Chapter Text
Roy pushed the kitchen door open with his shoulder — that last dramatic little shove, of course. As if he were crossing enemy lines instead of just coming back home.
Standing in the middle of the room, he let out a long sigh. The kind that doesn't carry just air. The sigh took the adrenaline away in one wave — first from his chest, then from his fingers that were still trembling slightly. Left only the exhaustion. An exhaustion that weighed on his bones, that climbed up his legs at immense speed, and the aches. Those old aches that now had a specific address: lower back, right knee, left shoulder.
You're not a teenager anymore, like before.
Of course, he'd already done his usual ritual. Climbed the stairs on autopilot, straight to the little one's room.
In moments like this, he mentally thanked Oliver (and the universe, and whoever else might be listening) for Oliver having adopted him and loving his daughter so much. Yes, they still fought from time to time. But there was one thing they both agreed on without needing to argue: loving that girl down to the last cell of their bodies.
Point for him. And point for Bruce too, who was winning the favorite-grandfather contest by a margin Roy preferred not to admit out loud.
He pushed the bedroom door slowly, with his fingertips. And there it was — the scene that always managed to pull a smile even on the worst days.
Lian was sprawled on the bed, one arm hanging off the side and the other hand clutching the blanket like someone holding a treasure. The nightlight was still on, showing just a small glimpse of her face — which was completely surrendered to a sleep so deep she wouldn't wake up for anything in this world.
He stood there for a while, in the doorway, just admiring.
He didn't need anything else. Just that image: the somewhat messy room, the nightlight casting shadows on the scattered toys, the ridiculously soft noise she made when she breathed — a little kitten snore.
It was his safe harbor. The living proof that the chaos outside, the drama, the cosmic wars — it was all worth it
She was okay. Safe. Whole.
In moments like this, he understood Bruce a little. No matter how much he disagreed with almost everything the big bat did, no matter how much he thought the guy was a first-class paranoid control freak — and the batclan by extension. But just considering the existence of a world where he lost his daughter… that already felt like hell. And just imagining what Bruce felt during the years he lost Jason sent chills down his spine.
Seeing Lian there — safe, deeply passed out in her dreams — calmed a beast inside him that he didn't even know was awake, ready to strike.
All good.
The relief came warm, sweet, filling the space that had been worry.
Now yes. Now I can dive into what really matters.
Roy sat on the stool at the kitchen island and did a sweep worthy of a CIA agent — and he did know a couple of them, so he knew what it looked like.
Eyes narrowed, neck turning slowly, ears sharp.
Nothing. No sign of life. Not a step in the hallway, not a snore from the bedrooms, not that annoying noise from the mansion's plumbing.
He checked one more time, just to be sure. Nothing.
His hand went to his pocket in a somewhat shaky movement — and he hated to admit it, but his hands weren't obeying properly, dammit. His fingers dove into the jeans, fumbling, until they found what they were looking for. A second of friction against the fabric, and then it emerged: small, red, velvety.
It looked tiny there in the palm of his hand. But to him, it weighed more than the sun itself.
Roy held the box and felt the moral weight crushing his palm. Because that small object carried the weight of a decision that could change his entire future. And to him, it was the most terrifying artifact in the universe.
Worse than a kryptonite bullet. Worse than a leaking flamethrower. Worse than a Tim Drake without coffee.
Worse than anything he'd ever faced in decades of villains.
He swallowed hard and opened it.
The click of the lid opening was soft, even delicate. But in the silence of the kitchen, it echoed like a cannon shot.
There it was.
The ring. Golden, simple, catching the weak light from the ceiling and returning a shy, almost embarrassed gleam — like someone asking permission to exist.
It didn't accuse him. Didn't pressure. It just… waited. Quiet on the velvet, with infinite patience, like someone who knows time solves things. Awaiting the answer from a stubborn, rough-around-the-edges, absurdly beautiful brunet who had the ability to turn an argument about coffee brand into an actual world war.
Roy sighed deeply, running his finger lightly over the metal.
