Disclaimer - If Arrow belongs to me, where is that money going? Because my bank account loudly reminds me that I can't afford that yacht, or these books, or those shoes. Then I remember I still have two years of University left and will have to pay back student loans, and my account loudly reminds me, again, that I should probably take my parents out to dinner when I graduate and get a steady 9 - 5 job, 5 days a week. Not the summer/winter break job I currently have (even though it is sooo much fun! I basically get paid to play. It's great.).
Until a random stroke of luck happens and I end up with the rights to Arrow, here is another chapter :)
She sat on the steps, partially hidden in the dark shadows, the moonlight giving her half a halo, and to Slade it was a sign that she was half dead. All he had to do was finish her, and he would win. Oliver Queen would be brought to his knees – permanently. Slade stood, katana in his hand, as he watched this pitiful blonde creature press herself tight against the wall, her eyes closed, her breathing shaky and forcibly slow, and he waited for her to see him. When she opened her blue eyes, the quiet acceptance defeating the fear, gave him pause. A foreign feeling tugged at his heart and for a brief moment, Slade Wilson wasn't in a rage-fueled haze, he was almost…calm. Just as quickly as it had come, the feeling was gone and the muscled mass remembered why he was there.
"Miss Smoak."
He hears himself say her name and was sure now, Felicity Smoak will run. Felicity Smoak will try to avoid fate. But she doesn't. Her gaze never wavering from his, she gets to her feet, and in some dark, long forgotten crevice of Slade's mind is the amused thought of how this will be the only time that the blonde woman would be looking down at him. He doesn't know what possessed him to do it, but he reaches a hand out to her before saying:
"If you would be so kind…"
After a moment's pause, the woman who holds Oliver Queen's heart glides down the steps and places her small hand into his rough one. As he leads her out the door to the awaiting vehicle, Slade hears her voice, Shado's voice.
"This isn't right. She should be afraid! She should be running, screaming, fighting. Oliver has a type. His type is not this submissiveand patheticgirl! This is wrong."
But he ignores her, because for a second, it wasn't a stranger he was helping down the last three steps, it wasn't a stranger he led to his car. The hand he was holding had turned warm from his excessive heat, and if he didn't look at her body, he could imagine black hair instead of blonde, dark eyes instead of blue hidden behind rectangular frames. As he opens the car door, black locks return to blonde and blue eyes avoid his as she slides her body to the opposite side and stares out the window. The drive to his base is quiet as he studies her. He recalls how Laurel Lance reacted when he knocked on her door to reveal Oliver's secret. He recalls her shrieks of fury and screams of poorly concealed fear as she was dragged kicking and screaming before him. He recalls his soldier grunting his report:
"She tried to run. An older cop tried to protect her."
He recalls Sara Lance, her fighting nature on the island and her fighting nature now. He recalls hearing about Helena Bertinelli, McKenna Hall, and even Isabel Rochev. All these women emitted the same strength; it was like the boy was searching for a replacement of his mother. But this ponytailed blonde sitting across from him, who hid behind computer screens, who no one ever heard of, did not belong in the same category as these other women who fight tooth and nail, and she most certainly did not belong in a competition with Laurel Lance. He glowered at the ponytail, willing her to scream, cry, fight, anything. Yet she didn't. Aside from the whispered whimper, Felicity Smoak hadn't made a sound, and that, more than anything, bothered Slade Wilson.
"She ran. You didn't."
Slade had hoped that his voice would force a delayed reaction, and she would start up with the noise, but all she did was apologize. She apologized in that questioning tone, the 'I'm sorry, I don't understand' and it made his blood boil. So he launched right into comparing her to Laurel Lance, gorgeous Laurel that everyone knew belonged to Oliver, who unknowingly was competing with the pathetic and small female sharing the car with him. He stares at her, waiting for her to say something, to show what makes her so special, but she doesn't. She just meets his stare. He lashes out, his hand gripping her chin, and suddenly he sees it. The anger at being man-handled flaring in her blue eyes, and she slaps his hand away hard enough it stings a little. It's all Slade can do to hold in the triumphant laugh that threatens to break through, so he just grins at her. He found it. He found the spark that makes her so appealing. Laurel Lance was loud; she screamed her strength, a force to be reckoned with. But Felicity Smoak was quiet. She had let herself get caught, she had let herself be led to her death and she did it all without a sound. Felicity Smoak wasn't going to avoid her fate, she was accepting it. In that moment, the fire burning in her eyes, her hand slapping his away, he understood what made her so appealing.
She was just as strong as the other women, if not stronger. She was her own category, just like Shado.
He'd been expecting her to run. He'd expected her to squirm and scream, like Laurel Lance had.
"I was surprised; I thought you had a thing for stronger women. But now that I've met her, I can understand the appeal."
Except, she hadn't.
"She is quite lovely… your Felicity."
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