Title: Fixer Upper
Rating: M (for language, some mild violence and sexual situations later on)
Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow or any of the characters used within this fic.
Author's Notes: FINALLY!Oh my god, I am so relieved to be able to share this with all of you. A while ago, I was complaining talking to someone about how much work was affecting my life and my available time to spend on this fic. 'But' I said at the time 'I really do love my job.'
Not any fucking more, I don't! It's been a bloody nightmare for the last two months, and consequently I have had to keep putting off writing even though, frankly, it is the only thing I want to do. I swear, if I can find a way to make writing Flommy fic pay off, I will do it, my friends, and then there'll be more Flommy fics than anybody is prepared to handle.
On the plus side, this chapter is the longest yet. Does that help? Please help me absolve my guilt! Happy reading :)
"Okay," says Diggle patiently, not even trying to look as though he's breaking a sweat, "you know when I say keep your shoulder up?"
"Uh-huh?" Felicity pants, fanning her face with one hand and readjusting the backstrap of her bra in a totally undignified fashion with the other.
Diggle gives her a pointed look. "Do I need to define 'up'?
She wrinkles her nose at him. "Does it involve the words 'not actually helpful' and 'difficult to remember when your friend-slash-attacker barrels towards you at a thousand miles an hour'? Because that's the only definition I'd agree with."
His mouth twitches, which is all the more amusing when he tries to squash it under his 'serious personal trainer' persona. "It does help," he argues. For the hundredth time today, he motions for her to adopt the basic stance he'd taught her.
Felicity sighs, and makes a show of slumping her back and rolling her eyes like a sour teenager. She catches Dig's eye and grins, straightening. "Be honest, am I your worst pupil ever?"
Dig pauses and pretends to consider. "Hmm, you might be a close second." He quirks an eyebrow at her. "The first guy thought he was teaching me."
"Mm-hmm." She reaches out to snag her bottle of water from the edge of the training mat. "Is that guy currently sulking halfway around the world in a place that rhymes with 'Schmian Schmoo'?"
Dig mimes applause, bowing his head a little. "No prizes for guessing that."
He keeps her going for another half hour before he finally lets up, and by then she isn't forgetting to keep her shoulder up anymore (although she's pretty sure she'll be hearing the words in her sleep for the next few months). Dig's priority is defence right now, which she absolutely gets, but after dodging blows all afternoon - some of them only by a narrow margin - and a few failed attempts to get out of a hold, she's starting to feel like she needs to restore the balance somehow. Without any real way to do that physically, she has to settle for the battlefield she can dominate without even breaking a sweat.
Dig knows she's helping out Lance and his colleagues by feeding them information - as legally as possible - about new trends or worrying patterns. What he doesn't know, and she'll probably never quite have the courage to tell him, is that she's trying to tip the balance a little further - by acting as directly as she dares.
Most telecommunications are vulnerable to interception and tampering, and the average criminal isn't exactly equipped to fend off Felicity's cyber-attacks. Sometimes it's as simple as depositing a few tiny packets of code, masquerading as an update of some kind, into their datastream. If it registers at all, it will be as a flicker in the cell signal, but the phone retains its function and its speed.
She can do anything she likes with that code.
At first she was cautious and simply set it to disrupt certain processes. It would do nothing more than make apps crash, or screw up the sensitivity of the touchscreen. Now, she's bolder - she can hijack their texts or re-map their GPS, enabling her to alter the original message relating to a drop site, or send their location to the police as an automated anonymous tip. A semi-decent virus would wipe out the phone altogether, but she's learning new ways to be creative. It's exciting, if a little scary.
If Dig ever finds out, he'll be furious.
Sometimes she finds herself role-playing that argument with herself, usually while she's making dinner or cleaning her apartment. It never seems to go well.
It'll be fine, she reassures herself. As soon as her new toys are in play, she'll be able to sell these new abilities as a convenient advantage of sort-of-stolen military-grade piece of software. She shouldn't have to, she thinks, annoyed, but if it saves her the time of having to talk Oliver and Diggle down from their high horses. (Oliver - god, that's an argument she can't begin to role play, mostly because she knows he'll go all scowly and silent until he thinks he's won... but also partly because she can't be trusted to keep those scenarios PG-rated. Fantasy!Oliver always ends up shirtless as a minimum.)
