#dc men

I know, you’re thinking, “How the hell does that make sense?”

Trust me, Roy wondered the same damn thing. It wasn’t like he was exactly avoiding you, of course not. The universe, as far as Roy could tell, was hellbent on keeping you two from meeting. Every time he tried to show up for something, you’d just leave, or he’d arrive too late, or some minor thing would separate you. And it didn’t help that almost everyone he knew talked about you like you were some goddamn miracle worker, capable of fixing everything from Oliver’s personal life to the occasional vigilante catastrophes.

It started about eleven months ago, when Oliver hired a new assistant—his old assistant, Taylor? Talia? Tiffany? Something with a T was out of commission, sick, or pregnant – whatever, Roy wasn’t really listening at the time.

He’d brought Lian over to see her grandparents (though Dinah physically recoils every time anyone even hints at the word “grand” in her direction), and Oliver decided it was the perfect moment to update him on “company matters”.

Which, in Roy’s personal translation, means boring, snooze-worthy conversations that made Roy mentally check out – no offence, Oliver – and start planning which movie he could introduce to Lian next. It was usually something other parents may call “inappropriate for a child”, which he heard from other parents during a certain incident last Halloween, but come on! She’s a Harper. And currently in that phase where she’s obsessed with horror villains, speaking of last Halloween, she asked Roy if she could go trick-or-treating as Michael Myers, mask and all.

Roy obviously said yes.

They earned a lot of concerned looks that night while walking around the neighbourhood, but Lian was so happy with the Party City mask and plastic knife – she pleaded, well, begged, Roy to use one of the weapons from his collection, and they argued and argued until compromising with a plastic knife that she held happily in one hand and an orange pumpkin-shaped bucket held in the other, so he didn’t care about all of the stares.

But it didn’t stop there.

After that first “Oh, by the way, I hired someone new,” Roy kept hearing things about you in the most random of ways.

Like two weeks later, when Connor casually mentioned you single-handedly reorganised Oliver’s disaster of a calendar, no, not just reorganising all of his meetings – oh no – but every board obligation and even gala appearances that he’d apparently forgotten about (due to a couple – more like a week or so – of back-to-back missions that ended when the sun was already up in the sky). His old assistant somehow double-booked a meeting, and Oliver nearly missed a fundraiser all in the same week until you swooped in with your colour-coded spreadsheets and the authority of someone who wasn't paid nearly enough to fix a public figure's – and secret vigilante’s – life.

And then there was Dinah.

Dinah was the worst offender.

God, it was the way she spoke about you. She talked about you the way people would talk about their emotional support water bottles – you know, the ones people carry everywhere, those giant ones with the handle – like she physically couldn't function without you. Roy swore she said your name at least twelve times in one conversation.

Trust me, he counted. And then quickly stopped counting when he realised it only made it weirder.

And Oliver, well, he had his own subtle way of singing your praises – with this quiet fondness. He’d drop one-line compliments here and there, like he knew he wouldn’t be able to function without you. It wasn't romantic, not at all – it wasn't even soft. But it carried weight and respect.

Even trust.

And Roy, over the years, had learnt to read Oliver better than anyone – better than Dinah too, but she’d argue otherwise. He knew what it meant when Oliver trusted you. It meant that this new intern – you – was something special. If anything, it was the same kind of way Oliver talked about family – you know, the kind he actually liked.

“She’s got good instincts,” Oliver had told him one night after patrol. It was an easy night with not much to do. Roy leaned against the wall, eyes glued on the city skyline, the lights of Star City illuminating the fond look on his face, the kind he always tries to hide. Oliver was leaning against the bike, like the weight of the city, the league, and everything else was finally letting up.

“Reminds me of you—” Oliver began, Roy’s eyebrows furrowing slightly at the comparison, his question silent but present. How?

“- Before you made terrible choices.”

And there it was. Roy took the compliment. Ignored the jab. He always does when it comes to things like this. Filing the comparison away in a mental folder labelled 'Reasons Everyone Apparently Loves Her'.

He wasn't jealous—well, he doesn't think so. I mean, what could he possibly be jealous about? The way everyone except him is meeting you? The way everyone sings your praises in a way they’ve never done for him? No, of course he wasn't jealous.

Somehow, despite all of that, Roy never managed to meet you.

Every time he stopped by the Loft, you’d just left. If he arrived early, you were running late. There had been a single occasion when Roy swore he saw the back of your head as you disappeared around a corner, and Connor – that little shit – had shrugged and said, “Aw, you missed her by like twenty seconds!” as if life were a sitcom and Roy was destined to be the goddamn punchline.

