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

9. Chapter 9

Who Are You?

"...which was when I took him home with me." She winced. That could have sounded better, but if wishes were horses, she'd be the conversational whizz she'd always wanted to be. "I gave him a ride." Um, no. "In my car." Yeah, because that's better. Blushing, lips pressing together, Felicity took a sip of hot if mildly effective coffee as shrewd brown eyes set in a face crafted to play poker by god, judged her from across the table. He wasn't buying any of this for a second. "To my house." Gasping as she swallowed, that is truly awful, the disappointing coffee was the reason Felicity never took a seat at the red bricked café around the corner from Queen Consolidated; but her options were kind of limited. "To sleep. In separate, adjacent bedrooms." It was as if she couldn't speak a full sentence. "Not that you'd think otherwise."

The pathetic laugh that broke out of her was something between yeah, you're huge and I can only look at you for so long before I tell you that your biceps could crush my head between them and please don't call Mrs Steele-Queen about me trying to detain you and get me so incredibly fired.

For letting Oliver escape the eyes of the bodyguard Oliver's mother had hired because he'd been kidnapped the prior week.

She refrained from whimpering.

If I'm fired, I'll survive: she'd been through worse, but there was a lot going on and she didn't need her focus further split.

Actually, it was kind of titillating: insubordination. Surprising. Maybe that was why her smile kept taking that turn towards goofy. Sometimes normalcy, being like other people, was a reward all by itself.

"So, yeah." She brought the coffee to her lips again for something to hide behind. "He spent the night. I took him home the morning after."

And that was all she wrote.

She'd have said more, offered more, but she wasn't firing on all cylinders today: I've already drunk my weight in coffee, thank you very much. With full fat milk and sugar because, I'm so not the poster girl for a healthy diet. And it might have something to do with attorney Laurel Lance dissolving the effort involved to make Nocenti safe with a single act of narrow-minded arrogance. It might also have something to do with the encroaching fear that the Watchman might have to 'come out of the closet' so to speak to get things done. The realisation that no matter how much she assessed the situation, no matter how many avenues she investigated; it all came to the same inevitable end.

Resistance is futile.

Maybe. Maybe not.

The fact of the matter was that she wouldn't have to even consider it at all, if a man in a green hood hadn't showed up in the city and had gotten them both caught on camera.

A busy boy.

The worse thing was why it bothered her… it bothered her because it didn't bother her as much as she thought it would, as much as it should have. Not that I didn't curl up under the table and rock because the last thing my precarious career as Starling's shadow needs is more exposure, and there wasn't enough time in the world to consider the possible ramifications of what might come to pass after the fact, which could mean only one thing. A dangerous thing.

A thing I will think on later, when Oliver's gorgeously toned bodyguard wasn't filling out the seat in front of her at the round table that could barely house his muscular size, with what was definitely the most lacklustre cup of black coffee the city had to offer, and an honest yet deadpan look on his face.

"If this is you insinuating that you slept with my client," clear words emphasised the kind of voice she wouldn't mind spending time listening to as he regurgitated the Keats's, it's pretty soothing; deep and assured and- wait, what did he just say, "on his first night back then you can keep it to yourself." With a flat look, his eyes flitted over her. "Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed."

"Uh." She didn't usually have to affect embarrassment and didn't want to, but of course she asked the question that mattered least. We do have time to kill. "And why would you be disappointed?"

Long hours pulled, overtime only partially compensated, equalled to roughly three months available in flexible credit time. Basically, her lunch hour could last the rest of the day and no one would be able to say a thing about it.

Arms folded across his chest - they had been since he'd sat down - John Diggle took her in; his name alone screamed ex-military or maybe it was way he sat, the way his eyes deduced potential signs of trouble and wrote them off. "You seem like a smart girl." Two words. Smart and Girl. Hmm. She'd let it go just this once: sometimes it was best to let others think and say what they will, and something told her that this man saw more than his mouth ever let on. "Mr Queen is not the kind of man smart girls should go for."

No, he's the type complicated women with genius intellects can't stop thinking about and- where did that come from?

"Well, you can rest assured." She started in order to stop. Stop thinking about something that she hadn't realised was genuine until she'd come face to face with the man in question again today, which felt impossible now. "Like I said before, we didn't… do that." And why was it suddenly difficult to say? Sex, we didn't have sex. But thinking about sex with Oliver made her words die. "Not that it's any of your business."

She didn't understand that. It had never happened before. The 'words dying' thing, not the 'telling it straight' thing.

"No?" A brow arching, he affected disinterest in a subject that clearly interested him, more than he could admit to out loud. "It isn't my business but let's pretend for a minute that it is." There was something innate to this man who couldn't be more than ten years older than Oliver yet made her feel that he'd lived through much. "Why not go there? I've been his bodyguard for barely a week and there hasn't exactly been a shortage in interest, if you know what I mean." Of a sexual nature, gotcha; she winked, shot her finger and everything, and… um, fascinating? It kind of was, just not the way this guy thought it would be for her. Oliver was… to say he was attractive was to sorely understate his looks, but he was also an island returnee. Mystery and intrigue, whilst initially alluring, tended to lose its potency quite quickly. Whatever fantasy any woman beheld for Oliver, seconds wouldn't necessarily be on the menu… unless there was something he needed. As it was, expecting Oliver to be capable of a functioning romantic relationship might pushing it. Or maybe he's far more adjusted than most think- don't remember the Bratva tattoo, don't think about the Chinese calligraphy on his die or the scars. "He's rich and he's got that whole," it took him a moment to find the word, "tortured,bad boy thing I know attracts some women…"

Tortured, huh. That was one way to put it, whatever 'it' was.

But the word just verified what she thought about this man; a secret smile stole across her face, her hands circling her coffee cup. "Speaking from experience?"

The sigh that left him was expansive. "You don't want to know."

Pretty sure I do. Curiosity didn't kill the cat, stupidity did; I am not stupid. "Sounds like you've had practice." Fingers flicking in his direction, she gestured to the whole of him. "Having a past that might haunt you or memories that make it difficult to fake normal when you return home, having to hide it from the people you love, acting exactly as you always used to in order to not raise any alarm bells…"

She could go on. Instead she let the sentence trail off as she took another sip, her brows arched over her cup at him: eyes steady, innocuous and a question all at once.

A breath whistled through his teeth. "And the one tonne anvil falls." Shaking his head, John Diggle sent a puzzled frown her way. "You've known this man two days longer than I have; why are you so protective?"

Why indeed. "Am I?" She made a mulling sound, chewing on the inside of her mouth a little. "I wouldn't call it protective-"

"I sure would." He muttered, finally reaching for his coffee cup. I wish I could say it was worth the burn, my very new acquaintance.

"It's a shame that it takes more effort to be compassionate than it does to judge someone you aren't close to." Then she shrugged a shoulder. "Orsomeone you know very well." And she let her eyes fall to the table because there was compassion and then there was this. She had no idea how to explain why she was behaving the way she was, because normal people don't give strangers a burner phone after letting them stay the night. Or an invitation to call whenever, wherever for whatever. What am I doing? "He needed someone to see him and not the money or the fame or his not-so renounced party-boy ways."

The bodyguard snorted. "The man could make Casanova look like a saint."

Feeling an odd heat bloom down her sides, Felicity's eyes flitted back up and she blinked at him. "Seen a few things?" And-

Casanova?

It was all too easy to picture in her minds eye: Oliver wearing that silver suit and white shirt on the night of his party, how it had brought out his incredibly clear blue eyes and the virility in his jaw. The shape of him… Effortlessly attractive. How he'd spun women around without saying a word; a clear warning sign to all that he was like crack: addictive, a good time for an evening, and hard to get over.

With the promise that the penalty would be worth it.

I can see him being that, being a 'Casanova'. It wouldn't be difficult for him. And maybe that's what he really was. But who knew him enough for that, because after five years everything about him was a guessing game.

"Let's just say that, on top of his party last Friday having a happy ending, he's been absent from the Queen Mansion on more than one evening since then."

Wow. How much sex could Oliver Queen have already had in a single week? She cleared her throat. "After five years, I don't exactly blame him for being a horn dog."

It wasn't a glare that John Diggle sent her, but it certainly wasn't a happy face. Leaning forwards to pay attention to the black pick me up he intended to inhale, he looked more 'stressed babysitter' than 'lethal bodyguard'. "Right after that," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, "he disappeared on me again." Something flickered through his eyes. "I don't remember a lot of what happened."

Oh. There was a thread to pull there, but she couldn't yet. It went hand in hand with Oliver palming a knife as if he was expecting trouble and the PTSD that had made him sleep walk in the too-early hours of the morning – as if his body clock was bent out of shape - in order to destroy a threat only he could see.

A threat that had made him attack her.

One that made her remember, with clarity, how ripped his body was and how impossible it would have been to maintain that on an abandoned island. Of course, she kept that perfect image locked away; otherwise she'd get nothing done, but… Something had happened to him during those five years that had given a man like Oliver Queen - a rich, narcissistic playboy - reason to inspect the dark places of the world and see monsters hiding there.

Not that I'll ever know, which just about killed her. It's my weakness; the mysterious, the unknown and the open ended. They had to solved or fixed or updated. Not that Oliver was some mystery to be solved, he was just… interesting. He was a man and he was interesting. And hard to fathom.

Alone.

It welled in her: some forbidden empathy she wouldn't give attention to here - or maybe ever - and settled for sending his protector an openly absorbed, if tentative, look. "That big a night?"

Something told her this strict bodyguard hadn't taken a sip.

"I'll admit," he told his cup, "Mr Queen is turning out to be one surprise after another." And he made a sound under his breath that told her she'd missed a few things. "He could give the CIA a run for their money."

Another overwhelming nugget of truth. There were thoughts and then there were suspicions.

Covering her curiosity with a non-committal noise - as if she didn't really think about Oliver as much as John Diggle could see she did - she pressed her lips tightly closed.

What had Oliver been up to?

It wasn't just the mystery though, or the genuine compassion she was feeling every time his name was brought; even in passing.

"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."

It was about how he'd been at the party: reluctant to enjoy the gifts of the evening - because there was only so much a returned castaway could stand - but willing to do so for his friend, even though he looked like he'd rather walk barefooted over broken glass than be the begrudging centre of attention. It was the things he'd said and asked, the way he moved and assessed a room, the fact that he kept giving the poor guy in front of her the slip; it all spoke of one thing.

Oliver Queen was a walking Fort Knox of secrets and not the regular kind, which wasn't the surprise of the year: of course he was hiding things. There was so much he couldn't share – wasn't ready to – as was his prerogative.

But.

The tattoos. The beautiful, haunting scars. The façade, the games of pretend, the way his eyes screamed predator and prey. How he was easily able to blindside a former military bodyguard - not suspicious at all - and the questions: the few and far between, perceptive questions he'd asked. The kind he shouldn't care about the answers to after being shipwrecked; the same way he wouldn't be remotely affected by the running of queen consolidated and yet, had been taken for a tour there. The nostalgia must have hurt him.

He'd displayed avoidance and hyper vigilance was his constant, so it wasn't a reach to think that his memories might hurt more than they comforted. Erratic behaviour was a symptom of post-traumatic stress and he clearly wasn't being treated for it, for whatever reason - I am so far from being the poster child for therapy - but maybe… maybe he'd found another way to acclimatise. Self-therapy. Something he didn't want to share nor had to with a family who demanded that he be available to them. That he be unchanged in one way and very much altered in another. Okay, I'm not being fair: I don't have any right to presume to know him or his family, but there were some things that spoke for themselves. Things I will not mention… unless he brings them up first.

Leaving him at the party had stayed with her because, who looks sad at their own welcome home bash? He'd been - had felt - alone in it.

And apparently, it had ended in sex so... I mean, it's was one way to cure loneliness, albeit brief.

But it said a few things about the people who cared for him. I don't know enough to speak about the Queen's; I'd like to keep my job thank you very much, save for the way his mother had just simultaneously expected the most and hadn't offered a soft landing for when he inevitably failed what she'd designed for him. It was either do as I say or be a good for nothing, my son.

Poor Oliver.

For all Felicity could say about her own family, her mother had never expected so much whilst being inconsiderate of her feelings; not like that. She missed things and she was blunt but, she'd never pushed any kind of future onto her daughter's capable shoulders. Disappointment had been inevitable because Moira had left no room for Oliver to manoeuvre back at Queen Consolidated and Oliver hadn't been able to do or say much without sounding like a dog a wolf snapping his jaw.

Life wasn't fair. It doesn't operate on a subliminal code where everyone everywhere is assured their 'due'. It was cruel, it could be cold and it was merciless. Dark. There were times when she wondered what it was all really for, if there were people who were never given an ounce of light because, there were such people. People who spent short lives lived in fear and ended them the exact same way. Fair doesn't exist.

It's why we reach out to each other; to try and meet off the effects with some warmth. Some light.

She'd seen victims, witnessed enough to make her gag and scream and pray. But Oliver made her want to make fair happen.

The words almost wobbled out, "I wouldn't take it personally," but there was nothing to do when her thoughts were far too forward, and it wasn't her place to discuss what was personal to Oliver. She cleared her throat. "He'd have found a way to escape whether you were there or not. Oliver isn't… I doubt he's ready for even half of what's happened over the last seven days." And yet he'd persevered. Admirable. "Though he probably looks like he's totally copacetic." When he's probably barely functional. But Oliver's fine mask seemed to have fooled a great deal. It helped that he beheld natural charm in spades. Was that admirable or wicked? "And he is, I think, to a degree; but I wouldn't have expected what happened in Mr Steel's office, not so soon and… probably, neither did he." She allowed herself to say.

Gulping down what appeared to be half the cup of hot coffee, Mr Diggle didn't so much as grimace as he spoke at the end of a breath. "So, he runs away." It wasn't a question.

"He dodged a bullet." She corrected, leaning into a list. "And the paparazzi who don't let little things like trauma stop them from making a buck-"

"And his bodyguard," Diggle cut in; his pointed look a reminder, making a guilty edge stray into her eyes and marring the humour, "chauffer and all-around babysitter. Don't think I'm forgetting that you helped him either."

Yikes. "If it's any consolation, I think he likes you." She sheepishly said because Oliver liked toying with him, sure; though looking back, in the underground garage it had felt more like he'd been testing the man somehow. Another mystery. "Would it be too much to ask that you don't go looking for him?" I can't lose anything by asking.

But he was already watching her with unnervingly discerning eyes. "And why would I risk my job doing that?"

Good point. "Mrs Queen wouldn't have to know that Oliver ditched." Was that too presumptuous? It felt a little cocky too, even with her lip bite, head duck and wince. "There must be someplace you'd rather be for a few hours." It was weakly suggested, I literally have nothing to offer him that might convince him.

"A few hours?"

"Until Oliver comes back."

His brows lifted. "You think he's coming back?"

"I asked him to."

And he appeared dubious at best. "You don't think he won't simply ignore that you asked?"

Nope, she shook her head. "Why would he?"

Soulful eyes took her in and mulled, as if he really was thinking about it. A gradual frown made its way between his now level eyebrows and he sighed before giving her a head twist: a no. "I'd be getting paid for doing nothing and that doesn't sit right with me."

An honest, honourable man. Immovable. Sometimes that wasn't a good thing, being an obstruction. "Being Oliver's bodyguard means protecting him from threats, right?" She started, trying a different track.

He hummed an affirmative.

How to put this… But someone had to say something eventually. Someone had to bring it up, had to put Oliver Queen first. Might as well be the stranger. "Family can be… they can be the worst kind of threat." The one you can't shield against. "There's no defence for it, is there?" She reached out to the soldier in the bodyguard before her. "For a man like Oliver," a man like you too, "I can only imagine how painful it's been for him since he came back. There's no real period of adjustment for the once ship-wrecked."

Not when the people around him seem to need the aide-mémoire that, for all intents and purposes, he was lost at sea and alone for what was probably a long, incredibly hard, five years. And this was only going from the scene with his mother earlier. It might be very different elsewhere and she didn't need the added incentive to feel for the reclusive heir to the Queen dynasty… where I work, where Oliver might actually become my boss and I have no idea how I feel about any of this. Her patience was based upon the sum total of her experiences, so maybe she was asking too much because patience hadn't always been a virtue of hers.

But there'd been no slow going for Oliver; no acclimatising. No tolerance that she could see, not really. It was business as usual from minute one and she was thrown at how his family were handling things.

Something that seemed to have his escaped his bodyguard. "You do remember how I said his party ended, right?"

"With sex?" That's not something you forget. "Yes."

Maybe it was her no-nonsense response that had Mr Diggle pausing, considering. And there was something to his expression, as if he'd seen something recently to prove that her words might not be just that. Words. "If it has been difficult, he hides it well."

No doubt. "His father died." Let's state the obvious, but it came out softer than she'd aimed for because she felt the words where she hadn't wanted to: in her chest. It added gravitas, gaining Dig's full attention. "Sara Lance died. The girl he took with him." She explained as John's face asked who?"And he was right there to witness it." She didn't know the details: no one did save Oliver, and there was no way she was going to ask for them. "It doesn't matter that he was cheating on his girlfriend before the ship wreck five years ago," her gaze moved elsewhere as she gave into some truths she hadn't touched in front of the troubled man who'd run from his family, "or that he was once, or still is, the world's biggest man whore: Oliver Queen has been alone since then. Did he wonder if he'd ever see home again? Did he regret not being given the chance to be someone else? Then a miracle happens, and he gets to return; only everything is an attack. The city and the people in it who've loved him, remind him of who he lost, of how much time has gone by, of how much he's probably changed compared to everything else- and he has changed, no matter how much he pretends he hasn't. I think he does that for his family, to protect them from what he thinks they aren't ready to know." More likely, it was what Oliver wasn't ready to share and that was okay. "When you're alone for so long, you face yourself. It's not always a pretty reveal." She knew that very well. "But this constant reminder," she carried on with a little head jerk, away dark thoughts, away, "stops him from being something else and he should have that opportunity. To be different. To be more, to be less if he wants; especially after everything. He deserves patience and some sensitivity, so… maybe he's earned a little leeway."

Ball in your court Mr Bodyguard, because he really didn't have to care at all about this. He wasn't Oliver's friend: he'd been employed to do a job, but there was something about the man before her. Something to his reactions and his insight that even after only twenty minutes in his company made him stand out. Oliver interested him because he'd noticed something different in him, something unexpected. It was just that his brain was trying to deny that his charge was anything more than a damaged little rich boy, so very much like the other damaged rich boys he'd had to protect in the past.

Humming - an, I see sound - Mr Diggle took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Well, when you put it that way…" He didn't seem particularly annoyed with her, yay, so maybe she'd said something he could understand.

"So," she coaxed, and those pretty brown eyes returned to her, "can you be flexible?" Since this might not be the last time he has to be. "And I swear that wasn't a come on."

