Title: Out of Control
Word Count: 7788
Notes: A few things. First of all, I made some minor changes to Invaluable Contribution that you may or may not even notice. As I said, very minor, but they take the direction I want to go with Oliver's character that I didn't address before. They'll come up later—not in this fic, but at some point in this universe—so I wanted you to be aware.
Secondly, I think this might take the cake as my weirdest fic series. This universe is vastly complicated because of character interactions in a way that varies from the rest of the universes I work in. I'm honestly not sure how I feel about that yet. I do like the overall tone of the universe, but the dynamic between Oliver and Felicity is damned complicated to write. So if it comes off as creepy, I totally get it and I'm not offended.
Thirdly, Oliver. Oliver is always the thorn in my side when I write; he never wants to cooperate with me for some reason. Admittedly, he's probably my favorite character to write, but that's because he's so much work. So, of course, I decided to write an already complicated universe from, arguably, the perspective of the most complicated character to write.
Anyhow, as always, I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think—I'm really curious to see what the reaction to this one will be. As always, it's much appreciated. :)
Though Felicity Smoak was an unexpected arrival into his life, Oliver didn't expect her to fall into their team so naturally. It's as though she's filled a hole in their operation that Oliver and Digg never realized was there. One moment, she's driving him back to base, and the next, she's a constant fixture in his world. If he didn't know better, he'd guess they've all been working together for years, instead of days.
The most remarkable thing, however, has been the way she's seemed to accept his… darker nature, the man that he was changed into on the island. In some ways, she takes it better than Diggle does: she doesn't tense when he draws her or take that unconscious step backward when he accidentally flashes his enlarged teeth. Instead of trying to ignore the fact that he's always thirsting for blood, she actively asks questions about the change in his biology, as though it doesn't bother her that he could snap and drain her dry at any moment.
Oliver sometimes thinks that she's accepted his fate better than he has.
Even though he's attempting to train with the sparring dummies, most of his attention is focused on her tonight. Because they're currently in the process of stocking up blood from various blood banks in the city, he's delegated to training unless an emergency situation arises. Going out into the field again without a strong blood supply at base isn't wise, and he refuses to see Felicity as a valid alternative for coping with his thirst. He doubts she realized it the first time, but he could easily have killed her; he's not used to self-control because he can drain a bag dry without any serious repercussions. Felicity, however, is another matter entirely. He hasn't drained anyone since his inception into this life and he'll be damned if the first is someone as important to him as she is.
The thought makes his gaze unconsciously slip to the purplish bruise on her neck, nicely exposed by the ponytail hanging at the nape of her neck. Today has been the first day since he put it there that it doesn't invade his senses every time he's near, begging him to sink his teeth into live flesh again. It feels more natural than the taste of blood marred by its plastic packaging, and Oliver thinks that feeding from a live donor will become an addiction if he lets it.
He tries to focus on anything instead of that damn bruise on her neck, and of course his senses betray him by taking notice of the way she bites her lip in concentration as she crawls under the table to set up her new computer systems. It turns out to be just as bad as the bruise, awakening feelings in Oliver that he most certainly should not be feeling.
Oliver can't help but think it would be easy to sink his teeth into her again—she trusts him so completely that she wouldn't even think about him closing in on her. She'd probably even smile, think he was trying to take an interest in his work. Maybe he could offer to help, and that would pull down whatever guard she manages around him. It's unlikely she'd turn her back on him—even she isn't that comfortable with him—but if the distance between them was small enough, he could push his teeth into her again—
He stops the thought cold as horror sets in, as he realizes what exactly he was planning to do. Damn it, he needs to feed more often—that's the only cure for this. He'd thought every two weeks would last him, but clearly feeding from a live donor has aggravated his thirst, and so few feedings won't sustain him any longer. But, unfortunately, more feedings means more blood, in turn causing more trouble obtaining blood from the hospitals. Still, it's a small price to pay to quench his thirst enough to be around humans.
The last time Oliver felt hunger like this was just after Ivo turned him loose upon the island, slowly starving as his body devoured its own blood supply. For a month, he was stronger than he'd ever been, but then the thirst had come. It had taken over his senses until all he had left were the burn in his throat and the crippling ache in his chest as his body pumped nothingness through his veins, begging for blood to fill them. He'd thought that hunger was going to kill him then because there was no respite; his entire world was defined by something he didn't even know he needed. Now, Oliver knows exactly what he needs, and he knows how to make the pain stop.
And he can hear it pulsing through Felicity's veins.
