A/N: Ah, yes, finally. This one took me a bit longer because I coudn't seem to figure out how much Lyla knows about Team Arrow and Digg's part in it (was it ever mentioned? Like, I know that Amanda Waller knows about it and that Lyla is one of her most important agents but that doesn't mean that she'd have to tell her everything she knows about Oliver and John, right?) and I hope I did it right (also, I hope we're going to see her again this season, and it better not be because she and Digg break up, okay?). Also, a great many thanks to sajina because she sacrificed a few brain cells and found usable quotes from Fifty Shades of Grey for me. Thank you!
And, err, enjoy?
But If You Close Your Eyes
"And the walls kept tumbling down
In the city that we love
Grey clouds roll over the hills
Bringing darkness from above
But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You've been here before?"
Bastille, "Pompeii"
So you just finished your first mission in the field after Russia and you'd never tell anyone but when you stepped off the Air Force C-130 A.R.G.U.S. put you on in the disguise of a soldier just back from her latest deployment to Djibouti, you could have really done without the debriefing. Especially when they told you that some madman just nearly blew up a plaza in Starling City.
That is, if every security agency's best friend, the Arrow, hadn't stopped the guy yet again. You just wished they'd have let you analyze the press coverage and security camera feeds to confirm a theory of yours, a theory that has been steadily building up ever since Russia. You were asleep for most of the flight back and you were in pain and pretty sure they'd also pumped something to keep you subdued into your veins in Koshmar but you weren't blind.
You saw who it was that drove the jeep that took you away from Koshmar and you saw that it was the rich boy that John is supposed to babysit. Wearing a Russian police uniform and maybe your brain was addled by pain and fatigue and drugs but you sure as hell saw who downed the five armed guards outside the prison.
Yes, you have a few theories about Oliver Queen and being forced on light duty for over four weeks didn't help with that, either. A few times you were tempted to directly confront John about it but you like this newfound closeness too much to sacrifice it for your curiosity. Still, you'll probably go through the footage about the shooting again, anyway.
But you won't do that now because it's oh dark hundred and you can still feel Djibouti all over you. You washed off the sweat and sand and grime of six days in East Africa in an A.R.G.U.S. shower and the feeling of failure and shame of losing Lawton's trail again in the A.R.G.U.S. debriefing room but you still felt it a little harder to strip off the mission at the front gate and walk away than usually. Everyone has bad days, though, don't they?
Or at least that's a more comfortable explanation than anything having to do with Russia.
More logical, too. Russia wasn't the first time you fucked up, neither in your time in the Army, nor as an agent, it wasn't even the worst fuck up. It was just the first time you got burned. On the plane home, John told you about how it was Waller that got him involved, in a shady snag and bag op, before he gave you a kiss on the forehead and told you to call if there was anything you wanted or needed. You were nearly exhausted enough to tell him that you wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with him right next to you on that bed in the back of the Queen company jet but you were also so exhausted that you'd started to believe that "Always have, always will" was a trick your fucked up mind played on you.
You smile as you drag yourself up to your apartment. You woke up at some point, startled and disoriented, your heart pounding hard against your ribcage and a steady, velvety voice murmuring, "Just a dream, Lyla. You're safe now," in the twilight of a darkened plane. It nearly gave you a heart attack at first but then your eyes adjusted to the low lighting and you saw him sitting in a seat by the window opposite the bed.
You put your head back on the pillow and curled up under sheets that probably cost more than you make in a month and maybe it was the semi-dark or the aftermath of a nightmare you still don't remember messing with your head but you kind of extended your hand towards him, fingertips curling into the sheet and because he's John Diggle, he didn't even ask, just got up and walked over to the bed, a little too slow to be deliberate, lied down and put his arms around you as if nothing changed ever since he did so for the last time before you called it quits.
When he held you, you could feel that he wanted to hold you tight, shield you, protect you and even half asleep you had the suspicion that he needed to do it as much for himself as for you. You didn't mind at all.
You're in front of your door now and you wonder if walking up the stairs was always this exhausting but it's easy to tell yourself that you're not twenty-two anymore and that you just spent six days in a place everyone just abbreviates to SHD. Shitty hotty Djibouti, indeed. Well then, you think and unlock your door, your senses going alert the moment the lock clicks. Someone's inside and you keep your gun in your hands until you see John's shoes pushed against the wall in your hall.
Forcing yourself to relax, you put away your gun, drop your bag and your jacket along with it and walk into the living room. There he is, lying on your couch, feet propped up on your coffee table, another paperback in his left hand… and his right in a sling.
You really need to get a hold of that security camera footage.
"So," you say, "I leave you alone for a mere six days and you manage to get yourself beat up?"
Before he answers, he closes the paperback – a hot spike of embarrassment pushes through your veins because you can't believe that you left that one lying around out in the open when you knew that you weren't the only one who can pick locks in this relationship – and gives you one of his patented "Are you trying to fuck with me, Captain?" looks that even back in Afghanistan only served to make you want him more. Then, "Shot up, actually."
Shot… it's too late at night and you're too winded after a too long flight for that shit. You consider actually going off on him for getting himself fucking shot up but in the end, you only have enough energy left for walking into your bedroom and changing into something a little more comfortable than her present clothes. While you pull out a pair of sweat pants and a yoga shirt from your dresser, you can hear him getting up and walking over and you're pretty sure that the only reason that you can hear it is that you don't freak out when you hear him say, "Just a through and through, Lyla. No reason to get pissed off about it," from behind you.
Suddenly tired of all the shit your job threw at you in Djibouti, you turn around and the bits of your anger that were still left fizzle out when you see him leaning against the jamb of your bedroom's door. The only light is coming from behind him but you can somehow see in the way he stands, the way he subconsciously cradles the arm in the sling with his uninjured one. He's tired, too and it's probably more than the painkillers. If he even took them.
You want to ask him if he's okay but you know that he'll just give you a useless affirmative, so you walk over to him and give him a kiss, standing on your tiptoes, careful with the arm in the sling. He reacts instantaneously, leaning down and putting his good hand behind your neck and you realize that things haven't changed that much altogether since you kissed him in a seedy, half broken down mud hut in Afghanistan after not seeing him for ten days straight after you shared your quarters for the first time.
"You know… your taste in books still really sucks. Fifty Shades of Grey? Really, Agent Michaels?" – "What if I told you it was for research?" – "I'd tell you to get better resources than this." – "Judgy, aren't we today?" – "Just looking out for you." – "How considerate of you, Mr. Diggle."
