Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(Picture by the Amaze-balls Candykizzes24!)

Indecent Proposal

As long as Slade is in town, neither of our families are safe… Oliver Queen

Everything hurts.

It was her first intelligent thought.

Her second thought was that she wasn’t remotely surprised by her first.

God…

Lately, pain had become a… prevailing presence in her existence.

How unlike Felicity Smoak.

To experience pain, to be hurt, like this. To step right on into those hands so willing to provide the torment, to afflict that specific kind of cruelty – the kind only a man could give a woman.

Maybe I was always this way, so eager to let herself be-

No.

No, she didn’t like it. Didn’t like the pain at all; didn’t like how small and utterly helpless it made her feel – since intelligence is no defence for physical agony – and how tired, how… alone. She’d been more ‘by herself’ in recent times than she’d ever been in her life. And considering her childhood was a lesson in absent fathers and overworked mothers, that was really saying something.

It isn’t like I can just tell my mother about this. It would kill her.

There were all sorts of pain. The kind you can’t escape from. The kind unfathomable to the naive, to the ignorant of its effects on you, to… to people like her.

The kind of pain you want to step into, at the same time that you want it to stop.

She’d discovered emotional pain a long time ago; she’d found ways to deal. Found ways to block herself, to raise walls and barriers. To step away from. To walk forwards from.

Physical pain?

She’d never given birth so, nope to that.

The only limb she’d ever managed to break was her ankle, when she fell out of a tree age 9 – the first and last time I tried to climb a tree – and the break had been clean. Wicked bruises. She’d been in a dull sort of pain, because she hadn’t dared move it, but real pain nonetheless for roughly 1 whole hour before the doctors gave her the good stuff. Her mother almost force fed her the rest.

An hour.

It hadn’t prepared her, didn’t help her during the night when the time came to submit.

But it was a power play.

One she hadn’t created but one she understood the rules to, one in which she had a modicum of control. Some control was preferable over no control… right?

Or maybe I’ve finally lost all sense of rationale.

However, she was under no illusions; her mind and body were under a constant state of attack. Like the never ending hangover from hell.

Yet, she’d started to get used to it. Isn’t that a good thing? As in useful? Or is it actually really, freaking bad and I was just the first to fly over the cuckoo’s nest?

And it would help, it truly would, if the solitary light in the room didn’t dangle so low and so without a lightshade. Every single time. The harsh glare above her head forced her to squint away, her forehead creasing, adding to the killer headache wrecking her nervous system into a shuddering mess.

Could I get more pathetic? The answer’s no, BTW.

Slowly, she regained her senses. I must have fallen asleep. Standing up. My arms will be in agony later… and wasn’t that perfect? Something else to hide. Her blurred vision focused and she sighed, deflating. A little defeated. Something she couldn’t be, not now.

For a moment… I thought this was the nightmare, not the reality.

Five weeks. Barely.

It was how long Slade Wilson had been visiting her; visiting Felicity Smoak.

Just thinking those words is bad enough. The actuality of it was worse.

Visiting. Such a pretty word in comparison to what he was really doing. A lover’s word.

Lovers.

Sounds creepy no matter how you say it. Or think it.

And ‘lovers’ definitely did not define her new association with Slade. The very idea made her want to vomit. I might actually vomit if he doesn’t let me down soon.

Her energy was too spent to do more than briefly glance upwards – again, the light killed her retina’s - to see her hands shackled to the ceiling by rusting metal. How sanitary.

Her wrists were bruised and… torn. Dried blood streaked down her forearms.

Damn. There goes any chance of a quick morning nap – she’d have to scrub down for infections and bandage her wrists. And wear a long sleeved top. Maybe she should be grateful for the wave of rain and wind that hit Starling a few days before.

The room she was in, where once white washed, was now covered with grime and filth from neglect. It was where he sometimes brought her; there were other places too and where they went always depended on his mood. He always chose. If he were angry it would be this very room. I really hate this room. If he were feeling nostalgic he’d take her to the bay. I kind of get why Oliver doesn’t like boats now. If he felt particularly whimsical he’d stay in her apartment. Which was. So. Awesome. A place she no longer felt safe. Safe as houses? Never again. If he was curious - by far the worst of his flights of capricious fancy – he’d take her to an old factory.

She really hoped he wouldn’t again; not any time soon. The last time… I can’t do that yet; I need time. Please, just let me heal.

For once.

As if in agreement, a wave of pain rippled down her arms from the cuts on her wrists. She hissed, eyes squeezing shut when a low throbbing from her back made her bend over - made her knees shake. Keep it together. This is nothing new. Nothing you can’t handle. Just don’t fall asleep. Again.

It was a difficult order to obey.

But she hated waking up in any old place that Slade deemed worthy to put her whenever she fell unconscious. Like, say, Donahue’s corner; hooker central. That was not fun. Or the dead centre of the Glades were murders, rapists, pimps, mobsters and drug dealers roam aplenty. He’s nice like that…

Sadistic psychopath.

A psychopathic sadist who wouldn’t stop tormenting Oliver Queen.

A push here, a pull there, a rip, a tear… he wanted Oliver’s world to die slowly around him. Only… he’d chosen the wrong person to bring that about. Or at least that’s what I’d thought.

How conceited am I, really?

She’d recently discovered that her silence – the fact that she hadn’t made Oliver aware of Slade’s nightly visits to her – was exactly what Slade wanted. And she was so terrified to discover just why that was.

The cold air made her shakes worsen. He didn’t hold back this time.

It wasn’t difficult to remember every single moment of their time together. It slithered into her senses, snake-like. Unlike some victims who repress-

I’m a victim.

The thought was as much horrifying as it was hilarious. Victims don’t choose to be hurt. Like I chose.

That first week he broke her down, leaving her as nothing more than tears, terror and the trembling, tattered remnants of the wilful woman she’d believed herself to be. The urge to tell someone – to tell Oliver – had been so overwhelming she’d started suffering episodic anxiety attacks. Episodic paroxysmal anxiety.

The second week… pain. Just that. It’s all she remembered. Electroshock therapy, though there wasn’t much therapy involved. There was also a compound, which he wouldn’t explain to her, forced via injection – lethal – into wherever the hell he chose just to watch her scream her lungs out of her chest for ten minutes at a time. He was careful not to leave any obvious marks or evidence above the breastbone – the tip of her sternum - or below the waist, of their meetings.

The third week, the crying finally stopped. Not that tears didn’t come to bear with the pain but, in general, she’d stopped the sobbing, the cries, the weeping. Stopped screaming, stopped shouting out pain induced nonsense - sort of - stopped jolting at every surprise and sound. Stopped begging.

Stopped waiting for someone to notice that she was being tor-

Her eyes snapped shut at the rolling sickness in her stomach.

Tortured; just say it. I’ve been tortured… Her next breath was a whimper that she hated herself for. I can’t believe I’ve actually been tortured.

It wasn’t supposed to happen to her. It wasn’t supposed to happen to anyone but it definitively wasn’t supposed to happen to me.

Because Felicity… meant nothing.

In the real world – in the grand scheme of things really - she meant nothing. So her being tortured didn’t make sense, shouldn’t have been in the realm of possibility.

It had been just a few days after Slade’s visit to the Queen Mansion, three days where Oliver went from a happy – or as happy as a man who’s so incredibly lonely he’d get together with a woman who he argues with day in and day out – chappie to a fearful, brooding, grumbling, automaton and just a few days during which Felicity had noticed Diggle’s silent watch over her person – from inside his car at 4am - when Slade had initially visited her.

Five Weeks Ago…

…“What are you doing here, Dig?”

“Just keeping an eye on things.”

“Ok. And by things you mean my neck? The one you think Slade Wilson’s going to break in my sleep?”

“Yeah, something like that. Look I have extra security on Oliver’s mother. Roy’s keeping an eye on Thea; Sara’s staying close to laurel-”

“So I get you sitting outside my house like that Lacrosse player in my freshman year at college? …What? You know I had a life before you and Oliver, yeah? Right.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay, Felicity.”

“And I love you for it. But if Slade wants to kill me he can. There’s nothing you can do to stop him. So go home.”

She’d meant it.

Originally, she’d planned to wait a couple of hours – it was still black outside - before taking Digg coffee because she hadn’t wanted him to be aware of little she’d been sleeping herself.

There really was nothing he could have done to stop any of this from happening. He’d have just gotten himself killed. Slade had made sure she understood that much.

Hurrying inside, Felicity notched the deadbolt back in place. The coffee she’d forced down her gullet just minutes before, threatening to upheave. I’m going to be sick.

She took a slow, shallow breath – stop shaking, stop it - eyes staring through the floor as she worked to regain the modicum of courage she’d all but thrown at Dig in the car before turning to lean against her front door. She faced the interior; her living room.

Faced the man - the nightmare - lounging sedentary in her favourite seat. Invading her in every aspect but the obvious.

Dark eye – a solitary black pit beside his eyepatch – looked through her. “He’s gone.” It wasn’t a question and it took everything Felicity had not to unlock the door again and bolt for freedom.

I made John leave. God, why did I make him leave?

“What did you expect?” The tremble in her voice was palpable.

He heard it and his head tilted, ever so slightly. It hurt that it reminded her of the other head tilt-er in her life. The feelings that one provoked were far from the terror each of Slade Wilson’s simple movements incited.

“Honestly?” He queried, looking supremely unbothered by, oh, everything; but indulging her nonetheless. “I thought you’d scarper the first chance you got. Maybe you wouldn’t tell the indomitable Mr John Diggle,” the obvious disdain in his tone made her twitch, made her pounding heart squeeze because she’d made Mr Indomitable leave when she’d needed him most, “that I was here but maybe you’d… take a ride.”

His tone… and then the leer, the suggestion, both leaving little to the imagination as to what kind of ‘ride’ he was referring to, made the muscles in her neck clench.

Though feeling foolish for allowing herself to be alone with this man, Felicity knew that John wouldn’t have stopped if he’d discovered Oliver’s enemy in her living room. She deeply knew that: it was instinctive. And he would have died for it.

Still, her eyes closed because, how am I going to live through this? “We aren’t like that. Me and Dig.” She added, then pressed her lips together: she’d explained herself to him of all people.

He gave a lazy half-shrug as he looked about him, taking in every inch of her living room. Every inch of her. Invading her privacy. She shivered. Get out. Please. Just leave. “You can never tell. You think you know a person… but you never really do know them.” Though husky, deep and low; his voice wasn’t what you’d describe as a warm blanket of male sensuality and comfort. It was a grating ‘knife on wood’ sound that had the goose-bumps at the back of her neck bloom into a full blown anxious rash. “They show you their true colours and you’re stunned.” His eyes came back to her.

She didn’t say a word. What would she even say? What could she say? Or do? Except watch him, fixedly, like a doe freezing and waiting for the inevitable gunshot.

Oh, that was a metaphor I just had to use right now-

“Your home is lovely.”

She mentally halted, probably looking every bit as bulldozed-over as she felt. “I… what?”

“I’m paying you a compliment.” The way he said it, like he didn’t care what she thought but considered that she absolutely should care about what he thought…

It made her spine stiffen. “Forgive me if I don’t take anything you say the way you wish me to.” Her words and voice were small and brittle, and though there was an obvious boatload of real fear there, the iron couldn’t be denied either.

But then he smiled and her voice fled.

Like a shark.

Perfect white teeth sat behind a stretched smile. Like he’d rather stick a knife in her gut than smile. It was terrifying. Especially when his black eyes glittered, endlessly like quartz crystals; dark holes promising nothing but misery.

Oliver had been alone with this, with him, on an island in the North China sea. Taking another rattled breath she tried to straighten her back. And failed. Come on. Her body refused to move, as if she were prey knowingly in the presence of the predator that would eat her if she so much as twitched. This is not the animal kingdom and my living room is NOT the discovery channel.

It didn’t seem to matter.

Especially when he suddenly moved to stand, looming even as he stood several metres away. When she flinched she saw his smile twitch higher. Son of a bitch. Her heart was beating so fast she was stunned she hadn’t passed out. I am not dealing with this well; I am not dealing AT ALL. What would Sara do if she were here?

But she wasn’t. No one was. Felicity was on her own. With Slade Wilson. Heart in her throat she wondered why once more. Why was he here? In my apartment? It isn’t me he wants.

Waking up after four hours of sleep - even earlier than normal - she hadn’t guessed what would be waiting for her past her bedroom door. She thought she was safe, that out of everyone she would be safe. Slade didn’t know anything about her beyond that she was Oliver’s EA, if that even.

It had been four days since Oliver’s fragile hold on whatever peace he’d garnered these past two weeks had shattered.

I thought that… with his mother…

Telling Oliver that his mother was lying to him about Thea’s heritage had been bad enough; one of her worst memories. That he’d slept with Sara that same night hadn’t come as much of a shock. She’d almost expected exactly that to happen, or something in that area; knowing him the way she does. Even if Moira hadn’t. The woman had told her that Oliver would hate her. Turns out he didn’t. Nothing had changed.

He’d just slept with another woman. That same day.

I’m not touching the psychological ramifications of that.

Sex as a passive aggressive weapon against the women in his life.

Felicity would never downplay romance for Oliver with any woman – especially if that woman was Sara – for any reason. But the timing had been just… awful? A little disturbing? Telling of his character, of his life?

Sleeping with Sara allowed a certain weight to be lifted, allowed him to strike back at the world.

At his mother for lying - always lies - and defending those lies with a surreal diligence. At Laurel, who it should have worked out with but didn’t – because, whether he’ll ever admit it or not remains to be seen, she hadn’t been able to out-rightly choose between two men who were in love with her, with all parties seemingly incapable of moving on – costing them their closest friend. At Thea who he had to lie to now more than ever – how lonely to lie to the ones you love; I now understand that hurt – spending less and less time near her so as to avoid the subject best not spoken. Even at Sara herself for leaving so soon – for dying twice; another boat load of trauma, pun intended – and for the fact that Laurel wasn’t Sara and Sara wasn’t Laurel. Ouch.

And at himself – guilt over a past love, over this ‘Shado’ – for not saving her and maybe… for not loving her enough? For surviving when others didn’t.

At Felicity, who was always brutally honest with him. Even when he didn’t want to hear it, because she knew he had to.

Felicity understood Oliver in ways she almost wished she didn’t. Most of it because of the time they spent together in the foundry: time that had decreased recently but that was natural, being that he was in an open relationship and she was, well… not.

Sara’s definitely a healthier option, comparatively speaking to, oh I don’t know, every single one of his relationships prior to Slade’s arrival?

Sex as a gift from the planet to just be a man? And not be isolated. To feel warmth with another.

How could I ever wish that away from him?

It was why, after her initial terror stricken thought at seeing the Australian Commando seated quite comfortably against her cushions, she hadn’t made a mad dash for her phone to try and connect to Oliver. 

Even if every instinct in my body screamed at me to do just that.

Oliver was currently, very hopefully, holding a strawberry blonde goddess as they slept. Or, more realistically – Sara was sleeping and Oliver was on the Salmon ladder. Moments of peace during war were hard to find and she would be damned if she ruined it for him. This isn’t exactly a situation I can break free of like the Hulk and run to him anyway. But the moment Slade’s gone I. Am. There.

To blubber in his arms like a toddler.

But right now… Slade. In my living room. With the Mirakuru. Too much ‘Cluedo’.

She didn’t exactly want to call Oliver. Knowing he’d be unable to really do anything. The catch however was what Slade had said; the only thing he’d said before she’d made Dig leave.

“Your friend is outside. Either he leaves, alone, or he leaves with me.”

Alrighty then.

That had cinched it.

Abruptly, Slade’s predacious smile left him as she looked; his face once more its usual serious profile: piercing and dark. The difference was startling. It made her heart, currently in her throat, drop to the pit of her stomach.

After his visit to the Queen Mansion Felicity had worked on all cylinders for three days straight trying to find him. Seeing his face on her monitors every night wasn’t helping Oliver’s mood but she was sure she’d soon find something. Looks like that ‘something’ found me instead.

She almost jumped out of her skin when he spoke again.

“This room is very telling of who you are Miss Smoak.”

Eyes flickering from him to the room about her, Felicity didn’t say a word. What’s the point?

But he reacted as if she had. “Yes.” Moving closer to her fire-surrounding he reached out a hand – the other nestled calmly in his trouser pocket – to tease the edge of a little Buddha statue (she’d bought it because it was cute, not because she was superstitious). “You have no photographs.”

Her eyes flew back to him; relieved that he wasn’t fully facing her but her shallow breaths didn’t slow down at all.

“Most people have mementoes of their lives, their pasts; banal things that have no real significance save in the eyes of the beholder. You have none.”

He’s profiling me. Edging to her left she tried to start shimmying away from her front door, past the window-

“How unexpected.” Moving on, his fingers brushed the antique Robin Hood poster above his head. “This is a nice touch.”

Fearful agitation flared through her and she momentarily forgot herself. “Did you do a profile on me or something?”

“Not on you.” His quick answer surprised her: she’d half expected him to charge her. “John Diggle, yes. Even Quentin Lance and the diabolical Sebastian Blood. But not you.” He took a moment’s pause before continuing. “Roy Harper I didn’t count on,” he raised a hand, a finger lifted in point though he was still turned away, “but no matter. It has been amended.”

“Coming from you ‘amendment’ sounds more like ‘destruction’.”

The words just spilled out of her, to her horror and she watched, statue-like, only about a foot - cause that’s not pathetic or anything (think I can forgive myself just this once) - from where she was, as his hand went back into that pocket and his head bowed. She had no idea how to read the line of his shoulders but it sounded as though he was… huffing a chuckle. One with little humour.

She waited. Wide eyed. Dread curdling her stomach. I don’t know how to read him. And I don’t want him here.

It was like being surrounded by dry ice: she couldn’t move, breathe or think normally; fear being the prevailing element.

When he turned, it was with a cool step to the side; smooth but still intimidating. It brought him closer. Feeling so very backed into a corner, regardless of how much space was actually surrounding her – and she wasn’t standing in a corner at all – his presence was suffocating. Like she couldn’t escape to any space in her home and not feel him there. I don’t think bleach is going to cut it.

His eyebrow twitched; as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Bastard. “You don’t have to be so scared of me.” He said and she swallowed anyway. “I haven’t done you any harm yet.”

Yet.

God.

Her mouth snapped shut. Once she’d collected herself again she responded. “That’s less than reassuring.” She hated, hated, how pitiful she sounded.

The look he gave her was simple; a gesture that said… that he didn’t really give a crap. “Are you afraid right now because of the things I know Oliver has told you about me?” He advanced; slow steps that she knew he could lengthen easily. “Should I tell you things about him? Will your fear turn on Oliver next? It could. The things I could tell you…” Her back hit the wall and he shook his head, mournfully, as if she were the world’s greatest disappointment. “Would it be that easy?”

To turn me?

Staring up into his eye – hateful, cold – Felicity opened trembling lips and whispered to him. “There’s nothing you could say. Or do. That would turn me against him.”

An air of silence seemed to follow Slade around but the quietness felt violent now. As if he were using it as a weapon, just as skilfully as he would wield a blade or a gun. Or his hands.

She felt them for a moment, around her throat, as he stared down at her, indescribably hostile in every single way before he finally spoke.

“We’ll see.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t do anything. Except watch her. Head cocked sideways. He knew he could do anything he wanted, so why wasn’t he? Why wasn’t he doing what he wanted instead of staring at the way she pressed down on her lips, at the way her fingers moved in agitated circles against her thumbs, internally crumbling as she fought for external composure?

She lost that fight - a flinch and a blink - when he moved again, his hand lifting to trace a lock of her hair.

For the first time since his arrival, she stilled completely.

No.

He’d touched her. Barely a finger. Not even on her skin. But… it was there. The way his eyes moved over her, learning her; she knew he’d done that deliberately too.

“Everything about you is soft.” He muttered; his hand dropping as fast as it had risen. As if she had some contagious disease. But he’d still touched her.

For some reason, it felt as if he’d marked her. Like a taint.

It made her ask in a croak. “What do you want?” Get out.

He exhaled. “From you? Nothing, really. This is… an experiment, of sorts.”

“An experiment?”

He didn’t answer immediately; choosing instead to scrutinize how the light hit her hair.

Creepy.

“I didn’t just arrive in Starling and decide, ‘today is the day I will slowly crucify him’.” Oliver. “I planned this. To last. I… profiled, like you said.” He acknowledged, as if she’d accomplished a great thing. “Found that he had a new team; he had an old one too once, you know. I was a member. But this second team,” he hissed, as if they were all lacking some vital team ingredient and her chest hurt with the urge to snivel, “and the members were surprising. Until they weren’t.” His voice fell flat. As if he’d expected more. “John Diggle is my replacement. Laughable. Roy Harper; let’s just say it didn’t take three days to crack that skull. Criminality in Starling is abounding; it was easy to find people willing to spill on the lad. A street thug turned vigilante wanabe, now infected by Mirakuru, somehow leading him to the delusion that he is special. Sara, I fully expected to find. But not in Oliver’s bed.” He hadn’t looked away from her the whole time and she tried desperately not to blink away the wetness of her eyes as he poured a little of his venom into her. On the surface it was just words but beneath it all, the whole thing felt like a death threat. “Laurel Lance was the favoured sister. It seems I need more intel.”

“Maybe your sources are second rate.” Spilled out of her and his eyes flashed.

“Are you offering?”

Not a chance, but she didn’t speak. She just shook her head before licking her lips… and he watched. There was nothing there in his gaze. “Why are you telling me this?”

He didn’t speak immediately. Just stared her out and she began to think that maybe he didn’t realise he was doing it; that he really was as insane as he sounded and went through short moments of cognitive dysfunction.

“When I returned- no,” shaking his head his eyes finally left her, rising to some spot above her head; he was humongous, it wasn’t difficult to accomplish, “when he saw me – I’ve been in Starling for months now,” he actually explained, “I shocked him. It was intended. I also expected him to push away those closest to him as he tries to find me, knowing me the way he does…” It was a whisper, hitting her spine like a chill and she wondered about all the ways in which Oliver knew this man. “And he did. He has.” Nodding, muttering to himself as if he were alone he concluded. “I did not expect him to run to a bottle blonde IT girl who couldn’t touch a weapon to throw it away.”

It was spoken as a sigh. Everything about his expression screamed ‘I don’t understand’, before his gaze dropped back hers; a mere flicker of movement but powerful nonetheless. And his countenance… she finally placed it. His opinion – already so very low – was of the nature that mildly attractive brainiacs who clambered after Oliver on a daily basis, wearing glasses and two inch heels, had zero influence on the once playboy billionaire.

He was right though; Oliver had pushed Sara away. Literally the morning after he’d discovered Slade at the mansion, Felicity had caught them arguing, had heard snippets:

‘I don’t need to do anything right now except focus on Slade’

‘We don’t even know where he is’

‘Then I’ll find him’

‘Then we’ll find him’

‘I don’t want you involved’

‘Too late’

‘Sara-’

‘Did you sleep at all last night? You look awful-’

‘Not now Sara’

‘Then when Ollie?’

‘Not now’

But he’d had Felicity carrying out constant surveillance of the city and already she knew what he would do next: he’d go to his contacts in the Bratva. And stir up a hornets nest. She knew Oliver well enough to know that any interjection from her would be unwelcome. She knew… everything about him.

But she wouldn’t tell Slade; she wouldn’t explain to this man how she and Oliver trusted each other-

“Why would a girl, with an IQ surpassing all the members of the senior executive board at QI, work for someone like Oliver Queen?”

-Okay, that wasn’t the direction I expected him to go down.

“We’re partners.” She managed.

“Partners?” Yeah, he didn’t think much of that. “You.” He made it sound so ridiculous. “And why would Oliver,” and he’s continuing; fantastic, “choose you? There are several people he could have sought out to be his… guide, for lack of a better word. People with extensive backgrounds on analysing the morally repugnant.” Like you? She sorely wanted to spit the words out but her tongue had fixed to the roof of her mouth. “Why choose a girl, one with little experience in the horror lurking on this planet; a girl who fills her life with colour, in a way that Oliver cannot grasp?”

“And you can?”

“I wasn’t always a terrorist.”

Hysterically, she felt a laugh bubbling in her throat but her eyes still glittered with fearful tears. “Why does this even matter?”

“It matters because Oliver’s penchant for strong women doesn’t stretch to you.”

The air in her lungs left her like she’d been punched, hard, in her gut.

As though he sensed it he smiled; it was anything but kind.

“You’re soft. Weak. Easily broken.” Again, his head tilted. “Quaint. A pretty. Little. Girl.” Each word was spoken as if they were each a sentence unto themselves. “Not the stunning women Oliver’s been accumulating over his long lifetime of infidelity. Not the fighters with their own dark, wealth of history to match his own.” He gave her a quick once over and it was probably the most insulting look she’d been on the receiving end of. “The kid wouldn’t normally touch a girl like you to turn her away. From where I’m standing, you don’t make any sense in his world; Oliver Queen doesn’t do ‘friends’ with women.” He smirked at the double entendre. “He’s your friend because he doesn’t find you beguiling. You’re a tool.”

Punch after punch, after acid thrown… it was quiet in her head, it really was. But what felt like a chasm of insecurity, whispers of possibility and screams of heartache, or failure – of the past - opened up behind her spine; a great chasm filled with an alternate pain to physical.

Finally, a tear fell. She stood there, stunned, her words had been stolen into silence, a slow flowing lava rising inside her-

“Then again,” his voice was quiet, almost a murmur, “maybe I’m missing something.”

Softly, she blinked away the few tears she’d accumulated, that’s enough of that – I will not sniffle; her expression deadpan. Voice returned, though low. “I’m breathless to hear it.”

A chuckle left him. “I find it odd that that out of everyone he’d find stability in you. He’s already pushed away Sara: who better to aid him than an assassin? Or the war veteran with two tours in Afghanistan to preen over like a peacock? But, no, no, an IT expert will do just nicely. Security found in baby blues?”

She didn’t tell him.

Digital information was one of the few things Oliver could rely on right now to be accurate representations of truth. Numbers, facts, figures, appointments; they don’t lie quite as easily as people do.

“I think not.”

What did that even mean? When she opened her mouth to ask the crazy man in front of her make some sort of sense, he gave a tut.

“Consider this my proposition Miss Smoak.”

She frowned. “What proposition?”

Leaning ever so slightly closer, he stared her down. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

Her lips trembled, that isn’t an answer. “God, why? What is the point of this?” And, yes, she sounded a little hysterical. “I’ll just end up telling Oliver-”

“Oh please do. I’ll enjoy watching him try to stop me.”

His words shut her up faster than any gag.

“Watching how hard he’ll push to come after me once he finds out that because of him, I’ve been visiting you. During the night. Night after night.” Every ounce of courage she’d managed to regain liquefied; a cold-burning sensation toiling through her oesophagus. “And after he’s come at me in every way he can, stumbling as he spreads himself too thin, after I’ve destroyed each avenue for him to choose, after he’s realised he was never going to succeed, and after I’ve broken him down to his smallest parts… you can revel in the fact that it was you’re doing.”

No…

“How dare… you can’t- I won’t.” Her head was shaking as she stood toe to toe with him, “That will never-”

His hand, full and large blurred into colour within a centimetre of her face: his palm all she could see.

“Careful.” He whispered.

She gulped.

“Tell him, don’t tell him; I don’t care. I want him to know that his every effort is useless.

Then what was the point in all this secrecy?

He didn’t need to read minds to know where hers was as he pulled his hand away. “You should be more concerned about yourself. Is it you I will be visiting after all.”

Then she got it. Oliver wasn’t being tested. She was.

“You want me to tell him?” She asked, confused and shaken. What would that accomplish? “What do you mean by ‘visiting’?”

“Oh, you thought I meant for tea and light refreshments? For a chat?” He smiled again. “No. Understandable a thought – you’d definitely prefer that to the reality - but, no. I want you to consider something: you have a choice to make. Either I visit you or I visit Thea Queen.”

Horrified, she examined his expression for lies and found none.

“Or Laurel Lance.” She couldn’t form words. “Or Moira Queen. John Diggle. Roy Harper. Sara. The list isn’t exhaustive.”

She tried to ask again, she really did, what these visits would entail but-

“On each of these people I will exact a vengeance meant solely for Oliver. But you can save them all. Each time you choose me,” he made it sound so personal, like he was asking her to love him, “you’ll be saving them from pain, humiliation and terror. Oh, you’ll suffer for it,” he added, enjoying every twisted moment of how her eyes watered and enlarged, of her mouth remained open and silent, of each hill and valley of her face that screamed ‘help me’, “but maybe you’ll rise to the occasion knowing that you’re taking on this burden all by yourself.”

“That isn’t any choice.” No choice to make.

“Maybe not. But remember: after you’ve selected the person who I am to visit next, it’s your choice whether or not you tell your beloved Oliver Queen.”

We’ve been through this-

“-Knowing he can do nothing to stop me from continuing. And I will continue. Don’t question my resolve; you’ll lose. If you say no and I have to kidnap his sister, his mother… Miss Lance, I will.” He drawled; a derisive smirk playing on his lips. “It’ll drive him insane.”

The crowning touch.

It really would.

Her breaths were loud in her ear. Think; if you’re good at anything then you’re good about thinking, so think! She could tell Diggle- no, Dig would immediately tell Oliver and even if he brought in Lyla, Felicity figured – after two days of research – that Slade’s resources stretched far and wide. He’d accrued financial, military and management level backing from some secret source; no matter who they called in, it might not be enough. Not with Mirakuru running in his system; not if he’d allowed his sycophantic followers to share in his strength. And she couldn’t even imagine asking Sara to call in the League of Assassins. Like inviting the terror squad. It would do more harm than good.

I can’t tell him, she realised in a dumbfounded haze, I can’t tell Oliver. Slade’s right. It’ll destroy him; wondering who of his loved ones will be next and just what exactly Slade is doing to them.

She wouldn’t think about the ramifications of this proposal. The consequences of his visits. Just that she had no idea what to do next. “You hate him that much?” She breathed.

His head tilted. “I love Oliver.” Uh, what? “He’s like a brother to me. And hate is a side of the same coin. Like Caine did with Abel, some brothers need to be destroyed for their many evils Miss Smoak.” Then his expression turned from considering to completely emotionless. “He took away colour, made me blind, and made it so that I would never tell the woman that I love that I did love her. That I worshipped her every breath. Made it so that I would have to live in this world alone. Without her. Made it so that she could never grace this godforsaken earth with her children, as she so deserved.” His tone was grating, like metal against metal. “All because Oliver decided that Sara Lance was who he preferred to fuck.”

She flinched, felt it in her abdomen. Stop it. Oliver wouldn’t-

Oliver, what happened with Slade?

Me

Someone killed Shado

Slade loved Shado and it was my fault

What happened there… on Lian Yu?

Then he was twisting the handle to her front door, pulling it until a waft of cold air drifted in. It was still dark out. “It’s going to be a lovely day.” Taking a gander outdoors he turned back to her. “As I said; I’ll be seeing you again. What you say to Oliver… well, that’s up to you isn’t it? Either he knows and is damned or he doesn’t and he lives his life in blissful ignorance.” Sending her a smile that didn’t touch his eye – none of his smiles touched him there – he began to saunter down her drive.

“Why return?” To me? Why waste the energy to come to her?

She didn’t need to raise her voice; she knew he heard it.

Pausing down her drive, he spoke. “Sometimes the ingredients that make us who we are requires a closer look beneath the surface. And I’m intrigued with whom the kid keeps company with. I have plans; plans that involve all of the kid’s friends and family.” Looking briefly at her over his shoulder he met her eyes with stone. “This is yours.” There was a moment’s pause. “I wonder how high your tolerance is.” He muttered before leaving completely, a jaunty sound leaving him as he strolled.

He was whistling.

The idiosyncrasies of psychotic madmen. Bad-guys really do have their own theme tune.

She'd promptly closed the door - pausing momentarily as the shock kicked in - before racing to her bathroom to dry heave…

Present Day...

In the end her choice had been simple.

Tell Oliver and slowly watch as he loses it? Or: don’t tell Oliver and slowly watch as… as I lose it?

There had been no choice to make.

So here she was, weeks later – chained to the ceiling.

(And before anyone thinks it – and I know everyone did – this isn’t kinky foreplay.)

Her apparel was deliberately pitiful; a tattered, old hospital gown. They’d – Slade and his henchmen – disrobed her, a polite way of saying they’d stripped her bare, when she’d arrived. It was something she was now used to.

But she didn’t think he’d cane her.

He’d been angry. Again. Frustrated with something. The back of her thighs, her hips and waistline attested to this; it was becoming a more frequent occurrence; that he’d stray from her middle section. Like he just couldn’t help it.

And he’d talk to her, occasionally asking her questions - some oddly basic and banal. Others, obscenely personal and intrusive.

When all was said and done… if he’d blemished her, he’d softly stroke her skin. As if to say ‘well done’. ‘You survived another night’.

It always made her skin crawl, the way he’d appreciate the raised hairs on her arms. And legs. And neck. He’d blow on them softly, knowing that she was already freezing and enjoying the sight of her shuddering and shivering, of how her nipples tweaked the colder she became, of how she contracted into herself.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Maybe that was his problem; maybe the Mirakuru – having been a host for years - had a major impact on his mentality. Or at least, that’s what she’d originally thought; she hadn’t known enough about it in the beginning.

Now she knew he was beyond reason. Beyond forgiveness. On Oliver, on his family, he would do every single twisted want; every sick notion and desire played out in a constant loop in his head. He’d carry out every scene he’d dreamt of fulfilling, as if reading from a script, and twist the blade a little further into Oliver. He would do it all.

And smile.

Like he does with me.

Past the point of no return. The point of ‘if and when- okay, Felicity; rise and shine sweetie.

Huh… she was hearing her mother. I really must be losing it.

The door to the room opened then – typical; I regain conscious thought and he comes right on back – and Slade entered, a heavy exhale leaving him at her belligerent stare – more of a sleepy mope really – as if to say ‘are you going to cause trouble again’?

But, as he took out some old keys - the keys to her chains, he just uttered four little words that almost made her cry. “Time to go home.”

Because there was no such thing. Not anymore.

5am.

True to form, he’d taken her to her home. Instead of starting her day – instead of putting up that wall, applying her war paint and pretending her nights only existed in her nightmares – Felicity simply stood there, motionless, in her living room. Remembering.

‘Oliver, you need to come back. I know you’re about to have a meeting with your contacts in the Bratva but I have information you should hear before you do. You need come back to the Foundry. Now.’

That morning, one hour after her very first visit from Slade – still five weeks ago – she’d made her first lie. A small, white one. But a lie, nonetheless.

Because even though she actually hadn’t acquired any information Oliver could use to find Slade, she knew he was about to destroy a connection that might be needed in the future. Having contacts in the Russian Mafia could prove – already had - endlessly useful and, in the face of his despair, he was going to lose it. In knowing that his enemy – an enemy he couldn’t see or touch, who knew everything about him; an enemy far superior in strength and ruthless ability – was out there, that he could pop up anywhere and they’d be helpless against whatever threat he threw at them, that he could taunt and tease his way around Oliver’s life before striking like the python he is and taking something that Oliver held close; something dear and precious to him.

So… it was why she’d made him come back.

After Slade’s very first visit – with his proposal still ringing in her ears – she’d made it back to the Foundry in record time. Initially, her plan had been to spend a few hours just basically… loving herself. Taking a bath. Washing away the experience of finding him in her living room. Getting breakfast at her favourite coffee shop. Spending an hour reading in the dimly lit café; anything she didn’t normally get to do. Because she knew… she wouldn’t get to again for a very long time. Maybe not ever again. So it wouldn’t be selfish, right?

Except…

‘Either I visit you or I visit Thea Queen’

She couldn’t. It was impossible. She had to do something; something to fight him.

So in its place, she’d sat there; waiting for Oliver to return knowing he’d be mad as hell at her…

I can’t believe it was only five weeks ago…

Five Weeks Ago...

…She’d been there, in front of her monitors, her seat – her HQ for all intents and purposes - was her true home, her castle, in the Foundry. It usually provided a sense of stability; that she knew her place in Oliver’s world – she actually had a place that he’d mapped out just for her – and it was a place that would always be available.

Except now…

It wasn’t doing anything for her.

She’d been sitting, waiting. For 20 minutes.

I mean; 20 minutes was 20 minutes. Doable. But when you’re debating whether to tell your close friend, your partner – in every way but the obvious – and your comrade in arms, someone you know will be there through hell and high-water, that his enemy – an enemy he apparently created, I don’t believe that for a moment – had come to see her. Bold as brass before daybreak. At her house. In all his terrifying glory. To threaten her. To propose something so heinous she couldn’t think about it… it made 20 minutes feel unbearable. Like an itch you couldn’t scratch but times it by ten and maybe you’ll understand.

So she pushed up from the chair, quietly. It was barely dawn and Sara was still dead to the world, on the cot towards the latter end of the Foundry.

Oliver had been there. She could smell the soap she’d bought for him permeating the lair… and it didn’t help; picturing him showering, picturing him rolling in the hay with the strawberry-blond warrior.

But why hadn’t he taken Sara with him-

-I find it odd that that out of everyone he’d find stability in you. He’s already pushed away Sara: who better to aid him than an assassin? Or the war veteran with two tours in Afghanistan to preen over like a peacock? But, no, no, an IT expert will do just nicely. Security found in baby blues-

Stop it, Felicity.

Shaking her head, Felicity tip-toed up the staircase, making her way into the club that she knew would be utterly silent and empty. A lingering odour in the air from the night before – an amalgamation of light sweat and the sweet trace of spilt alcohol – made Felicity oddly aware of how alone she really was. Of how she hadn’t been, wouldn’t be, releasing herself from anxiety to party the night away; to be young, wild and free, even if just for a moment.

Taking a seat at the bar she eyed the various spirits and liquids behind it and, for the first time in her life, considered getting blind drunk before breakfast.

It wasn’t an answer but it was tempting.

I won’t fall into this trap. There was no way she’d let Slade get into her head like this. He’s only visited me once, how am I going to manage-

She’d already decided… hadn’t she?

For Slade to visit her. To not tell Oliver. Even though she desperately wanted to. All it came down to, for Felicity, was the fact that Oliver would never forgive himself if Thea was hurt by Slade’s hand.

He just… he wouldn’t survive the guilt.

For now – I mean, I have zero idea what his visits could mean – she’d keep her mouth shut and search for a way to bring Slade down.

Easier said than done.

Anyway, that’s where she remained – leaning against the bar with her head in her hands – as she waited. It was sort of peaceful…

Until Oliver slammed through the front doors.

Oops. Jolting, her hands fell away and she whipped around on her chair, her heart pounding to see Oliver marching towards her.

He looked livid.

Oh. Eyes narrowed – he looks so tired – they focused on her as he moved, pinning her down on the barstool. “You had a reason for me cancelling my meeting with the Bratva?” The words were barked out, but his voice was still low.

He didn’t want to wake Sara.

She flinched, eyes briefly flickering shut. “Well, I-”

“A meeting where,” he interrupted, coming to a halt to stand imperiously over her, making it so she had to crane her neck to see his eyes, “I might actually be able to get some solid intelligence on Slade’s whereabouts.” He bit out, glaring down at her; everything about his eyes were on the edge of some unknown precipice. “Since you haven’t been able to help in that arena, I thought it might be wise to do everything I could to expedite the process. Felicity.” Everything about his tone was scathing; deliberately hurtful. It told her one thing.

Oliver was petrified.

Still… it didn’t give him the right to be a jerk. She’d gone through his intimidation routine last year. She didn’t take it from him then, she wouldn’t take it from him now. Or in the future.

Definitely not after this morning.

Voice controlled, it was still surprisingly louder than she was expecting. “You done?”

The muscles in his face spasmed.

Eyebrows rising when his expression quickly ventured into beyond enraged territory – and strained; like he’d snap at any moment - she empathically stated. “I’m trying to help you here Oliver. You know me.” She tapped a finger against her chest. “You know that I wouldn’t have made you come back without having a damn good reason for doing so.” A reason she’d come up with about 60 seconds before he’d exploded through into Verdant. “Right?”

And she was right; he did know her – and he knew that.

She saw it in the flicker of repentance that flashed through his eyes but it was short lived; the tight set of his jaw and the luminous promise in his face extinguishing it; a promise that he was about 3 seconds from exploding at someone.

At her.

Because he knew – again, like she knew it too – that she could take it. And give it back in spades. Because she knew that he didn’t mean it, no matter what he said or how he said it.

What better way to rid himself of all that repressed anger – though it’s not so repressed right now.

Better question. Why wasn’t he sharing this anger with Sara? Not that she wanted her friend to deal with Oliver’s blunt edges but, being with someone meant accepting all those parts; it meant helping them through tough times. Why was he pushing the formidable woman away?

“Right?” She pressed; her tone telling him to cool it, pronto.

Gritting his teeth – the action visible through the skin above his lips – he forced a breath through his teeth.

She waited.

He stared right into her.

Then, his face stony, he blinked. Once. A ‘continue, please’. It actually made her feel better.

And it was better; helping Oliver through this made her forget about the fear she’d felt only an hour before.

“What you’re doing, right now?” She said; her voice quiet. Calm. “It’ll destroy a relationship we might need in future.”

“I’m not going to-” He started, with a furrowed brow.

“Go in there, guns blazing?”

If cynicism were an art form, the look on his face would have won first place in the Guinness book of records for ‘constantly aggrieved since birth’. “I don’t carry a gun.”

She cocked her head. It’s never stopped you before. Just that.

He took a deep breath. Followed by another. The only outward tell he had to convey he was ready to actually listen to her was the slight drop in tension in his shoulders. That was it.

That was all she needed. Thank you.

A deep breath helped steady her. “You’re upset…” she started and when he immediately pulled away, shaking his head – jaw clenched once again – she hurried forwards. “Which means you’ll get angry; it’s your go-to emotion whenever you’re feeling anxious-”

“I’m not anxious.” He pushed out.

“Or afraid.”

“I am not afraid of-”

“I’m afraid of Slade Wilson.” She was. I really am. And he’s going to visit me, because I’ve made a choice. “I’ve never met him,” get used to the lie, “but I’m still afraid of him. He’s a scary guy.” She said, as if commenting on the weather.

The words practically rang out in the space around them.

He stilled… and the slow twist in his expression, the heavy set of his brow, how dark and so very deep his regard was when he finally turned to face her fully, told her he was about to say the words. Those words.

The, I’ll keep you safe words. I’ll never let him hurt you. He won’t even get close to you. He’ll never know your name…

Too late.

And even if it wasn’t, she didn’t want his reassurance, wasn’t looking for a place to hide. She’d rather be unsafe and with him than very safe, without him. Being as ‘safe as houses’ was no longer a safety net, not for me.

She could see it on him; the added pressure, the burden of thinking – of knowing – that his past was literally coming back to haunt him; to threaten the ones he cares about, the guilt. The shame. And again, the anger.

She wasn’t so conceited to believe she was at the head of that curve, that she was on his priority list; it was absurd. But we’re friends; he and I. And she knew he cared; she’d felt that care quite strongly at certain moments in time. He would view her as one of the people he needed to protect. And that was something she couldn’t allow.

So, a reiteration was necessary.

“I’m afraid of him.” Now that she had his full attention – eye contact and everything – she was able to say it – in all seriousness, because she was; serious – and hopefully, make him believe it. “But he’s just a man; albeit a super human, military empowered, monetary enabled man,” she continued as a sound escaped him; one full of irritation and disbelief, “but he’s still just a man. And every man has an Achilles heel.”

“And in the meantime?” It was almost a snap – almost. He understood, she could tell, her underlying message. You can’t do this by yourself. “He may just be a man Felicity, but in the time it takes to find him it might already be too late for somebody.”

It already is.

Her gaze fluttered down. Don’t let him see. “And what are you going to do about that Oliver?”

Seeing his feet told her nothing but she could also see his hands. His fisted hands.

His voice was gruff. “You’re just telling me what I already know.”

“What do you know?”

Immediately he took a step back, away. From her. He didn’t speak and she could feel that he wouldn’t, regardless of what she said.

So she spoke. She said the words he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

“That you have no idea what to do?” Eyes slowly lifting from the floor – slowly, because she needed to build up the courage and squash down the sheer need lying just under her skin to fall into him and tell him everything she no longer could – she continued. Ignore those eyes. Ignore Slade’s words-

I did not expect him to run to a bottle blonde IT girl who couldn’t touch a weapon to throw it away

-And tell him. Tell him what he needs to hear.

“That inside you’re freaking out.” Stated so simply, he must have seen it – felt it – like he would an attack; everything about him was coiled, his face a scream. Oliver. “Because you know that he could target any one of us at any time and there would literally be nothing-

Knowing he can do nothing to stop me from continuing. It’ll drive him insane.

“-you can do to stop him?” Like he’d been punched, a breath broke out of him. It looked painful. It sounded like he a piece of him was dying inside. Listen to me Oliver. “Would working alone, pushing others away – would that make it less painful later? Me, Sara, Dig- we’re all right here. More than ready.” She tried for a caring smile but the backlash of emotion beneath made her lips tremble, made her have to swallow down her dread.

The muscles in his neck taut, his eyes flickered there. To her mouth.

She turned away briefly before he could catch it, eyes tracing the bar. “Anyway, since when do my plans suck?”

Silence was her answer.

Until…

“…You’re plan to catch Mathis was-”

“Neither here nor there.” Looking at him again – when she was composed – she caught the arched brow thrown her way on his otherwise un-amused face. “What? It worked. Or, it would have.”

His head tilted.

It was so different to Slade’s that her heart… broke. Into little pieces.

Pull it together.

Licking her dry lips, she gave a mock eye-roll; though inside she was shaking. “Okay, so some of my plans suck,” she lifted a finger to empathise and shot him a pointed look, “but all of my plans work.”

One last deep breath had his eyes closing. She felt it then; his acquiescence. It may not last, but for now, he would let her help. Good.

Thank God.

A hand came up over his face, rubbing over his eyes and dragging down. “Monetary enabled?” He muttered behind his palm.

She blinked.

Wiping away those barest traces of vulnerability, Oliver looked back at her; not quite calmly but much more level headed. “What did you mean?”

“Oh. I hacked into his account, his cards – even the car he drives.”

Eyes flickering over her face Oliver looked confused at best. Unimpressed at worst.

She shrugged. “Well he has to get around somehow. Also his account doesn’t have a known registration and when I tried to follow it,” she slashed her hands, “bupkis.”

“Felicity-”

Her hand raised in a silent indication of ‘wait’. “So I broke into the public’s security feed; you know, like on street corners – the camera feeds for roads cut off around 10^th and Seven – so I went for streets. He disappeared somewhere south of Queen’s Park. There are only two ways he could have gone but the area is pretty…” she slumped. “It’s big. Even if we had you canvassing the area every night, you’d never find him.”

The space in-between his brow was so deeply furrowed, she was surprised he hadn’t started with a nosebleed. “Then what’s the point?”

“I need to go out there and place my transmitters at specific points. I’ll need…” Biting on her bottom lip, she mentally tallied. And he waited. Patiently. Mostly. “Twelve. At least.” His grimace made her wince because, yeah, that could take hours. “Sorry, but… Oliver if I can’t find him, chances are the Bratva won’t be able to. That isn’t my ego talking either. And don’t you think,” she added at his sigh, “that Slade would make it his priority to target your resources?”

Like he’d targeted her. A resource. I’m just a resource to him.

As his finger tapped and rubbed against his thumb, she watched Oliver process. His forehead was still sharply focused; tension detailing just how much Slade Wilson was obviously his nightmare come to life for him.

“Fine.” He eventually muttered, nodding slightly and lifting his arm. “Come on.” His fingertips brushed her shoulder, a conversation all on its own.

She peered at him, confused.

“I’m coming with you.” Stated so forcefully, he left no room for refusal.

Obstinate man. “Oliver, you don’t-”

“Yes.” Eyes narrowed, his words were said with his body just as much as his voice. “I do.”

A contest of wills had them staring at each other for a minute or two… until she gave in. Simply because - by the way he hadn’t once softened, constantly on edge – he needed it.

Because his eyes begged. And they never begged.

She exhaled. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Blowing a fallen piece of fringe out of her eyes, she clipped the wire extension into the plastic case hiding her mini – but powerful – weather resistant camera. “Did you get it?”

“Got it.” Connected by their com links, they were able to set up her surveillance pieces two at a time. “You done?”

Stepping back from the lamppost, Felicity eyed her work. “I think that’s as good as I’m going to get it.” There weren’t many places to place her equipment that wouldn’t get them stolen or vandalised… it was the Glades after all.

“Are these the last ones?”

“Kind of. I said 12 because I literally only had 12 cameras to spare.”

“It’s a big area…” Leaving his mutter hanging - because he didn’t need explain that even though there were now eyes on an zone in Starling previously invisible, maybe they didn’t have enough coverage – he said, “Head back to the car; I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Seen something you like?” She asked, walking across near empty lot towards the vehicle parked just round the corner. Oliver’s car, not hers. He’d made her take it, meaning he had to walk – run, sprint - to half the places she’d sent him and he’d done it without complaint; as if having something solid to do about Slade helped him prioritise his emotions.

“Kind of.” By his tone alone she could he was distracted by something. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he added before cutting the line.

Ten minutes later, Oliver joined her inside the car where she’d been… fretting. Thinking far too much about Slade Wilson and his promises… Will he actually visit me? Tonight? Tomorrow? Or was it just an empty threat to put me on my toes- to put Oliver through his specialised version of hell?

It didn’t feel real.

But her flinch, when Oliver suddenly pulled open the passenger door to her right, was very real.

Focusing on closing the door, he didn’t see it - thankfully – and, as she pulled out of the alcove they’d parked in, she heard him give the loudest exhale of the morning.

“I think he’s been here.”

She blinked at him – briefly because, well, driving and all. “What did you find?”

“There’s an automobile place down on Lexington. It’s shut down, boarded up. But someone recently did business there. Dumped license plates, welding and an abandoned Mercedes.” He added at her frown.

Mercedes? “What makes you think it’s Slade’s doing?”

“His car – the one he drove to the mansion - was a Mercedes.” Voice quiet, lethal, he gazed out the side window. Thinking about the memory of Slade Wilson violating his family’s personal space near killing him inside. “I recognised the license plate. It was thrown in with some used parts.”

Nodding, “Right,” Felicity puffed out a breath; her cheeks bloating momentarily-

“You were right.”

Blinking, she turned to look at him, already finding him looking back. “I-uh, what?”

His eyes, eyes that had been stone cold since he’d burst into Verdant, had mellowed. “You were right.” And his voice was almost a whisper and, adding to his very masculine maleness, was… really nice. Soothing, especially now.

Still, it didn’t mean she wasn’t stunned at the admission. “About what?”

“The Bratva don’t operate in or around this area.”

“Yeah, you said the Triad are top dogs here.”

“Yes.” Licking his lips, pressing them together, he gestured out the window. “They wouldn’t have ventured out here. They wouldn’t have known. Thanks to you, we now have eyes on the place.”

Blown. Away.

“An ‘I was right’ and a ‘thank you’?” She knew she was smiling, even with everything. And if her voice was gentle and low, if it was a little (just a little) flirtatious – kittenish, really, because were friends - well… that was all his fault. “I should really be recording this.”

Eyes that had been gazing into the headboard trailed across the panel until they hit her. A brow arched. He didn’t say a word.

She pressed her lips together, desperately trying to halt her smile. And failing. Miserably – but happily – failing.

Maybe he understood, maybe he needed to or maybe… he liked how her eyes were pleasantly warm, gratified and playful. Like his were becoming.

It would be asking far too much for an actual smile given his mood – given Slade – but the fact that the side of his mouth had turned up slightly, that his eyes began to change with it…

A buzz from his phone brought the moment to a crashing halt – crashing because the distance between their car and another, since it was roughly 9:10am, was a close thing, oopsie – and he took it out of his pocket, checking the screen.

Frowning down at it, suddenly silent in more ways than one, he swiped across the screen to ignore the call.

Uh oh.

Tentatively she took a stab at a guess. “Sara?”

Placing his phone back in his pocket, he didn’t say a word, his stare unaffected through the window. Closed off.

Guess correct. “Sara wouldn’t appreciate being kept out of this Oliver-”

“Sara would appreciate being alive.” He cut in. He sounded so hard. “She’d-”

“I said earlier,” she spoke over him – two can play that game, “that pushing away the people that you care for wouldn’t make anything that might happen in the future any less difficult to bear.” She reminded him, as comforting as she could be.

Everything about him tightened; something inside of him struggling and she knew what it was. He understood where she was coming from but it was so difficult for him to go against his natural instinct to simply loath himself. To deny himself even the simplest of pleasures in life. To protect others by pushing them away. It was a cruel way to love, for both himself and those around him.

I need to tip the scales. “In fact it would make it worse; you’d just regret the time not taken with them,” because if anyone deserved a love life or a social life; it was Oliver Queen.

Finally, he looked back at her and he asked. “And if they get hurt?” And it was rough, his voice. “Because they’re with me?”

Oh God…

“You… you aren’t at the root of all the bad things that happen.” Full of compassion, she searched his eyes - they were so sad – and laid it out on the theoretical table.  “They’ll still get hurt if you’re not.” She watched as he took a breath, heavy and wretched. “It’s worth it Oliver.”

“And if you get hurt?”

Thrown, her mouth opened, closed and she shook her head with a frown as if to say, and? He didn’t seem any more impressed by this than by her subsequent smile and innocent blink.

Eyes fixed on her, telling her so many things – the foremost being to listen, almost had her missing the stop sign. “I need the people around me safe.” Glancing away and back to the road, she slowed as he continued. “To know that they’ll be safe. And this…” With half a head shake he trailed off and she could see in her peripheral as he looked away, unable to stand the thought that everyone he knew was a target by a man from his past. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to keep everyone safe if they’re so close to me.”

“Then don’t try. Oliver,” she added at his breathless, humourless chuckle – denial isn’t just a river in Egypt – and decided that driving whilst convincing an Oliver Queen in full ‘guilt Arrow’ mode was a lesson in skill she did not possess with any confidence to succeed in.

Pulling over, she caught his inquisitive glance and held him there with her eyes. “If you push us all away, it’s going to break.” She didn’t need to explain what ‘it’ was, their system, their crime fighting escapades; he already knew. “Then we’ll all be alone, including you.” Why can’t he see that? “It’s like deliberately making sure that when the time comes, we all die.”

He winced, eyes briefly flickering away from her.

“We’re all adults Oliver and we’re more than capable of choosing for ourselves whether we stay or leave. Do you see any of us actually leaving?” Eyebrows raised, she waited for a reply yet received only silence. “Do you see Sara leaving?” Staring down, somewhere past her knees, he remained stoic.

So it was a shock for her – like, she actually jumped in her seat – when he spoke, his voice as testament to I’m having a bad day. “Sara would leave. If she wanted to leave, she’d leave.” He admitted, as if he were actually planning to make this a reality. “There are places she can go…”

“Really?” She asked quietly. “Out of all of us, she’s the most equipped – excluding you – to deal with this and you want to make her leave the team?” Make her leave you? “After she’s only just joined? Sara?”

One gentle blink after another, she waited; watching him take it in.

“Sara isn’t…” he began, before clearing his throat. “I need to speak to John; maybe get him to spend time with his nephew for a while.”

“Oliver…”

As if knowing – he really did – he was slow to look at her and when he did it was both hard and wretched.

“Do you see John listening to you?” She asked. “Do you see yourself making your mother leave? Or Thea?”

Eyes closing, he rubbed a hand over his face.

“Do you see me leaving?”

Please don’t say-

“No.” His eyes were covered by his hand but the mutter was heard nonetheless.

Softening, she sighed. “It’s pointless.” It really was, especially since she had first-hand knowledge to how far gone this whole thing already was. “A waste of time; time we don’t have enough of.” Looking him over, she watched his head lean back against the seat.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak… his chest contracted and held steady for so long she almost reached out to him before a surprisingly shallow breath left him. Then, as the muscles in his arms loosened, it was like he’d suddenly found it in him to relax.

“He’ll come after her.” He eventually whispered, and her throat dried. “After what happened on the island… If there’s anyone he’ll target, it’ll be Sara.”

He said it so decisively, as if there was never any doubt.

…A part of her wanted to scream at him for how very wrong he was. God, why did that hurt so much?

“I need to take precautions but,” he began – with his eyes closed he couldn’t see how she’d paled, how she’d turned away to face the window, how she was taking the time to regroup after such a simple statement from him had sent tremors through her – and paused momentarily before continuing, “there is no defence against someone like him.”

And the lack of control is something you can’t stand?

It was with dry, dark humour that Felicity smiled. Do I believe I have even a modicum of control here, with Slade’s request? I’m going to say yes, but… am I really saving anyone?

“It’s the hardest thing to give up control.” She supposed, after a full five minutes of silence. “I know I’m not like you guys,” she spoke down to her hands, where her fingers played with her seat belt, “but it doesn’t mean I don’t understand the risks.” Eyes flickering back up to his face she saw him observing, unseeingly, the outside world through the front window. “It doesn’t mean I don’t understand you. You want so much to keep everything covered in bubble wrap, you want to believe so much that you can…” insinuating how big an idiot he was for trying… and yep, that was a glare, “even though you’ve been proven, over and over again how ridiculous an expectation that is in real life, you still want to try. And it’s great, really, how much you care about people – even strangers – but,” she shook her head, an exasperated smile dominating her features. “That’s not how this works. That’s never been how this works.”

“Then what do I do?” If there was anything she hadn’t expected, it was this; Oliver pleading. To her. “I’ve thought about every angle, I’ve looked everywhere for a solution but…” and he sounded so lost, right then, “I don’t know what to do.” With another shallow breath he turned to her; his eyes, head and body leaning in her direction. “What do I do?”

She blinked, still smiling – and it was for him, her smile – with her brow a little crinkled. “You’re asking me?”

“You were the one with the idea to survey a corner of the Glades based on information you obtained on a hunch.” Never before had she seen him look at her with such intensity, he’s completely serious. “And it’s something.” He stressed, holding her there with him, making her hear him. “It’s something that might actually allow me to…” searching for a word, he shifted; his eyes fluttering over the interior of the car, “to sleep.” So worn-out with his world, his face crumpled with the half deprecating, half incredulous smile. “Something to focus on.”

She swallowed because Jesus. “On that note.” Inhale, exhale. “Oliver. Thea’s cell phone.”

Confusion briefly brushed away at the stress of the situation. “What?”

“We need to put a GPS tracker on your sister’s mobile; and by ‘we’ I mean, you.” Reaching in the backseat for her bag, her hand rummaged through the front compartment before pulling out the tiny nodule. “I’ve already got it ready. You just need to slip it in her phone.”

Eyes moving from her face to her hand, he plucked the tiny device off her palm, seemingly assessing it.

“There’s one for your mother too.” Felicity added, under her breath.

His mother was a touchy subject after all.

But he simply hummed. “Hmm.” Pocketing it, he didn’t ask for his mother’s.

“We can get Dig to put it on her driver.” She mumbled. Or something.

He nodded. Once. Taking a moment, he breathed… Then his eyes and head searched behind her.

“Coffee.” He muttered.

She gave him a loquacious; “huh?” before looking out of the window herself and promptly chuckling at how well her body understood the needs of her brain.

They were parked outside of her favourite coffee shop.

Smiling, she turned back to him. “Want some?”

“Yes.” He reached for the door handle – being all devil may care he never wore a seat belt – before pausing. “I’m buying.”

Swiping her hands – my college professor told me my excessive use of physical expression might get ahead of me one day – through the air, she puffed out her cheeks with a happy anticipatory breath. Coffee, coffee, coffee.  “You’ll get no complaints from me.”

He didn’t smile. But he did look better, at least in comparison to how he’d looked a couple of hours before.

I’d call that a win.

His curious frown, as they stepped form the car, had her realising she’d said that out loud.

“Er…” she floundered. “Free coffee!” She offered in flamboyant enthusiasm.

His slight eye roll gentled his otherwise – still quite sharp – exterior.

Definitely a win…

Present Day...

Now, weeks later – in the present - it was the reason why she suddenly started moving again; the prospect of him smiling.

Walking, as if in a dream, Felicity wandered towards her bathroom; ignoring the stinging ache that a cane against skin can create. She concentrated on other things.

Oliver’s smile.

These five weeks he’d tumbled in and around a pacifying sort of ‘existence’.

Pacifying. Good word. Appropriate.

He wasn’t… happy. Not exactly. More of a borderline calm – an acceptable state. The same acceptable state he’d been under the previous year. Were he’d lived his life to honour the dead, his father.

Since that morning, he’d maintained a slight distance… not from her. But to others. An emotional coiling. Because there were so many areas in his life that needed his attention; attention retracted from the time he wanted to – needed to – hunt Slade Wilson. And there were many forms of strain.

Under constant pressure to heal QC from the inside out whilst keeping a handle on Isabel and her odd surge of compassion towards him since their Russian interlude? Hiding a multitude of secrets – secrets he viewed as sins – from Thea: that her Mirakuru infected boyfriend was working with him, that her father wasn’t his father – talk about adolescent trauma.

Staying clear of his mother; a woman who he both loved and subsequently hated right now.

But the most stressful, Felicity viewed – excluding Slade – wasn’t any of this.

Odd to say that this was a reason but Oliver had endeavoured to remain cordial with Laurel Lance who had been popping in and out of Verdant to speak with her sister. And the strain was beginning to show, because where it normally wouldn’t have aggrieved him to see her, almost every single time she showed up, Laurel would pull Oliver aside to speak to him on what he was doing with her sister.

Sara.

After their coffee – which he did indeed pay for, including a pastry she’d been salivating over – they’d gone back to the Foundry, where she’d left him alone with his girlfriend.

She’d given them… 20 minutes? Close to half an hour where she’d texted Digg, who was with Lyla somewhere and, more importantly, nowhere near her house or Slade. Half an hour where she’d finished her perfect breakfast whilst linking the new feed to her tablet to monitor. A period of time where she tried not to think about the sex those two downstairs were probably having…

There comes a point where you’ve just got to stop Felicity…

But… when she heard the door leading downstairs open, Sara had stepped through; fully clothed and… somewhat absent. Troubled.

“You okay?” Felicity had asked her, concerned.

With this small smile on her face, Sara had shook her head. “I’m okay; don’t worry about me.”

“I worry about everyone. Everyone includes you.”

Pausing in her movements, Sara - already behind the bar – had just stared at her.

“What?”

“He’s been pushing me away, the past few days, afraid that Slade would come down harder on me for being with him than if I weren’t.”

Already having known this, Felicity had simply nodded.

“I don’t know what you did but,” she’d gestured behind her, “he’s letting me in again.” Leaning over the bar, Sara then grasped her hand. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Still smiling, Felicity remember holding on and speaking pointedly. “Yet, you still look troubled.” She’d pressed her lips together at how Sara had suddenly pulled back; emotionally, not physically – and Felicity had waited until the woman grew used to her inspection. “Anything I can do?”

Eyes crinkling slightly, Sara then answered, “No.”

But ten minutes after that – ten minutes after Felicity had gone downstairs to find Oliver on the salmon ladder – Laurel had walked into Verdant.

Seeing her on the camera, Felicity had pointed it out to Oliver; immediately thinking he’d called her.

But, leaning on one leg, he’d stared at the screen in total disbelief.

…She’d been very wrong.

Seeing him standing there, looking like he’d just seen his sister get run over by a car, Felicity had approached – reaching out to bring him back, because he wasn’t there with her in the Foundry.

As if sensing her there he’d turned, escaping her proximity.

“It’s fine.” He’d muttered. 

It really hadn’t been.

And Felicity had been confused by the disparity between Sara’s obvious happiness at Oliver literally coming home to her with her calling her sister… because it wasn’t until much later, two weeks later, that she realised.

Sara had called Laurel, and she only ever did so when she and Oliver were in trouble.

And by in trouble I mean their relationship, not actual trouble.

He’d gone downstairs to let Sara back in and Sara had… called her sister for a heart to heart? Add to that, Oliver’s hurt expression and Felicity figured that all wasn’t at all what it seemed.

Not to mention that it was probably the worst idea in the history of ideas to have the ex-girlfriend commenting on the current girlfriend’s relationship with her ex-boyfriend who was now dating her sister, the girlfriend in question.

Saying like that makes it sound so toxic.

Though, in a way, it was.

Felicity knew Oliver.

The look on his face… he’d been flabbergasted at Sara for bringing in her sister. Floored. Like, he hadn’t thought she’d go that far.

Because he thought they’d be fine? Because he thought they could handle it – whatever ‘it’ was - without outside intervention?

But they did that a lot. They argued. And after they argued… in comes Laurel.

He has so much to contend with… She just wanted him to smile. To see it, just once. It held power that smile. Over her, into her… surely it would give her the strength to be brave for one more day. To be stronger. To last longer….

In the shower she stood still again, watching the water run in rivulets down her legs.

A small amount of red trickled down her side… so that’s why it smarts. He’d broken the skin.

Desensitized.

She really was.

