Author's notes: Set in season one's "The Undertaking," after the casino, but before Oliver talks to Moira and Thea. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Title from the "Home" by Daughter. Apparently angsty sex is heavily on my mind. SORRY.
It's quiet the whole way back to the foundry.
Oliver's car is, well, Oliver's car. Fancy, fast, leather seats. She could probably make out the brand but she hadn't been interested either time she got in or out – the first she was too nervous about counting cards in an underground casino, and the second time…
There aren't really any words for how Felicity feels now.
She's not naïve. She's had tragedy in her life, plenty of it. But she'd hoped – she'd had so much hope that the story wouldn't end badly – and coming down from that is so much harder when she's sitting across from the tragedy's vigilante stepson.
He makes it impossible for her to pretend that everything is okay. It's clearly not.
They descend the stairs in silence, and Oliver leaves her standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs as he heads straight to his gear.
She clears her throat. "What are you going to do?"
He unzips his green jacket in one go and then stills, facing away from her. "I have to tell my family."
She swallows, trying to dislodge the ache in her throat. "Right."
He pulls off his jacket, and it's such a weary move that she can't stop herself from crossing the room to stand beside him. He's stopped again, hands braced against the table, and he tips his head to look at her, face still covered in green grease paint.
Those eyes, she thinks. Usually she jokes to herself about it being illegal to have eyes like that, or some other nonsense to distract herself, except now? There's no distracting herself, and nothing about this is funny.
She lays a hand tentatively on his arm, right where his sleeve ends and his skin begins. She watches him look from her hand to her face, and she has a moment to think here we go before his mouth is on hers.
His hands are in her hair, destroying her updo, and she hears the clip that was holding her hair into place hit the floor. She digs her fingers into the belt around his hips for leverage and straightens them up a little so that she can feel his body flush against hers.
He grunts, turning them into the table, and backs her up with such force that it nearly upends. She feels the edge dig into her back and hears gear clatter as it falls.
He pulls back abruptly, panting, and she can see reason start to edge across his face. "Don't," she says a little desperately, running her hands up his chest and around his neck. "Don't."
Lifting herself as high as she can, she pulls his head back down, and feels reason flee again. She's too sad to be that relieved, but she's grateful anyway when his hands find the slit in her dress and haul it up.
He bunches the dress around her waist and squeezes her ass, and she gasps into his mouth. His fingers flex and then he's lifting her onto the now-cleared table.
The table is cold, but it doesn't matter. She sends shaking hands to his belt, the button and zipper of his pants. She doesn't want to slow down, doesn't want him to slow down. Walter is dead, Diggle is gone, Tommy hates the very thought of them, she doesn't know what Laurel is to Oliver anymore. This is the only thing left for them right now, and she'll take anything that will make the last few hours – all of it - go away.
Felicity knows it's only temporary. She doesn't care.
He's sucking on her collarbone, one thumb running across the cloth still covering her breast when she finally gets his pants undone. He's produced a condom from god knows where – she will never ask him about this later – and she watches as he rolls it on. Something about that makes her stomach clench and her thighs tense.
He yanks her forward to the edge of the table, and she lifts her legs around his hips, digging her heal into his lower back in her urgency. When he enters her, she has to break away from his lips, but she doesn't – can't – go far. Their breaths mingle and she looks up into those intense eyes, and he thrusts up and she can't help the moan that rolls up and out of her.
She braces one hand on the table and the other holds on to the back of his neck, just feeling the scruff of his short hair and finding that it really works for her. She can move a little this way and she does, it changes the angle of the rhythm just enough and she feels her orgasm start to build.
She presses her thighs harder against his sides and he must understand what that means, because he wraps one arm around her back and moves his other to her center, thumb pressing against her clit. It's awkward but she's not going to complain, because it feels so good, she's turned on to the point of pain and then she's coming, unable to control her voice against his ear.
There's a whisper from Oliver, but she can't tell what he said, and he's thrusting, first faster and then jerkily, and she feels his groan more than she hears it as he comes.
They take a minute to calm down – her pressing her face in his neck, him absentmindedly stroking her thighs. When she finally has the courage to pull away, she makes the mistake of meeting his gaze.
It's clear that he's realizing what they've done; he blinks and swallows, and the guilt is so obvious on his face she has to bite back a smile at his predictability.
He opens his mouth to say something and she cuts him off. "Oliver. It's okay, I know what this is."
His jaw snaps shut. He presses his lips together tightly and nods. No, she's not naïve. She's also not the type to think she can heal someone with sex. She's not that altruistic.
She struggles to explain it in a way that won't sound cold. "We both needed something, and we gave it to each other." She stops for a minute. "Wait, that's not what– nevermind."
His lips curl slightly, and that's when she knows they'll get over this, or at least as over it as they are going to get. He steps back a bit, and she feels chilly at the loss of him. He helps her get down off the table, and gently pulls her dress back down around her legs. Her throat closes at the gesture, she's so oddly touched by it.
She leans against him for a minute until he clears his throat. "I should go…" He trails off, but she hears what he meant to say: I should go tell my mother that her husband is dead.
She smoothes his shirt down, as if there were invisible wrinkles she could work out. "Yeah," she says, then moves out of his reach, intending to go back to the bathroom to clean up and change out of the very expensive, now very used, dress she's wearing.
Oliver stops her as she goes past him with a light touch on her arm, hesitant. "You'll be back later?"
It hurts her heart, the way he asks. Like he's bracing himself for her leaving too. "As long as you want me," she says, trying to ignore the unintentionally loaded statement she just made.
"I do," he replies, roughly, and she tries to ignore that too.
"Okay. You go…do what you need to do. I'll see you in the morning."
They stand, looking at each other for a moment, and it stretches. He clenches his jaw and looks away. Eventually, he nods sharply. He turns back to his clothes, and she walks back slowly to the bathroom.
They go their separate ways.