𝐂𝐈𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ━ peter parker

vii."PhD in annoying"

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ㅤㅤㅤNOW, DICK WASN'T a telepath by any means. But if there was one thing he could do, it was read Bruce Wayne like an open book. In fact, to the boy, staring at his mentor's face was like stepping into a library: all the information was there, presented in front of you. You just had to know where to find it. And luckily for Dick, he'd been privy to the stares and glares, to all the fine lines of Bruce's face for years. It wasn't difficult to know what the man was thinking.

What was difficult was accepting why.

Dick couldn't understand Bruce's silent treatment - sure, the guy had all the reasons in the world to be upset at him for running off with Wally West without telling him, but if the man hadn't calculated that to be a major possibility (leaving two teenagers unsupervised in a big city? Come on, Bruce) then Dick was going to start to worry that all the Fear Toxin he'd ingested was finally starting to rot his brain.

But the way the billionaire was watching his every move with violent precision didn't fill Dick with any comfort, nor did it enlighten him further as to what was going on Bruce's mind. What else was there to glean from the man? His poorly-concealed frustration was as evident on his face as it was in the stiff set of his shoulders, the poise of his fists beside his hips - Bruce was ready for a fight, and (assuming he wouldn't be the one to engage first) Dick didn't want to give him one.

The blue-eyed teen threw another pair of jeans into the suitcase that lay open on the king-size that separated him from the man on the other side of the room. He didn't miss the slight downturn of Bruce's lips as the man reached forward to fold the denim properly.

"One would think you were raised in a barn," Bruce muttered, voice gravelly with purpose. Ghostly irises peered up through dark eyebrows, pinning Dick to the spot. "A circus, even."

"He speaks," Dick announced. He peered at his watch: "And it only took thirty-minutes!"

Bruce sighed. "Dick -"

Before he could even begin the boy made his disinterest clear, still not weaned from his childish stubbornness. Bruce dragged a hand across the stubble growing on the side of his jaw, taking in the picture his ward was painting. Dick rolled his eyes at the man's intrepid sigh, placing a balled-up shirt forcefully into the case. It wasn't going to work this time, the teen thought resolutely. It was his turn to be mad.

Bruce again peeled the clothing away, smoothing out the creases in the fabric. A hand ran over the logo stamped onto the crisp, white t-shirt: The Avengers symbol, plastered over top with some grunge overlay. The man smiled grimly down at it.

"This isn't official merchandise," he supplied helpfully, and Dick raised an eyebrow towards him, thrown off course by the statement.

"What?"

"Plagiarism," Bruce repeated shallowly, holding the folded shirt out towards the boy. "Stealing. At the very least, it's illegal."

Dick took it from him gingerly, staring at the blocky font: "Okay?"

"We can get you the real thing. Have it delivered for when we arrive back in Gotham."

"Bruce... You hate the Avengers, remember?" Dick threw the shirt into the case once again, ruining Bruce's efforts. The man stared after it, brow creased. "They're a liability."

"I don't respect the way they go about their... duties. That's not hate, Dick, that's common sense."

The man was bristling, and just like that Dick knew he'd unplugged the dam. He could feel - hell, could see the tension leaking from Bruce in waves of pent-up frustration. It was a good thing, as far as Dick was concerned - sharing emotions was healthier than keeping them concealed - but how it would affect the man's mood was something else he'd have to come to terms with quickly. Spot the signs as you go and know when to stop pressing for more; torture 101. Not that Dick wanted to torture Bruce, but sometimes it felt like that's what it might take to get the man to speak freely.