'Glades' as Irony
I should have thought this through…
It was so silent in the car.
She briefly considered thrumming her fingers against the steering wheel but the juvenile show of nerves was immediately annihilated. She didn't want him to think she was rattled. She totally was, but broadcasting it wasn't an option for some reason. It had just hit her, what they were doing. He'd only just returned home and here she was, basically kidnapping him - well that wasn't exactly accurate, not with him being so persistent with his eyes and his skin – a total stranger. It felt like she should be made culpable for something. Even if part of her was very fine with the whole thing. Never said I was normal.
The idea of putting on some music hit her briefly until she considered that it might not be received well, with his lack of knowledge and well, everything else.
Lack of knowledge… he probably didn't even know how to work a smartphone. Poor guy.
Then again, he might not even care about things like music. So no music.
She took a deep breath as her car flew down the almost empty road. This lane wasn't used often by the city's civilians. The sound of rain hitting solid objects was usually one of the most soothing sounds Felicity had ever heard. She may not like getting wet, may not like the rain too much in itself, but the noise it made was one that normally soothed her. Normally.
And he wasn't helping. At all.
Instead, it was as if the silence was what calmed him.
Oliver Queen didn't talk, didn't offer any kind of conversational branch to grab onto with both mind and mouth, no, instead he fixed his gaze out of the front window, watching the rain make a tide of water flood off the wipers. He looked completely at ease in her very humble car, giving no indication at all that this whole experience was awkward as hell for her: but there was something about his physique, about the way he held himself that reminded her of a caged animal. Again, a captive wolf. There was no aura of 'come near me and you'll regret it' or anything. It was just… something.
Like his guard, which felt constantly raised. Or his watchful eyes that scoped everything in his path.
And occasionally he'd look at her too, briefly, a flicker of blue before flashing away leaving an ambiguous azure streak against the black of her lids when she met them. He really wasn't at all what she expected to find in a man just returned from the dead. There was already a list:
He appeared to be a gentleman. Physically… the word beautiful didn't do him justice. There was a 'quietness' to him and a lethality that leaned towards that raw instinctive quality you only gleamed from men in big screen productions. The kind of men that reek testosterone but manage to do something useful with it other than throw it egotistically at girls, preen with friends and challenge other men. It was subdued in Oliver Queen but definitely there. He was all this at first sight.
Did I mention he was also a little odd? Because, really, he wants to go where?
"The Glades?"
"Yes."
She couldn't have been hearing him right. Her eyes flickered to and from the road ahead of her and his stoic face. "You want me to take you to the Glades?"
"Yes." He didn't bat an eyelid.
He comes back from a five year stint on a deserted island and the first thing he wants to do is take a merry skip down serial killer highway? Mouth opening, then closing she swallowed and nodded – there must be something wrong with me too. "Um, alright. Let's do that."
For several seconds he watched her. "Just like that."
Apparently. "Er, yes?"
There was a moment of silence.
"…Okay."
Cautious in how long she didn't keep her eyes on the road Felicity took him in. He'd let out a deep exhale with that one, quiet word. A breath that spoke many sentences, hidden meanings she couldn't quite grasp at. It threw her a little but the way he suddenly settled further into the seat made her think she'd done or said the right thing, whatever that was.
Mollified, though she had no idea what she needed to be placated about anyway, she nodded once, slowly. "Okay." Accelerating she gestured a hand in his general vicinity. "You know you…" Briefly catching his eyes again her words stuttered to a halt – he really is intense – and had to swallow before trying again. Geez. "You don't have to hold onto that bag; just throw it in the back." Suddenly remembering something she hashed forwards. "But if you want you can have some of the fruit! You were holding a pear in there right? I can only imagine the kind of diet you've been on in the past five years; fruit is probably the closest approximation to what you might have been used… to…"
Already looking at her, eyes like ice didn't blink – not the whole time she'd been babbling.
It was very possible she had a serious case of foot in mouth disease.
Did I seriously just bring that up? What it wrong with me? Like he wants to be immediately reminded of THAT. He's been in the City for a day. A DAY Felicity. I should just pull over and find some place to go die already. I wouldn't be surprised if he actually tried to get out of the car while I'm driving-
"Some fruits. Plants. It was the taste more than anything. Bitter, sometimes bland." His voice very matter of fact, Oliver fished a pear out of the plastic bag brushing a thumb over its sandy hide. "Very cold."
"I-I didn't mean to-"
He bit into it, studying the pear as he slowly chewed before swallowing. Everything he'd done so far was a careful, precise action. "It's ripe."
And ripe means good? By the remote look on his face it could have meant anything; he was difficult to read. "0h, y-yeah I…"
"Thank you."
She found herself smiling and nodding along with her brain in small relief. "I spend a lot of time making sure I get the best ones. The persimmons are my favourites after the pears. It's actually all about the colour: vibrant greens and oranges. Nature and sunsets. There's this store down on Amellton…"
And on she prattled, babbling sometimes inanely, other times efficiently, from one topic to another, a blush sprouting here or there. Her way of expressing nerves. It didn't matter that he barely said five words through it all; he seemed very comfortable just listening.
Learning.
Whether she saw it or not she was effectively telling him small 'to-knows' about the city without him having to ask. Re-introducing him to Starling.
Queen Mansion
Preoccupied, he spoke without fully meaning to. "It's strange."
"What is?" Wine glass in hand Moira glanced at him when he didn't immediately answer. "Walter?"
He couldn't explain it. "This… sudden interest he has in the company." But really, how sudden could it be when they hadn't spoken to the man in five years? "In the past he never showed any inclination towards Queen Consolidated. Yet it's the first thing he wants to do now that he's back?"
His frown, his apprehensive tone was lost on Moira Queen who was too lost in her own thoughts to focus on him. "Maybe he craves normalcy."
"Exactly. When has taking an interest in the company ever been 'normal' for Oliver?"
A good question, but one that was dismissed immediately. "I want my son to reclaim his life as soon as possible. Have the lawyers here tomorrow." She said effectively ending the discussion.
Nothing but the best for her son. Her beautiful boy. Returning against all odds. And he still was, but…
What she didn't mention to Walter was how much her son had unnerved her tonight, sitting across from her at the opposite end of the dining room table.
