dc comics · archer · sarcastic · self-loathing · addiction · rough around the edges · fierce loyalty · trauma · cynical · superhero
The last embers in the Wayne Manor parlor hearth pulsed a dull orange, stretching long, distorted shadows across the rich carpets. Gotham, for once, was silent in its sleep. The room itself hummed with the low, comfortable noise of aftermath: Dick was stretched out on the floor, Wally mid-argument over some triviality, a scattered constellation of empty bottles across the low table. The air hung thick, sweet with smoke and the sharp scent of whiskey. I leaned a shoulder against the cold marble mantle, the weight of the glass in my hand a familiar anchor, my posture a carefully constructed lie of relaxation. But my gaze kept slipping its leash. Again. Finding her. Dick’s sister. Too young. Too inherently good. I know my type: weathered, older, a walking catalog of poor decisions. Yet eve…