I'm relieved that the previous chapter worked for you. I know Felicity being stupid (a sentence that just feels wrong!) was the stereotypical stubborn vigilante thing to do, but it just had to happen. I hope this chapter makes it up to you.

Albi, thanks for sharing your awesomeness with me.


It was red

Felicity Smoak had failed the people she loved.

That was such a melodramatic thing to think, but Felicity couldn't keep this exact realization from weighing her down. It was the truth.

She had failed her mission to cure Slade Wilson and level the battlefield. Her plan of attack had burst into flames within the first seconds, but she hadn't given up, had fought and tried and… yes, failed. That was just it: a huge failure that rested on Felicity—her shoulders, her conscience, her everything.

She tried to make sense of it, of what had happened, of what had to happen next, of what she was feeling.

Again, she failed.

There just wasn't any sense to it. She didn't know what to do, and her emotions were all over the place. Reality made her feel numb, defeated in every sense, while at the same time there was some sort of frantic energy tearing at her insides that she just didn't have the strength to act on.

Felicity did the only thing she could in this situation: she followed Sara's lead, riding behind her on Sara's bike, ditching it to climb down into the sewers and walk through smelly water.

In silence the two women made their way across the city, underground, hidden from prying eyes and security cameras. Lost in her dark thoughts, Felicity moved automatically, mimicking Sara's actions without really thinking about them. She was so much in her own head that she actually startled when Sara stopped and broke the silence. "Nyssa's place is right above us."

Blinking, Felicity came back to the here and now, finding herself in a moist and smelly tube only illuminated by the bright white cone of the flashlight Sara held. She directed the light upward and at an iron ladder. With a flick of her wrist, Sara told her stepsister to get up there. Felicity didn't react to the wordless order. She couldn't. She couldn't climb up there and face the people she had disappointed.

"Felicity," Sara said, voice hardening into something an elementary school teacher might use, "get up there."

"Why? After the way I acted before. To return with my tail between my legs?" Hearing her own words coming out of her mouth, Felicity brought her hand to her face, agitated, only to touch the gaping cut on her forehead.

"Nobody up there will give you a 'we told you so,'" Sara said with more gentleness than Felicity felt she deserved. They had been right. She was the idiot returning with bruises and cuts and a messed up face and the clear knowledge that she wasn't good enough.

"Get up the ladder," Sara repeated. "If you don't, I'll have to knock you out and carry you—and if you make me do that, I'll be really pissed. You're heavy."

Felicity didn't have the strength to react, didn't have the strength to argue or comment. She simply followed the order, knowing that she deserved whatever stares filled with judgment and pity she'd receive from the people waiting above her.

Her wet boots made the thin metal pipes of the ladder slippery, but she climbed all the way to the top and found a round metal plate with a security panel next to it.

"1961," Sara said from below her and Felicity bit back commentary about 256-bit encryption. Instead, she punched the numbers in and the metal above her head slid to the side. The bright light shining through the hole blinded her for a second before it was blocked a little by two heads—Quentin and Nyssa. Felicity knew it was them, but couldn't make out their facial expressions. The shadows hid their features, making Felicity steel herself for every possible reaction.

"Thank God." Quentin's relief was audible. He reached for his stepdaughter, taking her arm to help her out of the hole.

Felicity found herself in the living room area of Nyssa's hideout. The carpet previously placed between couch and TV was rolled up, the coffee table pushed to the side. Felicity saw her mother rush toward her with her arms stretched out, but after two steps Donna froze. "Sweetie," she breathed, her eyes roaming her daughter's face and body.

Self-consciously Felicity brought her hand up but stopped mid-movement, remembering the cut on her forehead, the slices in her lip where her teeth had jammed into the flesh. "I…," Felicity started without any idea how to finish that sentence. There were too many possibilities, so many things to say: I am sorry. I failed. I didn't stand a chance. I shouldn't have faced Slade. I don't know what to do next. All of those statements were perfectly valid options, because they were all equally true. Still trying to decide which of those thoughts she wanted to voice first, she opened her mouth again. "I'll go wash up."

