He had never liked muggy summers, preferring the dry heat of the desert. But Donna had sounded worried on the phone, and Roy knew he would never get anything out of her if he didn’t talk to her face to face.
Her studio was blessedly cool. Donna’s assistant told him she was in the middle of a shoot, so Roy would have to wait a few moments. Roy didn’t mind at all. The air conditioning was going full blast and the assistant was pretty in a washed-out blonde sort of way. They chatted until Donna appeared and spirited Roy to her studio office. Roy had given some thought to how to approach Donna, but all his plans evaporated as soon as she shut the door behind them.
“I’m worried about Dick.”
Roy perched on the edge of Donna’s desk. “Why?”
“Have you seen him lately? Spoken to him?” Donna asked. She sat in her chair, an ergonomic monstrosity that looked like it belonged in a chiropractor’s office.
“No, not in a while. Things have been kind of crazy lately.”
Donna hesitated. “Something happened to him a few weeks ago.”
“What?”
“Something bad,” said Donna. She frowned. “I don’t know the details. Bruce is keeping whatever happened quiet.”
Roy’s frown mirrored Donna’s. “What about Alfred?”
She shook her head. “I spoke to him the other day, asked him what was going on and he said he couldn’t say anything. But he sounded upset.”
“Hmm. Barbara? Tim?”
Donna shook her head. “I don’t think Tim knows anything and Barbara, she must know, but she’s not talking.”
“So they’ve circled the wagons,” mused Roy. “It must be bad.”
“Roy, Dick is living in the manor,” said Donna, slowly. “He wouldn’t go back there unless things were really bad.”
“Damn. Okay. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Donna. “Any ideas?”
“Well,” said Roy, “I’ve got some free time on my hands.”
* * * * *
While New York lolled in the summer heat, Gotham City seemed to fester. There was no breeze to stir the air, which stank of exhaust fumes and God knew what else. Roy tried not to breathe too deeply until he had driven out of Gotham, into the wooded hills west of the city.
Roy had chosen Wednesday afternoon for his visit. It was late enough in the day that Bruce would be at his Wayne Industries office, and Roy knew that Alfred always went shopping in the middle of the week. Their absence would give him a couple of hours grace to talk to Dick and find out what was going on. With any luck, he could be away from the manor before anyone else was the wiser.
Roy pressed the doorbell and held it in, listening to its tune with a wry grin. He had done this every time he came to visit when he was just a kid. It had driven Bruce crazy. Now that he thought of it, Alfred hadn’t been to please with it either. Chuckling at the memory, Roy was caught off guard when the front door swung open. Dick stood there, glowering at him.
Roy stared. “Damn, Dick. You look like hell.”
Dick’s glower intensified. He was thinner than Roy remembered, with dark circles beneath his eyes. His hair was unkempt, looking as if Dick had just climbed out of bed. The gray shorts he wore hung on his hips, and despite the heat Dick wore a dark sweatshirt.
“You’d look like hell too if some idiot had just woken you up,” snapped Dick. He looked pointedly at the doorbell.
Grinning sheepishly, Roy shrugged and removed his hand from the button. “Sorry about that.”
Dick sighed and leaned against the door. He folded his arms over his chest, wincing slightly. “What are you doing here, Roy?”
“Donna’s worried.”
Another sigh escaped Dick. He pushed away from the door and turned away. “She should really mind her own business.”
Roy’s eyes narrowed. “She’s worried about you,” he said, following Dick inside.
“I’m fine,” snapped Dick.
“You don’t sound fine,” said Roy. “And you look like shit.”
“So you came here to argue with me?” Asked Dick, turning to glare at the redhead.
Roy returned the glare. “No, I came here to find out what’s going on. Because I’m your friend and your other friends are worried about you. Dickhead.”
Frowning, Dick opened his mouth, as if to retort. Instead, he lowered his head and pushed his hand through his dark hair. “Sorry. I’m . . . Tell Donna I’m fine. Okay?”
“You don’t look fine,” said Roy, bluntly. “What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Dick. He turned and walked toward the stairway. “Lock the door after you. Okay?”
Roy took a deep breath and hurried after Dick. “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”
“Jesus, Roy . . . ”
“Hey, you can talk to me or I can get on the phone and have Donna here by sundown. Which of us do you think is going to go easier on you?”
Dick hesitated on the stairs, turned and glared at Roy. “Fine. Stay. I don’t care.”
Roy watched him climb the stairs, stomping on them like an angry child. He shook his head and gave chase.
“How come your back in the manor?” Roy called.
“Bruce insisted,” said Dick.
“Why?”
Dick didn’t answer and Roy reached the top of the stairs to see him vanish into the upstairs library. He followed him inside and found Dick seated in one of the big leather chairs, knees drawn up to his chest, his gaze sullen and tired.
Roy pulled another chair over and sat in it. “Dick, what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Dick wrapped his arms around his legs, hugged them against his chest. Sitting like that, he reminded Roy of a frightened child. That realization was enough to make all the hairs on the back of Roy’s neck stand on end.
He leaned forward and saw Dick flinch. Concern blossomed into anger. “Damn it, Dick! What the hell is the matter?”
