**To those who read this story before; sorry, I had two very different story idea in my head and tried to combine them but it just didn't fit so I'm re-working it. Same basic premise**

The week after she'd received the news of Oliver's death at the hands of Ra's Al Ghul, Felicity found herself the recipient of several unexpected visits and even more unexpected kisses. Somehow, she was understood by all of the parties, to be 'the widow' to Oliver and the Arrow. The first kiss had come from Roy, he'd hugged her after Malcolm Merlyn's visit and kissed her on the forehead, the way Oliver had. She knew he was trying to step up into Oliver's shoes and wondered if he had been asked to watch out for her. He was such a serious young man, and usually so formal she'd been surprised but pleased by the gesture.

Her second kiss had been Quentin Lance. He'd stopped by her offices late in the evening. She'd greeted him politely, referring to him, as usual, as 'Detective'.

"When we last spoke," he said in a low voice, "I know you said our mutual friend wasn't coming back." He watched her features pinch; eyes briefly squinting, nose wrinkling and mouth tightening. His own face fell. "You meant that he isn't coming back ever, right?"

"Correct," she said, clearing her throat.

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me whose grave I should bring flowers to?" His lightly Midwestern accent reminded her of Chicago.

"There's no grave. No funeral. No memorial." She licked her lips and cleared her throat again. "I'm sure you know he works with others, we'd like people to still believe he's around for as long as possible."

"Who knows he's gone?"

"You're one of about half a dozen in the city. The League of assassins is…aware." When he stared at her she looked away. She couldn't tell him what had happened, but allowing him to know of the league's involvement meant he'd understand just how dead a man could be. He reached a long arm out and clasped her shoulder.

"Were you…close?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry for your loss." She nodded and to her surprise, he stepped close to her, forcing her to look up into his face. She always forgot how tall he was. "Let me know what I can do to help out." He kissed her briefly, on the cheek. It was a gesture of respect, man-to-woman, as if she were wearing black and standing in a receiving line at a memorial service. He nodded to her awkwardly and turned, making his way out.

The next visit was from Nyssa. She was dressed casually but elegantly, of course. She'd sat down in a café across from Felicity and waited while the blonde glanced around nervously before deciding it was unlikely the assassin was there to kill her. She placed one of her graceful hands on the table and nodded, formally.

"Felicity Smoak, M.I.T., class of '09." Her face didn't reveal even the slightest hint of humor but Felicity still thought she was messing with her.

"Nyssa, heir to the demon," she replied, seeing the other woman's face relax slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to give my condolences and to ask you something," she said.

"I'd feel better about listening if I could see both your hands."

The corner of Nyssa's mouth twitched with amusement but she complied, folding her fingers and gently tapping her thumbs together. They both knew that someone who'd been raised by the world's deadliest assassin could figure out how to kill a computer nerd without using her hands.

"I do not believe your Oliver was responsible for Sara's death."

"Why not?" She didn't correct her on the 'your.

"I do not think Sara would have hesitated in ending her life if she wished to die. I also do not believe she would have asked someone she cared about to do it. She wasn't selfish."

"Neither was Oliver," Felicity said. She fought the urge to tell her that Merlyn was responsible and to let Thea, the vapid and childish girl who'd walked willingly into the arms of the devil, pay the consequences. "He issued the challenge and your father accepted his confession." Her voice squeaked a little. "How you feel about his guilt is irrelevant." Felicity knew she risked the wrath of an experienced killer but she also guessed that Assassins had a code of honor and that Nyssa would hesitate before violating the trial.

"Do you believe Oliver killed Sara?"

"Don't go looking for a third party. Oliver's death is the only one your league will get if I can help it." She stood up, feeling light-headed with fear. Nyssa raised an elegantly arched brow. She was clearly not intimidated by Felicity.

"You wish to make an enemy of the League?"

"No, but I wish Oliver wasn't dead," she said, gathering up her purse and car keys. "I wish you didn't follow archaic beliefs to the letter; I believe in shades of gray." She stood her ground as Nyssa rose to her feet. "And I wish you a safe journey home. Today if possible." Nyssa made no move to leave so Felicity leaned forward and spoke barely above a whisper. "Thirty-two point fifty-seven degrees North by eighty-three point nine-four degrees East." She looked the assassin in the eye when she gave her the latitude and longitude of Nanda Parbat and knew that the other woman wouldn't be frightened of her bluff. Nevertheless it was satisfying to see the look of amused respect cross her face.

