Author's Note: This story came about after the epicness of that flash forward scene in the limo... it screams mob au, doesn't it? Enjoy.
She watched as he stood at the foot of the grave, displays of flowers surrounding him. The flowers were a mockery - a bright point in the sadness of her loss and the loss of the entire outfit. Her mother had been bright and bubbly, but tough as nails and cruel when necessity dictated. The flowers were a true mockery on her memory.
He began to stride toward the limo, his muscled body shrouded in the black suit. She always felt he looked best in a suit, but he constantly disagreed. He was the only one she allowed to disagree with her; anyone else would mean potential revolt. He opened the door on the opposite side of the limo and slid in, shutting the door after him. She listened as he let out a breath - a long held in sigh.
Her eyes remained transfixed on her mother's grave, the headstone tall and lonely amongst the flowers and green grass of the private cemetery. She fought back tears.
"Are you okay, Felicity?" Oliver asked, his voice clipped and professional. Beneath the surface, she could hear his affection for her.
"Are you?" The question was ridiculous. It wasn't his mother buried six feet under. But he answered anyway, quietly.
"No."
She fought the urge to look at him, to drown in his soulful blue eyes and lose herself in the warmth of his protective embrace. But she knew it was not the time. It was the time for retaliation. It was time to end things.
"You know what you have to do, right?"
She waited for an answer, but nothing came. Silence rested between them.
"You have to kill the son of a bitch."
She heard Oliver take in a deep, thoughtful breath. The kind of breath that signified his distaste for a situation. But he doesn't say a word.
"Do not seek me out until you've finished it," she continued, leaving out the obvious implications the order might have on their secretive relationship. "I will not see you until you've killed him."
After a few more tense moments of complete silence, she heard the door open and his simple, one word answer: "Understood."
The look on her face had said it all - it had spoken what her few words had not. He knew her far better than she was willing to admit. Knew the bubbly and adorable woman beneath the coldness and beneath the persona she had learned to bear so well. But now beneath her coldness lay a broken woman. A woman shattered by loss and the bitter need for revenge. And he would give her what she sought no matter the cost.
He would return to her victorious. He would return to her to lend her his shoulder to cry on, along with whatever else she demanded. And she demanded so much. So much and yet he would agree to so much more if it were her asking.
"Oliver, where's your head, man?" Digg asked, eyes squinting down at the empty car parked outside of an old hotel long since abandoned to the trash of Star City.
"You know where," Oliver replied, his fingers twitching as he waited.
Digg pulled his gun out from its holster and released the magazine, checking to see that it was loaded to capacity. Completely full, as per usual. Oliver mimicked his friend, finding his magazine full with shining bullets waiting for a new home.
"You gotta keep your head clear, Oliver."
He nodded. Digg was right, as per usual. But it was difficult for him. The weight of Felicity's demand was crushing, so painful against him. He turned his gaze back to the car - back to the dredge of lowlifes that were cascading out of the crooked doors of the building, turning and leaving in all directions. Three men remained at the car. One a driver - unimportant. Two enemy enforcers - important. Oliver squinted, watching the men as they conversed. They were making a deal, or talking about a deal. It didn't matter much what they were discussing. All Oliver knew was that this was the beginning. These men would be the catalyst for the fire he would set throughout the city.
All in her name. All in Felicity's name.
His fingers twitched as he held the grip of his gun, the worn rubber catching on his calloused palm. "We follow them when they leave," he murmured. Diggle hummed in agreement. "They'll lead us to our first target."
The box sat on the foot of her bed, a sad reminder of her world and the rules her parents had set. It was rather plain and unassuming, just a dark old hat box with a silky red ribbon as a handle. Her family's color - the color of the outfit.
She stared at the box, her heart pounding straight up to her ears. It was the box that had been hidden in her mother's bedroom, deep in the bowels of her walk-in closet. Felicity was the only one left who knew of its existence - the evidence of the biggest rule within the family: Hide all personal belongings. Photos, all forms of identification, momentos. Even birthday cards were hidden away from prying eyes. She couldn't recall a time when family photos had been displayed proudly in frames. It simply never happened.
The lid taunted her, begging her to lift it, even if only an inch. It begged for her to see what her mother had deemed too dangerous to leave accessible.
Felicity scooted closer, crossing her legs beneath her. She reached for the lid, fingers trembling and palms sweating. She had never looked inside this box. She had always been kept out of her mother's room and she had certainly never ventured into the closet. Now her mother's heart and soul was sitting before her, exposed and vulnerable. But she could no longer keep away from the secrets. She had to understand the woman who had been so influential to her and yet so closed off and distant.
With a quick movement, she lifted the lid and placed it gently on the bed beside the box. Inside, everything was a mess. But, the longer she stared, the more organized it began to appear. A great care had been taken in making it appear disorganized - like a box of old junk. The sort of box one might toss old papers in, just in the off chance they might be needed one day.
The deeper she delved, the older the memories became. The smaller her photographed self became - younger and innocent to the life her parents led. Smiles missing prominent teeth. Pigtails and glasses much too big for her face. It was no doubt that she had been the apple of her parents' eyes, regardless of their coldness and secrecy.
