Title: Uncharted Territory
Word Count: 5416
Notes: Okay, I have just come off a 10-hour shift and have no idea if I like this, but I wrote it yesterday and have no desire to revamp the thing. So have a thing. Have a thing that's utter batshit insanity.
Reviews are awesome. Reads are awesome. You are awesome. ;)
It's the most beautiful thing Felicity has ever seen. They told her the uncharted jungle would be wrought with danger, but instead all she can see are the lush forests and majestic waterfalls. But, then again, they also said that she should accept her boyfriend's proposal instead of running around the world in search of adventure, so excuse her if she'd like to see the world with her own eyes.
She isn't immune to reason, however; Felicity knew the moment she planned the boat trip to the island that it would be dangerous. That's why she brought protection, in the form of John Diggle and Lyla Michaels, a husband-and-wife team of former soldiers who liked the idea of tagging along through the uncharted jungles of Lian Yu.
"This might be the prettiest place I've ever been," she declares, bending over to look more closely at a tropical flower. Pulling her sketchbook out of her satchel, she drops to the ground next to it at the best angle she can manage. While she could easily take a picture with her camera—or her phone, for that matter—but drawing makes her feel at peace, just right in this private little world. "I mean when's the last time you saw a flower like that, Digg…?"
Looking up to ask, Felicity realizes that no one is around. Her heart starts to beat faster; she must have taken a wrong turn and separated from her two protectors without knowing it. That isn't good at all; she doesn't know her way back to their camp and there's no telling what sort of danger she could find on her own. The fact that she's on an island means they can't have gone far, but it's still a jungle out there—quite literally.
"Digg?" she calls out, her voice barely above a whisper. The last thing she wants to do is startle the creatures lurking in the dense foliage, startling them into attack. Louder, she tries, "Lyla?" She scratches her head, unaware of how long it's been since she's seen them. They could be halfway across the island by now. She checks her cell phone. No service. Of course. "I, um, I'm kind of lost and I—"
She breaks off, eyes widening as she turns in time to see eyes with slit like pupils staring at her. Her phone falls to the ground as her eyes widen and her heart starts hammering. Slowly, she takes a few steps back, trying to avoid startling the whatever-the-hell-it-is into attack. The animal stalks forward in lithe movements as the spotted pattern on its gold coat becomes clear, a very feline head studying her. Felicity bites back a scream.
Leopard.
This time she backpedals quickly, and as if sensing easy prey, the leopard stalks forward. Its muscles tense as it sinks into a crouch, ready to pounce at her. Felicity lets out a half-hearted shriek before scrambling back further, only to trip on a tree root. She lands hard on her ass, her sketchbook flying. Her eyes follow it, despite the fact she has more important things to worry about. Of course this is how it ends, she can't help but think. Not because she's on an uncharted island or managed to find the wrong poisonous plant, but because she tripped over a tree root with a leopard standing over her.
Just when she thinks it's over, something drops down out of the trees, a blur of matted fur and wild movement. She can't discern what the hell it is through the mass of contrasting colors and quick movement, but it lands on the leopard's back. For a moment she wonders if they have any natural predators, but then she notices the cat is swiping with its claws retracted. After watching their movements more closely, she realizes that whatever they are, they're playing with one another.
All Felicity can do is watch, helpless to move. The creature drops a weapon on the ground as it growls at the cat—some sort of makeshift spear. Blue eyes flash in the fray, and when hands reach out for the cat, it hits her so hard she gasps out a breath: it's a human. It's hard to tell anything about him—by the size, she can only assume it's male—because he's buried beneath a mass of hair and a pair of what look to be grimy cargo pants. Over his head is some sort of hood, but its details are lost in the light brown tangle of hair.
He crouches on the ground in front of the jungle cat, butting it with his head. The leopard purrs—purrs!—in response to his touches, moving together as though they had been raised together from birth. With a series of mewls and guttural noises, he seems to be talking to it, and the jungle predator slowly stalks back into the bushes.
She lets out a sharp cry of surprise, and his eyes flick to her even as he flinches away at the noise. Now that he faces her head on, Felicity can study him in a new light. He might be human by species, but the look in his eyes is as wild as the leopard that just left. His hair is matted and tangled, just a few shades lighter than the mud on her boots, his beard hanging to the middle of his chest. Surprisingly, he doesn't look much older than her, in his late twenties or early thirties. Sharp blue eyes shine with intelligence, but he doesn't say a word as he studies her.
