S/B fic: Ganymede In Red, Green, Gold, pt 2/3: God-Touched, by kuonji (R)
Summary: God-touched. It's not a term that he's ever thought would be attached to himself. It's for stories about other people. Legends. So sensational they're just shy of an urban myth. Dick should know. As a travelling circus brat, Dick has heard all the best stories.
Link to Part 1
Ganymede In Red, Green, Gold
Part Two: God-Touched
by kuonji
"Come with me," the man in the pin-striped trousers and the crisp black coat says.
Dick startles from watching Batman and Superman leave. Part of him -- a pretty big part -- still can't believe he's here. He thinks he's going to wake up any moment now. He couldn't possibly have been carried in Superman's arms. He couldn't possibly have talked directly to the Batman. He couldn't possibly be about to share the Batman's bed -- even if everything in the two awe-inspiring figures' conversation seemed to point that way.
God-touched.
It's not a term that he's ever thought would be attached to himself. It's for stories about other people. Legends. So sensational they're just shy of an urban myth. Dick should know. As a travelling circus brat, Dick has heard all the best stories.
"You can take your hands apart now."
Glancing down, Dick does so, slowly. Feeling returns to his fingers in pins and needles. Coherent thoughts seem to be trickling back into his brain in the same way.
"Excuse me," he ventures to say, only slightly less timid with the severely precise man as he had been with the two all-powerful beings who watch over Earth together. The man doesn't slow, but he does turn and raise an eyebrow at Dick.
"Yes, young sir?"
No one's ever called him 'sir' before, 'young' or otherwise.
"Am I--? Will the Batman--" He's stymied for a verb that is not vulgar. He instinctively knows that would not be welcome here. The man's already turned away again before Dick remembers the stories of knights and romances with their lady loves in the book his mother reads him. He doesn't feel it's exactly inappropriate. He's no royalty or gentry, but Batman certainly is. Tentatively, he asks, "Will he bed me?"
He gets the eyebrow again. "The Master will do as he sees fit."
"So, he might not?" Disappointment hits heavy and hard. It only happens a few times a year, he knows, and not all of the incidents are publicized, but all the stories agree that to lose one's virgin-hood to the Bat is one of the most magical, exciting, and envied things that can happen to a young man. He's old enough. He has to be. Batman had smiled at him.
The man does not answer. Instead, he asks, "What is your name?"
"Huh? Um. I'm Dick."
"Your full legal name, please."
"Richard. Richard John Grayson. Sir."
"Date and location of birth?"
Dick tells him, feeling somewhat defensive as he gives the city and state he's been taught to carefully memorize. Being born on the side of a road had always seemed adventurous and romantic when he was with his fellow circus folk or talking to the townies, but in this pristine hall, he feels like a vagabond urchin.
The man merely nods in acknowledgement.
They reach a set of double doors, which the man pushes open. Dick follows inside to a high-ceilinged bedroom, tastefully decorated in light, airy whites. It's rather like a bridal chamber, Dick realizes with equal parts chagrin and hope. The man turns to look at him for the first time since he first appeared. His expression is excessively impersonal.
"We will locate you in the databases now. When you return, you will find an account opened in your name at The Bank with five hundred thousand dollars in funds. An advisor will contact you and give you suggestions on how to manage it. However, you may do as you like with the funds, including spend it all at once. These monies are completely tax-free and not transferable upon your death. Should you encounter any difficulties, or if anyone attempts to take these funds from you by coercion, fraud, or force, call this number and give your name and today's date." He hands Dick a card, blank except for a phone number.
A phone number. The banality of it all blows Dick's mind.
This man had somehow managed to reduce the most astounding, inspiring, titillating story of the modern age into legal gobbledygook. Dick hopes his eyes haven't glazed over. He's pretty sure that is inexcusably rude -- something he can't be in Batman's house. "Yes, sir," he mumbles, taking the card.
The pressed and dried man directs Dick to a bathroom that Dick can't stop himself from gaping at once he's inside. It's about the size of his parents' entire trailer.
"I assume you know how to use the facilities. Clean yourself up thoroughly. You will wear this." He presents Dick with a thick black robe with Batman's symbol embroidered on the left breast in bright searchlight yellow. "As to your earlier question, I am not privy to the Master's thoughts. However, I imagine an attention to hygiene and an accommodating attitude cannot go amiss."
Dick almost misses the veiled advice -- if that's what it is. By the time he thinks to stammer his thanks, the man has gone with silent efficiency.
He strips down quickly but isn't sure where to stack his uniform. It goes, finally, on the edge of the vast countertop, the card tucked inside. Then it's into the shower, where it takes him a few moments to figure out how the water spouts work. There's six different nozzles, and it's like standing in a warm thunderstorm. It makes Dick laugh as he turns around with his arms raised above his head, feeling the streams trickle down his body.
His friends back at the circus are going to scream when he gets back and tells them all about this.
The thought that his parents won't be there with them sobers him. All of the god-touched are orphans. It doesn't make up for their loss, but it helps a little to know someone's watching over them.
Dick's mom had always taught him that while Batman is a vicious demon to the wicked, to the innocent, he is a fiercely protective dark angel. He and Superman don't ask for tribute or servants. All they ask for is obedience. It's an easy price to pay for peace. Back when Dick was just a baby, everyone tells him, the circuses were often victims of attacks and prejudice. After the two Guardians came to power, all that violence almost disappeared overnight.
