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Everyone says Oliver and Bruce are similar.
They're twins in the way they keep themselves humble. Tender humans among the superpowered, god-like beings that walk on their planet. Their wealth speaks where their powerless husks do not. They slap a pretty check on a Watchtower and watch as their team members thank their service.
No, please, it is their pleasure.
They'll spend enough money to drown out the sorrows. A wave of richness will splash on their bodies, bleeding and bruised from a night out on the town. Bruce likes wrapping Oliver up, patching his shoulder blades, and massaging the fear from his skin. The other man cleans his wounds and lets the alcohol do the talking for him, keeping Bruce hissing in pain and groaning when another numbing sensation goes through him.
They're weak.
They have been since birth, and this was the legacy they were meant to carry.
They're similar.
A boy weak enough to hone the skill yet not take the kill, being responsible for the death of his parents, and a little boy being so overjoyed, he wanted to take a shorter path. One that would cut short the life of his own.
My parents were mauled in front of me. / My parents were shot in front of me.
I couldn't make the shot. / I couldn't run away.
I couldn't save them. That thought haunts their being. I am so weak. They share.
Their guilt intertwines their head and heart. It is damning to feel their hands on each other, the same hands covered in blood, the same hands unable to save people they loved. The muscle underneath the tender flesh. We are weak. Bruce kisses the spot on his neck. We are weak. Oliver presses a hand against the small of Bruce's back.
Bruce's heart is rough along the edges, and the pads of his fingers are sandpaper most of the time, itching and clawing at everyone's skin. His fingers dig into his palms when things get stressful, and like Oliver, he is stubborn to let go once his digits dig into the flesh.
Bruce clings to anyone who comes nearby. His body stiff and tense, a cardboard-made man with paper mache and newspaper clippings covering his frame to create a false sense of softness. Oliver was not excluded from that. It was strange to see them separated, but it was even stranger to catch them together.
Silent head nods with a sliver of roughhousing between their shoves and insults. Bruce would bare his teeth, and Oliver would smirk in reply. Their activities on the battlefield were incomparable. The emerald archer would leap, one foot would find itself in Bruce's grasp, and he'd be flung into the air to shoot an arrow. Precise and deadly as it made its bullseye.
It was exciting to watch them. To observe the way Oliver's hips constantly leaned forward towards Bruce's, or the way Bruce's forehead fell between the gap of the archer's shoulders when he needed to cool down. His hands fell to Oliver's waist; he was stronger than the other man, knowing he was heavier and carried more muscle. He could break his pelvis, snap his arms, or do nothing at all and simply leave a warning squeeze.
They talk in whispers, but their arguments are loud, stubborn, and fill the meeting rooms with acid. Oliver points fingers at Bruce while the other man takes it; he knows he can. Their reconciliations are silent. It doesn't feel real until Oliver sits next to Bruce again, until their thighs touch underneath the table, and until the jealous streak from across the table returns. Never from them. Always from a third party. Oliver doesn't acknowledge it, nor does Bruce. They choose to live in stupidity away from the wondering eyes. Not wandering, they know exactly what they're looking at; it's a wonder that it's even real.
Their hands never touch; they're far too gone to deserve such a delicacy. Oliver keeps his crossed feet in Bruce's lap, he tugs on the cape, and he runs his hands over the armor. Bruce yanks on the green scarf, strums his finger on the bow string— Bruce tugs his hood down for a kiss.
They choose to ignore the odd stares.
The league doesn't care for them. Nor do they care about their public displays of affection. Constantly catching Oliver leaning against the other man, keeping his hands on him, or wrapping the ends of his scarf over him. They don't kiss in public, Bruce says it's uncouth. Oliver doesn't care and smudges a fat one on him when he feels a certain someone staring too hard.
Admittedly, it is unnerving.
