Being remarkable and being noticeable were two entirely different things. Felicity Smoak had spent a larger chunk of her life striving for one and not the other. Being noticed, she had found out from a relatively young age, was usually not a good thing.

Being noticed meant mean boys asking her if she was ever going to grow into her Bugs Bunny teeth. Or snarky girls laughing in the change room because she was 13 and still didn't need a bra. Being noticed was having spit balls ending up in your hair, taunts of four eyes, and having everyone turn to stare at you when Mitchell Lions announces to the whole class in 5th grade that you have a just sat in paint and now have a large brown patch all over your arse. Being noticed for Felicity Smoak very rarely turned out for the better.

Yet here she was, sitting at her after work job, wishing that she hadn't succeeded quiet so well in becoming entirely unnoticeable. Most days she felt more like part of the furniture than she did an actual person when she was in 'the lair'. She was pretty sure she had more in common with the battered leather couch in the corner than she did with any other animate object in the room. She was useful, indispensable at times, she was sure they would miss her if she wasn't there, but at some point in the last nine months she had become furniture.

Maybe she was just being overly sensitive. Perhaps she was just over analysing it all a little too much. She knew she tended to do that whenever Oliver Queen was involved. Felicity didn't think that she had had a conversation with Oliver that she hadn't played back in her head at least once looking for a missed meaning, or just to relive the moment.

Perhaps Oliver and Diggle didn't think of her as furniture. The real problem, Felicity just realised, was that she was starting to feel like furniture; like she was a minor character in the Oliver Queen show. Felicity Smoak suddenly had an epiphany; she was Martha Jones to Oliver's drool worthy Dr Who, and she needed to get out. Oh God, she thought, that made Laurel Rose Tyler. Felicity couldn't help but cover her face with her hand at that thought.

She really did need to get out. Not get out of the team – God no- she needed to get out of the house, get out on a date, get out into any kind of vaguely social activity that involved other people. She would happily get out to a Game of Thrones board game night (as long as she didn't have to play the Starks, you could never win playing the Starks). She didn't want to be furniture, or Martha Jones, and more importantly she didn't want to feel like those things either.

The internet had rarely let her down, and she was determined that it would not this time either. Felicity conducted a quick search for wine bars in her local area. The nearest one to her flat with a four star rating was called 'Puzzles', and it had a speed dating event on tomorrow night. Seeing this as an obvious sign from the Great God Google Felicity filled out the RSVP form and sent it in before she could think twice.

She knew she was going to regret this tomorrow. Hell she was already regretting it now, she had already planned a strenuous evening of drinking wine, and catching up on her TV shows. It was her only night off all week and she had potentially destroyed it all because she didn't want to be Martha Jones.

Glancing behind her she could see Oliver and Diggle in the middle of a work out. In the last 15 minutes she had gone from feelings horribly disenfranchised, to having a revelation, to taking charge of her life (a little still counts)- and they were still hitting each other with sticks. Felicity checked through all of the programmes that she had running, making sure nothing needed her immediate attention. If she was going to subject herself to speed dating tomorrow night, she was going home now. She grabbed her tablet, water bottle and favourite pen putting them in her bag.

'I'm off now, I will see you Saturday unless something goes wrong, not that I think something is going to go wrong, I highly doubt anything will go wrong. I mean something might go wrong, knowing our luck something probably will- not that I want it to. I just mean that if you look at the statistics the probability of something happening seems extraordinarily high compared to most people. What I am trying to actually say is; goodbye.'

Diggle and Oliver had barely paused during Felicity's long winded farewell. The two men were so used to her rambling that it often did not register with them. Oliver's eyes flicked in her direction acknowledging the fact that she was leaving.

'See you Saturday' Diggle called out to the blonde as she made her way up the stairs.

Felicity waved her hand in response- not saying anything on the chance it resulted in another rambling goodbye. She was going home, and she was going speed dating tomorrow. She bet Martha Jones never made herself go speed dating.