Chapter: 3 - Take a Ride
Word Count: 4628

Notes: Happy birthday to geniewithwifi! I didn't have as much time to write as I needed, but I hope this turned out okay, anyway. Love to know what you think, but thanks for just reading, as always! :D


Even though every instinct in her is screaming for her to do the opposite, the recordkeeper does precisely what she least wants to, walking away from the man who bought her a few more hours of life. She runs, weaving through her fellow subway train passengers back into the city. As she does, Felicity pulls up the hood of her jacket—a hoodie displaying skeletal outlines of seahorses on it—and tucks her hair into it. Maybe it won't keep her from being recognized, but at least it will make it harder for them to spot her until she's able to dye her hair.

As she passes through the turnstile, a movement catches her eye, and she notices a cop standing near the entrance. Holding her breath, Felicity keeps her head down, even while her blood freezes as she passes close enough to hear the officer's radio crackle to life. "…twenty-five years old, black hair, five-foot-five. Only speaks Mandarin. If found, she needs to be brought to Captain Wilson at the Glades precinct."

It takes all Felicity has to keep moving at that. At first she has no idea why the police, of all people, are after her, but then slowly she remembers hearing Chien Na Wei mention payments to the Glades and Chinatown precincts. They're hunting her and using the police to do it. That presents a new complication, one she isn't sure how to solve now. Sure, she knew she'd be hunted by the Triad and maybe even the Bratva, but law enforcement brings in a whole new element she doesn't know how to address.

Suddenly she isn't sure if she can do this on her own. Of course she knows the basics about staying under the radar: cash only, never stay in one place for more than a few nights, change cars regularly. While she's good, that doesn't mean she knows how to evade the police and all of their manpower. Maybe with a laptop, it would be possible, but for now, Felicity is unplugged and unable to wreak havoc in their mainframes.

Though every cell in her body threatens to panic, she manages to hold it together long enough to get past the officer and into broad daylight in Starling Heights. She breathes a sigh of relief, staring at the shops and nice houses in front of her before finding a street sign. Harding Avenue. According to the map she memorized, if she heads east on Harding Avenue, she can find a small convenience store and a used car lot, both of which could prove useful.

She's so caught up in following the map in her head that she jumps when a hand grabs her arm. She tries to pull away, but the man says to here, "Easy there. I'm not going to hurt you." Only then does Felicity look at him, swallowing hard when she catches the badge on his belt. His hair is dark and he looks like trouble, despite being an SCPD detective. Then he pulls back her hood, studying her face. His eyes roam over her figure in a way that makes her want to take a shower before he asks, "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Trying desperately to fight the urge to spit on him—something that would get her locked up and make her into a sitting duck—she looks down at the ground, saying nothing. After all, she's not supposed to speak English, and if they figure out who she is anyway, revealing that information will get her killed—either by the police, Bratva, or the Triad. Suddenly the idea of an ally, of begging Oliver to stick with her, doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

The detective turns to his partner, a large, muscular man no less menacing than the man currently gripping her wrist. "Gold, I think this is her—this is the girl." He tightens his grip on her arm. "Didn't it say she was kind of a Goth chick?" Felicity somehow resists the temptation to kick him in a place he probably wouldn't appreciate. Then he looks over her again, and she shivers. "Never said she was hot, though."

"Keep it in your pants, would you, Daily?" Gold responds, rolling his eyes. "I think Chien Na Wei provided a picture—let me look." He motions with his hand. "Bring the girl with you. If it is her, I want that reward from the captain as soon as possible."

With nothing else to do, Felicity follows the both of them over to their police cruiser, parked next to a row of motorcycles. She bites her lip, wondering if she should try to grab that can of pepper spray in her bag. It would be easy enough to explain, she decides as Gold reaches into the cruiser for something and Daily tries to shove her into the back of the squad car. She can't speak English, so she wasn't sure what was going on. She was frightened and one of them kept staring at her in a way that scared her.

Before she has a chance to test her theory, a whistle comes from behind them. Felicity looks up in surprise, only to watch as a blur of faded and dark clothing punches Gold in the back. Oliver then turns to to the other officer, and her lips can only turn up into a smirk as her kind-of-a-friend stops Daily with a kick to the groin. With him down, Oliver turns his attention back to Gold, punching him in the face. He falls into the front passenger seat, but he's promptly thrown out.

