Chapter Seven
AN: Heads up, gentle reader. There is a brief, non-graphic description of torture in this chapter, as well as some sensuality. This chapter is set post 2x13 and pre 2x14.
He'd worked on several skills with Sara, while Diggle had made a full sweep of the weapons locker, cleaning and sharpening as necessary before he'd gone home and left the two of them together, where they kept at it, silently for another hour.
The finally fell to stave sparring, and when they were done, both collapsed on the mats, their heaving breath the only noise in the lair beyond the hum of Felicity's machines in the background. Their elbows were almost touching, and Oliver felt the frisson of electricity between them that seemed to be both new, but also to have always been there.
Part of him wanted to turn to her, to seek the comfort he knew she could give, but another part of him heard John's words on a loop in his head, and they stopped him from breaching the almost non-existent distance between himself and the woman lying next to him.
Without any effort his mind went back to the week before, when he'd also ended a training session with Sara on the mat, on his back, trying to catch his breath. Pushing the images away, he sat up abruptly, resting his forearms on his knees, and letting his head drop. He could feel the tightly corded muscles running from the base of his skull and all the way down his spine strain as they stretched, and he rolled his head back and forth gently to loosen them up.
He felt Sara move, and then felt her hands, warm and rough like his own, digging into the tightness of his shoulders, the heat of her mostly bare body almost touching his back. The sensations that rushed through him made him feel like he was going to lose consciousness briefly, and he considered whether finding a discrete massage therapist—not a masseuse—would be useful. He stiffened slightly as this thought made him think about Digg's "suggestion" of a different kind of therapy, but he shut down that train of thought instantly.
"You're tense, Ollie," Sara said. "More than usual. I could feel it in your fighting."
He gave a slow nod, and flinched as Sara pushed her elbow—hard—into his left lat.
"It's like reinforced steel back here, and not in a good way," Sara chuckled, giving his right lat the same treatment as the left one.
The sound of her laughter made his stomach flip like a fish, and he felt physical desire begin to crawl its way up his ribs. He crossed his arms over his knees and laid a cheekbone against the makeshift pillow they created, forcing himself to breathe deeply.
Her hands kneaded persistently down his back bone, one on either side, no soft, sensual, tracing circles, just pure strength, burrowing into the twisted knots that had formed parallel to each vertebrae. He knew what his back looked like, what it felt like, the dozens of scars that crisscrossed the now-healed flesh, and he didn't feel shy with Sara because he knew her scars almost as well as his own—her back looked much the same.
As always, he felt a flame of anger that she'd endured beatings, the burns, the whippings. He knew that pain intimately, and for some of it he'd been chained next to her, listening to her screams, unable to answer her pleas for a savior. Failing her.
And yet, she never seemed to blame him for that. Of course, she'd been chained next to him, had listened to him weep in agony like the dying man he thought he was, then. So it made them even in a way that he wasn't even with anyone else.
That would always be the crux of things with Sara. Beyond physical attraction (which frankly wasn't unusual for him when it came to women), they had endured so much, and taken care of each other, and lost each other, and left each other . . . and found each other again after what seemed like an eternity apart. While there was a deep gulf between himself and everyone else, mostly filled with emptiness that they couldn't understand and Oliver couldn't explain, that wide expanse with Sara wasn't barren. There was a lifetime of experience and dependence between them, and time apart hadn't dissolved that history.
Yes, he'd loved Laurel as much as he could (which he now realized hadn't been enough, would never have been enough), and the memory of the easy life (it was all relative, after the Lian Yu) she'd planned for him had kept him focused on home while he'd been on the island (motivated in no small part by his guilt over Sara's death, and then, more, when he found her again). Laurel had become a touchstone during his early days on the island, a symbol of his desperation to escape the insanity he'd landed in.
But symbols were just that, and returning to Starling City didn't fix the problems he'd left behind with Laurel when he'd run away with Sara. Even though it took him a long time to realize it, coming home also made him see that Laurel wasn't home for him, and she never had been.
So where was home? Not the mansion, not his mother. He wished Thea was more of home for him than she was, which was his fault for keeping her out (from necessity). The Arrowcave? As a place, he supposed that was it for now, he could leave his shirt off without worrying about anyone freaking out about his damaged skin, he could be all the parts of himself there. Digg was home . . . a surprising piece of home, a partner he hadn't expected, a strength and anchor he'd needed, especially at the beginning.
And Felicity . . . his brain dropped out of the wormhole it'd been travelling though and he flinched. He felt Sara pause, and then continue her ministrations near his most recent bullet hole more carefully, assuming it was something she'd done which had made him jump.
