A/N: Sorry for the wait! These chapters keep getting longer without my permission. I was literally giddy writing this one though, and I hope it reads the same. I also want to make sure and clarify that, for the purposes of this fic, Laurel is not and has never been an alcoholic or an addict. I don't want to belittle that character detail but it just doesn't fit in this story, hope that's okay.

BASEBALL-RELATED A/N: I know there's at least one Giants fan out there who is reading or has read this series, and I was going to apologize for this chapter. But I'm not sorry. Not even a little bit. You guys have embarrassed us so much already this season, and I am righting a wrong in the real-life canon of the NL West with this chapter. #GODOYERS

I'm a Slave to the Wires Ch. 4

"Felicity, what the hell?!" Iris may have been speechless not an hour and a half ago, but she has certainly found her voice when Felicity calls her after they touch down. "Why haven't you called me back?!"

"Jeez, Iris, take it down a notch," Felicity holds the phone away from her ear and catches Oliver toss her a little grin. "I was on a damn plane, okay? What's going on?"

"A plane? I thought you were going to San Francisco."

"I was...we are, in San Francisco," she says, shaking her head. "We took Tommy's jet. Well, the Merlyn Global jet."

"You just took a private jet to San Francisco with Oliver Queen?!"

"Yeah, Iris, you don't have to yell. There's a big neon sign in my head blinking those exact words at me."

She finally talks her roommate down enough so that Iris will let her off the phone with a promise to talk more tomorrow and turns back to the group with an apologetic smile.

"Everything okay?" Oliver asks ask they climb into the back seat of the big black Suburban that Tommy seems way too excited to drive for the weekend.

"Everything's great." She smiles at him and leans her head up against his shoulder, ready for their next adventure.

They gather in the breakfast nook of the enormous Merlyn kitchen after the car has been unloaded for a celebratory nightcap. Laurel's leaning up against Tommy and Oliver's got his arm slung across the back of Felicity's chair and he's suddenly struck with the thought that this could be it, the four of them, for years to come. He keeps having thoughts like that, like nostalgia for the future, if that's a thing? He's not sure. It's an idea of the potential happiness though, what could be if he doesn't screw it up, that nearly makes him ache.

"Prochnost!" Tommy calls gleefully, pouring another round and holding up his glass, which makes Laurel roll her eyes and Felicity furrow her brow.

"What does that mean?"

"That's Tommy's way of reminding me that I once listed a Russian accent on my resume," Oliver explains, throwing his shot back. "And I should not have done that, apparently."

"I still remember the call from that casting director," his friend wheezes through a fit of giggles. "'You think this is some kind of joke, Merlyn? I'll never see any of your clients again!'"

"Yeah, thanks for that one Ollie," Laurel jabs with a smile.

Felicity laughs along with them, but it's cut off by a yawn and frankly, Oliver can't blame her.

"Smoak's right," Tommy agrees, collecting their glasses and tossing Oliver a look like he's read his mind. "We should turn in. Big day tomorrow."

"Big day?" Laurel asks him.

"Baseball by the bay, my dear!" Tommy says, offering a hand to help her up. "And plenty of other shenanigans."

"We're really going to the game?" Felicity looks at Oliver with delighted surprise and he just smiles and nods at her dumbly, wondering if wanting to kiss her all the goddamn time is going to start presenting some logistical problems in his life.

"Okay, so Laurel and I will be in 7...and 8," Tommy calculates, oblivious to his friend's internal struggle. "Ollie, you and Felicity can stay up in 18 and 19?"

"Sounds good," Oliver nods and moves to grab Felicity's bag as she shoots him a confused look.

"19?"

"When Tommy and I were little, we used run around counting the rooms in this place," he explains. "We numbered them all the way up to the top, and it just kind of stuck."

"Number 19's the loft," Tommy tells her with a smile. "Best view in the house for the guest of honor."

Despite her protests, Oliver insists on being a gentleman and carrying Felicity's suitcase up the two flights of stairs to their adjacent rooms. He makes sure to point out that the door that leads to the stairs up to the lofted attic where she's sleeping is right next to the bedroom where he'll be. He might mention it twice, for good measure.

"Good." She clears her throat and giving him a slightly embarrassed smile. "Good to know."

"Good night, Felicity," he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek that might linger just a bit too long.

"Good night, Oliver."

