Member
Dion
An Outsider
Lord Wraith
Sometimes he’d catch himself reaching for an arrow.
He could be eating breakfast. Exercising. Playing catch-up with the world. Something would move in the corner of his eye, or he would hear some sound – approaching footsteps, the crackle of leaves, a door’s strained creak – and all of a sudden he’d be back on the Island.
Back in the dirt and the forest, sticky with sweat and blood and ducking, something hot and fast flying past his head, as he reaches for his quiver and pulls out an arrow, his heart pounding in tandem with the gunfire. And as he takes aim he can feel his shoulders tighten, and he fills his lungs with air until they press against his ribcage, breathing out in an explosive burst as he lets the arrow loose. It meets its target with a thud, slamming into the gunman’s chest – the gunman, who lets out a windless cry, a wild shot from his rifle echoing through the woods. He’s on the ground now, and Oliver takes a moment to watch as the life leaves his body, his chin covered in red, the wooden shaft of the arrow rising up out of his sternum like a flag erected to lay claim to his life –
– and Oliver would remind himself that he wasn’t on the Island anymore. His hand would lower itself from an imaginary quiver, taking its place back by his side, and he’d let out a shaky breath, trying for the thousandth time to get used to the idea that he didn’t have to fight anymore. That he was safe. It always felt like a lie.
Today was no different.
“Itchy back, Mr. Queen?” asked John Diggle.
The bodyguard stood in the doorway to his father’s old study. It was a large room, filled with old books and mahogany, the smell of paper thick and oddly comforting. Thea said that after the Gambit sunk, Mom had often come in here to think. It made her feel close to Robert. He’d spent so much time there… So Oliver would come in here, too. To feel close to both of them.
“Hm?” Oliver lowered his hand, turning to face Diggle. “Oh, Mr. Diggle. Yeah, actually, it’s – it’s kinda killing me. Do you mind…?”
The man stared at him blankly, unsure of how to respond. He was tall, built like a truck. Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D., apparently. Oliver had met a few ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives on the Island. They weren’t that tough.
He smiled. “Kidding.”
Diggle returned a smile, but it wasn’t genuine. Not really. He seemed almost on-edge, as if something was bothering him. Rigid and unmoving, like prey that knew it was being hunted. It wasn’t the first time he’d been like this around Oliver.
“Everything okay?” asked Ollie. “Thea giving you a hard time again?”
“No, sir. Your sister’s fine, getting ready to leave in a couple of minutes. I just thought I’d check in on you, see how you’re doing.”
“Oh. Right. I’m doing pretty fine. Just thinking on stuff,” he said. “What about you? How’s the security life treating you?”
“As well as it always does, sir. I can’t complain.”
“Not even a little bit?” he joked.
“Not at all, Mr. Queen. You and your sister are great employers. So was your mother.”
It was like talking to a brick wall.
Oliver straightened up, walking towards Diggle. The bodyguard’s eyes never left him, following him across the room.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Diggle nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Why do you always look like you’re about to fight that Superman guy when I’m around?”
He blinked. “Come again?”
Oliver met his gaze, and held it there.
“Are you scared of me, Mr. Diggle?”
Diggle hesitated, taken aback.
“To tell you the truth?” he dropped his eyes, “Shitless, sir.”
He sighed, massaging the back of his neck. His jacket arm almost split as he bent it, his bicep flexing into that of a giant’s. “I can’t get a good read on you.”
Oliver gave a perplexed smile as he crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Why would you want to?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Queen,” he said, “I’m ex-Special Forces. I know damaged goods when I see them. And I just can’t tell whether you’re the dangerous kind.”
“I was alone on an island for five years, Digg,” laughed Oliver. “The most damage I have is from boredom. And starvation.”
“Right,” he said, looking no more at ease than before, “Well, I’d better get going, sir. Your sister’s probably waiting at the car by now. My apologies if I was out of line.”
“Oh, psh-aw,” said Oliver, “I was the one who asked. I’ll catch you later, Mr. Diggle.”
The bodyguard nodded his farewell, his shoes creating a small echo as they clicked against the tiled flooring. Oliver watched him walk down the hallway – this tank of a man, who used to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and a Green Beret before that. This man, who had probably seen his fair share of bloodshed and suffering. This man, who was scared by the twenty-eight year old son of a dead billionaire. And as he watched Diggle get further and further away, Oliver clamped his jaw tight, trying hard to repress a shudder as a thought ran through his mind...
