On Stranger Tides
The night before, 10:36pm, Starling City General Hospital, October 2015
It started with him running.
Running away from something, running towards someone; it didn't matter. He'd started running five years ago. He hadn't stopped and when he stood still he was running even faster.
But he couldn't help looking back over his shoulder. A constant.
I am the return.
Can you tell us your name?
Mr Queen!
Sir, are you hurt anywhere?
Are you Oliver Queen?
Oliver. Queen.
It was like falling back into step… except it also really wasn't.
They'd asked him over and over again, the doctors, for something so simple. For just his name. Each reply immediate, his name ghosted past his lips; a mere memory of what it used to represent.
The tests were the worst of it. They were unnecessary. He was fine. In China, before he'd boarded the plane he'd shaved and bathed. Not because he'd wanted or needed to, but because the expressions on the faces of the strangers who'd stolen a look at 'The American Wild Man', told him that if he wanted to blend in he'd have to. You tend to forget the little things when your priority is survival.
The men who found me gave me their own name. Dǎo de jīngshén. Mandarin… The Spirit of the Island.
Weather beaten, rugged and fierce. Haunted. A ghost who'd walked out of the forest's shadow; that's what he'd looked like to them. The spirit of purgatory.
Maybe he was.
Sterile and bright the hospital room felt exposed. Night didn't have synthetic light. Night held chilblains and the heartbeat of the ocean. The night held the knife, the claw and the gunshot.
'Here' they told him to relax, told him that he could. That it would be alright.
Sure.
They didn't know.
He'd stared at them. How could he relax in a place that he no longer understood to be safe or normal? Normal wasn't benign. Not anymore. Normal was more dangerous than anything else. But for them, the staff, he supposed that 'public hospital' meant safety. As if the two words placed together created a shield to reality. It wasn't quite the same in Oliver's experience.
There is no safety.
Dr Lamb had stared into his eyes and, unable to see past the surface, had found an enigma. A question mark that eventually led him to stop querying Oliver's silence, to stop asking him if he needed anything, to stop trying to get him to react in some way, whether positive or otherwise so that he wouldn't have to tell Moira Queen that her son was catatonic.
Or worse.
That her son, was no longer her son.
Hippocratic Oath be damned, right? Money must be involved. I shouldn't be surprised.
Completely unreceptive but - to the doctor's obvious consternation - oddly calm, Oliver had stood through the examinations without making a sound; hadn't flinched as hands trespassed over him and honestly hadn't been concerned at how the scars on his body would appear. Not to them. Not to strangers whose care he'd never be under again. They could be explained away. They would pass it off as one of the consequences of being shipwrecked and pity would ensure their silence. People could be made to believe anything. Though manipulation wasn't his direct goal it was a requisite tool so the right look, a certain gesture and they'd sway to meet his whims.
For as long as he would live.
Probably not long then.
Staring out the window at the city's skyline he waited for Dr Lamb to tell his mother to prepare herself. That her son was scarred. That he might not be the person who embarked on a voyage of lust five years before.
And he wasn't; but that was the hard part. Living each day as something else, someone he couldn't possibly be anymore. Case in point; who he used to be was a boy who would run towards the comfort that the title 'mother' had naturally represented once upon a time.
He was empty of it now.
Ironic that 'Ollie Queen' was a facet of himself he now despised and yet he knew that the 'Oliver' who'd survived would be repugnant to those who'd known 'Ollie'. Ironic. Neither of his 'selves' deserved saving. He was far past that. But sometimes what needed to be done, asked for the unwelcome, darker parts of man.
For his other face was a mask of truth, one hooded in darkness. They, his mother and sister, would never see it for they lived in the light and always would. As it should be.
It had been easy to objectively evaluate those he'd come across in the hours since his arrival. Over the years he'd developed a keen intuition and strong discipline of his emotions, allowing him to inspect even the shrewdest and calculating of men and women. And now he discovered one truth.
He could never be himself here. Not ever.
His vicissitudes weren't tolerable, couldn't be. They'd been built over the years, evolved with the many scars he'd gradually received, each one teaching a different lesson. Teaching a different ability. He'd lived the type of life they couldn't fathom. And he didn't want them to know.
Pretend normalcy would be difficult to acclimate to but he was ready.
Without his permission the doctors couldn't reveal his scars, or any other discoveries to his mother. So it was fine. He simply waited. And stared out through the glass.
Starling.
In many ways it was still the same; that purity mixed with the poison. The good and the bad. But he could feel how it had altered. It wasn't in sight, it was in the small things. The hidden menaces. The sickness of his home. It was an inescapable feeling in the air, as if he'd developed a sixth sense for it.
It was a home where what was once familiar no longer recognised him. But the strangeness, the city itself, did.
And then his mother stepped into the room. Quietly, tentatively, taking one step. Then another before stopping.
"Oliver?" His name as a question.
As if she wasn't sure just yet that it was him.
And it wasn't. Not really.
Moira Queen would never know, ever, in those brief moments, how close she'd been to the truth of her son, to the real of who he was now.
His mother's voice saying his name forced him to take a deep breath. His shoulders heaved from the weight of it. Then he turned to face her, eyes opposite the ground till the last possible second.
And there she was.
Mom.
Seeing her face, his immediate emotional response was to shrink away. To deny her the chance to see the failure written on his skin and screaming in his eyes. Such a paradox: he didn't want to reveal to her any of the differences, yet he also didn't want her to want to see 'Ollie' either. Physically, his already straight back tensed just as his chest constricted; he'd missed her. He loved her.
But now the lies would begin, for they had already begun on the island. His guard, which had never dropped, rose ever higher.
It could never fall.
It felt like a small miracle, seeing his mother again - and it was one he found zero comfort in. In the past, whenever he'd royally screwed up she'd been there to protect and shelter him, to weather his punishments for him. Unconditional love given freely. It was alien to him now; something he couldn't possibly receive anymore. It didn't feel… right.
He didn't mind that it didn't.
There was a displacement between who he was then and who he is now. It stopped him from feeling the full force of relief he should have felt. He no longer knew what it was to be reassured by a parental figure.
And he was fine with that. He was beyond needing it. Had come to terms with it. But she didn't know that.
So she'd hugged him, like mom's do – my beautiful boy – blind with love, when he didn't want her to touch him. It was a touch that expected things from him, things he couldn't give any longer. But she'd needed it, had gained some strength from it, so he held her – held her in a way he'd never had to before; with him being the pillar of strength instead of her - until she was done.
He'd smelt a scent on her skin that wasn't her own. Aftershave.
A man's scent on her neck and in her hair. He didn't know who it was; he just knew that it wasn't Robert Queen's. Because he was dead.
Luckily Oliver had perfect control.
14:12, Queen Mansion
The pictures on the table were the first thing he'd seen.
A violent reminder of… everything. Nothing. All of it.
He'd expected to come home, to return to someplace he'd known and feel something close to warmth. To feel different. For just a moment. He'd looked for it in the stone and brick and mortar, where it hadn't been in his mother's face or the face of the family butler 'Ivan', who he'd never been fond of, feeling it all the more as he'd taken his army munitions chest away from the man's grasping fingers.
Pausing on the threshold to the mansion, that first step through the front doors had been like stepping onto the surface of Mars. Completely unfamiliar. Surreal.
Disillusioning.
It really had disappeared; the idea of 'home'. It no longer existed.
A part of him had been holding onto that, had wanted to feel it again; a sense of belonging to one place – a sense of 'returning'. He supposed it no longer mattered. And it was cemented, that non-feeling, by Walter Steele, now the CEO of Queen Consolidated. His father's old position. His mother's… lover. The scent of him, the same trace he'd taken in at the hospital, filled the air but it was strongest on his mother's neck.