He knew, of course, that after surviving THE DINNER™ — yes, with capital letters and everything, because that deserved an award — and getting official permission to date Jason, he had automatically earned semi-official permission for a possible engagement. It was like unlocking a level.
Bruce had looked him in the eye that night, with that weight of someone who'd buried too many people, and given his permission.
But that didn't mean, in any way, that he wanted the ENTIRE Wayne family to know about the proposal before the time came.
Absolutely not.
Because the Waynes, you see, are like a secret service, only with more money and more discretion — at least to outsiders. They're always watching. Always. You blink and there's already a camera recording everything, an ear pressed to a door, or a bug planted somewhere.
Roy thanked God they weren't his enemies, because it would be an endless hell.
That was why the simple purchase of the ring had turned into a military operation.
How did he pay for the ring? In cash? Of course. No credit cards, because that was traceable even to Tim — who could probably hack a toaster if he wanted to.
Any loose end, any crumb, could destroy everything. After all, they were the Waynes. They sniff out secrets like starving sharks.
He'd created a digital labyrinth worthy of the Minotaur to try to slow them down — or, at least, confuse them just enough to buy time. Suspicious transfers to various ghost accounts he'd opened in several countries. Random purchases in completely unrelated places. He even donated some money to a sea turtle conservation NGO, just to scramble things further.
May the turtles forgive him for the misuse of their cause. But something bigger was at stake.
And at the end of it all, after weeks of paranoia — a trip to another continent. Disguised. Sunglasses, cap, a fake face.
He walked into a small jewelry store, one of those old neighborhood ones. Bought the ring with cash — old, worn bills, not those crisp new ones that attract attention — and walked out with his heart nearly in his mouth.
All so he wouldn't leave a single digital trace. None. Zero.
Nothing linking Roy Harper to the purchase of an engagement ring.
And after all that, there he was — sitting in the Queen mansion's kitchen in the middle of the night, begging whatever gods were willing to listen (or who weren't too busy protecting the Waynes or, worse, spoiling them) to help him so that no one in that family found out about the proposal.
Especially Tim.
Because just imagining the possibility of Tim getting suspicious…
Oh my God.
The mere possibility of Tim getting interested already made his heart race and cold sweat drip down his neck. After all, anyone who'd ever seen Tim go into predator mode knew how scary he could be when he wanted to uncover something.
The image of that look was terrifying. Seriously. Not an exaggeration.
Tim had a way of analyzing you that made it seem like he was reading your soul — scrutinizing every movement, every blink, every suspicious breath. Roy shivered just thinking about it. Because if Tim decided to actually investigate him, there wouldn't be a stone left unturned of whatever he was looking for.
And then came the terrible thought: what if he decided to dig through his internet history?
Oh my God.
Nightmare fuel for a lifetime of nightmares. Because yes, he'd researched embarrassing things. Lots of them. Things he didn't even remember anymore, but that were certainly there, buried in Google's servers, waiting for a Drake with morbid curiosity and hacking skills.
But the worst — the absolute worst — was the search for "how to propose to someone."
Roy closed his eyes and felt the ground disappear.
He remembered that night. Three in the morning, in his room, alone, scrolling through anonymous forums full of romantic and cheesy ideas. He'd seen tacky, corny, ridiculous suggestions — and he'd written several down.
And worse: he'd commented on some. Asked for opinions. Questioned other users' sanity.
He imagined Tim finding that — the screenshots, the posts, the proposal ideas involving a white dove (no, Roy, no), involving a light-up marquee (okay, maybe), involving choreography (GOD, NO).
Ideas so silly that he'd considered them during sleepless nights, but now, if they came to light, would be blackmail material for life.
He imagined the terrible scene: Tim in front of him, with that irritating smile of someone who knows everything, a PowerPoint ready on his computer screen, showing the gems to the whole family. "And here, guys, look how cute: Roy searched for 'proposal with bow and arrow'."
And everyone laughing. And Jason laughing too — because Jason would think that was hilarious, and then he'd tease him about it for the rest of his life.
He shuddered again.