By then Daily is back on his feet, but Felicity takes advantage of the situation. First she hits him with the bag, knocking him to his knees, and then she slams the car door into his middle. Oliver stares at her in surprise as he holds Gold by the throat, and she shrugs self-consciously before saying, "That's what he deserved for leering at me." Her kind-of-a-friend stares at her for a moment longer, but finally a slow, tentative curve comes to one corner of his mouth.

Then his attention turns back to the cops. "Gotta love Starling City," he says to them in English, and Felicity thinks his voice is even more intriguing in its native tongue. There's a hint of sarcasm to his voice, and it just sounds right. "You don't see someone for years, and then you run into them twice in the same day." Then he opens her door, offering Felicity his hand again. While she was hesitant to take it before, this time she's not worried. If he wanted to hurt her, he would have done it back at the subway. "Are you all right?" he asks her in Mandarin.

"Fine," she assures him, nodding her head a few too many times. Then she releases him, pulling down the hood of her jacket and trying to walk away. "I told you that people around me only ever seem to die," she reminds him as he keeps pace with her, not seeming to care.

His hand is suddenly on her arm. "I think we both have bigger problems," he admits in a low voice. His tone is wary, and it makes her turn in time to see two new sets of cars pulling up to the block. One set of men is yelling in Mandarin, the other in Russian.

Only then does Oliver seem to realize what kind of trouble he's dragged himself into. "What the hell did you do?" he asks in English, but Felicity doesn't have time to answer. Instead, she starts to dive toward the steering column of the cop car, turning the key to the ignition. Now she has a car, and she is definitely getting out of here.

Strong arms lock around her waist, pulling her back out. Fortunately, Oliver's hands don't linger in places they shouldn't, and instead he unwraps the wire from her wrist. "A motorbike can go places that cars can't follow," he tells her, in Mandarin this time, turning to one of the bikes around the police car. He turns to one that has labels of the word Ducati, which has no meaning to her.

She watches as he attempts to follow the wires down under the bike, and she rolls her eyes at his pathetic attempt to hotwire it. Instead, her hands drop onto his, fixing the wire in place with just a few heartbeats of moving it into place. Of course it feels like hours, but the men are only a few feet away from their cars when Felicity hears it start.

Oliver is on the bike almost instantly, reaching for her with one hand. She doesn't need the invitation, already crawling onto the bike behind him. "Hold onto me tight," he warns her, and Felicity wraps her arms around his waist, trying very hard not to notice the lean muscle at his middle. (She mostly fails.)

While the Bratva and Triad men are scrambling back to their cars, Oliver starts forward with the bike. It lurches ahead, making her let out a squeak and wrap her arms tighter around him. Slowly she realizes he might have been onto something with the bike thing, especially when he turns down a narrow alley where they can't follow.

Though Felicity isn't quite sure where they're going, but fortunately, Oliver seems to have an idea, judging by the way he keeps weaving through the streets. She's just about to breathe a sigh of relief because they've escaped when she notices another car following them—and recognizes one of the men in it as a Triad enforcer. Her kind-of-a-friend must notice because he suddenly swerves into another narrow street. A one-way street, going the wrong way.

She can't help it: she screams as a car flies past her, the wind moving with it and passing way too close for comfort. "Not trying to tell you how to do your thing or anything," Felicity states in a frantic tone, "but I'm pretty sure that on this street, cars go the other way!" By the end, she's screaming, trying to keep the shrill air of panic out of her voice.

Doing the worst thing he possibly could, Oliver turns, looking at her with wide eyes. His brow slowly furrows in a confusion she doesn't understand, but he still doesn't turn back around She wants to scream at him to watch the road, but then she realizes why he's staring at her. For once, Felicity has no words to give, all of them drying up in her throat.

Because, for the first time in years, she's spoken in English.