The man takes a few steps toward her, still in a crouch, and she scrambles back further on his hands and knees. It causes him to give chase, rising to his feet and moving faster than she could. She can't outrun him, not in her current state. At least he leaves the spear on the ground, but that does little for her comfort; there's no question that he could kill her just as easily with his bare hands.
Head tilting to the side as he appraises her, the wild man drops before her, studying her in the same way she does him. He sinks down into a crouch as he draws closer, moving toward her on his hands and knees in slow, exaggerated motions. Felicity slides back, huffing a breath when her back collides with a tree. She closes her eyes, bracing for the worst.
She expects him to make a move for her throat, to kill her slowly, but he doesn't. She opens her eyes to find him studying her boots with rapt fascination, but he slowly crawls over her, straddling her legs until he can place his hand on the bark above her head. His other hand grips her hip, and she reacts without thinking. Making a fist like Diggle showed her, she hauls off and punches him in the nose as hard as she can. It isn't hard enough to break anything, but no doubt it catches his attention.
He recoils several steps, until he's even with her boots again. His eyes meet hers with new understanding and appraisal. Now she can tell more about his green jacket; though stained and dirty, it seems to be in good condition. His face hardens a little, and Felicity realizes what that must mean. "Oh, God, you're going to kill me, aren't you?" she asks him, though she's sure he doesn't understand her English words.
Thus far, he hasn't tried to speak, but he does cock his head to the side a little, as if trying to make sense of her babbling. "I should have listened," she mutters to herself. "Ray told me this was a bad idea. But no, I had to come here and nearly get myself killed by a leopard and possibly a wild man." She winces. "No offense. And now I'm going to be the only person to ever survive a leopard attack only to be killed by their rescuer. Way to go, Smoak."
His eyes soften at her muttering, even as his eyebrows furrow in concentration. He takes steps toward her again, this time slower, and careful not to touch her now. He crouches above her, sliding onto his knees in the mud until she can feel him sitting atop her legs, his eyes on hers all the while. It's ludicrous in a way; he could easily kill her, but he seems more interested in understanding his intruder than hurting her.
Felicity's mouth opens, but nothing comes out as her wild man moves in so close that she thinks he's going to kiss her. The blonde's hand goes to her chest as her breathing picks up, clinging to the fabric of her purple henley as though it's a lifeline. She doesn't know what she can do if he decides he's bored with her presence. If he tries to touch her—
Before she can figure out what, exactly, she'd do, his blue eyes flick to the motion of her hand, staring at it as though it's something foreign. She follows his gaze downward to her turquoise nail polish, watching as his eyes flick back to his own hand in return. In methodical movements, he opens his hand, reaching toward her with it. She almost thinks he's going to cop a feel (in which case, she'd have to slug him again), but his callused fingers go to her wrist, pulling her hand away from the collar of her shirt.
As if it's the most novel thing in the world, he studies her fingers, moving them ever so slightly. He touches her fingernails as if they're hot coals, pulling back after the lightest of touches. His delicate nature surprises her; it's clear that the last thing this beast of a man wants is to hurt her. After a moment, he presses his palm flat against hers, staring at the way they mirror one another—no doubt a novelty in this uncharted part of the world.
"Hand," she tries. His eyes flick to hers, but he remains mute. "We both have hands. We're mostly the same because we're the same species. I bet you've never met another person before, have you?" She's met with silence, watching as he taps her fingernails with his own. "That's polish." She slips her hand from his, using a fingernail on her other hand to scratch away some of the paint. He makes a noise of alarm in his throat, snatching her hand away. She laughs and he jumps, but his eyes soften quickly. "It doesn't hurt," she promises, showing him her index finger now that it's devoid of paint. "But it's like yours. See?" She holds it next to his index finger to compare.
Instead of answering, he makes a motion toward her before holding up both of his hands. She does the same, pressing hers against his. It earns her a few excited grunts, an octave higher than before. "You've got it—we're similar. I'm probably the first woman you've ever met. I bet it's freaking you out a little."
