Author's Note: how many times can I tell you guys that I love you? Well how about one more: I love you! Your reviews are wonderful and I'm so glad that you're enjoying this. I have to admit, this was only supposed to be a one-shot; the first chapter was supposed to be the only chapter. But your response was so encouraging, and the ideas sort of just kept coming, so I kept going with it and now it's just sort of taken off. And I meant to answer this last chapter and forgot: someone asked, and yes, the title does come from the song. I'll leave it open to interpretation as to why. Enjoy!

It's a little after nine o'clock on Monday night, and Felicity is prostrate on the floor – again.

Grunting in frustration, and maybe a little pain, she pushes herself off the mat and back to her feet. She turns to face Digg, her calf stinging where his foot had connected; they have been practicing for nearly an hour now, and her muscles are tired.

"Again," she says evenly, taking up the correct stance.

Digg gives her a look that clearly says they should stop, but her face is set and he must see her determination, because he doesn't say anything.

When he had suggested they start training like this, Felicity had agreed reluctantly. She doesn't believe in fighting, choosing to avoid the situations that might lead to such an eventuality, and that hasn't changed: she still doesn't believe in fighting.

She does, however, believe in protecting herself.

Digg had insisted that they wait to resume their training sessions until after she'd had time to deal with what happened, and for her bruises to heal; after what happened at the bar on Friday, she'd come to the foundry that evening determined not to wait any longer.

Felicity is not a fighter – she never will be, not the way Oliver and Digg are – but the man who assaulted had made her a victim, and she refuses to let that define her. She has vowed to never again be a victim; she is determined to be her own savior.

Digg doesn't give her any indication that he's going to move, just blurs into motion as his arm and hand whizz toward her face; she knows this move by heart, both hands shooting out to knock it away, but this isn't the part she's having trouble with. One leg comes sweeping out as soon as his arm is gone, reaching out to hook behind her leg and pull it out from beneath her; she needs to jump, and she does, but always just a fraction too late.

This time is no different.

She lands on her back this time, her breath rushing out of her in audible whoosh.

Felicity doesn't rush back to her feet this time. She stays on her back, blinking until the ceiling high above her comes into focus once again, and waits for her breathing to become easy. A part of her is laughing, because she has essentially traded one set of bruises for another: she can feel new ones forming on her calves even as she lies there.

She is frustrated, so frustrated by so many things that it all seems to come rushing to the surface at once: the break in, her difficulty sleeping, her growing attraction to Oliver, the incident at the bar, almost kissing Oliver, her inability to get this move right, Oliver, Oliver …

"Why can't I get this right?" Her tone is even but tense, because she doesn't normally swear but right now she just wants to expunge every curse she's ever heard, and Kylie has kept her well supplied with them over the years.

"You can," Digg answers. "That's the closest you've been all night."

"That's not good enough, Digg."

She finally pulls herself to her feet, pointedly ignoring the throbbing in her legs and the headache that is just beginning to form behind her eyes. She grabs her water off a nearby surface and takes a long drink.

When she looks at Digg, he has an expression on his face that is one part concern and one part understanding.

"What's wrong, Felicity?"

She sighs and braces a hip against the nearest table. "I'm just frustrated; I feel like I should be better at this."

Digg crosses the mat to take up the space next to her, grabbing his water bottle and two towels as he does. He hands her one of the towels and they stand in silence for a bit, the sound of their breathing and the gentle whir of the computers behind them the only sounds.

"You're doing better than you think," he finally tells her. "Even if it feels like you aren't making any progress."

"I guess. It's just … hard, I guess. I mean, I don't want to be like you and Oliver – not that you aren't great, because you are, of course you are – but that's not how I want to be."

"I think I can speak for Oliver when I say that we don't want you to be like us either."

She nods. "I don't want to fight – I never have; but that guy made me a victim, Digg, and I refuse to let that stand. I won't be a victim, not for anyone or anything. So I feel … caught, I guess, between not fighting and not being a victim. I want to be good at this, but I'm not sure that I should. Does that make sense?"

"Yes. But you aren't a victim, Felicity; you took action then, and you're taking it now. You made a decision and stuck with it."

Felicity can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth then.

"Kylie said something about decisiveness," she explains. "She said that the problem with people is that no one is decisive anymore; they don't fight for what they want."

"She was right. You're not learning to fight so you can hurt people, you're learning so you can keep people from hurting you. That's a big difference."

"True." She's silent for a beat. "Thanks for listening."

"Anytime. And I mean that; I realize that I'm not the most talkative man, but I'm always here if you need me."

Felicity smiles. Talking to Digg is easy, although she's not sure why; he's just always seemed like an earnest person, even before she really knew him. He's quiet, but not unapproachable, even a little disarming.

"You never did say how the club was."

"It was good. Had a minor run in with a guy at the bar that wasn't so pleasant, but Oliver was there to scare him away. Otherwise, it was pretty fun."