Honestly, even her smell is too much in the close quarters of the basement. The smell of her blood in the air is stronger than usual because of the bruise on her neck, making it so potent that he can taste it from across the room, mixing with the strong, heady scent of his pheromone. Just underneath the smell that matters most to him, he can just make out the hints that define her as human: the natural smell of her skin, the subtle hint of shampoo, a dusting of her soap, and a dash of perfume. The warm basement only serves to help disperse it, adding to his torment. If only he had something else to think about, something to take his mind off of the ever-growing dryness in his throat…
"Do you sleep in a coffin?" Felicity asks him abruptly, and Oliver has never been so glad to hear a voice in his life. Something about her tone is cheeky and playful, while somehow managing to be tentative at the same time. "I know it's probably a stupid question, but, in my defense, my only knowledge on this subject comes from fiction."
Oliver finds himself very glad for the reprieve, actually stopping his training to scoff. In a probably poor decision to test his resolve, he finds himself stepping closer to her. "The only time I'm going to be in a coffin is because I have no say in the matter," he assures her, though his words seem dark, even to him.
He attempts to lighten it with some of the other questions along the same vein of thought. "If you throw holy water on me, I'll get wet," he continues dryly, and Felicity breaks into a smile, probably pleased that he's playing along with her. Surprisingly, he finds himself enjoying the opportunity to make fun of his own plight. "If you hold up a cross, I'll ask if you're religious. Silver won't burn me unless you've heated it. If you try to stab me with a wooden stake, you'll probably give us both splinters. I can see myself in a mirror, and, the last time I checked, I cast a shadow behind me."
Now he hesitates, already knowing what she'll think about the next one. Absently he notices that she's stopped her work under the desk to listen to his answers, looking up to him and where he now leans against her desk. "Garlic, though…" As expected, she groans, muttering something involving the word lame under her breath. He ignores her with a soft laugh, pressing on. "It…," he starts haltingly, searching for the right word, "taints the bloodstream by making it smell and taste like garlic for a few days afterward." He frowns. "It wouldn't hurt one of us to drink it, but it's unappealing."
Tentatively, he suggests another thought: "Garlic also masks our pheromones from one another. Even I wouldn't be able to smell my scent in your veins." His tone is almost mourning to his own ears. Something about the idea of Felicity without the marking in her blood that ties her to Oliver is agony to think about—almost as unbearable as standing next to her without begging for her blood.
"It's a good thing I don't like garlic, then," she teases easily, but Oliver can't see the humor. "I didn't know there were dietary restrictions with this whole live donor thing."
"That's not funny, Felicity," he snaps, perhaps with more bite than he intends. "Feeding from you was a…" So many words want to fill the space he left there: Mistake. Addiction. Luxury. Torment. Blessing. Instead, he settles on, "Last resort. It's not something I plan on doing again." Despite how much instinct begs him to do the opposite. "If I make one mistake, it could cost you your life—and that's not something I want on my conscience."
She's quiet for a long moment as she fixes him with a blank stare, and he sighs, looking away as he mutters, "I'm sorry." For not the first time, Oliver thinks that Felicity missed a calling as a police interrogator; one look can make him feel guilt in the pit of his stomach, especially when she didn't deserve anything like him in her life.
As is her nature, Felicity doesn't make it easy on him, crossing her arms in defiance. "Are you apologizing to me or desk?" she counters. She's never hesitated to stand up to him, even though she knows just how dangerous he could be if he wanted—and he still never smells that tell-tale scent of fear on her skin when she does.
This time he manages to look at her. "I didn't snap at the desk," he offers her in a level tone, crossing his arms in the same challenge. They both know he's sorry, that he shouldn't have spoken to her like that, and it's hard enough to apologize to her as it is.
Probably sensing it's all she's going to get, Felicity lets it go. She rises from the floor, dropping into the new desk chair she brought down last night. Crossing one leg over the other, she asks, "What about sunlight? How does that one work?" She shifts in her seat, her expression thoughtful. "I'm pretty sure you won't burst into flame, but I also know you don't really like to move around during the day."
Marveling at how observant she is, Oliver answers somewhat dryly, "If I stay out in the sun too long, I'll sunburn, but that's it." More seriously, he continues, "Sunlight is a risk, but for other reasons." He hesitates, wondering if he'll be able to talk about this now, with her at such close proximity. "Several things weaken my self-control and increase my thirst." Her eyebrows furrow at the sudden change in direction, but she doesn't say anything yet. "I have to feed regularly—and when I'm injured. If blood is close to the surface of the skin—like the bruise on your neck—it's a challenge for my control."
