An Old Passion
MJ Lee (mj.lee@chello.se)

Title: An Old Passion

Author: MJ Lee

Fandom: Batman

Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Dick Grayson

Series/Sequel: Mirror to 'A Song of Innocence'

Rating: NC-17

Archiving: Yes to Amothea, everyone else ask first please

E-Mail: mj.lee@chello.se

Summary: A look at Bruce Wayne's and Dick Grayson's life together, this time through the eyes of the Bat.

Series/Sequel: This is the mirror to 'A Song of Innocence' and will make a lot more sense if you've read that first, it can be found at www.ravenswing.com/MJLee

Feedback: Please?

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own a thing.

Notes: My warmest thanks go to the two best betas anyone could be lucky enough to have. Raven, Dee, you both rock big time! I owe you for not only patiently correcting my horrendous grammar and weird spelling :) and ruthlessly slicing away emotion-orgies, but also for numerous IRC chats listening patiently to me moaning and bitching and uh, obsessing *grin*

Warning: Underage, partner-rape and oh yes, a not very nice Bat.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,

But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

He looks so innocent asleep. His eyes are closed and the restless tension that haunts him when awake is smoothed out. He sprawls, boneless in repose. I gently touch a smooth cheek that still retains some of the roundness of childhood. In response he stirs a little and mutters. He frowns and I hold my breath unmoving, until he stills again...

Innocent? I know what he thinks -- that he lost all innocence the day I took him into my bed, as I already had into my life and into my heart. He is wrong. There is still innocence shining from his eyes, from his very soul. I warm myself in its light even as I stain it by my very presence.

I look at him and my heart contracts in love and burning, helpless need. Slowly, without conscious thought, my hands begin to move down long, supple limbs, smoothing hot, damp skin. He stirs gradually from sleep, and by the time he awakes, his body is already mine. I touch my lips to the pulse in his throat, feeling it flutter beneath my lips. I can tell the exact moment he becomes aware, as he suddenly stiffens and tenses in my arms.

It doesn't matter that his nerves sing with impatience and need, I know that he would push me away if he dared. The only sound he utters is a soft weary sigh before he surrenders, dark head falling against my shoulder, silky hair whispering across my skin. A single deep breath, almost like a sob, hitches in his throat and for a moment I feel as if he's thrust a knife through my heart. In subtle punishment my fingers tighten until I know I'm hurting the one person I love more than life.

He makes no sound of protest, I've taught him well. His mouth opens in a soft wordless moan as my hand closes around the heated flesh between his legs, stroking it to life. I know that if I were to look into his eyes they would be dark with anger and betrayal. So, I don't. Instead I bend my head and taste him, salty and spicy as I lick and bite into the curve of his neck. He moans again, hands reaching behind to pull me closer as his thighs slide open and he rubs himself against me. I bite my lip, controlling my need to simply flip him onto his belly and take him. Take him so deeply I will pierce through to that place in his soul, in his heart, that remains private and inviolate.

My hands slide along slender, hard shoulders already slick with sweat and grip them, hard, as my knee nudges his legs further apart. He makes another sound, of need, of rejection, as I reach for the small bottle on the table beside the bed.

Dipping my fingers in the oil, I slide them deep inside his body. He parts his legs, mutely offering me everything he is. I smile, as I turn him on his back, his legs dangling over my shoulders and press forward until I'm buried deep inside. Greedily I watch the expressions chase each other across his face. I know I am hurting him as I sheath myself in the tight heat of his body. His back arches in a bow and his fingers wrinkle the sheets and his mouth opens in a soundless groan. Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and pain. For both of us, as I lean forward and kiss him deeply, my fingers slick with oil as they close around the hardness between our bodies, stroking it rhythm to my movements. Slowly, the strain leaves his face to be replaced by another kind of tension as he begins to moan, hips lifting to take me deeper inside his body. His head begins to move back and forth in an urgent rhythm that never fails to drive me mad.

Too soon it's over as he stills for a moment before coming. The muscle contractions around my cock are enough to push me over the edge as well and I follow him only moments later.

His chest heaves as he fights to regain his breath. Gently I stroke back his hair, holding him against my body. Silence once again fills the dark room.

I know that this is what he hates more than anything -- the fact that I can make his body come alive with a single touch.

Does he know that he holds my soul in his hands I wonder, watching as he closes his eyes and turns away from my gaze. "Dick...." I whisper, and I hear the echo of despair in my voice...

"Yes, what is it, Bruce?" There is infinite weariness in his voice.

"Smile," I murmur.

His lips part obediently -- in the trained grimace of a monkey. I bend my head and kiss him very gently, to close out the sight. His mouth softens and opens beneath mine and his arms slide around my neck. "I love you, Richard," I tell him quietly.

There is pain in the bright blue eyes that meet mine so steadily, pain and betrayal and hatred... and need. He does still need me, and I hug that knowledge to my heart.

"You're mine," I tell him, as if the words can make it true. I feel him stiffen, before he closes his eyes and shuts me out.

"Yours, Bruce," he says dully and the defeat in his voice cuts through me like a knife.

