Title: Crash Landing
Word Count: 7,312
Notes: First of all, a big Happy Hanukkah to my Jewish followers out there. :)
I know some of you had some concerns about my posting because I missed Thanksgiving (which was expected) and I missed last Thursday. I wanted to do an actual update instead of something in Bits and Pieces, but my mind didn't want to cooperate. I finally ended up with this, though, so I hope you enjoy. :)
I had a burst of inspiration after I read alexiablackbriar13's "if wishes could fly." It's a lot more brilliant than this, so if you can handle a little character death, I highly recommend checking it out. A lot of it sent thoughts of the Maximum Ride series flying around my head, so you'll find some similarities with both Alexia's work and said series.
Oh, and any anatomical changes you find here is based on my knowledge of veterinary anatomy (albeit quite limited in this instance). Which is kind of exciting for me on its own level for a complete nerd like myself. ;) I took a few liberties, as well, because it's half the fun.
When the loud bang fires from the executive offices, Felicity immediately jumps in surprise. Though she doesn't know for sure, she could swear that sounded like a gunshot. Either way, it certainly makes her night a little more interesting; she was just supposed to be working late to finish her (well, her useless supervisor's) report to the chief technology officer of the company and taking it up to his desk. Maybe this is why everyone wants to work up here: it's apparently a little exciting.
Shaking her head to let go of her surprise, she stops for a moment, but only eerie quiet follows. Deciding it must have been her imagination flaring up tonight, the blonde continues on her path past some of the glass offices that remind her of fishbowls to the CTO's office. Her heels click on the floor at a steady pace as she walks a little faster and scans the hallways a little more than she usually does, but it seems that the whatever-it-was sound that she heard was just a fluke or a figment of her imagination. Either way, she can so totally deal with that.
Just as she's breathing a sigh of relief, something knocks her to the floor with the force of a battering ram.
Because she wasn't expecting it and Felicity's balance is already tenuous at best, it sends her falling backward, landing hard on her back and hitting her head so hard against the tile that she sees stars for a moment. The thing that barreled into her lands on top of her, and it's so heavy that it knocks the breath out of her. But finally, though, she's able to breathe and the stars go away, and then she realizes that it wasn't a thing that landed on her, but a person.
Her eyes won't focus, but she can only assume, based on hot puffs of air against her breastbone, that his face is buried in her sternum. Under normal circumstances, it would probably freak her out, but at the moment, all she can do is try to catch her breath and wonder how this behemoth of a man—the stubble scratching through her thin shirt as they both breathe makes her think male—was in such a hurry that he managed to collide with her head on. Finally she manages to focus on her figure, and it's only then that she realizes a fact that makes her blood go cold.
A green hood is draped over his head.
Of course Felicity has heard reports of the new vigilante gracing Starling City, but that doesn't mean she's ever believed them. Most of the eyewitnesses seem to agree on a few facts: that he wears green leather, only uses arrows, and that he has wings, of all things. It seemed more like someone yelling "crop circles" than an actual thing, so she just mostly rolled her eyes and ignored it. A few grainy, we've-found-Bigfoot-type pictures have shown up on the front of the papers with catchy headlines about "Starling's guardian angel," but she stopped paying attention to the National Enquirer when she was about ten.
Now that she's met with the evidence (and has pinched herself to make sure it's not a dream, of course), she has to admit that it was probably the truth. The green leather might be unmistakable, but, sure enough, there are some thin slits in the back of his jacket and she sees something black and feathery sticking out of one of them. Breathless from the fall and eyes a little unfocused she can't help but breathe, "Wow, you're actually real. Score one for the National Enquirer."
He's up in an instant, backing away with a level of sheer panic that reminds her of a frightened animal. The hint of a wing she saw before droops more fully because of the action, unfurling part of the largest, black-feathered wing she's ever seen. The mask and the darkness hide most of his face, but, even then, she can see his cold, intelligent eyes fixed on her. It's kind of ridiculous, when Felicity thinks about it: he, the winged archer who is known to be lethal on occasion to people, is afraid of her, the resident blonde IT expert who probably wouldn't be able to do more than screw with his electronic life. If he even has an electronic life, that is.
