(a/n: hi! oh my god, i never expected the kind of response i got for this story that i did, it honestly means a lot, and i loved reading all your reviews and seeing all the follows and favorites pile up. song in this chapter is when you close your eyes by sam palladio and clare bowen. enjoy and let me hear what you think(:)
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part two: either way i'll always be your home
She hadn't really expected anything to change, like that she would suddenly be curling up to his side every night, or they would you know, have actual conversations, but marriage life isn't all it's cracked up to be. Frankly, it's boring.
Her morning consists of breakfast with the mob; she reads a book from Oliver's study till Thea comes in to get her for whatever shenanigans she's thought of that day before they have lunch, after which the tiny brunette disappears until dinner; so she watches Sara do push-ups in the work-out room while envying her abs, or plays cards with a pretty mute Diggle in his makeshift hospital bed she is able to locate on her good days, or actively avoids Roy who seems to have it out for her, or sometimes fixes some of the tech for one of the other guys; then after dinner she reads some more, or if she feels like sinking particularly low that evening, reads up on some gossip on her tablet.
Sometimes she even manages to stream a whopping fifteen minutes of a movie. Fun fact: the Russian mob's wifi connection sucked.
The house is mostly empty, except for the fleeting moments she catches one of them working-out or eating or not sleeping their lethal injuries off. Oliver is always gone, doing God knows what—cutting off pinkies or putting horse heads in people's beds? Imagination was running wild here.
She's glad her 'honeymoon' is almost over and she gets to go back to work, albeit flanked by a few Russians, but at least she'll get to see other people.
She's feeling particularly fat one day as she admires Sara (doing something she calls a salmon ladder) while she pigs out on twizzlers, trying to read a book. It sounds stupid, a 'salmon ladder', like how hard could it be, but it's really intense.
It's chilly in the room if, you know, you are not actually working out so she pulls on a random sweater she found laying around the weights. It smells like cologne and faintly like man sweat, but it's better than dying of hypothermia.
"You're wearing my sweater," he states as he takes the towel hanging on his shoulder and throws it onto a bench near the salmon ladder. It's Oliver. Appearing out of nowhere.
Unless, of course, it turns out to be your fake-husband's sweater. Dead by freezing would sound pretty good right just then.
"Well, if you would clean up your dirty clothes I wouldn't have found it lying around here and if you weren't such a cheap scrooge and would put on the damn heating, I wouldn't have to put it on to begin with," she arguments triumphantly, sending him a challenging look but he just stares her down. She doesn't know why she keeps thinking she could win a stare contest with the captain (as Roy so nicely informed her) of the Russian mob, but she keeps trying anyway.
"Mom, dad, please, I don't like it when you fight," Sara whines mockingly, slapping Oliver's chest with her own towel before taking a sip of her water, disappearing off to somewhere.
Why does she always have to make it awkward? Felicity manages to do that just fine all by herself, thank you.
Oliver decides, wisely, not to continue their discussion about dirty laundry and pulls off his shirt (but wait for it, it gets worse) and gets on the salmon ladder himself. Which is just rude. So rude.
Like if she wasn't already having a hard time pretending like she wasn't attracted to him, physically (because there's no feelings involved whatsoever), and here he was, showcasing at least six of the reason why she was.
"You're staring," Sara whispers out of frickin' nowhere (why—and how—do they do that?!), poking her side before skipping off with a loud laugh. Geeze, can't a girl gawk at her fake-husband in privacy?
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"Why does Roy hate me?"
"He doesn't hate you," Thea says, legs dangling from the counter as she nibbles on one of Raisa's cookies. At the look on Felicity's face, Thea budges, "Fine. He doesn't love you, but—"
Felicity scoffs, stealing another cookie from the plate, "He hates me."
Thea sighs loudly, tapping her fingers on the marble kitchen island, "Okay, before you came here, Roy had a cat. Her name was Speedy. He loved Speedy."
"Oh my God, did she die?" Felicity gasps, pressing a cookie-crumbled-covered hand to her chest. That would explain a lot, traumas can really change a person, make them angry, maybe even at an innocent bystander, much like herself.
"No, Oliver banned him to the pool house when you came here."
