A/N: Hello m'dears… I hope the week has been a good one to you!
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With a last terrified glance over her shoulder, Sienna bolted out of the club. She forced herself not to run. People tend to notice someone running. They will wonder why that person is running. They will begin trying to stop that person, offering to help them, and asking questions that that person just cannot bring themselves to answer at that moment. Blending in was critical. It was essential. She knew she could do nothing that might draw attention to herself. Or to Slade. But even as she ordered herself to breathe slow and steady, the air wheezed in her lungs, lodged there until she was gulping for every breath she drew.
How can you humiliate Slade like this? Have you no shame?
On and on the voices went, taunting her, laughing at her, calling her the coward she knew that she was. Sweat bubbled on her skin, and she could smell her own fear. The edges of her vision blurred, burned as she scrambled past a sea of faceless people waiting to enter the club. She was so desperate to get away that she almost ran headlong into Slade. She screeched to a halt a second before colliding with him. Oh, God... She just wanted to crawl into a hole, to curl up in a ball and whimper like a baby. It was the small, pitiful sounds coming from her throat that had her lifting up eyes that were still glassy to his face.
Slade laid his hands upon her shoulders, squeezing them gently before saying in that velvety baritone, "Sienna, you're safe now, love."
"N-no," she countered in a tremulous voice. "N-no, I'm not."
One dark brow lifted. "You are not safe when you are with me?"
She was not safe when she was with him? Was he kidding? A gurgle of hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She wanted to shout at him that the only time she ever felt safe was when she was with him. The only thing she wanted was to be with him. She tried to articulate that want, to give that desire a voice, but all she managed to do was nod her head in one quick, jerky motion.
Slade smiled. "So long as you are with me, then you are all right." He reached up to tuck a flyaway curl behind her ear. "Are you not?"
"Y-yes." But she wasn't all right and they both knew it. She wasn't even anywhere near being just okay. Not when panic was still an icy poker jabbing through her belly. "I'm sorry, Slade," she said miserably. "I let you down by giving into my cowardice."
"It is I who let you down tonight, little one."
Sienna just looked at him, her brow knitted in a frown. Why was he thinking that he let her down? she wondered. He'd done nothing but ask her to try and rise above her fear of crowds (and men) and help him by delivering a gift to his friend. A gift, she realized now as humiliation reached up to smother her fear, that she'd only managed to deliver out of the sheerest of dumb luck. "You di..."
"Yes, I did." Slade watched as a thousand thoughts and emotions crashed across her face. Mortification and guilt, disgust and self-hatred, confusion and that slowly receding panic all broke like waves over those creamy shores. He reached up to stroke her cheek lightly with his thumb. "I should never have pushed you to go into Verdant." Sienna saw a flash of something-regret? Flash across his face. She suspected his guilt stemmed from having pushed her into challenging herself. She went to open her mouth, to remind him that she'd wanted to do this for him, that she'd chosen to do this because he'd asked it of her, but his next words stopped her words of reassurance instantly. "I should have listened when you said that you weren't ready to be among so many people. And," his voice dropped an octave and the low, intimate quality skittered along senses already raw. "I should have come for you the moment you began showing signs of needing me. And for that, little one," his hand cupped her cheek, briefly, "I am sorry."
Sienna closed her eyes and turned her face into his palm, absorbing the wondrous feeling of his skin upon hers. The sensation was heady, intoxicating. She warned herself that it was dangerous to want this-to want him. They could never be the lovers that her overactive imagination (or Marta) frequently fantasized them as being. But oh! she had craved a moment like this one for such a very long time. To feel the roughness of his flesh sweeping across hers in a touch as soft as feather down was like getting that one desired present for Christmas.
"Don't be sorry," she finally said in a voice she almost recognized as belonging to that woman. It was smokier, sultrier than her current speaking voice. She almost remembered using it when in the company of other men she'd found attractive. Almost. "I didn't say I needed you. You said you'd come if I said that I needed you." She opened her eyes, smiled a smile she had no way of knowing cast her face in a glow he found wondrous. Dazzling. A glow he, cold-hearted bastard that he was, would have moved Heaven and Earth to see again and again. "I didn't say it, Slade."
"No," he agreed with a slight incline of his head. "You did not say you needed me, little one."
"So we can call it progress." Her nose wrinkled with distaste. "Of the lowest sort, of course, but progress nonetheless."
