#it's embarrassing

roy harper never thought of himself as anything in particular.

which is why when he starts noticing the mornings, it frankly freaks him out.

he has never been a morning person. never a night owl either. he never really had preferences at all. not the way people mean it when they ask.

what's your favorite beer, man? i don’t know, cold?

favorite movie? something i won't have to cover lian's ears for.

it wasn't depression exactly. it wasn't apathy either. it was something flatter. smoother. years of addiction recovery, early parenthood, and a chronic case of saving everyone but himself had scraped something out of him. feeling too much felt dangerous. his current state was safer. his current state didn't ask questions. his current state lets you get up, suit up, take hits, save people, come home bleeding, and do it all again tomorrow.

numb was the word therapists liked. roy preferred functional.

wake up. train. patrol. survive. repeat. and mornings were just… time. something to move through.

until ginger tea.

he wakes up before his alarm now.

that alone is alarming.

roy blinks at the ceiling of his apartment, sunlight sneaking in through the blinds, and for a moment he doesn't move. he listens. the building creaks. pipes sigh. someone down the hall coughs. star city hums in the distance like a restless animal.

and then, without really thinking about it, he rolls out of bed.

he doesn't bother brushing his hair. it's a lost cause anyway, with auburn strands doing whatever they want, curling and sticking up like they've unionized in some kind of strike against him. he pulls on a hoodie, pads barefoot across the floor, and slides the balcony door open, like it's waiting for him.

cool morning air hits his face.

and there you are.

your balcony is right there. close enough that, if he leaned just a little, he could reach out and touch the railing where your fingers rest. close enough that the city noise fades and it's just… this.

you're already waiting for him.

you're holding a steaming white ceramic mug, hand-drawn stars scattered across it in uneven little constellations. your hands cradle it like it's precious. like it's warm. like it's meant for him. because it is.

you look breathtaking. not in the polished, magazine model way. not in the kind of way that makes people stare.

in the kind of way that feels like home.

bare-faced. hair loose and unbothered. oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. eyes squinting against the sunlight but creasing with quiet delight anyway. like you're happy the day exists at all.

"morning," you murmur, voice still rough with sleep, delight crinkling your eyes. "i figured you'd be up."

roy stares at you like an idiot.

"you're crazy," he says finally, voice low and warm. then, because it feels true, "and an angel. a crazy angel."

you laugh, quiet and pleased, and step closer to the edge of your balcony. you hold the cup out toward him, arm stretching across the small gap between you.

you yawn. "drink it before it gets cold."

he does. ginger and orange bloom on his tongue, sharp and warm and grounding. his shoulders drop without him meaning to.

it's ridiculous how clear the reaction is. like his body recognizes something his brain never bothered to catalog. the warmth spreads down his chest. the ginger bites just enough. the orange rounds it out, bright and alive.

he hums, low in his throat, before he can stop himself.

your eyes light up.

"that's the sound," you say triumphantly. "that's how i know i got it right."

roy blinks at you. "what kind of witchcraft is this?"

you shrug, smug and sleepy. "mint didn't do it. lemon zest didn't do it. but when i added orange, you stopped frowning. when i added ginger—" you gesture vaguely. "sparkles."

sparkles is embarrassingly accurate.

he looks down at the cup in his hands. three days. he doesn't know what kind of miracle that is but it took you three days to figure out his favorite drink.

he's almost thirty years old and he didn't know it existed until now.

now he knows two things. 

his favorite drink.

and that he is, somehow, a morning person.

your balconies sit so close roy's pretty sure he could climb from one to the other if he really wanted to. yours is crowded with plants and pastel pillows and wicker furniture that looks like it belongs in a sunlit photograph. his is… spartan.

one old coffee table that's seen better days. a foldable stool mr. brown gave him because his knees no longer allowed long fishing sessions. that's it.

except now there's ginger tea in a star-speckled mug sitting there.

roy leans against the railing, watching you tend to your plants. "you've got a whole apothecary over there," he says. "how many herbs do you actually use?"

you grin. "depends. what are we curing?"

roy's chest tightens, just a little. his mind drifts, uninvited, to lian.

she's staying with ollie this month.

he sees her every day. he makes sure of that. he stops by and brings snacks. he tucks her in when he can. but he can't bring her home. not now.

