A/N 1: I'm amping up the manpain here. Let's be honest, you can't have a story involving Oliver without it. He's like the poster-boy for manpain.

Also, this chapter may have gotten away from me...like, the characters took the wheel, and I am not responsible for what came out of it.

P.S. I am no expert in economics (or tech) and I like to think that applying logic to it is the way to go, though I have been told before that logic is not exactly how it works. Still rolling with it, though.

IV. Dissonance

This is bad, Felicity thought wildly. This is so bad. Abandon ship, abort mission! Mayday!

It would help if Ms. Rochev weren't staring at her. Why was she staring at her again? Oh right, they were waiting for her to speak. An entire freaking boardroom. She did not deal well with the spotlight blaring at her face; she was perfectly fine with it blaring at whoever stood next to her, just as long as it wasn't at her, dammit! They were actually expecting her to speak!

This was so bad.

Well, she had lasted a week. A week full of long hours and promising drafts, and here she was now, expected to present it to the board, and her tongue was as tied as that absurdly complicated knot she'd seen Digg make once. And that, she reminded herself, was why making the socially awkward MIT graduate a big kahuna was a bad idea.

There were already rumors circulating, of course, as to why the under-qualified computer nerd would be appointed as Head of Department – and that, by the most under-qualified CEO there ever was. Weren't they the pair?

And this meeting was meant to squash those rumors, because Felicity was supposed to dazzle them all with her prowess, and wittiness, and competence. Needless to say, it wasn't exactly going according to plan.

She chanced a look at Oliver, who, much like everyone else present, was silent as he waited for her to speak. He had an appropriately bland smile plastered on his face. Oh, this was so beyond bad.

"Well, while we wait for Ms. Smoak to find her voice," Ms. Rochev spoke up, turning her cold eyes from Felicity to Oliver, "maybe you can explain to me what kind of fool's business this is. She has no qualifications for her position."

Felicity bit her lip; she knew she was disappointing him, and doing it oh-so-gloriously, and she knew he was as tense as one of his bowstrings beneath the cool façade. Still, his tone was pleasant as he replied. "I've seen Ms. Smoak's work firsthand; she is more than qualified to provide us with the best computer technology out there."

Ms. Rochev didn't seem particularly impressed. Felicity knew she didn't see Oliver as nothing but mindless anymore, but that didn't mean she had let go of the notion he was a child splashing his way through the adults' sandbox. "A computer geek," she deadpanned. "Who has no experience, or degree, in business whatsoever." Kind of like you, was mercifully left unsaid.

As it happened, that jab made Felicity speak up – or squeak was more like it, actually. "I have – " Don't say 'minions', Felicity, do not say 'minions' – "consultants." And she did. A whole lot of them. And some of them were financial consultants, and others were her tech-savvy kindred spirits, and they were all really great. Not that Ms. Rochev would care much for that.

All eyes turned to her again; she gulped.

"She does," Oliver confirmed for her, diverting the attention and mercifully buying her some more time. "This is my personal project, and it is very important both to me" – he pointedly turned his eyes back to Isabel – "and this company. So, I've entrusted it to a friend."

Ms. Rochev looked like she was about to smirk in derision. "One doesn't have friends in corporate business, Mr. Queen."

Oliver shrugged casually. "Well, you don't."

From her spot to his left, Felicity stared at him. And here she thought Diggle was the resident shade-thrower extraordinaire. "Burn," she mouthed silently as she ducked her head.

"Ms. Smoak," he addressed her next and all her mirth was gone in two seconds flat, "maybe you'd like to start now?"

Oh…God.

He was giving her a look that wouldn't be out of place on his bow-totting alter-ego. A moment later, he gave an exasperated sigh. "I'll do it myself if you want," he said, already reaching for the papers she held in her – somewhat sweaty and shaking – hands. She let out a small eep and promptly hugged the folders against her chest.

"You won't be able to read my notes," she muttered. He gave her a bewildered look.

"I write in code, okay?" she hissed under her breath, making his mouth twitch in a way that was just a little bit terrifying.

She took a deep, steeling breath, gulped some more, then lowered the notes back atop the table, smoothing them over for good measure. All right, Smoak, she told herself, it's now or never.

