Frowning at her cell phone as she tries the number again, Felicity slides the key into her door absently and lets herself in, dragging her suitcase with her. The three days in Central City have been good for her, allowing her to unwind and help Barry forget his grief in his darkest hour. In Central City, there are no vigilantes, no computers demanding attention, no unhinged women who may or may not use Felicity in their plot for revenge. But now the vacation is over, and it’s time for reality to set in.
Which would be aided if the Arrow would answer his cell phone.
They’ve talked at least once a day—sometimes more than once—since he’s been gone, and she knows he’s having trouble tracking down Helena. She’s been leaving a very small digital footprint, and, with Felicity six hundred miles away and without her prized computers, it’s been like fighting a minotaur with one hand tied behind her back.
Still, more troubling is the fact that the Arrow isn’t answering his phone. Since transitioning to her burner phone, he’s answered in the first three rings. It’s gone to voicemail twice already tonight, and, as it plays the generic message once again, she can’t help but wonder if something horrible happened while her train was in that tunnel and she couldn’t get cell reception. Part of her wants to try the other number she has for him, but she thinks that would be an awkward conversation she’s not yet prepared to have.
She stops to lock her door before trying again, opting for safety first. She drops her purse on the table and drops her suitcase next to it, focusing only on her cell phone’s contacts list. She struggles for a moment as she thinks about pulling up the GPS tracker, but then decides that it’s not time to panic yet. Just as she’s about to call Diggle for her own peace of mind, the Arrow’s number shows up on her screen and she breathes a sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank God,” she sighs when she answers. “I was starting to get panicked—it’s not like you to ignore your cell phone.” She runs a hand over the top of her head. “Are you hurt? Is everything all right? How have things—?”
“Felicity,” he cuts her off gently, reminding her that he actually has to have time to answer those questions. “We’re fine—we haven’t engaged.” A rush of static that’s probably a sigh comes through the speakers. “She’s keeping a low profile, only showing up when she knows we can’t touch her without revealing ourselves.” He hesitates before saying, “She’s been sneaking around your apartment”—a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold works its way down Felicity’s spine—”but we can’t keep watch on her with your police tail sitting outside. They would have noticed if we had the van parked outside for three days while they knew you were gone. Lock yourself in your apartment,” he demands now, and she knows that’s something akin to panic in his voice, “and wait for me to come get you.”
“I told you—” she starts to remind him, to tell him that she doesn’t need all of this protection, though she knows his heart is in the right place. They’ve had this conversation before—multiple times—and every time he ignores her and insists this is the right choice. Part of her wonders if she’s missing something, if he knows something about Helena Bertinelli that she doesn’t.
“I told you,” he insists firmly, “that I would do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” There's a chuckle before he continues, “Even if it meant camping out on your fire escape for three weeks.” She has to bite back a sound of surprise as she realizes he’s quoted her word for word, from a conversation they had months ago. At first she's surprised, but then she decides that he might have a better eye for detail than she'd previously thought. "I'm bringing you here, and you're staying until Helena is no longer an issue."
She frowns, trying to find anything to convince him otherwise. "What about Saphira?" she asks finally. "I mean, she's boarding right now, but I'm supposed to pick her up tomorrow. She can't stay there indefinitely." A note of sadness enters her tone as she continues, "I don't want her to think I've abandoned her." With a heaving sigh, she rolls her suitcase into her room, preparing to stock it with clean clothes, just in case. As an afterthought, she throws her purse over her arm again; she's learned from the last break-in not to keep anything so important near the door.
Before the Arrow can propose a plan of action, a violent banging comes from the door, and she jumps. It's clearly not a knock, but instead some attempt to knock it down or break through the locks. Felicity freezes in some semblance of panic, but the Arrow's voice draws her back to her senses. "What was that noise?" he demands, and something is... wrong in his tone of voice, something that sends tendrils of dread down into her stomach. It sounds almost like panic, but the Arrow doesn't panic.
"I don't know," she whispers in a strangled voice, waiting in her bedroom. She immediately takes her second cell phone and her wallet from the purse still on her arm, shoving them into the pockets of her purple peacoat. She's not going to be weighed down by a bag if she has to run.
