'These four words'
Oliver left the voicemail in his inbox for months.
When he first got it, the name had terrified him. The way they had left things, he knew there was no reason for Felicity to ever want to talk to him again – unless she was in trouble. Heartbeat faltering, it skipped a beat as he read the name flashing on his screen when he picked up his phone in the Foundry, wincing at the bright lights in the early hour but snapped instantly awake, fear speeding up the world around him.
Running to the computer, Oliver did exactly as she had once taught him. He tracked her. Fingers flying over the keyboard and barely registering the words he typed, Oliver hacked and searched until he found footage of her leaving work an hour ago in the Kord CCTV videotapes, feeling a flood of relief at the sight. Felicity had been safe then, laughing arm in arm with a blonde man he did not recognise.
That was six hours ago. The message had been left 45 minutes earlier, which left a lot of time for something to have happened, a sharp kick in Oliver's gut at the thought of what that might have been. He felt himself shake, breathing uneven as he closed his eyes for half a second, allowing panic to set in. Really, Oliver knew it could be an over-reaction – he should just listen to the message and see what she had to say before he jumped to conclusions head first.
For five more seconds he allowed himself to be afraid for her. In his heart, he believed she would never want to even hear his name again unless she was desperate – so the fact she had called scared him to death.
Time up, Oliver slowly lifted his cell phone to his ear, hearing the beep before the message started.
"So, I didn't know I'd be doing this tonight," Felicity said. Her voice was echoed in the phone, the sound of water in the background reminding him just how far away she was. "I didn't think I'd be doing this ever, really. But I am. I have to."
She hiccoughed, and Oliver diagnosed why she sounded off: she was drunk. The pacing between her words was slower, not rushed out in fear of being interrupted or a world-wide dilemma popping up. Towards the end of each phrase, Felicity's voice got lower until the words fizzled out, a static silence in between each point. He could tell she was thinking what to say next – this was spontaneous, and he suspected even she didn't know what she wanted to say.
Felicity was just talking, a frank honesty in her tone which he had missed. But the truth was painful, and the next words hit him hard.
"It's not life-threatening, so don't rush over here. I don't need you, Oliver – that's kinda the point."
Felicity huffed, which was surprising – unless she was yelling at him, she very rarely let her annoyance show. It wasn't that she wasn't angry at him: he knew she was sometimes, and she had every right to be – but Felicity shouldered it for the greater good. He'd seen her do it. A lot of the time, Oliver wished he was as strong as she was.
"I spent so much time wondering what I did wrong. I thought . . . I thought it was my fault. And now I know that it wasn't; that I am in charge of my life and what I want it to be. . ."
Even as she said the words, Oliver shook his head in silent horror. He hated that she had felt that way, even for a second – Felicity was the world. Everything that had happened, all the hurt, the lies, the running away – that was him.
"I can't let go . . . not without saying this. I'm here. In Chicago. And I thought being away, with time . . . I'd just be able to forget. But I can't, Oliver, because I never got to say what I needed to before I left. Not what I – what I wanted to."
It had meant she was safe from harm all the way in Chicago, but Oliver didn't realise what a blow to Felicity's self esteem the split had been. He had wanted her to be angry, hell furious at him – but he was supposed to be the one hurting because of that. She was supposed to be happy.
"But what I want to say isn't the same anymore, I've changed. And now . . . I can start over. I have a chance to really do something good here, but I can't keep looking back for you and do it at the same time. I-" her voice hitched in what could have been a sob, but was pushed back in a deep breath. "I have to let one go. It's you, Oliver. I have to let you go so I can move forwards."
But all thoughts of his mistake were pushed from his mind with her next words: they didn't give an inch for hesitation or doubt, there were sure, even if there was a hitched pain in every note.
"Oliver, I don't love you."
Cutting off the message, Oliver threw his phone away from him. Hands flying to his mouth, they lingered there for a second, pressing down to stop himself from crying out, but his fingers trembled even then. He stepped back, needing to put distance between himself and the offending object.
He was in shock and he knew it. Of all the things he had expected her to say to him, those were not among them. Oliver could have handled rage or spite – but indifference? That stung. A world in which Felicity was a stranger was one in which every second was a sandstorm without cover.
Somewhere along the line, he had come to the conclusion that he loved her, too.
It was a slow realisation, on his part. Too late to count. But at some point in the last three years, Felicity's smiles had become his own reason to, her words the loudest things in the minefield of his life, her hand soothing, comforting, the only ones he ever wanted to hold. She was the person he most looked forward to speaking to in the morning, and usually the text he woke up to. Even the simple 'good morning' ones.
Then when she was in danger, it was like the world was ending. All that matter was that she was safe, she was protected; that her smiles never ceased because of him and all his misery. At first, that had meant keeping her safe from physical harm – but it had all become so twisted. Now he'd hurt her and not even realised the damage he was inflicted even as he twisted the knife, pushing her so far away that her touch was a ghost in his closet.