His mind was loud, chaotic, full of thoughts. Roy, despite being a hero, despite having reflexes that would make anyone jealous, didn't notice.
Didn't notice the kitchen door opening.
Didn't notice the dragging footsteps.
Didn't notice the presence of a certain archer complaining about patrol.
Oliver shuffled into the kitchen, more dead than alive. The night had been rough — he could still taste smoke in his mouth and feel the ringing in his ears from an explosion too close for comfort. He just wanted to attack the fridge, grab anything with sugar, take a shower that would wash his soul, and crash into bed before sunrise.
It wasn't too much to ask.
He went to the fridge on autopilot, his hand already reaching for the handle, when the corner of his eye caught a strange image.
Roy. Sitting on the stool. Lost stare, glazed over, the expression of someone who was a million light-years away.
And in his hand… a little box. Velvet. Red.
The dim kitchen light hit the object at just the right angle. Just a second. But enough. A golden gleam escaped between his fingers.
A ring.
A slow, huge, smug smile appeared on Oliver Queen's tired face. A smile that wiped away any sign of fatigue from that night.
Oh no. I don't believe it. The kid is going to propose to Jason. That's… that's incredible. Yet his expression showed nothing of his inner freak-out.
Roy's heart raced in a second. His eyes bulged like a cartoon character's. His mouth opened in a small silent "o" — no sound, no air, nothing.
His brain short-circuited.
In a fraction of a second, he snapped the box shut with a dry click and shoved it into his pants pocket with such speed and desperation that the damn box almost launched onto the floor.
Almost.
Luckily (or hero reflexes), he managed to catch it before disaster.
Roy stood still, panting, staring at Oliver with the expression of someone caught red-handed.
— Good evening, Oliver — Roy managed to get out, his voice coming out thin, strange. — Everything okay?
Oliver didn't move. Didn't run to tell the world, didn't pull out his phone to call Dinah, didn't do any of that. He just… continued what he was doing — but in a deliberately slow, dragging, almost cruel motion, without taking his eyes off Roy for a single second.
Roy felt his mouth go dry. His heart pounded like a cornered rabbit. But he knew that for anyone who didn't know him well, his expression probably looked like boredom. Maybe tiredness.
But Oliver wasn't just anyone. Oliver had known him since he was little. Oliver had taught him to shoot, to breathe, to lie to the cameras when necessary. Oliver would see through any crap he tried to invent.
The older man opened the fridge with the calm of someone who had all the time in the world, grabbed a piece of leftover pie from dinner, poured a glass of water, and set everything on the island — right next to Roy. The sound of the glass against the marble was soft, but echoed in the silence like a gunshot.
Before saying anything, Oliver took a bite of pie. Chewed very slowly. Swallowed. Took a sip of water.
And smiled.
It wasn't Oliver Queen's smile for photos. Not that rehearsed, brilliant, perfect-teeth, "I'm rich and handsome" face.
This one was different.
It was the smile of pure Green Arrow essence. The smile of someone who'd tracked a target through a dark forest, who'd smelled danger before it happened, who recognized exactly what was going on there.
— Roy. — His voice came out calm, almost sweet, but his gaze was intense. Surgical. The kind that doesn't let go. — What's with all the desperation? Hiding something?
There it was. The question. The one Roy had both hoped for and dreaded in equal measure.
Roy swallowed hard. The box weighed more than a ton. He forced a smile — the same one Oliver had taught him to use for the cameras, back in the press conference days, when he needed to look confident even though he wanted to disappear.
— Nothing! — His voice came out shrill. He coughed, tried to adjust his tone. — Absolutely nothing.
Seeing that he couldn't get Roy to talk willingly, Oliver decided to change tactics. Provoke a little. Poke the bear. After all, he wasn't a genius trained by monks like Bruce — but he knew very well what a ring looked like when he saw one.
— Let's see — Oliver began, his voice drawn out, lazy, dangerous — what comes in a little velvet box, is small, and made you almost have a heart attack when I saw it?
Roy's throat tightened in a dry knot. It felt more arid than the Sahara desert. Being discovered by Oliver officially was not in the day's plans. Or the month's. Or the year's, to be honest.
