Title: One for the Team
Universe: Monsters in the Mirror
Word Count: 7351

Notes: This is another tear-your-heart-out-and-stomp-on-it thing. Just so you're aware. I haven't cried this hard while writing since I did "Hardware Restoration and Rebuilding." Everyone just sort of broke my heart, and it sucked.

Challenge mode: Read the fic for the first time while listening to "Don't speak her name!" by Rei Kondoh (from the Fire Emblem: Awakening soundtrack) on repeat. If you don't cry, you win.

So, I typically write fic ideas as they come to me. It's way ahead of the curve, set in Season 2, but I think it's okay to give you a preview of what torment awaits you once we actually get there. ;)

I'd love to hear from you, lovelies, but if you read any of this at all, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. :)

Time seems to slow down. She watches as Helena squeezes the trigger, but Laurel can't manage to get her feet to move, to get out of the way of the bullet. Instead she closes her eyes, waiting for the impact to strike home. A shot fires, followed quickly by a second and a third, but they never hit. When she's brave enough to open her eyes, she can't help but let out a quiet gasp.

Deathstroke.

All the times Laurel has worked with her, she's never seen the Vengeance of Starling fall, but tonight she crumples almost immediately, limbs tangling in a heap. All she can do for a moment is stare, but then Helena drops, too, and draws her attention, to reveal Sara standing behind her with the bo staff. For a moment, she must not notice her fallen friend either, but then after sharing a look with Laurel, she stares at the body of her fallen friend. "Shit," she decides, in a nice summation of the situation.

Sara makes a run for the crumpled woman, her hands working to find exposed skin. "No need to check for a pulse," Deathstroke tells her, causing both sisters to exhale in relief. "I'm alive." Then she makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "Probably not for long, though. The Arrow knows what to do—we've talked about it." When she tries to get up, she falls. Laurel doesn't think that makes for a good prognosis. "Remind him that he made a promise to me."

Something seems to harden on Sara's face, and then she turns to her sister. "Laurel, I need you to help me carry her—the task force is going to be on us soon." Then she presses on the comm in her ear before turning back to Laurel, motioning for her to lift her by the legs. "Digg, I'm in southeast of the courthouse and I need an extraction now. Deathstroke is down—she took three to the chest. Laurel is with me—I need her to help me carry her." There's a short pause. "I think my arm is broken, but I'm fine." The two of them shuffle awkwardly with her weight for a while, but then Sara sighs at something in her earpiece. "You can't come back in here—the task force is hot on our heels. You just be at the van."

Something drops down in the alleyway next to them, and Laurel bites back a scream before she realizes who it is. Sara, however, is less impressed; she just rolls her eyes. "I'm already here," the Arrow answers tersely, "and I can carry her back faster than the two of you." Instead of arguing, he cradles her body against his chest with a tenderness that makes the first flashes of guilt come to Laurel. If she hadn't insisted on being there, Deathstroke would be fine. "Hey, how are you?" he asks the vigilante in his arms.

"The phrase 'death warmed over' comes to mind," she answers, her voice weaker than before as he cradles her close. "I know you probably already know this, but just so we're clear, I want you to know that I—"

"Tell me after I get you patched up," he answers sharply. She laughs at that, the sound ironic. Even Laurel, as limited as her medical knowledge is, knows how slim those odds are. But before Deathstroke can speak, the Arrow cradles her further into his arms, squeezing her leg to get her attention. "I know how bad it is, but I need you to get angry for me—just one more time. Because I need you to fight. If not for you, do it for Roy." In a very quiet, broken voice, he adds, "Do it for me."

Deathstroke only laughs in response. "Of course," she answers, as though he's asked her to do something as mundane as have lunch with him. "You have a habit of asking for the impossible, though. It's a good thing you're so unfairly gorgeous or I might say no every now and again." Her words fade off as her head lulls against his shoulder.

The Arrow chuckles despite the frown on his face before turning to Laurel. "Thank you for your help. You should get back before they realize you're gone."

He starts to sprint off, but she doesn't let him, catching his arm. It's a stupid move, but she isn't going to let this happen. "No," she declares. "Helena shot at me, not her. She took those bullets for me. If I can help in any way, I want to."

