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.

11. Part 11

Part 11

He wouldn't change a thing. Not a single thing. I have it now. He wasn't letting it go. Not for anyone. Not for the world...

"Oliver, there's a group of them heading your way." Dig said over the com channel.

Racing through the city on his Ducati, body fixed low in the seat to bend and swerve with each turn, Oliver shouted over the wind. "How? I thought you said you'd taken care of the rest?"

"I thought we had but somehow they slipped past us." There was a pause where Oliver heard Dig talking to Lyla before he spoke again; tone low and sounding 100% done. "Jesus; more good news."

Oliver gritted his teeth. "What?"

"Sara, Nyssa, and her band of merry ninja's took off. Two guesses where they're heading."

He didn't need to guess.

They were gunning for Slade. They wouldn't rest until he was six feet under.

Pulling up close to the factory, a small part of him wondered why he wasn't thrilled to hear this, why he also wasn't targeting the same psychopath who was trying to destroy all he holds dear… but it was simple, really.

He'd made a promise. To Felicity. And he wouldn't break it - not for the world - no matter how tempted he was. And he was tempted. Extremely tempted. Since-

-I stabbed her with the head of the arrow she so bravely shot into my neck

His hands twisted over each handle bar.

She was in there, right now; alone. It was all he couldn't think about. Confronting Slade and god only knows what. Fighting for him, for them – for they were a 'them' now. A unit; not a pair. His fight was her fight and her fight was his. A partnership he could have only ever hoped to live for in the past. He'd focused on the feelings it inspired in him - on the kiss they'd shared - to carry him through the last few hours.

It couldn't be all they'd have, that one instant. That all they'd know of each other was this... fear. The constant battles, the threats on their lives, the small snatches of moments and looks as people, objects, places and demons from the past separated them.

Let this have been the right choice.

The belief he had in her was - is - absolute. But that didn't mean he wasn't terrified. That his heart wasn't fully with hers and that the constant division was an echo of a painful void he hoped - prayed, begged - wouldn't be given excuse to remain so. That didn't mean the plan, as badly timed as it was, wouldn't fail. In another's hands - in Laurel's, Sara's, or even his mother's hands, in Diggle's hands - it definitely would.

And having Sara and Nyssa now heading her way… it wasn't a positive upscale to this battle.

He wasn't blind.

The way Felicity had very subtly avoided being alone with Sara the night before… he'd noticed, of course he had. All he did was watch her, follow her, learn her through every available sense that he possessed.

He'd seen her trembles, her shakes… the Mirakuru. And it wasn't something he could take away, wasn't something he could ease simply by taking her hands in his, by tucking her close to his heart – she owned it, he couldn't lie – or by whispering in her ear that she'd be fine because the world didn't make sense if she wasn't.

And in all this he'd seen how Felicity had managed to not glance at Sara once, whilst Sara…

Yes, Sara had made her stance very clear. He didn't really need to ask her what that was; it was in everything she did. That self-assured layer of skin she hadn't worn the morning after they'd spoken in the Queen Mansion kitchen, was very much present after her and Felicity's return from the Foundry. She'd made a decision and he couldn't leave it alone. Not after seeing Felicity so subdued, so unlike herself afterwards, knowing he couldn't comfort her the way he wanted, not yet.

It started in the middle of them slipping on their vigilante regalia; Oliver and Sara. Away in the corner, Nyssa and her entourage of assassins were dealing out their specialised arrowheads and Felicity…

She was as far away from all of them as she possibly could be. Upstairs. With John.

Pulling on his gloves, he spoke to Sara without looking at her. "What did you say to her?"

Her reply was absent minded. "To who?"

Raising his gaze, he waited until the silence made her look back. When she did, the hard stare he sent her spoke volumes – don't be coy with me. "Felicity."

She sighed, shaking her head. "It was just girl talk Ollie."

He was sure it was.

"You threatened her." He stated; 100% believing it.

Soft eyebrows met on the bridge of her nose. "Did I?" They rose high when his silence told her the answer. "You can't just-"

"Can't what?" There was no soft expression, no indulgent affection, no remnant of a history that should have remained buried... He was angry; at Slade, at her too. At Laurel for her presumptions. At how he hadn't been able to spend the last few days the way he'd sorely wished too. Alone. Loving his girl. Feeling her love him back. And he was allowing himself to fully show it. "What, Sara?" Did she want him to lie and stay clear of it? Impossible."Can't not let you get away with it? Felicity doesn't deserve that."

She shifted briefly – the words 'he doesn't understand' shouting out from her to him - "Look, Ollie-"

But he cut her off in a short whisper. "Don't Ollie me."

She blinked; her mouth closing.

Ollie.

Come on Ollie, let's do shots!

Ollie, I miss you, come on; it'll only be for 20 minutes. And bring the tequila. They won't notice we're gone…

No one does a party like Tommy and Ollie.

You have a girlfriend? Then don't tell her; it'll be our little secret.

Dude, only you could bang three girls in one night when one of them is your actual, real-time girlfriend.

You've dropped out of another college? Who do I need to send a check to? Nothing's too good for my beautiful boy.

It's the latest high Ollie, come play with me.

No. More.

He hadn't been Ollie in a long time. He knew it was only a word but the memories associated with it always came directly to the surface in the face of Laurel, Sara and Quentin. Even his mother. As it was, only Thea could refer to him as such without his stomach rolling.

And he waited but she didn't say a word, as if she knew that any excuse she made or any of the reasons she could explain, wouldn't be good enough.

Didn't mean she shouldn't try.

He stared at her. A minute went by. Still nothing.

Then he was speaking - his voice rough as sandpaper, low as a murmur - and the words were out before he knew what he was even going to say.

"Do you want me to threaten you?" Hazarding a guess from the way her eyes widened, from how she leaned back, he'd say she hadn't expected him to say that. Not even close. His brow rose. "Do I need to?"

"No." She breathed and was shaking her head before he'd finished. "You'd-"

"Do I need to tell you exactly what I'll do should any harm come to her," unhurried, he pointed his finger in Sara's face, "because of you? You're not exempt." He dropped his arm. "The fact that we've known each other for years makes you even less free from my judgment than Slade."

Because you should know better. And you should have trusted me. But you didn't.

Mouth open, Sara observed at him as if she'd never seen him before. "You're going to threaten me?"

The words were forced out on a choke and something in his chest tightened. Years of memories, tides of change, different places, different people… in many ways he and Sara had travelled the most, extending themselves the farthest, had changed more than anyone else… and now he was letting it go. Letting go of a connection - though he'd always be her friend - that did more harm than good. To both of them.

And it was painful how incredibly freeing that felt.

"You'd hurt me?" She prodded again and not believing it for a second.

But she had to… because for Felicity, there was no stop button. No off-switch. He didn't know why it was like that with her, why he was so decidedly attune to every hurt she now accrued or why it was suddenly very easy to say 'for her I would', 'for her I will', 'for her I can'…

It just was.

When you find it - your reason, your 'everything' - the love you feel becomes a logical insanity. A required passion. The best part of existence. Not a set of chains. Knowing now, what that felt like – because of her – was the greatest gift he'd ever received. It wasn't something he could ever remember feeling; how an emotion could simultaneously lift you up and make you fall- and for that to be a good thing, the best thing.

He hadn't known when it'd started; he'd already been half way there before he'd begun to realise.

He thought he'd loved before, thought he'd felt that deep yearning portrayed on-screen by overpaid actors. He'd been so blind. Such a fool to believe that what he'd had was as close to home that he could feel.

Swallowing, because 'home' was upstairs, putting on a brave face and making him dream dreams of all the things he wanted to do - would do - when this was over, he spoke in a rumble. He spoke truth. No matter how much it hurt Sara, because she needed to hear it. "If you intentionally go out to hurt her?" Expression tightening, he looked her right in the eye. "Absolutely yes. I won't hesitate."

For a moment, Sara just took him in.

Until, finally, she whispered. "I actually believe you." She did, he could see it; the silent astonishment. "Trouble is Oliver, sometimes there is no choice."

"I agree." But their meanings were opposing ends of a cruel spectrum. She saw that too, her composure faulting before she straightened, her eyes lifting briefly up to the ceiling as she blinked away the regret he'd glimpsed.

"Is she ready?" She asked.

Nodding, he tucked a few spare syringes into his jacket, before turning away. "She is, but she isn't going with you." He threw over his shoulder as he made his way to the stairs.

Remembering it, he realised how unwise he'd been to expect Sara to have listened; he hadn't gotten anywhere.

Briefly, he'd thought she'd understood about his request – that Slade Wilson be kept alive for incarceration – to prove their control, to show a united front in a city that desperately needed to be shown the brighter half of a dark dawn and turn an evil into something positive; to become the heroes Starling was beginning to view them as, the hero in me that Felicity had seen from the beginning.

I hope she never stops.

In the end it didn't matter; not what Sara would or wouldn't do or any of it.

When this was all over, he'd show Felicity. He'd show her everything. He'd tell her all the things that needed to be said, all the words he craved to say, that he'd forced himself to swallow down, that he knew would change their dynamic, the team… all of it.

And he was aching for it all to happen immediately. Because when the rest of your life stands before you in heels, lipstick and glasses – all red – you want the rest of your life to begin as soon as humanly possible.

But he also knew exactly why Sara had called Nyssa. And that was the meat of it: Nyssa.

True, the League had made exceptional allies so far but Sara's true goal had always been to split from him, because she knew he wouldn't let her do what she intended if she stayed by his side. To kill Slade. Kill Isabel Rochev.

The concept of them setting an example for others to follow seemed to fly over her head.

But the worst part?

He knew that if Felicity put so much as a toe in Sara's way - and she would because she was Felicity and she understood a very pivotal part of him that others just didn't - that Sara, and by extension Nyssa, would do everything and anything to stop her, to put her down.

And that. Wasn't. Happening.

Not ever.

Over my dead body. Jaw tightening, Oliver spoke again. "When did they split from you?"

"Not sure; I wasn't keeping eyes on them."

Because they were supposed to be allies.

"How far out are you?"

"At least ten minutes." Digg didn't sound at all happy about that. "Watch yourself, man."

"Always do." He cut the link, eyes roving the building; searching for weaknesses…

Wait. His eyes narrowed. On the far side of the ex-factory, sat an unmanned motorbike and a black sedan. They're already here.

But so am I.

Swinging a leg off his bike he strode resolutely forwards, pulling out his bow - inch by inch - from its place on his back. And breathing deep, because there was nothing he couldn't hit.

I'm coming. He stepped into a run. I'm coming Felicity.

---

"Felicity!"

It didn't register. She wasn't there…

She hadn't had as clue. Not really. She'd had no idea what she was doing.

Having a plan? Yep, that would have been preferable to the none-existent 'plan b' she was adhering to. If plan A was all logic and tactical precision – or at least what plan A would have been if I'd had a plan A – then plan B was purely instinctively driven.

She wished - dreamed - she was so fly that she could say 'psh, I don't do plans' but, yeah, her cool only extended to computers.

And this? This was different.

"Felicity, stop!"

I can't. She honestly couldn't. I won't. And didn't want to.

It had become a blur. A choice to make made; leading to a light of a specific colour.

Red.

Always Red.

It was everywhere - all she could see - like the world, her world, was drowning in it.

It isn't me, not any of this. She wasn't this person. Yet it didn't seem to matter. Her body didn't feel it and her mind had followed in that particular lack of regard.

…She didn't understand how it happened, or why she wasn't stopping.

It had started the way all fights start; instigation leading to action and response… Isabel was a woman adept at antagonising others. But Felicity hadn't meant to do this. Not this.

She'd told herself that she'd finally lost it, rushing at Isabel like she had. But it had been meant as a play, an act; even a joke. Just a joke.

I need to keep her away from Laurel, that's all she'd focused on.

During that pointless discussion, she remembered feeling a little agitated with both women; at Isabel for her natural callousness and at Laurel for her priorities. It was odd because, even though the situation more than called for it, it took a lot for Felicity Smoak to be so easily affected, especially by women she knew were just going out to hurt her. Isabel had needed to let off steam and Laurel… she'd just wanted to know; to be told, to be part of something and for once be let in on one of Oliver's secrets.

Like she had an obsession… maybe she did. Maybe we all do. Oliver was definitely the type of man to inspire such feelings in women.

"He said her name. During. He said Felicity when he came."

Pretty sure that wasn't a secret Laurel wanted to hear though.

It really hadn't been - as crass as it was to throw that in the face a woman he'd slept with only a year prior and a woman who couldn't stop thinking about sleeping with him - and she'd tried to imagine what that could have felt like, to hear those words; words you'd never expected to hear. Felicity had never expected to hear them either.

Did it make her bad? That all she felt, every time she heard them - other than shock - was warmth? Was a soothing layer of I love him so much? Was a hazy repetition of I need to feel him?

The constant longing to hear his voice for herself as it broke over her name?