Too late, she covers her mouth with one hand, just as he turns his attention back to the road again. "Yes, I speak English," she whispers over his shoulder as she settles her arms around his middle gain, almost afraid to say it aloud—especially in her native tongue. For so many years, they've told her that anything other than Mandarin spells death, and now she's starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was another constructed lie by the Triad. "If you don't kill us on this thing and we somehow survive the Triad death squad, I promise to tell you the whole story. It's a good one—a little dry in the middle, maybe." It pulls a chuckle out of him, and she finds that she likes the sound.

They drive around for a while longer, using back alleys to travel deeper into the city. Finally he stops in a back alley, pulling her off the bike for a moment before digging through his pack. After a moment, he offers her a green hoodie. "They're looking for a Goth with black hair and purple streaks," he explains in English as he offers it to her. "We need hide your look until you have a chance to change it."

Felicity nods, stripping off her favorite hoodie in favor of his. It's nondescript and baggy on her, but when she pulls a hair band out of her bag to pull up her hair, the hood hangs down nicely over her face and hair to conceal them. As she works on her own situation, she notices that Oliver is trying to tuck his hair up into his own cap to hide it a little. "What do you need to dye your hair?"

"I already have dye," Felicity answers slowly, noting the box in her bag. "I have some money, so I'll need to buy some other supplies to do it myself." She studies him a moment, and slowly it creeps into her mind that already they've both assumed that they're running together. It's terrifying because she barely knows him, but Oliver has proven himself trustworthy to her. "We'll need something to cut yours, too—they'll catch on to the cap soon enough."

"Just tell me where you need to go," he answers, displaying a level of trust Felicity isn't sure she deserves. Then Oliver starts to get back on the bike, but something stops him. "We need to hide somewhere that they won't think to look for us. I was thinking Starling Heights—no one would suspect a runaway and a homeless man to go there." He frowns. "But there's a dress code there. I'll need a suit to get the room, and you'll need different clothes to blend in."

Felicity smiles, pleased to have thought ahead. "I stole a credit card off of one of the enforcers," she assures him. "I think that could take care of your dress code problem." She crosses her arms, thinking of the maps. "There's a beauty supply store on Ninth and Dearing. I can get the rest of what I need there, if you'll take me."

When Felicity walks out of a the supply store, it's with bags and a hundred dollars less than she started with. The money is going fast, and, while it unnerves her, she's pleased to do it.

The next stop however, gives her more pause. The area of the Glades he's driven to is seedy if she's being nice. The motel is grimy, with dilapidated brick and a flickering neon sign. Too many letters are broken for her to determine the name, but Oliver seems confident. Even still, he grabs her hand when they dismount the bike. "Stay with me and don't say anything," he warns her, adjusting her hood over her head so that it covers her face. Felicity opens her mouth to argue, but he doesn't let her. "They're not after me, Mei—they're after you." Something makes his features darken. "You don't want to be memorable in this place. And they will remember someone as beautiful as you." The way he says it makes it sound like the opposite of a compliment.

Immediately she understands that this isn't a place to be as a woman, that this is some other way Oliver is trying to protect her—and for good reason. Slowly, she nods, following him into the place without a word. Halfway across the narrow street, he pulls the hood of his own gray hoodie over his face, to conceal it.

The lobby is just as dubious as the rest of the place, with peeling paint and a very stained rug. Oliver tells her to wait in the middle of it before going up to ask the equally dubious man behind the counter, "How much is it to rent a room for the hour?"

Suddenly Felicity is very glad he can't see her face or the expression that runs across it at the question. She understands the implications, and, though he's been helpful so far, it still makes her doubt his intentions now. She has no doubt that Oliver has a shadier side, but the problem is determining whether or not it's a threat to her.

Right now, she isn't so certain.

Though the question troubles Felicity, the clerk seems to find no issue with it. "Fifty bucks," he says without missing a beat. Then he looks over at the girl under the hood with appraisal. "Two hours costs you eighty. Three is one-twenty-five."

Oliver hands over some cash. "You have good rates," he answers conversationally, "but I only have one hour." His easy calm unnerves her, as if he's done this a thousand times before. While it's probably a good idea for the purpose of their conversation, it would be less off-putting if she thought he'd never paid for an hour of good, clean fun in a cheap, dirty hotel.