"Do winged humanoid creatures even have credit scores?" she murmurs aloud under her breath, absently rubbing at the cold spot that has blossomed on her abdomen. It takes her a moment to realize that it's wet, and when she looks down, it's also very red. Blood red. Startled, she presses against her abdomen, only to feel no wounds or marks under the fabric.
But, when she looks at him again, she sees the same color staining the fabric at his shoulder, seeping through the fingers pressed against his wound.
"Oh, God, you're bleeding," she breathes, scrambling to her feet. The Vigilante still hasn't moved, and he's leaning to one side as though he's having trouble staying upright. His breathing is odd; there's no rhythm to it and his abdomen seems to be doing the work of contracting and expanding. "And that doesn't look like you can just throw a bandage over it, but I bet you can't go to a hospital, either." She surprises herself by taking a step forward, toward him.
Immediately he takes a step backward, listing to the side of his injury with an unsteady attempt to catch himself. Felicity manages to throw his arm over her shoulder before he falls, keeping him upright with an enormous amount of effort. "You're really heavy," she declares breathlessly. His reaction is to try and pull away from her, but she only puts a hand over the one on his wound. "I'm not going to hurt you," she finally breathes quietly. "It looks like someone has already done enough of that to you."
"I need… to get out of here," he finally rasps, wheezing through the voice modulator she can see poking out of his collar. Sure enough, when he breathes again, there's a slight rattle that follows. Felicity can't figure this one out, though; the injury is too high in his chest to have damaged a lung. Though she only took one anatomy class because she was forced to, she doesn't remember anything really important in that location.
Felicity takes a step forward, sensing the urgency of the situation, and he follows, his head lowering as he clearly trusts her to find a way out of the building. It takes most of her effort to get him to the elevators—the man might as well be made of marble for as heavy as he feels—and she knows there's no way she could carry him down twenty-five flights of stairs.
"Security—" he starts as she attempts to half-carry, half-drag him into the elevator. He actually drags his feet, like a petulant child, to keep from going in, and Felicity can't bite back the huff of amusement that leaves her.
"There aren't any cameras in the elevators," she assures him, pulling him in with her anyway. "And we're not going through the main doors. There's a stop that opens up on the level of the parking garage." She presses the button as the door shuts that reads P3—her parking garage level. Then she starts pressing numbers on the keypad above the normal elevator buttons. "And we have to enter our employee access codes to get to parking. They won't think it's you. I'm taking you to my car, and you can tell me where to go from there."
Instead of answering, he rests his head against the back of the elevator, desperate to catch his breath. It tilts his head up, letting the hood drop back just enough to see the outlines of his face and that his eyes are blue behind the green mask. With most of his features exposed, Felicity decides he might just be handsome under that vigilante gear—something she wasn't expecting.
The fluorescent lighting also gives her a better look at the sagging wing poking out of his jacket, and she realizes it isn't just black; it's more defined than that. The feathers at the top are an ashen color, a soft gray that would probably look white under less intense lighting. As she follows them downward, they grow darker, peppered with spots of black until finally they're the color of night. It makes her think of an angel who's been forged in fire, and Felicity finds that an appropriate image somehow. She knows he has to be a fighter—a survivor—to do what he does every night.
Despite the beauty he presents, Felicity is somewhat distracted by his breathing. He's still wheezing, and it's quickly starting to alarm her because it's getting louder and more ragged. "Old steel factory… on Eighth and Mira," he breathes out, wincing as though it pains him to speak. "I have… a friend." That thought jars him to life, and he presses a button through the green jacket. She hears it click on before he says, "Dig." She doesn't understand what making a hole has to do with this, but this conversation clearly isn't meant for her. "I'm hit. Bullet… went through… cervical." That doesn't help with her understanding of that, either, and his breathing is getting heavier. "Talk to her. …She wants… to help."
Suddenly, in frustration, he rips a device out of his ear, holding it out to her. "Talk," he says to her in another rough breath.
She does as he asks, and, though she can't help but think it isn't sanitary, Felicity pushes the device into her ear. "Hello?" she asks, feeling a little confused, but she doesn't think that her new acquaintance feels up to a long conversation.
