A/N: I'm a firm believer that Oliver's decision to not kill- despite the fact that the people he's facing are very bad people- weakens him and allows for those opponents to hurt more innocents. So Oliver will, while still growing as a person, remain willing to do what needs to be done throughout this rewrite. Especially since Anastasia is a literal assassin.
*Unedited, you've been warned.*
The air is thick with humidity, the sky overcast and the weak amount of sunlight shining through the clouds washes the whole island in a dreary gray. The only other colors decorating the small, isolated, land is the dark green of the trees and the vibrant flash of red darting through them. The man in the lead blends in, his green leathers melding smoothly with their surroundings and rendering him almost invisible, but his companion is impossible to miss. Her hair is long, and shockingly red, liquid fire tumbling around her shoulders and setting her apart from the forest around them. She's dressed in black, a skin tight catsuit clinging to her curves and providing her with the freedom of uninhibited movement.
The man is dressed in all green, leather pants stretching across his muscled thighs and a long sleeved hooded shirt that's composed of leather up to his pectorals, where a suede material takes over. While his outfit seems almost reasonable for a man stranded on a deserted island, her's is smooth and flawless. It doesn't blend in and is obviously expensive, making her a bit of an anachronism. Their booted feet pound over the leaf covered ground, the couple only slowing when they reach a rocky outcropping that stretches out over the barren beach and then drops off sharply, the beach's sandy expanse only decorated by a large wood pyre. The two drop into a crouch right along the tree line, far enough out on the outcropping to see their target, but not so far that they lose the safety the trees provide.
"Там," (There) the redhead points out a fishing boat buoying over the waves offshore, close enough that she can see the rust decorating it.
"I see it." Her companion replies, his too long hair and beard blowing around the sides of his hood with the salty breeze. It's going to rain. He drops his shoulder so the quiver slung across it slides off, dropping onto the ground in front of him. His long, deft fingers pull out a single arrow and strike it roughly against a nearby stone so it sparks and then catches fire. He quickly nocks the arrow and, taking less than a millisecond to aim, lets it fly. They watch as it slices through the air in a clean arc before landing amongst the wooden pyre, a few seconds passing before a bright explosion ignites the wood. Neither one of them moves as the bright flames seem to dissipate the dreary gray that had been washing them out, the heat of the blast radiating across the beach and over their skin. They both release a breath when the rickety fishing boat notices their signal, turning to cut through the choppy waves and towards two lost souls who are finally ready to be found.
The name of the island they found us on is Lian Yu. It's Mandarin for "purgatory". I've been stranded here for 5 years. I've dreamt of my rescue every cold black night since then. For 5 years, I have had only one thought, one goal... survive- survive and one day return home. The island held many dangers. To live, I had to make myself more than what I was, to forge myself into a weapon. I would be dead a hundred times over if it wasn't for Anastasia, and now she's at my side, prepared to help me save Starling from the darkness that has consumed it. I am returning not the boy who was shipwrecked but the man who will bring justice to those who have poisoned my city. My name is Oliver Queen.
The hospital room is stark white and only has one bed, not that they're complaining. They shared a bed before the 'rescue', and even though it was a much nicer bed than this one, they've slept in a lot worse conditions. Anastasia sits on the bed, her back stick straight and pressed to the wall so she's positioned in a way that gives her an uninhibited view of the whole room. Her eyes, with irises so green they seem to hold the forests of Lian Yu within their depths, dart between the door to her right and the man to her left. They're waiting for Moira Queen- the man's mother- to finally make an appearance, the doctors having already run their multitude of tests. Tests they'd already undergone in Hong Kong.
She takes in her lover as he stands before the glass wall, looking out over his city. His shoulders are back and his muscles tense, betraying his anxiety. His hair's much shorter now, almost a buzzcut, and that horrible beard has been trimmed away to just stubble thanks to a few hairdressers that'd been brought in to clean them up in Hong Kong. Her own red hair is now smooth and no longer full of tangles and twigs, the strands that used to fall around the bottom of her ribcage now chopped bluntly to rest just beneath her shoulders.
