Fic: Shelter from the Storm: It's Always You (Arrow)
Title: It's Always You
Fandom: Arrow
Rating: K+
Genres: het
Summary: John and Lyla, after the events in State vs. Queen.
A/N: Well. Err. As my tumblr followers might have noticed, my latest uni project (a presentation I'm deathly afraid of and I don't mean that in a joking way) drove me to this week's obsession, John Diggle/Lyla Michaels (John/Carly shippers may hopefully forgive me but I actually shipped Digg and Lyla from their first scene together, no kidding). And, since there's a shockingly large lack of John/Lyla fic, I naturally was attacked by a really big herd of rabid bunnies. And this... is just the first story spooking around in my head (which is why even the first story already is part of a series...). So, let's hope that between this new series and Military Madness I'll get anything uni related done this week. Eh, anyway, enjoy :D
It’s Always You
“If red roses weren't so lovely
If wine didn't taste so good
If stars weren't so romantic
Then I could do what I should
Oh you, it’s always you
It’s always you.”
Sophie Zelmani, “Always You”
Once in Afghanistan, there was a girl. Once in Afghanistan, there was a girl who wore a headscarf with her battle rattle, Captain’s bars on her collars and an M14 in her hands, in a place where she wasn’t supposed to be, when you met her for the first time.
Once in Afghanistan, there was a girl you married because you thought love could survive everything, even peace.
And then it wouldn’t, which you both should have known and you tried very hard not to think about fate and irony when you put your signature below the divorce papers on a bitterly cold day in the Afghan mountains a year and six months after you married her.
You saw her again when you came home from your third and last tour and she’d just finished her latest training and was Agent Michaels now instead of Captain Diggle. There were no hard feelings and you told yourself it didn’t hurt like a bayonet between your ribs when she told you that she was seeing another agent. You told yourself it didn’t feel like torture to pull up the corners of your mouth to smile and wish her good luck.
It almost worked.
You kept seeing her over the years, when you were both in town between assignments and needed information from the other or someone who knew that “it’s classified, I can’t talk about it” usually meant “thank God it’s classified, I don’t ever want to talk about it again”. You thought you’d be a lifer, Army life being the only thing that kept you away sufficiently long from the apartment you used to share with her but then they shot your brother and you realized your family might need you more than the Army.
After the anguish, after the hurt, after the mourning came obsession and you found yourself waiting for her to be back from her assignments so you could probe and see and try to get her to reveal any information they might have about Andy’s death. The excuse of revenge and brotherly love almost outweighed the dirty, dishonorable feeling it always gave you when she did pass on a file note here and a little hint there. “Almost” was enough for you during those years.
You kept looking and searching, using your Special Forces skills to keep yourself employed by rich people thinking themselves important enough to need someone with a gun standing in their back and looking threateningly and you thought you were growing closer to Carly while what you were really doing was pulling yourself away from that girl you met in Afghanistan who wouldn’t leave you alone with all your might.
Make no mistake, you told yourself, you did love Carly and you did feel guilty for liking her and finding her attractive. But you always thought it was because Andy would hate you for enjoying what once was his, for taking over his family when it was because all you wanted, all you ever wanted since that day they told you you’d never see your brother again was to be close to him again. You thought you could find that with Carly and A.J. and you were wrong. It was, in hindsight, almost embarrassing, that it was Felicity Smoak of all people who had to spell it out in black and white for you.
You love Felicity like a sister, but Lord, can she be dense at times.
As you crawl home, you find yourself smiling, despite the lingering pain from the Vertigo throbbing in the back of your head, making your feet stick to the ground like a leaden weight in the sole of your shoes. It’s been a hell of a day but you’re smiling. You’ll never tell them but it’s probably all Oliver’s and Felicity’s fault that you’re still smiling when you reach your door and turn the key in the lock.
You go into alertness mode the moment you open that door. Damn, you think as you draw your gun out of habit. Someone’s opened that door before you and hasn’t left as all the little traps you planted around your place as soon as you started working for Oliver Queen tell you. They even took the front door which tells you that whoever entered must have been one sloppy son of a…
Or maybe it was one exhausted A.R.G.U.S agent not bothering to be subtle. Or, as you only realize now, leaving clues so you won’t freak out when you see a human shape half buried under that quilt your mom made for you before your first tour, telling you “it does get cold in that place, son, I read all about it” on your couch.
You watch her for a moment, carefully putting away your gun and you realize that it’s been a long time since you saw her with her guard down like that. Maybe you never saw her with her guard down like that before. “Hey, Johnny.” Maybe… she doesn’t have her guard down now, either.
Of course she hasn’t.
As you see her pulling herself up on your couch, blinking into the light you wonder how big the number was they did on her in Russia. She has the unique talent to be fully awake the moment she opens her eyes. Sluggish movements and rubbing the sleep from her eyes are not part of the Lyla Michaels package.
