233. {c} [arrow] (oliver/felicity) grains of the golden sand (1/?)
grains of the golden sand ; 3,107 words ;
1, time has passed but it's still the same
approximately 5 years from the end of season 2 ;
he looks at her one day and it's no longer possible to ignore
It’s brilliant, really, the way the sunlight gleams off of her blonde locks.
Oliver briefly thinks that they should get out more if not for any other reason than getting to watch her hair get caught in the wind. Over the years he’s found that he thinks it’s a shame that they don’t see sunlight more, that they don’t get lost in the city or get to take walks on the beach. Felicity has told him that he thinks too much, but he thinks it’s that he’s never told her what he’s thinking about. Mystery is the only thing that he has left anymore.
On the days that they are able to sneak out, their skin soaking up a healthy dose of sunlight rays, the time always moves far too quickly for his liking. He finds himself wishing for more time, wishing that the moments weren’t so few and far between - wishing that she would ask him to take her out again, but she never does. So instead, he’s taken to buying disposable cameras and taking pictures of her. The film goes undeveloped.
He has so many rolls of undeveloped film over the last five years that he’s lost track. He’d love to do nothing more than to take them somewhere, have them printed so he can look through them whenever he’d like, but the circumstances don’t allow for it. He never tells her that the pictures exist. She never asks either. He suspects that she knows.
But this particular adventure has found them to be alone at sunrise. John didn’t come with them, not this time. Oliver had felt inclined to let John sleep and woke Felicity, voice barely above a whisper, slight smile on his face. He’d either selfishly admit or not admit at all that it’s because just once, he wants it to be just the two of them. He’s been thinking about this for a long time, about how to get her alone - how to tell her how he feels.
Her hair catches in the wind, the hem of her skirt following, and he’s disappointed that he doesn’t have a camera this time. He glances at her as the warm water from the ocean rushes over his bare feet, and he’s compelled to reach out and touch her. His hand stutters but he can’t bring himself to actually do it, so the hair he’s planning on tucking behind her ear ends up that way without his help.
“Felicity,” he mutters. Her name catches in his throat but after years of anticipating him and hearing her name on his lips, she seems to understand him clearly. He momentarily wonders when she became more comfortable with him than he is with her.
She smiles encouragingly and wraps her hand around his wrist. This happens from time to time, but not as often as it once did. He’s reminded of the old days when she would touch his arm out of fear for him, like if she didn’t feel for herself that he was real that she would forget, the adrenaline on her fingertips. She used to do it to calm herself. Now she just does it to calm him instead.
He can’t help but notice the way that her nails are without polish and he feels guilty for the way he’s chosen to live his life, for the way that he’s taken her from everything. He feels guilty even though it was her idea to get away. She’d said it like it was their only option as though it was the only resolution that would ever make sense. Oliver often thinks that the part that surprised and continues to surprise him the most is that he believed her.
Much to his surprise, she doesn’t let go of his arm. He notes the way that she’s gotten bolder over the years, how she’s no longer scared of her own feelings for him, and he has seemed to lose part of himself. In retrospect, the only things that keep him whole are Felicity and John, and he is not under any pretenses of belief that is anything but true.
He, unexpected to them both, manages to entwine his fingers with hers. He thinks for a moment how this may look to the people around them, how they may always look to the people around them, with lingering touches when they do touch and him taking pictures of her constantly. This doesn’t scare him as much as it once would have, not when all he has left is someone he cares about more than anything else.
He hasn’t had an arrow in his hand for years, his bow long lost in the life that they all left behind together. Long ago did he abandon the idea that he could ever be a lone wolf. Long ago did he stop believing that he could survive without her. Everything they had was lost in the fire and now they are only raw versions of themselves, stripped down to their very cores as the best versions of themselves outside of masked vigilantes, villainous men and vengeful women, and an initiative that they no longer feel obligated to. He feels free from a shackled life of repaying debts that were never really his debts at all.