They're using a small private gym close to Dig's house while the foundry is off-limits. She actually kind of likes it, not just because Diggle does, but because it's light and airy, and isn't packed to the rafters with creepy, hairy beefcakes who stare at her as though her chromosomes give them some kind of right to pass judgement. Most of the time, there's hardly anybody here, so she sweeps her embarrassment to one side and commits as fully as she can to whatever Diggle asks of her.
It's been nice, actually, spending time together outside the foundry, and to her delight, Diggle seems to want to keep in touch just as much as she does. He'll actively seek her out, usually if he hasn't heard from her in a couple of days, but more recently it's become almost habitual for them to text at lunchtime and meet in the evening, depending on her plans with Tommy. A couple of times, he's brought lunch to her at work; the break room is quieter these days with so many people on reduced working hours, so they sit and talk, and deconstruct all the crazy activity that seems to be going on at Queen Consolidated.
Officially, Diggle is still employed by the Queen family rather than QC, but with a number of people fleeing the company in droves either out of principle over Moira Queen's actions, or out of fear that they'll lose their jobs eventually anyway, he's been drafted in to prop up the flagging building security team. It's mind-numbingly boring, he tells her, but it's better than standing guard in the deserted mansion like some kind of empty suit of armour - all show and no tell.
Truth be told, though, that's exactly how she feels working at QC without anybody at the helm. She's never particularly subscribed to the idea that groups of people need a leader to survive, but it's becoming clear that - no matter what Ned Foster tries to tell them at the mandatory 'Corporate Pathfinding' meetings - things are not getting better. She doesn't know what's going to happen once Moira Queen goes to trial, but in the current climate she seriously can't imagine anything other than a guilty verdict being delivered. She hasn't actually seen Walter Steele since that day in the hospital, although she did receive an elegant 'thank you' card about a week later. She doesn't know the specifics of his relationship status with Oliver's mother, but the fact that he finally accepted Starling National Bank's extremely lucrative offer suggests they aren't likely to reconcile any time soon.
So that leaves Oliver.
She and Diggle haven't discussed this explicitly, but they're both thinking the same thing: if Oliver doesn't come back soon, they may actually have to physically drag him back. She's sure he'd rather be left alone to wallow in what he no doubt perceives as failure, but for the good of the city - and for Oliver himself - Felicity won't allow that.
She might not know exactly what he's going through, but she understands a little something about failure, and how it feels to look at that death toll and feel as though some of the blame lies at her door.
There are some thoughts she isn't ready to face, but unlike Oliver, she knows that running away won't help.
Eventually, when Dig starts to look at her a little too suspiciously - she must have her frowny, determined, 'hacking for freedom' expression on - she closes the cover of her tablet and starts to gather her things. "Dinner tomorrow night?" she offers. "I could cook."
He gives her a soft smile as he holds the door open for her. "I'd love to, but I promised I'd go see Turbo with AJ – he's been bugging me for weeks, and Carly's working late tomorrow anyway, so…" He glances at her speculatively. "You want to tag along? I don't know how you feel about animated snails, but it could be fun." He squints into the sun as they step outside. "Or I hope it will, for my sake."
She hesitates, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. "It's not that I don't want to, it's just… isn't AJ still in his 'please get back together with my mom' phase? He might not exactly react well to some strange girl showing up with you."
Diggle grins. "Nah, he's a pretty cool kid. Just needed some reassurance that I wasn't going to disappear on him, that's all. I think he'd like you." He nudges her with his elbow as they walk to her car. "Like uncle, like nephew."
She's pretty sure she's blushing, but her face is glowing pink from the exercise and the heat anyway, so he probably doesn't notice. "Okay," she says, a little excited. "If you're sure, I mean."
Dig looks at her like she's crazy. "Of course I'm sure," he tells her. "Are you? Did I forget to mention it's an animated snail movie?"