"Talk to me," the man on the other end demands, his voice deep and smooth.
"He's shot through the shoulder," Felicity immediately answers as she watches the display above the elevator exit count down floors. "He was on the executive floor of Queen Consolidated when he literally ran into me. We're in the elevator right now, and I'm taking him to my car on the third floor of the parking garage." She pauses. "He told me to take him to some… steel factory on Eighth and Mira?" It doesn't make any sense, but the blonde decides to go with it until she's told otherwise.
"That's the place," the man on the phone agrees. "It used to be the old Queen steel factory, but that's where we operate out of now." There's a clanging sound and he explains, "I'm clearing it now." The man's voice softens in concern. "How's he doing? He'd never admit how bad this is, not even to me…" Then he trails off. "Do you have a name?"
"I don't have any medical training, but it doesn't look good to me," the blonde replies quietly. The Vigilante's hawk-like eyes zero in on her at that, his head tilting as though she's a book in a foreign language that he's desperate to read. Then he scowls as he realizes they're talking about him. "There's a whole lot of blood, he looks kind of pale, and he's breathing weird. He's wheezing pretty bad and it doesn't look like his chest is moving when he breathes. It's all abdominal." She hesitates. "And my name is Felicity. Felicity Smoak."
The man with the rich voice replies in her ear, "Felicity, do you think you can get him here by yourself?"
The QC employee deliberates that for a long moment before answering, "Probably, if he stays conscious. He is right now, but I don't know how long that will last. But if he passes out, I can't carry him by myself—it's already like trying to haul a sack of bricks and he's supporting some of his weight, too."
She can't help it—that curiosity burns to the forefront of Felicity's mind and she hears herself ask the Vigilante, "You are really heavy. Seriously, how do you even get airborne?" The look he throws her says clearly that, even if he wasn't struggling to breathe, he wouldn't appreciate her statement. It takes her a moment to realize the insult in her words. "Not that there's anything wrong with the way you're built. You're built really, really well." Then she cringes at herself. "I don't mean it like that. It's just that you are all muscle and if it wasn't so hard for me to haul you around, I'd probably be impressed."
A shaky, rattling breath leaves him, and Felicity blinks twice because she's sure that could have qualified as a laugh.
The other man clears his throat in the comm and she jumps at the sound. "Stay on the line, Felicity," he instructs with a bit of an edge, as if to remind her that there are more important things at stake. "If anything changes, let me know right away. If not, I'll expect you. Come around the back of the building, okay? I'll be waiting for you."
"I'm in a red Mini Cooper," Felicity blurts as the elevator doors ding open. Then she immediately throws the Vigilante's arm over her shoulder and starts dragging him across the garage as quickly as possible. "Oh, and just so you know what to look for, I have blonde hair and glasses. I'm wearing a black skirt and a white shirt with black polka dots and a bloodstain on my side. Not because I'm bleeding—it's from him."
For once in her life, she actually manages to go quiet after that, if only to focus on dragging the Vigilante to her car. It takes her forever, and then helping him into the relatively tiny backseat is an ordeal. Because it's small and he, well, isn't. But finally she manages to get them both into the car and they're flying down the road as fast as she can drive.
At some point he goes very still and quiet, and to fight down the mild panic, she has to let her mind wander away to something else. She looks at him again in the rearview mirror just to make sure he's still breathing, only to find him lying on his good side with one wing wrapped protectively around himself. It brings another mystery to Felicity's mind: what the hell is he? Because lying on her back seat, he looks very human and just as fragile as one.
Maybe she was stupid to do this, to randomly move a stranger—especially one with his reputation. He typically doesn't kill—and he certainly doesn't set out to murder—but he doesn't hesitate to drop someone if he has to. He's violent and angry—that she's sure of—but she couldn't help it. And he'd looked so scared when he ran into her, as if he's more often seen the more cruel side of human nature in his life. Though she doesn't know him from anyone, she knows that no one, despite their actions, deserves to react like that around people.
