What Wouldn't I Do

by I've got Rhythm in my Soul

We all know that Slade killed Oliver's mother: we were there, we saw it. But where was Felicity? What would she have done if she'd known? How would it have changed things? ...Since the writers cut out the fact that Felicity, whose home is literally the Foundry, would have probably still been within two feet of a computer, neurotically checking in on her family.

9. Part 9 9

Part 9

"Ollie…?"

Laurel.

He took in a breath, hands and fingers coming up to press against the skin under the bridge of his nose, an instinctive awareness of who was in the room with him fluxing like a drum behind his eyes with every beat of his pulse.

Not. Now.

The universe never listened to him.

He was so, so tired.

A part of him very much done with it all.

The night disappearing beyond the horizon, it was all becoming retrospective: Slade, the brutal discovery that Sara's self-destructive flights of capricious fancy where actually an inner reconciliation of her instinctive self, her nihilistic nature… and Felicity not being there, throughout, as a pillar. A constant.

Now that the danger and distress of the evening – for the most part – was coming to a close, he was ready to rest. Seeing herawake had given him the 'okay'. To just… be.

So this wasn't the time for Laurel to be here; he didn't want her involved, he'd never wanted her involved, wanted her kept safe and away from all of this… which was absolutely why Slade had told her everything. Of course it was.

But just how much did Slade tell her?

That he was the Arrow?

A man Laurel had once idolised, become besotted in, had been frightened of, had hated, had then needed once again… and was now indifferent to?

Why is she here then? Maybe… because of Sara? He spent no illusions on the idea that she'd come due to any reprising feelings from a romance gone and long forgotten. Since returning to Starling he'd learned much in the way of what he wanted as opposed to what he truly needed…

Unfortunately, surprisingly, ironically, sorely… Laurel featured in neither category.

It was a painful truth - he'd spent so many months after his return pining after the idea of them together that it took the cost of Tommy's life to show him that sometimes what you think is best for you, can turn out to be the exact opposite.

Case in point: they'd slept together… then he'd had to leave her in bed, lying to her once more because – and he could finally admit it – he'd never had any intention of telling her his secret.

And then she'd ignored his advice to stay out of the Glades; something he knew still plagued her sleep. It left a bitter, what was it all for, taste in the mouth.

But really, what had it all been for? One night with Laurel? When neither were anywhere near close to being 'together' in more than just a physical sense. Had it been worth the sacrifice?

…Looking back on it, the answer was hard to deliver because he knew that it was 'no'.

Undoubtedly, it had been the first time he'd ever truly made love to Laurel. And how insulting was that? Could you measure it in an 'Asshole' metre? It still made him wince; in all their time together before the island he'd never truly been with her. And then after that half night… he hadn't considered the consequences, hadn't experienced enough to know himself quite that well.

Going back to Lian Yu had forced him, in dreams, to confront the royally skewed nature of those few hours. After he'd woken, nothing had changed. Only months later could he see the problem in that and realised that he'd actually expected, secretly - at the time, to wake and feel different. To feel altered, to be… more. Stronger. Lighter. A better man, a better person.

Complete.

But that hadn't happened. Instead he'd woken to feeling exactly as he'd done the day before. Being together didn't fix their past.

They had no more history left to spoil.

Yet however much he tried to tell that to the sensitive spot on his spine, the area that always tightened - close to genuinely painful - whenever someone he cared about was in danger, it ignored him making his stomach to writhe at the possibility of someone else being in danger because of him.

Was Laurel in danger? Is that why Slade told her? To push her back into my orbit…

To tell me that he'd chosen a target?

The amount of times Slade had caught Oliver staring at Laurel's picture in those first few months, it made a regretful sort of sense.

It was a stunning reality: five years of living through nightmares, tyrants, pain, murder, death, suffering, loneliness', self-loathing, the island, China, Russia, Coast City… he'd carried her with him. One year back in Starling and he'd let her go. He loved her, but he'd let her go. There were no good feelings in it for him to celebrate; it had been necessary on both sides. The art of loving and being loved… it could extinguish as well as build.

Had he ever really loved her as he should have? Had she ever loved him back the way he'd wanted her to?

The picture of her that he'd originally carried in his wallet had been found on the floor of the foundry after the fall of the Glades. Passing a homeless man's fire-bin that same evening he'd dropped it in, watching the burning embers eat away at her image before walking away.

Now? There were times were he thought that simple friendship might too difficult a hurdle to grasp. And there were moments where Laurel resembled broken glass: fractured and hostile to the touch. She'd been through much; he'd put her through much… but no matter what happened he would always care for her, would always be there for her.

…Which she must have known, given her reaction to seeing him pass the lounge.

She'd hugged him. Just bypassed everything else and thrown herself in his arms. He knew what it was like to hug Laurel but something felt different.

And one of his arms had been occupied at the time…

Their slow pace down the corridor towards the stairs could have gone faster… could have, but hadn't. And it wasn't because he was tired, not this time. It was the silence he enjoyed, the type that came with mutual understanding. The three of them, the ones who started everything… they knew each other well enough, deeply enough, to not have to utter a word. It was comfortable. Familiar. Relaxing.

Then he'd caught sight of Laurel ahead of them.

She'd stepped out into the hall; her dark suit jacket undone – the only sign of her current ruffled state – her hair down and tousled from the wind, her chest almost heaving, as if emotional…

Something must have happened. His brow furrowed. Who had Slade hurt now?

But then she shouted out to him.

"Ollie!"

Her eyes bright and, emotional, she was looking at him like… like the world had turned on its head and he was the only thing that fell into place. Like he made sense, which was probably the most confusing thing about seeing her right then.

For all his weaknesses, a poor memory was never one of them. And Oliver had never seen Laurel look at him like that before.

From his point of view it was like looking into the eyes of a friend and seeing a stranger.

What was it Dig had said? That she knew he was the Arrow? Dig had mentioned it was the first thing that Laurel had led with when he'd opened the front doors, gun behind his back, not ten minutes before.

But yes, that expression once upon a time would have thrilled him to the core. Not anymore.

Laurel… when had they become like this? It was the same question he'd pondered over with Sara. And had come to the exact same conclusion…

And then she was moving. She didn't run to him but her long legs and quick strides made easy work of the distance between them.

Stunned, he held out an arm and his other, which had been pressed against Felicity's back, was wrenched off and he actually stumbled as Laurel all but landed on his chest. A quick eyebrow raise from Dig confirmed that he had and that he was pushing thin ice: his knee needed to be checked again. Soon.

"I heard." She said pulling back, eyes expressively wide. "You were kidnapped? You're driver was murdered."

Spoken so honestly, innocently, he wasn't altogether certain that he was happy that she didn't know everything; it made explaining things - whilst skirting through the debris field of old hurts and secrets he still didn't want her in on - so much more irritating. Maybe that had been Slade's point: to make life that extra bit more difficult for him.

But there was something else about Laurel right now that made him pause, something that gave him an odd mix of feelings and he wasn't sure if they were good or bad.

She was looking at him like… Like she believed. In him.

When she never had before.

For two years her emotions involving him had run riot, often taking his along for a ride – one he'd sometimes started - that never ended smoothly. But now… now there was nothing but calm in her eyes. Surprise too, some awe, which he wasn't comfortable with, affection, but also a boatload of belief that he didn't quite understand.

Her gaze was fixed on him.

"Laurel, why are you here?"

Again, it didn't immediately hit him that he'd uttered the same words to Sara hours earlier. His brain had been on repeat since then and it was surreal to him that he'd use the same tone here.

"My dad. He said that you'd been attacked." Something changed in her expression when she pressed forward, as if she were testing. "And when he mentioned Slade, the same man who told me who you really are, I figured it was time."

Oliver blinked. "Time for what?"

"For us to talk. About you. About your secret. I think it's time, don't you?"

Right now?

…Honestly?

No.

His eyes flickered, a little stumped on what to say.

There was only ever a single moment in time where he'd wanted to fully tell Laurel his secret. Just one moment.

"There's no way you're this vigilante, because he's actually trying to make a difference. We both know that's not really your style."

Right then as he'd looked at the back of her head, for a delightful second in time he'd fantasised about telling her, just to see the wonder, the fear – a tantalising emotion to tweak, it bordered closely to capricious desire – and the passion, the jubilation that might erupt on her face…that maybe she'd see him differently and might want to learn more about who he really was. Is. Yet he'd understood why she didn't view him with much else other than scorn, the history between them making it difficult to do anything but remember the mistakes – to regret – the past.

And the urge was long gone.

Now there were currently more important things in his life to consider than what laurel Lance thought of his overall life plan.

One of those things was standing so quietly beside him.

When he reached out, blindly, to touch her – I'm here – she was a step further away than before. Frowning, already knowing something was off, he turned to look at her and Felicity as still as a statue.

He moved to speak; mouth open and restless - he needed to see her relaxed, needed to see her feeling safe - but he stopped before any words could come out.

Her arms crossed were her over chest. She's cold. It was understandable; she wasn't… lips pressed together, he breathed deeply through his nose… She isn't wearing underwear. The thought forced his eyes to shut tight because, God help him; he was never going to sleep again. Ever.

But she was also staring into the corner wall.

Features hesitant but already knowing what he'd find, Oliver's eyes went to the spot.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

This isn't fair. More than a little anger made his fingers twitch and he fisted his hands. He looked back at her, knowing she was seeing something he couldn't hope to. The madness of Mirakuru. A madness he would have gladly taken upon himself… but she'd had to be the hero.

There was… an incredibly small part of him, a part he despised that wished she hadn't been there tonight. That she hadn't been brave enough to put herself in harm's way… for him. Because it was for him. He wasn't an idiot. And neither was she.

There is no repayment. I will never repay her for it… which means I'll spend my whole life trying.

How twisted was it, really, that the thought made him so incredibly… content?

Had he ever been content before? It must feel like this. Had to. Like giving yourself unto another's space, a free-fall, letting them hook strings into your system for their control and caprice and - please let this be it. Let this be my life. Let everything I've been through be made for this. It'll all have been worth it then.

For her.

What an amazing way to live.

And it was also why; when he finally stopped Slade… it could go either way.

He'd made a promise, yes. But for Oliver, what was happening, even just here – in this moment – was a certifiable death sentence for the man who used to be his comrade, a brother.

