{Author's Note}

So, I was watching the Felicity episode of The Flash – yes, that's the name of the episode as far as I'm concerned – and her bit of dialogue about "Quiet dreams you keep to yourself…" seemed oddly autobiographical. So here I am, with an ongoing collection of stories about what Felicity might be dreaming to herself. Some will be fluffy, some angsty, some smutty… okay, fine. Lots will be smutty. Don't judge me. In any case, let me know what you think by leaving a review. Feel free to leave requests/ideas for future chapters in the reviews too. This first one is SFW, but I made the rating M preemptively, because you and I both know it's going to happen.

The cover art is not mine. It belongs to someone more creative than I – I just added words to the bottom of the picture. You're totally impressed, I know.

I clearly don't own these fools. But can you imagine? I can.

Quiet Dreams

Chapter One:

"Sweet Nothing"

Felicity Smoak was a dreamer.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. Felicity Smoak was an IT expert, hacker extraordinaire, and blonde sidekick to Starling City's hero. She was a Cancer, not that she paid any attention to that or read her horoscope in the paper every morning or anything. (She totally did.) She was effervescent and chatty and optimistic nearly to a fault. And under all that, way down near the core of who she was as a human being, she was a dreamer. It was an unfortunate side effect to being a genius in the public school system – she was rarely challenged, not until high school when a techie teacher recognized her potential, and her brain had nothing better to do than to turn thoughts into movies that she could play back as she wished. It was a way to fill the boring gaps in the school day, and then it was a way to fill in the time she spent at home waiting for her mother to get off work – she didn't get a computer until the summer before eighth grade, so before that it was just her and her daydreams.

The habit never really left her. College was hectic, but she still managed to find enough time to live in her head for a while every now and then. When she got hired as a new grad at Queen Consolidated she had even more time. Being an IT girl was mind-numbingly easy for her, so daydreaming at work was a frequent occurrence. She didn't even have to stop working to do it – fix this router, imagine getting a promotion so she didn't have to fix anymore routers. Someone else would come to set up her routers. Set up another firewall for the company's Research and Development branch, picture herself getting contacted by the NSA to help save the country from a cyber-terrorism attack.

Most of her dreams were related to her professional life. Being a particularly gifted MIT grad, running around the building as glorified tech support was somewhat less than fulfilling. She wasn't particularly interested in her own company – being Oliver's executive assistant and seeing what he went through on a daily basis pretty much cured her of ever entertaining that fantasy – but being in charge of a department? An IT department, or maybe R&D? That she could handle. It was easy to imagine herself in a power dress, probably cobalt blue with shiny black heels, ordering interns around and getting her hands dirty in the lab. The NSA would definitely want that version of Felicity Smoak. Who wouldn't?

In the last two years, however… career-related daydreams were few and far between. She had more career than she knew what to do with. She had Ray Palmer and QC during the day, and the Foundry and Team Arrow at night. It was more than enough to keep her from entertaining dreams of NSA recruitment – she wouldn't have time to save the world even if she wanted to. Besides, she was content helping save Starling City. So, instead of dreaming of a new and better office, all of her imagination these days was devoted to deep green leather and a pair of surly blue eyes.

And what blue eyes they were, even if they were connected to a brain so damn obstinate that it made her want to stomp her feet and scream at him. Which she did, at least twice in the last two weeks. Tensions were high these days. To be fair, she gave him nothing to work with. His recent overtures, subtle as they were, had been met with flat looks on her end. It killed her to do it. Part of her cheered that such an emotionally closed-off man was suddenly able to throw around words like "want" and "feel", but the other part of her just shut down. She couldn't hear him talk like that because it ripped her in half to hear how much he obviously still cared about her. And he did. He did care about her, even more than she'd previously realized.

But it was too late.

Oliver had made his choice – he decided that they couldn't be together. He couldn't risk her, and he couldn't let himself give in to what he really wanted because he was still the Arrow. She and Oliver were finished a few seconds after they started, even if she hadn't known it when she'd cocooned herself in red silk and stepped into those golden heels. But she knew it now. The knowledge weighed on her every day, just like she could see it weighing on him. It was too much to ask her to ignore the longing glances and the obvious difficulty he had trying not to touch her. Every time she failed to warm to his guarded romantic gestures, she had to pretend she hadn't seen his face fall. Really, what Oliver accomplished that night in the hospital hallway was a rather ingenious plan to make them both perfectly miserable.

The tension escalated every day. All they could do was snipe at each other anymore, which was always followed by wistful gazes and a deep longing for things to be different. This was who they were now – partners, friends, and now coldly civil coworkers in too much pain to function normally. It had to be fixed, but neither of them knew what it would take. Actually, she did know. Felicity wanted more than anything to rise above this, and to go against Oliver's wishes. To make her own bold decision that could change their lives forever, because it was obvious that this point that their lives needed changing.

Tonight, sitting at her workstation deep within the Foundry, Felicity dreamed that she was brave.

She leaned back in her chair and turned to watch Oliver putting away his gear, muscles playing under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. It was a scene she knew almost as well as she knew her keyboard. His process was the same every night – arrows went into their assigned racks, and the bow was put away in a glass case surrounded by LED lights. It was easy to imagine herself slipping out of her chair and tip-toeing over to him while his back was turned. She took her shoes off hours ago, and he wouldn't hear her bare skin on the tile. She could almost feel the cold under her feet.