"Yeah, but… fast snails," she replies, raising her eyebrows for emphasis. "I've seen the trailers, Dig. Did you ever think we'd see the day when Samuel L Jackson would do the voice of a snail? Because I did not."
"Okay," he says with a laugh. "I don't need to bribe you with nachos, then?"
She shrugs, feigning disinterest. "Well, if they're there, I'll eat them…"
They part with a hug, making plans to meet at Big Belly tomorrow evening. Traffic is light as she heads back to her apartment, and at a red light she sends Tommy a quick text to say she'll be with him in a couple of hours, and does he want her to bring stuff for chicken parmesan?
He sends her back a sad face emoji and adds, 'we said we were going to blitz the rest of season 2! No time to cook! Let's get Thai'
She grins, delaying her response until she can safely park outside her building. 'I'll start making it here, won't take long. Patience, young padawan!'
His response is startlingly fast. 'You done for the day? Come over ASAP! We can start early'
Wow, that was enthusiastic. She once again stalls for time, spending longer fumbling for her keys than strictly necessary, as she tries to calm the little knot of nerves sitting just under her diaphragm. He's being friendly, she tells herself forcefully. This is normal-level friendliness, okay? It doesn't mean anything.
'Need to shower!' she texts back, deleting and re-typing the exclamation mark a couple of times before moving on. 'Trust me, it's for everybody's safety. Be there in an hour?'
In the end, she makes it in about forty-five minutes, her hair roughly towel-dried and piled into a messy bun on the top of her head, chicken parmesan ingredients in a couple of bags. As she gets out of the car, she glances down at her outfit – a bright yellow tank top and navy capri pants – to gauge its susceptibility to irreversible stains, and notices she's already managed to get a small splash of coffee close to the hem.
She frowns, annoyed and slightly puzzled; her last coffee was at lunchtime – at work, no less – putting it hours and miles away from this top. When she touches it, she realises it's still damp, and her heart sinks as she looks into the car and sees the remnants of her caramel macchiato from this morning sitting in its cup-holder between the seats. It looks cold, gloopy, and pretty unappealing. Her enthusiastic driving has apparently led the cup to tilt just enough for the liquid to splash over the edge from time to time, and she can see little shiny spots on the parking brake and on the nearby upholstery.
"Great," she mutters, reaching in to grab it. "Yet another fluid I'll be hoping they don't notice on the return check."
She juggles the bags, the cup and her car keys with some difficulty initially, and when she finally manages to lock the car, she breathes a sigh of relief at this very, very tiny victory.
Her relief is short-lived, because of course, the universe hates her.
At least, she assumes this is why she makes it almost to the front door of the building before tripping on an uneven paving stone, the cup of cold coffee slipping from her precarious grip and upending itself all over her feet.
Perfect. Just… perfect.
Tommy isn't an idiot. He knows Felicity will bring stuff to make the chicken parmesan, so he sets the oven to preheat about ten minutes before she's due to arrive. Despite his protests, he's actually looking forward to having something home-cooked. It makes him pine for the days – sometimes whole weeks – he used to spend wheedling his way into staying at Oliver's house, not just because the Queen mansion always felt so much warmer and more welcoming than his own home, but for Raisa's ability to figure out exactly what he wanted to eat just by looking at him.
Looking back, he's surprised he survived his teenage years with his sanity relatively intact. If he hadn't had Oliver and his family, he sometimes thinks he'd be dead by now – pushed to ever-increasing recklessness and misery, finally culminating in the kind of accident that would probably have endangered more lives than just his own. He'd have become one of those tragic statistics recited to bored teenagers, or a half-remembered story told around a campfire. 'Didn't you hear? Last summer, Tommy Merlyn got shitfaced and stole a police car from right outside the police station! My brother said he drove it so fast, he lost control on the freeway and rolled all the way down the embankment into the woods at the edge of the national park. They say he was still alive when the wolves found him… Park rangers were finding crunched up bones for weeks. And this campsite right here, this very spot? This is where they found his skull – all smashed in and chewed up – but the craziest thing was… the eyes were still in the sockets…'
Tommy might have dabbled in campfire horror stories before.