It glanced off him and, looking like he was chewing on the inside of his mouth, John Diggle grunted. "I'll let it go today, but I need to think about this. Moira Queen employed me to do a job and I intend to do it, down to the last letter on my contract."

She leaned back in her seat, satisfied. "I would expect nothing less."

Shaking his head, the very large - heavily muscled, sharp as a tack, quietly observant, ex-military something or other, who she would look into because she just couldn't help herself - man sent her a baffled stare. "Who are you?"

Uncharacteristic of her, she giggled. But he sounded so thrown that the sound just bubbled out of her closed lips. I'm giggling, god. It had truly been a strange week of firsts and seconds.

Laughter in her voice as she hailed for the waiter on his way back with the large pot of black coffee he was carrying, she smiled at him. "I'm no one."

But his eyes were on the black tar. "Yeah, because what you need is more coffee."

"It has little to no effect on me anymore." It was more for comfort really, and on those especially long nights, it did manage to perk her up.

"Then why do you drink it?"

"…Hope?"

His sigh told her he did the same thing.

---

Queen Consolidated, Walter's office

"Who was that, Walter?"

Distracted, Walter Steel spared his seated wife an absent-minded glance from where he stood. "Hm?"

"The young woman you brought up to talk to Oliver."

It had taken two hours for his wife to settle after their disastrous - if somewhat short-sighted - attempt to welcome her son into the fold at Queen Consolidated. Of all the questions he'd have predicted she'd ask first, it wasn't this one.

"Felicity Smoak." Half-turned in front of his desk, he continued to shuffle through the mail he'd neglected in light of their morning. "She's one of the IT technician's we hired during the influx in 2010."

After two and a half years, he was ashamed to admit that he'd lost sight of her until the year prior: a young mind with two master's degrees and a way with technology that left the majority if his employees slack jawed and she'd been forgotten, though she seemed quite content in her position.

For now.

There was some quiet before-

"And you thought an IT technician would be the best person to bring my son up to speed?"

Head turning back, he took in his wife.

The liquid-smooth judgement - her upper-class conceit - came through like the crystal ding of the Starling wind chimes he'd bought many years ago when he'd first moved to the city. When everything had been much simpler.

And much less meaningful.

"Quite." He loved his wife but sometimes he was strongly reminded of her devotion to the backwards thinking that many pure blue bloods had possessed as he'd pulled himself alongside them, into the ranks of businessman and owner and it wasn't a pleasant sensation. "She has a remarkable mind: we're lucky to have her here."

Looking at him as she lifted her cup she managed to speak before taking a sip. "She looked very young."

"And we're both old enough to know that age and wisdom don't necessarily go hand in hand." Letting the letters flap against his desk, he strolled towards where she sat on the grey sofa with her tea. "I would think that Oliver would benefit from that kind of variety."

"I think Oliver would benefit in an altogether different way with her." It was almost derisive, and she sent her husband a look that asked him why he hadn't thought of this. "You saw how it was when we came into the building: my son is a very good-looking man and he knows his way around women. This Felicity Smoak wouldn't have stood a chance."

It was difficult to tell whether she was horrified or proud of his son's 'worldly ways', but… I saw something very different. "I think she'd surprise you."

She'd surprised him.

It was easy to forget how much Oliver must have been through, because he was so convincing. He smiled, he laughed, he walked and he talked and he ate. But his smile could be unnervingly cold, his walk too quiet, his stance too erect, his laugh too loud and when he talked, he talked with a grin that would make politicians preen. When he ate, his choice of nutrition and any dietary requirements was incredibly lacklustre; even for Walter's tastes. As if he'd lost all taste or pleasure in food consumption. When he spent time with them, he didn't share. He listened and he quoted and he jested. But he didn't offer about himself and instead of wondering why, they'd all chosen instead to wait to see a glimpse of the young man who'd left. Just give him time, Moira had said.

They'd forgotten that his behaviour might actually mean something.

But Miss Smoak, who'd spent a single evening in his stepson's company, had known immediately that Oliver wouldn't want what they'd tried to offer-

To force on him.

They'd very nearly told him what to do with his life. His wife had taken the lead, but I took her side.

Looking back on it, it was almost as if they'd attacked him.

"But I was also pretty certain that Oliver doesn't want me to babble away about the company and its recent in-roads, when his main focus the past five years has been surviving alone, on an island. I could be wrong about that though."

It was almost shameful how that hadn't even come to mind until she'd said it.

Had they done the right thing, bringing him to Queen Consolidated?

He asked to see the company on his first day back home, but what had he been aiming for if not to secure a position? Had he been making a point? Had he-

Wait a moment.

His first night home after five years on an island… and he was immediately faced with his new step-father. What else had we expected? And judging by his behaviour since he'd stepped foot inside the building, it wasn't even about territory. It was about remembering his father. Oh dear.

But he'd asked questions about the company that had thrown Walter and had-

Had made him talk.

Oh, that's very clever. There was a lot he didn't know yet about his stepson, but he was almost certain Oliver didn't want to get to know him, at least not yet. Not so soon.

"You sound like you think highly of her."

He had to pull himself back into the present. "Well, she's extraordinarily bright." He confessed, a slight smile upturning his mouth. "If a little nervous."

Wary. Watchful, certainly.

Moira harrumphed, depositing her tea cup on the table before them. "She certainly didn't seem the type to suffer from a nervous disposition."

You have no idea. The times the young woman had practically jumped out of her seat when he'd approached came to mind and how he'd confirmed after several startled movements and moments between them, that it was rooted in caution. A sycophant, she wasn't. "She does speak her mind."

"A little too freely, I think. She had no right to presume like that."

He hummed. "I think it's refreshing." A steady glance from his wife made him lift his hands, I do. "I thought she'd be a good choice." Since she was the only person who'd hit the nail on the head, if bluntly. For one so young, she seemed awfully well lived. "I think Oliver liked her too."

"He's been shipwrecked for five years: I think Oliver likes every woman he sees."

Now, why did that make him wince? "I also think," he continued to a still unconvinced Moira Steel-Queen - this isn't the time to talk about Felicity Smoak; it was his wife's way of deflecting from the morning because her plans were unaffected - in the hope that she'd see today as less a failure and more a chance for change, "that we may have pushed him too hard. Moira," he added when his wife looked down, "this isn't something we're equipped to handle." He took a pause before saying. "We should be prepared."

Sighing, his wife inspected her hands. "For what?"

"For the possibility that this may be much harder than we thought it would be." When she frowned and peered up at him, he continued in a softer tone. "He plays the part of the good son well, but I think Oliver might not be ready for… for any of it. Any of this." He gestured to the office surrounding them and all it implied. "Maybe it would be best not to have him at the dedication this Saturday."

"Now that is something I can't agree with. No Walter," a hand slid over his and his mouth closed as he looked, hoping this wouldn't end in disappointment for her, "it's already decided. The dedication to Robert means a lot to this family and should stay within the family: it is proof that the company is flourishing after the first few rocky years without its owner and will continue to do so because we've built off the foundation started by my first husband. As his heir, it's only right that Oliver be the one to open ground on the site by declaring it in honour of his father." She returned his silent stare with a soothing glance. "He's fine. I'm his mother; I would know if he wasn't. Earlier, that was a tantrum and he was prone to more than a few of those before." Before the shipwreck. Nodding at her own point, finding solace in it, she continued at a quieter decimal. "I've lost too much. I thought my son was dead, but now he's here and…" throat moving, she took a much-needed breath and he threaded his fingers through her own in comfort. "This is my way of welcoming him home."

Of keeping him close.

It had been short of nightmarish to her, he remembered; receiving the news that her husband and son were lost at sea. The way she'd fallen apart, keeping herself locked away for months. Then having to declare them dead after that first year of hopeless searching, having to walk into the company and state that her husband and son weren't returning home; she could be forgiven for any amount of wishful thinking.

He'd always cared for Moira, as they'd been friends for years before they'd become anything close to being lovers, but seeing her heartbreak – witnessing for himself how she loved and grieved the loss of it - had turned that affection into something of deeper waters.

He didn't agree with her here, but he loved her; so what else was there to do, but agree?

"Alright." He murmured as she leaned in close; her shoulder against his chest, her hair at his chin. "We'll continue as planned."

And pray that she didn't get her heart broken once more. Pray that they didn't oversight what mattered most.

---

CNRI, 2pm

"We wanted proof that the Watchman was keeping an eye on this case..." Elbows on her knees, hands clasped beneath her chin, Johanna's eyes were glued to the floor; the fine layer worry in her, evident. "I think we got it."

Understatement.

Scribbling down the time of their court date with Somers onto a sticky note, Laurel's shoulder's tightened with a deep inhale - her eyes not moving from her page - but for the most part, she ignored what was being said: too focused on editing their reviewed deposition, on swimming through her caffeine high, on venting some of the passion in her chest.

There was too much to do to think about what she was doing. It felt like a new start. A new purpose. And she was loving the rush. Yes. This was right.

"It was incredible." Even worn out, Emily still managed to pace a hole in the floor; fingers interlocking, stress lines appearing on her young brow. "I still can't believe he showed."

"I can." Joanna's absent-minded voice by no means meant that she wasn't paying full attention to her surroundings. "My brother caught a picture of him once. I'm just disappointed I wasn't there to see him too."

"Really?" Came Emily's quiet question.

"Normally I wouldn't want to be up close and personal with tall, dark and heroic." Her voice was devoid of any levity that might be found here. "Or guns in general. But this guy… my brother thinks he's a hero and… so do I." Out of the corner of Laurel's eye, she caught her friend ruminating over her words. "Maybe I don't want to meet him though. I mean, he is a criminal."

"Who rescued us."

"…There's that."

Then Emily made a disagreeing sound; her nose wrinkling as she stopped moving. "Actually, he was a little shorter than I thought he'd be."

Expression opening, "really?" Johanna's mouth turned puckered a little. "Shame."

It made Laurel pause; made her absently pick at her blueberry muffin. It was all too easy for her mind to venture back into the memories from the night before and she found herself, once again, caught in its thrall. "I don't know; it didn't seem to slow him down."

At all.

Remembering how he'd moved in the darkness - the inhuman way he'd managed to keep to the shadows and overtake their car - it was all she could do to concentrate on her work. It had been unreal in every sense of the word.

"So, he was impressive?"

The voice made her eyes briefly close, made her hold in that sigh as her diaphragm pulled in. Hand going for her pen once more, Laurel spoke without looking up. "What?"

"Nothing." I've heard that tone before. The one she'd hear right before Johanna opened fire. "It's just so very lucky; that the Watchman was there, I mean."

I wouldn't call it luck. "I… haven't thought about it." Even shrugging a shoulder for emphasis, she tried to steer away from her personal thoughts on the subject. It was exposing and she didn't need another side of her exploited.

She didn't need Johanna De La Vega thinking she was mooning over the unattainable, didn't need her thinking she was being ridiculous, because this was so much more than that. This was the beginning of a partnership that might actually lead to a reformation in the city. But first, Somers. First, the Watchman's good name spreading like an angry wave of righteousness throughout a city that needed him.

"Uh huh."

She couldn't help it this time: furtively, her eyes looked to her right, past her monitor…

Her friend's deadpan stare was evident, and she didn't like how her arms were folded across her chest or how she was unsmiling, with one elegant brow arched and looking far too resplendent after a long night with very little sleep.

Clearing her throat, there are more important things, Laurel quickly brought her attention back to her work; but she could feel her friend still watching from the corner of the eye.

"So," after a minute of silence, "we're just going to ignore the elephant in the room?" Johanna asked with her usual non-nonsense tone.

I'm not doing this with you. "There's nothing to ignore." She understood her friend's ire – her worry and fear – but after a sleepless night, a too-early review and re-wording of her deposition, plus two pots of coffee - black coffee, no sugar or cream at hand - Laurel couldn't help the way she slouched. The way her mouth pursed. The way she ground her teeth. The nagging reminder that she'd screwed up. "Don't start again, Johanna."

"Start what?" Hands lifting upwards as if there really wasn't a problem, her best friend continued to give her the look. A cross between I told you soand I was terrified for you, you idiot. "I'm just looking at you."

How slow do you think I am? Eyes re-opening, Laurel narrowed them at her. "That's not cute."

"I am very cute, but that has no standing here. Now," and the way she pressed forward once more, made Laurel's body involuntarily brace, "tell me you have a plan that's, you know- an actual plan? One that involves, I hope, lots of burly S.W.A.T guys and your father?"

Because I couldn't possibly do my job without a strong man about me. Pretending to mull that one over, Laurel hummed. "How about you, me, Emily, and the Watchman?"

More than enough, I'd say.

To say Johanna wasn't unimpressed was to understate the emotion that made her head fall back and her eyes close. "They tried to kill you two, Laurel."

A shoulder lifted, and? "Exactly." Point already made. "They tried." Affecting blasé, Laurel brushed her destroyed muffin – she couldn't eat right now – into the bin by her desk. "We're still here. Alive and kicking and ready to fire back on all cylinders." And I can't wait-

"Fire back with what exactly?" An exasperated breath leaving her, Johanna looked at friend once more. "Are you going to go down to China Town, rustle up some Triad guys, point the shotgun I know you store next to your glass cabinet in their faces, and tell them to leave you alone? Hm?"

A little faith here would be nice. Displeasure curled in her stomach. "Not likely," she started as she finished typing her last sentence, "I don't think they're actually based in China Town."

"Laurel."

"You know, my dad used that tone with me last night too." Pressing for a print off - near stabbing the right click on her mouse - Laurel pushed back out of her seat, shooting her friend a look that asked for her support and not her censure. "And if I have to go down there," Laurel walked over to the printer as it started to discharge her papers, "then I will."

With the Watchman by her side, because there was nothing to fear if he was.

It made Johanna stand so quickly, she made her chair shudder. "Don't be preposterous!"

"And he used that word on me too." Flourishing her papers, feeling cornered in and flustered, "maybe if I did do something," Laurel stalked back over to her desk, maintaining eye contact as she did, "then it would show people that I know how serious this is and that I don't need reminding about it every hour of the day."

She was born in Starling City. Raised in it. Every morning, the 8am news had blared in her kitchen over toast and coffee; the newspaper screaming titles no teenager should have to read - about the next serial killer, about that latest abduction, about a devastating explosion somewhere uptown - so she knew how dangerous it was; she'd been told all her life.

And this, the people she cared for having little to no confidence in her ability to get this done, felt insulting.

But what Johanna said next, made her head shoot up. "The fact that you just said that to me, tells me you have no idea where I'm coming from." It was the gentleness in that voice - the surprise of it - that made Laurel stare at her and not speak. "This isn't coming from 'Johanna, miracle attorney'," as some of her kinder clients have taken to calling her, "this is from your friend. Not your father, not our stressed-out boss: the girl you debated with over campus ground rules at cheap bars until the early hours of the morning." Pointing to herself, Johnna stepped closer to Laurel's desk. "And this overworked girl is telling you that there is no limit to being careful. They're going to try again, you know that." Because drug smuggling made such obscene amounts of money that no drug baron or corrupt businessman would let go of it; not even for murder. "Look, I'm not trying to stop you or even scare you." You weren't? That's what it had felt like. "There is no stopping or scaring you." Damn right. I will not fall into submission. She would not go quietly into the night. Ironically, however, the statement made Laurel stop anyway. Not dying was the point. "I've already spoken to Emily." Emily who'd stepped away from them, giving them a moment and she felt the embarrassment of that punch her; being caught in the middle of a lecture by her client, come on Johanna. This wasn't the time or place "Until her father can walk in the sun again without fear, she's not giving up either. I'm just asking you to please cooperative with your father. Hey, I'm not asking a lot here." She added, seeing Laurel's facial spasm. "You didn't tell him the truth about what happened last night: I know you omitted." A finger raised in point, Johanna looked ready to skewer her. "The Watchman shows up and Laurel Lance, defender of justice and upholder of her father's favourite jingle, you don't have to go out of the law-"

"To find justice." It was too easy to remember.

And push aside.

"-And yet you didn't answer your father's questions about the Watchman. You know he used to be on that task force and any day now, he's going to be called back in. They'll demand all that he knows and that includes the fact that his daughter became a deliberate obstruction."

Not so fast. "Dad was pulled off that 'not-so-secret anti-vigilante task force' for a reason. They didn't come close to catching him and rather than admit to that…" shaking her head, Laurel let the sentence go: wasting time and resources hunting a man who saved lives sounded irrational to her. "I didn't have to answer a single question: he should have been asking me about the incident last night instead of letting his obsession take over."

Not that he hadn't asked or cared but the direction had gone south towards the masked vigilante and fast.

"That's not fair Laurel." It really wasn't but the spike of passion she'd felt the night before was too strong to quell. She believed now. She believed in the heroics and histrionics of a dangerous masked man: not her father or the police force. "He was scared to death and if it wasn't for him, you might have been held in contempt. Remember: obsession or not, the incident actually did involve the vigilante. If you'd been a little more open, then maybe your dad would now be asking how a masked man no one speaks to, knows more about this case than any of us?"

He does speak to people. He spoke to me. She gave a lofty sniff. "I didn't think it was relevant."

A quiet snort left Johanna. "Say that to Somers."

She couldn't wait to do exactly that. I'll bring you down yet. "But what if I was wrong before?" By blindly following her father's advice years ago, despite-

"Believing that the law works until it doesn't; how self-serving can you become? No: simply choosing to see only one side, one set of examples and ethics to follow, results in faulty reasoning. In limited compassion. Nothing in this world works at 100%, 100% of the time."

She'd felt like a child, like he'd chastised her… But he was right. Still, she felt it: this overwhelming urge to cast it all aside and be a different kind of exactor and purveyor of justice; the likes of which the city had never seen. Put it against her name. Shine a light on all the wrong done and do it without fear of reprisal.

Like a vigilante.

She'd sat on one side of the line all her life. Maybe now, it was time to step over it and live differently for a little while.

The question just came out. "What if we can only get justice by doing what others won't?" A dangerous question.

At the look on her face, Johanna thought so too: her eyes telling her to be careful, even at CNRI, which was, again, another ludicrous notion. Who could possibly be listening? "I can't help you there. You either believe in something or you don't." that sounded eerily close to what the Watchman's words. "But let me tell you what I believe in." Stepping around Laurel's desk, Johanna placed her hands upon Laurel's tired shoulders. "I believe in your father. I believe in my brother and his friends at the fire station. I believe in the good men and women who are still here, the one's you're forgetting about."

Like a smack to the face, shame burned there, and Laurel felt it enough to look down. But there was indignation too and it made her neck muscles tighten because, where are they? These good men and women. She hadn't seen a single one who wasn't dressed in black with a voice modifier. Hadn't felt any of them stand beside her when their boss announced that he needed someone to take on Somers's case and Hunt's trial.