However, the look on Laurel's face alone had been a testament to how she felt about the fact and it wasn't a good feeling; part disbelief – that Oliver would ever a) sleep with Isabel and b) say another woman's name during sex – part disgust. Some anger there too. A dash of bitterness. An echo of regret…

…That it wasn't her name?

I'm sorry Laurel.

Because she was; the whole thing was something Felicity still had trouble believing and would never wish it on someone else.

But then Isabel had placed a sword at Laurel's throat.

The spike of fear Felicity had felt on seeing that razor edge so close to piercing the lawyer's skin - at imaging Oliver's face and Sara's, should Laurel come to harm - had transformed swiftly to fire. Anger.

A whispered intent. Then-

Stop her before she really gets going

And that had been the cusp of it, having him there. The ghost of a bygone Slade Wilson. He'd helped navigate her through the fear; had taken and channelled it into something useful. Something she'd never experienced…

The moment they'd clashed she'd sensed the change, the indistinct lines… it was like foreplay how everything faded into nothing taking her to a new plane. Discovering a new way of seeing the world. A way that was simply red.

And since everything was red, blood became invisible. Blending into the background. A pretty abstract. Completely without meaning to her now. So when she saw it… it meant less than nothing.

"Felicity!"

Laurel.

Why is she yelling my name? The shout made her lose focus – but only briefly. The barest trace of awareness of where she was and what she was doing slipped in and out of her mind like sand.

She shook off the voice like an irritation – an errant fly. It didn't really compute. Not on anything more than an ephemeral level. In fact there wasn't anything that touched her, nothing genuinely reached past the surface of her skin except…

"I love you."

A snap in the air told her a bone had broken; but not her own.

Good

She wasn't doing it for him.

I need to say it back. That she loves him.

"...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."

The simultaneous terror and sheer happiness on hearing those words fall from his perfect lips... they're so soft. Like pillow mountains. But firm too. Could reach down inside her and speak words through touch alone. Words she needed – it wasn't even an option at this point – to hear spoken over and over and over again, through his body. Through his fingers... his eyes. His mouth.

It was why this had to end. Quickly. Isabel was the nuisance, not the danger.

Exactly

"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. 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."

She'd found her; I found Laurel Oliver, she'll be okay. He wouldn't lose another person.

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."

It really wasn't, would never be.

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.

He was risking his world for the sake of the City and everything he was doing told her that he thought his world... was her.

That's it. It's all she needed. It's all I wanted and about 100% more than I thought I'd ever get. She lived in that memory as she fought, seeing only him; feeling his breath against her lips, his fingers on her neck...

So, yes; it didn't touch her, didn't matter. Fully wrapped as she is, in a heaven only she knew existed. Sweeping beneath Isabel's outstretched arm, Felicity spin-kicked down and snapped Isabel's shinbone with the heel of her foot – a third bone, the sound airing like the crack of a breaking tree branch – as Isabel's shriek rendered the air with violence. A sound that pulsed through her and into her skin, under it, forcing her further forwards. She manoeuvred those two blades into her own hands in a series of strikes and twists that would ordinarily make her jaw drop to the floor in an 'I actually did that' fashion.

Isabel's face as it contorted in rage didn't make her feel a thing before it crumbled at the searing agony of her swords using her sides - her ribs - as a sharpening tool. No pride there, not anymore.

And nothing inside prevented her fists from connecting with every inch of Isabel she could reach.

"Stop it; you'll kill her!"

It didn't matter. Not the flecks of blood and spittle raining across her hands and neck; didn't matter that Isabel's face looked more like a puffy mess of skin and cartilage – the woman was laced with Mirakuru: she'd heal. Felicity didn't care. Wasn't touched by it, she just kept moving. The viciousness of it didn't halt her and she wanted Laurel to just. Stop. Talking-

"You'll kill her!"

That's the idea.

Primary objective: neutralise the target

He's right. Isabel Rochev wasn't the target.

This is taking too long

It was. But it wouldn't, if Laurel would simply stop distracting her. Why is she trying to stop me? Why did she have to get in the way? Why was everything her business?

When her response was to ignore, a hand grasped her shoulder from behind – where she was working over Isabel – and gripped tightly, tugging her back with as much force a human could.

"Listen to me! You need to stop-"

You need to stop.

In a whirl, Felicity twisted – grasping at Laurel's hand to bend it. Sideways, forwards, backwards, what did it matter? It did the job.

Slade's memories told her it would. They were at once subliminal and sublime.

"Ah!" Laurel's cry drowned out Isabel's shallow breaths as Felicity forced her back – forced Laurel to stop getting in her way – towards a wall.

With Felicity's hand around her throat, Laurel's feet lifted off the floor; inch by inch.

Felicity… there was no recognition. It was Laurel, but it didn't compute that there was a problem. Later, she'd internalise it all. Guilt would pile high and she'd try to apologise.

But for now? She wanted her surroundings to stop crowding about her.

Fear is the mind killer. It just didn't compute to Laurel how afraid Felicity truly was. Why else would she relinquish control over to Mirakuru?

"I said to not get in the way." She started and it was with a cold clarity that she spoke, so unlike herself that Laurel actually stilled. "To not," feeling a slice of irritation so deep it made her lips thin out over her teeth, Felicity pushed Laurel higher against the stone, "interrupt." Each syllable was defined.

And Felicity had warned her, right as she'd pounced into action, she'd shouted at the woman to not come close to either her or Isabel, not at any one moment. Why can't she just listen? She sees just fine but doesn't listen. It was a trait Felicity understood Laurel to possess in spades. Now that she'd seen it for herself. Selective hearing.

"Why did you touch me?" Tightening her hold, Felicity waited for the tell-tale gasp of a set of lungs begging for air. "You did everything I told you not to do…"

Trailing off, Felicity abruptly realised she was shaking. She took a moment, to blink at it and take a breath. To think. Her eyes flickered to her hand - there was blood practically coating it - down her arm to the floor.

Remember.

How quickly she'd gone from defence to offence.

How scared she'd been to being so close to those shining swords. Something she'd trusted Oliver with as she'd leant into him, sharing his warmth and his strength…

"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. Leaving a room, entering it, talking to people: it doesn't go away."

Unless you turn it into something else.

Something that made her conscience, her empathy and kindness, fade into silence.

And she'd heard Slade whisper in a thrill of heat through her blood; Let me help you

How he'd literally meant it – meant that he was trying to keep her alive.

Meant that the hand around Laurel's throat wasn't governed fully by her own mind. Meant that a drug had literally taken control of everything.

Breathe Felicity

Her shaking increased triple-fold. Oh God. It was like seeing again; as if she'd worn the wrong glasses and was suddenly free of them.

Her hand… around Laurel's throat… Laurel, who was looking down at her in real fear and confusion, like she was a monster, a surprise, dangerous - and it began to twitch, her hand, her fingers. Fluttering over Laurel's pulse. What am I doing? Part of her understood the problem and wanted to rectify it but the rest of her was too slow to catch up.

Thankfully, words weren't beyond her reason.

"Laurel?" She whispered, eyes wide and so very sorry – and it was a breathless attempt. As if Felicity were the one being strangled.

Because Oliver…

She was hurting Laurel. His Laurel.

Yes; she knew their relationship was well and truly over, that he'd chosen her – how incredible and wonderful that was – but there was still a history of feeling there. A lifetime of pining and waiting and loving. Him choosing her didn't make Felicity exempt from his own confusion, his disappointment, his anger. Please don't be mad at me.

Please understand that it wasn't me, not really. Her first words after his confession couldn't be 'I hurt Laurel'. They had to be I love you in a way I didn't think was possible for humans to love, something good, worthy. I'm already ruining it. Already making it another memory for him to lock away, to not want to see…

He would always witnessed horrendous acts of violence but she'd never wanted to add to that.

Something in Laurel's eyes changed then, as if she could suddenly see Felicity's cognizance of her surroundings once more.

"I'm s-sorry." Willing her hand to release Laurel's throat - let go, let go right now - she strained, staring at those fingers - loosen up, do SOMETHING - and feeling her eyes water, her neck dampen with anxious sweat.

…And her grip started to slowly loosen.

"It's okay." Laurel gasped, seeing the fight in Felicity's face and realising just how not in control the IT genius was. The hand that had been digging nails into Felicity's arm relaxed into a firm hold. "You're doing it."

Felicity nodded. "Just give me a minute." Please. To breathe. "I... it's almost-"

-An arrowhead punched clean through her bicep.

Everything silenced.

Body jerking at the force, Felicity's head threw back of its own accord, her eyes wide with the shock - the sensation of ice ripping through her tendon - of actually being shot with an arrow, I've been shot with an arrow, and her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Sliced – it pierced through her nerve endings. The Mirakuru she'd been fighting down invaded her entirely, comprehension of why this wasn't the best thing, left her entirely before flooding her brain with dark thoughts...

And she found she just… couldn't handle… the… rest…

Absently, she noticed Laurel drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Since the arm holding her was the one shot, she'd let her go. The lawyer scurried away - out of the line of fire; so uncharacteristic of Laurel Lance - taking deep breaths as she touched at her neck. But it didn't matter. None of it did.

Laurel's shock, her hurt…

The factory she stood in, where Slade was somewhere within its walls…

Isabel lying sedentary - unconscious - against the pipeline…

Staggering back - a stumble really - Felicity's blue eyes travelled to her right.

There.

Head to toe in League Armour, Nyssa stood poised; holding her bow and arrow under her chin… towards Felicity.

"You get only one chance, Felicity Smoak." She stated, aloud. "There will not be another."

Sure.

Head tilting sideways - gaze blank save for the shine of a cold calculus - she took her in. Whatever makes her stop talking.Too much information. The Mirakuru didn't allow her to process it fully.

Sara was there too, standing just behind the raven haired assassin.

Briefly looking to her, she saw that Sara's focus fixed on Laurel – her eyes screaming words and emotions left unsaid – until Felicity straightened. Then those eyes slammed right into her. And they were such a magnificent shade of betrayal, of regret; feelings Felicity just wasn't capable of right then.

So, she simply looked back.

It was different this time. That untouched palace of safety in her mind. It felt different. Normally, she'd be screaming or crying. Or asking questions and babbling incessantly. All of it out of fear. Or pain.

Now?

Red. Black. White.

As if she had all the time in the world, Felicity reached up with a hand and pushed – increment by bloodied increment – the arrowhead back the way it had come.

It was totally cringe worthy, a barf-fest in progress; icky and yuck and hell no… it was satisfying. Gratifying in the flicker of unease the swept across Sara's face, in the gasp coming from her sister who still stayed down… because Felicity hadn't looked away, hadn't reacted at all to the pain she was sure to have been in; she hadn't felt a thing. Not a thing.

Expressionless, Felicity let the shaft fall to the ground with a metallic clatter against concrete.

"Felicity." Sara began; a whisper-thin attempt at building a trust between them; at mending a bridge, at trying to connect…

Locking eyes with her, Felicity conveyed in a single glance the futility of her half arsed effort to placate Oliver Queen. They'd seen her with her hand around Sara's sister's throat. She knew exactly what she was thinking in that ruthless consciousness; she'd seen the same look directed at Roy. Sara wanted to put a bullet in her. There was no hatred there; only a wearisome burden. Only fear. And anger.

Felicity couldn't let it stop her from reaching Slade Wilson. That was all that mattered now.

And Sara saw this slither of comprehension flash through Felicity; watched as it was processed and subsequently brushed aside, watched Felicity's eyes follow her movements as Sara raised her staff so that both her hands were wrapped securely around it.

A pure lance of heat pulsed through Felicity - she just wanted to hurt them. It was all she could feel. Hurt Sara and hurt Nyssa. Hurt anyone else who kept her in fear, who drowned her in the dark, who tried to quell her with their cynicisms and worries and fallacies, who threatened because they were afraid.

Backing up – a cool step behind her to the left – Felicity stretched out, her fingers searching as her eyes remained fixed on Sara and Nyssa - Nyssa who hadn't once dropped her aim, who hadn't faltered – until her hand touched, gripped, the handle of a sword. Then two swords.

They were in her hands and she was rising without thought. In a flurry, she twisted them in her hold; one sword under her arm and the other over her head before she touched the tips down… then scraped them across the floor, casting sparks.

"Oh…" With a smirk that could only be described as suicidal, Nyssa dropped her bow. Then reached for her own sword. "This will be fun."

"Laurel, get back." Sara ordered and her sister – for once – listened.

But then Sara was moving forwards, countering the sudden swiftness of Felicity's kamikaze run at Nyssa, who was now grinning like a lunatic. Sara intercepted one sword but the blade quickly twisted and sliced up her rod, leaving Sara no choice but to drop it. Ducking around the flow of sword strokes – simplistic in design, lethal in intent – she didn't realise how Felicity was lulling her into a false security until a foot locked around her own from where Felicity stood behind her, before lifting it upwards.

