Author's Note - There are two people I've been remiss in thanking so far and I need to fix that now. Firstly, my beta/cheerleader/brainstorm-partner Andacus. There is very little more valuable when writing than someone who tells you when something doesn't work. I'm lucky to have her and she made this chapter (in particular) far better than it would have been without her (She also introduced me to the show, so there's that, too). Secondly, my incredibly supportive husband who has, for months on end now, said to me "I'll watch the kids for a few hours. You go to a coffee shop with your laptop and write for a bit. Your writing is important." This story couldn't exist without either of them. Period.


The apartments at Queen Consolidated are sterile. This is not to say, unfortunately, that they are particularly clean, but rather that they wholly lack any sort of personality. Felicity will infuse the musty space with her own unique stamp in no time, though. Oliver has no doubt of that. It's just her way. Between her influence and a good airing out of the long unused space, it will feel like home in no time.

Someone's home, anyhow. Not his. That's not what he means.

Clearly.

He doesn't really stick around to see Felicity settled in. Digg stays with her while Lyla makes a run back to her apartment to pack a bag, but Oliver has enough sense to realize that helping her essentially move into an apartment he sort of owns is dangerously domestic and a very slippery emotional slope which he's already got uneven footing on. He's good at self-control but even he has his limits. Obviously. Look at what happened yesterday.

Leaving the office, he doesn't even think about where he's headed. There was never much of a question. Sara promised to spar against him later and that idea has literally never been more appealing to him than it is right now.

His bike sort of steers itself toward Verdant, winding through the streets of its own accord, and even just the sight of the club's familiar industrial building makes him feel a little more settled as it comes into view. That feeling dissipates quickly as he goes inside though and finds that not only isn't Sara there yet, but Felicity's computers are beeping at a ridiculously alarming rate.

He tries to ignore it at first, changes into appropriate workout clothes while he attempts to tune out the noise, but he can't. Every single stupid beep is a reminder of what's going on, that the media is all over her and it's his fault and there's so very little he can do to make anything better. He should probably call Digg to have him ask Felicity how to get the damn machines to shut up - Felicity has turned off her ringer, he knows, because someone tracked down her number and it had been ringing non-stop - but he doesn't. Instead, he breaks a cardinal rule of the lair and tries to turn it all off himself.

Felicity's computers are more complex than your average PC and just turning off the speakers doesn't stop the noise. He eventually settles on yanking cords (with more force than is really necessary), which he's sure she will not be thrilled about later, but right now he just needs the noise to stop before he puts an arrow to the machine. Comparatively, she'll be far less pissed off about a few yanked cords. Surely.

"Now what did Fletch ever do to you?"

Oliver looks up to the top of the stairs to see Sara standing there, a hand on her hip and her head cocked to the side. He's happier to see her now than he ever was when they were dating, which says a lot of things he'd rather not think about. Oliver's pretty good about choosing to avoid things to think about, really. Call it a skill.

"Did everyone know the computer has a name but me?" Oliver asks bewilderedly.

"Probably," Sara says, making her way down the stairs. "She's going to be livid that you touched her machines, you know?"

"I'll deal with it," Oliver says, shifting from one foot to the other with nervous energy.

"Yeah. You're fantastic at dealing with issues you two have between each other," Sara snorts.

"Didn't you say you wanted a weapon in your hand before we had this conversation?" Oliver asks, his voice dropping to a near growly level.

"Oh, Ollie," Sara laughs. "I haven't even started yet."

That's really not reassuring.

She's already dressed for sparring and she moves to the mats with a sort of predatory grace, grabbing a staff as she goes before turning to him with a raised eyebrow in invitation. Staves are more her strong suit than his. He's far more comfortable with a bow or his fists or even a knife, but if he's looking for a way to lose himself in the rush of conflict - and he definitely is - then staves will work as well as anything else.

She lands the first blow, scarcely a second after he has a weapon in his hands, and the swift hit to his flank throws him a little. Sara's not gentle. There will definitely be a bruise.

"So... You and Felicity," she starts in on him.

