Title: Wounded
Word Count: 2569

Notes: Holy shark crap, Batman—we've reached 100 reviews on Technical Assistance! I love you all so much—it's nice to feel appreciated. So, to tell you how much I appreciate you, here's a fic that sort of works through some of my season finale feels. :)

So this came up in a conversation with Faithfire on Tumblr a few nights ago. We were discussing season-three!Thea and her potential. So of course I had a sudden burst of inspiration. Basically, I have absolutely no idea what happened, but... *throws fic in your face* just read it, if you like. ;) Comments are always appreciated, but thanks just for being here!

"And if you're watching up above,
They're teaching me to kill—
Who's teaching me to love?"
—"Gun." by My Chemical Romance

Thea stands on the top of the ruined building, looking over the city she once loved. It's good to be back in Starling City, she thinks, and it will be even better to watch it burn. Her father—her real father was right—there's no longer anything left in Starling that she loves now. Oliver is no longer her brother, her mother is dead, her father is with her, and her real brother—Tommy—was buried in the rubble of their father's first attempt at revenge. But this time—this time they've done it differently.

She feels like an idiot, running around in her black leather suit with the yellow stripes, but she feels oddly heroic while wearing it. It clings to her, and she feels like she should be standing next to the Black Canary, her equal in looking powerful. She knows Malcolm—her father, but she can't call him that yet—is somewhere in the city trying to implement their plan, but that isn't important right now. What is important is that she has a goal to achieve—a very specific goal.

Malcolm has only ever had one demand: that she is the one to dispatch the Arrow. If Malcolm knows who he is, he hasn't shared that information, but she very much suspects he knows the Arrow's real name. He speaks often of the time he had the Arrow in his cellar—at his mercy, he always feels the need to add—and she doesn't think he'd allow anyone to keep secrets under his roof. God knows she's tried, but he's practically omniscient.

She expects he'll keep her waiting and show up in style like he usually does. But instead, she turns on the rooftop to find him standing behind her. "There you are," she drawls. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to keep people waiting?" If she expects him to rise to the bait, she's mistaken, and she can't help but hate him. He's the one that took Roy from her to fight by the Arrow's side. He's the one who couldn't save Tommy. And he's the one who did nothing while she watched her mother die.

"My mother," he answers slowly, "taught me the importance of putting the lives of others above my own." The tone is odd with the synthesizer covering it, but there's something familiar in the way he speaks. "And that's what I'll do. But sometimes it's difficult." He holds his bow out at an awkward angle, making sure she knows he isn't going to fight. "What you and Malcolm are doing—it isn't the right move for this city. I'm not going to hurt you, but I will stop you. Because some things are more important than revenge."

"Nice speech," she replies lazily, "but I think you're overestimating my ability to care." She launches out on the last word, her movements quick, fluid, and light as Malcolm taught her. She underestimates the Arrow though; while he's bulkier than she is, he's fast too. He stops her kick only seconds before it lands, throwing her back a few feet. She charges him again, and he does the same.

"Good form," he replies finally, something akin to pride in his voice, "but you shouldn't fight angry. It makes you weak." His words, of course, only serve to infuriate her, and she goes at him again. This time she knows how he fights, and this time she takes advantage of it. When he lashes out to push her away, she catches his arm and twists. She's surprised when he chooses to roll her this time, flinging her away with kicks and feet. She charges at him again and again, every time learning more about his form and using that to her advantage. Still, it's clear who will be the winner, and it's not Thea.

Well, in a fair fight, anyway, but Thea has no intention of fighting fair—Malcolm taught her too well for that. She grabs his bow and one of the arrows scattered around on the ground, firing though she has no idea about his weaponry. Malcolm taught her how to shoot, but he didn't give her a bow, thinking she wasn't ready. She proves him wrong, however, when she shoots an arrow straight into the emerald archer's chest. It's on the right, instead of the left, but it's a good shot, she thinks, for something that happened in the heat of the moment.

It goes through just below his collar bone, and it pierces through his back as well. He winces in pain, but doesn't yell, as he crumples. His leg folds so awkwardly under him that she thinks he might be dead, and the sweet taste of victory goes through Thea. The moment is short lived, however, as she sees his hood fall back partially when he falls. Curious, she scrambles over to him, pulling back the hood that most of Starling City has learned to fear.

