Author's Note: This comes from a few hint hints on tumblr and here as well. It isn't a lot of snuggles, but this is how Oliver wanted to play it out. So I let him.
There is something moving in the trash.
It has big, round, blue eyes.
He's standing at the "secret" side entrance to the lair, and all he can do is stand and stare at the pile of rubbish left mounded beside the door. It isn't supposed to be here, this pile of black plastic bags and cast-off bits of waste, but it is heaped up in a tumbling mess against the worn brick wall, a testament to the lazy nature of those working in the club kitchen.
He makes a mental note to reprimand for this.
But regardless of why or how the rubbish pile has come into existence, it sits here now with a squirmy little thing wallowing around in the loose wrappers of a half-eaten burger. A frown crosses his face when his ears pick up the hint of a growl, one higher pitched than the basal tones of a fully grown canine.
And then the little thing comes into full view.
It is black – he thinks – with one ear floppy, tiny white teeth bared at him as it stands guard over the soggy remains of its prized hamburger, a small but determined snarl piping out from huffing lungs. It is ragged on the edges, thin, but it has that undefinable something in its clear blue eyes that speaks of a battle-hardened spirit in young soul; the pup has fought for the near-nothing it possesses, and it continues to do so now. This little thing, it is holding its ground, willing to fight for this scrap of what the vigilante would have once called nothing; to the pup, that scrap is everything.
He understands the sentiment.
The little thing has his hackles raised, fluffing in an attempt to inspire fear in the man in green, a reaction that doesn't go unnoticed. Slowly, gently, the man drops to a crouch, settling his bow across both knees. One of his gloved hands reaches up – just as slowly – and removes the hood shielding his face; he doesn't know why he should take such a risk while still out in the open, but it feels like the right thing to do. The pup gives him a wary eye, unsure of this new tact, and issues another, less threatening growl.
They eye one another for a moment or two, just long enough for them both to take stock of the situation: the pup, it isn't about to waver on its decision to protect its small claim, and the man isn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. So here they sit, staring, until the small, dirty pup puffs out its cheeks in a short bark, as though saying alright, let's see where this goes.
The vigilante sucks in his lower lip, bouncing on the balls of his feet until he makes a decision on his next move. Letting out a breath that nearly mimics the pup's last, the man deliberately, unhurriedly pulls the glove off his right hand, peeling the black material off calloused fingers and stuffing it in the cuff of his left sleeve. All the while, the pup watches him, wary yet oddly confident in its position in the whole situation.
As though he would be caressing a breeze, the vigilante reaches out and offers his hand to whatever the little thing has planned for it. As first, it seems as though there would be growling and gnashing of teeth, but the pup suddenly blinks, its sharp eyes still wary yet now holding a curious light in them. He doesn't push the situation, doesn't encourage with words or sounds or gestures; he simply sits and waits, willing to allow the tiny, fluffy canine to make the first move.
It takes a sniff.
It takes a step forward.
A smile, one born of sheer happiness and delight, more rare than summer snow, lights up his face at the sight of the pup showing a shaky trust in him. It sniffs him in the manner of all tiny things – quickly, with purpose – then steps back to process the moment. Its train of thought is obvious, and after it mulls for a second, it repeats the process, though now it takes two steps, enough to slide under the man's fingertips, depositing greasy garbage residue and grime on his skin.
He doesn't mind.
Taking a chance, the he curls his fingers, gently scratching the pup behind his floppy ear. The act doesn't go unrewarded, as the little thing goes stiff, hesitant, but slowly gives in to the affection, leaning into the man's hand and licking his palm.
He smiles again, fully smiles and can't help thinking this is a perfect scene.
Deciding to go with the moment, he reaches out with his other hand, and softly, firmly takes the pup around the middle, cradling it with both hands. It growls at him again, a warning, but he simply lifts it to eye level, giving it a flat look that worked on little sisters and body guards alike (not, however, IT girls). With another huff, it settles its squirming and allows itself to be switched to one hand as his free one unzips the front of his jacket, down to the strap of his quiver.
Giving the pup one more look, he turns it round and slides – because, to be honest, with all the filth coating the poor thing, that is exactly what happens – the furball down into his green costume, shifting around slightly to get things situated just right. The pup's front paws are hanging out of the jacket, flopping about, and its face is just high enough to begin licking his chin.
He laughs.
Genuinely laughs.
Taking up his bow, he stands and keys in the code to his secret door, slipping inside and down into the one place he finds peace.
The little thing, it fights for what it wants, is affectionate past fear.
He thinks he will call it Tommy.