"Who taught you to shave, mister?"

Felicity dislikes Isabel Rochev. And she knows she's not the only one. Oliver practically vibrates with hatred for her and even Diggle, whose approach to anyone not Deadshot (or Carly) can be mostly described as either bland indifference or big brother like protectiveness gets a curl in his lip when Rochev approaches.

Felicity's immediate response that "it's not his blood," raises eyebrows and so she has to cover (as ever), licking her fingers and rubbing at the smear of blood along Oliver's jawline babbling about how he never learned how to use a razor properly.

The thought crosses her mind that it looks not unlike the lipstick with which she has decorated his skin in the past, but with the gleam of it, the wetness; it's so obviously not the stain of a dalliance on his way in.

Hence her elder-sister-like teasing of her vigilante boss over his shaving habits.

Anyone with half a mind could see that with the amount of stubble he's (always) sporting, there's no way this is a shaving accident. But what else could it be?

It's obviously blood.

She just hopes that Rochev, with her disdainful approach to both Oliver, as well as herself and Digg as his ever present support system, won't see through this particular ruse.

Diggle steps in close once Rochev has rolled her eyes and walked away. Oliver is working the room, the consummate host, trained from childhood to participate in business oriented small talk and remember people's names.

"You are so married."

Felicity starts.

"I had to cover," she says, turning to glare at Diggle, "what other explanation could there be for blood on his face? Oliver Queen does not get into fist fights."

"Okay, now you're doing the creepy third person thing," Diggle says, "I'm not sure it's any better coming from you."

"What are you talking about?" Felicity snaps, not in the mood to be judged by anyone right now. That's what Rochev has been doing for the past hour while she covered for Oliver and that's all the judgement she can take today.

"You know everyone thinks you're sleeping with him, right?"

"Yes," she sighs, "I've heard the gossip. From a particularly dumb intern in accounts who didn't know who I was but was oh so keen to enlighten me on why the CEO's new EA is vastly under qualified. The consensus is my skirts are too short. Apparently."

"Ah," Diggle says.

"'Ah,' what?" Felicity snaps.

"I should have known," Diggle says, "you heard this what, a week ago?"

"Eight days."

"The timing fits," he says, "good on you Smoak. And as a male friend with no designs on your virtue and incredible respect for your skills who gets to enjoy the view, I also thank you."

"I don't know what you're taking about?" She says, but she does, and if anyone was ever going to see through her, it would be the eerily prescient John Diggle.

"You heard your skirts were too short eight days ago," he says, "and all your skirts since then have been even shorter. Dangerously so. It's your own personal 'fuck you' to the office gossip."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she sniffs. "A modern woman can wear whatever length skirt she wants, and if the accounts team's systems have managed to crash every single day for the past, oh, eight days, I don't know anything about that either."

"He doesn't deserve you, Felicity," Diggle says.

"Oh, I know that," she says, "but if keeping his secret is going to destroy my professional reputation, I might as well have some fun with it."

Diggle smiles at her, but it's a sad smile.

"He has no idea, does he?"

"Oliver I-notice-nothing-unless-it-threatens-the-city-or-is-called-Laurel-Lance Queen? Of course not."

"Too good for him," Diggle says, and his hand comes up to squeeze her shoulder.

Felicity looks pasts Diggle to where Oliver is talking to his sister and two of the board members from Walter's bank.

"Dammit," she swears.

"What?"

"I missed a bit," she says, "look."

And sure enough, right there under Oliver's ear is a smear of blood. It was out of sight when she cleaned the stain off his jaw, but from this distance the red stands out against his skin.

"It looks like lipstick," Diggle says, "leave it."

"This party is for investors," she says, "who is going to want to invest in a company whose CEO is stained with either blood or lipstick? Neither are very professional."

"If you draw attention to it," Diggle warns, "it might make it worse."

Felicity sees the exact moment that Thea notices the stain. A slight smile pulls at her lips and she lifts her glass to her lips as if trying to cover it.

Oliver, with his ninja like awareness of the people around him, immediately picks up on his sister's amusement.

He says something, but he's too far away for her to hear it. Thea's response is a raised eyebrow and some sort of comment that has Oliver raising his hand to the skin underneath his ear and glancing across to where Felicity and Diggle stand.

Felicity hopes that his answer was innocent, but Thea follows his gaze and she can feel the teenager's eyes lock onto her. She doesn't need to be within earshot to know that the next thing Thea says to her brother is about who left that "lipstick" mark on his neck.

Oliver obfuscates, obviously, hands open, eyes wide, but he also has a handkerchief pressed to his neck, cleaning away the evidence.

But as ever, he can't quite do it himself.

Felicity is in motion before she really thinks about it, reaching him in seconds and taking the material from his hand. It takes her two swipes to clear the ichor from his skin, but that's more than enough time for the Queen siblings to have a conversation using only facial expressions.

"And done!" She says, cheerfully handing the handkerchief back to him.

In doing so she meets Thea's eyes.

"It's so nice to meet you," Oliver's sister says and suddenly Felicity is shaking hands, "I don't know anyone Ollie... works with."

"I'm just his assistant," Felicity says before she can think.

"Right," Thea says in the sort of tone that it's just not worth trying to disagree with. Nothing Felicity says will make a difference. Thea's mind is made up.

"I'm gonna...go," Felicity says and beats a hasty retreat.

"I see why you've been having all those late nights at the office, Ollie," Thea says just before Felicity is completely out of earshot and she suppresses a flinch as she walks.

It's okay, it's fine, there are bigger things at stake than what Thea Queen thinks of her.

But it hurts all the same.

She doesn't hear Oliver's response, doesn't hear him deny and decry. Tell Thea off for her assumptions. She doesn't hear any of it.

Diggle has a drink waiting for her when she returns. A drink and a sympathetic look.

"You're too good for him," he says, again.

"Don't I know it," she replies, but it's not the truth. She'd sacrifice a lot to keep Oliver safe. On the streets and in the boardroom both.

What value is her reputation when weighed against all the good he can do?

Nothing. Nothing at all.