The circus obeys, Pop Haly says, and it's grateful.
Dick reaches for the soap. The man had said to wash himself thoroughly, and that's what he's going to do. He's not going to disappoint the Dark Knight. He's not going to let down everyone back home. He's going to make his parents proud.
He smells like honey and vanilla when he's done, and his skin feels weirdly soft all over. He gasps when he pulls a folded towel out of the bin beside the shower stall. It's big enough to completely engulf him, and it's warm. The fluffy fabric draws moisture away from his skin without him even having to wipe himself dry. A corner of it serves to towel-dry his hair as well, since he's somewhat dubious about the half-domed contraption mounted on the wall that he thinks is a hair dryer.
By the time he pulls on the luxuriously soft black robe, Dick feels like he's been through an intense make-up and fitting session. It's that same mix of pampered and relaxed, with excitement and nerves.
In fact, he barely holds in a surprised squeak when he re-enters the room.
The bed's turned down. Batman stands beside it, absolutely still, waiting. That is, if a statue could be said to be waiting. Amidst the white sheets and curtains and the thick beige carpet, the black-draped figure looks almost like a hole cut out in space.
Swallowing nervously, Dick approaches him.
"Stop," Batman says, once Dick reaches the head of the bed. They're about two yards apart. Dick can see the rise and fall of that broad chest. It's startling to notice a deity do anything as mundane as breathing.
"Take off your robe."
Dick complies, dropping the just-donned robe behind him. Out of habit, he gives it a little flick off the shoulders like he always does to his cape before climbing the ladder to the platform. The heavy fabric doesn't flare the same way, of course, and instead of floating to the ground in a soft whisper, heavy cotton hits the carpet with an audible plop. There's an awkward beat where Dick thinks he'll combust from embarrassment.
Batman doesn't seem to notice, however. He looks Dick up and down in a way that makes it absolutely impossible to forget that Dick is completely naked in front of him. Despite the Dark Knight's grim visage, Dick isn't scared. He is, however, horribly anxious to please. Dick hopes, he prays that he's good enough. He wants so much to be worthy. To have this. Nothing will make up for his parents, but if he could be touched by a god... Well. It would help.
Batman's mouth lifts in a sardonic smile. It's the same barely there expression Dick saw before, mysterious and perfect in its obscurity. Dick finds himself smiling back again. "I guess you are mature for your age after all."
The comment makes Dick blush furiously. He fights the urge to cover himself. Batman hasn't given him permission to move yet.
The smile disappears. "On the bed, face up."
Letting go of his held breath with relief, he scrambles to obey. The bed is huge and higher than Dick's used to, but nothing that he can't handle with a two-step running start and a spring. He thinks he hears a grunt from Batman as he does so. Once atop the surprisingly firm but springy mattress, he turns quickly on his back and arranges himself. He's taking quick, audible breaths that he can't control.
Batman approaches, and Dick squeezes his eyes shut -- only to pop them open again the next moment. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. He doesn't want to miss a second of it. He stares in awe as the tall, dark figure reaches out. He's aware, suddenly, that he's demonstrating that he is, in fact, old enough to have an erection. The thought makes him blush even more fervently, and he whimpers when Batman's hand makes contact with his ankle.
The gauntlet is rough on his skin. It slides up the inside of Dick's thigh, then back out and up his quivering belly and heaving chest, ending at the hollow of his throat. The rough material catches at him, teasing. Batman slides his hand down again until, with a single finger, he traces down the center of Dick's quivering yearning. Dick chokes back a cry, half-frightened, half-embarrassed, and very, very aroused. He snags tight handfuls of the sheets to keep himself from moving. He doesn't dare to without permission, and it's completely beyond question to ask.
Batman raises his head from watching his work, and his eye-less gaze locks on Dick's face. "Are you a virgin?" he asks.
Somehow, he finds his voice to answer: "Yes, sir."
"What do you know about sex?"
He's getting used to the questions now. It's like hanging out around the fire after hours with Danny and the other roustabouts. They'd tease him and try to stump him with lewd jokes, half of which he didn't understand -- but only half. They'd always told him that if he was old enough to ask about something he was old enough to hear about it. Dick had a feeling that his parents might not feel the same way, but they'd never expressly forbade him to talk about sex with the guys, and it isn't one of the Rules. Superman and Batman don't care about things like that.
Over the years, Dick had spent countless hours hearing all sorts of interesting things in the secret half-dark before sneaking back home to frantically pull his shorts down, his face muffled into his pillow to keep from waking his parents.
"I know quite a lot, actually," he returns cheekily. He's chagrined a moment later at the lack of respect he had shown, but Batman merely hmms in acknowledgement.
"You said that you masturbate. How many times a week?"
"Three? Maybe five." Is that too many? Too few? Does Batman like a pure virgin? Does he enjoy a more experienced partner? What if Dick says something to disgust him, after having come this far. He doesn't think he could stand it.
Batman's single finger doesn't stop moving slowly up and down. His expression doesn't change. "Show me," he says.
Dick lets out an explosive gasp. "I-- Are you sure?" Of course he's sure. He's the Batman. He wouldn't say something unless he was sure. "I mean, I don't-- Oh!" The gauntlet-clad hand wraps around him and pumps up and down once. Dick thinks he's going to die. Then fingers tighten around the tip and-- Dick shudders. The sharp bite of pain is there and gone. More importantly, the unstoppable, quivering need has eased -- just slightly, but enough. "What did you do?"
