(a/n: song is again by sam pallidio and clare bowen, this one is called 'i will never let you know' and is one of my absolute favorite songs. ANYWAY what you're really here for is the chapter so thanks again for everything and read on.)

.

chapter three: feel this scar of where you entered

She didn't really think going out with Barry for lunch was such a big deal, or that she had to ask Oliver for permission. Pfff. Barry was just a friend from MIT who happened to be in town, and even if he wasn't, even if he was more than a friend, why would Oliver care?

Besides, before she could think of any strange answers for that one in her head, he didn't own her. They might be legally (as he so kindly kept reminding her) married, but that didn't mean he had a say about everything she did. She even brought Vyacheslav so that if she happened to die and he'd made this obvious nightmare of a deal for nothing, at least he wouldn't be able to blame her. What more could he want?

It appears to her he does care, and does expect more from her, because later that night when she goes to get herself a glass of warm milk—she can't sleep and she's eight years old at heart—he's there, leaning back against the counter.

"We have to keep up certain appearances," he says lowly in the dim kitchen light; muscles tense like he's ready to attack his prowl. It's after 1am and she's not really feeling up for this because-I-said-so discussion right now. She can literally feel a headache coming up at the mere thought.

"Really?" She snaps, closing the fridge a little too forcefully as she turns to look at him. She isn't quite able to make out his face in the darkness, but his condescending tone had been enough to set her off. She can't help but sound bitter, "That's all I am to you? A way to keep appearances?"

"Yes," he states finally, voice cold and she doesn't believe him, not for one bit. But his voice feels like a stab in the chest, like someone just twisted a knife in her heart and was enjoying it, too.

"What am I supposed to do?" Wait around forever lingers on the tip of her tongue, but she can't bring herself to say it. She's not going to pretend like she doesn't know he feels something for her too, because she can't believe that with the way he looks at her sometimes that he doesn't. She can't.

"We're married!" He grunts, taking a step into the light, and something about the tone in his voice makes it seem like he isn't just speaking about their image; or his ego. Calmer, trying not to wake up his mob family probably, he urges, "You are my wife."

"You don't get to do that!" She yells back, moving closer to him to show him she isn't afraid of him. "You don't get to ignore me for days and lock me up and then pull the marriage-card like you're the loving, charming husband you pretend to be in public."

"It isn't like that and you know it," he barks, whole body tense, body heat radiating off him, looking ready to punch something. "He can't protect you." Like I do, just say it already!

He throws the argument back onto the good ole I'm-just-trying-to-keep-you-safe boat, typical. She was already married to him, what would change about that if it was real? The only person who was hurting her was him, and the only person he was protecting was himself.

"You told me right from the start this marriage was fake," she bites back, pushing against his chest, before adding the final blow, "Or should I forget about that, too?"

There's realization in his eyes, and he looks surprised for just a second that she remembers or maybe that she lied about it straight to his face.

He swallows and she can see a mix of emotions swirling across his face before it goes cold, rational, guarded. "What I did… I shouldn't have done it—no matter how I felt, or feel." Feel. Present tense. There he goes again—leading her on, dangling maybe's and what if's. He sends her a what she guesses must be an apologetic look, "That's on me, not on you and I apologize f—"

"Bullcrap," she spits back, chest heaving up and down harshly with anger. He's treating her like a little girl, not giving her any say in the matter, pretending it's just some silly little one-sided crush. She starts to make a move for the door, because she's done with this conversation and she's done with him and she's just… done, when he speaks.

"Felicity," he seems to be having trouble controlling himself, face full of mixed feelings, suddenly vulnerable and she hates him; she hates him so much. "Do you remember what I said to you, that night?"

(It went something like this in her head every night when she couldn't sleep:

-"It's better to not be with someone that I could really care about."

-"Okay, fine, I don't care, Oliver. Psh. I don't need you. I don't have feelings or anything."

Or,

-"It's better to not be with someone that I could really care about."

-"You know what? Go eff yourself, Oliver."

Personal fave:

-"It's better to not be with someone that I could really care about."

-Just a lot of tears until he pity-holds her and they eat leftover pizza from the fridge and there might sometimes be a small confession of love somewhere in there.

As long as it wasn't the version where she stared at him in awe/confusion/pain/anger/lotsa-feelings, stammering like an idiot before drooping off to her own room, but of course not before tripping and needing him to keep her from breaking her neck, which she was actually 98 percent sure was what actually happened)

She remembers what she tried to forget so badly; from the way he said 'could', all the way down to the look on his face. He wants to pretend like if he lets himself care that he'll just lose her, that's fine. If living in fear all the time and closed off from the world is the life he wants, fine. If he really thinks the only ending to his life is a premature death, that's fine, too. But he can't—can't drag her down with him.

