Title: I'm Gonna Let You Drown
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I don't own this world. Just live it. Nothing is mine.
Word Count: 976
Pairing: Oliver/OFC
Summary: A series of ficlets of two people told from their point of view, those who look at them from the outside in and how their interactions affect their interactions with others.
It's been five months since he's returned home.
It's been three months since they've started fucking on an irregular basis.
He doesn't ask for her name.
She doesn't volunteer the information.
They aren't stupid though and while they never address the other by name, they know. The illusion of anonymity is a small comfort to them both.
She doesn't ask about the scars that litter his body or look up at him with questions on the tip of her tongue and unshed tears clouding disappointed eyes.
He doesn't ask why she turns her head when he tries to kiss her on their first night together or why apart from worn and overused books, her home is completely empty of personal items.
It's been three months since they've started fucking when she offers something more.
"Coffee?" she asks as he bends to collect his hastily disregarded shirt the night before. He raises his head, blinks and stares at her as he slowly straightens.
They don't interact other than to fuck whatever is haunting them into oblivion for the night.
She knows she's just a good, no great, fuck to let him forget whatever haunts him and he knows that he's an outlet for all her repressed emotions. They both understand they're second-rate substitutes for the ones they can't have, Quick fixes and temporary breaks from reality. That's all they are to the other.
She rolls her eyes and shakes the coffee filter as he stares at her for a few more silent moments. "It's not a pop quiz and there are no wrong answers. Coffee. Yes. Or. No" she asks again, talking slowly this time, exasperation in her voice.
"I'm good" he replies and his eyebrows form a 'v' as he regards her cautiously. Shrugging, she pours herself a cup and turns to the stove. He walks towards the door and turns to stare at her before dismissing her and their brief lapse.
Five months into their fuck-lationship, he wakes up and immediately wishes for death. Moving is so not going to be a thing he's going to be doing anytime soon. Opening his eyes requires a herculean effort and when he does, it turns out he doesn't need to move because the world moves for him. Around and around in circles the world spins, he immediately closes his eyes and tries not to throw up.
"I told you not to have the fourth shot of tequila. Or the fifth. Or the eighth"
That voice…it's the voice of the devil. He groans and turns to bury his head in her pillow. The sound of glass making contact with the bedside table has him opening one eye and just like that, he rates her right up there in his top five people. Still keeping the other eye closed, he tries to look at her but only manages to catch a glimpse of her staring down at him rolling her eyes before giving up.
"Water and advil" she pauses and he feels the bed give a little under her weight. If she comforts him, he's going to leave. That's too comfortable and they – they don't do that kind of shit. That's not what he needs her for. Instead, she bounces and he tries to hold in last nights dinner while deciding to move her to the top of the people he hates list. "Coffee in the filter, bread in the toaster if you want it" she declares as she jumps off the bed and collects whatever it is girls think they need in their handbag. "I'm off. Lock the door on your way out"
A part of him sighs in relief as she leaves without asking why he'd had the fourth and the fifth and the eigth shot. He thinks she might already know. Later he'll wonder why it doesn't bother him that she might know. Right now though, he's just going to lie here wish for death.
Seven months and he's sitting at the table with a coffee in his hand. He stares at her as she moves around the kitchen wondering what they're doing.
"I'm not expecting a marriage proposal" she told him when she offered breakfast an hour earlier. All he could do was blink and look at her blankly.
It's not the first coffee that he's accepted. After his first night of drunken debauchery and taking most of the morning to make it to the shower after she leaves something shifts.
He's not sure what, he's not even sure if he wants to find out.
She doesn't mention the times she nearly trips over his body when it storms and he sleeps restlessly on the floor. He doesn't ask about the times he finds her sitting with her back against the wall, an old shoe box filled with pictures and a bottle of tequila in her hand.
They keep it simple. They keep within their unspoken boundaries and they simply just exist.
She drops a newspaper in front of him, placing a plate of bacon, eggs and toast next to it before moving across the table to a plate of her own. She opens her waiting book and begins to read, absently chewing on a strip of bacon.
She ignores him.
It's just breakfast, not a marriage proposal, he tells himself as he opens the paper and cuts into his egg and toast.
They sit. They eat. They read. They exist.
Nothing changes because they've had breakfast, he realizes later. They fuck. They see the pieces of something that's broken in the other. They don't mention anything.
It's…nice, to simply just be with another life form.
No questions.
No expectations.
It's been nine months since he returned home.
It's been seven months since they've started fucking each other on an irregular basis.
It's the first time in almost six years that he hasn't felt alone.