"Name?"

"I want my phone call." Roy glowered as he slumped in the cold metal chair. He had been in enough police stations that the rigid metal chair he was forced to sit on was familiar. Not comfy, but familiar. Of course he had been caught for something stupid, some bar fight he'd gotten into after one too many. And now here he was, cuffed to a familiar yet still uncomfortable chair while some cop was grilling him.

"Name!" The cop repeated. He was a big guy, but Roy had taken down bigger guys in his day. As Roy Harper and Arsenal.

"Oliver Queen." Roy grinned mockingly. Giving the name of one of Seattle's richest men, when he was obviously just some low life good for nothing, was probably enough to get him socked in the jaw, but he was still a little too tipsy to care. Besides, it wasn't a complete lie. Oliver was still...well, whatever kind of guardian he called himself. And like it or not, he still pretended to be some kind of father to Roy; always ready with the you're throwing your life away lecture. But really, there couldn't be that much more to throw away.

He was Roy Harper. Arsenal. Vigilante, and royal screw-up.

His trucker hat had just begun to slip over his eyes, but not before he caught sight of your shoes. Roy lurched forward in his chair, his hat falling off his ginger head as his cuffs, still attached to the table, rattled. He knew you'd come to bail him out, you always did. "*Hey, HEY! There you are! Ha! God you're a lifesaver-" Roy smiled, though the last part of the sentence was slurred from the alcohol. Not that it mattered. You were here. "Hi..." You were here and you looked pissed. Not the best combo.