Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"That looks boring."

Bruce looked up from his paperwork, spotting Jason in the doorway. He shuffled a few of the bills, taking off his glasses; Three hours of this was more than enough to exhaust him. "Believe me, you have no idea."

"JL stuff, or just work?"

"Just work," Bruce concealed a smile, watching the teen shift awkwardly in the office doorway. "Can I help you with something?"

Bingo.

The question, when it came, was hesitant.

"Can Roy sleep over tonight?"

Bruce resisted rolling his eyes. "You know I'll never have a problem with that. You don't have to keep asking, Jay."

Jason's small smile was always a gift. He tilted his head, relaxing against the doorframe. "Thanks."

"Mhm," Bruce put his glasses back on with a sigh, squinting down at his desk. "Alfred almost ready with dinner yet?"

"Last time I was in the kitchen, he was swearing at his roux."

They shared a smile. "That definitely means it's going to be good."

"Seeya later."

"Uh huh." Bruce watched as the teen darted out of the office, frowning. Cataloguing Jason's strangeness for later, he turned back to WE bills with a sigh.

Roy showed up just before dinner, hood pulled up over his face. He looked paler than the last time Bruce had seen him. When had that been, exactly? The fight against the Klemariens? No, just before--the group training exercise.

He fit in well at Jason's side, joking with Dick as he wolfed down several helpings of pasta. In between mouthfuls, he berated Tim over some video game Bruce couldn't bother to keep track of.

Alfred seemed pleased with this development. Damian still refused to eat more than one plate at any time, despite growing more than an inch in the past year. Beyond that, getting Tim to eat anything other than coffee was a miracle.

Roy was skinny--almost too skinny, now that Bruce could see him in good lighting. Pale, a little underweight. No visible injuries. No known illnesses...

Queen had to be working him hard in training--mentally, and physically, if he was seeking refuge here yet again.

"How is school going?" Bruce asked after a lull in conversation. He smiled at Roy, knowing it was hard to stare down Batman at the dinner table. "Jason tells me you've been practicing for the basketball team back in Star City."

Roy perked up immediately. His lips twitched into a smile, almost begrudgingly. "I made varsity."

"Really? That's impressive. You must be really proud." Bruce watched as Jason's smile grew. "Jason, when are you going to try out for something?"

"You nag, old man." Jason waved a breadstick at him, getting a snort from Roy. "I'll try out for those preppy sports when I'm dead."

"Suit yourself," Dick grumbled from across the table. "I did gymnastics all four years of high school. It was great."

"An excellent way to build leadership skills," Bruce noted, sipping from his wineglass. He didn't miss Roy's snort, half-hidden under a cough. "I'm sure Oliver must be proud."

Silence fell. Roy looked away, down at his lap. Jason's lips pursed in a way that only spoke of trouble.

So his feint had landed, after all.

"He should be," Jason muttered after a pause, his eyes dark. "He should be damn proud."

"Language," Alfred chided gently, getting a nod from the teen. Dick carefully took over the conversation from that point, sending the billionaire a warning glance.

Oliver Queen, Bruce thought, setting his glass down, what did you do this time?

Roy fell asleep on the guestroom sofa, legs entwined with Jason's. The TV flickered on their sleeping faces, shuttering them in blue light.

Bruce turned everything off as Alfred watched from the doorway, careful not to make a noise. He tiptoed between the sleeping boys, avoiding the soda cans and chip bags strewn across the floor.

"Just throw a blanket over them," the butler said, hushed, "They won't move till morning, if we're lucky."

Bruce smirked, grabbing a wool throw from the bed. He tucked them in gently, pressing a hand to either forehead. He joined Alfred in the hallway a moment later. They walked together in silence.

"The boy looks sick."

Bruce turned on the lights in his study, gesturing towards one of the chairs. Alfred sat, a concerned look on his face.

"He ate like a starving man at supper, but afterwards, I saw him asking Master Jason for medicine."

"The boy ate too much," Bruce rebutted, walking over to the wet bar. "It happens."

"I suppose." Alfred didn't seem appeased by this, staring into the embers of his earlier fire. "Something doesn't seem right, is all."

"On that, we agree," Bruce handed his friend a snifter, clinking rims briefly. "I'll speak with Oliver tomorrow, inquire about his training program. Maybe he's working him too hard."

"Perhaps," the butler took a sip, relaxing into the chair. "With teenagers, you can never know. I speak from experience."

"Hey," Bruce said, joking. He took a seat next to Alfred. "I'll have you know, I turned out alright."

"Exactly my point."

As luck would have it, Batman's monitor duty overlapped with Green Arrow's the following Wednesday.