She's only had a few minutes to open up her suitcase and take in #19, which is the billionaire's equivalent of a furnished attic, the place even has a full bath for pete's sake, when there's a knock on her door. She knows it's him and calls out for him to come in before she has a chance second-guess herself. It's not lost on her that this is the second time Oliver Queen has knocked on her bedroom door and it's definitely not lost how much that sentence still sounds like a dream or a middle school journal entry in her head.

What does confound her is how glad she is to hear him knock. Because somehow, in the ten minutes since she came up, took in the incredible view of the bay and started unpacking, she found the time to miss him. It's a crazy thought, and she turns back to the giant window that takes up most of one wall as he climbs the stairs, taking a moment to collect herself as much as humanly possible.

"Some view, huh?"

She stays facing the glass, watching him walk towards her in the reflection, waiting until he's closer before she turns and answers.

"It really is," she sighs, taking in the double meaning at the sight of him in a well-worn t-shirt and sweatpants. The man can certainly rock some casual wear.

"You know, Felicity, there's no dress code for the guest of honor," he grins at her, apparently noticing her utter lack of casual wear. She accessorizes the skirt set she's still wearing from work with a full body blush under the weight of his gaze. "You're allowed to put on some PJs."

"I don't have any!" She blurts it out loud, stopping just short of slapping her own forehead in embarrassment.

"You what?" He's looking at her, raising his eyebrows and chuckling a little like she's a small child, which judging by the state of her suitcase, might not be too far off. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know if you remember, I packed kind of last minute," she blurts out defensively. "And then somebody distracted me."

"Distracted, huh?"

Oliver takes another step closer and Felicity wonders if the way someone raises their eyebrows is allowed to be sexy? Because, um, yeah.

"Yes, I was distracted," she reiterates, ignoring the way her voice shakes a little. "So all I packed, and I mean literally, all I packed, is fancy stuff."

"Fancy stuff?"

"No PJs, no t-shirts, no socks, nothing. Basically all I have are a few dresses, some really skinny skinny jeans, and a couple pairs of heels, none of which I can sleep in."

She sees his eyes flare at the mention of her shoes, but her embarrassment is kind of overriding everything else at the moment, and the meaning is lost until he mumbles and turns for the stairs.

"Hang on just a sec."

He returns a moment later, with a handful of clothes, and only then does she feel the shift, like the atmosphere in the room has changed. He's looking at her differently somehow, she can feel his gaze crackle across her skin like static electricity.

"This will probably work," he tosses the shirt aside on the bed and holds up a pair of basketball shorts. "But these might be a little big."

He pinches the waistband of the shorts between his thumbs and forefingers and holds them up to her, wrapping his free fingers gently around her hips and she has to remind herself to breathe.

"What a move!" she huffs out a little laugh when she finds her voice, looking up and catching her breath again when she realizes just how close his face is to hers. "That's kind of old school."

"Did it work?" he smiles. "I was planning to ask next if you wanted to slip into something more comfortable."

"Very old school," she muses, returning his grin as he leans in closer. "But yes. I mean, the answer is definitely yes."

"Yeah?"

She mumbles a little "mhmm" against his lips and feels the shorts drop on her feet as his hands span her waist properly. This is the fourth proper time she's kissed him now, and each time keeps ratcheting up in intensity, so much so that this one is lips and tongue and little nips of teeth almost immediately. Her back's against the cold glass of the window before she even realizes what's happening and she's hit with two thoughts at once, the first of which is that he really likes pressing her up against stuff.

The second thought, though, is the one that makes her stomach drop.

"Shit, Oliver, hold on." She says the words, but her lips keep finding his over and over again, pressing little pecks for a few more seconds before she actually pulls away.

"What?"

"I'm sorry..." she starts and he doesn't know why she's apologizing, but he doesn't really care that much, huffing out "It's okay" before moving back in.

But she stops him with two hands firm against his chest and he shakes his head to clear it, trying to figure out what's going on.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm uh…" She's mumbling now, eyes looking anywhere but his and he thinks she looks small and a little frightened and it's even worse because he doesn't know why.

"I'm not going to sleep with you," she says finally, spitting the words out in one big jumble like they taste bad in her mouth. There it is. "I mean, not tonight. Not, not ever, because I mean, come on...But not tonight. Maybe not this weekend?"

