A/N: Ok, so thanks to Devaue Fawkes, we are getting some of Felicity's back story with this chapter. I had a nice little idea of how I wanted everything to play out, then I was sitting in a corporate finance class one day, BORED OUT OF MY MIND, and this new idea took hold and I couldn't let it go. Some of the pieces aren't completely original and I seriously doubt it ends the way I imagine my story now ending in the show, but hey, that's why this is fanfiction, right? So, yes, I did change the direction of the story from where I thought it was originally headed, but I hope you enjoy!
Felicity sat up, reaching blindly for her glasses until she felt a sharp pull across her side. It solicited a quick gasp before she could stop herself. Without thinking, she gingerly removed her shirt, looking at the stitches down her side. There were less than fifteen stitches, the knife had only grazed her side, but it was slightly bruised and some blood was crusted around the wound.
She opened her bedroom door and made her way to her kitchen where she kept her first aid supplies. She started opening gauze and disinfectant wipes, humming to distract herself from the slight pain and the smell of the antibacterial spray.
When large hands covered hers she did the only rational thing a girl would do—when the girl assumed she had been alone in her locked apartment early in the morning—she twirled and called upon years of bad romance movies as she raised her knee into the intruder's groin.
"Felicity—" Oliver grunted out as he bent over, his breathing labored.
"Oh my god! Oliver!" Felicity shouted, not sure if she should be upset or pleased that Oliver Queen was in her apartment checking up on her after his ex-whatever-she-was launched a lethal weapon at her. He looked up at her and his eyes darkened and that was the moment she realized she didn't have a shirt on and, although a bra was similar to a bikini, she still felt naked.
"Felicity," he choked out again, trying to stand a little straighter. He looked at her and winced and she took the opportunity to ramble.
"Oliver! Why are you here? And I just—oh my—I just, uh—shouldn't you be more reactive to people attacking you or something? Or at least be wearing a cup? I mean you're the Arrow—people could attack you at any moment and you're in my apartment—" she emphasized, looking at him pointedly as he tried to focus his gaze on her face.
"Please go put a shirt on," he muttered as he nearly crawled towards the couch.
She looked at him for a moment, but then returned to her room and grabbed her favorite MIT zip up hoodie. It was easy to put on and bulky enough to hide the blush creeping up her chest.
"What are you doing here," she asked cautiously as she looked him over. He seemed to be doing better, his face returning to its normal color and he even gave her a small smile, so she assumed she was forgiven.
"I told you last night I would be coming back," his eyebrows scrunched together and she recalled wondering where he had gone.
"Oh," she said lamely, fidgeting with a thread on a blanket behind her couch. Most of the time, her brain was an endless stream of thoughts, around Oliver it was usually worse, except when he was looking at her the way he was looking at her right now.
"Felicity," he breathed, moving forward slightly.
"That's the third time you've said my name this morning," she stated matter-of-factly. "And yet you really haven't said anything," she looked at him, half willing him to say anything to break the deafening silence in her head and half wishing he would just let sleeping dogs lie.
"How could you possibly believe that I would leave you?" he looked at her pinning her with his gaze, and she recalled all of those million of moments ago when she had told him of his mother, of Thea. She considered everything that had happened since. Malcolm had come back and she knew that he would fight for Thea—fight Oliver for Thea. This Slade character, she didn't know a lot about him, but she knew enough about revenge. There was a saying that when one started a journey of vengeance, dig two graves—yes it would turn out bad for Slade, she had no doubt, but there was no way it would turn out good for Oliver. She could tell that night that he spoke of killing the man—the first time—that he cared for Slade, and Oliver was not the type of man to lose that connection easily.
"You can't promise that, Oliver," she stared right back, unwilling to back down.
"And yet you're the one sitting here wounded," he muttered, brushing his hand over her side. She shuffled away from him, still not sure why he was here. She trust Oliver unashamedly with her life; her heart was another matter, it has been crushed too often by too many.
"Oliver," she sighed, when he moved to interrupt she held up a finger, continuing. "Believe it or not, I'm familiar with people who think they can save the world. Trust me, they never win," she raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her. Instead, he questioned her, and that derailed her.
"What happened to your father?" he looked at her with his gray eyes and she froze. No one had asked her that question; no one had ever known enough to ask. For a moment she considered not sharing. How unfair was it for him to ask this of her when he was so secretive with his own past? Then she considered that perhaps, if she opened up, he would too.
"He wasn't a good man," she started. That was the most crucial part. It had taken nearly a decade to realize that—when you're a little girl, you're father is always a super hero. It wasn't until she was older that she decided otherwise. "To understand my father, you have to know my mother," she started. "She is—well, my mother," she reiterated her earlier sentiment. "She is one of the most kind and caring women—mothers—anyone could ask for," Felicity's voice broke as she thought about her mother. "But she's—delicate," she finished flatly.
"She's ill?" Oliver questioned, concern obvious in his voice.