(Luck being a lengthy argument with Clark, in which he refused to divulge anything, only for his friend to reluctantly cave in, like he always did, at the two hour mark)

He caught Oliver in the hallway by the Womb, on his way back to Star City. The vigilante had his bow over one shoulder, his quiver full at his back.

"Arrow."

"Bruce," Queen didn't stop walking, raising an eyebrow. Under the green mask, it almost looked silly. "Can I help you with something?"

"Arsenal's training program." Bruce tilted his head, stepping in front of the other man. He didn't fall for the jab; Queen's laissez-faire attitude was hardly new. "To start."

Queen's eyes narrowed. He sidestepped Bruce, shoulders tensing. "That's none of your business."

Bruce grabbed him by the elbow, using the difference in weight between them to haul the archer back.

"You can't work him like one of us. You know that. He's still a child."

"Uh huh. Thanks for the concern, Big Brother." Oliver said, bitter. He yanked his elbow back, sending Bruce a glare. "If you'll excuse me, I have actual business to attend to. Some of us run our own companies."

The hallway went silent, broken only by Queen's footsteps. Bruce watched him go, filing away the man's reactions for later.

There was something going on here--and, cliché enough--he was going to find out exactly what it was. Quickly.

His investigation was pushed to the back burner after a week filled with intergalactic negotiations, kryptonite bullets, and Arkham breakouts. He worked days without sleep in the Cave, only to crash on the tiny cot there for a handful of hours' rest.

Friday night--finally, finally--everything seemed to be calming. Not calm yet--a band of thunderstorms was passing through, shaking the house to its foundations.

Even drunk on six days' exhaustion, Bruce still found himself awake at three in the morning. His eyes drifted over the screens, unseeing.

The house was quiet upstairs. Everyone was asleep, as far as he could tell, not bothered by the booming thunder. He thought briefly of Damian, who was still so young. Had thunderstorms ever scared him before? He made a note to ask Talia eventually.

A distant beeping tore him from his reverie. He blinked at his monitors and, seeing nothing, leaned his head back once more.

A more insistent beeping woke him again. This time, he reached for his abandoned reading glasses, squinting at the screen.

Perimeter alarm, northeastern quadrant.

In an instant, he was wide awake. He grabbed a pair of Dick's escrima sticks, spinning them in his palms as he darted up the stairs.

The first floor of Wayne Manor was pitch black, lit by the flashes of lightning through the windows. He crept through the parlor towards the front hall, scanning the perimeter.

A faint knocking on the front door drew him to a halt. Outside, the rain was practically blowing sideways, whipping in sheets along the house. Whatever poor soul was knocking on his door had a damn good reason, it seemed.

He pulled it open, hiding the sticks behind his back. Still thrumming with adrenaline, the sight of a soaking Roy Harper on his doorstep left him speechless.

"Ja...snnnn…" Roy stumbled forward, landing on his knees. Bruce caught his head before it hit concrete, cradling the boy in his arms. "Jay…"

"Jesus Christ."

He closed the front door, pulling Roy into his arms. With a grunt, he picked up the younger man, carrying him over to the parlor couch.

"Alfred!" he yelled up the stairs, "Downstairs!"

Roy was breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling erratically. Bruce flicked on a nearby light, his other hand on the boy's throat, taking his pulse.

Weak. Extreme pallor. Sensitivity to light.

"Roy," he said loudly, making out Alfred's footsteps on the front stairs. "Roy, can you hear me?"

The boy's eyes fluttered weakly in the light. Bruce turned to find Alfred at his side, a first aid kit in one hand. He took it with a nod, grabbing a flashlight from inside.

Roy's pupils were contracted, and remained so under direct light. Bruce felt his heart sink as he saw the beginning of a blue tinge at the boy's cheeks. Opioid overdose, or something like it.

"What the hell is going--Roy?" Jason's voice came from the stairs, alarmed. He rushed down to his friend, still dressed in pajamas. "Jesus Christ--"

Bruce turned to Alfred, ignoring him. "Do we still carry Naloxone downstairs?"

"In the main kit, yes."

"Jason, go," Bruce said, turning to his son. "Now."

The teen ran for the stairs, faster than ever. Alfred helped Bruce maneuver Roy to the recovery position, trying to keep his airway clear. His skin was clearly blue now--a sickening shade that Bruce's mind couldn't help but superimpose Jason's face over.

"Call 911," he told Alfred, keeping a hand on Roy's pulse. "Meet them outside. I'll carry him out."

"Of course."

