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shallowzTitle: Help
Fandom: Arrow
Rating: pretty safe
Warnings/spoilers: All episodes through Year's End
Word count: around 700
Disclaimer: Not ours, just for fun.
Summary: Missing scene for Year's End.
Fandom: Arrow
Rating: pretty safe
Warnings/spoilers: All episodes through Year's End
Word count: around 700
Disclaimer: Not ours, just for fun.
Summary: Missing scene for Year's End.
Help
Oliver didn’t ask for help. Coerced, offered, approached, but ask? Diggle fought the sinking in his gut for the nth time since receiving Oliver’s distressed call.
There. He turned into the alley, braking to a stop. Peering up through the windshield, he watched the helicopter’s searchlights make a sweep. The signal brought him here, but he couldn’t risk driving any further. Pulling the duffel out of the trunk, he started his search.
Alarming as it was, Diggle found him a few minutes later broken arrow shafts jutting out of his back, the side of his face pressed into the gravel. Oliver hadn’t gotten very far and the fact he remained free was a miracle Diggle would revisit later. He removed the radio from Oliver’s hand tucking into his own jacket pocket.
Help
Where to start?
Oliver’s breathing sounded off. Sliding his hand down around Oliver’s torso, Diggle felt the ribs under his fingers shift. The groan from Oliver confirmed broken ribs and the need to take him to the hospital.
No self-treatment this time. Diggle knew basic aid. Knew what to do with a bullet wound. Knew he was out of his depth even as he dug the scissors out of the first aid kit.
The blood soaked hooded jacket went first, clean side up to be placed under Oliver’s head. Diggle didn’t want to know how the shafts were broken, but suspected Oliver had done it himself. And knowing Oliver, Diggle pulled those shafts out, damaging more muscle and flesh on purpose to disguise arrows caused those wounds, so as not to conflict with whatever story he’d create to explain Oliver’s condition.
A strangled moan.
Help
Searchlights passed overhead. Not much time. Nor did Oliver have much. Judging from his breathing, Diggle was fairly certain Oliver only had one lung functioning.
Everything in him screamed for him to call a medic. The fear he could do irreparable damage to Oliver in moving him slammed into the knowledge of what Oliver’s wishes would be. Not the first time those two thoughts collided. Would be far from the last.
Placing gauze pads over the wounds, Diggle wrapped a gauze strip around twice to hold them in place and slow the bleeding.
Another pass of lights overhead. Couldn’t wait any longer. Shoving any remaining evidence, including the arrows, into the duffel, Diggle tossed the strap over his shoulder, then hefted Oliver into his arms grimacing more at the muffled scream, than the solid weight he held.
Keeping to the dark shadows of the warehouses, he started back to the car, Oliver’s head lolling against his shoulder.
With relief, Diggles maneuvered Oliver into the blanket-covered backseat. Close quarters made it awkward, but Diggs took out he scissors once again and cut Oliver’s all too recognizable green leather pants off. Once done, he cocooned Oliver in the blanket, and manhandled his legs in order to close the car door.
After that, avoid the searching helicopter and race toward the hospital. In the crazy way time moved, it took too long and no time at all. Hardest part and most surprising part – letting the gurney wheeling Oliver away go without him. Instead he answered the rapid-fire questions of the nurse, handed over Oliver’s insurance card and asked that Oliver’s arrival remain as private as possible. Explaining his status as a bodyguard and he held Oliver’s power of attorney.
Oliver was nothing if not thorough.
After that, waiting and staring at the floor, not calling the Queens. Not yet. Again, the weird time shift. The ER doctor stood in front of him, reciting Oliver’s injuries, but it was the ‘he’ll be fine’ that finally allowed him to draw a full breath.
Afghanistan was easier.
Thanking the doctor, he pulled out his cell and called the Queens, regretting that it couldn’t be a better Christmas for all of them.
*****
Diggle remained. Remained while Oliver beat himself up in what he regarded as his failure. Sat in that chair, gave his opinion on Oliver’s failure.