He tries to move away to the other side of the bed, but this I can't allow. Instead I pull him into my arms and pillow his head on my shoulder. He doesn't protest in words, but his body is stiff and unmoving until exhaustion finally overtakes him and he falls asleep.

I lay awake in the darkness for a long time, simply watching him sleep.

He looks so innocent....

* * *

The first time I saw Richard Grayson he was sitting on the ground with the dying body of his father in his arms.

He was ten years old.

I watched as the boy screamed in pain and despair and in that moment we were bonded forever as I saw myself mirrored. I held out my hand, and told him, "Come with me. I will give you justice for your parents."

For a moment he hesitated, tears painting streaks through the dirt and sweat on his face, but then he took my hand and by that simple act irrevocably changed both our lives.

Fostering him was easy, one telephone call, the promise of a hefty donation to a councilman's next election campaign, and I was appointed the legal guardian of Richard Grayson. In truth, no one cared about an orphaned circus kid, no one but the people in Haley's Circus and they were already long gone.

I'm one of the richest men in the world. I've spent most of my life buying companies, priceless art and antiques, but I have never made a better deal then when I bought Richard Grayson's wardship.

It was a cold, clear winter day when I brought him home. One of the nuns from the orphanage came with him, and I watched as they stepped from the black limousine I'd sent to pick them up. She was a drab middle-aged woman, her lined face looking blank as she tried to hide just how intimidated -- and impressed -- she was by the flaunting of so much worldly wealth. Of course, I had also given an extremely generous donation to the Church, something she was very much aware of. It was a good bargain for them too.

He looked very small, barely reaching my waist, in his starched white shirt and short dark hair combed back neatly. He looked up into my face and blue eyes shone with trust. "Hello, Mr. Wayne," he said in his childish treble.

I smiled at him, the action strangely unfamiliar. "Hello, Dick, welcome to Wayne Manor. If you follow me, I'll show you your room."

Side by side we walked up the wide stone stairs. His eyes widened as he looked around. I glanced down and found him looking at me, "Yes?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Do you live here alone?"

I nodded as I guided him up yet more stairs. The sound of our steps echoed against the dark polished marble and the solid oak paneled walls with its lingering ever-present shadows. Neither of us spoke. I wondered what he thought of it all, if he was overwhelmed by the size and wealth of his new home. Suddenly he said thoughtfully, "You must be very lonely."

I stared down at the little boy in surprise and a little uneasiness. It was the last thing I had expected him to say. Usually everyone was too impressed, and envious, of the size of the house and the wealth inside to see anything else.

How was it that he alone had seen through all the facades? Everyone else saw simply the trappings, the wealthy playboy image I so carefully cultivated to keep the world at a distance.

Instead of being intimidated or afraid of my silence, he smiled up at me sunnily, and said confidently, "It's okay. You're never going to be lonely again, now that I'm here."

As I looked down at the small trusting face, felt the slight roughness of the childish fingers curling around mine, I surrendered unconditionally. Foolish as it may sound, I fell in love.

No, I will never be alone again, Dick. Your presence chases away the shadows and the darkness that has haunted me all my life. That is as true today as it was six years ago when you first carved yourself a place in my heart with your words and your trust and your... love.

* * *

Silence reigns in the high-ceilinged library with its heavy dark oak and leather furniture and dusty shadows that are never completely chased away no matter how many lights you turn on. The only sound is the occasional soft rustle as I turn another page of the newspaper I am reading. The crack and hiss of the fire burning in the large carved fireplace creates the only other noise.

Richard is standing silent, unmoving, silhouetted against the window, watching the rain lash against the glass and for a moment I am struck silent by admiration. He is a true thoroughbred; all lovely clean lines and sinewy muscle. Abrupt desire tightens my stomach. Putting down the paper, I break the silence. "Come here, Dick."

A sudden flinch and a widening of those amazing blue eyes is the only evidence of emotion he allows himself to show before he moves across the thick Oriental carpet. Standing before me, I can read nothing in his suddenly dark, enigmatic eyes before he slowly slides to his knees and reaches for my zipper.

I hesitate for a moment, before stilling his movement with a light touch. He frowns, confused, and I have to check my immediate impulse to lean down and kiss the firm curve. Instead I take his head between my hands and for a long time I simply watch the light and shadows play across the elegant, exquisite features.

There is a question in his eyes and I shake my head, my voice threaded through with melancholy. "Just sit here with me, Dick."

"All right, Bruce." The voice is a little huskier than usual as he shifts his weight to his heels. A small push, a tug, and soon I have the dark head pillowed where I want it, on my thigh. There is a latent unease in the slender gymnast's body even as it fits itself between my legs.

I remember a time when he would clamber all over me. Dick was always a cuddler, his head snuggled against my shoulder trustingly. I have never been comfortable with words, finding them of little value. So I never told him how much it meant to me, to have his arm around my neck, his boneless body asleep, draped across my lap. In truth, I didn't know myself how much it meant until the day when he no longer came near me except at my command. Until now, when I have to force each intimacy, each gesture from him.

