True Face: The Beautiful Crime

by I've got Rhythm in my Soul

Though Oliver Queen is the reigning champion of the man with two faces, it's Felicity Smoak who knows the true crime of the masks they wear. It's of a particular beauty. One Mr Queen begins to grasp as he hounds the criminals in the city of Starling. But he moves in sync with an established shadow. ...You'll understand eventual

7. Chapter 7

Freak… Like Me?

Queen Consolidated, 4pm

"…man in a green hood."

She blew errant hairs away from her glasses as she worked. A man in a green hood. It just-

It isn't something you hear every day. Or at all. Like, never.

But then, neither was The Watchman.

She frowned; staring at the rusted, damaged wiring between her fingertips without really seeing it.

It was probably why she was thinking about it. Again. Why she'd spent hours looking into it; into reading reports and checking camera footage, sifting through calls logs only to find there were none. Nothing relevant anyway.

There was someone out there - man or woman - who clearly had a bone of contention, something he or she needed to accomplish… or they were mentally unstable and, thinking about herself and how she could have- yes, that's definitely an option. But this person was out there. Now. Wearing a green hood. Like… a cover. A smokescreen-

A mask?

She paused, crouched as she was beneath the desk.

A hood. Theatricality meant something. Hood or mask; they were recognisable but as a shield. They made it possible to pop up in dark garages. In old warehouses.

And kill a person.

It seeped in: this hooded person had already accrued three deaths.

It isn't what I do, not that she couldn't or hadn't. Or how she'd started out. And she couldn't even claim logic in it. It was too new: no pattern to follow. You'd think there would have been signs to follow before the kidnapping. Events covered up, newspaper articles hinting the birth of something new.

And people. Social media, stealth, digital reconnaissance constructs and data siphons made people easy to follow. But there was nothing this time. No trail.

And she'd question the existence of another vigilante solely on the way that she came into the role. It isn't what I call healthiest lifestyle. Or admirable. You do not want to bring me home to meet the parents. So, in the interests of not being a massive hypocrite, she decided to leave all previous conceptions at the door.

It isn't just something you decide to do-

Well… it kind of is.

She'd been looking into this throughout the night. I'll sleep when I'm dead. Of signs: was this the rise of a vigilante or the presence of a serial killer?

The idea was almost… titillating. Colour me not at all surprised… at myself. Her circumstances and how she came into existence, so to speak, were rare. But thinking about it, Starling was one of those cities that spawned the unthinkable. A damsel in distress in its own right, Starling demanded attention every now and then. If you believed it held its own spirit like certain Japanese myths, then maybe it had spoken to another the same way it had spoken to Felicity.

Maybe it had caused a person to somehow save the lives of two sons of Starling.

The coincidence of one of those men being Oliver Queen, someone just returned from a five year absence with a Bratva tattoo inked on his ridiculously sculpted and hauntingly scarred chest was too much to touch. It felt like a statement had been made. The fact that the three men had been sent specifically to take him and not his friend told her that, him being gone - dead - had benefited someone. And there was only one term of phrase she could think after that.

Foul play.

The sinking of the Queen's Gambit. Foul Play. Oliver Queen.

Now I'm just asking for trouble. But it was right there, clear as day: Oliver had been their target, and no one was talking about it.

It should have been headline news: "Billionaire playboy taken for unknown reasons, less than 24 hours after his return! Could this have anything to do with the loss of the Queen's Gambit that went down without a trace 5 years ago?"

See, that wasn't hard.

So, where was the media circus? What of the internal investigation launched by the army of lawyers she knew QC possessed but weren't utilising? Where was his family's demands to know just what the hell was going on? Hadn't anybody even considered it?

Didn't anybody care?

Her eyes shut, oh come on brain; don't go down that road. Or was it heart? You barely know him. And yet it was like trying to stop a train moving at speed. Pieces of a very large puzzle were coming together in her head and once that happened, letting go was impossible for her. It was the kind of thing that made her a nightmare for the men and women she helped put away. But this was different. At the centre wasn't a city; it was a person. One very interesting, unspeakably lonely person.

It was so strange that she knew that.

And it was rare to hear others wondering the same. As in, she didn't hear anyone mention a thing about it. Oh, the chances of stumbling past a newspaper or hearing media broadcast and not hearing or reading about the miraculous return of 'Ollie' Queen or an update into what he might be doing were low. And the rumour mill at the QC fish bowl worked the same way: half the people who worked there seemed intimately acquainted with Oliver - prior to island seclusion - his best friend or their past parties and were waiting for the encore because… hat's all they cared about.

His life was a play and everybody wanted on stage, so they could play a part in the life of a man they'd never truly know.

Journalists could only guess. Heck, even his family didn't seem to understand the operandi for a man returning home after five years shipwrecked, I assume… because people who assume don't make asses out of you and me and that only works when there's another person Felicity…

But not one of these sources mentioned trauma.

The very real tragedy of spending years, alone - with waning hopes of being rescued - after losing a loved one to the ocean- more than one loved one, God. His father. Sara Lance. Did he love Sara Lance back then? Did it even matter?

He'd still lost them. After the initial response to his return, his father and friend weren't mentioned again, nor was the fact that he was alone. For 5 years.

Ignoring the scars - the many proofs that brought up a whole lot of question marks about his solitary status on an island in the China sea - or his tattoos - you know, the Mandarin tattoo on his hip and the very CLEAR and present Bratva insignia on his chest - that indicate things - many, many things, so many things, really - it hadn't been- no, including them. Including the various ways he could have gotten those scars, the things he'd have done to achieve the tattoos: Oliver Queen had suffered. He'd been to dark places.

And no one was talking about that.

Maybe I'm thinking too much about it. As if he'd want people all over the city discussing his mental health and wellbeing.

But… she'd spent time with him. Enough time - though not much - to see that no one had cracked open the lid. No one had seen beneath the surface.

No one would unless he wanted them to. That kind of trust came with time.

Or maybe they'd been sold by the quiet of him, though that would have pulled the rope of about a thousand bells for me. The way he'd looked at her, the way he'd moved. The cold blue eyes behind a smile that never reached them.

The transition from island Oliver Queen to Starling Oliver Queen, would take more than what money could throw at it. Orchestrating parties and 'welcome back' bashes, announcing to the public that the Queen heir was home to stay and that he had a bright future in a company he'd never set foot in, was all well and good for his family but, what about Oliver?

The other night stuck with her too: he'd wanted to escape.

That could have been a response from having an overbearing family and she actually hoped that was the case. Overbearing was easy; it showed that he was being seen, that people cared so much, they couldn't leave him alone and were now, hopefully, not pushing him into corners he wasn't ready to fit.

Blind assumptions were another thing altogether.

Had they expected him to return to them, the man who'd left?

Okay, stop. She shouldn't be doing this. Overthinking things that weren't hers to think, about a stranger who she'd likely not talk to again. She didn't know the Queen's; for all she knew, they'd buried Oliver under a mountain of protection, so far.

Yet the silence about his kidnap, the lack of police reassurance- I mean the SCPD certainly haven't even an official investigation.

No, they were too busy concentrating on the man in a hood; the man who'd arrived with spectacular timing and not the criminals who'd caused his or her presence to be necessary. Not the people out there who wished Oliver harm.

Talk about Deja vu. It made her wonder how many things had slipped through the cracks in the SCPD during their manhunt for the Watchman. Maybe I don't want to know.

Still, it was impossible to stop a crime in progress that no one knew was in progress… except, this person had. Somehow. Unfathomably… as if he or she had known or had been monitoring.

Maybe I should keep tabs on Oliver for a while. She sucked in her lower lip. Just to make sure nothing else happens... too far? Not far enough? Completely weird and not at all permissible?

She was ashamed to admit it; she'd checked - not deeply, not at all, nope - into the Queen family. Mrs Moira Steele-Queen - I knew she'd be a woman who hyphenates - hadn't paid for or requested the aid of a skilled therapist. Hadn't really done anything beyond bringing her son home, the morning after returning to the city.

Hadn't looked into the abduction of her eldest.

And, after that had sunk in – after leaping past logic that dictate she was feeling a little too much for a near-stranger – Felicity began to wonder at how deeply his mother had looked into the sinking of the Queen's Gambit?

A rich woman like Moira Queen? Please. More than likely, the lioness's first choice of action would have been to hunt down the bastards who'd dared hurt the son she'd mourned the loss of for 5 years. So, why hasn't she? And why didn't the presence of this hood wearing archer scare the Queen family shitless? Or, make them offer a reward for the safe return of one of their own. Make Mr Merlyn make an appearance on the news – though he was close to hermit hood in regards to public appearance.

Make them all wonder why.

Or how.

There was a chance that the presence of one vigilante had stifled any true panic or shock in the possible appearance of another. Which means I'm either unknowingly helping this person, by making them stand out less or I'm getting in the way. Or soon will be.

Add to that, Felicity couldn't not pay attention to the clear skill this renegade possessed. Skill that had allowed Oliver and his friend to return to safety unharmed.

Altruism?

Whatever the reason, it should terrify the SCPD. She didn't shoot arrows from bows and they were more painstaking than a bullet to deal with. Than a blade. A claw? But what had she expected from a bent police force?

This person hadn't had to kill. The level of efficacy and ability utilised had been, whilst thoroughly intimidating, unnecessary. It could build up an image.

The three men should have been brought in for questioning. Instead, they'd been killed. Message sent. But whoever this person was-

"Whoever this guy is, he knows his weapons, and someone taught him how to take lives. And how to hunt."

-they'd been taught how to be thorough. How to be fast and sure. How to leave conscience and ethical mores, at the door. It didn't scream moral turpitude exactly. There was a surety there that didn't reek of wanton bloodthirst or cockiness. A strength that could be funnelled. No teenager or old-aged civilian could do this.

And so, her profile - her assessment of an expert, possibly prolific hunter - began.

The dead men, the bow and arrow; they were all statements. They all meant something. But how seriously should she - could she - take it?

Something in her gut told her that Adam Hunt wasn't the sole focus. But where was the connection between Oliver's kidnapping and Adam Hunt? You don't just jump ship - she knew first-hand how difficult it was to juggle balls when one ball held supreme over the rest - so the leap couldn't be random.

CEO Hunt had been cornered in his parking garage and according to police reports, he'd been commanded to deposit a sum of money - the amount was kept out of the report but it had to be pretty large to have Hunt scurrying for cover like this - into a bank account - also kept secret because he obviously thought it would save him - and was told to have it in there by 9pm.

9pm this evening.

A deadline. A threat- no, a promise. But there were easier ways of getting money when you were a criminal. It was as if this hooded guy was giving him a chance… a chance to do what?

And he or she, they'd saved a life. Which meant- she wasn't sure what it meant beyond-

Potential.

There'd been no cameras to hack in or around the warehouse where Oliver had been taken with his friend Thomas Merlyn, after their-

Alright, how does that work exactly?

Sat on her haunches, she almost palmed her face. This is when my brain wants to take a vacation?