"Okay…"

"And I'm sorry, if you thought..." she keeps going, like she's got something to explain, and he lets go of her waist and takes a step back, wondering, not for the first time, what happened to this confident and beautiful woman in front of him that turned her so skittish. He thinks it can't just be him, can't just be the "Oliver Queen" persona, because she gives as good as she gets when they banter. So if it's not him she's intimidated by...

"Well, I don't know what you thought, but you probably came up here with something in mind. I mean you're obviously interested, I could feel..."

"Felicity, stop," he's nearly begging because it's fine, really it is, but if they're not going to, then she needs to stop talking about it. "It's okay, really."

"Yeah?" She looks so relieved his heart swells and breaks all at once.

"Yes," he laughs a little in disbelief, trying his hardest to make it clear that it's not directed at her. "I'm not...I mean I wasn't expecting…"

"You weren't?"

"No," he protests. "I mean, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thinking about it, but I swear, the only reason I came up here was to make sure you had everything you need...and to tell you goodnight."

"You told me goodnight downstairs, though." She crooks an eyebrow at him skeptically and he's thankful, at least, that her confidence is back.

"I did," he admits. "But that was before I knew you didn't even have proper pajamas. Now I've got to do it all over again."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes," he smiles. "So you better get changed."

He watches her, heart thumping in his chest as she picks the shorts up off the floor and crosses over to the bed. His jaw nearly aches from all the grinning he's done today and he doesn't care one bit.

"Um, Oliver? I don't think this is going to work."

She holds up the tank top he brought, which is at least three sizes too big for her and cut low enough that it definitely won't cover anything important.

"Huh, you're right," he observes casually. "Yeah, that's not going to help matters. Here, I'll trade you."

He pulls his t-shirt over his head to give to her and when he can see her again, she's frozen, lips open on a silent "o," and his tank top is on the ground even though her hands are outstretched, like she's still holding it.

"Wow," she stutters out, eyes locked on his torso. "I mean, uh, wow."

"Oh yeah," he remembers, looking down before shooting her a cocky smile. "Still got that finale body. You like?"

She makes a sound he thinks is "yeah-huh" and he might overdo the flexing a little when he reaches down to pick the tank top off the floor, but who's complaining?

He moves to put the tank on, but stops himself, raising an eyebrow at her. "Unless?"

"Yeah, yeah, you can, you should leave that...off…" she stammers. "Just leave it...there, leave it on the ground."

"And you're absolutely sure you don't want a piece of this?" he teases and if it's possible, she blushes even deeper and it's adorable and so much better than when she looked scared.

"I mean, I…"

"Felicity, I'm kidding," he insists. "Really."

"Okay then," she says, meeting his eyes for the first time since he took his shirt off before shaking her head and clearing her throat a little. "Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around," she insists. "I have to change."

"Felicity, I'm shirtless here."

"Yes, you certainly are," she says, giving him another long, appraising look. "Now turn around."

He holds up his hands in surrender, turning obediently to face the window.

"You know, I can still see you in the reflection."

"Well then avert your eyes, or close them, or something," she says, all bossy, and he likes it. "Jeez, Queen, be a gentleman."

He watches her in the window anyway, and when he catches a glimpse of his grinning face in the reflection, he doesn't look guilty at all. In fact he looks as happy as he's ever seen himself.

"You know, I always thought they did all those scars with makeup," she observes absently as she pulls his t-shirt over her head. Her knees nearly buckle at the scent of him all around her, at the intimacy of having the soft material his shirt against her bare breasts, and she's so distracted, she totally misses his reaction at first.

"Nope, no prosthetics necessary," she hears him mumble, and when she turns to face him, she notices he's dropped his head to his chest. "These are the kind of scars you put on a resume."

"Oh god," she realizes about a minute too late. She can sort of see his face in the window's reflection and she'd swear his eyes are screwed shut. "Oliver, I'm so sorry. My stupid mouth, I…"

"It's fine, Felicity."

He hasn't turned back around, and maybe it's because she didn't tell him he could and maybe it's because he doesn't want to now. She hopes that it's the first one, but decides to chance it either way, stepping up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist, mumbling into the taut skin and hard muscle of his back.

"It's not. And I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to...and you probably don't want to..."

"My dad and I were out on his boat one day," he starts, and she can tell he's told this story a hundred times before, so she holds him a little tighter and he wraps his own arms over hers, squeezing gently. It's a easier to hold him this way, without the intensity of eye contact and the full weight of the attraction that pulsates between them. She wonders if it's easier for him, too.