She'd raised her hand because she'd known others wouldn't.

But Johanna wasn't done, and Laurel's lips pressed tightly together to keep it all from spilling out.

"I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning," voice dropping to a fast whisper, real fear made brown eyes shine, "and see the news only to find out that you've been killed during the night for representing a woman who didn't want police protection."

"Trust me," the mutter came from closer to them than she'd been sure Emily was roving, and the two attorneys turned to find her sitting on the edge of her desk, "after last night I am kicking myself for that."

A hand waving in Emily's general direction, Johanna looked back at Laurel; brows arched high. A see?

Grudgingly, the point was a solid one, but- "We had protection." Levelling a meaningful stare at her, Laurel lowered her voice too in case of eavesdroppers. "He came."

"I see." Nodding, looking increasingly maddened by her, Johanna's arms fell to their sides. "So, you're just going to rely on a guy who has kept wellout of the public eye since day one for a reason, to come save your ass whenever you decide to put it in the line of fire from now on?"

The insult made Laurel flush. "Of course not, it's just good to know that he's watching closely enough to-"

"To come save you?"

Irritation made her speak without thinking. "I can save myself."

"You can say that after last night?" Already shaking her head, Johanna continued in her own hushed voice. "Slippery slope Loor. It doesn't mean he's watching this case every single second of the day, I mean;" and of course, her friend asked the one question she couldn't answer, "can you guarantee that?"

"No, she can't."

The brusque voice of her father behind her saved her from answering but made Laurel bite back an altogether different kind of immediate retort that he didn't deserve.

"Thank God you're alright."

Not after the clear fear he'd shown last night, the understandable panic. He hugged me so tightly, after she'd gotten home, after it had been blared over the police scanners that the daughter of Detective Lance had been involved in a major shootout. He even hugged Emily.

Until that moment, Emily had seemed in control of herself. But two seconds of having her father's arms around her, she'd broken into a flood of tears and after begging to be allowed to see her father, dad said yes. He hadn't cared about the cost right then. He'd seen me in her. A daughter wanting daddy.

It had made her remember how close she and her father used to be, before… before Ollie. Before Sara.

And mum.

However, a brief visit to the police station at 1am had led to two bad coffees before being led to the interrogation rooms. Thinking nothing of it past the fact that she was a policeman's daughter and Emily the daughter of a witness currently in their protection, she'd gone in. It took maybe three minutes for her to realise their focus was Watchman-related: from a physical description to how the man spoke, moved and every single detail she hadn't thought was important until then. Like, the repetition of words used. It had made her feel… hurt. She'd wanted, at least for that morning, to have her father's care unmarred by their differences. Instead, she'd been dragged right back into his fixation.

Emily had offered what she could, but Laurel had been the only one to speak to the Watchman in full. And Laurel hadn't talked, not about him. How could she?

I won't betray what I know, which was almost nothing.

That would change soon.

Then right after they'd left the SCPD - after they'd had more questions about a man in a mask and not of the circus of hit men who the mask had taken care of, good job officers - her dad had taken his turn at making sure she knew exactly how stupid she'd been and where she'd gone wrong; giving her the kind of lecture she hadn't been on the receiving end of since she was a teenager. Her ears still throbbed and made her remember other times, like when she'd been caught kissing Ollie by the local salon hours after her curfew and-

"The fact that you're relying on an unknown, criminal element to keep you safe instead of coming to your father, is an all new low Laurel." Low-toned and prickly, her dad's voice was flat with disappointment.

Slowly turning back to face him, biting down on her lip to keep silent, her arms folded across her chest; remembering the way he'd shouted at her-

"…First thing in the morning, you pay Judge Madden's a visit and you recuse yourself from this case: end of story. I mean it, Laurel! You almost got yourself and that poor girl killed tonight; all because you didn't want to listen."

"Excuse me for wanting to take my cue from an unbiased source!"

"And the Watchman's that source, he's who you trust now?"

"Don't sneer at me dad: you know I have reason to distrust the SCPD."

"I am the SCPD!"

"Stop shouting at me!"

"Then stop doing things that make me think about locking you up in witness protection right alongside Nocenti."

"If you think I'm giving up on Emily, then you don't know me at all."

"Giving up on Emily? Emily was never part if this until you built a case around her instead of her father. You found your way into an investigation where the victim, Victor Nocenti, had told you to stay clear of. You were given explicit warning by a masked man who, whether I like it or not, knows a lot more about handling homicide investigations that deal with the rich and shameless, than you. I know your sense of justice is strong Laurel, but that is a step beyond reckless."

"It's not about being reckless! People like Victor shouldn't have to hide to get justice. I'm trying to make the city safer, in my own way."

"But it was never for you to decide how! I know you're frustrated and with good reason but really Laurel, who the hell do you think you are to decide something like that for other people?!"

"Dad…"

"You're all I have left; don't you get that? I just want you to be safe and there you go, rousing up people like the Triad and Hunt and Somers!"

"And I just want to do what's right like you taught me because… dad, what you want for me isn't living."

"This isn't something you get to defend yourself against right now. I'm speaking to you as a cop; not just a father. These people are more dangerous than you're willing to accept and you've made them angry. Think about that."

-The way he'd made her want to run out into the night and prove everyone wrong somehow because, eventually making those 'decisions' her father had said was no right of hers to do, was something beyond her control when pressed and left with little in the way of options. When pushed into a corner what else could she do?

Then how she'd wanted to smile realising that she'd-

"The city is a bird pen; a haven for predators and a home to prey and you think you're trying to rattle a cage…"

-Rattled a cage.

The way he'd made her cry after he'd left.

She wasn't such a fool as to not realise that, yes; she'd done the wrong thing that morning at the Courts. But it was an accident she could fix, if only he'd let her.

And her resolve returned, her steel. Spine straightening, she managed to look her father in the eye as he continued. "Way to kick a man while he's trying to help, not that I'm surprised." Hard faced, his next breath made his chest concave. "You still haven't reported what you and Watchman talked about, though I think I'll be waiting for that report till the end of time."

Wise. "Well it has nothing to do with you or this case, so I didn't find it relevant..."

"Wait," she licked lips; this hadn't gone at all like she thought it would, "you said I was being used?" He could think what he liked about her; he was stuck with her. She'd show him, she'd prove herself. "What did you mean?"

"You don't need to know." His voice called back.

The memory flashed over her suddenly, probably because her father was there and maybe she should mention one thing the Watchman had said-

"You didn't find it- Right. I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, does it?" And before she could think about his ominous tone, her dad lifted a hand and gestured to the four police officers who'd entered behind him. "You three are getting police protection today. No arguments."

In fell into her stomach like a rock. Unbelievable. Though Johanna was nodding - sending her a glance that begged her not to make an issue out of this - and Emily had stepped up to thank him, Laurel felt stuck again. What it would be like to break free, like a bird?

It was just like Prom, just like when the serial killer designated Dollmaker had gone on a genuinely terrifying killing spree and her dad had managed to secure a 24-hour police escort for her that had lasted for weeks until… Until he'd been mysteriously caught - beaten and bound on the sidewalk outside of the police precinct - with evidence of all his ill-doings taped to the bindings on the man's chest, courtesy of the Watchman.

And her father still couldn't see the hero as anything more than a criminal. Was it any wonder that she continued to question his perception?

"You know this isn't going to stop me from carrying on this case." Clear, concise: be the bull by the horns, be the one in the right. "The hearing is tomorrow, 10am." Her arms crossed, tone softening in self-assured rebellion. "Will you be watching?"

"This isn't funny." Getting in close to her, his expression tightened, and she knew she'd pushed it again. "After last night, you don't get to joke about any of this." Each word felt like a whip lash and his finger rose to point at her as he spoke. "You think this is game or something? You think it's fun for me having to procure police protection for my own daughter?"

She didn't wince, though she wanted to. "That's not what I meant."

"Well, as much as I love hashing over old ground, I'm not here just to impose on your boundaries."

She stared at him. There were times when she and her father got on so well… and then there were times when they knew just which buttons to push, like now and he'd become infuriating. "Only the ones you love can piss you off or shake you up enough to reach for your gun," he'd once said to her.

But she couldn't say a word because then his eyes cut over to Emily, and she had the feeling that whatever he was about to tell the woman, was going to ruin the rest of her day. "Your father retracted his plea this morning."

What?

Eyes widening, Emily looked like she'd been pushed over, and her hands circled each other. "What does that mean?" She didn't sound remotely put together.

"It means you no longer have the case you thought you did against Somers." Always crotchety, always maddeningly in the right, never one to mince his words or lie in order to exacerbate his truths; it was difficult to hear her father say things that made her feel like she'd been hit by a bus, because he never held back. "It means I can no longer protect your father because he also withdrew himself from protective custody twenty minutes ago." No! The case- "It means," and he was angry, her father; she could see that and hear his fear, but her mind was running at 100 miles per hour, "that these standard issue officers aren't on permanent loan. Don't get used to their faces: my Captain gave me 24 hours and then they're going back in their boxes at the SCPD."

Then the investigation would be over. Victor wouldn't have protection, neither would Emily. They'd be exposed. Somers wouldn't be stopped.

And Laurel, could do nothing. Again.

Past feeling frustration over that, her dad's caustic words - the sarcasm behind them - was because of her; because of the way she'd spoken about his job, his life's work. But she also knew that he wouldn't use this against her here, not like this.

He was truly scared.

"Dad…" she swallowed, looking at him.

He shook his head, beyond knowing what to do and breathed an, "I told you." So had the Watchman. "You didn't want to know."

Don't blame me again, this isn't my fault. It was Somers fault and why had Victor Nocenti lost his courage? So what if she'd presented the case to the media, where was his bravery now? She couldn't help him if he gave up…

"I need to see him." Stepping in, Emily let out a shaky exhale. "Where is he?"

Pointing to one of the officers, her father nodded at her gently. "Officer Todd will take you."

Wait- Laurel tried to catch her eyes before she left. "Emily-"

"I'm sorry." She had nothing to apologise for. "You were brave enough to try but I don't think I'm brave enough to continue this without knowing my dad is going to come through it alive."

Cold realisation slammed into her. She'd almost criticised Emily's father in front of his daughter: a father who had a right to his fear, but she still had to try. "You don't know what will happen. Don't give up."

Fixing Laurel with her honest stare, Emily whispered. "Can you assure me that he'll be fine? That he won't be killed?"

Mouth open, nothing came out in rejoinder because… she couldn't. She wanted to say that she was sure, that the Watchman had their backs, but there was no guarantee to be had there. Johanna was right: without a way to contact him, she couldn't give Emily the words she needed to hear.

Emily's, "It's okay," on leaving felt like another slap to her face and she absolutely took it personally.

Again, they'd almost gone to trial. Again, the law had been subverted for criminals. Again, she couldn't get justice. I can't believe this.

But no one spoke. No one could.

At least not until Johanna valiantly broke into it. "Hold up, let me get this all straight. You're telling us that," a hand lifted to gesture because old habits die hard and Johanna's body did 50% of her speaking for her, "as of this moment, there's no witness to this case and nothing protecting Victor Nocenti or his daughter on the day before a wet trail," Laurel sent her a glare, just because he retracted his plea doesn't mean it's an empty case, but it was wasn't it, "one that's indicting a dangerous businessman who has drugs smuggled into the city through the Triad, who tried to murder him last week and his daughter this week and there's also nothing we can do about it… Yeah, I'm just laying it all out." Nodding, Johanna struggled for composure, eyes- her eyes were watering. "We're actually screwed."

It slid down from Laurel's throat, the realisation of just how right she was. "Johanna…"

"If Victor Nocenti," her dad quietly gruffly uttered, eyeing both of them severely without even a hint of superiority in his face, "isn't dead by tomorrow morning, he'll be a dead duck tomorrow night."

Laurel's mouth involuntarily closed. Shock made her stare. Oh my god.

"This is terrible." Sniffing, Johanna's arms wrapped around her and her eyes moved over the area, as if searching for listeners. "We promised Emily a win and we failed. We might as well close the case." It was a shamed murmur.

I will not hide, Laurel absently reminded herself, and CNRI wasn't the place to find a mole. Try internal affairs.

"Without Nocenti," Johanna was still saying, "what could we possibly bring to the table?"

"The drugs." It just came back to her, what she'd decided the night before. If Somers made the trial too difficult to keep control of, if Nocenti walked because he was afraid, then she'd make it about the narcotics. There were several baggies she knew had been procured the night that the Watchman had interrupted their shipment. "We make it about the drugs. Narcotics were found in Somers's warehouse by the CST's: have they been analysed?" The rush of eagerness in her was unmistakable - it was a thread she meant to keep a hold of - because a lead was a lead. "We can trace them back to Somers and the Triad." Method of production for the Triad - be it for methamphetamines or heroin - or any gang affiliation was different from another. Sort of like an ID tag or blueprint. It was possible to discover the where and how's of manufacturing and it was permissible in court. If I can't get him for attempted murder, I will get him for smuggling drugs. "And there have to be records – strictly off the books – of Somers's affiliation with the Triad."

The Underworld might be a hidden world, but they were real and if they were real then they could be traced.

"…The SCPD weren't granted the warrant they needed; Hunt is on good terms with the judge. Slipping inside what was once his corporation was easy. Gaining evidence in such a way as to make it a viable option in court wasn't."

The Watchman could, would do it, if it came to a dead end. If he knew. It was possible.

"But our case doesn't work around that angle."

"Then we'll make it work around that angle. We'll go to the judge and ask for a re-trail. It'll give us time to rework out deposition-"

"That won't work." Her father cut in.

Lisp thinning, she sent him a look that dared him to make this about her safety. Don't do this to me dad.

But it wasn't about that this time. "The drugs…" did he just hesitate? A rough hand came up to scruff against his hair and he let out another expansive breath that looked too heavy to be carried. "They've gone missing."

"I'm sorry," she wasn't, and he heard it in the tone of her voice, "what?"

"Missing?" Frowning, Johanna continued to keep her voice quiet. "How can evidence go missing like that?"

Yes dad; how can evidence just go missing from police custody?

Awkward and disappointed, the look her dad offered her was close to pitying as he grumbled out. "You definitely haven't been a lawyer longer long enough."

I think you hide behind that dad to take me down a peg or two. Missing drugs. Mole in the department. Dirty cops.

Arms still folded, Laurel's jaw tightened and a triumphant feeling in her chest only served to slightly soften her own dissatisfaction: the bitter taste of being virtuous. "What was that about trusting the police force again?"

There was a near-twitch at his eye that he managed to catch in time. "It was that you can trust me."

When you're part of a bent police force? No thank you. But she didn't voice it: the words might make the fracture between them break beyond all repair.

Fortunately, he sighed; cutting eye contact as he looked down. "The point is, they're gone," and he sounded so beyond disheartened that it had Johanna putting a hand on his arm in silent comfort, "and there's nothing we can do to get that evidence back."

Because a cop had committed a felony inside the SCPD and so- "There's nothing you can do." It just came out and no, her eyes didn't immediately scatter from her father's immediately piercing gaze: they stubbornly fixed on him because, it wasn't a lie.

"No," and it took a second more for her insinuation to fully dawn, "no, we're not going there. Not here, not today. Drop it."

Not on your life. "Don't tell me what to do. This is my case and you know he could get that information."

"It is both our cases and how do you suggest we make whatever he comes up with magically permissible in the court of law, huh?" Said her dad in rapid fire.

"He did it before."

"So, he can do it again? Are you even hearing yourself?" His smile was the unpleasant kind you wore when you found the world around you no longer made sense. "You think using evidence obtained from your Watchman isn't breaking the law? Try taking that into court: the jury might eat it up, but the judge won't."

I will. If she had to. Instil fear of outside justice if judicial justice couldn't be served by her. There was no compromise to be had in a city so corrupt. For the first time in a long time, she was hearing - seeing - things quite clearly. And her father's old habits, his backwards way of thinking, his worry and stunted perception weren't going to make her feel like a child about it. The drugs had disappeared because some cop somewhere was a bought man and there was nothing they could do.

But there was a lot the Watchman could do.

And maybe one thing that I can do too. A thing she wouldn't be sharing with her father, not when he looked about two seconds from blowing up in her face. "Fine." So quiet, the word made her father blink and behind him, Johanna's level gaze told her she wasn't fooling anyone.

But then behind them both-

"Laurel!"

She started, blinking a frown at the newcomer. Tommy?

Why was he-

"Thank God." Quickly walking in from the hallway and into the main area, Tommy Merlyn only had eyes for her. "I just heard about it."

About what? She looked from her father whose frown had dropped to an all new level of disgruntled and then Johanna whose solitary arched brow told a written page of meaning. "He's like a puppy." She whispered to her and not in a demeaning way, not at all.

Laurel sent her a glower of her own.

But then he came to a stop just before her and there was nothing she could do. "It's been on the news… About last night." Those eyes of his shot to her father's dead-stare and back to her again. "You were attacked: some men took a shot at you because of this case you've been working on?"

As in, ring any bells? And, are you freaking kidding me Laurel?

Great; more of the same. Sighing, she shifted. "It was nothing." She'd actually forgotten about the guns and the bullets and the fact that her car was currently at a repair shop.

But Tommy looked bowled over by her lack of care. "How can you say that?" Any hint of pleasantry, any happiness at seeing her safe, was a deception. She knew enough about him to know that he was internalising everything he was seeing - her tired eyes, her father's presence at her desk, Johanna's worried countenance - and not a bit of it was soothing his nerves. "You do remember the part about the guns with the bullets in them, aimed in your direction?"

"A good question." Her father grunted.

Grunted. He was speaking in grunts now. Just what I need.

Still twisting to and from father to daughter, Tommy pointed at her dad with a, see; he agrees with me, expression.

Add that onto the puppy dog splendour, a man very clearly content to see one woman and Laurel had to remind herself that this was because he cared: not chauvinism. They all cared. But now also wasn't the time to deflate the male ego begging to poke out from beneath Tommy's venire of soft concern. "I wasn't hurt Tommy."

"And that is good to hear!" But the quick smile melted away and the rush of irritation rising inside of her was cooled when she saw him catch his lower lip between his teeth. When his eyes turned to liquid blue pools of affection and worry, and it was all suddenly too much to see in front of her father who was now eyeing the Merlyn heir with a confusion that he somehow made appear aggressive.

And clearly Tommy's sense of self-preservation was stronger than it looked because he'd kept just outside of her father's reach and why, every now and then, he eyed the side-arm at his hip. To his credit, he didn't gulp or pale, but it looked like he might want to.

Instead, he proceeded to keep her thoughts silent as those pretty blue eyes fixed on hers. "You didn't call."