Sara tripped forwards and a roundhouse planted in her stomach made the warrior woman fall back.

Eyes briefly following Sara, Felicity inhaled… exhaled. Inhaled.

…She turned away. One down. At least for a few seconds.

Slade's memories of combat were exquisitely detailed. It made for an easy transition of form and function and self-confidence: from him to her.

It was why she could block that strike to her back, why she could rotate away, could fence around and out of Nyssa's attacks and could parry each strike. It was why her surroundings blurred around her.

It was why she didn't see the green.

---

"FELICITY!"

Nothing touched him.

Coming to a halt - almost skidding - he'd caught notice of Laurel on the floor, clutching her throat. Isabel unconscious and off to the side; rivulets of blood clouding her broken features. Sara picking herself up off the ground, staggering towards her staff. Nyssa weaving - an artistic flow of swords and speed and lithe movements - between each of Felicity's feints, her reposts and strikes.

Standing there, frozen in place just metres from the open archway of the large steel room, she was all he could see: Felicity Smoak, dodging blows from an experienced, battle hardened killer - an assassin trained from birth - and making it all look like she too had been fighting all her life.

It was fluidic.

Surreal.

Beautiful.

All his. She was his.

And seeing her this way, seeing the person she could have been – a warrior like himself – just made him adore the woman she was now, his brilliant IT girl, and respect the many versions of what might been. It didn't matter. Everything she did humbled him, made him thank the universe for creating her…

But now, all he could feel was the very real fear that she was – in this moment – untouchable.

What if he couldn't stop her? What if she didn't recognise him?

It was stunning, seeing Slade's movements in her feminine form. Stunning… and wrong.

Everything in him wanted to protect her, keep her safe. I've always tried to keep her safe, I promised that from the start. To have her exposed to something so profoundly violent made him quake inside; scared to death that she'd be destroyed by it, yet realising that if her inner strength - the light she beheld - could carry his own darkness, could toss it aside and make it seem so superfluous a mask - enough to render him mute -then she could more than handle this madness.

The sheer respect he felt for her would never let him place her in any kind of gilded cage.

But that also didn't mean he didn't feel every tap of metal against metal, didn't suffer a fierce flood of endorphins at every close shave between her and sharp steel – Mirakuru be damned – or fist or foot to her precious skin; he hadn't blinked. Not once. Eyes peeled. Watching. Waiting for the moment…

The tip of her sword sliced clean through Nyssa cloak and in an athletic twist, the cloak was pulled clean off the woman's shoulders. Clang of sword on sword didn't quite cover the laugh thrown out from Nyssa's gullet; a smile so sharp across her face he'd have thought it would cut whoever it was aimed at.

She was enjoying herself.

From the side, Sara flew in and suddenly it was a no bars held brawl. Only one where critical injury was the intent.

Two against one.

He needed to stop this. Now.

Then Sara pulled a move – so swiftly he almost didn't catch it – that made his mouth dry of all moisture, made his heart temporarily stop. It was an action made solely to fully incapacitate. If performed correctly, it would break the spine.

On a human, it would kill. On a Mirakuru host it would temporarily disable. Either way it would be so painful it would blind the victim.

And he couldn't fathom that happening. Not to her.

It tore out of him. "FELICITY!" Terror, a night's worth of fights and resolve tied in a visceral ball in his throat. It was impossible to understand.

Sara.

She'd do this, to Felicity? She'd use such a move on a woman she'd once professed to find cute, to like dearly as her friend, to admire as a comrade, to love as a sister, she'd do this to the woman I can't live without?

Seething - he still hadn't blinked; eyes fixed on the scene where three women engaged in combat thirty metres away from him, three women who hadn't given him any notice yet, his hands fisted, muscles flexing so quickly they almost ceased and cramp wasn't something he needed right then - he fought to push back the lance of fury that threatened to destabilise him…

But for all he tried, he only achieved in pulling out his bow. "Stop!"

Modulator or not, his voice rang as loud as gunfire. It didn't matter that Felicity had somehow managed to evade the lethal strike, didn't matter that Sara had gotten a second wind in her or that Laurel was crawling in his direction - looking for safety - and it didn't matter that Diggle's voice was abruptly in his ears, conveying through the com unit that he was flooring it.

What mattered was that Nyssa pulled out – during an elegant rotation – a sliver of a knife and promptly lodged it in Felicity's thigh.

She didn't cry out. Didn't blink or falter. Wasn't there.

But he was.

"No!" He was moving before he understood that he was, jolting forwards in a quick sprint towards them, drawing an arrow and notching it. "Stop! Nyssa, stop!"

The arrow flew and as close as he now was, Nyssa didn't have a hope in hell of stopping it before it scraped across her bicep. A deliberate misfire, but a warning nonetheless.

She cried out – more in surprise than pain – and stumbled backwards.

Unfortunately Felicity – fully immersed in a Mirakuru disposition – took advantage and made to, from the way she suddenly tucked in the elbow of her sword arm, spear Nyssa through the chest. The image of Sara closing in behind her flashed before him, a needle in hand and aimed for the back Felicity's neck… with the knife still lodged in her leg. With Slade still roaming the building. With danger still everywhere.

A second arrow shot out, hitting the floor inches from where Sara's foot landed. Immediately she stopped; her head whipping round to glare at him. Cheek pressed to the hand holding another arrow in traction, he didn't so much as blink her way.

Instead, he stared at his girl. And spoke, saying the only thing he could say, the only thing that made any sense to him just then.

"Fel-i-ci-ty."

His tongue deliberately separating each syllable, it stroked across her name. He couldn't help that it did and wasn't sorry either.

And it wasn't a voice filled with anger or fear. It wasn't calm, persuasive.

It was raw, thick and full. Rough and uneven. Low. I should have been here. But there was no regret here. Just a want, a plea. For Felicity – his Felicity – to come back to him.

Aimed at nothing in particular, the point of his arrow didn't once go to her. A threat on the other women about him to stay right where they are as his eyes told Felicity everything she needed to hear, everything he'd already said and a promise to do so much more. To do all.

Anything…

"You're staring."

Caught, he ducked his head; a flush of heat - it was ridiculous - rising to his face made his cheeks warm.

"I'm not… staring."

It was crazy.

But the way she'd said it… like she didn't understand why, like she couldn't believe – she'd made it a question, not a statement – that he was staring, and that his reason might have nothing to do with the fact that she was talking, because she hadn't been. Not a single word.

She didn't need to be speaking, didn't need to be animated for him to notice her. He always had. It was just that… before there'd been this acknowledgement that he couldn't. That he shouldn't. But now? That no longer exited. Erased entirely leaving almost overwhelming urges and he never wanted to feel its presence again; the feeling of loving a person but being unable to show them that you do.

Felicity's mouth opened slightly –and his eyes couldn't help but land right there – but she quickly closed it again, blinking attractively and making him wish that the distance between then – the table and the occupants of the room next door – would disappear. Entirely.

"…Oh."

Oh.

Did she even realise how she looked when she said 'oh'?

Did she know how her lips – her full, built to touch and tease and taste and lick and bite mouth - formed for that very expression? How they cupped the sound. How his eyes submissively fell to them, at once compelled and enticed; as if ordered.

She could command to him to die and he would.

She could demand him to live... and he would.

Jesus.

There wasn't a way for him to understand that, for him to process the impossibility of that – that he might be worthy of a happy ever after. Just because Felicity believed he was.

I could lay it down at her feet – the years where he sang to the lowest rungs of humanity and revelled in its spell – all that I am and all that I was. And she would accept it. Just like he accepted everything she was.

The moment he'd stepped into her office and the first time he saw her in his father's office two years prior, he knew that he could. That he would. That he should.

It wasn't wishful thinking. He just knew her, I know her, truly and fully. Knew her in a way he used to wish he'd known Laurel… but what had come of that hadn't even come close.

And God was he glad that it never had.

It wasn't for her. That had never been meant for Laurel. Or for any other woman.

Because he'd do it again – all of it.

He knew that now with a clarity that stunned him silent.

All the horrifying memories, all his bad choices, all the losses, every nightmare, each time he prayed for death. He'd relive the lot.

He'd make that conscious decision to sleep with Sara, knowing he was deliberately killing his relationship with Laurel, knowing Sara would read more in to it than planned. He'd step aboard the Queen's Gambit – hiding from his fears, his phobia's: his mother's expectations for his education, his father's desire for him to take over the company in ten years, his sister's rose coloured glasses view of him, Laurel's insistence that they move in together because their friend's had moved in together - and not look back. He would make all the same choices that he made in those five years, because the alternative to this, to the here and right now - and that things might be different , that they might be other people - was terrifying to imagine.

Unthinkable.

I won't lose this.

So he'd do it all over again. He'd lose his father. Shado. Slade. Sara. Tatiana. Tommy...

And he wouldn't change a thing. Not a single thing.

If it meant that he got to fall in love with Felicity Smoak, he would remain the same. He wouldn't change, thinking she deserved better, deserved more, she does deserve more. He wouldn't alter. Wouldn't falter.

Not if it meant that she could look at him like that; like he was the answer and not a question. Not an enigma or a riddle to solve and have, but never love.

It wasn't easy to believe that she could – that anybody could love him the way he'd found he loved her - but she kept showing him. Kept giving him little reminders, little jolts of 'I'm here' and 'you're not perfect but your perfect for me' talks and the occasional 'I can't believe we're feeling the things we're feeling or that we're allowing ourselves to feel them' hidden in those languid glances through windows and open doors…

It was like food; nourishment to a man like him who had, for so long, considered himself unequal to the task of loving another like this.

Dreams were precipitously possible now. Inevitable, even.

There was so much to feel, almost too much and it left him breathless; left him reeling and dizzy and light. As if he'd never experienced anything close and he hadn't really. An excitement that trespassed precariously into a happiness he didn't understand, or butterflies that infected every single organ in the body, not just his stomach. That tingling in his fingertips and his lips making him overly aware of hers and the empty space between them. The urge to fly. The act of falling being to rise than to die.

It was almost like pain; feeling it yet having to store all that away. For now. An ache he wouldn't scratch. A burn that he could and would bear forever - a privilege - because it was all her, all Felicity. It was right in front of him, his future; it was 5 foot 5 inches of bottle blonde IT genius just standing there, holding that crossbow and looking at him like that…

Looking at him like he was looking at her.

Like look was touch.

He could feel her on him; her hands on his chest - the ghost of when she'd leant against him the day before - her eyes trailing petal light on his face like fingertips against the planes, wondering what made him who he is and revelling in all she saw, all she sees right now.

Swallowing – at how just their eyes connecting could take away his breaths – his gaze dropped.

How did this happen to him?

This happiness. This want. This need… this hope.

And if her gaze was as corporal as the whisper thin brushes of her fingers, then his offered all that he was, to do with as she pleased.

Lay claim on me.

Like she could tumble into his depths and breathe deep. Like she could absorb everything that he is, let him permeate and be perfectly content in it, in him. Let her revel in leaving a piece of herself behind inside of him, behind his eyes, before sending it all back – her soul to his – just to make him feel her the same way.

Longing.

Is that what this is?

Not just desire. Not simply lust – it dismissed and insulted them both to think that was all this was. He wanted to be whole. To become this 'whole' creature with her, inside her, surrounding her, taking her in, possessing her the way she already possessed him.

To give and give and give until he just couldn't anymore - though he'd want to, oh how he'd want to - until it was worship, until that worship was sinful in the best way. An obsession, a drive to make her live and writhe in his heat - in his gaze - and their hunger; pushing and pushing until that maddening ache inside her reaches a height she'd never manage on her own.

Then holding her, feeling every stroke of her skin on every slope of his. Feeling her quake and tumble off the precipice as she holds onto him, wrapped so completely around him and he to her that they could be one, not two.

For it was hers, all of it; his skin, his bones, his heart, his soul – they were hers to take and make and destroy.

Then he'd take.

He'd pound and grind and reach deep inside of her in a desperate bid to touch her soul, to trace his initials there, until his muscles shake and ache for more, for all. Yielding to her arms and hands and fingers as they press and pull him to her, as they hold him there, on that edge of insanity. It was something he wanted so much to experience, because he never had:

That moment where the urge to stay right there, on that ledge, briefly eclipses the need to let go and fall into a white-washed numbness - an ecstasy - as if pure pleasure could be too much stimulation to be quantified by the brain.

He could lose control and let her take it for herself, before seeing that she was as lost as he… he'd take until she was giving, until who was feeling what was a blur of lines that no longer existed.

Until her hands and her scent and her voice and her love where the only sure things in the world. Where her heartbeat is his anchor, her chest his resting place and in her eyes; his soul. Where his hands hold her, giving her an eternal place to land.

Could they do that? Together? He was so sure they would…

It wasn't about perfection: that didn't exist. It was reality; messy and imperfect and complicated and tangible. .Wonderful.100% wanted.