"Crystal clear. And if you want to live like that, that's your choice. But don't expect me to do the same. I married you so I could live, not so that I could wait around to die."

She slams the kitchen door on her way out.

.

They go back to their annoying in-between state of not being friends but not really being strangers either. Which is weird when your names are hyphenated on your driver's license.

It's also easy; because she doesn't have to think about the look on his face when he told her she was just a way to keep up appearances. Or the way his lips felt on hers. Or anything to with Oliver Queen really. She was moving on.

That's right. Felicity Smoak, moving on.

But, every time, just when she thinks she's fine with being platonic acquaintances, being on the sidelines of each others' lives, with their marriage being a sham—he does something to undo all of her hard work and start a spark in her heart that won't quite go out.

Trivial things like making sure Raisa buys her favorite kind of breakfast cereal (who even does that?); setting up an office in another wing of the house with big windows and a big fluffy armchair and a brand new computer to make her feel more at home; resting his hand on her back as he reaches over to take a plate out of the cupboard when she's baking cookies with Alexei to pass time; sending her that special little grin when she babbles on just a little bit too much; saying her name like he does as if he doesn't know he says it like that; taking down one of the dusty old guys in the corridor upstairs and replacing it with a Wonder Woman painting from her apartment, which looks silly and out of place, but she loves it.

Or, you know, that one time he tells her he loves her.

"You do know I wouldn't mind if you got yourself a friend," she mentions casually—picking out a book from his shelf like she does every five days or so—one day, after a woman named Isabel Rochev leaves his office after a heated discussion. She's beautiful, dark-haired, speaks Russians, there's obvious some UST there from the way they were yelling at each other in their secret language.

Not that she was snooping; their voices echoed through the entire house. Not that she was jealous either, she just wanted to casually let him know she was a better person than him and would not flip out like he did over Barry. Not that she cared about any of this, at all. Just... you know, being a better person.

He raises his eyebrows as some sort of sign for her to go on and explain, cheek resting on his fist, elbow on the his desk supporting it's weight, but he doesn't look up from his work.

"I mean like a lady friend," she clears her throat, trying to remain unattached and cool even under his curious gaze, opening a random book and pretending to be interested in it as she flips through the pages.

"A friend that is a female, a woman, you like, for things. Stuff," she feels her cheeks heating, heart beating loudly in her chest, but her mouth doesn't stop, "For your… needs. Sexual or emotional or conversational, I don't know. Whatever. A friend...lover...female."

He chuckles, just a little, writing stuff down profusely (list of people he needs to threaten? groceries? diary?) and she rolls her eyes at his childishness (ignoring the fact she just blushed at the word 'thing' because of what it insinuated). "I wouldn't mind," she adds, giving him a pointed look, as she blindly pushes a book back onto his shelf, "That's all I'm trying to say."

He doesn't even sound particularly emotional when he says, "I don't want any other woman." Which makes it worse, like it's just a well-known fact he throws around carelessly. She winces, because that use of the word 'other' stings.

"Stop," she says loudly before she even knows she is saying it, as she watches the grip on his pen tighten, and her voice wavers, "Stop saying things like that when all you're ever going to give me are maybes. Just say it. Say you don't ever want to be with me, say that you only married me to save me, say that you don't love me—"

He rises up from his desk, slamming his fist down on it harshly, giving it a kick for good measure and cursing himself in Russian as he turns away from her, hands covering his face before turning right back to look at her, faces close as he leans over his desk. He grits his teeth together before unclenching his jaw, breathing in sharply before announcing unfamiliarly and almost scarily soft, "Don't ask me to say that I don't love you."

She takes in a shaky breath as she stares at him in disbelieve before making a straight line for the door, ignoring his pleas for her to stop. She slams the door closed, leaning back against it and for the first time, she lets the tears come out.

.

"—maybe when you turn twelve, Droopy." She hears Diggle's voice nearby her office one morning, when she's working on some stuff for work, figuring Roy and Sara must be close and decides to check out what they're up to. She wanders through the halls, towards the sound.

There's a clicking sound, a magazine being emptied, then the sound of a gun being loaded. "It's dopey, dickhead. Droopy isn't even one of the seven dwarfs."

They finally appear within her line of vision and she watches Sara pat Roy's back before zipping up her jacket, freeing her hand by bracing the apple that was in it between her teeth, "Yeah, not really helping yourself there, buddy."

"Where are you guys headed this early in the morning?" She quips happily, because just because Oliver crushed her soul, trampled on it and sold it to the devil without her permission, doesn't mean she has to be a mean, bitter bitch all the time.

Sara takes a bite off her apple, sliding a knife into a holster on her leg and opens her mouth to respond. Diggle cuts her off before she has a chance, "Out."

