Nothing is True
Jul. 2nd, 2020 07:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamer(whispers: [is that desmond the bartender making a small cameo? why yes, i think it just might be])
Main Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed; this is separate from the other Arrow/Assassin's Creed 'verse
Summary: Tommy meets Ollie again, only now he knows his secret.
Word Count: 1784
Rating: Teen
He expects…he doesn’t know. Anger. Something. Not Oliver sitting casually at a table, smiling his crowd-pleasing smile.
“You know, if you’re going to keep getting in motorcycle accidents, maybe you should stop using the thing?” the bartender, which Tommy doesn’t recognize, suggests from across the room.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Oliver responds with a grin.
“You didn’t get in a fight with a truck this time, did you?” Tommy asks, concealing all but the slightest hint of steel from his tone.
“It hit like one.” Ollie’s smile turns wry. “But no. Not a truck this time.” He stands a little slowly, and pride and guilt war in Tommy’s heart. “Time to use the office for one of those one-on-one meetings you talked about.”
Which—wait. Is Oliver flirting? It’s not the first time he’s wondered about it, but.
“Lead the way,” he insists, gesturing in the direction of the offices with one hand. He can think about that later.
“Right this way.” The way Oliver’s moving, he’s used to pain, but then, as far as anyone knows, he’s just got a few bruises. He’d willingly turned his back on a Templar, so he does still trust Tommy. Rather than heading to the main office, he heads toward the basement office. The flooded one. He puts the code in, the one that Tommy suddenly realizes he doesn’t know. It’s when they get downstairs that Tommy realizes this is Oliver’s lair. Arrows, computers, guns. …Bloodied bandages.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve had worse,” a voice interrupts his guilty musings.
“You realize that doesn’t actually make me feel any better, right?” Assassin or not, this is still his best friend. His best friend that not too long ago he’d stabbed. Which—
“Oh, yeah. Here.” Oliver picks up a sword—Tommy’s sword—and holds it out, hilt first. “It’s a nice sword. Good balance.”
Tommy can’t help but blink, bemused, at that. “You…you tried it out.” It’s slightly concerning, not least because Oliver never knew how to take it easy, even before.
He actually get a chuckle at that. “I may have a few unusual hobbies now.”
Tommy frowns. “Ollie, somehow I don’t think I can sneak a sword out under this suit.”
Oliver glances over the suit, from head to toe. Yes, that probably had been flirting. He can wait to try to lose his mind about that until after his brain actually comprehends Oliver as an Assassin. “I’ll leave it somewhere you can find it.”
“What happened to you on the island?” he whispers. This is the same exact conversation they’ve had before, but he might actually get an answer this time.
“A lot. Not all of which were on the island.” His best friend bites his lip, settles in a chair. “But maybe it’s better if you see for yourself.” He unbuttons his shirt, wincing as the motion pulls at his arm and side, and Tommy can’t help but wince—there are probably more under the bandages, given how he can see scars lacing every bit of skin and leading to the bandages—here a bullet, there a sword—
He’s moving forward, hand tracing the scars before he realizes what he’s doing.
And Oliver’s just watching impassively—no, not quite. There’s an emotion in his blue eyes, only it’s one Tommy can’t quite read.
“At my resurrection, I lied,” Oliver begins, eyes far away. “Dad didn’t go down with the yacht. He and one other person—I never even knew the man’s name—made it to a life raft. Dad was acting strange. I didn’t entirely understand, not then. I’ll never forget the words he said, though. They meant nothing to me then, but they mean everything to me now. He apologized, thought he’d have more time. ‘I’m not the man you think I am. I didn’t build our city. I failed it. And I wasn’t the only one.’ He insisted I drink extra water. It took me weeks to realize that was his rations, and the other man’s. I’m not sure how long we were out there. It’s all a blur. And then he was talking to me again, and I didn’t know why. ‘You can survive this. Make it home, make it better. Right my wrongs.’” Oliver licks his lips, his eyes moist. He rarely shows emotion these days, but now—now he’s upset. “He kisses my head, but I stop paying attention until I hear the sound of a gunshot.” He flinches, like he’s there again, and Tommy reaches out to take Oliver’s hand. It’s like he doesn’t even notice, just staring into space until he begins speaking again, no emotion in his words despite the pain still etched clearly on his face. “I freak out. The other man’s body falls in the water, and I’m scared—dad’s gone insane, or—and then he puts the gun to his own head, and I scream. I can’t do this alone, I need—and then he’s gone.”