If he’d started with the cane, on the first night, Felicity would have gone straight to Oliver. She’d have considered it a step too far in the wrong direction. But Slade Wilson… he’d been smart. Beginning by emotionally terrorizing her; pulling down her shields and defences one by one… like a frog in a pan of gradually heating water.

Until she accepted. Until she acknowledged that she’d chosen… she deserved-

Her eyes squeezed shut under the spray. Those were his words.

After an intermittent period of time that Slade had deemed pertinent, he’d pulled out torture.

And she’d been fine with it… well, as fine as she could be. As in, ‘not at all fine’ but, she still hadn’t thought of saying anything. She’d considered it, quite strongly in fact.

But she couldn’t do that, not anymore. The idea of Oliver discovering… no. He’d be so hurt. That she was in pain. That she hadn’t told him; had hidden it from him…

If the shoe was on the other foot, she’d be devastated.

But she was in love with him.

So she couldn’t say a word.

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some madness in reason.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Chapter Text

(Picture by the Amaze-balls Candykizzes24)

I look like hell.

Whether she truly did or not, remained to be seen but…It’s been three days.

A three day stretch of blunt pain at her sides, the cane having left bruising that was… extensive. Aching. She’d studiously avoided looking in the mirror but as usual her brain held a picture perfect image of the damage done. It wasn’t pretty.

As usual she still ran through her morning routine, cleansing and toning until she felt that place of normalcy settle upon her.

It wasn’t that she was lying to herself: the whole time, as she saw her face in the mirror, she’d tell herself to move. To walk forwards. To leave her house with her head held high.

Wasn’t that the ultimate insult to Slade Wilson?

Taking a deep – not quite as fortifying as she’d hoped for – breath, her nose crinkled.

But I still… I don’t look the same.

It was getting to her now; her appearance. How it wasn’t easy anymore to look like she’d slept a full night’s sleep. A full night meaning 6 hours. Felicity wasn’t a vain person but she took pride in her appearance always. It was different now.

Somewhat pasty, the skin under her eyes were gaining that slight grey finish to them - coffee will fix that - and the emphasised outline to her jaw and cheek bones, because of the few pounds she’d lost, just a few, were more apparent to her today.

When she was smiling and radiant, it was imperceptible. But when she was tired, so very tired, this was incredibly noticeable. Like right now.

And as each week passed, her exhaustion incrementally increased. As was natural.

“Like hammered shit.”

Her chest pulled, eyes flickering away from her image in the mirror.

Not the squishiest of phrases.                                                           

It was something she’d heard used once or twice by a friend. By Tommy Merlyn; who’d heard it in a movie and decided it sounded good enough to make his own.

She’d known him once, known Tommy. Thomas. Tom, he’d always wanted someone to call him Tom because he thought it sounded innocuous, briefly. Slightly awkwardly.

Until it suddenly wasn’t.

Until they were drinking from each other’s self-pitying wishing wells, nursing the stings of each other’s unrequited wants, wishes and needs, shouldering a hurt so much like their own that they found it didn’t really hurt any more.

And then they’d laugh, over everything about the other. Any idiosyncrasies - her super nerdy status and the fact that he was a closet Sci-Fi fan - or old tales to tell, any weird quirks and habits...

They’d been friends. Just friends. Oddly, neither had considered the clearly available alternative. Not once, not ever. No way. Not even when those they loved were very obviously not in love with them. Complicated histories notwithstanding, there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was getting between that particular love triangle. Like stepping on a landmine, which I did come to think of it. Lian Yu. Good times. Treasured memories.

It had helped having someone who got it.

So in turn, she got him by not telling Oliver that he’d turned up at her door at 3am once because he was blind drunk, begging her to stop him from dropping to his knees before Laurel and proposing - with a sparkling diamond ring that made her eyes water and her hand feel five pounds heavier - just days after he broke off their relationship. Because he’d missed Laurel, so much so that he couldn’t help painting a very detailed picture of the many reasons why he did so, things I’d have preferred never hear, since Oliver probably enjoyed the same traits in her that Tommy had. Super. One of Tommy’s reasons primarily being because Laurel made him feel whole. Because he’d felt like a fool just as much as he felt like he was doing the right thing by leaving her.

Knowing that laurel would always remember him leaving sooner than she’d ever understand his reasons for why.

Felicity would also never explain that Tommy had gone to her one night at the club when Oliver wasn’t around. He’d taken her to his office during a rave - and on a Friday night it was the equivalent to a Motley Crew concert- to ply her with expensive wine and decadently crafted chocolates, just so that she would listen to his laments and let him rest his head on her lap... or that he’d almost cried when she’d said he didn’t need to get her drunk to buy her affection or her shoulder or her ear. Though she absolutely ate the chocolates. They were an upper class level of deliciousness, which should be a given considering he’d paid $40 for them. For chocolates. Laurel had been a lucky girl. Or that after he was settled with her - a bottle of wine, 3 vodka shots and a bag of peanuts later - he’d confessed that he’d wondered how much better his life would have been if Oliver had never left on the Gambit in the first place. And worse still.

If Oliver had never returned at all.

She’d never tell Oliver how Tommy had been the one to hold her after Roy was kidnapped by Joseph Falk.

Never speak a word of how Tommy told her that Felicity was a wish too far out for a man like ‘Ollie’ to reach.

And she’d never tell Oliver that, before he died, Tommy had called her. And how his words - his desperately sad and regretful voice - made her bleed inside and weep. And love a man who she’d had too young a friendship with, a man who’d deserved more than he’d ever received. How she’d saved his words, forever immortalised on her phone and on her computer. Because it was beautiful:

“Tommy?”

“Hey.”

“…Tell me you’re not in the Glades.”

“I would, but it’d be a lie.”

“Tommy-”

“No, listen to me Felicity-“

“Get out of there!”

“I can’t, the city’s coming down and I might not make it out-”

“Exactly! At least come to the Foundry-”

“But you just told me Laurel’s in CNRI and I can’t just... It’ll be worth it.”

“Wait a second, I’ll-”

“It’s my choice. Just like leaving her in the first place was my choice - the worst fucking mistake of my life kind of choice - and hating Ollie was also my choice instead of finding my way back to him, to my brother. And he’s not going to get there in time is he? There’s a whole city out there for him to protect; he doesn’t need to be worrying about his friends who didn’t listen to him...”

“He doesn’t think like that.”

“But if something happens he’ll blame himself for it, won’t he?”

“Unfortunately, he thinks like that a lot.”

“Maybe if I’d believed him about my dad, if I’d helped him, none of this would have happened. But it’s done. I can’t change the things I’ve said.”

“Tommy, Oliver would never see it that way.”

“I know. You’re right. You were right, back then. About me and Laurel and Oliver. We’re all idiots, Felicity. We’ve practically killed each other. God help you but he’s going to need you.”

“Tommy, now isn’t the-”

“No, will you do something for me? Felicity?”

“…Yeah?”

“Be there. Just be there, let him know you’re there. Kick his ass when he needs it and hold him up for me when he doesn’t, okay? Whatever happens here, make him see how much more he already is than what he sees right now. And I’ve helped him see the worst in who he’s become, but… I didn’t think. I didn’t think Felicity! I didn’t realise that years, years, spent fighting for survival changes a person. We, me and Laurel, we’re so lucky he is who he is. Could you imagine what he could have been like? How bad he could have been? I called him a murderer. But he’s not, is he? He’s killed people but he doesn’t aim for it, does he? You’d know, right? You’ve seen him in action; he doesn’t aim to take lives, does he?”

“No… he doesn’t do that.”

“All those people he’s helped, whether he meant to or not, it means something. Something bigger. Something more. You said that; you said he was becoming something else, something that couldn’t be destroyed. An ideal. Someone to look up to in a city that desperately needs a wakeup call. I fell short of being the hero I wanted Laurel to see me as. Maybe he can change that too. Maybe he can make her believe…”

“Tommy, you’re making it sound like something’s going to happen to you and I am not okay with that. What about Oliver? He wouldn’t be either. He’d be devastated knowing you were talking like this.”

“There you go again, thinking about him. About me.I’m not writing myself off babe, I’m just saying that, if this all goes to hell, tell him. Be there. He’ll be hard work but if there’s anyone who can make him see straight, it’s you. You made me see too. You can make anybody see. Hell, if I’d been smart, I’d have fallen for someone like you instead of Laurel. But you’re Oliver’s girl. And you always will be.”

“Tommy…”

“Don’t ever change. Make him want to keep you there. Show him that light I keep all for myself when I’m with you. He already sees it, you know. He just ignores it, because it hurts to look at. Smoak gets in his eyes. Corny, I know. But... tell him for me. Tell him to live. No matter what happens, tell him he deserves to live. Taking on the burdens of others is no choice to make. Tell him I love him. Will you do that?”

“Of course.”

She’d never gotten the chance to do that. He’d – Oliver – vanished just after the funeral.

And after? It just… hadn’t felt right.

Felicity missed him too. As brief a friendship as they’d had, she missed him. But more than that, she’d missed him for Oliver. Missed him in all the ways Oliver didn’t allow himself to miss him. In ways that it would mean he deserved kindness in return and that wasn’t something he could accept yet.

Eyes back to the mirror, she watched as her hands moved on auto-pilot; crafting her hair into a complicated little knot that somehow softened her features even though she wasn’t trying to be soft. A few ringlets bounced at the sides of her face. No dress for her today; black pants, tight, form fitting. Comfortable.

They hid marks.

A long sleeved, cream and cotton shirt that completely covered both her wrists. Her arrowhead bar with simple silver ringed earrings.

Felicity focused on what she was doing and why. Why it was important. Why she placed all of her care on looking the way she did, the way she does. Every morning. To be a specific person, a person she liked and respected; the person she was. Her true self that couldn’t - wouldn’t - be buried by Slade’s machinations. Colourful. Bright. Serene. Without nightmares badgering her doorstep. Reliable.

The person she had to fight to continue to be every day, the person she wanted to remain as. The person who had become the perfect mask.

A person who was strong.

It was a war.

War isn’t always exacted out on a battle field. It didn’t always involve violence. It didn’t always feature large groups of people. Wasn’t always a confrontation between two. Sometimes it lived solely in an individual. Sometimes it was from within; a conflict of contradicting thoughts and feelings. A battle of shaking hands and resolve, of fear and courage, of a pale face in a bathroom mirror and each attempt to bring some colour into it that didn’t scream ‘somebody save me’.

Clean up. Make up. Perfume, glasses…

It was Felicity’s routine for after.

After Slade. After the fact. After every night... every hunt. It suited, in a way, that word. Hunted. She was every bit as much prey as he was predator.

A cleansing ritual of sorts. It was her way of picking up the pieces of herself that had dropped off during the night. Her resolve. Her smile.

But it won’t be long now.

True.

She was so close.

So close to a breakthrough, so close to getting him.

Shaking her head –not the time – she applied a light amount of foundation but no lipstick. She wasn’t in the mood for it. Getting Oliver to call in at QC won’t be a cake walk and I think he’ll notice if his EA isn’t-

-she stopped, brain frozen. Realising.

It was Sunday.

Blinking at her reflection, she then peered round the doorway to see the digital clock next to her bed. It was indeed Sunday. It’d been so hectic recently that she’d missed a day. Or three.

Sunday was her day of rest.

Oh.

It was like she suddenly remembered how to breathe again.

Taking a step back, then two, until her butt reached the cabinet at her back, every single part of her drooped in relieved. Her heart, so tight in its hold, suddenly eased and she felt almost light-headed.

Thank God.

Eventually, she slouched slightly forwards, her shoulder curving as her hands braced against the cabinet behind her. Her eyes gently closed and she took a deep, shuddering but fortifying, breath. I’m fine.

Strong as she was, it didn’t mean her relief wasn’t palpable. Having never begged him for anything - not even a reprieve - it didn’t mean she wouldn’t take everything she was given.

Tonight, she wouldn’t be seeing him, because-

“Even God rested on Sunday.”

He’d actually said that to her, in the first week. Cocky bastard. He’d looked down at her – from high atop his demon spawn steed – to her huddled form, with her pyjama’s damp from the naturally dank warehouse he’d dragged her to, and he’d added:

“You get Sunday, one day, to sleep. Then it starts all over again.”

Yay me.

One day. One Night. It was never enough. Right now though, it didn’t matter. She’d take it, she’d take the day.

With Oliver.

Felicity settled into her space of calm; it came from a place deep inside her, where no secrets and lies lacerated the flesh. A place she could just be.

A place made solely - perhaps shamefully - of all things Oliver.

She chewed on her lower lip…

The man was the pinnacle of what she considered a truly strong individual could be. And he’d taught her that: taught her what true strength could mean. If only he didn’t demand the life of harsh rebuke it seemed he felt like he deserved.

But it wasn’t just that.

The comfort his voice alone gave her on a daily basis made her burden easier to bear. And it was something she honestly couldn’t repay. Or explain. Ever. Ah, nope. Not happening. His presence lay over the Foundry like a warm blanket; making her want to stay each time she had to leave.

What she was doing, all of it, it was to save Thea. Save Laurel. Sara. Digg. Everyone. Making them untouchable.

There was one other. And eventually, she’d tell Oliver just who that person was.

But as for Oliver?

…All she wanted was to keep him sane, for him to be happy. If he couldn’t be worry free then she’d settle for him being okay.

Her mental fortress of solitude had taken weeks to build and she wouldn’t take a hammer to it for anything. Oliver didn’t know and he couldn’t, not ever. She couldn’t explain to him that even when he wasn’t trying, he was protecting her. Saving her.

Being her hero. Over and over again.

Don’t go there. She shouldn’t be thinking about this, not like this, not at all. He wasn’t hers to think about.

He was Sara’s.

They looked good together; the archer and the assassin. The Arrow and the Canary.

Me and Oliver… they were friends and partners. They were close. And he made her feel better without trying. He made her feel safe, secure. Protected.

And worthy of that protection.

All without lifting a finger. In touches and glances.

Though, she’d backed off, just a tad. After all, it was more difficult to hide things from the people you care for when you’re so close to them.

And I need to get a move on. Shaking herself free of all things that couldn’t be, Felicity strode towards her purse - no jacket: not with long sleeves - and left her apartment.

Monday, Sunday; it didn’t matter. Traffic was traffic. And living in a city made it so that almost every hour was rush hour.

It’s quite light today, glimpsing a row of cars on the interloping road overhead Felicity drove along a vehicle absent lane, on her way to Verdant.

She felt tired. She looked tired.

She didn’t want to look or feel tired right now so she made a pit stop for coffee. She was mid-sip of a tall latte with a double espresso shot as she’d opened her car door when the memory of another time, when she’d been stood inside this very same car door hit her right between the eyes.

And the events preceding it.

Those eyes closed. Even after weeks, the memory was fresh. The memory of that second night, Slade’s second visit.

And it was, in many ways, the worst of them all…

...

..

.

Waiting all day for the inevitable, the hours had crawled by at a snail’s pace.

Knowing she couldn’t stay at the Foundry – couldn’t stay through the night the way she used to, the way she wanted to – and not just because Oliver and Sara were sharing bed space but because Slade had told her, clearly, that if she weren’t available, Thea Queen was.

Again, what choice was she to make save one?

Part of her had decidedly spent the day not thinking about the entire thing whilst the rest of her had gradually made herself sick to death with it. What did he mean by visit? What would it entail? Was he actually going to do anything at all or was all this some kind of test? Was he waiting, secretly – somewhere – just to see if she’d say anything and then end it once he found out either way? With the effort it would involve for him to visit her, she found it difficult to believe he’d go through with it.

And if it wasn’t that, if he really was intending on coming to her then-

Oh, you’ll suffer for it…

Well… it didn’t sound good. She knew– if this whole thing weren’t in jest – that it wouldn’t be good, at least not good like Big Belly Burger and lattes from Catharsis: yep, that is actually the name of my coffee shop. The irony hurt.

She just needed to find out. It might literally be Slade droning on at her; she needed to see what he had in mind because, honestly, mint choc-chip could easily cure that. Only then would she second guess her choice – there was no need for a riot squad. The riot squad being Digg armed up to the teeth, bursting through her front doors guns blazing. He really would.

If it were something indecent - exactly like this proposal, I‘m not thinking about it - she’d go to Oliver. And tell him everything… even if it meant invoking the wrath of original team Arrow -I only call us that in my head - even if it meant forever changing the rules of their very important night-work.

And Oliver…

Heart in her throat, she’d almost told him, like, a bazillion times that day since their morning hooking up cameras together. Seeing Thea’s face in her mind – on constant replay – made her hit the pause button on that.

Because it might all be for nothing, the worrying, the drama.

Still, her thoughts… the ones that said ‘tell him. He needs to know how far Slade will go. What if he’s lying? What if he still goes after Thea? What if his promise was just that; a word?’

Yet, something about the way Slade spoke, about that little titbit of information Oliver had let free:

‘Slade Wilson always keeps his promises.’

So…I’ll wait. Find more intelligence. Learn more about him and keep track of Thea. Keep Oliver stable. Just one. More. Day.

Little did she know it would become her mantra in the coming weeks.

And she would have stayed with him this night, with Oliver, if only to lighten the tight mask that fell over him after Laurel’s visit; one that lingered even hours after she’d gone.

Even without John, the Foundry never actually felt empty; she and Oliver had always been comfortable with one another that their combined personalities filled the cavernous space. But with Sara there and Roy…

Despite Sara’s assistance - after Laurel left - in their endless debates on when, where and how to strike at a foe determined to remain hidden, plus Roy’s form flittering in and out of focus whenever he took a break from his archery training, it felt like a push. Something forced, something that wasn’t really needed at this very stressful time.

She’d noticed too.

During the course of the evening, Sara and Oliver, they’d share this look. A question, a puzzlement and a denial from one to the other.

They didn’t touch each other, not once. It had made her frown because, whilst Oliver and Sara weren’t exactly touchy-feely, they didn’t usually endeavour to remain ten feet apart at all times. They didn’t offer stony silences - much - in place of arguments.

Even more noticeable, unlike the past two weeks, but very much in accordance with their dynamic prior to Roy and Sara joining the team, Oliver kept looking to her for input. To Felicity. It wasn’t out of the norm for him to do so; he used to always-

Right there: he used to .As in ‘hadn’t recently’.

They’d had a routine… which had broken. He’d broken it.

A dance in its early stages of development – into something that could have been truly wonderful – where they’d touched each other for reassurance, talked long into the night about anything and everything, trusted and enjoyed their friendship, a partnership where their differences made up a whole instead of two separate pieces.

The moment he’d started seeing Sara, he’d just… stopped. Called it off, subconsciously taking a step back, a step away from her. And she hadn’t understood why. For two weeks.

Part of her had speculated at the possibility that now he was in a relationship, maybe he was getting everything he needed elsewhere and no longer required to be closer to her for any reason.

The kid wouldn’t normally touch a girl like you to turn her away

Right.

Now… he was repairing it. He’d chosen to, maybe. Or at least, it felt like he had.

It felt different.

With all these thoughts, these predicaments floating in her head, it had been thankfully difficult to think too much about her, ah, problem.

But when she stood at the precipice of her apartment - midnight - she froze; not wanting to enter.

It was still too hard to believe this would happen. Slade Wilson coming to her in nightly visits? It was absurd. It sounded absurd. Like a seedy novel. And he had more important things to do, surely.

She knew she did. Catching him, for instance; that’s what I should be doing, what she’d rather be doing. For the entirety of the day she’d deliberately maintained the position that his very early morning appearance had been a hallucination on her part due to three night’s uninterrupted sleep.

Felicity wasn’t an idiot, but… None of it felt real. And she preferred it that way for now, until she was given evidence to think otherwise, until she could compartmentalize it.

Which meant thankfully, the fear didn’t come, didn’t overwhelm her.

Oh, she was nervous. Definitely nervous, butterflies everywhere – and not the nice ones either. But… it didn’t really touch her.

Plus it helped that, when she finally made it into her house; her living room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom were all Slade free zones. Rushing through her space and flicking all the lights on chased away some of the shadows. Since it was almost midnight – Oliver having asked her to run an extra sweep on the surveillance they’d placed up that morning before she left – she was so very close to thinking that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t going to come.

She released a deep sigh; relief and other things singing through her as she deposited her coat on the back of her couch, fumbling with her mobile. “This was silly. I’ll call him.” Call Oliver. Slade obviously wasn’t coming, making me feel like a supreme idiot. But it meant now she could tell someone, warn them. Fingers flying over her touch-screen she moved towards the kitchen. She needed a glass of-

Strong arms, hard hands on her back, shoved her forwards.

All air in her lungs forced free as she barrelled into the kitchenette, before she could string two thoughts together, except-

-No.

She shouted on impact but it didn’t quite finish, not with the rough hand suddenly covering her mouth, half of her face hidden under a layer of tanned, coarse skin.

I thought… that maybe he wouldn’t…

Fool. She was a sucker. But she hadn’t expected this, not like this.

And he was utterly silent, this man. Slade.

She knew it was him by how quietly he breathed, by how she curled away; instinctively reacting to him, by how large his body was behind her own. But it wasn’t until his arms were there, wrapped tightly around her - it wasn’t a pleasurable thing, not a lovers embrace - making movement almost impossible that she discovered the very new – very visceral, very real – sensation of being so completely overpowered that she felt like she finally understood what it was like to be truly defenceless… Like a child.

And how irresponsible she’d been to not utter a word to her comrades.

Slade hated her.

It seeped through him, into her. And it was for no reason other than choice. For her association with Oliver. That he could choose to do something like that, choose to loath rather than welcome – that it was his go-to emotion – terrified her.

It opened the floodgates, her actualisation; knowledge drowning her senses in cold comprehension.

He could kill me and no one would know.

Why didn’t I say anything?

Oliver…

And she did move, she tried to. She tried hard. She couldn’t not, since her heart was racing and demanding that she do so, that she succeed – no matter how impossible and improbable the task. Thinking of him helped in that effort. And it was a cruel shot of chemicals to her system because part of her knew it was futile, but her body didn’t get the memo. Since the blood thumping madly in her ears beat a drum of GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, since panic flooded her system exactly 1.6 seconds after the very real fear began to seep in like a poison…

But it was like he was unbreakable.

He is unbreakable. Like Roy.

It was brutal, the way his arms pressed inwards, digging deep into her stomach and breasts. When her effort to escape made him actually stagger sideways, he yanked at her, swiftly bringing her airborne and for a brief confusing moment her legs flailed and her world tipped slightly sideways…

Until the hand over her mouth moved to her throat, tugged her out of his arms and before she could understand why, she was thrown back. It was less than a second before she smashed, hard, into the glass cabinet standing at the side of her couch.

All her senses were blinded with white.

A dull throb that made her nauseous accompanied it, along with an absent realisation that they were moving, echoing through the ache.

But she couldn’t think. Because there’s a certain fractured sense of time loss that occurs when one’s head gets rammed into a solid surface.

In a haze of images –being roughly pulled upwards and forwards by her arms, an unwanted grip in her hair and around her waist – it took her several precious seconds to grasp that she was being dragged away from her front door, away from any hope of freedom… towards her bedroom.

Something about that shot ice cold down her back. Slammed into her stomach. Jolted through her heart. A shard of glass behind her eyes.

It brought her back.

Back. Come back-

And she did.

Gasping, she shuddered in his hold, her mouth opening in a wordless, soundless scream because oh God, why there? Why are we going in there? In my bedroom?

She couldn’t think of the ramifications of that – she hadn’t all day, hadn’t even occurred to her that he’d go that far – it was too much, too horrifying to understand, too sickening to stomach- so she fought.

Of course she did; it’s what we do. Fight. We fight.

It didn’t help her.

Get off me! The hand around her throat made sure she couldn’t speak but that didn’t mean she couldn’t move, couldn’t challenge his hold; it didn’t mean she’d ever stop trying, that she’d never stop hindering him, because hindering was all she could manage - if I do anything here it’ll be to piss him off. And maybe it would move him to cease and desist. Maybe it would make him worse.

But she wouldn’t ever lie down and let him just…

Moving as forcefully as she could whilst being so wrapped up in him, she twisted and writhed – grunts and gasps and whimpers escaping her mouth with the little amount of air he allowed through – and, taking advantage of the smallest freedom of movement during his attempt to cover her mouth again, she managed to shirk off his hand by ramming her head backwards, connecting with his jaw.

Lights exploded behind her eyes and she choked on air.

But it didn’t move him. Not an inch.

Sheer, sickening dread hooked its claws in her as his hand pressed over her lips again, forcing her head back again to meet his shoulder.

He made a sound left him and it wasn’t pleasant. An intake of air – chilling her because it chased the tail end of a laugh – and a sigh; as if he found her attempt depressing.Or humorous. Or both.

“Stop it.”

Belittling.

But she didn’t. Hearing his voice – that rasping, empty tone - shook her to death: she couldn’t not resist.

Yet when her body rolled away from him and when she used everything she had in an attempt to throw herself out of his arms, he clutched her so tightly the blood in her veins slowly rose to her face, turning it purple. His thumbs dug into the soft tissue inside her elbows.

“You’re just hurting yourself.”

You’re hurting me.

“It’s embarrassing to watch.”

The insult made her eyes sting and she hated that she knew they were watering, that he was affecting her, making her cry. Again.

“Come on.” He softly cajoled: it was all a joke to him. “We’re almost there.”

Blood rushing to her head, Felicity blinked raw eyes.

Her bed was right in front of her.

Suddenly, the rush of adrenaline was back. She kicked backwards, a snarl loosening in her throat-

-He just laughed.

I’m going to die.

Because there was no way she could live with herself after this. She could hear it in his tone, feel it in the careless way he held her, as if her skin and her bones and her cells weren’t priceless but replicable and unworthy. And the very deliberate way he knew she understood what he was doing and why… that he would make sure that he pushed her just far enough to want it all to be over. But not quite far enough to do squat about it.

Realising it… somehow… made everything in her turn silent. Resolve settling in her gut as she vowed to herself, no. Not a chance. No matter what happens next, no matter what he does, she would never submit. She would never stop fighting. And she would not let it – him – change her. Not this way. Not like this. Not in any way.

As if sensing her thoughts, Slade shut her down. “Whatever makes you feel better.” He stilled. “Sweetheart.”

With that he threw her, turning her bodily away from him as he did, so that she hit the bed on her back with a bounce. She looked up and flinched, wanting to scream.

Glaring down at her was the mask Oliver had described to her that morning.

She choked; she couldn’t not. That orange and black stain suddenly petrifying.

But he gave her no time to process it before he was there.

Hands on her thighs, digging in, making her hiss and cry out and move away, but he pulled on them until they aligned with his hips, making them arch upwards, around his own.

It was instinctive then, how she shouted out, shouted ‘NO’ -no fucking way - and clawed at his hands, at his face; desperate sounds escaping her that she never wanted to hear herself make.

Until he hit her in the stomach.

Air abruptly a problem; he gave her a minute – how kind – for her to find that first gasping breath. “If you get any louder you’ll wake your neighbours.” Watching her control her panic, he followed this with. “And if you do I’ll have to finish this with Thea.”

Thea.

The loathing in her gaze, because he knew she’d never let him do this to the 19 year old sister of Oliver Queen – hot tears were grazing her cheeks now – actually made him smirk. Bastard.

“Your anger’s quite endearing.” He muttered, his huge form leaning over her – as if taking in her scent – and inhaled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been looked at so hatefully before.”

Get used to it.

But she didn’t speak; he’d chased her words away, and even if she could, she wouldn’t. He wasn’t worth the oxygen. Wasn’t worth the fear and the tears and all the words she knew would simply bounce off him.

Every muscle in her body held tight, screaming at her to loosen up - that maybe if she were lax he’d drop his guard and she could try to get away again - but she couldn’t. Petrified, she couldn’t.

A hum rippled through him and she quaked with it, bile rising to her throat. “Let’s see.” Hands slowly trailing down her legs again, to her hips and up… he tugged at her blouse. “Off.”

No.

“Off.” He repeated. Quietly. Threateningly.

She just looked at him.

He sighed like she was being difficult, quickly easing the material off her stomach. “Lean forwards.” He asked.

Asked.

It was aggressive, the moan - a desperate admission - of frustration, of fury, of humiliation that rippled up from her stomach, getting stuck part way as the grip on the back of her neck dragged her up off the mattress.

As if he was persuading her. Not forcing.

There isn’t a pit in hell deep enough for him to fall down.

“There we go.” He breathed, staring down at her when he set her back down. There was nothing to see in those dark eyes. “Ah.” Contemplating her bra, he pulled at the front clasp until the joining material of her cups separated. Her breasts weren’t quite on display… but it was a close thing.

“You’re quite lovely, you know.” He said, and – God – it was a murmur. She whimpered, lips trembling until she bit down, knowing she could do Jack about this, about anything. “To look at.” That he needed to clarify that, the implication that all he saw her as was a warm body and not a sentient being – a terrified one – was intentional. And deeply unsettling. “In fact,” shut up. Just. Stop. Talking. “I’d say you were the most naturally beautiful creature,” creature, not woman, “I’ve ever seen in the dark before.”

His hand moved off her neck but before she could thank the universe for small mercies, the same hand stroked across her collarbone… then down between her breasts, resting there with his fingers splayed. “The softness of your skin is exquisite.”

She couldn’t help it; she lashed out - rejecting him and everything that he was and is - her arm swinging round and punching him square in his granite jaw. And it would have hurt, would have made her yelp but she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything under that cold gaze.

She'd ripped off his mask.

Hand moving off her - honestly, getting hit back was preferable to what he was doing right then; this perverse seduction - he flippantly stopped her second attempt.

Flinching, heart pounding wildly; she waited for it, for the backlash.

He saw it in her expression. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not like that.”

She couldn’t be more astounded if she tried.

His head cocked sideways, it isn’t yours, not that gesture, he couldn’t use it against her like that. “In fact I appreciate the respect you have for your skin. A lot of women wouldn’t think twice, wouldn’t care. But I do.” He whispered. “I care.”

It was horrifying; this insanity, his malevolence… wide eyed, she had no defence for it, save one.

That she wouldn’t quail before him. That she’d meet him inch for inch. That even though she was crying – because she was a very sane woman about to be molested – she wouldn’t break. That she wouldn’t change. That she was a good person who knew what was right, what was wrong, what was easy and what was grey, because black and white no longer existed.

His fingers deftly undoing the button of her skirt, Felicity didn’t mentally flee into the safety of her memories, didn’t bask in the warmth of a smile, his smile. Oliver’s. His voice, his words…

She couldn’t. Her brain was hardwired to never stop calculating, to never stop thinking.

So she just kept her eyes on Slade’s face, staring at him, into him.

I’m going to look at you and I’m not going to stop. Like a dare, she would never look away from him. She’d force him to see her as he took pieces of her away with him. And one day, in your dreams, the only thing you’ll see is my eyes staring into yours. I’ll force you to relive how vile you really are. Because the part of him that was once a very good man, will detest himself for this. I’ll haunt you. I’ll drive you to an insanity you couldn’t reach before. And when you die, my eyes will be the last thing you see.

Fists clenching into the covers, she ground her jaw.

Her skirt hit the floor… then her underwear.

Eyes wanting to instinctively shut – because she couldn’t fight back, couldn’t scream and vent her anger – she watched his hands leave her and land on his belt. Her eyes remained on his… and he stared back as he moved. In moments he was there again; between her thighs but no closer, no further attempt to invade. Just… breathing.

Seconds crawled by… then minutes.

He still didn’t move.

Unable to take any more - this precipice - she pulled away swiftly, scrambling upwards on the bed and expecting him to follow her, to drag her back to him and hold her down… but he did nothing.

Curled over her pillows – completely naked save the bra hanging from her shoulders – she looked at him, wide-eyed.

His stare… it was almost soulful. But it was also absolutely rigid, harsh.

He flinched like something had hurt him.

Then he slowly pulled himself off the bed, re-arranging himself in his pants and her eyes flickered away - I’m going to throw up - as he straightened.

But the whole time, he never took his eyes off her face, not once. She didn’t like that; there was something in it that scared her even more than what she was sure he’d been about do to her.

And then he just turned, picked up his mask and strode away, leaving her dumbstruck. Frozen. She watched him leave, walking down her short hall and hearing him mutter to himself in too low a tone to be understood.

Felicity heard her back door – her apartment was on the bottom floor – leading to the fire escape, slam shut. For several minutes everything was suspended; she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound. Didn’t believe…

Then, with agility that would have surprised her had she been clearer of mind and thought, she was flinging herself off the bed. Huddling into a ball in the crevice – flooded with that childlike view of the world, when close spaces equalled to safety – between her wardrobe and vanity desk, her heart rammed into her rib-cage.

When she realised she was shaking, she started to cry.

Those cries became sobs when she realised she could feel him now, on her skin and it felt like shame.

When she thought of him doing this to Thea, her teeth sunk into the skin of her arm to muffle the scream that ripped out of her.

When she remembered her mistake – her choice to not tell a soul – nausea lined her stomach and, as she bolted for the bathroom, she swore to herself that she’d tell Oliver. When she could breathe, after she’d thrown up what little she’d eaten that day, after she’d showered off the sensation of those hands and fingers, after she’d inhaled enough coffee to feel semi-normal again, she’d tell him about Slade. About all of it.

It took her two hours for her to return to a functional state – her new normal: functional – and when she did, she immediately went to the Foundry.

It didn’t matter if Oliver and Sara were in the middle of a hot session, didn’t matter that it was just after 2am; what mattered was that neither he or his girlfriend had known, not even close, just how warped Slade Wilson really was. The things he would do and the lengths he would travel down, just to torment one man, were despicable. Unthinkable. Oliver and Sara… they had no idea.

And she was afraid. I’m so scared. Seeking security, comfort. Needing someone to be horrified in her place. Because other than a frozen pit in her stomach, she couldn’t feel much of anything right now. Not exactly looking forward to when it wears off. Maybe feeling nothing is better than everything. Tubs of mint chip seem like a great idea right now, I’ll stock up.

Parked outside of Verdant she took a minute to calm herself, so that she wouldn’t run inside like a lunatic. So that they wouldn’t know just how much she’d been hurt. Emotional hurts were easier to hide after all. It was what she told herself, anyway.

Her heart wouldn’t slow; it was pounding so powerfully she could hear it in her ears.

She jumped when her phone began to ring, get it together.

Without thinking she palmed it and answered, her thoughts going directly to Oliver, thinking – hoping – it was him. It would make everything so much easier to bear. Perhaps then, he could extract her from her seat because she’d been sitting there for more than ten minutes and still found it impossible to-

“Hello, love.”

His voice made her pounding heart momentarily freeze.

“How the hell did you get this number?”So low was her tone, the words were practically growled.

Yes. How?

A shiver slithered down her spine and every cell seemed to focus like a shark on the fact that Oliver was only a few hundred metres away.

“Is that the question you really should be asking Miss Smoak?”

The drawling coil to his tone made her hands fist. “Screw you.”

“Look to your left.”

“Why should I?”

There was a moment’s quiet.

“Oh. I see. So you’ve changed your mind?”

She didn’t reply, couldn’t say a word; not when all of her screamed yes.

Hearing his exhale, her tense shoulders tightened further; it sounded like the worst of caveats. “Look to your left. You need to see this before you say anything else.”

“I don’t need to see anything you wish me to see.” Trying to be brave made her come across more mouse than lion.

“If you’re going to say no to our agreement, then you really do need to see this.”

He… actually had a point. Loath to admit but still, he did, because she planned right after this call to spill the proverbial beans.

So she did. She looked to her left, because honestly, what could he-

Thea Queen was stood outside of the front doors to Verdant, searching – presumably – for her keys in the tiny, glittering handbag around her waist.

Insight turned to horror. She couldn’t breathe.

“Wait for it…”

She did. Wait. She couldn’t not. It was Thea.

And when she saw the imposing figure of Slade Wilson - she could recognise him anywhere now, like he was a taint in her blood - slide out of hiding from the shadows a few doorways down from the unwitting young woman, lead dropped to her stomach.

Though he was simply standing there, he couldn’t have made his purpose any clearer.

“Don’t.” It breathed out of her, like a prayer, a hope; at once a primitive fear and an urge to protect those weaker than oneself. She’d beg if she had to. “Please.”

He turned to face Thea; watching her. “Please what?”

“Please don’t hurt her.”

“Alright.”

She blinked, finding it difficult to focus, to understand. “W-what?”

“I thought I already explained. It’s your choice what I do next.”

Either I visit you, or I visit Thea

“I’m going to tell him; I’ll tell Oliver that you’re here, right now.” Yes, it was redundant, yes; she knew what he’d say. That Oliver wouldn’t be able to do anything regardless but… it just spewed from her mouth.

Oliver. Her safe place.

“Last reminder: I’m not here to stop you from telling the kid.” He whispered and it would play in her nightmares. “Do what you like. And when he runs to his sister’s side tonight – or to yours, you decide– he’ll find me standing there. And we both know he won’t leave, not without trying to stop me. He’d never let me hurt her, not if he had breath enough in his body to fight me on it.”

Again, he was a right.

“He’ll force me to either kill him or hurt him enough that he can’t move. And I will. Gladly.”

She got it and he needed to stop repeating it.

“It’s all your choice to make.” He quietly reminded her. “Either way, it won’t stop me from doing what I want. Like tonight. In your bedroom.”

It was like being on a rollercoaster, the whirl of her emotions. She didn’t know which took precedence; she could only taste a metallic sourness in her mouth.

“Thank you for that memory, by the way.”

Bile rose from her stomach and her palm smacked into her dashboard without her telling it to. “I’m going to find you.” She vowed, biting down on her lips with her jaw locked tight as a solitary tear struggled down her cheek. “I’m going to find you and I’m going to stop you.”

“I look forward to it.” He dismissed. “In the meantime…” She watched his figure shift slightly as Thea started to walk from the club. “What choice will you make?”

Then he took a step in the girl’s direction and another until he was strolling. He was roughly ten paces behind Thea - and gaining speed - before Felicity finally answered.

“Me.”

Immediately, he came to a stop.

Closing her eyes, it felt like tar sliding down her oesophagus, that thick blackness she was admitting into her life. “Come to me.”

“I will.”

With that he hung up and, without stalling or even a look in her direction, he sauntered away. Leaving her to silence. To doom. To one thought.

How do I tell him now?

She stared into nothing.

Oliver.

Ssh, ssh, ssh, it’s alright… you’re safe.

Oh, you were shot

It’s nothing

She almost moaned it, his name. Then she was opening the car door, already stepping outside before she could think anything beyond that simple but powerful memory. That illusion-

Oh please do. I’ll enjoy watching him try to stop me

There was the pause, the moment. The cognitive dissonance; where one part of her decides one way, one route; to go to Oliver and find safety there, however brief, and the other battles against it; to not tell him. For what can any man do against a monster like Slade?

The former was dominant.

She focused on the tarmac in a daze. With her fingers clutching her phone, her hand started to violently shake as she pressed it against her thigh. She wanted to tell him: she wanted to so much she was close to ripping off the car door. But… what would she say?

So Oliver, about Slade Wilson. He’s visiting me. It isn’t a fun visit. But if I don’t let him then he’s going to go after your sister. And do the same to her. And you really don’t want to know what I mean by ‘the same’… Did I mention that he won’t stop? That, because he’s Mirakuru enhanced, we don’t currently have an effective method of preventing him from doing whatever he wants to short of dropping him in a volcano…

It was cruel. It would be cruel, to tell him at all-

No! Tell him, Felicity.

But he won’t be able to do anything. No one will be able to do anything.

Because, honestly?

Gone were the days where Felicity could consider John and Oliver to be as close to superhuman as humanly possible. They weren’t, not at all. Not after Mirakuru. She had all the faith in heaven and on earth in Oliver, but she wasn’t stupid. There was genuinely zero difference between Oliver knowing she was playing host to Slade and Oliver not knowing… save two.

The first, a surplus burden. Borne on shoulders carrying many more regrets. Holding so much unrequited guilt already. Holding weight that could crush him if she added to the strain. He shouldn’t be the one this all falls to- for he was always the one people went to for help. But who helped him?

She didn’t know if she could add to that. He knees were buckling at the thought of it.

The second was knowing that Oliver really would show up at her place after midnight… and he’d get crap kicked out of him. I’m talking weeks of medical leave. At best.

She wasn’t worried whether he’d be angry at her. Or sad. She could take it; she’d always been able to. That was the point. And she wasn’t worried about how much it might hurt him; not being told… what truly worried her was the extent of his threshold. How much could he take before he couldn’t take anymore?

He’d survived five years of god only knows what, only to return and loose his best friend. To have secrets and lies tear his family apart. To be shown, roughly, every error of his ways and be forced to confront them. To have his past come back to haunt him, over and over again.

Swallowing, Felicity slid down and back into the driver’s seat. “I don’t know what to do.”

She really didn’t.

All she did know was that she didn’t have it in her.

Not to tell Oliver.

The simple notion of how he’d react – the expression on his face when, if, she did – made everything in her revolt. Where part of her believed it was worth it, like it had been when she’d told him about his mother’s secret, that telling him would help in some way however minute, the rest of her… really didn’t.

This wasn’t just a secret that would hurt him. It was a secret that would kill him. Slowly, ever so slowly, it would tear at his soul. And she’d have to watch knowing she’d done that to him. When Slade visits her… Oliver’s sister… Laurel… he’d have to stand there and bear it.

Since they didn’t have a cure. Or any known method of stopping a juggernaut.

“I,” Blinking away horrified tears, Felicity shuddered. “I can’t do it.” I don’t know how. Not without making it better.

I have to make it better first; I have to find a way to fix this first.

Then… she’d tell Oliver.

An hour later found her at the 24 hour dinner close to her house, nursing what felt like her 20^th cup of coffee and trying to learn how to breathe without pauses, without trembling. When her phone buzzed, her hand shook, knowing somehow who it was from.

You’re very brave.

She stared at the words; her expression twisting from confusion to stone.

What did that even mean?

Another mind screw; courtesy of Slade…

Fucker.

...

..

.

In many ways, it had been the worst visit.

In many ways… but not all.

It was the only time he’d resorted to the threat of rape.

Almost rape. She didn’t need the reminder; he hadn’t managed to rape her. But he’d undressed her, he touched her, had seen her naked and vulnerable on the bed like that and he’d not seen her as a person worthy of mercy for no reason other than that he was obviously long gone in the head…

It was nothing.

It was. Nothing. It’s nothing-

-Oliver, you’re hurt.

It’s nothing.

And she’d repeat it to herself as many times as she had to. She had repeated it, daily. She had to function without exposing herself, without letting people know.

Her team. Team Arrow.

And if she had her way, they never would.

After a moment of staring at the tarmac, Felicity forced herself to get inside her car… and drive.

A word about that first week?

He’d been determined to shock her.

On the third night for instance, expecting him to scare the ever loving shit out of her again; she’d been surprised when Slade had appeared on her doorstep, 1am, dressed in an expensive suit and coat, only to tell her they were going to the harbour.

Beyond confused, she’d tried to talk, because what? But he’d responded by simply grabbing her and pulling her out the doorway.

By her hair.

He’d made his point and she’d had a sore scalp for two days after that.

Once they’d arrived he’d stopped touching her; his hands releasing her ponytail and her elbow, and it should have been a good thing, that he’d let her go. But he’d only shoved her towards his subjects. His helpers, his men.

It wasn’t exactly what she’d have called the better option.

And by men she focused on one man in particular: a man named Frank.

A man just as vile as Slade himself, except his character leaned more towards repulsive.

In comparison to her diminutive but toned frame, he was huge. Like Oliver. He’d held onto her; holding her back as Slade beat a man to death, right in front of her. It had been deliberate. Slade had made her watch him kill a man in one of the slowest – it took a long time – and most painful ways.

For her?It was shock torture. Psychological warfare.

Whoever it was, had been, he’d been killed for resorting to blackmail on Slade. The thought had made hysterical laughter bubble up from her throat before subsequently making her retch.

Blackmail Slade. Right. Smart.

When she says ‘beat to death’, she literally means that Slade had beat a man until his heart failed him and his face resembled pudding. I liked pudding before all this…making her hear every punch and kick and break and scream, shout, moan and cry until all the noise just stopped.

Frank had held zero qualms about any of it.

Holding her head in place the whole time... he’d just been sniffing her hair.

Ugh, God. She would shower forever after, had showered for over an hour after they’d dropped her off home. But she’d still felt him there. Still felt his breath on her neck, his acrid scent on her clothes; sweat, smoke and too pungent aftershave. He’d gripped her arms so hard they bruised, with his beefy man hands, as she’d leant over to throw up. She threw up because Slade had dragged the corpse over to feed it to three starving dogs. He actually kept dogs, at the back of his building in the harbour. And they hate him as much as I do.

Still, even though she looked away for most of it, she knew they’d peeled the muscle off the dead man’s bones.

Felicity Smoak had never been terribly good at sustaining hatred. Even with Slade, she’d found it easier to find a place of indifference with him. And anger. It helped with the fear. Until week two, anyway... But that’s neither here nor there.

The level of quiet that hit her as she opened the side door to the Foundry made her stop, squinting at the low level of light she glimpsed inside instead of the usual flare of luminescent bulbs.

She stepped in, her hand braced against the open door.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Really? Morning. Weekend. New coffee machine. No QC, no Isabel. What’s not to be here for?

Frowning, she moved inwards and the door locked automatically behind her. Heels tapping, she made her way past damp pipes - the odd one issuing puffs of steam - before entering the open area surrounded by glass cases.

Empty.

She looked left. Looked right. Blinked half a dozen times. Leaned on one leg. Brow puckered in thought... Still, there wasn’t a single sign that anyone had even been there this morning. Except for the dim light.

Didn’t we have a plan? I was very aware of a plan being made last night...

She checked her watch: 09:17am.

It wasn’t early… in the past; she’d walked in before 7am to find Oliver in the middle of a set of pull-ups from the overhead rafters and John gulping down black coffee. More recently she’d walk past Sara cleaning the bar upstairs. Once in a blue moon, she’d find Roy practicing his slowly progressing archery skills.

So why isn’t anybody...?

Chewing on the inside of her mouth, she leaned on a leg in thought.

It wasn’t necessarily odd that they weren’t there. Maybe she’d just need to wait for them, if only for a little while. In the meantime she’d-

-Wait.

She remembered.

Oh. Of course.

A noisy exhale left her nose, now I feel like the idiot with no life, which was, unfortunately, very true. A smile on her lips - there was nothing glad about it, if anything there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that it looked sad - and an eye roll at herself, she closed her eyes. Fingers reaching to the bridge of her nose, she rubbed at the building pressure there. Headache incoming.

She should have remembered. But she’d been so out of it; too busy concentrating on keeping her mouth shut, on helping the team, on taking the appropriate level of pain meds that wouldn’t make her drop in the middle of a QC board meeting…

The day before last, Sara had announced that she and her sister were attending a high brow function; basically a party where people, richer than necessity commands them to be, evaluated where their money would be needed the most as the wine, the chardonnay and the champagne freely flowed.

Therefore, their father would be pranced around them since - even though he’d been demoted - he was one of the most decorated police detectives in the SCPD. And he’ll love every minute.

Imagining his scowl made her wince in sympathy for his daughters.

But it was an all-day function with events planned to last - the idle rich are hard to entertain after all and any excuse to drink before noon was an excuse well played - so she figured Oliver was already searching for an exit because if Sara was going, then so would he.

In his tux... suddenly, she wished she’d been here to see him off, even knowing how irritated he’d be at having to attend another glorified party.

Yes, he was kind like that.

But for some odd reason, she’d thought that... he would choose not to go.

At that, she eye-rolled herself again; give him a break.

He needed one. Badly.

Maybe a few vodka shots and a whiskey will be his road to that break.

Not that Felicity had harassed, harangued or needled him lately, if ever. She wanted him to enjoy himself, wanted him to have pleasant memories before the world decided to restore the balance by offering him the dregs only to watch him battle them for its own caprice.

It was just that… no one had texted her. No one had told her that there was no point coming to the Foundry today because everyone was taking a load off.

And, if she was feeling more herself, this wouldn’t have been any kind of issue.

Pathetic is my middle name.

Honestly… as depressing as it seemed, she’d actually been looking forward to a day of research in the Foundry, in doing something easy and familiar. The alternative - being at home, alone and waiting for the next day, the next night, his next visit - was in no way attractive.

Leave it, she told herself, finally walking to her work station, her place in her home. And this was her home, her space.

Her place just as it was Oliver’s.

She could think that… right? He’d told her she could, so it wasn’t crossing a line, was it?

Then again, Oliver may more or less lives here too now and Sara more or less sleeps here with him so… maybe not.

She bit down on her lip.

I don’t have any place do I?

It shuddered through her and her eyes briefly shut tight, hands fisting, lips pressed together, brow crinkling...

What’s wrong with me? Why now? A couple of hours by herself and everything, every worrying thought and excruciating memory invaded her mind. I’m stronger than this.

It’s fine. She re-asserted, placing her bag on her desk. This is fine. I’ll just do my thing and they’ll do their thing when they return. She brushed her long pieces of fringe behind her ear, only for some pieces on the other side of her face to fall forwards.  Let them have a day off; they need it, really. And I’ll be here when they’re ready to take on the world again.

And they did. Need it, that is. Just as much as Oliver did.

Especially after Helena Bertinelli.

Major disaster. His ex-girlfriend’s return had fired up old grievances and even older bitterness, namely with Sara… and Dig.

The latter was unexpected, though it shouldn’t have been. Can’t really blame the man.

John had never been a fan of Helena: more like her number 1 critic from the first day and with good reason. She’d been determined to travel down the homicidal highway, taking no prisoners, even when Oliver had tried to teach her his ways. In every sense of the word - and other senses - he’d been her Obi Wan.

But Obi Wan had failed with Anakin, just as Oliver failed with Helena.

Yet, like Anakin - or should I say Vader - Helena was starting to show signs of change, signs of an inner goodness.

As she lives a harsh sentence in prison. Yeesh.

For John, however, she’d already made too much of a mess. In many ways Felicity agreed with his assessment.

But the look on Oliver’s face when he’d realised that every member on their field unit may not want to follow - or may even attempt to utterly ignore - his orders pertaining to his good natured aim of persuading Helena to cease and desist, even when the very idea of convincing the crossbow toting whack-job to put down said weapon seemed an insanity in and of itself, made her keep silent.

Like a lost puppy.

He’d needed someone on his side.

She could have spoken up, she could have said something in the way of how he’d let his man-parts dictate almost every single one of his actions with the opposite sex the previous year and the fall out was the Huntress. Which wasn’t exactly accurate. She could have also told the team to back off, making not so veiled threats to accost their mobiles with spam.

Instead, she’d simply touched his arm and fed him any information he required without a word about it from her.

Because...

With Helena, he’d been lonely. Lonely in a way none of us could possibly understand. It wasn’t her place – or her business – to judge how he tried to close that hole inside himself.

It was a matter of respect. Respect that went both ways.

Because she’d blinked when he’d bought her coffee shortly after. And a warm muffin. A hand on her shoulder. And when she’d looked at him with a puzzled frown and a head tilt, he’d smiled.  An actual smile, one she hadn’t seen in a while.

Wasn’t much of a stretch to see that he’d noticed.

The muffin was huge - as if he’d specifically requested the barista to bake him their largest of their large cupcake perfections - bran, toffee and banana flavoured and a Massimo spiced vanilla latté with a triple shot. Yep. He’d definitely noticed.

He’d also noticed how she’d wolfed it down.

He was noticing a lot of things recently.

Still, Sara had made the situation worse when she’d attempted an actual coup d’état; fighting Helena hand to hand in the middle of the supreme court of justice, hadn’t exactly gone down well. With anyone.

And she’d been awarded for it by being shoved out of an upper storey window. Helena sure wasn’t lacking in the aggressive department, probably stemming from childhood issues with daddy. A man who’d her fiancé murdered; talk about major emotionally trauma. Again, it was something Felicity couldn’t and wouldn’t pass a verdict on. Luckily Oliver had been there for a quick save, but, it hadn’t mended fences. Sometimes violence only begets violence.

Even if Laurel had been involved.

And speaking from past experience, when Laurel was involved, everyone was involved. Dig’s words, not mine.

When Sara had discovered that Oliver had once dated the hellacious Helena, her first reaction had been incredulity. This had quickly led into teasing territory which sounded - and felt - too close to the edge of mockery for Felicity’s tastes. A light-hearted jest, true, but it had hit where she’d intended it to.

Having had zero defence for it, Oliver hadn’t said a word.

This hadn’t settled well with Felicity because he was trying, really hard damn it, to make up for the mistakes he’d made in the past.

Even more uncharacteristic of the lovely leather clad Lance sister, this had then led to an oddly sharp disposition to her manner for the rest of that day. And the day after. Like she was frustrated with Oliver. And dejected. And angry. And sad.

Of course, this had led to another argument between the two. There’s a depressing pool going to see who wins the most points. It wasn’t their first that week.

The pair had been so strained. And she didn’t understand why. When you’re with someone, when you love them, what is there to be constantly hurt about? He’s right there. She’s right there…why argue?

Whatever was happening, their relationship was very much taking a few thousand hits.

There’s something I’m missing. There had to be, because for the last few days both Oliver and Sara had barely shared a compassionate glance, or a caring word. And it held an air of regret, which was even more confusing.

They’re both so stubborn.

Says the most obstinate one.

Still... she was definitely missing something.

“What I’m missing is more coffee,” two cups just weren’t enough anymore, “maybe a blueberry muffin. Or three.”She mumbled, hovering over her monitors as her CPU’s loaded up. Mentally planning a core sweep of what her - now 18 - transmitters had captured in the last 48 hours, she leaned on one leg as the toes of her other foot scratched an itch on her calf.

Gazing into nothing, she whispered. “Wonder how he’s doing.” Oliver’s never been apt at handling long winded galas so-

“How who’s doing?”

She yelped - more like an Oo-uh - utterly freaked, the man is a ninja, and jumping out of her skin; it was definitely the first time she’d screamed in weeks for such an inoffensive reason.

That reason standing right behind her... in a pair of pants.

Only a pair of pants. Low hanging jeans, actually. I’m being tested today, I must be.

Heart pounding, she fought not to stare at certain places on his body, blinking a little spastically all the while. Focus! Closing her eyes she pressed a hand to her chest and groused. “Oliver.”

A release of air – a little breathy – told her he probably thought she was being hilarious, in his own Oliver Queen way. That was, with him being close to incapable of all out laughter and generally viewed everything she did as a little odd. Endearingly odd, but odd nonetheless.

It made her want to smile.

But instead, her eyes flew back open and she sent a light glare his way. The corners of his mouth twitched. His eyes alight.

Hmph.

She could give him that. Easily.

Straightening - I am a totally and completely unshakable EA - she cleared her throat; attempting blasé and failing since her voice was a little too high. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself.” And she squeaked somewhere in the middle of that sentence.

Well… he’d scared the crap out of her. Even Slade isn’t that quiet-

Not now.

Why do I have to ruin this?

...Maybe because it had overrun its course.

Not noticing how she’d paled - or her slight head shake, like, go away ugly thought- Oliver looked down to his hands, which she’d just realised were holding a towel. Um, kay. He shook it, brought it to his neck and started rubbing at the back where his hairline met his spine.

Oooh… he was still wet.

Still... wet.

Buh... uh?

Biceps and triceps rippled before her.

Luckily, she was desensitized enough to the machinations of her partner in crime because if she hadn’t been, she might have actually pawed at him. Just a little. But enough to ruin any and all of her credibility.

Seriously, it might be worth it. Taking that dive. Exploring the impossible.

Alas, she’d used the word impossible for a reason. And even if it were possible... she was covered in marks.

Taints.

Reminders.

No. It wasn’t meant for her, that vision.

Back to the very much now, she still found it nearly impossible to function, but only for several seconds, which was an improvement to the trance she used to fall into. Even with his glistening chest and his darker, wetter hair. Hmm. Tweaked out. Not with sweat, with water. Shower water. He’d been in the shower. When she thought she was alone, Oliver had been naked in the bathroom just around the corner from her computers.

The knowledge dipped in a gay little swim downstairs.

She swallowed. I should be more than used to this by now.

Here’s the gist of it: it’s been about fifty years since she’s had sex, she’s in love with the man in front of her and, after weeks of abuse, she isn’t really all that sure just what type of physical play she could be up to any time soon.

And yet, it’s all she’s thinking about. Women think of sex just as much as men do: we’re just not as obvious about it.

And the more bad stuff a girl goes through, the more she dreams of affection - in several shapes and forms - even as she pushes it away.

Wiping himself down - how such an unsexy act could be remotely erotic, she didn’t know-her eyes furtively followed his progression as he brought the towel up to swiftly scrub across his skull and when he pulled it off, his short hair stuck out every which way but where it was supposed to.

It was a hot look, a ‘honey, I woke up and you weren’t there; come back to bed’ look.

For some reason, she didn’t do any of the things that she’d normally do; ignore him for one. Blush and make an innocent remark, one filled with accidental innuendo for another. Didn’t mentally wash it all away either because she didn’t want to imagine what he and Sara might have been up to just hours before; she’d stepped beyond that now.

Instead, she laughed.

A release of surprised laughter that came out without her telling it to; because it was cute how his hair was all poofed out like that, because it was the last thing she’d expected to see right then - from someone so naturally perfect, aesthetically speaking - because it filled her chest with something tight but still something good and right, something that had been sorely missing…

Because it felt nice, like a routine, like he did this with her all the time even though he never had before.

A taste of something sweet.

And maybe she needed to feel that, to feel part of something that wasn’t bad.

So she let herself smile - a small one but it lit up her face in a way she hadn’t in what felt like years - because he was wonderful to watch as he moved, truly a pleasure to witness, like when his arms flexed as he threw the towel somewhere to the side.

Her laughter ringing through the Foundry made him glance to her, finding her leaning back against the desk with one foot crossing the other.

Eyes flickering over her face, his own gentled. An almost smile.

A hey.

Sauntering - wasn’t he ever capable of just walking - back over in that effortless way that only men can - and it gets so much worse in his green leather - the look didn’t leave him. This was also super nice to see, like he was happy to see her, if not difficult to handle.

Then he checked her out, which was definitely difficult to handle.

And by check out I don’t’ mean ‘he checked me out, checked me out’.

She meant he did a thorough once over, which made her deeply uncomfortable because… what was he looking for? And what if he noticed something?

But this was something Oliver did now. Frequently. Purposefully.

Sometimes, she’d arrive at the Foundry and it was the first thing he’d make sure to do. Deep down, she understood: something was off about her, something he’d caught and he didn’t know what it was and was unsure of what to do about it; it isn’t like I’m being Captain Obvious. So, since it might be a sensitive area, he’d refrained from out-rightly asking her. 

He was a gentleman like that.

Instead, he placed an increasing amount of effort into focusing on her immediately, whenever he saw her. Didn’t matter who was there, or where there was.

And each time she’d hold still as he analysed her, as if doing so hid any differences in her from him.

She wasn’t sure how successful she was.

But he never said a word. Anything he may or may not have seen, he’d kept firmly to himself. And she had no idea what to think about that. So she didn’t. Think, that is. It was easier that way.

He stopped two feet in front of her.

Her arms wrapped around herself; a shield as she held still.

With a deep breath his chest expanded and wow, could she not even try to look away from that. “What are you doing here?”

She tried for a sentence but ended up with a sound. “Uh?”

“What are you doing here?” The reiteration, though not unkind, was identical.

Mouthing open in an ‘O’ shape, she blinked too. “What am I doing here?”

He blinked, once, followed by an eyebrow raise as his stare talked all sorts of words to her.

“What am I…?” It took her that long for it to hit her. “Oh! Right, sorry. Brain’s a little,” she rapped said brain with her knuckles sounding just as nutty as she felt, “fragile today.”

Nodding - like I’m this much of an airhead all the time - he simply waited for more.

She didn’t have much more.“Business as usual.” She lamely offered up… but he still waited. For what she didn’t know.

Then…

His head tilted slightly sideways.

Seeing that, her throat clogged.

It was so stupid but...

So many times - as if he’d watched him, copying his idiosyncrasies - Slade had tilted his head. Each time it had felt like a mockery of everything she stood for. But this was...

Please don’t see.

This was the danger in keeping a secret so malevolent, so cruel in nature, from someone she vowed never to lie to. It made her feel as delicate as she’d just pretended she was. Shaky too, like, if he touched her she’d fall. Or break. Or reveal something she didn’t want him to see.

Worse…

There was an unsettlingly deep fondness in his features.

Normally – weeks ago – this would have been a beautiful thing to be on the receiving end of. Now? Every single time she saw it - and she saw it more frequently now than ever before - she was reminded of the fact that Slade Wilson was not Oliver.

That Oliver wasn’t the one in her company late at night.

That she hadn’t told him. That she was keeping things from him, things that might make him hate her.

That everything in the expression on his face - she spoke fluent Oliver Queen so she would know - told her that he thought she was being thoughtful. Being there, right then, to do anything she could to help him: that she hadn’t entered the Lair because she wanted to. He thought she didn’t want him to be by himself in this.

And it was... sort of... completely accurate.

“Felicity,” he shook his head, smiling gently, God. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He was grateful.

Don’t be, already. She didn’t understand.

And the fondness was hurting her.

Weeks of malice - and it was abuse, screw the proposition (her so-called deal with Slade had always been more a choice-less nightmare than a simple yes or no) - and the slightest piece of warmth would be another thing to throw her out of whack.

If he touched her right now…

“Actually, I didn’t think you’d be here.” It blurted out of her; an attempt to wipe the too-warm a look off his face.

It didn’t work. Not even a teensy bit.

“Hm?” He hummed. Quietly. Softly. Soothingly.

Like a lullaby.

She sucked in her lower lip, an anxious tick.

His eyes flickered down to it… then they came back up, face gentling further. But an echo of something like unease brought a new tone to his expression and she wasn’t sure what that meant.

Yet he didn’t stop smiling.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

To be down here. Alone. With him. On a Sunday, when her guard was waaaay down to the floor. And with him so... amiable.

Still, she found herself replying to the question hidden in that simple sound, because he and I are masters at saying so much with so little. “The fundraiser.” She stated, watching as comprehension dawned. “I thought you’d be there with Sara. Or for Laurel.”

Expression light, his brow crinkled and he looked like she’d just said something unbelievably bizarre. “No.”

Stumped, she searched for words. “Oh.” And found none.

He shrugged and the play of musculature there was as intriguing as his biceps. “Wasn’t interested.” He exhaled. “Sara asked me to go and Laurel said that my presence as the Queen Heir might actually help but,” with an awkward head jerk, his face cinched a little, “it’s not exactly-”

“You’re scene?”

Like it was more air in the lungs than actual sound, his reply was whisper thin. “No. Not my scene.” Head shaking, he looked away to somewhere only he could see. “They know that.”

Yet, they’d still asked.

And he’d said no anyway.

To Sara. To Laurel.

That was… different.

She stared at him.

Something’s going on with him...

“What?” His question was so innocently asked; she had zero choice but to believe that he had no clue that what he’d just said would have been considered blasphemy – by him – not too long ago.

She cleared her throat. “Dig? Roy?” She asked.

“Dig’s taking a day to see Lyla.” Again? Ooh, things are getting serious between them. Or more serious, I should say more serious since they were married and all that.  “And Roy,” he inhaled through his teeth, uh oh, “is with Thea.”

Not that he disapproved or anything but, Roy + Mirakuru +over-aggressive tendencies = equalled a very worried big brother.

“He’s been doing better.” She offered, trying to bring him back; to there. In the Foundry. Instead of that little corner of his mind where he believed that everything in his life could and would go wrong. “The yoga seems to have,” scrambling for a word she came up worrying absent, “done... something.” She winced.

Good job.

Since she thought she’d blown it, his response surprised her. “It’s definitely helped; I can tell when he’s training.” On the tail-end of a sigh, he looked her in the eye. “It was a good idea.”

Her smile turned rueful. “John thought it was crazy.”

“So did Sara.”

True. But again, she’d seen how Oliver reacted whenever Roy’s more emotional tendencies started to rear their ugly heads and had decided that any suggestion was worth a try.

He didn’t want to abandon him. And neither do I.

What she hadn’t betted on was Roy actually appreciating her yoga wisdom – she’d been practicing yoga and, on the side, Muay Tai kickboxing loosely for a few years now – and, even more strangely, Oliver frequenting their sessions... and sometimes joining in with them.

Shirtless.

Unhelpful. Completely unhelpful.

Still... it made for memorable sessions.

“It was a good choice.”

His mutter made her frown at him. “It was the right choice.”

He just looked at her.

“Oliver,” treading carefully, “I can’t presume to know the things you’ve seen but I don’t think taking away the few things Roy holds dear in this world is the answer.” And of the very few things Roy held dear, Thea was at the top. “If there’s something we’ve seen,” but can’t necessarily prove- yet, “it’s that Mirakuru exacerbates aggressive emotions already present in the host.” Slade Wilson was a tried and tested subject of hers. “I’m not a fan of chance, but since I don’t have much of a choice, I’d say that it has an effect on the hypothalamus: the area of the brain responsible for fight or flight?  Maybe there was a flaw in the design. Maybe, instead of creating a calmer soldier, the Mirakuru directly interferes with the limbic system.” Like a cellular mortal combat. When he just looked at her, she pushed up from where she’d leant on her desk and took a step closer. “Bottom line. Asking Roy to break up with Thea? It’ll make all these weeks of progress mean nothing.” Felicity pictured Roy’s efforts the past few weeks. “He’s trying so hard, Oliver.” Like you are, but in a different way.

