AN: This idea came out of nowhere, and I've been frantically scribbling it down for the past two days. I've got it all written out already, it just needs editing, so don't worry about ridiculous waits between updates, like with my other WIPs (hides in shame.)
I would also like to say, that while I myself have been diagnosed with PTSD, my disorder is related to childhood traumas. I have absolutely no experience with war veterans suffering from it. With that in mind, I've done my best to make the portrayal in this story as accurate as I can, without using something so incredibly serious as a mere plot device.
Please also take precautions in regards to trigger warnings, if you feel that discussion of PTSD and trauma might affect you negatively, don't read. The next chapter talks about it a lot more than this one, and I would hate to make anyone uncomfortable.
Serious stuff aside... I hope you like this! And please tell me what you think! Feedback is food for the soul my friends.
I never meant to fall for you, but I
Was buried underneath
And all I could see was white
My salvation
For the past few months, the best part of Felicity Smoak's day, has been a breakfast date on the side of the road with an attractive homeless man who hardly talks.
It starts with a flat tire on an abandoned lane and a lot of cursing on her part because she never bothered to learn how to change the damn thing. And she knew that was going to come back and bite her in the ass one day.
And then there he is. Kneeling down beside her car without a word, roughened hands easily handling the heated metal and rubber.
She'd be lying if she said she isn't frightened the first time she lays eyes on him. He emerges from the woods like a mirage, an anomaly in an otherwise horribly predictable situation.
She remembers backing up against her car, fumbling with the keys in her hand, wondering desperately how effective a weapon they would be against a man of his size.
But he doesn't hurt her. His eyes, a startling blue, beautiful and wild, run over her face, tracing every feature until her cheeks burn beneath his appraisal.
And without her permission, her body relaxes, a sense of ease and safety washing through her as he nods once, before dropping to his knees and getting to work on her car.
At the time, it's the most bizarre thing to ever happen to her.
While her life has hardly been sheltered, and at twenty-five, she's suffered more than her fair share of heart ache and loss, nothing is quite as inconceivable as an unshaven savior with holes in his shirt, unscrewing bolts with his bare hands by the side of a deserted road on a Wednesday morning.
She does her own appraisal as he works, eyes running over the bunched muscles on his shoulders, the dirty cargo pants, the uncut hair.
She remembers wondering if he's homeless, and then the stabbing sense of shame that follows the thought that not many homeless people look like him.
As if beautiful people can't fall on hard times.
She's surprised that she doesn't feel afraid. That she isn't unnerved by his silent presence, by his sudden appearance, by the complete and utter inexplicability of the whole situation.
She was raised in Vegas by a single mother. She was taught to fear strange men on the streets, to skirt away from the unfortunate, and avert her eyes. It's a philosophy that speaks to the human existence. And one she's eternally grateful she abandons for good, right there, on that day.
She smiles at him once he stands, her spare tire securely in place, the wrench she keeps more as a weapon than a tool, held loosely in his left hand. She holds out her own small hand towards him, with only a slight tremor in her fingers. He hesitates, and she'll always remember the look in his eye right then, the moment he thinks about running from her, and decides against it. When the wildness recedes to the edges of the blue, and she sees the warmth he's capable of, for the first time ever.
His hand is big around hers, calloused and strong, but so gentle.
"I'm Felicity."
"Oliver." His voice is low and gravelly and she's sure it's unhealthy to be this attracted to a stranger she met on the side of the road.
He returns her smile then, small and barely there, but she swears her heart near stops all the same.
She's babbling about bagels a second later, and blushing as she grabs the bag from the passenger seat, carefully pulling out a sandwich and offering it to him.
He resists at first, but she's stubborn to a T, and it doesn't take her long to have him sitting opposite her on the grassy verge, sharing her breakfast bagel in comfortable silence.
She doesn't ask him any questions, and he doesn't offer up any information, and she's fine with that. His company is warm and despite the objective danger of the situation, that feeling of safety hasn't passed.
She watches him though, as subtly as she can, taking in the nervous tick in his fingers, and the way he stiffens at the slightest noise. He's jumpy and on edge, like he's ready to run at any moment.
But he chooses to stay, and share her breakfast, accepting her thank you for his act of kindness. And for that, as much as for his mechanical services, she's grateful.
An unexplainable sadness settles in her chest, when the last crumbs of their food are gone, and she looks at her watch and realizes how late she is for work.
There's a tug in her heart, like she doesn't want to say goodbye to him. Her beautiful wildman of a hero.
