Archive of Our Own ^beta

He woke to the sound of water.
Not the kind that rushed or fell — just a slow, steady drip somewhere above him, echoing against concrete.

He didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. His body felt wrong. Heavy in a way that went deeper than pain — like gravity had doubled while he wasn’t looking.

His shoulder burned. His ribs ached. His wrists were raw and swollen where the metal had bitten deep.

None of it felt urgent. Just inescapable.

There was no voice. No light. No Adrian.

Just silence.

He turned his head — a fraction — and the world tilted.

The floor was wet beneath his cheek. Rain leaking through the cracks above.

His bow lay where it had been dropped, close enough to touch. The quiver beside it. His jacket thrown nearby, familiar weight and worn leather.

Everything he needed to leave.

Chase’s voice slipped back into his mind, calm and deliberate.

I’ll give you a gift.

And you can walk out that door.

All you have to do… is confess.

Gift.

His breath stuttered as the truth of it settled into his skin.

The burn across his chest throbbed — raw, ruined — where the Bratva mark had been carved away. Not removed. Destroyed.

He had expected to feel lighter.

Free.

Instead, he lay there with everything returned to him — weapons, armor, escape — and nothing left intact underneath.

The Brotherhood burned away.

And with it, something else he hadn’t known how to name.

Instead, all he could hear was Chase’s voice, quiet, deliberate:
"You kill because you want to."

The words looped, low and constant, until he almost believed them.

He pushed himself up — or tried to. His arms shook, not from pain, but from the simple fact that they no longer trusted him to hold his weight. The city was somewhere above him, alive and bright, and he was buried beneath it, crawling out of the truth he’d confessed.

If it even was the truth.

He stood, stumbling slightly, not just beaten and broken, but shattered by the confession Chase had extracted: He killed not because he had to, but because he liked it. He was no hero. He was a monster. And everyone he loved would pay the price.

The Foundry felt different that night.
Too quiet. Too bright. Every sound — the echo of his boots, the hiss of disinfectant, the tear of medical tape — was too loud against the silence they left behind.

He sat shirtless on the table, hands shaking as he cleaned the burn across his chest. The skin was angry and raw, the shape of what used to be his Bratva tattoo now nothing but ruin. The smell of antiseptic mixed with smoke, and for a second he thought he could still hear Chase’s voice, whispering behind him.

He forced the thought away.

Somewhere in the shadows above, he felt eyes on him. John’s quiet judgment. Curtis’s helpless concern. Felicity’s heartbreak. He didn’t look up.

He’d told them it was over.

That he was done.

When she finally spoke, her voice came soft, hesitant.
“Please, Oliver… let me help you.”

He kept his eyes on the wound.
“If you want to help me,” he said quietly, “go home.”

A pause.
Then the faint sound of her breath catching. She didn’t argue — not this time. Just turned, footsteps fading toward the stairs. The elevator doors closed, leaving him alone again, surrounded by ghosts and the steady hum of machines.

That night, in the loft, the city was silent.
He sat on the couch, bandaged, bare feet on cold wood, watching the reflection of streetlights dance across the window. Pain had settled into something quieter now — dull, patient, living beneath his ribs.

When the knock came, it was soft. Almost polite.

He lifted his head, already knowing who it was.
“Felicity…” he started, when the door opened.

She stood there, small against the frame, eyes red from crying but steady.

“The keys I gave you,” he said, his voice rough, “were for emergencies only.”

“This is an emergency,” she said simply.

“Felicity—”

“No,” she cut him off, turning toward the kitchen. Plastic rustled as she set bags on the counter — groceries, takeout boxes, something warm and familiar in the sterile quiet.

He rose slowly, wincing, but she didn’t look back.

“Felicity,” he tried again, softer this time. “We talked about this. You should go.”

That was when she turned — sharp, angry, eyes glistening.
“I had no idea where you were for seven days, Oliver. Seven days. That maniac held you, and you think I can just—just pretend that didn’t happen?”

Her voice cracked, but she stood her ground.

“I was scared,” she whispered. “I was terrified. And if you care about me at all, you’ll let me help.”

He stared at her — the tremor in her voice, the stubborn set of her jaw.
And for the first time since the cell, something inside him faltered. His breathing changed, shallow and uneven, like his body had started reacting without asking him first.

He turned away before she could see it.

“You need to go.” His voice came out rough, harsher than he meant.
He swallowed, but it didn’t make it easier. “Please, Felicity… just go.”

