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Hide and Seek
He first found out about it when he got that phone call, waking him up at the ungodly hour of seven AM.
"Yo, Richard, have you seen the Post today? You're a feature."
"Roy? 'Z'at you? Wha? Did somethin' happen?"
"Wake up, booty-boy. You got some 'splaining to do."
"Huh?"
"Oh f'God'ssake, Dick, wake the hell up and either get the paper or go online, will you? You have some fences to mend or women to fend off."
"Mmmm…"
"DICK—get up and deal, dammit, unless you want Bruce to put your photogenic ass in a sling. Now move it!"
"Ah, maaan, stoppit…"
"Dick!"
"…Okay, okay, I'm up, I'm up. Go away, I'll see what your problem is."
"'Not my problem, my man, Page seven; three pictures with captions, full color, you can't miss 'em."
Dick stumbled to the desk where he'd left his laptop, logged on and blearily found the webpage for Gotham's sleaziest daily paper. Page seven, there it was.
…Oh…crap.
Full color. Three pictures taking up the entire screen, the headline? "Nightwing's Main Weapon"
He stood there, staring at the monitor and then simply said to the empty room, "…The inevitable's finally happened."
The pictures—obviously long lens paparazzi shots— were grainy, even after having undoubtedly been run through whatever program the paper used to clean up the images, but it didn't matter. Nothing was left to the imagination aside from the semi-discretely placed pixilated boxes. Without question the uncensored versions would be available on the Internet in nanoseconds, if they weren't there already.
Three pictures snatched when he was in London a few days ago finishing up a case with M5. He'd been put up in what was supposed to be a secure hotel, the pictures looking like they were taken from a window across the street or maybe from a block or two away, the windows of his own room framing the action, such as it was. He's taken a shower and was walking around the fourteenth story room, nude, drying himself, talking on the phone and then dressing. He could only thank whatever God was looking out for him that his face was turned away or blocked in every shot.
He picked up the TV remote and clicked on CNN. "Questions are flying about the sensational pictures in this morning's Gotham Post, people are asking how this kind of security lapse could occur with one of the planet's most beloved and respected heroes. From reports we've received, these pictures (the voice spoke over close ups of the damn things) were taken without Nightwing's knowledge or consent last week in London and there are some very red faces at the New Scotland Yard this morning as they're scrambling to explain the blatant breech."
The picture shifted to the talking heads.
"Brian, what's the official response? These are pretty explicit."
"Yes, they are and they're existence brings up questions about how safe our heroes are when working off their home turf."
"Absolutely, the cameraman could have been using a rifle instead of a camera."
"Well, yes, that's exactly the concern, of course. There's a brief statement from London that's just being issued, if we can go to that?"
The scene shirted to a smallish room with a podium against a neutral backdrop and a nervous looking man in a wrinkled suit already speaking "…doing everything in our power to both contain these illegal photos and to apprehend the person or persons responsible…" Dick clicked off the TV.
Yeah, right. There was no containment once they hit the Internet and the photographer already had his money. Plus, the privacy laws in the UK weren't as tough as they were in other countries. The guy was just trying spin control.
He turned back to his laptop and went to the TMZ site. Yes, there he was, still partially blanked out and with the text decrying the gross invasion of the privacy so highly regarded throughout the world and demanding that the scum who peddled this sort of thing be stopped.
Uh-huh. And, of course, they ran the pictures. Hypocrite much?
Next, on impulse he went to Perez Hilton and found what he expected, the same basic story from TMZ with a link to see the uncensored pictured and an added and highly complimentary few sentences regarding his endowment. There were over two hundred comments praising his equipment.
There was no containment to be had.
And so there was nothing to be done.
On impulse he checked his e-mail. Fifty-six messages and almost all of them were concerning this latest, the messages moving from deep sympathy, accusations that he's arranged the pics and heartfelt compliments. Well, that's what friends are for, right?
He hit the shower (with the curtains drawn) then, cleaned and dressed as Dick Grayson, went out to face the day.
Hell, there wasn't anything he could do about it, might as well live his life, right? He went to work, spent the day at his desk in the Cloisters with an hour break to give a group of high school kids from Queens a guided tour.
Back at his desk his secretary came in, all business. "You know that every single one of those girls are now in love with medieval art as part of the fall-out of now being in love with you."
"I'm sure." Dick never did believe his own publicity.