He seems to hesitate too, as though perhaps he's thinking the same.
And that's what spurs her to speak, more than anything else. The offer falling from her lips before her brain has a chance to catch up.
"You know, I take this road to work every morning. I can bring you your own bagel tomorrow, if you want."
His eyes flick to hers, clear and luminescent and she has to physically calm the thrumming of her heart.
"You don't have to do that."
"I'd like to."
He regards her, and she fears that he'll turn her offer down and this will become nothing but an anecdote to tell her friends.
But then he utters a single word and a warmth blossoms in her chest, taking root and flourishing.
"Tomorrow." With that he turns, reminding her of a wolf, slinking back into the forest, leaving her to wonder if she imagined the whole thing.
She takes the extra bagel the next day. And when she sees him waiting, the sliver of anxiety she hadn't even realized she'd been holding, dissipates.
It becomes something of a routine, she brings him coffee and bagels, every morning, meeting him by the side of the road in the very place they first met. He always looks surprised to see her, as though he wasn't expecting her to show up, but he's always there to meet her anyway.
She tries not to put too much thought in to why she keeps going back to him. She wants to say that she's doing it out of the kindness of her heart, being a good Samaritan and bringing a homeless man breakfast, simply because it's a nice thing to do. Such as him helping her, when she was vulnerable, and asking nothing in she knows that's not the case. She keeps going back, because she wants to see him again.
He's a man of few words, but as the days shift to weeks, she gathers little fragments of his story, and each one she treasures and stores away, evidence of his growing trust in her.
He tells her that he's a soldier, and from that she draws her own conclusions about his mental state. And if she goes home and spends hours researching the subject, she won't admit it anytime soon.
He fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. His long service was scattered with leaves spent with his family, a younger sister he only mentions once, briefly before his eyes cloud over and his lips fall shut.
Something went wrong though. She's unclear on exactly what happened. Whenever the topic of conversation drifts close to the moment that resulted in his current situation, he closes off from her. She doesn't push him. Her feelings for him, although perhaps inappropriate and unrequited, are true enough that she only wants to be a good point in his life, not another challenge. She doesn't want to force him to talk to her, doesn't want to make him feel as though he owes her anything.
And as long as he's in her life, in whatever strange capacity, she'll be happy.
She however, talks about herself with abandon. And he seems to enjoy listening to her babble. Sometimes she catches him watching her with a look that can only be described as awe in his eyes, rendering her momentarily speechless and bringing a flush to her cheeks.
He's a rough man with scarred hands and an unshaven face, but he feels real to her in a world that's merely drifted past her eyes for far too long. He's like an anchor, time feels more linear when she's with him, and she thinks that she might be able to understand that there's more to life than she knows, when she looks into his piercing eyes. It's a feeling she doesn't want to lose. A sense of hope and safety that rests with him and him alone. Which is as bizarre as it is ironic, because he's a homeless war vet with severe PTSD, safety and hope would likely be the last words any normal person would associate with him.
But she does.
So she keeps going back, and her heart keeps skipping a beat every time she lays eyes on him once again.
She knows in her heart that she's fallen in love with him, long before she ever admits it to herself. The very idea of it is a disaster in the making, and the sensible thing to do would be walk away before she gets in too deep.
But she never does, because she's drawn back to him again and again like a magnet.
The day he doesn't show up, she has a panic attack in her car, tears blurring her eyes as she stares at the empty road, devoid of his tall figure waiting where he always is.
They've met exactly here every day for two months, rain and shine and weekends alike, he's been there, waiting for her without fail.
He's never missed a day, and now he's not there and she can't breathe.
She tries to be rational; he probably simply didn't want the company this morning. Was she really naive enough to believe that they'd continue to have their little roadside breakfasts for the rest of their lives? It had to end sometime, right?
The thought of never seeing him again sends a bolt of pain through her heart, so severe that she's left gasping in pain.
But then she thinks of his face when she hopped out of her car to meet him the day before. The way the corners of his mouth had lifted, the blue of his eyes lightening and the tension visibly bleeding out of his shoulders. And she knows something's wrong. She can feel it.
So she waits.
She calls in sick for work, and she sits in her car, eyes trained on the trees beyond the road, willing him to appear through them at any second. She considers going to look for him, but realizes that since he always arrives at their meeting point before her, she has no idea which direction he comes from. Taking into account how large the forest is, and her general lack of hiking and navigational skills, she knows that venturing out alone to search for him would be useless. So she stays in her car, and she waits.