It had pulled at the spine. His father had been replaced.
The genuine affection on Raisa's face almost – almost - made the experience worth it; her hands were the same hands that used to pat his cheek as a child.
And Thea…
The once little girl with pigtails in her hair, who'd followed him everywhere and adored the ground he'd walked on had grown into this beautiful young woman with problems of her own. If he hadn't seen her that day two and a half years before, the sight of her rushing down those steps - all pretty, young and wild - would have crushed him. Instead he'd merely gained a semblance of solace from the simplicity of their still very present connection. On the fact that he just loved her. Had really missed her. The way he saw her, how she saw him…
It was the one thing that hadn't changed. His sister was someone he'd do anything for. No compromises.
"I missed you so much."
"You were with me the whole time."
Her hugs were an embrace he could stand, could reciprocate upon, even though it already asked questions he wouldn't give her. Even though it threatened disappointment.
He thought briefly on how the world still viewed him, how the people around him would continue to see him. He'd seen the stares in the hospital, had heard the news event on the television in his room…
The way Tommy immediately expected – he could tell from the look in his eyes – to see and hear the same 'Ollie Queen' he once knew as he'd breezed through the front door to the mansion.
Billionaire playboy.
What a joke.
He didn't know what it meant to really be that anymore.
It should have hurt him, would have made him question the minds of the people around him, to wonder how they could possibly think that, after five years in foreign waters, he wouldn't have changed at all.
Mostly, now, he just wondered how he could continue the façade.
It had nothing to do with moral character; individuals tended to see what they expected, what they wanted, and what was easiest to accept. He couldn't fault members of his family for doing the same. Not after leaving them alone for five years.
Even if it meant that for him it must be business as usual.
He'd made the decision; he'd been ready to return, so he had. Oliver Queen had a job to do.
But it was uncomfortable.
Being around them was almost… excruciating. No amount of anticipation could have prepared him. To see the changes he'd played no part in, the growth he hadn't witnessed, how some things hadn't changed a bit, where he without a doubt had. Immensely. There was no prediction that could have equipped him for just how hard it would be to see everyone again - and he hadn't even stepped out of the zone of his immediate family yet.
18:56, Queen Mansion
His room…
My room.
It was… not his room. Not anymore. It belonged to a selfish, delinquent juvenile – a rich man's excuse for a failure in the family – who squandered his days with the girls he brought up there. Though after Laurel…
Laurel.
Who was she now?
A lawyer, of course. Not a sister. Not now. A daughter still? Did she talk to her father as much as he wished he could talk to his own? Did she hate him? For leaving her, for getting on a boat with her sister? For dying, for Sara… Would she look at him the way she used to, as if he hung the moon?
I'm sure I never did.
But he missed the comfort of it. Of being seen in such a light, to know that at the end of the day there was at least one person who thought you were everything. Even if he hadn't deserved the title, even if it was a lie, even if she hadn't seen the sides to him he'd hid so well.
She hadn't. Thankfully. At least not until… after. Until now.
He wasn't a fool. He wasn't deluded; he knew that if she saw him again… he had no idea what to expect from her. Hatred? Anger? Had she missed him? Would she see him, into him?
Was she still beautiful?
He already knew she was; the glimpse he'd seen of her on his brief return years before, undercover, working for Argus, he'd seen her. Like Tommy, she hadn't changed. Not on the outside-
I won't ever get what I want. Stop wondering.
Yet the need to see her again was an almost palpable sensation.
Everything was odd to him now, what was once familiar was now different; the feeling of being out of place present in every memory he held dear, in every room in the mansion. His face in the mirror was a stranger. The face of a man who'd died out there.
A face tied to a past he thought he'd stepped away from.
"May I be excused?"
His abrupt departure from the table had been his very controlled version of a near sprint. He'd made his mother uncomfortable. He'd seen it loud and clear. From his collective experience he knew that his direct stare, the way he sat, his overall body language - both conscious and subconscious – had altered tremendously. Cause and effect.
Who did I bring home, had flashed precipitously through her eyes and had vanished almost as swiftly. Scaring his mother by being himself.
A cruel anecdote.
He'd excused himself. An abrupt, though efficient way to end the conversion. So he could find a place where he could feel it. The royal truth: that his mum had moved on. She'd said goodbye to his father, when he hadn't and probably never would. He didn't realise until taking that first deep breath how much that cost him. It was all painful.
Coming to a stop along the hallway adjacent to the dining room he looked at the small picture of Robert Queen, placed strategically against the panelling; easily missed by guests but not by his own sharp gaze.
Everything's changed. Yet nothing really has.
Tommy was still Tommy. Brave but clueless. He hadn't changed; he still partied, still slept with girls, with women, still tossed them aside – their old regime still very present – and still wore that charismatic smile that made all the girls fall to their knees and lose their senses. Still lived life like he was 19; a wicked Peter Pan, a philanderer with money to burn.
The most surprising thing? Tommy still needed his best friend to navigate life's waters with him. Even after all this time; he'd picked up right where they'd left off and it had thrown Oliver, astounded at how Tommy had managed to downplay the five years of hell with a solitary reference. At how he'd forgotten to change too.
"Yachts suck."
As if being threatened in China by a madman didn't change you.
And Oliver was thankful for it; he needed it. It was impossible and undeniable - Tommy Merlyn being the same guy he'd always been was something Oliver didn't realise he needed. He missed it. That a man like Tommy could remain so untouched by the harsh reality of life. And he planned to keep it that way.
Tommy would be fine in there. He was probably eating the plate of fine food that Oliver hadn't touched. Living the life he'd lived, from serving a prison sentence on an island to being held hostage by a clandestine sector of the government in China, to being back on the island as a mercenary, to drinking with the Bratva in Russia… eating habits alter. The size of his palate had fluctuated, decreased, too used to eating on the run, too many times eating only for the necessity of slating hunger, small portions that rarely consisted of a cooked meal.
And everything on his plate reeked of flavour. Too rich. Just looking down at it, he knew he'd never get through the first bite. Not yet. There had been zero time for him to acclimatise. So he'd asked for a pear and had ended up hiding it like a shameful secret.
He'd wanted to be here, to come back. But, at the same time, he also really… hadn't, didn't.
Like an itch under his skin that he couldn't scratch he just wanted to be out there. Right now. To be underway. Searching for people on the list, finding out where they live and hide. Seeking their secrets and exploiting their weaknesses. Giving justice to those the law refused to help. Cut past the red tape. Serving a purpose.
But he knew it wasn't time. There were things he had to do first, to prepare. It would take time and it would take a lot of work. And all he could do right now was… head up to his old room. A place haunted by the semantics of his mother's memories of him; she hadn't changed a thing about it.
Her touch was everywhere. It didn't help when Thea let it slip that his mother used to spend hours at a time in there, crying over his affects, having his clothes cleaned, re-cleaned, everything that was once his laminated – frozen in time - and kept pristine.
The room represented 'Ollie Queen'.
Ollie Queen didn't deserve the dedication. Ollie Queen died on the island. Ollie Queen hadn't had the strength to survive. Oliver had killed Ollie and left no trace of his existence save for the mask he would obviously have to start wearing in the morning.
I killed myself.
Reaching for the picture, his fingers traced its surface-
-A quiet rustling of fabric, key chains and papers in a coat pocket, alerting him to the presence of a stranger in Mansion, had him pausing.
It wasn't Raisa; her quiet shuffle easily recognisable amongst the insufferably neat tap, tap, tap, of Ivan's tailor fit, French loafers. And everyone else living in the mansion where now seated in the dining hall. So who…
Quiet, so quiet… he moved. Crept. Down the silent hallway leading to the front doors…
Who is that?
