This is based on the plot synopsis for episode 2x06 as seen on-line. I do not own anything associated with Arrow. I do not make money off fan-fiction.
SPOILERS AHEAD. You've been warned.


Felicity hated riding in airplanes. She'd done it to reach Lian Yu because they needed to bring Oliver home. She'd done it again, of course, to return to Starling City. Now she was once again fighting her fears because Oliver had asked.

Oh, he hadn't asked her in a way which acknowledged how difficult it was for her to step foot into another aluminum skinned flying coffin. No, he'd said those simple words that made her common sense, expensive education, and genius intellect fly right out the window.

"Felicity, I need you."

I hope they put that on my tombstone. "She died being needed by Oliver Queen."

She knew for a fact that there was alcohol on this infernal conveyance, but she didn't dare touch it. The reason she couldn't get sloshed, or express her foul mood to Oliver, was sitting in the next row of seats. Isabel Rochev was not the kind of woman you got drunk around-particularly if you were the type of woman who said completely embarrassing things even without imbibing. The perpetually angry Ms. Rochev had insisted upon accompanying Oliver on his "business trip" to Russia. In previous situations when Oliver's "partner" had intruded into their lives, Oliver, Felicity, and Diggle had traded barbed comments and speaking glances to soldier through until they could ditch her.

The thought of Diggle had Felicity biting her lip so hard that it drew blood. It was the only way she could suppress her whimper. We're coming Digg. You have to hold on. Her fingers clenched the armrests so tightly that pain lanced from her bone-white knuckles to her shoulders.

The Queens' private jet had two forward facing seats in the front of the passenger cabin. Behind those to the left of the aircraft were four seats in facing pairs. A long bench seat or sleeping berth was in the rear right with two seats facing each other in the rear left. When Felicity boarded the aircraft, chattering on her phone with the office, checking itineraries on her tablet, and juggling files, Oliver and Isabel were already ensconced in the middle set of seats. They faced each other. Oliver had his suit jacket flung over the seat beside him and his tie loosened. He was listening intently to something Isabel was saying. The striking brunette looked icily comfortable—only she could make that possible—with her legs bent sideways and crossed at the ankles. Felicity had taken one look at the two of them and decided she could spend the first part of the flight in one of the first row seats.

Granted, she could have looked over her shoulder to see Oliver, but the increasingly cordial conversation behind her did not invite interruption. So Felicity sat, miserable and terrified, with nothing to occupy her busy mind.

You don't seem to need me all that much, Oliver. If we die on this plane I'll be listed in the "also killed" category. A sad little footnote to your life—as usual.

She gulped a few deep breaths and tried to think happy thoughts.

Right. Happy thoughts. Like Isabel being mauled by a pack of feral dogs. Did they have those in Russia? Could we make a stop in Africa?

They hit turbulence somewhere over Poland. Felicity tried sleeping, but every jolt and accompanying creak made her jerk with fear. Her hands were clenched in her lap. She tried really hard not to hyperventilate. She thought she heard Oliver moving around behind her. But, when she turned to look, he was covering a sleeping Isabel with a blanket. He returned to his seat. Felicity jerked her head back to forward facing before he could see her expression.

Emotionally and physically exhausted by the time they reached Moscow, Felicity was the last one to stand. She was still struggling to gather her possessions when Isabel and Oliver walked down the exit stairs. A minute later Oliver's voice floated back to her.

"Come on Felicity, the car's waiting."

She marched down the stairs, an extensive list of profanity rolling through her head. Knowing full well that she wouldn't be able to control her tongue or her temper, she slid into the front seat and slammed the door. Oliver and Isabel could enjoy the privacy of the backseat without her. Her role as the CEO's assistant meant she was at the desk verifying their reservations and coordinating delivery of their luggage while Oliver and Isabel went straight to the elevators.

Finally in her room, Felicity kicked her wedge heels off her feet and collapsed onto the bed. She was on solid ground. She was alone. The only thing needing her attention for the next seven hours was a pillow. Her fingers were already working on the buttons of her canary yellow blouse when he knocked at her door.

She'd know that knock anywhere. Oliver could make a knock sound privileged and dangerous concurrently.

"Go away."

"Felicity." He growled, making it quite clear he was ready to break down the door if she failed to open it post-haste. When she did yank it open, he didn't give her a chance to get a word out. His broad shoulders leading the way, he brushed past her. He set a small attaché case on the desk before turning. She'd let the door close (loudly) but remained standing, glaring at him with her arms crossed.

"Let me see them."

"Huh? Oliver it's late, or early, or, you know, I don't even care. I haven't slept. What can you possibly need to see at this hour? Go sleep, or do pushups, or whatever it is you do when mere mortals are sleeping."

"I'm usually arguing with you." He stepped closer and extended a hand. "Let me see your hands, Felicity."

Oh. He'd done it again. With a simple observation he diffused her anger and made her feel silly for ever doubting him. He might have, for Isabel's sake, acted oblivious to her turmoil, but he'd seen. She crossed the room before presenting her palms to him. Into each was cut four crescents. Some of them had bled.

His head was bent, so she could not see his expression. She could, though, see his shoulders rise and fall with a deep sigh. He cupped one hand around her elbow as he led her to desk chair. His larger hands engulfed hers. The disinfectant wipe stung as it brushed over the nail marks. A small tin held a green salve that smelt faintly of juniper. Felicity shuddered when Oliver applied the green goop on her palms. He still didn't look at her face, not until he finished wrapping two layers of gauze around each hand.

"Leave those on until tomorrow."

"Thanks. And…I'm sorry."

Head to one side, he cocked a brow at her. "Sorry for what?"

"Um, being rude, using my loud voice, slamming doors…" She shrugged, indicating he could include anything he chose.

Her movement caused her blouse, unbuttoned to mid-chest, to slide and expose the pale flesh beneath. Oliver's expression somewhere between awe and devotion, he reached out to stroke the pad of his thumb over her collar bone. Felicity sucked in her breath. He jerked back his hand like he'd been burned.

"I should go."

She nodded and swallowed. "You should go to bed." Her face flamed. "In your bed! Not here!"

Laughter teasing at the edges of his eyes and mouth, Oliver picked up her hand. He gently squeezed her fingertips. "Next time we're picking out codenames, yours is "Valkyrie". His smile made her tired body want to dance. "Brave, loyal, fierce, fighter." Eyes locked on hers he pulled her hand to his mouth. Lips brushed over her fingers before she could blink.

"Sleep well, Valkyrie."