tushanshu_logs | [Closed] Walk Away

Entry tags:

[Closed] Walk Away

Characters: Jack Frost, Oliver Queen / PART TWO: + Kyle Rayner / PART THREE: + Connor Hawke / PART FIVE: + Zatanna Zatara
Date: Following this showdown and Jack's horrible excuse. Exact length of time to be determined.
Location: One of Tu Vishan's abandoned villages (as outlined here) near the shell's edge, a few hours outside Keeliai and by the mountains.
Situation: Taking issue with Oliver's plan of action, Jack has brought him outside the city to see if he can't get his head on straight. Part Two & Three: After their return, there are still some things to answer for.
Warnings/Rating: Ollie's probably not happy, so associated warnings there.

Jack had been out to these areas several times since his arrival, so he flew straight and unerring across the barren landscape, stirring up heavy storm clouds in his wake, pregnant with snow that was only partially intentional, reacting to his emotions. When they finally touched down at the outskirts of a burned husk of a village, Jack dragged Oliver's unconscious form into the most complete building. It wasn't great, but it had four walls and most of a roof and that was good because Oliver was heavy and it didn't help that Jack couldn't stop replaying their conversation in his mind, over and over.

"What if someone starts coming after you the way you're going after these kedan?!"

"Then I kill them."

"Wrong answer."

So when the man awakes, he will find himself under a blanket but sans boots (and said footwear being nowhere to be seen) and Jack sitting in the windowsill, looking out at a thick curtain of falling snow and humming something of a song under his breath.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Just like that, Jack hands Oliver the knife. It's easy. A one-word, one-syllable solution.

You.

It's a measure of how much he's changed that he hesitates. Forces himself to think through the choking nausea to consequence.

He doesn't deserve that. It's Diggle and Oliver practically unravels at the blessing of a familiar voice. Tell him.

Tell him what?

"I was a prisoner," he says, atonal. He has to close his eyes - the fire reminds him of torchlight on the cages. "I was trapped for a long time."

Jack's chest feels tight like something is sitting on it but he nods slowly, his expression solemn to tell Oliver he understands exactly the depth of what he's being told.

I didn't know.

It wasn't any excuse and even if it was, he wouldn't dare. He was not (he wanted to believe) so callous.

"I don't want you to be trapped. Out here," one pale hand indicated the small hut lit only by the firelight, then pointed at Oliver's chest.

"Or in there."

He almost laughs. Let someone in. Thea's unyielding advice. He's trying. He's tried. It's hard, and he can't remember if it's supposed to be.

God does he miss his family.

"Little late for the last part," he finally says, and it sounds close to normal. The adrenaline whiplash is exhausting. "How did you... get us here?"

"It isn't," Jack disagreed immediately. "It just takes practice to remember."

Because Oliver must have known how at one point, Jack knows, and thinks it's still there under all these masks and arrows and that awful green face paint. He knows it because there's a carefully patched hole in the sleeve of his hoodie and beneath that had been an equally gentle patch on his arm that Oliver hadn't owed anybody, certainly not someone he'd been able to see for all of thirty seconds.

But he'll let this conversation rest for the moment, because it takes its toll. He reaches instead for a few more sticks to lay gently across the fire, careful not to smother it. The flames gutter slightly at his nearness but there's enough heat in the pit to keep it from doing any harm.

"We flew," he answered and gets back to his feet, moving towards the window. "Well, I flew and you rode. But don't worry, that's how we'll get back too, once this snow stops. Neither of us are walking that far."

"It isn't that easy. It isn't as easy as... practicing and remembering."

Though he has practiced. Pushed himself into fragile admissions of the truth. It's started to feel less like he's giving something up. More like he's paying out, somehow - earning the patience of friends and family.

"It won't change what I do."

Except what he does is who knows how far from here in a city that these people have never heard of. Oliver touches the exposed shell where it comes up to a gap in the floor. "I scare people," he says, quietly. "When I have to I kill people."

"But it's the right place to start," the teen finishes.