I look down at the dark head, pain and love twisting my heart. If I were to tell him the truth he would think me a pervert, dirty. But there was nothing sexual in my love for him then, I only wish he would believe that. All I knew when I first began loving him was that for the first time I had someone who depended on me, who loved me unconditionally. Whom I could love without fear.

Who would never leave me.

Once again silence falls inside the high-ceiling room. The only light is the flicker of the dying fire. I watch a half-charred log break apart and scatter tiny glowing embers across the ashes as my fingers slowly comb through the short strands beneath my fingers, the texture so much finer than the rarest of silks.

I love him. I know he loves me. So why do we keep hurting each other?

* * *

Standing on the roof, the wind billowing the long dark cape behind me, I watch in silence as the dark streets and alleys of Gotham City come alive with human vermin. They are the scum that crawls from its sewers each night to make the streets unsafe for everyone decent. All my focus is on the task ahead of us. Us. Almost involuntarily I glance briefly at the boy -- man -- who stands beside me. Unlike myself there is nothing dark neither in his costume or his soul. He is all bright color. Even his name conjures up a bird flitting through blue skies while mine evokes dark caves and night, fear. He is just as I imagined he would be. My Robin. My creation.

He turns his head, and in the too bright eyes, I see the spark of excitement, the adrenaline already pumping through muscles and veins. "Another show, another dollar," he grins at me.

My lips curl in an answering smile. "Let the hunt begin," I respond.

He nods, shifts his weight, ready to fly into the night at my command. Eager but obedient he waits, unmoving, leashed.

What is Dick Grayson to me?

There is the easy answer; he is my kid side-kick. The wise-cracking teenager who protects my back, who exasperates me with his antics and frightens me with his rash bravado.

He brought laughter and, yes, even happiness into my life for the first time. His irreverent humor, his bright spirit, even his teenage moods...

Even as these thoughts flit through my mind we swing into action, moving as one, a well-oiled machine dedicated to our mission. My ears fill with the roar of the wind, and the muscles in my body tense into readiness as I realize once again that this is the only time I am truly alive.

They say that I am a man without fear. I know the legends that are whispered in the dank, fetid corners of Gotham's nether world; Batman, the Dark Knight. There have been occasions I have made use of it, at times a rumor or a whisper can be more effective than reality. I have often wanted to laugh at the very thought of just how far from the truth the legend is.

I live with fear every day.

My fears are not those that haunt ordinary men. I have never been afraid of death. Death and I are friends, not adversaries. I pay my tribute to her, even as she nourishes me. Nor do I fear broken bones, gun wounds, knife stabs. No physical injury could ever hurt worse than the agony of watching my parents bleed to death before my very eyes.

What I truly fear is loss.

All my life, anyone I have loved has left me. My parents, the women I have tried to love. I will not allow one more person to leave me. I am not sure I could survive that and still remain sane. He will stay with me, even if I have to chain him to my side with hatred and fear.

* * *

"Hey, Batman, cool it." He is leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, deceptively relaxed as he watches me dispense justice.

I almost growl as I hold the trembling man by the torn lapels of his ruined suit , my nostrils filled with the rancid smell of fear and unwashed body odors. "Don't interfere."

He doesn't back down, my Robin. Of course, he's always had more courage than common sense.

His eyes behind the gaudy mask narrow, and his voice is all cool reason. "He won't be able to speak if you keep hitting him. So unless you want to spend another couple of hours combing the dives of Gotham for Walker Shrub I suggest you back off."

I want to tell him to mind his own business, except that this is his business and he is right. So reluctantly I put down the man, a street dealer working for the newest player in the drug-trade. I look at the miserable little weasel and my voice ices over. "Talk!"

He talks. He would betray his own grand mother, he is that eager to spill his guts. Patiently I sort out the pertinent information before tying him up and leaving him a neat package for Gordon and his men to pick up.

A few more hours, a dozen more fools waving guns and fists and then we can finally take him down. One less criminal to sell crack and heroin to the kids. One scum less to smash their lives into pieces.

One less killer to leave a boy sobbing over the murdered bodies of his parents....

As always, the end of a successful night leaves me with an adrenaline kick. My senses are still working on over-drive, each sound like an explosion in my ears. The sensation of fabric against my skin makes me shiver and I'm abruptly, painfully hard. I glance around, but we're alone, the whine of the police sirens rapidly fading into silence. Whatever miserable rats we failed to catch have scuttled back into their dives thankful they were not on the hit list tonight.

Dick is standing by the car waiting for me. He rakes a hand through his hair, leaning his hip casually against the door. "Come on, Batman!" he calls out with a hint of impatience.

It is madness and I know it but suddenly it doesn't matter as I still stalk over to him. From the sudden, subtle tension he knows what I want as he straightens abruptly.

"Bruce...."

I crush the words from his lips with a hungry, demanding kiss. Slowly his arms circle my neck and pull me down as he kisses me back. "This really isn't a good idea," he murmurs when we separate to catch our breath.

In answer I take his face between hands, thumbs slowly caressing his fragile temples. He shivers and closes his eyes, body melting against me.

