Chapter Text
Him. 1982.
If you ask Ollie, pretty boys ought to come with some kind of warning label, you know? Something to say, like, remember how your mama projected all her various issues onto you and taught you to never let yourself be emotionally vulnerable ’cause you can and will get screwed over. Well, this is it, this is the one, this is whom that was all about. Something like that, and it should have been slapped across Hal’s fucking forehead the first time Ollie had ever seen him, stepping out of that mess tent, brown curls and brown eyes and brown bomber jacket all soft and warm looking, in the light of the setting sun.
(Run before he destroys you! – and a smiley face. For emphasis.)
As it is, though, life ain’t quite that convenient, and Ollie is starved enough for some English-speaking company that he makes the mistake of calling out to him, for the singular reason that he’s the first face close enough to his own that he’s seen in weeks, you understand. Ollie’s jailers— sorry, guardians— have sent the errant Queen down to civil-war-torn Minglia, to find out why the hell their ammunition keeps going missing or getting blown up “on accident.” “Every crate of arms we lose is money out of your pocket, Oliver,” Walter Steele – acting COO of Queen Industries, and general douchebag overlord – had said. “At least pretend to care about the company, will ya?”
So here he is, pretending, and Hal Jordan happens to be the only other American on base, as he finds out when he shouts, “Hey! You American?,” and Mr Shades of Brown turns and waves and calls back, “Yeah! Hal Jordan. Who are you?”
Ollie strides over to him, holding out a hand. “Oliver Queen. With Queen Industries.”
Hal takes it, shakes it, his eyebrows leaping to meet his hairline at the name. “You’re the money? What are you doing out here in person?”
This close, Ollie can tell that the bomber jacket is military issue. The name patch on it reads, Jordan. “Call it a fact-finding mission,” he says, deliberately vague, on the principle of erring on the side of caution and all. “Didn’t hear about the air force getting involved in this fracas.” (The US government was backing counterinsurgency efforts here in Minglia, that much he knew, but – still smarting from Vietnam – their aid this time around was supposed to be a little more hands-off, just putting the right toys in the right kids’ hands, sitting back, watching ’em tear the playground apart among themselves.)
Hal blinks. “Oh, I’m not— well, I mean, I was, but not at the moment. I’m with Ferris Aircrafts? I’m a test pilot, they send me down to fly in the equipment for the Minglian government.”
“I see.” Wonderful – a peddler of the same trade, that trade being death and devastation. Ollie really wants a drink, the three-year sobriety chip in his shirt pocket be damned. “Say, what does a guy do for fun around here?”
“Well, there’s ping-pong, and softball…”
Seriously? Ollie can’t help but chuckle. “Hal. Buddy. Do I look like a boy scout to you?” He gets a nonplussed stare in response, so he sighs. “Women. Alcohol. Come on, you can’t be that young. Doesn’t anybody ever go down to the village… taverns, or whatever the hell they got out here?”
“Inns, and no. But I could lend you a chess board if you want, and there’s backgammon in the mess tent—”
“Backgammon,” Ollie repeats, incredulous. “Okay, how old are you again?”
Hal looks confused. “Uh, twenty-four?”
“And you’re not with the military.”
“No.”
“So you don’t have to take orders from anybody here?”
“Not unless—”
“You married? Is that it?”
“No? I mean, I have something like a girlfriend, I guess, we’re not officially dating, but—”
“Yeah, that’s not normal. You’re not normal. You’re coming with me.” And Ollie promptly drags him, protests and all, out of the base with him.
One shabby inn and a surprisingly small amount of drinking later (Ollie’s barely drunk, and shockingly still, doesn’t even mind it), they find themselves still chatting out on the wooden porch, the locals too wary of their uniforms to come anywhere close.
“—Call it rebellion. The government is friendly to the US, and the rebels aren’t. Simple as that.”
“Yeah, well, some of us have trouble being quite that flippant about military occupation.”
“I’m hearing this from the guy that owns the ’munitions outfit?” Hal stares at him. “You might just be the biggest hypocrite I have ever met.”
“On the contrary.” Ollie sends him a crooked smile. “I’m the only non-hypocrite in the world.”
Hal snorts. “How do you figure that?”
“I’m the only one who admits it.”
“…You’re something else.” Hal huffs an amused breath into his drink. “How old are you, then? You talk like one of those… hippie peaceniks.”
“I’m only thirty,” Ollie insists, indignant. “But hell yeah, I marched against Vietnam in my time. And I’d do it again. I don’t remember voting for—” he makes a vague gesture around— “This.”
“Me neither, but I did vote for the people that call the shots, so I can trust them to do their jobs right.”
“Come on. No way are you that stupid.”
Hal shrugs. Ollie braves eye contact and is more than a little gratified to see something like contemplation – if not remorse – in those unobtrusive browns. “…Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die…”
“Tennyson,” Ollie blurts out.
“You don’t have to sound that surprised.” Hal chuckles. “Yeah, I know it. A lot of soldiers and ex-soldiers will.”
“You don’t like it either, do you?” Ollie realises with a start. “Why do it, then?”
“My dad did.”
“You do everything your dad did?”
Hal laughs a little, though it rings hollow, and he makes a show of stretching his arms behind his head. “Well. It’s been fun, Ollie, but we better be heading back before it gets late enough for us to be ambushed and die a stupid death in the middle of nowhere.”
So much for that. “You go ahead. See you at mess tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Hal starts forward, pauses, and turns again. “One question.”
“Hit me.”
Hal squints at him, like he’s been called to the front of the class and Ollie is an impossible mathematical equation on the chalkboard. “How the hell does the heir to a billion-dollar fortune, built on arms, end up marching against Vietnam? Like. How the hell would you square one with the other?”
