Felicity's first indication that Chase had well and truly broken Oliver, that something inside him had shattered and may never have been able to be put back together again, was not the empty deadness of his gaze or the dullness in his voice or the slump in his posture that had never been there before. It was the fact that he wouldn't let her touch him.
Three times as he'd struggled up the steps toward them, she had started forward, reaching out to him by an instinct that she couldn't control. And three times, something had stopped her. It was as if he had thrown up some kind of invisible wall that prevented her from getting near. She would soon find out that things were even worse than that.
Dig and Curtis managed to guide Oliver into a chair, then made themselves scarce, knowing- or perhaps merely hoping- that that the best thing for him at that moment was Felicity. For a long time, all she could do was stand there and stare at Oliver sitting in that chair, dead to the world, trying desperately to stave off the sobs that threatened to choke her. Oliver's injuries were what finally spurred into action. They need tending to, and he was clearly not in a fit state to do so himself. While not exactly comfortable, it was familiar, something she had done before, and a little bit of familiarity would give her a starting point, somewhere to move forward from while she figured how her world had changed and whether she could ever get it back to the way it had been before.
She busied herself gathering the necessary supplies- antiseptic, gauze, medical tape- and moved cautiously toward Oliver sat. He was statue still except for his breathing. When she went to tend to the puncture wound on his shoulder- made by arrows, she could tell all too well- he finally moved. He reached out, quick as a striking snake, and grabbed her wrist, stopping her an instant before her fingers brushed his skin.
"Don't," he said, a warning in his voice.
"These will get infected if they're not tended to," Felicity protested. She knew he had a habit of punishing himself by deliberately not attending to injuries he'd obtained in the field if he felt that he had failed in some way, and given his current state, she feared he was doing so now.
"Then I'll do it myself," Oliver replied, dispelling that fear for the time being. His voice carried only a trace of its usual steel. "Just...don't touch me. I'm poison, Felicity. Everything and everyone I touch dies, and I don't- I don't want that to happen to you. I can't stand the thought of you being hurt because of me. That's already happened too many times." He fell silent after that. His words struck Felicity like a physical blow. What had Chase done to him, to make him believe them so completely? She opened her mouth to speak, to offer reassurances, something, but realized that there was nothing she could say that he would listen to or believe. There was no one better at discounting their own good qualities than Oliver Queen. At that moment, there was only one thing she could think to do. She reached up and cupped his cheek, hating the way he flinched at her touch.
"Oliver," she said. "Oliver, look at me." For a minute, he ignored her, leaning sideways, his gaze fixed on the floor. Then, finally, he slowly lifted his eyes to hers.
"I'm not going to leave you," she said firmly. "I'll give you your space, because I can see that that's what you need right now, but I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you think you are and whatever you think you've done, I won't abandon you. Not now, and not ever."
I know you would never hurt me, she thought but didn't say. Something shifted in Oliver's gaze. It was a small shift, almost infinitesimal, but it was there. It enough to give Felicity hope that somewhere deep down, something she'd said had gotten through to him. He let go of her wrist, allowing her to back away from him, and as she left the lair, she did so with the smallest glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that he could come back from this.