But it was interesting. In a staker-ish kind of way, sure. Really though, how did a friendship keep so pristine after a 5-year gap? Could it be kept pristine? It was probably all sorts of awkward too… or maybe it was like riding the proverbial bike. She wouldn't know; she'd never had a best friend like that. Someone you met in school and stayed close to.

How difficult was it for Oliver to feel the difference? Pasting on a wide smile, the same one he wore at the Queen mansion and telling everyone I'm fine; did that drain him?

Did he like it? Acting a part. Did he hate that he wasn't who he used to be?

Somehow, he'd found a way - a key - to keep in control.

It was beyond most people, that kind of control. But maybe it was exactly what the doctor ordered for a man who'd been shipwrecked and left alone for five years with nothing to do but become-

Unbreakable.

Coping could manifest in unusual ways and control felt a lot like a defensive form of therapy, a kind of directing. A way of dealing. It didn't speak of peace found in a storm. It spoke of channelling thunder. Sublimating aggression. Violence. And all of it was hidden behind a beautifully sculpted 6 pack. Or was it 8 pack? She needed another look…

But it made something inside her tense and stir. What did he have to be violent about?

There was just something. Something wrong.

Something… great.

About Oliver Queen.

And I can't quite put my finger on it.

Unlike the copier machine which, though easily reparable, broke at least once a week. That requisition order I put in is running at its usual speed, I see. Or maybe Nick Stole's last act at QC was to circumvent her in the most juvenile way he could think of because he knew she'd have to spend another 20 minutes on the floor beneath the photocopier to fix whatever malfunction had occurred this time. He always had enjoyed the view.

She blew a piece of hair out of her eyes for the umpteenth time, reaching into the copier's nook and crannies. I did get him taken away in cuffs; that counts for something.

Now, she just needed to see who her new supervisor would be and maybe she could stop wondering about a certain returnee.

Hah. Yeah right.

She could be honest with herself too if no one else.

It wasn't remotely scandalous - though you'd have to be blind not to see how good-looking he is, and that was putting it mildly - how she couldn't seem to get the man out of her head or far from her thoughts, which he'd effortlessly captured. She'd seen something in his eyes and face; a dichotomy. A predator and a lost boy. A man. A man who kept his secrets locked away tight behind a wall of granite.

A lot of man, really.

And something far more serious.

Men, women, people in general- they didn't move like he did, didn't act like he did, didn't look at people the way he did or sniff them out like she knew he could. He saw everything. How?

Better question, why?

He made her think. It could be dangerous for Oliver if someone like her thought too much about him.

Too late.

"…Felicity?"

Much too late.

"Felicity!"

Much too interesting. "He really is." she muttered unthinkingly. Absorbed.

"Felicity?"

The voice sounded far away; she had time. "One sec…"

Focus. The tip of the screw was so very tiny… a mistake at this stage wouldn't mean much of anything but she'd set herself a goal: regardless of her deft fingers, it was a good habit to exercise. Being Dextrous. Practice made perfect and Felicity had made practicing an art form.

Bent over, "Almost," tongue trapped between her teeth, eyes on the teeny tiny screw - the last screw - she was securing back in place, "got it-"

"Feliccccity!"

-The screw driver drove straight into her index finger. "Drek."

"Um," unsure laughter coating the lofty tone Teresa tended to employ on the daily - Felicity's very own perfectly manicured sub boss popping in just to make Felicity's allowance in eye-rolls, teeth grated and under-breath muttering, shoot ever skyward - her ostentatious red heels screamed for attention in her peripheral, "what did you just say?"

Resist eyeroll. Yiddish was, in general, lost in translation. Thankfully. And she'd long since stopped trying to explain her verbal gaffs.

Drek = shit.

"Nothing, nothing." And banging her head on the underside of the printer table didn't seem like a good way to cover up her faux pa, not that Teresa would know, "I'm done!" Pulling out of the tiny alcove beneath the printer stand, she straightened to her feet; sucking on her finger like the world's clumsiest blond stereotype. "Hmf?"

And Teresa… looked like she was about to combust with impatience. "We have to get those copies in the upstairs pigeonhole in an hour," meaning, Felicity would have to. "I've been calling you."

"And," she dropped her finger, "I was under the table." She cleared her throat. Now, faff away elsewhere please?

It wasn't as if Teresa would be getting anymore work done at this time of day anyway. Her schedule was 8:30am till 4:30 and more often than not, she stopped doing anything worthy of note an hour early in favour of – guess – gossip mongering. She'd flit through the floors in search of the right person to chin-wag with and she had a few favourites, of which I am not. Again, thankfully.

She had work to get done of the green hooded, CEO Hunt, law graduate variety. It was a growing list.

"Look I need to get going. The party of the year is in," Teresa checked her watch; scarlet red nails gleamed under the lighting in the hallway matching the bronze curls that flew about her face with the slightest twitch, "just over 3 hours, god." She shook her head as if to say, there's no time! What else did she have to do? Felicity thought she looked ready to party already. I need to get out more. And really, it didn't surprise her that Teresa was going to Oliver Queen's return bash. "Have you finished with Ned's office yet?"

As in, have you finished clearing it Felicity?

She had, but it was a reminder that as office administrator, Teresa Tanning was just as adept at distributing and delegating responsibility, as Ned had been.

Just nod. Smile. "Yes." There were a few things there worth looking at twice…

"That's what I like to hear!" Hands smoothing over her hair, then her skirt, as if she was already in full party mode, she smiled wide; lashes fluttering prettily. Happy now that her plans could go ahead. "Will I see you there?" Her teeth sparkled under the hallway lights. She bleached them again.

"Ah," wow; she blinked at the sheen, "no invitation."

At least a dozen other employees were signed up to go and Felicity was in no way tempted to watch as QC workers stared and ogled like fish in a fish bowl at the same man who'd reached for a Stanley knife because of one loud noise.

And yet… Oliver hadn't pulled out of attending.

It had flashed across the internet the night before, courtesy of Tommy Merlyn: the caption 'be there' in gold flashing print - a recent snapshot of himself and Oliver exiting the police station after the kidnapping, adding to their 'bad boy/party boy' hype - an invite all in itself.

Something Teresa must have seen too. "You don't need an invite."

"I'm not exactly the type to party the night away…" Not if it was the drinking and dancing - less satisfying - variety of party, no.

And that was probably the most disturbing thing she'd thought in months. Her nights were fun.

Teresa sighed, "Ugh, you're not fun," she muttered absently, catching herself in the gleam of an office window and checking her appearance. "You rarely go out for drinks after work and you always leave later than I do; some of us think you like your job just a tad too much."

Locking in a grunt, "remind me how much that pains me again," Felicity pressed her lips together - remind me how much I don't trust you guys - looking anywhere else but at Teresa who was pulling the skin at the corner of her eyes.

Not that the older woman was listening. "Really," and she was definitely frowning at what Felicity guessed where the first hints of laugh lines in the 30-something face, "it's been a while since this company had much to celebrate."

Um, "Our recent acquisitions and financial upswings notwithstanding?" She pushed her glasses up her nose. She thought they'd been nothing short of stellar but clearly it was nothing-

"Right." Kay. Teresa was a mile away; nodding to herself at something only she saw in her reflection before frowning and turning back to her. "You're not usually this talkative."

Her head tilted, since when do you talk to me? "End of the week blues." Why are we still talking?

"Huh… well if you change your mind." Teresa's eyes dropped - her usual cursory judgement for the afternoon - and caught sight of the shoes Mr Steele had admired earlier. "Oh!" As if it was extraordinary, that Felicity would own a pair… and then the matchy-matchy of her skirt with the shoes. The overall affect really. Felicity had never seen her looked stunned before. "Where did those come from?"

"Er," she looked down; making sure they were still the same shoes and not glowing orbs of brilliance attached to her feet, before looking back up, "my wardrobe?"

"But- oh, never mind." Priorities elsewhere, Teresa officially lost all interest in her, until next week. "I want those copies."

And thus, she turned and walked back to where she came from.

"Uh." Watching her go, Felicity backtracked on herself; flummoxed. "It's… already done?" Not that it would have mattered. "But, you're welcome." Hands aloft, she interlinked them; nodding to herself. "As always; nice talking with you Teresa."

Sometimes her life felt like a series of social mistranslations. Other times she wondered why she didn't roam the streets in a suit and mask, 24/7. It would certainly be easier. But-

She'd learned over the years; there has to be a line. A limit. Because she was more than a shadow, as easy as it would have been to give herself over to it. She was many pieces that made up the whole of herself. There were parts that needed feeding just as much as the parts that were self-fed.

And really, she was just as much bottle blond, IT extraordinaire as she was, Watchman. And she loved that part of herself, even if others found her less than wanting. She was grateful for the gift she'd been born with…

Tonight though- it was a night for shadows.

And, hopefully, hoods.

CNRI, 6PM

---

Mouth tight, jaw clenched, hands on the keyboard-

"I can't believe he did that." The more Laurel stared at the monitor, the less she saw of the case file she'd been reviewing for over an hour. "I cannot believe him."

Soft sounds - a coat closing, an exhale - told her Johanna was all packed up and ready to party. Or get ready to party. Tommy's 'invite' extended even to friends of friends of the returnee. And friends of ex-s who the returnee royally screwed over. "You can understand why he'd be worried..."

Slowly - open mouthed - Laurel moved to stare up at her friend. "Not you too."

Hefting her bag over her shoulder, her friend just looked at her. "I'm not saying he's right in stonewalling you-"

"Blocking." She frowned; still feeling it hours later. "He blocked me Johanna."

There was no evasive manoeuvring to be had: her own father had blocked her.

As if she knew she were treading on unknown waters - as if she knew that this was a sensitive subject for her friend - Johanna hesitated before adding, "It isn't an official investigation…" she leaned forwards, almost perched on Laurel's desk, "and Laurel, even if it were; you're not part of that case."

As much as it burned to admit, she wasn't wrong.

"Alright." Arms unfolding, her dad gestured to her without looking at her face. "But I don't want my daughter representing you."

Again, her father had made sure she'd have no legal right to the case against Martin Somers.

Wherever that case was.

Indignation rose up in her. "Then why isn't it?"

Johanna shook her head. "What do you mean?"

Arms folding - abandoning her deposition against Hunt for a moment - Laurel leaned back in her seat, peering up at her friend as if she had all the answers. "Why hasn't an official investigation been wrought? Where's the case against Martin Somers?"

"Ssh." A knee jerk reaction had Johanna's head bobbing down, as if preparing to hide under the desk. "Didn't your dad say to keep quiet about this?"

There was nothing to stop her eye roll from completing its circle. She had no patience for irrational fear right now. "Who's going to overhear us?"

"Yeah, well; better to be safe than sorry." Fleetingly, Johanna's eyes looked to the corners of the room, before coming back. "There might be good reason why we haven't heard anything yet. I mean, neither of us have ever been part of a case involving witness protection."

"He's obstructing the course of justice."

"Or maybe," and at this, Laurel knew she was pushing her friend her a little, "your father wants to make sure they have everything they need first. Maybe he's trying to establish a precedent for future cases."