With a lot of alcohol, Ollie thinks and doesn’t say. Hey, he hasn’t seen a single woman in ages and Hal is plenty good-looking, so instead he grins, all swaggering, and all but sing-songs, “I’m full of mysteries.”
“…Sure,” Hal says again, less sceptical and more… considering.
Him. 1982.
Full of mysteries doesn’t even begin to describe Oliver Queen. Hal has just flown down, rigged out in full Green Lantern gear, has the ring pointed straight at his face, and this guy doesn’t even flinch. “I’ll only ask you one more time. What’s your name?” he demands, trying not to let it throw him off. The commanding resonance of his voice does absolutely nothing to unsettle the self-assured expression Ollie wears, however, and judging by the volumes that single arched eyebrow is speaking, the question – a last-ditch attempt to salvage his secret identity – falls flat, too.
“And if I don’t feel like telling you? What are you gonna do – hit me with your big, bad ring?”
“Something like that.” Hal goes for menacing. “Something very like that.”
Of-fucking-course he finds the hypocrite that rants about US imperialism over casual drinks making friendly with the rebels. To think Hal’s heart had almost stopped when he’d heard about that stolen jeep getting blown up. Turns out Ollie is not only still in one piece, he’s living it up in a little commune full of insurgents. This goes beyond flouting the rules, this is potentially treason.
“If you don’t start—”
He’s interrupted by a sudden whistling through the air above them, and on instinct yells, “Incoming!” – as he shoots a dome-like construct around himself, Ollie, and the mysterious old man clad in all-white. The man pales, seemingly more shocked by what the ring had done than by the missile going off metres away from them, but though his eyes go wide Ollie still doesn’t look afraid.
“That is just about the neatest trick I have ever seen!” he shouts above the noise of the explosion, gaping at Hal. “You don’t get a ring like that from a Cracker Jack box…”
Disconcerted, Hal tries again. “Last chance. Your name.” He curls a fist up to flaunt the ring, figuring it’s proven itself a genuine threat at this point.
Ollie only rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. If you’re not Hal Jordan, I’m Shirley Temple.”
Annoyed now, Hal shoots a hand-shaped construct out of the ring which grabs both Ollie and his companion and lifts them up into the air with him. The old man looks about to faint at this point. Ollie, on the other hand, stares like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time.
“This is even neater than the last stunt! What kind of boxtop do I have to send in to get me one of those rings?”
“Somebody probably told you that you’re funny. They lied.” Hal glares. “Any reason I shouldn’t turn you over to the government as a traitor?”
“Well, for starters, I’m not a traitor, even by your definition. The US has never declared war on this country. We’re here to advise – and, oh yeah, to supply arms to the herd of goons who are depriving innocent farmers of their rights.”
“Innocent farmers? Lawless rebels! They tried to shoot down that last bomber we brought in – with me still in it. They’ve been copping your supplies, and detonating whatever’s left— they blew up the jeep you stole to do… whatever it is you do in that, that Robin Hood getup.”
“Open your eyes, already, Jordan! The bomber you brought in literally just tried to kill us – and my supplies? A nun – who was running her own care centre for village children so traumatised by the shit they’ve seen in this hellhole that they can’t even speak – a nun just accidentally stepped on one of my supplies and fucking died.” Ollie’s voice is trembling with awful rage, and his eyes are blazing. He’s only armed with a bow and arrows, yet somehow, Hal can feel his heart hammering a lot more than Ollie’s seemed to, while faced with the ring. “They didn’t blow up the jeep, I blew up the jeep – by driving it over one of the landmines your general planted, all around the so-called rebel camps. There’s children and elderly in here, for fuck’s sake! These people pulled me out of the wreckage and saved my life, if you call them lawless rebels, well, so was Washington and that 1776 bunch of outlaws.”
“Look, I get it, you don’t like that there’s innocent casualties in this conflict. I don’t, either! But that doesn’t change the fact that the broader cause here is—”
“Is what? Is democratic? Is liberating? Is just?” Ollie makes a violent, sweeping gesture toward the man still caught in Hal’s other plasmic fist. “I’ll show you just. This here’s Than. He’s a monk. He’s here to arrange peace talks between the government and the freedom fighters. The fucking UN knows all about him – call someone at the embassy and verify it, if you want. If I lied, you can skin me alive. Or worse – I’ll play backgammon with you.”
Hal’s eyes flick to the monk, uncertain. “…So?”
“So, how come your precious Ferris bomber knew to drop in on the camp where he’s known to be passing through, and no other camp in the vicinity? You have their Intel. You know they know more rebel hideaways than this one.”
“What are you saying…? That the counterinsurgents don’t want the peace talks to happen?”
“Why would they?” Ollie snorts. “The day the hostilities end, the cash cow dies. No more sudden influx of money from sympathetic foreign shmucks like us. No more lining pockets like mine for more mass-murder weapons.”
Hal frowns. “That’s a tall claim to be making with no proof.”
“We have… proof,” the monk speaks up at last, in careful, halting English. “We have, what you would call counterintelligence. Tapes that General Zho wishes me dead. Possible… unrest, planned for the summit. No more than this.”
“Nothing that can touch the American corporations, he means.” The passion in Ollie’s eyes dulls into something almost self-loathing. “But it’s a start. Hal, put me down. Believe us and help us or don’t, I don’t care. You can go call headquarters on me after you put me down, just… give us a chance to bury the dead here.”
It’s the genuine grief in his face and in his voice that makes Hal relent. Whatever else Ollie may turn out to be, dishonest was not it, and Hal is dead certain of that, all of a sudden. He carefully lowers them all, and then sends a solemn nod in Ollie’s direction. “I’ll confirm what you said. If you’re lying to me…”
“Do what you want,” Ollie answers. He doesn’t snap, but it’s no less dismissive.
And maybe a little disappointed, Hal thinks, idly wondering why.