Jason burst back into the room, out of breath. In his hand was the box of Naloxone. Bruce grabbed it from him, shredding the packaging. Jason handed him a syringe, already uncapped.

"Dad, I don't think he's--he's breathing."

Bruce looked up from the syringe. Roy's chest wasn't moving, his mouth open and slack.

"Rescue breaths. You remember how we practiced."

Jason nodded shakily. He braced his hands against Roy's chest, beginning compressions.

Bruce drew 1 cc into the syringe, flicking the needle once. He gestured Jason out of the way, jabbing it into Roy's thigh with little hesitation.

"Go outside," he told Jason, rolling Roy back onto his back. "Stay with Alfred until the ambulance is here."

He began CPR again, watching Roy's face carefully. Jason remained by his shoulder, a hand over his mouth.

"You don't need to see this," Bruce grunted, gratified to see the blue tinge in the boy's cheeks fading. "Jason--"

"He's my friend, alright?" the fear in Jason's voice was apparent, "I--I'm staying."

They continued in silence, broken only by Bruce's compressions, and the thunder outside. Just as he was considering a second dose, Roy began breathing again.

Bruce took his aching hands off of the boy's chest, stepping back. He nearly ran into Jason, who was stock-still.

"He's going to be okay," the billionaire put an arm around his son, drawing him close. In the distance, he could hear sirens. "He's going to be alright, Jason."

He could feel the boy trembling against him as the EMTs rushed in. They both watched as Roy was carried away, frozen in place.

"C'mon," Bruce shook Jason's shoulder, "We'll follow the ambulance to the hospital."

Roy Harper was admitted quietly to the emergency ward at 5:03 AM. Jason and Bruce arrived a few minutes afterwards, a baseball cap covering their faces. Through some black magic, Alfred had arranged for them to be brought directly upstairs.

Bruce left Jason with his friend, watching them carefully through the room's window. Roy was still deathly pale, but his breathing was normal again. He was starting to come out of whatever he'd been taking--Bruce could see his eyes fluttering, a hand shifting under the hospital blankets.

With a bit-off growl, he pulled out his cellphone. Oliver Queen's number was under an arrow emoji--Dick's work, most likely. He hit it, holding the phone up to his ear as it rang.

When Queen finally answered, he sounded hungover and irritated. "What."

"Roy's at Gotham General.'

"Gotham Gen--" Queen cut off with a curse, the sound of a bottle clinking echoing down the line. "How the hell did he get there?"

"That doesn't matter. He's in intensive care. Get down here."

"Is it the drugs again?"

Bruce paused, at a loss for words. Somewhere down the hall, a nurse's station began beeping.

"You knew he had a problem."

"'Problem'? Hell, I'd call it more than a little problem," Queen sneered, "When he's clean again, let me know. I'll send someone to pick him up."

"Queen--"

The dial tone buzzed in his ear. He shut off the phone, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. He took a deep breath, then another.

The next time he saw Oliver Queen, the man wouldn't get away so easily.

Chapter Text

Bruce kept guard outside of Roy's room, unwilling to interrupt Jason's time with his friend. He kept an eye on the hallway, watching for reporters, Oliver, or both.

Even incognito, it wouldn't be the first time a nurse or janitor had been tempted into handing out information.

Roy woke briefly a handful of times. Jason was at his side instantly, painfully attentive. Bruce could see the confusion on Roy's face from the hallway. He could pinpoint the stinging understanding in the boy's eyes as he realized that his friend now knew everything.

The hallway was quiet, almost infuriatingly so. He resisted the urge to dial Queen again. There was nothing to be gained there--not yet, at least.

He stepped into the room around seven, cutting off whatever Jason had been about to say. 

Roy watched him enter with wide eyes, impossibly pale. An awkward pause followed.

"Jason," Bruce said softly, "Could you give us a minute, please?"

His son edged closer to Roy, his knuckles white around the bed frame. His protectiveness would've be adorable, in any other context. "No."

"That wasn't really a question."

"Bruce--"

"Jason."

Roy's voice was scratchy with disuse. He looked down at his lap, avoiding eye contact.

"He's right. You don't wanna hear this."

"The hell I do--"

"You don't," Roy said, glancing at his friend. He scratched his wrist, ducking his head. "Would you just--I--" he seemed to choke on the sentence, throat bobbing. "Would you please just give us a minute, Jay?"

Bruce watched as Jason's mouth closed, the outrage fading from his eyes. He stood from his chair, slow and deliberate, and walked out the door.

"Whatever it is," Roy said after a minute, twisting his hands, "Just get out and fucking ask already."

