Chapter Text
"That looks boring."
Bruce looked up from his paperwork, spotting Jason in the doorway. He shuffled a few of the bills, taking off his glasses; Three hours of this was more than enough to exhaust him. "Believe me, you have no idea."
"JL stuff, or just work?"
"Just work," Bruce concealed a smile, watching the teen shift awkwardly in the office doorway. "Can I help you with something?"
Bingo.
The question, when it came, was hesitant.
"Can Roy sleep over tonight?"
Bruce resisted rolling his eyes. "You know I'll never have a problem with that. You don't have to keep asking, Jay."
Jason's small smile was always a gift. He tilted his head, relaxing against the doorframe. "Thanks."
"Mhm," Bruce put his glasses back on with a sigh, squinting down at his desk. "Alfred almost ready with dinner yet?"
"Last time I was in the kitchen, he was swearing at his roux."
They shared a smile. "That definitely means it's going to be good."
"Seeya later."
"Uh huh." Bruce watched as the teen darted out of the office, frowning. Cataloguing Jason's strangeness for later, he turned back to WE bills with a sigh.
Roy showed up just before dinner, hood pulled up over his face. He looked paler than the last time Bruce had seen him. When had that been, exactly? The fight against the Klemariens? No, just before--the group training exercise.
He fit in well at Jason's side, joking with Dick as he wolfed down several helpings of pasta. In between mouthfuls, he berated Tim over some video game Bruce couldn't bother to keep track of.
Alfred seemed pleased with this development. Damian still refused to eat more than one plate at any time, despite growing more than an inch in the past year. Beyond that, getting Tim to eat anything other than coffee was a miracle.
Roy was skinny--almost too skinny, now that Bruce could see him in good lighting. Pale, a little underweight. No visible injuries. No known illnesses...
Queen had to be working him hard in training--mentally, and physically, if he was seeking refuge here yet again.
"How is school going?" Bruce asked after a lull in conversation. He smiled at Roy, knowing it was hard to stare down Batman at the dinner table. "Jason tells me you've been practicing for the basketball team back in Star City."
Roy perked up immediately. His lips twitched into a smile, almost begrudgingly. "I made varsity."
"Really? That's impressive. You must be really proud." Bruce watched as Jason's smile grew. "Jason, when are you going to try out for something?"
"You nag, old man." Jason waved a breadstick at him, getting a snort from Roy. "I'll try out for those preppy sports when I'm dead."
"Suit yourself," Dick grumbled from across the table. "I did gymnastics all four years of high school. It was great."
"An excellent way to build leadership skills," Bruce noted, sipping from his wineglass. He didn't miss Roy's snort, half-hidden under a cough. "I'm sure Oliver must be proud."
Silence fell. Roy looked away, down at his lap. Jason's lips pursed in a way that only spoke of trouble.
So his feint had landed, after all.
"He should be," Jason muttered after a pause, his eyes dark. "He should be damn proud."
"Language," Alfred chided gently, getting a nod from the teen. Dick carefully took over the conversation from that point, sending the billionaire a warning glance.
Oliver Queen, Bruce thought, setting his glass down, what did you do this time?
Roy fell asleep on the guestroom sofa, legs entwined with Jason's. The TV flickered on their sleeping faces, shuttering them in blue light.
Bruce turned everything off as Alfred watched from the doorway, careful not to make a noise. He tiptoed between the sleeping boys, avoiding the soda cans and chip bags strewn across the floor.
"Just throw a blanket over them," the butler said, hushed, "They won't move till morning, if we're lucky."
Bruce smirked, grabbing a wool throw from the bed. He tucked them in gently, pressing a hand to either forehead. He joined Alfred in the hallway a moment later. They walked together in silence.
"The boy looks sick."
Bruce turned on the lights in his study, gesturing towards one of the chairs. Alfred sat, a concerned look on his face.
"He ate like a starving man at supper, but afterwards, I saw him asking Master Jason for medicine."
"The boy ate too much," Bruce rebutted, walking over to the wet bar. "It happens."
