Synopsis: By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.
Rating: T
Warnings: some suggestive dialogue and brief harsh profanity
Spoilers: Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: I think you'll find "The Making of a Queen" from the chapter title takes on a number of contexts here. This is a long chapter. I thought about breaking it up, but ultimately decided, despite its length, that it should remain intact because of the thematic undercurrent. Good grief. I sound like I'm taking myself too seriously.
Chico, California, gets honorable mention in here again. Awhile back, someone asked why I chose Chico as Felicity's hometown, and I don't believe I ever answered that because it was a guest review and I had no way of responding through the inbox. The answer actually goes back to the generally accepted theory of where fictional Starling City is located (many suggest it is a coastal city in northern California…but ultimately since the show has not established a specific locale, it's wherever we want it to be right?). Chico is located in the northern third of California, making it close to Starling City but not too close, thus allowing for potential day trips with a 2 – 3 hour drive. Once again, I probably take geography too seriously. Also, I am familiar with Chico because my late uncle lived there. And Aaron Rodgers is from Chico, which is a happy coincidence.
If you are still reading this long A/N, I would be remiss if I didn't once again thank all of you dear readers. Your words of encouragement, your theorizing, your reactions—all of them mean so much to me. Your reviews really do help me to know what works and what doesn't, so I thank you for them.
Part Seven: The Making of a Queen
Three hours and several dried-up leads later, Felicity looked away from her monitors, took off her glasses, and rubbed her bleary eyes. There should be something more about Isabel Rochev, anything more beyond the past six years' worth of Stelmoor press releases and photographs from various social galas (in which Isabel's cool, disinterested gaze suggested she would rather be anywhere else), but there wasn't.
She wondered who had scrubbed Isabel's background. This person was skilled. As a matter of personal and professional pride, Felicity wanted to know whom she was up against.
But the good (and bad) thing about cyberspace was once something was out there, it was out there. It was just a matter of finding it. And something told her she would eventually pry those skeletons right out of Isabel's likely sizeable closet. Mysteries needed to be solved. All she required was a virtual Rosetta stone and maybe some chocolate.
Felicity stretched, rolling her shoulders back to alleviate some of the tension. Much better. It was easy to lose track of time when she was busy, but periodically, her body reminded her that she needed to move around if she didn't want to end up looking like Quasimodo's tech-savvy little sister.
"Let me give you a ride home." Oliver's voice came from behind her, causing her to jump slightly in her seat. Diggle had gone home (maybe) an hour before, and Oliver had given her space long before that. He'd been so quiet, she had almost forgotten he was there, except for the occasional sound of a task: sharpening arrows that were already sharp or the tapping of his fingers on a keyboard as he responded to the never-ending string of e-mails he received as Queen Consolidated's CEO. To tell the truth, she wasn't sure which version of Oliver she preferred if he was determined to be in a sucktastic mood: the quiet brooding type or the takes-things-out-on-a-punching-bag type.
She knew he would have preferred to work out some of his frustrations on Starling City's worst. However, chatter amongst the various crime syndicates had been nonexistent the last few days. As far as Felicity was concerned, it was a welcome reprieve. Oliver, on the other hand, kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. She could understand where he was coming from, though she was secretly glad he wasn't in harm's way, at least for tonight. It was a bit like when she was a child and had play dates with her cousins. If they were too quiet, they were usually up to something, like dyeing the dog's fur or digging up the flower garden looking for buried treasure that pirates(!) left in landlocked Chico.
"I'm fine to drive. I just need a few more minutes on this," she replied distractedly.
She put her glasses back on and could see the weariness etched into his forehead, though she wondered if it was fatigue or if it had more to do with the emotional roller coaster of the night. They hadn't found the proverbial smoking gun Felicity not-so-secretly thought they would uncover, though the connection was there between Robert Queen and Isabel Rochev. Of course, what the connection meant was a matter of interpretation. Was Isabel another face in the crowd of phantom children who had been neglected, tasked with dangerous work, and rescued by Robert? Or had there been a bond that continued once Isabel was a grown woman? Her desire to control Queen Consolidated was not coincidental, especially in light of her tenuous connection to its late founder and CEO.
One thing Felicity could not misinterpret from watching Oliver over the last year was that being Robert Queen's son had its own burdens. People looked to Oliver more so than his sister as Robert Queen's living legacy. Under the best of circumstances, expectations were cumbersome. But Oliver was expected to follow his father in business, in charity, as a leader in the community.
And that was only what the public saw.
Felicity wasn't entirely sure how she felt about this crusade with which Mr. Queen had tasked Oliver. On the one hand, it gave Oliver the drive to survive against all odds on Lian Yu, and maybe that was what his father was trying to do, imbue his son with strength, strength the young, pampered Oliver didn't realize he possessed. On the other hand, that crusade virtually guaranteed that Oliver had no semblance of a normal life, and his mission could very well set him on the path for an early death.
And what was she doing? Whether it was her intention or not, she was dragging his father's memory through the mud. Oliver should be able to remember his father in a positive way, not as a man who potentially invited the trouble of Isabel Rochev into their lives. Even if Oliver wasn't one to wax poetic about his feelings, she knew he was torn between wanting to know his father's connection to Isabel and wanting to protect his father's memory.
Where was an easy button when you needed one?
This was why, theoretically, she liked computers better than people. If there was a problem, the solution could be easily found in recoding the software or in replacing one faulty piece of hardware with another undamaged piece. People weren't so malleable and far more unpredictable.
"Felicity, it's been a long day. This can wait until tomorrow."
She nodded, realizing he was unlikely to leave before she did. And whether Oliver wanted to admit he needed rest, he did. As usual, he pushed himself too hard. "Okay."
She gathered her carton of rice. "I should take out the trash. Day old Chinese food will have this place smelling ripe tomorrow night. And the next thing you know, we'll be fighting off the neighborhood cats, and that never ends pretty."
"You didn't eat much," he noted.
She shook her head slightly. "Not much of an appetite."
