A/N: Thank you for the feedback/favorites/follows. I hope I did Felicity justice here. Optimism isn't my native language, but I wanted to write a counterpoint to the last chapter. The story just felt incomplete without it somehow.

Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow or 'Snow in Newark' by Ryan Hemsworth (feat. Dawn Golden) which is a great song and inspired both chapters of this..

chapter two : find me in the sun so bright

The entire thing is insane. She's gotten really good with weird over time, made the switch from things she could quantify to things she can't even believe she's seeing. Still, it's inexplicable and she's left grasping for details. There are few things in life more frustrating to her than not understanding what's going on. One of the only things more confusing is how light Oliver is going on details, although she absolutely meant it when she said she was glad his past wasn't showing up in the form of a beautiful, badass woman. He's like a magnet for those and, apparently, has always been. He's also a magnet for trouble, so she's not that comforted by the magician's reassurances things will 'probably' be fine.

She's slowly built the life she wants over the last six months or so. It's been under construction for longer than that, but the last half a year has been cornerstones, capstones, reinforcements, and a new coat of paint. She and Oliver have built something beautiful, a bright and promising future that looks an awful lot like a pause button on good days. While she didn't falter about returning to Star City, because this work is part of the life she wants, too, she's learned what it's like to anxiously hold her breath and wait for him to return these days. She doesn't like it. The moments when she isn't sure if he's okay have gone from difficult to impossible. When comms cut out, or he takes a metahuman's playing card to the arm, or gets stabbed within a few centimeters of paralysis by a rogue cop… that's hard when she feels as she does for him.

Waiting while he and Laurel are standing, hands linked and eyes closed, over Sara's tranq-darted form… there's not a word for that because she doesn't understand what's happening. She doesn't know what she expected, exactly, but it definitely reinforced the feeling that a traumatic or uncertain minute lasts an hour and takes a year off your life. She hopes it's at least crappy years she's losing in the several minutes Oliver's twitching and the lights are going crazy. He's holding onto Laurel so tightly what she can see of his forearms has turned white and his feet are shifting imperceptibly, but there's nothing except deafening silence once John Constantine has pulled their collective consciousness into some other… realm. Or something.

Yeah, she hates being fuzzy on these kinds of details and she has o idea how the simple list of items he gave her, combined with what she's going to guess is Sanskrit but she isn't exactly fluent, is producing the effect.

Oliver and Laurel's collective gasps as they pulled apart, and the way he stumbled to her and then leaned heavily on her while they figured out if they'd been successful… not comforting. Though he's kissing her head and he's technically standing on his own, his heart is like a hummingbird and he's cooler to the touch than she's probably ever felt. She kind of wants to take him home right away, but he refuses because there are details to attend to, like can you just throw away a dead peacock feather? That should be okay for the public landfill, right? Or is it recyclable? Neither of them are one for leaving something unfinished, so they stick around against her better judgement.

There are maybe ten minutes, while he's walking John back to the elevator and ushering Sara out of the lair with her dad and sister, where he's mostly normal. She's too busy with the aforementioned details to watch him too closely, but other than the quieter room climate, nothing seems off.

There are roughly eight thousand questions coursing through her hippocampus, but she can't connect them with any part of Oliver to get answers because he isn't exactly sitting still. While he almost never does, really, he also doesn't usually trip over his own shoelaces and that happens twice. By the time he actually stops for a second, gripping the back of her chair and breathing steadily like he's trying to breathe steadily, she's done finishing up. Everything she's working on can wait and it kind of seems like he's barely hanging on – to what isn't clear.

"Oliver…" she says, turning so she can watch him with a sharp, practiced side-eye. His most truthful answers are always in the spaces between his words, the moment when he reacts to her question and hasn't had time to brush her off yet. "When is the last time you slept, my love?"

Because it wasn't last night.

It isn't something she really keeps track of. Their lives and schedules in Star City are a little more chaotic, but she hasn't missed the preoccupation or occasional nightmare that keeps him moving. Sometimes he wakes her up because he's pacing in the middle of the night, sometimes she hears him get up for a small glass of what's probably vodka if he really needs to settle himself. It had all but stopped when they were in suburbia, but he's backslid slightly. The last week or so, with all the Sara-Thea-Laurel drama, has been rough. She thinks he's having Lian Yu flashbacks again, and maybe flashbacks of taking Thea to Nanda Parbat. He hasn't slept much regardless, and it's bad enough she noticed before now, but not bad enough she's said anything. Still, if it's getting worse, she isn't just leaving him in that distant and dangerous headspace. She knows how he gets when he's miles deep in flashbacks and nightmares and trauma. Sometimes it gets the better of him and she's not interested in just leaving him to it, thank you very much. He's not alone.

