Hey, guys, I'm sorry I made you wait a little longer once again. I promise I won't turn this into a habit; it's just life's being weird at the moment. The biggest thank you to all the wonderful people who took the time to review. I'm delighted that you enjoy my version of Oliver and Felicity growing closer—but now it's time to pause the romance for a second to focus on the vigilantism a little. Hope you like it.

As always, a special thank you and extra hug to Albiona whose friendship, support, and help is everything.


You have a blind spot

Felicity had never gotten the hang of kicking in doors.

Jumping through windows was more her thing.

Shards of glass raining down on blackjack and roulette tables, Felicity burst through the skylight of the warehouse. Shocked screams accompanied her descent. A cable elegantly brought her feet to the top of a card-strewn table. Her black boots sent chips flying; champagne flutes tipped over. People scrambled away from her: men in impeccable tuxedos, woman in revealing dresses. Those people didn't interest Felicity. Her attention was on the people not running. Her feet had barely connected with the tabletop when she sent the first arrow through the room, knocking a gun out of a security guard's hand. Another arrow sliced through his hand, making it impossible for him to pick his weapon back up.

All illegal casinos run by the Triad were basically the same. It didn't matter if they were in Hong Kong, like the one Felicity had guarded, or in Starling City, like the one she stood in now: some things were a recurring certainty. The inside knowledge made Felicity kick back and bring her foot into the face of the card dealer behind her—to take him out before he could reach for the gun stored underneath the table.

His body went limp and Felicity moved, jumping to the next table. It rattled, abandoned glasses crashing, drinks spilling, but Felicity's eyes and mind were on the heavy wooden bar and the guy behind it. With a flip, she jumped from the table, kicking a man running toward her in the process, making him stumble back. Felicity didn't stop moving, continuing to the bar, aiming another arrow, sending it into the shoulder of the bartender. His grip on the machine gun he'd nearly been able to aim at her loosened. Using the gathered momentum, Felicity jumped onto the bar and—not letting go of her bow—used both hands to slam the barman's head against the counter. He sank down, unconscious. Before he was on the ground completely, Felicity had already taken cover behind the bar. Looking at the unconscious bartender with the cut on his forehead, Felicity counted the bullets hitting the counter she leaned against. She knew the bar was solid; it was meant to provide cover for Triad-members during a fight.

The splintering of wood, the vibration of the barrier next to her, the sounds of bullets being driven into it filled the air. It told Felicity a lot: there were three guys left, two standing on the right, one to the left. Two fired semi-automatic pistols (knowing the Triad, it were Sig Sauers P226, holding twenty bullets max), one used a submachine gun (last year the Triad had preferred Heckler and Hoch's UMP, but they didn't sound like that to Felicity). Readying her bow, Felicity continued counting, feeling lucky that the guys with the Sig Sauers weren't alternating their shooting, but wasting their twenty shots simultaneously.

When the magazines clicked (when had China White stopped making sure her grunts had the barest brain?), Felicity shot up from behind the bar and aimed at the machine gun-wielder who was still firing at the wooden bar. The arrows hit him in rapid succession, one into each thigh, making him lose his balance and his footing. Bringing her left, bow-free hand to the counter, Felicity jumped over it and raced toward the two men busy reloading their pistols.

In time for one of them to bring his gun up, Felicity reached him. Slapping his hand away with her forearm, she brought her elbow to his sternum, knocking all the air out of him and causing him to stumble backward. That gave Felicity time to move around the other guy, who fired a volley of bullets where Felicity had been before, effectively destroying a roulette table. He was much taller than Felicity, but she kicked the hollow of his knee, making him sag lower while she turned around to his front, hitting the base of her palm against his Adam's apple. He toppled over, perfectly positioned for her knee to crash into his face. Another turn and her bow connected with the jaw of the first man, cutting his skin open. After another scissor-kick he, too, was unconscious.