And it wasn't just about sex either.

It might have been saying a lot, coming from an ex-playboy, but it never had been for him. It had never really been just about sex, not with any of the women he'd slept with. After Lian Yu, after China, after Coast City and Russia, after Starling… each relationship he'd had, had been a means of curing loneliness, of finding a connection, of attempting and failing to find a partner, of wondering if he could ever be worthy of being thought of in the way he secretly wished to be thought of.

With this, with Felicity… there was more, so much more. And they hadn't even kissed, hadn't touched or held.

In the past, he'd coveted what he couldn't have. She was 'his girl'.

But he'd also known, instinctively, that he'd miss her too.

Those times, when they'd been the only two people in the Foundry, he'd listen to her type away and realised he couldn't remember the sound of silence. Couldn't recall the noiseless ambience prior to her. Couldn't remember when his world hadn't consisted of painted fingernails, colourful dresses, glasses he'd – on more than one occasion – dreamed of sliding off her nose and found that… he really didn't want to.

Even if they'd never met, he'd still miss her. Being in this life, without her? It was, again, an unthinkable reality.

Oliver had always viewed sex a means to communicate when words failed. It was his base self. So, was it any wonder, that all he could think about now, was showing her how he felt about her?

Making love to her.

With her making love to him back?

I've never had that. There had never been a moment where he'd felt a woman make love to him. And Felicity was an agent of honesty, of feeling. Did that mean... she would?

It was because he couldn't find the words he needed to say that making love to her had ultimately become the presiding element to his thoughts. He wasn't ready to make this real with words. And he really needed to, to try.

If his intent was to touch her.

He needed to; needed to for no other reason than because he wanted to. It wasn't remotely funny; his body craved a touch he'd never truly experienced, yet, felt intimately acquainted with.

He knew her touch, her scent, her gaze… knew it like he knew his own.

And he'd wondered, prior to waking up in her arms the day before, if she could feel the same, if she felt even close. He'd been a fool. I know her better than I know myself.

He couldn't stop reliving the memory of the day before, of waking up to see her face so close to his. They hadn't moved during their sleep; his body half on top of hers. Warmth and other things made the muscles in his legs, back and shoulders feel luxuriously supple and comfortable. The softness beneath had been luring and he'd wrapped his arms around it before something registered that pillows shouldn't breathe. Blinking awake he'd snuffled against the soft warmth before stilling. Before remembering. Before looking.

Before seeing.

He'd stared at her like he'd been struck.

It was… perfect.

All of it falling into place like a missing piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he'd been building.

Unable to help himself, he'd pulled up a little higher than her on the bed and leant on his elbow. With hesitant fingers – and a held breath – he'd loosened a curl of her hair, only to let it fall leaving traces of tea tree and Felicity on his skin. He could smell her there, on the palm of his hand, resonating through him; like she'd always been there. It caused an urge; one he was desperately glad she wasn't awake to notice – or feel. A burst of electricity shooting down his spine, tightening his thighs, curling his toes.

But he'd ignored it; too interested in the small pucker between her brows, the plump set of her lips oddly emphasised because she wore no makeup and... her.

It made her unbelievably touchable and he'd had to. He'd had to touch her again.

So he did; he'd touched her face, tracing invisible paths and adoring how supple her skin was. Wondered what it would feel like to nuzzle against her cheeks. Her cheeks and her chin. her Nothing was ignored in his perusal… it was all soft, strong skin. Skin that made his own tingle and tighten.

Where his fingers had touched and smoothed and stroked, a trail of a pinkish bloom had eventually followed in his wake. Which was how he knew he'd woken her. So lusciously gratifying, that he could instil that kind of reaction in her, it made his heart pound and caused his stomach to contract as the anticipation of her opening her eyes to this - to him touching her - grew.

He'd never wanted to see anyone wake up to him lying next to them before, as much as he did then.

They'd lain there in the quiet and it hadn't surprised him how much he'd wanted to stay right there. How much he'd wanted to ignore their problems and concerns. And that was how he'd realised - because if there was something Oliver Queen did very well it was to focus on the difficulties in his life. And he never, ever traded it for his own happiness. So, it was how he knew.

Heaven exists.

It was just that… his paradise wasn't waiting for him after death.

It's right here, in Felicity's face and her touch. In her presence. It was begging to love him and be loved in return, because wasn't that the greatest thing you could ever know on earth? To wholly love… and be loved just as deeply in return?

It was something Thea once said. Probably got it from a movie.

But then a knock at the door had forced the world outside to be seen and heard. Everything he'd been feeling had been reflected back at him in her gaze. A gaze that told him she didn't need more. She didn't need him to change because she liked, loved, every part of him. How scary that was. She'd long since accepted the darker truths of Oliver Queen and had found herself more than equal to the task of facing them. Of accepting them in ways he never could. With her, he'd tasted the sun. She was easily the strongest of them all…

And this isn't the time.

God, he wanted it to be. But he didn't want to have to stop with words alone, because without the actions to prove their meaning they were just platitudes.

Taking a breath – he had to if his brain kept reeling off in spirals he shouldn't be considering – he caught her doing the same, her mouth still forming 'oh.' It wasn't a word, but it might as well have been coming from her: sentences of meaning in one minute, seamless sound.

Making him think that maybe everything in her had quietened. Was silenced.

By me. His jaw clenched. Something only I can do.

That possibility, that he was to blame for that, that he could quieten the noise in her mind, that he could be her solace…

She'd already told him she felt safe with him. He was her safe place. So it wasn't much of a step to think that he could bring her peace. It wasn't something he'd ever given a woman, wasn't something he'd granted. So it was hard to imagine. It was impossible... but doing the impossible had become his and her wheelhouse. It felt right.

Like an 'Us'.

Us.

Something else he'd never experienced.

She was giving him everything. How could she not see that she was that 'everything'?

He cleared his throat, eyes flickering to and from her as she stood on the other side of the library table, suddenly uncomfortable at all the words crammed in his chest.

But her eyes were bright. She didn't move, she just continued to look at him.

Looking at me like that is dangerous for her.

Then she whispered, "You're blushing." A small smile began to bloom on her face. And he was; heat spreading down his throat, mimicking all the things he kept quiet. "I don't think I've ever seen you blush before."

Surprised, a husky laugh escaped him and he knew how he looked. That his eyes were lighter than they'd been in years because he could feel it; her influence under his skin. Smile, wide – he couldn't help it, the more he looked at her – he shook his head at her. I can't answer that. There was no way he could produce words right now. Not with the emotions he'd bottled up bubbling in his throat.

Not with how she took his breath away with the look in those brilliant eyes of hers. "What were you thinking about?"

Letting out a shaky exhale, he sucked in a deeper breath but didn't stop staring into her. Couldn't. His smile faltered but it wasn't due to some sudden unhappiness. It was that ache he felt for her, the lull of a need that throbbed through his core making him take her question seriously. He briefly closed his eyes and when they opened again, it was all there for her to see. Every single thing he'd been thinking and feeling in the past few minutes, in the past couple of day, in the past year written in his eyes.

Though love was a definite factor, lust was the primary flare that caught her. His darkened gaze speaking of devotion, the way his brow begged her not to travel down a road he couldn't attempt right then and there...

A shuddering breath lifting her chest, her mouth open and soft - pliant – her eyelids fluttered away and he caught her swallow. When her eyes replied in kind, he felt like he'd been hit with a sledge hammer.

She didn't blink or look away.

. . . . . . .Pain.

Standing there, mouth open, he almost stumbled on air.

Fuck. Me.

He'd had no clue that Felicity could look at him like that. That any woman could look at him like that. That any woman could want him – me – as much as she obviously did right then.

Like she could eat him whole but she'd be the one begging for more at the end. Like she wanted him to go to her, right then and there, tear off her panties and make her moan the way he wanted her to moan. Like she was offering to keep him warm, keep him sated, make him whole. Like she was giving him permission to not be a gentleman - it was easy because she knew he was - all the while understanding that now wasn't the time.

All this had only started because she'd been cleaning that crossbow, because she'd explained to him how she'd been practicing in private simply because she'd wanted to connect to him and maybe prove to herself she could.

For a few seconds he completely forgot what he was supposed to say. Brain blown.

Yes, it was a good thing that there were people in the room next door. It stopped him from acting on the very real need to kiss the life out of her, to take her away and be with her.

But then we'd never come up for air.

Not that this was a bad thing…

A giggle escaped from her, breaking through the tension, probably at how serious their tension was and he chuckled too, awkwardly. A hand lifted to the back of his neck in the hopes of wiping away even a small trace of the desire he felt. It wasn't dry there.

Damn, he was sweating.

"Oliver."

It was automatic, how his eyes closed. Oliver.

Then they opened again and he knew his expression was beyond affection at this point. "Hm?"

"If you can't get through to me, call my name."

The words made zero sense… until they didn't.

A slow frown started to furrow on his forehead because, not happening: we are not having this conversation. Even if it was smart. "Felicity…"

She smiled at him and the confidence there made the apprehension in his back seep away as quickly as it had come. "Oliver, I'm going to be fine. But if something sets me off, I need you to come to me." Her words were quiet, a whisper of a touch on his skin. "Come to me and say my name. Get my attention."

Taking in a deep breath he nodded, wishing he could make this better when she spoke again, in a murmur.

"If it's you I think I'll hear it. If it's you."

It almost broke him, not touching her then. "If it's you asking." The words were hoarse and he'd wobbled slightly in the middle, but that didn't subtract from how much he meant them.

A promise. An eternal vow. And she couldn't deny it because, thinking back, he'd done everything she'd ever asked of him – and she hadn't asked a lot.

"Felicity Smoak."

It was a murmur, like she'd murmured to him.

And… It reached her. She stopped.

Of course she did. He'd asked, so she did. If he'd had any reservations about being right - that her feelings were on par with his - they were obliterated on the spot.

He'd seen it in Roy. In Slade. Neither had backed off when he'd asked them to. It had been Shado, the reminder of her, which had gotten through to Slade. It was the reminder of Thea that brought Roy back to them.

It was his voice, his presence, which allowed Felicity to return to him.

Between movements, her arm - holding the sword - slightly raised and bent and her legs apart, her frozen form made her look like a sculpture come to life.

Nyssa doubled back, standing off at the side. Waiting. Watching. The satin soft material of her mask now in tatters on the floor. Sara… didn't move at all. Her hands gripped her weapon so tightly he could hear her leather gloves give way but she didn't move a muscle. And Laurel made to stand, keeping quiet, eyes flickering from one person to the other.

His attention was caught elsewhere…

To the loose pieces of Felicity's hair that brushed against her face when her head moved.

Blue, blue eyes finally flashed to his. They were cleared fully of the blank aggression he'd seen there before. They were wet, glittering, and he knew it was with the anguish she was feeling - probably so strongly she was choking on it - at her lack of control. They sang stories, those eyes. Poignant in their emotions…

Gentling as they naturally displayed that she loves him.

God, Felicity.

He slowly lowered his bow - done in by everything that was her and glorying in that fact - and her mouth opened as he did, a small clogged breath releasing words that hurt to hear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Oliver; I hurt Laurel."

She looked heartbroken. Like it meant something more that she'd touched Laurel and not someone else. Like she'd passed a line. Like she thought he'd be devastated by it.

She took a deeper breath: it sounded like she had asthma. "I just… I didn't-"

Sara cut in, emotionless. "You had her by the throat. And you didn't let her go."

Bow in one hand, Oliver - who didn't look away from Felicity - saw her eyes close, saw her nod and press her lips together.

Like she was waiting for scorn.

His hands tightened, jaw clenching and if he'd loved Felicity any less, he'd have rounded on Sara. But he didn't. He couldn't. Felicity was right there and she came first. Always.

It didn't matter that half of the women he'd slept with in the past two years were in the same room; it didn't mean he had to do shit. They didn't compare. What he'd had with them didn't come close. Not to this.

So... yes. He was done with listening to voices from the past. Done letting doubts from others cloud his judgement.

Not once did his eyes leave her, from where she stood all bold and bright… and judged.

Enough. He moved then, striding purposefully towards her. Enough now honey.

Tunnel vision; call it what you will but she was all he could see. Her eyes flew open when she heard his bow clatter to the floor - none of that mattered without her anyway, not the bow that she'd created, not the suit that she'd mended countless times, none of it - and they widened at the intention she saw in his own.

As he absently yanked the gloves from his hands, dropping them on the floor too, he left her no time to process it, left her no room to react.

Like he was being drawn, his hands came up and before he knew it he was there.

As if he'd done it 1000 times and would continue for more than 1000 more, his palms cupped her cheeks, fingers tracing strands of hair - she felt so small in his hands, she fit perfectly. His eyes fixed on hers, watching the slew of emotions appear and disappear one after the other, partial to how they briefly fluttered closed at his touch and he understood this, that need - took it in his stride - because yes, it was a lot to feel. He was right there with her.

