Getting the Fix

Prologue:

"Robin to Nightwing," Tim's voice sounded calm enough, even through the monochrome speaker.

"Robin to Nightwing," Concerned, now. Still posed, but a trained ear could easily hear his anxiety and quiet, doddering voice.

"Nightwing, Robin to Nightwing," Obvious worry, and fear. The sinking tone that tried to remain professional, clashing with the youth of the hero.

"Batman to Nightwing. Report immediately." The blaring indication left by the transformation of the voice made him hunch his shoulders and dig his head into his hands.

"Nightwing report now, or we will take drastic measures." The concern in his father's voice sent guilt like a plague, infecting and spreading throughout his entire body, starting from his heart and bleeding out.

It had to be the worst part of these kinds of situations. It wasn't the fear of blacking out in your enemy's grasp; it wasn't the vulnerability of being submitted to the harsh bondage always complementing captivity. Not even the beatings, interrogations, or various forms of torture. It was even worse then allowing your teammates to see the damages as disinfectant, stitches, braces, casts, and bandages were applied.

It was after everything had finished, and you returned, alone, to your room. The lights out, you are left alone to your thoughts and must somehow ease yourself to sleep. Insomnia steals the only sanctuary of peace left, leaving you with a red, blinking light of your communicator.

Message after message you can hear the growing worry and panic set in. With each beep, an escalating downpour of guilt cascades into your very pores. You can to comfort them, to hold them and reassure them. Don't worry, please. It ends up fine. It wasn't worth the worry.

Usually the rejoice and relief of the rescue, of embraces and hands on shoulders, threatening death if the event ever should happen again ease this state of depression. Not this time. This time was different.

There was no diabolical villain that stole him away from the quiet lull of normalcy. He wasn't torn away from his responsibilities because of impending chaos that left him incapacitated. This time the foe was himself. His own weakness, his own error.

Dick watched as the needle rolled away, under the bed. The addicting poison filled his veins as withdrawal started to wane. It was all he could take, and soon he collapsed into a huddled mess of tears and cries.

To be continued.