It's Fine By Me (If You Never Leave)

by Skalidra

In the middle of a battle, Jason revealed to Roy that he'd never been on a real date. So when Valentine's Day rolls around, Roy takes it as the opportunity to fix that absolutely terrible fact. He's got everything planned out, and all Jason has to do is go along with the ride. - Earth-3 connected universe, Jason Todd/Roy Harper.

1. Chapter 1

This is part of a larger continuity of stories. Please consult my profile for the master reading list if you want to read them in order.

So! Way back in February, I said I was going to write something in honor of Valentine's Day. Well, I finally finished it just a couple weeks ago. It became an absolute behemoth of a thing, and it became amazing, and this huge character study, and... Well, the rest would be spoilers. XD

Warnings for this first chapter are: Open relationships, semi-public sexual acts, handjobs, dirty talk, and some mentions/references to masochism.

So, with no further ado, this is a follow-up piece of Jason and Roy's story, after 'Never Have I Ever'. The famed first date.

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"I feel ridiculous," I grumble, glaring out the window of the limo and trying not to fidget at the too tight grip of the damn black suit jacket's sleeves or the uncomfortable sensation of the tucked in shirt. I feel so dumb. "The news is going to swarm you and you're going to have a really pissed off looking date, you know that right? There's going to be so much speculation; so many headlines. We shouldn't have done this in Star City."

Roy's ridiculous need to take me out on a date aside — and on Valentine's day? Really? — it's a bad idea to be doing this in his hometown. He's famous, and maybe it's an ingrained Owl thing but I hate paparazzi and everything to do with them, and I really hate being scrutinized by anyone. At all. Not even Dick gets to study me as closely as the news always does.

"That's what you're worried about?" Roy asks, shifting on the seat next to me where he's got his right arm around my shoulders, and my arm hooked around his waist. It is nice to see him in something that isn't the Arsenal uniform, I admit. Even if that something is the same too-fancy suit and tie that I've got on because Dick's an ass and Tim — the little fucking bastard — backed him up.

'Have to wear suits' my ass. Fuck them both.

"I'm not worried," I tell him flatly, still staring out the window, and I can just barely see it out of the corner of my eye so I don't flinch when his lips press against the side of my neck. I close my eyes for a second, enjoying the touch even if I'm not real comfortable at the moment. "I don't like suits," I start, and then grudgingly admit, "and I don't like being judged. I go out with you here and I'm going to get stripped and picked apart by the news."

Roy presses a second kiss to my skin, and then slowly pulls away. He gives me time to not let him go, if I don't want to, but I'm not that damn clingy so I just look over at him instead. Part of me wants to ask why he pulled away, or why he's looking at me the way he is, but I grit my teeth and swallow the words down. It's not like I own Roy, and I damn well don't get to tell him what he can or can't do. That'd be hypocritical and fucked up of me, and we're just enjoying each other anyway. There are no official words here.

But I'm not sure I'd say no if he suggested using one.

"Come on," he says with a smile, "turn towards me." I raise an eyebrow, and his smile turns into what's almost a grin. "Humor me." I snort, hesitate, but ultimately do what he wants me to. I turn my body on the limo's seat — at least it's comfortable — to match the angle of my head, until I'm mostly tilted towards Roy.

He lifts his hands, holding my gaze as he reaches for my neck, moving slowly and maybe it should irritate me that he's treating me like a live bomb but, well, he's not wrong. I appreciate him being careful, and I seriously appreciate that he always seems to know the things I'll be questionable about allowing. Dick shoves against warning lines and then backs off when he starts to push towards the actual cliff, while Roy eases up to warning lines about as cautiously as if he were actually handling a bomb, and backs off the second I'm even a little bit uncomfortable. It's nice to have someone actually give that much of a fuck about my comfort zone.

His hands touch my throat — I tense a little bit on automatic but don't strike out at him — and easily find the knot of the tie around it. It's already loose, because I couldn't fucking stand the pressure around my neck when Dick cheerfully dressed me up — I snarled at him the whole time — and I nearly decked him, but Roy pulls it even looser and then off of me completely. I watch him, not totally understanding, as he drops it on the floor of the limo. He's still holding my gaze as he unbuttons the first three buttons at the top of my formal white shirt, and then slides his hands back and hooks them at the collar of the suit jacket, pushing it off my shoulders.

"All the way off," he says, teasingly commanding, and I'll deny it to anyone who asks but I really like the way his hands clasp down on my shoulders and his thumbs rub circles into my collarbone as I pull my arms back to tug the jacket off my arms. It's a comforting touch, and his hands are warm, solid, strong in a way most people wouldn't see him as. Even I tend to forget that though Roy might not be an Owl, and he might swoon, sigh, and play the fool, he's talented and powerful under all that.

The smile he gives me when the jacket drops is even warmer than his hands, and he slides his hands down my chest — which interests me a bit, but I hold back the nearly instant urge to kiss him because he's going somewhere with this — and grips the bottom, tugging the tucked edge out. His gaze finally drops from mine as his hands move to my left arm, unbuttoning the cuff of the sleeve and rolling it up my arm, past my elbow. He repeats it on the other arm, and then leans up and kisses me. My eyes close automatically, his fingers lingering on the inside of my right elbow, and to my surprise the kiss doesn't have the passion I'd expect from someone who practically just halfway undressed me. It's… soft.

He pulls back just a bit, hands leaving my arm to gently touch my sides through the shirt, and he's close enough I don't open my eyes as he breathes out in a pleased hum and then quietly says into the space between us, "Feel better, Jaybird?"

I do open my eyes at that, confused for a second before I link things back to what I said. I— I said I didn't like suits. I huff out a breath of amusement, reaching forward to run my right hand down his arm and leaning in to rest my forehead against his. "Yeah, actually."

I think — and I could be wrong but I like to think I've got a decent grasp of my own issues — that the tightness of the sleeves, collar, and tie were too much. I'm not much for being contained anymore, at least by things that aren't familiar to me. The tightness of my leather jacket across my shoulders is one thing, but pressure around my wrists that isn't something I immediately recognize? Not such a great idea.

Roy is…

Not knowing how to end that thought — an idiot, brilliant, kind, thoughtful, mine — I settle for pulling back just a bit to look at him, to be able to really see his eyes. "You don't mind being seen with someone scruffy as me?"

Roy's grin is instant, and somewhere between playful and the look Dick gets when he's about to play a prank on someone. Anticipatory, that's it. "Are you kidding?" he says, hands firming up a bit to stroke up my sides. "I like you better this way. Dashing as a suit makes you look, it's not really you, Jaybird." Something in me I don't want to look at too closely relaxes, and I lean the inch or so down — I'm taller, but my height is more in my legs than my torso — to kiss him again. He meets me, and there's the start of the passion I was thinking about earlier.

I raise my hands to slide into his hair, firmly gripping handfuls of it and appreciating the sharp inhalation and the tiny noise he makes into my mouth, his hands flexing against my ribs. I shift closer to him, and move my hands so my left is cradling his skull, leaving my right free to slide down his back and find the curve of his ass. Alright, so the black slacks he's wearing do look really good on him, even if they're never going to be the equal of the red leather of Arsenal. This is more dressed down — or up, I guess; whatever — and it's nice to be able to touch him without layers of padding in between.

He makes another small noise, and his right hand shifts to push lightly against the front of my chest as he pulls back just a bit. I can feel the tiny shudder of his shoulders, see the restraint in his expression as he swallows and finally opens his eyes.

"Do you mind, Jaybird?" he asks, and I squeeze his ass — it's under my hand, how could I not? — and watch him arch a bit, muscles tensing under my grip.

"Mind what?" I ask, and I might use the low, rumbling voice that I know he really likes.

His hands clench in my shirt, and he takes in a slightly deeper than normal breath in some kind of attempt to steady, or restrain himself, or something. It's tempting to make him lose it, but I hold back. Fun as it would be to fuck Roy in the back of a limo in his hometown, he's got plans for tonight, apparently. I'm not going to disrupt them, but it's still nice to see him affected by nothing more than a kiss, a tone of voice, and a single grope.

He swallows one last time, and then meets my eyes. "Me being seen out with you when you're not dressed up."

I startle a little bit, and I can see the instant reaction in his eyes to my reaction, but he doesn't say anything. He stays silent, hands against my sides, and lets me think about it. It takes a bit of time, but he just waits. "A little bit," I admit, not quite meeting his eyes.

It's not that I think Roy cares if he's seen with somebody obviously not a socialite by nature, or even that I think he cares if he's seen with someone who isn't elegant, and classy, and all those other words that mean 'stuck up as hell,' but I just… He's Star City's golden boy, like Dick is Gotham's, and I know what that means. Everything he does is going to get picked apart and dissected for any kind of spin that can be put on it, and that includes me. I don't want to be the mystery date who's clearly not up to par. I hate people trying to make me feel like I'm not good enough.

Roy stays quiet and still for a moment, and then starts to move. I watch, not really comprehending but not minding, as he grips my shirt, swings a leg up and over mine, and settles himself firmly across my lap before letting go of my shirt and giving me a warm grin. He curls down, laying a gentle kiss to the slice of my neck that's exposed by the undone buttons of my shirt, and then straightens back up while he casually rests his hands on my sides again.

"Then go ahead, Jason," he offers, still with that grin. "Start taking pieces off; however I need to be dressed to make you comfortable."

I blink, staring at him. "Are you serious?" I ask, kinda incredulous but that's totally my right. He's got to be kidding; there's no way someone else is going to voluntarily lower themselves down and look as casual as I feel comfortable. Especially not a golden boy of the media.

I mean, Roy doesn't exactly have the same reputation as Dick — perfect, charming, never involved in any kind of scandal, and all that nonsense — and he's definitely known for being in trouble a fair amount, but he's still a darling of the media. The same way that Oliver Queen used to be, before he started actually committing to his supposed 'job' and stopped being Star City's party kid. I haven't really looked up Roy's exploits, honestly, but I can imagine the kind of things he's been caught doing. I really don't know how much of that is for show.

Why would he ever compromise his image for me?

"Of course I'm serious." Roy's grin fades to a small smile, and he leans in to press another of those gentle kisses to my lips for a second. "You're way more important than the paparazzi's opinion of me, Jason, and why should I care what the media thinks of my taste? It's fantastic, thank you very much." There's that grin again. "I'd rather they think I couldn't bother to get dressed all the way than go out there and make you uncomfortable, Jaybird."

I swallow, staring at him, until he kisses me again with a little more heat. His knees press into the sides of my hips, and I bite back a groan at the feeling of the muscles in his thighs contracting. It's enough to stop me thinking about his words, and stop the loop running on repeat in my head that Roy thinks I'm more important than his public image. He really thinks that me being uncomfortable is a worse thing than him getting some uncomplimentary media coverage, and that's just… What the hell? I don't know anyone that puts my comfort over their public image. Not anyone.

"So," I start, when we part for a second, not opening my eyes and holding him close, keeping him close, "what if I just strip you down to boxers and socks?" I force my voice to be teasing, but the question tightens my throat all the same. It's not… I wouldn't. But would he let me, if I wanted to? If I actually wanted to strip him down that far would he go out in public anyway? They wouldn't let us in anywhere but…

Would he do it?