He loved her, and now – it was lost.
Oliver spent the next ten minutes sitting in her chair and trying to breathe normally again, pulse rising with a kind of fear he was not used to. Oliver was used to risking life and limb; but now, his heart lay on a blade's edge and he couldn't bear to hear the rest of that message.
It might just be the death of him.
The second time he tried to listen to the message was a month and a half after it had arrived. Although Oliver knew that he should have listened to it sooner, that Felicity had the right to say whatever she needed to even if it caused him pain and that he owed it to her to hear it, he had been putting it off. He kept it in his inbox, though.
The words rang in his mind all month: I don't love you.
Oliver heard them clear as day as he sat in his office, staring at the window without really seeing anything. On the other side of the glass sat the new PA the company had hired, who had a habit awkwardly knocking the door and offering him coffee every five minutes. She was younger than Felicity, and lacked her will – he had even tried to talk to her a few times, but the girl lacked any sort of personality. She just agreed with everything he said and giggled a lot. Oliver hadn't predicted on missing Felicity arguing with him, and being called out on when he was wrong - in truth, she had made him better in that respect.
He missed her.
When he was fighting, he heard it the loudest. With Slade Wilson still in town, now backed up by an army of Mirikuru-fuelled thugs that were over-running them nightly, Oliver's team was spread too thin and getting knocked down more often than they won these days. So when his knuckles bled, and his chest ached from broken ribs, he couldn't believe that four words were the things that hurt the most.
On a night like that, he sat in an empty Verdant at five in the morning, bourbon in hand, and started the message for a second time.
"I don't love you."
Felicity's week-old voice wavered, but she spoke again with resolve. "I don't love you, Oliver. But I did. For such a long time . . . I would have given you everything. Anything."
Oliver bit his lip hard, drawing blood. It pooled in front of his teeth, and he could taste nothing but iron and flesh. Shaking his head a little, he forced himself to breath and take a sip of his drink, the alcohol entering the cut and stinging, burning with the same fierceness as the words and blocking them out for a second. He listened on. He still owed her that.
"There was a time that I would have told you that and hoped you felt the same way, somehow," Felicity said. He could hear the smile in her voice, but it was laced with tears; this was not a happy confession. "There was another time I thought you did. Love me, I mean. I . . . it was impossible, but I was stupid, I guess. I thought that if I just waited, if I stayed by your side – that one day things would change and we could be together."
"But when they did change, it didn't go that way. Slade Wilson: he was the one who started it all. When he came back . . . you, it was like everything that had happened in the past three years, they went away. The parts of you that were healed well enough to be kind and soft and loving - the way you were before – they just . . . went away."
Felicity paused, but just for a few moments. "It was like you were so afraid of being hurt again you just . . . put yourself on another island. But this one was of your making."
That was all Oliver could bear to hear; once again he killed her voice with a twitch of his finger, fist clenching around the phone. This time, he did not throw it or slam it away – he couldn't even muster the energy to. Instead, he rested his forehead on his laced fingers, closing his eyes tightly until there was no trace of colour left, not even the red usually behind closed eyes, just blackness and a sense that all hope was lost.
Oliver was so very, truly tired. Exhausted in a way that burrowed down to his bones and rooted there, making each step an effort it was becoming too hard to take.
He'd been in bad places before, but he had always had something to hold on to; something worth pushing through hell to get back to. On the island the first time, the thought of seeing his family again, of seeing Laurel again and making things right; when he got home, he fought for his family and friends. For his team.
And a lot of the time, he fought for Felicity Smoak.
A long time ago, he had made her a promise to always come back. It was one he had planned on keeping, no matter what, but like most things in his life, it was something broken. God, he had loved her. He had thought the same thing a thousand times – one day, things will be better. Oliver had believed that. And somewhere along the line, the better place had become wherever she was.
Felicity had become the future he planned for; the hope that one day, they could just leave. Starling City meant a lot to him, and it would always be home – but he wanted to run. He wanted to one day look out and see his work was done, the city was safe, his family was happy, and on that day, he wanted to take Felicity and go somewhere untouched by any trace of that life.
He wanted to make a new one, with her. But, with a voicemail and a lot of bad choices, his hope was lost. And Oliver Queen cried on a barstool in the dark until the sun had risen around him.
"It's okay," Felicity said. Oliver was on a rooftop this time, sitting with dangling legs over a midnight city. "It really is, I mean that. I didn't call to rant or to hurt you, I just . . . I needed to say it out loud, you know? I carried it for too long, and I can't move on until I stop."
"I know," Oliver whispered, knowing she couldn't hear him. Lost in his own thoughts, he nearly fell off the roof when someone dropped down next to him.
