A/N: lindewen asked: "1. Cheek kiss - in your Olicity Bratva AU?" I basically shoehorned this part into that prompt, buuuuuut at least it's an update? On which note, apologies for how long this took. My Arrow muse is super uncooperative and Felicity put up a major fight about this chapter. I hope it doesn't disappoint!

The problem with Felicity's little hack into the Bratva's communication network is that it comes with severe limitations.

Namely, the fact that she only knows what people are talking about.

Reading Oliver's texts—or Diggle's or Sara's or random background grunt #17's—doesn't tell her anything about what happened before she came along. Emails don't offer a key to use to fill the blanks in what isn't said, and there's no voicemail in the world that can translate the speaking looks Oliver's people tend to exchange when certain subjects come up.

So Felicity knows she's missing something right now. There are undertones in this conversation; at least half of it is going right over her head, and even though she can almost see it fly by, she has no idea where to even start puzzling it out.

All she can do is sit and listen—and act as a pillow for the still-dazed Thea, cuddled into her side and dozing on her shoulder. Poor thing; she really shouldn't be out of bed, yet, but she refused to stay there when she heard about Tommy.

"Nyssa can be here by tomorrow afternoon," Sara is saying, "but—"

"But what?" Oliver demands. Rescuing Tommy didn't calm him down anywhere near as much as Felicity (and everyone else, she's sure) was hoping it would; he's still simmering with fury, and the tension in the room jumps up a notch every time he speaks. Sooner or later, someone's gonna snap.

(Her money's on the guy in the corner.)

In the meantime, she's starting to get a little worried about the amount of tension in his jaw. If he keeps grinding his teeth like that, he's gonna do them some serious damage. Does the Bratva have a dentist on the payroll?

"If the League finds out Malcolm's in town, they won't not go after him," Sara says. "Not even for me. He'll be dead before dinner."

"I don't care," Oliver dismisses. "So ca—"

"Tommy does."

All eyes snap to Laurel Lance.

Laurel's one of those things—or people, Felicity amends—that doesn't get talked about. There's something going on there, something more than just Laurel being a good-hearted, morally upstanding public defender keeping company with a family of criminals, but if anyone knows what it is, no one's saying.

All Felicity knows about Laurel is that she's Tommy's girlfriend and Sara's sister and that she has excellent taste in shoes.

Not that she's wearing shoes at the moment. She's curled up in the chair next to Tommy's bed, where she's spent the three hours since this bedroom was turned into a makeshift hospital room. Tommy was drugged into unconsciousness the second he arrived (probably a mercy, considering the state he's in) and wouldn't know it if the Queen of England showed up to change his bandages, but Laurel's refused to budge.

Even now, staring Oliver down, she hasn't let go of Tommy's hand. It's sweet.

"What was that, Laurel?" Oliver asks. His voice is a little gentler than it was with Sara, possibly in deference to Laurel's status of extremely worried girlfriend, but it's still not what anyone could call nice.

"I said, Tommy does," Laurel repeats, pale but composed. "He doesn't want his father dead and you know it."

"I also know that the last time I respected Tommy's wishes, he got kidnapped by the Triad," Oliver says dryly. "I can live with upsetting him."

Felicity thinks the touch of humor is a good sign, but she's apparently alone in that, because Laurel looks furious.

"Ollie," she snaps. "That's not funny."

…Ollie? Felicity glances down at Thea, the only other person she's ever heard use that nickname, but she's barely conscious, and Felicity doesn't have the heart to bother her.

No one else reacts to the name. Interesting.

"What's not funny is that the Triad has us outnumbered," Oliver snaps back, "and they've crossed too many lines. They need to be destroyed, but we can't do it alone, so unless you've got a different team of highly-trained assassins to offer—"

"She's right," Sara interrupts. "Tommy would never forgive—"

"Tommy nearly died," Oliver grits out. "And Thea and Felicity were almost kidnapped. If Malcolm's life is the price for dealing with the Triad, I am more than happy to pay it—no matter what Tommy thinks."

