AN: not much to say here except thanks (again). Oh, and we're getting there, so don't lose hope! Read on!

She's not sure why she does it; usually she just goes to the foundry after work, but tonight she's decided to make a stop at home in between. She tells herself it's because she wants to grab a bite before heading in, because she doubts that there will be time to eat once she gets there, but a snide voice in the back of her mind tells her that it's because she's putting off seeing Oliver. She'd already dodged him this morning by leaving before even he was awake, a feat made easier by the fact that she'd gotten almost no sleep. She'd tried, lying in bed for over two hours wide awake as her masochistic mind had insisted on replaying everything that had happened. Well, mostly it had replayed the kiss, because she had been right: his kisses did burn.

Oliver had set her ablaze, and she is still being consumed; a very large part of Felicity is terrified that the fire might never be extinguished, that her best hope is that it will eventually taper off into little more than a glowing ember.

She should've stopped him, and she really had meant to, but the moonlight had made him seem softer, more attainable, and so she'd closed her eyes and let it happen. His kiss had been gentle, undemanding; she was the one who'd taken it further, until they were nearly prone on his counter top.

Sex on the counter makes everything better, Kylie's voice pipes in the back of her mind.

Growling in irritation, Felicity lets herself into her apartment and immediately kicks off her shoes and tosses her keys on the receiving table against the wall. She shouldn't waste too much time, because not even the awkwardness of kissing Oliver - only to dismiss him moments later - can get in the way of the work their team does. A quick sandwich and salad maybe, something easy to make that will stay with her for …

Felicity halts mid-stride just near the kitchen, because she has a clear view of the short hallway that leads to her bedroom, and she can see from here that the door is standing half open; the light is off.

One of the perks of living alone is that you never have to close the doors, and Felicity never does; she's fairly certain that she's only closed it twice in the entire time that she's lived here, and one of those times was most certainly not today.

There is a chance that she's just being paranoid, and that she'd been so preoccupied earlier that she didn't realize – or remember – closing it, even slightly, but in the light of recent events she's perfectly fine with paranoia.

She's almost shaking with adrenaline, but she forces herself to take a step backward as quietly as she can, her eyes never leaving the bedroom door. She's cursing herself for not turning on more than the kitchen light, because in this scenario the darkness feels sinister, so she stretches out a hand in the direction where she knows she'll find the light switch; if a measurement of time exists that is shorter than a second, that's how long she looks away.

The door is thrown open so forcefully that it slams into the wall, but Felicity is too focused on what's coming out of the room to care: this man is maybe half the size of her other attacker, but that gives him an advantage in the speed department.

Her brain freezes as the man barrels toward her, rational thought erased and replaced with blind terror; she feels as though she's been petrified, because all she can do is stare.

At the last moment she recovers enough to throw herself down and away from him, his outstretched hand grazing her bicep as he tries to catch her. She recovers her feet, but she's thrown herself in the wrong direction - she's now facing the hallway and the taser is still in the kitchen.

Felicity races down the hall anyway, ducking into the bathroom and locking herself in; her attacker has recovered quickly and throws what she's assuming is himself against the door, and she can hear the wood groaning and cracking against the onslaught. She doesn't have long before he's inside with her, and she frantically searches the room for anything she can use as a weapon; a profound wave of despair rocks through her as she realizes that there is nothing that will help, that this time looks even more desolate than the last, and then her eyes fall on a pair of scissors sitting quietly on her sink.

She snatches them up greedily, faces the door and takes a deep breath.

I will not be a victim.

The locking mechanism gives way then and the wood around it splinters as the door swings in, but she barely has time to blink before the man is upon her: horrified, determined, Felicity lunges and shoves the scissors at him with as much as force as she can muster. She has no idea where she's hit him but her hand is warm and wet, and he is doubling over – whether in shock or pain she doesn't know – and she is kicking furiously; her foot connects with what she thinks might be a knee cap and he is falling, and Felicity catapults herself over and away from him.

She has no idea who this man is – or even what - but she can hear him pursuing her; she's too far from the kitchen and she can't remember exactly what drawer the taser is in, but her eyes fall on the gift that Kylie had brought up with her: a very pristine Louisville Slugger. She redirects, but her bare feet slide on the carpet and she falls forward, barely managing to catch herself on her hands. Her arms come alive with daggers of pain, but she ignores them and tries to regain her feet; her attacker has caught up with her though, and he latches onto her ponytail before she can. Tears blur her vision as her head is yanked backward, and she spares a fleeting thought to thank whatever powers that be he hasn't broken her neck.

Felicity thinks that she might be screaming, and this is what makes her realize that the man attacking her hasn't made a sound beyond a grunt when she was stabbing him.

That's a whole new level of terrifying.