… that Diggle had no idea how right he was to fear him.
He could be eating breakfast. Exercising. Playing catch-up with the world. Something would move in the corner of his eye, or he would hear some sound – approaching footsteps, the crackle of leaves, a door’s strained creak – and all of a sudden he’d be back on the Island.
Back in the dirt and the forest, sticky with sweat and blood and ducking, something hot and fast flying past his head, as he reaches for his quiver and pulls out an arrow, his heart pounding in tandem with the gunfire. And as he takes aim he can feel his shoulders tighten, and he fills his lungs with air until they press against his ribcage, breathing out in an explosive burst as he lets the arrow loose. It meets its target with a thud, slamming into the gunman’s chest – the gunman, who lets out a windless cry, a wild shot from his rifle echoing through the woods. He’s on the ground now, and Oliver takes a moment to watch as the life leaves his body, his chin covered in red, the wooden shaft of the arrow rising up out of his sternum like a flag erected to lay claim to his life –
– and Oliver would remind himself that he wasn’t on the Island anymore. His hand would lower itself from an imaginary quiver, taking its place back by his side, and he’d let out a shaky breath, trying for the thousandth time to get used to the idea that he didn’t have to fight anymore. That he was safe. It always felt like a lie.
Today was no different.
“Itchy back, Mr. Queen?” asked John Diggle.
The bodyguard stood in the doorway to his father’s old study. It was a large room, filled with old books and mahogany, the smell of paper thick and oddly comforting. Thea said that after the Gambit sunk, Mom had often come in here to think. It made her feel close to Robert. He’d spent so much time there… So Oliver would come in here, too. To feel close to both of them.
“Hm?” Oliver lowered his hand, turning to face Diggle. “Oh, Mr. Diggle. Yeah, actually, it’s – it’s kinda killing me. Do you mind…?”
The man stared at him blankly, unsure of how to respond. He was tall, built like a truck. Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D., apparently. Oliver had met a few ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives on the Island. They weren’t that tough.
He smiled. “Kidding.”
Diggle returned a smile, but it wasn’t genuine. Not really. He seemed almost on-edge, as if something was bothering him. Rigid and unmoving, like prey that knew it was being hunted. It wasn’t the first time he’d been like this around Oliver.
“Everything okay?” asked Ollie. “Thea giving you a hard time again?”
“No, sir. Your sister’s fine, getting ready to leave in a couple of minutes. I just thought I’d check in on you, see how you’re doing.”
“Oh. Right. I’m doing pretty fine. Just thinking on stuff,” he said. “What about you? How’s the security life treating you?”
“As well as it always does, sir. I can’t complain.”
“Not even a little bit?” he joked.
“Not at all, Mr. Queen. You and your sister are great employers. So was your mother.”
It was like talking to a brick wall.
Oliver straightened up, walking towards Diggle. The bodyguard’s eyes never left him, following him across the room.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Diggle nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Why do you always look like you’re about to fight that Superman guy when I’m around?”
He blinked. “Come again?”
Oliver met his gaze, and held it there.
“Are you scared of me, Mr. Diggle?”
Diggle hesitated, taken aback.
“To tell you the truth?” he dropped his eyes, “Shitless, sir.”
He sighed, massaging the back of his neck. His jacket arm almost split as he bent it, his bicep flexing into that of a giant’s. “I can’t get a good read on you.”
Oliver gave a perplexed smile as he crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Why would you want to?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Queen,” he said, “I’m ex-Special Forces. I know damaged goods when I see them. And I just can’t tell whether you’re the dangerous kind.”
“I was alone on an island for five years, Digg,” laughed Oliver. “The most damage I have is from boredom. And starvation.”
“Right,” he said, looking no more at ease than before, “Well, I’d better get going, sir. Your sister’s probably waiting at the car by now. My apologies if I was out of line.”
“Oh, psh-aw,” said Oliver, “I was the one who asked. I’ll catch you later, Mr. Diggle.”
The bodyguard nodded his farewell, his shoes creating a small echo as they clicked against the tiled flooring. Oliver watched him walk down the hallway – this tank of a man, who used to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and a Green Beret before that. This man, who had probably seen his fair share of bloodshed and suffering. This man, who was scared by the twenty-eight year old son of a dead billionaire. And as he watched Diggle get further and further away, Oliver clamped his jaw tight, trying hard to repress a shudder as a thought ran through his mind...
… that Diggle had no idea how right he was to fear him.