Roy laughs, bright but just between us, and his lips find mine for the smallest of touches. I fight back a shiver. "Then there'll be a lot of scandalized people and Oliver will probably have to put me on house arrest for a while to calm them down. I'd love to see the kinds of headlines they put on that story."

I pull him back away from me, opening my eyes and finding his. I study the look in them, trying to figure out how serious he's being, if he's honestly that alright with it. He looks amused more than anything, and the small grin twisting his mouth shows the same thing. "You'd let me do that?" I ask, quietly, and Roy watches me for a second — there are so many emotions and thoughts that flicker across his face that I can't read most of it — before he gives a huff of amusement and slides a hand up my chest to touch the skin at my collar.

"Well, you know," my heart sinks just a little bit, "I'd like to keep my pants, or shirt, or at least have you right there next to me in underwear. Ideally." His grin fades away, and he's completely, totally serious when he flattens his hand against my chest and says, "Yes, Jason. If it would make you comfortable then of course, sure."

He makes a sharply startled sound when I yank him towards me, sealing our mouths together and linking my arm around his waist to pull him closer, but doesn't struggle. In fact after that first second he eases into me, meeting my hunger with his own and clenching his hands in my shirt to do his own fair share of pulling me towards him. His thighs clench again, and I can feel the muscles in his back shift as he arches forward into me, his hands flexing like he wants to touch but is holding back instead.

I don't say it, the words stick in my throat and I'm not sure I'll ever get them past that conditioned block, but I try and convey how much I appreciate Roy through my touch. He's fucking incredible sometimes, and I don't— Christ I don't deserve someone like him but damn the world I'm going to cling anyway. We're not official, he's not getting anything out of this but good sex and someone a little bit more invested in watching his back than anyone else, but he still treats me like we're actually together. Like, for some reason, he doesn't mind caring for me and giving me all of these things, and not getting anything back.

Like he's just doing all of this because he wants to. I don't understand it but, well, damn the reasons. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

I just wish I could break down my own pride and paranoia enough to say thanks, or tell him how what he does for me, how he treats me, makes me feel wanted, and that's fucking amazing. Dick is incredible, and he's gorgeous, and I'm his so thoroughly I don't think I'll ever question that, but he doesn't make me feel wanted the same way that Roy does. With Dick it's all passion and lust, all the time, and there's family loyalty there but once the sex is done we're just family again. I can be there, or not be there, and he won't mind either way. If I want to get up and leave the second I can, to sleep in my own room or go off to work somewhere, he won't say a word to stop me.

But even when sex is finished between Roy and me, he still behaves like he wants me around. I don't know what the difference is between Dick's touch and Roy's, but there's something. When I'm in a bed with Roy, and I should feel that urge to get up and move, shower, be somewhere that I'm not open and vulnerable, I just don't. It's never there. I'm comfortable lying in a bed, listening to him breathe, and laugh, and say all kinds of things that don't relate, or have any context, or are just plain old ridiculous. And I can answer, or not, and he's warm and trusting and just there.

Maybe it's that I don't see Roy as a threat. Never have.

Roy makes a regretful sound and pushes just a bit away from me, shuddering. "We've got plans," he reminds me, in a breath that screams that he'd like to just forget the plans, and I smirk.

"We don't have to," I counter, letting go of my grip in his hair to rub along the back of his neck and down his spine instead. He shudders again, but pushes me a little more firmly away from him.

"No, first date, important. I made reservations and plans, Jaybird." His tone is a little more steady now, and his eyes meet mine as he opens them and tries to look serious. The smile tugging at his mouth ruins the effect. "There's sex scheduled for later, promise. But in a bed, with the right mood."

He's so ridiculous that I can't help the laugh that climbs its way out of my chest, and it only persists when he gives a scowl that I think is meant to be threatening but there's still that smile trying to curl his lips. It feels good, and when that smile breaks free and the fake scowl melts away my breath catches in my throat for a second as the laugh fades, because god, Roy is amazing. How the hell has he settled for just having friends-with-benefits relationships with an alien bitch of a princess and me, of all people? Why the hell hasn't someone good enough snatched him up yet?

"You laughing at me, Jaybird?" he says, teasing, and I snort and let my arms uncurl from his waist to rest my hands on his hips instead.

"Always." Anyone else, I'm sure, would be offended and pull away, but Roy only smiles a little wider and releases his grip in my shirt to reach for my hands instead.

"Good." His fingers lace with mine, and he pulls my hands up and places them in the center of his chest, at the closed button of his suit jacket. "Whatever makes you comfortable, Jason," he says quietly, holding my hands there even as he leans in and gently presses a kiss to the side of my jaw, lingering for a moment before he lets go and lowers his head to rest against my shoulder.

I swallow, concentrate on breathing steadily for a second, and then decide to take him at his word. Roy hasn't ever lied to me as far as I know, why would he start now? If he says that I can make him look as casual as I want to then he means it. He even said so. He just… I'll take him at his word.

Years of undressing myself — in suits designed to be difficult to take off — makes it easy to flick the button through its hole without looking, and Roy shifts to let me trail my hands up his shirt and push the black jacket off his shoulders. I pull it off his arms and let it drop to the floor of the limo, and then raise my hands back up to the equally black tie at his throat. A dangerous, buried part of me — the leftovers of the Lazarus Pit's madness — whispers how easy it would be to tighten that tie and hurt him, but I ignore it and keep my hands careful, gentle, as I pull it loose and discard it. I won't hurt Roy. I won't.

From there my hands go back to his throat, to the buttons of the green shirt that's a few shades darker than his eyes, and do the same thing that he did for me, unbuttoning the first three to leave a slice of his skin visible where it falls open. Lastly, I lower my hands to find his wrists, and carefully undo the buttons holding each cuff closed. I don't roll the sleeves back, or untuck his shirt, or any of that. He doesn't have to be as casual as me, he shouldn't be as casual as me, but I just didn't want… Looking like I do and being dressed up in a full suit is a big difference, and I don't want people judging me or looking down on him because of that.

I press my mouth to the side of his throat — ignoring the possessive urge to take his skin between my teeth and leave a mark, something to shout 'this is mine' and warn everyone else off — and lace my fingers back between his. He squeezes my hands, and I close my eyes and just breathe into his skin. He smells good, some kind of cologne that I can't pick the scents out of, but like all of us he's got those background scents that cling to his skin. Smoke and sweat, mostly. Roy's a ranged fighter, he doesn't get the same exposure to blood that most of us do.

"You don't have to stop," Roy offers, not moving or pulling his head away from my shoulder to speak, and there's a warm swell in my chest. I squeeze his hands briefly to try and give some kind of tell, but I've got no idea if he actually picks up on it. I'm never quite sure when Roy understands my body language and silent communication, and when he doesn't.

"Thought you wanted to keep your shirt," I respond instead, and I can feel his mouth curl into a smile even through the relatively thin fabric of my shirt.

"Prefer to," he corrects.

I shake my head a bit and pull away from his neck. "Well you're buried in my shoulder, it's not like I can actually see what you look like. Straighten up." I can feel him smother laughter, and when he obeys and sits up he's grinning, arching just a little bit as he tosses his head and tilts it to make his hair fall to the right and leave his neck bare. Which I have definitely commented on liking before, so he at least pays attention sometimes.

I make a show of studying the fall of his hair, and the inward angle to his shirt that shows off the fact that underneath those clothes Roy's actually pretty much all muscle. He's not an Owl, and he's not the match for the powerhouses like Kon-El, but he's more like Dick's build or mine. Good muscle, and he's not thin like Tim is, he's just focused on and built for speed as opposed to raw strength. Whoever dressed him or bought him clothes — I'm not crazy enough to think that Roy did it himself — knew what they were doing; the shirt definitely shows his build off, and it's a good color on him.

He actually looks really good halfway-formal like this.

"Nah," I say, forcing my tone to be casual in a way I don't feel, "I think you're probably fine like this."

There's something warm in his eyes and he pulls my left hand up to press a kiss to our interlaced fingers. "Glad I pass muster," he teases, and then glances sideways out of the window. "We're almost there."

"Are you actually going to tell me what the plans are?" He grins a little wider, and presses another kiss to my knuckles.

"I can, if you want me to, but I'd like it to be a surprise." His grin gets a little smaller, more emotions flickering across his face, and then he quietly asks, "Can you trust me to make sure you're comfortable, Jason? All you'll ever have to do is say something if you don't like it."

I swallow, holding his gaze, and come to the startling realization that, "Yes. I can." I didn't think that I had enough left in me to trust anyone that isn't family, and even most of my family I don't really trust. I mean, I believe that Tim and Damian will protect me if they need to, because family loyalty is everything, but really trust them? I'm pretty sure they'll never be blatantly hostile, that's about the best I can do. I trust Bruce, generally, and Dick pretty much always, and Alfred… I'll always trust Alfred with everything I am.

I didn't think I could do that for anyone else, but I really do trust Roy to stick to my comfort levels. When I think about the rest of this night, and the thought that Roy's got plans that he hasn't told me, there should be wariness and maybe even fear, but there just isn't. I haven't got the slightest concern that he's planning to kill me, or hurt me, or even that he might do something I don't like or want.

Roy's eyes widen a little bit, and then he gives a smile that's so warm and open it makes my chest ache, and leans in to kiss me. "Thank you," he breathes against my lips, and I swallow and nod. "All you ever have to say is 'no,' promise."

"Reserve my rights." It sounds like a joke, because I can't sound serious saying that and still hold myself together under his eyes, but he only brushes his lips against mine and pulls back.

"Always," he says with a smile, and then the limo is slowing, pulling sideways to a curb, and he grins and starts to shift off my lap. "He might be my driver but I don't think he's ready to see me straddle a guy," he jokes, not letting go of my hands until he absolutely has to break the connection to pull any further back. "You ready to start the night, Jaybird?"

I roll my eyes, taking in a slightly deeper breath. "Yeah, alright." It feels a bit like bracing for a fight, but I manage to not tense when the door on Roy's side opens and my archer flashes a grin and slides sideways and out. I follow him, admittedly enjoying the second where he's standing, I'm not, and his ass is pretty much in my face. The driver shuts the door behind us, as I take a glance around and raise an eyebrow at the building in front of us.

A movie theatre, lights bright and proudly displaying posters of all the latest movies. Or, what I assume are the latest movies. I don't keep up to date on most civilian things, and movies are kind of a big blank zone for me. There were nights as Red Hood that I threw movies on in the background as I worked, or just needed to destress and not pay attention, but they were usually pretty old things I'd either seen before or didn't pay that much attention to. After all, anything with violence always just makes me cringe and make faces, because everything is inaccurate and it bothers me that all the characters are incompetent fighters.

I can enjoy a good drama, or mystery, or even some comedies, but any real focus on violence or non-thinking romances and consider me out. If I'm going to check out of my brain for a while but actually pay attention to something else, it's gotta be for something at least a little worthwhile. Remakes of Shakespeare plays aren't bad, usually, even if they're ridiculous, and most things in the fantasy or sci-fi genre I can get through. At least those don't have inaccurate violence, just impossible or unlikely versions. I know how a fair amount of magic works, and the realistic types are pretty much never what you see.