The plan had been to tell him later, when everything was set, when the ring was already on Jason's finger, when the dust had settled enough to handle Oliver's teasing. But not now. Not like this. Not in the middle of the night, with pie in the mix and that "I'm right" look on Oliver's face.
— Ollie, please…
— Finally! — Oliver cut in with a triumphant smile that seemed to light up the kitchen. — I was already suspicious. And it feels good to be right.
Roy blinked. Sighed? Relaxed? No. Relaxing. Impossible.
Because the realization hit in the same second. If Oliver noticed — if Oliver was already suspicious — then that meant every single member of the Wayne family definitely already knew everything.
Damian knew. Stephanie knew. Barbara, with her cameras, knew. Dick had probably already rehearsed a best man speech. Bruce… God, Bruce probably had a complete dossier with diagrams and colored arrows explaining every step of why he wasn't good enough for his son.
Oliver noticed the panic in seconds.
— Roy… — his voice came out calm, firm, cutting through the silence. — Roy. Take a deep breath and look at me. You're safe. Okay. Breathe.
Seeing that Roy was calmer, he continued:
— Dinah gave me a heads-up — Oliver said, slowly, measuring his words. — Don't freak out, okay?
Roy's tense body suddenly relaxed. The wave of relief was so intense he had to brace both hands on the counter to keep from falling. Dinah. Dinah knew. And Dinah had told Oliver. Only Oliver.
— She told me you came to her a few weeks ago — Oliver continued, picking up the water glass and sliding it toward the kid. — Asking very specific questions about jewelry you could wear even with a costume. Then, son, all I had to do was add two plus two and… here we are.
Roy let out a groan. Not just any groan — it was that mixed sound of fear, disbelief, and shame, muffled by the hands he buried in his face at that same instant.
— She PROMISED she wouldn't tell anyone! — His voice came out squeaky between his fingers.
— And she didn't tell anyone else — Oliver shrugged, grabbing another piece of pie and serving some to Roy. — Just me. And between us, I'm great at keeping secrets.
Roy slowly pulled his face from his hands. His expression was that of someone who still didn't fully trust the situation but was willing to listen.
Oliver tilted his head, the mischievous smile back, his eyes shining with that mix of amusement and pride that only a father feels.
— So… are you going to show me or not?
Seeing that there was absolutely no way to escape this interrogation — because Oliver had the patience of a fisherman and the stubbornness of a mule when he wanted something — Roy finally gave in.
Accepted his fate.
Reached into his pocket and pulled out the box. Held it for a second, staring at it as if it were a live grenade.
And then, with a defeated sigh, handed it to Oliver.
Oliver opened it slowly, carefully — as if the box might explode — and when the lid lifted… he was enchanted.
The ring was beautiful. Two curved bands — one pavé-set with diamonds and one smooth — intertwining. And in the center, a large diamond that, even in the kitchen's dim light, seemed to shine in all its splendor.
— Woaaah — Oliver let out, his voice low. — Roy… you nailed it. He's going to love it.
He lifted his eyes from the ring and met the kid's face. Roy was flushed, visibly embarrassed, but there was a gleam in his eyes. Anxiety, yes, but also pride.
He knew he'd chosen well.
Oliver looked back down at the ring. Felt a warmth in his chest at the whole scene. Because that ring in his hands wasn't just a pretty piece of jewelry.
It was a symbol.
It was the boy he'd watched grow up — whom he'd watched suffer, whom he'd watched lose himself, whom he'd watched fight to find himself again — and now choosing to spend his life with someone. Choosing to build a family.
Oliver knew he hadn't been the best father in the world. Not by a long shot.
He knew that in the most important years, when Roy had needed someone most to overcome his addiction, he'd pulled away. And when he finally got clean, Oliver wasn't there. And Roy started drowning in alcohol.
When he finally realized the mess he'd made — with a good right hook from Bruce as a wake-up call — he'd spent years trying to make up for lost time. Trying to fix things. Trying to deserve the title of father that he himself had thrown away.
