Felicity was acutely aware of his presence behind her as she made her way back to the taverna, and was surprised at how un-flustered she was by his unexpected reappearance in her life. She waved at the Two Spiros - a coupe of widowers, both named Spiro, who had become regulars when their wives died - and made her way behind the bar.
Setting the bottle and glass down, she watched as Oliver soundlessly entered her taverna, looking a bit too dangerous for comfort in black cargo pants and a black t-shirt. He stopped just inside the doors and looked around, and she knew him well enough to recognize that he had briefly slipped into Arrow mode.
Even here, in this sleepy, mostly ignored part of a small Greek island, he was scoping out the place, locating all possible exits. He even gave the two Spiros a quick once-over, looking for potential threats.
It made her inexplicably sad. To live at such a heightened level of awareness, to never be able to just be...she suddenly longed to see his face and demeanor free of that perpetual wariness and state of readiness his five years away had forced on him.
Starved for the sight of him, she took the opportunity to really look while his attention was elsewhere, and found him changed.
He was still as handsome and well built as ever, his hair was maybe a bit longer, but he was paler than usual and had purple shadows under his eyes. He looked incredibly weary and drawn, and she found herself hoping that he would stay a while. Greece had a way of recharging your soul, and he looked like he sorely needed it. She had never seen him so depleted.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" she offered as soon as she saw the watchfulness melt out of him.
"Thank you, yes." He seated himself on to one of the barstools across from her and dropped his backpack on the floor beside him.
She took down another glass and poured him some, handing it to him without a word. His fingers brushed hers when he took the glass, and she drew in an audible breath at the contact. Their eyes caught like magnets, and they stared at each other for a beat.
"Where are you staying?" she asked to break the growing tension.
He took a sip of wine. "A little hotel by the port," he replied, holding her gaze.
Felicity looked away and started tidying behind the bar in preparation for closing, stacking dirty glasses and cups in a tub. "The one down the alley by the docks?" She kept her eyes fixed on his hands to keep from looking in his eyes.
"Yes." He slowly rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers.
She started wiping down the bar. "I stayed there when I first got here. It's a cute little place." She glanced up, and her eyes locked with his again. They stared at each other wordlessly. An awkward silence reigned.
"Felicity..."
"Have you eaten?" she blurted out suddenly, afraid he was going to ask her about the letter. She wasn't ready for that just yet.
He let out a resigned sigh, which she chose to ignore. "No, I haven't."
"Maria usually leaves me leftovers from lunch. Would you like to join me?"
He smiled softly. "I would love to join you."
"Good." She dried her hands on a bar towel. "Let me go see what we've got. Be right back."
She headed around the corner wondering how long she was going to be able to put him off, and walked into the kitchen to find a large rectangular basket on the table where Maria usually left her dinner before leaving. Inside the basket Felicity found a baking dish containing two generous pieces of moussaka, a plastic wrap covered dish of home made taramasalata with some wedges of Maria's fluffy pitas in a basket, various tupperware containers with dolmades, kalamata olives, and small peppers stuffed with feta and drizzled with olive oil. And snuggly wrapped in an honest to goodness red and white checked cloth, half a crusty loaf of bread.
Apparently Maria had seen Oliver sitting on the beach with her and had gotten some ideas in her head, if the candle she had tucked in to the basket - despite knowing that Felicity had plenty of candles in her apartment - was any indication.
"Interfering old busybody," Felicity muttered good-naturedly.
"What did you say?" Oliver called from the other room.
She picked up the basket and carried it out. "Nothing." She set the basket down on the counter. "It's just, I think Maria saw you coming. She put together dinner for two. And," she pulled out the candle and waved it at Oliver, "I think she is jumping to certain conclusions."
The smile on Oliver's face was enigmatic. As always.
Fortunately, before their latest stare-fest could get uncomfortable, the scraping of chairs against tile told her the two Spiros were getting ready to leave, dropping bills and coins on the table and calling out goodnight to her.
"Kali̱nýchta," she returned with a wave, heading over to their table with a tray to collect their cups and glasses. She could practically feel his eyes on her as she worked, pocketing the money and wiping down the table. "Could you get the doors, Oliver?"
He looked surprised. "Do you usually close up this early?" he asked, getting up to close and lock the sliding doors leading to the screened in patio where the guests ate lunch.
"No." She carried the cups and glasses into the kitchen, put them into the dishwasher, added detergent, and started it. "Business usually picks up starting around ten, when the tourists are looking for somewhere to drink the rest of the night away. Only tonight, Dimitri had somewhere to be, so..."
Turning, she almost ran into Oliver filling the doorway, his shoulder propped against the jamb, arms crossed over his chest.