The look the Arrow throws her is tired, as though the shooting alone has aged him. "Fine," he snaps in exasperation. "Keep up." Then into his earpiece, he adds, "Laurel's coming with us." There's a slight pause as he picks up in a run. "I don't like it either," he growls at the response he receives from the comm, "but every minute I spend arguing is one more away from saving her." The brunette thinks she hears his voice break somewhere in that, and she swallows hard. It must be worse than she thought.

The line either goes silent or he refuses to answer because no one speaks again until they reach the black van waiting for them. The Arrow immediately goes to a cabinet against the wall, pulling out a towel and throwing it over Deathstroke's wounds. When he drapes her across the floor, she stays limp, and Laurel realizes slowly that she's unconscious. "Press down hard," the Arrow instructs her, and she does as he asks, watching as Sara closes the doors. All of them tilt slightly as the van takes off, but no one else seems to even notice.

Instead, Sara comes to her side with more towels, inspecting the blonde's shoulder wound before applying pressure to it and the third bullet hole in the middle of her chest. "Oh, that doesn't look good," she admits in a quiet voice. Then she clears her throat, addressing the Arrow. "She said to remind you that you made her a promise—whatever that means."

The sigh that answers makes Laurel think that the Arrow knows precisely what she meant. "I wish she hadn't," he snaps, pulling over a very large first aid kit. "She needs an ICU, not whatever triage medicine we can pull out in the next five minutes." Despite that, he still keeps trying, pulling a bullet out of her and throwing it into some sort of container, his gloves absent now. Then he calls to the driver, "Digg, I need you to run downstairs and clear the gurney when we get there. We're going to need monitors and the defibrillator." His hand goes to Deathstroke's wrist. "And all the atropine we've got. Her heart is slowing down."

The answer that comes from the front seat is slow and careful. "Man, I don't think I need to tell you—"

"No, you don't," the Arrow agrees, lashing out in such a dark tone that it makes Laurel flinch. "I know what we're facing here, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. She might have accepted it, but I haven't." The brunette notices that when he pulls away this time, his hands are shaking. "Sara, watch her. I need to call Roy."

He unzips his jacket then, moving forward into the front passenger seat for what privacy he can manage, and Laurel stares after him. She can't help but notice that he's holding it together surprisingly well; while he might not be pleasant to work with right now, she knows that if it had been Tommy, she'd be a sobbing mess.

Something in her expression must give rise to her thoughts because Sara notes quietly, "I don't ever think I've seen him this scared before." Then she shakes her head, looking down at Deathstroke as though she's talking to her. "You've always been good at fighting—more than the rest of us. So you better fight, gorgeous. I'm not done with you just yet—and neither is he."

Before Laurel can ask, the van peels to a halt in an unfamiliar alleyway. The driver makes a run for the building, and the Arrow gathers up Deathstroke's unconscious body in his arms. Before Sara can ask, he explains to her tersely, "Roy is on his way. He knows what to expect." Then he says to Laurel, "Tommy is waiting downstairs—I thought you might need someone to stay with you."

She starts to ask how Tommy and he know each other, but then she decides this isn't the time. Instead, she follows them into the basement. Sure enough, Tommy is there, and he gathers her into his arms immediately. "You okay?" he asks her, and all Laurel can do is nod. Okay is a relative term at this point; while it might have been a traumatic night, in comparison to Deathstroke, she's doing quite well.

"Better than them," she admits finally, nodding toward Deathstroke and the Arrow.

Somewhere behind him, he can hear Tommy mutter, "Jesus," and Oliver doesn't really disagree with that assessment. Everyone seems determined to tell him she's already dead, but as long as the woman in his arms is still alive, he's going to fight to keep her breathing. Felicity isn't just a friend or a confidant or a partner—she's one of the more important people in his universe. If she dies tonight, what little of him is still alive after the island is going to die, too.

As much as every fiber of his being is begging to fall apart, he can't allow that. Not now, not when she needs him. Instead, he pushes it all back from his mind and focuses on what he needs to do for her, unbuckling his quiver as soon as his feet leave the stairs. It crashes to the ground, arrows falling everywhere, but he doesn't give a damn about them. Right now, he's focused only on Felicity, placing her on the gurney as Diggle pulls their makeshift crash cart over.

