Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4481309.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Batman_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Tim_Drake/Roy_Harper
  Character:
      Tim_Drake, Roy_Harper
  Additional Tags:
      little_beasts, everyone_is_super_fucked_up_in_this_verse_okay_okay
      there's_your_disclaimer, Knifeplay, Alternate_Universe_-_Assassins_&
      Hitmen, Recreational_Drug_Use
  Series:
      Part 24 of little_beasts
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-02 Words: 1283
****** you can't hide ******
by ohmcgee
Summary
     Tim meets Roy before he meets any of the rest of them.
Notes
     Please do go read all of likewinning's little_beasts first if you
     have not, as this is from that verse. Thank you for letting me play
     in your playground, love!
“You’re following me,” Roy says, leaning in the window of a hot looking Acura
he wouldn’t mind getting his hands on. “Why.”
“Get in,” the kid says, can’t be more than sixteen, barely old enough to even
drive. And he’s small too, bony little hands curled around the steering wheel
that Roy knows how to break in sixteen different places. Pretty as shit though,
so he gives him the chance to explain before he fires an arrow straight into
his groin for tailing him for weeks.
“I want you to show me how to do that,” the kid says. “I can show you things.
If you want.”
Roy’s eyebrows reach toward his hairline.
“Those too,” the kid says, showing his teeth. It’s not a grin. It’s not a
smile. It’s not anything. And it makes Roy’s dick hard.
“You a cop?” He says as he crawls in the passenger side door, stepping on
styrofoam cups and McDonald’s bags and five thousand receipts.
The kid snorts. “Do I look old enough to be a cop?”
“How old are you?” Roy asks and he just gets a blank expression in return, dead
eyes and a thin, flat line for a mouth.
“Old enough to know there are people worse than you,” the kid says and peels
out of the street.
 
***
 
“Jesus fucking christ. You know what, this isn’t going to work,” Roy snaps,
turns and walks away from the kid.
His name’s Tim. He won’t give him his last name or tell him why he even wants
to learn how to shoot, but Roy got a pretty good glimpse of all the scars up
and down his arms when he rolled his sleeves up to start practicing with the
bow and that told him more about the kid than any name ever could.
Before Roy can even get in the house he’s being shoved up against the side of
it and there’s a knife at his throat. Roy’s been in a situation or two like
this before, can usually tell when the other guy is bluffing, when it’s his
first time threatening somebody’s life, if he can really go through with it or
not. Roy can’t tell anything about this kid.
“You said you’d teach me,” Tim says. “I want to learn.”
“Can’t do anything if you open up one of my goddamn veins,” Roy says carefully
and sees Tim blink, feels him lower the knife.
“I’ve been watching you,” Tim says, folds the knife up against his thigh and
sticks in back in his pocket. He doesn’t apologize and Roy’s glad. He’s not
fantastic at forgiving people for holding knives to his throat anyway. “You’re
good. I want to be good.”
“With a bow?”
“With everything,” Tim says.
Roy sighs, reaches out and digs his forefinger and thumb into the meat around
Tim’s shoulder. He doesn’t wince much, but Roy definitely catches the little
twitch in his eye. “Feel that?” He says. “I can’t fuckin’ teach you to shoot
when you’re that tense. Fucks everything up.”
“Any suggestions?” Tim asks tightly.
Roy shrugs. “We could get high.”
“I don’t get high,” Tim says.
“You asked,” Roy says, shrugging again like he could give two fucks. “I’m going
to smoke up. You can join me or you and those concrete blocks you call
shoulders can stay out here and be creepy as shit.”
Fifteen minutes later Tim walks in the living room, sits down on the tattered
green couch that someone probably bought second hand in the seventies, and
takes the joint when Roy offers it to him.
“This isn’t your place,” Tim says and exhales. He’d said he didn’t get high,
but this sure as shit isn’t his first time.
“Nope,” Roy says, popping his p and taking another hit. Tim doesn’t ask anymore
than that and it’s pretty great. It’s been awhile since he’s just been able to
chill with somebody, somebody who knows he runs around at night and flings
arrows at assholes and robs them blind, somebody who’s seen the marks on his
arms and hasn’t once called him a fuck-up or a worthless piece of shit or tried
to fix him.
“Almost gone,” Roy says. “C’mere.”
He takes the last hit then drags Tim to him by the back of his neck. Tim’s eyes
go wide and Roy grins against his mouth and finally Tim gets with the picture,
opens up and shotguns the hit from him. He doesn’t pull away immediately, which
Roy thinks is as much of an invitation as he’s going to get, and grabs Tim’s by
his tiny hips and pulls him into his lap.
“You’re fuckin’ pretty,” he says and licks into his mouth, pushes his hands up
Tim’s shirt and feels too many bones. “Little, too,” he says and gets Tim’s
knife back at his throat for the comment. Maybe it’s just from the weed, but
this time it’s a little less insistent, just the soft press of metal against
flesh, a gentle reminder that he’s not to be fucked with.
“I get it,” Roy says, stretches his neck out and leans forward and lets the tip
just snick his skin, just enough to let a little red bleed onto Tim’s blade and
yeah, there it is. “You like that, right?”
Tim’s looking at his knife like he’s never fucking seen it before, his eyes
wide with this hot, dark look in them, and Roy can see it now. Tim’s never run
that blade through anybody before. He’s never seen anybody else’s blood on the
outside of their body because of him. But he wants to.
Roy tugs his shirt off over his head, wraps his fingers around Tim’s wrist and
lowers the blade from his throat down to his chest. “Go for it, gorgeous,” he
says. “Carve me up.”
Roy groans at the first cut over his pec. “Too deep,” he says, sucking in air.
“Lighter hand, okay?”
Tim nods, licks his lips and tries again. This time Roy moans, something
sweeter, deeper, his cock aching between his legs when Tim dips forward and
licks the blood off of him.
“Fuck,” Tim mutters and fumbles one handedly with his jeans to get them open,
get his hand inside.
“I got you,” Roy says, knocking his hand out of the way. “Jesus, you’re so hard
for this. You love it, don’t you?”
He gets his hand around Tim’s cock and Tim only makes him bleed one more time
before he’s gasping and cursing him and coming all over Roy’s hand, letting his
knife fall to the floor and slipping down between Roy’s legs, tearing his jeans
open and swallowing him down.
“Fuck,” Roy shouts at the suddenness of it all, that hot, tight heat all around
him. He gets his hands in Tim’s hair, on his face, looks down at him as he
fucks into his mouth. “God, that’s good. Perfect. Fuck.”
Tim’s nails slice bloody crescents into his thighs and Roy comes hard, chokes
Tim with the force of it, and when Tim pulls back to cough there’s come all
over his mouth, but none of the tension left in his shoulders.
He fires one straight into the bullseye on his third try.
 
***
 
They’re in Colombia when Roy gets hit by a ricochet and goes down. Tim picks up
the bow immediately, peers through the scope, pulls back the line and sinks at
arrow straight into the motherfucker’s eye socket, then one in his chest.
“Jesus,” Jason laughs next to him. “I didn’t even know you could shoot one of
those.”
Tim rips off the bottom of his shirt, bandages up Roy’s arm. “There’s a lot of
things about me you don’t know.”
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