He shouldn't care – he didn't.

Why would he? You were just an intern that Oliver hired. People came and went in team life all the time; this is no different.

Except… you didn't go. You stayed. And the more you stayed, the more he heard.

Little things. Personal things. Things someone only learns when people trust you.

You baked cupcakes when missions went bad, the kind that melted in your mouth and made you feel like a kid again. You were fluent in sarcasm and could hold your own against anyone. You cried at cat adoption videos and hated those bad Hollywood comedy movies. You once got into a verbal fight with a finance guy on the street because he kicked a pigeon “with unnecessary force” next to the street food vendors.

Roy learnt all of it second-hand.

He knew your laugh from the back of the videos Connor seemed to always show him – either something dumb he’d seen or a prank he tried to pull on Oliver. He knew your eye roll from Dinah’s impression. He knew your kindness from Oliver’s silence whenever your name came up – because the man trusted actions more than words.

Roy Harper knew you.

Without even knowing your face.

Now, it's not like they intentionally hid how you looked from Roy; no, that would be ridiculous. They just… assumed he knew.

But piece by piece. Story after story. Roy managed to piece together a version of you in his mind from the few descriptions given about your eyes, your smile, and the way your head tilted back as you laughed, a full-body one, because you couldn't contain it.

It was a Thursday night when everything went to shit.

Roy was on the couch, one leg dangling off the edge, half asleep with a bowl of salted popcorn on his chest and Coraline playing on the TV because Lian insisted it was her ‘comfort movie’ – how does she even know what a comfort movie is? She was curled up beside him, small hand gripping the string of his hoodie, already knocked out ten minutes in.

He’d give it another year before she started telling people Coraline was ‘for babies’ and asked to watch The Conjuring instead.

“Come on, Pumpkin,” he said softly, just about to carry her to bed as he always does on nights like this, when his phone buzzed.

Not the normal buzz you get when you get a text, no. The one that meant it was connected to the team’s emergency line. The one he made sure Oliver added him to, despite Oliver not wanting to bother him about such things.

Roy froze for a split second, the popcorn bowl sliding off his chest and tumbling onto the floor, scattering across the shaggy – yes, purple – rug that Lian begged for. He scrambled for the phone, expecting Oliver, or Connor, or even Dinah. But the caller ID blinking on his screen wasn't any of them.

It was a number he’d never saved, but he recognised instantly because who else would be a part of the team’s emergency line?

You.

He hesitated only for a heartbeat before answering.

“Hello?”

Your voice came through tight, breathless, and so quiet it was like you were trying not to be heard.

“Roy?”

It was the first time he’d ever heard your voice – live and not through some video Connor sent – and to hear you say his name, it hit him harder than it should have.

“Yeah-yeah, it’s me. What’s going on?”

There was shuffling – like you were pacing – and a muffled noise in the background, then—

“It’s Oliver. We were tracking a lead on the docks, and—and he’s injured and pinned down. I can't move him. His comms are out, and Dinah’s offline. I called Connor, but he’s like thirty minutes out. You’re closest.”

Roy’s body snapped into motion before his brain even caught up.

He grabbed his gear bag from under the coffee table, always kept there in case of emergency, slinging it over his shoulder with practised ease from doing this type of dance for years. “Text me the location.” He said softly, with an unusual sense of calmness in his voice, like he knew panicking was the last thing you needed right now.

“I did.” A shaky exhale. You were scared but holding it together. “Roy, I-I’ve never done this part before. I don't know what to do.”

“I don't know how long I can keep him safe.”

“You did the right thing calling me.” He reassured you; he didn't let his voice waver. You needed calm, so he gave you calm.

“I’m on my way.”

He hung up, shoved his phone into his pocket, then paused at the worst possible realisation:

Lian.

He looked at his daughter, peacefully drooling on the Squishmallow she begged Uncle Dick to buy the one time Roy let him babysit.

No sitter.

No neighbour's home.

No time.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, because the universe just absolutely loved making his life complicated.

He knelt, brushing the strands of her hair from her face softly – he tried to do a braid earlier that day and failed miserably – “Baby girl,” he whispered, trying to wake her up gently, “we’re going on a little field trip, honey.”

She hummed, half asleep, and lifted her arms in automatic ‘carry me’ mode. Roy scooped her up, wrapped up in her fluffy blanket, grabbed his keys and weapon holster, and headed for the door.

He didn't have a plan.

He just knew Oliver needed him.

And you, somehow, needed him too.

Roy drove like the city itself was on fire – while also being mindful of the sleeping kid in the back seat.