Felicity thought he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead he took the container of rice from her as he managed half a smile. "You close up here. I'll take out the trash."
A man who volunteers to take out the trash? "My ovaries," she mumbled as he walked to the trashcan and tied the bag closed before removing it from the can.
"What was that?" he asked pausing at the stairs with the trash bag, but from the bemused look on his face, she was fairly certain he had heard.
"Nothing," she piped before turning her attention to the computers. I've got to get a filter.
Oliver was back in less than five minutes. In the meantime, Felicity had secured her computers for the night; glanced at her phone that had been on silent the last few hours, the same phone which evidently had erupted with messages she (against her usual nature) ignored; and excavated her car keys from her purse, which in itself was a major ordeal considering whatever she was looking for invariably found its way to the bottom of the bag.
When he saw the keys in her hand, he frowned. "I had hoped you would let me drive you."
"My driving record is impeccable."
Oliver looked like a man far from satisfied. "I would feel better if you let me make sure you got in safely."
"I'm totally over my whole drag racing phase," she quipped. "Besides, my car…"
"Should be fine in the back lot. We can pick it up in the morning." He grabbed his jacket and tie from the railing, pulled the suit jacket back on, and stuffed the tie into a pocket. He turned to see if she would follow.
"You are bossy."
"So I've been told."
Moments later, they had navigated through a back exit of the foundry.
She could still hear the music in the club as it mingled with the sounds of the city: voices, laughter, footsteps, passing vehicles on the nearby street. It was a night like most any other, with the exception being the air held a chill, a reminder that winter would soon be upon them.
And yet this night wasn't like others. Oliver seemed reluctant to let her go, which was made even more apparent when he reached out, took her hand, and began leading her toward his car.
This again.
Why was it so important to him? Had he seen something when he went to the dumpster? Were they being watched? Followed?
"There's something else. You're worried."
"Everything's fine."
"We've been working together—how long now?—and this is the first time you've insisted on taking me home, and I'm pretty sure it's not because you think I'm cute. So don't play this off like there isn't a reason."
"You've been publicly linked to me."
"Right. A long time ago, Oliver."
"But not as my fiancée."
"And you're concerned someone's going to think I'm important to you? Use me to get to you?" They stood next to his glossy Mercedes roadster, his hand still joined with hers.
"Felicity, you are important to me. You'd be better off if you weren't."
A shiver ran through her. She wasn't sure if it was the cold air getting to her or Oliver himself. Regardless, he shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it around her slender shoulders. His hands lingered on her arms.
"Oliver, I'm a grown woman. I make my own choices. I chose to work with you—our day job, our night job."
"Only after I roped you in."
She laughed lightly at that. "I know how to slip ropes."
He looked at her questioningly before he felt for the handle of the car door. He opened it for her, and she hesitated before finally getting in before he shut the door. The I-am-woman-hear-me-roar side of her probably should have told him that she was perfectly capable of opening and closing the car door herself not to mention driving herself, but the stays-up-late-watching-old-movies side of her appreciated the gesture. She watched as he walked around to the driver's side, and a shiver ran through her all over again.
Oliver was a good man. He still had battles to fight with his proverbial inner demons—and she was confident that he would eventually win that war—but it gnawed at her that so many in the business community still viewed him as a vacuous, selfish person. If only they knew what he sacrificed for others. Any chance of normalcy—gone. A home, a family. He'd brushed that aside in favor of a lonely existence.
Lonely. She'd heard his hesitation as he'd said it earlier, and that one simple word, lonely, struck her as far more painful to hear than Oliver's admission to Diggle that he'd slept with Isabel.
Lonely.
Everyone wants to feel that human connection. Everyone. That connection that lets a person know he really was here. He mattered to someone—if only for a time.
Oliver mattered to her.
The thought came thundering into her head, thundering into her heart, just as natural and involuntary as her heartbeat.
It wasn't a new realization, but the intensity was enough to nearly take her breath away.
"You got quiet all of a sudden," he commented as he started the engine and turned on the heat.
"Just thinking."
"Do I want to know?"
Did he want to know how she longed to reach across the expanse that separated them, literally, figuratively, physically, emotionally? To what end?
Did he want to hear her clumsy proclamations of feelings for him? Surely not when the only thing that would accomplish would be to make things even tenser than they already were.
"Probably not."
Mistaking her silence for something else, he blurted, "I shouldn't…I shouldn't have snapped at you tonight."
"Barely noticed," she replied with a smile, even as he looked more guilt-ridden by the pass she was giving him. "Hey, I understand. I do."
"I forget sometimes that he was just a man. Flawed like everyone else."
"Oliver, I would never intentionally dishonor your father."
"I know." He tilted his head, looking at her as though he wanted to say more before he refocused his attention on the road. They went a couple of minutes before either spoke again. "Sometimes when I walk into QC, I expect to see him."
"Because you see his mark on the place."
"He built Queen Consolidated from the ground up. He took chances, worked non-stop. He had a vision for QC and its place in Starling City. And I…" Oliver paused, "don't know what the hell I'm doing. Not really. I never wanted to be CEO, and now I'm fighting to hold onto it."
And now she understood why he had been so driven. For him, saving QC was more than a means to finance their nightly vigilante activities. Even though that was how he framed it when he sprung the 'engagement' on her, his motivations went deeper.
It was all about Oliver's relationship with his father, wanting in some way to make him proud.
It was about staying connected to a man long dead.
Her heart hurt for him, though she doubted that was why he had confided in her. "Oliver, I never met your father, but I have to think that if he were here, he would be so…"
"Disappointed?"
Was that how he still viewed himself? A disappointment? A screw up? "Proud." Her voice hitched slightly, and she fought to contain the surge of emotion she felt. "You and I haven't always agreed on methods, but I admire what you're doing for this city, and I believe in you. You have sacrificed more than any one man should have to, but whatever happens, you don't have to go it alone."
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"You're welcome." She paused briefly before asking, "So what did you want?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said you never wanted to be CEO. So what did you want?"
He swallowed hard. "I don't know. I guess I wanted…whatever felt good, the next thrill. I was a waste of skin."