His next thought is for the monitor, reaching for the electrodes. "Digg, you give her the atropine and get started—I'll hook her to the monitor." Oliver knows his orders are coming out sharp and hateful, but he doesn't have anything else in him. The only way to keep going is to keep himself fighting—if not with actions, then with words. "Sara, I need you to hold pressure for now," he commands as he unbuckles Felicity's swords with shaking hands. He slides them away, placing them on the shelf under the gurney.

Then he moves to the zipper of her jacket, pulling it down to place electrodes on her chest. The third on her abdomen forces him to expose that tattoo of the phoenix, and he can't help but think of how perfectly that describes her: Felicity is an expert of rising from the ashes. She's going to again—at least one more time. Oliver is going to make damn sure of that.

Almost prepared to find the worst, he pulls the mask from her face. Fortunately, though, he doesn't see any lines of blood around her mouth, meaning her lungs are at least intact. It might not be the best news under the circumstances, but it reminds him that it could be worse. Still, it looks wrong to see her eyes closed and that usually talkative mouth silent and unsmiling.

Next he motions to Sara. "Hold pressure on the left," he barks. "I'm going to pull her right side out of the jacket first." The moment he pulls the jacket back, Sara covers the wound in her shoulder with the towel again, allowing Oliver to manipulate her arm out of it. They switch sides and do it all over again, and Oliver is pleased to find that Diggle is already starting to work on the worst of the wounds.

"What do you need me to do now?" Sara asks him, being more generous than he deserves under the circumstances. Her arm is hanging limp at her side, but apparently she's electing not to care about that at the moment. It really shouldn't surprise him; the younger Lance sister is an expert at putting herself last, and she's almost as fond of Felicity as he is.

He touches her good shoulder as he slides past her, turning the monitor on as he passes it. Oliver takes time to note that it's holding steady and in range, which means the atropine is doing its job. "Hold on just a minute longer," he tells her. "I need to get out of this gear if I'm going to do anything." The hood is a hindrance, blocking his light. Though it means revealing his identity to Laurel, he knows that she'll keep quiet, if only for her sister's sake.

Without a second thought, he yanks the hood down, ripping off the mask and tossing it across the room, not caring where it lands. The jacket follows by dropping to the ground at his feet, leaving him in a black t-shirt. Somewhere in the back, he hears Laurel's gasp of acknowledgment, but he has other things to focus on.

Placing his hand on Sara's, Oliver orders her, "I've got it from here. Go get a sling from the box and rest that arm." He nods to her. "You can say you were in a motorcycle accident and get x-rays tomorrow." He doesn't like the knowing pity that she answers with, but she squeezes his arm anyway. Instead of focusing on that, he turns his attention to Diggle. "What does it look like?"

The other man levels a look at him, the kind that make Oliver feel like he's seeing into his soul. "This one nicked an artery," he answers finally. "She's bleeding pretty bad, but I've tied off the artery and it's probably going to be fine. The one in the other shoulder is a through-and-through—no permanent damage." He uses his hemostat to point toward the one Oliver is holding pressure on, in the middle of her chest. "That one is going to be trouble. It must have hit her while she was moving because it missed her heart—barely. If she was standing still, there wouldn't have been any question about it. Looks like it didn't penetrate too deep because her vitals are good considering, but it could be tricky to pull out. And if it hit any of the major vessels in there, it's game over."

Diggle sighs when the vigilante doesn't even flinch at the news. "Look, Oliver, we made good time getting here and you know I'm going to do everything I can to save her. She might be a fighter, but there are some things—"

Oliver has heard enough for one night, and suddenly he can't hold it back any longer. "You think I don't know that she's probably going to die on this table tonight, John?!" he explodes without warning, slamming his hand into the gurney. Diggle doesn't even flinch. "I think we've established that between the three of us! I know it's bad, but we stop when even the defibrillator won't bring her back! I need you to—"

"Maybe the reason we keep trying to break it to you gently is because you're so in love with the girl that you can't see straight," John cuts through him, never raising his voice. Instead, his attention goes back to the hole in Felicity's shoulder. Oliver blinks twice at the admission, which earns him an eye roll. "Please. The only person who doesn't know that is currently lying on this table." That's not exactly true at this point, but it also isn't any of Digg's business. "I haven't always been Felicity's biggest fan, but I'm going to do everything I can to save her. Because, honestly? I don't really want to know what kind of person you'd be if you lost her." He shakes his head. "I can't even imagine what's going through your head right now. If yelling at me makes you feel better, do it, but it's not gonna help her. Getting your head in this will."