Choosing flight fit this whole fucking, never-ending day.

With quick, heavy steps, Felicity brushed past her mother and Oliver, away from Quentin hugging Sara and Nyssa bending down to close the hatch to the sewer, and hurried into the room she had already spent four hours hiding in. She made sure to close the door quietly.

When they'd first arrived and Nyssa had told her she could take the guest room if she wanted to rest, Felicity had been baffled. Who had a guest room in a hideout? The level of luxury in this room and all the others was ridiculous—especially for a safe house. It made Felicity wonder about Nyssa—shortly, because Felicity didn't have time to waste thoughts on things like the massive four-poster bed with the delicate carving in the dark wood, or the rich red sheets, or the adjoining marble and gold bathroom.

The last time Felicity had locked herself in this room, avoiding her family, ignoring their attempts to talk with her, she had tried to get her head straight, to create the right mindset for a fight, to get battle ready. She had known she needed to face Slade, she had known the only way to save her loved ones was to cure and fight Slade.

Seeing innocents gunned down that horrible night in Hong Kong, Felicity had promised herself not to kill again. That wasn't who she was anymore, or who she wanted to be. But she had also vowed to never stand by while innocents were hurt. And her mom, Oliver, Quentin, Nyssa, Sara—they were all innocent. Slade coming for them was Felicity's fault alone, and she had decided in this room that she would break her no-killing promise for them. She wouldn't let them sway her from this path she knew they didn't want her on. Hence, the hiding.

Now, Felicity was back to hiding, once more struggling to keep a calm and strategic mindset, but this time failing.

More failure, how fitting.

Standing in the opulent bathroom, her hands shook as she pulled the gloves off and let them drop into the sink, one after the other. They landed on the porcelain with a splat, blood slopping from them. Reluctantly, she met her reflection in the mirror. She had been right before; her face was a mess, smeared with blood, dried and fresh alike. She needed a shower. There also was huge tub (in the guest bathroom), but Felicity didn't feel like soaking in warm water, like relaxing and soothing her bruises. She just wanted to get rid of the blood as quickly as possible.

With shaking hands, she pulled the zipper of her jacket down. Shrugging it off her shoulders, she winced. Her ribs throbbed from crashing against the wall, her hip ached from being thrown to the floor, her leg pulsed pain where Slade had kicked her. Her body was sore and beaten. Taking her clothes off, untying her boots, pulling her tank over her head and her wet leather pants down her legs—everything was a struggle.

As was holding the tears back.

Being alone, she didn't hide her pained expression, didn't stop the groans from escaping her lips, but she fought against the burning sensation in her eyes that had been threatening to overwhelm her since she'd acknowledged her defeat in the sewers.

The water was hot and soothing as she stepped under the spray. She saw it turn red by her feet. The bloody water trailed down her body and into the drain, becoming a lighter color but never quite clear. Without thinking about it, without wasting any time, Felicity soaped her hair and body, rinsed, and turned the water off.

A huge towel wrapped around her torso, another, smaller one piling up on her head, she stepped in front of the bathroom mirror. She still looked awful, but now she could see the dark circles around her red eyes as well. The cut on her forehead was deep and still oozing droplets of blood. Felicity leaned forward to get a better look at her reflection but froze when a knock sounded from the bathroom door. After only a second of hesitation—before Felicity could decide whether she wanted to say 'go away' or 'come in'—the door opened slowly. Oliver appeared in the doorframe, a box with a tell-tale red cross in hand. He looked at her calmly, taking her in, before stepping into the room.

Felicity turned to him, avoiding his eyes by fixing on the med kit, and reached for it with a quiet "Thank you."

He moved the box with medical supplies out of her reach. "Let me have a look at your wounds."

"It's fine," she objected. "I can do it myself."

"I know you can. But you don't have to do everything on your own. Let me help you."

The gentleness in Oliver's voice made Felicity swallow. He got past her defenses way too easily, he always had. In this situation, in this state of mind, Felicity couldn't find it in her to put up a fight.

