She's just finished washing her hands, when she takes a look. The shower is large enough to accommodate four people whereas the bath could probably hold ten, easy.
Bath or Shower?
It was cheeky, outrageous really, to use someone else's bathroom when you were there just as a day (overnight?) guest, but it would probably be so, so much easier. Plus, well, it was Oliver not like she was guest to a stranger or anything.
She hums thoughtfully to herself.
"Hey, Oliver."
His voice comes from right beside the door.
"Do you need my help with anything?" is his immediate response, concern easily audible.
"Nope. Just - can I take a bath?"
"No, sorry."
Oh. Well. Fair enough, she supposes. Shower it is, then, Felicity thinks with a sigh to herself, eyeing the large, spacious area.
"It will help your healing but not yet – you'll need to wait a few days. Don't make the shower too hot either – the heat brings the blood flow to the surface."
Oh. That makes so much more sense than the billionaire worrying about water consumption. Whoops. Felicity really should have been able to figure this out for herself.
"Thanks, Oliver," she tells him, hoping he can hear her genuine gratitude in her voice. Luckily, she'd thought to ask rather than just jump in.
Now to undressing.
Maybe she should have picked a shirt with buttons; it would have probably been easier than trying to lift it over her head again. With the bruises, her bruised (unbroken, though, so far) ribs and the stitches at her neck, moving her shoulders and torso was an exercise in pain as she'd discovered yesterday – and one she didn't really want to relieve.
However, as her only other option is to remain covered in sweat and dried blood, there really isn't much of an alternative as far as Felicity is concerned.
Joy.
She manages to roll up the bottom of the shirt for the lower half but then it does need to be pulled up over her head and she never realised before this morning just how many muscles that uses and how much she needs to stretch. She manages it half-way over her breasts when a sharp pain shoots down the side where Helena hit her with the crossbow, forcing a gasp to escape her mouth without her permission.
"Felicity?" Is Oliver's immediate response, accompanied by a sharp rap on the door.
Unfortunately, she's too busy dropping the shirt, stumbling back and colliding with the corner of the shower on her other side, hitting her shoulder too close to her neck, ensuring tears well up in her eyes as the pain assaults her on all sides. Felicity's half-certain she's going to throw up any moment now and dreads the further toll that will take on her muscles if it happened – the bending over of her torso, the wrenching in her neck. She's gulping for air, having managed to knock the breath out of herself with her latest hit to her injury.
She's disoriented, trying to get a handle on herself but only just managing another stumble. With yet another hiss through gritted teeth, she tries to lean against the wall, eyes pressed shut and attempting to breathe through the pain and tell her body that throwing up right now would be very counter-productive. There's at least a little blood leaking from her neck to her shoulder – either that or she's crying profusely. Felicity is at the stage where she honestly can't tell anymore.
The world's gone that foggy-hazy way that precedes unconsciousness, every sound distant, every move delayed as if her brain is taking ages to relay the signals to her body, feeling woozy and discombobulated as Felicity forces her body to remain upright rather than collapse down to the floor.
Mia can't know, she thinks hazily. She has to protect Mia. She can handle this herself. She's done it before. Nyssa will be by later, hopefully. God, she wishes Oliver-
Her hand lashes out automatically when a hand wraps around her elbow, stomping down with her foot – Mia, Mia, Mia, have to protect her, I promised, Oliver – I promised! No one can find her.
Felicity ignores the pain, launching forward, eyes scanning wildly for a weapon, any weapon. Showerhead's too far. Sink's closer. The sink is hard ceramic or porcelain and metal. Easy enough to use to seriously injure someone if she pushes their head down against it hard enough.
Adrenaline's displacing her haze and the world snaps into focus, every sound loud and amplified, her breath heavy and noisy but at least there's only one other person she can hear. Her body's responding faster too – or her mind's slower now, she's not exactly sure.
All she knows is that there's no line she won't cross to protect the ones she promised to; her children. Not for Mia. Not for William. She grabs the guy's shirt using it as leverage to pull herself up and pull him down towards the sink, hoping he won't resist too hard, that her first try will be effective, prepared to knee him in the back of his leg to force him to bend over or sink down, giving her leverage she sorely needs.
