AN: sorry to keep you waiting, guys, daily life has been a little less than accommodating lately - but no fear, here's the next chapter! I'll try to get the next one up faster, but no promises. :-)
She comes awake with a gasp and a start, a great dark cloud in her breast that feels like it's strangling her with every second that passes. She casts a glance at the clock on the bedside table: the red-orange numbers proclaim it to be just past three-thirty in the morning.
Felicity hasn't been asleep more than thirty minutes.
Distressed, she throws the duvet away from her and climbs out of the bed to cross to the window; she throws the tall windows open, letting in the cool night breeze and forcing herself to breathe in long, deep breaths. She feels flushed and too warm, but the contrast of the cool air against her skin gives rise to goose bumps; it smells a little like rain.
She wishes it would start raining right now.
This is her fourth night at the mansion, and the fourth night that Felicity has gotten almost no sleep. There is weariness hanging on to every inch of her, body and mind, and yet she cannot find escape, no matter how she tries. She recognizes this inability to sleep from the first time she'd fought for her life, and yet it feels different now: darker, more forbidding … worse, somehow. She'd escaped this those first few nights at her apartment, because she had always fallen asleep next to – or on – Oliver, and she sees now that he had acted as a barrier between her and the terrors that haunt her so mercilessly. When he'd brought them to the mansion, Felicity had considered – and then summarily dismissed – the idea of asking him to continue their unspoken arrangement. It was too hard, she rationalized, too complicated; at her apartment they'd always slept on the couch, and the idea of asking him to stay in her room – or for her to come to his – was so intimate that she couldn't make herself say the words. Her heart is already in enough trouble where Oliver is concerned.
She's not sure what's keeping her from going to Kylie, because she knows that her friend would offer nothing but support; she thinks maybe it has something to do with wanting to conquer this on her own.
She's beginning to feel like that might not be possible.
Felicity's thoughts are so dark, so heavy upon her that she knows there is no point in trying to lay down again. She leaves the window open but turns away; the wind as it rustles the long curtains is a soft ruffling sound behind her. She needs to move, to find something to occupy her mind other than the morbid thoughts of death that have awoken her, so she wanders out of her room and into the halls of the mansion. The house is quiet and dark around her, and one part of her cherishes that just as the other shrinks from it; this is probably the safest place for her to be, but she's not sure if she'll ever believe in the idea of safety again.
She sighs in irritation, and maybe even a little disgust: these depressing thoughts are not normal to her and she hates that she can't seem to shake them. They're especially powerful at night, when there is less to distract her.
She travels aimlessly, forcing down the rush of adrenaline and fear that tries to overtake her every time she passes a deep pocket of shadows that, she can't help but notice, would be a perfect hiding spot.
The thought of shadows and hiding brings her thoughts to rest on Oliver, and she wonders if he's returned from the foundry yet. She hadn't heard him come in earlier, but she knows from experience that he moves with a preternatural silence, and is capable of appearing out of seemingly nowhere. Perhaps he'd returned in the half an hour she'd been asleep.
She's been helping where she can, of course, using the hours after Kylie goes to sleep to pull out her tablet and research everything she can think of that might give them a lead; there hasn't been much to find, but she's told Oliver of it all on the few occasions that she's seen him. They haven't spent much time together these last few days because he has thrown himself into the hunt for this man who calls himself Lord Tennyson, and she thinks maybe that's a good thing; she's too tired to maintain the dance they seem to have found themselves in.
Felicity finds herself wandering into a room that she hasn't seen before, and she's so certain that she's seeing a line of books that she moves to the wall and fumbles for the light switch. As soon as they are on, her lingering sadness disappears in the face of what she's found: a library. The walls are hidden behind several elegant bookshelves, all lined with row upon row of spines that beg to be inspected. Her eyes, which are already tired from having slept in her contacts, are going to hate her soon, because she fully intends to investigate.
The rational part of her mind tells her to go upstairs and exchange her contacts for glasses, to minimalize the headache she anticipates having later, but she dismisses the idea. She hasn't been able to bring herself to wear her glasses again, because there's still a large part of her that feels as though she's just waiting to be attacked again, and she can't afford the risk of losing her glasses this time.
So contacts – and headache – it is.
She picks a shelf to start with and loses herself in the task of reading the titles proudly displayed there. The sheer number of books is impressive, the wide range of subjects even more so: books on accounting, finance, and business begin to give way to ones of travel, history and science. Some of them look brand new, or close enough not to make a difference, and others look well worn and loved; she wonders who the avid readers are in the Queen family, and if each person has a favorite book stowed somewhere on these shelves.