The double meaning of his words was obvious. He was talking about taking care of her wounds, but not just that. She knew Oliver and she knew she wouldn't get any more from him. The burning in her eyes intensified, fueled by her affection for him. She made sure not to blink or a tear would fall—and if one fell she wouldn't be able to hold the rest at bay.

"O—" Her voice broke. She started anew. "Okay."

His eyes roamed over her. Having just met her own horrible reflection in the mirror, Felicity had a good idea what he was seeing. Avoiding his gaze, Felicity glanced at his chest, suddenly realizing that he was still wearing the dress shirt he had deemed appropriate for a dinner with her parents. That seemed so far away, like a lifetime ago. The stains on the white cloth proved how much had happened since then. She breathed deliberately, fighting against defeated, desperate tears once more. Instead, she focused on the fact that Oliver had taken off the tie. That thought soothed Felicity, because it was very much her boyfriend. He hated ties and took them off the first chance he got. Knowing that, knowing him, calmed her in the most unexpected way.

"I'll clean the cuts first," he declared, ripping her out of her thoughts. He added gentle pressure to her shoulders, directing her to the edge of the tub. "Sit down."

She followed his instructions and turned to him as he sank down next to her and handed her the med kit, making her hold it for him.

He worked like Oliver Queen always worked: methodically, focused, without hesitation. But he was careful and gentle, too. He cleaned the cuts on her forehead and on her upper arm where Slade's blade had sliced her skin.

"I think you need stitches," he observed after a while, eyes on her forehead. "It's pretty deep." His gaze met hers. "You should get to the hospital."

"That's not happening," she rejected, determined. She looked at the medical supplies gathered in the box and held a tube up. "Squash the skin together and glue it with this." She hesitated, daring to meet his eyes. "Or should I? Because I've—"

"No." He took the tube from her, quickly unscrewing the lid. Once more, silence settled around them as Oliver worked, trying to close the gaping slit on her forehead. It stung, badly. A hiss escaped Felicity. Oliver's hand stilled instantly. "I'm sorr—"

"It's fine," she urged. "Keep going."

"Do you want something for the pain? There—"

"No." Her objection came with emphasis. She really didn't want to take anything. She wanted to keep a clear head, numbing the pain, of various kinds, felt like cheating. Felicity closed her hand around the edge of the bathtub, gathering herself. "Please, keep going."

Oliver did as she asked, again working in silence. By the time he was done, a constant burning had spread over Felicity's forehead. She didn't mind. It was one thing she knew she could deal with. The heavy silence and awkward atmosphere crowding around them, on the other hand, was really hard to handle. It wasn't them; they weren't awkward around each other (anymore).

Oliver left his spot next to her on the bathtub and gathered all the materials he had used. Felicity gazed at her lap, collecting the courage to say what she should have said the second she climbed out of the sewer. Or maybe even sooner. She should have said it back in the clock tower once everybody had been safe (or as safe as they could be, given the circumstances).

Turning her head, she looked up at Oliver standing next to her, so tall. "I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped to hers and his features softened. She saw all hardness leave his face, saw the warmth turning his blue eyes even bluer. (It shouldn't be impossible, but it was happening).

"Fel—"

She hurried to cut off the objection she knew was coming. "Don't say what's happening now isn't my fault, because it is. It's my past catching up with us." The burning in her eyes returned, so very different from the burning on her forehead. She concentrated on the latter.

Oliver put the medical supplies on the counter and sat back down next to her, reaching for her hands. "We all have a past."

A snort escaped her. "Yeah, but yours isn't getting me killed."

He swayed his head left, right, and left again. "I don't know. You don't know my ex." His hands closed around hers, sending comfort and a wordless demand for her full attention. "What happened with that guy… Ivo. I'm sorry." She shook her head, a little desperate. He didn't let her interrupt him. "No, Felicity. What he demanded you to do, that's… psychological…. That's torture. I know you, and I know that you were willing to die for Sara that day. Just like you went to Slade today to die for us."

"Dying was only plan B."

"Oh," he huffed, unamused. "Good to know."

"Didn't work, though. Neither did plan A." She swallowed heavily, her eyes fixing on her lap again. "I couldn't inject him. I tried. There's nothing I can do to stop him."