For a second, there was only silence — the sound of rain against the window, the slow pulse of his heartbeat in his ears. Then he felt it: her hand.

Soft. Warm. Resting against his back.

She didn’t speak. Just let her palm slide gently across his scarred skin, a touch so careful it almost broke him. Then her arms came around him from behind, trembling as they wrapped across his ribs. He felt the brush of her cheek between his shoulder blades, the faint, uneven rhythm of her breath.

“Please,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Please… just let me stay.”

He closed his eyes. For a moment he didn’t move. Then he turned — slowly — and pulled her into him.

Something in him gave way. Her tears soaked into his chest, her body shaking with every breath. He could feel it — her fear, her grief, the unbearable relief of knowing he was alive. She held him as if she could keep him from slipping away again.

And he let her.
Because for once, he didn’t want to be the strong one. He just wanted someone to hold him together.

“Felicity…” he whispered into her hair.

She looked up then, eyes red, lashes wet. Her voice came out small but certain.

“I’m not okay,” she said, before he could ask. “And I won’t be. Not until you are.”

He didn’t have an answer. Only the truth — that he didn’t know if he ever could be okay again.

So he just held her tighter.

She worked in silence.

Oliver didn’t watch her hands. He focused on the space just past her shoulder — an unfixed point where his eyes could rest without having to see anything at all. The room felt distant, as if there were a thin layer of glass between him and the world.

When she peeled the bandage back, he registered the movement only by the change in air against his skin. No sharp pain. Just pressure. Just heat. As though it belonged to someone else.

“This might sting,” she murmured.

He nodded automatically. The words reached him late.

Her touch followed — careful, almost reverent — spreading the ointment in slow, measured strokes. She waited for him to react. He didn’t. Not right away.

Felicity stilled.

“Oliver?” she said softly.

His eyes shifted to hers a second too late, unfocused. “Yeah,” he answered, though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to.

She swallowed and continued, gentler now. When she reached the burn on his chest, her hand faltered. She drew back, then forced herself to go on.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

When she reached for the clean white T-shirt, she hesitated. “Can you lift your arms?”

He did — slow, mechanical — and something inside him misfired.

Not sharp pain. More like a sudden drain, as if his body had briefly forgotten how to hold itself together.

Her hand was there immediately, steadying him at the elbow.

“Hey,” she said, grounding, close. “I’ve got you.”

His vision tunneled for a moment. When it cleared, she was still there — watching him with quiet alarm, as if taking inventory of what he hadn’t said.

“You have to eat something,” she said quietly.

He shook his head.

She didn’t press — not right away. She just looked at him, the way only she could, eyes wide with that fragile hope that always broke him. “Please. Just a little fruit, maybe a strawberry smoothie? With some protein?”

He couldn’t say no to her. He never really could.

She blended it quietly, the low hum filling the kitchen. He managed a few sips before his stomach rebelled. The nausea hit hard, and he braced himself against the counter, knuckles white.

A cool hand touched his arm. Her fingers traced slow circles against his skin until his breathing steadied, the sickness easing.

She saw the dark shadows under his eyes, the hollow fatigue that no sleep could fix.

“Come on,” she whispered, taking his hand.

He didn’t resist.

He lay down, too tired to argue, and waited for her to leave. He looked down, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t want to see her walk away — but he didn’t tell her to stay, either.

Then the mattress dipped.

He froze as she slid under the blanket beside him — her arms wrapping carefully around his ribs, the soft press of her lips on his shoulder.

“You’re not going?” he asked, his voice barely there.

She shook her head against his back, he felt it, followed by another feather light against his back.

His throat tightened, eyes burning again. He wasn’t okay. Not even close. But she was here. And though he knew he should tell her to go — she wouldn’t listen.

And God help him, he didn’t want her to.

With that thought, he closed his eyes. Her fingers found his hair, gentle, rhythmic. Darkness took him.

When he woke again, the room was dim. Her voice reached him first.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Sweetheart… please wake up.”

He turned, disoriented. God, he was so tired.

“Felicity?”

She smiled faintly, eyes soft. “It’s two a.m. Time for tea.”

His throat tightened. The memories hit like a wave — nights in the loft, her gentle alarms at the exact hour she knew his nightmares clawed too deep. Her algorithm of mercy.

And now, like no time had passed at all, she handed him a warm cup. Steam curled between them, gentle and familiar.

