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Roy Harper lugs a crime lord–slash–known Gotham rogue into his apartment at three-thirty A.M.
He tosses him onto the couch, barely throwing a blanket over him before stumbling into the armchair to the left of it.
“God.” Roy groans, arm draped over his face as he sinks into the furniture. “Fuck my life.”
He gives Hood another once-over before dragging himself, feeling like dead weight, to his room, flopping down on his bed, sheets be damned.
Barely managing to kick off his shoes, Roy tucks himself in, a migraine already budding in the back of his skull.
It was going to be a hell of a hangover tomorrow morning, but that was Tomorrow, or more accurately Five-Hours-Later Roy’s problem.
Right now?
He was going to hit the hay.
–
Roy did not, in fact, manage to sleep that night.
Morning.
Whatever.
He tossed and turned, spinning around in his bed like a fucking merry-go-round, and somehow not managing to catch a wink.
The sun’s rays rose above the horizon, peeking through his blinds, and Roy took that as his sign to get the fuck up and make himself a goddamn cup of coffee.
He groans, rolling off the comforter, floorboards frigid under his feet.
“Fuck.” He wraps his arms around himself, being clad in only a threadbare t-shirt and raggedy shorts that had seen better days.
Roy pads into his kitchen, preparing to brew himself a cup of refreshing caffeine while strategically placing himself so he could simultaneously keep an eye on the person crashing on his couch.
Said person had surprisingly not woken up in the break of dawn, murdered Roy’s hungover ass, and ran for the hills.
A concussion probably does that to you, Roy thinks to himself, filling his favourite mug to the brim.
Then there’s movement, and Roy sluggishly glances towards his couch, where there’s a hand gripping the back.
A mumbling mop of head which was more akin to a bird’s nest peeks over, looking through half-lidded eyes at Roy’s equally disheveled state.
Recognition sparks, and Roy’s eyes narrow.
“Uh, hi.” The man waves awkwardly.
“Cut the crap, Red Hood.”
Hood stiffens, green eyes widening a fraction, already reaching for something on his torso.
“You better fucking not– fuck you!” Roy yelps, ducking under his kitchen counter. He feels that on a good day, he probably wouldn’t have dodged the throwing knife now embedding in his kitchen wall.
“Bastard!” Roy hisses, audible enough to reach Hood’s ears. “I saved your concussed ass who decided hanging around a fucking bar was a great–fucking–idea!”
“And I’m very grateful for that.”
Roy could hear the sarcasm bleeding into his voice, the cunt.
“But now that you’ve seen my face, you’ve got to go, Arsenal.”
God–fucking–damn it.
“You know my identity too!” Roy throws back, curving around the other end of the countertop, further away from the door.
“Great, then. I get rid of you, and there’s no identity to reveal.” Hood snarls back, and Roy sees the glint of another knife clutched in Hood’s hand in the reflection of his shiny ass floor tiles.
Roy’s practically army-crawling across the ground, then jolting up and pressing himself up against the wall. He hurriedly unlatches a cupboard, prying off a blade taped to its side.
He pauses for a moment.
Takes a breath to calm his pounding pulse.
He can hear Hood’s harsh breathing, and he thinks, fuck it, turning the corner, and tossing the knife.
It sails over him, but makes Hood duck for cover, providing Roy with a window to fucking jump over the back of his couch and land on Hood.
A bit of scuffling, misplaced elbows, and Roy ends up on top with a knee to Hood’s throat and another pinning his arm down.
He’ll admit, it wasn’t the best position (it was slightly compromising), with him having to clutch the backrest with one hand and another on Hood’s thigh, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Or vigilantes with their lives at risk.
He grins; victorious, slightly bloodied, and a bit cocky.
Hood’s chin’s jutted up, Adam’s apple bobbing, lips parted slightly, and Roy recalls the feeling of those goddamn lips on his at the most inconvenient time.
He swallows thickly.