The clammy cold of the pre-dawn chills our bodies; the stench of old sewage and cat piss rises sour and acid, the clank and hiss of broken down, rusty machinery echoes in our ears.

This is my world, and in my arms is the one person who can understand why I have chosen to live in it.

He hooks his foot around my leg, bringing me closer, his hands moving down my back. I shudder in reaction. The thrill that shoots through me is bigger than the one when I hand-cuffed Walker Shrub as he turns his head, kissing my jaw before slowly sliding to his knees.

I can feel his fingers as he reaches for the zipper in my suit and then my cock is surrounded by silky tight heat. Unable to formulate a coherent thought, I simply moan, my hands fastening in his hair.

I can only imagine the picture we make as I lean against the Batmobile, Richard kneeling before me as I thrust into his mouth. In a perverse way the danger of exposure excites me even more as my hips move urgently and I fuck his face. From the shift in his position, the soft muffled sounds he makes I know I'm hurting him but at the moment I don't care. I'm a big man and he still can't take me completely without some discomfort. He doesn't move back though. Instead, his tongue whispers across the slit and I moan again as I come.

Immediately he steps away as I reach down and zip myself up again. He stands, body half turned away, his head bent. There is a drop of creamy liquid sliding down his jaw. He reaches up and with shaking fingers wipes it off.

In silence we get into the car. In silence we drive home, and when I glance at him from the corner of my eye, his head is turned away. I want to say something. But he already knows. He knows that I love him. He knows that everything we do is necessary.

* * *

My body is sore and aching from several lucky hits as I walk up the stairs after yet another successful night of keeping the vermin at bay. My hair is plastered to my head with sweat and grime and when I look over my shoulder I can feel something twinge deep inside my muscles. I long for nothing so much as a shower to take the dirt from my body. I only wish that it was as easy to clean it from my soul.

A creak makes me turn, and despite my grim thoughts, a smile lifts the corner of my mouth. He is following behind me, shadowing each movement, ruffling his damp hair, and I note absently that he needs a haircut as the tips of it sweep his shoulders. He looks as weary as I, and yet not. Dick gathers strength from some hidden depth that I have long ago surrendered.

Later, I stand beneath the hot spray and closing my eyes, I can taste the blood from a cut in my forehead as it runs down my face and into my mouth. The faint coppery tang on my tongue brings back memories of tonight and is an unwelcome reminder of the man I have become. What was that silly poster Vicki Vale had on her bedroom wall? The one of the cartoon character? Ah yes, Pogo the Possum. Suddenly I recall the legend at the top of the poster, 'we have met the enemy and he is us.'

Leaning back against the tiled wall, the hot water streaming down my body, steam rising, and blinding me, I can still remember too clearly the feeling of a man's flesh splitting apart and the warmth of bloody spraying over me as I smashed him into the floor. Even as I close my eyes I recall his panicked, terrified eyes. He looked like a deer caught in headlights when I used my strength to break his body and spirit, until he was nothing but a blubbering, sobbing wreck in my hands ready to betray his masters.

With an effort I tear myself away from my memories as I reach out and turn off the water. Wrapping a towel around my hips, I walk back into my bedroom toweling my hair dry.

He is waiting for me, already in bed, reading a book, making notes occasionally. I glance at it. "Math test tomorrow?"

He nods without looking up, "Calculus, mid-terms are coming up." He frowns, obviously working out a problem in his head as he scribbles down formulas and numbers.

I lean over casually, a hand on his shoulder enjoying the feel of satin over steel. He stiffens and then relaxes as I study the page for a moment before telling him, "No, Dick, look, you've got that formula wrong. It should be, d/dx(dn-1y(sxn-1)=dny/dxn =F(n) (X)=Y(n)."

He bends over his notes once again, muttering to himself, and then suddenly he smiles widely for a moment. It is swiftly followed by frustration however. "Of course! Why didn't I see that?"

I chuckle, sliding deeper into bed, pummeling the pillow into shape before circling my hands under it. "That's why you're still in school, Dick and I'm not."

He shakes his head, disgust in his voice as he reaches out and turn off the bed-side light. "Yeah, but don't tell me you didn't ace math."

I do not answer. I am well aware that Alfred has told him everything, and the truth is that I did 'ace' math and all subjects I ever studied. Reaching out, I pull him against me, sliding my leg between his thighs. He stiffens again, but I simply whisper, "Shhh...." as I drop a light kiss on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Dick. You're doing very well."

He turns and buries his head in my chest, relaxing as he realizes that I want to do nothing but hold him, and I have to strain to hear his soft mumble, "Not good enough. I'll never be as good as you, Bruce, never."

I close my eyes, my Richard in my arms and drift off to sleep. The soft steady sound of his breathing, the slight expanding of his rib-cage beneath my arm soothes me as no voluptuous and expensively groomed woman's body ever could.

* * *

To be what I am, to do what I do requires dedication, ruthlessness, fanaticism, some would even claim obsession. I possess all those things and I have never counted the cost too high.

Not until the day I looked into Richard Grayson's eyes and saw rejection.

