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

10. Chapter 10

Legacy

"…Oliver?"

He was at her apartment. After midnight. He was at her apartment after midnight. Maybe if I think it three times, it'll sink in faster. Sort of like there's no place like home but without the flying monkeys.

Just the man behind the curtain.

It was mystifying. Hadn't he seen enough of her that day already? No one ever wanted more of Felicity Smoak, though the Watchman seemed to be a rising star. But Miss Smoak was invisible. The mind reels. The mind was an entity all on its own because why else would the quick-as-a-flash, scandalous thoughts she experienced in the seconds after she opened the door be so- nope.

Be appropriate, be… not me.

Right. Not me. Easier said than done. After the busy evening, her thoughts were practically a pachinko machine of motion and- there's no way Oliver came to listen to me babble-

And Oliver coming was a whole other delicious thought- if you continue like this, your adrenaline might upsurge and you do not want Oliver anywhere near you when it does so, shush!

Given the possible content of his nightmares, she couldn't blame him for the hour. But to anyone else, it would be seen as anything but social. Not that she cared. People saw what they wanted to see, surmised what they wanted to surmise. The man in front of her was as sharp as tack: he never assumed.

And speaking of Oliver, something else about him hit her immediately upon opening the door.

He… looked different.

Did he change his clothes? Visiting her, visiting Felicity Smoak, warranted a change of clothes? Okay, that's um… that's fine. Gulp.

It wasn't a big difference, but sometimes subtlety was far more effective.

No longer hitting up the jeans-suit-jacket combo that had left him looking stiff shouldered and unbearably yuppie, Oliver still wore the jeans… but he'd taken off the buttoned shirt and had replaced with it a Henley, which was just awesome.

A Henley.

No coat or jacket or anything else to fight of the slight chill creeping upon the city and he wore it like he had no idea how good it looked on him. It was a very nice shade of maroon that clung to his form like a glove. As if he'd walked off a Calvin Klein advert, it unfairly accentuated the edge of his jaw line; that shadow of fine hair on his chin, leading down his throat - he was the first man she thought a 5pm shadow looked sensual on, what is going on with me - and the kind of healthy skin that the naturally beautiful and those who breathe in excess amounts of fresh air, seemed to be gifted with.

He possessed a uniquely attractive slope to his collarbone.

Her attention had been split between his insane abdominals and pectorals that one perfect time he'd stood before her, shirtless, to fully take it in. It just sat there, awaiting inspection. Worthy of kisses. Drawing the eye- stopping right there. Stop. It. The man was already tempting, and he hadn't come to be gawped at-

"Hi."

-Which was exactly what she was doing and good god, stop. Eyes flying up from his chest and back to his face - being so much taller than her, this seemed to take an embarrassingly noticeable amount of time - she bit down on her lower lip. Oops.

Slow blinks on top of an initial hesitance to speak, made Oliver appear uncertain. "It's… late."

The utter inadequacy of that - what he clearly considered to be so, though compared to how her normally speedy brain was still catching up, she thought it was absolutely fine - made him press his lips together and close his eyes in self-rebuke.

Despite the way she was still pressing her teeth down on her lip, a tentative smile grew there.

He puffed out a breath. "Right." Eyes re-opening - eyes so alive - they took in her comfortable nightwear. "I ah…" He cleared his throat, brows coming together. "It's very late. I know it's late." He repeated.

Was he usually this fragmented?

"You-" straightening her glasses, she sounded almost as unsure as he did, "you said that."

What's going on?

He was so quiet and low toned, very awake for so late and it made her wonder if he'd been exercising or- having lots of sex, before coming to my place? It sounded tacky, something not Oliver, but still something that John Diggle had thought to bring up that morning.

"I was just walking and I," he paused, "I ended up outside of, um," more soft sounds, another ah, and he rustled the bag he was holding, looking down at it…

Looking so young and vulnerable. Um. And clutched between strong fingers - close to his chest, as if he expected her to turn him away - was a plastic bag and the label on it?

The Little Bird.

"I brought persimmons." He announced, as if it meant something; but he still sounded supremely confused by himself.

Mouth open in an O shape, she blinked at him.

He bought permissions.

Like, I carried a watermelon.

And he said it like a question: and he didn't know that the odd openness he was displaying touched her just behind her ribcage. "You bought permissions." She could only whisper.

"And," he faltered, "pears."

Something deep inside her softened. In fact, it went downright gooey.

He looked so lost.

Eyes shifting off her at her stunned silence, Oliver licked his lips and finally admitted. "I don't know why I'm here." Smiling suddenly, it looked a little painful; a little bewildered and-

Lonely.

Every inch of him screamed lonely again.

"I'm having a strange day." And he tried to joke it off.

For some reason, she didn't want him to. "…Me too."

And wasn't that the truth? From Walter Steel and his impenetrable wife – which felt a little poetic given that her son was even more so – and their blunt insistence to pay tribute to a past that no longer exists, to Detective Quentin Lance's ire and the amusing gruff facade he'd clearly built over the years, China White, Martin Somers-

The Hood.

Non-stop from start to finish and she had a feeling it wasn't ending here. Or ever.

Yet with Oliver's arrival, suddenly it all felt okay.

Huh. Weird.

But it wasn't as affecting as the way Oliver said, "Yeah?" Like, really? I can feel this way and it's not bad?

I can show up at your door and you won't turn me away?

And wow, what a way to make her heart flip-flop. "I don't-" she had to clear her throat because she did sound affected. "I don't think either of us usually… share ourselves. With other people." It wasn't the time for her to start speaking in sentence fragments. "With friends."

But he didn't seem to mind. "No."

Just that; just, no.

Head tilting - tone as soft as soft could be - she murmured. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His blinks were soft too. "About what?"

"About how weird and scary it must have been for you to shop at a supermarket," eyes feeling the humour seeping in them, she couldn't bite back a smile, "poor little rich boy?"

"Uh-" Surprise caught him off guard, wide eyed, before he ducked his head to fail at hiding his own smile; a hand lifting to the back of his neck.

She made a whoa sound. "Are you blushing?" She didn't acknowledge that his blush had made her blush - no one would ever believe I'm the Watchman, not ever - her voice was hushed; as if speaking in a lower, louder register would disturb the lovely pinking of his cheeks. "Is that a blush? I didn't mean to embarrass you."

Tell that to the giggle in her voice.

Exhaling, "You didn't," he didn't look quite so awkward anymore.

In fact, add to that his small but real smile, the way his shoulders relaxed a tad and the sight of his gaze flickering down, without moving his head, to her sockless feet - her painted toes - and remaining fixed on them for three seconds longer than the four necessary before they lifted back up…

Oliver Queen was testing her today.

Or is it yesterday already? Which makes today tomorrow and- She shook her ahead. "Ah, do you want to come in."

Say yes.

It was rare. Company. A connection, one like this: so new and real and something unusual and she didn't realise how much she'd missed it until he arrived at her door.

But she didn't have to hope.

Nodding, "yes," and looking at her with the gentlest gratitude she thought she'd ever see from a person who's default setting was stone.

Stepping in - she stepped back for him - he wordlessly lifted the bag to her.

She'd keep it to herself how adorable she thought it was that tall, blond and lethal had gone food shopping for fruit because he'd eaten all of hers and, best not tell him that I restocked, though she needed the pears. "You don't want one?"

"Maybe later." He quietly uttered, stepping with her again as she stepped back again; smoothly closing the door behind him as he did. "They're for you."

"I don't think I can eat all these." She said peering into the bag and not realise they were locked in an odd sort of sway, with her leading them into her apartment backwards and him following for some strange reason.

"They'll last- what is that?"

What? Blinking, head following him – hair tumbling across her face – she saw him looking at the table in front of the cushy sofa. Looking at the disassembled laptop and circuit board once belonging to Martin Somers. Uh…

"Personal project?" He asked.

And he looked interested.

Why? "The owner sort of took a hammer to it." Why was she telling him the truth? Well, the best liars tell the truth, or that was what she told herself. "I'm trying to bring it back to life."

He hummed, still looking at the piece of machinery. "Do you think you'll make it?"

Intuition hit her again: are we still talking about the laptop? "It depends on how fortified the original owner kept it." Secretive blue eyes moved to the right, to her. "Either way, no matter what I do, it won't be the same as it was before-"

Those eyes flickered down.

We're so not talking about the laptop. "But I'll get it going. If I have anything to say about it, and I do, then maybe it'll be better than the original."

Slowly, his gaze trailed back to her.

"So!" She threw a thumb over her shoulder, feeling perky and happy and- what is going on with me? But… she did. She couldn't explain it. "Want anything?"

Already watching her, she couldn't read into that expression at all, except to say he appeared oddly pensive. "I'm okay." He even shrugged a shoulder for affect. "Don't put yourself out."

"It's no trouble." Silly.

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, his broad chest lifted with it: hands coming together to… fidget. "What's on offer?"

Loaded. Question. "What do you want?"

More. Loaded. A. Question.

He just looked at her, his left brow quirking ever so slightly.

"I…" she dragged out the letter, you just had to go there, and tried to cut out the fifth in her brain. "Malted whisky kind of tickles my fancy right now." Which was impossible. "Two fingers?" Ugh, my brain is the enemy.

Two fingers.

Hah.

Thank God he couldn't read her mind, because there was no way he'd be looking at her like that - as if something she'd said had just made him feel good - if he could. "Sounds good."

It didn't hit her until she was emptying her load – the fruit – into her fruit's basket of sorts, that Oliver hadn't really drank at his own party the Friday before. Maybe he had before she'd arrived, but he'd been distinctly sober when they'd spoken, and the party had been in full swing for hours before then.

Maybe he was just being courteous, which she wouldn't have. Manners was one thing; putting up with something you don't like to please another was another. He didn't have to do that with her.

She'd only offered alcohol because he'd looked like he could use a glass.

We shall see. "You didn't have to buy these you know, though I appreciate that you did." She called out as she crouched down in front of her cabinet for the glasses.

"I, ah…" the pause lasted until she straightened, reaching for the whisky. Really should keep these two together. "I actually didn't intend to go shopping. Or buy fruit." He sounded so awkward and confused with himself again. "I just… found myself there."

"You went for a walk?" She didn't mention that it was a strange, dangerous hour to take a walk. In what universe could she judge?

He just hummed in response.

Peering around her counter, she caught him lowering himself to the floor.

In front of her laptop.

Cross legged.

Expression unreadable but open.

Be. Still. My. Beating. Heart.

The most attractive man she'd ever met was sitting on her living room floor, attentive to her 'hobby' and all because he'd found himself in front of her superstore.

Her voice sounded a little high when she spoke again. "Is this a self-pity night or a world-weary one?"

"Ah, what?"

She saw him frown over - up - at her.

"Does it require ice cream or just the whisky?"

And the corner of his mouth actually lifted. "Just the whisky for tonight."

For tonight. As in, there'd be other nights? What happened to the week of no contact? To him clearly not wanting anything to do with having a new friend because, complications? What happened to-

"But I don't think it wold be a good thing for you to know the real me."

-To him thinking that staying far from her and everyone else, was the way to go? Was this a slip?

Maybe something changed. Stood over him, she offered a glass. "Here." No ice. "And you don't have to drink it if you don't want to, though this edition is pretty soothing." Like syrup but not as sweet.

Taking it, "Thank you," he settled back somehow; his large form seemingly at ease, right there where he sat.

Weighed down.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked quietly as liquid courage smoothed the lining of her throat.

Careful, so careful, Oliver's eyes lifted from his glass, to her face. "About?"

"Anything." Shoot.

"The colour on your toe nails is pretty."

Eyes closing, her cheeks immediately growing warm. "Oliver."

The charm never stopped, did it? What was more, she didn't think he knew that it was effortless from him.

"Sorry." She heard him breathe and opened her eyes in time find him taking a sip. A test. She watched his throat move with it, her gaze tracing down his neck and moving with his Adam's apple- maybe alcohol wasn't the best thing right now. "This is nice."

Her eyes fluttered, almost closing.

Definitely a bad idea.

At any usual moment in time, Oliver's voice touched her in places she couldn't show in public without being arrested. With whisky, his voice was sin. Made her think of bedrooms and beds and soft sheets, warm nights, the colour red and black and-

Green.

What?

"…I didn't come here for you to make me feel better." He was saying and she came back into her body with a jolt that she hid behind a larger than average sip.

"How do you know you didn't?" Placing down her glass, her fingers immediately found her tools for something to focus on instead of his lips and his voice. "You did say that you found yourself outside of Little Bird."

His fingers tapped on his own glass. "I chose to come here after going there."

"Okay. But why did you want to?"

And she was so supremely grateful that he took her question seriously - staring down into the contents of his glass as he thought about it - that he was ready to look at himself. Even if it was just the thinnest surface stuff.

"I," he eventually found himself saying, "didn't want to go home." And it looked like he hadn't wanted to admit that to himself. Or to her.

After that morning, it wasn't so difficult to imagine why. "Understandable."

But to choose Felicity Smoak's abode over, say, anyone else's?

"I wanted to be alone." Voice a little gruff and clearly unused to talking about himself like this, he stilled so completely she wondered what was difficult to admit here. Was everything difficult for him to admit? She had a feeling the answer to that was a resounding yes. "But, I…" hesitating, his mouth moved; as if tasting words. "I needed clarity." As quietly as he spoke - without looking at her - he managed to make her feel looked at. "You make things simple. My life is complicated, and I needed it not to be for a minute."

How ironic.

She was Felicity Smoak and the Watchman. She was an unseen IT girl and the shadow of Starling City. She made enemies of no one because no one knew who she was or how she worked - and part of that was down to keeping herself out of the public eye as much as she could, which was threaten to change - she'd made it impossible for herself to ever stop, she had no social life and the reasons why, were years old.

And she made things simple for him?

A sound left her throat: somewhere between say what, her throat clearing and an er, kay. "That's quite a compliment."

His sigh made his constantly tense form depress a little. "Now it sounds like I'm using you."

Head titling, she peered at him and caught the way he was trying not to look at her. "Are you?"

His head swivelled to her immediately. "No." It was swift, so swift but still as quiet as a mouse. "That wasn't what I meant to infer." Concern lined the edges of his devastating face and it was kind of intimidating: they were strangers, but she felt like she'd known him for a long time. "I didn't mean it like that."

She waited because he seemed to need the time.

His mouth opened slightly, pausing once more at threshold before speaking. "I enjoy your company." It was a simple thing to say, but he didn't make it sound or feel simple: like even that admittance was an admittance too far. "You're the only person who hasn't tried to… who hasn't tried." To be different, to push at him, to get answers? He looked her over, as if he found this facet unusual in a person. "You're just you."

He really was a lot. Who says that to a person with a straight face? "I-" She cleared her throat, "I'm overrated."

"Understated." Like a slap on her wrist - except make slap a tiny finger tap - like he was teaching her something she should know but didn't; as if she was more than she understood. "This is a little strange for me." His eyes moved past her, taking in the wide space about them. "I don't know what to do here."

She had a feeling that his here wasn't referring to her apartment. "What to do here or what to do here?" And who did that make sense to?

Him, apparently. "I'm not-" Mouth closing, hands lifting in an even I'm not sure kind of way; he shook his head and his eyes absently landed on her Robin Hood posters. "I don't know how to be a good friend. I have Tommy and… Laurel," the pause told a story, "but I wasn't known for treating people well before the island. And now, all people see is…" Letting out a breath, his eyes returned to her. "I'm afraid being shipwrecked didn't polish those skills."