She's so still. He could see each strand of hair glint in the rising sun. Sometimes, animals in their natural habitat would freeze in the abrupt apparition of a predator, or any mammal higher up the food chain. It was why she, in a very primal sense, reminded him now of a deer. A doe.

There were many things they still didn't know about Mirakuru. And it was already something he couldn't stand, that she looked so alone, so… in her own head.

But she isn't. I'm right here.

It was time she knew that.

In his peripheral Laurel stood, confusion etched into her skin; he hadn't answered her question. It was something he was sorry for but couldn't remedy; that all he ever did and still does is confound her. Licking his lips, watching as Felicity just continued to gaze at something he didn't, couldn't see, her eyes were wide and without the glasses on the bridge of her nose he could clearly see the distress she'd tried so hard to hide.

He didn't like that.

So his hand reached out to touch her, a slow descent – some hesitance before skilled fingers touched cool skin, trailing slowly down her arm until he reached her wrist – making him question why such a simple thing could shake and steady the earth beneath his feet all at once. Could tighten the muscles at his breast bone and make him dizzy with the genuine need to just… sleep. Near her. With her. Close to him, inside his skin-

"We'll be down in a minute." He decided to say, turning smoothly to glance at Laurel. "We need to change." Staring so fixedly at the wall his words brought Felicity back to life. He tried, failed, not to smile, however wearily, at the –almost-a-spasm-but-not-head-whip she managed to pull off.

Practically gawking, she attempted speech. "E-er, you don't have to come with me. I can-"

He just pulled her with him when he stepped towards the stairs.

"Come on." He said softly.

It was the whisper of a thrill.

They didn't do this. Him and Felicity. They reassured, they comforted with small gestures and they approached without sensitivity for the any boundaries the other possessed. Knowing a person completely, being in their company 24/7… eventually you stopped walking on egg shells.

This was different.

It was against both spoken and unspoken rules – that he couldn't allow himself to be with someone, to grow so attached and in need of a person who he could really care about, who he could really devote himself to – a foundation he'd created once he'd understood that for all his searching for the right partner, his soul had already decided on one. Not weeks ago, or months… maybe years.

His brain and his heart just hadn't been in the same ring yet.

But now, taking in her shirt – his shirt – which barley covered to mid-thigh, there was soft skin everywhere – he knew now just how soft it was, what kind of soft it was - and locks of hair bouncing in such a way that made want to just curl his fingers through them. And he knew how he sounded, how he looked as his thumb painted words over her knuckles.

He tilted his head towards the stair case. "My room."

Yes…

The material of her top had closed him to nothing. Against her body… it was so strange.

Holding women, being held by them: it wasn't new to him. Far from it. But it had never felt like that before. Like a key fitting into a lock. Sure, her form was enticing, as only a woman's body could be but also… safe. He hadn't known he'd needed to feel safe. He'd just wanted to hear her heartbeat against his. To know that she was alive and healthy – as healthy as she could possibly be – and with him there, in that moment.

She had been.

Do whatever it takes

It had been impossible after that moment to not see her. Again.

Being with Sara… it allowed a measure of need to be quelled; it allowed him not to venture beyond strawberry-blond curls, athleticism and all the things he understood. And not ask for more. To not crave… something else.

But after Felicity told him the right thing at the right time, exactly what he'd needed to hear… the need to go to her more often, to seek her counsel, to wonder at the future became far more difficult to quell.

That night, after she and Dig had helped him realise that the earth hadn't turned so far off its axis, that even though Thea was in pain and Roy had left, they still had a chance to rectify the situation. Instead of sinking into Sara, instead of finding comfort in the lie of commitment they shared and instead of spending a few hours with her in transitory physical satisfaction, he'd needed his team. They'd started all of this. Sara… would come and go. Maybe Roy would too.

But them?

John Diggle.

Felicity Smoak…

They were his family. A family not defined by the blood they didn't share, but by the heart that they had split in three.

"Dad's taken over the crime scene." As if in a dream, Laurel's voice trailed over him like it was coming from a distance. He knew she was looking at him. Waiting. "He's notified your driver's next of kin."

"Thank you Laurel."

His mother.

Dignified and surprisingly unruffled by the amount of leather clad – Dig and Sara – people in the room, his mother sat in her cotton pyjama's. He'd blinked at the sight as he's entered the lounge: when was the last time she'd even worn bed clothes outside of the bedroom?

But right now?

"Oliver, man…" Diggle muttered, quietly, seeming to understand that his friend was pretty close to his emotional limit. "We need at least a rough plan before we go get some shut eye."

…Right now he wasn't there. With them.

He wasn't with Sara – as he had been for most of the night, trying to explain what she would never understand, and now regretted - who hadn't looked away from the floor. He wasn't with Thea, who was curled up like a cat on one of the sofa's closest to the entrance. Nor was he with his mother who'd been watching him with a careful eye since he'd started pacing.

He might have been with Diggle if his brain hadn't other plans. And he absolutely wasn't where Laurel wanted him right now: to give her the attention she'd been waiting for, the explanation she needed to hear.

Because he was with Felicity who was currently on the phone in another room.

How much would they mind if he just left the room with her? Did he even care right then?

He did… he wished he didn't. What was more, he wished she'd just… come to him. If not sit, then come to him. Give him the excuse to hold her again.

Opening his top drawer he grabbed the first pair he found, clearing his throat. "Here."

It was hardly spoken; less than a murmur, more than a whisper.

They'd entered his room and it was like switching off a faucet. Every emotion, every feeling and instinct present multiplied, condensed and compressed into a tight bubble around them that could snap under the pressure. Tension clawed at his spine, urged his hands to move, to grasp, to just. Do. Something… but they weren't alone. Dig was right there, at the door. Worried about her.

It was a rare moment when Oliver wanted Dig elsewhere. It was an impossible moment where he found himself wanting to touch her in the way his mind was feeding him now.

He hadn't been alone with her yet. He needed that. To be with her and just her. So that he could… he didn't know. Understand? Settle? He didn't know what he needed to do. Just that he needed to be alone. With Felicity.

"I messed up your sheets." She muttered, her expression a wince, with a knee lifting to lean on the mattress to get a good look at how much blood was actually on them.

His mouth opened. Closed… opened.

"It's fine."

He wasn't paying attention as he normally would.

All his eyes could see right then as they trailed over her – in his grasp his briefs dangled inanely - all Oliver could compute was her shape. The profile of her thighs as the muscles there flexed, the tresses of her hair as they fell about her face – he'd never realised that her curls where so natural – and how her form curved in some movements and relaxed in others. How her spine stirred, the air feeling close, as if there were a lack of oxygen…

How tiny her feet were.

For some reason that made him swallow.

Comparatively speaking he engulfed her completely. And yet it never seemed to matter, how small or how big she was: her core strength alone, that indomitable will of hers made her appear at times, taller than Laurel, tougher than Sara. Stronger than Dig. But durable than himself.

She looked… so deserving of love.

It took a moment before he could speak again. "Raisa's here. She'll clean it."

She looked up at him and it took every ounce of strength he had not to hold her again when her head tilted and her gaze fell on him. When she slowly stepped back from the bed – a bed he'd never be able to sleep in again – and when her hands fidgeted together.

Again he lifted his underwear, no longer quite so self-conscious. "Here." He reiterated.

He also didn't step closer. Didn't dare move. Didn't quite trust himself just then.

As though pulled out of a mental spell Felicity's head gave a little jilt – not quite a shake – and she breathed a small, insecure attempt at laughter. "Right." And when she walked over to him he didn't stare at how his shirt rose higher on her thighs with each step. In fact he made it a point to look down, lips pressing together.

"Thanks." He felt, more than saw her take them. His briefs.

She was going to wear his briefs.

Even Sara hadn't worn his underwear before.

Or Laurel.

Furtively he glanced at her, catching the 'knowing' on her face and knew she was thinking the same; how intimate a situation this really shouldn't be… but was.

It really was.

His eyes dropped to her throat when he saw it work.

"So…"

Blue met blue… and he allowed himself a moment to take in the fact that she wasn't blushing, that her voice had dropped an octave… and that she wasn't asking him to turn around.

Instead she simply opened his briefs and brought them down to her knees – he breathed deep, long; his eyes following her movements - and opened them up to step inside, lifting one leg… then another… and he watched – admittedly he couldn't not. His gaze hit her thighs and refused to leave. Stop it. Now. It's Felicity.

Yet…

Stupidly mesmerised by her display of skin before him she very simply pulled the material up her bare thighs.

It wasn't simple. Or normal.

As much as Felicity obviously enjoyed wearing skirts, they were never too high. Why? She had a strong sense of self-worth, more than enough for her not to put herself on display for any man or reason: Felicity wore skirts as a statement, a sense of identity. She knew who and why she was the way she was. He also knew a great deal of it was directly due to the amount of unmitigated hostility she'd received, daily, for how fast she'd climbed the ranks at work.

Right here, in this room, she wasn't wearing anything under that shirt of his.

Slowly, he swallowed. It had nothing to do with saliva.

No panties. No tights or stockings – she'd never needed to wear them; her legs were phenomenal – she was completely exposed.

And trusting him.

But it didn't feel like something as normal as trusting him.

It felt… for one unspeakably affecting and unthinkably dangerous second… like an invitation.

Every muscle – an inevitable spread of heat fixating from the throat, travelling like a warm hand across his chest, a constricting flood of fire shooting across his abdominals, a tension rolling further down, circling, tightening inner muscles until a burn through his crotch gripped him – tightened. Every. Single. One.

It was too intense a reaction to push away.

And completely unexpected.

Because the feeling truly was based on their complete trust in the other.

Trust equalling to passion? That wasn't something he'd really experienced before with a woman. That trust could be a turn on.

A wordless sound left him before he could stop it and he was sure he looked wrecked – knew that his eyes were drinking her in; dilated, tired and probably more than a little pitiful as they begged silent pleas for something he hadn't the courage to confess – and his tweaked out hair that he'd ran his fingers through a few thousand times during the night exposed his worry, that his jeans and shirt suddenly felt unwelcome when all he really wanted to do was fall into the warmth in front of him and rest.

God…

How had he not seen this, understood what this was months ago?

With every fantasy he'd pushed away, that every dream that wasn't a nightmare featured her?

She made him feel at home in his own skin.

Like… it was okay to be exactly who he was, without any alterations.