She blinked at him. "Uh." Eyes side-lining to Johanna - who was giving her another one of her famous looks, he's cute, rich and eager; what is wrong with you - before they fell back to the man who was causing her to lose track of her place in the conversation already. "Was I supposed to?"

"I was worried." His voice was quiet, as was his smile: seriousness looked odd on him. Good. But odd. Like a drop of rain or one of those other ridiculous analogies used to describe an attractive man's mouth as it pulled that she'd sparingly read in novels that had always made her eyes roll. It was funny how Tommy always made her think about that stuff. "Rephrase that: I was on the phone with Mrs Queen."

Her dad snorted. Loudly.

Grimacing, Tommy took a turn for sheepish as he watched her father take off back down the hallway he'd come from. "I said the wrong thing, didn't I?"

A sigh made Laurel lose the stiffness in her shoulders. What was there to say that wouldn't be a lie? "What were you saying about Mrs Queen?"

Sighing, Tommy was still eyeing the back of her father's head. "Looks like Ollie's disappeared on her. Again."

"And this is where I leave the conversation." Lifting her phone, Johanna shook it. "I need to call my brother. After last night, he's worrying about us."

"Good man." Tommy said.

Men. "Tell him he doesn't need to be worried." They had a guardian angel after all.

Johanna's head turned back as she moved back to her own desk; her words damning. "Not all of us can say we've had a visit from a certain man in black."

Laurel's glare was summarily ignored.

"Okay." Stretching out the word as he watched her go, Tommy asked. "What was that about?"

Caught, "Nothing." Laurel grumbled under her breath, shaking her hair back. "I'm sorry about… that." With her dad and if it was also the perfect subject change then so be it.

The look Tommy sent her was another gentle hey. His smile returning. "It's fine, I get it."

"Queen isn't a word my dad can hear without wanting to throw something." Or drink himself into a coma.

"Yeah."

And he was being far too understanding. "So, what's going on?"

As long as Tommy wasn't pushing the whole 'getting shot at' scenario, she could spare him a few minutes, but only a few.

"Nothing really, I just…" searching over her head for some reason Tommy spoke on the edge of a breath. "I've been looking for him everywhere: I thought he'd be here." Then he inclined his head. "On the upside, he took his bodyguard with him."

Not seeing the problem, Laurel shook hers. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Yeah, but Mrs Queen wanted to talk to him about something company related. She said it was important and that Ollie made himself scarce right after she mentioned it."

"Shocking. I'm shocked. Really." It was too difficult to affect surprise, so she didn't try. This is Ollie. She knew him. If Ollie was anything, he was incapable of being responsible; it's comforting to know he runs from everyone. He'd been back one week and already, her ex-boyfriend was ditching his mother and being absent. Already lying. Already cheating. Already back to old tricks. "Ollie only thinks about himself." Been there, done that.

Don't care.

I don't.

Then why was she listening instead of walking away and telling Tommy she had work to do?

As if seeing the history that kept her stuck there, the look Tommy gave her was patient. Misguided. "He's been through a lot."

As always, Tommy would defend his best friend. Even when said 'best friend' didn't deserve an ounce of his compassion.

"He's been through a lot?" Fixing him with a stare that had her looking up at him with a tighter frame and unimpressed eyes, Laurel was as unmoved on the subject as she was to the floor. "We all have." And it was a hard five years that they'd all suffered only to end it by having the man who'd made them all suffer, return the way he had. Even though he'd-

"I'm sorry."

He'd apologised.

It was nothing in the long scheme of things. But it meant he knew. And that was something. It held possibility. And it was another reminder that they hadn't talked yet, not really.

She'd decided the night of the party that their history deserved at least the time it took to clear the air between them. Even after the way he'd provoked her father, the way he'd stood there almost unfeeling as he'd watched her pull her father away from him before his pistol had made an appearance. They both deserved closure. She deserved to know the truth.

About Sara.

About… me.

"I don't know." The words were for a lack of anything substantial to say and Tommy looked like he'd prefer not to be speaking about this full stop. It was a sore subject for him almost as much as it was for her and maybe he'd finally figured out that no matter how hard Ollie tried to rectify his mess, he'd fail. "He's… different. He's still Ollie," as if he had to convince her but needn't worry: Ollie will always be Ollie, "but there's something he isn't telling me, and…" but he shook his head, looking down as a harsher than usual frown appeared on his face. "Nothing, I suppose."

It wasn't something she cared about, but there was something about Tommy in the here and now: he wasn't like this. Unsure. Questioning. Thinking beyond the sex of any equation and, I can only guess what he and Ollie get up to, if I cared to. There was substance there. It was surprising to see him genuinely rattled, when nothing seemed to bother him usually. Tommy rarely had a care in the world.

Shifting, she said nothing; but the discomfort was rising for her and Tommy glanced at her when he caught it. She wanted to ask Tommy if he was alright. She wanted to ignore the worm of interest in her about Ollie's state of mind. Mostly, she wanted to get back to work and find an honest way of getting the Watchman's attention once more.

Except he gave her this look that was simultaneously beautiful to receive and made rocks land in her stomach. It said he might know a thing or two about what she wasn't saying. "I think he's just… it's difficult for him," his throat moved; his sentences broken, "being back after… after that." The shipwreck that inevitably ruined her life. "But he isn't… he isn't really taking to me. He doesn't even bring it up. That's weird, right?" This confused little frown crinkled his nose, cute. "He's been on an island for five years and he's not saying a word about it. Not that I want to make him recount the worst days of his life or anything, but…"

"You want to be close to him." And she didn't even think about the words, about how easily they came, about how she- "Ollie, naturally, just wants to avoid everything."

"I think I would too."

It was no excuse. Oliver owed all of them five years of apologies and he could start by actually being there for other people. It's not like he knows what that even means, though he should. He can learn. And now Tommy was already sticking up for him, without reason. "Sooner or later, Oliver's going to have to learn that his actions have consequences."

"You don't think he's earned a reprieve?"

A reprieve from what, she wanted to scoff and sneer because, honestly; after what he did, what reprieve did he need? So he spent time alone. Loneliness after cheating? Sounds poetic to me. It wasn't like he cared that he cheated; he was just sorry it ended in a shipwreck, sorry that he knew it should never have been Sara who ended up dead at sea and-

I'm not letting him do this to me. He'd taken enough from her: he couldn't make her bitter too.

But as she let out that rush of negativity, Tommy spared her from ripping into her ex some more by continuing. "Actually, I kind of thought the reason why he'd ditched his mum was because he'd come here." A breath whistled through his teeth; not seeing how she'd stilled. "Unless I just missed him?"

He sent her a look that held hope at its edges.

"Well I hate to burst your bubble Tommy," she told him, hating that she was also discretely checking the entrance to the floor as she did because he'd made her wonder too, "but he hasn't been here."

Would he?

Tommy visibly drooped. "Oh." Pulling out his phone, his thumb started tapping away. "Come on Ollie; where are you man."

Good question… because Tommy had come.

Tommy who she knew cared about her - who considered sex without strings with her as one of his strongest relationships to date - had come clamouring over to CNRI. Just to see if any of the shots fired had come close to their target. To see if she was alright.

But Oliver hadn't, not that it matters-

"Maybe he hasn't seen the news yet." The words were low and absently said as Tommy flicked through his messages, unknowingly making her insides expand like a balloon.

Maybe TV after being shipwrecked, was an oddity to him and, was that what she wanted? For Oliver to come charging in like Tommy had, to see if she was okay? To prove that she mattered to him the way she always thought she had? The way she was sure she had.

The way she was also sure that he still cared about her. He wouldn't have apologised to me if he didn't.

She tried to picture it: Oliver in the suit he wore to court or his jeans that he'd worn when he'd first spoken to her after five years. Five years. It didn't feel like five years. More like five seconds.

But any kind of satisfaction she might have felt thinking about him seeing the news and being reminded of what he'd thrown away was something she immediately regretted feeling in relation to Oliver, or any man. She hadn't needed that kind of reassurance and comfort in a long time-

"You ignored me."

Except from the Watchman. But he saved us. It was different. There was no feeling of physical superiority from him: he could easily overpower her. She knew that and yet he hadn't used it against her. Hadn't tried to be dominant. No, he just eviscerated me with his words.

It was a learning curve. She'd learn. I'll learn him too. She'd have to for this to work and she wanted it to, because he was quickly becoming a man who could be depended on to do the right thing, the brave thing- the noble thing.

The thing nobody else would do.

She'd felt so alone the last few weeks. It had taken the better part of a year for Richard Lee, her boss, to grant her access to CNRI's upper executive cases. So low staffed, he hadn't had much choice. She hadn't given him one.

Maybe I wasn't ready, when she hadn't seen the scope or considered her options, but I'm definitely ready now. She'd been given the crash course the night before after all and-

"He cares Laurel." Tommy's voice sounded like it was coming from miles away and she visibly jerked. "Just give him time."

And they were back on Ollie coming to CNRI, great. She exhaled. This was why she didn't mix her social life with her work. This was why she didn't have a social life: I have a purpose, which was infinitely better. No mooning over men: she would always be better off without them. She didn't need them. Or anybody. "It's not like I'm waiting for him to show up." Except now she kind of was. Thank you, Tommy. For putting him in the forefront of her mind instead of where she'd managed to stash him after seeing him at the court house: right to the back.

Where he belonged.

But Tommy didn't know that. "Right." He cleared his throat, looking down before peeking back up. "So, you don't want me to call him?"

Slowly turning her to fully see him, rolling her eyes in a full half arc until they hit his face; she sent him a dead-stare. "And why would I want that?" Really, Tommy? So, the last five years would just be swept under the rug, all because his best friend was suddenly back? Be careful Tommy.

Her bite was as deadly as her bark.

"Good point." Hesitant eyes held her there. "So, that's a no?"

"Why are you pushing this?"

Tommy raised both hands rising to ward off her questions, another man who prefers avoidance. "I'm just making sure."

About what, she didn't know. Or care. She was past done with this, why did I even open a dialogue? "Look, I've got work to do." Teeth scraping over her lower lip, she sent one last furtive glance towards the entrance. "And I'm sure Oliver will come running when he needs something."

It was harsh, she knew that. She also knew that he'd earned it. Live with it Ollie; we've all had to since you've been gone. It was his turn to shoulder the burden and lord knew he deserved to. He'd been gone long enough: it was time to face the music. He owed them all that much. No more running.

Somehow, she doubted he'd manage it: there'd be little to no redeeming himself, if the party the week before was anything to go by.

Maybe that was why Tommy pressed his lips together, because he silently agreed. "I was just leaving anyway. But ah," the look he gave her was soft and she hated when he did that because it heated something in her that had gone cold, and this wasn't the time or place. "I'm really glad you're okay." He lifted his phone up as he stepped back. "I'll tell you if I find him."

"I don't care Tommy."

As if he knew she was lying, he sent her a backwards wave as he pressed his phone to his ear.

Lips pressed together, she watched her once 'friend with benefits attached' leave; her eyes falling guilty to his backside as he did. A onetime thing he might be have been, but she couldn't deny that he was attractive. She could look.

But no touching. That was a year a long mistake she'd never partake in again. Men like Tommy aren't serious about women. She was done with men who couldn't commit.

Which was why she truly no longer cared if Oliver walked in through entryway.

There are more important things. Like her cases. Like the city falling into injustice. Like the trial against Somers already declared a defunct duck and she'd likely get laughed at for trying to push it through. Like the man in a black mask who was possibly its only source of true hope.

If only he could see she was the same. I'll make sure he does. I'll do what I have to do.

To get justice. The kind you can't run from. The way Somers was trying to.

The way Oliver had.

---

Queen Consolidated

Back flat against the interior of the elevator - her cream coat unfastened, bag secured as she transferred the data collected from her private terminal at work to her secure site at home via her tablet - Felicity sighed as she flicked through her notifications. "The fun never stops on Felicity's Smoak's-"

A ping - a text announcement - made her freeze and blink down at her screen because, who would be texting her? Okay, that sounds like I have no friends, which… I don't. Moot point.

Sliding her tablet down into its case - James Holder and Chien Na Wei weren't going anywhere just yet - she slid a hand into her pocket, pulled out her mobile and checked on the sender-

"Oh." It landed on her chest, weightlessly.

Thank you for today

One soft blink punctuated another, not even realising that the elevator had come to a stop with a ping.

It was… it was something.

Something. She gave herself a nice internal eye-roll as her body moved absently through the open doors. It was something alright, when a short message makes you stop and stare. It's four words: not a declaration of intent. It wasn't a promotion, it wasn't wine and roses.

But coming from a man who suffered PTSD, who'd been absent - presumably - from civilisation for five years, I'm still not going there, it was a something that she didn't know. One that made thoughts of drug smuggling and trafficking, of secrets and masks, of reckless lawyers, quieten just a bit.

It was nice.

The number above the text registered second place: the burner phone. He was still using it.

A small smile curled her lips.

It was a statement of exactly who she was, admitting that just seeing it there - eleven numbers sitting innocently at the upper left corner of her screen - made her feel gooey. Made her upper lip pull her lower lip into her mouth as she slinked through the rapidly closing elevator doors.

It's tech and it's Oliver Queen using said tech. Said tech that I calibrated and updated. My said tech…

And he hadn't forgotten it, hadn't disposed of it.

And… she liked that.

It made her pause in the foyer of Queen Consolidated's entrance. She wasn't supposed to like it. Wasn't supposed to create attachments, and I haven't. I'm not attached.

But she'd reached out. She'd offered a hand. Live and let live. It was too late now and, quite possibly, it would still fizzle. Once Oliver became acclimatised, once the unfamiliar grew familiar again, he wouldn't be turning towards the kook in his family's business…

Even after a week of silence, she hadn't been sure what to expect. Each move from him – like a piece on a chess board – was a small surprise. Returning from something so life altering couldn't be anything but overwhelming, it would even be for Chuck Norris. And for all intents and purposes, she was a stranger; he didn't really know her. And he didn't have to open up to anyone until he was ready, if he ever could be.

Anything from him at this point, felt like gold in her pocket; riches she hadn't earned but was grateful for, nonetheless.

Add that to the fact that he never had to look at dollar signs and she'd been sure that he'd have replaced it with a newer model by now; even if hers was, beneath the surface, a marvel. Even if he was a little behind the times, technically speaking.

Or he could do none of that and shock her. He could do all of that and still thank her. He could do this immediately or take hours like he had today: it didn't matter. It meant something because after everything he might have been through, he still managed to think of others. To be considerate. Proof that he wasn't emotionally damaged beyond repair. Proof that under his aloof mask, his careless venire, his shallow smirk; there was a man. A complex one.

And maybe she'd overwhelmed him a bit too, earlier in the garage. I hadn't meant to do that. It had only hit her after the fact that maybe she had. My mouth just carries on and on… but he'd seemed to need the reminder that not everyone necessarily saw the money strings first. Just possibly, he'd needed time to… ingest? Take time before texting her, before remembering.

Before thanking her for being a person.

Me.

Felicity Smoak.

Watchman.

Careful Oliver. Tapping away her response, aware that an old age pensioner on a Zimmer frame could out-walk her right now, Felicity breathed out the warmth such a simple thing had made her feel. Don't be so sweet to me. Don't be so receptive.

Like a blue-eyed wolf with its teeth sharpened by a life of violence – with claws that blood had dried upon – coming up to her camp fire and lying down over feet; not yet comfortable with touch but wanting the closeness despite it, wanting to show just how much it meant to him.

It wasn't a normal image to have of a person, but it was the one that came to mind when she looked at him sometimes.

Oliver, a wolf.

That first night – meeting him inside the lightning lit foyer of his mansion – and the way he'd all but prowled out of the darkness, the expression on his face had been such a cold standing point in the night that it had made her question whether he was lying about… about everything. Anything. He was far from removed, far from unfeeling; held far more control than anyone else she'd ever met, but she'd also never encountered such an unfriendly heat before.

Topped up aggression.

Maybe.

She could have been reading him wrong. Discomfort could make a man appear severe. It had felt like aggression. Not aimed at her, more… internal. As if he was filled with it. There was no aim, not that she could sense. But I've been mistaken before.

The point, however, was that it hadn't unsettled her the way it should have done. Any sane person wouldn't have put him up for night, a stranger with clear – serious – trauma. But she'd instinctively known that she was… that she was safe. With him. His PTSD had made her worry for a moment, yes; but the worry had been for him. For what she might have to do.

So, not digging where she wasn't wanted was a testament to any growing affection she was beginning to feel because - normally - barriers wouldn't have stopped her. Not opening her laptop and letting her fingers go for a walkabout might have been the hardest she'd tried not to do anything in very long time.

Then the drive in her car. The way he'd just… been. Almost a soothing anecdote to the end of her work day. The effortless way he'd put her on edge, the way he'd seen much. Observant. How he'd known exactly where he'd wanted to go in the Glades. Then how he'd hedged his bets and decided to trust her with one simple request that she could have made use of against him in the future. With his trauma, it had to have been instinctive. And he'd probably regretted it later, had probably been shocked by his moment of whimsy or weakness or however he'd see it as a negative. I know how that feels.

Being alone for some was tantamount to a disease: solitude eats away at the core of a person and he'd been alone in one sense of another, for a very long time. At his heart, he'd been isolated.

He probably still is. A week back home, does not equate to healing.

I know better than to give this further thought. She did… but if Oliver was like a wolf, then she was like a cat: offer her a little kindness, a little patience, grant a modicum of attention and warmth, and she'd come right on back. She'd give and give and give. She'd allow for space. She'd notsnoop, not really: not the way she wanted to.

And she'd accept a great deal.

It was probably the very first time she didn't think any of that was quite so pathetic.

And so, standing there, she texted him back. Unlike the first time - waiting on tenterhooks for a word from him after his kidnapping - she wasn't awash with nerves.

I'll admit, playing Mission Impossible to dodge your mother and the CEO was kind of fun.

Very fun. Play a little with the cameras, spend 30 seconds setting up a warning system for when Walter Steel and company traversed to her floor and she managed to slip out of her cubby hole - willingly avoiding her boss for the very first time and not necessarily finding that a bad thing - and take a stroll. Help a fellow employee.

Bump into Teresa-

"Felicity!"

Eyes closing - file pressed to her chest - Felicity sent a prayer north that this was just another reminder to fax Teresa the schedule for upcoming events that not a soul cared about in the IT Department instead of the million dollar question she'd been asked 13 times since lunch-

"A little birdie told me," the not-so quiet whisper from Teresa had Felicity squashing the annoyance that made her neck muscles clamp down on the rejoinder she'd kept hold of for years, as a hand appeared uninvited and seemingly innocuous on her arm, "that Mr Steel asked for you personallythis morning," as if his presence in the IT department alone was the biggest issue, "to attend Mr Queen's first official tour of the building… for whatever reason."