For a moment the man she'd looked at wasn't someone she recognised, wasn't the playful, coquettish boy she remembered. The cool blue gaze had been foreign and his unblinking stare intrusive. He'd been so still, hadn't slouched and didn't lean like he use to… the things she most remembered about her son stole past her eyes and this new face didn't appear amongst them. Where had her special boy gone? Where was his charming smile and youthful haircut, hair that now resembled military functioning? Why wasn't he asking for Laurel? Why did he suddenly seem so much taller than before? She didn't understand. And realised that maybe she didn't want to.
…because then his gaze had softened again and Ollie resurfaced. He was still in there. Just a little confused about his place in the world now. And she would remind him of it, to stay. Oliver Queen had returned home, the heir apparent who would one day stand where Robert had been. A piece of her life had been returned to her.
They had all lost so much… she didn't want to think about it anymore. Seeing Oliver again forced her to realise how much she pushed herself to not remember. And in the hospital the previous night her son had held her, had kept her standing for a long time before the doctor had stated he'd needed rest.
But Moira had missed the tension in his shoulders, the fact that he hadn't truly smiled, not once.
Instead she considered that maybe now she could really have it all. To have her children, both of them, safe from harm, safe from him, once and for all. All it would take was a little extra time, some more effort; collateral damage was inevitable, but it was a form of destruction she'd already come to terms with a long time ago… it was payable. Regardless of the lives involved.
The Glades, Old Manufacturer's District
What was once the main manufacturer's district in Starling was now a dead end; a home for drug users and the literal vagrants of the city.
And right in the centre of what had been decreed by many to be a cesspool, was Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory – huge, run down, damp, dirty and haunted by memories the label was written in bold, peeling paint across the back side of the building. A building that stood miserable and decrepit, depicting well the tale of depression the Glades had suffered through in the past decade. It stood silently and burnt out before Felicity Smoak, behind a large bolted, wire fence and gate.
She remembered reading about it online: 'Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory closed down – the final death blow for the Glades. Is there any hope left?' The papers had screamed about its closure, a cessation that occurred, coincidentally, just a few weeks before Robert Queen had left on the Queen's Gambit, never to return.
And now his son was sitting in Felicity Smoak's car, staring at the forlorn structure, face hidden from her eyes.
"This is the place, right?" She had no doubt that it was but he was being even more silent now than before, if that was at all possible.
He didn't reply – shocker - she could see his breath fog up the windscreen in front of his face. Looking out through his window and past the still heavily pouring rain, though she kept her distance, she pulled in a breath. "It looks really… depressing."
He turned suddenly to look back at her and she was once again reminded how very predacious he seemed. How still. It should have troubled her, scared her even. But it didn't. For reasons.
When he suddenly moved, stepping out of the car and into the rain Felicity scrambled after him. "Oliver?" Slamming her door shut she made her way round to him as stood, peering at the factory. There was virtually no one else around.
"So I was wondering…" He suddenly started saying and gestured ahead as she blinked (squinted) at him. "How well would you react if I jumped the fence and took a look inside?"
What? "Why?"
"For… posterity."
Eyebrow cocked, voice raised over the rain, she gave him an even look. "You mean how well I'd react if my boss's son jumped a three metre tall fence to get into an abandoned factory with God knows what lurking in the corners? Knowing that at some point, if you did get hurt, your mother would find out? After discovering, of course, that I am the person who drove you there in the first place? The person who, despite what her brain and pay check is telling her, will inevitably not take you home until you actually want to go?"
He had the audacity to nod, sucking in his wet lips in thought. "That's what I thought."
Completely out of her comfort zone she shook her head. "That's what you thought? Wait, what are you-"
In between words Oliver Queen sprint over to the fence. Using some crates just catching wood rot as spring boards, he hurdled to the top of said fence, gripping tightly as he wound his body over the rim before dropping gracefully down to the other side.
Motherfu-! Admittedly this was the last thing she'd expected to have to deal with. So he was an athlete now? Did he spend his time on the island swinging through trees like a jungle gym? And this is soooo not what I should be focused on. She rushed forwards, shouting at him like she'd known him for years instead of minutes as he straightened up. "Oliver Queen, are you trying to get me fired?! I mean you could have at least told me what you were about to do before you hurdled the giant tetanus shot just waiting to happen!"
Really smiling now, though it was still quite a small thing, at her hand-on-hips tone he seemed to be supremely unaffected by, well, anything at all. "Wait for me. I'll be back in a minute."
"As if I'd leave now." She muttered, looking at him through the fence holes. "And I can't come with you because…?"
Oddly enough, he did a double take at the question and frowned at her as the rain continued to pour droplets down his face. His eyes searched for something but she didn't understand what it was.
"What?"
In a strange little carefree motion his head swerved slightly to his left. "If you can actually get over the fence in that skirt, you're welcome to join me." She blushed as he shook his head and could barely see his features in the rain filled dark but something about the tilt of his brow made her think he found the idea kind of funny. "You should get back in the car." He shouted, hopping back, turning to jog further into the recesses of what looked more like a warehouse than a factory. "I won't be long!"
Pursing her lips she stood there, feeling a little foolish.
You should get back in the car.
Right.
The car.
Hesitating briefly - for god sakes! – she stalked back to her beloved Toyota, exhaling noisily as she got into the seat. Well this is going super. It's his first day back; what if he gets hurt in there? The place is old, dark and a mess, it's a recipe for disaster! She closed her eyes against her thoughts but it didn't quell the whisper in her ear, the one she desperately tried to ignore and normally succeeded. On a daily basis.
Except for today it seemed.
Oliver Queen. Everything about him. The old Queen factory in the Glades, left for dead for five years; it would never be a home for 30, 000 employees again. His father had barely stepped foot in the place before leaving so being a memento of the elder Queen was very much out of the question… so why now? Why here? What was so important about this place?
Stay in the car.
Her eyes opened, watching the rain, sweeping about her and taking in the closed up shops and barred windows that hadn't been touched in years. As shuttered and shielded as those blues eyes she kept seeing when she closed her own.
She couldn't stand mysteries. She'd built her life around solving them. This was far too interesting to just… wait out. "Frack it all."
And here I thought all I'd be doing tonight was eating ice cream and watching Netflix.
Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory
She had wire cutters. A fact Mr Queen would have known if he'd just waited a moment or two.