Bruce let him stew for another minute, watching the boy intently. He had a cracked rib from the CPR, something that didn't seem to be paining him. A side effect of the drugs? Possibly.

The clarity in Roy's eyes was surprising. The teen seemed aware of the situation he was in--past aware, really, and well on his way to complete reticence. He was sitting defensively, one knee up to protect his chest, even though Bruce was nearly fifteen feet away.

The billionaire took a seat at the foot of the bed, telegraphing his movements carefully. Roy flinched as the chair squeaked against the linoleum, unsuccessful in masking his reaction.

Bruce mentally reviewed his notes on Oliver's tendencies towards violence, amending them with this new information. He clasped his hands together, momentarily at a loss for words.

"Roy, I…" he cleared his throat, glancing at the doorway. Jason was sitting a few rooms down, kicking his feet against the bottom of a nurse's station. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Roy asked in disbelief, eyebrows rising. He looked up at Bruce. "What the hell do you have to be sorry for?"

"I'm sorry that you're in this situation," Bruce murmured. He placed a hand on the Roy's ankle, gratified when the boy didn't so much as flinch. "Whatever Oliver said--"

"Oliver probably wishes I just did too much this time," Roy said bitterly, looking away. Bruce saw his jaw tighten, holding back tears, and gave him a moment to collect himself. "Just fucking….die, or something. Said so himself."

Oliver Queen, I'm going to rip your testicles out through your mouth.

"You are more than this," Bruce leaned forward, gripping Roy's ankle tightly, drawing his attention. "You are not worthless. Don't let anyone ever tell you that."

They stayed like that for a moment. Bruce could feel the boy shaking under his hand, holding back tears yet again.

He could sense these were words that were needed to be said--and heard. Words Roy hadn't heard in a long time, if ever.

"Heroin," Roy said after another pause, wiping at his eyes. There was a tremor in his voice. "It's h-heroin."

"Okay."

"I think I--I'm addicted."

"Alright."

Roy's eyes flashed. He slammed a hand on the bedside table, the impact echoing through the room.

"No it isn't, for christ's sake! It's not okay! How the hell are you so easy-going about this?"

"Because there's nothing that's truly unforgivable. And this doesn't come close." Bruce said, "Forgiveness is...not always easy to come by. But you'll get it in a heartbeat, if you ask."

Roy glanced out into the hallway, cheeks flushed. His eyes welled with tears again.

Jason was playing with his phone now, frowning at the screen. He mumbled something neither of them could hear, irritated.

"I don't want him to know."

Well, that cat's already out of the bag.

Bruce patted his leg.

"He doesn't need to know the details. We'll get you help, Roy. He just wants to be your friend."

"You don't understand," Roy looked away, jaw clenching. "Oliver. He kicked me out. He caught me again and he freaked and I--"

Roy continued in the background, his voice growing more desperate. That son of a bitch, Bruce thought to himself, willing his face to remain blank. Who the hell does he think he is?

"--and then he hit me, told me to get out, and that he never wanted to see me again," Roy said, his chest heaving. Bruce flicked a glance at his fractured rib, concerned. "He….I…"

Decision made, Bruce stood, pushing aside his chair. Roy didn't have time to push away as he drew him into a crushing hug. The teen let out a gasp into Bruce's shoulder.

They stayed that way for a while, until Roy's tears stopped soaking his shirt, his sobs quieting. Outside, Jason was pacing.

"Stay with us," Bruce said quietly, disengaging slowly. He returned to his chair. Roy looked away, ashamed. "Jason would murder me if we let you go anywhere without him."

"You're not….you're not mad."

It was more a statement than a question. Roy's eyes were wide--hopeful, even, or something close to it. He followed Bruce's gaze into the hallway, where Jason was edging closer to the room.

"Mad?" Bruce asked, smiling. "Not at all."

Bruce was beyond mad. Seething, and barely capable of keeping it under wraps. Furious was a good word for it. Righteously, indignantly furious.

Roy was discharged under Alfred's careful eye, transported to Wayne Manor in an unmarked vehicle. Rehab professionals had already been called to the residence, per only the highest recommendations.

(Bruce knew a lot of people with good recommendations, it turned out)

Jason was with his friend every step of the way. Every moment Roy's face tightened, seconds away from losing it again, the teen would sweep in. A joke, a deflected topic, and they were back to messing around--two teenage boys in their element.

Bruce watched as they settled in, hidden in the shadows. He picked up his phone, heart aching.

Jason threw a pretzel at Roy's head on the couch. Roy pretended to be angry, swiping at Jason's head. 

"I need an emergency meeting called," he said into the receiver, "ASAP. Let me know when it's scheduled."