In Argentina, John has found a woman who makes him laugh. She’s taught him how to cook, how to speak her language, how to smile and make it touch his eyes. Sometimes when John kisses her, Oliver is jealous because he wants to kiss a woman who isn’t his to kiss.
Felicity looks at him then with pursed lips and the sun in her hair, shades of exotic colors highlighting her frame, and he almost stills in his movement. She isn’t wearing her glasses now, but her eyes are still the windows to her soul. He feels as though he can see her more clearly, like he is no longer an outsider looking in and he’s been invited inside. Oliver’s fingers tighten around hers.
He has so much to say to her, so many things that have built up over the years that he hasn’t been able to form into words, but he doesn’t even know where to start. There’s a sense that he doesn’t actually have to say them. She probably already knows.
Oliver smiles then, like par for the course, like her smile belongs to him, and he longs to tell her that she is his very soul. He doesn’t use words, never really has, just a tug on her arm and a steady hand - looks like he hasn’t lost everything. She isn’t his sparring partner, not like Sara was, she’s more like a dance partner that knows fluidity like no one else.
“Oliver,” she says, “You don’t have to say anything.”
He nods, it’s small. He says anyway, “I love you.”
She blushes then, the light shade of rose gracing her cheeks and making his heart ache to have her closer. She smiles, teeth white and lips cracked. He wishes he could give her more than he does. For a long moment he wonders if she loves him too, or if she’s the only woman he’s ever met who’s smart enough to know better.
“You’re just saying that,” she finally says, quietly, barely audible above the waves.
He says, “Because it’s true.”
Her free hand disappears into the rays of the sun before pressing against his cheek. Her fingers are cold against his skin, surprisingly cold in the Argentinian air. Without thinking, as if the movement is involuntary, he circles her wrist with his hand. They’ve been here many times before, just the roles have been switched.
“What about Laurel?”
Oliver swallows but he doesn’t sweat. He shifts a little, heels of his feet digging into the sand, and his fingers slide down her forearm. His fingers hook around her elbow. She looks baffled, like his eyes are finally the windows to his soul. He supposes Felicity has always been able to peer into his soul because he is simply a reflection of her.
Oliver says, “There isn’t anyone else.” Her eyes slip closed briefly.
He says, “You’re my girl.”
She says, “Oliver,” but he kisses her. She’s like childhood memories, smells like Christmas morning, tastes like the sweetest sin he’s ever known. The waves crash then at his feet, a cold and salty wetness sticking to his skin. Her fingers twitch against his cheek, the cold of water getting to her as well.
He reluctantly pulls away from her. He sees her, all blonde and legs and beauty. He doesn’t want to take her out of the sunlight, out of the kiss of the rays against her skin. He thinks that she’s the kind of woman that songs are written about, wants to tell her so but instead says nothing of the like.
Felicity tries again. She says, “Oliver,” but she doesn’t say what he thinks she’s going to say; she says, “I believe in you. I believe that the light inside of you is real, and all of this - I do it for you.”
Oliver stands dumbfounded at the way she says his name. Always Oliver, never Ollie. Always full of determination and unwavering belief and there is no doubt in his mind that she is his girl. He tightens his hold on her hand. She smiles, shy yet smitten.
“Dance with me,” he says.
Her lips purse before she replies, “But there isn’t any music.”
He smiles; “You’re all I need.”
“I don’t even know how to dance,” she says, blushing.
“It’s easy,” he assures, “I’ll teach you.”
In this moment, Oliver could swear that he has seen her dance before - in a gold dress or a pink dress, flowing around her legs, tightly wrapped around her in a hug that he could never replicate. He could swear that she has been all elegance and beauty on the dance floor, feet barely touching the ground as though her dance partner were Casper himself, but Oliver supposes that is only in his dreams.
And he does - dream. And when he does, he dreams of her. Her arms are wrapped around him, her mouth is hot on his skin, her fingernails are sharp and painted and bruising his flesh. When he dreams, it doesn’t really feel like a dream. It feels like moments like this, like they aren’t entirely make believe and they don’t exist only in realms of unreality.