Sometimes he feels as though he can barely remember the early years of his childhood. The fragments he has left are the barest scraps of memories – tiny and weirdly distorted, like looking the wrong way through a telescope. His mother, reading in the library. Falling and skinning his knee outside. Malcolm, dressed in a tux, helping his mother into her coat.
How wrong – how unfair is it that his life really began when he lost the two of them? If he hadn't had Oliver to worry over him, in that awkward boyish way of his, Tommy assumes he'd have slowly died in that house. He barely remembers the names of the staff his father employed. He does recall that the turnover was fairly high once Malcolm returned from wherever the hell he disappeared to, and now he wonders whether they'd seen what he couldn't until two months ago: a cold, hard man determined only to collect power, make war, and win.
Tommy can't even begin to count the number of times he'd wished – actually, hand-on-heart wished – he'd been born a Queen. He'd felt guilty for forsaking his mother's memory, but not for long enough to torment him. He's certain she would never have wanted him to grow up like that. She would be heartbroken to know what became of Malcolm in her absence – or rather, what Malcolm became.
He's had this train of thought before, and he knows better than to let it run on. There's nothing to be gained from imposing this level of regret on his memories. Life is what it is, and it will be what he makes of it from now on.
Which, he supposes, surveying his dusty, lifeless apartment, currently isn't much.
He'd tuned into CNBC today, just out of curiosity. Merlyn Global's demise isn't exactly headline news anymore, but its progress is still being closely followed by financial analysts, and even if he mutes the channel he can still see the occasional update on the ticker at the bottom of the screen.
Tommy has been thinking about calling Lou Carracci back. He has no real desire to save MG, either for financial purposes or for the sake of his 'legacy'. He definitely doesn't think he has enough knowledge or experience to save a multibillion dollar conglomerate, especially if even expert analysts can't seem to predict which way the chips will fall.
But maybe, if he's lucky, he'll be able to bargain for some of the smaller subsidiaries – just enough to save some jobs and some livelihoods. It won't undo what his father did, but it might prevent the landslide of Starling City's workforce into poverty.
The problem is, he can't reasonably do all of that from inside this apartment. Which, given that he hasn't actually left the building for weeks now, is a larger obstacle than most people would guess. It isn't that he's afraid of setting foot outside – except, okay, he is… but it's more complicated than that.
Out there, he'll be lost. The streets probably aren't safe for him to just wander around; Verdant is closed, he assumes, and Oliver's house is deserted since Thea practically moved in with that kid from the Glades.
Eventually he'll have to go back to the mansion.
It's a truth he'd rather not face, but he acknowledges it nonetheless. He'll never live there again, he knows that much. The few treasured memories he holds aren't enough to shake the impression he'll always carry of that house: cold, lifeless and terrifying. Going back there, however briefly, when he and Laurel broke up had felt like some kind of twisted acceptance of the fate that awaited him.
It says something about the deficiencies of his former life that this place – with its old furniture, crappy lighting, and persistent layer of dust that he has done absolutely nothing about – feels like more of a home to him after just over two months than the house he grew up in ever could.
Of course, it also says something about the company he keeps these days.
He can't shake the smile that sneaks up on him when he thinks of the person who'll be occupying the other end of the couch this evening. Be cool, he tells himself, pointlessly opening drawers and closing them again in a fruitless search for purpose. Maybe don't grope her this time.
As if on cue, he hears the faint echo of footsteps coming up the rickety stairs. He's still smiling as he moves towards the door, waiting for her knock so as not to startle her by opening the door too early – or look like a creeper, even though that's pretty much what he's doing right now.
Weirdly, he can hear the muffled sound of her voice, and for a second he freezes, thinking she's brought somebody with her.
Who, though?
His heart leaps and stalls in his chest at the immediate, if illogical, response from within: Oliver.
His pulse picks up again at double-speed as he tries to decide how he feels – how he will feel if he opens that door to see Oliver standing there. Honestly, he doesn't know, and his gut seems to be cycling through excitement and some terrible mix of anger and guilt.
He doesn't move from his spot, doesn't lean up to peer through the peephole or press his ear to the door – all he can do is wait, until finally he hears Felicity shuffle up, rustling plastic bags, and then a weird clunky-sounding knock.
