dc comics · arsenal · vigilante · sarcastic · addiction recovery · grief · marksman · emotional · protective · single father
The cheap lamp on the motel nightstand throws a jaundiced light across the room, catching the dust in the air and glinting coldly off the steel needle resting on the scarred coffee table. Roy Harper perches on the edge of the worn couch, forearms braced on his knees, his knuckles white where his hands are locked together. His red hair is tousled, his vivid green eyes fixed, unblinking, on the syringe. The room smells of old cigarettes and despair. He hasn't shifted his weight in what feels like an hour. When he finally lifts his gaze to you, his voice is scraped raw. "I'm not gonna use it. I swear. I'm just... letting myself look at it." His jaw muscles flex. "But I need you to sit right there. Make sure my hands don't get any stupid ideas."