: Where the Heart IsAuteur:
yespleasehawkeyeLien de l'originale
Follow up to You're My Home
Once Oliver has his son in his arms, he doesn’t let him go.
Tommy is a blessing he has missed out on too long, and of all the things he imagined waiting for him when he finally came home, he never imagined coming home to his child. It’s like all of his life has folded together without him, and to have this family so ready to accept him is…more than he deserves.
He has done terrible things with the League. He has committed acts more unspeakable than his previous sins, acts he knows he can never divulge, even to those he trusts most. He does not deserve to come home to a ready made family who have been waiting for him this entire time.
He’s pictured coming home in a variation of ways, all of them end up with Felicity in his arms and her body entwined with his. The League pushed women on them and he took them to his chambers, but nothing ever happened with them. They came to him eagerly, because they talked amongst themselves, and rumours were that Al Sah-him would give the women time to read, time to sleep, time to learn, all the while Ra’s thought he was bedding them. He would never take a woman who was not the one he loved, and he stayed true to her, even if he had asked her to go and live her life.
He had set her free. He had not stopped loving her.
She had not stopped loving him.
So he stands in her living room, the same tiny flat he remembers from before he left, and everything is just as colourful. Her possessions are mixed upon a mirage of children’s toys which are just as brightly toned as her decor, only there are more pictures of him around, so many pictures of her and their son and he looks at every single one.
Tommy is asleep on his shoulder, his coat on as well as his shoes, and Oliver carries the boy on his hip and lets him sleep. There’s something calming about his baby breath against his shoulder and he’s not ready to put him down yet. Felicity moves around the apartment trying to tidy it, eventually realising it’s futile and giving him this moment with his son, this moment to feel grounded, and starts to move around to gather pyjamas, clean diapers and everything else Tommy will need before bed.
Oliver’s gaze falls to a wall which is lined with framed photos. In a fashion that truly suits this home, none of the frames match. Part of him thinks he can pinpoint which ones came from Felicity, which ones from her mother, the fancier frames from Thea and the wooden homely ones from Diggle. He glances over these moments, these memories, and starts to realise this is what he has missed out on to save them from Ra’s hand.
He sees Felicity’s hand curled around her bump, large and heaving before her. It’s an intimate shot, something that looks professional, and god, she’s beautiful. It strikes him that’s the woman he loves carrying his son and it floors him like a lead weight in his stomach. The tears start to well in his eyes as he moves his eyes along the wall and he finds other moments. There is the mother of his child, cradling a screaming newborn, messy hair and glasses and tears on her face and his son is wide-mouthed and angry and beautiful. There is his son sat up in the bath with bubbles piled on his head. There is his son cradled in this arms of his mother, his aunt, his friends, his protectors, the people who love him most in the world. There is his son looking adoringly at Sara. There is Felicity and Tommy in countless ways with winter coats, with halloween costumes, with bathing suits, with messy breakfasts, sleeping in each other’s arms, and this is his family and it’s beautiful.
“Oliver,” she whispers, and the hand on his shoulder brings him back to himself.
He winds his free arm so that he can pull her against him, and he presses his lips firmly against the side of her head. He doesn’t care that his tears fall into her hair or that notices the hitches in his breathing, because he just needs them. “I’m so sorry,” he half-whines. “I’m so sorry I missed all of this.”
“You’re here now,” she assures him, one arm around his back and the other on Tommy’s back. “It’s not too late to be part of this.”
“I want to be,” he nods against her. “He’s my son, and you’re my…I love you so much,” he breathes.
“We love you too,” she whispers, her lips finding his cheek as his eyes close, but when she steps back and strokes her arm across him as she moves. “We have to get him ready for bed, he can’t sleep like this,” she nods to the sleeping infant, but Oliver’s arm instantly comes up to cradle him a little closer.
“You can hold him all night,” she smiles at him. “He’s a cuddler, so he’ll love it. We just need to get him into his pyjamas and then he can lie down with us tonight.”
He’s going to spend the night with the woman he loves and his son, and they’re all going to lie together.
So he follows her wherever she’ll lead him, because if this is how the evening ends, he’ll be a happy man.
He doesn’t sleep. By the time morning rolls around, Oliver hasn’t slept a wink. He doesn’t know when he last slept around the travelling, but they fell into bed around seven o’clock, and Tommy sprawls on his back in the space between them without a care in the world. He doesn’t understand the significance of the evening, all he understands is that he’s got one more person who adores him, and the little boy clings to them both.
Oliver can’t sleep when this is his new reality.
He spends the first half of the evening sharing gentle kisses with his beloved while she shares stories of their son’s life so far. She tells him about the pregnancy, about the birth, about how she barely slept for the first weeks and that’s when her mother moved to Starling. For all his opinions from Felicity’s former stories about how scatterbrained her mother is, it seems Donna has been one of her biggest supports and she dotes on her grandson.
When the stories fade into sleep, he watches the woman he loves as she sleep, reacquainting himself with the curves of her lips and each flutter of her eyelashes. He has dreamed of lying beside this face for so long it seems almost a trick of his imagination, but his imagination never truly captured the way her nose twitched when she started to dream.
Mostly, he watches his son. He learns every movement, every breath, and memorises his face, the tiny hands, he measures his tiny baby breaths and strokes his hand over the tiny mole on the back of his hand. It marvels him, as he takes in the brand new skin, a softness he’s never felt before, and how his tiny hand fits in his even as he sleeps - one hand tightly clinging to Oliver’s fingers, the other gripping Felicity’s nightshirt. This little miracle moves, breathes, lives, and yet was created from the darkness that lived within him. This was the last part of his light taken from him, and while Ra’s tried to extinguish what was left of his light, Oliver realised he never could - Felicity had taken that light with her when she left, nurtured it, grown it, and birthed it into this beautiful, beautiful boy that is his son.
He expects it to feel foreign, to feel odd and unnatural, but lying here with his family within arms reach is the most natural thing he has ever felt. His son shifts in his sleep and Oliver moves with him, raising his arm from the mattress when he stretches his leg into the space, and when Tommy turns his head to the side and heaves a particularly long exhale, the breath hits Oliver’s cheek and he feels the tears again.
Felicity wakes when Tommy is starting to fuss for food, which Oliver cannot give him, but she wakes with a smile at the sight of Tommy crawling over Oliver, exploring his father’s face with his curious hands.
“Da,” Tommy babbles over and over, first as an experiment, then as a declaration.
“Daddy,” Oliver whispers to him in wonder. “Daddy’s home.”
“Da…hoooooome,” Tommy repeats.
“Daddy’s home,” Oliver nods, his smile wide and uncontrollable as he places a kiss to his sons forehead and the boy giggles in delight.
Felicity just shuffles closer to them, lays her head on Oliver’s shoulder, and closes her eyes.