At least there's no one around. No paparazzi, in fact even the ticket booth is shut down and empty. There's movement beyond the theatre's glass front doors that are obviously a couple of uniformed employees, but really it's just kind of… deserted.

I glance back when the limo starts to pull away, but my attention gets pulled back when Roy reaches back and takes my hand, starting to pull me forward towards the doors. He seems totally unconcerned with the lack of people — it is Valentine's day, right? Shouldn't there be all kinds of people all over the place, especially here? — and his stride is steady and confident.

I consider bringing the lack of people up, but instead just ask, "Really?" in the most sarcastic voice I can muster. Because honestly, a movie? Really?

"Trust me, Jaybird," he says, flashing me a grin and slowing down a touch to walk beside me. "I've got everything handled."

"I don't think you've ever got me handled," I say without thinking about it, and the surprise on his face that quickly softens into a bright laugh and a warm smile is… I never know what the hell this feeling is that bleeds into my chest, aches, and feels so damn good even though it takes my breath and hurts, but I don't want it to ever leave.

His smile flashes to a grin that's nearly wicked, and he raises one eyebrow. "I don't know, I think I do at least a decent job of handling you, Jason. You never seem to complain."

I tug his hand, pulling him to a stop and towards me, and damn whatever civilians might be watching I don't care if they see the way I grip the back of his neck and pull him up into a kiss. They can all go to hell if they mind. Roy is… This is mine, it's always going to be mine if I have anything to say about it, and this is one of the benefits I get out of it. I get to touch this ridiculous, idiotic, genius, gorgeous man, and maybe the greedy street rat part of me wants to cling close and snarl at anyone else who tries to touch him, but a kiss is probably a safer bet than doing that.

"Maybe you can show me later," I offer, as I pull back and he makes this reluctant, wanting noise in the back of his throat that makes my grip on the back of his neck contract, before I remember to ease back up.

His eyes flick open, and I get lost in the green for a second — but not in the way I'm used to, not drowning, suffocating, burning — before his voice pulls me back out of it. "Promise," he whispers, with a soft, breathy laugh. "That's definitely in the plans at least once."

I take in a shallow breath, releasing him to let him pull away even though everything I have screams to hold him close, and then take a deeper breath to try and control myself. I don't know what it is about Roy that makes me so… unguarded. With him everything is so bright and close to the surface, even when everything about the moment is soft and safe. The scariest part is that I don't think I mind that it's so hard to control my own reactions around him, control my own desires.

Not like the sex with Dick, where I lose the ability to hold back, but Roy just makes me feel… open. And I don't mind. I should, shouldn't I? My walls are there for a reason, shouldn't I care that they don't work to keep him out?

Roy pushes open the glass door, and holds it open as I follow him inside. The staff — three of them, two behind a fully running and stocked 'refreshment bar' and one standing in the center of the lobby — are all smiles, and I'm sure there's something judgemental going on in their heads but they're apparently good enough at their jobs in customer service not to show it. I'm not going to look too closely either; whatever they're thinking I don't want to know.

The door falls closed behind me, and Roy squeezes my hand once before letting go. "Grab whatever you want, Jaybird," he says with a grin, moving forward and off to the side to speak with the staff member from the center of the room. Manager? Must be. Might even be an owner.

I pause for a second, glancing around as my mind automatically catalogues exits and escape routes, before heading forward to the snacks and all the machines. A young woman meets me at the register, with a bright smile that barely even feels faked. "What can I get for you, sir?"

I glance along the menus and lists of items, raising an eyebrow at the pictures that don't look anything like the real products, and debating what I actually want. I'm vaguely hungry, but I'd bet that somewhere in Roy's plans for tonight dinner is involved, that seems like something he would do. So I probably shouldn't satisfy the hunger right now, but just grab something to tide me over until late. Or ignore it. It's not like I'm actually a slave to my stomach, I can ignore hunger for a long time.

Yeah, I'll just do something simple.

"Just a soda, thanks. Mountain Dew. No ice, and large."

She nods, gives a slightly larger smile, and heads back to fill the request. Instead of watching her, even though I should — people trying to poison me isn't exactly rare — I turn to watch Roy instead. He's obviously at ease talking to the staff member, but still catches my gaze when it turns his way and smiles, excusing himself from the company and heading towards me. I lean against the counter, watching him and appreciating the cling of his shirt and the taper of his chest to his waist and hips, and when he gets up to me he's got a tiny brush of red across the bridge of his nose.

"You look like you're stripping me with your eyes," he points out, under his breath, and I smirk.

"Who says I wasn't?" I counter, equally quietly, and that tiny bit of red spreads down over his cheeks. He rolls his eyes and smiles, looking like he's a step away from laughter. "Want me to tone it down?" If it makes him uncomfortable then I can stop. I like looking at him, I like the direction my thoughts take when I think about the angles of his muscles and the way his skin looks under my hands, but I've got a lot of experience controlling myself. I can at least not be obvious about it.

He shakes his head, leaning next to me and down against the counter, bracing both arms as he watches the two employees behind it huddle together and speak in hushed whispers punctuated with glances at the two of us. It should probably make me paranoid, but the young woman and slightly younger guy honestly just look like they're trading gossip. It doesn't exactly set off any of my warning senses.

I take the second that Roy doesn't speak to admire the curve of his back from how he's leaned down and, yes, the way the black slacks cling to his ass. Mostly, actually, I like the way his hair falls to one side and exposes the pale skin of the closer side of his throat. Weird it might be but that's my favorite part of the way he's positioned.

"Come on, Jason," he says, with a warm smile up at me. "You think I mind getting oggled by the hottest guy in at least five square miles? Nah, I think I'm just fine having his attention, thanks."

My smirk comes back, and I reach out to trace the line of his neck and brush my fingers through his hair. Yeah, the two employees are watching, but damn them both. This moment is mine. "I'll keep staring then."

Not that I think he knows what he's talking about. I mean, the hottest guy, me? Yeah right. I'm good looking, and I know it, but with the scars I've got there's no way I make the high ranks. It's different for Dick, even Bruce is ridiculously handsome, and Tim is pretty beyond words, but me? I'm the scarred up street rat, I didn't do the same kind of treatments and keep myself nice for the cameras like they did. It's not the same.

But it does feel good to hear.

Roy closes his eyes for a second, leaning into my touch, and then slowly straightens up and steps in next to me. He turns, backing up against my chest and leaning his head onto my shoulder, and I automatically loop my arms around his waist. I glance up, as his back presses against my chest and he rests some of his weight on me, and watch the two employees start back towards us. Hesitantly, and the young man with a flush across his cheeks that's a whole lot more intense than Roy's was, but their pace is mostly steady.

The woman sets my drink down, straw poking through the top of the plastic lid, and gives a smile that's only a little bit shaky — not out of fear, like I'm used to, but I think, maybe, desire? — as she meets Roy's eyes. "Can I get you anything else, sirs?"

"That's it, Jason?" Roy says, head tilting back to look at me, and I shrug.

"I'm simple, remember?"

He snorts and shakes his head, and I can see the corner of a grin as he looks back at the two employees. The guy is hanging back a bit behind his coworker. "Large popcorn, please, lots of butter." The guy moves to get it, and Roy nudges one elbow back into my ribs. "You can have some of that, Jason, if you want."

"I'll think about it," is what comes out of my mouth. Totally noncommittal but Roy has to be used to that by now. I keep my options open whenever I can, helps not to be boxed into anything. Besides, I really am alright with just a drink.

I know Roy's got all the Queen money behind him, and I've got my own private fortune even if I couldn't just tap into the Wayne money whenever I wanted — not that Roy knows that — but excess has never sat well with me. I wasn't Talon for long enough to actually get comfortable living the rich lifestyle, where if I didn't like the taste of something I actually got to ask for something else. When you're on the streets, or in Crime Alley, you take what you can get when you can get it. You save, and you eat only as much as you need to so you'll still have some for tomorrow, and I never got out of that way of thinking.

No matter how many times Alfred quietly reminded me that there would be breakfast in the morning, and I didn't have to hide snacks away in my room, I did it anyway.

Just because I've got the money I need — way more than what I need, I could survive on nothing if I needed to — doesn't mean that I just get whatever I want without thinking about it. I'm minorly hungry, yeah, but I know there will be food later so I don't have to eat now. Why would I?

It honestly doesn't make much sense, not even to me, and the other Owls have never understood it, but it's just how I am. Maybe someday I'll actually get used to having money, but I really haven't yet. I don't expect rich kids raised in wealth to understand it, and that includes all my brothers and Roy too. Sure, he was on the streets for a little bit, but not long, and he wasn't poor before that. I'm the street rat of the Crime Syndicate, I know that. I don't expect people to think like I do.

"Uh-huh," Roy says, sounding totally disbelieving, "sure you will. What's your drink?"

"Mountain Dew," I answer automatically, and I'm pretty sure he makes a face. At the least, he makes a noise that sounds vaguely disgusted. I flick my eyes up towards the ceiling, shaking my head just a little bit. "For the caffeine, Roy, not the taste."

He shudders — totally faked, it doesn't feel like a real shudder at all — but doesn't pull away from me at all, just returns his attention to the woman behind the counter. "You've got Fanta, right?" She nods, opening her mouth like she's going to speak, and Roy pretty smoothly slides in another question before she can. "What flavors?"

"Orange and strawberry, sir," she answers, and I can almost feel the grin light up his face.

"Strawberry please, large."

I nearly choke on a snort, and then shake my head for real as she turns away to fill up another cup. "You're judging me, Roy? Christ, that shit is gross."

"Hush, heathen," he says, twisting in my arms a bit to actually look up at me, grinning. "It's delicious, and if you don't want any you don't have to have it. Deal?"

"That's not a deal, that's being stubborn and drinking something that's totally nast—" He kisses me, right arm rising so his hand can grip the collar of my white shirt, and alright that's a fairly good way to shut me up, I guess. It works, anyway. Roy's not the only person that can shut me up at the drop of a hat, but he's pretty much the only one that can do it without getting snapped at.

Granted, Dick's preferred method of making me shut up is usually his hands abruptly being places they really shouldn't. Down my pants, generally. This is nicer.

"I like it," he says against my mouth, as I swallow and resist the urge to tighten my arms around his waist or spin him fully around to actually be able to kiss him the way I really want to. "Agree to disagree?"

I breathe for a moment, then give a soft snort and bow my head a little against his. "I guess I can do that," I concede, in a grumble that I really don't feel. "Still reserving the right to make you eat a mint before I kiss you again, if I don't like the taste."

He smiles, hand letting go of my collar and very gently touching my neck with just his fingertips. It's only a second that they linger, and I should tense, I should freak out in the back of my mind, but I don't. "You and me both, Jason."

"Here you go, sir." I look down, at the young man setting the large cardboard container of popcorn on the counter, as the woman heads back towards us. He looks pretty blown away, and just to see what'll happen I flash a smirk at him, with just enough teeth to be dangerous but not enough to really be a threat. He flinches, flushes, and jerks out of the way of the woman as she sets the drink down.

Interesting.