Picking invisible lint of Felicity's shoulder, that same hand smoothed down her arm; it was accompanied by the kind of expression one would assign a mantis right before she bites her lover's head off.

Information of any kind was the real sell at Queen Consolidated.

Not quite swallowing a nervous smile, "now who told you that?" Felicity feigned a laugh that was more 'what an unpleasant surprise' than it was happy joy-joy let's exchange deets. Looking her in the eye, and my pay check grows ever smaller, Felicity pushed down her need to take a deep breath and smiled the tremulous smile of the damned. "That's one fast birdie." Probably overpaid too. "But listen, I've got to get these into-"

"That's great, so here's the thing." Cutting in was Teresa's strong point: Felicity sighed, here we go. "That's not the first time Mr Steel's been down to our humble little department to speak to or ask for you recently." Humble and little; the words she used to describe the only department keeping the company's servers running, their employees in a job and data packages flowing and I think I just died inside. "Now, I'm just wondering if you weren't trying to usurp a position I have more than earned the right to the last 14 months." Fourteen months was eight months less than the two years Felicity had been clearing up after every member of the department but, sure. Carry on. "I know that Ned was negligent, but I made sure to pick up the slack." If by pick up the slack, she meant taking full advantage of the freedom being his assistant had granted her whilst, once again, Felicity tied up the loose ends that both Ned and Teresa had summarily untied, then abso-fracking-lutely. "I submitted my application on Monday so, any day now."

Fingers interlinking, the exhale Teresa let out was more satisfied sigh than worried breath; she'd already dismissed Felicity as a possible contender. She didn't need anything from her. She just wanted an audience.

Humming - she didn't have to do much more than nod with her - Felicity wondered whether it would be a kindness or cruelty to inform her that their new head of department was incoming; ETA any day now.

"That's great!" Felicity offered by way of… well, giving a crap. Not that she didn't. And she used to try, hard. But she'd known years ago that she'd never fit it with the crowd so why fake it beyond the perfunctory. Especially when most liked to remind her that she was alone in a sea of people.

"Well," primping those perfect locks - what is that - Teresa took another, deeper, lofty inhale that formed a smile with the kind of graceful confidence Felicity could only wonder about, "let's wait until the announcement is made before celebrating." It was clear Teresa was already pre-emptive in that hope.

Lips pressing together, "Okay," Felicity eyed the turn of the corridor, around which and down one hallway was her cubicle; will she let me go back to work now or-

"Anyway, did you meet Mr Queen?" Or it is then, kay. Felicity internally sighed. "Up there." Finger flicking upwards, Teresa gave Felicity a little shoulder shrug as she leant in; her voice low and conspiratorial. "Did you speak to him?"

"Um," eyes side-lining back to the turn of the corridor and Teresa, Felicity straightened her glasses. "Oliver Queen?"

There was a gleam in Teresa's eyes to go with her vigorous nod. "What was he like?"

"What… was he like?"

"You know." Eyes enlarging in emphasis, Teresa was very clearly looking for that golden nugget. "Did he say anything? Do anything. Ask for anything?"

"Um," Felicity blinked at her, "does a soda count?"

There was a moment of silence where all excitement drained out of Teresa's face, leaving her with a deadpan blankness. She blinked once. "Right. Never mind, I forgot who I was talking to for a minute there."

Felicity never did.

But Teresa, like most, didn't know her and as such, deferred to the standby most of Felicity's fellow employees had developed especially for her: you wouldn't care, you're an automaton, your great love is your OS, and so on and so forth.

It wouldn't be the first time a person decided not to try with her.

"Regardless," as if in point, Teresa was already re-focused and she fixed Felicity with an impressively tweezed arched brow, "you definitely need to hear this; especially if Mr Queen's a shoe-in for his dad."

Doubtful. Rather than comment, Felicity's home-filed finger tapped down on her files. "I think I need to finish these stats-"

"Felicity, can't you just be a person for five minutes? I mean, don't you want to know what kind of boss he'll be?" As if she couldn't be believed, as if considering anything else right now was tantamount to infamy.

Again, Felicity had long-since passed being remotely injured by any single insinuation from Teresa. "I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself."

"Oliver Queen returns home, visits his family's company - his inheritance - and you have all the appreciation of an old man." Pristine nails on slender fingers left dainty imprints into the skin of Teresa's forehead. "You know, sometimes Felicity," as if Felicity was nothing but trouble, should know better and there was nothing that could be done for her, and- huh? "I wonder if you even want to make it up the corporate ladder."

I don't, but; say what? "You wonder about that of all things?" Why?

Her creased brow made it very clear that Teresa's eyebrows were pencilled in and – oh that is not a kind look. "What?"

"What?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You said-"

"Just stop." Eyes closing, Teresa shook her head once. "you're confusing me."

Get in line. "You know; I don't think Mr Queen's going to be running the company any time soon." Sensing that if she referred to the son of the CEO as Oliver, she'd cause the weirdest riot, she kept her side of this begrudging conversation as professional as could be, given the circumstances. "Maybe he was just… taking a look. Or something." Trying to be diplomatically sensitive made her sound like an idiot. "I mean, it's been years since he was home and-"

"What are you even- ugh, why am I asking you about this? Just come over here!" And the grasp she suddenly had of Felicity's arm was surprisingly solid. "You won't BELIEVE what you're about hear. And if you do, maybe you'll rethink not wanting to get to know Mr Queen."

Did she imply she didn't just because she showed less interest?

As if the world had suddenly handed her diamonds, Teresa sent a flushed and excited smile over her shoulder at Felicity - who wanted to dig her heels in - and it was shiny to a wattage never seen before. The gossip must something else this time.

Not that she cared. She'd had this conversation with John Diggle; an encore was the last thing she needed. "Teresa, I have to-"

"-It can wait a moment."

Except Somers and the Triad might not wait for her back but she couldn't exactly tell her she wanted to leave early because, after discovering that Victor Nocenti had retracted his plea - because of course he had, thank you Laurel Lance - he was completely exposed, without protection and blind to it: she was 100% certain he wouldn't survive the night…

But it didn't matter how much Felicity shook her head - because Teresa was her supervisor and said slightly superior colleague believed that the odd lesson, the spark of a decent chinwag could do most women a world of good and her tone made it abundantly clear that she thought this was giving Felicity a juicy slice of apple pie - Teresa still faffed her over to the water cooler. Remember: fitting in is part of your cause. This is worth it.

Three seconds after the thought landed, her brain asked if she was so sure when a third of the floor's employees seemed to congregate around them like lead filings to a magnet.

And, best of all – worst of all – was who this particular piece of gossip was centred around: Teresa's right hand woman. Her best friend who measured other women by the clothes they wore, how carefully they applied their make-up and how frequently they blundered verbally.

Needless to say, Felicity was not even remotely close to being considered a work friend.

"Shelly!"

The slightly younger-than-Teresa woman didn't even have to shoulder through the small throng; the crowd partied like the dead sea for her and, to be honest, Felicity would have too because the amount of perfume coming off the brunette beauty was close-to-overwhelming. Nearly two inches taller than Felicity, Shelly's long, straightened hair caught on the back of her silky sweater and her shiny shoes - complete with diamond patterned black tights - exacerbated her forty feet of leg before her tight skirt started.

Reaching the 'water-hole', she turned at the last second to bump noses with someone she hadn't spoken to in so many hours and that perfect hair flapped across Felicity's face.

My day is complete.

"What I want to know," one of the nameless women holding what looked like a cup of green tea - get it away, if Felicity had 'people' than this particular flock was the farthest from - started, "is if the rumours about you are true this time." And since the rumour mill at Queen Consolidated was close to god-level omnipotence, they might very well be. "Were you naughty last Friday night, Teresa?"

God save me.

She mostly stared at the floor as Teresa answered, figuring if she gave this a full five minutes of her time before slipping away, Teresa wouldn't follow. "You know I don't normally kiss and tell." Are we supposed to laugh? Nobody did; just a sea of nods and encouragement for her to continue. "But this time… I just can't believe it happened."

"With Tommy Merlyn." Shelly added with a light touch of her long, extremely feminine set of painted nails against Teresa's arm, an 'oh you'.

Teresa's response? A girlish giggle; her palms lifting to press against her cheeks in honest happiness and some modest, uh-huh, shyness. Is this happening right now? "I can't believe we did that..."

Following this had been a quick yet explicit retelling of Teresa's forbidden tryst with should-be stranger, billionaire bad-boy Tommy Merlyn - the man who'd apparently taken her to new realms of pleasure - all within earshot of one severely underpaid IT girl. It had continued for several torturous minutes, during which time Teresa would occasionally touch Felicity's shoulder, as if making sure she hadn't gone anywhere yet, until she opened the floor to Shelly from Accounting.

"Our Mr Queen," as if all the building and all its inhabitants owned him - like he was a puppy - because it shared his name, "likes it rough."

Her stomach tightened.

Too. Much. Information.

…Sort of.

Slowly lifting her head, Felicity blinked at the pair. This was intrusive. Tacky. This says so much more about the employees here than it does about Oliver. A showcase of how boring, leeching, 9 to 5 jobs could be for some; a death sentence that killed social lives. A strip of gossip – any strip – was a gold coin, especially if good looks, money and charm were involved with the addendum of carnal extracurricular activities.

It churned upwards into her throat, making her neck flush. I'd rather know the carnalities of a man first hand and behind closed doors, thank you very- not that I'm expecting to with- Oliver would never- I don't-

Stop.

She didn't need an audience to embarrass herself.

"Did you see him this morning?" One of her co-workers whispered to a friend and-

Of course, they'd start talking about him.

"I wouldn't mind a night with him myself." The friend responded. "Climb. Him. Like. A. Tree."

Reaching past her shame that they were talking this way about a man Felicity was starting to care about, Felicity glimpsed a tallish-accountant standing behind the whispering pair who she'd seen with drinking coffee like water with Giles the messenger, nod slowly and succinctly.

Huh. That answered a few questions-

"Five years on an island turned that boy from a ten to a twenty." Another person added and-

Okay, what?

"Well," came Shelly's voice from Felicity's left, just in time to remind her that silence on this subject was better that an appalled excuse me - even if this group left her groping for life on planet earth - and clearly Felicity needed to remember how to make light of a terrible happening, I'll get right on that, "he wasn't what I expected at all."

The fact that the 25-year-old had expected anything from a stranger - a man who'd only returned home after five years of being shipwrecked a few days before said shindig - was stunning but, what do I know? She didn't pay homage to the sons of Bacchus and Rome, didn't worship the altar of the Tequila gods, though lord knew it might do her some good.

No, she held company with the night that kept close the smell of copper, the sound of screams, and the unseemly sight of the truth about Starling.

To think she thought she understood what 'standing alone in a crowd' had meant before moving to the City.

"Ollie Queen," someone was saying, dragging her slowly back to the discussion going on, "already back at it."

"Did he even buy you a drink first, Shell?" Another guffawed.

Laughing, blushing attractively; Shelly shook her head. "He'd already had four shots before we found each other." And she made that sound like destiny. "Just after Tommy Merlyn leans in close and tells me he rented a hotel room and that Ollie would be alone in there." There had to be better pick-up lines…

Cue varying forms of soft sighs, jealous flapping and intrigued 'and then what's' surrounding the woman. Plus, Felicity's fine-tuned expression of kill me now.

"I couldn't just not go," Shelly said, "you know?"

Actually, she could have. She could have said to him, nice try but I don't think sex is what your friend needs right now. Shelly could have looked Oliver in the eye - she was gorgeous; it wouldn't have taken much to hold his attention - and asked him what he really needed at that time.

An escape option?

Annnnnd I'm jumping to conclusions. For all she knew, sex had been exactly what he'd needed. After years without, maybe an orgasm or three was just what the doctor ordered, and Felicity was being…

What?

Affected. She was affected and making presumptions. She never used to do that.

"I've never had a 'first time' with a guy last that long!" The excited faux-whisper was telling of Shelly's age. She was 25: someday, someone would truly knock her metaphoric socks off. "He just kept going and going." Um, no; can we please not have a run through of- "I've. Got. Bruises." Prim hands touched her hips and- yeah, a mental image I never needed. "I'm still sore!" Throwing up in her mouth just a bit when Shelly all-but squealed that, Felicity was reminded strongly of why she couldn't tolerate much from this person. Shelly was all seriousness on the surface but just underneath lay a teenager, neglected by daddy. "I'm talking muscles on top of muscles." I've seen him topless thank you, yes he was incredibly ripped and why…

Glancing about her, Felicity wondered: why isn't anyone surprised by that?

By the glorious form of a man who should be malnourished, weathered and unattended.

He's spent years shipwrecked but has a glorious six pack, washboards abs, biceps the size of my face and a physique to make any hopeful woman cry tears of gratitude and this is all… normal?

Taken for granted. A certainty because he's Ollie Queen and Ollie Queen is supposed to be hot, so all is right with the world.

People didn't see what they didn't want to see. See no evil, hear no evil. She knew that; it just never ceased to surprise her. That, and clearly romance is a dead concept.

Intimacy was supposed to mean something, to not be taken for granted. I mean, it's been a while… but the rules, the goals; they're all the same. Or maybe I'm just old fashioned.

Maybe she just cared a tad too much about the welfare of a man she couldn't call her friend.

"He was good." Shelly from Accounting continued on with, owned up to, rubbed into the collective faces of the women (and men) surrounding her because she'd been a first to take a ride on the USS Oliver and clearly the ride had been worth the chance of a modest reputation. "He was so good."

Teresa laughed at her. "You can't leave it there!"

She really could but- "Well he ah," was that a blush? And did she just fan herself? "He's a take charge kind of guy."

Is he? The guy who followed her around all night and let her make all the choices was a dominator in the bedroom?

The blush flowered, making Shelly's eyes twinkle. "God, he really knows how to give it to a girl." Lips pressing together, Shelly gave them a look that felt a lot like she was saying that she held the secrets in the universe at her fingertips. "And he's not one for talking. But I can say that, the rumours are true." Like an ocean taking a deep breath, there was the sense of the enormous about to be unleashed upon the world. "Five years away didn't do damage to any area of his anatomy." Stepping in, hands lifting, palms facing each other with nearly a foot in distance between each other, she hiss-whispered. "My friends, he's hu-"

"Nope." Standing dead still, Felicity's hands – palms – faced the floor in a silent, no.

The repeat performance was almost as unpleasant as the moment itself, let it go.

Why did she have to have an amazing memory?

Exhaling, she made her feet move. I hate my brain. She had to force herself not to send a second text: your romantic exploits made for some excellent afternoon discourse on the 21st floor. Shelly's mouth, whilst I'm sure if effective, is also wide… which may have also be a for you- and then the connotations would abound, and the second innuendo was right there on tip of her tongue or at the tips of her fingers and sending that to him was a hard no-no.

I got out of there intact. Mostly. After Shelly displayed an odd awkwardness and avoidance to being asked whether she'd seen him since then, thankfully.

But it had been sufficient enough to destroy her ability to think clearly for the two hours she managed afterwards, where she'd focused on the 'Pattern'. The cogs in a city that weren't quite moving together like clockwork. Linking her offsite access to her onsite terminal, she'd found something else: making a tally of the locations and frequencies of the latest brownouts happening in across the city - something that had been nagged at her for weeks now - it was added to her database, before accepting defeat.

Why did 'how Oliver Queen liked to get laid' even matter anyway?

Though, the idea of him enjoying sex in that way made her think of his eyes and it was-

The storm changed them from obscure azure irises to ice blue as they fixed on her face; pupils large and dark in the storm's natural light. And there was something to the way he was simply looking at her, because that's all he was doing: looking. But it was also in his stance, in the way he held himself: his posture would have made a Tibetan Monk cry. Straight backed, broad – very broad – shoulders in alignment with his feet, fingers slightly furled into his palms, legs lean and taught… she took a long breath and it rattled with nerves.

He was a predator.

-Oddly erotic.

Her lips pressed together. Maybe I'm the one who needs help. But… his eyes made it difficult. The size of him. His hands, which are beautiful, were large enough, strong enough. His heart, kind enough.

It was heady. It had her remembering how she'd felt earlier: that amount of intent and sheer focus on a girl behind closed doors, particularly if said intensity was of the pent up – restrained – variety, then a very passionate night could be had for said lucky woman. It could be exactly what the doctor ordered.

Ahem. Focusing on the exit out of the lobby, Felicity cleared her throat.

Still, it was revealing in a way that wasn't fair to him. And in many ways, very fair. Oliver Queen wasn't the type to do something that would increase social focus on him, to sleep with a stranger…

Unless that was exactly what he wanted: a reputation.

There were many things she didn't know about Oliver Queen but, I'm not wrong about this. Every action was deliberate, every movement measured, every breath taken weighed, every emotion pulled back; he wouldn't waste time on random sex with people who could spread the word about it and him, unless that was exactly what wanted it and he wouldn't have to do much more than… have an orgasm. They, Shelly and Teresa, would do it for him.

Why though? What was that? What is he doing?

The man was too much of a mystery. It was her current reasoning for her own fascination with the man, and she was sticking to it.

Pushing past the exit doors – the security guy didn't even glance in her direction – Felicity tapped out a second, final message before placing her phone back in her pocket.

I hope it feels a little easier to breathe now .

It must have been suffocating, she thought as she peered into the dusky setting around her; coming home to the weight of every mistake he'd ever made and the responsibility to make it all right. She was surprised he hadn't run away, that he hadn't taken off in her car, that he hadn't kept driving to the city line and beyond. Sure, she kind of needed that car, but she'd have understood the urge-

Halting abruptly, her heart very literally missed a step.

She couldn't even hate that she'd become the archetype: the admiring, nerdy girl for the hot guy with a tragic past, because…

He's here.

Here. Not speeding down a highway, not avoiding his family, not getting shit-faced at a bar somewhere, and not getting laid. He was not a mirage: he was definitely stood in front of the driver's side door to her crappy little car – erect and not even a bit relaxed – and he was looking down at the phone she'd given to him.

Staring at her text.

'I hope it feels a little easier to breathe now'

The smallest of frowns marred the otherwise detached perfection of his ridiculous face.

Pulling in air, maybe I shouldn't have sent it, Felicity bit down on her lip; feeling too many things. He'd brought her car back even though he didn't want to be here and yes, it was her car, but she'd made allowances for a guy with PTSD. He could have taken this chance to disappear for a while.

Instead, he was here. Giving it back to her. And she couldn't say anything: too taken by the image he made, by the-

He looked up.

He looked up because he'd sensed her standing there: there was nothing about him to indicate otherwise. No surprise at her presence: it was as if he'd expected her to be standing there.

