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Bruce knocked once on the door, stepping backwards. He tucked his hands back into his pockets, hoping to ward off the January chill as he waited. Just when he considered knocking again, the heavy wood door swung inwards.
“Bruce.” Oliver propped a hip against the doorjamb, a tumbler in one hand. Behind him, the mansion was uncharacteristically empty. “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”
Bruce took a step in, following the billionaire into the foyer. “Jason said he was finishing up patrol with Roy. I figured I’d pick him up. They’re not back yet?”
“Nope.” Oliver shook his head, setting the glass down on a nearby table. He took Bruce’s coat with somewhat steady hands, hanging it up. “I guess we’re not that far away by plane, huh?”
Bruce felt his lips twitch, rubbing his hands together as they warmed in the heat of the front hall. “I came by car, actually.”
“Huh,” Oliver said dubiously, picking his glass off the table. He took a sip, gesturing them toward the sitting room. “In this snow?”
Bruce followed him, spirits rising as he spotted a fire in the grate. He sat in a chair near the fireplace, grateful for the heat he could feel radiating off the bricks.
“What’re you having?” Oliver asked, holding up a glass from the wetbar on the far wall. “I’ve got Macallan, Springbank, Dalmore 62…maybe I can dig up the Glenlivet–”
“I’m fine,” Bruce said, waving away the offer. “I have to drive.”
The billionaire looked strangely crushed. He set the bottle down, frowning. “In a few hours.”
“Thank you,” Bruce let a hint of authority bleed into his tone, “but I’ll have to pass.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased by the reminder of their…other relationship. “Suit yourself.”
He refilled his own glass, joining Bruce by the fireplace a moment later. There was a slight unsteadiness to the way he moved–a controlled sort of clumsiness Bruce could only chalk up to long term drinking.
Bloodshot eyes, he catalogued, before Oliver could see him looking. No slurring. No significant loss of motor functions.
“How was Roy’s patrol?” he asked instead of prying, crossing his legs. Oliver threw back a decent portion of the whiskey, swallowing without a flinch. “Anything interesting?”
“I wasn’t watching,” Oliver admitted, wiping his mouth. He shrugged. “Roy comes back, it’s fine.”
Bruce frowned, opening his mouth. The billionaire cut him off, holding up a hand. “I know, I know, Mr. Micromanage can’t bear the idea that someone other than him can operate without checking in, but I assure you, the kid is absolutely fine. Alright?”
“What if he needed help?”
“He has an emergency beacon for a reason,” Oliver waved a hand, pulling his leg underneath him on the couch. "God, Bruce, unclench a little, will you?”
“I am.” he said stiffly, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. He tapped out a quick message, slipping it back into his blazer. “Jason said they’d be back by ten.”
Oliver glanced at his watch, sighing. “So they’re a little late for curfew–”
“It’s almost eleven thirty, Oliver–”
They both turned as the sound of footsteps echoed through the mansion. Bruce was out of his seat in an instant, ducking into the back hall. Relief coursed through him as he spotted Jason, smiling as he dug an elbow into Roy’s side.
“–see if she’ll go out with you then, huh?”
“Fuck you,” Roy said, smacking away Jason’s hand. “You can’t even–”
He cut off abruptly when they saw Bruce. Jason sent him a smirk, peeling off his domino mask.
“Mr. Wayne,” Roy said quietly, averting his eyes.
“Please, Roy, I told you to call me Bruce.” Bruce smiled at him, hiding his suspicions. “How was patrol?”
“It was good, sir.”
“Seriously,” Jason said, elbowing Roy again. “Call him Bruce. Only the interns who wanna sleep with him call him ‘Mr. Wayne.’”
Roy went bright red, letting out a giggle as Bruce cocked an eyebrow. “A-alright. Bruce it is.”
“Roy.”
At the sound of Oliver’s voice, the humor seemed to drain completely from the boy. Bruce watched as Jason straightened next to his friend, fists clenching behind his back. Roy hesitated, inching slightly behind Jason’s shoulder.
“You’re late,” Oliver said, a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand. Bruce was frowning openly now. “You’re inconveniencing Bruce.”
“It’s not a trouble,” Bruce said, turning so he was in between Oliver and his ward, but still respectfully distant. “Really. I’m just glad you made it home safe.”
“We both are,” Oliver insisted, voice sharp. Roy ducked his head. “But, unlike Bruce, I want an explanation.”