"As it – " Deep breath. "As it stands now," she tried again, hoping against hope that the heat rushing to her cheeks would just blend in with the blush she'd applied over her foundation, "Queen Consolidated – " She cleared her throat; God, this was worse than that fifth-grade spelling bee where she'd stuttered her way through the entire thing. "Queen Consolidated owns a few subsidiaries that…that deal with computer technology." She was so out of her comfort zone here, it wasn't even funny anymore. If she could just fast-forward this shindig to the part concerning actual tech, it would be marvelous; that was her field, what she was good at. "It's mostly computer parts," she went on, "and it gets the company a buck or two, but it's not something to really invest effort into – not yet anyway. Besides, the company needs funds to invest, and we need to get those first. And Ol – I mean, Mr. Queen, is right to take an interest in computer technology; there's a lot of money that can be made here – on software first. If you know how to do it, and do it well, it takes little funding – mostly because I'll be doing ninety percent of it myself – and gets a lot of revenue. And I know how to do it – extremely well, I might add."

Taking a momentary pause to catch her breath, she noticed the look Oliver was giving her now; it held something suspiciously akin to a mixture of amusement and pride. She realized her hands had stopped shaking.

"What kind of software?" Ms. Rochev prompted, obviously not yet impressed.

Oh, lady, I will so blow you away. "Do you know what an operating system is?" Felicity countered with a question of her own, a little surprised by the condescending undercurrent of her voice. By his spot by the boardroom's glass doors, Diggle looked like he was having some trouble with maintaining his poker face.

Isabel Rochev, for her part, didn't seem either offended or startled; there was a slight shift, though. Now, she looked like Felicity had finally gotten her attention. "Sure," she said. "Windows, Mac, that sort of thing?"

"Well, Mac isn't actually the OS for – never mind, uh…yes," Felicity managed to confirm. "Your average user's OS of choice. Now, those who know better will use Linux or write their own source code, but the majority of the tech-impaired – I mean, the general populace, will use Windows or…Mac. Except…those are riddled with bugs. And when I say riddled, I mean riddled; you get just a little bit enthusiastic, and those things crash and burn, and go up in flames, and you're just left there crying over the ashes."

Everyone was giving her odd looks now; oh well, they got her point.

"So, what I suggest," she concluded, "is to offer those" – poor, unfortunate, tortured souls – "disgruntled users a quick fix-it for all their troubles. One program installed and voilà; no more bugs."

A blink, and Ms. Rochev's face went from intrigued back to unimpressed. "Are you not familiar with basic protection laws, Ms. Smoak? Putting out a fix-it program like that would be a direct infringement of copyright laws."

Now, it was Felicity's turn to look unimpressed; she really didn't like being treated like an idiot. "Not if we market it as a completely separate program," she countered. "A fix-it for all operating systems, not just one specifically. That's one loophole taken advantage of right there. Then, we just have to be careful with the phrasing when patenting the product; dance around the subject, that sort of thing…I'm sure the company's legal experts are really good at that."

"We can play with the language all we want, we're still talking about a product that can cost the systems' owners a lot of money – the one they earn from client support in case of…bugs; they won't just let us place this program of yours on the market without a fight. And we can't afford that sort of legal fees."

"Except, they won't be able to stop it," Felicity said with confidence. "Legal-speak aside, the program will not contain a single line of code from the OS' it debugs; there will be no copyright infringement. And it will work on every OS. We market it as an independent upgrade, but everyone will know what it's really for."

Isabel tilted her head a fraction. "How?"

Felicity shrugged. "All it takes a few anonymous leeks online. It'll spread like wildfire, if you plant it in the right places."

"And…it will really be completely removed from the original code, and still work on every system?" Isabel questioned again, growing curious at Felicity's affirmative nod. "You can do that?"

"Can I do that?" Felicity scoffed. "Does the vigilante wear green tights?"

There was a muffled sound from the doorway, and all eyes turned to Diggle, where he was half-bent over, attempting to feign a cough. He raised a hand in apology, still half-facing away and pressing a fist to his mouth to hide his smile.