"Victor Nocenti's testimony would be the axe in the block for Martin Somers and my father knows it. Everything else is just show work." Not to insult her job or anything but, with Nocenti, what else did they even need? It would crucify Somers. "It deserves legal action: not no-action." Watching Johanna watch her back - with an arched brow, as if waiting for her to say what was really on her mind - the tense muscles in her body slumped. "The lack of action has nothing to do with getting this done by the book or making sure Nocenti has the best chance; he just didn't want me to represent him. I mean," she gestured towards her evidence board, "he's just going to have to bring in another lawyer anyway and I'd already started…"

She'd already done the work. At this point, there'd be no difference between doing it herself and handing it over to another lawyer.

It stung worse now than it had the day before.

Yet after demonstrating zero faith in her abilities and no respect… where was the justice? Where was the media swarm, out to persecute Somers?

No; Victor Nocenti was still hidden inside the police precinct with no file for prosecution, no charges whatsoever made against Martin Somers-

I don't know what he's thinking.

What was her father doing?

He'd closed off her investigative channels with sorry words, 'you're a lawyer Laurel; not a detective. Stay in your lane'.

Oh, she couldn't wait to see who he chose to represent Victor. If it's not a to-bit lawyer, who graduated from downtown community college, I'll be stunned-

"Taking a stroll into a secured ward," Johanna started, and the look she threw Laurel told her friend that- yeah; you're an idiot. A stubborn idiot. "Might not have been the best way to get what you need either." And she nodded to herself; smiling the smile that everyone hates to see. The 'I told you so' smile. "I don't think anyone believed you were just in the area."

Biting down on her cheek, "It wasn't like I was doing anything wrong," she muttered at her desk.

"Laurel." Like, please girl; really?

Her exhale was short, but she looked back at her friend. Johanna had somehow always managed to make her feel two things: a mature woman or a child. Sometimes at the same time. "He had intel on the Watchman."

That took Johanna back. "Whoa." She blinked. "God, you're not kidding."

"He was at that warehouse- you know; the one on the news?"

Attentive, Joanna just nodded: her earrings bouncing.

"Well, the reason why it's a ghost town, save this one guy, is because the Watchman showed up and put a stop to… whatever they were planning."

"He asked specifically that you not be the one to handle the case for Adam hunt's incarceration; he said you're in danger and he wanted us to warn you off."

"…it seems like he might be more invested in this city than we thought." She breathed out, looking at nothing in particular.

Thinking a lot.

He was Watching them. All of them. Watching me.

"Wait, so…" confusion etched around Johanna's eyes, "he left a guy at the scene?"

Still in her own thoughts, Laurel nodded.

"Why do that?"

Sucking in a breath, "that's what I was trying to find out," she closed down her computer; there was no concentrating on Hunt anymore. He was next week's story. "But-"

"Your father." Johanna pressed her lips together as Laurel stood to get ready. "You know, I get it? Why he's done that. I mean, it's clearly part of the investigation but," she made sure, one last time, that there was no one nearby, "I am dying to know more about the Watchman."

She wasn't alone in that desire. "It would be easier if the subpoena was lifted."

"Redundancy is thy name." Joanna snorted. "Half the city already knows he exists. Make it official already."

"Maybe people just like the mystery." She fastened her coat, placing the strap of her bag onto her shoulder when she caught Johanna staring at her. "What?"

Her head was tilted. "Are you coming tonight?"

She felt the sigh come from deep in her chest. "Johanna-"

"Tommy wasn't wrong this morning. There's over a decade of memories between you three; despite the unhealthy way your choices now seem to revolve around your history with either Tommy or Oliver," she said to which Laurel sent her a glare – one that was summarily ignored, "wouldn't you like a little closure? Something to help you move on?"

"I have moved on Johanna." Since Oliver's return, she'd heard the same words spoken in three different ways from 3 different people. Tommy, Johanna and her father – except he was more, Queen isn't worth your time. Full stop. "The past? It's in my rear view."

"Which is why the only person you've had a physical relationship with since Oliver is with his best friend?"

There was literally nothing Laurel could say in defence of that, but it didn't make the truth any easier to hear. That part of the truth, at least. "That's not fair. I put my work first."

"Don't bullshit me." The words were harsh, but Johanna's tone was anything but. Her voice was gentle, even though she was being tough. "Focusing on work so that you can bury your head in the sand isn't something that constitutes as 'moving on'. You spent a year sleeping with Tommy and you won't even spare 20 minutes to meet one of my brother's very attractive, very smart firemen friends," she said in the same air that someone would say because you're wrong in the head, "so. Tonight?" Brows raised, she pushed off Laurel's desk. "You're coming."

She didn't hide her groan. "Why."

"Because." 'I said so' silently followed. "It is beyond past the time that you face this, and Tommy has given you a chance to do exactly that. And don't tell me you don't secretly want to go." Catching the confused look Laurel threw her, Joanna proceeded to take no prisoners. "Remember, I caught you staring at those pictures this morning."

"I was worried." Still, Laurel furtively swallowed down the mortified breath that slipped out; the blush daring to rise.

After Tommy had left, after saying all the right words to keep her thinking about the one thing she hated to think about, her fingers had manoeuvred the mouse; finding their way towards TNZ and WEBG media sites.

It hadn't taken long to find the picture: Tommy and Ollie, leaving SCPD after their kidnapping.

She also hadn't been able to stop comparing the Ollie who'd left with the Ollie who'd returned. Couldn't stop noticing the very pleasing physical differences between them and admitting: Oliver was… he was attractive. Before, he'd been good-looking too. Hot, even. He'd made her 22-year-old self, melt. But he carried it differently now. It was more rugged. She kind of liked it, even as part of her missed his blonde hair swept all devil may care off his forehead. His clean-shaven jaw.

It didn't change anything. He was still the cheating bastard who'd killed her sister-

But.

He was also Ollie.

"Tommy had been kidnapped." She said candidly, locking that down. She had too; she'd be speaking to him soon. The less she felt, the better. "I was just… looking. Just looking."

"Uh huh." Joanna gave her second best look; the, sure. Uh huh. "Just something aright."

Rolling her eyes, "Can we not talk about this anymore?" Laurel almost begged.

"So long as we're both going," her friend near-sang as moved together, turning towards the exit. "I don't care what we talk-"

"Excuse me?"

At the corner before the hall, in their path, stood a stranger.

Joanna shook herself with a blink. "Can we help you?"

"I…" The young woman exhaled. "I'm not sure. I'm sorry." Said person - blonde haired (long and straight) petit (thin), unsmiling - said as she backed off a step and they stared at her. She was acting odd. Sort of flighty and nervous yet serious and calm. "I'm just- I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing by being here but…"

"It's after hours." Laurel told her, ready to be gone before her rationality won out over her ties to the past. "You might be better coming back in the morning."

"That's the thing." The woman continued, almost wringing her hands. She was worried – about something, anyway. "My father is in trouble and… I need some advice." Unlinking her fingers, she gestured to-

To me?

"My dad said he contacted you?"

Joanna nudged her. "Laurel?"

Explain please?

But she shrugged at her, don't look at me, "I'm sorry," and it was suspicious but Laurel was still curious. "Who are you?"

"Emily Nocenti."

It hit her like a brick.

"Whoa." Joanna breathed at her side. "God has a sense of irony."

"That's not what I'd call it."Stunned, it blossomed in Laurel's chest. Providence. "Your father is Victor Nocenti?" She asked; just in case, hardly daring to believe her luck.

Emily nodded back. "He didn't come home last night." Then she swallowed. "He called me, told me he's in protective custody and to not worry - I'm not living at my apartment at the moment - but… I don't know if he's doing anything about this or if I should be getting him legal help or…" she shook her head, unknowing.

Smiling the smile of the righteous - and it feels good; let me tell you - Laurel unfastened her coat, sending a sideways smile towards Joanna. "You've come to the right place."

Finally; she got to be the smug friend.

Her friend who huffed, "I hate that I know you're not joking." She shook her head. "You're still going to that party."

"Fine." But Tommy, Ollie – they could wait a while. Besides, it would feel good walking into the party with this… achievement.

But what was the achievement? The opportunity, or the winning?

"Please," Emily started, looking all kinds of apologetic, "I don't want to ruin your night."

Joanna sighed, "You're not." Following suit and taking off her coat. "This won't take too long anyway, and we can have you come by tomorrow for…"

As she talked, Laurel was already pulling up her unfinished notes, her plans for an eventual incarceration for Somers.

A possible connection to whatever the Watchman had set his sights on.

Somers, Hunt… it was a start.

---

Maybe it was time to cut loose.

"So, what do you have?" Rob Stellart eyed the stain in front of him: one of many morally ambiguous photographers used by journalists, private investigators and criminals alike in the city. "And don't waste my time."

He didn't have a lot of it anymore.

But the man simply sniffed; unaffected. He'd done this 100 times before. "Uh huh. Here."

The digital camera slid across the desk to where Stellart was standing, stopped by a single finger.

Unimpressed by the equally unimpressive criminal before him, Robert twisted the camera until it was face up and pressed the button at the side to see what was, hopefully, everything he'd paid this man to acquire.

And there-

"This is her?" He muttered without looking up, committing the face in the photo to memory.

Laurel Lance.

She was a looker. Almost gorgeous, but something was missing for him to say it aloud. Of course, that wasn't why he'd needed the pictures, but he couldn't always judge a person by academic posturing alone; especially in front of a judge. She was an innocent and an unknown. Not a sure bet for the jury. But her eyes told a story: they were confident. Almost cocky. Extremely self-assured. Pictures carried a thousand stories, but he liked to look at the faces of prey and deem them worrisome. Or worthy. Corruptible or irritatingly principled.

It was one of the many things he did outside of defending men and women in the court of law, that his employers paid him for.

He pressed the button again. "Her apartment?"

"Nice place." The photographer was tall and thin with one of the most severe faces he'd ever seen. "It's not very secure."

Bad for her. Good for me. If she chose to be a problem and already she was; the type that pulled in publicity. "And her character?"

"She's one of the good ones."

A definite problem then. "Her history?"

"Squeaky clean. New. Too new."

It explained the ostentatious ad in the paper. He could work that angle. And she looked to be in her late 20's, maybe 30. How many years' experience could she possibly have? "Anything else?"

"Cop father." Slight problem. "Rich friends…" Bigger problem. It explained the picture of Thomas Merlyn walking across the road from CNRI staring up at him. "It could be an issue."

"True." He almost smiled. "But in my experience, money can actually makes these things much easier to tend to."

Malcolm Merilyn's son. I wonder if he's a chip off the old block.

"Attention can do the opposite."

Grim amusement seeped into Roberts' expression and this time, his smile came through. It felt like power. "Not for my employer." Adam Hunt wasn't the richest man he'd worked for, but he was one of the most reckless. However, recklessness and money made a bad combination for enemies.

And if this time was different, well… I've signed off hits for less of a reason.

Sighing, Stellart straightened; taking the digital card from the camera and reached into his breast pocket before tossing $5000 across the table in $50 notes. "Be available."

Mr Hunt wasn't his only Patron after all.

Hunt doesn't know I've already left him. If this… man in a hood, who'd threatened Mr Hunt the previous night, was credible, then there was no chance for Hunt. Not without me. The evidence was exemplary and legitimate. How the police got hold of those files though…

He had his suspicions.