But maybe there was something in her expression because he spoke. "You look surprised." This attractive little 'did I shock you' thing was going on with his eyes and with his mouth and it would unfair except she was enjoying the sight of it. Who was she currently talking to? The playful, cocky billionaire from the garage? The detached predator? The traumatised survivor? "Did you think I wouldn't be here when you got off work?"

It just came out. "No." And her response was swift enough to make a wide smile break free from him. It lasted mere moments but a moment was sometimes all it took to make eyes like his - eyes that had seen a lot, that still saw much more than most probably realised, eyes with shutters made of ice - light up; eyes that made him look at her.

Really look at her.

"You didn't think I'd bring back your car." If his eyes drifted from her face, it was barely a flutter of movement and he barely blinked at all. His focus was beyond human. "But you gave me your keys anyway…" It was a question he didn't need an answer to, one he was nonplussed by. He didn't even frown at her. "This is becoming par for the course."

Expecting the unexpected.

"I'm sorry," her brain was having difficulty keeping up; all it wanted to do was stare at him some more, "what?"

"It's nothing." Stepping closer, which wasn't saying much considering he was several meters away, Oliver gave her a look that made her feel like he was appraising her. "Thank you."

She felt strangely flustered. "You already said that." With words, with texts and with that expression on your face Mr Queen.

"And I still mean it."

And before she knew it, pleasure at seeing him – at hearing that voice – was breaking through the mental halt. "You don't have to continue saying it."

Looking down at his shoes, he shifted. "It matters to me."

She was only just realising how much. "I can see that." And maybe her softened murmur said more than it should have but when he lifted his eyes again to gage it, she felt whatever wall of awkwardness existed between them, disappear. "So." She smiled; it was a little shy, but it was full, and she watched him take it in. "Do anything fun with your free time?" His eyes slipped to the side at the randomness of the question. "Rob a bank for kicks?" At that he blinked. Once. "Militarise gerbils for their war against the rabbits?" The side of his mouth twitched, even as the bridge of his nose furrowed; as if he thought she was indeed a strange little human being. "Play some soccer?"

…Laugh, just for the hell of it?

"Well, I didn't spend the day playing 'mission impossible'." Ducking her head from his gaze, she heard him suck in a breath through his teeth; as if giving something consideration. "Fun, huh."

"Yes," what was this? Was this banter? Are we bantering right now, "that thing us mere mortals need every once in a while, or we start erode."

He hummed. "I think I might have forgotten."

Feeling that, her head shifted back: her expression, compassionate. "I think you've had good reason."

Like it was a brand-new factoid he hadn't considered, Oliver pretended to mull it over. "True. You'd think there was more to do on an island other than survive it."

A little spasm of warped humour made her blink at him. Whoa. Shocked at his ability to be so candid about it, that dark nugget made a bubble of laughter pour out of her before she could slap a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, contrition making her stare at him and-

"You can laugh about it." He near-whispered, looking at her like he was learning her again. "I can't, but…" teeth setting, lips pressing together without looking away, Oliver sighed. "That sounded really nice."

Her… laughter?

Because other people hadn't laughed? Hadn't been themselves about it in that way. There were expectations hovering everywhere; there was no room for simple, spontaneous levity.

That's sad. Having no idea how to respond to that - beyond blushing and babbling and she shouldn't be blushing about such a simple thing because this wasn't about her, but she was - Felicity's hand left her face. "No fun to be had on Lian Yu?"

If she hadn't been looking at him, she'd have missed it; but Felicity Smoak rarely misses a thing.

It was in the laser fast sharpening of his eyes and the way the whole of stiffened for a single second. The way the fingers of his right hand flinched and then began rubbing together, like he was remembering the feel of a specific thing.

"Oliver, I'm…" it was obvious her choice of words had set off something unpleasant in him: I really am bad at this, being someone's friend. Social banter. "I'm- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No." He said swiftly… but then continued slowly, as if his brain needed to time to figure itself out; unblinking all the while. Not letting her go from this conversation. "It's fine. I was just… no one has called it that since I returned. Not my mother, not Tommy. Not even the men who found me." Recollection made his gaze go far away. "They were too afraid of it, because of the way it could 'appear' on the sea." The smile that he briefly wore, wasn't a happy one: it was one full of realisation. "I haven't even said it." Like the most cursed of words. "I didn't want to."

"And there I go and open my big mouth." Way. To. Go.

"How did you know the name?"

Uh. Mortifying. She'd researched him after all. "One of the many news covers of your return mentioned it." It actually had. One of them. "I thought the meaning was disturbingly ironic. And I certainly know how to kill the fun," that they'd almost been having.

He shrugged. "Define fun." The way his eyes faltered, how they flickered to their surroundings, made her wonder if he'd meant to say that or if it had simply… slipped out. "It's been a while." He said by way of explanation and-

So, he didn't count last week, the Friday before, as fun?

I knew it. Her head tilted. "Anything that makes you feel good."

Mid-October meant that a waning summer was quickly making way for darker skies and even though the light around them had dimmed, his eyes were still viscerally clear. They slowly melted into silver as she watched, and she wondered - randomly - what they'd be like in the dark of a room.

But then the look became piercing, and he took another step towards her.

"Even if it's wrong?"

It came out almost playfully, as if that was exactly how he wanted her to take it; but it wasn't how she took it at all. The question floored her. It didn't feel playful. It felt very real, very… challenging. Like he was asking for an answer to an altogether different question, like he was testing her.

Mostly it felt as though he was asking for permission and, what is that supposed to-

Oh.

What had he been doing today that made him ask that question? What had he been doing wrong?

Mouth parted just a tad - it felt like the world around them had quietened - Felicity gave the only response she was fitted to give. "Define wrong."

But her answer felt equally as dangerous.

Especially because he didn't respond at first, choosing to just stand there instead. Silent. Considering.

Feeling oddly on edge, she opened her mouth-

"Anything that's… bad." He finally replied and just waited.

For some reason, the extremely innocuous way of phrasing that made an endeared smile creep across her jaw. Bad. How limited a word that was. "Again," shoulders lifting in a slight shrug - as if sharing a secret and it was all sorts of nerdy, yet weirdly thrilling because whatever they were really talking about, it had nothing to do with Oliver having fun today - Felicity said, "define bad."

It wasn't so much that his eyes narrowed: they tapered. It was a very attractive look on an already obnoxiously attractive man. Gulp. "What hurts other people?"

Did he make that a question? Like he didn't know what bad truly meant or what it entailed. As if his lines were blurred, which was intriguing.

"Good things can hurt too…" she started off saying, before her dreadful brain translated her own words and used their appalling choice against her.

He quirked a brow, glancing down on hurt.

"Emotionally." She coughed out, nodding at herself. "Physically too, I'm sure." Oh no, not again. "What feels good isn't always good for you, right?" Staring at her this time, his other brow rose to reach its twin. "There's a lot I like - very much so - but I can't say it's any good for me." She floundered. "But I don't have to tell you that; I bet you know all about doing what feels good." I. Am. So. Sorry. "And restraint- I have a feeling you know a thing or two about that…" she swallowed, "as well."

Slowly nodding - he was nodding, kill me - there was no hint of a smile on his face, no trace of humour, no indication that he was going to stop her, nothing…

Except, once more, in his eyes. Beautiful silver-blue crystals were laughing at her and it was in the least insulting way she'd ever been laughed at before.

"Mental restraint, I mean." She might as well finish, since I'm on a bus to hell. "Not physical."

And he was all about control, wasn't he-

"Are you sure?" He queried as he stepped a little closer; his head quirking just so. "Are you sure not physical?"

Is he… is he teasing me? "I mean," and - not glancing away from him - because she'd been neglected of this kind of repartee, her blush gave way to a wide smile; even as she felt like an idiot. "If you're into that sort of thing."

And he laughed with her this time. Another breathy moment. Surprise was etched in every hill and valley of his face as his eyes searched over her head and away from her: self-conscious at himself or their conversation or something else altogether?

…Bashful?

Hands lifting, she buried her face in them. "God." A hard chuckle - like bark of mirth he hadn't expected - made her drag her fingers down her cheeks and peer up in time to see him rubbing a hand over his 5pm shadow, not quite covering the smile on his face. "You could have just stopped me." She muttered, self-piteously; unable to help it. Even as she groaned. Even though it sounded like begging.

Shaking his head, his eyes came back to her. "Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't."

Taking a moment at the possibilities in that, Felicity's nose creased. "That's a strange thing to say."

Then the warmth of the moment sucked away so sharply it made her blink; leaving a detached Oliver standing before her. "Is it?"

What just happened? "I-"

"It doesn't matter."

"…Doesn't it?"

Eyes trailing over her face, he took a moment long enough to make her unsure of herself, to make her want to babble again to cancel the silence.

But then, speak he did. "You said before that no matter what I do, it'll feel like I'm letting them down. My loved ones." It wasn't quite what she'd said but she nodded anyway, giving him her full attention. "They don't omit with me." After the display earlier in the day, she could only press her lips together because no they do not. "But they do watch what they say. And if they're not doing that, they're waiting for a specific reaction from me." There was a flexing at his neck, where his jaw tightened. "Something that reminds them of the person they lost." Fighting something - some emotion that was hurting him - his throat moved, and it was strange since the rest of him was a cool customer. "But I can't give it to them. I don't remember who that person was." At the admission - exactly on was - his voice weakened, and it was like the dam had been chipped away at. "It's like looking through a pail of water, seeing that person but having nothing tangible to pull back on. I don't remember what it was like being who I was. I can act the part, but it isn't me. None of it is."

And she was nearer than she was before, having stepped towards him without realising it, but she didn't feel like she was intruding. She didn't want to interrupt him. He was being honest for what might possibly be the first time since he'd returned home; she wouldn't stop him for the world. All she could do was offer silent compassion and to listen.

"Everything that used to be easy is so hard now…" Eyes a little raw, voice more so, he heaved a shuddering sigh. "I don't sleep or eat the way everyone else does. I don't want the things I used to want, and every rejection hurts the people I came home to. My mother, Thea-"

Like the breath had been taken from him, his lips moved but no words came out.

Thea Queen. His sister: an inevitable soft spot. Someone precious. And he felt like he was failing her.

Licking his lips, eyes on the ground; he spoke in a soft rumble that made her want to touch his face, to lift it. It took everything she had not to. "But being the person that I was… I'm a disappointment." She could practically hear the frown that wasn't on his face and yes; it was an impossible situation. A conundrum: if his past self was a let-down and his present self, unwelcome; how could he ever succeed? "No matter what I do, I'm not going to make anyone happy."

"Then why are you trying so hard?"

It was puzzling her: this need of his to fit a role. Why did he need to? Better question: why was it even on his radar?

And when his head did lift, when those eyes of his hit her, it was such a furtive glance - a secret he'd built steel walls around, even as they coloured in puzzlement - she remembered the mystery of Oliver Queen. Something was driving him and whatever it was, a mask was needed. The problem was figuring out which mask was his real face, because he wears more than one.

"Why do you need to be one or the other?" She offered, wondering what he had to hide so badly that he needed to appear the great Queen Family disappointment. "Why can't you be something brand new, something else?"

Someone else.

A reinvention: she knew a thing or two about that, about how no matter what you do, no one can decide for you who you are and what you become. Sometimes you can't make a single soul happy.

"I'm…" his mouth closed, he pressed a hand down one side of his blazer - the ridiculous jean-blazer combo that made him look exactly how, she was beginning to realise, he wanted to appear to people - and he cast an almost anxious glance around them, letting out a breath. "I'm not ready." Clearing his throat, he sent her that same cocky, confident, upper-class charm he'd used on her earlier after he'd taken her keys and she thought that, whatever he might say, at least a little of his confidence was very real. "You don't know; maybe the real me… maybe he's worse."

Ominous.

Clearly, he thought so; though what could be so bad that he had to act a certain way even though he was the only person with any real reason to be so altered…

And she decided that she hated that smile he wore now. It was so obviously painted on – made of plastic – and so shallow, so not the man who'd spent the night at her apartment that she opened her mouth and said:

"Maybe he is."

An inhale ending with his head bobbing down - it could have been a nod - was a sad look on him: like a kicked dog trying hard to be cheerful about something that hurt. "I don't think you'd have liked who I was."

Why does what I think mean anything at all to him, anyway? "Probably." A mystery.

Quickly looking about them - hands down by his sides in that slightly stiff way that told her he was constantly checking himself - Oliver cleared his throat. "So," he sure regroups fast, "if who I was wasn't worth knowing and if who I am now, is bad…" There was no self-deprecating grin, no air of cocky grandstanding: he was just acknowledging something he'd been trying hard not to. "I'm a lost cause."

It was as much of a question as an answer. He wanted to be told otherwise, even as he thought it to be true.

In lieu of knowing exactly what to say yet afraid that saying it would cause a ripple affect he wasn't ready for - it still felt like a test – she tried to keep silent. But when Oliver's lips stretched into an empty smile because of it - he thought she agreed - she spoke as honestly as she good. "I still think," it was difficult not to hesitate: they didn't really know each other and yet they were right here, seeing each other, "whoever you really are, it's someone worth knowing."

It wasn't a step back, what he did; more a lean. Leg shifting slightly, he leaned away; as if her words held a power of their own and they'd moved him, as if he had no idea how to take that.

But it was the truth.

Good or bad. Wrong or right. That was the feeling she had. He was worth it: worth whatever feeling was in her gut that was telling her that this man… could break her in two, despite her own masks. This man could change her. This man could bring something to her life she hadn't realised was missing until she met him.

This interesting, thought provoking, sometimes aloof, other times gentle man, was good.

Oliver deserved to be himself, despite what others expected of whoever that might be. Regret, at the end of any day, was the enemy. It eroded away at happiness and remained with a person like a stain. It became every negative, bitter thing. It blocked the light.

All of this didn't simply feel like fear from him, nor did it quite feel like he was avoiding something…

"Really." Again, it wasn't a question. But his expression… his expression was a thank you. "It's a nice thought." It was deprecating, juxtaposing the tiny light in his face, the sweet smile stealing away the dark, the slight sadness there. "But I don't think it would be a good thing for you to know the real me."

A warning? Or was he simply pushing her away? Was he giving her the chance to back off before she really started to care – because they could both feel how easy that would be – or was he just telling her he didn't want her near?

Looking at him, she couldn't help the way her shoulders fell; the way her eyes fluttered over him. "Shame."

His next breath was surprisingly shallow; the smile faltering and fighting between come closer and stay away. "I don't want to give you a reason to take it back."

To be another disappointed person.

What she did next was totally foreign to her… nearly.

Against her better judgement and completely unacceptable at this point in their barely-there-thing, was the way she laced her hands behind her back, the way she stepped into him without telling her body to do so and - inches from him, smelling something off his jacket that she couldn't quite place just yet - she was looking directly into his eyes and she answered him with a question of her own. "And what I think remotely matters in Oliver Queen's world?"

Why should it?

Chest expanding - as if her proximity made him take a breath and that didn't make sense to her at all - Oliver checked overhead, as if making sure they didn't have an audience before his eyes fell back on her hair, her earrings, her glasses.

Her eyes.

Her smile.

Her.

"A lot more than I thought." He murmured, looking oddly confused by himself, by her and-

What?

Did he just say that?

But she couldn't process it - she couldn't even suck in a much-needed breath of air - because the sound of a horn - a car horn - blaring at such a loud pitch, burst the bubble they'd unintentionally grown around themselves and… she lost the confidence.

Give her a mask and a suit and no one, nothing, was inaccessible. But as Felicity Smoak?

She was invisible. Everyone held court, save her.

So, she immediately ducked her head; catching Oliver Queen's throat flux just as they both peered around to see his driver, the stalwart John Diggle - who'd not only taken her at her word, but had timed his entrance to perfection so maybe (just maybe) Oliver had by his side a man who saw something in him that others had missed - pull into the kerb beside them.

Open the door.

Step out and-

"Don't do that again." Pointing behind her at Oliver, Mr Diggle looked oddly controlled for a man who sounded so irritated. "That wasn't funny." She peered at Oliver who took two, three unaffected steps around her and saw him shoot his bodyguard the kind of look one would use observing a mildly interesting lab experiment. "Not. Funny."

"It wasn't?" Oliver asked. Challenged.

Oliver.

And yet, she tried – hard – not to crack a grin. Oliver Queen was a bit of a shot of life: life sometimes drove you crazy.

Just like he was driving John Diggle crazy. "You-" The man started before his mouth closed shut, his nostril's expanding as he inhaled.

Oliver smiled pleasantly at him.

"Get in the car please sir." Mr Diggle finally responded in an undertone, opening the side-door instead of the back seats in a preemptive strike against another attempt at escape. "You're expected home."

And that was Oliver's choice… right?

Seeing Oliver nod - as if whatever it was, were a planned, scheduled thing - she felt relieved.

But then he turned to her, waving a hand towards his 'driver'. "Need a lift?"

Bemused and entertained by his uncharacteristic lack of focus, she threw a thumb behind her at her own car. "Didn't you already cover that?"

He blinked as if processing a memory surge. "Oh." Closing his eyes, he shook his head at himself. "Right." She could practically hear him call himself an idiot. "Um," his eyes re-opened, "it might be a good idea though. It's getting dark and I can always come back for your car later tonight."

"And risk you being out in the danger zone so late?" She half-joked as she stepped away, moving slowly back to her car and it made him press his lips together; as if it weren't quite a joke to him. "I can take care of myself."

Brows raising - watching her go - Oliver pressed a hand down the side of his jacket. "I'm sure you can."

That's a no. Eyes on him even as she backwards-walked, Felicity slowly smiled. "I have claws." And I know how to use them.

But it came out x 100 more flirtatious than she'd intended. She hadn't tried to be flirty-flirt at all. Instead of a light-hearted tease at herself, it was a sultry challenge at him.

And from the look in his eyes, the way his mouth slightly opened, the way awareness creeped in - something in that small smile making them light up in a very different way - it wasn't... unwelcome.

Behind him, an unimpressed John Diggle blinked. Once.

She cleared her throat. "So yeah, I'm going to, ah," her floundering self gestured at her car as she jangled her keys and shook her head, "I'm going to go." Get gone. Vanish without a trace. The crease between her brows was of the mortified kind as she tried to save herself. "Yeah. Okay. Yes."

He was just… he's really, really attractive and stop smiling at me hot stuff or this will continue, and I have a feeling you either enjoy every second of it and let my mouth run away with me on purpose or you're just a kind guy who wouldn't humiliate me to save your life…

Hand lifting, she waved to the pair without really looking at them - could I be any more awkward, I don't think so – slid into her car, started the ignition and drove away from Queen Consolidated.

She had to regroup: tonight was for China White.

And Victor Nocenti.

---

It was difficult to stop watching Felicity Smoak.

He didn't try. She'd been the most pleasant distraction of the day and continued to be as she fled from her own runaway tongue, as she got into her car, as she waved a hand out her window, complete with keys and bobble-head caught between her fingers, as she drove away.