"I'm on my way right now," the Arrow assures her in a voice that's meant to be calm, but she can hear the edge underneath. She knows what that means: he's just as terrified as she is right now. "Don't hang up, but call the police. They have eyes on your apartment, so their response time will be better than mine. Lance is on duty tonight—he'll keep you safe until I get there."
Felicity can't help but think they might be jumping the gun a little, and so she hesitates ever so slightly. "I think we're being a little hasty," she starts, and she has to stop herself from saying his name. Now isn't exactly the time to let him know.
"Felicity, please," he answers quietly, and she no longer has the ability to deny him anything. It would be one thing if she was the only one scared, but that he's scared, too, makes her realize that he knows this isn't good.
The noise comes again, and Felicity grabs the Bluetooth receiver he gave her from the table, twisting it over her ear and connecting it to her phone. "Okay, you can still hear me, right?" she asks, and she receives a murmur of confirmation in response. She pulls out the phone registered to her name, dialing the number she entered for Detective Lance ages ago, at the Arrow's behest.
Lance picks up distractedly after four rings and she can hear her voice starting to quaver as she says quietly, "Detective, it's Felicity Smoak. There's someone trying to break into my apartment." As she says the words, the attempt becomes successful, and all it takes is the crossbow before Felicity is convinced. She slides out of the window, onto the fire escape. "Correction: they did break into my apartment," she continues. "I'm on the fire escape and I'm heading into the garage."
"I'm right outside," Lance assures her, his voice suddenly turning harder than it usually is. "Get out now, and wait for someone"—the way he says it is loaded, and she realizes he's referring to the Arrow—"who can protect you."
She does as he says, praying that her feet will carry her fast enough. "I'm pulling into the parking garage right now," the Arrow's synthesized voice says in her ear. "I'm going to pull behind your car, so meet me there."
He's already there on his bike by the time she makes it, and he releases a breath as he extends her the motorcycle helmet. She buckles it in record time, and her arms barely wrap around him when he surges forward, out of the garage. She breathes a sigh of relief as she leans against him, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle, mostly for her own comfort. She knows better now, knows that his driving, while unorthodox, is effective.
She takes a moment to dial Lance's number again, and she hears it through the Bluetooth headset. "Lance," he answers gruffly, sounding more alert—and more frustrated—than before.
"Detective," she says, her voice still a little high from the excitement, though she feels like she can relax a little now. "Did you catch her? The woman who broke into my apartment?"
"She was already gone when we got here," he answers, and she can see him frowning at the scene. "It doesn't look like anything has been tampered with, but I'll let you see if anything is missing in the morning." He sighs in a way that says I am not paid enough to deal with this, and she can't help but agree in her own circumstances. "Speaking of which, we're gonna need a statement from you in the morning. Tonight, the most important part is that you're safe."
"I'm going to be staying with a friend," she answers, leaving a subtle hint for the detective. "I'll be fine for the night."
"I'm sure you will," he answers dryly, and she can't help the smile that turns the corners of her mouth up. "He seems to have a thing for saving people—hero complex or something like that."
"He does have a hero complex," she agrees, "but I'm not exactly in a position to complain right now." She tightens her arm around him further. "Not that I'd want to, anyway. It's one of my favorite qualities." The Arrow pats her knee in gratitude of his defense, and she has a feeling that would have earned her a kiss under different circumstances.
She ends the call to Lance just as they arrive at Verdant, wobbling as she slides off the motorcycle. A gloved hand at her elbow steadies her even though she doesn't need it, and then his hands are on her, one brushing the errant strands of her ponytail out of her face and the other cupping her jaw. "Are you all right?" he asks her gently, and she nods.
"No worse for the wear," she assures him with a smile she doesn't exactly feel. Judging by the way his frown follows, she thinks he might know that.
He releases a breath like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. "If I'm not allowed to scare you," he murmurs, reminding her of the night where Moira Queen nearly killed him, "then you shouldn't be allowed to scare me."
"I'm trying not to," she answers dryly. "I didn't want to flee through the fire escape any more than you wanted me to." She pokes his shoulder as he enters the code to the lair's entrance. "Fire escapes are your thing, not mine."
He allows himself a slight chuckle before retorting dryly, "Then you should leave it to an expert."