“Nothing!” Shouted Dick. “Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!”
He leapt from the chair, trembling, falling into a fighting stance. His dark blue eyes were wild and his breath was ragged.
Roy, taken aback, fell back in his own chair and stared at his friend. “Jesus, Dick, I. . . .”
As suddenly as the rage had taken Dick, it left him. He fell back, hard, onto the chair. Hanging his head, he leaned forward, his clenched fists pressed against his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Dick. “I’m so sorry, Roy. It’s just . . . it’s been so hard . . . ”
Cautiously, Roy leaned forward. Dick, sensing his movement, raised his head. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, red from exhaustion. He lowered his hands. Roy was staring at his hands. Realization hit Dick and he shrank back, tugging the shirt sleeves down.
“Your wrists,” said Roy, speaking slowly and cautiously. “What happened to your wrists?”
Dick gave a shuddering sigh and raised his arms. The sleeves of Dick’s sweatshirt fell back, exposing the healed scars running along the underside of his wrists. They were jagged white lines, standing out in stark contrast to Dick’s natural dark skin tone.
“I happened,” said Dick, flatly.
Cautiously, Roy reached out, giving Dick plenty of time to stop him. The other man didn’t, he simply held his arms out, watching Roy with silent, grim eyes. Gently, Roy took Dick’s left hand and carefully pushed the shirt sleeve up.
“My God . . . ”
Dick’s entire forearm was covered with dozens of shallow cuts. Most of them looked old, but one or two were still red and fresh. Turning the arm over, Roy saw more cuts on the soft underside. He noted that none of them were near the major veins, but the sight of them still made him break out in gooseflesh.
“Why?” Asked Roy.
“It helps,” said Dick. His voice was flat, empty of all emotion.
Roy raised his head, locked his gaze on Dick’s face. “Tell me.”
“It happened a month ago,” said Dick, bleakly. “On the docks.”
Leaning forward in the chair, Roy listened attentively as Dick told him about the botched surveillance, the shapechanger and the attack. He left nothing out and when he had finished Roy was trembling.
“I made it back home,” said Dick. “I thought I could handle it on my own.” A snort escaped him and he looked away, hands resting on his knees. “I started cutting myself the next day.”
“When did you come here?” Asked Roy.
“Bruce showed up two days later. No one had heard from me. I wasn’t answering the phone or Barbara’s calls. She got worried.”
“Thank God,” murmured Roy.
Dick went on speaking, his voice a flat monotone. “He dragged me back here. I didn’t want to come, but he didn’t give me a choice. We fought. Literally. He had to use restraints to get me in the car.” He swallowed, audibly. “I was in pretty bad shape.”
“And now?” Asked Roy, quietly.
Dick turned to him. “I’m . . . managing.” He glanced at his arms, fiddled with the cuff of one sleeve. “I’m not cutting myself so often. Maybe once or twice a day.” His eyes met Roy’s, bored into him. “It helps with the craving.”
“Cravings,” repeated Roy.
Now Dick trembled. “I have these . . . impulses. They’re, I don’t know what to . . .” He stopped and shut his eyes. “I have dreams about that night, on the docks. About him.”
A shudder wracked Dick’s frame and he drew his knees up, against his chest. He opened his eyes and there was something there, a look that Roy had seen before. His heart clambered in his chest.
“I want to do . . . things. I wake up and it’s. . . .”
He had to stop, words failing him, but the look in his eyes. Roy swallowed.
“That’s when you cut yourself,” said Roy.
Dick nodded, a look of almost pathetic gratefulness flashing across his face.
“And Bruce is okay with that?”
“It’s not . . . I’m not suicidal,” said Dick, quietly. “I told him, about the dreams, about the . . . urges.” Dick laughed drily. “You should have seen his face. I think I shocked him, I think I . . .” He paused and looked down, his eyes hardening. “I think he was disgusted.”
“So you cut yourself to deal with the . . . urges,” said Roy.
Slowly, Dick nodded.
Roy sat back in the chair. His face was blank, his gaze flitting to the library’s window. Beyond the glass, the sky was an unblemished blue.
“You should use a belt,” said Roy.
Dick blinked. “What?”
Roy looked at him, his expression empty. “You should use a belt. Beat your back with it, when you get the urge.” His gaze flickered to Dick’s arms. “It’s less destructive than cutting.”
“You. . . .”
“I was a junkie, Dick,” said Roy. He pursed his lips. “I am a junkie. I’ll be one until the day I die.”
“You used a belt,” whispered Dick.
Roy fingers went to his waist. Dick followed them, watched Roy toy with the metal tongue of his belt buckle. “I used this one. Sometimes, I still do.”
“I . . . Roy, I don’t know what to say. You, I don’t think any of us suspected . . . ”
“Why should you?” Asked Roy. He shifted in the chair. “I have it under control.” His fingers moved, spreading, covering his groin.
Dick stared. His pulse was pounding in his ears.
Roy stood. “You should have come to me for help, Dick. I know what you’re going through.”
