Felicity pried open the lid of the paint can with a screwdriver, letting out a yelp when the lid flipped and struck the newspaper covered table, splattering her cut-off denim shorts and bare midriff with bright malachite green paint.

"Damn." She dropped the screwdriver and dabbed at the paint specks with a rag.

It was a pretty pointless exercise; she simply spread the stains further over her skin. She didn't even bother with her shorts. They were her painting shorts anyway, already speckled with the vibrant blue and blinding white she had painted the taverna with, and the deep blood red she had just tested on about two feet of one of the walls in the den.

The doorbell chimed, and Felicity frowned. Oliver was out on a run, and even if he were back so soon, he had a key, or could come in through the open terrace windows. It must be someone else. Wiping her hands on the rag, she left the den, stopping short when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the hall table by the front door.

Her nose was shiny with perspiration, which made her glasses slip no matter how often she pushed them up, and there was a smear of red paint on the tip of her nose. That morning, in a fit of whimsy, she had tied her hair into pigtails, low behind her ears, and in addition to the short shorts, she was wearing one of Oliver's old white dress shirts tied bulkily beneath her breasts. She quickly undid the shirt tails and let them fall, but that was worse; it looked like she wasn't wearing any pants. She compromised by tying the shirt tails around her hips, and rubbed fruitlessly at her nose, succeeding only in making it pink.

A loud knock sounded, making her jump. She looked through the peephole Oliver had insisted on installing, even more insistently making Felicity promise to use it before opening the door to anyone, and groaned at the sight of the two men standing on the front steps.

"Not again," she muttered, reaching for the knob. She thought she'd seen the last of these two. "I'm not selling the taverna, gentlemen," she said firmly the moment the door was open. "I thought I'd made it clear that was my final answer."

"Miss Apsa..." The one called Papadopoulos started.

"It's Smoak now."

She didn't bother explaining that she'd had it changed 'legally' - meaning she'd done it herself - and was now Allison Felicity Smoak. That way the people who knew her in Greece could still call her Allie, and she could tell people that she used to go by her middle name, which could explain why Oliver called her Felicity. She hadn't yet had to explain to anyone why she changed her last name - her prepared story was that she'd changed her name back to her father's last name.

"Miss Smoak," Mr. Ivanov, the oiliest of the two, spoke unctuously. "Permit me to say you grow lovelier every time I see you. Greece truly suits you."

"Thank you, Mr. Ivanov." She was firm. "But I am not changing my mind."

The snake affected a wounded expression and started laying it on with a trowel. "I can assure you, your beauty exists independently of my desire to acquire your property on behalf of my associates, who were very insistent that I present their latest offer to you. Please allow me to do that. I think you will be very interested, it's an excellent offer."

She hesitated.

"Please, Miss Smoak, spare me from having to tell my associates that I failed to even get a chance to talk to you," he implored her. "If you still say no, I will walk away without argument. As long as I can tell my associates that I presented you with their offer, my duty will be fulfilled."

Felicity rolled her eyes and stepped back, letting them in.

"My associates strongly recommend you take this deal, Miss Smoak." Mr. Ivanov took a sip of his retsina. "They are men accustomed to getting what they want, and you won't get a better..."

He stopped suddenly, all the color draining from his face as he caught sight of something beyond Felicity. Mr. Papadopoulos looked at him in surprise.

Felicity turned to look where Mr. Ivanov was looking, and saw Oliver standing in the kitchen entryway. Tension she didn't even know she'd been feeling drained out of her at the sight of him.

Despite Mr Ivanov saying he would leave if she rejected the offer, he wasn't going anywhere and kept insisting that she accept the offer. It was starting to piss her off, not to mention worry her a little, and she was relieved Oliver had finally returned.

"Oliver!" she said, smiling. "You're back early. Let me introduce..." She stopped when she saw the look on his face. She'd seen him look like that once before, and that was in Russia when they were buying the police vehicle.

He looked like that now, minus the suit and overcoat. Having just been running, he was shirtless, wearing only cargo shorts and running shoes, but his stance and general demeanor were identical. Ramrod straight and completely motionless, arms hanging at his sides, hands curled into loose fists. It was his expression that made her blood run cold though. His eyes were dark and dead, flat and expressionless as a shark's.