the mission is at its worst point. the drug ring is cornered. they are dangerous and desperate. roy can't stomach the idea of his little girl being anywhere near the blood and violence that cling to him like a second skin.

ollie's on forced downtime. the old man got strained muscles and bruised pride. dinah's around. lian is watched every second.

she is safe. 

still, roy worries. stupidly, irrationally. 

roy lies awake at night worrying she'll like it there too much. that she'll get used to the bigger place, the light, the noise, and the laughter. that she won't want to come back to his small, quiet, and awefully gray apartment.

he needs an edge.

he glances at your kitchen through the open door. herbs line the counter. jars. little labels in neat handwriting.

strawberry.

his little princess is deep in her strawberry shortcake phase. everything has to be strawberry. smell like it. look like it. taste like it. roy is one more pink smoothie away from developing a reflexive gag.

but tea? strawberry tea.

that could work.

he finishes his cup and sets it carefully on the railing. "hey," he says, casual. "weird question."

you tilt your head. "i live for weird questions."

he exhales, relieved. "could you maybe make me a strawberry one?"

"say less," you interrupt. "come over. i'll make it—"

"in a pink sippy cup," he adds, deadpan.

fortunately, you don't ask further why he needs a sippy cup. roy guesses you just accepted your guy next door is a freak of nature.

that's why he knocks on your door later, sheepish and grinning. "i am here to take what’s mine!"

"one second!" you call from the bathroom. "i'm almost done!"

"take your time," he says, and then—because he apparently lost his mind—he looks around.

he shouldn't pry. he knows that. but everything here is so soft. he feels like a bull in a flower shop. like a muddy boot on a clean rug.

everything is pastel and warm. blankets are draped just so. mugs on hooks. little notes tucked into books.

he remembers the conversation from yesterday, keys in hand, doors opening at the same time.

"i must look ridiculous in your place," he'd said.

from somewhere down the hall, mrs. florence's voice had floated out, loud and delighted. "the contrast is artistic!"

you'd both frozen.

"mrs. florence?" roy had laughed. "spying much?"

you'd rolled your eyes. "you enjoyed my theories about you? i believe our neighbors have ten times more. some of them involve old hollywood meet-cutes."

"yeah?" he'd winked. "what about good ol' soulmates?"

now, standing alone in your living room, roy snorts at the memory.

his gaze catches on something small on the bookshelf.

an ipod. 

it's pink and worn down. volume dialed to three. tucked away like a secret. a secret he has to uncover.

roy raises a brow. "who still uses these?"

he picks it up, thumb brushing the click wheel as he cranks the volume.

roy wonders what kind of music you'd be into.

probably diva pop. maybe classical. yeah! for sure, it's chopin and birds chirping.

roy's lips curl into a wolfish grin and he presses play.

"NOW, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE SACRED SILENCE—"

the first scream of system of a down's toxicity nearly kills him.

roy flinches, stumbling back, heart racing as he frantically turns it down again.

"holy—"

his eyes are wide, stunned.

you? butter-yellow sofa you? handmade mugs you? listening to heavy metal?

he scrolls and stares at the screen. metallica. iron maiden. more soad.

he laughs under his breath, stunned. "no way."

you step out of the bathroom just then.

he grins. "so. system of a down?"

you freeze. "you touched my ipod."

"worth it," he says. "did not see that coming."

you shrug. "always been my thing."

roy seems to brighten up as he looks at you with something new glistening in his green orbs. it both makes you proud you could surprise him so much and a little smitten.

you try to cover it up, "and what's your favorite band?"

roy opens his mouth.

nothing comes out.

he frowns, thinking. there were nights. long ago. performing with great frog, dancing with titans… blasting music with ollie. it actually used to be soad on repeat for the queen household too.

but it feels like another life. lately it's been baby shark on loop.

so he ponders more. what band could be his favorite? what band could mean something special for him?

then he remembers. 

he remembers the day he broke your window. he remembers the shirt. the one you gave him to change from his torn-down suit.

"green day," he says finally. "i guess you can call me an american idiot."

you grin. "and can you hear the sound of hysteria?"

roy laughs, helpless.

dangerous.

that's what you are.

much more dangerous to his heart than he expected.

this is my most favorite thing i wrote, istg!! and i fear it's very self indulgent, so i apologize... but yeah. roy and reader listen to soad together because i don't want to listen to soad alone anymore😭🩷