A/N: Basically, this is a massive reimagining/headcanon of the Arrow universe. It allows me to change the few things that I didn't like with the first two (possibly three) seasons and explore some questions that may seem a little overdone but have bugged me since I started watching the show: What if Oliver and Felicity met before the island? What if they started dating in S1 and not S3? How could these changes affect the course of the story?

This story will follow the skeleton of the show. None of the major events have been changed (I'm not ambitious/brave enough to change everything, nor do I believe everything would be changed in my universe), but many things have been altered. The stakes are different. The relationships may change. I'm not 100% sure where it's going to go, but I've loved exploring it so far, and have no plans to stop.

I know that this project is a massive undertaking. I can't promise it will be updated regularly; I'll try to space the updating of banked chapters so that I don't run out, but in all honesty, updates will probably become less frequent as the story progresses, particularly once school begins.

The title of this work is shamelessly borrowed from the X Ambassadors song, which I can't stop listening to, but I also think is strangely appropriate for this whole show.

21/07/15: It has come to my attention that there was a continuity error with dates that has now been fixed.

Renegade

noun.

1) a person who leaves one group and joins another that opposes it

2) an individual who rejects lawful or conventional behaviour

Saturday, December 23rd, 2006

The Queen Christmas party was both elegant and festive—and way out of Felicity's league. When Robert Queen sent out the message over company-wide email she thought that it would be a nice way to ring in the holidays—even though she doesn't celebrate Christmas—instead of sitting alone in her hotel room, but now that she was here she realised the invitation was more of a courtesy; the only QC employees who actually showed up were the big-wig business men with tailored suits and wives involved with ten different charity organisations. Standing at the bar in the dress she got last year on sale at Bloomingdale's, Felicity felt like a fish out of water. Her coworkers from IT were all probably at a bar downtown, telling jokes over cheap drinks and singing bad Christmas karaoke.

Trying her best not to look as out of place as she felt, Felicity drained what was probably the most expensive glass of wine she'd ever had and sidled away from the bar.

(If she had any more wine she'd end up making a very embarrassing scene later in the evening.)

All she wanted to do was find the bathroom—stressful situations seemed to make her bladder work overtime—and go home. She'd put on her pyjamas and curl up on the couch with a pint of mint chip and Buffy and forget this night ever happened.

A quick glance around the hallway revealed no sign of any bathrooms. Too uncomfortable to ask for directions, Felicity climbed the stairs. If there were bathrooms anywhere in this house (which was really better described as a mini-castle) they'd probably be upstairs. Out of sight, out of mind. Rich people probably liked to pretend they didn't ever have to go pee.

The doors lining the hallway upstairs were all closed, so Felicity, being Felicity, decided to use her default trial and error method (because it had worked so well in the past). Taking a deep breath (there was really nothing to be scared of), she opened the first door she saw…

…and saw Oliver Queen wrestling half-naked in bed with a girl. Who was definitely not his girlfriend.

(Felicity had a weakness for celebrity gossip, and Laurel was downstairs talking to Tommy Merlyn by the champagne bar.)

"Oh my God."

She really should have asked for directions.

"Oh my God!" The girl, who was very blonde and looked very familiar, stumbled away from Oliver, her eyes the size of saucers.

Oliver stared.

Felicity opened and closed her mouth twice but neither time no sound came out. This was beyond embarrassing.

The blonde girl bolted from the room with nothing but a panicked glance in Oliver's direction, wiggling into her dress as she went.

"I'm so sorry," Felicity stammered, wishing the ground would open her up and swallow her. "I was, uh, looking for the bathrooms, which I know is the lamest excuse ever but it's actually true and I should have asked only rich people are kind of terrifying and I was really hoping to sneak out without being noticed which has just backfired spectacularly in my face and—oh my God, you're not wearing any pants."

The corners of Oliver's mouth twitched. Felicity tried very hard not to stare at his black boxer briefs. Or the very fit legs coming out of said briefs. Better to focus on his chest, which was still covered by his shirt (unbuttoned enough to give her a very good idea of what was going on under there).

