Arrow fic: Drifting Towards Oblivion
Points of view from Oliver, the surgeon and the nurse.
AO3 link
“Dig must have heard me...he must have..,” Oliver thought desperately, his heart pumping wildly as he tried and failed to move. It didn’t help that the ground where he lay was hard, dirty and unforgiving, and bone chillingly cold. He really did need to get the hell out of there.
With one last superhuman effort he tried to lift his head and check his surroundings. All he could manage was a brief eyelid flicker which gave him the ominous sight of his phone slipping from his weakened grasp. It was then he finally realised all fighting was done, it was over, so there was no choice except give in to his fate.
Letting go was something he never did because he was a warrior. A warrior who’d fight bruised and bloodied until the very last beat of his heart.
But everyone had their time, had their moments when giving in was the right thing. Was this it?
Oliver now felt light as a feather as he drifted towards oblivion. His mind was awash with past memories swirling and surging; thoughts of Laurel filled him with warmth and love - which quickly turned to despair as he remembered his betrayal. He’d been a selfish dick, no doubt about that, and his heart ached at the mere thought of it. So, that was another thing which needed fixing and it brought him back to reality with a bump.
Pain shot through Oliver’s body and he groaned softly because of it. He welcomed it, partly because he felt he deserved it but mostly because it meant he was still alive. He tried once more to cry for help but his throat felt rough and parched and no sound passed his lips. He felt himself slipping away again.
If he could make a difference to the people he loved, to the people his father had screwed over, maybe just maybe it was worth living through the hell of the last five years on the Island.
No, he’d never forget that God forsaken place and thoughts of it jolted him towards consciousness. He started to feel cold as the beads of sweat cooled on his skin and his body began to uncontrollably shiver. It was all coming back now. After the shipwreck, fear, cold and hunger were his constant companions. Then came his capture and a permanent knot developed in his gut as he faced yet another beating and torture. The idea of death terrified him as the torturer wielded his instruments with such precision; such pain he’d never experienced before. He’d lead a sheltered, pampered life and up to that point the only thing he’d feared was his credit card being rejected. What an empty spoilt brat. He felt a flush of embarrassment. Dealing with real terror was something he’d never even considered a possibility.
Please God, make it stop. Constantly afraid he would die and then terrified he wouldn’t.
He was numb to it all that now, wasn’t he? It had been all become a distant memory but now there was a nagging doubt bubbling to the surface. Maybe this was it, what if he didn’t make it this time? But after everything he’d gone through to get back home, he wasn’t about to let that happen.
So he pushed the fear way down deep and focussed his mind on the vigilante. The other one. This new guy on the block brought back all those feelings of inadequacy he thought he’d extinguished. Who the hell was he? And where’d he come from?
He could be some copycat who wanted fame and fortune - maybe - but that didn’t feel right. This person was trained in the Arts, the same as he, and a worthy opponent in better circumstances. Plus he seemed familiar. Then he remembered the titanium arrow heads as they ripped through his flesh, travelling deeper and deeper, the hardened tips finally coming to rest as they buried themselves into his bones. The two in his shoulder and the one in his thigh felt like burning embers slowly consuming him. His assailant was sending him a message. Yes, he wanted him to suffer because with his obvious skill he could have easily fired a killing shot - but he was pissed at him for some reason.
Oliver felt the vigilante’s anger and rage as the full force of his boots smacked into his chest over and over. When his first rib cracked he’d held his breath but after the second he felt panic as he wanted to take a breath and couldn’t. Oliver was in serious trouble and needed to defend himself or be beaten to death. So he zoned out, as he’d been trained to do, and concentrated on his escape.
So, who the hell was this guy?
Oliver fought the stabbing searing pain which was relentlessly trying to send him back into the safety and peacefulness of sleep. He needed to think. He concentrated on the agony of his wounds; felt the warmth of the blood as it trickled along his chest, soaking into his t-shirt.
He then heard footsteps walking towards him and a muffled concerned voice.
“Oliver.”
The deep voice sounded so distant but reassuringly familiar and he tried so hard to force his eyes open to check he wasn’t hallucinating. But he couldn’t; he felt helpless now and totally at anyone’s mercy. He wasn’t prepared to risk it being an enemy so put all his effort into throwing a punch but only managed to weakly claw at the air, his arm flopping disappointingly back to his side.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Diggle reassured, scooping up his friend’s limp body in his arms. It was only then that Oliver finally relaxed as there was no need for fighting anymore; he was in safe hands.