Driving back to Wayne Manor after yet another long night of fighting crime, I was... concerned. Lately, ever since we had finally gathered the evidence necessary to arrest Tony Zucco, the gangster responsible for Mary and John Grayson's deaths, Dick had changed. I had watched in growing apprehension as he became more and more reckless, at times seeming to deliberately endangering himself. Tonight he had taken on six of Two-Face's men, and for a moment my heart had almost stopped in fear as I watched him disappear beneath their superior numbers.

No matter that he had emerged moments later, a rakish grin on his face, neatly punching out the last of the goons, my fear had transformed into a cold rage. The rage did not lessen even as we waited for Commissioner Gordon and the police to take custody of Two-Face and his men.

All the way back I was lecturing him, blind to his growing impatience until we finally arrived at the Batcave.

Stripping off his suit, with impatient hands, uncaring that I was standing there beside him, he cut off my tirade with a curt, "It's late and I'm tired, so let's get one thing clear, I'm not you, Bruce, I don't *want* to be you." He continued coolly, "look, I know what you're doing, but I'm just not going to be your little toy soldier sacrificed in your crusade. Another couple of years and I'm gone, I have my own life to lead."

I stared at the boy who had come to mean everything to me, and I listened to him speak so coolly of leaving. I do not think I have ever been more terrified or furious in my life. All I knew in that moment was that he was *mine.* There was even a part of me that felt a savage satisfaction that the tension built up over so many months would come to a boil. An abscess of suppressed want and need finally lanced.

I know the exact moment I started loving Richard Grayson, but when I first realised I wanted him as well, I have no idea. Perhaps it was a gradual thing. All I knew was that for the last six months I had fought a silent battle with myself. I wanted, I needed, to reach out and touch, to stroke and caress, to watch his eyes turn smoky with desire...

Dick had a power that no woman -- not even Julie or Serena who I had actually thought I'd loved -- had ever possessed. Lately I'd spent far too many sleepless nights, tossing and turning with helpless clawing need. Sex, has always been a casual thing to me, a physical scratch easily satisfied. I know my reputation as a sophisticated, ice-cold, heartbreaker, and yes, I do use women, just as they use me. It is a bargain that both parties walk into with both eyes open. They sparkle and glitter on my arm at society events, and in return they offer their bodies to me for a night or two.

I don't know why Richard could so effortlessly pierce through the walls I'd spent a lifetime building. From that first day he shattered my defenses and yes, I've hated him for making me vulnerable, almost as much as I loved him for making me feel.

And now I watched him challenge me openly, defiantly. There was nothing but anger and distance in his voice as he rejected everything we were together, as he rejected *me.* For a moment I wanted nothing so much as to crush him like wet clay, this beautiful disobedient boy that I had taken and molded into everything he was. A magnificent collection of muscle and sinew, a sharp mind made even better by my training.

My heart beat until my ears were deafened by the sound. "You are mine, Dick," I said calmly.

He shook his head, like a wild colt rearing the first time he is bridled. "You don't own me, Bruce." Oh, but he was so arrogant - and so very wrong.

I stalked towards him, lips peeled back like a wild animal on the prowl. Hungrily I watched as the the resentment and defiance in his eyes transformed into wariness. His voice when he spoke next was very different, soft and placating.

"Look, Bruce, I'm - " he began.

I had no wish to hear empty excuses, cutting them off with a hungry kiss, forcing his lips open, even as I pushed him against the wall. I could feel the tension of his muscles as he arched in rejection but I had come too far now to turn back. I could feel his teeth scrape against my lips, as he tried to bite, and I growled, putting a hand on his throat and squeezing in a not so subtle warning. Wise boy that he is, he immediately relaxed as I ruthlessly stripped the clothes from his body.

He took my breath away as I stared at him. So beautiful, even as he glared at me with hatred in his eyes.

"You're mine, Dick!" I whispered darkly, not able to hide the savage need that shook my core. I exulted at finally being able to touch, and watch as his breathing grew heavy and labored, his body arching with need as I coaxed it into a hardness to match my own. I will never forget that first feel, the heavy fullness of the balls I rolled between my fingers. He was whispering softly, pleadingly, shaking his head in denial "No, no, no.... please, Bruce." As his words reached me, I smiled and bent my head, feasting on his mouth, silencing him again. This time he didn't try and resist, his lips opening submissively.

He has always been an excellent student.

I took his mouth ruthlessly, tasting blood on my tongue as I split his lip open with the force of my kiss. Slowly I forced him back, until his body was bent backwards, over the low table where we keep some of our equipment. His legs spread as he scrambled for balance.

There was a stunned, sick disbelief on his face, but as I watched, reality finally dawned on him, and the disbelief changed into betrayal and hatred. Eyes that had never looked at me with anything but trust and love burned with loathing and anger, and it was like a knife thrust into my heart. Still, it didn't stop me from running my hands down his body, feasting on the living heated satin of his skin, enjoying the soft, helpless gasps as he closed his eyes and mutely surrendered.