He nodded, as if still trying to convince himself - well, it was Thea so Felicity couldn’t blame him for being afraid of what might be - and it was almost contrite. “I know.”

But, since he was moving it so much, the top of his head kept rudely taking her attention.

Oh no, don’t say it-

“Can you just... ah...” 

Head angling down slightly, he searched her face. “What?”

“Your hair.” She winced, biting down on her lip. “It’s distracting.”

You said it.

Totally flummoxed his eyes side-lined, flickering left to right. “Distracting?”

She understood. Totally. Since when did she care about his hair?

Well... since forever? I just never brought it up before. Is this what gradual sleep deprivation does to me? Not a fan of myself right now...

But she still spoke. “It’s tweaked.”

“And this is a problem?” He looked just as perplexed about this scenario as she. Ugh, and I’m the one who’d asked him.

Reaching up - her hand moving without any thought whatsoever - she yanked it back down before it could touch his hair. Stop it! “Could you just,” her nervous laugh sounded more like a gasp of shame, “run your hands through it?” She was so close to begging.

It just... he looked edible.

Damp. Shirtless. Fluffed hair. Oliver.

Staring at her, he blinked several times. “Run my hands through it.”

“Yes.” Before I do it for you. “Please.”

“…Okay.” The word was stressed, like, what the hell are you talking about? His brow creasing, he actually brought a hand up. “Like this?” Flattening it on his head, he wafted it haphazardly through the strands.

Now the top of his head looked like a porcupine.

She pressed her lips together. Damn. Cute.

She should be questioning why he was actually doing what she was asking - I should be telling him to put a shirt on too but, oops, I forgot - and she should already be upgrading her system. But instead-

“Nu uh.”

He sighed, probably more than slightly exasperated. And confused. “You do it.”

“Erm…” Blinking stupidly, she pointed to herself. “Me?” Because, yes sir.

He shrugged. “You’re the one with the…”

He trailed off because her hand was already reaching up again. Her palm touched the top of his head, fingers ploughing through and ooh.

Yes. Distracting. Wonderful. Soft; she just knew it would be soft.

Keeping a practical mind-set, she focused on shifting his devil may care ‘do’ into an ‘Oliver’.

It was quick work, but she immediately noticed how he automatically bent his head and his knees so that she could reach the back of his skull. How he fell quiet and let her finish.

Aw.

Though, his suddenly bunching musculature - emphasised by how he’d put his hands in his pockets and by how his shoulders curved as he leaned closer - wasn’t cute. Not at all.

Still… his eyes closed.

Just for that, she made sure each pass of her fingers included a brief press - tiny massages on his scalp of which she was a master of - between the folds. She shook her head at how easily the strands twisted and curved beneath her hand. “You’re hair’s ridiculous.” She breathed.

When it finally dawned on her, what she was doing, she froze. It was a brief thing, lasting barely 2 seconds. But she noticed. He noticed.

Contact.

She’d focused on decreasing it between them for fear of being discovered by him, because touch was their assurance. And there I go, just handing him an excuse to pass the dotted line.

But it was so difficult to be anything other than this with him. He made it easy to care about him.

With soft blinks as his eyes opened as he waited for her hands to drop and they absently graced the slope of his neck as they did, her fingers accidentally touching the outline of his ear before falling altogether.

She also did not expect his quiet release of breath, or the way he took her in when he fully looked at her again.

Affection. As if he never took it for granted whenever he received it. As if it had been - or still was - long since absent from his life.

But his response was dry. “Is it okay now?”

Rolling her eyes at herself, she gave a self-derisive chuckle and her hands twisted together. “Sorry. Like I said; a little fragile minded.” Really fragile. Vulnerable. Tired.

His lashes flickered. “Hm.” Oddly enough he tensed; his lips tightened and he nodded to himself for whatever reason before asking, “Want to go for coffee?”

Her mouth opened and… and nothing.

“I heard you say you wanted a blueberry muffin.” Stepping closer once more, he was a mere foot in front of her now and the warmth naturally coming from his skin almost made her sigh. Like this, it was impossible to miss the way his eyes travelled the length of her body. “Or three. How about…Big Belly Burger?”

She was pretty sure her face suffered a genuine  twinge, because how had him looking at her body make him change his mind from coffee at Catharsis to an unhealthy breakfast at Triple B?

She shook herself. “It’s,” and gave her watch a brief glance, “nearing 10:00am.”

Again, he shrugged. “So?”

“That isn’t too early for you?”For huge beef burgers?

He made a noncommittal sound. “I didn’t eat much of anything yesterday.” Yep, from what she’d seen, it was at least honest. “And neither did you.” He added. Quietly.

Cautiously.

She didn’t know he’d been watching that closely.

Though she felt her inner warning sirens blare, the mere idea of hot food and shakes crushed any and all her qualms. Plus...

Dinner with Oliver.

It would be just them two. Something they hadn’t done in a couple of months. Something she missed and something she treasured. And yet...

She tilted her skull. “Who are you and what have you done with Oliver Queen?”

She felt the overwhelming need to burst out laughing at the way his eyes went huge.

“Excuse me?”

“A full fat, pre-noon serving of deep fried unhealthy things coming from the man who can, has and always will put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame and who had, prior to this, lectured me on my food choices. Dim Sum for one not included.”

Deliberately fluttering her lashes – once, twice, three times, four – she watched as he got the tease.

And... he smiled.

Hi there.

Like a ray of pure sunlight.

A rough sound escaped him, like he’d swallowed a pinecone. “Sounds like a douche.”

This time she did laugh; a surprised snort really.

He shook his head in a I can’t believe you said that or that I said what I said or that we’re talking like this and it’s been a super long time since I did this with another human being kind of way.“Doesn’t a salad come with most orders?” He teased.

Breathing out through her nose, she nodded with a dozy kind of smile. “Yeah.”

“So,” his hands still in his pockets, he shrugged once more.“Greasy burgers and fries?”

“Okay.”

“Sound good?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“Good.”

Gesturing towards his chest she cleared her throat, because I’m completely copasetic. “You’ll have to put on a shirt though.”

Arching a brow, she caught the quirk of his lips. “You want me to cover up?” Still, he moved away towards his small cupboard of spare clothes.

“If you can manage it.”

She’d replied without thinking, watching the way he shook his head… but then she backtracked as he shucked on a Henley. Did he just say…

“You want me to cover up?”

As if he’d deliberately kept his shirt off?

Because he knew she liked how he looked without it on? Because… he secretly enjoyed how she tried not to ogle every muscle on his superhuman physique?

Or maybe, he was simply in the mood to tease.

Thinking as he came back to her - his keys jangling in one a hand as the other stuffed his wallet down the back pocket of those superbly tight jeans of his - she figured she was reading way too much into this because she was tired, hungry and too emotional to ask for the hug she desperately needed. Plus, it was Sunday. Sunday didn’t require a person to be as spot on as a Saturday did.

His feet were in his boots faster than her thoughts allowed her to process.

“You ready?” He asked from where he was sat, his heel on top of the seat with him as bent over to tie his laces.

She pulled her bag back onto her shoulder. “Yep.”

They were walking towards the side door when                Oliver suddenly grasped her bicep.

Heart hammering, what did he see, she surreptitiously checked her wrists; her blouse hadn’t rolled up far enough. So, what is it? She turned her head to look at him. She needn’t have worried.

His voice was quiet, eyes flickering briefly to her and shoulders but the check was perfunctory, before he looked back to the door. “No coat?” He input the code and it punched through, opening them to a cool breeze.

Relief hit her as he moved her to walk ahead of him - his hand still holding her bicep –and she lifted her other arm in point. “Long sleeves.”

A flicker of a frown made her wonder…

But then they were walking down the alley towards… towards his bike. His Ducati. He chose a key, notching it between his fingers like he would an arrow.

Mouth open, she looked from him, to the bike and back again.

“Felicity?”

Brows high to the sky, she yelped. “We’re going on your bike?”

Taking his helmet in one hand, he nodded and gestured towards her mini. “It’ll be easier than taking your, ah, car.”

Yes, he’d made it abundantly clear how he felt about the limited space in her car long ago.

“I’ve never been on a motorbike before.” She blurted out, wanting to smite herself down; why am I ruining this? It’s his bike and he wants me on it. It’s an end of discussion type stipulation.

Speaking low - and why his tone was husky this very fine morning, she questioned not a bit - he passed her the helmet. “I know.”

Again, her head went from him, to his bike and back again. “What if I do something wrong?”

What if I get us pulled over? Or worse, what if I freak out in between oncoming traffic? What if she nicked it? Or, what if she tipped too far sideways?

“You won’t.”

He sounded so sure.

“How do you know?”

For a moment, he just looked at her.

“Two things.” Abruptly, he took the helmet from her frozen hands and placed it on the chain beside the bike. “First,” he straightened, “I’ve seen you drive and you have nothing to worry about.”

True; she could drive anything.

“Second… you’re with me.” The muscles in his face and shoulders were so relaxed and she realised it was because he’d spoken truth. A veritable fact. She had nothing to worry about because she was with him and he would keep her safe. And it loosened him, that honesty.

He liked that certainty. And he liked it more that she knew that she would always be safe with him.

Taking a deep breath, she began to smile but it was hesitant. “I won’t deny that I’ve been wondering what it’s like to be on one of those.”

Desperately wishing she knew what it was like to be Sara. To be on the back of the bike of her partner and revel as the wind blew her hair about face, as his body controlled the bike from between her thighs. A level of intimacy she hadn’t dared hope to share with him, ever. Yet, here they were.

And it was this buried dream that made her ask before they set about doing just that. “Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“Okay. Then no helmet.” She raised a hand before he could object. “Trust me Oliver; you do not want me wearing that unless you like mild concussions to the back of the head whilst driving.”

He moved his head in a way that told her he clearly thought she was being a little overdramatic.

“Besides.” Again, she spoke before he could and wanted to comment on the way his lips pressed together. “This way you can show me just how good you really are.”

There was a moment’s silence as both parties examined the many, many hidden messages in that sentence.

Locked in a stare, the muscles in Oliver’s throat twitched, tensing. Clearing said throat, Oliver arched a brow.

Why do I do this to myself? “I don’t know how I keep getting myself into these word dramas.” A hand came up to rub her forehead as then sun hit her eyes and oh, the sun made him look so…

She groaned at him. “Is it too late to take it back?”

His lips twitched.

She rolled her eyes. “I mean, how good you are with balance.” Then she blinked, eyes flying back to his carefully calm face. “On your bike.” She stressed, purely platonic Oliver. “How good you are on your bike.”

Lips still pressed together, he nodded super slowly. “Mm hm.”

Frack.

But he grinned and it was such a little boy grin, something she hadn’t expected to see - not ever - that her eyes narrowed at him good naturedly.

“I’m glad you find my verbal incontinence so amusing Mr Queen.”

“Come on.”

He looked so light and at ease.

Following him to the bike, he sat astride it and held out a hand to her. No second guessing, no thinking ‘what if this and that’. She gripped his palm and it was almost automatic how she slid onto the Ducati - like she’d done it with him before and would do so again - slipping in behind him and using his shoulders for balance as she settled herself. Her hands slid briefly down his back before falling into her lap-

“-Hold onto me tight.”

Her gaze flew up to his face at the memory those words brought to the surface. From her position and the slight tilt of his head in her direction…

Hair not too short, it didn’t move in the simple breeze and scruff covered jaw line was the most obvious feature to look at but, she went to the one eye she could partially see instead.

She swore his eyes were dancing.

Brushing her fringe behind her ear, she moved her arms around him, until her hands were lightly - barely - pressed to each side of his ribcage.

He wasn’t wearing a coat; it was a brutal reminder of who he was and is and wow. So she was basically trying not to feel him up. Being this close wasn’t something either of them was used-

“Tighter.” He repeated.

Oh. Okay. Never mind.

Kicking his bike into gear, she did as asked. She held on tight, her legs tightening automatically around his contracting thighs, her front pressed beautifully to his back, her fingers interlocking against his sternum.

Abs. So many abs…

She felt him take a deep breath, moving with him, before he revved into gear and shiver of excitement curling into her gut as he pulled out of the Lot.

Then all thoughts fled her mind as they flew down the road.

And for a moment… she was free.

Chapter Text

(Picture by the Amaze-balls Candykizzes)24

I didn’t expect this.

For it to feel like everything she’d never realised she’d wanted before.

The wind in her face, the unmitigated sense of freedom, the sensation - however unrealistic - of invulnerability; that they were immortal on the road and nothing could ever stop or catch up to them - and the closeness within a cocoon of expected safety, like it was guaranteed.

A cocoon called Oliver.

But I don’t need to be safe.

It was true; she didn’t. Being safe meant living a life of tedious normalcy and even then the illusion of ‘safe’ couldn’t be 100% guaranteed. Accidents happen. Injuries occur. Safe was an ‘if’ component in her life; not a given.

…So how was he doing this? How was he making her feel this?

Feel… safe. When she had every reason in the world not to feel safe.

All this… Just by taking a ride. By turning the world to silence with the rumble of his Ducati. Colouring it gold from grey.

Oliver.

He did that; he gave that to her, that wide open space at his back. As if he were saying ‘I’m here; you’re not alone’.

And he did it without trying. He did it not knowing. Not realising how much she needed it, because she hadn’t realised it either.

She’d been fine until... this. Until they were there; on his bike and driving. The strands of her hair a caress on her face, his body a blanket of assurance, his gesture for lunch a means of keeping her near even as her secret kept her far from him...

Trying to save her, again. And he. Did. Not. Know.

He didn’t know he could do that.

How that could be, was beyond her. Hadn’t any woman told him – shown him – the power of his kindness, his heart?

And all this was sitting right between her thighs; his back to her front.

It wasn’t even about how it physically felt - it felt amazing by the way - or how he looked in his jeans from behind.

It was how every single inch of him seemed to fit every single inch of her.

How it hit her, that revelation - rudely, achingly - that she’d been missing something; a piece of herself that wasn’t herself, but belonged to her regardless. Something that she would never have. And how she knew that, when this ride was over, she’d feel the loss acutely.

Yes. Being close... it was damning. Just as it was freeing.

Just as she knew she’d choose to live in this moment anyway, knowing the return would hurt. Like with Physics, momentum is a bitch. One perfect moment in time...

With the man she loved. A man who didn’t know she loved him and probably never would. But he still gave her this regardless. For free. It made her want to hold on tight and never let go.

Not that she ever could...

Just enjoy this.

It was a slow arch, how she leaned away from his body; completely at ease in a way she’d forgotten to feel. Her hands and fingers were planted at his sides and she tilted her head back to the lukewarm sun. And she closed her eyes.

He revved up the bike.

Breathe.

She did. Deep breaths, feeling the thrumming roll beneath her.

Feeling how his body moved with the vehicle, feeling how his hand would sometimes leave the bars to land on her knee; a signal that he was about to turn. Feeling how his chest would contract and subtract under her hands as the bike pushed and pulled at them. Seeing that sliver edge of a smile she barely caught from him when the loose strands of her hair tickled the back of his neck.

It was a deeply masculine sensation.

She understood now; why he’d go back out on his bike after a long night of hunting criminals, why he’d take the time before meeting with family or with friends, to ride through the city. Why sometimes, without any reason whatsoever, he’d take the Ducati for a spin in the early hours of the morning…

She wondered what it would feel like; taking that ride at 3 or 4 in the morning…

Invigorating. Relieving. Liberating-

Lonely.

The thought was intrusive. Almost painful.

As calming as a joyride could be, there must have been at least one moment, somewhere, where he’d considered leaving the city. Just… escaping. On his bike. By himself. Like dust in the wind.

Simply because he thought there was no one in the city who needed him more than he needed them.

I need him. The way she needed him, was needy to the tenth degree. She wouldn’t even know where to start. So she’d never tell him. What she would do, is make him see he was needed and loved so much by those around him.

In the meantime, she’d just let herself have this. This one moment. Have the feel of him pressed against her, even as loose as it was.

“You’re with me.”

She was. Always.

And because she was with him, she knew she was safe. That she could simply… let go.

And let him take care of her as he drove.

Like coming home from a long, long, day at a job that tried to break her into little pieces; here he was, patching her up. Without realising what this meant to her.

Oliver was a special kind of blind.

It had been beyond her how a ride on the back of a motorcycle could both soothe and excite, but it could. It did. And now she knew it, she wanted more. Wanted it again to take her away, to make her dream, even when she shouldn’t.

But, oh, how she did…

“I’ll get us a table.”

Oliver nodded at her, heading for the waitress at the counter.

His fingers left hers as they moved away from each other and it hit her then, that they’d been holding hands since he’d tugged her off the bike. And she hadn’t noticed the problem with that. Now, however, it swam to the forefront of her brain and wouldn’t leave.

It was just that… they didn’t usually hold hands or-

I hate my brain. It was her one gift; what made her stand apart but, today I hate my brain.

Because the moment it was gone - his hand - she missed it. That innocent touch.

For I am beyond help. Eyes rolling, yep; growing beyond the boundaries of pathetic too; she wandered down the aisle, immediately choosing a booth towards the bottom end and away from the windows; shying away from exposure.

Checking her sleeves - they weren’t just long; they almost stuck to her wrists because tight - she slid into the booth, glancing at the laminated pictorial menu and grimacing when she didn’t see anything light for the stomach.

Am I even hungry? Her lips twisted in thought. Do I have an appetite? You kind of needed one for BBB. She wondered how much she could actually stomach. A club salad? Doubt I can eat what I normally do…

Which was… a lot.

I stress eat. Or I used to.

Ice cream didn’t quite cut it anymore.

She was contemplating the pros and cons of a chicken wrap with refillable soda, when she remembered about the other guy- Oliver?  He still hadn’t joined her. What, is he flirting with the waitress? Not that he would whilst here with another woman, friend or no, because he’d consider it the height of rudeness.

Tapping her fingers against the table, sod it, she half stood and leaned slightly forwards since the counter was just outside her scope of vision…

Oliver was indeed talking to the waitress. But he wasn’t flirting. He was paying.

Already?

She blinked. Once. Then several times. He ordered for me?

Um... okay.

Oliver never did that.

Yes, he’d pay - in fact he always paid when it came to Big Belly and whenever she tried to pull out her purse, either he or Dig wouldn’t stand for it; so she substituted with morning coffees for three - but he’d never presume to outright order for her. Even if he did know exactly what she wanted or liked, he always left room for a change of mind.

Eyes tapering slightly, she watched Oliver finally make his way over and on route he snatched up a carrier of requisite condiments from a nearby stall, placing it to the side of their table when he arrived.

With a small smile gracing his lips, Oliver slowed way the hell down as he reached her and her eyes followed, going from the ketchup and the mustard to him whilst he sat.

He got comfortable - the seats were quite roomy but she wasn’t a vigilante extraordinaire three times as big as she was so she didn’t judge - and looked out at the rest of the lightly filled restaurant, therefore ignoring her expectant expression and the question-mark mixed in with it.

He made no move to look at the menu either.

Okay, feeling a little tense and a lot mentally strained - long night remember - she spoke, “Oliver?”

Eyebrows lifting, he blinked innocently in her direction.

…She really should have chosen a seat at the front.

They may have been away from the window but with the sun just overhead, light shone gently on his back and it wasn’t hindering, wasn’t blinding. Broad shouldered, he blocked any unwanted rays, but it threw Oliver’s already stunning features into overdrive. Illuminating his already overwhelming presence, tinting the tips of his dirty blonde hair a golden summer and emphasising the deeper blue of his irises and the natural peach colour of his skin…

It took everything she had not to figuratively drift away.

Focus Felicity. And she did, on his expression; finding he at least had the decency right then to look a tad awkward. His open gaze was a smoke screen; there was something going on behind his eyes.

Searching them, she asked. “What is it?”

Looking briefly to the left, a pucker showed up at the bridge of his nose. He looked down, a clear deflection coming a mile away.

So she headed it off. “Nuh uh. Don’t think I didn’t see you.” Her finger flicked towards the till. “You ordered for me. And I’m guessing you ordered a lot.”

It wasn’t a problem and her tone told him so, but the why of it was a mystery. As was the way he was behaving.

With both forearms resting flat, his thumb rubbed at his palm. His stare went there, to his hands and whatever memories they made him revisit. “I just wanted to do something for you.”

It was almost mumbled. Mumbled. Oliver and mumbled... nope. Mr Badass Vigilante, the elusive Arrow, the man with four sets of abs… and he sounded like a little boy.

And… the admittance. I just wanted to do something for you. What could she do with that?

It was enough to have her lean forwards. “Hey.” Her tone was tender, almost a hum, because this wasn’t a big deal, but…

This also wasn’t chivalry.

Chivalry wasn’t Oliver.

That isn’t to say he didn’t have manners; he had them in abundance. At his core, he was a gentleman. But he also seemed to instinctively understand that tiny line a lot of women erected between manners and being so overly gallant it was seen as sexism.

Ordering for a date was, sure, cheesy, but for some it also bordered on controlling and he’d known enough volatile, strong minded women who didn’t care for it to try. So what was he doing?

Or am I just in a different category?

And where did this hesitancy come from? He was never hesitant; not with her. Not ever. It was like an actual rule between them; always honest, always sincere, no hiding.

A deep exhale left him and on the end of that breath, he stated, “You didn’t eat yesterday.”

The sheer something on his face made her soften towards him. “I think we already established that.”

His thumb stopped worrying his hand and he looked up at her with eyes that were oddly clear. Eyes that were quiet- how eyes could be quiet, only Oliver seemed to know. “We spent half the day at Queen Consolidated, two hours at Verdant and the rest of the night in the Foundry.” His tone and manner were also quiet. Serious too and it disconcerted her. “We ordered Italian from Russo’s.” They did, at 7pm the night before. “You were working the monitors till late but we left you some.”

“I know, I ate-”

He cut in. “You didn’t eat it.”

“Oliver, I-”

“I know you didn’t because I checked the trash after you threw it out.”

Eyebrows arching, she looked at him. He’d looked through my trash?

“I didn’t see you eat at all yesterday.” 

Why was he taking this so seriously?

There were two threads to his words: searching through what she’d thrown away implied he’d been watching her quite thoroughly and, more worryingly, he’d noticed just how severe her decrease in appetite actually was.

But how could she have an appetite with Slade Wilson in her life?

Felicity wasn’t a large woman. And contrary to popular belief, IT girl or not she did work out. Sitting on a chair for several hours makes a girl paranoid about her hipline, so she took the time to run. She also loved her food and took great pleasure in appreciating every single morsel.

So, throwing away expensive and ridiculously fabulous tasting food? It wasn’t like her, making it noticeable. Even if she thought she’d been stealthy, pretending to eat a piece here, some spaghetti there… she’d failed.

His stare was too intense, probing.

“Oliver, this isn’t something you need to worry about.” Backpedalling at how this only served to make his expression all the more attentive, she tried for persuasive reasoning. “Yesterday, I wasn’t feeling like myself. I didn’t want to worry anybody about it since it wasn’t a big deal.”

“It was a big deal.” It was gentle but firm and it silenced her. “You not eating is a big deal.” Again, there was something there… something dark that puzzled her. As if he wasn’t just speaking about the day before. “Whatever the reason - you obviously don’t want to share it - I wanted to make sure you ate something substantial. With me.”

The words where I can make sure you finish could have fit at the end there perfectly.

It should have been annoying. It should have raised her hackles that he’d try to control the situation, it should have made her panic, made her feel anything but relieved.

Brows joining, she shook her head, throw him off. But she wasn’t on her A-game. “That’s kind of you but-”

“You’ve lost weight.” He countered, cutting to the meat of his unease, his lips tightening. Frack; it really is obvious. “Weight you didn’t need to lose.” Pinned to the chair by the depth in his eyes and in his voice, she could only wonder at just how closely he’d been watching her. “I need you to eat something more than a salad.”

Lips pressed together, his hands splayed out on the table. His head dipped and he exhaled. This was probably more unsettling for him than her; since when had he ever had to worry about her like this?

Dig’s vendetta. Roy’s aggression. Sara’s opposing belief system. Moira’s lies. Thea’s innocence and his efforts in keeping her that way. QC’s success… A couple of months ago, he’d mentioned his concern for Laurel and her behaviour both pre and post the revelation of her pill and alcohol addiction.

And now he’s worrying about me. It just showed how much he cared that he’d pushed past the privacy line and actually said something.

But she’d never, ever wanted him to worry about her.

A slow, languid ease settled deep inside her chest and she knew her face echoed every bit of the affection she had for him. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for a firing squad?”

Hitting the mark, immediately the tension in his shoulders lifted. “I didn’t want to push you.”

He looked so relieved.

Somewhat repentant, she said, “Showing concern for a friend isn’t exactly something that’ll throw you to the wolves Oliver.”

“You’ve been… a little… distant lately. Personally.” Like he thought he was treading on thin ice, his words were measured. Slow to come. Timid. Oliver. “I wasn’t sure you’d be… open to talking about it.”

Look what I’ve done.

In taking a step back - purely for the purpose of self-preservation - not only had she managed to increase his worry, she’d made him think he had to be careful with her.

I am the last person he needs to be careful with.

It wasn’t even half a lie.

But she’d also made him feel, like maybe… she was pushing him away, just him. In a very real way, she had been.

Closing her eyes, she felt done in. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to step on eggshells.”

“I’ve never walked on eggshells with you.” That warmth in his voice made his already super masculine tenor so much more so and she opened her eyes to find his own reflecting his words. “You wouldn’t let me if I tried.”

Very true.

Lounging back in her seat - suddenly very comfortable - she smiled at him.

And his responding smile was like a drop of rain. Seemingly small and harmless, but the moment it fully spread across his mouth she felt it ripple everywhere.

She’d say it was strange that her very small smile made him look at her that way but… he hadn’t had much look with the fairer sex lately.

After three foundation shaking arguments this week, his confidence had taken a hit. Two of them were major catastrophes. The first had been unavoidable and with Sara during Helena’s return to Starling; she and Dig had left in a hurry during that one. The second, also unavoidable, with Roy about keeping a leash on his temper. Luckily, they’d since found a compromise. But he’d also butted heads with Laurel. Not the near-to shouting match he’d gotten into with Sara, but something much more personal that had made the light in his features dim and Laurel’s almost severe countenance soften.

Then there was his mother… who he wasn’t speaking to. But no matter how much he couldn’t look at her without anger being his go-to emotion, he still loved her, which made it all the worse.

Thea was probably the only person he’d had even an ounce of luck with recently. But he knew the cost of the secrets he was keeping from her. Borrowed time. The first secret, that he was the Arrow, was one he could live with retaining. The second was a secret that weighed on his soul.

Ergo, his reticence with Moira Queen.

And his very fast hook-up with Sara Lance, though Felicity had already considered the psychological ramifications of passive aggressive tendencies taking root in overtly aggressive men leading to sex almost as retribution…

And it was past time she stopped thinking about that. “So,” she finally breathed, “what did you order me?”

The smile didn’t leave him. “Wait and see.”

A Few Minutes Later…

Her finger stroked at the froth alongside her cup of cappuccino goodness that Oliver had asked to have served to them before their meal. “So how long had you been awake before I got to the Foundry this morning?”

Oliver took a healthy drought of his own foam-covered coffee. “About an hour…” Catching her arched brow, he sighed. “I’ve been awake since four.”

“4am?” As he replied - a soft yeah - she put her finger to her mouth, licking the milk and chocolate off. “Oh. That’s a mountain load of suck.”

He hummed an agreement but obviously caught the hidden something in her tone. “What is it?”

In a brief flash, her eyes went to his before hustling back to her coffee. “Just…” She shook her head, feeling foolish. “It doesn’t matter.”

He frowned. “You can tell me.”

Ugh, you started it, might as well finish. “It’s just… I was going to come down earlier but...” she hadn’t known he’d be awake. And she absolutely hadn’t wanted to intrude on what could have been a very personal moment between him and Sara.

He placed his cup on the table. “You were awake at 4?”

“God, yes.” And no, it wasn’t a happy groan.

“Felicity.” A statement, a question, a demand, unease and affection, all rolled into one word, one name. And his gaze spoke volumes; a novel of contradicting sentiments and concerns forcing his brow to tip and the muscles of his face contract. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Oh, that was a laden question.

Deep, deep, breaths - her fingers tapping against her cup - she considered how to answer because it had been a slip of the tongue, completely accidental. But didn’t psychologists say that there are no accidents?

She felt it rising, that black pit inside her. It couldn’t touch him; she wouldn’t let it.

“It’s something I’m used to.” Getting used to.“Like my mind doesn’t want to switch off?” Said as a question, she realised this was, at least, partly true. “As if there’s too much stuff in there and it’s clamoured and I haven’t done a deep clean in a while or something.”

It didn’t wipe his frown away. “What did you do when you were at MIT?” When she was surrounded by computers and things that would keep her mind awake at night.

And because it was such a surprising question, her reply was blunt, quick and not even remotely thought about.

“Sex.”

He blinked.

Uh... blushing crimson, her brain stumbled to a halt; server crashing, smoke rising.

She had a rule - one rule - but the rule had obviously run away for cover because said rule stated that Oliver Queen plus sex - talking about it or otherwise - was a no-go because, duh! I’m Felicity Smoak and I can’t keep my mouth shut.

She couldn’t even babble her way out of it!

In a fast move, his lips pressed together and she watched – humiliation, my old-new friend, curling her insides - as he tried to gnaw down a grin. Again, he failed. Utterly.

He opened his mouth and, when no words came, closed it. Opened it again. Shook his head and only deep concentration prevented him from breaking.

Finally he coughed out, “Sex?”

The blush flared into a flat out red blaze.

Groaning, she brought a hand up to cover her eyes.

A hiccupped inhale told her all she pretty much needed to know about where his mind was at. “Sex.” He repeated and by his tone… yep; he was having way too much fun.

She tried - she really did - not to smile. She just knew he was smirking at her. Me and my big mouth. Rueful, her smile became huge without her telling it to and it actually hurt to hold back.

Still, she should have learned this lesson thoroughly by now. “If my mouth runs away with me one more time…” She moaned.

“You wouldn’t be you without at least one sexual reference on a Sunday morning.”

“Oliver.”

On the edge of a bark but still very hushed, the breathiest of laughs burst out of him - like he was trying to keep it together, keep it as quiet as possible but didn’t know quite how to do that because it was unfamiliar - and the beautiful way it sounded made her pull her hand away from her tomato red face, to see.

It… he, looked wonderful.

Biting down on her lip, she watched him try to control himself. Probably realising he had zero practice controlling laughter - since when did he ever all-out laugh - his eyes flickered to hers. His cheek twitched and his jaw line trembled in effort.

Lips pursed now - she was still smiling - she retorted, “Thank you,” and he choked on a breath because her neck had actually gone mottled, “thank you very much.”

Shoulders shaking, he lifted a hand - a ‘please stop making me laugh’ sign - and her mortification was cut in half.

So what if she’d had a healthy sex life in college - past tense noted - he had no room to talk. But if it made him laugh like that, then fine. I’ll grin and bear it.

Literally.

This literal manifestation made her bring her half empty mug back towards her face, covering that grin as both hands cupped it. She watched Oliver chew on the inside of his mouth, clearing his throat again and basically using a considerable amount of effort to stay so very chill.

Chin lifting, he met her pointed - coy - stare over her glasses. His smirk was practically shining out of his eyes as leant over the table on his forearms.

“So… sex?” His words were an intoned rumble from somewhere in his chest.

A purr.

For some reason she felt it on her hips, as though he’d pawed there with his fingers.

Just for effect, she fluttered her lashes - feeling ridiculous and a little naughty - and muttered. “Lots of it. Second year.”

Perfectly at ease - sex didn’t faze him, though she thought talking to her about it in such a casual way absolutely would - he gently blinked at her. “Did it work?”

Ruminating, she briefly glanced to the side. “Depended on the guy.”

Where they actually having this conversation?

“Where there a lot of guys?”

She took it exactly as he’d wanted her to: a curious question from a very good friend. “In college? Just two.”And a pathetic one-time since she’d moved to Starling. She took a sip and swallowed. He didn’t move away. “Cooper, a boyfriend I had for roughly a year and… Chad.” Wait for it…

His following blink was so hard she swore she heard his eyelid close then open. “Chad?”

Don’t grin. “Chad.”

Two blinks this time; his face the epitome of deadpan. “You slept with a guy called Chad?”

“Chad the 3^rd actually, but yes.” A secret smile was aimed at her coffee. She knew Oliver could see it and was probably wondering why it was there. His reaction was all the more hilarious because it had been her reaction when Mr Fantastic told her his name after their first hard and fast tumble. “I did.”

“Chad the 3^rd?”

She frowned at him. “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“Did Chad help you sleep?” His expression said ‘for putting up with such a stupid name, he’d have better helped’.

She almost snorted. “Very much so. At least, during exam season. It didn’t last long.” About three weeks.

Mouth in an ‘oh’ shape, his eyes fell to the table. “So he was…” searching for a word, he glanced back at her, “good?”

She gave a little ruminating shrug. “During.”

That shut him up for a moment. And because she instinctively knew that Oliver Queen would be a phenomenal partner in bed, she knew that he understood it to mean that Chad was good at reaching orgasm, but not good at extending foreplay. Or going at it slowly. Fast, always fast. Screwing, not love making.

Pity.

Her lips pressed together. Was it too much to ask to find someone that wants to do both?

Tapered brow soft in thought, he was still looking at her. Eyes a little - a lot – pleasantly taken by the whole conversation. Then he totally surprised her.

“Which did you…”

Guessing what he was trying to ask, she blinked. “Which did I find the most…capable?”

It didn’t hit either of them that talking about the details of her former sex life might be a little unusual for the two of them.

They’d discussed many things over the past 18 months. Sex and romance - though they weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive - had occasionally bumped notice but they’d never done this, this… banter. With brutal honesty attached. And she could only guess that he talked to Dig about it; the way only men could.

But she liked this; the comforting quality only a trusted friend could provide, a person who wouldn’t judge her words and vice versa to be something lacking. The expression on his face made it all the more enticing. An expression that spoke of how awkward it should be talking to her about this yet finding that it wasn’t, which probably made it deeply surreal to him.

He hadn’t expected this either, but he was enjoying it regardless.

And it showed when he exhaled. “Yes.”

“Honestly?” Because, did he really want to know this? By the earnest way he looked as he slid as close as he could over the table without impeding on her personal space, an arm circling his coffee, he really did. “Chad. But only just. He was a little older than me but we were more of a mutually beneficial relationship, so there were no issues when the time came to stop.”

She had to admit, this was a little weird to explain to him.

Once she would have never considered sex without strings, but she’d been in that stressed out phase of completing her finals for her Master’s and trying not to think of the fiasco involving the man she thought she’d graduate with before he’d ended up on the opposite side of life. As in death.

She’d been lonely. And alone, which were two very different things. “Cooper was… good,” her eyes flickered to him shyly and his smile grew, “great even, but to sleep? Really sleep and not wake up?” In those early dawn hours were that extra hour meant the world and your brain wouldn’t shut up to let you take it? “Coop knew about love making,” she murmured, seeing the area around Oliver’s eyes soften, “but I don’t know.” She sighed, “Sometimes you just need to get fucked-”

Cutting off the word too late, like a spasm, she blew the remaining air in her lungs in a whistle through her teeth. Like string, self-conscious shame weaved into her rib cage.

Acting like she was all that, and oh she really wasn’t, Felicity - stretching her mouth because it was suddenly horrifically dry and laminating her lack of vernacular control - puttered her hands across the table and nudging the salt and pepper shakers to avoid his stare.

But that was impossible.

Unnecessarily pushing her glasses up her nose - internally dying - she caught sight of his fist tight on the table and peeked at him sideways…

And promptly burst out laughing.

He looked like he’d been mentally shot out of a canon.

Like shock had locked him in place, his mouth was open and his pupils were blown wide.

Hands quickly coming up so quickly over her face it was like a slap, oh my God, she stared right back, feeling so light. Not thinking about dark thoughts and darker memories, not hearing words in a voice that followed her home.

No longer flushed like before, she was breathless - and very much beaming - because she was delighted and diverted, even as she was horrified at herself by his reaction.

Something seemed to snap back in place and he rapidly blinked as this indescribable sound left him. Like he’d been kicked in the crotch whilst inhaling helium. He was frozen, his brain probably stuck on ‘PROCESSING’.

Then out of nowhere, his blank expression broke into a thousand little pieces and this helpless, gasping chuckle left him. “I… that was the last thing I expected you to say.” Incredulous eyes swept over her.

She was still laughing, even with her hands over her face. “I-I’m sorry.”

Face tinged pink, the Arrow looked away and his smile - revealing teeth - was magnificent when he shook his head, breathing deep. “Felicity Smoak.”

Throaty. His voice was throaty; his tone touching seduction. It was almost overwhelming, hearing her name said like that.

His mouth opened again… but it was several seconds before he mouthed, “Fucked,” as if he was trying out the feel of it in his mouth.

It hit her stomach at 100 miles per hour.

His tongue swept over his bottom lip.

That is so not fair.

And a shiver brushed over her when he looked her way again. “I know,” oh husky was definitely the new sexy, “exactly what you mean.”

That sometimes you just need to get fucked.

Don’t be embarrassed, his seemed to tell her as they held her there with him; both feeling that mutual - basic - flash of appreciative agreement. An understanding that you can be any kind of person, decent, nefarious, rich, or poor and still have the same wants, the same needs, the same drives…

And once, maybe weeks prior or maybe four years ago, she and Oliver had needed to get fucked.

So… they had.

Just in differing ways.

But oddly, it was one of the nicest things she’d ever been told. Even if it wasn’t said with words, his gaze told her that, in this at least, he got her.

Felicity was a woman and, if he hadn’t seen it before – she was very sure he had – he definitely saw it now. Saw it and liked it. Saw it and found something there they had in common.

Their stare lasted roughly ten seconds longer than the one second it maybe should have. Then, with the residual burn of the mortification flowing over her she closed her eyes, still smiling and shaking her head before bowing down until her forehead touched the table.

Her whine was more a laugh than a cry.

How could he do this to her, with her? So easily making her forget the horrors lurking, waiting out there for her. It was a gift. In Big Belly, over burgers and Shakes. She’d treasure this memory. Take it with her into the dark.

…She felt something lightly touch the back of her head; it felt like the tip of his nose.

Like he’d bowed his head to hers, nudging.

What?

“Your order will be here in a minute!”

The waitress.

Both moving back and sitting straight again in her seat she heard Oliver mutter, “we should do this more often,” as the waitress cleared away their now-empty cups.

She couldn’t help but agree.

Because there was no painful silence, no feelings of ‘I shouldn’t have said that’, or ‘how I am going to look at him now’, having had their conversation veer in a completely unexpected direction.

He looked happy.

And that was all she’d ever wanted for him.

She’d been right; he’d ordered a lot.

Not that she cared.

She moaned blissfully and muttered, “I take it back.” It was a little muffled as her mouth combated against onion rings and crispy curly fries.

“Take what back?” Ahead of her in their conjugal race to asphyxiate themselves via good food, he spoke around thick beef patties, salad and a brioche, burger-bap.

She swallowed, taking precious seconds that weren’t spent eating this ambrosia to say, “The teeny-tiny lecture I’d thought up for when our plates came. Something about wasting money or food…” Half absentminded, half ‘I don’t care anymore’; she left her sentence in the wind to bite down on her half-pound beef burger.

Glorious.

“Yeah.” He intoned, wolfing down a further third of his burger before reaching for his shake- he’d ordered them both shakes too.

To be precise he’d ordered two large portions of curly fries, wedges and onion rings and two Big Belly Supers. Basically; double, half pound beef burgers with salad and relish, bacon (for him) and cheese (for her) with extra pickles. Plus two large vanilla milkshakes. Heaven.

He took a long draft before, “So tell me…”

With a full mouth she could only blink up at him, a brow quirking over her glasses.

Eyes searching her face, he seemed to deliberate something. “You could have come to the Foundry.”

Mouth still muffled, her head tilted in question.

“This morning.”His stare dashed from the wedges he was devouring to her face and back again. Casual-like. “You said that you’d been awake for hours,” he munched through on his conquest of the wedges, “before you came to the Foundry.” He popped in one final particularly golden-brown wedge and exhaled down his nose as he chewed then swallowed; taking a moment to just look at her.

“You could have come in sooner.” He stated.

Frowning slightly, Felicity swallowed; licking the trace amounts of batter from her lips. “At 3am?” It was meant as a joke but the way his eyes suddenly flashed she wanted to take it back immediately.

“You were awake at 3am?” He stared at her.

She shrugged, responding by cavalierly biting down on her burger again, attempting another smile.

But he was utterly serious. “If you’re awake at 3am, I want you down there.”

Ignoring the sudden swift - and very heated - images his tone alone invoked, Felicity indicated her head slightly but it warred with a slight unease’s so it made it look like she was shaking off a fly. “I didn’t want to intrude on you and Sara.”

Which was a perfectly decent response. The right response, surely.

The way his jaw suddenly tightened, the way his brows broke in the middle, made her think confusingly otherwise.

“Felicity,” he started. Then stopped, looking about him and taking a breath. He looked so baffled by her words. “Me and Sara… we aren’t together anymore.”

It hit her like an axe to the skull, “what?” She breathed.

“We broke it off days ago.”

“Days ago…” she felt stuck in time - in the traffic of her mind - as her eyes slowly widened.

He nodded. “During… Helena.”

One word. A  name. It was all she required.

Tuesday.

He’d seemed the same the next day, the same Oliver who been prowling around for the past month. The only difference? He’d gone back into QC. There had been no indication that he’d split up from a beloved girlfriend, no... nothing.

But, still…

“Oliver, I... I’m so sorry.”

An honest flash of pain echoed like a scream across his eyes and it made her chest constrict. “It’s fine.”

It’s fine.

“No. It’s not.”

Looking like he was going through it in his head, Oliver started to say. “It isn’t...” but then he stopped when he saw her expression, “Felicity?”

She felt like crying. She hadn’t cried in weeks, not for emotional reasons.

And he could see it. All of it.

And by the way he suddenly stopped trying to say words altogether, by the way those striking blue eyes changed, mellowing into the cool blue of a babbling brook and by the way his uneven brow was telling of the increasing concern he was feeling at her over-reaction, told her he didn’t get it one bit.

Of course he wouldn’t. Who would?

He didn’t know that everything keeping her together all these weeks had been intrinsically linked to his happiness. If he was doing well, if he was content, then she could push through the fury, the misery, the pain and humiliation.

But… she’d missed something. Sure, she’d caught the tail end of his and Sara’s arguments, she’d seen the problems in their relationship arising in their eyes whenever they looked at each other… but she thought they could fight through that together. In the field, they were like poetry in motion, so how did that not extend to their relationship?

Worst still… she hadn’t noticed. He’d been unhappy - saddened - and she’d missed it, so wrapped up in her own world. So far gone that when she thought she was seeing him, she was only seeing through him.

Oh god.

Almost dazed, she watched through a fog as he pushed his plate aside to lean over the table, closer to her. The tips of hesitant fingers touched her forearm. Above her wrist.

“Hey…”

Said so gently, it hurt.

Against her wishes, her eyes grew wet - no - and his expression faltered before crumbling into… Crap-a-doodle.

He looked stunned.

“Felicity.” Tenderness turned his touch a different heat altogether and it melted into her from where his hands were brushing her arms. “I don’t,” he shook his head, licking his lips. “What is it?”

He didn’t know what the problem was.

Pressing her lips together, her nostrils sucked in the deepest breath she could manage - get a grip - and blinked away the sudden, brief, moment of maddening weakness. Then she sniffed - more a sniffle than a sniff - so the attempt fell on its face.

He couldn’t possibly look more alarmed. “Please.”

God. “No, it’s nothing.” She’d tried for firm and received whisper-thin. “I just…”

Brows lifting, the comforting stroke of his palms became a grip on her biceps.  “You just…?”

“I just want you to be happy.” It came out like a wobbly sigh; like a breath she’d been holding in.

They’d broken up. He and Sara.

Mouth slightly open, he watched her. As if he was speechless. Just taking in her face. There was something happening behind his eyes, something different and maybe something sincere. Something sad just as it was warm.

It told a whole other story when his hand slipped up, stopping and starting along the way - with tentative fingers touching her throat - before his palm was against her cheek; barley touching her but there nonetheless.

Her breath caught; it forced her to meet his gaze again...

But he just looked back at her.

Looked at the way it showed how her eyes fluttered closed at his touch without her telling them too. At how she internally curled in on herself when they did. At the crease of her brow and the way her hands fisted and flexed. At the empathetic compassion coming out from every part of her.

At the words, I’m sorry, resonating in her gaze when she opened her eyes once more.

At those very real feelings; that she was expressing genuine grief for him, that she wanted him to be happy and she was worried that he wasn’t even close.

In an oddly sensual flutter of lashes, his gaze dropped to her lips then further down to her throat as she swallowed, to her hands that were gripping the end of her sleeves, and back up again to her eyes.

Whatever he was thinking - it was the first time she couldn’t read him - it made his eyes... darken.

Blinking away more moisture - no tears, thank God - she forced a smile, determined to express how 100% fine she was and how she would be more than willing to listen to any post-breakup rants he may or may not need to vent…

But then his other hand joined its twin against her face, done so carefully, she could barely feel anything but warmth and the slight coarseness of his palms. For a moment he seemed suspended between possibilities.

Then he rose up from his seat.

Um...

It was swift. So unexpected that she didn’t move a muscle as he bent over the table…and pressed his lips against her forehead.

Her breath caught as her eyes shut tight. And her hands shook when he stayed there a while; the scruff at his jaw tickling her skin, making goose bumps rise.

Tell him.

No, don’t tell him anything!

Her jaw clenched, crushing her lips together. Better not to make a sound.

So when the side of her face was suddenly manoeuvred and placed up against the plains of a solid chest she froze; her eyes flying open to find…

Oh no… no, no, no…

He’d left his seat to sidelong her own; a knee holding him steady against the cushion beside her thigh, his body aloft so that he still towered over her. So that he could gently bring her face to his chest – his heart – and hold her there as his hands made short work of her hair, so that he could wrap his arms around her neck and head.

A cocoon of safety and assurance, an act of-

No. It was too much; I can’t do this right now. Her hand reached up to tug on his arm because it made her too vulnerable, too-

“Thank you.”

She stopped still; her thoughts ceasing.

So close to his chest, the words were a rough rumble. A thumb pressed under her ear, stroked the skin there and his fingers nestled under her messy bun. His other arm brought her body round in a curve against his obscenely wide pectoral area.

The undercurrent of gratitude in all of it floored her.

The hand she’d intended to push him away with, settled just above the waistline of his jeans. So unsure, it came out more a statement of anxiety than a question. “Oliver?”

“Ssh, ssh, ssh.”He started rocking, side to side; a gentle sway if his hips.

Jesus.

It pushed her chest into his abdomen, her glasses digging into the side of her face but he didn’t seem to notice.

“You want more for me.” It was hushed and since his body covered her from prying eyes, she figured it was for her ears alone. “Thank you for that.”

“It’s okay.” Her reply was immediate and somewhat shy because this really wasn’t necessary. “You don’t need to-”

“Why not?” On the edge of ‘not’ he lowered himself on the shin of the leg he’d used to prop himself up. Her chin slid north until her head bumped his chin, aided by his strong fingers and tender care. This way his arms could wrap around her back and shoulders. “I’ve hugged Thea for less.”

The way he said it…

“Thea’s your sister.” She pointed out, acutely ignoring how comfortable he was, how his broad shoulders meant that the whole of her was covered, how her side now leant against his rib cage and how her hand now lay tentatively on his pectoral – velvet over steel, wow.

He made a noncommittal sound. “I’ve hugged Laurel?”

A breathless laugh escaped her. “Was that a question?”

“Well… yeah.” She could hear the smile in his voice, “I’m trying to make a point.”

“Your point being… that you’ve hugged Laurel?”

“My point being that I’ve held plenty of people, men and women, for far less than this.”

Something soothing and warm poured itself slowly into her chest. “…Okay.”

“I’ve held Sara.” Held not hugged. Why was that… nicer? “I held her when we broke up. Laurel recently hugged me for no reason other than that she could.”

“I’m not sure I’m getting this point you’re trying to make.”

“I’ve held them.” Letting his weight rest comfortably against the back-rest, he murmured. “But I’ve never held you.”

Her mouth closed with rapid blinks.

He wasn’t doing this out of thanks. He was doing it because he knew something was wrong and he had no idea how to help her. So... hug. He’d instinctively known - because he’s Oliver - that she might need the security.

Technically, her legs were between his so if she so much as moved an inch to her left she’d be – also technically – sat in his lap.

She cleared her throat. “You don’t need to hug me just because you haven’t, you know.”

“Maybe I want to.” He stated, almost directly in her ear and she felt his warm breath caress her spine.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” She heard herself reply, because she definitely hadn’t planned on saying it.

There was a moment - it seemed to span the breadth of time - where he just stopped. His thumb stopped stroking her neck and his hold on her loosened.

She made to push up and away-

Sure fingers grasped her glasses, smoothly removing them from her face but before she could raise her head and ask why, those slack arms tightened around her until all she could see was the grey of his Henley.

Then he whispered words she thought he’d never utter.

“Maybe you should let me.”

Let herself like it. Let herself take comfort from him instead of the other way around. Let herself fall into him and pretend, just for a while, that she didn’t have to leave.

Mentally she tried to object but her heart…

The damage was done.

Will this make it worse?

This she wondered as she did exactly what he wanted her to do and settled against him. A very small movement that, the moment he felt it, had him shifting his hips to manoeuvre her onto his thigh with her knees between them. When he finds out, will this make him hate me? For not saying a word…

A deep breath pushed him into her.

It had been a long time since someone had held her like this. So… she’d take the moment for what it was, is, and worry about the rest later.

…The rest came afterwards, when Oliver was thanking the staff and using the restroom. Outside in the breeze – she’d needed five minutes away from his soft eyes after that to compose herself – her phone vibrated in her pocket. When she swiped the screen, she stopped dead.

That was sweet

It was as if the whole world fell away, in the worst possible way.

Slade.

I enjoyed the show

He’d been watching her, watching them? Following her?

What?

Suddenly exposed – fear making her heartbeat rocket – she searched the area, panicking.

Look all you want; you won’t find me

He was right; there was nowhere he could hide and she still couldn’t see him.

But she would stop him. Soon. Very soon.

Fingers flexing into fists, she took a deep breath, thinking she should just shove the phone in her bag-

Did you enjoy it?

She frowned at the screen, feeling more and more agitated with each text, more nervous.

Having him all to yourself

Oliver.

She wanted so much for him to return right now... she wanted so much for him to stay inside BBB, to not be visible to Slade in any way. She wanted him to make it better. She wanted him never to know.

Did it make you feel special?

It hit where he intended it to: her heart, but she didn’t let it show. To any passer-by she was simply checking her mobile.

What is it about him, I wonder, that makes women fall all over themselves? That makes a good girl, you, sacrifice pieces of yourself?

To me

For him

Knowing he’d never understand - and she’d never answered any of his texts before - she simply turned off her phone and bagged it.

She promised to herself she’d by a new one at the end of all this.

The problem though, was the realisation that Slade wouldn’t need her replies, not if he watched her, not if he was deliberately close to her when he did. Another game.

It was just as disturbing as it was terrifying and impossible to shake. But she had to, because Oliver was walking to the glass doors... so she deep breathed and smiled weakly as the man in question dangled his keys in promise.

Maybe the ride back would help her...

It didn’t help.

For obvious reasons, she couldn’t get to the foundry fast enough and almost started fidgeting on the back of the Ducati. Thankfully, they arrived without her losing complete control of herself.

Though Oliver... he noticed. She caught him frowning at the speed of her gait as she led the way towards the side door.

The moment they were inside, she paused at the top of the stairs, taking in a deep breath. She was as unexposed as she was ever going to be.

Too late, she felt him behind her. He hadn’t moved past her to go down the stairs.

“You okay?”

There was a four foot difference between them

It seemed they’d fallen back into step: to touches, no hand holding. No ‘so close that I have to lean backwards’ kind of physical proximity. Nothing lingering.

Exhaling through her nose, she spoke. “I’m fine.”

She moved towards the stairs.

“Felicity-”

Maybe it was because she was feeling off-centre - maybe it was his voice- but the moment her foot touched the first stair, a wave of inequity hit her. Her leg buckled beneath her, refusing to take her weight. Surprised, she yelped when she tipped forwards, confusion making her movements clumsy when she reached for the banister too late-

A strong arm wrapping itself around her waist stopped her fall. Just under her breasts, it tightened. Its twin shot behind her to steady her against the railing, effectively trapping between it and… him. All of him, every single inch.

…Oh.

Wow.

His breaths were warm against her ear. “You’re not okay.” Unlike before, he didn’t sound the same. He sounded… she didn’t know. She’d never heard him sound like that before. All low and brusque but not cold. “What is it?”

There was no choice to make

That’s the closest to what he sounded like.

It did nothing to help her focus. “Oliver, really it-”

“For over a year you’ve been coming down here in two inch heels. You’ve never dropped like that.”Half her back, her left shoulder and her hip were crushed against him. Since neither of them were wearing a coat, her softness against his hardness was obvious.

There was so much she wanted from him right then… saying no wasn’t one of them.

She tried to control the situation- and herself. “I was just a bit light headed. It’s okay.” Her words were barely audible. “I’m okay.”

He was silent for a second.

“You’re starting to scare me.”

It hit her lungs, her heart plummeting like a stone down a well.

And she could feel his eyes on her face. She turned her head to meet them – she’d never backed down from him before – but her fallen heart gave a great sputter on finding him so close, surging back up into her chest to thump wildly.

It was the lighting that made his eyes look like that, it had to be.

“Don’t be.” Though soft, her words were an order. “Trust me, Oliver.”

“I did, but that was before you almost fell down the stairs.”

That hurt. And it shouldn’t have, not a bit. What right did she have?

But he wasn’t letting go, wasn’t stepping back when he normally would have. Should have. Oliver was the master at giving people space, since when did he constrict a girl?

But… damn, he felt good. Comforting. Even as he took her in, seeing every bit of her internal struggle, she didn’t care.

So this was what a morning alone with Oliver was like.

She was tired, so it took all her energy to stand up straight and try to break him off; both physically and conversationally. “I’m just tired.”

His sigh was lengthy…

“Do you want me to take you home?” He eventually offered, still in a low toned rumble.

Unable to repeat the same lies - I’m fine - she simply shook her head. “I’d rather get something productive done.” I’d rather be here than at home, knowing he might be close, watching my every movement.

Moments stretched into seconds and close to a half minute went by before a second sigh tickled her throat and his lashes lowered.

Quietly, so quietly, he said:

“Okay.”

Then, without warning, he bent low and scooped her up in both his arms.

What is he doing?!

“Oliver!”

“Felicity.” He descended with her to the basement floor, making it feel as easy as carrying a single bag of flour.

Secretly thanking God for the pants she wore, just as she was annoyed that she couldn’t feel his palms on her thighs, she gasped. Hands pushing against his shoulder, she felt her face heat. This is ridiculous. “This is unnecessary.” She hadn’t wanted him to see her so weak.

“I think it’s very necessary.”

She groaned. “You’re infuriating.”

The muscles in his neck tightened, his lips pressed together and his eyes shined.

Gaping at his audacity, she poked his shoulder. “It isn’t funny Oliver.”

She thought she’d seen his most beautiful smile in Big Belly and had already been mesmerised. But it didn’t prepare her, not for this. As though knowing it was just them two gave him permission, his normally suppressed smile broke out into a beaming grin - almost a smirk of genuine delight - and she wondered what could possibly make him so happy about being referred to as infuriating.

That is, when she could spare a part of her consciousness that wasn’t paying strict attention to how his eyes softened and crinkled with pleasure, how his perfect stubble made his mouth all the more enticing when it stretched and how she could count his teeth with how close she was.

It kept her silent.

And she hadn’t even realised they’d reached the floor, until he abruptly stopped; his smile falling so swiftly she immediately missed it and wanted it back.

Staring deep into the Foundry – I should probably ask him to put me down – he took a minute before looking back at her.

“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” A slight furrow started at the bridge of his nose, telling her he was uneasy. “Eventually?”

She blinked at him.

Taking in every inch of her face, he spoke so quietly is was husky. “You’ll tell me what’s going on with you?”

He said it like, ‘you will, right?’

As if he needed to know. As if he were worried that she never would.

She looked at him without speaking. She did this for so long that something began to creep into his gaze.

Dissatisfaction.

Then frustration.

Followed by worry, to its extreme.

And the smallest amount of shock.

That he feared, maybe she… that she wouldn’t confide in him after all. That he couldn’t make it better, because she wouldn’t let him.

She swallowed, whispering, “Yes,” before that horrible sick sensation could take hold.

A deep sigh of relief from him moved her body, his eyes clearing. His tiny smile, reticent, made it hard for her to smile back. But she managed it.

She also managed to lightly tease him. “You can put me down now.”

He nodded, lowering her carefully until her toes touched the floor. Straightening, his hand hovered. “Dizzy?”

“Nope.” Stepping back she made a casual show of moving over to her computers. “The heroic-lift seemed to do the trick.”

Confusion rippled over his face… then he got it. He quirked a brow.“Funny.”

She shrugged. You started it.

Shooting her a look, he unzipped his jacket and moved over towards his bow.

After a few minutes the familiar thwack, thwack sound of arrows pinning tennis balls into walls, set the pace for her survey.

Already eliminating two trails – she’d set up Trojans to secure entryways into specific unsuspecting systems in a bid to discover Slade’s financial backer – she was miles away when Oliver’s voice broke through her focus.

“You corner like a racer.”

Brought out of her reverie, it took her a moment to process… “What? “Twisting in her chair, she found him midway through removing his Henley.

It’s either the best or suckiest timing ever.

“On the bike.” He said over his shoulder as he approached his - and Dig’s - workout bench, placing his shirt there. “It was like you already knew how to move.”

Floundering, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Ah, I just did what felt right.” Was it wrong?

“Exactly; you’re a natural.” He started a series of stretches that allowed thorough inspection of his obscenely cut abdominals.

Gulp.

Still, her cheerfully surprised smile probably made her look a little demented, given that she hadn’t had much to smile for recently. What, it’s always nice to be told something like that from someone like… he walked past her, towards the mats to begin on a set of press-ups… like him. Mercy.

Removing temptation - and the need to shamelessly stare whether he liked it or not - she turned away, digging into her files when his voice tugged her back once more.

“You should see it at night.”

Titling her head back at him, she caught him mid-push ups. “How can you do that less than an hour after eating what we ate?”

“Practice.” He hopped back to his feet. “And this is light exercise.” Light? Forty press-ups is light?

Then again, she’d seen his version of hard exercise and… yep, he was probably right. “See what at night?”

“Starling.” Reaching for his escrima sticks, he circled them over his head and she watched them twist so swiftly in his hands they became a blur. “At night, I sometimes I go to the edge of the city. On my bike.” Taking slow, deep breaths, his arms dropped low. “There’s this… hill. I don’t think it has a name but it’s linked by a stretch of road between Starling and Gotham. You can see Mercer Island from there.”

The quiet ache in his voice - he probably couldn’t hear it himself - made everything between her navel and throat convulse.

His eyes flickered to her and away again, searching the shadows of the Foundry. “From the top you can see most of the city and at night… it’s beautiful.” Again, his eyes came back to hers.

For a few seconds they just looked at each other.

She smiled and he was too far away to notice it tremble. “Is that an invitation?”

Looking utterly solemn for some reason, Oliver didn’t smile back. The edges of his face suddenly tensed, his brow lined and he didn’t say a word until she was close to breaking the silence by babbling like a nervous wreck.

Then-

“Yes.”

Immediately nodding after speaking, he pressed his lips together.

He’d floored her. Twice in one day. Yes, there was something very different about him… was it just because they were alone? Was it because he was lonely after breaking up with Sara? Was it because he was worried about her?

And was she just thinking way too much about this?

He’d reached out a hand. For company. Companionship. A friend.

She found herself speaking, just as quietly as he. “I’d like that.”

The tight blink was her only indication that he was at all affected. And maybe he also ducked his head, almost hiding the very slight happiness that washed over him, which was good because, well, she had no clue how to handle that.

Sighing, she brought her fingers to her temple to rub over an eyebrow. “This isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?”

It was almost two hours later.

Oliver had finished off a set – a really long set – of vigorous yet oddly light calisthenics (no weights and no salmon ladder, phooey) while she simply sat there with her food baby, watching - she’d given up pretending not to in favour of an all out stare - as he towel-dried the barest traces of sweat before making his way over to her.

She made the significant note that he made no move to slip his Henley back on.

He’d spent the last twenty minutes pacing behind her, occasionally leaning with a hand on the back of her chair to look at her screens.

They’d decided to - while her searches ran - carefully check through the data recorded on transmitters 5 to 11.

To say Slade had been quiet recently was a stretch. It was too quiet; as if it was a deliberate attempt at keeping Oliver strained, at adding to his tension. Or making him let down his guard.

She heard him grunt, “No.” Though she appreciated his candour, it wasn’t what either of them wanted to hear right then. “But it was worth a shot.”

“I thought,” Gesturing towards the monitors, she shook her head, “that maybe we’d find something by now, but it’s like…” A thought hit her.

It’s like he knows where they are.

Her cameras.

She hadn’t considered it before, that maybe Slade had followed them that morning after his first visit to her. But considering his texts… now it made more sense. What she ignored was that it wasn’t Oliver who Slade was following, because I can’t even think about the ramifications of what that could mean.

Fingers flying across her keyboard, she felt Oliver move in behind her. “What is it?”

“What if he saw?” Filtering, she subliminally circled around until the very first few minutes of footage from each camera were shown in segmented blocks on each monitor. “What if Slade saw us install the cameras?” For some reason they’d never thought to check the initial minutes of footage before, convinced there’d be nothing to see. For a genius I can be such a noob.

“He couldn’t have.” Though it was defence, his tone clearly thought she was onto something. And whatever that something was he did not like it. “We’d have seen him.” He added, now at her side, his eyes on the screens.

“Would we?” Successful in keeping her voice from wobbling though it was oddly high, she side-eyed him, watching the muscles at his jaw tighten.

Bringing a hand forwards, he leaned on her desk, eyeing the various camera shots without prompt.

I’m sorry.

Because… it really was her fault.

Oliver stilled so suddenly it startled her.

“There.”

His tone was dark; a far cry from his earlier light banter. In a jerk of movement, he pointed a finger at n outlook, his eyes refusing to blink.

There, on camera three, she watched herself close the jacket on the plastic camera - they begin transmitting on auto the moment of installation - and sweep her hair away from her face.

Far behind her, in the dark crevice between two buildings and a broken lamppost stood a shadow that she could just distinguish the features of. Slade Wilson. So dark were his they were actually visible on the camera, even from so far away. And they never left her form.

Shivering, she couldn’t look away. Oh my god. She hadn’t noticed, hadn’t even suspected. Even then…

…He’d followed her.

He’d watched her install each camera.

And had let her think she’d one-upped him.

This changed everything.

She’d thought what he was doing - visiting her- had been all it was about, had been about hurting Oliver. She wasn’t so foolish to believe he had any goodness left inside him. She knew he was psychotic. She’d also known he was sadistic; taking pleasure in Oliver’s hurt, knowing how much it would torture him to find out someone he cared about had been brutalised in his stead.

I’m such an idiot.

She thought her part to play had been the role of a tool. Something to be used, a device, an instrument of his will. And she’d thought he’d been - so far - unsuccessful.

A really big idiot.

Knowing what she knew now, the things that had occurred in the past few weeks, her memories took on a whole new light.

She was part of his obsession.

Still very much a toy in a way, because she figured that he enjoyed having something of Oliver’s all to himself, which explained why he was fine with her saying nothing to the man in question. Actually, he’d fought for it…

…

..

.

“…Does it hurt?”

As if it weren’t obvious.

Face close to hers, he blatantly watched her body continue to jolt and jerk; however many volts of electricity tended to do that to mere mortals. She was very surprised she hadn’t passed out but she supposed it might be difficult to do so standing upright with her arms chained to the ceiling.

As if ruminating on everything she was doing, his gaze travelled over her. “How much does it hurt… Miss Smoak?”

A rasping breath made her cough. “This isn’t-” she cleared her throat, taking another burning breath. “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

One pitiless eye bored a hole through both of hers.

“I lied.”

Swallowing because, Oh God that had been far more painful than she’d thought it would be, she tried to rack up some of that courage she’d thrown at him as he’d dragged her into (what she was assumed was) a Factory… but if anything, it felt like bravado. Empty.

Still… She was telling him. Telling Oliver. And Slade knew it.

