Work Text:
Roy Harper was categorically terrible at texting. Jason was well aware. That didn’t mean it pissed him off any less.
His thumb had been hovering over ‘send’ on a message to Oracle for the better part of an hour, his paranoia starting to get the better of him.
In general, one of the worst aspects of their particular ‘lifestyle’ was this whole ‘are you strung up by your ankles in a warehouse somewhere, or did you forget to charge your phone?’ shit. It drove him crazy. Crazier. (His sanity was already shaky at the best of times. Common side effect of being murdered and then dragged back forcibly from hell).
Scatterbrained asshole. It had been three days since Jason had last heard from him. What the fuck was so all-consuming that he couldn’t take two seconds to text back the simplest ‘kk’?
Jason slumped in his graffitied, plastic seat and tipped his head back against the grimy window pane, the floor of the overground train rumbling beneath his boots.
He was not going to run straight to Oracle every time Roy ghosted him. He wasn’t. Roy was probably just hunched over some stupid workbench, sweating over upgrades to his own arm, barely remembering to wear safety goggles, and forgetting to text Jason back. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Of course, if that was true, he could’ve done all that at Jason’s place instead (he usually preferred to, or so he'd thought) but whatever. He wasn’t obligated. Roy had worked at his own apartment before, or at Will’s house (to Lian’s delight and Will’s chagrin) so that he could steal Will’s tools and pick his brain. He was probably holed up at one or the other that very moment, blissfully unaware of Jason’s mounting annoyance.
Or, his mind supplied helpfully, he’s being beaten to a bloody pulp by a group of mooks somewhere waiting for help that isn’t coming.
Jason huffed an aggravated sigh and sent the message.
In need of your super stalker skills.
what’s the magic word?
I’ll buy you dinner.
that works too
whatcha need?
LKL on Arsenal.
k gimme a min
Jason’s knee bounced, but a minute was a generous estimate. Barbara was already typing again after maybe thirty seconds.
uptown Star City headed eastbound
2 min to zeta transport if need be
The weight on his chest lifted even as something soured in his gut. He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting it out slow.
Thanks.
everything ok?
Just peachy, O.
Will send Thai food.
knew there was a reason I liked you.
Jason shoved the phone back in his pocket then tipped his head back again, watching Gotham pass him by through the opposite window with half-closed eyes. Molten fury burned within the tight confines of his throat as resigned himself to the knowledge that yes, Roy was just ghosting him. Accidentally or otherwise.
Well, at least Roy was alive for Jason to kill him for it.
+
The stairwell to Jason’s fourth floor apartment was echoey to an obscene degree. The sooty, dark green paint had long ago begun to peel off the too-thin walls, adding to the overall dimness, and the halls smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and dog piss. All the neighbors probably hated it.
Naturally, it sold Jason on the place immediately.
He wasn’t optimistic enough to think any of these minor unpleasantries would actually deter any Bat worth their salt if they felt the need to pester him, but it wasn’t just them Jason wanted to avoid.
Jason didn’t like surprises and he didn’t want visitors. Call him old fashioned, but the knowledge that (unless Jason was literally in a life threatening coma) there was no way in hell not to hear someone coming even from four floors away, gave him more peace of mind than even the beloved security system he’d installed on his door.
Of course, that only helped if Jason was already in his apartment when someone came to call.
Case in point: Jason turned his key in the lock, hitting the door open grumpily with the side of his fist, then froze mid-step as he found himself immediately confronted with, 1) his propped-wide-open fridge, and 2) the obscene show of Roy Harper’s pert, ratty-gym-shorts-covered, idiotic ass sticking out of it.
Rooted dumbly in place by the combined force of his surprise and indignation, Jason merely stared.
(He would be placing all of the blame for this instantaneous recognition on his impressive training in the skill of perception, and absolutely none on any other history of staring at this particular view that he may or may not have).
The staticky rustle of plastic bags stopped abruptly as the other boy straightened up and looked over his shoulder. His hair really was getting long on the top. You could tell by the red tuft poking out above the sizing band of the Bowhunter’s Security hat he’d tossed on backwards.
Fuck-ing fuck. This mother—
Jason inhaled, composing himself.
He wanted to yank Roy's infuriating head back by those thick, red strands and hold a knife to the pale length of his throat. He wanted to punch him square in the stupid mouth.
But no, no. Heaven fucking forbid he follow through for once. Instead, the second that their eyes met, Arsenal’s face lit up like sunshine. Then Roy William Harper was grinning at him like his face had been designed for it, and Jason was so far fucking gone for him it was actually absurd.
“Hey. I got groceries.” Roy gestured at the remaining bags on the counter.
“I can see that,” Jason snarked on auto-pilot.
Well, better than gaping at him like an idiot, he supposed. Or worse, thanking him.
Jason shuffled by him into the narrow kitchen: a long, thin rectangle that was open on the side that faced the living room. It was the kind you could stand smack in the middle of and still reach any of the surfaces—yet another selling point that Jason preferred. He nudged open an unpacked grocery bag with his fingertips, peering inside.
His nose scrunched.
“Why the fuck would you get me three bags of peas?” It was easily Jason’s least favorite vegetable.
“Those aren’t for you.” Roy’s head was in the fridge again. Jason glared at the brim of his hat.
“You don’t live here, Harper,” he reminded.
Roy straightened up and reached his arms behind him to stretch out his spine, gray t-shirt pulling taut across his chest. “I meant they’re for Mrs. Deauxmont, punk ass.”
“Who?”
Roy turned his head. “The lady who lives downstairs?” Jason looked at him blankly. “You know, yea high,” Roy gestured, “short, curly, gray hair, orange glasses?”