It does turn out that the counterinsurgency is a total sham, but even when Hal switches sides Ollie gives him the silent treatment well until the summit. And even then, he doesn’t say more than what is strictly necessary for Green Arrow and Green Lantern to coordinate their efforts to help thwart Zho’s coup. It awakens a sinking feeling in his gut which only makes Hal defensive. What does he care what a complete and utter— a self-righteous, hypocritical— rich, white, privileged, out-of-touch champagne socialist like Oliver Queen thinks about his morals?
And then he gets back home.
And he turns on the TV.
“—To announce the immediate dissolution of our arms subsidiary. Every stockholder will be fully reimbursed, and whatever money remains will be poured into the war relief efforts in Minglia.”
Hal’s hand freezes on the remote. He realises he’s gawking at Ollie’s face, behind that podium on the screen, but he can’t bring himself to stop.
“I’m no politician. I have no power to say when, where, or why we send our troops out to kill and to be killed. But what I do have is the power to say— that I can no longer, in good conscience, let my company continue to be involved in it. Queen Industries stands, and will continue to stand for technological research and mechanical innovation. But these things should be used to further progress – not to take us back to a world of mindless violence and bloodshed.”
“…Son of a bitch.” Hal all but gasps.
Tom blinks up at him, puzzled.
Hal shakes his head. Continues watching. The news anchor is calculating the losses this decision will cost Queen Industries – millions – as the audio from the press conference is cut off. Judging by the expressions on their faces, the announcement had come as a shock to Ollie’s men, too. Several of them, in smart suits behind him, look harried, milling among themselves, trying to talk to him – but he brushes them all off and steps off the podium.
He ignores the reporters, and walks away.
The screen changes to a different news item.
Tom whistles, says, “Wonder if Ferris is ever gonna make that call. But then, you’d be out of a job, Hal.”
Hal leaps out of his seat and rummages around the break room for the yellow pages, ignoring Tom’s questions. “Q, Q, Q— yup, got it.” It’s a big stretch to expect reception at Queen Industries to patch him through to the CEO for no good reason, so once he’s on the phone he says the magic lie (“independent inquiry into events relating to Minglian…”), and soon enough, Ollie’s on.
“Hello?”
“You literally put your money where your mouth is.”
“…Jordan?” the voice on the other end says, incredulous. “What are you calling me here for?”
“Well, you didn’t exactly leave a home number. Listen, Ollie, I didn’t say, but I live up in Coast City – I mean, we’re practically neighbours.”
“Sure, if you have a magic ring that lets you fly,” Ollie returns, in typical sarcastic fashion.
“Or a crappy truck named Rosebud. Can we talk over coffee or something? You aren’t seriously planning to pout forever.”
“…Why?”
“Gimme a chance to defend my honour.”
Silence, for a minute, and then Ollie says, “Rosebud… like a fisting joke, or Citizen Kane?”
Hal colours. “Citizen Kane, you asshole!”
They meet up in a dainty little café tucked into a side street, at the City Core. Choose to sit outside, under a plain white parasol. Ollie seems a lot more… constrained, in Star, which is odd when Hal considers Minglia had been the literal warzone. Hal had thought the stuffy suit he’d worn on the news was all wrong on him, especially with the beatnik-style facial hair, so it’s a relief to see him in a regular sweater and pants. “They’re gonna crucify me for that move,” Ollie drawls, stirring his coffee idly. “If I don’t get a fucking hit put out on me, they’re gonna do their damnedest to cheat me out of the CEO chair – and my fortune, bunch of snakes.”
“You don’t sound all that disappointed,” Hal observes.
Ollie shrugs. “Guess a better man would have been more grateful for his blessings. Me, I’m just tired of the burden, Hal. You know when I was marooned on that island?”
“Yeah, I read about that…”
“First time in a long time I’d ever felt free. Sitting on this much money when there’s people starving out there— I’m cursed with knowing it. Having it, and knowing it.”
Hal nods, wrapping both hands around his cup. “I know what you must think, but… I’m not a bad person, Ollie. I swear. Look – I’m from a military family. I never learnt to question the reasons why this country does what it does.”
“I don’t think you’re a bad person.” Ollie shakes his head. “I’m a billionaire, bud. My peers have always been people that could wave away an oil spill, or rape a girl at a frat party and get away with barely a slap on the wrist. They’re also my peers. I play golf with ’em. They kiss their wives and tuck their kids in at night. It’s comforting to believe bad people exist. The truth is scarier – that we’re all the same kind of human, and yet so capable of so much cruelty, given the means and opportunity. Given the chance to get away with it.”
“You think that way all the time, you’re gonna go insane.”
“Why do you think I drank so much?” Ollie huffs, then seems to decide a change of subject would be prudent – though Hal gets the sense that if he could have gone on, he would have, the light in his eyes going duller and duller and duller.
“…Damn, you really are paying attention, huh.”
Hal blinks, caught off guard. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ollie breathes a silent laugh. “I don’t tend to like most people, ’cause most people don’t listen. Which is fair, all I ever wanna talk about is how the entire world is royally screwed. But I mean, if you could see a train heading full throttle for your face, why wouldn’t you scream? I don’t know, though. Guess you’re right. Most people just wanna stay sane. It’s not like the average person can do shit about anything.” He broods at his pancakes.
“You did something,” Hal offers.
“Still blood on my hands, pal. Still blood on my hands.”
Hal takes another sip. “I wanted to do something too, you know. After Minglia. I tried to look up the kid that shot one of your arrows at General Zho. Thought I’d donate to his legal fees.”
“Oh?” Ollie hums, serene.
“…Yeah.” Hal narrows his eyes, though, truth told, a smile is fighting to pull at one corner of his lips. “Turns out he never got near a police station, though. They said someone put him on a boat with a big wad of cash in his pocket. Last they’d heard, he’s been granted refugee status in a country with no extradition.”
