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A door separates them. Oliver feels as paralyzed as the gravely-injured woman he loves, who has promised to marry him, now lying in a hospital bed ten feet from him. He has paced this stretch of shiny linoleum for twenty insufferable minutes, searching for the right words, the phrasing that will give solace for her terrible loss. Their loss.
In his imagination, he feverishly replays the ambush. What could he have done differently? If he’d only moved the car sooner. Insisted on a bullet-proof limousine. Arranged for an armed security team. But he’d done none of those things, failing the one person he’d vowed to protect. The remarkable beauty he can't bear to lose.
Felicity.
>---->|<----<
Permanent.
The word sears a burning wound in Felicity's soul. Permanent damage to her spinal cord. Permanent paralysis. Permanent disability. Her shapely legs are no longer responsive to the demands of her brain — the simplest motions — the turn of an ankle, the wiggle of a toe, the spring in her step. The doctor's dour prognosis rings with finality. No more dances in her future. Never walking again: up the stairs to their loft, into her executive office, at Oliver's side, down the aisle.
Once, she had hated Oliver's dangling use of maybe with his vague promises of a future shared with her. Felicity had scorned him for toying with the possibility of a life committed to one another. In the end, she had told him she preferred that he say never. And now, a bullet named never has breached the temple of her body, destroying the slender, sacred conduit that transforms need into action.
What she would give for a maybe now?
>---->|<----<
Oliver brought Felicity home from the hospital this afternoon, making a stop only to pick up her pain meds and muscle relaxers from the pharmacy. She loves the soft pair of leather, fingerless gloves he bought to protect her hands, reddened by constant contact with the outer rung of her wheelchair. Her first meal at home features Chicken Marsala from her favorite Italian restaurant.
"It's not the same without Chardonnay," Felicity remarks over their candlelight supper. "But it still puts hospital food to shame," she adds with a genuine smile.
"Oops, I forgot," Oliver admits as he jumps up from his place at the table and heads to the kitchen. When he returns, he balances a pair of goblets with a chilled bottle.
"But Oliver," she protests, "I’m not supposed to—"
Peeling the foil from the top of the bottle, he smiles at her, explaining, "I know. You can't mix wine with your pain meds. But this," he says, showing the label, "Is sparkling grape juice."
He pours each goblet with luminous liquid, the bubbles glistening in the candlelight. "It's pretty," she says, grateful for his thoughtful concession.
Oliver raises his glass to touch hers. "To being home."
"With you," Felicity murmurs, her eyes shining.
Felicity takes a sip, making a show of savoring its bouquet on her tongue. "Ah, a very good year for Welch's," she adds with a knowing giggle. "Fruity. Not too dry!"
While Oliver clears the supper dishes, Felicity attempts to watch Netflix, but struggles to keep her eyes open. He finds her asleep on the sofa, her head listing uncomfortably onto her shoulder.
"Felicity," he says quietly, as he lifts her from the couch, easily settling her against his chest. "You're worn out."
"No, I can stay up," she feebly protests, although her head burrows into her favorite resting place between his jaw and shoulder. She releases a deep sigh, her breath warm against his neck.
"This is so much better than being put to bed by Nurse Ratched," Felicity murmurs, slipping her hand inside the loose neckline of his Henley as he climbs the stairs with her secure in his arms. In their bedroom, Oliver eases her into an oversized chair while he pulls back the bedcovers and fetches her pajamas from the dresser.
Kneeling at her side, he pauses, waiting for her prompt, as he lays her night clothes on the ottoman. Felicity is suddenly unsure of herself. Usually, she's a big fan of his help while undressing. But their love life has been derailed by her injuries and the unspoken question weighs heavily: Is this change permanent too? Will Oliver still want her? Is that part of her life disabled as well? Felicity is not willing to enter a marriage devoid of passion.
"I know what you're thinking," Oliver professes, rising to her level, his clear eyes steady on hers.
"Oliver, I don't want you to become my attendant or caregiver out of obligation or guilt. Because God knows, you gather guilt like dust bunnies," she babbles.
"Felicity—"
"Oliver, I don't want to be an invalid you feel responsible for. I want romance," she asserts. "And kisses that make my toes curl. And orgasms, Oliver. Mine and yours. Simultaneous ones. Although I'm open to taking turns too."
Oliver leans in, slanting his lips over hers for a kiss she recognizes, filled with familiar desire and need. "Felicity, you are beautiful. You are the woman I love, the woman I fantasize about. Nothing has changed that."
"But Oliver," she begins, "I don't know what I will be able to—"
He interrupts her with another kiss, this one sweet and patient. "Stop. We will take this one day — and one night," he says suggestively. "At a time."
Oliver touches his forehead to hers, continuing, "If that bullet had struck me, Felicity, would you stop loving me? Needing me?"
Raising her head, her eyes flaring, Felicity exclaims, "No! Oliver, never!"
He smiles at her defiant expression. "See? If you ever doubt my desire for you, just think how easily it could have been me. And how you would feel."
"You may have to reassure me, every now and then," she murmurs quietly, but her dimples have returned.
"I can do that," he promises, gently tapping the tip of her nose. "Because Felicity, I'm all in."
"Me, too."
With gentleness, affectionate caresses and the occasional kiss, Oliver helps her through each step of preparing for bed. He is attentive and, as he has always been, in open admiration of her femininity. Oliver sees Felicity as complete. And completely sexy. He will not let her forget the sensual, remarkable woman she is.
>---->|<----<
Hours later, Oliver undresses in darkness at their bedside. He feels the burning on his right flank and looks down at the glowing yantra — a sacred, blessed tattoo — that John Constantine bestowed years before. Oliver witnessed the power of the mystical design on the island of Lian Yu, but cannot claim to fully understand or control it. However he clearly remembers Constantine's prophetic words, "You will know how to use it when the time comes."
He slips beneath the covers, intentionally lying on his side with Felicity sleepily spooning her back to his chest. Silently enduring the fiery throbbing on his torso, Oliver shifts, pressing the yantra against her wounded spine. Through the long agonizing hours before dawn, he gladly pays the painful price of her healing as his love unleashes ancient blessings that restore torn flesh and reconnect severed nerves.
When the miracle of morning comes, Felicity's body will be whole again, freed from the dark shadows of never.