She thinks she's hallucinating when she sees the face of the only brother she's ever known.

Suddenly it all makes sense. The lies, the running around late at night. The promise to protect Roy. The unexplained injuries, the lame excuses for what happened. The five months the Arrow wasn't active—the five months he spent on Lian Yu. The reason the Arrow saved her brother's life. The reason the Arrow saved her from the man she loved, and kept them both safe in the process. How the Arrow tried so hard to save her when Slade held her hostage. It was all Oliver, all trying to keep her safe. She thinks again of what he said to her.

My mother taught me the importance of putting the lives of others above my own.

She died so that both of them could live. She saved them both, and all Oliver is trying to do is repay that debt to his mother—and his father. She heard the story he told that night to her mother, lurking from the shadows. Robert died so that Oliver could live. Moira died so that her children would live on. And now Oliver has returned the sacrifice so that the city can live on, and he protects it every night.

Protects it from people like her, she thinks bitterly as she looks upon her brother. Tears start to fall, unbidden, as she realizes she has no idea how to save him. Malcolm Merlyn lied to her, taught her how to hate the city she was born in. He taught her how to destroy, how to hate her own flesh and blood, but he forgot to tell her that the man under the hood is her own brother. And, suddenly, revenge doesn't matter. Blood doesn't matter. The only family she has left is bleeding out of a wound she gave him. And the only thing she knows how to do is cry.

Then she hears heels on the ground, and she sees a familiar face charging up toward her with something that looks like a giant first aid kit. Thea can't remember the girl's name, only that she used to be Oliver's secretary, back when he actually ran Queen Consolidated. Thea's surprised to see her up there in professional dress, but upon closer examination, the blonde's hair is falling out of its ponytail and there's a blood red gash across one cheek. She walks with a limp and it's clear her ankle is twisted, but it's also clear that she's headed directly for Oliver.

"God, I didn't know. I—" Thea breaks off into a choked sob, trying to explain why she was such an idiot and believed what Malcolm Merlyn ever said to her.

"It's okay," the blonde says quietly, not even looking at her. Instead, she shakes Oliver's good shoulder. "Oliver," she hisses loudly. "Come on. Digg and the kid are caught fighting Merlyn—you have to tell me what to do." It scares Thea how calm she is, as if they've done this dance before multiple times. Thea can't help but wonder how many times Oliver has almost died in the past three years since he started wearing the hood.

He comes to shortly, and that gives Thea hope. "Felicity," he whispers, trying to focus his eyes, trying to sit up.

She pushes him back down. "No you don't," she says sternly. "Tell me how to get this arrow out of you. You can do the macho hero stuff later, okay?" She's gentle as she unzips the jacket, carefully peeling the leather over the arrow's shaft and back away from the wound. "Oh, wow," she says, her voice quavering a little, "this might be worse than that first one."

If he has any comment on that, he doesn't have the energy to say it. "Cut... the shaft," he demands lowly. "Pull it out through the back. Don't be slow about it." It surprises Thea how Felicity doesn't question. She takes a cutting tool from the kit and snaps the arrow just above the fletching. She then helps him turn over on his side, but she hesitates before she touches the arrow protruding from his back.

"How do you want me to pull it?" she asks this time. "Do you want warning, or on three, or what?"

"No warning," he responds. "Just pull—" He breaks off in a groan as Felicity yanks the arrow free, and she immediately pulls the jacket from his arm and holds pressure to his back with a cloth to staunch the bleeding.

She hands Thea a clean piece of gauze from the kit. "Here," she commands, "hold pressure to the front. Hard as you can."

Thea takes the gauze between her fingers numbly, still crying. "God, Ollie, I'm so sorry. I swear I didn't know." She needs him to know that she had no intention of hurting him, that she's been an idiot—a puppet under Malcolm Merlyn's control. She reaches out and takes his hand, willing him to understand all the things she's said—and all the things she can't.

Felicity makes an impatient noise. "Look, Thea, that's great and all, and, while I usually love this family bonding stuff, we're kind of on a schedule here." She motions with her free hand, between Thea and Oliver. "If you don't put pressure to the wound, you're going to be apologizing to a corpse pretty soon."