With one hand, she reaches up to adjust her glasses in her nervousness, but his eyes miss nothing. He seems to notice her plastic-framed glasses for the first time, and he immediately leaps for them in his excitement. Felicity slaps his hand away and he recoils slightly. Sighing, she touches his hand gently to let him know she isn't going to hurt him. "I need those to see," she says to him, though the blonde already knows he doesn't understand. "You can't have them. They'd make your vision all funny anyway."
Though tentative because of her hand slap, he reaches out for them again, grunting a little as though he's trying to speak to her, too. "Fine," she huffs at him, rolling her eyes. She pushes his hand away because she only has one pair until she can get back to camp, and she isn't going to run around the jungle half-blind. Taking them off her face, she holds them out for him to study.
He touches the earpieces tentatively, jumping when he folds one in. "You didn't break it," she assures him, popping it back out. He jumps and makes a noise in his throat, trying to take them from her, but she won't let him. Felicity turns them toward him, and his eyes cross and go squint-y as he tries to look through them. When she laughs, his eyes flick to her, one corner of his mouth going up. "Glasses," she explains to him, folding them into the top of her henley as she pushes hair back from her face. "They help me see everything better. I'm nearsighted—everything is fuzzy when I don't have them."
As though he has the attention span of a three-year-old, he's already moving on, tentatively reaching out to touch her face. He touches it once, as if trying to gauge how she responds. When Felicity stays still, he reaches out again, left hand cupping her face, as his right traces the line of her eyebrow, brushing against her eyelashes when her eyes fall closed. It trails down the line of her nose before tracing the curve of her lips, rubbing his fingers together when he notices her fuchsia lipstick on his thumb.
A strand of blonde hair tickles her nose, one that must have escaped her ponytail. When she pushes it back, her wild, leopard-taming man stares at it in pure wonder. He reaches for it with wide eyes, and Felicity bites back on a chuckle. Pulling at the elastic at the back of her head, she lets her hair fall loose around her shoulders, wrapping the band around her wrist. He stares at her with wide eyes and pure wonder, reaching out to touch it once before snatching his hand back.
As if taking her lack of movement for permission, he runs his fingers through her hair, fascinated for a few seconds. After that, his hands go back to her face, running down the curve of her neck, tracing it with grime-stained hands and callused fingers. She finds she doesn't mind that at all. When he touches the points of her collar bone, his eyes light up, pulling back his left hand to touch his own. He pulls at her shirt a little, too, but pulls back when she wriggles, smearing grime across her shoulder in the process.
Her new friend's eyes sink downward, eyes knitting together as he notices the swell of soft tissue under her shirt. Before she can warn him off, he palms her breast, and she smacks his hands away. He doesn't scurry back, but quickly retracts his hand; the message must be clear enough because he doesn't try again. "I know you probably don't understand what you just did, but that's bad." He blinks twice at the emphasized word. "Rude. Whether you get it or not, I don't want to be manhandled. Do you under—mmph."
He touches her lips as she's talking, probably out of curiosity. She can only imagine what he must be thinking; with every motion, she grows more certain he's never seen another human in his life. Tucking her hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture, she continues despite his fingers on her bottom lip, "You must be so confused about your world. But you're smart or you wouldn't have survived this long."
Hesitantly, she pushes back his matted hair to better reveal those brilliant blue eyes. He holds solid and still, and she smiles triumphantly at him. "There you are," she declares. "I was starting to wonder if there was actually a person in there, Cousin It." She cups his face, and he leans into her touch, making a low noise in his throat. "You're kind of cute, under that tangle of hair."
She pulls away to tuck her hair behind her ear, and he immediately reaches for it, fingering the industrial piercing at the top of her ear. Felicity marvels again at how gentle he is, touching her as if she's made of glass. While he has her distracted by touching her ear piercings, she misses his other hand trailing downward until his fingers are on her sternum.
Whatever he must find there excites him; Felicity can tell by the sudden sparkle in his eyes. Pushing his hair back, the wild man leans forward, gauging her expression as he does so. She flinches when he presses his head against her chest, but he closes his eyes and it looks like there's a smile somewhere in that mess of a beard.
