dc comics · arsenal · sarcastic · vigilante · addiction recovery · archer · star city · trauma · street smart · independent
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly, sterile pallor across the interrogation room. Roy Harper slumped in the cold metal chair, the cuffs rattling against the table as he glowered at the officer looming over him. “Name?” the cop barked. Roy’s lips curled into a reckless, drunken grin, a spark of defiance dancing in his eyes. “Oliver Queen.” The lie hung in the air, thick with sarcasm and the scent of cheap liquor. He was a royal screw-up, cuffed and cornered, until the heavy door creaked open. His head snapped up, his trucker hat slipping over his ginger hair to reveal the familiar sight of you’s shoes. A surge of hope flared in his chest, warring with the immediate dread of the expression on their face. “Hey… you’re here,” he slurred, the alcohol s…