He shakes his head and she'd like to smack him because she actually wanted an answer or some sign he would be receptive to her taking care of him. Dismissal wasn't what she was after, but when he doesn't move she realizes that isn't exactly what it is. Maybe a 'not here'? She nods in response, just a subtle twitch of the head. As soon as their eyes have met, logging a conversation without words in the brief glance, she begins the process of shutting down the computer. It doesn't take long because it was a light day and she was only logged into one illegal spot (the police department's dispatch) and it's easy enough to sneak back out without anyone the wiser.

She and Digg have moments full of silent communication, and she doesn't leave until she's sure he's taking care of Thea. Thea probably needs her brother, but he's too busy trying to be responsible for everything, and he's no good to anyone. He's dead on his feet, which she can admit is a bad idiom for the particular situation. Anyway, Digg is pretty much the next step from her brother. He's capable and cares for her. He actually, from what Felicity can gather, has been looking out for Thea while Oliver was gone. He's on it and he's the best person for the difficult job of post-hospital attack recovery. Thea's tired glances from Felicity to Oliver and back tell Felicity she should text because Thea is more worried about Oliver than she is herself. Typical. Apparently it's a Queen family trait.

But this time, Oliver just lets Felicity take his hand and follows with heavy footsteps, looking like he can't meet the glances of anyone else. Well. It's been a long time since she let him get lost in guilt and misplaced responsibility and she isn't going to let him tonight.

He's never in the shower for a long time, so she has to work quick. She calls Laurel to see if the other woman is experiencing any symptoms after their foray into what-the-hell. There's a split second where Felicity considers how, in a lot of situations, it would be weird for her, the present girlfriend, to call the ex-girlfriend and probe for details about a private shared experience between the exes. It's a marvel, though, that isn't weird for them. It took Felicity and Oliver so long to get together, and so much happened with their team and his personal life in the meantime, that it isn't weird now. They've all reached different and unique levels of friendship with one another. She's not uncomfortable talking to Laurel and doesn't get the impression Laurel is even surprised to get the phone call. Laurel says she's had some rather intense memories of Sara falling off a roof, loaded with arrows, and one unclear memory of seeing Oliver, dressed as the Arrow, running from where Tommy had died. It's been hazy, quick flashes, though. None of the recall has too long or intense for Laurel, which almost puts Felicity back at square one. Felicity texts Thea to say the residents of the loft are home, headed to bed, and then sets her phone aside. She knows Thea is probably exhausted, too, and won't reply until morning.

She's digging up whatever she can on John Constantine when the shower turns off, and she can hear Oliver moving around. He's moving slowly, with his trademark confidence, but loudly in a way that's unusual. Generally, unless doors are closing or water is running, she doesn't know exactly where in the house he is at any given time. He usually moves quietly. It got to the point in their house in Ivy Town that she had to ask him to stop scaring the crap out of her, and he got used to talking as he moved or finding some other signal to help respect her wishes. These footfalls and drawer slams aren't subtle signals, they're signs of his wear and tear, his current lack of attention to detail. That might be the most worrisome thing yet, but she stays mostly focused on her tablet and the next to nothing she's able to uncover about the past associate Oliver brought into their lives today.

Fine. She steals an appreciative glance at him wearing his favorite sweatpants and nothing else. She may be hunting for information on someone who is very good at being invisible, trying to decode an entirely new mystical language, and worried for the person closest to her – but she is still human. And even when he's tired, and it's mostly dark, he's still hot and it's a welcome sight that he's this comfortable in front of her.

It's a little less welcome when he drops onto the bed almost unceremoniously and latches onto her and he's cold. She frowns and sets her tablet aside while she tries to wrap him up. He never drops like that, so spread out and imprecise. She's never the warmer of the two of them. All of this is new and weird. She doesn't know what happened or what's going on. She isn't sure where to start.

Her hands hit him first, because making sure he's real is always the biggest comfort for her. Although he wrapped himself around her pretty effectively, his head on her stomach and his arms around her middle, she goes with more contact, her hands on his head. His hair grew back after his foray into the League and she's so grateful. It's softer now, a nice contrast to all the hard muscle and sharp lines he's got.

"What exactly happened tonight?" She asks.

"I don't know," he replies in a low voice.

She bites her lip. He knows more than she does and she doesn't like it much when he's reluctant to talk. It adds to her concern he's retreating to the darker places in his head. It's so hard to get him back out of those. She isn't letting him go without a fight.

"You know some of it," she says, careful to keep her tone light. She's pushing but she doesn't want to seem like she's pushing. When she pushes, he tends to push back and he's too tired for that right now. She needs to coax instead of push. "Probably more than I do. I just had to stand there and watch you and Laurel hold hands and twitch and it was weird." She thinks briefly to her half-assed research attempt while he was showering. "You know some really interesting people."

She can feel his cheek move against the thin tanktop she's wearing. Maybe he's smiling. He turns his head into her a little, muffling his words. His tone is still a little amused. "Says the one who scored a peacock feather. What else was on that list he gave you?"

