Revelations & Confessions
AN: Hours later and I’m still reeling from that episode. it was so raw and emotional. Truthful. This is my attempt to process that.
(Set somewhere post 5x17)
Oliver sat on the cot in front of her, arms supporting his weight on his knees, head hung low. He knew she was there, he always did. Still, he refused to look up at her, to meet her gaze.
It had been this way for weeks. He’d shut himself off, emotionally, physically, much more that he had ever done before, in the times she’d known him. Then, he would always glance up, make sure that she knew that she mattered to him, in some small way.
Now, he stiller than a statue, frozen in misery.
“Oliver.” Felicity whispered, stepping towards him. Still he refused to move.
Cautiously, she approached him, her heels sounding a knell with each stiletto strike. As though every step was another scar on his skin. She settled on the floor in front of him, kneeling at his feet. This way, she could peer up at him, find his eyes and see what he was thinking.
If she knew what the wound was, she could heal him. It was deep, and unseen, but had broken Oliver to the point that he didn’t spring back by his own power or the encouragement of her or John.
Still, he didn’t move. He gave the illusion that she wasn’t really there, that perhaps she was an illusion of his mind. An echo of his mistakes.
Felicity reached out and grasped his hands, his fingers between her palms. They were cold, dry and brittle, smooth as a stone. Ridges of calluses mapped a pattern of hardship and toil, orators of his heroic acts. The same scars that revealed the instrument of darkness he held tightly to.
The instant her hands made contact with his, he shuddered, pulling away. Quickly, she reclaimed her grip.
“Don’t.” He whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.