Roy took a trembling step forward, slipping past Jason’s outstretched hand. “We, uh, ran into some interference on third street, sir.”
“I told you to stay away from third street.” Oliver said, his voice low. The hand around his glass was white-knuckled. “Are you telling me you didn’t listen?”
“There was a woman being mugg–”
Before Bruce could react, the hand with the tumbler flew out, catching Roy across the forehead. The boy crumpled to the floor, blood pouring out of the wound as the glass shattered against the hardwood.
For an instant, Bruce could only hear his heart beating in his ears, utter surprise rooting his feet to the ground. A half second later, he had Oliver on the ground, elbow pinned behind his back as he dug a knee into the billionaire’s back.
“Stay down,” Bruce said, pressing Oliver’s face into the floor. He kept his balance as the other man struggled to fling him off, digging his knee in harder. “You are way out of line, Oliver–”
“What the fuck,” Jason said, pulling Roy against the wall. He turned, meeting Bruce’s eyes across the room. “What the fucking fuck–”
“Get a rag,” he told his son, nodding towards the kitchen. “Keep pressure on that wound. Call 911, ask for an ambulance.”
Jason sprinted for the kitchen, leaving Roy alone. Bruce sent the boy what he hoped was a reassuring look. Roy met his eyes, looking utterly dazed. Blood poured down the left side of his face, stark against his pale skin.
Bruce grabbed Oliver by the collar, hauling him to his feet. He dragged the billionaire into the foyer, throwing him onto the floor. When Oliver got up, settling into a sparring stance, he sighed.
“Don’t do this, Queen.”
Oliver rolled his shoulder, jaw clenching.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
Bruce waited until Oliver circled him, tilting his head. When the archer dove forward, he turned and slammed a closed fist into his throat. Oliver dropped to the floor like a stone, his face purpling as he began to choke.
He unclenched his fist, shaking it. After a few seconds, he pulled his cellphone out of his pocket.
“…th’hell r’ya calling..” Oliver gasped, rolling onto his side.
“Hello,” Bruce said into the receiver, “I’d like to report an emergency. Yes.” He paused, listening. “Assault on a child. No, they’re not in the same room anymore. Yes, I’ll hold.”
Oliver staggered to his feet, propping himself up on the wall. He sent Bruce an ugly look, spitting blood on the floor. “You just made a fucking mistake.”
Bruce muted the phone, dropping his hand. In the distance, he could already hear sirens, mentally praising Jason.
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose League membership over this,” he said, voice low, “I have half a mind to revoke it right now.”
“What gives you the right?”
Bruce dodged another sloppy punch, kicking Oliver backwards. He parried a second flurry, slapping the billionaire across the face. He tumbled backwards, slamming back into the wall.
“I gave myself the right,” he said, breathing heavily, “when I inaugurated the League with two of the most powerful beings on Earth, ten years ago.”
Oliver wiped a hand across his face, seething as he continued to speak.
Bruce tilted his head. “Do you really want to test them, too?” he asked.
The ambulance pulled into the front drive, shuttering the front room in red and white lights. Bruce gestured at the couch, pulling the cell phone from his pocket.
“Get on the couch. You move, I’ll put your own arrows in you.” he said. Oliver complied, sitting silently on the leather as he stepped into the back hall.
Jason was cleaning Roy’s face, a rag pressed to his scalp. With a nod, Bruce picked the boy up, a hand under his knees.
“Don’t look at him,” he warned Jason, “don’t say anything. I called the police, they’ll deal with him.”
Jason, who looked like he desperately wanted to argue, nodded jerkily. Together, they walked to the porch, Bruce shielding Roy from Oliver’s view as they passed the sitting room. Jason’s hand was on his friend’s shoulder the entire time, squeezing tightly.
By the time Roy was loaded in the ambulance, Bruce’s anger had settled into a steady rage. Next to him, Jason was watching the doors close, clearly distraught.
“We’ll follow behind them,” he murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get in the car.”
“Oliver?” Jason asked, glancing back at the mansion. Bruce shook his head, tugging him toward the car.
“He’s not worth it,” he said, catching his son’s eye. “He’s not worth anything. Understand?”
“Fuck, if that’s the truest thing I’ve ever heard,” Jason said, belting himself with a sigh. He watched as Bruce fired up the engine, shaking his head. “Can we get the hell out of here?”
On the other end of the long drive, Bruce could see the red, white, and blue flashes of patrol cruisers. He pulled out toward the exit, jaw clenching.
“Let’s go.”