"I have no further business here." Nyssa moved to walk past Felicity and stopped, briefly. "Until next time." She leaned in and Felicity turned, realizing too late that she'd been about to kiss her on the cheek. The kiss landed on the corner of her mouth and the assassin smiled at her childish blush. Watching the daughter of Oliver's killer walk away, she wondered if anyone could smell the sweat that soaked her shirt underneath her jacket.

Felicity called Laurel to notify her of Nyssa's visit. Then she went out for sushi because she rarely did and wanted to be away from any of her usual haunts. She requested one of the private tables that were partially obstructed by a rice-paper screen. Seated with some privacy, she sat with her smaller tablet open and amused herself with funny cat videos to take her mind off more serious events. Her server, a slender young man who looked like he was in his early twenties bowed to her, briefly and set down a dark red ceramic flask with two cups and a lemon wedge. She took a deep breath and wondered if other league members had decided they didn't want anyone to know the location of Nanda Parbat. She was surprised when Malcolm Merlyn stepped around the screen and into view.

"Good evening, Miss Smoak."

Felicity had believed him to be fleeing the area once he'd delivered his news and she'd hurled the blame at his feet. Seeing him now she was reminded that the resemblance he shared with Tommy was almost insulting to Oliver's dead friend. Tommy had been a very attractive man: piercing blue eyes, thick dark hair; a real triumph of genetics. She had been near Malcolm Merlyn few times; the most recent was when he'd given her the sword that killed Oliver and she'd wished him dead. Up close, she saw Tommy for the pale copy he was.

Malcolm Merlyn was the sharp, radiant image; bigger, stronger, more deadly and more magnetic. His charisma was its own trap. As much as she hated him for being the indirect instrument of Oliver's death, Felicity had found herself drawn to him in the foundry. She wasn't attracted to him as a man, but when he told her he could see how much she had loved Oliver, she couldn't help but be a little flattered that he'd noticed her.

"Mr. Merlyn, what are you doing here?" she asked. She wished she had sounded less surprised and curious. She wished she'd thought up something mean to say. Mean but classy like an old Hollywood insult. She glanced at the flask and then back up at him.

"You can throw it at me if you like," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. "But you might want to try it first. It's called 'Demon Slayer'." He inclined his head and she gestured to the chair opposite her. "I grew to enjoy observing the traditions of the culture whenever I was in Japan." He spoke to the server in Japanese, keeping his voice low and casual.

"Did you follow me here?"

"Yes." He smiled briefly and handed her the cup, pouring for her.

Felicity waited for him to sit and then she poured for him. She knew very little about Japanese traditions; she did know that you didn't fill your own cup, and you used two hands to show respect. She observed the ritual out of stubborn pride, she didn't want to appear ignorant. He raised his cup and touched it briefly to hers. "I didn't poison it."

"Good to know." She sipped the drink and put the cup down.

"I understand you've recently met with the Heir to the Demon." She'd guessed that two visits from two different assassins in one day was no coincidence.

"Nyssa and I spoke, yes."

Merlyn kept a pleasant, half-smile on his face and held her gaze. She understood what unnerved her so much about him. His stillness. She was a fidgeter: a pen-biter, an earring flicker, and a drummer of fingernails. He kept every facial muscle as still as a Botox-injected, Orange County housewife.

"Would you mind me asking what she wanted?"

"She likes blondes, surely you saw her kiss me." Her attempt at sarcasm didn't go over well.

"I kept my distance considering my relationship with the league." He raised his eyebrows, "She really kissed you?"

"Third person this week, actually, seems like everyone wants to share their condolences. Unless it's my new perfume," she said, tilting her head to the side, considering it. "I'm going to go with the condolences." She smiled at him and waited. He waited too and had far more patience than she. "I'm okay with the league hunting you for the crimes you've committed, I made that clear, but Oliver went to his death for Thea's sake so I wouldn't have done anything to endanger her." Deciding that Malcolm Merlyn wasn't the company she wanted to keep for too long, she stood up, excusing herself and thanking him for the sake. She picked up her purse and tablet; he stood and stepped into the narrow aisle between the tables, partially blocking her exit. She kept her eyes on the door but didn't recoil at his closeness when she stood with her cheek almost brushing his collar.

"I know what it's like to lose someone," he said quietly and leaned close to her ear. "I am truly sorry for your loss." He sounded sincere and tilted his head, pressing his lips, ever so gently, to hers. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, keeping his voice low. "Your perfume is delicious." He stepped to the side and held out his hand to let her pass. She walked to the door without a backwards glance and managed to avoid walking into traffic.

