"Control yourself. Take only what you need from it." MGMT

Just One More Taste (Again)

By: Cas

Chapter One: Lack of Ministrations (noun, the provision of assistance or care.)

Dick wondered why. (Drugs)

Dick wondered how. (Drugs)

Why was he still alive and how was he supposed to walk through the frat house and take his leave? How was he expected to ever move again?

Fear had been a constant flicker for the past hour and a half. Fear and pain and unwanted huffs of air that had been breathed against his body. Fingers that had forced, pulled and shoved. The high fives, the laughter, even the apology he'd been given by one of the five students.

They were done with him, had been done for a good forty minutes. Dick's awareness had returned, faint but available. He simply had to access it. Pushing up off the bed he collected his clothes, all the while refusing to wince or complain. He felt the pain, but refused to acknowledge it.

It wasn't there.

He wasn't here.

Yet he was.

Years of training, years of preparation. He shouldn't be here.

As a kid, his mother had always played a game with him: Going on a Bear Hunt.

"Going on a bear hunt.

Gonna catch a big one.

I'm not scared.

Done this before!

Oh no!

A river. A big winding river.

Can't go over it.

Can't go under it.

Can't go around it.

Got to go through it…"

That's where he was now. He couldn't go over it. He couldn't go under it. He couldn't around it. That left… 'No.' He refused the pain and fled to the window, unlocked and stumbled out.

Mentally, there was no way in hell he'd go through it.

Walking was the only option. He had to get back to his loft, and while hailing a cab would've been easiest, he just … He couldn't. He placed one foot in front of the other, Gotham air brushing his skin and occasionally drawing scents that had been rubbed and forced into his skin.

Dick puked the first two times this happened.

He puked a third time at the feeling of something trickling down his leg.

After those three it was dry heaves or spitting out the collectively bad taste in his mouth.

Walking home was hard, but it was the only option. His head buzzed, a mix of drugs and shock, but he made it within an hour. He unlocked his door, entered, locked back up and gave his head a shake. The familiar, semi feeing of home, tried to unearth something inside him. He forced it back down with a firm slap against his face.

The sting that resulted helped.

Dick lingered, focusing on the pain to walk over and take a seat on his bed.

4 AM passed.

5 AM passed.

6 AM passed.

Wait, what? How long had it been? Dick panicked momentarily in realization that he was sitting in his soiled clothes, surrounded by smells he never wanted to experience EVER again. He almost tripped as he hurried into the shower. How much soap? No, no good. Shampoo and even Clean & Clear were applied all over to rid himself of the scent.

The water was becoming cold and he forced himself out.

Laundry sheets.

Dick snagged a handful before collapsing onto the couch. He rubbed the thin cloths into his skin. He stuffed the remaining five into his pillow and held it to his face.

That was better.

No, not better. His thoughts were starting up. He turned the television on, started a movie on his iPad, and played music from his phone. Once surrounded by constant noise he returned to his pillow, shoving his face into the fabric and breathing deep. 'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!'

"You went off grid for three days, Dick! Complete dark. I don't care why, and I don't want to hear your excuses." Bruce had walked into the sitting room to find his eldest in the overstuffed chair and Jason sprawled on the couch.

The two had been partially surprised by his entrance. He'd gotten home earlier than anticipated, in hopes to track down and ensure his newly sober (and reinstated / JLA approved) son was ok. He assumed Dick was using and drinking again, even after all the progress they'd made, and it infuriated him.

"I came to explain-."

"We're drugs involved?! Drinking?!"

The hesitation was a painful, a nonverbal 'yes'.

"I don't need your help Dick, Jason and I'll take care of things. You've apparently got more strenuous troubles. Focus on those." And with that the billionaire left.

Dick tugged his legs closer, hiding his face against his knees. At this moment the easy chair was too large. He wanted to be swallowed whole. He wanted the feelings of guilt, evil, sickness, pain, and horrific, gut-wrenching fear, to disperse. To fade away into nothing and take him away to someplace else. At this point he felt physical pain across his entire body, inside and out, and wondered how much was real and how much was imagined.

'Mostly imagined,' he continued to swear to himself, as he had the last few days. 'It's mostly imagined.' He was imagining most of it, he had to be. The only physical (really, obviously physical) evidence were the finger print bruises scattered across his body. And one obvious gash from a fingernail.

Forget the scary evidence he refused to acknowledge and had washed (scoured) away.