Drymouthed, Dick looked up. Roy’s hand touched his face, cupped his cheek. His thumb traced Dick’s cheekbone. Roy’s fingertips were callused. Had Dick ever noticed that before?
“Do you want me to help you, Dick?”
Blue eyes wide open, Dick nodded. Roy’s hand slid under his chin, held Dick’s head up.
“You have to ask, Dick. I can’t help you if you don’t ask for it.”
Dick’s mouth felt full of cotton. Roy’s fingers, callused and warm, felt like they were burning into his skin. He wet his lips.
“I need help, Roy,” Dick whispered. The cuts on his arms seemed to ache as if they were all fresh. “I need. . . .”
“Shhhh.” Gently, Roy placed his fingers across Dick’s mouth. “It’s all right, Robby. I know what you need.”
He began to undo his belt.
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Sure, just give credit where it’s due.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the DC Comics characters and aren’t making any money off of them.
Notes: Heh. Going through some old files of mine, I found this. Thought I'd repost it for kicks. If tentacles squick you, don't read. Serioulsy. - xoxo MEL
SUBORNED - PART 1
Nightwing crouched in the shadows of the docks, silent and watchful. The sun had sunk hours ago and this stretch of the waterfront was empty and still. In the distance, the bells of a warning buoy rang deeply. The sound carried over the water, warped and twisted by harmonics into something resembling a low moan. Nightwing crouched lower and waited.
He’d been tracking this network for weeks, ever since they had flooded the market with their new designer drug, heaven. The newcomers had displaced old networks, routed established gangs and turned the underworld on its head. At least two gang wars had erupted so far over heaven and Nightwing knew that was just the tip of the iceberg.
He had seen the reports on the drug. It was a synthetic that went right to the pleasure centers in the brain. It was instantly, psychologically addictive. Prolonged use of the drug could lead to cerebral hemorrhages, stroke and death.
Nightwing knew the DEA and the police were working triple shifts to try and get a fix on the new supplier, but so far they hadn’t had any luck. Their hands were tied by procedure, their focus blunted by the distractions of other cases. Not so with him. After he had seen what heaven did to people, finding the source and shutting it down had become his number one priority.
Still, it had taken him weeks to get this far. The dealers had led him to the distributors and there the trail had gone cold for days. Eventually, one of the distributors had run dry and needed to resupply. Nightwing had bugged the woman’s apartment and knew when and where the meet would go down. All he had to do was follow the woman to the rendezvous and he would, hopefully, be able to climb another rung on the ladder, find out who was behind heaven and shut them down.
It was after midnight now and the distributor was due to meet her contact any time now. The docks were a logical place. This time of night there was no one around. And if the drug was being brought in from outside the States, imported through Canada or the Bahamas, there was little chance anyone would spot the transaction at this point. Once a boat slid past the Coast Guard patrols, getting to shore was cake.
There was motion on the water. Nightwing moved forward. He watched a figure emerge from the water and climb a ladder onto the docks. Water streamed off a slick black diving suit. A satchel was hung over the man’s arm.
Nightwing frowned and adjusted the lenses in his mask, magnifying the image. The distributor’s contact wasn’t wearing any kind of diving gear. If he had come ashore from a ship, it would have to be anchored nearby.
Damn, thought Nightwing. I need a closer view.
He touched his gauntlet, his lenses reverting to their normal status. The warehouse roof he perched on was the closest to the meet, so getting closer without being spotted was going to be a challenge. His uniform would provide some camouflage, but he would need to move slowly and carefully.
Having made up his mind, Nightwing headed for the edge of the roof.
* * * * *
There were no lights on this part of the docks. Nightwing was grateful for that, as he edged closer to the rendezvous. The dealer had taken possession of the satchel and was turning away. Scowling, Nightwing moved closer. He toggled his microradio and tried to raise Oracle, but all he got was static.
Great, thought Nightwing. I’m in a dead zone.
The dealer was gone now, hurrying from the meet but her contact didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He stood on the dock, watching the woman walk away. Then, he turned and sat on the edge of the dock, his back to Nightwing.
Instinct, more than anything else, made Nightwing hesitate. Something didn’t feel right about this. The meet was done, the dealer had left. Why was this guy still hanging around? Did he have something else planned? Another meet maybe?
Nightwing hesitated. He stood, statue-still, in the dark and debated what to do. Fade back into the dark and watch, or take out the mule and get the names of the higher ups behind the drug?
His decision was pretty much made for him when the man seated on the dock turned and looked right at him.
“You can come out now.”
Nightwing remained stock still.
The stranger sighed and pointed at him. “You. I see you. Come out.”
Silently, Nightwing swore. He moved forward. “How did you spot me?”
The man grinned and tapped the flesh beneath his eyes. “I have excellent night vision.”
Nightwing frowned. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m not in the mood for games,” warned Nightwing.
“So what are you in the mood for?” Asked the stranger.
“Answers.” Nightwing flexed his wrists, his escrima sticks sliding into his hands. “Tell me what I want to know and this’ll go a lot easier.”
“You’re awfully cocky, aren’t you?”
