A/N: Thank you so much for the great feedback on the last chapter. I'm sorry if it made you sad - and this one isn't going to help - but take heart, we're not done yet. Hope you enjoy.


What has changed? she asks herself as she goes to wash her face and stares at herself in the mirror. It's going to hurt more, for one. It already does, knowing he is right out there and will soon be mere feet away and she can't touch him, can't do what she wants. Leaving is the right thing, she knows, as she feels a new layer add to the ache that resides in her chest. She can't be here with him, stay here with him and pretend to be normal, not anymore. God, the pretense was so thin already.

But, she thinks as she crosses from the bathroom to the kitchen, spotting Oliver with his head bent over a book in the living room, was the change worth it? She can close her eyes and remember the way his body feels against hers and, honestly, she's had dreams like that. But will she be able to go back to work if he comes to her and says he remembers, and he doesn't want to be with her?

Maybe (probably) not, and she knew that would happen; but as much as she wants to beat herself up about this, the blame really falls on the accident, or the something that has always been between them, or plan ol' sexual tension.

Geez. Anyone who thinks Felicity rambles should spend about five minutes inside her head and see how much she actually keeps in. Just make it to Diggle's return, Felicity. Just get that far.

At breakfast she brings the deck of cards and when Oliver looks confused, she says, "We need to be distracted." He kind of smirks, because he knows what that means, and she says, "And no smiling!"

He drops his head to the table and shakes with laughter, then sits back up with his lips pressed hard together into a straight line. "That's not entirely fair, Felicity."

"Well then just don't point it at me!"

He nods and looks away, already smiling again, and Felicity sighs and checks her watch. Twenty-eight hours.

(Read on the porch: don't absorb a single word. Play games: forget whose turn it is. Watch TV together: Felicity pressed up against one arm of the couch, Oliver sitting at the other end and falling asleep because he can't focus. Never, ever making physical contact. Avoiding eye contact. It's a strain.)

Diggle returns around lunchtime the next day and they sit down to eat, Felicity and Oliver silently agreeing to perform some approximation of their usual roles, as if nothing has changed.

The first thing Diggle says is, "So, you guys have any news?" and Oliver and Felicity look at him bewildered (No? Safe house? Vacation? No news?) so he says instead, "I heard from Robert."

Robert.

Right.

Who was supposed to check on us twice a day.

Who had a key.

Who poked his head in and left.

The day before yesterday.

Morning.

They exchange a panicked look.

"Uh, Diggle, it's not what you think," Felicity says desperately.

"Really? So you guys weren't sleeping on the floor all—" He shrugs up his shoulders and holds his hands together up in front of him. "—snuggled up like two bunnies in a burrow?"

"We weren't—" Oliver says.

"—snuggled up," Felicity says. "We just fell asleep."

"Oh, uh-huh, and finishing each other's sentences is just how to convince me of that."

Felicity can't quite read his tone but she doesn't think he would be mad about this. "Actually," she says awkwardly, looking at Oliver again and then back to Diggle. "I kind of wanted to talk to you about… that. In private."

Diggle raises his eyebrows at Oliver, who shrugs, not like I don't know but like Yeah, I do know, and it's okay. At least, that's how it seems to Felicity. She hopes.

She's too nervous to eat much, and afterward she and Diggle go into her bedroom. Diggle sits in a chair near the fireplace and Felicity sits on the end of the bed, kicking her feet a few times before planting her hands beside her legs and leaning forward. Propping his elbows on the arms of the chair, Digg folds his hands together and watches her expectantly.

"Well, I guess I'll just say it. I'm thinking about—if you can manage—I'm thinking about going back to the city."

Diggle's face darkens immediately. "What did Oliver do?"

"No, John," she says quickly. "It's not like that. Um—" She looks down and worries at her bottom lip with her teeth. "Nothing bad happened. It got a little intense, is all. Oliver didn't do anything wrong, I just think maybe we would both, um, all do better with a little time apart. You know?" She heaves a sigh and looks up anxiously.

"You know if he did anything, Felicity—"

"John, no!" She puts a hand up to her heart, then fiddles with the neckline of her blouse. "I promise you, Oliver didn't do anything wrong. Go easy on him, okay?"

He watches her for a second, then nods, expressionless. "Okay. No problem. When do you want to go?"

"Probably, like, today." She looks at the door, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, and says, "Yeah, today."

Diggle calls for a car, then watches from the porch as Oliver wheels beside her to the car. Felicity opens the door and sits on the driver's seat with her feet on the pavement so she's eye-level with him, and then watches him avoid her eyes altogether.

"Are you sure you don't want a driver?" he asks, reaching up and scratching the back of his neck as he studies something on the door latch.

She squints into the sun, searching his face. "Yeah. It'll give me time… you know… to think. Without going crazy."

"Don't go crazy," he says, his smile a vague shadow of the one she'd been growing used to.

She puts her hand on the arm of his chair and taps her fingers, and he looks at them and then into her eyes. "I'll call," she says, "and you can call me. Any time you want. Keep me updated." She smiles and he smiles back, a brief flash, and then holds his arms out to her. She pushes onto her feet and into his arms, leaning over the chair and wrapping one hand around the back of his neck.

"Take care of yourself," he says.

She turns her face into his neck and then pulls away, squinting again and saying, "You too." She keeps her eyes on him as she sits back down and turns into the car, then looks up and waves to Diggle. Oliver wheels back enough for her to close the door and she flaps her fingers at him through the window, then turns to the road and doesn't look back.

She has to take deep breaths, driving away, not because she's hyperventilating but because she feels nausea rising like a wave. She does not cry. She does not cry she does not look back she does not think of Oliver; instead, she thinks about her plans.

Returning to her small but comfortable apartment, where she is happy to be alone. Somewhere in there is a tidy collection of business cards given to her by men (why is it always men?) who told her to call if she ever needed extra work. Two weeks of sitting around has been plenty, and she's ready to be productive again.

Work, be alone, miss her workstation at the foundry; miss Oliver, miss Diggle (yeah, 'don't think about Oliver' didn't last very long, but it was a respectable effort). Call that girl at QC she had lunch with a few times. Telephone the cabin once or twice a week.

Back to a life centred on herself, a life that will probably feel lonely now, but one where she is the focus of her own story. As independent as she is, as she has remained, the shadow of Oliver, Diggle, the Hood, the city, have all hovered over her for the last couple of years. This will probably be good for her: a chance to clarify what she wants vs what she needs vs what is needed of her. Lonely; but good.

As long as she doesn't go crazy.