Chapter Eleven - I see faith in your eyes, never you hear the discouraging lies… (54 hours before the gala)

A/N: I've taken my research for the Bratva and tailored the organization to fit this story, specifically regarding the hierarchy and everyone's role within the brotherhood. Also, another reminder that I've infused a lot of darkness into Oliver's past, much more than what we've seen so far in canon, especially when it comes to the Bratva. I've taken what I've learned about them in RL and applied a lot of it to Oliver, so this is a warning that his past is ugly, and we'll be seeing much more of that as the story goes on.

As always, thank you so much for the amazing response to this fic, specifically about how Oliver and Felicity are moving forward. It's really important to me that this fic is as close to canon as I can possibly make - as much as I can considering it's fanfiction, that is - which means I'm essentially shoveling certain aspects of two seasons worth of character/relationship development into the space of a few days. (It will be so worth it.) Thank you for the great feedback!

Forever grateful to Margaret (teawhovian/TeaWithLemon) for her beta work and support. She does so much to help me with this story, I'd be lost without her.


Oliver couldn't remember the last time he'd been on time for so many meetings in a row.

He saw it in the faces of his employees when he breezed into the room a few minutes before each meeting started, the way their jaws dropped, their eyes widening, their surprise growing as he got through each meeting quickly and efficiently, moving them along even quicker if the meeting didn't require Felicity's presence with him.

He was quickly discovering he didn't like not being able to see Felicity at all times.

When she stepped away to run an errand in the building or when she and Diggle stepped outside for coffee, or when she went to the bathroom and took longer than just a few minutes, his agitation levels skyrocketed. The longer he was away from her, the tighter his skin started feeling, making him even antsier than he already was. His thumb absently picked at the new bandages over the cuts on his fingers as he stared at the entrance to the elevator bank, waiting while white noise slowly filled his ears, drowning out whoever he was meeting with… but then he'd see her, or she'd poke her head into the conference room, or he'd catch a hint of her perfume, telling him she'd been close by just a few minutes earlier, and he'd instantly feel better, his chest loosening enough for him to breathe again.

The second she disappeared off his radar again, it started all over.

It was hard to remember a time when he'd been perfectly at ease with her doing whatever she did, at her own pace. She got to work on her own, took her own lunches, took breaks, took walks, did a multitude of things that didn't require his presence in the least, and that was just during the day. When five o'clock rolled around, she usually headed to the foundry on her own, and if she didn't - if the Arrow wasn't going out that night or nothing was on the vigilante schedule - all it took was a simple, "See you tomorrow morning," and that was the end of it.

But now the idea of that left him feeling like he'd eaten bricks.

Oliver's eyes found her again where she sat at her desk, the sunlight shining into the open space behind her making her glow.

He'd had an eight o'clock that morning with Thea and his mother's attorney but he'd begged off in favor of riding into the office with Felicity and Diggle. He hadn't mentioned it because he knew not only would Felicity force him to go, but she'd roll her eyes and give him an earful about how ridiculous he was being, that he needed to be with his family first and foremost, and that nothing would happen in the hour it took him to meet with them.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, she'd have a point and that was exactly why he didn't say anything.

Moira Queen's trial for her part in what'd happened in the Glades was coming up, and it wasn't just her they'd be wanting to hear from, but Oliver and Thea as well.

He knew that…

But he didn't want to leave Felicity's side, not if he could help it. It'd stopped being a conscious urge a while ago, now it was a need, and Felicity would see right through it, which meant he'd end up going despite the fact that he'd spend the entire time with his foot bouncing under the table, barely hearing a word, unable to keep his mind away from the gala, from the Russians, from wondering if someone was watching Felicity right then, checking his phone every fifteen seconds to see if Anatoly was calling him back, knowing he was also half-expecting a call from Diggle telling him someone had snatched her up.

He knew it was ridiculous, that he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

And he could just hear Thea's caustic comments about how he looked - "Not getting any sleep, big brother?" - especially after her assumptions about his trip to Russia with Felicity in the first place.

He didn't have the energy to field his sister and the Russian Mafia.

Oliver knew he looked like shit; he'd barely recognized himself in the mirror that morning.

Felicity hadn't been wrong when she'd asked him if he'd gotten any sleep last night, because he hadn't. It was partly because the second he closed his eyes it was taking less and less time for him to fall back into the black hole of his past, waking a mere twenty minutes later with the sticky memory of blood on his hands and frightened screams in his ears, but also because he'd felt the undeniable urge to make sure Felicity was okay.

Oliver had checked on her every half hour, needing to see she was still there, still breathing, that she was alright, before all his pacing around the foundry had finally driven him out into the night where he'd run for hours until the vicious burn in his muscles couldn't be ignored, only to come back to the startling sound of pained grunts and something being hit.

The bolt of panic that'd shot through him had him practically throwing himself down the stairs, dozens of scenarios running through his head as his tired mind tried to make sense of what he was hearing, guilt hot on the trail of the fear searing through his gut that he'd left her alone…

But it'd just been Felicity punching a training dummy, making frustrated noises with each hit.

The relief had been staggering - she was okay, she wasn't hurt, nobody was there, she was alright - and he'd taken a second, gripping the railing of the stairs as he took her in, reveling in how much life she exuded, how much light, watching the flex of her legs and shoulders as she'd rocked awkwardly in place, hitting the dummy with barely any force.

Oliver knew what she was doing because it was the same thing he'd been doing, ever since he'd seen her name in that folder.

So… he'd helped her.

Oliver's palms itched at the memory of touching her. His mind had automatically documented every single thing from the fuzzy sweater she wore to how small she was in his hands to the way she felt when she took a breath to the soft scent of the foundry and his soap on her skin.