"I can imagine."

"This is easy." It was so abruptly stated, so natural to him, that she had to blink. "Being here, talking to you; it's easy." Candid blue looked her up and down. "I've never felt that before. Since I came back- before I came back," he emphasised, "I've had to plan every step, watch every word I say. I've tried doing that with you." His head moved side to side. "I can't. It doesn't work." And he looked happily thrown by that. "It doesn't seem to matter either. But with everyone else around me, it's second nature." To premediate, to lie, to sell a face. "I have to do it: for them and for me. And every single moment is more difficult than the one before."

"Everything that used to be easy is so hard now." She paraphrased him and his expression momentarily blanked. "You said that today." I know I'm weird.

Soft blinks punctuated the fog. "I did."

"It's okay to feel that way, you know." Another sip because she could almost guarantee where this conversation was about to go.

"…Yeah." As if he didn't deserve to feel bad about it, his eyes flickered briefly down and away from her.

"It is." She pressed.

Jaw flexing, he sucked in a breath and managed to see her side on.

"What's the most difficult part for you after coming home? If you don't mind me asking." She quickly added because, how intrusive can I get?

But they - he, because there was no 'they' - had to start somewhere.

"I wouldn't know where to start." Would he always look so lost?

"Start with what you've been avoiding." So open and innocuous, he glanced at her and she couldn't help but smile at him. "Admit it; your brain went somewhere."

Thinking about it, he looked like he'd rather bite down on his own tongue. "It… did."

And her heart went out for him: for all the things that should have been easy – that others should have made easy – but weren't. "You really don't have to talk about it, Oliver."

"I want to talk." To talk in general or to about what was making life so hard after being home less than two weeks. It took looking at her for one, two, three seconds before he found whatever words he was searching for and pulled his gaze back to his glass. Then he inhaled half of it in one go and, ouch. "That really is good."

As was the new husky quality to his voice, oh boy. "It ought to be." It cost way too much for her salary.

Bracing - it looked like he was bracing - he put the glass back down. "You know," she'd honestly never heard of a voice as deep and as smooth as his without it sounding drug induced, "maybe I haven't been avoiding anyone."

She hummed. "I never said who; I said what. Yes, Mr Queen," she smiled; teeth tugging on her lower lip, "I fight dirty."

With claws and fists and feet and intelligence, as well as words.

"You did." He inclined his head. "You have claws."

It was ridiculous how that shot through her, as if she'd been revealed and-

That rare, unexpected smile appeared on his face, oh- he was just repeating what I said and-

He'd remembered what she'd said. Since when does anyone ever remember the things I say?

"I think," he started, startling her before closing his eyes. "Laurel Lance. She's the one I saw when you asked."

And yep. It was going to go exactly where she thought it would.

The way his voice cupped the name too: she was precious to him. He still cared about her. Lucky woman, she thought; remembering the way Miss Lance looked the other night, the way her gorgeous brown locks blew in the wind, the way adrenaline made her eyes sparkle. Physically, she was stunning.

Emotionally she was trouble, but there nothing Felicity could say. It isn't as if I'm not just as much trouble. And it isn't as if he can be excluded either.

The strange thing though?

After he spoke aloud the name of the woman who'd started to become mildly vexing to the Watchman, ahem, his eyes opened and they swiftly - furtively - shot to her, before dodging again.

Uncomfortable.

Unsure.

…Curious.

Was he checking my reaction? "So, you've been avoiding your ex-girlfriend?"

"Not technically: I wouldn't call it avoidance."

"Then what would you call it?"

"I…" He exhaled. "I haven't really talked to her yet. Not the way I need to." It was very frank; the way he spoke. Was it because his feelings were rooted too deep or not deep enough? Was he simply troubled or did he feel ashamed? "I don't know what to say to her beyond what's already been said."

Ashamed of talking about this to Felicity, a stranger.

A new… friend?

"I'm guessing," she attempted slowly, putting her weight on her arms as she leaned a little on the table, "that we're talking about someone special to you here? Someone more special," she corrected herself, "I mean; not all ex-girlfriends warrant that title."

Felicity Smoak wasn't someone who spent half her time digging where she wasn't wanted, oh no, and couldn't possibly know the name of anyone in Oliver Queen's social circle…

The deadpan – bizarrely entertaining – expression he threw at her when his head lifted, told her that maybe he saw her a little more clearly than she thought. "You could say that."

Head tilting, blonde locks trickled down the side of her throat "How special is special?"

Could a torch still burn after five years of space, no matter how brightly lit it once was? How bright could bright be when he'd cheated, when Miss Lance did see?

It has nothing to do with me.

Except, maybe it could because Oliver was talking to her about it and-

"Special." Ah. "I didn't deserve her when I had her, and now there's nothing I can ever say to make what I did right."

"But you're going to try anyway?" She guessed.

"I wouldn't know how."

Guess, correct. It was bad news for him. "That's because… you can't."

It wasn't that she was trying to hurt him, but this could turn messy. There was nothing he could ever do to make up for cheating on his girlfriend with her sister. He'd clearly changed since the days of college football, beer, loose girls and no ambition, but that wouldn't mean a thing to the women who'd known him from that time.

It was a sad situation: what he really wanted, was for one person he'd known from before to be accepting of the changes in him. They didn't have to be proud or delighted. Just accepting. The problem with that, was that Oliver clearly didn't think they were ready. He didn't think he himself was ready. So he'd closed himself off from them, even though he wished for it.

It was something in the way he spoke about himself, the way he took in his surroundings, the way he'd spoken today. To not have to hide behind the masks he'd painted on himself, even as he needed them. To not have Felicity Smoak – some random IT tech guru – sit with him and tell him that it doesn't matter if he found God on his five-year voyage from home. It didn't matter if he saw Jesus.

Laurel Lance will never be able to forgive him.

Which was why she spoke again. "It sounds like you want her to listen to you, to hear you out. To see that you're not necessarily the same man who… did what you did." The whisky had placed a slightly lower lilt to her voice and maybe that was why he didn't blink; especially after he hadn't been able to look her in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time until now. "I get it, but I've got to warn you; women generally don't forgive after they're scorned by the men they love - I'm guessing that she loved you?"

Swallowing dryly, he nodded. Again, the shame was abundant.

"That just makes it worse." She said. "Especially if siblings are involved."

He winced, "I know," talking to his knees. "How did you?"

"It's only everywhere. Really," she confessed, trying to laugh as she pointed at her television, "pick a channel, cycle back to that first night you returned and it's all there."

LIE.

It was there, but not to the degree he worried about. She was relying on the fact that she figured he wouldn't go looking-

"While that's… bad," the way he said it - the exacerbated drag of the word and the pause - told her he thought 'bad' didn't cut it, "that isn't the worst of it." With bated breath, she waited for the bad. "I brought her sister with me onto the Queen's Gambit." Oh. Knew that. I mean it's very bad but it isn't- "She died because of my selfishness."

-it isn't what he thinks it is, clearly. She frowned at him. "The much talked about Sara Lance." And how did Miss I like to pretend I'm the only DA - when I'm not trying to be a cop - in the city when I'm not even a DA Lance feel about having her boyfriend's infidelity splashed across every channel since his return home? How did Oliver feel? "I think you'll find," careful, "that she was a human being with a mind of her own and made the choice to go with you," slow and easy does it, "thereby betraying her sister." The only difference was that Sara Lance wasn't here to face the music with him. He was taking the brunt for two. "It's sad. It's tragic. But it's not your fault."

Losing her, losing his father: neither were his fault.

How did the Queen's Gambit sink anyway?

"Sad doesn't feel like the right word for it." He whispered: The strong, solid mask cracked.

"It's sad," she tried again, "because you've had to carry that with you." All alone.

Peering over into those deepening cobalt's - the ones that tried and failed to shy away from her - her empathy was something she couldn't mask.

He licked his lips. "It was my fault."

The fact that he hadn't brought up his father verbally told a story too. One that went far deeper than this.

"I think you will always feel like that, in some way. Know why?" As though hypnotised - and feeling every ounce of the disgrace that was lining the downturn of his mouth and the curved set of his shoulders - he shook his head. "You think that you should have died." She stated. "And she should have lived." Survivors guilt. "Which doesn't get anyone anywhere. We don't get to decide who lives and who dies."

Not technically. Sometimes, people crafted a fate of their own; fair or not.

It was diverting how those pretty, pretty eyes sharpened - pupil's dilating as he stared at her - and Oliver didn't say a word. Didn't break their held gaze but also didn't try to speak. Was it something I said?

And…

It was odd. And odd sensation. She was used to staring down the kind of criminal scum that could make her forgo ice cream at the end of a long night or the kind of poverty-stricken soul that has little to no other choice but to break laws that made her want to weep in sympathy. But she was used to doing so behind a mask.

Here and now, she'd never been looked at so thoroughly before.

Not even by Ted.

"Don't you think I earned it?" The right to feel like he didn't deserve life and really, what a question to ask. Cross-legged, leaning on the table as she had, his ability to look at her and not blink was uncanny. "Don't you think I should carry that?"

"God, no." And why did everything feel like a test with him? "But I think that," right now, "it's normal for you to feel this way."

A humourless smile made the hair on the back of her neck rise. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes." Her definitive tone made it fall. "I think what matters more here is what you can't give up yet."

Nonplussed, it moved over him. "What do you mean?"

She opened her mouth… and closed it. "Um," crap, "I don't think I should continue."

It cleared through his concentration on her face, her voice. "Why?"

"It's personal territory," she smiled the smile of the foot in mouth syndrome, oops I did it again, "and I just overstepped big time."

He straightened as she pulled back, looking forlorn already at what she hadn't said. "How?" A hand lifted out to her, "I promise that you didn't," he searched for the right thing to say, "hurt my feelings." And even laughed at them, as if the idea was ludicrous.

Which meant, he really wanted to know her opinion. Irrationally. "There are some things that people," that you, "aren't ready to hear."

Placing a hand behind him, Oliver pushed himself as close to the table as he possibly could. Closer to her. "How will I know that unless someone tells me?" Head tilting in that very effective way of his, she admired quickly the way his Henley revealed just a tiny slip of his shoulder at the move- I'm ridiculous. "Please. Don't stop being honest with me."

Like, not after you've been so incredibly honest up till now and yikes. She had, hadn't she?

But it begged a question. "Why do you need me to be?"

It must have hit him somewhere, with the way Oliver's lashes fluttered; the way his mouth open and closed and didn't answer. The way vulnerability echoed through him and for a man his size, it was potent.

She wouldn't tell him that a person is supposed to know what they aren't ready to face yet: that would make him insecure and she couldn't bear doing that any more than she already had.

It was painfully obvious that while he was incredibly sharp, observant and fathoms deep, he was also naïve for a man who'd suffered so much.

A damaged man.

A forgivable innocence. "Tonight- I mean, technically it was last night and now it's early morning- never mind." A little head shake brought her back on track and once again it was nearly overwhelming that her tangents didn't unnerve or put him off talking to her. In fact, he looked grateful again for intercepting his silence and not making a big deal out of it. No pressure. "I asked why you were trying so hard to please other people, because the only way to do so was to lie to them." Looking him in the eye she watched the memory register, the way he didn't look away but had to tighten his control over the muscles in his face. That 'nothingness'. That guard. The pretence. She only knew what it felt like because, been there; done that. It was a defence mechanism and he had every right to his. "And you tried to scare me off."

"I don't think I managed." It was clear that he'd said the first words that came into his head.

"Your heart wasn't in it." Just like it wasn't in that answer.

He just looked to and from both her eyes.

"But you are trying, aren't you?" She pressed on. "To rectify what was broken? You know you can't, but you want to do it anyway."

Finally, he responded on the tail end of a breath. "In a perfect world."

He'd dreamed of it, hadn't he? Of a perfect him, making all the right choices; knowing that it could never be and still hoping even as he told himself, you can't have that.

A paradox of his own making.

"It's like running into a wall on repeat." And she couldn't help but feel the things he made her feel; this imperfect man she'd spoken to a handful of times after he'd slept at her house. "It makes me wonder whether you're just tempted by the idea of an irredeemable sin," why did the word sin feel like a taboo between them, "because there's something inside you," she absently wondered at, unaware of the danger as her curiosity spiralled, "that you don't want to ever face because it terrifies you to death."

Annnnnnd being shot out of a canon would have been less traumatic.

He didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Didn't react except to freeze, completely. Gaze on her. Eyes, ice.

It wasn't conventional anger. It wasn't hot, wasn't a volcanic eruption waiting to happen.

It was a cold, fathoms deep, cavernous wound that he'd kill to keep secret. The look on his face reminded her of the night she'd found him at the entrance to her bedroom.

Holding a knife.

"I'm sorry." Pulse quivering, the sheer inadequacy of that made her hand come up to cover her mouth. "That was way out of line. I mean," an odd burn started at her chest, "I said this was overstepping- you remember that I said that, right?" He didn't say anything, didn't move- oh crap-a-doodle. "And it's official." The weak smile on her face, half hidden, did absolutely nothing for either of them. Her eyes fluttered away, elbows sliding back. "I certainly know how to make a moment awkward." More awkward. Her awareness had always been exemplary, and she could tell: he'd turned to stone, emotionally drawing inwards and having felt his attention on her so acutely, the difference left her feeling very cold. "Kay." Pausing only to inhale what was left of her drink, she spoke on the edge of the pleasant after burn. "I really wouldn't be surprised if you did but, please don't leave." The words rushed out of her, contrition coating every single one. "I can be too blunt for my own good: please let me make this right-"

"Felicity." Just that. Just her name. "You…" The pause stretched – his mouth opening, thoughts hanging there – until he seemed to give up. Then he reached for his own whisky, throwing it down the hatch like it was water and he was a desert, but his subsequent husky rumble told less of the alcohol and more of the images she'd made him face. "You were right: I wasn't ready to talk about it."

Not. Good. He barely moved a facial muscle. Emotions and secrets locked away once more. He'd closed up the shop.

God. She'd known better. Just because he'd said he was okay talking about it, didn't mean he was. Just because he thought he was stronger than this, didn't make it right.

He got to decide what he was ready for and what he wasn't, not her. "I had no right to go there."

When he looked at her, she had to flinch. It was rawness. Just rawness. "I asked." And he was clearly regretting it.

"I didn't hold back." I could have. Should have.

He didn't respond to that, but if he continued looking at her like that-

"Do you want to leave?" Even to her own ears she sounded small; but his silence was exacerbating everything. She'd never been good with silence; even if this was both earned and nowhere near as uncomfortable as it should be. "I won't be offended if you do."

It took him a minute to answer. Seriously, a full minute: it almost sent her into a fit of nervous babbling and Oliver hadn't truly seen her nervous babble. It was otherworldly. "You're very understanding." He murmured and- wait, what? "I wanted to talk about this." His brow line shifted. "I thought I could."

With every second she felt worse. "You don't always know the things you're not ready for." Not until you're forced to face them. "I knew that."

"I wanted you to say what you said Felicity, I just wasn't ready to hear it."

And the smile he forced onto his face, destroyed his few and far between other smiles.

It was so agonisingly hopeful in a way that told her Oliver had hoped he could be like everyone else one day. Unbroken. And more; impossibly so. Without sin. And it felt unbearably hopeless too: whatever his reasons, Oliver both hated the way he was and needed it. And he knew it. He knew that no matter what was good or bad for him, it would come second to what he needed and what he needed was to continue being unnatural.