"Show me," is all the dark god replies.
Feeling self-conscious, Dick wraps his right hand around himself (after wrenching it out of the tangle of sheets his fingers had been spasmed around). He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember what he usually thinks about when he's in his cot at night, but it's impossible to concentrate because Batman is watching him so intensely he can practically feel it on his skin.
It barely takes ten seconds.
Dick turns his head to the side, away from Batman's gaze. Danny had been very specific. A man should be able to go all night long. He had to satisfy his woman -- multiple times -- before taking his own satisfaction in order to be considered a competent lover. He's a complete failure, so obviously inadequate.
Batman-- laughs.
Dick peeks up, astounded. It's a soft rasping chuckle, a mere extension of Batman's gravelly voice. It's captivating, like watching Bert catch that fourteenth pin and spin it up into the air like the rest before it, so easy that it's almost impossible to appreciate fully.
"You were very excited. What were you thinking about?"
Dick opens and closes his mouth and stammers helplessly. It feels practically blasphemous to voice his thoughts, but no one lies to the Batman. He finally answers, wincing, "You."
"Me?"
"Asking, um, wanting me to... touch you." Those filmed white lenses somehow manage to convey a level of scrutiny that makes Dick squirm. Who is he to talk about Batman that way, as if he were just another man? Worse, a man who would ask instead of command Dick to bring him pleasure. A man who might need Dick for anything at all? "I'm sorry."
"Give me your hand."
He complies immediately. Be it cut off or mangled, he doesn't have the right to prevent it. He's aware that he is trembling with trepidation.
When Batman touches him, however, Dick suddenly feels something he hadn't expected at all. With his hand encased in that large one, he feels... safe. All his nervousness melts away.
"Batman?" he breathes, staring at their two hands together.
Batman raises Dick's hand to his own cheek. Holding his breath, Dick boldly strokes the bare skin there. It's warm and rough. This is the face of justice, of glorious battles and matchless power. Dick feels himself shivering, and he can't stop.
His dark god smiles down at him. "You like this?" he asks.
"Yes." He gulps, and hastily adds, "Sir."
"I think you'll like this better." Unbelievably, Batman takes his index finger in his mouth. It's warm, and it's wet, and it should be disgusting, except it completely isn't.
Dick utters a word that his parents wouldn't approve of, if they'd heard. But in the same way that it conveys frustration and distress when one of the animals is acting up or when the weather ruins the carnival booths' custom, it seems to convey the overwhelming sensations that Dick is experiencing right now.
Batman doesn't stop at Dick's index finger. Each one is treated to the same sensations, and Dick's palm and wrist are next. Squirming, he tries valiantly to stay still when Batman follows the sensitive path up the inside of his arm. He's trembles, breathless, when those otherworldly lips travel over his chest, his sternum, his belly, his--
More expressions are uttered, ones that Dick's learned from watching the crew set up and strike the tents, dropped hammers and broken winches and clogging mud all spurring Dick's education in the language of hyperbolic exclamation.
"I didn't think elephants were that flexible," Batman remarks. Dick laughs before he can appreciate the wonder of the dread Batman showing a sense of humor. There's a muted squeal of fabric and leather, and Dick's mirth fades abruptly as he watches Batman pull off his right gauntlet. The Dark Knights sleeves extend skintight to his wrists, but the hand revealed is bare. He can't help but jerk when Batman lays that hand on his arm.
Not even the roustabouts' most elaborate words can serve here. All Dick can do is to gasp in wonder.
Batman pauses, and his blank white eyes regard Dick with what Dick thinks is a question.
"You're real," Dick answers. Suddenly bold in this unreal space, he reaches out and takes Batman's hand in both his own. Even with the evidence of a second before, he expects the hand to be fiery to the touch, or perhaps insubstantial to his mortal hold. But the hand is just a hand. Large. Lightly haired. It's callused in a way that Dick is familiar with. He traces the hardened flesh at the base of the fingers, and the corresponding ridges between the bottom and middle knuckles. Marks from grasping, from holding your own body weight and more every day for years. Dick raises the hand to his face and sniffs, almost expecting talcum powder and sawdust.
There's only sweat. And leather mixed with an artificial scent, both deeply ingrained in Batman's skin.
The tears catch Dick by surprise.
His mother and father lie in the sawdust, their bodies twisted and unfamiliar. Their hands are cold.
He turns his face to the pillow, confused and ashamed by his outburst. He isn't representing the citizens of the world very well at all. Will Batman judge the circus -- Dick's only friends and family now -- by his behavior? Will he punish them?
Dick has obeyed all his life. He's done more than just obey. His parents had taught him to admire and to honor. He must not fail now.
"I-- I'm so--" He swallows. "I'm sorry," he says. He forces his eyes back to Batman's face.
The dark angel watches him, silent and unmoving. Almost, he doesn't seem to breathe. With effort, though, Dick is again able to discern the slight rise and fall of his chest under the armored covering, and it's comforting when he does.
A movement next to him startles Dick. But it's only Batman's hand, and he relaxes. He closes his eyes briefly when Batman's fingers touch his cheek, then slide up to cradle his face, catching the tears before they reach Dick's temples. "It's all right to cry," Batman says, his gravelly voice sounding gentle to Dick's ear. "You'll cry for a long time. But then it will get better."
