He’s been here for hours, with nothing but the rhythm of fists and feet and the sting of sweat in his eyes and the sound of rushing breath in his ears. He’s been past exhausted and moved into numb, and still he pushes screaming muscles harder, further.
It’s better than the alternative. Than stopping and thinking.
It’s Felicity’s words that finally pull him from this forced ocean of calm. His blows falter, trail off into silence. His head hangs. Breathless, dripping sweat, arms and legs trembling, he almost doesn’t turn.
And then, because it’s worth it -- because he needs to -- he does.
She stops a few steps away. Her head turns, just slightly, but she doesn’t face him. Behind her hair, her expression is half-hidden. Oliver thinks he can imagine it. Somewhere between troubled disappointment and unwilling pity.
That surprises her toward an intake of breath, and she faces him properly. He shakes his head, searching for the words. Palms open, armour down. He shrugs, drops his head only to shake it again.
If he’s expecting to find that imagined disappointment in her face, he doesn’t manage. There’s only something soft, something gentle, something that cares but doesn’t pity. She steps towards him, uncertain.
When he reaches out, she doesn’t shy away from him, though he’s hot and sweat has gathered at the small of his back, the hollow of his throat, the slope of stomach towards hips. She doesn’t shy away from him, though she knows what these hands have done.
Instead, she reaches up to cradle his head, to hold him as he clings to her.
“I won’t go anywhere if you don’t want me to.”
It sits like a promise. He breathes it in, head bent low to press against the juncture of neck and shoulder. “I’ll stay.”
It’s a long silence that’s punctuated by his broken gratitude, dressed in the shame of needing someone so badly.
She only holds him a little tighter.