But, really, what is Oliver thinking? That she and him will begin to share a bed, screwing each other with John just in the next room? Their house, if it could even be called that, isn’t really big enough for two people who have the most difficult time keeping their hands to themselves (not that they particularly do that anyway, but it’s platonic like a comforting friend who one may only toe the line with for an extended period of time - and, Could it really get much more extended than this?) and a rather patient warrior who really doesn’t deserve to have them in his space constantly (not even that he’s there all that often anymore or anything).
By the time his hand settles on her waist and he guides her gently across the sand, he has talked himself out of not trying to kiss her again sometime in the near future. He notes the way that she feels delicate beneath his touch, like her porcelain colored skin could actually break beneath his fingertips, but there is a smile teasing her lips that makes him believe that she feels safe. Oliver has never admitted that all of this, the leaving Sterling City and blending in with locals and hiding out in a small apartment in a small city by the beach where they could get on a boat so they may flee to international waters, is to protect her: his Felicity.
By the way she brought up Laurel’s name he knows that she has never once thought it is about her. He knows that she hasn’t figured it to be for her because he asks her to check on Laurel and Thea from time to time just to make sure they’re still alive. He knows because he’s not the idiot he used to be, because Felicity isn’t an object but an elemental force that drives his being at its very core to continue breathing and surviving. He knows that she doesn’t have a clue that he does this because he saw a blade to her throat years ago and he couldn’t bear to see it happen again.
“You’re really good at this,” she says.
He shakes his head gently. “A man is only as good as his dance partner.”
“You flatter me, Oliver,” she says sheepishly. Then and only then does he realize that he isn’t really moving, that the dance he had just said he would teach her is hardly a dance at all and more of just an excuse to press himself against her. He realizes that she is holding on to him tightly like a wave is going to sweep her away. She says, “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Oliver laughs, only slightly, considers telling her that she’s the most brilliant person that he knows and she can figure anything out in a matter of moments, but before he can say so a dog runs by. Felicity’s eyes follow the animal’s movements with envy or excitement, he isn’t entirely sure, but he can’t help watching her even as she slips from his grasp. The beautiful animal with a white coat, tongue hanging out, and paws wet with sand, jumps on her leaving prints on the material of her white dress.
Felicity moves just out of his reach to face the dog and smiles wider than he’s ever seen her smile before. She then pats on her thighs where the dog had jumped before to get the dog to jump on her again. Felicity proved to him once again that she is not like other women. She cares about animals, about him, more than she cares about the way that she looks. Her pure joy makes him want to get her a dog that they could bring out on bright days.
“Look, Oliver,” she says, like he isn’t already watching her. He reaches out and pets the dog. She laughs when it licks her. He likes the sound. He’s so close to just saying fuck it and stealing this dog. Just then, the dog owner runs up. He’s a dark skinned man with black hair in waves behind his head like some kind of South American model. Her attention turns to the man with a wide smile; Oliver’s bottom lip juts out. “Your dog is beautiful.”
The man doesn’t reply in English, which makes Oliver believe that the man never truly understood her at all. Oliver still thinks that maybe they could make a break for it with the dog and an instant they could become pet owners. And, despite his jealousy, Oliver still smiles at the exchange and how wonderful the woman beside him is. She looks natural, encased by the sun while petting a dog.
She reaches for him, animated as though it is second nature for her, and he takes her hand without hesitation. Just as he does, the Argentinian man smiles wider and waves his goodbye while pulling on the dog collar with his other hand. There’s a bark in the distance as Oliver takes a step back, slowly leading her in the direction of the house.
“I didn’t understand a word he was saying,” Felicity says as she shifts her gaze towards Oliver again, finally taking her eyes away from the animal.
Oliver shrugs and says, “Natives,” like it explains everything. She laughs a little, the slightest hint as to what he had seen before. He swallows. He says, “I want to get you a dog.”
“We can’t have a dog,” she replies.
