The thing about Verdant is, even though Oliver's name is on all the paperwork right next to Tommy's, Oliver doesn't actually have to do anything.
Tommy's taken care of everything - the financing, the decorating, dealing with the staff, the vendors, club promoters. All Oliver has to do is show up a few nights a week and sit in the VIP section and allow Tommy to tweet about it. Apparently his notoriety is good for business, millennials line up around the block outside Verdant to catch a glimpse of billionaire playboy Ollie Queen, back from the dead.
So it's Saturday night and Oliver's lounging on a love seat next to Tommy in a corner of the VIP section, a glass full of Stoli balanced on his thigh. The VIP section is filled with gorgeous girls in slutty cocktail dresses and rich douchebags dressed in suits by Armani, Gucci, Tom Ford. Oliver nods along blankly as Tommy points out the people he thinks Oliver should know, what they do, how much they're worth, like he thinks Oliver actually cares.
Oliver throws back a quarter of his vodka, relishing the burn. He didn't used to drink like this, he used to like Jaegerbombs and Lemon Drops and shots of B-52 (perfect for drinking with groups of girls, because it feels like a bomb going down but it's sweet and smooth too). His body is different now, after all that time on the island, he can't handle sugar like he used too. He's not as young as he used to be either.
He's fiddling with the sleeves of his charcoal grey Ermenegildo Zegna button down when Tommy sets down his Manhattan and raises his eyebrow at Oliver. "Incoming."
Oliver sets down his glass next to Tommy's as he turns around. Helena Bertinelli is walking towards them, wearing a midnight blue dress that reveals a dizzying amount of thigh, her sleek dark hair tucked behind her ears.
"Tommy," she says, leaning in to air kiss him. "And Oliver. Welcome back." Her lips are painted a deep plum and her teeth are very white in the dim light. When she smiles it makes her look like a predator.
Oliver stands up next to Tommy and allows Helena to lean in and give him a cool kiss on the cheek. "You're looking well," she says, her mouth twisting into a smirk.
"Thanks," he says, feeling naked as her eyes shamelessly trip over him. "How are you? You're married now, right?"
Something flickers across her face and she takes a step back. "Engaged. And no. Not anymore."
"Oh," Oliver flounders, his cheeks heating. "I'm, um. Sorry."
"It's fine," she says quickly. "You didn't know." She reaches up with one hand to smooth down her hair. "I should get back to my friends."
She walks away before Oliver can say anything else. Next to him Tommy groans and sinks back down on the love seat. "Nice, Oliver."
Oliver picks up his drink and takes a large swallow before sitting back down. "I don't - what did I do?"
Tommy drapes one of his hands over his eyes, like Oliver is exhausting him. "The guy got popped last year before they made it down the alter. Rumor is she's still pretty fucked up about it."
Oliver blinks. "Someone murdered her fiancé?"
Tommy nods. "Yeah, in his fucking office."
"Who killed him?"
Tommy shrugs. "Cops never caught him."
"Jesus," Oliver mutters.
"Yeah, she's been single ever since," Tommy comments. "She looked happy to see you though."
Oliver snorts. "You think that's what she looks like when she's happy?"
"I've always thought of Helena as one of those bugs who bites off their mate's head after they fuck," Tommy muses.
"Wouldn't know."
Tommy raises an eyebrow. "Really."
Oliver scowls. "Just because our parents tried to push us together a few times for the sake of their business interests doesn't mean we've slept together."
Tommy snorts. "So I take it your parents were fine getting into bed with mobsters then?"
"Wealthy mobsters."
Tommy looks hesitant. "You don't know if you two are"-
"We're not," Oliver interrupts. "We - we checked."
Tommy's mouth drops open. "You showed each other your marks?"
Showing someone else your mark is considered extremely intimate. Most people have marks in places that are easy to hide, like the bottoms of their feet or their hips or on their ribs, like Oliver. Occasionally you'll see someone's mark somewhere more visible, like their wrists (like Thea, to their mother's constant despair) or their neck, but it's rare.
He and Helena showed each other their marks at a Christmas party when they were both home for winter break during college. It was sophomore year, he and Laurel were on a break, and they ended up drunk in a guest bathroom peeling their shirts off, just to see if their parents' pushing had any merit.
No two marks are exactly alike, even the ones that match - matching soulmate marks are not identical but rather compatible in undeniable ways, like puzzle pieces. There are people who've made entire careers out of analyzing marks and confirming matches but it's usually pretty clear, given that marks are so intricately unique to their owners.
