Felicity gave her nightshirt an angry tug as she pulled it past her shoulders. She hadn't lied when she'd told Oliver she was tired, but she also knew that sleep wasn't coming any time soon. Her mind - usually her best asset - kept rehashing her conversation with him in an endless loop. He wasn't truthful, her brain chimed one moment. He had reasons not to be, it tolled the next. Back and forth, back and forth. The cop in her wanted to see his situation as black and white - legal and illegal. Her heart (and sense of fairness) kept insisting things were more grey.

She heard water running in the bathroom and knew Oliver was getting ready for the night. I should at least offer him a toothbrush, she thought, but couldn't bring herself to face him. She hadn't liked his expression in the kitchen. He'd looked angry and - worse - disappointed. It had hurt a little.

In the solitude of her bedroom, she could admit that he had been right about a few things. People didn't lay out their entire histories to each other when they first met. They revealed themselves as the relationship grew. And he'd been right about what the SCPD would have done if he'd reported the story of his grandfather and the payouts to the Bratva. They would have executed some type of sting operation, making the assumption they could keep Oliver safe. If the League of Assassins was truly that formidable, then maybe Oliver would have been signing his own death warrant.

She slid into bed; a bed she had slept comfortably in for the past four years and which now felt empty and too large. It was ridiculous, because the man had only spent a couple of hours in it. But she'd liked having him there and she missed him now - missed his warmth and his scent. Despite her misgivings, she knew she still wanted him. She hadn't had enough of that lean, hard body and she wanted to feel the intense connection again. It was particularly tough knowing he was stretched out on the couch in the next room - probably still angry with her. Probably shirtless.

Fuck.

If she was going by the book, she shouldn't even wait until morning. She should call Diggle now and report everything. It was late, but the news was critical enough that her commander would understand the hour. And maybe once she had done that, the churning in her head would stop. She would have turned the responsibility over to her superior officer; problem solved.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

She was going to have to live with this decision for a long time, she thought, maybe forever. It could mean never seeing Oliver again. It could even mean getting him killed. Even if she wasn't directly responsible, she wasn't sure she could live with that.

She pulled the blanket up to her chin and decided morning was the time to make her decision. Things always seemed clearer in the morning. But after a half hour of lying in the dark with no hint of sleepiness, she got out of bed and walked to her door, opening it softly. Then she tiptoed down the short hallway and stood in the entrance to the living room. She could see little in the blackness, just the vague shapes of her furniture, including the couch where Oliver lay. After a moment, she could make out his breathing. It sounded slow and steady, not nearly as frustrated as her own.

She tiptoed back to bed.

The thumping noise disguised itself as part of Oliver's dream. He was lying on a blanket in a meadow, the sunshine gentle and warm on his bare back. Around him, the insects hummed softly and the air was perfumed with the scent of wildflowers. Felicity lay beside him, her head so close to his that wisps of blond hair brushed against his lips. She was asleep.

He was thoroughly relaxed. There were the remains of a picnic at their feet and a light breeze wafted across their bodies, tickling his skin. He looked up to investigate the noise and saw a helicopter flying above the field, a short distance away. Soon it would be directly over them.

He became aware, as often happens in dreams, that things were not as they first appeared. Not only was his back exposed, but the rest of him as well. He was naked on the blanket, along with Felicity; and the meadow was no longer a meadow, it was the middle of a city park. People were walking the paths not far away and the helicopter was getting ever closer. He reached across Felicity to cover her body with his, just as he saw that there was an archer poised in the open side of the helicopter. The archer raised his bow and aimed his arrow toward them.

Oliver jolted awake.

The thumping was someone pounding on the door to Felicity's apartment. The hum of insects was her phone, buzzing beneath him under the seat cushions of the couch. He remembered that she had tossed it there yesterday before they had treated his wound. He pulled it out and stared at it. The caller ID said: Rory. The phone showed that it was six in the morning.

The thumping on the door continued.

"Felicity." He called her name, but not loudly. He didn't want to shout.

No response.

She must be asleep, he thought. It was early, and if she'd had as much trouble drifting off as he had, she'd only recently fallen into slumber. Last night had not been easy for either of them.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder blade. Her couch wasn't built for people over six feet tall and his injury had only made it more uncomfortable. Rising, he grabbed his jeans and the borrowed tee shirt from the floor and put them on. Then he headed toward the door. Before he could get there, however, the lock clicked and the door swung inward, pushed by a thirty-ish man with a thick mop of brown hair. Oliver recognized him instantly as the cop Felicity had been with at police headquarters when he'd given her his security discs. The man was staring at his phone, a worried - almost frantic - expression on his face.

