A/N: Long overdue. I almost wrote another chapter as a quick accompaniment to this, but I wanted to see your comments and reviews on this one first before I jumped into another one. I already see and end to this, it's all on how much I want to shove into the middle of it.

Disclaimer: I don't own.

Toxic

The television buzzed quietly with static while the two sat on the couch, barely speaking, only breathing. Roy had a pair of beers set out on the table, one for himself, one for Wally, and a cigarette was settled between his lips, the curling gray smoke twisting and twirling into the air before swirling out the window, carried by the whispering Star City wind.

"What movie are we watching again?" asked the speedster as some guy shot another guy.

"No clue." He reached for his beer where it sat on a coaster as if a ring on the table were illegal in his house. "I just know one of these guys is dying in the end." His bluish green eyes followed the men through their fight scene in a New York alley, one man ending up with a knife jabbed into his spleen while the other ran, only to get hit by a car moments later.

"Spoiler alert, sheesh." Wally reached past Roy for the cigarettes. As he leaned past the archer, he felt one of Roy's calloused hands in his hair. His fingers closed around the pack, and he drew one out slowly and deliberately before offering the small white package out to Roy, who declined and reached for his beer again to drain the last of the bottle.

"Hey, can you run out and get more beer?" Roy shook the bottle slightly, the last few drops splashing around before he drained it for good. "I think this was the last one."

"Don't you have that vodka from-"

"We killed that off last week."

"Damn."

"You can say that again."

"Damn."

Roy laughed for the first time Wally had heard in a while. "I didn't mean literally, Kid Stupid!"

It still stung. But less. He'd become accustomed to Roy throwing stuff out like that. It was more of a Robin thing with the playful insults, but something about the way the archer said it made the whole thing sound so much more serious and... meaningful. Painful, really. "Either way," Wally said as he got up to stretch a bit, "I can't go out to get the booze." His jade gaze watched the tv as it showed the stabbed man in a coma and the hit-and-run victim in surgery; he was just a bloody mess on a table. "Not old enough."

"Here." Roy leaned forward and reached into the back pocket of his jeans, fishing out his wallet and then digging around in the leather holder for a card. When he found it, he held it out to the younger ginger, who took it reluctantly. "I had this made last week. A couple guys owed me a favor."

In his hand, West held a fake ID. He looked it over, saw his age, saw how real it looked, checked over everything else for accuracy, and then looked at his picture, which was a little aged.

"Ignore the picture. Just tell 'em you had some work done. No one really cares after a while as long as you're paying." Roy sank into the couch and sucked in the smoke from his cigarette, the tobacco still hot when it touched his tongue. "There're a couple of twenties on the counter, so just run out and grab however much you can carry."

Reluctantly, he moved towards the counter and found the bill wedged under a black ceramic ashtray. Wally quietly drank in the smoky air and began to smooth out the bill, trying to delay the inevitable. He didn't want to say anything because Roy had done so much for him. The archer spent his money, his time, his efforts all to help out the kid who loved him more than anything else in the world. The green-eyed boy glanced to his older counterpart. "Are you sure? What if they don't-"

A slight tinge of annoyance caught on Harper's voice as he barked out, "Just go get the damn beer, Wally."

He really didn't want to do it. His face would be on cameras. Superspeed couldn't erase video. He bit his lower lip, still flattening out the bill. If the League caught him, he'd lose his position on the team, he'd be torn away from Roy, who could also get in serious trouble... "Are you sure you can't just-"

"Dammit, Wally, just go!" He'd turned quickly, azure eyes glaring fiercely at the freckled fifteen-year-old. Something of a snarl lay on his features, raw and feral. "You're faster than me, and it's not like you're good for much else." Near the end, he'd turned again to face the tv where the movie played on; the hit-and-run victim was dead. His fingers groped for the pack of cigarettes while his gaze followed actors on screen and flitted around slightly, searching for the lighter he knew had to be nearby.

Dagger. Through the heart. Shattered. Angry. Upset. Useless. He was so useless. The worst part was that he knew it. He always knew how useless he was, and Roy was the only one to say it aloud, how worthless Wally was. He knew. All along. But no one else would say it.

In five minutes, he was back with two twenty-four packs, curled up against Roy's chest, crying, eyes a bleary red. He clung to the archer's shirt, voice whimpering out "I'm sorry" every few seconds. He didn't know what else to do. He only knew that he wanted to please, a dog obeying his master. The speedster had his face buried in Roy's chest while the vigilante downed a bottle of beer in silence.

His only offer to the boy: a pat on the back, a hand through the hair, and a gentle "It's okay, Wally. It's okay." Because Roy had the kid's undivided loyalty, all of his attention and love.

Wally only had an alcoholic smoker that was convinced this relationship, this need, was love.

A/N: Review? I hate making Wally look weak, but it just felt appropriate…

~Sky

P.S. New chapter will be up ASAP.