Diverting.

Part of him wanted to call her back.

Absorbed what she'd said and done, supremely taken with how much she confused and intrigued him, Oliver exhaled.

"I still think, whoever you really are, it's someone worth knowing."

She couldn't, wouldn't think that in reality. But it was a nice thought. Nice of her to say. It made feel, just for a few minutes, like he was normal. A normal guy, standing in front of a girl with problems of her own and dealing with them.

How else could she understand so much?

He wanted to stay in that moment for a little while longer.

But-

"Sir." Mr Diggle coughed under his breath. "Your mother?"

And his promise to be home for dinner tonight. To talk. About something that wasn't possible, not for him. Then there was Tommy and his calls, his questions and suggestions about Laurel. There was Thea with those questions in her eyes. Walter and the lack of connection there that made anything currently between them feel awkward. "Yes." Crisp and unemotional: he couldn't help it. There was no other option. Turning, Oliver smiled at a very shrewd looking John. "Best not to keep her waiting."

"Technically sir," Mr Diggle faux-glanced at his watch as Oliver made his way to the side door, "you're almost an hour late."

He made a non-committal sound as he stepped into the car and straightened his jacket. "Is that all?"

"I could drive slowly if you'd like to push it a little more."

For the first time with his bodyguard and designated driver, the smile on Oliver's face was real as he watched the man fasten his seatbelt. "I'd rather not keep her waiting tonight."

He had plans to be elsewhere after all.

---

Hours later… SCPD

There was only so much that officers of any precinct could do when their captain was in with half the organised crime syndicates in Starling's criminal underworld.

Not that any of them knew it: they were used to the unfairness, turning blind eyes towards the truth for a wad of cash heavy in their pockets. Begging to spent. Or that far off favour they might need. That sweet promotion on the horizon for another.

So, when four members of the Triad are released without even a warning, a charge, a security detail, or evidence; no one blinks.

Not a soul watches them walk out of the main district's front doors and into the night.

No one even cares.

They can't afford to.

"We've wasted enough time here." One of the east Asian men rumbled out as they all turned into one of the older districts near the joke of a police headquarters. "We need to call in."

Another man sighed. "We're not getting paid this time."

"Fuck." A cigarette lit their way as they strolled down one of the alley ways leading towards where they knew they had a car stashed. "Miss White won't be happy-"

"Rúguǒ nǐ wèi China White gōngzuò, nǐ yǐjīng sǐle"

If you work for China White, you're already dead.

Not a shout, not a whisper - but loud enough to stop each of the four men - the low, abrasive voice permeated the alley way.

The male voice.

Each man stared one way or another into the night, frowning when they didn't see anything there with them. "What the hell is this?" If the voice was laced with trepidation, it could be forgiven.

They were all thinking it.

It wasn't the Watchman.

A black masked freak who'd taken them out without announcing his presence like this.

But the youngest of the group shouted out before the others could stop him. "Whoever's out there, stop hiding!" Hands clapping together - grinning because he was a criminal and had escaped jail so that technically made him a badass by reputation, so his night had been a very good one - he hollered. "Show your face! Who do you think you are: the Watchman?!"

A hand grasped at the back of his jacket, yanking him back into group. "Shut." The stern face of one of his superiors, a man who never smiled, ground out at him. "Up."

Something about this was wrong.

"What?" Slapping the hand away, the 27-year-old fixed himself. "Like you said; we need to be elsewhere. You hear that asshole?" Still grinning, he shouted back into a random patch of black. "We got things to do for Miss White!"

"Bùshì jīn wǎn."

Not tonight.

This time, it was louder. Harder. Perfect mandarin. Closer than before. Still not the Watchman.

But something was happening wasn't it?

Slightly puzzled at that feeling, the youngest of the four's smile faltered. "What-"

A quiet hum was his only warning before a slim bolt of metal launched itself into his quadricep.

His scream made the others scatter, made them reach for weapons they'd had taken from them by another shadow on another night as the man fell to the floor, clutching at the wound and howling like an animal.

Made them look in the wrong direction.

"Holy-" Eyes wide - a soundless scream on a bearded face - as a green leather covered hand lashed out from out of nowhere and he was unable to dodge the speed of it as a closed fist hit him; as it knocked the wind from him, dislocated his jaw and sent him crashing into brick.

As a man in a full leather suit stepped swiftly over him, engaging the two remaining.

"I need information." The voice growled from under a hood that cast a heavy shadow on a face that was distinctly male and yet covered identifying features.

But the men were past rational thought. "It's another freak!"

"It's an arrow." The words bubbled in misery from the throat of the youngest as – hands coated with blood – his fingers wrapped around the shaft: pain making his face wan. "It's a fucking arrow-"

A green boot to the head knocked him silent, made blood trail out of the corner of his mouth.

With a yell - regaining another emotion in light of the shock: terrified anger - the two men rained what they thought was a barrage of intent to kill: fast kicks and sure arms, years of boxing lessons, of being the big men in a room, of surviving bullet fire, of being called into action only to stand there looking tough and grim, years of what they thought they knew…

Demolished in seconds.

On his knees, the third man gagged but his head was yanked back, and the bone of a bow was jammed once, twice between the man's eyes; breaking into the bridge of his nose and rendering him unconscious.

One man left.

Hands clambering against the wall behind him, the most experienced of the four stared at the figure in front of him. This man didn't hide in the shadows. It wasn't cover to him, just a place to stand. This hooded predator who blended in well, wearing green camouflage that didn't stand out the way a person might think it would, wanted to kill him.

"You're going to tell me what I need to know." He said.

But he still sounded like a man and not like a monster. Not like a certain other black mask. It was deceiving and made the last man stupid. "Or you'll do what?"

Fast like a snake, the man jammed an arrow into his shoulder.

"Or I'll kill you." It was a snarl from under a hood, intense enough to carry out over the man's shriek of pain. "But I'll make it hurt first."

Gasping for breath – shoulder a dull agony where his hand held firm over the bloody wound – the man shuddered but didn't say a word. Fear.

The mind-killer.

The green hood didn't seem to need him to anyway. "Tell me who sent the order out to kill Emily Nocenti and Laurel Lance."

"I-it wasn't to kill them." The man managed to hiss out; back pressed as far into the wall as it would go. "We were just supposed to take them-"

"And they wouldn't have lasted the night." Succinct and accurate, the hood stepped close enough that the man had to look up and when he still saw nothing but shadows, he realised he'd been wrong before. This was another freak. No normal human could behave like this. But this guy? He wasn't like the Watchman at all. This thing held no reservations about hurting people. Killing people. "Who gave the order?" Gloved hand lifting, this angry vigilante grabbed onto the arrow sticking out from the man's shoulder and twisted it.

A scream punctured the air.

White teeth barred like an animal, the hooded man leaned in close enough to spit out. "Who. Gave. The. Order?"

---

Unknown Location, 10:43pm

"You're making a mistake."

"You said that already."

"And I'm repeating it. This?" Detective Lance's hand jerked towards the outside of the safe house Nocenti had requested for himself the week before. "This is the very definition of unsafe."

Head shaking sadly, Victor Nocenti addressed the Detective head on. Abject. Defeated. "You can't change what happened. All we can do is try to move on."

"There is no moving on from something like this." Stepping in close, the detective's urgency was unmistakable. "It's tantamount to suicide."

Looking helplessly about them, Victor shrugged. "What would you have me do? What choice is there?"

"Retracting your retraction would be start!"

Head lowering, there was something there that went far beyond fear for himself. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" Eyeing the man, Lance waited for him to verified what he already knew. "Why'd you pull out?"

"They…" chest sagging, eyes growing wet with lack of sleep and the all-round knowing that the chances of him surviving the night were slim. "They threatened Emily."

"Christ." But he'd already known really. "When?"

"Right after your daughter brought my case to court."

Right After she'd made it a spectacle in the hopes of pushing Somers and the like into shallow corners. "…Yeah."

"It's fine." It wasn't and the shame of it tasted bitter in Quentin's mouth. "This was inevitable. Somers is working with the Triad: as if I could have done anything about them."

But he could have, if Laurel hadn't taken steps…

Guilt made him swallow and look down.

"All I want now," he heard Victor say, "is to go see her before… before anything else happens."

Before he's found, before – when no one's looking – Nocenti is shot in the head. Or gutted. Or drowned. Whatever was easiest.

This isn't right. "She… she didn't know, my Laurel." He tried and it sounded like begging. Like a dying man's wish, except Nocenti was the only life with a very short timer attached. "She thought she was doing the right thing."

"I know. When I spoke to her on the phone, she'd sounded so passionate… but the Watchman was right. We didn't listen and now it's all going to hell."

"The Watchman is a criminal." And who's conscience was Quentin trying to placate? Victor's or my own? "We don't need him to decide how criminals should pay or how we go about doing that…"

Exhaling, Victor held him there with a look. "Don't we?"

It made his teeth grind. "No."

"Except, if we hadn't shared what we'd known with your daughter, we'd have had the time to wait for that response from the DA." The bitter truth would always sting. They'd been waiting for a DA to take the case and it took time to get responses. But Laurel had walked into the precinct, worried about a man who'd called her the night before and it had all come out, because he'd never in a million years thought she'd risk what needed to be done, just to prove a point. "Somers would have dropped his guard. We might have done it without him ever having realised I'd gone to you."

"Or we wouldn't have." He said in lieu of anything else to say.

It didn't seem like Victor cared anymore. "I suppose we'll never know."

I can't let him go like this. "Tell me what to do, I'll do it. I'll find a-"

In his peripheral, the gleam of a barrel of a gun had his back bowing, had him diving forwards into Victor to pull him down. "Gun-"

Bullet fire pierced the air above their heads, making Victor jolt.

"Get down!" Pushing the man towards tarmac, a hand went to his gun; unclipping it, flicking the safety off and calling out to the man beside him when it became clear he was trying to duck out from the behind the crappy car they were hiding behind and make a run for it to the SCPD VAN that their very own SWAT team had once made use of. "Wait!"

With bated breath, they waited in silence… after almost 30 seconds they heard a male voice curse, colouring the air and shout out something that sounded a lot like circle round.

The shooter had a second with him, to make sure he got the job done. Perfect. They were here for Nocenti.

Triad.

Even more perfect.

"Detective Lance?" The voice was impossibly young, one of the latest recruits dispatched towards the joke of the coast. "Sir, are you alright?!" It was coming from the black van. "We heard gunfire-"

"Stay inside kid!"

Not a second too late, the shooter took aim at the van and opened fire.

"Dammit!" Standing, he took aim over the car and pulled the trigger at the figure he could just see squatting on the other side of the dark street: he pulled four shots, then reached down and grabbed the back of Victor's coat. "Get going!"

They ran towards the Van, seeing a burst of fire briefly light up the area coming from the window of the van. Thank god. The kid was alright. I'll keep him alive, you just wait. "Get in!" All but shoving Nocenti through the doors - the man wasn't a screamer, he chose to huddle in the corner - Quentin jumped up behind him. "Get this thing moving!"

"We can't sir!" Ducking down, the twenty-something-year-old changed swapped his magazine, looking flushed, breathless, chock full of adrenaline and suitably terrified. Brave. "The shooter's still out there; they could blow out the windows as we drive and," head peering round, Quentin saw him peer at the front of the car towards the driver's seat before mournfully admitting, "I don't know where the driver is."

Quentin squinted at the empty area: the driver. Where was their third? Did they get him?

But then the back doors were being yanked open and a dark-haired man of mixed racial descent - another Triad toady with little life in his eyes - took aim with a shotgun before the detective could even lift his side arm, I'm not going to make it-

Something very thin - black - lashed out from the side, past where they could see and as the tip broke the sound barrier, a loud crack made them all flinch and shout as the shotgun was wrenched upwards and away from the man who stumbled.

It can't be.

A second crack caught the shooter mid-flight, the black whip wrapped around his throat and Quentin had a classy shot of dark eyes protruding almost comically.

Then the man was pulled out of view, leaving silence in the interior of the van.

Since when does he use a whip?! Since when was that the point?

"Holy crap; was that…" the officer began, licking his lips and staring at the half opened back doors. "Ah, sir? Was that… was it-?"

Still open mouthed and wide eyed, Quentin gruffly threw out the first word that popped into his head. "No." Don't look at me.

"Watchman." Victor whispered, because of course it was and of course he'd say it and-

The vehicle shuddered as a body was thrown against it. "That's not happening." He protested as he dragged himself over to where the kid still crouched. "Not while I'm here. Stay in the van, kid." Forcing the side door open, he dropped down onto tarmac; half-crouched, pistol first-

A black leather clad hand was wrapped around the barrel before he could blink.

"I'm not here to hurt you."

The soft synthetic voice coming from the form directly to his side, made the hairs on the back of Quentin's neck rise. Jesus. "Forgive me if I don't take your word on that."

"I would be disappointed if you did."

What the hell did that mean? Teeth grit, not quite looking at the mask and lithe figure attached to it quite yet - since he was still partially squatted - Quentin made what he knew was a half-arsed attempt at a peaceful suggestion. "Let go of my gun and we'll take it from there."

The voice hummed and the mechanical whirrs coming from so close, was a sound he'd take with him for a while. "You don't have to trust what I say detective, but don't take me for a fool."

Dammit. It pooled in his stomach: embarrassment at being caught, dread at who'd caught him, anger that this criminal had saved them, that they'd needed the help… irritation at himself that he hadn't been quick enough or skilled enough to stop the shooters or to see this guy was already on him before he was fully out of the door, and recognition.

The Watchman wasn't simply dangerous. Given the right tools, the right edge, so am I. What was making word spread, what was creating a renown faster in the last month than in the last twelve, was that he'd been seen more often recently. And what was seen, was-

I'm not thinking that. "You're going to make me release my weapon?" He'd have to put it on the report and he'd never live down the shame of-

"No."

One second held the pistol, the next he didn't.

Finally peering to the man (if he could be called that, because who the hell runs around at night, looking like a nightmare) at his side, realising without acknowledging it that they were almost the same height, Quentin Lance scrambled upwards. "Hey-" The vigilante was already dismantling his weapon. "That's government property!" The words were wasted on this masked freak, but I still have the gun at my leg. If he was careful, he could reach for-

The vigilante swiftly, abruptly bent forwards making him flinch, slowing down his reaction speed by too damn much. Deft fingers reached under the lining of his pants, and the vigilante was already ripping away at the Velcro that attached his secondary weapon to his shin and straightening before Quentin could even process it.

"Jesus!" He stumbled back. "How did you-"

Holding said weapon aloft and already empty of bullets, a black void in place of a face - with strange, slim-line mechanical attachments he didn't have any clue about - looked at him. This was his first real look and… it didn't disappoint. He'll never admit how the breath in his lungs got caught halfway up. There was no doubt that the eyes beneath that mask were on him: he felt them and immediately wanted to cast his eyes away.

Rumours circulated through the SCPD: ridiculous ghost stories depicting how the vigilante knew things he shouldn't, how he could make connections and devise truths with little to no validation or human way to conceive of them.

"This isn't my first rodeo, Detective."

And he offered the now useless weapon back to him. Great. Thanks.

Feeling his fists clench and his jaw tighten - the head and mask didn't move a millimetre as it waited - as he palmed the pistol, moving fast as if the vigilante's hands were jaws that would snap his own in half; briefly feeling the rich leather of those gloves as he did. "Don't think this makes us even." Don't look away: he's just a man.

Then the head moved: twisting just enough to create the impression that the vigilante was confused. "Even? For what?"

"Just because you saved a few lives tonight, it doesn't cancel the crimes you've committed!"

"My crimes…" the barely-there words sounded more like a purr. "The laws I break have never led another person to their death."

"That's no excuse for breaking the law!"

"No, it isn't."

It was so surreal, standing there and arguing with this person who he'd been looking for without any real success, only for him to just pop up like a daisy from out of the cracks. "A criminal is a criminal is a criminal. You don't have to go outside of the law to get justice."

"I don't disagree. Criminals are such because they subvert a law system built to protect the future victims of the more despicable of the human race. A system this city has allowed to erode. I would not exist in any other city." Quiet. Calm. Precise. To the point, clear and utterly relevant. "My point is that, while I'm here, trying to rectify a mistake that isn't mine, your daughter whose ignorance and ego almost led to the death of the man you were trying to protect just now, will never see the inside of a cell."

"Shut up!" It was immediately, the sharp cut; the grain of truth in the words, set Quentin on edge, making him shout. "You keep my daughter out of this!"

"She put herself into this. I specified you keep her away from this investigation."

"Well, my job isn't to carry out the Watchman's orders." And he may have bunny eared it for effect.

It bounced right off the vigilante before him. "Instead, you invited her into it by letting her speak to Victor Nocenti."

Startled, his head shot back. "How did you know about that?"

He was ignored. "You know your daughter better than anyone. Last night I asked her to step back from a case she couldn't fight: not with one year at a charity firm to contend against men and women with more than ten years serving as DA's in the supreme court. She… didn't care." Coming off one leg, the vigilante took one step closer to him without moving much at all and while he wasn't taller, there was something about having this maniac's full attention that kept Quentin utterly silent. Still. Step the fuck back. "I exist because too many were becoming victims, because this city creates generations of chaos and anarchy over peace and justice, as you have seen. Your daughter added to that this week." A slow head-shake accompanied his final words. "But she will never face punishment for that. How lucky for you."

Inclining back from the detective, the vigilante simply stood there: not speaking, unmoved. Is… is he waiting? Did he want a response to something Quentin wasn't prepared to give just yet?

It didn't help that he released he was trembling. Pull it together. Unable to think of anything to say, Quentin glowered and bit out a sentence that would later make mortification curl at his insides. "You know, you're not as tall or as large as I thought you'd be."

But the mask tilted, still sounding oh so composed. "I get that a lot."

Then the vigilante was moving towards the rear of the van, leaving Quentin there to… pant. He was panting, as if he'd been afraid. As if the vigilante had made him nervous.

And he had.

"Mr Nocenti." The vigilante called out as he braced against half closed doors. "Cadet: if you'd be so kind as to not to shoot me as I open these doors…" the question, if you could call it that, was left dangling in the air.

The black clad law breaker simply waited where he stood: he could have just barrelled on in, uncaring… but he didn't.

"Um…" the young, unsure, incredulous voice of the newbie called out from within. "Okay!"

Eyes briefly closing, Quentin shook his head. Just because he asked… But what if the vigilante had asked in the past and other officers of the law had lowered their weapons?

The thought made suspicion creep into his internal voice, but he couldn't think about it; not when the vigilante was right there, speaking to the two men inside the van as if this was normal.

The detective was striding to them before he could blink.