Instantly, Felicity reached behind her back, taking an arrow from her quiver. Her steps careful, she crossed the room and sent an explosive arrow at the door leading to the back room (just to avoid having to kick it in, she really sucked at that).

The detonation ripped through the high room, resonating between the bare walls of the warehouse. It was followed by a loud bang as the metallic door labeled "private" hit the ground, shaken from it hinges. Another arrow already in place, Felicity marched forward, stepped onto the door, and found five guys in expensive suits around a table. Instead of chips, dollar bills piled up, telling tales of a poker game with high stakes. The stack also seemed to involve jewelry—watches and rings—plus electronic devices. "Your game's over," Felicity informed them, voice altered by a scrambler.

The men's eyes danced around the room, searching for a way to get past the vigilante and escape. The sirens of the police alarmed by an anonymous caller (informing them of fighting going on in a warehouse down by the river) drew closer. The nervousness of the men grew.

"This is $100,000. It's yours. Just let us go."

Felicity fixed her eyes on the guy who had spoken up. He was the youngest, wearing an impeccable suit, cuff links, and a hopeful expression that died within a second. He couldn't see Felicity's eyes; her hood was pulled deep, casting a dark shadow over the upper half of her face. But he must feel them on him, because he started shaking under her stare, his lips trembling. Anger was pulsing off Felicity. How dare he! How dare he try to bribe her? How could he assume she could be bought!

Aggression leaking from her, filling the room, Felicity stepped closer to the table, brought her foot to the side of the tabletop and pushed it over. The contents clattered to the ground, scotch or bourbon or whiskey (or whatever) spilled onto the floor, flowing around shards and ice cubes, mixing with ashes of cigars. Rings rolled over the ground. Diamonds were knocked out of golden watches and a tablet slid over the ground, hitting a foot, only to be knocked back in the opposite direction. That device caught Felicity's attention—or rather: the red Smoak International logo printed on its visible backside did. It slid right to Felicity, coming to a stop near her.

Felicity let the drawn arrow, pointed unwaveringly at the gamblers, wander over the assembled men. Her electronically changed voice revealed the anger gripping her tightly. "That's a NO."

The sirens sounded from close by and Felicity knew that those five guys (three of them really out of shape) would have a hard time outrunning the police. Her eyes on the men, she let her bow sink. Watching them, she quickly picked up the tablet and backed out of the room. She ran through the main gambling room, stuffing the tablet into the waistband of her leather pants, and then aiming a cable arrow up. In the next moment she shot up toward the ceiling, leaving the way she had entered, through the skylight, just as policemen knocked the front door in, breaching the illegal Triad casino with their guns drawn.


The clanking of the salmon ladder welcomed Felicity as she returned to the base. Sara really enjoyed going up and down that thing. Her friend stopped her workout the moment she noticed Felicity entering, hood pulled back, revealing the tight bun low on her head and an angry frown on her face. Dangling from the rod, she asked, "What's up with you? Did the Triad give you trouble?"

"No." Despite the frustration filling her, Felicity made herself place her bow down gently. "Some asshole tried to bribe me into letting him go. What about my actions ever suggested that I was up for sale?"

"How much did he offer?"

"$100,000."

Sara pursed her lips (pre-island Felicity had never noticed how much that gesture resembled her dad). "Well, he didn't know that you spent more celebrating your sweet sixteen."

"I spent more celebrating your sweet sixteen." When her own words finally registered she hurried to add, "And that's not the point."

"I know." Sara's feet touched the ground with a 'thud.' "Don't be angry because that one guy tried to solve a problem by throwing money at it. It's probably his usual method."

"That's what makes me so angry, because I'm sure it usually works." Felicity unzipped her jacket and reached back for the waistband of her pants. "And I'm also angry because of this." She held the tablet out to her friend, who took it.

"It's from your family's company."

"Strictly speaking it's our family's company," Felicity corrected, shrugging her leather jacket off, revealing the black tank-top underneath. "Mom reminds me regularly how much our family grew and how nice that is. You should know that she always adds it would be even nicer if you didn't keep avoiding everybody, especially your dad. I promised to pass that message along."

