AN: we've got some pretty big Oliver development in this chapter - yay! I've done my best to keep it in character and not too sappy or anything, but it was difficult because I've been watching North & South so I'm a little giddy. I'm also dying for some Olicity goodness, so, ya know ... but we're on our way! Oh, and someone - I'm sorry, I don't remember who - mentioned that in reality Felicity's apartment would still be an active crime scene: that's very true, but I sort of ignored it in the name of artistic license. Anyway, thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you guys like it.
The sun is setting over the city, the sky shot through with long stretches of skinny clouds and great swathes of vibrant pink light; Felicity is lying on her back and staring up at it, soft music billowing up from what he assumes is her phone. He's careful to make noise as he approaches her, purposefully making his footsteps fall heavier than they usually do, but she makes no sign that she hears him. He stops when he's only a few feet away, watching her unabashedly, unsure of what he should say – or if he should say anything at all.
He wonders if she can truly be comfortable with only a blanket to separate her from the cool cement.
"You're staring."
Her voice is calm, maybe even a little teasing, and he is thankful for that; she hasn't been completely herself in the last three days.
"So are you," he retorts.
He steps toward her, taking in the sight of her in her blue jeans and t-shirt, so casual and unlike the Felicity he usually sees. Her telltale glasses are missing, broken in the scuffle, and it's strange to see her without them. She's been so subdued since the attack, so uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn; he misses her usual vivacity, her chatter and breathless tirades.
Oliver didn't notice it at first, but there is a bottle of whiskey next to her; he's fairly certain the label says Johnny Walker.
"What are you doing up here?"
"Pretending," she answers.
She finally turns her head enough to look at him, to watch him as he's been watching her, and they pass several seconds in silence before she pats the open blanket next to her.
"C'mon."
She's already turned her attention back to the sunset; Oliver lies down next to her, the cement of the rooftop beneath him cool enough to penetrate the blanket. The buzz and din of the city is nothing but white noise up here, a low growl under the music that's playing; there is a breeze, fresh but not quite brisk, and every time it passes he can smell citrus.
"When's the last time you actually stopped to appreciate the world, Oliver?"
He takes a breath, holds it, and lets it out in a long puff. The last time he appreciated the world? He's not sure, really: before the island? Never? He doesn't remember ever really taking the time to appreciate something like a sunset before the island, unless he was appreciating what it could offer him: a romantic prospect with a woman, an opportunity to appear sensitive. He'd been too preoccupied with trying to stay alive while he was on the island to appreciate much of anything; when he'd finally gotten off of it, he'd appreciated things like second chances and perseverance and being alive, but not the world – not really.
Everything after the island has consisted of justice and secrets and … Laurel, of discretion and subtlety and denial.
"I don't know," he tells her finally. Then, "what are you pretending?"
Felicity turns her head to look at him once more, and he mimics the motion; a dangerous idea, he thinks, because they are closer than he's realized and her breath is warm and smells ever so slightly of liquor. He thinks about the feel of her hair against his hand when they'd kissed; the easy weight of her draped against him when she'd fallen asleep on him that first night.
"That nothing exists outside of this moment; that my world is nothing more than sunsets and music and gentle breezes."
"That I'd never shown up in the back of your car with a gunshot wound?"
"No. Although I do sometimes wonder what would've happened if I hadn't offered to help find Walter."
Oliver has been faced with many things lately, many epiphanies and revelations that have done nothing but upset the balance of his life and make him question everything he's thought he wanted, and her words have triggered a thought that brings on another such moment. Only now, when it occurs to him that it would probably be kinder to push her away, to refuse to accept her assistance anymore, does he realize how forcefully he wants her to stay. He knows that he can do his work as the Hood without Felicity, or Digg, because he'd started without them, but he doesn't want to. He'd never intended to have them, and now that he does the thought of losing them – of having them walk away – is … abhorrent.
Not that he will admit that to anyone but himself.
"Felicity, if you want out …" he forces the words out, but can't make himself finish the sentence.
"I don't," she answers decisively. "I didn't mean to sound regretful, Oliver; it was just a train of thought, a 'what if' scenario. I've been up here a while, my mind's been wandering."
"Some people would be worried," he tells her nonchalantly, "finding you alone up here with sad music and a bottle of whiskey."
"But not you," she amends, and her tone has turned teasing again.
"Of course not."
"And it's not sad music, thank you very much – it's relaxing; soothing."
"And the whiskey?" he prods.