It jolts him into action, and even though his hand shakes a little as he pulls the door open, his heart immediately calms at the moment he looks out to see Felicity standing there alone.
Mostly he's relieved, he finds, but there's a pang of disappointment there, too.
That's an emotional battle for another day, thank god.
From the hallway, Felicity quirks an eyebrow at him. "Can I… come in?" she prompts, making an expansive gesture with her full hands. "Or are you going to make me sit outside with some kind of hotplate?"
He opens his mouth to answer – probably not that eloquently, he guesses – when he notices what she's carrying in the hand she used to knock on the door, and does a double-take. "What happened to your shoes?" he asks in consternation.
Instantly, she grimaces, casting a baleful look at the wedges that hang by coffee-soaked suede straps from her fingers. "A tragic accident," she grits out, "that perfectly illustrates why the universe hates me."
"Right…" he says slowly. "So, coffee spillage?"
"Coffee spillage," she confirms, regarding the shoes with a wistful air. "Right outside your building." Her eyes snap quickly to his, soft with concern. "Not that I'm blaming you," she hurries to reassure him, "or your building. They were totally independent factors in the… incident."
"Right," he repeats, this time with a grin. As he steps back to let her through, though, he glances down and notices her bare feet with open surprise. He feels like an idiot for not thinking about it sooner, but obviously if she's carrying her shoes, that means they're not on her feet, and if they're not on her feet, then… "You walked up six flights of stairs barefoot?" he asks, incredulous.
"Not bare," she snarks, shuffling past him. "Very, very covered in coffee. Cold coffee," she elaborates. "Which, based on past experience, is even more disgusting than hot coffee in a self-spill situation."
He follows her into the kitchen, still focused on her feet. They're pretty, he thinks absently, even with streaks of dried coffee splashed across them, little dots peppering her slim calves below the hem of her capri pants. He's never had a thing for feet before, and he doesn't think he's about to start now, but hers are cute. Her bright yellow nail polish matches her top – he likes that.
"You should have called me," he tells her. "I could've… I don't know, brought you some flip-flops or something. Or at least carried the bags."
Her glare carries no heat, and she doesn't hide her the quirk of her lips as she lays out the ingredients on the counter. "I'm not going to drag you up and down six floors for two lightweight bags and the sake of my feet. But… thank you for offering anyway."
"I would have come," he argues, and realises – he would. Even for something as basic as shoes. As apprehensive as he might feel about the idea of leaving this building, if he knew Felicity was outside waiting for him, he thinks he could pull together the courage.
He's still pondering how to ask her to be his anti-agoraphobia totem without sounding weird, when she glances down at the oven and makes a little noise of surprise. He's totally unprepared for the blinding intensity of her smile when she turns to him. "'Let's get Thai food' my ass," she teases, nudging him gently with her elbow. "You totally wanted me to cook!"
Tommy shrugs, scuffing at the floor with his toe and feigning nonchalance. "Let's not get carried away," he says. "More like I knew that chicken was going to end up here one way or another, so why fight it?"
She rolls her eyes as she reaches into the cupboard under the sink, pulling out a roll of paper towels. "Hey, can you put that pan on with a little oil?" she asks, tearing off a few sheets and running them briefly under the hot water.
Tommy makes a noise of assent, but he watches her distractedly as she props her hip against the counter and stands on one foot, bending her other leg into something that looks like the type of yoga pose he remembers Laurel doing in front of the TV once. He watches, baffled, as she carefully cleans the sticky coffee from her foot, her eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
Eventually she pauses, and looks up at him from underneath her dark lashes. "Can I help you?" she says, voice low with sarcasm.
He goes with the thought that's been bouncing loudly off the inside of his skull. "You can use my bathroom, you know."
He doesn't expect her to freeze, leg bent stiffly, fingers tightening around the wet cloth as she suddenly avoids his eyes. There's a weird expression on her face – a cautious mixture of guilt and panic. "Uh…" she says eloquently, "I – I know. I just… you know, I can do this just as well here, it's not a big deal or anything…"
A thought occurs to him. A brand new, bizarre and fascinating thought, and for one of the first times in his life, he has that strange sensation of knowing that he is absolutely correct before he even speaks. "Oh my god, you have never used my bathroom."