Ollie meets his eyes, his own dancing. “Good.”
“I don’t know. Shouldn’t he have been tried under the law?”
“The law is whatever cops and judges decide it is.”
“No, the law is the accumulated wisdom of centuries. The glue that holds civilisation together. Without the law, what would prevent the bullies from running the world?”
“How did the law prevent a bully like Zho from getting control of it, again?” Ollie challenges. “I say, obey the law until what it says conflicts with higher morality. Then, go with the morality.”
“And I say that no single man will ever be able to judge what a higher morality is,” Hal counters. “Nobody’s that smart.”
“Smarts ain’t necessary. Everyone knows in his gut when some things are wrong—”
“So that kid almost killing a man isn’t wrong anymore?”
“Almost killing a potential dictator.”
Hal snorts. “Funny you’re against the concept of law, Ollie, you’d have made a swell lawyer.”
“So say that someone wealthy and sympathetic to his motivations really did help that kid escape trial. And say this person confesses to it. As a courtesy.” He holds Hal’s gaze in a level, piercing stare. “What happens then? He gets ratted out to the law?”
“…No,” Hal tells his cup a little ruefully. “No, not in this scenario.”
Ollie smiles, then – a real smile, dimpled and strangely sweet, not one of his smug crooked grins. “Hal, I think you gotta outgrow some grade-level brainwashing, but I also think you’re a decent guy.” He holds out a hand. “Friends?”
Amused, Hal takes it. Shakes it. “Something like that.”
Her. 1987.
It doesn’t seem like such an obvious choice, anymore, is the thing. Not now. Not with Carol and Ollie in the picture. But believe it or not, at the beginning of it all, it was Hal she thought she’d be with.
Hal, with his clean-cut good looks, and friendliness, and conventionality… assertive, but not dominating; daring, but not rebellious; open, but not eager; pretty much the definition of safe. Dinah, that’s what she’d always known she’d been missing – safe – so because her sense of self-preservation had still been intact, then… sure, she’d made her move on him, back in the early days of the League.
She remembers them post-first-superhero-mission, her saying, “Until we settle the mystery of what happened, here—” (they had just stopped a possible alien invasion, as you do)— “Maybe we should stick together. Like a team.”
And Hal, not taking his eyes off of her, something of a flirtation in that grin of his as he answers, “If she thinks it’s a good idea, I’m in.”
Or she and Barry looking on in fond exasperation as he works his charm on a crowd of reporters, who had by then already started thinking of him as the unofficial JLA leader and spokesman.
“Maybe we should just change our name to the Green Lantern Corps,” she mutters, sarcastic, but she can’t help smiling.
Barry smiles back. “I think that, like me, you find this more amusing than irritating. Besides, of course he’s going to get all the attention. He’s the prettiest.”
“You have me there. He is cute, isn’t he?”
Barry laughs. “I was joking, but I’ll take your word for it.”
Hal had been like some paragon of heroism in everybody’s eyes, back then – of a flavour much more accessible than Clark, who had felt fantastical and almost godlike. In her mid-twenties, his attention had made her feel all grown up and competent at last, given her the confidence to take as much initiative as she could on a team full of older men. It’s why she pulls whatever strings she can to arrange for the first ever press conference they hold as an official team to be held in the same hotel that the JSA itself had debuted in. She’s a legacy – a real legacy, unlike Hal and Barry – and she could damn well prove it, is her reasoning.
She makes sure to sit right next to him, during. They watch Arthur stumble through a statement to the reporters. “Poor guy,” she whispers, her smile teasing, but not cruel. “So uncomfortable. He’s a regular Dr Mid-Nite in front of a crowd…”
“Again with the JSA references.” Hal laughs, barely any sound, just a sudden huff of warm breath against her cheek. “You sure do love those old heroes.”
It’s such an easy game to play. She leans in, effortless, glances up at him through her long lashes. “Frankly, I prefer young heroes even more.” Single flutter of the eyelids – not a wink, which would be too much too fast – “You say you’re powerless against yellow? Does that…” – careful fingers gently resting on his arm – “…Extend to blondes?”
His Adam’s apple bobs, up-then-down, and vague pink spreads across the bridge of his nose where it meets his domino mask. Victory. “As a matter of fact…”
Barry seems to have taken over for Arthur, at that exact moment, with a joke that takes a nosedive and promptly falls flat on its face. And so Hal sighs, distracted.
“’Scuse me while I spin this a bit.”
She leans back in her chair, watches as he takes the mic from his best friend. He proceeds to basically ooze charisma in the general direction of the questions and flashing cameras, as per, but they’re immediately interrupted by supervillains bursting through. Just another Tuesday. Taking them down does do half of Hal’s work for him, though, and by the end of the brawl, their brand-new Justice League of America is suddenly an indisputable crowd favourite. “Someone actually wants us dead,” Barry hisses through the smile they’d all slapped on for the people outside. “First time I’m playing for stakes like that. Is that the world we’re in now? Am I wrong to be a little nervous?”
Dinah rolls her eyes. “So someone’s after us. What does that tell us?”
“That we’re doing something right,” Hal finishes for her, as if they’d somehow paired off already.
She grins. “You are fearless.”
Barry looks dejected; Hal, smugly pleased. He’d been about to lean in, she’s sure of it now, maybe to wrap an arm around her shoulders or her waist, maybe even to ask if they could kiss. But then another mic is thrust in front of his face, and a rapid voice follows it: “—Group of showboaters calling themselves superheroes! Gotham Hotel – shattered! Bystanders – endangered! City – traumatised! What’s super about that? What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Hal doesn’t get a chance to say a thing, though. Dinah feels an odd flick of air that kisses a lock of her wig as it blows past, sharp and thin as a needle. Then the grating feedback from the mic as it malfunctions. Then the realisation that it had, in fact, been skewered— by an arrow?
