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 eyes – like black pits – 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 eyes – those hateful, cold eyes – 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 eyes 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 eyes – none of his smiles touched his eyes – 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 promptly closed the door, pausing momentarily as the shock kicked in before racing to her bathroom to dry heave…
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…
…She'd been there, five weeks prior, 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 10th 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…
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