Deflating instantly, Oliver nods once. Diggle is right—as per usual—and the only thing the vigilante's anger is doing is making everyone miserable. Still, applying pressure to her wounds means he can't stitch up the more minor injury, and he's itching to do something.

As if in answer to his question, Laurel appears at his shoulder. "What can I do to help, Ollie?" she asks him, her voice almost a whisper. Then she points to the two spots in Felicity's leg and hip—two bullets she took earlier in the night from the Anti-Vigilante Task Force. "Do you want me to pull those out?" They clearly aren't deep, thanks to the kevlar in her suit—and the fact they weren't using armor-piercing rounds—but they're both in very delicate places for other reasons. If they were life-threatening, his concern for her life would come before his concern for her modesty, but they seem to be minor.

He shakes his head. "I can help her with those later," he decides, an admission that makes Laurel's eyebrows rise for a moment. "If you can put pressure on this one, I can start stitching up this through-and-through." She places her hands over his almost immediately, and he pulls his out from under them before turning to the medical kit for more suture and supplies.

"It's a little hard for me to believe that Felicity is Deathstroke," Laurel starts conversationally. He knows it's just a tactic to keep his mind away from this, but he still appreciates it nonetheless. "She's just so… bubbly. I didn't think those two things really fit together."

Oliver can't help but chuckle at that. "That's one side of her," he agrees slowly, weaving suture through the wound with practiced ease. "I think you saw the person she was before Japan because that's what she wants the world to see. In her Deathstroke gear, she's… darker." It's the only way he can think to describe her. "You have different sides to your personality, too. She just separates hers and it a name." He nods to where Sara sits against the wall. "All of us do—it's how we do this."

Laurel nods several times at that. He knows her well enough to see that she has something on her mind, something rolling around in her head, but he waits for her to address it. After all, he has more important things to worry about—like the woman who probably won't survive the night, who he's trying so hard to save from that fate. It makes his fingers shake to even think about it, but crying isn't going to help Felicity.

Finally the brunette seems to find her voice, and Oliver cringes at her tone the moment it comes out. "You two seem…" she starts, trailing off as she motions to Felicity's unconscious body with one hand. Usually when he heard her use that tone, there was accusation, but curiosity seems to fill most of it. She seems to struggle for words, and the vigilante understands the feeling. Whatever he and Felicity are, they're beyond words. "Close," she finishes finally, her voice laced with suggestion.

"Felicity was the first person I learned to trust after I came home," he answers, still sewing on the huge bullet wound. Several things flicker through the lawyer's expression: hurt, anger, confusion, sorrow, and perhaps a bit of sympathy. "She was just surviving, but I reminded her what it was like to live." Releasing the suture for a moment, he turns to look at Laurel. "We save each other."

"And you love her," Laurel decides.

Though it isn't necessary, Oliver nods once as he goes back to the suture. "I have for a long time now," the vigilante answers. "And this is my fault. I left her, but I shouldn't have. If I had stayed, I could have saved her from this." Though he knows that kind of thinking won't help him, he can't stop himself. He always thought that Waller stole pieces of his soul in Hong Kong, but this feels like someone ripped it in half; to see her like this is a new form of agony.

"You can't blame yourself for this, Ollie," Laurel disagrees. "She made the choice to save me. That doesn't make it my fault, either." She sighs when it's clear that Oliver isn't interested in listening. "She chose to save me because that's who she is. She's a hero. And by saying this is your fault, you've taken that from her." Only then does he realize how right she is, watching as she shakes her head. "You and Tommy seem determined to blame yourselves." He looks at her, eyes narrowing in confusion, and she explains, "He told her to bring me back in one piece, that she threw herself in front of me to honor that promise." She smiles. "Apparently Felicity always keeps her promises."

"She usually does," Oliver agrees honestly. "But Felicity would have saved you, no matter what. Even if he hadn't asked." Of that, he's certain. "She likes you, and that would have been enough of a reason to save you, but she would have done it because she knows you're an important part of my life." After all, while they haven't been in love with each other for a very long time, Oliver and Laurel will always be friends and have some sort of connection to one another. "I don't think that promise changed anything."

