There is a slight chance she will waive her rights. The way he speaks on their behalf, breaks them down on their behalf, and mentions love on his behalf. Because at the end, she is out of the equation. He has the final say irregardless of the fact she put her foot in first.

(It is a miracle of the grand earth that she doesn't trip, keeps her head up high. But what a shame that she did not go off on her tangent, pissed off, head not high or low. She just put up her hand, she walked away. A man should not stop you short of who you are, and you are to hate a man, a person really, if they ever keep you small.)

Felicity loves the way she holds grudges, holds decisions the way Oliver holds guilt. She begrudges him without falling into hate, she will not ever not love him.

;

Many times over the years she heard the term 'hot IT girl' and at first it was a fuzz, a dumb term that went one ear out of the other. Then, it was a hot burning sensation of a term that made her want to infect the speaker's computer with an infinite number of viruses (okay, fine, she did and still does this on occasion, IT PERSON NOT HOT IT GIRL, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU).

And then Oliver Queen did not even blink at her appearance. He came in, he lied, she knew he lied, he knew she knew he lied, and there were no expectations.

In another year of her life, say sometime in high school or some time in between an constant father and a harried mother, she would have screamed at the lack of expectation. Where was her bar? Where was her challenge? Where was her poster and where was her crowd to scream or boo depending on whether she made it through that wall or not?

But Oliver didn't expect, he prodded, having heard or known of her expertise and had chosen her based on qualifications and proven work. She was Felicity, not even a tech person or Queen Consolidated employee (though that definitely pushed him in her direction), Felicity Smoak. It was nice for someone to have faith in her, and no it was not the first time. It was just so unexpected to have playboy 'oh he's alive!' Oliver Queen to come in, jeans clad, cloy smile, hoping for her help, all the while unable to believably lie to her.

(He was a good liar. Well, he came off like such a jerk so much of the time that people shut down and took his lies at his word. But he didn't swing his way in with her. Maybe he had a plan, maybe he had it all in his head – flirt a little, or demand for an answer, slam the laptop on her desk, walk away without a second glance. Something. Actually, she was sure he planned on being his asshole jerk persona the whole time with her, but he failed with her. It was a good failure until he kissed her and said what he said while being his actual asshole jerk self. She knew he was lying when they first met, and she knew he was going to regret that day in the hospital the moment he put his hands on her face. First taste and all.)

;

She waives her rights when Sara dies. She doesn't steal a glance. She doesn't pause when they brush shoulders. She doesn't run to fall into him when the fact that Sara is not going to wake finally sticks in her brain. She waives any signal of her affections because Sara is dead and this team is that much smaller.

He's lucky in this way and she wonders if he's aware of this morbid fact.

(Luck is technically not real. Death is. These two things exclusively do not belong together. But Felicity, family issues and self imposed life track and all, deals exclusively in things that don't go together. Like sunny disposition and brooding hero. Optimistic outcomes and statistically high body counts. Telling someone to feel something when all they ever do is feel so much they have to dress in green leather and risk their lives for people they'll never meet.)

;

The thing is, she knows all about rage. It used to clench her in unpredictable fits, always causing her to turn beet red, always ending in her shouting into a void, eyes wet but not able to really cry. Be it during a meaningless conversation, while she crossed the street, when the TV flashed a familiar scene. Anything that reminded her that her start was not even hers, it was her mother's heart breaking and hardening so fast that she raised a baby girl with stone feet built into her foundation.

'Stay put, I'll come back to you, no one else will. We're what we've got. '

Felicity was ashamed for ever believing the spiel of isolation at all.

(She was young, and Felicity felt strained by a blood that she didn't believe could be hers. Sometimes, still being young and all, Felicity still did not really hear what her mother was saying.)

So. She resolved herself to not push or pull if possible. After a mess of hasty decisions and a love twisted away, she pointed her feet at more practical lives. It was a breathing exercise until it was natural. Not 'let the chips fall where they may' but 'que sera, sera'. She was about 19 when she decided this. She was always going to be stressed about something, always going to be weary of people who didn't look up more than ten feet away, but from then on she would hope for the best and then she would add one plus one. That way if she ever had to jump she would know where to land.