Nightwing was close enough now to see the stranger’s face. The fellow was Asian with short black hair and fine features. His skin was a warm golden brown. He wore a simple black wetsuit that covered him from his throat down to his knees.
“I’m trying to give you a chance,” said Nightwing. “Will you talk?”
The man cocked his head, regarded Nightwing with an amused grin. “No,” he said and jumped into the water.
Nightwing swore and ran forward but the stranger was nowhere in sight. The harbor waters were still and smooth as glass. He scowled and sank down on his haunches, glaring at the black water. He tried his radio again, but it still wasn’t working.
How the hell did that guy spot me? Nightwing wondered. And where did he vanish to so . . . ?
Nightwing’s question was cut off as something long and thick erupted from the black waters before him and struck him across the face. The blow was hard, filling his vision with stars. He rolled with it, his body reacting automatically to the impact, going limp.
Blinking his eyes, Nightwing tasted blood. He tried to stand, tried to see what had struck him, but was distracted. The dock shuddered, shaking Nightwing off his feet. He fell on his back, hard, knocking the wind out of him.
In front of him, a monster was pulling itself onto the dock. It was large and dark, vaguely humanoid with a strange, octopodal head. Large black eyes gleamed in a fleshy elongated skull frilled with a dozen thick, black tentacles. Beneath its head, the creature’s body appeared humanoid. It had two arms and two legs and, Nightwing realized belatedly, it was dressed in a skintight black diving suit.
The thing’s tentacles waved and one of them shot forward, moving with lightening speed. Nightwing rolled to the side, heard the crack of wooden boards breaking and splintering. His vision was clearing now and his thoughts were more ordered.
Shapeshifter, realized Nightwing. Amphibius? He wondered, rolling away from a barrage of tentacle strikes.
The creature was moving forward now, taking slow steps. Its black eyes fixated on Nightwing, shining with human cunning.
“Who are you?” Hissed Nightwing, rolling to his feet and assuming a defensive stance.
Wet, warbling laughter met his question. “Most people call me Squidface,” said the creature.
“What are you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
The tentacles moved again, rippling and elongating. They flashed toward him, cracking like whips. Nightwing moved, a blur, using his escrima sticks to bat them away. Twisting and turning, he moved with a dancer’s grace.
But for all his speed and agility, some of the tentacles got through his defenses. He took a solid blow to the gut and another across the face. Unlike the first strike, these left behind a clear, viscous fluid. Nightwing wiped some of it off his face, scowling. Where the blow had struck, his skin was tingling.
Squidface laughed and raised his tentacles. They glistened and dripped with more of the fluid. “Sorry about that, but this is my first superhero fight and I’m kind of excited.”
Freak, thought Nightwing. He circled to his right and Squidface turned, following him. The shapechanger’s tentacles rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
If he’s an amphibian, thought Nightwing, then he’s probably sensitive to light and sound. A couple of flash-bang grenades ought to stun him long enough for me to take him out.
Nightwing’s hand dropped to one of the compartments concealed in his uniform. He kept an eye on Squidface, but was still caught by surprise when the criminal attacked.
The creature’s tentacles stiffened and then shot toward Nightwing. He reacted automatically, bringing his escrima sticks up, prepared to bat away the appendages.
None of them touched him. They jerked to a stop, inches away from Nightwing and spewed streams of the viscous fluid. It caught Nightwing right in the face. He cried out and felt droplets spatter his tongue. His mask was completely covered, rendering him effectively blind.
Quickly, Nightwing moved to wipe his face clean. His skin wasn’t just tingling where Squidface’s fluid had struck, it was burning.
Some kind of acid? Nightwing wondered. Or an irritant?
The creature’s tentacles wrapped around his arm. Startled, Nightwing realized he had been standing there, staring at the goo on his hand. Squidface’s tentacles coiled around Nightwing’s forearm, tightened drastically. Desperately, Nightwing slammed them with the escrima in his other hand, but his blows had no effect.
Squidface laughed and more of his tentacles exploded toward Nightwing. Growling, Nightwing fell back, hoping to pull the laughing shapechanger forward, onto his face, but Squidface might as well have been nailed to the dock. The villain didn’t move an inch and his tentacles were wrapping tight around Nightwing’s other arm.
“Look what I caught,” chuckled Squidface. “Come here, you.”
And he retracted his tentacles, jerking Nightwing toward him. Struggling futilely, Nightwing fought to free himself from the tentacles. He was dragged closer and closer, his boots skidding over the water-slick wood of the docks. When he was close enough, he lashed out with one foot, aiming a kick at Squidface’s belly. One of the tentacles binding Nightwing’s arms shuddered and split in two, the new segment catching Nightwing’s leg and jerking it up and back. The sudden shift in weight made Nightwing stumble and scramble to remain standing.
“Hmm. You’re a fighter.”
Squidface sounded pleased. This close, Nightwing could smell the creature. It reeked of the sea, of salt water and raw fish and something else. A scent Nightwing couldn’t place.
He struggled against the tentacles binding his arms, but it was useless. His leg was still held in one of the things, forcing him to balance on one leg. More of Squidface’s tentacles were splitting, dividing into two and three smaller limbs that coiled tight around his arms and torso. From a distance, Nightwing realized he must have looked like some insane mummy.
