madimpossibledreamer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2020-05-14 09:37 pm
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2020-05-14 09:37 pm
Entry tags:
Ridiculous Plans
Main Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed; First Person used (Desmond POV)
Summary: Desmond gives Tommy advice on how to deal with Ollie.
Word Count: 1,345
Rating: Teen
would you look at that, more Italian
“Tommy?” I ask carefully, wondering whether I should be pouring him a glass or getting ready for Templars invading the club.
“Ollie is….” Tommy spits, “…the most ridiculous figlio di un cane….” He’s seething so much he can’t get the words out, which, well.
If it’s Ollie, it’s most likely a personal problem for the bartender to fix, not an Assassin problem that needs me to be ready for combat.
That’s something I’d liked, it seems like a lifetime ago—
Hang on, that was a lifetime ago. That’s a weird thought. I shake it off. It’s not like this is the time to be dealing with my problems, but Tommy’s. In any case, I’d liked being able to help people. Being a bartender is much like being a psychologist, only I think it’s probably illegal for psychologists to give their patients alcohol, which is definitely a perk. And for the first time in my life, my ability to stay calm under ridiculous pressure was a plus. Not a downside, not something to be fixed.
“What did he do this time?” I hesitate before deciding a Shirley Templar would be just the thing (yeah, okay, maybe I wasn’t as subtle as I liked to think), and it keeps my hands busy.
It’s a good thing that today is a really slow night and there’s nobody actually at the bar, or talking about whatever’s going to be said in the open might have been a bad idea. Not only because he might mention something about Oliver’s nighttime activities, but also because the interest around their relationship has yet to die down. The announcement months ago has resulted in quite a lot of very, very interested members of the public. It’s died down slightly given that they’re not acting like trained animals for the public.
Tommy splutters and mumbles until I pour him his drink, after which he takes a long sip and breathes a little easier. “You really do know what you’re doing, Desmond, thank you,” he tells me, and I smile.
“Happy to help,” I tell him, and he nods. His anger’s cooling, leaving behind what looks like maybe sorrow, in its wake.
“I—okay, this has to do with the time that Ollie was missing, presumed dead.”
I nod encouragingly, but don’t interrupt. Let him tell his story as needed.
“I never believed Oliver was dead.” There’s still an undercurrent of anger to his words. “I mean, I kept thinking, y’know, I’d know. I’d feel that he was dead. Dad kept saying it was just wishful thinking, but he might’ve been trying to get me to stop thinking about it. I’ve got no clue what this Eagle Vision thing does, but even if Ollie was alive, I was fixated on an Assassin, and that’s a big problem for Dad.”
“Hey, don’t look at me, I spent most of my life running away from that stuff,” I respond, and that actually gets him to laugh. Go team.
“So anyway, I got this ping off Oliver’s email account in Hong Kong. People kept trying to tell me it was just a hacker. Ollie was dead, and couldn’t check his email. I didn’t listen. I didn’t even mention it to Dad because I knew he’d find some way of preventing me from taking the plane and I needed, needed to do it.” He pauses and laughs again, only it’s an angry parody of a laugh. “That should’ve been a tipoff that I was massively in love with my best friend, but, on occasion, I can be just as oblivious as he is.”
I shrug a little, and he shakes his head at me, pointing a finger theatrically. “You’re supposed to disagree with that one.”
“You said it, not me,” I point out, and the tension is definitely easing out of his shoulders.
“Well, I get there, I get kidnapped. Drugged, knocked out, taken somewhere. I think I’m going to die. I panic. I beg for my life. I start to threaten him. I think Dad would be proud. I sounded pretty much like a Templar, there at the end.”
His hand shakes as he takes another sip.
“There’s talk of a ransom. I’m told Ollie’s dead. The police show up last minute and save my ass, and I’m a blubbering mess. I’m not going to die—though part of me wanted to, when the hacker told me Oliver was dead. I’m trying hard to live my life without my best friend, but it’s damn hard. Sometimes even getting up in the morning’s a chore.” His hand starts shaking so badly that he has to set down the drink suddenly or he’s going to spill. I reach over and put my hand on top of his, just something small to comfort. I don’t comment on the tears in his eyes or the fact that he looks like his world is falling apart, just remembering it.
And a part of me feels guilty, because I’m leaving my friends and family with the same agony. They think I’m dead. I’m letting them think I’m dead. What, for their safety? Because I can’t handle it?