He'd spun her around, directing her, not missing how her breath caught when he'd gripped her waist, the breathy gasp when he'd spread his hand over her abdomen, her muscles twitching under his fingers as he'd fixed her posture… it'd felt so natural, so right, and he hadn't taken a second to question what he'd been doing, to realize what he'd been doing. Instead, he'd let himself linger - let himself feel how warm she was, how she vibrated with energy, how the scent of his shampoo in her hair made him feel strangely lighter.

Something dangerous had unfurled in his chest, the longer he held her like that, something that made him clutch her a little tighter.

There were boundaries, unspoken boundaries they didn't cross. He'd been tired, worn to the bone with exhaustion, his mind still spinning at a hundred and ten miles per hour - he hadn't been thinking. It was a comfort level between them, but it was one they'd never explored… but it wasn't supposed to be explored, not with her.

And yet he'd touched her like he had the right to, responding to her reactions - her skin warming, her breathing growing shallow, her movements unsteady and unsure, not knowing what he was doing.

He'd heard what she said about getting horizontal as a way to expend energy, and it was such a perfectly Felicity thing to say - he knew what she was saying, he knew she was feeling the same thing as he was, the same need for release - but the way it'd come out… he hadn't even blinked, because it was Felicity.

But then…

"Are you in the Russian mob?"

The rush of white noise that'd slammed into him was still overwhelming. Why had he been so surprised? She herself said it was an obvious assumption, because it was, but the things that came with telling her… he knew the consequences of it, of showing her that side of himself, and he just couldn't, not to her.

But she hadn't given up.

"You're the man who makes me feel safe."

She'd said it like it was a simple fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, leaving him feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room. The complete and total trust shining in her eyes had rendered him speechless, and even more secure in his decision to not tell her a single thing past what she needed to know - the last thing he ever wanted to do was give her a reason to find a fault in her trust in him.

Her damn logic wasn't helping anything - he was more aware than any of them what the Bratva were capable of, what would happen when they got their new operation up and running, but he just didn't care, and that was the problem. He knew it was a problem, one that she was continually pointing out to him - he didn't care, and he wouldn't, not until he knew she was safe.

And she'd be the complete opposite of that at the gala.

"And I know the gala is still a hot issue…"

It wasn't even an issue as far as he was concerned, but he knew she wasn't going to relent.

He loved that about her as much as he hated it.

When Diggle had arrived, Felicity had still been getting dressed, leaving them out in the main area of the foundry.

Oliver tried to avoid what he saw as the wheels in Diggle's head turned - he was far too observant; it was usually an asset, but at the moment it was a damn annoyance, and he'd ended up talking about everything but what he saw shining in Diggle's eyes for as long as he could.

"Did you reach out to Lyla about…?" Oliver asked.

"Yeah," Diggle said, nodding. "She's on it. Said she'd call me if she found something."

"Good."

Silence.

"Did we get that carton of new hooks?"

"Yeah, I put them in the corner over there. Haven't checked them out yet."

"They're a new design, supposed to be better with grappling."

"Mm."

Silence.

Diggle sighed.

"You gonna tell her?" he asked.

Oliver closed his eyes.

Tell Felicity that they were looking into the crap story about her mother and a psychic behind her back? Oliver didn't know Donna Smoak, he didn't know if the concrete belief in Felicity's eyes was completely biased or if that was how her mother really was, he just didn't know.

What he did know what that he wasn't willing to take any chances, not when it came to her.

Oliver didn't answer - because he didn't have an answer - and Diggle just nodded, like he'd already known.

Seeing the folder last night hadn't just changed things for Felicity, it had for Diggle too.

Another moment of silence passed, both of them listening to the sound of her finishing up in the bathroom, the zip of her makeup bag, the sound of hairspray he didn't remember seeing her grab, the whoosh of her pulling clothes out of her overnight bag.

"You look like shit."

Oliver didn't have the energy to disagree or even pretend to be affronted where he stood leaning against Felicity's desk, his shoulders slumped, wrinkling the hell out of his suit.

"I know."

"You look like shit, but not as shitty," Diggle amended before cocking his head. "You two talk some more?"

Oliver sighed with a, "You could say that," just as the other third of their team joined them, tugging her suit jacket on.

Felicity pulled her long ponytail out of the collar, her eyes on Diggle. "So, do you know what exactly a 'high-ranking member' of the… uh… Solntsevskaya Bratva…?"

Oliver winced at her pronunciation with a dark frown. He wanted to stop her just as much as he just wanted to get it over with, knowing exactly what questions would be following when Diggle heard what he'd told her.

"… Or however the heck you say that," Felicity continued, stopping before them, the question aimed at Diggle. "Did you know about that?"

Diggle stared at her uncomprehendingly. "High-ranking member…?" His eyes flew back to Oliver and he pointed at him. "You?"

Oliver just blinked at him.

"So you didn't know that Oliver is part of the Russian mob, and apparently a 'high-ranking member'?" Felicity asked.

Oliver knew she was just asking a question, that she was curious, that he'd told her more than he'd ever intended and that it hadn't been enough - her tone was congenial, but he still took it as an attack. Oliver stood up, straightening his shoulders like he was getting ready to face a firing squad.

"I did not know that," Diggle said, and they both looked at him. "High-ranking member? What does that mean exactly?"

Oliver stared at them for a beat, unable to escape the feeling that the can of worms he'd been trying to keep under lock and key kept slipping further and further open. He wanted to say it wasn't important, that it didn't matter, that the less they knew, the less danger they were in, but he knew the second those words came out, it'd definitely be like standing in front of a firing squad.

"It means," he finally said. "That I'm a Kapitan. A Captain. I have been for the last three years."

"And that means…" Diggle said as Felicity asked, "Three years?"

"It means I hold weight in the Bratva," Oliver replied vaguely, his eyes sliding to Diggle. "You remember Anatoly?"

"Yeah," Diggle said slowly. "The man who helped us get Lyla out of that gulag."

