The Way We Talk

Comfort (Talkative #4)

Felicity is generally the kind of girl that stays in a permanent good mood.  Don't get her wrong, she can be irritated or frustrated, but that usually doesn't put her out of sorts.  She's tightly wound, yes, but it takes a lot to upset her—and usually from people she despises.  And, bearing that in mind, it means something now that Oliver is the source of her irritation.

"Put me down!" she demands.  She doesn't like that he's babying her, and she certainly doesn't need him to carry her, draped in his arms.  Not that she wouldn't mind under other circumstances...  She shakes her head.  No, those thoughts won't do—now or ever.  She pushes those thoughts to the back of her head, in that once-empty space where all the things she should not think about are stored.  It was empty once, but now she's running out of room back there.  "I was shot in the torso, not the leg.  I can walk."

He ignores her until he lowers her onto the metal gurney in the lair, behind her computer desks.  She's helped patch various members of the team on it, but she's never been the one to sit there.  It feels a little weird, honestly, especially with a very hooded-up Oliver still standing in front of her.  Without thinking, she reaches up and pulls the hood down, so she can at least see his eyes, to reveal a very intense, murderous look on his face.  His jaw is set so tightly that she can see the vein pulsing in his neck.

He raises an eyebrow in question, and then she realizes what a scene they must paint, her arms around his neck, his still on her waist.  Felicity scrambles back, blushing.  "Sorry," she says quietly.  "I wanted to see your face."  She puts her hand over the wound at her side, blood trickling out at steady—but mercifully slow—rate.  "This isn't your fault, you know."

She expects him to argue with her, but what he does is worse:  he simply stays quiet, not voicing his thoughts so she can't ease the guilt eating away at him.  Before she can try again, he turns away, gathering the tools he's going to need to patch her up, placing each one on the metal gurney next to her without much thought.  Absently, he reaches for her, pulling her now crimson blouse out of her black trousers.

Suddenly shy, Felicity slaps his hands away, and he seems to realize that maybe that wasn't the best course of action.  "Don't you know to ask before taking a girl's shirt off?" she asks him innocently, pulling her blouse loose and unbuttoning it, but then realizes with horror what she said.  "Why does my brain do this to me?" she moans.  She knows what will happen next:  they'll pretend that little question never happened, and he'll be awkward around her for the rest of the night.  Any chance at conversation they might have had is now gone, and she has only her runaway mouth to blame.

So, naturally, she's surprised when he replies, "I've never had any complaints before."  His tone is almost—is he teasing her?  She looks up at him instantly, but he's looking down at the wound at her torso, so his motives are a mystery.  She can't regain coherent thought in enough time to respond, so he continues, "You got lucky—this just missed your ribcage.  It's a clean through-and-through, so I'll patch it and you'll be fine."  It looks as though the weight of the world has lifted from his shoulders.

She can't respond because his fingers brush her waist, and she wants to tell him he's wrong because she can't breathe. Then she realizes—foolishly—that it's because of his hand on her bare skin.  She finally forces herself to suck in a breath when he releases her, and she fidgets on the table.  His close proximity is not doing a thing for her self-control.

It's worse when he turns back to her, though, because he chooses to stand between her knees, closer to her than he's ever allowed himself to be.  She can only think that he smells amazingly good before she shuts her brain down completely, focusing on the green leather fabric at his shoulder.  It feels like an eternity before he finally looks at her, his eyes too intense for such a clinical moment.

"You're all stitched up," he assures her quietly, still with that haunted look in his eyes.  Felicity doesn't understand that intensity and—wow, who turned up the heat in the lair?  It's suddenly stifling, and either the tension in the air or the heat is going to kill her if both aren't remedied soon. 

She finally manages to answer in a hoarse whisper, "Thank you."  By then, though, he's pulled her shirt together, slowly fastening the line of buttons as though he does it every day.  She thinks she imagines his eyes lingering in places that they really shouldn't be studying—well, not if they're just friends, that is.

He finishes after a very long moment, but she grabs his hand before he can try to turn away and pretend this moment never happened.  "Hey," she says firmly, causing his eyes to snap to hers.  "It's not your fault."

He takes her hand in his, clasping it just as tightly.  "Yes, it is," he replies in a similar tone.  "It was reckless of me to put you in a situation where you're an easy target."  She opens her mouth to protest, but he stops her by squeezing her hand. "You were the only one in that room without any training, and we got lucky."  Something dark enters into his eyes, and she already knows what he's going to talk about next.  "And you are never allowed to kill for me again."  The tone of his voice brooks no argument, but there's a world of raw pain and anger underneath.

"I'd do it again," she says after a long moment of silence, causing him to look at her.  "He had you at gunpoint.  He was going to hurt you.  As a friend once said to me, there was no choice to make."  She doesn't like the determined set of his mouth, fixed into a grim line, so she continues, "You're my friend, Oliver, and, while you have the tendency to drive me absolutely insane sometimes, I do care about you. And I had an opportunity, so I took it, and I don't regret saving your life."

Something in his expression sparks, his eyes darkening in a way that Felicity thinks has nothing to do with anger.  He reaches up, puts a hand to her cheek, and she can't stop herself from closing her eyes a moment.  When they flicker open again, Oliver is standing way too close for propriety, and his expression is torn—as if he's trying to talk himself into doing something and out of it at the same time.

She thinks, the breath rushing out of her as she does so, that he might be about to kiss her.

But the moment ends abruptly as the door to the lair rushes open, and suddenly there's several feet between them that weren't there before.  "I got the report from Lance," he says, not realizing the moment he walked in on, "and he says that the information should be enough to convict Rowland and put him away for—"

He stops abruptly as he sees the other two members of the team trying very hard not to look at one another.  Oliver's poker face is beyond reproach, but Felicity can still feel her erratic heartbeat pounding in her ears and the heat on her face that indicates she's blushing.  Diggle watches them both for a long moment—though Oliver urges him with his expression to continue—before finally that knowing smile that Felicity hates crosses his features.

Without another word, he shakes his head and turns away, walking back the way he came.