By the way she'd halted as she'd slipped his briefs to her hips – and all he could think about was the soft band sitting loosely there on her hips, the image pulling at the back of his neck – told him she'd heard the noise he'd made. The want. The shock of it.

He watched her finally straighten, glimpsed how his top fell on her; just covering the area where her hips ended when her eyes found his.

Fingers curling in on themselves, his tongue once again licked his lips. "Felicity…"

Her eyes flickered between his before this amazingly bright smile erupted on her face. "I'm wearing your underwear." She bit her lip.

She was embarrassed?

Steadily, warmth crawled up his neck and for the first time, in a long while, he smiled back, showing teeth. The tension between them didn't fade, it simply… became bearable.

"About Sara..." His mouth snapped shut: it had just slipped out.

"I should have expected it." She was still smiling but it was muted and he wanted so desperately to make her beam again. "For all your worry about Slade, Sara's the one who's scared of him."

"There's reason to be scared of him."

Her eyes were warm. "But you're scared of what he'll do." She answered, softly. "She's scared of who he is."

True.

He found his thumb and index finger brushing together again… only this time the shirt she was wearing was between them.

How did that get there?

"It's been a while since I wore briefs."

He blinked.

A red blush was spreading across her cheeks. "Not that I wear them! Ever."

"You…"He breathed, shaking his head and just laughing. "Y-you've worn men's underwear before?"

He needed this.

Eyes; wide, they flickered to their surroundings. His trick. "No." But then she was grinning too, eyes closing and admitting. "Maybe. Once. It was a long time ago." She shook her head. "College is a wilderness of weirdo behaviour."

"I've worn women's underwear before." He blurted out, without aforethought. Freely. Enthusiastically. Comfortably. Pleasantly. Waiting to see her reaction.

Her gaze flew open and locked one; brows shooting to her fringe line – and she didn't really have one. "You what?"

He really had – the story was a very common one too. "Yeah." And he knew that his grin held zero mortification.

She mouthed, "No."

He mimed back. "Yep." Biting down on his lip, eyes narrowing impishly he continued in a whisper. "Pretty sure there's a picture somewhere."

"Oh my god!" It was like music, her laughter. Then the look on her face became so not innocent and he wanted very much to touch her again. "And how did that feel?"

Still smiling… he simply tilted his head sideways. "Don't remember."

It didn't compare – any of his memories before the island – to what was going on right then and there.

Having Diggle outside the room meant they had little to zero time: people were waiting for them. So he offered her his other fleece from the overnight bad parked forevermore under the bed he never slept in. This one was green. And looked decidedly too good on her: so good that he almost stopped to take her in his arms again, to take a picture, to admire her up close in his colours. Instead he stared as she rolled up the sleeves before clearing his throat to go.

Moments later she was fielding a call form Caitlin Snow and he watched her walk away.

But it remained. The warmth remained. Held him up. Still felt along his spine - tingling in his fingers, present in his bones, a phantom behind his eyes - though it was his arms that had held her, his chest that felt the beat of her heart against his own.

She was alright; she'd made it. Everything else… they'd figure it out.

After a long night of worry. Pain. Anxiety. Weariness… it felt like a reward. One to cherish.

Before… he hadn't expected to go so far. To experience so much. Was it too far, too much? Maybe. Though he'd only been trying to… he supposed it didn't matter.

And yet… it cast the world in faded colours and made everything else feel, by comparison, dull. Because there was no comparison to it. The wholesome. The required. The frustrating. Too little and yet all he really needed rolled into one.

Standing in the lounge Oliver raked his fingers up over his scalp, keeping his hands splayed there. Shoulders and neck muscles that had only been relaxed just minutes ago were starting to vex again, starting to strain. His eyes remained closed as he inhaled and counted: a temporary relief to the fatigue piling high on his head. The room was quiet while the rest waited for him to speak.

But he wasn't there, wasn't with them – not yet. He was elsewhere, he was… away. Wanted to be away.

Wanted to be back there; in the kitchen. He'd never left.

I shouldn't have touched her.

No. He shouldn't have. Since now he knew what that felt like.

But he had.

And it revealed things impossible to forget, things he never could nor would regret. God. Why would I? They were things he'd secretly been waiting to feel for years but never had.

It had been… perfect.

He wouldn't change it for anything else on the planet, could easily fall deep inside that memory and never leave, let it enfold around him as he breathed her deep, soaking her in –in a perfect world she'd absorb him, mould and shape him as she sees fit and he would let her do that; let her remake him in her colours… and he'd still be exactly the same, because Felicity already cherished him for who he was. He'd felt that it the way she'd practically melted into him, in how she trusted his movements, in how the world fell away when she touched him. In how she looked at him.

I didn't know eyes could do that.

Could heal.

Her hand on his face, comforting him, like she found him worthy instead of lacking… he couldn't not feel it, as if it was still placed there; a ghost of the memory still haunting his skin, revealing wants he should try to swallow. But wouldn't. He'd be selfish… Just this once.

Please. Let me be.

He'd never had that before, had never felt that, the unfathomable affection that came from deep understanding and unconditional… love.

Yes, he knew what it was.

For all the things he might be, ignorant and unintuitive weren't amongst his failings.

Felicity… loved him.

Eyes still closed, his mouth opened slightly at the revelation: it was astounding. Stunning. Like a balloon of pure happiness had expanded behind his rib cage, followed by pure panic: he felt like he couldn't breathe.

She loved him.

He refused to assess the many other ways she could love him, ways he hadn't considered – because what if he was wrong? What if she loved him because they were partners and trusted him because they fought night after night against the city's shadows? What if she cared so much because she believed in him… but that was all?

No.

Something in him totally and completely rebelled against that.

He knew her.

Felicity… she wasn't that forward with people. Not even with Dig.

No, he knew what he'd touched with her, what he'd felt coming from her back there and where, previously, he probably would have found some way to push such feelings away, maybe for weeks or months as he tried to see if they could live and love apart, to see if he could have what he wanted and do what he must at the same time… right now, they needed each other, for every reason thinkable. The good and the bad.

At least he knew, he certainly needed her.

She was the essence of stability and solace in a life so long without both. Right now it was what mattered most.

Oliver knew he loved easily; he found virtues and facets in women easy to adore and worship, easy to pursue when he felt he had none himself. But it wasn't until the night past that he discovered he'd never been in love. Not in the truest sense of the words to be 'in love' with another person.

This thing they'd circled around for months – years – he'd felt. But he hadn't seen. Hadn't wanted to believe.

The things he loves get hurt.

It wasn't even a lie: they had and did and would continue to do so.

The women in the room could attest to that.

And she'd almost died.

But the reality was in front of him. Alive. Breathing. Real.

A.

Brilliant.

Light.

His plan had been simply to stop her from leaving when she'd swung herself over the banister – so free, earnest, wilful and scared; he'd seen it, felt it, loved it – leaving him to try and follow.

He'd been stopped.

She couldn't… She couldn't leave him. Not then. Not when he hadn't reassured himself that she was fine; not just alive, not just breathing but safe, free of pain and fear and smiling.

His plan… had been to be the first face she saw when she woke, so that she wouldn't be afraid. So that he could reassure her. Could convince her. Offer her unmitigated proof and show her that he didn't care about the Mirakuru.

He didn't care that she was infected. It didn't change anything.

It was nothing.

"Slade told Felicity he'd give us three days." He started with, breaking the silence and opening his eyes. They were gritty. "To do what I'm not sure. But we do have an idea at least about who or what his targets might be." By the time he'd finished he was facing the group again, hands by his sides.

When he'd been upstairs Sara had filled Laurel in about the infamous Slade Wilson and had since been only too keen to lend a hand. "What do we do?" She asked, again looking to him.

"We," He stressed. "Do nothing. No Laurel," he added when she opened her mouth. "Putting you in his crosshairs isn't going to help anyone. The best thing you can do right now is-"

"-What, hide?" She jeered, for the first time guessing thoughts perfectly. "Is that what you're going to do?"

He took in a deep breath because this was going to be long. "This isn't your fight Laurel."

"He came to me." She insisted, rising from her seat. "He came to my door and told me who you really are, who I've always known you are. A hero." She took a step closer and though it was genuinely flattering to be told she'd always thought he could be heroic… it didn't touch him. "Don't push me away now that I know."

He shook his head, murmuring. "I never wanted you to know."

The flutter of her lashes told him he'd hurt her and that she was hoping for something more. "Why?"

"Being in my orbit… it would have hurt you. Just as it would have hurt Thea. Or my mother, to be even a little involved in what I do for this city."

"Ollie…" Her hand reached for his, trailing to his wrist. "You don't have to hide this from me anymore. I can help you."

How? "The only way you can help me is to be safe. To stay safe." If he emphasised it enough would she get it?

"This is safe." Laurel's eyes looked directly into his. The hand on his arm gripped his in what she probably considered to be a show of solidarity but he just found it constricting. "It's safe here."

He got it.

He understood that because she'd never truly been part of his life – not for 7 years now – she didn't really have any kind of basis to assume what she was saying was reality. She just… hoped it was true. But that wasn't enough. It never had been. Being blind was no longer excuse enough.

"The kind of safe you're referring to," he shook his head, "you've never been with me, Laurel."

That job had always been Tommy's.

He'd spoken quietly so only Sara had heard. But he knew Dig – who knew him back – and figured he got the gist from his expression when the man turned to look elsewhere.

Laurel… she looked like he'd just smacked her across the face.

Her hand dropped from his and he briefly closed his eyes. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry laurel.

But when his eyes opened he found a furrow between hers and a new light in those hazel orbs. She'd taken another step towards him and he could only frown. "Ollie, I know you. I know you in your bones. You're a far better man than people think you are." For a brief moment she looked like she wanted to… her eyes flickered across his face. "I want to help you keep what you love safe. I can't do that if you push me away."

She was close enough to kiss.

What was she doing?

Push her away?

They'd have to be close for him to push her away. So how could he possibly…

"Ollie, please."

Her plea, for what it was – because he knew Laurel well enough to know that she didn't appeal to anyone but a jury – came out as a whisper. It felt too intimate for what they were. For where they were. She was inches from him.

He was taking a step back when Felicity entered the room.

He felt his insides plummet. Don't think what everyone else would think. Please. Be the exception. She always was. It was unfair to ask, but for some reason it was vital that she know that this wasn't what it looked like and he told her so. With his eyes, with his body – already a foot away from the woman he should have understood but never had – and with his silence, which screamed words only she could hear.