"We had a great day," he continues softly, almost whispering and she has to strain to hear him with one side of her face pressed against his back. "We caught some fish, we had some beers, he wasn't on my case about anything, we just...it was perfect. And then on the way home, some drunk asshole T-boned us. Just like that."

"I'm so sorry." She feels a little stupid repeating herself, but most of her vocabulary has abandoned her in the emotional wake of the night and the feeling of his skin, hot against hers.

"It's okay," he says again. "Everybody loses somebody, you know? And it's actually what made me move out here, to live with Tommy and give LA a shot."

He clears his throat and lifts his head a little, and the next sentence comes out sharper, but still heavy with meaning.

"It's hard to believe, but it's what led me to everything I have now."

It feels like he's talking about more than his job, but she doesn't have much time to dwell on the thought because he lifts one of his arms to pull her in front of him, eyes widening at the sight of her in his clothes. He stares for long enough that the tightness in her chest melts into confusion and discomfort, because she can't really read his face,is pupils are blown black but his brow is furrowed and his mouth is set in a straight line.

"What?"

"Nothing," he covers quickly, expression softening. "Nothing, I'm just...I'm really going to miss that shirt."

At her confused look, he continues, "I mean, it's so clearly yours now, I just wish I had a chance to say goodbye, you know, wear it one last..."

She cuts him off, pressing her lips to his because he's so sweet, even when she's made him sad, and she feels….something for him that almost makes her brain complete a really scary sentence. The scariest sentence, if she's being honest.

"You know," he pants a little when they have to come up for air, "I didn't just come up here to say goodnight."

"No?" She can't help but nip at his lower lip, but she really tries to hold herself back, sensing somehow that she's going to want to hear what he has to say.

"No," he admits, eyes dropping down before meeting hers again. "I just, this is going to sound crazy, but I...I missed you? I mean, I wasn't...it was like ten minutes, but I..."

"It doesn't sound crazy," she interrupts. "It doesn't. I...I missed you, too."

"Good." He says the word on an exhale and presses his forehead against hers and she can feel his eyelashes flutter against her own.

"Will you stay?" she asks with her eyes still closed, knowing it might a little sadistic to want him to sleep with her when she just told him she's not going to sleep with him, but unable to stop herself.

"Yeah," he answers, and she opens her eyes just in time to see his shoulders sag in what looks like relief. "Yeah, I'll stay."

"So no sex, huh?" he teases as they crawl into bed. "This is like an old-fashioned slumber party."

He's still feeling rubbed raw by their little confessional, but he aims for levity, worried he might scare her back onto the side of caution if he just comes right out and says what he wants, which is that the sight of her in his t-shirt nearly makes him forget that bad things happen in this world.

"You had slumber parties?" She's back to teasing him and he's so grateful and more than a little amazed at how easily they can move between emotional highs and lows, keeping up with each other, like their brains, or their hearts, are totally in sync.

"Don't you laugh at me, Smoak," he warns with a smile. "Tommy and I had our share of fairly killer slumber parties back in the day."

"I'll bet you did," she concedes, pulling up the covers and turning on her side to face him. "Did any of them involved make out sessions though, that's the real question."

"Come on, you know a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," he says with a grin and a jump of his eyebrows that makes her laugh out loud.

"I feel like we should be playing truth or dare."

"Okay, truth," he counters, laying his head down level to hers. "Tell me what happened with your job."

"What? I don't...that is not how the game works."

"No, it's not. But you can if you want to," he tells her honestly. "Besides, I showed you mine. Literally."

"I don't know," her tone is still teasing and he can tell she's trying to change the subject. "Don't you want to wait until you sleep with me before you decide if you want to know my deep, dark secrets?"

He just shakes his head at her again, trying to look offended, even though he's starting to realize just how badly he wants both of those things, all of those things. He wants to know every part of her, from her deepest secret to the way she looks spread out underneath him. But he keeps that to himself for now.

"I think you have that backwards."

"I don't know…"

"Felicity."

"Okay, fine. So three, four years, ago," she begins, "Jeez, has it been that long already? Anyway...I was working for this independent site that specialized in all kinds of superhero stuff. Comics, adaptations, fan events, cons, you name it. We started doing really well, actually right around the time you guys premiered, that year there was like, a new comic show on every channel?"

He nods, remembering headlines that pitted them against countless other shows, wondering aloud where the "hero tipping point" would be, who'd be the first to drop, whether they were destined for mediocre fan service, and all before the pilot had even premiered.

