Home Of Arrowfam Week

The voice slots into place and the fight rushes out of Lian all at once. She stills, blinking up at the dark shadow leaning over her.

“Uncle Ollie?” she asks, voice small.

He nods. “It’s just me. Promise.”

It comes back to her like smoke from a candle, wispy and uncertain. They’d been in the treehouse. There had been vegetarian chili, and they’d fought a woman who looked like a cat. She isn’t home, but she isn’t in danger, either. Probably.

She swallows past the terror gripping her throat. “What happened? Why’s it so dark?”

“I put out the campfire a little bit ago. Didn’t want anyone seeing us,” Oliver mutters. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were afraid of the dark. Figured Gotham would have driven that out of you.”

Despite herself, Lian’s face burns hot with shame. “I’m not scared. I just… was surprised. That’s all.”

Slowly, Ollie releases her shoulders. He sits back with both his hands held up, an open and honest gesture. When she sits up and shakes the last of the sleep from her eyes, he sits a little more comfortably. Relaxed, somehow.

“I’d bet the nightmares didn’t help,” he offers. “They can be real disorienting.”

“I…” I wasn’t having a nightmare, is what she means to say. Instead, she finds her tongue betraying her: “I dreamt about dying, I think.”

Ollie nods. Wordlessly, he picks up a canteen and offers it to her. The water is warm and stale; she drinks until her stomach hurts.

“I hate those, myself. You’d think your mind would have had enough, after the real thing, but no,” he sighs. “You gotta keep watching the damn highlight reel.”

Lian plays with the cap of the canteen, avoiding Oliver’s eyes. Even if she can’t see them properly, she can feel them; they’re picking her apart, right down to the bone. She’s never known anyone with eyes like Ollie, not even Uncle Connor. He looks at her like he understands her, despite all the time apart.

“Did it… hurt.”

Ollie starts. His face is clearer now that her eyes have adjusted, but the features are still mostly shadow. She can’t tell if he’s surprised or hurt or horrified, or whatever else he might be.

“In the nightmares, I feel like it did,” he responds, slow and somewhat contemplative. “At the time… Well, I hate to say it, but I don’t really know. Sorry, sport.”

Lian nods. Swallows. “I think that’s how it is for me, too. I just… I don’t know what it was like. And I think part of me wishes it did. So… I dream about it. A lot.”

“You sure you’re Roy’s kid?”

The question startles a laugh out of her. “What?”

“Well, it just seems to me you spend a lot more time pondering and considering than he ever has,” Ollie says. “Not to say he isn’t smart. Of course he is. Just in a different way, I think.”

Lian rolls her eyes. “He hasn’t seen me since I was a toddler. I figured out a lot on my own.”

“That you did,” Ollie concedes. “That… you did.”

Again, he’s watching her. She can just barely see the stars reflected in the void of his pupils, and it makes him look almost spooky. Or maybe just powerful, like all the other superheroes his age. They have a knack for that kind of thing.

“What?” Lian demands.

Ollie shrugs and leans back against the tree he’s set up in front of. When Lian doesn’t budge, when she keeps staring, he caves.

“It’s just that it’s late,” Ollie explains. “And it’s pretty chilly up here. And I know you’re all grown up, and all, but I could use a hug and some company from a brave grown-up like yourself if I’m going to get comfortable.”

“…You aren’t a very good liar, Uncle Ollie.”

“So they tell me.”

But it is kind of cold in their treehouse hideout, and Lian’s hands are still shaking slightly where they hold the canteen. She rolls her eyes and shifts over, moving to curl into Ollie’s side.

There’s got to be a first aid kit around here somewhere. She knows the residents of this house; not a day goes by that someone doesn’t come stumbling in with a stab wound or a broken bone. The sink is a good bet, actually, and she can check underneath it in just a second. First…

Her toes tap-tap-tap gently as she dances over to the fridge. The light is very nearly blinding as she pulls the door open, even through her domino mask, and she finds herself squinting as she surveys the contents.

