A/N:Okay readers I'm warning you now - the first section of this chapter contains Oliver/Helena. Please don't throw things at me, I have no justification for why my brain makes me do certain things.
Oliver stumbles downstairs at seven o'clock on Sunday night for family dinner and freezes in the foyer, suddenly feeling naked even though he's wearing black Helmut Lang slacks and a grey Vince cashmere sweater.
Helena Bertinelli is standing in the foyer, wearing a hunter green dress and plum lipstick, black pointy toe stilettos with thin straps crawling up her ankles, and standing next to her is her father, one of his hands rested paternally on her arm.
"Oliver, you're late darling!" His mother emerges from the sitting room holding a martini, Walter trailing behind her.
Oliver blinks at her, baffled. "What's going on?"
"Family dinner, darling. Remember?" His mother gives him a concerned smile.
Oliver swallows, feeling the heat of Helena's eyes on him. "You didn't tell me they were coming."
His mother laughs and pats his shoulder patronizingly. "You'll have to excuse Oliver, he seems to have left his manners back on The Gambit."
The rebuke lands like a slap, he ducks under his mother's hand and steps back away from her. He can see a flicker of pity on Helena's face out of the corner of his eye. "I'm going to get a drink."
He doesn't hear his mother's excuses for his behavior as he retreats to the bar and pours himself a generous vodka soda, gets a few good gulps in before taking a deep breath and walking back out to the wolves waiting for him.
Thea has apparently somehow managed to get out of dinner because of a sleepover so he's on his own, outnumbered by his mother, Walter, and the Bertinellis. Oliver follows them to the sitting room for an interminable cocktail hour, nose in his glass, before it is finally time to sit at the table for dinner.
His mother and Walter sit at the head and foot of the table, Helena next to her father and directly across from Oliver. Their parents discuss business over their spinach and strawberry salads while slowly and steadily getting bombed on martinis.
Oliver busies himself with getting properly drunk so he can get through this, watching Helena line up all her strawberries on one side of her plate, scraping them free of the vinaigrette dressing before eating them one by one. She sighs quietly before fixing Oliver with a little smirk.
Bored? Helena mouths.
He shrugs minutely, smiling just a little, and raises his glass to her before tossing back his drink.
"Raisa, can you please bring out another round of cocktails along with the soup?" his mother calls out.
Raisa appears a few minutes later along with a few staff members who work in the kitchen with her. The salad plates get replaced with butternut squash soup and everyone gets a fresh martini. Oliver's buzzed, his whole body warm and relaxed back in his chair as he trails his spoon idly through his soup.
The sharp point of a shoe brushes his shin.
Oliver startles, his head snapping up. Helena gives him an innocent smile and runs her foot up to his knee. Oliver doesn't flinch this time, lifting one eyebrow like a dare, because when he looks at her all he can think is basically, yeah, sure, why not?
She continues to play with him under the table as the soup course is taken away and replaced by rosemary chicken and roasted potatoes. Oliver picks at his food, unable to think beyond the pinpricks of pleasure-pain she leaves on his legs, all the while smiling demurely at their parents, taking delicate sips of her drink.
And then Helena puts the ball of her foot right up against his crotch and Oliver chokes on his drink, dropping his head to cough into his elbow.
"Oliver!" his mother exclaims. "Here, have a sip of water sweetheart."
He complies, feeling Helena pull her foot away, his cheeks flushing pink. They get through the rest of dinner without looking at each other; Oliver uncomfortably hard and overwhelmed, Helena sly and silent while dinner gets cleared to make room for desert.
"Oliver, Walter and I have some business to discuss with Frank. Why don't you take Helena upstairs and show her the new Pissarro?"
"What?" he asks dumbly. They've been discussing business for the past two hours, he's so bored he would cry if he wasn't drunk already.
"The Pissarro darling, it's hung in the upstairs study," his mother says with an impatient wave of her hand. "Go on, desert won't be ready to serve for another twenty minutes."
Oliver rubs his forehead as if that will make her words translate into something he understands. "You want us to go... look at a painting?"
"I'd love that," Helena says warmly, although her eyes are cold and calculating. "I absolutely adore the impressionists, don't you Oliver?"
"Yeah," he blurts out, because he knows an out when he sees one.
He gets up from his chair and walks out of the dining room with Helena, who follows him around the first floor back to the foyer and the stairs. She's two steps above him the whole time, her swinging ass in that tight dress right in front of his face all the way up.
