A/N: Saw a list of dialogue prompts and couldn't resist. I'll be adding new one-shots as separate chapters as I get inspired. Thanks to thatmasquedgirl, who encouraged me when I felt like scrapping this first one and starting over, or not posting at all. :P

You're Scaring Me

Oliver hesitated outside her door. He wanted nothing more than to kick it down, but he could hear Felicity's voice in his head, chiding him for doing anything that might call his cover identity into question. And she'd be furious with him for breaking her door. So he picked the lock. It was too easy, and they would definitely have a conversation about that later. For now, he just had to make sure she was all right.

It was a Sunday afternoon, nothing going on, but Diggle had been trying to reach her for hours, and when Oliver found out and began calling her too, worry blossomed into fear in his heart. It wasn't like her to ignore their calls—she'd never done such a thing, even when she was angry.

The door swung inward, and he charged into Felicity's apartment. While his gaze took in his surroundings, he pushed the information aside, focusing only on her. Or the lack of her. She wasn't in the living room. He peered into the kitchen through a beaded curtain stretched across the doorway. It was miniscule, and she wasn't there.

"Felicity, you're scaring me," he said, barely breathing as the knot of fear in his chest flared to pulsing life. His imagination was going wild, image after image rising up in his mind of all the awful things that could have happened to her.

The bathroom, also tiny—she'd griped more than once about having only a shower but no bathtub—was empty. One door left. It was closed, and he knew it was her bedroom. But he'd always been so careful with her, so careful not to cross the line he'd drawn, and the thought of entering her bedroom uninvited set off an alarm in the back of his mind.

Oliver stood there for a moment, his heart pounding, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Then a sound from the other side of the door erased all doubt. He twisted the knob and crossed the line.

The sound—it was a sob—had stopped. The room was dimly lit by a TV screen, which he ignored, focusing on the bed as he ran his hand along the wall, feeling for a switch. He flipped it on and the room was flooded with light.

The lump on the bed groaned.

Oliver blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness. Teacups. They were everywhere, impossible not to notice. Teacups on every surface.

"Fel—"

The lump under the covers shrieked, and he heard the unmistakable crackle of a charging Taser.

"Felicity!"

She threw back the covers, and he barely had time to step out of the way before she fired the stun gun. The contacts bounced off the doorframe and hit the floor.

"Oliver?"

He stayed where he was, looking from the Taser clenched in her unwavering hand to her face. Her glasses were off, and she'd been crying. Her eyes were red and still wet.

"Oliver!" she cried. "What are you doing in my bedroom? Besides the obvious, I mean." Her eyes widened. "Not that it's obvious. Not that that thought has ever crossed your mind, which I'm sure it hasn't . . . What was I saying?"

He smiled. Felicity's rambling was one of the few things in life that made him genuinely smile. But for some reason, it tended to piss her off.

"Wipe that smirk off your face," she said, hands on her hips. "It's not funny."

Maybe not, but his grin widened anyway. He couldn't help it. Mostly it was relief at finding her relatively unscathed, but also it was just the scene before him. Felicity, sans glasses, her hair in a pile on top of her head. Felicity, kneeling on her bed, hands on hips—were those bacon pajama pants?—clutching the Taser. Felicity, with unshed tears still in her eyes, shoulders bared by her pink tank top, against a backdrop of teacups. So many teacups.

"What's with the teacups?" he asked.

"Oh, no. You don't get to ask questions. You need to answer mine."

"I'm not sure I can formulate an answer while you're still pointing your Taser at me," he said, struggling not to laugh.

She shrugged, tossing the stun gun onto the nightstand. "Like you're afraid of me."

"Not now," he admitted, "but I definitely was when you were about to electrocute me."

"Sorry about that," Felicity mumbled. She sat back on her heels. "But you still haven't answered. What are you doing here? I know we're partners and everything, but partners don't routinely waltz into other partners' apartments, especially not early on Sunday mornings."

"Early?" He frowned. "It's mid-afternoon. How long have you been in here?"

She squinted at the clock. "All day, I guess."

"Why haven't you answered Dig's and my calls? You never do that. I was really worried."

"I know," she replied. "You bellowed my name when I almost Tased you. It's like your voice has only two settings, bellow and growl. And almost-whisper. And your Arrow voice, but that's electronically synthesized, and—"

"Felicity."

Her eyes closed briefly when he said her name. She did that a lot.

"You know why I'm here now, so answer my questions," he continued. "Why aren't you answering your phone? Why have you been crying? And most importantly, what's with the teacups?"

She smiled reaching into her pocket. (Definitely bacon pajama pants.) She withdrew a tissue and blew her nose, then settled her glasses on her face.

"My grandma gave them to me," she said. "Well, some of them. She moved into assisted living and couldn't take them all with her, and she worried about them getting broken. So I took them, and there were enough that people assumed I was collecting them, so I started getting teacups for birthdays and Hanukkah, and now they've just kind of grown on me." She narrowed her eyes. "But I don't want teacups for birthdays or Hanukkah, in case you were getting any ideas. . . . Not that you were getting ideas. Oh God, I'm not asking for presents, really!" She sighed, blushing bright red. "I have a headache."

Forgetting everything he'd thought earlier about lines that shouldn't be crossed, Oliver sat on the edge of the bed. "That answers the teacup question," he said. "What about the rest?"

Felicity sighed again. "I never answer my phone when I'm watching Lord of the Rings," she said. "I'm sure I mentioned that to Dig at least once. I say everything else out loud."

"Lord of the Rings?" he asked. "All day?"

She shrugged. "Well, I was just going to watch Fellowship, but the way it ends, with Frodo pulling Sam out of the water, and when he says, 'I'm glad you're with me.'" She swiped at the tears leaking from her eyes. "So I had to at least start Two Towers, and then the way that one ends . . . I don't know how people survived until Return of the King came out, and I usually start bawling about halfway through that one, so . . ." She peered up at him. "I know I'm a huge nerd. I accept it. It's just—it's kind of a spiritual experience for me. I don't expect you to understand."

"I want to understand," he almost-whispered. "Help me understand."

Another sigh. "No talking," she said, digging in the blankets and coming up with a remote. "Well, I guess you can talk because I can't keep my mouth shut, but no sarcastic comments."

"Never," Oliver said.

Felicity unpaused the TV, and the movie continued. Oliver had seen the movies (and read the books more than once), but he stayed silent and sat there, perched on the edge of her bed, as Denethor urged Pippin to sing. In no time Felicity was crying again. He lifted his arm, and she dipped under it, burrowing in and sniffling. When she mumbled something about platonic circumstances, he just smiled and pulled her in closer.