Not only had she discovered that he had plans to show her the truths of pain and bravery, not only had she found that he had men watching Laurel Lance’s every step, not only had she discovered that he had the intent to destroy QC…

He’d killed a teenager.

A teenager taken off the streets; 17, maybe 18 years old… a drug addict. And Slade had injected him with Mirakuru. Without hesitation and without remorse when the child hadn’t been able to fight it. He’d died crying blood from his eyes, his nose and his ears. And she’d been unable to do anything except watch, held down by Frank, who she’d never forgive. Not ever.

So she just waited, glaring daggers at the machine of a man before her. He met her stare, expressionless. Emotionless.

She would not bow or break or beg-

A smile so sharp and wide broke fast across his jaw. It was terrifying.

“I’ll tell you what.” He started, leaning closer. Toes against the floor -shoeless and her heels couldn’t reach since she was tied so high - she edged away from him, swaying on the spot. It hurt her shoulders. “Tell Oliver. Do it the moment I let you go."

Something slid its way into her stomach… eyes on his, her lip began to tremble at the exhilarated promise she witnessed in his. She’d seen that look before. There was something he wasn’t saying and it was telling her she was screwed.

She managed to croak out, “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. Tell Oliver. Get it all out; feel better.” Derision; it was all she heard. Smooth, like the rasp of sword against sheath, he continued with a deliberate step in her direction. “I’ll just kill his kid.”

The words rang out about them like a whisper echoed amongst dozens of people.

Until… silence.

It was impossible but it stopped her; stopped her thoughts, stopped her moving back, stopped her breathing, her hearing… the world stumbled to a standstill. A confusing domain where nothing made sense.

His… child?

Seeing as how she had his complete attention, she couldn’t see any room in his expression for lies.

Voice wobbling,  she couldn’t control it - even with the way his smile twisted into something resembling the most disturbing sort of triumph - his words were creating a path in her mind too horrifying for her to follow, even as it forced her to. She could only say-

“Oliver?” A question, because…

No.

He didn’t have children. He didn’t. Have. Children.

He couldn’t. He’d have said something and if he hadn’t, she’d have discovered it anyway. He wasn’t Ollie Queen anymore; if there’d been an illegitimate child there was no way he wouldn’t want access to-

“I can see you don’t believe me.” The irony with it was that he wasn’t even looking at her. It was as if he could smell it; her disbelief, her growing dread that he spoke the truth. “It’s alright. I’ll give you the means, the time, to discover it yourself. Once you know what to look for, the child will be easy for you to find.”

Open mouthed, no words came out. Oliver… has a child. But he’d never… stunned, terrified - please let it be a joke, because the ramifications could be catastrophic - she could only watch Slade as he strolled around her, forcing her to twist on her manacles. He still held the electric node, crudely covered with a soaked sponge and attached to a thick rubber lead. A bucket of water sat on the wet floor.

As if he’d thought, hoped, she wouldn’t be so short-sighted, he sighed. “It shouldn’t surprise you. But it might help you to learn that it was a secret belonging to his mother. Oliver doesn’t know about the boy.”

The boy. He has a son.

And Slade knows about him, about where he is…

Fear made her fingers twitch, like they were already searching for her laptop.

“It was a tryst of his.” He explained to the air. “Before the island. Oliver was a slave to his passions before he met me.”

Arrogant. Speedily, her mind was already considering ways to protect him. To talk to Moira about him; her second and most cruel secret; keeping Oliver away from his son.

“Moira Queen was thorough. But she didn’t take into account how closely someone might look into a casual fling.” A casual fling. Who was the woman? It couldn’t be… Laurel? “She covered it up, but it was all surface.” No; if it was Laurel’s, Moira wouldn’t have covered it up. She’d have coveted it instead.

Looking down at the torture device in his grip, his words were almost hypnotic. “When I studied the kind of life Oliver lives now, the kind of people he spends time with, I made sure to cross-reference my findings with the life he lived before the Queen’s Gambit was so sorrowfully blown to hell. To my credit,” of course, “I discovered he was exactly the type of person I‘d thought him to be.”

His eyes hit her once more and the callousness there made her recoil.

“Billionaire Playboy indeed.” A short laugh so raw - so coarse that she stiffened - escaped him. “Tied to a relationship for over a year, he still found it in himself to sleep with the closest available attractive brunette he could find.” She twitched at the acuity of his tone with each descriptive. “He’s quite a catch, your guy.”

He wasn’t her guy. But words were useless against this man.

“So tell him.” It was like a conclusion and, in a very real way, it was. A conclusion to her freedom. An end to the illusion of the control she thought she’d had. “Tell him about our nightly rendezvous.” Revulsion made her want to gag: rendezvous. Like… they were going on dates. “Once you’ve found out the truth for yourself, tell him about his son.”

For a moment she envisioned Oliver as Godzilla, seeing a huge lizard-like foot come tearing down through the roof to squash Slade underfoot. Alas, the reality was quite the opposite.

As high as she was – on the tips of her toes – he still towered over her.

“But do either,” he promised, low and so threateningly she had to bite down on her lip to keep a whimper in, “and I will kill little William. He’ll die wondering what he ever did to deserve it.”

William.

Oliver’s son was called William.

Why was that so much more important to her than…than anything else?

Her pain, her fear? It meant nothing. Nothing in the face of a child. Oliver’s child.

Of course, more than three weeks later - when the stress starts to truly show - she’ll wonder at her decisions, though she’ll never regret making this one. Not this one.

And the next day after this night she’ll find out the truth; that Moira Queen paid a young woman - one Samantha Clayton - to keep mum about her pregnancy and leave Staring. To never tell Oliver. Felicity would see pictures and find that she loved another woman’s child, just because he was Oliver’s son. Oliver had created a life.

It wouldn’t change the way she looked at him. Though she thought it might, she would find that it doesn’t. In fact, it would only make her see more.

Finally, her trembles ceased. “You’d kill a child?” She asked, because she had to know. Had to see.

He looked severely unimpressed. “Don’t pretend that men, that soldiers - like your friend John Diggle - haven’t had to take the lives of the very young, of the innocent.” On innocent his tone was scathing. “It happens. And orders are orders.” A scowl, something that made his nose wrinkle in what would have been an attractive way if he didn’t terrify and disgust her, emphasised the depth of his brow. “Death is collateral. I didn’t think you were this naive.”

“Naivety has nothing to do with it.” Even to her, she sounded remote; her tone the razor edge of a knife. “There should be no place, no instance in this world where the death of a child is a necessity. For whatever reason.” Licking her suddenly dry lips, she declared, “I would never kill a child.”

For a moment, the darkness of the warehouse held no candle to the darkness in his face. To the twisted agony in his features. To the scream in his gaze.

On the tail end of n exhale, he muttered. “I would.”

And he was damned for it. He knew it, but he no longer cared.

“So what will it be?” Obviously bored with her discussion now, he stepped into her personal space. Once more, he trailed a path down her half-naked torso, down the exposed path of her stomach and chest, save for a bra, to her leggings. Clinical exploration.“More of the same, Miss Smoak? Or will you run and tell?”

Allow him to continue. Or. Leave, tell Oliver, and be responsible for the death of his boy; a child he knew nothing of.

She didn’t need to reply; the answer was on her face.

He didn’t smile.

He exhaled.

“You can take it.”

Her shocked scream rang through the night when he pressed the soaked sponge to her stomach, the fizzling sound of electricity coursing through the conductor and into her. For several seconds he held it there, following her body as it naturally bucked and jolted away from the source of the pain. Then he released her.

Head falling forwards, her hair covered her face.

“Moira Queen’s subsidiary bank account: March 2007, a $1000, 000 transfer ID2245461.”

He waited five seconds.

Then, just when she thought he might stop for the night, he pressed the sponge against her once more.

…

..

.

She’d never considered why he’d fought her so hard. She’d never thought of it that way at all.

It was his game and he’d completely changed the rules. He did so more than once; making sure that, in the end, she was left with no choice.

Now she knew he’d been following her.

So yes, this was all her fault.

“He was watching us.” It was hard, Oliver’s voice. Self-recriminating. “The whole time.”

Eyes closing, feeling herself pale, she pressed down on her lip.

She had no idea what to do.

“Weeks of searching,” It was so low, so rough and she couldn’t do anything to make it better, “for nothing.”

She swallowed. “Oliver-”

Abruptly turning, he gripped the edge of the square metal stand holding their mass-spectrometer and before she could blink, hurled it away so hard the glass shattered against a wall. It made her jump and swallow. The sound rang throughout the Foundry.

And he didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop his sluggish walk – as if every step were a burden. Away.

It was slow, very slow and he only made it to the next work bench where she was a little afraid he’d throw that too. But he didn’t. Instead - and it was suddenly so painful to watch - with his back to her, he raised both his hands, dragged them over his neck and his head until they ended up on his face...where they stayed.

For one second.

Three.

Ten.

More.

Her pounding heart constricted painful, pulling her stomach along for the ride.

She’d just sunk him again.

He’d said that to her. That morning, the first morning she’d lied to him…

“You were the one with the idea to survey a corner of the Glades based on information you obtained on a hunch. And it’s something. It’s something that might actually allow me to… to sleep. Something to focus on.”

She’d destroyed it; the little hope that he’d had.

Why did I say anything? I should have just checked it myself. Later. Alone…

But… then it would be a lie. Another one. And she now knew that once you start, it’s so easy to continue. And she couldn’t allow herself to travel down that path; hers was already dark enough.

A deep exhale left him, lifting up his shoulders; as if the weight of the world rested there. Right now, he probably feels like it does.

She felt miserable.

I hate this.

He never turned back to her.

“Oliver, it’s-”

She never got to finish her attempt at a new hope, because before a further word was spoken he suddenly reached for the locker, near his arrows. He pulled out his jeans and a shirt. And started to undress.

In front of her.

Another ‘never before’; the day had been full of them.

With fast, almost ripping motions he yanked at the zip on the jacket and tugged at the button above his fly. Jerking around so fast the room spun, she faced her monitor, at least giving him some semblance of privacy. But it was impossible to ignore his increasing agitation, as if she could feel it rising from across the room.

Turned away from him as she was, she didn’t notice that he’d stormed out until she heard the beep of the side entrance, where he opened the door and stepped out…

Frack! “Oliver!”

Scrambling up from her seat, she ran for the door, bursting through before it could close.

“Oliver!” Skidding to a halt next to his bike where he was already seated, he revved the vehicle so she had to shout. “Where are you going?! We can-”

“I need to check something!” The words were barely out of his mouth before he was tearing down the alley to the road.

She watched him leave, wondering what on earth he needed to do that couldn’t wait until later.

…Then again, why not leave in the daytime? He was the one who’d made that first stipulation. Always at night. But why hide in the dark when he could be a hero in the light?

It wasn’t like before.

Hands gripping the handle, he sped up...

He wasn’t in a place to feel it again, no matter how much he’d been swept up by it earlier; as if he’d been found after being lost, falling in with its tide.

She wasn’t on the bike with him. So it was impossible.

No gentle peace here.

No soft hands making short work of any frustration, any tension that had built in his shoulders in the previous days and weeks. Just by touching him, by holding on, by trusting him. That simple trust.

There’d been moments when he’d barely felt her hands at his waist, as she’d leant back against the breeze, feeling her thighs tensing around his hips - and the bottom of his spine - to hold her up.

Knowing that he’d keep her there, that he wouldn’t let her fall.

It told the world everything they were.

And afterwards, in Big Bell Burger. Their talk. He hadn’t felt like that in… years.

Like a man. Just a man.

Eating food… with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. And talking. Dancing with words. Laughing… flirting.

Flirting.

They’d flirted.

Maybe harmlessly... but it didn’t feel so harmless at the time.

She’d drowned out his shadows. Then added new ones.

His muscle memory had always been sharp, even before the island, so he didn’t really need to see the path before him to know where he was going. Which was good, because his sight wasn’t on the road.

It was at BBB. Holding her. And wondering why he never had before - he quickly discovered why - especially since it revealed so much. Focus on other things.

Like the fact that she’d lost weight. She looked tired. Stressed. Not herself.

Weeks ago he’d worried that he’d been overworking her but when he’d offered her vacation time, her vehement refusal had forced him to back down. And then she’d started eating less - he knew she was sleeping less - and changing the way she dressed with an emphasis on showing the least amount of skin. From a woman who made short skirts an art form, this was a glaring transformation.

There was something wrong with his girl.

“I just want you to be happy.”

It was too much; her reaction too emotional, too visceral. Like she was all bottled up: a storm in a glass container.

For a brief moment, he’d wanted to smash it. That shield. See what she hid. It cut him to the bone.

But instead… he’d been overwhelmed, hadn’t been able to do a thing other than hold onto her. And pray to God she didn’t leave him behind.

Now?

He felt...

It was just…a badness.

Coursing through him like a wave of sick dark. A thick void.

Slade.

The nightmare. Infecting him. He’d been watching them, him. And now he couldn’t focus on anything but that feeling. That... and anger. Fear.

He was almost choking on it.

Eventually he parked his Ducati, side-stepping off to move closer to the place Felicity had stood at almost six weeks ago; those first minutes of footage on camera 12.

She’d worn a dress then; pale blue. A bleak reminder of how she hadn’t worn a dress in almost a full month.

Stepping closer to the post, his head titled, remembering that he saw her fingers against the black case, her hands arranging the few wires.

Hands that were constantly half covered by long shirts.... and longer lies.

A whip of frustration lanced through him again.

He stepped away from the post.

Tell me. Why wouldn’t she? I could help her. It was all he wanted. To fix her troubles, to make her feel safe.

Worse, whatever she was hiding he got the impression that she was ashamed of it. That it was deeply affecting her.

And she. Wouldn’t. Tell. Him.

She could have told him the absolute worst thing, she could have said that she’d turned to the world’s oldest profession - not that she ever would - could have said she disposed of bodies, could have admitted to terrorism and none it wouldn’t have mattered. Didn’t she know that?

A sharp pain told him that he’d squeezed his fingers into his palms tightly enough to damage skin.

Lifting said hand, rubbing his index finger and thumb together, he stared at it like it would guide his way.

She won’t tell me.

Quickly turning, he jogged his way over to where he’d seen Slade standing. A run down, side street - just like a dozen other abandoned streets in the Glades - held no clues...

Except... a note.

Slowly, his lips retracted over his teeth. Neck muscles flexing. Tight jawed. Livid. Eyes narrowing.

How had he missed this?

...Because he hadn’t been paying attention.

Spray painted - large and vulgar - on the brick wall was a single sentence:

Took you long enough, kid.

Unmoving, he stared at it.

He’d thought that... I was wrong.

Since Slade’s threat, he’d grown careless. Let his guard down.

Though he’d hated the waiting, Oliver had also been relieved. Slade hadn’t hurt his family, his friends, the people he loved. He hadn’t done all the things he’d had nightmares about since the one-eyed man’s arrival.

And he’d been waiting for some grand gesture. Not this, this... game.

A game Oliver had lost before he’d even begun, because Slade had been following his every move, his team’s every step... all of it.

He spent the next hour searching the site of each camera... his findings were confusing.

Disturbing.

Because... he couldn’t be... it was a coincidence, it had to be. It had to be. If it wasn’t... because Slade had left a few more signs, but where he’d left them told Oliver a story that too horrifying to think about. It couldn’t be-

The vibration of his mobile made him frown, until he remembered he hadn’t taken his comm. link with him.

Pulling form the inside pocket of his jacket, he answered. “Felicity?”

“You need to get back here.”

The worry in her tone set him on edge. “What is it?”

“Sara’s here. She’s hurt.” There was a pause where he could almost see Felicity take a deep breath and close her eyes. “She said Slade had her.”

The illusion of peace, shattered in an instant.

He’s starting.

Chapter Text

(Picture by the Amaze-balls Candykizzes24)

It should have been me.

It was automatic, that response. Almost programmed. The thought that it should have been her and not Sara... Could have been. Has been. Was. Will be again.

It was all she could think about.

Because Sara lay prone on their table…

...

..

.

The bang of the side door was her only warning before Sara made her entrance; flying into the Foundry like a bat out of hell, bumping into a holder of arrows and knocking them to the floor.

Sara’s shallow breaths echoed loudly in the silence after the clatter; it was a still moment where Felicity could only stare as the sharp eyes of an assassin eventually focused on her.

Springtime blues open and closed. Opened again.“Felicity.” It was more a slur than a word. “W-where...”

Where’s Oliver?

Shock made said IT girl blink dumbly - already half stood from her swivel chair - as she took her friend in. Sara’s beautiful Italian dress - her gala gear and the silver of it should have clashed with her close-to alabaster skin but somehow didn’t - and French shoes (courtesy of Oliver Queen), hair like rippling satin that cascaded down a back Felicity was sure was covered by little to no material and half clipped to her skull so that strands could drift across her-

Felicity froze; her stomach clenching, eyes fixed on the...on the blood. Oh sweetie... on Sara’s face. What happened?

The vague awareness in Sara’s glazed over eyes had alarm bells ringing before Felicity saw the faint traces of grime on her face and arms. Before she saw the sway of Sara’s form when she tried for another step, seeing an arm reach out towards her, before witnessing the stumble-

“Oh my God.” Jumping up, Felicity dived across the training area when Sara began to drop. Literally. “Sara!”

Catching her just in time - clutching the other woman against her - the momentum pulled her down too as panic played havoc with her senses; the floor was tilting. A seismic flux? What was happening?

It was only when she had her cradled in her arms where she sat on the floor that she realised Sara wasn’t moving. “Sara? Sara, come on!” Holding her tighter - as if it would keep her there - Felicity tugged - once, twice, three times - praying the jerk of the movement would snap Sara back into action. I am open to a Kung Fu death grip, if it means this isn’t anywhere near as bad as I think it is. But the way the warrior woman’s eyes barley lifted and the way she mumbled, by how each breath was a shallow attempt for air, she wasn’t getting anywhere. “Open your eyes!”

Don’t do this to me.

Skin covered in sweat, damp strands of hair were stuck to the dried blood on the side of Sara’s beautifully freckled face. It was surreal; the unbeatable Sara Lance... beaten.

No. Pressing her palm against one worryingly heated cheek, Felicity tried again. “Sara?” She shook her, her hand nudging her face. You need to wake up before Oliver gets here...

She wouldn’t be able to stop him if he decided to confront Sara’s attacker. Especially since she had an inkling about where Sara had been.

Something seemed to bring Sara back; taking a deep, hissing breath, she forced her eyes back open.

“Hey! Hey, hi,” thank goodness, “you scared me.” With a wobbly smile, she tried to keep Sara there with her. “What happened?” Facts. I need all the facts.

It came out as a rasp. “...Slade.”

Stilling, Felicity’s eyes briefly closed. Son of a bitch.

Lashes fluttering - as if the smallest action cost 100 times as much effort as it normally would - Sara tried for a deeper breath. “He… he took…” her throat convulsed, “Ollie, h-he…” She exhaled then winced as a small moan escaped her...

Then her eyes fluttered shut.

They didn’t re-open.

Her body went completely lax.

Cold entered Felicity’s breastbone. “S-Sara?”

Nothing.

No. No, no, no, no…With rough hands and unsteady fingers Felicity checked her nasal passages, checked her pulse, examined the state of Sara’s pupils... all the while the room tilted and she forced herself not to panic, not to focus on the stress, not to have another attack. Not now.  Not now.

Think about Sara.

And there was no way she was going to let Oliver find her hiding - crouching - in the shower area of the bathroom.

The silence was deafening.

She was alone once more. Alone in her thoughts. Alone in her plight. Alone in her knowledge…

Sara still wasn’t moving.

Fear. It erupted inside her like a volcano. In a way it hadn’t for weeks.

“Sara!”

1001 possibilities. None of them good.

...

..

.

Looking down at her now - as she had been doing for over an hour -seeing features almost too young and too beautiful to belong to an assassin - Felicity lifted a hand, brushing the hair from Sara’s recently cleaned forehead.

What did he do to you pretty bird?

She needed to make sense out of this. To be useful, to do something right.

Other than the scrape to her forehead - and knuckles - Sara was… fine. Mind-bogglingly fine. Physically. And I checked to make sure; checked for Slade’s usual brand of torture… and hadn’t found a trace.

Not. A. Single. Scrap. Of. Evidence.

Biting her nails, her furrowed brow etched deeper lines. Has Slade grown a heart in the past 12 hours? I don’t understand. Slade and restraint were two opposing, far-off-reaching shores. So what was going on? There should have been something. Anything to explain but…there was nothing.

Save one thing.

The fact that Sara had yet to wake - God, please wake - that she’d perspired a more than healthy amount of sweat, that she’d fallen unconscious in the first place - I’ve seen her take a beating; a scratch to the head shouldn’t have put her down so easily - told Felicity that Slade had given her the good stuff.

But…what?

Stumped, she chewed the inside of her cheek; a nervous habit she’d paid a lot of time to recently. A simple sedative? Felicity mentally walked through more options (what else could she do?).

Hallucinogenic?

Rejected – scratch that. It wasn’t exactly Slade’s style to administer a psychotropic compound to an enemy and then let them loose - yes, he had let Sara go. There was no escaping that fact; as badass as Sara was and is, she couldn’t get passed Slade Wilson. Not unless he wanted her to. And though out of the norm, Sara’s behaviour hadn’t been erratic per se. Scared and confused, absolutely. Bipolar and unrestrained? Nu-uh. Plus… Slade would want to watch.

He liked to do that, to watch. She suppressed a shudder.

So... nerve stimulant?

Sighing, her eyes flickered back down to her friend because, nope. Sara didn’t seem to be in any pain; there was no increase in EEG signals either stipulating that she might be. Save from the headache she’d suffer once she woke, Sara should be just fine. Came scarily close to the line though.

Also, she hadn’t fallen unconscious from torture. A blessing Felicity didn’t understand. Why kidnap her and not hurt her? Not that she’d wanted her friend to hurt, but he definitely had his reasons, however unjustified. None of this made sense.

Itching to make it all better, Felicity smoothed over Sara’s wound; it hadn’t needed stitches aside from a butterfly.

A puff of air made her flyaway fringe flap into her glasses. I’m surprised I got her on the table. It had been painstaking lifting an unconscious Sara Lance - my upper body strength’s pretty neat for a shut-in but I’m no vigilante - yet somehow Felicity had managed to budge, push and pull her onto the medical top - huffing, puffing and praying to God and all his supposed angels - before giving her the full check over.

There were no marks. No blemishes caused by electrical interference, no injection points, no signs of noise or image subjection - her eyes weren’t blood shot, her face wasn’t pale - she hadn’t been beaten and there was no evidence, not even a little, of Waterboarding.

Again... nothing.

With shaking hands, she’d assessed for damage, fearing the worst and thanking God for not finding it. The relief literally made her stagger back, close her eyes and shake. Had made her slump and breathe around the coarse lump in her throat and the fist in her chest... before reaching for the medical kit.

But then, why? Why had Slade taken Sara? Where had he taken her? And why hadn’t they been alerted sooner?

Aside from Sara actually being hurt at all, that was the most troubling aspect. At the very least she’d expected Detective Lance to be on her like white on rice but…zilch.

The second she’d ascertained that all Sara needed was sleep and - after setting up an IV and near-to scrubbing her down - time to reject whatever drug was in her system, she’d called Oliver.

The memory made her wince. He’d taken it... not well exactly, but, something. Like he’d expected it.

“Oliver? Did you get that?”

He gave a terse, "got it," before hanging up.

Gone from the Foundry for several hours, she was sure he hadn’t realised how much time had passed and he definitely didn’t know that after over an hour of anxious waiting - lots of Oliver get back here’s - she’d started monitoring his progress on the cameras. It’s where she’d guessed he’d gone. But she couldn’t help her confusion when she actually saw him there… what was he looking for?

Watching him wasn’t a hardship, oh contraire. I’m judging myself for it; he’s very ‘come hither’. But, the few times he’d come close to the screen, his expression had been… she couldn’t pin it to an adjective. She’d felt it on her skin, in her chest - how he could do that on a camera far away from her she didn’t know - his controlled aggression, his solemnity. A disquiet - an apprehension seldom found on his handsome face - added weight to the way he held himself; to the rigid set of his jaw, the narrowed scope of his eyes, the heavy set of his brow.

It made her feel like she should be out there with him, offering support in the way of informal babbling and a few verbal screw-ups to cement how utterly messed up their lives currently are.

But now it didn’t matter quite so much. Not with Sara unconscious. Not with how Slade had broken his own rule.

Contrary to popular belief - of everyone who’d ever entered the Foundry - it wasn’t that cold in the basement of an abandoned factory. It could be. It should be. Especially in the light of a new year. But not now. Not today. Not with her long sleeves and plain weather resistant - tight - pants. So attractive. Even so, she was shivering.

This can’t be happening.

It couldn’t be; seeing Sara like this made her situation all the more real. As if, before the dawn each day, she’d turned her memories into a living a nightmare instead of reality they were, only to have them shoved back in her face and made inescapable. And I’m so grateful for that.

But now all she could feel was how her chest was too tight, was how every inch of her felt pressurised like the world was closing in on her skin. Surrounding her.  And there was nowhere to go, no place to run... she couldn’t run.

Ugh, why did I finish those cheese-fries? Hours ago, it feels longer than that. It was impossible to keep still; her fingers dug into her hair - something to grasp onto –as she paced the floor and each tap of her shoes echoed the lonely thumps behind her ribcage.

Try as she might, Slade wouldn’t answer her calls or texts. And she’d never tried before. Had never wanted to. It made her feel distinctly unclean. Yes, it was just a phone call, but still; it did. But this… it wasn’t about her anymore. It never had been. It was still about Oliver and Sara. Still about Slade making Oliver hurt through the people he loved most.

She needed to remember that.

So, it was very necessary. She could call him. It was worth it. Worth hearing the voice that played in a constant, sickening loop during the few hours of sleep she managed to grasp. But he hadn’t responded. Nothing ventured, nothing gained my ass.

They’d made a deal. As horrific and near one-sided as it was, it was still a deal.

She didn’t understand any of this. Worse still, she couldn’t predict what would happen next. There was no control here; he’d taken what little she’d ever thought she’d had with him and had proven just how utterly stupid - how gullible - she really was.

I’m a dope. To have believed him when he said he wouldn’t. Or maybe she’d just hoped. Desperately.

I thought I was past wising on a star.

It was supposed to save him. To keep them safe. All of them.

He’d wanted her silence, right? It was the conclusion she’d come to; Slade had realised somewhere along the way that he didn’t want her to tell Oliver after all. That he was having too much fun for her to disrupt it. That he knew; the longer this lasted, the more hurt Oliver would be at the end of it. And it had turned out that after the first few weeks, he hadn’t needed to threaten Thea or Laurel (not that he stopped); he had all the leverage required in a young boy. So what was going on? It didn’t make sense to her to do something now.

But when had he ever tried to make sense? And just when she thought she understood something about him-

You’re a pathetic little girl with no power.

Right, I forgot about that.

It had stayed with her because, in a way, he’d been spot on. ‘Been’ being the operative word. And though diminutive in size, she was far from being a child. And if she hadn’t been before all this - newsflash: she had - he’d made sure she became world wary.

It wasn’t that he’d taken her innocence; it wasn’t his to take, she wouldn’t let it be. It wasn’t in his power.

So, excluding sleep, he hadn’t really taken anything from her at all. Suck on that.

In life, pieces of a person’s so-called-innocence were naturally lost to all forms of environmental and emotional stimuli: to urges, to change, to heartbreak, to new beginnings… yet there was a certain truth that came with pain. A bleak one. And physical pain could be just as influential as emotional. Don’t I know it. A different kind of maturity built up once you endured the type of dread and demonstrative humiliation she’d experienced the past 6 weeks.

Over and over he’d told her in various ways - most of which were wordless - that she was weak; that she meant very little in a big world even as he - worryingly - paid more attention to her than anyone else.

After which he’d made sure she’d had no choice at all. William.

Nothing made sense with him. A trait.

Facto. Numero. Uno.

It was something to go on: to never fall for his repetitive behaviours or what should or shouldn’t be. Go with the least possible of possibilities or don’t attempt to anticipate that he’d choose a particular path and maybe she’d get lucky.

But she’d always known that it was how he saw this, saw her. Originally, it hadn’t mattered to her. Let him think nothing of her. It would help later, right?

Yet, why had nothing gone the way she thought it would?

And that type of truth, that knowing…

His hands on her, counting the marks he’d left behind - as if he revelled in the knowledge that he was the only one who got to see them - as well as knowing she’d never be rid of that sensation. The way he’d stare at her every reaction; how he’d deliberately leave her in states of suspended agony, exhaustion or awkward physical awareness. How he’d smile at her goose bumps on her skin and credit himself for their rise.

How he’d prowl around her like a predator.

The pain. The waiting (that was the worst part). The feeling - however much she’d tried to brush it off - of it going unnoticed by the ones she loved.

It touched the soul. How could it not?

Maudlin. Stop with the ‘depression’. Suddenly bone weary, Felicity came to a halt. I don’t need this: I do need is to know his next step. I need coffee. And my computer. Better to focus on what she could do.

She wasn’t Sara, wasn’t Laurel. Or any of the women who Slade viewed as strong. Who Oliver viewed as strong. And that was fine and dandy.

Even if her fighting skills were basic - though I tip my proverbial hat off to Dig for drilling disarming techniques into me for the past few months - and even if her idea of field work was sitting behind a desk opening real life doors via a close to hand terminal, she figured that, maybe, that wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was her repertoire that was required here, more so than the ability to dodge literal bullets and verbal attacks.

Because what good was physicality against a psychotic superhuman?

However, it meant she had to focus on the one thing currently scaring her more than another visit from her ‘dear stalker’.

Retaliation.

Could that be what this actually is? Retaliation from Slade, for seeing her that morning. Watching her eat burgers at BBB with the man he wants to emotionally eviscerate. Catching her smiling with Oliver, laughing with him. Being held by him.

‘That was sweet. I enjoyed the show’.

What did that even mean?

‘What is it about him, I wonder, that makes women fall all over themselves? That makes a good girl, you, sacrifice pieces of yourself? To me. For him’.

It was alarmingly intimate.

‘...a good girl’. Why was he putting her on a pedestal? Why was he including her at all?

There it was again; the why of it. She’d heard that silent question, his ‘why’. Why do this for him? Why take such punishment, my dear?

But that was a sentimental response.

The prevalent core of vengeance is - in general - a legacy of pain borne from love. Sentiment.

Yet, he’d designed punishments, credited himself Oliver’s judge and jury; a tactical response from a man who couldn’t control any of his emotions but could focus them with laser precision.

Following them, texting her, wondering why and how she could spend time with his enemy… emotion. Had he been annoyed? Was he frustrated or just confused enough to out rightly ask her? As if she could teach him why. No one has the capability to teach that man why.

Had he felt… betrayed?

Meaning that this, Sara, was punishment for that betrayal?

There were other possibilities…

What if he’d just gotten bored?

Originally, he had essentially, gotten off on it. On how hard she tried to not be swayed by his efforts.

But what if she’d read him wrong? It was very possible that the same thing driving him could be the same thing that made him finally grow tired of her. With her deliberate drop in reaction. With her lack of action in making the world aware of Slade’s latest crime. Was that even possible for a man who enjoyed cat and mouse, as much as Slade Wilson?

Or… What if he’d stagnated? Instead of ennui; what if their nightly rendezvous weren’t enough anymore? What if he needed more?

Reflexively swallowing, she shook her head... because remembering the night before, she couldn’t see how. His haste to see her writhe… to see her react, to see how she reacted. To observe. For some reason that was important. But what if he received nothing but a repetitive cycle of ‘the same’.

Some psychotics climb; each insane act more high octane than the last, to achieve their high. Their choice of ‘sport’ could change to reflect that need.

And time is the psychopath’s greatest enemy.

What if he wanted something from her? Wanted her to do something and she hadn’t. So, frustrated, he’d pushed a different way.

As if it had nothing to do with power and everything to do with choice.

Choice. Simple. Brutal. Fair.

Hers.

She hadn’t confided in him, in Oliver. Hadn’t made him face that dark space between night and day.

Slade’s flippant suggestion - tell him or don’t; it’s your choice - had originally made her think how little he thought of it. Just a game.

Then along came William and it tipped everything sideways. It had felt like a lie, his whimsical suggestion.

But what if there was an endgame?

Yep, that’s terrifying. Slade... had he ever been satisfied with just this? Was there an actual plan beyond this basic, first layer assault? Was she so naive to think there wouldn’t be more?

Maybe he’d been waiting for it, for the moment she crumbled into Oliver. For the moment all hell broke loose. Only it never came. She hadn’t let it.

What if this had nothing to do with Oliver or Sara and everything to do with Felicity choosing Oliver? For choosing his peace in her version of surrender.

The reality of her thoughts only hit her in the silence, resulting in her biting on her own cheek as her hands dragged over her face.

Conceit.

“I’m unbelievable.” The mumble puffed into her fingers before her hands fell once more, sliding slowly down her neck to grant herself one second’s worth of the fake feeling - a ghost - of comfort and tender care, easing the sting of her own vanity. Of the touch of another’s hands, steady and real against her throat. Holding her tall.

How conceited. Eyes kept closed, a surge of self-reproach hit her because of course it isn’t about me. On the edge of an unsteady breath, the trace of a smile surfaced; one  that wasn’t remotely cheerful.

She’d never been a part of Oliver’s history.

Of his loves. His family. His hopes and dreams. His pains. Of who and how he used to be and what he used to want. She didn’t know any of it.

Remember?

Her hands flattened what had to be the most dysfunctional knot of hair; I’m just a pawn. A tool. To be used and cast aside. Well maybe now Slade was making that call.

She figured she’d been originally chosen because she was the weakest link in an iron chain. Strong metal consisting of John Diggle - ex-military - of Oliver Queen - vigilante, assassin, Bratva member and survivor - of Sara and Laurel lance - twin hearts that held Oliver’s and could dish out as much as they were served - and Roy Harper - the street punk that never went down in a fight.

Out of all his choices, she understood why he chose her. She’d choose her too.

How could she fight back when she’d never really fought before in her life?

It wasn’t to exploit her; it was simply to use her to inflict damage.

Not telling Oliver had been her very small act of defiance, her way of being a renegade. For once, the one with secrets. For once, the one who took the burden for sins they didn’t commit.

For once... doing it in Oliver’s stead.

She figured she’d come to understand him more in the past 6 weeks, than she’d done in over a year working by his side. And her findings were... inconclusive. How does he even deal with that kind of guilt; day in day out? That knowing.

Taking on punishments for atrocities was one way to a cure, for sure. But it wasn’t the right way. Any cure found would become stale. Corroded. Ineffective. Bitter. It would inevitably fail.

But this world, his world – beyond saving lives and putting bad men and women in jail – would never be relevant to Felicity.

In the end, Oliver’s past was his own. And it was Sara’s. It was Laurel’s. And Thea’s. Moira’s. Heck; dead women – Shado – had more tether to him than she.

Ergo, why Sara lay on the table, because of her connection to Oliver. A history that half belonged to Laurel and it may still; matters of the heart were rarely simple. It was why Slade considered the lawyer to still be Oliver’s one and only, which meant Oliver had talked to him about her on the island. It was why he had men watching her, ready to strike at a word from Felicity to Oliver.

Another limit; another mind screw for her to swallow.

But almost two months ago, Sara - not Laurel - was the one Oliver had sought comfort in, the one he’d chosen.

Anything Felicity did now was to ensure that Oliver didn’t lose that, didn’t lose them. And he won’t. That was absolute. She’d pay any price.

Blowing air through her nostrils - head tipped back, hands still around her neck because it was oddly soothing - she thought, I really would.

No matter how lovely their morning had been, no matter how close she’d carry the memory of it into the future; he didn’t know. And not just because he wasn’t interested in her. He could never know.

Yet, part of her was still dreaming. Hoping. Wondering. I keep falling for my own traps. It was as exhausting as it was humiliating.

Self-derision had her slumping. Yep, there was no way that hurting Sara had anything at all to do with Slade seeing her that morning with Oliver.  Come on.

It was simple: Felicity had probably outlived her ‘function’.

But no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t die; that whisper. The possibility. No matter how hard she tried to destroy it. It wouldn’t leave her, because if it was true...

If it was true, it would make everything so much worse.

Because - I’m alone and I can flip out if I wish to - if it were even remotely close to fact, then Felicity Smoak was so very screwed. Oh God, am I screwed. It meant a different kind of message; a level of twisted she hadn’t thought he’d reached.

But only if.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t beyond pissed off; the moment he went after Sara it meant all deals were off. But still; so screwed. Up the Khyber without a paddle.

Never give a psycho the means to extend his mission. Yes, Slade’s vengeance was absolutely personal, but for it to include others, people I care about?

So... this would be the moment she tells Oliver, right?

Except, what if she says something and Slade still decides that William’s life is forfeit?

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know what he’d do next. Anything’s possible with him now. And until it was confirmed - that he wouldn’t hurt Oliver’s son or Thea - she still couldn’t tell a soul.

It’s what made her so without a plan.

And covered in filth.

That’s how it made her feel. Dragged down to a place she - once - couldn’t reach but could now only claw at, desperate to surface from; into black filth. Alone.

I don't want anyone else to fall with me.

She pictured Oliver, being told her secrets and being even more restrained – constrained – standoffish and perpetually nihilistic, like Sara, than he already was. No. Never.

He needed to have hope.

That hope could never be her.

Hand covering her mouth, she moaned into it. I feel sick; need liposuction.

It was too much; she needed movement, something, some purpose. Otherwise she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop thinking. I’d take clipping Sara’s toenails over this. Narrowing her eyes, as if in concentration she’d be able to maintain control of her stomach, they flickered everywhere; focus on the facts. Sara. In the Foundry. With the bruised hands. Cluedo will never stop being a fad.

Sara.

Oh… I could do that.

In the gloom of the Foundry it was almost peaceful, the repetitive act of dabbing cotton balls covered in antiseptic over Sara’s knuckles; they were split and bruised, as though she’d beat Slade around the head with her fists (a girl can dream). It was something Sara would absolutely do because, well, she’s Sara. She fights. Even when her odds are slim to none.

But the site stabbed into Felicity’s gut. He hurt her. He’d hurt Sara.

Sara who, not seven years ago, had been too young for any of this. She’d been a normal teenager, or as normal as a girl can be at the whim of her hormones, which is to say not very. And innocent. Not the type of innocence dictated by physical or spiritual symbols; the ‘my body - my temple - shall not be touched or penetrated’ kind of vilification that fanatical sexists and fear mongers have often designed around religions. The type of innocence that lives in every girl who’s trying to find her place in the world, by every teenager before they’re subjected to the cruel realities that can make adolescence feel like a joke, a lie.

Sara... she’d just been trying.

She’d tried to win ‘Ollie’s’ affection too early in her life. On failing, she’d taken to it a different way. Seduction. She’d tried to make her father proud before realising that the pedestal she was on was one of her own making. She’d hurt her sister - she’d deliberately tried to; because her sister had hurt her first. Now new fences were being built between them, new paths and old trusts forged anew.

She’d tried to survive on a boat filled with hostile men and then an island filled with hostile men. Slade and Oliver had been the two to befriend her. Then Slade betrayed her, exacerbating a distrust in the intentions of the male sex that had started when she’d been dragged on the Amazo, in her underwear, by the hands of men who’d wanted more. And had no qualms in showing it.

Like Slade had just now.

How dare he.

The anger... it took her by surprise.

In all her time with the man, Felicity’s anger had been based deep in the root of another man’s pain. She’d been so focused on Oliver and those she loved, her anger felt secondary.

This was different; it hissed through her, burning hot and tight. “I’ll get him.” The mutter didn’t carry, it was spoken so softly down to the strawberry blonde woman under her hands, “it doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’ll make sure you’re all safe.”

And that was all well and good, saying it, but... doing? Very different thing. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t. Still, Felicity was so very relieved that Oliver hadn’t been there to witness the last 30 minutes.

I mean, what could I have said?

How could she have explained?

How could she have made him feel better about how - as she’d risen from holding Sara on the floor - she’d reeled sideways as the world tilted on itself? What was there to say about how she’d started to wheeze - a dry rattle that signalled the beginning of a panic attack, making her sound like she smoked 50 a day - or how her heart pounded so hard it made her wince, how each beat had bile rising in her throat and sweat gathering on her forehead, like right now, because... No.

She couldn’t put him through that. There were so many areas in his life right now under siege; she couldn’t possibly add a last straw. It would break her as surely as it would crush him.

That was why it-it was supposed to be me. So the worst wouldn’t happen. Just me. No one else... no else was supposed to be touched by Slade, to be taken or hurt or anything by him.

So here, now, with Sara… it inevitably made these past weeks she’d paid for with time, tears, sweat, blood and sleep utterly meaningless.

Futile.

Worth nothing.

Nothing.

The pain of that ripped through her -a shadow of it became sound, leaving her throat to coat the air - and her eyes shut tight. It wasn’t for nothing. It wasn’t for nothing. But it didn’t matter how hard she held herself right then; the feeling of her insides dropping to the floor, of her heart turning into a hollow, breakable thing that began to crack - as if intending to fall with the rest of her organs - of the white noise returning like a band of pressure at the back of her skull.

Of the strain against her spine; like fingers of despair digging deep.

Nothing.

He was always there… like a shadow in her mind, behind her eyes. Blocking out the sun.

This dark, corrosive, infectious, insidious, hateful creature...

His words, his taunts; they continued to cut into her. As she slept alone, in the day when she worked at QC; it didn’t matter. They revisited her and each recollection was as sharp as the event itself.

It would pour then too, the blackness. Just when she thought she could breathe and function without remembering. You can’t escape that dark. Heavy and slow - like lava that burned cold - it crawls into the safe places; the crevices of the mind.

Manifest nightmares; Slade doesn’t need to be with me for me to feel him. For their sessions to be constant.

For every inch she gained, he’d take a mile. And the miles were piling; beginning to wear her down.

The push and pull and force and press… The constant pounding of his malice against her will.

Was all of that, everything… meaningless?

The black pit opened wide.

It had her sinking insides swiftly rising, writhing up from her stomach and to her chest, before hitting her throat and then she was dashing away to the basement’s bathroom. A toilet and sink was added to the shower area when flying upstairs and magically appearing through a secret side entrance started gaining too much attention.

This isn’t anguish.

Breathing erratically - loudly - the door closed and she stumbled to the toilet - the seat was up, men-to throw up the close-to digested contents of her amazing brunch.

No, this wasn’t anguish. She’d been there, done that.

This was failure. I failed.

Her knees smacked against cool stone.

It was her resignation to the painful truth. That she hadn’t bought them time, that she couldn’t stop Slade tonight, that she couldn’t help Oliver in all the ways he wished and needed, that for all her claims she… she wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t good enough.

The proposal had been a device, used simply as a piece of rope to strangle herself with.

Heart, soul and ribcage aching as she heaved once more, it occurred to her that, while she still didn’t want to tell Oliver - still couldn’t tell Oliver - she also wouldn’t, not ever, regret why she originally said yes.

Thea.

Yes. Oliver’s Thea. Oliver’s sanity. His friends and loved ones… safe. Yes.

But even as she thought it was worth it, part of her felt like she hadn’t done a thing.

Hands clamped on the rim, Felicity took as deep a shaky an inhale as her sore insides would allow. The drag of air sounded stressed at best and felt worse, as if her throat had reduced its circumference.

She didn’t cry.

She’d cried before over toilet bowls. Once, a last glass of wine she knew she shouldn’t have drunk had her sobbing in a mess of noodles and alcohol for reprieve from the vomiting. Or her college days, when 3am was the new 11pm and she’d drank a shot of something blue on top of the whiskey she’d pilfered and… there goes all pride.

But, in the here and now, when she had the most reason to do so, her eyes were dry and scratchy. Dehydration?

...Realisation?

Drained, she lifted a hand and pulled on the flush before shifting back. Before regrouping. Breathing.

Baseline: it had kept them safe. At least, for a while. She’d take that. She had to.

“Right,” she whispered, groaning as she rose to her feet and moved to the sink.

New plan. Another deep breath in through her nose, a longer exhale... then she washed her hands. Clean up. Check the notification that pinged before...everything. Tasting the sharp tang in her mouth, she rinsed too. Call Caitlin for an update. Call Detective Lance.

Straightening, she caught her reflection in the mirror and balked.

Is that me? I actually look like that?

Tainted.

She took in the ghost behind her eyes.

If… when Oliver finds out, I wonder if he’ll see me differently.

In a decidedly not good way.

Her heart seized; it was taking punishment today.

Lips pressed together, she sniffed up air but it resembled more a sniffle than an attempt at composure: her face in the mirror looked haunted.

Come what may-

“-Felicity?!”

Composure gone, readiness erased... yep; she wasn’t prepared for squat.

Oh no. Neck clenching - nu uh - she listened as rapid footsteps approached the door. It had her chest constricting so tightly her heart literally missed a beat.

How did he do that, make everything better?

Make everything worse?

Just by being near.

Why did he have to come back now? When she was a mess. And barely coping. Now is not the time for a miniature freak-out.

And he just had to say her name, in that way. As if, for a moment, she was his number one priority.

You’re safe. It was all too easy to remember.

Stop it. Torn, her eyes in the mirror held her still.

“Felicity?”

Closer. Eyes squeezing shut - feeling irritatingly fragile and bleak - Felicity bowed her head, her shoulders bunching. “I’m here.”

She didn’t sound even close to normal. Drat.

“Hey.” He paused... the silence stretched for a moment until another step had him halted before the door. “Can I come in?” Low toned, his words were quiet. Hushed. “Please?”

And cautious. He sounded cautious?

It made her frown. “Oliver, I get that this isn’t the ladies room but privacy is sort of an issue here.”

She wanted him to come in.

She wanted him to stay right where he was.

“Felicity,” he didn’t sound impatient; he didn’t even sound exasperated and there was something about that - the quiet way he continued to speak - that put her on edge, “I heard you washing your hands.”

Frack.

She bit her lip... I got nothing.

A soft sound - a whir of air - told her he’d sighed. “If you won’t let me in, will you at least come out?”

And he’d sound very agreeable, if there wasn’t something smouldering beneath the surface of his calm. It was odd because for the first time, she didn’t know what it was. Hearing him over the com every night made it so that she could translate even the slightest alteration in his cadence, made it so that she could prepare for whichever variation of Arrow -grumpy Arrow or guilt Arrow - that may walk back into the Foundry…

But his voice was unreadable.

It was unsettling. Right now, unsettling was unwelcome.

Give a little. “I’ll come out.”

Then again seeing Sara, who he’d had to walk past to reach the bathroom, had probably unnerved him-

“I’ll wait.” So, so quiet. So low. “...Thank you.”

She blinked, hearing him back away from the door until she couldn’t hear him at all.

How... odd?

Alarm bells started ringing. Tiny ones.

Even still, it was slow, her progression to the door. Facing the music wasn’t exactly on the list of her current top ten happy thoughts. But his voice kept echoing in her head…

Unseeing and unthinking of anything else or even of where the hand towel went - she was sure she hung it up but her aim was spectacularly questionable seeing as how she wasn’t even looking when she did it - Felicity reached for the handle and pushed it open.

If he’d said it as reassurance, it wasn’t necessary. But she didn’t think that was it.

The attentiveness - the gratitude - laced in his tone didn’t cover the fact that he’d sounded different. As if he was being careful.

As if - she decided on seeing him standing in front of Sara’s form with his index finger and thumb brushing against each other - he needed something from her… but was afraid to ask for it.

Because he wouldn’t like the result. Or her answer.

I am really grasping at straws. But…

As two people who’d established a rapport based on mutual trust, admiration and honesty; that possibility was unnerving.

Fully stepping around a pillar, her eyes flickered everywhere. Not for escape; for a foothold. “I’m here.” Like he didn’t know. The man could hear a pin drop in a room full of booted up servers. “Sorry about that.” Why am I apologising for using the bathroom?

He didn’t immediately look at her, deciding to stare some more at his ex-girlfriend. Maybe she’s not as EX as he thought…

Then his head lifted. Then he looked at her. His arms were folded - tightly - across his chest...

It took a moment, just one. Moments were miraculous; gone in the flicker of an eye, but every one of them as important as the last.

And the shift - in him - was subtle. But the impact was maximum.

He hadn’t taken her in at first, not really. Too absorbed in the events of the day to truly see her. And for that she was glad – not that I’m pleased about the stress. She’s his cheerful advocate for all things stress free but... yeah. She’s good with him not seeing a thing.

Except...

It only takes a moment.

One.

And Oliver... he sees a lot. Always has.

Mouth opening to speak - she’ll never know what he was going to say to her - it took the space of said moment (approx. 2 seconds) for his eyes to alter from simply looking at her, to seeing her.

It made her stop walking towards him. It also made her wish that she’d stayed in the bathroom. Maybe with the door locked. A deadbolt.

Slowly, he side stepped the table. Uh oh. This frown rippled into place, more a furrow than a glower, and somehow, it quelled the severity she’d seen in his face before he’d looked her way. His arms dropped their hold on each other and the bridge of his nose began to crease in worry - it is not cute. It isn’t.

Unblinking, his presence held such weight that she didn’t have a hope of looking away.

This sucks.

If there was a word to perfectly fit how she appeared just then, ‘bad’ would definitely be that word. She looked bad. Gross and tired and just. Plain. Bad. All bad. And it was clearly obvious to her badass vigilante. Undeniably, because she hadn’t looked so awful when he’d left her hours earlier.

She was still sure she could gloss over it. Give some excuse that wasn’t as lame as her brain told her it was.

But something else told her – something deep down in the pit of her stomach – that it wouldn’t be enough.

She could tell - if the way Oliver stood was any indication - that he wouldn’t believe a word of any nonsense she might throw his way.

Yes, he saw too much.

Absently, she felt a thimble-full of guilt go plop into her stomach; it felt like their dream-like sojourn to Big Belly hadn’t happened at all. All that effort from him, wasted on me.

But now wasn’t the time to wax forlorn. Maybe he’ll let it go; if she brushed it aside, making it clear - no means no - and proving that, against Sara’s current dilemma, it meant very little and could be looked into later.

Maybe then he’d let her walk past him, towards Sara. The priority.

But it was that something again, there, in his expression that was telling her there wasn’t a chance in hell. Not this time. She couldn’t take another step or do any of the number of ‘things’ that existed on her list of ways to avoid Oliver Queen... he’d see right through her thin composure.

I’m just feeling a little sick, she could say that. Tell him Big Belly didn’t go down right this time, however unlikely that may be. She could even say that Sara’s sudden appearance caused her to throw up- and sound like the weakest of weak links to ever exist. But it was something. Say-

He took a step forward, his body and face dimly lit as he crossed paths with one of the few low lights in the Foundry. And something about him had her lips staying firmly shut; the roof of her mouth dry.

Dark. His eyes were dark, if eyes could be dark. If a face could be dark and his was. As if darkness - true dark, as in night and shadow - was etched and sown into each crevice, into each rise and fall.

It was vivid enough; even though the lighting, particularly where he stood, was horrendous.

When he did speak, his mouth barely moved. “Are you okay?”

Was she okay?

This was getting weirder by the second. She wasn’t the one on the table - we need to get an actual gurney in here stat - and nothing had happened to her.

Like it was automatic, her head shook, her forehead pinched. “I’m fine. I just-”

“You look pale.”

Her lips pressed together. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing Felicity.”

Each word felt like a physical sensation, his voice was that low.

“Well,” she shrugged; it was a tired thing, “maybe you’re looking too hard.” Okay, that was pathetic.

If his expression was anything to go by, he thought so too.

Ahem. Fingers interlocking, she just looked at him. Waiting. I will not engage in this.

Eyes flickering down to her hands - crap - Oliver took a deliberate second to convey to her that he recognised that her bullshit metre was set on an all-time lame-o high.

Biting down on her lip, she still said nothing.

He sighed. “Can we not,” his hand waved between them, “do this?”

“I’m not really doing anything...” the look he shot her shut her up. “Alright.” She took a deep breath and conceded. “We won’t do this.” But he was just standing there, observing her. “What do you want?”

“The truth.” Then he licked his lips and there was a sight to knock her completely out of her senses. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

This needs to end. “Oliver; it’s not like you can do anything about it.”

He flinched.

She hadn’t thought, not a little, of what her frank sentence might do to him.

“Right.” It was a whisper... raw.

Raw to the bone.

Oh God. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. And he did; he looked hurt. She just didn’t understand how she’d done it. She also had no idea how to rectify it.

She saw his throat work. When he spoke again, the timbre of his voice would stay with her for the rest of the evening. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

No.

She cleared her throat, “Yes,” and looked down at her colourless nails. “There are more important things right now.” Like Sara. “It can wait.”

For a long - very long - moment he didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But then she heard him shift, leaning on one leg as if he were taking her in from a different angle.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?”

Every cell in her body froze, standing to attention.

“You’ve never avoided eye contact with me before.” Indeed; her eyes - now wide - were aimed down. “In fact you made it your business to let me know from the first time we met that you’re my equal.” It was like a vow, the way he said those words; quiet yet clear. “That you’re not looking at me right now tells me everything I need to know.”

Of course he’d notice. And he sounded so baffled.

Yet, she couldn’t. She couldn’t look at him. She needed time to compose her - I am so severely screwed - expression.

Her hands came up to her face to drag over her eyes and rub against her temple. “Don’t over think this Oliver: I’m just worried for Sara.” God, could her voice have sounded any smaller? I wouldn’t believe me either.

And he didn’t.

“Look at me.”

“Oliver…” it was a murmur; an ‘I’m tired’ and ‘not now’.

“Felicity.”

She couldn’t ignore that; the world in her name.

‘To see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower…’

Sighing through her nose - I am not in the mood for this - her head came up but she didn’t open her eyes until the last second… to find him two steps closer.

“I’m asking again.” It wasn’t that he sounded angry, just serious. And imposing. Concerned. “And ‘it isn’t important’, is not an answer I’ll accept.”

Okay, Mr Queen, there was definitely an ounce of anger in that.

But it was also… as if this was important. To Oliver. Her answer meant something to him.

Looking at her dead in the eyes, he held her there for one second, two seconds… several seconds. It got to a point where her shot nerves almost forced her mouth open because this is ridiculous, the length of time they could look into each other’s eyes without it being odd. It hit her then that they did this a lot. They did this even when other people were in the room- people that would fade away as they concentrated on each other - because… they were friends and friends give 100% of their attention to the other.

Right?

Finally, he huffed a soft breath - as though preparing for another defensive line from her - and hesitated, briefly, before reiterating. “Are you okay?”

Mouth immediately opening to answer - her lips forming a ‘yes’ - she forgot that for words to come, a voice is required and she didn’t have one. Not right then.

He watched her.

Dig deep, she found their smile - his smile - and it lasted all of one second before that fled too making her feel foolish.

This is ridiculous.

She could see on his face that he knew this - the way his brow bent together in compassionate appeal and the way he stood; not over her, not imposing like how she’d thought he’d been before. The way he looked at her… he wasn’t happy. As if he were seeing something for the first time that he was realising had been there for a while and he’d been missing it. He wanted her to talk to him, like he talked to her; especially recently. He wanted her to-

Oh.

He wanted her to believe in him. The same way he believed in her. The way he trusted her - implicitly -in the last few weeks, in ways he hadn’t last year. To show faith in him. To be confident that he could make it all better…

Even though he really couldn’t.

This wasn’t something he could just glue back together, spackle over or hug to make go away. And she was pretty sure a hug from him right now - a real one - would break her. She knew how it felt now, to be held - truly - by Oliver Queen.

It would be too much.

But answering with another ‘I’m fine’ would also get her nowhere.

“No.” Like a whisper on a non-existent wind, she almost didn’t hear herself. But Oliver did and the softest of soft blinks transformed his face from uncompromising, to kind. “I’m not alright.”

Nodding, relieved - as if her words lifted some invisible weight from his shoulders - he took a small step closer, not yet in arms reach. “Yeah.”

“I’m not fine.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not going to tell you why.”

His open expression shuttered. “Felicity-”

“It’s not the time.” She re-stated. “I said I was fine earlier because it can wait.” She stressed, adding as much steel behind each word as she possibly could. “It can wait until later.” Until never.

“I disagree.”

Ugh! Obviously her steel was nothing more than a piece of plastic.

The man was infuriatingly persistent. Sara, you need to wake up, right now. She figured he wouldn’t be half so focused on her if a Lance sister was present, consciously being the operative word.

Eyes closing, anticipating the throbbing headache she was already beginning to feel the first shoots of. “Is it… are you worried?” Maybe it’s because...“About my performance?”Please tell me that isn’t it. “Is that it? Because I need to know-”

“-No.”

The word was spoken with such vehemence that Felicity’s eyes flew open and caught his own.

“No, Felicity…” Shaking his head - as if he just couldn’t believe she’d just said that - he looked so disconcerted. “Your work is beyond reproach.” And his voice was so evocative, deliberately trying to communicate with her that she had absolutely nothing to worry about there.

“Then,” she lifted her hands, “what is it?” Why can’t you let this go?

“I didn’t believe you.” Even though he had reason enough to shout, he was murmuring. “Earlier. But I let it go because I wanted you to trust me. I wanted to wait until you were ready to tell me. But now, with this,” he gestured, without looking, to Sara, “it can’t wait.”

“This,” Felicity pointed at her face, “and this,” she flicked a hand between them, “doesn’t have anything to do with that,” her hand indicated Sara and everything that went with her. “That’s what I meant when I said it could wait.”

He immediately countered with, “For how long?”

Blindsided – huh – she backtracked, looking ever inch as confused as he appeared intense. “I don’t- what?”

“How long is long enough?” He repeated, slowly. “How long until it becomes a matter of concern?”

Her stomach clenched. “It’s not like I’m going to get worse.” And her hurt, her confusion was so clearly laced into her words he couldn’t hope to miss it.

“That’s not what I-” stopping before he could finish, he pulled back and looked at her.

Really looked at her.

Then he said something that made her want to cry herself to sleep in his arms. “How long am I going to let you keep putting yourself last?”

Like he’d taken a hammer and hit the wall she’d erected around Slade’s indecent proposal

She heard other words in there, words unvoiced but said with his eyes on hers, with his flexing fingers; words she couldn’t even begin to believe. 

“This is my fault.”

She opened her mouth; a retort already in motion-

He raised a hand. “Please, let me say this.”

Every breath and word from him was a touch too much for her deal with. Otherwise she would have spoken. She would have referenced his insufferable need to blame himself for everything – Guilt Arrow in full swing – but his eyes stopped her. His heart stopped her. He had something he needed to say. And since he so seldom spoke about his thoughts - the way he fumbled through words the few times he’d tried to be open with her in the past, as if grasping onto broken straws - a discourse Felicity figured she took for granted, she let him continue.

“I knew you weren’t alright.” He started again. “But I thought - since you weren’t saying anything - that it was something you could handle and wanted to keep private.” He shook his head and his mouth upturned in the starkest display of self-rebuke she’d ever seen come from him. “After a while I realised there was a real problem. So I started watching you.” He blinked once. Hard. “I mean, checking you out-keeping an eye on-” cutting himself off, his hand came up to rub across his eyes. “That sounded better in my head.”

A startled giggle left her. “Isn’t it usually me who speaks in sentence fragments?”

Hand dropping, his eyes flickered over her face and she got the distinct impression he was fighting with himself. She’d have a clue about that if he didn’t keep stunning her with unexpected reveals.

“I saw things when you didn’t think I was looking. When I was paying attention.” The way he said it was odd; as if he was chastising himself for invading her privacy yet, at the same time, was punishing himself for not looking for her sooner. “Things I’ve been missing. I’m not talking about what we discussed in Big Belly Burger. It’s,” he took a breath, “I saw how much you really do for me, for all of us. Whether it’s in the Foundry or at Queen Consolidated. How much you sacrifice.” His head tilted; an aching sort of affection damn near screaming from his face. “It scared me to think that I’d been taking you for granted.”

Her heart tripped, don’t you dare Oliver Queen. “Oliver, you haven’t-”

“Yes I have.” But he didn’t sound remotely guilty. “I can’t bring myself to fully regret it either. I,” seemingly struggling for a word; as if a mix of reticence, some small shame and want left him mute and grasping at an ineffective descriptive like sand in a sieve, “I’ve never… I don’t remember - not ever- having anyone in my life care so much about,” mouth widening, shortening, he eventually shook his head, “about me. It’s like you’ve been trying to shield me from getting hurt.”

Be it from Isabel Rochev or his mother, OC, or even Roy… the Press. Even, on occasion, verbal-fire from his own teammates…

And he said it as if that was extraordinary. As if it wasn’t him who was always kind, who freely offered his compassion.

Warm eyes smiled across to her, killing her softly.

“But I don’t want that.” It was echoed in this voice - his tone all sorts of tender now. “I don’t want happy. Or safe. Even if it were possible to only live in the light.” His words weren’t punches - call-backs to things she and Diggle had said to him, only altered to fit the situation - they weren’t cuts on her skin. They were caresses. “I don’t want that; not if you’re the cost.” Exhaling, he looked like he’d just grasped something. “Felicity; you’re the one who brings that light. You always have.”

Every word.

Every whisper and cry that had been shrieking to him from behind her eyes, insistent behind her teeth, for weeks. He’d heard them all, even if he hadn’t understood them. He’d heard her.

And this response healed as much as it crippled.

He heard me.

He got it.

Her eyelids fluttered with it…

Still, she shook her head because - nope; I am not the one responsible for that. For the growth of another. “I can’t bring light out from where there isn’t any.” Though watery, her smile was genuine. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

It was slow… so very slow, how his smile faded until there was nothing left on his face but haunting sincerity.

“Don’t stop.” The undertone - short - was imploring. “Please. Don’t ever lose that faith in me. Don’t go,” he licked is lips, “to somewhere I can’t reach.”

Completely thrown, Felicity almost stuttered at him. “What?”

“But most of all,” he swiftly interjected - as if she hadn’t spoken -as he moved slightly closer to her, “don’t ever,” the line of his brow harsh reflected his tone, “use our relationship to defend yourself against me.”

Relationship? Not friendship? We aren’t... friends?

No. Of course we are, we’re friends. She needed that.

But that wasn’t what he meant. It hit her then, what he was saying and-

Her mouth formed an ‘O’. As in ‘oh frack me’.

She forgot to breathe out, because… she just had, hadn’t she? To cover up how his words were making her feel, to detract from where the conversation was taking them, she’d used a compliment - however factual it may be - to alter its course. To lead him away, to use how well she thought of him as refuge.

New. Low.

“I am the one person you never need to protect yourself from.” It was a promise, even as it rumbled like a threat.

“Even Dig?” The joke wasn’t quite a squeak but it was a close thing.

He ground his teeth, as if he knew – and he did – that she was using crappy humour to once more downplay the severity of the conversation. “Even John.”

She looked away.

How long has he been holding onto this? With the kind of person Oliver is, there was no way he’d be so fervent if he hadn’t at least been thinking about it.

I did this to him. I thought I could keep him from learning the truth and help him at the same time, like I always do. But I did it by pushing him away. Even as she kept him near. No one can go through that and not feel the ripples.

“I’m not upset that you lied to me.” Felicity’s eyes flew back to his and saw his jaw tighten; a wave of restraint. “I’m hurt that you didn’t tell me because you didn’t think it was important enough to say.” 

She’d made him flinch in the last ten minutes; it was only fair he do the same to her.

Recoiling, she blinked - the muscles in her face contracting - to adjust to the shooting sharpness in her chest.

‘…you didn’t think it was important enough to say.’

Which was the more relevant thread to him? The fact that she didn’t immediately tell him… or the fact that she didn’t consider herself high enough on his list of ‘important people’ to think of telling him before now?

Of course, it wasn’t even like that; this wasn’t something she could tell him about but… she’d never thought of it that way. Had never even considered it.

How many times was she going to fail at this? I can’t win for losing.

He saw it - that step back - the way her brows crinkled together, how her eyes fell from his to someplace low, and the way her body started to curl in on itself.

Saw it. Didn’t like it.

“I can’t think of anything more important.” So he was going for the big guns? Fabulous. She didn’t have any big guns left. “The first thing I do in the morning, when we’re at QC or in Verdant’s main office - the first thing - is look for you.”

Ditto.

Except for one major difference.

She lifted her head to see him.

“I can’t start the day; I can’t do what I need to do, until I know that the people I care about are okay. That you, my Girl Wednesday-”

“It’s still Friday.” She reminded him, as if she were saying ‘please remember this time’.

“Friday,” he conceded before continuing as steadily as an oncoming train, “is safe. That you’re with me,” lifting an arm, he pointed in her direction, “and safe. It is important.”

To me.

He didn’t even need to say it aloud.

Oh Jesus.

‘Pièce de résistance’.

It was the same. The exact same. How he felt was how she felt; only her day couldn’t start without making sure that he didn’t know she wasn’t fine- plus about a gazillion cups of coffee.

God, how was she ever supposed to tell him about Slade when he was like this? The very first thing he was likely to do is walk back over how he missed that she wasn’t fine, for weeks. That she hadn’t been safe in the hours they weren’t together.

