Work Text:
The first wave of pain started in her fingertips. It ignited all the way up her scalp, making every muscle pull tight.
Maybe it was a bit of selfishness, the way her body refused to let go of the night's events. It was relishing in an ache that, for a while, she thought she had forfeited entirely. She thought she had forfeited other things, too, but there she was, standing beneath the fire escape.
The climb would have been quick if she hadn't been so sore. Instead, she heaved herself up over rails and landings one after another, until she had reached a familiar window. It had never been locked, not since she had known him. He had always insisted locks were just for show, that the real security would always be in his aim. She used to roll her eyes, but now she had never been more thankful for it.
The window opened into the darkness of the kitchen. Ducking through, she stepped onto the smooth linoleum counter before lowering herself down. Even without lights, the shape of the apartment around her was familiar; the sink she once stood over, scrubbing at dishes with Ollie draped over her back, the picture frame hung on the wall that always tilted too far to the left. It was all just like she had left it. Like she had only been gone for an hour instead of years.
And based on the heavy quiet, he couldn't have been home. The air was too stilled, too settled. If he had been home, she likely would've been reacquainted with the precision of his aim.
Good, she thought blithely. At least I don't have to see him looking like this.
Padding across the apartment in the dark, she kept her gaze fixed forward. She couldn't afford to look for her ghost in the corners and cracks. She had to get herself cleaned up and she had to get back out there.
When she reached the bathroom, her reflection, battered and bruised, blinked back at her from the mirror above the sink. A long, dark gash ran from her temple to her jaw, another splitting her bottom lip. Bruises had bloomed mottled and black over her cheekbone. But worst of all— most apparent of all— was the hollowness in her stare. She swung the cabinet door open, trying to escape her own tired expression, but its chill had already set in.
Rifling through the shelves, one hand closed around a roll of gauze, the other finding the cool, smooth neck of a glass bottle. The rubbing alcohol would hurt, she knew, but infection would hurt worse. As she pulled it down, it slipped between her fingers and crashed to the floor, sending glass skittering across the tile.
It had been an empty bottle anyway. Of course it had been.
"Shit—"
She crouched down to begin gathering it into her hand, until the sharp drag of a shard slicing her palm made her hiss. The edges of her cuts throbbed like her anger was clawing its way out through them. What managed to escape came out on a choked cry.
"God-fucking-dammit Ollie-"
"Well I don't see how that one was my fault."
She froze. She waited. She didn't raise her eyes. The sound had come from a few feet away from her, out of reach in the dark. At least, she thought it had.
"Dinah?" She heard. This time, it was closer, coming from the space in front of her.
Words clung to the inside of her throat, and she couldn't scrape them out. Maybe it was a nightmare. Maybe she had hit her head trying to climb the fire escape. Maybe the dark silhouette sinking to the floor wasn't Oliver.
But then, she heard it again.
"Dinah-"
He was kneeling just feet away, so close she was sure he could hear the thundering of her heart— the one she was equally sure was trying to crawl out of her chest. In the low light, his features were becoming clear one after the other; the stitch of his brow, downturn of his lips, the softness in his stare.
As his hand sought hers, she shrunk back, retreating into the inky dark of the bathroom.
"Will you at least let me look at it?" Ollie huffed, a worn exasperation in his voice.
For a moment, she nursed her hand and offered only a dense silence in return.
It had been a long time since she had let him get this close to her. She had spent months— years relegating him to memory alone and untangling the name Dinah Lance from Oliver Queen. And now, with him right there, all of that was at risk.
But, despite herself, she held out her hand to him.
"I didn't know where else to go." Her voice gave out beneath her, words fading to the soft pull of breath.
"I wouldn't have wanted you to go anywhere else."
Finally, she looked up, letting his gaze meet hers. How many times had she been on the other side of this? How many times had she been the one holding the gauze and tape and that same look of tired consternation? How many times had she counted his scars and prayed the number would stay the same? But it was her turn to be beneath the healing touch, to have cuts and bruises counted and catalogued.
After inspecting her hand, he made his assessment gently. "Looks like it was a clean cut. Let's just get this cleaned up, okay pr-"
"Don't," Dinah gritted. "Don't do that. You know you don't get to do that."