"Oliver…"
He glanced over at her, his brows furrowed. "You wouldn't have liked me very much."
"You've told me before that you weren't much of a gentleman."
"I wasn't. Case in point, tonight I ran into someone I hadn't seen in years. I couldn't even remember her name. Just that I seduced her at her own wedding rehearsal dinner and thought nothing of it at the time. I did it to see if I could."
Felicity sucked in a breath. "You're right. I wouldn't have liked you much, but you aren't that person anymore. So why are you telling me this?"
"Just trying to disabuse you of any notions you have about my character. I'm still selfish," he warned her.
"We all have a certain degree of selfishness. You think that working with you is something I do solely out of the goodness of my heart?"
"It's not?" And there was genuine surprise in his voice, as though it had never occurred to him that she might have ulterior motives.
She picked at the side of her thumb, a nervous habit. "I was with someone. For a long time, actually. When we broke up, he told me that I am boring. I never take any chances, and because I always play it safe, nothing I do will ever matter."
Oliver gripped the steering wheel. "What a dick."
"Eh, he was right. What he said hurt, but I did always play it safe. Until I met you. And what we do—it matters, Oliver. And I like how that makes me feel. So selfishness? We all have it to some extent, but you are a good man. You can't tell me otherwise because I have watched you. In totally a non-creepy, non stalker way."
"This guy, he is an idiot. What does he do, anyway, that makes him think he is so much more exciting than you?"
"He's a dentist."
"Filling cavities and performing root canals. Truly scintillating," he deadpanned.
"He works with my dad. I kind of think my dad is grooming him to take over the practice when he retires in a few years."
"Does your dad know this guy is an idiot?"
"I doubt it. He has a blind spot where Jack is concerned. When we broke up, my dad barely spoke to me for weeks. And my mom, she went into mourning for the grandchildren she would never have."
"Is that why you rarely go home?"
"Maybe that's part of it. It's complicated."
"When I meet your parents…"
"You're not going to meet my parents," she interrupted. "I'm not going to do that to you."
"When I meet your parents," Oliver persisted, "I can't wait to tell them how…amazing their daughter is."
She felt tears sting her eyes and had to look away. Leaning her head against the supple leather seat, she watched the lights of the city as Oliver drove her home.
"You didn't have to walk me to my door."
"Yes, I did." Oliver watched as she inserted her key into the deadbolt lock.
She turned the knob. "Do you…do you want to come in?"
It was late, nearing midnight, she estimated. That early morning jog was going to come awful early indeed, but things just didn't seem finished, or perhaps there was a part of her that didn't want them to be.
"I should go," he replied, his eyes focused on hers. "But I'll be back in the morning to pick you up. Are you going for a run?"
"If I can pull myself out of bed."
"You shouldn't go without Digg or me," he told her bluntly. At the questioning look on her face, he added, "The phone calls are just the beginning. The press is being polite now. That won't continue."
"You thought I would come home to an apartment building surrounded by reporters."
"Yeah," he admitted ruefully.
"Maybe the public isn't as interested in us as you thought."
He looked unconvinced. "I should let you get some sleep."
"Right. Goodnight." She then realized she was still clutching his jacket. "Oh," she squeaked before passing it to him. He took it with a quirking of his lips.
"Goodnight, Felicity." He gently stroked her arm before turning away.
She pushed the door fully open and was met with light. Huh. Had she been in such a hurry that morning that she forgot to turn off the overhead light? She looked back to say something about it to Oliver, but the hallway was empty.
She was imagining things. Simple as that. Being around Oliver and Diggle who were always looking for trouble had her doing the same. That morning had been unusual with Oliver surprising her on her run and then returning to her apartment with her to get ready for work. To say she had been distracted was an understatement, so the lights were probably just something that slipped past her.
She stepped out of her heels and dropped her purse on the couch. The answering machine on the end table was blinking with the number twenty-one. Insane. Did she even know twenty-one people?
She pressed play before she padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, all the while listening to the messages.
"Ms. Smoak, this is Collie Stappert from the KSTR news team. I'd like to offer my sincere congratulations on your engagement to Mr. Queen. I was hoping we could get together and talk. The world's curious about you, Ms. Smoak. My number is 555-5225. I look forward to hearing from you."
Beep.
"Smoaky, it's JoJo. What the hell is going on? You aren't picking up your cell, and I need to talk to you. You aren't going to believe the things being said about you. Call me. Now."
Beep.
"Elfie, it's Mom. Your dad was at the K-Mart on Pillsbury Road this evening and ran into Mr. and Mrs. Wilkerson. They congratulated him on your upcoming wedding. He thought it was a mistake, but I've received several messages about this, some even from reporters. Call me."
Beep.
"Felicity, it's Jack. I know we haven't talked much lately, but I just wanted to say how truly happy I am for you. You are…" His voice briefly trailed off before he added, "You deserve all the best."
Beep.
"Ms. Smoak, this is Dirk Mathers from CNBC. We're doing a piece on Mr. Queen and would like your input…"
Felicity walked to the answering machine and pushed the back button.
"Felicity, it's Jack." Her heart stuttered slightly at the familiar voice. "I know we haven't talked much lately, but I just wanted to say how truly happy I am for you. You are…You deserve all the best."
Beep.
She pressed the back button again.
"Felicity, it's Jack. I know we haven't talked much lately, but I just wanted to say…"
"Oh good grief," Felicity groaned as she hit the stop button. "He was Mr. Wrong for a reason."
She walked toward her bedroom. Odd. The door was closed, another detail that niggled at her. She always left it open. Could Oliver have closed the door behind him that morning?
Oh crap.
Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open and a body barreled through, pushing her off balance. Her glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor as she fell backward into an end table, the corner of the table catching her in the lower back before she slid to the floor. Pain sliced through her even as she tried to gain her bearings.
The man—she'd caught sight of him enough to tell this—had run out the door. And nearly as soon as he had disappeared into the hallway, she could hear a loud thump followed by a thud.