A shadow that even a man in a hood, couldn't put to rest. Couldn't make less true, less… intimidating. If The Watchman really was poking inside this case-

Hunt is a dead man.

And if not dead, poor. In which, case he wouldn't be sticking around anyway. But the information on Laurel Lance might be useful in future. Something told him it wouldn't be the last time her name pops up. His instincts were good: they'd kept criminals out of jail for years.

---

9:15pm…

Stocked to the brim, the bar still held only one kind of Scotch; served to him neat - with ice he hadn't requested - and he had no plans to drink it.

Nobody would notice.

Not even Tommy.

"Here!" Said best friend - with a beaming grin on his face - slid Oliver his second shot of Tequila for the night. "Veni, vidi, vici." As loud as Tommy could manage, it didn't travel far in the din of music surrounding them. In the crowd. "We came, we saw, we…" Faltering, he squinted like it would help. "I know I remember what it-"

"Conquered." And if Oliver emptied his shot into his scotch as Tommy waxed memories foreign to him now - they belonged to Ollie, who'd taken the world for granted - then, again; no one noticed. They weren't looking hard enough. Good. "And I'm pretty sure," he leaned every so slightly over the bar-top to eye his buddy, "it was I, not we." And his practiced, self-satisfied smirk, however small, made Tommy chuckle.

Mission accomplished.

"It fitted us though: us against the world." And it sounded nice, whichever place inside him that Tommy was visiting.

Let him stay there. "I'm not sure I remember much studying going on though." The insinuation, the smug drawl, didn't fall flat.

"College co-eds: the only redeeming feature of a hellacious semester." A comforting thought for one man, reminded the other of the threesome he'd had; cheating on Laurel for the first time. It got easier and easier after that. "Julius Caesar. Professor Whoever's opening line. It's literally the only thing I thought I remembered from Harvard." And he didn't look at all repentant about that.

He glanced down, affecting dispassion. "At least you remember something."

"I'll drink to that!" Tommy lifted his glass in salute. "To remembering something from Harvard!" And as he watched Tommy put the shot back, Oliver remembered the other thing that had stuck with him.

Homer's, Odyssey.

Ironic, that it should have helped him once; a story about a man shipwrecked, far from home, for 20 years and the trials and tribulations he'd faced in order to return.

Fate had a sense of irony.

"So," grinning, Tommy twisted round; gesturing to the general splendour, "was it everything you dreamed of?"

The party.

If only he could explain how little it mattered to him. "Worth the wait." And he smiled. Grinning like Tommy was grinning…

Thunderous applause had met him as he'd entered - walking down a set of stairs that exposed him to the crowd; all of them staring, ogling and gesticulating at the prodigal son and wondering what five years on an island might do to a man - a party already in full swing, without pause. Without any indication that it bothered him, or that he thought it obscene.

That he didn't care at all about any of it, save the cover it would give him later.

Nicely done, Tommy.

Detached.

Scantily clad women danced on tables, trays of shots and cocktails already emptying, a DJ in full swing and Tommy Merlyn leading the chant to his return:

Welcome back Oliver Queen.

He'd been there half an hour.

He already wanted it to end.

"Get in the car sir."

For a moment, he'd paused. The last time he'd seen Mr Diggle, it had been to literally leave him parked in the middle of a road.

And it sounded like an order, just as much as a challenge. As Oliver smiled and shook his head at the man - at the casual way he sat but saw everything, at the way John Diggle had genuinely surprised him - a smile devoid of humour but appreciative nonetheless, he slid into the vehicle without fearing he'd be unable to slip away. He'd done more, he'd done worse.

It was just… funny.

The new normal. A joke.

A play.

A reminder that the party was for show. For Tommy. For him to be happy for a while with an excuse to cut loose and drink.

To hide that he was using his best friend to kill a few people.

"Real talk. Look." Pointing over to a gaggle of women – the same group that had surrounded Oliver on entry and that he'd had to disengage himself from, with a smile that said 'I'll make it up to you later' though he never would, as he took their hands off him – several of whom were openly admiring them the same way, Tommy turned to him.

"All dressed up with no one to blow."

There was still a crude element of frat boy in his friend, made all the worse by knowing that half the women in the crowd had come for one thing anyway, if the things they'd managed to whisper in his ears as he walked through them was anything to go by. To see what Oliver Queen was made of now.

Admiring them was the least he could do for not giving a fuck.

He'd done this one thousand times before with one hundred different women.

Loud music, alcohol, paparazzi presence, a few hundred lucky men and women (women more than men) made it so that he would be able to very literally sneak inside of Hunt Multinational, undetected.

It wouldn't have stopped him otherwise. But it was the first on the list. I have to do this right.

"By my estimation," Tommy called over the music, "you have not had sex in 1839 days." And it was a sacrilege, it must be. Tommy's tone, his eyes, told him so and he winced in sympathy as Oliver made a show of agreeing: hissing through his teeth, brow tapering, a fuck written in his eyes.

Sex.

Had he missed it?

Unequivocally yes.

But it had become something else for him. Less an itch to be scratched and more a… validation. That he deserved that moment. The comfort in it; that touch of assurance and pleasure and security. The closeness.

That perfect place, where the world turns silent.

And he didn't. Didn't deserve that. Hadn't earned it.

So, as Tommy pointed out to a particular trio of women – as Oliver played along – seeing his sister in the crowd, felt more like a blessing than the worrying reality that it truly was.

He'd rather be watching a movie with her, than drinking here. With Tommy. The face he had to put on.

Still, she shouldn't be here.

He leaned in close to his friend. "Did you have the bouncers check for ID?"

"Bouncers?" Confused, Tommy almost laughed at the reality. "We have armed security on every floor." The reality being that, there were no bouncer. Security for people buying drinks? Yes. Guards at the door preventing the underage from spending their nights in a toilet? No.

Irresponsible.

Party Tommy.

"So, there's no one looking for underage drinkers." He pointed into the crowd; at his sister in a dress meant for a woman, not a teenager. A woman deliberately not trying to blend in. She was with friends, all the same age and-

Yep.

Those were drugs in her hand.

Less than three years ago, he'd killed the man who'd sold to his sister her first drugs.

And, save from the shock of discovering the presence of an established vigilante in Starling City, it was probably the first time since his return that Oliver felt something other than the overall nothing he'd decided to feel.

He was unsettled.

"Oh man," Tommy muttered, his line of sight on par with Oliver's and, for the first time - as they both watched Thea sip something that was definitely not a soda - on the same wavelength. "Ollie, I'm sorry; I told her she could come."

Even Tommy, who wasn't Thea's brother, could bevel under protest from her. Guilt or love: it didn't matter. He'd probably given her immediate access just because she'd asked. "It's fine." It wasn't. But he said it anyway. "I'll go and have a word with her." He pushed away from the bar, moving into the throng. "Be back in a minute."

"Good luck." Tommy said after him, his lips already around the glass he held.

Oliver peered over his shoulder as he walked away. "Sounds like a man of experience." It was all a game.

And it was all serious.

It was everything he'd missed over the years.

Years.

The word represented that hollow place inside him: the place that was painfully aware that the no longer fit into a world he belonged to.

"Let's just say," Tommy shouted back, "that if I had any sway with women beyond the bedroom, Thea wouldn't be doing this." And he looked so sorry…

Oliver took it in.

Then let it go.

Talk to Thea. Lead John Diggle away from the party. Get to work.

---

Hunt Multinational, 10:17 pm

It was quiet.

As if the building itself was holding its breath.

She was quieter.

Three men at the door. Downstairs, towards to front. Two roving the west hallway and three in the east. Four at the elevator exits on the top floor, with the newly acquired head of security: a former solider, Mr Danton. Names don't matter. He was another thug for hire. A mercenary.

The armed guard surrounding him - which the SCPD just allowed Adam Hunt to plant around supposed strategic positions in the building, painting bullseyes on their backs - were just as much hired criminal. All with rifles and other semi-auto weapons, none of which she needed to concern herself with.

They'd crowded themselves into two hallways. Outside of Hunt's office and at the main elevators on the bottom floor. One wrong move and they were more likely to shoot each other than her. Not that they'd see her.

I'm already past them.

It was embarrassingly easy. Security chief Danton was playing an old manual of sorts, one she knew off by heart.

One this man in a hood might too.

They're guessing.

They thought he was like them: a hired mercenary. A hit man. Muscle.

She couldn't explain how she knew that wasn't the case. That he'd planned for them to react like this.

It's what she would have done.

As if a no-named individual in a hood had orchestrated for Hunt to place paid gunmen to surround him with a thin veil of safety so that when the clock struck 10, the hooded man would wade through them all and make the ultimate point. It made sense to her. I'm rarely wrong.

But she wasn't certain, and she didn't like knowing less than what she needed to know. It made her job harder. It made other things, a mystery. Mysteries need to be solved.

But first-

The pattern.

She had her own goal to focus on. It won't take more than few minutes. By which time, if he was a man of his word - and she had a feeling that he was - then the hooded man would be there.

It helped having what sometimes felt like an eidetic memory instead of a head vice and sub sensory detector.

Slipping out of that shadowed area between wall and wall, she moved towards a mahogany door across from a conference room, marked 'Official Records'.

Helpful.

No alarm system.

No key code.

Just a door. A handle. A lock. The security standard.

Three seconds' using of her mechanised lock pick took her inside. Stood in an unfamiliar room, she focused on the three cabinets beside the solitary window and a dilapidated, forgotten plant.

The files.

Adam Hunt, no matter what he liked to boast - rumours and lies spread to bring to life an image that would never happen for a sub-par criminal so reckless - was an old timer, administratively speaking. His confidential files were stored on paper, in a filing cabinet. In his office. Labelled specifically. Very easy to locate.

Fortunately for her, they were also digitally filed and kept protected behind a laughably poor firewall. Still, hard evidence was sometimes best. Hard copies over soft for detectives like Hilton and Quentin, which was why she'd offered paper-trails in Hilton's in-tray instead of digital copies through an anonymous account. Police forensics would often 'lose' audio feed or coded statistics or emails sent during cases tied to rich businessmen.

But, it wasn't more proof of his embezzlement that she was looking for. She wanted access to what led him down this road in the first place.

A list of confederates.

He has one. They all did. Names. Associates. Dates. Places. Corporations. Multinationals. Under the table deals. Meetings-

Here.

USB in the drive, encrypted file labelled 'sensitive' and her hands in the second drawer labelled affiliates: two sets. Two lists. Hard or soft?

Carrying the files wasn't possible, so she took pictures of the names, the faces, details, with a miniature camera she clipped into the lining of the material at her hip. Then her USB pinged, and it was time to go.

Let's see what-

Blaring noise shattered the quiet and she stilled.

Gunfire.

The hooded man.

Her head moved, looking to the door - closing the drawer with one hand and shutting down the drive with the other - and realising-

The guards are gone. Taken down. To be on the top floor already-

He was good.

Very.

She hadn't noticed.

She wasn't used to having to notice; to having to have to be that aware.

"Right." She whispered to herself.