"So we hit our high-water mark, traffic-wise, and when we got bought out, the managing editor, Ray Palmer, brought me along to the new gig. Only me," she says, pressing her lips together. "I thought at first it was because he thought I was smart or talented or valuable, professionally. I thought that...for a while, and I was so proud, until the moment he saw me kissing another guy and I realized it was about something else entirely."

"He saw you kissing another guy...at work?" Oliver tries not to sound too judgmental, but there's a little bit of jealousy shining through too and overall, it's not a tone he's super proud of.

"At the holiday party," she clarifies, waving it off. "There was mistletoe, it was nothing, a little peck. Barry's just a friend and anyway, he was, and still is, hopelessly in love with my roommate."

"Iris?"

"The very same," she tells him with a smile that drops off her face quickly as she continues. "Anyway, things changed after that. Ray started to punish me, sort of? Just small stuff here and there at first, taking me off shows and projects he knew I cared about. Most of the time, he'd actually give them to Barry, knowing that we were still friends, knowing I'd just have to be happy for him."

"Sounds like a scumbag," Oliver growls, wishing he had his character's arsenal of weapons and this idiot's home address.

"He started giving me fluffy, nothing assignments. Big pieces, so I couldn't really complain, but stuff he knew I'd hate. And then...as some kind of twisted lesson about messing around with coworkers, he made me write that article about you and Laurel and...Sara."

He sucks in a breath at that, both at her knowledge of the past he isn't proud of and the realization that they had been linked, in such a strange way, before he even knew who she was.

"He made me feel small," she continues softly, looking away. "He took away things that were important to me and he made me feel like I was less talented that I know myself to be. And I let him and I believed him, and the only thing worse than that is how long I stayed."

"Felicity," he sighs when she's said her part, trying to keep his voice soft, trying to keep the mixture of fury and heartbreak out of his tone. "You know that's harassment, right? That's, I mean...he's not allowed to do that."

"Yes, I'm not an idiot" she snaps at him a little. "But it's always fuzzier than it is the HR video, you know? Wait...do you know? Do actors ever have to watch that video? That makes a lot of sense, actually…"

"Felicity." She's lost in a babble and he knows it's partly out of self-preservation,

"It was a good job, Oliver, a writing job with benefits, which is like winning the damn lottery. It was totally ridiculous sometimes, a lot of the time, but it's so much better than what I was doing."

"Yeah but, what do actually you want to do?"

"I was good at it, too," she continues, only half-hearing him. "Even if I wasn't happy, I was at least proud of that."

"But what do you want?"

"That's immaterial," she insists with a shakes of her head, hazarding a sharp glance at him. "What I want requires another job that pays the bills."

"What do you want, Felicity?"

She sighs with a little eye roll, before scooting closer, finally raising her hooded gaze back to him, and he knows her moment of confession is over. Maybe it's his fault for pushing.

"I want you to kiss me again."

She's deflecting again, but it's late and jesus, it's only their first night together, even if it feels like he's known her for years. So he lets her deflect. And he gives her what she wants.

He kisses her soft and sweet and languid, banding an arm around her waist as one of her hands comes up to scratch against the stubble on his cheek. It's no less passionate that any of the kisses they've shared so far, but it's slow and sleepy and just bordering on sloppy when he realizes with disappointment that they're both dozing off.

"Felicity," he mumbles, tucking her even tighter against his chest, figuring now's as good a time as any.

"Yeah?"

"Does this count as sleeping with you? Because I'm pretty sure I want to know all of your deep, dark secrets."

She's quiet for a long time after that and he's sure that she's fallen asleep, a little relieved, if he's honest with himself. But then he feels her lips press against his chest and he knows he's a total goner.

He doesn't want to spook her though, so he makes certain to be gone before the sun comes up.

Felicity's equal parts disappointed and relieved when she wakes to an empty bed. Okay, maybe not equal parts, but she's not entirely sorry that her second day with Oliver Queen won't begin with bedhead and morning breath.

She blearily checks her phone to find a string of frantic texts from Iris, mostly just ridiculous, emphatic emoji, and one from Oliver.

Tommy has jerseys for everybody for the game, his message reads. I tossed yours up the stairs.

She breathes a tiny sigh of relief, figuring the jersey plus her jeans and least fancy heels will be perfectly appropriate attire for the afternoon game. That is, until they step into the Merlyn Global box at AT&T Park.

