A little late to the party, but based on Guggenheim's dialog tease from the Arrow Season 2.5 Comic on twitter.
Awareness came to Oliver Queen like a freight train as he stood on Felicity's front stoop, watching her fumble to get her house key into the door. He had been uncharacteristically unfocused since the ARGUS plane from Hong Kong. He hadn't noticed Dig and Felicity's silent exchange as she led him off to the car, and he hadn't even considered where she was taking him. He had even dozed off in the car.
He, Oliver Queen, had dozed off. It was a testament both how exhausted he was and how much he trusted the woman who was now opening her front door. She threw her keys on the table in the entry way and immediately kicked off her shoes as if they were a hated object, sighing in relief as she did so. Only now did he realize that they were at her house-she had brought him to her house.
In that moment, he realized what a ridiculous excuse for a partner he must be. Because while this woman knew some of his worst secrets, and was one of the few people he trusted with his life, he had never set foot in her house before. They had been partners for well over a year, and he had never once been over to her place. He felt a swirl of shame in his gut, especially when he considered how they had spent the past thirty-six hours or so. He had nearly given up. And then he had sent her directly into the lion's den. Worse yet, he had told her loved her, and then he had brushed it off as if it was a ploy, letting her ramble about how the thought of them together was unthinkable.
What was truly unthinkable was that he had meant every single word of it, and yet he had never been to her home.
She must have realized he wasn't following her anymore, because she turned. Her eyes searched his, and whatever she saw there made her groan. She braced her hands on the door frame-one in and one out, and leaned her head against it. "Whatever you are thinking, just don't," she sighed.
She looked tired. More tired than he'd ever seen her before. Two transatlantic flights in the course of twenty-four hours could do that to a person. "I should go . . . " he started, but then trailed off. Where would he go, anyway?
"Go where?" She echoed. "I'm not going to sleep very well thinking about you sleeping in that . . . that," she flapped her hand tiredly in the air, a failed effort at her usual animation. "That place." She said it with disdain, and he knew that she was referring to the second base of operations that he had kept secret. He didn't know if the distaste laced her voice because of the condition of the facility, the fact that he hadn't told him about it, or simply because he had chosen that place to tell her that he was giving up. "You can't just accept things, Oliver," she whispered in his memory. The here-and-now version of Felicity was still listing all the places he couldn't go. "The foundry is a mess, and your house . . ." She trailed off, and he didn't need to her to explain that one. His house was empty. Everyone he had shared it with was dead, except for Thea, who would probably never forgive him. " Your knee hurts, my head hurts, and for once no one is trying to kill us. You need rest. I need rest. I need you in my bed."
Oliver couldn't help the way the corner of his mouth lifted at her choice in words.
She groaned, gently dropping her head down on the door frame with a thunk. "Ughhh, my brain. What I mean is, I don't have a guest room, and you won't fit on the couch, so you can sleep on my bed, but we need to get some rest." She didn't look up at him as she turned around. "So either follow me, or don't, but I don't particularly feel like being alone right now."
He closed his eyes. Neither did he. How could she know what he needed before he did? It never ceased to amaze him, how she could read him so well. With a sigh, he followed her into the house.