She was out of the room - the door closed and locked behind her - down the hall, up into the exit stairway and on the floor above before-

Before the whisper of the heft of a gun, the brush of fabric against a wall had her twisting – fast – and ducking in and under the arm holding the semi-auto and the body that had stepped out from the corner, knocking it aside with a swipe of her hand.

He launched into a series of arm jabs and foot locks meant to cripple, grunting. "How many of you freaks are there?"

But they were superfluous.

She blocked each jab - delivered by a man who clearly though he was king and just wasn't - with one arm; planting her feet before shoving the palm of that same hand into the man's chest - because close quarters combat was a very bad move for someone of his size in such a small hallway, against someone of her size - followed through with a counter check of her knee stabbing into the thigh he tried to lift.

A roundhouse kick planted him into the wall.

And maybe his throat had closed, she wasn't sure, but more often than not, her mask a centimetre from any face had the power to render even the bravest of men and women mute.

"Where is he?"

As always, the voice modulator made him flinch. "Go to hell, you freak!"

"Freak?" The mask tilted and Danton swallowed. "You're not wrong."

Not that it mattered.

He was unconscious before he hit the floor and she was flying down the main corridor, leading to Hunt's office seconds later-

"You missed!"

Hunt's voice.

"Really?"

Someone… younger.

The hooded man.

Her run became a walk before stopping completely right inside the entrance to Hunt's office and her appearance was so sudden, she made the man in question jerk on the spot. "Holy Christ."

She ignored him.

The glass door had been shattered beyond compare; the couch just beyond, near eviscerated by bullets.

Looking from the glass strewn floor to the upholstery, she finally locked onto the form - the man - standing just beyond them and spoke. "You've been busy."

The man - definitely not a woman - wore green: all green. Leather. Bow. Hood. It covered everything. An honest to goodness, green archer.

And he didn't respond. Didn't move at all. But he was no longer pointing an arrow at Hunt.

It was pointed at her.

"Four bodies in the hall, at least two more downstairs..." A very busy boy. For a new comer. "That's one way to get attention."

And it was odd how Hunt - who committed crimes on the daily - was so much more afraid of the sight her than at the man in the room who'd clearly intended on doing him harm.

Maybe she'd been right: maybe he knows Somers, maybe they're old friends. Maybe Somers gave him a heads up. Maybe that pattern she'd been seeing meant collaboration between criminal partners or some sort of chain. A communication network that ran hidden.

Maybe Watchman had cause to be fully feared now. Maybe she always had been and had missed it.

I don't care. "You need to hire a new security chief." Hunt staggered back, as if trying to hide behind his shelves and she looked back to the hooded man. "Drop the bow."

It was polite. More a question than an order, because he had to. Otherwise, she'd have to take it from him. And something told her that it wouldn't be an easy thing to accomplish.

Again, he didn't respond. He just breathed.

There was nothing about this person that spoke of nerves or anxiety or fear. Controlled: everything felt controlled.

Aggressive, but controlled.

A mere whisper this time, the modulator making her sound like a ghost, "Drop. The. Bow-"

He let loose the arrowhead and it shot at her-

She caught it between the palms of two hands, as if in prayer.

Barely.

A corner point of the arrowhead cut into her glove; her heart kicking up half a dozen notches.

Still, the way the archer stiffened told her he hadn't expected her to.

"Shit!" Hunt burrowed himself into the corner of the room: out of sight out of mind.

"That was exciting." She muttered to herself as she checked out the arrow shaft.

It looked self-made…

Then the bow - a second arrowhead he'd notched into place so swiftly she'd genuinely missed it, expert marksman - lowered a fraction. It made her look back up, though he hadn't left the peripheral of her focus.

There was a moment of silence.

Then.

"Watchman."

His voice was low toned, deep and a tad gruff; like aged scotch. Not smooth exactly, but something. Something that lent itself to her spine.

A distraction.

It wasn't cloaked by a modulator or distortion box. Not smart. But something told her that this man wasn't an idiot. Not by a long shot.

It made her ask-

"Why?" As quietly as he'd spoken.

Is it important that he know who he's fighting? Being who she was - the Watchman - did it things for him?

…Why was he doing this?

Again, he said nothing.

But he straightened; his bow lowering to the side. As if he knew it wouldn't matter against her. And yet, he showed zero fear of that fact. Not the best thing, honestly.

Hood slanted just so; she couldn't see his eyes or anything above his mouth, not really. Not yet.

Her voice was a burr behind the mask. "Green." Spoken like a question, which it was. Why green?

Still silent, said man in green didn't move; his face shadowed.

It didn't change anything. "You're not leaving."

The hood didn't so much as twitch. "I have what I came here for."

The money? The surety behind those words was so obvious, he might as well have said 'you can try to stop me… but you'll fail'.

Confidence. It wasn't for nought. "He speaks." She whispered.

And just as quickly, she shot forward to strike; I can't let him continue if he only means to-

But a green bow met her quick fingers.

He was a lot faster than the chief of security.

…She felt a thrill. Even as her heart started to beat harder. Even as she also felt the first sign of doubt creep upon her.

Especially when every. Single. One. Of. Her. Strikes. Was. Met. With. A. Green. Glove. Or. Foot.

---

Ducking, Adam yelped as the glass ash tray sailed over his head; fuck!

He was going to die here. He wouldn't let them kill him.

Unbeknownst to the two, Hunt - crouched next to his bookcase – was already pressing the automated alarm; one that lifted the security rollers from the windows and doors, one that sent a signal to the police downstairs, telling them to get the fuck in there and save him.

I can't let him take the money, he thought; sweating when as he saw the Watchman slip down and under the hooded man's guard, pressing a palm to the floor-

His leg lanced upwards so fast, Hunt missed it - the hooded man barely managed to move before his jaw was broken - but the clatter of the archer's bow sailing across the floor was unmistakable and then they were back at it.

Hands, fists, forearms, knees, calves: all smacking into the others as they tries to press each other into yielding.

Shit. It didn't matter who won.

Either way, he was screwed.

For the first time, Hunt had to rely on the cops.

Unbeknownst to hunt, the arrowhead embedded in the outer chamber of his safe, flashed green every two seconds as it transferred the money from Hunt's core account through the once secure terminal in there, into a hidden pocket in the ether…

---

"Tommy!"

Blinking - almost choking on the olive he'd requested for his martini, shaken not stirred good sir - Tommy Merlyn coughed down the last of his drink. Smooth. "Laurel." He gasped as said woman stepped up to the bar, next to him. "You're here."

"You're surprised." And by the slight gleam in her eyes - the smile on her lips that made him stare for just a moment - he'd think she liked surprising him.

Now there was a nice thought.

"Well, Laurel lance at a club on a Friday night?" It was few and far between when Tommy could play with Laurel like this. "You made it clear you didn't want to come here," he shifted, a little uncomfortable as he remembered the conversation they'd had that morning, "so I just…"

I just thought it would be too much. Too much of what though was he mystery.

She spoke – her expression tugged – just as archly as he had. "Assumed I wouldn't bother?" Then she sighed; her shoulders slackening. "I almost didn't."

He moved a tad closer to her; just a tad. "Then why did you?" I really want to know.

He really, really wanted to know why she was there… and who she might be there for.

"Had a good day." She spoke to the bar; a slight smile on her face, "Joanna's here too… somewhere." She inhaled, not looking at him. "And I realised that you had a point. There's too much history between me and Oliver to let what I said to him this morning be the only thing I say. Even though he deserved every word." She added in an undertone, playing with a cocktail umbrella.

Apart from being told that he was right - what every boy and girl wants to hear - it wasn't quite what he'd wanted to hear. On many levels. But he'd take it. "Well, Milady; there is some Pinot Noir behind the bar with your name on it." A reward for trying, surely.

As if she couldn't believe him, her incredulous expression and frown looked odd in the club. Amidst alcohol. The bar. And people dancing. As if she hadn't realised where she was. "I'm not here to drink Tommy."

My god. "Laurel, it is Friday night. You're not in work tomorrow. I know you're always trying to save the world, but I think the world can let you take a day off every now and then. Or like, an hour."

"Hey, if I don't save the world; who will?"

"Somebody else?" Her subsequent scoff told a story. "Come on; I'm sure there are other good people left in this city willing to take the load."

She squared him the most honest look she'd given him in months… and it made him realise, once again, that Laurel's true passion lay - not in the everyday rustics of life - but in her solitary mission. To set a standard - the standard - and be better.

To make the world around her better too. In a way that many people hadn't in her life. Hadn't been better. And so, she believed she truly was alone.

He knew it. He chose to ignore it. It's no way to live.

But she didn't agree. "Who, Tommy?" She gestured to their excellent company: the dancing girls on their appointed tables. "Where are they?"

"Maybe you're not looking in the right places." You aren't alone Laurel.

He was right there with her.

Judging by the expression on her face, Laurel didn't see it that way, "like CNRI?" As if she felt alone in a large crowd of people instead of with him. "Our case load is too large; we aren't making an impact, which should tell you how bad it's gotten. Or the SCPD? They've been a doing a bang-up job," he winced, "chasing the Watchman who practically hands them the keys to their jobs on a daily basis."

"Didn't know you were a fan." He quietly stated without adding that invasive question mark she hated directed at her so much.

There was this odd shoulder jiggle that told him Laurel was either uncomfortable or vulnerable, which wasn't odd at all. "I'm just saying… maybe they shouldn't be focusing on someone who helps my clients sleep at night."

There was something to that, which worried him…

But they were losing track of the point and he wanted her to relax for 5 minutes, not… this. "Look; the point I was trying to make is that you're working with good people, right?" Her exhale was the smallest of concessions. "So, one little drink isn't going to do anything except possibly make you smile."

They were human beings: not robots. And sometimes, we need to loosen up. I'm sure there's a form of therapy out there that agrees with me.

Rolling her eyes, she turned her head with it. By the end of the roll, her attention was on him. 100% on him: hazel eyes, slight smile and all.

If he'd had nothing to do with Oliver behaving like Casanova once upon a time - ever the enabler - Tommy would have wondered how the hell the man had been able to cheat on this woman.

Then again, they'd had no idea what they'd had between them when they were teenagers. Her. We missed her. And then Oliver left us, and I got a chance to see her for who she is. And he'd liked what he saw. So much so that sex and parties and games, now left a bad feeling in his stomach the next morning instead of a pleasant buzz.

"Come on." He whispered to her. Relax for me. "Please?" He added – with the kind of charm one could only show when in the company of someone who knows you - when she didn't respond.

Maintaining eye contact, Laurel eventually mouthed: "Fine. One drink."

Yes. "Atta girl."

And then she and Oliver can skip merrily out the door once he comes back, the voice in his head whispered as he told the waiter to bring her one glass of Pinot, hand in hand and you can watch like one of those useless tree stumps littered around in here-

Enough.

Laurel wasn't wrong… they had a history, she and Ollie. But so did Tommy with the both of them. If Ollie and Laurel owed it to themselves to see if something was still there, then Tommy owed it to himself to at least be honest about his feelings and accept theirs; whatever they may be. If, as she claimed, she and Oliver really were finished forever - and he wouldn't believe it until Ollie gave him the green light - then this dance of theirs was something she was part of as much as he.