“I call that one my anti-loudmouth arrow.”
She turns in the direction of the sarcastic voice. It’s hardly the kind of impression that Hal had left on her, the first time she had met him. Ollie had still been donning that Robin Hood getup, silly feather in his hat and all. His eyes hadn’t once turned to look at her, anyway, only Hal, like the rest of them are hardly worth the attention.
“Green Arrow,” Hal says, surprised, and Dinah looks on in curiosity as his smile changes into something more… warmly amused, than swaggering, for once.
“No need to thank me.” Ollie mirrors the look in spite of the sarcasm still dripping from his voice. As if at an unspoken signal, they then immediately turn back, Ollie continuing to antagonise the reporter – “I’m gonna bring a suit against you, just you wait!” “So long as it’s not that one – who’s your tailor, the Joker?” “I’ll nail you for that!” “Yeah? If you need a hammer, use your head.” – until he gives up, leaves Hal well and truly alone. Hal, in turn, is politely dismissing the rest of the crowd.
And then, in perfect harmony once again, they regroup, just like that. She’s the only one close enough to eavesdrop, without really meaning to.
“Thanks for the assist.”
“Don’t mention it. I saw the conference on the news and figured I had more experience dealing with paparazzi than you do.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Starting a little club, eh?”
“If you want in—”
“Hmm. Pass. You guys will need funding, though, for a project like this.” He says it matter-of-factly, ignoring the way Hal’s eyes very nearly pop out of his head, behind the mask.
“Ol—Arrow, we can’t possibly—”
“You can, and should.” Ollie smiles that crooked smile of his. Dinah hadn’t known yet, that it was reserved for a very select group of people, but something about their easy camaraderie piques her interest regardless. “Just write me off for a lifetime’s worth of birthday presents and we’ll call it even. I can never remember when yours is.”
Hal sighs, exasperated. “At least stay and meet the people you’re sponsoring, then.” And he forces Ollie forward, the couple of steps required to bridge the distance to the rest of them. “Guys, this is Green Arrow. Green Arrow, this is guys. Flash. Martian Manhunter. Aquaman. Black Canary.”
Dinah never forgets the first time, not because of some mystical sense of premonition, not even because Ollie’s eyes flick toward hers and then linger, but because he does the most charming thing next: he tips his hat in her direction, like a cowboy in an old-fashioned Western.
“One female superhero. How incredibly progressive of you, Ha—Lantern.”
Dinah obliges with a grin. “Right?”
“It’s not like I planned it that way,” Hal protests, miffed.
“Will you be joining us, Green Arrow?” J’onn asks.
Ollie sizes them up, something almost condescending in his eyes. Dinah has to resist the bizarre urge to straighten her wig. “Hmm. No, thanks.” He turns to Hal again. “Call me about the thing – we’ll sort the details out between my people. Later, flyboy.” And then he turns.
Leaves.
“Weird fella,” Barry remarks.
“Not the most social,” Hal says, like an apology, “But he’s a good guy. Got friends in high places. He said they would help us with the financing.”
Barry’s face brightens. “I take it back.”
She doesn’t think much of their encounter, though, and as soon as it’s over, it retreats to the back of her mind, which returns its full attention to charming her potential knight in green armour. But the very things that had attracted her to Hal in the first place end up giving her pause, in the end. He’s handsome, he’s stable, he’s much too obvious, which is why she decides she’s better off cutting it short.
Or at least, that’s what she tells herself.
(Barry talks about Iris West with that disgusting love-light in his eyes, and Dinah tries not to glower, tries not to think him capable of eating all those rhapsodies the instant another, prettier skirt walks by, but he’s a man and men are too fucking easy, and there’s no way he’s the exception to the rule. Fiancée, indeed. Love of his life, indeed. They’re checking out the newly-constructed trophy room on Mount Justice, and he just won’t shut up about Iris, and her mind keeps veering to Mom and Uncle Ted, and all those furtive glances that mean so much more, now, with all the cruel privilege of hindsight. So she changes the subject with some dumb question about Hal – “He’s a little headstrong… but then, I’m pretty methodical, so it balances out. Maybe that’s what all us Midwesterners think about Californians, though. He’s a good guy,” Barry obliges – so then she cuts him off with a smoky smile, and whispers, “So are you,” and then, “My dad worked in law enforcement,” and then, “I like cops.” He freezes, as she winds her arms around his shoulders. His eyes are on her lips. So much for Iris West, Dinah thinks, half triumphant, half enraged. And that’s how Hal Jordan walks in on her kissing his best friend.)
In the aftermath of their final battle with Locus, Barry wades through rubble to get to his fiancée, to take her in his arms, and kiss her out of sheer relief at finding her still alive. Dinah looks on as a numbing cold fills her chest. She wonders what they’re talking about with those glistening eyes and beaming smiles and suddenly knows with dread certainty that it’s her. That Barry has to be calling her a bad decision. And she realises… that he might not have been the problem, after all, and she’s really, really mad at her mom.
The by-now familiar swish of disturbed air pulls her out of her mind and makes her jerk her head up in perfect time to watch the arrows sailing above it, lodging in the creature that had almost attacked her while she’d been distracted. It falls to the ground with a giant thump, and she turns back around to find the pair that had saved her life.
Noticing her noticing him, Ollie takes his hat off and bows. “Green Arrow, at your service.” He straightens, puts it back on, throws her a wink and a dashing grin.
“And Speedy!” says the boy in red, next to him, indignant. “Remember me? Of course not, there’s a girl around.”