Finally she pulls into the abandoned steel factory, biting back a scream when she sees a figure move out of the dark as though he'd just appeared there. "That's… John… Diggle," the Vigilante practically whispers behind her, his voice weak with exertion. Then his hand falls on her shoulder, causing her to jump. But when she turns to look at him, there's something indescribable in his expression. And then, as though making a decision, he pulls his hand back before stating so low she can barely hear it, "Oliver."
It takes her a slow moment to recognize what he's given her: his name. The blonde recognizes it as a gesture of trust, stopping suddenly as she exits the car to help him out of it. But she doesn't have time to dwell on it, especially when this time, his eyes flutter closed into unconsciousness. "I'm Felicity—he's in the back," she calls to the other man, and he starts running to the car with something that looks like a metal table. Slowly she notes that it's a gurney.
"John," he introduces himself in a clipped tone, before starting to bark out orders. It's hard work for the two of them—and she's freezing from the cold because she didn't have her coat. After the nightmare of navigating the stairs, they manage to situate him next to an impressive setup of medical equipment. Only after he carefully strips the Vigilante and his wings out of the green jacket does he speak again. "What do you know about medicine, Felicity?" he asks her as he tosses her a pair of nitrile gloves before pulling on a pair himself.
The blonde doesn't answer right away because she's transfixed by the sight before her, curious about the man's features. His face, turned toward her, is handsome even in sleep, with the short beard around his face and the square, strong jawline. That she predicted. But once her eyes wander, she finds his torso covered in a series of scars that make her realize he had absolutely no reason to trust her the way he did. Each one looks painful, and, though they all look very old, she knows that they're too numerous to be an isolated incident. Someone hurt this man on purpose—and repeatedly.
Suddenly she's not so surprised that he was afraid of her.
"Nothing," she answers John's question in a single breath, her voice winded because of the revelation before her. "I work in IT. I know about wires, not veins." The faintest hint of apology tinges her tone; she's not going to be of any help here, even though she wants to be. She pulls on the gloves anyway, convinced she might be able to help him somehow.
John's answer surprises her. "Doesn't matter," he assures her as he makes an incision through the wound with a scalpel. "It wouldn't help you here. He's not built like a human anyway." As if to emphasize his point, he motions with the other end of the scalpel to Oliver's chest. Curious, Felicity looks over, only to discover something that looks like a thick cellophane bag there, the bullet caught inside an amount of blood that concerns her. "Put pressure here," he offers with a point of his finger.
"What is that?" she can't help but ask, as she does as instructed.
John smiles as he pulls the bullet out with a pair of forceps, ever so slowly. "That," he answers," is an air sac." It takes Felicity a moment to process his words, and even then she doesn't understand their significance.
He continues speaking, this time focusing on his attentions on the vessel above it that keeps pouring blood into the gaping hole in the bag. "When you and I breathe, not all of the oxygen gets to our lungs and we have moments where we're not getting fresh oxygen." He wraps the suture over and over again, in a methodical fashion that's almost elegant. "When he breathes, every bit of the air is stored—most of it in these air sacs. They release air as he needs it, so that there's always fresh oxygen in his lungs. Which means he doesn't get altitude sickness when he flies. Birds have them, too." Only then does the man look up at her. "He'll be grounded for a few days while he heals, but the most important thing is this nicked blood vessel. A busted air sac just makes him a little uncomfortable."
It takes Felicity a long moment to wrap her head around that, but finally she finds part of it to focus on. "Birds?" she repeats. "So you're telling me he's…" She can't even say it aloud because the idea is so ridiculous. "He's part bird?"
John chuckles as he starts patching the thick, clear membrane of the air sac. Even though it looks delicate, apparently he's able to put stitches through it without making it worse. "Surely you didn't think he was an angel," he teases instead, throwing her a smile. For a moment, she wonders how he can stay so calm. "Then again, you met him while he was injured—he probably didn't have time to be a stubborn ass in front of you yet. But the point is that he's no angel." Felicity can hear the double meaning to that one.
He pauses thoughtfully before throwing another stitch through the wall of the air sac. "But calling him part bird is just about as wrong as calling yourself part bird. What he is, though, that's his secret. He hasn't told me why he has wings, but I don't think it's as simple as that." He looks up at Felicity. "He's secretive—most of what I know about his life is because I've been a part of it."