Helena's mark is on the left side of her ribs, like Oliver's, but he'd known immediately, drunk as they were, that she wasn't his soulmate. Her mark is an apple tree, branches twisting over her ribs, a snake curled around the tree trunk. Oliver had traced it with his fingers, thinking of the way Helena flicks her tongue like a snake, wears lipstick the color of a shiny fresh apple with poison on the inside.
It fits her, the way all marks do.
"She's not my soulmate," Oliver confirms.
That doesn't actually necessarily matter; plenty of people have successful, happy relationships with partners who aren't their soulmate. Hell, his parents weren't soulmates. Laurel's not his soulmate and they almost got married. Neither was Sara.
But it's hard, to start something knowing that someone else who would be a better fit, a perfect fit, is out there somewhere, looking for you.
"Well this got way too serious," Tommy bemoans. "Come on, I'll introduce you to this toothpaste model I met last week."
Oliver rolls his eyes and tosses back the last of his vodka, and dutifully follows after Tommy.
/
Post-island, Oliver's life has slowly fallen into a mind-numbing routine of sorts. He wakes up whenever he wakes up (assuming he slept the night before). Goes downstairs and chokes down some toast and drinks enough coffee to really wake up. Back upstairs to brush his teeth and swallow the regiment of pills the psychiatrist prescribed before Diggle picks him up and they go to the gym.
Oliver has a specific routine - thirty minutes of lifting, thirty minutes on the treadmill, and fifteen minutes of stretching. Then he showers and he and Dig go out for lunch somewhere expensive and discreet, where the waitstaff won't alert the paparazzi. Then they walk around, occasionally see a movie or sit in a coffee shop before inevitably going back to the mansion.
Sometimes, if Oliver is really bored, he'll slip away from Dig just to see how long it takes for him to find him.
If Thea is back from school when he gets home Oliver usually talks her into watching some show he missed when he was gone in her room while she does her homework on her bed. This means Oliver's suffered through watching the first three seasons of Gossip Girl, which is a whole other level of mind-numbing, but it's better than sitting in his room by himself.
If Walter isn't working late they all eat together in the dining room, while Oliver sits there with his nose in his wine glass, awkward in this new family that's developed in his absence. Thea's older and snarky and charming, and Walter is impossible to dislike even when he's sitting in Oliver's father's chair. His mother is the same as ever, beautiful and glittering and cold.
After Diggle leaves for the night Oliver goes out for a run, or puts on a suit and goes to Verdant, drinks for a few hours with Tommy, flirts with nameless girls he's never going to sleep with, resolutely doesn't dance, and goes home after closing, where he swallows more pills before crawling into his bed and wishing that when he awakens he'll be in his old life again.
Oliver's back from the island but he's still so lonely, even around people all day, and nothing makes it go away.
/
"You should get Tinder," Thea announces one Thursday night, when she and Oliver are in the den watching Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Thea's chemistry textbook in her lap.
Oliver shifts on the couch next to her. Onscreen Phoebe Cates emerges from a swimming pool in a red bathing suit. "I don't know what that is."
"It's a dating app."
"No thanks."
"You could at least download it. You know how to download apps, don't you?"
"Yeah, Felicity showed me," Oliver replies without thinking.
Thea throws him a sharp look. "Felicity who?"
"No one, just this girl who works at QC."
"Why were you hanging out with a girl from QC?"
"Because you bought me this monstrosity." Oliver spins his iPhone around in his palm. "Which I didn't know how to use. Walter had her set it up for me."
Thea considers this. "Is she cute?"
He glares at her. "So what if she is?"
"So you've been single now for like, almost six years" -
"Stay out of it, Speedy."
"Don't you want a girlfriend?" Thea questions. "I honestly don't remember you ever not having a girlfriend."
"That was before."
"So?"
Oliver shrugs, feeling uncomfortable. "So I'm different now."
"What, like celibate?"
"Can't you be twelve again?" Oliver begs. "I miss you being a baby."
Thea slams her book shut and drops it onto the coffee table. "I'm not a baby," she says hotly. "I'm seventeen."
"I know that," he says defensively.
"And you're old."
"Thea!"
"You're wasting time," she says. "You don't want to wait until you're fifty to meet your soulmate because you refuse to date."
"Soulmates aren't the be-all and end-all, Thea."
His sister sighs and flips her head over to sweep her hair into a ponytail. The sleeve of her pink cashmere sweater rides up, revealing the mark on the inside of her wrist. It's the Queen of Hearts, just like the standard illustration on the playing card, except that instead of clutching a flower she's holding a sword, the blade passing through the side of her head.
