a/n: this is a tag to 4X05, but other than that i don't really know how to say what it is exactly. Maybe one part death-by-finals, one part rewatching season four with someone i really don't want to ruin it for, two parts birthday prompt for that same person. every other year i follow a song prompt from her to a one-shot for whatever we're stuck on at the time, and this is an 'on' year even if i'm super late. happy birthday wendi, and i hope this lives up to your expectations. there will hopefully be a felicity-based counterpoint eventually.
disclaimers: i don't own arrow and, to be honest, i'm not sure exactly who does. i just know I'm not trying to piss them off. the song prompt was 'snow in newark' by ryan hemsworth (feat. dawn golden.)
tie me to your wrist each night and i'll follow you home
When he tells them he's seen things that couldn't be explained, it isn't quite that simple. There are layers of meaning, things he's felt and fumbled through that shouldn't have ever happened. It isn't just that he couldn't explain them, it's that he didn't know how to and felt as though he shouldn't try. His response to shock, or at least confusion, has never been uniform. Sometimes it's a curse, shouted into open space. Sometimes that curse is asking for an answer, demanding something from a world that has never not once yielded something it wasn't ready to give.
Sometimes it's a whisper-light thought, a half-hearted prayer or a heart full of gratitude. His list of things to be grateful for these days is running a bit short, but Felicity has kind of turned everything on its head and now the list is short but his gratitude is infinitely heavier. If he has a max limit of things he can be thankful for, the shorter list of options just makes him more acutely aware of each one. In the first moments back from whatever the hell it was they did to bring Sara all the way back, he was hyper aware and completely displaced all at once. She was the only thing he could actually make sense of or seek out.
He never thought much about his parents' relationship, but he wonders if this is what happened to them in some way. Did they fall in love, find one person to count on, and then everything else sprang to clear, vivacious life?
That's how it's been for him. It's been a long process. None of it's been difficult, though. The most difficult part was letting go of everything he had to let go of in order to accept what was happening. Once he let go, falling was easy and completely out of his control. For the first time since everything, that hasn't made him uncomfortable. It only applies to her, though, and the loss of control anywhere else is almost doubly unsettling now. The only place he can be out of control and safe is with her, in the privacy of their home, because she's his sanctuary.
He needs that almost desperately after the rapidly devolving mess that was bringing Sara back. There are the physical symptoms that come and all of them are unusual. He can't get warm, has a bit of a headache, and he's just not steady. It's one part exhaustion and two parts almost overwhelmed by everything they've done. Although the physical issues have Felicity, Digg, and Thea alternately looking at him in open concern or at least confusion, it's the mental side effects that have him reeling. He told Felicity not a day goes by he doesn't miss all those he's lost, and the list is considerable. Now he can't stop thinking of them, though, and the memories are coming in painful flashes. He's thinking it's a side effect of what they've done. Laurel seems blind to the consequences of messing with mystical forces, but he's feeling the full weight of them right now.
At one point, moving around the 'secret lair' (God, they really need to find a better name for this thing) and just trying to clean up a little, he remembers his dad's death. It's like he's completely disembodied, thrown back into the life raft. His mom is the only one who knows that exact detail—knew—and the memory naturally fades into her death right in front of him. He grips the back of the chair Felicity is sitting in and drops his head. It isn't quite enough he could kiss her head, as he maybe intended to do, but it's enough she notices.
"Oliver…" she says, looking back and up at him. "When is the last time you slept, my love?"
Nine years ago, he thinks without mercy. It isn't completely true, but it might as well be if he's going to start running through the parade of dead friends and family against his will. He just shakes his head, because that isn't his problem. The immediate assessment in her gaze lays his struggle bare to her in some way. Once he opens his eyes, he can see the next few minutes all over her face. It's a relief because it isn't a memory or a death he's carried on his conscience. It's the future, with her and however brief, even if it only spells out her determination to make him leave.
Those few minutes go fast, just like the rest of the ones that came before did. His sense of time is warped, which is probably another symptom. If it's enough to throw off his proprioception, it falls under the heading of physical. There are a few well-placed clicks as she shuts her computer down. The chair under his still-tight grip moves as she does, and she slides her hand from his elbow to his fingertips before she somehow replaces the chair with her hand in his. He's vaguely aware of issuing his goodbyes to Thea and John, of Felicity doing the same. He thinks for a second about telling them they should go home, but they're grown-ups and they know there isn't anything else to be done tonight in spite of the difficulty they all have of giving it up for the night. He powered through walking John (the weird one) out, got through his conversation with Thea, and he doesn't think he could really manage much else by way of conversation or explanation tonight. As much as he adores them both, and won't ever use that actual word in his out loud voice, it takes effort to explain those things he's seen and sometimes done. They want explanations for tonight but he doesn't have the energy to give them.