Because for all he knew, it was.

Lian was buckled into the backseat, half asleep, clutching her stuffed tiger, ‘Rory’ – Dick gave her the idea to name it that because, well… it roars – while mumbling dream gibberish as Roy sped through the yellow lights with the kind of controlled recklessness he knows would've made Dinah lecture him for twenty minutes.

Dinah, who was currently two cities over, was assisting the JSA on a metahuman incident, which only meant that Oliver was out there with just you.

The intern who never signed up for fieldwork. The intern, who was now alone with a wounded vigilante with no access to him via comms, and was only stuck with access to the CCTV camera from across the street, which you somehow got.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

By the time he reached your apartment building, to which you hadn't sent the address, but he needed to make sure Lian would be safe, which led him to head to the address he somehow memorised without ever visiting. Lian was fully asleep again, her little hand loose around her toy. Roy unbuckled her carefully, scooped her up into his arms, and jogged up the stairs, because of course the stupid elevator was out of service.

Once inside, reality hit him like a truck.

He had no idea which door was yours.

None.

Oliver had mentioned the building once, in passing, during a story Roy hadn't been listening to until your name was brought up, something about a broken heater and you somehow fixing it with a hair dryer and indomitable will. He mentioned your floor – well, not really; he mentioned how your neighbours below complained about the noise, which ruled out one floor, but he never said which apartment number.

Roy looked down at Lian, already drooling on his shoulder.

“Okay, kiddo,” he whispered, shifting her weight so he could hold her more comfortably, “we’re going on a door-to-door scavenger hunt. Sorry.”

He tried the first door.

An old man in an unfortunately small bathrobe opened it, squinting at Roy like he was some sort of hallucination.

Roy said your name before whispering hesitantly, “Do you know which door is hers?” he tried to sound polite and non-threatening while holding a sleeping four-year-old and a quiver.

The man blinked. “It’s eleven at night.”

“Yeah. I noticed. Do you know her or not?”

The door shut in his face.

Yup. Made sense.

The next apartment was worse; someone’s dog tried to bite his leg, and he had to try to brush it off while not jostling Lian.

The one after that featured a very drunk – or high – couple who assumed Roy was doing “weed delivery while babysitting,” which… no. Absolutely not.

By the 9th door, his urgency was rising like a tide behind his ribs. The kind of anxiety you feel right before you get the urge to throw up.

Oliver doesn't have time for this.

You didn't have time for this.

Roy knocked on another door – firmer this time, but still careful enough not to jostle his daughter awake.

The door swung open, and a very tired woman in cat-print pyjamas glared at him, hair askew as if she had just woken up.

Roy raised a finger and whispered your name, “If you don't happen to know her, I'll leave you alone.”

The woman blinked. Pointed down the hall and shut the door without a word.

Roy exhaled, adjusted Lian’s blanket so she wouldn’t catch a cold, and walked towards the last door on the floor, the one at the very end of the hallway. Soft light glowed underneath it. HE didn't know why, but something in his chest pulled, something in his stomach fluttered, like it did when he was younger and about to go on a date – but this wasn't a date.

He knocked.

Footsteps. A quiet pause. The lock clicked.

Then the door opened, and Roy just knew.

He didn't know how. He didn't know why. But the second he saw your eyes, exhausted and worried, something inside him clicked into place.

You know when people talk about how they fell in love? Like something inside them – something that was missing his entire life – just slid into place, and now it all makes sense.

If Roy didn’t want to sound like a stalker, he’d say that moment, the moment you opened your door, was when it happened for him.

Your lips parted slightly, surprised to see him.

“Roy?”

God. Hearing you say his name a second time should not have felt like gravity shifting, but it did.

“Yeah,” he breathed, gripping Lian a little tighter to anchor himself to this moment. “I’m here.”

—

You froze when the door swung open.

He’s there – Roy – standing tall in the dim hallway light, and for a second, you couldn't breathe. The top of his head barely covered the hallway light; you could see the quiver on his back, arrows already ready. Your eyes looked up, soft green eyes meeting your own. And something in your heart shifted.

You’ve heard so much about him, of course, you have, whether it was from Oliver, Connor, or even Dinah. They told you about his life, his daughter, and how he managed to be a good father despite not having the right cards in his hand.

They spoke about his heart, how when he loves, he really loves. They spoke about his humour, his jokes – Connor swears Roy might be one of the funniest people he knows, well, besides himself, and he’d never say it to his face.

But nothing could have prepared you for the weight of him in person.

The way his eyes scanned you as if he had been memorising you without even knowing it.