"It is progress," he admonished gently. "And you should not take it so lightly, nor dismiss it so casually." Then he settled a hand, warm and familiar on her lower back, said, "Now, come, let us go to dinner."
Sienna nodded and allowed him to lead her towards the black luxury car parked at the curb. A swarthy man in a chauffeur's cap came around to open the passenger side door. Sienna was about to slide into the car when she felt Slade's body go taut as a string against hers. She turned in the circle of his arm and cast a glance at his face. She had never seen it blaze with such hatred before. It was an alive, intangible force, almost reaching out, touching her and burning with its intensity. Even as she quaked beneath the raw, primitive hunger she saw prowling through his eye, she had a strange compulsion to stroke his face. A reactive urge to soothe him, to put out that conflagration came over her. She set her hand on his arm; felt the way the muscles coiled and tensed beneath her palm.
"Slade?" she asked cautiously. "What is it? What's wrong?"
At first, he ignored her. His gaze remained locked upon what-or who, had managed to snare his attention. Sienna glanced over her shoulder and saw that Oliver Queen was standing less than five feet from them. His face could have been carved from granite. The same dark tidings swirled in his gaze that she saw in Slade's. There was something not right between these two men. She just couldn't figure out what that something was. The tension between them was so intense that it was like an electric current was stinging the air. Sienna could feel the hair on her arms and the back of her neck crackle with it. Afraid there would be a scene she tried to draw Slade's attention to her by saying, "Slade?" in as firm a voice as she could muster. "I want to go home. Now, please."
His reaction was instant. Slade's gaze shifted, pinned her, and even as the heat of it caused her heart to stumble over itself, she slid her fingers to his cheek. What glittered in that one eye, though, was unlike anything she'd ever seen before. It was darker, hungrier, something almost predatory in nature. Sienna shrank away from it, from him, suddenly unsettled at seeing this darker side of him. But then the storm clouds lifted and his expression relaxed into the one she was more familiar with seeing. He bent his head and murmured in her ear, "I am sorry for frightening you, love."
She shivered, struggled to pull her scattering wits back together. "W-why are you so angry? I thought…" she swallowed. "I thought he was your friend?"
"Later," he told her. "I promise that I will explain all of this to you later. Now, please, get in the car, Sienna."
Sienna slid into the car without any hesitation. He climbed in with her a few seconds later, but not before giving his old friend a look that promised retribution. "Drive," he ordered the driver as he settled back in the seat.
Oliver was unable to do anything but stand there and watch as the car bearing Slade Wilson and the strange brunette woman drove off into the night. His fists bunched at his sides as irritation pulsed through his body. He coiled, ready to launch himself across the mere feet separating him from his former friend. He ordered himself to stand down, told himself that why he could not engage Slade in a fight right then and there because there were people currently awaiting entrance into the club. People would notice if Oliver Queen suddenly leapt at the well-dressed man and punched him in the face. People would talk about what they saw with other people. He could not afford to do anything that even remotely connected him to the Arrow. It would only bring suspicions and attention he did not need at that moment if he did. So he did nothing, said nothing that would cause war to erupt between he and his former friend.
Just because he was incapable of action did not mean he was inactive, though. Oliver used the time to think. He could freely admit that his thoughts and emotions were being tossed all over the spectrum at that moment. The brief interaction he had with the woman had left him twisted in knots of confusion. Everything inside Oliver was screaming at him that she was not his enemy. The panic attack she'd suffered in his prescience had not been faked. Nobody was that good of an actor that they could pretend a reaction such as hers had been. She'd clearly suffered some sort of psychological trauma and was still reeling from its aftereffects. The question which was at the forefront of his mind, the one which sat on top of the thousand others streaking through his mind like a runaway steam engine was: what? All of those questions ceased to matter as soon as he saw the way she interacted with Slade Wilson outside the club.
Something he'd assumed to be long dead and buried inside of Slade had risen the moment she'd lifted those wounded eyes to his. Oliver thought he was mistaken at first. He told himself there was no way he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Yet as he watched the two together, Oliver realized this wasn't a wish being made by a heart weary with sorrow and heavy in regret. No, this, he realized, was a glimpse of a specter straight from out of the past.