The words work their magic; horrified, Thea presses against the bleeding circle as hard and as fast as she can, frowning. She's surprised that Oliver actually chuckles, but it's followed quickly by a wince. "And I thought we recruited you for your bedside manner," he says, his tone almost playful.

Felicity snorts as she peels back the gauze. "Firstly, you're not in a bed." This elicits another chuckle, and Felicity turns to grab suture from her kit. "Secondly," she continues as she pulls the line free of the packaging as though she's done it a million times, "what do you want me to say: it's just a flesh wound—walk it off, you big pansy'?" Oliver doesn't look as amused this time. "You know how bad this is—you've lived through worse. If I told you anything else, I'd be lying." Her tone suggests what she doesn't say: And we don't lie to each other, Oliver. "Lastly, you recruited me because you were bleeding out in a parking garage, and you didn't have any better options." She starts weaving the synthetic line through skin with a practiced, steady hand. "And, while we're on the subject of how we first met, 'my coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood,' is not an acceptable excuse for bringing in a laptop riddled with bullet holes."

Another grin from Oliver, and Thea realizes their steady conversation is probably part of the routine of patching up wounds; the conversation is neither too serious nor too taxing. "Are you saying that 'I ran out of sports bottles,' is a valid reason for bringing you a sample of Vertigo?" he asks, then follows with a wince that Thea thinks has nothing to do with the needle running in and out of his back. "Sorry," he mutters hastily.

Felicity rolls her eyes. "Why do you always think that the Count is off-limits to talk about?" she asks as she ties off the stitch and admires her handiwork. "He doesn't haunt my nightmares. He doesn't bother me. I never think about it anymore."

Thea finally can't take it anymore. "Is he going to be all right?" she bursts out, frowning.

Felicity slaps a bandage over the wound she just patched. "Fine," she assures her easily. She then reaches over to a scar over one pectoral, finding it with her fingers as though she knows every blemish on his skin. She circles it with a fingernail. "This is from an arrow, too—and it's a worse place to get wounded." She rolls him over to examine the spot Thea is applying pressure to. "Now, let's see if I can patch you up again."

The conversation continues as witty banter as she threads the needle through the wound, and Thea thinks it's amazing how seamlessly the two work together, like a cohesive, well-oiled machine. It's clear they've been doing this for a while—longer than Thea would expect the blonde to be a part of something like this. When she finishes, he tries to stand, and Thea winces when his leg collapses under him—the one he fell on awkwardly earlier. Felicity manages to steady him, and she's most certainly supporting part of his weight. In heels. With a sprained ankle.

She motions with one hand, and waves Thea over. "Hold him a minute," she demands unceremoniously, and they shift places for a moment as Felicity digs through the kit. She retrieves a moderately-sized bottle of clear liquid and a syringe, drawing the whole portion. "I seem to remember you have your own suggested dosage guide," she comments, just before jabbing the needle into his leg and giving the whole portion.

Oliver smiles, but turns to his sister. "Hey," he says quietly. "You did good today." Thea's skepticism must show on her face because he continues, "I mean it. You've learned how to stand for something—and, from one archer to another, that was a nice shot for an amateur." She knows he means it when he says, "I'm proud of you."

Knowing she doesn't really deserve the praise, she says instead, "Come on, brother dear, let's get back to your hideout—or whatever you call it."

"We call it a lair," Felicity replies as she and Thea exchange places again, and Thea helps support him from the other side. "Just like we call ourselves Team Arrow." Oliver rolls his eyes, and Felicity continues, "It's sort of an unofficial nickname, since our fearless leader doesn't really like it." Preparing to take a step forward, she says to Oliver, "Hold onto me tight."

Something flashes across Oliver's face—nostalgia, perhaps—and he replies with some semblance of a grin, "I imagined you saying that under different circumstances." It must mean something because Felicity goes scarlet in embarrassment. Thea gapes because—is her brother hitting on his former secretary? While her mind reels, he adds unconvincingly, "Very platonic circumstances."

Felicity snorts again. "Well, at least we're not trying to cross an elevator shaft in this condition."