She'd been looking down at her phone when she'd popped in, head lifting, an honest smile in place – something had finally gone right – when she'd frozen. Just for a second. Had blinked softly, once. As she'd took in the scene. Slowly… her smile started to fade. No. She pressed her lips together before pulling on her bottom – the alluring action making his fingers twitch – before speaking, sounding unsure. "Is this a… thing I'm interrupting?"

'Totally interrupted a 'thing' didn't I?'

Hell no. "No." He said, decisively; ignoring how Laurel just looked at him. "No, this is…" He breathed out. And smiled. At her. Her smile. It told her everything she needed to know. "It's nothing."

Felicity's face was the only face he'd ever come across in his life that could literally represent her very functioning heart. The goodness in it. And right now, she glowed. "Oh."

Yeah.

"Caitlin?" He prodded.

He felt more than heard Laurel's incredulous huff. At not being chosen. Again. He couldn't blame her. But he also didn't have the time - or the energy - to placate the two year lie singing in her head.

Thumbing through her messages, Felicity was already speaking. "…she's been working 20 hour days trying to get it right and she thinks she's finally done it."

The excited smile on her face made him stare. "Done what?"

"The cure." She repeated, fondness seeping through the smile she wore. "Caitlin's putting the finishing touches on the Mirakuru cure as we speak."

It was like a soundless bomb went off in his head.

In his peripheral Dig let out a deep sigh, a worry-free smile slipping free as his eyes closed. Thea, Laurel and his mother just looked confused but Sara – who had refused to look in Felicity's direction – ducked her head suddenly. After taking a moment she glanced upwards at the group…and he was stunned to find tears there.

Then he remembered.

Rather than wait for a miracle cure – something she'd belittled at the time, made fun off, something she'd been absolutely certain wouldn't pan out – Sara had decided to instead, execute Roy.

…And Felicity.

Felicity was right. Sara's fear of Slade Wilson far surpassed his own.

And now guilt was the prevailing emotion in her.

What about himself?

He'd given Felicity the cure because… because it was Felicity.

The one who finds new paths inside of chaos, who paves the way for the 'right move', who finds answers to impossible questions. The one he 100% trusts. The one who, despite their large differences, agrees with his decisions to do different. To find other ways. Like with Roy. To save him, incapacitate him. Not out-rightly kill him. Even Diggle had had trouble digesting that one.

"It's finished?" The question came out hushed, 'I can't believe it' lacing the words.

Felicity nodded, smile wide and beaming.

His eyes closed. Thank you.

"What's going on?" Of course Thea wouldn't understand the significance of this, of why Diggle had just hugged Felicity like she'd told him there was a cure for cancer and he was a victim, or why her brother's head was bowed, shoulders slack…

"We can give it to Roy." Sara said suddenly. Swiftly, her eyes hit Felicity who was stepping back from John. "And you."

Oliver's jaw clenched. "Sara…" Did she need to say that? Right now? In front of everyone? And he could see it in her eyes, the contrition… but she didn't say a word.

Felicity blinked before swallowing. "Yeah."

He gritted his teeth.

Too many faces where looking to him for understanding. Thea was the most explicable: Roy. Sending Sara a look – that's enough – he turned to his sister. "Roy's going to be fine. The drug that made him lash out? There's now a cure."

For the first time in months Oliver glimpsed the girl that first rushed him on the stairs on his return home. "He's going to be alright?" She pushed herself up from the chair, staring at him with big eyes. "Roy's going to be fine?"

He smiled at her, eyes flickering behind her when he glimpsed Felicity do the same.

They looked at each other for a moment before she winked at him, biting her lip.

He ducked his head.

"Yeah, he's going to be fine." He murmured.

Thea looked like the weight of the world had been lifted- right on the tail end of a match being lit under her butt. "When can I see him?"

He opened his mouth, closed it, blinked tiredness away and looked towards Felicity.

"That's the problem." She winced. "Tiny issue: I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, we'll-"

"Felicity."

"Caitlin said it's going to be a couple of days before they have enough to distribute." Came out in a rush of air.

A rush of understanding hit Dig's face the same time it did his and Felicity's. "And Slade gave us three."

Felicity nodded. "Which gives us approximately 2 days and 16 hours, if he's a literal kind of guy. I got the impression he was definitely a literal kind of-"

"So where does that leave us?" Laurel interjected, stepping forward, looking about the room.

Felicity's mouth snapped shut. Her fingers fiddled with her phone.

Slowly, Oliver's brow began to furrow.

There was something in Laurel's expression, a defiance that wasn't warranted here. Her arms were crossed and her jaw jutted out. "Sara told me: you need this cure to stop Mr Wilson, cure Roy Harper and…" Frowning, her eyes flickered over to his Girl Wednesday. And Friday. Saturday… Everyday. "Felicity, right?"

It was as if something slipped beneath his skin and dragged its claws down the underside of his skull to the bridge of his nose, splitting away at his tenuous control. The thrumming of his pulse in his ears, all he could do was stare – nonplussed – at her audacity; his pupils all but exploding. A torrent of irritation rising causing the skin around his eyes to strain.

In all the time he'd known her, he didn't think Laurel could be so insulting.

The woman had the most incredible memory- but only for the things she deemed important. It was irrational of him, he knew that: why would Felicity be on that list?

Because she's important to me. And Laurel had just asked him to let her help him keep what and who he loves safe.

In less than two minutes she'd reneged on that silent promise.

It showed that in the end, Laurel would do exactly what Laurel wanted. As always.

And what Laurel wanted right now, was to be part of a world that had never housed her, that has no place for a Defence Attorney sit-in, turned vigilante hunter, turned drug addict, turned sudden believer… and no matter what he said he knew, he just knew, that – like with the earthquake in the Glades – she wouldn't listen. Consequences be damned.

If he'd suffered any delusions as to why he'd never trusted her with his secret, there it suddenly was. An epitome made to hurt.

How were we ever in love with each other?

Oblivious to Oliver's revelation Felicity nodded, an awkward smile filtering through. "Y-yeah."

Laurel nodded, immediately moving to look at everyone. "So we need to figure out what Mr Wilson is going to do."

"There is. No. 'We'. Laurel."

Genuine frustration painting the expression on his face he watched Laurel adopt her 'he's doing it again' eye roll. If he'd been holding something – a pen, a phone –he'd have snapped it.

She was acting like they did this one hundred times a day. Like they would continue to do this forever. Like it was a game, already a part of their lives. Sure she took it seriously, but why was she trying so hard to force her own involvement and abruptly act as though his secret was hers?

It was the secret of 3 not 4. Or 5.

There was no Laurel and the Arrow. Just as – literally now – there was no Arrow and Sara. No Arrow and Roy Harper.

The Arrow?

The Arrow was made of three people: Dig, Felicity and himself. They were three cogs that made up a well-oiled machine. Without even a single cog the machine would malfunction. And there wasn't any room for a wheel or a nut or a bolt.

"Laurel." He reiterated, moving closer, letting her see that by no counts did he consider arguing an option… letting her see the Arrow. "This is why Slade told you. To get you involved."

"Then let me get involved."

His eyes narrowed. "And bow down to another one of his rules? I don't think so."

"Okay." Jutting out her jaw – he could see the backlash being revved up already – she raised her hand in question. "Why would he want me involved in the first place?"

"'Ollie and Laurel'. Always and forever."

Oliver flinched, feeling something inside twist. As if pushed he took a step backwards as Laurel leaned away and towards her sister, asking questions with her gaze.

He took another step back. Away.

"On the island," Sara began, eyes staring into nothing. "Ollie carried your picture. Never got rid of it. I knew then I'd always be second string." She told Laurel, who looked done in, before glancing back to Oliver, wistful amusement echoing in her features. "I figured you told Slade about it, long before I saw you again."

He had. But it was irrelevant.

Or at least he wanted it to be.

But hearing Sara now he realised that she was dead on target. The only reason Slade Wilson could possibly have for revealing his secret to Laurel – other than telling her simply because Oliver hadn't – is ferret out whether she was still the focus of his affections.

And she wasn't.

It was all just another can of worms that – by the melancholy expression on Laurel's face – would only cause further difficulties. "You kept that picture?" She asked, eyes expressive.

A heavy sigh blew free from his chest: another secret he had to let go of. "Yes."

"Ollie." As if it was all she could say. "I… I had no idea-"

"That was a long time ago. It's gone now." It's over. It's done.

She seemed to settle, taking a deep breath and straightening her spine. Still… she looked down when she spoke, which wasn't like her. "I know."

I hope so.

"But it gives us an idea," Sara interjected, "of where Slade will try to strike next."

Something in that sentence seemed to irk Diggle. "Does it?" He moved from the peripheral into the centre and immediately the tone in the room shifted: Dig wasn't a slight man. His presence alone commanded a certain authority, a level of awareness that this man could break heads with his bare hands, that he was a seasoned solider and one of the few in the room that understood the true gravity of their situation. "Laurel isn't the only person Oliver cares about."

"That's true." Sara admitted, nodding. "But she's also one of the few people tied deeply to his past, a person whose been targeted before because he's the Arrow in the present. And maybe she'll be in his future."

There wasn't a soul in the room who contested this.

At least not verbally.

He caught Dig as he came down with a serious case of side eye, an air of being deeply unimpressed with Laurel – who he'd never been 100% comfortable with anyway – with Sara – who, though he'd gotten along well with, didn't trust as far as he could throw her – and the situation at hand in general.

Thea, surprisingly, was just frowning at the world. Throwing Sara a glance she gave Oliver a confused eyebrow raise. He understood the need. His mother didn't do much of anything except watch Diggle. As if she found him deeply interesting. Which would have been disturbing – her former husband was dark skinned and authoritative – if he hadn't remembered how safe Dig had made her feel. Something that made him so very glad his mother gave into paranoia almost 2 years previous when she hired Dig as his bodyguard.

Laurel actually seemed… a little overwhelmed. She wasn't discrediting the idea. Nor was she agreeing. It was odd to see her so silent.

But it was Felicity he focused on like a shark.

She was just… waiting.

Waiting for the room's inhabitants to come out of their self-aggrandised states with patient serenity. There was some small amount of concern agitating her frown line. A small bump he wanted, very much, to smooth free with a finger. Sucking in a lip she took in Sara's stance, which was still curved in on itself – an oddly self-protective act for a woman who was a member of a league of assassins – and followed it to Laurel who was watching Dig now too, curious about the way he phrased his statement.