They spend most of their time together creating gadgets. Oliver is peculiarly possessive about his arrows, yet Bruce is allowed to experiment with them. He grabs them out of the archer's quiver in silence, breaks them in front of him, and moves on. 'Needs more.' He mutters, never elaborating. He's cautious about his batarangs, yet Oliver straps on as many explosives, poisons, and powders to them and tests them out himself. The archer unclips the other man's utility belt and places it on the table; his fingers work through it with expert precision, as if he knows it, as if it's something familiar.
The others think Oliver has a death wish; it's nothing more than simple bonding time.
It's compensation.
A natural fury of dopamine rushes inside the archer's veins when he catches the bat unguarded. He's smirking, obnoxious, and snarky all the same— Bruce knows when he cracks jokes, he's nervous. Nervous enough to show teeth when he laughs. They know each other to an uncomfortable degree…at least to an outside view.
They try each other's clothing on for a moment of clarity. Bruce doesn't like the vest, and Oliver hates the cowl. They live in each other's stomachs, butterflies roaming around their guts as they trace their fingers all over the garment. Mine, tearable, we are so weak.
The fine line between Batman and Green Arrow begins to blur inside their heads. Batman and Green Arrow, Green Arrow and Batman. Bats and Arrow. BatsandArrow. They pretend not to feel fuzzy about it. Not to bashfully look again when they're contacted by a fellow member, only to ask if the other was there with them. They're human and weak in each other's hold.
Which is how they were in this mess.
Another big mission in an empty warehouse. Information that was leaked through the grapevine. They needed camouflage; they needed people to blend into the background. Superman was too recognizable; he was bright and sunny. Wonder Woman was on her own mission, slaying monsters on a personal level. Everyone else was on their duties, heroic or civilians; they were occupied. The two self-employed millionaires kept themselves free in case of any emergency. Finally, that 'just in case' paid off.
Black Canary flew the jet that dropped them off on an uncharted island. She made a lighthearted jab to Green Arrow, who snorted and shook her shoulder, all friendly like. Bruce stared at his lingering hands. Ollie used to have a massive crush on her. She tells them she would keep watch on the plane, keeping track of their movements, enemy location, and if she needed to step in, she would. Not because they would get ambushed— no— Bruce's paranoia and Oliver's need to hunt would clash, but rather, she knew they'd get too carried away on their own business.
Whatever that implied.
Bruce was busy stalking the goons inside the warehouse. His heat vision sensors exposed the hot, nervous, boiling blood in their bodies. They heard the jet and were panicking with the crates of god knows what. The archer had long separated from the two; Canary nor the bat had heard anything from him since they planned out their state of attack. Bruce ran his tongue over his upper teeth; he turned off his heat visor and made his way inside the warehouse.
They had gotten into a little spat before the mission. Bruce told Ollie not to let it get in the way of their priority here. Of course, ever the dramatic and petty. (It takes one to know one.)
It was silent, calming, to watch the goons routinely come and go out of the warehouse. Some were doubled over the sides of the building, others holding guns outside the perimeter. It was the average drug smuggling and acts. Really, did these goons have nothing else to do?
Bruce dashed underneath some metal plates, pressing his body against the wall and conforming to the shadows. With a crackle of static, the bane (love) of his existence crooned into the mic.
"Hey, pretty bird." He heard Oliver's teasing voice come through the comm.
"No flirting during missions, Arrow." Dinah chastised, her eyes focused on the enemies carrying out crates to boats placed on the edges of the island. Her eyes narrowed, zooming in on the cameras on the boat and sticking their numbers in the database.
"But I just love speaking to you, bird lady." He whined.
There's no way he was doing this, right?
"And I love a mission well done, Mr. Green." She laughed.
"You never call me that anymore." He sighed melodramatically.
For god's sake.
"Stop. Talking." Bruce sliced through the conversation.
Dinah snorted, raising a brow, "Gotcha."
Oliver scoffed into the comm before going silent.
"Pissed him off his morning, B?" The Canary chirped up in amusement.