He pushes her to the ground face first and then straddles her, and despite his rather slim build she knows now that he is all muscle, because he is much heavier than he should be.

"I like it when they fight."

The first words he's spoken and they fill Felicity with a terror that is unequaled, a thought that hadn't occurred to her until that very moment; he still has a hold of her hair, but the hand that is free has gathered up what material of her shirt that it can find.

She has read enough news reports to know what happens next.

Her glasses have disappeared, but she is close enough to be able to clearly see the bat where it rests against the side of her couch; maybe, if she can get to it, she will not end up a sad blip on tomorrow's evening news.

Felicity starts to squirm, fighting as hard as she can to lift just a single hip off the floor, but he is heavy and his thighs are like iron; he squeezes so hard that she has to fight for air.

For the rest of her life, Felicity will never understand why he makes the mistake he does next, but she will always be thankful for it: he leans down to whisper in her ear.

She strikes, swinging her elbow up and out so that it connects with his face – maybe an eye – and he is just surprised enough that his balance wavers, and Felicity is shoving herself forward and off the ground.

The moment her hand wraps around the grip of the bat, Felicity pivots on one foot to face the man she knows is coming for her; some part of her registers that there is a window breaking somewhere, but all she sees is the perversely twisted face of her attacker. One step, two, and then he is close enough to reach for her and she is whipping the bat through the air with a fury; it smashes into the side of his head with a dull sort of sound and then he is falling away from her.

When she glances away from the unmoving man it is to find Oliver standing less than three feet away from her, decked out in his Hood gear; her lungs are refusing to hold any air and the sight of him does something to her, strikes a very primal place that she can't name. No matter what is or was or will be happening between them, Oliver means safety – and her undoing.

"Oliver," she whispers, and his name is both a plea and a benediction.

The bat slides from her fingers and onto her floor, and then she knows nothing else.

"Felicity."

She opens her eyes begrudgingly, blinking repeatedly against the light that beats down on them; there is a face above hers and she startles, pushing herself back into the bed by reflex.

Wait … the bed?

Confused, she glances down to find that she isn't on a bed after all, but a couch; her couch. The face above her belongs to Oliver, who has pushed his hood back and is sitting next to her with one arm stretched out above her and braced on the back of the couch.

The memories of the attack come rushing back and she throws herself forward without thinking, every iota of her being telling her to defend herself, to flee; she only succeeds in throwing herself into Oliver, however, who catches her and clasps her against himself with the arm that is free. He turns his head, so that his lips are near her ear, and his voice is both dangerous and comforting.

"You're okay," he tells her. "I've got you."

He is still dressed as the vigilante and he smells like leather; his arm is strong and protective against her back, and she allows herself one shuddering breath before giving in and wrapping both arms tightly around his torso, just below the arms.

Is he shaking, or is she?

Her attacker is still motionless on the floor, and the sight of him brings a new question to mind.

"Is he dead?" she whispers. "Did I kill him?"

"No," Oliver answers, voice just as quiet. "I did."

She looks at him again, and there is indeed an arrow sticking out of his chest; there's also a pair of scissors lodged in his stomach, or close enough to that area to make no difference. She can't tell from here, but she thinks one of his kneecaps might also be situated at an odd angle.

No one survives a stomach wound, right?

"Did you shoot him so that I wouldn't be the one who killed him?"

"No."

The answer comes so quickly and his voice is so assured that she's not sure what to believe. Could someone really push through a wound like that if it were fatal? Had Oliver put an arrow in him just so that she wouldn't feel responsible for his death?

She still has her arms around him, his free arm is still around her, and she can feel his chest like a wall against hers every time she takes a breath. She doesn't want to think about anything right now, doesn't want to wonder if she's killed a man or why this is happening to her; she turns her head into the length of Oliver's neck, tucking her forehead against the skin just below his ear.

The hand that had been braced against the couch wraps around her then, both arms holding her so tightly that she might complain about being crushed under different circumstances.

"How did you know?" she inquires.

There are sirens in the distance.

"I had an alarm installed," he answers. "Didn't get a chance to tell you before you disappeared."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care about that, Felicity; all that matters is that you're safe."

He turns his head toward her slightly, so that she can feel his stubble against her forehead, and she doesn't know why but the action feels so intimate that she holds him tighter.

"I think he was going to kill me," she grinds out, the words like sawdust in her mouth. "And I have no idea why."

For a very long moment Oliver is crushing her, and then he is pulling away from her and one hand comes up to cup her cheek; his eyes are intense, even in the darkness, and then she can feel his chest vibrating against her own as he speaks.

"This'll never happen again, Felicity; I don't care if you have to move into the mansion, or I have to move in here."

"You can't be certain …"

The sirens are getting closer.

"I can, and I am."

"Did you call the cops?"