"When?" Dick asks. "It... hurts so much. I don't know what to do."
"It will get better. Trust me."
Dick thinks he should say 'yes' or 'okay', but he can't.
Another whisper of movement, and then--
He's-- It's a kiss. It's a French kiss. Dick gasps and twitches under the weight of Batman's wide body. His flailing hands find purchase, one in Batman's cape, the other in the sheets. He hangs out for dear life as Batman-- devours him from the inside.
Dick doesn't think it's possible for him to blush anymore, but he gives it a try, all thoughts of his parents fleeing his mind. He's only ever dared to imagine French kissing a girl when he's in the darkness of the trailer at night, after his parents have fallen asleep. His most fanciful imaginings had never come close to this. He feels like he is on fire.
And then-- oh! Oh!
He shudders, amazed and embarrassed all at once. His hips push upwards all on their own. Batman's armor is cool and firm and just slightly painful to thrust against, but then he's engulfed in a warm, damp hand. The sensations are overwhelming. Dick's dizzy and frantic, restless, desperate. He makes strangled sounds that Batman swallows down. He struggles and wriggles but Batman pins him with his enormous weight.
His one coherent thought is, Batman knows what he wants. Batman knows everything. The dark god touches Dick exactly the way he hadn't realized he'd needed. The taste and smell and weight of him drives Dick out of his mind until he jerks and shouts, nearly sobbing with the feeling of relief and exquisite release. Unthinking, he throws his arms around those armored shoulders, clutches handfuls of the heavy cape -- and holds on.
He doesn't know how long he hides himself beneath the blackness. He's conscious of Batman breathing against him. He envisions the steady movement of Batman's breath, the roughness of his cheek, the warmth of his bare hand. When Batman starts to move away, Dick whines in protest and holds on tighter. He doesn't stop to think about the audacity of that, because Batman responds by staying where he is. Callused fingers stroke Dick's face.
"You..." The voice is hoarse. When Dick pulls back slightly to look up, Batman's staring at him with those unblinking white eyes. He shakes his cowled head. "I'm glad Superman found you."
"Will I see you again?" It's a child's question, but lassitude and a quiet contentment have leached all the shame out of Dick.
"I doubt it."
"Oh. I'll miss you."
Batman considers him. "This will be a special memory."
"No, I mean, I'll miss you."
Again, the Dark Knight falls into a studying silence. For the space of time it takes for Dick's mother to swing across the expanse of air and light to the opposite platform, raise her arm for applause, and return, Batman is perfectly still. Then he reaches up -- and peels back the covering over his face.
Dick gasps in shock, suddenly very much awake. He watches in wonder as leather and armor pull back, shed like a skin -- like the bear hide that covers the true form of the prince.
Batman's eyes aren't at all the glowing red or depthless black that Dick had always imagined. They're an icy blue. And his eyebrows are bushy, and his nose is straight and high, and his hair is uncompromisingly straight. Without thinking, he raises one hand to touch those jet-black strands, spiked with sweat.
Dick's very aware that he's looking upon the face of a god.
Yet, suddenly, he's also very aware that he's looking upon the face of a man, or at least an excellent imitation of one.
And Batman is beautiful.
The man-behind-the-god laughs. It even sounds different from Batman's. It's still deep and coarse, but it's somehow richer. "I don't think anyone other than my mother has called me that before."
Realizing that he'd spoken his thought out loud, Dick stammers, "I-- I'm sorry. I didn't--"
Batman shushes him with a finger over Dick's lips. He strokes his fingers through Dick's hair. "It's all right."
"Thank you."
A kiss to Dick's cheek. It feels completely unlike the others. Instead of burning Dick's skin, it warms him from the inside. Shifting, Batman pulls a cool comforter over Dick's body. "Sleep."
It's not an order. Dick knows that. But he's tired and emotionally wrung out, and most importantly, he feels... right. It's as if, in some unimaginable way, this is as things should be. Batman continues to stroke his hair with warm, human fingers. He is a solid, dark presence at Dick's side, watching over him. Before Dick knows it, he's lost in slumber.
***
In his dreams, the circus is in full swing. The animals cavort and stamp. The charivari's a whirl of laughing color. A red and blue blur flies around and around the top of the tent, causing a tornado. People are whipped into the air with the gale.
His father checks the lines. He's the only one standing still.
"We're on, honey," his mother urges, gesturing him towards a dark trailer. He hears Pop Haly shouting at someone inside.
"Without benefit of a net!" Pop Haly announces. "I won't pay!"
His mother re-checks the lines after his father does. It's important. "Don't ever forget it, Robin. Before and after every performance and practice."
"Obey, Dick," his father admonishes. His mouth doesn't move, because all his bones are broken, and there's blood all over him.
A large man in a green coat wipes his face with a handkerchief. He scowls under the spotlights as he steps over Dick's parents on the ground. "You'll be sorry," he mutters, staring straight at Dick. "Accidents happen in a place like this."
Accidents happen.
***
Dick wakes in a panic. "Mom! Dad!" he screams.
It takes him a long time to remember where he is. As soon as he does, however, he fights his way out of the covers, rolls off the enormous bed, and wraps the fallen robe back around him. He runs to the door and, when he finds it locked, he bangs on it urgently. "Let me out!" he shouts. "Let me out! I have to see Batman!"