After a moment, he pulls away, brushing her hair away from her ears as he pulls her toward him this time. If only out of a thirst for knowledge, she allows the action. He pushes her ear to the middle of his chest, and she can barely hear the steady thump of his heartbeat under the dirty jacket.
Slowly pulling away from his chest, Felicity says to him, "How about that?" Truthfully, she's surprised he understands enough to make the connection; despite his conventional life in the jungle, there must be a fine mind lurking beneath. "We both have a heartbeat. So did that leopard, so that doesn't really mean anything. Most mammals do, you know. But it's in the same place, so it's kind of cool, right?"
A tangled lock of hair falls in front of his face, but she pushes it back so she can see those stunning eyes. He doesn't even flinch, not even when she takes his hand, showing him how they fit together again. "See that? We're the same species." She motions between them both before saying, "Human."
That thought only seems to confuse him, so Felicity pulls her hand away. "I'm doing too much too fast, aren't I?" His answer is to thread his hands through her hair again, as if fascinated by it. She pulls on an end in preparation to try a word again.
He lets out a sharp growl with alarm in his eyes, as if he thinks she's going to hurt herself. A smile plays on her lips as she tugs on it again. She reaches over and tugs on his, too, before explaining, "Hair." His eyebrows knit together, so she just continues to herself, "I know, but it's the same as yours. Mine's in much better shape, but, you know, I have access to a straightener and a brush." His fingers tangle in hers, but at least he doesn't pull. "That's hair. You're kind of obsessed with it."
He pulls his hand away with a frown before repeating in a very unsure voice, "Hair."
Felicity makes a noise of delight in her throat, and it makes him smile wide. "Exactly!" she crows. "That's what this is." She pulls on his hair, too. "That's hair. We both have it, even if yours is a little tangled and—let's be honest—you're in need of a good bath. That hair could probably stand to be buzzed off." She cups his face again, allowing her thumb to go to the corner of his eye. "But you have great eyes and that's something to work with." She motions to his, and then to her own. "Eyes," she tries.
"Eyes," he repeats, this time with more clarity. When she smiles, he returns it slowly, seeming very pleased with himself. He fidgets in place for a moment before motioning to himself with uncertainty in his features. "Oliver," he declares, tilting his head to the side. When her only response is to blink, he pokes his index finger into his chest and repeats, "Oliver."
"Oh, that's your name!" Felicity realizes aloud. He does it again before poking a finger in her shoulder, his face expectant. Pointing to herself, she enunciates, "Felicity." Oliver's brow furrows, and she tries again, slower this time. "Fe-lic-i-ty."
"Fe-lic-i-ty," he repeats in a rich, low voice. He says it again twice more, and she nods both times. His hand cups her face. "Felicity," he declares finally, stumbling over it a little. Felicity smiles; he's doing surprisingly well for someone never exposed to language before. Again, he points to himself. "Oliver."
"Yes, I get it," she assures him. He only waits, so she repeats dutifully, "Oliver." His eyes light up as he makes a wild noise in his throat. Felicity can't help but wonder how he can be so wild and so innocent at the same time. The island must have forged him into that. Trying again, she joins their hands together, motioning between them with her left. "Human." She pokes his chest. "Human." Then her own sternum. "Human."
His eyes light up again. "Human," he repeats, as if it explains so many of his questions. In a way, though, it probably does. His brow furrows together in concentration before he decides, "Felicity… human." She nods in encouragement. This time he falters. "Oliver… human?" This time he isn't so sure, and her heart breaks for him.
"Yes, Oliver human," Felicity assures him with a nod. Oliver looks rather pleased with himself for figuring it out, and she laughs at his expression. His hand immediately flies to her mouth in wonder. "Laugh," she tells him, and he repeats it as though it's the best thing in the world.
He shifts slightly and winces, and Felicity turns her attention to him. Because he doesn't understand enough to tell her, she knows she'll have to investigate his source of pain herself. Slowly she draws her legs from underneath him, crossing her feet and motioning for him to do the same. He does so with amusement in his eyes.