He froze when he saw Oliver, then dropped his phone and pulled his weapon out from under his jacket. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, pointing the stunner. As Felicity's phone continued to buzz on the cushions of the couch, the cop barked, "Where's Smoak?"

Oliver lifted his hands in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "She's asleep."

"Where?"

"In her bedroom." Oliver was tempted to tack, where do you think?, onto the sentence, but decided it wasn't a good idea to smart-ass the man with a weapon. The cop's hand was already white-knuckled and a little unsteady. Instead, Oliver asked, "What's happened?"

Still pointing his stunner, the cop bent to the floor to retrieve his phone. He swiped his finger across the screen and Felicity's own device stopped buzzing. "I'm the one asking the questions, Queen." he said shortly.

Oliver eyed him cautiously. After his initial shock, the cop seemed to be getting steadier, although he was clearly very worried about Felicity. He kept glancing at the door to the hall as if he wanted to race to her bedroom and check on her.

Careful, pal, Oliver thought. We might be close in age, but I'll bet I have more experience facing a weapon than you have pointing it. I spent over a year in Russia negotiating with far bigger hardasses than you.

He slowly lowered his hands and retreated to the couch. Then he sat.

The cop glared at him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Sitting. Unarmed. With my hands in plain sight."

The cop narrowed his eyes. "You think you're funny?"

"Not at all. You're the one with the weapon - you're in charge. I'm acknowledging that." Oliver paused. "And I get that something big must have happened for you to break into Felicity's apartment at six in the morning."

"I didn't break in. I'm a cop and I'm Smoak's partner."

He sounded protective, almost territorial.

Oliver shook his head. "Felicity doesn't have a partner." It was a guess, but a good one. She had come to interview him alone and she'd never mentioned a partner.

The cop hesitated, then lowered his weapon but didn't holster it. "I'm as close to a partner as she's got in the SCPD," he said defensively. "And you still haven't told me what you're doing here."

There were a number of explanations Oliver could have given, although he doubted any of them would appease the cop. It didn't really matter. Oliver wasn't terribly interested in appeasing him. He answered calmly, "I was asleep, too. That's what I was doing here. It's six o'clock on a Sunday morning. I suspect it's what most people are doing."

"You sonofabitch." The cop's lip curled and he raised his weapon again. "The last I heard, you were a suspect in the Rochev murder. And now I find you in Smoak's apartment?"

Oliver didn't blink. "If that's what you heard, then you're behind the times. I've been cleared. Felicity cleared me."

"Excuse me if I don't take your word for it."

Oliver shrugged. "Then I'll get Felicity."

"The hell you will. You'll stay here."

"Or what?" Oliver said. "You'll stun me and then barge into her bedroom? Do you think she'll appreciate that?"

The cop's mouth flattened into a straight line.

"Rory?"

Both men turned to see Felicity standing in the doorway to her living room. Her hair was tousled and she sounded half awake, which might explain why she hadn't thought to cover up. She was wearing a nightshirt that ended at mid-thigh, leaving her bare legs on display. Oliver recalled their smoothness when they'd been pressed against him yesterday.

"What are you doing here?" she asked the cop, pushing her glasses up her nose.

The cop stared at her, managing to appear both relieved and a little guilty at the same time. "What am I doing here?" he repeated. "I'm here making sure you're all right, Smoak."

A slight blush colored her cheeks. She gave Oliver a glance, then said, "Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be? What's happened?"

The cop strode up to her. "You happened, Smoak. You called into Dispatch late yesterday afternoon and told them you'd seen Isabel's killer. Then you disappeared and went silent. You weren't in the area when the uniforms got there and you didn't answer your phone for the rest of the night. Diggle's wound up tighter than a drum and I spent the last twelve hours thinking we were going to find your body in an alley with an arrow in it."

Felicity stared at Rory, then turned to look at the couch where her phone remained atop one of the seat cushions. Her blush grew deeper. A good detective was supposed to be accessible at all times, even when off duty.

"Oh Ror, I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "Things got a little...crazy...yesterday. I dropped my phone on the couch when I got home and it must have fallen into the cushions. I didn't hear it, and I forgot to bring it to the bedroom when I went to sleep." She retrieved the device and studied it; three calls from the commander and six from Rory. She'd screwed up - big time.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "Really sorry for making you worry."

Rory paced back and forth in front of her. "It's not like you. What the hell happened?"

Good question. I'm guessing 'I ended up in bed with Oliver Queen' probably isn't a good answer. Felicity glanced at Oliver. Unlike her, he was dressed and appeared fully awake. That pleased her because it made the situation look less...suggestive. On the other hand, she'd been so upset last night that she hadn't offered him a pillow or a blanket, so it wasn't obvious that he'd spent the night on the couch. He was here, in her apartment at six in the morning, in bare feet and with facial scruff in need of a trim. And she was wearing a nightshirt.