She jerks upright, her wet foot squeaking and slipping a little on the linoleum. "No!" she exclaims, her face flaming into colour. "No, that's not… Well, okay, yes that's true, but it's not for the reason you think."
He blinks, taken aback by this unexpected direction. "What reason do I think?" he asks, genuinely curious.
"I mean, it's not like it's something weird, you know – like, I don't have some kind of complex about using other people's bathrooms, or…" She flounders, apparently trapped in a vortex of embarrassment, "or even your bathroom – it's not like I have some kind of problem with you, specifically, it's just that…"
He stamps on the urge to step closer to her, to touch her arm and reassure her. "Felicity…"
She takes a deep breath, meeting his eyes warily. "It's just that this is my… this is my area, you know?" She waves her hand vaguely towards the wall. "I mean, the living room and the kitchen, those are the only places that I've been since I started coming here, and at first I sort of restricted my own access because I didn't want you to feel like your territory was under threat, or something, and then I left it too long and it would have been really weird to actually ask, so I just… didn't."
He has no idea how to process this. "So you've just, what? Been holding it in?"
She straightens a little. "I have really good bladder control. One time I had to hold an entire Big Belly Jumbo Ice Blast for, like, three hours while Oliver was embroiled in a hostage situation and I couldn't leave the computer. Pretty sure I nearly died."
Tommy stares at her. "I really, really can't stress this enough – it would be an honour to allow you to use my bathroom or, basically, any room you want if it means your kidneys don't explode. I'm serious, you can pee anywhere that looks good."
The smile that brightens her face is encouraging, but she's still hesitant. "I know, Tommy, and I knew that you would say that, if I asked, but you might not actually feel that way, or… or even if you did, you might regret it later and then feel like you couldn't tell me."
"Okay," he says abruptly, feeling guilty and annoyed at himself for apparently making her feel like the most unwelcome person to ever spend two months on some sort of restricted friend visa. He reaches out to her with one hand. "Come with me."
She stares at his hand as though it's decaying. "What?"
"Come with me," he urges. "Don't make me do that stupid song, Smoak."
She pats her hands dry on her capris and slowly, carefully, lifts her hand to slide into his.
He pretends his heart doesn't hit his ribcage extra hard when he feels her cool, smooth fingers wrapped around his. He tugs her along with him, out of the kitchen (stove definitely off – he sees her double-check) and across the short width of the living room to what he fondly thinks of as the hallway.
It isn't a hallway, not really – just a boxy little space bordered on opposite sides by doors leading to the bedroom and the bathroom. It isn't even big enough to swing a teacup pig, let alone a cat, but it gives the illusion that there could be more to this place than four rooms and a really horrible carpet.
"Bathroom," he announces, reaching out with his free hand to push the door open. "I was keeping it tidy because I assumed you were actually using it, which is why the washbasin is hair-free and there's a kinda blue colour to the water when you flush."
She takes a half-step across the threshold and peers around curiously. It's nothing special, just a toilet, sink and shower, but the look of wonder on her face makes it seem as though it's the inside of the large hadron collider. "Nice," she says generously. "You could put a little hanging shower thingy in, you know, for storage."
When he turns the other way to show her his bedroom, though, she falters and tugs on his hand. "Tommy, it's okay, you really don't need to –"
"It's okay, I want to," he says, and finds he's telling the truth. "It's possibly the most boring bedroom on earth, I promise."
She's still somewhat frozen in place, so he aims a gentle kick at the bottom of the door. "Oh," she says in surprise, when it swings open.
Despite playing it down, he's still a little defensive. "What?"
In typical Felicity style, she defies expectations by replying, "But this is the best one!"
Tommy blinks, trying to fathom what she could possibly mean by that, when she takes the lead and pulls him to stand in the doorway with her. Space is limited, and he angles his shoulder awkwardly to avoid pressing up against her, but he can still feel the warmth of her skin radiating across the few inches that separate them. At this distance, he can see the faint tinge of bronze to her shoulders and upper arms, and the light dusting of freckles on her skin. Her hair is drying in curls where it has fallen out of the twist; the dark frame of her glasses seems almost delicate as it curves over her ear.