***
Oliver watches Felicity as she walks into the room, her arms wrapping around her middle. He knows that she's afraid, that she's in shock, that she doesn't quite know how to handle what has happened. Maybe he should tell her all of it—that Helena already knows how important she is to him, which is why she would go after Felicity first.
Still, despite that, she manages to pull herself together, to take a deep breath and start moving toward a goal. Oliver has never noticed that the two of them have that in common: they’re both able to push their feelings aside to do what is necessary. It’s something he’s never given much thought to, but now that it’s right in front of him, he recognizes it. Of course, she handles herself with a style and poise that Oliver has never had, but it’s still something familiar.
Her footsteps take her over to the duffle bag stored under the shelving in the corner, the one containing the spare change of clothes she brought in with her not long after starting with them. She rummages through it for a moment, frowning when she apparently doesn’t find what she needs. A huff escapes her as she rises to her feet, turning to him while biting her lip. “Is it okay if I borrow another set of clothes from you? Apparently I didn’t think I’d need pajamas.” She sighs. “Which, frankly, is ridiculous because I’ve spent more time here than I have at home for the past few weeks. I should have thought…” She trails off with sharp, wild hand motions. “And I’m babbling. Again. Stop me, please, I beg of you.”
“I like listening to you,” he answers with a smile, but as her brows knit together he realizes that he’s said that to her before. He can’t seem to stop the slips that he knows she’s starting to notice; they come at the most inopportune moments, almost as though her verbal slips are contagious. Pressing forward, he continues, "And feel free to use whatever you want.” For once, the truth is what comes out: “I have nothing to hide from you anymore.” It also helps to remind her that, whenever she’s ready for the truth, she can remove the mask at any time. It’s the most he can give her; he won’t lie to her anymore, but he also won’t reveal himself when it will be the thing that tears her away from him.
She mutters something under her breath, and his eyes pick out the words wish and same. Even though he understands the phrase, it confuses him; Felicity isn’t the kind to keep secrets, especially not from him. She’s the definition of transparent—or so he thought—and it makes him more than a little nervous. She brought his mother’s book to him as soon as she figured it out, so any secrets she’s hiding can’t be good.
He walks over to her, and he can’t stop himself from cupping her jaw, tilting her head up to look at him. He studies her expression for a long moment, and he notices she’s biting her lip, that her eyes won’t meet his. Part of him wonders if he’s already lost her, but then he knows it doesn’t make sense; even with the threat of Helena, Felicity wouldn’t be in the lair unless she wanted to be.
“I’m going to go get changed,” she starts abruptly, color heating her cheeks when she realizes she’s spoken a little loudly. She takes his hand and squeezes it before walking away, so he knows she isn’t mad, but something is definitely very wrong—the kind of wrong that makes his stomach drop. Still, he doesn’t call her on it; Felicity is entitled to have her secrets, even if he wishes she didn’t. Most of him is hoping that she’ll tell him when she’s ready.
She slips through the door, and he takes a moment to note that she doesn’t lock it, a surprising display of trust that he appreciates. Trying not to dwell on it or the direction of his thoughts, he unclips the strap on the quiver before laying it across his station used for making arrowheads, peels the wristband full of darts away. He can't bring himself to pull the switchblade out of his pocket, though; the idea of being unarmed, even while alone, makes him feel vulnerable.
Oliver wanders back to the training area to clean up some of the mess he left behind in his rush to get to her, and his thoughts seem to wander back to Felicity changing in the downstairs bathroom. That she's changing into a set of his clothes makes it even more difficult to concentrate, and he vaguely wonders if she'll grab another v-neck shirt. He rather liked the sight of her in the last one.
She walks out after a few minutes, his shirt knotted about her waist, padding along in her sock feet, shoes in hand. She drops them by her duffle bag before walking back to him, smiling. It's not the smartest move on her part; when she stands that close to him, he can tell her eyes are red-rimmed as though she's been crying.
Oliver doesn't say anything because they don't really need words, only gathers her up in his arms. Felicity takes a deep yet strangled breath, clinging to him the same way she did after things escalated with the Dodger. He presses a kiss to her hair and she takes another deep breath, as if trying to move forward and regroup from the temporary break in composure.