This was a reminder of the man Slade Wilson had once been. This was the brother who'd taken him beneath his wing. This was the mentor who'd helped train him. This was the friend who'd walked the long road of self-discovery with him. This was the partner who'd helped him plan (albeit, unwillingly at first) how they'd escape the island, rescue Yaoi Fei, and stop Edward Fyers and Ivo both from accomplishing their intended agendas. This was the man he'd known before the Mirakuru poisoned his mind and hatred hardened his heart. This was the man he had been prior to the death of Shado. This was the morally just man, the one who would risk his life to save those he cared about, who was loyal almost to a fault and who bowed to no man (no matter the tortures inflicted upon him.).
Watching them together, seeing the way that Slade's face softened as he spoke to her, Oliver found himself again wondering who the woman was. Slade lifted his hand, cupped her cheek, and there was such a gentleness about the maneuver that it made Ollie wonder if he was dreaming this entire conflict with Slade up. There was a wealth of tenderness in the way he touched the woman, the slight sweep of his thumb over that sculpted cheek not leaving so much as an indentation in the smooth flesh. He treated her as if she was something fragile, delicate, and easily broken.
Like a porcelain doll.
The spell was broken as soon as Slade saw him. That cold and rage-filled mask he habitually wore fell back into place. However, there was something else that Oliver saw, a minute shifting of his body that spoke volumes as to the relationship between the two. It was like watching a snake coil it's body around its prey. And yet, Oliver suspected that this was less Slade curling his body around the woman's because she was his next meal and more because he was protecting her from him.
Had he not known how Slade felt towards Shado, about his feeling of having failed to protect her, he might have laughed. However, when he thought about it, when he really thought about it, he realized that everything linked back to her. Shado was the beginning of everything with Slade. Just as she was the end for him as well. It was Slade's guilt, his grief, that threw him over sanity's edge. Oliver knew how it felt, living on after being unable to save someone you loved. For him, the idea was unbearable. Just the thought of losing any member of his family was enough to send him to his knees.
The woman must have sensed that something was wrong. She looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened at the sight of him. Oliver read her confusion, uncertainty and fear before her eyes flew back to Slade's face, studying it. It was clear she knew nothing of the situation between her boss and him (and that made her delivering Slade's gift even more interesting in Oliver's mind). Then she said, "Slade?" in a voice that while firmer than the one she'd used in the club, was still thin and reedy. "I want to go home. Now, please."
Somehow, it worked to get his attention. Slade's gaze shifted, raked her. Even as Oliver saw her flinch beneath the weight of that penetrating stare, she slid visibly trembling fingers to his cheek, skimmed them over his swarthy flesh in a caress as gentle as the breeze kicking up. It was clear she'd never seen this side of her boss before. It was clear by how she shrunk away that she was unsettled by this more animalistic side of him. Then Slade's expression softened and he slanted his head, murmuring something in her ear that Oliver could not hear. He saw the woman nod and slide into the car (which he suspected Slade request she do). He climbed in after her, but not before giving Oliver a look that was black with a promise of retribution. There was also a clear warning about staying away from the woman stamped in that gaze. Then the car drove off and Oliver found himself standing there, watching and wondering about what the hell had just happened.
"Oliver?" he heard Diggle ask from behind him. "What the hell is going on here, man? Who was that woman with Slade Wilson?"
He turned to look at his friend. He opened his mouth to reply, but found that he didn't have the answers that he knew Diggle was wanting. "I don't know," he finally settled on saying. "I don't know who she is or why Slade sent her here. But," he grimaced, before he turned to walk back into the club. "I plan on finding out."
The majority of the drive back to the penthouse was spent in silence. All right, Sienna thought. Say something to him. Apologize for interfering in his affairs, for manipulating him as you did and assure him you'll never do it again. She was capable of doing that. That woman certainly wouldn't. She'd merely toss her head and fix him with a smirk that would have dared him to do something about it. That woman would have played with fire because she would want to feel the burn, the sting, the rush that flooded the senses. Arguments to that woman were just her brand of flirting. The woman Sienna was now, however, found the prospect of arguing with Slade to be absolutely terrifying. She settled back into the buttery leather, calculating how much time they had before they'd pull into the underground parking garage and trying to decide how best to apologize to the man who was all but vibrating next to her.
"I know you are very angry with me for what I did," Sienna said when the weight of the silence finally became too much for her to bear. "I can only say I am sorry." Her fingers curled into the folds of her dress. "And I promise you that it will never happen again."
Slade said nothing. Sienna darted a glance at his face and saw that it was carefully, neutrally blank. Sienna felt the arms of misery close about her, offering her much needed solace and support. They only brought her a cold comfort at best. Deciding to leave well enough alone, she sat back to wait out the rest of ride. And when they drove through the gates of the local marina, she tensed up. She studied the small yacht bobbing in the water with great trepidation. "Wh-what are we doing here?" she asked in a strangled voice.