Queen Consolidated had several satellite offices. Gotham's was a gaudy, reflective skyscraper nestled in the lower east side. It seemed to defy the darker architecture surrounding it, piercing the sky like a golden, obnoxious spear.

Oliver Queen's private offices were no exception to this color scheme. Bruce stepped out of the elevators and past the receptionist, ignoring her as he pulled open the engraved glass doors.

How ironic to find Oliver Queen in Gotham on the morning of his ward's overdose. He'd nearly forgotten the merger with Diacom, in the wake of the past week. Business as usual, it seemed. The idea infuriated him.

True to form, Queen was at the head of the polished conference table, surrounded on either side by businessmen. At Bruce's entrance, he froze, mid-sentence.

"Ollie," he said in his best Brucie voice. "You didn't mention you had other plans."

"Bruce," Queen said, stunned. His pen slipped from his fingers--inches away from signing, Bruce noted with distinct satisfaction. "You're...early."

"You said eleven for brunch, it's almost twelve," Bruce smiled, sidestepping Queen's receptionist yet again. "Don't tell me you've got something better to do?"

"Of...course not. Excuse me," Queen told the group, standing quickly. He stalked over to Bruce, who was getting a fair share of curious looks. "One moment."

Queen dragged him out of the conference room in an iron grip. Bruce was more than happy to allow the charade continue all the way to his private office, smiling dumbly at passerby in the hallway.

Once inside, the door firmly shut, he kicked at Oliver's instep. With a rabbit punch to the ribs, he had the man over his shoulder, slamming him into the ground before he could take a breath.

Bruce stepped towards the desk as Queen choked on the floor, hands scrabbling at his neck. He loosened his cuffs, rolling them up.

"Sonuva--" Oliver finally sat up, face flushed. "What the hell, Bruce? Are you fucking nuts?"

"Someone here is," Bruce muttered, walking over to the billionaire. "Get up."

Queen scrambled for his desk, where Bruce knew he kept a reserve bow. He stood still, allowing the archer to nock an arrow.

When the point drew near his face, he lashed out, knocking the bow from the man's hands.

A savage right hook had Queen stumbling backwards, a hand to his face. Bruce parried a clumsy blow, then hit the billionaire in the solar plexus with a folded hand.

This time, Oliver drew back, wary. He sent Bruce an outraged look.

"What the hell was that for?"

"I don't know," Bruce said between gritted teeth, "How many times did you hit Roy, total? I might have to hit you again."

"This bullshit again--"

Bruce dodged a sloppy punch, ducking to the side. Oliver launched into a fancy flip, only to be caught across the midsection by Bruce's elbow. He hit the office floor with an audible thump.

"Stay down," Bruce told him, walking over. "And listen to what I have to say, because I'm only going to say it once."

Oliver glared at him. There was blood dripping from his temple. Bruce couldn't find it in himself to care.

"Roy told me what you said," he said, flexing his hand at his side, "What you did to him--"

"Bruce, are you kidding me?" Oliver rolled onto his knees, face twisting. "That little shit lied--"

The hit, when it came, surprised both of them. Oliver's head snapped backwards, his nose spurting blood.

Bruce was seething, his chest heaving. He took a step back, willing away the anger.

"You lost all credibility when you laid hands on a teenager--not just any teenager, but your own ward," Bruce growled, "You threw him out when he needed you most. Unacceptable. Do you hear me? That is unforgivable."

Oliver pressed a hand to his gushing nose, blood running down his expensive suit sleeve. He stared at Bruce in shock, his eyes glazing over.

"Roy will stay with us until this matter is decided," Bruce stepped over to the door, straightening his cuffs. "Be advised that I called a Founders' meeting. Have fun explaining this to Diana and Clark."

The muffled snort behind him drew him short. He paused at the doorway, the anger from earlier rising up, like it'd never been gone.

"If I ever," he said, voice dropping an octave. "ever, see you near Roy again, I'll break every bone in your hands." He tilted his head, a dark smirk twisting his lips. "We'll see how well you shoot after that."

He left Queen in stunned silence, still kneeling on his office floor.

Chapter Text

He left Queen Consolidated with Oliver's blood hidden under his cuffs. Brucie smiled at Queen's receptionist, winking half-heartedly. Dodging curious board members, he ducked into the elevator, hands trembling.

By floor 70, he was calm again. The rage had settled, curling in his gut like a sleeping snake. He straightened his expression, unclenching his fingers. The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding, revealing Queen's gaudy lobby.

I'm not done with you yet, Queen, he thought, stalking out of the elevator, not even close.

