Disclaimer: the characters and situations herein do not belong to me. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Since all the cool kids were doing it, this is a collection of unconnected short pieces based on prompts received on Tumblr. All are K+ unless otherwise noted. Title of the collection taken from Adele's "Rolling in the Deep."
Prompt: "wed me." Title from the Train song of the same name. Set post-"Time of Death."
forget the world now (we won't let them see)
She becomes a walking barometer after she's shot; she can tell you when it's going to rain or when the temperature is dropping.
She remembers being shot just fine, thank you very much; she also has the scar — which basically means she doesn't want or need the pain.
But it's there, as it always is some way or another in her life, and she tries to mask it as best she can; that, again, is what she's supposed to be good at. Oliver, of course, doesn't buy it — for a terrible liar, he can see through them pretty damn easily — and watches her like a hawk when she starts to rotate her arm or rub at her shoulder. He even pops out to CVS one day, returning with IcyHot and ibuprofen, both of which she keeps in her desk drawer for necessity's sake and also as a reminder that she's every inch as bad ass as Sara is, albeit in different ways.
She gets used to the pain, fights through it even though it feels like wading through sand some days. It's her Lian Yu, in a sense; it's always there, hovering, waiting. It's the devil in her, lurking in the shadowy corners of herself.
A few Tuesdays after they take down the Clock King, she wakes before her alarm with a start. Her shoulder's on fire, and when she tries to rotate it, the pain is so blinding the edges of her vision whiten. She swallows a few times, squeezes her eyes shut as though sheer willpower could make it stop hurting. She does her routine of NSAIDs and patches and heating pads, and by the time dawn has broken, it's just not cutting it and she's even closer to tears than she was before.
She texts Digg to ask for one more "aspirin" to try and beat the pain into submission so she can function. Bless him, he's awake and promises to come by the apartment as soon as he can. She fires off a text to Oliver to let him know she'll probably be working a half-day — she can sleep off the narcotic she knows was her actual pain reliever — and will hopefully be in by noon.
She's just settled herself on her couch with her patch and heating pad and delusions any of it will make her feel better when there's a soft knock at her door. She pads across the small living room and opens the door, jumping back slightly in surprise when it's Oliver, not Digg, standing on the other side of her threshold. "Uh…hi?"
"Special delivery," he says, holding out a pill bottle with one hand and a bag from their breakfast place (when did she start thinking in terms of their and us and we?)
She opens the door and lets him in, tilting her head with a curious look on her face. "How did you —"
"I was coming to check on you and ran into Digg in the lobby." She bites her lip, trying to decide if she should believe him or not, and then decides to let it be. She's in too much pain to really care.
She motions to the couch, indicating he should make himself comfortable, and heads to her kitchen to get a glass of water. As she's turning back to him, she finds herself wondering how he lives with it all the time — not the emotional pain, but the physicality of it; the embodiment. The outside foes they face are strong and dangerous enough, but to have their own bodies turn like them on that? The one thing you're always supposed to be able to rely on? It can be silent and deadly, a ticking time bomb of sorts, one with no prior warning as to when it's going to explode.
He really is a hero.
She joins him on the sofa, curling her feet beneath her and smiling as he hands her one of the pills. She takes it quickly, and then leans back against the couch, head tilted back and eyes closed. She feels a tentative hand on her thigh, and she turns her head to look at him. His hand moves from her arm to the crown of her head, smoothing down her hair before cupping her cheek. Like that night at the foundry, she turns into his touch, but she can feel the hesitation, the guilt, in the touch, and shakes her head. "I'm fine, Oliver. I am fine."
"You almost weren't." There's something hollow to his tone.
"My life, my choice, remember?"
"And now your consequences."
She lifts her good shoulder in a shrug. "I'd do it again. For any of you. We're a team. A family."
He goes somewhere then, eyes fixated on a spot on her opposite wall, and she watches him for a minute, wondering where he is and who's with him. The intensity in his eyes is different when he looks back down at her; it's the Count and his office and making choices all over again.
He's looking at her like she shouldn't ever have to make that kind of decision, that he doubts she'd always choose him.
Always. It's as certain as she can be in this these masks, these war zones with their ricochets.
She starts to feel tendrils of the medicine working, weaving ribbons through her system as easily as Oliver is sliding his hands through her hair. She sighs deeply in relief; the shooting pain is gone, though a low throbbing remains. It's light years from where she was an hour ago, so she'll take it. She settles more firmly against his side and he folds his arm around her — because of the life that I lead seems a hundred second chances ago when her head is on his shoulder; it's a pause and a hand is hovering over the reset button — and she picks up her remote, fishing through her DVR selections.
She sort of forgets what she picks to watch, because the "aspirin" kicks in full force and she can finally breathe normally again, be normal again. It's a fleeting state of grace, but she'll believe it, disappear within it, for as long as she can.
Oliver's oddly tactile this morning, and she makes herself sink into it unquestioningly, just as the pain relief is cushioning her. He is titanium most days, unbendable and unbreakable, and she cherishes the moments where he softens and lowers his walls enough that she can peek over them. Her eyes slide shut as his hands stroke her hair lightly, and he moves to rub her temples.
Staccatoed pictures click through her mind; Digg driving them home the night she got shot, Oliver insisting on crashing on her couch, his fingers in the same place when the rebound headache from the narcotic set in. (Even when they win, they don't.) That he remembers — cares enough to do it again — has her releasing a contented sigh, then a groan before a breathless, "Marry me."
His hands still for a microsecond, and she makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. She feels more than hears his chuckle, focuses on his heartbeat strong and steady in a world where she feels so off-kilter all the time, and smiles when he moves his hand to her arm, rubbing up and down softly. "You just want me for my massages."
"Your face doesn't hurt, either," she says, pursing her lips as she shifts against him, trying to get more comfortable (as if it were possible.) Her eyes are still shut, so she misses the flash of something that crosses his face that holds a hint of tomorrow, a harbinger of things to come.
"Beauty fades," he teases gently.
"Your bank account doesn't."
"I see how it is. Looks and money."
"Pretty good five-year-plan," she replies. Her voice grows smaller, contemplative, when his hand moves to her back and rubs it with broad strokes. "Oliver?"
"Hm?"
"What do you think of my scar?"
"I think it needs to be the last one you get," he replies quickly, hoarsely.
She nods seriously in agreement, then smiles lazily as she feels herself drifting towards sleep. "Oliver?"
She can't note the smile in his voice, but somehow always remembers it being there. "Yes, Felicity?"
"Will you be here when I wake up?"
He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "Sleep, Felicity."
She does, and just as she's dozing off, he whispers, "I promise," and over the years, it's that promise, not the oxycodone, that soothes her pain most.