Roy was embarrassed, that was a fact. Ears burning, eyes darting away, hand scratching the back of his neck — a gesture he'd had since he was a teenager and had never been able to shake.
But inside? Inside, he was happy.
Happy to have one more person confirming that the choice was good. Happy to share that with Oliver, to have this moment with him, to be able to show his father that, despite everything, he was on the right path.
— Have you thought about the proposal? — Oliver asked, leaning forward, eyes sparkling with curiosity. — Or are you going to wait until he's unarmed when you get down on one knee?
Roy laughed, embarrassed.
— I… have some ideas — he admitted, running a hand through his hair. — Nothing too over the top, I swear. But I still don't think it's good enough, you know? I wanted it to be special.
He sighed. The air came out heavy, loaded with all the doubts and fears that had been hammering in his head for months.
— But everything I can think of that's special is so clichéd it's embarrassing. Candlelit dinner? Cliché. Sunset on the beach? Cliché. Proposal on the stadium Jumbotron? God forbid, cliché and awkward.
He buried his face in his hands for a second, then looked at Oliver with an expression of pure desperation.
— And the worst part is that even my best ideas don't come close to showing how much I… how much I love him, Oliver. How do I fit that into a single moment? How?
Oliver listened in silence. The lopsided smile that appeared on his face was different from the others — not mocking, not taunting. It was a smile of pure understanding.
He rested his elbow on the island and said:
— Roy, let me tell you something.
Roy looked up, curious.
— When I proposed to Dinah — Oliver began, his voice drawn out, nostalgic — it was during a mission. That's right. In the middle of chaos. She had just saved my skin from a situation that, honestly, I wouldn't have survived alone. And in that moment, looking at her… I just decided it was the right time. I got down on one knee right there, on the dirty floor, with rubble all around, and made the proposal. No clichés. No planning. Nothing. Just… me, her, and the certainty that I didn't want to spend another day without her.
Oliver took a sip of water — slowly, as if he had all the time in the world — and snorted. That snort of someone who'd saved the best story for last.
— And let's not even talk about Bruce — he continued, his voice laced with warm mockery. — That dramatic big bat, who plans every step months in advance, who has contingency plans for everything… simply proposed to Clark in the kitchen. After Sunday lunch. With Alfred doing the dishes and the entire Batclan watching.
Roy's eyes went wide.
— What?
— Yep. Alfred told me. I'll give you the details later.
Roy laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, still stuck in his throat. Until Oliver placed a hand on his shoulder.
Firm.
The expression that had been light, amused, was now serious. The kind that didn't accept argument. The playfulness was gone. It became serious — that way Oliver Queen got serious when it really mattered.
— Roy, look at me. And listen. — He waited for the kid to lift his eyes. — The location doesn't matter. You understand? Doesn't matter. We're talking about Jason. He's dramatic, for sure — takes after his father in that regard, one hundred percent. But believe me: he couldn't care less about that. It could be in the middle of the woods. It could be on top of a building. It could be in the living room with Lian watching cartoons on TV. You know why? What matters to him is you.
Oliver didn't look away for a second as he spoke.
— So tell him the truth. Tell him you love him and want to spend your whole life with him. Because he'll say yes. For sure.
Roy looked away, focusing on his own hands fidgeting with the box — opening, closing, opening.
— Oliver… — his voice came out low, almost a whisper. — He deserves the best. Deserves everything. And I… I don't know if…
Oliver squeezed his shoulder. Firm.
— Roy. Listen carefully.
Roy looked up.
— He already has the best. Every single day he spends with you and Lian.
Roy held his breath.
— And get that stupid idea out of your head that he could choose someone better. You know why? You were the only one he let get close. The only one. After everything he went through, after all the walls he built, you showed up and he… he chose you. Opened the door. Let you in.
Oliver paused for a moment, letting the words settle.
— He loves you, Roy. And you love him. So muster your courage, swallow that fear, and make the damn proposal already, okay?
