Working With Red

Sublimation and Status Quo

"My dad taught me how to fire, but he wasn't the best teacher," you replied carefully, raising the gun a bit to look over it. "He always used a Glock 22-- it was standard; government issued--but I always preferred the ACP for some reason." You felt a tiny smile ghost your lips as a warm feeling bubbled inside you at the memory of your father giving you sporadic lessons. They were bonding moments between the two of you; it was something you missed profusely. 

"Your father?" Roy questioned, pulling you from your stupor. You cleared your throat, nodding slowly as you captured Roy's gaze.

"Special Agent, FBI. He was stationed in Gotham." Your eyes narrowed the slightest bit when Roy's expression shifted.

"Was. . . ?" Roy pushed. 

"Dead." You stated, rather bluntly. Roy was slightly taken aback at your answer, but the way your lips screwed up in discomfort didn't go unnoticed. Of course he had lingering suspicions that something weird had happened between you and your family; frankly, there was no other plausible reason for you to be staying with Oliver. However, he hadn't really considered the chance that you simply didn't have parents anymore.

"I'm sorry," Roy replied, swallowing hard. He felt a little uncomfortable about bringing up the topic but tried not to let it show; sympathy wasn't exactly his strong suit. You shook your head before taking another glance at your phone.

"It's fine," you muttered with a sigh. "Anyway, why are you up at six in the morning?" Roy mirrored your posture, folding his own arms over his chest.

"It's Wednesday. Shouldn't you be getting up for school right about now?" he asked. You shook your head again and began absentmindedly playing with a stray piece of hair that'd fallen from your bun.

"I'm taking a gap year," you replied nonchalantly. Roy hesitantly nodded. 

"So why are you up this early?" he retorted. You visibly stiffened, gnawing at the inside of your bottom lip. You didn't really want to tell Roy about your difficulty falling asleep; he didn't need anymore ammunition to use against you. 

"Physically exhausted, but not really sleepy," you finally replied, stretching an arm up above your head, "but I think I'm going to give it another shot and try to get at least a couple hours in, if you'll excuse me." You passed Roy on the first step before heading up to your bedroom, leaving Roy to stare after you. After the sound of your doorknob clicking into place broke the silence, he shoved the rest of his poptart into his mouth and he moved into the living room to watch TV. 

Twenty-five minutes into his show, he realized he was having trouble paying attention.

"So her parents are dead, and she moved in with Ollie, of all people," Roy muttered to himself, running a hand through his mussed orange hair. "There's way more to this that Ollie's not telling me." He let out an aggravated grunt and turned back to the TV, though he recognized nothing but a void screen.

* * * 

It was around nine in the morning when you woke up again, grateful that you'd been able to get at least a couple hours of sleep. 

You pulled the heavy, warm comforter over your shoulders and up to your chin, nuzzling your head down into the pillow as you decided to stay in bed just a little while longer. You sighed contently, breathing in the scent of the pillow you'd exchanged for the sweat-damp one the minute you'd returned to your room. It reminded you of daffodils; sweet, with a sort of bitterness laced into the fragrance. 

Your eyes cracked open as you sat up in bed again, the comforter pooling in your lap.

"Why am I thinking about flowers. . ." you murmured, rubbing your face with the palms of your hands. You groaned and flopped backwards onto the pillow once more.