"Who are you talking to?" Sara asked, tilting her head to one side. Originally grinning at making him jump, she took one look at his face and grew serious, brow knitting itself together. "That's not a happy face. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he snapped back, switching off the phone speedily. Oliver got to his feet, sharpening his posture to the weapon it usually was, lowering his voice to gravel. "You shouldn't be sneaking around like that, I could've-"
"What? Hurt me?" Sara flicked her hair and laughed, "Yeah, right. Even if you weren't so busy monologuing to hear me coming, we all know who'd win that fight. So don't flatter yourself."
Oliver rolled his eyes, asking dryly, "Are you done?"
"Eh – I'll tell you if I come up with anything else," she replied, quick as a whip. "So, spill. What's got your shiny green panties in a twist?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You haven't been talking for two and a half months," Sara argued. Although he had walked away, standing on the other side of the rooftop with crossed arms, she wandered over in a lazy manner, leaning against the wall next to him. Looking at him out of the corner of her eye, she went on in short, blunt sentences, "We've noticed. All of us. Your friends. Who you should tell your problems to."
Huffing, Oliver crossed his arms tighter but relaxed a little, twisting on the balls of his feet. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just – personal."
"Oliver, I know you better than you think I do," Sara said simply. "There's not much you could hide from me after all we've been through. 'Personal' issues? They stopped existing in this friendship years ago."
Despite himself, Oliver almost laughed at that. She was right, of course. Between him and her, there was nothing left to know – if he had to make a stand anywhere, he would want Sara at his side. It was the sort of bond that could only have been forged by all the horrors they had seen together, and he was so grateful nothing could diminish that friendship – not even their fling, or well, dying.
"But, since I know you so well, you don't even have to tell me what it is. I know," Sara looked him dead in the eye, something mischievous in her gaze. "It's Felicity."
When he didn't reply instantly, she knew she was right. Oliver looked at his feet, shrugging in a small, sad way. "She called me a week ago. Well, she left a message."
"Saying?"
"A lot of things, I uh, I haven't listened to all of it yet," Oliver admitted sheepishly, turning towards the city to hide his blush of embarrassment at that, the night-time breeze hitting his face, sharp and fresh at that height. It brushed against his stubble, cooling his burning cheeks. "But the main part of the message was that she is," he paused, not sure how to explain it. "Over it? She's . . . moving on with her life."
"Oh," Sara said quietly. Sad frown twitching across her face, she took a step closer to him. "I'm sorry, Ollie."
"I don't know why I – I don't know why it hurts," he admitted, stumbling over his words. Oliver shook his head bitterly, angry at the world, and at himself. "She's been gone for months now, I'm the one who told her to go! It was my fault."
"But you expected her to come back, even if you didn't realise it. I saw it," Sara put a hand on his arm gently. "The faith you had in her. You both thought she was coming back when she left, that when this was all done," she waved a vague hand, "She'd come home and everything would be okay again. It hurts because you've both realised that it isn't that straightforward."
Oliver blinked hard. He hadn't ever thought to think of it that way, but it was true – he had expected Felicity to come back. Even when she moved to Chicago, even when they fought, there was never a moment he truly believed she was gone for good. Always, Oliver thought that once Slade was gone he could go to her and apologise; make things right between them.
But if she was really moving on, that door was swinging closed right in front of his eyes.
"How did you know?" he asked Sara, turning to the other woman.
"You love her," she replied. The frankness in her voice never changed, honesty was something you could count on Sara for. "That's all there is to it. You love her, but you let her leave because you were scared of losing her – you thought that would hurt worse than anything. But you were wrong. This hurts more."
Oliver looked at her, knowing she understood. Sara's burning eyes met his own, tears neither of them would ever shed shining there. "Nyssa?"
"Sometimes you have to let the people you love go. For your own good and for theirs," Sara admitted, tremble in her voice. The hand on his arm tightened to a squeeze, making him look down at it, covering it with his own, but when he looked up she was smiling. "I don't think that's true in your case, though. You have a chance."
"But . . . the message-"
"You made a bad choice, Oliver. When you decided for her, when you pushed her away – that was wrong, and I think you know it now." Sara shook her head. "I did tell you – it was her choice to make, not yours. But the way you two loved each other – that was pure; good. Go back to that, and you stand a chance."
"How do I go back? Slade-"
"Is not one of the two people involved here," Sara said drying, rolling her eyes. "You can't let other people rule your life like that! He wins if you're not happy in fear of him."
"If he hurt her, I'd . . . I'd die. And if he did more than that? If he ki-" choking, he stopped, unable to finish the word. He shook his head violently, "I live alone. I can survive that way - I've done it. But without her? I couldn't. I couldn't live in a world without her." Oliver was barely composed, "I'm scared."