When her eyes finally fell on his, a soft as rain smile graced her lips. Small. Just for him. It asked if he was doing alright. If he was coping. If he needed anything. Told him that she was there for him. He felt the impact like a hammer-throw because her eyes changed with it: they warmed, gentled, cuddled. Loved.

She stood there; strong and coping and smiling.

Infected with Mirakuru.

It was a mask. One made to sooth others… because she considered them to be more important. And he wondered how many times she'd worn it over the past few weeks.

For him.

He let himself look, stare. Just that. And felt a small, unintentional smile move his lips…

I love you.

It was just a thought.

But it was everything. The beginning and end of everything.

"Slade may be using everything he learned from when he was on Lian Yu with yours truly," Diggle uttered, breaking through what felt like a bubble entrenching Oliver and Felicity alone. For a few seconds he'd forgotten where they were. The startled look on her face confirmed it, made him breathe deep and mentally shake it off. "But he's been watching us. All of us. Learning our patterns, hitting Oliver where it hurts." Dig moved closer to the centre, closer to Oliver. And Felicity. "He and Isabel have already taken QC. And last night he tried to hurt them." Looking at Sara he pointed to Thea and Moira, subdued and anxious on one of the many sofas. "His blood. Slade has his own pattern. When he's not actively trying to generate Mirakuru, he's plotting against family. Now that he's failed… we can't be sure who he's going to come after next."

"So we do nothing?" Laurel asked.

Dig frowned. "No. But I think making assumptions," he stressed the word, "is definitely not the way to go about-"

"You're my family too." He couldn't not say it, especially when it was so true. John blinked at him, at his words. Oliver let his eyes fall on Felicity. "…And you." He took a moment more before continuing, searching Dig's face, his brother. "If Slade's coming after family in a couple of days, then you're all targets."

Dig sighed, but it was with relief that Oliver understood where he was coming from. It wasn't just the people in his past that Slade could threaten, could hurt. It was Dig, it was Quentin, and it was Roy. It had already been Roy.

Felicity…

In his gut Oliver knew that this wasn't over, that what Slade had done to Felicity wasn't the end of it. He'd stabbed her… and had then left them alone. And then-

-You see in everything that we went through together on the island I never saw you look at Shado or Sara or even the picture of the lover you proved your infidelity with, the same way you looked at her tonight

She's your hope

She's the reason you try so hard to be better

BECAUSE I LOVE HER… AND YOU KNOW THAT

I'm in love with her

Yes

I know

…No, this wasn't over.

---

The silence was strange again.

After such a filled morning being alone again felt odd. What was even stranger was that he didn't want to be alone right now. But he didn't have a choice: Diggle was catching some much needed sleep and so was his mother (after a large scotch, courtesy of Raisa) and Thea. Felicity was running reconnaissance – his underused laptop being secured that very moment – and would be back soon.

It was probably why he was currently looking at a breathless Sara. Alone.

"Got them." Sara replied to the unasked question of why a rucksack was full across Sara's shoulder. "He hasn't touched her apartment." Moving forwards she placed the bag full of Felicity's clothes on the table near to where Oliver sat in the kitchen. "She has some beautiful things."

"She's a beautiful woman." Was his immediate murmur as he nursed his coffee.

Sara blinked him. "That's more giving than I thought you capable."

His exhale was deep and his expression another question.

"It's been a long time since I heard you describe any girl as pretty. Or lovely. Or beautiful." She elaborated. "If you ever did."

And there's the rub.

Just a few hours before they'd been convalescing in the living room; trading words on what the third day would be like, thinking of the safest places to hide his mother and sister until Slade was gone, nibbling at the assortments Raisa had left them and finding that their appetites were tempered by the nausea of an attack when Sara had abruptly offered to pick up some supplies. For Felicity. Who would be staying in the mansion. Of course. There wasn't any chance he was sleeping anywhere she wasn't right now.

The offer had been taken as it given. But Oliver knew Sara needed some space. Now she was a free bird keeping her grounded would be all but impossible. And he'd never want to. But she wasn't leaving to do a favour for a friend. She wasn't walking out the front door to explore the freedom of her new single status. She was running. An instinct he understood all too well… but found it difficult to ignore or forgive in this instance.

Sara couldn't handle having a friend, one as bright as Felicity, touched by something that terrified her, true.

The way she'd handled it, by making Felicity feel like… a freak?

He knew it was because of how Roy's situation turned out but…

Honestly, it was humbling how foolish he'd been, they'd been.

And now he'd discovered another way in which he and Sara differed.

Evil, darkness, insidiousness, infection, blood, violence – it could all be poured like rain, could be thrown and forced on her, but at the end of the day Felicity would still be Felicity. Always. Because she never lost sight of who she was.

Or who I am.

She was stronger him. And she was stronger than Sara.

He believed in her. No question.

Sara… didn't.

"It's difficult to hide when it's the truth." He finally responded.

Sara's expression became knowing. "Another odd thing coming from you."

Lifting his eyes away from the table he spoke, we need to talk about this. Before Felicity comes back. "Why did you do that earlier?"

"Do what?"

So that's how it's going to be? There was no softness in his face, nor in the words he used as his expression became pointed. "You know what."

She shuttered off, her face closing down. Right.

He waited, feeling the aches of the previous day echo through his body.

Then she looked at him again. "I don't know how to… see Felicity and not be affected. Not see the Mirakuru."

"Not good enough." You treated a friend as you would an enemy. It still wasn't justifiable. "She did nothing to provoke-"

"I know." It was said quietly, her eyes flickering away. "But I don't want her to turn into what Slade became. What Roy became." 'I couldn't handle that', were the words she left unsaid, words he heard anyway.

He shook his head, eyes filled with disbelief at the warrior before him; the one who, when push came to shove, would stand before him and an army. "You haven't even given her chance." And that wasn't like her.

Something crossed over her face, too quick for him to name. "We didn't know about the cure before." She was too quiet.

"I tried to talk to you about that." He sipped his coffee, still looking at her as she hid from hm. "If you remember you weren't exactly in the talking frame of mind."

"I didn't believe something so incredible could exist."

"But you'd rather believe in the inevitability of death?"

Silence.

"…Death is reliable in its inevitability. Everybody dies."

There was sorrow in her tone that may have, once, forced him up off his chair. To offer comfort. Some succour. A connection from someone who understood.

Except he didn't. He didn't understand. What she'd spoken was a universal truth but… She'd been with them, with him and Felicity and Diggle long enough that her existentialist view of the world should have changed, should have altered to allow for the possibility of… of a happy end. Of happiness in general. Of hope.

Only last night had he realised that he'd discovered he could. That he had changed.

Sara hadn't. And wouldn't. She wouldn't simply disagree to it, a defensive mechanism he'd used once upon am earthquake ago, she'd believe it. Believe that sometimes people have to be bad to do good.

Oliver no longer accepted that.

His words were careful. A warning. "Are you saying the moment Felicity… was stabbed by Slade her fate was forfeit? Is that what you're telling me Sara?"

There was a line from W. B. Yeats, something he read once in Russia that stuck with him:

'I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.'

Tread carefully.

For you tread on my dreams.

"I refuse to acknowledge a world," he whispered; his cup now empty, a warmth between his hands to focus on as his fingers curled with little spasms of anxiety at that very idea, "where Felicity Smoak doesn't exist."

It was like he'd struck a match. Sara whirled on in, eyes flashing as she gestured to the ceiling where Thea slept. "How about a world where Felicity Smoak kills the Queen Family in a Mirakuru rage."

Off all the things he'd ever heard… He wanted to ridicule the idea but the time had long since passed where he could hurt the women in his life in such a way. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" It was there in her eyes, for all the world to see. The fear. The lack of hope. Cold practicality at its worst. Imploring him, Sara moved closer; the table was the only physical thing between them but emotionally there were blockades. "Remember Roy? Cognizant one minute, a killing machine the next."

"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself." Moving off the stool he felt like throwing his cup in the dishwasher but managed – barely – to place it carefully with the rest of the pots before turning back to her. Irritated. Incredulous. Hurt. It took him a moment to realise why he was feeling all these things, eyes narrowed and tired.

"Do you even hear yourself Ollie? We all saw what Roy became; it's only a matter of time before she starts to change, to slip."

"Don't."

"It's true!"

He took a fast step towards the table, expression revealing every bit of his anger, disregarding her tiny flinch. "Have you even talked to her? Have you? Have you asked how she feels? If whether it's as bad as we think it is?"

"It doesn't matter Ollie!"

The darkness in his gaze deepened. "How she feels doesn't matter?" He asked slowly.

He saw the words hit her. She backpedalled, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant." And yes, she looked pulled and pushed and frustrated at how he'd navigated her argument. "I care about her too Ollie. But none of that matters because she'll be the same as all the others. She'll get worse until she's not there anymore."

If a face could be black ice, if pain could be represented then Oliver's entire countenance was the physical form of both. The skin between his eyes pinched, he didn't say a word, didn't do a thing. Except look like he'd been forced to swallow acid.

"She'll hurt you." Sara muttered. "And that'll kill her."

He shook his head. Once. Hard. "She won't."

The frustration in her eyes told him exactly what she thought of that statement. "How do you even-"

"It's felicity."

And you should know that.

Sara's mouth snapped shut, opting to stare at him rather than argue.

He waited; his gaze hard. Unwavering.

When she finally opened her mouth, her words damned him… "You say her name like it's a prayer."

…And set him free.

Convulsively he swallowed, eyes closing.

"Then again…" She was gentle now, even though her words hit like punches. "You always did."

I know.

He let out a shaky breath, eyes gradually opening. The emotion in them was very real and it made Sara step back.

…He didn't deny it.

And he tried, he really did, to remember what they were like together – he and Sara… and found he couldn't. The memory wasn't there. Or maybe his ability to recall scents, touch, faces, and sounds was abolished by the haze over his eyes. By the sound of fingers dancing over keys on a keyboard, by the clip-clop of each heeled step, by the scent of coffee and sunshine, by the absence of expectations in a luminous gaze always filled with belief and care, by the warmth of skin meant for him to hold and worship…

Could he remember what it had been like with Laurel? With Helena? Or anyone…

Head tilted, Sara smiled; again, rueful, it wasn't a happy smile. "Where you ever really with me?"