"Having dinner." Slade got out and held out a hand to help her from the car. "I did promise to take you to dinner after you delivered my package to Mr. Queen, love."
Sienna didn't know what to think, much less to say. She had assumed (erroneously apparently) that after what had happened that they'd return to the penthouse and he'd be done with her for the rest of the evening. That he wasn't dumping her off at some dark corner and telling her she was on her own made her so ridiculously happy that she wanted to slap herself. However, it gave her hope that they would be able to work through her earlier faux pas. She lifted her hand, set it in his, and felt his fingers close warm and gently around hers.
Slade could read her confusion, watched the flicker of uncertainty, and saw the echo of raw vulnerability which flashed across her face; through her eyes. He knew she wanted reassurances from him. He understood that she deserved some answers after what she'd seen. He was merely waiting for when they were alone before he would explain his relationship with Oliver Queen. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow before leading her onto the boat.
A white cloth had been spread over a low table on the back observation deck. It was surrounded by rope lights casting off a soft glow, and pillows in jeweled shades and rich fabrics. Beside it was a bouquet overflowing with yellow roses, honeysuckle, and sprigs of jasmine. He lifted it. "For you."
Sienna studied the flowers, then his face. Her lips crooked at the corners. "You had help from Marta, didn't you?"
"Why do you think that I needed Marta's help in selecting flowers?" he asked, holding the bouquet out to her until she took it.
"You are a man of many specialties, Slade," she said, sniffing at the fragrant blooms. "But I somehow doubt that botany is among your list of talents." She graced him then with a small, shy smile. "Thank you, though. They're lovely. But," she indicated the deck with the sweep of a hand, "what is all this, though?"
"I thought we'd have a dinner cruise. Call it a compromise between a public and private outing."
"You did this so I wouldn't feel overwhelmed and have an anxiety attack." She grimaced. "Well, another one considering the meltdown I already had this evening."
"Yes." He reached up to touch her cheek. "And I am sorry for having asked so much of you tonight, little one."
She reached up to set her hand atop his. "You didn't ask me for anything that I wasn't willing to give you, Slade. I am only sorry..."
"Hush," he crooned in that silky smooth tone that made her belly curl. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Sienna."
She shook her head. "I interfered..."
"You prevented an unnecessary scene."
"I mani-"
He laid his fingers against her lips, effectively silencing her. "You did what was necessary to remind me that I was in a public setting and could not afford to lose my temper."
"Pe-people would have noticed," she murmured against his fingers. "I kn-knew blending in was critical. That it was essential." The words tumbled faster now, more harried. As if she was trying to justify why she'd done what she did to both herself, and to him. "I knew you could do nothing that might draw attention to yourself. Not without it damaging everything you came to Starling hoping to accomplish."
"Enough, Sienna," He commanded gently. "I am not angry with you for what you did, or about what you said. You were right to act as you did."
His thumb skimmed over her bottom lip, shooting flashes of white-hot heat, and curls of keen-edged longing lancing through her system. Slade felt the soft sigh that billowed out from between those slightly parted lips. Her eyes had a dreamy, slightly unfocused look about them. He bet that if he closed his fingers around her wrist he'd find her pulse was racing a mile a minute. He settled his hand on her shoulder, slid it down her arm to take hers, and felt the shiver she was not quite able to hide from him. He'd realized a few months ago that his little dove was this fascinating combination of fire Maiden and ice Queen. He'd been witness to the aloofness of the frost woman. Her fear and uncertainty had kept her hidden in the shadows. A thaw had set in lately, though, and allowed him glimpses of the woman asleep beneath the snow. He wondered if tonight would melt the heart of the Queen and allow the Maiden to awaken from her slumber.
"Shall we have a glass of wine and talk while waiting for dinner to be served?"
Sienna found she could do little more than nod. She sat down on one of the pillows, put the bouquet of flowers beside her, and watched him pour champagne into two flutes. Only briefly did she remember what that woman would have done had she found herself in the spot she was currently in. That woman would have willingly allowed herself to be seduced by a man like Slade Wilson.
But she wasn't that woman anymore, she sternly reminded herself.
That woman was dead. Gone. Buried.
Right?
Sienna realized as he came walking towards her that she no longer knew that answer.