***
***
END Part 2.
Link to Part 3
Link to Part 1
Ganymede In Red, Green, Gold
Part Two: God-Touched
by kuonji
"Come with me," the man in the pin-striped trousers and the crisp black coat says.
Dick startles from watching Batman and Superman leave. Part of him -- a pretty big part -- still can't believe he's here. He thinks he's going to wake up any moment now. He couldn't possibly have been carried in Superman's arms. He couldn't possibly have talked directly to the Batman. He couldn't possibly be about to share the Batman's bed -- even if everything in the two awe-inspiring figures' conversation seemed to point that way.
God-touched.
It's not a term that he's ever thought would be attached to himself. It's for stories about other people. Legends. So sensational they're just shy of an urban myth. Dick should know. As a travelling circus brat, Dick has heard all the best stories.
"You can take your hands apart now."
Glancing down, Dick does so, slowly. Feeling returns to his fingers in pins and needles. Coherent thoughts seem to be trickling back into his brain in the same way.
"Excuse me," he ventures to say, only slightly less timid with the severely precise man as he had been with the two all-powerful beings who watch over Earth together. The man doesn't slow, but he does turn and raise an eyebrow at Dick.
"Yes, young sir?"
No one's ever called him 'sir' before, 'young' or otherwise.
"Am I--? Will the Batman--" He's stymied for a verb that is not vulgar. He instinctively knows that would not be welcome here. The man's already turned away again before Dick remembers the stories of knights and romances with their lady loves in the book his mother reads him. He doesn't feel it's exactly inappropriate. He's no royalty or gentry, but Batman certainly is. Tentatively, he asks, "Will he bed me?"
He gets the eyebrow again. "The Master will do as he sees fit."
"So, he might not?" Disappointment hits heavy and hard. It only happens a few times a year, he knows, and not all of the incidents are publicized, but all the stories agree that to lose one's virgin-hood to the Bat is one of the most magical, exciting, and envied things that can happen to a young man. He's old enough. He has to be. Batman had smiled at him.
The man does not answer. Instead, he asks, "What is your name?"
"Huh? Um. I'm Dick."
"Your full legal name, please."
"Richard. Richard John Grayson. Sir."
"Date and location of birth?"
Dick tells him, feeling somewhat defensive as he gives the city and state he's been taught to carefully memorize. Being born on the side of a road had always seemed adventurous and romantic when he was with his fellow circus folk or talking to the townies, but in this pristine hall, he feels like a vagabond urchin.
The man merely nods in acknowledgement.
They reach a set of double doors, which the man pushes open. Dick follows inside to a high-ceilinged bedroom, tastefully decorated in light, airy whites. It's rather like a bridal chamber, Dick realizes with equal parts chagrin and hope. The man turns to look at him for the first time since he first appeared. His expression is excessively impersonal.
"We will locate you in the databases now. When you return, you will find an account opened in your name at The Bank with five hundred thousand dollars in funds. An advisor will contact you and give you suggestions on how to manage it. However, you may do as you like with the funds, including spend it all at once. These monies are completely tax-free and not transferable upon your death. Should you encounter any difficulties, or if anyone attempts to take these funds from you by coercion, fraud, or force, call this number and give your name and today's date." He hands Dick a card, blank except for a phone number.
A phone number. The banality of it all blows Dick's mind.
This man had somehow managed to reduce the most astounding, inspiring, titillating story of the modern age into legal gobbledygook. Dick hopes his eyes haven't glazed over. He's pretty sure that is inexcusably rude -- something he can't be in Batman's house. "Yes, sir," he mumbles, taking the card.
The pressed and dried man directs Dick to a bathroom that Dick can't stop himself from gaping at once he's inside. It's about the size of his parents' entire trailer.
"I assume you know how to use the facilities. Clean yourself up thoroughly. You will wear this." He presents Dick with a thick black robe with Batman's symbol embroidered on the left breast in bright searchlight yellow. "As to your earlier question, I am not privy to the Master's thoughts. However, I imagine an attention to hygiene and an accommodating attitude cannot go amiss."
Dick almost misses the veiled advice -- if that's what it is. By the time he thinks to stammer his thanks, the man has gone with silent efficiency.
He strips down quickly but isn't sure where to stack his uniform. It goes, finally, on the edge of the vast countertop, the card tucked inside. Then it's into the shower, where it takes him a few moments to figure out how the water spouts work. There's six different nozzles, and it's like standing in a warm thunderstorm. It makes Dick laugh as he turns around with his arms raised above his head, feeling the streams trickle down his body.
His friends back at the circus are going to scream when he gets back and tells them all about this.
The thought that his parents won't be there with them sobers him. All of the god-touched are orphans. It doesn't make up for their loss, but it helps a little to know someone's watching over them.
Dick's mom had always taught him that while Batman is a vicious demon to the wicked, to the innocent, he is a fiercely protective dark angel. He and Superman don't ask for tribute or servants. All they ask for is obedience. It's an easy price to pay for peace. Back when Dick was just a baby, everyone tells him, the circuses were often victims of attacks and prejudice. After the two Guardians came to power, all that violence almost disappeared overnight.
The circus obeys, Pop Haly says, and it's grateful.