She yelped. "Still sneaking up on people, I see," she said sourly.
He flashed her an unrepentant grin.
She rolled her eyes. "Let's go." She snapped off the kitchen lights and took a step forward, expecting Oliver to step back.
Only he didn't. She stopped short, dangerously close to him, and looked up in surprise.
His face deep in shadows, he peeled himself away from the door jamb and slowly uncrossed his arms. "Felicity," he murmured, the tone of his voice soft as a summer night. "We really need to talk."
Nope. No. No way. Not gonna happen. Not now. "Oliver." She was gentle but firm. "We're on my turf now. We'll talk when I'm ready. You aren't in a hurry to be anywhere, are you?"
"No," he replied after a beat during which she wondered if he would say anything at all, finally unblocking the doorway.
"Then let's go. we'll eat, and then I'll show you my apartment. Then we can talk. Maybe."
She really didn't want to talk, not about what he obviously wanted to talk about: the Dear John letter. She was afraid talking about it would bring her past into her present, and she feared the disruption it could bring. Also, she was enjoying seeing Oliver in her new world and just wanted to stay suspended in that little bubble of time for a while longer.
Without looking at him, she handed him the basket, picked up the wine bottle and preceded him up the stairs to her apartment, only just beginning to realize her wounds hadn't healed quite as much as she thought they had.
She was going to be stubborn about this, he thought as he shifted his grip on the basket and followed Felicity's swaying hips up the narrow stairs. He understood her reluctance, though. He was afraid of having the talk too, but he needed answers, and they needed to clear the air before they could...his train of thought stopped there. Before they could what? What where his expectations? Where would they go from there? He really hadn't thought beyond finding her and having it out with her.
Up above him Felicity opened the door leading into her apartment and he passed through it right into her living room, immediately noticing the large bay windows that opened out onto a roomy tiled balcony.
"That's where we'll be eating."
He turned to her, noting the pride on her face as she spoke. He could tell she really loved her new home.
"It looks very inviting," he said, looking around as he followed her behind the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. "This place really suits you."
He put the basket on the counter and stepped aside as Felicity moved in to unpack it. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"You can grab a couple of plates out of that cabinet. The silverware is there." She motioned with her elbow as she put the baking dish in the oven and turned it on. "Napkins and place mats," she said, pulling a couple of each out of a drawer and dropping them on top of the plates he was holding.
"Now you can go and set the table. And close the doors behind you so the geckos don't get in," she called after him. "They creep me out, the way they hang upside down from the ceiling," he heard her mutter. "It's not normal."
He smiled and carried the plates and silverware out onto the balcony, placing them on the glass topped wrought iron table.
The sun was long gone, and the sky was a rich indigo in which the first stars were starting to pulse. Cicadas were strumming so stridently they almost drowned out the sounds of the ocean, but the noise was strangely soothing, and Oliver became aware of a sensation he had become very unfamiliar with. He felt at peace, and very much present in the moment. Starling City, the Arrow, and all his worries seemed very, very far away all of a sudden. In that particular slice of time, Felicity filled his whole world.
The door opened behind him, and he was almost startled when her voice sounded right next to him. She had acquired some stealth of her own, he noted with interest. Either that or he was so comfortable in her presence that he allowed himself to let his guard down.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes." He turned to her. "It is." Watching her profile in the blue twilight, he was shocked to realize he wasn't talking about the view.
He watched her as she lit the candle on the table, the two small tiki torches she had placed in each of the window boxes hanging off the balcony railings, and the two oil lanterns affixed to the wall on either side of the french doors, then started to set the table.
He stopped her with a hand to her arm. "That's my job." He ran his hand lightly down to her wrist, feeling a trail goosebumps erupt under his fingers.
She gave him a shaky smile and headed back into the house, closing the door behind her.
By the time Oliver was done setting the table, Felicity was back with a tray.
"Mezes," she said, setting down bowls of appetizers and a basket of pita wedges along with two glasses, a fresh bottle of red and a bottle of white, and handed him a corkscrew. "Pick one and open it."
Seating herself opposite him, she helped herself to a couple of dolmades, a few olives and a couple of stuffed peppers, licking her fingers when she was done. The sight sent a jolt through him and he froze in the middle of uncorking the bottle. Fortunately for him she didn't notice, because she was in the middle of taking a big bite out of a pita triangle piled with a big dollop of taramasalata. She moaned, putting her fingers in front of her lips.
"Maria makes the best taramasalata," she mumbled with her mouth full. He pulled himself together and laughed at her enthusiasm, leaning forward to pour her a glass of wine.