AN: Well, I finally got round to updating! Sorry for the lack of updates - I have finals next week, so I've kinda been studying, and trying to battle away a writer's block. This next part is more focused on Oliver: I don't know if I've done his character any justice, but the Oliver Queen in my little shots plays it out like this. Thank you to everyone whose been following/favouriting/reviewing - this is for you. Enjoy! xo

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

There she lay, in the corner of the seedy room, hands tied up, feet bound together, and her blonde hair dirty and soaked.

His hands itched to murder the ones he had left unconscious.

She looked up, eyes glazed over, strands of her hair plastered against her face.

"Oliver?"

Her voice, so small and hoarse, cut through his rage. He moved to her side, drawing out the small knife from his boot and cutting away the harsh ropes, so tight against her soft skin.

He cursed at the red marks on her wrists.

"We need to get you out now," he muttered, pushing back her hair. There were marks on her face too, marks he was sure he would still see even when they faded away. Her clothes were tattered; the sleeve of her cardigan torn at the shoulder, her shirt dotted with blood – he was sure it wasn't just her own – and her skirt gathered in a bunch at mid-thigh.

She clung to him, nails digging into his neck as she whimpered.

"Don't look around you," he warned her, wanting to save her from seeing the chaos he had created in the narrow corridor. She pressed her face against his chest, closing her eyes tightly.

He moved quickly, stealthily, just in case he had missed any.

"Don't – Oliver!" Diggle shouted as he realized that it was his boss running up to the car he was waiting by. Knowing that there was no time to ask questions out in the open, he pulled the door open for them, watching Oliver set Felicity into the backseat.

"She's going to be okay," Diggle told him. Oliver didn't have the words, didn't have the ability to speak any sort of sense in that moment.

Diggle sped away from the horror and death of the alleyway.

She clung to him, even when they arrived in front of the Queen estate. She couldn't close her eyes for too long, in fear of the images that her mind would bring back again.

How many days had she been locked away in that room, with nothing but her own sobs echoing off the walls?

He didn't have the words that would comfort her – couldn't find them, no matter how deep he searched within himself. She never let go of him, but she didn't succumb to the fatigue he was sure her mind was trying to claim over her. He could imagine the kind of things she would see.

The things he couldn't stop, the things he had let happen to her for days.

When the car stopped in front of the mansion that he didn't even consider a home, he pulled her into his lap, ready for Diggle to open the door for them. She still shook; her hands were still unsteady.

"Don't let go. Please don't let go," she whimpered, and the helplessness washed over him again.

No, he wasn't going to let go.

But no words left his mouth as he stepped out the car with her, walking briskly to the entrance of the house and pushing the heavy door open.

No one seemed to be waiting around the main entrance – and he was glad. He wasn't ready to deal with questions, speculations, worried glances. He didn't want to answer to anyone in that moment – he didn't want to cover his tracks or become Oliver, the billionaire playboy.

He just wanted her safe.

"When my mother and Thea are home, let me know. Don't tell them Felicity's here, especially Thea. I don't want her to look too deep into this."

Diggle watched his partner quickly climb the stairs and turn towards the private corridor to his own wing.

He didn't follow – he didn't have to be a genius like Felicity to know it was their battle to deal with from there on.

Felicity listened to his steady heartbeat as he carried her down an unfamiliar corridor. Everywhere hurt – she didn't know whether she was dreaming or hallucinating. But the pain, it was unbelievably real.

She wondered how he did it, after everything he had been through. How did his mind cope with the memories that lurked in every corner? How did he stand up for a city that had failed him?

She sighed, trying to stop her mind. She didn't want to think anymore. She wanted to feel nothing for a little while, just until she was steady enough.

He stopped in front of an elaborate oak door, and lightly kicked it open.

Walking to the raised platform bed, he gently set her down.

She let go of him reluctantly, not ready to lose the comfort and heat he brought. But he eased her hands away, holding her small ones in his own.

"I'm going to run the bath for you," he managed to choke out, and bringing her hands up to his lips, he pressed soft kisses against her bruised knuckles.

It was the only affection he could show her in that moment.

He held it together until he reached the en suite, turning the extravagant jets on, watching the water fill up the humongous tub. It would soon run grey, he thought as he braced his hands against the white marble edge. It would run with twinges of red and black as she washed away the ordeal off her skin.

Had he ever been this scared, this terrified before?

Nothing had ever consumed him like Felicity had.

Running a hand over his face, he closed his eyes, trying to push back the image of her lying on the dirty, cold ground. He had brought her into this mess, this disarray that he called a life – and he couldn't even protect her.

Four days without her. Exactly ninety-nine hours. Give or take a few minutes.

She had left the Foundry fuming at him for wanting to keep her away from the next name. Sometimes, there was no reasoning with her. He had let her walk out, angry at him and probably cursing him in her mind over and over.

If only he had followed her out, made sure she reached her apartment safely.

But he hadn't. And wasn't that mighty fine? Letting his pride stop him from making sure she was safe.

What if he couldn't reach her the next time?

"Wow. That's a big bathtub."

Straightening up, he looked at her, standing in the doorway, eyes big and mouth slightly agape as stared at the tub. Tucking away the emotions seeping through, he tried to keep his tone in check.

"It's ready. I'll wait for you in the bedroom –"

"Don't leave."