I played his body like the finest of instruments until he was shuddering not with anger, but raw need. Greedily I watched the sweat sheen his skin, roll down a bared throat, to slide slowly down his chest to gather at the tip of a rosy nipple. I bent my head and slowly swirled the tip of my tongue around the hard little peak, teasing it.

This time his moan was more like a scream as his legs slid even wider, and his hands came up to clutch at my shoulders. Not to push me away this time but to pull me closer, his fingernails scraping my back as low animal moans traveled through his throat.

I hid my smile in his neck as I bit gently into the nape, a necklace of swift hard nips, branding the skin, marking him as mine.

Neither of us spoke, the only sound in the cave was the harsh rasp of his breath and my soft panting. Despite the chill air both our bodies were soon sleeked, the moist sound as damp skin met skin, driving me mad. The only other noise was the metallic clink of Dick's utilities belt scraping against the wall as I bent his pliant body. I felt a wild triumph as I watched his hips rise rhythmically and meet my fingers and thrust a finger deep into his body. That was all it took. He came, a flood of liquid heat spilling over my hand and between our bodies.

God he was so beautiful as he sprawled, exhausted and satiated, slowly blinking long sweat-soaked lashes open, mouth opening on a silent deep exhalation of breath.

I felt a wild triumph fill me. I *knew* that if I could only show him how much he wanted me, he would understand. And he did, I know he did, when, once he'd caught his breath, he turned his head and looked at me with eyes suddenly dark and impenetrable.

I moved restlessly, my body screaming at me to take what it craved. Before I could do anything he stiffened, and suddenly shivering a little as the sweat on his body cooled and dried, he slid to his knees, his hands on my hips, as he bent and took me, for the first time, into his mouth.

Ah..... what he does to me. Even untutored and clumsy as he was then, I will never forget that first time he was on his knees, his lips closing around me as I plunged deep into his throat. The feeling of being buried to the hilt in the sweet heat of his willing mouth, the liquid heat of his tongue tasting and teasing is one I will never tire of.

Too soon it was over, and my body convulsed as I poured myself into him. The only thought filling my heart and soul was the fact that he was finally and irrevocably mine.

I have never asked if he was a virgin that first time I took him, the truth is that I don't want to know the answer. I do not want to know if anyone else has seen that beautiful, expressive face lost and helpless, if anyone else has heard the groan when he comes. I have never wanted to know because I am afraid that I would do something I would later regret. The thought of Dick giving someone else what is mine makes my hands clench in rage, my fingers leaving ten crescent-shaped marks deeply embedded in the skin of my palms.

* * *

I prefer calling him Richard when we are in bed. There, he is not my kid sidekick, the one they call Robin, nor is he my ward Dick Grayson. For those few precious moments nothing exists outside our bed. We have built our own little world where we can remove our masks with our clothes.

Naked, I will not let him wear anything to bed, against the silk of my sheets, a midnight blue that mirrors the blue of his eyes, he is simply Richard, my lover.

My love.

But as with all teenagers there are still times when he is moody, remote. I have come to resent those moods and I will do anything to chase them away. Tonight I have a secret I hope will lighten the recent pensiveness I've seen, and banish the shadows that too often invade his face.

After a silent dinner during which he mostly plays with his food I tell him, "Come on, Richard, I've got a surprise for you."

He glances up and I read suspicion, even a hint of fear in his eyes before he veils them.

"A surprise, how exciting." The words are right, but he doesn't even try and conceal the wariness. I refuse to let it hurt me.

We walk outside together. He is keeping a careful distance between us, so unlike earlier years when he'd be by my side chattering away excitedly. I reach out an arm and place it on his shoulders. He does not shrug it off, although I see, and am hurt by, the fleeting rejection that crosses his face.

We turn a corner and there it is. Gleaming against the creamy tiles of the garage. Black. Shining. Every boy's, every *man's* dream, the ultimate male toy. A Lamborghini. Specially ordered from the factory in Sant'Agata Bolognese where the leather interiors are hand-made by master craftsmen.

His eyes light up with awe and unshadowed excitement.

"It's yours," I say quietly, watching him intently. He stares at me for a moment and then his eyes focus on the Lamborghini again.

For a moment there is surprise, followed by delight, and then a veil falls over them, and I can hear the cynicism in his voice as he turns away. "Thanks, Bruce, but no thanks. You don't have to buy me expensive presents." A smile that is no smile at all twists his lips as he continues, "It only makes me feel more like a whore than I already do." The acid bitterness in him cuts me to shreds.

I freeze. Is that how he sees himself. A whore? An ugly word and it conjures up images, emotions that I do not want to deal with. My tone edges into ice. "A whore, Richard?" My hand reaches out and wraps itself around his arm, spinning him around. "I have never thought of you as a whore." A thin, humorless smile stretches my mouth. "But if that's how you want to be treated...."

I watch his eyes widen and he tries to take a step back. "Bruce..." That pleading I hate is back in his voice. "Look, I'm sorry," he starts to say.

I do not want to listen to his hollow apologies. Instead I grasp his arm, flip him around and press him against the car as I move up behind him.

He tenses and for a moment I think he will protest, fight, and in my present mood I would welcome it. Once again he escapes me, this time through submission.