"Pretty sweet, right?" Tommy says proudly, waving an arm around. "We've got one at Dodger Stadium too, of course, but this one is great for the playoffs."

It is sweet, she admits internally, if a little sterile. Two-thirds of the people in the box are watching either their phones or the TVs instead of the field and half of the men are wearing suits like this is a business event. She realizes, belatedly, that it kind of is. Tommy and Laurel spend most of their time schmoozing with industry big shots and some Silicon Valley guys Tommy all seems to know by one frat house nickname or another.

Oliver's sweet and attentive, but he does get dragged into the conversations every now and then, and she distracts herself by checking her phone, looking at fantasy updates, Instagram, and Twitter, anything but her work email. She feels driftless, and more than a little out of place among this crowd and when her mind wanders, she starts to think about how much the past few years of her life have been defined by her work.

The thought sends her into a bit of an existential spiral, so much so that she's barely even able to enjoy Kershaw's dominant performance or Joc Pederson's two-run homer that accounts for the only hits on the board. Fantasy baseball championships don't come with benefits, she realizes with a grimace.

She's itching in her seat by the seventh inning stretch, and gets up to grab another drink from the wet bar. No plastic cups of cheap beer up here, which is actually kind of a shame, if she's honest. But before she can even really sense him behind her, he's whispering in her ear, nearly making her drop her glass.

"You want to get out of here?"

"Oliver!" She tries her best not to sound totally scandalized, but it's not an easy feat when she can feel his stubble brush against the shell of her ear. "What are you talking about?"

"Just, come on." He grabs the glass from her, setting it down on the bar and lacing his fingers through hers. "Trust me?"

He's already pulling her towards the door, but the answer's still yes.

"Oliver!" she nearly squeals as he leads her to the field level section on the third base side. "We need tickets to be down here!"

"Oh no, we do?" He widens his eyes at her in mock horror, before holding his phone up for the usher to scan, and she slaps his arm for teasing her.

"Thea did me a little favor," he confesses with a shrug.

"Aren't they going to miss you back there?"

"Eh, they'll be fine," he brushes off. "Let Tommy deal with the shop talk, he's the one that likes it. Besides, I'm the talent. I'm supposed to be volatile and impulsive."

An error gives Kershaw his first baserunner in the bottom of the eighth and the Giants fans that remain in the stands erupt around them, tossing a few obscenities at their Dodger blue.

"Shoot," Felicity mumbles. "No perfect game. He can still get the shutout, though."

"And the complete game," Oliver reminds her, "if he finishes out the ninth. You should call Andy."

Her eyes light up with mischief and he suddenly sees them on a little girl with blonde pigtails and his crooked smile. The image hits him sideways, shocking him into silence until he hears a voice shouting at her through the speakerphone.

"SMOAK, DON'T EVEN TELL ME YOU CALLED TO BRAG RIGHT NOW!"

"I did!" she tells Andy gleefully. "But not for the reason you think. Guess who's sitting on the third-base line at AT&T right now?"

The shouting erupts into a string of profanity that makes him check around them for small children before the line clicks off.

"He's very happy for me," she deadpans, sliding her phone back in her pocket.

Casilla makes quick work of the Dodgers up at the top of the ninth, which makes Oliver frown, but when Kershaw comes out to start the bottom of the inning, Felicity grabs his hand and laces her fingers through his and he couldn't even turn his mouth down if he tried.

She uses her free hand to turn her cap backwards as the lanky pitcher warms up and he crooks his eyebrow at her because somehow, she's gotten even more adorable.

"Rally cap," she whispers to him conspiratorially. "Plus, if he wins, I'm totally going to kiss you, and it'll be easier without the brim in the way."

He turns his hat around too, just for good luck.

Kershaw gets through the first two batters easily, both pop out on a pitch or two. But the third guy lingers.

"Fuckin' Hunter Pence," he mutters under his breath, grimace turning to a grin when he hears her echo.

"Fuckin' Hunter Pence."

The Giants outfielder whiffs at one and then two pitches in a row and her hand tightens around his each time. He's never wished for a K so hard in his life.

When Kershaw finally gets him on a swing and a miss, Felicity leaps to her feet on a cheer, pulling him up with her. As promised, she jumps into his arms and presses her lips to his and the tiniest part of his brain that isn't focused on the way her ass feels in his hands or the way her tongue is teasing him thinks there must have been more L.A. fans at the game than he realized. Because that's a lot of cheering.