Unhealthy or not, he'd choose a lie every time. Whatever it is.

That smile was for her.

She could only look at it.

Abruptly, his gaze drifted over her apartment again - it was as if every look revealed something new - and he was clearly using it to avoid her now, ironically given his next words. "I'm sure Laurel won't see it that way." The woman he'd been avoiding.

And we're changing the subject. Or going back to the subject. She could understand that. "Then she's never going to," she forced herself to relax, "even if it seems like she is." Way to kick a man, Felicity. But again, he'd asked, and he didn't break his ever-unblinking stare so she took it as a sign that she could continue. He was surprisingly not angry about her stance on his ex. "If she hasn't moved past that after five years of your absence, she's definitely not going to now that you're around as a constant reminder." Of what you did.

"So," the word was drawn out; his fingers tracing around his glass, his eyes following the movement, freeing her, "you're saying I should stay away from her?"

Whoa. Hold the horses. "No. That would take from the closure you both might need." Deserve. "But it would be the easy thing."

"Just not the right one." Dry toned, he knew exactly what her point was.

Taking him in, she cut to the chase; this could go on all night. "Do you want her back, Oliver?"

Do you want back the woman you cheated on?

And he looked so incredibly uneasy, so thrown, at that question he finally blinked: looking at her full on once more. "It's not that easy."

"Actually," her expression was as compassionate as she could make it because even if he wasn't ready to face this yet, he needed to see this - both for himself and for Laurel Lance, "it kind of is." You either want her or you don't. "I'm not asking whether you love her- did you love her?"

Where did that come from? The fastest turnaround she'd performed as of late and she had no idea why. She truly didn't.

Eyes side-lining, he asked, "Who?"

Like what?

Staring; she half-frowned, half-squinted. "Laurel Lance, Oliver." Who else?

After being so still and solid as a rock, it was almost absurd when he started fidgeting; Mr Tall, Brooding and Incredibly Hot affected a schoolboy look of knowing exactly what was being asked of him, but not wanting to answer. "Why?"

"If it's that hard to say Oliver, it's either because you shouldn't love her but do, or you should love her but don't and the guilt is stepping in for the love." Again, that caught in the headlights look. "So much time has passed since then. You need to decide whether it's love that you feel for her and not something else-"

"I do." He breathed, speaking quickly. "She's like my family and I love my family. And Laurel… we were close friends before we dated. We changed when we became a couple."

That wasn't an answer. "Okay."

"What?" It was like he wasn't sure he wanted to hear her answer but unable to help himself and, isn't that usually my thing?

"I just…" she shrugged, aiming for flippant and feeling uncomfortable with herself that she had to. "I mean, I assume that the reason people cheat on the ones they're with but say they love, is because there's something wrong with the relationship or they're… basically, cowardly jerks."

Self-deprecating though it may be, his responding smile - more a slight curving of his mouth - helped her relax. "I was a cowardly jerk." He agreed.

She felt it everywhere and she was sure Laurel Lance would too. "Wow." She mouthed at him, and those eyes flickered to her lips. "Do you know how rare it is to find a guy who can admit that about themselves?" She whispered, fake-conspiratorially. Genuinely appreciative.

And it was the oddest thing, the way he looked back at her then. "How can you smile at me like that?"

Blinking, she searched his face. "Uh, what?"

"You're smiling at me after I told you that I cheated on my girlfriend with her sister."

"Oh." It would make most people pause. "That."

"Yes, that tiny factoid."

The answer was easier than he wanted to hear. "People change Oliver. You changed."

It wasn't enough for him. "I'm not so sure." He told her: it was like he was trying to tell her something else too and she wasn't hearing him. "I'm still that guy."

I don't think you even know who 'that guy' is any more than you know what you are now. "People change." She reinforced. "It's the past that doesn't, no matter how hard you try; you can't alter what's already happened." And she knew that. God did she know that. "Being the best person, the best son, the greatest friend or the boyfriend who came home and made it up to the girl he hurt; it's a lie. It's just feeding the problem." Feeding an impetus. Creating another mask. "Your guard, your smiles, your façade: they'll only crack if you keep it up." Her eyes were beseeching; but that wasn't under her control.

"Then what do I do?" And he whispered like she'd whispered: like their conversation was too hazardous to voice aloud and- was it? "I can't just leave it as it is, and I can't be completely honest with her. I have to talk to her, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to say to make it right."

Stop trying to make it right and just say- "I think saying 'I'm sorry' would be a good place to start."

He shook his head. "I did that-"

"Then all you need to do, is figure out what you want now and whether it's the same as what you used to want. Don't be ashamed or shocked if you find that what you need isn't what you thought it was." Which was very possible. "Whether it leads to her isn't the issue either. You can't force yourself to be with someone just to fix a mistake: that'll hurt her more than you cheating on her ever did."

Like she'd slapped him, his face physically moved away from her in one jagged twist. "I care about her." But he sounded so lost once more, so caught up in his sordid past. "How could I do what I did?"

"We all make mistakes. Some of them are bigger than others." Break free of the mould. "But only you can answer that question." If he was ready. "What you did was wrong Oliver, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve forgiveness or good things now." Did he really think that? Even after five years being shipwrecked, did he think he still had to be punished? "Right and wrong and consequences: they don't work in terms of what's fair, or of numbers and time. And it doesn't mean you shouldn't acknowledge why you did what you did because you don't think you deserve that reflection." If only to stop it from happening again, although the idea of this Oliver being able to cheat on a girl wasn't an easy one to stomach.

Still, it felt like she was overloading him. Too much information.

"Does it matter why I did it?" It was the same mystified expression he'd worn before, but it was also a tad too controlled for her tastes. He really didn't want to delve. "I hurt more than one person and the results were as bad as they could be."

The lives lost, the sinking of a ship; they weren't- "Oliver, you can't possibly think it's your fault that your family's yacht sank?"

"It doesn't matter." He repeated, as if he didn't deserve to be seen, to receive compassion; but he wanted it. Yearned for it even, and simultaneously denied it for himself. "My reasons for going," for bringing his girlfriend's sister with him on a clandestine pleasure cruise, "were selfish."

"And you paid the ultimate price for it." Years of god only knew what hell he'd had to live as a punishment for infidelity, was too high a penalty. Un-fair.

As if he had no idea how to comprehend that, he murmured. "You really think that." It wasn't a question. "You think I've paid." He moved his head, "it'll never be enough."

There was no way for her to read the barely audible way he said that. "Oliver," I don't understand, and it made her draw a little closer, "what are you carrying that makes this so hard for you?"

A fixed smile made him look like a caricature of the man she'd spoken to earlier in the evening. "I'm not carrying anything."

She managed not to reveal how she knew it was his worst lie yet. This will be a long road for you won't it? Hair falling down the back her neck and inching towards the table, it took both everything she had and nothing at all for her to reach out and take a step; for her fingers to hesitantly touch the back of his hand… and linger as the touch zinged up her arm, stilling her. She liked his hands: they were large but not obscene and attractive to look at. Just like the rest of him. Didn't think I'd be touching him like this. "Okay." You don't have to talk about it. "Then there's nothing."

If it makes you feel at ease, then there's nothing to discuss.

Whether he heard what she wasn't saying or saw it in her expression, she couldn't say: the entirety of Oliver's attention was absorbed by her fingers on his hand. He could have been looking at them in wonder or wanting her touch gone. His gaze didn't falter.

His gaze was bottomless.

"I-" Right. She had to move. And the way she did that - sliding back away from him, feeling the warmth seep into her skin and taking it with her - was sublime. Smooth. Like she'd always been aiming for the screw driver. "It sounds like what you want the most is to be forgiven."

Unhurried, his head lifted; his stare traveling from her hand to her. Mouth closed, neck flexing; Oliver's eyes said everything he couldn't.

This wasn't about being in love for him: it was about clemency. And she was trespassing on a history he didn't want her to see.

Whether he realised that or not, she did have a feeling that Oliver… did he know the difference between love and romantic love? Compassion wasn't a substitute. Repentance wasn't a reason.

Or maybe he did know and maybe he wanted to fix it because being stranded had already taught him what he needed to live a full life, with the woman he loved. He just needed time first.

He just needed someone to tell him the truth.

"Being the boyfriend you weren't before, won't put a plaster over it." Try Felicity. Smiling softly, because though she couldn't read the indecipherable intensions on his face, she still guessed that she was hitting pretty close to the truth. "It just makes people distrustful later." Makes them wait for the inevitable repeat betrayal. "Don't try to fix memories or people by being someone you no longer are or never were. Hearts are broken that way." Your own, and she had a feeling it had already been hacked at and torn and was hanging together by a thread now when all he wanted was to make his world a little better. "If you want to be with her and that's what's driving you, then great; but you can't want to be with her for her forgiveness. And if you do want to be with her," she continued over his silence, "you'll have to show her who Oliver Queen is now, otherwise; it'll never work."

As if she'd hit a nail, he looked like he had no idea how to process any of that. "…Oh." Licking his lips, he cleared his throat. Looked away. "Right."

He looked away because his eyes had started to shine.

"You're right." He nodded to himself, blinking once, twice. "Of course, you're right."

Her eyes closed.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "I asked." Garbled. Affected. Turned about. Hurt. Pick one: she heard them all in his voice.

There was a very good chance that she'd just blown this budding friendship of sorts. It wouldn't be the first time. "Since I've already run my big mouth over this-"

"Felicity."

"-Can I add one more thing?"

He sighed, ouch, and she opened her eyes; catching that he looked sorry too. "Yeah."

"Tell her something true." There was no puzzlement this time: he knew exactly what she was saying. "Just one thing. Or tell her why. Tell her what she needs to hear to move on from you if she hasn't already or tell her that you love her if that's the truth; even if you feel like you can't be with her right now. Even if she doesn't love you back, because she deserves to hear it. Or tell her nothing at all. But don't tell her you love her, if the love you feel isn't romantic." It was the kind of thing that could kill someone, dishonest love. "If it isn't hopeful for more." Completely silent, his eyes followed her words, the minute changes in her expression and slowly started to frown at it all. "It's flirting." How does one describe the intricacies of romantic love to a man who should already know? "It's intimacy, need and a powerful desire to connect emotionally." I miss that. "It's feeling their absence, it's finding them inside you, it's home in a person and trust and sex. And if Laurel Lance has anything about her," she spoke a little faster because with every word spoken, he changed: his eyes changed, as if she was physically touching him, "she'll see how much your honesty is worth and she'll be thankful for it. If she's moved on, she won't even be angry. She won't feel anything but closure. If she's still in love with you, she'll need to look inside herself and see if there's a chance there that has nothing to do with fixing the past and nothing to do with what you're both feeling in the moment." When chemicals make reunion sex sound like a really good idea, until you wake up later and realise it'll never work. "She'll know if she has it in her to trust you enough to try if you want to do the same. She'll wait. She'll let you take the time to convince her. But being with her absolutely cannot be about forgiveness." You can separate the two.

You can move on.

She didn't know what she expected. To be told where to go, maybe; but it definitely wasn't-

"How do you understand- how do you see," eyes narrowing, the bridge of his nose creased as he whispered, "so much?"

That.

Sucking in a breath - she hadn't said a word about herself, but she still felt like she'd revealed a lot - Felicity felt uncomfortable for the first time that evening. Shifting, shucking off an errant lock of hair, she gave the bare minimum. "I have secrets too."

An arched brow asked for more. "I thought you might."

Her eyes lifted to his. "Why?" Was I that obvious? What had he seen?

"Takes one to know one… right?"

Sneaky.

Another dare? "I went through my own… crucible. Odyssey?" Sounds a little too grandiose. "Call it one or the other, I went through something." Her fingers tip toed over the table. "I figured a few things out along the way because of it."

"A crucible?" As quiet as the short question was, it was the first time during the entirety of their conversation that Oliver looked completelyabsorbed. Immersed. Sold. All in. With a capitol I and everything.

She pressed her lips together. Nu uh.

Like he was trying to push without pushing, Oliver spoke very carefully and unhurriedly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nope." Lips popping, she smiled a closed smile.

The wall she'd thrown at him and the way she continued to smile, threw him. "Are… you sure?"

"Really sure. It's not a fun conversation," not exactly, "I mean, unless you're asking-"

"I'm asking."

Fast.

"…Do you even know what it is you're asking?"

The furrow of inquisitive confusion - of intrigue and bewilderment – made him open his mouth-

Hand lifting without telling it to, her fingers hovered over his lips and he froze.

"I don't think you're ready to know the answer yet." She told him.

It felt surreal that they'd been talking about another woman just moments ago when he was so focused now, on her.

The warmth of his breath made her fingers twitch.

And when his brow-line smoothed out and deepening blue irises chose not to follow her hand as it lowered in favour of keeping her eyes, the air between them filled. As in filled. Thickened. Something heavy, and static and needy coating them both.

Something that tugged at her gut.

Lonely. She knew he was lonely - could see it written on him like a second skin - but so was she. Well acquainted, loneliness and I. And sometimes, she gave in.

But she couldn't give in here and now, not with him. Not with this connection. Especially not for surface stuff.

She was too complicated, even for a man with PTSD.

Rattled, she reached for his glass, then hers and quickly rose from the floor. "You want another?" She asked in lieu of… of anything else to say.

It didn't help that he followed her up and it was like she was on an elevator in motion with the way her stomach rippled with his movement until he was standing tall - standing right there. "No." Was it better or worse that his eyes refused to budge from her face? "Thank you."

Throat dry, "Mm hm," she moved towards her kitchen.

Once she was past him, she allowed her eyes to widen. That… that has never happened before.

Pure chemistry.

Is that normal? It certainly wasn't for her. They both had issues enough to fill a zeppelin. And now, apparently - possibly, it's only possibly - enough tension to keep it afloat too. It was the first time she'd fully realised that between them - the potential - and she wondered if he did too.

"I'm…" she heard him softly begin and it made her hips tingle, "going to go."

I made it weird! Spinning around, she near-squeaked the words at him. "You don't want to stay this time?"

What was she trying to invite here? Am I trying to make this worse or better? Who can say. She did both at the same time most days.

Almost indolent in the way he walked, he made his way around the table and towards her. "No." Hands sipping into his back pockets, he couldn't have looked more unsure. Or more like he'd stepped off a photo shoot. "I've already overstayed my welcome."

"I promise you haven't."

He just levelled her with a look. "It wouldn't be a good idea. Right now. To stay."

"Usually it's me speaking in sentence fragments." What did that even- wait. "It… wouldn't be?"

A good idea.

Parts of her thought it was a very good idea: him staying the night, them talking some more… him showering, those sweatpants-

The rest of her knew better: it was asking for trouble. There was every chance she'd read Oliver wrong here: he was a very attractive man who oozed charm and the kind of pheromones that made helpless women drop their panties with a smile as they waved goodbye to their self-control. It could all be in her head, despite what she felt. She did not need an unrequited something to begin here; not on top of everything else.

He hummed an affirmative. "Mm hm."

Was that a no? It could have been a yes. The bridge of her nose creased. "You sure?"

Staring at her, he deliberated a moment. "…No."

Oh.

Wow.

He sounded torn… but also kind of like a child.

It made a breathy, surprised giggle leave her; clearing some of the awkwardness.

"There are people I need to talk to." Shy and slightly less composed than before, Oliver bowed his head a little. "People I've been avoiding." Pointed or not, he didn't sound wearisome of the reminder. More, rueful. "I didn't do a very good job of… reconnecting, not when I came home."