"Why?" She frowns, pushing her glasses further back onto her nose, feeling a little offended. Was he purposely sabotaging his relationship with the others now? Scratch a little, she was a lot offended.
The younger girl shrugs, then she looks like she's thinking it over before she pops the last of her cookie in her mouth, "Iw dwon't knwow." Classic deflection technique.
"I'll just ask him," she kindly informs Thea, who starts to protest, but Felicity is already halfway over to his office.
"Why did you exile Roy's cat?" She wonders, voice a lot less confident than her march over here had been, suddenly not knowing how she got it in her head to come barging in and ask him about a cat.
He sighs loudly, not saying anything for a moment before offering, "Because you're allergic."
"You remembered that?"
"Of course I did."
No, he doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to be nice and sweet and remember things she told him in passing by, maybe six months ago, or do considerate things for her, or make her feel all warm and fuzzy. He made it clear he wasn't really really her husband and they're not friends so no. She's drawing a line. Taking a stand. Yes.
"You know you don't have to exile cats for me, right?"
"I know." That son of bitch does not get to be amused right now.
"I can exile cats just fine on my own."
"I'm aware." He passively looks at her as taps a finger on his desk; once, twice, three times….
She stares at him, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt, swallowing tightly before lamely adding, "Thank you."
He presses his lips together, "Sure."
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She didn't want to call her life peachy or anything, but being at work and having her own life on track were helping her get there, until, of course, White China (or whatever the frack her name was) had to come barge into her office in the middle of office hours (rude) and try and kill her. Seriously? It's been three hours. She's been back at work for three hours. She couldn't wait until lunch like any other normal person would?
She yells something in chinese—mandarin, and Felicity doesn't really understand what's going on because her samurai sword is so shiny, and sharp, and pointed directly at her face.
"You made a deal with devil," the Chinese woman cocks her head, eyes wide as she stares at her, even adding in a little mandarin nickname Felicity guesses sure is sweet, but it doesn't take away from the creepy Triad aura surrounding her and messing with her vibe.
She presses the blade further into the IT-specialist's direction and—in a flash of sheer panic—Felicity manages to grab a hold of her tablet, slamming it into the side of China's head, and causing her to fall over. Felicity blinks, once, twice, not really sure how or why that worked before leaning over her desk to check if she didn't kill her.
She seems to just be unconscious, chest still moving quietly but Felicity can't help but carefully manoeuvring herself around her desk, wondering why the hell today was the day she decided to wear her favorite pencil skirt as she tries to tip-toe past her. Of course, the white haired woman chose this moment to pull on her ankle, and she, not so subtly, tips over. The woman—whose name kind of implies she's about to drop the hottest rap album of the year—crawls on top of her, smirk playing on her lips, as she presses a karambit knife to Felicity's throat, "You are a brave one. It is a true shame—"
"You take so long to get to the damn point," Diggle concludes, just as he fires off his gun into her direction. She dodges it just in time, but he fires another round and she disappears out of the window. That was pretty badass, if she says so herself, although she doesn't think she needs to be complimenting women who just held a knife to her neck.
"Sorry, she brought an entire army of clowns," Sara smirks, stepping over a dead guy's body too casually for Felicity's liking, "Surprised you kept it up this long, princess."
"I," she pants, chest heaving as she struggles to get up, "I, smacked her against the head, with my, with my tablet."
"Nice," Roy says, dragging one of their own guys into her office by his feet. Nodding at Diggle, who in return walks over to the guy and slaps him in the face, hard, waking him up. "Stay woke, Alexei. You might have a concussion."
She can't believe this is her life.
"You're lucky we were having lunch nearby, she took out Alexei and Vyacheslav without so much as—"
"Felicity!" Oliver calls out and he barges in through her door (and honestly, she should report Palmer Technology's security department for taking this long to check in on a frickin' massacre in their IT department—luckily she has a damn office and not a cubicle, to warrant her some sort of privacy while… getting almost murdered), taking her face in his hands. "Are you okay?"
She nods slowly, still a little dumbfounded at the situation—flashes of white hair and karambit knives appearing in front of her eyes ever so often—but she's relatively fine. She didn't die.