"There you are!" Tommy calls out when they make their way back to the box as the crowd files out of the stadium. "What a game!"

"It really was," Oliver says, smiling down at her.

"Where'd you two disappear to?" Tommy asks saucily, raising his eyebrows nearly to his hairline, before letting them off the hook with a wave of his hand. "Never mind, let's hit the town!"

"First rounds on Felicity," Oliver agrees, dodging the look she shoots him with a playful grin. "She just made a killing off Kershaw."

The rest of the night is fun, enough so that it wipes away any trace of her earlier existential funk. His friends have warmed to her enough to let their respective guards down, and the feeling is mutual. It's just the four of them, without the pretense of their last names or the smoggy weight of professional importance that hovers over life in Los Angeles and had clouded her happiness in the box. Laurel's kind and Tommy's hilarious and Oliver is...everything, in a heavy way that she knows she's actually going to have to deal with soon.

They have dinner in Chinatown and drinks at a couple bars that Tommy and Oliver talk their way into (and in a few cases, back out of again) and Tommy and Laurel regale her with stories of their (mostly Oliver's) debaucherous youth.

"Okay, so you heard the one about the cop?" Tommy asks playfully as Laurel and Oliver just grimace.

"I think everyone's heard the one about the cop," Felicity laughs. "Everyone with the internet at least."

"Okay then," Tommy leans in with a mischievous look, "let me tell you about what happens when you leave your taxicab unattended around Oliver Queen…"

They stumble back to the Merlyn mansion after last call and fill the giant, empty house with the loud laughter of a few drinks too many. Felicity's just sober enough to pay close attention when Tommy brashly presses a kiss right to Laurel's lips, but the only one of them who seems anything but happy about it is Laurel, who flushes with just a hint of embarrassment as they say their goodnights.

Oliver's hand is hot in hers as they climb the stairs to their rooms, but just like last night, he stops in front of their respective doors and presses a slightly sloppy kiss to her cheek.

"Good night, Felicity."

She half-tempted to say "fuck it" to her decision not to sleep with him, but then she remembers how he was gone that morning, and she steels her resolve. This weekend has been magic, but if this is all she's going to get with him, she needs to save that one tiny scrap of her heart that isn't already on the fire. So she just nods, and only looks back at him once as she climbs the stairs.

"Good night, Oliver."

He waits in his room with the door open after she's disappeared up the stairs to #19, pretending to sort through his suitcase, hand still burning from where it's been clutching hers all night. He's at war with himself, internally. He wants to respect her, doesn't want to assume anything, doesn't want to spook her, but at the same time, he can't relax, can't even sit still with the need to touch her again. He needs know if she feels this too, because there's a fire in his chest that's been burning since she walked into that bar in Hollywood yesterday, and somehow it is both quenched and burns brighter the more time they spend together.

He paces his room, wondering if he's actually going to go insane, until he hears footsteps coming back down the stairs and he lets out a relieved breath he didn't even know he was holding. He's ready, standing in front of the door to the loft when it opens, but she's wearing his shirt again and all his carefully rehearsed words fail him.

"Are you…" she starts, sounding just as nervous as he feels. "I mean, I was just wondering if you were gonna…"

"Yeah," he breathes, answering the question she didn't really ask. "If you want me to."

"You don't have to. I mean…"

"Felicity."

"Yeah?"

"I've just been standing down here, waiting…"

For whatever reason, this is the moment she realizes it. That he feels this as strongly as she does. That his unexpected flowery words and big gestures and everything wonderful that's happened so far, that's actually him holding back. The awareness makes her heart soar and her stomach do a little flip and her brain realize that she is so incredibly screwed and also that she doesn't care one little bit.

She's still up one step, so she's got the perfect leverage to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him deep, which is exactly what she does. He bands his ridiculous arms around her back for just a few seconds before hoisting her up with one hand on her ass, using his other to guide them up the stairs as she wraps her legs around his waist.

He sits down on the bed with her on his lap, big hands shooting to still her hips when she grinds down on him, forgetting for a second the promise she made to herself. When he says her name on a strained groan, it snaps her back to reality.

"You left this morning," she says with as little accusation as possible, needing to clarify this much before they go any further.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she tells him softly, but honestly. "But I think I need to know why."