"Mom and Walter are soulmates," Thea says softly.
Oliver stares at her. "No they aren't."
"Uh yeah Ollie, they are." Thea wrinkles her nose. "They didn't tell you?"
He shakes his head, feeling numb. "I had no idea."
"I think they knew," Thea says slowly. "I mean, before."
"Before Dad died?"
"Ollie, calm down."
"I am calm." Oliver gets up, his ears ringing. "I'm gonna go for a run."
"It's ten o'clock!"
"I'll be fine, Thea."
"Ollie, come on."
"I'm fine," he insists, and hurried out of the den and back up to his room to change.
He pulls out a pair of track pants and a thin tee shirt to wear under his old Starling City Prep sweatshirt. When he strips down to his boxer briefs Oliver stops to catch his reflection in the carved full length mirror in one corner of his room. He still has no body fat but he's gaining muscle back. His shoulders and chest and abdomen are littered with scars from scrapes and cuts he got on the island, a rounded puncture scar from that one time he fell down a hill in the rain and a stick went two inches into the meat of his shoulder.
Oliver turns to the side as he pulls on his track pants and looks at his mark. It's an arrow, running down his ribs, finely shaded. In the middle is the outline of a word written in an alphabet that Oliver can't read, and he's never really had to burning desire to go to a mark specialist and have it analyzed.
And then he got stuck on the island and it made sense, the arrow part at least, like the biggest cosmic joke to ever exist. He's never figured out the text, after all this time. He always assumed it's his soulmate's contribution. Marks are like that, have a little bit of each person's personality woven into them.
Maybe his soulmate is in another country right now, walking down a street somewhere in Haifa or Santorini or Bangkok. Oliver hopes so. Wherever she is, he hopes she's somewhere sunny and warm and safe.
Oliver laces up his Nikes and pulls his sweatshirt on over his tee shirt. He takes the back set of stairs out of the mansion and walks around the house to the garage and takes the most inconspicuous car there, a black Range Rover. He drives through downtown Starling City and heads in the vague direction of Verdant (and therefore Felicity) without really thinking about it.
It's something that's almost too easy now, to not make decisions the way he used to before the island, on pure impulse based on his desire of the moment, or like more thoughtful people, carefully weighing outcomes and consequences.
After five years of learning how to block out everything in his head except for his survival instincts, he doesn't quite know how to turn it off. Every minute is a white knuckled clench, assessing danger, adjusting to the smallest changes in his environment without even realizing that he's doing it.
He parks the Range Rover up the block from a 24 hour convenience store and locks the car, zipping the keys in the pocket of his hoody along with his credit card. He has headphones this time, a pair of earbuds that came with the phone, because Felicity downloaded a few music apps onto his phone that even tech-idiot Oliver could figure out. The first chords of El Camino start up and Oliver starts out down the block in a light jog as the Black Keys sing along to the rhythm of his feet.
He runs, pushing all thoughts of soulmates and soulmarks out of his head, following a looping figure eight path so he doesn't accidentally dip too far into the heart of The Glades, making sure not to get too close to Felicity's townhouse because she doesn't need to know that he's an insomniac man child with a certain fondness for fair skin and blond hair.
Sara's mark was on the small of her back, a canary locked in an ornate filigreed cage. Oliver had made the mistake of touching it once, when he was fucking her against the sink in one of the private bathrooms of Poison, her entire lower back exposed by the cutout of her dress. Sara had stilled under his touch, hadn't turned around but lifted her head to catch his eyes in the mirror.
"You know what they use canaries for?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Oliver had tightened his hold on her hip with his left hand, right one spread flat over her mark and shook his head, rolling his hips without pulling out. Sara had gasped and reached up to grip the back of his neck, her eyes half shut and stormy.
"They used to...send them into coal mines," Sara had moaned, fingernails digging into his skin as he fucked her. "If they kept - fuck, Ollie - singing then they knew...oh fuck, don't stop...then the air was safe. And when they stopped singing...they knew it wasn't, shit...they sent them down there to die ...Ollie please, come on."
He'd mumbled something in response, bending down to kiss her shoulder, focused on the lightning-electric feeling pooling in his gut. Sara shook when she came, left half moon marks on the back of his neck that took a few days to fade.
"I won't let anyone hurt you," he whispered when it was over, sex-stupid and vulnerable.
She'd laughed, turned around in his arms to kiss his throat. "Baby," she'd murmured. "They're the ones that should be afraid of me."