"Sorry I missed it. Your friend is quite the character; I'm sure she was entertaining."

Felicity laughs. 'Quite the character' is an understatement when it comes to Kylie, and she knows that not everyone takes to her exuberant friend well; she is inordinately glad that Digg and Oliver had both seemed to like her.

"It was sort of weird, actually."

"Weird how?"

"Well, I told Oliver a little while ago that we weren't really friends, the three of us."

Digg raises an eyebrow in question.

"Well, we are," she quickly amends. "Sort of. Just not in public, ya know? It's a little more plausible that the two of you would be friends, since you actually have a reason to be in each other's company, but me? We aren't exactly in the same social circles; people would wonder how we met, and the last thing any of us needs is people asking questions."

"That's …" he trails off, searching for the right word.

"Logical?" she supplies.

"Yes, but also … cynical."

"Cynical?" she repeats, surprised. "How is that cynical?"

"Because it suggests that people can't be friends if they aren't from similar backgrounds," Digg replies easily. "It undermines the character of everyone involved."

"I guess I never thought of it that way," she accedes. "I just … find it hard to believe that we would be friends, if this Hood business hadn't brought us together."

"You never know; we could have met randomly at a coffee shop, or the diner even."

"I've never actually seen you drink coffee, Digg," she points out, smiling.

"I don't like it as much as you seem to, I'll give you that. But the point still stands."

"Okay, you and I could have met by chance – that doesn't seem so far fetched. But Oliver and I? No way."

"Why not?"

"He's not really interested in making friends, is he? He has his Hood persona, and his family, and Laurel; he's made it pretty clear that's where his priorities are. Not that there's anything wrong with that," she continues quickly, because Digg is giving her a strange look. "It's admirable, actually. Besides, I don't know that he could juggle much more without slipping up somewhere."

"You sound like you're worried about him."

"I am, and with good reason. He's always hiding, Digg, always holding some part of himself back – no one can do that without breaking eventually."

He skips a beat, and then redirects their conversation. "So, you told him we weren't friends."

"Right. And then, at the diner, it felt … normal. Easy. Everyone seemed happy, and it was the same at the club. It felt like we were normal, ya know, that we were just friends and that the rest of this didn't exist. I guess it just made me realize how much this work takes away from you – from us."

Digg gives her a sympathetic smile and then reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. It's a kind gesture, and she does feel comforted, and much better for having talked to him. She's still frustrated, because for everything that she's told him there feels like a ridiculous amount of stuff she's not telling him, but some is better none.

The truth is that what they do is taxing, but she has come to believe in it. She wishes there was a different way to go about it, because she hasn't come to peace with the violence aspect of it, but the line is – has become blurred. The city needs Oliver, even if it doesn't know it, and the people that he puts away are corrupt. Not that she's condoning murder, exactly … except that she sort of is. Oliver does his best to not let it come to that, but sometimes there is no other option, and he has shown that he doesn't hesitate when it comes down to it.

Oh yes, this job takes a lot from them, and it leaves her with a bad taste in her mouth sometimes; she had only planned on staying until Walter was found, but then that goal had been achieved … and she hadn't left. She hadn't left then, and she doesn't have any plans of leaving now at all, but she's not sure when she changed her mind. Or why.

Is Oliver a murderer? And if he is, does that make her one too, by proxy? Can what they do still be called justice if it's illegal?

Yes.

No.

Does a murderer deserve to be murdered?

These are questions that she can't answer, or that she can answer, only to find that her answer changes. And what does it say about her if she believes that Oliver is a murderer, but wants him anyway? Because she does want him, and she's well past the point of being able to deny it; the problem is that she's not sure what she wants from him.

She wants to know if his kisses burn, and if they do then she supposes she wants to know what's it like to be incinerated - to feel that fire, his fire, consume her from the outside in.

She wants to feel his lips ghost across her skin, leaving nothing but goose bumps and secrets in their wake.

All of this she knows, and accepts, but another question has been popping up in her thoughts as of late: does she want a relationship with him, and everything that would entail?

She's terrified to think that she might, and troubled to know that she'll never get that chance.

Why in the name of every Devil that has ever existed does her life have to be so impossibly complicated?

Oliver's heavy footfalls on the stairs pulls her from her thoughts, and she looks up just as he descends the last stair and strides towards them. He looks angry.

"We have a problem."

"Of course we do," she deadpans, unable to restrain herself. "When don't we."

Oliver levels a carefully schooled expression on her. "The break-in at your apartment wasn't random."

"No."

"Felicity …"

"No, Oliver. Absolutely not."

They are staring daggers at each other, ice on steel, and Felicity is refusing to back down. Absolutely everything in her life is a disaster and Oliver has just waltzed in to deliver her another blow, and God help her, Felicity is absolutely irate. She's afraid and uncertain and resentful and she is not, repeat, not going to be swayed in this one tiny thing, not matter how Oliver looms over her or invades her personal space.