Choosing not to comment on it, you walk over and sit down in the spot she just vacated, leaning forward with your elbows digging into your thighs. You link your hands behind your neck and you wonder briefly what kind of number the Vertigo did on you.
“How was work today?” she asks and you can hear a faint trace of worry and realize that she still knows you far too well, better than Carly or any of the other women you met over the years did.
Just one of the side effects of falling love with each other when you were fighting a war and you keep telling yourself that it isn’t the same for you, that you aren’t the only one who can see the years that Koshmar took away from her edged into her face even from a few feet away.
For a moment, you consider telling her about the moment you realized that it wasn’t the flu shot that kept pulling you under at the court house, the moment you realized that something was very, very wrong. You consider telling her about the pain pushing through your veins when you were lying on the table in Verdant’s basement, about the violent shaking and the helplessness when the craving took over your body, all the time, all until the moment Felicity released you from the prison of addiction. You consider telling her about the embarrassment at being caught with your pants down like that, about feeling like a failure because you couldn’t make Felicity stay in the basement when you knew what her decision could cost both you and Oliver.
You consider telling her about how you know very well what it cost Oliver to break his promise about never killing again, even if it was for Felicity and how very well you know that part of that is your fault.
But then you remember how she knows you far too well already and you remember that the reason you didn’t want them to tell her about it all was that you knew that she didn’t need you on top of everything Russia did to her so you just lean back and give her a dismissive shake of your head. “Just another day at the office. What about you?”
She gives you a little sleepy half-smile and shakes her head. “Same old, same old. They still won’t let me out in the field yet.”
You can see that it rankles her, hurts her pride and her honor, how she burns to be back in the saddle to show them all that Russia was a fluke, that Russia didn’t mean anything. You know that she knows that they’d already given up on her and that she tries so fucking hard not to take it personally, to be a professional about it. You’re a little afraid of what it means that you have a hard time not taking it personally, too.
So all you do is kick off your shoes and drag your legs up on the couch, inviting her to come into your embrace, settle her back against your chest and you pull your mother’s quilt up and hold her in your arms, building a shelter for the two of you, to keep it all out, Vertigo and Russia and guilt and shame and when the rain starts pounding down outside and she falls asleep in your arms, you finally let yourself relax, too. Just for a moment, you can make yourself believe that the story that once upon a time began in Afghanistan might not be over yet and that’s all it takes that you, too can finally fall asleep. It was a pretty hard day, after all.
Fandom: Arrow
Rating: K+
Genres: het
Summary: John and Lyla, after the events in State vs. Queen.
A/N: Well. Err. As my tumblr followers might have noticed, my latest uni project (a presentation I'm deathly afraid of and I don't mean that in a joking way) drove me to this week's obsession, John Diggle/Lyla Michaels (John/Carly shippers may hopefully forgive me but I actually shipped Digg and Lyla from their first scene together, no kidding). And, since there's a shockingly large lack of John/Lyla fic, I naturally was attacked by a really big herd of rabid bunnies. And this... is just the first story spooking around in my head (which is why even the first story already is part of a series...). So, let's hope that between this new series and Military Madness I'll get anything uni related done this week. Eh, anyway, enjoy :D
It’s Always You
“If red roses weren't so lovely
If wine didn't taste so good
If stars weren't so romantic
Then I could do what I should
Oh you, it’s always you
It’s always you.”
Sophie Zelmani, “Always You”
Once in Afghanistan, there was a girl. Once in Afghanistan, there was a girl who wore a headscarf with her battle rattle, Captain’s bars on her collars and an M14 in her hands, in a place where she wasn’t supposed to be, when you met her for the first time.
Once in Afghanistan, there was a girl you married because you thought love could survive everything, even peace.
And then it wouldn’t, which you both should have known and you tried very hard not to think about fate and irony when you put your signature below the divorce papers on a bitterly cold day in the Afghan mountains a year and six months after you married her.
You saw her again when you came home from your third and last tour and she’d just finished her latest training and was Agent Michaels now instead of Captain Diggle. There were no hard feelings and you told yourself it didn’t hurt like a bayonet between your ribs when she told you that she was seeing another agent. You told yourself it didn’t feel like torture to pull up the corners of your mouth to smile and wish her good luck.
It almost worked.
You kept seeing her over the years, when you were both in town between assignments and needed information from the other or someone who knew that “it’s classified, I can’t talk about it” usually meant “thank God it’s classified, I don’t ever want to talk about it again”. You thought you’d be a lifer, Army life being the only thing that kept you away sufficiently long from the apartment you used to share with her but then they shot your brother and you realized your family might need you more than the Army.
After the anguish, after the hurt, after the mourning came obsession and you found yourself waiting for her to be back from her assignments so you could probe and see and try to get her to reveal any information they might have about Andy’s death. The excuse of revenge and brotherly love almost outweighed the dirty, dishonorable feeling it always gave you when she did pass on a file note here and a little hint there. “Almost” was enough for you during those years.