Oliver runs and runs, trying to shake the phantom feel of fingers on his neck, his brain helpfully vomiting up images of faceless female body parts marked by arrows. He runs until his lungs burn and he can't feel his legs, runs until El Camino ends and automatically cycles into Brothers.
Oliver slows down to a jog before settling into a brisk walk, unzipping his sweatshirt. He feels mildly better, physically worn out at least, which means there's a chance he'll actually sleep night instead of lying in bed awake torturing himself. He gets back to the block where the car is parked and decides to make a detour to the convenience store he saw earlier because he's thirsty and it still feels like a miracle, that it's a quarter to midnight and Oliver can walk into a store and purchase a bottle of water like it's nothing.
The store is brightly lit and it hurts his eyes a little; Oliver squints and walks to the back wall where the drinks are. For a second he just stops and stares, remembering that feeling on the island when he found a little freshwater pond in the jungle, the absolute relief cutting through his desperation.
Oliver picks out the largest bottle of Figi they have and cracks the cap open, chugs half the bottle down right there in the aisle. He can't handle being thirsty anymore now, it stresses him out, his heart fluttering with panic until he remembers that he's back and never has to want for water again.
On a whim he wanders to the liquor aisle and grabs a fifth of Grey Goose off the shelf and carries it along to the front of the store. There are a few people ahead of him waiting, Oliver gets in line behind a woman wearing a thick cream sweater coat tied over purple flannel pajama pants, her blond hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail.
Oliver rubs his eyes, wondering again if his entire life is just some joke the universe is playing on him. He steps a little to the side and tentatively clears his throat. "Felicity?"
She jumps about a foot into the air and whirls around, a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream in one hand and a cheap bottle of red in the other. "Ohmygod!" she exclaims. "Oliver!"
"Hey Felicity."
She clutches her ice cream tighter against her chest. "Please don't judge me."
Oliver chuckles and reveals his vodka. "Wasn't going to."
Felicity's eyes skim over him but it doesn't make him feel cold and uncomfortable, it makes him feel seen and warm inside. "Running again?"
He shrugs a little, guilty as charged.
"Next!" the cashier intones, giving them an annoyed look.
Felicity flashes him a little smile and steps up towards the cash register, sets down the bottle of wine and the ice cream.
"I got it," Oliver says, adding his vodka and half drunk water bottle, waving away Felicity's protests and handing over his credit card.
"Thank you," she says, looking a little sheepish. "You didn't have to" -
"I wanted to," he says quickly, maybe a little sharply, because she twitches and ducks her head, follows him out of the store and stands awkwardly next to him on the sidewalk.
Now that he's gotten over the surprise of seeing her Oliver takes a moment to actually really look at Felicity. She's not wearing lipstick and her eyes are watery and bruised looking behind her glasses. Oliver feels a sudden wave of shame, because he just snapped at her instead of saying something nice, like you're welcome, or it's my pleasure.
It's painful, these little moments of clarity when he realizes that he's just as much of a dick now as he was before he left the island.
"So," he says eloquently, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, feeling desperate to offer something but unsure what. "Your night suck as much as mine?"
Felicity lets out a surprised laugh, her hands flying towards her mouth. "Yeah, you could say that."
Oliver considers her, standing in front of him in pajamas with freaking kittens printed on them, like he conjured her here, because why else would she be here so late and alone? He's still holding the bag with her ice cream and red wine. She must be single, he thinks, because even Oliver knows that no girl in a relationship (a happy one at least) has a need for either of those in the middle of the night.
"Wanna sit on that bench over there and have a drink with me?" he asks her, because fuck it, what does he have to lose?
She gives him an appraising sort of look. "Still not sleeping, I take it?"
He flushes a little at being so easy to read but then she shrugs and ambles over to the bench that sits under a little tree poking out of the concrete of the sidewalk. He follows and sits down next to her, pulls out her red wine (so cheap it's a screw top, Oliver can imagine the look on his mother's face if she saw him right now).
Felicity takes a swig straight from the bottle and passes it to Oliver, who trades her for the ice cream. Felicity pokes around and withdraws two plastic spoons and hands one to him before peeling off the cardboard lid of the ice cream container, the vodka forgotten at the bottom of the bag.
Oliver takes a pull from the wine bottle, making a face that Felicity laughs at around a mouthful of ice cream. "What, is the billionaire too good for Barefoot Merlot?" she teases.
"You do know this is shit, right?" Oliver says, but takes another drink anyway.
