(A/N: Just know that whatever you feel as you read this, I was feeling it while I wrote it. I'm right there with you. :P)

Revenant (Twinkie)

Felicity remembered feeling something the first time she walked into the townhouse with her realtor, but that was nothing new. Most buildings over ten years old had some kind of vibe that registered on her senses. It didn't affect her decision, and she signed the paperwork with no second thoughts.

Having to hire a moving crew was a little embarrassing. Didn't most people have friends to help them drag bed frames up three flight of stairs and to trade "Pivot!" jokes with? It wasn't that Felicity had no friends, but when the time came, she couldn't think of anyone she felt comfortable asking to carry boxes labeled "Underwear drawer—NO PEEKING" and "Lego Millenium Falcon—drop this and die!"

The movers were pretty nice. It was a small company—just Mr. Diggle, the owner, and his two employees, Roy and Sara. No one made any sarcastic remarks about the boxes and boxes full of computer parts, or her collection of novelty flash drives, or even the fact she had labeled each box of books with the title of every book inside it. They were even friendly, especially Mr. Diggle—or Dig, as the others called him. He didn't seem to mind that it took Felicity a glacial age to decide where the purple couch should go in relation the dark green one, and that she had to go through the whole process out loud and in detail. ("You're cute," Sara had said with a smile after Felicity had to count backward to stop herself mid-ramble.)

They were friendly enough, she decided, that a proposal to order pizza was not unwarranted. Roy in particular seemed very excited about the prospect of free food. They sat around the kitchen island and munched, the crew's playful banter giving way to chewing sounds. The sudden silence unnerved Felicity because she'd been increasingly aware all afternoon that there was more to her new home than just that initial weird vibe.

Felicity excused herself from the room to fetch the paper towels. While packing, she'd tossed the roll in a box to cushion one side of her Alice in Wonderland cookie jar, which, because it had been in a box labeled "Knick-Knacks," had ended up in the living room. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she felt it. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and her scalp prickled.

"Oh, crap."

She had been able to sense ghosts since she was seven—she should have been used to it—but she couldn't suppress the shiver that rippled up her spine, and she couldn't stop herself from running across the room on her toes like the floor was lava. She snatched the roll of paper towels from the cookie jar box and raced back to the kitchen.

The movers left soon afterward, Sara surprising Felicity with a quick hug. Roy rolled his eyes at the gesture, and Dig smiled.

"What?" asked Felicity.

"Sara likes strays," said Roy. "She probably wants to adopt you."

Sara punched Roy in the shoulder hard enough to make him take a step backward, but she was grinning. "I like friends," she said, "and you are my new friend."

"Friends, yay," Felicity said with mixed enthusiasm. Sure, Sara wanted to be her friend now, but what would she say when she found out Felicity saw (on occasion, but mostly heard, smelled, and felt) dead people?

Sara insisted they trade phone numbers, though, "because you clearly need to go out after nine o'clock every once in a while." And Dig had promised to help her assemble the dining table and chairs that were to be shipped from IKEA any day now. As soon as they were gone, Felicity counted to twenty, and then she indulged in something she'd been daydreaming about for months. She ran through the townhouse, spinning through every room downstairs and upstairs, shrieking, "I own a house! I own a house!"

It had taken months of saving, and selling a few pieces of her soul to design a couple dumb restaurant-review apps and to rewrite a dating web site's match algorithm, but the resulting income had secured the down payment on her very own home. She dashed down the stairs and into the kitchen. She twirled, arms stretched above her head. She had a kitchen big enough to twirl in.

Felicity opened a drawer—empty, of course, since nothing was unpacked—then slammed it shut, shouting, "I own a house!" She spun away from the drawer, thinking it would be fun to run outside and shout from the front stoop, when she ran smack into a wall. A wall made by the torso of a very tall, broad-shouldered person.

She screamed, reached for the pepper spray that wasn't in her pocket but probably in her purse or in a box cheekily marked "Lethal Weapons," and screamed again, slapping at the rather solid chest she'd just bumped her nose into. Large hands grabbed hers, and she opened her mouth to scream louder this time, maybe even with words, if she could think of any.

"Stop screaming," a deep voice said right next to her ear. Warm breath lifted the little hairs that had come loose from her ponytail. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Felicity caught her breath, trying to get her heart rate to slow back down to a normal pace. "Who are you?" she asked. "What are you doing here? This is my house."

"I know. I saw you move in," the man said. "And even if I hadn't, you just spent the last few minutes shouting that it was your house."

She looked up. Oh, crap, her creepy intruder was hot. And vaguely familiar. Something about the sharply defined jaw line that was softened by a layer of stubble, or maybe his deep blue eyes . . . Wait, was he saying something?

"Felicity."

"HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?" she yelled. He still held her hands, and she struggled to break free.

"I heard the movers calling you that all day," he said in a much more sensible tone than hers. "I like it."

Before she could process that, he inclined his head, his face even closer to hers. "Now, if I let go, do you promise not to scream?"

"Only if you promise not to do anything that would make me scream."

"Fair enough." He released her, and she stepped back.

"What are you doing in my house?" Felicity asked. "Did you just say you've been here all day?"

He shrugged. "I live here."

"No, I live here," she said. "I signed so much paperwork that my fingers hurt. The deed has my name on it nice and big, Felicity Megan Smoak."

"Well, Felicity Megan Smoak, I was here first." He crossed his arms. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"That is unacceptable."

Felicity made for the door, to get her phone and call someone, anyone, who could get rid of her handsome squatter. He stepped into her path, but she dodged him and headed for the relative safety of the living room. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was following her, just in time to see him walk through the wall.

She screamed again, then clapped her hand over her mouth. She'd seen such things before, of course, thanks to her ability, but this was different. She had felt his hands on hers. She'd smelled his aftershave.

"Are . . . are you . . ."

"A ghost?" he supplied. "Yes. I thought you knew. When you were here the other day with your realtor, you looked right at me."

"Because I felt something," Felicity said, dropping her hands to her sides. "But it wasn't a big deal. I feel stuff like that everywhere I go." She approached him cautiously and reached out to touch his arm. His gray t-shirt felt soft, expensive, and very, very real. "You're so corporeal," she breathed, laying her palm over his heart. There was no movement under her hand. "What's your name?"

His hand closed over hers (warm—how could it be warm?) and smiled. "You haven't recognized me yet?"

She took a moment to examine his face, really examine it, searching for that thread of familiarity. "Oh my God, you're Oliver Queen."

His smile widened, but there was a sadness in his eyes that she knew well. She'd seen it often enough in the faces of the few ghosts she'd encountered that were strong enough to make themselves visible. Regret, loneliness, sorrow.

"You're Oliver Queen," she said. "You died. Twice. Well, you didn't die the first time, but everyone thought you drowned with your dad. And then you came back and you died again. Sort of. Which of course means you're haunting my new house so you can listen to me babble, which will end in 3, 2, 1."

The sadness retreated in the presence of his amusement. He was tilting his head and smiling at her, and it was so cute. It was making her knees all jelly-like.

"Yes, I'm Oliver," he said. "Nice to meet you, Felicity." He stuck out his hand.

She shook it. Her hand stayed clasped in his for a moment, and she stared at it. It wasn't her imagination—she could feel it as much as she could feel her glasses slip down her nose a bit, and the pounding of her heart. His grip was firm, his hands large, fingers calloused, she knew, from drawing a bowstring.

Starling City had been stunned at the death—definitive this time—of Oliver Queen, but even more so by the revelation that he had been the Arrow, the city's vigilante archer. His body had been found alongside his best friend's, Tommy Merlyn, in the rubble of a legal aid office in the Glades. Oliver had died trying to rescue Tommy in the aftermath of the earthquake that Tommy's own father had caused.

"I don't understand," Felicity said slowly. "You're so . . . well, you're hot, okay? Most of the ghosts I've encountered aren't even visible, let alone incredibly handsome, and I don't understand why I can feel you."

With her free hand, she touched his face. Short stubble rasped against her fingers as he sighed, his eyes falling shut. After a moment, she realized all this contact was pretty intimate for someone she'd just met, even if he was dead. She dropped her hand and pulled out of his grasp.

Oliver opened his eyes. "How does this usually work for you?" he asked. "How did it start?"

She chose to answer the last question first. "I was seven," Felicity began. "My dad had just taken off. My mom was a wreck, and I spent a lot of time hanging out with our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Clark. One night I asked her about the man who sat in the kitchen and never said anything. It turned out to be her husband, who'd died the year before."

She glanced at him. She hadn't told many people, and when she had, it had never gone well. She expected to see skepticism or even fear in his eyes. "Do you believe me?" She smacked her own forehead. "Oh, I'm an idiot. Of course you do. If anyone would, it would be a ghost."

He smiled. She kind of wished he'd stop, but she really wished he wouldn't. "Is that how it goes? You see someone?"

Felicity shook her head. "Hardly ever. Mrs. Clark's husband was so visible because he hadn't been gone that long, and because Mrs. Clark hadn't let him go. Most of the time I just feel a presence, or hear something. Sometimes I can have an actual conversation, but this . . ." She poked him in the stomach. Oh, wow. Abs. Rock-hard. Wait, what was she saying? She shook her head a little. "This is so different," she finished.