He found Jason and Roy at home, perched in front of one of the televisions. They each had a controller, eyes glued to the screen. Two figures battled in front of them, one with a sword, the other with a cannon.

Roy was cross-legged on the couch, dressed casually in a t-shirt and pajama pants. Bruce swore under his breath as he saw the faded track marks on the teen's arms. A handful were still fresh, peppered along the more-visible veins.

He leaned against the doorway, grateful the boys were too engrossed to notice him. It took another ten seconds of careful counting to calm down again. He opened his eyes to find Alfred at his side, a platter of sandwiches in one hand.

"Master Jason has been entertaining his friend all morning," the butler said fondly, nodding at the pair, "I figured you wouldn't mind that he missed tutoring today."

The house was noticeably silent, otherwise. Bruce squinted, recalling the date. "It's Saturday."

"Yes," Alfred said, "How observant of you."

"I haven't slept in a week."

The butler raised an eyebrow in mock-horror. "Well, don't start now!"

"Funny."

Bruce remained at the door as Alfred distributed sandwiches and chips. For a moment, the urge to join his son on the couch, and just be still, overwhelmed him.

"You let me win that one," Roy accused across the room, elbowing Jason. "I saw you stop hitting buttons. Nice try."

"I would never do something as stupid and magnanimous as throw a match," Jason said, offended, "For your information."

"Riiiiiiiight."

Bruce cracked a smile as the two launched into a second round, trading insults. He opened his mouth, only to be cut short by his text tone. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone.

Meeting's scheduled. 5 pm EST, Clark's message read, Are you going to tell me what this is about?

No.

Bruce slid the phone back into his pocket. He glanced at the clock, suddenly exhausted. The past few hours weighed on him, juxtaposed by the simple happiness enveloping the room.

Not now, he thought, walking towards the Cave's stairs. Not until this is done.

He woke to hesitant footsteps at his back. In an instant, he was awake, spinning the chair around. The Cave was silent, his computer terminal buzzing quietly at his feet.

Jason froze in place at the base of the stairs, a guilty expression on his face. He glanced furtively at the computer screen, ducking his head.

"Alfred's got, uh, dinner," the teen offered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it's early, but he said you had some sort of-uh, meeting."

Bruce blinked slowly, processing this. He didn't miss Jason's eyes flicking back to the screen. You're not that hard to read, son. Sorry.

"I need to leave soon. He can throw it in the fridge," the billionaire stood, stretching. "You and Roy should eat. It's been a long day."

"Right," Jason said awkwardly, kicking at the bottom stair. He was lingering, and painstakingly attempting to hide it. "About...Roy."

"Yes?"

"I…" Jason trailed off, eyes flashing. "I don't kn-nevermind." He turned to leave.

"Hey," Bruce said softly, stepping towards the teen. He put his arms out, relieved when Jason practically launched into the hug. "Hey. It's okay."

"I'm totally aware of that," Jason said, muffled against his chest. "I'm not freaking out, or anything."

"Oh, of course not," Bruce said, nodding. He tightened his arms around his son. "But if you were...I would tell you to keep doing exactly what you're doing. The only thing Roy needs right now is a friend."

There was a pause, then, softly: "Yeah?"

"Hypothetically, of course," Bruce patted Jason's hair, releasing him. He glanced at the clock. "I'm going to be late."

"Is this your fist's appointment with Oliver's face?" Jason inquired, "Because, if so, it really needs to make its appointment. Multiple times."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, unable to disagree.

"I'd lecture you about using violence to solve your problems, but I realize the irony in that."

"You have no idea."

"Go eat dinner," Bruce turned towards the Batsuit, putting his hands on his hips. "I'll see you later."

Jason's soft chuckle was a gift. The billionaire smiled as the teen climbed the stairs back up to the Manor, teetering on the edge of renewed anger.

The cowl stared down at him, his reflection superimposed over it. He stood there for a long moment, examining the blank lenses.

No, he thought, not this time.

The Founders' Hall was full, buzzing with conversation that was audible down the hallway when he transported up.

He'd left them waiting for too long-or maybe just the right amount. Queen knew what was coming; would he try to refute his claims? Argue? Or would he simply not show? Doubtful.

Bruce took his time walking down the hallway, measuring each step. Ahead, the glass doors revealed a full table. An emergency meeting was no trivial thing-only two had been called in the history of the League, and both for the outbreak of war.

Bet Clark never saw this one coming, Bruce thought to himself, pushing open the doors.

The room fell silent as he walked in. All eyes immediately went to his missing suit, then to his bare face.

He ignored Hal Jordan's muttered curse, walking towards his seat.