She waits for hours, her anxiety rising with every minute that passes. Horrible thoughts of what might have happened to him, plaguing her until her hands are shaking and her stomach is in knots. She forces herself to breathe deeply, calling on her years of yoga to calm herself, remain somewhat rational and focused.
She doesn't remember falling asleep. But a noise wakes her, a soft thumping against the window. Her eyes fly open, startled and disoriented to be met with nothing but darkness. Trying to calm her pounding heart, she reaches for the keys and turns on the ignition, headlights casting a path of light ahead, and the dashboard lighting up enough for her to see the blinking numbers on the clock. Almost ten pm. Her heart is sinking in her chest as she realizes that she's been waiting fourteen hours, when another noise just outside the car reminds her what woke her up in the first place.
Her fears for Oliver fall to the wayside temporarily, as fear for herself floods through her. Struggling to keep calm, she peers out into the darkness, straining to see anything but black beyond the windows. And then the passenger door is being wrenched open, light filling the car, burning her eyes, and she screams because how could she be so stupid to forget to lock the doors?
She scrambles to press herself as far away from the intruder as physically possible in the tiny space, shaky fingers scrabbling at her own door, searching for the handle, fear making her ineffective and clumsy.
But then she hears it.
His voice is gruff and pained, but she'd recognize it anywhere. The fear leaves her body as fast as it appeared, and the surge of relief that rushes through her is so acute she's left dizzy in its wake.
Because her name falls from his lips in a gravelly whisper and it's all she needs to feel safe again.
Her eyes adjust to the sudden light, and settle on his form, slumped over in the passenger seat. His shoulders are hunched, his face ashen, and she reaches for him automatically, hands lifting to his face, thumbs rubbing a soothing rhythm over his cheeks.
The fear is back as her eyes run over his body, searching for the injuries she knows she's going to find, even before she sees them. A ragged gasp escapes her and tears sting her eyes as, with a sense of dread, she pulls aside his jacket to see a startling scarlet staining his shirt.
He shifts slightly and her eyes raise to his to find him looking at her with something akin to adoration.
"Felicity." He utters the word like it's the greatest thing he's ever said, like the mere taste of it on his tongue is salvation and all that he needs.
And then his eyes are drifting closed and his head cants to the side, leaving her a sobbing, shaking mess, still hovering above him, fingers desperately grasping at his face.
"Oliver." She shakes him lightly, and then harder when she receives no response. "Oliver!"
His face is peaceful and still and she wonders if her name on his lips was a goodbye.
That thought more than anything is what compels her into action. She slips back into her seat, roughly turning on the ignition, and stamping her foot down against the accelerator so hard that the mini groans in response, tires screeching against asphalt as they drive away.
Her hand finds his, fingers lacing between his larger ones, thumb rubbing back and forth across his knuckles as she heads for the main road. Tears are blurring her vision and she has to keep blinking just to be able to see.
She doesn't realize that she's talking to him at first. But then she hears it, her own voice, thick with pain, murmuring words of comfort, soothing him as a mother might a sick child. But with every whispered "You'll be okay. You're going to be just fine." She knows it's not him she's trying to reassure, but herself. Because the thought of him not being okay, is unbearable, unthinkable, more than her fierce heart will be able to survive, without finally fracturing for good.
She breaks every traffic law as she tears back towards the city, getting him to the hospital alive her only priority.
It takes her fifteen minutes, and she stops right outside the emergency entrance, legs almost giving out beneath her as she jumps out and runs through the doors. She screams for help, not caring that she's crying and shaking and people are looking at her like she's a crazy person. She's already running back for him, nurses hurrying behind.
When they catch sight of his prone figure in the car, there's yelling and suddenly more people are appearing, someone has a gurney and they push her out of the way so they can reach him. And she feels like screaming because they're taking him away from her and she was too scared to even check if his heart was still beating before she left him.
There's a fleeting, irrational thought that once they take him inside she'll never see him again. It has her racing to catch up, pushing her way in amongst the nurses until her hand can rest against his leg, the warmth of his skin, even through his pants, giving her just a moment of reassurance.
Someone's talking to her and she tries to focus on what they're saying, because she knows it's about him. She understands that they need to know how he got hurt, what his name is, who she is to him. But she doesn't have any answers to give them.
All she knows, is that she needs him to be okay.
She spends four long hours in a bleak waiting room, staring blankly at the pastel blue of the wall in front of her. There's no hiding from it anymore. She's in love with him. It's as clear as day to her now.
She's hopelessly, ridiculously in love with a homeless man she met on the side of the road mere months before.