"Maybe, but alcohol is still alcohol," she says, snatching the bottle back and raising an eyebrow.
Oliver shrugs, catching the little upward tick of her lips that lets him know he hasn't really offended her. "Can't argue with that logic."
"Do you want some?" she asks, gesturing to the ice cream with her spoon. "Or are you a snob about everything?"
"I'm not a snob," he protests, pouting.
Felicity snorts and passes him the ice cream. "You're a terrible liar."
Oliver digs the flimsy plastic spoon into the ice cream. "But you're sharing with me anyway."
She smiles serenely. "I'm a generous person."
He pops the spoon in his mouth and has to repress a moan, he hasn't had ice cream since before the island. "Oh my god," he mumbles.
Felicity is grinning wickedly. "Haven't had ice cream in awhile?"
"You," he says, pointing at her with a spoon before shoving another giant scoop into his mouth. "Are a genius."
"You have no idea," she says cryptically, and chases a scoop of ice cream with a huge gulp of red wine. "So, do you want to talk about why you're running in my neighborhood at midnight instead of in bed in your castle?"
"Excuse me, my castle?"
Felicity shrugs. "You're a billionaire, don't you all live in castles?"
"It's more of a manor, really," Oliver muses, trading back the ice cream for the wine.
"Semantics."
He sighs, running his thumb over the neck of the bottle. "Did you know that Walter and my mother were soulmates?"
Her eyes go wide. "Uh, yeah, that's kind of, um ... common knowledge within the company? Not that we're all gossiping about the boss and I've never seen their marks of course, I mean, can you imagine? But uh...yeah."
"I didn't know," he confesses softly. "I mean, I knew she and my dad weren't soulmates but it didn't seem like that big of a deal when I was a kid. Most of my friend's parents weren't soulmates either." He takes another swig of wine before glances at Felicity. "Were yours?"
"My parents?" She laughs, once, but it comes out kind of strangled sounding. "No, definitely not."
"I guess it's just something I never really thought about before," he says. "Like, I know my...she's out there somewhere but I never really felt this like, overwhelming compulsion to find her or anything. But now that I'm back I feel like it's all anyone's talking about."
"Don't you want to know though?" she asks. "Aren't you curious?"
Oliver shrugs hesitantly. "I don't know. I'm not saying that I don't want to know but I kind of like the mystery of the whole thing."
"Ugh, I hate mysteries." Felicity shudders. "They bug me."
"You don't think it's romantic?" he teases. "All that" -
"Total unknowing? Pining for someone who doesn't even realize you exist yet?" She makes a face. "No thanks. I'll find him when I find him and until then I'm going to live my life." She gestures at the wine and ice cream. "Which is clearly is going just perfectly."
"My sister thinks I should date," he admits. "She's afraid if I don't find my soulmate I'll be alone forever."
"Sounds like she just wants you to be happy," she points out cautiously.
"I guess," Oliver mumbles. He's not sure why it's even bothering him so much.
Maybe because before the island (which feels like an entire lifetime ago) he always had one (or two, or three) girls hanging around at any given time. Women used to spread their legs for him like it was magic, all it took back then was a few sweet words and drinks charged to his black card and a pretty smile.
Oliver doesn't remember how to smile like that anymore.
"Hey," Felicity says, nudging his knee with her own. "What do you think?"
"I think I'd be a terrible soulmate," he says honestly, because something about Felicity makes him want to confess, to just be honest.
She frowns. "Why would you say that?"
Oliver squirms a little, clutching onto the wine bottle so hard his knuckles turn white. "You didn't know me back then but I was different, before the island."
"Okay...?"
He lets out a little noise of frustration. "Everyone acts like I ... like I just went on vacation or something. Like things can just go back to the way that they were before, but..." Oliver trails off, shaking his head.
Felicity reaches out lays her hand over his forearm. "The island changed you," she assesses. "Of course you're different."
Oliver exhales, feeling a warm wave of relief that somebody understands, even if it's just some random tech girl from his family's company who happens to keep popping up when he least expects it.
"I think it messed me up," he confesses, his chest fluttering with shame. "I'm messed up."
Her thumb runs over his sleeve. "Don't you think," Felicity ponders. "That your soulmate would be able to handle it? I mean isn't that the whole point of a soulmate? They're perfect for you, right? So even if you are messed up, which come on Oliver, anyone who went through what you went through would be messed up, that wouldn't...it wouldn't make you anything less to your soulmate, 'cus you know...soulmates."
"I guess," he hedges. "I've never really thought about it like that."