"Chocolate, Jason?" Roy asks, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. Yeah, I figured that he'd probably noticed too. Roy can be oblivious sometimes, but he's usually not. He is a genius, after all, even if you wouldn't know it unless you saw him firmly in his zone. He really shines in a garage, or a lab, with all his experiments and gadgets spread out all around him. That's where he's really happy, and involved, and he gets this glow to his eyes that's just gorgeous.

I shake my head, knowing he'd be able to feel it even if he didn't actually glance up at me like he does. "I'm good, Roy. Really."

"Then it sounds like we're all done," Roy says with a laugh, aimed at the two employees, and the woman — holding it together way better than the man — smiles widely and gently pushes the drinks together and to our side of the counter.

"Enjoy your movie, sirs."

I, reluctantly, release Roy as he shifts forward to grab his drink in one hand — the red I can see through the plastic lid makes me cringe a little bit — and the tub of popcorn in the other, and heads off to the right, towards a corridor that must be where the actual theatres are. I collect my drink, and resist the urge to smirk at the male employee again as I follow Roy, catching up to him with a couple slightly longer than average steps.

"So," I start, as we head into the corridor and out of earshot of any of the three employees, "there's no one else here." It's not a question, just a fact. "What did you do?" There's no way that a movie theatre is this quiet on the night of Valentine's day. No way. This has to be a serious night for them with all of the profit from dates and such, they should be packed. Why aren't they?

"Negotiated," Roy says, with a slightly wicked looking grin. "Queen money has its uses. I paid them upfront to shut down for the night, gave them a check for everything they earned last year." I swallow, and his grin fades to a smile as he shifts to the side and bumps his shoulder into mine. "I wanted to take you out, and I figured a loud movie, in the middle of a dark room, with a bunch of strangers, probably not a good idea. So, I got us a private viewing, so I could still take you out. I'm sure the media will show up when we head back out, but we're alone till then."

That's… I…

"You alright, Jaybird?" he asks quietly. "Cause if this was a stupid idea, or you don't like it, we can turn right back around and walk out. Swear I won't be offended, it was just a wild guess on my part and if I totally misread things just say something, alright? I mean—"

"Roy, shut up." His mouth snaps closed, and he comes to a stop in front of what has to be our door — number eight — as he turns to look at me. His hands are full, and he doesn't look real sure of himself anymore, and god this is…

"Please say something?" It almost sounds pleading, and he's starting to look like he's actually freaking out a bit so I shake my head and give half a laugh.

I settle on the closest thing I can think of that doesn't betray how much this just… "You're right. Me and strangers isn't a good combination." The words stuck in my throat are a combination of 'thank you,' and 'this is perfect,' and 'you're amazing,' but I can't force any of it out of my mouth. I just can't.

Roy eases anyway, smiling again and looking pretty seriously relieved, and then he steps back and shoves one side of the double door open with the back of his shoulder. "Yeah, I remember you mentioning you didn't like crowds, and some other stuff. I went from there."

He paid attention? Roy actually listened to what I said, and kept it somewhere in his head, and then planned a night around giving me all the 'normal' things of a date without actually freaking me out? That's gotta be bullshit. No one actually pays that much attention to me, not even my family. No one gives that much of a fuck about whether or not I'm comfortable, not anyone. Not even Talia. She's pretty much been the most considerate, but that's not because she cares, it's because she knows firsthand all about the Lazarus Pit and the things it can do to someone. She was trying to keep me sane, she wasn't actually concerned about me.

Dick and Bruce care, in their own weird ways, but we're Owls. Pushing the limits, ignoring pain and discomfort, being better, that's just what we always do. None of them, not even the little demon bastard, would actually purposefully target my paranoias, but none of them are going to go out of their way to keep from freaking me out either. If it happened, I'd be expected to work through it and not endanger the team. Period.

The idea that anyone would pay any attention to my stupid paranoid phobias except to be able to know when I might flip out on them is ridiculous. That someone would actually listen when I say I don't like things and then actively avoid those things?

"You remembered that?" I ask, haltingly following him inside as he holds the door open with his shoulder, still giving me that warm, open, smile.

"Well, yeah. Of course. You know, I do actually listen some of the time." He leads the way down the dimmed corridor, since it's barely wide enough to fit two people side to side, especially considering our shoulders. "And you're always worth listening to."

The casual way he says it tightens my throat, and I'm really glad I'm at his back because I have to close my eyes for a second to keep my breathing even, and my pace normal. Roy is totally nuts, that's the only explanation. Nobody sane would actually choose to be with someone as fucked up as me — and it's a fact that I'm fucked up, not an opinion — and only somebody totally crazy would actually cater to all of my weird fears and discomforts. Only somebody crazy would have listened to all the offhand comments I've made about what I don't like — apart from Tim, I've never flat out told anyone what I'm afraid of — and then actually remembered it.

Or someone who wants me dead, but I've never felt threatened by Roy. Not even a little, and I'm a damn good judge of character. If he'd been compiling a list of my weaknesses to use against me, I'd know.

I open my eyes again when Roy says, quietly, "Pick wherever you want to sit, Jason." He's still smiling as I step up next to him, taking a look at the rows of seating and mapping the room in the back of my head. "Even if it's all the way up in the nosebleed section." There's a teasing edge to his voice that stops me from taking him seriously, but I do glance all the way up towards the back of the room and the highest row of seats.

Actually… "That's probably best." Even though there's no one else here, having that much empty space behind me in a mostly dark room might gradually make me pretty damn paranoid. Having the wall at my back is usually a good feeling; no room for ambushes. Roy makes a face, and I smirk as I nudge my way past him and start up the stairs to the side of the rows. "What? You've got good eyes, don't you?"

"Fair point," he admits, and I can hear his steps behind me as he follows me up to the last row. "But in the middle, right? We've gotta be in the middle."

"Yeah, the middle's fine, Roy." Actually, the middle is best. More space and more obstacles between us and any theoretical angle of attack by someone else. It's just the way my mind works, it was the way my mind worked even before Bruce ever picked me up. He didn't teach me to be wary, he just taught me how to do it efficiently.

I step into the row first, moving slightly sideways until I reach the two middle seats in it. I drop into it, idly fitting my drink into the cupholder of the built in plastic arm to my right, as Roy takes the seat to my left. He sits a little more cautiously, probably because of the tub of popcorn, and mirrors my movements. I'll admit watching as he braces the tub between his knees and slots his drink into his own armrest. From there he turns back towards me, reaching in and pulling at the armrest between us before giving a crow of victory and shoving it up. It goes, flattening back between our seats, and he shifts over to press against my side.

I don't know what it is that makes me automatically raise my left arm to loop around his shoulders, behind his neck, or why the warm press of his body up against my side feels so good, but I try not to look too closely. I turn my head into him instead, closing my eyes against the orange-ish red of his hair and pulling him tighter against me. He makes a pleased noise, and his hand presses down against my thigh as he leans into me, head back against my shoulder and his nose just brushing the skin of my throat. He takes in a deep breath and wiggles a little closer to me, hand squeezing down on my thigh, easing into the wrap of my arm.

There's a faint whine, the startup of something electrical, and I flick my eyes open in time to see the lights start to dim. The screen down in front of us brightens with the green of a trailer, and the sound comes on with a crackle of speakers as some kind of drama movie starts blaring music towards us.

"Alright, so I figured you probably weren't much for romances, or action, so I just picked something else that looked interesting. If it's lame, I claim full responsibility."

I make a noncommittal noise, shifting my head to actually be looking at the screen. I probably shouldn't give Roy any more fuel by telling him that this is actually the first time I've been in a movie theatre. Legally, anyway. This was an expensive thing to a Crime Alley family, and a basic night out for a halfway edible dinner was way better than paying the same amount and sitting in front of a screen to watch something for a couple hours. I snuck in once or twice as a kid — and got my ass handed to me both times when I got caught — but I've never just gone and paid before.

Bruce and Dick weren't real concerned about giving me any experiences, and once I was Red Hood I really wasn't in any kind of a position to wander off and watch a movie. Even if I could have stood the dark, or the crowd, when I was still that insane with the pit-madness, why the hell would I choose to risk it when I could just prop my feet on a desk with my laptop and watch something there?

I didn't have fun as Red Hood, I just built a fortune and hunted the Owls. If I had any kind of 'fun,' it was from beating the shit out of someone and then receiving a very nice payment with a lot of zeros for it. I'm not sure I would call that 'fun,' anyway. It was more like satisfaction. I didn't go out and do things just to enjoy myself. I was busy, and the Lazarus Pit was still wreaking havoc on my mind anyway. There's no way I would have been able to calm down enough, and stay calm enough, to be out in public for that long without some kind of job or mission to keep me on track.

I'm not going to tell Roy that. He'll just make some kind of big deal out of it. Let him think he's only getting my first official 'date' tonight, and not my first movie too.

Once we get past the opening trailers, the movie is… Alright, bad is a strong term. It's not particularly interesting, even if the graphics are pretty good. It's fantasy, something about elves, dwarves, a war with some evil human king, and some chosen boy with a dragon. Standard fair, really. There are some faintly attractive actors in it, but I've got Roy Harper pretty much laying on top of me so faintly pretty people really aren't much of a distraction.

I pay less attention to the movie as it goes on, and more to the head of red hair under me and the shift of muscle against my side as he devours the popcorn and takes alternating sips of his drink between bites. I can't see his eyes from here, but he makes a few sarcastic comments at the screen, directed towards the actors, that make me smirk. I don't answer his comments, but they're entertaining to hear. More entertaining than the actual movie.

It's maybe an hour in — and somewhere in the middle of a bad romance between the main elf and the human boy — that I give up all pretense of actually watching the film.

I pull him in against me a little harder for a second, he takes it in stride, and then lean my head down to flick my tongue over the shell of his ear. He jerks, makes a sound somewhere between startled and unconsciously pleased, and I can't help the smirk that curls my mouth. I love his noises.

"Jason," Roy hisses, not turning to look at me even as I part my lips to blow a breath over his ear and then lean forward to graze my teeth over the top of it. "What are you doing?" He doesn't sound totally opposed to it, and he hasn't pulled away from me, and I'm going to take that as permission. If he really wanted me to stop then he'd tell me to, and he hasn't. Good enough.

"I thought you were taking full responsibility if the movie was lame?" I counter, in the low rumble of a voice that I know he likes, reaching in with my right hand to run it firmly up the thigh pressed up against mine. He twitches, dragging in a shaky breath, and his shoulder presses back hard into my chest, but it feels like reflex and not a message to get off of him.

"Well, yeah. But that doesn't—" He cuts off sharply as I squeeze the top of his thigh, just an inch or so away from the junction of his hip, and then shivers when I press my lips to the side of his throat and let my teeth graze across his skin. "Jesus, Jason, did you want something?"

I give a considering hum, kneading the muscle of his thigh as I raise my left hand off his shoulder to reach in and touch the side of his face, and then back across his scalp and through his hair. "Keep me entertained, Roy?" I whisper into his ear, and he jerks sharply and takes in another deep breath.

