Safety First

Category: Friendship/Romance

Pairing: Olicity

Summary: Oliver unexpectedly finds himself helping Felicity train and quickly comes to the realization it's not just her safety that's motivating the impropmtu lessons.

Warnings: Slight spoilers for 2x14 'Time of Death'. No warnings just fluff.

Disclaimer: Own nadda.

Authors Notes: My first Arrow fic :) Set somewhere around season one. I'm planning a group of one-shot chapters that will all loosely follow on from each other. Reviews are always appreciated and welcome!

Felicity Smoak is his IT girl, not a field agent... or at least that's what he told himself the first time he saw her dressed in workout gear. He'd been flippant about it, pointing out that her talent sat with computers not running around playing G.I. Jane.

In hindsight that had been a mistake for two reasons; firstly because he'd completely missed the fact she was feeling insecure and secondly because he'd discovered, not long after, that he couldn't always be around to protect her. The bullet she'd taken for Sara had well and truly rammed that truth home and he'd made sure to tell her afterwards that she was always going to be his girl, reassuring them both of her place on team arrow, before going home to deal with his own short-comings.

He'd learnt his lesson... so when he catches her throwing punches in the darkened arrow lair he decides to abandon his plans to leave and stick around for a bit. What could it hurt?

Placing his bag gently on the ground, he's careful not to disturb the quiet as he watches her. It's late and everyone else has gone home, something he would have done too if not for the stench of garbage and sewer that had to be scrubbed from his skin. It's been a long day and he relaxes into the few minutes of silence, stealing them to properly assess her technique. It's not terrible. She's got a strong stance and her throws are determined but the drive is weakened by her shoulders, the muscles lacking the necessary definition to gain a good momentum.

Not that he's complaining.

The tight spandex works in her favor highlighting that she's definitely more women than warrior and his eyes stall lower than they should appreciating the fact until his brain kicks in. Now is not the time to be checking her out and he clears his throat, announcing his presence before his thoughts land him in trouble. "Not bad... but you need to lift your elbow more."

The comment startles her and she jumps as he steps from the shadows, trying to mask a rush of embarrassment. "When did you... actually you know what? I don't want to know... I was just-" she pauses taking a breath, "have you ever thought about getting one of those collars with a bell?"

"I've thought about it-" he hides a smirk, keeping his face deadpan as he approaches her, "couldn't find one in green."

"Then that is your Christmas present sorted..." she mumbles it to herself, titling her gaze up as he takes a lazy step over the mat. At first she isn't sure what he's doing but when his hands land squarely on her shoulder she quickly takes the hint and turns back to the bag. "It's okay, you don't have to-"

"Yes, I do." He cuts her off, positioning her elbow so her stance is more structured. If he's going to help her then he's going to do it right. "I was a jerk the other day... there's nothing wrong with you learning a few moves, especially if it means keeping you safer."

She doesn't miss the protective edge as his fingers breeze up her arm or the masculine soapy smell that settles around her. He's clearly just had a shower and she's suddenly conscious of her own hygiene, having spent most of the day crawling around in the dust and grime trying to repair a damaged circuit board.

"I'm not clean-" she blurts out the statement before her brain can filter the thought. "I'm mean you smell really clean. Not that I was smelling you or anything because that would be way weird but I'm sure you don't want to get dirty again. Not that I'm saying we're going to get dirty, so not what I meant-"

"Felicity," he bites his inner cheek to keep from smiling, "focus."

"Uhuh."

She swallows sharply, acutely aware of his hand pressed against her back.

Focus.

She can do that... just as soon as she recovers from the heart attack she's most definitely having.

"Keep your hips spread diagonally to the punch," his voice is low and commanding, urging her into the position and he's surprised at how easily she submits to the direction.

It shouldn't effect him but it does, causing an inquisitive jolt to rush through him. Would she be this submissive in a more intimate setting or would she be more interested in taking control? His chest tightens at the thought, fully aware that her bedroom preferences should not be the first thing on his mind right now and he quickly dismisses the idea with a soft, steady breath, "you want to turn your shoulders and drive your elbow back... then swing through your front and into the bag. Got it?"

Got what? She wonders, hoping the comment hasn't made it past her mouth. She has a bad habit of letting things slip when she's distracted or dazed and his close proximity is definitely a number one catalyst for both. It's not until he finally lets his hand drop that she actually remembers to breathe, biting her lip in order to recall his instructions, "got it... keep my legs spread and start swinging."

Her eyes widen at the inappropriate phrasing.

That was what he said, wasn't it? Oh god, she wants the ground to open up and swallow her but it doesn't and she's left with little choice but to push on, take aim and hope her subconscious has retained something that will help. Bouncing on her feet -because that's what they all do in the movies- she swings hard into the bag and is surprised when the chain rattles loudly above them.

Whatever she just did... it worked.

"Wow."

"Better-" he confirms, folding his arms over his chest, "now... try it again." He doesn't want to tell her that she looks adorable or that the 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' look of pride has his stomach doing somersaults. That might work on him but it's not going to stop the next madman that's out gunning for blood and if it does, that possibility scares him even more.

She nods, turning back to the bag and pursing her lips in concentration. If nothing else he's taught her that paying attention and avoiding distractions is key. Which in theory should be fine, so long as she never has to go up against someone bearing any physical resemblance to Oliver Queen.

Then she might just find herself totally screwed.