It was difficult to believe that Laurel could ever be over Ollie. He would never be over Ollie. And you don't bear a grudge for 5 years if you don't feel anything. That, in his limited experience, was passion. They'd been kind of legendary, sans the infidelity. Sans the lies.

Aiming for the stars.

But there'd been no closure. Closure, to him, often meant revealing feelings long since buried and ending in bad sex but the idea of any kind of sex happening between his 'returned from the grave' best friend - who just happened to look like he'd walked off the front page of Men's Health magazine - and the woman he'd fallen for this past year, made him feel physically ill.

Even if it made sense for them to be together.

But we've all changed. They were different people now. And Ollie. He didn't know about the many, many slip ups between Tommy and Laurel.

Her place. His. Mine again. Hers. A hotel. His. His…

And then she'd been employed by CNRI right out of school and that was all they wrote.

They hadn't started right. But they couldn't start a single thing until both Ollie and Laurel knew where they stood, wherever that may be.

Tommy had a dream. This was it. His best friend, home. Laurel, here; with him. Trying.

Right this moment? He could buy Laurel a drink and make her smile, without it being something more. Make her wonder about what if's that felt good to consider instead of bitter and painful. He had to be careful with her…

Because, as much as he loathed to think it, what Oliver did, made her distrust men.

He had his work cut out for him. It's worth it.

He was fast.

Grunting, the hooded man twisted out of her hold; his hand reaching over and around her arm to pin her as his feet made magic against the floor-

Really fast.

But her knee was already ramming into his side, foot shooting down to his shin as he momentarily faltered-

And slipped out of her hold. Again.

Scary.

Hand lashing out, he almost caught the side of her masked face; almost knocked her down with his weight when his shoulder moved inwards with him, but she was already around at his other side and suddenly he was on the receiving end of a flurry of kicks she knew were like a barrage.

She was scared.

He was scary.

Even as she could tell he was barely managing to block her, he was still blocking her. No one in the city had managed to block her kicks before.

So, it was with a foreign kind of terror that she catapulted herself into the air - by several feet - hands landing first on the broken coffee table, spinning her body around so that her legs rotated, wrapping around one of his arms that came up - his entire arm - and trapping him there. Forcing his body to the floor.

Scared… and so very intoxicated.

When had she ever had to push this hard? When had she ever… enjoyed it?

But she never made a sound: not even as she pulled back on his arm, her body bowing against the floor, threatening dislocation unless he dropped the goddamn arrowhead that had nearly taken out her eye (even through the mask) as she'd wrapped herself around him.

He did.

Then he moved - his hand clamping around her wrist - yanking her so hard, so fast, that she literally rolled over him-

His fist hit her side; once, twice-

Ngh, elbow up, around, she pulled: his hand was still wrapped around her wrist and he bodily gave way, falling half on top of her with a choked breath.

Her fist shot up to his face-

But he was moving again; rolling off her, braced on his forearm, a leg weeping out, targeting her chest-

Then she was on her feet, her fist finally ramming down and home into his thigh and she managed to lodge her foot into his solar plexus, kicking outwards-

He did the same.

With a yell, they both knocked each other off their feet in opposite directions; their backs against the floor.

She blinked up at the ceiling. God.

He was scary. And she couldn't help but admire his skill.

"Police!"

What?

The alarm. Hunt must have activated it.

Not the time to lose focus.

It was in a series of surreal flashes, how she jumped back onto her feet only to see the archer had done the same and was already running for his bow as she launched over the upturned desk-

Behind her, Detective Lance skidded to a halt at the entrance of the office. "Don't you dare move!"

She was already moving. There was a series of clicks: the safety on three guns being flickered off. And I'm too fast for your aim Detective.

Not that he'd shoot. No matter how much he wanted to have her behind bars. He had principals.

And he was already in her peripheral – even as Hilton squared off his pistol next to his partner-

The window she and the archer were running towards - it hadn't touched her that they were moving in the same direction until that moment - blew outwards the moment he hurled into it.

"Watchman!"

She was sailing out of it too; following the hooded man briefly as he slid swiftly down a cable - one hand gripping a tether - that he'd somehow managed to latch from Hunt Multinational to the requisitioned club where Oliver Queen's 'welcome back' was in full swing.

No.

But she was in the air, circling round the building - her grappling hook latched high above the faces of the two detectives as they popped out from the shattered window – until she was out of sight: her hands as claws against solid stone.

Suddenly breathless, she braced there for a moment, on all fours against the building; aware that onlookers 100 feet below, would notice her at any moment, but only one thought trespassed.

...That was very different.

---

"Tell me you saw that."

Hilton's awed voice matched Lance's loosened jaw, even as his narrowed eyes didn't miss a step.

His heart was racing.

The hooded man had crashed through the window to escape, rolling in mid-air like some championship gymnast - as if we didn't have enough problems - but then the Watchman had damn near flown through it and had somehow swung around the goddam building!

The Watchman. He'd been here while they'd been downstairs, loitering.

He felt like he was missing something. "Why wasn't that in the reports?"

Hilton looked at him. "What?"

"The Watchman can swing around buildings?" His hand smacked against the side of the window. "I can't believe we missed that!"

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters," he gritted his teeth; a hand lifting to signal the cops with him to move out once more, "because it means the Watchman has an alternate mode of transport that we never factored!"

Understanding hit Hilton. "Oh man…"

"Yeah." It might not change a thing.

Or it could change everything.

"And why the hell was he here?"

For some reason he couldn't consider just then, Hilton cleared his throat. "Ah… at least we know they aren't working together." He said as they moved back out of the room.

Like clowns.

"No." That was clear. The elevator doors had opened just in time to see the two freaks knock each other flat. "But things change fast in this city."

He'd never truly seen the Watchman up close before. It had been an honest shock, when the cloaked figure's head turned to see them. The mask. The void. The way he moved. How fast he was.

Like something out of a nightmare. Or a bad movie.

He'd felt himself swallow; felt his hand shake as he pulled out his weapon.

Snap out of it. If there was one thing he got from that few second's scene back there, it was the fact that Starling City now had two very dangerous vigilantes on the loose. We're becoming a laughing stock.

It had to stop.

They have to be stopped.

---

Watchman.

Breathless, focused; Oliver shook out of his leathers, double-time.

He'd miscalculated.

Watchman.

But he couldn't account for variables he knew nothing about. And he had to get back before Quentin Lance could storm the party and come looking for him in the crowd.

It was last thing he wanted to do.

He hadn't expected to face Laurel's father so swiftly after the kidnapping the day before. And-

"You're not leaving."

He hadn't expected him.

Him.

Lithe – slender - for a grown man.

A hand braced against a wall as he pulled off one boot and then the other; Oliver looked at it, as if he'd never really seen his hand before. As if he'd never really paid attention to his body properly until just then.

His fingers had wrapped around that wrist with ease.

But that wasn't the reason why his heart was racing; why his teeth were clenched behind thin lips. Why adrenaline coursed through him. Why he felt so alive and why everything else – the party, being Ollie – felt briefly meaningless.

He's fast. Silent. Unnerving. And far more skilled than Oliver thought he might be. The genuine article. A vigilante.

He'd been in real trouble up there. It… shook him.

The Starling City Watchman had been there to stop him. Not Hunt. Except his threat to Hunt never made the papers, so how had he known?

So certain that he'd never actually meet him, or at least not for a while, Oliver hadn't considered anything past the fact that a) Starling had needed a vigilante before his return and b) the fact that there even was a person in existence… who might think a little like he did.

Here, in his home city, there shouldn't be someone else like him.

But there was.

Someone who looked and sounded and moved like that. Someone who lived in the dark.

And there was something about-

"Why?"

-That.

Stilling – midway through fastening his shirt buttons – he let out a breath.

Why.

Why Watchman, why…

---

The Party: Ten Minutes Later

"Did you even try to save her?"

He'd expected it, the words.

He hadn't expected how much they'd hurt. Not that anybody saw that they did. Outwards, he was a stone and he must have looked so uncaring; so like selfish Ollie Queen…

Quentin Lance had thought that Oliver might not try to save Sara.

The memory hit him like a battering ram.

"Ollie… Ollie!"

She'd reached out to him, both the times she'd been pulled under water. The first, like a nightmare come to life. The second, like the ocean coming back to claim what had dared defy it.

"Come on dad…"

And there was her sister. Another slice of agony.

She'd been with Tommy tonight.

He hoped she'd had reason to smile in the minutes before this. She wasn't smiling now. She looked pale at the mere mention of Sara. Sick at the way Oliver had used the appearance of himself in his green hood as a way to generate a laugh from the crowd.

Once, she'd found this side of him fun.

He was equally hateful of it now as she was ashamed of him. He'd just become a better actor.

But like it or not, she was family to him. Laurel. And he'd treated her the way no one should ever treat a person they care about.

I'm so sorry I hurt you.

It didn't matter that he wanted so badly to fix it. Didn't matter that as much as he wanted to hear her forgive him and let him mend the past, he also wanted her to hate him forever. To punish him. Didn't matter that he knew that she could never really be with him again; he was too dangerous. Didn't matter that the thought made him… lonely.

Or that deep down, what he wanted most just then was to be away from all of them.

So, when her arm went around her father's back - as her eyes flickered from Oliver's face in that wondering, distrusting way he'd expected, to her father's next to her own - Oliver didn't try to look like anything other than uncaring. Unfeeling.

It was safe.

And her bitter disappointment yelled at him from her eyes, but she spoke to her dad. "I want to go. Let's go."

She'd come here to see if there was anything to him, past the man who'd cheated on her. Who'd taken her sister on a pleasure cruise behind her back. Who… maybe had things he wanted to say that would mean something to her.

Did she get her answer? Was she still wondering? They hadn't talked. And, even though the way she looked now tore at him from the inside out, he could tell she still wanted to.

Eyes piercing his own with anger and echoes of betrayal - the never receding remnants of a grief that would be with him for the rest of his life, and Oliver knew that feeling well already - Quentin Lance didn't blink as he walked backwards. As he let himself get pulled away, barely keeping himself from hitting him; it was a clear desire in his face.

Oliver wished he would.

This, all of it… it was beyond anything manageable. But he had to manage it. And he would. For his father, he would.

And it would be eerie for others, though it was a blessing for him, that after years of living on an island, being hunted, being the hunter, facing evil and becoming that very evil, how one could find the ability to handle the storms within that could fell another person.

Oliver – after pushing it all down – let nothing else in. Not Tommy. Not Thea who'd left the party. Not Laurel who wanted something from him. Not his mother who-

Nothing else but the mission.

And the façade.

This isn't where I should be right now…

And yet, here she was; tip toing through the back entrance of a party she didn't really have a reason to be attending.

She should be burning rubber towards her safe house or her actual house and analysing every single second of the last 30 minutes. Deciding for herself what to do… because the police certainly didn't, wouldn't, know.

They weren't up to this.

The man in the green hood.

He'd kept up.

This wasn't just some street thug looking for justice. It wasn't a one off. This was real. And the man was dangerous.