"It is a pretty lame movie," he agrees, slowly turning his head to look up at me, and I keep close enough that I can easily join our lips when he turns far enough towards me. He presses up into me, and I swallow back the urge to turn and pin him back against the seat. Instead I slide my fingers across the back of his skull and hold his head up, tasting the part of his mouth as I kiss him more deeply. He breathes between our mouths, and he does taste a bit like that nasty shit he calls a drink but it's not that bad. Worth it.

He softly groans, one of his hands closing in the front of my shirt, and he eases into me even as the muscles in his thigh and arm tense. I pull back enough from his mouth to press my lips against his jaw, and then twist my body towards him so I can lay a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his neck. I'm sure I'd be able to taste the salt of his skin, but Roy's drink is pretty much overpowering everything else in my mouth at the moment. I'm not really a fan, but there's not much I can do about it.

"So what were you thinking?" Roy asks, sounding a bit breathless, and just to hear the noise he makes I pull the fingers on his scalp together to grip his hair and pull his head back. Not yank, Roy doesn't like pain, but just pull enough to make his throat arch.

He doesn't disappoint.

The sound he makes is a shuddering moan, strangled down to a reasonable volume, that ends with a muttered, "Christ."

"You're giving me too much credit if you think I have this planned out," I comment, reversing my path back up his throat until I get back to his mouth. There's something about the strands of red hair against his pale skin that's just intoxicating, like the slight part of his mouth or the eased surrender of his closed eyes. I'm self aware enough to know that a lot of it is the trust.

The idea that Roy knows how dangerous I am, and how screwed up my head can be, but he'll still lay there with his eyes closed and let me do what I want to him. It's probably not smart, but he trusts me and it's so nice to have someone not be on guard around me. It's not like I expect any of my family to do that, in fact I don't expect anyone to. Owls don't drop our guards, not if we can help it, and not even to each other. We might be a little less guarded, but we still keep ourselves together. Any weakness is a vulnerability, and we're not selfless enough to ignore it in each other.

Yeah, I keep my own mental lists of what my brothers are afraid of, or don't like, or are just not good at. They do the same to me, I'm sure.

"Well," Roy says, sounding out of breath, "I haven't got any supplies on me, and we do have to go back out in public so we probably shouldn't be too obvious."

Fair point.

"C'mere," I demand, pulling him towards me, and he moves completely willingly. The popcorn gets relegated to the chair next to him as I part my legs and he settles between them, back to my chest, and it's not totally stable — we're decently sized, and the theatre chairs aren't really meant for two people — but it works well enough. His shoulders roll back against me as his hands find my sides and stroke down my ribs, head tilting back onto my shoulder.

There is nothing like having Roy in my lap. Not even Dick. Dick is never this pliant, or relaxed, and the chance that he'd let me have him in a position so obviously geared in my favor is pretty unlikely. Not impossible, but unlikely.

I slide my hands over his thighs, feeling the muscle beneath the pulled-tight fabric, and turn my head to bury my mouth and nose against the side of Roy's throat. It's warm, and he smells good, and I consider for a few seconds before raising my left hand to tug his shirt out from where it's tucked in. I can't do anything worthwhile with it like that, may as well get at least one obstacle out of the way. He gives a pleased sound, hands finding the bottom of my shirt and working underneath, stroking across my ribs with fingers that are just a bit rough with callouses. Archer, after all.

I slide that hand up beneath the green shirt, closing my eyes for a second at the feel of his bare skin under my fingertips. His abdomen clenches under my touch, and I squeeze my hand down over his thigh at the feeling of the muscles tightening and defining themselves beneath the hand on his stomach. He makes another sound, a low groan this time, and I kiss the side of his throat in answer, tracing patterns over his stomach and ribs, feeling the variation of scars as my touch passes over them. I know the marks carved into his skin by heart — memorizing them the first few times I saw him naked was automatic — and I don't have to see them anymore to be able to follow their paths.

He's a ranged fighter, so he doesn't have the same amount that any of my brothers do, and not even as many as me even though I've got less than the rest of the Owls — regenerative chemical baths are a great way to get a blank slate on scars — but he's not totally smooth. It's a fact of vigilante life, and I like him better this way anyway. To me it's weird when people like us don't have scars, it makes me defensive about my own and it always makes me assume that they must be — like Kon-El — either pretty much invulnerable or heal too fast to keep marks like that. Either way, that doesn't exactly make me want to let them near me in any situation I'm not totally in control of.

I raise my other hand off his thigh to undo his belt, and he arches up into my touch a little bit before his nails scrape across my skin and he relaxes back against me again. I flick my eyes closed for a moment at the very faint pain of the scratches, but I'm still not sure where Roy stands on the whole masochism thing so I hold back any other reaction. If he never figures it out on his own, I'm never going to bring it up. I don't know how he'll react, or if he'll freak out, and I'm pretty damn sure he wouldn't be alright with hurting me so it's not like there's a point in telling him.

Besides, it's not like I'm exactly craving it. A night with Dick is an easy way to fulfill that need, and maybe Roy always gives me these looks the next day like he's worried, but he hasn't said anything past that first time that he asked what happened so I'm not broaching that either. Roy always talks about what's on his mind. If he really wanted to know, he'd ask.

"So you're saying I shouldn't leave any obvious marks?" He shudders, sharply, arching again, and it almost sounds like he strangles back a moan at the question. It probably doesn't help that it's the same moment that I flick the button of his slacks open and pull the zipper down.

"Yeah," he gasps, "probably shouldn't." I make a noise that's something like acknowledgement, and swap my hands. My left lowers to cup the hard press of his erection through — of course; he looks a bit like a Christmas tree — dark red boxers, and my right slides up his chest, on top of his shirt. He bucks up into my hand, and I curl my fingers around the collar of his shirt and pull it to the side so I can lower my mouth to a spot of skin at the back of his shoulder, well out of view of anyone who isn't seeing him shirtless.

I don't bite him, even though that's what I'm used to doing and having done to me, but the gentler version instead. I close my mouth over the spot I've chosen and suck against it, rolling his skin between my teeth, and he moans and jerks a little bit, nails scratching over my skin again. They're blunt, carefully trimmed, but it still feels good. Roy bruises fairly easily — and the bruises stand out really well against his pale skin — so I only keep at it for a few seconds before letting his flesh and then his shirt go.

He pushes up into my hand, and I rub over the cloth covering his erection and raise my head to press comparatively gentle kisses to the side of jaw, and then below his ear. "Got anything to clean up with?" I ask, resisting the urge to go any further because this is actually an important question. I can't really go any further if there's not going to be anything to clean up with afterwards, apart from a cringe worthy walk to the nearest bathroom and I'm not down for that. I'd rather be an awful tease then do that, and I'm pretty sure he would too. At least, he won't appreciate having to make that walk in public and with the media only separated from him by glass doors.

"My tongue," he answers instantly and kind of dazedly, and I take in a sharp breath before he jerks and seems to actually realize what he's said. "No, jeez, napkins. I've got napkins for the popcorn. I'm not— Christ."

I shove my head into the comforting crook of his neck and shoulder for a second, swallowing and trying to ignore the sharp, burning, desire that just leaped to the front of my mind. Trying not to hold Roy too tight, or bite him somewhere more obvious, or jesus fucking christ. I'd pay to see Roy lick come off my hand. I don't pay for anything, and I damn well don't pay for sex, but for a sight like that I would make some really unfavorable deals and probably get myself in some real trouble. Just the thought is… fuck. Why the hell has that never occurred to me before?

Well, duh. I've got actual Roy Harper in my bed most nights, why the hell would I need to fantasize about him on top of that?

I take in a shaky breath and loop my left arm around his chest, not pulling my head up and not opening my eyes because I just—

"You alright, Jason?" Roy asks, and there's just a little bit of worry in his tone.

I tighten my grip for just a second — just the one around his chest, not the hand I've still got on his crotch and wow is he aware considering that — and move my head in something like a nod. "Yeah, fuck, just give me a second."

He laughs at me for that, snorting and then snickering, and I drag my head up far enough to watch him jerk and gasp — which cuts off that laugh — when I very purposefully grip his cock through the boxers and firmly stroke upwards. His gasp turns into a not-so-steady moan, hands flexing against my ribs. "Fuck, Jason."

"Was that one of your random statements?" I ask, not sounding all that controlled myself. "Or were you thinking it? Or…?" I want it to come out as a demand, but it kind of trails back off as the mental images in my head come back full force, and I actually shudder.

"Thinking about it," Roy admits, turning his head towards mine and I can feel his breath against my scalp and my ear and I resist the urge to stroke him again just to get his attention off of me. "But fantasies, and it just kinda slipped out and do you seriously like the thought that much, Jaybird?"

"Good image," I manage to say, into his skin. I can feel his cock twitch under my hand, as he shifts, and then his lips are against my ear and his right hand is rising off of my ribs. I stay still, not looking up, and his fingers touch the side of my face before running back through my hair. It's gentle, nothing like the hard pull of Dick's fingers, but it's good, it's nice.

"Well, not here, but if you want to add that to the list of things for later I'm down, Jaybird." My eyes snap open, and I can feel him smile, hear the amusement in the huff of breath he lets out against the side of my head. "Not a bad taste, and if mentioning it does this I really want to see what happens when I actually do it."

I swallow again, tightening my grip and then forcing it loose when I remember that Roy is normal and I can't compress his chest too far if I want him still breathing. Which I do. "You're serious?" I ask, hoping, daring.

"Alright, Jason, serious moment here." I raise my head, looking over at him because he actually does sound serious and it's a little weird. His green eyes meet mine, watching me for a second, and then he smiles. "If I ever tell you I'm alright with something, Jaybird, I mean it. Period. Never going to lie to you." He leans in and kisses me, fingers stroking through my hair and along my ribs. For a second it feels like he's going to say something else, I even hear him draw in the breath to do it, but then he lets the breath go and just smiles a little wider instead and presses up against me a little harder.

I'm curious what he considered saying, but I am not curious enough to stop this to go after it. Probably just something inane that was actually slow enough to get caught on what little mental filter he's got. Not important, and definitely not important enough to question it instead of paying full attention to the aroused Roy Harper in my lap. There's not much that isn't life threatening that could get me to stop paying full attention to that. Not that I know of, anyway.

I hold the kiss, grazing my teeth over his bottom lip for a second and then shallowly dipping my tongue between the rows of his teeth and into his mouth. I can feel him pull a breath in through his nose, meeting me halfway with his own tongue, and he's actually a pretty good kisser. Not many people are; it tends to get dropped by the wayside for actual sexual talents. Just to feel his reaction I give his cock another stroke, and the hitch of breath and the clench of his hand in my hair is satisfying.

"Napkins, huh?" I confirm, as I pull back, and he gives a small nod.

"Yep. Whole pile of 'em next to the popcorn. Come on, Jason." He sounds just a little pleading, even if I think it was supposed to be a demand, and I smirk before releasing my grip and — before his sharp little noise of loss even gets all the way out of his mouth — sliding my hand beneath the band of his boxers to reestablish it. He gasps, arches, and this time I don't even bother with the pretense of teasing.

My grip isn't as hard as the one I would use jacking myself off, or if I was doing it to Dick, but it's not gentle by far. Roy's one of us, and he's not fragile. He doesn't need to be treated like he's made of glass, and I don't think he'd like it if I did. He probably gets enough of people treating him like he's not up to snuff just because he's an archer, and not a brawler. Besides, if he really didn't like it, then he'd just tell me. Roy's already made it pretty clear that he's vocal about things he's not alright with or doesn't like. He might not be aggressive, but that doesn't mean that he's a doormat.

