Work Text:
The ambient hum of the generator in the foundry basement vibrates through the concrete floor, doing nothing to drown out the oppressive damp of a late November evening in Starling City. Above ground, panic spreads through the emergency rooms as hundreds collapse under a sudden, ruthless fever, but down here in the dark, the crisis boils down to a single cot. Oliver Queen stands beside the makeshift bed, staring at the toxicological readout on the computer monitor. The chemical structure glowing on the screen is unmistakable—Vertigo. The Count is out of Iron Heights, back on the streets, and using a modified batch to poison the city.
On the cot, John Diggle shifts, his usually unshakeable frame curled slightly on his side, sweating through a dark gray t-shirt. He lets out a low, ragged moan, rolling his forehead against the cool steel frame of the bed. It is an uncharacteristically raw whine, born of the intense, localized neural firing the drug induces—a sensation like broken glass scraping along the inside of his skull. Oliver steps closer, his boots heavy on the floor. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, his body rigid with an anxiety he refuses to let show on his face.
"Stop whining," Oliver says, his voice flat, completely contradicting the wild, tight panic visually written in his eyes. "You're fine."
Diggle opens one eye, red-rimmed and glossed over with fever. He draws in a shallow, painful breath. "With all due respect... fuck you."
"No respect needed, babe," Oliver answers without a beat, his tone low and fierce as he leans down, resting a hand briefly against the back of Diggle's burning neck. "I will destroy the Count."
Diggle squints up at him through the haze, the tremor in his limbs worsening, yet his mind stubbornly tries to anchor itself to Oliver's real-world obligations. "What about... your mother's trial?"
Oliver doesn't hesitate, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticks. Moira's trial is dominating every television channel in the city, but right now, it feels miles away from the damp air of this basement. "I'll do what I can for Thea and Mom," Oliver says firmly, staring down into Diggle's eyes with an intensity that leaves no room for debate. "Dig, if it comes down to it... I will break my vow for you. For the antidote."
Diggle shakes his head slightly against the pillow, trying to muster his usual authority. "You don't..."
"John, he attacked you," Oliver cuts him off, his voice dropping into that dark, uncompromising register reserved only for the hood, grounded entirely in the fierce protectiveness he holds for the man beside him. "I will kill him."