The brunette lapses into silence as he finishes tying off the suture. She opens her mouth to speak again, but the door flies open, breaking everyone's concentration for a moment. Roy tries to run for Felicity, to see the damage, but Oliver stops him, holding the kid back. It's only then that he notices the blood on his hands, the red on his fingertips blending into the red of Roy's hoodie. "You need to stay back," Oliver tells him quietly, nodding to Tommy as he shuts the door. "She still has a bullet in her chest."

"You said it was bad," Roy says, staring around the vigilante at the woman who has been both his best friend and the sister he never had. Then his eyes go back to Oliver's. "How bad is bad? Because she's been through a lot. You remember the first time we met? She was—"

"It's worse," Oliver tells him truthfully, releasing Roy. "She took three to the chest and another two in the upper thigh. The two in her leg are minor, but the three in the chest are serious. They went through her kevlar, so they were probably armor-piercing. Left shoulder went clean through and Digg's working on the one in her right." He sighs, running a hand over his face. "The one in her chest could be difficult, and she's lost a lot of blood." Even though he hates to admit it aloud, he tells the kid the truth he doesn't want to admit to himself: "She's probably not going to make it through the night, Roy. You should be prepared for that."

He's already shaking his head by the time Oliver finishes. "No," Roy says with a clenched jaw, eyes starting to turn glassy even as he tries to refute it. "She's tougher than that." When the vigilante's expression doesn't change, he looks around to her again. "If you can't save her here, we have to get her to a hospital."

It's the billionaire's turn to be adamant. "Absolutely not," he growls, trying to fight back the emotion in his voice. If Oliver falls apart, he'll take that opportunity from Roy. If he grieves tonight, no one else gets to, and Roy deserves that right. She's been a part of his life for far too long. "If we take her to a hospital, they'll figure out they're bullet wounds. They have to report those to the police. She'll be in custody within the hour."

Even though he fights against them, tears still spill over onto Roy's face. Oliver knows the feeling entirely too well. "But she'll be alive," the teenager tries, desperation written all over his features.

The vigilante understands that sentiment, but tonight isn't about him—and it never was. "She'll go to prison, Roy," he answers quietly. "Probably for the rest of her life—however long that might be." It's the hardest decision he's ever had to make, but he made a promise to Felicity, and it's time to honor it. She'd never forgive him for it if he didn't, and Oliver knows all too well that there are worse things than death. For her, this is one of them. The fact that they'd probably give her the death penalty helps ease his conscience, though; there would be no point in saving her if she'd only die in the end.

"Moving on to the last bullet," Diggle calls behind him, but neither of the other two men acknowledge that.

"It shouldn't matter to you," Roy growls through his tears, poking a finger in Oliver's chest. The vigilante knows what he's trying to do; after all, being furious might not be wonderful, but it beats the hell out of being terrified to lose someone they love. "If you wanted to save her, if you cared about her, it wouldn't matter what you had to do. You'd save her, you'd fight—"

While the billionaire understands his friend's grief, that doesn't mean he's going to stand there and take this kind of abuse. "Felicity has already spent seven months in a cell, Roy," he snaps, letting his temper get the better of him for the second time tonight. This time, though, he doesn't fight it. "She doesn't deserve to be put back in another one. I'd rather let her die down here than be the reason she has to live out the rest of her life in a goddamn cage."

He runs a hand over his face again, fighting desperately against the urge to cry himself. "If I had it my way, we'd be having this conversation in the ER. But this isn't about me—and it isn't about you. This is about what Felicity would want. And she made me promise her that if it came to this, I'd make this choice, no matter how unthinkable losing her is to me. If I have to learn to live without her to honor her wishes, I'll do it." This time he's the one poking his finger into Roy's shoulder. "So don't you ever think that you're the only one here who loves her. You aren't."

The fight seems to drain out of the kid at once, and Oliver pulls over the computer chair, motioning for Roy to sit. He does as instructed, almost as if on autopilot. "For now," Oliver adds quietly, "she's not dead yet, and I'm going to fight to keep her that way. Diggle is the best at field medicine we have, and he's taking care of her."

A shrill, sustained note cuts through the air, and Oliver turns his attention back to Felicity, running for their toolbox with the defibrillator on top. "Try the epinephrine first!" Oliver calls to Diggle, even as he readies defibrillator to charge. He watches as he pushes the syringe into her leg, only to no avail. When she's still out, he pushes the paddles down on her. Her body comes off the table, but that shrill sound continues all the same. Swearing, he sets the charge higher before trying again. Again, nothing happens, and his desperation grows, his colorful, multilingual swearing turning into a mantra of the word no.

