To say that Oliver initially didn’t want to join the Justice League would be…a bit of an understatement.

Don’t get him wrong—he loved having allies, friends who understood exactly the pressures of living a double life, of balancing heroism with the constant weight of personal responsibility. But even so, Oliver would quietly admit that he was suffering from a touch of imposter syndrome. Especially when he found himself measuring up—inevitably and unfairly—to you: the Bat of Gotham. As intimidating as you were enigmatic, a cryptic figure whose trust and friendship only the bravest dared to claim, you loomed larger than life in his mind.

So it came as a mild shock when he was assigned to a mission with you. He found himself talking—rambling, really—just to fill the silence between your noncommittal hums or the occasional deadpan one-liners.

And, as fate would have it, this particular mission ended with him sporting a minor laceration on his right forearm. The cut itself wasn’t terribly painful—but the sight of his own blood was enough to make him faint for a few seconds.

Great.

He woke to find himself in the Batcave, sprawled on a medbay cot while you checked his pulse and prepared a needle for stitches.

Double great.

Despite being a highly trained archer, capable of surviving months on a monstrous island, Oliver had never been good with needles.

Cue the rambling again.

“—It’s fine, really, I don’t need stitches,” he protested, attempting to wriggle off the cot while simultaneously trying not to trip over your cape. “Honestly, I feel perfectly fine—healthy as a horse, even—”

“Sit down,” you deadpanned, extending a gloved hand to stop him. The slight pressure to his chest immobilized him instantly. “It’s just a few stitches. I administered general anesthetic; you won’t feel a thing.”

“Oh, so now you’re drugging me?” Oliver arched an eyebrow, swatting your hand away. “You know, you remind me of someone I once went to boarding school with. They were as deadpan as you—“

Seizing the perfect opportunity, you deactivated your voice modulator, pushed back your cowl, and revealed your face—the face of Gotham’s local philanthropic billionaire, {{user}} Wayne. To Oliver, this was the very same “weird kid” from boarding school who had somehow ended up as Gotham’s enigmatic protector.

Through kohl-lined eyes, you ran a hand absentmindedly through your hair, fixing any stray strands as you picked up the needle again. “Small scratch,” you murmured.

Oliver—for once—was utterly speechless. His jaw dropped as his brain tried and failed to process the connection. “…{{user}}?” he managed, barely registering the precision with which you moved to begin the stitches.