“So,” murmured Squidface. “Which one of the Gotham vigilantes are you?”
Nightwing said nothing and the villain sighed, tightened his grip around Nightwing’s arm, hard enough to grind the bones.
“Like you said, we can do it the hard way or the easy way,” said Squidface. His human limbs crossed his chest and the large black eyes glistened intently. “It’s your choice.”
Nightwing ground his teeth, and said nothing.
After a few seconds, Squidface shrugged. “Fine, we do it the hard way.”
He didn’t sound disappointed.
Nightwing tensed, an involuntary response that he instantly regretted. This Squidface, he wouldn’t be the first villain to try and beat answers out of him. Automatically, he fell into the mental state he had learned, to dissociate his body from pain.
Pain that did not come.
The tentacles slithered and moved, oozing more of the fluid. Nightwing could feel it, weighing down the outer layer of his uniform. Small tendrils coiled across his throat and chin. He jerked his head away, grunting, waiting for the pain.
The tendrils found their way to the collar of his uniform and began to slide down it. Despite himself, Nightwing jerked in surprise.
“What the hell?”
Squidface laughed. More of his tentacles were joining the first two, slithering wetly inside Nightwing’s uniform. The masked hero gritted his teeth. Whatever the fluid was the tentacles oozed was starting to affect his skin. It was tingling like mad. He squirmed and tried to recapture the proper mindset.
His efforts were stalled when a small tentacle brushed one of his nipples. A startled gasp escaped the hero. Squidface chuckled.
“Like that?”
The motion of the tentacles inside his uniform changed. Their movements became more sinuous, stroking his chest and now his belly with deliberation. His skin was buzzing from the contact with the fluid and Nightwing grunted and tried to twist away.
“You look uncomfortable, hero,” murmured Squidface. “Let me help you.”
The tentacles inside Nightwing’s uniform changed. He felt them stiffen, suddenly becoming larger and more powerful. Their texture shifted from leathery smoothness to stone-like coarseness. They bunched and strained and Nightwing gasped as they ripped his shirt apart, tearing apart the bulletproof fabric as if it were wet paper.
“What the hell are you doing?” The question exploded out of Nightwing, more from surprise than anything else.
In response, Squidface reached out with his human hands and caressed Nightwing’s chest. His fingers, long and slender, fasted upon the masked man’s nipples. Gently, the villain teased them. Nightwing gasped, his body involuntarily betraying him. His nipples hardened beneath the other man’s touch.
“I’m not sure anymore,” said Squidface.
His tentacles slithered over Nightwing’s bare torso, still large and coarse, but moving gently now, exploring the curve of muscle and bone.
“I. . .”
Whatever Nightwing meant to say died on his lips, replaced by a low moan as the first of Squidface’s tentacles slid beneath the waist of his tights. The villain swore and brushed the palm of his hands across Nightwing’s chest. It was slick with fluid, the olive skin mottling gently. Nightwing gasped and, to his utter surprise and mortification, leaned into the villain’s touch.
Squidface’s hands slid down Nightwing’s chest, to his heaving belly, to the waist of the hero’s tights. His tentacles were teasing the flesh there, just above the fabric. A softer fabric than what he had worn against his chest.
Slowly, watching Nightwing’s face, Squidface slid his hand lower. Nightwing gasped, full lips opening to reveal startling white teeth.
“You’re hard,” murmured Squidface. His hand rested possessively over Nightwing’s groin.
“Can’t help it,” grunted Nightwing. “Don’t want to, but . . .”
“I know,” said Squidface.
His tendrils moved down, sliding beneath the fabric of Nightwing’s tights, tearing them off. Beneath them, the hero wore an athletic cup. A sensible precaution in his line of work, Squidface realized. He tore it off, stripping Nightwing until the only thing he wore was his boots and his mask.
“You’re hot,” murmured the villain.
Nightwing’s response was guttural. Tentacles were slithering over his exposed flesh. They coiled around his thighs and arms and suddenly, Nightwing was being lifted in the air.
“Ah!” The cry escaped him, involuntarily, as one of the appendages slithered over his balls.
He squirmed and thrashed now, some remnant of defiance flaring into hot, desperate life.
“Why is this happening to me?” Moaned Nightwing, trying to slip free of his enemy’s grip.
“This?” Asked Squidface. His hand caressed Nightwing’s prick, swollen and red, jutting up from his body like a fleshy rocket.
“Oh God . . . ”
“My fault,” said Squidface. His hands slid to Nightwing’s thighs, pushing them wider apart. His tentacles gripped them firmly.
“What?” Nightwing was finding it hard to think now. He was hyper aware of his body, of the tentacles coiling around his thighs and arms. “What do you mean?”
“You ever seen that Japanese woodcut?” Asked Squidface, quietly. His hands were stroking the juncture of Nightwing’s thighs, slowly and methodically, where the skin was softest.
Nightwing made a noise and writhed in the tentacled embrace.