She gripped his forearm, eyes pleading with him as he hesitated.

Moving out of her grasp, he stepped away.

He pulled the door shut, locking it just in case.

She moved closer to the tub, slightly limping as she did so. His hands itched to examine her, to make sure that she was okay – that nothing more than bruised skin and a few cuts were there. But he didn't move, didn't attempt to. Her hands unbuttoned the flimsy shirt, and he stayed back as she shrugged out of it, letting it drop to the floor. Her skirt followed, and she peeled off the tattered opaque tights too.

"Remind me to burn them. I don't ever want to see those again," she broke the silence between them, looking over her shoulder at him. His eyes spoke volumes, the tamed anger; the caged animal obvious to her. But he hadn't uttered more than a couple of words since he had reached her, and she was losing herself in the silence.

"I'll take care of them," was all he managed to say, and she turned, facing him in only her underwear.

"Join me," she said; her voice steady as she held her head high. Couldn't he see that she needed the comfort he wasn't offering her? She ached for his hold, for a few meaningless words of comfort – for a gentle stroke over her hair. But he stood there, watching her as if he was waiting for her to break.

She was bruised, slightly battered – but she wouldn't break so easy.

Keeping her eyes on him, she took tentative steps forward, standing before him, close enough to see the doubt and fear that hid behind his guarded eyes. It was funny, how easy she could read him when she wasn't trying. She pulled the t-shirt over his head, letting it drop as she moved onto his pants.

He finally touched her, fingers gentle and soft as he trailed them over her forearms, shoulders and neck before he cupped her face and leaned in.

She closed her eyes, a lone tear escaping as he placed a kiss against her forehead.

Another side to Oliver, she thought as he kicked away his pants, how many sides could one person have?

He reached behind her, unhooking the simple bra. They moved over to the tub, and she pushed down her cotton panties as he lifted her slightly, allowing her to step into the gloriously hot water. She sighed, her body melting as she lowered herself down, eyes closing again.

"Wait."

She stopped, easing her eyes open to look at him. He stepped in, turning her so that her back was against his chest as he lowered them both down, his back against the tub as his hands pushed her knotted hair back from her face.

He couldn't stop the emotions from consuming him.

"I thought I would never reach you," he couldn't stop himself as he pulled her closer to him, "I thought I would never see you again. I've lived in hell itself, but it's nothing compared to what I felt in the last four days."

She didn't say anything – not that she would ever utter the right words. The tears she had been working to hold back fought against her flimsy control, the lump in her throat growing. His words had been the only thing on her mind in the last four days – and now she was back, all she wanted to do was stay by his side and never leave, ever again.

Her head dropped back as she felt the cold liquid of whatever shampoo it was against her hair, and her heart stumbled as his hands, so gentle, began to work through the mess that her blonde locks were.

"No one's ever washed my hair before. Then again, no one has ever had to save me from a big bad either. There's been many firsts with you, Oliver," she mumbled, her hands tracing absent patterns against his thighs.

"I doubt anyone's ever put you in danger like I have. Felicity," he started, combing his hands through the knotted hair to untangle it, "I – it's not easy for me to understand what I feel right now. I can't explain it, but I can't go through that again. You mean everything to me."

Was love supposed to feel like this? Her heart pounded in her ears as she turned around in his arms, eyes searching his. Was this what it felt like, to understand what love exactly is? The tears that had fallen silently still clung to her lashes, and he wanted to kiss them all away.

"That's all you need to say. I'll try keep away from danger. Pinky promise," she teased, leaning forward and pressing her lips against his. It was a kiss full off desperation, seeking familiarity – nothing about it was soft or gentle. She understood him perfectly; and wasn't that the beauty of the mess they had created?

"Let me look you over first. There's a first aid kit somewhere here."

"Later. Not now," she stopped him from making a move to leave the warm water.

His hands travelled up her sides, causing her breath to hitch. Her body craved his, shivering under his fingers.

Straddling him, she cupped his face.

"Help me forget first."

So he loved her, until the water turned cold and ran grey.

While she slept in his bed, under the thick covers, he stood by the window, looking out to the city that he had promised to save.

He loved her.

It was that simple, really. It wasn't complex or mind-boggling like it had been with Laurel near seven years ago. Nor were it complicated and a distant memory like it had been when he had come back. No, it was simple, straightforward. He didn't hide any of his faces from her. Felicity saw the real him, the one made up of many layers, many sides. She accepted him, stood by him, and helped him through everything.

Who else would've dived in, head first, like she had?

Looking over his shoulder, he stared at her sleeping form. The bruise on her cheekbone stood out against the creamy skin – the cut on her jaw was still an angry red. He had convinced her to let him look, to clean her wounds.

She had been reluctant, and he knew why.

"I don't like the look in your eyes when you look at them. They're not permanent, Oliver."

He doubted that he would be freed from the sight of her, battered and bruised, any time soon. Never had she been in such danger before. He had made sure of that, had tried to keep her away from both his identities. He had succeeded, until now.

He loved her. So completely, that he hadn't even realized until the thought of losing her had nearly driven him mad. How was he supposed to carry on the way he had, oblivious to it before, when he knew she would always been on his mind?

Looking away, he watched the night pass by slowly, listening to her steady breathing.

He only joined her side when she called out for him, gently, in her sleep.