A Night on the Town

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed
Summary: Ollie has PTSD.  Tommy has Eagle Vision.
Word Count: 805
Rating: Teen (really mild offhand mention of sex but I'm covering my bases)
that italian is back again (shockingly this time it's all stuff I know)

          The worst part about the whole PTSD thing, or whatever it is, is that sometimes Ollie’s just…gone.  He’ll be present, engaged, even partially enjoying himself (he’s learning how to do that again, with help), and suddenly he’ll be physically there, but his mind is just elsewhere.  Most of the time it’s fine.  He’s ridiculously good at pretending, even when he’s not fully there.  Sometimes he’ll carry on entire conversations and the like when he’s like that, but he almost never does that when his family, his Brotherhood, are the only ones present.  Sometimes it’s even dangerous to try to break him out of it, but even if he attacks, he never actually hurts any of his family.  He still never trusts himself, while the rest of them always believed.
          Tommy finally manages to get Ollie to agree to go to an opera.  It’s Tommy’s thing, really, always has been—his boyfriend doesn’t care for the plots—too soap opera-ey for him, plus the music isn’t his thing, plus the whole activity was too high-society and thus beneath him…
          Well, they’re going now.  It’s an apology present, for another canceled date.  It’s not like Tommy doesn’t understand.  It’s not like the Arrow was blowing him off to go have sex with prostitutes or anything like that—he was doing important work, Assassin work, trying to fix the world.  But he’s also not going to say no to a present, particularly when Ollie’s guilt if honed could be a sharper weapon than anything he wields.  And the boyfriend’s trying to keep in mind the times when he messes up, boundaries or anything else, so that’s worth encouraging.
          It helps that the one they’re going to see is in Italian, so Ollie can enjoy hearing his ‘native’ language, even if he doesn’t care about anything else, really.
          Tommy doesn’t panic when Oliver’s late, because punctuality has never been his thing, and lets a fond, affectionate smile cross his face as he sees that this isn’t one of the Queen’s best suits, and it looks a little rumpled.  Still, it fits him extremely well, a look that suits him.  Tommy grins, hooks his arm through his sweetheart’s and starts to lead him to their booth.  “I really appreciate this, tesoro,” he states with feeling, and grins wider as Oliver fidgets.  It’s the Italian endearments that always get him, which is why he always uses them at every given opportunity.
          “I’m willing to suffer for you.”  The smile in return is distracting, even if the man is probably actually serious.  A bullet in his leg, no problem, an opera?
          But he’s also learning to relax a little, to let down his walls and let himself actually just enjoy himself, and slowly but surely, the Oliver Queen he knew was returning.  It’s a slow process that oddly enough usually ends up with Oliver falling asleep (apparently feeling safe was a shortcut to sleep these days, which he’ll figure out eventually), but it’s absolutely amazing to see.  He certainly enjoys Mature Oliver, but he also likes the idea that the man he loves doesn’t have to be the Arrow—the Assassin—all the time.
          “Like I said,” Tommy repeats himself, smiling at Oliver, “…I appreciate it.”
          There’s something sweet, pure, about teasing him like this, and they banter all the way to the booth, right up until the show starts.
          Halfway through, he glances over and Ollie’s eyes have become blank once more and he sighs.  Briefly.
          He tries to turn his attention back to the opera, but his head hurts, and suddenly, there’s a flash of red from one of the nearby booths.  “Down, amore,” he hisses and pulls the man down just in time to avoid a bullet burying itself in the wall.
          Oliver comes out of the fog like a man coming out of being suddenly dunked into freezing water.  Confused and slightly disturbed.  “T-Tommy?” he manages.  Then, again, even more concerned, once he takes in Tommy’s clutching at his head.  “Tommy, mi caro, how—?”
          “Red,” Tommy grunts, gritting his teeth.  “All around us.”  The world looks wrong, most color having leeched out of everyone, except for the red glow—and Ollie, a sturdy, comforting green with occasional blue and gold swirls.
          For an instant Oliver still has a confused, concerned expression, before understanding enters eyes tinged an emerald hue.  “You inherited the Sight,” he breathes, wonder and excitement in his expression, and leans in for a quick, eager press of lips.  “We’ll figure this out later; for now, point out the red ones to me.”  He waits for a moment as if he’s reluctant to leave him alone before pulling away with a smile, disappearing into the shadows.  In the end, Tommy ends up using his laser pointer, and it’s like playing with a very deadly cat.