Now is not the time to be completely serious if she's not pushing and she knows it. She rattles off the first few things she thinks of and couldn't even repeat it if he asks. She has no idea what she says because her head is sometimes as random as anything, but she knows she reminds him this is only a temporary sidetrack. She still wants the deets.

Not the D. That's something different and not exactly a priority right now while he's all broken and needing her to be his partner.

Plus whatever came out of her mouth made him smile and she's sure that's what she felt him do. He makes a joke and she knows she can push a little instead of coax.

"What's going on with you?" She asks, her fingers still playing with his soft hair. It's barely dry, like maybe he rubbed a towel over it and flipped water all over the mirror like he does. She doesn't care. Right now that means she can smell the lingering scent of the soap he uses. It's one more thing that keeps her mind from wandering, keeps her focus on this moment with him.

"I think it's just a side effect," he says. She opens her mouth to protest about that being all he's giving her, really?, but he continues and she relaxes and lets him. "I don't really know details about what John does. I've seen things I never really asked for explanations about. When we first came back and saw Damien Darhk touch that solider from HIVE and kill him, I knew I was seeing them again but darker somehow. John Constantine is not exactly a magician, but there are things he's done that just…"

She's a little frustrated by his lack of details. He isn't indifferent to details and he doesn't lack curiosity. How could he have just never asked?

"Yeah, I got that."

If he's even surprised she's getting a little impatient, he doesn't show it. He just keeps going.

"We were in a room. It was circular or continuous. It was like the main hall in Nanda Parbat, I guess." He shivers and pulls her closer and her touch falters. It's scary, to see this solid man so shaken. It doesn't happen all that often and she hates it.

"I hate that place," she says, holding him tighter. It's where she lost him, even for a short time. "It's super creepy."

"It was colder, though. There was a pit and guards. We fought them. Well, mostly John did. I didn't see details, it all happened so fast. It's the feeling I can't shake." He swallows so hard she feels his Adam's apple move against her. "We shouldn't have brought her back. I know Laurel didn't leave us with much choice, but none of this should've happened. It just feels wrong and now I can't stop thinking about…" he trails off and she wants to be frustrated because there's no way he's said exactly what's bothering him, but she fights down the frustration and realizes maybe he's trying but he can't find the words.

"How wrong the other losses are," she offers up. She knows him better than most anyone and in an instant, she knows what he's up against, or at least some of it. He's been around so much loss, death, and darkness. The stupid trip to the otherworld took him back there.

She hates this otherworld. She wants to destroy it somehow. Is there an app for that?

He hums his agreement but she feels him relax. As well as she knows him, well enough to know that she's said or done something helpful, he's enough of a mystery that she doesn't know exactly what she did or how it helps. She needs more details here.

"I know I can't have them back," he begins again. It's the same choked, small voice he had when they were first talking about all this stuff, how he misses his parents and his childhood best friend. "We talked about that before. I'd still give almost anything." His voice fades, though, and she has a rare and brief glimpse into his thoughts. But not that. Not this.

She just keeps waiting and keeps touching him. She has a feeling he isn't done talking yet because he's still laying attached to her and, even a little relaxed, that won't change until he's gotten exactly what he needs.

"My mom. She knew I wasn't the same after everything, but she had this hope for me. I wish she could see you."

He may be baring his soul here a little, open and raw in a way that's miraculous, but she can't stop the disbelieving sound that leaves the back of her throat, flying forward to come out half breath and half laughing. "Your mom hated me, Oliver. I told her biggest secret to you as soon as I found out and I couldn't stop myself in spite of her promise it would ruin our friendship."

Oliver's grip on her has loosened enough he can run his hand over her side, over the fine structure of ribs and the narrow curve of her side. She thinks maybe it's a response, his way of saying he remembers but values that she told him. At the very least, he doesn't care how her mom felt about that revelation; he thinks it would be better now if he had three important women alive and present instead of just two. The realistic part of her isn't sure, but she can't bring herself to be glad his mother is dead because of the pain it obviously causes him. Somewhere in the back of her overactive mind, all she can do is promise if Moira Queen were still alive, she would do her best to find a balance for Oliver's sake. Moira would hopefully do the same. They would have found some sort of common ground. Maybe that's too hopeful to think, but it doesn't matter because it isn't reality.

Reality is heartbroken in some ways, with his head just above her lap and placing his heart in her hands. It's a big responsibility and a good thing she's careful with the things that matter.

"My life was interrupted and they paid the price for the shortcomings I brought back as this new person from Lian Yu. I couldn't save them. After whatever happened tonight, though, I can feel them. I see their last moments when I close my eyes. Not just her, but my dad and Tommy, too. We disturbed a mystical force and stirred it all up. I miss them."