Her mother would be so proud.
She doesn't know how it happened, or how it's even possible to fall so completely for someone she barely knows. But what she does know, is that she's never felt like this before, she knows that somehow, with his quiet strength and vulnerable eyes, Oliver's secured a permanent place in her heart, probably right from that first morning she ever met him.
And now she's sitting in Starling General, with mascara staining her cheeks and squashed bagels in her purse, waiting for a doctor to come and tell her whether or not she'll ever see him look at her with those eyes again.
She's aware of the fact that even if he survives this, the chances of them getting some happily ever after together are practically non-existent. He lives in the woods and hunts for his food. Some might even call him mentally ill. But she knows that's not the case. He's damaged, and he has issues that have gone un-dealt with so long that they've left emotional scars as raw as the ones on his skin. But he's not sick. And he's not broken. And she'll never see him that way. No matter what anyone else might think.
But even so, even with her faith and trust in him, and even with her acceptance of the way he is, she doubts he'll ever seek anything more than what they already have, with her. And perhaps that's for the best. A relationship is probably the last thing he needs, and it's something she would never ask of him.
All she wants is to be a part of his life, however small, in whatever capacity he feels comfortable with. She'll be happy with that. She'll spend the rest of her life eating breakfast on the side of the road with him, if he'll let her.
He just needs to survive.
That's what she's praying for, when she hears someone calling her name. She looks up to see a doctor standing a few feet away, eyeing her cooly.
"Felicity?"
She jumps up, her heart in her throat as she answers. "Yes, that's me."
"You brought in a man earlier with a wound to his abdomen?"
She nods shakily. "Yes. Oliver."
"He's going to be okay. The surgery went well. His vital organs somehow survived most of the damage. He'd lost a lot of blood when he arrived, so we had to give him a transfusion, and he needed thirty-five stitches to close the wound. He'll need a lot of rest while he heals, and we're going to have to have a conversation about how this injury occurred. But that can wait for now. He's asking for you."
The doctor smiles briefly at the look of relief that must be obvious on her face, and motions for her to follow him. Her feet feel heavy and her heart feels like it's going to jump out of her chest, but she hurries to keep up, fingers tangling in the sleeves of her sweater, suddenly incredibly nervous about seeing him.
The doctor pushes open a door and nods for her to go ahead. She hesitates for only a second, before slipping past him, her eyes instantly falling to the bed in the center of the room.
Oliver lies completely still, staring at the ceiling, his tan skin standing out against the hospital gown, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. There are monitors with his vitals beeping idly beside the bed and she can see several cables disappearing beneath the neck of the gown.
She approaches slowly, her nerves slipping away as that sense of calm his presence always seems to bring, washes over her.
His eyes drop from their perusal of the ceiling tiles and find hers, a little distant and unfocused from the drugs, but as blue as ever.
Felicity." She doesn't think she'll ever get tired of hearing him say her name.
Hey." She smiles softly, hesitantly drawing up a chair before sitting down beside the bed. Her hand reaches for his automatically, fingers curling around his tensed fist before she can think about what she's doing. She isn't sure how he is about being touched. They've never had that conversation before, and now that she thinks about it, she doesn't think they've ever had any more physical contact than the occasional brush of fingers as they share breakfast, and that first handshake, that started it all.
But he doesn't flinch away, as she feared he would. Instead his hand opens and turns until hers fits against it, palm to palm.
She gazes at him for a long moment, eyes running over every familiar contour of his beautiful face, somehow even more striking under the harsh florescent lights, which doesn't seem fair.
He appears to be doing the same to her, and she inwardly cringes slightly at the mess she must be. Cheeks streaked with tears and hair a tangled mess. It doesn't look like he cares though, if the slight upturn of his lips, and the steady rhythm of his thumb over her knuckles are anything to go by.
She finds herself wondering how anybody could expect her not fall in love with him, when he looks at her like that.
There are so many things she wants to say, beginning and ending with I love you. But what comes out is a whispered apology that had his brows drawing together in confusion.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I brought you here. I know you don't like enclosed spaces but… You were bleeding a lot and I was panicking a lot and I just…"
"Felicity." He cuts her off and his hand squeezes her smaller one gently. "Please don't apologize for saving my life." He says softly. "I'm sorry for scaring you."
She instantly begins to protest before she trails off, smiling widely for the first time in what feels like days.
"How about we both just agree that neither one of us has anything to apologize for, and move on?" She suggests, delighting in the spark of mirth visible in his eyes.
"Good plan." He nods his acquiescence and returns her smile with a small one of his own.