He yells something in Russian over his shoulder, and Alexei seems to tense up, face white as a sheet. Roy decides it's a good time to guide Alexei outside before Oliver attacks him, which was a pretty smart call, because Oliver seems all fifty shades of angry right now.
(Angry the triad got to a member of his mob, or angry it was her? Or just because it's monday? Because angry is kind of like his default setting so who knows, really. Not her, his wife, because they don't spend any time together and she's not bitter about that because he married her to save her life and he doesn't owe her anything and she's getting way off point here. The point is—he's angry. At something.)
He turns back to look at her and says something to her before he starts caressing her cheeks with his thumbs, still cupping her face. It's then she realizes she's having a full blown panic attack because she can't hear a word he's saying nor can she breathe.
She closes her eyes trying to focus on his voice, "...deep breaths. In and out…" as he tries to breathe with her in the same fashion, hands moving to rub her arms slowly.
"You're safe, don't worry, just focus on my voice."
She does and eventually her breathing evens out a little and her vision gets less blurry and she finds herself with her face pressed into the crook of his neck and arms around his waist.
And all she knows as he brushes her hair and whispers, "you're safe, don't worry, I got you," is that she actually believes him, and that's bad.
.
She kisses him once—and it's not a peck either.
Sara has been trying to get her drunk for three weekends in a row, because 'it would be funny, Lis', and it seems like she finally succeeded (and exceeded) in accomplishing her goal. They play a card game with some other guys—in which whatever number you pull just basically means the amount of shots you have to take (there's more rules, she's sure, but her mind is fuzzy)—but she's not allowed to trade the vodka for something more mellow, even though she's a rookie. Russians are hardcore.
She's hammered after pulling two cards and after downing a glass of water, she calls it a night. At least that's what her not-fully-functioning brain had decided before her legs made it up the stairs, then spotting Oliver's room on the end of the hallways and deciding, what the heck, let's pay him a visit; ask him how he's doing! She had no actual say in this. It was her dummy, drunk brain. Promise.
She fixes her hair a little, pulls on her skirt to straighten it out and slips her cardigan back over her shoulder (not that it is useful because it slips right back off within seconds), trying out a few 'sensual' stances (settling on resting one arm against his doorpost) before knocking on his door.
He opens it after a moment or two—which felt like an eternity to her drunk brain so it made her hand knock four more times—and he seems surprised as he takes her in. He looks like he was getting ready for bed, just in his jeans. Damnit. Now she suddenly doesn't remember why she came here in the first place.
Barefooted, there's even more height difference between the two of them and she tentatively reaches out to touch his Bratva tattoo, testing out if it's okay to touch him but he doesn't say anything. Carefully, she runs her fingers over one of his scars on his left peck. She had noticed them before (they're hard to miss) but they all had them here—it somehow reminded her of when Laurel told her they all had their stories, their reasons—and she figured it was better not to ask. Not that she would've gotten an answer, but still.
"Do they hurt?"
He shakes his head slightly, flexing lightly under her touch. She quickly pulls her hand away as she looks up at him, as if suddenly reminded he's there with her and very much undrunk and mentally present, blinking a few times to clear her vision.
"I'm sorry," she says, not sure why, ready to turn away and descend into her bedroom with at least a little bit of her dignity left. He frowns and grabs her hand, sighing her name, "Felicity."
She doesn't want to blame it entirely on how her name sounds on his lips, but yes, she guesses it was the katalysator for actually doing something she had been resisting for a very long time (that or the alcohol). She reaches up and plants her lips on his, knocking teeth against teeth and her glasses askew at first but then finding a happy medium. He lifts her up slightly to get better access and he tastes so good, like him and winter and vaguely like toothpaste and the thought crosses her mind that she might taste like vodka but it's long gone when he pushes her against the wall, hands on her face.
It ends as abruptly as it started—he lowers her to the floor and distances himself, hands on her arms. He's slightly out of breath, when he says, "Because of the life that I lead, I just think it's better... if we don't, if I..."
"What?" She blurts out, still not completely out of the blissful make-out haze she was just in and Oliver shakes his head, running a hand over his face.
He reaches out to touch her cheek one last time and she automatically closes her eyes, leaning in to his touch, "It's better to not be with someone that I could really care about." She nods her head, because what the hell does she know—she is totally frickin' lit like a christmas tree; feces-faced; inebriated as frack—and when she opens her eyes, he's practically on the other side of the room, looking both regretful and thoroughly kissed.