"Hey, hey, hey." The voice is soft, entreating, trying to calm and soothe rather than fight. "It's me, please stop fighting."
It's such a ridiculous request that it's enough to force her into a little bit more focus. He feels familiar; smells familiar. It takes another moment before the adrenaline goes down enough, she can think of more than just to kill and hurt before they get to the ones she needs to protect above all else, can think beyond the fight she'd anticipated when all she'd gotten was soft, careful touches and hands shielding and blocking her more than they were themselves, trying to protect her from further harm.
It's only then she allows her head to tilt up and look at her not-attacker.
Oliver.
Of course. It all comes back at once.
Because she's back in the past. With past-Oliver and past-Diggle.
She's not alone anymore. Felicity doesn't have to do this all alone. Not anymore. Not ever.
Doesn't have to keep fighting beyond where her body can bear it.
The thought is so relieving, the fight leaves her all at once and she sags into Oliver's waiting arms. Her not-husband adjusts his grip and stance quickly to take her weight without hurting her further.
Fuck.
Gone from struggling to take off a shirt to injuring herself and then making everything worse by fighting.
"I'm such an idiot," she whispers self-deprecatingly into Oliver's shoulder.
"Hey, no," he tells her, stroking his thumb gently across her back while cradling her protectively in his arms.
"You're fine. Don't even worry. It's normal. You've been in a fight for your life only a day ago and when you felt pain and then someone touching you, it's perfectly normal to lash out."
That's sweet, but it really isn't. Past-Felicity would not have gotten lost in her mind. Would not have had other people to protect so fiercely she would have fought before getting a hold of her surroundings or opponent. Past-her was reckless, but not traumatised.
"Thank you," are her first words, because she knows if Oliver had treated her like an opponent, if he hadn't let her get some of the hits in and only blocked anything that would hurt her more than it would've hurt him, she could've easily worsened her already existing injuries more than she already had.
But then he's always thinking of her before himself, is always controlled in his movements and manoeuvres, his strength carefully restrained and exercised only ever to assist or save her. Never to hurt her.
"And I'm sorry," she adds.
"Hey. Felicity. Look at me. I promise, you have nothing – nothing – to apologise for," he says immediately.
"I do," she rebuts. "You took me home, took care of me, watched over me and I hurt you."
Felicity stands, still leaning against him but supporting her own weight now. Oliver uses the opportunity she gives him to gently tilt her head up with his right hand so she faces him.
"Felicity," he enunciates her name softly and carefully, his tongue slowly wrapping around each syllable in that way of his which always makes her heart flutter and conveys enough meaning without needing to say any more.
I care for you. I love you. You're my light. You're my always.
He's not there yet, but it still means something to him. Only to her, it means everything. Because the way he looked at her, the way he said her name, those things had never changed over their time together – or even their time apart.
"You have nothing to apologise for," he reassures her, mouth set in a grim line, brows furrowed and eyes dark as he stares down at her.
"You did everything right."
Felicity doesn't agree – but she doesn't exactly disagree either. Because William will be part of her life again soon, and there is no way she'd allow him to be hurt (again) if she was in a position to prevent it.
"You put up an amazing fight and your instinct with the sink is definitely the right one."
Because of course Oliver would notice her manoeuvring him and her rather violent – and bloody – intentions.
"I'm proud of you. And I'm glad to know you're a fighter."
Rather than being suicidal he means; but fair enough. Words can only do so much when she'd only shown him the exact opposite until now.
He's still cradling her cheek and she allows herself to lean into that hand, straining the wound on her neck even further, closing her eyes for a moment as she relishes in the contact, the support.
"Besides," there's the slightest hint of mischief in his eyes when she allows hers to open, the smallest upturn at the corner of his lips. "I'm a Greek God, remember? You couldn't hurt me if you tried."
Felicity lets out a tired laugh at his joke, leaning against his chest when the movement further jostles her ribs and bruises.