Felicity absently reaches her hand out to trace a particularly nasty scar on his abdomen, just above the top of a vertical line of ink that looks almost like a barcode. She doesn't know which bothers her worse: that someone hurt him so badly or that they marked him like a box of cereal at a supermarket. "Well, can you blame him for that?" she asks quietly, staring at the line her finger traces. "It doesn't look like Oliver has been given many reasons to trust people over the years." Still, it says a lot about him that he's wary about people but yet devotes his time to saving the city the way he does. The blonde honestly isn't sure if she could be that kind after so much cruelty. In fact, she thinks this proves he has more reason to be horrible than the people he's trying to stop.
"He told you his name, huh?" John asks, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "I'd been with him for a few weeks before I got that far. I'm Thea Queen's bodyguard, so I was at the auction a few months back when the assassin attacked. I got shot with a poisoned bullet, so he brought me here, patched me up, and asked me if I wanted to help him. Said he could tell that I was military and it would be nice to have someone watching his back. Took me months before I finally saw his face and he gave me a name."
The look on his face is thoughtful again, studying Felicity as though she's the puzzle to be solved in all this and not the man with wings on the table before them. "I guess he took a shine to you because you worked your way into his good side." With a teasing smile, he adds, "I didn't know he had a good side."
Felicity finds John's good humor a little contagious, despite the circumstances. "He took my breath away when we met—quite literally," she jokes with a smile. "He barreled into me. I don't know what I did after that to earn his trust. I mostly just called him heavy and babbled about…" She flushes a little as she remembers before pointing to his very muscular torso that makes her stare as much as the wings—but for very different reasons. "Well, that."
"I think you have a good heart, Felicity," John responds after a moment, clearly having given this some thought. "After all, it isn't just anyone who tries to help someone who ran into them. It's people like you that he's trying to help in this city by taking down some of the monsters. Maybe you just reminded him what he's fighting for." He finally finishes patching the air sac, nudging her hand away softly with his fingers as he tries to stitch the incision and the wound closed. "You'll have an honorary spot on the team, if you want it. We could use some IT help around here, and I think it would be good for him."
She wrinkles her nose at the computer setup she can see across from her. "If we have some time, I'm going to fix up your network. Seeing a computer network this… eighties hurts my soul." It earns her a snort of laughter in return. "As for helping you guys, I'll have to think about it." She waves her gloved hands. "But, needless to say, I'll keep your secret either way. I don't agree with the killing, but I do understand that sometimes he doesn't have a choice."
They lapse into silence for a while, until he manages to stitch up Oliver's gaping hole. From there, all they can do is wait to see what happens. After they both remove their gloves, John points toward a door to her right. "There's a bathroom with a shower through there if you want to clean up," he offers, and it's only then that Felicity remembers that she's covered in blood. After helping to patch him up, it's actually a little worse, with smears on her sleeves and on the bow in the neckline that draped down against his wounds. "There should be some clothes back there, too. They're probably too big, but they'll be better than what you have on now. And there's a cot in the back if you want to sleep."
Deciding to take him up on the offer, she walks into the bathroom only to find it rather well stocked. A quick shower helps her to get the blood off, and then she changes into a pair of gray sweatpants that she rolls up at the cuffs several times, and a too-large black t-shirt with a neckline that dips a little too low for her liking.
Fortunately, though, a gray hoodie is draped across the counter next to the sink. Judging by the slits in the back, she assumes it's belongs to Oliver and hopes he won't mind. Then she zips it up to her neck and shoves the sleeves back over her wrists before pulling her hair up again. Deciding that it would be ridiculous with her heels, instead she finds herself padding over the immaculate foundry floor in her bare feet, surprised when it isn't cold.
Oliver is still unconscious when she returns, but John must have hooked him up to a heart monitor while she was gone, the steady beeping almost a comfort. "Thanks for letting me use your shower," she says with a shy smile. "How's he doing?" The question is split by a yawn that escapes her. After checking her phone, she realizes it's after one in the morning—and she went into work early this morning, which means she's nearing twenty-four hours without sleep.