------
The ride to the hospital was quick... and painful. He made a mental note that if he survived he’d make sure damn sure that all emergency vehicles would be fitted with better suspension. With every bump and jolt he saw the enemy archer’s smirking mouth distort in pleasure as his arrow heads did their intended job of causing excruciating stabs of pain!
The pain lessened as he planned his revenge. The hunter had become the hunted and he loathed feeling vulnerable again. He could hardly believe he’d been defeated but this was the first round...he was determined there’d be a round two. And then?
-----
There were those distant voices again... but this time they sounded different and much more real. He heard orders being given, hands and fingers working into his clothing, cutting leather and cloth, exposing his blood soaked skin. The remains of the arrows were sticking out of his shoulder and thigh, inviting extraction like stubborn broken teeth. Instinct had caused him to break off the arrow shafts but doing that had opened the wounds and caused much more blood loss. Now they needed removing as quickly as possible to stem the blood flow but it wasn’t going to be easy. The shape of the arrow coupled with their ability to bury themselves into bone, meant careful surgery would be needed to remove them without causing permanent damage.
He felt a scratch on his arm and within seconds had drifted to another place; one free from nagging thoughts and searing pain.
-----
The surgeon looked at the x-rays lit on the wall and took a deep breath. Broken ribs would take time to heal but wouldn’t be a long term problem. Minor surgery had already been performed on the pneumothorax with a tube inserted between the ribs into the pleural cavity. He was satisfied his patient’s breathing was stable and posed the minimum of risk so was more than happy to begin the major surgery. He frowned as he watched the nurse prepare his patient. If experience had taught him anything it was that with such a brutal beating you could never tell what else could crop up once you started. In this case he was hoping for no unpleasant surprises.
His patient was young and strong and had the best chance of a full recovery but the x-ray showed those arrow heads posed a real challenge. He guessed their shape had been fashioned in such a way to cause as much damage as possible; made so that they could burrow into flesh before embedding into bone. He wasn’t going to speculate who or why someone would do such a thing, that was for others to investigate. No, he had to decide how to carefully remove these brutal metal projectiles without causing further harm and as this patient was no one other than Oliver Queen, son of the hospital’s benefactor, it meant the pressure was on.
His eyes darted back and forth as he examined the broken shafts, the surrounding bloody tissue and the black and white x-ray image. He quickly formed a plan and removed the cotton swabs that were covering the wound on his patients shoulder. It wasn’t much different to extracting a bullet, probably easier, as at least there wouldn’t be any surrounding tissue damage caused by igniting gunpowder. As he made the first incision the nurse dabbed at the increase in blood flowing from the wound. Another deeper cut took him to bone and the arrow head. The nurse’s hands swiftly held the parted flesh as the surgeon pulled and twisted at the metal with a heavy gauge set of pliers which made him feel like an old-time dentist. He huffed out a sigh of satisfaction as the arrow head came out clean, then briefly inspected the offending weapon before dropping it into a prepared evidence bag. Mr Diggle had been very insistent.
“Efficient , dangerous and very nasty ,” he thought as he examined the newly created wound.
The nurse was now swabbing and applying pressure to stem the blood flow before applying a pad prior to stitching. The next removal was no more difficult enabling the surgeon to move swiftly on to the third and final extraction.
The thigh had so much more muscle, much more flesh to expose to get at the arrow head. This one wasn’t going to be so easy especially as he couldn’t see any of the arrow tip on the X-ray. That could only mean one thing; it had buried itself deeper into the thigh bone. He sighed. This extraction was going to take much, much longer so, checking vitals were still stable, he made the first incision. He deftly used his scalpel to cut layer upon layer of muscle carefully avoiding nerves and blood vessels, deeper and deeper cuts were made until he reached the deadly dart.
The nurse dabbed away beads of sweat forming on the surgeon’s forehead. He paused for a moment and considered his next move. Seconds ticked by as swabs became bloody as they mopped at the life essence oozing from the gaping wound. It didn’t take long for the surgeon to make his decision when he was given the worrying vitals. He’d have to administer additional Rohypnol to keep him under if he took too much longer and that wasn’t an option. Oliver had now been unconscious for longer than expected but there was no way the surgeon was going to leave this last projectile in him to be extracted at some future date. So he had to hurry. He’d considered using the drill but that would take time. Time he didn’t have. So buried deep or not, using the medical pliers he twisted and turned the arrow head and yanked with such force it flew out and landed far across the room causing a little gasp to escape from the nurse.
