Chapter Text
The wind whipped the coat around her knees and tossed her hair like paper. The thunder rumbling in the distance shook the slick black sky with a bellowing roar that echoed through the night, drowning out the sound of the slowing blades of the helicopter as it completed its landing. The shestyorkas exited first, giving her a salute that she returned in kind, but her eyes were focused on the man pulling off his headphones. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she watched him slowly begin to exit the cockpit, and she felt keenly the sharp ache that had resided in her chest since the moment he had left, buried deep into her heart like a bullet.
“Clear the roof.” She uttered in a clipped tone to one of the soldiers nearest her - she knew that as soon as Oliver’s boots touched the ground, she would break. The man responded with a short nod, and led his men from the roof.
She was several yards from the helicopter when he finally jumped down. Jagged lines of lightning flashed across the sky, outlining his figure, a stark silhouette against the jet black of the night. His shoulders were slumped, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket as he slowly walked towards her, feet thudding out a hastening beat on the tarmac as his eyes snapped onto her own, his pace increasing. Another flash revealed the worn lines of his face, casting harsh shadows across the creviced furrow of his brow, the tight set of his jaw. He clearly hadn’t slept much recently, but it had no effect on his intense gaze as he closed the distance between them. She matched his actions, taking no notice of the feral wind that lashed savagely at her coat as she ran, intent on only one goal - to feel the warmth of his arms around her once again, and know that she was home. They collided in a tangle of limbs, his hands shooting up to catch in the golden locks of her hair, whilst her own wrapped tight around his shoulders. She felt the barest brush of calloused fingers against her neck as they traced a burning trail to her chin, tilting her head up. His forehead came down to press tight against her own, and for a moment they simply stood there, lips mere inches apart as they breathed each other in, warm breath fanning out across smiling mouths and closed eyes as they reveled in the solid security of their embrace.
“Welcome home.” She whispered, fisting her hand in the worn leather of his jacket, lips brushing against his in the softest of caresses as she spoke.
He had no reply, simply ducking his head down to capture her lips in a bruising kiss.
He was home, and so was she.
(One Year Earlier)
The rain pounded against the metal roof of the club, a harsh unending rhythm that drilled through the night in a deafening crescendo. The droplets had breached his leather jacket, sliding down beneath his t-shirt, bringing a chill that couldn’t be alleviated by the warmth of the club. A sharp crack could be heard tearing the sky apart, the noise reverberating and rattling the roof above--before it settled back into the monotonous din of constant downpour.
Although the rain had drowned out the echo of his boots against the concrete, the click of the gun reverberated against his ear, though it was no louder than a whisper.
“Lower your weapon, боец.” The woman's voice was quiet, yet razor sharp in it’s command.
Oliver raised his hands, turning the gun in his hand so it was tucked flush against his palm. His hand squeezed the grip; the coarse scratch of its surface calmed him slightly. He took a deep breath, and hastily squashed his desire to glance behind him to see this woman who had immediately known his rank, for he could still feel the muzzle of the gun pressed tight against his skull.
“Now, can I help you, мудак?”
He clenched his jaw at the insult, but replied with calm civility, “I’m here to meet with the Kapitan.”
The intake of breath of her response almost had him turning to face her, but all attention was reverted by the sharp call from the balcony above them.
“Достаточно!” Anatoly Knyazev leaned against the railing, his commanding voice echoing in the empty club. “Felicity, he is a friend and he is here on my request.”
“да, Pahkan.” The woman, replied coldly and Oliver felt the gun being drawn away from his head. He let out a shaky breath.
The Russian smiled as he descended the stairs, heavy boots clanging against the metal surface. Though his smile was broad, the sentiment, it seemed, was not reflected in his eyes; they remained cold, calculating as they darted between the two figures before him. “Oliver, my friend, I would like you to meet the Kapitan.”
Oliver turned finally at Anatoly’s direction and saw a petite blonde woman, glaring at him. Though small in size, her presence was intimidating, her lack of height amended for by the glock gripped tight in her fingers - fingers which, oddly enough, were painted a bright pink, stark against the solid black of the gun. Oliver frowned at the contrast, but the thought was quickly pushed from his mind by Anatoly’s next words.
“Felicity, this is Oliver Queen your new боец.”