Felicity kept her eyes pointedly fixed on Isabel Rochev. So okay, that comparison may have been a result of her being too at ease – oh, the turn of fate – but she was going to roll with it. And nope, she was not going to look at Oliver.

Mercifully, Ms. Rochev was talking again. "And if this is as simple as you make it out to be, how hasn't it been done before?"

"It's not simple," Felicity said. "I'm just very good at what I do. And others who are as good don't come and work for corporations…or they just take money to keep their ideas under wraps. They value anonymity more than a patent."

"So, if this takes off," Isabel summarized, "that's a lot of money easily earned. Which can then be used to fund other, more ambitious projects."

Felicity nodded emphatically.

Isabel studied her for a moment longer, then nodded herself. "It's…not bad," she allowed. "For someone who really has no idea what they're doing." Felicity could be mistaken, but that did sound like some sort of praise. Ms. Rochev turned to Oliver. "You're smarter than you look, Mr. Queen," she said. "You do know how to delegate work to more capable hands."

And with that, she rose to her feet; the rest of the attendees followed. "I'm not fond of your…eccentricities," she said, extending her hand to Oliver, "but you do have my approval on this. Keep me updated."

Oliver shook her hand politely and nodded in form of goodbye.

"Ms. Smoak," Isabel said on her way out, and Felicity nodded jerkily in response.

The room soon cleared out, save for Felicity, Oliver and Diggle.

She finally chanced a look at the fearsome vigilante. He said only one word. "Tights?"

Felicity sighed. He could never just be happy, could he?

"Still upset over the whole tights thing?" Diggle teased as he cleared out the wrappers from their takeout.

From where he was sharpening his arrows in the basement's corner, Oliver stated, "Not tights."

"Oh, I don't know, man," Diggle said. "I had to wear those…they're pretty tight."

"They…can't be too loose, otherwise they hinder my movements," Oliver grumbled under his breath. "Doesn't make them tights."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Arrow."

Eyes still focused on the arrowhead he was handling, Oliver heard the echo of Felicity's soft laughter. She was by her computers, working on this or that; Oliver supposed it was probably the program she wanted to design for QC. They'd given themselves the night off, to celebrate success, and it had been his treat. Burgers and shakes in the…lair. Felicity called it the lair. It kind of got stuck in his head.

Momentarily pausing in his task, he cast a sideways glance at his companions. Felicity pointed to something on the screen with enthusiasm, then clapped to herself. Diggle chuckled and offered some words of congratulations, and Felicity raised her loosely curled fist up over her shoulder, so John could bump it in passing as he made a beeline for the trashcan.

And God help him, that seamless little gesture filled Oliver with such longing.

He wanted to have it, too, that easygoing camaraderie Digg and Felicity shared. And he was trying; he was being friendlier, and he took interest, and he did his best to make them feel valued. He knew they saw right through him, though; his attempts were painfully obvious, and maybe a little stilted, and sometimes just plain over the top. They knew what he was doing. And they didn't call him on it; they just let him, and he appreciated that.

But he wanted for it to come naturally, like it did for them. He wanted to be able to fist-bump Felicity without her, probably, blinking up at him in shock and looking around for the hidden camera. He wanted to deliver friendly punches to Diggle's shoulder without the other man, on a good day, taking his temperature and asking what drugs he'd taken. The simple truth was, it didn't come naturally to him; not anymore. Somewhere along the way, and on the island, he'd lost the ability to connect with people through easy gestures, to be warm without reminding himself that he had to be so – that had gone out the window with a good chunk of his humanity, he supposed.

He just didn't fit.

And he didn't know how to make himself fit again.

He couldn't play it up here; not with them. Out of those he cared for that surrounded him, they were his most recent acquaintances, and yet, they somehow knew him better than anyone. And they saw right through him.

The greater part of him knew he shouldn't want it; the closeness. The attachment. He'd been warned against that, and he had learned his lesson. He'd had a team of sorts like this once before and sometimes, he wondered if maybe he wasn't subconsciously drawn to recreate it here, in Starling City; if maybe, in Diggle and Felicity, he was looking for a new Slade, and a new Shado.