"We'll figure it out."

It sounded like a promise—and it stirred unexpected anger within Felicity that brought her to her feet. She ripped her hand out of Oliver's hold, standing next to where he sat on the edge of the bathtub. "Don't!" she snapped, her hands clutching her towel against her chest. "Don't place your faith in me, Oliver. I don't deserve it. I really don't. Look at where it's brought you." She gestured around the room, realizing one second too late that all the gold and overall fanciness probably squashed the point she was trying to make. "Okay, this is quite nice—but it's still an underground bunker. There's a lunatic out there and he wants to—" She needed to take a deep breath. "He wants to hurt you and it's all because of me. I'm horrible."

"No, you're not. You're just being melodramatic."

"Oliver! The first time we met, I bruised you while taking your favorite screwdriver from you."

A heartbeat of silence followed Felicity's harsh words, and Oliver's lips curved into a smile. The reaction caught Felicity by surprise and she stared at him. He raised one eyebrow. "My favorite screwdriver?"

The question tripped Felicity. The aggravation drained from her. "Yes. The one you always use in the Factory to tinker with the servers or whatever. I remember you using it that day in mom's office. Or… not? I mean…. It was red."

The smile on his face grew. "Yeah. It was." He got up. "I can't believe you remember that."

"It was a memorable moment," she defended.

"It was," he agreed, entering her personal space. "But that wasn't the first time we met. The first time we met, you saved my life. … Most likely. You definitely saved my kneecaps."

"I—" Okay, that was technically true, but she had been under her hood, and he had only been somebody to keep safe, and it hadn't really been her and him meeting. Not really. "That was different."

"No, it wasn't." He insisted, cupping her cheek with his right. "I met you. I might not have known, but that woman fighting off those mobsters and then calming me down by letting me know the police were on their way, that's you. That's what I adore about you: your strength and your compassion. That's the core of who you are. You care and you fight for people. You take risks for them. … I can't even be angry with you for trying to die for us. Even though I really should be."

The stupid stinging in her eyes worsened with each word. Her heart grew heavier. The seriousness in his eyes proved that he meant every word, sending a tingle down her spine and moving her tongue. "I love you."

Surprise sparked across his face, parting his lips the barest bit, making his eyes flash. The words replayed in her head. She felt their truth in every fiber of her being and she wanted him to know. She loved him and she wanted to tell him—but not like this.

"Apparently," her tongue moved once more, "just blurting stuff out is very me, too. It's a new me. I'm sorry you seem to get the awkward Felicity version. I seem to have lost my cool when I turned sober." Her face twisted hearing her own words, her eyes snapped shut in horror. Way to go and ruin a moment that hadn't been the right moment to begin with.

"That's okay," Oliver said and Felicity could hear the smile in his voice. It made her open her eyes as he said, "I adore Awkward-Felicity, too. I like that nobody got to know her before me." His eyes sparkled with his smile. It was ridiculous how good that looked on him. His right hand, still resting on her cheek, closed a little, the thumb brushed her cheek. "I love you, too."

Warmth shot through her, a jolt that took her breath and her words away. All she could do was stare up at him and—smile. Because he loved her. Her. He knew her. He had a pretty good idea of her careless and violent past. He knew exactly what she was and what she wasn't. He knew her past was threatening to have him killed, but he loved her. She didn't deserve this, didn't deserve him, this wonderful, smart, brave man with a heart of gold and nerves of steel, but she loved him and she trusted him. And if he trusted her with his heart, she'd trust that he knew what he was doing, because she was way in over her head.

"We love each other," she breathed, once again surprising herself. "That's good."

He chuckled, sounding delighted. "We do," he confirmed, then, "It is."

On her tiptoes, she bridged the tiny gap between them and placed her lips on his. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him closer, ignoring her burning muscles and her aching bruises, and folded herself against his body. His arms circled her too, holding her close. They deepened the kiss. While they felt, tasted, and touched one another, their warmth merging and the scent of Oliver filling Felicity's consciousness, everything was perfect. The fear, the exhaustion, the defeat, the danger were pushed to the back of Felicity's mind and all that mattered was the man she loved who loved her back.