"Wow, what are you? Fifteen? Is this your version of 'it isn't just a phase, mom!'? Are you rebelling?" Felicity babbles, watching the man hide more ammunition on the inside of his jacket.

Sara laughs loudly, shaking her head as Roy tries to hide a smile. She can't really look at him though, because all she sees now is a side of him she hadn't seen before—sweet. They way he had caressed the side of Thea's face like she was all that mattered to him.

"Can I come?" She asks, because she's bored and she hasn't been outside for a few days because she's technically on a 'vacation' from work and she likes hanging out with them.

The other blonde shrugs, discarding her apple into a trashcan before hiding a pair of expandable batons in the hemline of her pants on her backside. "Sure, princess, why not? The more the merrier!"

"Sara, Oliver will kill us," Diggle informs her, once again just pretending she isn't there, or a child. Both of which aren't true. She is very much there and very much an adult. She scoffs at his words, sighing aggravatedly. Oliver can go eff himself.

"Isn't that part of the fun?" She winks at Felicity, who visibly cheers up at the thought of leaving the house, of not having to constantly hide from Oliver.

Diggle tightens his jaw, but Sara—who rolls her eyes at him, shoves him and calls him old—obviously outranks him because he doesn't oppose anymore.

They get burgers and milkshakes from Big Belly Burgers and listen to the radio—Sara is apparently an avid fan of Katy Perry, Diggle likes creepy Russian lullabies and Roy loves Britney Spears. She swears she almost choked on her drink when he enthusiastically sang along to all the words of Oops, I Did It Again.

As they sit in the back of Diggle's black bulletproof SUV, Roy informs her with his mouth full—after some prodding by Sara—that they're going to collect some monthly fees and debts from some of their 'afflictions'. Which sounds relatively normal if you put it like that, but she watches Diggle slam a guy's face into a counter at one of the addresses; Sara drive a knife through a man's hand out of nowhere before breaking his fingers at another place; Roy breaking a bottle of Jack on someone's head somewhere else (all totally on accident because she had to promise to stay in the car and mind her own business) and she is suddenly reminded of the fact she's friends with the Russian mob. Not just that, she is in the Russian mob.

At the next address, some Italian pizza place, she turns up the radio to tune out the screams, starting to feel slightly uncomfortable as she rolls her shoulders to get rid of some of the tension. She doesn't know how they managed to get down those greasy burgers knowing what they were about to do. Maybe this had been a mistake. She didn't need any more reasons to dislike herself for liking these people.

"Mio dio, questi russi sono stupidi." She hears from outside the car accompanied by the sound of shotgun being loaded, her eyes widen in panic as she slouches down in her seat, laying down on the floor of the vehicle. Shit.

She curses herself for feeling and being so defenseless. No tablet to smack people with this time. Desperate, she grabs a straw from the car bench, clinging onto it desperately. She's read articles about mother's lifting cars because of adrenaline, she might be able to jam it through someone's eye if the situation calls for it.

She closes her eyes tightly, staring at the carpet as she breathes heavily into her hand, trying not to make too much sound. She hears their footsteps fade, and relief washes over her, maybe this is her lucky day, maybe this is the day she won't—the car door opens and someone grabs a hold of her ankles, dragging her out and roughing up the skin on her palms as they drop her onto the pavement. She screams, kicking her legs as hard as she can but it's no use. There's three of them, speaking Italian to each other, laughing loudly, probably making fun of her. Which is not cool.

Also not cool: being pulled up on your feet by your ponytail. It hurts.

"Mrs. Queen, in front of our restaurant!" He lisps with a thick accent, "To what do we owe this honor?"

Well, at least when the Italians kill her, she'll have survived the Chinese. She says nothing because she won't give them what she wants and another one with a mustache grabs her face harshly, fingers digging into her skin, "What? You too good to speak to us?"

It takes everything in her not to snarkily reply with 'yes' but 1) only doing something out of spite is never smart 2) the purpose of the her answer would be defeated 3) he might break actual skin by digging his fingers in deeper.

He finally lets go of her face, almost twisting her neck in the process before they go back to conversing in their maternal language. It looks like the one with the facial hair is nodding inside to where her friends (for lack of better word) are before nodding to the third guy with a cigarette in his mouth to take her inside. Or that's what she thinks went down because he grabs her arm roughly, pushing her towards the back entrance of the restaurant. She guesses she'll have to lay of the spaghetti for a while if she survives this.

He pushes her inside and she stumbles over the threshold, falling to her knees and scraping her forearms. She winces as she scrambles to sit up, fixing her glasses before he squats down next to her, grabbing her hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her head back. He exhales slowly into her face, and she chokes on the smoke, coughing loudly.

He whispers something in Italian—eyes empty as he leans close—that sounds vaguely like he's going to kill her, but, to be fair, it could just be the creepy tone. She doesn't speak Italian, or Chinese, or Russian—maybe she should pick up a language before one of these days one of them gives her an out and she just whimpers because she doesn't know what they're saying. That would be a stupid way to die.