She's been to his house before, he knows she intentionally turns the wrong way down the hallway in the direction of his bedroom instead of the study. She stops with her hand on the knob of the door to his bedroom and turns to give him a mischievous smirk.
Oliver leans forward, spreading one hand flat on the door so she's boxed in. "Are you sure this is the right room?"
Her eyes rake over him rather shamelessly and she opens the door, stepping back into his bedroom. He follows her inside and shuts the door, making sure to turn the lock. When he turns around she's right there, hands at his hips, and Oliver shivers.
He steps around her, sliding out of her grip, so he's facing her and the door and slowly walks backwards towards the bed, eyebrows raised like he's daring her to chase him. She takes slow steps towards him, their eyes locked, tension tight as a wire between them. The backs of his knees hit the bed and Oliver sits on the edge of the mattress, spreading his thighs apart as she steps in between his legs.
Helena pulls up the hem of her dress and rolls down a scrap of lace so she can kick her underwear off and Oliver's brain short-circuits.
"What-what are you doing?" he asks hoarsely. He knows what they're doing in general, but he wasn't expecting, well, this.
Helena reaches out and takes his hands, pulls them up to cup her naked hips, the skirt of her dress rucked up around her waist. "I haven't been with anyone since Michael," she confesses softly. "And you, Oliver Queen, look like you haven't been with a woman in a very long time."
He swallows, stroking her bare skin. "And?"
She puts her hands on his shoulders and swings up on the bed so she's straddling his lap. "I thought we could help each other with that. But if you're not interested..."
Oliver slides his hand in between her legs and she gasps. "Our parents are right downstairs," he reminds her.
It's a little twisted but so are they, he supposes. It's not really that surprising, the two of them, like this. He remembers what Tommy said about her fiancé. In some ways she's probably the only one who understands what it feels like, to be him, to be the survivor.
The one left to be haunted by the ghosts of loved ones with bullets in their skulls, lungs full of seawater.
He wonders idly if she dreams of her fiancé the way he dreams of Sara, if she's visited by an apparition at night with dead eyes and accusing hands.
She licks her bottom lip, head dropping back. "Just. No strings attached. Two friends. Helping each other..."
"Yeah, sure, okay," he agrees, because it's kind of perfect and fucked up and about exactly all that he can handle right now.
It's been years since he's touched a woman like this but his fingers remember what to do, how to make her shudder and moan until she dives for the button on his pants. She gets her hand around him and Oliver has to choke back a groan, everything whiting out at the sensation of it, her breath hot against his skin, her hair falling around them like a curtain.
Before he has the chance to worry about where the fuck he might be able to procure a condom she's reaching one hand down into her bra, producing a little foil packet with a wry smile.
He leans back on his elbows to watch her roll it down on him, lifting his hips so she can pull his pants down to his knees. Her thighs bracket his hips and Oliver has to shut his eyes for a second, total sensory overload as she sinks down onto him.
She falls forward, her mouth finding his. It's fast and dirty, her teeth scraping his ear, his hands clutching at her hips, feeling them roll back and forth in a steady insistent rhythm until they're panting into each other's mouths, her hands woven through his hair.
It's so easy to let go when he feels her clamp down around him, crying softly into his mouth. He falls all the way back against the bed, one hand on her neck to bring her head to his chest. They lay there for a minute, breathing heavily, before Helena rolls off him, her cheeks flushed and eyes glazed over.
"Hey," Oliver whispers but she pulls away, climbs down from the bed and discreetly grabs a tissue from the box on the nightstand.
Oliver disposes of the condom and pulls his pants back up with shaking hands. Helena smooths her dress back down and meets him by the door, self-consciously combing her hair back with her fingers.
"Hey," he tries again, his hand light on her wrist. "Are you okay?"
She doesn't quite catch his eyes but she nods and kisses his cheek. "Thank you, Oliver," she murmurs, and pulls her arm away.
/
Oliver spends a few days in a daze. He skips the gym, he doesn't go to Verdant. He unlocks his phone just to stare at Felicity's name.
He doesn't know what's wrong with him. Sex used to relax him but ever since that night he's felt unsettled, running for hours in the middle of the night only to go back home and lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he's done to deserve being tortured this way.