It would crucify him.

But he’d survive. He’d push through. She just didn’t want to be the cause of any pain, however momentary that pain may be.

She wrapped her arms around herself. Felicity Smoak was nothing if not stubborn - and so damn determined to keep him far away from this until absolutely necessary - because the truth would do no more than distract him. She swallowed down the warm feelings his words had produced and affected a wall. “I don’t know Oliver, I can think of a few things that are more important.” Pointedly looking from him to Sara and back again, she waited for him to remember.

And she couldn’t have said a more wrong thing at a worst moment.

Her crummy wall met a face full of stone and she belatedly remembered that he was so much better at this than she was.

“Sara?” He bit out.

Bit. Out.

Suddenly her wall was paper thin. “Sara.” She all but mumbled. Mumbled. Who am I?

But yes; Sara. Behind him. Unconscious Sara.

How many times did she have to say it before he focused on the sleeping elephant in the room? Normally it didn’t take the Queen heir so long to give his full and complete attention to a Lance sister… well, actually that wasn’t quite true. Oddly enough.

A couple of days before, Laurel had come into Verdant to sit at the bar - on a rare moment when Sara wasn’t working - alone. Just… waiting. Since Felicity had been downstairs - in ten kinds of pain from being whipped with a cane - she’d seen this on her camera and had slumped.

Not her usual reaction to seeing Gorgeous Laurel but… this normally meant that Laurel wanted another ‘talk’ with Oliver. There was a running bet between her and Diggle - one she figured Oliver knew about - as to what these ‘talks’ actually entailed. And though Felicity was sure they were important, that they were relevant and necessary between the two ‘old friends’ (so many bunny fingers, so little time) she was also nowhere close to having the energy to deal with a determined Laurel Lance.

On a sigh, she’d opened her com-link to Oliver, who’d been on a dry run - daytime training outdoors in the ways of the Vigilante - with Roy to tell him that his ex-girlfriend was polishing off a bad coffee upstairs…

…

..

.

Two Days Ago, the Foundry Basement…

“Oliver, are you busy?”

It took a moment...

“Roy’s just cleaning up.” ‘His mess’ was unsaid at the end of that sentence. “What is it?”

She cleared her throat. “Laurel’s upstairs.”

When she heard him exhale - heavily - she pressed her lips together. “Has she been there a while?”

“She’d just arrived.”

There was a short pause. “And she’s still there?”

“Affirmative.” Felicity double checked her feed. “Sitting at the bar as we speak.”

“Alright.”

“Do you want me to tell her to…?”

“Do I want you to…what?”

She floundered, because that had sounded oddly playful. “Do you, er, want me to… to, erm…” I’m in trouble, she could practically hear his smile, “Oliver, help me.”

“How?”

Yes; definitely humour.

Rolling her eyes - just a little - she smiled, forgetting all about the throbbing at her sides. “Do you want me to tell her you’re not available?”

“No; she’ll just come back later.”

Or sit there and wait all day. Still, ouch. “I could always tell her you’ve left the country.” She offered, immediately wincing because it had sounded a tad… well, bad. “I meant that as a joke.” She really had too.

But he hummed, as if he were actually considering it. “And where have I gone?”

“I hear Bali’s nice this time of year.”

“Bali’s nice all year round.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Me either.”

“What, really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought it was the duty of all rich people to go to Bali at least once before they’re 30.”

“Bali was never on my list.”He still sounded pretty chipper for a guy who made brooding an art form.  “And I’m not yet 30.”

“True.” She spun back over to her monitors – if he wasn’t talking to Laurel then she didn’t need to watch her anymore. “Does this mean you’re adding it to your list? Btw, I can’t believe you had a list, once; even over the hills and valleys of Lian Yu and ago.”

“Everyone has a list.” He sounded slightly distorted, as if he were moving about in the wind. “And… it’s a possibility.”

Her smile softened. “Good.” That Oliver could hope and dream was all she’d ever-

“How about you?”

“‘How about me’ what?”

“Bali.”

“Oh, er… I tend not to think about doing things I know I can’t afford, no matter how amazing they might sound.”

“You could come with me.”

It was stated like a question.

She blinked. “To Bali?”

“Yeah.”

Like, why not?

“Are you asking?”

“This is me asking.”

She laughed. “You sure you don’t want to be asking someone less likely to go full on tomato-red in the face of Starling Weekly?” Or get us kicked out of the country, she internally added.

“Pretty sure.”

“…You’re being serious.”

“Yes.”

She stared into nothing.

“You’re asking me to go to Bali with you?”

“Well,” as if he’d just heard himself and didn’t want her to get the wrong idea (though how you could get any other idea about being invited to  Bail…), “I’d invite Dig too.”

Nice save. “Okay, do you see Dig wanting to lie on a beach with us instead of Lyla?”

“And I’d invite Lyla.”

Her smile was wistful. “Sounds nice.”

“Glad you agree.”

He still sounded so peppy. Like how he always sounded when he was trying to put off something he didn’t want to do or talk about - aka, a talk with Laurel (which sounds like a bad TV show) - and affected a wall of uncharacteristic, light hearted... well, peppiness.

And what was wrong with that? I say let him have the small moments in-between. Where he could rest. Even play pretend.

“Right, you need to be careful.”

“Why?” He sounded so flustered. “Did I say something odd?”

As if, maybe he’d been a little too mouthy? She liked that idea; as if his words had run away from him. How does the shoe feel on the other foot Mr Queen?

“It is a universal truth that if a guy promises a girl a trip to Bali, then said guy must deliver. It’s in the handbook of all women everywhere.” She added on a whim – still grinning, enjoying herself.

They hadn’t talked like this in… they hadn’t talked like this ever. It was fun.

“Is that the rule?”

“Well,” I’m such a goof, “it is my rule,” she offered lightly.

There was a small, low sound from his end – it had the breathless quality of a charmed chuckle.

Feeling awkward, she shook her head. “I’m just kidding.”

“I’m not. One day. Bali.”

One day.

“Promises, promises Mr Queen.”

“I never make promises I can’t keep-”

Sure he did-

“-Miss Smoak.”

His tone was very passive. Almost without inflection. Absolutely no teasing there. A routine they’d created, of sorts, to play around on the com. Still…

Trouble.

…

..

.

Present Day...

Talk of a Lance sister swiftly progressing to Bali and frequent flyer miles? Surprising. Said talk border lining on unintentional - and very harmless - flirty-flirt? More surprising.

Roy hadn’t given her the chance to reply - mercifully - and it was forgotten with the second reminder of Laurel; she’d called Oliver’s cell. While he was on it.

33 minutes later he and Roy had returned through the side door of the Foundry. Not the upstairs entryway where Laurel would be able to clearly see him. It wasn’t as if he was wearing his leathers or anything. They’d stopped off for bottles of water and good coffee, giving Felicity seconds of each. Then Oliver had finally gone upstairs for a 20 minute conversation he appeared to want to forget the moment it was over.

And a hug. Laurel had hugged him. It had lasted a while.

Having watched on camera - because there is something very wrong with me (either that or pain had become her friend) - Felicity had seen both of them say things in the other’s ear that she hadn’t a hope of deducing. She couldn’t lip read. But she could torture herself further by wondering some more.

Laurel’s hand on his back had stroked. Her lips to his ear had pressed. Neither had pushed the other away. Having his back to the camera, Felicity hadn’t been able to see much of what he’d been doing. But they’d been close through the whole thing; before said talk and after.

Yet… no. Oliver didn’t automatically spring to attention when a Lance sister was near. Still, she knew that the only reason he’d been avoiding both women was because of the ways in which they each made him feel. The emotions were still there.

And looking at him now-

Oh boy... why did I just look at him? Then again, God had obviously created Oliver to be looked at so – hah, an answer. Maybe I should take that trip to Bali. Like, this second. Alone. Everything about him right there before her, was more than enough to yank her back to reality.

It was as if she’d clawed at him.

Violent. He looked violent, but it wasn’t savage or feral. It was intense, sure, but his expression wasn’t marred by aggressive lines, his hands didn’t fist and his teeth weren’t grating together. That emotion wasn’t aimed externally, it wasn’t aimed at her.

His intent, however, was.

“Sara’s unconscious.” He ground the words out.

“Right,” and if she really did squeak this time, well, then she could be forgiven, “then we should be monitoring-”

His tone took a turn for condescending. “There isn’t really much we can do about that until she’s awake.”

“True, but-”

“-And we aren’t finished.”

“Can we please just,” sounding far more desperate than planned; it came out so loud he jolted on the spot. Her own tell; her loud voice. But he has to stop, just. Stop. Asking. “Can we focus on Sara?”

And not me?

It was said so pleadingly, an echo of how she was looking at him, that he didn’t immediately respond. Couldn’t.

That kind of weight… she’d never given him that before. It must have thrown him.

And she knew it wasn’t fair but she needed him to surrender, just this once.

Obviously struggling, he shifted on the spot… and maybe he’d give her the mile she was asking for, masquerading as an inch.

His eyes on her were like a physical touch. They bored holes; like he thought he could telepathically get the answers he wanted… but was failed to do so.

Done battling with her, his hands came up to his face; his fingers touching his forehead - frustrated - as if something had gotten lost in translation and she was the oblivious one.

Oliver.

What could she say? How could she tell him when she wasn’t ready to?

It was silent until his hands dropped. It was as if he’d never stopped looking at her.

But then his stare dropped to the floor along with the weight he held in it. And he didn’t do anything – say anything else – for a long while.

Then he moved.

He took a step towards her, just one, before stopping. They were in arms reach of each other. But neither tried to push further in. They’d never tried before. They wouldn’t start now.

“Tomorrow.”

Taken aback, she repeated, “Tomorrow?”

His eyes locked to hers. “After the Campaign rally, we’ll go for that ride.” Hushed, his low tone was so much more compelling – so much more dangerous – than he probably realised. Or cared. “I’ll take you out to Monument Point. Just you and me. And we can finally talk. I want you to talk to me.”

That sounded an awful lot like an order. She really did NOT like being told what to do and he knew that.

But it was his voice – only his voice – that stopped her from saying a word.

It shook. It was such a small thing too. Fragile.

That’s how much he cared.

Even stunned as she was, it made part of her wonder one last time.

Sara was still right there. In the basement; hurt, unconscious... and Oliver wasn’t with her. Not emotionally, not even physically.

She’d had this image of how he’d be on his return and it wasn’t this. Maybe she’d missed it, his reaction. Maybe he’d gone to Sara when she’d been in the bathroom and had touched her, had held her as he whispered soothing words he’d hope she’d hear as she slumbered.

Searching her eyes, he ducked his head as if to completely catch her attention, “Felicity?”

Yes or no.

The truth or a lie.

If she did this, if she agreed, there’d be no escaping him. He’d make sure. He was noticing so much and she didn’t have anything to hide behind anymore…

Nodding, she swallowed –Am I just placating him or am I really doing this? “Tomorrow.”

He nodded too. “Okay.” Then – out of nowhere –he asked. “Do you trust me?”

She blinked at him because, what? “You know I do.”

 And he did know. It was her he was reminding.

He smiled - there in a blink of an eye - short and sweet before severity destroyed it once more. The depth of feeling staring down at her… Sara’s one lucky woman. Her insides contracted.

Oliver couldn’t look at her like that. Like she held the answers to every question he’d ever considered. It was too much. And it wasn’t fair. She wasn’t the one who could produce that level of feeling in him; that ache. Nor would she ever be on the receiving end of it.

There’s no way that’s for me.

Over a year ago, it had been made clear; Oliver’s tastes were - though obvious for a rich bachelor -exquisite.

This had to be for Sara. She’s hurt and he’s feeling unbalanced because of it. It makes sense.

“I need to ask you something.” He spoke again. “And you’re not going to like it.”

Like a wave, her panic returned. What now?

If she swallowed right now it would sound so much like those cartoony gulps…loud and ridiculously weak. “Okay?” She was pretty sure her voice had squeaked somewhere.

His next breath sounded strained; as if he really didn’t want to ask this question for fear of the answer - which made her internally freak the hell out - but knew he had no choice.

Opening his mouth, he stayed on the precipice between silence and speech for a few torturous moments before he finally asked, “Have you seen him recently?”

Her eyes flickered left to right because, huh? “Him who?”

Like he’d taken a shot of whiskey, it all but rumbled from his throat. “Slade.”

Like she’d been hit with an arrow.

Have you seen him recently?

Had I seen… what did that mean?

Her head shook even though she didn’t know what she was disagreeing to. “I-I don’t…” I don’t want to know what you’re about to say.

“I scoped out the camera sites.” But oh, look, you’re going to tell me anyway. As if his mouth was dry, he licked his lips again and searched for a way to explain that, probably, wasn’t in line with the unease that was making his fingers twitch and rub together. “I found messages left for me. Painted on the walls.”

“Well… that’s a whole new dose of creepy.”Along with some creep-tastic whipped topping. Messages. Speaking was becoming a problem; there was a tremor in her voice he had to have heard.

Not that it would stop him from shoving her into a spotlight that burned. “I think he might have been following you.”

I think he might have been…

Following…

…You.

Following me.

She knew, of course she did now but… since when? When did it start and how did Oliver know?

Hearing it this way brought her situation right in front of her face, where she didn’t need it to be.

Eyes shut tight, Felicity cleared her throat. “You think he was following me?”

It came out in a rush. “Possibly since we first put up the cameras.”

Her eyes shot back open. Why didn’t I check the fracking cameras?! “But,” she struggled, “you were with me. We both put them up. He could have been watching you.”Wait, “not that I want him to be following you,” her hand cut through the air- take that! “But it doesn’t make sense that it would be me that he follows.” Sure it does. “Out of all of us, I mean.”

He looked unsettled. “The messages were at the sites where the cameras were placed by you.” As if it were taking every ounce of control for him to continue, his words were a guttural mess. “I bet if we watch the footage from all 11 feeds we’ll find him watching you in each.”

It was freaking him out…

Get in line. It felt like a hand had forced itself down her gullet to wrap around her heart and squeeze, even as it pounded.

What if he was right? What if the feed showed very clearly that Slade had chosen to play with one of them from the start? That after their very early morning chat, he’d decided he’d picked a good one and had followed her to the Foundry. Proof. And if Slade had left him messages, taunts - another rope, this time for Oliver to yank on - as if acting out a part in some twisted game, then wouldn’t that mean she’d been right? That Slade had an endgame beyond trying to break her into little pieces?

That she had, indeed, only been transient. It would seem – maybe – that it was over for her now.

But for Oliver-

A vein had begun to stand out on his neck, a throbbing pressure; as though all the blood in his body was pumping hard and fast.

Just like how she was breathing. Too fast.

Calm down.

I can’t.

Breathe-

I’m trying.

Try harder.

Order received and accepted. She inhaled in through her nose, letting it slip out of her mouth. “I haven’t seen him anywhere near me.” She’d say this for Oliver to give him just a few more hours of clarity before it was royally shot it to hell.

“You’re sure?”

She arched a brow at him, really? “Yes Oliver; I’m sure.”

“Promise me.” A layer of worried vexation, made his tone rougher. It had the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention, making her blink at him and worry. A lot.

Still…

“I promise.”

Knowing full well she couldn’t, shouldn’t.

Did.

“Did you call Diggle?”

She jumped. “Oliver.”

“Sorry.”

It didn’t sound remotely apologetic. A little amused and definitely a tad wearisome.

Now, stood almost directly behind her, near the metal case carrying his arrows - he’d cleaned that up after she’d checked the feeds of all  12 cameras - arms folded, she figured he hadn’t once taken his eyes off of Sara.

Exhaling, she adjusted the medical monitor connected to Sara’s IV. “There’s never really an appropriate time to interrupt a romantic engagement.”

“It isn’t fair, I know, but this is important.”

Nodding, she hummed in agreement, reaching for Sara’s forehead. “I called him right after I called you. I think he was in central city.”

“How’s her temperature?” He mumbled.

“Better.” And it was. Sara had cooled considerably in the last hour. “Her BP’s normal. It’s just a waiting game now.”

“Good.”

He was quiet.

Night had fallen and it was odd to Felicity that her day had started so full of light and life, to end like this. And it had always ended like this. If it wasn’t Slade and his visits, it was a crisis in the Foundry.

Except today she’d wanted it to be different. She’d wanted it to end light too. For once.

A puff of air – her exhale – blew her fringe up, up and away. “What about Roy?”

“Roy’s with Thea.” And the words sounded so different to how Oliver had said them that morning.

She peered at him over her shoulder. Surprisingly, he was already looking at her. “You don’t want me to call him in?”

“No.” The movement of his chest as he breathed in deep, exacerbating the already impressively buff musculature of his arms. And, because she was weak, her eyes flickered there. But only for a second. “You were right. If being close to Thea gives Roy some control then I’m not going to take that away from him. Not until we know we need his help.”

She stared at him.

Head tilted at her introspection -gulp - the side of his mouth tugged upwards. “What?”

She cleared her throat, looking away. “Um. Nothing.”

Nope. Not nothing. Definitely something.

‘You were right.’

Golly.

“Felicity.”

Fe-Li-Ci-Ty.

Like each syllable was a word, had its own sound and a name for each. It had the effect of hot honey being slowly poured down her spine. Zing.

Feeling too close to him for comfort - with her back to his front - Felicity rounded the table - run to avoid-and completely failed in placing 100% of her focus on separating the now empty bag of saline solution from the needle-line. “Hm?”

Still not looking at you.

“Would you look at me?” There was a smile in his voice, even as it also asked ‘what’s happening right now?’

Like earlier - when he told her to ‘look at me’ - it thrilled through her.

“Um, no?” Still, slumping slightly - with the kind of smile gracious losers give to the victors - she did look at him. “You should stop telling me I’m right.”

His brows furrowed even as a small smile remained on his ridiculously handsome face. “Why?” As if the notion was ridiculous.

“It’s bad for my ego.” As he came very close to snorting at her, she stretched high - damn 1 & 1/2 inch heels - to unhook the wires. “Too much of a good thing and all that jazz.” Her self-conscious smile wobbled on her face. “Besides,” her eyes found his again, briefly because wow, before flying away, “you’ve already said that to me once today.”

“Didn’t think a surplus of ‘you were right’ was a bad thing.”

“Well, I-”

“They can’t be if they make you blush like that.”

Stunned, she felt the red pulse up her neck. Stunned into silence. Stunned that he’d said it the way he had, that he’d said it at all.

Holy…

She heard him clear his throat.

“Sorry.” He muttered.

Straightening without looking at him, she bit her bottom lip before glancing down; her hands and fingers managing to fiddle around with whatever they could grasp onto. All the while the flush on her face made a home and didn’t budge.

Eventually - on a self-pitying groan - her eyes closed. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” He sounded annoyingly A-Okay.

The groan became a whine. “Stop staring at my face.” My annoyingly, self-consciously, blushing face!

How was this her day?

An abrupt burst of laughter from him startled her. It was more of a chuckle really, but it was honest. Beautiful. It brought to mind all the things that shouldn’t come to mind with a ‘friend’ and she couldn’t help but peek up at him through her lashes.

The smile on his face was wide, showing teeth and making his eyes light right up in wonderment.

“Is that,” he hesitated, before a shot of something unbelievably close to mischief flared through his eyes. “Being told you’re right, is that a…” his finger itched the side of his face, “a turn on?”

Speechless at his audacity, her mouth fell open.

Pressing down on his lower lip - an act that looked almost obscene on him - did nothing to detract from how much enjoyment he was obviously getting out of this.

It made her think of earlier in Big Belly…

Chin lifting, he met her pointed - coy - stare over her glasses. His smirk was practically shining out of his eyes as leant over the table on his forearms.

“So… sex?” His words were an intoned rumble from somewhere in his chest.

A purr.

She felt it paw down her spine.

Looks like he wanted to continue the new and recent addition to their daily conversations.

He was definitely more centred than before.

She’d spent a half hour combing through the first increments of footage from each of the 12 cameras. Thankfully, Slade hadn’t been spotted on any of the camera’s she’d installed until camera 7 (including 9 and 11). The way he’d simply sidled into the frame felt deliberate. As if he’d calculated where the best angle might be.

But seeing him stood behind Oliver on the second camera he’d installed had set something at ease in her partner. As if visual confirmation that she wasn’t necessarily the one Slade had aimed to pursue had made him relinquish his hold on the fear that made his eyes dim and narrow, that had made him stand close by as she tried to root out why Slade does what he’s done. I’ll be here until next Hanukah.

Glancing at him side-on, she grumbled. “I didn’t realise you’d take so much pleasure out of seeing me turn red.”

His eyes flittered left to right, his body shifting somewhat inelegantly, which was huge because this was Oliver Queen; resident badass, prior serial adulterer and all around man’s man who had been known to be silky smooth - and not just the ‘between the sheets’ fashion - with women… being awkward. “I’m a guy, so-”

With a loud gasp, Sara’s back arched off the table and her eyes flew open.

Moment over.

Eyes shooting to the table, it took a second for the shock to wear off for Felicity to realise that Oliver was already there, supporting Sara’s back but the woman was pushing him away, albeit weakly.

“Felicity…” It wasn’t the slur it had been when she’d arrived earlier but it sounded a little discombobulated. She was probably remembering the last thing she’d seen in ultra fast hi-def. “W-where-” choking on air, Sara started coughing.

“Sara, breathe.” Oliver ordered, looking to Felicity - already there and grasping the plastic cup off the side tray - to ask. “Felicity, water.”

Way ahead of you. “Here Sara,” coaxing her friend, Felicity linked her hand with the one that reached for hers, “drink this.”

Two shallow sips and a long draft later and Sara was breathing and speaking like a person who hadn’t been under for the past couple of hours.

But her first words are terrifying. “He took her.” Strawberry-blonde locks fell across her face as Sara rasped, locking eyes with Felicity who was moving the cup away. “Slade took her.”

Eyes flying to Oliver’s - he’s starting - Felicity saw something like dread and resignation fill them. “Who?”

Sara’s head turned to his. “Laurel.” It was a whisper that filled the basement with an eerie silence that hadn’t been present before. “He took Laurel.”

Felicity stared at her. Oh God. This was it. The endgame. She’d been right; it had nothing at all to do with her. He’s taken Laurel. Had Sara just been in the way? Or another message, like the one’s he’d left for Oliver?

Oliver…

It was a slow decline, like a beats-per-minute kind of thing, the way Oliver just changed.

Having seen him angry - having seen him afraid - she knew that whatever level of emotion he was experiencing right then and there, it topped anything he’d shown prior to this very moment.

“He took Laurel.” Repeating the words in an undertone seemed to cement it for him and Felicity could only watch as old and new fears met in the middle.

Sara nodded a she took deeper breaths and with each, she seemed to regain strength to limbs that shook.

Face taught, Oliver almost snarled, “When?”

“It was after we got to the Gala.” Sara answered, “We were waiting for dad to show up and we promised him we’d meet him outside of the side entrance.”

At ‘side entrance’ Felicity was already moving towards her monitors-

“There are no cameras in that alley.” Stumbling to halt, said IT expert glanced back at Sara who was looking at her from where she sat, hunched over. “Or anywhere close to it. It made it the perfect place to wait because dad wanted to arrive late and not get caught on any pictures that might make it into the papers.” A groan slipped out when she swung her legs off the table. “I should have known better.”

To steady her, Oliver’s hand latched around her arm as his other fell on her thigh; comfort and familiarity in equal measure. Their eyes met then stayed locked as she saw Sara breathe a shaky exhale, saw Oliver nod at her in encouragement. Saw them grasp hands.

Unexpectedly, Felicity felt like an impostor. A voyeur to what she would never have. Holding Oliver’s hand… After having been his focus for half a day, it was embarrassingly painful for it to be otherwise. Even though this was their usual dance, suddenly it hurt. And she hated herself for allowing it, for not learning already.

World’s smallest violin Felicity.

But it seemed someone up there was taking pity on her because the beep to the automatic lock rang throughout the Foundry as Diggle came striding in form the side entrance. “Felicity?” His voice calling out her name sent a reassuring wave of comfort over her and when he came into view, his deep brown eyes flew over everything: over Sara on the medical table, over Oliver hovering over her, before pausing on Felicity and frowning. “I got your call. Sorry I’m late.”

How was he to know there’d be problem on a Sunday evening? “You’re here now.”

But Oliver, already in deep recognisance mode, was past the point of friendly salutations. Leaning back to Sara, he said, “Start from the beginning.”

With a deep breath, Sara did just that.

And it was worse than Felicity had thought.

“Between 11am and 12pm?” Oliver asked - with minor agitation - as the deepening glower on his face grew its own website. “Could you be more specific please?”

Also majorly restless - borderline frantic - Sara hadn’t stopped pacing, “It’s not like I wear a watch Ollie,” in fact she was wearing a hole in the floor in almost the exact same place Felicity had paced a little over an hour ago as her gown swished and slid with her. “We left Laurel’s just before 11am,” later than Felicity thought the gala started, “and it took us roughly 15 minutes to get there. Why is this important anyway?”

Throwing her a look, Oliver turned to where Felicity sat at her computers. “Does that help at all?”

“Believe it or not, it kind of does.” Fingers flying over several keyboards, blues framed by dark rimmed glasses never stopped hunting the screens. “It gives me a time frame. From there I can estimate distance and speed, try and triangulate where he may have taken you.” Abruptly pausing, she aimed an apologetic glance over her shoulder at him. “Emphasis on ‘estimate’.”

He shook his head. “Just do what you can.”

“Always.” Twisting back, her fingers went from 0 to full power in a second. “I doubt you were taken out of the city,” she called back to Sara without looking, “it would waste too much time.”

“All that bastard has is time.” Diggle asserted from somewhere near the gun rack.

Absently, Felicity nodded. “True.”

“So he kidnaps us,” the ‘us’ being Laurel and Sara - the word kidnap making the dormant sickness in Felicity’s stomach rise - and the speaker being the latter of that duo, “he knocks me out,” literally on the head, “takes us someplace in-doors,” because that was honest to goodness the best Sara could remember from her hazy snapshots of the day, “and then injects me with some sort of sedative-”

“I thought it was Ketamine but I think it might have been Rohypnol.” The silence that followed had Felicity looking at them once more to elaborate. “Date-rape drug.”

It did not help with either of the glowers on Oliver and John’s faces.

“But why drug me?” Sara asked out loud – but she was looking at Felicity as if she held the answer. “Why not leave me there after knocking me out? Why take me at all, when all he wanted was Laurel?”

“We don’t know if it’s Laurel that he’s after.” Oliver intersected, his eyes on nothing in particular.

But Sara’s shot to his. “Come on Ollie,” she said this as if he were fooling himself but not everyone else, “you said it yourself; it’s Laurel.”

She… had a point.

History never dies, after all. Or is that love?

Moot point.

Arms by his sides, Oliver’s hands didn’t twitch. But, like Sara, he was pacing. “He took her because of our history together.” Bingo. “But if we’re going by that standard, it would have made more sense for him to have taken just you.” He said to Sara. Though his paces were slow, they were filled with tension. “He knew you. After everything that happened…”

She’d be the best revenge.

Sara looked at him. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s got her.”

“I know.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Felicity opened fire (on herself because, God - even though it was an unbelievably selfish though - what he’d said something?) “Did you actually see Laurel or did he just tell you that he had her?” Because maybe he was just-

“I saw her.” Well, there goes that hope. “She was sitting, tied to a chair.” Sara’s hands clenched tight enough that her knuckles turned white and Felicity figured she would snap in minutes if she didn’t give her something concrete to focus on. “She didn’t look good.”

She wouldn’t. But Felicity prayed - silently begged - that Slade hadn’t done anything to her, even though the list that now existed in her head of all the delightful things he could and would do was extensive. Okay, that is not a place I need to revisit right now.

But he couldn’t have- please tell me he hasn’t, please. She’d take it all for her, for Laurel.

Probably sensing Sara’s rising frustration - along with everyone else - Diggle attempted to send the conversation down a more helpful direction. “Did you smell anything? Feel anything?” Moving out from a dark corner, he placed a bag that Felicity figured was probably already filled to the brim with ammunitions and all the goodies needed for a ‘party’ on the table besides the medical cart. “Was it dark? Light?”

“It was dark in there,” her head shook from side to side as she tried to focus, “it’s so foggy. But-” she grimaced.

“What is it?” Dig pressed.

“There wasn’t much to smell but,” eyes focusing on somewhere that wasn’t with them, Sara muttered, “it was kind of damp. And there was a smell… metallic.”

Dig looked past her to strained Oliver and mouthed ‘not enough’. By how his eyes tapered, he agreed.

But Felicity had shut down in her seat, gazing into the empty space beside her chair.

Metallic… damp.

That steam factory?

Or at least, she’d guessed it was an old steam factory at the time… when she’d been lying on its filthy floors, too tired and in pain to get up. Or when she’d been strapped in - almost upside down - and half-drowned, there was always this damp, metallic edge to the scent of the place. Always cold-

“It was cold.” Sara murmured, her gaze still lost – with her sister – as she unknowingly spoke Felicity’s thoughts aloud. “Dirty.”

Grimy.

I couldn’t get it out of my hair, couldn’t get the stench out of my pyjama’s… so naturally she’d bought more. Except, she’d had to burn these two, at the end. Erase the memories.

But… her stomach hurt again.

She couldn’t just jump up and say ‘oh, I‘ve been there!’ She didn’t even know where ‘there’ actually was. Reminder; Slade blindfolded her each time he took her from her house at night.

The fact that she’d probably been to where Laurel might now be being kept did nothing to help anyone. Except make Felicity’s palms sweat, make her heart pound with shame and guilt and anxiety, make her… remember the other four cameras that Oliver knew nothing about.

Each time Slade had taken her - once the fear started to recede to more manageable levels other than ‘in your face’ - she attempted to guess her location based on the length of each car ride, the amount of speed bumps the tires may have rolled over, the lights that flashed over her mask… it had taken a month for to narrow down four possible points on a map covering the south-west corner of the Glades and the border of the Business Park (the cornerstone of Starling and all its proprietors) where Slade might be playing around in.

One of those points - one of the four ‘rotating’ cameras she’d managed to install at 4am one very cold morning - was close to an old pipe and steel factory. The place where –she guessed – Slade liked to take her to ‘teach’ her about Waterboarding, about injections that led to red pain.

Near the bay, around by the harbour.

That’s where Laurel is.

Heart racing with an altogether different sensation - somewhere between hope and self-flagellation - her eyes trailed until they hit trio standing in various places behind her chair.

They were there, but, she was completely alone.

Was this how Oliver felt? In the first few months after his return, even after he’d recruited Dig, after he’d started bringing her into the fold, did he feel like an outsider? Did he feel this alone, even in the company of family, as though he had to be so isolated? To keep the people he cared for safe?

Shake it off.  Shuddering off such grey feelings, Felicity cracked her knuckles - oh ew, that never works; why do I keep doing it- and spun in her chair, back to her monitors. Thankfully, the others were in ‘plans of attack’ mode and though she knew it would only be a matter of minutes before Oliver asked something of her again, it was enough time. It had to be.

“Are we bringing Roy in on this one?” She heard Dig say… and it may have been her imagination - it so wasn’t - but she was sure she heard a note of ‘please tell me no’ in his tone.

Which may have been why Sara spoke up. “Roy? No, Ollie; this is my sister.”

“I’m aware of that.” Oliver answered, quietly.

“Roy’s unstable.”

True.

“He’s doing better.”

Also, very true.

“Is better enough?”

“It’ll have to be.” There was a short pause behind Felicity has her fingers did the walking and the talking for her. “We may not have a choice.”

Sara breathed out. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to.” Oliver sighed. “But if we do need him, I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”

“Why do you say that?” Dig asked, very much in the range of ‘did I miss something?’

“If Felicity’s on the com, he should be fine.”

Oh great.

But… it was kind of true. She and Roy had a connection now. And a mantra - they’re awesome - one they used when she practised yoga with him. One that had, more than once, helped calm him. But it wasn’t fool-proof. Again, Oliver knew this. He’d been there and had seen the results for himself. But, she guessed that the white lie was maybe, kind of, necessary this time. Either that, or Oliver was trying to shut them up so he could think in peace.

Speaking of…

“Felicity,” she felt him approach behind her, “do you think you-”

She lifted a finger, fast, like fwup. “I have an idea.”

She could practically hear him blink, but, like always he was serious and he took her just as seriously as did himself. “Tell me.”

“Weeks ago, I started an on-line search of all the places in Starling where Slade might choose to well, be Slade,” this was true, “of any place he might operate from. For various reasons. It would have to be local and it would need minimal power, but I’m guessing he also wants privacy… maybe a bathroom-”

“Felicity.”

“Right. Sorry.” Not the time. “I came up with a list that was a little too long to be helpful.” Also true. “But I had a light bulb moment recently,” so not true, “and I managed to shorten it down to a few places.” Also not true.

Peripherally, she caught Oliver move closer; more ‘side on’ than ‘directly behind her back’. “How?”

“We know he’s linked to the man in the skull mask who, from what we know so far, likes to work in dark corners; old buildings that haven’t been used in years.” Fact. “Well, I was thinking that - since we’ve covered 60% of the abandoned houses this side of the Glades - that maybe Slade would go further out for someplace bigger, more secluded - privacy is always an issue - but with enough power?”

Thin. Very thin. That was so very much reaching… and from the way Oliver was looking at her - and the silence from the two behind her - they were probably thinking the same. She knew Slade had men at his disposal, knew he had money and places to be because she’d seen it.

They hadn’t.

“Felicity,” Oliver started; his tone a dozen different types of ‘that’s sweet but, no’, “I-”

“Oliver.” She cut in. “Do you trust me?”

He stared at her for a long second.

“…Yes.”

Why did that look hard to say? “Then remember what happens when your IT girl makes intuitive leaps.”

‘You’re usually right’. He’d muttered that once.

Finally, his mouth upturned. “What did you find?”

Thank God. She smiled and for the first time in since that morning, it didn’t threaten to crack. “On a personal hunch, I looked further a field and - following the weekly routes of Slade’s shiny new Sedan - I noticed -”

“Sedan?” Diggle perked right up. “We know he owns a Sedan?”

“Black and elusive- wait.” Felicity sent a look to Oliver. “You didn’t-” you didn’t tell him?

A sound left his throat but no words came out as he sucked his lips in behind his teeth.

A ‘No’.

Good. Great. Don’t tell the tactician about their tactical advantage. Super.

“Long story short,” grimacing up at Oliver (because she hadn’t said boo to a goose either), Felicity explained, “I-”

“We.” Oliver quietly corrected.

“We planted some cameras the day after he showed up. Caught him leaving his car about a week later.”

There was a moment before Diggle spoke again. “You’re going to explain this later right?”

“Yes.” Oliver replied.

And because they owed it to him, Felicity added. “In great detail.” With anecdotes and everything. Now,” she continued from where she’d been cut off - such a bad habit down here - with a flourish of enthusiasm, “I noticed a pattern. He’s super careful but, so am I.” Uploading a link, she pointed to the screen on her left as it showed video feed from one of her 4 secretly installed cameras. “It - his car - passes Bridgman Street and that old intersection leading to the Somers warehouse too many times to be considered ‘irregular’.”

After the incarceration of Martin Somers, his company was liquidated and his warehouse shut down. It was still used, however, as a meet up point for drug dealers and the occasional weapons trafficking.

A little further on from his warehouse was the steam factory.

“Remember that area?” She asked Oliver without looking and he made a non-committal sound as he stared at the screen. She felt the others gather around her. “Not far from there are some of the biggest factories and warehouses in Starling.” And the most forgotten. “And there’s been some suspicious activity recently.”

“Define suspicious.”

“Cars, guns, plus men holding guns = possible gang affiliation, black market resources or… Slade.”

Oliver nodded, acknowledging her point. “Good enough.”

“I’m spotting a problem.” Sara said.

Dig agreed. “Too big a field.”

“What does it take to impress around here,” she muttered, flexing her fingers for more work and - surprisingly - feeling Oliver’s warm hand place itself on her shoulder.

She immediately tensed and it became worse when his palm seemed to get stuck there. Ahem.“There’s a subsidiary of Queen Consolidated - Masons Holdings - that acquired the tenure for two of the factories out there decades ago.”

Maybe Oliver felt her reaction, maybe he didn’t. But his hand didn’t leave her.

“Why a subsidiary of QC?” He muttered; his hand unmoving. But his thumb did; brushing over the revealed skin at her collarbone in slow circles, as if he were trying to soothe her. Ugh; could he be more perfect? Unfortunately, it was also inches north of some bruises that still hurt like hell, which meant her attention went straight to there. “There’s no reason why Slade would use anything that could be linked back to my family. Unless he thinks it’ll hurt me.” But, it was more a petty kind of hurt than a sucker punch in the gut. Not Slade’s style. And by Oliver’s tone, he didn’t think so either.

But here was the extremely difficult part.

Those Trojans she’d set up in her bid to uncover at least one of Slade’s financial backers? A few hours ago, before Sara’s dramatic arrival, they’d finally struck gold. And it was bad, really bad.

“No, but,” licking her lips, she looked up at him, moving her chair; ignoring how the twirl sent a jolt of dull pain down her side. After throwing up, every movement felt taxing in a way it hadn’t the day before. “Oliver, you might want to sit down for this one.”

His expression focused in on what she wasn’t saying. “What is it?”

“After Slade showed up at the Queen Mansion, I set up digital Trojans: malevolent programs infiltrating company software. Viruses.” She elaborated for the sake of the question marks hitting her from 3 sides. “I’ve been looking for who might be funding Slade’s extremist activities.”

“I remember.”

“Because you said he wasn’t wealthy before.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Right, so… it’s Isabel.” Pull the plaster off in one quick rip. “Isabel and one other organisation which I’d rather not touch just yet.” Her eyes did not whisk straight to Dig’s and for that she was proud because...

Argus. The secondary backer. Or someone once hired by Argus. An affiliation of some kind? Either way, she’d hit a run of the mill Argus firewall. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t hack it; but Dig’s amazing ex-wife and current girlfriend was in the employ of Argus and she didn’t want to make a difficult matter any more so.

That and… she’d been in contact with the woman. Lyla was without a doubt the go-to person in difficult situations. But she couldn’t tell them about any of that, not yet.

As if he knew exactly what she was going to say, Oliver straightened. “Isabel.”

“Stellmore International acquired the rights to all of Masons Holdings sublets, including their-” Felicity started to explain but Oliver was focusing on the real problem.

“Tell me why you think Isabel is backing Slade.”

Please don’t be mad. Turning fully with her seat, she pressed her lips together at the way he was standing, at the way he was looking down at her. He looked so by himself...

So she stood, her face aligned - if lower - with his. “One of my Trojans hit a financial trail made… made the night we were in Moscow.” The night you slept with Isabel, she internally added because she didn’t need to say it; his eyes flashed at the words. He’d already guessed. “A cool $1000, 000 wired to an account - a misnomer - just outside of the city.”

“A false account?” Dig cut in.

She glanced to him, keeping place in front of Oliver. “A short lived one. It was real, for all accounts and purposes but it was closed two weeks after the transfer.” Meaning it had been created for the sole purpose to receive that lump sum.

There should have been no trail; sloppy. Then again, Isabel shouldn’t have been making transfers of a million dollars on a business trip that she shouldn’t have been a part of in the first place. There was a decent chance Isabel hadn’t thought anyone would look there. Or hadn’t cared if anyone dared try to. “I think that’s how he got his toys into the city.” His men. Without paper trials, without noise, with discretion. She turned back to Oliver. “Under the name ‘Wintergreen’.”

Jerking, he stepped back.

Dig, watching him, slowly spoke. “I take it you recognise the name.”

Oliver didn’t answer.

“It doesn’t matter.” Letting out a noise which was awfully close to a growl, Sara pounced on the information. “How does this help us find Laurel?”

But it did matter… at least, the Isabel side of things.

A side Oliver seemed to be stuck on. “Why would she…” Looking away, down, his brow puckered, his face tightening in confusion. “What reason would Isabel even have to…?”

Of course, Felicity had the answer. Of course it was Felicity who always had to break his heart, to crush his hopes, to tell him truths about his loved ones that wrecked him from the inside out, to reveal the darkness in others, in the people he’d loved, the ones he’d lost and those he’d slept with…

But someone has to.

“Your father.” Speaking gently - as if softer words would soften the blow - she didn’t take a step back when Oliver’s eyes shot to hers. Hard. “When you told me that your mother knew her,” she shrugged, “well, it rang a few bells.” It would, what with how many secrets Moira Queen kept and was still keeping. “So I looked into it.”

At the mention of his mother, she saw the muscles in his neck flex as his jaw tightened. “Isabel knew my father?”

God give me strength, because, yack. “Biblically.”

“Jesus.” She heard Dig mutter.

Oliver’s eyes closed.

“I know this is the last thing you want to hear but,” oh, I really don’t want to be the one to say this; why is it always me, “I think sleeping with you in Russia was part of her plan.” A really nasty one.

A plan to completely screw him over; both literally and figuratively.

Arms lifting, the tips of his fingers pressed into his forehead and he breathed in a breath deep enough to lift his shoulders.

Seeing that words were beyond him, Sara stepped in, hoping for light to be shed for anything they could use to find her sister. “Her plan?”

Worried, Felicity didn’t look away from Oliver whose hands had now travelled to rest at the back of his skull. “She was an intern at QC 12 years ago, when she was 19 years old. About a year after she’d started, she was given a position in the company that most new hires would kill for. And it put her close to Robert Queen.” Now for the punch line. “A few years later,” roughly two years before Oliver left on the Queen’s Gambit, “two tickets purchased under the name Robert Queen, for a flight to Moscow, were cancelled. The ticket was one way.”

Oliver didn’t move.

“It was the day your sister was rushed into the hospital.” And from that Felicity could only deduce that whatever romantic getaway the head of the Queen family had planned had been nuked with the reminder of the family he already had. And loved. “48 hours afterwards, Isabel was transferred out of QC to a subsidiary. The rest is history.”

The rest was irrelevant.

“She fell out of a tree.”

Felicity blinked and her fingers unlinked, when did I link them? “What?”

“Thea.” It was a mutter to the floor, his hands rubbing at the back of his neck. “She fell out of a tree. Broke her leg.” His voice was small, soft and when his hands fell, he still didn’t look at any of them. “Dad had to catch a train from central city to make it in time… They were lovers.”

No elaboration required there.

“I think so.” Felicity quietly affirmed.

His eyes flickered up to hers. “How did she meet Slade?”

“I don’t know but, I think Slade might have been reviewing your every move. You said you were a member of the Bratva?” She asked at his questioning frown, only to watch that frown turn to stone. “Maybe he went to Russia, following you out of China…” she halted because she wasn’t supposed to know about China.

Oliver’s eyes burned into her; wide, dark and searching.

Her smile – his smile – was small. It’s okay.

China. Another hell for him to walk through. “Tracing your footsteps, I’m assuming.” She continued, “And if my assumption is close to correct, then it’s probably where he met Isabel. Especially if he was digging through your life; it’s what I’d do.” Learn a person’s past and the history of their loved ones and you can predict what they might become. Or where they might turn. Cut off their avenues of escape.

“Scary.” Dig huffed.

Felicity exhaled. “Yeah.”

“No, I meant you.” He took the sting out of it by winking at her.

“This is fascinating but,” said in a way that told them Sara thought this was anything but fascinating, “how does this help me find my sister?”

“Us.” Oliver immediately corrected. “How does this help us find Laurel.”

For a moment, Sara simply looked at him.

Then, “Who is Isabel? Who is she and what does she have to do with this?”

“She was one of the buyers for QC after the earthquake.” Felicity answered for him, hoping to offset the landmine. And it was probably a really good idea that Roy wasn’t here seeing as how talk of the Undertaking always put him on edge. “Now she’s co-CEO. If she’s working with Slade, my guess is that QC has a part to play. This is personal.” To Isabel.

“Of course it is.” Sara breathed. “Oliver slept with her; of course it’s personal.”

Oh… Oh wow.

Dead silence.

Jaw tight, Oliver pressed down on his lips.

So awkward.

Stood there, head inclined down, his hands fisting at his sides; she remembered what he’d said. ‘It didn’t mean anything’.

But she hadn’t understood. Until later. Loneliness does things to people.

So, maybe that was why Felicity spoke.

“That’s not fair.”

It was barely audible but they all heard it.

Looking at Sara, seeing the fear there, she gave her the most compassionate smile she could muster for her friend. “It isn’t.” They’d all made bad choices in their lives. This was just one of them. “I want to save Laurel too.” She really, really did. She needed to. “But the blame game doesn’t get us anywhere. Isabel played him.” In her peripheral, she saw Oliver shift and knew she was being watched on 3 angles. “Heaven has no rage, you know.”

“Er… not really.” Sara responded inquisitively.

Looking left to right, she saw the joint confusion. “Oh, er, it’s a quote,” I forgot I’m the socially awkward one in this group, “’Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned’. William Congreve: The Mourning Bride.”

The lull in conversation was natural because she was the biggest buzz kill-

So close - she caught the smell of leather and warm skin coming from him - Oliver touched her shoulder once more. “I own my mistakes.”

Did that mean… he considered what happened in Russia to be a mistake?

And it just came out of her mouth. “How was it a mistake? Well,” she allowed, “aside from the obvious.” Isabel being evil incarnate - especially now - and all.

After blinking, Oliver frowned at her. “What?” And she knew - just knew - that Dig was throwing her 50 different shades of WTF Felicity Smoak?

“So you slept with her.” As if was the simplest thing on the planet. “So you had a moment of weakness. It happens. It’s allowed to happen.” She stressed at him.

Stop beating yourself up. She’d done that enough for him when she’d found out.

The hand on her shoulder? It moved down; leaving no inch untouched at her side and- yep, ow.

“You weren’t…” he swallowed and tried again, “from what I remember you weren’t exactly a fan at the time.”

“Did I think your decision was a good one? No. Do I think you should have thought for a moment on how it could backfire and hurt you." Hurt me, "unequivocally, yes. Did I want you to be happy?” The look she gave him was gentle. “Yes. Did I think you deserved more? I still do. But you’re allowed to do whatever you need to do to bring that about without being judged for it.”

There was a moment where he simply took her in. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because he smiled - achingly unsure but also grateful - briefly before it fell away, along with his arm and she definitely winced at the slide of his palm over the soreness on her skin.

He might have noticed if not for the fact that he was back in the zone and his eyes were now on the others. “Where does this lead us?”

Humming - because he was all kinds of sweet - John said, “you think it’s possible that Isabel wants revenge on Oliver and his family for something his father,” he gestured to Oliver, “did years ago?”

Shaking herself, Felicity pursued her lips as she turned to Dig. “When you say it like that, it sounds absurd.”

“I’m not discounting it.” Dig shrugged. “Add that to the evidence,” he pointed at the monetary evidence onscreen behind her, “and I’d say it’s a real possibility.”

It was a real possibility that Isabel Rochev hates the Queen family so much that she’d sleep with the heir knowing her history with his father, knowing he’d one day find out about it, just because… she could?

Bitch.

It looked like Oliver didn’t want to think about it at all. “How sure are you?”

Glancing at him, she didn’t need him to elaborate. “About 98% sure that Isabel is somehow involved with Slade, however that may be, which involves the Mirakuru, your family’s company - I need to brainstorm that one but we both agree she can never be given full access - and… now Laurel.”

For roughly 6.3 seconds - she counted - Oliver stared into space. Then he breathed out slowly, “which two factories?”

Two destinations. Too little time planning. And it was already 9pm.

But this was about Slade. Who had Laurel Lance. So John figured Sara wouldn’t have waited any longer anyway.

Or Oliver.

The air was strained. Worry seeped through the cracks Dig glimpsed in Felicity’s composure; yet, she was - oddly - the most controlled of them all.

Whereas Dig couldn’t feel anything but frustration and resolve. Frustration, because while Slade roamed free and easy, they were all trapped in a cycle that looked to worsen before it got better. Resolve, because he wouldn’t rest; not until Oliver’s tormentor was stopped and the man in question didn’t spend his free hours contemplating life in Slade’s grasp…

But, at any cost? Maybe.

If the cost was a life? One of theirs? No. I didn’t sign up to let that happen.

In the beginning, it had been the three of them; John, Oliver and Felicity in a seemingly doomed fight against the corruption of Starling City as a whole. But underneath? It had been a joint effort on John’s and Felicity’s part to save Oliver’s soul. And he’d be damned if he let all that effort go to waste.

In the meantime, Laurel was the top priority.

Unfortunately, they had to find her first.

Maybe it was bad taste to admit, but, Diggle had hoped that the whole ‘Oliver and Laurel’ mess had come to a close already. Neither exactly brought out the best in the other. Mainly it felt as if they didn’t know how to place each other in their lives but Laurel’s ‘ghost’ seemed to always return, armed to the brim with new issues to wade through. Drama they both created, but the type Oliver definitely didn’t need right now.

Except Oliver not only routinely accepted the advances of both Lances sisters - I’m not going anywhere near that hot mess-be they romantic or platonic, he also seemed incapable of making a firm decision upon who he wanted, needed, the most.

Yes, Laurel was still a major artery in Oliver’s life.

And with how hard Dig saw Oliver yanking down on the straps to his quiver, that artery was bleeding.

Damage control. “I was in the middle of a bath when Felicity called me. You know how much a room at the Talbot costs?”

Securing the Velcro snap on his glove, Oliver sent him a look - both a glower and a bewildered frown - telling Dig he was still somewhere in his own head, guilt mode in full swing.  “What?”

“Like describing a moon to a mole.” He placed two hand guns on the table before him, checking the chamber of each.

“I don’t take money for granted.” Oliver exhaled. “But I’m sorry your plans were ruined. They sounded... nice.”

Turning to his comrade, John arched brow at him. “Nice?” As in, ‘understatement’.

The expression on Oliver’s face was a question in and of itself.

“I’ll elaborate. The hotel we were staying at? The baths are pools man.”

“...Okay?”

“Just me and Lyla,” Dig secured an ammunition strap to his thigh, “in the pool,” he tugged on a zipped case of pistol magazines before moving to check his side-arm, “with a bottle of 20 year old whiskey, two glasses and chocolate coated everything on the side,” he slapped the barrel back over his pistol, “and I get a call from Felicity telling me that Slade has decided that now’s the perfect time to finally make a start on his plans, whatever they may be,” and slammed a clip into the hilt. “’Nice’ does not cut it.” John shot him a look that told him he knew the answer to his next question. “When was the last time you had a weekend getaway go that well?”

Actually considering the question - cutting through the sense of urgency - Oliver took a minute, his brow-line understandably intense, before saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever had one go that well.”

Romance and Oliver had never been exactly Simpatico.

Shoving everything in the rucksack, Dog absently muttered. “Kind of wondering what a decent weekend even looks like to you.”

For a few moments, only the sound of him shrugging on his jacket could be heard... but he couldn’t hear Oliver move. And when he glanced at him he could only describe him in one way:

Split down the centre.

Laurel needed to be found. It didn’t even have to be tied to their history - their joint pasts - and it wasn’t exclusive to just Oliver; Sara had a much greater stake in this than he.

It came down to the simple fact that Laurel - a civilian - should never have been brought into this, into Slade’s vendetta. And it must be eating away at Oliver.

Yet, the look on his face…

Dig frowned. “What is it?”

A sound - somewhere between a dismissal and an unsure hum - escaped Oliver before he’d even opened his mouth. “Weekends… I wouldn’t know where to start on the perfect weekend. But,” narrowed eyes spoke more of concentration than frustration, “I had a…interesting lunch today.”

“Interesting?”

Blue eyes flitted from Dig to nowhere, then slowly back again. “Remarkable.”

“Huh.” He looked him over. “Good remarkable or bad remarkable?”

“Good.” His friend breathed. “Really good.” Looking away again, Dig swore Oliver was reliving this ‘remarkable’ lunch of his, “I haven’t enjoyed something so simple like that in…” Softly, his brows lifted then fell once more, “I don’t remember.”

It was almost too miserable for Dig to touch, that tone. That Oliver hadn’t enjoyed the simple pleasures in life the way the rest of them did-

Wait. One. Second.

Treading carefully, Dig asked. “Who were you with?”

“Felicity.” Oliver didn’t sound surprised but he also didn’t sound… normal. He was still elsewhere.

“Oh yeah?” Dig cleared his throat, come on man. “Big Belly?”

“Hm.” Fingers brushing against each other, this small smile - a miraculous feat given the seriousness of the situation - on Oliver’s face made Dig think he was recalling something very nice too. “We talked.” He shook his head, looking back to Dig who was also smiling a little now; it was void of any tease. “I don’t do that a lot, you know? I don’t just… talk to people. I don’t go out for lunches, at least not ones where I’m constantly lying about my life. It was fun.”

Now he sounded surprised.

“So?” Dig shrugged, “do it again.”

Only this time, let it involve a few drinks.

They could both - Oliver and Felicity - use some time off. And if they wouldn’t do it for themselves, let them do so for each other, since it seemed neither could ever put themselves first. Even when it’s necessary to do so. A day - or a night - to have fun, to relax and let loose a little bit, with someone they trust.

“It isn’t that simple.”

He could almost literally feel his eye roll against his skull.

Only Oliver could make such an inconsequential thing as a lunch, sound like he was asking for the world. “It’s lunch Oliver. Something I’m sure Felicity has on a daily basis.” For some reason that got him a look from Oliver and it was just on the right of side misleading for Dig to leave it be. For now. “Just ask her.”

Oliver closed shut the glass case leading to his arrows. “She won’t want to.”

Lord give me strength, “you think Felicity won’t want to have recurring lunches with a friend? Spending more time with you isn’t exactly something she’d consider a hardship.” Trust me.

Quietly, Oliver sighed, turning - ready and able for a rescue mission - to face him. “It’s a lot to ask.”

“It’s lunch.”

Oliver shook his head in a ‘that’s not what I meant’ kind of way. “She’s under enough pressure without adding complications.” Complications. Right. “I still haven’t found out what’s wrong with her.”

It was John’s turn to sigh. “Which was my second question.”

“I didn’t get anywhere.” And it was bothering him, if the shadow that suddenly covered his face was any indication. “And it’s going to have to wait a little longer. Laurel can’t.”

“I know.” Slade had really bad timing. Or spot on timing, depending how you saw it. “We’ll find her.”

Nodding, Oliver looked towards where Sara was talking to Felicity- the two were muttering in low tones and their hands were clasped in a way that made Diggle think they didn’t even know they were doing it, which was sweet in ways he didn’t think an assassin could be - before he started to walk over to them-

“How was it different?”

Stopping, Oliver looked back at him over his shoulder, a frown on his face.

“The lunch?” Arching a brow, Dig slung his duffle over one shoulder. “I know it’s been a while but we’ve been out to Big Belly before and other places. You, me and Felicity. What made it so remarkable this time?”

Completely nonplussed, Oliver blinked. Once. Twice. “I’m not sure. It just… was.”

Uh huh. “What did you two talk about?”

Interestingly, he saw Oliver swallow before something deep in his eyes started to lighten.

Deliberately, Dig’s other brow rose to join its twin. “That good huh?”

A cough on the narrow edge of a genuinely bashful laugh had Oliver’s cheeks turning slightly pink.

Whoa. “Come on. Dish.” With a full blown smile, Dig enjoyed the way Oliver seemed to shed loose a few nightmares the more they talked. “What did you talk about?”

With a deep breath, Oliver levelled Dig with another look - as if he was saying ‘you asked for it’ - he couldn’t discern.

He cleared his throat, glanced back over to the girls and said, “Sex.”

Then, still without looking back to Dig, what could only be described as the brashest - yet happiest - of smirks spread across his face.

Abruptly sauntering off, he left a speechless Diggle behind to stare after him.

“Area secure.”

Felicity switched over to ‘available’ on her com link. “No sign of activity?”

“Not here.” Since he was sounding slightly husky, she figured Oliver was running. “We’re moving out to the steam factory.”

“Good luck.”

With that, the trio of badasses headed off to factory number 2… and Felicity watched over them as always. Except this time, she kept her side of the com closed.

She was multi-tasking.

And having two conversations whilst running an open link to both would be disastrous.

“He’s taken action?” Lyla asked. “Overtly?”

When she’d first hailed Lyla on her cell, she’d managed a fast ‘please forgive me for taking your amazing boyfriend naked from you bath and pulling him into work on his weekend off’ before Lyla dismissed it - with a wave of her hand, I’m assuming - and took over to concentrate on the priority.

“I’d say kidnapping a legal attorney constitutes as an overt action.” Still monitoring her boys and girl-friend, Felicity stood in front of her computers with her arms folded across her middle. A bid for security she couldn’t reach. “Is it enough?”

“For Waller?”

“I was going to say ‘for action’ but that works too.”

“No.” The reply was blunt enough for Felicity to wince. “Amanda won’t take a risk on anything but a sure thing, not when Slade’s involved.”

“Sounds personal.”

“In a way, it is. She tried to recruit him.”Lyla added, though she didn’t have to give Felicity anything really.“She failed.” Enough said.“He killed 2 Argus agents for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And a few that were exactly where they were supposed to be.”

It didn’t take much to reach a conclusion. “Waller sent assassins after Slade?”

“Yes.”

“…Colour me not at all surprised.”

“But this is a problem.”

“I know.”

“Felicity, if he escalates-”

“I have no idea how to tell them, Lyla.” Even thinking it made something heated and terrified rise up into her stomach.

“Then find a way.”

Helpful. “Are you ever anything but to the point?” Felicity muttered, a hand rubbing at her forehead.

“Look,” and Lyla’s tone was not unkind, “this is supposed to be hard for you. But if he has as many men and ammunitions that you think he does then we need to be ready. You need reconnaissance and something I can sell to my boss.”

“I can’t give her the Mirakuru.” I won’t.

“Then get her a location. A map. His plan. Something that’ll allow me to return to Starling or at least provide the munitions you need.”

The breath she let out felt like it had come from deep her bones. “I will.”

“Felicity…” the pause put her on edge because it was a sign of concern from Lyla and the woman knew better than to reveal that kind of feeling. “The longer you leave it the greater the damage will be.”

“I’m deeply aware of that.”She sounded weak and felt weaker.

“I’m not sure you are. The only reason I haven’t told John about what you discussed with me is because I believed it’d only make the situation more dangerous for you. But I think now’s the time. Or at least soon. Telling them will help. Maybe not at first,”Lyla added and her tone insinuated that Felicity prepare for an explosion, “but eventually. You shouldn’t be alone in this.”

Hearing this from a woman who’d admitted to Felicity to be being systematically tortured herself once, years before - a woman who’d also been held in a Gulag for weeks - told her that Lyla knew the difference between having no one… and having a ‘someone’.

Like Lyla does now, compared to a time when she was ‘Diggle-less’.

“But,” and this is a point to be made, “I am alone. In being alone… I’ve kept people safe.”

“I know. I hold no judgement for how you responded to this threat. Soldiers have been known to take the hits, inhumane horrors, for their brothers.  But there’s only so much a person can force themselves to bend to the will of another. How far do you plan on taking this?”

“If you’d asked me that a week ago I’d answer that with ‘as far as I have to’.”

“And now?”

“Now… I’m not sure. I keep slipping,” telling signs of stress, “and it’s being noticed.”

“By who?”

Oliver.

She made a non-committal sound accompanied by an awkward shoulder bump. “A friend.”

“What changed?”

Again… Oliver.

“Hiding from him…” breathing a shallow breath, Felicity swallowed, “it’s getting harder.” Especially when he pushes, revealing a tenacious care for her wellbeing that still stunned her.

“Does this friend happen to wield a bow and arrow with the kind of proficiency to put expert marksmen to shame, wear green leather and commit multiple felonies night after night?”

Eyes shooting everywhere, Felicity floundered. “Ah, no?”

Well done.

There was a smile in Lyla’s voice. “You might be underestimating your importance to your ‘friend’. At the very least I think he deserves to discover just how much his IT girl loves him.”

Felicity scoffed. “We’re just friends Lyla.”

“Funny, I didn’t mention being otherwise. Listen, I’m about to head into the office. You’ve been given the all clear; I’ve already sent my men to secure the Pawn and I’ll do what I can here but I’m going to need a little more for a direct strike.”

“Alright. But keep your guys sited on the target until I have confirmation of full cooperation.”

“Email me when you do.”

“I will. And Lyla? Thank you. Really.” For so much.

“I meant what I said. But from what John tells me, your team wouldn’t be much of one without you. John needs you. And I need John. You keep them safe so I’m going to try to reciprocate.”

A lump in her throat prevented Felicity from responding. Lyla didn’t seem to need to hear it.

“You’ll hear from me soon.”

The line beeped before dying and Felicity shut it off.

Weeks ago, she’d reached out to the impressive Lyla Michaels after discovering that she had been on the originally task force sent to capture Slade Wilson before realising what a monster he truly was. Yes; Argus knew all about Mr Wilson, more so than Oliver did, at least they did in regards to his whereabouts the prior year. Needing to trust someone who could provide the requisite resources for the other part of her plan, she’d told Lyla almost everything, knowing that she might relay to someone like Waller. Having Dig anywhere close to the crosshairs seemed to be all the preventative Felicity needed to keep that happening.

“I’m onsite.”

Jumping, Felicity rushed to her seat, opening the channel to John. “Is everything okay?”

“So far.” Dig murmured, low and quiet. “Oliver’s already inside.”With his rifle and scope, Dig was keeping watch. “I have eyes on Sara. She just followed him in, round the side entrance.”

Good. “Any sign of, um, anything?”

“Not yet. We’re going to find her Felicity.” He added, consolingly.

A shot of nerve-induced uncertainty had her replying with, “This was all based on a hunch.”A hunch founded on a lot of evidence but…

“I don’t know; your hunches have been pretty outstanding so far.”

Regardless, she felt herself start to smile, even as she said. “There’s always that first time.”

Humming, Dig half-joking, half-serious, responded with, “I’m willing to take that chance. Oliver certainly is.”

Internally groaning, Felicity bit her lip. “I think Oliver trusts my word a little too much.”

“It’s more that he trusts instinctively that you’ll make everything better. Or try to.”

Well… that was one way to shut her up. Luckily, this was a private 1 on 1 chat that Oliver wasn’t privy to. “Oh…”

“Are you okay?” Dig asked.

It took her back to earlier…

“Are you okay?”

Like it was automatic, her head shook, her forehead pinched. “I’m fine. I just-”

“You look pale.”

Her lips pressed together. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing Felicity.”

“…Yes,” she breathed, “I’m okay John. I just really wanted this day to end well.”

“It still might.” Like, ‘cheer up’. “Then you can go on another lunch date with Oliver.”

If she’d been drinking coffee she’d have spat it out. “Lunch date?” He told him? Guys do that? “There was no- I mean there was a lunch with food and talking but no date in sight, no sir.”

What did she just say? Fail.

“If you say so.”

Could he sound any smugger? “Dig,” she stated, “you know Oliver doesn’t see me that way.”

“Do you even know the many different ways he does see you as?”

“T-that’s-” stuttering, her mind failing to escape the impossibly lovely implications of that question, Felicity closed her eyes, “That’s beside the point.” She shook her head. “And it was a one off. I highly doubt he’d want to have lunch with me again, I mean- not just me.”

“Sure he would. He told me so.”

Say what?

“He… he did?” He talked to John about it… because he’d liked it that much?

“Yes.”And though he still sounded very satisfied with himself, Dig’s tone was also compassionate. “He enjoyed himself.”

“He… really?”

He sounded close to laughter. “Really-”

“Dig! Bring the van round.”

Oliver.

Opening her com, Felicity immediately asked, “What do you need? What’s happening?”

“We found her.”

Her heart thudded.

“What, really?” Not that she wasn’t thrilled but… she’d expected chatter, more resistance, some sort of fight to break out. Gunfire, Slade’s goons- Slade himself, something. “Where?”

“In the centre of the ground floor. Near some large pipes.” And from his tone, he was not a happy camper. “She’s alive. Stable.”

“Unconscious.” Sara all but growled.

Oh no. “Get her back here. Dig’s en route.”

“Have an IV ready.” Sara ordered. “And a blanket.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

Oh pretty bird, “Just concentrate on Laurel, Sara. I’ll see you soon.”

Sara shut off her link, concentrating on her sister. There’s was no camera close to the site, no way for Felicity to observe what was happening, how or why. Sure, she could hack into a satellite… but like earlier, with Lyla, she had something else she needed to do-

“This doesn’t feel right.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jumping, Felicity re-directed her attention to Oliver and Sara; neither sounded particularly breathless but they both definitely expressed a certain ‘on edge’ quality in their tones.

“This was too easy.”

Opening her com to him – and only him; perks of being the voice behind the curtain – Felicity added. “I agree with that btw.”

“I thought he’d be here.” It was a whisper, as if he didn’t want anyone to overhear. “It’s like he just left her for us to find so that…” He trailed off.

“Oliver?”

“Felicity, do a sweep of the area around Verdant and the Foundry.”