"So you're Queen's whore, huh?" The first one with the chubby face and the thick accent emerges and she wonders what the hell happened to Sara and the others if he's back here. Where's the third one, putting their body parts into trashbags and dumping them all over the city?

"Always thought he would go for that filthy, big mouthed bitch, what's her name?" He snaps his fingers and Cigarette speaks, as he takes another puff, "Lance."

"Ah, Doctor Lance. Yet, here you are." Felicity knows this is a life-or-death situation so she shouldn't really feel insecure about the fact he's comparing her to long legged doctor Laurel and basically implying Felicity herself isn't crap (which is probably, true, but still, where are the manners?) but it's all she can think about.

Maybe it's her brain's coping mechanism to keep from letting her body go into cardiac arrest. Yes. Distracting herself from the fact Accent is pulling out a display of different sized knives.

"Wouldn't have anything to do with the Chinese Triad putting two million on your head, now would it?" He slowly starts cleaning one of the knifes, checking if he can see his reflection it it, before using the same cloth to wipe the surface of the metal item again.

She knows he's trying to psych her out, it's a classic putting-the-fear-of-God-into-someone trick but she can't help but feel scared anyway. So scared, she doesn't even have time to think about sending the Chinese a thank-you-note for deeming her worth two million.

Suddenly, the door is blown up in which what must be a scene taken straight from one of those action movies Iris always forces her to watch, and Sara flies in, going straight for Cigarette with her batons. A limping Diggle follows as he takes out his gun. Her heart does a little jump out of relief as she scrambles up on her feet, breathing speeding up exponentially although she knows she doesn't have time for a panic attack right now. Soon Mustache appears from behind the door, engaging in a fight with Diggle. Which gives Accent the time to knock the wind out of her and jump on top of her, closing his hands around her neck.

Tears collect in the corners of her eyes as she gasps for air, kicking her feet and pulling on his hands for the life of her, but she isn't strong enough. She sees Diggle trying to fight of the aggressive Italian out of the corner of her eye, but can't make out Sara from her position on the floor. She's helpless. She closes her eyes, and lets the tears fall, head getting light as she hopes for a miracle.

She struggles to breathe as she thinks of her mom and the way she always managed to burn everything she cooked; of the dog, Baby (after Dirty Dancing), she had in high school before he ran away; she thinks of her best friend Iris's wide, beautiful smile; sees Thea hand her a glass of water; feels the way she felt when she graduated MIT, sees the gowns and the diploma flash before her; hears Sara's careless laugh, Roy trying to hide a smile whenever she says something she knows he thinks is funny and Diggle shaking his head at them; one fleeting memory of her dad; the Las Vegas Strip she became accustomed to when she was just a little girl; she thinks of the ocean; Oliver, her Oliver. And then—then nothing.

.

"...the hell did you shoot through her arm if she was already unconscious? Trying to finish the job?" She hears Laurel's voice, vaguely, she thinks. It's soft and she has to try to make out the words.

"It was the only clear shot I had of Salvati," Diggle grunts and her head feels light, like she's floating.

"Through her?" She is able to distinguish what is obviously Laurel's what-the-frack voice. No words follow but the discussion seems to be over and she tries to peel open her eyes, tries really hard, but her body won't cooperate.

"What the fuck happened?" It's Oliver. He sounds pissed. Oops.

They switch to Russian, as always, and she is only able to make out some of it. Like her name, and the name of the restaurant. Finally, she is able to move a finger, and she tries to get out a 'why me' but all that comes out is a hoarse groan. Everything hurts.

"Felicity, you're awake," Laurel says and Felicity kind of wants to thank her for noticing and it's now she realizes the intelligent doctor is applying pressure on her shoulder. Suddenly she remembers the image of Accent strangling her and winces.

Laurel says more which for Felicity just sounds like jumbled together messy sentences—which her face must convey pretty clearly—but then the tall brunette tries again, this time in short sentences with little pauses in between them. It's like she's talking to a toddler, but the blonde IT-specialist's brain kind of hurts so she has no time to be offended.

"Good. Listen to me. You're alive. You're fine. I can't give you any sedatives because you're drifting in and out of consciousness as it is. You'll be in pain. Try and remember that's a good thing because it means you're alive. I have to go check on Roy, but Diggle will take care of your shoulder, okay?"

She mutters something about him cleaning up his own damn mess and then she feels a sharp sting in/on the general area of her shoulder, crying out in pain before it disappears just a little.

"Careful," Oliver hisses and Diggle just grunts in response, as she hears him rummage through some medical supplies, with, what she guesses is, his free hand.