“Hey! Come here, you.” Ollie pulls him into a loose headlock, and there’s some affectionate roughhousing for a minute, and Dinah realises she’s smiling, as she watches their scuffling. Abruptly, out of nowhere, she’s overcome with grief, the missing piece of her heart in the shape of her own father threatening to swallow her up. Tears leap to her eyes and she can’t quite hide them in time for Ollie not to notice.
“Whoa, are you okay?” He steps forward, his eyes going round.
“Shit,” Dinah swears, hiding her face in her hands, angry beyond belief. “Please don’t let Flash or Lantern see me…”
“Sure can do.”
Confused, Dinah watches him pull out a strangely-shaped arrowhead and screw it onto one of his shafts. He stretches his bowstring, nocks it.
“Roy, you gonna be okay with Uncle Hal for a second? I won’t be long.”
Speedy, Roy, crosses his arms. “I’m not a baby.”
“Okay, well, stay put. —Gonna need you to turn around for a bit, Canary.”
Still caught off guard, Dinah takes a minute to register that he’s talking to her, and she hastily turns. There’s a fizzing sound— then a burst like a distant firecracker— and then one solid, glove-covered hand clasps hers and pulls the both of them forward, quick as possible, to get out of range of the apparent smokescreen arrow he’d shot over his shoulder.
“Wh—overkill!” Dinah half-gasps, half-laughs, incredulous.
“Hey, you said not to let them see ya. Where’d you park your motorcycle?”
“Around the corner—”
He starts in that direction, and Dinah takes the lead when they approach the alleyway. Ollie gestures toward her motorcycle in a right-this-way-ma’am fashion, as if she can’t see it for herself, which is funny enough to break through the melancholy and make her laugh again. “Thank you,” she mumbles, embarrassed that she’s still sniffing and red-eyed.
“Sorry I don’t have a tissue arrow, but I do have…” he pulls one out of his quiver, snaps the head of it in half— then starts yanking out a string of handkerchiefs, like one of those magic tricks, earning some more laughter. “…One of Speedy’s gag gifts, which I never thought would actually turn out useful.” He undoes the knot on one of them and hands it to her with a sheepish grin.
“Thanks,” she repeats, still chuckling a little as she uses it to dab at her eyes. “That’s sweet… Speedy, is he your son?”
“No, not yet. He’s my ward, I— can’t really figure a good time to bring up adoption. ’Specially not now, he’s at that age when saying anything implying he’s still a kid is an insult, you know?” He sounds fond and proud the way loving parents do even when it isn’t their children’s achievements that are being discussed. “Everything, uh, alright back there?”
She fiddles with the cloth in her hands, nodding miserably. It’s because Ollie isn’t on the League – isn’t likely to get involved in their drama – that she says anything at all. “Looks like Barry, um. Fixed things with Iris. So.”
“Far be it from me to start preaching, but nine times out of ten the married guy doesn’t leave his wife for his mistress, you know.” His voice is kind, not that that makes it sting any less. “Even the worst ones are more likely to wanna have their cake and eat it too.”
She glares. “Well, you are preaching, and to the fucking choir. My mom had an affair with one of her old teammates while my dad was still around.”
“Yeah, my dad was the same.” He nods, unfazed by her anger. “Wasn’t all on him, though. He was an asshole, but my mama wasn’t the most affectionate spouse in the world, either.”
“Well my dad didn’t deserve it.” She crosses her arms, her voice trembling. “I only just found out – about mom and Uncle Ted, that is. Truth told, I… I didn’t really care about Barry. Not in that way. I guess… I might have been reeling from the news, and… trying to prove a nasty point.” Her grip around her own upper arms tightens. “God, I’m a terrible person…”
“No such thing as terrible people. Only terrible choices.” He shrugs. “Your logic checks out, anyway. I’m sorry.”
“For me?” She scoffs wryly. “Don’t be. Save it for Iris.”
“She’ll have plenty of that coming her way. From me as well, but it’s also sad about your dad and all.”
The tears well up again. “He was a very good man, he… died when I was about Speedy’s age.”
“That’s awful.”
She sends him a strained, humourless smile. “Mom always joked that I loved him more than I did her. And— now that I know, I wonder if… maybe I could grow to really resent her like she…”
“I think if anything’s to be taken away from this situation, it’s that people’s mistakes don’t define them,” he answers thoughtfully. “If you can forgive yourself, you can forgive her.”
Dinah nods, unconvinced, but grateful for his lack of condemnation.
“Your mom – would that be the old Black Canary?” Ollie hums. “A teammate on the JSA? Man. Sure wrecks their image of the wholesome heroes of yesteryear.”
“Is that your idea of comfort?”
“Oh, I’m the wrong person to turn to for that,” he says, sheepish. “But I can give you plenty of sympathy. Been young and impulsive.”
At least he’s honest, she concedes, rueful. “Have you ever been married?”
“Sure. Up until she left me for a duke of someplace European.”
Dinah stares. He chuckles under his breath, then takes off the mask, revealing startlingly green eyes. “Oliver Queen. Yes, that one.”
“That explains so much and yet nothing at all.” Her laugh is startled. “Next you’re gonna tell me our own resident playboy-billionaire is the Batman.”
“Who, Wayne? Please. I accidentally hit him on the knee with a croquet mallet once and he wouldn’t stop crying for his butler.”
Chuckling in amusement, she takes off the wig as well. “Dinah Lance. Not quite pleased to meet you, but… appreciative.”
“Well, this looks cosy.” She turns at the new voice and finds herself staring up at Hal, who’s hovering a little ways outside the alley, a smile that’s oddly plastic, like the kind he tends to give the reporters, on his face. “Was wondering what the deal was with that smokescreen.”
“Accident,” Ollie lies with a little, crooked grin. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, just checking to see you’re okay.”
“You’re like a jealous mother hen, Hal Jordan.”