“The one with the fisherman’s wife and the squid? Those are my ancestors. The squid was a spirit-animal. Great-grandfather liked humans. A lot. I guess I take after him more than I thought.”
“Aaaaah!” Nightwing arched up as his dick was grasped by the villain. “Oh shit!”
He lifted his head, stared down his torso, covered with teasing slithering tentacles, to his cock. It was pulsing, bouncing in time to his heartbeat. Squidface’s tentacles rose, splaying up and out, lifting Nightwing even higher in the air, exposing the all-too human mouth hidden beneath them.
That mouth opened, descended upon Nightwing’s rampant flesh. A scream erupted from Nightwing as he spasmed in the villain’s grip. A tentacle coiled around his throat, another pressing against his lips.
Squidface sucked him, his tongue as serpentine and flexible as his tentacles. Gasping, Nightwing’s thoughts dissolved into animal instinct. The tentacle pressed against his lips moved forward, filling his mouth. It tasted like salty leather. Nightwing, his eyes rolling in his head, bit down.
Shuddering, Squidface’s human hands dug into Nightwing’s thighs. The hero’s scream was muffled by the tentacle pushing into his throat, but it was still audible. He came, howling like a banshee, flooding Squidface’s mouth with his seed.
Choking, the shapechanger reeled back. His appendages tightened on the nearly naked hero, depositing him on the wet dock. The wood was cool and slick beneath Nightwing’s knees, he fell forward, his arms numb, unable to support his weight. He moaned around the thick stalk filling his mouth, pushing deeper now, into his throat.
Squidface’s other tentacles were moving over his body, teasing Nightwing. A slender tendril slid between Nightwing’s clenched buttocks, brushed his anus. Nightwing gasped, eyes flying open, at the sensation.
“Did you like that, hero?” Squidface asked softly. He knelt behind Nightwing, laid his hand on his captive’s back. Shivering, Nightwing moaned, his voice muffled by flesh. Slowly, deliberately, Squidface slid his hand down Nightwing’s back, to cup a firm buttock. He squeezed the muscular rump, his tendrils teasing the puckering anus.
“I could take you, hero,” said Squidface. “I could have you right here, on your hands and knees, and no one could stop me.”
Groaning, Nightwing could not think of a response. His jaw was stretched wide, aching, around the column of flesh plunging now, into his throat.
“And you would love it,” said the villain.
His fingers teased Nightwing’s opening, his tendrils prying the buttocks apart. The fluid his tentacles secreted glistened against the young man’s olive flesh. Among its properties, it provided a natural lubricant. He could have used it to slide his entire hand into the hero’s ass.
“You might like that,” hissed Squidface. “All decked out in your fetish gear and your little mask.”
He drew back, his tentacles retracting, shrinking and growing back together. The thickest of his appendages was the one buried in Nightwing’s throat, pumping salty slime into the masked man’s belly. It left Nightwing’s mouth with a wet plop.
Standing, Squidface stared down at his victim. Nightwing lay, exhausted and naked, on his belly. His limbs were badly bruised from Squidface’s tentacles and his body glistened with the shapechanger’s secretions and his own sweat. He made no move to rise, just lay there, shivering.
“Were you looking for heaven, hero?” Asked the villain.
His flesh shifted, shrinking, grew paler as his body reverted to its human form. Once the change was complete, Squidface squatted and ran a finger down Nightwing’s ankle. His bones were fine, his feet surprisingly delicate.
“You found heaven,” said Squidface, calmly. “I produce it whenever I shift.”
He drew his hand back, examined his fingertip, coated in the glistening fluid. Blandly, Squidface popped the finger into his mouth, sucked it clean.
“You know all about it, I bet. How it can be addictive. Heh. Did you talk to the junkies? I bet you did. I bet you felt for them. Well, now you can empathize with them even more. How much heaven do you think you have in your bloodstream? Hmm?”
Squidface stood and a cruel smile flitted across his face. “Do you think you’ll beat it? Overcome the need for it? Hero?”
Nightwing did not answer. He lay, shuddering. Eyes shut, muscles twitching.
“If you don’t,” said Squidface, “come find me. If you can.” He walked to the edge of the dock, paused to look back at the naked hero. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
With that, Squidface stepped off the dock and plunged into the midnight waters, leaving Nightwing naked and spent.
* * * * *
Spring had turned sticky hot in New York. Roy Harper undid another button on his shirt and exhaled. He preferred the summers out west. He had never liked muggy summers, preferring the dry heat of the desert. But Donna had sounded worried on the phone, and Roy knew he would never get anything out of her if he didn’t talk to her face to face.
Her studio was blessedly cool. Donna’s assistant told him she was in the middle of a shoot, so Roy would have to wait a few moments. Roy didn’t mind at all. The air conditioning was going full blast and the assistant was pretty in a washed-out blonde sort of way. They chatted until Donna appeared and spirited Roy to her studio office. Roy had given some thought to how to approach Donna, but all his plans evaporated as soon as she shut the door behind them.
“I’m worried about Dick.”
Roy perched on the edge of Donna’s desk. “Why?”
“Have you seen him lately? Spoken to him?” Donna asked. She sat in her chair, an ergonomic monstrosity that looked like it belonged in a chiropractor’s office.