Her back was to him - because if anyone was so obviously female it was this person – but whoever it was, she was soaked to the bone. Blond hair pulled high was stuck to the back of a coat so red it practically shone in the multitudes of brown's in the Queen foyer. Not exactly short in height – he'd put her at a decent 5 foot 5 or 6 inches – her heels added an inch or so; modest things: the epitome of demure. She wasn't wearing tights and, from what he could see from where he stood, the rain… hadn't done a single thing to make her legs less attractive.
He couldn't tell from this angle just how old she was but he'd peg her in her early 20's.
Whoever it was, she was dripping on a carpet so expensive his mother had once paid people to have it weekly cleaned. And she was muttering. Practically wrestling with her coat.
But then she froze utterly. Like an animal smelling the scent of a predator on the breeze. The oddest sense of Deja vu trespassed over him. And then she turned so swiftly it actually caught him by surprise; calm, watchful surprise. Her eyes, oddly lively, were astute in finding him and once they did they narrowed in inspection of him.
Her observing gaze pushed him to come out of hiding.
She shouldn't have been able to hear me.
Each and every step he made was one born from the self-assured confidence that no human could outrun his wrath. Or his aim. Gradually her mouth, covered in dusty pink lipstick, slowly opened. And stayed there. A red pen dangled dangerously out of it.
He looked at her.
"Who are you?"
She wasn't someone from the past, wasn't a friend of the family; he would have remembered her. Very blonde, bottle blond, hair practically glowed beneath the various low hanging lights, plump lips in colourful shades, eyes deeply, vividly, blue… yeah; he would have remembered her.
Almost a blink, the lids of her eyes fluttered.
When lightning flashed - a streak of blue-white light arching through the windows - every cell in his body became attuned to it. Storms, freak weather; they didn't frighten him anymore, didn't hurt and blind him, didn't make him want to run for cover. Instead it stirred an imperturbable sort of fire in his blood. He was the storm. And with every crackle of electricity his gaze grew ever more focused; he never once blinked, just rode it out.
Still, it was his least favourite weather.
But it lit this woman up like a spotlight.
Her long breath was rattled with nerves before words were practically exploding out of her. "Felicity Queen. Smoak! Felicity Smoak, my name is Felicity Smoak."
As if saving the image of that - whatever it was - in his head, Oliver blinked. Once. He didn't know what else to do. Social speak wasn't something he'd ever been adept at unless you considered deliberate flirting or intolerable cruelty social discourse.
Her voice was unusual. An odd mixture of light frequency and low density. An amalgamation of young, rich and gentle. Soft. Light.
Asking her if she was a family friend was a simple prelude to uncovering her purpose at the mansion. But when she froze again before almost immediately pulling off her glasses – glasses that her hair had been stuck to – he knew she'd recognised him somehow. Maybe the news had let slip his picture or maybe if she were associated somehow with a member of his family she'd have seen the many photographs of him about the house. And the look flourishing in her eyes told him that it had taken her so long to identify a name to a face because he'd changed.
Finally, the accurate reaction.
Feeling every inch of the change in question he moved closer, still watching her. Physically loosening wasn't optional; how does one cease to be who they are? Even if who they are is, at best, a questionable existence and at worst, a deplorable one? So yes, every shift and pull of muscle was a deliberate act; the slow movements trying to build an air of safety for this stranger, yet all he really felt he was doing was determining whether she was innocent or prey-
"-You're Oliver Queen."
Loud. He cocked a brow.
"I know I am."
"I-I know who you are!" She twittered out, a nervous smile twitching on her lips as water dripped down her throat. "You're Mr Queen."
No. It hit him in the gut: Mr Queen. Dad. It had been the first time someone saying 'Mr Queen' had made him think of his father.
He didn't let up the stare.
And he didn't know why.
Ordering his thoughts he slid a hand in his pocket and walked towards the small table, taking in the photos and allowing her to pull herself back together all the while knowing that her eyes were still on him. Placing down the pear he stopped still at a picture there. The Queen's Gambit at the height of its glory.
What he wouldn't give to destroy it.
"'Mr Queen' was my father." He said, finally turning back towards this 'Felicity Smoak'. Felicity. Unusual. He wanted to speak it, to see how it would sound. "I'd prefer not to be called that."
She nodded quickly. "Of course, since he's dead." If he'd been drinking he might have spat out whichever liquid that would have been in his mouth. "I mean he drowned!"
He blinked at her again.
Okay. The surprise of it waved through him. He could have stopped her from continuing… but he didn't. "But you didn't." This was the kind of response that he hadn't expected to hear, because no one would have dared say it. And it looked like she wouldn't normally either if the panic glittering in her eyes was any indication; except she obviously had little control over what came out of her mouth. "Which was why you could be here right now…" The water droplets and very obvious pink flush blossoming over her collarbone was like an exclamation mark. A lovely one. "Listening to me babble." Catching her large gulp she turned slightly towards the other end of the hallway, which he realised Ivan was walking down. Terrific. But then she finished, eventually closing her eyes in what he guessed what sheer embarrassment. "Which will end like my dignity in three, two, one…"
Like a weight he hadn't even known existed had been fastened to his chest, it lifted and he found himself involuntarily… smiling. At this puzzling creature who said everything that passed through her mind. It was probably the one and only time he'd consider social ineptitude to be a saving grace, something to be celebrated
He didn't know this person. She was a stranger. And yet she was… familiar.
And then as her gaze flickered back towards him, he remembered - a flash of clarity - the babbling, the talking to herself, the hair, her sense of dress. A memory, one trailing loose like smoke, emerging free of the coil it had been tied behind.
Trailing her fingers alongside his mother's desk she paused at the framed photograph there. 'You're cute.'
Oh.
"It's too bad you're, you know, dead. Which is obviously a lot worse for you than it was for me."
It was unbelievable.
"I need to learn to stop talking to myself."
That she'd be here. A person who he'd never met but had seen from afar, talking to herself. To his picture. And calling him cute. And the breath of life in her that he'd felt momentarily just watching…
And the way she'd seemed to have sensed him there, so similar to how she'd just sensed him now.
"I need to learn to stop talking to myself-" Heels stuttering to a halt, she turned towards the place he'd hidden himself. Breathing in, breathing out he'd waited and it wasn't until the slow tap of her heels started again out of the room, this time wordless, that he allowed himself to move…
How was it possible that they'd meet, at the Queen Mansion of all places? With he does, what he has done, with what he can do, it was obscene. He didn't believe it fate but if he did, he'd say it had a sense of irony.
Leaving with her after that… there hadn't been a choice to make.
He'd made sure to first thank Ivan for making a guest feel so unbelievably unwelcome, before making his way outside. In the rain, which was pure bliss to feel. He didn't suffer from claustrophobia but the steady climb of the sensation of being closed inside a box; a pre-existing set of expectations made for him that no longer fit, the words that he could already hear whispering out from his mother made the wind and water of the outdoors an island he'd gladly fade back to. If only for a moment.
The need to escape was almost overwhelming.
Then he'd asked Felicity Smoak for a favour that was borderline indecent. Depending on how you looked at it. It didn't bother him or rather it shouldn't; him making another person uncomfortable for his own agenda. But it did. And he didn't want her to feel obligated about it either. The trust it would involve was something he absolutely shouldn't be asking of a stranger.
But there was just something about her. Something that told him he could.
She'd been leaving, heading for the double front doors when the idea came to him; one that was either really smart or incredibly dumb. Smart because this way he could get an early start on his plans and dumb because she was a total stranger – and because his family would react to it well.
He'd expected a repeat of her babbling.