Where did Felicity fit. She was obviously a piece of home. Before Sara returned, she was the one who made Oliver feel the most real, the most . . . whole. Digg was an anchor, but Felicity had been the boat. Had kept him afloat. Had managed his Mr. Queen schedule, his Arrow schedule, keeping him in clean clothes, fed, getting him to meetings on time, dealing with the ridiculous mountains of paperwork his day job entailed and getting him literally any piece of intel he needed for his night job. She'd shown him that it was alright not to kill, mourned with him when he still did . . . with his eyes closed it was easy to see the way her eyes got bright with tears, for him. With him.
As with Sara (and more women over the years that he had counted), there was an undercurrent of physical attraction with Felicity. She was pretty. Beautiful when dressed to the nines. But more too. Stronger, both physically and emotionally than she seemed. Hilarious (usually when she didn't mean to be), the most intellectually intelligent woman he's ever had a conversation with. If the circumstances were different . . . but they weren't. No matter what John said, he wasn't ready for someone like Felicity, for at least a thousand reasons. And aside from a little flirting, he'd tried to be clear with her about that. Mostly.
All at once, he became aware of Sara and her hands again. At some point during his reverie he'd ended up on his stomach, and Sara was straddling him, the heels of her hands working the lats along his sides, while her fingertips wrapped around his torso to reach the outside edges of his pecs and abs in the front. There was no insinuation in her touch. There was never an expectation between them for more than whatever was happening at that moment. They'd learned early on that promises weren't useful in the lives they lived, and all you could count on was what someone could be for you right then.
Again, his mind began to drift to the way Sara's touch had felt last time they'd been alone in this room, and suddenly the warmth of her hands, the weight of her on his lower back became more than . . . platonic to him. He needed her. To make this mess in his head go away, to remind him what home truly was.
Without thinking and without a twitch to warn her, he'd reached behind with both hands, pulled her off his back, and pinned her to the floor beneath him.
"Ollie!" Sara barked, her voice not playful, as he'd expected it to be.
"Yes?"
"No."
"Yes?"
"I said, no."
He was surprised enough that it didn't occur to him to move until she began to struggle, at which point he sat back on his haunches, staring at her. He tried to remember if he or Sara had ever said no to each other. Nothing came to him.
Sara sat up as well, cross-legged, her head in hands.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Sara glanced at him and then shook her head, looking away. "This feels familiar."
"And that surprises you?" He said with a smirk, moving to mirror her position, his knees touching hers.
She inched back, "That's not what I mean."
His brow furrowed, but now he was still, not going after her.
"It feels like the night we left on the Gambit. Knowing how much it would hurt Laurel if she found out. Not caring."
"Laurel and I have been over for a long time now, Sara," he protested.
She stood, shaking her head. Carelessly tossing off a three-part punch combination at the nearest pillar before beginning to pace.
Oliver didn't like this. He didn't understand what was going on.
"It's not about Laurel, Ollie. Not completely at least."
"What's it about then?" he asked, his words as measured and taut as his muscles. She didn't answer immediately, and he stood, coming to face her, undoing all the bodywork she'd just done for him with his tension.
"You really are clueless, aren't you," Sara murmured.
"What are you talking about?" he asked sharply.
"Felicity."
He stumbled as if backhanded, his jaw tightening, fists clenching.
"Felicity has nothing to do with this—with us."
"Neither did Laurel. Except that she did."
Oliver shook his head angrily.
"How can you compare them? This—us—now?" he stormed.
"We'll hurt her, Ollie, we already have," Sara said, sadness darkening her heart-shaped face. "Just like we hurt Laurel—like we still do."
"What are you talking about? I'm not involved with Felicity, Sara. I never was. What would make you think—"
"Ollie, this is me you're talking to. I know you. I've watched you with her."
He couldn't speak, all he felt was fury. With the roar in his years, he barely heard Sara's next words.
"And I talked to her, Ollie."
"You what?!" Oliver hissed, stalking towards her (which, part of his brain noted, didn't scare her any more than it did John). "What did she say to you?"
"It's not her fault," Sara said, quickly trying to pull the blame for his anger off of Felicity and onto herself.
"She was upset, I pushed. I knew what to say to make her talk to me."
He didn't doubt that, but he didn't like it. This crossed all kinds of lines.
"You know she loves you, right?"
"So?" he snapped.
"So?" Sara laughed incredulously.
"I am not romantically or physically involved with Felicity Smoak," he said coldly.
"But you could be, Ollie," Sara whispered.
"But I'm not. And I don't intend to be," he said, soft and even, nearly nose to nose with her, his gaze hot, trying to tempt her away from this ridiculous conversation.
"She's been there for you. She takes care of you. And she's in love with you—"
Oliver cut her off with a deep growl, grabbing her shoulders and kissing her, hard.
Sara took a half a step back, then hooked a leg behind his at the same moment she put her hands on his shoulders and twisted his hands off her own, shoving him backwards over her leg and onto the floor.
"I said, no, Ollie."
He was up off the mat before she was done speaking, but she was already several yards away from him, her hands up in a loose defensive position; her stance that of someone who doesn't want to fight.