It was like the closing of a door.

Deep breaths. In. Out. "I could ask you the same."

Her mouse-like laugh, for Oliver hadn't heard Sara laugh since before the island, loosened the knot in his shoulders. But not by much. "You could. You know… there's a part of me that still clings to the idea of 'Sara and Ollie'."

And that hurt. It really did. Because time and time again Oliver had proven to himself that the past couldn't be changed; only people could. Yet all Sara still saw when she was with him, with Oliver… was 'Ollie'.

"And I think Laurel's the same." She muttered absently and it made him freeze, because what? Laurel still hopes…? She didn't, couldn't. Not now. Not after I have loved you for half my life but I'm done running after you.

"I called her", Sara stated suddenly. Swiftly. "Nyssa. She's coming. And she won't be alone." She explained.

His thoughts took a 180 nose dive. "Excuse me?"

"We need all the help we can get."

"So you thought the best help was the top member of a league of professional killers?" He shuddered at the thought. "Releasing an army of assassin's on Starling City…"

"Ollie." And it surprised him how calm she was, how quiet. "Sometimes to beat the unstoppable you have to do the unthinkable."

Those words felt like an omen.

"Why does Laurel want in this fight?"

The sudden change in his argument left Sara fumbling, he could tell. Her mouth opened but her eyes chased for a sign from him. He gave her none. "I'm not sure. She found out who we both are… I think she just wants to be close again, to be involved."

It was such an odd way to interpret the elder sibling's mental state. "She was never involved."

"And she hated it." But Sara, who knew her sister better than he ever had or could went straight to route of the problem. "Never being chosen."

And for a moment he remembered the innocent, bright eyed girl Laurel had once been, the girl he'd left behind on that harbour. I left her behind long before the harbour. Sara had asked if he'd ever really been with her. Looking back on it now, the same question could have been asked by Laurel because… had he been? He'd loved Laurel, but had he ever truly trusted her, before or after the shipwreck? Had he explained to her that he thought it had been too soon to settle down with her? No. It hadn't simply been commitment phobia; he hadn't been ready. It hadn't felt right. And he'd always wondered if it had for her.

Had she pushed because she'd wanted a life with him, or had she been influenced and besotted by the idea of a future with him - by the efforts of her friends and his mother to move in the 'right direction'? He used to wonder…

Now, it no longer mattered.

"Forcing others to choose you isn't being chosen." It sounded too much like a power struggle and that sounded… unhealthy. Even for Laurel.

By the look in Sara's eyes she understood both sides. "Sometimes you have to take what you can get…"

"-Okay so, I hacked in QI, which felt wrong in ways breaking into the NSA database never did, and it looks like Slade's gone to ground. Maybe two arrows full of Viper Venom and a hail of bullets made him feel a little ill- oh."

Still wearing his clothes Felicity stood at the entrance to the kitchen, his laptop under her arm with an unsure expression on her face.

He and Sara still stood toe-to-toe, the kitchen island still between them. The moment Felicity's words signalled her entry into the room Sara's eyes had flickered to her friend before turning away and moving for the door towards the lounge. By the time Felicity had finished Sara's hand was brushing the handle.

"Checking on Laurel." She muttered, which wasn't exactly a lie. After their group discussion Laurel had refused to stay in the mansion stating that she wouldn't be locked away on a mere possibility. As admirable as it seemed it was also more than a little idiotic. But then she'd reminded him that Slade had given them time. The chances of him grabbing her when she tried to exit her care was slim. "Be back later."

"Sara?"

At the sound of Felicity's voice Sara froze. He waited for her to show some other sign that Felicity existed… when several seconds went by and nothing happened he opened his mouth to speak when-

"I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped to Felicity.

She was apologising.

"I'm sorry I make you uncomfortable now." Biting down on her lip a curl fell into her eyes when she took a further step in the room. "But you don't need to leave on my account-"

"I'm not. I just…" He saw more than heard Sara take a deep breath, her shoulder's rising and falling before she finally looked back. Her eyes were very clear. Very sorry. And very determined. "We need to get you cured." Her words were pointed as she stared hard at Felicity and before he could snap a retort he wasn't sure she deserved she finished. "Out of all of us it should never have been you."

That he did agree with.

There was no smiling like he was used to between the two women, no soft embrace, no gentle words or soothing sounds… Sara simply opened the door and walked away.

And Felicity watched her go.

"Hey." He didn't like how she jumped, wasn't happy that she just looked down at her feet, as if steeling herself for a verbal beating – or a hard day's work. "Felicity."

She turned to him, smiling. Eyes big and wide open to him.

Gaze tender, he spoke. "Come here."

She blinked; brow quirking.

Lips upturning, he lifted a hand to her. A gesture.

He didn't know why really, why he was asking, why he wanted… he just did.

Shuffling closer – and really, how this woman could be both adorable and sexy at the same time was beyond him – her face was a study in curiosity, only exacerbated when he took the laptop from her and gently placing it on the island beside them.

Just watching her, arms slack by his sides, her eyes went from him, to the laptop and back again.

Then he did what he'd wanted to do since their previous moment in the kitchen.

Stepping towards her - and his movement must have sudden given how her eyes widened, mouth opening slightly - his hands reached for her shoulders, smoothing down her biceps to tug her closer until her chest reached his.

Her forehead met his clavicle and he sighed; a pressure he hadn't realised existed lifting from his rib cage, allowing him to draw deep breaths.

"Oliver?" He hated that his name was a question, that she wouldn't know, that her eyes would shine in wonder and enquiry rather than being settled in understanding.

But they were close too - so close - and when his nose almost brushed hers he swallowed. Her eyes followed the movement of his Adam's apple, warmth radiating over his chest and he felt her fingers as they traced against his forearms, the sleeves of which he'd rolled up long ago.

Looking down at her pressed against him, his gut tightened.

He didn't speak – didn't know what to say – instead opting to act, needing to touch and feel. Like her breath on his jaw, the smell of her hair – wrapped in the scent of his tea tree shampoo – drifting to his nostrils, the feel of his sweater cased over her form... It's not enough. Wrapping his arms around her, he instinctively moved his right under her left, so that her hand could lock over his shoulders as his left secured itself to her back. Cheek grazing hers he felt her shiver, the goose bumps rippling down the column of her throat when his stubble met her satin-smooth skin. Not nearly enough.

And it's different from before, because it's their fronts together instead of his to her back. Every breath from her pushes into his and every exhale from him presses down on her breasts. Her heartbeat is right there, beside his – her hips aligned with his hips, her thighs tight against his thighs, her lips tracing accidentally against his throat, his warmth cocooning her body inside his – and it feels like a dream, too good to be real. But it is, she is and he nearly asks her to accompany him upstairs so that he might keep the feeling in his sleep.

As an alternative he simply uses his thumb to trace her spine. Her inhale is shaky but she leans into his hand and he thinks maybe he found her happy place. The place she too can rest.

"I think we both needed this." He whispers, his body ridiculously overcome with her. "Wanted to earlier but…"

But they were, are, at war with a war machine.

The arm over his shoulder tightens slightly before her hand moves to the back of his neck. "It's okay." Fingers moving they brush against his hairline before delving deeper. Digging into his scalp. Then releasing, massaging, stroking, her other hand flat against his lower back…

Stifling a moan that rumbled swift from his stomach - she had to have felt it - his eyes fluttered closed without telling them to.

Damn.

Touch.

It wasn't something he'd received on a daily basis.

Before the island, touch had been a way of informing his brain and body of a change in environment, in emotion, in person… touch between him and women was a form of communication. Albeit back then he hadn't seen anything past it beyond the simple pleasures in life. Years later he could look back and realise that… Oliver, 'Ollie', had used sex as a means of communication. One of the reasons he was well known in the bed department was because of his instinctive grasp of what women told him through sounds and sighs, through touch and teases.

But touching simply to comfort, simply to give rather than take? It wasn't something he'd known much of.

It wasn't that he and Sara had never touched or cared for each other. However the words 'bear minimal' in public were a fitting description between them. They'd held hands, they'd kissed, they'd even touched to secure. But he'd never sought out Sara's touch. And he had never, with Sara or any other woman he'd come to know the feel of, required the sensation of being loved through hands and fingers alone. Had never reacted so strongly to having fingers graze through his hair, a touch that asked for nothing in return but offered the world.

It was through Felicity's touch that he realised she was trembling.

That her face was tucked deep into his neck allowing him to feel every shallow breath. That as much as his body had melted into hers, her body was allowing it.

It brought back the very real, very recent image of her staring into oblivion, at something he couldn't see.

Tightening his hold he turned his cheek into her hair, murmuring into the tresses. "Where'd you go?" She felt absent in her slow response – the tiny fluctuation of her breaths, her tense shoulders – and was then clearing her throat.

"I don't… I don't know how to…" She attempted. "I don't think I can say."

"You can." When she tried to pull away he shook his head. "No, Felicity; what is it? Tell me… please."

He rarely said please to anybody. But in regards to Felicity it didn't feel like a plea.

Her shoulders heaved with the weight of whatever she was feeling. Come on. "Tell me." It wasn't even a whisper, just a movement of his lips.

Her fingers clamped down and he stilled. Apprehension coiling until she eventually spoke.

"I… keep seeing Slade."

He stilled. "What do you mean?"

"He looks younger and he isn't wearing an eye patch." Her head tilts as if she's staring at said apparition as she speaks. "He's like a shadow in my mind and it isn't like he's there to hurt me, he's just… there. Whispering in my ear."

Voice hoarse he speaks and there isn't a doubt in his tone that he believed her. "What does he whisper?" And she settles as if she can feel it – that he believes and trusts her.

"Advice, mostly. He kind of showed me how to stop Sara's Lance – I know, the pun was intended. He said it first." It's a mutter against his shoulder, as if she's blaming said shadow. "He also said you're a magnet for sensitive women with complicated issues."

The words are choked when he responds. "Sounds like something he'd say."

"He also said to expect a mess."

"What?"

"Slade." Her hand nudges at his neck. "He said that you couldn't save the day without making a mess."

If he'd had any doubts about whether what she was seeing was actually an illusion due to stress instead of a by-product of Mirakuru they were obliterated.

"Our first year on the island…" Lips suddenly dry he licked them. It didn't help. "I told you about Fyers?" Some of it anyway…

She nodded.