Bruce rolled his eyes underneath the cowl. "Focus." He had forgotten to kiss the other man on the cheek that morning. (At least that's what Bruce was thinking this was about, and totally not the way he was unsure of being more serious with Oliver in relation to their civilian personas. Brucie Wayne does not need every gal and guy on this planet in his arms. Just Ollie! We can't. We're too connected. People will ask questions.) If this was his way of getting some sort of vengeance, then he was extraordinarily ahead of himself.
"Right. Right." She whistled. "Careful, I see 'em calling. On the phone."
Bruce grunted. He kept himself hidden behind a crate. From across the room, he heard a small dink dink hit the ground. Green Arrow was throwing pebbles along the floor; so distracted, a goon almost dropped a crate on their own foot. Another pebble was thrown at the back of a goon.
"They're here!" One of them called out, marching out with the rest of the goons. Couldn't be more than twenty, really. An arrow whizzed out from behind a crate, striking someone's calf. The goon fell, bleeding on the ground and yelping for help. The other goons screamed in surprise, dropping the crate, and it cracked open, spilling its contents all over the ground.
"Fuck! What're we gonna do now?" One of the goons yelled. "The arrow's here, we gotta scram!"
"No shit, Sherlock! I'm talking about the crates."
"Leave 'em."
"You're crazy! This is worth billions, are you stupid?"
An arrow flew through the air, landing near Bruce's boot. It had a paper tied to it. The bat unrolled the note: Drugs, lots of 'em. Not many on the balcony. Fist fight. Bruce sighed. He slowly came from behind a crate, stalking silently throughout the warehouse. His feet fell heavy as the echoes of the leather alerted the nervous targets waiting for them.
"Yer kidding, it's the bat!"
"I know, I got eyes, moron!"
Three goons tried to run away, but they were quickly stopped by an arrow to the shoulder and another one hooking the goon's flannel to the wall. Bruce took the initiative to begin fighting the wounded goon and tying him down to a nearby post before going after the rest, who were attempting to dodge the onslaught of arrows from above.
The third goon grabbed a metal pipe from the ground and crept behind the occupied bat. Lifting the steel rod, the goon was smiling ear-to-ear. I'm gonna beat this bat and take the crates. An arrow flew from above and immediately penetrated the goon's hand, causing them to drop the pipe and scream bloody nonsense. Bruce turned around to look at the aftermath, turning his head up to find the emerald archer standing still and giving him a thumbs up. Bruce smiled.
"Thank you." He muttered into the comm.
Silence.
"Silent treatments are below you, lover."
More silence. Bruce rolled his eyes before punching the lights out of another goon.
"You should really learn how to keep work and personal things separate, Arrow." He growled, flipping a goon over his back as they began to circle him.
Oliver sighed, knocking a running goon as he turned on his comm. "You should learn to set your priorities, bat."
"I have." Bruce threw a batarang, exploding and ripping the ropes off some crates.
An arrow lodged itself inside the muzzle of a gun as a goon pulled the trigger. The gun exploded in their hands and screamed bloody murder. Oliver rolled his eyes, "Am I not one of them?"
Bruce rolled his shoulders, circling the ground with a broader goon who was ready to pounce on him. The goon took a swing, hitting the bat on the shoulder. Bruce took hold of the arm, placing the man's body weight atop his as he lifted the goon over his head and slammed him on the ground. With a grunt, Bruce groaned, "You are."
"Then why not..?" Why not be with me? Inside of these masks and outside of them. Flaunt me like you shine every lady of the night underneath the Gotham moonlight. Wear me like a cheap cologne. Rinse the filth of every other man and woman who touched you with my own hands. Take each other off the market and chat about our privacy.
"The people will talk, the speculation will rise. We are in danger if we do." I am scared. I am terrified because of my villains, terrified of your power. Enough major red dots are pointing at our foreheads. A heart-shaped crosshair will not save us or our identities. I will lose you. Their eyes are on you. Everyone will be looking at you.