Her eyes leave his face and travel down to where she knows his wound to be, now hidden beneath clothes and blankets. She remembers the jagged edges of his skin, visible through his torn shirt, and the steadily growing red that left her trembling in fear only a few hours earlier.
"What happened?" She whispers, her free hand lifting to hover just above his abdomen of its own accord, as though she could somehow heal him with sheer force of will.
He watches her for a second, an unreadable expression on his face, before the hand that isn't wrapped around hers, grabs the one hovering over him, and brings it down to gently rest against his stomach. Her breath stutters in her chest as her fingers flatten against him. She can feel the bandage even through the blankets, and she strokes a feather light pattern along the edge.
"A bear." His voice is an octave lower than usual, and when she meets his eyes, she finds them darker than she's used to.
"What?"
"A bear. Got a good swipe in before I could put him down." He mutters, clearing his throat and breaking the eye contact that's quickly becoming intoxicating.
Her breath rushes out in a whoosh, and she feels a coil of anger settle in his chest as she lets that information sink in.
"You fought a bear?" Her voice breaks on the last word and she squeezes her eyes closed, forcing herself not to think about how much worse this could have been. "Why would you do that?"
"He started it." He says drily, and she knows he's trying to make light of the situation to put them both a little more at ease, but for some reason that only angers her more.
It's the fear that's making her angry, the knowledge of how close she came to losing him, along with the realization of just how much he means to her.
She scowls at him and a look of contrition crosses his glorious face.
"Hey, I'm fine. It's one of the perils of living in the woods."
She shakes her head and sighs, releasing some of the tension from her chest.
"I just… I care about you, okay? And I'd really miss our breakfasts if you died." It's the understatement of the century, but he's looking at her like she's water in the desert and she wonders how long it's been since somebody told him they cared.
"I'll never miss another one again." He vows with a weight to his words that leaves her reeling.
The moment is poignant and fragile and she feels like they're on the edge of a cliff. She's not sure what will meet them at the bottom, if they decide to take that jump, but as long he's beside her, she's pretty sure she wants to find out.
But then a nurse walks in and the spell is broken. Her hand slips from beneath his on his stomach, and she tries to remove her other one from his hold, but he tightens his fingers, and keeps it safely wrapped in his.
"The paperwork all checked out, Mr. Queen. We'll need to keep you in overnight for observation and someone will come by to ask you a couple of questions about what happened, but you should be able to go home tomorrow. You'll need to rest for a while, with minimal physical activity, to give you time to heal. And you'll need to come back in a few weeks to have the stitched removed." The woman pauses in her discourse and glances at Felicity before turning back to Oliver, who's looking decidedly nervous, a color she's never seen on him before. "Do you have someone who can take care of you for a few days? You'll need help changing your bandages, and it might be painful to move for a short while."
Oliver's eyes shift away quickly, and Felicity's heart speeds up at the thought of him returning to the woods, injured and alone.
"I'll help him." She rushes out, her hand gripping his a little tighter.
"Alright, we'll go over his care later, for now, you should get some rest, Mr. Queen." The nurse nods at them both and smiles briefly before making her exit, leaving a heavy silence behind her.
"Felicity…" Oliver starts, and she knows what he's going to say even before he gets the words out.
"No, Oliver. You are not going to go and sleep out in the open all alone, with a gaping wound in your stomach. I won't allow it. You can't risk your health like that. So I will sleep with you in the damn forest if that's what it takes for you to let me take care of you." She stops to take a breath, before realizing what she said, and instantly blushing bright pink. "That came out wrong." She sighs. "What I meant was… I don't want you to be alone."
"I appreciate that, I really do, but I can't ask you to-"
"But you're not asking! I'm the one who's asking. Look I promise I won't hover over you or anything. I have a spare room, and it would just be a few days, until you're a bit more healed, and then I'll release you back into the wild myself." She tries to joke, even as she feels a little desperate in her need for him to let her do this. Let her take care of him, let her help him. "I live in a quiet neighborhood, and I don't have any pets or roommates, so it's way quieter in my house than it is in this hospital, and you seem to be handling this okay." He flinches slightly and she swallows the past the lump in her throat. "Oliver, I don't want to put you in a situation where you feel unsafe. But you need to let that wound heal."
She thinks for a second that maybe she's talking about something more than his physical injury, but lets the thought drift on. It's not the time or place for that. And perhaps it never will be.
His eyes are closed, and she'd worry that he's pulling away from her, if his hand wasn't still a steady anchor in hers.