"Bathroom is down the hall. Third door on the left."

"Oh, uh, right." Felicity swallowed. Her cheeks were probably the same colour as the roasted tomato entrées downstairs. "Thanks. And sorry again for walking in on you."

Oliver combed a hand through his hair, suddenly very interested in the stitching pattern of the duvet. "It's fine."

Felicity really should have walked away. But the expression on Oliver's face was so heartbreaking she couldn't help taking a step closer. He looked like his whole world had imploded and he had no idea what to do about it. "Are you okay?"

Oliver blinked, raising his head to stare at her in disbelief.

"I don't mean to pry or anything," she continued, "but you seemed pretty unhappy and well, I know that girl wasn't your girlfriend because she's downstairs talking to Tommy Merlyn—and I only know who she is because I read the tabloids sometimes—okay, maybe a lot of the time—not because I'm, you know, a stalker or anything."

(If the Queen mansion were to be suddenly engulfed in flames, Felicity would not object.)

"Anyway, I thought you might need someone to talk to," she finished lamely, "but I've had a few too many drinks and I'm not exactly thinking straight so I'll just go. Sorry."

"Laurel's going to kill me."

She'd barely made it to the door before his voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly, trying not to think about how much she was going to regret this. "Laurel is your girlfriend, right?"

Oliver nodded, watching his fingers twist themselves into knots. "She's going to kill me when she finds out about this. And Sara. I've messed everything up."

Sara must be the blonde who'd snuck out moments before.

Felicity took a deep breath, perching cautiously on the mattress. She couldn't believe she was actually going to do this. Playing therapist to Oliver Queen was not something she ever thought she'd find herself doing, and yet, here she was.

"You know, maybe if you just talked to her about it, she might deal with it a little better. I mean, no one's going to take the news their boyfriend's cheated on them well, but it'll be better than her finding out some other way." Like catching you in the act.

Oliver shook his head. "No way. If I tell her Sara and I—That would make things ten times worse."

Felicity chewed her lip, trying to bite back the question burning on the tip of her tongue. "Why did you even do it? If you and Laurel are so happy, why throw it all away?"

So much for keeping it to herself.

Oliver groaned, collapsing backwards onto the bed. Felicity was pretty sure he was drunk, otherwise there was no way he'd be spilling his secrets to a total stranger. "She wants to move in together."

And just like that, the whole story came out. How he wasn't that guy who committed; he was the guy who slept around and threw great keg parties. How Laurel wanted them to get their own place and Oliver had panicked because he wasn't ready for the next step. How instead of talking to Laurel like a normal human being and asking her to take things slow, he'd slept with her sister because, while he wasn't good at commitment, he was excellent at making a mess of things.

Felicity had to admit, as far as stories went, this was pretty bad. Like epically bad—enough to make her past humiliations look like a walk in the park (and there had been many embarrassing moments in the Life and Times of Felicity Smoak). She couldn't exactly say it was a surprise—this was exactly the kind of thing someone with Oliver's reputation would do—but the hopeless look on Oliver's face broke her heart a little. He wasn't sleeping around because he could, but because it seemed like the only way to get himself out of an impossible situation. It was extremely masochistic.

She didn't know how it happened, but a bottle of wine appeared somehow, and suddenly they were reclined on the pillows swapping embarrassing college stories. Oliver had an impressive number for someone who dropped out of four Ivy League schools.

(Then again, she shouldn't be surprised.)

Felicity was telling Oliver all about her mortifying first-day-of-MIT-calculus experience when he shook his head incredulously.

"I don't understand how someone like you ended up at this party in the first place," he said, frowning. "Only the company execs come to this party."

"Which I realised after I got here," Felicity groaned, trying not to giggle as she recalled the experience. (She'd definitely had too much wine.) "I'm doing an internship over winter break, you know, to get my foot in the door for jobs, and I don't really know anybody so I thought this would be a nice way to spend Christmas—not that I celebrate it, I'm Jewish—but obviously I missed the 'don't bother showing up unless your sixty and boring memo'."