"There is no 'me and Felicity,'" he replies half-truthfully, deflecting a blow.

"Your mouth says no now but it sure looked like it was saying yes last night," she smirks, going with the flow of her momentum and letting the staff flip around so it nearly smacks him in the head.

"Very funny," he growls, ducking his head just in time as they start to circle each other.

"I'm a funny girl," she shrugs.

"This is what you wanted to talk about?" he asks, jumping over a sweep of her staff.

"You need to stop being a dumbass about her," Sara says by way of confirmation.

Oliver blinks in surprise. It's enough of an opening that she lands another hit, this time across his thigh and he winces at the sting.

"I need to keep my distance from her. It's better for everyone," Oliver responds, swiping at her with his staff, which she stops with a clash from her own.

"Yeah, that's bullshit," Sara tells him. "And I'm pretty sure you already know that."

He manages to avoid another blow from her staff, but only just and the woosh of air that flows past his face is clear evidence of just how near a hit she came.

"If I get distracted, people die. If I get invested in my own life, other people start losing theirs," he argues, using both words and the staff to make his point.

Sara deftly dodges both.

"You've been focused on surviving for too long, Ollie. We both have. It's easy to forget that's not the same thing as living. You start to feel like you don't even deserve it," Sara tells him as she sidesteps a thrust of his staff.

"I have a mission," he volleys, swinging his staff to strike against her stomach. "This city needs me. I lived my life just for myself once. It went poorly, which I'm pretty sure you remember."

"And you think… what? That spending the first half of your twenties drunk and bed-hopping used up your quota for happiness?" She asks with an air of disbelief, easily deflecting his blow. "The mission is great. Having purpose is great. But being this? Just being this? It's easier and it's safer, but it's not enough. If you think the only reason we wear masks is to hide who we are from other people, you're kidding yourself."

He lands a hard strike against the backs of her knees and she falls with a hiss before hopping up to a defensive stance.

"That's an awful lot of wisdom about the importance of being happy from a woman who's got continents between her and the woman she loves," Oliver points out.

"This isn't about me and Nyssa," Sara tells him. "We aren't the same as you and Felicity. And we aren't the focus of this conversation."

"Why not?" Oliver asks, their staves clashing against each other.

"Because I'm not the one busted on the front page of the Washington Post with his feelings written all over his half-obscured face," Sara counters. "I like Felicity. And I love you. But you need to figure out what you're doing because this? This isn't working."

"It will work. It is working," he argues, their staves meeting each other with a series of loud cracks. "I just messed up yesterday. It won't happen again."

"Yesterday is just a symptom," Sara tells him, shoving her staff against his to put a little distance between them and regroup. "You think you're less distracted by her just because you aren't sleeping with her? Stop kidding yourself, Oliver! It will happen again. And again. And again. Because you're drawn to her. Because you're human, which is something you seem to have forgotten."

"The Arrow doesn't have the luxury of personal relationships. The Arrow is the mission. That's all he can be," Oliver says, circling her and spinning his staff as he goes, looking for an opening to strike.

"Oh, would you stop talking about yourself in the third person already? You aren't just Oliver Queen and you aren't just the Arrow. You never were. And the sooner you realize that and manage to find some kind of balance, the better off everything will be," Sara informs him, rolling her eyes.

"I can't do this and be the kind of person she deserves to be with," Oliver says definitively.

"Making choices about what other people deserve for themselves is one of your least attractive qualities, you realize?" Sara asks, parrying a swift jab of Oliver's staff and smacking her own against the inside of his elbow.

The entire sparring session has not really gone his way. Sara's had the upper hand almost the entire time and it lends extra frustration to their conversation, but Oliver can't concede. Not the fight and not his point. He's never taken well to losing.

"It's a good thing I'm not trying to be attractive then," Oliver counters.

"She's obviously crazy about you. Why do you think she would want you to be anything other than what you already are? Arrow and all?" Sara presses, head cocked to the side as she studies him.

"Maybe I don't want to change her. Maybe I don't want the death and the darkness that follows me around to bleed over into her," Oliver says.