Rory followed her glance and put the pieces together. "Ah, Smoak, what the hell are you doing? This is why you didn't answer?" He gestured stiffly at Oliver. "This?"

She was ashamed - as much for messing up on the job as for having spent the night with Oliver. She considered using his shoulder wound to justify leaving the scene yesterday but knew it was a poor excuse. The right thing would have been to coordinate with the uniforms, then go with Oliver to the hospital. She'd known it at the time, but had still acceded to his wish to keep everything private. It was sloppy police work.

Oliver tried to explain. "I asked Felicity to bring me here-" he began.

"I'll bet," Rory interrupted bitterly.

"-after the New Archer shot me. I didn't want the publicity of going to a hospital, so I asked Felicity to treat the wound at her place."

"You were shot?" Rory's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You didn't report a shooting," he said to Felicity. He stared skeptically at Oliver. "And you look fine to me."

Oliver turned his back and lifted the shirt to show Rory the shoulder. Felicity saw that the lips of the wound remained closed thanks to the sealant, but they were raised and red. There was no doubt that the wound was new. Oliver tugged the shirt back down.

Rory glanced at Felicity for confirmation, and when she nodded he pressed his lips together. "Why'd the Archer come after you, Mr. Queen? What's a guy like you even doing in the Glades?"

"My business takes me to all parts of Star City."

"Seriously? You expect me to believe a billionaire CEO is interested in the poorest section of town?"

Oliver said nothing.

"And you didn't answer my first question," Rory continued. "Why would the Archer be interested in you."

Once again, Oliver didn't reply. He looked at Felicity, his features almost blank.

She understood what the look meant. Left to his own devices, Oliver would tell Rory nothing about Jonas, the dubious foundations of the Queen fortune, and the deal with the Bratva. He'd inherited the dark legacy and he was doing his best to deal with it on his own. He'd told Felicity last night for personal reasons. He had no intention of telling the rest of the department.

But when his eyes met hers, she was surprised that his expression contained neither a plea nor a warning. He gave the smallest of shrugs that said: It's your choice. Do what you think is right. Do what you can live with. I'll understand.

And maybe he would, she thought. She imagined what would happen once she told Rory about the Queen history. She'd be changing Oliver's life irrevocably, that was for certain. The SCPD might not arrest him, but they would detain him and bring him to HQ for questioning. And the feds would get involved and there would be deals backed by thinly veiled threats. We'll forgive the payments if you help us trap the Bratva. But that wasn't her problem. She would have done her duty. And Oliver was making it easy for her. There was no judgment on his face. She took a deep breath.

And the words wouldn't come.

It should have been simple. Oliver had failed to report the payouts to the Bratva when he'd learned of them. Worse, he had continued to make them for seven years. If she said nothing, she was essentially becoming an accessory. Was it worth the risk to her career for a man she had known less than a week?

Common sense said, no. Relationships were fragile things in the best of times, and neither she nor Oliver had a track record of long-term success with partners. Her career, on the other hand, was supposed to endure for the next thirty years. Even if Oliver's story was never revealed, she would raise a few eyebrows if she got involved with a high-profile, wealthy public figure. Rory's current reaction was proof of that.

But common sense couldn't force her to shake the feeling that Oliver was a good man, and that the budding connection they shared could turn out to be something special. She felt a sense of belonging when she was with him, something that had been missing from her life ever since she'd lost her mother. His presence warmed her. It felt unfair to have to choose between him and her career when his problems were not of his own devising.

"We're not sure why the New Archer came after Oliver," she said to Rory, "other than he knew Isabel Rochev. Oliver and I were reviewing the things he and Isabel have in common last night to look for a motive. We didn't come up with anything."

She saw Oliver straighten as if he'd been expecting a different answer. He looked at her and his eyes were filled with surprise and tenderness.

"Reviewing the things he and Isabel have in common?" Rory repeated with a snort. "Is that what you call it? Because it looks to me like the two of you spent last night boning. But maybe I'm mistaken and the two of you were working for the last twelve hours."

Among the slang terms for sex, boning was one of Felicity's least favorites. It made her think of a butcher. Any embarrassment she had over Oliver spending the night was wiped away by anger. "No," she replied coldly, "you're not mistaken. Oliver and I boned after we talked, not that it's any of your business."

Rory's eyes widened and she saw that he'd been hoping she would deny the encounter. Oliver revealed nothing; no triumph, nor the smallest hint of discomfiture. His face was bland and he avoided Rory's glare.

"Oliver's not a suspect," Felicity continued. "There isn't a problem here."

Rory frowned. "Are you sure? Because Isabel Rochev was no angel. I traced her accounts and I think it's clear that she got money from the Bratva. We already know she used drugs. If she and Queen were lovers…"

"We weren't," Oliver said sharply. "Not for a couple of years."