Queen's nose had been set, swollen, the bridge a dark purple. His eyes were bruised and bloodshot. He hadn't bothered with the mask or the hood.

"Thank you all for coming," Clark opened at the head of the table. He looked at Bruce, a question in his eyes. "With all other business momentarily suspended by emergency protocol, I concede the floor."

Bruce nodded, getting a quizzical look from his friend. He stood, examining the room one last time.

Breathe in…then out. In...out.

"B?"

"Right," the billionaire said, "I move to permanently suspend Oliver Queen's membership from the Justice League, and all affiliated organizations."

There was a moment of shocked silence. The room seemed to freeze in place, processing this. Then it erupted.

"Are you serious-"

"Suspension?" Hal Jordan cried.

"Bruce-"

Arthur glared at the archer. "Queen, what the hell did you do?"

"Bruce, let's be reasonable-"

"What the fuck."

Bruce remained standing, watching as their confusion turned to disdain, then anger. Clark hit the table once, sending a thunderclap through the room.

"Speakers receive five minutes of uninterrupted speaking time," the reporter said, between clenched teeth. "Bruce, continue."

Queen was staring at his hands, cut off from the fury above him. He knew he was guilty.

He knows he's been caught.

"What the hell did Ollie do, anyway?" Hal called out, ignoring Clark's glare. "Huh? Piss you off a little more than usual? You don't get to just barge in here and demand that people get kicked off!"

Bruce raised an eyebrow, turning to Queen.

"Would you like to tell them, or should I?"

The look he got in return could've melted steel. Bruce smiled, little mirth in the expression. A quick tap on his phone pulled down the video screen. He stepped back, dimming the lights.

A series of photos slid across the panel; Oliver with Roy, at a charity event. Green Arrow with Arsenal, training in one of the Watchtower gyms.

"The League's position on criminal activity has always been open to interpretation," Bruce said, nodding at the display, "We operate outside of the law, taking measures into our own hands. This isn't incompatible with our mission goal. That being said..."

He trailed off, considering his words.

"Our position on child abuse, however, has never been open to interpretation."

Photos of Roy's face and chest cycled onto the screen, silencing the room. Photos of his track marks. Photos of his face, bruised beyond what could be chalked up to sparring. Photos Bruce had spent all afternoon digging up, documenting, and cataloguing.

Photos of Roy at Gotham General, hooked up to sixteen different IVs and monitors, his lips still blue-tinged. Photos of his weight loss, his track marks.

Queen had gone deathly pale. He ducked his head, avoiding the disbelieving glances of his fellow League members.

"Roy Harper went undercover in Star seven months ago," Bruce said, gesturing at the screen. A photo of Roy and Jason slid onto the display. "He took heroin. He became addicted."

Hal's face was frozen in an expression of disbelief. Diana had a hand over her mouth. At the head of the table, Clark looked murderous.

"When he returned home to Oliver Queen, he received no help," Bruce crossed his arms, willing his voice to remain steady. "He was condemned for his addiction, and kicked out."

Shayera swore under her breath, shifting away from Queen.

"He was beaten repeatedly over the next few months. He was not offered assistance. He was never admitted to rehab." Bruce took a deep breath, steadying himself, "...Last night, he overdosed on my doorstep. He nearly died."

This time, he heard Clark swear, the gavel creaking in his hands. Arthur's cheeks were flushed, his knuckles white around his trident.

"Child abuse, child neglect, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor are all illegal in criminal law, and League code," Bruce said in the stunned silence, "There are other, lesser charges. I will be bringing charges against his personal estate at a later date."

Barry swore loudly, staring up at the screen. Next to him, Hal was frozen.

"I recommend immediate revocation of Oliver Queen's membership," Bruce continued, dismissing the screen with a tap. "I move to call a vote, and for his immediate dismissal from all vigilante activities in perpetuity."

He inclined his head, yielding the floor. Clark accepted this with a delayed nod, staring across the table at Queen.

The silence didn't last long.

"You hurt a child?" Diana burst out of her chair, slamming her hands on the table. "Your own child?"

Oliver flinched backwards.

"Diana-"

"How could you explain this?" she cried, gesturing at Bruce. "What motivation would he have to lie?"

"He's twisting the truth," the billionaire muttered, "Diana, please."

The Amazonian held up her lasso, lips pursed. "Then you'll have no problem telling it."

Queen looked away. Diana made a disgusted noise.

"Βλάκας."

"You-You son of a bitch," Hal said, standing. His hands were shaking at his sides. His ring glowed dully. "You-you-you fucking-"

He threw himself at the archer, his ring exploding in light. Shayera caught him around the chest, inches from Queen's face. Barry helped wrestle him back, eyes wide.

