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madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed
Summary: Secrets are revealed.
Word Count: 935
Rating: Teen
warning: slight google translate, slight my own knowledge again.
Ollie promptly falls asleep, and doesn’t look like he’s sleeping particularly well, twitching in the back seat and muttering stuff in another language—yeah, that’s probably Italian too, only there’s another language in there, somewhere.
“Can you explain what’s going on here?” she asks as loudly as she dares.
“It’s up to him to explain,” he responds, jerking his head in the direction of the backseat, and she glances back, frustrated, before a thought occurs to her.
“You’re throwing him under the bus, aren’t you?”
“He has to learn to talk about feelings sometime,” John shrugs, but unless she’s mistaken there’s a slight grin on his face.
When they get there, it only takes a quiet “Oliver,” from his bodyguard to wake Ollie, and it’s like he’s wearing a mask again. When he’s greeting the few patrons that are still there, thanking them for welcoming him back, he’s fine, but in between, when it’s no one but his bodyguard and her watching, he’s quiet, almost silent, twitchy and carefully, carefully not looking at anyone. It’s not until they get to the entrance to the supposedly flooded basement and puts in the password that she allows herself to speak, to break this creepy silence. “Why are we going into a flooded basement?”
“I lied about a lot of things,” is his answer, and it’d be glib if not for the matter-of-fact, flat way he says it, and the way his eyes can’t quite meet hers—
Ohhhh, ohkaaay, Ollie’s really, really nervous about this. For whatever reason. Also, what the hell could he be hiding down there?
“What’s going on?” she asks, as they walk down into the dark, but he doesn’t answer. He walks over to a switch she can barely see from the light from the stairs like he’s walked this path a million times, could do it blindfold, and flips it just as the door above them closes. John, probably.
And then she sees…computers. Gadgets. Metal poles and a network of pipes and swords and two metal bracers on one of the tables and…
“I kept telling myself that as long as you didn’t know anything, you’d be safe, because you weren’t involved. I was an idiota, too, not like you need me to tell you that. Mi dispiace—”
She’s not even listening. She’s just walking forward, feeling like she’s on autopilot, ignoring the fact that her brother’s speaking random Italian because that outfit she sees…
Green leather, that weird pointed flap on the hood, next to an unstrung bow and a quiver…
“Y-you’re him,” she manages, and she didn’t even mean to speak. It’s just happening.
“Si,” he answers, voice wavering, and—okay, yeah, fair, this is a perfectly reasonable thing to be deathly terrified about her reaction.
“You went after Mom.” That’s just a fact of life now, but yeah, that’s also a perfectly good reason why Oliver would be really, really weird now.
“Sì, e lei mi ha sparato,” he answers, and she turns to look at him, because answering in not-English because he was freaking out and couldn’t handle it? That’s just cowardly—
Except, no. He looks absolutely terrified. And frustrated. And—“inglese,” he growls, and that fits eyewitness reports, too, the growl thing, and suddenly he clutches his head.
“O-Ollie?” she manages, stepping closer, and he bites his lip and stumbles back into a column.
“Oliver?” That’s the bodyguard.
“Forse dovrei sedermi,” he manages to gasp, looking frustrated and repeating himself again before breathily stating, “Maybe I should sit down.”
“That’s one of your few good ideas,” John agrees, slinging one of Oliver’s arms over his shoulders and helping him over to one of the chairs. Thea darts in to help, even if it turns out it’s pretty freaking hard because her big brother weighs a truckload by this point.
“What’s wrong with you?” Thea demands, and that earns a breathy laugh that turns into gasps for air.
“You mean, besides the obvious?” he asks, waving a hand around weakly when his breathing finally stabilizes a little.
She glares at him until he holds his hands up in surrender. “Aftereffects of the kidnapping,” he explains shortly, which tells her nothing.
“What, they were Italians?” which gets him to laugh again, only this time it sounds like it hurts.
And then John’s angry and moving. “You didn’t mention you were hurt, Oliver.” He pulls off the shirt, ignoring the scars—There’s more of them competes with the He’s a vigilante, of course he’s gotten more scars—to find a slash on his side that’s encrusted with blood.
“I escaped,” Ollie whines, like that explained everything and wounds should’ve been expected, then keens when John gets a cloth wet with ethanol and presses it to his side. It’s a sound she could’ve done without hearing for the rest of her life.
“There’s—” he continues, voice breathless with pain, “…there’s Dad’s journal over there; it summarizes meglio di me ever could,” he manages.
She glances over and sees an open, weatherbeaten journal with a painfully familiar handwriting, and thinks, yeah, of course, Dad, why not you too? and walks over to pick it up and goes over to the couch, settling in to read to the sound of…
Well, now Ollie's mostly stopped making any pained sounds, and the general silence aside from John cleaning the wound is honestly even creepier.
Arrow/Assassin's Creed
Summary: Secrets are revealed.