He was more dangerous because of his control.

---

"I already have what I came here for."

He could very easily be a monster; recklessly shooting arrows left, right and centre. Instead, he'd stood there large an oak tree in a storm. Trained. Able. Composed, even after she'd surprised him. Instead, he was on a mission with rules only he knew the guidelines to. It left her with a dilemma. One she didn't know the answer to just yet.

Ergo, party.

Coat in her hands - her bottom lip between her teeth - Felicity was slipping through the back doors and into the large party because she didn't want to be seen: she'd rather pretend she'd been there for a while.

Not that anybody noticed her; they were all staring towards the front of the… this can't be a club.

There was unnecessarily high foot to ceiling glass panels, separating the, between the outside world and the inside and nothing else. Paranoia made her want her back to the wall behind her, pronto. Three floors in all and only one, two- four security guards, bodyguards, walking through them. Oh, I feel safer already.

And then there was the heat.

Ugh. She blinked away moisture; glad she wasn't wearing her glasses just then. It's been a while since I've been to an honest to goodness party; she'd forgotten how warm it could get. Or how fun it could be when you knew people. I know all of one person here and I can barely stand her. But that wasn't what stopped her next to the first pillar she came across, roughly ten feet from the first person closest to her.

Save the hissing of over 100 voices whispering, it was quiet. Not eerie or anything; they were all just… waiting for something.

Huh. Lifting up on her toes - there was a reason for almost 2 inches of rubber on the soles of her leather boots - Felicity craned her neck and looked towards the front of the party. Past the dais, past the dancers – the three, beautiful, modelesque (almost odalisque) women who were still stood up there without the music, as if they were worried they wouldn't be allowed back up there if they dropped down and really what was so good about shaking your ass five feet above a crowd? – she could just see a group of policemen and-

Uh oh.

The police. They're just… talking over there.

She'd expected one of two things; either the party would be over, and police would be searching the premises, squad cars would be patrolling the area (both of which she hadn't found) or… this.

The postponing of an important investigation in order for a man - a haunted man - to revisit to a tragedy - the death of his daughter - with his focus being on another man who really should not have to deal with it during his welcome back party.

A party she had an inkling that Oliver Queen wouldn't have wanted. Not that I know him.

But, this was her problem. Quentin Lance. She wanted to trust hm and in all honesty, this scene hadn't changed her mind. But in future, could Detective Lance put his own feelings on hold for good of the plenty, instead of the good of the one. The one primarily being his only surviving daughter.

Hm. She'd have to see…

"Hey, everybody!" A voice shouted… Oliver Queen? She couldn't quite see him; there were people in the way. "One million dollars for anyone who sees a nut bar in a green hood!"

She blinked.

That… was a far cry from the man who'd slept in her guest room. He even sounded different. It was almost grating. Obnoxious.

But she straightened quickly when she saw, from a distance, the detective get in his face-

Don't. Don't, don't-

-Only to be pulled back by Hilton and a tall looking woman, who Felicity recognised to be Laurel lance.

Seconds after that, the police were leaving. You're just… going? They weren't even going to try to search the area?

Typical. Sighing, she peeked down at herself.

She looked – felt – pretty good for a rush job. Not that she was there to be looked at; she just didn't want to stand out too much. It leads to questions and people remembering my face. That was never good thing.

Dress - soft pink, thin shoulder straps, fitted, leaving a little sashay to her walk - check. Shoes – cream coloured, simple, elegant and on sale - double-check, Mr Steele managed to always have a lasting effect on her. Shoes would remain her thing. Hair surprisingly and artfully tousled - she'd gotten it cut a couple of weeks ago and her natural waves actually helped here - after she'd shaken it out of the clips that kept it at bay.

Freeing.

And she was definitely not smelling of sweat, metal, leather… or shock. Maybe that was the real reason why she was here; to forget about green hoods and what they meant for her-

No.

Now was a different time. A time for one drink. And to prove to Teresa that she wasn't a hermit; it would stop her from asking her to join them for cocktails for at least a couple of weeks.

…Yeah, that was the reason. Uh huh. But right now, she needed not to think.

Annnnnd because the universe liked to play with her, when Felicity aimed to pass a pillar leading to the first open bar, she trod on something that made the heel of her shoe attach itself to the back of her skirt. Wonderful. She rolled her eyes, lifting her leg up backwards, bending just slightly - a piece of her hair falling over her face - and reaching round to untangle herself. For I am a colossal mistake just waiting to happen…

"It's way too quiet-"

What? Like a deer in the headlights, Felicity's head whirled back round - her mouth in a little oh - with her leg still lifted and her hands to her shoe, to look up at one of the elevated daises…

Where Oliver Queen was stood, shouting to the crowd with a smile on his face that made her brow crinkle. Who's that? She didn't know that person. That wasn't he stoic, silent Oliver Queen who hadn't wanted to go home that night. That wasn't the man who had PTSD, who'd taken a knife from her apartment because safety was a thing.

But then-

"I thought that this," his eyes drifted over the throng as he called out amidst cheers, "was a party!" He signalled to the DJ, "Come on!" Looked for a way down that wasn't covered by a scantly clad dancing girl, "Yeah!-"

His eyes found her.

And it was miraculous, how the smirk disappeared. How one soft blink cleared away the sharp tang of arrogance in the rest of his visage. How his face went from 'Ollie Queen: party guy' to… a man. Just a man.

Who was looking at her in question.

Her head lifted just a bit - she was still holding her foot - to say hi-

But he was dropping down and out of sight and that was all she wrote.

"Well," exhaling, "that was very brief," she muttered to herself, bending back over her foot. "Like all the men in my life." I'm sure I've said that before. "And," she, carefully slipped the thread from under the heel without making it worse, "done."

"Felicity Smoak?"

Faster than a kiss, that's what he was.

And too surprising for words, which was why she was still bent over by roughly a foot but having looked up at him - at the sound of his voice - through long pieces of her hair and… yep; her mouth - plump and dusky pink - was once again shaped around the almost-word oh.

Oliver Queen was stood - still - roughly five feet from her; immaculate and resplendent in fitted a grey suit - somehow it made his eyes bluer than before, made the scruff at his jaw look smoother and tinted his skin sun kissed, island life will do that to you - and looking at her like-

"You're," he shook his head, once; taking a breath, "here."

Like he couldn't believe she was. And his voice - the one she'd gotten used to after the few words he'd uttered at her place - was more… Oliver again.

"Um," her mouth finally closed as let her foot fall – gracefully – back to the floor and straightened, "yeah." Loquacious.

Nodding – like she'd offered words of great wisdom – the smallest of small smiles relaxed his jaw. And it was so much more genuine than the smirk he'd been beaming at the crowd with, that - as she smiled back - one thought struck her: at least you don't look like a drowned rat this time. Very good reason to smile. Especially since he seemed to think the same.

Tall and solid, his eyes drifted down her body; still looking thankfully thrown by her appearance. "You look-"

"Completely out of my element?" She offered jokily; her head tilting, voice laced with self-derision that always, always came out when she was a little nervous. "Stood out like a sore thumb?"

But his eyes landed on her feet, her shoes… lifting back to her thighs, where her dress settled.

And then back to her eyes before quietly finishing. "…Pretty." The index finger and thumb of his left hand were rubbing together. "Very."

That… she couldn't quite deny. She knew she looked pretty. She just hadn't thought Oliver Queen would ever say those words; especially since this was, technically, only the second time they'd seen each other.

Just as quietly, a little staggered, Felicity responded. "Thank you."

Head briefly ducking - he still moved a little like a universal Solider - he made a nonchalant sound. "Easy to spot you in the sea of black and blue."

A laugh burst out from her. "I hadn't thought of that."

"I'm glad you didn't."

Que her mouth to start working and moving and dancing on the line between inappropriate and not. "Grey suits you."

That tiny smile on his face? It grew five-fold and there wasn't a hint of arrogance in sight.

In fact it was a little… startled.

She cleared her throat because, boy is he dangerous. "You're different tonight." And just like that, the words came, they conquered and most likely ruined any and all-

"What you mean?" He asked, a polite frown appearing on his face.

She swallowed, "you seem… nah," she wafted a hand between them, "forget it." Really, please forget it.

Still civil, curious, he took a step forwards; closer and oh no. "Tell me?"

She made a pleading noise. "It's really presumptuous."

His head tilted. "If you tell me what it is, I'll tell you something presumptuous about how I see you."

Well, well… Her eyes took his in. "Daring."

So very slight she almost missed it, Oliver Queen's eyes took a turn for provocative. Like, come on.

Almost certainly, he didn't think anything she'd say would shock him. "It's like you're two, three different people; like you're wearing masks and you have a dozen for every occasion." She gestured to him, looking from his slack shoulders to the way his fingers were moving. "Impressive and a little intriguing for a man who just returned home a few days ago…"

Oh God, shut up because, yep; he hadn't expected that.

His smile vanished. "…Oh." And he looked away from her: a tiny frown on his otherwise blank face.

His hard face.

Oops. Her lips pressed together. "I'm sorry." Her eyes closed; an apology marring her forehead. "I didn't mean to be so forward-"

"Do you want to get a drink?"

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

"Do you want to have a drink with me?" And he asked it super seriously; no pleasure at the idea in sight, yet still clearly asking because he wanted a positive response from her. "I'd like to buy you a drink."

It was official; Oliver Queen was as much a kook as she was.

"Um…" mouth open, closed; his eyes fell there, and she immediately stopped, "okay."

Turning, a hand hovering over her back, Oliver Queen escorted her towards the open bar closest to where the Quentin lance had almost decked him. He was quiet as they walked, and she was pretty much regretting her moment of weakness in coming here. You compliment him and insult him in the space of sixty seconds. That's a record, even for-

"Ah…"

She looked up at the sound of his voice… and felt her heart trip.

He looked so lost at the sea of bottles behind the bar and it made her wonder for the 100th time, why his friends and family hadn't thought that all of this, might just be the worst idea in the history of ideas. Oliver hadn't been to a bar for a drink - just flat out ignoring his bratva tattoo right now - in over five years. Did he even want alcohol?

"We can just go for a walk." Blurted out and he looked at her. "Instead of…" her hand gestured to the booze."

Lips pressing together over teeth that might have clenched, he looked so uncomfortable - so helpless - that she could only watch.

This had to be the oddest case of survivor: since when did the returnee have to work so hard at fitting in and since when did the ones he or she loved, forget that?

Why is he putting himself through this?

"I… promised my friend I'd stay." He murmured, still not looking at her. "He has a few surprises set up." The sigh he let out was so heavy, she felt it in her bones. "After all these years, I don't plan to ruin tonight for him."

"Because tomorrow, you'll have to ruin it?" She muttered, watching him.

He looked at her so swiftly, quietly, she wondered how often he'd had to move like an animal on the island. For food, for shelter… to avoid danger.

Right now? To wonder how close to the heart of him she was this very second because he was clearly not ready to go there. "Ah." She nodded, as if to herself. "This party isn't for you;" she pointed across the floor, past the bar, to where Thomas Merlyn stood talking to two women, "it's for him." She smiled. "That means you're a good friend."

