Arrow Fic: The Hand You’re Dealt
[A canon divergence fic for 4x03--because I needed some hurt/comfort and I’m a monster who hurts my babies to get it--also I threw canon to the wind at the end in all sorts of ways, but oh well, this is just a bit of randomness to get more protective!Oliver. :)]
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In the cold, harsh echo of silence that follows, Felicity’s hands tremble and ache around the hot metal of the gun in her arms, the bones of her shoulder numb from bracing against the aftershocks.
But that is not the epicenter of the pain that makes her breath rattle and gasp in her throat.
The meta is gone as quickly as he arrived. Dust rises from the concrete walls riddled with bullet holes, steam billowing from a burst pipe, shattered glass from fallen lamps and cracked monitors strewn across the floor. Curtis’s limp body rests beside her feet.
Shakily, Felicity sets the gun down on the silver table in front of her, an unbidden wave of tears blurring her sight as she moves her arms and uncurls her tense fingers from the trigger, as she tries to stay upright on her spiked heels, as she takes slow, shuddering breaths…
As she looks down at the playing card lodged in her side.
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Oliver pauses on the top step, discussions of Digg’s research into HIVE freezing on his lips as his stomach lurches and his heart begins to race.
The room is destroyed, left in broken pieces by a whirlwind of violence, pockmarks of gunfire freckling the walls—and playing cards jutting from flat surfaces like throwing stars. Digg tenses at his side, surveying the damage with wide eyes.
“Felicity!” Oliver calls out, the leather of his gloves straining and cracking as he clenches his fists, boots hurtling over the last few steps. “Felicity!”
“Over here,” her voice rises from across the room…
But it’s the faint tremor of her words that has his jaw clenching, his rapid steps crunching over shards of glass, his heart raging against the bounds of his rib cage.
She’s lying on the concrete floor, one arm outstretched towards the man lying beside her—whom Oliver doesn’t recognize, from the cloud of dark hair and tall frame, but he spares him no attention other than to confirm it isn’t that card-wielding freak (and that the man isn’t dead, just knocked out).
Because her other hand hovers over her side, quivering fingers slick with dark red blood, the playing card sticking out of her abdomen like a cruel joke.
Oliver falls to his knees at her side, as she tries to smile up at him, but he can see the trail of make-up and tears across her temples and sliding into her hair. His own breathing has suddenly become strained as he expels a breath of denial, eyes darting back and forth between her pain-clouded eyes and the growing puddle of blood darkening her already red dress to a deep maroon.
He almost doesn’t realize Digg had been behind him the whole way, until the man crouches down on the other side, assessing the wound with a sharp, focused gaze.
“I—I didn’t want to take it out,” Felicity says, as Digg tears gently at her dress to get a better look. All Oliver can see is the black gush of fresh blood over her skin, and he feels sick.
“John, talk to me,” Oliver nearly growls. A desperate, clawing energy pulses beneath his skin, until he wants to throw things and break bones beneath his fists. But he focuses on tearing off his gloves and stroking his hand across Felicity’s forehead, ignoring the cool sweat against her hairline to comb the loose wisps of her hair back into place. His other hand clutches her tiny palm within his own, his thumb brushing back and forth over her knuckles.
“Doesn’t look too deep,” Digg says, and his voice sounds steady, giving Oliver a tether back to sanity. Digg’s mouth even twists in half a smile as he looks down at Felicity and adds, “I told you all those crunches would be good for something.”
“Lately all my exercise has been sex,” Felicity blurts out.
Digg just shakes his head and rises to get the med kit across the room.
“It’s okay,” Felicity says softly, now looking at Oliver, and she lifts her free hand as though to stroke his cheek—before realizing it’s streaked with blood, and letting it fall back to her side. With a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, she says, “This isn’t the first time I’ve had a queen inside me.”
The card shuddering with every breath she takes is a queen, painted face splattered with blood.
Oliver squeezes his eyes shut, hand twisting into the tangled strands of her ponytail, hunching forward to resist the urge to haul her into his arms. He can’t lose her, not now, not ever.
Not when she is everything.
“Keep talking about sex and I’m outta here,” Digg says as he kneels back down beside her. Though they all know he won’t leave her side until she is whole again.
“Do you, um, maybe have one of those aspirins?” Felicity asks quietly, as her chest expands in a tiny stifled breath, and the movement raises a fresh trickle of blood around the card’s edges. The joking tone in her voice has faltered and cracked, and Oliver can see in the flicker of a frown across Digg’s face that he misses it, no matter what he says.