"No, not ill," Felicity shook her head. "She's just a little scatterbrained after my brother—I had, he uh—I had a brother who died," she finished.
Anyone else would have apologized, but Oliver only took her hand, lightly tracing her knuckles, waiting for her to continue, and she was grateful.
"After his death, my father went a little mad," she explained. "I was so young that I don't really remember," she shut her eyes, remembering the fight that finally drove him away. "He had shouted that he would save us all and after that, I never saw him again," she sighed as Oliver's fingers stilled over hers.
"He just walked out on you," Oliver hadn't asked a question, it was a statement.
"That was what I had thought my whole life," she explained, looking at Oliver. "But then once I got into MIT I decided it was time to do some digging for myself. My mother never talked about him and I was curious—typical daddy issues," she shrugged, looking away and his grip only tightened around her hand. "His research papers—he was consumed with death, or avoiding it, I guess I should say. A month before he had left us, he had been fired from the university he had taught at—I guess it explains why my mother moved us here and took back her maiden name," she shrugged again, refusing to let old wounds reopen.
"It's just part of moving forward," he stated, pulling her closer. She thought that she caught the look of something in his eyes, but she let it go. She snuggled into his chest, giving into the moment. She took a deep breath, but winced as it pulled at her side.
"I should let you get cleaned up," he muttered into her hair. "I told Thea and Roy I would help them house hunt this weekend," he stated. Although she couldn't see his face, she could sense his eye roll.
"They're moving in together?"
"Hmph," he grumbled and it vibrated deep in his chest as he sat her upright. "I told her I would move out as well; apparently she thinks I'm not acting like an adult," she glanced up and his lips pouted out as he obviously recalled the conversation and despite the pain it caused, Felicity laughed.
"She has a point," she smirked. "Where are you looking?"
"I honestly think I'll just set up a place at the foundry; I spend most of my time at there anyway," he grumbled, grabbing his things.
Then Felicity Megan Smoak did something that even her rambling genius brain couldn't account for:
"You could stay here," her eyes grew as the words left her mouth and immediately Oliver's eyes met hers. "I mean, not like, move in with me, move in with me kind of thing, but I think that—" she followed him, mentally kicking herself, towards the door. "You know, I have a kitchen, although the foundry has a fully stocked wine cellar, so I might offer to trade you especially right now—"
"Felicity," Oliver stepped closer to her, close enough that she considered him to be invading her personal space, and placed a calloused finger over her moving lips. He stepped closer still, until the backs of her legs bumped the side table by the door.
"Oliver," she stuttered out, trying exceptionally hard not to focus on his lips. He took another step closer and placed one hand on either side of her hips, trapping her. The sound of a picture frame crashing on the table vaguely registered in her mind, but only slightly. Oliver reached to straighten it, and then he was straightening, his face guarded.
"Are those your parents?" he asked, obviously trying to sound conversational. Felicity tried to steady her breathing and answered.
"Yes," she stated, embarrassed by her labored breaths. "On their wedding day. Why? Oliver is something—"
"I need to go," he interrupted, brushing past her and planting a chaste kiss on her forehead as he went. "I don't want to be late with Thea; she's already upset with the tension between Moira and me…" he voice trailed off as he glanced back and Felicity tried to place the look on his face. She had seen Oliver Queen with many masks, but this one was new—and it scared her that it was in place specifically for her.
"Ok," she sighed, as he saw himself out of her apartment. As soon as the door closed, she slid down the wall, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. She had revealed too much, obviously. She had done something. Physical scars, like the ones Oliver wore, were easy to handle because they could be seen and dealt with; hers were deeper and much harder to place.
Why is it that people so often remember the abuse and so rarely the fondness of love? Because the mark of kisses fade; wounds, however, leave scars.
Oliver nearly sprinted from Felicity's apartment; he ran until his lungs might burst. He sat in his car, in her parking lot, and he thought about his confrontation with Sara. He had told her that she couldn't go back—that there was no returning to life before the island, before the shipwreck.
Then why the hell did life on the island keep inserting itself into a life he was desperately trying to move forward with?
He dialed Sara's number, knowing she would answer and hating himself that she was the one he had to talk to about his.
"Oliver, I'm glad you called. We—"
"Save it," he interrupted. "I know we need to talk," he sighed, knowing he shouldn't be quite so harsh on her; he had taken time to adjust as well. "But right now—" his voice broke and he could hear Sara gathering her things.
"What is it Oliver?" she questioned, ready for a fight.
"This isn't something we can fight," he stated.
"Then tell me what to do," Sara was too much like him—a fixer—when something was broken, wrong, or out of order, they mended it, made it better; Felicity was the one who accepted circumstances and adjusted accordingly.
"It's Felicity," he sighed. "Anthony Ivo was her father."
A/N2: Cliffhanger! Next chapter will be Oliver dealing with this realization and his conversation with Felicity. She already realized he was a bit of a mad scientist, but I think it's time she hears a bit of Oliver's past, since she shared hers - fair's fair and such! Please let me know what you think and thanks for all of the support!
