DISCLAIMER: Young Justice & Batman are not mine.
The air was thick, oppressive, and made breathing all that more difficult. The fumes of the chemical soaking the floor scorched his nostrils and stung his eyes, and for the first time he could recall he was grateful for the cloth and layers of thick rope cleaved between his lips. The corrosive vapors wouldn't be able to damage the inside of his mouth or throat.
A splash of grey opaque liquid ricocheted onto the denim of his well worn jeans, and over his leather combat boots, as the balaclava clad man continued to crack the top the barrels open and tip them out of the bed of the truck and onto their side.
Dick Grayson's pain-filled curse was muffled by the gag when the liquid combined with the gasoline he was already drenched in and began eating through the fabric and burning the skin of his shin. He pulled on the ropes, twisted into thick cuffs around his wrists using the cords, which stretched him to the rafters of the underground garage, to lift his feet off the ground. His arms were taught, shaking with the effort of keeping his weakening body above the fluid beneath him.
Okay Kon, I could really go for a Kryptonian Rescue right about now…
The two boys had been taking in the James Bond marathon at an older theater that was shutting down in favor of the modern Cineplex that had opened up the street. They had planned on catching a couple of classic Connery flicks and then heading back to Wayne Manor for a little while before returning to Mount Justice and their duty rotation with Young Justice.
It was rare, the time the pair got to spend alone. Something which the now seventeen year old Robin was determined to make more of it.
He'd been part of Young Justice for more than four years, leading it since he had turned sixteen. He was still the youngest member of the team, the others ranging between two and four years older than he, but none of them had ever treated him as such. Not even the emotionally stunted clone of Superman. Conner Kent had taken the longest to accept that the member with the most experience on the team was also the youngest.
Yet after three years and dozens of successful, and not so successful, missions, Superboy was the first to stand beside the boy when it came time for Robin to take the mantle of leadership.
It was shortly after that that Robin started noticing Superboy. Not in the, 'Batman's-paranoia-has-rubbed-off-on-me-and-I-have-to-know-everything-about-everyone' kind of way. More in the, 'I-am-so-going-to-get-into-those-tights!' kind of way.
The way the clone moved during practice; the way he spoke with Robin as a partner, not a commander; the way Kon-El would touch Richard casually whenever the chance presented itself; the way the older teen would take every chance to be alone with the younger; the way his breath had ghosted over Robin's lips before their first kiss.
That had been two months ago, and in the time their relationship had been progressing nicely. It had been Dick's intention to use their time at Wayne Manor tonight to take it the final distance and finally get into those tights.
Dick growled in frustration as the clang of another drum emptying itself on to concrete interrupted his pleasant distraction. He was forced to lower his feet to the ground for a moment as a pulse of dizziness caused his arms to tremble and buckle, unable to keep him aloft any more.
His head was spinning radically from the poisonous fumes. What this nut-job's plan was, Dick was beginning to question his ability to survive it. He'd been strung up like a slab of beef for nearly twenty minutes now, and before then the hand to hand struggle between the boy and the assailant and been brief but brutal. And thoroughly unexpected.
A few minutes into Goldfinger – the third, and arguably the best Bond film in history – Dick had excused himself to make use of the bathroom. Kon had reluctantly released his hold on the boy's hand, and urged him to hurry back. Dick had every intention of doing just that, but as he stepped away from the urinal after relieving himself, he had heard a heavy clang come from behind the door to the men's room utility closet.
Curiosity getting the better of him, and once again proving the age-old adage about cats and death, Dick had gone to investigate. The door had been unlocked and the second door inside had been ridiculously easy to pick. Another clang, and unknown sloshing sound, had the teen stepping into the darkness and down the dusty stairs that obviously hadn't been used in quite some while.
When he reached the basement, he found himself in a parking garage that had been sealed off as the building had aged. Chunks of concrete ceiling were littering the floor and he briefly wondered why it had taken this long to close the theatre down.
And that was when he saw the fist coming toward his jaw.
Managing to mostly twist out of the way, the gloved knuckles on grazed his chin but it was enough to put him on the defensive. The masked man was skilled, a history of several different martial art styles prevalent in the way he stuck at the surprised boy. They were evenly matched, even with Robin's vigilante training, but the hooded thug was able to get the upper hand when Dick had stepped into a puddle of gasoline, slipped, and fell to the ground.
Before he knew it, the man was straddling his waist and grabbing him by the lapel of his designer shirt. Lifting his shoulder and head off the floor, he was suddenly thrust down again and the back of his head split open as it connected with concrete.