"О чем ты думаешь?"(What're you thinking?) She doesn't move from her place on the bed when she talks, speaking in her native Russian in case there's any nosy nurses or doctors lurking just outside the door to get a scoop on the return of the famous Oliver Queen.
"Слишком много вещей,"(Too many things) is his blunt reply, his shoulders tensing even further in obvious distress. Her lips thin as she watches him speculatively for a moment before gracefully sliding off the bed. She treads over to him, putting her back to the door despite the powerful instinct to keep an eye on it so she can protect Oliver's own exposed back. They're safe here, for now. She reaches up and puts a small, but deadly, hand between his shoulder blades.
"Oliver," she whispers, her eyes wide and beseeching when he finally turns to look down at her. "Don't let your mind run away with you just yet," she advises him in her thickly accented voice as her fingers tenderly, comfortingly, stroke his back. She tries her hardest to give him some of her strength simply through her touch, willing him to be okay. "Позвольте себе получать удовольствие от пребывания дома." (Allow yourself to enjoy being home)
He turns to fully face her with a gentle smile, his blue eyes shining as the weight on his shoulders lessens some. He wraps his large arms around her deceptively tiny frame and pulls her close, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair before pulling away to look down at her once more. "I love you."
"я тоже тебя люблю," (I love you too) she whispers back just before the tender moment is interrupted by the door to their room swinging open, a short but regal looking blonde woman surging in.
Anastasia tears from his grip and spins to face the intruder, her body almost dropping into an offensive pose but Oliver grabs her just in time, hauling her back and into his side. "No, no." He mutters, shaking his head at her- the arm around her waist is half comforting half restraining. She forces her muscles to relax, ignoring the bewildered look the woman that must be Oliver's mother shoots her way, and reminds herself that they're in Starling now. This isn't Lian Yu, or Russia, this is Oliver's home. Later on, when they put the plan in motion, her paranoia will be more warranted, but right now they're only seen as Oliver Queen the playboy billionaire and his unknown companion. There's no one after them- yet.
"Oliver," Moira Queen's watery and trembling voice rings out in the now silent room, causing two sets of eyes to snap her way.
"Mom," Oliver's voice trembles a bit too when he replies, and Anastasia can't help but to smile gently up at her возлюбленный (beloved), stepping out of his embrace and off to the side so he can move to hug his mom.
"My beautiful boy." Oliver is stiff in his mother's arms, obviously a bit uncomfortable, but Moira is too overwhelmed by the power of her emotions to notice. Anastasia does though, and she feels a little melancholy at the sight. Oliver has spent five years only being touched in ways meant to bring pain, so he doesn't know quite how to handle the physical show of affection. Anastasia had been the only exception during those five dark years, but it had taken years for them to find each other, years of Oliver receiving nothing but pain at the hands of others.
The hug doesn't last long, but to Oliver it feels like hours. He'd spent years imagining being held by his mother again, and he's angry at himself for not being able to enjoy it. For the way his muscles won't release the tension they're holding, for the way his skin crawls at the contact... for the way he has to physically restrain himself from pulling away before his mom's ready. He smiles tightly down at her as he steps away, moving to Anastasia's side and wrapping an arm around her.
He pulls her gently towards his mom and introduces her, grinning genuinely down at the woman in his arms, the smile shining with his love for her. "Mom, this is Anastasia. She's the reason I'm here today."
The redhead beams at Mrs. Queen, her hand coming up for the matriarch to shake. "Hello, Mrs. Queen." The woman blinks, clearly taken aback by her Russian accent, and then reaches out to shake her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"And you, Anastasia." Moira's eyes dart between the two survivors, her thoughts flying at a hundred miles an hour behind those blue irises that are so familiar to Anastasia and yet so foreign. "When will your family be arriving?" The ginger frowns, taking a step further into Oliver's side as his fingers tighten reassuringly around her hip, the man sending a confused look his mother's way.