Her heart breaks for him when he's like this. He's lost so much, both through willingly made sacrifice and things that were taken by force. There's no way she can bridge those gaps or ease those aches. He does okay a lot of the time, and he's doing better as time goes on, but sometimes it catches up with him. Laurel's selfishness set him back. She may need to have a word with the Black Canary about ramifications.

"You need them," she adds helplessly, trying to fill in his silence with something comforting. She has no idea what to say, though. Yes, her dad left her in another lifetime and it sucked. It isn't the same as a madman shoving a sword through your mother, at her own request, while you're tied up. The things Oliver's been through… it's a miracle he's here and can share any of this with her. Maybe he's the mystical force.

He's shaking his head, though, and it pulls her out of her thoughts and back into the presence. "No, it's not that. I watched them die."

It takes her a second to realize exactly what he's saying. Her eyes fall closed, flashing to the image of a picture of younger, smoother Oliver on his dad's desk. At the time, Robert had only been presumed dead (as had Oliver) and his desk stood untouched until Moira or Walter could properly deal with that fallout. He was so young, his smirking grin devilish in different ways than he was now. That kid had watched his dad die? And Tommy? Tommy had bled out in the wreckage of the CRNI building in Glades. Oliver definitely wasn't that kid, but there had been a marked change in him after all that and maybe she had misattributed the significance of it to other things.

"You did?"

It was all she could think to say and all she could get out considering the renewed strength of his grip on her. They weren't what he needed – she was. She is. She can do this. She slides her hands down the taut lines of his neck, touching him firmly and slowly as she dips her fingers between his shoulder blades. If he were wearing a shirt, she'd be well beneath the neckline. Neither of them cares. She just wants it to be complete enough for him to feel her there, waiting, while he's lost in all this stuff.

"Yeah," he finally manages. His voice is a little rougher but not desolate. Not hopeless. "My dad lived when the boat sank. Obviously he did if he gave me a notebook and a job and all the things you know about."

Well, now that he points that out, she feels a little stupid. How hadn't she ever considered that before?

"When we realized no one was coming to save us and the food was running low, he shot himself in front of me. I thought I had lived before that, the parties and crazy things that happened while we were high, but I didn't know anything until I watched him die. It was shocking and disorienting, but he went overboard. His body washed up on the shore of Lian Yu and I had to deal with it. I laid him to rest and I couldn't tell you which was worse. Today I've seen both, felt like I was in both places again."

God, no wonder everything feels heavy and cold and wrong for him. That's a really morbid debate.

She just wants to distract him now. They have a lifetime to get into this kind of stuff and there's been enough of it. She says the first not-serious question that pops into her head to get him out of his, to get him out of the dream world he's living in because of wherever he's been.

"Where did you find a shovel? And really, where would you ever have enough room to do something like that without running into a landmine or something else? That island is awful and doesn't have any open space for something like that unless I missed the cemetery on the Oliver Retrieval Mission of 2013, which is entirely possible. I was busy trying not to throw up in my parachute, looking for you, and wondering if we'd find you in a loincloth."

Oh. The last part wasn't necessarily supposed to an out-loud admission. He isn't Tarzan and she isn't Jane. Still, though…

Okay, but that train of thought isn't getting them anywhere tonight.

When she snaps out of it a little, he's laughing. His face is buried in her shirt and it's a small laugh, but it's there. She can feel it in more ways than one.

She's going to go ahead and call this conversation a success. Shared a little, distracted a lot… it's about all she could've hoped for. When he's not laughing, he's breathing, and then he's kissing her tanktop. She sucks in a breath when he moves the fabric and kisses her bare skin. She also loses her train of thought entirely while he shifts.

"A loincloth?" He asks, his voice low and amused. Her train of thought, however depraved it was, is found. She's totally the warm one out of the two of them now with him on top of her, pressed against most of her body. The covers are a tangled mess, but who really cares?

"Absolutely," she promises, her voice low and close to him. While he leaves a roving trail of kisses up her abdomen, moving her shirt as he goes, she bends down and kisses the top of his head. "You totally pulled it off up here, by the way." She gives the side of her head an index finger tap. "You know, just in case you need any ideas for my next birthday present."

When his head comes up from her breasts to look at her, she isn't sure what he's going to say. He isn't prone to joking around or letting his mouth run away as much as she is, even with as profoundly as he's changed over the last many months. He looks at her like she's the sun, though, and he doesn't have to say anything. She wouldn't care.

"Thank you," is what he goes with and she loves him, she loves him, she loves him. With him looking at her like that, she's home. She doesn't need anything else and she knows he doesn't either. She's given him everything and she's getting it back in return.

She doesn't need to ask him what he's thanking her for, or if he's better. They're better, together, and even if it all goes to hell again tomorrow – which it probably will at some point—they're tied together that way and they'll return to one another at the end of the day.