"No one's seen me before," he said. "I couldn't believe it that day when you looked at me. Or I thought you did." Oliver sighed. "So what happens now?" he asked. "Do you light incense or sprinkle some holy water around?"

"What happens now is we learn how to live with each other," said Felicity. "I don't know how to make you move on or whatever, and I just moved in. I'm not leaving."

At first it was unnerving, unpacking with an audience. But by nightfall, their conversation had fallen into an easy rhythm. Oliver couldn't lift boxes, but he could move small objects and straighten pictures when she inevitably hung them crooked. She was really curious to know why he was tied to this particular townhouse instead of the Queen family mansion or even his ex-girlfriend's apartment, but it seemed rude to ask when they'd only just met. Felicity found out later, with a quick trawl through the internet, that her new place had once belonged to Tommy.

It didn't take Felicity long to get used to Oliver's company. He was more like a real person than any other shade she'd ever encountered. His clothes changed from day to day (on Halloween, he wore his green leather vigilante costume, complete with hood), his moods were different, and there was the whole experience of him being solid instead of hazy and insubstantial. It was like having a really hot, reclusive roommate. They got along well, except when he would try to make decisions for her. Oliver was very protective, and sometimes they'd argue when he thought she wasn't taking her safety seriously enough.

They fell into a routine. In the morning, Oliver would hit the start button on the coffeemaker. (He couldn't make coffee because he wasn't able to use the faucet for some reason, but he could turn on the machine.) By the time Felicity got up, the aroma filled the kitchen and her favorite yellow mug was out on the counter. Oliver would stand in the hallway to see her off to work. Ironic that she now worked for his family's company.

Early on, Felicity would often find herself reaching for her phone throughout the day to text Oliver. Just little things, like the antics of her so-called supervisor, or the gossip from the executive floor. Eventually she began making lists of things to tell him when she got home. He was always waiting for her at the end of the day. Most of the time he'd be sitting halfway up the stairs, facing the front door, but occasionally she'd come in and find him on the couch, legs stretched out on the coffee table, the TV already on and tuned to the news. (Control of the lightweight remote was easy for him.)

One night in mid-December, she rushed home to get ready for the department Christmas party that evening. She'd been dreading the event. Kevin, the guy in the cubicle across from her, would surely ask her to dance, but he smelled like celery and always stared at her boobs instead of her face. But Felicity knew she couldn't get out of it. She already had two strikes against her for calling out her supervisor on a mistake that nearly cost them a bank of servers, and for going over his head to present her ideas for network security to the vice president of Applied Sciences. She couldn't afford to miss the party.

Oliver was waiting on the stairs as usual, just inside the front door. He smiled when she entered the house. It lit up his face, lit up the whole room, and she could never help smiling back, even when she was in the foulest of moods.

"Party night. Can't talk," Felicity said, brushing past him. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

While she'd gotten used to the contact, she was still startled anew every time their skin touched. It began happening about a month after she'd moved in, the electricity, the tingle that fritzed from the point of contact down to her toes. Now even a squeeze of her cardigan-covered shoulder would send the heat of a blush creeping up her neck.

"I know," Oliver said. "You have to get ready."

"You'll be okay by yourself, won't you?" she asked. "I know it's been a while since we've spent an evening apart."

"I think I'll survive," he said drily.

His quick answer kind of stung. She shook herself out of his grasp and ascended the stairs. Across her bed lay her two wardrobe choices for the evening: a short gold dress with a slit that ran to mid-thigh, and a sleeveless ankle-length black gown with a high neck. She looked like a vampire in black, but it was her safety choice, her hands-off-to-Kevin dress. But after Oliver's comment, she was determined to look as good as possible and at least attempt to have a good time away from the house.

An hour later, Felicity carefully navigated the stairs in her heels. She'd left her hair down in its naturally curly state and switched her glasses for contacts. Oliver waited on the landing, casually leaning against the wall. As casually as one could while dressed in a tuxedo. He did a double-take.

"You look amazing," he said.

"What are you—wait, I—you're not going with me, are you?" she asked.

He smiled and shrugged. "I can't leave the house," he said. "I just wanted to see you off in style."

He held out his hand. She took it and let him draw her down the last two steps. He helped her into her coat and straightened its collar. Felicity picked her purse and keys. In the doorway, she hesitated.

"I could—"

"You can't stay," Oliver said firmly. "You told me you don't want your supervisor to have anything else to hold against you, remember?"

"I know." Felicity sighed. "But I'd much rather go back upstairs and put on my Spongebob pj's and watch Die Hard with you and a bowl of popcorn."

Oliver took her hand and squeezed it. "It's only for a few hours," he said. "We'll watch Die Hard when you get home."