Loose vegetables from the local market. Chinese takeout from the restaurant in town. Beer, which means either Dinah or Hal is in town. Three open containers of jelly — strawberry for Lian, grape for Roy, and another strawberry from when Oliver probably forgot there was already one open and ready. Congealed macaroni and cheese.

Emiko wrinkles her nose. She grabs an egg roll and a container of what must be lo mein, grabbing chopsticks from on top of the fridge.

After she’s wolfed down the egg roll, she feels a little steadier on her feet. She turns back to the sink and crouches down, pulling open the doors.

Cleaning supplies. A quiver and a compact bow. Brass knuckles, for some reason. And there — tucked in the back corner, the telltale white cross of a first aid kit. Emiko sighs in relief as she pulls it out from its hiding place.

It’s simple enough, really. She tosses back a few painkillers and rinses her hands in the sink before pulling out the sterilized needle and antiseptic. She’s up on the counter with her shirt pulled up before long, angling herself to see the wound on her ribcage in the pale moon light.

It takes a lot of effort to keep quiet as she works. She thinks she’s done a pretty freaking good job with it, too, until the light flickers on overhead.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Ollie intones, rubbing at sleep-rimmed eyes with a heavy fist, “is that blood on my counter?”

Emiko grimaces. It’s only a little bit from the light overhead. “It’s fine. I’ll clean up in a minute.”

“Not the part I’m worried about, if you can believe that.”

“Sure.”

Oliver walks into the (way too small) kitchen. His sweatpants sit crooked on his hips and his hair is in disarray; he’s clearly sleeping off a rough night of his own, based on the bruise covering his cheekbone.

“Here,” he groans, reaching out, “would you just— just let me do it, kid, you’re gonna—”

Emiko flinches away as he reaches for the needle, but it’s not really worth fighting over. He’s got steadier hands than her at the moment. She’s blaming it on the exhaustion, the loss of the adrenaline that’s been driving her since she found herself in the middle of an impromptu robbery downtown, but it might be the blood. She could be convinced. Maybe.

Oliver hums his disapproval. “This’ll sting, Emi, get ready.” And, as much a distraction as an honest inquiry: “Who did you piss off?”

“Some goon,” she mutters. “I just wanted to get a snack. Court and I were sparring and got hungry. The gas station was pretty busy, that’s all.”

The long gash running perpendicular to her ribs hadn’t hurt that much at the time. She blames the winter chill, or maybe just the fact that Court had been with her. It’s harder to notice her own injuries when she’s busy keeping an eye on someone else.

“Court still around?”

“No, she left already.” Emiko shrugs, then hisses. “Ow.”

“Yeah, well, avoid the knife next time and we won’t have to do that.”

“It wasn’t a knife. I can dodge those,” Emiko snaps.

Ollie raises an eye at her, looking up just slightly from his work. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really have to.

Emiko sighs. “It was claws. On a glove, I think. They honestly looked pretty badass.”

If Oliver is judging her for language, he keeps it to himself. That’s for the best, probably; Emiko doesn’t want to get into the whole ‘you’re not my dad so stop trying to act like one’ spiel today.

“You oughtta call for backup next time,” Ollie says instead. “We have a whole host of people in this city now. Damn near full to bursting. No point putting yourself at risk when you can avoid it.”

“I’m fine,” Emiko repeats.

Ollie snips the thread he’s been using to stitch her up, then pats her on the leg. “Sure, you are. The bedroom’s available, by the way.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah. We got a weighted blanket for it and everything.”

“Ooh, moving up in the world.”

“Old dogs can learn new tricks, after all.”

Emiko rolls her shirt back down and hops off the counter. Somewhat impulsively, she leans forward to wrap her arms around Oliver’s middle, squeezing him tight before letting go.

Oliver throws his hands up instinctively. “Whoa, hey! Wh-what’s this for…?”

“Thanks for the assist,” Emiko offers. “And for the lo mein.”

“The— wait, that’s my—”