"Anyone in particular?"

"My sister."

Huh. "Not… Laurel Lance?"

He looked her dead in the eye before twisting head just so; a no. "My sister comes first."

He was just so… Oliver Queen - recent returnee, rich man to her poor man; a man of many faces so preoccupied with paying for sins he'd already paid for - was more concerned for his sister, than for a woman who could give him sex. A rare breed.

It further softened her, and she hadn't needed any help to do that. "That sounds really nice."

Eyes flitching from her face to her kitchen, to the side, where her living was spread in that wide but warm area, his head moving with his eyes - what is he doing? - Oliver's gaze landed back on her. "No siblings?"

"No."

A troubled pause followed her simple response. "…I see."

What? "I've seen enough to know that complicated and family tend to go hand in hand."

"It can." He answered, low toned; looking at her in that way and making her feel like she'd missed a thing or two. Again. Which was abnormal. Then again, she didn't exactly grow up inside a nuclear family. Maybe that was it. "A lot of time has gone by and we've both changed: I'm still trying to reconcile the twelve-year-old I saw last with the 17 year old who threw herself into my arms when I came home."

That must have turned him about. "That must be hard."

"I… expected it to be. Just not this much." Voice a little gruff, he added. "I missed her. But there's space between us now and," feet shuffling, another hard thing for him to admit and she prayed right there that, one day; there'd be something that made up for all the harshness of his life. "I inadvertently made her think that who she's become isn't good enough. I need to rectify that."

"I would say you do. For both your sakes. Fix-it number one?" She asked, not unkindly.

Nodding, "this one needs special attention," he paused as if debating how much to say. "I'm not sure I have it in me to give it to her just now."

"For what it's worth," she tried because he was starting to get that look again of the lost man in a woodland filled with foreign things, "it wouldn't be so hard if love wasn't there."

He didn't smile but he didn't look away as he segued right into part three of his conundrum (Laurel Lance, Thea and now-) "Do you remember what my mother brought up before?"

Moira Queen. Three for three. A heavy list. "Um," she straightened her glasses, "the part about the dedication on Saturday?" Let's go with that because there are so many parts; so little time and-

"Yeah." His next breath came hissing through his teeth. "It's not a good idea."

Ah. So that was the problem. "In what way?" She already knew exactly what he meant by that, indulge me.

Nonplussed is thy name. "My mother wants me to join the company…" He repeated, clearly, to make sure she got the point…

Then he waited for that to happen.

And when it didn't-

"She wants you on the board of senior management." Nodding, "yup," her lips popped the P with a smile.

"You…" his eyes side-lined and she decided she kind of liked confusing him, "you don't think that's a terrible idea?"

"It's definitely not how I'd put it. I think you could be Master of the Universe if you wanted," eyebrows rising, he seemed kind of speechless at that, "which, I don't think you do?" She guessed, because that was the point.

Like anyone else, he could be anything; if he wanted to be.

His chest expanded and contracted. "No." Shifting on the spot, his hands didn't leave his back pockets. "I never wanted a position at Queen Consolidated."

"The girls at the office will be heartbroken." Trying for a little tease, for a little levity; her smile took an impish turn. "You were all they could talk about today."

Taking that in, he fixed her with a look. "Does… that include you?"

"Oh, I am distraught that I won't be receiving those 9pm calls: Miss Smoak," she deepened her voice which, after years of practice wasn't difficult to do and his little jump in expression - the surprise and very brief delight that flashed in his eyes - made it worth doing, "I spilled my latte on this laptop and my next stockholder presentation is tomorrow."

It was a real treat to see the way his face involuntarily lit up, the way it made his gaze brighten with a very evocative gleam, which wasn't logical or helpful because Oliver didn't- wasn't supposed to look at her like that. Ever. "You're making me want to reconsider."

404 brain error.

Reconsider taking a place at his father's company or… staying the night?

Her throat was suddenly very dry. Derail. Desist. Disengage! "All for the joy of seeing me rush up twenty floors every night to your office, to get on my knees and-"

And fix your computer. She was supposed to say and fix your computer but as her sewage filled brain caught up with her, it made her stop- fracking frack! Made her eyes close against the choked sound he made, right after the 'brain is still processing' look he'd adopted. Oh, dear god.

He had to clear his throat. "That… that really didn't make me want to reconsider less."

The shock of it made her burst out laughing. "Oliver." Bent over the kitchen island, she was sure she snorted into the wood.

"I'm sorry." Low and husky, he meant it. But she heard it too: he was enjoying himself.

It made her peer up at him with one eye open. "Can we pretend I didn't say that?"

"Ah, no. Can't." He added, totally straight faced. "That's staying with me."

It made her flush: she felt the heat of it rising from her chest already. "You're just going to let me… live with that. Good." Clicking her fingers, she almost reached for the bottle of whisky again. "That's great."

And wow, could he smile. What a difference it made. From aloof, alluring and perfectly sculptured Adonis to viscerally, dangerously hot and pleasurable to behold. It was as brief as all the others, but its echo carried through his voice as he, thankfully, swerved right back on track. Adept at cutting corners, good to know. "I have plans." He finally got out and it was much softer than what he'd intended, she was sure. "None of those involve board meetings and my mother," he inhaled, "she isn't taking no for an answer."

Again, the rub. He'd come home and the slack was nowhere in sight. Expectations on top of promises, broken dreams and dead men.

Put your big girl pants on, because she actually had an answer. "Then tell her at the dedication. When you make your speech," and he looked sopsyched up for that, to be stood in front of a crowd who would be waiting for him to tell them only what they wanted to hear and nothing else, "you state, very clearly, exactly what you need her to hear. Don't even make it about you. Make it about the good of the company. Make it about your father's legacy and I mean, who knows? One day, years from now, you might want a seat at that table; so, don't close off your avenues prematurely. But um, yes; tell her. It isn't the right time. That you're not ready. That you just came off an island and eating ice cream is literally all you can think about."

He still wore a slightly squinty, I don't know look; even as humour tinted everything she could see. "You think that'll work?"

"If it's in front of plenty of cameras, how could it not?" His mother would have to listen.

There was a second, a moment that stretched before he said something that made her rib cage tighten. "That's unexpectedly manipulative of you."

Tummy. Tuck. And. Roll. "I-it is? Why is it?"

It only hit her that normal people wouldn't ask why, after she'd spoken.

"It's just… I'm not use to it coming from-" looking her up and down, he abruptly quietened; taking a step back as if to stop himself from starting something he'd have to finish. "It's nothing."

Something dropped into her stomach and she had a feeling it was one of her layers. "People can surprise you." She didn't sound quite so certain anymore because, he isn't supposed to see me. And maybe he wouldn't have done if she'd stopped trying to reach him. "Maybe I'm not as nice as I seem."

Maybe you'll start thinking of me less. Maybe you'll go away.

It would be safer, for her. And for him; definitely for him.

Safer.

But not… better. Not that.

It scared her. He scared her.

Especially with the very frank way he looked at her now. It was intense in that he wasn't really revealing anything save a regard that was best left on the hottest shows currently developing on Netflix, sitting in her cue. The kind where a man looks at a woman and allows himself to feel… stuff.

"I don't think that's true at all." The expression on his face said, you have no idea what you are and that didn't make sense to her. "You're kind."

"I'm nosy. And strange."

"Form a line." And maybe she was developing an unhealthy obsession with his voice too, stop it. "I don't think you have a single bone in your body that isn't filled with compassion. Patience. Morality." That pause before the final word…

He was backing off. Again. For some unfathomable reason.

Something had changed, something she didn't understand; couldn't put her finger on it. When she'd opened the door, he'd been – closed off and unsure – but also wide open. He seemed more settled than before now, but also like he was leaving the building without physically moving a muscle. Pulling away.

Or maybe she was overthinking it.

"You brought me into your home that first night." He reminded her. "You didn't hesitate."

"Again, strange." It was weak reasoning and she knew it; he knew. She had no explanation for why she'd gone above and beyond. None at all.

And she had a feeling if she asked him why it felt like he was retreating, she'd just freak him out.

As if to support her reasoning, rather than argue about her strangeness, Oliver shuffled half-heartedly. "Anyway…"

"You have to go." Right.

"Yeah."

Forearms pressing into the island, she asked. "Need me to call you a cab?"

"No. I'm not tired and I feel like a walk."

A twenty mile walk back towards the mansion? After midnight? "It's twenty miles." She blurted out.

He just shrugged. "Yep."

Ugh. Infuriating. "Oliver, you should know I have this thing about mysteries." He quirked a brow at her. "They need to be solved."

The brow dropped and he blinked once.

But he didn't say a word.

And it was eerie how his set stare could still a room, could morph him, could bring the wolf out. The predator who'd stepped free of his shadows at the Queen Mansion when they'd first met.

When he'd decided to trust her just a bit.

"Twenty miles won't walk itself." Clearing her throat, she came from around her kitchenette. "Please be careful." Keys- where are my- ah! She palmed them out of her coat, where she'd left them "I don't want to get that 4am call from Walter Steel," she put the keys in the lock and twisted, "asking me whether I've seen his newly returned stepson…"

"Meow."

Blinking at the closed door, she sent a quick glance to Oliver who was looking down to the location of the noise; as if he could see through solid objects. "Well that answers that question." Pulling open the door, she stepped aside - milady needs space - and her voice dropped an octave as she sang down at the real queen of the house. "Hey Miss Kitty."

Staring up at them both with those big, pretty eyes; Felicity had the impression that her cat had been waiting there… for a while. Odd.

She also had the impression that she'd listened in to every single detail, because sometimes she did strange things like that too.

Those eyes settled on Oliver. "Mow."

Kind eyed and looking unusually intrigued by the sight of a cat – unless he was just pure mush inside and wanted to hug the moving fluff magnet – he breathed out a, "Hi."

'Miss Kitty' purred.

You have got to be…

Padding swiftly past their feet, her large Mau entered her apartment and simply… kept on moving. Well, a very early morning to you too. "I feel like a hotel service."

"I was wondering where she was." Taking a breath, hands now in his front pockets – does that mean anything at all? – and looking as out of place as he had when he'd first knocked on her door, Oliver took a moment for stating plainly and truthfully, "thank you. For tonight. For…" he exhaled. "For letting me in, despite the hour. And for every word since."

"Every word?" She joked at herself as she leant against her door. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes." Emphatically yes, if his tone was anything to go by. "This was… nice."

And for the first time, nice didn't sound like that word a person used when they didn't really care; when they aim for a compliment that falls flat to save face or another's feelings. It sounded like a word used because no other word felt enough.

"Goodnight." She said to him, smiling; silently offering a repeat performance.

With a wave of his hand, he was gone down the stairs to the front door of the building and-

He looks as good walking away as he does up front. Oliver Queen could wear a pair of jeans.

Frack.

---

SCPD, Saturday

"Martin Somers, the CEO of Starling Port was arrested yesterday for the attempted murder of Victor Nocenti and the acceptance of several million dollars in bribes…"

The TV monitor in the station would have normally carried his interest.

He wasn't scowling. He wasn't sulking.

He was pissed.

"I can't believe you lied to me." He mumbled for what felt like the fiftieth time in forty-eight hours, putting his so-called partner on edge. Good. "A year. You've been lying for a year."

"You think you could say that a little louder?" Airy and seemingly unaffected, Hilton jerked a thumb behind him as he squared his friend a look. "I think the tech guys at the back didn't hear you."

"Oh, so that's how you're going to be?" Brows raised high, he took in the growing nervousness Lucas was displaying and cared not one bit. "You've spent the last year pretending the law means something to you, lying to your partner all the while, but you care who hears?"

Said partner verbalised said edginess, his eyes darting around them. "Keep it down."

"Hey, I know how to keep a secret." Hands raised, brows high, Detected Lance gave no impression of thinking any of this was remotely funny or anything that wasn't a betrayal. "I wish it was any other secret. You realise you've dragged me into this right?" He gruffly pointed out; a finger jabbing at Hilton. "Being your partner means I'd be under suspicion too if this gets out and I'm not quite ready to destroy my career because my best friend lost his ever-loving mind." Eyes narrowing, he asked Hilton the question that had stayed with him throughout the night, through the last 24 hours. "Since when were you this naïve?"

And he didn't take it the way he'd hoped: he didn't get angry. "I wasn't naïve." Taking a breath and a quick look about them - three of the six squints who, Quentin had found, really weren't given enough to do, were helping their current psychoanalyst piece together a profile on the Watchman and the hooded man, Jesus; the city had two vigilantes - Hilton scooted closer to his desk, speaking directly to Lance. "There was no partnership," bunny fingers, "no trust: he just showed up-"

"And you didn't report it."

"What was there to report?"

Are you kidding me? "How about everything you saw; every nuance, every word? Or the fact that you took credit for a few cases you didn't do diddly-squat to close?"

Hilton cleared his throat. "What was important, was that the criminal was sentenced-"

"What was important," Quentin immediately and quietly corrected with a scowl, "was doing it the right way."

"We wouldn't have gotten those guys without him."

"That's not the point!" He lashed out.

"…Isn't it?"

Eyes squinting, head tilting, Detective Lance stared at him. "How can you say that?"

"Because there could have been more victims and the Watchman made sure there weren't. That's on us."

And there really was nothing Quentin could say to that. But he wouldn't give the other man the satisfaction of agreeing with him: what he did, what he'd done, was wrong, and now people like his daughter were starting to think that breaking the law was an permissible consequence and it wasn't, couldn't never be.

Right? I'm right!

Seeing that in him - his resolve - there was a look on Hilton's face that Quentin had observed far too much lately on other people's faces, but never Hilton's. It made him side-track. When had he missed that, this disillusionment in his best friend? How long had he missed it? Why had he missed it? "How many times were we stonewalled? How many times were we not given the funding or the manpower we needed and that came direct from the May oral's office." A man they'd known had criminal connections, as well as political. "You want to take the moral high ground? That's fine, but we were understaffed, underfunded-"

"We're still all those things!"

"And the Watchman did what we couldn't." Wouldn't, his brain had filled in for him. Dammit. "I didn't want to place my trust in a masked vigilante, I wanted to trust my precinct."

"Who says you can't?"

"Are you kidding me? Sargent Briars? Our boss who threw the case for Hunt and Somers at CNRI- at your daughter without telling you? Whoever stole those drugs? Are those the people you want me to trust?"

Shifting, uncomfortable and so angry that the words had grains of truth in them; Quentin bit out. "You can trust me."

"And I'll never stop trusting you. But… it's kind of impossible not to trust the Watchman either."

Don't I know it. As much as Quentin thought that depending on the vigilante was tantamount to ethical suicide, he knew that the Watchman wasn't an anarchist. But, "And how am I supposed to trust you now?"

Exhaling, Hilton sent him such a frank look that it had to be honest. "I've never done anything to compromise you personally, and I never would. He's not confiding in me, you know." He said after a pause. "I don't think he ever trusted me, and he certainly won't be coming to me from now on."

Curious despite knowing he shouldn't be, Quentin eyed him. "Why not?"

Half shrugging, Hiltons' voice dropped, and he looked down at his desk rather than at Quentin, which only made his partner more curious. "He thinks I deferred to higher authority because I can't handle what it might take to get the job done."

And there was another grain of truth.

Hilton had a kid, a child; not an adult like Laurel. He also had a wife, a mortgage and a lifestyle Quentin hadn't entertained in years. Ethics and morality came second to a pay check and his family's livelihood. He couldn't risk his job to be an unsung hero.