"Maybe you're being ridiculous," Sara counters. "Maybe you're underestimating her."

"I don't know why I'm even listening to this," Oliver bites out, throwing his staff to the mat in frustration and backing up to the solid concrete floor.

"Because you need to hear it," Sara tells him bluntly.

"I love her, Sara. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I'm in love with her," Oliver snaps.

"Okay," she responds completely non-pulsed, but it's obvious Oliver is expecting her to say more. "So you love her. So what?"

"I… what do you mean so what?"

"I mean so what?" She asks, putting back her own staff and crossing her arms in front of her, a challenge written across her face. "Despite what the Beatles might have you believe, love is not actually all you need. So you love her. That's great. Now what?"

"Now… nothing," he says, a sense of resignation hanging in the air.

"What good does that do either one of you if you keep living in this state of limbo? How is that fair to you or to her?"

"It's not," he admits. "It's just how it has to be."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to love someone who thinks they aren't worthy of being loved?" Sara asks him. "Someone who puts literally everyone else in the world's well-being above their own? It hurts. It hurts like nothing else does. Don't do that to her. Don't keep doing that to her. She deserves better than that. And so do you."

He doesn't have words for that. He wants to scream and find a real fight and vent his frustration, but it's not going to help and he knows it. That would solve nothing. He roughly runs both of his hands through his close-cropped hair and gives Sara a weighty look.

"I'm not trying to make this harder for you, you know," she tells him. "I'm trying to get you to make it easier on yourself."

"You have a funny way of going about it," Oliver tells her with a dry laugh.

"There's nothing funny about it at all," Sara responds, looking more sympathetic than she has this entire conversation. "Have you even thought about how this affects her?"

"Don't do that," Oliver says, his voice dangerously near a growl.

"Do what?" Sara challenges, because she's never caved to him even once and she's not about to start now. "Point out that Felicity loves you and that every inch of pain you're putting yourself through you're putting her through too?"

Oliver's face crumbles at that and his fingers curl around the edge of Felicity's desk like he's holding on to that to keep himself from hitting something. Maybe he is. Felicity's been his anchor in a lot of ways for a long while now.

"It's not the same," he say, his voice tinged with a note of desperation like he's begging for this to be the truth by his will alone. "For her. It's not. She doesn't feel… There's something, but… It's just not the same."

"Is that what you're telling yourself?" Sara asks with disbelief and a shake of her head. "Oliver, come on. She doesn't just love you. She believes in you and she accepts you exactly as you are. Do you have any idea how damned lucky you are to have someone like that in your life?"

"Stop," Oliver demands, looking like she's socked the wind out of him with words alone.

Sara does. Less because of the word and more because of the way he looks at her, like a cornered wild animal. He needed to hear this, all of it, but maybe it's too much, too fast. So she backs off.

"Just… think about it," Sara says casually with a shrug, like they'd been discussing something trivial instead of his mess of an abbreviated love life.

"Pretty sure you haven't given me much option on that," Oliver responds with a scoff.

"Yeah…" Sara says, watching him with pinched lips and a piercing gaze. "That was kind of the idea."


Felicity's first thought upon entering one of the QC studio apartments had been that it felt like a hotel room. That was a good thing in her book because people didn't stay in hotel rooms. They didn't live in them. Hotels were temporary. And so was this.

She could do this. For a few days. For a week. That would be okay. That would be fine.

Then Lyla came back and it wasn't just with one bag. Every suitcase Felicity owned (and two she didn't) were wheeled into the spartan temporary space she was occupying. Roy followed a moment later, apparently having helped Lyla out, with a cooler in hand.

They'd brought the perishable goods out of her fridge.

Now, looking down into the cooler at a half empty jar of marinara sauce and a third of a jug of milk, everything starts to crash in on her. She isn't going home. Not anytime soon. This is far less temporary than she'd convinced herself of and despite their plan to manage the media and the cops and the criminals, there really was no end in sight.

"Thanks guys. Can you give us the room for a minute?" She hears Digg ask.