She's talking. And lifting their joined hands to point at the window. "… the biggest window in the apartment," she's saying. "For starters, you can open that one and actually get some real air moving into the room. And it's got so much more space than I thought there would be from outside. You could put a desk there – or, hey, an exercise bike…"
Tommy observes the plain, functional double bed, the poky closet with a door that won't quite close, and the small wooden nightstand ornamented only by a single plastic lamp. It reminds him of some of the motels he and Oliver used to crash in when they'd decided that a road trip would be the perfect cure for college boredom, but planned the route so badly that they always ended up in the asscrack of nowhere at 2am.
It's uninspiring. It's a place to sleep, and nothing more. Yet Felicity puts her brightly painted foot across the threshold and finds something to be pleased about, something that makes him think he can have more.
He squeezes her hand and says, "Hey, if you like it so much, I can move the TV in here?"
She swats him in the belly with the back of her hand. "In your dreams, Merlyn."
She has no idea.
It's after midnight when they finish the last episode of season two. The credits are rolling when Tommy says, "I could be on board with Abed and Annie. Well, maybe Han Solo Abed and Annie, anyway."
"But Han Solo Abed is basically Jeff," Felicity counters. Her clean, dry feet have remained shoeless, and are currently sitting not two inches from Tommy's leg. Not that he's noticed, or anything. "And I'm still not ready to give up on that."
Tommy squints at the TV. "They're drawing it out. I bet season four."
She shakes her head unhappily. "No, still nothing." Then she claps a hand loudly across her mouth and stares at him with wide-eyed horror. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she gasps. "I am the worst when it comes to keeping quiet about spoilers. I told four people that Sirius died within two days of the book coming out. Ugh, just… don't let me talk to you about anything. Ever."
"Felicity, I forgive you," he says solemnly, the effect broken by his shaking shoulders and the way he presses his lips together against a laugh.
Her eyes brighten with amusement as she reaches out to prod him with her toe. "Shut up," she grumbles. Her hand drops away from her mouth for only a second, rising back to cover a long yawn. She stretches lazily, whining at the pull on her muscles. "I should go. I didn't wash the plates, though."
"You are a terrible houseguest," he remarks, patting the top of her foot and ignoring the thrill that shoots through him. Then, against his better judgement, he looks over at her and manages to say casually, "You can crash here, if you want."
She stills in the middle of reaching over to the coffee table to check her phone, eventually retracting her hand and eyeing him carefully. "I… don't know what to say."
"Unprecedented," he deadpans, squirming away from her vengeful toe. "No, it's no big deal, I'm just saying – it's late, and it's Saturday tomorrow, so I'm guessing you're not working." He frowns. "Unless you're doing your… you know, other job?"
She shakes her head. "Can't. Thea's renovating Verdant."
Oh. That's news to him. "Really?"
"You haven't talked to her? I thought –"
"Yeah, no – I just wanted her number in case, but I haven't… found the right time. And I guess it sounds like she's busy with other stuff, anyway." He smiles briefly. "Good for her, though."
There's no pity in the look she gives him, just sympathy and encouragement. "She'd want to hear from you no matter what she's doing. In fact, Verdant is the perfect jumping-off point, if everything else feels too… raw." He gets the feeling the toe-poke she's giving him now is meant to be supportive. "I bet she misses you. She's probably wondering how you're doing."
This time, he keeps his hand on her foot, his thumb curving round to sit in the arch. "Probably," he muses. "I'll call her soon. Just need to work up to it."
"I don't mean to push," she says gently. "And next time… yeah, I'd love to stay, if it's still okay."
"Sure. Next time." He squeezes her foot without thinking, but she doesn't seem to mind.