He pouts. Oliver says, “I know, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting to get you one.”
She laughs suddenly and counters, “Could you imagine the three of us with a dog?” Yes, he thinks in response. He says nothing. She says, “Diggle huffing because the dog won’t stop barking. You upset because it won’t stop peeing on everything.”
“Hey,” he says, glaring in return, “We aren’t that bad.”
She’s more hands on his forearm than words when she says, “I couldn’t pick two better guys to live with.”
It’s only when they step into the front door of the house that she finally lets go of him. He misses her as an accessory on his arm, but she’s preoccupied with guffawing at the mess in the kitchen like a tornado whipped through it. Oliver is certain that John’s mystery woman isn’t really a mystery after all, and it makes total sense as to why he has spent less and less time in their hideout.
“We wanted to make you breakfast,” John greets, jaw tightened like he’s been caught red handed.
Felicity says, “Cooking breakfast for your roommates usually comes with breaking news.”
John doesn’t even have to say it and Oliver already knows that it’s because the time for John to leave them has come. Lyla turns from the stove, bacon popping amidst the gust of air hitting it, and touches John’s arm. Oliver nods knowingly even though nothing has been said. John nods too though, but his nod is different from Oliver’s; John’s nod is one of confirmation.
“Lyla and I feel that it is time to reunite our family,” John says.
Oliver looks at Felicity, attempts to read her reaction. He absently wonders if she is thinking about the same thing as him, if she is thinking that they will have a house all to themselves and how will they ever be able to keep from each other then. However, his thoughts are halted when she looks saddened. She has a forced smile on her face, one that he doesn’t believe even in the slightest, one that John doesn’t believe either, but it’s enough to convince Lyla.
Felicity tucks a stray hair behind her ear. She jumps into action and says, “I’m so happy for you.” She pulls John into a hug. Oliver really can’t bring himself to do anything but look on with tight lips; when Felicity looks back at him, he can see her eyes have glazed over with tears. Her tear-filled gaze speaks volumes about how big she loves, and he realizes then that it has been him standing in the way all along.
1, time has passed but it's still the same
approximately 5 years from the end of season 2 ;
he looks at her one day and it's no longer possible to ignore
It’s brilliant, really, the way the sunlight gleams off of her blonde locks.
Oliver briefly thinks that they should get out more if not for any other reason than getting to watch her hair get caught in the wind. Over the years he’s found that he thinks it’s a shame that they don’t see sunlight more, that they don’t get lost in the city or get to take walks on the beach. Felicity has told him that he thinks too much, but he thinks it’s that he’s never told her what he’s thinking about. Mystery is the only thing that he has left anymore.
On the days that they are able to sneak out, their skin soaking up a healthy dose of sunlight rays, the time always moves far too quickly for his liking. He finds himself wishing for more time, wishing that the moments weren’t so few and far between - wishing that she would ask him to take her out again, but she never does. So instead, he’s taken to buying disposable cameras and taking pictures of her. The film goes undeveloped.
He has so many rolls of undeveloped film over the last five years that he’s lost track. He’d love to do nothing more than to take them somewhere, have them printed so he can look through them whenever he’d like, but the circumstances don’t allow for it. He never tells her that the pictures exist. She never asks either. He suspects that she knows.
But this particular adventure has found them to be alone at sunrise. John didn’t come with them, not this time. Oliver had felt inclined to let John sleep and woke Felicity, voice barely above a whisper, slight smile on his face. He’d either selfishly admit or not admit at all that it’s because just once, he wants it to be just the two of them. He’s been thinking about this for a long time, about how to get her alone - how to tell her how he feels.
Her hair catches in the wind, the hem of her skirt following, and he’s disappointed that he doesn’t have a camera this time. He glances at her as the warm water from the ocean rushes over his bare feet, and he’s compelled to reach out and touch her. His hand stutters but he can’t bring himself to actually do it, so the hair he’s planning on tucking behind her ear ends up that way without his help.