Reluctantly, they parted, gazing each other until Oliver inhaled audibly through his nose. "We should get you into bed."

She smirked playfully, even though her overall hurting body told her keeping that up was an overall bad idea.
"That's a tempting offer, but—"

"Felicity," he half-sighed, half-teased, "all you need to do in bed is sleep. You've been up for twenty-four hours. You're wounded, you need to rest." His grip on her tightened, keeping her from moving out of his embrace. "No, I'll stand very firm on this. Sara is sure that Slade will give us some time to panic and get into our own heads. We decided to use the time to get battle ready—and for you that means sleep."

"You've been up as long as I am," Felicity argued. "We got up together this morning."

"That was yesterday. And I never said you'd have to sleep alone."

She tipped her head. "That's true."

A small smile played around his lips and he let go of her. "Nyssa gave me some clothes for you. They're on the bed, I'll get them."

While she was alone, Felicity toweled her hair dry. Placing the wet one on the rail, she shifted her weight to the right slightly. The tiny movement was enough to aggravate her ribs. A wince escaped her—and, of course, Oliver chose that moment to reenter the bathroom, clean panties and t-shirt in hand. He stopped on the threshold, stiffening, worried eyes trailing over her. She was about to take the clothes from him and tell him to head to bed first when he un-froze. "Do you need help?"

She wanted to dismiss him—she had undressed by herself, she could redress on her own—but something in his eyes kept her from refusing. It also gave her the courage to bare everything to him. "Maybe a little."

"Then I'll help a little," he said and watched her open the towel. His eyes studied her naked body, but there wasn't anything heated or sexual in his gaze. He mapped her bruises: the one wrapping around her right ribcage bleeding across her stomach, the angry blotch on her left hip bone that looked like nothing but actually hurt the most, the perfectly oval-shaped mark on her thigh that was an imprint of Slade's shoe.

It was only a short observation. He didn't stare at her, didn't give her time or reason to grow uneasy or self-conscious. The warmth in his eyes told her that he was simply making sure that he couldn't do anything about them. He couldn't and moved to her. Handing her the underwear, he steadied her and helped her pulling them up—bending forward aggravated too many bruises at once. Then he helped her tug the huge t-shirt over her head. He took his own fancy clothes off and dug a burner phone out of the pants pocket. (It was so Oliver to have an electronic device with him at all times, even if it was as cheap and throw-away as this one.)

Together they walked to the canopy bed. Felicity's body felt heavy, weighed down by everything that had happened in the last twelve hours and, as much as she'd like to celebrate their first "I love you," she really couldn't imagine moving much. But she wanted him close. Felicity scooted to him as he pulled the covers over them, both lying on their sides, facing one another. She snuggled against his chest and he put his arm around her. His warmth and his scent surrounded her. This must be her favorite place ever.

"You give the best hugs," she mumbled against his chest and felt him chuckle.

His hand caressed her back. "Thank you for letting me take care of you."

She nodded against him, heaviness settling more and more inside her body, seeping into her bones. "Do you want to talk about… Yao Fei?"

"Not now," he whispered. "Now I want you to sleep."

Hearing his words, a shiver raced through her. How could she sleep when there was a real possibility that Slade might crash into their hideout, which had only one tiny escape route with a slippery ladder down into the sewer? But she would humor Oliver and rest a little, collect what energy she had left. She'd do it because he'd asked her to. She would enjoy feeling him close for a little, a very short while, but she most definitely would not—


A stinging pain right in the middle of his chest jolted Oliver awake. With a gasp he shot upright on the soft mattress, the ridiculously heavy blanket dropping to his lap. He needed a second to register more than the hurting spot, to understand where he was, and to realize what had woken him up. Felicity was thrashing next to him, fighting off a nightmare invisible to him. He hesitated a second, knowing his girlfriend, all she was capable of, and her reflexes. Tentatively, he reached out to her, but before he could place his hand on her shoulder, she jerked up with a sob tearing from her lips.