And then you saw her – Lian, asleep and bundled up in a fluffy blanket against his chest. The tiny rise and fall of her breathing, the damp spot on his shirt from where she drooled on him, and the faint sigh she let out in her sleep made a rush of warmth course through you.

“Roy?” you said, your voice tentative, laced with surprise.

You knew it was him, of course you did.

Who else would show up at your door at this time of night dressed up like he just lost a Katniss Everdeen costume contest?

Who else would knock the breath out of your body with nothing but his presence?

He wasn't supposed to be here; he was supposed to be with Oliver to make sure he’s safe.

But then your eyes fell back to the sleeping bundle in his arms and the helpless look on his face, and you understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured, gripping Lian a little tighter. “I’m here.”

Something clicked deep in your chest. All of the stories you had heard, all the praise and anecdotes, every single detail you somehow stored inside your mind about a man you've never met until now. He wasn't just the man they described; he wasn't just a name in a story anymore – he was real.

And he was here.

You stepped forward and held out your arms for Lian. She stirred slightly in his hold, murmuring something soft in her sleep. You shushed her gently – already in the caretaker role – cradling her closer and tucking the blanket around her small shoulders.

“You've got her,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

“I've got her,” you replied with a nod, your hands lingering on the soft curve of her back. He nodded in response, his gaze softening as his eyes flickered briefly to her before returning to you.

“I trust you,” he said simply, but the weight behind the words made your chest tighten. He trusted you without even knowing you, trusted you with his child, all because of your relationship with the people he cared about, because of what they've said about you to him.

And for a heartbeat, the room shrank to just the three of you. The hum of the city outside faded away. The faint light of the city from the window that enveloped your apartment made the moment just a little more intimate.

He bent slightly, pretending to adjust his gear, and – without thinking – you reached out to fix the strap of his quiver. Your fingers brushed his shoulder, lingering just a fraction too long. You could feel your heartbeat suddenly pounding through your chest.

“They—you… you're doing a good job,” he fumbled over his words, low and almost breathless. There was hesitation in his tone, like he didn't know if he should say it or not. He only just met you, but it didn't feel like that, not really.

Not after everything.

You blinked at him, cheeks flushed, and whispered, “Thanks.”

Then, before either of you could overthink it – before he even realised what happened – his hand rose, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was quick, intimate even – like he wasn't thinking; he just needed to do it, to feel you, to bask in your warmth.

Your eyes widened, breath catching. Somehow, every story you had heard, every rumour, every tale of his heart and soul, collapsed into this single moment, as if each story had brought you to this very moment, which it had.

You looked at him, startled and flustered, trying not to be aware of the magnetic pull between the two of you. It wasn't just the city outside that was dangerous – it was this, right here.

What the hell is going on? You wanted to say you couldn't understand it, why this brief exchange held so much weight, why his gaze on you felt like more, more than you could understand, more than you were ready for at this moment.

“I…” you started, words catching. You didn't even know what to say, but you needed to break the tension, to fill the heavy silence, but he interrupted gently.

“We don't have much time. Oliver needs me. You… just keep her safe.”

You nodded, holding the younger girl closer to your chest as if to protect her. “I’ve got her,” you said firmly, though your voice softened with the intensity of the moment. You wanted to say more, to reach out, to make him stay, but you didn't.

You trusted him.

He exhaled and shifted slightly, and for a brief moment, your eyes met and held. You could feel the intensity, the unspoken understanding, and the silent acknowledgement of months of near misses and anticipation; it hung between you.

You wanted to say something, anything; you wanted to ask him if it's true he could only watch sitcoms after a hard patrol or that he once wished as a child to have a star named after himself – and years later, after everything, after Lian, he went on those dodgy websites and named a star after the one constant in his life that kept him going.

His daughter.

You wanted to invite him in for coffee, to see his nose scrunch up in distaste when he realises how you take yours – way too much sugar. You wanted to see him early morning, hair mussed up and eyes still dreary with sleep, to see that soft, tired smile match your own.

You wanted to hear his voice, hear him say anything. God – after hearing him speak for the first time in person, you're slightly tempted to ask him to make one of those ‘spicy’ audiobooks you've seen ads for, because who wouldn't want to hear Roy Harper do such a thing?

But you didn't do any of that; now's not the time, and part of you knew you guys would have plenty of it later down the line.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, stepping back. His hand brushed yours once more in a fleeting, charged touch.

You watched him go, chest tight, heart racing, Lian’s warmth grounding you. The door clicked behind him, and the apartment fell silent, but you could still feel him – the imprint of his presence, not just in the room, but in your chest.