Felicity hadn't remembered people giving her kisses when Cooper Sheldon had been reported dead. His criminal activity likely made her less-desirable company. She opted to remain at arm's length from Ray Palmer on the off-chance she was giving off some kind of grief pheromone she also avoided calling Barry Allen for the same reason. The sweet young man would want to comfort her and she feared what might happen between them. She sent a text to the only other person who might know how she felt.

The knock on Felicity's door came after ten and when she saw Laurel Lance on her doorstep holding a bottle of vodka, she'd stepped to the side and let the other woman in. The bottle was Grey Goose and had clearly spent some time in a freezer. It was so cold it poured out like oil into the shot glasses Felicity had supplied. She knew Laurel was on the wagon but tonight, of all nights, she understood the need for a drink and didn't preach.

"So people have been kissing you?" she asked, holding up the glass. "Happened to me when the boat went down." She downed the shot. "When people don't know what to say, but they want to make a connection, they get handsy…lipsy too."

"Lipsy?" Felicity asked. Laurel shrugged and re-filled.

"Was Nyssa a good kisser?"

"It was so quick, I couldn't tell," Felicity stared at the wall and took her own shot. "Malcolm Merlyn was the only one to score directly on the mouth."

"He really walked right into the restaurant?"

"Yeah, I think people believe him to be dead so they don't expect to see him."

"Did he creep you out?"

"Yeah, I think he was going for creepy." She poured and downed another. "Can I ask you something about Oliver?" Felicity asked. "Something personal?"

"Phenomenal." Laurel didn't turn her head, she just drained her glass and stared at the wall. "Relentless. Controlled. Focused." Felicity was embarrassed that her alcohol-lubricated question had been so transparent. "It's okay," Laurel said, gently. "I've been through this before and there's no rhyme or reason to the strange thoughts that pop into your head when someone dies."

"I remember when news of my college boyfriend's death came," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It changed who I was." She shrugged, "Turns out he'd just turned into a criminal." She saw Laurel's head bob backwards and hit the cushion of the couch before lolling to the side to look at her. "What is it with boyfriends not staying dead?" The comment brought the sad parallels up and they both chuckled; a desperate surge of humor to connect on a shallow level.

"He and I-" She bit her lip and tossed down her own vodka before continuing, "-never actually did…anything."

"He was in love with you," she said, without more than a tiny trace of resentment. "I could tell the way Diggle and Roy acted around you. Like you were the widow."

"I kinda wish we had," she said. "It might be harder to miss that too, I mean, I'm missing what could've happened but truthfully he'd decided it was too much of a risk before I'd even had a chance to get a grope."

"He was even better when he came back," she said, gloomily. "I'm sorry if that hurts to hear."

"Not much doesn't hurt, but it's like a sore muscle, you have to keep working it till you can stand the pain."

"That's not your best metaphor."

"You gave me Grey Goose."

"Good point," Laurel let out a weird giggle/cough and poured them each another shot. "Want details?"

"It's one of the things I couldn't guess about him," Felicity said.

"Okay, since we're drunk, and I can't imagine having this conversation with anyone else, I'll tell you."

"You said 'Relentless'," she said, licking her lips. "Sounds kind of…rough."

"It is a little," the pretty lawyer said, regarding her glass philosophically. "Intense might be a better word. It didn't seem like making love." She frowned. "It's not a term I like very much, too poetic."

"I concur."

"Relentless and focused like he's chasing something." She poured another shot and turned the glass in her hands, watching the clear spirits. "I used to think guys who let me finish first were chivalrous, but with him, he made me orgasm. Like he was waging war on my libido, not to mention my clitoris."

Felicity snorted but let Laurel continue.

"And once I came, it was like, 'Okay the battle's been won,' and then he went for it like mad and with his stamina… God, I was ready to pass out when he finally came."

"Did he shout?"

"Before the island, he was a talker, afterward, really quiet."

"Fucks like he's keeping a secret," Felicity mumbled, pouring another shot and downing it while Laurel sputtered over hers.

"Oh my God, that's it!" She looked incredulous, "That's exactly what it was like!"

"Kissed that way too."

"Oh, his mouth;" Laurel said wistfully, "guy was a champion peach-eater." It was Felicity's turn to choke. She laughed and wiped vodka off her chin.

"Seriously?"

"Lord, yes. Catch him in the right mood and he's down there all day." She quirked her head to the side. "I think he had his own term for it." Her pretty brow wrinkled with concentration. "Pearl diving!" she snapped her fingers triumphantly.

After they'd decided they'd had enough, Laurel had taken a cab home. They'd said goodnight without any sappy acknowledgements about future coffee dates or keeping in touch.