Word Count: 935
Rating: Teen
warning: slight google translate, slight my own knowledge again.
It turns out it’s pretty easy for them to get to the car. His bodyguard’s driving and doesn’t even look surprised. The police do, but by the time they get to their car Queens plus bodyguard are long gone.
Ollie promptly falls asleep, and doesn’t look like he’s sleeping particularly well, twitching in the back seat and muttering stuff in another language—yeah, that’s probably Italian too, only there’s another language in there, somewhere.
“Can you explain what’s going on here?” she asks as loudly as she dares.
“It’s up to him to explain,” he responds, jerking his head in the direction of the backseat, and she glances back, frustrated, before a thought occurs to her.
“You’re throwing him under the bus, aren’t you?”
“He has to learn to talk about feelings sometime,” John shrugs, but unless she’s mistaken there’s a slight grin on his face.
When they get there, it only takes a quiet “Oliver,” from his bodyguard to wake Ollie, and it’s like he’s wearing a mask again. When he’s greeting the few patrons that are still there, thanking them for welcoming him back, he’s fine, but in between, when it’s no one but his bodyguard and her watching, he’s quiet, almost silent, twitchy and carefully, carefully not looking at anyone. It’s not until they get to the entrance to the supposedly flooded basement and puts in the password that she allows herself to speak, to break this creepy silence. “Why are we going into a flooded basement?”
“I lied about a lot of things,” is his answer, and it’d be glib if not for the matter-of-fact, flat way he says it, and the way his eyes can’t quite meet hers—
Ohhhh, ohkaaay, Ollie’s really, really nervous about this. For whatever reason. Also, what the hell could he be hiding down there?
“What’s going on?” she asks, as they walk down into the dark, but he doesn’t answer. He walks over to a switch she can barely see from the light from the stairs like he’s walked this path a million times, could do it blindfold, and flips it just as the door above them closes. John, probably.
And then she sees…computers. Gadgets. Metal poles and a network of pipes and swords and two metal bracers on one of the tables and…
“I kept telling myself that as long as you didn’t know anything, you’d be safe, because you weren’t involved. I was an idiota, too, not like you need me to tell you that. Mi dispiace—”
She’s not even listening. She’s just walking forward, feeling like she’s on autopilot, ignoring the fact that her brother’s speaking random Italian because that outfit she sees…
Green leather, that weird pointed flap on the hood, next to an unstrung bow and a quiver…
“Y-you’re him,” she manages, and she didn’t even mean to speak. It’s just happening.
“Si,” he answers, voice wavering, and—okay, yeah, fair, this is a perfectly reasonable thing to be deathly terrified about her reaction.
“You went after Mom.” That’s just a fact of life now, but yeah, that’s also a perfectly good reason why Oliver would be really, really weird now.
“Sì, e lei mi ha sparato,” he answers, and she turns to look at him, because answering in not-English because he was freaking out and couldn’t handle it? That’s just cowardly—
Except, no. He looks absolutely terrified. And frustrated. And—“inglese,” he growls, and that fits eyewitness reports, too, the growl thing, and suddenly he clutches his head.
“O-Ollie?” she manages, stepping closer, and he bites his lip and stumbles back into a column.
“Oliver?” That’s the bodyguard.
“Forse dovrei sedermi,” he manages to gasp, looking frustrated and repeating himself again before breathily stating, “Maybe I should sit down.”
“That’s one of your few good ideas,” John agrees, slinging one of Oliver’s arms over his shoulders and helping him over to one of the chairs. Thea darts in to help, even if it turns out it’s pretty freaking hard because her big brother weighs a truckload by this point.
“What’s wrong with you?” Thea demands, and that earns a breathy laugh that turns into gasps for air.
“You mean, besides the obvious?” he asks, waving a hand around weakly when his breathing finally stabilizes a little.
She glares at him until he holds his hands up in surrender. “Aftereffects of the kidnapping,” he explains shortly, which tells her nothing.
“What, they were Italians?” which gets him to laugh again, only this time it sounds like it hurts.
And then John’s angry and moving. “You didn’t mention you were hurt, Oliver.” He pulls off the shirt, ignoring the scars—There’s more of them competes with the He’s a vigilante, of course he’s gotten more scars—to find a slash on his side that’s encrusted with blood.
“I escaped,” Ollie whines, like that explained everything and wounds should’ve been expected, then keens when John gets a cloth wet with ethanol and presses it to his side. It’s a sound she could’ve done without hearing for the rest of her life.
“There’s—” he continues, voice breathless with pain, “…there’s Dad’s journal over there; it summarizes meglio di me ever could,” he manages.
She glances over and sees an open, weatherbeaten journal with a painfully familiar handwriting, and thinks, yeah, of course, Dad, why not you too? and walks over to pick it up and goes over to the couch, settling in to read to the sound of…
Well, now Ollie's mostly stopped making any pained sounds, and the general silence aside from John cleaning the wound is honestly even creepier.
