Laconic

Allay

Prompt: phobia

Oliver Queen does not consider himself to be a rational, reasonable human being.  He's survived thus far by acting upon instinct, on feelings and intuition.  He generally follows his first instinct toward his goal, and, because of that, he's chosen to surround himself with rational, reasonable human beings like Digg and Felicity.  They both guide him in the right direction when his instincts are more suited to battle than to actual civilian life, and, while he doesn't always like it, he respects it.  But sometimes it doesn't matter what reasoning anyone has—especially when the well-being of someone he loves is on the line.

That reasoning is what he blames for his reaction when Felicity yells, "Oliver!" two octaves higher than normal, in a tone reminiscent of fear.  She's supposed to be dressing into her workout gear because she finally won her argument with Oliver about learning to fight, and Sara agreed to help train her.

Oliver's instincts take over at that point, and he barely acknowledges that he picks his bow and a few arrows from their respective stands, charging toward the bathroom with alarming speed.  He vaguely thinks that she might be in a state of undress—and that it would be a difficult challenge for both of them if that were the case—but he decides that her safety is the most important thing.

He charges the bathroom to find her fully dressed (an observation that both relieves him and disappoints him), cowering in one corner of the room and pointing to the opposite.  "What's wrong?" he demands in a tone an octave lower than normal, almost growling the words.  When she doesn't answer fast enough for his liking, he looks in the direction she indicates, confused when he sees nothing at all.

That doesn't stop Felicity from grabbing his arm and pointing insistently in the same direction of nothing.  "Oliver!" she cries again in that same tone.  "Thank God!"  She finally notices the bow, and motions for him to actually aim it.  "Shoot it, stab it, kill it with fire!  I don't care what you do—just get rid of it!"

He tries to tamp down his annoyance at the invisible enemy he's supposed to be fighting.  Vaguely, he wonders if she's lost it, but then he realizes this is Felicity he's talking about—she's sane (he thinks).  "What is it?" he snaps, still not seeing "it."

She does some sort of half-muted shriek before moving closer, pulling him along beside her until, finally, he sees what "it" is.  He stifles a laugh, but he can't quite keep the wide smile off of his face.  Sure, it's probably the largest spider he's ever seen (and he survived on Lian Yu for five years), but it is just a spider.  "That!" she exclaims as she points, but this time her arm is drawn in closer to her person.

"A spider?" he replies, hoping his tone implies the proper amount of disdain.  He feels more than a little foolish for charging to her rescue over a spider, but then again, she's the one who screamed bloody murder over a spider and he doesn't feel so reactionary.  Before she can respond, he stomps over and squishes it under his shoe, then turns back to her.  "Anything else you need me to take care of?" he asks this time, frowning when he realizes that being in the changing room together might not be the best context for that question.  Maybe Felicity's awkwardness is contagious.

She must be thinking the same thing because her cheeks heat, but she huffs as if her irritation will cover the reaction.  "I'm sorry," is her testy response, "but we can't all be fearless like you.  I don't like spiders—I don't like anything with a freakish number of legs."  He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off.  "And, before you ask, yes, that does extend to octopi and squids, cuttlefish, and most insects."

He vaguely wonders when he stopped being mysterious to her, as she took the words right out of his mouth, but then he realizes it isn't the most important thing.  He crosses the distance between them as quickly and efficiently as possible.  He hesitates before finally takes her face in his hand, tilting her head up so that she'll look at him.  He's not sure about the new change in relationship, of what boundaries she expects him to keep.  "Hey," he says quietly, and her eyes snap to his in that attentive way he's come to appreciate.  "There's no shame in being afraid.  I'm not fearless, either."

She really looks at him then, searching his expression as if she thinks he's humoring her.  "Please," she scoffs suddenly, pulling away slightly.  "You defend the streets of this city by night, you've nearly died on any number of occasions—too many, by the way—and you've faced down some pretty bad guys without flinching.  What could you possibly be afraid of?"

Suddenly his throat is dry, and the words that come out are some of the hardest he's ever uttered.  "I'm terrified of losing you," he finally admits in an almost-whisper, placing his hands on her shoulders and searching her eyes with his.  Though it's true, he's learned that admitting things aloud breathes life into them, and the last thing he wants is for someone to use that fear against him.

For a very rare instance since he's met her, she takes in a breath and says absolutely nothing for a very long minute.  Finally, the corners of her mouth turn up, and she places a kiss on his cheek.  "That will never happen," she assures him.  He refrains from rolling his eyes; of course she would say that.

But, no matter how cliché her words, he finds it so simple to believe those four simple words when she's the one uttering them.