"It's the only way to make sure you're safe," he argues.

"You don't know for sure, Oliver – you could be wrong."

"And what if I'm not?" he demands. "Are you really ready to gamble with your safety? Because that's what you're doing."

"This is ridiculous!" she explodes, and her anger makes her lean into him, so that he can maybe feel it as well as hear it. "No one wants to kidnap me! Why would they? And before you say because I've been helping you, ask yourself how anyone would know that!"

"If I'm wrong and no one is after you, then what will it hurt? Humor me."

What will it hurt? More than she can admit. He may not know it, but he's not just asking her to come stay at the mansion; he's asking her to spend several days in close company with him, in his home, where she will be surrounded by … well, him. His family, his memories, all those parts of himself and his life that he has kept hidden from her – intentionally or not – and now he wants her to throw her into that mix. She doesn't want to gamble with her safety, but she can't admit to him why she's so against spending time in his home without revealing a great deal more than she wants to.

There's also not much of an option: she can't stay with Digg because he practically lives with Carly and Artie, and if she stays in her apartment then she may as well paint a huge sign over her door inviting anyone and everyone over.

"Digg," she pleads, although she's not sure what she's asking for.

"He's right, Felicity. If he's wrong then it won't matter; if he's right, then there's nowhere safer for you than the mansion. Not until we figure this out."

"If you're right, and we catch whoever is responsible, I am going to punch them in the face."

She thinks she might see a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

"Fair enough. I'm going to change, and then we can swing by your place and you can get what you need.

"Great," she replies, but her tone says that it's anything but.

Felicity is trying very hard not to be impressed, but it would be easier if the mansion were a little less beautiful.

She's seen the exterior in pictures, and even the inside of a room or two, but they didn't do it justice; it also helps that Felicity is a lover of architecture and old buildings.

She can't help herself. "This place is beautiful."

Felicity is a few steps behind Oliver; he's showing her to the room that she'll be using for the duration of her stay, but she's not paying attention. She's taking in the sweep of the ceiling as it climbs away from her, the expansive windows set into stone walls, and the tables placed every few feet that are made of beautiful cherry wood.

She's stopped in the middle of the hallway, too busy taking it all in to care if she loses him, not noticing that he's stopped as well.

"My mom would have loved this place."

She's spoken without thinking, and it draws her back to the present. Her eyes stop their wandering to return to her host, only to find that Oliver is watching her with a look that makes her stomach flip.

She hates it when does that.

"Thea used to call it 'the castle' when she was little."

Felicity smiles and catches up to him, her feet rustling softly on the deep red carpet. Oliver moves to open the door that he's stopped in front of, ushering her in with a nod.

"You're joking."

It's the only thing that she can think of to say, because this room is damn near ridiculous. The fading sunlight is cascading through the window in ribbons of red and yellow, the long fingers of color stretching across the bed and carpet; she's guessing that this single room is almost as big as her entire apartment, and the high ceiling makes it feel even larger. The furniture is stately and dark, but the bedspread and draperies are surprisingly colorful.

"Thea's room is two doors down," he tells her. "I'm across the hall. Think you remember where the bathroom is?"

"Yeah. Does this place have some sort of intercom system or something?"

"Why?"

"In case I get lost."

She's only half serious, and he seems to sense that she's joking so he gives her a lopsided smile.

"I'll let you get settled. Holler if you need anything."

"How do I know you'll hear me?"

"Good hearing."

He's almost disappeared out the door when she calls him back.

"Oliver?"

He pokes his head around the corner, and for just a second she feels foolish and almost tells him never mind.

"Do you really think that guy was after something? That someone's after me?"

She hates that she sounds so … frightened, even though that's exactly what she is.

"I think that it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Don't patronize me, Oliver," she retorts, but her tone is devoid of anger.

Felicity watches his face fall and then he's stepping back into the room, coming close enough that whatever he's about to say won't be overhead from the hallway.

"I think it's plausible that someone could have found out that you're connected to the Hood, and that they'd want information badly enough to kidnap you to get it."

"But if that's true then why didn't he take me when he had the chance?"

"You said you surprised him; maybe that guy was just a lackey, and he panicked. Maybe he was told to retrieve something specific, and when he didn't find it they decided to go after you instead. It's hard to say."

"Yeah." She doesn't know what else to say, and she suddenly feels so tired that she drops herself onto the bed.

"We'll figure it out, Felicity," he reassures her. "But until we do, you're safe here. Okay?"

"Okay."

She lets him go this time, and he pulls the door partway closed behind him. She doesn't ask him to close it all the way, or question why he's left it open; she just waits until the sound of his footsteps has faded away, and then she tosses herself back onto the bed and hopes with everything she has that she'll be able to sleep.