"Oliver, are you in pain? You're squirming like you're uncomfortable."

Looking at her over his burger, he shrugged. "My side's hurting. I'm trying to ignore it." But it was hard since it seemed like his side was on fire and the urge to kill Peter was killing him. Every time, he thought about Peter touching her, he saw himself killing the man.

"What about your side hurts?"

"Just my side."

"That's not an answer."

"What do you want me to say?"

"How about the truth? Heard of it?" She shook a fry at him and then added, "But then it's Oliver Queen I'm talking to."

"Fine! My tattoo's inflamed. But it's nothing. And I'll going to have it removed just like the other one. I'm going to find a doctor tomorrow."

"If it's inflamed a doctor isn't going to take it off. Let me to look at it?"

"NO, thanks."

"Okay, you don't have to be angry about it." She added salt to her fries and his stomach turned.

Lowering his voice, he said meaningfully, "Have you ever thought about having high blood pressure? Maybe, you need to take it easy on the salt."

"Whatever." She said with a wave of her hand. "Here do you want some? Maybe you'd eat more if you put some on your food."

She held the salt shaker toward him, and he sat back in his chair, with the words, "No, keep that away from me."

"It's not a weapon, Oliver, it's just salt. What is up with you?" Felicity was looking at him like he'd lost his mind.

And maybe he had as he found his heart was pounding, but he managed to said, "Nothing. Just keep that on your side of the table. And I'm just thinking about your health. Too much salt can be bad for you."

A stab of pain sliced through him, and he found himself shutting his eyes for an instant, and she said, "Enough hiding. I can tell your in pain. Let me see your side."

"NO! I don't want you to."

Her face fell, and he made himself soften his voice, "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. I just don't want to bother you with it. I'll be fine."

"You know, Oliver, when you say the word 'fine,' it's a blinking neon sign that you're lying?" She ate another fry dipped in ketchup, before she said, "So, when did it start bothering you? How long ago?"

Watching her, he saw her take a large bite of her burger and his heart ached, as memories of a small burger joint on the coast flooded back, taunting him of those days when he'd truly been happy for the first time in a very long time, and sadness washed over him.

"If you'd kill Peter, you'd be happy." His mind taunted him, "just do it. You know you want to. Dump her at the hotel and drive back."

Chest tightening, he found the sensation, the urge, threatening to overpower him, as his throat closed up. Toying with a fry, he carefully dipped it in ketchup before he put it back on the plate. Flipping the burger open, he forced himself to eat a bite of meat, intaking the protein, then he ate the tomato and lettuce.

"I see you. You're still not eating. Talk to me." And when she reached for him, he didn't pull his hand back as she touched him. No, he stupidly savored her touch, enjoying the pain for an instant before she released him.

"I'm eating." Forcing himself, he ate another small bite of the meat before he gave her a tiny smile, trying to distract her from noticing how little he'd ate.

Her eyes found his and were intense. "Look, you need to eat. Oliver, you're expelling way too many calories from what I've been seeing you take in. You have to eat more."

"Felicity, I'm fine. I just haven't been very hungry lately. Do you want some more fries?" He pushed his plate toward her, knowing it was hard to eat, knowing it was almost impossible to push food past the lump that lived in his throat.

"No, I've plenty of calories on my own plate and NO, you're not fine." She made air quotes with her fingers. "You're losing weight, Oliver. It's showing in your face now. You know muscle will be next. And that would be a shame."

"I'm eating, okay?" And he used his fork to take another small bite of his burger then began to push the food around on his plate, thinking that the meat was over done. He should have ordered it rare.

"You're doing it again. Rearranging is not eating."

"Just stop."

"I can't. I'm worried about you. First your eyes and now you're not eating."

"Felicity, there's nothing wrong with my eyes. And I have been eating."

"And I want to look at your side."

"Look, I'm going to the restroom." Standing he headed toward the bathroom.

His side pained him. He didn't know what was going on with his tattoo, but it was like the darn thing was lit on fire. Pulling his shirt up, he looked at his red and inflamed side, stared at the tattoo that John Constantine had given him, and he wanted it GONE.

Laying his hand on the tattoo, he found it warm to the touch and it ached, hurt like a bad tooth, and he found thoughts about cutting the tattoo off his body filled his mind. He could image it, could see taking a knife and slicing the tattoo off his body.

"Do it. Get a knife. Sharpen it. Cut it off." His mind insisted, as he looked into the mirror and his mind screamed at him. "Take it off."

Something deep inside told him that something was wrong, very wrong as he stared at the steely blue eyes in the mirror.

Was something wrong with his eyes?

"You're eyes are fine. Perfect, just as they should be." A voice whispered in his head. "But you have to get rid of that tattoo. Remove it. CUT IT OFF. Find a knife."

"Oliver, are you okay?" Her knock came hard and fast, jerking him back to the present.

"If you don't answer me then I'm coming in. Answer me. Are you OKAY?"

It took everything he had inside to say, "YES. I'm coming. Be right there." And he lowered his shirt, but he still thought of the knife, thought about cutting the tat off, thought about the blood.

Yes, he needed a sharp knife and right now, and he splashed water on his face, trying to clear his mind before he opened the door and gave her a slight smile and said, "I'm ready to go. You?"

And she frowned back at him but together they left the restaurant.

As soon as they hit the sidewalk, he held his hand out and said, "I need the keys."

"I don't think so. Get in the car, Oliver."

"I think I'll take a walk. I'll meet you back at the hotel later."

"It's after eleven. And I don't see you roaming the streets at this time of night as a good thing. "

"I'll be alright. I'll come back to the room later."

"No, Oliver. Besides I need someone to walk me to the room. You know how unsafe underground garages are at this time of the night. Are you honestly going to put me in danger?"

"Of course, not." Yet, he hesitated.

"Knife," his mind was saying but he reached for the door handle and got in.

#####OQ####

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