You kept looking and searching, using your Special Forces skills to keep yourself employed by rich people thinking themselves important enough to need someone with a gun standing in their back and looking threateningly and you thought you were growing closer to Carly while what you were really doing was pulling yourself away from that girl you met in Afghanistan who wouldn’t leave you alone with all your might.
Make no mistake, you told yourself, you did love Carly and you did feel guilty for liking her and finding her attractive. But you always thought it was because Andy would hate you for enjoying what once was his, for taking over his family when it was because all you wanted, all you ever wanted since that day they told you you’d never see your brother again was to be close to him again. You thought you could find that with Carly and A.J. and you were wrong. It was, in hindsight, almost embarrassing, that it was Felicity Smoak of all people who had to spell it out in black and white for you.
You love Felicity like a sister, but Lord, can she be dense at times.
As you crawl home, you find yourself smiling, despite the lingering pain from the Vertigo throbbing in the back of your head, making your feet stick to the ground like a leaden weight in the sole of your shoes. It’s been a hell of a day but you’re smiling. You’ll never tell them but it’s probably all Oliver’s and Felicity’s fault that you’re still smiling when you reach your door and turn the key in the lock.
You go into alertness mode the moment you open that door. Damn, you think as you draw your gun out of habit. Someone’s opened that door before you and hasn’t left as all the little traps you planted around your place as soon as you started working for Oliver Queen tell you. They even took the front door which tells you that whoever entered must have been one sloppy son of a…
Or maybe it was one exhausted A.R.G.U.S agent not bothering to be subtle. Or, as you only realize now, leaving clues so you won’t freak out when you see a human shape half buried under that quilt your mom made for you before your first tour, telling you “it does get cold in that place, son, I read all about it” on your couch.
You watch her for a moment, carefully putting away your gun and you realize that it’s been a long time since you saw her with her guard down like that. Maybe you never saw her with her guard down like that before. “Hey, Johnny.” Maybe… she doesn’t have her guard down now, either.
Of course she hasn’t.
As you see her pulling herself up on your couch, blinking into the light you wonder how big the number was they did on her in Russia. She has the unique talent to be fully awake the moment she opens her eyes. Sluggish movements and rubbing the sleep from her eyes are not part of the Lyla Michaels package.
Choosing not to comment on it, you walk over and sit down in the spot she just vacated, leaning forward with your elbows digging into your thighs. You link your hands behind your neck and you wonder briefly what kind of number the Vertigo did on you.
“How was work today?” she asks and you can hear a faint trace of worry and realize that she still knows you far too well, better than Carly or any of the other women you met over the years did.
Just one of the side effects of falling love with each other when you were fighting a war and you keep telling yourself that it isn’t the same for you, that you aren’t the only one who can see the years that Koshmar took away from her edged into her face even from a few feet away.
For a moment, you consider telling her about the moment you realized that it wasn’t the flu shot that kept pulling you under at the court house, the moment you realized that something was very, very wrong. You consider telling her about the pain pushing through your veins when you were lying on the table in Verdant’s basement, about the violent shaking and the helplessness when the craving took over your body, all the time, all until the moment Felicity released you from the prison of addiction. You consider telling her about the embarrassment at being caught with your pants down like that, about feeling like a failure because you couldn’t make Felicity stay in the basement when you knew what her decision could cost both you and Oliver.
You consider telling her about how you know very well what it cost Oliver to break his promise about never killing again, even if it was for Felicity and how very well you know that part of that is your fault.
But then you remember how she knows you far too well already and you remember that the reason you didn’t want them to tell her about it all was that you knew that she didn’t need you on top of everything Russia did to her so you just lean back and give her a dismissive shake of your head. “Just another day at the office. What about you?”
She gives you a little sleepy half-smile and shakes her head. “Same old, same old. They still won’t let me out in the field yet.”
You can see that it rankles her, hurts her pride and her honor, how she burns to be back in the saddle to show them all that Russia was a fluke, that Russia didn’t mean anything. You know that she knows that they’d already given up on her and that she tries so fucking hard not to take it personally, to be a professional about it. You’re a little afraid of what it means that you have a hard time not taking it personally, too.
So all you do is kick off your shoes and drag your legs up on the couch, inviting her to come into your embrace, settle her back against your chest and you pull your mother’s quilt up and hold her in your arms, building a shelter for the two of you, to keep it all out, Vertigo and Russia and guilt and shame and when the rain starts pounding down outside and she falls asleep in your arms, you finally let yourself relax, too. Just for a moment, you can make yourself believe that the story that once upon a time began in Afghanistan might not be over yet and that’s all it takes that you, too can finally fall asleep. It was a pretty hard day, after all.