Felicity's hand immediately goes to the bruise, assaulting him both with her familiar scent and the overbearing smell of blood and pheromone. Panicking as the ache in his throat increases, he pulls her hand away from the injury sharply. "Don't," he manages to croak in a raspy voice. When he releases her hand, she laces her fingers together in her lap, and Oliver sighs in relief as she understands his demand.
After a moment of slow, methodical breathing, he continues, "Being around people makes it worse—so many pulses in one place. And standing close to them doesn't help. Heat changes my control, too." Thinking it would only scare her to hear how the perspiration and other scents make him more aware of the humans around him, Oliver purposely doesn't continue the thought. "That's why I usually stay here during the day," he explains finally. "It's warmer and more people are moving around."
She holds her hands up in front of her. "Wait," Felicity calls suddenly. "You stay here all day?" Something about her tone is uncomfortable in its accusation, so Oliver chooses not to answer. Apparently, she doesn't need him to. "You just… lock yourself in a dungeon all day." Something is uncomfortable about the look she gives him, as though she's seeing through him. She confirms it when she asks him quietly, "Are you really that afraid of yourself? So scared that you'll hurt someone that you won't even be around other people?" She shakes her head with a frown, fanning her scent around them in a way that makes him hold his breath for a moment. Fortunately, though, there isn't isn't any pity in her eyes. Only sadness, which is bad enough. "That's not living, Oliver."
In Oliver's opinion, he died four years ago when Ivo turned him into this creature. "I've never hurt anyone because I'm… Because of what I am," he declares suddenly. It feels important to share this with her now, especially as he fantasized about ways to drain her dry earlier. As if he didn't feel guilty enough, Felicity doesn't even seem surprised by the admission, making him want to tell her just how wrong she is. "If I have to… spend my days down here to keep that from changing, I will." The note in his voice is final, and he hopes she can hear that.
But that would be too easy, and Oliver can already tell that Felicity is not going to make things easy on him—not for his control or his conscience. "So you spend your life keeping this city safe by night," she posits slowly, and he does not like that thoughtful tone in her voice, "and spend your days down here with as few people as possible. And you can say that you've always been in control of your thirst. But at what cost to you, Oliver?" She shakes her head. "You get to spend the rest of your life miserable and unhappy because of something you think you might do."
Oliver doesn't say anything because he'd rather be miserable than a murderer.
The only way that Oliver awakens from sleep is all at once—either consciousness or unconsciousness lay claim to him, with no hazy fog in between. The island stole that from him, took his ability to awaken lightly without wondering what possible terror could overtake him next. Which is why he awakens sharply when the upstairs door pulls shut, sitting up with a jolt.
His hand absently reaches for the bow next to him, nocking an arrow from the quiver. There's no reason anyone would be entering the base of operations during daylight hours; Oliver typically gives Diggle the day to do as he wishes, and Felicity is at work. There's no doubt in his mind that it's an intruder sniffing around—which isn't uncommon or unwelcome, so long as they keep to the upper floor.
The soft footsteps above hit metal, and he knows that the intruder is on the stairs now. Frowning, Oliver rises to his feet, hoping they'll choose not to come any further, but they keep walking. Then the familiar smell nearly bowls him over as it wafts through the room. Even if it wasn't so strong, he wouldn't have any trouble identifying it.
No way would he fail to recognize his own pheromone.
He lowers the bow as black flats come into view, ones with pandas on them. "I had a question for you," Felicity declares as she descends the stairs, coming into view with her hair mercifully covering the bruise on her neck. That bruise would probably be enough to snap his control today. She draws up short as she takes in the bow still in his hands. "Are you planning to use me for target practice?" Then she waves a hand wildly. "That wasn't my question, but I think it's a little more important at this point."
Oliver huffs a sigh. "What are you doing here, Felicity?" he snaps, mostly out of fear. It's bad enough that he has to spend his nights watching his every move so that he doesn't drain her dry, but now apparently he has to avoid shooting her with an arrow, too. "It's the middle of the day."
Truthfully, part of his irritation could be the gnawing hunger within him. Because of the need to stock blood bags, he hasn't fed, even since the close encounter with her yesterday. It's even worse now that the basement is starting to heat slightly, and Oliver's throat feels like it's on fire. He's even starting to get that tightness in his chest and the ache in his muscles when he's gone far too long without feeding. When he manages to sleep, it helps, but it's difficult to sleep between the nightmares—and the interruptions. Not to mention that he always feels hungrier right after he awakens.
And Oliver is starving.
