AN: hello beautiful people! sorry this one took a bit longer, my muse was being a little stubborn after the fiasco of the last chapter, so she took some coaxing to finally get this one out. Also, real life ... it likes to get in the way. Inconsiderate, I know. Anyway, thank you for your continued support, and happy reading!

He moves slowly, carefully, watching for any indication that she might want him to stop and giving her plenty of time to speak out, but she doesn't; she watches his approach with glittering eyes, and then closes them at the last second.

Felicity's lips are soft and slightly cool, and he feels electrified and wants nothing more than to pull her against him and kiss her until she's dizzy, but he makes himself pull back instead. He strokes her chin with his thumb, just the smallest caress, and then says her name.

"Felicity."

When her eyes open they are instantly trained on his, and there is a waiting darkness in them that he's not sure he's ever seen before.

Oliver has been so patient, and the way that she's watching him is so alluring that he can't resist closing the tiny gap between them and pressing another kiss against her lips.

Whatever thoughts he'd had about pulling away are erased, then, because Felicity leans forward and into him, her lips parting in a wordless invitation, and he is lost. He releases her chin only to sweep his fingers along the line of her jaw and into her hair, coming to rest at the nape of her neck and holding her against him.

She tastes like ice cream and he's afraid he might crush her in his desire to have her closer, but then her little hands are fluttering against his sides and pressing into his back, pulling him to her, and he feels as if he's been set on fire. He braces one long arm next to and behind her and then leans forward onto it, so that he is above her, and nothing exists except this moment and the heat of Felicity's mouth.

He's not sure who pulls away first, but he can just make out the pink tinge on her cheeks in the pale moonlight. They are both breathless.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice heavy.

Felicity shivers and he smiles at her, a real, full smile that he doesn't think he could hide even if he tried.

"Hi," she answers slowly. "I've never seen you smile like that before."

"I smile," he replies.

"Not like that. At least, not for me."

She pulls herself up, forcing him back and away from her; he drops the hand that had cradled her head, separating them and giving her the room she seems suddenly to crave. He can see the change as it falls over her, the way her eyes seem to clear and the lines of her body harden, but his brain is slow to realize what's happening.

Just a moment ago she was living fire beneath him, zealous and willing, and now … now she is ice.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly, and then she's sliding off the counter.

"What?" he asks, because the sudden change is dizzying.

"That … I don't … that can't happen again, Oliver."

He thinks maybe his mouth has fallen open; he can't look away, and her eyes are fierce with resolve as she looks at where he's still sitting motionless on the counter.

"Felicity …"

"I'm going home in the morning."

That knot in his stomach has not only returned, but also doubled in size; she's already making her escape from the kitchen, from him, and he slides off the counter and makes a play for her wrist before she can disappear. He's careful not to exert much force, only enough to get her attention and stop her retreat; he lets go as soon as she faces him, because he remembers all too well the way that asshole at the bar had frightened her. It is very important to him that he never makes Felicity feel frightened.

"I'm lost," he tells her, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"I'm not willing to be a conquest, Oliver."

Her words are like a punch to the stomach, because he has never seen Felicity as a conquest, and because the way she's looking at him tells him that she's clearly never imagined that she would be anything else.

"You're not a conquest, Felicity."

"No? You just broke up with Laurel hours ago and now here you are, kissing me into oblivion on your kitchen counter. What else would I be?"

"If I remember correctly, you were perfectly willing."

Okay, that was the wrong thing to say and he knows it immediately, because even in the darkness he can see the way her eyes have narrowed and are now staring daggers at him.

"I didn't mean that," he says quickly, "The way it sounded. And I don't think you're a conquest."

"Fine," she agrees grudgingly. "I'm not. But I'm not willing to play second fiddle, either; I want more than casual sex, Oliver."

He feels blown out of the water by her words; while he won't deny that he has thought about what it would be like to have Felicity in his bed, that was not even remotely his intention. Yet again, she seems to have thought things through much farther than he has.

"I'm not trying to get you into bed, Felicity."

"I don't think you know what you're trying to do," she counters. "And that's the problem. You don't know what you want, and I am no one's consolation prize."

She has reduced him to frustration again, in that way that is uniquely hers, and her words are tearing at his uncertainty. He hadn't intended to take her to bed and she wasn't a conquest, but she wasn't entirely wrong about him not knowing what he wants, either; hearing it laid against him, however, has made his struggle seem less than it is, somehow, and he thinks that it might be because she is ignorant of how decidedly he is falling for her – despite all the reasons and his best attempts not to.