She frowned. "Oliver? Is something..."

"Thank you for your time, Miss Smoak," Mr Ivanov interrupted her, gathering his papers and shoving them in his briefcase. "We must take our leave. I have to be back in Athens by this evening. You have my card if you change your mind."

This appeared to be news to Mr. Papadopoulos, but he allowed himself to be herded out of the breakfast nook nevertheless.

She rose as well. "I'll see you out, gentlemen..."

"I'll do it, Felicity," Oliver interjected, his voice as expressionless as his face, standing aside so the men could pass and following them without sparing her a glance and before she could even say a word.

Well, that was weird, she thought, following them after a beat, but heading to the living room window instead of the front door. Peering out, she saw them standing by the car the men had arrived in. Oliver was talking to them, but his posture had not changed, and his jaw, from what she could see of it, was tense. As for Mr. Ivanov, he had regained most of his composure. The convulsive bob of his Adam's apple was the only outward evidence for his fear.

When Oliver shook their hands and they hurriedly got into their car, she left the window and headed back into the kitchen to tidy up. She put the glasses in the sink and the wine back into the fridge, letting out a startled shriek when she closed to door to find Oliver behind it, standing still as a statue. He had approached completely silently, as usual.

"Jesus, Oliver, don't..."

"Who were those men, Felicity?" he interrupted, pinning her with his flat stare.

She tried again. "Oliver, what..."

He cut her off again. "Felicity," he rasped.

She frowned slightly at his shortness. "The Greek is a local realtor. He has a poky office in town. The Russian is Ilya Ivanov, he's currently based in Athens and is a bit player in property development. I researched them both. Not in depth, I didn't need to. The Russian is a bit shady, but I'm not planning on doing business with him anyway. With either of them."

Felicity was aware she was rambling, but Oliver's reaction was a little unsettling, and was making her nervous. She couldn't quite understand what had him so upset.

"They want to buy the taverna," she plowed on, barely pausing to take a breath. "Well, the land the taverna is on, anyway. They want to tear down the olive grove and build parking lots and cramped little holiday rentals, as if I'd ever let anyone ruin the coastline like that. That entire stretch of beach is mine, I don't know if I ever told you that. The taverna is on ten acres of prime beachfront property, and it's mine, courtesy of Isa..."

"So this isn't the first time they have paid you a visit?" Oliver interrupted again.

She laughed. "If only! This is like their third visit. They first showed up six months after I bought the land. I thought they'd given up actually; the last time I saw them was a month before you...showed...up..."

Her voice petered out. As she'd been speaking, his eyes had gone from blank, to cold and icy. He was angry. Very angry. "...and...I'm guessing by the look on your face that I should have told you sooner."

"You're guessing, Felicity?" Oliver exploded. "How could you have kept this from me?!"

Now she was thoroughly confused. "I...I don't understand why you're so upset. Aside from today, the last time I saw them was before you even arrived on the island. Anyway, I thought they'd given up..."

"If I hadn't shown up, would you have told me about today?" he ground out.

Felicity lost her temper, tired of his interruptions. "Stop interrogating me like I am one of your criminals! What is wrong with you?"

"Answer me," he ordered her, completely ignoring her outburst. "Would you have told me about today?"

Felicity opened her mouth to angrily say of course, and then shut it again, completely deflating when she realized she'd be lying. She saw the exact moment Oliver realized it too. His expression went from angry to hurt in a heartbeat, and Felicity choked back a sob at the sight, her eyes filling with tears.

"Oliver." Her voice was small. "I wouldn't have deliberately withheld it from you..." She stopped when he held up his hand.

"I can't...I can't do this right now. I have to go. I have to...I need some time." He turned, walking away, and then spun around and strode back toward her. Crowding her against the counter, so much so that the edge dug almost painfully into her back, he took her face in his hands and kissed her, hard and angry and hurt, then touched his forehead to hers, his eyes squeezed shut.

He stepped away from her so abruptly she almost pitched forward. "I'll be back tonight. We'll talk then." Snatching his keys of the island, he left the room without looking back.

