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It’s a particularly warm morning when Oliver’s eyes open. Through the large holes of the plane—or the gaping areas where the windows used to be—he can see a bright, burnt orange sky greet the sun as it rises. It isn’t every morning that he gets to see such a breathtaking dawn, much less enjoy one for any significant amount of time. The sight almost makes him smile. He takes a long, deep breath; the air smells like dewy grass and the smoky remnants of last night’s fire.
How much wood do we have left?
The thought occurs immediately following the moment.
We probably need to get more before the day is out.
Within seconds, Oliver’s focus falls back onto the only important task at hand: survival.
Everyday, like clockwork, Oliver wakes up—or gets woken up—and begins gathering any and everything useful for his survival and Slade’s: food, water, wood, and anything out of the ordinary that they find lying around the island. Of course, Slade is always up before the sun rises and often wakes Oliver hours later to help him collect valuables or begin an early training session. Whatever it may be, Oliver never wakes before he does.
So, when he makes a quick glance around the plane out of habit and settles his gaze on a sleeping Slade, he doesn’t know if he should be pleasantly surprised or gravely concerned.
A closer look at his mentor lying down with his arms crossed over his chest, looking much paler compared to his usual warm-toned complexion, proves the latter.
Oliver won’t dare wake Slade with the touch of his hand, or even a gentle sword poke. He’s never woken him up before, which means he has no idea just how violently he could react to feeling something on or near him while he sleeps. So…
“Slade.” At first it’s a whisper because, of course, Oliver thinks highly of Slade’s capabilities. The man has agility like a ninja; Oliver thinks he’ll hear it clearly and snap awake, ready to get busy.
Slade doesn’t hear it, and he’s still asleep.
“Slade. Slade!” Now he’s desperately whisper-screaming, hoping to wake him up, and all the same praying that he doesn’t throw a knife in his direction out of surprise.
After the low volume calls fail to wake him, Oliver settles for a regular, even-toned demand.
“Slade, wake up,” he says.
At this, Slade’s eyes slowly open. Oliver sighs his relief.
“Hm.” Slade peaks at Oliver through puffy, bloodshot eyes and furrows his brows. He looks up, catching sight of the sunrise, and grunts.
“You look like shit,” Oliver offers. Slade rolls on his side and blinks harshly, trying to keep his eyes open and on the man sitting in front of him.
“I’m freezing,” Slade grumbles just loud enough for Oliver to catch. He brings his knees up and closer to his abdomen. Oliver stands and walks to the edge of Slade’s torn cot.
“You’re sweating.” Oliver observes the small droplets that run down Slade’s forehead. He watches as Slade shakes beneath his cover (more of a large, glorified bathing rag—part of a set they found in an abandoned duffel bag by the river). He stiffens under Oliver’s assessing looks.
“I don’t know what this is, but I’m fine. We don’t have to make it a big deal. We have a lot to do today.” Slade’s voice sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself that he’s okay. His words are as stubbornly determined as ever, but still he lays there. He can’t stay still, either. His teeth begin to chatter.
“You must’ve caught something. Maybe it was that turkey we ate,” Oliver places the back of his palm to Slade’s forehead. He’s burning.
“But you ate it, too.”
“Right…it’s probably just some flu. Seriously, you don’t look good. I’ll go get some water.”
“Yeah, okay…sure.” Much to Oliver’s dismay, Slade doesn’t fight him on the matter; his heavy eyelids fall again and, still with ever-present attitude, he turns over to his left side and continues to shiver. Slade at his best would shake himself awake, spring up and out of his cot saying “Okay, okay, let’s go; a lot to do” and push Oliver out of the plane.
He stays down as his breath begins to stagger.
Shit. Not good.
...
“Back,” is all Oliver says when he walks determinedly into the plane. Slade is sitting up now, but still wrapped in the bathing rag. He brings a can of water to Slade and places it on his lap. Then, he rechecks how hot he feels, touches his neck for lymphatic swelling, and promptly gets to work on boiling another pot of water to make tea. How hard could it be? It’s just like making it at home on the stove, like he used to do for his younger sister.
A nasty pang of guilt and longing hits his heart for but a second at the thought of Thea—but once the second is gone, his mind returns to the steps he has to take to make a fire.
“What?” Slade says a few seconds after Oliver has put a large pot of water over a fire; a delayed response to all of Oliver’s Jr. Ranger Scout first-aid camp training finally coming to use.
“I think you might have some throat-thing going on. Your lymph nodes are enlarged.” Oliver scoots himself closer to Slade. “Open your mouth.” Slade obliges so that Oliver can shine a flashlight towards the back of his throat. Upon spotting a number of inflamed white circles, he sighs and shakes his head. “Probably strep.”
Slade’s brows knit together as he struggles to swallow. “That explains why my throat is on fire.”
“You didn’t tell me it hurt to swallow.” Oliver speaks with his back turned away as he prepares the tea. He throws a handful of lavender buds into a hot container of water and hopes the simplicity of his concoction doesn’t render the drink useless to Slade’s ailment.
“Yeah, well…” Slade keeps his eyes on the container filled almost to the brim with steaming, cloudy liquid. The lavender in the water caused a pale purple swirl to spin just on the surface that spread to the sides of the rims.