(The origin of this resolution was weaved through her narrative, poking through at the thread that snagged on her mother's decision to forgive a sick man through a letter 11 years too late.

All her life Felicity had hoped this man had been a brave soul who ran from a poisonous well that held a treasure in the nook of its bricks, hoping he was eager somewhere to dig out the treasure before the well ran fully dry. It was her one hope against all her facts of life. He was the drought all along, her mother the treasure he dug so deep she ended up choosing to eat the dirt. So Felicity made a hope out of herself, finally putting to a corner the rage that kept her a part of that family. Unsavory as that sounded.

One day, a little less younger, she'll trace back the water.)

;

The days pass and it's six weeks and she misses him. They have forged a pre-history that, although necessary for some, was never supposed to be for them. They hadn't needed to wade the waters; they pulled through when needed, no questions until it was his life in her hands and even with that she saved him before getting the answers from A to Z.

(It was not trust immediately, but there was an underlying faith instantly.)

;

Oliver is pulling on his black motorcycle jacket, leaving Roy pass-ons for the night, Diggle is pounding back a second cup of coffee trying to wave Felicity off for the night, and it's all timed so that Felicity will be out the door 90 seconds before Oliver is gone. Oliver has this timed.

Because she's the Arrow's eyes and ears, because the Arrow wants her on the comms, because no offense to Diggle, but he's more at ease with her voice in his ear. But every night when that bit is over, so is everything else. They say something small and they leave without the other.

When before-

;

(He found himself smiling at her often, and once upon a time when he was mad at the easy life he had but too lazy to fight it, he liked to play up every part of the privileged white boy with absolute glee. He was absolutely in love with Laurel but also not good enough for her so his dumb fearful ass fucked it up the way cowards do. He didn't tell her that he was afraid. Then on the island he was afraid he'd never see her again so he decided to lay down any fears he would ever have from then on and just lie about everything else. Not so long ago, he thought Laurel was to be the last woman he'd ever love even after he stopped loving her in that way.

And then he meets her, Felicity who has a tendency of cupping his face in her hands and washing his fears through her fingers.

She always lets him keep his fears and sorrows, she just rinses them through her hands first, reminding him to share. If he met her before the island, he knows with a guilty heart, she would have done and been the same for him and he and Laurel would have saved themselves a lot of trouble. In this way he's glad to have met Felicity in the after. He's loved Laurel and had her love enough to justify a universe where they eventually got it more right than wrong. In the before, if he'd known Felicity, he'd have pushed her away too, citing Queen family duties and youth as factors. But he would have said something in the way he said something at the hospital, and how insane that one person in the entirety of the world could pull a thread of words from him when all anyone else could do was make him run, a grunt his only word on the matter).

He's smiling at her, softly, she's looking through her purse. Just a second. His back is to his team and she will be walking out soon and he'll leave a good minute later. As he should. He thinks about her voice, already misses the strings she speaks in over the comms. He hasn't heard her direct a string at him in person in days. This happens in intervals with them. She'll be perfectly Felicity, then he'll be stupid and say something to her only people who are happy and in love should say to one another, like he has a right to anything more than a nothing with her, and she'll freeze down on him. All he wants is her ribbon of untied thoughts running at him.

(But he's the one who froze down first.)

He thinks about her mouth a lot and he should not have kissed her, as it turned out to be worse than enough. Now, she still looks for him when they're in the same room, but now when she finds him, she nods, doesn't have to hide a smile because there's no risk of one anyway.

He should be glad she's not fighting him on his stance to not be together. It hurts like fucking hell instead. He hopes it means she's let go, because he's right about this decision. He knows she's all that matters.

(He also knows he's a fucking moron.)

She's found her keys so he looks away so she won't know how all he ever does is look to her for anything, even a glare. He can't even have that anymore.

"Goodnight everyone," she says and he joins the chorus of goodnights in response.

But he doesn't hear the clicks of her heels.

He turns to her despite himself and she's looking right at him. Her mouth is open in a small slope of a shape. She blinks fast and he burrows his brows.

