Author's Note: This one comes from Melfeb211: "Oliver gently touching Felicity's bullet scar". Not quite as sensual as we were both looking for, but this seems to be how Oliver wanted to play it.
He's noticed lately that she never wears those tight sport's tops when she works out. Gone are the bright pinks and glaring greens and resonate blues, all stretched across her body in something close to spandex. Now, she has settled for fitted t-shirts, the kind that he would normally find highly attractive, but can only see them as an indicator of something wrong.
They had all been so frantic, worried about the city, worried about one another, and there had been little time for her continued lessons. But now they can breathe, and as he watches her - less discreetly than he would like - trade blows with their partner, he can't help but puzzle over her sudden aversion to showing a little slip of skin.
Not that he would ever admit he misses that.
He can't ever admit that.
She is still teasing his resolve with swaths of cream that are barely covered with tempting skirts, and modest though she may be, she's never seemed against showing off a bit here and there. So, the shirts bother him, more so than he likes to concede, and he is determined to discover the reasoning behind this abrupt change.
He is shown the reason by surprise.
There was a myriad of reasons why he shouldn't have skipped that planned meeting with his step-father, but he'd felt an oncoming headache that (usually) springs from an overload of modernity and chatter. He'd needed the quiet, and the seclusion of their recently occupied lair, but as his foot hit the last stair, his breath had been taken away.
She was in one of those sports tops.
Her scar was on full display.
The reality of her discomfort hit him harder than any sucker punch could have tried. She must feel an incredible sense of unease whenever that scar is seen by others, so she has taken to hiding it, to hiding her.
He knows she doesn't hear him - he will need to chastise her about her awareness later - so when he is at the edge of the mat, he clears his throat, causing her to jump and turn from the heavy bag. On cue, she begins babbling, explaining away her reasons for staying at such an odd hour, but all he can think of is how she unconsciously fiddles with orange strap on her left shoulder, tugging it to partially cover what she shouldn't have to hide.
He approaches her with more resolve than he's felt in years.
Her words falter, and then continue with a more questioning tone, confused as to his non-answering state. The sharp, bright intelligence in her eyes gives way to uncomfortable suspicion, their blue suddenly wary of his intentions.
He doesn't care.
He won't have her hiding.
They are close now, ever so close, and he almost basks in the warmth radiating in waves from the beautiful woman in front of him. Because that is what she is. Beautiful. She will never be anything less to him, and he needs her to see that. He needs her to understand that no mark, no blemish is going to mar her loveliness.
A hand reaches out - his hand, he thinks - and gently, carefully removes her fingers from the strap, peeling away her shield and leaving her naked. He sees it, the look of embarrassment and remorse on her face, and it brings a tint to his words she's never heard.
He tells her she doesn't need to hide.
She tells him she isn't hiding for her.
Something cracks in them both at that moment, and she whispers out her fears, the ones that say she is hurting him, punishing him by displaying this mark. He is stunned and confused and in awe of this woman, a woman that had hidden away her physical scar to keep him from attaining another of the heart. She tells him she is proud of what she did, but would never, ever in a million worlds - he wonders if she quotes things without realizing it - want to bring him pain.
Christ, how much more could he love her.
His fingers ghost over the drawn-up flesh, tracing with fluttering, trembling fingers the outline as he breathes out a response.
He is proud of her, too.
She will never need to hide from him.
There is a taste of change, something shifting between them, and he knows, he knows if he were to continue touching her, no amount of self-discipline or will power or fucking decency would keep him from taking her up and never letting her go.
His hand drops.
She looks lost, and disappointed.
There will not be all the time in the world for him to decide he can risk her so that he can have them, but that doesn't stop him from walking away again. He can't process just how incredible she is at times, and his heart constricts in his chest as it tells him he is an idiot. One day, he will have the courage to accept what she has given him, but for today, he will settle for a touch, and her iridescent light.
Maybe she will go back to sport's tops.