Maybe she's right and he shouldn't have kissed her, but the more he gets to know her and the longer they're together the more the lines of his double life start to blur – the more he starts to think that he wants to see where this chemistry of theirs might lead them.

He has a growing suspicion that it's farther than he'd originally thought.

"I'm going home in the morning," she reiterates. "And we can forget this ever happened."

He lets her walk away this time because he doesn't know how to stop her, and he's not entirely sure that he should. He knows that Felicity has been attracted to him for a while, but somewhere along the lines it has started to feel like more – and on his end, as well. He hadn't been aware, really, that the foundation for the way he's feeling now had been set long ago, because it had needed a catalyst for it to come to light; once the change had started, though, there was no stopping it. Now, standing in the inky darkness of his kitchen with the memory of what Felicity's lips feel like, he knows entirely too well just how much he wants to be able to repeat the experience.

Felicity kisses like a siren, and he remembers in near exact detail the look on her face just before she'd shown him just how passionate she could be; it makes the difference astounding when he compares that moment with the one a few seconds later, when she'd informed him that she was not a conquest.

He's been doing so well with being cautious around her, careful not to move too quickly and jeopardize whatever chance he may have with her – whatever chance he may want with her, because he hadn't been certain what that was until now - and now he's afraid he may have ruined it after all. He hadn't intended to kiss her, but seeing her on his kitchen counter had undermined all of his self control; he'd watched in silence as she talked to herself, and to her mom, smiling at the way she'd waved that stupid spoon through the air as if she were a maestro leading an orchestra, and then she'd made that pun … he'd been unable to stay silent then. Her easy joy had reached out to him, much like it had that first night in the foundry when he'd noticed her socks, and he'd been unable to resist her pull.

Oliver finally makes himself move. He retrieves the ice cream and replaces the lid, then slides it back into the freezer, and tosses their spoons in the sink as he heads back to his room.

He can't resist pausing in the hallway, both ears straining to catch any sort of sound coming from her room. She's been through a lot lately, and he didn't mean to add to that, so he thinks that if there's even the slightest hint of a sound he'll knock on her door and apologize – although he's not sure for what, because he does not regret kissing her and it was not a mistake. Well, the timing may prove to have been a mistake, but the actual act was not.

If she's still awake – and he hopes she isn't, because he is not blind to her exhaustion – then she is perfecting the art of silence, because there isn't a sound to be heard.

Tired, frustrated and confused, Oliver lets himself into his room and flops onto the bed. He knows he will not sleep this night, but he needs to make an effort in the off chance that he's wrong.

The city lights glow golden in the darkness; he likes the way they look from up here, this world of rooftops that he has made his, and he likes that it feels completely disconnected from the world below. This place is his and his alone, the penultimate concrete jungle, and it's the one place that has rules that he understands perfectly; unlike the rest of his life – well, lives, really.

"Oliver," Digg says in his ear, "We found him."

He doesn't need to ask who his partner means.

"Where?"

"Lives in the Glades; 4220 Paxton."

"Is he there now?"

"Dunno yet, hold on."

Oliver's muscles tense in anticipation, and he forces them to relax until he's ready to move. His frustration is hovering just below the surface, even worse than it was the night before; he'd woken up this morning to discover – from Thea, no less – that Felicity was already gone. He'd known instantly that she hadn't gotten any sleep, because he was a habitually early riser, and this morning had been no different. Masking his irritated confusion in nonchalance, he'd asked how Thea had come by the information and been surprised when she'd informed him that Felicity had texted her. So Thea and Felicity were close enough – after what, forty- eight hours? – to be on a texting basis, and he hadn't gotten so much as a note? Or hell, even a text, since she obviously had the time and foresight to text his sister.

He tells himself that he isn't avoiding her, but he had made sure to suit up and hit the rooftops before she'd gotten in that night; which she still hadn't, since Digg is the one on the comm. device.

He refuses to believe, even for a moment, that things are strained enough between them that she won't take over as soon as she arrives. Then again, it's better that she isn't there yet, because he hasn't told her that they are pursuing her attacker, and now that they've found him he doesn't intend to tell her until after he's dealt with him.

How he deals with him remains to be seen.

"He's home," Digg says then. "And he has company."

Oliver springs into action, and it feels good to be stretching his muscles as he accelerates into a sprint and throws himself into the air, feeling the wind brush his cheeks as he falls and then lands on the next roof. This exercise is therapeutic because he doesn't have to think about anything except which route to take across the rooftops and have far he has to jump to get to the next roof. He inhales deeply, clearing his mind of everything but his next task, and zips from shadow to shadow like a wraith.