Making sure to keep the gap in the wire fence as closed and as near to the brick wall as humanely possible, she kept the cuts severely neat. It isn't exactly my first rodeo. At a glance it would pass judgement. She'd pinch them back together later. After slipping through she trotted up the tarmac slope heading towards the main building (there were several other constructions).
Problem. There was more than one door. And by more than one door she meant more than one of the many possibly entries. There was a door, metal, on two sides of the building and at the main access point of the dead factory, a traditional roller door. It wasn't open so she figured he hadn't gone that way. There were a set of stairs as well that led to a more than intimidating structure that she wasn't altogether thrilled about exploring in the dark and in her skirt. Opting instead to dodge around the graffiti covered walls and garbage Felicity ducked around a corner and found a set of shattered slates in a heap on the ground. Like someone had kicked them in and broken them away from the now very clear, very fragile looking wooden door swinging on its hinges. There was no lock and the handle was non-existent.
Okay then. Stepping out of the rain she half hopped, half stumbled into the interior where she blinked away water and wished very much that she wasn't wearing soaked glasses.
"Is the part where the big axe wielding psychopath comes out of the dark with a hockey mask and tries to kill me? The big axe wielding psycho being Oliver Queen and me being, well, me."
The place was huge; as big inside as it was outside. Cavernous, every movement she made sparked the smallest noise that echoed dimly in the hollow, dank environment. There were gaps in the walls and in some places where no walls existed at all; here she could see the rain fall. There were so many places to hide and go seek, if she were even remotely inclined to do so that is. Plenty of nooks and crannies, holes and hallways that she could get lost in…
She couldn't see him in the open space before her. She took a few steps in, focusing her vision as her eyes grew quickly accustomed to the lack of light-
And of course that's when her phone just had to ring shrilly.
With a yelp her hands were fumbling in her pocket, fingers pulling out her 'Catastrophe' phone cover (seriously, with cats and everything) and smartphone. "Hello?"
"Miss Smoak?"
The distinguished voice on the other end of the line could hardly be misplaced.
She closed her eyes. "Mr Steel?"
"Felicity, you don't happen to have Oliver with you by any chance?"
Frack it to death! "Er… there's really no good way for me to answer that question is there sir?" She wondered for a moment how he even had her number before remembering that he had access to all his employees' personal data, including the number of the mobile currently in her grasp.
"Felicity…"
"Yes sir; he's here." She eyed her surroundings with a frown. "Somewhere."
"I'm sorry?"
So am I. "Never mind. He's with me." She flinched. "I meant he's here with me, as in near me, not with me-with me…"
"I Understand." Oh, she really hoped he did. "It's just that…" She heard him sigh and knew by the shuffling noise that he was walking. "Moira's frantic. When he left in the middle of dinner we thought he'd gone upstairs to his room. But then Ivan told me you'd stopped by the mansion and I put two and two together."
"He asked for a lift. I'm sorry for any trouble sir."
"It's quite alright. I'm just surprised at his behaviour. The last thing we expected to happen was for him run away less than a day after being home."
Her mouth opened then closed. Really? It seemed like an odd thing to say, at least to her. "I don't see why that's so surprising." Okay, so she really hadn't though it through before speaking. She practically face planted at that slip.
"What do you mean?"
Great, now he asking me. "Well…" She was a stranger to the Queens; it felt more than a little bizarre to be commentating on something so personal. You've put your foot in it now, might as well go the full mile. "Sir, there isn't exactly a precedent for this." With one wet hand in her coat pocket she started to slowly rotate on the spot: the echo of far off thunder and the pounding of rain on wood, mortar and brick was soothing the all-around gloomy atmosphere of the foundry. But apparently she liked haunted and gothic; her shoulders weren't as tense as before. "He's spent five years alone and away from everything." Whatever 'everything' encompassed. "Just from the elapsed time by itself I'd have to wonder if anybody would be or act the same way as they once did." She turned again. "Expectations aren't really going to help with him."
And by 'him' she meant the guy standing not five feet away from her.
She jumped, of course she did, when she found him there at the end of her turn. "O-oh!"
Illuminated by a strike of lightning, Oliver stood silently under the shadows a large beam created. He didn't lean, didn't make a sound, didn't pull an expression, didn't try to hide the fact that he'd sneaked up on her, that he'd been standing right behind her and had moved with her as she'd moved; he didn't do anything. Except watch her with that reticent gaze, almost aloof. Cold even.
Himself?
"Felicity?"
Blinking so sporadically she resembled an owl she stared, a little petrified as a brow arched on the face of the stranger. "I'm here!" Her eyes screamed at the man 'what should I do?' But he just stood there like a giant bean. Albeit, looking somewhat… reluctant?
"E-er…"
"Miss Smoak, is everything alright?"
"Yes! Of course it is! I mean, why wouldn't it be?"
"Well, I'm not sure…"
A little nervous laugh escaped her.
"Anyway," Walter continued, seeming to possess the startling ability to adapt utterly and truly to anything he didn't fully understand, "Is there any chance you'll be bringing back to the mansion soon?"
"Back to the mansion?" As her eyes had never left his figure, Felicity caught the small flicker, that shadow of a doubt in his brow and the pull of the muscles in his jaw. And for some reason she wasn't telling Mr Steel that he was directly in front of her as they spoke. Reading him she made a split second, instinctive decision.
"…No. Not yet." Speaking slowly in case she got it completely wrong she watched Oliver for any sign of aversion to this. There was none. "He asked me to… take him into the city, see the sights, and reacquaint himself with his er, home." To see the changes. Watching her, his eyes flickered away momentarily before a small, short nod told her everything she needed to know. "If it's too late when we're finished," she bit her lip, I can't believe I'm going to say this. "He can stay at my place and I'll drive him back in the morning, though I'm very sure he can more than take care of himself!"
Oliver's brow rose again.
She waved a frantic hand at his body as if to say, 'well, hello; you have the body of Jean Claude Van Dam… only better. So much better. And I've never even seen you shirtless; I just have a wonderfully graphic imagination'. All assumption based.
His lips pressed together.
There was a quiet exhale down the line. "Alright. I'll talk to Moira-"
Oh no. "Please don't mention me by name Mr Steele."