"Felicity?" It's Oliver's voice and she feels his fingers closer around hers. She doesn't respond, trying to speak but for once her facial muscles don't seem to be cooperating—or operating at all for that matter, since they sometimes like to act on their own—so he seems to direct his voice at the other man in their presence, "Where's Sara?"

"I don't know," she manages to make out of Diggle's response, before prying her eyes open tentatively. The light is bright and she has to blink a few times to regain focus, when she does, all she sees is Oliver frowning. Which is maybe his default expression she thinks; he probably invented resting bitch face. He carefully runs his calloused fingers over her neck, which must be bruised—it feels bruised—a dark look brewing in his eyes.

She knows it's stupid (because she just almost died and there's much more important things in life and she doesn't need a man in her life to be happy and all that jazz) but she feels so relieved he's here, that he came, that he cares, for her, and a small tear rolls down her cheek. What? At least she can blame it on the adrenaline still pumping through her veins right now.

She feels like talking. She always does but right now she really feels the urgent need to just, talk. Say something. For the first time in her life, it comes with some difficulty.

"You're here," she whispers, voice raspy and barely audible but he just nods his head, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She closes her eyes again, small smile on her face as she feels sleep overcome her again as thoughts clutter and disarrange in her mind.

She's so tired and a little hungry she could go for a pizza right about now but those are Italian and Italian is bad right now so no pizza for her in the foreseeable future although, really, she shouldn't judge an entire country on the actions of one person, well actually three but...

Oliver's here, he has nice eyes. He feels nice, too. His skin is warm…

...She's okay. She didn't die. Which is good. A really good thing. Because her supervisor really needs that processor she was working on and if she has to call in one more time with the excuse of getting like, shot at or stabbed at, he might start to think she's involved with the mob, which she is, kind of, but he didn't know that and he shouldn't because even though it technically wasn't in their marriage contract (she thinks) that's kind of like the unspoken rule of the mob or mafia or triad whatever it's all very...

...Tired but okay. She just hopes Roy is okay, too. God, she really does.

.

The next time she awakes, it doesn't go over as smoothly and mellow as it did the first time. She's right back in that room, being strangled and gasping for air and then... then she suddenly wakes up with a gasp, flying to sit up before she feels Oliver's hands on her arms, hears his voice, "Felicity. I'm here. You're safe."

She nods, once as he helps her lay back down. They seem to be the only ones in the room at the moment and when she looks over, her shoulder is bandaged. All that really comes to mind is, "Roy?" and she apparently says it out loud.

"Roy's... fine. Laurel's still fixing him up." That'll do for now.

He brushes her hair from her face as a way to calm her down, which works somewhat, until Sara barges in, eyes red and swollen.

Oliver lets go off her and she misses his touch immediately. It had been soothing, inexplicably reminding her of home. Nice.

(Major sidenote: she keeps using 'nice' to describe Oliver because that's a neutral word like 'nice dress' or 'nice job on your homework!' and she doesn't really want to think about how she really feels because she feels a lot of things about him, some nice, some less nice, but all very… nice. It's like a collective term for her feelings. Feelings she doesn't want to think about.)

"Where have you been?" She hears his voice, loud and clear. She thinks everyone did.

"I was at Nyssa's.." she states weakly, voice trailing off before she shakes it off, looking up at Oliver. There's still blood on the side of her face from their earlier encounter with the Italians, sporting a black eye and swollen lip, and for some reason it makes Felicity feel frail, fragile.

Here she is, lying in a bed totally anemic and helpless—she wasn't even able to fight back—while Sara probably survived ten times the crap she went through, was most likely hit over the head with a chair within the past 24 hours and there she was: unaffected.

"Do you see what you've done?" He growls and she can't see the look on his face but Sara—for the first time since she's known her—flinches, and steps back, hands shaking.

"I made a mistake," Sara yells, and Felicity has never seen her like this before. So serious, and regretful, even a little uncalculated as she ran her trembling hand through a hair. Her voice is softer, but rough, when she repeats, "I made a mistake. I thought it was just a routine meet-up with the Italians, Captain. Bertinelli had other plans in mind."

She had never heard Sara call Oliver 'captain'—it's like she was starting to get to know a new person today—but Oliver seems to respond to it with apathy. They continue to talk stiffly (but softer, which Felicity hopes is a good sign) in Russian before Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose, dismissing her.

"It wasn't," she coughs, recoiling in pain, and Oliver tries to shush her but she shakes her head, before forcing out, "it wasn't her fault."

He tenses, obviously disagreeing, but doesn't argue. Softly, he touches her cheek and she leans into his touch slightly, blinking up at him. He looks like he wants to pull away and then he says, unsteadily, "Don't ever do that again."