Still, he had to ask: "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," shoulders down, voice tight, Hilton continued to shuffle through the papers on his desk, "when push comes to shove, I'll choose a corrupt police force over doing whatever it takes to bring justice to a case."

Eyes rolling, "I don't believe that for a second," Quentin felt like laughing, though there was little humour to be had here. "So, I'm old fashioned. Doesn't mean that I don't know a good cop when I see one-"

"He wasn't wrong." The mutter silenced Quentin, who mentally wanted his friend to shut the hell up. "I'm a good cop, but there's a difference between being a good cop and going that extra mile." Abruptly, Hilton leaned over his desk, forcing Quentin to not only look him in the eye, but to truly hear what he was about to say. "The reason why I was willing to keep shut about the Watchman reaching out? He was willing to go the extra mile that I wasn't."

He was willing to get the job done, not only the right way; but at personal cost, because the cops, the positions, the lawyers in Star City? They weren't prepared. In fact, they were more likely to exacerbate the sickness in the city. Willing making it worse instead of better.

Making the Watchman a willing fall guy and-

"No." Shaking his head hard, once, Quentin spoke with thin lips and a flat tone; we can't be here already. It can't be this bad. "I'm not doing this: I'm not talking about making a vigilante necessary because the police are suddenly inept or too amoral to do their job."

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"Except, it kind of is, isn't it?" He'd known Hilton a long time: long enough to read between the lines. "You didn't tell me that the Watchman had reached out to you because deep down, you believe there's something wrong in this city and you don't believe we're doing our job to fight it." Which was an insult to the force and to them both. Worse, there was more than a simple grain of truth to it this time. "You believe that we're active participants to making it worse!"

For a moment Hilton simply looked at him: his gaze wasn't sad, it was melancholy. It was also resolute as he quietly spoke. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Mouth opening, "I-" the words hovered between them… the lie hovered between them. And, hesitating, his mouth eventually closed, and he slumped back in his seat. "Son of a bitch."

"Look, man," but Hilton didn't retract, "I believe in you, 100%. I trust you. But the rest of the guys," eyes searching past Quentin to the few people on the floor, to the desks in-between and the names on them, "I'm not sure who's a dirty cop or on a gangster's payroll. I don't know who our resident snitch is- hell, I had a drink with Briars last week." His hand whacked Quentin's arm. "You were there too."

Quentin grunted. "Yeah."

"My only point is that… things are changing. The Watchman? He appeared long enough ago that someone should have started asking why. No one did, and now people are freaking out about the increase in frequency of his involvement." Something Quentin wasn't loving. "And he's… skilled. How does someone get like that? How long does it take? We were so focused on taking him down that we missed everything else…"

There was a trail there: tiny specs of dust that were pricking Quentin's interest now. Where had Watchman trained? For how long would he have to? Would it be in the city?

Would be outside of the city?

Had the man behind that black mask even originated from Starling?

Why hadn't they wondered about this before?

"…And just to hit the nail on the head," Hilton as saying, "now there's another vigilante. I more aggressive one. In another year, will there be three of them? These guys aren't popping up for the hell of it, they're doing it because too many good people aren't getting the justice they deserve in this city."

"Alright, alright; I get it! Jesus." Mind still on over-drive, Quentin took a breath and gave Hilton a little stink eye. "You know he's going to show up again, don't you?"

"Not to me, he's not."

Eyes coming back to the table, Quentin exhaled. "Right." He could use that. If the Watchman appeared again-

"Someone turn that up!"

Jolting, Quentin scowled at the guys on the other side of the room but when he realised, they were all staring at TV mounted on the wall, it too took up his attention and-

Oh no.

Blaring across the bottom of the screen as a WEBTV news broadcaster talked - muted - at them all, was something to make his day, par for the course, ten times worse:

DRUGS STOLEN FROM INSIDE THE EVIDENCE LOCKER OF THE SCPD!

He didn't need to hear what was being said to understand what had happened.

Laurel.

Tell me you didn't. He prayed as one of the tech's turned up the sound. Tell me you-

"…only surmise that someone who works or had worked inside of the SCPD," Nick, the newsman reported, "removed the contraband from evidence before it could be filed, leading to the only possible conclusion available to us."

Don't say it-

"A cop."

Son of a-

"An officer of the law. Whilst this may be a shock to our audience, our source on the inside is even more so. Given the opportunity to remain anonymous, Miss Laurel Lance-"

Son of bitch!

"-Attorney at Law for CNRI – was determined to see justice done and gave us permission to use her name as she felt that the city needed to see that there are brave people willing to stand up for what is right. She isn't wrong. More news at 11am."

Dismay made his insides drop to the floor. Laurel, what have you done?

Put a target on her head for a start and…

Swallowing, taking a breath that wasn't steady - feeling real fear start to climb up his spine - it wasn't until he pulled his gaze from the screen that he noticed.

Every person in the room was staring at him. Some were glaring.

Hilton looked horrified. "Quentin…"

He didn't need him to say a word: his daughter had just smeared the name of the SCPD over the news for the city's judgement and there were still good men and women working in it. Not only that, he had a feeling she'd just made his job – as her father and as a cop who currently hadn't gotten to the bottom of who'd stolen the drugs – ten times harder.

Who wants to work with the father of a snitch?

This went far past distrust in the force, it went past a need to prove herself. What the hell were you thinking?!

---

"I was thinking," Laurel responded to one of Tommy's redundant questions with a serious amount of side-eye thrown in - for thinking he had the right to question any of her choices - though she was very sure she didn't have to tell him squat, "that I was doing the right thing."

And it had felt amazing.

The phone call to her contact inside of the news centre. Her interview with them. Giving them permission to use her name so that everyone in the city knew what side she was on, that she wasn't willing to bow her head and hide away from the ugliness in the city… it was thrilling.

It was a start.

This is just the beginning.

It wasn't simply positive representation for CNRI; this was a golden opportunity for her career, for her self-esteem and… it was a message.

To the Watchman.

I am here. I'll always be here. Fighting the good fight. Doing the right thing. Never giving up. And maybe one day, he'd come to her. He'd work withher. He'd see that she'd simply made a mistake with Emily Nocenti and her father and she'd acknowledged it; he'd see what she really meant to do.

Even if others, she thought as she heard Tommy sigh away his disapproval, never understand. Like she cared if they did. "What is it Tommy?"

Wearing his concern on his sleeve, I'll admit it; he's cuter this way, Tommy raised his hands and changed the subject, to a fashion. "Do you think your dad's seen it yet?"

As usual, Tommy had to bring up exactly what she was trying to avoid. "Possibly." Mock glaring at him - why can't I keep the glare up when it's aimed at him - she ground her jaw. "Maybe." Shifting on the spot, she moved to look at the podium they stood twenty feet from. "I'm trying to not to think about it."

About what her dad would do the moment he saw the news. Probably prepare another sanctimonious speech. Bring it. She was ready to hear how irresponsible she was and how dangerous it might be. How she was just one woman, one lawyer. He didn't know how prepared she was to accept the consequences.

But an angry phone call or an irate visit from him today or tomorrow was the last thing she wanted or needed. Or deserved. Not for revealing the truth, for doing the right thing. The public needed to know how the SCPD were failing their duty: she was doing what she had to.

No, today was for her to revel in success for a change and no one, not her father - not even Tommy, who was starting to overstep - could ruin it for her. It felt good to be audacious, to be courageous and outrageous and she knew the attention this could garner. She didn't care. This was, is, a good day.

To top it off-

"So," sliding next to her, hands in his jacket pocket, Tommy brought up the real reason he'd been sending her not-so-furtive glances for the last few minutes, "why are you here?"

You as in, out of everyone why is Laurel Lance at the dedication for the Robert Queen Memorial, which also happened to be the site for the new applied sciences division?

A worm of discomfort made her cheeks warm. "He asked me to come."

Oliver.

Calling her the night before, she'd almost put the phone down:

"Laurel, I'd like you to be there… A lot of time has passed, and I think now's the best time to show everyone the real me."

But something in his voice had made her pay attention. I have every right to follow my instincts. They'd never led her wrong and her instincts had told her that maybe she'd get a few answers if she accepted his invitation. It was another reason to… not to smile, I'm not smiling. But to feel something about it. Like, curiosity. I'm not even that, I'm not curious; I'm… expectant. It had been a long time coming.

She deserved all the answers and all the apologies, even though they'd never be enough.

"He did?" Tommy blinked, brows rising. "When?"

"Last night."

Those brows arched higher. "Last night?"

Feeling in charge and pretty good about herself, it just came out. "Why? Jealous?"

And maybe there was something in her tone, something different because Tommy blinked. Surprised. Interest peaked and- what am I doing?

"N-no-"

"Well, you were the one who gave him my number." Reminding him of that helped her remember why entertaining even a moment of intimacy between herself and Tommy wasn't a good idea. "Don't think you're getting away with that."

It all depended how the next hour went.

Mouth closing, "right," he cleared his throat. "I was just… wondering."

Sending him a raised brow of her own, she said. "Wondering, huh?"

"Well, you know I… we're old friends. All of us."

"So?"

"And, the past being what it was…"

"Tommy." Eyes rolling, her head a slanting a little with it, she re-directed her gaze away from him; uninterested in entertaining what he was insinuating. "Me and Oliver were over a long time ago." When he got my sister killed.

"No, I know that! It's just…"

"Just what?"

"…You were in love."

Something slid smoothly inside her, reaching down into her chest cavity to grasp her heart-

Stop it.

"Exactly." She forced out. "Were."

"And those feelings," he was swift, she gave him that, "were strong."

"Your point?" She asked pointedly because- drop it Tommy.

But he only sighed. "Look, I just… I don't want him to find out." About them the year before, not that it was any of Oliver's business. "Not like this. He's been through a lot."

At that, she felt herself harden to any affection she might have started to accept inside herself. "I think we've all been through a lot." How galling to even suggest that her cheating ex-boyfriend had been through the worst of them all.

You deserved every second of your time on that island. If he hadn't decided to cheat on her, it would never have happened and none of them would have suffered for it. Put that way, it really was all his fault. No hiding from it. In fact, if it had been up to her, he'd have been shipwrecked for tenyears. But no amount of hating him, no amount of time spent punishing him would bring her sister back. It grated that he could party away with Tommy, have dinner with his family and celebrate his father's memory like this when Sara was five years dead, and no one was celebrating her. Probably because people liked to remain silent about how her younger sister was played like that by the Queen heir but, it made her feel like they were brushing his culpability under the rug. It wasn't fair.

Him answering a few questions, she thought as she pressed down at her blazer - as she checked that the waves she'd crimped into her hair had kept in - and took in a breath, is the very least he could do.

He'd been selfish enough to stay away from her this long - to make her think he was avoiding her; the mark of a guilty conscience - she had every right to demand how her sister died, how he'd survived and why. Why he betrayed her five years ago when they'd had everything to live for together.

Did he still love her?

"Where is he, anyway?" Tommy muttered, frowning as he scanned the crowd. "Wasn't this thing supposed to start by now?"

"You know Ollie." She muttered, under her breath; surreptitiously searching with him. "Irresponsible to the last."

---

Robert Queen Memorial Applied Sciences Centre, 11am

So, she was a little bit late.

The fact that there'd been a cue on her floor to use the only functioning printer out of three - which she could thank Teresa for being exceptionally bad at handling all things electronic - hadn't helped and… well, her nerves had definitely given her a less than graceful moment of pause. During which I'd slipped into the bathroom to try and not hyperventilate down my non-existent paper bag.

She was being ridiculous.

Just find him, give him the thing and get the hell out of dodge.

Easier said than done.

It wasn't quite that she was this socially awkward: I am absolutely socially awkward. No, it was about the gesture. He hadn't asked her to do this… it's weird, right? It's totally weird.

She'd written him a speech, just in case he decided to show.

Ugh, who does that? Felicity Smoak, that's who. Why do I do this to myself? Normal people didn't do that; they didn't spend hours writing what she hoped were the perfect words for a very private man who hadn't asked for them.

But… they were becoming friends.

Stood on the pretty green field just south of the dedication, Felicity arched upwards on her tip-toes - as if that would help her find that dirty blonde hair, broad shoulders and a killer smile - biting down on her lip as she wondered whether it was too late. If he's already up there, I can hardly go butting in with his family to give him something he probably doesn't even need.

Well, she could. But I'm chicken, so no way in hell. Her boss was up there. Her bosses, bosses boss. All it would take is three empty seconds and verbal diarrhoea would ensue.

But she also didn't want to overstep and really, did it matter what he said to a crowd that would only hear what they wanted to hear? Walter wasted an email on me: her invitation from him - with his very own request for her to attend added to the bottom of it - sent to her the day before and it was probably that which made her consider doing this, because she never would have before it. Maybe.

Yet, if she was honest with herself; she did want to be here. For support. For him. To start a trend between them. The last thing he probably wanted was to stand in front of a crowd and try to please them. But she was also thinking the word 'probably' a lot. She was guessing, which was something she didn't like to do in general.

Looking at the growing throng about hundred metres in front of her, Felicity didn't question her own resolve. Once she decided to help someone, that was it. She didn't flip flop and she didn't make decisions lightly.

But she couldn't see him.

Maybe I should just go…

Except the universe either loved or hated her because, as she released a puff of air - cheeks poofing out - a sleek, black limousine-like car - I don't speak car and driver - that was twice the size of her car, pulled up against the sidewalk a little way to her left and the sheen caught her eye. Made her turn and look.

Just in time to see John Diggle already exiting the car and walking down the side; his hand reaching for the back, side door.

It opened before he could get there, revealing-

Oliver. A whip of excitement and a slow feeling of genuine pleasure at seeing that she hadn't missed him, made her smile. Made her take him.

He looked even better than he had Thursday night.

It's the blue. Or was it the suit. Or is it the blue suit in conjunction with the hair? The kind of short yet thick hair that didn't seem to need a proper comb through because the way it lay all on its own was oddly delectable. It wonderfully soft and grabbable- that's enough of that.

But he was a very attractive man, in case that wasn't evident already.

The thing is, she actually hadn't thought a wit about what she looked like when she'd left Queen Consolidated.

Ever since Mr Steel had commented on her shoes and, really, because she'd always wanted to; Felicity had slowly let her secret stash of shoes, dresses and hair care products seep into her every day wardrobe. A series of crappy bosses had made her design her daily wear to become more perfunctory rather than, well, anything but.

After neglecting her own sense of style for long enough, little pieces of herself seemed to be shining through and it felt good for that unattended-to piece of her reveal itself just a little bit.

Stood there, enjoying the faint breeze that carried the last of the year's warmth with it, Felicity wore her hair up in its ponytail, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and looked down at her open burgundy jacket. Inside could be glimpsed a cream shirt with open neckline that was secured into a very form fitting pencil skirt. She wore two-inch heels, also cream, and gold earrings.

It would have to do.

Or at least it had until she'd seen him.

Ugh, this is ridiculous. They were becoming friends; he didn't care what she wore. Even if he did look like he'd walked off the cover of a magazine…

She watched as he spoke quickly – quietly – to his frowning driver and began to move towards them.

Why does this feel different? Walking up to him in broad daylight, which is what she did, downwind of a crowd of people that included his family, had her gut tightening; had her doing something she'd rebuke herself over for later. She touched her hair, making sure it was in place and her hands smoothed down her coat where one slipped into her pocket. It's still there.