Felicity tunes out the rest of the argument. It's novel, in that anyone's arguing with Oliver at all—especially when he's wearing that face—but mostly uninteresting. The important thing is that the only back-up Oliver's got in mind will probably cost him his best friend, and that's hardly her problem. She pointed the way to where Tommy was being held and helped disguise the rescue team's approach; her work here is done.

Still, though…

She knows there's some kind of issue with Tommy's father, that no one—including Tommy—actually likes him, and that there's been trouble with him before. She knows that Nyssa is Sara's long-distance girlfriend.

She didn't know that Nyssa had any connection to a team (league?) of highly-trained assassins, but okay. It's not like Felicity has any room to point fingers in that regard.

She also doesn't know what Nyssa might have against Tommy's father. What she does know is that Oliver's right; the Bratva can't take the Triad alone. Honestly, just the fact that Oliver's admitting they need help should serve as enough proof of that.

The Triad's gotten back-up from somewhere—enough back-up that Oliver lost more than a dozen men in the course of rescuing Tommy—which means the Bratva needs back-up, too. And unless they want to call in to Russia (which they don't, for reasons Oliver's not sharing), Nyssa and her assassins are the family's only option.

…Except that's not exactly true, is it?

Felicity worries at her lower lip, fighting herself for a long minute. She almost wins—but then her eyes catch on Oliver, on the tense line of his shoulders and the way the circuit he's pacing never takes him more than six feet from Tommy's bed.

Damn it.

With a sigh (and some very careful maneuvering), she slips out from under Thea's weight, gently guiding her to lie flat on the couch. She stirs, a little, but quiets when Felicity drapes the afghan from the back of the couch over her.

The thought of Thea in the Triad's hands—the thought of her in the kind of pain Tommy was in, pre-drugging—helps firm her resolve. They got lucky, this time, but luck runs out.

If there's one thing growing up in Vegas taught Felicity, it's that you should never lay a bet without stacking the deck. Right now, the deck's stacked against them.

And however little she likes it, she knows exactly how to change that.

"Oliver," she says, cutting through the stare-down he's having with Laurel. (Something new to add to what Felicity knows about her: she has nerves of steel.) "Can I talk to you? Outside?"

"Felicity," Oliver starts, clearly annoyed, and she widens her eyes at him.

"Please?"

His brow furrows, but after a second, he nods. "Fine."

"Great," she says, and heads for the door, catching his hand on the way. "Be right back, everyone."

This is stupid. This is so stupid. She'll set her own plans—important plans, plans that are literally the only reason she even married Oliver in the first place—back months if she goes through with this. What does she care if Tommy starts hating Oliver? At least he's alive.

"Felicity?" Oliver prompts as the door shuts behind them, and damn it, it's not fair that he says her name like that.

She is such a moron.

"Nyssa's not your only option," she says, all in a rush, and—there it is. It's said. She can't go back now.

Oliver's eyes narrow. "No?"

"I was almost kidnapped," she reminds him.

"I haven't forgotten," he says darkly (and wow, did it just get hot in here?). "What does that have to—"

"My father has men to spare," she says over him. "Frame it like the Triad is a threat to me—which it is—and he'll send a whole cadre of disposable thugs for back-up."

He stares down at her, face unreadable, and she bites down on the urge to fill the silence. She hasn't babbled since she was a little girl, and she's not about to pick the habit up again.

There's no reason to be nervous.

"Calling on your father will make me look weak," he says eventually.

It's a valid point. She knows how this stuff works. Oliver can't afford to look weak—not ever, but especially not in the middle of a war with the Triad. There are other powers in this city, and if they smell blood in the water…the family will be fighting a war on two fronts before they know it.

"And calling on Sara's girlfriend won't?" she asks.

"We've had dealings with the League before." The corner of his mouth tips up in a decidedly unamused smile. "They owe me a favor."

Whereas if Oliver asks her father for help, the Bratva will owe her father a favor, and that's never a good thing. Oliver's smart to want to avoid it.