"I wasn't… I haven't been." He was still quite quiet considering music was playing; luckily her ears were attuned to picking out noise in a din. "And I might not be in future. But I will be tonight."

"Sounds like you've had a long week." Understatement of the century. And a great way to change the subject.

Proven when this sound left him; an almost breathy laugh and near beg as he moved to lean ever so slightly on the stool next to her. Hips angled that way, body effortlessly leaning like that…

I think I'm going to need that drink. She cleared her throat.

But he didn't answer her non-question. He just looked at her; as if he wanted her to talk.

For… something to be easy for him?

She smiled; pressing against the bar with him, making their talk a little more private-

But he was speaking before she could. "What about you?"

"My week?" She pointed to herself and he nodded. "Well," she pretended to ruminate, "I got my supervisor fired."

Surprised, there we go, the corner of his mouth twitched: his eyes shooting to the side and back as if searching. "What?"

A nervous giggle left her; head tilting away, letting her hair fall and cover her face. "I got him fired. He was, ah, embezzling funds from QC. That, and he was a crappy boss. I was always correcting his work, which was how I caught him. Hoist by his own petard."

When she finally gathered the courage to look at him, gentle eyes took away her nerves. "Clever you."

Oh, just had to be attracted to him, didn't I? Because it was official now.

That look. How soft he could be, though he barely knew her. How he was listening to her every word, when most people in general thought she was either boring or nerdy. The way he was trying so hard to be what his best friend needed just then and wasn't complaining that others hadn't seen right through it. That he was very clearly hiding so much and it made all the more intriguing to her.

The way he stood.

The way spoke.

All of it.

"Well," and clearing her throat for the second time, ugh, Felicity continued as if revelations like this one happened every other hour, "he left a lot for me to shift through; it's why I came here actually. His deputy is subbing for him until our new supervisor arrives and she invited me. I figured if I came she'd stop asking me to join her and her clique for cocktails… for like, you know, a week?"

Another nod, Queen made an ah, I see sound.

"She doesn't know that I did it- got him fired." She added at his confusion and at the off-chance he'd ever meet Teresa Tanning, god help him. "Not that it was difficult; the man couldn't embed to save his life and his passwords were a joke." She took a breath, watching as Oliver started to frown-

Okay, leaning into boring territory now. Steer clear.

Except… he actually started to look interested. Say what? "You cracked his passwords?"

"Login ID and security password, yup." Her lips popped with the yup. "Information technology is a hackable language." And if she fluttered her fingers at him, then it no longer mattered: he'd figured out how nerdy she was when he'd slept at her place. She was just reinforcing it.

But, he was staring at her now and it was so very different to any other look held given her so far. Something she'd just said had caught him somehow. "…You can hack?"

And his voice had changed too; deeper, more… more.

Blinking a little, it took her a moment to grasp the problem. "Um, yes, I-"

Oh God. I just told the son of my bosses, bosses boss that I can do illegal activities. Oh God. Oh-

"That's… remarkable." Shaking his head once, Oliver gave her this look that sent goose-bumps racing down her spine. "Felicity Smoak, you are remarkable."

Mouth open, her eyes flitted between his. "You just found out that I broke the law and our response is that I'm remarkable?"

"Yep." And his lips popped; like he was copying how she'd done it earlier, because it looked a little awkward on him.

"It's a hobby." She said for some reason and please shut up.

"Okay."

"That I do not take part in." Even though I just admitted that I had, agh!

And for the first time, Oliver smiled at her. A real, honest to goodness smile that left her looking at his mouth. "Okay."

…He made her feel safe.

Preposterous.

No man – or woman – made her safe. No man.

And yet…

"It's a secret." She whispered.

"It's our secret." And he leaned in just a little closer. "And it's still remarkable."

"It's dangerous."

For 2.4 seconds Oliver Queen stood so still and so quiet as he looked at her that she almost wanted to check his CPU, until he spoke. "I can take it."

He could take it.

She'd wondered that, the other night. When her brain, when her neo-cortex and all the good chemicals in her brain had decided to have a party at her expense and she'd almost blown up her bathroom. But he'd been there; a stranger. He'd-

He'd made her safe.

She was the Watchman. The shadow in Starling. She was the Ghost Fox Goddess.

And an island returnee made her feel safe.

He wasn't even flirting with her; he was just being frank.

If she had to force out words and if she had to clear her throat again before speaking, then… she didn't know what. "You said you'd tell me something presumptuous about me that you'd noticed."

Face unchanging – still serious, near blank and watchful – Oliver took a few moments of pause before quietly answering. "I think you wear masks too."

She looked up at him.

Who is this guy? Who is Oliver Queen?

The quiet, unbroken but clearly battered heart of a man who'd asked her without saying a word to take him home with her because his own home was more war than peace.

The obnoxious party guy who'd stood up on the dais and declare the party ongoing, never mind that the police had come or that one of them was the father the two women Oliver's love life had circled around years ago.

The friend who just wanted his buddy to be happy for a little while.

The survivor and victim who was so muscular, no man or woman could describe his physique and do it justice and so dangerous that PTSD softened him.

The person who just saw right through her and had no idea that he had.

Taking that into account, she could be forgiven for closing her mouth, for looking away. Down at the bar. Taking a moment.

Then she smelt his aftershave and, really, was this guy for real? He listened to her without showing signs of boredom, he was interested in her abilities, thought she was pretty in pink and now? He smelt the way women wished all men would. Safe, sensual, sublime, sexy… secretive.

"All I know is that, I have... not been completely honest with everyone the last three days," he murmured and it made her wonder what made him say this, "except you. A stranger."

Eyes trailing from the bar, to his forearm a foot from hers and, finally, up to his eyes; Felicity sucked in her lower lip.

"Thank you for that." He said it with a finality that scared her.

Like… he was saying they'd have no more talks after this.

"What can I do?" The words just slipped out…

But the way he looked at her for a moment, told her he knew exactly what she meant, even if he said, "What do you mean?" As if clueless. "I'm fine."

And… he smiled again. It was huge. And happy. And perfect. And it made a couple of women to her right, stare.

And it didn't reach his eyes.

"You have my number Mr Queen." And she slid off the stool because something in his words told her that, the conversation was over. Another mystery. "…I don't mind."

I don't mind being your friend.

He said nothing…

But he did watch her walk away from him, looking alone in a sea of people.

---

12:31am…

"She's a gift."

The surprise. Tommy's idea of a joke.

Coy, the brunette - she looked like Laurel - tugged him into the room with her, one of the rooms across from the building the party was still ongoing up in, and he let her; following as Tommy's cheer rang down the hall after him as he too stepped in doors with a woman with reddish-bronze hair, who's curls gave Tommy ideas.

He let her… because it was in the script.

Hands tracing over the shirt on his chest, the woman had a one-track mind as she pushed him nearer to the couch - sending him lusting glances every other second that did nothing for him - and again, he let her as he reciprocated; not thinking or feeling anything at all. Just following her example.

"What can I do?"

His eyes closed.

He didn't want this.

But there was an image he had to sell. To Tommy. To… others.

So, he leant down and kissed her, not really seeing this person anymore.

A kiss… how could he have ever thought a kiss was anything less than significant?

This woman saw them the way he used to. Like they could be bought. Cheap. As if they weren't priceless.

He kissed her in such a way that showed her why so many women had slept with him half a decade ago and more. It should have told her immediately that this was a bad idea - that he was a bad idea - and that if she wanted him to wait around for a relationship, she had another thing coming.

Tell me you don't want to.

But her gratuitous moan dissolved the last of his hopes that she'd change her mind. She wanted sex. Tommy chose the right girl.

Not for the first time, he wondered what would have happened if he'd told Tommy the truth.

Enjoying herself, the woman whose name he'd never know, dropped to her knees. His stomach dropped with her; surprised by her speed but then remembered how so many other nights had gone when he was 20 years old. 21.

Relax.

She opened his suit pants and he knew the drill. Let her reach into his boxer-briefs and pull him out; to not… stop her. Even though he wanted to.

Tommy would hear about it otherwise.

She licked her lips in anticipation…

And then made him hate himself just a little more than before.

Three days back home and he was already sleeping around. That it was necessary to do this, for his family to believe he'd returned home the 'Ollie Queen' they'd all missed.

If it gave them all peace of mind.

If it stopped them form… asking questions.

Head hitting the wall behind him, he had to force his body to enjoy what was happening downstairs and sighed when he was finally able to.

Allowed one of his hands to reach the back of her head; let his fingers twist in her hair, let himself direct her and daydream of other eventualities instead. Different place, different woman, different feelings.

Respect.

But he needed this one to gossip about him. About what he liked. What he didn't.

How hard he'd make her come later. Make it all she could think about afterwards, in case something happened. In case alibis were needed.

Party boy.

"It's like you're two, three different people; like you're wearing masks and you have a dozen for every occasion."

He made the woman go harder. Made her deep throat but allowed for resistance in case she wanted to stop.

The filthy noises she made, told him otherwise.

When the tingling reached his toes, when the pressure built and made his fingers twitch; he arched off the wall using only the back of his skull as leverage and pushed himself in as deeply as she could take him.

Then he kept her there and just… rotated.

Circling.

Showing her how he'd move in her later.

Control and release. Get rid of 'mind'.

There were so many other ways too. This was the way he'd do it tonight. On another night out with Tommy, he'd try something different. Let a whole new slew of rumours gather.

Tonight, it was hard. It was slow. It was spine tingling. It was welcome back Ollie Queen.

And he spilled over as slowly as his hips rotated. Delicious warmth reaching his muscles for a few seconds and he let himself feel it as the woman's nails dug into his thighs.

Then… he felt empty all over again. Void in ways he hadn't minutes ago.

This meant nothing.

And he hated that.

But Ollie was shallow, so he had to be shallow.

When she stood on shaky legs, he realised his orgasm had triggered her own. She'd be easy to handle now, which was the opposite of everything he wanted.

Ollie liked easy and simple. Ollie wanted sex and fucking and as much pussy as he could get his hands on.

Oliver wanted to know what it was like to make love to a woman he was in love with.

It's a dream.

He'd never have that.

He hadn't realised what he'd done to Laurel until after the fact, until he'd been shipwrecked. What he'd given up… what he hadn't felt. And the sickening wondering of why he hadn't felt it.

She wouldn't have him now, to let him.

And he wasn't sure he wanted her to.

But later, when he was on his shins on a mattress that bounced too much, when his hands were on the woman's naked thighs, grasping firmly as he pulsed deeply - when the red flush on her neck warranted the too-loud shouts escaping her - as escaped inside his mind, his eyes closed; enjoying the tightening and familiar feeling of a woman wanting him to remain exactly where he was because it was making her feel good…

He would have preferred taking that walk, to this.

---

That night, before Felicity slept, it had taken her almost too long to understand what had been different about him. About Oliver.

The animal, the predator she'd met, had been absent tonight in the club.

But not in his eyes. Not really.

It was just waiting.

But it saw her.

The feeling of caution and intrigue bothered her most of all, for why - other than the obvious - should she feel cautious around Oliver Queen?