…I have to fix that soon.
“You’ve known all that for years. Something changed,” I point out, borrowing a little of the blunt, straightforward nature of Altaïr, because it’s needed, now.
“Oliver was the one who kidnapped me,” Tommy spits, hands clenching. “He let me believe—let me think—”
Honestly, I’d half-expected that, given how I’d started to think about my own situation. It’s an Assassin thing—not that the ends justified the means, but that some ends were worth preventing, and sometimes there was only so much you could do.
“Would he have done that if there was another choice?” I ask, as neutrally as I can, because I’m trying to get him to think about it.
Tommy groans. “I mean, it’s Oliver. Sometimes he doesn’t think about alternatives.” He drinks more, looks at me with sad, teary eyes. “He was trying to keep me alive, I know that now. I’m not mad about that—well, I am a little, but I’m more upset that he didn’t tell me before. He’s told me so much; you think he would’ve mentioned it at some point. Around maybe, you know, your father is a Templar and probably had mine killed, or there are these magic artifacts that people have been fighting over for centuries.”
“It was a dumb plan to save you from his pursuers, wasn’t it?” I ask flatly, because I’ve met Assassins; I’ve lived most of my life in one of their compounds and dealt with Rebecca and Shaun, and they might be subtle and mean well, but Assassins can also be entirely dumb.
“Pazzo bastardo,” is his only response, but this time he seems amused, fond.
“He talks to you as much as he can. It’s just not easy for him. It’s honestly probably a good sign that he’s gotten relaxed enough that he’s brought it up after all this time—because what you think of him matters to him. A lot.”
Tommy sighs and rests his head on the bar. “I know. I know.” He glances back up at me. “I’m not mad, I’m upset, although I’m not sure Oliver understands the difference.”
“You should probably explain that to him,” I suggest, and he smiles at me.
“It’s going to be a difficult conversation, but we’ve kind of sidestepped most of those.” He stands. “Thank you for everything tonight.”
“You’re welcome.” He’s given me things to think about on his end, too, not least of which are what I’m going to do about the Brotherhood and what in the world happened to Oliver Queen.
Arrow/Assassin's Creed; First Person used (Desmond POV)
Summary: Desmond gives Tommy advice on how to deal with Ollie.
Word Count: 1,345
Rating: Teen
would you look at that, more Italian
A few days later, Tommy storms into the Verdant. Which is extremely odd, because Tommy doesn’t storm anywhere. Oddly, for the son of a Templar, he’s very calm and tends to have a sense of humor about absolutely everything. I’ve never actually seen him lose his temper about anything, and the fact that he has definitely makes me uneasy.
“Tommy?” I ask carefully, wondering whether I should be pouring him a glass or getting ready for Templars invading the club.
“Ollie is….” Tommy spits, “…the most ridiculous figlio di un cane….” He’s seething so much he can’t get the words out, which, well.
If it’s Ollie, it’s most likely a personal problem for the bartender to fix, not an Assassin problem that needs me to be ready for combat.
That’s something I’d liked, it seems like a lifetime ago—
Hang on, that was a lifetime ago. That’s a weird thought. I shake it off. It’s not like this is the time to be dealing with my problems, but Tommy’s. In any case, I’d liked being able to help people. Being a bartender is much like being a psychologist, only I think it’s probably illegal for psychologists to give their patients alcohol, which is definitely a perk. And for the first time in my life, my ability to stay calm under ridiculous pressure was a plus. Not a downside, not something to be fixed.
“What did he do this time?” I hesitate before deciding a Shirley Templar would be just the thing (yeah, okay, maybe I wasn’t as subtle as I liked to think), and it keeps my hands busy.
It’s a good thing that today is a really slow night and there’s nobody actually at the bar, or talking about whatever’s going to be said in the open might have been a bad idea. Not only because he might mention something about Oliver’s nighttime activities, but also because the interest around their relationship has yet to die down. The announcement months ago has resulted in quite a lot of very, very interested members of the public. It’s died down slightly given that they’re not acting like trained animals for the public.
Tommy splutters and mumbles until I pour him his drink, after which he takes a long sip and breathes a little easier. “You really do know what you’re doing, Desmond, thank you,” he tells me, and I smile.
“Happy to help,” I tell him, and he nods. His anger’s cooling, leaving behind what looks like maybe sorrow, in its wake.
“I—okay, this has to do with the time that Ollie was missing, presumed dead.”