She sighs and finally turns her eyes away from his. "It's silly."
The last time he heard her say those words was just before she'd professed being afraid to stay in her apartment, and now … well, now here they were.
Felicity pulls herself up into a sitting position, pulling her legs in and crossing them over each other; Oliver follows, bumping her shoulder with his as he does so.
"It's not silly," he reassures her.
"Making toasts." She's looking out over the buildings and she drops her gaze to her lap before bringing it back up to him.
For some reason, the idea of Felicity alone on the roof and making toasts to things like sunsets and good music makes the corner of his mouth turn up in a half smile, because it is sweet and so true to her character that he can't help it.
He reaches behind her, his arm just brushing across her back as he does so, and grabs the bottle of whiskey; he pulls it to him and twists off the cap, Felicity watching him the whole time.
"No glass?" he teases.
"Don't be a wuss," she fires back.
"To the world," he says, tipping the neck of the bottle slightly toward her, "so underappreciated."
He takes a pull and then goes to set it down in front of them, but Felicity reaches out to take it from him, their fingers overlapping on the glass.
"Isn't there someone out there you should be putting the fear of God into?"
"It can wait." He's somewhat surprised to feel how truly he means it.
"Oliver," Felicity says, her tone softly chiding. "I'll be fine; you can't keep putting everything off because you're afraid to leave me. Alone, I mean, afraid to leave me alone."
She's right, as she so often is, but he's not of a mind to care at the moment. It's important that he's here; that she knows that she … that her safety is important to him. There have been, and will continue to be, many times when he can't or won't put her first, and he won't lie and say otherwise; but right now, he's exactly where he needs to be.
"Felicity …"
Oliver is afraid to admit that he thinks her name is quickly becoming his favorite word, that the way she seems to soften when she hears it is his favorite sight. He likes seeing the affect he has on her; he wonders if she knows how she affects him.
"… Make a toast," he forces himself to say finally, because he is in danger of kissing her again.
"To friends, for putting up with you."
He chuckles as she takes a drink, because he's not sure if she's talking about herself or him. She doesn't hand him the bottle immediately, instead pulling at the corner of the label with one purple fingernail; she doesn't seem intent to share what she's thinking so he turns his gaze to the city. The sun is mostly down now and the sky is just dark enough that the stars are beginning to appear; the streetlights and building lights have come on and created a sea of artificial oranges and yellows.
"I'm afraid to think of the person I might be today if I hadn't gone with my father," he admits suddenly. "What sort of man I would have been."
The words have come from nowhere, born out of a strange and sudden desire to share something personal with her; she has shared so much with him, telling him about her mother and answering his questions when he'd asked. Felicity is a private person, but she has always been the more open of the two of them, more willing to share herself with him; he will never be able to share all of himself, he knows, maybe not even a large majority, but he knows that he wants to try – for her.
Twice now he's almost lost Felicity, without ever really having had her in the first place; twice someone has tried to take away the chance that he can now admit to wanting. Everything in his life is difficult and confusing, and this – if she's willing to let there be a 'this' – will likely be the same because there is no shortage of obstacles. Some of which will be of their own making – well, his making, mostly. For the first time in weeks he feels as though he's finally seeing things clearly: he loves Laurel, but he can't erase their past or the fact that they will never have a healthy or stable foundation again. He wants her to be happy, truly, but he wants to be happy himself, and he realizes now that such happiness can be found in the woman sitting next to him.
He doesn't just want Felicity, he needs her; he needs her sweetness, her determination and lateral thinking and flare.
Laurel makes him want to forget, but Felicity makes him want to remember; she makes him feel like he can remember, that not all the memories have to be painful.
He had told Makenna once that he'd lost the part of himself that enjoyed being alive; he knows, without knowing how, that Felicity can help him find it again. He'll always be a little less than whole, because everything he's been through and everything he's done – is doing – has a price, but she has it in her to be the one to restore him.
She will be the light of your life, Kylie had said, and he believes it even more now than he did then.
"Pretend," Felicity says next to him, and he pulls himself from his thoughts to look at her. "Pretend, even if you don't believe it, that something different would have happened to make you a better man than you were."
He smiles at her and holds out a hand for the bottle, which she finally relinquishes to him; the label is barely hanging on now.
"You've almost got it off without a single tear," he tells her, mock impressed.
"They aren't redeemable for sex if they're torn," she quips.
The color rushes into her cheeks so quickly that it's as if a veil has been dropped; he doesn't know whether to laugh or be alarmed.