"Well he tried to take down a plane; kill a lot of people, just to take done one man."

"He killed someone you cared about, someone you respected."

And the pain of that was still fresh – wearisome, the back of his eyes felt heavy with the people he'd known and lost over the years - to lose the man who instilled his first real taste and understanding of courage, bravery, loyalty, fortitude… the example he'd looked to, when he found he had none.

He swallowed. "Did Slade tell you that?"

"Yes. He says it was the start of what made Oliver Queen become the Arrow."

Another surprise to find the truth in that so appealing… "I hope that's true."

"You're so much more than what you let people see. What you let yourself see."

It wasn't true, it couldn't be. He'd never, ever been someone's personal hero, someone to aspire to and he wished, god did he wish that it was reality-

"You make me feel safe."

Oh… he did, didn't he? She'd said that earlier. And he hadn't realised how much he'd needed to hear it until she'd uttered the words. But… "Do you feel safe right now?"

She took a breath. "I feel… scared."

Her voice shook.

Everything came back all at once.

The muscles of his face, so relaxed with her, tightened – his jaw clenching, eyes aching - as everything inside him went quiet. A deathly silence. Felicity…

Again she shook her head, her touch telling him to not internalise this. "It's fine, really. It's just that Roy… he said the Mirakuru made him frustrated, that he'd shake with it. But I just feel afraid. All the time." Voice so quiet, she'd leant forwards against the broadness of him. "Leaving a room, entering it, talking to people: it doesn't go away." Slowly, slyly, he rested against the table top with her in his arms and listened. It was all he could do. That and hate. Hate Slade Wilson. "No matter what I do or where I go," she continued, "I'm stronger now, I can feel it. Protecting myself isn't an issue anymore."

"It never was."

He felt more than saw her smile. "I know. Took you long enough." He huffed the tiniest chuckle before going quiet again.

"I can look after myself in a way that I never could before but… I'm also more afraid than I've ever been in my life." She sounded so drained, even though her colour was more vibrant than ever, even though she'd slept; her control was tenuous at best. "I can't win."

"What do you mean?"

"It's difficult to explain…"

"Try me." I'm listening.

---

And he was. Listening. She could feel it, the promise of zero judgement seeping from him and into her.

What's the worst that could happen? I don't know, I might sound like a tragic bunny boiler?

But she tried anyway, sheltered in his warmth. In Oliver's warmth; how is this even my day? "For so long I was… a little envious, I suppose. Of Sara. Even Helena. McKenna, Laurel, Isabel, Shado, all the women you've been near or with, all of them were and are so strong. Sara's Xena. All of them are badass. Yet now? When I'm finally able to do the things they can do, I feel like a child. I should feel powerful, should feel invincible. Like Slade does. Like Roy. But I just feel weak. Weaker than ever."

On a daily basis she was presented with fabulous examples of the apex of her species. They were all incredible. She'd wondered about it; she couldn't lie. She knew herself, knew who she was, had adapted to it and learned to cultivate her environment to attune exactly to who she is, but…

How did it feel?

Being them. Felicity knew that they had their own problems; she especially knew that appearances were deceiving, but she still hazarded a guess at the finery of their originality. Being effortlessly beautiful and wanted. Being desired and needed. Being… so inspiring. Being strong. Being necessary in another's life, being the one sought for and not the one needed for the pursuing. Being the only one seen and heard instead of the one walked past.

Oliver was at the precipice of this framework of being. Not by his choice, not even fairly. Life had painted a path for him that had landed such a man with so many like-minded, wonderful, and truly terrifying women. He attracted them. And they attracted him.

Only a certain type of woman could make a man like Oliver Queen look twice.

Beautiful Creatures. Strong Amazons. Of which I am neither.

Exhibit A: Laurel Lance. The woman Oliver had openly loved and coveted for over a year after his return. A woman who made other women check themselves over when she looked at them. A woman who, without seemingly any effort whatsoever, had managed to keep Oliver's eyes on her whenever she was near. A woman who could box a nose into a guy's head with precision. A woman who held a law degree and could flaunt it. Her wardrobe fit the image of a model, pretty sure those bras are from Elizabeth Secret. With her very long, very slim legs, slender ankles and a figure to match – rich Brazil nut coloured hair – Laurel was the epitome of the kind of first edition exquisiteness that would and should be –in this world dictated by stereotypes – on the arm of a multi-billion dollar company heir like Oliver Queen.

Exhibit B: Sara Lance. Laurel Lance's sister.

…Who was genuinely really was. And deadly; beyond strong. Like an Amazon – an assassin. Indestructible. With her strawberry blonde locks, her piercing baby blues that never quite concealed the sadness she held close there; she was a fantasy practically made to fit with The Arrow.

Exhibit C. (And this is starting to get depressing): Helena Bertinelli. Psychotic. Lethal. Another slayer in an arsenal of dangerous ex-girlfriends. Killer looks, pun intended – she was a stunner with raven hair – and, like Sara, she had a vulnerable side. A side that you could empathise with. And, like Laurel, she was smart and hard to get. Candy for men like Oliver. Hell, if I was gay…

Exhibit D… (Maybe I should pause or something because this list is NOT EXHAUSTIVE, not by far) McKenna Hall. A good woman, a good cop, who could have stood in for Miss America 2014; she too was gorgeous. Chocolate covered skin and pouty lips were a potent combination when uttering 'freeze – put your weapons on the ground'. She was Oliver's dream: a normal relationship.

Exhibit… E. Isabel. Rochev. The quick fling in Russia. And what happens in Russia stays in Russia, right?

No… it doesn't.

Oliver.

Strength was a relative term. And she'd never been that kind of woman. To possess such forte with the looks to match. Sure, she was absolutely her own creature, had a will of iron and could easily win a war of the minds but in truth Felicity was a bottle blonde, bespectacled, IT girl who worked – had worked – at Queen Consolidated. Who had to wear heels because she was short in height. Who Sara thought was cute.

Cute.

There's a romance killer. Decidedly not hot. Not stunning or gorgeous. Cute. Jesus. No wonder he'd never really thought about it. There was never a chance, was there?

But… knowing Oliver, having his trust, his friendship… it was enough.

She used to ask herself: What wouldn't I do… for the right guy? For Oliver, there wasn't a question of what she would do. She'd never kill for him and she would never use darkness to move him. It wasn't in her nature. But now, when she was supposed to be strong – stronger than all those women – she was even more helpless than before.

She knew who she was and she knew that she didn't need to be like the women she'd mentioned. But like she'd said… she'd wondered.

"Just when I think that maybe I can contribute more to this team than my mind, it becomes just the opposite-"

Little jerks of movement from him made her trail off and it took her a moment before she realised why she was frowning.

He was laughing. Silent laughter, but still laughter.

Er… "A girl could feel a little hurt being laughed at after opening up…" She muttered, almost absently to herself.

"No, w-wait." He seemed to collect himself as he held her closer still and she felt his head drop to her shoulder. "Felicity." He whispered, forehead rolling across her skin as he shook his head in amusement. "Felicity… Felicity."

Okay, odd much…But she found herself smiling a little, even after her mildly embarrassing confession. "That's my name Oliver Queen, don't wear it out: I don't want to buy a new one."

A harsh breath hit her collarbone. "There has never been a single moment, Felicity Smoak, where I have looked at you and haven't seen strength. It pours out like a faucet and you don't even see it. Not all strength is physical skill."

"I know…"

"I'm not sure you do."

Pulling back – he didn't let her ago, nor push her away – his hands fell to the valley of her spine, his left leg skinning her right as he settled against the table. It shouldn't have felt so natural, so normal… but it did. He did. Her arms instinctively moved upwards; sliding up his chest and resting there, warmth emanating from skin that was both hard and soft. Velvet over steel.

There was a moment were his gaze seemed fathomless as he looked at her.

"I told you once… that you're my partner. That I rely on you." He licked his lips, brow furrowing. "What you don't know is that I don't even remember what it was like before you even joined the team, when it was just me and Dig. I'm sure he agrees. I know he agrees." His eyes told the story. "We didn't function, not really. Not until you came. You provided a stability I didn't even realise was missing. It wasn't just your intelligence, it was the alternatives you offered, the lack of judgement you showed me. You have no idea how hard it was to find someone back then who didn't immediately judge me… and find me lacking." When his fingers tapped her spine she jerked, startled in his hold and his lips twitched. "Anyone can fight; anyone can learn how. But there are few, if any, who can do what you can do." Blue eyes traced every inch of her face. "You're irreplaceable."

She knew her mouth was open and her eyes were wide without glasses to shield her from his scrutiny… "Oh."

"Yeah." When did his voice get so soft… and when did her spine start reacting to it like a livewire?

She gulped. "That's what Dig said."

"Dig's usually right."

"He is." She agreed quietly, watching his face relax and soften. "Are you okay?"

From the way his eyes flicker and his brow slightly crinkles – it isn't cute, it isn't Felicity – she can tell she's surprised him. "Yeah. I'm-"

"Don't say fine!"

His mouth snapping shut, he blinked down at her with a very 'schoolboy caught with his hand in the teachers draw' look.

She swallowed a smile and missed the mark. "Oliver…"

That's it, that's all it takes.

Any part of him that wasn't fully relaxed before completely unravels; his body lose and slumped, his breathing long and deep. "Tired." He simply states.

"Sleep." She simply replies.

His mouth turns up at the side and she can feel his thumbs stroke over her back. "Can't."

Why is this so adorable? "Why?" Her chin is on his chest and, yes, this really is more like something out of fiction than reality but it's happening. Right now. And she's basking. Revelling.

Shadows lurk in his gaze.

"Dreams."

It hits her chest with the force of a punch. Suddenly it's not cute anymore.

She gives him a moment to see what's in her eyes. "Sleep."

He frowns again, shaking his head-

"I'll stay with you." She interjected. Watch over you.

He blinks.

"…I don't want to be by myself right now either."

Any resistance he'd attempted to put up melted away, a sigh-like exhale leaving him… before nodding slowly. It's a stunning conclusion to an otherwise insane 24 hours. "That would-" Clearing his throat, his eyes close. "That would be nice."

Oh… really?

Okay.

So she does.

And it is.

---

On the third day it ends. And begins.

There's no trumpet flare, no cannon… it just starts.

A war to fight gets fought.