"I know," she answers in a monotone, as though she doesn't understand his point. Then Felicity waves her hand as if it isn't important. "Anyway, my question: When you eat food, does it bother you or anything?" Oliver can't help but blink twice, not understanding why the hell it was so important that she come down here in the middle of work. She rushes forward with, "Because I was thinking about the other night and how you were able to eat ice cream. Is that a problem for you?"
Deciding to just answer the question so that he can finally understand any of the situation, Oliver responds evenly, "I can eat and taste my food—just the same as it would be for you. I just typically don't eat because I don't have to." He drops the bow on the table behind him, allowing him to keep her at a safe distance. "Are you going to tell me why you came here to ask that question?"
She huffs as though he's the most annoying creature on the planet, even though Felicity woke him up to ask trivial, confusing questions. "Because I'm about to go to lunch and I think you should come with me," she answers, oblivious to the fact he's at his breaking point as she moves in closer. Oliver takes a step back, and she takes another step forward, bringing herself even with one of the support beams. "I think it would be good for you to get out in the sunshine for a while, since you won't melt or anything."
It all clicks into place immediately for Oliver: this has to do with their conversation yesterday. He'd thought she had given up when she stopped asking questions, but apparently she had other ideas in mind. Instead of trying to convince him that she's right, Felicity has decided it's much easier to give him a reason to do as she'd like him to.
"I'm not sure that's the best idea right now—" he starts, but Felicity isn't in the mood to hear him explain.
Making the worst move she possibly can, Felicity closes the space between them as she cuts him off with a frustrated sigh. "Come on, Oliver," she insists. "I'm not asking you to leave the dungeon for that long. Surely you can stand out in the sunlight for thirty minutes while we run down the street for Big Belly Burger." She crosses her arms as she looks up at him, and Oliver has no idea how long he can continue to hold his breath. "I think you underestimate your control." Right now, he feels that Felicity is overestimating his control. "And I think that, if you give me the chance, I can prove it to you."
Felicity reaches out to place a hand on his arm as part of her persuasion, and the warmth of her skin snaps the final, fraying tether on his control. What little humanity Oliver has left is overpowered by the animal, and before he even understands what he's doing, he presses Felicity up against the support column to her left, causing her to gasp in surprise as his hands clamp onto her hip and shoulder. Adrenaline makes his heart pump faster in anticipation, making the ache in his chest impossible to ignore. Even with the torment four years ago, he has never been this hungry before.
"Oliver?" she asks, her voice high and breathy. It's enough to pull the human side back out of him, reminding him that a woman, a human being—a friend—is standing in front of him. Suddenly he's aware of her in a way he hadn't been in his bloodlust, feeling her hands pressed against his chest. Her heartbeat runs wild and erratic, and, for the very first time, Oliver notices the change in her scent.
The blood is still there—it's always there—but it's different now. His pheromone calls to him from her veins, as if to remind him that she's forever marked as his, but the smell to her blood isn't just iron anymore. The sharp, heavy scent of adrenaline fills most of the space, but he's surprised that the acrid smell of fear doesn't touch his senses, despite the threat he poses to her. Instead, it's replaced with something softer and sweeter, subtle yet heavy with weight of weight of its implication. He's only smelled it on her once before, when she moaned his name while he drank from her throat the last time.
Oliver can safely admit that the last thing he needs to be thinking about is that smell.
The thought doesn't last long anyway, not with that bruise on her neck so close to him. His hand reaches out to cup the back of her neck, running his thumb across it with a feather-light touch because, despite what the beast inside him wants, the almost-human part of him doesn't want to hurt her. Then he leans closer, running the tip of his nose against her throat, and he can't help but wonder why the hell is teeth aren't in her yet. He aches with the desire and his hands shake against her neck and hip, but he still can't bring himself to violate her trust like this.
This time the sensation burning through him is worse than guilt. Guilt is what accompanies intent, but now that he's acted, it's shame that tears him apart. He could probably let her go now, let her scurry away before he does any real damage, but his control has long since flown out the window. "I'm not as strong as you think I am," he admits to her in a quiet tone, his voice tight with regret.
He can't look at her, afraid of what he'll see in her expression now that the truth is out. "Oliver," she calls again gently, and this time she sounds a little more composed, "how long has it been since you've had any blood?" It's just as casual as her invitation to lunch earlier, as though this happens every day. He doesn't respond because she already knows the answer: the last time he fed was from her, over a week ago.
When he doesn't answer, Felicity makes a noise in the back of her throat in understanding. "That was barely enough to heal your injuries," she chides. "It can't be enough to sustain you." Surprisingly, she doesn't seem to care that his jaw still brushes the side of her neck. One of her hands drops from his chest, and the other trails up to the back of his neck. "Go ahead—it's okay."