Blood flowed fast and free over Oliver’s thigh now but that was quickly stemmed with some immediate suction.
“It’s looking good, better that expected,” the surgeon said, relief in his voice, as he finished examining the exposed bone. He looked around at his team who looked tired but equally relieved. “Well done everyone, it’s been a long night. I’m sure the Queens will be more than grateful what we’ve managed here tonight. ”
He glanced over at the nurse. “He’s all yours, you can finish up now.”
----
The nurse took her time with the stitching; small and neat was her speciality. She had in her care one of the richest guys in the City and, although it wasn’t any of her business, she had to wonder what the hell he’d been doing to get himself into such a state. And what about all those various shaped scars on his torso? It looked as if he’d been through a war of some kind, or hell, or maybe he was into things that someone like her didn’t want to think about. Maybe he was into all that stupid shit bored, rich people liked to do but she really hoped he wasn’t. All kinds of scenarios ran through her mind; fight clubs, mercenary for the government, one of those extreme sex clubs she’d heard about. Whatever it was, she wasn’t allowed to ask, and wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone about it as she’d been sworn to secrecy. So that was that.
She dropped the needle and thread into the dish when she finished and surveyed her work; beautiful stitching that would hardly be noticeable. She was pleased with herself because in a few months the scars would fade and merge in with all those others.
She eyed the remains of the green leathers that had been unceremoniously cut and ripped from his comatose body as he was prepared for examination on his admittance. There was no disposing of these in the usual way and the same for the arrow heads. She bagged everything for collection by Oliver Queen’s assistant John Diggle. She’d heard him insist in no uncertain terms that everything of Mr Queen’s had to be returned to him. Everything. She was well aware those leathers looked exactly like the vigilante’s as the guy was big news in the City and she, like everyone else, had read about his exploits over and over again. Whether they were or weren’t she didn’t really care, all she knew for certain was that she liked the guy and hoped that she wouldn’t see him back on the operating table anytime soon.
---
AO3 link
“Dig must have heard me...he must have..,” Oliver thought desperately, his heart pumping wildly as he tried and failed to move. It didn’t help that the ground where he lay was hard, dirty and unforgiving, and bone chillingly cold. He really did need to get the hell out of there.
With one last superhuman effort he tried to lift his head and check his surroundings. All he could manage was a brief eyelid flicker which gave him the ominous sight of his phone slipping from his weakened grasp. It was then he finally realised all fighting was done, it was over, so there was no choice except give in to his fate.
Letting go was something he never did because he was a warrior. A warrior who’d fight bruised and bloodied until the very last beat of his heart.
But everyone had their time, had their moments when giving in was the right thing. Was this it?
Oliver now felt light as a feather as he drifted towards oblivion. His mind was awash with past memories swirling and surging; thoughts of Laurel filled him with warmth and love - which quickly turned to despair as he remembered his betrayal. He’d been a selfish dick, no doubt about that, and his heart ached at the mere thought of it. So, that was another thing which needed fixing and it brought him back to reality with a bump.
Pain shot through Oliver’s body and he groaned softly because of it. He welcomed it, partly because he felt he deserved it but mostly because it meant he was still alive. He tried once more to cry for help but his throat felt rough and parched and no sound passed his lips. He felt himself slipping away again.
If he could make a difference to the people he loved, to the people his father had screwed over, maybe just maybe it was worth living through the hell of the last five years on the Island.
No, he’d never forget that God forsaken place and thoughts of it jolted him towards consciousness. He started to feel cold as the beads of sweat cooled on his skin and his body began to uncontrollably shiver. It was all coming back now. After the shipwreck, fear, cold and hunger were his constant companions. Then came his capture and a permanent knot developed in his gut as he faced yet another beating and torture. The idea of death terrified him as the torturer wielded his instruments with such precision; such pain he’d never experienced before. He’d lead a sheltered, pampered life and up to that point the only thing he’d feared was his credit card being rejected. What an empty spoilt brat. He felt a flush of embarrassment. Dealing with real terror was something he’d never even considered a possibility.