Sara shifted her eyes away from the tablet for a second to send her friend an annoyed look. A sound from the tablet drew Sara's attention back to it.

Felicity's interest was caught, too. "Is it password-protected?"

"Nope," Sara smirked, looking up from the display. "There's no need to get Tubby involved."

"Please, stop calling him that." Felicity sounded tired. She felt tired. And she felt caught. Because, yes, if there had been a password on the tablet she might have been forced to go to a guy who claimed his name was "code-breaker". But Felicity knew that it'd be better this way. It was better not to get Oliver involved in her night job again, not to feed him another one of those stories built on omission, not to ask him to do something illegal for her, not to misuse his trust.

Their last meeting—and she was absolutely sure both of them knew it had been a date-date, even though both made sure not to call it that—had ended with a hug. A good hug. Oliver was a good hugger. It had been nice to feel engulfed by him, feel him soft and warm against her. Disappearing in his arms had made her feel strangely safe (even though she knew she could protect herself—and him, for that matter).

It had been Felicity's night off from arrow-ing. It had been her best night since returning to Starling City.

Lying in bed, oddly giddy and happy, she had admitted to herself that she wanted to keep spending time with Oliver, get to know him better, talk to and laugh with and… hug him. That admission came with the whole grey area (that might actually be pretty black-ish) of lying to somebody you cared about. But Felicity didn't want Oliver involved in her nightly activities, like she didn't want her mother and Quentin involved. Not because she didn't trust Oliver with her secret, but because he was better off not knowing. In the darkness of her room a quiet voice inside her had whispered that it was also much easier for her not to tell him, but she had managed to silence that traitorous echo of her conscience.

Considering all this, the tablet not having any security measures was the best option. Stepping next to Sara, who was busy studying the display, swiping and touching with her index finger, Felicity said, "It was part of the stock. Guess the owner ran out of money. How much is one? $600?"

"This one's worth a lot more," Sara said. Her face serious, she met Felicity eyes. "Much, much more."

"What? Why?" As an answer Sara turned the display toward Felicity, presenting a document of some kind, filled with…. "Are those account numbers?"

"Yes. And patent numbers, stock portfolios…. Basically everything you need for inside trading."

"Are you telling me somebody threw that in the pot of a poker game? That's worth millions."

"Makes getting bribed with $100,000 even worse, huh?!"

"Somebody's gambling with a way to steal from our family's company?" Anger was returning to Felicity, a burningly hot ball collecting in her stomach, making her insides turn.

"Yes." Sara was all seriousness. "But that's not something that's up the Arrow's alley."

"The hell it isn't! That's not just my alley, that's my address! Literally!" She gestured to the tablet still in Sara's hand. "Is there any chance to figure out whose tablet that is?"

"I think so…. I can give it a try, but… Fe, do you really want to confront one of your mother's employees under your hood? What if it's Tubby?"

"Don't call him that! And it's not Oliver."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know people. And I know he isn't like that."

A sad smile showed on Sara's face. "You're one of the smartest people I know, Fe, but you have a blind spot when it comes to men."

"Sara," she sighed her friend's name, "that was before. It's different with Oliver. He's different from the other men. Just try to see if you can find anything out—and if you do, I guarantee you it isn't in any way related to Oliver Queen."

Calmly, Sara's eyes rested on Felicity, taking her in for quite a while before nodding. "Okay. I'll look into it and have something for you tomorrow."


Oliver had tried to get out of his gym-membership for six months. And failed. Since he had to pay for another six months (minimum) he figured he might as well make the most out of his investment. Really this time. Getting up early wouldn't keep him from going like it had the last time—and the time before that.

His best friend approved, naturally. Diggle was crazy in shape. His arms were twice the size of Oliver's—and he wasn't even exaggerating much. John Diggle and his wife Lyla (also in crazy shape) always said that you had to be prepared when entering a warzone, physically and mentally.