I'm here. You're safe.

Heart hammering - because this time his instincts were in control and it was so different to before – it rang in his ears, cancelling out any other sound but the ones she might make.

There was nothing to think about, nothing to discuss. No thoughts in his head of anything other than them. Just them two.

It was an instinctive fall, his face closing in on hers. No pause this time, no slight hesitation hinging from him, waiting for her to come to him. She needed to feel this. And he didn't care who was watching, who was there; they didn't reach his notice, not now. Not here.

Pulling her in, his warm lips found her cool ones. A hard press, taking her shaky gasp into himself and every part of his body honed in on that like a shark. The heat of her mouth reached south, down to deeper muscles and nested there. Building.

It wasn't sweet, wasn't a gentle expression.

It was hunger. Undeniable. Honest; for once, honest.

It was a dream...her closed eyes, the dark lashes on her skin. Her. It was truth. It was love. It was sex and every golden, hopeful promise. It was his soul connecting to hers, saying words that couldn't be spoken.

It was Oliver and Felicity.

It was…

Magic.

That's what he felt. Magic. Like coming home.

I'm home.

Body against every single inch of her - revelling in that intimacy; how he was hers and was submitting to it just as he was claiming - She was so soft in comparison to his hard lines. His head slanted, fingers fully sliding into her hair as she opened up under him, skin tingling as her mouth sucked in his top lip…

Felt her fingers touch his wrists. Felt her push upwards into the kiss. Felt her chest expand, as if she were fighting to breathe him in deep… like he'd imagined she'd want to only better.

Felicity.

His tongue slid inside just as his eyes squeezed shut.

---

She'd heard him.

She always would.

"FELICITY!"

She'd heard him that first time; control of her mind came back faster than her body. It's me, so, yeah. So it inevitably took a while for her to stop fighting.

But it was supremely more difficult to handle when Nyssa stabbed her through her thigh.

"Fel-i-city."

Yet that had done it. It broke through. Broke through the veil of anger and cold calculus that wasn't her, not at all.

"Felicity Smoak."

I love how he says my name. Like it was the answer to all his questions, his prayers. Maybe it was completely ridiculous to think such things but… with the way he'd looked at her too…

So dark in the factory, his eyes had appeared a very dark green. It gave him gravitas and she decided she liked it. Liked knowing that on dark nights, liked it in places darker than this, in the cesspools of society where real; evil roams and they look upon the Arrow... and gulp.

And she liked it even more when those eyes were on her own.

It was as if she'd been lost and he'd found her.

Maybe it was the shadow of his hood covering his face but, they'd gleamed. He hadn't once blinked; his face a strict example of control if there ever was one because what he looked like he wanted to do wasn't for polite company.

Then the big red stop sign hit her: she remembered what she'd done and who she'd done it to. Laurel. I hurt Laurel. I beat down Isabel and, yes, she's a raging bitch machine but no one deserves to have their face creamed in. Apologising had felt trite – it wasn't enough – and Sara's icy reply...

Then, of course, Oliver did exactly what he wanted to do. Shockingly. Thoroughly.

Which led her to right now… the unthinkable. It should be capitalised. That the absurd became the only possible road to travel on.

She'd felt so discombobulated, so overdrawn and guilty and she hadn't felt like herself. Yet now…

Now she felt like herself. Now she couldn't think. Couldn't breathe - didn't want to, what use was air - or speak. Stunned senseless.

He'd gone to her, ignoring the others - he didn't even look at Laurel or Sara and that boggled her even more than she was already seriously boggled - and touched her like she was priceless.

Oliver.

She felt it everywhere, his kiss.

His kiss. Again, he'd kissed her. And he wasn't short on technique, wasn't lacking affection… making love to her mouth.

He wouldn't have kissed me if he was upset with me for Laurel... Right?

He couldn't be… not when the feel of him touched her toes. Not when he lit up a current along her spine before shooting through each nerve in her body. Fingers of warmth trailing down into her chest, into her heart and staying there.

She'd thought about how it would be. Countless times, she'd wondered. And dreamed, whilst denying to herself that it never would. When he'd kissed her hours before, it had fulfilled every fantasy. But this…

It was blinding.

Until something inside her reacted. It was primal, that response. It was the part of her she'd buried since 'I'm not going to hurt you Felicity' and 'Thank you'.

There'd been a lot to fill that tank this year.

Feeling him, his essence reaching inside her, he dug deep; hitting that spot, the place where he lived. Marking himself there on her soul; he made himself a home.

That was it. Thank God. There was no return. Finally.

It was communicated from his skin and into hers. This was what he wanted, all he wanted and for once, he was taking it and making it theirs.

She'd have laughed, cried, if her attention wasn't so taken elsewhere.

Floating.

Soft, his lips really were incredible. Processing how perfectly they fit against her fuller set was impossible.

Initially, it was hard, unbreakable. But it was still a caress, still a worship of mouths and hearts and hands.

There was too much to feel and her eyes closed fast because of it. Too much to comprehend.

And her hands moved without her telling them to; her arms lifting, unknowing of their destination until her fingers touched his wrists. Until her hands gripped them.

As if they didn't know where to go first – because all of it, everything, felt so good – her fingers linked between his own on her face before sliding back over his skin as she moved with him. One trailed down his arm – cool leather under hand – until it touched the skin of his neck.

I like it there... At his neck.

The thumbs on her cheeks tightened, his fingers digging firmly into her scalp, holding her closer. Keeping her with him. Like he couldn't get enough, like he needed deeper, harder, hotter. More.

That was completely fine. So did she. Like a wave, she felt that.

Pushing up on her toes, her mouth pressed so roughly into his, their teeth clashed; both of them opening up in a shock of gasps and jumping pulses. Desire made physical, making them jolt.

Nose bumping against his own, her exhale landed heavily on his skin. Lips sucking in one of his, her tongue lapped at the light sweat gathered there after hours of fighting. Loving his taste, knowing that she would. Feeling his hands tremble - his diaphragm expanding into her stomach, love that too - as her fingers scraped over the scruff of his jaw, something she'd wanted to do since the very beginning and the gritty sound moved though her like a pulse.

His head twisted, slanting his mouth firmly over hers - another amazing reminder of his strength and size - as his forearms curved over her shoulders, fitting her into him.

It was natural – kismet – how she opened for him again.

Then feel of his hot, wet, tongue searching her mouth and sliding over her own, made her melt.

Made her moan, made lights flash behind her eyes. It's been a while and this is Oliver. Made something deep inside her echo take me and mine.

Made his mouth open further to shudder a sound into hers, one that came from his chest, one low and quiet and real – like he honestly couldn't help it – and it buzzed through her skin before he was taking her breath away again. Body folding around hers, a hand dropped from her scalp to wrap fast down past her bunching shoulders. Pressing. Securing.

Just as she melted, she leaned into him in kind; her hips against his hips, her thighs against his thighs, her chest against his chest… the hand on his jaw moving to his ear and further still, until her fingers were slipping into the short hair at the top of his spine. Until her other arm rounded his head.

They couldn't get closer if they tried.

And they did; they tried.

Rougher now, the kiss deepened…and that's when she really felt it. She felt them. Felt what they were, what they could be, what they were becoming. God, this is how we kiss. She'd hoped it would be this good, this dizzying, this distracting.

More.

Like he was caught in a fever, the hand in her hair fisted in her locks - her bobble had fallen to the floor long ago - and the other tugged her closer, his hand twisting in her jumper.

It was like a spasm, the pleasure she felt form that. From his hands and his leg that pushed between her own. Grasping his head in her arm and hands she began kissing him so forcefully that her lips stretched enough to hurt. He responded, fast, with a guttural kind of grunt.

Stop. Stop Felicity.

Once, twice, she kissed him again, strongly – each one a loud smack – before taking a haggard breath against his lips, eyes still closed and it took everything in her not to move back in.

She felt it in her system. Mirakuru. And for some reason, kissing Oliver lit it up. I could hurt him. I could... hurt Oliver. Through a kiss.

And he gave her that, gave her breathing room.

But he didn't give her space.

Her eyes rolled back into her head at the rasp of his beard on her skin, at the feeling of his nose grazing her cheek, inhaling her scent. His lips sucked down the line of her jaw to her ear, nipping there, hearing him pant as his teeth pulled at the arrowhead-bar before he was quickly taking her mouth again.

This kiss was slow. Much slower. Like a rolling drum.

Royally sucking in her lower lip, his head bent over her so that she had to tip hers back. Slipping her arms down through his to cover his back, her fingers clung to the leather and she felt his heart thunder beneath her touch. There was an almost imperceptible quiver that went through him at how much he was visibly putting into this, into how much she was giving him back. Leaving her imprinted; on him and inside him.

The kiss ended without actually ending. And that was how a good kiss should be really.

A second smooch closed in on the end of it – and it was a smooch.

There was a light lapping sound that was slightly wet and should have been gross to hear but really wasn't as he tasted her tongue again - just the tip - but his real aim was to take in her lower lip once more. A third press in the same place followed by a peck, also slow because she was memorising how that felt: the touch of both his lips against both of hers. And he wanted her to feel it, so he stayed right where he was, until she was done. Though she never would be would she? She'd never be well and truly done with him…

Lips parting, he didn't pull back. They didn't break. Didn't move away, and she didn't know what she would have done if he had. Their eyes remained closed and they were still so tightly wrapped around the other; the chemistry between them a physical hum.

It was almost surreal.

Breathing in each other's breaths, their mouths still touched.

That was... is a word even available to describe this?

Unbelievable? Earth moving? Ground shifting and sky bending? Life changing? Heart shattering?

You read about this kind of thing: you don't experience it. It wasn't supposed to be real.

He's ruined me. She couldn't bring herself to be even a little annoyed by that.

Eventually Oliver exhaled. It was ragged.

Guh.

Words Felicity, use words...

But she was so overcome... and he was so enticing.

She didn't know what to do or what to say but her tongue immediately licked at the air - as if she could taste his breath - and the tip touched his lips again. A little moan escaped him - his hand re-visiting her hair, pressing her closer to him, didn't think that was possible at this point - and she gulped when he shuddered into her.

Then the panic kicked in - such a mood killer - as she guessed that if she lost herself in him once more, she'd lose her tenuous grip on her strength. I don't want to hurt him.

She needed to see if all was well in Oliver Land. She needed him to form words and tell her truths... but he seemed as helplessly mute as she and it wasn't helping that she was super wonderful with the whole thing.

Focus. Trying to speak, I really am, she utterly failed. Come on. Nope, not happening... because she could smell him.

Do you know just how good Oliver Queen smells? Come rain or shine, through sweat and blood, against tears and weird environmental or chemical and substances, he smells divine. Purely an Oliver scent. Like a pheromone.

So the words wouldn't form.

But all thoughts ceased being created in her mind when she felt the feather light touch of his forehead to hers. It was automatic, how she stopped breathing. It should have been terrifying to her for a man or anyone really, to have as much influence over her but obviously she was screwed because, man, she just wanted more. All of it. Everything.

His nose brushing down her cheek made her try to focus on him; he was so close his eyes were the only things she could discern, so close that she see the grey flecks on the blue of his iris.

And what those eyes told her… it was unfathomable. Like he loved everything he could see in her. Like he'd taken a dip in the not so deep pool that was Felicity Smoak subconscious and was revelling in what he'd discovered. Pupils blown in the dim light, breathing heavy he looked into her and didn't stop. Didn't move.

But he did speak.

"You never have to apologise to me." Raw. His modulator wasn't switched on but the reservoir of feeling he was obviously experiencing - and the fact that Oliver Queen was 1000% Alpha male - made his tone, his voice, a jagged vibration. "Not ever."

It hit a very female part of her and her lashes fluttered.

Boy.

Yep; she was screwed.

The love in his voice…like a vow.

And… he'd just let her off the hook. But, Laurel… Sara.

She licked her lips, trying to shake her head. He shouldn't do that. "But I-"

"Not your fault." He whispered and it sounded so kind. "I know you." His eyes flickered over her face. "Not your fault."

Taking him in, it was almost too much to hope for that to be true. But she could tell; he believed it. He believed in her the way she believed in him; he must, otherwise he'd have never asked her to inject the cure into Slade Wilson should she be given the chance. He'd never been able to be anything other than honest with her.

And yet…

"I hurt her." Laurel. She could think the name a thousand times and the image of Oliver pining after said woman the year before, seeking her in Verdant and watching her when she was with Tommy. "You're Laurel." As she always would be. Her mouth moved but zero sound escaped.

But he read her lips and something rippled over his brow.

He disagreed.

"You were protecting yourself."Gaze boring into hers, he shook his head; a small frown emphasising his next words, words spoken so quietly only she could hear them. "And Laurel was never mine." The frown left as swiftly as it had come, only to be replaced by tenderness. "I was never hers."

And, oh, when he said it like that - like it was a given that he'd always get her, get me, get Felicity – it made her want to fall into him and never come up for air.