He's about to set the third charge when her heartbeat starts up again, the monitor clicking in time to an almost perfect rhythm and rate, as though nothing ever happened.

By the time it's over, Roy is in pieces, quiet sobs raking over him. At some point, he must have risen from his chair because when Oliver turns, he's standing, staring at the unconscious woman with a hand over his mouth as if to stifle a silent scream. "I don't know what to do," he whispers to Oliver in a broken voice. "If it was reversed and it was me, Felicity—" His voice breaks on her name, and he has to stop to gather himself for a moment. "She'd know what to do. She always knows what to do." His gaze turns to the archer. "I don't know what I'm going to do without her, Oliver. She's all I have."

Though he isn't one for physical contact, he knows Roy needs it more than anything. In a slow motion, he wraps an arm around Roy, pulling the kid against his chest. He sobs into Oliver's shirt, and, if anyone notices Oliver's own watery eyes, no one is rude enough to say anything. "She's still alive, Roy," he reminds him. For the most part, the boy in the red hoodie seems far more worldly than any twenty-year-old should be, but tonight he seems so young in his sadness. "I'm not giving up on her, and neither should you." He sighs. "She promised me to call you if it ever came to this point, but if you needed to leave, I think she'd understand."

"I don't know where else to go," he admits in a small voice. Then he pushes away from Oliver's side, wiping at his face with renewed vigor. "But this isn't helping. She always keeps it together through stuff like this, and it helps."

Oliver laughs at the irony in Roy's words. "I've never seen anyone go off the rails the way Felicity does," he disagrees, causing the kid in the hoodie to blink several times. "She usually stays collected, but I'll never forget the night she came into the club after that vigilante took you from her." Roy stares at him with wide eyes as the archer gets lost in the memory. "I've never seen her so scared of anything before."

"I remember that," Tommy pipes up from the corner, taking a few steps forward. "That was the night I figured out she was Deathstroke." He shivers. "Ollie might have called her scared, but I thought she was going to tear through the city like Godzilla or something just to find you." He puts a hand on Roy's shoulder, patting it twice before settling there. "Felicity's a tough cookie, no doubt, but that doesn't make her unbreakable. And she fell apart that night. Because she loves you and the possibility of something happening to you was too much for her to bear." He drops his hand. "If things were reversed, she'd be the one sitting here crying over you with no idea what to do. Everybody in this room is freaking the hell out. We would be worried if you weren't."

With a makeshift cast on her arm and a set of civilian clothes, Sara loops her good arm through Roy's. "I think we need to take five," she says to him with a small smile, urging him away from the group. "Come on—let's go outside and get some air." He starts to protest but she won't have it, turning to wink at Oliver as she ushers Roy away. "We'll stay close to the door, and you can tell me about her. I haven't had a chance to know Felicity that well, and I'd like to." She continues talking, her voice fading into the background as they leave.

Suddenly it's too much for Oliver. He moves to the couch in one corner of the lair, dropping onto it with a weary sigh. He rests his elbows on his knees, running his hands over his face. While he's been tortured in many ways over the last seven years, it's never been as excruciating as this. But, unfortunately, this is the one time he can't confess information to make it end.

A hand falls on his shoulder, and he knows whose it is before he even looks over. Tommy doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Finally, it's Oliver who can't let the silence continue. "You're uncharacteristically quiet," he notes aloud, glancing over at his friend.

Tommy shrugs in response. "I can't say anything to make it better, Ollie," he answers simply. "She's our friend. Not to mention she has an uncanny ability to tangle you up in knots." He stares over at the table before nudging his shoulder. "I admire the two of you trying to stay apart, but I think it's going to destroy both of you if one of you doesn't take a chance. You love her—she needs to know that."

Oliver laughs because his best friend knows everything yet misses so much at the same time. "She already does, Tommy," he answers. His best friend seems taken back by the admission, but Oliver just looks at him. "And I know she feels the same about me. Neither of us want anyone else, but we're broken. She's in better shape than me, but I'm not ready for that yet." He looks at his best friend. "And the only thing worse than never having her would be to have her and lose her because I'm not ready to give that kind of commitment to anyone."