"I don't owe her anything more than gratitude, protection, and friendship. I've never promised her more than that, Sara," he ground out, unable to identify where exactly the pain inside him was coming from, and whether it was physical or emotional.
"No? Felicity isn't like we are, Ollie—there is no hardness to protect her. No perspective to help her understand the necessity of that hardness. When she comes up against it, her instinct isn't to fight, it's to soften it, don't you get that?
"She doesn't see you has broken, she sees you as someone who needs to be healed. There's a difference. And I can see what her softness has done for you—it's started to close up those gaping wounds. You've let her do it, Ollie. I think you love her too."
Her eyes were gentle, and so was her voice, but he couldn't really hear the words. His mind was reeling. Apparently everyone knew he was in love with Felicity Smoak, except him. He focused on his heartbeat, trying to drown out Diggle's questions. Trying to forget how close he'd come to letting down those walls he'd worked so hard to build fall to ruin, giving up their space for something new, space for Felicity.
Frustration rooted deep in his chest and he turned away from Sara, his fists flying, breaking four arms cleanly off the pillar closest to him in quick succession and then standing stock still, breathing hard, his eyes closed tightly against whatever she would say next.
"I can't heal you Ollie . . ." her voice faltered, and it took all his strength not to turn towards her, to try and ease the grief in her voice. "I love you, but I can't take care of you. Not like she can."
He turned and closed the space between them in seconds. Kneeling in front of her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, his head resting just under her ribcage.
"I need you, Sara," he whispered "I don't want her. Not like this. Not right now. I want . . . you."
He felt the panic in his gut flutter as her arms came around his shoulders, his head, and her fingers rifled through his hair, so achingly familiar and comforting. She didn't say anything, and as the jittering inside him began to subside at her touch, he tried to find the words. He was never good at words. He and Sara had never needed words.
"Please. Stay. Don't leave. Stay with me. Be . . . with me."
Her hands stopped moving for a moment, their weight just resting on his head, as if she was a saint, blessing him, and he held her tighter, the idea she would leave eating him up.
She curled around him, kissing the crown of his head. He opened his eyes when she took his face in her hands, and his chest tightened at the dampness in her eyes, and he felt a pricking behind his own.
As he watched emotions play across her features, he realized this might be the moment she refused him. There was no mistaking the guilt, the anguish displayed there as the desire to be what he asked her to be fought with her desire to avoid repeating the past mistakes they had made which had caused so much pain for so many they loved.
"I won't leave until you're ready for me to go, Ollie," Sara said softly.
He nodded, and was surprised by the words she spoke next.
"This isn't like before, though. This time, we know what we're doing. We know who we're hurting."
Again, he nodded. His thoughts turning to Felicity, knowing it was cruel, yet not knowing what else to do because right now, he needed Sara. Pushing the confusion away, his mouth was on hers, and as they stood together, he whispered hoarsely against her lips a phrase that was both literal and figurative to him at this moment.
"Take me home."
Sara stepped back and turned away, unwilling to meet his gaze, and then led him across the floor and up the stairs into the waiting darkness.
AN: More angst. Sorry this wasn't the happy ending (yet) you were hoping for. The copious ANs at the end of this chapter should tell you how nervous I am about sharing it. Felicity's chapter is already partly done, and I'll be able to finish it this weekend for you. If you've seen x13 & x14, you may understand why I needed to try and make sense of Oliver and Sara's relationship in this chapter. After this we're AU though, because this is about as much Sariver (or whatever they call themselves) as I can stand. I also watched a bunch of interviews with Stephen and Emily for some character insights after I finished the previous chapter, and their perspectives both confirmed and rattled things for me. Plus 2x14. Yeah. ANYWAY.
ANN: My point is that if I seem to go a little crazy, it has to do with Stephen and Emily, and the realization that Sara isn't going anywhere for now, except places Olicity doesn't want to even think about. Stephen insists that Oliver wasn't jealous of Barry—just protective, and he doesn't think Felicity will be jealous of Sara because (quote)—"she's stronger than that". (?!) Oliver sees how Felicity reacts to him, but he's used to being adored by more women than he knows what to do with. I think this is a very male perspective :) Emily says Felicity is overcoming a lot of fears, and while her feelings for Oliver are obvious, she's also a very honest and pragmatic person—she doesn't hold grudges and she tends to wants the best for everyone, taking them where/as they are, which is how she manages to deal with Oliver without being psycho about it (my words not hers).
ANNN: Thanks for listening to this little rant. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I hit 100 followers for this story today and I can't tell you how that warms the cockles of my heart! Thanks especially to those who reviewed nicely the last chapter: you've won the Oliver Sandwich Recipe! Watch your PM box this weekend! For those considering leaving a review for this chapter, who wants Felicity Cake!? Tell me your favorite part (or if the whole things sucked), and it's yours, you lovely people you.