Jack is quiet for several long moments, almost as though Oliver's admission had gone unheard... but it had been very much received and he has to think (actually stop and think this time, Jack!) before he replies because he doesn't want (can't afford) to screw this up, not this time, he can't make a mess of (everything) the situation when it's so important.

"You have scared people," he finally says, pointedly putting the emphasis on the action rather than the person. "But not for the reasons you think."

It's clear at a glance that he doesn't understand what Jack is getting at. Yes, he has scared people. He just said that. It's a tool, plain and simple. A dirty tool - Kyle drove that point home - but a necessary one, and it saves him putting arrows through those who might still have opportunity to redeem themselves if they want to take it.

"Don't you ever scare yourself?" Jack's question tumbles out before he can stop it, silently curses that it sounds faintly desperate.

"You're like two people. And I don't mean how you're Oliver and how you're..." An ineffectual gesture at the leather and green that he wears, but it gets the point across and then it's like a dam breaking and everything rushes out.

"When you got here and I saw you that first time, I said you were angry and it worried me. But I saw you come back from it when you helped me and I thought you were going to be okay, I saw that it seemed like you knew people here and I... I just assumed that there were people you could get help from. But then last night you were... were hateful when you went after those kedan! Yeah, they were criminals and they were breaking the law and they probably deserved a good knock on the head for it but not like that. You were trying to kill something and it wasn't the kedan, they were just there like targets, like... like collateral damage. And you're not that person, Oliver. It's not the killing, it's not the fear, you can still... still do those things and maybe they're not right but they don't make you into someone you're not. And I should have checked, it was wrong to just think that everything would just turn out fine and I'm sorry."

Jack is apologizing to him. Jack is... apologizing to him? And not for the fight or bringing him out here. It takes Oliver a few seconds to process exactly what Jack is sorry for, and then he goes over the rest of it, searching for what made the spirit think he was responsible.

"What I did wasn't your..." Except he doesn't think that's exactly it. He can't tell Jack that he wouldn't have killed the kedan either, because truth told he might have. And it would have been excessive. Logically that isn't hard to parse. "Why are you sorry?"

They're both equally confused, staring across the fire at each other. "For not seeing that you needed help," Jack answered, because it was plain to him. "That's what friends should do."

"I don't need help."

Automatic. He leans back against the wall, frowning, his nerves finally as steady as they're going to get. "That's really why you brought me out here."

"You told me you'd kill anyone that came after you," Jack responded. "And with the way you were going? Someone would have. What would have happened if it was someone from here? What if it was someone from your home that arrived and found out?"

He paused to let that sink in, and his voice quieted again. "You might not want help but I think you need it. You don't have to do everything by yourself, Oliver. Trust me, I know what that feels like."

Jack finally sat back, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Suddenly he felt drained and outside, the snowfall slaked sharply. "Of course that's why. It sure wasn't for the charming decor."

Jack lands a real hit for the first time.

Diggle would ask what was wrong with him. McKenna would arrest him. He can only imagine how Felicity would react. And Thea- his mom. Oliver can imagine their faces far too clearly, and the guilt of it feels strangling.

"Yes, I do," he says, almost as quiet as the breaking snow. All right, not entirely alone. But in the end what he does is still his responsibility. His father's book is his responsibility. No one else's. He wouldn't ask anyone else to fight or, yes, kill, for his father's sake.

He can't blame Jack for not getting it - Diggle doesn't either, though in a different way. Besides, when Digg redirects Oliver's focus it's always to a target worth pursuing. Digg's targets are freeing. He never feels like Atlas when he's after them - and the takedown always results in immediate and tangible good.

Oliver closes his eyes, unconsciously mimicking Jack. "I miss it." The statement surprises him, even if it's true. "It never gets this quiet in the city. Not even in the manor."

Edited 2013-02-26 20:51 (UTC)

Jack exhales a stream of frost towards the ceiling when Oliver continues to insist he has to be alone. The winter spirit had spent three centuries doing his own thing, relying on no one except himself and he understood the temptation to stick with what was familiar. He wants to say well it hasn't worked out so great for you thus far but he doesn't, bites his tongue (literally) and says nothing. There's been a lot put out into the air between them and like a snowglobe, maybe it's better to let things settle and see where they sit before shaking it up again.