Dick reaches for the soap. The man had said to wash himself thoroughly, and that's what he's going to do. He's not going to disappoint the Dark Knight. He's not going to let down everyone back home. He's going to make his parents proud.
He smells like honey and vanilla when he's done, and his skin feels weirdly soft all over. He gasps when he pulls a folded towel out of the bin beside the shower stall. It's big enough to completely engulf him, and it's warm. The fluffy fabric draws moisture away from his skin without him even having to wipe himself dry. A corner of it serves to towel-dry his hair as well, since he's somewhat dubious about the half-domed contraption mounted on the wall that he thinks is a hair dryer.
By the time he pulls on the luxuriously soft black robe, Dick feels like he's been through an intense make-up and fitting session. It's that same mix of pampered and relaxed, with excitement and nerves.
In fact, he barely holds in a surprised squeak when he re-enters the room.
The bed's turned down. Batman stands beside it, absolutely still, waiting. That is, if a statue could be said to be waiting. Amidst the white sheets and curtains and the thick beige carpet, the black-draped figure looks almost like a hole cut out in space.
Swallowing nervously, Dick approaches him.
"Stop," Batman says, once Dick reaches the head of the bed. They're about two yards apart. Dick can see the rise and fall of that broad chest. It's startling to notice a deity do anything as mundane as breathing.
"Take off your robe."
Dick complies, dropping the just-donned robe behind him. Out of habit, he gives it a little flick off the shoulders like he always does to his cape before climbing the ladder to the platform. The heavy fabric doesn't flare the same way, of course, and instead of floating to the ground in a soft whisper, heavy cotton hits the carpet with an audible plop. There's an awkward beat where Dick thinks he'll combust from embarrassment.
Batman doesn't seem to notice, however. He looks Dick up and down in a way that makes it absolutely impossible to forget that Dick is completely naked in front of him. Despite the Dark Knight's grim visage, Dick isn't scared. He is, however, horribly anxious to please. Dick hopes, he prays that he's good enough. He wants so much to be worthy. To have this. Nothing will make up for his parents, but if he could be touched by a god... Well. It would help.
Batman's mouth lifts in a sardonic smile. It's the same barely there expression Dick saw before, mysterious and perfect in its obscurity. Dick finds himself smiling back again. "I guess you are mature for your age after all."
The comment makes Dick blush furiously. He fights the urge to cover himself. Batman hasn't given him permission to move yet.
The smile disappears. "On the bed, face up."
Letting go of his held breath with relief, he scrambles to obey. The bed is huge and higher than Dick's used to, but nothing that he can't handle with a two-step running start and a spring. He thinks he hears a grunt from Batman as he does so. Once atop the surprisingly firm but springy mattress, he turns quickly on his back and arranges himself. He's taking quick, audible breaths that he can't control.
Batman approaches, and Dick squeezes his eyes shut -- only to pop them open again the next moment. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. He doesn't want to miss a second of it. He stares in awe as the tall, dark figure reaches out. He's aware, suddenly, that he's demonstrating that he is, in fact, old enough to have an erection. The thought makes him blush even more fervently, and he whimpers when Batman's hand makes contact with his ankle.
The gauntlet is rough on his skin. It slides up the inside of Dick's thigh, then back out and up his quivering belly and heaving chest, ending at the hollow of his throat. The rough material catches at him, teasing. Batman slides his hand down again until, with a single finger, he traces down the center of Dick's quivering yearning. Dick chokes back a cry, half-frightened, half-embarrassed, and very, very aroused. He snags tight handfuls of the sheets to keep himself from moving. He doesn't dare to without permission, and it's completely beyond question to ask.
Batman raises his head from watching his work, and his eye-less gaze locks on Dick's face. "Are you a virgin?" he asks.
Somehow, he finds his voice to answer: "Yes, sir."
"What do you know about sex?"
He's getting used to the questions now. It's like hanging out around the fire after hours with Danny and the other roustabouts. They'd tease him and try to stump him with lewd jokes, half of which he didn't understand -- but only half. They'd always told him that if he was old enough to ask about something he was old enough to hear about it. Dick had a feeling that his parents might not feel the same way, but they'd never expressly forbade him to talk about sex with the guys, and it isn't one of the Rules. Superman and Batman don't care about things like that.
Over the years, Dick had spent countless hours hearing all sorts of interesting things in the secret half-dark before sneaking back home to frantically pull his shorts down, his face muffled into his pillow to keep from waking his parents.
"I know quite a lot, actually," he returns cheekily. He's chagrined a moment later at the lack of respect he had shown, but Batman merely hmms in acknowledgement.
"You said that you masturbate. How many times a week?"
"Three? Maybe five." Is that too many? Too few? Does Batman like a pure virgin? Does he enjoy a more experienced partner? What if Dick says something to disgust him, after having come this far. He doesn't think he could stand it.
Batman's single finger doesn't stop moving slowly up and down. His expression doesn't change. "Show me," he says.
Dick lets out an explosive gasp. "I-- Are you sure?" Of course he's sure. He's the Batman. He wouldn't say something unless he was sure. "I mean, I don't-- Oh!" The gauntlet-clad hand wraps around him and pumps up and down once. Dick thinks he's going to die. Then fingers tighten around the tip and-- Dick shudders. The sharp bite of pain is there and gone. More importantly, the unstoppable, quivering need has eased -- just slightly, but enough. "What did you do?"