"It was a game," she starts to ramble, "a stupid game that we used to play in college that if you could get the labels off the bottle in one piece you'd give them to the person you, ya know, liked or whatever and then … we never actually did it, I mean, we'd tear them off and joke about it and then just collect them into a huge pile to throw away at the end of the night … we never actually slept together … not that we didn't have sex, I just mean …"
Oliver can't contain it anymore: he dissolves into gales of laughter, deep and true and unrestrained. Felicity is blushing so ferociously that she's a perfect shade of scarlet and she brings a hand up to cover her eyes as she shakes her head.
"This has to be a medical condition," she whines, "because this is just ridiculous! My brain, why does my brain make me say these things? I need a muzzle."
His sides hurt and he hasn't laughed like that in such a long time, and Felicity is both adorable and beautiful when she's flustered; it hits him again, the stark truth of nearly having lost her, of almost having to face the rest of his life knowing he'd never hear one of these rambles again or see the color standing in her cheeks. He puts the bottle of whiskey down and then pulls her into his side with one arm, unable to go another moment without having some form of contact with her.
She doesn't resist the contact, doesn't try to break away; she turns into him so that she can wrap both arms around his middle section, and he drops a cheek against her hair. He's still chuckling.
"I could be a sideshow," she tells him. "If I ever lose my job in the IT department, or, hell, if I ever need extra money."
"You'd have to find a circus first."
"Look who you're talking to; you can find anything on the Internet, and the Internet is my domain. I'm queen of the digital world. I'm totally having that added to my name plate at work."
"I've never noticed a name plate in your office," he replies.
"Not the point."
They finally fall silent; the sky above them is dark and littered with stars, and the city below is as quiet as it can be. Felicity's phone is still playing music, a song that he doesn't recognize, and she is tucked safely against his side.
There will be work to be done tomorrow, secrets to uncover and people to track, but right now Oliver is happy to be on this roof with this woman; they can pretend that nothing exists outside this moment.
Oliver opens his eyes quickly, his body tensing in preparation for a fight, because the feeling of being watched has broken through his slumber.
The person staring, however, is Digg. He's tucked into the loveseat with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a quiet but discerning look on his face. Oliver knows that look: it means he's thinking something through, that he has an opinion that he's going to share – even if it isn't received well.
"What?" he queries softly.
Digg raises an eyebrow and nods very pointedly at Felicity, who is fast asleep against Oliver's chest. Again.
"What're you doing, man?"
"Well I was sleeping," Oliver replies, already feeling defensive.
"I see that."
"You really think now's the time to have this conversation?"
He glances down at Felicity, but her breathing is still even and slow; she hasn't shown any signs of waking.
"When else would we have it? You've hardly left her side the last few days, not even to Hood up. You're walking a fine line, Oliver."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Look, man, you know Felicity likes you, and you're setting her up for real pain if you keep going on the way you are. She's not someone you can pick up and drop whenever you feel like it."
"Diggle," he says warningly, feeling his ire rise.
"What happens the next time you go running off after Laurel?" Digg continues, his countenance hardening.
"We're not having this conversation," Oliver grinds out, keeping his voice low.
"I've seen the way you've been looking at her, Oliver, even if she hasn't; I know that look. She's been through a lot lately, and the last thing she needs is to be fooled into thinking that …"
"I'm only going to say this once, Diggle: my relationship with Felicity is none of your business."
"Your relationship?" Digg repeats, both eyebrows rising. "The welfare of my friends is my business, man; do you hear yourself? When did 'friendship' turn into 'relationship'? And what about Laurel, your girlfriend – remember her?"
"We aren't dating anymore, and why does everyone think I would do that – to anyone?"
"Do what?" a new, sleepy voice asks.
He glances down to see Felicity blinking repeatedly as she pulls herself into wakefulness.
"Nothing," he answers quickly.
"You totally suck at lying," she counters.
She lays a soft hand against his chest as a brace so that she can pull herself up and off him; he moves his long legs off the couch so she has somewhere to sit and sits up, then decides to stand.
"Digg made coffee," he tells her, hoping that she won't question him.
"Oliver."
Of course; it was too much to hope for that she wouldn't press him, because this is Felicity.
"Digg's worried about you," he finally answers. "Now – coffee?"
"Yes, please."
He can hear her reassuring Digg that she's okay as he steps into her kitchen, and he almost holds his breath as he waits to hear if Digg will present the same argument to her as he'd done to Oliver. He retrieves two coffee cups, but he's intent on trying to listen; it doesn't sound like Digg is saying anything important.
