*looks around* Anyone there? I've missed this place. Really. And who ever thought I'd be writing a multi-chapter fic for Oliver and Felicity?

I sure hope some of my Stefan and Elena fans pop over for this one, it's gonna be a bumpy ride and I can't do it without at least a few of you.

General Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine.

This fic is for a special someone I hold super close to my heart, ish: Congratulations for your ship becoming canon. You totally called it.

1.

She was quiet the whole way home. Her lips, burgundy and thin, were pressed firmly into a tight line. Her dark hair was pulled up away from her neck in an intricate bun with tiny wisps folding around her tanned, expressionless face. I was smiling.

I think that's how it always was; she was one way and I was the other and we were never the same way at the same time. We had so much in common, but it left so little to explore. I knew enough about Laurel Lance. I'd had enough. So now the only way I could satisfy the fire inside me was to make her feel anything but complacency for me. It wasn't an impossible task.

"Did you enjoy dinner?" I ask her. She doesn't respond.

Tonight, we'd argue. It was one of those things we did dutifully as a couple. I imagine it's what keeps her with me, to be honest. She was always on the cusp of an explosion, but she never truly allowed her emotions to take over. She was too rigid, too careful for that. She'd only allow herself the luxury a day a week. Today was that day.

She would never know it, but these were the times that she was the most attractive to me. When she'd curse and allow herself to bare her emotions, I'd allow my body to react to who she was as a woman. The only time I could feel my cock harden for her, and only her, was when we fought. I couldn't decide if that made me sick, a bastard, or both.

I pulled the car up into the driveway and bit back my smirk when she slammed the door behind her. The metal of the door clapped angrily against the body frame and I couldn't hold back my wince though my mouth was still pulled up in a grin. I watch her thin frame wobble up the house steps on high heels I knew she'd discard as soon as no one was looking. And I was right. True to fashion, by the time I made it through the door, they were off.

Our home was bland and very similar to my condo I had B.L or "Before Laurel." When we first started dating, she had much more life and would fall over herself in a pathetic effort to be the girlfriend she was known for; the beautiful, vivid girl my mother introduced me to. She soon realized that I didn't need that. I needed quiet companionship and an occasional orgasm. I was never looking to find the love of my life.

She stomps over toward the kitchen and reaches for a wine glass. I roll my eyes and kick off my shoes before tugging on my tie. I hear the sound of the dark liquid falling into the glass but I don't look at her, angering her even more. She slams the bottle down.

"Could you at least look at me?"

I hold back my snort and meet her desperate and wanting stare. That's what Laurel felt for me: desperation. Not love. She'd like to pretend it was something more, like she was in the midst of some unrequited love affair. But she never wanted to love me, she only wanted to conquer me. She only wanted to tame me.

She sighs and takes a sip from her glass and places it back on the counter. Her dress is crumpled and falling around her; her mask of indifference has fallen into disgust. "I can't keep waiting forever. I'm almost thirty years old, Ollie. I want more." She murmurs the words painfully, like a bitter prayer.

I can't hold in my snort this time. "So do I. I want more than you." She flinches, "You don't see me complaining and stomping my feet around the house, do you?"

She holds her glass tighter to her body and glares. Then she pointedly tugs at the necklace hanging gently on her chest. She twirls it aimlessly and I watch the diamonds with suspicion. "You bought me this, you know." I didn't. "You can spend thousands on me on a fucking necklace, but you can't even marry me?"

I don't answer her. She puffs out a gust of air and her breathing picks up. "Answer me, Oliver."

I don't. Beside my foot, her glass shatters on the hardwood floor. I clench my jaw and stare down at the broken glass. I lift my gaze to hers and scowl. "Are you done?"

She whips around and turns to move up the steps. I hear her jostling around and stomping her feet in a desperate attempt to garner my attention. In the meantime, I grab a paper towel and pick up the broken shards of glass before the bitch gets too crazy and tries to kill me. I smile at the thought and toss the glass in the trash can nearby. When I've cleaned the area completely, I hear the constant thud of something being dragged down the steps.

I barely spare a glance at her. "What are you doing?" Disinterested, I reach for a tall glass to fill with my scotch as she pulls her suitcase along.

"I'm leaving."

I scoff into my glass and let the warm liquid fill my mouth. When the familiar burn graces my throat I smirk. "Where are you gonna go?"