“Mother hen, I’ll take. Jealous – you might be giving yourself a little too much credit.” And he sounds fond, but doesn’t acknowledge Dinah at all. “You better get back to Roy, though, he seems a little miffed about being brushed off for your, uh, lady-friend.”
“Lady-friend?” Dinah snorts. “We barely just arrived at the friend part.”
“I swear I’ll never get the hang of when that boy wants my attention and when he’d prefer I let him be.” Ollie sighs, but he puts his mask back on. “Okay, well. See ya around, Miss Lance.”
“Just Dinah’s fine.” She smiles.
“Then call me Ollie,” he returns, mirroring it. And he goes.
“Do you need my help with the clean—?”
“You sure move fast,” Hal cuts her off, his smile disappearing. He lands on his feet, crosses his arms. His lips are pursed.
Dinah feels the humiliation roll through her being like a languid wave, her cheeks turning hot. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t care about what might or might not have been between us. Maybe you led me on on purpose – maybe I just misread everything. Either way, I’m more than capable of taking the punch and moving on. But why are you doing this to my friends?”
“Wh—I’m not some— some conniving femme fatale like you seem to think!” she splutters back, insulted. “Barry could have turned me down. He didn’t. Some of it was on him.”
Hal shakes his head. In a disgusted voice he adds, “Well, good luck playing your little games on Ollie. I think you’ll find he isn’t anything like Barry, and maybe you’ll learn a much-needed lesson about messing with other people’s feelings.”
“You don’t know the first goddamn thing about me, Jordan,” she grits out. “And if you don’t mind your business, I might just decide to settle this like a superhero.”
He scoffs. “Oh, I know all I need to know about women like you. You always need to have the upper hand. Always toy with men you’re smarter than, men you know you can control. All of it to hide the fact that deep down, you’re nothing but a scared little girl, and you’ll never feel anything like a real connection to anyone.”
Eyes wide, she lunges forward in rage, until she’s glaring up at him right in front of his face. “Fight me without hiding behind that ring like a coward and I’ll show you exactly how scared of men I am, you bastard.”
“I didn’t say you were scared of men.” Cruel smile. “You’re scared of love, Dinah, and I might sympathise with you for whatever it was that destroyed your ability to trust, but if you never quit treating relationships like chess, newsflash, you’re about as bad as whoever disillusioned you. But please, feel free to try it on Ollie. On somebody with a spine.” He glares. “You will never, ever have a hold over him.”
The anger boils over, into something much closer to stone-cold than eruptive. She seethes, thinking about Mom and Uncle Ted again, about furtive glances loaded with meaning. “Well,” she says coolly, meeting his eyes head on. “Then I guess it stands to reason… neither will you.”
He freezes.
Dinah gives him a slow, vindictive smirk. “Who’d have thought. Green is a sickening colour on you, after all.”
Then she turns on her heel and storms off, fuming.
Them. 1987.
Dinah laughs with her whole body, her head dropping onto Ollie’s shoulder like a book missing a prop on a spacious shelf. She’s barely emptied half of the one bottle of beer she had ordered, is the thing, though – and Ollie gets the odd sense that she’s playing it up for somebody else’s benefit. The only other person at their table being Hal, he has to assume these two observations are connected. The likeliest conclusion is that Dinah’s into Hal, and pretending she’s trying to come on to Ollie to make him jealous, but that doesn’t explain why Hal, on the flipside, has been such a sourpuss all evening.
“—And so then she moved out here, to be with my dad. Opened up our own little flower shop.”
“What’s it called?” Ollie obliges.
“Pretty Bird Florist’s.” She tries to wrap an arm around his bicep, as she smiles up at him, but Ollie subtly (he hopes) reaches for his own drink before she can. Dinah may be trying to play Hal, but that doesn’t mean Ollie has to help her. Feels wrong doing that to his closest friend, and besides, he’d rather Dinah make any advances on him only if she means it.
(When he looks over, he realises Hal seems smugly pleased, all of a sudden. He’s starting to get the sense he’s missing something.)
“Apt. There sure is one hell of a pretty bird in there,” he can’t help saying to Dinah, regardless, hoping it sounds teasing and platonic. Well, she is. Pretty. Interesting, too. He’s starting to notice there being a clear distinction between Dinah-with-the-wig-on and Dinah-without: the blonde bombshell who just oozes confidence and has all the men on her team wrapped around her finger in spite of her age, versus the short-haired punk with the tension in her shoulders and glare in her eyes reminiscent of a cornered animal that’ll only take one provocation to get violent.
He wonders which one is the truth.
“Dinah, are you sure you gave the rest of the team the right address?” Hal speaks up, then. “I’m not celebrating the win against Locus all on our own, and I can’t wait here forever either, I got work in the morning.”
“Of course I am. Why would I give them the wrong bar on purpose?” Dinah arches an eyebrow – almost in challenge, Ollie notes, confused.
“…Why would you, indeed,” Hal mutters through gritted teeth.
“Come on, lighten up. I prefer this to the idea of drinking with the rest of your rabble, anyway,” Ollie says it like a peace offering, despite not being certain what conflict he’d unwittingly walked into. “I thought I’d have to slip out early tonight, but now? The company’s perfect.”
Whatever sentiment that had expressed, it seems to do the trick, and both Dinah and Hal seem less like circling leopards waiting to pounce.
“I still say we should go looking for the others. They may all be metahuman, but this is still Gotham,” Hal insists. “Can you imagine if Arthur were to get lost out there?”
“Fine.” Dinah sighs, annoyed. “Okay, then, leader. Lead on.”
She takes her beer bottle with her, as she stands. Ollie and Hal both choose to leave their drinks behind, seeing as theirs had both been alcohol-free and pretty pointless. And then they step out into a chilly spring evening, the wind biting but feeble. It’s when they pass through the first alley that Ollie tenses.