"Hey," Oliver said, finally touching her shoulder. "I'm here, you're safe. I'm here." He pulled her into his arms, feeling her heavy breathing against him. He simply held her, not saying anything. He knew that her mind had a variety of horrible experiences to turn into a nightmare, but he was pretty sure that the one she had just experienced wasn't about the Traid or whatever she had done in Moscow. Maybe she had relived memories from the island or her fight with Slade, or maybe she had made up horrible scenarios of what Slade might do in the future. All of that was possible, but Oliver didn't want to know, he didn't ask, because he just needed her to calm down and find her equilibrium. He needed her to believe in herself the way he believed in her—and reliving nightmares didn't help at all.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice coated with sleep. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No," he objected, because she had really apologized too much lately—she had nothing to apologize for. "It's okay." He closed his arms around her. The tight hug was for her benefit as much as it was for his own.

She nodded against his chest, returned the hug before quickly dropping her arms from his back. "What time is it?"

He reached toward the nightstand and the burner phone resting there. "Noon," he said, surprised.

"I slept for six hours?" she sounded appalled.

Oliver tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but it was hard, "You needed the rest."

Apparently, resting time was over. Felicity practically jumped out of bed. Oliver watched her scurry around the room, noticing the she was limping a little and moving very carefully as she finally put on the purple dress she had chosen yesterday for family dinner. Realizing that there was no stopping her, he got up, too. Dressed in his black suit pants and the white dress shirt, he followed her back into the living room.

Only Sara was awake, sitting by the dinner table in front of the laptop. She lifted her eyes off the screen and greeted them with a small smile. "I told your mom that Oliver'd get through to you."

Oliver couldn't see the exact look Felicity sent her stepsister, but it tugged a smirk from Sara and a head-jerk toward the kitchen, "Coffee's ready."

Felicity glanced at him. "I'll get us coffee."

"You don't have to get me coffee," Oliver objected.

Felicity was already on her way to the kitchen, waving at the dinner table. "Just sit down."

Watching his girlfriend, the woman who loved him and who he loved, head into the kitchen, Oliver tried to shake the awkwardness that had captured him since Felicity had left him in bed to jump into action.

"Are you okay?"

Sara's whispered question drew Oliver's attention. She studied him closely, her eyes drilling into him. There was so much knowledge in her gaze that Oliver couldn't help but shrug. "She had a nightmare," he confessed in a whisper of his own.

Thoughtfully, Sara nodded. "I didn't sleep well either. That's why I took Nyssa's watch."

The dark circles around Sara's eyes told long and detailed tales. A sudden feeling of helplessness, of uselessness crushed down on Oliver as he realized Sara had had as many nightmarish experiences as Felicity to rob her of sleep.

Today should be perfect. It was the first day begun with the knowledge that Felicity loved him, that they were on the same page and wanted the same things from their relationship. That should leave him floating on air—but instead the morning only drove home the fact that all he could offer either one of these two women was his compassion and a hug. Neither were of any real help to them.

"Did she talk about last night?" Sara asked, stressing the last words in a way that Oliver could easily translate into 'the fight.'

He shook his head. It was both true and not quite true. The redness of Felicity's eyes, her slumped shoulders, her broken apologies, her desperation, and the way she had let him take care of her had told him more than enough about her state of mind.

"It was bad," Sara said, confirming everything Oliver had suspected.

Before either Oliver or Sara could say anything else, Felicity returned with a cup of coffee in each hand, balancing them carefully, handing one to Oliver, "Black."

"Thank you." He took a sip.

"Fe," Sara said strictly, watching her stepsister sit down next to Oliver, "we need to talk about last night."

"I haven't even taken my first sip of coffee yet."

"Okay," Sara gestured to the mug Felicity was cradling in both hands, "take a sip—and then we'll talk about last night."

With a deep sigh, Felicity fell back in her seat. "What's to say? If last night proved one thing, it's that I can't stop Slade from doing anything."

"I think it proved that he won't make the mistake of underestimating you." Sara closed the laptop in front of her. "And that he's pretty good at playing mind games. That video of Yao was a lot."

