For Koyshipping: “Thunderstorms”
It’s a terrible night to be in Star City.
The power is out across most of town – Roy actually saw a portion of the grid burst into flames, struck by a stray lightningbolt, and alerted the fire squad himself as he watched from a nearby rooftop. Star Bridge has been closed due to high wind advisories, and reports of flooding are coming in from all across the district; the night isn’t even over and this is already the worst storm on record in recent history. And yet, here he is, in the middle of all that, doing his thing, because the city’s criminals aren’t taking a break for a little bad weather so he can’t either.
And some part of him realizes he has to be crazy. To be up here in the eaves of the night, soaked to the bone and shivering, dodging the odd bolt of lightning with a quiver full of metal objects strapped to his back…it’s madness, plain and simple. Of course, every time that thought occurs to him, another part of him feels the need to point out that donning a mask and picking up a bow and hunting down the scum of the city under a ridiculous assumed name is not particularly sane regardless of the weather conditions, so he carries on, ignoring the protests of his aching body, chasing petty crooks away from shop fronts with powerless security systems, beating down the goons looking to take advantage of the uncommon dark of tonight’s alleyways, delivering the homeless and vulnerable to emergency shelters when they’re too disoriented to find their own way.
Despite the general emptiness of the streets, he gets into more than a few fights. Sometime during the sixth, he finds he’s going hand-to-hand more often than usual tonight, because the wind does not favor archers and his aim isn’t reliable enough in these conditions, but unfortunately, hand-to-hand is not Roy’s strong suit, and he’s faltering. His hands are slick with sweat and blood and rainwater. He can’t get any traction in the puddles and potholes to execute any of the throws he’s been practicing. On top of this, visibility is a big problem – the domino mask hinders his peripheral in the first place, and there are three thugs in this cramped alleyway, one of them with a nasty chain-like weapon that’s already carved a long, deep souvenir in his left bicep, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that he can’t keep this up.
He looks around for a retreat route, some kind of plan B, but there’s nothing.
Then one of the goons catches him upside the head with a thick steel pipe, and stars explode before his eyes, and he crumples back against the wall, bow clattering to the pavement beside him, and he gets the sick feeling he shouldn’t have stayed out this long.
He’s not sure if what happens next is real or if it’s just a really badass hallucination brought on by the pain and the outrageous weather.
A dark shape drops off the building he’s leaning against, lands in front of him with inhuman grace, and straightens out to face his attackers. Light floods the alleyway, blue-white light that makes Roy’s heart race with recognition and relief, and he lets his eyes slip shut as the surprised shouts of his attackers fill the air, along with the roar of rain repurposed and the tell-tale crackle of sorcerous electricity.
Then suddenly, it is quiet. It is dry. He is dry.
He opens his eyes. The rain has stopped – rather, it has been stopped, its downward rush diverted away from where he leans bonelessly against the alley wall. Smooth hands are running over his body, methodically checking him for injury, and for once, he doesn’t even have the energy to crack a joke about it, though he can think of several. He tilts his head up slightly as he feels his hair pushed back, revealing the congealing wound the pipe has left; he can’t quite bite back the whine of pain in time, and the offending hand pulls away quickly. A moment later, cool lips press a gentle, apologetic kiss to his uninjured temple, and he closes his eyes again, exhausted.
He isn’t sure when he loses consciousness, but when he awakes he is clean and dry, his wounds carefully dressed, his body encased in a warm cocoon of soft blankets. Kaldur lies beside him, unclothed and unashamed, dark skin faintly illuminated by the light creeping in through the filter of the curtains, and on impulse Roy shifts to drape the blankets over the Atlantean’s sleeping frame, to let them better share the moment.
Whether it’s the sudden warmth or the hand brushing across his shoulder as Roy adjusts the sheets, Kaldur stirs, eyes slipping half-open.
“Sorry,” Roy whispers, kissing his forehead softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Mmm.”
Kaldur seems too sleepy for words, but he nuzzles closer, cold breath ghosting across Roy’s neck, and the archer is suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of their dual identities, that the same man who channeled all the power and fury of a thunderstorm last night is now naked in his bed, drifting off against his shoulder like it’s perfectly normal.
And really, neither version of Kaldur is any more right or natural than the other. Maybe he’s just tired or concussed or there’s water still sloshing around in his brain, but as Roy watches the slow, even rise and fall of Kaldur’s chest, as he lets his fingers trace the outline of Kaldur’s tattoos a hair’s breadth from his skin and watches his gills flutter in response, he feels a surge of uncharacteristic tenderness for this man, his lover, his teammate, his best friend.
The life of a hero is always uncertain, but Roy hopes that before his time is up, he’ll get a few more moments like these: the calms between the storms.