She found her mother's passport, as well as numerous false identities. Felicity wondered if things might have been different if her mother had used one. She had plenty to choose from. She imagined her mother sunbathing on some exotic white sand beach, old fashioned sunglasses shielding her eyes and her blonde hair shimmering in the rays.
Then her mind shifted to a more likely scenario. A scenario for herself. A safe haven she longed to experience.
A breezy, open air villa in Bali with a view of a gorgeous beach. It would be sunset, with red and golden light painting the sky. And a pair of strong, warm arms would be enveloping her in their comforting expanse. Oliver. It could and would only ever be Oliver Queen. Her forbidden lover. Her only true friend. Her everything.
She could imagine the perfection of such a getaway. Long days filled with lazy cat naps and slow lovemaking. Trips to the beach with childish antics and luxurious sunbathing. More lovemaking throughout the night.
Her cheeks felt warm thinking about it. She wondered if it would be worth it... to pick up and leave for dreamy locales. With Oliver, everything was dreamy. The coldness she had slowly grown to rely on was wavering, her mask slowly dropping to reveal her true self. The girl from those photos. The quirky, intelligent mind hidden behind years of training and conditioning.
Oliver knew the real her. He knew her true self before she had been willing to reveal it. And he loved her for every facet of her being.
Her hands hovered over the box, letting the memories slowly cascade in and out of her mind. The waves of her grief had begun to dissipate, leaving behind a heated, swollen anger that she had never experienced before. It was overwhelming, cutting off connection to her daydreams and leaving her heart hammering in her chest.
She needed revenge. She needed her mother's killer to get his just desserts. And most of all, she needed Oliver. She needed him more than she liked to admit.
She closed the box, unwilling to clutter her mind with the past. Her future was uncertain. Her plans were risky. Her goals were even riskier. She hopped of the bed and lugged the box to her closet and buried it beneath a pile of old clothes, along with her own box. She eyed the hidden secrets before switching the closet light off and shutting the door. As she turned, the first thing she glimpsed was a shadow on the floor.
Not her own. Someone else's.
Then she saw him. An enemy enforcer. One low on the totem pole based on his uncertain stance and youthful face.
"I'm here to finish this," the young man growled. Felicity supposed it was meant to be menacing, but she deemed it laughable.
"I don't think you have what it takes to finish this," she said, taking a step back toward the vanity flanking the closet door. She knew her small .380 pistol was there, loaded and ready if needed. And it was definitely needed now.
"You underestimate me."
"You underestimate my men."
The young man glanced around. "What men? I don't see any men."
Felicity sighed, attempting to appear calm as she took another step back. "If you were actually planning on finishing this, then why are you blabbering? Not that I have any problem with this vocal exchange but-"
"Shut the fuck up, Smoak!"
Felicity held her hands up. "Relax." She studied him for a moment. She studied his stance and the almost undetectable tremble of his hands, one holding a shimmering knife. "You've never done this before, have you?"
The hand holding the knife loosened slightly and then dropped a few inches as the question hit home. Then he regained his composure. "Of course I have!"
She shook her head. "If you had, I'd already be dead and you'd already be scurrying off into the night like a good little villain."
His brow furrowed. "I have my own way of doing things!"
She stifled the chuckle she longed to let out. "I'm pretty sure it's the wrong way, but I'm okay with that because that knife has yet to find a home in my body."
"Shut up!"
She took another step back, feeling the solid edge of her vanity against her back. As her hand began to slide toward the drawer that housed her pistol, the bedroom door jerked open and a tall, imposing man burst in, kicking it shut behind him. "She should already be dead kid," he hissed, gun trained on the young man's face.
"I'm getting to it."
"You're taking too long. The house is beginning to rouse," the man said, then pulled the trigger.
The pop of the suppressed shot was followed by the harsh sound of the bullet connecting with flesh and then bone, blood splattering from the hole. Then the gun shifted aim. Felicity closed her eyes and wrenched the drawer open and her hand flew in, wrapping around the handle of her little pistol. A pearl handle. So lovely and yet fastened to such a deadly object.
She raised the gun, eyes opening to find the man's own eyes widening as her finger squeezed the trigger smoothly, just as Diggle had taught her.
Then everything slowed down. It was as if she could follow the trip of the bullet to its home in the intruder's skull. It was as if she could see the skin and bone separating to make room for the shiny metal. And as the man fell backwards against the door, she screamed.
They parked a block away from the bar, just to be safe. Oliver checked to be certain all of his guns and knives were hidden within his suit, and then he exited the car. He rarely used weapons other than his fists - he preferred more personal interactions. But today, he was certain he would need all the help he could get if all the men he had watched at the previous location were winding down within the bar ahead.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he groaned. It had been buzzing nonstop for the last ten minutes.
"Oliver," Diggle murmured behind him.
"What?"
"You should probably answer that."
"No time."
"There's always time."
He rolled his eyes. Digg, as per usual, was right. He dug the phone out of his pocket and read through the missed calls. All from Roy Harper. Another call began to ring through. He answered. "What?"
"We need you back at the house," Roy spoke simply and to-the-point.
"Why? I have a job to do."
"There was a breach," Roy said.
Oliver's stride ceased and Diggle came to his side, brow raised and shoulders tense. "And Felicity?"
"Alive. But shaken. She needs you, Oliver."