He needs rest. He needs a break. The only way he's going to get it is by following the bossy blonde whose hand is all but tied to his wrist as she hauls him home for absolutely not the first time and definitely not the last.
There's a shower, but it's quick and he steps out of it in nothing more than a pair of beat-to-hell sweatpants and his mental fog. He still can't get warm, still can't shake the things he's seen over the course of the day. None of it is entirely clear. No, the only things that have been clear have been the graphic reliving of some of his worst and most desperate moments.
What was he fighting, killing? John took care of most of it and he wishes he'd had a little more time to appreciate that for what it was. Still, maybe it's best to leave the dead spirit guards to someone a little more well-versed. Oliver has the dead spirits and being haunted on lock, but he doesn't know shit about the… underworld? Afterlife? That's a little more Constantine's area of expertise, apparently. They've always been a little light on the details.
The room is mostly dark, lit only by whatever Felicity is reading on her tablet and, more distantly, the cityscape beyond the window. His eyes are mostly closed and he finds his way to her anyway, uncharacteristically sprawling on his stomach, his legs hanging into space off the side of the bed, and his head finding her stomach even though she has to change her hold on the tablet for him to do so. He wraps his arms around her loosely and closes his eyes. Though he's still miles from sleep, he doesn't move at all while she sets it aside and pulls the covers over him, cocooning them together in this safe place. For once, she's the warmer one. Maybe he understands what she finds so appealing about his usual temperature.
"What exactly happened tonight?" She asks in a voice appropriate for their moment, her hand resting on the side of his head and toying with his hair.
"I don't know," he says simply. It's a half-assed answer and he knows she 1) deserves better and 2) will demand it. Probably gently, given the state he's in. Still, though.
"You know some of it," she says. "Probably more than I do. I just had to stand there and watch you and Laurel holding hands and twitching. It was weird. And you know some really interesting people."
"Says the one who scored a peacock feather." He turns his face into her tanktop a little more, his mouth nearly against her stomach. "What else was on that list he gave you?"
"Don't change the subject, Mister." Her words are a little sharp, but her fingers are moving against his scalp. They're as much of a reminder as they are a comfort. He's not allowed to hide with these thoughts anymore. She's his partner and she won't let him, even if she knows he doesn't want to live in the past. He tightens his arms around her and adjusts his head against the flat plane of her stomach, acknowledgement that he heard what she's saying and what she's not saying. That's when it's safe for her to ease him in a little. "He wanted, you know, the usual: unicorn blood, hymens of seven virgins, frozen orange juice concentrate." He feels her shift under his cheek, a temporary move that he's pretty sure was a shrug. He wants to shake his head at her quick wit, but that would require moving. Instead, he smiles and it feels a little weird on his face, a little too light for the way the rest of him feels.
"That explains the smell," he says quietly. He lays one of his hands on her side, like if he can just increase the amount of him that's touching a little more of her, he'll be able to absorb more comfort. "Where do you get unicorn blood on short notice?"
"Secret organization," she says. Her tone is still relaxed, but her hand in his hair is a little more intent. When she doesn't say anything else for a while, he knows what's coming. "What's going on with you?"
"I think it's just a side effect," he says. Those words are easy. "I don't really know details of what he does. I've seen things I never really asked for explanations about... when we first came back and we saw Damien Darhk touch that soldier from HIVE and kill him, I knew I was seeing them again but it's darker somehow. John Constantine is not exactly a magician, but there are things he's done that just…"
"Yeah, I got that."
"We were in a room. It was circular or continuous. It was like the main hall in Nanda Parbat, I guess." He shivers a little, holds her tight, and that's the first thing that makes her hand against his hair and his ear stutter. He's never cold like that, never shaky. He knows as her hand falters that's what's really freaking her out. Truth be told, it's what's freaking him out, too.
"That place is super creepy," she agrees.
"It was colder, though. There was a pit and guards. We fought them. Mostly John did. I didn't see details, it all happened so fast, but it's the feeling I can't… shake." He swallows hard. "We shouldn't have brought her back. Laurel didn't leave us with a choice and I know that, but none of this should've happened. It just feels wrong. And now I can't stop thinking about…" he trails off uncomfortably. It isn't that he wants to keep it from her, but he can't exactly explain either.
"How wrong the other losses are."
He nods. Her words are perfect. Her steady presence behind him is helpful. This, talking, is hard. He doesn't know how he managed to avoid it for so long, though, because as hard as it is, it's good. He closes his eyes, just for a minute, and sees her from Nanda Parbat instead of the other things he's seen.