When the titles begin to announce novels, her heart thrills in excitement and she stops moving to give them a good once over. She thinks she spies a few first editions of the classics and it makes her smile. Her eyes instinctively seek out Dickens, and she is somewhat surprised to see that there is no copy of Great Expectations to be found; a long, sad moment passes in which she thinks about her own beloved copy and how perfect it would have looked on this shelf, among its peers.
Felicity is mildly surprised to see titles like Beauty and the Beast and Grimm's Fairytales, but then she discovers the complete works of Jane Austen and forgets all about it; feeling like the proverbial kid with their hand in the cookie jar, she reaches out and carefully pulls down Persuasion. The spine shows a little wear, so it's been read before, but is not one of the well- loved crowd. She tucks it in against her chest and goes back to perusing, but doesn't make it far before she's retrieving the copy of North and South and tucking it in with her other borrowed ware.
Two books is good for tonight, she thinks, and now that she knows this room exists she will be visiting it – and borrowing from it – as often as she can. She turns away from the shelves and glances over the furnishings, but decides to return to her room to read; she doesn't want to alarm Kylie if she should come looking for her, and in the off chance that she does get tired she'll be closer to her bed.
She turns off the light and treks back upstairs, both books clutched to her as if they can shield her from the weariness and dark thoughts that plague her. Felicity has always had a powerful imagination, and often has to struggle to remind herself that she has a life outside of her daydreams to live; right now though, nothing sounds better than escaping into a fictional world. She needs the draw, the pull of books to take her away from the tangle of her life and to a place of safety. She's chosen her escape well: she's read both books before – several times – and looks forward to greeting characters that are some of her oldest and dearest friends.
She's a few feet from her room when the muffled sound of footsteps startles her with a painful flash of adrenaline; she stills, not even daring to breathe, until her brain registers that it's just Oliver.
"Felicity?" he calls quietly.
She can't immediately find her voice, strangled as it is in her throat, and he's come to a stop in front of her before she can manage an answer.
When she speaks, her voice is low and gravelly. "You startled me."
"Why are you awake?"
Felicity makes herself focus on the details: the dark v-neck t-shirt and grey sweats, the light scent of fresh sandalwood …
"Hey."
A strong hand wraps itself around her elbow, warm and steady, and then two blue eyes are peering into hers.
"Can't sleep," she answers finally. "You just get home?"
"Long night; you could say the same, from the looks of it."
She glances down at herself surreptitiously: she's wearing mismatching pajamas of blue shorts and an oversized grey t-shirt, her hair is probably a disheveled mess, and her face is free of any hint of makeup so there's no hiding the dark rings around her eyes from too many sleepless nights.
Then another thought occurs to her, and her mouth twists into a lopsided grin.
"What?" Oliver asks.
"We're opposite," she says, motioning from his clothes to hers.
"C'mon," he says, and he still has hold of her elbow so she has no choice but to follow.
He leads her into his room. She's never been in here before and her eyes automatically start to roam, looking for clues of the man he was and traces of the man she knows.
The room smells like sandalwood and … him.
He sits down on the edge of the bed and then pulls her down next to him; his eyes are bright, his expression calm and open, and he asks her why she can't sleep.
His question sparks that darkness in her, that weight in her breast that creeps out to wind around her heart and squeeze until she thinks it'll stop beating; her thoughts spin away like a toy top to circle around that one pervasive fear that won't go away.
"I'm afraid of dying," she spits suddenly, because the anxiety is back in full force and she can't think of any other way to say it. "And not like in the 'oh-I'm-afraid-of-spiders' sort of way, but in the 'I'm-so-terrified-I-can't-breathe' sort of way and I can't stop thinking about it, Oliver, every time I close my eyes I'm afraid I'll never open them again and I wake up in a cold sweat because …"
Her words are arrested as he pulls her firmly against him, one thick arm wrapping around her back and the other coming up so that his hand can press against the curtain of her hair, holding her cheek against its spot on his chest.
"Why can't I stop thinking about it?" she whispers into the fabric of his shirt.
"You've been through a lot, Felicity."
"But how do I make it stop?"
One arm is folded between them, and she doesn't know where the books have gone to but her empty hand comes up to rest palm open against his chest; she can feel the knot of scar tissue through his shirt. She starts to mentally list the scars she knows are there, and her hand unconsciously begins to graze across his chest in something close to a caress as it tries to seek them out.