Her shoes are dried, if not completely clean, and she slips them back on while Tommy tidies up a little. It's a little flicker of domesticity, and he suppresses a sigh of disappointment at the fact that she won't be staying. When he sees her hesitating as she hovers near the door, for a moment he's hopeful that she might have changed her mind, but instead she fish-mouths uncertainly for a couple of seconds before blurting out, "Dig and I are going to see Turbo tomorrow with his nephew, do you want to come?"
Stupidly, the word he chooses to repeat is, "Nephew?"
"Yeah, Dig has a nephew," she fails to elaborate. "I mean – Dig is John Diggle, Oliver's bodyguard – you've met him, right? His nephew AJ is eight, and he wants to see Turbo – you know, the one with the –"
"The racing snails, yeah," Tommy nods. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, because yes, he'd love to go, but also no – no, he wouldn't. "It's just… there would be a lot of people, right?"
"Oh, yeah, of course." Understanding floods her face as she nods. "Of course, that was – I didn't think, I'm sorry –"
"Felicity, it's fine." He reaches out to touch her arm in reassurance – just the briefest brush of his fingers against her wrist. He misses the way she swallows roughly, glancing down at her arm for a second, as he presses his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Actually – it's really not fine, and I… I don't know what to do. It's gone on so long now that I don't even know where to start."
"Hey," she says softly, this time taking his hand in hers. "Hey, it's okay, Tommy. I – just tell me what I can do. Even if you want me to shut up about it, that's okay."
He looks at her, his heart and stomach flip-flopping unhelpfully around each other, and the steadiness of his voice surprises him. "I need your help," he says. "Please."
Her arms are strong and her skin is soft as she draws him into her warm embrace. "Whatever it takes," she says, her breath whispering against his ear. "I promise."
He drops his head to her shoulder and closes his eyes.
That night, he dreams of her.
It's weirdly simple.
It's exactly like every night they've spent curled up on the couch watching TV, except this time, she's pressed against his side, legs sprawled over his lap as he pulls her closer with an arm wrapped around her shoulders.
She wriggles a little and lets her head sink down to his shoulder, her cheek warm through his t-shirt. Her breathing is light but he can still feel it somehow, just a little tickle under his chin.
It's really comfortable. In the dream, he doesn't even question it. She feels nice and warm, and she smells amazing, some delicious combination of cinnamon and honey and coffee. He draws her closer still and she turns in his arms until she's embracing him chest-to-chest, her legs pulled up and tucked over to the side. Her breasts are pressing against him; her hair is under his nose and little strands are getting in his mouth.
He doesn't care. He hugs her tighter, hands rubbing gently up and down her back. Her arms are locked around his neck, her nose and mouth pressed into the dip of his collarbone.
"Stay," he whispers, surely crushing her by now.
She lifts her head to meet his gaze, and he's astonished, in these last moments of the dream – the moments in which he's starting to become aware that this isn't real – by how clear and bright her eyes are. How warm her smile is.
She looks happy.
She leans forward to press a kiss to his mouth, and he wakes up.
He should feel embarrassed and ashamed right now – and in the morning, he will – but as of this moment, feeling the emptiness of his arms and coolness of his skin, all he feels is bitterly disappointed.
Author's Note: Writing this fic makes me super happy, because I basically get to write Felicity having fun relationship-developing scenes with everybody I love! Which, to be clear, will include Oliver as soon as he gets back. I am probably going to tweak the timescale a little over the next few chapters. These events are unfolding during the summer of 2013, which by the way is why Felicity only has four seasons of Community, and is why they are going to see Turbo. But obviously when Oliver got back in October in 2.01, we leapt straight into the events of Season 2, and I need a little more time once he's back to fully play out the new dynamics between Oliver, Tommy and Felicity, so Oliver will be arriving back somewhat earlier than he did in canon. I don't have it in me creatively to do a full re-write of Season 2, so while some events from the first few episodes will come to pass, it will come to a conclusion one way or another in, chronologically, the very early part of the season.
And yay for a bunch of info you didn't want or need! Yay!
Next time: Tommy leaves the apartment! And some other stuff happens as well. As always, reviews/kudos etc are super appreciated and I will love you forever. (By the way, I'm really sorry to anyone whose comment I haven't replied to previously – I'm really terrible at that, but I will try my best to reply to everyone over the next few days)