"I suppose." Alfred didn't seem appeased by this, staring into the embers of his earlier fire. "Something doesn't seem right, is all."
"On that, we agree," Bruce handed his friend a snifter, clinking rims briefly. "I'll speak with Oliver tomorrow, inquire about his training program. Maybe he's working him too hard."
"Perhaps," the butler took a sip, relaxing into the chair. "With teenagers, you can never know. I speak from experience."
"Hey," Bruce said, joking. He took a seat next to Alfred. "I'll have you know, I turned out alright."
"Exactly my point."
As luck would have it, Batman's monitor duty overlapped with Green Arrow's the following Wednesday.
(Luck being a lengthy argument with Clark, in which he refused to divulge anything, only for his friend to reluctantly cave in, like he always did, at the two hour mark)
He caught Oliver in the hallway by the Womb, on his way back to Star City. The vigilante had his bow over one shoulder, his quiver full at his back.
"Arrow."
"Bruce," Queen didn't stop walking, raising an eyebrow. Under the green mask, it almost looked silly. "Can I help you with something?"
"Arsenal's training program." Bruce tilted his head, stepping in front of the other man. He didn't fall for the jab; Queen's laissez-faire attitude was hardly new. "To start."
Queen's eyes narrowed. He sidestepped Bruce, shoulders tensing. "That's none of your business."
Bruce grabbed him by the elbow, using the difference in weight between them to haul the archer back.
"You can't work him like one of us. You know that. He's still a child."
"Uh huh. Thanks for the concern, Big Brother." Oliver said, bitter. He yanked his elbow back, sending Bruce a glare. "If you'll excuse me, I have actual business to attend to. Some of us run our own companies."
The hallway went silent, broken only by Queen's footsteps. Bruce watched him go, filing away the man's reactions for later.
There was something going on here--and, cliché enough--he was going to find out exactly what it was. Quickly.
His investigation was pushed to the back burner after a week filled with intergalactic negotiations, kryptonite bullets, and Arkham breakouts. He worked days without sleep in the Cave, only to crash on the tiny cot there for a handful of hours' rest.
Friday night--finally, finally--everything seemed to be calming. Not calm yet--a band of thunderstorms was passing through, shaking the house to its foundations.
Even drunk on six days' exhaustion, Bruce still found himself awake at three in the morning. His eyes drifted over the screens, unseeing.
The house was quiet upstairs. Everyone was asleep, as far as he could tell, not bothered by the booming thunder. He thought briefly of Damian, who was still so young. Had thunderstorms ever scared him before? He made a note to ask Talia eventually.
A distant beeping tore him from his reverie. He blinked at his monitors and, seeing nothing, leaned his head back once more.
A more insistent beeping woke him again. This time, he reached for his abandoned reading glasses, squinting at the screen.
Perimeter alarm, northeastern quadrant.
In an instant, he was wide awake. He grabbed a pair of Dick's escrima sticks, spinning them in his palms as he darted up the stairs.
The first floor of Wayne Manor was pitch black, lit by the flashes of lightning through the windows. He crept through the parlor towards the front hall, scanning the perimeter.
A faint knocking on the front door drew him to a halt. Outside, the rain was practically blowing sideways, whipping in sheets along the house. Whatever poor soul was knocking on his door had a damn good reason, it seemed.
He pulled it open, hiding the sticks behind his back. Still thrumming with adrenaline, the sight of a soaking Roy Harper on his doorstep left him speechless.
"Ja...snnnn…" Roy stumbled forward, landing on his knees. Bruce caught his head before it hit concrete, cradling the boy in his arms. "Jay…"
"Jesus Christ."
He closed the front door, pulling Roy into his arms. With a grunt, he picked up the younger man, carrying him over to the parlor couch.
"Alfred!" he yelled up the stairs, "Downstairs!"
Roy was breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling erratically. Bruce flicked on a nearby light, his other hand on the boy's throat, taking his pulse.
Weak. Extreme pallor. Sensitivity to light.
"Roy," he said loudly, making out Alfred's footsteps on the front stairs. "Roy, can you hear me?"