"She's not going to touch you," he assures her, and he thinks he might be making the promise to himself more than her. "I promised you I'd keep you safe, Felicity." She pulls away, nodding and wiping at her eyes, her face coloring as though she's embarrassed by it. Because of that, he knows better than to draw attention to it and upset her further.
"I know," she answers with resolve and faith he doesn't deserve after tonight's chaos, but he admires it anyway. She seems to be able to keep her faith even when things go wrong, and he wishes he wasn't so jaded by the world that he could be that way, too. Then she lets out a bitter laugh, and he realizes that maybe she's a little jaded, though she somehow seems to keep a better lid on it than him. "Part of me wishes she had just dragged me out of there screaming so that at least I wouldn't have to spend the next few weeks looking twice over my shoulder, wondering what she's going to do next."
"And that's the last thing I want," he answers, perhaps more sharply than he should. "I know how Helena thinks. She's ruthless and cold, Felicity, and she won't hesitate to kill anyone who stands in her way. Without thinking about the casualties, about the body count she leaves behind." He hesitates. "A friend told me that a person can only change once. My change turned me into this"—good or bad, he'll let her decide—"but, when her fiancé was killed, it turned her into something dark and twisted."
"And yours turned you into a hero," she answers without missing a beat. It's a title he doesn't deserve, but one he's trying to live up to. She bites her lip for a moment, and part of him wants to bite it for her. "It's not about the change—it's about how we handle them. The world broke Helena, but you're not like her." They're the words he probably needs to hear most right now, and, for the life of him, Oliver can't figure out how she knows to use them. "The world tried to break you, but you're a survivor." She takes his hand. "It's going to take something bigger than circumstance to turn you into that."
Oliver doesn't quite know how to tell her that the one thing keeping him grounded is a blonde IT specialist he didn't even know eight months ago.
He tries to convey it when he kisses her, and that same thrill of amazement runs through him as the very first time. Oliver has no idea when he'll finally remember that she's not going to push him away, but he hopes it never happens. It's a thrill like no other to realize she's kissing him when she should be running, that she's trusting him so completely when he's done nothing to deserve it.
She pulls away after a moment—always too soon—and she blurts a little loudly, "We should go to bed." His eyebrows go up of their own accord, and she makes a short strangled sound before continuing, "God, no—no. I didn't mean... I meant that you should get some sleep and I should get some sleep. Separately." She does a half-hearted shrug. "Well, not separately since there's only one bed, but the literal 'let's go to bed,' not the one used as a euphemism for sex." It's a word he wishes she hadn't thrown out; his fantasies are under tenuous control as it is, without the thought of her talking about going to bed together. She bites her lip. "And I shouldn't have said that because now you have a weird look on your face, and I probably freaked you out. Sorry. I have no idea why I do this—it's just that the words—"
"Felicity," he says sharply, with a smile. There's something absolutely wonderful and charming about the way she lets her words flow without thinking, something completely transparent and open that has been missing from his life for so long. He nudges her toward the corner before saying with a smile, "Get in bed."
She only gapes at him for a long moment, her face flushing as he imagines her thoughts take a less-than-pure turn. In a surprising turn of events, she's speechless and she apparently decides that answering that statement would only lead to more innuendos—accidental or otherwise, as the case may be.
He's tentative to slide into place beside her now that he can; he's been wanting to be by her side for ages, and now that he's given the opportunity, he hesitates. At the last minute, he decides to lay atop the blanket. He knows he won't sleep—he hasn't since Helena's reappearance in Starling City—and what little rest he's received in the last three days has been in stolen moments, awakened by memories of the island and almost prophetic glimpses into what could happen to the people he cares about.
He expects her to understand his hesitance and display her own, but she doesn't. As soon as he's next to her, she rolls over, pulling herself over to him and wrapping her arm around his waist. Almost without thinking, he pulls her into him, feeling her breath hot against his shoulder. Unable to resist, he kisses her hair. He's quiet for a long moment, so long that her breathing goes deep as though she's sleeping. "Goodnight, Felicity," he murmurs to her.
She sighs once before answering, "Goodnight, Oliver." Then her eyes go wide, and he thinks he’s probably mirroring her expression. She knows. The first thought is relief for not having to tell the lie, but the second quickly sobers him.
She’s gone.