One Week Later

Oliver walked through the front door of the penthouse, nearly tripping over a box of business cards shoved carelessly against the doorframe. According to Tommy, who was now weaving his way into the flat, this was where they had been living before the accident.

"Your rooms in the very back… past the bathroom." Tommy called as he waltzed into the kitchen. "I'm surprised Moria's ok with you moving back so soon. It's only been a week, I figured she'd keep you handcuffed to your bed for another couple months."

Oliver took in his surroundings. "I can't stay there anymore," he said, kicking aside wads of paper. "She's nervous all the time and keeps everything too perfect, it freaks me out."

Oliver paused in the middle of the foyer, eyeing the disarray. There were bottles lined up on every flat surface and couch cushions strewn about; a lingering cigarette smell present throughout the entire place. He knew he hadn't ever been very stringent on cleanliness, but he wasn't a complete animal either, he'd hoped they'd had some standards.

"Have you seriously been living like this?" Oliver asked, moving through the foyer.

Tommy reappeared, carrying a drink in each hand. "I actually haven't been back here since before the accident," He gave one to Oliver as he took a sip from his own, turning around to examine the mess. "Been staying at my summer house just outside the city."

Oliver nodded, bringing the glass up to his nose. Sniffing, he grimaced at the smell, which made his head spin and stomach churn. Alcohol seemed to only make his symptoms worse, so he left the glass next to a pile of empty beer cans on a table.

"-no one's been up here for a while, which probably explains the smell of sex and road kill." Tommy continued, clearing a space on one of the couches to sit. Oliver walked into the living room, pacing the small area as he examined rows and stacks of bottle caps locked in a glass case, nailed to the wall. He felt a jolt of familiarity.

"I actually remember you collecting these," Oliver said, squinting at the labels on each.

"Yeah?" Tommy said, shifting forward on the couch. "Probably not the best hobby… like I need another reason to drink."

Oliver examined each cap closely, recognizing some brands. "Space Barley. Classic."

"So you do remember some things?" Tommy asked after a moment.

"Here and there. Just small details, nothing that really matters."

Oliver heard Tommy get up, moving toward the mini bar to pour himself another drink. "Well, everyone's glad to have you back, you sure scared the hell out of us."

Oliver turned to him, noticing the slight shake in his voice. Tommy must have heard it too because a second later he cleared his throat.

"So listen," he said, clapping his hands together. "Your welcome back party. This Saturday. At The Grand. I'm throwing it."

Oliver scoffed, turning toward one of the windows that had handprints running up and down it suggestively. "Yeah, not really feeling up for it."

He wasn't surprised that the first thing Tommy had planned for him was a party; just like old times.

"Trust me, you won't feel anything after we get a few shots in you," Tommy said, downing the drink in his hand. "All you have to do is stand there and look vulnerable as a sea of women flock your way throwing condolences, get wells and- if you're lucky- themselves, at you."

Oliver grinned at his friend. "You haven't changed a bit."

Tommy gave him a knowing look. "Oliver, it's been three months, not three years. Now, stop stalling, I called you so we could make up for the past few months you've been playing patient. Get dressed."

"I'm actually surprised you called at all," Oliver offered, as Tommy started to walk away. "Considering you never came by the hospital."

Tommy paused, before slowly turning around.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, his voice hesitant. "But you know how I am with hospitals since my mom died."

There it was again, another person expecting Oliver to just know.

"Right. No big deal," Oliver said, shifting uncomfortably back and forth, wishing he hadn't abandoned his drink. "Just an observation."

There was a brief awkward moment that followed, but it passed quickly as Tommy let out a strange laugh.

"Let's go," he said, waving a hand. "There's hardly been anyone instigating wet t-shirt contests or throwing punches at bouncers. It's all been boring without you around."

Oliver shook his head as he squatted down, picking up a few pieces of broken glass that he spotted on the living room carpet. "Think I'll pass on tonight."

Tommy let out an annoyed sigh as he sluggishly walked up to his friend. "Come on Oliver, put the past behind you. You got to get back into the game, re-invent yourself… I'm sure one of those eighteenth century philosophical geniuses' once told his best friend the exact same thing many moons ago. Except back then the women were looser and everyone was perpetually drunk. A better time."

Oliver shot him a look as he placed shards of glass on the coffee table. "This weekend, I promise. Just not tonight."