She senses more than sees that Roy and Lyla have left. She can't stop staring at the marinara. And it's stupid. It's so stupid that after everything today this is the point where she feels like she's going to break. Because of half-eaten pasta sauce.

"It's okay if you do," Digg says to her.

She looks up at him with a question written across her face until she realizes she must have said at least some of that out loud.

"Everybody's got their breaking point, Felicity," Digg tells her seriously. "You've been through a hell of a lot in the last day. There's nothing wrong with taking a moment for yourself and letting it catch up with you. That's better than bottling it up."

The 'like Oliver does' end to that sentence goes unsaid but she hears it anyhow and lets out a humorless little laugh.

"I don't want to be here, John," she tells him seriously.

She could mean literally or she could mean figuratively, even she's not sure, but John doesn't seem to need clarification.

"I know," he says with a sympathetic half smile.

He doesn't try to placate her or convince her that everything is fine and she loves him a little more for that. Everything's not fine. Her life is in danger. She's practically in hiding. She's gone from relatively unknown to sort of infamous overnight and she doesn't know if her reputation - professional or otherwise - will ever recover from this. Her 'promotion' and the rumors surrounding it were bad enough, but being nationally known as the Vigilante's girlfriend - which is horribly, ironically untrue - adds a whole new layer to how people see her and for the most part she's thinking it's not exactly positive.

"How do we come back from this?" She asks, looking to Digg.

"Same way we do everything," he responds immediately, with a large comforting hand on her shoulder. "Together. I've got your back. You know that."

Her hand rests on top of his and gives it a squeeze in gratitude before she sighs and looks around the room, both of their hands falling away. It's a large space, at least, but so cold.

"Think Oliver would mind if I painted?" She asks, only partly kidding.

"I don't think Oliver would mind if you tore down walls, Felicity," Digg says, levelling her a look that says 'you are kidding me right now, right?'

She flushes a little and shifts her weight between her feet awkwardly for a moment before grabbing the cooler and walking over to the kitchenette. She puts the marinara away first. And even if it's been an exhausting, emotional roller-coaster kind of a day, she doesn't break and she doesn't cry. She's stronger than this. And things could be a lot worse.

"Who do you suppose the last person to stay here was?" She wonders aloud, looking around the studio.

"I really don't think you'd want to know," John replies.

Felicity scrunches up her nose as she thinks about that. It's true. Regardless of who it was, she doesn't want to know. Because, really, the options are all terrible. God, she hopes it wasn't Isabel. Or Robert Queen. Or Isabel and Robert Queen. Ew.

"You're right. I just hope they've sanitized the place," she decides, glancing over at the absurdly large bed.

"I'll pick you up some Lysol, just in case," Digg tells her, wincing as he follows her gaze.

"See? That's why you're my favorite," Felicity grins back at him.

John snorts in response and shakes his head. Kindly, he doesn't say whatever he's thinking. Really, she loves John kind of a lot.

A knock at the door startles them, changing the atmosphere suddenly and drastically. Digg's hand is on his sidearm before Felicity is even done blinking and his whole frame is caution and alertness. Because of a knock on the door. At Queen Consolidated. It strikes Felicity again that she sort of can't believe how this has become her life.

He gestures for her to get behind him, away from the door, before he goes to glance out the peephole. Immediately he sighs and lets go of his gun. He gives her a tight grimace before going to open the door and she can't quite read his expression, but it all makes sense when he opens the door and she sees Captain Lance and Orrin Bryce standing with Lyla.

"You're a popular woman, Ms. Smoak," Bryce says dryly as a greeting.

"If you're measuring popularity with bullets then… sure," she responds, deeply unamused.

"Apologies for the intrusion," Lance says, far more reasonably than Bryce. "We need to ask a couple of questions about what happened at the hospital earlier today. Is now a good time?"

"Pretty sure there's no such thing, but you can come in," Felicity says, placing a hand on Diggle's shoulder to prompt him to move.

He does, but he doesn't look happy about it.

"Roy calling Laurel?" Digg asks Lyla, noting the younger man's absence.