In her mind she did just that, giving up the safety of her perch for more treacherous waters. He was distracted, trying to buff out a scrape from the curve of his bow. Knowing she could wind up getting decapitated if he was caught too much by surprise, she stepped up behind him and reached out to place the very tips of her fingers against his spine. The column of bones shifted slightly under her, moving in tandem with his breathing. He could easily have whirled around and backhanded her out of reflex, but some part of him recognized her touch. Or at least she liked to think so. He tensed under her for a few moments before putting the bow away and locking the case. She waited patiently, knowing from the tension in his shoulders that he was expecting the worst from this encounter.

When he did turn, the strong line of his jaw illuminated by warm blue light, he didn't look at her immediately. Oliver's rich blue eyes look at the floor first, noting her bare feet and the bright polish on her toes before traveling up to finally look at her face. It was easy to see that he was braced for something ugly – for more petty arguing, because that was what they did now – but most of the fight had bled out of her. Rather than offering words, Felicity reached forward and took his wrist, trailing her fingertips up his arm. The skin of his forearm was surprisingly smooth and she reveled in the feel of it. Oliver stayed wary, but kept his eyes on her hand and his mouth blessedly shut. She could have stayed here forever, could stay safe within their normal boundaries. They did plenty of arm and shoulder touching on a regular basis. But Felicity didn't want normal, regular, or safe. She wanted him.

Her fingertips left the skin of his arm and slowly moved to his side. She rested her palm against the hard muscle surrounding his ribcage and could feel him suck in a quick breath. It thrilled her. His heat seeped through the fabric of his shirt and melted into her hand, forcing her heartbeat into a strong gallop. Felicity had always nurtured a fascination with his ribs. There was something about them that made her want to trace them with her fingertips, appreciating each one individually. And so she did. With him watching her every move, she followed the contours of muscle and bone like they were a map she needed to commit to memory. His eyes followed her as she learned each dip and valley, each muscle fiber that made him whole. It was the closest to hypnotized she'd ever been.

Oliver cleared his throat.

Felicity raised her eyes, greeted with blown pupils and flushed skin. He was still waiting, watching to see what she was doing. He hadn't decided yet what was going on, or if he should be discouraging it. Or if he wanted to. Both of her hands were gripping his sides, allowing her to stand close. Closer than they'd been since… since then. He let her stay, seeming to lean into her, and for a few moments they breathed the same air. It was several seconds before he felt the need to speak. When he did, his voice was rough and barely more than a whisper – the voice he used only with her.

"Talk to me, Felicity."

It was a plea. Not an obvious one, but a plea nonetheless.

"Will you listen, Oliver?" she asked, holding his gaze.

"Of course."

Her fingers flexed into his sides.

"I miss you." She felt the burn of tears behind her eyelids but she refused to give in. She needed to tell him. "I feel like we are so far apart – all of our common ground has disappeared and I don't know where it went. We fight and get hurt and stop talking and it kills me. I have never felt so far away from you. Ever. And for what? Nothing means anything anymore, Oliver. It's all petty crap because we don't want to really talk about what's going on. Every second of the last few months has been miserable and I just miss you so damn much."

His hands fall on her shoulders.

"I miss you too," he rasped, fixing his heavy stare on her.

The acknowledgment made her stomach flip, and suddenly she realized that there was hope for the two of them. They could fix this.

"So what are we doing to do about it?"

He offered no advice, no suggestion; his stare never wavered. She felt pinned by it, held in place. Despite the intensity in Oliver's expression it was obvious to her that he wasn't going to act first. She could sense it like she could sense most things about him, like the minute changes in his mood and subtle quirking of his lip when she spoke. Still, even though she could feel the tension and readiness to act radiating off him, he held back. For the first time in maybe ever, Oliver was letting her call the shots.

Her life. Her choice.

She fisted his shirt in her hands and pulled him to her, pressing her breasts into the hard wall of his chest. Her lips found his unerringly and his taste exploded into her consciousness like a roman candle going off in a dark room. Their kiss was needy and desperate, bordering on rough, pulling from her a depth of reaction that their first kiss hadn't. The scrape of his stubble against her chin sent shivers down her spine and she gasped, opening her mouth to him. He took the invitation, moving his tongue against hers with a single-minded determination. His fingers sifted through her loose hair and a soft cry left her throat, shared in the air between them. Her heart hammered in her chest and she could feel Oliver's racing pulse under her hands. When he finally pulled back – hands still cradling her face – he swallowed hard and looked at her like she was the only woman on earth and he had a long list of every single thing he wanted to do to her. Felicity was struck.

He was perfect.

So perfect.

And more than that, they were perfect together.

"Don't make me live without you, Oliver Queen," she whispered against his mouth, "Not if this is what living without you is like."

He answered with a brief smile and kissed her again.

"What did you say?" his voice asked. He was miles away, from it sounded like.

"Hmm?"

"Felicity."

"Mmm."

"You said something."

"No I didn't."

"Are you going home any time soon?"

The question jarred her out of her trance. When she shook herself conscious again, she was still sitting at her workstation, legs crossed under her. She didn't have Oliver pushed against the LED case, her hands wrapped in his shirt. He wasn't kissing her like both their lives depended on it. It wasn't real. The realization made her sad, but almost immediately after that she was just tired. Tired was all she could manage anymore, and also she was pretty terrific at it.

"Yeah," she finally said, reaching for her coat and pulling herself out of the chair. "Yeah, I'm going home."

Oliver cleared his throat. "Can I, uh, walk you out?"

The hopeful look on his face was too much – there was no way she was going to turn him down. She smiled and nodded, waiting patiently while he got his own jacket and headed up the stairs. When he held the door open and looked back at her, a brief smile grazed his features that made him seem years younger and much happier. It was a smile she knew was reserved for her, and the little candle of hope she held for him flared brighter. It felt normal, felt so right, and she let herself smile back at him. For the smallest of moments, she had hope that things really could be okay again.

A girl could dream.