Oliver snorted into the wine bottle. (They never really bothered with glasses.) "No kidding. I'm only here because Laurel wants to make connections for her career as a lawyer. Which I am not going to be a part of."

"I can see why you're hiding out. It is very stuffy down there." Felicity's attempt at a joke was swallowed in the cloud of self-loathing emanating from one Oliver Queen. "Beats cheap beer and bad karaoke. Not that I'd be having any since I'm not of age—"

Oliver blinked, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time. "How old are you?"

Felicity blushed, wishing she didn't find this so embarrassing. "Eighteen. Almost eighteen. I'm in second year at MIT."

"MIT. Wow." Oliver grinned. "Are you some kind of genius or something?"

Felicity shrugged, picking at a loose thread in the duvet. She'd always hated the word genius; it seemed to carry all this added pressure and expectation. She wasn't different from everyone else, her brain was just wired for mathematics. "I have a thing for computers."

"And I have a thing for disaster," Oliver muttered darkly, staring into the neck of the bottle like it would somehow divulge all the solutions to his current problems.

"I don't believe that."

Oliver let out a short bark of sarcastic laughter. "Really? And what is it that you believe then, Miss Smoak?"

"I believe you choose to be a disappointment to everyone because you don't believe you're capable of doing anything else."

Her words were followed by a terrible stillness that made her really wish she could have just kept her mouth shut.

Oliver swirled the remaining contents of the wine bottle slowly, watching the liquid slosh against the glass. After several minutes, when Felicity was beginning to consider creeping for the door, he shook his head slowly.

"You've known me for all of five minutes and you can read me better than people who have known me my whole life," he said softly, amazed.

Felicity stared at her lap, cheeks burning. The three feet of space between them suddenly seemed a lot smaller.

"I'm very observant," she mumbled.

"You're beautiful and smart, and—"

"And you have a girlfriend."

Oliver grimaced. "Not for much longer. Once she finds out about Sara—and she will, Laurel always does—it's over."

"That doesn't mean it's the end, Oliver!" Felicity wasn't quite sure where all her anger was coming from, all she knew was it was spilling out before she could do anything to stop it. "There's more to you than parties and booze and meaningless sex. I know your father probably puts tremendous pressure on you to follow in his footsteps, but just because you don't want to doesn't mean you're a total failure. You can still do things with your life, and you'd probably be a lot happier about it, too."

Oliver opened his mouth as if to say something, only to close it again when no words came out. His expression was impossible to interpret, a strange mixture of shock and something more that filled Felicity's stomach with butterflies.

"You really believe that?" he said finally. The vulnerability lingering behind is words made her heart ache for him. While she and her mother hadn't always had the greatest of relationships through the years, Donna had always supported her. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to have everyone telling her she was supposed to try and be something she wasn't.

"Of course I do," she replied gently, reaching over to take the bottle of wine from him. (Not that she wanted any more, but he had had more than enough for the evening, and she was sure that he'd been drinking before.) "My mother is a cocktail waitress in Vegas who doesn't understand the first thing about computers. I never for a second considered following in her footsteps."

"Yeah, but you've always known that you wanted to work with computers," Oliver retorted. "Even if it wasn't what your mother wanted, you knew what you were good at. The only thing I'm good at is getting drunk and making tabloid headlines."

Felicity didn't think it would be helpful to point out that all her mother had really ever wanted was for Felicity to be happy, even if it meant they were living thousands of miles apart.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," she said instead, even though it was absolutely a bad thing. "You could open a nightclub or something."

Oliver blinked. "Tommy suggested we do that once, but he was so drunk, I'm not even sure he knew what he was saying."

(Felicity wasn't sure that Oliver knew what he was saying at this point, either.)

"You said it yourself—the only thing you're good at is partying. So play to your strengths."

Oliver rolled over, closing the space between them. "You, Felicity Smoak, are a genius," he mumbled.

(His face was very close, so close that Felicity could see his eyelashes and the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, but she was really trying not to think about any of it, he was here with Laurel, he was already in enough trouble, and the last thing she needed was to…)

"Ollie!"

