Brooding on the Windowsill

[madimpossibledreamer]

I think legit every relationship series with ollie has at least one fic of trying to convince him to sleep like a normal person.
~dreamer~

Main Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed
Summary: Secrets are revealed.
Word Count: 1235
Rating: Teen
slight abuse of google translate and my own knowledge again.  (You might want to get used to the Italian in this series; it's kinda not going away.)

            Tommy wakes up slowly, happily, tucked in a cocoon of warmth.  Eventually, he stretches with a yawn and opens his eyes to—
            There’s something in front of the curtains, blocking the morning’s sunlight, and stumbles upwards half-tangled in his blankets ready to deal with whatever this is, heart pounding.  He’s half convinced it’s Malcolm, come to kill him for consorting with Oliver, a male assassin, for all of two seconds before he makes out that it’s…
            It’s Oliver.
            Perched on his windowsill like he’s some great bird of prey.
            “What the hell are you doing?” he spits, more scared and lost in adrenaline than actually mad.  He’s half in the mind to make some sort of ‘pervert’ comment before he realizes that no, the Queen doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it, or is aroused, or anything.  If nothing else, he looks…scared too?  And a little guilty.
            “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits abruptly, shoulders slumped.  Like it’s this great secret, the end of the world.
            “What?” Tommy asks, because he’s still half asleep and somehow none of this is computing.
            “I couldn’t sleep,” Ollie repeats, voice a gravelly whisper.  His hands are twitchy by his sides.
            “I haven’t given you a key yet,” Tommy responds, still not fully awake or aware.
            “I…I’m sorry.”  Now that he looks properly, Ollie’s hands are shaking.  “You didn’t lock your window.  I just…”  He doesn’t finish his sentence, just looks troubled.
            Tommy steps forward, ignoring the blankets still wrapped around him, to take a better look at his boyfriend.  “What’s wrong?”
            “Nothing’s wrong,” the vigilante looks away, unable to meet his gaze.  Even for an Assassin, he still hasn’t gotten better at lying.
            “Ollie, I know you.  And the last time we had a huge argument it was because you weren’t talking to me.  Talk to me.  We’re dating now, and you’re my best friend, so talk to me.”  He moves even closer, hugs Oliver to him, and the man’s still stiff and crouched and awkwardly on his windowsill.
            “I don’t—” Oliver swallows, and yes, he’s shaking.  He’s shaking and cold and it’s not unlikely he’s opened the stitching in his side if he thought the best way in was to clamber up the side of Merlyn’s building to get in his apartment the unconventional way.
            “Will you let me look at your stitches?” Tommy asks, stepping backward to give the man some room, trying to be reasonable, because if he’s calm and gentle that will help.  Probably.
            Blue-grey eyes glance back at him with a small, sheepish smile.  “I didn’t tear anything.  I was trying non ti preoccupare, but you can look, just to be sure.”  He stands up easily, balancing on the windowsill like it’s nothing, and steps down, landing like it’s nothing.
            “I-it’s not that I don’t trust you,” Merlyn responds, feeling more than a little embarrassed, because it’s not.  He trusts Oliver, with his life.  He just doesn’t trust the man to care as much about his own safety.
            There’s a vulnerable, trusting look in his best friend’s face.  “No.  It’s that I trust you.”
            “I…okay.”  Tommy swallows back the emotion.  “Take your shirt off.”
            Old Oliver would smirk and take that as an excuse to show off.  Turn it into a private striptease, all for Tommy.  New Ollie swallows, looking vaguely ill, and steps out of reach, as if his boyfriend is just going to reach out and start pulling off Ollie’s shirt.
            “If I’m going to check the wound, I can’t exactly see it through your shirt.  I’m not Superman.”  Merlyn pauses for a second before adding, “…though actually, a suit would be cool.  It makes everyone look at least ten degrees hotter on the attractiveness scale than they actually are.”
            If anything, that just makes Oliver even more tense.  “Wait, Superman’s not a Templar, is he?”
            “Pretty sure he doesn’t know anything about our war, though I’ve never met him to ask.  There’s theories that he was just made up by the Metropolis newspapers,” the Assassin answers automatically, but he’s still half stuck in panic mode and Tommy’s not entirely sure how to fix it.
            “What’s wrong, honey?” he asks softly, waffling for a few moments before deciding it doesn’t matter, he needs to be touching his best friend now and steps forward, very slowly, to place one comforting hand on the man’s shoulder.  There’s a shiver and he’s breathing hard, but eventually, wordlessly, Ollie reaches down, moving slowly (so, shockingly, he is being careful), and pulls the shirt over his head, gently pushing Tommy’s hand out of the way…
            Tommy has to stifle a gasp, but Oliver still hears it and looks hurt, his shoulders hunching over like he’s somehow trying to make himself disappear.  He sees himself as a monster, despite our conversation earlier, Merlyn realizes, his heart aching at that and at all the pain Oliver must’ve gone through, but if he doesn’t act quickly Oliver’s just going to pull away.  Again.  And it fits the research on PTSD he’d done, which is terrifying but not altogether unexpected.
            So instead he moves forward, letting himself reach out and touch, gently, ever so gently, because he’d been asked to go slow, because Oliver Queen deserves it, always, every bit of it.  Deserves to be loved, deserves to be cherished.  He traces one scar and another wonderingly, not letting himself have the breakdown about how much it must’ve hurt yet, because his best friend is alive and he’s here.  “You know the Australians think scars are super sexy?” he asks.
            It’s random, but it’ll get Oliver thinking, hopefully.
            “I…what?”  Oliver’s frowning now, which is not the look he’d wanted from the man.
            “Sexy.”  He turns his head a little, lets himself smile, because that’s interesting.  “You know, they might have a point.  I like the way they move with your muscles.”
            “What,” the man asks flatly, and he takes that as a sign to move on.
            “At some point, I’ll have to explore that more,” he wiggles his eyebrows and continues, moving his gaze to the stitching over the wound, “…but for now let’s make sure you’re still in one piece.”
            Ollie swallows but he holds himself in place.  It’s an effort, judging by the looks of it, but he doesn’t back away.
            True to his word, the stitches are fine.  How he’d managed that when climbing up a building—
            “The only hard part was trying to get to the fire escape,” Oliver admits, and—oh, yeah.  That would do it.  But also—
            “Reading my mind is kinda creepy when you don’t actually have mind-reading.”  That’s a small smile, which on one hand is nice to see, but on the other hand, “…You don’t, do you?”
            “No, I don’t.”  He’s settling under Tommy’s hands, kind of like a skittish horse.
            “Well, it’s kind of creepy to wake up to you just acting like a statue in the corner of my room, and I’m still tired, so come join me?” he suggests, walking back to his bed, and Oliver hesitates before padding over silently.  It’s a little awkward as he curls up under the covers and for a few moments he’s alone, until the bed dips and a body carefully drapes itself around him protectively.  It’s right before he falls asleep that he feels the extra warmth move away, and he’d be upset, but he doesn’t have long to think about it.