No reason not to do it now.

As Mr Diggle stepped away from Oliver, moving a little downwind as if to give him some room, he caught sight of Felicity and-

The smooth serenity, the small but all-knowing smile, and the venire of nonchalance he seemed to wear even in nondescript coffee shops that sold bad coffee, took a turn for tense as he saw her. Eyes shifting from her to his employer, he pressed his lips together and stared dead ahead.

He didn't look back at her.

A clear, don't come over here.

Faltering, frowning - open mouthed, I'm confused - her finger absently pointing to and from him to Oliver's back, she still tottered forward one step, then two and his name on her lips sounded like a question instead of a hello. "Oliver."

The silver suit tightened before he half turned to her, head whipping around to see her and-

That is not a friendly look.

Like he wanted to be anywhere else but there right then. No, like he wanted her to be anywhere else but feet from him just then.

It stopped her completely. Physically and mentally.

And she watched as his eyes darted back from her – not looking or searching; darting – and into the crowd a hundred metres ahead; his throat moving when he evidently didn't find what he'd been thinking he'd find.

Panicking he'd find.

A hand pressing down on the side of his open jacket – no tie this time – he stepped around the still open door that she could only see the back of and had a hand on it to close it when-

"Ollie!"

It came from inside the car, a woman's voice. A very young and feminine, drunk on fun voice and Felicity watched Oliver's eyes briefly shut.

Felt her own stomach drop. Just a teeny tiny fall, nothing to write home about. Everything to wonder at. What is that?

Except she knew exactly what that was. Inappropriate, that's what is. And something she needed to put a lid on, otherwise this friendship thing she was attempting would crumble into pieces.

But what it didn't explain was Oliver. The way his face hardened even before he re-opened his eyes and the way they stayed fixed on the horizon over the car rather than her-

Or the two - two - very attractive women who stepped out of the limo, both wearing very short, very tight and expensive dresses; indicative of a party that had been had or was going to be had, but since it was still morning-ish something told her that these three… they'd been out all night.

This was them returning from a very good time had.

She had no real evidence to support this sudden intuitive bout... except that there was a smear of faded purple lipstick on the collar of Oliver's shirt and after a second and third glance, his hair looked like a well-manicured hand had combed through it a few hundred times during the night.

When the wind blew, it brought with it the barest hint of vodka and tequila.

One of the women was carrying her three-inch stilettoes in one had as the other wrapped around her friend who was giggling at their attempt to stand without falling over.

That attempt happened to be Oliver's broad shoulder.

The moment she instigated the touch, Oliver's countenance altered completely.

The flat harshness wiped off his face, replaced immediately by the kind of slow, smoky smile women usually wanted to see on a man about to tear her panties off with his teeth as his eyes roved over the two falling all over themselves. "I think I won that bet." He muttered to them.

Ensue another round of breathy giggling.

"How can you drink so much and still stand up straight?" One of them asked him as she leaned, provocatively into his space. "Or have other things stand straight."

Er… did she just say that out loud? Without a care in the world…

And he had the perfect answer as his hand reached out to keep her from falling. "Stamina."

A third round of giggling, this including a healthy pink flush as both women considered the connotations of that one word until one of them realised where they were. "What are we doing here, anyway?"

"Ah," head moving to follow her gaze, keeping Felicity to his back, Oliver filled in the blank to the huge question mark that was hitting Felicity upside the head, "I…" he looked back to the girls, "I have to give a speech."

As if that was the most out of character thing to ever leave Oliver Queen's mouth, a peel of laughter left the two women and-

And Oliver chuckled with them.

What is this? It was like she wasn't even there, as if she hadn't said his name or approached the car.

"This won't take long." She heard Oliver promise. "They already have champagne out; you never know, it might be fun."

"We were having fun in the car." The second girl all but purred, almost pawing at him as she stroked her teeth over her full lower lip; looking more than a little tipsy. "Can't we go back to that?"

Her lipstick was smeared.

Her eyes kept dropping to his belt line.

Her voice was the kind of contented huskiness that Felicity associated with only one thing.

And John Diggle's resolve to not pay the three of them any attention told its own tale of the kind of fun they'd had in the car.

The picture was clear.

Oh my god.

Clearing his throat, Oliver spoke but she couldn't see his expression. "I'm sorry; duty calls." He was probably looking as satisfied as the women's eyes had promised they'd made him. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

However, judging by the sound of his voice, there was nothing indicative of happiness there.

He sounded a little… dead.

But his smile, his beautiful eyes, his natural charm; they were all distracting the women in front of him from seeing it.

Predator.

That is, until one of the girls finally caught sight if the woman standing just a few feet behind Oliver, making her nudge the man who'd clearly given her the night of her life. "Ollie, what is that?"

The woman was drunk so Felicity guessed 'that' meant, me.

Ollie hummed, "what?" And he turned - much slower, she noted, than she'd seen him move up until now - looking like he hadn't known Felicity was standing there; as if her presence was a huge surprise. "Felicity!"

The shout made her blink. "Oliver!" She returned in kind, expression fixed and kind of waiting for a cue from him to know how to go along with whatever act this was.

"Hi." And he dragged the word out, mouth stretching as his brain searched for the next word… what was strange was that he was making it obvious that he was. Making it part of his act to appear uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable with Felicity's presence.

"What are you-" those perfect blue eyes darted once more to the crowd and back to her. "What are you doing here?"

Was he… was he making sure no one could see her?

"Ah…" okay, don't be ridiculous; you don't know what's going on here. Oliver's need to play games with his life and play a role in front of people in social situations was his business and she didn't know him well enough to even pretend to know what this was. "Can I talk to you please?" Eyes flickering over the women, she smiled at them before finger flicking at him. "I'll just be a minute."

"Ollie…" the women looked simultaneously bored with Felicity's presence already and kind of territorial.

Made all the worse by Oliver's massive sigh at her question.

Um… ouch.

Another exhale was followed by, "this'll just take a minute," he told the women like he'd rather do anything else but speak to Felicity for even a second and-

She didn't like this.

She understood his need to play a part. She got it. But he'd never… she didn't think he'd do this, be like this. Be disregarding and insulting and superior without saying a word. Physical communication made up 60% of discourse: his right now, was telling her she was unwelcome.

For some ludicrous reason, if she ever thought to be part of his role plays, she didn't think they'd hurt her.

Conceited.

Still, somewhere behind him, John Diggle looked down. His jaw tightened.

She stopped looking at him.

Disengaging from the women, Oliver stepped around the door. He was two steps in when he, once again, searched the crowd up ahead; a note of caution making her think she'd been right before.

He didn't want anyone to know he was there yet.

…He didn't want anyone to see him talking to her-

No. She was jumping to conclusions, which was hard not to do when he was behaving so differently.

The illusion of privacy was all they were going to get and when he stopped directly in front of her - when he finally deigned to look down into her face and actually meet her eyes - his countenance didn't change back to the man from two nights ago; the one who'd stared at her like they could talk for hours and he'd never be bored. Like she could talk for hours and he'd never want her to stop.

But here, he just stood there; waiting for her to say something and wanting her to hurry up about it. Looking ten different kinds of I'd rather be getting the second round of my happy ending in the backseat of my limo than be talking to you.

As if it was costing him.

In the short time they'd known each other, in the few instances they'd been alone, he'd never made her feel like that. Unwelcome. And yes, it did hurt; just in case you were wondering.

Clearing her throat, Felicity began; feeling the eyes of the women on her and realising it was making her feel flustered when normally, it wouldn't be a problem. Not even a little bit. "I… I didn't mean to interrupt your, um…" or maybe it wasn't the girls, but Oliver who was making her feel uncomfortable which was off-putting to the extreme, because she'd started to do something she hadn't in long enough to make hearing it now genuinely painful: she was stuttering. "Y-your date, ah-"

"Felicity." He cut in and it wasn't… no, she didn't recognise that voice. "What is it?"

She also didn't miss how careful his expression was. Another mask.

Except this was one she couldn't read, which meant his guard was up. Against her.

It didn't feel right. None of this did.

Why does he think he needs to have his guard up with me? Her eyes moved between his; a slow frown forming. "I just…" I don't understand.

Exhaling, his neck muscles fluttered - like there was this underlining strain she couldn't get a grasp on - before this smile just erupted on his face. "Come on." It wasn't a nice smile. "I don't have a lot of time here."

It was an 'Ollie the playboy' smile. An impatient smile that was slightly hungover and so not happy to be here today. A smile that told her he wasn't interested and her stumbling through this was wasting time he didn't want to waste over… well, her.

"I-I just wanted to help you with your speech." She muttered, extremely thrown by him and trying to figure out what to do next.

A small head movement from him made her heart turn over: it was oddly condescending. "That's it?"

That smacked her in the chest.

'That's it?'

Like, that's it? That's why you interrupted my fun time with the fun girls on my fun 12-hour long party? That's why you're here?

The two women failed to smother their sniggers.

Oliver's Adams apple bobbed.

Her heart was thudding.

Get it together. "Yes. I-" Wait. "Did I need a better reason?"

To talk to you.

And he blinked at that, like he'd forgotten that they had a thing that involved them openly talking to each other in a way that was free of judgement. It was a very different blink from her confused one. "You wanted to help me with my speech."

"Y-yeah, I-"

Oliver glanced - side-eyed, darted, dashed - again, at the crowd.

Right. She was clearly where he didn't want her. Got it. Her hand delved into her pocket and she pulled out the sheet of paper, offering it to him. "I thought you could use a hand."

That was it.

That was all she'd wanted to do. And now I'd like to go please.

By how one of the women snorted from behind Oliver, she started to rethink the wisdom of thinking he cared about a speech he'd told her he didn't want any part of the other night - I should have listened - but was worried about how his mother might respond to any action he took.

And he proved that by looking down at the piece of paper like it offended him. "Felicity, I really didn't need your help." She couldn't read anything beneath the fake smile, the slight posturing, the way he looked at her like they hadn't shared secrets recently; but it sounded like he was also struggling between one emotion and another and he'd come to the conclusion that both weren't worth the drama just then, so his words came out empty of feeling. "As you can see." He added as he sent a side-glance to the two women.

A side-glance with eyes that his smile did not reach.

Didn't he realise she could see that?

"…Okay."

"I don't-" Like it caught in his throat, he had to go back to find the sentence and it was the only sign of hesitance in him; save the way his smile broke in half. As if it cost too much to fully maintain. "I don't need a speech. There is no speech. I know what I'm going to say."

That didn't sound good.

"Oh. Okay." And she shrugged, pretending like nothing was out of the ordinary and that she really was just playing out a role. "So, what are you going to say?" She tried to smile too, like this was all one big joke and she was in on it instead of out in the cold. "Or are you just going to wing it?"

And yes, it was a very light form of pushing because she could help him make this less painful for him later and it would be if he didn't do exactly what she thought he was going to do, seeing the women he'd deliberately brought to this event.

Yes, deliberately.

He was going to push his mother away by showing her exactly the kind of man he was. The kind of man he wanted her to see. A drunken ass. The kind who stayed out all night and couldn't be depended on. The kind of guy who treated his friends who were trying to help him like they were nuisances.

He was trying to sell fake, and he was trying hard.

"That," he breathed, and it sounded completely devoid of care, "has absolutely nothing to do with you."

Oh. Another kick to the stomach. Nodding, she pressed her lips together. "Oliver, I just think that-"

"Well, you don't need to think for me." His smile returned, sucking the bright blue from his eyes. "I'm doing just fine."

"I have plans." He finally got out and it was much softer than what he'd intended, she was sure. "None of those involve board meetings and my mother," he inhaled, "she isn't taking no for an answer."

"You asked for my help." She quietly reminded him.

"I asked for advice, not…" a very lengthy pause followed, where his throat moved as he stared at her before he finished the sentence with something that took a moment to fully touch her, "this."

And he waved a hand at all of her.

Like, she was being pushy. Overbearing. The exact opposite of everything he'd made her think and feel the other night.

"Why are you being like this?" She whispered, unintentionally exposing herself.

Face blanking, Oliver blinked. Then blinked again and again. His index finger rubbed against his thumb. His entire body was so tense it could shatter on touch alone.

Then he swallowed.

His eyes looked bleak, devoid and yet they were… shining. Like something was hurting him.

But he only flatly asked. "What?"

Head shaking, "why are you talking to me like this? If you don't want me here that's fine but you don't need to be like this for me to go." And she smiled at him properly this time because she was his friend and he was so desperately - sadly - trying to sell this image of himself that he believed was necessary. He knew he didn't have to be this person. She'd go along with his act; he didn't need to do this. "Just say you need me to go, and I'll go."

For the first time since she'd said, Oliver looked genuine.

Genuinely dumbfounded.

Eyes dropping to her mouth, his jaw tightened and spasmed and his lips parted and breathed. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

What?

"God," one of the women groused, her arm flopped over the open car door, "he said no. Take a hint."

And the other concluded this class act by asking Oliver's back, "what is she, one of your groupies? Tell her to go already!" She shouted as she laughed.

Laughed.

Like the first time the brunette had opened her mouth, Oliver's eyes shut tight.

That was real.

But Felicity couldn't properly process anything past-

'What the hell is wrong with you?'

What the hell is wrong with-

"…What did curiosity do to the cat, Miss Smoak?"

Standing as still as a statue when his eyes re-opened, they hit every hill and volley of her face. "I don't need your help anymore Felicity, I was wrong to come to you before. And I know what I'm going to say." Eyes going up and over her head, he added. "Go home."

It was hellaciously sad when she absently stated. "I came from work."

He didn't pause.

"Go back to work."

Please, she almost heard it.

It was in her nature, to be… kind. To help. She enjoyed it, but it had cost her in the past. In many ways it had led her right here to this moment and she couldn't just let Oliver do exactly what he was doing because-

"I just think that you can do this another way, a way that doesn't hurt you, Oliver." Something in her chest was starting to tremble. I didn't get you wrong, I know I didn't. The time they'd spent being so relaxed together wasn't a waste. I'm here for you if you need me. "A way that doesn't make you look like-" Like a joke, because you aren't. He was… he was wonderful. He wasn't this person. She was sure she hadn't misread him. "Like this, because you're more. You showed me that-"

This breathy humourless thing left him; as light as it was, it shot through her like a bullet and she knew from personal experience what those felt like. But his neck was tight too and it looked like he was clenching his teeth.

And he shook his head. It looked like self-rebuke.

"Oliver, you can be whatever you want to be." Voice earnest, emphatic and caring she spoke over his small laugh at her words- he was laughing. Like he thought the idea of him being anything other than a joke was impossible for him and she just wanted to show him that he was wrong. "It ispossible for you to say no and be happy-"

Head lifting, "And you think you know what makes me happy?" He cut in.

Oh no. "I-I don't-" She was pushing and guessing and jumping ahead of herself- "That isn't what I was trying to-"

"You've known me for, what?" He deliberated as if he didn't know. "A couple of weeks?" Brow tapering as he nodded to himself, as he licked his lips and narrowed his eyes; focusing on her face though his own devoid of anything remotely gentle. "But you think you know me? That you know enough about me to presume that I'm this person you see?"

As if whoever she'd been spending time with didn't exist.

She took a second… that second progressed when she realised that anything she said would be held in contempt right then because, he wasn't ready to hear it. And unlike the other night, he also wasn't accepting of her knowing that he wasn't. "I don't presume to know a thing about you. Or about how you feel." She added quietly, watching him simply… watch her back.