Er, “Sure.” What’s on his mind? “And by sweep I do hope you mean ‘check the cameras’,” she said as she typed, “because me in full tactical gear, carrying an automatic rifle does not strike as an impressive look for me.”

It was a rhetorical statement, so he didn’t reply. She didn’t blame him either. “It’s just a feeling.”

“Oliver, I’m not seeing anything suspicious.”

He let out a long exhale. “Nothing’s adding up.”

“You thought he’d come here?”

“I thought, maybe he’d go after the heart of our operations.”

‘The heart of our operations’.

How was the Foundry the heart of their operations? When they were out in the field it was just the computers and her-

Me.

I’m the heart?

“I doubt he’d come here.” She murmured softly.

He reciprocated in kind. “I had to be sure.” Someone called to him - Dig - from, presumably, inside the van. “We’re on our way.”

“I’ll keep the light on.” Metaphorically speaking anyway.

She turned her com off.

And… that was it. They’d found her. So quickly.

It was definitely ominous. Her pulse was suddenly pounding, the blood in her veins telling her with each beat that something was very wrong. What had they missed? It felt like they were all running downhill at warp speed and heading for a brick wall.

‘This doesn’t feel right’.

He was right.

Way. Too. Easy.

Sighing, Felicity tapped her fingers across her desk. “I think it’s time.”

Time to make that call.

Mobile to her ear, Felicity waited as the number rang… and rang… and-

“Hello?”

The voice was polite, very normal and not in the least bit tense. Felicity was about to blow it to smithereens.

“Samantha? It’s Felicity Smoak.”

Silence. Then...

“…Miss Smoak.” As if the woman had swallowed, there was minor pause on the line. “Something’s changed?”

Believe it. “I know I promised to give you more time, but that time has just run out.”

“Oh God.”

“Breathe Samantha.”

“He’s coming for us.” Her soft voice sounded petrified. “For my son.”

Like with Oliver, rip off the band aid. Though cautious, she was honest. “If he isn’t already, he will be soon.” Slade took Laurel. He took her after he’d promised not to touch her because he was ‘touching’ Felicity. Ugh, an image I didn’t need. There was no telling how else he might break his own rules. “Samantha,” repeat her name; she’s far from being alone in this, “it’s time.”

Unsteady breaths sounded in her ear. “I –I understand.”

“Do you remember what to do?” And where to go?

“I do. We’ll hear from you?”

“Soon.” Very. “Once you’re in Starling, I’ll contact you again. There’ll be men - 3 of them - waiting for you at the rendezvous point. Do you remember what to say?”

“Y-yes.”

I’m so sorry. “It’s going to be alright.”

“I’ll believe that when I feel like my son is safe again.” The bite in her tone was probably a better alternative than outright terror. “When I finally meet you, I want an explanation.”

“You’ll get one.”

“And I want to see Oliver.”

Why, oh why, did that make her heart clench? Oliver. The woman held a piece of Oliver that no other did. She’d slept with him - like many another - and had his child - like no other - even if he hadn’t known about him. It didn’t matter. Oliver was a father. Father of a child who - I repeat - Samantha gave birth to. They could meet… and sparks could collide. They could meet and maybe feel that it would be worth engaging in a relationship for the benefit of William, as farfetched as it might seem. A lot could happen.

And none of it felt right.

No matter what – right or wrong – Oliver’s world was about to upend. And it would be all Felicity’s doing. It was so much worse than telling him that Thea was Malcolm’s daughter.

“You will.” She said quietly.

Laurel lay on the table.

The satin-soft material of - what looked to be an expensive - black cocktail dress, cascaded slightly over each side and her normally perfectly styled hair streamed over the metal surface, damp with - presumably - sweat.

Hair that Sara was currently running her fingers through.

“She’ll be fine.” Felicity reassured as she attached the saline drip, “it may take a few hours but,” glancing at the warrior woman, she gave her a brief smile, “she’ll wake up.” Promise.

Absently nodding, Sara exhaled. “I’m more worried about what he might have done to her.”

Felicity looked away.

Problem.

From the look of Laurel’s body, Slade hadn’t done a thing. There was no bruising; no blemishes indicating a particular treatment, a disturbing focus… nothing. Again, like with Sara.

The knowledge settled like lead in her stomach, even as something inside her relaxed in relief.

She was pretty certain Laurel had been given the same sedative Sara had but… why hadn’t either Lance sister been harmed? Again, it wasn’t that she wanted them to be hurt, but her theories – the ones she’d been building since that afternoon – had been based on the idea that Slade had an endgame involving one of the sisters or both of them.

In comparison to her, they were prime targets.

Why kidnap them, and then do nothing with them?

“How is she?”

Lifting her head from the syringe now secure in Laurel’s arm, she saw Oliver taking that last step towards them. “No worse than Sara was earlier.” Fingers sliding down to Laurel’s wrist, she checked her pulse rate on the medical monitor. “Her BP’s normal. So far there’s been no sign of there being a problem. Other than her being unconscious.”

Eyes less blue than grey, flickered over Laurel’s form. “Did he hurt her?”

Sara shifted.

Looking from one to the other, Felicity shook her head. “…No.”

Oliver’s gaze moved from Laurel to her. It didn’t lift.

Still wearing his leather suit, he stood there; impressive and resolute. But when he’d first arrived, he’d been carrying Laurel over one shoulder before pulling her into his arms and laying her down. A look from him had asked Felicity to check for signs of torture, for a trap - like a suicide bomber - or anything resembling maltreatment. Other than the obvious.

The furrow at his brow told her he didn’t understand her answer. “Nothing?”

Again, she shook her head; lips pressed together.

He rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it does.” Sara uttered, “If it were a warning, I’d say this was a scream.”

Hand dropping, Oliver sighed. “We won’t know what he did - if he did anything - or what he wanted until she wakes up.” Which might take a while.

“Detective Lance-” Sara’s eyes flashed to Felicity’s, “is fine. He arrived at the function later than planned - pretty sure it was on purpose - and was dragged inside by his Chief before he could reach the alley. I called him. I think he thought you were with Oliver,” She explained to Sara as she pointed to Oliver, “and Laurel was romancing a politician out of his money.”

“That’s one piece of good news at least.” The woman breathed.

Oliver didn’t look remotely phased.

Felicity knew that he was thinking about the why’s of it all too.

Finally - because he had nothing - he exhaled, loudly, hands at his hips. “Why don’t we all get some rest? Something tells me tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“I can stay here…” it was quiet, soft and meant to be soothing. An offer from Felicity for Oliver to… well, use her. For whatever.

And the way he responded blew her brain to smithereens.

“You need your rest,” his eyes - oddly clear as crystals in the glow of the Foundry - swiftly travelled over every inch of her and amended his words, “I need to you rest.” Head lowering slightly in a move she now recognised as him trying to take up all of her focus, to make her see him and only him, hear him, see him, “I want you with me tomorrow, rested. For what I have in mind, you’ll need it.”

Deadpan, she heard Dig snort behind them, saw Sara gradually arch a brow at Oliver and look like she wanted to say something...

Felicity didn’t react… except her lips twitched, her eyes danced - because why not - and her cheeks flushed. So, she reacted a hell of a lot.

It took a minute - a long minute, where Dig’s shoulders had actually started to shake - before Oliver got it.

His mouth opened, a little noise escaping suggesting that he was about to try get himself out of the hole he’d dug - a hole that spoke of his own fatigue - in a sentence sure to be filled with traps and fragments, when he abruptly stopped, closed his eyes, shook his head… and laughed at himself. It was short and very sweet.

He opened his eyes, blowing out a shallow breath. “Felicity…”

She smiled at him; and yes, she was tired too. And achy, everywhere. Though she was sure a full night’s sleep wasn’t in the cards for her, she knew Laurel wouldn’t be waking for hours yet. “I’ll be back in a while. With coffee.”

“Okay.” This small serene smile was still on his face and he started walking away for some reason. “Just let me get changed.”

That froze her in place, “Uh what?”

Over his shoulder - still walking - he said, “I’m not letting you go home alone.”

She heard the words he didn’t say; I’m not letting Slade get anyone else. But… no. “Oliver-”

“-Felicity.” Halting, His face hardened. “I’m coming with you. It’s not open for discussion.”

Speechless, she… had nothing. Bupkis came out of her mouth, totally useless against such testosterone.

But Sara wasn’t. “Ollie, what about Laurel?”

Briefly – like, for a second – he looked away from Felicity. “She’s unconscious.”

Like when he said it earlier…

“Sara’s unconscious.” He ground the words out.

“Right,” and if she really did squeak this time, well, then she could be forgiven, “then we should be monitoring-”

His tone took a turn for condescending. “There isn’t really much we can do about that until she’s awake.”

“True, but-”

“-And we aren’t finished.”

Felicity cleared her throat, push it away, because oh how she liked the thought of him coming home with her. “She’s right.”

Oliver shook his head, about to speak-

“What if she wakes up while we’re gone?” Felicity pushed.

“Then we’ll come back.” He looked so perplexed. “I just want to make sure that you’re safe first.”

Sara - finally taking both hands off her sister - took a step towards them. “I’m sure Laurel would like to feel safe when she wakes.”

Silence.

Like bars on a cell door, there was nothing he had in his arsenal to break them. But the look he sent Sara…

And I’m in the line of fire.

“Sara, I am the last person to make Laurel feel safe.” He gritted out. “The one who could died last year.” Sara flinched. “I didn’t need you to bring that up.”

She exhaled, “doesn’t make me any less right about it though. This place,” she gestured to her surroundings, “it’s yours. You should be here when she opens her eyes.”

Because, Laurel didn’t know about the Arrow. About who he was... and Felicity didn’t want to witness the emotional overflows, the declarations of affection and the ‘I always knew it was you(s)’, ‘I had faith in us’, and - her personal favourite - ‘what’s stopping us form being together now(s)’?

Even a hug from one to the other would split Felicity open right about now. She wasn’t in the mood for the reality... or the lie. But which was which?

It wasn’t even grudging, Oliver’s expression. He flat out disapproved. But something in him must have agreed because he turned to Dig. “Can you go with her please?”

“Already got my keys.” Said keys jangled in Dig’s hand and Felicity felt a flash of warm comfort in her chest drive away the chill somewhat. “I’ll stay with her.”

“Thank you.” Oliver’s eyes flickered to Felicity. “Seven hours.”

Sleep? It had been ages since she’d slept that long. “Four.”

“Seven.” He gestured at Dig. “And I’m asking Dig to make sure you eat breakfast.”

John’s head went from one to the other.

Excuse me? “You can’t make-”

“Oh he can.” Dig. Gritting her teeth, she turned – feeling stiff as stone – and saw John looking far too pleased for her liking. “And I will.” He added for everyone’s benefit.

“I don’t want to see either of you until the electoral debate.” Oliver ordered.

“That’s in the afternoon!” And Felicity couldn’t look more appalled.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Keep me updated.” He added to Dig and ignoring Felicity’s open mouthed expression.

“Roger.”

Then, without further ado, Oliver walked away. To change. Maybe change his fat head. Okay, that was unfair but she’d wanted to be alone. To contact Lyla and keep a trace on Samantha…

Looking from the two members of her team, Felicity pursed her lips.

Dig smiled. “Let’s go.”

This isn’t too bad…

No, soaking in a hot bath after a long day of worrying and vexation – of secrets and lies – was beautiful.

The only thing missing is Oliver, sans shirt. Being in her own bathroom meant she could be that honest. And pants.

Her sigh was so pitiful she splashed water at her already very wet self. I spend far too much time daydreaming about that guy.

Dig had suggested this. The moment they’d entered her house - since he had an all access pass - he’d gone straight to her bathroom and started running the tap for the tub. And she was grateful for it.

It helped with her bruises.

Absently, her finger touched against one. Still hurts. A mottled green. Lovely. Her hands skimmed over her thighs... which were just as bad. I’m missing skirts.

Now was the time for her brain to completely filter out all thoughts and worries and spend a glorious 20 minutes soaking. Having Dig, a solid presence, in her living room provided a faint comfort she hadn’t experienced in her place for too long.

She’d washed first; soap making the water turn into a grey mix of dirt and grossness, so she’d refilled it for her to just relax in.

Hmm... Closing her eyes, she dipped her head back into the water, feeling the heat flow over her scalp and sighed once more.

It was so supremely soothing - so steadying…

So much so that when she opened her eyes once more to find Slade Wilson standing over her, staring down at her in his three piece suit, her immediate thought wasn’t to scream.

But it’s Sunday.

Sunday. Her one free night a week.

It was all she could comprehend - wide eyed and frozen as she was - before a large hand, Slade’s hand, grasped her neck and forced her head under the water.

Then she fought.

Though she knew she was screwed.

Like her body and mind had finally come to life, it completely ignored how the rest of her understood that fighting against a superhuman was futile.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, her chest hurt; terror lacing it with ice and acid. Water splashed everywhere, probably soaking his expensive ensemble; finery she could just make out through the blur of the water.

There was no room to move, the impervious sides of her tub traitorously curving in on her. Holding  her down-

Arms hurting, she figured her hands and fists were banging against his own as hard as they possibly could; she didn’t know. She was numb. Shock numbed her.

John. Oh God. What did Slade do to him? Dig would never have let him enter the house, even if he had to die stopping him. But she’d heard nothing. No grunt, no whisper of a silencer, not the breaking of her door, no voices…

It had been silent.

Under the surface – as the water seemed to rush in her ears – it was deafening. And air was non-existent.

Oliver.

Bucking - she couldn’t hold her breath any longer - the burn in her lungs cancelled out the vision of Slade bent over her. No-

Oliver…

She’d never see him again. She couldn’t think about anything but that one thought.

Oliver.

Even though she was out of air, her mouth wouldn’t open. Voluntary Apnea.

Her body knew that if it did… she’d die.

I’m sorry. Like all the other times, no one could save her. Not even herself. And Oliver would suffer for it. I’m sorry.

Colour turned to greys and blacks until her eyes felt like they would burst from their sockets.

Oliver…

Mercifully... Darkness.

Surreal… the beauty of it.

His clothes wet, sleeves torn... no matter.

Slade simply observed her curled up form soaking the bathroom floor. As she’d fallen unconscious he’d pulled her out of the water and dropped her to sprawl naked at his feet.  He didn’t cover her. Wouldn’t, until later.

Punishment.

He liked to watch them... her reactions. The amusing way she’d tried to hide them.

Just like how he watched her make the wrong decisions. Watch her love a man who was destined to die. By my sword.

Watch as she slowly killed herself, walking her own ‘mile’. Watch the strength in her bloom whenever they played house together, whenever she suffered.

People are never so honest until they think they’re about to die. She’d wanted to live so much she’d managed to split her nails when she’d ripped at his clothes.

It wasn’t surprising.

It was magnificent.

He had plenty of suits…

But there was only one Felicity Smoak.

And hurting her… it made him happy. Gloriously so.

And... a little sad.

Stupid girl.

So he was glad of it; glad that she was so stubborn, that she could take his punishments. That she’d listen when he spoke. That she’d learn.

It was his reward for living so long without her. Shado. It was Shado’s reward for being killed. It was Oliver’s reward for killing her.

It was Felicity Smoak’s reward for choosing the path she was on. It was her reward for being weak enough to target. Her reward for being strong enough to drive him insane.

But he already was, so what’s the harm?

It was his soul’s recompense for walking through this world for years, empty of emotion. Only to suddenly feel it, to enjoy it.

The best was yet to come.

“You have no idea, do you?” He asked her, knowing full well she couldn’t hear him.

You have no idea that I’ll never stop.

Chapter Text

(Picture by the Amaze-balls Candykizzes24)

I should have said yes.

In the silence, it hadn’t taken long to think it and even less time for the thought to obsessively repeat itself.

Hidden from sight, from Sara - his eyes trailing aimlessly over to the computers from the cot where he stood - Oliver remembered the way she’d looked at him tonight and felt the stiffness in his bones - paid in full by the events of the day - ease, just as his arms and legs tautened.

She’d seen right through him, he knew it, even if she hadn’t said a word.

For weeks, he’d been worried by Slade’s lack of action in regards to Sara, to the ‘he and Sara’ of it all. Visceral nightmares had plagued him for days about what Slade might do to his then girlfriend… only, he hadn’t done a thing. Even now; he’d taken her but he hadn’t. Done. A. Thing.

So it made the way Felicity’s eyes moved over his all the more memorable for the realisation she found there. Realisation and defeat. Knowing that Slade was only just beginning, that he’d been holding back - and how foolish Oliver was to have not anticipated any of this because Slade and kidnapping weren’t natural bedfellows - which now played on his conscience, making him think that maybe he didn’t deserve the peace he’d - the peace they’d - created earlier that day.

It had, initially, been his way of watching over her without intruding - she could have refused - but it had ended in him needing it too. It was that simple.

But it wasn’t close to an option for Felicity to forgo sleep like she’d offered to. Or for him to choose the situation over her. Again.

He’d made a decision. He wanted to be better, to do better. Still, when she’d asked that, asked if he’d wanted her to stay…

“I can stay here.” it was quiet, soft and meant to be soothing. And it was; a cool drink on a parched throat.

And when he’d answered…

“You need your rest,” he saw exhaustion written on her skin, on the way she stood, “I need you to rest.” It was pivotal. Ducking slightly - a move now recognised as him trying to take up all of her focus, to make Felicity see him and only him, hear him - he added, “I want you with me tomorrow, rested…”

He should have said yes.

But he hadn’t.

Every instinct had screamed at him to go with her because there was still something very wrong with Felicity Smoak... and now he had to wait.

Doing the right thing was rarely the attractive alternative.

After they’d left - Felicity and Dig - something came to him and he didn’t understand why: ‘What if’. Two unassuming words. Words that - confusingly - wouldn’t stop repeating in his head.

What if?

What if… what?

What if he’d listened to the feeling in his gut?

What if he decided not to trust an instinct gone dry over one still fresh, still chasing him? Not nipping at his heels or haunting his steps, but begging him to listen; to step forwards. To no longer deny the strength he now possessed, the kind of strength that could break down invisible walls and destroy chains instead of being held down by them, by his own darkness. To remind him that he was no longer the Ollie Queen he used to be.

That Oliver Queen might not be so bad a guy...

Occupying the seat - in Big Belly - across the table from him, Felicity released a shallow exhale suddenly saying, “You’re a good man Oliver Queen.”

“Hm?” Having moved back to his side of the booth - the feel of her hands on his biceps ghosts under his skin - he’d ordered them one last coffee. “What was that?”

“You.” And though somewhat shy after he’d held her - which was odd considering she’d been the one to bring up sex - Felicity held his eyes. “You’re a good man.” The words were slow, as was the soft compassion she offered in her face, her smile.“No matter what you might think.”

No matter what?

It was a nice thought and he huffed a laugh, glancing down. It wasn’t disingenuous but his vulnerable - self critical - half smile made it seem more so. “Am I? I’m not sure.”

Not that he was decent. He knew full well that a person could do good things without being good at their core; he didn’t need to be decent to save lives.

Felicity didn’t share this opinion. “But you are. Really.” It was a statement. And a statement from her, in the whisper that it was spoken, was as loud as a scream. “I see it. Every day.” She swallowed, but it wasn’t from nerves. “And the least you deserve in life is to know that, to know that you’re good.”

Each word, like hands on his skin, built up the oddest feeling of reassurance in him that made him feel like she’d just held him too.

The breath he sucked in was shallow. “Thank you.”

And...she smiled.

“Anytime.”

What if.

He still wasn’t sure. He wanted to believe… but he wasn’t sure. But from his experience, what if was a dream. The dream.

For now, all he could concentrate on was that he’d failed. He’d failed and he had no idea what to do next; instincts were no help here. So he’d done the only thing he understood, obeying a sentiment that split him right down the centre.

Obligation.

To Laurel.

Sara was right. Laurel’s first step into this world - his world - shouldn’t be taken without him there as witness. Even if it was more than one step past any point he’d wanted Laurel to cross, he was responsible for how this would all play out. Who else could describe the how’s and why’s?

Who else could omit?

There were some things better left unsaid, untouched and he needed to control how much laurel would learn.

In a very real way, Slade’s promise to dedicate his existence to Oliver’s eternal misery could start here. With Laurel. With how she may react. With what she may do. Or say. It could tip the scales either way on how Oliver would respond. Not too long ago, she’d hated the vigilante. Before that, she’d idolised him, me. Presently he worried what her next reaction might be. It wasn’t something he needed right now, wasn’t something he’d ever planned on occurring, this distraction; something that Slade obviously knew very well could hurt him and bring back memories best left unsaid.

The very last thing on his mind for several months now was revealing to Laurel his secrets.

But seeing Sara on the table... it only reinforced the fact that Slade was very much the danger - one they should have been focusing on, someone they had no choice but to move around and accommodate - he had been all along; his silence had made Oliver drop his guard and for that, he owed Laurel the truth. A reality he’d continuously denied her.

Knowing he’d taken her as well, had only added to the futility of his first efforts.

He’d fully expected Slade to go for Sara, a given, but her sister?

Felicity had said it, but he hadn’t taken it in. Whether he pushed the people he cared for away or not, Slade would still target them. But the way Slade had gone about it made it feel more like a taunt than an act of vengeance. As if he was saying that he could do what he wanted, whenever he wanted. And he could.

How could Oliver acknowledge that without thinking of Thea? Or his mother, his friends? That Slade could go for them at any time and he’d be powerless to stop it.

Like a hand was wrapped around his throat, it was all Oliver could do to choke back the bile.

He’d thought he was past this uncertainty. But it made him think; Slade could have done this at anytime, why now?  Why today?  There was no sense to it, to the time Slade had taken.

Unless it was defensive. Unless Slade had sacrificed a fast and hard approach to a slow overhaul via psychological warfare: like Isabel taking over the company from the inside out, something that made his skin crawl.

Trying to add logic where there might not be any was preferable to facing the guilt burning in the pit of his stomach.

The bottom line was that this was all happening because of him.

He hadn’t admitted - not even to Felicity when they’d been tracking late into the night, though he guessed she already knew - that, after weeks of searching, when it became obvious they wouldn’t find Slade, he’d been so… relieved.

He hadn’t wanted to find him.

Better that Slade stay dormant, stay underground and part of him had hoped, as ridiculous and naive as it was, that Slade may have found something worth living for in the past 2 months. Something that kept him quiet, that maybe he wasn’t quite so unredeemable.

It was a nice thought, but just a thought.

The rest of him understood the truth and as such, hadn’t tried to push.

The equivalent to stirring up a hornet’s nest; pushing Slade into making a move Oliver would only rue later was a death sentence for those he loved. But it was the kind of thinking that wouldn’t go down well with Sara. Even with John.

John...

It had settled deep down inside him that John was living.

He’d seen this fully after Russia.

Dig had a job he found fulfilling, a woman he loved and prospects and plans Oliver could never hope to have but still wanted. Badly enough to wonder when he definitely shouldn’t be. It was the piece of him he buried close to his chest. Kept secret. Kept safe. It hurt to unearth it so he never tried.

Dig really didn’t need any of this; he didn’t need a phantom form Oliver’s past threatening the new world Dig had built for himself. And he’d, more than once, shown it. So Oliver hadn’t said a word - to either of them.

They - both - would prefer to take the fight Slade; John because he wanted the threat of an enhanced enemy neutralised ASAP and Sara because Slade was supposed to have died five years ago. Because he’d become a living embodiment of everything she feared, because he’d personally threatened the very few people she held dear, those who reminded her that she was human too and because the small peace she’d gathered about her had begun to unravel and she blamed Slade.

However, where John saw the danger of approaching Slade as they were - unprepared - Sara couldn’t care less. She wanted a fight. She wanted to take him out, wanted him to hurt, wanted Slade gone and her family and friends safe. All without a viable plan of action.

With this he could emphasise but it wasn’t helpful. Not having a plan was what made us vulnerable today. Not preparing for the worst was why it suddenly felt as though everything was capsizing.

It was war. There was no breathing room in war and Slade had given them plenty of it that they’d taken for granted.

So what was their excuse now?

Gazing into the caverns of the Foundry, Oliver’s already tight chest fastened. His throat threatened closure. Like a noose. A rope to strangle himself with. As if his emotions - his frustration and his anxiety - were beginning to eat at him.

Arms forced lax by his sides, hands at his hips, he clutched his phone in his fingers.

And the more he tried not to think of it, the more his mind dragged the knowledge that, all this time Isabel Rochev had been left to her own devices; slowly pulling pieces of his family’s legacy out of his grasp - like a spider pulling at her web - and into her own because he hadn’t seen her for what she was. He’d stopped watching her, leaving her to her own devices because he’d believed that, thanks to their encounter, she’d been neutralised. That he didn’t have to worry about her. That he’d done a good enough job.

Conceited. As if sex had solved anything for him in the past.

It wasn’t until the plastic and metal of his phone began to creak that he realised his fist was clenched over it.

The reach for calm was an uphill battle. He had to be though; he had to be centred, especially with Sara in the room. She was vibrant and wilful... she was a loose cannon, blind to the dangers she could open to those around her when she was roused. But it was so very difficult to do so, to stay composed, to ignore the burn in his chest.

Isabel Rochev.

He hadn’t known. Not about… Dad.

A flood of emotions smacked into him and he closed his eyes, his memories making them sting.

He’d loved his father. He loved him still. Even when he was reminded of the many, many wrong doings Robert Queen had committed before he died... Oliver still loved him. But his father’s legacy was making it harder and harder for him to do so with impunity.

For his father to have an affair - to betray mom, even as he knew she’d done the same to his dad - with a woman half his age, a woman with less warmth in her than an ice pick - though maybe she’d been different once - made him sick, because it forced a realisation; that it was probably their similarities that had made his father be so lenient with his stupidity when he was younger. The things he’d seen in his son that he could empathise in. Their similarities that had made Oliver susceptible to Isabel, as if she’d already known how and where to prod because she’d already tasted from the Queen’s finest vat… their likenesses that had made him want to as well. With her.

Christ. Oliver remembered how he used to be before the island; how he’d flirted and slept around behind Laurel’s back, how he’d actually planned a getaway with her sister and could only think ‘like father, like son’.

“Stellmore International acquired the rights to all of Masons Holdings sublets, including their-”

“Tell me why you think Isabel is backing Slade.”

He hadn’t been able to hear anything else; so attuned to what his head and his heart were telling him. What Felicity’s eyes were trying, pre-emptively, to apologise for. As always.

But he couldn’t- he didn’t have it in him just then to tell her how much he cared that she tried. And she did: she always did. When no one else cared to, she did.

And she faced him now. Turning to him in her seat, he saw her look him over, pressing her lips together because she could clearly see the way he was begging more from her than he should ever ask in his stare.

Then she stood; eye to eye, as always. Close enough to touch but not too close as to invade. Like he could breathe, but he wasn’t by himself in this. “One of my Trojans hit a financial trail made… made the night we were in Moscow.” When I slept with Isabel. He couldn’t help how his eyes instantly narrowed. “A cool $1000, 000 wired to an account - a misnomer - just outside of the city.”

Wintergreen.

Why hadn’t he told Felicity everything? It would have been so smart to just... to hand her the keys to his memories and have at. Those two years on the island, names, dates, faces, places… she could have had searches going this whole time. But he hadn’t. It went against the grain. To share those pieces of himself, his sins.

He didn’t know how.

She’d forgive him, he knew that, but he wasn’t ready to face forgiveness. To see the expressions she’d make if he told her truths about what he is, if he told her how he’d driven a friend to insanity with his selfishness and how he’d subsequently killed him for it. Or thought he had.

Again, ‘what if?’

“Your father.” The way she spoke - the kindness in it, free of judgement - did nothing to soften the blow. “When you told me that your mother knew her,” my mother, keeping more secrets that could hurt him, “well, it rang a few bells. So I looked into it.”

Every bone in his body tense enough to snap, Oliver gritted out. “Isabel knew my father?”

“Biblically.”

Her reply broke something inside him.

Thinking on it now, had his dad loved her? Loved Isabel?

Enough to leave on a trip to Russia? One-Way. No refunds. The notion that he almost had, that Robert Queen - the man he’d called father and dad - had almost made it to the airport, had almost left his wife and children behind for his mistress, hurt somewhere deep inside him, in a place he thought he’d long since left behind once he became an adult.

That his father had more than simply considered it...

And hours later, the reminder still made his stomach turn because, if only he could rewind time.

To go back and stand there in that hotel in Russia, to look at Isabel only to say ‘thank you but, no’.

To turn away from her and what little she offered instead of obeying a very real weakness. Then maybe he’d buy a bottle of vodka from the bar. Take the hour he had free and go do what he’d been absently thinking of doing - but hadn’t because, rules - instead of telling himself not to and go to Felicity’s room. And just... talk. Just be. Reminisce over the past year and wonder what the next one would be like. Then they would-

Then they would... what?

He didn’t know.

But he regretted not finding out, not ever knowing.

Besides, anything was preferable to that look on her face; the one he remembered so clearly. The momentary jolt, like she’d taken a blow. The shake of her head when she’d understood but also hadn’t, because why would he ever...? 

Her faith, belief, in him scared him… because what if it suddenly stopped? What if she realised one day that he wasn’t everything she saw in him? Where would he be then? What would he do?

Fortunately, her opinion seemed to have changed.

“So you slept with her.” Felicity stated, as if was the simplest thing on the planet and he almost winced because, in a very real way, what he’d done in Russia had been simple. Very.“So you had a moment of weakness. It happens. It’s allowed to happen.”

Speechless, he’d only stared at her.

And yet, the hurt written on her face at the time... She hadn’t just felt it for herself; she’d felt it for him. She’d wanted him to have more that a quick fling in his hotel room with a woman he couldn’t wait to get away from afterwards.

“Did I think your decision was a good one? No. Do I think you should have thought for a moment on how it could backfire and hurt you, absolutely yes. Did I want you to be happy?” The look she gave him was so gentle. “Yes. Did I think you deserved more? I still do. But you’re allowed to do whatever you need to do to bring that about without being judged for it.”

Everything inside him had silenced at that. Like he’d been given permission to make the countless mistakes he’d made, just because he was human; and something deep in his gut - present since they left Russia - had lifted. As if she’d known - and she did - that he hated knowing that he’d done the same as his father with Isabel, barring any affection and that in some respects he was just like him. That even though he loved and honoured his memory, his father was not a man to look up to. Not a saviour or a saint, not even close.

A sinner.

I didn’t save this city; I destroyed it. And I wasn’t the only one.

Was this – Isabel and Stellmore International – part of that?

As usual, he was out of answers.

Teeth grinding, it made him want to hit something. A lot of something’s.

Even if he could take a deep breath, even if he were able to practise those breathing exercises Shado had taught him, the meditations Masao had drummed into his head, the yoga he’d watched Felicity-

That he’d watched Felicity practise with Roy.

It stopped him just as it tugged at him, the memory. An island that didn’t keep him shored and he allowed himself to lean into it, to remember - to feel- every single part of it as his facial muscles relaxed.

It had been so uncomplicated at the time. No pressure, no games… just Felicity teaching Roy the basic stances. Her voice - quiet yet full of awkward amusement and embarrassment at first - had carried throughout the Foundry, drawing his attention. Her laughter coming from the mats behind her computers made him curious, made him listen. Originally, her suggestion - helping Roy via meditation instead of physical control - had baffled him.

But listening to how she’d made Roy repeat phrases - things that centred him - words Oliver wouldn’t have dreamed of conjuring in the field; things that were ludicrous… until they weren’t, had forced him to conclude that Roy had simply needed a gentler touch; guidance from someone who couldn’t force him to commit. Meaning he would. Given the choice. Choice; it was everything.

Yet Oliver’s focus was on the surreal cheerfulness that infiltrated the Foundry whenever they practiced; that weightlessness that had made him stick around instead of leaving with Sara for some privacy...

It had been irresistible, the peace of it.

Hypnotic.

So much so that he’d eventually gravitated towards them - intrigued - during a session. And - after watching and wondering - he’d joined in. It had taken her back, he could tell, when he’d slipped off his shirt and shoes to kneel on the floor beside Roy to look up at her, waiting for instruction.

The slow flush to her cheeks and her slack jaw - the furious blinking behind blue rimmed spectacles - had made him bite back a smile. Just as the memory did now, except this time it ghosted away; his smile drowned out by the tension in his head.

Afterwards though, she’d barely said a word; offering to simply show them.

Effortlessly contorting her body into shapes and positions that, even in long-sleeved baggy shirts and - hauntingly formfitting - yoga pants were almost obscene to witness, he figured that for her legs to look like that in a skirt she’d have to be flexible. She’d have to be fit. Even if it struck him dumb.

It helped him forget; his thoughts emptying as he’d moved.

Only once did she interfere and it wasn’t with words; it was with touch. As though speaking - critiquing - would ruin the ambiance. She’d tentatively - as if she expected him to rebuke her - pressed down against his lower back so that his pelvis would align itself with the floor - it had instinctively lifted - and he’d let her. That was all.

But he’d really enjoyed it. Being taught instead of being the one doing the teaching, being touched... having eyes on him that expected nothing.

The exercise explained how Felicity could be so in control of herself. So shielded. He admired it about her, liked how it was something they had in common: their ability to compartmentalise...

Loathed it enough - her almost alien composure -to make him want to crush it. To break it between his bare hands. It covered her completely, like armour. A wall that, unlike Laurel’s, didn’t bite back. It just made you bounce off it. It was as maddening as it was disturbing because why would she need to shield form him of all people? Humans weren’t designed to live alone. He knew the double standard here; the amount of times he’d tried to keep people out of his life because of his very real fear of losing them; keeping them away from him so that, if he were to die, they wouldn’t be so attached. He knew the futility of it but tried anyway.

He also knew better now; you could live alone. You could die alone. But it should never be by choice.

Lifting a hand to his face, he rubbed at the shadow of his jaw. He wanted the night to be over, for it to melt into day, though technically it already was ‘tomorrow’. The election rally couldn’t come sooner.

Lifting up the phone in his hand, Oliver brushed a thumb over the screen for what felt like the fiftieth time.

‘We’re here. Checked the house; it’s clear. Keeping an eye out.’

The words - Dig’s text - had been self-explanatory. Area secure. Slade - or his men - hadn’t gone anywhere near Felicity’s house. There was nothing to suggest otherwise; John would have kept him apprised about any discrepancy. No matter how minute, he’d know Oliver would want to hear it.

...It seemed there was nothing to worry about.

‘We’re here. Checked the house; it’s clear. Keeping an eye out.’

He kept reading it. Reading and re-reading until the simple sentence blurred. Until the hollow in his stomach lessened.

He was tired - more wearisome than needing sleep, though he did need sleep - but he felt too tense to rest. He was waiting for something, anything to happen. Something he could work with. Exhaling, his thumb moved again, knowing there were no new texts or calls but checking regardless. It hadn’t been that long since Dig has sent-

How long had it been?

It was irrational, he knew it was, but like a bullet, fear shot into him. And it shouldn’t have; there was no reason for it. As of this moment they were safe, all of them. Yet... there was no shaking it.

How long have I been standing here? Pulling out from his texts, he looked at the time on his phone-

01:37am.

...Okay. Breathing in through his nostrils, he pressed his lips together.

Dig wouldn’t be texting for a while.

In reality he’d been walking in circles - dragging his feet - pacing and he hadn’t even realised he’d come to a stop. Restless, he resisted the urge to bounce on his feet like a boxer and, once again, looked back down at the phone.

‘We’re here. Checked the house; it’s clear. Keeping an eye out.’

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

It wasn’t enough. The text wasn’t enough.

Not to shift his concentration, not enough to stop. Stop remembering the way Slade’s chuckle sounded like grating steel against steel instead of the boisterous laughter he’d heard echo between trees once upon a time. Stop hearing the scrape of a sword being drawn from its hilt, stop seeing the sight of dark eyes filled with the certainty only brotherhood brings. Stop watching that light fade, the friendship crumbling, affection replaced by hot coals of hate. By black holes of a very deep, very personal despair…

To stop hearing her voice in the silence around him and seeing her face and wondering if-

Stop. His eyes shut tight. Now.

Just stop.

If he didn’t... he’d leave.

He’d leave Laurel.

Torn, he brought the phone up to his forehead; a furrow deepening his brow in an invisible effort for control.

She’s fine. Felicity was fine. He’d see her in the afternoon at QC. Fresh faced. With coffee, I’ll buy it. No- he’d pick her up and take her to work. They’d talk damage control and form a plan. It would be fine.

A shaky breath left him.

Why couldn’t he let it go? The feeling that she wasn’t fine. It was ridiculous… but he still found himself racing over his touch screen, entering words and pressing send; Dig would understand.

‘Update? Is she asleep?’

On watch, Diggle wouldn’t sleep. He’d let slip that he’d slept a little too well the night before. He’d be awake and receiving his message any… second… now.

And…Nothing.

A few seconds could feel like a few minutes; a few minutes, an hour. Feeling a prickle of anxiety on his skin - the need to tap a foot, to walk about, to go for a ride on his bike - his agitation mounted.

The seconds topped a minute. Then two-

Answer. The phone didn’t light up. “Come on, Dig.” He muttered, frowning down at his cell-

It vibrated.

Relief washed through him - taking a front seat to awkwardness - and, feeling absurd, he swiftly flicked to the message: ‘Just got her to go to bed.’

It was closing 2am. She was only in bed now? He started to reply when his cell pulsed again.

‘Might be late to QC in the morning. Getting her to eat first.’

…Yes.

He wanted that, more so than he wanted to see her. And he did want to see her.

‘That’s fine. Update when she wakes,’ he sent back.

‘That’s fine. Update when she wakes.’

Baseball cap and bat in tow - I’m a lover, not a fighter - Stan stood in the foyer of a clean, almost sterile home that he’d never stepped foot in before this night and glanced at the text, praying. Seeing the words, his eyes closed with a shaky exhale. “Thank fuck.”

Mr Wilson would be pleased.

And Mr Wilson being please meant Stan was safe. Or at least, he wouldn’t be skewered on a sword and everyone was happy. Until Boss man was unhappy and then everyone would be feeling that particular chafe.

It was difficult to please Slade Wilson.

Feeling jittery, Stan ignored memories best left alone as he tucked the other guy’s phone back in his pocket. Glancing up at said ‘guy’; the unconscious bear of a man tied to a chair, he gulped, remembering. Shit, was he hard to put fucking down. The size of him alone - seeing him barrelling towards them - had almost made Stan wet himself. He was still sweating, pits and all soaked. He reeked, oh man.

Mouth gagged and hands triple tied, the man’s dark skin didn’t hide the blood slowly travelling down his face.

John Diggle had put up one hell of a fight.

They’d come in through the back door - Mr Wilson had keys - slipping inside silently, where his boss moved around like he owned the place - but that’s how Mr Wilson is; a badass with cash - like he’d memorised everything about it.

Everything about the woman who lived there.

Boss man is Boss man.

This John Diggle hadn’t heard them until Mr Wilson had started in the bathroom. A sharp shout followed by splashes that made Stan fidget, made him think when he really shouldn’t be, and thuds against a tub and it had taken no time at all for Mr Diggle to try and get to her - like a bull - only to have Stan and his buddy Rob standing where they’d been ordered.

In his way.

Neither had been prepared for how huge this guy was.

And if that wasn’t enough, the look on the guy’s face, the dawning realisation. The fear. How it morphed into anger, fast. How he’d moved, scary powerful, told Stan - with his limited understanding as he’d contemplated the pro’s cons of fleeing - that he’d probably once been some sort of Special Forces stooge.

He’d gone fucking postal on us. Knocking them down like flies and he’d actually made it to the bathroom, where he threw the door open… but whatever he’d seen in there had made him stop dead. Though Stan didn’t favour his chances with Mr Wilson, John Diggle had proven more than a match for the two of them.

At least… until Frank.

Appearing out of nowhere -from thin air man, he hadn’t been in the car with them -he’d yanked the guy backwards by both shoulders and then more or less proved why Frank was hailed as one of the boss’s favourites.

It had taken minutes - more than a few - but the job got done.

Rage and shock met precision: precision won. Like the other guy, Frank was built- on more than his mama’s fine home cooking. He knew more than a little about how to fight and where to bring the pain, evidenced by the man now with his ass unconscious in the chair.

Rob was unconscious too, bleeding all over the carpet; his left arm and clavicle broken in who knows how many places and Stan couldn’t even breathe properly thanks to what he was sure were broken ribs. And a broken nose; it sure felt broken. He’d never broken a bone before in his life; he could barely stand and was pretty much freaking the fuck out. This really fucking hurts.

That Diggle guy… he was dangerous.

But if he was dangerous, then what was Frank?

Not that it mattered; Mr Wilson would probably consider this the first and last time he assigned Robert to anything. Man, this wasn’t what I signed up for either. The whine was more internal than external but, from the look Frank shot him then - like he wouldn’t waste spit on him if he was dying of thirst - it had made it at least partially out of his mouth.

“Quit complaining.” The order was barely mumbled, so engrossed was Frank in perusing the odd pieces and pictures covering the woman’s furniture and walls. Don’t know why he gives a crap. “We’ll sedate him later.” Dark eyes roamed the cupboards, speaking whilst half of his attention was taken up by… whatever the hell he was doing. “Need to make sure he regains consciousness first.”

Slouching against a wall Stan scratched his cheek. I want a beer. “Why?”

“Does Mr Wilson pay you to ask questions? Just make sure the texts get sent.” Snake-like, Frank’s voice slithered as his hands did the walking and the talking for him. He moved slowly around the living room before heading towards the hall.

The hall leading to the woman’s bedroom.

Stan’s gaze shot momentarily away when his stomach threatened to turn. Come on man. Not this again.

It was sick.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Frank muttered distractedly; fixated on the prize. “Better not hope he wakes up while I’m gone,” he threatened, making Stan’s gaze shoot fearfully to John Diggle as he stalked into the bedroom…

And then shut the door behind him.

Crossing his arms, “Fucking perv’.” Stan muttered, grimacing and furtively watching said door.

He’d seen him.

After the big guy had gone down, boss-man left the bathroom with the woman - naked - in his arms. Like he did this every day. Like it was normal. Like he carried naked chicks for a living, like he’d expected it. And the woman…

Smoking hot.

Oh yeah.

The kind of body to launch a thousand hard-on’s. No joke. Absolutely fuckable. Even now, just his memory was enough to- cool it. No sense being humiliated; he’d wait till he was alone. Though he thought about it; wondered whether the boss was going to do her while she slept if he was into that kinky shit. Or maybe wait till she woke; she didn’t have a stitch on after all.

The way Mr Wilson had held her though... Stan didn’t know what that was.

But even he – with his arrest record and long-standing habit with prostitutes – couldn’t stomach the way Frank had leered at her.

Like she was dinner and he was starving.

Stan had watched his fingers clench and curl claw-like - as if he’d wanted to rip into her - with the muscles in his shoulders and neck bunching aggressively, all as he’d stared. Stan never wanted Frank to look at him like that. Then he’d seen him lick his lips, had seen the sweat on his brow and the promise in his eyes that tapered the more he’d stared.

A promise she really wouldn’t enjoy.

Stan didn’t understand Mr Wilson allowing it, especially since he’d held her so carefully, with her pressed into him. Even if she was fully nude. Yet - unless Mr Wilson had been lost inside his own head, which he might have been given the load in his arms - he’d still let Frank have a long look at the goods.

And her marks.

He got it then. Shit. It was probably the first time – in a really long time – that Stan had looked away from a naked woman. Even one unconscious. It felt… debasing.

Stan huffed it off, unfolding his arms to cross them behind his head. None of my business.

Still, Frank rubbed him the wrong way. And by rub, he meant ‘royally scared ten shades of shit out of him’. The kind of guy you’d find in dark corners and avoid. It was different to how Mr Wilson frightened him. He was just plain terrifying.

But Frank? He liked to hurt people. Preferably during sex. The prettier, the better. Sadist.

Stan knew he wasn’t a good guy. But he was better than Frank.

What little he’d seen and heard of Frank wasn’t good, but for the most part Stan had seen him wanting what he couldn’t have: boss-man’s toy. The woman. It was kind of weird too though; Frank’s tastes usually ran to brunettes and red-heads. Not bottle blondes. Stan knew a fake hair-do when he saw one. His sister was a hairdresser; he’d let her try her ‘potions’ on him.

Maybe he should have stayed at home with her instead of chasing after highs he couldn’t afford and offers of strength he’d never possessed before. A bunch of bull…

Still, he stayed right where he was. The money was too good; it was worth a little dirty work. And, if he was honest, he wouldn’t give a shit about what he was ordered to do if Frank wasn’t with him half the time.

Stan looked back to the bedroom, hoping Frank wasn’t jerking off in there; they didn’t have all night.

Sat on edge of his cot - away from the lights - Oliver sighed; his hands at the back of his neck felt like restraints.

It wasn’t that he was trying to cling to it, the sensation resting ghost-like behind his eyes. Just because it meant that he got to stay right where he was, that he didn’t have to move, didn’t have to think too much, or feel anything but this.

The light she was so generous with.

Her smile still traced his face with invisible fingers. But it was the touch - the kiss - of each simple word felt through his clothes to the skin of his chest - the certainty in those eyes that that had looked into his own to say ‘it’s going to be okay’ every second he’d held them - that was gradually leaving him.

His receptiveness to it surprised him; the rawness of it. As if he’d gone without light for too long, it made his palms itch. Made his bones throb, made him feel chained in his leathers. Cooped up in his own home. Made it impossible to do anything but…

He stood, needing to move. Stretching - the back of his neck cracked twice - Oliver made his way back over to the medical cart; he needed a purpose. A distraction. Focus.

Fingers rubbing once more at the skin over his eyes, he asked aloud. “How’s she doing?”

He sounded beyond done.

Either Sara didn’t notice or she didn’t acknowledge it. “Better.” Touching Laurel’s brow, she continued, “Her BP’s steady. Looks like whatever Slade used on her - used on us - has run its course. She could wake up anytime now.”

Sooner would be better. Grunting in space of an answer - if he opened his mouth he’d snarl in frustration - Oliver rolled his head, freeing that crick in his spine.

He needed to know if they’d missed anything. If there was a purpose to all this, to Slade’s actions today. He’d made it personal; more so than his vendetta dictated, deliberately sending him a message he understood all too well. But…

Had he also told her things? Had Slade told Laurel things Oliver wasn’t ready - he’d never be ready - for her to know? Had they spoken at all?

Had he scared her?

I hope not, Oliver side-eyed said Lance sister. “Do you think she saw anything?”

“Right now, I’m just grateful he didn’t do anything except drug her.” Sara’s tone, laced with quiet - righteous - anger, told him the coming day would be a long one. On top of everything else.

Oliver’s eyes flickered to Sara’s… but hers stayed on her sister.

I’m sorry. He felt it bone-deep and whispered. “Me too.” Looking away - gratefully -he breathed out; dissatisfaction eating at him.

Too quickly he noticed that his fingers - itching to find something or someone for target practise - were non-stop worrying over his thumb. That he had the urge to bounce on the pads of his feet in impatience. That what he really wanted, wasn’t to be in the basement of the Foundry, staring at Laurel’s unconscious body for hours like he had been, doing nothing. Nothing but waiting.

I’ve been waiting for weeks.

It made his teeth ache, the continuous knowing that Slade was in Starling and the closest they’d come to finding him had been Felicity’s doing. And even that had been broken. All that effort wasted.

Slade had hurt them. And they couldn’t even retaliate. He was so sick of responding after the fact.

“Dad’s home.” Sara absently offered, “I didn’t tell him; I just made him go to bed.”

All Oliver could give in return was a non-committal noise because he wasn’t fully with her; his mind a wilderness of dark eventualities. Of failings and agitation.

But she continued regardless. “This is on us, you know.”

Pulled back, a hand pressing - massaging - against the ball of his spine, he hummed, “Hm?”

“This.” It wasn’t hard to guess what ‘this’ was since all of her attention was still on Laurel. First the League, now Slade. He got it; Laurel had been targeted before and Sara felt responsible. “This is on us. Slade only went after her because of us.” Sara finally spared him a glance. “How could we have thought that he wouldn’t go after her?”

But I did think of that.

It had been one of his first thoughts. And there were other questions beneath that one too: how could we be so careless? How could we think that being together would halt Slade from touching her? How could we forget like that?

But he’d never once thought that being with Sara would stop Slade from alternating to a different sister. He’d just hoped for the best, because what else could he do?

“…It’s the hardest thing to give up control. I know I’m not like you guys, but it doesn’t mean I don’t understand the risks. It doesn’t mean I don’t understand you. You want so much to keep everything covered in bubble wrap; you want to believe so much that you can... even though you’ve been proven, over and over again how ridiculous an expectation that is in real life, you still want to try. And it’s great, really, how much you care about people – even strangers – but, that’s not how this works. That’s never been how this works.”

He couldn’t control the people around him.

It had been on a constant loop in his head at the beginning. Felicity had figured it out, quickly, laying it on for him, withholding nothing. And she’d set up alerts too for suspicious activity but they didn’t have the manpower or the resources to watch over Laurel day in and day out on a hunch.

Now it sounded like a bad justification. But what else could he have done save ignoring his duty to his city?

“Slade wants me to suffer.” He intoned, carelessly. “Taking Laurel then,” almost 2 months ago when he’d still been reeling from Slade’s arrival, “it would have been immediate. And that isn’t his goal.”

Like Slade had said: I’m here to honour a debt. To drag it out and make the remainder of Oliver’s life a progressive decline into misery.

Psychosomatic warfare. Maybe the waiting - the shackles of it - were part of that plan.

If so, Oliver reflected as he took in Sara who looked ready to throw herself into the ring with the first Mirakuru enhanced agent she could find, he’s done a good job.

Slade was already winning and he’d barely lifted a finger.

“We should have been watching her.” Sara reiterated, undeterred and Oliver wanted, just this once, to ask how they could have possibly done that. “It’s Laurel, Ollie.” As if any measures were fair play. Eyes flashing, they spoke words. Your Laurel. “We should have known.”

Maybe, maybe not. “Well, now we do.” Cagily holding her stare, his fingers slid across the back of his phone. Again, tempted. And it was ridiculous but he glanced down to it, knowing it was for nothing but unable to help himself. Feeling the stiffness in his shoulders, he knew Sara was equally as weighed-down, even if the cause was something quite different.

As proof, she shook her head. No forgiveness. For either of them. “It’s not enough.”

With a grimace, his eyes closed.

Sara.

Feeling that long slide back into a history he’d never been able to leave behind - familiar territory, that old feeling of guilt - Oliver knew that she was right. “I created him.” Opening his eyes, he shook his head before looking away again, admitting. “This is on me.” Not you.

Not the Sara Lance on the Amazo who had so desperately begged him to go home with her.

In his peripheral he saw her shoulders fall slightly - her tell for ‘there he goes again’ - and it put him on edge. “Playing the blame game won’t help here Oliver.”

He knew she wasn’t trying to undermine the gravity of what he’d said but-

“I’m not.” He snapped, terse. And it was rare for him to do anything close to losing control of his temper, if the way Sara started was any indication but he couldn’t not. “But I know exactly the kind of man he is.” The kind of man I helped him become. “I killed him. Rather than cure him, I killed Slade.” It was something the others didn’t know; he was too ashamed to speak the truth, because that should have been the end of it. Right there, on the Amazo. But, like all nightmares, he’d risen from the ashes. “He went after Laurel because of me. He took you because of me. This was always his plan Sara; he knew what it would do to me. This is,” hand lifting he searched for a word that felt appropriate because he had nothing else to go on, no other explanation for his once-friend and comrade who now wanted to hurt him so much, “this is all a game.” His hand fell and he gritted his teeth at his own ineptitude. “And it’s perfect, isn’t it? It took us off-guard when he finally made a move.”

But was this his only move? That was what would keep him up tonight. Tomorrow. It was what made this whole thing worse.

She must have heard it in his tone because, suddenly, Sara couldn’t keep her eyes off of him. “We got her back Ollie.” Her read of him just missed its mark. Still, it had merit.

Eyes tapering, he flippantly gestured over her and Laurel - would you deem this a success - as he tried to move away-

“Ollie.” Sara’s hand reached his arm - just to touch - with such an incredibly earnest look in her eye, it reminded him of times long since dead. “We got Laurel back.”

It was useless to him to count the small victories, not now. “Not the point.” It really wasn’t.

“But we did. She’s here, safe. We got her back. You got her back.”

I didn’t do anything. “Felicity got her back.” The name sent a shot of that same something from earlier through him. It was hard - near impossible - to say her name and not feel it everywhere, feel her presence in the Foundry.

Shit.

God, why hadn’t he just left with her?

Sure; let her leave on the proviso that they would talk – tomorrow – but if he’d gone with her, they could have talked tonight. And now he’d know more. They could have had burgers, they could have planned, they could have slept...

It hit him then, why he kept going back to that. It wasn’t just about her being in Starling, but right there next to him. Needing her there just so he could breathe. So he could sleep and not dream nightmares. Happy as he was that she was resting - safe with Diggle - he didn’t want to be by himself. He needed someone there who he didn’t have to explain his every other word to.

Odd that he felt like that - in the basement of the Foundry he’d made a home - with Sara and Laurel Lance in there with him.

Feeling that - the weight of change after years of nothing but ‘the same’ - he swallowed. “We just followed her lead.”

“She surprised me again.” A slice of fondness coated Sara’s words. “She got it right.”

His eyes cut to hers. “You expected less?”

“No. That’s the strange part.”

“There’s nothing strange about it.” Nothing surprising. Nothing new. Felicity Smoak defeating the odds, and probably has been since she was born.

The problem now was that, though Laurel was secure, they still had nothing.

There was a short pause before-

“I’m sorry.”

It took a moment for it to register the out-of-place apology. “What?”

Sara leant against the table, straight backed. “I know you wanted to make sure she’d be alright.” Like there was something pressing into him under his skin, waiting, his body immediately responded immediately to those words. Hands fisting, his jaw clenched, but he didn’t say a word. “She looked tired earlier.” Sara continued. “I asked if she was okay and she said she was, but... I think she was lying.”

For some unfathomable reason, something inside him twisted.

“You-” Wait. His mouth clamped shut before he could finish; he needed to organise his thoughts. You wanted me here, you got me here. Let it be.

“Hm?” Her mind clearly elsewhere, Sara wasn’t really seeing him.

Right. If he said anything then, she wouldn’t take it the way it was intended. And he really didn’t want another argument. Not that it was necessarily a go-to, especially not now. Since they’d broken up, they hadn’t argued. Not once.

At that, he almost smiled.

It wasn’t that he and Sara were incompatible; Sara understood him in a way many couldn’t and would never be able to. And he’d miss that. It was one of the reasons why being with her had felt so obvious a path. But they were both too alike in some respects and not enough in others; he’d realised that in having that tacit agreement - that they were and are the kind of people who behave the way they do for a reason - they missed things about each other. Fundamental things. Important things.

Oliver was a vigilante with the moniker ‘Arrow’ given to him, but that wasn’t all he was.

He was also a son, a boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend, a brother, a friend, a partner... he had feelings and, as much as he wanted to drown them, he also had wishes. He had dreams. So did Sara. Even if they both buried them deep.

Their darkness might be of the same breed but their ideals for the future? Pretty much irreconcilable, which was the greatest irony. Their masks were their reality. And neither liked the others true face very much.

As friends, as family, they worked.  They were good. They loved each other.

Being near her now, he wondered why. Why had they chosen to start again? Why had she come to him that night and why had it been so easy to fall back into the past with her, knowing what the result would inevitably be? Was it hope? Caring about Sara had never been difficult - another reason to try - but why like that? Why hadn’t they realised they’d begun another cycle on the waste of the last, on the remains of before?

Why hadn’t he brought it up when she’d first returned, the why’s of what they’d done? And whose reasons were whose? They could have talked...

A week ago. A month ago.

5 years ago, on Lian Yu.

What if?

He’d deliberately not thought about their ‘talk’ at the beginning of the week but this - the here and now - made it come back to him with a new clarity…

..

.

Tuesday Evening...

Gulping down water, Sara gasped when she finished and breathed, “That was quite the workout.”

Breathing shallow breaths himself, Oliver didn’t bother to reply.

They’d been thorough with each other.

Placing the bottle down, Sara stretched what was sure to be aching muscles; a note of strain lacing her voice when she spoke again. “What I said earlier? About the way you run your missions? Sometimes I wonder whose captain of this ship; you or her.”

Felicity.

It was a chilly evening between stone walls. Verdant didn’t do business On Tuesday’s so the heating hadn’t been switched on. Still, he preferred it. Over-extending himself as usual during his calisthenics workout, the cool air helped. Made him not want to stop. Oliver felt it, frigid and dry on the back of his throat; a cool burn to combat the heat in his veins and he silently enjoyed it.

But his mind, like Sara’s, was in other places. On the events of the day. She’d been mostly silent until now and he wasn’t sure this was a good thing; even with the affection built into the casual tone she’d made an art form.

Not after Helena.

On tenterhooks since their last argument - an argument where Sara had made it clear she didn’t understand why Helena was still alive in the first place or why he hadn’t killed her last year when he’d had the chance - it was where his thoughts strayed.

Dig had reasons - many of them - for being pessimistic, given the history between Oliver and Helena but the implication that Oliver hadn’t killed her because of any unresolved romantic feelings, had stirred up loose memories for him. Of failure and recompense. Of a likeness between him and Helena that he’d never been able to explain or let go of, even to Sara.

The idea - that he still had feelings for her - was null and void, but Sara and John believed it. In truth, it was once very much part of the justification. Why he’d aimed to help her, even when he’d been in a relationship with McKenna, even when Helena had threatened Tommy…

Until she’d had aimed at Felicity.

Until she’d touched her.

Threatened her with a bolt to the chest.

Then tied her up, leaving her to lie helpless on the floor.

Any reasons not to kill Helena now stood on principal alone. He’d helped create her, so he hadn’t wanted to resort to that but if he had to… after that… he would.

Still if she could be saved, then so could others. So could he. I had to try.

Now he was glad for it. Glad for the catastrophe last year that his hesitance had brought him, that he hadn’t sent an arrow through Helena’s heart after she’d hurt McKenna. She was showing signs of change, signs that she was redeemable, that she wanted to be forgiven. It made him hopeful and he latched onto it in the face of so much negativity. Even if it now meant that she had to pay the price for her vengeance for the rest of her life. An actualisation he was intimately acquainted with.

Seeing her at the Police station earlier had brought that home for him - her face free of the strain of her anger - that even the darkest of souls, the most inveterate of people, could change, could be saved - and somewhere deep down, he wondered if that applied to Slade Wilson.

...Maybe.

Frowning, he finally side-glanced his girlfriend. “Captain?”

Her hair fell in her face when she bobbed her head. “Felicity being in charge.” In favour of concentrating on physical exertion - in contorting her body into shapes fit for her Katas - Sara stuck to close sentences. “It’s smart. She wears it well. It doesn’t stand out but it’s like nothing happens around here without her say so.” She shot a smile at him. “I like it. You need someone to keep you grounded.”

Unreceptive, he just looked at her.

Grounded?

“She doesn’t... strand me.” Not ashore. Not anywhere.

That’s how he saw it, how he translated grounded. Stuck. On. Dry. Land. She’d made the word feel like chains. And that wasn’t Felicity.

“I don’t think you even know what she really does.” She missed how her words made his abdomen contract because he knew exactly what Felicity really did for him. He just ignored it. “Or why she’s here. I mean,” letting loose a shallow breath, Sara sank down to the floor; the epitome of graceful, “I get why we’re here, why John’s here, even Roy- but an IT girl? Not exactly what springs to mind when you picture vigilantism.”  

Funny; it was exactly what came to mind when he thought about it.

And he could understand why a person might be curious in the how and why of an IT girl joining two (then) men to take on the city’s underbelly but...

“I’ve never thought about it.” Why would he, when Felicity had always fit so easily into his life this way? “You make it sound strange.”

Stop doing it.

“It’s different.” She amended. “She’s invaluable. Honestly, I’m kind of jealous you found her first.” She shrugged at the look he sent her, her tone taking a turn for coy. “What?” Mischievous.

Like how she used to be.

It might have worked, might have made him smile or roll his eyes, but the tension he still felt - the piece of him that was remembering things from the day that he hadn’t reconciled, refused to allow him even a brief moment of respite - had him frowning down at the sticks in his hands instead.

“Ollie?”

He glanced back up to see her peering at him, some concern marring the impish expression.

He dropped the frown. “Hm?”

She seemed to deliberate for a moment. “Do you ever think she joined because, well,” a small, sly smile lit up her face, as if they were in collusion or she was trying to distract him from thoughts she knew were hurting him, “you know?”

Whatever she was trying to insinuate fell flat. “What?”

Hesitating, she watched him for a moment. “Ollie, really?”

“Sara,” eyes flitting over their surroundings, he exhaled, “I’m not exactly in the mood.”

To play games.

Sara held up a hand. An ‘alright’. “I was just wondering if her reason for joining this crusade,” it was intriguing to him how she said this and not our – intriguing and lonely; they were together but she wasn’t with him, “was because she might have liked you. Liked you, liked you.” Head rolling to rest on her shoulder, she might have looked cute if not for the intelligence in her gaze. “I mean, you can usually tell that kind of thing. And it’s probably nothing anymore. Not that it would be a problem if it wasn’t.” She smiled again, this time it was kind. “It’s sweet.”

Sweet.

Sweet.

That she saw it like that, or could see it that way... he didn’t know how to react to that. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Taking in just the word without the meaning behind it... sweet... it didn’t fit; there was no place for it. This, them - him and Felicity - it was the furthest thing from sweet. There were other words, different words; words he couldn’t say. Wouldn’t. Or think. Which was fine: Sara was doing all the thinking for him.

But to reduce it like that, to something so simple…

It made him still, those two words - it’s sweet - as his eyes following her every move.

He was listening - he’d always listen - but his face and body, was undeniably a stone.

And she’d done that, with her special brand of blind.

Eyes dancing, Sara continued, unseeing. “Just between us, is that how…” her hand gestured in a vague way that could have meant anything but really said, ‘did you flirt with the tech guru to get her down here; is that how you pulled her into this’?

He felt that in his chest… and it was painful somehow.

He wouldn’t have dared do what she was implying. Not for an instant. Not to Felicity. Never.

He’d wanted her help, but only if it was willingly offered. No facades, no lies, no rules broken, no manipulation. Just honesty. Give and take, knowing he was taking so much more than he’d ever be able to give back. He’d craved that. Hoped for it. And when she’d given it, he’d been quietly pleased that he’d managed - even with the monster inside him - to earn irreplaceable aid from such a remarkable woman.

It had been - for lack of a better term - a big deal, and whether Sara meant what she’d said the way he heard them, her words were absolutely derogatory.

And that’s when he felt it again.

The pit.

It was in his stomach - had been for years now - and the many problems in his life only added to its volatility. To its violence. But it was also something he’d ignored - had been able to ignore thanks to the constant stream of light he’d been gifted with for months - because it meant admittance to truths left unspoken, untouched.

It had boiled once again - rising - 2 months ago, after Slade’s return. And it had melted away over coffee with Felicity a few days after that.

It burned hot again now.

Ashes and tar. It felt black. Heavy. Created from five years of breaking; of pain, grief, guilt and sorrow. And shame. The heart of the monster he brought into the mask he wore, the thing he took with him.

The same monster who loved too dearly for any object of focus to survive.

A demon. And for some unfathomable reason it reared its head now, growing tight; like a hand was squeezing his insides, enflaming the wound.

Face blank - surface control - he watched Sara dig unintentionally deeper into it.

“Was she swayed by the infamous ‘Ollie’ charm,” she stretched her toes as he looked down at her, motionless, “before knowing you were the vigilante?”

It was suggestive but it was also curious, innocent even. As if Sara genuinely wanted to know if the reason Felicity had joined him in the first place was because she’d been attracted to him.

Because why else would such a woman join, as Sara saw it, a damned war?

And that was the crux of it, he realised; Sara who believed that every living creature was dark and either hid it behind masks (like he did) or wore it on their skin (like she did) did not see this mission the way he did. The way Dig and felicity understood it.

She saw it as a dead end. A suicide mission.

Sara had faith in him, but a nihilistic attitude could only take you so far. So, her understanding of why an IT girl would join a tragedy waiting to happen, would always be - unless she found a different way of viewing the world - limited.

So the only reason she could possibly fathom for why… was shallow sex.

And that was utterly absurd. Offensive.

He couldn’t believe she’d even go there.

If that was what Felicity Smoak had been about, he’d have seen it. And he wouldn’t have engaged her beyond their initial meeting. But, God, she wasn’t like that, not even close.

He knew that Felicity understood that sex could be used as a way to vent, as a way to find release when there was no one on the planet there for you. But he also knew that she understood the truth of it. The part... when two souls connect. To her - making love - was a way of showing another how much she cares for them. How much she wants them with her. How much she trusts them with all that she is. It made whoever she chose doubly fortunate. Blessed. A lucky son of a…

But sleeping with someone had never been a way of guaranteeing something for her. Never used as a tool, never as a weapon. Or a trophy.