"Show me," is all the dark god replies.
Feeling self-conscious, Dick wraps his right hand around himself (after wrenching it out of the tangle of sheets his fingers had been spasmed around). He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember what he usually thinks about when he's in his cot at night, but it's impossible to concentrate because Batman is watching him so intensely he can practically feel it on his skin.
It barely takes ten seconds.
Dick turns his head to the side, away from Batman's gaze. Danny had been very specific. A man should be able to go all night long. He had to satisfy his woman -- multiple times -- before taking his own satisfaction in order to be considered a competent lover. He's a complete failure, so obviously inadequate.
Batman-- laughs.
Dick peeks up, astounded. It's a soft rasping chuckle, a mere extension of Batman's gravelly voice. It's captivating, like watching Bert catch that fourteenth pin and spin it up into the air like the rest before it, so easy that it's almost impossible to appreciate fully.
"You were very excited. What were you thinking about?"
Dick opens and closes his mouth and stammers helplessly. It feels practically blasphemous to voice his thoughts, but no one lies to the Batman. He finally answers, wincing, "You."
"Me?"
"Asking, um, wanting me to... touch you." Those filmed white lenses somehow manage to convey a level of scrutiny that makes Dick squirm. Who is he to talk about Batman that way, as if he were just another man? Worse, a man who would ask instead of command Dick to bring him pleasure. A man who might need Dick for anything at all? "I'm sorry."
"Give me your hand."
He complies immediately. Be it cut off or mangled, he doesn't have the right to prevent it. He's aware that he is trembling with trepidation.
When Batman touches him, however, Dick suddenly feels something he hadn't expected at all. With his hand encased in that large one, he feels... safe. All his nervousness melts away.
"Batman?" he breathes, staring at their two hands together.
Batman raises Dick's hand to his own cheek. Holding his breath, Dick boldly strokes the bare skin there. It's warm and rough. This is the face of justice, of glorious battles and matchless power. Dick feels himself shivering, and he can't stop.
His dark god smiles down at him. "You like this?" he asks.
"Yes." He gulps, and hastily adds, "Sir."
"I think you'll like this better." Unbelievably, Batman takes his index finger in his mouth. It's warm, and it's wet, and it should be disgusting, except it completely isn't.
Dick utters a word that his parents wouldn't approve of, if they'd heard. But in the same way that it conveys frustration and distress when one of the animals is acting up or when the weather ruins the carnival booths' custom, it seems to convey the overwhelming sensations that Dick is experiencing right now.
Batman doesn't stop at Dick's index finger. Each one is treated to the same sensations, and Dick's palm and wrist are next. Squirming, he tries valiantly to stay still when Batman follows the sensitive path up the inside of his arm. He's trembles, breathless, when those otherworldly lips travel over his chest, his sternum, his belly, his--
More expressions are uttered, ones that Dick's learned from watching the crew set up and strike the tents, dropped hammers and broken winches and clogging mud all spurring Dick's education in the language of hyperbolic exclamation.
"I didn't think elephants were that flexible," Batman remarks. Dick laughs before he can appreciate the wonder of the dread Batman showing a sense of humor. There's a muted squeal of fabric and leather, and Dick's mirth fades abruptly as he watches Batman pull off his right gauntlet. The Dark Knights sleeves extend skintight to his wrists, but the hand revealed is bare. He can't help but jerk when Batman lays that hand on his arm.
Not even the roustabouts' most elaborate words can serve here. All Dick can do is to gasp in wonder.
Batman pauses, and his blank white eyes regard Dick with what Dick thinks is a question.
"You're real," Dick answers. Suddenly bold in this unreal space, he reaches out and takes Batman's hand in both his own. Even with the evidence of a second before, he expects the hand to be fiery to the touch, or perhaps insubstantial to his mortal hold. But the hand is just a hand. Large. Lightly haired. It's callused in a way that Dick is familiar with. He traces the hardened flesh at the base of the fingers, and the corresponding ridges between the bottom and middle knuckles. Marks from grasping, from holding your own body weight and more every day for years. Dick raises the hand to his face and sniffs, almost expecting talcum powder and sawdust.
There's only sweat. And leather mixed with an artificial scent, both deeply ingrained in Batman's skin.
The tears catch Dick by surprise.
His mother and father lie in the sawdust, their bodies twisted and unfamiliar. Their hands are cold.
He turns his face to the pillow, confused and ashamed by his outburst. He isn't representing the citizens of the world very well at all. Will Batman judge the circus -- Dick's only friends and family now -- by his behavior? Will he punish them?
Dick has obeyed all his life. He's done more than just obey. His parents had taught him to admire and to honor. He must not fail now.
"I-- I'm so--" He swallows. "I'm sorry," he says. He forces his eyes back to Batman's face.
The dark angel watches him, silent and unmoving. Almost, he doesn't seem to breathe. With effort, though, Dick is again able to discern the slight rise and fall of his chest under the armored covering, and it's comforting when he does.
A movement next to him startles Dick. But it's only Batman's hand, and he relaxes. He closes his eyes briefly when Batman's fingers touch his cheek, then slide up to cradle his face, catching the tears before they reach Dick's temples. "It's all right to cry," Batman says, his gravelly voice sounding gentle to Dick's ear. "You'll cry for a long time. But then it will get better."