“Felicity,” he mutters. Her name catches in his throat but after years of anticipating him and hearing her name on his lips, she seems to understand him clearly. He momentarily wonders when she became more comfortable with him than he is with her.
She smiles encouragingly and wraps her hand around his wrist. This happens from time to time, but not as often as it once did. He’s reminded of the old days when she would touch his arm out of fear for him, like if she didn’t feel for herself that he was real that she would forget, the adrenaline on her fingertips. She used to do it to calm herself. Now she just does it to calm him instead.
He can’t help but notice the way that her nails are without polish and he feels guilty for the way he’s chosen to live his life, for the way that he’s taken her from everything. He feels guilty even though it was her idea to get away. She’d said it like it was their only option as though it was the only resolution that would ever make sense. Oliver often thinks that the part that surprised and continues to surprise him the most is that he believed her.
Much to his surprise, she doesn’t let go of his arm. He notes the way that she’s gotten bolder over the years, how she’s no longer scared of her own feelings for him, and he has seemed to lose part of himself. In retrospect, the only things that keep him whole are Felicity and John, and he is not under any pretenses of belief that is anything but true.
He, unexpected to them both, manages to entwine his fingers with hers. He thinks for a moment how this may look to the people around them, how they may always look to the people around them, with lingering touches when they do touch and him taking pictures of her constantly. This doesn’t scare him as much as it once would have, not when all he has left is someone he cares about more than anything else.
He hasn’t had an arrow in his hand for years, his bow long lost in the life that they all left behind together. Long ago did he abandon the idea that he could ever be a lone wolf. Long ago did he stop believing that he could survive without her. Everything they had was lost in the fire and now they are only raw versions of themselves, stripped down to their very cores as the best versions of themselves outside of masked vigilantes, villainous men and vengeful women, and an initiative that they no longer feel obligated to. He feels free from a shackled life of repaying debts that were never really his debts at all.
In Argentina, John has found a woman who makes him laugh. She’s taught him how to cook, how to speak her language, how to smile and make it touch his eyes. Sometimes when John kisses her, Oliver is jealous because he wants to kiss a woman who isn’t his to kiss.
Felicity looks at him then with pursed lips and the sun in her hair, shades of exotic colors highlighting her frame, and he almost stills in his movement. She isn’t wearing her glasses now, but her eyes are still the windows to her soul. He feels as though he can see her more clearly, like he is no longer an outsider looking in and he’s been invited inside. Oliver’s fingers tighten around hers.
He has so much to say to her, so many things that have built up over the years that he hasn’t been able to form into words, but he doesn’t even know where to start. There’s a sense that he doesn’t actually have to say them. She probably already knows.
Oliver smiles then, like par for the course, like her smile belongs to him, and he longs to tell her that she is his very soul. He doesn’t use words, never really has, just a tug on her arm and a steady hand - looks like he hasn’t lost everything. She isn’t his sparring partner, not like Sara was, she’s more like a dance partner that knows fluidity like no one else.
“Oliver,” she says, “You don’t have to say anything.”
He nods, it’s small. He says anyway, “I love you.”
She blushes then, the light shade of rose gracing her cheeks and making his heart ache to have her closer. She smiles, teeth white and lips cracked. He wishes he could give her more than he does. For a long moment he wonders if she loves him too, or if she’s the only woman he’s ever met who’s smart enough to know better.
“You’re just saying that,” she finally says, quietly, barely audible above the waves.
He says, “Because it’s true.”
Her free hand disappears into the rays of the sun before pressing against his cheek. Her fingers are cold against his skin, surprisingly cold in the Argentinian air. Without thinking, as if the movement is involuntary, he circles her wrist with his hand. They’ve been here many times before, just the roles have been switched.
“What about Laurel?”
Oliver swallows but he doesn’t sweat. He shifts a little, heels of his feet digging into the sand, and his fingers slide down her forearm. His fingers hook around her elbow. She looks baffled, like his eyes are finally the windows to his soul. He supposes Felicity has always been able to peer into his soul because he is simply a reflection of her.