"He's better than can be expected," he answers. "I'm more worried about how he'll feel about the no-flying thing for the next few weeks. The last time he had to do that, he nearly went stir crazy." He nods to Oliver's form, rising from the computer chair. "He seems stable enough for me to leave for a minute. I need to get some blood from storage." He rises to his feet before pulling on his jacket. "We keep the blood storage separate because we don't need his blood getting discovered if this place is compromised. It's about two miles away—shouldn't take me long." Then John lists instructions for what to do if anything happens, and, though Felicity is wary, she doesn't think it sounds like too much of a challenge.
Felicity turns toward the computers and decides that it presents a bigger challenge—and one that will make sure she stays awake, too. It's a shame she doesn't have any equipment with her at the moment, but she'll take care of that soon enough. Because whether she stays or whether she goes, she has to set up this system in a way that doesn't make her hurt.
For a long time, the only company she has is from the sound of her fingers clicking on the keyboard. John reappears after a few minutes, alternating in a restless fashion between reading a book she's never heard of and beating a defenseless training dummy. The sounds make her jump at first, but eventually she pushes it to the background.
Finally, another sound pulls her attention: the heart monitor's pace increasing. She turns in her chair immediately before looking back at John, who is moving toward Oliver. Felicity expects the unconscious man to come to slowly, but instead, he's sitting upright before she can even register that he's awake. He groans and his left wing unfurls a little, while his right stays closely tucked against his spine.
And that sense of panic is back in his eyes again.
"Hey, Oliver," Felicity greets him gently, and those piercing eyes focus on her again. Now that he's conscious and she's seeing his face for the first time, the blonde notices that he has one of the most lovely faces she's ever seen, even with that scowl across his features. She doesn't approach him because she doesn't want to startle him, but instead asks, "How are you feeling?"
John has no such qualms, walking right up to him. But, to be fair, he's known Oliver longer, knows how he reacts. "You need to lay down," he declares. "Take it easy. If you don't want to stay here, at least let me help you over to the cot."
Oliver ignores him, taking a shuddering breath. He's still doing that abdominal breathing thing, but Felicity is starting to think it might just be the way he breathes. After all, she's seen the proof that his biology is very different than most people's. Instead, he seems to want to answer Felicity's question. "It's hard to breathe," he says after a moment, looking at her. His left wing rises a little, and then he winces again. "I'm not going to be able to fly for a while," he says after a moment, and he seems more upset about that than the breathing thing.
"The bullet punctured one of your air sacs," John answers. "I patched it like you told me. You're breathing fine, but it's going to feel weird until it heals." He offers him a hint of a smile. "I guess it's a good thing you don't get out much, though—it kind of looks like someone tried to rip your heart out with their teeth." Both men snort at that before John places his hand on Oliver's shoulder, ignoring it when the winged vigilante flinches. "You should get some rest. I think that's what I'm going to do if you think you can go a few hours without nearly getting killed." Judging by the look the military man throws her, he's mostly just trying to give the two of them some time to talk things through.
"I'll try to contain myself," Oliver calls in a dry tone behind him.
After watching Digg walk out, Oliver immediately turns to Felicity, watching her like the mystery she is. He might be grateful for what she did for him, but that doesn't mean he understands why she did it. In his experience, humans don't do things without wanting something in return. But the blonde in front of him, she doesn't seem to be asking.
They study each other for a long time, and slowly he realizes that the clothes she's wearing aren't hers but his. He can only assume it's because of the blood, judging by her wet hair, vaguely remembering the red stain across her probably ruined blouse. Oliver doesn't quite know how he feels about that; the sight stirs an odd mix of feelings in him that he doesn't truly know how to describe. The only thing he does know at the moment is that she's impossibly lovely sitting before him in those dull, oversized clothes, bare feet, and bright, turquoise toenails that match her fingernails.
Finally she decides to stand up, rising to her feet in a slow motion. Something in his expression must stop her, and he wonders why she seems so hesitant around him, so careful. Is she afraid of him? He hopes not; he only hurts humans when he has to, and he already knows he would never hurt her. "I'm glad you're okay," Felicity states in a cheerful voice, surprising him when she sounds like she actually means it. "You had me worried there for a few minutes, Oliver."