He hadn't her to so easily accept without a hint of the reason being obligation – thanks to Ivan he knew she worked for his family's company after all - or pity. And he definitely hadn't expected the shoeless run towards her car – sitting at a ridiculous distance away. Or the altruistic offer to spend the night at her apartment. Or the fact that he'd found it preferable to going back to the Mansion.
Everything from this person had been one surprise after another.
Being in the company of someone who didn't know him, someone who wouldn't expect things from him, someone who wouldn't call him Ollie with all the memories attached; it was easier to handle. A stranger was easier to handle right now than his family than his friends.
But what happened after was a little beyond his control.
Eventually he would ask himself, why didn't I just ask her to take me home?
04:13am, Felicity's bedroom
Felicity understood all too well how silence could be eerie.
If the creepiness of this could be placed into music there'd be a single beat of sound every 3 seconds. Just that: no upscale in pitch, no orchestral backers, just a solitary beat of black.
She really remembered this feeling. It really remembered her, begged her to go back -
Not the time.
Not for her personal brand of madness.
Some depths of madness are considered genius after all.
In the dark of her room – the rigidity of his form, the stillness of her own – the pounding of blood in her ears sounded louder than usual. It wasn't anything new, definitely wouldn't have been anything unusual, at least not from what she was used to. In the night hours - silence, nightfall to obscurity, the sounds and gloom of early morning, rough whispers, harsh cries – it was her typical standard. There was nothing different about this. There shouldn't have been anything different at all.
But it was, oh it was.
His eyes - they shone too brightly in the dark, like liquid metal - the broad shoulders – she couldn't see the details of his skin but there was enough for her to know in terms of musculature Oliver Queen was a blessed man - so tall, his feet apart, blue eyes, really tall, large hands, those eyes…
The tension was as taught as a bow string.
A flare of light came from the storm ebbing outside; a flash of lightning that briefly illuminated him.
His eyes still stared into hers. Like steel traps.
Don't move.
Head tilted so very slightly, the total lack of recognition he was throwing down at her made her shiver. He doesn't have a clue where he is, does he? And wherever he really was, it wasn't there with her.
Taking in the perilous edge to his gaze, definitely isn't here; she tried hard not to focus onhow incredibly bad the situation was. He'd awakened in this strange place, a room he couldn't possibly call home, half asleep and no doubt it probably blasted his mind back to wherever his demons hide. He's there right now. He's on the island.
Which meant if she so much as twitched her pinkie finger, he'd probably slice her throat.
Oh good. This is good. This is exactly what we both needed right now. Me lying here: exposed, him standing there: exposed…
She maintained eye contact, trying to look past the ice there, willing him to see her. Please.
He didn't want to do this.
She didn't need to know him past the few hours she'd spent with him to know that he wouldn't react well later. He'd internalise it until it became twisted; another notch on what she suspected was an already very full dark belt of horrors.
Don't blink. Sweat started to prickle against her chest. Really? This isn't exactly the worst situation I've… close that door. Agitation. Think about it differently Felicity – as if her temporary houseguest wasn't standing before her, looking every inch the predator she thought him to be – it's like Jurassic Park, with the Tyrannosaurus Rex. No. Sudden. Movements-
A ripple of air forced through her; an unexpected breath that she'd needed and couldn't keep in. But it came out as a gasp.
Oh crap-a-doodle.
And his fingers jolted. Against the knife, as if in reminder. Oh yeah, the knife, couldn't forget the knife. Was it always that big? And sharp? So sharp, like it's actually making me conjure images of Halloween and Scream – that movie was about as scary as my big toe but now it's-
And it was all the warning she had before he moved. And when he moved, he really moved. But her eyes caught everything.
Everything.
One moment he was there, standing feet away from the foot of her bed. The next, the point of the knife was the only thing in her line of sight. So it was a fairly simple task - for her - to grasp the knife he initially swept forwards as he moved. Not in her hand, but between her big toe and long toe, rending it away with an arched leg so it flew into the wall next to her cupboard.
One thing about Felicity Smoak? Agile used as a descriptive didn't. Cut. It.
He faltered, mouth opening slightly but otherwise showed zero reaction to being so expeditiously disarmed. Oliver may have reminded her of a wolf but he was as big as a lion. His form could very easily enfold hers. His mind elsewhere; in dangerous foreign places, most likely crawling (his reactions were a big indication) with wicked persons, he instinctively pressed forwards, the outline of his form suddenly looming, oppressing, as he pounced, almost lightning fast and slammed into her-
'What did curiosity do to the cat… Miss Smoak?'
The voice – the memory of a voice - temporarily blinded her as his hand gripped just above the knee of her pyjama covered leg where her joints met and squeezed until she winced. A forearm shot forwards to press against her, his body stilling on top of her covers, knees braced on either side of the indentation her body had been making…
With a thud she crashed to the floor, immediately righting herself on the balls of her feet. "Oliver!"
Her shout had him stiffening, his breath coming out in slow, giant heaves of his chest. His hands braced against the mattress were she'd pulled herself from under him. Yanking sideways she'd thrown herself to the floor and was now crouched, low by the bed, just inches from him.
Make myself the smaller target. "Oliver," repeat his name, "its Felicity. Felicity Smoak?" And ignore the instinctive need to incapacitate him.
A small voice inside her flashed the image of him standing there just now and wondered, can you?
Her eyes flickered over him: he wasn't moving. The difference from just a moment ago made the sight a surreal one. "Do you remember? We came here… because you didn't want to go back to the Mansion?" She refrained from calling the Queen Mansion 'home' because he obviously didn't see it as such. What should I even mention though? Jumping fences? Little Bird? Stanley knives and persimmons? Get a clue and fast. "This is my home." She was just considering switching on her bedside lamp when he shifted, giving her the briefest view of his face, and paused.
The pupils of his eyes were blown wide; he looked terrified. But he was right there; he was back, in this moment.
Unintentionally, a small smile made its way to the surface; the type you wore for someone else rather than yourself. There you are. "Hi." She said, voice quiet as her fingers curled into the duvet – the words 'no touching' flashing like neon warning lights in her mind. Her chest tighter still tight from the memory he'd forced her to relive. "You okay?"
It was as if a bullet had been fired out of a great big gun: he scrambled backwards but before he could slip completely off the bed she jumped back on top of it, nimble and light. Something inside her was telling her what to do and she always listened to that little voice back there; it's never led me astray before.
Even in the dark she knew he could see the absolute lack of fear on her face. It's not as if he didn't just freak me out; but it wouldn't help at all, for him or for me, if I started screaming. Though I kind of want to…and maybe get some ice cream…
Oliver focused on her and he was still breathing as though he'd run a marathon. "I'm sorry."
It was stunning really how very different he was right now. Especially to how he'd been for most of the night: aloof, efficient, and lethal yet… soft too. So strange.
His voice was a rasp, yet higher and fearful as he spoke, shaking his head when he saw her open her mouth. "I-I'm so… so sorry." He hadn't blinked, not at all and for once she saw the prey he'd once been rather than the predator that'd stood so soundly before her in the mansion. And again in her living room. "I can't-I… I wasn't…" There was a clear defensive quality to the way he held himself at the end of her bed. Like how a child would cower when threatened with an adult's hand. Or fist. Or foot. "I should go. I shouldn't be here."
But he didn't move, still rooted to the spot.
Weighed down.
Felicity habitually tilted her head, trying to figure him out. "Why are you punishing yourself for something you obviously can't help?" She asked, breaking the silence.
Head and eyes shooting up - holy whiplash - he frowned at her. His breathing – she could hear it perfectly - had slowed to a crawl now; well he certainly gets over things quickly.