It takes a few heavy breaths before Oliver’s ready to begin again, but Tommy can’t stand it. He hugs Oliver close, tries his best he can to comfort. His best friend says nothing. Doesn’t sob or whimper. But the way he’s clutching at Tommy’s back suggests he needs this.
When Oliver starts again, it’s into Tommy’s shoulder. “He left behind a diary. It took me a while to discover that Dad had used a fire-based invisible ink to write in it, and by then, I’d already used some of the pages.” He backs away, reaches behind Tommy to pull out a weatherbeaten brown journal. “If you wanted to know how I could become an Assassin, it’s in there.”
Tommy opens the pages to find a very different account of the battle between the Templars and the Assassins than he’s always heard. On the very first page is the same words Oliver had just uttered: ‘I have failed this city’. Robert Queen plainly states that he’s an Assassin, that he’d retired and turned a blind eye because he was sick of the death and wanted a family, that he’d turned a blind eye to Tempest’s presence in the city because it wasn’t a known Abstergo company and because he simply hadn’t bothered to look. Not until Moira Queen begged him to stop something called the Undertaking, and he’d put on the hood once more and looked, and found bribery, blackmail, and murder. Not until he realized he’d been losing a war simply without fighting. ‘I’d hoped to keep you out of it, Oliver, but I realize that one day you will have to wear the hood as well. My new hope is that this does not break your friendship with Thomas, that you can one day wear the hood and fight for our city alongside family and friends, that this crusade is not a solo one.’ Beneath, scrawled in Robert’s handwriting, shaky and nearly unreadable, ‘I’m sorry.’ On the next pages are lists of names, names that Tommy recognizes, many of which are people he’s on a first-name basis with.
Oliver continues to explain, enunciating every word. “My father was getting ready to act. He would have been a threat, so the Templars had him killed—”
“The Assassins had you killed!” Tommy yells, temper flaring, and while Oliver doesn’t physically flinch or step away, a gasp of air sounds deafening. “Your father was working with the Templars, so the Assassins had him killed.”
“It doesn’t matter.” That’s almost the Hood’s growl, and Tommy definitely flinches at that.
“It doesn’t matter?” Merlyn screams, and Oliver shrugs.
“I don’t believe it, but even if it was…I’m completing my father’s work. His last request. I will stop the Undertaking. I will save the city.” Oliver takes a deep breath, unclenches his fists. “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell your father?”
Tommy wasn’t. Because Malcolm Merlyn would slip into the Queen Mansion while they were all sleeping, slit Oliver’s throat, and say hi to Moira before slipping back out. He can’t let his friend die again, but at the same time…at the same time, he can’t let an Assassin…
“I appreciate it,” his friend tells him, and it’s not like the old Oliver he’d known. He hadn’t counted on it—hoped, maybe, but there’s no sense that he’d been played. The chilling thought that Ollie had invited him down here, knowing there was every chance it would spell his doom, when he’d refused to fight…
“I’ll do what I can to keep them off your back, and I really wish you’d lay low, but…” He takes a shaky breath, looks at his friend, really looks at him. “Let’s be honest, after going out of your way every single time to antagonize Detective Lance, that’s not going to happen, is it?”
That earns a smile. A real smile. “Some things don’t change.” He pulls Tommy into another hug. “I probably have PTSD, according to things Digg has said—not that he’s said it straight out, which I appreciate. I don’t know what to do with normal life.” It’s abrupt, but it’s maybe an explanation. A request for forgiveness? Maybe Tommy should drop some hints along those lines to Thea—it’s not like Oliver had wanted anyone looking too closely, but if Thea gets an explanation she’s less likely to push too far, get involved in the their war. He backs away, and for the first time in a long while Ollie actually looks settled. “I’ll look into what you’ve said, too. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.”
“You’re really—” Oliver was stubborn. Getting him to change his mind, or even consider a different point of view, was an accomplishment.
Oliver grins. “Nothing is true.” An Assassin saying, but he hadn’t realized any of them actually believed any word that came out of their mouth.
“Could you maybe try not to kill anyone else?” Tommy knows it might be pushing his luck, but it’s worth a try. “I know being a killer is kind of the Assassin’s m.o., but…”
“I’ve been trying not to—I suppose you haven’t noticed, but that’s a little harder when you’re a Templar panicking about an Assassin being in the city.” Before Tommy can say anything, Oliver adds, “…no, not from the beginning—I really had been in a war zone. Kill or be killed. Instinct is hard to ignore.”
“I’m glad you survived, even if it sucks how you had to do it,” Tommy states, barely managing a smile, and he claps Oliver on the back. “So, to get out of your lair…”
“Back the way you came.” Oliver nods. “You’ve given me some things to look into.”