"And Oliver," Lyla confirms.

That's maybe not the best idea, Felicity recognizes, but she gets why Roy's doing it. Oliver would want to know. Still, she can't help but think that putting Oliver and Bryce in the same room is a bad idea at any time and it's borderline dangerous now. Bryce isn't dumb and the connections between them all are starting to become a lot less blurry.

"That's a very supportive boss you have, Ms. Smoak," Bryce remarks.

"I'll be sure to pass along the compliment," Felicity smiles tightly.

"We need to get your statement on what happened at the hospital today," Lance jumps in, trying to redirect the conversation.

"I'd invite you to make yourself at home while we wait for my lawyer, but… well… that might be a challenge at the moment," Felicity says, looking around the spartan space.

"Your recent change in living arrangements is… interesting," Bryce notes.

"If you say so. I'd have gone with annoying, but, hey, at least the commute to work is going to be fantastic," she responds flippantly.

"You know, you working for him actually clarifies a few things," Bryce tells her. "Like how you and Ms. Lance know each other.

"Still waiting for her before I talk to you," Felicity reminds him.

"This isn't about the Arrow. This is about the attack on you and the three men who died in it," Bryce informs her.

"Right. Those aren't related at all," she snorts, folding her arms in front of herself.

It's awkward after that. Or, well… more awkward. Felicity's trying not to talk, which is sort of an epic struggle considering she's her, and Bryce keeps baiting while Digg stands next to Felicity like the bodyguard he is and Lance just looks wildly uncomfortable. Luckily - and unsurprisingly - it's not long before there's a knock at the door.

Lyla checks the door this time and swings it open to reveal Oliver with Laurel Lance a half step behind him and off to the side. His whole frame fills the doorway, looming with intensity and obvious displeasure. Felicity would be lying if she said that didn't send a little thrill running through her.

"Major Bryce," Oliver says tightly. "It's been a long time."

"Not nearly long enough," Bryce responds in kind. "Though I'm not exactly sure why you're here."

"You're questioning my employee in my building who's under the protection of my company's security team. Why wouldn't I be here?" Oliver asks him, moving into the room and standing between the man and Felicity.

"Forgive me. I'd forgotten you were playing the part of an upstanding businessman these days," Bryce postures. "It's such a departure from years past."

"Yes, well, it's funny how having to fight to stay alive for years on end will change a person," Oliver tells him humorlessly.

"And yet, I find, that no matter what the circumstances, a man's base nature never changes," Bryce counters.

"Are you going to get to questioning my client anytime soon or should she and I head out while you boys catch up?" Laurel asks dryly.

"We'll get started just as soon as everyone unnecessary leaves and gives us the room," Bryce asserts.

"It's my building. I'm not going anywhere," Oliver grits out. "And, given recent events, our security personnel are completely necessary."

"You've got two cops in the room," Bryce deadpans.

"They're staying," Felicity asserts, sidestepping Oliver so she can see Bryce.

Bryce is gearing up to argue, that much is obvious, but Captain Lance steps.

"This is fine," Lance states. "Can you walk us through what happened at the hospital, Ms. Smoak?"

Felicity looks to Laurel, who nods at her, before she starts to answer.

"Lyla and I were leaving, heading through the parking garage when-"

"Why were you there in the first place?" Bryce interrupts.

"It's… Why does that matter?" Felicity asks warily.

"I don't know that it does," Bryce responds. "But it might."

"My client declines to answer the question," Laurel steps in. "Move on."

"Really?" Bryce asks, unimpressed. "You're putting your foot down on why you were there? We will find out anyhow, you know?"

"Then find out," Laurel shrugs. "She's uncomfortable answering and you can't compel her to speak about this, so move on."

"You were heading through the parking garage?" Bryce asks, turning back to Felicity.

"Yes," Felicity confirms. "I saw… something. I didn't know what it was. Lyla was the one who recognized a threat and she pushed me down behind a car. The gunshots starts almost immediately after that."

