AN: Please forgive the following story for any annoyances or poor qualities. It's been quite some time since I've written fan fiction (so long, in fact, that I actually did have another pen name on this site but I have completely forgotten the e-mail address and password that I used for it). So, I'm pretty sure I'm quite rusty. However, I very much so enjoy Arrow, especially the character of Felicity since I feel like she and I are kindred spirits: ceaseless babbling (as is obvious in this AN and the following story), preference for glasses and cute animal flats, and causing unintentional awkwardness with everyone I encounter. But seeing her character so well liked by pretty much everyone gives my awkward self hope that I'm not as embarrassing as I think I am.

The inspiration for this fic comes from WE ARE TWIN's "The Way We Touch". Granted, the beat of the song doesn't really give off an Arrow vibe, but I felt the lyrics could relate to Olicity all the same.

Disclaimer: I do not own CW's Arrow or WE ARE TWIN's "The Way We Touch".

It's moments like these that she wished she could take him away, far away from Starling City and just force him to relax. And then it's immediately after that wish that she would think where could I possibly take him? Beaches were out, as far as she knew, because how could you ever associate "fun in the sun" with the ocean after spending 5 torturous years under that totally not fun sun, surrounded by endless ocean? And hiking was probably out for the same nightmare-inducing reason. Maybe a carnival? He would totally rank "Hercules" at the High Striker game. And of course win every stuffed animal for her at all the game booths with his ridiculous aim. And she would drag him onto all the rides despite his protests (even though she knows he would secretly love the tilt-a-whirl) and they would stuff themselves silly with cotton candy and corn dogs… or maybe she would stuff herself silly, since he's a bit particular, but she's sure she can convince him to try a bite or two of her cotton candy…

Uh oh, he just sighed again for the seventh time in twenty minutes. He's pacing so much behind her that she's starting to sweat. She knows these moments are tough for him, when he's been trying to take down the bad guy for an extended period of time (meaning a week in Oliver Time, because somehow his vigilante biological clock is set for 48 hours and God help both friend and foe when he hasn't been able to shoot an arrow at someone's leg in two days). How often she's fantasized about grabbing his face between her hands, stare solemnly into his deep blue gaze, and say "CHILLAX."

She won't do that for two reasons: 1) Oliver most likely doesn't even know what "chillax" means (she keeps sending him the word of the day from urban dictionary's website in hopes that he'll get at least one or two of her pop culture references); and 2) he'd probably just end up narrowing his eyes slightly and reply with "Felicity", but not in the deep growly way she likes. More like in his uber-eerie-calm-before-the-storm voice that lets her know he's about to either break both sparring dummies in half or decide not to use the salmon ladder again in her presence if she doesn't find something with her computer magic.

And she certainly doesn't want that.

So she keeps her hands to herself, her mouth shut, and her eyes on the screen, hoping one of her searches will turn up something and that Oliver doesn't break the headrest of her chair from gripping it too hard.

It's not that he doesn't know how to relax… okay, well, maybe he doesn't, not fully anyway. He's been spending the night pretty regularly at her place for three months now, and they would be on the couch watching TV, his head resting on her lap, seemingly at ease, when CRASH! Oliver had bolted upright into a fighting stance, holding a knife he pulled out from who knows where, looking for an assailant. Felicity has to tell him three times that it was only the dishes in the sink that had fallen over, and even then he wouldn't relax until he'd done a perimeter sweep of her apartment.

Now it's Felicity's turn to sigh. She knows he has many burdens to bear (and she knows she doesn't lighten the load by getting kidnapped or held hostage occasionally). She knows that what he does, what they do, is powerfully more important than relaxing, and she's surprised she's even able to get in four hours of sleep some nights. But she just wishes he wasn't so hard on himself when things don't go according to plan. In all likelihood, this "give me all the guilt, I can handle it; let's add on yours as well, shall we?" mentality was developed during his time on the island, and she only hopes that the guilt is alleviated little by little with every bad guy they take down. But let's face it, even if they do get rid of all the evil-doers of the world, he'd still feel like it's never enough.

It's when she sees those moments, those moments of "I need to do something but I feel so helpless" (okay, okay, Oliver probably wouldn't use the word "helpless") that she wants to take him away from it all and protect him from the big bad like he's protected her (so, so many times) and just love him.

Now that she thinks about it, the only time Oliver really shuts out the ugly is when they're intimate. She still wouldn't call it relaxing because he gets so… focused… quite focused. Much like the way he plays two parts in life-one as the billionaire everyone sees and one as the fighter only she and Digg know-Oliver has two distinct ways of making love… Okay, wait, not that they only do it two ways, they do it many ways…

She can feel herself blushing and hopes to goodness Oliver doesn't notice. She wouldn't want to explain why she's getting so flushed when tracking down a serial arsonist…

But for example: at night when they're together, Oliver is just coming down from his vigilante high, so his adrenaline is off the charts. They work off his energy in the most delicious ways, and he's rough and fast and hard and perfect, staring into her eyes like she's the only thing anchoring him to this world and don't let go, not yet, not yet, not yet. And afterwards when he holds her she knows he drifts in and out of sleep, never quite falling deep asleep, but enough that he doesn't have nightmares and she considers that a win.

But come morning, his lovemaking is gentler, like the sunlight has the ability to transform him from intense and unrelenting Arrow to tender and comfortable-in-his-own-skin Oliver. In the morning light he's teasing and playful because the very first time he woke her up in the morning with his head between her thighs, she wouldn't stop blushing for a good thirty minutes afterwards, so she now has a feeling he gets a kick out of how long she'll stay red. She's even pretty sure one time he purposely had Digg bring over breakfast for an impromptu Team Arrow meeting not five minutes after giving her one of his patented wake-up calls, ensuring that she would turn beet red every time Digg spoke to her.

Okay, now she can practically feel herself glowing in the dark. She ducks her head down so Oliver won't see, but immediately picks it back up again when she hears a beeping from one of the monitors. She opens her mouth to call for his attention but he's already there, leaning over her shoulder to read whatever information her search had brought up.

"What is it?" Digg asks, jumping up from his seat on the couch to make his way over to them.

"Looks like our guy booked a red-eye flight out of Starling City for later this evening," Felicity responds, pulling up a map of the airport without having to be asked so they can start forming their plan of attack. She turns her face slightly to Oliver to tease him, "And you told me not to waste time doing a search on an alias he hasn't used in ten years. Psh. Better make it a bottle of Cabernet for afterwards this time, feel free to surprise me with the brand. Also, is it bad taste to call the serial arsonist who used a fake name to escape the country 'Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire'?"

Felicity looks at Oliver when he picks up her hand and brings it to his lips, giving it a lingering kiss. She can see some of his previous tension start to ebb away, the furrow between his brows start to relax…

Digg clears his throat. "Alright, alright, break it up before she starts blushing. You know how long it takes for her to calm down."

Too late.

End

AN2: Thank you very much for reading! If anyone does end up looking for the song, please know that I totally consider Digg as the "martial Mr. Davy".