I decided to write a short Oliver scene, as he didn't really get a 'voice' in my previous chapter. This is just a filler whilst I am writing the next Felicity chapter. ;) Enjoy, I hope I got his 'voice' right. Feedback always welcomed and appreciated ;)
Strike, one, two, three, four, breathe.
Strike, one, two, three, four, breathe.
Oliver stood in the foundry, as he had been for the past three hours since he had left or more appropriately had been dismissed and kicked out of Felicity's apartment. Dressed in a pair of worn cargo pants, riding low on his hips, Oliver faced the training dummy and lashed out.
Strike, one, two, three, four, breathe.
Sweat beaded and glistened over his marred skin, accentuating the muscle beneath, that rippled and tensed with each strike, trying desperately to find a state of relative calm that since the conversation with Felicity had eluded him.
He had struggled for the first hour, to find a suitable distraction, anything to lessen the burden he felt weighing him down. As a vice grip had settled upon on his heart, he felt his chest tighten as anger rose up, felt himself begin to fray around the edges; exposed and volatile like a live wire. Not a safe response. Not for someone like him.
Initially he had paced around the foundry, rolling his shoulders and clenching his fists, a caged animal, itching to be free. Frustrated, he had picked up his bow and begun pinning tennis balls to the far wall, but the echoing thump of them hitting the floor, reverberating throughout the foundry just set him further on edge. The salmon ladder had a similar effect, as memories of catching her ogling him hounded his mind. As a result he had concluded that he needed a more intense and direct workout to distract him from recent events.
So Oliver stood in the foundry, unleashing another set of a four strike sequence he usually kept reserved solely for eradicating the remnants of one of his nightmares.
The four strike sequence, which had been taught to him by Shado, was designed to instil discipline, resilience and control. To allow him control over his own body and mind even in the presence of extreme fatigue and pain. As he launched himself into another set he recalled the first time he had attempted the technique:
'Shado, I can't hit that, it's going to split my hand open!'
'That's the point kid.. .' Slade chuckled, as he sat leaning against the plane as Shado wrapped a thin blanket around the trunk of a young tree.
'This technique teaches inner control, the ability to complete a task so that all external distractions disappear. Do not strike the tree head on or you will break your wrist.' She indicates by skimming the trunk with a knife hand strike.
'You can do this.' She sated simply, placing a hand on his chest and smiling up at him.
Pushing the memory away, Oliver steps back from the training dummy looks down at his calloused hands relishing in the familiar burning sensation caused by each strike. Not dissimilar to the sensation that is still lingering on his skin as a result of Felicity dragging her nails down his back, as she let her head fall back to grant him access to her throat. The simple touch had set his nerve endings on fire and he wanted nothing more than to….
'Stop it!' He growls at himself as he launches himself into another set.
Strike, one, two, three, four, breathe.
Strike, one, two, three, four, Crack!
Oliver cursed as he inspected the now obliterated training dummy, they really did need to order those in bulk he murmurs, picking up the pieces and tossing them aside. God he needed to stop thinking about her, about how much he wants her, how badly he had screwed up this time. He had crossed a line, kissing her like that, thinking it would make it better; fix what he had so magnificently broken by sleeping with Isabel Rochev.
He began pacing again, as he felt his anger at himself rise; red embers igniting once again within.
He had gone to her apartment, with the intention of explaining it all, but when the time came, he couldn't find the words, the words that would fix what he with his actions had ruined. Instead he had stood there falling over his own words, cursing himself for being this Oliver, the broken, battered and damaged Oliver that came back from that island. The Oliver that can no longer hide behind bravado and smooth talk, not with her. Not with the one who saw so completely through the charade he puts forth to the world. The one who strips him bare and leaves him exposed, vulnerable; who has seen him in some of his darkest moments and yet still remains. Yet he stood there, let her think the worst and proceed to read him like an open book.
She was right; he was treating her like a consolation prize, not like the treasure she was, the light in his life constantly chasing away the darkness, the darkness within himself. Keeping the demons that threaten to pull him under at bay. Allowing him to reclaim that which he thought was destroyed along with the Queens Gambit that night, shards of happiness.
A part of him was restored because of her, because of her goodness, her loyalty, her light. Even though he would never be completely whole again, would never bask in the same light as she did, as a result of the atrocities that occurred on that hellish island. She selflessly gives him these moments of happiness and hope – however fleeting, hope that maybe he isn't the scarred and damaged monster he sees in the mirror. That when she smiles; he can find it within himself to smile too.
He hates himself for being the reason she no longer smiles, that her light is dimming, because of his actions in Russia, maybe even before - he doesn't know.
As he skims his hand over her desk, he knows, he has to fix this, to make it right, to show her exactly how much she means to him, that he can't live without her, to prove to her she is not the consolation prize.