Dick didn't lose consciousness; he was in too much pain to do that. The gas dampening his hair burned his scalp and sent daggers of pain through the wound now bleeding down the back of his neck.
He was aware of being dragged through the puddle and across the floor to be flung up against the back wheel of a Ford truck. The masked man had disappeared into the cab of the truck, only to return a moment later. Dick's hands were lashed painfully together in front of him and his legs were bound at the knees and ankles. A loop was then threaded through the rope-cuffs on his wrists and he was once again pulled along the floor.
His head was beginning to clear as he was lifted by the rope around his wrists until he was standing on the tips of his toes with his arms stretched high over his head. Dick had started to call our for Conner, only to have a wad of foul tasting cloth stuffed into his mouth and secured there with several loops of rope wrapped between his lips and around his head.
Left dangling there, Dick had fought for escape, but between the blow to his head and overwhelming stench of whatever was being dumped around the garage – not to mention the same liquid irritating and burning his exposed skin – he wasn't going anywhere.
Now, a half hour after he had left the theatre he was watching as the guy tipped the last barrel out of the truck and leapt out of the truck bed. Heavy hip-wader boots protected his legs and feet from the liquid as he sloshed through it to stand before his captive.
Years of perfecting his own "Bat-Glare", Robin's snarling blue eyes gave the creep reason to step back.
"I'm sorry you got involved like this," the guy had the nerve to actually sound apologetic. "I was hired to make it go up, but to give everyone time to get out. It's why I'm doing this here instead of upstairs."
Dick would have asked him what he was doing, if he hadn't been gagged and if the sudden appearance of a lighter in the guy's hand didn't give him the answer.
"NGGH!" Dick thrashed against his bindings, eyes wide with fear and screaming futilely against his gag.
The guy ran a gloved hand over the boy's damp hair. "If it makes you feel better, it will be very fast. The combined corrosiveness of gas and other chemicals will make the fire burn hotter than usual. It will spread in seconds and consume everything. You won't have the chance to suffocate."
"NGGH! GNNR!"
"Just a few more minutes," the man continued, ignoring Dick's panicked cries.
"GNNNRR!"
Muffled screams echoed in the empty garage as the man walked away. He lifted the rolling door enough to crouch underneath it, pulled the fire alarm next to the door before slipping into the darkness outside. His regretful gaze locked with Dick's terrified tear-filled eyes and with a sigh flicked the flint of the lighter.
Even from the distance, even beneath the deafening ringing of the alarm, the sound of the butane catching fire would be forever ingrained in the boy's mind.
"GNNNNNRRR!"
The world slowed as he watched the burning flame drop out of the gloved hand and fall toward the ground.
He didn't notice when the rolling door closed and locked into place. His world consisted of one thing.
The sudden growing wall of flames as is exploded toward him.
Dick clenched his eyes shut, the intense heat scorching his skin, and he could feel the fuel on his clothes, and body, ignite.
The world stopped.
A gush of wind pushed the heat back and a steel-like body was suddenly cocooned around him, placing itself between him and the approaching fire. The rope above his head snapped, the flames licking at his body were snuffed out, and he was being suddenly propelled through the ceiling.
Several ceilings.
Fresh night air stung his lungs as he breathed in through his nose, and he was momentarily flying across the sky before he was descending and then sitting on a tarred and shingled roof several blocks away with a trembling body wrapped protectively around him.
Dick couldn't open his eyes.
He could hear the roar of the fire from here, the screams in the distance, the sirens approaching, but all he cared about was the heartbeat thundering in the chest next him.
"Ohgodohgodohgod," the baritone voice was near panicked and a set of lips pressed heavily onto the top of his head, oblivious to the oily feel of the gas still clinging to Dick.
He began to shiver.
"I almost didn't hear you!"
He was shaking; violently.
"Dick?" the voice whispered, a strong hand caressing his cheek before gently reaching behind his head to release the knot of the ropes gagging him.
The wad of material was pulled from his mouth but he remained still.
The same strong, gently hand lovingly cupped his chin and lifted his face. "Dick… baby…"
Blue eyes slowly opened and looked into the frightened, shimmering eyes of his boyfriends. Without a word, his bound hangs grabbed desperately to Conner's shirt and he buried his face into the comfortingly hard muscles of the young hero's chest.
The clone's arms wrapped around him protectively, holding him as the younger boy shook uncontrollably. There were no tears to be shed, the terror of the night still holding as much a captive as the arsonist had.
And yet he felt safe now.
Conner had heard him; had come after him; had saved him.
He would be okay… confident in the fact that Kon-El would always come for him.