Oliver bristled, falling into a tense quiet. He let go of her hand long enough to get a damp cloth and the gauze. Just as quickly, he held it again, and tended wordlessly to her cut.
When he broke his silence, he did his best to keep his voice easy, unaffected.
"So… what happened?"
"Dropped the bottle," Dinah said tightly.
"No, I know that. I watched you do it. I meant this-" His fingers grazed the cut on her cheek, earning an ill-suppressed wince.
"Nothing."
"No, Dinah. You don't get to do that either. You break into my apartment with a black eye and a split lip the same night I hear that Black Canary was running around the city and you tell me it's nothing?"
"I don't- I didn't want-"
"You didn't want me getting involved," he surmised, unable to bury the bitterness in his tone.
"I think it's pretty reasonable that I ask you not to fight my battles for me, yeah."
"I never said anything about fighting your battles for you," Ollie countered hotly. "But I think it's pretty reasonable that I ask who did this to you?"
The truth was, it didn't matter who was responsible for the injuries she was sporting— they were her own mistakes. She had been too in her head. She had been slow. Her form had been sloppy. What mattered, though, was that it had brought her to his fire escape. And here, in the dark, in the bathroom of an apartment that used to feel like home, he confessed to what she had been afraid to admit herself.
He still loved her. He always would.
"I think you're the most self-righteous person I've ever met," she breathed. This time, it was her hand seeking his in the quiet, fingers intertwining with his. "You know that?"
He started to speak, but let the words evaporate on his tongue instead. He was afraid to move too fast, too far, afraid that one wrong step would send her running back into the night. His grasp on her hand tightened, like he was making sure she was real — that she was actually there.
His voice carried no accusation when he finally asked, "Why did you come here, Dinah?"
"W-what? I- I was hurt, I needed-"
"No," Oliver shook his head. "You could've gone home. You could've gone to Oracle or whoever it is you're working with now."
Although he couldn't see it in the dark, he could feel the way a flush was radiating across her cheeks.
"How do you know about Oracle?" Dinah murmured finally.
"Well I didn't know for sure, but I do now." His tone had softened, smoothed out around jagged edges. "You were never good at keeping stuff from me."
She steeled herself. "Let's be honest, though, neither were you."
It was true. She had never been able to keep anything from him. Not birthday presents or secrets or hurt or joy — none of it. Her words were always betrayed by a look, one he could read in the lines and curves of her face. And just the same, he could conceal nothing from her. It had caused problems more than once.
Dinah had wrapped herself in one lie after another; telling Oliver that this trip was purely tactical, telling herself that she didn't really want to stay there, telling Oracle she would be fine on this assignment. But he saw through each layer until it was just her beneath. Until it was only the two of them left in the whole world.
Bringing a free hand to cradle her cheek, he guided her gaze to his.
"If you can look me in the eye and tell me this isn't why you came tonight, I'll leave you alone."
It was a challenge. It was a dare. It was a plea. But the beat of his heart was so loud, he wouldn't have been able to hear a word even if she had said it. He wasn't sure who it was that leaned in, who started to close the distance, but suddenly they were just a breath apart.
"Don't say things you don't mean, Ollie," she whispered, her lips poised over his. "Don't say it if you won't mean it a week from now."
"Pretty bird, I always meant it."
When Ollie wound his hand into the wild tangle of her blonde hair, there was no question who stitched up the space that hung between them.
It took her body a moment to recall they feeling of being kissed. Through the bruise and ache, the worst pain had still been what he had inflicted. She was still bracing for impact, still waiting for the rug pull. But there was something in the way he held her; not covetous but reverent. The way the sky holds stars. The way clouds hold a storm. Maybe, then, she could trust that the ground beneath her feet wouldn't collapse. Maybe, then, it was safe to let go— just for a moment.
She clasped her good hand over the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss. There was an apology on his lips— she could almost taste it. But that was for another time; one with daylight and a different kind of bravery.
Her other hand, the one he had cleaned and wrapped, now pressed flat against his chest, over the heart that was thudding behind the cage of his ribs. Did it still beat for her? Were her initials still carved into his bone and marrow?