Both of them jumped back as if they had received an electric shock.

"Shit," Oliver muttered. "Sorry. It's my sister, Speedy, I mean, Thea. If she—"

"If she sees us, she'll tell everyone and then things with Laurel will definitely be over," Felicity finished, trying not to think about all the horrible things that might happen if they were found, not limited to her losing her job.

(Oliver still wasn't wearing any pants.)

(At least she still had all her clothes on.)

"Ollie!"

Thea's voice sounded from closer this time and Felicity had to fight the urge to flee. Running out into the hallway at this point where Thea was definitely going to see her was not going to help the situation.

Oliver must be a mind-reader—which was impressive given his current state of sobriety—because he gestured to the corner of the room. "The closet. She won't check in there."

The closet in question was the size of Felicity's hotel room. She barely made it in there before the door opened and a small head poked in.

"Ollie!" Thea Queen giggled. "You're not wearing any pants!"

Oliver scratched the back of his neck, looking both embarrassed and desperate for an excuse. "I, uh, was looking for some new ones. I spilt something on mine."

(Thea must be very gullible; Felicity had never heard a worse lie in her life.)

"And you thought you were going to find them in the spare room?" Thea asked, grinning. "Your room's two doors down, dummy."

"Yeah. I know. I was, uh, just going there."

Thea rolled her eyes. Felicity got the impression this was not the first time she'd come across her brother drunk. "Okay, well, Laurel's looking for you downstairs. Apparently, Sara really wants to go so I think they're leaving."

"Okay." Felicity wasn't mistaking the nauseated look on his face. "I'll be along in a minute, okay, Speedy? I just need to get some pants on."

Thea's grin widened. "I'll tell her."

It wasn't until she'd slipped back into the hallway again that Oliver seemed to process what his sister had said.

"Thea! Wait! Don't tell her about the pants!" he shouted, stumbling towards the door, but Thea was already gone.

"Fuck," he cursed quietly as Felicity slid out of the closet, giggling.

"Have fun explaining that one," she said.

Oliver's aim was so off she didn't need to dodge the pillow he threw at her.

(She got the impression it would have been a very different story if he'd been sober.)

The expression of confusion on his face when he missed was enough to make her laugh so hard she nearly peed herself (she'd never ended up making it to the bathroom). By the time she got a hold of herself again, Oliver had sobered.

"I'm sorry about… all this," he said gesturing at the unmade bed and the empty wine bottle.

"It's fine, really," Felicity replied, even though she was sure the sudden echo of her heartbeat meant that things were anything but fine. "I really have to go pee."

(She really had a death wish. One hundred percent. Felicity Smoak was going to die of embarrassment.)

Oliver's lips twitched. "You never did find that bathroom, did you?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I ended up drinking a lot more wine instead. Which, let me tell you, does not do anything to help the overcrowding issue in my bladder."

(In a somewhat more sober state, Felicity might have been a little bit more concerned about the words coming out of her mouth.)

Oliver flashed a real smile, possibly for the first time that evening. "Well, I don't let me hold you up, Miss Smoak. I'd hate for you to pee on my rug."

Felicity was trying very hard not to pee herself with laughter as she stumbled to the door. She wasn't even sure where the bathroom was anymore, but the trip there couldn't be more embarrassing than it had been the first time.

She'd almost made it to the door when Oliver's voice stopped her again.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Really. It was— It was—"

"—It was my pleasure." Felicity's cheeks were suddenly very warm and all she could think about was how much she either wanted to kiss Oliver senseless or get the hell out of here.

(The tiny part of her brain that was still sober knew that Option Two was the sensible one.)

"Right. Well, I'll see you around, I guess," Oliver said, scrubbing a hand over his hair. His fingers left it standing in tufts and Felicity bit back a giggle.

"Yeah. I guess so."

(They probably wouldn't.)

(Six months later, as she lay in bed watching news coverage of the Queen's Gambit's disappearance, she wished they had.)