He hasn't talked to Helena since that night but no surprises there, they never were those kind of friends anyway. It haunts him a little, remembering the look she'd given him as she walked out of his room, like she'd been searching for something and now that she had it she didn't want it anymore.
Like he was a mistake.
He ignores Tommy's texts demanding to know why Oliver hasn't showed his face at Verdant, ignores his pointed observation that Helena hasn't been at Verdant all week either. He's reverting back to pre-island Oliver, whose primary method of problem-solving was pretending the problem didn't exist at all.
So it figures that he'd run into Felicity at Starling Grill on Thursday when he's running on four hours of sleep, his head full of sand while waiting in line for a salad bowl, Dig holding down a table in the far corner of the restaurant, talking to his wife on his Bluetooth.
She's two customers ahead of him, paying for a Thai rainbow salad, Oliver just catches the sound of her voice asking the cashier if he's absolutely sure that there are no peanuts or peanut sauce whatsoever on it. She's wearing a cream lace trench coat over a dark red dress with a flared skirt, revealing the curves of her legs as she sways slightly in her pumps, handing her credit card over to be swiped.
Oliver smiles to himself, stepping up to order a chopped Cobb salad for Dig and a Greek salad with chicken for himself. He feels strangely shy, unsure if he should really be bothering her on her lunch break. It's almost enough, just knowing she's here, six feet away, the light hitting her pale hair, making it glow like a halo.
There's a scraping sound to his left and Oliver turns just in time to see Felicity catch the edge of her heel against a chair and he lunges for her, catching her by the elbow, his other hand on her waist as he helps her regain her balance.
"Oliver!" Felicity exclaims, clutching onto his forearm with her free hand, the packaged salad safely tucked under her arm, using her grip to pull herself upright.
"Hey," he says, his whole body relaxing for the first time in what feels like forever. "Are you okay, are you hurt?"
"Only my pride," she says, flashing him a smile. "You're not secretly a superhero, are you?"
Oliver blinks. "Excuse me?"
She flushes, smoothing back a few loose tendrils of hair. "You're just always swooping in to save me out of nowhere, you know, you're very, um. Heroic."
Oliver chokes on a laugh. "I don't think anyone's ever called me that before."
Felicity tilts her head at him. "Well you certainly have the freakish good looks part down."
"Uh...thanks, I think?" he says with a chuckle.
"Compliment!" she exclaims. "That was definitely a compliment." She pushes up the frame of her glasses. "So anyway, thanks for saving my ass from the floor. How are you?"
Oliver swallows. "I'm okay."
Her forehead wrinkles, like she doesn't believe him. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's nice to see you."
Her pretty blue eyes widen fractionally. "It's nice to see you too."
"Order for Queen!" the cashier announces.
Oliver leans in and cups her elbow, feeling something in his chest settle at the contact. "Have lunch with me?" he asks.
Her eyelashes flutter. "Lunch?"
"Yeah, just - wait for me?" He pays for the salads and gestures for Felicity to follow him to the back table where Dig is waiting, an amused smile on his face.
He introduces Felicity to Dig and within five minutes they're chatting like two long lost best friends while Oliver watches them, mentally trying to keep up, as their conversation veers from QC's latest applied science presentation to the military strike in Afghanistan last week, whether workers in the The Glades are going to strike in protest of one of the last health clinics closing.
Felicity barely finishes half of her salad before she checks the time on her phone and jumps up from the table, exclaiming that if she doesn't leave right now she's going to be late and she can't be late because her supervisor is a brown nosing anal-retentive troglodyte who's had it out for her since she was hired just because he thinks having a uterus means she doesn't know how to code.
Oliver blinks very fast before wisely choosing not to respond verbally, instead picking her coat off the back of her chair and holding it out for her to step into because fuck you very much Mom, he still has manners.
"Thank you," Felicity says, hitching her bag over her arm. "I guess I'll see you around Oliver?"
She opens her arms and Oliver steps into them without thinking, wrapping one of his arms across her back in response. Her cheek is right up against his jaw, he can smell the floral scent of her shampoo and for a second he blanks out, everything in his body settling, the anxiety he's been living with all week washing away at the feel of her in his arms, like she belongs here.
Felicity clears her throat and he realizes they've been hugging a little too long for acquaintances, and quickly pulls away.
"If you ever need saving you know who to call," he says, unable to suppress a small cheeky grin because he loves the way she's looking at him right now, like it's taking everything in her to walk away.