She took a few steps after him, but stopped when she heard the front door slam. When the truck started, the tears spilled over her cheeks and she leaned against the fridge, sliding slowly to the floor. Pulling her legs to her chest, she buried her face in her knees and sobbed.

The sun had just set when her phone woke her, curled up on the floor in front of the fridge. She clambered groggily to her feet and snatched it off the counter, hoping it was Oliver.

It was Maria.

"I thought you'd like to know Oliver is here," she started without preamble. "He just walked in, looking like someone stole you away from him. What happened?"

"It was a misunderstanding," she said dully. "He took off before I could explain."

"Well I'm sure you will sort it out." Maria sounded very confident. "I will feed him and send him back to you with, how do you call it, an attitude adjustment. Just don't let him push you away until you two have spoken, ok, koritsi mou?"

"He won't push me away," Felicity was sure of that much at least. "He said we'd talk when he got back."

When they had said their goodbyes, Felicity made a beeline for the freezer and withdrew a container of ice cream, grabbing a soup spoon from the dish drain on her way to the dining nook. Sliding in, she set the tub on the table, pried the lid off and dug in, trying to figure out where exactly she had gone wrong today.

It was obvious that Oliver was upset she hadn't told him about the visits. It was also clear that Ivanov had recognized Oliver's Bratva tattoo and it had rightfully scared him. This wasn't surprising; he was Russian, after all. He probably knew better than anyone what they were capable of, and he didn't know Oliver, so he didn't know he was one of the good guys. No wonder he'd cut their meeting short so abruptly.

But what did one have to do with the other, if anything?

She mechanically ate her way through the entire container, thinking, sitting in darkness as twilight faded to night.

The ice cream was long gone and she was still sitting in the dark when Oliver returned. She heard the key in lock and then a light flip on in the hallway. She expected him to come into the kitchen - why, she wasn't exactly sure. She was sitting in the dark, after all - but he went straight down the hall to their bedroom.

A few moments later, he called out her name, an edge of panic in his voice.

"I'm in the kitchen," she called back.

He appeared in the doorway and turned on the light, tension leaking out of him as he spotted her. "I thought...Why are you sitting in the dark?" he asked warily as he walked over and slid onto the bench opposite her.

"I was thinking. And eating. You don't need light for that, and I didn't feel like getting up and turning it on."

They stared at each other wordlessly for a few moments.

"So," Felicity started, twisting her hands together nervously. "I upset you."

Oliver nodded. "You did."

"I'm not sure why. I mean I get it's because I didn't tell you about them, but I am not sure why it made you so angry. There's a lot I haven't told you, stuff that I don't think is important, so...I'm confused."

"Felicity." He rubbed both hands over his face and behind his neck. "We're a couple now. We don't keep things from each other anymore, not important things, and this...this was important. It's something you should have told me. I need to know when you are being threatened, or I can't take steps to protect you."

"Threatened? They were harmless! I mean, Ivanov is a sleazebag, but he's a business man...Ok, he was being mildly threatening there at the end, but it was just bluster, he would't actually hurt me...oh my god, was he going to hurt me!?"

Oliver's hands fisted in his hair, and he made a sound like a dying animal. "No, he wasn't going to hurt you. But if you hadn't accepted the offer, you would have soon been paid a visit by his 'associates'. They would have put the fear of god into you until you sold." He looked up at her. "If you still refused, then they would have hurt you. He was just the first wave, paving the way, so to speak."

She frowned. "How do you know all this?"

Oliver leaned back and sighed. He looked really tired. "He's involved with the Bratva."

"He's...How could you possibly tell?"

"I just can. I've been around enough of them, I know their tactics. I was listening in for a few minutes before I showed up in the doorway. His associates, who by the way are really his employers, are shestyorka. They are little more than errand boys for the organization, the lowest ranking members, and they were operating independently, without the permission of their superiors."

"You couldn't possibly tell all that just from listening in." She was absolutely fascinated.

"No, I could tell he was involved with the Bratva just by listening in. Then I made some phone calls and found out the rest."

She thought for a moment. "So what do I do?"

"For a start, you stop saying 'I' and start saying 'we', Felicity. Or am I the only one taking us seriously?"