He'd never have interested me for more than a night if he was a doormat.

"Grab them," I order, also not bothering to pretend that I don't like watching Roy struggle to concentrate and pull himself together under the strokes of my hand. Alright, maybe Dick has rubbed off on me a bit. Oh christ. No. Well, yes, but I meant his attitude. And so has Roy's apparently. Fuck.

His hand leaves my ribs as he reaches out and gropes sideways, reaching for the popcorn and barely managing to graze it with his fingertips. The noise he makes in the back of his throat is small and maybe a bit pitiful, and I tighten my grip around his chest and shift us both over about three inches with a heave so he can actually reach the popcorn. He tenses up a little bit, but I'm not sure if that's at the shift of movement or the continued strokes. Either way, I watch under the curve of his jaw as his hand digs underneath the mostly empty tub of popcorn and comes up with a handful of white paper napkins. That'll work.

He arches, bites back what I'm pretty sure was some kind of a swear, and deposits the handful of napkins at the outside of my left thigh, where he then promptly rubs that hand down my leg, fingers clenching and releasing. Not hard enough to hurt, but it feels good, and more importantly it's visible and tangible proof that he's seriously aroused and having to hold himself together. That feels even better.

This; this I can do. Maybe I can't say all these stupid, important words in my head, and I can't show him that everything he does is seriously kind, and perfect, and that he's amazing, but I can do this. I can make him lose his mind, make him arch, moan, and fall apart, and I can keep doing it. Until I get over all my stupid conditioned fears and my stupid pride, this is how I can show him that he matters.

Because he does. God, he does. He matters to me in a way that I'm not going to look at, and I'm not going to study, because if I freak out I don't want to lose him. Not ever. If I just ignore the specifics until I can handle them, then that'll be fine. No risk.

"So what are you thinking to pay me back?" I ask, rumbling it into his ear, and he twitches and lets loose a sound that's definitely some aborted curse. I grin, but keep my mouth far enough away from his skin that he won't feel it.

He doesn't have to, god knows even this terrible movie is something I should be paying him back for — because he listens, and he respects my fears, and he sacrificed, compromised, made deals to give me this — but I just need something to talk about. Talking about this always manages to drive Roy past the point of no return a little faster, a little harder. I manipulate the advantages I have, and this is a big one.

Roy shudders, the hand in my hair tightening for a second — and it hurts and it's good — before he remembers himself and relaxes it to only be a loose hold again. "I think I remember promising you I'd show you how I handle you," he says, breathless, and I blink, actually taken by surprise for a second. I recover.

"Yeah, you did." I lean my head into the side of his neck, closing my eyes and focusing on the physical touch of him, on the way he sounds and the fast pulse beating through into my head. I don't need to see him to read his reaction to my touch. All the tells are in the way the muscles of his throat move as he swallows and drags in a deep breath, the way his hand rubs up my thigh and then clenches down when I twist my wrist at the top of a stroke, the sound he makes that vibrates through his throat and into me so I can feel it.

I bare my teeth a little bit, consciously drop and roughen my voice into a deep growl, and say into his ear, "Hand or mouth, Roy?"

That gets a sharp jerk of his shoulder against my chest, and another contraction of the hand in my hair. He stutters out a laugh, holding tight enough in my hair to hurt so I know I'm affecting him. Getting there. "Hadn't thought about it. Preference?" His voice is rough and distracted sounding, and underneath the arm around his chest I can feel that his breath is shallow and starting to get a little bit uneven.

Roy can hold back, he's got a good amount of stamina when he wants to, but I make it a point to push that as far as I can and push against every weak point I know he has. Besides, I don't mind lasting longer and I know he doesn't mind me lasting longer so what the fuck does it matter? Sex doesn't usually work like porn and fiction would make you think it does. Sometimes women come more than once, sometimes they don't, fuck, sometimes they don't come at all, and orgasms aren't bound by some magical force that makes everyone come at the exact same time. That's ridiculous.

Last however long you will, feel pleasure the way you want to, and damn everyone else. So long as the person you're having sex with doesn't care, why should it matter? Even if they do, sometimes the best response is to flash them a finger and leave them totally unsatisfied. If they're going to be an asshole, screw them. Or don't.

I twist my wrist a little more deliberately, he shivers, and I can feel his head arch back against my shoulder, muscle tightening against my cheek as his neck bends backwards. Again, I have to resist the urge to bite him. I really have been around Dick too long, considering biting is that natural and automatic a thing for me. It's not even about the pain, really, just the marks. Dick's costume is high enough on his throat to hide almost anything, but I know it's there.

One way street there. Dick doesn't much like marks showing outside of his costume, but he loves making me walk around with them the next day. I don't mind. I'm a little more monogamously inclined than he is, and he's got more of an image to uphold than I do. If I walk around with marks no one's going to do more than maybe wince, or smirk. If he does, it's news.

I make a low noise against Roy's skin, letting it be more vibration than actual sound, and he hisses a sharp, "God, Jason, please."

"Please what, Roy?" I don't give him enough space to put together a response, but that wasn't the point of the question. "Are you asking me to push you down to your knees and let you suck me off? You could wrap your hand around yourself and jack off while you do it, come on the floor. I'd wrap both my hands in your hair and watch, tell you how hot it looks to see my cock between your lips, how good it feels to be in your mouth."

He makes a keening, high pitched noise that forces me to swallow before I can keep talking, and I am so not ashamed to say that I'm thinking of training routines and meditative counts to keep myself in check and in control.

"Or are you asking me to pin you down against the seats and grind against your back and your ass until I'm satisfied, and maybe you'll get off humping against the cushions before I do, maybe not. You make such wonderful noises when you're desperate, Roy." He arches, jerks up against my hand, and makes one of those noises. Something soft and whining that turns into a cry that, luckily, blends in with a shout from one of the fighters in the battle on the screen. His hand is tight enough on my thigh that it might actually bruise, the one in my hair is a step away from yanking and god it would feel good if he did.

"Or do you just want me to stay like this, telling you all the things I love doing with you, to you, until you spill over my fingers?"

"Jesus, that one, please, Jason. Please."

Oh, fuck, that never gets any easier to handle hearing. I pull in a slow breath that shakes just a bit, and I'm pretty sure there's actual tension in my shoulders that shouldn't be there, but it's taking everything I have to hold myself back and I don't have the restraint necessary to force myself to relax right now. Sometimes I can, with Roy, but this is not one of those times. He's warm, and perfect, and gorgeous, and this is almost public and he's letting me do it anyway, so yeah. Not even my control is perfect.

I ease my right arm down his chest, swapping my hands pretty much seamlessly as I reach over and grab a couple of the pile of napkins. It's not necessary, not right this second, but I don't want to be groping for them when I actually do need them. Roy will not be pleased if I screw up and get any of this on his shirt. Alright, he'd be embarrassed, but he probably wouldn't actually be upset. He'd probably do something ridiculous like dumping some of his drink down the front of his shirt to cover it, and dodge the media through some back entrance.

I leave the napkins high on my thigh, and finally open my eyes again to watch. Feeling it is one thing, but there's also something very uniquely amazing about watching his chest rise and fall, and the shape of his cock where it alternately shows and doesn't through the stroke of my hand. It's enough to keep me quiet for another second, and make me devote a little more of my mind to the meditative counts, and remembering the exact positioning and form of basic strikes. It helps some; at least it keeps me from sinking my teeth into his neck and grinding up against his back like some kind of teenager. I don't grind or hump unless it's deliberate, and supposed to wind my partners higher.

I am damn good at this, thank you very much.

I slide my free left hand up underneath his chest, against his shuddering abdomen and tracing over the etched lines of muscles and old scars. "I love the way your hair looks against your skin," I confess, doing what he wants and jesus this is probably how Roy knows even half of what I like about him. I say all kinds of things when my mouth runs on automatic like this, and almost all of it is about something physical, but not all of it. "It's fucking gorgeous, Roy. The way your back arches when I touch it makes me want to pin you down on your stomach and see how loud I can make you moan by just touching, kissing, stroking. I want to leave marks down your spine and watch them shift and move when you writhe, beg for me to do more, to drag you up on your knees and fuck you."

Alright, maybe I talk for Roy's benefit, but I can't and won't lie to myself and say that it doesn't seriously arouse me too. Thinking of all the things that I could do to Roy, everything I've wanted to do or have and it was great so I want to do it again.

Sometimes there's more imaginative, intense sex, and sometimes it's not that way and it's good and wonderful but softer, and sometimes there's just not sex at all. Sometimes Roy comes into my room, or I go into his, and we just share a bed for the warmth and the comfort. It isn't easy having the jobs that we do, and there are times we just don't have the energy, or one or both of us isn't in the mood. It happens. The companionship is still nice, and maybe that means this is a little more than casual but I'm not going there right now.

He's making small, whimpering noises, and my thigh is definitely going to bruise but fuck does it feel good. I don't know what kind of sound I'd make if he pulled my hair, but it would probably be really obviously aroused. I kind of wish he would, even if that would probably prompt a whole talk afterwards about why I liked what clearly hurt.

"You always feel so good, Roy. Not just how it feels inside you, when you're hot and tight around my fingers or my cock," he gives a shallow gasp that rises into an intelligible cry, "but the way that your muscle stands out when you tense up and shudder. The feel of your hands on my back, or on my chest to steady yourself when you're riding me, the way you dig your nails in when you're close." As if in example, the hand on my thigh curls, and even though they're blunt the material of the slacks is thin enough that I can feel his nails. "I love how you sound when you're pleading, begging me to take things that one step further and really satisfy you. I love to make you ask but I love doing it even more," and there's another unintentional truth. "Watching you fall apart is amazing, Roy."

I swallow as he jerks and bucks upward, a deep moan rising through his throat before he gasps, "Jason, god, Jason I— I'm—" He's shaking a little bit, and I lower my hand off his chest to take the napkins off my thigh, holding them at the right angle and just an inch or so above him. Not close enough to touch, they're pretty rough and he's pretty sensitive, especially now, but close enough to catch anything.

"Look at me," I demand, pulling my head back away from his neck. It takes him a second, but he turns his head to look up at me, still pressed back against my shoulder. His eyes are glazed, hooded and alive with lust, and something in my chest warms and eases against my will. Like I've got no control over it. I don't know what I was going to say, what filthy thing or truthful desire I was going to let spill between my lips, but what comes out is:

"I've got you, Roy, I've got you."

He jerks, mouth parting and I can feel him throb in my hand so I lean in and catch the cry that leaves him inside a kiss, swallowing the sound away. My touch gentles, easing as he shakes and clutches at me, gasping against my mouth and coming into the napkin. "I've got you," I repeat in a whisper, against his mouth, as he starts to come down. He's faintly shaking, and as the last of the come leaves him I relax my grip, still holding him but loosely, and not stroking or moving. I crumple the napkin in my other hand, and barely even debate before tossing it the remembered distance to where I know the tub of popcorn is.