And if the idea was reversed; that she could have been manipulated by him, that he’d used his looks and his status as her boss to bring her into the fold making the only reason Felicity would get herself involved in an anti-criminal campaign, her feelings - her being besotted - for its vigilante leader.

He didn’t know if he was taking this too far, if his thoughts were speeding far past where Sara had meant for them to go.

Felicity was five years younger than him. And he could admit to flat out knowing that she’d been attracted to him when they’d first met. The way she’d grow flustered and had babbled so effortlessly and delightfully...

He’d relished it.

But not because he could use it. Even with that, no man could ever use Felicity Smoak. She’d never allow it.

No, it was because… he’d been quite taken too.

With her.

But for the thought to even enter Sara’s mind… Felicity wasn’t her.

She’d never - that he knew of - gloried in the high of petty crime, drugs and promiscuity the way Sara once had. Of sex, orgies and bed posts; he knew instinctively that Felicity hated the idea of notches, of conquests and gloating. She wasn’t Laurel, who’d very swiftly stepped into the role of girlfriend, ignoring his many misdemeanours, believing him handsome and droll; loving him only for the things she could see because there were many that she couldn’t. And it was those things that she never dug deeply for. She wasn’t Helena who’d fallen with him out of loneliness and fast into lust, wasn’t Isabel who’d needed an escape or McKenna who he’d affected a fake ‘real’ with…

She wasn’t any of them. She stood alone in a place they couldn’t reach. In a place he’d never attempted to.

That Felicity could ever be swayed like that - by an offer, by a kiss, by sex, or anything more - made that thing inside him; that dark and unnatural creature, threaten to unfurl.

It was why he didn’t move now - hadn’t moved once yet - not an inch. Even as the pit deepened, he remained a stone.

But his mouth betrayed him. “No.” And it was brittle, his voice. Like thin ice. “It wasn’t - isn’t - like that. That’s never how it’s been between us.” There had never been an ‘us’ to discuss. “It isn’t why she joined.” They were a partnership. Not a ‘friends with benefits’ liaison. “That’s not why she’s here.”

How many different ways could he explain it before realising he shouldn’t have to?

At his words, the wind seemed to leave Sara’s sails a bit. “Pity.”

He recoiled.

“I mean,” Sara started on witnessing the sheer disbelief in his face, “you’re so focused on this. Thinking that you might have had something other than your father’s wish list in mind,” wish list, “made me feel better. It told me that you hadn’t changed too much.” She lifted her hands in the universal ‘what can you do’ pose. “And if you could come back home and find a way to live with your family, maybe I could too.”

It was care. Affection. Admiration. He knew that, heard it, but... No.

Felicity Smoak had nothing and everything to do with re-acclimatizing to Starling.

“I get that but,” he shook his head in a tight fashion, “No. She liked me.” He softly uttered. And she did; a man knows. “At the beginning.”

When he’d first walked into her office, silently observing as she’d fallen all over herself. How it had fit with his poor excuse of a lie - a lie he’d created knowing it would entice her because he’d wanted her on his team since ‘you’re cute’. How he’d secretly admired that though she’d obviously been dazzled by his presence, she hadn’t allowed his status, heritage or charisma to colour her view of him; immediately letting him know with a look that she saw right through his bullshit.

She saw me, as he’d stood before her when so many others, his family and friends, hadn’t.

It - his low tone, how he spoke - was a warning Sara didn’t perceive as the threat it was. “I liked her.”

Oliver understood the sensation - the depth - of immediate attraction. But he had far less experience - or none at all - with immediate trust. And even less with the slow - monthly - rise in appreciation one could feel for another person that Felicity Smoak continued to teach him.

“Really?” It wasn’t so much a rude shock for her as it was gentle surprise that had Sara’s face fluxing in wonder. “You mean you-”

He moved to dissuade her. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

Not…exactly.

Her head tilted; oddly shrewd. “You’re sure about that?”

But he was firm. Certain. Pointed. “Yes.”

No.

And that still confused him.

Just as it seemed to confuse Sara. “Didn’t you ever think about it?” She ruminated - as if she wanted him to say ‘all the time’ - and a slight grin began to form. “You and her?”

What did she want him to say?

“No.” Images flew across his vision and he swallowed them away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he affected unpretentiousness. “Never.”

“You weren’t attracted to her?” Like she couldn’t believe it, “you’re both down here, through the night, and not once do you even think about it? I mean,” her lips upturned at one side as she pushed once more, “she’s pretty cute.”

As if that was the solitary requisite to gaining Oliver Queen’s attention.

If he tensed any further he’d break. “It has never, not ever,” because he felt like he had to highlight it in a bold neon green, “been like that between us Sara.”

He didn’t talk about the lipstick. Not with anyone.

That pink stain on full lips that had wrapped around a red pen like she’d always held it there. The red had hit him first, then the pink… then the blue of her eyes, the light on her hair, the vibrancy of her shirt and he didn’t think he’d ever forget how easy it was to just stare at her. To wonder what and who she was and why she was who she was; this strange, nervous, creature who had made him smile. That he could probably spend minutes, hours even, studying her as she worked.

Everything that was them was slow, yet fast.

It had been muddling in how easy it was to talk to her socially awkward self, to be truthful. Knowing that he was lying to her – that she knew he was lying – and wanting, needing her help anyway and liking that she wanted to give it back. Realising that without her, they – he and Diggle – were lost. Incomplete. That in so many ways, the only reason why he’d stayed above water all this time was because of her.

It had - her involvement in his life - nothing to do with attraction.

But thinking on it, the idea of that with her…

It would be different.

Moments of pleasure - a burst of lust - he knew all too well.

But this slow roll of lava - hidden beneath the skin - this pressure; it was foreign. It would be something else. Something more.

Something he couldn’t consider.

When Sara muttered, “Sorry,” he had to blink to return to her, “I didn’t mean to make this weird. It’s just difficult to remember sometimes that she’s just a tech girl from QC.”

“Felicity’s never been just that.” Or just anything. There weren’t words present in the English language to qualify or quantify all that she is. “I started all this but without her here, I’d have died long ago.” Too disordered to do otherwise, he spoke openly. “I was lucky.”

He’d felt that more recently in abundance.

The past few days, in their hunt for the Huntress, Felicity had kept steadfastly silent. And it would have worried him; he’d briefly thought that she’d agreed with Dig and Sara, but then she’d gone out of her way to make sure he knew that it was for him. Which was why she’d worked on all cylinders - when she was obviously past the point of little sleep and rest - to catch Helena, not kill her. A mark of solidarity he was sure he didn’t deserve but was undeniably grateful for nonetheless.

It had made movement easier.

Now, at the close to a day - a night - he’d prefer to forever put to rest, he knew he wouldn’t find much respite either. So he’d taken Sara up on her offer to spar - after an hour’s calisthenics - a likely way to soothe the sores of their earlier fight.

To make him forget about Laurel for a moment.

Felicity had been the one to bring his attention to her; after being held at gun point by Helena’s hired thugs, Laurel had every reason not to be okay and - so caught up in the situation - he’d realised that he didn’t actually know if she was or not. So he’d visited her. And she’d hugged him; an occurrence more regular as of late. Tightly too. And she’d looked at him strangely - in a way she never had before - and he honestly had no idea why it made him feel uncomfortable.

But walking back into the Foundry on his return, he’d caught Felicity near-to cradling her forehead and shying away from the already low light. Another migraine.

So, yes, all thoughts of Laurel had left him.

Why hadn’t she said anything? Earlier, when she’d refused food and drank a gallon of water instead of the coffee he’d offered.

Wrapped up in everyone else’s agenda, he’d missed it. After a touch on her shoulder had made her wince - near-to flinching - he’d sent her home, utterly confused by how unenthusiastic she’d seemed at the thought of a full nights rest.

It made his worry rise.

She’d been outstanding with Helena, with Sara. She’s always outstanding. But he’d needed someone on his side this time and she had been. Far from judgemental, Felicity had simply worried that the mix of 2 x-girlfriends - one of them who he’d been in love with, the other who he’d held a deep connection to - and his current girlfriend would end catastrophically. It almost did.

His argument with Sara only hours before still echoed; of how, when she’d been scared for her sister, she’d accused him of being unable to choose between saving Helena and rescuing Laurel.

“What do you want to do Ollie? Soothe your conscience? Or the right thing?”

As if it was that simple, as if it were a choice to make. As if the right thing was to simply kill Helena and rescue Laurel.

The Lance sisters and their absolutes.

It didn’t matter which way he turned, which action he took; he’d inevitably fail.

“Felicity joined because she believed in this, in what we could accomplish.” It came down to this; an explanation that shouldn’t be required. “Dig joined to keep me alive but she joined out of belief. She has real faith in what we’re doing.” Her heart and soul was in his work, their work. And he allowed himself to marvel at that. “But I only recently realised that she might also be trying to save me.”

Even if it was from himself. Maybe Dig was trying too.

When he’d felt the bones of his life crack and break into little pieces too small for him to put back together, Felicity had given him structure. When his world began to crumble, she’d offered stability; an ethics and routine that he’d grasped onto with both hands.

“That’s a lot of trust there.”

“She’s earned it.” He grunted, not clarifying that how he’d trusted her from minute one.

Still he glanced to Sara on his answer… It wasn’t Sara he saw.

In her place, a light blue blouse over tight black pants - paler than normal skin, expressive eyes and a full mouth - infiltrated his vision, with a voice telling him… telling him everything he’d needed to hear just a few hours ago…

Earlier that day

“It’s not your fault.”

Oliver exhaled. “You always say that.” Maybe if she kept saying it, he’d believe it.

“I say it when it’s the truth.” Felicity’s words -soft, as if she hadn’t really talked all day: and she hadn’t - seeped into his skin. “You know I wouldn’t lie like that.”

“I just…” Quiet and low, his voice trembled before he could control it. “I don’t know how to believe that. I don’t know how to get there.”Where everyone else seemed to be.

To step beyond all reminders that he’d failed and hurt the people he’d grown to care for since his return to Starling. People like Helena. Like Laurel. McKenna. It kept piling.

He heard her chair twist closer to where he sat with his elbows on his knees and his face buried between his palms before she said. “You’re not strong enough.”

It hit his stomach: he stilled.

“Since I met you, your first instinct has been to blame yourself - always - even for the things other people do. You haven’t the strength yet to let that go, to let yourself to be forgiven. It just shows you’re human Oliver, which means you can make mistakes and that it’s okay when you do.” He couldn’t see her but he felt her gaze, her smile- he was sure she was smiling. “Survivor’s guilt isn’t transitory.”

“At least in blaming myself, I have an answer.” He mumbled into his palms. “It’s something.” Something to focus on.

“And something is better than nothing?” She hesitantly put out there.

But it hit him like a hammer throw.

“...Yeah.”

“Okay then.” She sounded… chipper. “Then I’ll just have to keep reminding you until you don’t have to resort to blaming yourself for everything.”

Black was all he could see, but if what he felt could be described as a colour… he’d see yellow.

He’d feel the sun.

Clearing his throat, he pulled his hands down his face until they were joined - as if in prayer - with the tips of his fingers under his chin. “It’s a full time job.”

“I told you before; if you’re not leaving, I’m not leaving.”

He hadn’t told her – he never would – that he’d loved hearing that.

When she’d said it, how she’d said it – expecting nothing in return, telling him that she was with him no matter what – made him feel like he wasn’t completely by himself. It had been years since he’d felt that way and the sensation was priceless. For the first time in so long, he’d felt like it was okay to be a little selfish. To need his friends with him. And he understood then that she could take anything he threw at her and she’d still be standing afterwards, she’d still be right there; at his side. Not behind his back or far in front of him.

A weight in his chest - a warm, irrepressible feeling that he could only shy away from - had Oliver glancing to his right, barely moving enough to see her face. He waited. He waited for her to blush, to babble and correct herself-

“It’s for life.” She murmured and it felt, again, like permission. “Unless you’d rather I not-”

“You’re hired.” He whispered, lingering on the way her face - her tired eyes wide and expressive, tell me what I can do to help you Felicity - froze and lit up. “You’ve signed the contract.” He paused to shake his head. Once. “I’m never letting you go.”

It was as much a warning as it was a promise.

It took a moment; her mouth just slightly open, eyes blinking as they searched his expression for the lie… her hesitant smile at not finding it.

Pretty.

“But did it start off that way? Ollie?”

Fractured.

Towards, away, from; he was always pulled in different directions. Thoughts of trust, of warmth and light were provocative and he tried to leave them behind. They couldn’t help here. He flicked the thoughts away with the shift of his head, his face lined with the frown at his brow. “Why the questions?”

She shrugged, making little of it. “You’re different with her. It’s not a big deal; it just made me wonder if you’d ever-”

“Well,” he almost bit out, putting a stop to that, “we haven’t.”

Nodding to herself - her lips oddly curved down - she mumbled, “Good.”

Just like that.

Good.

What was that supposed to even mean? How was he supposed to read it, seeing as how she was being even more walled up than usual?

Gaze still on hers, he couldn’t help how he sounded. “Excuse me?”

She wasn’t fazed. “If you can’t tell me about things like this then-”

“I thought I just did.” He countermanded, his brow line steadily becoming more pronounced.

“After I asked you.”

If it was something to worry about, if he and Felicity had once been an item and if feelings had since remained there with them - in a hypothetical scenario - then he’d understand this line of questioning-

Questioning.

He was being tested.

This had nothing to do with Felicity. It was about them. Him and Sara.

“You don’t see what you’re like with her.” Sara said. “Most of the time, you don’t ask for her opinion on anything but-”

“She’s me EA.” The bridge of his nose creasing - confused and insulted - he shook his head, because this wasn’t important. “I consult her-”

“You don’t ask her because you already know what she’s going to say.” She continued gently and he closed his mouth, unable to say another word. “You know each other well enough for that. And you trust her.”

It was a layered statement and she made it sound more significant than it was. “This isn’t something you don’t already know.” He said, after finding his voice. “Don’t you trust her?”

She indicated her head. “One hundred per cent.”

“Then what is it?” It prickled at his spine - that he’d done something - and he was unsettled to see Sara looking elsewhere, “Sara?”

“I was just...” it seemed so wrong for the confident assassin to appear unsure. Ultimately - giving in to thoughts that clearly made her insecure - she shrugged again. “It made me wonder.”

Like getting blood from a stone. “Wonder what?”

It was so slow to come and she was trying to pass it off as something silly, if the quirks in her expression were anything to go by. “Wonder how I could get you to,” but the rare vulnerability he caught when her eyes hit his made him realise just how important this might be to her, “be like that with me too.”

Since he wasn’t. Right.

In a way he’d brought this on himself. “You think I don’t trust you?” That she’d question it though, his trust, was worrying. “Even though I have you watching my back when we’re in the field?”

“You never needed me to watch your back Ollie.” And she was so quiet; so sure of her words. “You did just fine without that before I came back. Pretty sure you still have eyes in the back of your head, even when I’m there.”

“It doesn’t negate the point.”

“You and Felicity,” as if he hadn’t spoken at all, as if she needed to come back to it, “there’s this thing you both do. You don’t even have to say a word half the time, but you still do it.”

Shifting because he knew that thing well, he still breathed, “what are you talking about?”

She just looked at him. Then he got it.

Jealousy.

The words ‘I want that with you’ were practically shouting out to him from her eyes. She wanted that and she didn’t understand why or how they didn’t have it.

And he understood where she was coming from, but he couldn’t bring himself to soften because it felt as if she’d taken something he’d deemed a very commonplace occurrence - a valued facet of his relationship with Felicity that he was grateful for - and made it special.

Made it breakable.

Vulnerable to outside forces.

Beyond friendship, he and Felicity had a system of communication built on mutual interest and ethics. She understood what he did and why and vice versa. And it stunned him that something so natural could be used to explain Sara’s worry.

“There’s nothing to wonder about here.” Frustrated - his mouth a tight line though his words were soft as silk - he tried again, because this wasn’t the first time Sara had brought up the trust between them. “What I have with you is unique. You know that; you’ve felt it.” And he was getting tired of the same argument.

If it wasn’t Felicity, it was Laurel and the way he sometimes still was with her. For the past 2 days, it had been about Helena. About how he’d so swiftly brought the Bertinelli heir into the Foundry, about how he’d taught her how to use a crossbow and how he’d told her things he couldn’t dream of entrusting to Laurel. It wasn’t that Sara pushed or dogged him about it. But it filtered in sometimes.

He knew that - as a couple - he and Sara were in trouble, knew that he was as much to blame as she just as he knew that what they both thought would happen, hadn’t. That what they’d both prayed was possible probably wasn’t. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

Mostly he just wanted to obey the urge to continue training until he couldn’t remember the day. Sleeping with Sara no longer felt like a cure.

But she wasn’t letting this go. If he turned from her now, she’d take it the worst way.

If he was honest, what she’d just brought up… the trust between him and Felicity was more. It could be - to any girlfriend - a source of concern. But Sara knew Felicity; she knew how much he depended on her expertise. The way he was with both of them had to be different.

At least, that’s what he’d thought. “Do you know why I went to Felicity when I started all this?”He didn’t understand why she didn’t understand.

It took a little longer than normal for Sara to reply. “Not really.”

“Her credentials.” His eyes left her, moved to the floor, to his bow and then back to her. “Mostly.”

“You went shifting through CV’s in your spare time?” He could admit; it sounded that ridiculous. “And you just… found Felicity’s; the only hacker in the building?” Bullshit ghosted behind her eyes but it wasn’t an attack. It was just… he was lying. “I didn’t know hacking was on her resume.”

Point taken. “It isn’t.” He conceded, sighing.

Her head tilted. “Are you going to shock me with the truth now?”

His eyes flew to hers and before he knew it he was speaking. “I don’t know, okay?” The smart thing would be to keep his mouth firmly shut but this wasn’t going as smoothly as he’d hoped. Since when is that new? “It just,” he searched for the right word, “happened that way.” Just one big coincidence. Except it really hadn’t been.

“What way?”

What way? How to describe it…

He felt lips quirk.

“Magic.” He mumbled and he hadn’t meant to.

Brow furrowed, Sara stared at his mouth. “What?”

Exhaling nosily down his nose, he repeated himself. “Magic.” The tension in his face - where he’d felt it line his muscles as he pulled his hand over them - loosened with a memory. To cover it, he walked over tool box. “The first time I met Felicity wasn’t the first time she met me.”

Cross-legged on the mats, Sara watched him as he began moving. “Explain that sentence.”

“I’d seen her before.” He said, wiping down his escrima sticks; he needed something to focus on that wasn’t her. “4 years ago I came back to Starling in secret. Under surveillance; no one could know I was here.” Amanda Waller had threatened and when Waller threatened she tended to get her way. “I had to sneak into QC to access my dad’s computer.” Flipping both sticks over, he strode towards the glass case housing his training equipment. “I had to hide from her.”

“She was there back then?” He could practically hear Sara’s mind at work. “She must have been, what, 20 years old?”

“Yeah,” and like a wave, that same sensation - the rightness - slipped over him. “It was like saying hello - like we were being introduced - only we never spoke.” He felt himself start to smile and killed it before it could take root. “She didn’t see me.”

In the silence of the Foundry, he sounded hushed. It was a secret; as if saying it too loud would break the magic of that moment.

Staring at his reflection in the glass, he slotted the sticks into their holders.

He’d taken it, that one instance of normalcy. He wouldn’t give it back. “I hid from her but I saw her look at my picture - it was on dad’s desk - and she just...” what words could he possibly use to describe the perfection of what happened next? Huskily, he nearly laughed. “I was mesmerised.”

In a world where the dark was his slumber, where pain was nourishment, where disloyalty, betrayal, anger and secrets were a refuge, where guilt was his hiding place and loneliness the clothes on his back; Felicity Smoak had been blinding. A kaleidoscope of bright colours and natural goodness.

And he’d been so thankful to fall into her orbit, if only for that one second.

“I think I smiled.” He remembered that, how startled and so taken he’d been with the moment. “And I hadn’t smiled - not really - in so long I’d forgotten what it felt like.”

“I remember thinking,” Sara’s voice, so sudden and whisper-light, made him glance at her, “when we met up again after the Amazo went down,” when he was battered and bruised from Slade’s brand of torture – it wasn’t exactly a time he wanted to revisit, “that I missed your smile. I kept waiting to see it, thinking it could lighten up the forest.” There was something like sadness in her face and he felt it in his stomach. “You used to always be smirking. But there you just… didn’t. Not once.” Probably mulling over memories, she chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I think it scared me.”

Oliver straightened, brows slowly rising, his face soft with helplessness. “I scared you?”

“A little.” She admitted. “You were different. More so after the fight on the Amazo. Cold. Like you were suddenly okay with dying. With killing.”

The truth was never easy to hear - he could remember a time when his mind-set took an edge darker than any hue Sara’s could reach.

To survive he’d become the thing that stopped him from returning home.

He cleared his throat and moved back to the subject at hand, because the past still hurt. “When I returned I didn’t remember her. It was only after I set up here,” surrounded by the artificial light from his computer monitors and wondering what he’d have to do when he ran into a problem that out-skilled his modest IT abilities, “that I did.”

“So you went to her then?”

“Not immediately.” And he wasn’t ready to admit how much he’d wanted to meet this stranger just to confirm that she hadn’t in fact been a mirage. “I looked into her.” Turning back, he shrugged. “It was perfect: a hacker. A really good one. She was on Argus’s list too but she’d been quiet for a while; they never found anything concrete.” She was too adept.

Sara looked thrown… but then she started grinning. “She was on a list?” As in, ‘our Felicity Smoak is on a list of potentially dangerous criminals’?

Distracted, he nodded.

“Wow. Felicity Smoak; mastermind.” Keeping still had never been one of Sara’s strengths so he wasn’t surprised when she moved to stand again. “But what made you want her on your team?”

The fact that not looking at her hurt? Or that it was welcoming, not being judged on status or family? That she didn’t immediately find faults in his behaviour because he wasn’t the same man who’d left. Maybe because he’d seen just how much she wanted to live - how open she was to alternatives - that she was as alone as he, only in a more literal sense. Or because the moment he’d spoken to her he’d trusted her without knowing why?

She’d caught him by surprise.

In the end it was simpler to just say, quietly - like he was keeping it close to his chest, “Like I said before; she was a reliable resource,” a rebel without a cause,“who could be trusted. And I’d needed that Sara.”

He’d needed something to be easy.

To this day, he still didn’t understand why it had been so essential. Why trust and companionship was needed by a man who had believed he was going to die in a gutter somewhere without anyone knowing what had happened.

Or why they worked, and they did. Very well. He, she and Diggle; they were a well oiled machine whose parts complemented each other.

There was a pause in conversation but this time, he didn’t watch for Sara’s reaction, because he was shifting away, entertaining the idea of taking a ride on his bike now that he’d explained.

But Sara couldn’t see that in the lines of his back. “Do you still need that?”

Feeling his brow tighten, he stopped walking because he could feel something else too; the trap. He turned to look her in the eye once more, Okay, slowly speaking. “What’s going on?”

And by the expression on her face, what he’d explained hadn’t been enough; it wasn’t what she’d been searching for.

Pressed together, her lips quirked into a rueful smile.“Just trying to get to know you better. I guess.”

Bafflement shattered the hard lines on his face. “Sara.” This was getting ridiculous. “You know me better than almost anyone.”

“I knew who you were. But you’ve changed since then. It’s okay,” she added at his second headshake - the reflexive denial written on his face - with a somewhat lascivious stare, “I like the changes.”

I like you.

That stopped him - brick meet wall - because, no. She didn’t. Sara enjoyed the similarities that they now shared - just as they’d shared other likenesses back then - but not the changes. It was why they argued and was laced into the things she said, the things she’d say since her second return to the city.

You used to smile more Ollie.

Remember when we got caught skinny dipping? How you had to hide from dad? I miss how that felt. How easy it was to get excited about something so mall.

I used to listen to Laurel talk about you, and wonder if that could that be me. Sara and Ollie instead of Laurel and Ollie. But then you’d text me behind her back and I’d remember.

I’m glad you still like tequila shots; it’s something we can do together now.

Did you look for me on Lian Yu, after the Gambit went down?

Where do you think we’d be right now, if we’d never gone away? Would we have jobs we like? Or do you think we’d be off somewhere getting tans and drinking till we pass out? Do you think you and Laurel would still be together? Or do you think you would have given us a chance... like now.

You don’t want to talk about what happened to you after you left Lian Yu, I don’t want to talk about the League. Let’s not make this about how we survived.

Raging crushes either go away or grow into love. Looks like I’m the fool. But it’s okay; I have what I want now.

Every other sentence, wired to their pasts.

When they were alone, together in the dark of a bedroom, or the grunge of an alleyway; they’d talk. And she’d say these words; she’d tell him that maybe they had always been meant to try with each other. If after 5 years, it was still so natural to come together once more, then maybe it was fate. Like, they were supposed to find out all along.

He hadn’t the heart to tell her his initial reasons for trying.

When she’d said that, a few nights after they’d first slept together, he’d felt so wrong. That’s the only word that suited the sensation that had rested deep in his gut. Wrong. Not for the first time, guilt had been his go-to in relation to a Lance sister. Not immoral exactly, more that for a third or fourth time - he forgets how many times it’s been and isn’t that just miserable - he’ll have disappointed or hurt a Lance sister.

But… he’d thought they’d been on the same page. He’d thought a lot of things.

It had been easy to push it aside and agree with her; there was a certain symmetry to her words and he’d wanted them to be true. Really, he had. They were both so alone in the world. Both so unwilling to burden others with their lives, to bring them more danger; it had been more right than wrong to come together. They were a good fit. But sleeping with her had nothing to do with wanting to try for a future. Not for him.

He’d been so sure she felt the same.

Obviously he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did.

On the day of his mother’s inauguration, he’d been angry. And the anger wasn’t a chill; it was a hot wave, slowly roving. Full of heart. Sadness. He’d felt lost. No one in his life had measured up the way they were supposed to and the events of the day had shaken him.

Laurel  - at the time - hadn’t been able to spend more than a minute in his company without wanting to escape. He understood. Guilt did that to a person. And he was a stark reminder of the year’s events. But he’d hoped - near coveted the idea - that they could have stepped past it, to try and keep each other in their lives. To be there for each other.

The memory of Tommy had made that - also at the time - impossible.

And then... Mom.

The woman who’d snuggled him close as a child didn’t fit with this stranger called Moira Queen. Mayor Queen. I don’t recognise her anymore. Call it hypocrisy; he knew his life was nothing but a tangled web of lies. But his secrets? They weren’t insidious like hers; they were there to keep others safe, not himself. Not to be used to blackmail and coerce.

The memory of that day still climbed to his throat like bile. And though he loathed admitting it, he did something odd afterwards that he, now, wished he hadn’t – even with knowing his reason was justifiable.

He’d avoided Felicity.

There was no rational excuse for it. Just a feeling he’d had. She’d done nothing but be honest with him, reliable. A very good friend. Necessary. And yet...

It was difficult to describe how he’d felt but the closest it came to was the undeniable sensation that if he saw her, he’d do something they’d both regret. He just didn’t know what that meant. The anger, the sadness, the gratitude, the shock, the want to feel something else - anything other than sick realisation - and the need…

The mix had felt dangerous in the oddest way and he didn’t want to say or do anything to jeopardise their relationship.

The only way he could think to avoid that was to avoid her, knowing that she might take it to mean the worst.

Hey. You aren’t going to lose me.            

To think he could make her believe otherwise…

So he’d let it go completely with the feeling of having Sara in his arms; the escape of pleasure and the freedom of choice allowing him to find relief elsewhere and not acknowledging that it also felt like he was lifting a finger to the world.

But he still distinctly remembered wanting to see Felicity after he’d spoken to his mother. Wanting to argue. And push. Press. Which wasn’t like him, like them.

That she knew everything about him was a problem. That he could explode in her face and still have her standing there, facing him, ready to fire back on all cylinders because it would be the right thing to do. That he’d wanted to crowd her in, to force his way past her defences and demand she tell him why she was so steadfastly and unquestionably loyal to him of all people when she could have just kept quiet. When she could have let his already high opinion of her remain that way instead of making it soar far beyond his reach… too far to touch. And then… something would have happened.

Still she tried, Felicity. Afterwards. She revealed and forgave. Every day. Every week. It made him dream of what he could be, what he could do. Made him thankful.

She’d thought he’d hate her. And that worry had merit because, in a way, he’d considered something similar. Briefly. But not in the way she’d feared. Not at all.

The truth of the way he’d considered... it was as unsafe for her as it was shocking to him.

Sleeping with Sara had helped dull that ache. Feeling her warmth, her understanding; it had been a needed reprieve and he’d sensed she’d felt the same. He’d always equated sex with affection and she’d given it freely. He’d missed her that way most of all.

But once upon a time, that kind of comfort had come from Laurel. So he’d had to force himself to adjust to a different kind of consolation. In the end, he’d grown to recognize the type of love he felt for Sara and he too, had wondered at what might have been...

Another what if.

It was a dream. Worse, a lie. A deception of the heart. Especially since his few dreams for the future never featured Sara Lance.

And now, seeing her there, he didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t have this problem. “The changes suit you.” Her tone was playful, her voice gravelly but the sincere quality to it made him want to turn away. And he felt her gaze, the natural attraction he’d always sensed she’d had for him, travel over him. “If you’d been this focused years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”

Oliver shut his eyes. It hurt and this time he knew why.

Again, since she couldn’t fully see his face, she had no clue. “Come on,” a smile lit her tone, “tell me. What is it Oliver Queen needs now?” At his silence, she laughed as if she thought he was self-conscious. “I won’t judge. Is it still Felicity Smoak?”

She meant it, 100%, to sound like a kind tease and it was. It should have been.

Yet he had to literally grit his teeth when ripple of unrestrained hostility shocked him out of his inaction. In every reflective surface his face was testament to the strength of it and he whipped around before he could rein it in, his head twisting to see her. “What?”

He didn’t recognise his own voice.

But she’d pushed.

He’d said he wasn’t in the mood for games but, wanting it, she’d pushed.

Inevitably, silence followed.

It reigned for half a minute: 30 seconds that felt like 30 minutes, because it meant he had to watch her face as he glared at her. Had to watch that small smile slowly fall, replaced by a gravity that surprised him. And a hurt that appalled him.

Worse, was that he knew exactly why her question had made him react like that. It had touched a nerve; one much more sensitive than he’d realised. And he wasn’t ready to admit just how much her teasing, of another type of ‘what if’ had stung. Of how her pressing, had made him feel like she didn’t see him. Hear him. How some subjects was a place she could not touch.

It was muted when she finally spoke. “I’m guessing this is something else you wanted left alone that I didn’t know about?”

Damn it. He took a moment, clamping down on his emotions. “I don’t understand why this is important.” It didn’t really work, but he tried. “Why do you want to know?”

Another moment bled into another minute where she didn’t look away. “Because I’m your girlfriend.”

And… that should have been obvious to him.

“I don’t know how we got here.” Sara Lance didn’t do coy; confused as she was, he also heard the disappointment. “Why are you angry with me?”

Because he’d just realised what it is that he’d been holding off and it took deeper than normal breaths to cool down the agitation in his chest. “I’m not.”

She was unmoveable. “Could have fooled me.”

He knew that’s how he sounded, but he honestly wasn’t angry at her.

He was angry at himself. “I’m sorry.” Exhaling, done with this, his tone turned penitent. “Really, I just…” Facing her fully, he gave her what she wanted. “I don’t know what I really need right now or what I want. Just what I know. And what I know is that when we’re down here,” he took another breath because he couldn’t believe he was about to say this, “I don’t need anybody else.”

Sara’s expression slanted in slight wonderment. “You don’t need anybody else… but us?”

But me?

He winced, feeling that in his stomach again.

“Having you here,” so low, his voice sounded almost coarse and it carried everywhere it wasn’t supposed to, “is personal, Sara. I don’t technically need you on this team. You’re here because I want you here. I want Roy here. But I did this on my own not too long ago.” He let that sink in, watching apprehensively as her expression continued to be soft but unreadable. “I got by. But I also made mistakes and sometimes I took too long.”

Confusion made her brow crease. “I don’t-”

“Felicity gave me 360 degree vision.”

And that changed... everything.

It had never been about anyone else.

She knew what it meant; having Felicity on the team - strategically - meant that his blind spots were covered. In that sense, Sara was correct; he didn’t need her to watch his back. He had backup in the field without actually having to worry about said backup being in the line of fire. It was perfect.

It gave his enemies layers to fear; this vigilante who could find them no matter how deeply they entrenched themselves, not knowing who they were really fleeing from was a bright and bubbly IT technician in 2 inch heels.

Which gave a certain satisfaction.

Emotionally it meant knowing there was someone in his ear who could hear everything he does or says. It meant allowing her to listen into all the dark corners of Starling, knowing she could take it. A person who knew when he was hurt because of the pain in his voice, who heard every weakness he possessed and understood its roots even if she didn’t agree with them. Who endured the sounds of his deliberate attempts to hurt others, to maim, to kill, and did so silently because she understood why. It meant having an invaluable ally who he could trust implicitly. It meant having someone in his life that knew his darkness and saw past the surface... and liked what came through.

And Sara heard that in his voice, all of it.

So still; her expression was a blank canvas. “You don’t need me here; you want me here.”

Oliver waited, hating that she’d brought this all up. Hating that he’d had to say it before he was ready. It had been a bad day and it was about to get worse.

“But when she’s here,” she finished, “It really doesn’t matter if I am or not, does it?”

Fuck.

It was like a smack to his face.

Put that way, it sounded so much more callous than he’d intended. “That isn’t what I meant.” It really wasn’t. He was just trying. “I like that you’re down here, with me. Felicity… it isn’t romantic Sara.” He was pulling at strings, he knew that.

Regardless of their problems, he did love Sara. It was just that, sometimes love wasn’t enough.

“Then what did you mean?” Shifting her stance Sara forced a casual form, though the pain - something she normally did so well - could been seen like an echo on her skin. A tautness.

This wasn’t the worst way this could go, but it wasn’t a way he’d have chosen.

He took a breath… and began.

“You came back… and I wanted you here.” The gentle longing - always graceful - that began suffusing her face was the kind that ached. “I missed you.” He swore to her, “and I brought you on this team because I care about you.” His words, all but whispered, were fervent with sincerity. “I wanted you to be part of my life in a way Laurel could never be.” It was as honest as he could make it without admitting that he’d once wanted as much - if not more - with her sister. Not in the Foundry where Sara was; but in a house. A place to call home. With fences. And grass, a garden. Symbolic of a life outside of the darkness within him. An idealistic image that he’d finally understood months ago held no meaning because it would involve denying half of who he was. The point however, was that he’d considered a possible future with Laurel. But never with Sara. “It’s just that…” he licked his lips, searching for those perfect words to explain why he was failing in this with her.

He’d thought… he didn’t know what he’d thought. But, if anyone could fit into this life it would have - should have - been Sara Lance. Fellow vigilante. Touched by sins and evils, as he had been, that others couldn’t fully comprehend. Or at least, he’d told himself that. Originally. But now?

The past was difficult to step forwards from. It hadn’t initially touched him that Sara remembered how he was like with Laurel and that she might wonder at the differences. Remembering that - how he and Laurel had been; the affection, the need for her to see him a certain way, even if that way was the wrong way - he understood where she was coming from.

Being with Sara… he didn’t mind whether or not she saw his blind spots, his rougher edges. There was comfort in that, an ease he appreciated because they were similar. But where she’d once considered that to be a sign of love from him - evidence that they were the right fit - maybe it was the exact opposite.

He was too comfortable letting her see the sides of himself he’d never show her sister, because Laurel’s reaction mattered in a way that Sara’s just… didn’t. Not in the way a girlfriend’s should.

And maybe she realised that.

Whenever he and Sara had a problem, it was Laurel she turned to and not Oliver. As if Laurel had the requisite information at hand that would help Sara deal with being in a relationship with him, because she’d been there. The flaw in that was too sore a wound to touch. And it made what she wanted here all the more ironic.

Yet he hadn’t given her much reason not to wonder about it.

The part of himself that believed in quick wins and easy paths wanted them to make it, to last. The part of him that was done with searching for the kind of happiness he could never have, or deserve.

It wasn’t ideal; he didn’t love Sara the way he’d loved Laurel - the way he’d wished he could love her - and it wasn’t a love designed to inspire. Or to heal. It was based on acceptance, familiarity and loneliness. A self-fulfilling prophecy between them. Facing that now, hurt so much more than knowing it would have done two months ago.

And for that - for taking so long to see it - he couldn’t be anything but sorry. “Sara-”

“Why?” She cut in seeing it, everything, and he faltered before he could take a step towards her. “Why start with me what you had no intention of finishing?”

Blindsided, he literally leaned backwards.

He remembered - vividly - how she’d come to him that night, seeking one thing and being honest about it. A connection. She’d come home and had wanted to remember what home felt like in all its aspects, so she’d kissed him. Old habits die hard.

He’d kissed her back. It had been mutual.

The look on her face suggested she thought his surprise was a cover for contrition. She exhaled, shaking her head. “I’m not judging you.” But she was; in her hurt, she was. “But you must have known when I came down here,” her hand gestured around them, “that we were-”

“That we were going to have sex?” It was blunt, but real because he trying to get her to this, their cycle. “Forget about our problems by being together because we both needed someone who understood?” Knowing that what they wanted - a mother who didn’t use secrets like bullets and armour and a sister who didn’t hate her for who she was - they couldn’t have and it had made them strike out against the world. “Try for something real, even as we screwed other people over?” Stepping on their realities. Like Laurel, who they’d lied to and - when the truth came out - behaved openly unashamed in front of. Even though Laurel had made it clear where he and she stood months ago. “No Sara.” Shaking his head, he felt weighed down. “I had no idea that anything we’d once been,” he licked his lips, “was gone long before we started over.”

This – what they had now – was all they’d ever be.

The flare of honest pain in her eyes was heightened by the way her mouth open slightly. As if the breath had left her body.

His eyes closed. “We were never meant to have anything beyond this.” Part of him was dying. Or letting go. Sometimes they were the same thing.

“But you knew.”

As if he’d led her on. As if he hadn’t let her in on her own choices.

His eyes opened, utterly steadfast. “So did you.”

Did she think that she could just ignore that she was in love with Nyssa and find a future with him? That they’d live double lives together in harmony, dismissing all their arguments the past few weeks, all the times they’d disappointed each other and still think it could happen?

It made him nauseous how easy it was for him to now see how blind they both were. How much they’d damaged and how long it had taken them to realise this.

After glancing away, Sara straightened; her voice stable even as her eyes started to glisten. “You’re right.” Nodding to herself, she repeated. “I did. I do.”

Feeling bone weary all of a sudden - they were breaking up and though it was the right thing to do, he was still losing that comfort, that special someone waiting for you -Oliver rubbed a hand over his brow. “I’m still here.” He murmured. “I’ll always be here.”

“Just not the way I wanted,” she said, “and I did, you know.” She looked him in the eye. “I wanted. With you.” Trying to smile, Sara looked more like she’d scream if she continued speaking but somehow managed not to. “I’ve always wanted us.”

Us.

Him and Sara.

He’d never thought of it like that. Not with her. Not with… not with anyone. He hadn’t allowed himself to believe he could be part of a true ‘us’.

Everything was momentary; the relationships he had with women… they were transitory. McKenna, Helena, even Sara.

Laurel.

And he’d thought she knew that. He thought that when they’d begun again, she’d gone into it knowing as he did, that it might not be enough to simply have a history.

Which made him the bad guy. And he was.

But, “I know,” was all he could say.

And he did know; he’d known since she was 16 and giving him looks that told him she was all his, even then. He’d known 2 years later when they’d first fooled around and again when she was 19, when they’d first slept together. He’d always known. And a part of him had revelled – at the time – that he was loved by two sisters, even as the rest of him knew that he was scum. It had been a paradise just as it had been torturous. Lust and shame walking hand in hand.

It wasn’t an excuse, but at that age, he’d feared the future.

Now, he deliberately closed himself off from it, though he’d do anything to run towards it knowing that he could have one with even a modicum of happiness. When he risked it - when he gazed into his future and wondered -it wasn’t Sara he saw standing there. And he was pretty sure she didn’t see him at the head of hers anymore either.

But she had once. When she was younger. When she’d been besotted. When she hadn’t known better than to go for someone like him. When he should have helped steer her the right way instead of crashing her head-long into jagged rocks.

It didn’t matter that they’d changed since then, they’d always be the same people: ‘Ollie Queen’ and ‘Laurel’s promiscuous little sister’.

The sight of her now, standing there - that such a strong woman could look so sad - had a hollow forming in his stomach, a splinter in his chest.

“I wanted you to need me.” She said quietly, her eyes somewhere he couldn’t see. “Even though you never really did.”

He couldn’t decide what hurt more; that she knew it or that he agreed with her.

In every sense he didn’t need Sara Lance.

What she hadn’t considered is that maybe he’d wanted to need her too. Wanted what everybody seemed to take for granted; to be part of something lasting, where he was bound to someone the way he’d always imagined he could be.

It wasn’t meant for them.

But so were a lot of things.

Like… he could live without his parents, even though it had been horrifying to survive the loss of his father. And he could stay alive without back-up from Dig, his brother. He could breathe without Sara, his lover because she wasn’t the one who made his race so fast, his lungs try to keep up. He could live to fight another day without mending bridges with Laurel. He could live free without Thea ever knowing he’d survived the island because he knew she could live on despite him and he’d be proud of whatever she decided to become. He could save the city as a nameless thug, a stranger - in a world where Oliver Queen hadn’t returned to his former life -rising up to take the fight to the city’s black underworld.

Though the closure of having them in his life, of them wanting to mend rifts and accept differences and failures was healing, he could still live without all of it. A semi-existence. But doable.

What was absolutely certain to him, what he couldn’t survive - it had already been proven - was the absence of Felicity Smoak in his life.

Those weeks when she’d been in Central City he’d been a mess of a vigilante, a shoddier than usual excuse of a CEO and a pathetic friend, brother and son. So attuned to her absence, he’d taken to hunting down the man in the mask instead of facing his problems, hoping that he could do some good in at least one area but he failed even in that. Night after night. Rather than ask her to come back.

Rather than admit he’d needed her.

So aware of it, the constant feeling that all of him wasn’t where it was supposed to be had assaulted him. And when she’d returned, it had only brought into focus how lost he’d been without her.

Seeing her at QC after a 3 week non-appearance had made any sensation of tension, of irritated anxiety, miraculously melt away.

It was replaced with something more obscure, but no less negative.

Instead of feeling glad of it, seeing her had only served to remind him of the influence she had in his life, of how it had felt like he was missing a limb when she wasn’t there and how much he depended on her when she was. Of how she hadn’t been there when he’d needed her. For that, he’d lashed out; replacing relief with antagonistic, entitled frustration.

Never, not once, had he felt that strongly about needing a woman before.

She was his partner. She was the one he turned to when all else failed, the one he searched for on entering a room. The idea of her not being there for an indefinite amount of time turned the world senseless. A nonsensical space where the passage of time was unbearable.

He didn’t want to ever have to go back to that.

Like the tick of a clock, he felt every second of Sara’s silent realisation. “I’m not enough, am I?” Barely audible, she sounded so small, though she was in fact - to him - larger than life.

And she couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Sara,” he croaked and it felt like breaking, “no, it isn’t-”

It isn’t you.

“I know I’m not.” The slow strengthening of her gaze, the conviction, kept him silent. Still he shook his head and she countered it. “I couldn’t harness that light that’s still inside you. I didn’t even try Ollie; I thought it would be better to be exactly who we are. What I thought we were.” It was a regretful admittance but one without bitterness. “Those who live in darkness and revel in it.” Her lips upturned, “beholden only to ourselves. Like before.”

Like how they used to be. Loose, free and wild. It had sounded so amazing to him back then.

Now it sounded like the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard of. “Don’t put me on a pedestal.” He gritted out.

Briefly closing her eyes, her face grew hard but it wasn’t, he noticed, in anger. “Trust me, I’m not.” Her eyes re-opened, pinning him with a look. “Being with you hasn’t exactly worked out for me either.” As if suddenly cold, her arms wrapped about her though her spine was still straight. “And I don’t think it was about you, Ollie. I think it was about Laurel.”

He shifted, his eyes flickering between hers because he’d never heard this before.

“Some of the things I used to do,” she explained, “the way I was with boys and with you,” and her expression filled with such downhearted acceptance he almost went to her, “it was about Laurel. We’ve been talking - more than we ever used to - and it made me see that, ever since I can remember, we’ve been in competition with each other. Dad had my back; I was his baby.” His princess. “The one he over-protected and thought the world of even when I did everything wrong. I could do anything and he’d forgive me for it. But Laurel was the smart one,” her tone turned dry, “the family success, the one who exceeded in everything, even when she wasn’t trying to.” Smiling slightly, Sara indicated her head at him. “The one who got the guy.”

And he murmured, “You were jealous.”

“I was ridiculously attracted to you.” She murmured with a rueful smile. “You’d been friends with Laurel and Tommy for years and she’d come home and tell me stories about you both. It was easy to see that she liked you. So when she introduced me to you, I came prepared to like you too. And I did.”

The feeling was mutual.

But there was something in him, something like pride but not quite as superior, that made what she’d just said especially hard to hear.

Partly because he’d hoped what they’d had was deeper in meaning than simply upping a sibling. And it was but it hadn’t been the foundation.

Mostly because, though he knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness for the way he’d behaved back then, he’d lived under the impression that the sisters had both wanted him because they simply liked that he was who he was. It was unbelievably conceited of him. But it was the delusion he’d breathed; that he was the catch, that it wasn’t just his family’s money, his skills in bed or his abdominals that made it so back then.

Later that had developed into a genuine want of their company. Then honest care and love, even before the island.

I’d had no idea what romantic love really meant.

So he didn’t blame Sara, not one bit, for her own foolishness. She’d been hurt by her sister first. Then he’d hurt her by treating her like all she was worth was a good time in China, when she was anything but. Even if it was exactly how she treated him back.

Staring at the floor, Sara continued. “I could see the parts of you that you hid from her and I played on that. You let me.”

He nodded, agreeing again, because he had.

“I wanted to beat her at something. I don’t feel that way now but back then,” and she didn’t; there was no vehemence in her voice, “but I’d wanted to win just once. I’d always felt that she’d thought she was better than me. The year before the Gambit went down; I was in college and any email or text I’d get from her was always a reprimand. Always a lecture on how I could improve. Or a way to tell me I shouldn’t fall back on old habits. She meant well: she wanted me to graduate and have a good life but it was a constant reminder of things I did wrong. You know I tried to warn her off you?”

He blinked at that, surprised. “Why didn’t it…” she’d warned her? And Laurel hadn’t... done anything, said anything to him?

“Why didn’t it work?” She guessed and he tapped his fingers against his thigh, wanting to understand. “She didn’t believe me; she never did. And she snapped at me. Made sure I knew my place, which wasn’t beside you. That’s when I agreed to go with you.”

She’d lashed out. “To get back at her.”

Acceptance lining her features, she just nodded.“In part.”

“And now?”

“Coming back to the city…” she let out a long breath. “when I saw a chance to make it work again with you, to re-do what we once had and make it better,” she gave him another helpless shrug, “to show myself and maybe even Laurel that I could do what she couldn’t, it felt too much like fate for me to resist. I mean,” she shook her head, “what if it should have been us? I ignored the signs and warnings; I ignored what my gut told me. I had to try.”

All he said, whispered, was, “I know.” And he did.

Sara didn’t have nightmares like he did, she wasn’t plagued with the same stroke of guilt that he was. But she did dream. And when she did, it wasn’t his name she murmured so softly in the dark.

But he’d done the same after all; he’d ignored what had whispered in his mind deep into the night.

“It was a lie.”

“I know.” He repeated softly.

Swallowing, she tried for humour, “You know everything now?”

“I know you.”

The look she gave him felt like tears. “I’m sorry Ollie.”

And that was where he drew the line, “You have nothing to apologise for,” because he was just as culpable as she. “Not ever Sara.”

“But I was using you.” Finally, a tear trailed down her face but it didn’t detract from the truth of her words, “my reasons were selfish.”

We were all selfish. Suddenly he felt old. The past a sweep of history that dragged you under instead of lifting you up. He understood that kind of selfish; he’d lived its creed once upon a time.

“I was,” he cleared his throat; just say it, “I was using you too.”

“Yeah,” she whispered; like she’d already known.

He felt it wash over him. Felt it behind his eyes and he blinked away the moisture. “I’m sorry.”

Like always, she laughed; a bird-like chirp that made his chest hurt because once upon a time they could have been great. Now they were just short-lived. “How about we’re both sorry?”

On the tail end of a swallow, he said. “Okay,” because her friendship was absolutely something he never wanted to lose.

“So,” She let out a sigh, “were over.” Obvious though it was, it needed to be said.

“Yes.”

The ending to almost a decade of ‘what if’s’ between them.

He saw it now, just as she did; the same dance camouflaged as new, thinking that because they were different people now, that it would change things.

Sara’s gaze slipped away. He saw her neck flex as she swallowed, tensing as she dealt with whatever emotion she was feeling. “You know,” she started, “It’s about Laurel for you too.” Her eyes caught his again and it was impossible to miss the hidden meaning behind them. “I’m not her. I’ll never be.”

Why would he ever wish for that? “I never wanted you to be.”

The look she sent him told him she thought he was utterly blind. “Yes you did. That’s why you didn’t tell her about us.”

Wrong.

God, she couldn’t be more wrong…

Leaving with her on the Gambit had been his way of nuking his relationship with Laurel. The commitment she’d offered… he hadn’t been ready. Too much of a coward to say it to her face, he’d slept around, seeking an escape because maybe it would get back to her through the rumour mill that followed him like a virus and he wouldn’t have to confess at all. He’d return home to find that she’d moved on, rightfully.

 And yet, he also remembered thinking how awful it would be if she did.

It hadn’t been until he’d been stranded on Lian Yu that he’d discovered he loved her. That he’d wasted time being a jackass.

When he’d returned, it had taken the space of 48 hours to know what he’d realised one year after being shipwrecked. That he could never be with Laurel and do what his father wanted him to do. The man who could carry out that request wasn’t the man Laurel loved. And when he thought he could possibly give it up, he’d gone to her. Had made love to her. Had tried to be that man once more. But looking back on it now, could he have lived a life without that purpose? A life he wanted Laurel to steer clear from?

The answer wasn’t yes.

Then, after Sara returned to Starling, he hadn’t told Laurel simply because he’d wanted them separate from each other. There was already friction present, why throw a match on dry timbre?

Both sisters had made him covet facets of each but neither woman was like the other. They were two halves of the same coin.

Maybe there was a grain of truth in her words. Maybe in Sara he’d been searching for Laurel, just as in Laurel - last year - he’d been searching for what he’d found in Sara the past 2 months.

He felt his stomach falter and concave. Toxic.

He didn’t want to change the woman he was with. He didn’t want her to change him, not any more, even though he knew he wasn’t much of a catch.

He wanted ‘real’. He wanted it so badly it hurt.

..

.

Present Day

His whole life was a story in ‘what if’s’. In failings and roads not taken. And he wondered why he couldn’t just let it all go.

It took a while before he broke the silence. “It doesn’t matter now.” Felicity had been gone for hours already; it was too late to worry over what couldn’t be changed. “She’s safe with John.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising.” He muttered, weary and feeling every bit of it.

She wasn’t having it. “When it comes to my family, I get tunnel vision.” This wasn’t news. “The past 6 years… they’ve made me more scared these few months than I think I’ve ever been. I’m always worried that because of me, they’ll get hurt. That someone or something will take them away from me because I didn’t do the right thing at the right time. So, I’m always going to choose them Ollie.”

“You don’t have to explain that.” He knew it off by heart; he’d felt the same about his family, about Laurel in those eight months after his return. But he’d learned since then that family isn’t blood alone and that sometimes, sacrifices are required.

“Maybe. But I feel like I owe you that.” Sighing, Sara let herself relax, looking at her sister. “Getting to know her again, it made me see things I wouldn’t have when I was younger. And she’s been so sad recently. It isn’t like her.” It was true: as much as Laurel had been through, she was the type of person to charge her way through life regardless. To him, she had. Maybe Sara had seen something he hadn’t. “You know she was a little envious?” Her light tone contradicted the words and it made him frown. “Part of her wants to be free, the way she thinks that I’m free.” She explained and again, he got the irony. Sara only appeared free on the outside. Inside, she was shackled by regrets, by love and by choice. “I thought she hated me. Especially after that dinner.”

There was a memory he could have forever lived without revisiting.

The dinner.

The feelings it still wrought were, at best, unpleasant. He’d let go of something then, after his talk with Laurel in the hallway leading to her apartment. But the turmoil inside him would revisit occasionally.

He pulled a face in distaste, hiding it quickly. Describing the meal as awkward didn’t cut it. Instead of it allowing him to remember how good it had once been, he’d instead felt supremely uncomfortable in his own skin. Sara hadn’t wanted to go but Felicity had been right; they could do nothing while she worked on the servers except sit and wait. So, turning to him, Sara had pleaded with Oliver to go with her. As her date. And her backup.

It had been on the tip of his tongue to out rightly refuse, knowing how it would be but, again, Felicity had intervened.

“How many chances do we get to have a life Oliver? Just... take a while. Go to the dinner. Don’t go to the dinner. Either way, you should seize the moment. Be with Sara. Time is precious and we don’t how many chances we’ll get.”

Seize the moment.

He remembered thinking, at the time, that she wasn’t doing much seizing herself. In fact, for awhile now, Oliver had barely seen Felicity outside of the Foundry or QC.

But that thought had been quickly replaced by Laurel.

The way she’d inevitably reacted hadn’t surprised him and he’d given it to her because, in a way, she’d been right.

Until she’d been wrong.

Then she’d made it all about her; his reasons, Sara’s actions, her father’s attempts at bringing life back into a relationship with his ex-wife, however misguided it was and… it had stunned him. Maybe he’d been blinded by love, he wasn’t sure, but not once had he ever considered Laurel to be the type of person to completely overlook the people around her.

Her addiction made it difficult for her to emphasise, he knew that. It clouded judgement. But wilfully going out to hurt others, not realising that being with Sara had been a cry for help for him- that he’d needed someone who could relate to him, who he could care for - because his world had been, once more, twisted upside down - unseeing of how much her father was trying to hope once more, or how much her sister had missed home, was so unlike the Laurel Lance he’d known.

Behaving as if they’d all taken from her and given nothing back.

They’d made up since then and in many ways had formed a friendship he’d never thought they’d have.

She hadn’t apologised, but then neither had he. Laurel had 7 years of reasons to never apologise to him and he’d come to terms with that long ago.

“I know she doesn’t now,” Sara continued, “but even if she did hate me - even if she blamed me - I’d still be like this. I’d still put her first. After everything that’s happened, after you and me on the Gambit, after Tommy; I think it’s about time she gets put first, don’t you?” There was a flutter in his chest at her tone and not a pleasant one. “While she’s unconscious, we make her the priority. At least until we know more.”

It wasn’t a choice he’d make anymore; that Laurel should come first, before anyone.

Before Felicity.

“Always Laurel Lance. Everyone else be damned.”

Dig’s words, at the time, had been solid. If Laurel had been in any kind of danger, she would absolutely become his top priority. If Laurel needed him, he’d put her first and go to her, regardless of what he was doing at the time.

He wondered exactly when that had changed.

He had you and he was going to hurt you. There was no other choice to make.

Maybe…

Then he decided it wasn’t important; the energy involved in explaining it wasn’t something he was willing to expend just yet. “It won’t be long.” Gesturing to Laurel, he moved away on restless legs. “You were already awake by this time.”

Instinctively lifting his hand, he looked at his phone - he’d forgotten he was holding it - and saw nothing new save how much time had passed. Laurel was taking longer to wake than Sara. He hoped Felicity was sleeping just as soundly.

But part of him wondered; if he stared hard enough at his cell, would she wake up and call him? Talk to him and bring him out from under the painful silence in the Foundry, the stillness and tension of his body, the worry in his head...

It was so stupid.

He wanted that feeling to return. The peace. Though he’d learned that the things he wanted, he could rarely have - and so kept them at a distance - for some reason it was much harder to remember right now than it had ever been just why he had to do that.

Where he walked, Sara’s eyes followed. “You sound pretty calm.”

He wanted to laugh at that but it wouldn’t have sounded at all humorous. “Sara,” he kept his gaze fixed on the screen, “You know me well enough,” he said in an undertone, “to know that I am anything but calm right now.”

He wasn’t anywhere close. He wanted to tear into something but that wouldn’t help. It never helped, even if he liked doing it.

Thumb swiping the screen, he heard Sara inhale.

“…Could have fooled me.”

It struck where it intended.

Nothing changed exactly; not his expression, not his stance, the slight scowl on his face, nothing. He just… stood there. Rooted.

What was that supposed to mean? Whatever it was, she’d meant it exactly the way he’d heard it.

Slowly - not lowering his arm - he turned his head to see her across the med-table. “Excuse me?”

Dead in the eye, Sara proceeded to floor him. “Laurel’s the love of your life.” Shaking her head, her eyes flickered briefly away, “Why-”

“She’s not.”

It came out so gutturally, it stopped her still. “What?”

Side-on, he wasn’t sure how to take this. Part of him was confused but... with the direction this conversation had abruptly taken, he felt the rise of something ugly in his chest - like it had on Tuesday - so much clearer than the tangled weave Sara was bringing back around. Moving right now wasn’t optional.

But he had to say it. “Laurel is not the love of my life.” Like the strike of a sword, the words were final and heavy as he watched Sara’s mouth part.

“But…” she stopped at the slow shake of his head.

“I don’t know how much I have to give.” After those five years he hadn’t been certain if anything human was left residing in his bones. “Or what I’m capable of offering. I don’t know if I can love another person more deeply.” With aching clarity his gaze didn’t leave Sara’s, didn’t blink. “For so long, on the island and afterwards I thought, maybe, it was possible. But it wasn’t real.” Licking his lips, he silently asked for forgiveness from an invisible entity; call it God, the Universe or What You Will, even as relief started to make him feel genuinely lighter.  Whether he deserved it or not, he asked to be allowed this, to be given the right to crave. “I want real, Sara.” He focused every available piece of energy inside of him on making her hear him. “Laurel needs real.”

And he wasn’t real. Not with her: he wasn’t the man who could give her that.

But Tommy had been. He’d been right there, waiting for her to see him. He would have given her everything; his love, his undivided attention and his time. He’d have given her a home, a place to rest and warm arms for their children to land in. They’d have been happy.

This he knew because Tommy had died to save her. Only a man in love would risk himself without any thought to his own future; as if he’d been born only to love Laurel lance. A man who couldn’t live without the woman of his dreams.

Then Oliver remembered that after Tommy died... Laurel had wanted to try. With him. All the things she should have been able to do - should have already done - with Tommy, she’d wanted with him.

And that had felt so wrong. As if the world had been twist turned inside out and dropped at a 180 degree angle. The idea was repugnant to him.

So he’d left. Unable to bear the weight of their loss and the death of a relationship he should have let stay cold.

As was the real he’d tried to find with Sara; a history best left alone.

Still, Sara managed to look at him at this moment with such disbelief that it made him feel like he’d just wasted a rare instant of honesty on her - rare because honesty wasn’t second nature to him - only to have her near-scoff at it because her vision was fixed on the past.

Always history. It shouldn’t dictate the present, the future. And it shouldn’t be used to judge.

It was grating.

But he remembered that thanks to that same history, Sara was owed an explanation. And he wanted her to understand and to not bring the subject up again or to use it as a way eliciting a reaction out of him. It didn’t matter if it was for herself or for her sister. It would be off limits from now on.

Gritting his teeth, he tried. “She was the first woman I loved.” The dress Laurel was wearing now and the damp state of her hair had a quiet wave of melancholy drift through him at the memories of the better times between them. Times when she looked like that because he’d soaked her through in a fountain, when they’d been running around like fools in the Queen Mansion grounds during an annual gala. “But we’re different people now.” In every sense of the term. So different, he should have never hoped for Laurel to love the man he’d become, just as he should have realised that he, because of who he’d become, could never really love her back. “The man she loved, he doesn’t exist. Laurel…”

It was too much to be saying aloud after so long when he’d never...

The love of his life? Wasn’t the love of your life supposed to-

“I don’t think it’s about saving or changing a person. I think it’s about finding the person who’s the right fit.”

-be the right fit?

Since he’d returned home, he and Laurel had been like a round key and a square lock. It wasn’t that there wasn’t love, but sometimes love wasn’t enough. And there were all kinds of love.

He hadn’t realised it, but outside of Laurel he’d been looking for the right fit. Even when he’d told himself, when he’d told Dig, that he hadn’t been... he had. Maybe it was instinctual; that urge to try and find someone who could understand you. To see past the ugly. The monster.

He’d been soul searching.

Sara, like Helena, was the obvious choice; they each held darkness in their hearts and experiences that gave them a solid grasp of who and what he was or could be. But obviously, this wasn’t all he was because neither worked.

In his own way - those first 8 months - he realised he’d already been acknowledging that his future wasn’t Laurel. It had just taken a while for the rest of him to catch up. And realising that was like being hit by a freight train. Everything inside him just… blanked.

Sara, however, didn’t know this. “How do you know for sure? You said you’d tried with her, last year and that it didn’t work. But you never included her in this. I get why,” she added and it took everything inside him to concentrate on what she was telling him. “I did the same and I don’t think it’s done anything but make her feel like an outsider.”

It hadn’t been intentional: he hadn’t tried to push Laurel out of his life. But at the same time he hadn’t tried to integrate her into it. In his mind, he and Laurel were no longer simpatico. The person he’d become wasn’t a man she could either love or recognise. Again, when he’d gone to her before the Undertaking, it had been an attempt to make good on all the bad. To try to be the same person she’d fallen in love with but without the old failings.

Outsider or no, Laurel had a life outside of him; one she’d created before he’d returned. A life she’d made sure to let him know he had no part in. How could she feel isolated from him when she’d expressed quite clearly that his involvement was unwanted?

Eyes tapering - his jaw tightening - he sent Sara a look, don’t be naïve. “Since when does Laurel need to be included in this?”

Don’t turn this into something it’s not.

“Since you’ve known each other all your lives Ollie.” He didn’t need the reminder.“Instead of pushing her away, maybe you could bring her in. Introduce her to the team.” Wordless, he stared at her - hearing her offer but unable to make sense of it -and wondered why she seemed oddly buoyant, “it’s a good idea.” On that he didn’t agree. “Why not tell Laurel everything and see what happens.” Sara leant forwards on her hands and murmured, “It might end very well for you both.”

There was a slow frown building across his brow because something about that - about her words and her voice - seemed so strange to him. “Why do you want this to happen?”

“I don’t.” She didn’t even hesitate and it made him quirk a brow. “What I want is for you both to be happy.”

And this was the way to go about that? Revisiting painful ground. Since they’d broken up, he and Sara had been good with each other. But this wasn’t something he could understand.

“And that’s what you think,” his tone dripped with condescension, “will make her happy; being with me?”

“I know that last year you both-”

“You weren’t there.” He stamped out, almost glaring at her. “You can’t just do this Sara. You can’t simply decide how I feel. How she feels.” He pointed at Laurel.

Eyes rigid on his own, it was as if Sara was searching for a sign of weakness in his vehemence. “But she’s still in love with you.”

Like a hand fisted in his intestines, he jerked on the spot.

Sara nodded. “She does.”

When he spoke, his throat felt like it had been struck. “I thought she knew better than that.” Hadn’t she been the one to tell him that they should never have started anything in the first place? Hadn’t he said to her that he was done running after her?

There was no response from Sara at that; just an offbeat silence. But he still felt like she thought she was right.

Somehow it was a foreboding feeling. “Don’t push this.” He warned.

“If she shows you,” speaking so swiftly he closed his eyes in irritation - an itch he couldn’t scratch - Sara continued, “that she loves you, you won’t change your mind? You won’t even think about it?”

The constant tightness in his face was beginning to ache. “Sara-”

“Forget it.” Then she was moving to unclip Laurel’s empty IV, “it’s unfair to lay this on you right now.”

And later is better?

It took everything he had to hold himself in check - keeping stiff - and he watched as she pulled the needle free from Laurel’s arm, sparking other images to flutter across his vision. In a moment of gentle clarity, he realised there was a disparity between this - Sara’s clinical way of detaching an IV and caring for her sister - and the way Felicity had done the same when Sara was on the table.

Why it hit him so strongly just then was anybody’s guess; he wasn’t sure. But at the time, it had felt like Felicity had been including him - inviting him -in the process, whereas now Oliver only felt Sara pulling away from him. It wasn’t an instant of tantalising awareness; it felt cold. Lonely… and he wanted to remove himself from it too.

Yet, looking away from Felicity’s face just hours ago had been impossible.

It was the blush on Felicity’s face - the way it flared up from her throat at his insinuation - that kept his gaze. And how she’d tried to avoid him in that endearingly nervous little way she sometimes does things - how she bites her lip and shoots him soft glances, often more hot than not - knowing that he was watching every move she made because her mouth had run away with her again. Because sometimes the things she would say would stir the senses and make it impossible to be anywhere else but right there, with her, in the moment.