She opens her mouth, but she doesn't know what to say which has never occurred to her this many times until she met Oliver. He shakes his head like he was supposed to be talking himself out of it, not into it, leaning down to connect their lips, for just a second. He pulls away, resting his forehead against hers as he begs, "Please."

He opens his eyes and she must look like a desperate idiot, staring up at him in surprise with such unadulterated happiness and adoration, even after she just got strangled, even after she told him to go screw himself because she was moving the frack on—but she forgets about her pride for two seconds and nods anyway.

.

She's in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables to help Raisa—because even though she's using up all her sick days doesn't mean she's suddenly not bored, even if Roy (who almost broke his back from what she heard) gets over himself now and then and lets her sit on his hospital bed as they play cards or watch tv together and shit-talk every reality show out there—and they're just having casual small talk about her childhood when they heard a loud crash and screaming coming from the entrance hall.

The first thing her eyes land on is Thea, on top of the stairs staring down at the scene with empty eyes before stalking back up to to her room—Felicity feels her heart tightening at the sight, promising herself to check on the teenager later.

The second thing she sees, as she adjust her eyes, is Sara and Evgeni dragging a guy over the floor, leaving a trail of blood as he screams for mercy. Sara tells him to shut up as they drag him past Felicity and Raisa—who is eyeing Felicity suspiciously—not even bothering to look at them. The look on Sara's face is blank, devoid of any emotion or humanity. Swallowing hard, Felicity realizes she's in killing mode.

Then she looks down at the screaming and whimpering man, after some trouble because of the blood and wounds on his face and body, recognizing him as the guy with the accent—Salvati, Diggle called him—who had wrapped his fingers around her throat and squeezed until—Raisa grabs her arm, pulling her back into the kitchen.

"Where are they taking him?" She doesn't realize her voice is shaking until she hears it echo around the kitchen. She reaches up and fixes her glasses out of nervous habit.

Raisa doesn't look at her, focusing on the food. Suddenly the radio playing happy tunes so mundanely doesn't seem right. Her voice is emotionless out of normalcy, or self-protection, Felicity isn't sure, as she speaks. "To the freight container in the backyard."

Felicity swallows tightly, tensing up, not sure if she even wants to know the answer to the question she's about to ask. "What are they going to do to him?"

She sighs. Since Felicity is technically her boss, she isn't supposed to lie, but she thinks Oliver's wrath outranks her in this particular case. "Some things are best left unknown, Mrs. Queen," she remarks, going back to stirring the stew on the stove.

Felicity doesn't press, looking out of the window at the backyard. She isn't able to see the container from here but she can only imagine what they're doing to him, considering how bad, worthless, he'd already looked.

Raisa excuses herself after a moment, wiping her hands on her apron and asking her to look after the stew. Felicity can only guess what she is going to do, but something tells her the red stains on the floor in the entrance don't quite go with the floral murals.

She finds herself staring out the window again, putting the spoon in her hands down distractedly. She can't really seem to make herself care about whether the stew will burn right now. She needs to know. She walks into the backyard with a determined stride, slowing down the closer she gets to the container. She isn't sure if she'll like what she finds inside.

She pulls the door open at once, because if she doesn't, she might not go through with it, every single one of her nerves on fire. Oliver is crouched over Salvati's body, staring at it as he twirls a knife in his hands absentmindedly. Sara and Evgeni are flanking the door on each side, arms crossed behind their backs.

Sara spots her and grabs her arm roughly, ready to push her back out without question. It reminds her off the way the Italian had grabbed her, the bruises on her arms in the shape of his fingers, the ones she had to look at every time she looked in the mirror and she cowers from her touch.

"Let her go," Oliver states calmly, getting up, face clouded with indifference as he slowly rises from his position.

"Oliver," Sara protests with her teeth gritted together, adding something Russian. She uses the word 'stupid' (she's starting to learn thanks to an online course and some help from Alexei and even Roy, who's bored in that bed all day anyway—she only recognizes this particular word because they begun their lessons with curse words, which might be an universal, unspoken rule for when people first start to learn a language) and Felicity gets, wholeheartedly, that Sara opposes her being here strongly.

"It's fine. Leave us."

Sara purses her lips, straightening her stand and squaring her shoulders as she lets go of the other blonde's arm. She doesn't look at her when she follows Evgeni outside. She realizes now that Salvati is passed out from the pain, judging by the amount of scratches and cuts on his body. The strong smell of blood almost makes her gag but she manages to keep somewhat a straight face.

She's frozen on the spot as she stares at his hands, covered in blood. She feels a little out of touch with reality, standing there in a crop top and a floral skirt with her nails painted a light bright blue.

"What did you expect, Felicity?" He mutters, noticing her gaze and throwing the knife down next to Salvati and kicking it away. "He hurt you."

"No. This isn't you, this isn't—this isn't about me," she finds her voice, balling her fists at her sides. "This isn't… Don't put this on me."

"This is who I am, Felicity! This is what I warned you about!" He clenches his teeth together in anger, punching the wall next to him with a loud clang. "In order to be who I am—what I am—I have to do certain things—"

She cuts him off, glowering, "We all have to do things to survive, things we aren't proud of. I know you did… I don't condemn you for that. But this…?" She can't really explain it, but when she thought of him doing wrong, she always considered it to be something he had to do, that he was forced to do, but she never thought he might actually just want to.

There's silence. She takes a step towards him, because she wants him to know she's not scared, or disgusted, or running away. Ever. She knows he has done things, horrible things, killed people even—but she wishes he would understand it doesn't always have to be that way. It doesn't. She knows she is just a silly, little IT-specialist, what does she know, but she knows that.

"I helped you that day—even though your story was full of crap and you had me hack into a stolen computer with bullet holes—because deep down I believed you were a good guy and you were doing what you did for a reason."

And it's true. She had to believe that. She had to believe that he wasn't just doing these things for the heck of it, that he didn't attain those scars (emotionally, physically) for fun, that he didn't take it as lightly as he was making it seem right now. It wouldn't make sense, she wouldn't love somebody like that. She couldn't.

"Felicity. You shouldn't be here."

"Don't you think he'd be better off at the police station? In prison? That he would suffer more behind bars, wasting away and having to live with himself, the things he's done than five painful minutes before he's released of all his burdens forever?" She knows it's dumb and naive to come in here and give him a piece of her mind, when he's probably already considered this, and so much more, way before she came into his life.

Killing isn't the way. It shouldn't be. He dismisses her, "It's not that simple." She knows what he's trying to say, but she can't stand for him making an example out of a man's death.

"This isn't.." she stares at Salvati's body, licking her lips nervously and shaking her head, "This isn't good, Oliver. I know you have to do certain things because they're necessary, I never wanted to pretend you didn't. I never wanted—want—to deny your past. But this isn't who you are."

She reaches out to touch his hand and he pulls it away, glancing at the crimson color staining them with an uncomfortable grimace before looking back at her. She doesn't give in, grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers.

"I'm not scared of you."

He chuckles humorlessly. "You should be." His grip on her hand tightens but she doesn't let go.

"I'm not, because I know you. And I believe in you. And I…" She stares at him, swallowing tightly. Dropping the love bomb right now probably wasn't a good idea. Not the most romantic setting, hovering next to a bruised and broken body in a dark container talking about death and all. "I believe in you." That would have to be enough for now.

.

Things don't change, but they feel different. She knows violence is a permanent part of all of their lives and that won't ever change, but she feels lighter, somehow—knowing that maybe there's a life being spared somewhere down the line. But like the mismatched joke her life is, the other ugly looking, soul wrecking, life destroying shoe eventually drops.

She finds Thea, on her stomach in her bed, hair covering her face, the smell of vomit entering her nostrils as soon as she opens the door to her bedroom. The young girl doesn't respond when Felicity calls out her name. Probably just sleeping, she thinks, possibly got really drunk last night and is hung-over, she tells herself, maybe she is feeling ill.

She carefully tiptoes into the room, swallowing harder as she tries breathing through her mouth—the smell almost unbearable. Then she starts to panic, because the closer she gets, the more she starts to doubt if Thea is actually still breathing. She rushes to her side, falling down onto her knees next to her to brush the long brown locks of hair away from her face—her skin clammy and cold, expression stiffening Felicity's shoulders. Her eyes are open, but there's no life in them. There's nothing left. The blonde's heart beats loudly in her throat as she tries shaking her, pushing her onto her back, calling her name, even slapping her cheeks but nothing seems to work. Normally she'd use the Magical & All Knowing Internet to find the next logical step to take, but she thinks even that won't help this time.

This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening.

She grabs her chin, tears collecting in her eyes as she begs one last time for the troubled teen to open her eyes. Thea, please, you can't do this, you're so young, you have so much left to do, Oliver needs you. She presses her ear to the girl's chest, and surely hears a small heartbeat. Then something catches her eye and she grabs her hand, carefully prying her fingers open only to find a small bag with little remnants of what she guesses was white powder. No.

No.

She scrambles onto her feet, running into the hall, calling out for help to anyone who'll listen. She doesn't have her phone on her, but she doesn't want to leave Thea alone either. Who knows what may happen? She wasn't necessarily a doom-thinker, but the worst possible outcomes were playing out in front of her eyes every time she looked back at the young, lifeless girl in front of her.

Roy runs in first, stopping abruptly when he notices the state she is in. Whatever she may mean to him, or whatever he is feeling right now, now is not the time to reflect on it, now is not the time to choke. Deciding he needs a little direction Felicity calls out his name as she tries lifting Thea off the bed. This isn't her area of expertise, but she knows one thing—they need to get her to a hospital. Now.