Even though the permission makes his mouth water in anticipation, he can't do this to her. Using what little of his control is left, Oliver pulls away to meet Felicity's eyes. "That spot is already bruised," he warns her. "It's going to hurt, Felicity." Her expression is pure defiance, and he sighs in frustration before finally admitting the more important problem to her: "And then there's the small matter that I could kill you."
She actually flinches this time, and Oliver is so relieved to see some fear in her eyes that it doesn't even offend him. He doesn't think Felicity yet realizes how much blood it takes to sustain him; they have ten pints in storage, and he could easily drain them all while thirsting for more. Not only does have less blood coursing through her veins than that, feeding from blood bags also means that Oliver isn't used to stopping when he can still taste the red liquid.
"If you're so… out of control," she retorts slowly, "then why haven't you… bitten me yet?" Oliver doesn't have an answer for her, but Felicity doesn't give him the chance to respond, anyway. "The point still stands—we don't have enough blood in storage for you to go on a feeding frenzy." She waves a hand. "So go ahead. I'd hate for you to pin me up against the wall every time I come down here."
It takes a moment, but suddenly she turns crimson, and the thick scent of blood breaks his concentration long enough that he has to think why she would be blushing. "And my brain apparently doesn't know how to talk about you sinking into me without making it sound like I'm talking about sex." She winces at the new set of wording, and this time Oliver does manage to catch the unintentional innuendo. "Refer to the previous statement."
Despite his sour, frustrated mood, even he can't hold back a chuckle as Felicity holds up a hand. "I also forgot to mention that we need to do something about this position." It starts a new round of blushing. "Damn it. Just once is all I ask for," she mutters under her breath before returning to normal volume and her previous thought. "The last time we did this, I went dizzy and my legs did their best imitation of gelatin."
Suddenly there are too many logistics keeping him from his goal, and, well, if Oliver is impatient, he blames the gnawing hunger. "I can hold you up," he assures her tersely. After all, Felicity can't that heavy, and he has the support beam to help him if he needs it. "Wrap your legs around me."
Muttering something under her breath that he doesn't hear—something that sounds distinctly like I imagined you saying that under different circumstances—Felicity places her hands on his shoulders, using her grip as leverage to jump. Oliver catches her with hands on her waist, holding her up long enough that she can lock her legs above his hips.
Her arms wind around his neck, and he suddenly realizes the intimacy of their position. The last time Oliver had a woman in his arms like this, he was taking her to bed. Of course, that feels like a lifetime ago; he was human then, with little else to worry about beside his youthful misadventures. In the past four years, he hasn't been able to think about anything more than the all-consuming thirst that he can never quench for very long.
It gives him pause, but not enough that he doesn't settle Felicity up against the support beam, at just the right height so that his mouth is against her neck. She swallows hard for reasons Oliver doesn't understand. "Don't do that," he warns her. It will be hard enough to hit the artery with the bruise he left on it the last time—he doesn't need the added difficulty of a moving target. For a brief moment, she locks her jaw, making the artery stand out. Then she relaxes and he can smell the bitter, salty edge of saliva in the air. From experience, he knows that she's probably biting her lip. "Don't do that, either," he demands, a little more harshly. "If you're biting your lip when I push through this bruise, you'll make it bleed."
It's the last warning he gives before pressing his mouth to her neck, brushing her hair away with the back of his hand. Felicity shivers at the sensation for some unknown reason, but Oliver ignores it. Though he only has one experience with live donors, this is his favorite part: the sensation just before the pull. He can feel the thrum of her pulse beneath his mouth, even as obscured as it is by the bruise. The scents radiating off of her skin are a mix of so many different feelings that he doubts even Felicity can understand them.
Her stuttered breathing makes Oliver think that one of them might be nervousness, so he decides not to torment her any longer with his own whims. Instinctively has he did before, he licks across the site he plans to sink his teeth. Felicity tenses after he finishes, probably waiting for the bite, and he knows it's only going to make it hurt worse. Distraction seems like the only option since he's found his mark and doesn't want to move his mouth, so he presses his thumb against the artery on the other side, sliding it downward to draw her attention.
It does the trick while also causing that sweet scent in the air to go stronger. "Oliver?" she asks quietly, her breath picking up. Because he can't answer, he hums his response, causing her to shiver again. "What—?" She cuts off into a high, fluttery sigh as he presses his thumb to the sharp point of her clavicle and starts circling it.