Or the way she’d stretched high for the IV, unknowingly presenting a view of her that his eyes had been helpless to do anything but travel over. How her smile had turned into sound and that sound - her laughter - made him smile back. From how his suggestion regarding her tastes had given her face a glow he could only describe as erotic and he’d wish he hadn’t thought the word because it was distracting. The way her full mouth slowly opened, how her eyes brightened and darkened all at once, the flush across her chest that spoke of a provocation he shouldn’t be considering - and how he’d wanted to…

He’d wanted to touch her. So very, very much. Just once. To satisfy that maddening ache that had started after finding her in the Foundry that morning. To gather close her honest reaction and fall into it. To trace the softness of her cheek and feel how hot she could get. To see if he could arouse other expressions on her face and how exactly he could bring that about because he knew that whatever she did, it would affect him too.

Couldn’t he?

The idea thrilled him.

But...

Neck rigid, he cleared his throat.

There was nothing fair in this. Nothing.

It was all too easy to turn away from the Lance sisters then. To walk over to the computers. To sit in her chair and wait because any semblance of her was soothing, something else he’d never told her. That her presence brought him peace. That she was always the last person he went to when he was giving his team the night off, in the pathetic hope that she’d stay a while longer.

He’d tried so hard to stop that. For a while there, he’d succeeded.

For a while.

He knew was strong willed. He knew his self-control was peak. But even he had limits in that arena.

Not the time. Elbows on his knees, he dragged his palms north of his scruff and rested his face against them.

“Will you kill him?”

It rested - the weight of atonement - on his bowed back.

As quietly as it was asked, the words paved way for cannon fire. Still bent low, he peered up at Sara whose stare was as serious as her question. “Slade?” He mumbled, blinking softly as he held her there, because he absolutely knew what her reaction would be. “No.”

Not for this.

“Are you being serious?” She asked, testing him, seeing that he was. “You are. Ollie,” the sound that left her could only be described as animalistic - like a very frustrated carnivore - but it didn’t move him, “after all this, how could you not?”

Easily. By reminding himself that they stood for more than simple brutality. “I know he hurt Laurel,” he began carefully, because that was the crux of it wasn’t it? Laurel. “But I won’t resort to his standards. I won’t.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” She sounded horrified. Horrified and scared. “We had this same discussion before the Amazo went down and look how that turned out.”

“And I was wrong.” Still quiet, his voice was firm. “I tried to kill him and failed. He just came back stronger.”

My mistake.

“But-”

“I’ll stop him Sara.” He cut in. “Somehow.” They had to find a way. “I should have cured him. For all we know, the way he is now is fuelled by the Mirakuru in his body. But I won’t kill him. Not unless he leaves me no choice.”

She didn’t get it; he could see it written all over her face. “It isn’t right.”

Isn’t right, or isn’t fair? “And what would you do?” He lifted his head from his hands, done with this continuous need for Sara to kill every threat in her way. “Blow him up?” Because what else could they do? “Take a couple of buildings with him because we don’t really know where he is?”

“It’s something.”

“It’s the wrong thing.” Quieting his tone, he tried to explain it in a way that Sara would understand though he figured he was beating his head against a stone wall. “We’re supposed to be setting an example. We have a code, a way of working. It’s the reason your father doesn’t want to shoot me anymore. It is not okay to accept collateral damage. We can’t just turn Starling into a battle field.” And he knew that Slade would in a heartbeat.

But it was their home.

“Some codes have to be broken.” Hard, so hard; Sara. “Slade sure isn’t following a rule book.”

“So we descend to his level?” Brows raised, lips pressed together in a thin, angry line; he shook his head. “I will not be like him Sara.”

Taking a deep breath, he saw her jaw clench. “Until we have a plan I won’t do anything,” she turned away from him, circling her sister, “but if we can’t find a way to end this without bloodshed then he’s a dead man Ollie. I don’t care if I have to call in the League.”

At this, his back went ramrod. “You’d call assassins into my city?”

“It’s our city. And I’m going to do all in my power to stop Slade before his plans - whatever they are - come to fruition.” At that, Sara’s head turned away from him, leaving him to stare at nothing.

They’d just parted at the crossroads.

Having nothing else to focus on, it was all too easy for his mind to drift. Suddenly ‘not the time’ became the ‘perfect time’.

To think.

He wished he wouldn’t, couldn’t… almost as much as he wished they was real, his thoughts; the delicious tease they continued to return to and wonder at. He felt it down his spine; metaphorical fingers tracing the muscles there.

They’d spoken so openly about sex that morning... he’d felt normal. At home in his own skin. Finally. Like coming home after the longest, toughest climb. Or falling onto a soft bed after a week without sleep.

How much was the price for the acceptance of one’s self?

But it wasn’t the subject that captivated him; it was the ease. Haunting in how much it made him want. And remember.

It wasn’t as if it was something he does, or would do; he didn’t carelessly go out for long lunches simply to enjoy them. There was always a purpose beyond the norm, even the ones he shared with his sister; they were always a means of eliciting information. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d just... lunched. Not with women, men, not with anyone...

Not with his off-limits, IT specialist.

It was as if he’d been given permission to be himself. Fully himself. Just Oliver Queen and everything that he is. And it was enough. He was enough; enough to sit and eat a meal with, to laugh and share secrets with, to be relied on in the same ways he relied on her.

And he realised then that he could do this because she did in fact know him to his centre. Parts of him that even Sara didn’t know, barring the physical, she knew.

It brought things back.

Heavy things. Darker things. Things that were red in colour. Things he shouldn’t entertain but couldn’t help in the stillness around him. It made him realise how much he kept hidden. And about what he’d really wanted.

It had whispered - deep inside himself - from a place he’d thought he’d buried as he’d sat across the table from her at Big Belly Burger, looking at her. Listening to her talk. Talking to her back. Leaning forwards all the while, close enough to inhale a scent…

What did she use on her skin? The thought had briefly penetrated. Whatever is was, he hoped she never stopped using it because it was all too easy to imagine it coating the green of his leather...

His eyes closed to that, breathing low.

A daydream it may be, but heady thoughts had formed before he could crush them as he’d sat there in front of her. His fingers had twitched - as if each image, each thought, had sent electricity coursing through him to the tips - so he’d forced them, hidden them, beneath his arms.

Even though he’d fought it, something inside him - something very natural and as such, almost irresistible - had made him want to push past and move forwards… to have this one moment.

To place all his attention, all his focus, on what he’d wanted to do at that space in time - as she’d talked about such diverting topics as love-making and fucking, as she’d smiled over the rim of her cup, looking him directly in the eye with her own beautifully blue and open - and allow himself to just lean in, closer… to watch as her pupils dilate and her lashes flutter over those even more achingly pretty irises, to investigate the tinge on her throat that he knew would grow the more he pushed into her personal space, to brush past her face - her cheek - and feel the way she might react to his proximity, even as he held the rest of himself in check - his forearms braced against the table - he’d use only his head…

And he’d trace the slope of her neck with his nose; feel the heat of her on his cheek.

Even now - that brief urge that had hit him - made his heart pound, like it did then.

He knew he’d drag it out. He’d do it slowly, methodically; making sure she could feel each twist and movement, in the way men try to do when they want to make a moment stretch into infinity. Hoping to God - he’d beg for it - that she would shiver or gasp or touch him back.

Just something that would let him know that it was okay to continue.

So that he could - for the first time - inhale her scent and memorise it. Own it. Discover the smoothness there in the space between her throat and shoulders. So that he could press his lips, his teeth, to her pulse and taste her heart.

Take a bite.

Leave a mark.

Everything - all of him, down to the places so deep beneath the skin he didn’t know they existed – thrummed, tensed.  It hadn’t been the first time he’d had thoughts balancing on inappropriate about Felicity, but never one so visceral.

Yet, far from shocking him into action - into leaving, into escaping and pushing her away - he’d melted into it. Which was unlike him.

But he’d been tired - still was tired - of trying so hard to not react to the simple pleasures in life, to holding back his natural responses. Of pretending that he wasn’t so by himself. Of doing everything he could to keep it that way, so as to protect the ones who touched his heart.

Watching her talk… he’d treasured it, needed it. Something so normal, so taken for granted and honest. That she could do that with him was a gift. And he’d found himself telling her things too. Little things. Things she drew from him like poison from a wound. And the way she’d looked devastated by his and Sara’s break up.

Beautiful.

She was. Even close to tears.

It wouldn’t take much… If he took a step, he’d fall. That’s all it would take: one step.

And he’d come startlingly close to letting his foot descend into unknown waters.

He’d felt it pulling at him; the flirtatious air about them. Effortless. The type of chemistry you drop to your knees for, the type you’d fight and live for. The type you dreamed about.

It was wrong; she deserved more. But the moment she’d said it-

Sometimes you just need to get fucked.

He’d been lost to the idea.

The things he’d do, the things he’d wanted to do right then…

And God, he was never having a good night’s sleep again.

Of course there was more to it than that.

Since his return, in all the time he’d spent with different women, he couldn’t remember any occasion being as intimate as their morning eating burgers had been. He’d felt closer to Felicity then, than he’d felt with Laurel when they’d slept together the year before.

And that stung as much as it electrified. It was a realisation bordering the exquisite.

Part of the reason why he’d held her was driven by how he’d really needed the contact. With her. A little bit. Or a lot. It didn’t matter. He’d just wanted to be close to her. That he’d never instigated a hug before - for an increasingly obvious reason - seemed so wrong that he’d just had to.

He wasn’t in a relationship anymore.

So he was…free.

To do… what?

He’d never shared with anyone that all he wanted was to step off the island. Knowing that he hadn’t yet, not really, added to the constant pit in his stomach. But he could so easily crush the willing hand offering to pull him into unknown waters.

Yet, what if he could-

Then Laurel woke up and he couldn’t anymore.

It was sudden.

One moment there was silence. The next, Laurel was pulling in air so swiftly he flinched. In the quiet about them, it sounded genuinely agonised.

Swiftly looking up, he saw Sara do it in time to see Laurel’s eyes flutter open - like it was difficult for her to do - and the disorientated way she kept blinking made him wonder how much Slade had given her: the light in the Foundry was at its lowest.

He heard Sara gasp - a breath of relief Oliver figured she’d been carrying for ours - as she went to hover over her sister. “Laurel- no, wait- wait!”

Oliver didn’t move. Not yet.

Stubborn like Sara, Laurel’s head butted forwards once, twice until she came up - her forehead creasing in effort, her fingers stretching and reaching for something he couldn’t see - as she tried to sit up on her forearms. But her shoulders shook with each jerk - her body still waking up - and it made her wobble before her arms collapsed from under her. Almost immediately after her back hit the table, a small sob burst out of her.

He felt his eyes reflexively close at the sound.

She must be so scared.

Plus…

Physical weakness. She hated it because it meant she lacked control. In loose memories of how she liked to drink, but only one glass, in how she used to always keep within the speed limit, and in the continuous set-hours she worked, attested to this. Her addiction may have robbed her of her reserve, but the fear – however irrational – was still very much present.

Now without it… she had no block for her emotions. No choice but to feel them.

He heard it in the breaths she took, glimpsed it in the way her hands were non-stop twitching, as if looking for a hand hold.

Combined with the sweat on her brow, she looked liked she’d just been through the worst night of her life. Maybe she had: he’d seen her - the wreck of her - after they’d lost Tommy.

But this felt different.

Slade must have... Sara was right; they’d done this. They’d taken weeks in what should have only taken minutes to understand and because of it Laurel was suffering. Again. It took a lot to make Laurel Lance shake like that. Maybe his enemy had been different with her than with her sister. Or maybe Sara was simply used to fear tactics.

And speaking of Sara...

Her hands already behind Laurel’s head, “Hey,” Sara smoothed over her cheek as the woman fought for consciousness and won, “it’s me. It’s Sara.” Breathing so deeply, he wondered if she was having trouble, it took a lot for Laurel’s eyes to open again. But when they did - panicked - they flew towards her sister’s voice who said the words she obviously needed to hear, “You’re safe.”

Laurel stilled, eyes searching. “Sara?” She whispered, shaken.

Slowly, licking dry lips - bracing - Oliver stood up.

“I-I don’t,” the furrow between her brows was sharp - even from where he stood -and tainted by the fear she was obviously reliving, “I don’t understand.” She shook her head, eyes widening, still focused on Sara “He had us, he-”

“We found you.” It was simplicity at its best but it explained everything. “He let me go first,” Sara began calmly, grasping Laurel’s searching hand, “and I went to get help.”

“Help?” She sounded so confused, lying there and he knew Laurel hated not understanding everything about a situation. Even more so than she hated looking weak. Which was why she forced herself forwards once more, letting Sara help her sit up this time. “Who…?”

Still very much afraid and discombobulated, Laurel’s legs dropped over the side of the bed, her head turning carefully to look about her as her hand gripped Sara’s tighter for balance.

When her eyes fell on Oliver who was walking gradually towards the pair, she froze; the frown on her face emphasised by her surprise.

“Ollie?” Voice trembling, her eyes dropped - he was still in his leathers on the chance that she might tell him something he could work with - and he watched them light up in wonderment as she took him in.

And that’s when it hit him: he really hadn’t wanted Laurel to know.

It had taken months for him to see that he and she could and would never work and had made the decision to never bring Laurel into this area of his life. He’d gladly watch from afar as she made a new one; as she found happiness that had nothing to do with him, as she rose free from her addiction and found something new to fight for.

But now?

By the look slowly coming to life in her eyes, he knew that future was lost. Sara was right; Laurel wanted this. It seemed it didn’t matter if he did or not.

It felt hollow to acknowledge it.

Chest moving fast - she looked a little like she’d been touched by a cattle prod - Laurel spoke. “He told me but I…” She swallowed.

I didn’t believe?

He’d been right: Slade had talked to her. Telling her he was the Arrow as a way to either make her turn against him, or hinder him in future. And she hadn’t fully believed it. Understandable; in her eyes, Slade was just a lunatic who’d kidnapped her.

It didn’t help him now; it never would. But maybe he could salvage something from this mess.

When he came to a stop a step away from the medical table, her eyes fluttered back up to his face and before he could say a word she suddenly whispered, “I think I knew.”

Feeling his chest tighten - guarded - he just watched at her.

“I think I always knew you were him,” she breathed, swallowing again; her eyes shifting to and from both of his, as if both would reveal differing secrets. “I knew it in my bones that you were hiding something.” Widening still, the light in her gaze took on a quality he wasn’t sure he wanted to see right then. Not from her. “Something wonderful.”

Wonderful?

It certainly hadn’t been wonderful when she’d actively chosen to incarcerate him. He’d understood why... but that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt him.

Vigilante or not, he felt pain.

There were many times Laurel had spoken of and to the Arrow and most of his memories relay a very different Laurel Lance reaction. So, he had absolutely no idea what to say to that beyond, excuse me? Which he didn’t say.

He chose to just look at her.

And she seemed quite content with that. “You’re the Arrow.” Laurel didn’t have his problem with words either. “All this time.” And it was like they were thrown back to the year before, when she’d looked at him - the vigilante - with sureness, eagerness and anticipation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

It made something rise in his throat. It wasn’t pleasant. “I didn’t want to put you in danger.” His admittance made her breath stutter, made her glance down - to take a breath - before looking back up at him through her lashes, overwhelmed. “But I thought about it; I wanted to.” That wasn’t a lie either. He really had wanted to tell her.

But things change.

And for months now, he hadn’t wanted her to know a thing.

Still, it was what she wanted to hear. “To keep me safe.” Nodding - a quiet yet impassioned set to her expression as she did so - he saw through the slight sheen on her skin that her colour had started to warm. Good. She’d be fine. “I understand.”

She smiled, her large eyes fixed on him… and she didn’t look away.

There was an expectation there that he couldn’t read. What was she thinking about?

That kind of intent - from her - would have been so welcome once upon a time. And, it meant that she couldn’t see her sister who - still holding her hand - was similarly dressed for battle.

“It wasn’t just you.” He said and it made Laurel’s smile flicker. “I didn’t-” his brow became a focused line, “I had to-”

“It was for everyone.” So soft, he’d never heard that tone in her voice before; not for him. “To keep us safe, you decided to be alone.”

His stomach contracted. “Not completely.” His eyes travelled to her sister and flickered back to catch Laurel following him...

Then she saw.

And her jaw locked.

Her eyelids lifted and closed in a rapid series of harsh blinks as she tried to take in her sister. “Sara?” Like with him, her eyes dropped over Sara’s leather corset. Unlike with him, wonderment was nowhere to be seen. Something about the way she shook her head told him the image she’d built of her sister had just come crumbling down about her. “The woman in black, terrorizing sexual predators- that was you?” She sounded a little brittle. “I don’t understand. Why would you even do this?”

Concern and accusation warred within her tone.

“I was gone a long time.” Sara began, slowly; and to her credit she didn’t crumble under the weight of her sister’s judgement. She owned her actions. Even if she was ashamed of them. “And I’ve changed. We’ve,” she stressed, glancing at Oliver, “changed. I’ve seen things. And I’ve done things. And now I’m just trying-” so hard. Her breath left her: the more she spoke, the more it sounded like she was pleading with Laurel for something the older sister couldn’t give her, “I’m trying to be better. To make a difference.”

And sometimes I fail; it was a whisper only the like-minded could hear.

Sara was barking up the wrong proverbial tree.

“But why did you have to…” Laurel’s voice shook and she swallowed again before her tone took a sharp turn towards critical. “You’re not Ollie, Sara.”

Since when had Laurel thought him capable in such a way? It was intriguing. Especially seeing her now; in every look she sent him, a certainty existed. It was... odd. And he wasn’t sure whether it was genuine concern for Sara at her risking her life or… something else that had Laurel show the silver-black edge to her fear.

“You can’t do this to dad, you-” Abruptly coming to a halt, Laurel’s eyes flew from one to the other as realisation provoked them. “Wait, have you been in this together since the beginning? It’s been almost 2 years, I-I don’t…”

Betrayal. She sounded betrayed.

“No.” Oliver assuaged; stepping in without physically moving closer. “It’s only been for a few months.”

And that seemed to mollify her somewhat, which was another odd thing to him. “A few months? You mean, since you started dating?” It couldn’t be narrowed down to simply that. She peered at her sister. “You weren’t here last year?”

Sara shook her head, the expression oddly unreadable.

“And you’re keeping each other safe?”

That wasn’t their goal – not even close – but Laurel made it sound like a must. A priority. But in this line of work, the mission itself took precedence. He didn’t expect laurel to understand that and he wasn’t going to be the one to explain it to her. “We do what we can.”

It took a moment… then Laurel visibly settled with another unsteady exhale as she clutched at Sara’s hand like a lifeline.  “What happened to you Sara?” She asked her and Oliver could feel the way the question must have ripped through the strawberry blond warrior before him, “those five years? What-”

Sara stopped her in her tracks. “It’s a long story.” Which was good because he didn’t want another rendition of what happened to you Ollie?

He cleared his throat. “Laurel-”

“If you told Sara,” Laurel suddenly blurted out; her head whipping around to see him, “who else did you tell? Your mother-” with a slight jolt - as if remembering something - she gasped and he stilled, “Oh my God, Ollie, you attacked your mother.” Eyes and pupils dilating, memories must have hit her - hard - making an altogether new kind of sense now and her face tightened with it. “Oliver.”

She was chastising him.

Judging him. Like he was a child. On events - on his memories - that she neither understood nor was entitled to. Hadn’t she just approved of him keeping quiet?

Leaning back on a leg, slightly open-mouthed, he observed her as Laurel shook herself, her gaze going to the floor and thought; why am I here when I could have been elsewhere?

When he could have been there?

He was sincerely regretting his decision to stay.

“And Malcolm.” Lifting a trembling hand - as if she just couldn’t believe it - she muttered, “You killed Tommy’s father.”

Like being stabbed.

The tangent rocked him; his body literally swaying with it, like she’d shoved her fist into his chest just to squeeze his heart. “Tommy… there’s so much I haven’t seen before.” Finally, her eyes flickered back to him. “You tried to save him, didn’t you?” She whispered like it was brand new information. “I know you did. I know it.”

And for some reason, she needed him to know that she did too.

But she’d also had to ask… because she’d wondered. Briefly. That maybe he hadn’t actually tried…?

…because of their rivalry.

Yet now it seemed imperative for her to make him believe otherwise; just by seeing him as the Arrow, she’d erased her own doubts. How easy that must be; to align yourself with a conviction one minute and turn that belief upside down the next.

Or maybe, Oliver being the Arrow connected some dots for her that she’d desperately needed to aligned.

So… she was forgiving him. Even though she’d said-

“I saw you. Running away into the night. You didn’t save him. You were too busy fighting a meaningless duel with Malcolm Merlyn! And when people, people you told me you would protect needed your help, you weren’t there. I don’t think you wear that hood to hide that hood because you’re a hero. I think you wear it hide that you’re a coward; and I promise you, I will see you unmasked, prosecuted and sent to prison. Don’t ever speak to me again!”

Was he supposed to just… forget that? How it crushed him to hear; he’d lost Tommy because he hadn’t been enough. Then he lost Laurel because he would never be enough.

It was why that morning with Felicity meant so much to him.

Could Laurel forget her hate, forgive him... simply because of anonymity? Merely because of the mask; because she hadn’t known it was him? That just by being Oliver, made him very much redeemable? That because she knew him, it exempted him from all the wrong he’d done?

He didn’t know.

But somehow he also knew it wasn’t that simple; at some point there would be something Laurel discovered that she didn’t agree with… and she’d make sure he knows.

“All this time,” he heard her murmur, “you’ve been watching over the city. Like a guardian angel. Risking your life. A hero.”

I think you wear it hide that you’re a coward.

Sighing, the rigidity left his face and he closed his eyes.

He didn’t understand. He’d never understand.

And… he realised he didn’t care.

“Does this,” Laurel seemed to hesitate - he wasn’t looking at her so he wasn’t sure -before finishing, “have something to do with you both being shipwrecked?”

Not something. Everything.

“It doesn’t matter.” Low toned, he moved to see her again. It wasn’t the time for more… and there was no way he’d ever want to explain even a moment of those five years to her. “What’s important is that you’re alright.”

Staring at him, Laurel opened her mouth then closed it. Tight-lipped, she nodded, taking another deep breath. She was starting to look better already. “You’re right.” Fingers touching her forehead, she rubbed at a sore-spot. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

At that, he did step closer; his heart-rate kicking up a notch. “He spoke to you?”

Her eyes flickered back up to him and she stilled again; he watched them rove from his face to the green of his jacket, to his hands making fists in his gloves. And other places.

Was the drug still affecting her? She seemed… dazed.

Frowning, he spoke gently. “Laurel?” Maybe she needed some water.

Like she could read his mind, Sara set about doing just that and reached for the plastic bottle at her side as Laurel spoke again. “Sorry. I just…” Shaking her head, she gave him another smile; this one grateful and filled with something he couldn’t quite translate, “he told me that you’d come for me.” It was almost a whisper; velvety and entrenched. Like a caress. Intentional. He remembered that whisper. “That the Arrow would save me.” And he could imagine the way Slade might say too: an ounce of condescension mixed with a shot of bitterness. “I asked him why,” and as he watched, that same something making her smile filled her eyes, “and he said it was because the Arrow is Oliver Queen.”

Pouncing on the information, hoping to keep her talking, he moved closer. “Did he say anything else?” His eyes focused on her own rapidly blinking ones; shifting back and forth. “Anything about why he did this?”

Taking in a breathy inhale, Laurel own followed his. “W-What?”

He had to bite back a snarl.

“Did Slade say anything about what he wanted?” Sara pressed in his stead; her tone urgent, passing the bottle to her sister who blindly took it.

“I…” Blinking away; she looked to the space between him and Sara and took another breath. “It was all so confusing.” Forehead creasing, it was as if she were sifting through foggy memories. “I don’t- no.” It was sharper, sharper than she intended because she winced. She shook her head again, her eyes squeezing shut. “He sounded like a madman.” Anger and fear filled her face once more. “Who is he?”

Letting out a deep breath, Oliver shifted away, trying to control; the rush of heat that whipped through him, momentarily cancelling out the guilt. This - all of it, the waiting - was for nothing.

Sensing his frustration, Sara took over letting him drift a few steps away. “His name is Slade Wilson. And you’re lucky he let you go.”

“But why did he take us?” Looking to her sister in bafflement, Laurel declared, “I know his name now; it’s only a matter of time before I get an arrest warrant.”

This was what he was worried about.

“I need you to leave this alone.” Sara said as she rubbed at Laurel’s arm. “Please Laurel.”

And it was obviously the last thing her sister wanted to do. “He kidnapped us Sara. Dad can-”

“Laurel,” shaking his head, Oliver felt himself internally groan at the obstinate resolve in Laurel’s expression when her eyes flew back to him, “He’s beyond the police.”

She pressed towards him. “But I-”

“No.” Again, he shook his head. “You need to leave this to us.”

To the vigilantes.

Something biting, something searing, flashed through her eyes but it was gone a single moment… she breathed in and out through her nose; her lips pressed firmly together, her eyes dead set on him.

Neck taught; he watched her glance to her sister then back to him and caught her fingers tightening in a curl around the bottle that didn’t creak, surprisingly before she cleared her throat.“Alright.”

With that, he had the distinct impression that she’d just lied to him.

But he wanted to leave. To shower. To swallow his regret and forget the wasted night. So he let it go.

Taking her in, he muttered softly with a half-smile. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

When she breathed out, it sounded oddly loud - it trembled slightly -and her hand reached out to touch his arm in response. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Taking a step back - her hand didn’t drop away until the last possible moment - he strolled back into the recesses of the Foundry feeling two sets of eyes on his back, grateful that they couldn’t see his small smile fall and his face grow hard.

He’d waited for nothing.

He’d left…

Right.

Laurel took in another deep breath. She couldn’t not. Yet no matter how many deep breaths she took, she felt robbed of her oxygen. This is amazing. Surreal.

Ollie’s the Arrow.

Like it was written in her bones, the rightness of it echoed through her. I knew it.

It fit. It was right. This is right.

Everything made sense.

That was why he’d come to me as the Arrow, because he was Ollie. And she was Laurel. His Laurel. It all made so much sense now; for the first time in so long, the way forwards was crystal clear. She just needed to take that step…

With him.

“Laurel?”

Startled, she blinked towards her sister, taking another breath - hers had been knocked out of her by the fervent appeal in Ollie’s expression - with a smaller, more grateful smile. “I’m alright.”

She actually was: she’d never seen him look like that before. It was… different. Definitely not like Ollie. It wasn’t something she’d seen in him before. It was… more.

The Arrow.

She felt goose bumps rise across her back.

He’d watched her, had been watching her since the beginning. Since he’d come back home.

She liked that, just as she liked his intensity. It was different but it was a different she could get used to, especially if he was going to use it to show he cared. It had been years since she’d felt that, since she’d felt like she was his priority.

Little did she know, she always had been.

They were special. Together.

Shaking herself, she inhaled once more; don’t rush with this. It had to be natural. And now that she knew, maybe it could be. He and her sister were broken up now; unable to keep it together in a real relationship, just like before. Maybe it should have always been that way. Maybe in the past they should have been together - had enough of each other -first before Ollie and Laurel could get their chance.

Maybe it made more sense that way.

It would definitely explain why he’d acted like that after Tommy’s death, taking the sting out of his gesture, his ‘Dear John’…

He was the Arrow.

Sara stroked her thumb across Laurel’s knuckles, bringing her attention back. “Good.”

Laurel searched her face. “Are you okay?” Her baby sister, no matter how strong, had been taken too.

“I’m fine.” There was something shrewd in Sara’s eyes. “But you don’t seem too surprised by,” shifting on the spot, Sara gestured to the black leather, “me.”

“It’s difficult to ignore how you’ve changed Sara.” A half-cocked smile spread across her jaw. “I’ve had my suspicions about you for a while.”

But she’d never have guessed this.

Sara tilted her head. “Ollie too?”

Head quickly turning back the way he’d left, Laurel smiled again. “That was more surprising.”

“You said you knew.”

Laurel blinked, once, twice; her mouth slowly opening… “It’s still a shock.” Ollie Queen, a vigilante. Who knew? “Out of everyone I wouldn’t have pegged Ollie for the heroic type. I think that’s why I never allowed myself to think it could be him.”

It was as good of an explanation as she could hope for… because she didn’t really have one.

“Hm.” Sara jutted her chin out at Laurel’s dress. “You look like you got dragged through a sewer.”

Laurel snorted, eyeing her evening gown in distaste. “Close enough.” It had remnants of something grimy she forever wanted to wash away-

She froze when she remembered just how her dress had gotten stained.

Snapshots in the dark of a man - a goliath - towering over her, hit her mind and she gasped at the wave of dread that almost overwhelmed her. It was a confusing array of blurred images and hushed noises, of fear and confusion but the one thing she clearly remembered was how much that man frightened her.

One black eyed had seared into her.

And that last thing he’d said before she’d finally passed out…

“Look how stubborn you are.”  She couldn’t quite see him; he was beyond her range of vision, in the dark. “It isn’t a quality I admire.” But she could hear him clearly where she sat, restrained. “If I didn’t need for this to happen, I’d have left for boredom long ago.”

Sweating - scared out of her mind - she felt the effects of whatever drug he’d given her start to take root. It was all she could focus on; the dizzying way the room tipped on its side. “W-what did you give me?”

“It’s not of import. Not to you.”

Eyes widening and tearing, she looked for him as best she could; wishing, hoping that what he just said didn’t mean…I don’t want to die.

Vision blurring, she heard him sigh. “It won’t kill you.”

Then he came out of whatever hole she wished he’d fallen back down in. The shadows seemed to collect around him and it was too dim to really see him but… She wasn’t going to die. Deep breaths helped but those words helped far better.

“Do you understand what this is?” The man rumbled, walking towards her with such a casual air you wouldn’t think he’d committed multiple criminal offenses. “Do you know who’s done this to you?”

She squinted at him. “I don’t even know your name.” Tell me it. Now.

She’d have him in prison faster than she could say-

“Not me.” He was closer now. “Felicity Smoak.”

Who?

Looking up at him she saw his one uncovered eye - black like a pit - search her face. “You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”

She swallowed. “I-”

“Unbelievable.” He muttered strangely. Why should she care who this Felicity Smoak is? Licking the dryness from her lips, she tried to concentrate but he continued, stepping closer; the blurred edges to his form clearing slightly. “No matter. It won’t change anything. All you need to know is that she works for Oliver Queen.”

Ollie?

Something about this was important wasn’t it?

Laurel managed to peer into his face. “At… Queen Consolidated?”

There was another pause before he rasped, “Queen Consolidated. Of course.” It sounded odd. Like he was… patronising her. Like she’d missed something and he thought less of her because of it. The insult lit up inside her veins but she didn’t know what she’d done. “I have people everywhere now, watching you all. You, your sister. Miss Smoak knows this. Just as she knew that I could take you anytime I wanted. And she did nothing to stop me.” Already, whoever this woman was, a picturing was forming in Laurel’s mind and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Whoever this person was, there was no way Laurel would let her walk around, putting her family in danger. “Your father is next in line. With Felicity keeping quiet, it’ll be all too easy…”

He let the not-so obscure threat linger in the air and she glared at him as best she could, her fingers gripping the arms of her wooden chair.  “Why… are you doing this?”

At this he bent low, over her frame tied to the crooked chair. “Because I desire Oliver Queen’s unending misery and she’s close enough to help me crush him. It was why I chose her and it’s why you’re here now. Felicity Smoak… He has no idea, not about anything.” Then he sighed and there was something pitying in his features. His face moved in, closer to her own and she shied away; seeing his one eye roam her features. “Oliver should have kept a better watch over his girl.” Then - too fast for her to see the movement - touched her forehead, forcing her head back. “Take that with you into dreamland.”

Felicity Smoak.

Laurel had deliberately kept quiet about it.

There was a memory in the back of her mind of a glasses wearing, bottle blonde but the details were sketchy at best. Her face didn’t jump out at her; kind of pretty but... not much else of notice. She wouldn’t tell Ollie yet. When the time was right, when she knew more - when she understood the place this woman held in Ollie’s life - then she’d make her move.

He’d probably be so grateful; though she hated that he had to find out like this, she wouldn’t have it any other way than to be the one to tell him.

“Oliver should have kept a better watch over his girl.”

It was her place as his girl. I’m Ollie’s girl.

It had been a long while. And though it had been loathsome hearing it fall from the lips of such a lunatic, she had to admit she’d missed it, missed having that label.

Maybe now’s the time. To try once more.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sara’s voice punched through thoughts of Oliver and the future. “You kind of drifted off there.”

Exhaling, smiling, Laurel replied with, “I’m fine. I’m just… glad to finally know.”

Yes. Now she knew. Ollie was the Arrow. And now, finally, she could help him. Maybe this way they could become paragons for a city in desperate need of them. Maybe now, he’d see her as the equal she’d always been.

“Come on.” Sara muttered, taking a step back to gave Laurel room as she slid down from the table. “You need to shower. And sleep.”

What time is it? She doubted she’d sleep. She wanted eyes on this Felicity Smoak. Her own. She wanted to start learning about this person who works at QC. “So do you.” She couldn’t help glancing towards where Ollie departed. “What about him?”

Sara’s gaze followed hers. “He’s fine. This is sort of his home too.”

And just like that, laurel wanted to stay longer… in the cold, wet sublevel of what looked like an abandoned factory… maybe not. How could Ollie even want to stay here? It wasn’t exactly inviting. She’d had enough of cold and wet to last weeks.

And for that, Felicity Smoak would soon learn to never touch Laurel Lance’s family.

No more.

Like it was brand new, this punishment – one she knew he’d taught her weeks ago – was being refreshed. Washing over other memories, other times with him…

Please…. No more.

He was teaching her a lesson. She just didn’t know which one.

“Do you know,” by now, his voice shouldn’t be making the hairs on her skin rise, “what really happens to the body when it is subjected to below sub-zero temperatures?”

This was the worst part.

The baiting.

The education.

Still… she couldn’t find it in her to care. He’d drained her dry of it for one night.

All she could do was feel. Everything that he was forcing her to physically feel was exacerbated by how emotionally closed down she was.

That and she still had water in her mouth.

Chucking it up, so sexy - the factory floor was by no means clean anyway, so splattering it with water and saliva wasn’t going to make worse what was already congregating on it - Felicity choked on a breath; it was sweet. An immense pleasure. Pressing her forehead against the sopping stone ground, which was just as chilled as his words; her mouth opened wide with a reflexive gag as if stretching it further would get her more air. They don’t teach you that at school. They don’t teach you to fear drinking water.

They don’t teach that Waterboarding was a torture still employed or that oxygen deprivation made you see and hear things that aren’t there, made you smell coffee and cinnamon and soap. Leather. Made you think you were elsewhere for a while. Anywhere else but here would be heaven.

Throat sore - hoarse - she absently thought it was odd how barrages of freezing water could make your gullet so dry.

And it really did when it was poured relentlessly over a thin piece of cloth - her gag -covering her open mouth. Retching, she made a sound she’d cringe about for days afterwards; oh, I’m going to hurl. If he tired that again, she would; all over his shiny shoes. Take that. And then what would he do? Said cloth was to her side, ripped off by her teeth. He’d probably force it back on her in a minute; her very own muzzle.

Yet having a drink was the farthest thing from her mind.

“Felicity.”

Her eyes shut tight. Stop.

She didn’t want to talk… but if she didn’t say anything he’d definitely do it again.

It was her name used to push, as a taunt. Instead of a sentence, a paragraph, a page full of meaning - an entire language known by one person - in a single word.

Oliver.

It was ridiculous but, he’d say her name and she’d warm. He’d split it into its syllable components and she’d be comforted, reassured by the familiarity. He’d whisper it - murmur it in that deeply masculine way of his that made it sound less of a whisper and more a pledge - and she’d wonder whether he knew that he made it sound special. Or if he in fact did find anything distinctive about her at all. Even when he was on edge or exasperated with her, he managed to say her name with a consistent awareness of the letters it was made up of.

…Did Oliver know that her name on his lips was a secret between the two of them?

And it was as if Slade knew about it.

The way he’d rasp it out, taking no care to ease the snap of the T, the drawl of the C… as if he’d heard Oliver say it- heard the way he stroked her name with his tongue -had witnessed her physical response to it and had deliberately copied it in the most unpleasant, the most threatening and debilitating way he could manage. Altering it - twisting it - from a beloved sensory stimulus - no one had ever said her name the way Oliver did, does - into a source of rippling fear.

Or at least it used to be. It used to be that she couldn’t hear Slade say her name without wanting to cry. Without wanting to curl up and hide.

Now she was just vaguely concerned that his treatment would leave visible signs come the morning.

Far from shivering at it, her stomach tightened; a whip of something lancing upwards. Flickers of anger flaring through her here and there; enough to form coherent thoughts. That’s not yours. Like the way he’d tilt his head… they weren’t his to take, those idiosyncratic nuances. But it was as if he’d watched them so diligently that he’d picked up on their verbal and non-verbal cues to exploit for his own caprice; using it to wring out of her every drop of fear and hopelessness he could devour.

But it wasn’t a device; he didn’t use it to blackmail, to coerce. It wasn’t about a goal.

He did it, used it, simply because he could.

His idea of a ‘good time’. A well spent night.

To make a trophy of the way she’d look at him whenever he did; as if he’d betrayed her, as if he’d stuck a knife in her. As if he’d kicked a child. As if he’d taken her years of study - her degree, her masters, her subsequent years working a manager’s job at QC with the pay of a lowly technician - and had eradicated the evidence. As if she couldn’t possibly understand how he could be so cruel to someone like her, someone so meaningless.

How he thought he knew that with each flinch in her expression, each time her fingers curled into claws, into fists, that he’d won something.

In a way, he had.

It affected her. Still. Frequently. And it would whilst part of her sought out the comfort friends provided just by being there, by standing close; friends who hadn’t noticed-

Stop it.

It wasn’t that… she was hurt that they couldn’t see it. It was natural for anyone to want to be cherished in such a way… it was more that she’d hidden it from them so well that she felt that there might be something wrong with her. That she could live with it the way she had been doing… that she could lie.

And be believed.

Not here. Not now. She had to concentrate. She knew full well the ramifications for disobedience; if she delayed too long in responding without permission to dawdle, he’d either shock her or shove water down her throat again.

Or he’d smack her back with the palm of his hand.

Not exactly the most supreme of horrors on a normal day, she knew but... have you ever been slapped - as in skin of skin - by a man with Mirakuru in his system? His hands were like bricks. And she was talking, repetitive slaps. Her back still held bruises of the last time he’d done it. His idea of a joke, probably. At least she hoped it was…

Your skin is quite lovely.

She really hoped it was a joke.

“I…I’d say,” talking hurt, “I d-don’t want to know,” oh that really does hurt, she sounded so much worse than she felt and she was starting to tremble from repeated exposure; “b-but I think…” her every other word was a jumbled mess, “you’re going to tell me anyway.”

On her shins - her knees - fully bent over herself, his smooth chuckle grated down her spine from neck to coccyx. Like a hacksaw on wood. “How well you know me.”

And didn’t that just make her stomach roll. One reflexive gag later and she coughed out: “Better than I ever wanted to, I assure you.”

She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to see him. Really didn’t want to face what was next. Not again. No more.

Please.

“Vasoconstriction.” So abrupt was his voice so close to her, she jolted; recoiling. But there was nowhere to go. “The human body is a magnificent work of art; it reacts in ways we cannot anticipate. Believing we have dominion over our bodies is the ultimate delusion.” She felt him shift before the chair in front her - the one she’d been forced into until she’d fallen out of it -groaned in objection to his weight as he slowly sat upon it. “What you’re feeling right now is the shrinkage of your blood vessels.” Softer now, his tone made her want to retreat; it was a camouflage. The type dangerous predators employed to lure in prey and keep them entranced. “There is a battle waging beneath your skin,” creaking wood made her realise he was leaning closer to her, over her; the more he leaned the quieter his voice became, “it’s focusing any and all of its remaining resources on keeping your vital organs warm just as your trying to control the urge to pass out.”

When she felt a light tickle on her soaked scalp, her nails dug into her palms. He was playing with her hair.

Just like earlier, after the first time he’d pulled her hair back to re-secure her gag: through the white of her shirt - a shirt he made her wear - it was easy to see the shape of her breasts, her puckered nipples… he’d stared over her for several seconds before he’d both softened and hardened. Before smiling once more.

Multiple showers. Soap and water. Scrubbing brush. It would never be enough.

“The sympathetic nervous system,” he continued, seemingly wrapping several strands of her hair around one of his fingers, “goes into extreme excitation: your blood pressure, heart rate, respiratory patterns - they all speed into excess.” All but breathing that word - excess - his low tone went through her like a knife into butter. “Mental confusion can follow this, sometimes a bout of memory distortion.” He hummed this like it was a question, dropping her hair; she had the distinct impression he was evaluating her. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re coherent. Impressive.”

And her dreams were complete.

As if sensing her silent contemptuousness, a rough chuckle echoed from deep in his gullet. “No, I don’t suppose you’d appreciate my admiration for your strength.”

That pulled at her rib cage. Shut up. He was trying for a Stockholm effect between them. It wasn’t the first time. And each time it failed. Still, he was persistent.

Lifting her head, it took every last ounce of her so-called strength to sit back up: to look him in the eye.

It had been a while now since the sight of his one eye, intent on her own, ceased to make her flinch and she told him right there, without words, that he could go straight to hell and veer port at purgatory along the way.

His subsequent grin was as sharp as the sword he carried, but it was the glint in his eye that shook her.

How could he - or any human - be so thrilled with this? With putting her through this. What was he getting beyond knowing it would hurt Oliver? Beyond being a sadistic psychopath?

“It’s the same response to a partial drowning,” abruptly speaking, she blinked; it was more of a flinch and as usual, he didn’t ignore it. His grin filled out into a predatory smile as he added, “I’d like to see how far I can push your body.”

What?

She stared at him; dread making her mouth open slightly, making her heart rate shoot up a notch… wasn’t he already?

Before she could think past it - before she could take another breath - she felt large hands shove beneath her armpits from out of nowhere and yank her up; forcing her into standing when her legs weren’t ready.

Shouting out -Slade was still calmly sedentary in front of her - Felicity had roughly 2 seconds to recognise the scent of cigarette smoke and foul aftershave. Frank. Bile poured up into her throat but he pulled her backwards with enough force that, before she could swallow it, it flew out of her mouth with a glob of saliva and onto the floor. Points for a class act.

It didn’t matter; she was being dragged away.

Stopping Frank was a lesson in the impossible, one she’d learned over and over… but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t try; even knowing the results.

Yet it was futile.

Because before she could dig her feet in, jut her elbows back, fight him tooth and nail – the world tilted and she was thrown bodily sideways…

Into freezing cold water.

It hit her chest first; the rush of temperatures below the appropriate making her heart squeeze tight enough to hurt and panic made her choke on air she didn’t have. Blindly pushing against the floor, she broke the surface of the water-

Only for Slade to wind a hand into her hair and fist it, tightly; pulling her round to see his face.

Expressionless, he muttered. “Hold your breath.” Looking over her pale-faced self - her hands a death grip on the metallic side of the poor excuse of a pool - several strands parted from her scalp and he would have seen her eyes water if her face wasn’t already wet through. But she couldn’t look away from him; you don’t when a killer has you in their sights. “Don’t pass out.” He ordered and this was different; this was full submersion, not partial. “I won’t resuscitate.”

It could kill her.

She spluttered out a, “W-wait-”

But he pushed her back down - effortless strength - forcing her head under water-

She came to life on a choke.

Like something had broken - something inside her crumbling into dust - her neck cracked when her back abruptly arched; up, up, up, until only the ball of her skull, her coccyx and the heels of her feet supported her weight.

Mouth wide open - eyes the exact same way - images flooded her head like a shockwave of information. All flash; no substance. None of it registered. None of it mattered. There was no ‘connect’. All instinct, no ‘mind’-

-She wasn’t breathing.

The realisation, the thought… made her think. Made her realise she could.

Breathe.

Fast - too fast - her lungs expanded; oxygen infiltrating her body and making its way into her brain.

O-oh. There was nothing more beautiful in life, in that moment, than air.

The surprise of it slammed her body back down against the... the what? Something hard. Cold-

-The bathtub?

But bathtubs weren’t flat.

Not the bathtub.

I was just in one though…

Comprehension was slow coming, but come it did.

It had an unrecognisable, primitive sound - like air forcibly suctioned through a crushed pipe and the unwilling duct had a voice box - leaving her as her body flailed again for support. Uncontrolled. Senseless.

Blind.

Gasping -I can’t see- her eyes flew open the same time a panicked yell ripped itself out of her abused throat. The sheer nothing in her vision scared her to death. Why can’t I see?! It ricocheted around her on invisible walls, making her twist and jerk in all directions, gasping and moving. Wherever she was – some room? It felt soundproof; like she could feel the sounds waves against her.

And freezing.

Quiet.

Loud, her breaths were so loud against the silence. It made her sound inhuman. But there wasn’t enough oxygen, not enough getting in. It wasn’t enough to simply inhale and exhale, not when that gift had almost been taken from her. With one hand.

Powerless.

God, I am.

She hadn’t been able to do anything.

A chasm of misery deep in her chest had her hands clenching down on the rim of whatever was holding her up, her defensiveness - helplessness - making the howl of frustrated desperation churning to rise squeeze the light out of itself.

Sight wasn’t an option but it didn’t matter; almost fully sat up, her head dropped forwards; heavy with the weight of…

I drowned.

Curving her spine to allow a moment - just one second - to gather that tempered steel she thought she’d possessed in full not too long ago - to try to fortify herself, to try and piece together where she was and how she got there -Felicity tried to remember her yoga. Her meditation.

Not that she wasn’t gloriously thrilled to be here. Alive. I am all for life. Yay life!

The defeating drumbeat of her heart in her ears, she sucked in a breath. Let it loose. It still didn’t sound right; like she’d injured her larynx and the noise made her cringe. But she did it again. And again. And a-

You have no idea do you?

Breaths stuttering to a standstill, she gazed into the abyss.

Slade.

He’d been there. He’d said those words. He was in my... in her bathroom.

It was her space- it wasn’t supposed to be private anymore; he’d destroyed that illusion but oh god, he’d been there, in her bathroom - where people presumed to knock first. To not enter. To let her rest. To let her have her day; her Sunday.

Now… it was gone. One more thing gone.

He’d just... he’d just taken her. Hadn’t he?

She wasn’t at her house anymore; it didn’t smell the same; it was damp and long forgotten. Sad. Derelict – how a place, a room, could smell derelict she didn’t know but...

For a moment, the encroached darkness became her friend. Her shield; it covered her completely. No one else could see her. Nothing else existed. Slade didn’t exist. This whole situation and everyone in it. They. Did. Not. Exist-

‘Tomorrow. You’re on the back of my bike’.

Oliver.

And the slow, steady, uncoil of her next breath was suddenly torturous.

He was real; the only real that mattered. Even in the dark.

Alone in the dark.

It wrenched at something deep, something strong inside her.

Say it.

“…Oliver.”

Irrepressible.

That weakness in her. The strength of it. Her need to reach for security in a name. In a sigh. Whisper of a wish. One that couldn’t come true because he didn’t know that she’d almost been drowned in her bathtub-

A dry sob, stifled by her hand - eyes and brow line creasing in effort- almost made the damn break.

It meant letting it back in. All of it. Every poisonous second.

‘I can’t start the day; I can’t do what I need to do, until I know that the people I care about are okay. That you, my Girl Wednesday-’

But she had too; there was no choice to make. She had to see it now. Had to face it, to be strong enough… because all of it, everything, was for a reason.

She had to-

“It’s still Friday.” She reminded him, as if she were saying ‘please remember this time’.

-Fight.

Always fight.

No cowards here.

No hiding.

Don’t run.

“Friday,” he conceded before continuing as steadily as an oncoming train, “is safe. That you’re with me,” lifting an arm, he pointed in her direction, “and safe. It is important.”

It was in her chest; warm where she kept it secret. Monument Point. They had to make it to Monument Point.

For that to happen… she had to let it all in.

Right. She breathed out - there’s a lot counting on me not freaking out right now, like a small boy with sandy coloured hair and a shy smile coming closer to Starling City - forcing herself to calm way the hell down.

But the dark held horrors. It hid the bad from the good.

It hid the demon of a man who’d leant over her, watching her bathe. Who pressed her down. Touching her however he liked, even if it was to drown her-

Her hands shackled into her hair, pulling at the scalp in a moment of sheer irrationality-

-Don’t you dare touch me-

Insanity.

She took a shuddering breath; he wasn’t there with her. He didn’t have his hands round her throat- No. But muscle memory was just as painful as the physical trauma itself.

Sentient memory was a cruel friend.

And.  She. Remembered. Every. Single. Moment.

Hands flying up to her throat, her body jerked as the recollection of too much water entombed her, slamming into her like a punishment for trying. That something normally so inoffensive could be turned into another waking nightmare. A bath. Now, a torment. And the brain can make you believe the nonsensical. It made her throat close again, made her splutter and heave until she bucked to the side; spitting out remnants of the liquid she’d inhaled.

Then her back hit the solid surface once more. “This is so not a good way to wake up.” Tired, she sounded like she’d been smoking a pack a day since she was 12. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Rinse, repeat. Savouring the repetitive act of living and functioning.

But he held me underwater.

It didn’t matter what she did for a living or who she knew. It didn’t matter if she was genius, if she could take undeserved punishments including being forced beneath freezing cold water, it didn’t matter if her companions were shot at on a daily basis; right now, she was just a woman who’d been held underwater by a man much stronger than she was.

It had nothing to do with egoism on her part.

The pressure behind her eyes began to climb. She hadn’t cried - because of him - in weeks. She wouldn’t start now. Yet… he hurt me.

Again. And it didn’t even faze her anymore. But this… this was different.

Sure, water boarding was something he’d introduced and re-introduced to her and from all of ways he’d found to torment her, that was her worst. It terrified her whenever he took her to that steam factory with the pipes, because there was always that possibility that she’d accidentally inhale too much water and asphyxiate. Water in the lungs was not a good way to go.

And he wouldn’t care to help her if that happened.

There were worse things but… he’d made her think she was going to die. Head fully submerged; she’d literally thought he’d keep her under until her heart stopped. He hadn’t relented. She’d blacked out before he’d released her.

Is that why I’m shaking? She was, violently. It’s freezing. No doubt about it. Her arms and her fingers... they were almost numb. She brought them up to cross over her chest, flinching when they pressed against exposed skin-what the…

No.

Don’t tell me...Dread rising, she shivered again and the violence of it made the table beneath her creak. It was old, worn. Not. Safe.

Am I… naked?

Her arms brushed over the chilled skin at her waist; uncovered skin. Oh God.

It hit her all at once: how the air licked her uncovered self, how horror seeped into her bones, how it forced her to gradually realise - the light doth beckons - how wrong this all felt.

Her hands glided over her stomach, trailing up to her chest-

Yep. Naked.

She was sitting on some rickety table in some dark room somewhere…naked.

The very real fear that had lain dormant beneath a swell of panic, wrapped around everything else she was feeling and tightened into a painful knot about her. Immobilising her.

Why. Am. I. Naked?

One does bathe naked after all.

But why was she still naked?

Did he just leave her naked when he took her with him? Didn’t bother to cover her, didn’t show her an ounce of that same odd - slight and creepy - respect he offered when he was hurting her; he just brought her out of her house, into his car… and drove away?

For the whole world to see.

Something heated - utterly wrathful and terrified - rose up her chest, to her face and before she knew it, she was wrapping her arms around herself as she desperately tried to see into the darkness surrounding her, all the while trying hard not to think I’mnakedI’mnakedI’mnakedI’mnakedI’mnakedI’mnakedI’mnakedI’mnakedI’m naked-

And anyone could be out there, beyond the door. There had to be a door, a way out.

A small murmur, a ripple of vulnerability, escaped her mouth. Get passed it. Her eyes closed and she breathed in and out once more; I am a leaf on the wind, before they re-opened. Her hand fell away.

There was no way she could function right now if she remained focused on what she couldn’t control.

Like the knowledge that Slade could have killed her. Easily. Followed by knowing that he hadn’t.

Slade wasn’t the type to restrain himself partway through - what looked to be a premeditated - murder.

Had it been anger that made him find his way into her home?

Fleetingly, the thought that he’d been finally done with her had flittered through her skull as he’d drowned her. And is she was honest with herself, some relief had come from it. But she was alive so, no to that.

She could only guess that his ‘attempt’ - hilarious since she’d had no power - had been an upswing to Slade’s nightly terrors. A new torture for him to try on her. It made her wonder how he chose the ways in which to hurt her? The promise of death.

Does he compare and contrast against how I’ve reacted before now? Is there a website detailing the many ways in which to crush someone’s spirit? Boredom? I mean, who doesn’t love being killed in their own bathtub…

It was as if the silence about her allowed her to witness the picture more clearly.

Oh.

She got it.

It wasn’t about killing her. Not at all. He didn’t want her dead. It was something far simpler.

He’d taken Sara, Laurel…

Serve the best for last.

It was far from the compliment it sounded; in Felicity’s mind, there was every chance that Slade had taken the Lance sisters but hadn’t been able to hurt them like he hurt her. They were more: tougher than she was in so many ways. Sitting on top of the feminine pedestal of beauty and strength. And she was the weak link. The one he could play with.

He’d built up an appetite during the day and he’d wanted to satiate it. Of course.

“Fucker.” She whispered to herself, trying pull out of herself a little aggressive courage-

The low rolling chuckle echoed out into the gloom and obscurity surrounding her.

Her body stilled so swiftly, so determined to remain hidden, it hurt. Every bone taught and every muscle stretched into immobility - her mind worked at one thousand miles per hour; too fast.

But there was someone in the room with her.

Chest pulling painfully tight, her heartbeat felt like it was ricocheting off her rib cage. I’ve been lying here, naked - and there was someone else in the room the entire time.

A male someone.

It almost broke out from her; the moan - the sob - because god, she’d lain there, exposed, vulnerable, panting and terrified - near to crying - and a stranger had watched - listened - to the whole thing. A new level of creepy she hadn’t wanted her life to touch just then. Or ever.

Mouth opening - she’d already stopped breathing - her eyes fixed on several points around her, still seeing nothing but trying to locate the origin of the vile odour of smoke, cheap aftershave and sweat all the while trembling at her mounting panic because-

Please not Frank. She’d beg for that, for it to not be him here. Not Frank. She brought all of herself into as tight a ball as possible-

“Don’t do that.”

It was truly painful, the relief. It was utterly sickening, knowing he’d been there instead.

She swallowed. “Why-” another swallow, come-on, the hands on her legs tightening, her fingernails digging in, “why are we in the dark?” She ground out, gritting her teeth, glaring into the black.

I hate you.

It would be more convincing if she weren’t a trembling mess. But it seemed being naked came second to being blind. And Slade had, unfortunately, seen her naked before…

His hand moved off her neck but before she could thank the universe for small mercies, the same hand stroked across her collarbone… then down between her breasts, resting there with his fingers splayed. “The softness of your skin is exquisite.”

Disgust - the memory - made goose bumps speckle the skin of her arms and back and a very quiet voice, one she ritually quelled in her moments with Slade, say I want to go home. And home wasn’t a place.

Not anymore.

But her home now, it wasn’t hers to call as such. So find a way to deal she must. I am my own Yoda; there is no half-arsing this Felicity. Put up, shut up.

Then go for a ride.

When his voice broke the fragile stillness of the room - like a crack in a pond of ice - it was with a drawl as lethal as it was confident. “Does it bother you?” Still quiet, the hoarse quality to his voice made it so each word crawled fingers of fear - fear and perversion - over her. “Being unable to see me?”

Of course it does. But she didn’t answer.

“Or is it the darkness?” He surmised, his tone taking a turn for reflective. “Are you afraid of the dark Miss Smoak?”

Again, she didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her voice would tell him far too much about where her mind was at. About how she was feeling, about how scared she was right now. And she needed to see him; to be face to face with her personal bogeyman.

“Here,” he abruptly uttered, as though he were the generous type. “Let me.”

With a click on a wall - a finger flick - the room was coated with bright light - or bright compared to no light at all - and her eyes opened and shut, blinking away the sting…

Oh; she was in that room. The one where he’d caned her. The place where he’d take her if he was feeling particularly hateful. Once white washed, the grime on the walls had made her stomach shrink into itself.

And like she was being pulled towards him, her squinting - watering - eyes eventually fell on the man sitting on the only chair in the room.

Completely unmoving.

Silent.

Brown eyes touching black, they reflected the dim light from the low hanging bulb that had been a source of torment the few times she’d been here. “Sleeping beauty awakens.” The shine should have given his face the eerie mirror effect of being completely without feeling. A reflective surface. An autonomous creature with no emotion and no name.

Except, this was Slade. So when twisted on its head - the dirty yellow of the light shining in his eyes gave him a cover; the completely disturbing illusion that he was something of a demon.

And he was, in a way. Oliver’s demon. Her tormentor.

Those eyes, already on hers, almost made her turn away. She always made sure to maintain it with him. Except, today, it was one of the most difficult things she’d ever done.

Locking eyes with the man who’d drowned her.

Instinctively, she pulled herself in a little tighter. Physically, he could do what he wanted but her mind was a fortress.

“Shame.” Still so quiet, the grate of his metal against metal voice- the honest quality to it - made her think he really did find whatever he thought was shameful, shameful. But then he traced a path, without touching her, down her tightly wound body and exhaled. “I was enjoying the view.”

It smacked her in the chest making her next breath come out as a hiss. No. After all these weeks he could still shock her. No this; no way. He wasn’t doing it again. He wasn’t going to play her; she wouldn’t let him and she told him so with the defiant way she sat on the table...

Slowly, like a snake, he smiled. The barest showing of pearly white teeth. All bite; no warmth. No heart. Nothing.

Damn. She shut her eyes, feeling her stomach convulse. No matter how much she fought against him, he still terrified her.

And he knew it. “The Mirakuru,” he drawled as if he had all the time in the world; and he did, “it heightens the senses. It may have been dark in here for you, but for me, it was… clear.”

The way he said it; the undertone, the insinuation... that he’d enjoyed himself. That he’d kept silent so as to prolong the experience.

What could she even do with that?

Holding herself taught, still - together- she managed to say, “I’d rather not be seeing you at all.”

As if a laugh had gotten caught somewhere between his oesophagus and the back of his throat, an odd grunt escaped him. “I thought you’d say something like that. Not that it matters.” Of course. And she didn’t need to see him to hear the sharp smile in his voice when he said, “You chose this.”

Yes. She had.

She also hadn’t. He knew that too. He knew that he’d played on one of the main things that separated them: morality.

And love.

She opened her eyes and looked at him; her face carefully blank.

He stared back.

Clenching her jaw she eventually bit out, “Can I have some clothes?”

His head tilted -give me a break already- and shifted a little in his chair. “Cold?”

Bastard. Stubbornly refusing to speak, she waited. Jaw locked. Body still.

There was this change, a subtle alteration in his manner - nothing overtly physical or obvious - that had the air in the room feel suddenly very close. Meaner. The expression on his face lost all mirth but the light in his eyes - also without any kind of warmth - remained.

She’d seen it before, but even after all these weeks, it was still… disturbing.

“I said,” he started, and the following two words - though stated in a near whisper - were like canon fire on her chest, “are you cold?”

He didn’t say it the way it as meant. Each word was its own sentence and each sentence was a threat.

Answer me, or don’t answer me. He’d once said. I don’t care. Either way, I get what I want; an answer… or a way to pass the time.

In her moment of justifiable anger, she’d forgotten. She was completely at his mercy. And the last time he’d been feeling whimsical and irritated with her, he’d used the cane. She couldn’t go there again, not when her skin was finally starting to heal.

Lips dry, she replied just as quietly, “Yes; I’m cold,” except her voice shook when his was as steady as a rock.

For a while he didn’t do or say anything else.

Then all at once, he moved; lancing up like a spear - making her flinch - and strode purposefully over to the door. He didn’t look at her; he was turned so that his back was to her like a taunt that he knew she couldn’t take. There he bent and she was so attuned to his presence that she hadn’t seen the bundle on the floor but when he straightened once more, turning, she saw he was holding what looked like a white shift and white… shorts, her stomach dropped. No underwear. Of course not.

They looked like something she figured an in-patient at a mental asylum would wear. Except for the shorts.

Those were specifically for her discomfort.

No panties offered, but she could wear a pair of white shorts that, if soaked (and it wouldn’t even take that much liquid), would turn completely see-through, same as the shirt.

He walked closer, step by step – because that’s how he moved; one foot forwards followed by a pause – and each action was a deliberate attempt to unnerve her already unnerved self.

“I should say that you have nothing to be ashamed of,” he muttered, his eyes very much on the skin of her arms and legs and great; he was talking and very much not giving her the clothes to wear, “but I imagine that would mean less than nothing to you.”

You assume correctly. Still, she remained silent. Prey often does in the presence of their captor.

“Here.” The softness of his voice did not take away from the way his eyes tried to murder her should she try to be stubborn once more.

Immediately reaching out to take them - one hand hesitantly leaving her body - he snatched them back just as her fingers brushed the material.

His eyes bored into hers. “Stand first.” He ordered.

That’s when she felt sick - it dropped thorough her like a heavy stone - which was why she whispered, “No,” immediately, her eyes begging him.

And she never begged; verbally or otherwise.

A ‘tut’ sound rumbled free from his mouth and before she knew it, one large hand – the hand he’d drowned her with – traced around the skin of her wrist, seemingly gently, to grip it.

Then it tightened.

It didn’t stop tightening - not until her bones cracked under the pressure. And her muffled cry in response - her lips pressed together, it hurt - had him sending her a look she hated him for. It was almost tender.

He mouthed, “Up,” at her.

Already preparing the wrench herself back - she didn’t want to move, to stand and expose herself further- she opened her mouth-

“I’ve already seen you.” Naked. It was harsh - the truth usually was - in the silence of the room. “And I carried you here. Now, be a good girl and…”

Do as you’re told.

He didn’t even have to persuade her anymore. She knew from experience what he’d do next if she didn’t stand.

Probably drag her from the room just as she was and put her on display. Yeah, nope. Not happening. His men had seen her in her underwear before; but full nudity was ten steps too far.

Then again, how many actually saw him carry her in here?

Pushing aside the deeply troubling thought, Felicity clenched her teeth -the muscles around her stomach tightening so much that she almost couldn’t move her hips - she unfolded herself off the table. It was only when her feet touched the floor - her gaze steadfastly on his; you look me in the eye or not at all - that he passed her the clothes.

Though she was expecting much worse, his gaze didn’t move from hers either. “Was that so hard?” He drawled.

You have no idea.

She’d never known hate before. Never had such cold venom thrown at her this way… she’d never been so close to feeling like she wanted to hurt someone. And that was what he gave to her.

The knowledge – experience – of hatred. Of hating and being hated. Do I hate him?

Could she?

Unruffled and uncaring, he jutted out his chin. “Put them on.” Turning away from her, the lack of his eyes on her made her shudder in relief. “I have things that need attending too.”

Oh goodie. “You could just leave me here.” Please. Feeling the cool air all over her, she quickly shook out her makeshift outfit, muttering over her fear, desperate to cover herself up. “I’m shocked you’re actually giving me something to wear.”

She just had to push it. The shirt went up and over her head and down her chest when she heard him stop at the door.

“Miss Smoak.”

Pausing, wincing (dreading), she glanced up at him… and wasn’t prepared for what came next.

The jagged edge of his grin was no longer present. His eyes didn’t smile. He looked grim in a way that told her she had to take him for his word.

“I’m not a barbarian. I would never go that far with you.”

Her mouth opened in a soundless display of disbelief, this isn’t funny. She could see it: he believed that. That everything he was doing, the way he was acting, was required. All for the woman he’d lost; he’d gladly step on his own heart, be a monster, to wreck revenge on a world unjust in his eyes.

But in THIS, he drew a line?

Sure he would.

She knew… she knew the moment he chose to; he’d break that promise too. She couldn’t push it.

But then he grabbed the handle of the door and twisted it and she all but flew into her shorts.

Focus. Stop shaking.

She needed to know why he’d taken her. Straightening, she found he’d held the door open, wordless waiting for her.

This time.

No.

It stopped her cold.

He’d taken her down a corridor that stretched into infinity but it wasn’t until she’d walked - was forced - into the heart of the empty warehouse area adjoining the weathered building housing that room, that she started to realise the possibilities of why. Why she was there. Why he’d taken her.

And it wasn’t capriciousness on his part.

Any hope she’d of this being exactly that - a whim of Slade’s that she could navigate - was destroyed.

Every fibre of her being hated this. The trepidation, the wondering, followed by the knowing of what was going to happen, the slow comprehension that she’d been way off base – and the question she knew she had to ask because he’d make her draw it out of him like water from a sponge before he confessed voluntarily.