I nod encouragingly, but don’t interrupt. Let him tell his story as needed.
“I never believed Oliver was dead.” There’s still an undercurrent of anger to his words. “I mean, I kept thinking, y’know, I’d know. I’d feel that he was dead. Dad kept saying it was just wishful thinking, but he might’ve been trying to get me to stop thinking about it. I’ve got no clue what this Eagle Vision thing does, but even if Ollie was alive, I was fixated on an Assassin, and that’s a big problem for Dad.”
“Hey, don’t look at me, I spent most of my life running away from that stuff,” I respond, and that actually gets him to laugh. Go team.
“So anyway, I got this ping off Oliver’s email account in Hong Kong. People kept trying to tell me it was just a hacker. Ollie was dead, and couldn’t check his email. I didn’t listen. I didn’t even mention it to Dad because I knew he’d find some way of preventing me from taking the plane and I needed, needed to do it.” He pauses and laughs again, only it’s an angry parody of a laugh. “That should’ve been a tipoff that I was massively in love with my best friend, but, on occasion, I can be just as oblivious as he is.”
I shrug a little, and he shakes his head at me, pointing a finger theatrically. “You’re supposed to disagree with that one.”
“You said it, not me,” I point out, and the tension is definitely easing out of his shoulders.
“Well, I get there, I get kidnapped. Drugged, knocked out, taken somewhere. I think I’m going to die. I panic. I beg for my life. I start to threaten him. I think Dad would be proud. I sounded pretty much like a Templar, there at the end.”
His hand shakes as he takes another sip.
“There’s talk of a ransom. I’m told Ollie’s dead. The police show up last minute and save my ass, and I’m a blubbering mess. I’m not going to die—though part of me wanted to, when the hacker told me Oliver was dead. I’m trying hard to live my life without my best friend, but it’s damn hard. Sometimes even getting up in the morning’s a chore.” His hand starts shaking so badly that he has to set down the drink suddenly or he’s going to spill. I reach over and put my hand on top of his, just something small to comfort. I don’t comment on the tears in his eyes or the fact that he looks like his world is falling apart, just remembering it.
And a part of me feels guilty, because I’m leaving my friends and family with the same agony. They think I’m dead. I’m letting them think I’m dead. What, for their safety? Because I can’t handle it?
…I have to fix that soon.
“You’ve known all that for years. Something changed,” I point out, borrowing a little of the blunt, straightforward nature of Altaïr, because it’s needed, now.
“Oliver was the one who kidnapped me,” Tommy spits, hands clenching. “He let me believe—let me think—”
Honestly, I’d half-expected that, given how I’d started to think about my own situation. It’s an Assassin thing—not that the ends justified the means, but that some ends were worth preventing, and sometimes there was only so much you could do.
“Would he have done that if there was another choice?” I ask, as neutrally as I can, because I’m trying to get him to think about it.
Tommy groans. “I mean, it’s Oliver. Sometimes he doesn’t think about alternatives.” He drinks more, looks at me with sad, teary eyes. “He was trying to keep me alive, I know that now. I’m not mad about that—well, I am a little, but I’m more upset that he didn’t tell me before. He’s told me so much; you think he would’ve mentioned it at some point. Around maybe, you know, your father is a Templar and probably had mine killed, or there are these magic artifacts that people have been fighting over for centuries.”
“It was a dumb plan to save you from his pursuers, wasn’t it?” I ask flatly, because I’ve met Assassins; I’ve lived most of my life in one of their compounds and dealt with Rebecca and Shaun, and they might be subtle and mean well, but Assassins can also be entirely dumb.
“Pazzo bastardo,” is his only response, but this time he seems amused, fond.
“He talks to you as much as he can. It’s just not easy for him. It’s honestly probably a good sign that he’s gotten relaxed enough that he’s brought it up after all this time—because what you think of him matters to him. A lot.”
Tommy sighs and rests his head on the bar. “I know. I know.” He glances back up at me. “I’m not mad, I’m upset, although I’m not sure Oliver understands the difference.”
“You should probably explain that to him,” I suggest, and he smiles at me.
“It’s going to be a difficult conversation, but we’ve kind of sidestepped most of those.” He stands. “Thank you for everything tonight.”
“You’re welcome.” He’s given me things to think about on his end, too, not least of which are what I’m going to do about the Brotherhood and what in the world happened to Oliver Queen.