It could be so. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. But the lesson always remained; he had lost his old team, and he could lose this one, too. He could lose them so easily.

So, he shouldn't want the attachment. But he did.

He wanted it so badly.

Felicity let out a contended sigh; she was actually ahead of schedule with her program. Still, moving a bit further along while she was in the proverbial zone wouldn't be a bad idea; with her very busy crime-fighting schedule, there were no guarantees she would get a chance to work uninterrupted again on any given day. But more work also required more coffee.

She grabbed her cup, spun her chair around on a twirl, rose to her feet, and frowned.

Oliver was staring at her – or through her, would probably be more fitting. She tipped her head to the side, changing course, and going to him instead of upstairs for a refill.

He actual started at her sudden proximity and it only served to worry her further. "Oliver," she prompted softly, "you okay?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. No lies.

Still, he didn't seem to have any truths to spill either and just gave her a little shrug, before returning his attention to the arrow in his hands. Her frown deepened. She ran a mental recap of the evening, trying to pinpoint the moment when he'd gone from almost cheery to this particular brand of brooding; nothing really stuck out.

Then, she considered all the usual suspects. Laurel? Nah, probably not today. Family drama? Nothing in particular there; Moira was still awaiting trial, and Thea was doing great. Doubting everything from their pursuit of heroics to the meaning of life? Yeah, probably that one.

With a sigh, she asked, "Are you having misgivings about the cause again?"

He didn't respond immediately, and maybe it was the wrong conclusion, but she jumped to it anyway. "Hey," she said, a little sharply, making his eyes snap up to hers, "what we're doing here…it's great stuff, okay?"

"Felicity – "

"No, look," she interrupted, "I know we're still stumbling through the dark a little, but…" She sighed. "We'll make it all work. We'll clean up the streets, and we'll restore Queen Consolidated to its former glory, and we'll…change this city for the better. And then – " she spread her arms out, forgetting she still held her, thankfully empty, cup – "we'll help your family, and your mom. And after that, we'll go after Lawton, and we'll take him down, so Digg doesn't have to remember his brother's killer every time he looks at Carly, and then – " She allowed her brain cells a moment to regroup. "And then, if we can catch a moment to breathe, maybe we'll make Laurel see you for who you really are." She gave him a smile and a little shrug. "A hero."

Hero.

His every muscle tensed at the word. It came as a reflex, and all he wanted was to deflect. Just deflect. Change the subject. Anything not to hear any more of it.

Instead, he found himself muttering, "I'm not a hero, Felicity."

And because she was Felicity, she rolled her eyes. "Well, of course you can't say you are," she said. "I mean, if you go around calling yourself a hero, you'll just…sound like a pompous ass."

He felt the involuntary smile touch his lips and immediately reined in on it; there was nothing to smile about.

She was talking again. "It only counts when others say it, and since I'm saying it, then – "

He didn't even know where the anger came from. But to hear her call him that, actually believe it, just made him…angry.

"Well, you're wrong," he cut her off, a little too loudly, making her stop short and blink up at him. "I'm not a hero, and…" He let his eyes linger on the ground before meeting hers again. "And this is not about turning me into one, or whatever it is that you're thinking."

"I'm – " She shook her head. "Okay, I know it's hard for you to see, but from where I'm standing, you're doing what heroes do. I mean, hey, I can pull up Webster's definition of the word, and run a point-by-point comparison if you want, but – "

Stop talking, he thought. Just stop talking.

"You know, Felicity, I'm starting to think you're the one who doesn't actually see me for who I really am."

The words were biting and sharp, and they made her quiet instantly. She stared at him, like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard him say; to be honest, he couldn't quite believe it either.

He let out a deep breath. "I – I didn't mean it…like that, Felicity," he tried to backtrack, but no backpedaling was getting him out of this one.

He was aware of Diggle's quiet footfalls, too, as the man emerged from the training area; brought out by his raised voice, no doubt. Felicity was still just staring at him.