Tommy stared at him for another beat before clapping a hand on his shoulder and nodding. "Good man," he said, before turning away. "I'll see you later."

He then jogged out of the room, leaving Oliver to clean up the mess.

Oliver raised a hand to his temple, feeling his pulse jump back at him rapidly. He could feel a migraine coming on. They used to happen every day for two months after the accident, now he only got them when his stress levels were up. To try and counter this he'd spent most of the night cleaning. Oliver knew that this was arbitrary, considering he could have easily called a maid service to tidy up. But he had needed to actively do something so his mind would stop asking questions.

The headache was most likely a result of a new voicemail waiting for him on his phone. It was from Laurel, of course, who he had been avoiding pretty successfully for the past week. He didn't know what to say to her; each of her voicemails getting more desperate than the previous.

Oliver, it's Laurel. I've been trying to reach you for the past week. I get that you're trying to readjust but we need to talk. Will you please call me back? Please?

He pulled the phone away from his ear, staring down at the screen before tossing it onto the nightstand. He looked around his room, vaguely aware of the scraps and pieces of lingerie scattered about, empty bottles and crumpled shirts. Oliver considered unpacking his duffle bag full of the clothes from home, which were waiting in the corner of the room, but as he began to stand, a sharp sensation rippled through his right temple. He fell back onto his bed, eyes closed, as his head vibrated violently like a drill against concrete. He grabbed a pillow and threw it over his face, needing complete darkness until the wave of pain passed, but it didn't, it just got worse. By the time he blacked out, his mind was elsewhere, rocking back and forth in the ocean, on the Queen's Gambit.

'Oliver!'

He could hear his name and a familiar voice, but the harsh sound of wind and rain drowned out the cries. He knew he was on the Queen's Gambit because he recognized the familiar oak wood floorboards and stained glass windows. He was somewhere below the cabin, where loud footsteps were echoing above, disappearing as soon as they came, like ghosts in the night.

'Oliver!'

He heard his name again, and this time he was able to sway with the boat as he slid toward the stepladder, leading to the top of the yacht. Time seemed to pass slowly and then all at once. He didn't remember climbing the stairs, or opening the latch onto the deck, all he remembered was seeing his father.

Robert was holding onto the side of the boat, gripping the railing for dear life as he called out to his son. Wind whipped around Oliver's face as he stared down at his father. The rain blurred his vision, but he could still see Robert's hand extended out, eyes begging for help.

"Son," he said, desperately. But Oliver couldn't move or speak. It wasn't until a tremendous wave, like the claw of God, came down upon the boat, ripping Robert from the railing like a rag doll, that Oliver was finally able to move.

Like breaking the surface of water, Oliver gasped loudly, sitting up in his bed. He grabbed the collar of his shirt, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest like the burn of holding your breath for too long. He breathed in and out, his headache still present but the pain in his chest more excruciating. He stood up abruptly, beginning to pace the room, hands above his head as his thoughts trailed back to the Queen's Gambit.

He had never dreamed so vividly. In fact, he hardly ever remembered his dreams at all. Only in the early stages of waking was he ever able to recall a certain feeling he'd had during them, but never an entire scene from one. He tried to make sense of it, but his thoughts were scrambling, desperately trying to hold onto the small details as best he could.

Oliver walked over to his duffle bag, trying to see if he had packed a pen and paper, so he could write down what he remembered. Digging around, he was able to find a worn pencil, and just when he thought he was going to have to look elsewhere,

Oliver withdrew a scrap of paper. He almost tossed it aside when he saw familiar scrawl written on the backside.

Felicity Smoak. 360-589-3721

Oliver stared at her loopy handwriting, thinking back to the flush of the woman's cheeks and anxious fidgeting; the way she looked at him curiously and listened dutifully.

He didn't have to think about it twice when he reached for his phone on the nightstand, thumb punching her number into the keypad clumsily.

It rang four times before she answered on the fifth.

"Hello?" Her voice was groggy; he had clearly woken her. Looking at the clock on the nightstand he saw that it was three in the morning. Oliver hadn't even realized how late it was. He brought a hand up to his face. Just perfect.

"Felicity Smoak?"

There was some movement on the other end; he was sure she was shifting into a sitting position. "Yes…?"

"It's Oliver Queen."

More movement. This time it was rustling of bed sheets. "Oliver… hi?"