"Don't worry; I won't. You're trying to do the right thing." Once again, she found herself overwhelmed by her luck that she'd found herself such an understanding, if slightly stiff, boss. "I trust you."
"Thank you sir."
Hanging up she grimaced at the wet mess she'd made of her cell before plunging it back into the relative safety of her coat.
"How did you get over the gate?"
Looking back at Oliver she found he'd taken a step forwards. Now in arms reach. He looked so very intrigued.
She shucked a piece of wet hair away from her face. "I have a wire cutter." 'I carried a watermelon.' Geez.
"A wire cutter." He said it slowly.
"Uh huh." It was one of those times she'd wished she would just babble but found that she couldn't for some strange reason.
"Do you normally carry a wire cutter?"
Yes. She nodded. "In the back of my car." Then shrugged at his eyebrow raise. "What?"
He shook his head, a breathy sound escaping him but not one she was familiar with. "Nothing."
Lightning flashed again revealing them both as wet, dishevelled and in general, a little lost as to what to do next.
"Um, so…" Felicity gestured behind her, towards the creaky door. "Are you done here or..?"
He nodded, looking about him. "I'm done here." Though she gave him a few moments he didn't elaborate as to what he'd been doing. Which was fine. Not that she was burning with curiosity or anything. Nope. Secrets made her a little nutty. Seriously though; he'd been back a day. Suspicious behaviour should be at the top of the list of his social composure.
She cleared her throat. "Is there anywhere else you want to go?"
"Where do you live?" He immediately replied, eyes still on his surroundings.
If my brain carries out another 404 error I'm going to lose all ability to function like a person. "I uh, I live near here actually." Sort of. Was she really considering bringing him home with her?
The sentence made her want to stammer.
She trailed off, watching as he nodded once again, seemingly enamoured by something she couldn't see in the darkness beyond where he'd stepped through.
Every second she spent with guy increased his mystery, which wasn't good. Not for her.
She licked her lips. "You know, when this place shut down the paperwork was done right." Finally he looked back at her, obviously very confused if the frown was anything to go by. "Partnerships were liquidated. Contracts were terminated, employees were let go of, albeit without severance…"
A ripple of what she could only describe – she didn't know the man - as an instance of anger silenced her. Whoa. It was gone directly but she hastily backtracked. "What I mean to say is that whatever this place is worth, and it won't be much, it's in the hands of a realtor now who'd probably be more than happy to be rid of it." She didn't even know why she was saying all this. "If you'd like I could get his or her name for you."
She quieted, waiting for a response, whether it be a puzzled frown, an arrogant look (he was super rich, he could afford whatever he wanted), or a baffled expression. Anything. The entire situation was so surreal she had trouble processing what was happening and who it was happening with. So she didn't think. It was almost peaceful, not thinking. She hadn't 'not thought' in years.
Oliver Queen made her 'not think'. Hah.
When he eventually looked at her again he shifted so she could see almost nothing of his eyes in the dark, except the glint of his pupils. He was silent for several seconds, as if debating which question to ask first: 'why would I want to buy this place?' 'What are you talking about?' 'Do you normally as your boss's, bosses boss these kinds of questions?'
Instead he said, with a puzzling expression of solemnity: "I'll think about it."
It was her that nodded this time. She'd move more but the cold was seeping through her coat. "So I know this probably wasn't what you had in mind but would it be okay if we stopped someplace first?"
Like the Little Bird: he'd eaten all of her pears and when he'd tried a persimmon he'd finished it with the relish of a typically hungry male. Meaning he inhaled it in seconds. She'd tried, hard, not to watch him do this, his mouth was, er… not that she'd gotten a good enough look or anything since she'd forced herself to stare out the front screen.
But seeing how fast he'd managed to eat the simple produce reminded her that it was one of the softer fruits, easier on the stomach and had offered him another.
She was out of fruit. It needed to be rectified.
He didn't seem to be bothered by the idea either. As if he wasn't sure which reaction was the right reaction, as if he'd learned how to mask each tell and every nuance. Five years on an island without a mirror might do that to a person. And this person was still very much a stranger to her, just as she must be to him.
Out of nowhere a wave of compassion - or was it empathy? Sympathy? - hit her. Unhinging her mouth as she took him in. "Honestly, more than anything else I would want to be away from people. I-I mean," licking her lips, her head automatically tilted sideways against her shoulder as she shrugged her reasoning. "If it were me, if I were you… I'd want to have the company of just me, myself and I." She'd seen Castaway after all. Too many people, a too crowded city. "Too many people with no room to breathe or think or something, I mean I could be wrong." Shutting up now.
'Floored' was a good word to describe how he looked. He opened his mouth… then closed it. And did nothing. If 'nothing' meant that he lowered his gaze to the floor, eyes flickering to and fro as if objectifying his thoughts.
He's not saying anything. Alarm fluttered in her chest. "What I meant to say is that-"
"I'm fine. And you'd get fired." He said suddenly, hands sliding into his pockets.
The bridge of her nose crinkled and furrowed. "Huh?"
"If you left me alone in the Glades at night." A deep breath made him shudder somewhat and there was a flash of distaste on his face when he finally looked back at her. "I'd rather not be treated like a child but in the interest of not starting a panic, maybe we should just go with it."
She bit her lip. "I'm sorry."
The uplift to his lips was melancholic. "Don't be. It's me who's being forced on you after all."
I wouldn't quite put it like that. You knew exactly what you were doing when you asked me for a ride…
Arrowhead Point, North Glades, off Tudor's Way… 21:16pm
She figured it was telling that Mr Queen, a man who was technically Felicity's boss and, if nothing else, incredibly attractive, was the very first individual to be invited – regardless of whether coercion played a part in it – to her apartment. Her house. Her home.
A placed she'd lived in for over two years. This is a story I'm never telling anyone. Anywhere. Ever.
Going to the supermarket had been… awkward. There was no other word for it. Groaning, she tried not to bang her forehead against the steering wheel. So, so awkward. And failed.
Granted, she'd expected that the whole experience of going to the supermarket for a billionaire to be redundant, but for a billionaire just back from a 5 year stint in Isolation County, it was a lesson in humility and obstinate men. Obstinate men with massive psychological baggage.
