Harper
I thank whatever gods may be
for my unconquerable soul
"Fancy clothes don't keep a man's belly full," he teases in quick retort, though his grinning mouth tempers any sharpness. Well, unless those clothes happened to include a leotard, because Harper had certainly earned his keep in the circus by performing in one. Not that he could pull off that kind of look now - oh good lord no - but he doesn't need to give Oliver the ammunition either. The kid was sharp, and Harper wanted to keep the both of them on their toes. No mercy, no surrender. "Don't worry your pretty head, I swear I'll hunt someone down and get it fixed." Though he appreciates the concern nonetheless. Pain doesn't feel any different to Harper than any other man. It's not something that you can train away. But reacting to it? Compartmentalizing it? Oh, the League had certainly done that. He'd simply not tell Oliver the severity of the injury, confident in his abilities to cope with it and recover swiftly.
Harper can't help his touchy nature, reaching out to place a hand on Oliver's shoulder, trailing up to cup his cheek and smile down at him kindly. "You don't know how much it means to hear that. I'd happily perform for you and any others. Maybe I can even teach you some tricks!" His smile turns into a grin once more, tapping Oliver's cheek playfully and dancing out of reach in case revenge is swift. Of course he loops right back into Oliver's personal space at the notion of food, practically trotting after him like an eager pup as the shorter man leads them onward. "The best reward I've ever been given, truly." Who cares about clothes or the success of a day at the market? Harper just cares about those good old delicious carbs.