She pulled herself off the floor, her body protesting every movement. Glass crunched around her, even as her feet found the water puddle and something sharp pricked the bottom of her right foot. Despite this, she hurried into the hallway to find her intruder on his stomach, his face pushed into the carpeting that, truth be told, probably hadn't been thoroughly cleaned in years. Oliver was perched atop him, his knee in the middle of the man's back, even as he secured the man's arms in a hammerlock.
"What were you doing in Felicity Smoak's apartment?" Oliver's voice was low, dangerous. The harshness reminded her more of the way he sounded as Arrow than the Oliver she knew, even though he obviously wasn't using a modulator to disguise his voice.
"I'm not saying anything," the man replied defiantly.
In response, Oliver exerted pressure on the man's arm, threatening to pull his shoulder from its socket.
"If you hurt her…"
"Oliver!" Felicity's voice caught in her throat as she announced her presence, knowing all too well that her assailant was in danger if the line of questioning continued. She couldn't let Oliver do something he would later regret, not for her.
Oliver looked up, meeting her eyes, and he relaxed his hold on the man so that he was still secured but no longer in pain. His hardened expression changed as relief swept through him. "Are you okay?"
She nodded. "F-fine."
The door across the hall opened. Mrs. Havisham stood in the aperture wearing her bathrobe, curlers in her gray hair, and carrying an umbrella. "Unhand him! The police are on their way!" She smacked the umbrella across Oliver's back with, thankfully, very little force and an aim that likely would have had her walking the sobriety line if she had been out driving.
Nevertheless, the strike had to have stung, even if Oliver's face betrayed no discomfort. The older woman started to bring down the umbrella again, even as Felicity was moving closer to her and yelling, "No!" With the element of surprise gone, Oliver caught the umbrella easily with one hand the second time around and wriggled it free from the old woman's grip. He tossed the umbrella to Felicity.
"Go back inside, Mrs. Havisham," Felicity instructed the older woman, now beyond the point of caring whether she sounded cranky.
Mrs. Havisham looked at the younger woman with a wide-eyed innocence and spoke calmly, as though explaining the situation to a child. "But dear, surely we can't let your boyfriend continue his assault on your cousin. This isn't the Jerry Springer Show."
Her cousin?!
If the situation weren't an utter violation of her privacy in the one place she considered her sanctuary, Felicity might almost find Mrs. Havisham's lackadaisical reaction to Oliver pinning down What's-His-Name humorous. Almost.
But her apartment had been invaded, who knew what this man did in there, her foot hurt, her back ached, and she was pissed off.
"That isn't my cousin! He broke into my apartment."
The older woman's face blanched. "Oh. Dear me. I let him in with the spare key you gave me for emergencies."
"Whatever he told you, it wasn't an emergency," Felicity replied, unable to keep the terseness out of her voice as she passed the umbrella back to her neighbor.
"Oh my." The old woman turned to the man pinned to the floor. "You lied to me."
Felicity touched the old woman's arm. "I want you to go back inside."
Mrs. Havisham gave one last apologetic look before she grabbed a cat that was coiled around her feet and went into the apartment.
Any of the tenderness Oliver may have felt upon seeing Felicity was unharmed was quickly replaced by rage. "You lied your way into her apartment. What did you want? Who are you working for? The Triad? Amos Borg?"
The man didn't immediately respond. Oliver exerted more force, pushing his arm upward until the man squealed in pain. "The Tattler," he finally spat out.
"He's a reporter," Felicity supplied. Still not one of the good guys but way above bloodthirsty stalker/killer.
In the distance she could hear the sound of sirens. The police must not be too far away, which whether the intruder realized it, was probably good news for him.
Oliver began to pat down the man with one hand, searching for anything he might have taken from Felicity's apartment or anything that might provide a clue as to his intent. The man had nothing on him, not even identification or a cell phone.
"What were you doing in my fiancée's apartment?" Oliver asked. When the man did not immediately reply, Oliver tightened his grip. "What were you trying to find?" he demanded again.
"Answers."
"About what?" Oliver persisted. When once again the man remained tight-lipped, Oliver pulled on his arms, leveraging his shoulder.
A snap sounded that made Felicity's stomach twist, followed by the man's howl of pain and a string of expletives that ended with, "You dislocated my goddamn shoulder!"
"You're lucky that's all I'm doing to you," Oliver replied, his voice devoid of anything resembling empathy for the other man's pain.
Two police officers bounded up the steps, Quentin Lance and a man Felicity didn't recognize, though the tag on his black uniform identified him as Raleigh.
"Get him off of me!" the man on the ground screamed when he saw the police.
"We've got this, Mr. Queen," Officer Raleigh said firmly.
Oliver was loath to release the man into their custody, but he let go and stood, immediately moving to Felicity's side.
She was stunned to find herself pulled her into an embrace. Hugging wasn't really their thing, though as she found herself relaxing against him, feeling the reassurance that he silently provided as his fingers lightly grazed over the back of her neck, she knew this was something she could get used to.
Wow. He was solid and warm and…
No. Don't. Don't think like that. Don't start to want this.
Absently, he brushed his lips across her forehead before resting his chin on top of her head. All the while he watched Raleigh secure the trespasser's wrists behind his back.
"I'm okay," she whispered, even as she could feel the hammering of his heart against her ear. "You came back."
"Ms. Smoak, may I have a word?" Quentin Lance asked as he approached the duo. His eyes only briefly fell on Oliver but held a hint of disdain, a complete contrast to the sympathetic expression he gave Felicity.
"Of course, Detective Lance," Felicity breathed out quickly, trying to still the quivering in her voice. She didn't wear damsel-in-distress well.
"It's 'officer' now, Ms. Smoak," he corrected, though his tone was almost fond. "You all right?"
No. She was not all right. Some stranger had been in her apartment. With the way the man took off, he was probably more afraid of her than she was of him—though if she had listened to her instinct that something was amiss in her apartment, she sure as heck would've been scared enough for the both of them. Why would he even be there so late at night? It didn't make sense. And what did he think he was going to find anyway? He had told Oliver 'answers,' but answers to what? How geeked out she kept her place? What brand of deodorant she preferred?