"Alarm did it for me."

"You need to go, Oliver; you can't be here when they get here."

She is still clutching him as if her life depends on it, and his hand is still curved around her cheek.

He hesitates before speaking. "I'll be outside."

She makes herself let go, and her arms fall to her side as if they are made of lead. He is slower in releasing her, but the sirens sound as if they are directly below them now, and so he finally pulls away and sweeps to his feet.

"If you need me … " he says, and she nods.

He disappears out the window and she barely has time to stand before her front door is being kicked open; the sound makes her jump and she can't help recalling the moment her bathroom door gave way, but she forces herself to stay still as the police descend upon her.

Detective Lance is there, of course, and everyone has questions: when did she get home and what tipped her off and why exactly is there an arrow in the man's chest? She has no idea what she's saying but she answers anyway; she tells them in as much detail as she can about the attack, completely oblivious to the looks that are being shared between Lance and his counterparts.

She has no answer when they ask her how the Hood got involved or why she should be of any import to the vigilante; her thoughts are stuck on the sound of splintering wood and cracking bones.

When she looks down at her hands, they are covered in blood.

Felicity objects when they declare that she should go to the hospital, although she's not sure why; she thinks it might be because she knows that Oliver is just outside her apartment somewhere, and try as she might she can't bear the thought of being away from him – even if she can't see him.

The coroner comes to remove the body and Detective Lance is asking her again what she thinks the man wanted and if she's sure that she doesn't want to go to the hospital; she thanks him and tells him that no, she's fine and she thinks she might go stay with a friend for a while.

It's a lie, but she doesn't care.

She has no idea when he arrived, but the next thing she knows the body and the police are gone and Digg is standing inside her door; he closes and locks it, then pauses to punch some numbers into a keypad that she hadn't noticed before moving toward her. She's back on the couch and the bat is still lying where she dropped it, and nothing in life makes sense anymore.

The words come from nowhere. "I am not a victim."

"No," Digg tells her gently. "No, Felicity, you're not."

Oliver steps out of her bedroom in regular clothes and she is reduced to a trembling shadow of herself; he notices and steps to her side quickly, long legs eating up the distance between them. He sits down next to her and she's not sure if she's falling into him or he's pulling her, but she's against his chest again and his heartbeat is steady against her cheek.

They stay wrapped up in each other for what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes; she has no idea where Digg has ended up, but she knows he isn't gone.

The words come suddenly, and once she's started talking she can't stop.

"Sometimes I just want to disappear," she whispers against him. "Get lost in the world and pretend that I'm someone else, that my problems don't exist; I want to take in the beauty of the world and remember why life is worth living."

Oliver doesn't reply.

"Is this how you feel?" she finally asks.

"How?"

His voice is like honey over gravel.

It takes her a minute to answer. "Destroyed."

His arms tighten around her and he presses a kiss to her forehead; she'll think about that later.

"I'm not sure I'll ever feel safe again."

Digg appears with a sandwich and she makes herself disengage from Oliver long enough to wash the blood off her hands and eat it.

When she looks at Digg his face is kind, but drawn; he paces endlessly.

"How did he get in?" she makes herself ask after a while.

"Broke through the bedroom window," Digg answers.

Oliver retrieves the remote to her television and turns it on; it kicks automatically to the DVD player and the last thing she watched, which just so happens to be Much Ado About Nothing.

Instead of pushing play, however, he takes her by the hand and pulls her toward her bedroom; she hesitates for a second, until he reminds her that he's with her and she's okay, and then she follows him quietly.

There is glass littering the floor in front of her bed and a night wind playing with her curtains, but Oliver doesn't let her dwell on it for long.

"Pajamas," he says softly.

"Looking for a free peep show, Mr. Queen?" she quips, and it's the first show of spirit she's made all night.

Oliver steps out of the room long enough for her to change, turning his back to her because he understands without asking that she is too afraid to close the door. Her bedroom is directly across from her bathroom, however, and so it is that when she emerges she's greeted with the sight of broken wood and a door handle that's hanging on by the barest thread.

He seems to notice where her gaze has fallen, because he slips one warm, calloused hand into hers and leads her back to the couch; there is no sign of Digg. Oliver drops sideways into the couch, propping himself against the arm and stretching both legs out as far as he can. A distant part of her wonders if she should protest, but then he's pulling her down onto the couch with him; Felicity drapes herself over him so that they are chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, the crown of her head coming to rest under his chin. He pushes play on the remote and then tucks it next to him for easy access; two long, iron arms wrap around her, one just below her shoulder blades and one across her middle.

"I'm sorry about disappearing," she murmurs against him, although she thinks she may have apologized already. "Oliver?"

"Hmm?" he hums against her.

"I'm going to need a lot of ice cream."