Oliver flinches next to her, hearing the story retold. His fingers move of their own accord like they're going to touch her, to rest along her elbow or splay across her back or something to remind himself that she's there and safe, but he stops himself, reigns it in. It's an odd gesture, ultimately, his abbreviated move toward her that ends with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Bryce almost certainly takes notice. A critical shake of Lance's head is proof enough that he saw it, too. Lovely.

"Did you see the shooters?" Lance asks.

"Not then," Felicity responds. "The car was in the way. Which, you know, I was pretty happy about at the time. On account of the bullets being shot at me."

"You saw them later, though?" Bryce questions.

"Yes. After Lyla shot them. She saved our lives. Two of the men were already dead and the third was hit but still trying to shoot us. Lyla returned fire and killed him. Then we escaped," Felicity explains.

"Did you know them?" Bryce asks.

"No."

"Why do you think they were after you?" Lance asks, to which Felicity raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "Humor me, Miss Smoak."

"I can only imagine it has something to do with the media coverage around me and the Arrow," Felicity replies. "I can't imagine I'm on the Triad's hit list for any other reason."

Felicity doesn't realize her error immediately, but she knows she's made one just from the way Oliver tenses more and Digg's stance firms up. It's a nerve-wracking moment waiting for Bryce to speak again.

"Now what would a nice girl like you know about Chinese organized crime?" Bryce asks, watching her like a bloodhound that's just caught the scent of its quarry.

"Don't answer that," Laurel says sharply.

Felicity nods uneasily in response.

"It's an incredibly valid question, given the circumstances," Bryce points out.

"Maybe," Laurel admits. "But you're treating my client like a criminal. She's not. Try to remember this is a woman who's had her life unexpectedly turned upside-down overnight and suddenly finds herself the target of some very dangerous people."

"Fine. I'll reword the question," Bryce acquiesces. "How did you know those men were with the Triad?"

"Would you believe Google?" She asks hopefully, absent a better explanation.

"Miss Smoak," Bryce says warningly.

"It was the only explanation that made sense," Felicity says finally. "They were speaking Mandarin and they were obviously experienced hitmen."

"And you were aware that the Hood has tangled with the Triad before," Bryce adds. "Weren't you?"

"Don't answer that," Laurel instructs firmly. "This has veered sharply away from supplying a statement about what happened at the hospital, Major Bryce."

"Not at all," he replies coolly. "This goes to motive. I can get a court order if you want to do this the hard way, but we both know I'll get these questions answered eventually."

"I'm inclined to tell you to get the damn court order, then," Laurel bristles. "I don't like my client being treated like this."

"I'm going to ask you again, Miss Smoak," Bryce says, pale eyes staring right into her, leaving her uneasy and nervous. "It's up to you if you want to do this the easy way or the hard way. A little cooperation goes a long way and it really would be nice if the press could be told you were cooperating fully-"

"How dare you threaten my client with-" Laurel starts off, incensed on Felicity's behalf.

"How did you know that the Hood and the Triad are adversaries. It's not public knowledge. It hasn't been in the papers, so how did you know?" Bryce demands again, fully ignoring Laurel at this point.

"He told me," Felicity asserts boldly, her chin held high.

Oliver hisses through his teeth at that. It's quiet and low and probably the police officers can't hear it, but Felicity can and she knows, fully, that they are on exceedingly dangerous ground right now.

There's dead silence for a long beat before Bryce speaks again.

"He told you?"

"Yes."

"The Arrow did?"

"If that's what you want to call him… yes."

"And what do you call him?"

"None of your business."

"But he told you. About the Chinese mob. That's… some interesting pillow talk you two have got going on. If that's really all it is."

She can't even look at Oliver. For one, it would be far too telling, but for another, she knows her cheeks are flaming horribly at Bryce's words. She can, however, feel the tension radiating off of him in waves, feel the urge to reach over and clasp his hand in hers. She doesn't, obviously. For lots of reasons. But the impulse is there, strong and steady.

"So he warned you about the Triad. He's concerned about your safety, then," Bryce deduces. "Have you talked to him since last night?"

"Felicity, do not answer that," Laurel orders firmly.