Oliver says, “There isn’t anyone else.” Her eyes slip closed briefly.
He says, “You’re my girl.”
She says, “Oliver,” but he kisses her. She’s like childhood memories, smells like Christmas morning, tastes like the sweetest sin he’s ever known. The waves crash then at his feet, a cold and salty wetness sticking to his skin. Her fingers twitch against his cheek, the cold of water getting to her as well.
He reluctantly pulls away from her. He sees her, all blonde and legs and beauty. He doesn’t want to take her out of the sunlight, out of the kiss of the rays against her skin. He thinks that she’s the kind of woman that songs are written about, wants to tell her so but instead says nothing of the like.
Felicity tries again. She says, “Oliver,” but she doesn’t say what he thinks she’s going to say; she says, “I believe in you. I believe that the light inside of you is real, and all of this - I do it for you.”
Oliver stands dumbfounded at the way she says his name. Always Oliver, never Ollie. Always full of determination and unwavering belief and there is no doubt in his mind that she is his girl. He tightens his hold on her hand. She smiles, shy yet smitten.
“Dance with me,” he says.
Her lips purse before she replies, “But there isn’t any music.”
He smiles; “You’re all I need.”
“I don’t even know how to dance,” she says, blushing.
“It’s easy,” he assures, “I’ll teach you.”
In this moment, Oliver could swear that he has seen her dance before - in a gold dress or a pink dress, flowing around her legs, tightly wrapped around her in a hug that he could never replicate. He could swear that she has been all elegance and beauty on the dance floor, feet barely touching the ground as though her dance partner were Casper himself, but Oliver supposes that is only in his dreams.
And he does - dream. And when he does, he dreams of her. Her arms are wrapped around him, her mouth is hot on his skin, her fingernails are sharp and painted and bruising his flesh. When he dreams, it doesn’t really feel like a dream. It feels like moments like this, like they aren’t entirely make believe and they don’t exist only in realms of unreality.
But, really, what is Oliver thinking? That she and him will begin to share a bed, screwing each other with John just in the next room? Their house, if it could even be called that, isn’t really big enough for two people who have the most difficult time keeping their hands to themselves (not that they particularly do that anyway, but it’s platonic like a comforting friend who one may only toe the line with for an extended period of time - and, Could it really get much more extended than this?) and a rather patient warrior who really doesn’t deserve to have them in his space constantly (not even that he’s there all that often anymore or anything).
By the time his hand settles on her waist and he guides her gently across the sand, he has talked himself out of not trying to kiss her again sometime in the near future. He notes the way that she feels delicate beneath his touch, like her porcelain colored skin could actually break beneath his fingertips, but there is a smile teasing her lips that makes him believe that she feels safe. Oliver has never admitted that all of this, the leaving Sterling City and blending in with locals and hiding out in a small apartment in a small city by the beach where they could get on a boat so they may flee to international waters, is to protect her: his Felicity.
By the way she brought up Laurel’s name he knows that she has never once thought it is about her. He knows that she hasn’t figured it to be for her because he asks her to check on Laurel and Thea from time to time just to make sure they’re still alive. He knows because he’s not the idiot he used to be, because Felicity isn’t an object but an elemental force that drives his being at its very core to continue breathing and surviving. He knows that she doesn’t have a clue that he does this because he saw a blade to her throat years ago and he couldn’t bear to see it happen again.
“You’re really good at this,” she says.
He shakes his head gently. “A man is only as good as his dance partner.”
“You flatter me, Oliver,” she says sheepishly. Then and only then does he realize that he isn’t really moving, that the dance he had just said he would teach her is hardly a dance at all and more of just an excuse to press himself against her. He realizes that she is holding on to him tightly like a wave is going to sweep her away. She says, “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Oliver laughs, only slightly, considers telling her that she’s the most brilliant person that he knows and she can figure anything out in a matter of moments, but before he can say so a dog runs by. Felicity’s eyes follow the animal’s movements with envy or excitement, he isn’t entirely sure, but he can’t help watching her even as she slips from his grasp. The beautiful animal with a white coat, tongue hanging out, and paws wet with sand, jumps on her leaving prints on the material of her white dress.