"He's the leader of the largest faction within the organization," Oliver said, and Diggle's eyes widened in surprise. "And he answers directly to the Pakhan, who is, for lack of a better term, the head of the entire brotherhood."

"Wait," Felicity said. "Are you talking about that sweet guy from the jail? That guy? That guy is the leader of the Bratva?"

"He's a Vory," Oliver said by way of explanation and the look Felicity shot him told him that meant absolutely nothing to her. "It doesn't matter what his rank is, just know he's one of the most dangerous men in the Bratva."

"But he… he was so nice," Felicity said, shaking her head. "He gave me a flower."

Oliver furrowed his brow, not remembering that, but it sounded like something Anatoly would do, keeping flowers on his person for beautiful women. That was what made Anatoly so dangerous - he came off as one of the sweetest and gentlest people you'd probably ever meet in your life, but if you crossed him or did anything that displeased him, you'd see exactly why he was one of the most powerful leaders within the Solntsevskaya Bratva.

"So he's the… Vory?"

A ghost of a smile cracked his lips at her butchered pronunciation. "Yeah."

"And you worked with him?"

"We met on Lian Yu." Felicity's eyes widened incredulously and Oliver shook his head. "It's a long story, and it's an even longer one how I got to Russia in the first place, but he took me into the organization, gave me a place. That's how I got in."

"But isn't the Russian mob sort of, you know, for Russians only?" Felicity asked.

"When a Vory in the Solntsevskaya Bratva tells you to jump, the only thing you need to ask is 'how high'," Oliver said.

"What does that even mean?" Felicity asked, but Diggle nodded.

"He says you're in, that means you're in," the man said and Oliver nodded. "That explains a lot."

"It's how we got into the gulag and it's how we have an in at the gala."

"Okay, so…" Felicity said, her brow furrowed. "If you're a captain of this Russian ship, why can't you just order everyone to get out of Starling City? Snap your Captain fingers and say, 'Hey, that's not allowed here'?"

A sad smirk lit his face. "That's not exactly how it works."

"That tells us a whole lot," Felicity replied.

She'd pressed for more, but Oliver had stopped there.

He hadn't wanted to explain any more than he already had; they were already painfully aware of how very cutthroat the Bratva could be, and it was obvious enough that it wasn't just your physical life in danger but the ethical grounds you based it on. Once upon a time, Oliver had thought the fact that he was afforded a lot of leeway and connections made up for it, but that assumption was losing more and more weight as time went on.

His relationship with the Bratva was valuable, yes, valuable enough that he wasn't revisiting Alexi to threaten more information out of him with an arrow or his bare fist, but that didn't make up for what he'd had to give up during his active course in the brotherhood.

"Because you won't tell me, Oliver…"

He'd never tell her - any of it - not if he could avoid it.

The warehouse in Kaliningrad flashed through his mind. The rusted Cyrillic letters on the side of the building, the creak and groan of the boats hitting the docks echoing the ropes swinging from the ceiling, the steady drip of blood falling from the large hooks hanging at the ends where…

Swallowing the bile that always came with that memory, Oliver pushed it away, forcing himself back to the present.

He was in his office, on a conference call with… someone.

He glanced at the clock, groaning internally.

It'd only been seven minutes.

Felicity was still at her desk, chatting with Diggle where he stood near the elevators.

The steady drone of the conference he was on continued in the background, people talking about something from some department about some important thing for some future date… he wasn't quite sure.

He was more interested in watching Felicity, in the way he just had to look at her and for a split second, all the bad was washed away.

She'd fallen asleep a few minutes after they'd gotten in the car after leaving her apartment last night. She hadn't woken when they'd gotten to the foundry, or when he'd come around to her side and gently picked her up, carrying her inside and down the stairs, straight to the cot. She needed the rest, and he couldn't blame her body for giving into the exhaustion he'd been watching her flirt with for far too long. He was used to it, used to battling his body's need for sleep, but she wasn't, and he didn't want her to get used to it.

He'd managed to get her jacket off her, setting her panda flats on the floor, gently pulling her glasses off before covering her in the blanket, thinking not for the first time that he wished she'd just agree to go to the mansion. She'd be warmer there, more comfortable, a hundred times better compared to the cot he'd bought specifically because it was simple and easy for him.

It wasn't meant for her.

She'd barely reacted to anything, her breathing remaining deep and steady.

He was grateful she'd gotten some rest; the difference in her demeanor from the day before was stark. There was a new lightness about her, in her movements, in everything she did, and he knew it was probably more because they'd finally talked than anything, but the sleep had helped.

That brightness he always associated with her was back, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from her.

Oliver felt like he'd been starved for sunlight and was finally getting a taste of it again after being lost in the shadows for far too long.

There was so much to do, so much they had to figure out, but for this second, he was content to just watch her, to know she was safe, to let himself revel in the fact that when she looked at him now, it was like it had been before all the Bratva crap had come up.

It was amazing how much better that alone made him feel.

Oliver felt the tug of sleep, and he shifted in his chair, pushing it back down. His body craved rest, but every time he closed his eyes…

He sighed, rubbing his forehead before settling again.

He'd thought he'd had issues with sleeping before - he'd been so very, very wrong, and judging by the looks both Diggle and Felicity shot him, he looked as shitty as he felt.

As he tried to pay attention to what was happening on his phone, his eyes invariably found Felicity again.

"Oliver, are you listening?"

Oliver jerked, his eyes flying back to the phone.

"Yes, sorry," he said, trying to remember the last thing he'd heard. His mind came up blank and he frowned, rubbing his eyes. "We're just having a, uh… a little mini-crisis here."

He could feel Isabel's disapproving judgment through the phone.

Oliver winced. He was catching maybe every fifth word or so, but the second he heard what was being talked about, it disappeared in the same second. It didn't help that it was significantly easier to not pay attention without her standing over his desk, glaring at him as he failed to have knowledge about the holdings in Manhattan, and the plan the Board had presented to him three weeks ago.