Black Canary sealed her lips and kept surveilling her drones and dropping trackers near the dock.
"We are always in danger, Bruce. We are weak." He stated as if it were the easiest thing in the world to admit. Bruce flinched, almost allowing a goon to get the jump on him and punch him in the jaw. Bruce got his lick back, socking the goon in return. "Don't call me that while we're on the job."
"Weak or a reminder that you are?"
No reply.
Bruce huffed, receiving a kick to the side as he returned the move. "Focus."
"Ugh! You never listen!" Oliver
"So leave me."
Oliver nocked another arrow, aiming towards a bag of sand on the roof that dropped down to land on a goon. It landed on the goon's head, knocking them cold. "No! This is some weird ploy you have where you well up and think nobody likes you, so you can feel bad about yourself. I love you." He sighed, tying a string arrow to the balcony as he slid downwards towards the bat.
Bruce came close to him, walking with purpose as he placed a hand on the skin of Oliver's shoulder. "I love you too."
He sounded desperate, willing to be there for him as long as he was willing to open up, "Then stop leaving me out." He pulled his bow down, momentarily pausing his actions to stare at Bruce in the face.
They stood there, standing still, catching their breath. An annoying beeping noise interrupted them as they snapped their necks to look at the source.
"Watch out!" Bruce called, scooping Oliver into his arms before they jumped behind a wall, tumbling outside on the sand as they watched the warehouse burst into flames. The archer was coughing out sand as Bruce dusted himself off, watching the remaining goons make a run for it.
"Boys, put your squabble aside for a second. The explosion has triggered something unidentifiable to my sensors. I'm going to circle in closer to the establishment and turn it off, if I can. Otherwise, chase the goons and get as far away from the warehouse as possible." Canary called out into the comm, zeroing in on a hot blob of red heat from underneath the warehouse. It wasn't the explosion. Couldn't be. It was bigger.
"What about you, Canary?" Bruce questioned, running into the trees in the same direction the goons went. Arrow was jumping through the branches and vines above, following his lead.
She smirked, "I can handle myself."
The line was cut off as they went their separate ways. Oliver shot a trick arrow that expanded into a net, capturing three goons at the head of the crowd. They were unfortunately being stomped on by the others, who didn't stop in fear of being the next ones caught. Bruce threw a bat-shaped tracker on the pile as he sprinted past. He was closing in quickly.
Oliver shot smoke arrows towards the sides of the goons, keeping them in a secluded area and blinding their escape routes. Bruce coughed, squinting his eyes as he pressed a button on his cowl to conceal his eyes and continue the chase. Punching some goons in the face and tying others to trees with a swoop of Oliver's string arrows. Fantastic for grappling and even more so for tying up goons.
"I'll take the front half. Focus on the back end, doll face." Oliver said in the comm. He shot off another arrow, momentarily freezing the ground the goons feverishly ran into, knocking them down like bowling pins. The latter half diverged and ran the opposite way, the inky black blob of Bruce closely following from behind.
"Whatever," Bruce huffed. Seriously, why were they still running?
Bruce tossed two batarangs, and they had a mild explosion. Nothing to bleed out from but things to keep goons off their feet. It was successful as half of them tripped over their own two feet and tumbled to the ground. Bruce tied their ankles together using his bat bolas to keep them from escaping. "Arrow, how's it looking?"
"One's making it to the boat." He commented. "I'm on my way."
"I'm already on the move."
"So am I." Oliver bit back.
"I'll be quicker."
Oliver stayed silent over the communication device. Bruce ignored him, rolling his shoulders and continuing his mission.
Bruce was closing in on the last goon; he was barely in arm's reach before an arrow was shot down onto his cape, dragging the caped crusader to the ground. He landed with an audible oof before he was yelling into the comm. "What is wrong with you?"
"The target is mine."
"You're so childish!" Bruce bit.
Oliver rolled his eyes. They squinted as he kept his gaze on Bruce and nocked another arrow into place.