"Do you want to know a secret?" Sara asked, letting go of his arm. Although her words were weighted, her smile at him beforehand was brighter than before, the tears almost gone from her eyes. "We all are. Every day. I think that's why we fight a lot of the time, people like you and me. We fight not to be afraid almost as much as we fight to protect the people that we love."
Four months after the message had first been sent; Oliver listened to it in its entirety.
The beginning didn't sting so much anymore. Barely reacting, he listened to Felicity tearfully admit she didn't love him, showing no outward reaction to the words aside from the slight clenching of his jaw. He sat in the empty foundry, but it was not as desolate as before – Roy and Diggle had left in laughter ten minutes ago, and Sara was working the bar upstairs and checked on him every break, bringing drinks and needed company.
A lot had changed in the past few months: Slade Wilson was dead, Sara delivering the final blow for fear of what Oliver would become if he did the deed. He was in the ground and no longer a problem, but Oliver still blamed himself for how that fight went down. It was his fault – he should have found another way, or fired the arrow himself – it wasn't fair to let his friend's hands become bloodier because of his feud.
Starling was safer, marginally. There was still crime; still work to be done. But now, it was possible to believe they were winning, that things were almost at the promised 'better' times. It wasn't so dark anymore. He was starting to think about slowing down, letting Roy take more patrols and spending more time with his family.
But before he did that, there was another thing he had to put right. Felicity.
And it started with finally listening to the whole damn message.
"I can't move on until I stop. So this is me . . . stopping. I forgive you, by the way," Felicity said. "Now I've said all that, I'm done. I'm moving on."
"But uh, I want to thank you for what you taught me. I know now that I can make a difference: and I intend to. You taught me to be strong, to try and help others no matter what," she blew air out of her mouth, and he heard her smile in the warmth of her tone. "That's what I want to do with my life. I'm gonna keep doing that – I even got some new friends. We're going to work it out together."
Oliver frowned at that, leaning backwards in her old chair. He must have understood her wrong. It sounded as if . . . no, Felicity wouldn't do that. She wouldn't work with another vigilante.
But something akin to uncertainty stirred in his gut, putting him on edge as her drunken words tumbled on, feeling as if he were about to go headfirst off a cliff.
"And you can't be mad at me for this, by the way. Absolutely not. You can't teach me how to do something good and then be pissed when I keep doing it, even without you," there was bite to the words. They were meant to hurt, or reprimand, as it were. "So I'm doing this. My own way, this time – I'm going to keep being a hero. Or the eyes and ears of the operation, at least. It's what I do best. Me and the Beetle are gonna make a difference here."
"No," Oliver said aloud, pouting at what he was hearing. It couldn't be true. He had sent her away so she could be safe, not walk headfirst into danger again. And who the hell was the Beetle? Oliver's fists clenched at his sides.
"So I wish you the best," Felicity finished resolutely. "I really do. After all of this, all I want is for you to be happy - I am."
The line clicked, and as a voice began to announce his options to delete or save the message, Oliver slammed his phone down in fury and instantly jumped onto the computer. Searching the internet for 'the Beetle', he soon found out about the other vigilante working in Chicago, stopping fires and criminals – and as a final kick in the balls, he was adored there. The people loved their hero.
Although there was no specific mention of Felicity to be found, there were reports of the Beetle having a partner – some gold spandex idiot called Booster Gold, and even fewer mentions of them both talking on a comm. Link to a third party. This person was a mystery; most of the media speculated they existed and organised the pair of crime fighters, but the biggest instance of their existence was a cyber-terrorism attack on the city, after which the Beetle credited the savoir as 'Kerberos'.
What Oliver initially thought was anger warped quickly, becoming worry for his friend. If this 'Kerberos' was Felicity, she was right in the middle of another vigilante operation, making enemies and in danger.
The final report of the Blue Beetle caught his eye, and Oliver blanched. 'Hero missing, city in crisis'.
Grabbing his portable costume and a jacket, Oliver took the stairs two at a time, emerging panic-striken in Verdant. He leaned over the bar until he caught Sara's eye, who noticed his expression and made a beeline for him.
"Trouble?"
"In a sense," he replied. "I need you to trust me on something. I think an old friend needs our help."
"Anything," Sara nodded immediately. "Who? Where?"
Oliver turned, knowing she would fall into step beside him and pulling his phone out again to call Roy and Diggle. "It's time to get the band back together. We're going to Chicago."
A/N: this was a quick-ish update right? Anyways, Oliver Queen is a drama queen (and I'm trying to make him more like comic Ollie eventually) and Sara Lance is a goddess.
Also, since there's about five chapters left of this story I'll ask now and hopefully someone will get back to me: if I wrote a sort of continuation (aka I write DCU characters into its tv shows), would anyone be interested in a similar story where I wrote Hal Jordan into the CW Flash universe?