She kissed him, true, but he kissed her right back and that's the single-worst thing that could've happened. And you bet your ass she's going to remember that in the morning.
.
"I saw you coming out of Ollie's room last night," Thea mentions casually as Felicity peeks through one eye, groaning loudly. She doesn't care how early it is, it's too early for this conversation. Ever.
Her head is pounding and her first instinct is to call her out on her spying but then she realizes that would admitting it happened and playing the drunk amnesia girl card is so much more convenient. "What are you talking about?"
"Last night. I heard footsteps and I thought it was—anyway, I saw you coming out of Ollie's room."
Felicity is still too drunk for this shit. She drunk so much, that's she's tipsy at best right now. "I have honestly no idea what you're talking about." She closes her eye and snuggles further into her pillow.
Thea sighs loudly, annoyed as she gets up from her cross-legged position on Felicity's bed. "Fine, be that way."
Felicity decides not to pay much attention to her and soon falls back into a slumber, waking up again around noon. Still not a long enough nap, but close enough.
She stretches, immediately reaching for the Advil and the glass of water on the nightstand that Thea left as an overwhelming wave of nausea hits her. She breathes in and out deeply for a few times before deciding taking a shower is probably what's best for her, and the survival of mankind.
Finally pleased enough with her appearance (after two showers and some serious use of concealer) that she can be around other people, she makes a beeline for the kitchen for some more advil. Or tries to, because the moment she steps outside of her room, she collides into something warm and solid.
She fixes her glasses before realizing it was Oliver. Of course. Who else would it be? If it was Sara or Diggle, it really wouldn't be so awkward, and then it really wouldn't her life now, would it? It's like one of those scenes from a cheesy nineties romcom.
"Hey," he greets her calmly as he fixes his shirt (like nothing happened—two can play that game) and she manages to get out a relatively normal, "Hi."
Not throwing up on his shoes is a true accomplishment right now for her. She feels lightheaded though and wobbles a little on her feet because of it.
"You okay?" He asks, stabilizing her by grabbing hold of her elbow and she nods, which was a massively stupid idea. She winces, "Yeah, just... No... sudden movements."
He looks at her and she looks down at her elbow before looking back at him and he quickly pulls back. Trying to break the somewhat awkward silence and getting back to their game of oblivion, she casually remarks that, "Sara made me drink like half a bottle of vodka last night. Well, actually I did pull that seven myself, but I still think she rigged the game."
"Ah, I think you were hazed."
"Really? Hm," she considers it, before adding her closing statement, the finale punch, the KO, "Shame I don't remember much of it."
He lets out a breath, and relief seems to wash over him. Asshole. It stings.
The worst part is she remembers everything. From the way he tasted to the way his warm fingers felt on the exposed skin of her side when her shirt had ridden up to the way she felt when he breathed her name like a prayer. And screw him for pretending he didn't feel the exact same way.
"Yeah, well," he declares, pointing downstairs over his shoulder with his thumb, "I have some work to do."
She tilts her head in understanding, "Of course." and she wasn't so much pissed as disappointed until he patted her shoulder, like a dog he just threw a secondhand, no good, rotten, lying bone. Now she was pissed.
.
Things go fairly back to normal, or at least, their version of normal, the following weeks after the kiss. Because, what kiss? They both supposedly don't remember their tongues in each other's mouth so what's there to be angry/disappointed/awkward about?
So it's all small smiles, short nods and strictly no touching again. Which is fine. It's not like they're married, or anything.
There's a benefit for the children's hospital that the bratva is invited to (don't ask her why the Russian mob gets invited to benefits and galas for Starling City's elite) and it's apparently the event of the year for Thea Queen, who starts planning outfits and hairdos three months in advance.
"Don't worry, I picked up a dress for you, too!" Thea informs her all too happily and out flies Felicity's last excuse for not going. Now she had a dress, and now that Thea had measured her temperature she turned out to be in peak condition, and now she had no reason not to go.
The dress—peplum of course—is red and partly backless and has a v-neck and Felicity just thanks her lucky stars there's no sequins on it. The night would be slightly more dreadful if there were sequins involved.