Remained sitting until Oliver started waver on his feet. You couldn’t push Oliver. He did plenty of that himself - to the point of collapse. Then, Diggle could step in.
Because Oliver didn’t ask for help.
Oliver didn’t ask for help. Coerced, offered, approached, but ask? Diggle fought the sinking in his gut for the nth time since receiving Oliver’s distressed call.
There. He turned into the alley, braking to a stop. Peering up through the windshield, he watched the helicopter’s searchlights make a sweep. The signal brought him here, but he couldn’t risk driving any further. Pulling the duffel out of the trunk, he started his search.
Alarming as it was, Diggle found him a few minutes later broken arrow shafts jutting out of his back, the side of his face pressed into the gravel. Oliver hadn’t gotten very far and the fact he remained free was a miracle Diggle would revisit later. He removed the radio from Oliver’s hand tucking into his own jacket pocket.
Help
Where to start?
Oliver’s breathing sounded off. Sliding his hand down around Oliver’s torso, Diggle felt the ribs under his fingers shift. The groan from Oliver confirmed broken ribs and the need to take him to the hospital.
No self-treatment this time. Diggle knew basic aid. Knew what to do with a bullet wound. Knew he was out of his depth even as he dug the scissors out of the first aid kit.
The blood soaked hooded jacket went first, clean side up to be placed under Oliver’s head. Diggle didn’t want to know how the shafts were broken, but suspected Oliver had done it himself. And knowing Oliver, Diggle pulled those shafts out, damaging more muscle and flesh on purpose to disguise arrows caused those wounds, so as not to conflict with whatever story he’d create to explain Oliver’s condition.
A strangled moan.
Help
Searchlights passed overhead. Not much time. Nor did Oliver have much. Judging from his breathing, Diggle was fairly certain Oliver only had one lung functioning.
Everything in him screamed for him to call a medic. The fear he could do irreparable damage to Oliver in moving him slammed into the knowledge of what Oliver’s wishes would be. Not the first time those two thoughts collided. Would be far from the last.
Placing gauze pads over the wounds, Diggle wrapped a gauze strip around twice to hold them in place and slow the bleeding.
Another pass of lights overhead. Couldn’t wait any longer. Shoving any remaining evidence, including the arrows, into the duffel, Diggle tossed the strap over his shoulder, then hefted Oliver into his arms grimacing more at the muffled scream, than the solid weight he held.
Keeping to the dark shadows of the warehouses, he started back to the car, Oliver’s head lolling against his shoulder.
With relief, Diggles maneuvered Oliver into the blanket-covered backseat. Close quarters made it awkward, but Diggs took out he scissors once again and cut Oliver’s all too recognizable green leather pants off. Once done, he cocooned Oliver in the blanket, and manhandled his legs in order to close the car door.
After that, avoid the searching helicopter and race toward the hospital. In the crazy way time moved, it took too long and no time at all. Hardest part and most surprising part – letting the gurney wheeling Oliver away go without him. Instead he answered the rapid-fire questions of the nurse, handed over Oliver’s insurance card and asked that Oliver’s arrival remain as private as possible. Explaining his status as a bodyguard and he held Oliver’s power of attorney.
Oliver was nothing if not thorough.
After that, waiting and staring at the floor, not calling the Queens. Not yet. Again, the weird time shift. The ER doctor stood in front of him, reciting Oliver’s injuries, but it was the ‘he’ll be fine’ that finally allowed him to draw a full breath.
Afghanistan was easier.
Thanking the doctor, he pulled out his cell and called the Queens, regretting that it couldn’t be a better Christmas for all of them.
*****
Diggle remained. Remained while Oliver beat himself up in what he regarded as his failure. Sat in that chair, gave his opinion on Oliver’s failure.
Remained sitting until Oliver started waver on his feet. You couldn’t push Oliver. He did plenty of that himself - to the point of collapse. Then, Diggle could step in.
Because Oliver didn’t ask for help.