"You're two-thirty is here."
"…Remind me?"
"A rep from the Endowment for the Arts, Mr. DeCamp, he wants to see for himself where you'd use the money."
"Ten million, right? God knows we need it. Okay, he's here? DeCamp, right? I'll come out." He put on a jacket over his light sweater and well fitted jeans. "Mr. DeCamp, I've been looking forward to meeting you in person…"
An hour later he had a promise for the money that would be used for both general repairs and conservation; the Unicorn tapestries were starting to need some serious attention.
Later, back in his apartment, he switched on the news as background while he nuked his Stouffer's and listened to the messages on his answering machine.
"Cripes, 'Wing—you been hiding your light under a bushel all these years. Now I know where you got the nickname 'Boy Wonder'."
"Hey, if you're free tonight, give me a call, okay? Or tomorrow would be good, too."
"I was just wondering if you'd had dinner yet because I was going to make oysters, not that you need them or anything. Do you like champagne? You have my number."
"Hey Dick—now I get why Bruce's always in the papers with his 'dates'—jealousy and over compensating."
"Dude—I always knew you were genetically lit but this is ridiculous."
"Jesus, man—my wife just took a look at those damn pictures and she's informed me—over dinner, no less—that you're (and I quote) 'a fine piece of man-meat'. That's what she said. Thanks a lot, I hope you die."
There were twenty-seven messages, all along the same lines. Maybe this was a bigger deal (no pun intended) than he thought. Or not.
Seriously, what was the big deal (he had to smother a smirk at that)? He knew, of course he knew and had known since junior high gym class what he was…gifted. He'd never had any complaints and let it go at that. It was what it was, right? So the cat, as it were, was out of the bag, so what?
In costume, flying over New York his mind wandered a little, not a good idea, but he was careful. He ended up having a fantasy conversation with his father.
"So, dad, was this ever a problem for you? I mean, did mom ever complain or anything?"
"Don't get fresh, kid—you don't think about your mother like that, do you understand me?…No, never had any complaints. 'You?"
"No, none so far." He shot off another line, flying past the Empire State Building about eighty stories up. "'Compliments so far, if I say so myself."
"That's m'boy. Just be careful and you'll be fine. Don't let a little gossip bother you, you know better than that; 'sticks and stones', right? Anyone who says anything is just jealous. So long as you have real respect for women and treat them well, you have nothing to apologize to anyone about."
Finally, after a quiet night it was close to three AM, time to head home.
Late, tired but, as usual, too keyed up to sleep immediately. He sat on the couch, unwatched TV flickering on the wall. He didn't care about the pictures and knew they'd disappear in a day or two, just as he knew they'd resurface now and then, probably as long as he lived.
They didn't matter. If anything, he found them funny. Hell, at least he wouldn't be known for his lack of 'attributes'. Go big or go home, right?
"Hey, Bruce. 'Haven't seen you in a while; everything okay?"
There was an almost inaudible rustle of cape as Batman stepped into view and leaned against the sideboard. "I'm concerned about the security breech. Is it contained yet?"
"'Nothing about the pictures, just the possibility of danger. That's so you."
The Bat actually allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "I've known for years that you inherited more from your father than just coordination and agility."
Dick raised an eyebrow. "Should I call CPS?"
No response to Dick's joke, instead, "I thought you'd like to know that I had a 'talk' with the photographer and his agency. They won't be a problem again."
"Thanks, but you know there are always more where this one came from. You can't put toothpaste back in the tube."
"True, unfortunately. 'I'd suggest that you make sure that you're wearing a cup when you 'go out'."
"You think I'm a target?"
"You've been a target since you were ten years old, now you have a new bulls-eye."
"That's a disconcerting thought. Oh and I might want to follow-up with a lawsuit. 'Donate anything I win to some charity."
"I already have the Justice League's lawyers on it. Expect a call in a day or so." Of course. The Bat's communicator beeped, a quick glance and he was gone in seconds.
"Thanks, Dad" was said to the air.
Dick opened his laptop and went back to Perez Hilton's site, clicking on the offending pictures and taking several minutes to really look at them.
Grainy. Badly lit. Indistinct. But—the pertinent details were front and center with the reverse the back shots just as tantalizing.
Suddenly he grinned. He didn't just smile or looked pleased; he grinned, laughing out loud.
"Damn fine."
8/9/09
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