He can't speak for a moment because that's the last thing he expected from her. Maybe, Oliver is realizing, he might be wrong about his assumptions. Not only does she seem not to care about favors, but she's also not asking questions about his wings. A part of him appreciates that because it makes him able to pretend, for just a moment, that he's actually human.
But despite how wonderful it feels, Oliver can't allow that moment to continue. While he might be able to delude himself into feeling human in her presence, it doesn't change the fact that he isn't. Instead he asks a question that forces him to stare his reality in the face. "Why haven't you asked yet?" he demands of her, and Felicity tilts her head to the side as though he's speaking a foreign language. "About my wings?" he clarifies, lifting his right a little in emphasis.
The blonde answers by taking a step forward, then stopping abruptly. Something about her face makes him think she's reading cues from him, but that doesn't make any sense; she is the last thing in the world that he thinks would try to hurt him. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," Felicity answers, as though it's so simple when it's the first time anyone has offered him any sort of consideration like this. Even Diggle gaped at the wings, which Oliver doesn't take personally. "I mean, you're not asking me why my eyes are blue or my hair is blonde." She tilts her head to the side. "Well, that last one is because I dye it, but that's my secret."
"Those things are normal," Oliver points out, not following her train of thought. "Wings aren't."
She seems to think about it for a moment. "Maybe not to the rest of the world," she agrees slowly before countering, "but they're your normal." She points somewhat awkwardly before taking a few steps forward again. "And they're beautiful, by the way. Not that I've seen anyone else with wings before, but I can still appreciate that."
Suddenly Oliver's ears feel hot, the same way they did earlier tonight when she flushed and babbled about his physique. Most people look at him and see the monster—even Diggle, to some extent, though he isn't cruel enough to point it out to him—but this woman just looks at him and sees the man. It's unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. "I understand if you want to ask questions," he says instead of answering Felicity's comments. "I don't mind."
Even more surprising is the fact he still has no idea how to read this woman. Her face heats again and she fidgets a little before finally admitting, "Just one, actually." She's clearly nervous and afraid to give voice to it, and it only makes Oliver's curiosity burn more. "It's probably kind of weird and you should feel free to say no, but…" She trails off, twisting her hands before she finally works up the courage to admit the rest of it. "Would it be okay if I just… touched them?" Her hands start moving in large, wild gestures. "I guess a part of me wants to know if I've fallen asleep at my desk or if this is actually real. And I don't want to make you uncomfortable, so just say no if you don't want to. I can see the way you tense when people get near you and I don't—"
It explains so much about her behavior; she's actually taking the time to read him, to think about how he must be feeling. And while he isn't uncomfortable around the enigmatic blonde, it's fact that humans have been much more cruel to him than he has to them—which says a lot because he hunts the bad ones at night. "Felicity," he cuts her off in a soft tone. Then, after a long moment, he admits, "I haven't always seen the best of human nature." That's all he can admit to anyone right now—though she's probably realized as much, now that she's seen the scars. "And I don't mind," he answers her question slowly, wanting to repay her kindness by sating her curiosity.
Though it's the hardest thing he's ever done, Oliver turns his back to her, crossing his legs underneath him as he turns away. He never turns his back on a conscious human—one of many lessons he learned in his childhood that still stay with him today. If a human is conscious and he shows weakness, it will try to hurt him, that much he knows.
Every human, perhaps, except two, including the one standing behind him.
Felicity's approach is slow, and he can hear her bare feet padding across the floor. When she nears, he stretches out his right wing before her, taking delight in her gasp of surprise. "Wow," Felicity breathes. "They're… big. Really big." She takes a breath, sounding more put together when she continues, "I promise not to touch your left one—I know your shoulder hurts and I don't want to hurt you."
A smile comes to his face as a rare bout of mischief hits him, and he startles another breath out of her when he stretches his right wing out to almost full length until it bumps into either a support column or the toolbox, he isn't sure. "I have a thirty-foot wingspan," he answers her unspoken question before folding his wing back in so that she can better inspect it. Then, feeling the corners of his mouth turn up, he adds, "Enough to get me off the ground because I'm so heavy." She doesn't rise to the bait, instead just offering him a breathy laugh.