Main Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed; this is separate from the other Arrow/Assassin's Creed 'verse
Summary: Tommy meets Ollie again, only now he knows his secret.
Word Count: 1784
Rating: Teen
He expects…he doesn’t know. Anger. Something. Not Oliver sitting casually at a table, smiling his crowd-pleasing smile.
“You know, if you’re going to keep getting in motorcycle accidents, maybe you should stop using the thing?” the bartender, which Tommy doesn’t recognize, suggests from across the room.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Oliver responds with a grin.
“You didn’t get in a fight with a truck this time, did you?” Tommy asks, concealing all but the slightest hint of steel from his tone.
“It hit like one.” Ollie’s smile turns wry. “But no. Not a truck this time.” He stands a little slowly, and pride and guilt war in Tommy’s heart. “Time to use the office for one of those one-on-one meetings you talked about.”
Which—wait. Is Oliver flirting? It’s not the first time he’s wondered about it, but.
“Lead the way,” he insists, gesturing in the direction of the offices with one hand. He can think about that later.
“Right this way.” The way Oliver’s moving, he’s used to pain, but then, as far as anyone knows, he’s just got a few bruises. He’d willingly turned his back on a Templar, so he does still trust Tommy. Rather than heading to the main office, he heads toward the basement office. The flooded one. He puts the code in, the one that Tommy suddenly realizes he doesn’t know. It’s when they get downstairs that Tommy realizes this is Oliver’s lair. Arrows, computers, guns. …Bloodied bandages.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve had worse,” a voice interrupts his guilty musings.
“You realize that doesn’t actually make me feel any better, right?” Assassin or not, this is still his best friend. His best friend that not too long ago he’d stabbed. Which—
“Oh, yeah. Here.” Oliver picks up a sword—Tommy’s sword—and holds it out, hilt first. “It’s a nice sword. Good balance.”
Tommy can’t help but blink, bemused, at that. “You…you tried it out.” It’s slightly concerning, not least because Oliver never knew how to take it easy, even before.
He actually get a chuckle at that. “I may have a few unusual hobbies now.”
Tommy frowns. “Ollie, somehow I don’t think I can sneak a sword out under this suit.”
Oliver glances over the suit, from head to toe. Yes, that probably had been flirting. He can wait to try to lose his mind about that until after his brain actually comprehends Oliver as an Assassin. “I’ll leave it somewhere you can find it.”
“What happened to you on the island?” he whispers. This is the same exact conversation they’ve had before, but he might actually get an answer this time.
“A lot. Not all of which were on the island.” His best friend bites his lip, settles in a chair. “But maybe it’s better if you see for yourself.” He unbuttons his shirt, wincing as the motion pulls at his arm and side, and Tommy can’t help but wince—there are probably more under the bandages, given how he can see scars lacing every bit of skin and leading to the bandages—here a bullet, there a sword—
He’s moving forward, hand tracing the scars before he realizes what he’s doing.
And Oliver’s just watching impassively—no, not quite. There’s an emotion in his blue eyes, only it’s one Tommy can’t quite read.
“At my resurrection, I lied,” Oliver begins, eyes far away. “Dad didn’t go down with the yacht. He and one other person—I never even knew the man’s name—made it to a life raft. Dad was acting strange. I didn’t entirely understand, not then. I’ll never forget the words he said, though. They meant nothing to me then, but they mean everything to me now. He apologized, thought he’d have more time. ‘I’m not the man you think I am. I didn’t build our city. I failed it. And I wasn’t the only one.’ He insisted I drink extra water. It took me weeks to realize that was his rations, and the other man’s. I’m not sure how long we were out there. It’s all a blur. And then he was talking to me again, and I didn’t know why. ‘You can survive this. Make it home, make it better. Right my wrongs.’” Oliver licks his lips, his eyes moist. He rarely shows emotion these days, but now—now he’s upset. “He kisses my head, but I stop paying attention until I hear the sound of a gunshot.” He flinches, like he’s there again, and Tommy reaches out to take Oliver’s hand. It’s like he doesn’t even notice, just staring into space until he begins speaking again, no emotion in his words despite the pain still etched clearly on his face. “I freak out. The other man’s body falls in the water, and I’m scared—dad’s gone insane, or—and then he puts the gun to his own head, and I scream. I can’t do this alone, I need—and then he’s gone.”
It takes a few heavy breaths before Oliver’s ready to begin again, but Tommy can’t stand it. He hugs Oliver close, tries his best he can to comfort. His best friend says nothing. Doesn’t sob or whimper. But the way he’s clutching at Tommy’s back suggests he needs this.