The rest of the exchange is handled very efficiently, and soon enough, Oliver has hold of her hand again, leading her up the stairs with a key in his other hand. They're nearly free when the manager calls out, "Hey, just for the record? You don't have to run around here with hoods over your faces. I don't care if he's underage. I ain't the cops—not my business."

Felicity freezes for a moment until she realizes he's marked her as a young boy, helping to hide her tracks more efficiently. While she's relieved not to be noticed, it also makes her stomach churn a little to think that people bring children here with some regularity.

"I'm not a pervert," Oliver answers without missing a beat. "I made sure he was over eighteen. But my wife would be pissed if she knew I was here." The clerk lets them go without another word, and it makes Felicity realize yet another thing about the man leading her up the stairs—she knows nothing about him. He could have a wife out there somewhere, which would make his intentions a little less than honorable.

Doubts plague her all the way up the stairs and into the room, but they only intensify when he locks the door and then leads her into the tiny bathroom with him before locking that door, too. Only then does Felicity start to panic, all alone in a very small room with a very imposing man who she's watched kill before.

Cold fear claws down her spine, and when he turns to face her, she aims a wild kick at his groin. He dodges it—by a very close margin—but instead of retaliating, he just holds his hands up before placing his back against the door and forcing as much space between them as possible. "I'm not going to hurt you, Mei," he assures her in a quiet voice. "I thought it would be safer if anyone caught us because of the window." He points, and, sure enough, there's a window over her shoulder. "If they find us, we already have two barriers between us and them—and a quick getaway."

A blush immediately rises to her face, and she can't look at him because of the horrible conclusion she's drawn. She's so used to everyone wanting something from her and his altruistic actions make her doubt him more. "I'm sorry," Felicity blurts immediately, staring down at the floor. "I—"

Hands suddenly press against either side of her head, and she looks up in surprise of his actions. "Hey," he tells her gently, standing just a few breaths away. While he's close enough to startle her, now she doesn't fear his actions. "Never apologize for trying to protect yourself. We barely know each other, Mei."

"Felicity," she answers quickly, without even preparing herself for the admission. They both stare at each other in surprise before she elaborates, "My name isn't Mei Lin. It's Felicity. Felicity Smoak." He doesn't say anything, and suddenly his eyes on her is just too much. "We don't have enough time to dye my hair—especially not with what it will take to strip it down to turn it blonde—but maybe you could get a shower. I bought an electric razor at the beauty supply store, so I'll, um"—she makes a buzzing sound—"your hair."

To her surprise, it brings a smile to the stoic man's lips. "Good idea," he agrees slowly. "But first…" He trails off, reaching to pull back her hood. Then he holds out a hand as he turns Felicity toward the mirror. "I need a brush." With a confused frown, Felicity empties her bag onto the table, the items pouring out all over the small counter.

When she hands him the brush, Felicity marvels at the way he brushes the tangles out of her hair with an ease she doesn't expect. "It will be easier to blend if they can't see the purple in your hair. I'm going to braid it so they're hidden. Then maybe you should remove your makeup and…" His eyes flick to the counter. "Those glasses will help, too."

Still marveling at the way he seems to be working her hair into a French braid, she can't help but ask, "Where did you learn how to do this, Oliver?" He's doing it with expert ease, and Felicity can't help but think he's done this before. Despite the familiarity, she isn't sure where in the world he picked up the skill.

A hint of a smile graces his face. "I have a little sister," he answers quietly, never missing a beat. "Her name is Thea, and she's ten years younger than me." His smile turns reflective. "She used to follow me everywhere. I picked up a lot of tricks like this from her over the years." He reaches over her for an elastic band.

It makes Felicity think about his life for a moment, about the comment he made to the clerk earlier about his wife. "Do you have a wife, too?" He doesn't answer right away and Felicity bites her lip. "Or was that just a thing you said up front. I just realized I don't know anything about you."

A smile graces his lips. "A lie is better if it strays as little from the truth as possible," he answers, which isn't really an answer at all. "I'm not married, but if I was, I'm pretty sure my wife would be slightly upset to know I'm locked in a small, motel bathroom with a beautiful woman—especially without knowing the context." Again the compliment isn't said as a compliment. Last time it was almost a threat, but now it's a statement of fact. It isn't spoken with intent or charm, but instead as truth. It takes Felicity a long moment to realize that she actually likes that about him.