His voice is so soft that he can barely hear himself as he adds, "Not even her."

Felicity feels like fire and death. That's the only way to explain it, though she knows that description probably has something to do with the kickass painkillers they must have maxed her out on. Still, it isn't enough; the pain aches through her chest with every breath. She's never taken three shots to the chest before. Usually the blonde is up for a new experience, but she marks this one up with having to watch Oliver hit on a woman for information even though she knew he was dying inside over it.

This hurts slightly less than that.

Opening her mouth, she wants to start talking, but it turns into a dry cough that makes her see stars, even though she hasn't opened her eyes yet. Once she finally catches her breath, she manages to make her original thought as clear as possible. "I hate breathing," she declares. Her voice comes out in a raspy whisper, her mouth dry and voice gravelly from disuse.

The grip on her hand tightens for a moment, and a soft breath of laughter answers. "I personally like it when you do," Oliver answers, his tone going a little south of light. Actually, it's more like two taxi cabs, a cross-country bus ride, and a really long walk away from light. She doubts anyone else noticed, but Felicity has long since learned how to read her wrapped-up-tighter-than-a-mummy-in-a-sarcophagus Oliver.

Her Oliver. That has a nice ring to it. Maybe if she could get her shit together, that thought could exist in the real world.

It takes her a long moment to open her eyes, but she likes the sight before her very much. Oliver's smiles make even angels cry tears of joy. This one is a little watery—his cheeks are wet and his eyelids are rimmed with red—but it's still a good one. Slowly she realizes that the room around her is the foundry, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She isn't handcuffed to a hospital bed. "You kept your promise," Felicity notes in a cautious voice.

"If your heart stopped one more time," he answers slowly, "I wouldn't have. Digg had to resuscitate you four times." Oliver sniffs, and it makes her feel like a prize ass even though she didn't mean to be shot and nearly dead and make him cry. "I was trying to get you into the van when Digg reminded me why I brought you here in the first place."

Though it hurts like hell, Felicity drags her other arm—the one that Oliver isn't attached to—across her body to touch his hair lazily. It isn't what she wanted, but it's enough for the moment. "I know it was hard," she tells him quietly, switching to Mandarin so no one else will overhear, "but that's why I asked you. That's why you asked me the same thing. Because you're the person I trust to make the hard decisions."

"You asked a lot of me this time," is all he answers, his tone turning quiet.

Suddenly aware of the chill in the air, Felicity tries to sit up, only to feel more like fire and death than she already did. She lets out a cry of pain, wincing against the sensation. "Help me up?" she asks her partner—one both in vigilantism and in life. In all the ways that matter, anyway. They might not be bumping uglies in the night, but that's just sex. For all intents and purposes, Oliver is hers and she is his; everything else is just details.

And wow, those painkillers must be fantastic for an epiphany of this magnitude.

Oliver shifts her into a sitting position, and while it still feels like someone is drilling holes through her chest, at least it's a little less excruciating this time around. Before she can even ask, he throws her a shirt—one of his, judging by the size, but that's the way she prefers it, sliding it on and burying down in the excess fabric. The words are already out of her mouth before she realizes she's said them aloud: "You know, usually guys have to work harder to get me out of my clothes."

Only then does she realize she isn't the only one in the room—the sharp intakes of breath give that away for her fairly quickly. Tommy laughs at the statement and Digg just ignores it, but Laurel, Sara, and Roy seem a little surprised by the statement. Oliver, however, doesn't miss a beat; they've been doing this for over a year now—except usually the innuendos are on purpose then. With a lopsided smile, he retorts, "The next time you want me to take your clothes off, I'd appreciate it if you just ask."

"Duly noted," Felicity answers with a smile of her own. And, well, if her tone turns flirty, it's not her fault she's high on painkillers. She shifts on the gurney, and a sharp pain shoots through her thigh. "Oh, yeah—and the Anti-Vigilante Task Force tagged me. I'll need those out eventually." Before he can respond, she slides off the table, planting her feet on the ground before motioning to Roy. "You. Hoodlum. Come here—I demand affection."

Even from the distance she can tell he's a wreck—more so than Oliver. While Oliver probably contained himself and broke down in private, it's clear by his puffy eyes that the teenager has been openly crying through most of the night. She hates that she put him through it, but other lives were at stake. Hers is a small sacrifice compared to what could have happened.