He arrives in good time; he pauses on the roof opposite the house where his quarry unwittingly waits, careful to mark each point of ingress and egress. The house is small and unkempt, more of a ruin than an actual building, and there is loud music wafting out an open window; he's not certain, but he thinks that it might be Vivaldi. Strange, but he's not here to mull over the man's music choices.

Oliver climbs down the piping of the building he's on and aims for the back door. He's quiet, predatory, eyes darting everywhere as they take in his surroundings; the back door has been left open, so his only obstacle is a flimsy screen door that was probably white at some point, and now can barely be called dirt brown. He stays low as he slips inside, cataloging the filth that seems to coat every corner of the place, and stops just outside what he understands to be the living room.

There are people talking.

"How the hell should I know?" one voice demands.

"Most people with half a brain would have asked!" another voice chides, obviously irritated.

"Did you see the guy, Bernie? You don't question men like that, 'less you wanna end up at the bottom of a river somewhere."

"Well? Did you find her?"

Oliver tenses automatically, his mind immediately calling forth a picture of Felicity. Are they talking about her, or someone else?

"No," the man who isn't Bernie answers after a pause. "She right disappeared, Bern."

"People don't disappear, shit head. Don' know why I keep you aroun', Mikey, ya ain't got shit for brains."

"I'm your brother, Bernie."

"We all have our crosses to bear," Bernie mumbles.

Oliver catapults into the room with an arrow already nocked, which he aims at the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling; the slower one, Mikey, screams and throws himself behind the couch where Bernie is seated. Oliver has another arrow nocked and aimed at Bernie's head before the other man can do more than flinch in surprise.

"You have ten seconds to tell me who you're working for and what they want with Felicity Smoak."

"Who the hell are you, Robin Hood?"

Bernie's voice is curt, but Oliver can see well enough to know that the ham of a man in front of him is rattled. His vision doesn't seem as sharp in the dark as Oliver's, and he plans on using that to his advantage.

"Five seconds."

"I ain't telling you shit, man."

Oliver angles his bow down and releases the arrow; Bernie yells and lets out a stream of curses as it lodges itself in his thigh.

"Someone offered me ten grand to steal something from her, okay?" he yells, cradling his thigh with both hands.

"Who?"

"Some suit from the business district, gave me a fake name."

"What was it?"

"Lord Tennyson; fucking snob."

"What did he want you to steal?"

"A book, some stupid little notebook, alright? Said the pages migh' be blank, but that it was priceless. Anyway, didn' find it, did we? I went myself, since my brother's useless, but the bitch came home and caugh' me by surprise."

Oliver's hand tightens imperceptibly on the bow.

"Feisty little shit she was, but I taught her a lesson, didn' I? Fought like a hell cat, look."

Oliver is close enough to see where Bernie is pointing to his forehead: a long line of stitches, ragged and obviously self-applied, runs from his hairline and down through one eyebrow, narrowly missing the corner of his eye. He spares just a second to acknowledge the pride that swells in his chest.

"What does Lord Tennyson want with this notebook?" Oliver demands.

"Didn' exactly say, obviously. Didn' care to ask, either; just want the money. What the hell do you care, anyway? This Felicity Smoak got beer flavored tits or what?"

"Oliver," Digg's voice says warningly in his ear.

"Who else is working for this man?" he asks, forcing himself to ignore the comment.

"Fuck should I know, man? Good luck to 'em, bitch's fallen off the grid; too bad, I was lookin' forward to another chance to get up her skirt. You seen her, man? Looks like she could use a good poundin', if ya know what I mean. Girls like tha', they just lookin' for a good ra …"

The arrow hisses as it slices through the air and smashes into Bernie's chest before he can finish the sentence; there's a dull thud as it meets flesh and rips through it, and a soft gurgle as Bernie slumps back onto the couch, dead.

Behind the couch, Mikey starts to wail.

"Oh, whaddja haf' to go an' do that for? Oh, Bern … who's gonna take care o' me now?"

Enraged, Oliver spins on his heel and stalks out of the filthy house, every line of his body alive with tension; his mind keeps recalling images of a frightened Felicity, trembling in his arms and covered with livid bruises.

"Digg," he snaps. "Call in an anonymous tip to the police."

"Already …" the rest of his sentence is lost to a loud curse. Then, "Oliver, that alarm you had installed at Felicity's? It just tripped."

Oliver is sprinting before Digg has finished the sentence.