"Oliver is my only family, Mrs. Queen." The other woman frowns at that, but Anastasia has a hard time deciphering what the cause of it is. Her whole life she's been trained to read people, to know what they're not saying based on their body language and facial expressions- but Moira Queen is oddly difficult to read. The Russian had been expecting the woman to have some ability to control what thoughts and feelings she made visible, her being a socialite and all, but this is way beyond that. The Queen matriarch has secrets and, whatever they are, Anastasia has a feeling that Oliver isn't going to like them.
"Anastasia will be staying with us, Mom." Oliver's voice is firm, leaving no room for argument, and the skin around his eyes tightens when his Mom's frown deepens.
"Oliver... I'm not sure that's such a good idea. You need the space to heal and reconnect with your family."
Oliver unconsciously straightens to his full height, his blue eyes hardening and his shoulders squaring. Anastasia shifts on her feet, an odd feeling rising in her chest at the sight of the familiar Bratva Captain making a reappearance. The tone of his voice is icy, and it brings Anastasia back to Russia, back to when Oliver had to order about dangerous men and bend them to his will.
"Anastasia is a part of that family. She's staying at the Mansion or I'm getting an apartment." Moira nearly flinches at that, her eyes flicking rapidly between her baby boy and the strange Russian at his side. He visibly softens at the sight of his mother being so obviously wounded by the guarantee. "I love her, Mom, and she has nowhere else to go even if I didn't."
Moira Queen nods reluctantly before sending the redhead a rigid smile and spinning on her heel. "I have a car waiting outside so come along you two. This room looks far from comfortable and it's time we got you home, Oliver."
The black sedan that's pulling up to the Queen Mansion is reminiscent of the kind Anastasia and Oliver would sometimes ride in when attending high profile Bratva gatherings, but nicer. The soft leather seat envelopes her aching body, the hours and hours of nonstop moving- from Lian Yu to the fishing boat, from the fishing boat to the hospital in Hong Kong, from the Chinese hospital to a plane, from the plane to the hospital in Starling, and now to Queen Manor- has been hard on her body and has provided little time for her to let her guard down and rest.
But Ana's body is used to being pushed to the extreme, to reaching its limit and then being forced to carry on so, while she's relatively aware of the discomfort, it's nothing compared to her past experiences and is far from at the front of her mind. Her eyes watch carefully out the window, her mind memorizing the route without her really processing it doing so, and Oliver's hand rests heavily on her knee.
Moira's the first one out when the sedan pulls to a stop and the driver moves around to open the door, the matriarch not wasting a moment before fleeing from the strangely heavy atmosphere. Oliver follows her, standing in the doorway and scanning the perfectly manicured lawn around them; he's never allowed Anastasia to go first once over the years that they've been together. He just can't, his instincts screaming that he must clear the area of any potential threats before Anastasia steps out into the open, an instinct born in the dangerous streets of Moscow.
She rolls her eyes at his overprotective tendencies but sits back and waits patiently. Both of them know full well that she's lethal, and more than capable of protecting herself, but Oliver needs this for his own peace of mind. The man is weighed heavily down by his constant feeling of responsibility for those around him and this small habit seems to help lift that weight a bit, so she doesn't protest. When nothing among their surroundings registers as off, he steps aside and takes the driver's place at the door, allowing the man to move back towards the trunk.
Anastasia steps gracefully from the car, looking every inch the sophisticated woman she is in the black pantsuit and Louboutin heels that Moira had forced them to stop and buy (she'd insisted that if Ana is going to be a part of their family then she must present herself as such), and her own eyes scan the area around them out of habit. Moira watches this whole process with interest, her brows furrowing as she observes their odd behavior. They behave like trained warriors- almost like how she's seen Malcolm behave- and not like a young couple that has spent years isolated, living in the woods like animals.
They don't have much for the driver to pull from the trunk, their only belongings being two wooden trunks. One is green and obviously handmade, the other is black and specifically designed to look as if Ana had made it herself on Lian Yu. So, it'll only take them one trip from the car to the house, a good thing since the couple don't plan on letting anyone else touch them.