His arms wrap around her immediately, nearly toppling the already unsteady blonde with the force of his hug. Felicity holds him as he sobs quietly into her shoulder a few times—now in relief, instead of fear. It hurts her wounds, but she owes him this. It's her fault—she told Oliver that if anything ever happened to her, he needed to call Roy immediately. It's not her ideal situation, but she knows that the teenager would never forgive her if he didn't get the chance to say goodbye to something other than a corpse. Her mother, however, would get the modulated phone call from the Arrow and a body on her doorstep. Almost seems fitting somehow.

"It was bad this time, Felicity," he states into her shoulder, his voice muffled by her shirt. "Really bad. Even Digg was freaking out. Tommy just went quiet and Oliver was yelling at everyone and throwing shit." Over his shoulder, the blonde notes that his table for making arrowheads is overturned, most of its contents in the floor as if he'd pushed everything off first. She raises an eyebrow at him in question, and he only finds something interesting about the floor to examine. Roy pulls back to look at her, sniffing a few times. "You scared the hell out of me."

"You're still angling for my swords, aren't you?" she asks him with a lopsided, tired smile, returning to a conversation they had so long ago. The corner of his mouth turns up immediately, and Felicity kisses his cheek. "I am always—always—going to fight to stay alive for you. I died once and that didn't turn out too well for you. I'm not leaving you again unless I have no say in it." She points at Oliver. "And if anything does happen to me, you better take care of him. He's my… Roy and I want him in one piece." The blonde waves a hand as she amends, "Not that I want to pick out curtains with you or anything, but I have no idea what you are. You're not exactly my brother and you're not exactly my best friend. But you're also both. You're just my Roy."

From there, she walks over to Laurel, extending a hand for her to shake. The brunette seems surprised by the gesture, but they've been friends for a long time now. Well, as friendly as you can be when one of you is a serial-killing vigilante. "I'm glad you're okay," is all Felicity says to her. "I've done a lot of things to keep you alive—I couldn't let Helena be the one to ruin that." The lawyer seems at a loss for words, but Felicity doesn't let her try anyway, turning instead to Tommy.

Before she can say a word, he wraps his arms around her, albeit careful to avoid reinjuring her wounds. "You missed Monday night cocktails," he accuses her as Felicity pats his back.

The blonde laughs in response. "Well, to be fair, Tommy, I didn't exactly plan to take three bullets to the chest," she quips in a dry tone. "It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing." She pulls away, patting his cheek. "Thanks for giving a damn."

Then she turns to one John Diggle, who stands quietly off to one side. He studies her with a raised eyebrow, and she extends a hand. "I know we've had our differences in the past, John," she tells him, "but thank you for patching me up." He shakes her hand without a word, just a simple, firm handshake and a slow, small smile.

With a deep breath, Felicity turns away from him and back to Oliver. She wipes away the tear stains on his cheeks without a word—because the two of them don't really need words at this point in their friendship. She strokes his face with her thumb for a moment, and then she finds herself in another bone-crushing hug. He buries his face between her neck and her shoulder, and somehow her fingers end up running through his hairline at the nape of his neck. "I thought I was going to lose you," he admits to her in Russian, his strangled voice making the rough language sound more sinister than his declaration.

"I'm sorry," she whispers back in kind, though her Russian accent isn't as flawless as his. The agony he was in must have been unreal; she can't imagine how she'd have felt if their situations had been reversed. "I tried to tell you again that I love you, but you wouldn't let me. I didn't want to die without saying it again—without assuring you that nothing has changed."

As he cups her face in his hands, he whispers as he kisses her forehead, "It sounds better now."

Notes: Everyone still alive? I hope so. For more agony, you could listen to the playlist, too. A lot of songs come from various video game soundtracks, in case you're wondering what everything is.

Playlist:

"Id ~ Return" - Hiroki Morishita
"Let You Down" - Black Veil Brides
"Florence Escape" - Jesper Kyd
"My Heart is Broken" - Evanescence
"Don't speak her name!" - Rei Kondoh
"Hear the Sound" - Mayday Parade
"The Mancer's Dilemma" - Darren Korb
"Setting Sail, Coming Home (End Theme)" - Darren Korb
"Malefactor" - Hiroki Morishita
"Still Alive" - Lisa Miskovsky