Ever since his date two days ago with Felicity, Oliver felt like he had ended up in a warzone. The battlefield of Smoak International was nothing compared to the attacks launched via the internet.

Oliver Queen believed the internet to be one the biggest and best inventions of the 20th century. Oliver Queen loved the internet.

Until yesterday.

Today he felt like his big love had cheated, and then stabbed him in the back. Oliver wanted to break up with the internet (an absolutely impossible notion which made it even worse).

Apparently, there was a blog called "Smoak Detector" solely dedicated to Felicity Smoak. They had been the first to publish blurry cellphone photos of Felicity and him. "Starling's Starlets" had followed with different, sadly better pictures showing Oliver and Felicity in the coffee shop. (It was that barista, Oliver was sure of it!) They had also revealed Oliver's identity, quoting a "source close to the couple" with the information that Felicity liked "Oliver's dependability."

That was somehow insulting. Dependability! Made him sound like a dog, following Felicity around.

Which was exactly what people believed was happening.

Which was the unofficial reason for Oliver sitting on an ergometer, sweating more than should be humanly possible.

Oliver wasn't stupid. He was perfectly aware that Felicity Smoak and Oliver Queen sat on very different rungs of the social ladder (maybe the Smoaks even had their own ladder). Oliver could see why people might look at them having coffee together as two worlds colliding, as Felicity dating below her status, playing it safe after years of solitude.

Other people might belittle it like that. But he couldn't. Because going to the movies with Felicity, grabbing a cup of coffee together afterwards, had been perfect.

He didn't dare to call it a date, because he hadn't picked her up or brought her flowers or kissed her goodnight (but mostly because not calling it that kept some of the pressure at bay). Still, it had felt date-like. It had been easy and fun and amazing and… basically everything he hadn't dared to hope for before. Felicity had made sure Oliver knew she liked going out with him, being seen in public with him, that he was a guy she wanted to be associated with.

He believed her.

The way she had looked at him when she had told him she had looked forward to spending the night with him didn't leave any room for doubt. And the little awkward babble following hadn't left any chance not to be smitten by her. It was such an endearing trait—and a surprising one because nobody (especially not those allegedly insightful blogs) would believe Felicity Smoak, life of every party and former Queen of the DUI, to be embarrassed by accidental innuendo, to be awkward and shy around the awkward and shy Oliver Queen, a guy people considered "too fat and unimportant to bag a catch like the heir of Smoak International." (That was a direct quote, one of the many that made his insides turn for various reasons.)

None of that should matter.

But it did.

All of that had brought Oliver down to the gym this morning, before work, before breakfast. He was such an idiot, he realized, feeling somewhat light-headed.

Deciding he's had enough, he stopped pedaling. He felt like people were staring at him, judging his old sweatpants and the way his t-shirt marking him as a Starfleet Academy cadet stretched around his middle. Oliver had never felt uncomfortable in his body, but today he couldn't help but be self-conscious, while being angry at himself for his self-consciousness.

Keeping his head low, he made his way to the locker room. He had to shower here if he wanted to get to work in time—to brave the gossip happening there. He hadn't talked Felicity about that part; there wasn't any need for her to know.

He got the bag out of his locker and reached for his glasses to look at his phone. A message from Felicity waited for him. "Oliver, serious talk: I saw the blogs. I honestly didn't expect that. I'm sorry. I'd like to make it up to you by inviting you to dinner, but that might make things worse. I understand if you need space. I'm really sorry."

The smile taking over his face was fueled directly by the emotions running through him. The tingle in his chest told him one thing clearly: space was the last thing he wanted. His fingers flew over the display as he typed his answer. "Tonight?" He felt strangely giddy as he put his phone back and reached for his big, fluffy towel. She was a remarkable woman. Those bloggers didn't know a thing.


Felicity was good with window-crashing.