It also didn't help that she'd decided last minute to fly out to the meeting instead, which meant she was taking every opportunity to subvert him, and it really didn't help that he was basically handing it to her on a silver platter.

"Mr. Queen, if you would look at…"

Isabel. "I actually have that right here, and I think we should talk about the third quarter…"

"I think this is something that Queen Consolidated would benefit from, Mr. Queen…"

Isabel. "I completely agree, although if you at this section here, we should address the potential downslope we'd see…"

Oliver rubbed his forehead, trying to keep up, but failing miserably.

He didn't care about money and budgets and quarters and goals, it was all bullshit, bullshit he didn't have time for, and while Isabel was more than proving her capacity for being the cattiest person on the planet, he had to admit to himself that it'd be so much easier if he left this sort of stuff for her to handle.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, the urge to tell them he didn't have time for this menial crap, but he stopped himself. Because Oliver Queen, CEO of Queen Consolidated, wasn't supposed to know about the Russian mob, much less worry about what they were doing in Starling City, nor was he supposed to know anything but the basics about what his executive assistant did outside these glass walls. No, what he was supposed to know was the ins and outs of his company, including money, budgets, quarters and goals…

But he just didn't care.

As Isabel redirected the conversation again, Oliver hit the mute button and scrubbed his face until he felt a little more alert.

This was such a damn waste of time.

With a heavy sigh, Oliver dropped his hands, his eyes catching on Felicity for a long second before he caught movement out the corner of his eye. He glanced over to Diggle watching him with a raised eyebrow and what looked like amusement.

Narrowing his eyes in annoyance at what he saw on his face and the drone on his office phone, Oliver reached for his cell, clicking it on.

A trundle of emails and alerts from the newsfeeds Felicity had set up waited for him - "You're the CEO, you have to at least act like it. Answer an email every once in a while, respond to a call. At least pretend, Oliver…" - and no phone calls, at least the phone calls he cared about.

He'd been trading calls with Anatoly since that morning, when Felicity had gotten into the shower. He'd been avoiding calling his old friend because he didn't want to put him out more than he already had after all the help he'd given them in Russia. He knew Anatoly would scoff at that - "I owe you my life, Oliver, that is worth a lifetime of whatever you need" - and demand to know what was going on, but all the same, Oliver wanted to keep his life in Russia as separate from his world in Starling City as much as he could.

But the deeper this got, the more Oliver saw how deep Felicity was, the more he needed answers. He wanted to know who the men were outside Felicity's apartment, who'd sent them and to also inform Anatoly that Oliver had rendered them more or less incapable of anything but breathing for the time being, and to ask him if he knew anything about anyone looking to acquire Felicity.

Oliver glanced at the clock - it was after 1 a.m. in Moscow, which meant Anatoly was definitely still awake, but probably busy, which he understood, but damn it, he was getting restless.

Where with Alexi Oliver felt like he had to walk on eggshells, he knew he could speak with Anatoly freely, and he sorely needed that. He needed to talk with someone he trusted implicitly, someone who could get him answers, someone who didn't look at him like he was searching for a way to take advantage of him in return.

Anatoly didn't know everything about Oliver and what he'd been up to since leaving Russia, just as Oliver didn't know everything about what his friend had been up to, but none of that mattered because Oliver knew at the end of the day, Anatoly would make sure the brotherhood was at his beck and call. He'd done it before, and he would do it again, just as Oliver would do the same for him, further cementing that saving the Russian's life on Lian Yu had been one of the smartest things Oliver had ever done on that island. The trip to Moscow last week was proof of that, although he would have to mention Anatoly's inclination towards talking about him with other people, but that was just who he was. The man loved to talk, especially about the months Oliver had been active in the Bratva - it reflected well on him, the man who'd brought such a valuable asset into the fold.

Oliver knew if he asked for discretion, he'd get it.

He just needed to talk to him first.

His eyes found Felicity again, and just as it had before, seeing her, watching the light furrow in her brow as she worked - he knew she wasn't working on anything QC-related - it centered him.

Just looking at her made it easier to breathe.

When he'd touched her the night before, it'd been just as much for him as it had been for her. He'd needed to know that she was still there, that while she was in a place that'd been tainted by intruders, she was alright, that he could reach out and touch her and it wouldn't just be part of his imagination or a bad dream.

She'd looked so small where she'd stood in her bathroom, so vulnerable, and he'd wanted nothing more than to wrap her up forever, to erase that look on her face, to make her see that he would never let anything happen to her… and she'd let him. He'd kissed her forehead, holding her closer when she'd leaned into him, breathing him in…

That same dangerous something from that morning filled his chest again, and Oliver's lung tightened, his heart picking up.

Felicity glanced over as if she could feel his eyes on her, and she offered him a small smile before looking pointedly at his phone, her eyes asking, 'Are you paying attention?'

He nodded, and the look she gave him said she wasn't convinced.

Despite himself, his heart skipped a beat and he ducked his head, shaking it slightly - at himself. He'd felt the same thing when he'd seen her that morning, no longer wearing her skirt, having changed into her plaid pajama bottoms and that static-y sweater that collected her hair like crazy.

Once the panic had passed, he'd watched her, his gut tightening for a reason he couldn't name.

It'd happened again when she and Diggle had gone to get coffee and lunch, their fingers brushing when she'd handed him his cup, a little jolt of electricity zapping between them, one that'd made them both pause before she pulled away.

Oliver closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead.

What was he even thinking?

A ding from his computer caught his attention and Oliver glanced at the monitor.

It was an instant message from Felicity, a link.

His eyes flew to hers and found her watching him, her entire demeanor changed. Worry radiated from every line in her body as she bit her lower lip. Oliver frowned and she nodded to his computer.