Roy was silent for a long moment. His eyes were fixed on the box, but his mind was no longer there. It was on Jason. On his smile, on the way he laughed, on the way he held Lian in his lap as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
It was on Jason. On the crookedness of his smile. On the way his laugh came out through his nose first before truly catching. On the way he held Lian in his arms — one hand on the middle of her back, as if she were a glass baby even though she was such a big girl, as if the whole world could explode around him and he wouldn't drop her.
Those words were the reality check he needed to push away his fears and see the present.
Roy smiled lopsidedly. A smile that was half amusement, half suspicion.
— Oliver… — his voice came out drawn out, distrustful. — Did you by any chance bet that I'd propose to Jason first?
Oliver laughed. A genuine laugh that shook his tired shoulders. Then snorted, shaking his head.
— I just want to have the pleasure of showing Bruce, for the first time in his life, that his preparation was worth absolutely nothing.
The smile on Roy's face grew. Gave him away.
Because, yes, he also wanted to see that scene. Wanted to see the look on Bruce's face when he found out that, despite all of Jason's training, all his paranoia, all that "expect the worst from everything and everyone," he was still going to be completely caught off guard by a marriage proposal.
— But — Oliver continued, and his smile changed, grew more mischievous — you're not the only one who thought of that, you know.
Roy frowned.
— What do you mean?
— Lian. — Oliver tilted his head, watching the kid's reaction. — She's asked several times, you know? "Grandpa, when is Daddy going to propose to Uncle Jason? He's taking too long."
Roy's world stopped.
His eyes went wide. Literally wide.
His pupils dilated, his jaw dropped a little, and before he could control it, his entire face turned red. Not a light blush, no. It was a deep red of profound shame — that for a second Oliver thought had even surpassed Red Tornado.
He lowered his head, burying his face in his hands again, but this time with a much louder and much more dramatic groan.
— Oh my God… — his voice came out muffled, desperate. — SHE ASKED THAT?
Oliver laughed heartily. Because, let's face it, how could you not love having a granddaughter like that? A miniature of stubbornness and cuteness, who bossed everyone around without anyone complaining.
— She said "he's taking too long"? — Roy's voice came out strangled.
— She did. And put her hand on her hip when she said it. Just short of stomping her foot
Roy ran his hand over his face. Then through his hair. Then over his face again — an endless cycle of shame.
— If even she noticed… — he murmured, more to himself than to Oliver. — If even she noticed, that means I've been stalling way too long. Way too long.
Oliver put his hand on the kid's shoulder, firm, and waited for him to look up.
— So? — his voice came out direct, no beating around the bush. — What are you going to do? And forget this "perfect moment" business, okay? Let it go. Take a deep breath and act.
Because the perfect moment doesn't exist, Roy. The perfect moment is what you create.
He gave the kid a pat on the back — a rough gesture, but affectionate.
— And from the looks of it — Oliver finished, a mischievous smile at the corner of his mouth — if you don't hurry up, Lian will end up proposing on your behalf.
Roy just smiled.
Oliver's advice, simple and direct, combined with his daughter's cute and relentless pressure, had dispelled the last clouds of doubt.
Everything he didn't need: elaborate plan, choreography, fireworks, rehearsed speech, perfect setting.
He just needed Jason. A place that meant something. And the ring.
That was it.
— She's already eager to call him "Daddy Jason," isn't she? — Roy asked.
Oliver returned the smile, and that look said it all.
— You have no idea.
— She's too much — Roy managed to say, his voice cracking just a little.
— Takes after her father. — Oliver gave his shoulder a pat. — Now go. Go upstairs, sleep, and tomorrow you start putting this into action. And when the time comes… you'll know.
Roy stood up from the stool. Put the box back in his pocket — now carefully, lovingly, like someone storing a treasure.
He stopped at the kitchen door and looked back.
— Ollie?
— Hm?
— Thank you. Really.
Roy laughed softly and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Oliver alone.
Oliver looked at the emptiness of the kitchen, at the water glass still on the island, at the plate with pie crumbs. And in a low whisper — so low that no one but himself could hear — he said:
— I'm proud of you, son.