Her heart was still slamming into her rib cage. It was actually kind of worrying how with every second her chest grew tighter and tighter.
Otherwise she felt completely calm, yup. Or so she told herself. Breathe, just breathe.
"You didn't know that you might have PTSD?" Her tone suggested it was kind of freaking obvious that he did but by the furrow etching deeper into the bridge of his nose he probably didn't even know himself that he had it. "It isn't like I'm a doctor or anything. But you've been through something most couldn't understand. Did you honestly think you could…?" Keeping eye contact she searched for the right words. "Did you think that you could actually come home and not be affected in some way?"
His 'normal' had been on the island of Lian Yu or wherever he'd been the past five years. This new environment; one filled with missed family, friends and old haunts could be deemed, at least from his perspective, as unsettling. It could have been the reason he was pulled from his sleep, the reason why when waking he'd retreated into himself; a place that understood waking in strange environments.
A place that knew how to wield knives.
Not odd. Or mysterious. Not at all. This wasn't making her want to know more about the supremely attractive Mr Queen, not one bit!
Yep, that's a thought I needed to revisit. It wasn't incorrect: she was already heating up. Burning. Burning? Wait… Oh. Oh no. Not again; twice in one day? What's wrong with me?
The tips of her fingers felt heavy.
There was this unspeakable awareness between them now though, strangers as they were; with him sitting there - his index finger and thumb were pressed against each other – and the large space between them… the rising tide of energy within demanding her attention, her… obedience.
It whispered 'you must, you will, you have to'.
Felicity Smoak was her own worst enemy.
And it isn't that she gets panic attacks per se. She doesn't panic at all. Not really. She just has an overabundance of adrenaline screaming for release. It makes her loose it when that energy receives no outlet. Add that to the mystery of Oliver Queen and-
"I'm sorry." He was speaking again, a mere murmur. "You-"
Whatever she was, is or isn't - she didn't hear. She was already out of the room.
A blur of movement so impossible to divine that her own eyes could barely see around her, but she was sure that she made Oliver topple off the bed with the force of her leap from it.
He didn't make a sound.
She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe; everything was closing in and turning sideways but she managed to sprint and stumble into her bathroom, the door banging back against the wall on its hinges.
Later when she looked back she'd remember this in shots of light and colour: how her hands smacked against the mirror of the cabinet as she choked on nothing, how the ringing in her ears made her feel like she'd topple sideways in seconds as her peripheral vision blurred, her primary vision shrinking away as if looking through a pair of binoculars.
So obviously her first, second and third reach for her pills was a failure. Come on, come ON! Like a wave of light-headedness ascended from her toes, up to her shoulders and down.
It was as a truly frightening feeling to have your brain working faster than it ever has as your body lags further and further behind. Her muscle control was almost non-existent but as her other hand made the attempt to shoot out for the glass tumbler next to the sink, it was an aim straight and true-
The glass shattered before her fingertips could ghost the surface.
It didn't touch her: the slow rewind of the event, the spider webs on the glass, and the sound of breaking - shock forcefully rendered her still.
No…
Her eyes stayed glued to the now empty space. It had been years. Literally. Years.
…I've never lost control before. Not since then. She'd tried. So. Hard. To keep it inside.
Why now?
Panic set in; it's encampment irrevocable. Everything started to slip away from her. Control. The light. Now the warmth. Until only an echo of reason remained, a need to get her damn pills!
If she hadn't been so surrounded by herself she'd have felt him; his slow – she was probably as strange to him as he was to her right now - and watchful progress behind her.
She heard a voice first: decidedly masculine, a foreign sound in her house, but the words were distorted. Plastic fell from her palm and she was sure she whimpered at the loss - she hated this - the control slipping through her fingers, her vision all but darkness.
Then there was warmth. And water. And everything in her focused on it like a shark.
Intrusion.
Instinctively - she couldn't see him - wrenching the cautious hand suddenly reaching for her away she jerked from him, blindly forcing her body into the corner wall. But the heat and skin – it followed her. He followed.
What is he-no. I don't want-
Roughly, firmly, the hand came back and slid fast into her loose hair - as if stopping itself from second guessing the action - gripping it tightly and she pushed against the arm there. The very strong arm there. Geez. Muscles. And that was about as loquacious as she could get at this point. Irrational fright lanced in her spine allowing momentarily for some coordinated movement. But he bracketed her, oof, and she was so incredibly weak she couldn't stop him; this was out of the norm for her, debilitating and frightening as it was. Her forearms smacked against his oddly damp, EXTREMELY solid chest - at any other time 'wow' and 'ooh' would be freely considered as vocal options without shame along with a detailed diagnostic of every groove, muscle and curve (the ones that she could reach without coming across as the biggest pervert and let's face it; chances were slim) - as she fought, if you could call it that. Which it wasn't.
But his biceps crushed her against him.
Him
This was Oliver Queen. A stranger. He was doing this, whatever 'this' is.
Regardless of how she was trying to stop him – strength was virtually 'anywhere but here' for her – the hand in her hair pulled her head back. Hey! He needs to stop touching me, he needs to stop, it's too hot, her body couldn't make its mind up, and too close, too hot, get back- she pushed against him automatically, not meaning to but he kept her in place. Smooth but hard; like steel beneath velvet, his stomach crushed into her arms. Surprise stunned her and before she knew it a pill was dropped in her mouth, from a distance; she didn't feel the pressure of fingers – and she automatically swallowed it.
He's trying to help. It was followed by a thimble of water. He's just trying to help.
Anywhere else, any other time and she would have hurt him. Would have had to.
Instead she focused on her air intake as the world about her faded. Bring it in. It took everything she had, every breath and gasp of air to retract herself and whatever it was inside her that was trying so hard to get out. Hold it there.
On the precipice of awareness and sheer panic she floated, listening to her heartbeat rage madly in her ears. It was all she could hear as she waited to come down. Come on.
It took a moment for her to realise that the palm of her left hand was still pressed against skin.
Just the palm of her hand.
He must have stepped back. Good.
Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….
His heartbeat.
Oh.
Her hand was resting on his chest, his heart – must have sought it out unconsciously – and it was her only point of contact, her only port in the storm created within her body.
Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….
A strong beat. Vital. Necessary. Alive. Controlled.
It hurt part of her to realise that her fingers had formed claws, which were now digging firmly into his skin.
Please just… give me a moment here. In this space.
So the rest of her could concentrate on lowering her Road Runner heart beat in accordance with his very steady paced one. In fact his heart rate hadn't been raised at all during their little… scuffle? Did I really just scuffle with Oliver Queen?
If mortification had a name, that name would be 'Felicity'.
Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….
With every slow breath his chest lifted her hand – why isn't he moving away? Most would have. This must be borderline freaky, even for him. No: especially for him. Living on a desert island wouldn't exactly have made him partial to physical contact. Maybe. She wasn't going to pretend that she knew what she was talking about.
Her left hand flexed; her fingers unintentionally stretching against his pectoral.
It's very… firm. Ahem. Normally she'd have blushed or babbled but it made her relax. Completely. He was so present, so very 'here and now' that the mere pump of blood flowing without conscious thought under the skin she pressed down on brought everything screaming inside her to an peculiar silence.
He felt strong enough- No. No he isn't. No one is.
No one. Not to take… that.
And it's fine. It'd been fine for a long time. Until tall, dirty-blond and elusive came along and made her brain go poof. This was so not how her day was supposed to go. It was like something out of a book she'd once read. Before today she'd never seen eyes that could look like that; so painfully blue and closed off.
Oliver Queen: the conundrum.
Something else that she'd noticed, completely objectively of course, I mean… yeah…
He was… clammy. Moist. As if he'd ran a fever.