"No," Oliver stated as he closed one eye and his hands steadied. His gaze focused on nothing but the criminal running away from him. He feels it. The tension in the air, the way Bruce is gritting his teeth and chasing after the other man. The heavy thumps of his leather boots stomping against the gravel. "He's mine." He whispers, letting go of the arrow.
Its green body soared through the air, brushing past Bruce's cheek. A small graze that sliced the revealed skin of his cowl. The small leak of blood peeked, sliding out of him with slow movements. Weakweakweak. Bruce didn't have the mind to wipe it off, continuing to follow their target. The arrow struck the target's shoulder. "Mine." He jumped, grasping the long scarf of the target, pulling it backwards, and sending the criminal crashing to the floor.
The target was tied up and gagged with a green ribbon around their mouth. They squirmed on the ground as they tried to wiggle away from Batman, but the ascension of a green boot stopping their roll was enough for them to give up. "You are the worst. I called dibs." Oliver scoffed.
The bat huffed and placed the goon over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. They made their way back towards the main section, dragging and carrying the other bundles of captured goons. "We don't call dibs on criminals, Arrow."
"You know what I can call dibs on?" Oliver smirked, twirling an arrow in his hand and pointing it at Bruce.
"What—"
Green Arrow leaped at Batman.
The weight on his body made the dark knight lose balance and tumble to the floor. The archer's knee met the other man's gut, and they both rolled in the sand trying to one-up each other. Oliver's steel legs clenched around the bat's waist. Weakweakweak. The barely conscious goons were cheering at the sight of them struggling against each other as Oliver pushed the other man's face into a hill of sand.
Bruce sputtered out a mouthful, shoving his hand into Oliver's side and tickling the other man until he spat out a laugh and loosely rolled off of him. With that advantage, Bruce put a hand on the archer's throat. "What the fuck was that? Calm down, asshole." He panted, staring down. Oliver's chest heaved, his legs folded underneath the bat and coiled before springing the other man off of him. The archer licked his lips, tugging on his hood to further conceal his face and crawling towards the groaning knight who stared upwards with pinched eyebrows.
A hand curled around the archer's ankle before he came closer. "Boys?" It was Canary with a raised eyebrow, looking at the tied-up goons and the unstable condition the other two were in.
"Trouble in paradise?" She joked, dropping the man's ankle and whistling at the sight.
Bruce sighed, "He leaped at me." He slowly got up, dusting himself. This suit was going to need extreme cleaning when he got back to the cave. He winced for the lecture he was undoubtedly going to receive from Alfred. "You're a jerk!" Oliver shot back from the ground.
"You're the one who attacked me, hello?"
"You're the one who's too cowardly to-"
Dinah rolled her eyes, holding her head in her hand as they continued to bicker. "Boys, shut up!" She exclaimed, crossing her arms as they both apologized. (Bruce apologized, Oliver just turned the other way and slumped his shoulders in submission.) "Let's clean up, take these guys somewhere out of here. The thing that I was looking over is really strange; we're gonna need a GL on it later today." She informed, moving towards the goons who huddled together.
"Let's hoist these guys and clean up."
The other two nodded and got to work.
Throughout the entire process, however, Bruce felt the glaring eyes of Oliver on his back. He knew the archer had some words to spill, and it was only a matter of time until he gave in. Once they were finished and the goons were picked up, a Green Lantern on the scene to check out what Dinah was talking about, they all piled into the jet to go back home.
Dinah sat in the pit, driving the thing while Bruce looked over any information they might've missed. The crates, a mysterious thing Dinah encountered, the goons, the boats; it was the classic drug smuggling gig, but with that new variable, there simply had to be more. Bruce leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes for a moment before he felt a squeeze on his shoulder.
It was Oliver.
The two traveled towards the back of the jet. Canary threw a thumbs-up at them.