“You’re still concussed.” Roy manages, feeling uncomfortably aware of the fact that one of Hood’s hands is free right now. “So, I give you an ultimatum.”
Roy can feel the sharp rise-fall of Hood’s chest under him.
The other man moves to push himself up, and hurriedly puts that free hand up before Roy goes to actually crush his windpipe.
“Just,” Hood croaks out. “Just adjusting.” He drags himself back, knees bending, raising his head onto the arm of the couch.
Roy takes a wave of Hood’s hand as his signal to continue. “You start a fight. Because I’m sure as hell not going to. We tussle. One, or both of us ends up heavily injured and-or dead.”
Hood’s fingers dig into the couch cushions, leg flexing under Roy’s palm.
“Or, I'll let you stay.” Hood’s stunned surprise is evident, mouth falling open. “For a day, maybe two, let you work that concussion off. In exchange, you don’t try any funny shit.”
A pause.
Roy swallows around his doubts, maybe Hood would accept?
Then Hood’s fist cracks over his jaw and he’s thrown across the couch with his hopes and dreams, toppling over the arm onto the ground, landing on his ass.
Fucking bastard.
“Bitch.” Roy mutters, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
Hood’s on top of him almost immediately, lethal even concussed. He punches Roy once, twice–
He doesn’t manage a third time before Roy thrashes, nailing him right in the nuts, making Hood double over in pain with a low grunt.
And that’s how Roy Harper ends up straddling a crime lord for the second time that morning.
Chests heaving, Hood’s wrists pinned above his head, Roy sitting on his thighs (he refuses to fucking acknowledge that), and he realizes that both of their noses are bleeding.
There’s a spot of red on his floorboards.
“Fuck. You.” Roy grits out, and he’d have probably socked Hood, breaking his damn nose this time, if he weren’t currently incapacitated. “For showing up to that damn bar, for having a concussion–”
“How is that my fault?”
“Shut up!” Roy leans in, scowling. “Tell my why the fuck I shouldn’t gut you right here, right now.”
“Because you aren’t risking me escaping while you grab a knife.” Hood retorts, looking to the side. “And capes don’t kill.” He’s adamant on that point.
“Are you doubting an archer’s arm strength? And fucking Batman doesn’t speak for all heroes.” Roy scowls.
Hood pauses, biting down whatever smartassed comment he had on the tip of his tongue. His eyes squeeze shut, before he rasps out, with extreme effort, “That offer still on the table?”
Roy raises an eyebrow. “The one where we beat the shit out of each other? Because newsflash; done that already.”
“No.” Hood huffs. “The other one.”
“Ohhh,” Roy says, rolling his neck. “Now you want it?” He leans down closer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Hood looks supremely uncomfortable, averting his gaze to Roy’s very interesting window.
Roy delights in it.
“Well, I am very generous.” Roy shoots Hood a sharp look when he scoffs, one that conveyed ‘count your blessings’. “I’ll let you.”
The tension in Hood’s shoulders is still there. As it should, Roy isn’t that fucking nice. “On one condition.” Roy grins when the man beneath him makes a face as if he bit into a lemon. “Say please.”
Silence.
“C’mon,” Roy croons, egging him on. “Don’t you want this favour?”
“I hate you.”
“Childish. And I have handcuffs somewhere around here to mail you to the GCPD, since you’re being an ass–”
“Please, Arsenal.” Hood chokes out, interrupting Roy. He immediately looks away after spitting it out, looking like he wanted to melt into the floor.
“Since you’ve been so nice,” Roy drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You can have the guest bedroom.” He lets go of Hood, and the man immediately pulls his hands back, rubbing at his wrists.
Hood props himself up on his elbows, before shifting his focus back to Roy. “Yeah, take your sweet time getting off me.” The tips of his ears are red, and Roy realizes exactly how close their faces are, barely inches apart.
Hood exhales, glancing down to where his breath ghosts Roy’s mouth and Roy scrambles back, breaking eye contact, and muttering something about breakfast.