"Felicity, what's wrong?" he already has a foot in her direction, a hand reaching out to her.

She shakes her head, "A lots wrong, but nothing right right now." She shakes her head again and looks down at her feet.

Her ponytail swings in her face a second before staying still. He wants to cup her cheeks, feel the sway of her hair brush against his hand, hear all the lots that are wrong. Like always, it takes everything in him to not pick her right up and save her just as she always saves him.

(He's the only reason she'd ever need saving, though.)

;

The one thing she finds insane about him is his ability to go so long without blinking. He does it more with her lately. Maybe it's because he hardly looks at her anymore so when he does... She doesn't know actually.

Before, they were always within five feet from each other. Even in silence, even with a desperate call from Detective Lance, they always were never further than arms length from each other. She still patches him up when he's wounded, but she won't speak, won't ramble on in the worst attempt to hide her scared heart and the worst case scenarios playing out in her head.

He's made her quiet, unintentionally. And it's been going on too long and he should know this consequence he's created.

So she decides not to leave immediately. She looks at him and his eyes squint at her and his hand is pointed in her direction.

"What's wrong?" he asks and she says nothing, if nothing means well everyone is healthy and the city isn't under siege at the moment.

She decides to ask him to walk her out to her car, and to this he acquiesces. It's another of the small things that captivates her about him.

(He may have been irresponsible years ago, spoiled, unapologetic-ally free to paint the town red. He is in fact still irresponsible, stubborn to a fault, leaving marks of green even when the hood is off. These wicked parallels are even more stained by the constant proof that are tucked in his upbringing is a need to be a gentleman. He cheated on Laurel, he didn't listen to his parents often enough, he excludes Diggle from his plans when it's convenient, he's with a reckless assassin one week and the next he's with the vigilante that should have been dead in the sea with him. But he holds the door open, he loads the women and children on the boat first, he walks Felicity to her car without hesitation when she asks. Things that are imbedded in him and she knows he's unaware of. These dated acts of chauvinism are not remotely the reason or a reason she loves him. It's more that it points to him having been who he believes he's only recently become, all the while. The acts in him had changed but the details have not.)

There are pointed looks between Roy and Diggle, and Felicity smiles awkwardly at them, Oliver completely ignoring them, focused in on walking her out.

The walk across Verdant is quiet save for the click of her heels. He makes niceties at first, things she is tired of getting from him. Then he prods.

"Felicity, is there a reason I'm walking you out?

She nods, "mmm-hmm," lips tight.

"Are you okay, if someone is…" he pauses, noticing how her sight is focused in a single line, just on the door they are heading to.

He grabs her arm, and she flinches in his hold, which only makes him grip her tighter.

"Oliver, I'm okay," she says in an exasperating tone, prying his fingers off with her free hand. He lets go, and she keeps walking, but he stays still, calling out, "I'm not moving until you tell me what is going on. Has something or someone threatened you in any way?"

She stops, still facing forward, and she shakes her head. Her ponytail swings fervently, and there's a small voice in her head that advises her to let this all dissipate. Just tell him she was hoping for some company, that there is no rhyme or reason for which she has called him out.

But a larger voice shakes, the voice that has always accompanied her with her rage, that she is so good at keeping in check unless absolutely necessary. This is one of the instances where she knows to let the dam break.

"Goddamit, Oliver, just walk me out to my car because I can't have this conversation with you here!"

She has not turned to him, but she imagines his face to be a frozen shock when he is absolutely quiet. Then she hears the small thump of his boots as he walks back to her. When he is back at her side, she glances his way and says "thank you," in her best small voice.

(This is the last time she will be kept small for his sake, well granting traumatizing events i.e. death, city breaking at the seams...and this is a depressing list, and none of this will happen. Hope for the best, cross your fingers, rainbows and pots of gold lie somewhere.)

They make it outside. The air is cold, her small cardigan barely registering over her dress, bones starting to chill. She pushes her glasses closer to her face, like it's effective against the cold. Oliver puts his hands in his pockets, sucks in his left cheek, and looking out at the night skyline. He does this, she has gathered, as his own sort of breathing exercise.