Roy was probably done with it.

His hands have loosened from their clutching grips, fingertips soothing over my thigh and the side of my skull in what I think is some kind of apology, so I grab the hand off my thigh and lace our fingers to stop him. He doesn't move away from the kiss, and I don't want to either, so I stay there. Slowly, gently, more a comfort than with any real kind of passion behind it. Not that I don't feel passion, because god I do and I'm sure he can feel me against his back, but it doesn't match whatever this is.

And this? This feels good, and nice in a way I don't really recognize. I don't want it to end just yet.

Roy makes a lazy, satisfied noise into my mouth, and I can feel his lips curl into a soft smile against mine. His fingers are still stroking through my hair, idly, and it's so different from what I'm used to but so good. I don't think anyone but Roy has treated me this gently since… I don't know. Maybe Talia, but I only slept with her maybe four times and most of that was nothing like this. She taught me a lot of what I know, but she's one of the few people who knows exactly how much I can handle, so she never bothered treating me like I was any less.

Not that I think Roy views me as 'less,' I really don't. He's pretty much constantly making comments about my skills and talents, so I know that he thinks I can more than handle myself, but in these moments the way he touches me is always so gentle. It's not familiar, not yet, but I'd be a lying bastard if I tried to say I didn't like it.

I carefully pull my hand away from him, not breaking the kiss and not looking down as I tuck him away and, one-handed, refasten his slacks and then the belt. He twitches, makes another of those satisfied noises in the back of his throat, but doesn't move or react apart from that.

His hand is loose in mine, relaxed, and I'm pretty sure I could manhandle or carry him wherever I wanted right now and he wouldn't care. He seems totally alright and content with just lying back against me, breathing slow and steady through the press of our lips. I'm almost content with it too, honestly.

Almost, because even though I have had so many lessons about, and so much practice at, controlling myself, it's not a perfect art.

It doesn't matter. I can hold myself back as long as I need to, and as long as he wants me to. I could even eventually calm down if I had to, and I wouldn't appreciate or like it but if Roy's not up for reciprocating then I can deal. I'm promised sex later, after all, and I trust Roy to keep his word. He's never broken it before.

Finally he pulls back a little, lips brushing the corner of my mouth and then down my jaw, until he buries his nose against the bottom of my jaw, below my ear, and hums into my skin. "That was good," he murmurs, stretching and arching in my lap like a cat just waking up, and I close my eyes in restraint for a second at the rub of his back against me. "You never answered."

"Answered what?" I ask, flicking my eyes open as I feel him pull a bit away from me. He meets my gaze, and there's something warm and soft in his eyes but also nearly wicked, as he smiles and the fingers in my hair stroke with a little more intent.

"Preference? Hand or mouth?" he asks, in a whisper, with a flick of his gaze down to my lips and then immediately back up.

I probably twitch a bit, and I'm pretty sure my mouth parts at the heat that rises in my low stomach, but I bite back any noise or real physical reaction to the question. "I think you know," I answer, and he gives a slow smile and leans in to press his lips against my jaw again. It's about at that second that my eyes travel across the seat in front of us, and glance at the floor, and then I flick my gaze up for a second. Yeah, nevermind. "But the floor's pretty nasty," it comes out in a grumble, "and your pants are nice." I don't quite meet Roy's eyes.

There's something about handjobs that makes me feel vulnerable, and usually I don't let people do that to me because I get that niggling doubt and fear in the back of my head, but it's not like I can't. It just takes… I have to trust the person doing it, and everything else aside I really do trust Roy. It's weird, it's hard to admit even to myself, but I do. I'll just have to keep my eyes mostly open, and be careful I don't hurt him by accident. I can do that, no problem.

Roy shifts, turning halfway towards in the seat, and meets my gaze, pausing for just a second before he kisses me. Pretty much chaste, and only for a second, before he pulls back with a smile and quietly says, "Thanks, Jaybird." There's no clarification, but I'm pretty damn sure that the thanks isn't for not making him kneel on the slightly sticky ground. Because Roy pays attention, and he listens, and I know I've said something about handjobs at least once.

That's one of the things that makes Roy fucking amazing. When I step outside of my comfort zone to let him do something, or so he doesn't have to do something, he knows that I'm doing it. He doesn't just take what I offer without a word, or do it and then check to see if I'm alright, he actually acknowledges that what I'm doing isn't totally comfortable for me, and makes sure I know that he appreciates that I'm bending my limits for him.

And he doesn't expect me to answer, or to say anything, or even to point out that I'm doing it. He just knows.

How absurdly fucking lucky must I be to get to be around someone who actually gives that much of a damn about me? I'm not worth it, and I know that, and I know someday Roy's going to find someone who isn't as fucked up and damaged as I am and that'll be the end of things. But until then I'm going to cling as hard as I can, because even though he deserves something better than me I'm too much of a selfish ass to let him go. I don't ever want to let him go.

Maybe the idea of that whole official thing isn't such a bad one. But then, fuck, what if he says no? To hell with it, I'm not changing anything until I either get some obvious sign he wants to, or he brings it up. No fucking way am I risking it.

If being an Owl taught me anything, if fighting them taught me anything, it's to not take risks you don't absolutely have to. Or, calculated risks that are almost guaranteed to go your way.

Roy moves, turning in the seat to be turned towards me as his left hand pulls free of my grip and his right pulls back far enough to not be awkwardly stretched in front of my neck, coming up to resume stroking through my hair on the opposite side of my skull. I close my eyes for a second, enjoying the touch, and tracking Roy's movements through what I can feel of it. His side angles up against my chest, weight resting on my left leg and the left side of my torso, and his free left hand touches my chest, firmly and making sure I know where it is, before sliding down my torso and to the waistline of my pants. His mouth is busy along my jaw, pressing kisses to my skin as the hand in my hair combs through, lightly scratching at my scalp, as he undoes the clasp of the belt and then starts on the button and zipper.

I raise my hands, letting my left arm loop around his back and my right come up to wrap my fingers around Roy's left shoulder. Not to stop him, or warn him, or anything, but just to have some kind of grip. It makes me feel better on some level to know that I could push him away if I need to, and that I have some kind of power in this even if it's putting me in a slightly vulnerable position. It's just to ground me.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat that's a low hum, something soft and soothing, and adjusts to be able to kiss me as he pulls the zipper of my slacks down. If Dick made that noise I would consider it condescending, I'd be pissed, but with Roy all it feels is genuine. It's not supposed to be anything pitying, or a sign of him treating me like anything but what I am, or him mocking me for my insecurities. It's just his automatic comfort in the face of a situation he knows isn't something I'm comfortable with.

I hiss out a breath when his hand carefully slips beneath the band of my boxers and wraps around me, tightening my grip on his shoulder and pulling back from the kiss so I can open my eyes. Roy is smiling, and he eases into me and lowers his head to my jaw and the side of my neck again, lips pressing in gentle kisses as I feel — in both his shoulder and the grip around me — his arm shift as he starts to stroke. I fight the ingrained urge to close my eyes, keeping them open and looking at the curve of Roy's neck and his hair.

Even if I forget myself for a minute, if I start to react or freak, I won't hurt him as long as I'm looking. No one else I know has that particular combination of pale skin and red-orange hair.

I slide my left hand up his back, gripping his shirt near the center, between his shoulder blades, and let the groan building in my chest slide through my teeth. I can feel Roy smile against my neck, and his grip firms up a bit. The touch of his mouth — gentle, soft, careful — is a counterpoint to the calloused pads of his hand, and the nearly rough drag of them as it moves. I let my head dip down, pressing into the skin I'm watching, letting my eyes close for just a few seconds to bury my face against his throat. Just for a second, to let a shaking breath out against his skin and take in another with his unique blend of scents. To stabilize.

I don't pull back far, just far enough to be able to open my eyes without getting his hair in them, and it's hard — no pun intended — but I let myself drift. I drop the eternal guard, drop the focus and the concentration that are just a conditioned part of me, and let myself slide into something easier and simpler. Just a simple enjoyment of the pleasure, unrestrained, with my gaze idle on his hair and not actually paying real attention to it.

This isn't a direct fear. It's not someone at my back, or a dark room, or an enclosed space, or being restrained. Keeping my eyes open isn't necessary, I'd probably be alright if I closed them, but having them open and seeing that red is a constant reminder that, even though this is a vulnerable act, the person with me is Roy. Roy who listens, who's never tried to use anything I've told him against me, who's never hurt me, never even threatened me.

If I can trust anyone, it has to be Roy.

I can feel the brush of his eyelashes as he closes his eyes against my skin, and the wash of air across my neck as he breathes slowly, steadily. "I don't care about my pants that much," he points out. "We don't have to do this."

I drag him closer to me in automatic reaction to the sharp, bursting swell of emotion clawing up my throat and hooking itself into every crevice of my chest. It's easier to mirror his position than face him as he gives a startled sound, so I press my face against his neck and let my eyes close. Breathing in his scent, tasting his skin against my lips, and taking a second to swallow down the surge of… I don't even know what it is. But I swallow it down before I say something stupid.

"I'm alright," I promise.

How fucking lucky can I be? What he just offered is probably one of the smoothest, simplest outs that anyone has ever given me. All I would have had to do to take it is make some jackass comment and push him back from me, and he would have gone with it. And damnit, if Roy can compromise and sacrifice to let me save face then I can damn well ignore being just a little uncomfortable. I'm safe with him, and it's time I got that through my thick head.

I can feel him shift his head in a nod, and then the curve of his mouth in a small grin. "Well, you know, I'd like you better than just 'alright.' "

I snort, but don't open my eyes or move away from his neck. I'm… I'm comfortable here. "Yeah?" It comes out more as a gasp, because Roy takes that moment to grasp a littler harder and twist his wrist right at the end of the stroke.

"Definitely. I'll settle for 'good' if I have to, but really I'm aiming for 'great' or better."

My hands flex on his shoulder and around my handful of the back of his shirt, and I strangle back a moan till it only comes out as a huff of breath. "You can probably get there," I counter, teasing.

Roy's lips press small kisses down the side of my neck, and the hand he has in my hair grips, briefly, and then eases back out to the same slow, idle strokes. "Maybe I can keep you up there, too. You know, by the time tonight's done I want you at 'satisfied' with a side of 'best night ever,' or I have seriously failed in giving you a proper first date."

I can't help the laugh that bursts out of my mouth, partially muffled against his throat but shaking my shoulders a bit so there's no way he can miss it. "You're ridiculous," I say, past the chuckles, and he makes a noise that's pretty obviously pleased, and maybe proud.

"Well yeah. Really, Jaybird, I thought you'd have figured that out by now. Then again, I'm totally the most subtly ridiculous person ever, right?"

There's something about the mix of his hand on me — still moving; our back and forth hasn't stopped it — and the laughter that makes me breathless, and happy in a way that feels free and natural. Nothing like the artificial high of some painkillers. It feels so damn good.