Oliver clicked the link open.

It was a report from that morning, the headline reading, 'Chaos Still Reigning in the Glades,' and underneath it were photos of three young women.

Oliver's stomach dropped, knowing what'd happened without having to read it.

Missing.

The large block letters dominated the bottom of the page.

He skimmed over the details - one had been on her way home from work, last seen cutting through an alley. Another had been taken right from her car, and the third had gone for a job interview, the last anyone had heard from her.

The job interview had been for a waitressing job at a new club called Ember.

"Damn it," Oliver whispered, a rush of bile flooding his stomach as he stared at the three images of the girls, feeling an ugly rush of déjà vu. He made a tight fist with his left hand, the sting in his cuts doing nothing to keep him in the present.

It was already happening.

Oliver had only been active in that particular 'trade' on behalf of the Bratva for three months before what he was doing started sinking in further than skip deep. The glamour of being a member of the Bratva had more than taken over once he'd been accepted into the fold, and it'd been easy to play the role, to inhabit that world, to feel the power and connections he had at his fingertips, to be okay with the excuses he made, over and over, when he saw something questionable.

It'd been so easy at first: people paid for sex with gorgeous women. The women were there, they were warm, willing and able, and people gave him a pretty penny for that right.

Oliver had even partaken of some of the 'goods' himself. He heard from them and from his men that the girls liked being with him, and he did a pathetically admirable job of letting that cloud his judgment, of assuming he was just good in bed, of not realizing it was because he didn't hurt them.

He turned a blind eye to how skittish the women were around most of the clients, of how rarely they met anyone's eyes, how one had tears in hers every time she finished with someone, how one always threw up after she was done with a certain client… but as time went on, it didn't take him long to notice what the glamour hid - the new scars that appeared on a weekly basis, the hollow cheekbones, the slowly-growing vacancy in their eyes, the fine difference between muffled shouts of pleasure and shouts of pain.

He found a girl slouched in the bathtub with pills she'd stolen from one of the clients, and another overdosed during a session with three men, fresh needle holes in her arms and innocent looks on their faces when Oliver demanded to know what'd happened.

One girl didn't show up for work one day, another had her face so badly mangled by one of the customers that she'd had to be rushed to the hospital… except that's not where she'd been taken her. She'd only gotten as far as the alley behind the club, something Oliver only discovered when he'd gotten his Mercedes back that night and had seen the rusty stains smeared in the trunk.

He'd closed it with a finality that he'd hammered into the men who'd done it.

Oliver thought it'd been a one-time thing, a misstep, a mishap…

He'd been wrong, so wrong.

When another customer complained about the crooked fingers on one of the girls' hands, the man had simply taken out his knife and removed them. Her screams had brought the entire house to the room and the man had just smirked, saying he'd 'fixed' her before handing Oliver the bloody digits.

It didn't take him long to realize that it wasn't exactly unheard of for the girls to come in to some of the houses and to never been seen again, for some to leave at the end of a shift only to never return.

Oliver went to great lengths to ensure that never happened under him - he started banning the men who abused the girls under his roof, and he kept the house stocked with clothes and food, learning how to very carefully walk the line between being a Kapitan with an investment in the girls and how they spent their time with whom, and being someone who was discovering he was still human, somewhere deep inside, that there were still levels even he wouldn't sink to.

He'd ordered his men to keep the house clean, to keep the girls fed properly, to take care of them, to get doctors in to avoid the festering infections and new wounds that were somehow inevitable.

He'd thought he'd been helping, making their lives better, but he'd been so wrong.

He'd been so blind, so naïve.

The reality of the life he'd been leading finally hit him when he'd seen a Missing Person poster in the storefront of a bakery.

The poster called the woman Antonia but Oliver knew her as Valeriya, and he knew that the week before someone had shoved a lit cigar against her collarbone, and that she had vicious scars all along her shins from a woman who'd worn a belt made of heavy leather braided around a thick metal chain.

Oliver had stopped the second he'd seen it, his stomach dropping, but his krysha, Matvei, hadn't missed a beat. He'd strode into the bakery and before Oliver could so much as blink, he'd ripped the poster down, threatening the owners in a low, gritty voice what would happen if they put any more posters up like that.

When Oliver had asked Matvei what he was doing, he'd been met with a stony look, one that had slowly morphed into a low simmer of annoyance and rage as Oliver started enforcing more rules about how the girls were to be treated.

It'd helped assuage the guilt that had been building in the back of his mind, but it hadn't been enough.

Whatever brand of humanity he'd settled for after everything that happened in Hong Kong, on Lian Yu, it let him believe that it was enough, and for a while it'd worked.

Until it hadn't.

Until he couldn't do it anymore, until he'd initiated what had pushed him out of Russia, until it brought darkness to the girls he'd stowed in that warehouse.

Antonia had been one of those girls.

"Damn it," Oliver whispered again, staring at the photos of three women.

His eyes flickered back to Felicity where she sat at her desk.

Her eyes were still on him, her brow knit with worry…

And resolve.

Oliver's stomach churned even more and he tore his eyes away, shutting his browser down, forcing himself to listen to the conference call, ignoring her gaze burning into him.


He was running.

His lungs burned, his muscles knotting with exertion.

The jungle was thick, barely letting any moonlight through.

He stumbled over fallen logs and rocks, feet slapping through shallow pools of water.

Branches slapped his face, leaving stinging scratches in their wake, dirt edging into his eyes, dead plants catching on the edges of his cracked lips.

He was on the island, but this wasn't a memory - he was in full Arrow gear, his bow clutched painfully tight in his hand, his leathers sticking to him in the humid air; it was layered over the fear and horror pulsing through his chest like an atom bomb.

His breathing matched the rush of blood in his ears, the sharp slap of the foliage following him as he pushed through mile after mile, the sounds morphing into a morbid thrum that echoed in his head.