“Chamomile,” she said quietly. “Same as always.”

He wanted to tell her he didn’t deserve it. That he wasn’t the man she remembered.
But all that came out was a quiet, broken, “Thank you.”

She smiled again, and in the hush of two a.m., they sat together — the steam rising between them, fragile and real.

The world was quiet when he woke. Too quiet.
The sheets beside him were cold.

For a long moment, Oliver lay still, eyes half-open, watching the thin light crawl across the wall. His mind, fogged and aching, searched for the shape that had been there — soft breath, warmth against his back — and found only emptiness.

Maybe she hadn’t been real. The gentle care, the warmth, the comforting weight beside him—it had all been a desperate nightmare of comfort, a trick his mind played to survive.

He swallowed. The motion felt thick, awkward, like his throat hadn’t quite remembered how to work yet.

When he turned onto his side, it wasn’t pain that stopped him — it was the weight of his own body, heavy and uncooperative.

He lay there, letting the fatigue settle back over him, dense and familiar.

But then —

His eyes landed on the nightstand.
A cup. Still half-full.
And beside it — another.

He froze.

The world seemed to tilt a little.
“Felicity?” The word came out small, almost boyish, before he could stop it.

On trembling arms, he pushed himself upright, feet finding the floor. The room swayed, the taste of metal in his mouth. He made it to the door and pulled it open.

And there she was.

Her hair was a mess, golden strands catching the morning light that streamed through the loft windows. She wore one of his white shirts — too big, sleeves rolled, the hem brushing her thighs.

She stood by the kitchen counter, pouring coffee beans into the grinder. The sound — soft, rhythmic — filled the silence like a heartbeat.

Oliver stopped in the doorway. Just watching her.

For one perfect, impossible second, it felt like nothing had changed. Like he could blink and find himself back there — before the screams, before the water, before being forced to stay still while the world narrowed to pain—

He sucked in a sharp breath.

Don’t go there.

Don’t.

His eyes flicked back to her, to the gentle movement of her shoulders, to the way she hummed under her breath, unaware he was there.

He didn’t know if he should go to her.

All he knew was that, for the first time in what felt like forever, the morning didn’t hurt quite as much.

“You look like you could use coffee.”

Her voice was soft — morning-soft — the kind that didn’t demand anything.
She turned then, and the light hit her face. No makeup. Eyes still puffy from the night before. And yet, somehow, she looked like peace. Like something human in the middle of everything that wasn’t.

He blinked, as if she might disappear if he did.
“I—” He stopped. The words scraped on their way out. “You’re still here.”

Felicity gave a faint, crooked smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He didn’t answer. His throat worked once, but nothing came. She poured the coffee — two mugs, steady hands — and the smell filled the space, warm and familiar. She set one down on the counter nearest him and slid it toward the edge.

He didn’t move to take it.

“You didn’t have to stay,” he said finally.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, wrapping her hands around her own mug. “I wanted to.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. The faint shadow of exhaustion under her eyes. The quiet determination in her stance — the same one that used to drive him insane during missions.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated, just a fraction. Then she shrugged, a small, honest motion.

“Not much,” she admitted. “I kept thinking… maybe if I just stayed close, it’d help.”

He let out a breath that was half laugh, half ache. “You can’t fix this, Felicity.”

“I’m not trying to,” she said. “I’m just… not ready to lose you again.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable — it was fragile. Like glass stretched too thin.

He took the mug, fingers brushing hers. The contact jolted through him.
“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured.

“Probably not,” she said quietly, but her smile softened the words. “But you’re getting it anyway.”

He took a sip. It burned, bitter and grounding.
Her eyes followed him as he set the mug down, then drifted toward the window — dawn spilling gold over the city below.

“I used to love this time of day,” she said, voice distant. “Before the calls started. Before the missions. When the city felt like it was… still ours.”

He followed her gaze. The skyline was blurred in morning haze — the same skyline he’d bled for, killed for, lost himself for.

He didn’t answer right away.

The skyline stayed where it was — distant, hazed, unreal.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t about the city.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I can want that again.”

She turned then, studying his face — not for certainty, but for honesty.
She found it.

“Then start small,” she said.

He frowned, confused.

“Start by having breakfast,” she said, reaching past him for the loaf of bread and the pan she’d already pulled out.

He stared at her — this tiny, stubborn woman who had broken through every wall he’d ever built — and said nothing.

He didn’t know what came next.

Only that he didn’t pull away.