"Now stay still," she warns him, though it's beyond his understanding at this point. Somehow he does anyway, and she carefully unzips his jacket. He doesn't wear a shirt underneath, and all she can find is lean muscle and scarred skin. Maybe he didn't have to fight today, but he certainly looks like he has in the past. Her fingers trace a line of muscle, but pause when he flinches and he releases a low grunt in his throat. "Oh, that's not good, Oliver," Felicity whispers to him, feeling the sticky substance under her fingers. His eyes snap to hers at his name.
Unsure of what to do but knowing he needs to place pressure on it, she removes her bag from her shoulder and starts stripping off her Henley (though, damn it, she loves it) to reveal a black tank underneath. Oliver's hands brush against exposed skin above the waist of her olive cargo pants, and she slaps his hands away as goosebumps rise on her skin.
"What is it with you and all the touching?" she huffs as she pulls the shirt over her head. "I understand you're excited, but boundaries are a thing, Oliver." She presses her shirt against his wound and takes his hand, placing it over the shirt. "That will help stop the bleeding for now. When we get back to camp—if I can actually find camp ever again—I'll have Diggle patch you up."
Sliding out from under him, Felicity rises to her feet again, picking up her sketchbook and tucking it into her bag before sliding it over her shoulder again. Oliver tries to snoop in it, but she pushes him back. "We'll have time for that later," she assures him, pressing his hand tighter against his chest. "Right now, we need to patch you up." She tries to tug him along, but he turns the opposite direction.
Instead of following her, Oliver grunts at her before going to his spear. When he offers the weapon to her, Felicity pushes it back. He grunts again, more forcefully, using both hands to push the spear into her hand, curling her fingers around it with one final, guttural sound. Even without a language between them, it's clear he isn't going to let this go, so Felicity sighs. "Fine," she mutters at him."
As he places the cloth to his chest again, a sound pops in the distance. Felicity barely has time to jump before she's shoved up against a tree, with a couple hundred pounds of wild man holding her in place, as if to protect her. She'll think about the implications of that later, but over his shoulder, she recognizes the red light hanging over the trees: one of Digg's flares. "Diggle," she breathes out in relief. They know she's missing and they're looking for her.
"Diggle?" Oliver repeats slowly, frowning. His eyebrows knit together as his head tilts to the side.
When she shoves against his shoulder, it doesn't budge him. After enough tries, he pulls away, though his eyes stay on her afterward, as she takes a few steps forward. Pointing at it, she tries again, "Diggle." This time light dawns in Oliver's eyes, and he repeats the word with more certainty. "Can you take me to him?" Of course he doesn't understand the phrase, but she doesn't expect him to. Pointing toward it, she says again, "Diggle," and starts toward it.
Oliver catches up to her again before she can take more than two steps, pushing ahead of her. Instead of leading her toward the flare, he leads her away from it. Felicity tugs her arm loose before pointing at it again. Before she can go to it, he growls and gestures at it. This time, though, he reaches for her hand with his free one, lacing his fingers through hers.
The path they take is nonsensical and twisting to her, but Oliver seems to understand the path in a way she can't. He's careful to adjust to her slower speed, walking her around potential dangers and, even once, catching her when she trips over a tree root.
After what feels like forever of trekking through the jungle, they emerge in a clearing with Oliver still firmly attached to her hand. She tries to remove her hand from his, but he just takes it back and grunts in irritation. As she shakes her head at his antics, a motion catches her eye. Two people emerge from the foliage, and she recognizes them at once.
This time when she wrenches her hand out of Oliver's, she ignores the way he growls her name. "Digg!" she yells, dropping the spear and waving her hands. "Lyla!" The two of them break into a run, and she sighs in relief. She starts toward them, but her newfound friend steps in front of her again, with the spear pointed between them in a threatening gesture. The sound that comes out of his mouth could only be described as a snarl.
Both Lyla and Diggle pull their guns loose, but Felicity yells, "No, no! Don't shoot! He's a friend!" Felicity tries to push past her hulking wild man, but Oliver just steps in front of her and growls her name. Sighing in frustration, she points to the man that could almost make two of even Oliver. "Diggle," she declares firmly. "Diggle is a friend," she tries to explain, emphasizing the words. When she's met with nothing but a blank expression, she decides to get a little creative. "Oliver," she states firmly, taking his hand. "Oliver is Felicity friend."
