welcome to the justice lounge

Ollie’d left some of the questions unasked. “Are you okay” was the big one, followed closely by “Is Ramsey okay”, but there was also the whopping big Where was your heart’s desire, where did Dionysus’s relocation spell zap you to, was it LA or Star or Gotham or somewhere you still keep secret because it’s too raw to tell?

But those questions, all of them, could wait because Kate had done what she’d sworn and gotten Ramsey out. Although when Ollie made it back from Star City to the Manor (it was unspoken, that they’d all converge back at the Manor) to deliver the child, a miserable little bundle of wan brown feathers deposited into his mama’s arms, the look on Kate’s face wasn’t anywhere near triumph or joy. It was hardly even satisfaction that they’d succeeded.

Ollie watched his wife cradle their child, stroke and kiss his cold hair and try to rub warmth into his little round limbs, and all he could see on her face was a drawn, terrible mix of anger and heartbreak.

And looking down at Ramsey, a tiny morsel of a person heaped under thick eiderdowns in one of the cosier rooms of the Manor — Alfred hovered at a respectful distance, appearing like magic to bring hot tea or stoke the fire, anything to keep mother and child comfortable — Ollie could see why Kate didn’t feel like what they’d accomplished was that much of a win.

It wasn’t until the exhaustion had overwhelmed the trauma in the boy’s small body and blanketed him in a deep, unmoving sleep that Ollie was able to take Kate out of the room for a minute, put his arms around her, hold her against him for a while. “Ollie,” Kate said after he’d warmed her enough, thawed through some of her numbness, “what if he was down there for too long? What if it’s too much for him?” The unused, shattered tenor of her voice made her still-unspoken fears visible through the cracks: he’s already been through so much, I wanted a good life for him, not one like mine, what if I’ve failed him (again) and he stops trusting that his mama will be there for him.

"Let him sleep," Ollie murmured against Kate’s roughened hair, between kisses. "Let him get some rest and then we’ll figure things out. You got him back, Katie, that’s what’s important." He lets another length of time stretch, and before it starts to feel too comfortable, Ollie tells her, "We have to find Bruce, wherever he might have turned up. They … I think him and Talia might have lost their child. One of their children." It was ugly enough that even Ollie, never lost for words, had trouble articulating what he’d seen of the deal being made. For the unborn one or … or Damian.

( don't look at me looking back at you )

Despite it being the first time, Alfred was not, in fact, surprised to find Ramsey where he was—half buried under a large book in the large armchair in the library—but he was a.. bit taken aback at the tome the boy had chosen and was thumbing through: The Art of Making Bread.

He chuckled, a low dry sound, and moved over into sight with the tray he carried: tea, biscuits, and a small platter of apples, the remainders from that year’s haul. The butler set it down, on a small table near Ramsey, and scanned for Lian. Hiding in the stacks, more than likely. He proceeded to cut one of the apples, then another, as he stood next to the boy, and nearly chortled as he spoke next.

"Sating your appetite for knowledge, young Master Robinson?"

Ramsey stuck his entire hand between the entries on “challah” and “chapati,” marking the page and smiling up at the older man. The smell of the apples as Alfred cut them was tangy and sharp, and for some reason Ramsey’s mind went straight back to that awful place with bungalows and monsters who took mothers in the middle of the night. Unconsciously, his fingers on his free hand rubbed at the spot where his moon-scar had once been. The bread book had been no coincidence either—it had elicited the same memories.

"Mr. Bruce let me help him coo—bake bread over the summer," he responded helpfully, spreading the book out on the ottoman in front of him—a footrest to a man, a table to a child—-and flipped the pages until the loaves of bread Bruce had baked and he had delivered came into sight. "I saw this too…" he began again, flipping more pages until he found the thing he was looking for. Ramsey hoisted the book up, entirely too bulky in his tiny hands, and squinted at the page, reading in his best fourth grade voice.

( the staff of life )

Kyle shows up late at night, looking damp, haggard and shady. The only thing distinguishing him from a common lowlife is his Green Lantern ring, glowing in the darkness. He presses the buzzer to the large imposing doors, backing up to absorb the full implications of what he’s doing, before staggering forward again. He knocks a few times before the door finally opens. In his other hand, he clutches sopping folds of paper.

"Mister Pennyworth," Kyle says, because he knows it’s the butler who’ll answer - who else? - and then amends himself, "Affel…Afl-red. Alfred." His words are slurred, and Kyle vaguely wonders: was the Gotham Gutter bar was really the best place to fill up on tequila before heading to Wayne Manor?

"Mister Pennymoney," he tries again. "It’s me. It’s Kyle. I’m a Green Nightlight. May I please come in?"

( rose garden )

Hey there, Alfred.

I need to talk to Bruce. Just one time, just about this one thing; if he decides after that to cut all ties, I’ll adhere to his decision.

But I need to talk to him and you’re my best shot at getting in to see him. I’d ordinarily just show up at the gate in civvies, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t even let me on the property.

Advice? Help? Magic wand?

Best,

Oliver Queen

( one must have a valet )