“No, not in a while. Things have been kind of crazy lately.”
Donna hesitated. “Something happened to him a few weeks ago.”
“What?”
“Something bad,” said Donna. She frowned. “I don’t know the details. Bruce is keeping whatever happened quiet.”
Roy’s frown mirrored Donna’s. “What about Alfred?”
She shook her head. “I spoke to him the other day, asked him what was going on and he said he couldn’t say anything. But he sounded upset.”
“Hmm. Barbara? Tim?”
Donna shook her head. “I don’t think Tim knows anything and Barbara, she must know, but she’s not talking.”
“So they’ve circled the wagons,” mused Roy. “It must be bad.”
“Roy, Dick is living in the manor,” said Donna, slowly. “He wouldn’t go back there unless things were really bad.”
“Damn. Okay. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Donna. “Any ideas?”
“Well,” said Roy, “I’ve got some free time on my hands.”
* * * * *
While New York lolled in the summer heat, Gotham City seemed to fester. There was no breeze to stir the air, which stank of exhaust fumes and God knew what else. Roy tried not to breathe too deeply until he had driven out of Gotham, into the wooded hills west of the city.
Roy had chosen Wednesday afternoon for his visit. It was late enough in the day that Bruce would be at his Wayne Industries office, and Roy knew that Alfred always went shopping in the middle of the week. Their absence would give him a couple of hours grace to talk to Dick and find out what was going on. With any luck, he could be away from the manor before anyone else was the wiser.
Roy pressed the doorbell and held it in, listening to its tune with a wry grin. He had done this every time he came to visit when he was just a kid. It had driven Bruce crazy. Now that he thought of it, Alfred hadn’t been to please with it either. Chuckling at the memory, Roy was caught off guard when the front door swung open. Dick stood there, glowering at him.
Roy stared. “Damn, Dick. You look like hell.”
Dick’s glower intensified. He was thinner than Roy remembered, with dark circles beneath his eyes. His hair was unkempt, looking as if Dick had just climbed out of bed. The gray shorts he wore hung on his hips, and despite the heat Dick wore a dark sweatshirt.
“You’d look like hell too if some idiot had just woken you up,” snapped Dick. He looked pointedly at the doorbell.
Grinning sheepishly, Roy shrugged and removed his hand from the button. “Sorry about that.”
Dick sighed and leaned against the door. He folded his arms over his chest, wincing slightly. “What are you doing here, Roy?”
“Donna’s worried.”
Another sigh escaped Dick. He pushed away from the door and turned away. “She should really mind her own business.”
Roy’s eyes narrowed. “She’s worried about you,” he said, following Dick inside.
“I’m fine,” snapped Dick.
“You don’t sound fine,” said Roy. “And you look like shit.”
“So you came here to argue with me?” Asked Dick, turning to glare at the redhead.
Roy returned the glare. “No, I came here to find out what’s going on. Because I’m your friend and your other friends are worried about you. Dickhead.”
Frowning, Dick opened his mouth, as if to retort. Instead, he lowered his head and pushed his hand through his dark hair. “Sorry. I’m . . . Tell Donna I’m fine. Okay?”
“You don’t look fine,” said Roy, bluntly. “What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Dick. He turned and walked toward the stairway. “Lock the door after you. Okay?”
Roy took a deep breath and hurried after Dick. “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”
“Jesus, Roy . . . ”
“Hey, you can talk to me or I can get on the phone and have Donna here by sundown. Which of us do you think is going to go easier on you?”
Dick hesitated on the stairs, turned and glared at Roy. “Fine. Stay. I don’t care.”
Roy watched him climb the stairs, stomping on them like an angry child. He shook his head and gave chase.
“How come your back in the manor?” Roy called.
“Bruce insisted,” said Dick.
“Why?”
Dick didn’t answer and Roy reached the top of the stairs to see him vanish into the upstairs library. He followed him inside and found Dick seated in one of the big leather chairs, knees drawn up to his chest, his gaze sullen and tired.
Roy pulled another chair over and sat in it. “Dick, what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Dick wrapped his arms around his legs, hugged them against his chest. Sitting like that, he reminded Roy of a frightened child. That realization was enough to make all the hairs on the back of Roy’s neck stand on end.
He leaned forward and saw Dick flinch. Concern blossomed into anger. “Damn it, Dick! What the hell is the matter?”
“Nothing!” Shouted Dick. “Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!”
He leapt from the chair, trembling, falling into a fighting stance. His dark blue eyes were wild and his breath was ragged.
Roy, taken aback, fell back in his own chair and stared at his friend. “Jesus, Dick, I. . . .”
As suddenly as the rage had taken Dick, it left him. He fell back, hard, onto the chair. Hanging his head, he leaned forward, his clenched fists pressed against his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Dick. “I’m so sorry, Roy. It’s just . . . it’s been so hard . . . ”
Cautiously, Roy leaned forward. Dick, sensing his movement, raised his head. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, red from exhaustion. He lowered his hands. Roy was staring at his hands. Realization hit Dick and he shrank back, tugging the shirt sleeves down.
