It'd been a mistake to have a kid with you.

Floyd's fingers twitch as he stares at your—his—sleeping kid, and he'd blame it on a muscle spasm if he weren't the steadiest sharp shooter he knows.

The neighbourhood isn't run-down. It's not suburbia, but there's a notable absence of crime. Green Arrow kept his promise.

He's a man too. Human in his needs. Sometimes, he paid for company, and maybe that was a mistake—seeing as how it got him into this whole mess. A second kid. Floyd huffs out something like a laugh, humorless, jaw clenched as he slips out of Zoe's bedroom.

You don't even know about his son, and sometimes, it gets easy to pretend he never had one.

He doesn't think of himself as a father most of the time. Floyd hated his own, hated his mother too. The only family member he truly cared for is long gone.

Still, he gave it a try at first, forced himself to ignore how laughable the idea of him settling down was. Deadshot may be a man, but he may as well be a bad omen, the way misfortune strikes those he makes the mistake of caring for.

He did it your way, even. Didn't just shoot his way out. Cleaned up the shithole neighbourhood you lived in, took out the gangs and organised crime. Even got little Zoe a scholarship.

But baggage like his sticks. Maybe things would’ve been different if he had an actual secret identity, but dwelling on that is a fool's errand. In the end, his baggage came looking and Floyd stepped up to collect.

Faking his death seemed like the logical decision at the time.

Floyd grunts quietly as your palm thwacks across his jaw. There's a notable lack of apology on his part.

"I wanted to see her." His voice is even, matter-of-fact. He tosses a wad of cash onto your kitchen table. "Got a little something. For the two of you."

A self-flagellating part of him wants to make a comment about this not being the first time he’s dropped cash on you. That same part wants to say you still look surprisingly good for being a full-time parent.

He’s sensible enough not to.