Can't go over it. Can't go under it…

"Ok," he whispered to himself. "We're ok."

Sad thing was, the worst hurt was from his right thumb. He didn't know why, because the bruise was so slight – but it were as if all his pain decided to gang up on the offending mark. Dick continued to hold the digit to his lips, comforting it with his own physical closeness. All his love directed there, to press a kiss and breathe in the discolored skin. And while it didn't make any sense, it was extremely important.

Can't go over it, can't go under it…

"You ok?" Fourteen-year-old Jason Todd was taking a seat on the footstool located before the elder. His face held confusion and concern. Neither of which Bruce had bothered to display. "Dick?"

How fortunate he'd taken the two days prior to recuperate before coming home, otherwise he was sure he'd have broken down by meeting Jason's worried gaze. Except he wouldn't have. He was past accepting feelings. "M'fine." Dick insisted. His whole skull was numb, a slight buzz going. A buzz that stopped his all-consuming flow of thoughts. Continuous, protecting yet preventing. He was currently clean, no drugs in his system, but the dissociation was almost as good as a high. "I gotta get back to my place, sorry again about skipping out. I'm really sorry, Jays."

His jaw hurt, there hadn't been a large array of bruises. At least not that he'd seen. He'd glanced in the mirror to be sure, finding only two, but had trouble lingering on his reflection to check for others. His face had been shoved into the mattress, hands had occasionally pushed against his jaw.

It felt like bone and teeth had moved the wrong way from the assault, but Dick was simply grateful at the lack of bruises. After all, this was his fault.

Drugs? Again? Seriously? He'd snorted a line without asking questions regarding the cut, smoked a joint without double checking. He'd taken a drink without consideration. Assumptions were made by idiots, and he'd been an idiot. Drinks could be spiked and drugs could be laced. Though, he already knew it was mostly the joint.

Probably?

Maybe?

That was the problem. He was fairly paranoid and had to remind himself that was due to both the drugs and the rape.

Dick had returned to his loft and face planted into bed. He flipped his tv and fan on before accessing his tablet and phone to accompany the noise. It was quite a surprise he even heard the knocks at the door. He was careful as he drew himself up and approached the noise. "Whose there?"

"Well, not Bruce, but sent by Jason…"

Babs.

Dick swung the door open and allowed her entrance.

"Apparently you managed to worry the little bird. Por que?" Barbara surveyed the room, as if specifically looking for something wrong. She had her hands tucked into her front pockets and continued to shift her weight, looking around as Dick closed the door.

"No drugs, Babs. As to your 'por que'- who knows why Jays does or says anything?"

"Calling him 'Jays' indicates you both have a relationship. Damn those nicknames." She gave a wink. "This might lead me to believe he might know what he's talking about when he says he's worried about you."

Dick glared. "He's a good kid, you know, usually … But that doesn't make him right."

Barbara removed her hands from the pockets and held them up. She signaled defeat. "Dick, ok. Ok. Ok? I'm not judging, I'm asking. Are you ok?"

"Might be if you stop with the 'oks'."

Barbara simply smiled, her perfect face lighting up the room. "You just got back to being Nightwing again. Two days later you fall off the map?" She hesitated before continuing. "I'm not here to judge, I'm here to be here. Do you need help? If so, how so?"

Dick felt himself mentally draw away, but the invitation was so inviting. "I don't want to talk, ok? I don't want to talk … But can you, I dunno, maybe stay?"

The answer was so light and so easy. "Of course I will."

She borrowed a pair of boxers and a tee and they both crawled into the bed. There was no skin on skin, just the necessary familiar presence. Nothing was said about the overwhelming noise from the electronics. Instead Barbara took his hand and held it as she drifted to sleep.

Dick clutched that hand like a lifeline. He doubted sleep was possible.

Can't go over it, can't go under it, can't go around it…

When all else fails, just pretend you got through. He turned towards Barbara and released a slow stream of air, pulling her hand closer and focused on family.

To be continued…

1. I ended 'Just One More Taste' early cause I got nervous. I want everyone aware that this fiction might wind up incomplete. I love writing, but this shit (drugs, drinking, rape, silence, self harm, rehab …) ain't easy for me. Ok? I might drop off. But the plan is to make it a few chapters.

2. Also, please correct me if you see mistakes. Grammatical or otherwise. If shit don't make sense, lemme know. It helps me get better at this hobby.

3. Thanks to Alexandria-likethecityinEgypt who talked to me and got me to post this. Super cool shit.