Landing outside of the superstore he'd simply stood there like a statue; she'd practically had to tug him along to get him to move, though she barely touched him; this stranger who SHE DID NOT KNOW. God, forcing her unwilling so-called boss to shop with her was mortifying. It wasn't that he was unresponsive or catatonic, like a person with severe emotional trauma, it was as if he were taking everything in at a pace. As if he were remembering, or at least trying to.
Loading supplies into her basket and trying to be quick about it, it had taken her a while to realise that he wasn't behind her. She'd found him three isles down, examining cable wires and electronics equipment, which was a bit of a surprise to be honest. Before she could start rambling about the efficiencies of particular circuitry one of the stock room staff in the store dumped a pallet roller, laden with empty pallets after stock clearing, about three metres behind him.
It was a shock to have him be there beside her one second, listening to whatever was coming out of her mouth (she'd never remember), and the next having him away from her at the safest distance possible, which would be the length of the isle; both head and eyes trained on the pallets and the stock boy like a hawk. Assessing his environment. 'Jumpy' didn't come close to describing it.
The fact that he'd palmed a Stanley Knife did not escape her notice.
Nor did her discerning and slightly shaken expression pass from his.
The overhead lights of the store had thrown his face into pallid reflection and she was sure she didn't look any better. Blue eyes stared her down, analysing her reaction until he finally cleared his throat and moved to place the knife back on its shelf. With a huge amount of reluctance.
His hand shook.
His left index finger and thumb had been rubbing together and he kept a distance of several feet from Felicity after that as she continued to buy her groceries. Having his eyes on her the whole time – literally; the whole time, as if staring at me rooted him to a single place - had made her more than a little uncomfortable.
But she'd still, for some odd reason, bought the knife he'd placed down.
And it had relaxed him. Sure, he'd been stunned, but something has settled in his shoulders again.
Though it made her question just what the hell was wrong with her.
"Are you okay?"
Of course, she hadn't forgotten that he was still right there, sitting next to her in her crappy car.
Eyes remaining closed, because what was the point in being normal when he'd just witnessed her forehead flop against the knuckles of her hand and had also probably likely heard her pitiful groan. She flickered her fingers out from where they'd been tapping restlessly on the wheel. "I'm fine. Totally fine!" The chipper tone was nulled promptly by the obvious slump in her form.
She could hear his bafflement. "Okay then."
Ugh. Taking a deep breath she moved her head, looking up at him and saw that his expression matched his tone. Great.
"So er," her hand gestured out the window in front of them, "this is my home sweet home."
His eyes followed to where her finger pointed.
It was at the end of a corner, a forked road just outside of the Glades and literally at the tip of Tudor's Way; the highway, lane and pathway leading to the busy hub that was Starling City central. Her home sat alone at the very end of the street in a rundown building that was once an apartment block. In fact no other house stood on this particular street. True, around one bend sat several houses, around another was a Laundromat and around the third was a business she'd never cared for the name of. She was close to Queen's Park too, but literally her street was one filled with closed up shops and offices.
She'd chosen it for that very reason.
Out of her peripheral Felicity saw him take a look but didn't dare try to make out his reaction. It was humbling to admit that whilst she had never invited anyone inside before she had gotten close and the looks on their faces had been enough to prove to Felicity that the majority of the populace took beauty at face value.
If Oliver Queen didn't like the fact that her home was an abysmal looking, abandoned building that she'd gotten at a steal that was standing on a dimly lit street then he'd have to lump it. He was the one that couldn't face his family after all.
But as she shut her car door closed, coming around the side, he was already there hands out and reaching for her bags, refusing her 'no, it's alright' answer and lifting the proverbial middle finger to extremist feminists everywhere. The expression on his face didn't look any different from the usual apathetic one she'd been getting slowly used to. No judgement. Nothing.
Oh. Well then.
There was a tingling in her fingertips that told a tale about the cons of excess adrenaline. It was controllable. For now.
He followed her as she walked towards a door with black paint crusting over it. There were many ways to get into this building; this was just the most obvious one. Putting her key in the lock Felicity turned to look at Oliver over her shoulder.
"Ready?" She felt like rolling her eyes at herself. Why wouldn't he be?
At his patient nod she pushed open the door and ushered him inside, out of the rain, locking it again. The vestibule was the exact opposite of its outside appearance; a small white space with no pictures or ornaments of any kind. It was sterile. Not felicity Smoak. But she didn't live in this space, though it was part of her living space. Her home was one floor up… the only tenant in the building.
Not thinking about the fact that, as a result of her longer than average work day the son/stepson (Moira/Walter) of her boss was following her she walked up the set of stairs just waiting in front of her, ignoring the short hallway to the side. There was an alarm box just in front of the door (since she practically owned the building; there was a secondary alarm system inside too that she rarely used) to her place and she keyed in the code, knowing that he'd seen it; I'll just change it tomorrow. Maybe install upgrades. No I'm not paranoid; just careful. In the most extreme sense.
Then she opened the door.
Felicity loved her apartment. She loved it because she'd designed it; each and every part.
Okay, she didn't exactly draw thorough sketches and pull up construction blueprints of the building or anything (she could have done but that's beside the point) but it held a piece of her in its pages, so to speak.
When she'd first moved to Starling City she'd stayed in a B&B for two weeks before happening across this glorious find. Glorious in that it held potential. And nobody wanted to live there, nobody had lived there for six years before Felicity stepped foot inside. There had been a shootout in this building that should have made WEBG Starling City 7 News history but hadn't since the civilians involved, numbering in the double digits, had been vagabonds, drug users and nomads; the general homeless populace.
Being dirt cheap had only been her second incentive.
Her first was that the floor directly above her apartment had half collapsed in long before the incident. Someone had very kindly managed to, rather than construct another floor, fill in the cracks and weak points of the remaining level. A floor that came with her own for free. Since it wasn't technically a floor. Very promptly she'd handed over the money to a very tired and befuddled looking realtor, snatching the keys as she performed her usual happy dance like the caffeine infested bunny rabbit she'd probably appeared to be.
She'd sanded and dusted, chopped and painted her way through the two floors until it became hers but she didn't stop there either. Knocking down several walls and building others had managed to make her place appear even bigger than it was… and it was pretty massive already. It had taken her three days to build a set of inexpensive winding stairs at the base of the impressive 'hole' above her head. If she stood in the upper half of the lower floor she could see up into the corridor/open space/whatever-you-want-it-to-be she'd furnished, albeit spartanly. And there were no doors up there either, which she preferred.
