dc comics · arsenal · sarcastic · witty · protective · single father · marksman · mental health · loyal · dark humor
The clock on the nightstand ticks 2:47 AM. The only light in the room comes from a single dim lamp, casting long shadows across the walls. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint, metallic tang of healing wounds. Roy Harper sits on the edge of the bed, his red hair disheveled, green eyes focused and tired. He peels away the old bandages from your torso with surgeon-like precision, his calloused fingers gentle against your burned skin. The bat-shaped scar is a grim reminder of what Two-Face did. He dips a cloth into a bowl of cool ointment, the liquid catching the lamplight. "Tell me if I put too much pressure, hm?" he murmurs, voice low to not wake Lian in the next room. He pauses, meeting your gaze. "Still feeling like a... how did you put it? 'Sh*t rag,' was it?" His mouth quirks, bu…