When the driver lifts Oliver's trunk out of the car, the Queen man is quick to move around Anastasia and pull it from his grasp. "I've got it." He smiles at the driver with closed lips and the gesture is far from believable. Anastasia closes the car door with a thud and then moves to stand at Oliver's side, shorter than her lover even in the expensive heels. She grins disarmingly up at the Queen employee, a smile she's perfected over many years consisting of charming her way into parties or people's rooms so she can reach her mark, and he smiles back dazedly. After a few too many moments pass with the man continuing to stare at her the grins fades away, Oliver clearing his throat loudly and narrowing his eyes at the driver. The dark haired man shakes his head and turns back to the open trunk, reaching in to heave out her own crate. She steps forward, smiling again, and reaches out to take it. Her attempts are foiled when the man steps back and shakes his head, causing her smile to drop and her eyes to narrow the tiniest bit.
"Let me carry it for you, Miss. It's quite heavy."
"I dragged it all over a deserted island, I think I can manage carrying it into the house," she drawls out saccharinely, her smile sweet but her eyes hard. Oliver snorts, amused at her annoyance, and turns to look at his mom who's watching them with raised brows. He gives her a look and shrugs, smiling smally back at her when her lips twitch up at the corners. Anastasia huffs in annoyed relief when the man finally relinquishes his grip on the wooden box holding her only possessions and moves away from him towards Moira. The matriarch, seeing that the two have all their belongings, nods and spins on her heel to stride confidently up the rest of the drive and into the house.
"Вы до чертиков перепутали этого человека." (You confused the shit out of that man) Oliver leans down a bit to chuckle lowly in her ear, amusement thick in his voice as they follow his mother. "Он не знал, бояться или возбуждать." (He didn't know whether to be afraid or aroused.)
She peers up at him mischievously over her shoulder, green eyes sparkling in a way that screams trouble. "Боюсь. Определенно боюсь." (Afraid. Definitely afraid.) He grins back at her and then refocuses on his mother, who's swung one of the large front doors open and is now waiting for them in the foyer, a man Oliver doesn't recognize standing behind her shoulder.
"Your room is exactly as you left it. I never had the heart to change a thing." Moira smiles up at him, watching him closely as he takes in the mansion for the first time in half a decade. When his attention returns to her she steps aside, allowing Walter to meet her son halfway as the latter takes in the pictures decorating the table off to the side of the room.
"Oliver," the man says in a deep, British voice, both him and Moira noticing the way the Russian moves defensively closer to Oliver as Walter begins moving towards him, the action seemingly involuntary. "It's damn good to see you." Oliver's eyes finally drag themselves away from the photos and to Walter's face as he shakes his hand, his eyes betraying no sign of recognition. "It's Walter, Walter Steele."
The awkwardness only grows and that's when Moira steps in, smoothing over the bumpy introduction with an ease that only someone who's spent years as a socialite could. "You remember Walter, your father's friend from the company." She smiles promptingly up at her son, but he's no longer paying the two in front of him any attention, his blue eyes being drawn past them to the woman entering the room. The woman that had practically raised him. He steps to his right and stretches his hand back in offering to Anastasia, who's yet to say anything since they'd entered the house. She puts her smaller hand in his and moves to his side, matching him step for step as he approaches Raisa with a tenderness on his face that tells her this woman is incredibly important to him.
"It's good to see you, Raisa." He tugs Anastasia forward by the hand and practically presents the redhead to the maid. "Это Анастасия. Женщина, которая спасла мою душу." (This is Anastasia. The woman who saved my soul.) Raisa's face had lit up when Oliver had begun speaking her language, and her bright smile moves from him to the small woman he'd introduced, happily shaking her hand when offered.
"Приятно познакомиться, Раиса. Я столько всего слышал о тебе." (It's wonderful to meet you, Raisa. I've heard so many things about you.) Ana cups the maid's hand gently between both of her's and gives her a warm smile, affection for this woman forming simply because Oliver obviously loves her dearly, but also because she's happy to have another Russian in her new life. A little bit of home found in another person.
"Надеюсь, хорошие вещи?" (Good things, I hope?) Raisa questions back in Russian, squeezing Oliver's love's hand fondly before pulling away.
"Никогда не плохое слово." (Never a bad word.) Ana assures her, stepping back into Oliver's side and beaming up at him when he wraps his arm around her shoulders, the trio ignoring the looks sent their way and exchanged by the couple behind them.