She pulls some objects off the mantle and shoves them into her bag. "I don't know, away from you. I can think of something eventually."

I take another sip. When she's had her fun and made her round of the living room, I set my glass down. "You aren't going anywhere."

She laughs darkly to herself. "Watch me."

"Where do you think you're gonna go, Laurel? Because let me be clear about something: once you leave, you're done. I don't want you back here again. I don't want to see you again." I stalk toward her. Her eyes flood with tears and she wipes a stray one away with the sleeve of her dress.

"Fuck you, Oliver."

I chuckle sardonically, "You already have. And chances are, you will again tonight."

"You," she spits out at me, "are a horrible, horrible man. A true fucking bastard."

"Exactly," I say evenly, "I'm the horrible, horrible man you put on lingerie for every night. I'm the fucking bastard you wanna spend the rest of your life with. So what does that make you?"

Blood rushes to her face and she kicks her suitcase down. I smile.

She runs a hand through her hair and walks toward me. "You take me for granted, Ollie. You think I'm always going to be here and I know that you need me to be here. You don't want to be alone, but you will be if you don't make any kind of effort to show me that I'm the woman that you love. We've been together for four years and we haven't even talked about..." she stares up at the ceiling lost in her words.

"...our future," she finishes sadly. "I want that future. You asked me what loving you makes me and I'll tell you, okay? It makes me the woman who will stand by you and love you because I know that you need it and that I can be everything that you need."

You'll stand by me. You'll do everything that I want. You'll be everything that I need. You want to save me. You want to love me. You think I deserve it. You think you're the woman that I love. You want a future. You'll be everything that I need. You'll be everything I need. You'll be everything I need.

But you'll never be enough.

She wipes away the rest of her tears and I finally see the beauty in her. Red faced and blotchy, I see the side to her that isn't revealed often. But now I'm sick of that, too. I'm sick of the same cycle, of getting the same high to a woman who was not a potent enough mixture for my lighter.

"So, what," she says, sniffling, "are you gonna fuck me now? That's usually how it goes." She laughs, but she's being honest. And I have no doubt in my mind that if I asked her, she'd bend over in a heartbeat.

I lift a hand and curl my fingers. She rushes over, eyes darkening with lust. I'd never understand what she saw in me. I'd never get it. I reach my hand out to her breast so that I'm cupping it gently, feeling her nipples harden immediately through the thin material of her dress. She lets out a soft whimper and her eyes close almost mechanically.

My other hand leaves a burning trail down to her waist and to the edge of her gown. Her legs are smooth and soft and toned and I take my time appreciating it. I take my time to appreciate her.

It's not long before my left hand is up her skirt, feeling the lace of her underwear, so expensive, so predictable. I trace the patterns gently but I don't touch her. Not where she needs me to.

She doesn't beg for it, either. Her legs are practically shaking, but she's biting down on her lip so hard she might draw blood. She's completely silent. She spreads her legs further in a silent plea and I grant her her wish. I push her panties aside and bask in her arousal, the only thing a woman could not fake.

I slip two fingers inside of her and she finally moans, loud and clear. It was so guttural and so natural that I wanted to cry. I'd been with Laurel so many times and I knew just how she liked to be touched. If you ghosted over her clit, barely touching it with your thumb, she'd start to shake and gasp like no other woman can. If you rubbed her, curled your fingers while stroking her walls, you'll get her to moan in a way that will make you question everything you know about sex and what it means to give.

But none of those things gave Laurel what she really wanted. It was when you'd plunge your fingers in her sex over and over, where you can hear the skin of her folds against the back of your hand, that was when she'd do all those things and more. Her juices would fall over your hand and she'd tug on your hair until she finally came, gasping your name and smiling beautifully. She wanted to be touched the same way that she claimed to love me: desperately.

Her eyes glowed in the light of the family room and I could tell that all was forgiven. I pulled my hands from under her dress and bit down on my lip. It smelled like perfume and baby powder. And with the way she smiled at me, happily and false, I was left feeling like I just fingered a fucking barbie doll.

God, she made me angry.

"I want you to do something for me," I approach her carefully, peering into her eyes with my own. I never knew the color because I never thought about it enough to care. I could now say with mild certainty that they were hazel.

She gazes back, eager and ready to please. Always so ready to please.