"I know I can't have them back. We talked about that before. But…" He swallows hard. "I'd still give almost anything." His voice cuts out. "My mom. She knew I wasn't the same after everything, but she had this hope for me. I wish she could see you."
"Your mom hated me, Oliver," she protests. "I told her biggest secret to you as soon as I found out. I couldn't not."
He runs his hand over her side. Of course he remembers that. Her gentle words, the horrible timing of it all, paled in comparison in some ways, when he had a chance to catch up, to the fact there was someone in his life who was so direct. It was one of many reasons he fell as hard as he did for her, as messed up as that might sound. "It just feels like it got interrupted. My life was interrupted and they paid the price for the shortcomings I brought back as this new person. I couldn't save them. Since we woke up or whatever the hell we did tonight, I can feel them. I see them, their last moments, when I close my eyes. Not just her, but my dad and Tommy, too. Whatever mystical force we disturbed stirred it all up. I miss them."
"You need them," she adds.
This time he does shake his head. "No, it's not that. I watched them die."
He's never actually told her that before. She knew about his mother, of course. She knew almost as soon as it happened that he'd watched the whole thing happen. His mom was the only one who knew he saw his dad shoot himself, though. He's never told anyone he and Tommy actually talked, just that he found his best friend in the rubble of CRNI and had to leave him there.
"You did?"
There's something in her voice. He doesn't know what it is, but he needs it to pull him out of all this stuff. He realizes how tightly he's holding her. It's a good thing she's strong because, if she weren't, he'd probably be cutting off important circulation or something. He loosens his arms, tries to loosen his own tense muscles. He does okay at the first, but isn't successful with the second. Her hand slips down his neck and he lets out an involuntary sigh. Her touch isn't exactly gentle itself, but it's steady and real and warm. It's exactly what he needs to come back from those terrible places, a million miles away from her and the bed and something as domestic as the familiar smell of their laundry detergent.
(There was an honest-to-God debate about what kind to get when they first stocked their house. She picked the one with the cartoon arm on the side because it looked like his arm, which means it's strong. The memory makes him want to smile. He's got other things to wade through first, though.)
"Yeah. My dad lived when the boat sank. Obviously, he did if he gave me a notebook and a job and all the things you know about already. When we realized no one was coming to save us and the food was running low, he shot himself in front of me. I thought I had lived before that—the parties, the crazy things that happened when we were high. I didn't know anything. It was shocking and disorienting, which is saying a lot. His body washed up on the shore after I'd been on Lian Yu so I laid him to rest. I don't know which was worse."
"Where did you find a shovel?" She asks in that faraway voice she gets when her head is running faster than her fingers can search for answers or her mouth can pose questions. "And really, where would you ever have enough room to do something like that without running into a landmine or something else? That island is awful and doesn't have any open space for something like that, unless I missed the cemetery on the Oliver Retrieval Mission of 2013, which is entirely possible. I was too busy trying not to throw up in my parachute, looking for you, and wondering if we'd find you in a loincloth."
He can't help it – he lets out a small laugh. He turns his head to muffle it, burying his face in her shirt. Once he's there, though, he isn't thinking about his dad or the island or Tommy. He isn't thinking of pulling Sara out of the replica of the Lazarus pit.
There's just her. He closes his eyes, surrounded by her touch and inhaling their smell, and that's all there is for him. His world is reduced in the moment down to a more manageable size, to a more tangible reality. He plants a kiss on her tanktop, then moves it out of the way so he can kiss her skin instead.
He went from drowning in dark obscurity to trying not to imagine the fantasy she might have about him swinging from trees in nothing more than a scrap of clothing. He might not be shy, but that's still pushing it.
"A loincloth?" He asks, once he's shifted and moved to rest on top of her, moving her shirt as he kisses.
She scoffs. "Absolutely," she says. She dips her head forward and her lips are against his hair. "You totally pulled it off up here, by the way." Her hand moves off him just long enough she can tap the side of her head. "In case you need any ideas for my next birthday present."
He looks at her seriously, just for a moment, with a fleeting thought about his best friend who was so good and so uncomplicated. He wishes Tommy could meet Felicity, as she is to him (Oliver) now. Oliver wishes more than a lot of things the guy could see him now doing all the things Tommy was starting to do with Laurel—opening up, letting her change the subject and his mood and his life.
As much as he misses some people who were huge in his life, though, he knows as long as he's got her he'll be okay. She won't let him be anything but okay and present.
"Thank you," he says, kissing her softly. He's still tired, emotionally spent and he's sure this conversation isn't totally over. It's okay, though. They'll get to it.
He's home now, real-time and present tense.
That's all he needs.