It takes him a moment, but despite his lack of exposure to any kind of language, Oliver has proven his intelligence. "Diggle human," he declares suddenly, as though trying to put the pieces together in his head. Felicity nods with an encouraging smile. "Felicity…" He hesitates for a moment, brow furrowing. "Friend." He tests the word again by repeating it several times. Once satisfied, he tries again: "Felicity is Oliver friend?"
The uncertainty in his tone breaks her heart, but she nods several times. "Felicity is Oliver's friend," she agrees, and he beams at her. Pointing to Diggle, she explains. "Diggle is Felicity's friend, too." Finally she points to the brunette with the military stance and short hair. "Lyla. Lyla is Felicity's friend."
Only then does he let her go, and she runs up to them. Felicity hugs Lyla and Diggle in turn. "I'm so sorry I got separated," she says to them. "I don't know what happened. I was sketching, and then I looked up and you weren't there." She shudders, remembering the leopard. "I'm so glad I found you again."
"Looks like you had a little help," is all Digg says, glancing over her shoulder at her new friend. No question what he's thinking: Oliver looks just as wild as the jungle itself, with that tangled hair, disheveled clothing, and that feral look in his eyes. "The captain didn't mention anything about anyone else being here. Seemed to think it was deserted." His eyes flicker back to Felicity's. "There was a shipwreck near here a while back. Is he a survivor?"
"I think he's been here a lot longer than that," Felicity admits slowly, "but the shipwreck explains where he got the clothes. He doesn't seem to know English—or any language. He doesn't try to talk to me—mostly it's just sounds. The only words he's said to me other than the ones I've taught him is his name." Diggle's eyebrows shoot up. "He called himself Oliver, and he's surprisingly gentle for a guy with a spear. I think we should take him back to camp with us."
"Are you sure about that, Felicity?" Lyla asks, taking a few steps forward. "He could be dangerous." Instead of debating it further, she turns to her husband. "What do you think, Johnny?"
Before he can answer, the blonde interrupts, "I ran into a leopard." Both of them share a look of surprise. "I don't know how, but he could communicate with it. Convinced it to wander away. It was amazing." She frowns. "But he's injured. I gave him my shirt to press against the wound." They exchange a glance, so she insists, "He's not dangerous." She waves a hand. "He has no sense of personal boundaries and an obsession with hair, but other than that, he's very nice."
After a moment, John sighs. "He shouldn't be out here injured—a scratch can turn septic fast." It takes Felicity a moment to realize what he's actually saying. "If you can convince him to stay calm, we'll take him back to camp and see what we can do for his injury."
Nodding, Felicity turns back, only to find him gone. "Oliver?" she calls out, and the next thing she knows, he's hanging off a low, thick tree branch, upside down. Unable to resist, she laughs at his antics. "Oliver," she calls again, this time pointing to him and then to the ground next to her. "Come here."
In a swift movement, he drops from the branch, but only takes a few steps forward, watching Diggle and Lyla warily. The blonde repeats the motion, but he only takes a couple of steps before stopping again. "For someone so fearless," she says to him, exasperated, "you're kind of a wuss." Smiling, she walks over to him, taking his hand again. She half-leads and half-drags him toward the other two.
Before she can get him closer than a few yards away, he starts snarling again, as if he's trying to protest but unable to find the words. Felicity flicks him on the nose. "Stop that," she snaps at him. "Diggle and Lyla are friends, Oliver. They want to help you." She points to his wound. "If you're mean, they can't do that."
Though the blonde knows he can't understand her words, her tone seems to be enough. He crosses his eyes in an attempt to study the spot she flicked, and Felicity has to bite back a laugh at his antics. Oliver's shoulders sag under her tone, looking much like a child who has been chastised. "You're lucky you're cute," she teases.
Unable to resist, she pushes his hair back far enough to lean up and kiss his cheek. Oliver's eyes widen in surprise, fingers going to his face before reaching for her lips again. "Felicity," is all he says, but his voice is soft with awe. It's enough to make her face heat, and he reaches out to touch one of her red cheeks.
"Let's go back to base," Felicity declares, taking his hand from her face and threading her fingers through it. Trying again, she uses a better word for it: "Home."
"Home?" Oliver repeats.
She picks up his spear before confirming, "Home."