She lay on the table, her chest rising and falling with each breath. The light rose of her cheeks was gone, replaced by a pale sheen, Oliver tried not to notice the tremble in his hands as he ran the cloth down the side of her face.
It had been too close, he could still feel the ringing in his hears, recall the fear that had struck him to his core when he had seen her, simply lying next to him. Her sparkling eyes closed, arms outstretched as if she was reaching for him, blood running down her cheek. He couldn't remember a time when he had been so afraid.
Or so enraged.
He could feel it, simmering under his skin. His every instinct telling him to go, hunt them down, find them. Kill them.
They had hurt what was his.
But he didn't, he wouldn't. Not until she woke up, not until he knew she was okay.
Please god, wake up.
He slid the cloth across her forehead, wipping away dirt and blood, never taking his eyes from her face.
Wake up, please wake up.
He ran his hand along her arm, intwining her limp fingers with his. He dropped the cloth with a wet thud, leaning close, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead, his eyes closed tight.
He pulled back slowly, for once his masked emotions clear on his face, he cupped her face in his hand, as if he could will her awake.
She was so small, he had never realized, she always seemed bigger, almost larger than life, always the center of attention, lighting up the room. But here, she looked soft, fragile. Breakable.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
Her eyelashed fluttered, the soft blue of her eyes barely visible.
Oliver snapped to attention, his hand gripping hers tight, his breath caught in his throat.
"Felicity" He whispered, his voice hoarse.
"Oliver?" She managed, her eyes confused.
He smiled then, the barest quirk of his lips, before he pulled her up, wrapping her in his arms. She slid her hands along his back, he burrowed his face into her neck, gripping her far too tight.
Fuck, why won't my hands stop shaking?