Watching him close up shop on her. Watching him decide to do what he was originally going to do and deny himself a friendship.

What had she done to warrant this?

You trespassed. And he didn't want you here. Not in the light of day, where others could see him for what he was. Damaged. Alone.

"Good." Said softly, it didn't go with the hard lines etched on his face; but it did go with the lie in his eyes.

"Ollie!" The brunette shouted. "Come on!"

Smile quickly fixed back to his face, he turned to the women. "One minute." when Felicity felt that smile hit her, it was unnerving. The stranger who stared back at her. The man she'd been beginning to know just beneath. "We have a party to get to after this."

Oliver.

After everything he'd told her, that wasn't even close to the truth. There was no party, no enjoyment. This wasn't the truth, not his truth.

To think otherwise would mean that he'd lied to her every time they'd been alone and there was no logical reason behind that.

Insecurity heavy in her stomach, a wad in her throat, Felicity tried one last time. "Please just take it." She pleaded quietly, presenting the piece of paper for his inspection. "Even if you don't use it…" It hung in the air and she was almost afraid he'd just turn his back on her. "I just wanted to take away some of the stress."

Of the reminder that his father wasn't alive anymore, because everyone else seemed to think it was okay to remind him – daily – of what he'd lost and who he wasn't anymore.

And after a moment, he did. He took it.

Then, looking down at it - solemn and silent - he said something she wished he could have stopped himself from saying. They weren't the truth; the words had no real meaning behind them. They were a means of pushing her back further for whatever reason he needed to do so, and in the end… after some time, they'd hurt him more than her.

"I don't think a woman living alone should be so trusting of a stranger." When he lifted his head again and looked at her, whatever he saw in her face-

Don't say it. Please don't say that. You've been anything but cruel; don't start now. Being a woman, living alone, being single; it doesn't matter. The stereotype has no basis here. You don't need to use that to hurt me. We're friends. I'm here for you, even if it means you need to me to stop. Just say the word and I'll stop trying to help you.

-Made whatever remnant of that caricature smile he wore, disappear. The cold of him beaten back from his eyes, his lips, his everything by the mountainous heart he was betraying by behaving in a way that only poisoned him. "You let me into your home." As if she was deranged. "I came at you with a knife, Felicity." Whispering somehow made this worse, made the insinuation a slow opening of an internal wound rather than the hot flash of humiliation she'd been feeling until now. "And you didn't… you were fine with me being close to you afterwards."

As if that was… odd of her.

As if there was something wrong with her.

As if she were a-

FREAK.

She couldn't say anything to that, though she felt it everywhere. She just looked at him.

Lips tight together, he glanced back down at the letter before inhaling. When he continued, he didn't sound… composed. He didn't sound like any of the Oliver's she'd met so far: the masks or the real. "I think it's best that we stop spending time together." He sounded like he was forcing himself to speak, though that could be wishful thinking on her part; but she caught him swallow again as he glanced towards the crowd upwind of them, for the fourth or fifth time. "I don't think it's healthy. I don't think I'm a good friend to have."

He wasn't just half-heartedly warning her this time. He was telling her.

"…Oh." Looking over his face, her own unguarded and - feeling something she never wanted to - Felicity spoke quietly, but utterly serious. "Don't you think that's my choice to make?"

Eyes still far away, he seemed to hold in a breath.

Then words left him in a rush. "Why would you even want to be?"

Something in her deflated just as something else hardened. Disappointment. She was disappointed.

Did he push and pull with everyone like this, or just her? Just the stranger that he had no ties to, who he'd touched just enough to make this truly painful for her.

Instead of answering the question, she found herself saying, "you came here to tell everyone to stop, didn't you?" There was a quiet about him now. He was letting her talk; but he wasn't letting her close. That was fine. She was… something was wrong with her chest. And her head. Letting him close wasn't optional just then. "To stop hoping, stop expecting, stop trying with you." She said, watching the minute flickers in his expression – which he might like to think was controlled and unattainable, but instead was so open and so full that he didn't know what to do with it – be reined in. "Your mother. Your sister, your friends… and me." Except with her, he could say whatever he liked. "And that's fine."

His head whipped back to her, surprise rippling through him; lashes fluttering as he blinked.

He really was beautiful.

He really was dangerous.

"Whatever it is you have to do," the thing that made him behave like a cad, "it comes first." She told him because she understood the need for faces and lies; more than he could ever know. "I understand."

He just… he hadn't needed to do this. And she'd been silly. She'd thought she'd touched him. She thought she'd gotten through enough that he'd include her rather than wall her off.

He didn't want her in his life that way. Or anyway.

The other night, he'd needed someone to talk to. That was all.

And, biting down on her lower lip, she watched his own mouth - his attractive lips, his very male jaw - move to open-

"But there comes a time," she sniffed up, aiming for composure when really, she just wanted a tissue, "when you find that you get more with honey than vinegar."

"Good afternoon." Mr Steel's voice carried across the area from whatever microphone stand had been set up for him, making Oliver wince. "Thank you all for coming."

They were out of time.

Gaze locked to hers, expression unreadable, Oliver didn't move. Was unmovable.

"Welcome to the future site of the Robert Queen Memorial Applied Sciences Centre…"

Then he was turning, striding down the field towards the dedication.

He left the girls behind.

One of whom stood there for about three seconds before she said. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Real classy.

"Oh, let's just finish the booze in here. He'll be back." The other suggested as she struggled to crawl back into the interior of the limo; her panties very much on display. Even classier.

Felicity's attention was absorbed by the sheet of paper Oliver hadn't left behind.

And by-

What the hell is wrong with you?

I don't think it's healthy.

And you didn't… you were fine with me being close to you.

Go home.

It wasn't the same as before, not really. But it also was. It was the same. She'd reach out, she'd try to help… she'd try to be useful to someone, because sometimes you just need to connect. To matter. To affect in good ways. To know you can do something good in a sea of bad. To know you aren't part of the badness.

And she'd been damned for it.

"Is your life as important as my reputation? I don't think it is."

"But I'm nobody."

"Exactly."

"I'm just a secretary."

"A very good one."

"…Too good?"

She'd done too good a job once before too.

It was dark there. It always had been.

But Oliver… he wasn't supposed to be like that with her. He wasn't supposed to remind her of the dark. Of the black that and seeped in that night. Of the realisation that she didn't matter. That any face she wore was simply that; a face. That sometimes doing the right thing ended badly.

Like today.

"Now," Walter was saying, "this is a building that will stand as a monument to the man whose company and vision are his greatest legacies… um…"

Up on the podium, she could just glimpse as Oliver joined his stepfather, as he spoke in the man's ear and took over.

"Hello." And he didn't sound like the party boy from earlier. "Some of you know me, some of you don't. I'm Oliver Queen." As if anybody didn't know him: there was total silence, as if the crowd was breathless for more. "And today I was supposed to come here and symbolically take my rightful place in my family's company." Behind him, there was some furious whispering going on between Moira Queen and her husband, but neither stopped him. "And I'm really not much of a legacy as Walter said," yes, not the best way to applaud a dead man, excluding his children as plausible legacies, "not compared to Queen Consolidated-"

Because how did that work?

How did a man's business become greater than his love for his children? Is that how they really felt? The entire family? That the family fortune meant more than the love between each of them.

Watching this, it was no wonder Oliver thought the way he did. That he wasn't worthy. He was surrounded by reminders that he'd never be enough. And it was so much easier to sell that lie than to rebuild the truth.

"But there is something… there's something I'd like to share with you all, in case you were expecting anything more today." After a few seconds there was a tell-tale crackle of paper being straightened-

He was opening her speech.

Stomach dropping, Felicity held her breath; staring at the podium where he stood.

"I will never-"

He stopped.

She swallowed.

"I will never be my father." Slowing down, it was like what he was truly taking it in; that what he was reading was arresting to him. Surprising. Eye opening. "I'm not the same man that he was, and I hope… that I never will be." As if it touched him, his tone changed with something that made her chest tighten. It was evident in his voice and the words he hadn't written. Yes, he was affected. "The world doesn't need two Robert Queens: that would diminish how important he was to me. To my family." At this, he actually looked to them; his family. As if the words and made him do it. She couldn't see their faces; they were too far away. But she understood the gesture. "And I hope that one day I can talk about him the way all of you do." He continued after he turned back. "With fond remembrance. But for me, he's still in the ocean."

The word ocean was cut in half.

I'm sorry.

But maybe it needed to be said, or that's what she'd thought. Maybe the shocked whisper that carried like a wave through the crowd, wouldn't have if they'd all just thought for one second how much cost Oliver Queen to pretend like returning home was a breeze and not the hardest thing he'd ever done. Deep down, they all knew. They weren't that obtuse: subconsciously they'd put themselves in his shoes, they'd wondered if they could do it. Return after five years shipwrecked and still function.

Most likely, they hadn't found an answer. So, they'd buried it and decided to pretend; just like his mother had, that a five-year stint – alone – was nothing. A party. A five-year tan.

And just maybe, Felicity's ability to state this made her an unwelcome addition in Oliver Queen's life. A threat to what he needed just then: his masks.

I get it Oliver. She told him without saying a word.

But-

"…What did curiosity do to the cat, Miss Smoak?"

He wasn't the first man to make her feel unwanted. Done wrong for doing right. He was just the first she didn't think would do that to her, not for any reason.

Except she'd never taken into account just how damaged Oliver Queen might be.

As damaged as she.

"I am not my father." It was like he'd been right there as she'd written this, with the way he spoke each word. As if he agreed. "I am something else. One day, I might be… be something more." Will be, but the pause was painful too; he thought it impossible. "But this city is as much a stranger to me as I am to you." His voice was like gravel and the audience was captivated. So was she. "You don't want me here yet, running a company I know nothing about. I will be its Albatross." And that was a message to his mother who, with any luck, wouldn't take it personally. It wasn't him who'd written it. Hopefully his mother would begin to understand. Hopefully they all would. It was the key to appreciating the here and now instead of the past, the history they'd lost. "I'm not ready." The way he said that, told the world that he really wasn't. It was emphatic. She'd gotten this right. "Maybe I never will be. All I ask for is your patience. Let me decide what my legacy might one day be. Whether that's anything or nothing; it's for me to decide." A deep breath from him echoed through the loudspeaker like a heavy wind before he added in a near-whisper. "Thank you for coming."

Relief was a release valve in her chest, the tightened area loosening up. He'd read it. He hadn't stopped halfway through. He'd spoken so well, so clearly. It was a short speech on purpose; what more needed to be said?

And it took a moment before she heard it. The clapping. Then it didn't take long at all for an applause worthy of the words rose in the crowd; she heard calls of 'well said' over the ovation, over the clicking of cameras and the questions thrown out by the reporters waiting in the throng and… and her job here was done.

She'd reached out. He'd let her know she wasn't welcome.

He'd still read the speech.

But. She. Wasn't. Welcome.

"Is your life as important as my reputation? I don't think it-"

"Miss Smoak?"

John Diggle.

Stood just behind her to her left, she was surprised he'd left the girls in the car. "It's okay, Mr Diggle." She managed to say without turning to look at him. "I'm leaving now."

It had been easy, too easy, to connect with Oliver. To write that in his voice.

And it had backfired on her.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

It was cold where she was. Where part of her existed. Always. What she hid, it wasn't natural. Wasn't warm, wasn't a smile or a free ear or a babble. It was-

Dark.

I don't want to be here in the-

Black.

The cold.

There were all kinds of venting to be had; the human condition required it. And sometimes you had to live in that darker, safer space. That place where you could simply exist and not allow the fire in you, the sickness or the ache take over.

People aren't kind. Not in her experience. It was why he'd shocked her, Oliver. How a man who'd suffered so much, could be nice to someone like her; someone he didn't have to be nice to… and make her soft to it, make her receptive.

Only to yank it back when she brushed against his shield.

He needed it, the distance. He needed it like he needed air. It mattered more to him than his own happiness because whatever his mask was protecting him from, it was perhaps much darker, more powerful, than anything she'd suffered.

So, she'd give it to him. Gladly. Emphatically.

But oh, it hurt.

He'd made her remember how good a simple connection could be, how good it could feel to be part of something with someone else. Even if that something was a friendship.

He'd made her remember how that wasn't for her.

"But I'm nobody."

"Exactly."

The only her that mattered, the only her that was truly anybody, was the mask she wore.

Felicity was the ghost. Not the Watchman.

"Miss Smoak?" A clearing throat didn't stop her thoughts. "Felicity?"

It was humiliating-

Awareness sharp, her hand snaked up; fingers wrapping around a wrist before the hand attached could touch her shoulder.

"Whoa."

Mr Diggle's hand, his whole arm, stilled.

She'd grabbed onto his wrist. The wrist of the behemoth who was John Diggle. She still had a hold on it and-

"Sorry!" Jumping back a step, she waited on tenterhooks for what the fuck is wrong with you, reaction.

But his arms simply lifted in that placatory, I promise I won't come any closer, way that made her cringe. "It's alright."

Oh god. Brow-line drawing in, she closed her eyes. "Just… I wasn't thinking straight." She was thinking in wiggly line that were not nice to her. "I- I didn't see you." All evidence to the contrary withstanding.

"Don't worry about it." And he was quiet. Compassionate. "That's, er, quite a grip you've got there."

But she wasn't listening to his words; her face was flushing at his tone.

He was feeling sorry for her.

"Um, yeah I…" pulling her gaze from the crowd ahead, she nodded to herself. "I'm going to go."

Gaze searching her face, Mr Diggle's lips pressed together.

It was pity, she was sure it was, which was a shame.

She liked him too.

"Take care of him." Finger flicking to wherever Oliver may be, she whispered like she was worried the sound of her voice would carry. "He needs a friend. More than he knows."

Hands folding before him, John Diggle squared her an honest, quiet look; if looks could be quiet. "I think he's got a pretty good one already."

Shaking her head, "he doesn't want me." It took her three seconds to release how deeply personal and intimate that sounded and- "Not that way, I mean… I mean, we're not-"

"I know."

And those eyes were infinite with meaning she couldn't translate just then.

"Right." She couldn't get much more uncomfortable than she was. "Take care Mr Diggle." Mr Bond, James Bond. Skirting around him - he stood like stone, head somewhat bowed - she shoved her hands into her burgundy-pink pockets and walked. Walked away.

She'd wanted… initially, she'd wanted to wait for him. For Oliver. To congratulate him on whatever he decided to do.

It had been a long time she'd been reminded this strongly of why being alone sucked.

Of why it was safe.

She thought she'd found something real, something she could keep and nurture and love.

She'd been wrong.

---

He should have gone back to her.

"Oliver, buddy." The smiling face of his best friend ghosted past his shoulder as Tommy gave him a quick hug and back slap. "That was epic!"

Allowing each hit to bow his back, Oliver tried to smile back.

It had been perfect.

The perfect speech.

The perfect words.

Pulled out right from his chest.

Only, he hadn't written it.

"I must say," came Walter's voice the moment Tommy pulled back, "I agree with that assessment." Coming into view where they all now stood at the right-hand side of the podium, Walter indicted his head at his stepson. "That was very well said."

It wasn't me. "Came from the heart."

He hadn't meant to say that; the words simply… arrived. But they were the truth as unplanned words usually were.

They were real.

And no one in the small group around him, knew what that meant.

"Ollie…" the sentence was left open for there was much left unsaid between he and Laurel and he only had to turn an inch to see her.