Taking one of the precious seconds he was allowing her for some reason Felicity, during her deep breathing, took in the scent that permeated her skin through contact with his.
Rain water. He'd had a window open. Whilst he slept? It made sense on a purely primal level: island nightlife will do that to you I suppose.
Let. Him. Go.
Eventually her physical cognizance, always the last thing to come back, told her exactly where she'd ended up. And as always it was embarrassing. She kept the groan in. Oh it would be like this wouldn't it? Her face was mushed into the crevice between the cabinet and the wall - she must have folded in on herself. Like a penguin. Cold sweat left a cool trail across her forehead and she was pretty sure she had the worst case of bed head in the history of all bed heads. Add to that how every muscle in her body was starting to scream 'abuse' and yep, probably won an award somewhere for banshee queen.
And all this in front of Mr Queen.
Oh god. This is why I'm still single. She was very tempted to curl up and hide somewhere, in a place preferably dark. And high up, which went against every other baser instinct she possessed; she used to have a very real fear of heights but now, due to outside forces, it was more of a dull murmur.
"I'm really sorry."
For all her internal griping her voice was more a rasp than words. Plus, she was kind of terrified about his response. About how he might be looking at her right now. Typical Felicity Smoak right? Breaking down in front of my boss's son? A man just returned home from five years on an island, a man who really didn't need any of this-
"It's…" Frack: he's talking. "It wasn't your fault."
Er… say what?
Forehead pressed against wood - you can do this - she took in a few large gulps of air before opening her eyes. She was biting her lip before she could even see his face but when she did - ignoring how great he looked even though she knew he'd about as fitfully as she – he spoke again.
His expression was unreadable – his hands completely still.
"It's mine." My fault, his eyes seemed to say. They could and did say a lot, those eyes.
He was really puzzling her this time.
Purposefully, she didn't focus on anything other than his face; her arm was - thankfully - kind of blocking the view of the rest of him. She should remove it, she really should. Yet she didn't. For reasons. Good ones. But her brain wasn't processing his claim, because what did he just say? How is it his fault?
Her head starting shaking left to right before she'd even finished her thoughts but he continued, looking as if every word was painful for him. Not because they hurt to say but maybe because… he wasn't used to saying them. Words concerning feelings and emotions – his own or others - and depth. Complexity. Gravity. Words that pulled upon your self-possessed notions.
Words have more power than a sword or a gun.
Step by very passive step, he inhaled. "I crossed a line. I… scared you." It was spoken like a question and, nodding to himself – already deciding – his head dipped slightly, as if in contrition. "I don't understand what just happened but I know I scared you. I do know that." His Adam's apple moved in a deep swallow.
Felicity was simply stunned. Though Mr Queen was still oddly centred, focused and calm… where was the aloof, ice machine from last night?
The mystery continues. "You didn't frighten me."
The frank - borderline challenging – expression on his face, though a preferable alternative to the 'out of place puppy' look she'd glimpsed, irked her. He didn't know her beyond their brief talks the previous evening, yet already he'd decided just exactly what and how she was feeling.
"You didn't." She stressed, eyebrows raised.
He blinked. "You had a panic attack."
"It wasn't a panic attack."
A solitary arched brow called her on it.
"It wasn't." Blowing out a breath she took a moment because, oh god I'm actually going to try to explain the riddle that is me, and continued. "I have excess adrenaline."
His eyes flickered away from her then back again. "What?"
"Excess adrenaline. Clinically it works the same way panic attacks do and it should give me a few benefits but – no. If I don't vent it somehow, if I don't…" How to explain the inexplicable unexplainable? "If I don't get rid of the surplus then…" She gestured down herself. "This happens. My body shuts down. Like an overload." Or worse.
She makes things shatter.
His arched brow fell in favour of a tiny furrow on the bridge of his nose. Hmm, I like that… a little too much.
There was a moment's silence and when he looked like he wanted to say something Felicity spoke again. "I understand that waking in strange places can do things to a person. I get that." Then straightened her slumped lean against the wall, looking him in the eye. "I do." She added softly. "I should be apologising really, for freaking out. And for groping you. I'm still groping you."
And she really was; her hand was absolutely still pressing hard against his heartbeat- and that's enough of that. She retracted her hand so swiftly it became a bur at her side. "Sorry." He must have sensed how much she'd needed it in order for him to have stayed still. Perceptive, intuitive sensitivity was a trait absent in many a man. He must think I'm such a… "About that." A nervous giggle, which sounded more like a strangled whine of pure embarrassment, left her – made so much worse by how stoic he was being. "Not that I'm sorry about touching you." Frack. He was giving her this look: deadly serious - help - but there was something else there too. She couldn't read it. "I'm pretty sure anyone would want to touch you. Just not me." What? His brow quirked; it had a personality all on its own. "I mean I definitely would want to but…" His sharp blink - how can a blink even be sharp - had her backfiring quicker than a canon. "But I wouldn't! Because I'm not that type of person." This amount of mortification shouldn't be possible. "Even though you are-your… y-you you are…" Oh wow. "Glorious."
Slowly, so very slightly, his mouth opened.
But he really was.
Gloriously half-naked.
Really? It had taken her this long to see that he was wearing the sweat pants she'd bought him and only his sweat pants? I lose points on being a woman for that. Not that it was the specific point that needed attention here.
With his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, she was pretty sure this was the most surprised he'd been with a person in years. Not that it was a good thing. Not at all.
But…
She couldn't feel apologetic, not even a little, for the slip. For no marble or stone statue, no figurine or depiction by Michelangelo could even attempt to describe the reason for her impenitence.
He was beautiful.
Not classically: not 'perfect' or 'without error'.
Previously, she'd never seen a chest so ripped in all her life and she'd been around enough men in her time to make her wonder why the hell not. His musculature was astounding. In her woeful experience of the male form she had thought that men didn't, couldn't, really look like that, not in reality. Not unless they were staring in a movie. Or they took steroids; an unattractive alternative: it warped the body, made your neck and chin protrude and elongate, made veins appear like spider webs in odd places, deformed facial muscles…
It was very evident Oliver Queen had never taken a single dose of steroids in his life.
100% au natural. And it would haunt her for many nights to come. Boy, would it haunt her.
The smooth circumference of the column of his throat, outlined by the virile line of his jaw – because in every aspect Oliver screamed 'male'; he'd make Brad Pitt jealous – as it dipped into his collarbone and really, it started there. The collarbone of all places. It was in her line of sight. Emboldened by the sheer distinction of his enhanced musculature – drool worthy comes directly to mind – it cradled and stencilled what she could only describe as a thoroughly worked upon chest-
Is that… what is that?
No. She knew exactly what that was; the star shaped insignia decorating his left pectoral.
Solntsevskaya Bratva.
The Brotherhood. The biggest and most powerful crime syndicate of the Russian Mafia.
She stared at it, her mind screaming information at her.
Quick question: with the possibility for a horrifying answer. How does Oliver Queen, the once and now again future heir of the Queen family, a man who'd been serving a five year sentence for no crime on an island out in the China Sea, come to have the inductive emblem framed so eloquently on his chest?
It wasn't something you could just get. From anyone anywhere. People were killed for making dumb calls like that one: impersonation was punishable by murder. She'd done her research. Given that the group (Soln) was existentially so young – founded in the 1980's by Sergei Mikhailov, a former waiter believe it or not – it was still surprising to have found that they had a reach in Starling City. The Russian Mafia itself held ties and history originating back to the Russian Imperial Era of the Tsars in the 1700's. But it wasn't until the Soviet Era that the Vory V Zakone, the 'Thieves-in-Law' emerged as leaders of various prison groups in gulags that an honour code amongst criminals was conceived. A long arm with a solid memory. In the world there were a few known branches of the organisation such as the Tambov, the Grekov and the Uralmash gangs but the Solntsevskaya Bratva is Russia's largest criminal group. And there was one in Starling: a group that operates on the basis of immediate reciprocal favours.
