
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6161385.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Batman_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Dick_Grayson/Bruce_Wayne
  Character:
      Dick_Grayson, Bruce_Wayne
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Assassins_&_Hitmen, little_beasts
  Series:
      Part 8 of little_beasts
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-04 Words: 1358
****** there's a fire in your eyes ******
by ohmcgee
Summary
     This, apparently, is his life now.
Notes
     Just a little pre-everybody else thing about bb!Dick and Bruce. It's
     not technically Bruce/Dick, but there's enough implied that I felt
     like I should list it as a pairing, in case someone didn't want to
     read that.
Dick’s fourteen when Bruce puts his hand on his shoulder and smiles down at
him, the flames from the circus reaching towards the sky, lighting up Dick’s
eyes like a firecracker. In the car on the way to the manor Bruce praises Dick
for his work, but tells him a few things, like what sort of accelerants to use
to make it burn faster and how to leave less evidence and Dick, ashes in his
hair and gasoline on his shoes, looks up at Bruce like he's found a new
religion.
“Can you show me,” he says with his knee bouncing up and down and a blaze in
his eyes that never really fades and Bruce sees something in him then, an
eagerness to learn, to prove himself, the buzz of something wild and unruly
under his skin, and knows he made the right decision.
 
: : :
 
A couple of days later, when he wakes up at an unfuckinggodly hour to the sound
of fire alarm screaming at his hangover, Bruce changes his mind about Dick
being a good decision. He pulls a robe on over his boxers, grabs his gun from
the nightstand just in case, and stumbles down the stairs to find Dick sitting
cross-legged on top of the dining room table, his hand in a box of cereal, and
smoke coming from the kitchen, the goddamn alarm still going off like it
doesn’t know Bruce is standing right there.
“Your toaster’s fucked,” Dick says, shoving a handful of Cheerios into his
mouth, then making a face and spitting them back into the box. “That tastes
like shit.”
Bruce sighs, raises his gun and shoots the smoke alarm.
“Cool,” Dick’s eyes get big and bright, staring at the gun in Bruce’s hand, and
Bruce just pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll teach you how to use it if you promise never to step foot in that kitchen
again.”
“Buy better cereal and you got a deal.” Dick grins.
Which is how Bruce Wayne, one of the world's most dangerous assassins, ends up
in a supermarket with a fourteen year old boy and a cart full of sugary cereals
that Bruce is certain will send him into diabetic shock with one bite, a couple
of cartons of rocky road ice cream, and enough soda to keep Gotham’s dentists
set for life. Down the frozen food aisle, Dick does a picture perfect
cartwheel, then walks on his hands -- right into a display of canned cat food.
Bruce sighs as the manager approaches them, mutters under his breath, “You
better be worth it.”
Dick just looks up at him from where he landed with those big, blue eyes and a
crooked grin, only has to bat his lashes at the middle aged woman who manages
the store to get out of it, and Bruce already knows he is.
 
: : :
 
Sometimes Dick disappears for a little while. Bruce doesn’t know where he goes,
doesn’t ask. He’s not the boy’s father and Dick doesn’t owe him anything, but
to Bruce’s surprise, he does find that occasionally, he feels something like
concern. That when he hears Dick’s heavy footsteps in the hallway at midnight
or ten am, that the heavy weight on his shoulders is lifted a bit. He tells
himself it’s only because he’d have to go out and find another partner, but
part of him knows it’s because he’s gotten used to the manor not being ghost-
silent and so empty his footsteps echo on the staircases.
He’s gotten used to the kid.
It’s troubling.
 
: : :
 
“Holy shit,” Dick says, turning to look up at Bruce when they get back to the
car, his eyes even bigger than usual, even brighter than when he comes home
from his parties at four in the morning and tries to jump off the goddamn roof.
He wets his mouth, then does it again like he forgot he just did. They just
wrapped up their first job together; Dick’s first kill that didn’t involve
lighting something on fire. Bruce put the mark on his knees, watched Dick raise
the gun to the back of his head.
Dick’s hands never shook, not once, and Bruce --
Bruce never really understood pride in someone other than yourself until then.
“I told you it was better than drugs.” Bruce says, starting the car.
Dick just grins up at him, a grin that looks too big for his mouth, feels too
big for the car, and Bruce has to look away before it consumes him too.
Dick leans back in his seat and stretches all the way down to his toes and
giggles, “Man, I'm so hard right now.”
Bruce had noticed, actually, but he wasn’t going to say anything. It’s a
completely natural response, especially for someone Dick’s age. It doesn’t
happen to him much, not anymore, not always -- mostly it’s just when they beg.
Bruce likes it when they beg.
“It's just adrenaline,” Bruce says. “You'll get -”
But Dick’s hand is already down his pants. “Sorry,” he giggles, arching his
head back as his hand works inside his pants, baring his throat and --
The tires squeal as Bruce pulls the car onto a side street. “I’m going to get a
coffee,” he says, grabbing his coat. “Hurry up.”
When he gets back Dick is all finished up, curled up in the backseat and passed
out. The car smells like sex, like sweat and boy and gunpowder, and Bruce
drives home with his dick hard, Dick mumbling about elephants in his sleep
behind him.
 
: : :
 
Bruce isn’t actually stupid. He’s aware the boy has some kind of crush on him,
probably some kind of transference from Bruce grabbing him before the cops
could and taking him in. Not to mention the fact that at his age, with his
metabolism, he literally wants to fuck everything. Bruce has seen him come just
from rubbing his legs together the right way after blowing a building up. It’s
ridiculous.
So, the first time he comes home to find Dick sprawled out on the couch, pants
around his ankles and his dick in his hand, Bruce just shakes his head and
heads up to his study.
The second time he walks in, the smell of sex and sweat so thick in the air
Bruce can only imagine he’s been at it for hours, he looks at Dick, lifts an
eyebrow at him, and watches Dick’s mouth bleed when he bites into it and comes
all over himself.
When he comes home to find Dick higher than a space station, twirling around in
a fucking skirt and sucking on something sticky and bright blue like he’s
auditioning for porn, Bruce actually thinks about it.
Dick would let him. Dick wants him to. He could bend him right over the dining
table, push his skirt up, fill his tight little hole with his cock and fuck him
until he begged him to stop, until he was dripping with Bruce’s come and
covered in his own.
It would be so easy to take Dick to his bed, to bury himself inside of him
every night, to feel Dick under him, on top of him, next to him. If Dick wasn’t
fifteen and had any kind of clue what he actually wanted, if Bruce wasn’t
concerned about the distraction it would cause when they’re out in the field,
supposed to be watching each other’s backs -- maybe he would.
But life’s not easy. Life, apparently, is making sure Dick drinks enough water
to counter the amount of MDMA in his system. Life is listening to him sing I
Feel Pretty as he twirls and twirls until he crashes, then scooping him up off
the floor and putting him in his own bed.
This, apparently, is his life now.
Bruce walks back out into the hallway and nearly trips over a shoe. There’s a
t-shirt draped over the railing, bits and bobs scattered down the stairs, a
half eaten poptart smushed between the cushions on the couch. Bruce doesn’t
remember the house ever looking like this, ever feeling like this.
It feels good.
For the first time in ages, it feels like home.
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