It's barely seven thirty in the morning according to the clock on the stove, and Oliver's mind is already abuzz. Digg is being a good friend – to both of them, even if it feels a little more like an attack at the moment – and Oliver can't fault him for his concern for Felicity. In truth, Oliver hadn't been aware that any sign of his growing feelings for her had made an appearance; true, he had been sticking close to her the last few days, but he'd thought his reasons for doing so were obvious. Then again, his proximity to her was in itself an oddity, because he's a man of action; in times of peril and threat, he's usually the first to disappear in search of the source. He is a man of offense, not defense, and yet he has allowed himself to become passive, rather than aggressive.
You can't keep putting everything off because you're afraid to leave me.
Damn Felicity and her uncanny way of seeing things that he doesn't.
He is afraid to leave her, but he can't be sure of the reasons: because she's in danger, obviously, and yet that is also the first and best argument for him to get out there and find out what is going on and who the ringleader is. So why hasn't he done that yet? Why has he allowed himself to be idle?
"You firing your own coffee cups in there?" Felicity calls then.
"Need a better kiln," he answers.
Why does he know how much creamer she likes in her coffee?
He heads back to the living room with a cup of coffee in each hand; Felicity reaches for one eagerly, smiling and offering a murmured thank you as she does so.
"Kylie's coming up today," she says, taking a timid sip. "I tried to tell her not to, but she wasn't having it."
"Why?" Digg asks. "Won't having her here make you feel better?"
She nods. "Yes, but I don't want her tangled up in whatever's going on. What if something happens to her? And how am I going to help you at the foundry if she's here? I very well can't bring her with me."
"I think it's better if you stay away from the foundry for a while," Oliver starts, but she doesn't let him finish; Felicity turns large, sparking eyes on him, her face a mix of fierce and worried.
"Oh no you don't, Oliver Queen," she fires off. "I know where you're going with this and you can just stop right there. I'm not having any of that 'push her away for her own safety' crap that …"
She's worked herself into quite the frenzy, which surprises him, because she seems as if she's been waiting for him to do exactly that; he reaches for her unconsciously, putting the hand that isn't holding his coffee cup over the area just above her knee.
"Felicity," he says calmly, and falls quiet but continues to glare at him. "You didn't let me finish. You're right, you can't come to the foundry while Kylie's here, but that's a good thing; for all we know you're being watched. And we won't let anything happen to Kylie, or to you – okay?"
He squeezes her knee reassuringly and then retracts his hand, only then realizing that Digg is watching him; it irritates him a little, but he doesn't let on.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet; I want you and Kylie to come stay at the mansion until this is sorted out."
"Not …"
"Negotiable," he finishes for her, and she's glaring at him again. "Your apartment isn't safe; the mansion has better security, and no one will think to look for you there."
"And what if they do?" she challenges. "Then Thea will be in danger as well."
"Thea's visiting Walter, so she won't be there."
"But you said those two guys were, ya know, out of the picture."
"Yes, but whomever they were working for is still out there, and obviously out to get you."
"Which is stupid," she starts to rant, obviously irritated again. "Their information is seriously outdated, because Walter gave me that book – what? – almost two years ago? And if they know that I had it, why don't they know I gave it to you?"
"That's what we have to find out; until we do, you'll be safe at the mansion."
He can see that she wants to argue, but doesn't have anything to argue with; his points are all valid – he knows, because he spent more than a few minutes thinking of them in anticipation for this exact moment.
"I hate it when you do that," she hisses. "Being all …"
"Reasonable?" he offers.
"Careful," Digg cuts in before she can answer. "You two are starting to sound an awful lot like a bickering couple."
Oliver catches the real warning thinly veiled in the joking one, the hidden call back to their earlier conversation, and his eyes snap to the other man in irritation. He has enough to deal with as it is, he doesn't need to add being at odds with Digg to the list.
Someone is knocking on the door then, keeping them from continuing the conversation; Oliver and Digg move at the same time, setting coffee mugs on tables and rising to their feet. Digg is closer to the door, and he puts one hand in the vicinity of his gun as he moves toward it; Oliver feels Felicity stand behind him and move closer, so he puts one hand out and behind him to stop her.
Digg glances through the peephole and then relaxes visibly; he unlocks and opens the door and then Kylie is sweeping into the room like a whirlwind.
"Where is she?"