Deep breaths, Felicity.

He arched a brow at her silence and murmured. "Okay?"

"Okay," she whispered softly, tiny bit besieged because he was looking at her like that and she was only human, before tentatively asking, "What about you?"

He mouthed, "What?"

"Did I…" This is really embarrassing. "Just now, when we were… did I, er…" How am I supposed to word this? "I'm really strong now." She floundered but he just waited for her, wow. "And I don't want to ever hurt you, for any reason…"

She was just making it worse, but thankfully Oliver spoke fluent Felicity.

"No." The look in his eyes was so sweet, so absolute in his need for her to see that she'd done nothing to reproach herself for. Oliver. Sweet. "You didn't." He muttered, more into her than as actual words and voice. She felt them, his breath warm. "I'm... perfect."

Perfect.

I didn't hurt him.

And he was. Perfect. He really was.

Eyes searching his, her relief made her try for a smile and it was nervous, hesitant. "Yeah?"

Feeling his Adam's apple shift - a swallow - he pulled back. Like, an inch.

"Yes."

And he just gazed at her; like it was all he could do.

Loose lips sink ships and hers just couldn't be stopped because he was tall, he was in green leather and he was Oliver. What's a girl to do? "I knew you'd be a good kisser." She breathed, like, she should have realised he'd be so well versed and she was an idiot for not knowing it before hand.

Oh god.

Something flashed through him then – a shock of something free and easy and simple – and a breathy sound escaped him. There was humour in it.

All embarrassment fled because maybe he liked her quirk for babbling. "You've definitely kissed a lot of people." She backtracked. "But you've, ah," she took a breath, her smile more her, more I love you; "you've kind of ruined me. For other guys."

And she told him with her eyes that she did, that she loved him. She hadn't said the words but he knew her. Down to her soul, he knew her. Knew that here, in his arms, she felt safe. Knew that even though she was in his arms, it was like a dream. That he'd need to hold her often so that she'd eventually believe it a reality.

In the past year, their small talks and touches, their glances and actions had told her he'd be able to out manoeuvre her on any day. But he never would.

So he could see it; as if written in her eyes he could see everything…

He trembled. Just a little, right after she'd spoken. And he looked so open to her right then, more open than ever before. A little fragile and a lot hopeful.

Slowly, his hand left her hair, bringing it forward to hold her cheek. He exhaled through his nose and his chest pushed into hers on his next deep inhale.

Blue, not grey blue or green blue but blue - the bluest of blues - stared into her; all tender, gooey and dark.

Sexy.

"Good."

Throaty.

Damn it.

Then he smiled… and she knew this was it. This was forever.

Because as easy natured as it was, as warm as it was, it was also hers. Oliver – in general – wasn't an easy going man. Not at all. She'd never seen him look at anyone else the way he was looking at her right now. And, sure, she hadn't been with him 100% of the time but… with each of his soft blinks - like he was making snapshots of her and saving them in his brain - that sweet smile on his face that made her want to, weirdly, pinch his cheeks - became so gentle and so affectionate, it touched her somewhere deep inside.

And it asked questions that smile:

Is this okay? Can I do this with you now? I've wanted to, for so long. Can I belong to you? Can I ask you never to look at another the way you're looking at me right now? Can I be happy that I've ruined you for other guys? I believe in you so can I believe in this too?

How was she supposed to stop groping him now?

His proximity shook her to the core and she shivered; her exhale shaky and softest of sounds left him; light and incurable.

Yes. Everything was going to be fine. Everything would be alright now. She was back and Oliver was here with her.

Licking her lips - his eyes dropped immediately to them and she didn't know blue could flare but they really could because his did - a laugh, that was more a disbelieving gasp than anything else, quietly came from her.

Because this was actually happening to them.

She drank him in. "Hi."

Lips twitching, his arms lightly squeezed her. "Hi."

Being this close, there was nothing to be said: on the receiving end of his kisses, his soft words, killer touches and tender stares, there was literally nothing she could do or say against it, against what she read on his face.

As if he knew - of course he did - he took in another deep breath, not breaking eye contact. "You feel good."

She stared.

He nodded to himself, the gap between his eyes creasing with soulful sentiment, "you feel really good."

Swallowing - his eyes were flickering all over her now and there was something in that - her mouth opened to say words again but-

"I've wanted to do that for a while." His voice husky, he took his time with the rest. "I knew it would be incredible. But I didn't think you'd feel this good." Pressing his lips together, he shook his head… and there was something oddly sad about it. She started to frown but then he spoke again. "I didn't know it could feel this good."

Oh. "Oliver." It was a quiet groan, a 'you're killing me', one that obviously reached him…

She felt his finger stroke gently under her chin, felt his knuckles there. She caught another smile, a small one. But his face, everything about him, shined with it.

Wow.

Would there ever be a point where he stopped being wonderful? They'd only just begun and his more than usual tenderness was hitting her, square in the gut.

His nose nudged hers - once, twice - playfully and a sound escaped her that she could only describe as a giggle. My former Goth-self would be horrified.

But he was stunning; she could look into his eyes all day and never want to stop.

Which was why she witnessed as they started to do this thing, his eyes. This breathless little quiver as a light flew into them, the kind she'd never seen in there before, the kind Felicity figured he hadn't known he could generate because he blinked with it too; an actual flutter of lashes.

It was faith. It was anticipation. Optimism.

He looked… happy. Ridiculously happy. He's happy.

And though she'd love to lay its cause all over their kiss; a kiss was just a kiss, an earth shattering kiss, but it was a kiss nonetheless.

No, he was simply happy. Just that.

He was holding his world in the palm of his hands.

How… how could Laurel have spent so much time pushing him away, throwing bitterness and regret in his direction when this could have been hers? How could Sara not want to even try working with him towards a common goal? How could Helena think of leaving him, even for a night, to wreck revenge when this stunning man was waiting for her to see the light?

Flawed relationships they may have been - on both sides of that coin - but still…how?

If she hadn't realised it before - and I did because I'm not an idiot - she'd have figured it out then that she'd just hit the jackpot.

Whatever he saw in her face made his smile grow, revealing teeth, making him look like he never wanted to come up for air, which was exactly what she was saying to him with every facet of her being. She felt so comfortable being where she was, in his arms.

Haltingly - she could do this now, right, because she'd dreamed of touching him when he was wearing his leather suit - her hands straightened his hood; she'd pulled it off his head between kisses. She checked his expression before she pushed up off the floor again, wanting to be as close as possible. Needing to connect again.

Gaze warm - a big fat 'yes please' - he bent his head, his thigh muscles tightening to brace them both - she loved the feel of that too - as he made to touch her mouth with his. "Felicity-"

"-Exactly like that. Like I'm listening to the replay."

Who's voice it was didn't fully register but Felicity jolted in his hands. Hands that didn't leave her.

Wait…

Realisation dawned on her. Frack. They'd both completely forgotten they had an audience, all with their own grudges to bear. Except maybe Nyssa, who seemed to only be there for the fun of it. Yet...

Oopsie.

Oliver's eyes slid shut.

Biting down on her lip, her teeth grazed his mouth and his eyes came back to hers. But a jagged furrow started to grow on his brow, marring the peace she'd been waiting close to 2 years to continue seeing after only five minutes of basking in it. And it hurt that it was so short lived. Give the man a break.

They probably could have handled it better though: making out like star-crossed lovers. But she'd been panicking and hating herself for any prior damage done on her part and he'd been... he'd been Oliver. He'd been trying to make her feel better with something that made sense to him.

And he was in love with her.

Ergo; kiss of the century.

Now that her face was further from his - great, moment gone, I'll really miss you - she could see that his was slightly pinkish. Like he'd been blushing. Or flushed. Heated.

Huh...well that's super nice, mm hm. It was nice, not being the only one who lights up like a Christmas tree.

Plus his mouth looked red too and kind of… swollen. I take 100% of the credit… yum.

It took everything in her not to grin like a maniac.

Watching those lips press together – and they were very nice lips – Oliver lifted his head, thumb carelessly brushing her cheek, glancing away.

Apologetic.

Oliver. She watched him sigh. Like sand slipping through her fingers, there went the beatific expression that had been there just now on his even more beautiful face. Wearing thin until it disappeared entirely. Weary impatience replaced it. He looked frustrated. But not with her.

"It's disgusting, but then you're you. Right, Oliver? You just couldn't help yourself."

What?

Isabel?

The words confused her.

Both puzzled, they turned together, his hands refusing to let her go. And that absently soothed something inside her she hadn't realised needed soothing. In front of Laurel Lance, his first love. In front of Sara, his kindred spirit. In front of Isabel, his beautiful lay.

His hands. Didn't. Leave. Her.

All those times she'd seen him with other women, that wound had widened. It had been utterly unintentional; she was a smart cookie and would never ever allow herself become such a hopeless romantic that she'd deliberately wait for a man - regardless of whether or not she loved him - who didn't and would never, return her affections.

But he did, he does.

And, if she was right - if everything he was telling her in his words and actions was correct - he had done so for quite some time.

It threw his 'I can't be with something that I could really care about' speech into a new perspective.

So now, seeing the heavy set of his jaw, the very clear disinclination in his eyes - that he had to now let the world back in - and feeling the way his hands were unwilling to leave her, that she couldn't recall him ever having touched Sara like this in the Foundry - openly affectionate - made the wound feel like a speck of dust in the wind.

Heaven is a place on earth.

There was so much they still needed to do, so much they still needed to-

"Was that the only time you said her name?"

The words, stressed, were sort of overdone and something about them…

Looking behind her - a hand fell from her face but the other tread gently to her neck - Felicity caught sight of Isabel Rochev, still resting against the pipes in the corner; blood mattered on her face and in her hair - I think I ripped her mask off - but otherwise, completely healed.

Good.

But her stomach dropped at the look on her face; the sneer, the superiority… she hadn't finished, not by a long shot. But it appeared she at least subconsciously understood when she was physically beaten because she didn't rise. Didn't make to retrieve her swords. Didn't move a muscle.

She just smirked. At Oliver.

"What are you talking about?" As if he was very much in line with never speaking to this woman again, with good cause, as if turning towards the occupants of the room was analogous to a physical pain and as if every word out of his mouth was a hardship - like crawling over broken glass - Oliver sounded… done.

But then Isabel's words surfaced in her head and… Oh, god.

She wouldn't. She couldn't.

Crap on a cracker.

This was Isabel and Isabel absolutely would.

Felicity attempted an intervention because the new shine in Isabel's eyes was borderline 'the Omen' evil. "I think that-"

"That's how you said her name." Isabel reiterated, sending a quick glance of gleeful hatred in Felicity's direction. Geez, what did I do to you in a past life? But she knew really; heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Nell a fury like a woman scorned. Isabel had been rejected - royally - by the best of them; the original Queen Player, Robert Queen.

She wasn't above taking it out on the Queen heirs; a man she loathed because he reminded her of his father and his sister who she blamed for taking Robert away from her when she broke her leg as a child.

"Wasn't it?" Her eyes back on Oliver's, Isabel made of a show of looking oh so innocent. "Wasn't that exactly like how you said it? Do you remember?"

It took a moment, a moment of silence as Oliver frowned at the psychotic mess of a CEO, a moment where Felicity held her breath as her eyes flashed towards an unmoveable Sara and an equally imposing Nyssa. Why were they just standing there?

Why am I just standing here?

Confused, Oliver bit out. "Russia?"

Then Isabel said the magic words, with a smile so horribly wide it made her attractive face look ugly.

"Russia." She emphasised; a curl of the tongue over the word that made Felicity shiver and not in delight."That night in your hotel room." He blinked and Isabel went right for it. "During - when you came."

Oliver stilled.

Just in case he still didn't get it, Isabel saw fit to educate him some more.

"You said Felicity." She close-to hissed.

The expression on his face… like a plank of wood had hit him over the head. And the sudden slope of his brow... guilt. He knew. He'd always known.

And Felicity couldn't bring herself to concentrate on that, not a bit. Heart dropping like a stone into her stomach, she had no clue what to do about this. Her eyes flickered everywhere, a flush of something sweeping through her and she wasn't sure if it was supreme awkward discomfort at being so very put on display, embarrassment - for Oliver - or a clotting sore of something she truly wished she didn't feel right then. Or ever.

Jealousy.

It wasn't exactly a burning fire of green animosity; it was more a general lukewarm resignation, stemming from an overabundance of acknowledgement of the many women Oliver Queen had slept with prior to this moment.

With none of them being her.

No, she would never allow herself to be a quick fling in a foreign country. And she wouldn't allow herself to enter into a relationship that was based primarily on a mere past connection, on hiding from loneliness (because she'd rather be alone, by herself, than alone in a crowd). Never would she ever, deny herself the pleasure of loving a man because bitterness was a more enticing bed friend.

So, maybe it was a mute point.