Rory shook his head. "It certainly looked like you were," he countered. "The woman was on your arm at every damn society event in the city."

"And when the events ended, we went our separate ways. Did I know Isabel Rochev? Yes. She was a local celebrity and she was socially active. We served on a number of charitable boards together." Oliver paused. "Was I aware of all the intimate details of her life? No, especially not recently."

"Then why do you think the Archer came after you?"

"Maybe he made the same assumption you did. He saw me out with Isabel and figured I was part of whatever she was doing."

Rory pressed his lips together and didn't reply. In the silence, Felicity contemplated what she should do next. Call Diggle, she thought; let him know she was alive and take her lumps for the second time in as many days. Then, as soon as the hour was reasonable, she needed to get to Ramirez's place to look at the results of her searches, and pick up the sketch. It was the one, concrete thing that could advance her investigation. Everything else remained speculation.

She reached out and took Rory's arm.

"I've got to get to the witness's apartment," she said to him. "I left a backtrace program running on his computer and he's supposed to be working on a sketch of the woman who planted the evidence on his phone."

"Woman?" Rory asked, his brow lifting.

"Yeah. I spoke with the wit yesterday and he told me it was a woman."

"Interesting. I took a look at Isabel's droid," Rory began. Then he glanced at Oliver and stopped.

"And?" Felicity prompted.

"And I'll fill you in when you get back from seeing your witness. I don't think we should discuss this in front of a civilian."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "Okay. Can you do me a favor, then?"

Rory pursed his lips cautiously. "What?"

"Can you take Oliver home - make sure he gets there safely? He needs a ride, and for all we know, the New Archer is still hanging somewhere around the Glades. I'd like him to have protection until he gets to that fortress he lives in."

Rory and Oliver exchanged stares. It was clear neither of them was happy with this plan.

"I was thinking I should go with you to see the witness," Rory replied, just as Oliver said, "I don't need protection."

"The alternative," Felicity continued, as if neither of them had spoken, "is for Oliver to wait here with you, Rory, until uniforms can pick him up and place him in protective custody." When Oliver opened his mouth to protest, she continued quickly, "The Archer shot you once, Oliver. We have no reason to think he won't try again. I'm going to look pretty stupid if I turn you loose to wander around on your own and you get arrowed. And my apartment isn't nearly as secure as your house so staying here alone isn't a great idea."

There wasn't much Oliver could say. What he wanted, she knew, was to go with her when she spoke with Ramirez. But he was a civilian and didn't belong - she was with Rory on that one.

Rory gave her an irritated look but there wasn't much he could say, either. What she'd proposed was solid police procedure.

He frowned. "Okay, Smoak. I'll take Mr. Queen home. We'll catch up after."

"Thanks. I'm going to get dressed, then head out to see the witness. Rory, I'll update you as soon as I know anything. Oliver-" She paused. She didn't know what she wanted to say to him, especially in front of Rory.

He took matters into his own hands. "Let me grab my stuff from your bedroom. We can say our goodbyes there." Walking to her, he took her elbow and steered her out of the living room and down the short passage to her bedroom.

"I'm pretty sure you didn't leave anything here," she said tersely, as he shut the door, "except a bloody hoodie."

"I'm very fond of that hoodie."

"I see. And here I was thinking that you wanted to rub Rory's nose in the fact that we slept together."

He nodded seriously. "There's that, too. He likes you, you know, in more than a professional way. I needed to make my position clear."

"I'm not some territory for you to plant your flag on - either of you."

His blue eyes crinkled. "There's so many things I could say about 'planting my flag'," he began. Then he looked at her face and sobered. "Why didn't you tell him about the Bratva? I was certain you would."

She shrugged. "I honestly don't know. I guess I'd like to see concrete proof that your past is tied to Isabel's murder before I expose it to the rest of the department. You've had your life turned upside down once already. If I'm going to do it again, it should be for a good reason."

His eyes were warm as they gazed into hers. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Depending on what I find out today you could still be in hot water."

"I understand. But thank you for being fair." Before she could protest, he leaned down and kissed her lightly. "Will you let me know what you find out?"

The brief kiss aroused her more than she wanted to let on. She kept her expression severe. "Not before I tell Rory. He's the cop."

"Fine. After you tell Rory?"

"Maybe. No promises."

He sighed. "You know, I really don't need his protection."

She took his hand. It was so much larger than hers that she was tempted to smile. "Humor me. Take it as a sign that I care."

That seemed to please him, because he grinned. "I will. Next time we get interrupted, though, I'm not leaving. I don't care who else is here."

"You assume there will be a next time."

"I'm hoping for it. I'm not assuming anything."

"That's a good plan."