It's an out, and she should definitely take it. Definitely. She tried, Oliver said no, and she can let him ruin his friendship with Tommy with a clear conscience.

Looking up at him, though, she finds her voice sticking in her throat. His eyes are shadowed—when was the last time he slept?—and there's a nasty cut along his left cheek. A couple inches higher and he'd probably be blind in that eye. But he came home in one piece, which is a lot more than can be said for most of the rescue party. For a minute or two, listening over the radios to his fight with the Triad, she thought…

She's still holding his hand.

Crap.

"You don't have to ask my father for help," she says, reluctantly. She wishes she didn't know this—that her stupid genius brain would stop turning for once and not offer an instant solution to this problem—but if wishes were horses she wouldn't have had to beg for a pony when she was little. "You don't have to talk to him at all."

He frowns. "My wife asking for help on my behalf would make me look even weaker."

"No, I mean—" She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to calm the racing of her heart. Oliver can't possibly understand the significance of this; there's no reason to panic about sharing it. "My father has my mom's phone tapped. All I have to do is call her and tell her what happened, and he'll have back-up on its way before you can say invasion of privacy."

"That's rich, coming from you," Oliver says, but it's an absently fond jab. His eyes have drifted away from hers; he's obviously thinking it over.

"No asking required," she says, hoping to encourage him—and how dumb is that? What is wrong with her? "In fact, when his thugs show up, the right kind of call to him will have him thinking he owes us a favor."

Oliver's gaze sharpens.

"Us?" he asks mildly.

Oh. Oops.

…What the hell. It's not like she's fooling either one of them, anyway.

"Yes," she says, very quietly. Not because she means to be, but because this is a leap, and she has to force the word out. "Us."

That—placing herself firmly on Oliver's side when her own father is the opposite party—is the biggest declaration she could offer. Bigger than Oliver could possibly understand, even, but he knows enough. This is more than dragging herself out of bed to find Tommy after nearly being kidnapped, more than helping him against the Triad—more than asking him to stay the night after sex, even.

This is big, and his pleased smile says he knows it.

He buries a hand in her hair and pulls her in for a kiss that curls her toes, and that says even more. His fingers knead at the base of her skull, easing away the last little bit of a headache that's pounding away there, while his other arm is an iron band around her waist.

It's not really the time for this, but…whatever.

The kiss is way shorter than she'd like—silly lungs and their need for oxygen—but it's still long enough that her head's spinning when Oliver draws back. He doesn't go far and he doesn't let go of her, and all things considered, it would be downright stupid, at this point, to pretend she doesn't know why she's so happy about that.

"Thank you," he says—for like the hundredth time tonight. Felicity's never been thanked so much in her life.

It's so nice to be appreciated.

"You're welcome," she says, and kisses his cheek. "But you definitely owe me that cottage in the Apennines now."

He grins down at her, and even though it's not nearly as rare a sight as it used to be, it still makes her heart pound. One of these days she's really gonna have to face up to what they're not saying.

But they've not-said a lot tonight, so that's a conversation she thinks can be put off for a while longer.

"It's yours," he promises. Then his smile fades slightly. "How sure are you this plan will work?"

Right. The plan. For a second there, with the whole openly-aligning-herself-against-her-father thing, she almost forgot what prompted said alignment.

"Positive," she says, and flattens her palms against his chest to push him away. "Trust me, we'll have back-up before dawn, and one conversation is all it'll take to convince my father you're doing him a favor by letting them stick around. The hardest part'll be getting my mom off the phone."

"Oh?" Oliver asks, hand trailing down her arm as he steps back. She nearly shivers.

"She likes to talk," she stage-whispers, earning another smile. "If I'm not back in an hour, come find me with a fake emergency, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees, still smiling.

She's smiling, too, as she walks away, even though she really shouldn't be. In making this call, she's sacrificing no little ground towards her ultimate goal—a goal she's spent more than half her life working towards.

The thing is, though, it almost feels worth it.

And that's…more than a little terrifying.