He could still hear her though, through the violent hum, he could still hear her whimpers, her soft moans of pain.

She whispered his name, hopeless suffering lacing every syllable.

There was an angry grunt of agony - Diggle - and then the cocking of a gun.

No!

He had to get to them, that was all that mattered. If he couldn't find them, if he couldn't save them…

No…

The island slowly melted into a city landscape.

Trees turned into buildings and lampposts, the moonlight became dull lights left on in windows. He was no longer holding his bow. It'd become the M1911 Anatoly had gifted him, a nod to his heritage, the one with the ivory handle and special nickel-plated engravings designating his new rank.

His fist was wrapped around the gun - his gun - and the handle was slick with sweat and blood spatter.

A cheap, crinkled suit replaced his leathers.

He ran.

"Oliver?"

Something soft brushed his forehead and he cringed away from it.

Fallen logs turned into trash left to blow through the streets, snagging on rough concrete. Cars crowded the road, honking horns fill the air, people moving around in thick droves.

Oliver shoved his way through the crowds, loud shouts following him in foreign tongues, but he didn't stop, he didn't care. He only had eyes for the warehouse, knowing that was where he'd find them.

He'd been there before, he'd been in that warehouse before, a long time ago, a very long time ago, but something was different.

Something had changed.

He'd been running then too.

The skin on his chest burned with the heat of the new tattoo he'd gotten a handful of hours earlier, still bleeding in some spots and stinging sharply in the sweat coating his skin.

He'd been running so hard, for so long…

Russia.

He was back in Russia.

No.

Flashes of blood-laced blonde hair flickered through his mind…

Digg's swollen jaw, blooded from a heavy blow to the face.

A thick scratch on the bridge of her nose, where her glasses had shattered when they'd hit her.

His friend's dark eyes, glassy with death, staring up at him where they'd left his body, the bullet lodged behind his left ear.

Her shouts of pain, a dribble of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth as they hit her.

"No!"

The scream ripped from his throat as he shoved through the double doors of the warehouse, the metal slamming against the walls from the brute force…

He was too late.

"Oliver?"

A hand landed on his shoulder; the touch burned him.

Oliver jerked away, but it didn't stop, it didn't go away, it kept touching him.

He reached up, grabbing it before it could hurt him anymore.

Diggle was on the ground, hands tied tight behind his back, one arm mangled from being broken, the other coated in cooling blood.

He stared up at Oliver with lifeless eyes, a pool of red wrapping around him like a morbid crown.

And Felicity…

"Oh god, no…"

She hung in the center of the large room, dangling from the thick rope, her clothes in tatters, skin bloodied with bruises and cuts, her neck angled the wrong way, just like theirs had been, just like their bodies when he'd…

"Oliver!"

The sound of his name ripped him from the dream and Oliver woke with a strangled gasp.

The sight of the dead was still in his mind's eye - his partners, his team, dead because of him - and he jerked up in his office chair, shoving himself backwards, trying to get away from where she hung, swinging like a lifeless marionette doll above Diggle's dead body.

The chair rolled until he slammed into the credenza against his wall, jolting him back to the present again.

Oliver blinked.

He was in his office.

In Starling City.

And she wasn't dead.

Felicity sat perched on the edge of his desk, watching him with wide eyes, her hand hovering in the air between, like she wanted to touch him but was afraid to.

Oliver blinked rapidly, seeing her as he had in the dream - a vicious gash across her face, another on her forehead, blood soaking through her blonde hair, down her neck… and then he saw her again.

Alive.

Blissfully alive.

Relief bowled him over and Oliver had to fight to keep from launching himself at her, from wrapping his arms around her, making sure she was there, that she wasn't hanging from a ceiling in some cold Russian warehouse…

Like they had been.

But she was here.

Alive.

It'd felt so real.

Oliver's arms physically ached to feel her, but instead he closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath, no longer smelling boat exhaust, or the stringent smell of the alleys in Russia, or the sharp stab of blood.

Starling City.

He was home.

Oliver took a deeper breath, the air pushing his lungs past their capacity, oxygen stinging its way down his airway before he finally felt his chest relaxing as the dream stayed as just that: a dream.

Felicity leaned towards him, concern coloring the delicate lines of her face. "Oliver?"

He blinked again, staring at her.

She was…

"Oliver," she repeated, leaning closer to him.

"Yeah," he breathed, sitting up, finally feeling the chair underneath him, the solid floor, the room.

Oliver glanced outside; the sun was setting, casting the city in dusky oranges and pinks.

His eyes found her again, his mind trying to catch up with how it'd been so sunny just a second ago but now it was dark.

And then he saw her, and he frowned when he saw how close she was.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, rolling his chair back towards his desk, his eyes skating over her.

"What?" Felicity frowned. "No. You were dreaming."

Oliver frowned, his mind still struggling to break through the fog of the nightmare, but he did remember vividly the last time he'd been woken up from a nightmare. He'd gone to great lengths to keep himself from going that deep when others were around, and for him to do it here, at his office, where Felicity or Diggle were within range… it was careless.

Reckless.

His voice was rough and uneven as he said, "The last time someone woke me up from a dream, I almost killed them."

Felicity's eyes widened. "Oh. Well… that didn't happen."

Oliver rubbed his eyes, waking up more fully. The dream slowly faded from his mind, but the sick feeling didn't. It echoed in his gut, making him feel like the half sandwich he'd choked down for lunch was going to climb its way back up his gullet.

"You let me fall asleep," he said, rubbing his eyes until he saw stars.

"Yeah…"

"Why?" he asked, turning hard eyes on her.

Felicity sat up, raising an eyebrow at his tone.

"Because you looked like you were going to collapse," she replied. "And because you obviously needed it. You fell asleep during the conference call."

"Oh god," Oliver groaned, rubbing his hand back down his face. "Isabel?"