Please God, make it stop. Constantly afraid he would die and then terrified he wouldn’t.
He was numb to it all that now, wasn’t he? It had been all become a distant memory but now there was a nagging doubt bubbling to the surface. Maybe this was it, what if he didn’t make it this time? But after everything he’d gone through to get back home, he wasn’t about to let that happen.
So he pushed the fear way down deep and focussed his mind on the vigilante. The other one. This new guy on the block brought back all those feelings of inadequacy he thought he’d extinguished. Who the hell was he? And where’d he come from?
He could be some copycat who wanted fame and fortune - maybe - but that didn’t feel right. This person was trained in the Arts, the same as he, and a worthy opponent in better circumstances. Plus he seemed familiar. Then he remembered the titanium arrow heads as they ripped through his flesh, travelling deeper and deeper, the hardened tips finally coming to rest as they buried themselves into his bones. The two in his shoulder and the one in his thigh felt like burning embers slowly consuming him. His assailant was sending him a message. Yes, he wanted him to suffer because with his obvious skill he could have easily fired a killing shot - but he was pissed at him for some reason.
Oliver felt the vigilante’s anger and rage as the full force of his boots smacked into his chest over and over. When his first rib cracked he’d held his breath but after the second he felt panic as he wanted to take a breath and couldn’t. Oliver was in serious trouble and needed to defend himself or be beaten to death. So he zoned out, as he’d been trained to do, and concentrated on his escape.
So, who the hell was this guy?
Oliver fought the stabbing searing pain which was relentlessly trying to send him back into the safety and peacefulness of sleep. He needed to think. He concentrated on the agony of his wounds; felt the warmth of the blood as it trickled along his chest, soaking into his t-shirt.
He then heard footsteps walking towards him and a muffled concerned voice.
“Oliver.”
The deep voice sounded so distant but reassuringly familiar and he tried so hard to force his eyes open to check he wasn’t hallucinating. But he couldn’t; he felt helpless now and totally at anyone’s mercy. He wasn’t prepared to risk it being an enemy so put all his effort into throwing a punch but only managed to weakly claw at the air, his arm flopping disappointingly back to his side.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Diggle reassured, scooping up his friend’s limp body in his arms. It was only then that Oliver finally relaxed as there was no need for fighting anymore; he was in safe hands.
------
The ride to the hospital was quick... and painful. He made a mental note that if he survived he’d make sure damn sure that all emergency vehicles would be fitted with better suspension. With every bump and jolt he saw the enemy archer’s smirking mouth distort in pleasure as his arrow heads did their intended job of causing excruciating stabs of pain!
The pain lessened as he planned his revenge. The hunter had become the hunted and he loathed feeling vulnerable again. He could hardly believe he’d been defeated but this was the first round...he was determined there’d be a round two. And then?
-----
There were those distant voices again... but this time they sounded different and much more real. He heard orders being given, hands and fingers working into his clothing, cutting leather and cloth, exposing his blood soaked skin. The remains of the arrows were sticking out of his shoulder and thigh, inviting extraction like stubborn broken teeth. Instinct had caused him to break off the arrow shafts but doing that had opened the wounds and caused much more blood loss. Now they needed removing as quickly as possible to stem the blood flow but it wasn’t going to be easy. The shape of the arrow coupled with their ability to bury themselves into bone, meant careful surgery would be needed to remove them without causing permanent damage.
He felt a scratch on his arm and within seconds had drifted to another place; one free from nagging thoughts and searing pain.
-----
The surgeon looked at the x-rays lit on the wall and took a deep breath. Broken ribs would take time to heal but wouldn’t be a long term problem. Minor surgery had already been performed on the pneumothorax with a tube inserted between the ribs into the pleural cavity. He was satisfied his patient’s breathing was stable and posed the minimum of risk so was more than happy to begin the major surgery. He frowned as he watched the nurse prepare his patient. If experience had taught him anything it was that with such a brutal beating you could never tell what else could crop up once you started. In this case he was hoping for no unpleasant surprises.
His patient was young and strong and had the best chance of a full recovery but the x-ray showed those arrow heads posed a real challenge. He guessed their shape had been fashioned in such a way to cause as much damage as possible; made so that they could burrow into flesh before embedding into bone. He wasn’t going to speculate who or why someone would do such a thing, that was for others to investigate. No, he had to decide how to carefully remove these brutal metal projectiles without causing further harm and as this patient was no one other than Oliver Queen, son of the hospital’s benefactor, it meant the pressure was on.