Using the serum, Slade's so-called soldiers are stopped. Roy is cured. But there's no rejoicing. There's no winning streak, no victorious cry to the sky… not at first. Not for Felicity…

Not immediately.

But then… later? It's everything. For once. And why not?

.

Fingers tapping at speed across her pad Felicity let out a sigh of relief, smiling from where she sat. "They've been driven back for the blockade; we're good to go!"

"Everybody in!" Diggle shouts, smacking the palm of his good hand on the roof of the black van they'd commandeered.

It had been the longest night in the history of nights. And it had actually started because of Laurel.

She'd come to them with information regarding Sebastian Blood and his complicity in the kidnapping and attempted murder of the Queen family. Blood had fled to the Glades had within hours had brought forth a near army of Mirakuru infected prison inmates and hardened Glades-men. After taking Laurel back to her father, Sara had joined forces with Nyssa, equipping her and her small ensemble (meaning three dozen intimidating League of Assassin members loyal to Nyssa) with the cure.

In the initial testing of said cure, Felicity had offered herself as test subject.

"Well, who else are we going to test?" She questioned Oliver – an Oliver who was showing her, very clearly, that the answer was a resounding no – who, wearing his green leather – and didn't that just make Thea's mouth shut faster than it had ever opened before when he'd stepped out of his bathroom at the mansion – had paused in his agitated pacing to meet her gaze dead on. "It makes sense."

"No." He shook his head and she almost – but not really – reached out to shake the obstinate man's shoulders. "Not you. Find someone else."

"There is no one else."

He took a step closer. "What if it goes wrong?" His eyes looked between both of hers and though he appeared to be the collected vigilante most others saw, she heard the brittle tone to his voice. Like he might choke on the images in his head. "What then? Who will keep an eye on Slade? Who'll be able to hack into QI's security structure to see what he's doing next or where he'll go?" Standing barely two feet in front of her his hand rose to point at her chest. "What if you take it now, fall unconscious and I can't… do anything about it? Just when we're all about to head to the blockade?"

A slow blink from her had him sighing and she took a breath. "All excellent points."

He nodded. Once. Relieved.

"But how are we going to know it works?"

Simple really. Give it to the already unconscious party.

Administering it to Roy, Oliver had forced his family to travel with Walter out of the City. Walter's trust was never in question, but when he started to wonder, to fear, one word from Felicity was enough to make him leave with them. Thea had remained by Roy's side the entire time except to hug her brother, before stepping on the plane.

Once less hurdle for Oliver to think about.

Hours later, with being so much more prepared – thank you Caitlin – Diggle, Sara, Oliver, Nyssa – her cronies – and Lyla who had insisted after persuading Waller to grant her some time, on being there with her guy, had taken down the majority of Slade's critters. Not without injury of course. Diggle was suffering head trauma – but apparently not enough to stop him from driving, oh boy – Lyla had been hit in the thigh by a Mirakuru enhanced fist, Oliver was… decidedly Oliver-like. Handsome, brooding, ripped, tense and… satisfied. A little lighter even. At least that's how he sounded over the coms…

Felicity wasn't with them.

She was holed up at Oliver's second hidey-hole, which he'd shown her just hours before.

They'd been through this dance already; she was infected with Mirakuru with no apparent side effects as of yet – if you don't consider seeing a fresher looking Slade a side effect – but it hadn't changed his outlook. It hadn't changed anything when he'd suddenly stopped her from grabbing a pistol to say, "Come with me," before leading her to his motorcycle.

And she'll admit that 'come with me if you want to live' was very much a line singing in her skull. The Kyle Reese to her Sarah Conner.

But when they'd gotten down there she'd know, instinctively why…and it wasn't for the thrill ride the drive down had been. Let's just say any part of Oliver between her thighs was a good time.

Right now?

He wasn't between her thighs, but he was close – almost 'in her face' close – and she could feel the warmth of his breath and smell the leather on his shoulders.

There was a… resolute look in his gaze. It was deep, as intense as an ocean wave but controlled. Understood by its owner. And aimed at her.

She didn't understand and he could see it as he looked into her face, her eyes, begging her to listen. To trust. "Felicity, I need you to be safe."

The furrow between her eyes quirked her brow. "But I don't want to be safe. "She shook her head. "I want to be with you." A few days ago she might have taken that back, might have corrected it but instead she simply stared back into that powerful pull he had over her and told him, with her eyes and her soul. "Unsafe. Together."

Mouth slightly open he took her in, his head slightly titled. "Together." He reiterated.

She nodded, trying to smile and feeling like she was losing the battle. I don't understand. "Yes." Why was he doing this? Out of all of them she had nothing to fear, right?

For a moment he didn't speak. Didn't move. Just looked at her.

Then this… smile, soft and perfect, spread across his jaw; his eyes crushing her with their penetrating light.

He lifted a finger, a hand… pausing inches from her, a hesitation that spoke volumes on how vulnerable he must have felt. But they were 'them'. Alone. A judgement free zone. A safe harbour to return to.

A shaky breath escaped him as one solitary finger – he'd taken off his gloves after entering this second lair – gently brushed across the blooming shell of her cheek. Tracing a path down his eyes followed the progression and she discovered – not for the first time – why blue was hotter than orange flame.

His eyes hit hers, dark and… devoted. Oh my god.

"Infected with Mirakuru, sitting behind a desk, walking in those ridiculously attractive stilettos," her throat convulsed and his gaze shot to it, his finger trailing down the column of her throat, pausing before making slow circle inside the suprasternal notch – the visible dip between the neck and collarbone – and concentrating on that spot. It shouldn't have but… she felt the touch in her vagina. "It doesn't matter. I can't have you near danger. Not ever."

Speaking becomes so much more difficult when the man of your dreams is stroking your skin… "The world doesn't work that way Oliver."

Her voice was husky, low, and quiet and he, seemingly unconsciously, took a small step closer. "I know."

He… he does? Then why…?

He slowly shook his head, still smiling sweetly at her even though his eyes murmured love and pleasure and other darker things. "Slade told Laurel that I was the Arrow because he wants me to suffer. He thought telling her my secret would make her hate me, that it would hurt me for her to know."

"Right." Felicity let out a breath. "Okay, but-"

"He wants to kill the woman I love."

His fingers moved from her pulse point to cover her lips when she tried to speak.

She waited.

"But he knows now… I love someone else."

Chest contracting, she knew her eyes had stuck on him, that she hadn't blinked or breathed.

…Because his eyes – she was born to read those eyes, had discovered their secrets long ago – had told her everything she needed to know.

As if every inch of her caused him great happiness he took a minute to drink her in, his fingers slipping across her lips to mingle in with the hair in a ponytail and as they parted he moved closer in to feel her shallow exhale.

"I love you."

Guttural, it came out truth. Fact. Real.

"And he will use that. But he won't try to hurt me. He'll just hurt you. He'll aim for you. Mirakuru or not, it isn't something I can chance."

Feeling like she was in a trance she watched as he reached behind his back and pulled out a syringe filled with the serum.

"But that doesn't mean he won't go after Laurel. Felicity," she really did love how he said her name; all breathy and emotional, "if that happens he'll take her someplace away from the fighting, someplace near here." The second base was only a block away from the harbour. "I told Laurel to get out of the city but she insisted on being with her father. If Slade does go after her, we'll be spread too thin to do anything." So close she could count his lashes his words were barely audible. "What I'm asking is a lot, too much, I know but-"

"It isn't." She whispered and quick as a flash he was with her, looking into her. "You're trusting me. With everything." It was everything, because she knew exactly what he was asking.

Not to save Laurel. Not to run away with her.

But to use the cure on Slade.

The day before Felicity had explained to Oliver that the memory of Slade Wilson hid inside her dreams. It was why she hadn't slept since she'd woken changed. He'd hated it but once discussion of combat arose… he wondered. With her. They'd, once again, been on the same page.

She'd retained – not visual memory – muscle memory of how to use swords. And though she hated it…

Her nosed brushed his. "It's the right choice-"

"It's unthinkable." No sound came from his lips but they formed the words. "That's why I'm choosing this. Choosing you."

Hand sliding to the back of her neck – his palm warm, as always – he pulled her into him, his forehead pressing into hers, eyes closing as a zing of connection flared through were they touched.

She wanted to laugh, giddy – like a school girl – at the situation. He wanted her to be safe but trusted her to do what had to be done.

She felt his hand close around her – now syringe filled – hand and tighten.

"Don't hesitate." He murmured.

"I won't."

He nodded, taking in a deep breath… then pulled his hand from under her hair, slowly trespassing over her ear until he cupped her cheek. They stood there for several minutes just… taking the moment.

The press of his lips – such a simple act that sacked her ability to think or breathe – stunned her. His face had moved slightly against hers – the thrill of his nose skating beside hers filling her with needy notions of beds, sunshine, coffee and him – but she'd never guessed he'd try to, want to…

So small and tender, she could feel the… the fear in it. How his mouth trembled as she pushed back, how his breath stuttered, how the hand against her face shook; but really is was a chaste motion. Emotion, not lust. Affection and heart, not libido and passion.

Fear…and hope.

No open mouths, not grasping hands, no tongue, no heat… just a long, sweet kiss – and it didn't surprise her, that he could be sweet - that seemed to go on for hours. It was steadying and absolutely necessary.

When it finally ended she heard their lips part and the knowledge that Oliver had kissed her, that she'd kissed him back chased her senses like a wave.

He stared at her for a few moments more before his eyes shut tight-

Then he was gone. Hurrying up the steps and the closing the door.

"John, take a left." She said, navigating her friend through the rubble that was becoming Starling downtown.

It hadn't taken too long to set up the three laptops she'd positioned around her, linked to each person in the field; their coms active.

"We're almost done here."

"How's Lyla doing?"

"She's okay." Dig let out a breath. "I don't what you said to Oliver earlier but he's been dynamite out there."

"I-I didn't-"

"You forget that I know you, Felicity. And I know Oliver." He added. "The way he's been looking at you… let's just say a blind man wouldn't have a difficult time seeing it."

She wanted, terribly, to ask what 'it' was, but she was no fool.

Before any response could be made however, her phone beeped. "Dig, hand on." She pressed to accept the call. "Detective Lance?"

"He took her."

"He took who? What are you talking about?" But she already knew…

"Laurel." It was a splinter in the mind, a hiss of worry. "That bastard took Laurel."