So walking in the first thing a person would see was the vast expanse of the room.
Picture if you will, the warmth of a terracotta carpet stretching 20 metres by forty, because that was the length of her living room. Her kitchen sat there too, to the right of the room without a wall to separate it from the main area. It was her tribute to 'Friends', only a much swankier, much larger version. In fact the whole place was such a wide space that her two sofa settee's, grey in colour, looked tiny. Further beyond them was an open area where she could and did do anything she wanted and to the left and right of this space were two large, sliding doors. There was a deep pine table alongside one wall and an assortment of strange knick knacks that she'd collected over the years displayed behind glass in cabinets or exposed on small stools, a coffee table and side cupboards. There were a few pictures too and above her HD TV a selection of Robin Hood movie posters held timeless for all the world to see… or maybe just the one man she'd allowed inside.
In the winter her inviting looking fire would automatically spring to life the moment she opened the door. Instead she flickered on a couple of lights, as there were several, and watched as the darkness was overcome by the softness of dim lanterns and teardrops.
"Honey, I'm home!" Felicity shouted out habitually as she stepped over the threshold.
She felt him stiffen behind her. "You live with someone?"
A flush broke over her skin and she really couldn't help the embarrassed laugh that escaped her. "No! No, I live alone. Completely alone. It's uh… it's a habit." She licked her lips, taking off her coat. "But I do own a cat. Or rather, she owns me. Comes and goes whenever she pleases."
He didn't say anything and she didn't blame him; he was probably regretting his decision to come with her already. There was a large floor mat adjacent to the front door where she slipped off her sodden shoes and took in a deep inhale to steady her growing nerves. Because, yes, there was a man now in her home with possible aggressive tendencies pertaining to his more than probable PTSD due to an extended stay on a foreign island.
Let's just say it's crossed my mind. A bit. Okay, a lot.
PTSD; it had to be.
The solemnity, the unusual behaviour, the calculating and aloof expression, the robotic head turns, these were easily fathomed and reasoned if PTSD were placed in the equation.
Her brain was a land filled with information, some useful and some the opposite. Felicity knew that in order to get diagnosed with PTSD an individual must have directly or indirectly experienced some sort of traumatic event. Being shipwrecked on an island could be diagnosed as traumatic enough but…
Something didn't feel right about that.
Her brain couldn't forget the image of him palming that knife, the same knife she knew he'd pilfered once again from her shopping when he thought she wasn't looking.
Why would he feel like he needed a knife? Or would any weapon do? As if he were in danger, as if he were used to danger, used to having to protect himself in lethal ways. But he wasn't a soldier returning from a war zone in Afghanistan nor had he been a victim of a horrifically long stay with terrorist group looking for a profit from a rich American family. No, he was just a man who'd been shipwrecked on an unpopulated island and left alone for five years… right?
Hyper-vigilance was one of the three main categorised symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, one characterised by frequent 'starts', where a person might not be able to relax because he or she was on constant alert.
Avoidance was another. He certainly doesn't want to go home yet.
It made Felicity wonder. Had anyone actually asked him what had happened whilst he was away? Had anybody asked him what he really wanted? Had anyone wondered at whether or not he'd need therapy? Or if not therapy, someone simply to talk to?
Did anybody actually ask him… if he was alright? Just that?
Please tell me somebody asked him if he was alright.
There was a sinking feeling in her stomach.
Alright as in 'no, I'm not alright, I'm barely coping but what do you expect from me? I was shipwrecked and isolated for years! This is my new normal.'
Not alright as in 'yes, I'm fine. I'm home now. Everything's going to be okay. I'm the exact same person I was when I left.' Just thinking the words gave her the creeps.
But after five years in any environment considered foreign a man could and would change. And Oliver Queen would have definitely changed. Into what, she didn't have a clue.
Except now he had a knife.
This was such a bad idea. Thinking too much about what may or may not be like is also such a bad idea. It really isn't good for my adrenaline, which was currently torpedoing into the stratosphere. Any minute now she'd start sweating.
But the sinking feeling vanished when she turned to watch him out of the corner of her eye and caught the oddest look on his face. His expression had changed. And it was just as startling as it had been when he'd smiled at her.
Standing there to her left, he was taking in her apartment; his eyes had lost their cool composure, the ice blue relaxing into the deeper waters of gentle surprise. They flickered over the free space, the stained staircase in the far corner (they also took in the number of doors, like he was looking for the exit just in case), the framed collector's editions posters of Errol Flynn, Russell Crowe, and Kevin Costner all in their green Robin of the Hood regalia and for just a moment she felt as if an invisible wall that she hadn't noticed before had dropped free off him.
He'd let down his guard.
Which was difficult to do for someone suffering PTSD.
But it made whatever anxiety had started to blossom in her chest fade somewhat. Biting on her lip, Felicity reached for the grocery bags and when his eyes snapped back to her she didn't flinch or do anything other than smile as she took them from him.
"Like the place?" She asked as she manoeuvred her way to her kitchen and calling back over her shoulder as she turned from him. "It took a while to do up."
"It's… nice. Big."
I'll take what I can get. Placing pears and Persimmon's in a wicker fruit bowl without making them look like a lurid green and orange mess could be a literal art form. "Thanks!"
"It wasn't what I expected." She shouldn't have heard the low mutter but – fantastic hearing. He called out. "Did you do all this yourself?"
"Most of it." She called back as she offloaded mint chip into the freezer. "The literal hole in the ceiling was there when I bought the place."
"You're not just renting?" He sounded surprised.
"Nope! It's all mine."
Straightening she adjusted her glasses, ugh, I forgot to wipe them – the little water marks would take forever to clean – and walked back into the main area.
He was stood in the exact same spot she'd left him in, except he'd shucked off his coat and had it folded over his arms. His expression made her think he was a little unsure about something.
"You can hang that up you know." She pointed to the coat rack behind him.
"My shoes are wet…"
For some reason it was funny. Or absurdly adorable. Her head tilted sideways at him, an indulgent smile spilling helpless from her. "Oliver, you can take them off too. Take it all off." Panicked, her eyes widened. "Or don't! Your choice."
