Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

thirty

"That's honestly... really messed up," Clark commented as he watched the blond archer pace back and forth across the kitchen floor.

"I'm aware, Clark. Thanks for the observation," Oliver retorted, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Clark frowned slightly, about to begin apologizing for his misstep when Oliver seemed to realize what he had just said. The blond sighed in frustration, leaning against the granite counter with one hand and holding his head with the other.

"I'm sorry." Oliver looked up. "I didn't mean that— I'm just confused. I really do appreciate you coming on such short notice."

Clark offered a sympathetic smile. "It's alright. I'm just a little... stunned, is all. I mean, I knew Bruce had a reputation for being cold, but I didn't realize he would just... I mean, he stole. From you! And after, at least from what you've told me, your years of close friendship? That's... well, that's just not right. Even if he was young— you should know better by twenty-five not to steal."

The Man of Steel sat on one of the barstools in Oliver's kitchen— they'd decided that it would probably just be easier to talk in-person than over the phone, and it's not like it took very long for Clark to get there, given that he could fly, anyway. Clark had never gotten the proper chance to talk to the archer, even though they'd been attending weekly meetings together for years.

"I know!" Oliver scowled at the wall. "What a dick! He walks in here, after ignoring me for upwards of a decade and just thinks I'm gonna forgive him like that?"

"Didn't you mention that you thanked him and told him you appreciate him for bringing your stuff back?"

"Well, I— yeah— but, I— ugh. I don't know, okay? I guess, I..." Oliver trailed off for a minute before taking a deep breath. "Listen, you don't know me very well, which isn't your fault, but I'm not exactly the most... forgiving person. I'm known to be pretty stubborn, or at least that's what I'm told. And so you'd think after years of imagining me and Bruce having that conversation, and having years to craft a response, I'd be pretty set in my decision."

Oliver pursed his lips. "I don't know. Trust me, I genuinely hated Bruce for a long time. And I'm not trying to rationalize what he did because it was, like you said, really fucked. But... I... wasn't exactly a saint at twenty-five, either, you know?"

Clark watched the other man's shoulders sink and his head dip in between them as he leaned his body on the counter.

"I was stuck on an island for a while, after a bad accident. My parents died. I... was in a tough spot. When I came back and started to become Green Arrow my... my values were pretty skewed and I... I..." Oliver sighed.

Clark could hear the other man's blood pressure rise out of anger. He wanted to offer Oliver a supportive hand on his shoulder, but Clark thought better of it. The archer seemed like he just simply needed to talk— and Clark wasn't sure he had any advice to give.

"I-I killed a few people."

Clark couldn't help his eyes widening a fraction.

"I thought it was right—" Oliver looked up at him, appearing distressed. "I didn't know any better. I thought it was justice since they were pretty horrible people— I figured the world would be better off with them just gone. It wasn't until years later that I realized the gravity of what I had done but... well, there's no forgiving that sort of thing. You can't exactly bring people back from the dead. And the way Bruce was looking at me earlier tonight... I— I knew that face, because I've worn that face plenty of times. Guilt. The irreparable kind. And it sucks."