When Oliver starts again, it’s into Tommy’s shoulder. “He left behind a diary. It took me a while to discover that Dad had used a fire-based invisible ink to write in it, and by then, I’d already used some of the pages.” He backs away, reaches behind Tommy to pull out a weatherbeaten brown journal. “If you wanted to know how I could become an Assassin, it’s in there.”
Tommy opens the pages to find a very different account of the battle between the Templars and the Assassins than he’s always heard. On the very first page is the same words Oliver had just uttered: ‘I have failed this city’. Robert Queen plainly states that he’s an Assassin, that he’d retired and turned a blind eye because he was sick of the death and wanted a family, that he’d turned a blind eye to Tempest’s presence in the city because it wasn’t a known Abstergo company and because he simply hadn’t bothered to look. Not until Moira Queen begged him to stop something called the Undertaking, and he’d put on the hood once more and looked, and found bribery, blackmail, and murder. Not until he realized he’d been losing a war simply without fighting. ‘I’d hoped to keep you out of it, Oliver, but I realize that one day you will have to wear the hood as well. My new hope is that this does not break your friendship with Thomas, that you can one day wear the hood and fight for our city alongside family and friends, that this crusade is not a solo one.’ Beneath, scrawled in Robert’s handwriting, shaky and nearly unreadable, ‘I’m sorry.’ On the next pages are lists of names, names that Tommy recognizes, many of which are people he’s on a first-name basis with.
Oliver continues to explain, enunciating every word. “My father was getting ready to act. He would have been a threat, so the Templars had him killed—”
“The Assassins had you killed!” Tommy yells, temper flaring, and while Oliver doesn’t physically flinch or step away, a gasp of air sounds deafening. “Your father was working with the Templars, so the Assassins had him killed.”
“It doesn’t matter.” That’s almost the Hood’s growl, and Tommy definitely flinches at that.
“It doesn’t matter?” Merlyn screams, and Oliver shrugs.
“I don’t believe it, but even if it was…I’m completing my father’s work. His last request. I will stop the Undertaking. I will save the city.” Oliver takes a deep breath, unclenches his fists. “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell your father?”
Tommy wasn’t. Because Malcolm Merlyn would slip into the Queen Mansion while they were all sleeping, slit Oliver’s throat, and say hi to Moira before slipping back out. He can’t let his friend die again, but at the same time…at the same time, he can’t let an Assassin…
“I appreciate it,” his friend tells him, and it’s not like the old Oliver he’d known. He hadn’t counted on it—hoped, maybe, but there’s no sense that he’d been played. The chilling thought that Ollie had invited him down here, knowing there was every chance it would spell his doom, when he’d refused to fight…
“I’ll do what I can to keep them off your back, and I really wish you’d lay low, but…” He takes a shaky breath, looks at his friend, really looks at him. “Let’s be honest, after going out of your way every single time to antagonize Detective Lance, that’s not going to happen, is it?”
That earns a smile. A real smile. “Some things don’t change.” He pulls Tommy into another hug. “I probably have PTSD, according to things Digg has said—not that he’s said it straight out, which I appreciate. I don’t know what to do with normal life.” It’s abrupt, but it’s maybe an explanation. A request for forgiveness? Maybe Tommy should drop some hints along those lines to Thea—it’s not like Oliver had wanted anyone looking too closely, but if Thea gets an explanation she’s less likely to push too far, get involved in the their war. He backs away, and for the first time in a long while Ollie actually looks settled. “I’ll look into what you’ve said, too. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.”
“You’re really—” Oliver was stubborn. Getting him to change his mind, or even consider a different point of view, was an accomplishment.
Oliver grins. “Nothing is true.” An Assassin saying, but he hadn’t realized any of them actually believed any word that came out of their mouth.
“Could you maybe try not to kill anyone else?” Tommy knows it might be pushing his luck, but it’s worth a try. “I know being a killer is kind of the Assassin’s m.o., but…”
“I’ve been trying not to—I suppose you haven’t noticed, but that’s a little harder when you’re a Templar panicking about an Assassin being in the city.” Before Tommy can say anything, Oliver adds, “…no, not from the beginning—I really had been in a war zone. Kill or be killed. Instinct is hard to ignore.”
“I’m glad you survived, even if it sucks how you had to do it,” Tommy states, barely managing a smile, and he claps Oliver on the back. “So, to get out of your lair…”
“Back the way you came.” Oliver nods. “You’ve given me some things to look into.”