Finally, she huffed and raised her hands, as if surrendering. "You know what, I'm too tired to deal with this," she snapped. "And you know why I'm tired? Because all day, I either try to find a way to save your company and rack my brain for ways to make this insanely complicated program that will help you, or spend hours hacking into every federal agency out there for you, or hey, try to find way to buy all of this" – she gestured to their surroundings – "and get you that custom-made bow without having the FBI flag me down and show up on my door, because hey, why would a simple IT expert be buying all of that – and why exactly is it all going to Oliver Queen's basement? – but I'm not even an IT expert anymore, am I? No, I'm heading a department now, which I have no idea how to do, and guess why is that? Well, because and for you, of course, so I can be here and help you with this little quest for justice we have going on!" She was right in his face now, raising her voice with each word. "But yeah, I'm the one who doesn't know, or doesn't 'see', you!"

She poked him in the chest. "You know, Oliver, all those little things you've been doing? Like, buying us burgers, and being all friendly and whatever – it's great, it's awesome, but it'd be better if you actually meant any of it."

He opened his mouth to protest to that – because he did mean it – but she was already stomping back to her desk, and gathering her things with angry movements; the loud clang of her coffee mug hitting the desk echoed throughout the space, making him flinch.

"And one of these days," she spoke again, shutting off her system with more force than necessary, "maybe you'll actually get over yourself. But then again, you probably won't."

And with that, she was out the door, the click of her heels somehow sounding like yet another manifestation of her anger, and he didn't get a single word in; not that he knew what to say, really.

Diggle was still standing behind him. "Got anything to add?" Oliver asked quietly, decidedly looking anywhere but at his partner.

The other man was silent for a moment, then clucked his tongue. "No, I think she covered everything," he said flatly and simply retired back to the training area.

Now left to his own devices, Oliver bowed his head; he shouldn't want attachments.

He almost sighed in relief when he found her in her office the next morning; though, rationally, he knew she wouldn't just pack her bags and quit, he still carried the tension in his shoulders from the moment he woke up right up to the one when he found her sitting at her desk.

He'd left her alone the previous night, knowing he was never good at controlling his temper after a fresh fight; better to sleep on it first.

Well, that was more of a figure of speech than anything else. In truth, he hadn't actually slept much – not that he averaged the recommended eight hours anyway. Instead, he'd – and he would never admit to it – gone to see Laurel.

It was just…a gut reaction. Despite it being their night off, he'd donned the hood, grabbed his bow, and hightailed it to the DA's office; he knew Laurel would be there, working late. He didn't know what he was expecting, or how going there was a sensible thing to do; just that he wanted to make her see him differently – and he wanted it now, long-term plans be damned.

At first, he didn't understand his own thought process. Felicity called him a hero. Felicity then yelled at him. And that, of course, made him go to Laurel to…try and make her see him as some sort of hero, which he wasn't, and had previously snapped for being thought of as such. Didn't make much sense.

It was after, when he tossed and turned in his bed at the mansion, that it became clearer.

Stupidly, a part of him had believed Felicity. Maybe it wasn't just distorted vision through rose-colored glasses, and maybe her faith wasn't just an innocent's last-ditch attempt to escape the dissonance, between being pure and helping someone like him. And for a stupid, fleeting moment, he'd believed it. But it didn't count until Laurel confirmed it, right?

Except she didn't.

She didn't, and he'd been right. He was no hero.

To Laurel he was a killer, and a criminal, and she would hunt him down. Because, the bottom line was, he hadn't saved Tommy. He hadn't saved five hundred and two more. He hadn't saved anyone.

Heroes were saviors, and he was no hero.

So, he couldn't have Felicity thinking he was one. There was no point in wishful thinking, and embellishments such as this one could only lead to disaster in the long run.

He also wanted her to…well, not be angry with him. Not that that was the priority here.

Mindful to get on her good side again, he did the polite thing and knocked lightly on the half-open door.

Her head snapped up and a mild frown settled on her features the moment her eyes landed on him.

"Hey," she said, a little uncertainly. "Come on in."

He did as he was bid, closing the door fully as he settled into one of the visitors' chairs. "Hey," he echoed as he sat down, striving to give her some sort of smile; he was sure it ended up looking more like a grimace. Well, to her anyway; he'd come to learn that she sorted his attempts at smiling in two distinct categories: genuine and robotic.