He cleared his throat, suddenly realizing he might have made a stupid mistake, but there was no turning back now.

"Listen," he cleared his throat again. "I'm sorry to call you so late but I found your number." He paused, waiting for her to say something, and when she didn't, he continued. "I just had this weird dream and I didn't know who else to call, so I figured-" He didn't know why he suddenly felt odd about the situation, it had seemed so right a second ago. "You know what- nevermind, forget it, go back to sleep."

He was about to hang up, but then: "No, Oliver, wait!" There was a pause as he put the phone back up to his ear, listening to her soft breathing on the other end. It seemed like forever before she finally said: "Start from the beginning."

"Wow- the most excitement I ever got out of a dream was when Liam Neeson finally saved me from the weird guy in a chicken costume," Felicity said when Oliver finished an hour later.

"What?"

"Nevermind. Irrelevant. So you think it was a memory?" Felicity asked as Oliver leaned back against his headboard. For the past hour he had told her everything he remembered, down to the feel of the wind, as she listened intently on the other end, the occasional sound of clanking cups and running water as she got something to drink.

"I wouldn't be calling you if I didn't think it was possible," Oliver said, grabbing a yellow tennis ball from the side of his bed and throwing it against the ceiling.

"Wow- I mean- that's pretty big with you being there and everything. How old were you when he died?"

"Sometime in high school," Oliver said, a car alarm going off down in the street as he sat up. "The strangest part was, I didn't even try to save him. Even though he was right there in front of me, reaching out."

"You didn't want to?" Felicity asked. Oliver could hear her crawling back into bed after getting the cup of water. He was trying to picture how she would react to everything he was saying, the movements of her face and body as he retold the story. But he knew he wasn't getting everything right, even now the memory of her face was fading. This bothered him more than it should.

"In my mind I kept yelling 'no' but my body refused to help him," Oliver said, feeling a strange tingle ride up his spine.

Felicity breathed out. "Freaky. Have you asked your mom about it?"

"What?" Oliver asked, almost laughing at the thought. "Being on the Queen's Gambit when he died?"

"Sure."

"No," he said, propping the phone up between his shoulder and ear as he moved positions. "When my mother told me Robert died, she said it like she was reading the forecast for the weather that week. I get the feeling my family doesn't really talk about what happened."

Felicity sighed as she repositioned the phone. "I know I'm probably stating the obvious, but maybe you should just ask her anyways?"

Oliver didn't say anything for a moment. Of course this was the obvious option, the most practical and honest way of going about the situation. If anything he could ask his mother to retell every aspect of his childhood, and let Tommy fill him in on the R rated portions, but there are always going to be different versions to the same story. People see what they want to see and tell what they want to tell, simple as that.

"Oliver?" Felicity's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"I don't trust her- or any of them really," Oliver said, like reflex. He heard Felicity laugh softly on the other end.

"Yet you can talk to me, tea cup girl, a complete stranger," Felicity said, trying to stifle a yawn.

Oliver smiled at this, picturing her curled up in bed, phone pressed to her ear as her eyelids began to droop, willing to listen to a guy she barely knew.

"Believe it or not, talking to you is one of easiest parts of my life right now," he said softly. After a moment of silence he began to hear her deep breathing on the other end, in and out, like the rolling of waves.

Oliver's eyes moved upward, the patterns of the ceiling reminding him of her dress. "Goodnight, Felicity Smoak," he breathed, before hanging up.

Oliver watched Moira's mouth twitch as she looked up from her menu, at him. "And here I thought you just wanted to have a nice meal with your mother," Moira said, setting down the menu before placing her hands in her lap. Oliver had asked his mother to lunch the day after his conversation with Felicity, planning on confronting her about whether or not he was Queen's Gambit when his father died.

"So it's true," Oliver said, his jaw clenching.

Moira sighed, snatching her napkin from its place on the table and folding it into her lap. "Your doctors told me not to tell you. They wanted you to remember in your own time."

Oliver fingered his silverware, his thumb trailing down the spine of his fork. "And you assumed they knew what was best?"

Moira rolled her eyes. "Well, they are professionals, Oliver. I don't understand why you are always against the system."

"I'm not against the system mom, I've just been dealing with the same damn tests and procedures for the past three months, without any clear answers."

