High T for implied past rape, attempted suicide and some disturbing-ish images(well, at least to me). Trigger warnings for self-harm and previously mentioned attempted suicide.
Disclaimer: I don't own Young Justice, which is probably a good thing.
He was scrubbing at his skin, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing. He had to. He needed it off- off of his body, out of his mind. Forever.
It would never happen if he wasn't clean. He could still feel their hands on him-their cold, metallic hands-touching him, he could still hear their laughter and taunts.
"You do wonder in everything, pretty bird?"
"Bats lets you go out in that tight spandex, it's a wonder this hasn't happened yet."
"You were trained by the bat himself. You want this-if you didn't you, would've escaped by now."
He had to get it off. Off, off, off. Bruce had avoided his gaze and even Alfred hadn't even looked at him. He was a dirty presence in the butler's pristine house. He needed to be clean. If he could just get it all off, they'd be able to look at him in the eye.
He was pushed against the bed, hands above his head. They had laughed as he flailed around, pushing themselves on top of him, kissing his neck, his lips, pulling his tights down- they had taken turns and, damnit, he was just a sex toy. He was their bitch, they hickeys proved that.
And his body had reacted. His body had reacted, damn it!
He was a disgrace to Batman, to Gotham, to...to the very hero community. He had to get away. But, first, he had to scrub it all off. He needed to hide it, tuck it away in a folder never to be opened again.
Blood seeped onto the tub, turning the water pink, but he didn't stop. No, no, he couldn't stop. Not until his dirtiness was off his skin, out of his body. Off, off. No, no more…
Just get off!
There were girls there, too, cheerleaders about two or three years older than was all a funny joke to them.
A funny, sick joke. He needed their laughter off, too, out of his ears. Not even all the dirt and filth of the Gotham underworld could compare to the amount on his body. He needed to scrub it all off, but the soap bar he had been using was all used up. He used his hands instead, scrubbing his skin with such force it turned his pale, pale(he thought his skin was supposed to be darker than this…) skin pink-pink like the water he now sat in. Crying in the bathtub. Pathetic. He dug his fingernails under his skin, because the filthiness was not just skin deep-no, it was a dark seed planted inside his soul, growing bigger and darker as each second passed. He needed the plant OUT, as far away from him as possible.
The water was more red than pink now(nevermind clear), and he was glad. He didn't want to see himself naked, to marvel at the very sight those men and teens had seen. He just wanted to curl up in a hole to die, he would if he could… His fingernails tore at his delicate, delicate flesh, ripping through, he could see his bloodied fingers through his veined skin.
Their hands were everywhere, touching him, their lips over his body, tongues flickering out like a warm, warm(he wondered if that was the only part of them that was warm as microwaved honey, the rest of their bodies seemed so cold…)slimy snake. The cheerleaders were laughing, making snide comments(he couldn't even escape them here, it seemed). He was embarrassed, he was humiliated...and that, that was it. Nothing else happened here, Batsy.
Batman didn't believe it. His eyes burned to giant holes of pity into him and it burned-burned more than the fire, burned more than the acid poured onto him so long ago-and Dick felt even smaller. He hated pity, it was belittling. And he had never expected it from Batman.
Was he going to be kicked out now? His dirtiness might conflict with The Mission.
Dick tore his hands from under his skin(that brought new meaning to the phrase 'don't let them get under your skin'), covering his eyes that seemed so praised(he never wanted a compliment again;he had too many of those sick, twisted ones for a lifetime), ignoring the blood that trickled down his face. He looked like a monster, and he knew it. He was a dirty, filthy, terrible monster.
He needed the memories O-U-T. He just-he just needed peace, no more trying, no more anything really-He wasn't one to give up, but you could only bend a ruler so much before it SNAPPED. He wanted everything to stop, and there only seemed one way to do that.
((If I'm gonna die, I'm going to at least be clean doing it.))
He expelled all breath from his lungs, thrusting himself underwater. His eyes burned with contact of the water, and his lungs screamed for him to go up and get one last breath. He pushed the instinct down(thanks to training with Batman), gripping the bottom of the slick tub and inhaling.
Cold, now-salty water enters his lungs, sending him into a hacking coughing fit. Yes, yes! He flips himself onto his stomach-can't fail now, failing would mean his brain damaged, the time of last night in the warehouse on a loop. Forever and ever.
All for nothing!
He's choking and little bubbles expel from his mouth. A yellow and black blob stares at him through the red fog, and Dick laughs. The rubber Batman duck, staring at him with pity from up above.
Just you and me now, duck.
"Just you and us, little birdie, what's it gonna be?"
He winces. Work, drowning, work…
And, suddenly, to strong hands pull him from his watery haven, pushing onto his chest to expel the water. His body reacts-Oh god, his body reacts-and he coughs out water. He fails around, reaching out for the tub, his hands with skin under the fingernails(no, no, no),pushing to it with all his might. It isn't enough. No, no, not when he was so close! Somebody's screaming.
Then he's one the floor with a towel wrapped around his body, so stifling hot he can't help but think but think of the bed, the bed, the bed, it looked so out if place in that clichéd abandoned warehouse. Bruce is there, saying muffled words, and he's so warm…
No. This isn't right. He was trying to get out of this house, to rid them of his filthy presence. Bruce can't touch him, his cleanness(yes, he knows how wrong it is to associate that word with the Batman but, next to him, Batman has the cleanness equivalent of an angel)might be contaminated. No, no.
The person stops screaming, and it's way way way too silent without the extra noise.
But Bruce has his arm around him in a hug(Dick stiffens, even though he's waited for this moment for years, all he can think about are those hands-hands as cold as winter metal, feeling up his body, tracing the scars). It's like he's not even afraid of his dirtiness.
"No," He says aloud, and his voice sounds way too loud, even though it's only a whisper. He tries to break free, but Bruce holds him close. He's hyperventilating, stuck halfway in a panic attack and the real world. "No, no, you don't understand! I need-I need to!"
More murmuring. He must have water in his ears, because whatever Bruce is saying still sounds like he's hearing it from underwater. He shivers and tries to move away. "I need to. It's-it's my fault. I got myself caught. I could've fought them-but, but, I couldn't. Must've wanted it…"
Bruce's warbled voice cuts through him, stroking his still bloody wet hair. So he falls quiet, and limp. It's stifling in the close quarters, and just wants OUT. But that's okay.
He doesn't want to hurt Bruce or Alfred, or anybody else-that's the very reason he's gonna die, afterall. Maybe to make it look like an accident, a little 'misstep' on the field. Their roles are switched, Bruce keeps on talking his nonsense and Dick is silent, considering jumping. He's always wanted to falling is just flying in the opposite direction...yes, yes that would work. Next Tuesday.
Dick grins, despite the pure emptiness writhing and his chest.
A/N: Just a little something I wrote last night. That Rubber ducky, you're the one, who makes bath time so much fun... song stuck in my head. Yeah. R&R.