“Your wrists,” said Roy, speaking slowly and cautiously. “What happened to your wrists?”
Dick gave a shuddering sigh and raised his arms. The sleeves of Dick’s sweatshirt fell back, exposing the healed scars running along the underside of his wrists. They were jagged white lines, standing out in stark contrast to Dick’s natural dark skin tone.
“I happened,” said Dick, flatly.
Cautiously, Roy reached out, giving Dick plenty of time to stop him. The other man didn’t, he simply held his arms out, watching Roy with silent, grim eyes. Gently, Roy took Dick’s left hand and carefully pushed the shirt sleeve up.
“My God . . . ”
Dick’s entire forearm was covered with dozens of shallow cuts. Most of them looked old, but one or two were still red and fresh. Turning the arm over, Roy saw more cuts on the soft underside. He noted that none of them were near the major veins, but the sight of them still made him break out in gooseflesh.
“Why?” Asked Roy.
“It helps,” said Dick. His voice was flat, empty of all emotion.
Roy raised his head, locked his gaze on Dick’s face. “Tell me.”
“It happened a month ago,” said Dick, bleakly. “On the docks.”
Leaning forward in the chair, Roy listened attentively as Dick told him about the botched surveillance, the shapechanger and the attack. He left nothing out and when he had finished Roy was trembling.
“I made it back home,” said Dick. “I thought I could handle it on my own.” A snort escaped him and he looked away, hands resting on his knees. “I started cutting myself the next day.”
“When did you come here?” Asked Roy.
“Bruce showed up two days later. No one had heard from me. I wasn’t answering the phone or Barbara’s calls. She got worried.”
“Thank God,” murmured Roy.
Dick went on speaking, his voice a flat monotone. “He dragged me back here. I didn’t want to come, but he didn’t give me a choice. We fought. Literally. He had to use restraints to get me in the car.” He swallowed, audibly. “I was in pretty bad shape.”
“And now?” Asked Roy, quietly.
Dick turned to him. “I’m . . . managing.” He glanced at his arms, fiddled with the cuff of one sleeve. “I’m not cutting myself so often. Maybe once or twice a day.” His eyes met Roy’s, bored into him. “It helps with the craving.”
“Cravings,” repeated Roy.
Now Dick trembled. “I have these . . . impulses. They’re, I don’t know what to . . .” He stopped and shut his eyes. “I have dreams about that night, on the docks. About him.”
A shudder wracked Dick’s frame and he drew his knees up, against his chest. He opened his eyes and there was something there, a look that Roy had seen before. His heart clambered in his chest.
“I want to do . . . things. I wake up and it’s. . . .”
He had to stop, words failing him, but the look in his eyes. Roy swallowed.
“That’s when you cut yourself,” said Roy.
Dick nodded, a look of almost pathetic gratefulness flashing across his face.
“And Bruce is okay with that?”
“It’s not . . . I’m not suicidal,” said Dick, quietly. “I told him, about the dreams, about the . . . urges.” Dick laughed drily. “You should have seen his face. I think I shocked him, I think I . . .” He paused and looked down, his eyes hardening. “I think he was disgusted.”
“So you cut yourself to deal with the . . . urges,” said Roy.
Slowly, Dick nodded.
Roy sat back in the chair. His face was blank, his gaze flitting to the library’s window. Beyond the glass, the sky was an unblemished blue.
“You should use a belt,” said Roy.
Dick blinked. “What?”
Roy looked at him, his expression empty. “You should use a belt. Beat your back with it, when you get the urge.” His gaze flickered to Dick’s arms. “It’s less destructive than cutting.”
“You. . . .”
“I was a junkie, Dick,” said Roy. He pursed his lips. “I am a junkie. I’ll be one until the day I die.”
“You used a belt,” whispered Dick.
Roy fingers went to his waist. Dick followed them, watched Roy toy with the metal tongue of his belt buckle. “I used this one. Sometimes, I still do.”
“I . . . Roy, I don’t know what to say. You, I don’t think any of us suspected . . . ”
“Why should you?” Asked Roy. He shifted in the chair. “I have it under control.” His fingers moved, spreading, covering his groin.
Dick stared. His pulse was pounding in his ears.
Roy stood. “You should have come to me for help, Dick. I know what you’re going through.”
Drymouthed, Dick looked up. Roy’s hand touched his face, cupped his cheek. His thumb traced Dick’s cheekbone. Roy’s fingertips were callused. Had Dick ever noticed that before?
“Do you want me to help you, Dick?”
Blue eyes wide open, Dick nodded. Roy’s hand slid under his chin, held Dick’s head up.
“You have to ask, Dick. I can’t help you if you don’t ask for it.”
Dick’s mouth felt full of cotton. Roy’s fingers, callused and warm, felt like they were burning into his skin. He wet his lips.
“I need help, Roy,” Dick whispered. The cuts on his arms seemed to ache as if they were all fresh. “I need. . . .”
“Shhhh.” Gently, Roy placed his fingers across Dick’s mouth. “It’s all right, Robby. I know what you need.”
He began to undo his belt.