"Has been calling almost non-stop," Felicity filled in and Oliver groaned a quiet, "Shit," but she didn't miss a beat. "I told her it was an issue with the phones, that you tried to get through, but it wasn't connecting."

"And she bought that?"

"Not exactly," Felicity said with a mordant smile. "But she wasn't here to say otherwise."

"Damn it," Oliver sighed, covering his face again before looking at her. "Thank you. For covering."

"As petty as it sounds, I'm not above admitting I sort of like pushing her buttons, so… benefits all around," Felicity said.

A tired smile graced his lips before it disappeared.

She didn't move as she studied him and Oliver felt her gaze on him like an actual physical touch.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm…"

"If you say the word fine, Oliver, I will hit you with this stapler."

The smile that graced his lips this time was completely involuntary. He looked up at her, nodding. "I'm alright." She raised her eyebrows and he leaned forward with emphasis, really meaning it this time as he repeated, "I'm alright."

And he was.

Despite the thrum of adrenaline still rocking through him, he felt a little better, more rested. Judging by the sky outside, he'd gotten at least four hours of sleep. It was more than he'd gotten in one sitting in the last several days.

Oliver opened his mouth to say that very thing when he caught sight of her arm, and any ounce of good he'd been feeling instantly drained away.

There was an angry red blotch wrapped around her wrist.

"What…" He reached out to touch her before he caught himself. He made a fist instead, his eyes never leaving the spot as he quietly asked, "Did I do that?"

Felicity looked down, twisting her wrist nonchalantly, like it happened every other day. "I tried the ol' shake-you-awake thing, but you didn't like that."

"So I did hurt you," Oliver said, moving to get up but Felicity's hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him.

"You were having a nightmare," she said. He leaned away from her touch and she took her hand back with a patient sigh. "It's no wonder you aren't getting any sleep."

"I'm fine," Oliver replied, and he missed the aggravation deepening the blue of her eyes as he rubbed his face with both hands, scrubbing them up and over his head.

"The swimming pools under your eyes say differently," Felicity said.

Oliver leveled her with a hard look because she didn't look that much better, full night of sleep or not. She'd fallen asleep from pure exhaustion, and he knew from experience how little actual rest could be involved in that, especially when faced with the possibility of many more restless nights. It didn't help that the day had only gotten longer when that report from Glades had come in. Her eyes weren't as strained, but he could see the lack of rest and everything that had been happening starting to take their toll again.

"Hey, avert those judge-y eyes, mister," Felicity said. "I know I'm one to talk, but mine are from staring at a computer screen twenty-four-seven, not from terrifying nightmares. Well, not all of them."

Oliver's brow furrowed at that, but she didn't elaborate or give him a second to ask her what the hell that meant.

"What'd you dream about?"

Oliver closed his eyes. "Felicity…"

"Maybe it'll help to talk about it."

"It won't," he replied flatly.

"Oh, so you've tried it before?" she asked. "You see a therapist on the regular?"

Oliver could feel his exhaustion in the look he gave her.

"That's what I thought."

Oliver grabbed her wrist, touching her gingerly as he lifted it in emphasis. "I don't want you around me when I do sleep, that's all the talking I need to do about it."

Felicity snorted, twisting her arm in his grasp so her wrist slid more fully into his hand as she gripped his forearm.

"You were not cognizant for this," she said, pointing at her wrist. "You don't get to use that as an excuse."

Oliver tried to let her go, but she didn't let him, wrapping her other hand around his arm as well.

"And besides," she continued, keeping her tone light as she held him, giving him a smile. "Think of it this way, this is good information to have for when I need to wake you up in the future. Not that this'll be happening very often. I don't even think I've ever seen you sleep actually, except for now. Not like I'd have any reason to see you sleep, or watch you sleep… which sounds really creepy, now that I've said it."

Despite himself, a chuckle slipped out, making her smile widen.

An easy warmth filled him as they sat there, as he let her presence wash over him, as he let it chase away the darkness.

He'd tried, tried pulling back from her, not willing to let her near the ugliness inside him, but he was too tired to fight it.

He was so tired of fighting, and she made it so easy to not fight.

Oliver realized with a start that he barely remembered the dream. Usually it echoed for hours, but her presence alone was enough to wipe it away, leaving him with nothing but a faint memory of what he'd seen. Even the sick feeling he'd woken with was dissipating, and the longer her touched her, the longer she cradled his arm in her hands, the quicker it disappeared.

It was disarming.

It was the last thing he should be doing, he knew that, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Having her there, next to him, breathing and bursting with so much life, it was a soothing balm in and of itself.

Oliver's eyes dropped to her wrist. His thumb moved of its own volition, stroking the soft skin of her wrist. The irritated red was already starting to fade and a light trail of goosebumps appeared, streaking up her arm. Her fingers twitched, tightening on his arm, sending little bolts of electricity sizzling across his skin.

He told himself to let her go, to step back, to drop her… but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to.

Felicity shifted slightly, moving closer, and his arm rubbed against her leg.

Oliver felt an entirely different kind of awareness of her take over as they sat there.

The silence between them was comfortable, comforting even. He closed his hand around her wrist gently, wanting to soothe the skin, covering the remaining mark he'd left there.

Her wrist was so tiny in his hand, his fingers engulfing it.

How could he protect her if he was the one doing the hurting? If not for him, she'd be blissfully unaware of the dangers in Starling. Just by virtue of knowing him, he'd put her life in danger more times than he could count, and all of that didn't even touch on what was happening currently. She'd made her point about being involved, and he knew she was right, that she deserved not only the right to know what was happening, but to help as much as she could, as she was capable of…

But what about the gala?

His stomach curdled at the thought of her being there, with him or not.

He knew why she wanted to go, and he knew why he didn't want her to go.

