(A/N: This is a migraine-sufferer solidarity gift for thatmasquedgirl, who, whenever I say, "I NEED to see this on the show," replies, "You NEED to write it." So may I present to you, Shirtless AND Crying Oliver, since we've already had Shirtless/Suspenders Oliver. And really, I just can't get enough of Olicity hand-holding.)

I Can't See Anything

"Why are all the lights off?" Felicity asked as she negotiated the steps into the Foundry. "I can't see anything."

"Didn't you shut everything off when we left last night?" Diggle stepped down behind her, his hand falling on her shoulder.

"Yeah, but that doesn't make it pitch-black like this." She froze, her foot hovering above the next stair. "All the lights are off, Dig. All. The. Lights."

His jacket rustled, which she knew meant he was drawing his gun. "Stay here," he whispered in her ear.

Felicity squeezed over to let him by, then wondered what good he thought he could do with a gun in utter darkness.

It didn't make sense. Every light was out, from the big overheads to the medical lamp, which ran on batteries, along with anything else that had lights on it, namely the computers. She strained to hear Dig's footsteps as he descended the remaining stairs and crossed the expanse of the room. The flip of a switch echoed in the stillness, and the harsh, unflinching light from the medical lamp pierced the dark.

"Batteries," said Dig. He gestured for her to come down the stairs. She joined him in the center of the room. "What do you think?" he asked. "Power outage? Could we have blown a fuse?"

Felicity shook her head. "Not a chance. All the power in here runs on a grid—" She waved her hand. "Never mind. There are only two ways this could have happened. Either someone turned off everything one item at a time, or someone manually tripped the circuit breaker."

A grunt came from the back of the room, where Oliver kept the cot he'd been sleeping on since ending his relationship with his mother. Felicity met Diggle's eyes for a brief moment, and then turned to head back that way. Dig grasped her arm, holding her back.

"Not a good idea," he said, his voice lowered now that they knew Oliver was here, and probably asleep. "He woke up from a nightmare once with his hands around his mother's throat."

Felicity's eyes widened.

"I'll go check the circuit breaker," said Dig. "I know you want to help, but just let him be, okay? He gets lost in the past and doesn't know where he is. He could hurt you without realizing what he's doing."

He went back up the stairs. Felicity turned the lamp so the light angled toward her workstation. She sat in her chair and looked at the blank monitors. Oliver was so going to get a lecture for shutting off the power to the entire basement. He was lucky she hadn't been in the middle of any searches.

She'd gotten out her phone to play Candy Crush when she heard a strangled cry coming from Oliver's direction. In her experience, everything that seemed loud and big in dreams was muffled and muted in reality. Oliver was probably shouting in whatever scenario was playing out in his mind.

Dig's warning no longer seemed to matter. She entered the area in the back of the room where Oliver had set up the cot. A double. But Sara was gone, having moved in with Laurel after a huge argument with Oliver about what to do regarding Detective Lance's arrest. She was putting all of her energy into helping her father and keeping Laurel from learning about her own identity as the Canary.

Oliver was sprawled across the cot, the blanket in an impossible tangle around his legs. He was shirtless, of course. Felicity was pretty sure she saw him out of a shirt more often than she saw him in one, but the sight of him in pajama pants would have been adorable if not for the expression on his face. She'd never before seen quite that combination of horror and sorrow. And his eyes weren't even open.

"Oliver," she said softly.

He thrashed once and then stilled. That terrible expression remained, and she couldn't stop the hand that reached out to smooth the creases in his forehead. Seeing her small hand and brightly painted nails in contrast to his hard, muscled edges always made her smile. When she touched him, he flinched.

"Felicity," he murmured.

She thought for a moment he'd awoken, but his eyes were still closed, and the way he'd said her name . . . it was different. It reminded her of the way he'd said it after Helena had left her tied up at QC, but there was an added note of despair that grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed. Felicity sat on the edge of the cot. Her hand moved to his cheek and stayed there. She didn't know what to say. What promise could she give to comfort him? She couldn't say he was okay, because he wasn't. She couldn't say everything would be okay, because maybe it wouldn't, and they didn't lie to each other, not anymore.

The lights flickered and then came on. The electronic buzz of servers warming up was a calming melody to Felicity's frayed nerves. She started to get up, knowing she'd been in for a tongue-lashing, or at least a glower, from Diggle if he found her so close to Oliver in his current state, but a large, warm hand closed over her own, pulling her down.

"Stay. Please." He was awake now, and a lump formed in her throat as she met his dark blue eyes, which were filled with unshed tears. "Just for a minute."

She sank back onto the cot, unable to hold his gaze for long. He interlocked his fingers with hers, and she couldn't repress the shiver that rippled through her at the contact. The gesture had always seemed intimate to her, not the action of a friend. It carried more weight than that. Felicity stared down at the pattern their fingers made, tan, pale, tan, pale, his nails blunt and short, her own digits capped with a splash of blue.

"You're here," he mumbled.

"Yeah." She still couldn't look at him. "I'm out of a job now. Where else would I be?"

With his other hand, he traced her fingers clasped in his. His touch made her skin thrum. "It's going to be okay."

Felicity finally met his eyes. Well, not exactly. She couldn't move her gaze any farther up than his quivering lower lip. "I thought we were done lying," she said. "You can't possibly know that."

He squeezed her hand. "Yes, I can."

"How, Oliver? Things are really, really bad."

"It's bad," he agreed, swiping at his eyes with his free hand. "But you're here, and for me that takes away at least one of those 'really's."