Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Arrow or its characters and in no way intend any copyright infringement. This is simply to be enjoyed, preferably while sitting outside, taking in the beautiful summer air.
Of Unresolved Endings and Lingering Interims
Her breath catches.
She goes absolutely still.
Not because it's the vigilante – Starling's masked hero.
Not because it's the CEO – well former, for thoroughness' sake – of Queen Consolidated. And her boss for that matter.
But, because it's Oliver – blond haired and tragically blue eyed.
Oliver, who is her colleague.
Oliver, who is her friend.
Oliver, who has time and time again put her first, above himself.
The one who's taken the weight of an entire metropolis upon his shoulders.
The crazy party boy – returned – prodigal son.
The island changed him in ways people wouldn't be able to fathom.
She can't begin to imagine what he went through on that secluded piece of god-forsaken land –she doesn't even attempt to try.
Not because she doesn't want to waste her efforts.
Because she doesn't want to belittle his.
She knows her conjured thoughts will pale in comparison.
The scars – scattered over his shoulders, mapped out across the expanse of his back – are a testament to that.
And those are just the ones visible to the naked eye.
There are others.
Etched into his broken heart.
Plaguing his battered soul.
There is hurt embedded in his bones.
Running deep in his veins, thicker than his own blood.
He continues to put on a show. Silently accepting people's ridicule.
'If that's how they need to take out their aggressions,' he says, 'let them be.'
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So when he slips the syringe into her hand, folding her fingers over to cover it in her palm, she's not angry – she can't afford to be upset.
She simply understands.
(But, there's a split second.
A split second – between him mentioning that Slade has the wrong girl; that he – Oliver – is in love with the one in the room, and him putting the syringe in her hand – in which her comprehension is slightly delayed and her judgement somewhat clouded.
And a hair's breadth of a second is all it takes.
For a seedling of hope to be planted. For an abandoned flame to be rekindled.
For a split second she is almost convinced.
But she should have known better.
Because real life does not parallel the plot of Rapunzel or, Sleeping Beauty for that matter.
Felicity's never really believed in fairy tales.
Well, for the most part.)
'Do you understand?'
His lips are moving – his eyes searching – but she's no longer following.
She can't be expected to form words; she'll fail.
Miserably.
She nods her head – yes, she understands.
She knows what's at stake.
For Oliver.
For Diggle.
For Starling City in its entirety.
But does she have nothing to lose?
Whoever said all's fair in love in war certainly had no working knowledge or experience of either.
Being at someone's mercy physically, emotionally, more often than not, brings pain and heart break. She's not a masochist, but sometimes, even she gets tired of being strong.
She is human after all, is she not?
She can handle that it was him doing what needed doing.
Surely, worse things have been done than doling out false admissions of love in attempt to save lives.
She can handle that she had been a means to an end.
What she can't handle is that she fell for it.
For a fleeting moment she thought maybe it was true.
It's laughable – insane, even – she knows.
But something about the candid look in his eyes, the earnest set of his jaw, seemed to throw her.
She doesn't think about it anymore.
Much.
She doesn't think about it much. Anymore.
She really tries not to.
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After all's said and done – after Laurel's safe and Felicity's inoculated Slade; after Starling has come out of the line of fire again – and they're making their way off the island, there's a brief mention of the conversation that came to pass in Oliver's foyer. It's brief and they don't delve into the details; there's an exchange of words, a nodding of heads – tacit understanding.
They don't broach the subject again.
Oliver doesn't bring it up.
Felicity most definitely doesn't either.
She's fine.
Really, she is.
Sometimes, she catches John watching her.
And though he doesn't ever give himself away, she wonders how much he actually knows.
The look in his eyes never one of pity, but something else.
She never is able to put her finger on it.
So…all's well that ends well?
That's always been how she's looked at life; how's she's overcome problem after problem.
But right now; right now it's the interim that looms over her still, hanging above her head like a cloud before the deluge.
What do you have to say to that, Shakespeare?