Raisa nods and smiles genuinely at the sight of Mr. Oliver being loved the way he deserves, before her dark eyes move past them to focus on her employer. "Mr. Merlyn phoned. He wants to join you for dinner."
Ah, Ana thinks with a mental smile, the famous Tommy Merlyn. Moira answers the maid, and Oliver and Anastasia are aware that she's begins speaking to them at some point, but their attention has been drawn towards the stairs by the sound of door opening and then closing on the floor above them. Oliver pulls away from Ana and gravitates to the bottom of the stairs, his feet carrying him there without instruction as his mind scrambles to process the fact that he's about to see his little sister for the first time in five years. Her footsteps echo against the dark wood and Oliver is holding his breath as he waits for her to come into view, Anastasia watching him a bit worriedly. All of these reunions with loved ones he'd thought he'd never seen again is a lot to process, she knows, and Oliver isn't one to deal with his emotions in a healthy way- not that she can talk.
She can see the shock visibly ripple through his body when a teenage girl appears at the top of the stairs, her hair dark and long as it waves around her face. "Oliver?" Thea whispers, and her voice seems to be enough to knock him from his daze.
"Hey sis." He smiles softly up at her, his muscles relaxing for the first time since they'd left the hospital.
Thea beams and sprints down the stairs way faster than is safe, launching herself off the last step and into Oliver's arms, wrapping her own tightly around his neck. "I knew it! I knew you were alive. I missed you so much."
Oliver buries his face in her hair and squeezes her tightly to his chest, careful not to hurt her as he does so, and whispers out, "You were with me the whole time." He pulls away after a few minutes and sets her on her feet, moving to guide her over to Anastasia, more than ready to introduce the two most important women in his life to each other. "Thea, this is my girlfriend Anastasia."
The brunette snorts and rolls her eyes lightheartedly, smacking her brother in the chest with the back of her hand as she does so. "Only you could spend five years on a deserted island and come back with a supermodel of a girlfriend." The three of them laugh, Walter watching them fondly while Moira watches the redhead with something akin to suspicion.
"I'm so excited to finally be meeting you. I've been told so many stories I feel like I know you, Speedy." Anastasia reaches out to shake the girl's hand eagerly, almost desperate to be friends with her lover's beloved little sister.
Thea groans at the nickname, shooting her brother a glare with no heat as she shakes the Russian's hand. "That nickname is horrible."
"There's no escaping it, I think." Anastasia leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, her accent adding another layer of humor to the words.
"Sadly, I think you're right." Thea whispers back, both women eyeing Oliver from the corners of their eyes and causing him to chuckle.
"Alright, Thea." Moira cuts in, stepping up to place a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Let's give Oliver and his friend some time to settle in before dinner." She turns to Anastasia with an ingenuine smile, her eyes cold as she faces the woman she feels is an intruder in her home and her family's healing. "There's a guest room down the hall from Oliver's that you're welcome to."
Ana smiles, her face betraying none of the seething she's feeling inside- she is a spy after all- and nods in faux gratefulness. "Thank you, Mrs. Queen."
Oliver watches the interaction with hard eyes, holding back an angry frown at his mother's cold treatment of the woman he loves- this isn't exactly going the way he'd imagined their meeting going in the past. "Don't bother Raisa with setting up a guest room, Mom." He waves it off, continuing as if he doesn't realize that his mom is trying to put a physical and emotional distance between him and Anastasia. "Ana will be staying with me in my room."
"Oliver-" Moira starts to protest, only to be cut off by her son.
"Mom. We've been sharing sleeping arrangements for years, it's nothing new." He snorts before grabbing Ana's hand in one of his and picking up the trunk he'd set aside earlier, waiting a moment for her to grab her own, before leading her around his mother and sister and up the stairs.
"Oliver!" His mother calls after him angrily, but he doesn't stop. He's been through things his mom could never imagine, he's done things that would haunt her dreams, he's not the little boy he was when he left anymore. He's an adult who's survived the worst the world could throw at him and came out the other side still standing, he's not about to cave to the petty whims of Moira Queen simply because she expects him to be someone he's not. Anastasia follows him silently, steps silent and her words being held back until they are in the privacy of their room.