This will be her and Oliver's first public event together, so she can't even hide in the corner with a glass of champagne all night. She'll have to actively pretend to still like him. (Which she does, which is part of the problem. Or is the entire problem. Or one of many problems. She doesn't know exactly.)
"Felicity," he breathes as he turns his head to look at her descend the stairs. He actually looks stunned for a second, and she has to give props to his acting abilities. His voice is soft as he adds, "You look beautiful."
No, no, no, stomach, remember what we talked about? No butterflies tonight. No butterflies ever again. He is not interested.
"I know right," Thea exclaims loudly, throwing her arm over Felicity's shoulders. "And it wasn't even that much work."
"Ha, thank you so much," Felicity asserts sarcastically, shrugging Thea's arm of in mock hurt before making her way down the last step of the staircase.
"Ready?" Oliver asks, not taking his eyes of her (those damn eyes) and she nods curtly because they're not there yet and she might as well get all of her passive aggression out before they have an audience.
"I'll be right there, just going to touch up on my lipstick!" Felicity swears Thea just put some on, any more of it and she'll look more like Ronald McDonald than herself.
"We'll wait in the car," Oliver informs his sister before leading Felicity outside, hand on the small of her back and sending sparks up her spine like firework. She reminds herself firework is bad; it's dangerous and smells really bad and only has purely aesthetic value.
"I forgot my purse," Felicity says dumbly, as Oliver holds open the door of his car for her. She really did forget her purse and her phone's in there and well, anything to not be alone in a car with him for five minutes, knowing Thea, maybe ten. "Just wait one second."
She thinks she might have left in her room, and damnit, she'll have to ascend the stairs in this damn dress again. Fantastic. As if the dress being 'cutting off blood supply to her organs' tight wasn't enough of a hassle.
Ascending the stairs had been the plan, until she spotted Thea on the top of them, Roy a few steps below her. Her hands are on his shoulders and they're talking—intimately—and honestly if she just walked away now she would be able to claim she never saw anything, and no, Oliver, I didn't see it coming at all! but she is frozen on the spot. Then Thea laughs quietly at something he said and leans down to kiss him.
Yep. No denying that. No de-romanticising her tongue going down his throat. No I-think-they're-just-really-close-friends-honey-don't-worry.
She thinks she can do without a purse tonight (although she's a little less sure about her phone), she decides as she stalks back to the car, an unfamiliar feeling arising in her stomach. Was she actually jealous of two clandestine, hormonal teens sneaking around? No, she was jealous because they had something—something real, something she wanted and couldn't have because Oliver didn't want her to. Well, she didn't need him.
She's never been to a benefit, but it's pretty much the same as prom, only with alcohol. So… better. Still, she envied Sara, Diggle and Roy, being able to sit in front of the TV with sweatpants on and pig out on cheetos. Damn, she could use some cheetos right now.
Oliver is good at playing the charming husband card (all small talk, hand low on her back, attractive smiles) but she knew that from the time he first came to her office. She'd never encountered a man so dark and sheltered in private, and so light and careless in public. She isn't going to pretend that she doesn't like it just a little bit—the pretending. For a few hours, she gets to hold his hand and use the pronoun 'we' and feel people stare at them, probably jealous of her or of the thing they pretend to have.
She hears Thea laugh loudly at someone's joke and looks over her shoulder to see who's she talking to. Malcolm Merlyn. Gross. The outstanding acting abilities were definitely a genetic Queen thing.
Sporting the uncomfortable look on Thea's face shimmer through for just a second as she downs her glass in one gulp, she sends Oliver and the old lady with two cleavages (a push up bra when you were above seventy wasn't the most attractive choice to go with) a blinding smile, excusing herself as she decides to go rescue her sister-in-law.
"Thank you," Thea mutters as Felicity manages to get rid of Malcolm by casually ordering him to try out the benefit's specialized cocktail, friendly pat on the back and she gently shoves him into the direction of the bar. Felicity smirks, tipping her champagne glass into the brunette's direction. "You're very welcome. Everyone knows he's a... clown."
She has this thing (that really seems to work) in which she just talks a lot while guiding someone into a direction away from her so they don't notice she's literally pushing them away.
