It has been a long day. He's been on and off the phone for most of it, and he thinks he's probably heard every variation of "You just missed her, Ollie" and "She's not here right now" that exist. Not to mention her machine. Twice
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She's alright. She's injured...most of us are injured, we had something go bad on us. But she's pulling through, the doctors say nothing to worry about.
I just wanted to talk to you. To get things straightened out.
"Injured doing what? Are Roy and Connor okay? Where've you been?" She stops the flood of questions. "Yeah. I'm in Gotham today, but I'm going to be in Manhattan again later unless Oracle calls."
A "we need to talk" dinner. Private enough that you can hiss threats at me, but public enough that you can embarrass me utterly if I cross the line and start flirting or something.
"God. It's been decades since I talked to an ex over something other than a broadhead."
Thanks. I'm starting to think that the kids would be happier if I was hospitalized -- I took a risk, and it led us into a trap. We pulled it off anyway, but it was a close thing.
"Sounds like you've got a story to tell me." Another pause. "I hope whatsherface takes good care of you, Ollie. I want you to be happy, even if it isn't with me."
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I just wanted to talk to you. To get things straightened out.
Would you be willing to meet somewhere?
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My treat, but only because I'm a multimillionaire and I'm making demands on your busy schedule.
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"God. It's been decades since I talked to an ex over something other than a broadhead."
That thought, that word, hurts. Ex.
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That's part of what I need to talk to you about.
Eight o'clock sound okay? Name the restaurant, and I'll meet you.
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I might be late, but I'll call if I am. Gotham air traffic is murder.
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