I tilt my head back and relax into the theatre seat, easing my grip on Roy. Me settling back does most of the work, but he also pulls back an inch or so to meet my gaze, mouth curled in something between a grin and a smile, but soft. Maybe the green eyes should freak me out, but they're a different shade, and the emotion in them is completely different, and even if they were the same this is still Roy. God, what would I do without him in my life? Without his jokes, and his ease, and his unquestioning acceptance of any and every fucked up part of me? I think…

I let go of his shoulder, raising my hand to touch the side of his face, to brush the strands of his hair that have fallen forward back behind his ear. He leans into my hand, eyes closing as he just smiles, and I…

Fuck, I think I love him.

I sweep my hand back and clench it in his hair, dragging him in for kiss because Christ, if he looks at me will he be able to see it? I can't face that right now. This is going so well and I don't want to scare him off, or away, or anything. I want him right here, with me, forever. I don't want to risk him seeing it in my eyes, or in my expression, and I don't know if I can control any of that right now. I won't say anything, of course I won't, and I'm damn certain that I'm not stupid enough to just say it by accident, but my expression?

This is new, this is completely unfamiliar, and I've got no idea how to get this realization off my face.

Love is… It's not real, it's just a word. But then what the hell is this feeling in my chest, this desire and this tenderness that I don't have any other word for? Love, it has to be. Isn't this what everyone is always talking about? Maybe it's just a stupid word but god if it isn't what I'm feeling I must be losing my mind again. This feels so amazing, and terrifying, and I didn't realize how much Roy had become part of my life until I thought about the pain of imagining a world where he's not part of my life anymore. It hurts to even consider it.

So I kiss him. Feeling the pleasure low in my stomach, rising higher with each practiced twist of his hand, and the heat of his mouth and his breath, and I hold him against me because I need time to figure out how to deal with this. I'm an Owl, I can control myself, and I can really control myself when the risk is losing the person who… Losing Roy.

I just need a moment or two, and I can buy myself that.

He meets my kiss without question, and my sounds — sharp inhalations, low groans, and the rare moan — are muffled between us as he winds me higher. I tighten my grip on the back of his shirt, and growl out, "Napkins," into the space between us. I'm not right there at the edge but I know Roy, and he'll scramble for them if I get close.

He makes a noise that's something like acknowledgement, and his hand comes out of my hair and pushes between our torsos, grasping at my thigh for a second, groping. His hand closes around the couple that are left over with a crinkle of the cheap material, and then he shifts in my lap — I don't let him pull away from the kiss — to straddle my thighs and face me, free hand pulling at the waistband of my slacks and boxers to pull them down far enough to free me and his other hand. I can feel him fumble a little bit, trying to arrange the napkins without actually being able to see the relative positions, but I trust him to get it right.

I smooth my hand over his back, almost desperately reaching down to find the edge of the shirt so I can slip my hand under it and feel the skin and muscle of his back. He makes another of those pleased noises into my mouth, hand jerking faster and just a little harder, and I fight not to curl my hand and scratch down his back. I stroke instead, following the curves and dips to the definitions, feeling it shift in time with his hand.

"Roy!" I manage to get out, and it doesn't sound like a word to me but he seems to understand it anyway.

He makes some kind of sound that feels like encouragement, and desire, and I fall over the edge. I gasp into his mouth, twisting the hand on his back so I can clench it into a fist without hurting him, keeping my hips mostly still through the wave and crash of pleasure. I shudder, trying to steady the harsh drag of my breathing, and Roy's hand is soft and careful around me as I start to come back down. Our mouths are still together, but when he pulls back a little bit I let him.

I don't open my eyes, leaving my head leaned back against the wall behind me, but by the crinkle of the napkin and then the slight sound of an impact with what sounds like cardboard, I know what he's doing. His hand leaves me, his lips press against my jaw, and then he settles down against me, head resting on my shoulder.

"No rush, Jaybird," he says quietly. "Relax, enjoy it. I'm totally comfortable just like this and we've still got at least like, twenty minutes left on the movie." His hands settle against either side of my waist, his weight resting completely on me.

I take about a minute to get myself under control again. I slow my breathing down, deepening and easing it out in slow exhales until my heart stops pounding. The fuzziness to my thoughts goes away, and leaves behind just the normal tired layer and bone-deep satisfaction that tempt me to call it quits and just sleep here and now. It is tempting, especially with Roy on top of me and obviously pretty much willing to just curl up and stay just where he is, but practicality does get its claws back into me after another couple minutes.

I drag my eyes open — in time to catch a flash of black on the screen in front of us; some kind of shadow dragon — and lower them, tilting my head down to take a lingering look at the relaxed arch of Roy's neck and the contrast of my hand still tangled in his hair. I carefully pull it free, tucking it all back behind his ear again and then turning my head to press a kiss to the side of his face, what isn't against my neck or too far down for me to reach. He stirs in response, and I can feel his mouth twist in a smile as his hands lightly stroke up over my ribs through the barrier of my shirt.

"All good, Jaybird?"

I make an affirming noise, not quite bothering with an actual 'yes.' Roy straightens up a few inches, enough to catch my mouth in a brief kiss before gently letting his hands slide down from my ribs to pull both my slacks and boxers back up.

I don't know if any of what I realized, any of this feeling clinging raw and new in my chest, is showing, but if it is he doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't react, anyway, and Roy really doesn't have the best poker face. He's not much of a liar, so I guess that means that I'm safe for now. I can figure out how to ignore all of this later, or how to shut it far enough away that no one ever needs to know. Don't fix something that isn't broken; what we have right now is more than enough for me.

The greedy, street rat parts of me hiss and demand that I cling to Roy and never let him go, want me to scream the declaration at him so he realizes his own importance and never leaves, but they're also scared stiff and god I could never tell him. Caring is dangerous, caring gets you killed and damn do I know that. It's a weakness, it's a vulnerability that other people can use against you, and I have enough of those as it is. I don't want to add Roy to that list. I don't want to make him a target for anyone with a grudge against me, and that is a long list of people.

"Jason?" Roy asks, and I jerk myself back to the present, away from the fear and this new certainty that I would kill, maim, and torture anyone who dared to try hurting Roy to get to me.

"What?"

He tilts his head, looking at me, and I realize that he's done fixing up my pants. Apart from the proof his untucked shirt, and the smell clinging around us, you'd never know what we just did. "You were kinda drifting." He smiles, soft and there's something knowing to his eyes that scares me, but his words come out teasing. "Guess I did my job, huh?"

An out. Permission and even an invitation not to tell him what's on my mind. The small smile that slowly curls the corners of my mouth up is real — I just, he's… God — and I raise my hand to gently cup his jaw and pull him in for another soft kiss. Just for a second.

"Yeah, you did." My smile turns into more of a smirk, and I tease, "I'm officially in the 'great' category, promise."

He laughs, and then braces a hand on my chest to push himself up as he swings his leg over, turning and settling heavily back into his unoccupied seat next to me. I automatically adjust to wrap my arm around his shoulders. "Good. Now I just gotta keep you up there. The movie's awful, and I totally took responsibility for that, but the next stop is gonna be way better, promise."

"Still a surprise?" I ask, turning my head to press my nose to the top of his head.

He snorts and immediately comes back with, "Well obviously. Take my plans as they come, Jaybird. Barring a random ambush I promise everything will be totally smooth, though we are going to have to deal with the paparazzi when we leave here, and they're gonna track us to the next stop. Crowd, flashing lights, people shouting questions and studying. You gonna be alright with that, or should I tell the driver to pick us up off some random exit door?"

He reaches for his drink as I think about it, and is swallowing his first mouthful of the horrendously red liquid when I figure out exactly what my answer is.

"I'll be just fine." I idly reach for my own drink, and the caffeine addicted part of me swears it can taste the caffeination in the Mountain Dew but I know that's just a mental trick. I know the depths my head can sink to when I haven't had caffeine in a few days, and the tricks my body's senses pull to try to get me to drink more of it. I set the drink back down and squeeze my arm around Roy's shoulders. "We're already going to set the rumor mills going, want to leave it at that or should we give them something to really talk about?"

He looks up at me, barely squinting and maybe a little mockingly wary, and asks, "What did you have in mind?"

"How attached are you to your reputation?" I counter, and he snorts.

"What reputation?" His legs stretch out and then he pulls them up and rests his feet on top of the row of seats in front of us. "Star City is pretty convinced that I'm the irresponsible son spending his dad's money and getting involved with all kinds of terrible shit. You know Oliver actually convinced the media I was an addict at one point?"

"Heard that, yeah." That was while I was busy trying to kill the rest of my family, but I kept up to date on the important players. Red Archer is one of Bruce's favorite subordinates, so I watched him closer than most others. I didn't really know Roy at that point, but the whole thing reeked of a cover-up to me. "It was some kind of cover wasn't it?"

Roy nods, head against my shoulder and gaze idly turned forwards, towards the screen. "Yeah. I got my ass handed to me and needed a couple months to heal up. He explained me not being around by telling the media I was in rehab." He flaps the hand not busy holding his drink in some kind of vague gesture, a small grin curving his mouth and flashing teeth. "Anyway, point being, I really haven't got a reputation. Oliver might be kinda pissed if you're like, stripping me on public television, but there's not much you could actually do to make them think worse of me."

That's good to know. It's kind of new to me as a way to keep a secret identity well, secret, but it makes sense. Mostly I'm used to the Wayne family way of having the perfect, smiling, eligible bachelors of the world. All, of course, far too busy to actually commit to anyone. Especially Bruce and, as attention shifted with the announcement, Tim, the new heir to Wayne Enterprises. It's good for him, really. Tim's definitely the most qualified of us to actually run a business. Dick would get bored, Damian's too vicious, and I'm legally dead even if I wouldn't start murdering employees within a week. Tim's got the mind for it.

"Then how about you just wait and see what I do?" I offer, smirking and not really expecting him to go for it.

Give up that kind of control, especially to me? I'm not exactly the most restrained, and I definitely haven't got a good record of doing what people expect me to. He'd be crazy to trust me with him in front of cameras, and risk whatever little reputation he's got left.

He looks up at me for a few seconds, and then nods. "Alright."

Of course, he is fucking crazy. Not my kind of crazy, but he just… I don't understand how he can trust me like that. He has to know I'm not worth all of this.

Roy leans up, kissing me softly, slowly, and smiling when he eventually pulls away. "I'm surprising you, right? Turnabout's fair play." Which is actually not such a weird way to look at things. I guess I can understand that, at least. "Besides, what're you going to do? Pants me?" His eyes widen a little bit, and he quickly adds, "Not a suggestion."

I shake my head, leaning in to catch his mouth because it feels so good to kiss him, and I'm going to take every single opportunity I can to enjoy it. "Nothing like that, promise."

"Then I'm totally looking forward to it." He edges a bit more on top of me, and pushes his head into the space on top of my collar bone, beneath my chin. "Now, have you got any idea where the movie was at?"

I grab my drink, vaguely returning my attention to the screen. "Something about two dragons, an elf, and some dumb human shit?" I hazard, mostly guessing.

Roy nods. "Yeah, that sounds right."

I tilt my head down and close my eyes, and Roy keeps talking — mocking the movie — but I don't answer. I'm just going to take these moments between us, where I have him all to myself, and I'm going to enjoy them. I can think about my realization later, and worry, and plan, and everything, but not now. Later. Right now all I want is to listen to his random comments, breathe in his scent, and feel him against me.

I don't need anything else.