That didn't mean she didn't feel it though. And she'd never wanted to, because the respect she held for their friendship alone wasn't worth feeling that sting every time she was reminded of her unrequited feelings, feelings that had started almost immediately.

Not that she'd known immediately.

Seeing Oliver unconscious and bleeding on the table in the Foundry after his mother shot him… then she'd known. Like it had been forced down her throat. She'd faced it. She'd accepted it. And she'd promised never to a) bring it up and b) tell Oliver.

Since… it was unthinkable, right? Me and Oliver.

Except, now she knew it wasn't.

So the jealousy was even more ridiculous-

Three of the four women surrounding you have sampled the man you've made it your life's mission to keep alive

Slade? He hadn't uttered a peep; not since Nyssa shot an arrow into her. Okay, sample? That's so wrong. On so many levels.

But true

Right.

Pay attention; the way he is with you, the way he looks at you, holds you; I know Oliver

…Okay.

The way he just kissed you, he did it to make you feel safe in your own skin

Not that talking of kisses with you is creepy or anything, BTW it totally is-

Your jealousy stems simply from the fact that you haven't had the honour of holding your beloved in every intimate way imaginable

You're being very forward about this and I've got to tell you it's weird.

I want Oliver to be as happy as I would have been if Shado had never died; he can only be that way with you

That was… yep; she was floored.

How can you be so sure?

I've seen enough; from behind your eyes and from behind my own when I was more myself than a divide

It helped, sort of. It helped the slightly sick burn reduce to a small stomach clench.

But it also made her remember Russia.

Why her?

She'd asked him that.

Why a quick screw? Why not a loving relationship? Why with the woman who's trying to destroy your company? Why with a woman I know you don't even like?

…Why not come to me?

That was the worst part; that part of her, a small part, had wondered why - since she'd been in the building with him - he hadn't gone to her.

Of course; their friendship was crucial to him. It really was. He'd emphasised that point and that meant something to her because she valued their friendship too.

But then he'd killed the Count.

And his behaviour with Barry.

Their increased closeness and his affirmation that he needed her with him.

Then Sara.

After I can't be with something that I could really care about that had… hurt. Just a tad. Because he obviously could be with something he could really care about.

Except, now - knowing him in a way she'd never imagined she could - she realised that, to Oliver, really caring about someone meant knowing he could lose them but going for it anyway. It meant being honest with her, it meant telling her he loves her. It meant being absolutely unable to tolerate anything happening to her.

It meant being unable to live without her, because he'd given her his heart.

Oliver had given her his heart. He may have held her face in his hands but it had been his way of saying 'I'm yours'.

What else could she do but give it right back?

Pay attention.

Pulled away from her head - she hadn't even realised she'd slipped away - the first thing her eyes immediately took in was the hard smile on Isabel's face. It was aimed at her side. To Oliver. At-

He wasn't touching her.

Widening eyes went to him and… he'd backed away too. But he was still looking at her. Really looking. And what she saw in his gaze said everything. And it wounded her.

Because he looked broken.

Like a few nights prior, when Slade had tried to kill his family. When Oliver had begged.

As if a mirror had been smashed to pieces, as if a dream he'd been holding onto lay dead at his feet. As if in a single second, he'd lost the right to touch her.

As if he was expecting, absolutely expecting her to be disgusted with him. Like he was waiting for her to snap; to judge and verbally attack him. And he'd take it, every inch, every lash; all of it. Whether he deserved it or not.

It cut her deep, right through the bone.

Please don't do that.

Knowing that if she tried to move she'd fall - she couldn't feel her limbs, he'd taken the feeling right out if her with a single look - she took in a breath.

I could've handled that better too. Her brief stint to the twilight zone. Mentally leaving him by himself wasn't exactly the right thing to do at this moment. By the expression on his face, he'd taken her silence - her complete blackout - in a very wrong way.

He'd taken it as her being too shocked to react, as her being repelled.

Her eyes travelled over his face, heart racing as she tried to pick words, any words, with which to assure him that it wasn't an ugly confession to hear. It wasn't something to be ashamed of.

It was beautiful.

Yes, it would have been the very worst thing a man could have said to a woman. During sex. Definitely to women like Isabel.

Like Sara.

But… he'd said her name.

Had he whispered it? Had he shouted her name? Murmured it? Or was it hushed, like a secret? Moaned like a sin?

Oliver moaning her name… I really need to hear that.

She'd dream it in dreams, asleep or awake, until she did.

But now really wasn't the time to think about it. Or physically respond to it, like she was dying to.

Slowly, so slowly - and not in a good way, not at all - Oliver swallowed. Chest pushing out on what must have been the most painful inhale of his existence - screw water in the lungs - she caught his lips trying to form a word. One beginning with F.

My name.

Yet when his lips moulded to the first syllable he stopped himself, pressing them together.

Like he wasn't allowed.

She needed to nip that in the butt, pronto, before he suffered from any more misconceptions of her being offended by him-

"Did he do that with you?"

Oh shut up, right now.

Jaw clenching, Felicity glanced behind her: Isabel was watching Sara the way a cat would watch a mouse eat cheese.

"Did he say her name too?" It was said with the intent to harm.

And the response she received – even though she'd asked – was not the one she'd expected.

Silently Felicity begged Sara to keep quiet, to verbally nib Isabel's taunts in the butt: Sara was a lethal looking woman. She could do it.

However...

Standing as still as Felicity had ever seen her, Sara took in a breath and - oddly furtive and not a little shamefaced - she sent a brief glance at Oliver before swallowing and looking to the floor. When Nyssa let out a long, judgemental hiss of air - it sounded like a seething pot of boiling water - it was like a confirmation.

Frack!

Don't look at him.

Like she'd been slapped by a wet fish, Isabel appeared out of sorts. "You have got to be kidding me." She stated it so quietly...

Then the start of a cackle sounded from her throat: she looked like Christmas had come early. "This is just precious." Conniving humour flushing her features she glanced over to Oliver. "Really? Was it because she's the only one you hadn't had and you wanted to score a full house?"

It was like the crack of a whip.

Felicity couldn't help it then; she looked at Oliver.

And Oliver... looked devastated.

Staring at Sara then glancing to Isabel in a flicker of deeply vulnerable irises, he licked what appeared to suddenly be very dry lips and his face slowly lost its colour. Mouth open. Not breathing.

Words appeared in Felicity's throat then but before she could say them, Oliver snapped back to Sara.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Low and uneven, his words were almost growled. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Why did she let that continue?

...This was important to him.

And suddenly, it was important to Felicity too. Since she could see he was reaching for something, she halted her words - just for a minute.

"How was I supposed to tell you Oliver?" The speed of Sara's reply concerned Felicity because it told her just how much Sara had actually hated it. Hated that during their most intimate moment, she hadn't been the one he thought of. I get that. I do. "Afterwards? The first time?"

First time.

He flinched.

Sara's face, even behind her mask, was the epitome of hurt. "The second?"

Chest heaving, he took a step back as if distance would help. "Jesus." His hands coming up to roughly drag over his jaw to the back of his neck.

And Felicity couldn't reach for him, because taken a step away from her too.

"So what, you just," licking his lips Oliver's shoulders lifted; he didn't understand and it screamed from every action he took as he stared at Sara, "didn't say a word? How many times did I even say..." His eyes flickered to Felicity's and he looked so appalled at himself, so full of fear... "How many times Sara? How many would it take for you to do me the courtesy of saying something?"

For a moment Sara just looked at him.

Now? This is when we discuss this? It was all down to Isabel. Maybe she was stalling for time or something-

"How could I tell you? You were saying another woman's name when you were with me." Sara's head slowly shook. "How could I tell you that?"

But, as Felicity watched her – even feeling the surmounting sympathy for her situation – she could only think that... it wasn't enough.

Sara should have said something. It wasn't about whether she could or couldn't. She hadn't; instead she'd allowed herself to live inside a world that had never existed. And in so doing she'd dragged everyone else along for the ride. By force.

It was senseless... but the feelings arising from unmet expectations and emotions unearthed after being buried for years often are.

Obviously, Oliver's thoughts were on the same wave length as hers. "So, what, this was about pride?" Whispering, he beseeched her. "That isn't like you Sara."

Composure more than a little bent, Sara sighed. "Not pride." Sara shook her head. "Hope."

Slowly, the frown on Oliver's face deepened.

"It was... just about a dream I once had." Sara continued, directing everything at him. "About you and me. What we could have been."

It was so odd to see: Sara in all her leather clad glory, being soft. Affecting timidity. Instead of brushing off the moment for a suitable one, a more suitable time, the right time. Which is what she'd normally do.

And Nyssa was watching Sara like a hawk. But, Felicity saw no animosity there, no sadness. It was like Nyssa was simply waiting for Sara to make her point.

And she did.

"I had to take that chance."

"A chance that had a cost." Oliver forced out. On 'cost' Oliver finally slipped; his eyes found Felicity's. But what he found there... he swallowed. "It wasn't yours to take."

"Oh, didn't you know? She already knew." Isabel cut in, gesturing cavalierly in Felicity's direction. "Didn't look remotely surprised when I brought it up earlier."

"Why did you have to?." I sound like I've eaten a living crab. "I didn't realise just how much that must have hurt you."

You. The woman who'd sooner gauge his eyes out with a wooden spoon than confess affection, you who would destroy him and his family and yet slept with him the moment the world's back was turned. You, who loved his father but hated his mother, hated his kids because they came between you and a life with Robert Queen.

It got her Isabel's full attention... and Oliver's. He was looking between the two: at Felicity, a massive contrast to how he'd appeared as he'd kissed her, it was like he'd failed somehow. And at Isabel with confused loathing.

Isabel shifted but her expression remained coldly conceited. "Thought you should know why you were going to die. Not that I knew you'd been injected by Mirakuru."

I sense a hitch. "Slade didn't tell you he infected me himself?"

Something flickered in Isabel's eyes but before Felicity caught it, the woman's mouth snapped shut; any and all emotion on her face silencing.

"He didn't... did he?"

Yes it was cheeky. Yes she was goading.

But Isabel had brought up a very tender - very none of her or anyone else's business - subject matter and Felicity was more than willing to give a little back.

"Felicity."

Oh boy. Oliver.

Turning to him, she saw him tilt his head. "You knew?"

She blinked. Oh God. Should I have told him? After Sara explained that... should I have said something? He might see it as an early-in-the-relationship duplicity.

Pleadingly, Felicity shook her head, even though the answer was... "Yes." It was quiet, that word. I didn't want him to find out this way. But she'd never lied to him before. "I found out. Couple of days ago."

On instinct, her hand came up to straighten glasses that no longer sat there. She missed them, missed the comfort familiar habits could bring.

Face lined with the fear still prevalent, the emotion in Oliver's voice made him sound like he had a cold. "How?" For a long five seconds, Oliver watched her, his girl, who could only look back and struggle with what she didn't know how to express. "Who told you?"

Then out of nowhere - for whatever reason - the harsh crease to his brow softened until no trace of it existed. Instead it became such a loving and apologetic gaze that her heart pitter-pattered. "I know why you didn't tell me." With hushed words he reached out to her, his hand lifting as if it was a natural reaction for him, even though he was several paces away from her.

Bracing for impact she attempted an explanation. "Er, I ah..." Her eyes closed.

Epic fail.

But it seemed he had no need of it. And as always his departure from her was tender.

"It's okay." She heard him murmur.

Silence...

"Wait... that's what you talked to her about. Isn't it?" Flinching, Felicity peeked at him only to see his eyes back on Sara, the hand he'd held out now pointing in Sara's direction. "The other day? When you took her to the Foundry, you were late coming back." Leaning on one leg so he could gesture to his ex-girlfriend, Oliver's eyes narrowed in focus. "That's what you were telling her."

Sara... said nothing.

"Why did you have to do that?"

For a moment Felicity was sure he'd shout, because the way the contours of his face turned sharp, the way his brow seemed to split in half, the way his hands suddenly fisted... and the way Laurel suddenly shuffled away from him, like she could feel his temper told Felicity that Sara... had done something irreparable.

But it came out in a broken hash of muttered words and bite.

"How dare you."

Betrayal.

Everything about him screamed betrayal.

This was so much worse than a shout. And Sara wasn't a fool; she could see it, could feel it. And for the first time, Felicity glimpsed tears in those beautiful eyes of hers.

Like every word out of his mouth hurt to say, Oliver stopped and started. "Did... did you... like it? Rubbing that in her face?"

What? Stunned - absolutely baffled - Felicity watched as Oliver gestured to her even as his eyes flashed over Sara. "Did you explain it in detail too?"

"Ollie...no, I-"

"You don't tell me something I have a right to know but you do tell Felicity?"

Sara was so, so quiet. "You're telling me you never heard yourself?"

"I thought I'd imagined it. Once." The confession was delicately handled; without a raised voice but also without kindness. "I knew I said it with Isabel."

Wow.

Really?