"When?" Dick asks. "It... hurts so much. I don't know what to do."
"It will get better. Trust me."
Dick thinks he should say 'yes' or 'okay', but he can't.
Another whisper of movement, and then--
He's-- It's a kiss. It's a French kiss. Dick gasps and twitches under the weight of Batman's wide body. His flailing hands find purchase, one in Batman's cape, the other in the sheets. He hangs out for dear life as Batman-- devours him from the inside.
Dick doesn't think it's possible for him to blush anymore, but he gives it a try, all thoughts of his parents fleeing his mind. He's only ever dared to imagine French kissing a girl when he's in the darkness of the trailer at night, after his parents have fallen asleep. His most fanciful imaginings had never come close to this. He feels like he is on fire.
And then-- oh! Oh!
He shudders, amazed and embarrassed all at once. His hips push upwards all on their own. Batman's armor is cool and firm and just slightly painful to thrust against, but then he's engulfed in a warm, damp hand. The sensations are overwhelming. Dick's dizzy and frantic, restless, desperate. He makes strangled sounds that Batman swallows down. He struggles and wriggles but Batman pins him with his enormous weight.
His one coherent thought is, Batman knows what he wants. Batman knows everything. The dark god touches Dick exactly the way he hadn't realized he'd needed. The taste and smell and weight of him drives Dick out of his mind until he jerks and shouts, nearly sobbing with the feeling of relief and exquisite release. Unthinking, he throws his arms around those armored shoulders, clutches handfuls of the heavy cape -- and holds on.
He doesn't know how long he hides himself beneath the blackness. He's conscious of Batman breathing against him. He envisions the steady movement of Batman's breath, the roughness of his cheek, the warmth of his bare hand. When Batman starts to move away, Dick whines in protest and holds on tighter. He doesn't stop to think about the audacity of that, because Batman responds by staying where he is. Callused fingers stroke Dick's face.
"You..." The voice is hoarse. When Dick pulls back slightly to look up, Batman's staring at him with those unblinking white eyes. He shakes his cowled head. "I'm glad Superman found you."
"Will I see you again?" It's a child's question, but lassitude and a quiet contentment have leached all the shame out of Dick.
"I doubt it."
"Oh. I'll miss you."
Batman considers him. "This will be a special memory."
"No, I mean, I'll miss you."
Again, the Dark Knight falls into a studying silence. For the space of time it takes for Dick's mother to swing across the expanse of air and light to the opposite platform, raise her arm for applause, and return, Batman is perfectly still. Then he reaches up -- and peels back the covering over his face.
Dick gasps in shock, suddenly very much awake. He watches in wonder as leather and armor pull back, shed like a skin -- like the bear hide that covers the true form of the prince.
Batman's eyes aren't at all the glowing red or depthless black that Dick had always imagined. They're an icy blue. And his eyebrows are bushy, and his nose is straight and high, and his hair is uncompromisingly straight. Without thinking, he raises one hand to touch those jet-black strands, spiked with sweat.
Dick's very aware that he's looking upon the face of a god.
Yet, suddenly, he's also very aware that he's looking upon the face of a man, or at least an excellent imitation of one.
And Batman is beautiful.
The man-behind-the-god laughs. It even sounds different from Batman's. It's still deep and coarse, but it's somehow richer. "I don't think anyone other than my mother has called me that before."
Realizing that he'd spoken his thought out loud, Dick stammers, "I-- I'm sorry. I didn't--"
Batman shushes him with a finger over Dick's lips. He strokes his fingers through Dick's hair. "It's all right."
"Thank you."
A kiss to Dick's cheek. It feels completely unlike the others. Instead of burning Dick's skin, it warms him from the inside. Shifting, Batman pulls a cool comforter over Dick's body. "Sleep."
It's not an order. Dick knows that. But he's tired and emotionally wrung out, and most importantly, he feels... right. It's as if, in some unimaginable way, this is as things should be. Batman continues to stroke his hair with warm, human fingers. He is a solid, dark presence at Dick's side, watching over him. Before Dick knows it, he's lost in slumber.
***
In his dreams, the circus is in full swing. The animals cavort and stamp. The charivari's a whirl of laughing color. A red and blue blur flies around and around the top of the tent, causing a tornado. People are whipped into the air with the gale.
His father checks the lines. He's the only one standing still.
"We're on, honey," his mother urges, gesturing him towards a dark trailer. He hears Pop Haly shouting at someone inside.
"Without benefit of a net!" Pop Haly announces. "I won't pay!"
His mother re-checks the lines after his father does. It's important. "Don't ever forget it, Robin. Before and after every performance and practice."
"Obey, Dick," his father admonishes. His mouth doesn't move, because all his bones are broken, and there's blood all over him.
A large man in a green coat wipes his face with a handkerchief. He scowls under the spotlights as he steps over Dick's parents on the ground. "You'll be sorry," he mutters, staring straight at Dick. "Accidents happen in a place like this."
Accidents happen.
***
Dick wakes in a panic. "Mom! Dad!" he screams.
It takes him a long time to remember where he is. As soon as he does, however, he fights his way out of the covers, rolls off the enormous bed, and wraps the fallen robe back around him. He runs to the door and, when he finds it locked, he bangs on it urgently. "Let me out!" he shouts. "Let me out! I have to see Batman!"
***
***
END Part 2.
Link to Part 3