Felicity smiles, reaching up to wind a finger around her ponytail. "I'll keep that in mind."
He stares at her as she walks out, watching her skirt swirl around the soft curve of her calves as she steps through the glass doors and out onto the sidewalk.
"So," Dig says behind him, breaking Oliver out of his trance. "That's the girl from QC?"
"Yeah, that's her," Oliver confirms. "That's Felicity."
Dig breaks out into peals of laughter. "Boy, you are in a world of trouble. That girl just ran circles around you."
Oliver nods, staring out at the window even though Felicity is out of sight. "I think I kind of like that about her."
Dig laughs and laughs, patting Oliver's arm. "Good man."
/
Sara's laughing, shoulders doing a little sexy shimmy as she peels her robe off. The lights flicker but Sara just laughs and laughs and there's a terrific cracking noise and then water is rushing in, it's everywhere, and Sara scream and screams -
Oliver jackknifes up in bed with his hands outstretched, he swears he can still feel her, cold slippery skin slipping out of his grip. He stumbles out of bed and into his bathroom, peeling his sweat-soaked shirt and boxers off as he goes.
He takes a hot shower with his forehead pressed against the tiled wall, hands clenched into fists at his sides, ears ringing from the echo of her screams. He washes mechanically, staying in the shower until the water runs cold.
He can never fall back asleep after a dream like that so he doesn't try. He pulls on a clean pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt, wanders out the hall and downstairs, thinking about pouring a glass of something from the bar in the den and watching a movie until he feels marginally relaxed, but when he gets to the bottom of the stairs he sees Thea sneaking in the front door, teetering in a sky high pair of Louboutins, wearing only a tiny black fringed minidress.
At three in the morning.
"Hey," he hisses, jogging across the cavernous foyer. "Where the hell of you been?"
Thea blinks languidly in response. Her hair is a wild mess of curls and black eyeliner is smudged all over her eyelids.
"Thea," he snaps.
His sister laughs, low and throaty, and pushes him away. "Relax, Ollie."
"Thea, it's three in the the morning."
"So?" She lifts an eyebrow and gestures wildly around. "You see Mom complaining?"
"Thea"-
"Mind your own business, Ollie."
"Speedy, c'mon, I'm just worried"-
"Well don't be." Her voice is flat. "The big brother routine is cute but you can save it." Thea kicks off her heels, leaving them scattered across the marble floor tiles. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time."
She walks away from him, weaving through the foyer and up the stairs, like she's floating, leaving Oliver alone in the foyer, staring down at the soles of her abandoned shoes, viciously red against the floor tiles.
/
He goes back to Verdant on Saturday, but only because Tommy threatens to come to the mansion and drag him out by his hair.
Oliver enters through the back, walking down the narrow hallway past the stock room and Tommy's office, stopping when he hears a door creak open. He turns at the sound and catches Laurel of all people slipping out of Tommy's office, dressed in a sharp black suit jacket over a white silk blouse and skinny black pants. Her eyes widen in surprise, she nods at him and shuts the door all the way.
"Oliver, hello." Laurel doesn't come any closer but she doesn't back away either, which for them is progress.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
"Just helping Tommy with some contracts," she says quickly.
"Oh. I didn't... know that you did that."
Laurel shrugs. "I was just leaving so... I'll see you around?"
"Yeah, sure."
Laurel sort of grimaces, like she wants to smile but just can't get there. "Bye, Ollie."
Oliver has to take a minute, wait for the guilt he always feels around her to settle before making it down the stairs into Verdant, finding Tommy in the VIP room chatting about the current drink menu with Roy, just fucking perfect.
"Well look at you," Tommy says cheerfully as Oliver approaches, eying Roy warily. "Finally get out of bed, did you?"
"Fuck you," Oliver mumbles, acutely aware that Roy is staring blatantly at him, arms crossed over his chest. "I need a drink."
"Roy," Tommy says, having the gall to snap his fingers and the younger boy rolls his eyes but walks away in the direction of the bar.
Tommy clamps one of his hands over Oliver's shoulder. "This going to be a problem for you?"
Oliver sighs and shakes his head.
"Look," Tommy says. "Just stay for a few hours, have a drink, maybe talk to a pretty girl. That's all I'm asking for here, Ollie."
He doesn't know how to explain to Tommy that somehow even that feels like too much, how can he when Tommy's basically running the club all by himself, puts up with Oliver's ever shifting attitudes and absences with little more than gentle teasing?