After a moment, that seems to do it, and he seizes the opportunity to bite into her. The last time, he sank his teeth in slowly, but that would only force her to endure more pain this time. Instead, he bites deep and hard, forcing his canines into her all at once. Her cry is startled, and the pure smell of saline in the air—tears, probably in response to the pain—just makes him feel guilty all over again. Blood hits the air a moment later, and he fights back a groan.
He told her not to bite her damn lip.
As much as he wants to pull out and start with the blood in the air, he focuses on what he has under his teeth. Flexing a muscle he rarely uses, Oliver somehow manages to send the serum into the vessel. Almost instantly, her legs around his waist begin to loosen, and he slides a hand under Felicity's thigh for support as he presses her further against the beam.
When her breathing picks up and the sweet scent of her… euphoria fills his senses, only then does he pull his teeth out of her. Blood starts pouring from the wounds immediately, and again Oliver marvels at the difference between a live donor and a bag. He's always thought of the bags as bland without anything to make it seem like the lifeblood it should be, but Felicity's blood is the exact opposite: full of hormones, ions, and compounds—even the sweet taste of her serum-induced arousal playing underneath. Her blood isn't stale with the residue of the polypropylene bag, doesn't contain the myriad of anticoagulants that weaken the potency of the substance.
The thought startles him as the ache in his chest starts to subside with only a few pulls: live donor blood is more potent. He doesn't know the difference, but Oliver is willing to bet that it will take less of her blood to sustain him than from a bag. Sure enough, the gorged feeling starts to gnaw at him after only a few moments. He can't have consumed more than a few pints, but yet he's had his fill.
Hesitancy follows the thought, unsure of how to seal up the already poor seal on her throat. He's already screwed this up once, making it all the more imperative that he make this one right. When he presses his tongue down into the gap he created, Felicity offers a raspy moan. It's hard for him to focus on staunching the blood flow when she's running her fingers through the back of his hairline, but he finds that it's not an unwelcome distraction.
After the wounds are sealed to his satisfaction, Oliver pulls his mouth away from Felicity's neck. She collapses against him immediately, her head resting against her chest as she takes heavy breaths. Almost unconsciously, he places one hand to the back of her head in quiet comfort. He carries her to the metal gurney in the back for support, so that he can better examine the mark he made on her neck. Unsurprisingly, it's starting to swell, protesting what he did to the flesh there.
The last time he did this, he was too ashamed of what he'd done to make sure she recovered, but this time, while it's uncomfortable, he knows she deserves better than to watch him slip away. Instead, he presses a hand to the undamaged side of her neck. "Are you all right?" he asks softly as he extricates himself from her legs.
Placing her head in her hands is answer enough, but Felicity answers in a distant tone, "Just a little swimmy. I think I'll be better after a moment." She clears her throat, and only after it's gone does Oliver realize it was raspy from her wild outcries during the pull. "My neck throbs a little," she adds hesitantly, as though she doesn't want to upset him. The blonde reaches a hand up to touch it, but Oliver catches it.
"Don't touch," he chides gently. "It's swollen. I'll get you an ice pack." She moves to stand up, but Oliver isn't having that. She can barely keep her eyes focused, and even he knows that her feet would only touch the ground for a second before she dropped. "Stay here."
Surprisingly, she does as he asks. "I have a confession to make," she starts slowly as he rummages through the mini-fridge for an ice pack amongst the blood bags. "I might have bitten my lip. It was just habit and it hurt so—" She cuts herself off, and the saliva hits the air again.
"Biting it now isn't going to make it feel any better," he answers somewhat dryly.
The smell drops immediately, and Oliver turns back to her with the ice pack. When he moves to hold it to her neck, Felicity moves a little faster. She surprises him by placing her hands on either side of his head, her thumbs brushing the corners of his eyes. His mouth falls open slightly, and one of his eyebrows raises in a question she doesn't answer "Are your eyes always so dark after you feed?" she murmurs under her breath, searching his eyes for something. For a moment, he can't even move, afraid to break the contact. "Your pupils are the size of saucers. I don't know why I didn't notice that before." Flushing as she pulls her hands away, she adds, "With those teeth poking out, you actually look like a supernatural creature of the night for once." It's a simple statement of fact, her words coated with curiosity and nothing else.
He throws her a withering glance—that she ignores—as he places the ice pack on her neck. Oliver almost expects to smell fear in the air after that last statement, but of course there isn't any. "You seem better," she notes pleasantly. "Not as frustrated and less…" After floundering for the word for a moment, she decides on, "Growly. If I knew sucking my neck again would make you happy, I would have made you do it last week." He throws her a look and she shrugs defensively. "I thought that your grr-stop-being-bad-or-I'll-arrow-you mode was your default."