Obviously nothing phased this guy because without even the tiniest acknowledgement of her verbal gaff the man simply began unfastening the laces of his shoes before placing them with hers and hanging his coat on the rack beside her red one.
Right, she nodded to herself.
Drive him to the morbidly ghostly factory of supreme potential, check. Take him on an unplanned and probably unsolicited tour of Little Bird where thankfully nobody had spotted that it was Oliver Queen strolling next to me like an overgrown crow, like they'd even recognise him, check. Bring him back to my place for reasons totally negating any and all gutter drenched images that those opening words immediately implanted in my brain, check…
Now what?
For some reason the idea of engaging in small talk sounded incredibly patronising. And terrifying. Liking the constant rain? Basketball fan are you? Yes, I'm partial to a little Fall Out Boy myself but it wouldn't be my first choice. What happened on Prison Break? I'd tell you if I'd watched it though I suggest you stay away from Lost for the immediate future…
Internally she was already cringing. I am so bad at this. 'This' being the art of talking to and bringing men (because he certainly isn't a boy) home with her. Strange men. Who were unbelievably rich. And handsome – smoking hot, really, can't lie – who had left behind a reputation for sleeping with every gorgeous girl from Starling to Massachusetts.
There was no way she could fault him when he stopped short as he turned to her again; she had been fidgeting and she was pretty sure her leg was jigging on the spot. But his eyes were trained behind her, low to the floor.
Oh, right…
The brush of very wet fur stroked across the uncovered skin of her lower calf until she felt it on her shins. Sighing, Felicity looked down, there she is.
When it came to Mau, Felicity's awareness was almost sharper than her hearing.
Caught in the feline beauty that a pair of small green and gold irises can bestow she tilted her head. "I know; I'm late."
Her cat was a beautiful bronze Egyptian 'Mau'; slightly larger than the average size cat and twice as intelligent.
One loud 'meow' sounded out from deep within its throat and Felicity rolled her eyes. "And I got your food."
Oliver looked like he had no idea how to react and it was kind of refreshing to not be the one out of their depth, if not entertaining. Especially when Mau slinked over to the man and started sniffing his feet, padding around him to get a good look. Apparently one time around wasn't enough for her either. I know how you feel.
"Mau?" She called. And was ignored. Figures.
Oliver was looking at her again. She was already halfway to the closet when she was finally able to string more than two words together. "D-do you want a towel?" Should have offered him one sooner.
"Please."
Felicity pulled out her largest, softest one. "Here." She said, passing it to him. Pointing her thumb behind her, towards the far door, next to the back window she asked, "Do you mind if I just check on something for a moment?"
He arched a brow.
She blinked at him.
He slowly shook his head - no.
"Thanks. So, uh…" Moving away she walked towards the last plastic carrier. "I got you a pair of sweatpants. Had to guess your size but I figured if you were coming over you'd want to dry the clothes you were wearing." She tried for a confident laugh but it sounded more like a wheeze because, gulp. It meant taking clothes off. An idea she was more than partial to but he was still a stranger so, no. "Didn't want you walking around naked. Not that it would be any kind of problem for you to be naked and in my house, far from it, I mean you're really- and I'm going to stop now. Just stop talking Felicity." I could die. Shaking her head she reached for the bag when he spoke.
"What happened to the Glades?"
Half bent over, she peeked at him over her arm. "Sorry?"
"The Glades." He reiterated, the towel still neatly folded in his hands. "Before I…" In the longest of pauses that followed he didn't move or breathe, his facial expression didn't change at all. He just looked at her until he found the word, any word. "Left, it was already…" Again with the searching.
"Falling to pieces?" She offered.
"Yes." His voice was quiet, as if afraid to say the words aloud. "But now it looks worse. I barely saw any of it but it still looks worse." He took a step towards her. "Was it because my father closed the factory?"
Her heart gave a twinge.
Tread carefully. "No." She shook her head, trying for a sympathetic smile. "I can see why you would think that but, no." Since her skirt had been shielded by her coat it was dry enough to sit and she did, on the sofa closest to the kitchen, which wasn't all that close. "I've only lived in Starling City for the past two years. Well, two years and about nine months to be exact. But I did some research. Research is something that I do, a lot," she explained when the slightest tilt of his head asked her to. "Anyway, closure of Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory didn't exactly kill the Glades, but it was considered to be the final blow in a series of really hard setbacks, knock downs and deliberate tampering that has led the Glades to its own destruction via internal combustion." She shrugged. "Very deliberate use of words."
"How bad?"
Her heavy exhale puffed her cheeks. "Let's put it this way; don't ever walk around the Glades at night alone. In fact don't walk around the Glades at night period, not if you aren't aware of which place is safe and which isn't. Don't expect to get a job there either because there aren't any. Unless you count petty crime as employment. And some of it's not so petty. The rich folks of Starling tend to ignore the general degeneration of an integral part of their city." Well into it now she'd totally blanked Oliver, who still stood, prone and silent somewhere to her left. "Pretty sure some of them play a hand in making it worse."
"What?"
She blinked, eyes losing their slightly 'deep in thought' veneer. Er… what was that about? She never travelled down this train of thought in company. "Never mind." Finally reaching for the bag she stood and passed him the pants. "I won't be a minute. If you want to change you can put your pants on the kitchenette and I'll stick them in the dryer." And with that she moved away, across the room towards the nondescript far door and stepped inside, sliding it shut behind her.
Do you know the true irony of the Glades? It's very simple: a 'glade' is an open area within a woodland. The woodland being what makes up the rest, the majority, of Starling City. People in this city deemed the Glades as a dangerous place to live in on the simple ground that crime of any particular element was the most prevalent there. But it's in the 'woodland' area where the true monsters creep, the ones hidden behind glass and doors and buildings and money. In a dark forest it's difficult to sometimes see the wood for the trees. And in Starling City, it was in the cleanest, the mightiest, and the safest places that Felicity had discovered to being the most insidious.
Monsters like James Holder, the CEO of Holder Corporation, were a symptom of this darkness.
And he wasn't the sole occupant of the list she'd compiled.
That list and this room were two more examples of why Felicity never invited colleagues home.