"About that, Oliver...Not telling you about today? I would have never done that on purpose. It's just..." she paused, searching for the words to explain herself, and then decided to start at the beginning.

"My mother was never much for mothering. I know she loves me, but she's flighty and irresponsible, and didn't let me get in the way of her having a good time. I had to fend for myself a lot, especially after my father left. I'm used to taking care of myself. I know I let you and Digg look out for me, but that was our night job. In my regular life, I rely on myself. I'm not used to relying on anyone else, and old habits die hard. Very long story short, it didn't even occur to me to tell you. I was handling it."

She paused before continuing. "Honestly, I didn't think it would be a big deal to you, either. It's not like you're a stranger to keeping things from your significant other. It just didn't seem important to me. I would have never kept it from you if I had realized how strongly you felt about this."

"You're right, I'm not a stranger to keeping things from others, and look where it got me. I wasn't ready to move in with Laurel, but instead being honest with her about it, I slept with her sister. I've learned from my mistakes, Felicity, and I learned from watching Laurel and Tommy make the same mistakes she and I did. I don't want that to happen with you."

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "I'm in this for the long haul," he said earnestly. "I want to do this right. But you have to meet me half way."

His eyes went out of focus, and his hand tightened almost painfully around hers.

"I was so worried," he whispered, and it seemed for a moment like he was talking to himself. "For a split second, listening to him threaten you, I thought my past had caught up with us somehow. If something happened to you..." He was looking at her again, fiercely, a hint of fear lurking deep in his blue eyes.

"Oliver." She slid out from behind the table and tugged at his hand until he stood before her. "I promise that from now on, I will make every effort to let you in, to share my burdens with you." She placed her hand on his cheek. "But you have to be patient with me. It's not easy to break the habits of a lifetime."

"That's all I ask," he said softly, pulling her into a warm, protective embrace.

A few days later, Felicity was coming back into the house after a swim, when she heard Oliver at the front door speaking to someone in Russian. When he closed it, she noticed a huge flower arrangement on the hall table: fifty Baccarat roses, so dark red they were almost black, interspersed with baby's breath and arranged in a beautiful crystal vase, probably also Baccarat.

"Those were just dropped off for you." He indicated the flowers. "Mr. Ivanov wanted to deliver them to you personally, but I refused to allow it."

He looked at her with a challenge in his eyes, as if he expected her to argue with him. Ordinarily she might have; she didn't like the idea of him deciding whom he would or wouldn't allow her to see, but in this case, given what he'd told her about Ivanov and his henchmen, she was kind of relieved. She didn't want to see him or Papadopoulos ever again.

She looked at the arrangement warily.

"They're...beautiful," she said unenthusiastically, "but they are so not me."

She much preferred the chaotic arrangements that Oliver bought her at the market. This bouquet was beautiful, formal and cold, not to mention a little creepy, given their provenance. She reached for the small envelope tucked in among the leaves and pulled out the card, immediately handing it in to Oliver when she saw it was in Russian.

He took it and looked at it. "It's an apology from Ivanov's associates, for imposing themselves on you." His expression was blank. "They present you with their assurances that you won't be hearing from them again."

"They do, do they?" She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "Would you have had something to do with their change of heart, by any chance?" she asked innocently.

"I may have had a conversation with their superiors, during which I may have used my rank as captain to strongly suggest that they see to it that you are never bothered again, by anyone under their control."

His tone and demeanor sent a frisson down her spine. No wonder they had sent roses, she was practically afraid of Oliver herself at that moment.

She looked at the arrangement again. "I think I will give these to Maria. They're a reminder of something I'd like to forget as soon as possible, but Maria loves roses, and these are truly fancy."

His tone was bland. "How funny, I was just going to suggest the exact same thing."

They just stood there, looking at each other.

"Oliver?" She blinked.

He blinked back. "Yes, Felicity?"

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You can relax now."

"I don't follow." His brow wrinkled in confusion.

"You're still in Arrow - or Bratva - mode," she explained, waving a hand to indicate his rigid stance. "You're practically standing at attention."

He looked at her in surprise for a moment, and then laughed, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. His body visibly relaxed.

"You're right, you know." He smiled, reaching for her. "Old habits do die hard," he finished, pulling her in for a bruising, possessive kiss.