“…Shadow.”
“What?” Hal blinks, stopping along with him.
Ollie nods at the ground ahead of them. “Shadow. Doesn’t belong to the fire escapes or that one line of washing above us. Look.”
“Observant,” Dinah remarks, impressed. They step forward with more caution, in case a fight is looking for them, up on the rooftops.
Sure enough, before they can turn the corner to return to the main street, a rustle of cloth whispers through the air and then two figures drop in front of them, silhouetted by the darkness and moonlight.
“Green Lantern. Black Canary. Green Arrow.”
Dinah had startled and Hal had reflexively pulled the ring out of his pocket, but Ollie only scowls, crossing his arms. “Spooky. Fancy seeing you again so soon.”
Batman steps out of the shadows. “I’m here to discuss some things about your… Justice League.”
“How do you know who we are?” Hal sounds unsettled by it.
“Because he’s Batman!” says an enthusiastic voice, and it’s only then that Ollie registers that behind the cape is a little—
“Is that a child!?” He points one accusing finger at the brightly-coloured sprite.
Dinah turns to him, puzzled. “Don’t you also have a sidekick?”
“Yeah, to park the fucking Arrowcar when I’m on a hunt so he feels included, not to be out on patrol at night! On a school night!”
“I’m not a child! I’m thirt—”
“Robin,” Batman warns, and he quiets, only muttering, “…Kid Flash is younger than me…”
“Let’s not waste time,” Batman growls. “I want to make it clear to you that the JLA is not welcome in Gotham. Yesterday’s fighting was the worst, but not the first instance your presence in my city has caused that much damage. Metahuman superheroes tend to attract metahuman supervillains. This place has enough problems without external threats, and not on that scale.”
“Hold on— are you ordering us to keep out?” Hal frowns. “What authority do you have to do that?”
“Yeah, fucker, I’ve been here longer than you have!” (Okay, maybe Dinah is a little bit drunk.) “Where do you get off telling the Black goddamn Canary not to operate on her home turf?”
“You’re one person. An entire organisation is a different matter.”
“Giving them a little too much credit, there, Batsy. I’d say it’s a superhero club. At best.” Ollie makes a so-so gesture with his hand.
Hal tilts his chin up, stubborn and defiant. “We’re not ignoring alerts from Gotham City just because you said so.”
“We have things under control here. We don’t need you.” The eye-slits in Batman’s cowl narrow.
“And if supervillains do attack without our prompting, what then? Throw a couple batarangs at an incoming alien invasion?”
“I’m only sparing the courtesy of speaking to you about this at all because you claim to be allies. Make no mistake, if you turn out to be otherwise, I will respond accordingly.”
Okay, and that’s definitely a threat. Hal slips the ring on and in a flash of green light is all decked out in space-cop glory. Dinah smashes her beer bottle against the nearest wall, holds it out like she’s seriously going to attempt to stab the McFreaking Batman as if he’s a handsy drunk in a bar brawl, and Ollie’s so caught up gawking at that, he forgets to do anything at all.
But then, quicker than anyone can react, Batman’s hand clamps down on his kid’s shoulder and he pulls them both back into the shadows behind them. It’s like they melt into the darkness, and even Hal can’t seem to find them again despite shooting a beam out of the ring.
“Damn!” He kicks at the ground. “What the hell was that all about?”
Dinah catches Ollie still staring and gives him a slow smirk. “You never date a Gotham girl before, Mr Queen?”
“No, but I’m starting to think I ought to.” Ollie half-whistles, taking the bottle from her.
“If you two could quit flirting for five minutes and process that the Batman literally just threatened us?” Hal scowls.
“Oh, suck it up, you big baby. He’s like an insecure child asking you not to play in his sandbox, I know you’re touchy about being told what not to do, but it seriously ain’t worth it this time.” Ollie risks a step closer, and places both his hands on Hal’s shoulders, affectionately yanking him backward. “’Sides, now that Big Blue’s on your team, it’s only a matter of time before he joins, too. They’re chummy.”
“How do you know?”
“Teamed with both of them before.”
Hal turns and shoots him a baffled look. “You know, you’re weirdly well-connected for someone who doesn’t want anything to do with the larger superhero community.”
“One-offs don’t count. I’m not about to start taking oaths and wearing matching uniforms – and they’re not my friends. You are.”
Mollified, Hal relents with a grudging smile. “The day that guy joins is the day I seriously hand in my notice, though.”
“Tell me about it. Imagine ever being corrected by that smug-faced asshole,” Dinah grumbles. “He almost makes you seem tolerable, Jordan.”
For once Hal doesn’t even take the bait, instead putting on an exaggerated growl. “I’m Batman. Gotham City is under my protection. That, of course, means I literally own it. I now banish you plebeians once and for all.”
Dinah seems to surprise herself with her own laugh. “Oh, that’s uncanny!”
Hal chuckles, pleased, and he looks like he doesn’t know how to feel about that either.
Smiling to himself, Ollie throws his arms around both of their shoulders, pulling them close. “I’m Batman. I’m now dragging a non-meta kid out fighting crime with me and absolutely nobody is questioning this. Except for the brilliant, compassionate, and utterly handsome Green Arrow.”
“More like sanctimonious and full of himself.” Dinah snorts.
“Gross, you’re implying he thinks you’re handsome.” Hal chokes on a barking laugh.
“…You know, I think I like it better when you two were sassing each other.”
“Suck it up, you big baby,” Hal and Dinah both quote back at him at the same time, then catch each other’s eyes and burst into helpless laughter. Ollie can’t help but join in.
(The night goes on, suddenly warmer than before. They give up looking for their teammates, retire to Dinah’s apartment for what remains of it.)
(And then there were three. Just like that.)