"Are you going to tell me now why you're in such a bad mood?" Bruce scoffed, closing the door behind them as he leaned against the wall. Oliver yanked his hood back, running a hand through his hair and pulling down the black strand of fabric that covered his mouth.
"Are you going to tell me why you don't really want to be official? I mean, sure, maybe you are afraid of our identities going up in flames. Maybe you're so wrapped in what-ifs that you are okay with being around every other guy and gal in Gotham instead of me." Oliver shook his head, his hands going to rest on his hips as he paced in the small jet's lounging area.
"The league knows, they don't care. It wouldn't be a surprise if suddenly two Playboys are seen together. Ha! If anything, it would sell our image even more. We aren't seen in the same places as Arrow and Bat, how could connections even be met?" He dropped his cloak to the ground as he continued to walk around. "If they were met— why do you think it's suddenly over? Do you not believe in us? To defeat them and claim triumph over our enemies? Are we so shallow to be easy pickings? Do you think of our love as fickle and weak, Bruce?" He scoffed, turning on his heel to face Bruce.
"I'm not afraid of us." He insisted.
"You are! Either that or you're afraid of the opinions of everyone else."
"You know that could never be it, Ollie." He spoke softly, slowly shedding the growl of Batman out of his voice.
"Don't try that with me, right now." The archer growled.
"What do you want from me?"
"I should be asking you that."
They want everything and anything that they're willing to have with one another. Every flaw and imperfection, they want it to be plastered over their bedroom walls and sink inside their cranium to never forget. Oliver wants Bruce like an illness, to cough on his heart, clogging his throat and his love to rush through his veins until it feels like a heart attack. Anything but heartbreak. Bruce wants Oliver, in every way but in the spotlight. To keep him hidden inside his cape and mansion, to claim the stake as private for his own enjoyment. It's selfish and bittersweet how badly he wants Oliver to be his.
He's weak.
Weak enough to get killed and weak enough for the archer to find the holes on his armor and poke the arrows between each plate. He wants Oliver, loves him, really. His cheeks grew warm as he continued his train of thought. Bruce looked away.
"And now you're just turning your back on me! What the hell, dude?" Oliver exclaimed before he was interrupted by a small mutter. He raised a brow. "Huh?"
Bruce mumbled out a reply.
"I can't hear what you're saying."
A little louder. "I don't want to go public with you because…." Bruce looked around, his eyes darting for an escape. Oliver tapped his green boot on the ground, shifting his weight on one side. "I don't want people to…ogle you."
Oliver scrunched up his face as if he sucked on the world's most sour lemon.
"Bruce, we're—" / "I don't care if we're well known and that it's bound to happen regardless. I still don't like it. They're out there, looking at you on me. I- I don't like that. I prefer it when you are for my eyes. Not theirs." Bruce rushed out, tugging on his cowl. Was it just him, or was it getting hot in there?
"That's— wow. Okay." The archer chuckled nervously. "That was hot."
"Was it really? It feels humiliating. I shouldn't be attracted to you like this. It's better on the Watchtower because they're put off by me, so they wouldn't be absurdly weird about you and me…but out on the scene? I'm loose, and they're going to think you're just another bed I have to conquer. They're gonna wink and blink their eyes at you…I don't like it." Bruce wrapped his cape around himself.
"Don't get it twisted, that's weird as hell, but I like it."
"Yeah, of course you do." Bruce rolled his eyes.
"It's not going to stop me from showing you off in our civvies, B." Oliver wrapped an arm around his shoulders as Bruce frowned. "I'll just need to be extra clear on our exclusivity." He hummed, nudging his cheek on the black cape.
Everyone says Oliver and Bruce are similar.
They're right in the way that they're weak, insecure, and jealous.
They're wrong in terms of priorities.
They are twins in the form of a flame. A small candle waiting to burn down a house of their desire.
"Mine?" Bruce asked, the embarrassment crawling from inside his throat.
"I guess." Oliver sighed. A grunt came from the other man. "I'm kidding, bat...obviously."