Author's Note: Hello dear readers! I felt the horrible needs to write something tragic and painful, so this little story came to be. I'm sure it could continue on, but I'm not sure if I should delve into more painful territory. But, if you guys like it, let me know what you think. If you want more, let me know and I can see what I can do! Enjoy!
Cold and broken, Oliver Queen desperately fights to breathe. The air is thin at such a high elevation, making his breathing even more labored. His right side is on fire and he knows his lung is punctured and failing him; the taste of blood is strong and metallic in his mouth. He can only look up, toward the top of the cliff and the location of a fight he should have won. But it was one he could not possibly have won.
He stares up, unable to move for fear of losing his battle with death. He can feel it, right on the edge of his vision, beckoning. If he acknowledges it, he will lose. He will be gone. He will die. So he keeps his focus on the rocks above him, flecks of snow catching on his eyelashes and melting. He blinks the moisture away, wondering if some of it might be tears. He cannot tell.
The wind howls around him, though his hearing his muffled by his dwindling strength. He knows the bitterness of the weather is sucking away his precious time, and the idea of dying alone overwhelms him. He always knew he death might come to him in a lonely place, devoid of warmth and love, but he always had his dreams. Dreams of a life full of promise and hope. A life with family and friends who shower him with affection he needs and longs for. A life with Felicity.
He lets himself drift off into a future he can sense he'll never see. The harsh world around him fades away, transforming into a warm house with family and friends gathered around his deathbed. He's older than he ever imagined himself being; well into his eighties or nineties. By his side is Felicity, wrinkled and pale, yet somehow still the most beautiful woman in his life. She's holding his hand, squeezing it gently. Their fingers are bony and veiny, but they fit together perfectly. They are meant to be together.
Blurry faces and distorted voices float around him, offering him words of admiration and respect. He knows, somehow, that these are his children. They are grown and in charge of their own families and responsibilities. Deep within himself is an enormous well of pride for what he and Felicity have created. It is something he never thought possible for him.
The only voice he can hear clearly his hers. Eventually no one else is surrounding them and she is leaning in close, her breath tickling his cheek. "You can let go," she says, her words quiet and frail. "There's no need to hold on."
He coughs, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. "But," he stammers. "I do have a reason to hold on."
"What might that be?" she asks, touching his cheek with her free hand.
He closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it, cherishing her warmth. "You."
The howling of the mountain winds break through this death-dream, sending him back to his present torment. He takes in a shallow, burning breath and feels a new flow of blood trickling out at the corner of his mouth. He does not wipe it away. He does not move.
Slowly his eyes fog over and he find himself outside of Felicity's home, waiting for her to return from work. He know her schedule. She has been working longer hours and spending less time at the foundry. He has been watching her, working up the courage to reveal himself to her. He wonders how she'll react upon seeing him. He knows he has waited too long.
He hears footsteps coming to a sudden stop and looks up. She's staring at him, her mouth ajar. Her arms fall to her sides and her purse clatters to the floor, spilling out the contents. A tube of lipstick rolls over to Oliver, coming to a halt at his foot. He picks it up and smiles. Bright pink.
"You-you're... alive," Felicity mumbles, her eyes brimming with tears behind her glasses.
He nods. "Yes."
"They said you were dead."
Once again, he nods. "Yes."
"But you're alive...?"
He smiles, then stands. "Yes."
Without another word, Felicity rushes into his arms and buries her face in his neck. He feels her breathing him in, reassuring herself that he's real and there. She lifts her head up and lets her lips rest against his ear. "I love you."
He pulls away slightly to look at her, unable to keep the smile at bay. The kiss he receives is powerful and overflowing with impatient desire. He kicks open the door, disregarding the loud crack of wood and the breaking of the lock. He will not wait a moment longer to finally be with her.
The snow tumbles down harder and draws him back to painful reality. The sky is darkening behind the clouds, sending the world around him into a wintery nightmare. He feels his right side numbing, partly due to the cold and partly due to the wound which has slowed its furious bleeding. His body is too frgid and icy to function normally. It is only a matter of time, he knows for sure. He is grasping tightly to very borrowed time.
As the darkness gathers around him, he drifts into the continuation of his previous dream.
Felicity is sprawled out on the bed, sheets draped over her body almost artfully, keeping her most previous parts hidden from view. Oliver watches her sleep, reveling in her peacefulness, keeping watch over her every inhale and exhale. It is calming.
After a while she stirs, rolling onto her side and opening her eyes to mere slits. "What are you doing?" she asks, her lips turning up into a smile. He returns it as he curls up next to her. Their faces are so close that their noses touch.
"Watching you," he says.
"That's not creepy at all." She laughs and nudges him playfully. "All jokes aside, it is nice waking up to you."
He kisses the tip of her nose, then brings her in for a long, passionate kiss. He can feel her untangling the sheets and shifting her body to meld with his, and he doesn't stop her. It is all he's ever wanted. She's all her ever wanted. She's the reason he returned.
The perfection of that bed shifts and once again he is on the mountainside, his body slowly being buried with snow. The pale predawn light is stretching across the sky, and he is pained by the knowledge that he was unconscious for so long. He knows he is lucky to still be alive, but now he feels much weaker.
His mind is frantic and his thoughts are scattered. He glimpses faces and hears voices that could not possibly be near.
John Diggle is begging him to see reason.
Roy is laughing at some irony that everyone else ignores.
Laurel is arguing over some tiny detail that irks her.
Thea is reassuring him that she knows how to run her own life.
Felicity is encouraging him.
Boosting his confidence.
Reminding him of his importance.
Looking at him with those glasses hidden behind glasses that frame her face so perfectly.
Her lips are bright pink.
Her hair is tied back in her signature ponytail.
She's chewing on a pen between words.
She's the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and possibly that he will ever see.
Before his world turns black, he hears footsteps crunching against the snow and pushing aside branches. He cannot bring his vision back. He cannot see the source of the noise. All he can see is her. And then nothing.
He wakes to the stinging of water in his lungs. He opens his eyes but water burns at his eyes, forcing them closed once more. He moves his limbs, kicking against thick water.
He is at the bottom of a deep pool, the rock and sand beneath him soft against his skin. He brings his hand to his right side, feeling his ribs. There is a scar, like all of his other scars.
He kicks himself up, fighting to reach the surface. Fighting to catch a breath. Once he breaks the surface and gasps in oxygen, he opens his eyes. For a moment everything his blurred, covered by green haziness. He wipes at his eyes. When he opens them once more, he finds himself in a round, natural pool. But the color is not natural. The rocky cave around him is aglow with bright green light, and the source of that light and his life is the water he is treading.