The Way We Talk

Home (Talkative #5)

Oliver sighs as he grips the wheel of the car, turning onto the street that he knows to be Felicity's.  He berates himself—not for the first time that night—for agreeing to drive her home after the... incident just a few hours prior.  He equally cursed and was thankful for Diggle's interruption, as he thinks he might have kissed her otherwise.  His life is too dangerous for her, and he will not draw her in any further than he already has.  He keeps telling himself that, but it doesn't seem to be working.

He shouldn't even be driving her home right now, but he's always been one for playing with fire.  He knows better than to get involved with her.  Oliver knows he will eventually hurt her—disappoint her—just as he does everyone.  And he can't bear to hurt Felicity that way.  Not her—never her.  It's the same thing he told himself as he was prepared to die for her tonight.

He glances over at her, the way she leans against the seat of the car, in such a deep, peaceful sleep—sleep that Oliver rarely sees himself, since the island.  She's turned toward him, arm draped over her wound as though to protect it.  He wonders if he'll ever see her hand fall across it and not think of how it's his fault.  He thinks of how absolutely terrified he was when Detective Lance pointed out that wound.  He should have seen it before, but there was so little time to leave.  It made him sick when he realized the red stain on his green leather jacket wasn't spatter, but her blood.  It just was not acceptable, and it never will be.

He pulls into the parking structure of the apartment complex, not at all pleased with what he's seeing.  He doesn't like that it is positioned just on the outer line of the Glades, and he certainly doesn't like the lack of security features.  Anyone could park in the structure at any time—and from there, they could also enter the building.  He doesn't like the idea of leaving her here after such a horrible night, and he slams the breaks a little too hard before putting the car in reverse.

There is no way in his mind that he's leaving her here tonight.

The jerking motion of the car startles Felicity awake, and she looks at him with wide, terrified eyes that makes the guilt of his failure burn even worse.  "Where are we?" she asks, her voice still coated with sleep.  She sits up higher in her seat, and the trust in her expression makes the guilt worse.  He doesn't deserve that level of trust—and he probably never will.

"Your apartment structure," he states flatly, "but we're leaving."  She starts to protest, but he says instead, "It isn't safe here, and I'm not leaving you here."  He's already left her once that night, knowing that his escape from the building had to be more stealthy than hers, should Lance not be the first on the scene.  She was still terrified and dazed, and he left her.  He reconciles himself to this because it was really the only option, but it doesn't make the action acceptable.

Her responding sigh is heavy, and he knows what she's thinking with that one breath:  I am not in the mood to do this with you right now.  "Oliver," she starts sharply, showing more fight than he thought possible in her half-asleep state, "I live here. I've never had a break-in before, and I'll be just as safe as I always am."

He almost buys it—almost.  He knows she's really afraid but trying to put on a brave face (as always).  While he usually admires that quality in her, it's so frustrating when he needs to protect her the way he does now.  It's definitely going to end in a fight between them, but that's not what bothers him about it.  What concerns him is that she never loses a fight that she's prepared to win.

He hesitates before trying again.  "Felicity, this isn't a normal night. "  He doesn't want to broach the subject,  but he also doesn't want her in a place  like this all night.  That is why he says, "You were shot—which is a horrible enough experience—but you also had to... do something tonight that no one should ever have to do."  He remembers for a minute how horrible it had felt that first time he had killed someone on the island—and that had been by accident.  He can only imagine the thoughts swimming though her head as she made the conscious decision to take a life.  Finally, he says the words he's been holding back all night:  "I need to be there for you this time."

He's surprised by how fast the light dawns in her eyes.  "You didn't let me down tonight," Felicity assures him, and Oliver can feel the weight fall off his shoulders immediately.  "You saved me tonight, and I nearly cost you everything.  I'm sorry, Oliver.  I let you down."

Oliver sighs.  Of course she would twist this around to make it her fault, even though he's so obviously the one that screwed things up.  "No," he says sternly—perhaps too much so, judging by the way her head snaps to his, eyes wide.  "No," he tries again, softer this time, "this isn't your fault, Felicity."  He doesn't say it's his, because he knows she'll try and argue with him.  Instead, though, he says, "And I'm not leaving you in a place like this after all that you've been through tonight."

He can see the defeat play across her features a moment before she allows him to win the argument.  "Fine," she says tiredly, leaning her head against the back of the seat again.  "Let's go back to the lair, then."  She pauses, a wicked smile that promises mischief playing across her face.  "But only if you finally bring that bottle of wine you owe me."  Oliver says nothing in response, only offering her a half-smile before turning out of the garage, turning toward the nearest liquor store.

A bottle of wine is a small price to pay for taking her home.