For the first time in a long time, she could believe they just might be.
When he shifted to lean back, his body tensed in her grasp. She pulled back, searching his features and trying to ignore the way panic was creeping steadily into her veins.
"What? What's wrong?"
With gritted teeth, he held up a hand. Even in the dark, she could see the cuts along his palm, glistening with fresh blood.
"You dropped the goddamn bottle," he groaned. But she recognized that tone; that low timbre of taunting, the smirk spread over his voice. A complaint still sat at the center, but he could never really hold her to fault— he would forgive her at the first sign of her smile anyway.
"What, do you want me to kiss it better or something?" She asked, fixing him with a playful look.
It had been too long since he had seen that look.
"It'd be nice," he shrugged, feigning his indifference. "But, you know, only if the offer's on the table."
She tried to fight the bowing of her lips into a rueful smile. It was true— she had dropped the bottle. She had technically broken in. But for once, it was her making the mess for Ollie to clean up.
It was like cosmic irony.
"Come here, you big baby." She rolled her eyes, bringing him close again. But he kept distance for a moment, kept his stare on hers. A self-satisfied grin rolled over his lips, one that put a glint of something raw in his eye.
"Wow, back to pet names already?"
"Don't push it, Queen. We still need to talk about whatever this is. But for right now—" she trailed off, finally pulling him into another crushing kiss.
He leaned against the doorframe for balance, dizzy from the heat of her mouth over his. One hand, still stained an angry red, hovered over her back, the other cradling the curve of her jaw. He traced his thumb over the crest of her cheekbone— one of the only places on her face not marked with bruises and cuts.
She had nearly gotten lost in the steady tide of his body against hers when her comm— the one she had thought this past evening had damaged beyond repair— crackled to life in her ear.
Startled by the suddenness of it, she slipped from his lap and into the dense net of adrenaline. The comm choked out broken syllables one after the other until she finally realized what it was saying.
"Canary, do you read me?"
And there it was. The rug pull. She had almost forgotten about her wounds, about the mission that had given them to her like a gift she couldn't return. But it would always draw them back out, draw them away. It always had.
She did her best to straighten out the wavering in her voice before responding.
"I copy."
"Report back to HQ, I think we found where the next shipment is going to be."
Turning to Oliver, the admission was already written in her expression. She didn't need to tell him. He was right— she had never been able to keep anything from him anyway.
"I know that look. Go," he urged, straining to keep levity in his words. "Come back when you're ready. And since you feel comfortable just letting yourself in-"
"Oh come on, are you really going to hold a little breaking and entering over my head? It was an emergency."
His voice grew solemn, the gaps left for wry laughter filled with the remnants of something he had never quite let go of.
"You know you can come here in a non-emergency, right?"
His fingers brushed her forehead as he tucked a loose strand of blonde behind her ear. She let her eyes fall shut, let herself dodge his eyeline.
"Ollie, I promise I'll be back and we can figure this out then but I really-"
She wasn't sure, between the two of them, who she was trying to convince. She wasn't sure it was working.
"But you have to go. I know."
They dressed the rest of her wounds in an easy silence. One that didn't need to be occupied, one that didn't ask to be. When they were done, she made her way back to the kitchen.
"I thought Bats was the only one doing the stealth-window-exit these days."
"Well I can't just go out the front, can I?" She gestured towards herself, towards the costume that most of the country could identify on sight.
"How about you come in through the front door next time then?"
She was already back up on the counter, sliding the window open once more.
"Sure," she ceded, both feet now planted on the fire escape. "Maybe next time."
"Be careful out there, pretty bird," he offered from behind her. "And tell your friend Oracle I say hi."
Finally, for the first time that night, she let a laugh escape her lips— a real one, a cautious one, one so hopeful it was still threaded in softness.
It set over him like he was seeing his first sunrise. He committed each pitch and note to memory.
She began to climb down once more. The last bit of the evening's adrenaline would get her the rest of the way, but before she was out of sight, she paused.
"G'night, Ollie," she found herself calling back. "I'll see you around."
And, despite herself, she even meant it.