Felicity smiles gently. "Sometimes you just need a different perspective." She holds out her hand for the wine and Oliver passes it to her. Their fingers brush and he swears that he feels twinge of electricity at the point of connection between their fingertips.
He's a little drunk, not that bad, but definitely a little, his stomach warm and heavy. He didn't eat much dinner earlier; Raisa had made Beef Wellington, which Oliver used to love. But he just sat there, chewing with a dry mouth, remembering the first time he shot a deer with one of his rudimentary carved arrows.
Oliver had sat on the ground in the dirt next to the dead deer, pulling the arrow out slowly as its blood spread over the dirt. He'd had laid one hand over the deer's head and murmured, forgive me, forgive me, before hacking the poor animal into pieces and cooking it over a campfire.
He hadn't even known there were deer in China.
"Oliver." Felicity's fingers squeeze his arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Her hand is small but her fingers are strong when they squeeze and she's looking up at him like she's worried about him. "I never called you," he realizes.
"Oh," she says, and smiles. "That's okay. It's not like - I mean it's not like you took me on a date and promised you would call me, right? It's fine, it's not like I was expecting anything, I mean, of course you can call me, you know that, I hope you know that anyway." Felicity winces a little. "But no pressure or anything."
He grins. "How's that filter?"
She groans exaggeratedly. "Worse when I'm drinking." Which she follows up by taking a huge swig. "But since we're not judging."
Oliver chuckles. "No judging."
Felicity sighs and tilts her head until it rests on his shoulder. Oliver relaxes into it, her weight on him, solid and real. His whole body feels heavy and loose, he thinks maybe for the first time since he's come home he's actually feeling something like relaxed.
"Okay," she announces, squeezing his arm a final time before releasing him. "Time to go before I drink more and really get my babble on."
"Walk you home?" he offers.
Felicity rises from the bench and links her arm in his. "If you don't mind."
"Of course not," he says, suppressing the urge to make some crack about how vulnerable she'd be out here without him. He gets the impression Felicity wouldn't like the insinuation that she's anything less than a badass.
She doesn't live far, maybe ten minutes away. It's kind of soothing, walking with her, the comfort of her elbow linked in his. Like last time, he walks her right up to her door, watching as she turns the key.
"Well," she says, leaning against the door frame. "Thanks for the drink."
"Thanks for the company."
She smiles again, lingering with one hand on the doorknob. "You should really get some sleep."
"Yeah," he nods. "Definitely."
She laughs a little, like she can tell he's totally bullshitting her but doesn't call him on it, because Felicity is nice like that. "Goodnight Oliver."
"Goodnight Felicity."
She lingers again, walking backwards into her condo almost in slow motion, like she's torturing him on purpose, holding one hand up and mouthing goodnight when she shuts the door.
Oliver stands there on her little porch, frozen for a moment, listening to the scrape of the lock turnover. Breathing slowly and wondering if she's on the other side of the door thinking of him out here, separated by two inches of wood.
He walks back to the Range Rover, unlocks the car and gets in the backseat instead of the front. He's not really drunk drunk but he's not a total moron either, he knows he shouldn't drive right now. He sprawl back with his legs kicked out and pulls out his phone, the clock informing him that it's now one in the morning. Oliver opens up his email app and composes an email to Jake, the sommelier who works with Verdant sometimes, asks him to send a bottle of top shelf red (price is no object, he types, feeling kind of like an asshole) to Felicity's address and to charge it to Oliver's account.
He leans back against the seat and closes his eyes; a few minutes later Jake emails him back about some fabulous Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux Red Blend.
Fine, Oliver replies, and confirms the address without even checking the price because what does he care, it doesn't matter to him (or his obscenely high credit limit). What matters is that it's for Felicity, that he can do something nice for her, after basically hijacking her evening and whining about how his mother and stepfather are soulmates, boo-fucking hoo, Oliver.
He realizes suddenly, that Felicity didn't talk about herself or her night at all really, why she was out so late, why there were bruises under her eyes. She just listened to him, like she actually cares, and offered gentle advice without giving a lecture.
He slumps down in the backseat, doors locked, using his sweatshirt as a makeshift pillow, one hand curving over the mark on his ribs, and wonders if his luck is just too plain bad to get a soulmate even close to someone like Felicity. He drifts for awhile, eyes shut, thinking of atonement, the blankness of his mother's face when she looks at him, the warmth he only feels when he's near a certain blond. He breathes slowly like that, curled up in the car in the dark, trying to hold on to the imagined heat of Felicity until he can't feel anything else.