Then why did he-

"But we weren't about anything past the moment." Out of oxygen, he took some, his stare slipping - slamming - into Felicity. "I buried it." He murmured, like they were alone together and he needed so much for her to understand. "I didn't think I could have..." he swallowed, "what I wanted. What I'd dreamt about."

Felicity took a step closer-

"I didn't know... the extent of what I felt." God, this was hurting him to say. Each of his words pressed into her chest. "In the past two days, both of you have left me little option but to justify my own feelings." This he said to Sara and Laurel and she wondered what she'd missed during her brief 'girl-talk' with the younger Lance sister. "To say things only Felicity should hear." Refocusing again on Sara, his voice started to elevate. "If you'd told me, all of it, sooner, maybe none of this would actually be happening. Maybe Felicity would never have been infected with Mirakuru."

Sara cleared her throat. "I don't think this is the time-"

"I think it is the time." Face taught, his words were almost growled. "I think now that we're all here, it is the perfect time."

There was a long pause. Then...

"Oliver." Laurel. Oddly enough, she seemed cautious. Like Oliver had shocked her. "Don't you think that Sara's just-"

"Why did either of you want me?" And he seemed so baffled by whatever was going on in his head - the subject change was indeed like a rollercoaster - it came out snarky. "Both of you decided, in the last three days, that I was an endgame."

That hit her. Like a bowling ball to the stomach, Felicity felt that.

Laurel... had made a play?

Slowly, she turned to the woman in question and she wasn't sure how she looked but the way Laurel swiftly shut her eyes at the sight, told Felicity everything.

"It wasn't like that." Laurel explained, her eyes still shut. "I had to try."

Oliver immediately followed with, "Like Sara had to try?" It wasn't a welcoming tone, or even an understanding one. He still sounded betrayed and he looked worse. "The world's coming down around us, I finally find who I've been looking for all my life and now's the time you both decide... to try. Now."

Again, there was a pause.

Well... everyone else was silent but Felicity was more or less buoyant. On air.

I finally find who I've been looking for all my life... I finally find who I've been looking for all my life... I finally find who I've been looking for all my life...

404 errors: brain cannot compute.

But then Laurel spoke, bringing her back down to the ground... and what she said floored everyone in the room.

"I didn't say we were wrong." She admitted. "I said we had to try."

Oliver waited.

"She saved my life." It seemed she was on a role with truth telling and Felicity was pretty sure having her jaw on the floor was unflattering at best. "I was foolish: you told me not to get too close to her if she..."

Perhaps she didn't know how to best phrase how 'out of sorts' Felicity had been but Oliver finished it.

"I said 'don't get in her way'."

"You did. And I did." Laurel looked to her sister. And pleaded. "Sara, it wasn't her fault."

It took a single glance from Laurel for Sara to shift. Looking down at her staff, she muttered. "I know." Her eyes flickered to Nyssa.

Nyssa's eyes were already on her.

"You're telling me that the ex-girlfriend told the current girlfriend that her boyfriend, who she'd once cheated on her sister with, said her name in bed?"

And it seemed Isabel couldn't keep it locked up either.

"And that, while Oliver shacks up with the current girlfriend, his ex-ex-girlfriend tries to make her move?" She shook her head, her hair spilling about her as she smiled. It was a smile made of ice. "And you think I'm a bitch. No wonder Miss Secretary didn't look surprised when I told her: probably hears it herself all the time."

For some reason it was pivotal that Felicity get this out. "We aren't dating." Why did she have to say this? She didn't even know.

"What?"

It was flat.

Pretty sure she speaks English. "We aren't dating." Why am I even...? "We haven't," she couldn't help it: her eyes locked on Oliver's as she finished, "slept... together."

Oliver just looked at her.

Then...

"You ruin everything."

Sorry? Frowning, felicity glanced back at Isabel to see her moving to stand; her lips were stretched over her teeth. Is she snarling at me?

"We had a plan. Me and Slade. But put one prim and perfect Miss Smoak into the mix and all the men fall to their feet. Inept."

Er...she was pretty sure that had never happened to her in life. Ever. And I know I'd remember Oliver on his knees before me- stop! Now.

"Your plan was flawed from the start." English accent as pristine as ever, Nyssa stepped in. "You placed faith in a leader that cared for nothing but his vengeance. Makes for a sloppy execution."

As if too enraged to utter a word, Isabel simply stood there.

For some reason utterly unknown, Sara whispered. "Ollie..."

...At the exact same time laurel did.

Oh boy.

Oliver... turned from them. Side faced. Taking deep breaths. He was... angry didn't cut it.

Everything about the sisters screamed APOLOGY. But it also spoke of I loved you. It murmured I'll always miss you.

Sara shuddered what must be a bitter breath at his physical dismissal of her.

And it was added to by the odd way laurel suddenly folded in on herself; an arm wrapping around her middle as her fingers touched her neck once more.

The look in her eyes... something inside her was dying. There was nothing any of them could do to help her. It was something only she walk through: allow herself to let go of something tied so intrinsically to her past.

Oliver didn't speak.

Felicity watched him... but he made no move.

"I should have said something."

Oh Sara.

And Sara could be super gentle when she wanted to be. And being gentle? It could sting as much as a slap to the face. "I was trying to keep a part of you with me. When I told Felicity..," looking at her friend now Sara took a breath; the expression on her face making Felicity believe she was giving something up, "when I told you, I didn't realise it at the time but I think I was..." searching for that perfect word Sara smiled at herself. "I was trying to understand why it didn't work. Why me and Ollie didn't work. Either times."

You were marking territory.

Felicity almost wanted to say it, because that's exactly what it had felt like. There had been a heaping serving of obvious pain inside of Sara, of regret. But she hadn't needed to add every sordid detail of her sex life. Not that she actually had but it hadn't simply hurt. Those words...

"We know each other that way, how our body's work, what we like and what we don't."

They stayed with Felicity.

She hadn't needed to hear any of that... but Sara had felt the need.

Lips pressed together, Felicity swallowed it down and said. "I understand."

And because he knew her, because he was watching her - always watching, because when you loved someone you wanted to get to know them and what better way than to observe - he saw her. Saw the pain.

"Not good enough." Slicing the atmosphere in half, he gritted out. "How much did you say?"

Swiftly, this doesn't matter anymore, Felicity looked to him. "Hey."

His eyes flickered back to hers. Beautiful. He looked amazing; all bent out of shape, his green leather a beacon, his voice a soothing cure for her sores.

And she smiled. Oliver. "It's okay."

"It's not." It was harsh, how he shook his head: one fast turn from side to side. Did his neck just crack? "It isn't okay."

"Oliver..," she tried, but-

"Felicity." Holding out a hand – a stop sign – but not to her; it waved about the room at the others. "None of this is okay."

Just seeing him, she felt his inner turmoil, his self-hate. Thank you Isabel, thank you very much.

Shaking his head at himself, he ran a hand down his face. "I sent you in here."

And it just came out.

"My love." As natural as if she'd been calling him that for months.

In one shackled breath, she heard a break in his throat.

My love.

He liked that. "I'm sorry." Like he couldn't breathe, it was more whisper than sound.

Now she shook her head. "Don't do that." And took a step closer.

Eyes closing, the bridge of his nose rippled with sorrow. "I'm so sorry Felicity."

A step closer. "Look at me."

"I said your name." It was almost high pitched, like he'd been stabbed and couldn't get more than a few words out at a time. "For months. And I didn't know. If I had..." both hands coming up, his fingers pressed against the corners of his eyes. "I'd have never... maybe me and Sara-"

"You and Sara happened because you were both what each of you needed at the time." This could be voiced: she could say this now, because Oliver was hers. You're mine. "Would you forgive me? Would you even have a second thought?"

How he could look adorably clueless in his green leather suit, she had no idea but he could and he did.

"You wouldn't-" He began.

"Wouldn't I?" She moved closer to him, close enough that the others wouldn't hear or see, not with her back to them.

Oliver blinked at her. "What?"

Licking her lips she thought, this is going to hurt. Me, not him. "Would you forgive me? For saying your name."

With someone who is definitely not you?

"You wouldn't." So definitive was his response that he missed. The. Point.

Just say it.

"Not with another man, no."

And... boom.

Two things. First her blush, which erupted like Krakatoa.

Second, like a miniature explosion had gone off inside his mind, he didn't utter a word. He just stared at her. Not gormlessly; there was a lot of life right there on his face. In the dim light his pupils were massive: he looked dumbfounded.

Pretty sure Mutism isn't a thing you can just get, is it?

Eyes searching her face, he still didn't speak. Maybe he couldn't. So she did. Hesitatingly.

"It's something... I keep to myself." Obviously. People didn't discuss their masturbatory traditions in public. Backtrack. "It wasn't something I ever wanted you to know." Though Isabel's efforts to infuriate the crowd had been vile, it helped that Oliver knew that she knew about his intimate error. "But I don't always feel safe. When I'm alone." She explained.

The air between them felt heavy and light all at once: a heady mixture that made her chest tighten, that made the words both difficult and incredibly easy to say.

"So I think of you." So high was her voice - so affected - in her effort to sound nonchalant, she was sure she sounded full of it. The hot flush on her neck told her so. "And thinking of you..." Her eyes travelled.

To his throat. To the place where his jacket met his neckline. To where his zipper lay a little further down than usual...

It was his Adam's apple, his hairline. It was his stance and his broad shoulders. It was that he was bigger, taller than she was – that he could fully encompass her. It was how he sounded when he said hey. It was his scent in the Foundry and the way he leaps to protect. It was the way he looked at her, the way his presence always meant home.

It was the warmth of his hands... his touch.

Her voice wobbled, because he was everything. "Thinking of you gives me honest relief." Understatement.

She left it there - sordid detail unrequited and unrequited - but he was smart. He understood. Immediately.

Mouth open, she watched him try for words and she swallowed when nothing was spoken. When he licked his lips because they were super dry. Breathily, he shook his head when he found he had none. A shallow exhale was followed by a louder inhale as his eyes flickered to and from each of hers.

Ten seconds...

Twenty...

Thirty Five seconds...

Vulnerable and oh, so, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut, Felicity closed her eyes with furrowed brow and smiled ill-humouredly . "It doesn't matter. Just forget I said any-"

The light press of his lips on hers shut her up.

A finger under her chin.

A quick intake of her breath into his mouth.

Oh... Kay.

Blinking her eyes back open, she caught Oliver a lot closer to her than he'd been just a few seconds ago, with his head lifting just a few inches away from her face.

He smiled.

And by smiled, she means whoa, holy mother of God.

Devastating.

She'd never, not once, seen him beam like that; as if hope, love and happiness were inevitable in his life. Delight. Surprise. Love. Awe.

It was all there to see.

Why didn't I bring a camera?

It was her smile, only more. His eyes crinkled - if he laughed more there'd be a bigger crease – and there was a definite aura of 'happy' all over him.

But he also looked... no. Really? There was a cocky edge to his grin.

Attempting offense, Felicity tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "Would you like a round of applause?"

Because he looked downright smug.

A laugh just bounced right out of him; loud and imperfect and so sexy to her ears. It thrilled her to the core. Honestly it was impossible to even pretend to be mad at the guy.

When his eyes came back to her, the smile on his face was so wide she saw every single tooth in his mouth. "We'll talk more. After." He murmured.

She liked that, like the promise of after. "After."

"Together."

"Together."

"Leave Starling with me."

Mind blanking temporarily, Felicity crashed to a halt. "Huh?"

"Sara!"

Head whipping around, Felicity had a bare second to process Isabel hightailing it towards the rear entrance to the Factory as Nyssa pelted Arrows in her direction. Giving chase, she too vanished moments later.

And on the ground, Sara was pulling herself to her feet and wiping her lip."Dropped my guard." She told them as straightened, her eyes moving from one to the other. "Get Slade. Hold off the others."

Then she too, exited the room.

BANG

And because problems came in threes, the barred metal sliding door on the east side of this massive room gave way to what sounded like a fist-

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

Or a dozen fists. Mirakuru enhanced fists.

Slipping around her, Oliver skidded to a halt by his bow. Moment definitely over.

"Stay here." She said, making him look back at her as he notched an arrow; ready for the coming horde. "I'll find Slade."

For a long moment - maybe ten metres apart - she and Oliver gazed at each other.

It may have been his idea but he didn't like it. Not at all.

Expression hard... he nodded. "Dig's already here."

As if to emphasis this point, gunfire started to sound from somewhere within the walls around them.

"Go." It wasn't a command; it was a plea. Go and comeback. "I'll find you."

Softly, she smiled at him; even as she started walking backwards. "Always."

It flashed over his eyes. "Felicity..."

"I love you."

He blinked. Once. Twice. "I know."

Holy Han Solo.

Trying not to laugh - however anxiously - she twisted, running from the room and past the steel pipes. Leaving him there.

I am not leaving him behind. I can't. He is me.