Breathing in deep shuddering gasps, he braces himself against the car, his legs opening as I reach around and unzip his jeans, pulling them down until they pool around his knees, trapping him.

I know it must hurt as I thrust a finger deep inside him, and he stiffens. Good. I want him to hurt as I have been hurt. Ruthlessly I use my thumbs to loosen the muscle before I open my own pants. I am already so hard I ache and my cock is dripping. I use spit and pre-cum to ease my entrance, but I still tear him. I can hear the moan, starting deep in his breast, the spastic movements as his body fights to escape and his mind commands it to remain still. His mind, as always, wins.

I wonder, Richard, what will happen the day you finally realize your own strength...

I take him on the hood of the car, watching his fingers slide across the smooth lacquer as I drive into him, my teeth biting deep into his shoulder. My fingers pinch his nipples, and I hear him moan again, this time in shame as his body betrays him. I reach down and milk his cock, in rhythm to my thrusting. He is not even aware his head is shaking in rejection even as his body melts and obeys its own laws. I come with a deep groan, pouring myself deep into him. Moments later I feel him stiffen and then the flood of warmth splashes over my fingers and the car...

Wordlessly I step back a pace, pulling up my pants and fastening them. In silence I watch as Richard does the same. He does not avoid my eyes, but his own are empty, distant, and once again I feel the bite of familiar frustration at the knowledge that he has escaped me.

I hear myself ask calmly, the only emotion faint curiosity, "Why do you keep provoking me, Richard?"

Startled, he glances at me. "I wasn't aware I was," he says after a little pause.

I give his body a significant look, the stiffness he can't quite hide or the slight wince when the marks my teeth left on his shoulder rub against the fabric of his shirt.

I feel no guilt, he deserved this, but still, I hate watching him hurt and because my anger has burned itself out, my voice softens. "Come on, Richard, let's go to bed."

He almost flinches and his eyes turn bleak. "Yes, of course, Bruce," he says even as he turns his head and scans the darkening skies for the Bat signal. It never comes and the night remains dark and silent.

* * *

In bed I wordlessly express my regrets for my brutality earlier. Taking my time, I drive you to the edge again and again, until your body is soaked in sweat and trembling, and your eyes are wild as you clutch me, begging in a choked voice.

Yes, I enjoy listening to you beg, Richard. I enjoy hearing your broken pleadings, to 'please, please fuck me, Bruce!

I need to hear you beg because only then am I able to believe that you are truly mine. When I feel your mouth fasten hungrily on my skin, licking my nipples as I arch and moan, then, I can almost convince myself that this is where you want to be...

Sometimes, driven to desperation, you will give me the words I crave. I take them greedily although I know even as you whisper them between cracked, swollen lips, that they are lies. "I love you, Bruce, I love you!" I close my ears at the soft broken whisper, "isn't that what you want to hear?"

I cover your firm mouth kissing it oh so gently, drinking deeply, even as you grasp greedily for my tongue. "Shhh... I know Richard," I whisper before I move down your body. I have already played this game for hours, and I can see that perhaps I have taken it too far. Your cock is red and swollen, your balls heavy and when I stroke them you flinch and groan in pain, not pleasure.

Why do you force me beyond sanity, Richard?

* * *

The morning sun on my face I stand by the window in my room and watch him drive off to school - in the old beat up Chevy. I glance over at the table where the keys to the Lamborghini lie untouched.

Behind me, I can hear a soft footfall and if I turn, I know Alfred will look, not at the rapidly fading cloud of dust, but at me. His dark eyes will be serene, cryptic but his very presence steadies and supports me as it has done since I was a boy.

* * *

I have never been able to hide anything from Alfred and I have long ago given up even trying; I believe the last time I tried was when I was seven and smashed the Third Dynasty Ming vase in the library. So when I find him standing behind me as I turn from the refrigerator with some cling-wrapped bologna in my hand I simply give him a nod and a half-smile, knowing what he sees; the marks Dick has left on my skin with his teeth and nails, the tousled hair and half-smile from swollen lips.

"Master Bruce."

As always I can tell little from his voice or his face. Dammit! He's the closest thing to a father I have, and yet I can never remember him once calling me anything but 'Master Bruce.'

He takes the package of sliced meat from my hands and with the neat, efficient movements I recognize so well he slices bread and before I know it he has two flawless sandwiches placed absolutely symmetrically on a plate. I look down at them, decorated with a sprig of fresh parsley. So perfect, like everything he does. Elegant, refined, civilized. That's Alfred.

"I love him," I say suddenly, quietly, watching the sandwiches.

He has never mentioned the crumpled state of my sheets or the patches of blood and.... other things that stained them. But I know that nothing has escaped his eyes. Alfred can say more than anyone I know by not speaking a word.

"Master Dick is an easy person to love," is the soft answer. There is neither judgment nor anger in his tone, only an undefinable sadness. "So were you, Master Bruce."

I stiffen, my fingers clenching around the smoothness of the china. Too many memories. Secrets. Guilt. I never wanted him dead, no matter what I may have wished for as a child.