"I just...I woke up with you in my arms, and I felt…" He trails off and she takes a deep shuddering breath and whispers his name, placing her hands on his cheeks and tilting his face up to meet her eyes.

"I couldn't…" he continues, and her vision actually starts to swim a little at the way his voice cracks. "I thought if I had to do it again, if I had to wake up with you again, I'd never want to let you go."

She lets her breath out and tucks his head against her chest as the weight of his words hit her like a freight train.

"But you'll stay tonight...again?" She asks, pulling back on his lap a little and forcing herself to meet his eyes so he'll understand the question she's really asking.

"Yeah," he nods, gulping down a breath. "I mean, I'd like to. If you'll have me."

"Yeah," she gasps. "Yes. That's what I want."

There's no hesitation this time when they crawl into bed. She scoots right up against him and he loops his arm around her like they've been doing it for years. He's so relaxed and at peace, he's not even surprised when he starts confessing again.

"I die in the finale. Take a sword right through the gut."

He hears her take a sharp breath in, and she's quiet for a few moments that feel longer than they probably are before she speaks.

"A sword," she breathes, and he should have figured that she'd be piecing it together. "He stabs you?"

"We duel to the death, he wins," he nearly growls. "For now."

"And he stabs you through the gut?

"Yeah.." He lets a breath out, tilting his eyes down up to hers cautiously. "Probably should have couched that with a spoiler alert huh?"

"No, why…it's fine," she says, but he can see the wheels still turning in her head. "Why'd you tell me?"

He takes a breath deep enough that he can see her head rise against his chest, because this is it.

"Before I die, my character, he thinks about all the most important things in his life, sees them in these little flashbacks. I spent three full days in that headspace and it just...it kind of wrecked me."

"Oliver…" She reaches up to card her fingers through his hair, pressing a kiss to his bare chest, right on one of his scars, and it sends a shiver through his whole body.

But he keeps going, the truth pouring out of him in a rush, because even though he's aware that he's told her more of himself in the last 48 hours than maybe even Tommy knows, he needs her to know this too, needs to tell her this while she's warm in his arms, and if all goes well, he needs to kiss her afterwards.

"I know Tommy told you about Sara, and that's definitely part of it," he says, taking a deep breath. "Laurel said yesterday that I've been torturing myself, and she's right. I thought that's what I deserved."

She doesn't say anything, just watches him with a look of sadness that he's relieved to see is devoid of anything like pity, and waits patiently for him to continue.

"But it's more than that. When you have these flashes at the end, the things that are important, you know, it can't be your job, it can't be your stuff, that's too hard to narrow down. What are you going to see, one day of your job, one project? One day you drove your fancy car, one time you swam in your giant backyard pool?"

He trails off and swallows hard, feeling like his heart is lodged in his throat.

"It's a person," she says, like she can read his mind, flattening her palm over the scars on his chest, over his heart. "It has to be a person."

"Yeah," he croaks out, looking down at her blue eyes. "It has to be a person. Somebody that you love."

She looks at him for a long while then and he can see it in her eyes, all the things she's too scared to say. So he lets their lips talk for them, pulling her up to kiss her deep for minutes that might be hours.

Just like last night, she snuggles up against him and presses her lips to his chest, and just like last night, he's terrifyingly sure that she's the last person he ever wants to see before he falls asleep.

She wakes before he does, her fingers still threaded through his on his chest and she realizes she's not actually worried at all about bed head or morning breath. She's not worried about anything, really, until she rolls over and sees the light on her phone blinking frantically.

"CALL ME!" The text from Iris is all caps, and followed by three more that read the same.

"Iris, what now?" she mumbles groggily to herself, sliding from the bed and making her way over toward the window before she hits the call button.

"Oh my god, Felicity!" Iris is yelling even louder today, voice tinged with panic. "Why didn't you call me back?"

"Iris you called me at five in the morning," she groans. "Is the house on fire? Because the house had better be on fire."

"You have to get online," Iris tells her frantically. "They're all over Splash, Barry said Ray already sent them wide to everyone in the office."

"Iris, what are you talking about?"

"From the baseball game," her roommate says, and Felicity's stomach plummets. "Pictures of you and Oliver."

A/N: HO BOY! Okay so, sorry no smut, that might be coming in future chapter (pun intended) but it didn't feel right for this one. Hope that's okay. Let me know what you think! And come say hey on Tumblr (theshipsfirstmate)!