"Oliver," she begins.

His eyes shoot down to her, nice and trained on her face.

(Everything is a target for him, either a target to shoot down or a target to shield. With her, the field whittles away. Something softens or melts, and he wavers. She has never been a suspect to him, and if she's ever needed protection, his training has been slighted. Logically, it does him no good, logistically, it puts her in danger.)

She doesn't say anything. His fist clenches, and he sighs heavily.

They stare at each other for a good bit, until he has to look away, back up to the sky.

(Sometimes, he watches her from up there. Makes sure she gets to her car okay, her home okay, crosses the street okay. He limits himself because in many states, this is considered stalking. Also, she could easily catch him. Also, it really is just wrong. He limits himself, has to restrain himself from looking for her as he goes along wherever he goes, even when he's just Oliver Queen, the green suit neatly squared away in it plastic home. He just has this horrible reflex of having his hand on the small of her back. He's stopped himself recently, but the reflex is hard to control. Sometimes he finds his hand reaching out, like a parent just getting ready to hold their kid's hand when they're going to cross the street. HE has to stop.)

"Why am I here?" he says, his voice a small breath that points itself over her head.

Her eyes roam his face, catch on the beard around his mouth.

"Your stubble is getting really out of hand. Like distractingly so. I mean, it's a beard really, but it's getting to Merlin's beard length. I know a barber, actually behind QC, real sketchy looking, but Roy swears by them, saying it's the only decent place outside of the Glades to get a good shave."

Despite himself, he smiles. He forces it pat down, and looks down at her. She's playing with her hands, her cheeks sucked making her lips pointed, her eyes completely on him.

"Yeah," she says, her cheeks back in regular position.

"It's been awhile since I heard that," he says.

"What? About your beard? Lemme tell you, I am not the only one with a comment about that."

He smirks. "No. You, talking, to me. Really talking. I missed it."

"I miss you," she lets out.

She notices his face tighten.

"I'm right here, Felicity," he somehow gets out.

"And it's completely short of enough."

"You know why we have to keep it like this, Felicity, we-"

"No. No, I don't know why. But I do know why you think this is the way it has to be. It doesn't make you mean any less to me, though. I still need you to be my friend, to talk to me like a human being, not someone who works for you and then, well okay have a good day, see you next shift. And when it's not that, it's 'you know what you mean to me' and it all makes me feel like you're constantly on edge with me, Oliver."

There's a grind to her voice that breaks down his nerves. He can feel the tug of rain scratching his throat, and he has to shout at her that yes, it has to be this way. He can't be any other way with her, because any slight of him towards her way makes him want to pull her close to him. He needs the arm's length.

(This is the armor he's always had, he just never realized it until the island. He can't get close without getting too close, he is terrible at middle ground. He's tried changing this, moving in toward a balance, but it's turned out to be unalterable. It maddens him how he's incapable of something others seemingly find so simple to navigate.)

He doesn't shout though.

"I'm doing my best here, Felicity." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tight, and he feels the water of his eyes - tears from stress or her if not both - sprinkle on the fingers he's using to pinch his nose. Just a small dose.

His eyes open, Felicity still there. Only, he notices, she's chilly. She's holding onto her sweater, pushing her hands together.

"This is far from your best, Oliver."

He huffs, like a kid, while shaking his jacket off. She watches him closely as he adjusts his jacket over her shoulders, pulling the lapels up to cover her neck, his fingers pulsing lightning over the small skin of hers it touches. She shivers a little.

"I need you to try harder, because I can't completely lose you. This is a life I don't want to lose."

Now she closes her eyes, a flash of laughter driving out of herself, before falling back in.

"You're not losing me. I-we just have to step back until this isn't so fresh."

He knows it's a terrible choice of words for which he'll be playing.

"So what, you're going to wait your feelings out? Or rather, let me wait it out? Like all of this can be washed away with time? I'm not here to wait, Oliver. I have plenty more things to do in my life, and waiting to get over someone who clearly doesn't want me isn't on my list."

"I don't have that expectation Felicity, and I never said I didn't want-"

He stops himself.

