Felicity bites her lip to keep herself from making a sound, and the sudden burst of love that sparks in her chest is nothing compared to the look on Oliver’s face as he stares down at his daughter, hanging on her every word. He needs this, needs his daughter’s easy acceptance and love of him more than anything else to get him through today, more than he needs her, even. He needs Ellie telling him how great her life is because of him, he needs her showing him over and over again that she loves him, that he’s a wonderful father, and he needs to believe it.
And for this tiny moment, she thinks he does. Because she does.
Oliver’s arms curl around Ellie, making her seem even smaller as she settles in his embrace like there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be. He breathes out, a long, slow exhale that seems to carry the tension living in his body along with it before he dips his head to press his lips to her hair. He breathes her in, savoring the moment of closeness.
Felicity lets out a tremulous breath herself as Ellie does something for him that nobody else on this planet ever could, something she’s been doing ever since Barry brought her back. Slowly but surely Ellie’s filling in the cracks that have splintered his heart, shattered his sense of self-worth, letting the damage from all those years of brutal trauma fade away. Breakfast is forgotten as something far more sustainable fills him, fills his soul, fills parts of him that were positively famished.
Pairing: Cullen Rutherford / Alistair Theirin Summary: Cullen’s dreamed of Alistair, reality blurred. Trevelyan’s gone investigating, and a warden learns that even the worst nightmares can be conquered [first part of two]. Warnings: Fade sass, Italics, Some sap, Blood. Special thanks to dgcakes for being my official pun master ♥
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 2 ½ || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 4 ½ || Part 5 || Part 6 ||
Green. Grey. Emerald smoke and violent fires, red
and death and decay, vision blurred on foreign shadows. What have you done
for them lately, Alistair? and the question looms over his body, a
dissonance in his head as he lies inert on the ground, and he doesn’t feel the
same dread that’s plagued him before. He doesn’t feel much of anything, truth
be told, save for the pain arcing through his back, sharp, a vague
reminder of what just occurred. Alistair, he thinks he hears, and
there’s a noise in his throat, ripples of broken notes wheezing past his lips,
and he winces and he laughs, a sidelong glance towards his troubles. His
nightmares. Dark, grotesque, colossal, and the sight seeps through his
bones, withers, a mass of despair he no longer fears.
What have you done for them lately, Alistair?
Weeeeeell, and he smiles, weak, drained, burdens
lifted, and he coughs and he winces again, flat on his back. It doesn’t matter
that he can’t feel his legs any longer. It doesn’t matter because the creature
lies defeated next to him, his blade deep into its flank, and with its death
comes a sense of freedom he’s nearly forgotten, a sense of peace, and he
breathes easy, wounded but alive, somewhat, one last triumph—a victory
over his failures.
A victory over his doubts.
His shield’s scattered all around him, pieces of
shattered wood and sharp iron gouging his skin, and he bleeds, a copper
tang on his tongue, cuts and bruises and burns under the ripped fabric of his
armor. He doesn’t move—he can’t, the muscles of his lower body numb, but
he feels his back and he feels the pressure crowding his chest and he thinks,
hazily, that playing hero doesn’t particularly suit him after all. He nearly
died, and for all he knows, perhaps he has. It’s hard to tell, throat set
aflame and vision darkened, and he aches everywhere, dust prickling his
eyes and silence filling his ears, crimson rivulets running down his face.
There’s no lingering buzz here in the back of his skull and it’s odd,
but a dead man probably wouldn’t feel pain, or so he likes to imagine. It bodes well, or perhaps
it doesn't—he doesn’t know the gravity of his wounds, he doesn’t know much of
anything here, and still there’s something clawing at his senses, one
certainty that seems to alleviate the stupor of his agony.
They’re safe. All of them. Trevelyan.
Dorian. Cassandra. Varric. Hawke.