"Don't refer to feeding like that," he snaps. Hell, he could have killed her tonight, and she wants to refer to it flippantly? He doesn't think so. Then Oliver swallows before admitting the truth: "It hurts me when I don't feed." Felicity licks her lip with the weight of some emotion, smearing blood across it. He focuses on it as he slowly continues, "I spent the first month on the island starving and scavenging for food." The sentence catches her attention, but, thankfully, she doesn't say anything. "I thought it was the worst pain I could ever experience. But when I go without blood for too long… it's worse than that."
She opens her mouth to speak, but Oliver doesn't let her; he doesn't want to know what she has to say to that. Instead, he places a hand to Felicity's jaw. She stutters through a breath in surprise, but her breathing completely halts as he swipes his thumb across her lip. He pulls it back, examining the blood there, and, in a snap decision, he presses his thumb to his mouth, allowing himself one last taste of her blood. "Did you just…?" Felicity asks, her tone incredulous and her eyes wide.
But he actually gets a laugh out of her when he replies self-consciously, "Waste not, want not."
Diggle is discussing the new appearance of the Royal Flush Gang when the smell hits Oliver hard enough to overpower his senses. She's farther away from the entrance than he usually sense her, but, then again, she usually isn't bleeding. He wonders absently what's changed since she was here at lunch, but he knows he'll have his answer soon enough, with her shoes hitting the metal stairs and her footsteps growing closer.
"It sounds like I need to start digging up information," Felicity answers Diggle's statement—one that Oliver doesn't hear over his inner musings. He turns at the sound of her voice, though, and a moment of searching doesn't reveal any cause for the smell of her blood in the air. "Give me a minute to boot everything up, and I should have details with a few searches." Diggle nods, turning back to the toolbox where his guns are housed to start preparing for the night's mission.
Oliver stops her when she sits down at her chair, placing a hand on her shoulder as he leans in to ask his question. Ever since he bit into her the first time, Oliver knew that Diggle wouldn't approve, so he wanted to keep this… transgression as discrete as possible. "Can you think of any reason why you'd be bleeding?" he asks quietly.
Felicity frowns before replying carefully, "Not any that I'm aware of." Then she turns a light shade of pink, and Oliver knows the answer isn't going to be good. "I'm due for my period in a few days, but I'm usually right on schedule. I have been known to be early a time or two, though." She winces. "But you probably didn't need to know that."
Though he isn't exactly comfortable with the topic, he does live with two women, so he's familiar with… that variety of blood loss. Fortunately, it also has a different smell, so at least he knows that it isn't anything related to her gender. "It isn't menstrual," he answers absently. "Wrong smell." He has to admit that it does bring up a complication of a woman on the team that he didn't see before.
Something about his answer causes her to groan. "This whole I-smell-bleeding-people thing is going to make things awkward between us, isn't it?" she asks, apparently coming to the same conclusion as Oliver. "I mean, more so than the whole neck-sucking thing already has."
Even though Oliver winces at her phrasing, it brings an issue back to the forefront: it could be her neck bleeding. While he's certainly sated enough to control himself, he did puncture an artery for his blood supply. If he didn't seal the bite correctly, it could have serious consequences—ones that he doesn't like to think about unless faced with them. "What about your neck?" he suggests.
Absently, she places a hand to the wound, and her index and middle fingers are covered with blood when she pulls it back. "I must have injured it when I knocked into that shelf in my bathroom," she decides. "I took a shower after work before coming here, since it helped the last time, and I kind of… slipped." Then she holds up her blood-coated fingers with a teasing smirk. "Waste not, want not?" she asks, a bit of a challenge in her words.
The taunting surprises him so much that he feels the sudden urge to reciprocate. Under different circumstances, he might do it by popping the tips of her fingers into his mouth, but that feels like inviting an entirely new danger into his life. Instead, he retorts, "I would, but I don't know where your hands have been." At first, she huffs indignantly, but then surprise coats her features before her mouth turns up in a blinding smile.
Self-consciousness grips him instantly, and Oliver focuses on the bleeding situation because it's more familiar. He swivels her chair around to face the opposite direction, and it earns him a questioning glance. "The table puts you at a better height," he explains, placing a hand under her elbow in a suggestion to stand. She does so, following his direction with an unhealthy lack of hesitation.
When she reaches it, Felicity turns her back to the table and pushes up on it to lift herself. Oliver can't help but assist her, placing his hands just above her hips to lift her. Even before her breath stutters, he knows it's a mistake, but he can't help it; now that he's confident that he isn't going to kill her, something in him makes Oliver want to linger around the blonde who turned his life upside down. Part of him wants to attribute it to the transfer—her blood for his pheromones, and by association, his protection—but the other part of him isn't so certain.