Felicity moves just out of his reach to face the dog and smiles wider than he’s ever seen her smile before. She then pats on her thighs where the dog had jumped before to get the dog to jump on her again. Felicity proved to him once again that she is not like other women. She cares about animals, about him, more than she cares about the way that she looks. Her pure joy makes him want to get her a dog that they could bring out on bright days.
“Look, Oliver,” she says, like he isn’t already watching her. He reaches out and pets the dog. She laughs when it licks her. He likes the sound. He’s so close to just saying fuck it and stealing this dog. Just then, the dog owner runs up. He’s a dark skinned man with black hair in waves behind his head like some kind of South American model. Her attention turns to the man with a wide smile; Oliver’s bottom lip juts out. “Your dog is beautiful.”
The man doesn’t reply in English, which makes Oliver believe that the man never truly understood her at all. Oliver still thinks that maybe they could make a break for it with the dog and an instant they could become pet owners. And, despite his jealousy, Oliver still smiles at the exchange and how wonderful the woman beside him is. She looks natural, encased by the sun while petting a dog.
She reaches for him, animated as though it is second nature for her, and he takes her hand without hesitation. Just as he does, the Argentinian man smiles wider and waves his goodbye while pulling on the dog collar with his other hand. There’s a bark in the distance as Oliver takes a step back, slowly leading her in the direction of the house.
“I didn’t understand a word he was saying,” Felicity says as she shifts her gaze towards Oliver again, finally taking her eyes away from the animal.
Oliver shrugs and says, “Natives,” like it explains everything. She laughs a little, the slightest hint as to what he had seen before. He swallows. He says, “I want to get you a dog.”
“We can’t have a dog,” she replies.
He pouts. Oliver says, “I know, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting to get you one.”
She laughs suddenly and counters, “Could you imagine the three of us with a dog?” Yes, he thinks in response. He says nothing. She says, “Diggle huffing because the dog won’t stop barking. You upset because it won’t stop peeing on everything.”
“Hey,” he says, glaring in return, “We aren’t that bad.”
She’s more hands on his forearm than words when she says, “I couldn’t pick two better guys to live with.”
It’s only when they step into the front door of the house that she finally lets go of him. He misses her as an accessory on his arm, but she’s preoccupied with guffawing at the mess in the kitchen like a tornado whipped through it. Oliver is certain that John’s mystery woman isn’t really a mystery after all, and it makes total sense as to why he has spent less and less time in their hideout.
“We wanted to make you breakfast,” John greets, jaw tightened like he’s been caught red handed.
Felicity says, “Cooking breakfast for your roommates usually comes with breaking news.”
John doesn’t even have to say it and Oliver already knows that it’s because the time for John to leave them has come. Lyla turns from the stove, bacon popping amidst the gust of air hitting it, and touches John’s arm. Oliver nods knowingly even though nothing has been said. John nods too though, but his nod is different from Oliver’s; John’s nod is one of confirmation.
“Lyla and I feel that it is time to reunite our family,” John says.
Oliver looks at Felicity, attempts to read her reaction. He absently wonders if she is thinking about the same thing as him, if she is thinking that they will have a house all to themselves and how will they ever be able to keep from each other then. However, his thoughts are halted when she looks saddened. She has a forced smile on her face, one that he doesn’t believe even in the slightest, one that John doesn’t believe either, but it’s enough to convince Lyla.
Felicity tucks a stray hair behind her ear. She jumps into action and says, “I’m so happy for you.” She pulls John into a hug. Oliver really can’t bring himself to do anything but look on with tight lips; when Felicity looks back at him, he can see her eyes have glazed over with tears. Her tear-filled gaze speaks volumes about how big she loves, and he realizes then that it has been him standing in the way all along.