See title.

Goodbye

Oliver peeled the glove from his left hand. It came away like a layer of skin, flakes of rust that showered the snow in front of him. Keeping his left shoulder still, he undid the front of his armor and pushed it down, feeling for the arrow wound with a practical, unemotional touch. Broken scabs, but no fresh bleeding.

He was sitting at the cave mouth, partly to keep watch, partly so that he could clean his wounds with the snow piled around the threshold. Felicity had fallen asleep against the cave wall, Waller's son right beside her. Her glasses were slightly askew, her head tilted back, hair clouding around her face. She would probably wake up if she knew what he was doing, but he didn't want her hands covered in his blood again.

Gritting his teeth, Oliver slapped a fistful of snow into his wound. The cold soothed the aching muscles in his shoulder, starting to bring down some of the swelling. He bent forward and let his eyes close. Alone and unwatched, it was easy to admit that he was exhausted. Abused, in pain, and tired of fighting.

But being tired was different from being done. That was something he'd learned a long time ago. And he knew the best thing to do was keep himself busy, unthinking. Melting snow in his hand, he cleaned the blood from his arm, scrubbing with his nails until the blood came away. The snow in front of him was tinged pink by the time he was finished, and his skin was covered in goosebumps, but he felt clean. Awake.

The sky was still dark, maybe a shade lighter than it had been an hour ago, but Oliver knew there was still time. He looked over his shoulder, back at Felicity. It occurred to him that he hadn't ever seen her sleep — to the point where the sight was almost unimaginable to him. To be fair, he was usually the reason she was deprived of sleep, having to be in the Foundry during the odd hours of the night. Her eyes were always bright and acute and honest, following him the way his eyes followed her, seeing through his lies.

There was a lot he still hadn't said to Felicity. Gratitude, apologies…and goodbyes. The selfish part of him wanted very badly to wake her. He didn't want to leave it like that — between them. Sending her back to the village in a rush and disappearing back into the mountain like a ghost…the uncertainty and the threat of war hovering above the prospect of returning to Starling. Blotting out the sun.

Oliver exhaled, the breath clouding in the chilly air. He felt the cold on his face and the vastness of the night sky, and for a moment he wished that he wasn't alone, that there was a warm hand in his, and that for once in his life, he wanted to fall asleep with Felicity beside him and wake up to her in the morning.

They were beautiful dreams, and Oliver rarely had them. His dreams were ragged creatures with cruel claws and deadly fangs, and in his sleep he fought them to stay alive, until he woke in the morning with the taste of blood and metal in his mouth, reaching for someone who wasn't there.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. An abundance of maybes.

Maybe — one day it would be different.

But not today.

Felicity didn't remember falling asleep. She woke with a little start, knocking her head against the stone wall.

"Nice," she said groggily.

Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dying glow of the lanterns at the back of the cave, the faint bluish tinge to the light coming from the cave mouth.

A lone figure sat there, keeping watch. Felicity scrubbed a hand across her face and bundled herself in the shawl, careful not to wake Martin as she crept to the front of the cave.

"Hey," she said, maneuvering her stiff legs into something resembling a normal sitting pose. "Did you sleep?"

Oliver shook his head, his face shadowed under the hood.

"Cheerful." Felicity flicked snow in his direction, but it only glanced off his leg. "How's the shoulder?"

"Fine."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Better."

"Good."

Felicity picked at the fraying hem of her trousers, her knees drawn up to her chest and the shawl blanketed around her shoulders. She breathed warm air into her knees, watching the snow drift lazily as the wind took it. The clouds curled around the mountain peaks, ghostly beautiful but high and cold and lonely.

"You should have woken me up," she muttered. "I could have been sitting here with you."

"Because I'm not used to being alone," he answered, with the faintest suggestion of a smile.

Felicity brushed her hair behind her ear, turning to look at Oliver. "Because I don't want you to be."

Oliver didn't say anything. Then, with a low sigh, as if he'd lost a battle with himself, he slowly pulled down his hood and turned to look at her.

Felicity shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. She felt the intentness of his stare, the way he traced her features, from the flyaway crown of her head, the bridge of her nose — reddened from the cold — and the silvered breath leaving her lips. He looked at her like it was the last time, and she didn't want it to be.

"Hey," she said, the folds of her shawl dropping around her — around them — as she knelt in front of him. "Stop it."

Oliver's eyes were wide and dark, exactly level with hers as his hands came up to clasp her face. She remembered this, from a year ago in the hospital corridor. The sudden touch of his hands on her face and then — the feeling of being kissed. That Oliver was kissing her and the instant she'd thought that everything was going to be okay. His hands, so large and warm and gentle, against her jaw, cupping the pulse in her neck.

His touch on her face brought it all back. The memories and the emotions and the promises. She had never been scared of Oliver, but all of a sudden she was, and she didn't want to be scared again.

"Stop," she whispered, "dangling maybes."

Oliver's breath fanned warm across her cheeks, and she closed her eyes — because she didn't trust herself to choose. She wanted to kiss Oliver again, but she wanted it to be at the right time and for the right reason. Because they'd decided to be together and face whatever consequences came after, because he could be both Oliver Queen and The Arrow. Because it wasn't a plaintive goodbye, but a beautiful beginning.

She wanted nothing and everything, and she closed her eyes because she didn't trust herself to choose. Because she couldn't bear to.

Maybe her thoughts showed on her face, because the kiss never came. Oliver's clothes shifted, as if he was moving, as if he was kneeling too. She felt the gentle pressure of his hands guiding her face, somehow moving it closer, if it was even possible.

And he kissed her softly on the forehead.

She opened her eyes and blinked at him in surprise. He was smiling like it was a goodbye, and in a way, she supposed that it was. His hand on the back of her neck, he pulled her close so their foreheads touched and they were looking down at the void between them, the snow beneath their knees.

"Now I don't owe you a goodbye," he said, softly.

Felicity's mouth twitched. "Just a homecoming."

Oliver's forehead brushed hers as he nodded. "I'll come back."

"Promise me," she said, even though in her heart of hearts she knew that she didn't need to say it, because Oliver would do his best to fight for himself, for her, and that was enough. As long as he was fighting, it was enough.

Since I can't really write the forehead kiss into the narrative pre-Oliver-abduction, decided to throw it in here. Cheers.