It's eerie for them to step into Oliver's childhood room, both feeling like they're standing in the grave of a boy long dead. Oliver hasn't been the Ollie Queen that left this room in years, and Ana can see traces of the man she knows today amongst the belongings long abandoned. It's odd to find pieces of the man she loves scattered about the room that definitely belonged to a spoiled and immature boy. This room used to be the chrysalis that had cocooned the caterpillar that was Ollie Queen tenderly within it, until the cruel sea had torn him violently away, forcing him to become the deadly butterfly standing by her side now.
She can feel the tension that he's radiating, his blue eyes sweeping across the room and seeing his own ghost rather than simply things. She tugs at his hand, prompting him to look down at her rather than the room. "Оливер? Мы можем остаться в комнате для гостей, которую мне предложила твоя мама, если хочешь." (Oliver? We can stay in the guestroom your mom offered me if you'd prefer.) He shakes his head in response and drops her hand to move further into the room, setting the green crate on the floor at the foot of his king sized bed and then dropping onto the mattress.
"Нет я в порядке. Мне просто нужна была минута." (No, I'm fine. I just needed a moment.) He pats the comforter beside him and raises a brow, smiling at her when she swiftly crosses the space between them and perches on the edge of the bed beside him. "I'm sorry my mother hasn't been the most welcoming."
"Please," Ana snorts as she flops backwards onto the sinfully comfortable bed, "I've dealt with much worse than your mother." He smirks down at her and then pushes back onto his feet, moving over to the desk he used to frequent. The air in the room grows contemplative as he lifts a framed picture off the desk, bringing it up to peer at it melancholily. He can feel Anastasia's green eyes watching him intently, the redhead having pushed up to rest back on her hands when she'd felt his mood shift. The frame is plain, but the photo it contains was one he used to treasure. It was taken one of the rare nights that Oliver spent at home rather than at the club, him, Laurel, and Tommy practically still babies.
They're piled nearly on top of each other in the picture- Laurel in the middle- on the floor in front of the sofa that sits in the Mansion's private family room (there's a second one that his mother uses to entertain their fellow billionaires but it's much less comfortable and much more formal). Their faces are smushed together, his hair shaggy and untrimmed, making him look like the jackass he was, and Laurel's hair is still its natural blonde since she didn't start dyeing it for another year. Tommy's face is rounder than it was even before Oliver had left on the Gambit, and all three of their eyes are sparkling with a mixture of amusement and wine, the bottle they'd been drinking out of just barely visible in Laurel's lap. The lighting is warm, but dim, the only source of light being the fire they'd lit in the fireplace. The picture radiates warmth and comfort, the memory and ease between the friends somehow being captured in the simple photo. He smiles sadly down at it, the contradictory emotions it evokes swirling within conflictingly.
He's pulled from his thoughts by the feeling of Anastasia's hand coming to rest tenderly, worriedly, on the small of his back, her chin tilting to rest on his arm just below his shoulder as she peers up at him. They stand like that in silence for a few moments before Oliver finally sets the frame back on the desk and turns to look down at her.
"Let's get changed," he says almost softly, both of them reluctant to disturb the intimate atmosphere that has filled the room. She nods and steps away, looking over at the crate she'd set down by the door before turning back to Oliver.
"I don't have anything to change into." She laughs, shrugging a shoulder as if having next to no belongings is something totally normal.
"Here," Oliver strides over to his closet and pulls the door open to tug out a t-shirt that would be too small for him nowadays- he has a lot more muscles than he used to- before tossing it over to her. "Wear this and the pants the hospital gave you. Tomorrow we'll head out and get you some clothes."
She catches it deftly with one hand and gives him a grateful smile. "Спасибо," (Thank you.) she says, moving to pull the hospital pants from where she'd stored them inside her crate, tucked beneath a utility belt decorated by red hourglass, before changing.
He nods, reaching back to pull his own shirt off as he speaks, "Пожалуйста" (You're welcome.)