"Ms. Smoak?" Lance asked when she didn't reply, pulling her from her mind trip.
"I'm fine."
"So what happened?"
"That man tricked my neighbor into letting him into my apartment. I…I don't know what he was after. When I arrived home, he must have been in my bedroom. I remember thinking it was strange that the light was on the living room, but I talked myself into believing I'd forgotten to turn it off because I was a little scattered this morning."
"Because of me," Oliver finished, sounding contrite.
At that, Lance raised an eyebrow.
"When I headed toward my bedroom, I saw the door was closed. I generally don't close it unless company is coming over and there's a huge mess in there, which come to think of it, there's a mess in there right now, but I sure didn't remember closing the door before I left." She shook her head slightly, realizing she was taking too long to get to the point. "I think I realized he was there about the same time he realized that I realized. Okay. That made no sense. But long story short, he rushed out and pushed past me."
"And met up with you, I take it," Lance said looking at Oliver. "You, uh, handled yourself. What were you doing here so late anyway?"
"I brought Felicity home." Oliver breathed heavily as he watched Lance's partner bring the intruder to his feet.
The man grimaced in pain. "I want to press charges against Oliver Queen for assault."
Lance looked from Oliver to the perp. "It seems to me Mr. Queen merely detained you until help could arrive."
"He tried to pull my arm off! I need a doctor!"
As Lance's partner began reading the stranger his Miranda rights, Quentin turned to Felicity. "Mind if I have a look around inside?"
"I don't think he took anything, but go ahead."
Quentin went inside.
The entire ordeal with the intruder had probably only lasted ten minutes at the most, but it seemed infinitely longer. The pinch she felt in her foot worsened, to the point that she didn't want to put any weight down on it. And now that her adrenaline was wearing off, the jolts of pain in her lower back came in waves, almost as if she had been stabbed there. Pointy devil furniture, that's what she had.
Seeing the look on her face, Oliver smoothed hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. The tenderness of his touch zapped her back to him. "You sure you're all right?"
"I'll be fine," Felicity replied, her voice thin. She turned to go inside, trying to walk normally, but as soon as she put pressure on her right foot, a slight whimper escaped from her.
It was then that Oliver looked down, saw the way she gingerly held up her foot, as well as the torn stocking and the blood. "Felicity." Without another word, he swept her off her feet, one arm under the backs of her legs and the other securing her upper back, carrying her inside the apartment to get her off her injured foot.
"Carrying me over the threshold? That's supposed to come after the wedding." Her weak joke did little to diffuse the concern etched on Oliver's face.
He gently set her on the couch.
"You are hurt."
"I'm fine. I dropped a glass when he startled me. I must've got a shard in my foot."
"May I?" Oliver asked.
She nodded her assent.
He knelt in front of her, his hands gently reaching under the hem of her dress to find the lacey edge of her stocking. She twitched slightly as his fingers made contact with her thigh. This was oddly similar to a dream she had once had about him, except that reverie didn't involve intruders, Oliver's ex-girlfriend's father in the next room, or shards of glass stuck in her foot. Oh, and he may have used his teeth to remove her stocking rather than his hands.
Her face grew hot at the thought, even as she recognized that the reality—with all its downsides—was far better than the fantasy. She could feel the warmth emanate from Oliver in waves, feel his calloused fingertips against her sensitive flesh.
He hooked his fingers to pull the delicate fabric down her leg. As he made it closer to her foot, she hissed slightly as he removed it and examined her foot. "It doesn't look like you'll need stitches."
"That's good."
"But we need to get this cleaned up."
"First Aid kit is in the bathroom under the sink. Next to…" her feminine products. "You know what? I can get it." She pulled herself up off the couch, standing on one foot and hopping toward the bedroom to make her way to the en suite bathroom. As she drew close to the bedroom, she could see the puddle of water and pieces of broken glass. She stopped abruptly to avoid stepping on the glass again but nearly lost her balance in the process.
"Let me," he insisted as he steadied her wobbling. Without waiting for permission, he once again picked her up and gently deposited her on the couch.
"Caveman," she fussed mildly.
Still leaning over her, he whispered in her ear, "You have no idea how civilized I am making myself be."
Felicity wondered what he meant by that and was about to ask when Officer Lance stepped out of the bedroom.
"Looks like the perp pulled clothes out of your closet. Left them everywhere."
"Oh, that was me," Felicity admitted as she raised her hand. "I was looking for something to wear last night. I haven't had a chance to pick everything up yet."
Quentin shot her a look of surprise. "Anything seem amiss to you in here?"
"I've not had a chance to look," she replied.
"Did he tell you anything?" Lance asked.
"No." Felicity absently pushed her glasses up her nose.
"What about you, Oliver?"
"Just that he worked for The Tattler and was looking for answers."
It was then that Quentin noticed the ring on Felicity's finger. "He's not the only one who wants answers. The two of you are…"
"Yes. Engaged," Oliver spoke out.
Quentin's brows furrowed. "That's a surprise."
"You have no idea," Felicity murmured. "I mean, it's recent. Very recent."
"Which might explain why a rag journalist would be here. Laurel's had a few tail her, as well, both before and after your," he cleared his throat, "fantastic voyage."
"I'll take care of Felicity," Oliver promised.
"You do that," Quentin responded grimly. He turned back to Felicity, "Your 'visitor' won't be going anywhere tonight. It's late, so if you'll come down to the station in the morning to handle some follow up, I think we're done for now. Just check things over here. Let me know if anything's amiss."
Felicity nodded.
Lance shook his head. "You know how to pick 'em, Ms. Smoak." With that, he left, closing the door after him.
Quentin Lance's disapproval seemed to hang in the air. "Well, that was fun," she said blandly.
Oliver said nothing, instead disappearing into the bedroom. Felicity shifted slightly on the couch, the pain in her back no longer quite as sharp. There would definitely be bruising, but she figured the guy who broke into her apartment was going to have a far worse time ahead of him.