No, Jason didn’t know. He’d never spoken to any of his neighbors.
Christ. Of course Roy bought groceries for him and his elderly neighbor. Of course he was friendly with Jason’s neighbors despite not even living here. He was such a good fucking samaritan, and Jason yet again felt seconds away from cracking his fist against his stupid, perfect jaw.
(Or, more likely, getting up in his space and bruising the whole square slope of it with his mouth, because he was a constant source of embarrassment to himself.)
Fuck, Jason used to be the kind of kid that did that sort of thing. Reading to his neighbor’s little ones (even littler than he had been) when there was a screaming match one room over. Leaving water out for the neighborhood cats. Maybe he really had turned into a selfish, tunnel-visioned bastard since coming back.
Roy reached around him to finish unpacking. Jason circled around onto the living room side of the wall to get out of his way, standing between the barstools he bought to fit beneath the counter that extended into an overhang.
“Fine. Go bring those down and get out of my hair, then.”
He didn’t mean it. He just wanted Roy to start arguing so he'd have an excuse to shove him (to touch him, because apparently being royally peeved wasn’t enough of a deterrent now that Roy was actually here).
It really was unlike Oracle to be wrong about something like that, come to think of it. Roy's location, that is. Then again, she had said he’d been two minutes away from a Zeta tube. Maybe Roy had already been on his way over with Jason none the wiser.
Roy turned to face him, leaning his forearms on the counter with a surveying glance.
Roy didn’t fight with his bow and arrow much anymore, but his arms were still enormous (distractingly so). It looked like he recently added color to the tattoo on his bicep as well (the left one, obviously; his other arm was entirely mechanical) (Jason wanted to smooth his fingers over it).
“Happy to see you too, Jaybird. And yes, the gig went well, thanks for asking.”
Jason’s brow furrowed.
“What gig?”
“At Bowhunters. For Will? I texted you about it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Roy pulled out his phone. “Yeah I—oh.”
Roy’s screen was tilted just enough that Jason could see it. Clear as day, next to his last text to Jason, was the red exclamation mark that meant ‘message failed to send.’
Oh, indeed.
“Is that why you’re mad at me?”
“I’m not anything at you, Harper.”
“Well you are glaring. Currently. And you haven’t talked to me in three days—though I guess that explains it.”
“Truly, nothing gets past you,” Jason drawled. “But enlighten me, is there some other reason I should be mad at you?”
Roy snorted. “Like you ever really need a reason,” he said offhandedly.
Jason’s stomach swooped, clenching hot with shame.
Owch. Well, he supposed he might deserve that.
Roy pushed up off the counter and circled to join Jason on the other side of the overhang, plopping onto one of Jason’s bar stools. He lifted his knees to perch his sneakers on the rung, legs spread wide.
“Well it doesn’t exactly earn a vote of confidence from me when it takes you three days to notice we haven’t spoken,” Jason snapped curtly. “I could’ve been right back in my shallow grave by now for all you knew.”
Roy tilted his face up to him, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. It only made his biceps more prominent, his metal forearm glinting. “Please. I knew you weren’t.”
“Oh? How the fuck would you know that?” He meant for it to come off threatening. Instead, he sounded like a whiny child.
Roy shot him a skeptical look. “That a real question?” Jason bristled.
“You saying you keep tabs on me?” he accused, as if he hadn’t done the exact same thing half an hour ago. He knew he was just being a brat now, but he didn’t care.
Roy hadn’t been ghosting him after all. The knowledge seeped through Jason’s chest like a slow-working balm of relief. Three long days of pent up anger didn’t dissipate so quickly though. Jason had been pissed to hell, and he’d never figured out how to switch it off on a dime like his brothers could. His frustration still needed to go somewhere.
Roy rolled his eyes. “You know, funny thing about cell phones: they work both ways.” Roy’s metal knuckles brushed against the back of Jason’s hand. Lightly, almost accidental. Jason didn’t respond. He didn’t pull away though, either. “So by that logic, why didn’t you think that I might be in mortal peril and follow up?”
“Maybe I don’t think about you on my off-hours, Harper.”
It was a blatant lie. Roy knew it, raising an eyebrow like he’d just been issued a challenge. He leaned in toward him, his regular fingers sliding over Jason’s belly.
His eyes were a lighter blue than Jason’s. There was nothing remarkable about them (except everything, because they were Roy’s; because he looked at Jason like he was precisely his kind of trouble).
Roy had moles dotted all across his face. Jason had mapped them all: above his eyelid, on the center of his cheek, along the soft underside of his jaw. It was only from this close that he could see the golden smattering of freckles across the bridge of nose.
It smelled like he’d just showered, but hadn’t quite erased the scent of grease and gasoline.
Ugh. Damn his stupid, soft heart. Jason wanted him. He hated how much (and that Roy knew). Of course he knew. Arsenal had clocked Jason Todd from the moment they first met, and Roy Harper was not a man who missed.
Jason fought the pull of him, but it was a losing battle. Roy’s hand rubbing his stomach was good. Too good. He had Jason practically purring already, the bastard. Jason was too close to the tug of Roy’s gravity to do anything but surrender to it.
His lips were chapped where they slotted together with Jason’s. His breath tasted like he’d chugged an entire can of sprite on the way over. If he was anyone else, Jason might have minded.
The corners of Roy’s mouth tugged up as he pulled back, smug. Jason crossed his arms, scowling back at him as if it’d do him any good.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just enjoy proving that you’re full of shit.”
“Fuck off,” Jason muttered, even though Roy would know that meant he’d won.
Roy slid his hands over Jason’s hips and drew him close again, laughing as he lined his mouth back up with his.