Striding forwards with a purpose Felicity approached what appeared to be a mammoth network of a complex array of servers, base units, and monitors; the most up to date software and hardware a person who knows what they are looking for can by. A HUB. It took up almost a third of the room by itself and if there weren't additional monitors attached to the walls there were pictures, maps, newspaper cuttings, data profiles, filing cabinets and an unfathomable series of what would look like, to a layman, a confusing mess of numbers, but to Felicity they were a language.
She didn't sit in the comfortable swivel chair, instead opting to simply lean over one of the three keyboards on her modestly fitted, cumbersome desk and modify the ongoing search for 'patterns'. Momentarily her eyes flickered to her right where, in the darkness, stood a whiteboard – her thought board and analysis syphon - which she'd covered over with a spare sheet.
Tomorrow I add James Holder. Right next door to Adam Hunt.
The night didn't last long after that.
Coming back to the main room, after ten minutes or so, she'd found that he'd changed out of his pants and into the loose fitting black sweatpants. He'd also taken off the thinly weaved, long sleeved top he had on over his shirt, which was still very much in place and, more to the point, dry.
She wouldn't deny the awkward moment of silence that stretched between the two of them.
But he immediately admitted to being kind of tired. She didn't need to ask for an explanation. How about 'I came back from the dead yesterday and it's been nonstop ever since'? That works.
Plus, being shipwrecked on an island? There was no alarm clock. She'd have been surprised if he'd managed to keep his watch.
Eventually following her upstairs, she hid her gulp as she navigated him past the hole in the floor, which was covered by a banister, around the corner of the small hall and into her spare guest room.
He arched a brow at the doorway… because there was a solid lack of doors upstairs. Of any partition other than the walls. Her bedroom lay sort of adjacent to the guest room but it slanted slightly away from it so you couldn't really see directly into either of the rooms from whichever end. And there was a big enough space between the two that sound wasn't too much of an issue. Each had their own window.
His eyes flickered from the bed to the window and then to the floor in a swift series of blue flashes and she had a sneaking suspicion that the man wouldn't be sleeping in the comfortable mattress any time soon. He didn't speak as he moved forwards and, leaving him to his own devices, she made to walk to the bathroom when he finally did.
"Felicity?"
It was the first time he'd said her name and it hit her like a wall. His expression hadn't changed but it was still the first time he'd called her by her forename.
"Thank you."
Serenely, softly, she smiled. "You're welcome Oliver."
But on entering the bathroom, on locking it with the metal bolt she'd attached after moving in, on taking in that first deep, stuttering breath at the knowledge that she'd invited a stranger into her home so suddenly, on realising that with him being there she couldn't possibly do what she normally did during the night… her entire being revolted.
Body shaking, skin staring to glisten with sweat, no, vision tunnelling as the cells of her body worked overtime, not now, as the electrons in her brain ran faster than she was likely to be able to stand she stumbled over to the cabinet above her sink, searching for a specific bottle of pills and fumbling with the release cap when she found them. It had been a long time since she'd had to take her meds. Xanax, Diazepam, Ativan, Sarafem – name a benzodiazepine and she'd tried it.
Control yourself.
All she had to do was wait for it to take effect. Back hitting the door, she slid down its surface, body hunched and knees brought up to her chest she closed her eyes, forcing her mind blank and for her lungs to expand as she breathed in her meditation song. No kinetic energy reaching her hands.
No sudden movements…
04:01am…
'Sleep of the Just' my ass…
The drowsy thought ghosted her mind as she turned over, seeking comfort in her pillows. Not much comfort, there was much pummelling and then some twisting of bed sheets.
Her mind quickly drifted off again into a 'half-wake, half-sleeping' thing…
After the panic attack, slumber; as in wholesome respite, had been a long time coming. She'd tossed and turned until finally giving in to the overpowering fact that her body wanted to do more than lie down. So she'd chosen some yoga. That's normal, right? Yoga at 12:37pm?
Lying down on the mat at the foot of her bed Felicity had stretched, tucked, pulled and manoeuvred her body into almost every shape imaginable.
He'd been quiet, almost impossibly so… there was no reason it should have woken him up.
Yet she couldn't help but feel like she was being watched. The flicker of movement in her peripheral had told her so, calling for distraction but she'd ignored it. Put it down to partial insomnia, because honestly? Who slept well after all that he'd been through?
She'd heard him too, frequently in spits and spats during her own very fitful sleep; a gasp here, a mumble there, the odd groan which definitely had her panicking but she hadn't gone to him. One of the first rules of dealing with a person with (aggressive or no) PTSD is to never wake them unless you understood more about the situation; let it happen naturally.
Eventually he'd shouted out.
Sara
Dad
No
SARA!
Not you
Laurel
Other words became an indistinguishable mess of mumbling, whimpers, fast breathing and odd accents. And then he'd quieted.
Laurel and Sara Lance.
During her research on Starling and her subsequent find of all things 'Ollie' online, she'd been hard-pressed to come across an article about him that didn't involve Tommy Merlyn or either of the aforementioned women.
It must be hard to come home to. He hasn't felt it yet but he will. The judgement. The hate. The overwhelming adoration. The throng of people who claim to know who and what he is, who treat his story as a sensational happening, as if he'd been on a five year pleasure cruise rather than a five year stretch on an island he probably now views as a prison.
Prison.
The news had referred to the island as a place called 'Lian Yu'. Accurate translation; Purgatory.
God I hope it wasn't a literal description. Flashes of online articles popped up over her eyelids, as if they were computer monitors. I can't even rest when I float. She was vaguely aware of an open window, somewhere, could feel the breeze on her skin; the temperature and moisture in the air conveying that the rain fall hadn't quite ceased just yet. Just keep your eyes closed Felicity. Keep breathing deep, try to get the last hour in before-
There was a shift.
Just a… something. Something was different. Her heart rate was already accelerating, her mind waking dizzyingly fast, something isn't right.
Eyelids fluttered away from over her eyes, mere slits of vision that took in her room… Nothing. There was nothing-
Oliver was standing in her doorway.
Oh.
It was dark, too dark, but her eyes were natural adapters to natural or unnatural light and the light from the moon was more than enough to allow her to see him standing straight and formidable in size, just half a step inside her bedroom, to see his face. The pounding in her chest rocketed. His eyes were on edge, a blank slate, staring straight at her.
He was holding a knife. The same knife she'd bought as a compassionate compromise.
Oh frack me…