I turn away, to take out a beer. Staring at the neat rows of food I make him, or myself, a vow. "I won't hurt him."

Perhaps I only imagine the soft whisper floating through the air behind me as I leave. "You already have... Bruce."

Going back upstairs the portraits of someone else's ancestors look down at me with cold painted eyes. I remember a time when I thought they were all secretly watching me, judging me weak and worthless, reinforcing what *he* always said.

Alfred will keep his silence. He has done so before.

The sound of my feet is muffled against the thick oriental carpet, just as I remember hearing it as I lay awake in my bed, and waiting.... The only difference is that now I am the one opening the door, and there he is.

My Richard. Asleep in a ribbon of moonlight.

Perhaps I should feel guilt, and there are times I do. Perhaps I should feel disgust, and I have felt its bitter bite. Right now, watching him, in my bed, knowing that when I wake in the morning he will still be here in my arms, my only emotion is a love so complete it slices me to bloody ribbons. I love him beyond sanity, beyond reason. My Robin. My bright little bird.

* * *

I find him standing in the library, looking up at the painting above the fireplace, hands in the pocket of his jeans. Without turning, he says quietly, thoughtfully, "You know, I come in here from time to time, and look at the portrait, and I can't help wondering what he was like."

I look up at the painting of my parents, remembering the many times I have done the same thing as Dick, trying to understand why. "He was brilliant, graduated early from college, went through medical school in less than five years, a financial genius." Even to my own ears my voice is flat.

He gives me a quick look. "I didn't mean what he accomplished, I could read that in any newspaper clipping. I mean what was he really like? Did he eat Cocoa Puffs for breakfast, did he..."

My fingers tighten on his shoulder and he falls silent at the subtle warning. "Why do you want to know?"

He grows still beneath my hand. "Actually, I was trying to figure out what makes you tick," he admits with a candor that strikes me with devastating force. I raise my eyes and look at my father. He is standing, posed behind my mother, a hand on her shoulder, tall, straight, cool blue eyes.

"He was the strongest man I ever knew," I hear my own voice tell him softly. "He was hard, not easy to know. He wanted, needed, always to be in control. But he was fair," I murmur, "punishment was never arbitrary. As long as you obeyed he never hesitated to praise."

Abruptly I turn away from the blue eyes so like my own. "He was never satisfied by anything but the best - from anyone." I pause, unexpected anger rising hot and bitter like bile in my throat. "He detested weakness."

He cocks his head a little, a quick wry grin flitting across his lips. "Like father like son, huh, Bruce?"

I stiffen.

"Master Bruce, Master Dick, dinner is served...."

To my relief, Alfred's polite voice interrupts before I have time to speak words I know I will regret later. Later that night I look down at his face, framed by the pillow. There are times he looks so young, too young for the burdens he carries.

His eyes are closed, and he's breathing jerkily, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, before I brush them away. Slowly he opens his eyes, and looks at me blankly. I bend forward, lips ghosting over them lightly, in silent apology as he shifts and a slight wince of pain crosses his face.

He opens his mouth but at the last moment changes whatever he was going to say. Instead he merely rolls over on his side, pulling up his knees towards his chest. I spoon up behind him, my arm around his waist. "I'm tired..." he murmurs, voice slurred with exhaustion.

"Then sleep, Dick," I respond, tucking his head into my shoulder, enjoying the weight of it, the brush of hair against my skin. And in a dark echo of a long ago memory I hear my own voice repeat my father's words.... "Sleep, and dream, nothing bad will happen while I'm here."

* * *

At some society event Bruce Wayne and his ward Dick Grayson are required to attend I watch him the middle of a group of people - young people. For once his eyes are free of pain, almost happy as he whispers something in the ear of a small redheaded girl. She giggles and looks up at him adoringly. I want to cross the room and tear her hands from his arm. I want to shout to the world that Richard is mine!

Most of all, I want to see him smile at me, like he smiles at that girl. It was, I think once again, a poor bargain I made that night when I took his body and lost his heart.

My shoulders slump slightly. I know, better than most, that the past cannot be undone.

Standing alone outside in the night, watching the people laugh so easily and innocently I never feel the fragile crystal shatter between my fingers, a trickle of blood dripping from my fingers to the pavement nor do I notice the pain of glass slicing deep into my hand. All I see is the young man standing in a pool of light surrounded by adoring admirers. It is not until later that I look down and see the glittering shards, painted dark red by my blood that I realize what I've done.

A mirthless smile twists my mouth as I watch him flirting with the unknown girl, his dark head leaning over her protectively. He is defying me openly and although he knows he will have to pay for it later, his rebellion doesn't surprise me. He has fought me with every breath in his body; Dick has always had too much spirit and wildness for his own good. Yet, this is one fight I won't lose, and I will ride him like a wild colt, with a curb bit and spurs until he submits.

Tonight, I can see just how hollow my victory is. I have his body, his unquestioned obedience, but what I truly desire; his soul, his heart, his laughter are not mine. Not yet.

I will have everything from you Richard.

I will never let you go.

You are mine, now and forever.

THE END