"Yeah, sure," he says, and sinks into a chair.
Roy returns a few minutes later, holding a drink out to Oliver, his other hand braced against the back of his chair. "Stoli, neat."
Oliver reaches out and takes the glass from him. "Thank you. Look, I'm... sorry about the other night."
"Whatever," Roy mumbles. "Let me know when you want a refill."
It's not exactly forgiveness but Oliver's not looking for that kind of understanding anyway so he nods, tips the vodka back and swallows until his chest burns. He does exactly as Tommy asks, sits in his chair, drinks the vodka Roy brings him every forty-five minutes, smiles blandly as pretty girls walk by.
By one am he's pretty drunk; music pounding in his ears like waves crashing against a boat, relentless. He finds Tommy, who takes one look at him and sighs, shaking his head, and gives him permission to leave. Oliver stumbles outside, pulling cold night air into his lungs like it'll sober him up.
He doesn't want to go home.
And then he remembers suddenly, that Felicity lives around here, and maybe it's the alcohol talking but it suddenly seems like a brilliant idea, just to walk by her condo, greedily craving that feeling he only gets around her, like maybe things aren't really that bad, like one day he won't wake up cold and full of remorse.
Except he doesn't just walk by, he walks all the way up to her front door and before he can stop himself he knocks, like some drunk crazy person. By the time she answers the door he's already walking away, cursing his own stupidity.
"Oliver?" Felicity stands in the doorway, illuminated by the little porch light. She doesn't have makeup on and her hair is piled in a messy knot on the top of her head. She's wearing a long white tee shirt with a panda bear on it and no pants, Jesus Christ.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd just"-
"Do you want to come in?" she asks.
He blinks at her, the words taking a second to resolve. "Okay."
She steps aside to let him in and Oliver drags himself into her condo, loose limbed from the vodka. There's a lamp on in the entryway, a kitchen to his left, flashes of color everywhere.
"Oliver." Felicity's standing up on her tiptoes, her hands on his shoulders. He blinks rapidly, he must have zoned out.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry, I - I don't even know why I'm here."
"That's okay." Her voice is soft and soothing.
"I shouldn't..." he swallows, feeling stupid and strangely vulnerable like this.
"Come on." She pulls him into the living room and sits him down on a purple couch. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he says automatically. "I'm just... Tommy, that's my best friend, he manages the club I own. He got me kind of drunk."
"Nice friend," she says wryly.
Oliver shrugs. "It's what Wasps do, right?"
"Wouldn't know, I'm Jewish." Felicity sighs and to his surprise leans down and pushes his hair away from his forehead. "Stay here, I'll get you some water."
He leans back against her couch and lets his eyes shut. He doesn't know why but it feels right, being here, with Felicity's soft hands and soft voice. He rubs his hand absently against his side, feels the earth spin under his feet as he breathes shallowly.
"Oliver." He opens his eyes to Felicity holding a cup of water in a plastic tumbler in one hand and a bottle of ibuprofen in the other.
"Thanks." He takes two pills and swallows down all the water. "I should go," he says, at the same time she blurts out, "Do you want to crash here?"
And then they both say "What?" and Felicity breaks into giggles.
"Stay," she says, running her thumb over the back of his hand. "The couch pulls out."
Oliver blinks heavily. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, definitely. You, mister, look like you need some sleep."
He can't argue there, finds himself nodding along and helping Felicity pull the couch out into a double bed, watching as she flits around the room, gathering up a pillow and a set of sheets from the hall closet. "Are you going to be okay with this?" she asks. "Do you need anything else?"
"I spent five years sleeping on dirt, this is great, promise."
"Right," she says, slapping her hand over her forehead. "Well, um, if you need anything, I'll just be in my room." She tilts her head in the direction of the hallway.
"Okay."
Felicity smiles and then she's leaning in, her face a blur of creamy skin and blond hair, to plant a soft kiss against his cheek. "Goodnight Oliver."
"Goodnight, Felicity." He watches her walk away, staring at her bare thighs as she retreats to her bedroom.
He sinks down on the makeshift bed; pulling a turquoise patterned throw pillow to his chest. He doesn't expect to actually fall asleep, but the blankets smell like Felicity, like sunlight and roses and perfume, and he breathes it it, curls himself up under the weight of the fabric, body warm and heavy, falling asleep to the memory of her lips against his skin.