"I always went up into the mountains when I wanted quiet," Jack answered and wondered, belatedly, if that had actually factored into which of the abandoned villages he'd chosen for this sojourn.

"Tell me about the manor?"

He shrugs without opening his eyes. "It's a house."

Which shows how out of touch with reality he still is, even after five years of brutal reeducation.

"My grandpa built it. Part of it. When Queen Consolidated took off my dad built it up. It was always huge when I lived there. Lots of old furniture and vases and stuff - the kind of things you don't get to sit on, you get to impress people with them." There's a heavy note of irony in that, but it's more fond than scornful. "Way too much yard for us to actually use. I don't know. It's home."

It is. Even after being gone as long as he was, the smells and colors of the place were instantly familiar. Every scraped railing and chipped sedan from when he and Thea were little. Even the places dust gathered, no matter how many times the maids went over them. Home.

"It sounds really nice," Jack's voice was sincere. "There's something special about being able to live in the place where you grew up. Do you have a big family?"

A few seconds of silence before he says, "No."

Oliver shifts long enough to add a little more fuel to the fire. "Me, my sister, my mother. My father died five years ago when the boat we were on sank."

A partial lie, but the same one he's been telling for months, to everyone but Diggle. "My stepfather is missing. Has been for almost two months."

It's still strange referring to Walter as his stepfather, and he won't ever do it in the man's presence, but Thea loves him, Moira loves him, and Oliver respects that about him.

Edited 2013-02-26 22:54 (UTC)

"I'm sorry," Jack says and it's devoid of the typical tone of social platitudes, as though the spirit doesn't actually know how not to be genuinely remorseful about things like this. "And I hope your stepfather comes home safely."

Another silence.

"Me too."

He does, he really, earnestly does, for the same reason he called Walter stepfather. Thea cares more than she'll show and his mother - his mother almost broke without Walter there. He doesn't want to see her hurting. It's one of the reasons he hasn't looked very hard at the possibilities regarding the man's disappearance. He doesn't want to turn up evidence that Moira Queen's second husband is as unlucky as her first.

Oliver rests his head against the wall again, watching snow come down though one of the small holes in the roof.

"Do spirits have families?"

There's a hint of an indrawn breath that wouldn't have been audible if not for the quiet of the room, and Jack shakes his head after a moment. "No, but I had one before I became a spirit."

Then realizing that it seemed too cryptic he continued, "My parents and... my little sister."

The implication of the title spirit means Oliver's not going to ask about how Jack got where he is now. He's tactless, not mean. ...Not always mean.

But.

Well.

Little sisters, man.

"What's her name?"

Edited 2013-02-27 01:36 (UTC)

Little sisters indeed and Jack pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, fingers tightening in the blue material so that new frost crept along its seams.

"I don't know," he answered finally, weighted and guilty. "I should but... when I got those few memories back, it just wasn't there. I know what she looked like but I can't-- can't remember."

Edited 2013-02-27 02:06 (UTC)

That's a whole different kind of nightmare. He can't imagine what that would be like, just not remembering, not being able to. There were times when he almost forgot his family's faces. When the only people he could picture with clarity were his father and Laurel. But never their names.

"I'm sorry," he says. It's his turn to mean it.

The winter teen pulled in a deep breath and then gave Oliver a smile, slightly weary but accepting. His fingers uncurl from his sleeves.

"It's all right. I remember that she was cute as a button and when she was born she was so small and that it was my job to look out for her always. I remember that I saved her. Those were my important memories."

Oliver lets silence fall again, thinking about Thea. The fear of seeing her in that hospital bed, the anger at the police and the frustration and worry at the idea that she'd been out on the road high.

Candy canes at Christmas. When he'd been the one in the bed and she'd been the one angry and afraid. No cheating.

"Did you choose this? The whole. Winter thing."

Edited 2013-02-27 13:46 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject