Title: Fixer Upper

Rating: M (for language, some mild violence and probable sexual situations later on)

Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow or any of the characters used within this fic.

Author's Notes: Oh my gosh, I was so overwhelmed by the response the Chapter 1 – thank you so, so much to everybody for your reviews/favourites/follows/kudos etc. I'm still not up to date with replies etc but I promise I will catch up eventually. This chapter was delayed partly by a mental block, and partly by 3x01 and the variety of feelings it produced, which I will refrain from discussing in case anybody hasn't seen it yet.

Massive thanks to absentlyabbie and rosietwiggs for being so amazingly supportive and recommending my fic on Tumblr. I hope you guys are both doing OK. I know this chapter won't solve anything but I hope it provides a brief distraction. Girlthursdayy, my partner in flailing and capslock screaming, I miss you and will message you soon!

She and Diggle eat takeout for three nights in a row while they put Phase Two of 'Operation: Lair Makeover' into action (which she thinks would make an amazing reality series, but probably the world isn't quite ready – yet). Eating so late gives her heartburn, and eating this quantity of utter crap is affecting her mental faculties at a minimum. "Urgh," she groans from the floor, one hand on her belly. "Can't… move…"

"We are seriously falling behind on your training," Diggle says flatly. "Can you even do a push-up? Just one?"

She squints at him. "You mean the things you and Oliver do with just your little pinky finger on the floor? Um, I'm gonna go with no."

He rolls his eyes as he tidies the empty containers into a neat little pile. "Yeah, you're real cute. I know you think I'm going to forget about this by tomorrow, but we are going to restart your training – and soon." He gestures to the vast open space around them – rubble mostly cleared away after weeks of hard work, and boxes of new and exciting equipment waiting to be unloaded. "We'll have plenty of time once this is done."

She scowls at him as she rolls awkwardly to one side, planting one knee on the floor and pushing herself up in the manner of a heavily pregnant woman.

Diggle shakes his head. "Christ," he mutters. "You couldn't even run right now. I'd have to carry you."

She hears the amusement in his voice and grins widely. "Not exactly an incentive for me to start working out, my large cuddly friend."

The smile seems to spread across his face against his will. "Felicity Smoak," he says warmly, closing his hand over her shoulder, "what the hell would I do without you?"

She slides her arms around his waist and squeezes tightly, pleased to find that he hardly hesitates before enveloping her in his arms (and yes, she has always secretly wanted a Diggle hug because she suspected it would feel like accidentally falling inside a marshmallow – and she was right, damn it). "I'm not sure," she says into his chest, "but you'd probably spend less on takeout."

His laugh rumbles right through her lungs, and it feels so weird that she can't help but laugh too.

As he draws back, he glances at the separate pile of slightly smaller boxes in the corner, carefully positioned to prominently display the red and white 'Take care! Fragile!' stickers. Felicity hasn't told him what's in those yet, but their existence evidently reminds him of the fact that currently, money really is no object. "Apparently we could afford our own private chef these days," he remarks ruefully. "Did your bank manager stop hassling you?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Not so much. But it's fine – my cool million is going to shrink back down to a more manageable six hundred dollars in no time." She feels a flutter of excitement in her stomach at the thought of the cool new tech she's going to special order – once she's re-routed everything through a disposable account overseas, of course.

Diggle frowns down at her. "I really wish you'd let me pick up the tab for more of this stuff, Felicity. We're a team – I want you to let me contribute something more than just Pad Thai."

She moves around him, shrugging off her hoodie and dumping it over one of the larger crates. "Definitely not getting into this with you again." She grabs one of the buckets of spackling paste and kneels down next to it to crack the plastic seal. "Come on, Dig, these cracks aren't going to plaster themselves." She tosses a glare over her shoulder to indicate that he should drop the matter or face uncomfortable consequences.

Diggle gives a little grunt of dissatisfaction, but doesn't push the envelope. She can tell something's bothering him, but she doesn't think it's really about the money. He hasn't dropped Carly's name in nearly a week, and she keeps finding breakfast bar wrappers in his car, suggesting he's sleeping at his own apartment more often. She wants to bring it up, but most nights Diggle seems glad to be here – and particularly glad to be doing physical labour. She doesn't want to ruin his comfort zone with unwanted therapy.

She decides to put it aside, at least for tonight, and focus on the drudge work that lies ahead.

The foundry hadn't seemed to be too badly affected at the time of the earthquakes; for a few terrifying moments, as dust and pieces of plaster fell in chunks around her, she'd honestly thought she was about to be crushed within a collapsing building. But the worst thing to happen, in the end, had been a massive power outage. She'd been able to safely make her way out, but a combination of aftershocks and subsidence had taken out part of the staircase and triggered a slow collapse of one wall. They hadn't wanted to risk getting stuck if there were more aftershocks to come, so Felicity had done her best with the first aid kit in Diggle's car.

Nearly five weeks later, the wall is stable again (though Diggle insists she has too much faith in his skills). Once all the cracks are filled in, they'll be able to get to work re-wiring and fitting the new lighting and equipment.

It's dull work, but they're both emotionally invested in this place – and in the man who left it behind – and that keeps them going just long enough to make each night worth it.

Of course, the other bonus is that she's finally laid to rest the notion that she and Diggle are reliant upon Oliver to be the common ground between them. They've never exactly been awkward with each other, but she knows for a fact that in the early days, it was Diggle who had objected to her involvement in their nightly activities rather than Oliver 'soul-crushing guilt' Queen. She understands why, and she doesn't hold it against him. But in the back of her mind, she's always worried a little that – given the choice – Diggle would still prefer to remove her from the team altogether.

But since the day Diggle came to tell her that Oliver had run away from home like a melodramatic nine year old, they've hardly spent any time apart, and she finds that talking to him is ridiculously easy. They can go several nights without even mentioning Oliver (which is an achievement for other reasons as well, but she's pretty proud of this one).

So, yes, Oliver continues to annoy and frustrate her from thousands of miles away. But secretly, she'll always be grateful to him for giving her this time with Diggle – and giving her a friend she knows she'll never lose.

On Thursday, when they realise that the cracks in the far wall extend too deeply to be merely patched up, and that the entire thing will need to be completely re-plastered, Felicity texts Tommy to let him know that she won't be able to visit for another few nights. Guilt hangs heavy in her gut, especially when she pictures him sitting in the same spot she left him in – slumped down a little on the couch, head nestled into the corner cushion.

He'll be okay, she tries to tell herself. You were probably starting to get on his nerves a little – he'll appreciate the space.

Tommy doesn't text her back, which is actually pretty typical. If he does reply, it's usually limited to one-word answers. It's a little like texting Oliver, except Oliver used to open the emoji keyboard by accident sometimes; the random animals added a certain spice to his replies.

Still, she worries enough that around midnight, Diggle glances over at her lacklustre efforts with the trowel and sighs. "Look, just go over there," he tells her impatiently. "You're not going to be happy unless you've checked his pulse, and frankly I've got a dead great-grandmother who could lay down spackle faster than you right now."

"No, it's fine," she says stubbornly, picking up the pace. "We said we'd get a second coat done tonight, and I am fully committed to the job."

He steps closer, leaning down to rest his trowel against the bucket. "Believe me, Felicity, nobody could doubt your commitment to this – or even to Merlyn. But if anything, what you need is some time to yourself. Have you even stopped moving? You're still going to work…"

"Yeah, well, that's more of a waste of time than anything else," she remarks, sounding disgusted. "The board wants all departments running at minimal capacity while they try to figure this all out, so they cut back a lot of people's hours and drastically limited our activities which…" She shakes her head, frustrated. "Ugh, so, basically I'm one of the few people still working full time – which by the way, if you want to become less popular in the workplace? One hundred percent effective, just FYI – and not only that, but nobody can be bothered to actually lift a finger when they are in work. So guess who's stuck picking up the slack? And I mean the totally boring slack, like the weirdo porn viruses that people pretend they got from looking at wedding photos on Facebook. Not the slightly more interesting slack like server upgrades or tweaking the firewall so idiot journalists can't tunnel into our system."

Diggle raises an eyebrow. "Is this you convincing me that you don't need a break? Because I don't really think you've understood the concept…"

She scowls at him. "Come on, let's just finish this for tonight, okay? You need sleep as well, John – don't think I haven't noticed those bags under your eyes."

He looks only mildly offended. "I'm rethinking my sympathy towards you."

"Liar," she says fondly.

She's proven right when, as they're parting ways for the night, Diggle suddenly remembers an unspecified 'family event' the following night and says casually, "Guess you might as well take the opportunity to go over to Merlyn's, then."

She narrows her eyes. "Oh, really?"

He doesn't budge. "Really. And don't you even think of coming here to work by yourself." He's jabbing an accusing finger at her now, which feels excessive, in her opinion.

Not for the first time, she wishes she'd been able to set up some of her new and exciting foundry-monitoring tech. It might help her sound more threatening when she says, "As long as you don't try it either, John Diggle."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, laughter in his eyes. "Go on home, now."

She jabs two fingers towards her eyes, and then at him, walking backwards to her car. If she were really inclined to check Diggle's whereabouts tomorrow, she could activate the tracker on his phone (installed with his consent, of course, although using it in those circumstances would probably constitute a breach of trust). But the truth is, she's really relieved to have the opportunity to – at the very least – see Tommy with her own eyes.

In all probability, he doesn't rely on her visits nearly as much as her behaviour would suggest. But she knows in her gut that she's not quite done with this rescue mission yet, even if she's still making it up as she goes along.

The next night, she makes a big bowl of pasta salad and buys strawberries, peaches and star fruit at the market, Diggle's dire warnings about restarting her training ringing in her head.

It's only as she's climbing the final flight of stairs to reach Tommy's floor that she realises – she hasn't texted him to tell him that she's coming, which means he'll probably be irritable and sarcastic for the first half an hour, acting as though she must be purposely trying to catch him off guard.

She doesn't care. If it means she can assure herself of his relative wellbeing – and maybe catch a few more episodes of Community into the bargain – then she'll deal with whatever he wants to dish out.

But as it happens, he evidently doesn't want to dish anything out at all.

She knocks on his door twice before she hears movement inside. (He has a doorbell, but it's temperamental in its old age, and when it does work it sounds like a goose being strangled, so she doesn't use it.) She hears the faint groan of the couch, and soft footsteps padding across the floor.

She waits patiently… but the door never opens.

She frowns, puzzled, and adjusts the grip on her Tupperware as she steps back a little, in case he can't see her through the peephole. She even does a little wave, as if to reassure him that she comes in peace.

The floorboard on the other side of the door creaks, very softly, but still the door doesn't open.

Cold disappointment curls around her heart as she realises: he doesn't want to see her. She feels instantly mortified and a little bit nauseated, and all she wants is to get out of there as fast as possible. Quietly, she sets the Tupperware and the bag of fruit down outside the door and retreats, keeping her steps light.

At the top of the staircase, though, her stomach sinks when she hears the door open behind her.

"Felicity?" Tommy says, sounding utterly baffled. "Is that you?"

One hand on the rail, she turns around hesitantly. "Hi. Um, actually, I was just going – I just wanted to leave those there for you –" she gestures to the food – "and now I have, so I can totally get out of your hair –"

Tommy takes a few steps into the hallway, and she catches the expression on his face for the first time. He looks surprised and… relieved. "I didn't realise it was you," he explains hurriedly. "The lens in the thingy is broken, and you didn't… I mean, you said you were going to be busy, so I just assumed…"

"Oh," she manages, and the rolling in her gut dies down significantly. She casts around for the remainder of her response, and comes up blank.

"You don't have to leave," Tommy says, and for a second she catches a glimpse of the desperation he's struggling to hide. "I wasn't avoiding you, in case you were wondering. You don't have to…"

As he trails off, she weighs it up as quickly and carefully as she can. Is she so easy to read? And if so, is his offer motivated more by a sense of obligation to be kind to some strange, needy girl rather than a genuine wish for company?

If that's the case, she should draw the line here. This was never supposed to be about satisfying her own need to haphazardly glue the fragments of her weird new family together. Calling that urge selfish might be unfair, but if it winds up taking precedence over the actual priority of making sure Tommy Merlyn doesn't starve to death in a poorly lit bachelor pad from hell, then it would also be true.

On the other hand – maybe he just wants a friend.

"Sure," she says, coming back up the stairs before she can change her mind. "Have you eaten? I made tons of pasta salad – oh, and there's some garlic chicken in your freezer, we could heat that up." She collects the food and shuffles past him through the front door. "I can't eat too much, though, I'm trying to stay healthy. Apparently there's some exercise in my future and I don't think carrying around a food baby will help me beat my previous record of six crunches in a row. I brought some fruit, by the way – sort of a mix, I didn't really know what you'd like –"

She doesn't catch the smile at first. She lets him follow her into the kitchen (still largely clean, actually) while she tries to remember how long she has to cook the chicken for, and at what temperature. Then she serves up some salad in case Tommy's hungry already – carbs be damned, she thinks recklessly, she can have a little more later with the chicken if need be – and grabs a couple forks.

When she turns around, he's right behind her, and she nearly throws the plates up in the air. "Jeez, Tommy…"

She trails off as she realises that – yes, that's an actual smile; a very little one, but it's there and it reaches his eyes just enough to noticeably lift the weary lines of his face. Coupled with his stubble, which looks a little neater than last time, she'd have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is.

She wonders vaguely what might have happened if Tommy had been the one to come to her office eight months ago with a crappy story and a plea for help, instead of Oliver. She might not know Tommy that well, but she's beginning to get the distinct impression that his brand of charm is wildly different compared to his best friend's, and probably – in this fictional scenario she's imagining – would have resulted in almost catastrophic verbal diarrhoea on her part. She's pretty sure she would have spilled her own credit card information before segueing neatly into the story of her worst sexual experience, and finishing up with a demonstration of the app that charts her monthly cycle.

Shaking her head to clear these disturbing thoughts, she aims a gentle kick at Tommy's shin. "Come on, move your butt." God, she can feel her cheeks heating. This is ridiculous.

They sit through three episodes before he says another word. She's just stretching her legs out in front of her, rolling her ankles and wondering how many Jimmy Choos she could buy with the hundreds of thousands of dollars in her bank account, when Tommy says, "How did you know where I lived?"

Her head snaps around so fast it actually hurts. "What?"

Her surprise comes from the fact that that he's speaking at all, not from the question itself, but he evidently thinks it's the latter. "It's a valid question," he says defensively. "I never told anybody about this place except my accountant. I definitely didn't tell Oliver. So how did you find out I live here?"

As she stares at him, it occurs to her that Tommy has no idea what exactly she does for Oliver.

Well, that's not strictly true. Oliver had deployed his standard 'fixing the wi-fi' excuse when she and Tommy had crossed paths in Verdant, so she supposes he must know that she works in IT.

On the day that she'd first come here, she'd introduced herself as, "Felicity Smoak. I, uh, work with Oliver. Or maybe worked, I guess – I don't know. By the way, when I say 'work', I'm referring to both jobs – you know, the boring one as well as the slightly more interesting-but-kind-of-deadly one… Anyway, I just came to see if you were okay after everything that happened… I know 'okay' is a pretty relative term… and probably totally inaccurate for your current state of mind – which makes that a really stupid question to have asked in the first place, yay for me…"

Unsurprisingly, he hadn't been in the mood to do or say anything. He'd been moving stiffly, she'd noticed; the wound on his side had still been relatively fresh at the time. She'd almost offered to check and change the dressing – so used to doing it for Diggle or Oliver – but had bitten her tongue before the words slipped out.

So, she'd never specified her role in Oliver's other career, and he'd never got around to asking – until now.

"Oliver never said anything about my, uh, background?" she prods, hoping to find that some groundwork might have already been laid.

Tommy shifts on the couch, angling his torso to better observe her. It's unnerving, having his undivided attention for this length of time. "Well, you were in my phone as 'wi-fi girl' until a few weeks ago, so… I had a working theory. But he never exactly went into detail about who was helping him." His mouth twists. "That bodyguard has to be in on it, though, right? I mean, those two are weirdly inseparable."

"We're a team, the three of us," she agrees hesitantly, hoping she isn't screwing anything up by revealing this much. "I'm restricted to behind the scenes stuff, though – well, mostly. I handle communications, law enforcement liaison, information sourcing, uh… systems access… and I'm running out of ways to make this sound legal."

Tommy blinks at her. "You're some kind of Sandra Bullock hacker girl?"

Her lips press together in a thin line. "Not exactly," she grits out, "and I have a number of problems with that movie – excellent acting ability notwithstanding – but anyway… yes, you could describe what I do as 'hacking'. In part, at least."

"Uh-huh." He considers this. "So… what? You hacked into my accounts or something? Is that how you found out about this place?"

She winces. She'd somewhat forgotten the original question. "Not your personal bank accounts, no. I started with your basic personnel file at Merlyn Global which was a little out of date. But Merlyn Global's legal department holds separate files regarding your individual assets, including your stock portfolio, properties, and any tangible assets of significant value like cars, technology, yadda yadda. Obviously, this place –" she makes a vague gesture with her hand, "- doesn't count as an asset because you don't own it. But your asset management team also cross-referenced last month's summary with your most recent tax return." She shrugs, aiming for nonchalance but probably looking queasy instead. "Those guys are thorough, by the way. So, yeah – I realise I crossed a line, or maybe several – and I'm sorry, Tommy, but… I'm also not. Because the truth is, what happened was pretty shitty and it just seems like anything could have happened after that, and nobody would have found out until it was too late, so… I guess I'm saying: sorry for the methods, but not for the result."

As soon as the words are out, she feels relieved.

She's never felt ashamed of her job – either of them – so coming clean about what they involve is more like an item on a checklist at this point, but the prospect of discussing her actual motivation for coming here has been weighing heavily on her mind, more so than she'd realised.

It occurs to her that she has just intimated that she thinks he might be suicidal.

From the astonished look on his face, it also occurs to her that she has no idea how he's going to react.

Tommy can't remember how he got to this point.

He means this both literally and figuratively.

He remembers CNRI, or most of it – remembers Laurel, and the panic that had risen in his chest at the idea that he might lose her. Remembers the fear for his own life, shortly after that.

His chest still aches from time to time. The rebar had been aiming for his heart – irony he still doesn't appreciate, weeks after the fact – and Oliver had pulled him out just enough for it to miss, gouging into the rib space along his chest wall instead. His torn muscle has healed well enough, though he doesn't think he'll be running any marathons any time soon.

It'll scar, he supposes.

That's okay, he thinks. Chicks dig scars.

Old Tommy comes out with thoughts like that, once in a while. It's a relief to know he's in there, in some ways, even if it is weird to think of him as a separate person. Sometimes Tommy imagines that Old Tommy ran away to hide after CNRI, and that that must have been why he'd felt as if he had a different voice for those first few days – hostile and scratchy.

Old Tommy doesn't have the guts to handle everything that happened, so he creeps back to whisper stuff in Tommy's ear and then runs away again, leaving New Tommy – cold, broken and bitter – to deal with reality.

Old Tommy was a child, he thinks uncharitably. On the cusp of growing up, maybe, but still a child in all the ways that counted. He hadn't deserved what had happened but his inability to cope in the aftermath had placed an unacceptable burden on New Tommy. He's bitter and resentful towards that old version of him, he realises. So much so that instead of accepting that it's really himself he hates (old and new and everything in between), he prefers to imagine some irresponsible, carefree kid who shrugs and smiles in the face of every accusation Tommy wants to throw.

He's had a lot of time to analyse this coping strategy – and yes, he recognises it for what it is. That said, he honestly wonders if he's losing his mind (or if maybe he's already lost it). The days blur together, and some mornings he wakes up with a vague sense that years have gone by – that he lives alone and forgotten, while the world has moved on.

Then he turns on the TV and it's like a slap in the face – newsreaders talking about 'the fall of Merlyn Global', the 'devastating aftermath of the earthquakes' and the fact that Moira Queen remains in custody – in part for her own protection.

The last two times he's done this, the jarring sensation has been almost overpowering, and he's becoming concerned that he may actually be losing his grip on reality.

So when Felicity Smoak looks at him with those arresting blue eyes and says the words 'pretty shitty' before barrelling headfirst into a suggestion that he might have wanted to off himself, part of him breathes a sigh of blissful relief at the idea of finally being able to discuss this with somebody who actually exists.

The other part bursts out laughing.

It feels weird in his throat – like a bizarre echo of himself, rattling around inside his skull. But it feels good, too; his ribs ache pleasantly, and he keeps hearing 'pretty shitty' every time he looks at her face, which sets him off again.

Eventually, though, her wide-eyed astonishment fades into an annoyed scowl. "Fine, whatever," she grumbles, raising her hands in supplication. "You can shut up now. Excuse me for being concerned."

He shakes his head, his laughter subsiding into soft snorts. "No, that's not what I – I just never heard you swear before. And definitely not as a rhyme."

She frowns as she thinks back to her choice of words – and then rolls her eyes. "Look, it just seemed like an appropriate description, that's all." She watches him carefully, and he wonders what it means when he sees the small flush of colour to her cheeks. "I wasn't trying to rub salt in the wound, or anything. I just – I thought you might want to talk about it."

Oh, he does. And the problem is, he specifically wants to talk about it with her.

The thing is, he thinks it'd be easy to say the words to her – to give voice to the fears that keep him awake at night. He's pretty sure that she would listen carefully, for as long as it took, and then she'd probably say something gentle and supportive in that warm voice of hers, and it could be along the lines of 'don't forget to brush your teeth before bed' and he'd still feel a thousand times better.

It would be so easy.

But the truth is, he likes what they have now. He likes hearing his phone chime and knowing it'll be her, saying, 'Be there in an hour. Thai tonight? Text me if you need anything!'

He likes hearing the soft knock at his door, and the few seconds he allows himself to watch her furtively through the peephole, standing there with the dim light of the hallway illuminating her hair from behind – and the little half-wave she does, as if she isn't sure whether he can see her or not.

He likes the way she fills up this dark, dismal place with constant chatter and warmth, the scent of her perfume lingering for hours after she's gone, the bright colours against the neutral palette of his furniture, and the little touches that she leaves behind.

If he reveals even half of the dark thoughts he's been entertaining since that one hellish night all those weeks ago, it will change all of that. She'll listen to him, he knows she will… but what if she stops talking? What if somehow, he drags her down into the darkness with him?

So he shakes his head and turns back to the TV. "Forget about it," he says, feeling cold already. "Let's just watch this."

He spends the rest of the night trying to pretend he isn't hyperaware of the space between them.

Author's Notes: Arrghh, this became much longer and angstier than planned. Also, perspective switch! I am never certain about whether switching is a good or a bad thing, but I guess it would be hard to write about Tommy's recovery without spending some time inside his mind. Also, there are certain key scenes later which will demand his perspective (as well as justify the M rating for this story… *whistles*)