Felicity blamed the cocktails for what happened at the Christmas party. After the conversation with Oliver, she knew alcohol was the only way she'd get through the night. After two, she'd joined in the Christmas karaoke caroling. After three, she was draped over Jeannie's shoulder and her words slurred a little as she pushed Kevin away, saying she had to get home to her boyfriend.

Jeannie and Kevin both wanted to know all about him then, so Felicity told them about Thai food Tuesdays and Sundae Sundays, how Oliver (though she lied and said his name was Alexander) always spoke to her in a special, softer "Felicity voice" when he was worried about her or trying to comfort her. By the time she'd finished, she was crying, and so was Jeannie.

"He sounds wonderful!" the other woman sobbed.

"Why didn't you bring him tonight?" Kevin asked.

"He can't leave the house. He's, uh, got the flu," Felicity replied, swiping the back of her hand over her wet eyes.

She had to take a cab home. Oliver met her just inside the door. He was still clad in his tux, but he'd shed the jacket and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. The bowtie was gone, and the first couple of buttons on his shirt were unbuttoned. She was pleasantly surprised to see him wearing suspenders.

"Have a good time?" he asked.

"Not even a little bit," Felicity replied.

She kicked off her heels, and they watched Die Hard sprawled on the green sofa. Felicity sat with her feet tucked under her and Oliver's arm around her shoulders. Her skirt had hiked up to display an extra inch or two of thigh, but she didn't care. Later, Oliver helped her to the bathroom and held back her hair while she threw up.

"I feel humiliated," she said once her stomach was completely empty. She leaned back into his chest, and he put his arms around her.

"Why? It's just me here."

"It was stupid of me to get drunk," Felicity said."But as soon as I walked in there, I just wanted to leave. All I could think about was coming back home, so I got a drink, and the next thing I knew, there were a bunch of empty glasses at my elbow and I was telling people all about Thai food Tuesdays."

Oliver arched an eyebrow. "All about Thai food Tuesdays? Did you mention that I don't actually eat with you?"

She turned slightly and nuzzled into his neck. "No. I wasn't that drunk." Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "They just think boring old Felicity finally has a boyfriend."

"I'm worried about you," he said, his lips moving against her hairline. "I'm the only person you spend time with when you're not at work, and I'm not real."

"Don't say that," she replied, pulling back to look at him.

He was gazing at her with a tender smile. He did that sometimes. It made her feel warm, like she was basking in the sun after a long, cold night.

"It's true," Oliver said. "I'm not the guy who died when that building collapsed. I'm just an echo."

"No," Felicity protested. "An echo wouldn't pretend to laugh at my LINUX joke. An echo wouldn't wait for me to come home every night. I couldn't touch an echo, and it certainly couldn't touch me."

She had two fistfuls of his shirt now, and his face wasn't even an inch from hers, but he definitely moved first. Before she could blink, his lips were on hers.

Felicity used her grip on his shirt to haul him even closer, and one hand slipped around his back and up into his hair. He was framing her face with his hands, fingers buried in her blonde curls. Her mouth was a cup—with her eyes she asked him to drink of her sorrow, and she wanted to do the same for him.

She pulled away only because she needed oxygen. Oliver wiped away her tears with his thumbs and then touched his forehead to hers.

"I love you," he whispered. "Do you understand?"

And then he was gone.

After three days of aching silence and a loneliness that penetrated to her bones, Felicity dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. Her heart might be broken, but she wasn't. She went to work and spent the day on autopilot. She ate lunch at her desk while examining code line by line. Jeannie came over to sympathize. Word had traveled around the department at the speed of light—everyone knew Felicity's boyfriend had dumped her after she got drunk at the Christmas party, and everyone denounced him as a puritanical prick.

She stared at her phone, thinking of calling Sara from the moving company, or even Diggle. But she hadn't seen them since that day, and she'd never returned Sara's calls.

At the end of the day, Felicity got into her car. She slipped off her shoes and drove barefoot, taking the long way home. She trudged up the front steps, carrying her heels, and walked inside, head bowed.

"Felicity."

She walked right into him—he was just inside the front door, closer than he'd ever come to stepping outside. He'd dressed up for her again, in an exquisitely tailored blue suit that made it hard to look right into his eyes. Felicity rose up on her toes to throw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her off her feet.

"I missed you," she said.

"I tried to leave. I couldn't."

Felicity kissed him hard on the lips, let go with a loud smack. "Please don't ever do that again," she said.

"Never."

Playlist

"Strange and Beautiful"—Aqualung

"Stay"—Rihanna and Mikky Ekko

"Answer"—Sarah McLachlan

"A Sky Full of Stars"—Coldplay

"The First Time"—U2

"Come Wake Me Up"—Rascal Flatts

"Turn to Stone"—Ingrid Michaelson

"There By Your Side"—The Milk Carton Kids