It didn't make sense to have the mark there, on his chest. Oliver Queen's chest. So stupidly close to enquiring as to how he'd received such a mark when he'd been deserted for 5 years when she remembered…
People lie. They change.
Especially when the truth was so much more terrifying to admit than the façade that seemed to please the world around you. A façade that shouldn't have fit but did. Because it was easy. Easier for the mind to fathom.
He'd been presumed dead on an island… right?
"Felicity?"
Her gaze flashed briefly back to his. "Um…" Briefly in that it fixated almost immediately back on his chest. Cause, Guh.
"You just said…" Since she couldn't see his face; his tone was her only lead on how he was faring right now. By the sound of it, 'completely flummoxed, bewildered and… beguiled' didn't seem so far off the mark. Beguiled. Wow. Then again, mystified worked too. Or maybe she was daydreaming: it was a very early morning and a hard chest and a Bratva tattoo will tend to do that to a girl. "You said I was," he cleared his throat, "glorious. Just now."
He asked in such a way that made her think he thought her little freak out had mental incapacitated her.
"Uh-huh." Yep, she had. Not that she could concentrate on how she'd sounded like a depraved artisan examining the most exquisite piece on site.
Not when she was faced with such obscenely cut abdominal muscles beneath the tattoo oddity that her attention was so focused upon. Not so focused that she, at least briefly, couldn't appreciate washboard abs. And washboard didn't cut it. 'Defined' was the operative word. After seeing him in the mansion she'd been flummoxed as to how broad he was but this… You don't get a set like that from lying in the sun on a desolate beach somewhere.
It wasn't crazy, was it? Thinking that maybe he might have… No, she was being crazy. Absurd. She didn't know him at all. He's been shipwrecked for years. Head in the now Felicity. This isn't a comic book.
Unfortunately… Felicity's life could, in many ways, fit inside fiction quite nicely.
Mental shake. "Um I…" Her voice broke and she closed her eyes temporarily in reproach. "You're…"
"Felicity?"
He sounded so confused it was almost funny. Almost.
Beautiful body. Bratva Tattoo.
Her eyes snapped open to find him silently scrutinizing her.
"How?" She blurted out, gesturing to the whole of him. I had my hand on that; I think I have a type.
"Sorry?"
"I mean…" Get a word out Felicity; it doesn't normally take so long. "You've got to be kidding me!"
His eyes side-lined; flickering to the left and back again, double time. "I don't understand."
Her mouth fell open. "You're body's incredible. H-how…"
"Huh?"
"It's like you've been photo-shopped on top of yourself."
"It… is?"
"Seriously?"
He shook his head, sounding a little flustered. "I don't understand what you mean."
She had an urge to stomp her foot; yeah, that won't add to the mortification. And then she said words. Again. When she specifically ordered herself to refrain from doing so in front of Mr Oliver Queen in the near future. At least until he'd acclimated; no point forcing him to confront this epic scale social mess too soon – too little too late. "I'm telling you, you have the most amazing, BEAUTIFUL body I have ever seen - in my life - and your response is 'I don't understand?'"
The very brief satisfaction she felt at witnessing Oliver's expression turn from complete bewilderment to honest shock, the light of his irises flaring aquamarine as his pupils dilate, did not make up for the resounding doom her words had on her cerebral cortex.
I actually said that. To his face. And we'll both remember it. Forever…
"Beautiful…" Expressionless but with eyes so, so wide he stared at her. "I don't… what?"
She blinked. Didn't think he'd get the same mental constipation I suffer from. 404 error. Brain does not compute. An honest reaction. Finally; now we're getting somewhere. Biting her lip, a finger pointing from his collarbone down to his abdominal v-line she nodded.
His eyes searched the room as if it held answers before looking down at his uncovered chest. "I'm… damaged." And his tone again screamed 'I don't understand'.
"Damaged?"
As if she were mentally unstable he pronounced each syllable with perfect clarity. "The marks?" Wounds. Blemishes. Injuries. Mementoes.
Her mouth opened, oh. "You mean your scars?"
"Yes." His tone was to the point. "My scars." And expectant.
"What about them?"
I mean, of course she'd noticed them. Hard not to. Super hard, in every sense of the word, God yes. The man looked like an angel. Or a demon. And the scars? The marks, the visible harsh reality of five long years – and she wouldn't, WOULDN'T delve into the fact that she recognised the pattern of several of the scars and had already mentally associated them to which tool had been used – on a… ahem, deserted island… I am not going there. I'm not doing it. I'm not.
The evidence of just who he was and all he'd been through was painted graphically on his skin. It took her breath away. Literally. Yes, he was marred. He had scars. Several.
It wasn't a massive deal. Right? Scars were scars; but what kind of significance did Oliver put on them, she wondered, that made him look at her as if she'd just supernaturally appeared out of thin air and declared that up was down?
The contrast of the light in her bathroom shining on his skin really emboldened each and every piece of cruelty exceled down upon him. A brutalised trophy of life. Forged in fire and steel. It made him look so strong.
And so… lonely.
"Scars aren't exactly a sign of damage Oliver." She immediately backtracked. "Well, they are, in the sense that you received a physical injury at some point; ergo, scar. But in no way does 'scar' equal to 'damage'. Or 'damaged'. And definitely not the 'damage' I know that you're referring to."
He just stared at her. Problem.
Then he just shook his head, as if pushing the more perplexing things to back of his brain. To scourge later with a mental brillo-pad, probably. "And that's why you were staring?"
And of course she spoke without thinking; she was standing in front of approximately six feet of 'wow', give a girl a break. "Oh hell yes." Felicity swore that she almost choked on her own saliva. Incorrect answer. "I's-y-your… It's, you're…" Not. Good.
"It's? You're?" He pressed.
"It's you're abs!"
"My abs?"
"So much abs right there and," she gulped, "did I mention that abs are a girl's greatest weakness?"
His lips pressed together.
She bit down on hers.
…And then his eyes just… wow. There was no other word for it. They lit up. Up and up. Pretty. His lips pressed even harder together – like he was forcing back a smile; no seriously, he looked like he was about 2 seconds away from hysterical laughter, which was very weird – and a brow lifted. But rather than the sharp ridge she'd become used to, it was more of a soft bump. A 'hey'. There was an ounce of confusion still very much present but…
"…You're checking me out?"
Bu-uh?
He asked like he didn't believe it. Couldn't. Like it was the last thing in world that he'd been expecting. Not that she could compute his tone: her mouth opened and closed; a dying moose noise sounding faintly from her oesophagus.
When she saw him bite the inside of his cheek she was compelled to form words – never a good idea when Zeus is standing right there. "You're standing there half naked; what did you want me to do? Ignore how incredibly hot you are?!"
As if someone had punched him, the exhale he must have been holding in broke free from his mouth in a burst of a raspy voice and steady gasps: breathy… laughter?
Oh God. She slapped a hand over her mouth and stared, wide eyed at him. Then a smile – one that she couldn't help – spread over her lips at the sheer surprise in his eyes. "In my experience, guys generally don't like that. Girl's ignoring their hotness." She mumbled behind her hand.
It was spoken so frankly Oliver couldn't fight against it.
"Not that I think you're hot." She continued.
Uh huh.
He dragged a hand over his face as if to wipe away all traces of the smile that had erupted. But his eyes were still bright. He didn't say another word.