A couple of minutes later, Oliver still wasn't back. What was he doing in there anyway? Studying up on what brands of feminine products she used? God, she hoped he didn't spot that old bottle of Head and Shoulders that she had never bothered to throw away.
When he finally emerged, he carried her first-aid kit, along with an electronic device in the palm of his hand. As he got closer and she could better see what it was, her eyes widened. "Is that a…"
"Phone tap. Yes."
She reached for the landline phone on the table next to her and opened the receiver. Sure enough, she found an identical device. The techie in her was unimpressed. "I know I should be really bothered by this, but it's so 1990s. If it were me trying to be all secret spy sneaky, I'd be hacking into cell phone calls, text messages, and e-mails."
"Or leaving other listening or video devices to record our conversations."
"Or to record us having sex," Felicity added. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Wow. When I get tired, I have no filter. Well, tired or drunk, but I'm more likely to be tired than drunk. But just as likely to be mortified. For the record, I personally would not record sex. But you have to admit someone would pay money for that, so if there were video equipment, that might be a reason for it. Well, they'd pay to see you. Unless…do you already have a sex tape? Wait. Don't answer that. I don't want to know. I don't need to know. So I'm not really what you would call top heavy, and I'm guessing from the disproportionate percentage of surgically enhanced women who appear in professional pornography, that's something of a pre-requisite. It's part of the male fantasy, which I soooo am not. Not that I sit around watching porn, studying up on male fantasies. I don't because that would just be eww. Well, I shouldn't judge. I mean, I guess that's how they get samples at sperm banks or fertility clinics. A little happy ending for hopefully a happy ending. It's just funny, the thought of someone recording what I'm doing or saying. I'm so vanilla. I mean, how would they market that? The playboy and the IT girl? No, wait. They think I'm your secretary. Okay. You can stop me anytime now."
"You were on a roll. And the way I wanted to stop you would not meet your approval." His guard was slipping, she realized, as his eyes dipped to her lips. "And for the record, there are no sex tapes."
"That's good to know," she said gamely. "How did you know to come?" Immediately she backtracked even as she felt herself flushing furiously. "I meant, how did you know to come back into the building to help me?"
"I could see an outline in the window. It definitely wasn't your outline." The words themselves were innocuous, but the appreciative tone in Oliver's voice had Felicity's stomach doing flip-flops. Stupid butterflies again. "It looked like he was trying to get it open to go out the fire escape and couldn't."
Felicity merely nodded, unwilling to trust herself to speak, as Oliver disinfected a set of tweezers.
"You've got some glass caught in your foot. I need to get it out."
He turned on a table lamp to provide better light for the job and retrieved a chair from the kitchen that he subsequently placed in front of where she sat on the couch. He sat in the chair and gently drew her leg up and onto his thigh. Felicity squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see what he was doing, though she could feel one hand firmly holding her ankle. She could vaguely sense the metal instrument poke at the bottom of her foot, followed by a prick of pain. Then she heard him set aside the tweezers and felt brave enough to open her eyes.
"This is going to sting," he warned her.
She nodded, even as she fought back a hiss when he cleaned the wounds with an alcohol wipe. He lightly blew on the bottom of her foot, the combination of his breath and the evaporation of the alcohol tickling her. A giggle escaped her lips.
"You're ticklish," he commented. "Why did I never know that?"
"Probably because you don't typically go around groping my feet."
"You say that as though I grope other parts of you," he said, reaching for a roll of medical tape and gauze from the first-aid kit.
"You are handsy."
His brows furrowed in confusion.
"Not that I'm complaining," she quickly added.
"What do you mean, 'handsy'?"
"Forget I said anything."
"No, I want to know."
"Oliver, you touch me all the time. A squeeze on the shoulder, rubbing my arm, brushing my hair back with your fingers, more recently holding my hand. And now you're sitting there massaging my calf."
"I didn't realize I was doing that." He stilled his movements once she made him conscious of his actions.
"You can't keep your hands off me, and I can't stop spewing sexual innuendos around you," she joked. "What a pair we make. HR would have us in sexual harassment training all day. Prevention training, that is. They wouldn't have us training others how to sexually harass, but I guess that goes without saying. And…I…said it anyway."
He pressed gauze to the bottom of her foot and taped it into place. He was careful to avoid touching her wound, but the contact had her fighting the urge to giggle again.
"I think you should come home with me tonight."
"Make that in training all week."
But the frown on his face told her that while she was playing off his invitation as a joke, he wasn't. "I need to know you're safe. And this place…isn't. It was too easy for that bastard to get in here."
"It pisses me off that he was in here, but I think I scared him more than he scared me. And I don't think he was trying to hurt me intentionally."
"But the next person might."
"There's not going to be a 'next person.' Mrs. Havisham isn't going to be fooled again."
He stood and began to pace, needing some outlet for his nervous energy. "Even with the deadbolt, I could be in here in 30 seconds flat, key or no key. Someone who is trained just needs the will; he or she can find the way."
She groaned. "Are you trying to scare me? Because, you know, finding a stranger in my home was creepy enough."
"You don't know what all's out there."
"Yes, I do."
"No, you don't."
"I do," she insisted. "Last I checked, I had front row tickets. Look, I appreciate that you want to keep me safe, but I'm not a porcelain doll, and you can't bubble-wrap my world. Besides, if you did, I would just pop the bubbles because, you know, bubbles need to be popped."
"Then I'll stay here with you. Keep an eye on things."
"I don't think that's a good idea. I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that I'm having a tough time keeping this," she pointed between herself and him, "sorted." She grimaced. "And I have to keep it sorted, Oliver, because we aren't going to be…" her voice trailed off.
He nodded. "Right. You get ready for bed. I'll clean up the glass and water, then head out."
"There's no need. I can do it."
"I don't want you to get glass in your foot again," he replied.
"Don't bubble wrap me," she warned.
