The first time they slept together, it was because Oliver needed sleep.

She had the starring role in his nightmare. He was back in the island, but she was there too; the gun was vacillating between her and Sara this time. The shot that rang out was so real, it made his ears ring, and then he was awake, jolted back to consciousness following an all-too-short period of slumber brought on by intense exhaustion. The last memory in his head was her blood splattered on his face as he lunged to save her, the guilt and grief so raw and palpable. The back of his hand, still shaking, came up to wipe the beads of cold sweat that appeared on his forehead. He was sitting now, taking short, ragged breaths, relief and anxiety coming in waves as surely as the ebb and flow of the tide.

He showed up outside her window shortly after.

She looked so peaceful; the rise and fall of her chest let him know she was in a temporary slumber, one that she would wake from when the sun came up. It was selfish of him to bring her out of it, but he needed more than what his eyes could confirm; he needed to reach out and touch her to wash away the memory of her lifeless body at his feet; to feel her warmth and prove that blood was coursing through her veins and not out of her body.

He knocked, twice, and her eyes darted open in alarm. Then she was reaching under her pillow, reaching for the gun he knew Digg had given her. With her free hand, she reached for her glasses and put them on, fear fading from her face as he came into focus. Her eyes narrowed at him in confusion, but she rose, unlatched the window, and let him in.

"Oliver? What are you doing here?"

He swung his legs over the ledge, hunching his shoulders and making his body as small as possible to fit through the narrow opening.

"Bad dream," he explained tersely, his eyes falling on her, anxiety still swimming in them.

She nodded. They were standing a few feet away from each other, and he wasn't sure if he should take the first step, but he knew why he had come and the look on her face told him she still wasn't sure what brought him to her in the middle of the night. What he needed, right at that moment, was someone to lean on; someone to take on the weight of his sins, and who believed he could be absolved of them; someone who didn't have the same darkness within that constantly threatened to take over. And looking at that someone now, he was too desperate to think about boundaries or personal space or the fact that just being there was crossing a line he himself had drawn in the sand between them. All he knew was that he was broken and defeated, and he needed reassurance that the sun was still shining behind the clouds. So he took that first step towards her, pleading with his eyes, not talking because he wasn't good at that; because he didn't have the strength to ask for what he needed, but she was always so good at giving it to him anyway.

She reached out and grabbed his shoulders, an act equal parts firm and gentle as she pulled his large frame into her much smaller one, fingers wrapped around his neck, urging him to lean on her. Tears pooled in the rims of his eyes but refused to fall, and he reached his arms over her and let himself savor the scent of lavender that was so distinctively her.

"You are stronger than him," she whispered.

He nodded, weakly, because it was all he could manage. He had lost so much in 24 hours.

"Get some sleep," she commanded softly, finally releasing him, nudging him gently towards her bed. "You need a real bed. That cot's not doing you any favors."

She turned towards her living room couch, but his hand wrapped around her wrist, and he let out a slow exhale.

"Stay…" his voice trailed off. It wasn't the right time to tell her. He had kept that door closed for so long, bolted shut, and now was the most dangerous time to swing it open. But if he was going to have any chance of winning the war despite all the battles he had just lost, he needed to remember what peace felt like. And she was the only person in his orbit who could help him remember.

She nodded and made her way to one side of the bed. He crawled into the space beside her.

"Get some sleep," she said again, a half-smile on her lips.

His eyes fell shut, fingers still wrapped around her wrist, just to convince himself she was really there.

Warm. Safe. Alive.

For the first time in weeks, he fell into a deep slumber.

You know how Oliver seems to get a lot of action, but doesn't seem to get much sleep? I liked the idea of Felicity being the opposite experience for him...and I know I didn't mention her name once in the drabble. That was intentional. And they are not together; they're still just friends here. Thank you for reading! And please take the time to leave a review if you enjoyed this.