"I wasn't going to," she replies.

"This interview is done," Laurel announces. "You can see yourselves out."

"For now," Bryce agrees, still watching Felicity with heavy suspicion.

"We'll need the gun, Ms. Michaels," Captain Lance tells Lyla, holding out his hand. "For evidence."

"Of course," Lyla says, handing over the sidearm.

"Thanks. We'll be in touch," Captain Lance says.

"Yippie," Felicity says without enthusiasm.

The door closes behind the two policemen a moment later and the tension goes with them. There are so many sighs of relief around the room that Felicity honestly couldn't tell you who they all came from.

"What was that?" Laurel demands, turning back from the door to face Felicity.

"Bryce was right," Felicity says. "They were going to compel me to give answers one way or another. They're already convinced I'm sleeping with the Arrow and nothing I can do or say will change their minds. Maybe this way, at least, I can keep them from thinking I'm working with him, too. Because, honestly, can you think of another reason I would have known those men were Triad?"

"I don't like Bryce focusing on you," Oliver tells her, finally letting his hands free from his pockets and allowing one to settle against the curve of her elbow.

"You are… not alone in that," she replies, glancing at him.

"This is ridiculous," Laurel declares. "What the hell happened in the last two hours that we went from you two planning to completely avoid each other to Felicity moving into the building, you making statements about her to the press and her confessing having conversations with the Arrow to the police? Are you trying to sabotage all of us, Oliver?"

"I told you before that her safety was my top priority, Laurel," Oliver tells her confrontationally. "You want to know what's changed? Not that."

"You know what?" Felicity pipes up, interrupting Oliver and Laurel's spat before it even really begins. "I'm done with today. This day? Officially over in Felicity-land. I'm finished with it. If you guys want to argue, you can go down to the office and do it. Me? I'm going to stay here. I'm going to unpack and eat something smothered in marinara. And I'm going to Lysol that bed because who knows who used it last. Then I'm going to marathon Battlestar Galactica on Netflix for at least a season's worth because even if he doesn't have a salmon ladder, Lee Adama's arms make everything in life a little happier and I deserve that right now. This is my plan. Because I'm just done. Okay?"

Oliver's face does a funny thing when she mentions Lee Adama's arms, but he doesn't say anything about it. He doesn't say anything at all, in fact. He just nods.

"You got it," Digg tells her with a thin smile.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Laurel tells her.

Yeah. She has no doubt of that. She nods in reply.

"I'll be in the building if you need… anything," Oliver finally says, looking a little awkward as he speaks. "I'm working late."

"Oliver, it's Saturday," she reminds him, rolling her eyes. "You don't even work after five on weekdays."

"I want to be nearby in case… I don't know. Just in case," he tells her. "There's eight apartments on this floor. I'm taking one next to you. Sara's going to be staying in the one on the other side."

"This is literally the safest place outside of Fort Knox," she replies. "Don't you think that's just a little excessive."

"It's your safety, Felicity," he implores. "Just… humor me. Please. I'll be right next door if you need anything."

She pauses and watches him for a moment, weighing the anxiety in his features and the tension in his body, before she nods.

"Yeah, okay," she finally says. "But you're more likely to need something from me than I am from you. For your bed, I mean."

He blinks rapidly at that and stares at her dumbfoundedly. And… yeah… she's got such a way of making unintentionally suggestive comments, doesn't she?

"...by which I meant Lysol," she clarifies, biting her lip. "But, yeah, that comment just totally fits with my day, doesn't it?"

He laughs at that, light and short, and kisses her forehead with gentle affection. It's as innocent an expression as possible, but her eyes still drift shut at the touch of his lips on her skin as she savors the feeling of rightness that floods through her. It is warmth and comfort and home and she wants to curl into him and not let him go, feel his skin against hers and his lips on her face and his heartbeat thrum in his chest under her fingertips. She can't though. She can't. But she holds on to the little sliver of perfect as long as she can.

"It'll be better tomorrow. Enjoy your marathon," he tells her, his lips still brushing against her skin as he speaks. "I'll see you in the morning."