"That guy wouldn't have even been here if not for me. I put you in this situation, so let me clean up the damn mess." He didn't raise his voice, but the harshness of his words had an equally scathing effect. Felicity visibly flinched. "I'm sorry. You're the last person I want to be a jerk to."
"Not every bad thing that happens is your fault. Believe me, I have no trouble letting you know when I think it is."
"But this was," he replied, his voice softening.
And just as he'd done twice before, he scooped her up, this time off the couch. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, linking her hands behind his neck. She wasn't often this close to him, half a breath away, and it staggered her. In some unexpected way, she had become—if not used to his physical appeal—then at least she had gotten to the point where she didn't stare at him slack-jawed. Usually. Now his mouth was inches from hers and his blue eyes were an ocean of depth as they locked onto hers. The fringe of lashes around his eyes was sinfully long for a man.
No wonder women didn't stand a chance.
Oliver carried her into her bedroom, out of danger from the broken glass but perhaps into a different type of danger.
With one knee on her bed, he leaned down and placed her atop the covers. He lingered, his body practically suspended over hers. With no forethought, Felicity raked her fingers across his jaw line, feeling the stubble beneath. He captured her hand with his own, leaned into it, and tenderly kissed her soft fingertips.
Both of them froze. She could feel heat radiating from his body, feel the sudden intake of his breath that mirrored her own reaction, see his eyes darken. The fluttery, ticklish sensation returned to her stomach, even as heaviness formed in her breasts and an ache settled into her very core.
"Felicity."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a statement. It was as though her name was velvet on his lips, and he was announcing his intentions.
Sparks skittered through her. She wanted this. There were so many reasons she shouldn't, but she did.
She could breathe his breath, feel his heartbeat in sync with her own, and suddenly, he was off the bed and across the room.
What just happened?
She sat up about to ask just that when Oliver uttered, "You should do what Lance said. Look around. See if anything's missing or out of place."
"Oliver—"
He pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy. With himself? With her?
"I'm sorry." With that, he turned and left the room.
With the late hour and bone-deep emotional exhaustion she felt, Felicity thought sleep would come easily.
She was wrong.
Her mind wouldn't quit replaying the events of the day. The explosion of media coverage on her personal life. Balancing a pseudo-engagement while trying not to pile on the lies with her family. Discovering bits and pieces of Isabel Rochev's past. Finding a tabloid reporter in her apartment. Oliver kissing her and subsequently acting as though she had the plague. But really, if he was going to act like she had cooties or something, couldn't she at least have gotten a full on, toe-curling kiss on the lips?
And then there was the persistent fear that gripped her. She thought she would be fine alone, but every noise she heard, she imagined it was someone else breaking into her apartment. Maybe she should have taken Oliver up on his offer to stay at the Queen mansion for the night. It wasn't as though he was hurting for space over there.
Stupid pride.
Once, she had somewhat managed to drift into a fitful sleep, she briefly dreamed that TMZ was hosting its tabloid show from her bedroom and critiquing everything from her décor to her lingerie. She awoke when, in her dreams, one of the hosts poked at her back, finding that tender spot where she had hit the corner of the end table when the intruder pushed past her.
In actuality, she woke from her fleeting slumber because she was aching and uncomfortable. She turned on her side, the tank top she wore riding up her flat belly, until she tugged at it.
She could vaguely hear one of the neighborhood dogs barking, but her mind fixated on it to the point that she couldn't put it from her mind.
Felicity finally reached for the lamp on her nightstand and turned it on. If she couldn't sleep, then at least she could get her place looking presentable again.
She swung her legs out of bed when suddenly, her cell phone lit up on the dresser. With all the phone calls she had been receiving (and ignoring with the phone on silent), she almost didn't look, but old habits died hard.
From Oliver Queen:
sent 2:12 a.m.
OQ: Why aren't you sleeping? Everything okay?
How would he know that? Unless…
She walked to the window and looked out. Sure enough, his car was still parked below. He had never left.
That man.
FS: You're outside.
OQ: In the car. Is everything okay?
FS: Go home. Get some rest.
OQ: Like you're resting?
FS: Not the point and not cute.
OQ: Not trying to be.
FS: Why are you out there?
OQ: Keeping watch.
FS: You need sleep. Go home.
OQ: Can't.
FS: Then come inside. You need sleep.
FS: I need you to take care of yourself.
No response.
FS: Oliver?
A knock on the front door startled her, though it probably should not have. She padded to the door, careful to keep her weight off the wounded part of her foot, and looked through the peephole.
Oliver.
When Felicity opened the door, Oliver nearly turned and went the other direction. She was glasses-free, and her face was scrubbed of makeup, allowing her natural rosiness to shine through. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders in tousled waves, no longer held back by an elastic band. And then there were her pajamas. She wore tiny sleeping shorts with a 1's and 0's pattern on them that tied in a pink bow below her belly button, which he noticed for the first time had a piercing. Those shorts, which only served to showcase the length of her slender legs, combined with the form-fitting tank top, left little to his imagination.
She stepped aside so he could come in, oblivious to his visceral reaction to her. "I'll go get you a blanket and a pillow for the couch."
Oliver saw two things when Felicity turned her back—the infamous tattoo just above her shapely derriere that had triggered his curiosity when he'd first heard about it courtesy of People magazine, of all sources; and a purple mottled blotch on her skin that peeked out from the hem of her tank top. She gave the scant top a tug, but it was too late. He'd seen the angry bruise.
He closed the distance between them, his fingers going to the hem of the tank and pulling it up. "What happened?"
She stepped away from him. "No, we're not doing this. It's fine."
"No, it's not. Did this happen tonight?"
She looked over her shoulder and threw him a withering glare. "I have patched you up more times than I can count, times that I was scared you were going to die. This is just a booboo."
She disappeared into her bedroom only to re-emerge less than a minute later with the promised pillow and blanket.
Oliver quirked an eyebrow when he saw the fleece blanket had a pattern of panda bears on it.
"It's my favorite," she said simply, almost daring him to comment on it.
"Thank you."
"The couch isn't much, but…"
There was a time when he never thought he'd see a couch again, let alone enjoy its comfort. "It's fine."