"…you should be safe tonight." The vigilante was saying where stood between the doors, leaving enough room for Quentin to squeeze in it itched being this close to the vigilante after chasing him for over a year. "Go with Detective Lance: this is officially another crime scene and-"

"Don't tell me how to do my job." He cut in.

That mask, that head, twisted in his direction. "I wasn't." Again, it was like a physical presence, that stare. "Your driver took a walk." The vigilante randomly added. "You'll most likely find him at your precinct; waiting to hear about a police officer, a detective and a witness in the case against Somers that said detective's daughter brought about, shot to death near the old barracks."

That wasn't something he could comprehend just then. "Say what?"

"Sargent Briar didn't sign his name on the service sheet and he's good friends with the desk clerk. If anyone checks who was supposed to be here, they won't know he sold you out."

The drugs.

It was the first thought that came to mind and eh hated himself for it. They'd been sold out for drug money. What else could it have been?

In his peripheral, Quentin saw the newbie's shoulders droop: as if hearing that a fellow officer was dirty, hurt him. He was beginning to like this kid, except the guy automatically believed what the vigilante was saying… and how could he not? Where was Briar? He'd be back by now and whatever he thought about this masked menace, something told him that being a liar wasn't one of his facets.

The night got better and better.

"What'll I do?" The agonised whisper came from Nocenti who was staring at the vigilante like he was the answer to a few hundred prayers and while that didn't sit right with Quentin, the rush of guilt that swam over him seeing that this man was still going through hell was enough not to make another comment. "They said they'd leave my daughter alone if I didn't testify, that she'll be safe if I leave the case…"

"They lied." The burr made the words all the more powerful. "Two men were waiting for your daughter outside of her apartment. She's alright." He quickly added before Nocenti could start to truly panic. "I wouldn't let her come to any harm. But she was alone. I advise you join her at the SCPD as soon as you can."

"This won't be the end of it." And it was a surprise to hear the young officer speak this time; a mixture of seriousness and… well, awe in his voice. "They might be alright tonight, but what about tomorrow?" Looking between the vigilante and Quentin, the kid licked his lips. "I'm pretty new to the job but I don't think directly opposing the Triad is the best decision for the SCPD." They'd be decimated for sure. "We're undermanned and we don't have the resources." And he seemed to understand the situation just fine. He had a level head. Christ, I do like him. "We don't even know where they are."

"You don't." And there was something to the way the vigilante said that, that made Quentin eye him.

"We don't," he asked; not managing to keep the contempt and scepticism completely from his voice, "but you do?"

But the vigilante no longer seemed to find him of interest. "Leave it to me. You should all go. Now." Like he did a second later, strolling around the other side of the van before Quentin could stop him.

"Leave what to you? Hey!" Launching forwards, Quentin made to run around that same side. "Don't think you can just walk away because the bullets out of my…"

There was nobody there.

Brow twitching, Quentin shot to the other side and peered round.

Also absent a black mask and coat. That isn't normal.

The rumours were true.

The reports, half true.

Everything Hilton said? Spot on. Hilton. He needed to have a word with his old friend.

But it would have to wait. "Alright." He cleared his throat, smacking the side of the van. "Let's get going."

There was a certain sergeant he had to fry.

---

Somers Imports, Warehouse

"You're not moving fast enough."

If he could spare a second thought or the energy to shift his attention, Martin Somers would have turned to Chien Na Wei to scream out what he managed to prattle as he forced ripped files and docking IDs into his folder. "I'm moving as fast as I can. If I miss a single one of these…"

He'd leave a paper trail of some kind: it could be the difference between prison and bail for him, for them both.

That it had come to that… This wasn't supposed to end with me in jail. Nausea made bile rise high in his oesophagus. "You were supposed to kill her."

"We almost did." The white-haired ghost replied without fault or spite, save a hardness of tone that matched the way she paced. "But now we have her father. An infinitely more agreeable compromise. My men should be finished by now." Murdering him. And then maybe they could go back to business without worrying about police interjection. Or ambitious lawyers too tenacious for their own good. "You can stop worrying."

As if it was so easy, but he was never supposed to have a vigilante after him. "You said that once before." Zipping shut his case, closing his draw; Somers took hold of the iron mallet in his grasp. "As I recall," this time he did shoot the assassin a glare, because was all her fault: she'd failed to kill a lawyer and now his livelihood was on the line, "it was after the Watchman interrupted our drug smuggling operation."

The reminder made turned her dark eyes into coals. "I told you: I'll deal with him."

"You said that too." Turning away once more, he lifted the hammer and slammed it down on the laptop he'd been using to destroy his secrets. "Right before he dropped in on us and made us the laughing stock of underworld narcotic distribution." Dropping the hammer on the floor, Somers gathered what he came for.

"What a quaint way of referring to our strategy to get Starling City high." He could hear the smirk in her voice.

But the idea had been plausible: he'd quickly become the richest CEO in the city whilst opening the doors for the Triad who would owe him for the rest of his life.

Except the city had a shadow that wouldn't let them hide their goods inside of it.

"I'm not sure what you find so amusing Miss White." Teeth set, anxiety and frustration making less tolerant of the prestigious killer before him than usual, Somers tried to simply breathe. "This alliance hinges upon the murder of a former employee who could destroy me and let's hope the Watchman is looking the other way this time."

"We just need to take precautions for tonight. Tomorrow there'll be nothing and no one Miss lance can throw our way and we'll-" Head whipping around, China White stared in the direction where the sound of-

Where shouts were echoing from downstairs.

And China White-

"No." If looks could kill.

Odd how such a petit woman could appear so threatening, so predatory. Or at least it would be if Martin Somers was too busy focusing on the sounds coming to them, in danger of losing his dinner. "Tell me that's not-"

Gunfire echoed from downstairs.

"Watchman." She hissed and he flinched at the sound. With a wave of her platinum hair, she levelled him with a piercing look. "Take those and go out the back."

He didn't need to be told twice.

But after barely three steps, she called back to him. "Remember: one more failure and the Triad will erase all evidence of this operation." The pause between sentences wasn't helping his pounding heartbeat. "That includes you."

Something else he didn't need to be told. "Why don't you focus on the pressing matter of the vigilante currently crawling up our asses, huh?" And the brief backchat was worth what this woman represented…

That is, until he turned around and came face to face with the Watchman.

"Shit!" Falling backwards, he had barely a second to take in the figure pacing towards them as he crawled backwards when feet clamouring over metal rails made a racket behind him and managing to cast a flickering look down the hall in the opposite direction-

Covered in the shadows cast from the large wooden supports was a figure - larger than the Watchman though not by much - wearing a fitted hood that covered enough of his face to leave an impression and-

Is he wearing green leather? Is-

It hit him. The hooded man in the news. It was the same guy who'd attached Adam Hunt in his office and- You've got to be fucking kidding me!

How could they both be here? Were they working together?

The man was striding as purposefully towards them as the Watchman was, as if running were beneath him.

As if he didn't need to run.

"Two for the price of one." And the smirk in China White's voice made him release he was going to leave her behind. Let her play with the rest of the freaks-

"What are you doing here?" It wasn't so much a shout as it was a demand, but after the near silence displayed the week before, anything above a casual voice coming from the Watchman was kind of stunning. Hand lifting, finger pointing as he walked, he continued. "This is not happening tonight. You are not-"

On the other side of the room, without breaking stride, the dark green hooded guy reached behind him, notched an Arrow and let it loose at the Watchman.

Definitely not allies.

Arrow flying overhead, the Watchman ducked down and to his right, taking attention off of Somers.

Run! Slipping over a dry floor, Somers shot down the exit ramp to the stairs; running like he hadn't in years. He ignored the thuds coming from behind him; forget this, I'm getting on a boat.

Anywhere else was better than Starling. Why had he ever thought making a deal with the Triad would be a good idea?

And as he made his bid for freedom, he didn't release the sound from above had already quietened…

---

Somers leaving the room wasn't a priority.

Chien Na Wei - AKA China White - however, was.

And the not-so-secret martial arts expert and leader of a Triad sub faction that specialised in heroin imports, was too busy stroking her own inflated ego.

Perfect.

The woman was so much easier to deduce and counteract than she'd ever realise.

"Who," Chien Na Wei preened as she attempted to start a circle between herself and her 'opposition', drawing two curved combat knives - karambits - and observing the Watchman's mask that was focused on the man in green leather as he closed in on them, "do I attack first-"

With a flick of her wrist, Watchman threw a metal dart her way; just in time to counter the roundhouse the hooded man threw at her.

Still fast.

Still scary.

Still thrilling.

But… there was no time.

But as she straightened from her crouch, it was Miss White's heeled shoe she had to avoid this time.

Her knife. Her fist, elbow, knife again and-

Blocking a kick she could have avoided, the Watchman dropped under the leg to jab White's hamstring making her grunt before whirling back up and around because-

"Wait!" And even to herself, the Watchman sounded frantic.

But the hooded man had used China's distraction to follow Somers and at her shout, simply turned around and shot an arrow back at her, which she had to dodge-

Moving forwards, watching him slowly notch a second, Watchman reached into her coat for her whip. "Don't-"

Don't kill him. She'd wanted to say that, to ask him why again.

But China took this distraction - and it was a first, to have her attention divided like this by not one, but two opposing forces - to run as fast as she could with an injured leg towards the railing the hooded man had come up from, and leap over the side; dropping down the support columns in an attempt to either escape or draw the Watchman away.

The former.

China White, was fast. And a murderess.

But she'd also underestimated the situation, forgetting that she was only ever at her best when the odds where in her favour: when she had backup.

There was none here.

I can't let her escape. It didn't matter if, at best, Chien would spend only a single night in jail before her confederates greased a few wheels to get her a release: the message was more important.

No more. It stops here: I will be there, in every shadowed corner; in every empty room.

There was a reason why the she'd decided to only intervene from a distance and at an infrequent basis, until recently. Now, she no longer had a choice and she'd both mourn and fear the loss of it later.

But now she had to choose. Fast.

Down one path was a woman who sporadically popped up in Starling only to wreck lasting havoc behind doors and unknown always; a woman who'd sent men to kill an innocent man and his daughter.

Down the another… the hood. And everything about him that she didn't know.

There was also the man who'd signed a contract to release copious amounts of heroin into an already poisoned city, who'd requested China White kill a family just so he could turn a profit. Though a coward, he was without a conscience.

An impossible choice? No, but… This wasn't something she'd ever had to do before. Not in the field. Not out of it. Everything was planned, always; down to the letter. Never had she had to consider a top priority in the centre of the chaos.

In a stalemate that she supposed was about skill, neither she nor the archer had moved.

For several seconds, they stared each other down from too far a distance: neither could see the other's face. Neither twitched. They just… looked.

Sand trickled through her fingers…

Gut clenching, the Watchman decided. The most dangerous had to be neutralised. Taking the deepest, surest breath; she spoke loud enough - sincere enough - to be heard. "If you kill him," unnecessarily, "I will hunt you down. I will never stop."

That leather covered chest moved outwards… inwards.

Again, he didn't speak.

She was used to being the sole holder of any conversation, in any situation - in one mask or another - but she wanted him to speak, was confusedthat she did. Wondered why it was important.

Or why he'd even stopped in the first place.

They stared… until they turned, each slipping out of the warehouse in opposing directions. Each with a target.

Prey.

---

A little later…

Wrists tied - an effective binding technique used in cattle wrangling - China White dangled 20 feet above the ground via an immobile crane.

Unconscious.

Dangerous.

She'd had to render her out. With those knives, Miss White had almost slit her open. It had been some time since she'd fought someone with the kind of skill to… to get past her defences. She wasn't akin to the man in the hood: not fluid, crisp, sharp, strong; but there was a lethality to her. Fortunately, it was predictable. It had taken minutes.

Winded - it wasn't every day she had to lift bodies, despite the tools that helped her - she lifted her hand and inspected the side of her glove. It was slit open: the skin untouched, but the point; clear.

To never forget that there was always someone out there who could best you.

The rolling whirr of sirens ahead made her head snap up: they quickly became a scream. Ah. Of course, the SCPD would need someone to arrest at the end of the night. They're late.

She'd leave Miss White for them, deserved or no.

Two sirens. Three Squad cars. Broken lights. They needed funding and they needed it years ago.

Not the time.

Dismissing her thoughts, leaving the ghostly platinum sheen of Miss White's hair waving with her body, the Watchman sprinted back into the warehouse.

Did she expect the hooded man to still be there? No. But had he left Somers breathing? Or a body?

It wasn't a mistake. To go after the assassin, whilst the morally corrupt businessman was left at the mercy of a very different animal.

On the way she made a pit stop: she wanted the laptop Somers had pounded on. She wanted his list of contacts. Hopefully There was something to recover.

An older warehouse that could have housed the building she lived in a few times over, stood a few hundred yards past Somers Imports and she made her way there via the cranes: her grappling gun carrying her swiftly into the granary.

She didn't make a sound as she dropped.

As she spirited across the floor.

As she came to a halt: a dead stop.

There, against a random collection of wooden boards and stone, stood Somers.

"Martin Somers?" Dashing closer, quickly pulling off a glove, she moved to press her fingers to the skin at his neck-

He was breathing.

Unconscious. Like China White.

He hadn't killed him. Then why had he chased him? Gone for him. Martin Somers had been his target.

"What was the point?" She said to herself, pulling back on her glove, head tilting. "Why did he go after you?"

"He needed to face a different kind of justice."

Twitching, the Watchman flinched around. Surprised. Uneasy. I didn't heat him. Why? How? What training has he-

"Did you kill China White?"

Foot lifting – sliding, settling – the Watchman stepped away from Somers and took full stock of the figure standing a hundred metres away and shouting to her.

…Why had he come back?

Or had he not left at all?

Had he been watching her?

Watching the Watchman.

"…No." The burs of her modulator did nothing this time to hide the inflections of her caution, her ignorant self.

She had no idea what he was doing there. What he wanted. What this was.

Why he was just… standing there?

And asking her about-

"Maybe you should have." And his voice carried: loud and clear and a question. "She'll come back."

"I know." Taking him in, she asked one herself. "But you won't either… will you?"

You won't leave here and kill China White.

Again: nothing. No response, no movement; he didn't say a word. So still. And covered in shadow. "Why did you come here?"

"He failed this city."

The way he said that… this is personal for him. "In which way?"

In answer, he – slowly this time – reached over his shoulder to draw another arrow.

Straightening, she readied herself for whatever he had planned as he notched it, as he raised the bow and took aim… as he released the arrow.

As the head hit just above Martin Somers' head, the shaft not even shaking.

What? Confused, she looked at it and not at the businessman who didn't rouse from his impromptu nap.

The green arrow head was… beeping. Noiselessly. Little nodes of light flashed down the metal ridge intermittently.

Her head moved, looking to the hooded man and then back to it… and back again.

The man simply lowered his bow.

But they didn't have all day.

Reaching upwards, she pulled the arrow out of the wood only to immediately feel a groove at its side that, if pressed-

"…it was mine! It was mine, alright?! Nocenti was going to testify against me so I gave the order…"

A confession. The hooded man had recorded Martin Somers confession.

When she looked up at the exit, he was gone.

"You are surrounded!" A voice spoke through a megaphone, "Come out with your hands in the air-"

And, when the SCPD's footsteps could be heard from outside the warehouse, so was she.

---

Peering upwards at the dangling form, Detective Lance scowled and squinted. "I've seen her from somewhere before."

"We'll have Peers run her through AFICE once she's down." Hilton muttered from his side, staring up with him. "Damn. The Watchman was taking no prisoners tonight." Pointing at her, Hilton shot his friend a look. "Didn't Nocenti describe her?"

"I don't like that he's coming out of the woodwork like this."

"…Who?"

"The vigilante. How many times in a week does this make?" He shook his head and repeated. "I don't like it."

Quickly checking for other officers in the vicinity, Hilton spoke under his breath. "Didn't he save your life about an hour ago?"

"That's not the point."

For a moment, Lucas Hilton simply observed his long-time friend. "Then what is the point?"

That they'd needed the vigilante to come save their asses because there were corrupt cops, because even though Quentin had known this, he hadn't for a second thought they'd be betrayed, because the badge was supposed to mean something, and he'd been given another shot of the ugly truth tonight. Maybe I'm the only one left who thinks this way.

Except, Hilton was a fine cop too… a good man who lied to him. Who'd spoken to the vigilante – a man who subverts the law – and said nothing.

Right. "That reminds me," he squared his friend a pointed look of his own, "we need to talk."

---

Reckless.

He'd stayed behind, just to see what the Watchman would do.

Why?

Placing his bow back inside it's weathered case, Oliver lowered the lid; mind elsewhere.

He should have left, should have taken out Somers. Should have made sure that the man who'd threatened someone he cared about could never do the same to another.

Instead, he'd made the man confess.

He'd recorded it.

And then he'd given the recording to the Watchman.

Why?

This list. That was his focus: it shouldn't matter how or why he does what needs to be done to right his father's wrongs, to fix what was broken and cut out the cancerous cells that had infected the city.

But something about today…

To be the person others see or need to see or… to be exactly what he needed to be. To be what he wanted to be seen as, opposed to who he actually was.

Knocking out Somers, he'd found himself waiting; knowing the Watchman would come, would be… worried. About what he might have done or not done. And he'd stood in the crevice at the exit, waiting for the black clad shadow to sweep in.

Who are you? He'd wanted to ask. Instead, he'd asked a very different question.

Maybe… he'd just had a hard day.

Maybe he just hadn't realised how hard it would be. Being home. Maybe he'd reached out to the last person in the city who would or could accept him. After so many proofs that whoever he was supposed to be, wouldn't be accepted - wouldn't be appreciated - maybe for one moment, he'd wanted to be what he was.

Natural.

He had no idea what any of it meant.

---

Felicity Smoak's Apartment, 12:37am

Too late to sleep, too early to stop: story of my life.

Sighing, Felicity perched on the edge of her sofa and began to solder the remnants of a tiny motherboard once belonging to a literally bent out of shape, outdated laptop that hadn't been serviced in forever.

Martin Somers had absolutely gone home on the thing.

"Poor baby." She muttered down at the battered, unremarkable work of art. "I didn't arrive in time to save you-"

Three very gentle knock at the door made her pause. Blink. Arch her brows. Lift her head.

She… had a visitor?

She never had a visitor. Never invited anyone over. Never expected anyone or anything.

"Um… oh!" The tap-tap-tap came again, as gentle as the first time and she shot up to her feet.

I'm sure it's the height of bad manners, leaving a person standing at the door, she thought but still bit down on her lower lip as she felt a shot of nerves. So, I am an introvert. One side of her was…

"Hello?" She called through the door as she undid the lock-

"Felicity?"

She froze… then, very fast, she pulled open the door and stared at her visitor in surprise.

"…Oliver?"