Chapter Text
It first appears after a night of drunken partying, as he sits on the balcony of the hotel–his legs dangling between the railing–as he wondered how much louder the pounding in his head would have to be to drown out his father’s lecture, his mother’s disappointing glances, and every television within a hundred mile radius wagering when his next screw up would be. Having a soulmate mark wasn’t uncommon–it was often used as a foolproof pick up line. A “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours” type thing.
But in his twenty years, Oliver Queen had never known someone to have one–not his parents, not his best friend, not even his girlfriend. So when the faint mark appeared as a warmth upon his hand, his bitter laugh rang out into the quiet Starling City night. Of course it would appear now, he thought, as he took another swig from the bottle next to him. Because it seemed the universe thought he needed yet another expectation thrust upon him–another person he would ultimately let down.
As he glanced down at the marks appearing on his palm, he almost laughed again. They were scribbles–various ones and zeroes–jotted down in haphazard lines and sequences.
Fate clearly had a sense of humor.
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As the years passed, he watched different jots appear on his arms and hands. Computer codes. Grocery lists. Phone numbers. Always in the same hand.
The question of who she was–where she was–always buzzed at the fringes of his consciousness. Sometimes, on nights like that first one, he would wonder if she was just has messed up as he was. Or maybe she would think he was a spoiled playboy who needed to get over himself. Or perhaps she would blaze into his life, throwing him him just enough off balance to set him right again.
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With the scars that began to build on the island, he often forgot about the innocent marks of a soulmate he had never met–and probably never would. However, when the nights were cold from an endless rain and his body was still wound from training with Shado, he would lay on his mat running his fingers over whatever marking had appeared–trying desperately to absorb the small flicker of warmth into his entire body.
They varied less–now just complex codes jotted down in a rush–and they came less frequently, until they disappeared altogether.
He thought perhaps his time on the island had severed his soulmate bond until the night before their attack on Fryers’ camp when he felt a prick on the palm of his hand–as if he had grasped the stem of a rose to tightly. And as he laid down, he had the unexplainable urge to cry.
After that all traces of his soulmate marks disappeared.
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In the remaining four years on the island and his return home, he had all but forgotten about the marks. His mind too consumed with his mission, the list, concealing an identity that felt more real than his own name did. As his team grew with a soldier and a genius, that faint buzzing became imperceptible–he couldn’t pinpoint when exactly but he chalked it up to dying and coming back again. After all, if Lian Yu could affect the bond, then near death experiences had to affect it as well.
It wasn’t until they were in Russia that the marks reappeared again, and as they did he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that he was right.
He was thrown off balance.
For as Anatoly drove them through the frigid city, Oliver watched as Felicity pulled a pen from her purse and scribbled the number of Diggle’s cell in the Gulag onto her hand. He felt the warmth in his own palm simultaneously, trying to subtly tighten it into a fist. Even though it was a matter of seconds–he watched her write with a mixture of awe and fear–for as she wrote the number down it was almost as if time slowed and he could feel each one being formed on his skin; each number condemning him to an impossible fate.
Because of course it was her. The girl he couldn’t have. The girl he had to keep at arms length or his promise to protect her and keep her safe would crumble like a house of cards.
For Felicity Smoak wouldn’t just be a woman he loved, she would be his soulmate.
The soulmate of the Arrow. The only way she would be more vulnerable is if he painted a target on her back and left her alone in the middle of the Glades.
So as the warmth radiated across his palm–stronger than it had ever been before–he blocked it out. It was a road he couldn’t–would never–go down.
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Except four weeks later he finally realized how hard that vow would be to keep. When the young CI had sped into town, with his intelligence and boyish charm, Oliver had to use every ounce of his self discipline not to shout it out loud.
Felicity Smoak was his. His soulmate. Not Barry Allen’s. Not anyone else’s.
But he couldn’t. It was just another thing to bury and if he had to suffer knowing looks from his all-too observant brother, then so be it.
And as he reigned in his jealousy–even inviting the kid to his mother’s party in apology–he thought he had succeeded. That he would be able to maintain his distance.
However that plan was shot to hell when he rambled about partners and worrying–the result of which was another warm mark on his skin that night.
In the harsh light of the foundry he tugged his shirt up and found the cause.
An small arrow was marked upon his skin–brighter than any mark that had come before. And as he ran his thumb across it, he couldn’t help but let out a small laugh.
Because he was irrevocably in love with his soulmate and there wasn’t anything he could do about it