And she needed to fill the silence. "My mouth kind of runs away with me." She said, dropping her hand and grimacing.
He just looked at her, nodding. Agreeing? Oops.
Lacing her fingers together - gripping them and tying knots – she cleared her throat, nervously. "Do you want a coffee?"
He blinked at the swift change of subject and shifted. "Isn't it a little early… for you?"
"I'd be getting up in half an hour anyway. I run." She added at his questioning look he adopted. "Part of the whole adrenalin thing."
"You aren't tired?"
The wording of that threw her a little: most would ask 'aren't you tired'? 'You aren't tired', implies a level of - let's say – confidence, that should really be absent between strangers.
"Nope."
"…Okay."
05:54am, Queen Mansion
Coffee had been safe.
The safest route of choice for her, the dangerous route being continued discussion of Oliver's very fine six pack, which had still been on clear display.
Okay, he'd said.
They'd both retreated downstairs to the kitchen; Oliver following her lead and she'd felt his stare, just like in Little Bird's, on the back of her neck the whole time. It was still present as she pulled out a stool for him to sit upon. As she pressed the power button on her coffee machine and waited for it to brew. As she passed him one of her many very normal - Robin Hood's, Star Wars and Looney Tunes, ahem - very large mugs and he'd said thank you, so quietly.
He'd simply… watched her do it. His forearms and elbows resting on the surface of her rectangular kitchen island, eyes tracking her, and though his back was straight his face was otherwise calm. As if relaxed by the obvious familiarity she possessed with each appliance.
And he didn't put his shirt back on. Didn't retrieve it from the guest bedroom. Didn't make any effort to cover himself. At. All.
Seeing him sat before her, as he sipped her strong coffee, his shoulders, pectorals and upper abdominals all working in major fine working order and showing above the pine table top… it didn't help her concentration. Nothing in Felicity's life had prepared her for seeing a half-naked Oliver Queen.
She'd hidden her face behind her own mug.
Conversation had been little to none. But that was fine. It had been fine. Required. Comfortable even; them both sitting in the dark, drinking strong coffee, her in her pyjama pants and t-shirt and him, practically perfect in every way. The sun hadn't even risen yet and it wasn't odd at all, them both being so awake, fully aware. Eventually he attempted a further apology and had discovered how completely 'not bothered' she was by the whole thing. Her words, about what? And her expression, 'something happened?' They told him everything.
Eventually… the time came for him to go… home? The Queen Mansion?
The exhale that left him when she mentioned it had sounded like a dead weight and she'd wished immediately that she hadn't opened her mouth at all. "I should probably go back. Go..." He pressed down on his lips and attempted the word. "Go home."
Felicity had swallowed the last of her coffee. "Okay." She'd whispered.
His replying nod had felt even heavier.
She'd offered him her shower, which he accepted and she… thought about it. A lot. Too much. Oliver Queen, naked in her apartment. Oliver, wet, naked and oh so dangerous… Oh, boy. She'd practically sprinted into the guest bedroom to place his now neatly folded - extremely high priced, 'make a commoner such as herself nervous as hell' – jeans and shirt on the bed before running back downstairs and out of his way.
She'd just thrown on her running pants and loose sweatshirt: she'd still go for her run. And after the morning's performance… Oliver Queen had seen her almost at her worst. Her most gross – with the bedhead and complete freak-out. If there was a chance he'd have given her a second look in real life she'd just kyboshed it.
Hair up in a loose bun Felicity now pulled up outside the second gate of the Queen Mansion.
The rain had finally ceased about 30 minutes before and had given the environment a damp, abject look about it that she kind of liked but also kind of didn't. It had both cleansed the world and drowned it. And though the car ride back to the Mansion had been much less awkward than the journey away from it, the atmosphere inside the vehicle now closely resembled the bleak view of the world outside.
Again, he wasn't helping in this.
It wasn't that he looked miserable; he truly didn't. And he didn't appear tired or stressed or even angry. He didn't seem… anything. There was nothing there to see. No enthusiasm, no thought of contentment at seeing his family, no anxious twitching, and no deliberate drumming of fingers against dashboards… A big fat nothing. Zilch. Zero.
And unlike the previous evening he wasn't even observing his environment, wasn't taking in every inch and aspect of her too clean and tidy car.
Sometimes… sometimes he'd look at her. As if he were wondering who she was and why she was doing any of this at all. Mere flitches of movement. It was fitting in a way, she supposed. She baffled him. It was a definite improvement over any apathetic alternative. But the brief – epically brief – glances – like an ADHD imperative – were few and far between. Oliver Queen was not, by any definition, an open book, window or doorway. He was 100% closed off to the world and to her, even more so than the night before as he simply looked outside the front window of her car; seeing nothing but the world inside his head.
And that was okay. They were still strangers. Well… after their '1 in a million chance' morning she supposed 'acquaintances' worked better.
But it was like he was made out of stone. Or steel. The moment they'd both taken their seats, locking tight their doors, he shut down. Any glimpse of the man she'd been having coffee with had vanished. Okay… With raised brows she'd dismissed it, slowly backing out of her parking space, dawn not even a glint on the skyline. October in Starling usually alluded to dark mornings.
It took her a few minutes to realise that maybe this was just his version of being incredibly deep in thought. Let's face it: Oliver Queen was a bit of a weirdo. Like me, she thought with a smile. He'd caught her like that too and after watching for a moment, turned to look back out of the window. Probably wondering why I'm, well, me. All was well.
At least it had been.
"Well, here we are." A piece of her died inside: obviously he knows where we are. But she couldn't take the silence any longer. They'd been sitting outside the Queen Mansion, in front of the second set of iron gates for almost ten minutes and neither had said a word.
Not that it was uncomfortable, which was all kinds of odd - truly, it was kind of relaxing, not needing to speak but being contented enough to not have to – it was just that, wasn't he supposed to be, oh I don't know, going inside? To talk some more with people he'd left behind? To start learning what it was to be at peace in the hubbub of a sprawling city? To demonstrate how alright it was at how not-okay he might be right now. To give himself a break; to gorge on Big Belly Burger until you throw up, to drink and drink until you're ironically dried up of all emotion.
I mean really, what was the modus operandi for returning from the dead?
"Here we are." He reiterated.
He was still staring out at the Mansion and Felicity wanted so much to just say the right thing for once instead of babble incessantly.
And then, like the proverbial light bulb, an idea came to mind. One she really should have considered first before offering. Because it would truly set events in motion that she couldn't possibly have portended.
"Oliver?" She asked, reaching behind her – no, literally arching like some gone with the wind ballerina – and pulling out a rucksack from under the backseat.
He looked at her, eyes flickering to the bag she'd already delved a hand inside and frowning slightly when she pulled out a smart phone.
"It's a burner phone." She explained and his eyes slammed back up into her. That's going to take some getting used to, she cleared her throat "It's my back-up. I have back-ups for my back-ups: I'm neurotically thorough." She shook her head in self-derision and his brow line smoothed out. Point to me! "My contact details are on there. The point being that you know if you…" God, how do I put this? "Need anything or if you want to talk to… a complete stranger," She added, smiling slightly, "one who wouldn't judge anything you say, just an easy ear or even if you just want a place to hide for a while…" She licked her lips at how he wasn't giving her anything in response. "Give me a call." And shrugged a solitary shoulder. "Or you know, if you just want another pear."
Finally, something in his face settled and softened. "I don't know; those persimmons kind of grew on me." He mumbled, the sides of his lips curving.
Practically beaming at him she watched as he opened the door at his right and slid in one graceful step from her car. Before closing it he bent and locked eyes with her. "Thank you… Felicity."
"You're welcome… Oliver."