"It's not me I'm concerned about." He says after a few minutes, his voice rough and low.
"What?" She whispers, brows drawing together as she watches every micro expression that crosses his face.
His eyes open and meet hers, and there's a sorrow there that she's seen before, in glimpses and flashes before he shuts it away.
"Felicity. When I came back… I was… I'm different than I used to… I can't…" He struggles to find the words, frustration and regret evident in his features. "I almost killed my own mother." He finally spits out, self disgust marring the words.
She tries to control her reaction, tries to reign in her gasp of shock, lest he interpret it for judgment, or horror. It is horror, but not at him, for him. Horror at what he's gone through, at the pain she can feel seeping out of his every pore.
"And I couldn't bear it if… God if I hurt you, Felicity, I couldn't bear it. I couldn't…"
He tries to pull his hand from hers, but she holds it tight, raising her other to rest against his cheek, swallowing her tears when he flinches at her touch.
"You wouldn't. I trust you, Oliver. I trust you completely. I know I'll never be able to truly understand what you've been through, or what you're dealing with, but I know that I trust you, and I always will."
"You shouldn't." The self loathing is clouding the light in his eyes bit by bit and she feels him withdrawing, only now she realizes it's not to protect himself, but to protect her.
"How about we compromise? You come home with me, and let me help you get better, but I do whatever I can to make that fear not be such a factor?" He looks at her questioningly, and she thinks for a second, before swallowing her nerves and continuing. "When… When that happened, with your mother, what was the situation? What prompted it?"
He won't meet her eyes, and she can feel a tremor in his fingers that sends a tug of empathy through her heart.
"I was sleeping. She woke me up…"
She nods, and squeezes his hand, letting him know he doesn't have to continue.
"Okay, so that's rule number one. I never try to wake you up. There are actually locks on the bedroom doors in my house, so if you wanted, you could even lock your door when you sleep. If it makes you feel better."
He's meeting her gaze again now, and the self-loathing has receded enough to reveal that look of wonderment that sends her stomach into knots every time she sees it.
"Anything else?"
He seems to actually think about it for a few moments, before replying.
"You have to lock your bedroom door too. And you need to get a baseball bat and keep it with you as long as I'm in the house."
"Oliver." She starts shaking her head, but he cuts her off, stern and unwavering.
"Felicity, if I have a flashback, or slip into a retrograde state, I might become irrational, and not know where I am. Especially in an unfamiliar environment. I know you want to think that I would never hurt you, and I wish I could share that faith, but I honestly don't know what I could do when I'm like that. So I need to know that you can protect yourself against me, if necessary."
His words are chilling. Not because of the notion of him hurting her, which is horrible in itself, but because of the understanding they leave her with, for what he's going through.
She can't imagine what it must be like, to fear yourself, to fear an inability to control your own mind. To fear bringing harm to those you care for with your own hands. She can't imagine the pain that must carry, the heartbreak. But she thinks she might understand now, at least a little, why he chose to retreat to the woods. To a life of solitude and recluse.
Because he did choose, that much is clear. He didn't fall through the cracks, as so many do, he made the conscious decision to live the way he does.
And she respects that decision, as heartbreaking as it is.
So she relents, and agrees to his terms.
The look of gratitude on his face palpable in the stark room.
He insists that she go home to sleep, and as reluctant as she is to leave him, she does, with a promise that she'll be back tomorrow.
He in turn, promises that he'll be waiting.
And it's not until she's in her bed, covers drawn up around her chin and eyes staring unseeing at the dark ceiling, that she reflects back on what the nurse said.
His name. Oliver Queen.
There's something familiar about it. Not familiar in the same way as he himself is, like she's known him for far longer than she has, and can remember every line of his face with her eyes closed, but literally familiar. Like she's heard it before, long prior to their meeting.
It's a jarring thought, as is the realization that although when she took him in to the ER, she was fully prepared to pay every expense he needed, but no one asked her. He'd ended up in a private room, and she hadn't paid a cent.
Oliver Queen.
He's a mystery. An enigma. A beautiful, wonderful, damaged man, who's been her every waking, and most of her sleeping, thoughts since she first laid eyes on him.
She's already in far too deep.
She's well aware that this... (She wants to think infatuation is the right word, but knows without question that her feelings run so much deeper than that.) Will be a roller-coaster that will likely derail with her strapped within.
But she finds it hard to care. She wants to help him. Heal him in every way she can, make him just a little happier for knowing her, if that's possible.
And if she gets burned along the way, then she can live with that.