Despite his reservations, Oliver brushes Felicity's hair back from her neck, examining the bruise again. This time, however, it's covered with oozing blood caused by the gash across the top of it. "I could try to seal it," he suggests with hesitation, "but I'm not sure if it will work since I didn't make the wound this time." He meets her eyes before he speaks again: "But I could attempt it, if you wanted me to." He's taken so much from her already; the least he can do is give her the choice in this matter.
She gnaws her lip in thought, but, before she can answer, Diggle's voice calls out. "What happened to your neck?" he asks Felicity, but the answer dawns on him quickly, judging by the speed at which he rounds on Oliver with the accusation. "I thought you didn't feed on humans."
Suddenly Oliver can't look at his friend. "It was a mistake—" he starts, expecting opposition, but it's Felicity who doesn't let him finish the thought.
She pulls on Diggle's arm, turning his attention back to her. "It wasn't Oliver's fault," she insists. "This happened the night we met." Her eyes flick to Oliver once, briefly, as if forgiving him for his moment of weakness by neglecting to mention it. "He had already finished that pint of blood, and he was still bleeding, so…" Her voice dies as Diggle crosses his arms.
He turns to Oliver as if she never spoke. "You should have done it while I was here," is Diggle's laconic answer, and it takes the vigilante a moment before he realizes what his friend is saying. "At least that way I could have prevented you from letting it go too far, since you're new to this." He snorts. "I'd hate to have to pull you off of her, though. Or shoot you."
Suddenly he thinks that maybe he misjudged the ex-military man and his opinion of Oliver's control; maybe Oliver even projected his own fears onto the man who seems to understand him so well. Even so, the idea of Digg separating him from Felicity during a feed sounds like an idea that could endanger Diggle's life—and Oliver's sanity. "Then it was better you were gone," he answers seriously. "During a feed, I'm not…" Human, his brain supplies, but that doesn't seem like the right word. "Myself," he finishes finally. "I could hurt you without realizing it." Oliver crosses his arms. "Not to mention that I pull arterial blood when I feed. If I don't seal the wound, it could kill her."
For some reason he doesn't understand, Felicity huffs another sigh. "You," she calls, pulling on the sleeve of his gray sweater, "Nosferatu. Stop being all gloom-and-doom and fix my neck." When he turns back to her, it's to find a cheeky smile plastered on her face. Oliver thinks that smile might be more dangerous than the smell of her blood in the air. "There are cop-killing bank robbers out there that demand our attention."
"You're going to keep making jokes like this, aren't you?" Oliver demands, to which she throws him a too-sweet smile and nods. It actually surprises a breath out of him when he smiles, and he can't help but wonder why Felicity, of all people, was thrust into his life. He sure as hell hasn't done anything to deserve her—he hasn't been a good person for a very long time—and he can't see how she's done anything horrible enough to deserve him, either.
With a long-suffering sigh that's mostly for effect, Oliver moves back into place in front of her, brushing the hair away from her neck again. Something about that motion causes her to shiver slightly, but he knows better than to focus on that. Instead, he leans over and presses his mouth to the bruise on her neck, searching out the gash with his tongue. To his surprise, it actually seals, but he doesn't trust it; after he pulls his mouth away, he presses his fingers to the wound to be sure.
"Looks like you're stronger than you thought," Felicity says suddenly, and Oliver's eyebrows knit together at the sudden declaration. "You were inches from a bleeding wound, and yet you managed not to bite into it." She crosses her arms with a smug look he does not like, even though the thought never crossed his mind when he had her throat against his mouth only moments ago. "Guess that means you can venture out of the dungeon for lunch tomorrow?" Her question is hopeful, and he doesn't want to disappoint her, but at the same time, he still doesn't trust himself.
Diggle's voice reminds them that they aren't alone this time. "I hope you're not the snack in this scenario, Felicity."
Playlist:
"It's Over When It's Over" - Falling in Reverse
"A Demon's Fate" - Within Temptation
"Something's Gotta Give" - All Time Low
"The Torment of Existence Weighed Against the Horror of Nonbeing" - Mayday Parade
"Song of the Caged Bird" - Lindsey Stirling
"Monsters" - Matchbook Romance
"Repent and Repeat" - Mayday Parade
"I Don't Wanna" - Within Temptation
"I'm Not a Vampire" - Falling in Reverse
"Beautiful Times" - Owl City feat. Lindsey Stirling