She needed to remember that, focus on that. Because she seriously wasn't good with heights. Standing on the roof of Smoak Tower, the wind tearing at her, as the sun vanished behind the horizon, her heart beat heavily in her chest. She concentrated on her breathing, on getting air in and out, and made herself remember that she had her arrows right here, that she could aim a cable arrow within a half-second and that they functioned flawlessly, which would keep her from plummeting to her death.

"You got this, Felicity," she told herself, her voice strong, steady, and already changed by electronics.

She knew without a doubt James Cliffort was at Smoak International and in his office—she knew, because Oliver had called two hours ago, sounding stressed and unhappy, to reluctantly cancel their dinner, because a guy from accounting had crashed a server. Felicity had told him she understood, that it wasn't a problem (only a little disappointing but she had managed not to tell him that), and she had practiced her small talk by asking him what had happened.

Oliver had been so distressed that he had apparently missed a chance to rate her small-talking-skills. Instead, he had told her that James Cliffort was an idiot and that it was that idiot's own fault he had to spend his Friday night in his office.

Felicity had the feeling James Cliffort wasn't exactly an idiot. She suspected he was acting very purposefully.

James Cliffort was the name Sara had found on the tablet. He was the guy the Arrow needed to have a very serious conversation with. And apparently tonight was the perfect night to get that over with.

Taking one last, deep breath in the twilight turning to darkness around her, Felicity walked to the edge of the skyscraper. It was important to make an entrance—Felicity knew that from first-hand experience. She wouldn't let herself be held back by her fears; she confronted them time and time again.

Felicity jumped. She fell, the wind tearing at her. She aimed an arrow and let go at just the right moment. The familiar jerk going through her body told her she was secure. Her legs stretched out, she crashed through the window, glass shattering, rolling over her shoulder, and standing tall in the next moment, her bow drawn. An arrow aimed at the heart of the man sitting behind his desk.

It was the guy who had tried to bribe her two night ago.

He looked as scared and helpless as he had in the backroom of the illegal casino. "James Cliffort," Felicity said and very much enjoyed the way that idiot's eyes widened at hearing his name rasped out in the technologically twisted voice filled with aggression. "You have failed this city." More like: he had failed this company, but Felicity preferred to stick to her trademark line.

"I—" Cliffort's voice vibrated with nerves turning into fear. "What—" He swallowed, "The Triad made me do it. They needed a way to launder their money."

Wow, that was a pretty perfect confession.

"Please," he begged, shifting his weight uneasily. "They'll kill me if they find out I talked to you."

"Tell the police when they arrest you." The arrow was still perfectly aimed. "They'll place you in solitary custody."

"No," he urged, with the perfectly side-parted black hair and the impeccable suit, "please, no." He reached for a picture on his desk. "I'm engaged." He held the picture out to her, showing her the image of a pretty girl with wild red curls, looking pretty and special. "My fiancé, Valery, she'll be heartbroken."

The guy had to be kidding her! Valery was lucky to find out what kind of guy she was engaged to and who he was doing business with. (And that was a pretty judgmental thought for a woman who kept her true self from the guy she was sort-of dating.) It was this thought that distracted her for the barest moment, that made her notice one heartbeat too late that Cliffort was actually using the photo to distract her, to catch her eyes, to move her attention away from his right hand and the—

The gunshot echoed through the room before Felicity could finish the thought. In a perfectly trained reaction, she let go of the bowstring. The arrow had barely started flying away from her when she was hit. The force of the bullet entering her shoulder pushed her back, made her stumble. A yell hit her ears and she knew that she had hit her target, too. But she couldn't contemplate that, couldn't check or react. Felicity felt the blood flowing from her wound and she knew she had a problem. It wasn't a light shoulder wound. It was bad, really, really bad.

Her survival instincts kicked in immediately with one very clear and urgent thought: she had to get out of here. Not thinking any further, hearing more yells coming from outside of the small office, Felicity ran toward the glassless hole that had once been a window and jumped, praying she had the strength to actually launch that cable arrow, despite the blood seeping from her and the numbness taking over her shoulder.