Title: Broken Wings

Author: IndigoNight

Summary: Dickisn't feeling himself, but Clark is there to catch him when he falls.

Feedback: Yes please, yay reviews!

Pairing: Clark Kent/Dick Grayson, Superman/Robin I

Disclaimer: I do not own Superman or Batman; I'm just borrowing them for fun.

Spoilers: Nope, not really

Warnings: Angst, depression, implied drug abuse, other dark implied things, and man sex.

Beta: DevilChild13

Author's Note: So, read, review,

Enjoy!


Chapter 1

Superman can't decide if he's more frustrated, or worried. Why in the name of all that's holy did the architects who built Gotham feel the need to use *so* much lead?

It had all started out as what was meant to be a simple, light hearted visit to his fellow superhero and semi-friend, Batman, aka Bruce Wayne and his young sidekick. However, he'd arrived only to discover that Dick had apparently been missing without a word for three days now. Bruce, of course, being the control-obsessed idiot he was, hadn't even considered calling in help to look for his ward. He hadn't actually been at the Manor when Clark had arrived, having been out scouring the city for Dick, but Alfred had filled him in.

It seemed foul play wasn't entirely suspect, Clark had learned. Alfred confessed that Dick had been acting rather... erratic of late, and it wasn't difficult to tell that the elderly butler thought his own words to be a severe understatement. Clark had assured Alfred that he would do everything in his power to help find the errant young man and had set out.

But that had been nearly twelve hours ago now and even Superman had his limits. He's searched nearly half of Gotham and found no trace of the boy, and he's now in a part of town that likely even most common criminals fear to go. A place so steeped in blood and sex that he could smell it even from up in the air, and he sincerely hopes that he does *not* find Dick here.

He doesn't know exactly why he does it, but he lands on one of the dilapidated roof tops, eyes scanning hopelessly around. Really, this is stupid, just blindly wandering around and hoping he pops out and says 'here I am, sorry I ran off'? But they have absolutely no leads and it's better than just sitting around and doing nothing. He's about to take off again when he pauses. There's what was once probably an apartment building across the street from the one he's standing on. It's ancient and (hopefully) slated for demolition, but there's what looks like the glow of a few candles coming through the broken window and he knows it's probably just a homeless person looking for shelter on the chilly night, but he finds himself unable to resist checking anyway.

He enters cautiously. There's too much lead in the walls for him to fully see through it, but he knows enough that there is one living person inside and that person probably isn't conscious, but all the same, caution never hurts. The room is, predictably, dirty, rotted, and mostly empty. There's a total of three sputtering, dying candles lighting the room, not that that's a problem for Superman, though he sort of wishes he *couldn't* see as clearly as he can. There's a broken dresser against one wall, drawers hanging out like demented wilted flowers, it used to be painted blue with little white clouds on it, and that's nearly all that's in the room. Except for the opposite corner.

There lies a filthy, threadbare mattress, and on it lies a man, sort of. He is completely stark naked, in fact there doesn't appear to be any cloth at all in the room, and scattered on the floor around him are empty bottles of cheap liquor, used needles and tourniquets, and a few broken condoms. The man, boy really, himself is sprawled out on his back, skin pale except where it's dotted with little patches of colorful scars.

Clark is about to turn away, heart heavy with the knowledge of how many people there are out there who are simply too far gone to save, when he freezes. His eyes land on one particular scar just above the boy's left hip and he *knows* that scar, remembers in vivid detail exactly how it was earned. In an instant he is on his knees at Dick's side, brushing dark hair away from his face. It's longer than he remembers, though it had been several months since his last visit to Gotham, and Dick's matured, filled out more. He's very nearly a full grown man now. But just then, pale, dirty and sickly looking as he was he looked very much like the young boy Bruce had first taken under his wing.

He feels sick to his stomach, a feeling rather unfamiliar to him, as he observes in more detail Dick's state. The dark bruises under his eyes, the grayish tint to his skin, the red mottled needle tracks on his arms, the raw circles around his wrists where it looked like he'd been restrained recently, the wide variety of cuts that marred his flesh. They were of all shapes and sizes, the cuts, some deep and angry, some little more than scratches, some fresh and barely scabbed over, others faded almost to scars added to the collection.

He closes his eyes as memories flash through his mind. Of his first visit to Wayne Manor after Bruce had taken Dick in, when the young acrobat had literally fallen from a chandelier onto him. Of the first time he'd seen Robin in action, all fluid grace and witty quips and quirked lips. Of the sparkle that usually lived in his eyes and the easy laugh he'd always been so willing to share. Images that clashed violently with the one before him now. What could have possibly happened to create the broken creature he held in his arms? Had it always been lurking behind Dick's too open smile? Had they all simply failed to see the demons that were killing him inside?

Dick stirs, slow and feeble as Clark shifts his arms beneath him. He lets out a pitiful sound and blinks his eyes hazily. He's skin feels way too hot under Clark's touch and there's no recognition, no *Dick* in those storm blue eyes.

"It's alright, Dick," he says, voice carefully soft and gentle, "I've got you. You're safe."

A pause. Heavy eyelids flutter and when they finally open again his eyes are a little clearer. "Superman?" Even with his super hearing the word is difficult to make out, barely a breath between dry, cracked lips, the voice questioning and unsure.

"Yes, it's me. It's alright; I'm going to take you home now."

Dick feebly shakes his head. Simply staying conscious is almost more than he can manage but he knows desperately that he cannot handle going back to the Manor right now. Going back. He just can't do it. He wants to explain to Clark how he can't handle facing Alfred's quiet disapproval and Bruce's stern glare with the things he only half remembers doing at the moment but knows that he's ashamed of them anyway. But all he manages to get out is a weak, "No... Bruce... home..."

Clark hesitates a moment in decision. Dick is Bruce's ward, Batman's sidekick; it really isn't his place to interfere. But Dick is also his friend, and he looks positively so fragile and helpless that Clark can't risk doing anything that might hurt him more. The stench of blood and sex and despair is so heavy in this room that it makes it difficult to think clearly and he needs to properly assess the situation. He doesn't know what's been going on, what's led Dick to this. Maybe it would be best to take him out of his usual environment, someplace where Clark can watch over him, talk to him once he sobers up, and figure everything out.

His decision made he takes his cape off and gently wraps it around Dick's thin frame, the fact that it's nearly freezing outside and Dick isn't shivering at all despite being completely naked deeply worrying him, and sets off for Metropolis.