His eyes darted back and forth as he examined the broken shafts, the surrounding bloody tissue and the black and white x-ray image. He quickly formed a plan and removed the cotton swabs that were covering the wound on his patients shoulder. It wasn’t much different to extracting a bullet, probably easier, as at least there wouldn’t be any surrounding tissue damage caused by igniting gunpowder. As he made the first incision the nurse dabbed at the increase in blood flowing from the wound. Another deeper cut took him to bone and the arrow head. The nurse’s hands swiftly held the parted flesh as the surgeon pulled and twisted at the metal with a heavy gauge set of pliers which made him feel like an old-time dentist. He huffed out a sigh of satisfaction as the arrow head came out clean, then briefly inspected the offending weapon before dropping it into a prepared evidence bag. Mr Diggle had been very insistent.
“Efficient , dangerous and very nasty ,” he thought as he examined the newly created wound.
The nurse was now swabbing and applying pressure to stem the blood flow before applying a pad prior to stitching. The next removal was no more difficult enabling the surgeon to move swiftly on to the third and final extraction.
The thigh had so much more muscle, much more flesh to expose to get at the arrow head. This one wasn’t going to be so easy especially as he couldn’t see any of the arrow tip on the X-ray. That could only mean one thing; it had buried itself deeper into the thigh bone. He sighed. This extraction was going to take much, much longer so, checking vitals were still stable, he made the first incision. He deftly used his scalpel to cut layer upon layer of muscle carefully avoiding nerves and blood vessels, deeper and deeper cuts were made until he reached the deadly dart.
The nurse dabbed away beads of sweat forming on the surgeon’s forehead. He paused for a moment and considered his next move. Seconds ticked by as swabs became bloody as they mopped at the life essence oozing from the gaping wound. It didn’t take long for the surgeon to make his decision when he was given the worrying vitals. He’d have to administer additional Rohypnol to keep him under if he took too much longer and that wasn’t an option. Oliver had now been unconscious for longer than expected but there was no way the surgeon was going to leave this last projectile in him to be extracted at some future date. So he had to hurry. He’d considered using the drill but that would take time. Time he didn’t have. So buried deep or not, using the medical pliers he twisted and turned the arrow head and yanked with such force it flew out and landed far across the room causing a little gasp to escape from the nurse.
Blood flowed fast and free over Oliver’s thigh now but that was quickly stemmed with some immediate suction.
“It’s looking good, better that expected,” the surgeon said, relief in his voice, as he finished examining the exposed bone. He looked around at his team who looked tired but equally relieved. “Well done everyone, it’s been a long night. I’m sure the Queens will be more than grateful what we’ve managed here tonight. ”
He glanced over at the nurse. “He’s all yours, you can finish up now.”
----
The nurse took her time with the stitching; small and neat was her speciality. She had in her care one of the richest guys in the City and, although it wasn’t any of her business, she had to wonder what the hell he’d been doing to get himself into such a state. And what about all those various shaped scars on his torso? It looked as if he’d been through a war of some kind, or hell, or maybe he was into things that someone like her didn’t want to think about. Maybe he was into all that stupid shit bored, rich people liked to do but she really hoped he wasn’t. All kinds of scenarios ran through her mind; fight clubs, mercenary for the government, one of those extreme sex clubs she’d heard about. Whatever it was, she wasn’t allowed to ask, and wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone about it as she’d been sworn to secrecy. So that was that.
She dropped the needle and thread into the dish when she finished and surveyed her work; beautiful stitching that would hardly be noticeable. She was pleased with herself because in a few months the scars would fade and merge in with all those others.
She eyed the remains of the green leathers that had been unceremoniously cut and ripped from his comatose body as he was prepared for examination on his admittance. There was no disposing of these in the usual way and the same for the arrow heads. She bagged everything for collection by Oliver Queen’s assistant John Diggle. She’d heard him insist in no uncertain terms that everything of Mr Queen’s had to be returned to him. Everything. She was well aware those leathers looked exactly like the vigilante’s as the guy was big news in the City and she, like everyone else, had read about his exploits over and over again. Whether they were or weren’t she didn’t really care, all she knew for certain was that she liked the guy and hoped that she wouldn’t see him back on the operating table anytime soon.
---