Author's Note: From now on, these chapters should be more in order, because I found my brain hijacked by an actually plot. There will be some fluff thrown in though, I promise! I might do some fluffy flash-forwards as well.

&.&.&.&.&

As a young billionaire, Oliver does his best to be philanthropic in order to keep his reputation intact. If not his own personal image (that ship had already sailed and been sunk by his party-boy antics as a teen and young adult), he thought that at least the Queen name should retain some prestige. He wants to do right by the city, and he was wealthy enough to actually be able to make a difference.

And that mission is how he finds himself funding more extensive research into the study of the Vertigo drug, in an attempt to ease the citywide panic. And this is also how he and Felicity begin working with the eager and charming (adorable, he'd heard Felicity describe him as to Diggle, with a faint flush on her cheeks) scientist from Central City.

Barry Allen is efficient, professional, and open-minded—easy to work with. But Oliver still hates him. He hates every boyish grin, every smart comment, and every conversation he has with the guy.

Felicity understands computers, and enough about the rest of the technology in the lab, so she directs Barry through the departments of Queen Consolidated. She's the one who delivers the toxicology reports, writes up orders for supplies, and spends much of the day in the lab with Barry Allen for the next two weeks. Oliver has gone down there before, and is appalled by their blatant flirting, but it's so juvenile and innocent that he doesn't have the heart to point it out to either of them. They work seamlessly together, as if they've known each other for years instead of days. And damn that Allen kid for being able to make Felicity laugh. Oliver doesn't understand half of what they're talking about, because although he has taken a more active part in the company, he is still an ignoramus when it came to the smaller machinations of Queen Consolidated. He doesn't know about molecular structures, or data strains, or strains of anything, really.

He is reminded, as he watches them, that Felicity was still so very young. With all the danger and pressure, he'd forgotten what Felicity looked like when she was carefree- no scrunched brows or sweat or tense yelling. Felicity and Barry understand each other on a fundamentally different level that she and Oliver do, with their raw genius and earnestness… and social awkwardness (Oliver's is due to trauma, so it's not quite the same).

It irritates Oliver like an incessant itch, one that he can't do anything about because to overstep his bounds would be unfair to Felicity. She isn't doing anything wrong—he'd asked her to take on an overseeing role with Barry, just to keep an eye on him—but every time he returned to his empty office, he wants to punch something. It really isn't any of his business who Felicity flirts with in the office, because although he feels her absence in his life during the day, she belongs to him at night.

He knows that Felicity will drop everything, Barry included, for The Hood. She has a sense of responsibility, and Oliver can't help but relish in the satisfaction of this knowledge. She always chooses to fight the good (or at least decent) fight, and that means that by default, she always chooses him.

Until one day, she doesn't. That's when Oliver's annoyance spills over.

Oliver has returned from a good old-fashioned drug lord beat down and is putting his equipment away when Felicity says, "Barry asked me on a date tonight. Not that you really care, but I thought that you should know, since it means that I'll be heading out pretty soon. Oh, and I may be going to a movie with him on next week on Wednesday, so-"

The silence is interrupted only by her loud tapping on the keyboard.

He's planned on taking Felicity out for her favorite Chinese food and treating her to a nice bottle of wine, because he'd heard her mention her preferred brand, which he'd scoffed at, and they'd bickered about him being a spoiled rich boy. He'd had an expensive, but finely aged brand shipped from a vineyard in Italy. It's waiting at her apartment with a decorative green ribbon. He'd hoped to talk about their Hood operations, about her life, and about everything in between, because he knows that she often lets her worries compile for too long. He hasn't heard her ramble in a while, and he likes to be the one who listens.

The fact that she is going to drop everything and go see Barry Allen makes him open his mouth before thinking.

"You need to get your head in the game, Felicity, because I can't have you distracted by some office romance. If you don't want to give this mission your full attention, then the door is that way." Oliver points vehemently towards the stairs. "Go. I release you from your obligation. You don't even have to come back. Have a fine fucking time with Barry." His tone is sharper that his arrowheads, and he clearly means it.

"You have no right to speak to me like that, Oliver." Felicity returns hotly, spinning in her chair. There is fierce color blooming on her cheeks, and he can see her eyes beginning to water beneath her glasses. He immediately regrets snapping at her, but his pride is already shot to pieces. There's no turning back now, what's said is said.

"Really? Because I think I have every right to, considering that things might have gone smoother tonight if you hadn't been daydreaming about your date with Barry." He practically spits the name.

She jumps to her feet. Felicity's hands clench into fists, and Oliver wonders if she'll actually hit him, but she glares instead.

"You're an absolute jerk, Oliver Queen. And when you feel like getting your head out of your ass, you know where to find me." Oliver would have preferred that she shout or hit him, because physical violence he can react to. He can feel righteous about an explosive argument. But he freezes when Felicity take two small steps towards him while she speak, a small but audible tremor in her voice, and she just looks so fragile that Oliver feels like a monster. He wants to protect her from ever having that facial expression, like she could burst into tears at any moment, and instead he's caused it.

The Felicity stalks out of the room, grabbing her bag from the desk, her back rim-rod straight.

There is a pregnant silence, like that of a battlefield after the gunfire has ceased. The Diggle, who has been standing to the side watching the train wreck occur, whistles, and shakes his head like a disappointed parent. "You really made a mess of things this time, man."

Oliver tries to defend himself, but without much conviction. He feels deflated. "People are dying, and she'd being distracted by Barry Allen. I can't have someone working with me that I can't trust to do their job."

"You mean you don't want her thinking about anyone else, or looking at anyone but you. Do you realize how insane that is?" Diggle says. "And it's not like you don't have your own baggage that you carry around with you. If I had a penny for every time you've jeopardized a mission because your feelings, or your libido, got in the way."

He can't deny this, because to have Felicity's attention, even with the fear and intensity when she helps The Hood, is like being bathed in light. She's his security blanket. As long as Felicity is waiting for him when he gets back, he can fight his way through anything. He doesn't know how to function without her support anymore. He's sure that Barry Allen won't be the last man to want to whisk Felicity away. And he feels like the worst person in the world because she deserves so much better than hiding out underneath a club on a Saturday night.

"Face it, Oliver, you're jealous. And you'd better figure out why before it drives you crazy. You keep lashing out and pushing Felicity away, one day, she won't come back. Now I'm going home, and I hope that you've fixed things by tomorrow, because the way I see it, Felicity isn't causing the problems in this team."