"Order," Clark said, but it only sounded half-convinced. He was staring at Queen, as if in a daze. "Hal, sit down."

The lantern shoved off Barry and Shayera. He threw himself into the chair, sending Oliver a murderous glare. Bruce narrowed his eyes, considering this.

"I second the previous motion," Arthur said, deceptively calm. Bruce could see the tension in the Atlantean's shoulders. He was far from unbothered.

"We move to a vote," Clark said, looking at the table. "All in favor of termination, say 'aye.'"

A chorus of aye's filled the room. Oliver remained silent, looking down at his lap.

"And those opposed, the same sign."

The room went silent.

"The motion passes," Clark said after a pause. He glanced at Bruce, then at Queen.

"Arrow…"

Queen stood, shoving his chair back. His lips were pressed together. He walked towards the door, silent.

"I'm not finished," Clark snapped, "Come back here."

Queen turned around slowly. His hands were trembling at his sides.

Clark pushed away from the table, a flash of red in his pupils. Queen took an involuntary step backwards. The reporter crowded him against the wall, using his height to good effect.

"The next time," Clark said, voice low, "There won't be a vote. Do you understand me?"

The Kryptonian's eyes were completely red now, hot enough that Bruce could feel their heat, a dozen feet away.

Queen nodded quickly.

"Good. You're dismissed."

The remaining members watched him leave, silent. Barry was whispering to Hal, rubbing a hand across his back. The lantern looked shell-shocked, staring dumbly at the conference table. His earlier anger seemed to have disappeared.

Clark blinked, dampening his eyes.

"If there's no other business?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Then I move to adjourn the meeting," the reporter said, voice growing softer. "Do I have a second?"

"Aye," Bruce said.

Arthur stood. "Aye."

"Motion passes," Clark exhaled, putting a hand to his forehead. "Meeting adjourned."

Diana left immediately, presumably to work off some of the excess anger. Arthur sent him one last glance, something unspoken between them. He followed Diana out the door, trident in hand.

Barry had Hal by the shoulder when he looked back, gesturing to the door. The lantern stood, shrugging off his friend's hand. He made a beeline for Bruce, Barry straggling behind him.

"Spooky."

"...Jordan."

"What the hell are you doing with the kid?" Hal stuck a finger in his face, not giving him time to reply, "I swear to God, if you threw him in some dumpster fire rehab facility and wiped your hands clean, I'll fight you right here and now. He needs support, asshole, not some creepy training in your batshit basement."

Bruce blinked, surprised. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Just so you know," Jordan said, continuing. "I will fight you. Even if I know I'm going to lose. I don't break my promises."

Bruce continued to stare at the lantern, an idea forming. Behind him, Clark let out a chuckle, as if he could tell where this was going.

"Actually, Hal…"

"How's it going?"

Bruce blinked awake. He was leaning against...a microwave? Yep, that's definitely a microwave.

"Never go more than a week without sleeping," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Promise me."

"Alright," Jason said good-naturedly, because he'd probably slept well in the past 72 hours. "Will do."

Bruce leaned past the microwave, peering out of the kitchen window. In the distance, he could see Hal and Roy, seated and talking by one of the ponds.

"How are they doing?"

He shrugged. "Not my business."

"Says the guy spying on them through the window."

Bruce turned to glare at his son, only to find him missing. He blinked again, confused. Jason appeared at his elbow, grabbing his shoulder.

"Come on, old man. You're going to bed."

"Can't," he yawned, jaw popping. "Gotta fill out paperwork. Temporary custody."

Jason tugged on his hand, and he was exhausted enough to follow. Somehow, they were on the stairs, halfway to his bedroom.

"Paperwork can wait eight hours," Jason said, pushing him up the last flight. "But. On a completely unrelated note; does this mean Roy is staying with us?"

Bruce collapsed face-first on his bed, arms spread wide. He sighed.

"Mhh hmm."

"Forever?"

"Mhh hmm."

"I can't tell if that was a yes or a no."

Bruce grunted.

"Alright, I'll ask you when you're conscious," a blanket was tugged over him, the corners tucked in judiciously. "Night, old man."

"Nnngg."

"And, since I'm probably not going to say this later," he heard Jason pause at the doorway, ten seconds away from unconsciousness, "Thank you. For what you did for Roy. I….I just want you to know that you did something really good, Dad. You have no idea."

He heard the door close, followed by soft footsteps down the hall.

Bruce smiled against the pillow, then let sleep take him.

THE END