The boy's eyes fluttered weakly in the light. Bruce turned to find Alfred at his side, a first aid kit in one hand. He took it with a nod, grabbing a flashlight from inside.
Roy's pupils were contracted, and remained so under direct light. Bruce felt his heart sink as he saw the beginning of a blue tinge at the boy's cheeks. Opioid overdose, or something like it.
"What the hell is going--Roy?" Jason's voice came from the stairs, alarmed. He rushed down to his friend, still dressed in pajamas. "Jesus Christ--"
Bruce turned to Alfred, ignoring him. "Do we still carry Naloxone downstairs?"
"In the main kit, yes."
"Jason, go," Bruce said, turning to his son. "Now."
The teen ran for the stairs, faster than ever. Alfred helped Bruce maneuver Roy to the recovery position, trying to keep his airway clear. His skin was clearly blue now--a sickening shade that Bruce's mind couldn't help but superimpose Jason's face over.
"Call 911," he told Alfred, keeping a hand on Roy's pulse. "Meet them outside. I'll carry him out."
"Of course."
Jason burst back into the room, out of breath. In his hand was the box of Naloxone. Bruce grabbed it from him, shredding the packaging. Jason handed him a syringe, already uncapped.
"Dad, I don't think he's--he's breathing."
Bruce looked up from the syringe. Roy's chest wasn't moving, his mouth open and slack.
"Rescue breaths. You remember how we practiced."
Jason nodded shakily. He braced his hands against Roy's chest, beginning compressions.
Bruce drew 1 cc into the syringe, flicking the needle once. He gestured Jason out of the way, jabbing it into Roy's thigh with little hesitation.
"Go outside," he told Jason, rolling Roy back onto his back. "Stay with Alfred until the ambulance is here."
He began CPR again, watching Roy's face carefully. Jason remained by his shoulder, a hand over his mouth.
"You don't need to see this," Bruce grunted, gratified to see the blue tinge in the boy's cheeks fading. "Jason--"
"He's my friend, alright?" the fear in Jason's voice was apparent, "I--I'm staying."
They continued in silence, broken only by Bruce's compressions, and the thunder outside. Just as he was considering a second dose, Roy began breathing again.
Bruce took his aching hands off of the boy's chest, stepping back. He nearly ran into Jason, who was stock-still.
"He's going to be okay," the billionaire put an arm around his son, drawing him close. In the distance, he could hear sirens. "He's going to be alright, Jason."
He could feel the boy trembling against him as the EMTs rushed in. They both watched as Roy was carried away, frozen in place.
"C'mon," Bruce shook Jason's shoulder, "We'll follow the ambulance to the hospital."
Roy Harper was admitted quietly to the emergency ward at 5:03 AM. Jason and Bruce arrived a few minutes afterwards, a baseball cap covering their faces. Through some black magic, Alfred had arranged for them to be brought directly upstairs.
Bruce left Jason with his friend, watching them carefully through the room's window. Roy was still deathly pale, but his breathing was normal again. He was starting to come out of whatever he'd been taking--Bruce could see his eyes fluttering, a hand shifting under the hospital blankets.
With a bit-off growl, he pulled out his cellphone. Oliver Queen's number was under an arrow emoji--Dick's work, most likely. He hit it, holding the phone up to his ear as it rang.
When Queen finally answered, he sounded hungover and irritated. "What."
"Roy's at Gotham General.'
"Gotham Gen--" Queen cut off with a curse, the sound of a bottle clinking echoing down the line. "How the hell did he get there?"
"That doesn't matter. He's in intensive care. Get down here."
"Is it the drugs again?"
Bruce paused, at a loss for words. Somewhere down the hall, a nurse's station began beeping.
"You knew he had a problem."
"'Problem'? Hell, I'd call it more than a little problem," Queen sneered, "When he's clean again, let me know. I'll send someone to pick him up."
"Queen--"
The dial tone buzzed in his ear. He shut off the phone, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. He took a deep breath, then another.
The next time he saw Oliver Queen, the man wouldn't get away so easily.