"Roy, I can't carry her by myself!" She presses, gritting her teeth together as she pulls on the smaller girl's arm. Thea surges awake, gasping for air—and for a second Felicity is relieved; maybe it is over, maybe she's okay—then her eyes roll back in her head and she starts shaking uncontrollably.

"Roy!" She screams more loudly than she had intended, turning to look at him. Call 911. Run out to get someone else. Help her carry Thea downstairs, goddamnit. "Roy! Do something."

He doesn't take his eyes off Thea, brows furrowed together as he opens his mouth, but nothing but a stutter comes out. "I-I.. I don't…"

Felicity is about to stalk over there and punch some sense in him—because this isn't the time to have a crisis and contemplate your life choices, not when there's a lifeless girl in her arms—but luckily, Oliver rushes in next. He spots Thea and his face hardens before lifting her into his arms in one swell swoop.

"What happened?" He yells as they rush down the stairs, Roy finally having sprung into movement as he jogs passed Oliver, informing them he'll bring around the car.

"I don't know, she was just, she was lying there and she didn't respond and I thought, I thought, and then—" Felicity cuts herself off, figuring stumbling on her words like an idiot isn't what he needs right now. She doesn't have an answer to his question, so she shouldn't answer. She presses her lips together as she squeezes the bag in her hand, figuring she probably should show it to the doctors.

"What is taking him so long? Fuck," Oliver spits and she can see his grip on his sister tighten, his entire body tense with adrenaline and anger and she knows he wants to kick a wall or punch a door but he can't.

She offers him a small hand on his back, because it's all the kind of comfort she can give right now, and he relaxes just a little under her touch as he turns his head to look at her. She locks her gaze with his, hoping to pass on some sort of support without actually having to say it out loud as she rubs his back. He was never one of words, and she figured now wasn't the time to go into a ramble or say something inappropriate.

Then Roy comes around the corner, breaking their whatever-it-was and she slips into the car next to the younger boy as Oliver gets into the back with his sister. He wipes her bangs, wet from sweat, away from her face carefully, as he puts her head on his lap, whispering something to her she can't make out over the sounds of their surroundings.

She's never seen him like that, this part of him, and for once she'd wished she'd never had to.

.

From behind the glass, Thea looks almost peaceful, serene, pure. Then Felicity catches sight of the IV dispersing some kind of fluid into her arm, or the small breathing tube going down her throat and she again is reminded of the fact she's in the ICU.

She wraps her arms around herself as she watches Oliver finally return from a conversation with the doctor. He doesn't look happy. She looks over her shoulder to see if Roy notices the dark look in Oliver's eyes, but he's been—and is still—stuck in a chair in the waiting room behind her, staring into nothingness since the second they got here.

He walks over to her and stands next to her in silence as they watch Thea's chest move up and down, although thanks to a breathing machine, but moving nonetheless. His forefinger and thumb connect, something she's come to recognize as something he does when he's thinking, considering, calculating. She knows his hands are itching to hit something, or someone, but he can't because no one did this to her. She did this to herself.

Eventually he speaks, not turning to look at her as he does so, and she realizes she's been holding her breath this entire time, "She was something, some… hypo-hypoventilating and the doctor said we were lucky we found her on time, or she would've…" He stops, running a hand over his face as if he doesn't quite understand it himself before stating, "She OD'd."

"Oliver, I'm so sorry," she breathes, tears forming in her eyes as she reaches out to put her hand on his bicep and he turns to look at her, nodding tightly. "This isn't on you."

She doesn't quite register his words as she continues, dropping her hand in favor of using it to press it to her forehead, "I thought, I thought she had handled it, she said she would handle it and I—" Now that she says it out loud it's starting to sound more and more stupid, and selfish, and completely reckless and irresponsible and a lot of other bad things she can't think of right now.

"You knew?" He spits, taking a step back from her as his fists ball against his sides. Tears spill from her eyes as she realizes this is on her, this is her fault, she did this. "You knew about this and you didn't tell me."

"She asked me not to tell you and I didn't know what to do and I thought she could—"

"I can't talk about this right now," he dismisses her as he takes another step back (which somehow symbolically feels like he's taking not just physically taking a step away from her). His eyes are boring into hers, but not like they usually do. This time they're cold, hard, full of betrayal. She betrayed him.

She opens her mouth to say something, to apologize, to...anything but then he turns around suddenly and disappears around the corner and she's the one to raise the heels of her hands and hit the safety glass in front of her in frustration as more tears spill.

Damnit, Thea.

.

(a/n: a review would be super appreciated! ! ! !(: this was a little shorter than the others i think, but i hope you still liked it anyway, it was especially drama and action packed so there's that. one more chapter after this! woooo)