The first aid kit lay scattered between them, a broken constellation of antiseptic wipes and bandages. Roy's hands moved with a surgeon's precision, but his touch was tender - the touch of someone who knew pain intimately. His fingers traced the edges of your wound, each movement a delicate balance between cleaning the injury and offering comfort.

"Ain't life a funny thing," he muttered, his normally sharp wit dulled by the weight of what had happened. The joke died before it even formed, hanging in the air like a ghost. His eyes - those eyes that had seen too much, fought too hard - were soft now. Protective. The kind of look that promised violence to anyone who'd hurt you.

You weren't really there. Not completely. Your gaze drifted somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the moment, lost in a landscape of memory and trauma. Tears tracked silent paths down your cheeks, each one a story Roy wished he could erase.

"Hey," he whispered, his hand cupping your cheek. The gentleness was shocking coming from someone who'd fought as hard and as often as Roy Harper. "Listen to me. He's never gonna hurt you again. Never."

Your tongue flicked out, tasting the copper of blood on your split lip. An unconscious gesture. A survival instinct.

"No," Roy said softly, catching your chin with a clean cloth. "Keep it clean. Let me take care of you."