"Ouch," she tells him, a heartfelt emphasis behind the words that have him looking at her with a curious mix of both amusement and concern.
"I'll need to check your ribs again. And your bruises. And the stitching."
Felicity sighs.
"So – everything, basically."
"Basically, yes," Oliver agrees without hesitation, ignoring her frown.
"Can I shower first?"
He pauses for a moment but finally nods his approval, disentangling from her as he clearly intends to leave.
"Yes. Just be careful."
Felicity freezes for a second too long – long enough to catch his eye and have him worried as he gazes down at her again.
"What?" He asks, backtracking to her, concerned.
"Ah, well… I might have had a few mishaps undressing," she confesses and it takes only a moment for him to clearly recall her white face earlier when she'd changed into his shirt as his stance firms and his face sets.
Yeah, he's definitely not letting her undress herself now. Not that she wouldn't appreciate the help.
"Should I send my Mom or Thea to you?"
Felicity knows him well – any version of him, past or future – so she isn't surprised to see the barely noticeable hesitation at his own suggestions. She'd just assaulted him; if she got lost in her head, she could hurt his sister or his mother.
Unlikely, she knows, but not entirely impossible and Felicity hadn't meant for them to be the ones to do this anyway.
"No, Oliver," she rejects, not shaking her head for fear of pulling further on the stitches. "You're the one I trust."
He softens at her words before the meaning has time to register – when it does, his eyes widen before he forces his face into stillness.
"Was this part of the dream, too?" He asks seemingly automatically resorting to bantering with her now because he slams his eyes shut immediately afterwards, like she sometimes does after one of her unintentional babbles.
"Sorry," he quickly apologises, "that was inappropriate."
"Unlike me calling you a Greek God, GQ model and telling you I'd climb you like a tree, you mean?" she offers with a wry smile and he chuckles lightly, conceding with a silent nod.
"I just don't want to make this more uncomfortable for you, than it already is," he says softly, clearly concerned about overstepping boundaries.
"So, from what I'm gathering you do agree to helping me undress," Felicity looks up at him curiously, eyes narrowed. She hadn't been certain if he'd actually agree to something like this.
"If you're sure," he says with a nod, his eyes steadfast on her own as he, like her, tries to read whether there's any worries or hesitation on her part.
"If it makes you uncomfortable," she suggests, eyes still on his, "we don't have to do this. I can take a shower back home. Or another day. It doesn't have to be now."
"Do you want to take a shower now?" he asks instead and Felicity smiles slightly.
Everything hurts even more now and she knows that the shower won't make all the pain go away, but she can't help but feel like it will not only wash off the remaining dried blood, but it will help soothe all her sore muscles on top of it.
"Yes," she tells him with certainty and he just nods.
"Then I will help you," he says as if it was just that simple. Maybe, to him, it actually is.
Oliver always likes taking care of the ones he loves – and given that she'd told him what she needed from him, he would be very unlikely to actually refuse.
Felicity breathes out sharply with relief.
There was a bit of Thea in Mia, and she wasn't sure she was ready to face the young girl yet – younger than her own daughter had been last she saw her, but still.
And then there was Moira; despite their much-improved history, the idea of letting that woman near her when she was vulnerable and exposed, sent shivers down her spine. And not the good Oliver-induced ones.
Yeah, no, she'd rather give up showering for a month.
Author's Notes:
Thursday's tenancy tribunal. Wish us luck!
Please review and comment - most of the next one's pre-written too. Oliver forces Felicity to be a bit more honest about how she feels earlier than she should be after she invites him to join her in the shower *wink* Again, the more reviews - the quicker the upload!
My favourite scene in this chapter is when Oliver reassures her after she calls herself an idiot, holding her close and supporting her. So adorable. And I was particularly proud of Felicity's disoriented flashback where it's just an incoherent ramble between fighting "Mia, Mia, Mia, have to protect her, I promised, Oliver – I promised!" Hope you like the hurt/comfort intermingled with light-hearted moments and fluffiness.
What did you think? Please review.