The girl snickers in response, taking another glass of champagne of a tray nearby and Felicity feels old for wanting to ask her how many she's had, "How very political of you, Lis. Try dickhead."
"Or that," Felicity answers, blush on her face as they both turn to look at the dancefloor. It was stupid to try and pretend like Thea was an innocent little girl, because frankly, she wasn't. Oliver tried to protect his sister from a lot, but he couldn't protect her against life.
"Thea, your nose," Felicity says, slightly panicked, shifting so she's blocked everyone's view of Thea. The small brunette frowns as reaches up before looking at the blood on her fingertips, blinking stupidly. Figuring this was a problem they could solve, Felicity guids her over to the bathroom as discreetly as possible.
Thea starts wiping at the blood on her face with a wet paper towel as she uses her other hand to press a dry one to her nose. "Damnit," she mutters, hand shaking as she moves her hair aside.
Felicity doesn't have to say anything for Thea to understand she wasn't happy with the situation.
"I'm fine," Thea snaps harshly as Felicity stares at her in the mirror. She's not going to stand here and lie and say this is her area of expertise (besides that one pot brownie she accidentally ate in college) but she knows that bleeding is never a good sign. "Thea."
"It's nothing," she barks back, refusing to meet Felicity's strong gaze. Fine, whatever. She was not going to force her to do anything. Felicity throws up her hands, shaking her head as she makes a beeline for the door.
"Please don't tell, Ollie," she whispers, hands braced on the counter as she stares at the water disappearing down in the drain—Felicity has to strain her ears to pick it up, halting to a stop and looking back at the girl. A scared, young girl. She's just a girl.
She should tell Oliver, but somehow she doesn't think that would help the situation. Thea lost so many people, from what Felicity was able to gather in between funny stories and false truths down in the mansion, she didn't need to lose Oliver, too.
Thea takes in a sharp breath, tightening her jaw, like she's trying to convince herself more than anything, "I can handle it. Tonight was the last time. I'll stop." Felicity swallows hard, because she doesn't want anything to happen to this girl, but doesn't want to cause a drift between her and brother either. In the end, she decides to trust Thea and believe in her strength.
"You know you can always talk to me, right? If you need help or… anything." Thea looks over her shoulder to face her, expression fearful for a moment before she nods. Felicity hesitates, taking a step back towards her petite frame before squeezing her hand, "I won't tell him, I promise."
Oliver didn't seem to notice their absence, however short, instead just waves at them slightly when they return back into his line of sight, hands intertwined. If he's surprised at their friendship, it doesn't show on his face.
He dances with Laurel for a song and half, but his face says the conversation is more business than light party conversation. Then broodily stares at her from the bar while some rich guy called Bruce from Gotham City tramples her feet and tries to uphold small talk about mainly Palmer Technology and his own company. Since she's not feeling particularly chatty tonight, it doesn't go over as smoothly. They dance together eventually though, and thank you universe—note the sarcasm—a slow song starts playing just as Oliver had stepped in to relieve her from Bill.
Bill is 68 and likes goats. His goat farm is worth millions thanks to the blooming goat cheese business. Goats are important. Without goats, there could be no human life on earth. Did she want to hear his theory on how men evolved from goats?
They move to the song slowly and it feels strangely familiar. She rests her head on his chest because it's the wife thing to do—heart beating steadily under her ear, one of his hands on her waist and the other in hers and it feels nice; safe. She feels safe when she's with him. She doesn't want to, but she does.
He rubs the exposed skin of her back softly with his fingers, but she doesn't think he even really notices he's doing it and she wants that with him. She wants the routine; she wants the things you don't even have to think about doing because it's natural; the things you do unconsciously; the things you do very consciously; she wants the boring, normal life; or the not-so-boring mob life; the small things; the big things; she doesn't care—she just wants him. She wants him.
When she shifts her head to look at him, he's already looking at her. She doesn't know why it's taken her so long to realize but she loves him. She might tell him, maybe she should, maybe it would change things.
But when she opens her mouth to speak—nothing comes out.
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(a/n this one is a little shorter than chapter one, but it felt right to end it here. there's about one more chapter left after this, maybe two. please leave a review if you can, thanks again!)