"I want you to pick up your suitcase, grab my clip off the nightstand, and get the fuck out of my house."

Her eyes widen and then fall. "No, no, no..."

She reaches for me and I pull away abruptly. "Get off of me."

"Ollie," she whispers, "Please, please. You don't mean that. You're just angry, and you're saying that. You don't mean it. You don't." I wipe my hands, still slick with her arousal, on the front of my jeans.

I did.

She reaches for me again and I reel backwards, raising my voice. "Laurel, leave!"

She folds into herself and her shoulders begin to shake. The back door alarm beeps and a familiar tall frame joins us in the family room.

"Sir, is everything alright?"

"I want Miss Lance out immediately. Help her with whatever she needs." I ignore her soft cries and head to the den.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

Diggle tilts his head to the side and nods. "Okay. That's fair. If it makes you feel any better, I think you made the right decision. Although, as always, your methods were a bit off."

I smile, genuinely. "I wasn't looking for your validation, Dig."

"But I offer it anyway." He moves from beside the door frame and sets himself on the opposite end of the couch.

"Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that you're going to talk to me about the one thing I said I didn't want to talk about?"

He grins to himself and brushes his hands across his jeans. "I've been the head of your security team for how long now?"

"I believe it's been six years," I say, thinking back to when I first hired him for the job.

"It's been seven," he corrects me pointedly. "And in those seven years, I've watched you spend your time accomplishing some of the greatest things on your own, without the help of your family. You've devoted yourself to your work, and you have things to show for that. I'm a lucky son-of-a-bitch, because I know you."

"I feel an impending 'but.'"

He shakes his head. "No. None of those. I just want to see you want more for yourself, that's all. I don't think that Laurel was right for you, but she had a lot of good points. You can't live amongst all of this on your own. You need more. You should want more."

I don't respond.

"I know a long time ago, things were different with-"

"Don't." I hiss. "Don't say her fucking name like you know her, Digg. You don't. Hell, I don't."

He licks his lips impatiently, "Look, something has to change. You can't be like this forever."

Like hell I couldn't. Diggle was my friend, for all intents and purposes. I'd like to believe that he would be here, saying the same bullshit to me regardless of whether he was being paid by me. He was just that kind of guy.

"I'll do what I have to to get by. That's what it's always been about."

He doesn't like my answer and I don't expect him to. Instead, he smiles grimly and stands.

"I think I'm going to head to bed. You probably should, too." I nod but don't spare him another glance as he makes his way out.

I was alone again.

This time by choice, at least. Removing Laurel from my life was the best thing for both of us, even if she couldn't see it right now.

The saddest part of our separation was that I felt nothing. Where was the black hole that everyone said would appear when you lost someone? Why wasn't I sad? Had I lost so much of myself that I'd lost the ability to feel anything at all?

Because that's what I felt. Mind-blowing numbness.

I don't know when it got this way. It's hard to remember how I slipped from the boy who was never not smiling to a man who had to remind himself every day, and it haunts me.

Only slightly.

For a moment, I allow myself to think about what Diggle told me. Maybe I should want more. Maybe I should push harder to create a life for myself outside of my work.

But I guess the truth is that I don't need more.

I'm awoken by my own coughing fit that rattles my lungs.

I really was an old bastard.

I cough harder until the itch in my throat soothes itself. Only when I'm sure I'm not going to die, that's when I reach for my nightstand. I bring the water bottle head to my lips and suck down the liquid greedily until I feel safe.

Setting the drink back down, I brush my hands over my bare chest, goosebumps gracing my flesh. A shiver rips through me and I curse.

"Jesus Christ, it's cold."

I stand from my bed, the hardwood on my bare feet intensifying the frigid temperature of my body. I toss on a t shirt and grab my balled up socks from beside my door.

The creaking outside my bedroom makes me pause.

"Diane?" I call out to my cook. She's the only one who slept on the same floor as me, other than Dig. The footsteps were too light to be his.

"Dee?" I ask again, just to be sure. When she doesn't answer I shrug.

"I'll figure it out in the morning..."

I walk over toward my bed, wobbling a bit. A little bit of dizziness hits me suddenly and I immediately reach for my headboard.

We did have dinner at a new restaurant. Who knows what they fed me. I probably have some odd form of food poisoning.

I lay down on my bed again, curling into myself.

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