"I thought I heard voices." Wrapped in a robe, Donna Smoak-Lance entered the room, followed by her husband. With quick steps she hurried to her daughter, pulled her up from her chair and into her arms. "Don't ever do that again," she half-chided, half-pleaded, clinging to her daughter. "I was worried sick. Sick."

"I'm sorry," Felicity mumbled. She hugged her mother back, repeating with more emphasis. "I'm so sorry."

Quentin sent Oliver a quick nod, passing by the table and into the kitchen. Last night, after Felicity had gone to confront Slade, everybody had pinned Oliver down with heated glances—everybody but the detective. While the women had accused Oliver of making a mistake by giving Felicity the address of Slade's penthouse, Quentin Lance had remained silent. After listening for a few moments, he jumped to Oliver's defense, saying that Felicity had made up her mind and that he supported Oliver's decision not to unnecessarily complicate things for her. That had shut everybody up and had made it possible for everybody to focus on the main thing: how to help Felicity. The silent companionship Oliver had felt from the detective last night was still there, transmitted through just one nod.

Donna finally let go of her daughter. Felicity sat back down and Donna took the seat next to her and fixed upon Sara, "You were taking about a video. What video?"

"A video of Yao Fei," Sara answered, eyes glued to Felicity, staring into her still untouched coffee cup.

"He taunted you," Quentin concluded, setting a mug filled with coffee down in front of his wife before taking the opposite seat, next to his daughter.

"He did," Felicity confessed and Oliver heard the hoarseness of her voice.

"He wants to get into your head," Quentin said. "Don't let him. Don't fall for this psychological warfare."

"Easier said than done." The words tumbled from Felicity's lips and she hurriedly brought her mug up, busying herself with drinking her coffee.

"Forget about the mind games," Donna cut in. "You're a strategic thinker, Felicity. Tell me what you learned last night—apart from the fact that Slade Wilson has a flare for the dramatic."

Felicity sat the mug back down. She thought for a moment before she said, her voice sounding stronger, "He… expected me. He planned the encounter and, yes, he knew how to throw me off. With the video and the black-and-red mask. He wanted to hurt me, but there never was any danger that he'd kill me. He never let his guard drop. He never let me get too close to him. His armor was showy and bulky. He couldn't move swiftly. He solely counted on his strength. His missing eye limits his vision. He reacts a little slower to attacks coming from the right. He's using a sword, but I don't know if he really knows how to use it; he just swiped it at me."

"That wasn't a sword," Nyssa joined the table. "From what Sara told me, it was a katana. And you don't use it to swipe at people."

"So, what?" Quentin pursed his lips. "The guy's all about cheap effects?"

"No," Sara gestured at Felicity's bruised face. "Or it wouldn't have ended like that." Her blunt statement was typical Sara, but it was also true. Oliver had been careful when treating the cut on Felicity's forehead, making sure the scar would be as small as possible—but there wasn't any doubt that it would scar. Felicity's lower lip was swollen, there was a bruise on her jaw, and Oliver had seen the other bruises all over her body. Felicity had been in a lot of fights since he'd learned her secret—none of them had ended with her looking like this. (Okay, one had ended with cardiac arrest, but he really couldn't think about that now.)

"Sara's right." The admittance didn't pass Felicity's lips easily. "Slade knows what he's doing. And he knows what I'm doing. He's prepared and he's very careful."

Her words hung in the air heavily for a few long moments. Donna ended the silence. "He knows what you're doing," she repeated slowly. She narrowed her eyes, thinking, and then straightened, "So, do the opposite of that."

Felicity stared at her and mocked, "Great battle plan, Mom."

"I'm serious," the CEO of Smoak International stated in her most cutting tone. "You already followed your instincts and look how well that worked." She dimly gestured to Felicity. "Wilson knows you, but he doesn't know us. That means we'll plan and you'll do as we say—which is the opposite of what your instincts tell you."

"Yeah," Felicity stated flatly, "that won't be happening."

"I like it," Sara smirked. "Let's do that."