"Okay then. Goodnight, Oliver."
He slipped off his shoes and settled on the sofa even as he heard her movements in her bedroom behind her closed door.
He unfolded the blanket and pulled it over him, finding that it smelled like her: sweetness and radiance with a hint of cherry. What would she have tasted like? He could imagine all too well, enough to make him suck in his breath and will his body to get under control.
Earlier when he had carried her into the bedroom, it really had started innocently. He had wanted to keep her off that foot, but when she wrapped her arms around his neck and looked at him with absolute adoration and a hint of lust as he set her down, the atmosphere changed. Yes, it began innocently; it ended with a raging hard-on. He wasn't supposed to think of her that way; he had promised himself Felicity was off limits months ago. Too much hinged on their being able to work with one another, and Oliver knew all too well that his relationships tended to end badly, largely by his own doing.
From the time he was a little boy, it had been ingrained in him that as a Queen, he had to be careful. Too many people in the world would use him. Women would use him for his money, for the doors his name could open. Others would seek to harm him because of his family's vast wealth, hence the constant presence of bodyguards.
Circumstances had seen to it that he no longer took those warnings as seriously on his own behalf. Certainly, he could handle the physical threats. If there was one good thing about being trapped in Purgatory, it was that the island forged a stronger man. And any naïveté he had regarding women was long since gone. Had been since he was on the receiving end of his first blowjob, only to have the girl ask him to buy her concert tickets to see Green Day after she was finished.
But Felicity didn't have his jaded upbringing or a crucible that hardened her to the world. And now that the word was out, he didn't know how he was going to keep her safe, especially with her being so reluctant to accept the measures he saw necessary.
This was not a problem he had foreseen when he had arrogantly told Diggle that he would make her into a Queen. Bringing her into the Queen fold, moving her into his home with its bevy of security, would certainly alleviate some of those concerns. Not that Felicity would go willingly, but it was something they should discuss in the light of day and the fact that their arrangement looked to be extended now that the world knew her as his fiancée.
For now, though, in the shadow of night, Oliver found himself drifting, hoping that tonight's sleep would be dreamless.
Felicity felt positively voyeuristic as she lay in bed, the room dark except for the glow cast by her tablet. She had searched for Robert Queen on Bing, and found herself poring through the images. Robert was certainly a handsome devil; Oliver bore more than a passing resemblance to his father, much more than Thea who, in Felicity's opinion, looked like a younger version of Moira.
Her opinion was confirmed when she saw a photo Robert and Moira from a newspaper with the heading, "Queens Take Home New Prince." Robert held an infant Oliver in his arms, beaming brightly at the newborn. Moira gazed at her husband with adoration. The image was a far cry from the bits and pieces she had heard about the Queens' marriage.
Another photo featured Robert and a young Oliver on a small fishing boat—definitely not the Queen's Gambit—with the two standing side by side, each holding up his catch for the day. The fish Oliver held seemed to be nearly as tall as he was. Of course, he was probably only about nine or ten in the picture, which looked to be from a charity fishing tournament. The look of absolute delight on the little boy's face was enough to make Felicity smile. She could see glimpses of the man she knew in this little face, but there was an open innocence she had never seen in the grown Oliver.
Another photo featured Robert standing next to Oliver at maybe 16 or 17 years of age. They shared a similar coloring, from their sandy hair and blue eyes, to the same square, masculine chins and dimpled smiles. Oliver lacked the extreme chiseled physique in this photo, but he was clearly fit, no longer the scrawny little boy who went fishing with his father.
And that grin.
Not a care in the world.
So different from her Oliver, a man who played the role of Atlas, the man who carried the world on his shoulders.
Her Oliver?
He wasn't her Oliver.
He really, really wasn't her Oliver.
As much as they were playing pretend, she couldn't lose sight of that fact. Earlier that night, she almost had.
Isabel Rochev had called her a fraud, and in technical terms, the woman was correct.
Felicity's stomach twisted at the thought of Isabel. On the one hand, she thought the woman had more in common with vipers than with the human race. On the other hand, she couldn't help but wonder how much her upbringing had to do with the woman's coldness.
But everything she'd been able to find out suggested that once Natasha—Isabel—came stateside, she had a good life. She excelled in school, despite the initial language barrier. Her aunt and uncle seemed to dote on her. She maintained contact with them and their son, her adoptive brother. In fact, from what Felicity had been able to glean, Isabel was listed as Kirill's guardian in their estate plan should they die before he reached legal age.
So there had to be at least some redeeming characteristics in the woman, even if Felicity couldn't personally pick them out. Of course, she could admit to herself that she was more than somewhat biased where the businesswoman was concerned.
Viktor and Irina certainly were not typical parents. Taking in Isabel, waiting so long to have their own biological child. Felicity did some mental comparison calculations. When she was twelve, their son's age, her parents were in their mid-thirties, while her grandparents were nearing sixty. Both Viktor and Irina were already past the sixty milestone.
Felicity certainly hoped no misfortunes befell the older Rochevs. If Kirill had to grow up with Isabel…Felicity fairly shuddered at the idea. But other women Isabel's age had children in Kirill's age range, so to the outside world, Isabel probably would look more like his mom than his own parents …
Felicity froze as a thought practically exploded in her brain.
No. That was crazy. That was 3:00 a.m., sleep deprivation crazy.
She set aside the tablet, even as her heart hammered in her chest.
No. Just leave it alone. Leave it alone.
But she couldn't. If Oliver was Atlas, then she was Pandora.
Exhaling loudly, she picked up the tablet and entered Kirill Rochev, Jericho, New York in a search engine. A Facebook profile was the first listing to appear. She hesitated as her finger hovered over the link.
So I'm cyber-stalking a twelve-year-old.
And then she clicked on it.
She was met with a profile picture of an athletic looking boy in a baseball uniform. A mop of sandy-colored hair covered his head and his brown eyes shone brightly.
But it was his smile that made her pause.
She would have recognized that grin anywhere.
To be continued…