Smiling, Oliver finishes with her ponytail, immediately starting to strip off his hoodie and shirt almost immediately. For a moment, all she can do is stare; the planes of lean muscle across his chest are marked with both scars and tattoos, but they only serve to make him a greater mystery. Then his hands go to his jeans, and she makes a horrible squeaking sound before turning her back to him. "What are you doing?" she asks, her voice coming out an octave higher than normal.

"Shower," he answers with a grunt as the spray comes on. "I need something to clean the grime off—and I'm sure I could lose the smell." He makes a breathy sound in his throat that sounds like laughter. "I probably should have warned you." It's an apology, just in different words. "We don't have a lot of time here, so I was trying to be as efficient as possible." There's a rattle as the shower hooks drag across the rod, and then with a laugh in his voice, he adds, "You can turn around now."

Deciding to do just that, Felicity turns back to the grimy mirror, taking a few deep breaths. Slowly she reaches for the makeup removal wipes in her bag, trying to ignore the fact that an incredibly handsome, careful man is showering with in arm's length of where she stands. Turning to the sink, she mutters under her breath, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain." A laugh answers it, and when Felicity scrubs at her cheeks, she finds her blush doesn't rub off.

Felicity makes quick work of her makeup, then goes about replacing it with the makeup in her bag. Instead of trying to save her contacts, she throws them away in favor of her glasses. They sit oddly on her face after so long without wearing them, but it isn't unpleasant. The girl in the mirror isn't bad, either; she definitely doesn't look the way Felicity remembers herself in the mirror. Her makeup is lighter—but she made sure not to go too bright—and her hair looks almost severe compared to the way it did before. But, as she turns to look at it, her eyebrows shoot up. Apparently Oliver spent a lot of time braiding his sister's hair because he did an excellent job with hers.

"Could you hand me a towel?" comes from the shower, and Felicity jumps slightly. Though she didn't think it was possible, she did forget the man behind the curtain. She quickly passes him a ragged towel with a frown, keeping her eyes focused on the corner. "You look different enough to keep the hood down when we get out of here," he notes. There's a rustling noise, then the sound of a zipper before he says, "I'm going to sit down here." She turns, watching him cover the lid on the disgusting toilet before turning around and facing away from her.

Only now does Felicity start to hesitate. "You do realize I've never gone to beauty school, right?" She bites her lip. "I've never done this before, but…" She trails off, studying the overlong hair. "I think a little longer on the top, shorter on the sides. Longer than a buzz cut, but just barely." It's hard for her to put it into words, but she thinks the message is clear enough.

It surprises her when his only response is to shrug. "Whatever you think," he says flatly, clearly uninterested in the entire conversation. Still, the trust there is impressive; she isn't sure she'd trust him to cut her hair any way he'd like. Not to mention the fact she has a somewhat sharp object at the back of his neck.

Though they don't have a lot of time, Felicity takes it slow and careful, using the different blades to trim it shorter before really taking a chance at it. By the time she's finished, she's more than a little impressed with her work. "Damn, I think I missed a calling," she notes before running her fingers through his much shorter hair. After a moment, she realizes the intimacy of the moment, and she pulls herself away from him, before pulling off her skull t-shirt in favor of the tank top underneath. "What do you think?"

It takes a moment before he answers her, scratching at the new cut in the mirror for a long moment. "That works," he agrees, an altogether underwhelming response. Still, she thinks it's a good look on him nonetheless. Something about it makes his features look stronger, sharper, which makes him look a little more dangerous—with very wild eyes. The Oliver she knew before looked lost, but the one she knows now looks like the predator she knows him to be.

He reaches for the razor that fell out of her bag, but Felicity catches his wrist before he can run it across his cheek. "No!" she calls out, a little too loud. His eyes narrow, and she blushes as she mutters the words, "You don't need to shave. You look good the way you are."

There's something unreadable in his expression when he answers, "I'll let you be the judge, Felicity."