Oliver could feel the tension growing inside his girlfriend. Letting people take over went against everything her gut told her, against her need to take care of people. Her eyes sought his and a silent request for support shone in them, expecting him to be on her side. And he was. He wanted to help and support her—and he would, but not in the way she expected. Remembering what she had told him last night with tears pooling in her eyes, a sudden idea formed in his mind.

His girlfriend, resident vigilante of Starling City, would freak. Getting ready to hear the Arrow-voice, he straightened up in his seat, meeting Felicity's eyes. "I agree with them. You can't keep us on the sidelines."

Something flashed in her eyes—a mixture of surprise, anger, and disappointment that tore at him more than he had expected—but Oliver powered on, knowing that it would only get worse. "You said Slade didn't let you get close, because he kept his guard up. Somebody else needs to get close to him and inject him with the cure, somebody he doesn't consider a threat."

Felicity knew what he was suggested almost instantly. She tensed even more, every muscle flexed, and her eyes shot angry daggers at him. "No! Absolutely not!"

"Fe—"

"NO!" She jumped up from her seat. "I will not offer you up as bait. He wants to kill you, Oliver. I won't put you in danger like that."

His hand closed around her wrist before she could move too far away from him. He held on gently, knowing that she could rip herself free easily, but she didn't. Instead, she stopped, meeting his gaze.

"You said he made fun of my training," he reminded her. "He obviously doesn't consider me a threat."

"Or me," Donna cut in. "I could be bait, too."

Appalled, Felicity's eyes bounced between her mother and her boyfriend. "Are you out of your minds?!" Her focus zoomed in on Quentin. "Tell your wife 'No.'"

The detective purse his lips. "Have you met my wife?"

"Fe," Sara demanded her stepsister's attention, "Oliver has a point. Slade wants to show you despair. He won't just kill Oliver, he'll turn it into a show. He wants you to watch. He'll be distracted, that might give Oliver a window and a good chance of injecting him with the cure."

"Are you listening to yourself?!" Felicity's voice shrilled. She was close to shouting but not quite there. "Might give him a window! I won't risk his life on a maybe!"

"We can protect him," Sara insisted, her voice urgent, determined. "I'll help keep him safe. Believe me, I don't want anybody else to die in my place."

Felicity's ponytail whipped behind her as she forcefully shook her head.

"Felicity," Oliver said, gently. "I know that you'll protect me." He glanced at Donna quickly. "So does your mother. We're both ready to do this, because we love you. You're not alone anymore. We're here with you, on your side. We believe in you."

She inhaled deeply, soundly. "You shouldn't, I—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Felicity Megan Smoak," Donna Smoak-Lance snapped. "We trust you—deal with it and start trusting in yourself!"

Oliver's fingers let go of her wrist, only to cradle her hand. "Please, Felicity, you need to let me do this." He hesitated before adding, reluctantly. "Or your mother."

"I can't risk you like that. I can't offer you up like that to him. Please, don't ask me to," Felicity pleaded.

"You're looking at it all wrong," Quentin said. "You're not offering anybody up. You're using everything you have."

Oliver knew that Felicity would object against 'using' people, but before he could address that, Sara was already speaking, proving that she knew her best friend, too. "Don't nitpick the wording, Fe. Dad's right. You already tried it your way and that bombed. You need a new strategy and ours is the best. It's smart and, if we all work together, nobody will get hurt."

"You can't be—"

"I can," Sara insisted. "We are the wild card Slade can't have predicted. He doesn't know what I learned, what Nyssa can do. He doesn't know Dad, Donna, and Oliver. He's underestimating what we can do together. Don't make the same mistake."

Oliver was a little surprised that Sara was so insistent, when it had always been her who had been reluctant to open up to her father. But it seemed that, now all her secrets were out there, she wasn't holding back any longer.

Donna obviously approved. "Felicity, we said we'd face this as a family. Let's finally do that."

A moment of heavy silence followed. When Felicity pushed her shoulders back and a certain determination took over, Oliver knew what her answer would be. He smiled and brought her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

"Good choice," Sara complimented. "I have about seventy percent of a plan, which will include the whole family."

"Oh, great," Felicity huffed. "Family bonding."