Oliver drags the backs of his fingers down her cheek, helplessly trying to comfort her, as Digg says, “Sure thing, Felicity.”
“I know it’s not an aspirin,” she says after swallowing one, Oliver holding up her head for the gulp of water with the white pill. “I mean, I was so loopy last time, I’m pretty sure I ordered ten anchovy pizzas and I hate anchovies—and I slept it off for longer than I usually sleep in an entire week.” Her shoulders jerk with a small shrug, followed by a wince. “I guess I’m just not as strong as you guys.”
“Hey, hey,” Oliver says softly, cupping her jaw in his palm. She nestles into it with a little sound that makes his heart stutter. “You are the strongest person I know.”
“Well, that’s a lie,” she says, and her eyelids have begun to flutter closed, the start of a chemical peace edging away her pain. “You knew Mirakuru soldiers and everything.”
“None of them could put me in my place like you do,” he murmurs.
“That’s not being strong, that’s just being right,” she says, foggily.
He lifts her hand to kiss her fingers, as she twitches one finger in his grasp to stoke across the stubble on his chin.
“Okay, Felicity, this is going to hurt,” Digg says, sharing a quick look with Oliver as his hand takes hold of the corner of the card, his other holding gauze at the ready.
Oliver cradles her face in his hand, thumb skimming over her cheekbone, trying to keep her from looking down at Digg’s hands and the blood soaking the torn fabric of her dress. She just stares back up at him, blue eyes fixed on his own through her glasses, hazy with pain and drugs but somehow locked into his very soul.
When Digg yanks the card from her skin, instantly replacing it with the gauze pressing hard over her ribs, Felicity shifts restlessly with a cry—that Oliver swallows against his lips. He wants to inhale her pain from her just as easily, but as he gently pulls her bottom lip between his own, her body settles into the stillness of his grasp and she makes a soft noise of distracted surrender. Aware that Digg is right there, preparing the few small stitches she’ll need, Oliver keeps the kiss light and shallow, just enough to keep her mind from the thread piercing her flesh.
Then Digg clears his throat, the bandage laid and taped across her stomach, most of the blood wiped off of her bare skin. Oliver pulls back, sees Felicity blinking through the confusion of drugs and the flush on her cheeks, feels her small painted nails dig into the hand she’s still holding as though it’s anchoring her to consciousness.
He didn’t even realize the man behind him had woken up, lifting his head from the ground to squint through his glasses at them, a trickle of blood slithering down the side of his face. When he sees Oliver looking at the wound on his head, he holds up his hand as if warding him off.
“I think I’ll just go to the hospital, thanks,” the man says, looking between Oliver and Felicity—and then blinking as though reconsidering. “Although, if this is some kind of head trauma hallucination, my husband probably wouldn’t mind…”
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Felicity’s head lolls against Oliver’s solid shoulder, nuzzling into the sleeve of his soft green sweater. Her glasses are in a case in his back pocket, so when she squints open her eyes, everything beyond the stubbled jaw a few inches in front of her is a blur. But she can make out the colors and shapes of the loft as Oliver carries her through the door in his arms.
She shifts a little in waking, and hears Oliver murmur a gentle command to stay still, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath her. Her body is swamped in one of his sweatshirts left at the lair, and a pair of sweatpants rolled up to billow around her ankles. Beneath the swaddle of fabric, she can feel the pinch of the bandages wrapped taut around her ribs.
He settles her gently into the deep cushions of the couch, careful to lower her upper body slowly onto the throw pillows. As his hands move up to tug her ponytail holder out of her hair, she grumbles his name through the haze of muffled pain.
“Just rest,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“But the meta… the Magnetite,” she mutters. Maybe if she can explain, then they can search…
“Fe-li-ci-ty.” He stretches out the name like a deep breath, in the way she loves even when it’s filled with exasperation. “Sleep. We will find him.”
The last words come out a growl.
“I shot him,” she says with a sigh as she closes her eyes. She hears the pride in her own voice.
“I know,” Oliver says tightly. “Now it’s my turn.”
His fingers comb tenderly through her hair, his callused thumb scraping across her cheek, his breath heated against her skin as he presses his nose against her forehead and breathes her in. Felicity wants to reach out and grab hold of him, but her limbs are heavy and her eyes refuse to open. Sleep waits for her with a grasp almost as firm as his.
So she falls into it, safe in her vigilante’s hands.
And this time, the silence is soft and warm.
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