Oliver watches as Slade stares into the container, jaw clenched and mouth frowned. He can’t tell if Slade is upset about the state of his health, annoyed at how Oliver has to tend to him, disgusted at the look of the tea, or a combination of all three. Whatever the reason is for his stilted countenance, Oliver just sighs for lack of knowing exactly what to say.
But…that doesn’t stop him from speaking up two seconds later.
“I hope it’s decent.” Slade looks at him now—less annoyed but more defeated.
“Is this just water and lavender?” Oliver didn’t notice just how hoarse Slade’s voice became until he posed his question and almost all the regular, gruff depth was gone from it.
“I…well, I mean–yeah.” Oliver only shrugs, but quickly nods at Slade to drink up. “It’s better than nothing.”
“No, I could’ve harvested more herbs and made it ten times better,” Slade spits back with such bother that Oliver is nearly certain it’s coming from an internal frustration, not the quality of the tea.
“Yeah, I’m sure. You couldn’t even sit up an hour ago. Just drink.”
Slade huffs and reluctantly does what he’s told. Oliver watches carefully as he takes a few gulps of his brew, hoping it’s easier to swallow and does its job coating his throat.
That’s how Oliver’s mother used to help his sore throats.
Another sting of familial longing. Fortunately, though, it’s quickly shaken off when Slade lets out a few crunchy coughs. Oliver only grimaces at the sound.
“You know,” He moves to flop on his back a few feet away from Salde, “it’s not a crime to be sick. It’s not your fault. It’s better than you or I being on the brink of death.”
Slade doesn’t answer. He’s taking larger gulps of the tea now despite the short hacking fit.
“How was it?” Oliver tries again after Slade seems to have finished the entire container. He just holds it in his two hands, not looking at Oliver.
“It tasted like piss.”
“Oh, good.”
Slade can’t help the smirk that turns up the corner of his mouth. “It was easy to drink, at least. You know—besides the taste. It felt good going down.”
Oliver raises a brow and gives a proud tongue click.
Then there’s silence. Neither of the men look at each other as the lack of noise settles in the air. Oliver has to break it.
“Do you…feel better? Are you still cold?” He tries to smile genuinely but it just turns into something that looks pained and awkward.
Slade rolls his eyes and sighs. The wall is back up; he puts the container down on the floor and shoves his hands into his sweater pockets.
“Hey, I’m just trying to help, man,” Oliver asserts.
“Well, what the fuck would I have done if you weren’t. Huh? What would I have done if you were sick too?” Slade snaps with a glare that Oliver doesn’t know how to react to. All he can do is furrow his brows and bite the inside of his cheek. “You shouldn’t have helped me.” Slade stands up suddenly and forcefully. Oh brother.
“That’s bullshit, Salde.” Oliver’s up now, too. He follows as Slade stomps out of the plane.
“You know, I could have left you out here. I could have left you alone. I didn’t need you.” Slade keeps walking, he doesn’t turn back.
“What the hell does that have to do with–”
“I was going to. I was going to just…just leave. I barely gave it a second thought, kid!” Now he’s coughing. Or, is he laughing? Or both? It takes a second for him to stop and Oliver almost thinks he’ll vomit.
“Well, whoop-dee-doo, I’m here anyway,” Oliver chuckles, hysterically annoyed and helplessly confused. He catches up to Slade and reaches out a hand. “What’s wrong with getting a little bit of help-”
Slade grabs Oliver’s outstretched arm with a grip that elicits a quick “Ah!” Before he knows it, Oliver is drawn in, flipped, slammed, and laying flat on his back in the grass. Slade stares at him with bulging eyes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Oliver shouts louder than he needs to on purpose.
“I’ve been surviving on my own for a long time–a long fucking time!” Slade kneels to Oliver’s level and points a finger to his chest. “I haven’t needed help. I won’t need help. I don’t want to get any more help. Not from you.”
“...But you helped me.” Oliver grabs Slade’s arm tightly, but not as tight as Slade grabbed him; it’s a firm grip, but not one of malice. He moves to sit up, his back aching. “You helped me .” Oliver doesn’t know what else to say, as always. But, Slade’s pale-as-ever expression changes. He doesn’t free himself from Oliver’s hold. He purses his lips, which lack a healthy color. Beads of sweat drip from his forehead and onto the tip of his nose. His eyes are dry and red and Oliver is almost certain his faint breath is coming out in wheezes.
“I don’t–” He doesn’t finish for what seems like several minutes; he clasps Oliver’s hand and pulls him off of the ground before he does. “I don’t think I could do it on my own…” Oliver opens his mouth to say something, but closes it before anything comes out. “I couldn’t. Not anymore.” I’d be fucked without help now, and that scares me. I can’t do this alone again.
Oliver tries to reach out again, lifting his left hand slower to the tense dip between Slade’s shoulder and neck. He rests his hand there when Slade shows no indication of rejection, he just looks down and away. His face is unreadable again, but Oliver knows he has to speak. Before he does, he catches sight of a dragonfly fluttering around their feet amongst the blades of grass. It lands on Oliver’s shoe–he thinks nothing of it.
“Good. I couldn’t either.” I’m here and you found me for a reason. I’m not going anywhere.
Slade doesn’t look up. But, he does smirk at the dragonfly.