Moira cocked her head to the side. "We're all doing the best we can to help you. Yet you've just been stubborn as ever."

Oliver waited, watching his mother pick up the menu again, her eyes moving over the various dishes, rapidly.

"You should have told me."

Oliver didn't know if it was how he had said it, but when Moira looked up at him, she had a tender look in her eyes. She reached one of her hands out toward his own.

"Oh, Oliver. It was always such a painful topic for you," she squeezed his hand before releasing it. "Besides, you're starting to remember now, so ultimately wasn't me not telling you a good thing?"

Oliver felt a headache coming on, and to avoid it, he complied. "Sure."

Moira seemed satisfied by this answer as she smiled and looked back down at the menu. "I guess your time with Felicity has really paid off."

Oliver considered this as a waiter walked up to their table, asking for their drink orders. Oliver felt his pride dwindle at the thought of Felicity. She was the only person he really trusted, and in this particular situation, one person was all he needed.

Oliver walked out of the elevator, spotting her blond ponytail immediately. He had been wandering around this IT building for the past half hour looking for her. Some man had said she was on the seventh floor, and sure enough, Felicity was hunched over a desk, fingers flying over the keyboard of a computer she was studying. He glided over to her, nodding at a few women, whose eyes he could feel on him long after he'd passed.

"Hey," Oliver said, moving up next to Felicity. She jumped pretty drastically, her chair making an obnoxious squeaking sound as she turned to look at him, her eyes wide.

"O-Oliver," she said, one of her hands gripping the desk so tightly it turned her knuckles white.

He smiled down at her, rolling his lips to keep himself from laughing at her fluster. "I just wanted to stop by and thank you for the other night."

Oliver watched Felicity slowly compose herself, smoothing out her pencil skirt and readjusting her glasses. A pink blush still in her cheeks as her eyes darted around the room.

"How did you find me?" She asked, one of her hands darting up, playing nervously with her necklace.

Oliver shrugged. "My mother told me you sometimes volunteer your time computer coding here."

Felicity pursed her lips as she turned away. "Oh."

Oliver moved more to his right, trying to catch her eyes again. "My family specializes in background checks," he said, digging his hands in his pockets. "It's apparently our thing."

Felicity was still looking away though, her eyes on the computer screen.

"Anyways, I was thinking about the other night when we talked." Felicity shifted her gaze, ever so slightly, back to him. "It was nice… to bounce my thoughts off of you."

Felicity glanced up at him, offering a small smile. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Yeah it was," Oliver said, serious. "After how I dismissed you so rudely last week- you didn't have to help me."

He watched Felicity fiddle with her nail polish as she considered his words. "So send me a bottle of wine and we'll call it even."

Oliver smiled at this. "How about I send you a bottle of wine after each of our sessions?"

Felicity frowned. "What?"

Oliver bent down to her level, meeting her eyes. She moved back reflexively but he held her gaze. "I want to work with you again, and this time I promise I wont be an intolerable ass."

Felicity opened her mouth, and then closed it. He could practically see words trailing through her head.

"I-I can't," she said, before pushing her chair back and standing.

Oliver followed her movements. "Why not?"

Felicity sighed, as if she had explained this to him many times before. "I just have a lot on my plate right now."

"If I offended you last-"

"You didn't," she said, then calmly: "I just- I can't right now."

Oliver nodded, stepping back as he watched Felicity wrap her arms around her waist.

"Right. Ok." He licked his lips. "I understand."

Felicity nodded, moving to place her hands on her hips as she parted her lips, like she was about to say something. When she didn't, Oliver turned slowly, a sting of something like rejection burning against his chest.

He then stopped and turned back to her.

"My friend Tommy is throwing me a welcome back party," he said, Felicity's eyes looking up at him in surprise. "It's this Saturday at The Grand, and you should come."

Felicity opened her mouth to say something but Oliver shook his head. "I promise I won't nag you about this whole memory thing. We're done. I just thought I'd extend the invite."

Felicity paused before nodding. "I'll think about it."

Oliver shook his head and smirked as she turned abruptly back to her computer, a new shade of pink appearing on her cheeks.

"I'll see you there," he said, before turning and walking back the way he came.

Author's Note: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and was over the moon with joy when I read how much you are all enjoying this story. Thanks for all the love!

Chapter 3 should be up soon!

Reviews feed my black pit of a soul!

Thanks! *hugs*