It's only then that she dares to touch him, and he can feel her warm fingers against his cool wings, carefully brushing against the feathers at the far end of his wing. Her touch is delicate and respectful; when people have touched his wings in the past, it's made them itch when they haven't fallen just right, but she doesn't try to ruffle them. Fingers of one of her hands curl around the bone, following upward, while the other hand just simply strokes the feathers as though trying to make them fall properly. It's so soothing that his eyes fall closed of their own volition, basking in the idea of a human touching him without trying to hurt him.
Slowly she makes her way up to the joint of his shoulder, stroking the place where it sits in a groove of muscle that allows him to tuck his wings in without them being bulky. She doesn't ask questions about it, slowly pulling her hands away just before the tips of her fingers touch his skin. Though he knows his wings run at a cooler temperature than the rest of him, it usually doesn't bother him, but suddenly they feel cold as her touch drops away.
"Thank you, Oliver," she states quietly, as though to signify that she's finished as he hears her step back.
Pushing off of the table with a grimace, Oliver rises to his feet. "No, thank you, Felicity," he answers, turning to look at her. He expects to find fear or even disgust in her expression now that she can't escape the truth, but he only finds wonder and awe. He can work with that. "If you hadn't been there, I wouldn't be here." She frowns as though she doesn't like that idea, and he can't understand that expression. With the slightest hint of hope, he adds, "You have a place on this team, if you want it."
One corner of her mouth turns up in a slight smile. "So John said," she notes warmly, as though she and his other teammate have already bonded in the short time he's been unconscious. He isn't sure if he likes that idea or not. "I'm not sure if I want it or not yet," she allows, and Oliver would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. Felicity's technical skills are valuable, and she provides a warm presence to the base that he already knows he's going to miss. "I understand why you do it and I respect it, but I'm not sure that I want to feel like I'm an accomplice to murder when someone dies." Then she waves her hands quickly, eyes widening. "But don't worry—I'll keep your secret! I'm not ready to walk away just yet—your computer system still physically hurts me to look at."
He nods once with a frown, until another thought comes to him—one that he's never shared with anyone before. Digg doesn't have the background to help him, but with Felicity's technical skills, well, she just might be able to help. "What if," Oliver starts slowly, carefully, "there was something else you could help me with—something that didn't involve anyone dying?"
Already Felicity's eyes light up, burning with curiosity. "You won't know until you tell me what it is," she hedges gently, clearly trying not to push him into telling her anything he doesn't want to reveal. "But I promise that whatever you say is between me and you." She waves a hand. "I know it's hard to tell sometimes because of the excessive talking thing, but I'm really good at keeping secrets, Oliver."
Her words give him the strength and courage to confess the truth to her. "I wasn't always like this, Felicity," he admits, fluttering his right wing as indication of what he means. The blonde's eyes widen in surprise of the admission. "I don't know how old I was when they took me from my family, but I have vague, scattered memories of a life before the island."
As always, he's swept up into them: A blonde woman gathering him into her arms and saying my beautiful boy. Running through the halls of a massive building while another woman with a heavy accent calls his name, mixing with words in Russian. Pushing a brunette about his age on the swings while a boy with dark hair pulls on his shirt and calls Be careful, Ollie. A man with light brown hair and eyes as blue as his own holding his hand as they walk onto a massive boat. And then, the only one that makes sense: a blonde toddler with a cleft chin, whose name he knows very well.
Felicity doesn't try to ask him about the scenes he's reliving, instead waiting patiently for him to continue telling her about it. "I used to think they were just dreams for the first few years, but that was when she showed up." He looks at Felicity. "I knew her from before, and she remembered me. When I escaped, I found out that they took me from Starling City." He bites his lip, reminding himself that he knows too little to really hope. "I want to find my family again, Felicity." He chokes on the words he's biting down next, but finally he's able to force them out. "And I want to find Sara's family, too. I want to find all their families and let them know what happened—to give them closure."
The blonde takes his hand with a sad smile and a promise: "I'm going to help you give it to them."