Duck and Cover

Apologies to Annie Liebowitz, who had nothing to do with this.


* * *

“Okay, gentlemen. Thank you for coming and, if you don’t mind, let’s just get right down to business, shall we? The dressing rooms are over there. Just strip—take off everything. You’ll find robes hanging on the doors.” The photographer, Annie Liebowitz donating her time, no less, was ready to go as soon as her subjects presented themselves—as it were.

Nightwing and Arsenal did as they were asked, talking almost inaudibly amongst themselves.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea, ‘Wing. This should raise a buttload of bucks for charity.” Nightwing gave him a dirty look. “Yes, a buttload.”

“I don’t know about thi…”

“C’mon, stop whining. Let’s do it.”

Reluctantly, but knowing there wasn’t all that much he could do other than walk out, Nightwing took the left dressing room, slid the curtain closed, removed everything he was wearing except his mask, donned the robe and walked out. Arsenal was already on set, naked as the day he was born, quiver over his shoulder. The photographer and her assistant, along with the hair and makeup people, were hovering, dabbing him here and there. The stylist was arranging whatever she could find to arrange. Nightwing chose not to dwell on that too much.

Roy was loving every second of it.

“Now, we know we can’t do full frontal, but we can certainly tease. Could you hold one of those arrows a little lower?—gracious, I’ve never seen one quite that…big—a little to the left, please?”

A Superhero beefcake calendar to raise money. Cripes. And there was talk about selling tee shirts and God knew what else using the photos, as well. Wanna sleep with Superman on your sheets? Here’s your chance. Hang a naked Bat on your door? Enjoy. Hell, at least he had a cape to play with. Bathe with Tempest watching from your shower curtain? Glub. Roy’s shot? Taking aim straight at the camera, the angle of the bow carefully designed to hide his bits. Dick? He knew it would be something to do with gymnastics—backbend, anyone? How about dangling from the high bar? Hanging from the parallels? Pointing towards the floor?

He was getting a headache.

 

* * *
 

“Yeah, uh, Nightwing? That escrima stick just isn’t even close to doing the trick. Do you maybe have two or three batarangs you could kind of fan or something?”

“Arsenal, I swear to God—one frigging word and you’re dead.”

“Chill, bro. Everyone’s signed confidentiality forms, right?” He looked around at the crew, all of whom were nodding. And smirking. “We’re cool.” ‘Wing was close to bolting, Roy knew he had to act. “C’mon dude, be proud of what you were blessed with at birth, f’the love of God. Embrace it, own it.”

“Shut up.”

Annie was losing patience. “A little help, please?”

Arsenal nodded, walked over to his reluctant friend and, arm around his bare shoulder, drew Nightwing across the studio so they could talk in private. “You’re just not displaying the right attitude, old chum. Look, work with me here; you’ve got a well-earned rep as having the best ass in the business. Go back over there, turn the hell around and let the world decide for itself!”

The glare was beyond bat-worthy. “I loathe you.” Roy hadn’t realized before this that Dick could actually growl when he was whispering. It was impressive.

But it worked. Thirty seconds. It took one shot.

Nightwing, wearing just the mask, walked back to the set, stood in a three-quarter profile with his back to the camera, his head turned so that he was looking over his shoulder with something of a come-hither look on his face. The previously rejected escrima stick held at an acute angle just below waist height.

There were calls for it to be airbrushed out. The requests were rejected.

The calendar, released in time for the Christmas selling season, set records.

And he never did answer how he’d gotten the all-over tan.

2/9/08
 

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