"So," she began, "are you going to try and buy me with a new piece of equipment, or are you going to genuinely apologize? 'Cause if it's the latter, let me just get my voice recorder so I can prove it actually happened."

Even she would have to sort his ensuing smile into the 'genuine' category, he thought. "I was hoping to do it off the record, but okay," he said. She blinked before settling back against her chair and crossing her arms over her chest as she prompted, "I'm waiting."

And now for the hard part.

He cleared his throat before proceeding. "What I said last night…it was uncalled for," he began tentatively, "and I'm sorry. But…" How was he supposed to explain this? Why hadn't he written a speech? Right, because she'd see through it in a heartbeat, he answered his own sullen question.

He tried a different approach. "It's not that I don't appreciate everything you do for me, Felicity, because I do." He chuckled faintly. "Actually, you…probably do a great deal more than I deserve. But, uh…" He brought his eyes to hers, hoping she would understand this. "I…I can't have you seeing me as more than I am, Felicity," he said, not sure if she was grasping what he was trying to convey. "It's…dangerous. If…if you expect more from me than what I'm capable of, then it's going to lead to…uh…"

"A massive implosion that's going to tear a hole in the space-time continuum and destroy humanity as we know it?" she supplied.

He frowned. "Something like that."

"Hm."

That was all she said. Just…hm.

And then she was quiet, for a long time. In fact, in the entire time he'd known her, he'd never seen her this quiet. It was…unsettling.

Eventually, she sighed. "Okay," she said, "I promise never to mention the h-word again. In fact, I won't even think of the h-word again, ever. Happy?"

Happy wasn't exactly how he'd describe himself but he nodded nevertheless.

"Oh, and that thing you said, about not expecting more from you than what you're capable of?" she added. "Remember that next time you ask me to juggle hunting down bad guys, saving your company, hacking from sunrise 'til sundown and, oh, you know…breathing."

He did his best to stifle his smile. "Point taken," he acknowledged dutifully.

She looked appeased for a moment before heaving another sigh. "Look, Oliver, I get where you're coming from, but – "

He tensed.

" – but you didn't exactly expect you'd be capable of doing the whole vigilantism thing another way, right?" she challenged. "And you didn't expect you'd be capable of running your company. So, all I'm saying is, you don't really know all the things you're capable of either."

He could so easily turn those words on her. She was the one who didn't know all the things he was capable of; she didn't know about a lot of things he'd done, and he wagered she didn't think he was capable of any of them. The truth was, he was capable of anything, be it good or bad. She thought he was capable of being a hero; he was just as capable of being a monster.

So yes, he could turn those words on her. But he didn't. He rather liked being on her good side.

"And that's the last you'll hear from me on the matter," she promised. "From now on, my lips are sealed."

"I'm holding you to that," he said. "And, uh…why don't you take the day off?" he suggested. "Get a few hours to…breathe."

"Tempting, but I can't," she declined – with great suffering, it seemed. "The code for this is so tedious to work out" – she gestured to her screen – "and I can't really ask my minions – and don't ever let it spread that I call them that – to help, unless it's with the small stuff. So, no day off for me."

"How about the night off, then?" he offered an alternative.

Her eyes widened. "Two in a row?"

He shrugged. "Well, you didn't get much rest last night," he pointed out. "So, take tonight off. I'm sure Digg and I will manage."

She seemed so impossibly torn. "Okay," she accepted, sounding like she'd just agreed to jumping off a cliff and hoping for the best rather than taking one night off. "But if anything super-important comes up, you'll call me, right?"

"Promise."

With one final smile, he rose to his feet. "I better get going," he said. "I have to…talk to Isabel. About approving the funding for your project, and…I think I'm seeing someone from the legal department, too…"

She raised an amused brow as he trekked his way to the door, dragging his feet all the while.

"You'd so much rather be climbing trees and picking coconuts, wouldn't you?" she called out as he pulled at the doorknob.

"I never did that," he tossed over his shoulder indignantly, as he made his way down the hallway. He was sure he'd left her cackling in his wake.

A/N 2: I keep dropping Chlollie references all over the place. And I'm...really not as sorry as I should be.

...don't look at me.