Lien de l'originale: http://yespleasehawkeye.tumblr.com/post/129234456171/olicity-real
Résumé: Felicity has a nightmare about maybe Oliver dying and when she wakes up crying Oliver comforts her.
Spoiler: Post season 3
She wakes up with a scream on her lips she doesn’t immediately realise is from her lips. There are desperate, ragged sounds from the back of her throat because she can’t get enough oxygen, but when she sits up its not by her own choice. Arms are pulling her upright, hands are cupping her cheeks, scraping her hair out of her face and she’s burning, burning, and everything’s so—
“Felicity, breathe, you have to breath….”
His voice is soothing, and it takes a few moments for the haze of darkness to clear before she realises the hands are his, the eyes are his, and the pulse racing is her own. He is here. He is alive. He is—
“I’m right here, you’re safe, you’re okay.”
She’s not okay.
She swallows, still gulping down air, and when she raises her hands to push away the hair that has fallen out of her ponytail, she realises her hands are shaking.
He takes them in one of his own, his hands so large they completely encase her trembling digits. “It’s okay, it was just a dream,” he whispers.
Her eyes slam shut, only to be presented with the same frightening images again, so she rushes them open and brings her hand to the mark on his bare chest, the place where the nightmare of Oliver had been impaled and her breath hitches.
“Felicity?” he asks as he closes his hand over hers.
“He killed you,” she gasps, her breath heaving as the words fall out. “Ra’s…he caught us, he knew what I did, knew I wanted to help you escape, so he made me watch, and he killed–”
“Hey, hey,” he whispers, his voice a soothing breeze as his arms come around her shoulders, crushing her against him. She burrows into him, her face taking residence in the crease of his shoulder that she’s decided is exclusively her own. “It was just a nightmare.”
“It felt so real,” she shudders out, worried that her fingertips are digging into his back but she can’t release him, can’t let him go.
“Our worst fears always do,” he agrees softly, and she knows he will never disregard what haunts her at night, because his plagues are far deadlier than her own. He dreams of her dying, her tortured, her screaming in pain, and for a fleeting moment she takes solace in the fact that at least in her nightmares Oliver’s death is swift.
He takes the hand she has lain over his scar and moves it over to where she can feel his heart beating. “But I’m okay,” he assures her. “I’m right here. Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real. This is real.”
“This is real,” she repeats in a whisper.
“This is real,” he says again, his lips finding a home in her hair. His hands stroke over her back, slipping beneath her pyjama top (his t-shirt) so she can feel the warmth of his touch. “This is real.”
And this is real.
This is hers now.
Oliver in their bed - they have a shared one now - is real. Being in Oliver’s arms is real. Oliver’s shirts hanging beside her dresses is real. Oliver’s lips against her temple is real. This is real. This is their life now. Ra’s al Ghul cannot touch them here.
No one can touch them here.
Her fears slip away with each lasting tingle of his touch. He is not seducing her, and when he eases her back between the bedsheets his hands aren’t wandering, but his hands slide her closer to him and she eagerly fits into the space his arms open to create. Her head rests just above his heart, and it’s that solid, real thud that lulls her back to sleep.
This is real.
Maybe he's grateful to have you. Maybe we both are.