She doesn't notice the subtle tightening of the muscles beneath her hand, or the way the heartbeat against her ear picks up.
They don't talk about his time on the island, but she's studied his scars enough to think that someone else caused them – she doesn't want to even think the word torture, but there's nothing else for it - maybe not all of them, but enough; too many. She wants to ask him how he survived, how he came to terms with it all or if he still struggles with it sometimes, but the words won't come.
Oliver shifts away from her then, carefully disengaging himself, and then she watches mutely as he crosses to partly close the bedroom door and then switch off the light. Her heart leaps as soon as the darkness descends, but this time it's not because of the anxiety: she is suddenly very aware of where she is and who is moving toward her.
"Lay down, Felicity."
Oh! How right she'd been, being in a bedroom with him is intimate, too intimate, because it's his bedroom and she can feel the weight of his gaze even in the darkness. Despite that and the little wild flutter of her heart, she is too tired to even pretend like she wants to leave.
He's pulled back the duvet and she stands to move closer, unable to hide the shiver that sweeps over her as her shoulder brushes his chest; she crawls partway across the bed and then sinks down into the pillows just as she feels him settle down next to her.
They are facing each other, and she can just make out his features and the shine of his eyes in the darkness.
"Close your eyes," he murmurs. "You're safe. I'm right here."
There are a few inches between them, but she feels one hand come to rest on her hip; his touch is soft, comforting.
"You smell good," she tells him.
She's asleep in moments.
There's a soft rustling sound coming from somewhere, and this is what finally penetrates her unconscious mind enough to wake her. When her eyelids flit open, she is greeted with a swath of dark cloth that she can't immediately place. The rustle comes again, and the dark expanse rises toward her and then retreats, and all at once she realizes that she is pressed against Oliver's chest.
Right. She's just spent the night in Oliver's room, in his bed, with him – and if she's not mistaken (and she's not) that's his arm draped across her waist.
That's also both of her feet wrapped around one of his.
"Feel better?"
Her traitorous body shivers at the sound of his voice, scratchy and gentle in that way that she's learning to associate with him.
She doesn't know what to think when the arm around her waist tightens.
"Yes," she answers, but can't make herself raise her head. "What time is it?"
"Almost eleven."
"What?"
She's so shocked that her head slides back against the sheets and she finds herself staring straight into Oliver's blue eyes. He looks wide- awake; there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Why didn't you wake me up? I'm gonna be late …"
Felicity starts to extricate herself from him, but is stopped by a gentle exertion of pressure on her waist.
"It's Saturday," he informs her. "You're not late."
"Oh." She can't think of anything else to say, because he's still holding her – and she's letting him. She likes the intimacy, even if she shouldn't.
She's not certain anymore why she shouldn't like it. There's definitely something between them, as she is being made more and more aware of, and he's no longer dating Laurel; just because he's not dating her, however, that doesn't mean that she's out of the picture – that he doesn't still care for her.
Two near death experiences, however, have made her look at things a little differently; she knows that her feelings for Oliver have gone past the 'crush' stage, and who is she to tell him how he feels or what he wants? She's afraid, yes, because she doesn't want to invest herself in something that isn't going anywhere – but if he decides that he wants to try and be something more, does she really want to refuse him?
Would she rather take a chance and possibly be disappointed, or deny herself a shot at happiness – transient or otherwise?
"Solving world hunger?"
His voice draws her out of her thoughts and back into the present, where she's still face to face with a deliciously scruffy Oliver Queen.
"Sorry," she murmurs, and she thinks she's started to blush. "How did you sleep?"
"Pretty well, until Kylie came running in panicking because your room was empty and she couldn't find you."
Now she's definitely blushing, and Oliver is smiling.
"How did I not hear her?"
"You were out of it. How long has it been since you've gotten a decent night's sleep, Felicity?"
"Um …"
He sighs in something akin to exasperation and opens his mouth to say something, but Kylie's voice cuts him off.
"Coffee's ready!"
One of Oliver's eyebrows shoots up and it makes Felicity smile.
"She's got quite the lungs, if she's yelling at us from the kitchen."
"You've never heard her when she's angry."
"And I don't plan to. C'mon."
She tries not to miss the weight of his arm or watch him as he pulls himself out of bed, but she can't help it; for a moment her mind is busy painting pictures of what it would be like to wake up with him like this as something more than they are now.
Oliver's hand appears in front of her and she takes it automatically, clambering to her feet as he pulls her.
She doesn't know what to think when they make their way downstairs, still hand in hand.