Taking her there, showcasing her as "his," it was like wrapping a piece of chicken in bacon and dangling it over a pit of starving, rabid dogs - and he'd be one of the dogs. She was exactly what the brotherhood would look for in certain women - she was willful as hell, strong and confident, absolutely beautiful, and she had more steel in her spine than most grown men, but that was the danger: she was the perfect challenge, a prime piece that could catch a pretty penny.

Was that why they'd focused on her? Had they done this with other women, all the research and surveillance?

His gut told him no, that was too much effort.

The Bratva preferred collecting and then sorting, seeing what they'd found before assigning prices.

And that just led to the next problem, about who it was that'd requested her, and how they'd have to act because he'd claimed her as his own. It'd be so much more than this, this simple, easy touching, so much more; he could barely handle this, much less anything else. He'd have to treat her a certain way, play a certain part… and he was afraid if one person looked at her the wrong way, if they even touched her, he wouldn't be able to control himself, that he'd do something he'd regret.

Just looking back at the last two days was evidence enough of that.

He had tunnel vision when it came to her, and if anything happened to her, if she was out of his sight for more than a minute and something happened…

"Stop," Felicity said quietly, and his startled eyes flew to hers. "Stop thinking those glower-filled thoughts, I can see them all over your face."

"Sorry," Oliver said, moving his mouth to offer her a smile, but he wasn't quite sure he succeeded. Still, she gave him one, and he watched it light up her entire face.

If it was the last thing he did, he was going to find a way to make sure she smiled like that every single day for the rest of her life, and he suddenly didn't care what he had to do to make that happen.

"I'm here, you know," she said. "You're not alone in this, Oliver. You won't be alone."

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, barely audible, the words slipping out before he knew he was saying them.

"Yes," Felicity said with finality, her grip on him tightening. "You do."

Oliver smiled, a real smile, one he couldn't control even if he wanted to because he really, really didn't deserve her or the light she brought into his life, but she somehow made it seem like he just might.

Felicity's face softened and she reached forward, cupping his cheek, her thumb tracing the corner of his lips.

"I like seeing this," she whispered. "You should do it more often."

Oliver stared at her.

He wanted to. He wanted to smile as often as possible just because she was the one asking.

Oliver took a shaky breath as that thought sunk in.

What was happening?

It had to be the close quarters and new sense of danger they were living in, but whatever it was, it was making something shift. It kept sneaking past his defenses, hitting him before he knew what was happening. It wasn't a good shift, no; it was a dangerous one, one he needed to get a hold on right away. Because he couldn't think about it, he couldn't afford to let this be… something.

Because when he did, suddenly Felicity wasn't Felicity, she was…

Felicity.

It had to be the constant threat of danger surrounding them, the dreams plaguing him. It had to be because he was suddenly around her an entire twenty-four hours - they had always spent the day and most of the night together, but now he got to see her at night, which was opening the door to a whole new level of intimacy between them that hadn't existed before - he saw her before she went to bed, saw what she wore when she took off the day's defenses, got to be near her while she slept…

No, it had to be that his entire focus was on her, making sure she stayed safe.

That was it.

Anything else was dangerous.

And yet…

The longer she touched him, the longer she held him like she was, the more he felt his defenses slipping away, and he was powerless to stop them.

Oliver wanted to want to move away from her, to drop her hand, to remind himself that she was Felicity, and it was nothing more than that.

But he didn't.

He didn't want to, and even if he did, he didn't think he could.

Felicity stared at him, her eyes widening as if she saw it too.

Her mouth parted in a shaky breath, and his gaze dropped to her lips, feeling something else…

Oliver opened his mouth - Fe-li-ci-ty - unable to control all the things he was going to put into those few syllables when Diggle clearing his throat shattered the moment.

Oliver's head whipped to the door, moving to shield her before realizing it was just Diggle…

And that Diggle had walked in on whatever it was that they were doing.

But they hadn't been doing anything.

So why did Oliver feel like he'd just gotten caught doing something?

They both stood up, dropping each other's hands as they turned to face Diggle where he stood at the entrance of the office, his lips twisted in a smile that made Oliver's stomach twist.

"We're coming," Felicity chirped before Diggle could say anything, stepping around Oliver's desk.

Diggle raised his eyebrows - her voice was higher than usual - before looking back at Oliver.

Oliver averted his eyes and followed suit, because he had nothing. He rubbed his forehead again, forcing his thoughts back to where they belonged.

They definitely did not belong on watching her walk away, watching the lines of the red dress she was wearing, and yet… his eyes found her like she was the center of gravity and he was incapable of seeing anything else.

Diggle coughed, and Oliver's eyes snapped back to him.

The other man just stared at him, fighting a smile as he shook his head, and Oliver gritted his teeth.

"We're stopping for food, right?" Felicity asked as she gathered her bag and jacket. "Because I need more than coffee and a scone in my stomach if I'm going to be spending the night sweating all over you guys."

What?

Oliver blinked, eyes darting to her and back to Diggle. "What?"

Diggle chuckled.

"Training," he filled in, patting Oliver on the back. "Which should make for an interesting night," he continued before following Felicity to the elevators.

Oliver glared at the back of Diggle's head, rubbing his palms against his thighs before making tight fists, feeling the same burning awareness in his palms from that morning.

Training.

They were training tonight.

For some reason, Oliver wasn't struggling with the fact that this was a training session specifically for Felicity going to the gala that Saturday, but the fact that he was unsure he'd be able to handle another repeat of that morning.

She'd been wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a bulky sweater then… what would she wear specifically for training?

What the hell was he thinking?

The only thing Oliver was aware of when he heard the elevator ding and Diggle saying, "Move your ass, Queen," was that he was damn glad Diggle was going to be the one taking the lead with training, because the thought of her touching like that her again…

Oliver specifically avoided diving too deeply into that thought as he hurried to catch up with them.


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