To see her uncertain eyes… the hope in them. Hope. She hoped. Still. But, how could she? She hated him. She'd shown him that when they'd talked, when he'd offered that pathetic excuse of an apology. All he'd seen in her eyes… was hate. He knew what hate looked like.

"To kill you now would be a mercy. You cannot die until you have suffered… the same way I have suffered. Till you have known complete despair. And you will. I promise."

He'd seen it, felt it, earned it. A cold, black burn and Laurel had nothing in her during that first meeting but the bitterness of long-standing hate.

Now… he didn't understand what he was seeing.

But where there was Laurel, he caught sight of his mother behind her. She was walking away, a hand to her mouth. Like what he'd said had affected her as much as it had him, though he was sure the words he's still in the ocean were what was staying with her.

His were a different type of preoccupied.

"I am something else. One day, I might be… be something more."

"Not bad." Thea. She was still there. She hadn't left, hadn't been driven away like their mother. In fact, for the first time since he came home, Thea looked curious and devoid of the hurt, regret and lonesomeness she'd been directing at him from the get-go. "I'd say that beats your welcome home party bash."

"I am not my father."

And though he felt like doing anything else but smile, he found his lips upturn. "Yeah?"

"It was surprising." Laurel cut in, looking like she hadn't meant to-

Arms folding, Thea looked down at the ground. Waiting for her turn with him. Waiting for just one moment alone with her big brother whilst he was receptive and, hadn't he promised her that? Hadn't he promised to Thea that he'd try to heal a little of the rift between them?

No.

He'd promised Felicity.

And she wasn't here.

"I… I didn't know you felt like that." Thrown, a slight furrow at her brow softened the anger in Laurel; anger she was entitled too. But this speech, it seemed to mellow her to him. Seemed to make him someone deserving of that. She was looking at him in a whole new light, as if she hadn't thought his feelings-

As if she hadn't thought about his feelings at all.

So, they couldn't run deep, because he was the enemy. They couldn't be substantial. They couldn't be of substance, because to Laurel, they didn't exist. He wasn't permitted a reprieve from guilt. Or did she think him incapable of feeling it? It was expected; he'd betrayed her. But this is where they were. Without closure. Without assurances. Without trust.

Now he'd surprised her. Now she was considering. Maybe he wasn't just the dick who'd slept with her sister and gotten her killed. He was still Ollie Queen, her once boyfriend. And he felt things. There was hope.

Hope for him to be better.

Be kinder.

Be more.

Be different.

Be everything they wanted.

All because… he hadn't pretended.

It almost felt worse than being something he wasn't.

It was worse than tarnishing his father's memory, his original goal. Sometimes in order to honour a person, you had to reject everything that they were. You had to lie.

But this was worse.

The one person who might understand wasn't here.

And Thea, who'd been so resentful of his inability to give her what she needed, was listening to him. Waiting for a few words from him. Just something to remind her that who she'd lost was still in there somewhere.

All because of a speech.

"I just think that you can do this another way, a way that doesn't hurt you, Oliver."

Mission accomplished.

It should have felt good.

"Right!" Hands clapping together, Tommy threw out his usual last-minute party ear-to-ear grin. "I'd say this calls for an impromptu feast." First, he turned to Oliver. "You hungry big guy?" Then, with his usual amount of energy, Tommy spun to the rest of them without waiting for a response. "Who's hungry?"

Eyes already rolling, Laurel sucked in an inhale. As if she was hesitant and was sure she'd regret saying: "I could eat."

"Yes." Pleased would be an understatement. "And you," he half bowed to Walter and it wasn't even a mock, "good sire?"

Thea snorted. "It's sir."

"Pot, kettle."

"Though that sounds delightful, I'm afraid I'll have to decline this time. I'm needed back at the office." Though the way Oliver caught him eyeing his mother's exit told a more likely tale. He was worried about his wife. "Excuse me."

"That sounds nice." Thea said as he left; as if she was trying, hard, to sell that she was too cool for lunch with her brother but would manage to grin and bear it for him just this once.

An opening.

A chance he hadn't earned.

Smiles he hadn't wanted, not like this. He hadn't done this, he hadn't written he words, hadn't put the effort in to be real.

He'd been too… too much everything to remember his original plan. To bring the two women whose names were already a distant memory into the dedication as a statement of fact about him. To drink the champagne like it was water and prove to the world that Ollie Queen really was as shallow as the stories indicated he still was.

Distractions, all of it. Make them all turn away from him so that he could carry out his mission without any fear that they'd even guess his real face. That he was the man under the hood.

She'd turned it into dust. Golden dust. Now look at me, surrounded by compassion.

He wanted it so badly.

Just… not from them.

It hadn't been a lie. He wanted to reconnect with his sister; he wanted forgiveness from Laurel, he wanted to spend time with his best friend, he wanted his mother to love the real him, but he also didn't want a second of it. Who'd survived Lian Yu and everything after, wasn't the man they'd all lost, and he didn't want any of them to see who'd become. Even if the cost was their good opinion.

Well, now he had it. Or the hope of it. He was still lying, but they couldn't hate him for this lie; there was truth in it. Like she'd taught him. To lie, you had to be honest. Where did she learn that?

And it had been so simple, the way she'd given it to him.

It didn't feel good. There was too much. He didn't want this, didn't want to go to lunch and talk. He didn't- He wasn't ready to be with them like he'd been with-

"Everything that used to be easy is so hard now." She paraphrased him and his brain momentarily blanked. "You said that today."

Soft as silk, cool to the touch - barely present - it wrapped around him. Realisation.

There was a line deep inside him that he'd drawn, only he hadn't known he had.

The subconscious cover he'd pulled over her head, the one that walled her off from every lie, every hateful facet of himself. The one that let her see under the surface but not the ugly beneath… or around.

He'd separated Felicity Smoak from the lie. Even as he also hadn't let her in on the truth.

And he had no idea why.

Why her and not the others? They'd known each other weeks; not years.

But she'd seen him. He hadn't let her. He also hadn't stopped her.

He just turned on her for it, deliberately belittling her, destroying her image of… what they could be, and he'd done it-

I did it to protect her.

And now he was alone.

Talking to her just now, walking away; he'd made a choice. No more. He couldn't bring her in, because she'd sink further, and he didn't know how to stop that. The idea of anything happening to her… of her possibly being dragged into his world…

It was hateful, how much part of him was tempted by that. There's no hope for me. It was terrifying, how she'd made him think there was such a thing. A second chance, for him.

With just a few words.

He'd thought about it, about whether he should push her away; but he hadn't decided that he would until-

"Oliver."

Hearing her voice, he'd known; they were worlds apart. She was good. Naturally, simply good and she made him feel good when he was with her. She made him feel everything. Things he wasn't allowed to feel, cleaner things than spending the entire night with two women, letting them touch him - taste him - just to affect a cover image.

And she'd seen everything. All of it bad.

With a word or a look, she made him think. Made him move and act.

She was a strange kind of dangerous.

He'd never felt like that before. He didn't deserve to feel those sweet things. Wasn't worthy. And she deserved more than any kind of association with him.

It had made him cruel. It had taken everything he had to be so, but he'd managed it.

"You've known me for, what?" It wasn't natural for him to be a dick, not the way it used to be. Back when it was simply a state of mind, a selfishness he'd believed himself entitled to. He'd had to force it. And all of a sudden, what he'd once planned to say to Laurel, reformed itself anew as he spoke the words to someone very different. "A couple of weeks?" The insinuation that she was clingy lingered in the air and his self-hate climbed with it, but he continued to make the whole thing sound insane- that she was insane for thinking everything would be fine if she did this - if she was showed him compassion - and licking his lips, narrowing his eyes; he focused on her face, though his own was devoid of anything remotely gentle. That was the hardest part: Felicity didn't inspire irritation, anger, tedium or apathy. "But you think you know me?" Twisted stomach aside, he'd continued with a level of arrogance and spite that she didn't deserve… and never would. "That you know enough about me to presume that I'm this person you see?"

He'd managed a little too well, but what was he protecting her from?

The truth, or the lie?

Regardless, it was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do.

Then he'd read her speech.

Each word felt pulled from his own chest, pilfered from within without going in too deeply. Without trespassing, as if she'd known. And she had. She was Felicity.

So, without knowing why, when it was his turn to speak and when his mouth opened - as he took in the smiling, if sombre, regard Walter had offered on his backward glance as he'd walked away, the hopeful patience in Thea's face, the soft surprise that beckoned from Laurel and the happy admiration in Tommy - he found himself saying. "I… I need to go."

He really did need to.

There was something painful happening just to the left of his chest and he was having trouble not lifting a hand to it, to his heart. To feel the beat of it and, perhaps, translate the new ache; the one he didn't recognise from anywhere else in his history.

The short speech… it meant everything to him.

He didn't understand why.

He just knew that-

"Ollie?" The frown had returned to Laurel's face, her composure threatening to crack at the almost desperate panic he didn't understand the need for shining from her eyes.

"I'm sorry." He muttered as he pulled away, already searching the crowd behind him-

"Oliver," he could feel her step closer, hear her footstep on the grass, "we need to talk."

"I know." And he could barely spare her a glance when he saw Diggle in the distance. "We will. Just… not now." And his eyes connected with Thea's. "That was a lot. I need time."

And he watched her slowly nod, looking as puzzled as Tommy but strangely willing to give him yet more time.

Powerful speech.

"Ah-" Tommy. Another person he needed to speak to but was already striding back where he'd come from. "I'll text you about the dinner then, okay?"

A wave was all he could spare - ignoring the calls for him to stop from the onlookers - as he marched towards the limo, his eyes searching the crowd.

He'd made a mistake. He'd pushed her away on a knee-jerk reaction. He'd taken the one thing that hadn't made everything so damn hard in the last few weeks and had thrown her to the wolves.

But he hadn't known what else to do.

He still wasn't sure why it had affected him so strongly, seeing her there. Hearing her voice. Just that, the one person he now felt like talking to… it wasn't Tommy. Or Laurel. Or, forgive me, his sister.

It was her.

With a bucket of ice cream and maybe… one of those robin hood movies she seemed so fond of. The irony was not lost on him.

But it was beginning to burn.

"Did she…" his pace slowing down, he found himself breathing a little too harshly for a simply jog. He was starting to feel it. "She left. She left," his head still searched; moving left to right and fixing far onwards into the crowded streets of Star City and beyond, "of course she did."

Until finally, breathing in, Oliver looked down to the ground. I did the wrong thing.

"I don't think a woman living alone should be so trusting of a stranger."

There was no taking that back.

…And he wanted to.

I did the wrong thing.

But it was to protect her-

I'd never hurt her.

Except he just had.

He couldn't sink any lower.

To his right, John Diggle cleared his throat.

"Speak freely, please." He muttered to the ground.

"I don't think that's wise sir." Came the low, soothing tone of the ex-military commander he'd started to find too interesting for his own good. "You pay me to protect you, not to offer advice I don't think you want to hear."

And he found himself smiling; it was funny. Why hold back now? "But if I don't hear it how will I ever learn?" It was only half in jest.

"Off the record?"

"Completely off the record."

"Alright."

Oliver waited.

John Diggle didn't sigh. He simply started. "With all due respect… you're an asshole sir."

Surprise made a laugh burst out of him. "Excuse me?"

Those brown eyes held his blue and he was probably the only person he'd met in a long while who was his physically match and who could meet his eye without either flinching or searching. "You know what I mean, sir."

"Do I?" He challenged, on purpose: knowing it made him sound worse. But he really needed someone to explain this to him. "Spit it out John, you might not get another chance."

"A woman like that," and again, John Diggle didn't need to take a breath or a pause, as if he knew what needed to be said, "is rare, if non-existent." Taking him in, the bodyguard stretched out those impressive arms and began straightening his cuffs. "She stayed for your speech." Oliver stared at him, letting that sink in. "Told me to take care of you, because you need a friend."

Immediately, Oliver's eyes dropped to the ground.

Who the hell is she?

"Whatever your reason for saying what you said, it was the wrong reason."

"…I'm deeply aware of that."

"So… if you don't mind me asking, why say it?"

Taking a deep breath in, Oliver allowed the breeze in the air to soothe him. "She deserves better…"

"Doesn't she get to decide that?"

He was saved from replying to that oddly enticing question by the call of his name from inside the car.

"Yo, playboy!" The brunette called through the window, and if he wasn't mistaken, she'd had another drink. "We've got a surprise for you in here."

Another one? He'd had enough of blowjobs, really bad lap dances and vodka jello shots to last the rest of his life. Unfortunately, his cover was dependent on him being the party guy.

Except Felicity had presented him with another option and he was reeling from the implications.

He pushed them aside for now and he turned fully to his 'driver' with a smile worthy of Ollie Queen. "I think it's time we get them home."

"…Yes, sir."

I'm sorry.

---

Iron Heights

"This isn't a social call," Robert Stellart informed his ex-client the moment Martin Somers backside touched the overused rust bucket that was audaciously labelled 'seat', "so I'll make this as brief as possible."

Somers hadn't gotten any less cocky in the twenty-four hours he'd been in a cell. "Well hello to you too."

"Quiet." Flipping open his folder – use of the private room in the cell block had cost him two favours and he didn't want to waste any time – Robert watched his fingers reach for a pen as he set an tape recorder perpendicular to his arm, "if I can get you an early release, I will," and yes, those bruised eyes narrowed, hope making life spark in the hollow depths of the doom already setting in, "but you need to clear up a few things for me first." Finally, Robert glanced upwards, clicking the bottom of the pen. "For my boss."

Watching Martin Somers swallow brought a minimal amount of satisfaction to the extremely skilled lawyer who'd considered this man to be a weak link since he'd been invited in the fold. However briefly. "What does he want to know?"

Yes. That hadn't taken more than second's worth of consideration. "Everything you know about the Watchman-"

"I told the police the truth!" The man immediately threw out, pushing backwards in his frustration. "I know shit, I only saw-"

"Then everything you saw." Tone flat, voice more so, Robert Stellart had no time for imbeciles. Information as power and whether he knew it or not, Martin Somers sat on gold. Best let him remain ignorant of it. "Anything that stayed with you… and," his fingers hovered over the button to record, "anything you can possibly tell me about the man in the green hood."

A flicker of intelligence made Mr Somers ask, "why the hood guy?"

And Robert Stellart couldn't help the small smile he gave to the foolish man before him. "To catch a cobra, you must acquire a mongoose."

Slowly, Martin Somers sank down into his seat. "…They're dangerous."

"We can protect-"

"For you."

Mr Stellart's mouth closed. "More than we thought." Then, the kind of smile a man gave at his own funeral made Somers's lips spread into a grin of his own. "But sure, I'll tell you what I saw; if only to watch you all scramble about. I hear Mongoose's don't like to be trapped."

But who was the mongoose?

And who was the snake?

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Robert breathed out. "Would you care to begin?"

---

Queen Consolidated

Right.

She was back and there was work to be done. There was always work to be done.

So why am I staring at my desk like one of those window mannequins-

"Miss… Smoak?"

No jumping, jolting or jerking; she'd known someone was there. She just hadn't known why he'd been standing there watching her stare at her desk for the last three minutes. "Yes?"

Pushing up her glasses, she watched a man - a tall glass of water, as her mother would put it, with midnight black hair, grey eyes and very nice aftershave - walk into her sort-of office…

And smile at her.

"Hello." Hand reaching forwards, a smile worthy of Brad Pitt made her look at his mouth. "I'm Ted Daniels. Your new supervisor."

Frack…