Felicity licks her lips, catching his intentional stop. She continues.

"Of course. This is too much for you. And you'll come up with some excuse as to why we shouldn't talk about this, or be doing that. So let's not have that conversation again, ever, and just please, try harder. It's the one thing I'm asking of you."

He doesn't say no this time.

"Okay," he says without a sigh, without blinking. He can try for her.

She pulls his jacket off her, and gives it back to him.

"Have a good night, Oliver. See you tomorrow?"

He holds his jacket in his hands, replying, "Yeah, see you tomorrow," and she leaves.

"And stop stalking me!" she shouts over her shoulder.

(This is a cold thing to do, he thinks angrily, hurt even. She's not fighting his decision, and she's not waiting, she said it. He just hadn't realized until then, that he had in fact been expecting her to do so.)

He gets better at it. She's thankful. But they still keep at a good physical distance, do their best to pry away from inside jokes, glancing at each other far more than should be normal for two platonic friends.

Felicity wanted it this way, wanted her before back. She's glad to get a semblance of that back, and the burn leavens. But there will be scarring, she feels it. Every little hope further out of reach.

[Every once in a while, she thinks about waiting. Someday, this whole thing will get too old for both of them. Being a hero will weigh him down more and more if he keeps leaving himself on his own. Running to his side, away from whatever she's doing, whenever he calls, will leave her trackless. Being everything to each other while being just short of absolutely everything for each other, will get old, too. Eventually, one of them will finally move on. They'll settle on something, maybe really fall in love with someone else. And just always wonder, what if this old vigilante life had not gotten in the way, what if they hadn't had to settle? What if he'd been less stubborn, and she'd been more courageous. Grab him and never stop (well, save for air and life stuff). If only he'd make an exception and rest his martyr ways when it came to her.]

There is one hope she doesn't stave off. That he is actually waiting. He will be the Arrow as long as it is necessary, and maybe he will settle someday. But he will always have this life with her boxed away, hoping she's waited too. It'll be selfish of him to hope this, but he'll still hope it. And she'll hate this selfish cowardly hope of his, but she'll forgive him because she's waited too long to fight it out.

And then she's back to her numbers, and it's over, and everything has changed, and she has to believe it's all for a reason, and she won't lose him over it, and she'll always have that date and that kiss with the laced goodbye.

Better to have had, even if it wasn't long, not at all. This is her sanity.

.

It wears on Oliver, though.

.

(The reality is, she's being stupid about this, and he's being even stupider. They weren't ready, not at the same time, and for people who don't live the life they lead, it's all about timing. Instead, they head to a skid. They were building up, sliding around each other. She felt it gradually, he felt it all at once, and she was young, and he felt old. Felicity was convinced she'd always have air bags if she crashed-she was not her mother, Felicity built herself not to fall down without a parachute, and Oliver had built fences to his scale so only he fit in its confines and he was not going to throw out the blueprints. Crashes don't account for such plans .)

It's every smile and every flare of a dress or a skirt. She dances around him, she rambles on and hacks away, and she's the smartest person he knows, not just technically. And he's supposed to keep his head on straight while he has her right there every day. This team would be falling away every day, always on the brink of shattering if she weren't there. She's the glue, the soul of it. He had given up on ties for a long time, but she came in with ropes and anchors at the ready.

When Barry runs in one day, a quick help from him on a matter, he hears a jest about a kiss on the train and Oliver knows it's more reference than joke although Felicity laughs. There is no sign of affection, no pining that Oliver notes, so it's a pointless envy he feels and Oliver pretends he doesn't hear it.

When it's clear Ray has an interest in Felicity that extends beyond her expertise, Oliver keeps away from the topic at all times, never entering a conversation about the rumors. Even when she does dance with Ray at a benefit, Oliver just buries himself in a conversation with Thea, blocking out any image he can of the two.

When Felicity dresses a wound, he stares at the wall, counts his heartbeats, nodding along to her words. The words she uses to mask her beating heart.

When she has someone else decrypt a file for him because she's caught up at work at Queen Consolidated, it's gone too far.

(Because he could ignore a kiss from a...mutual friend. He could ignore the advances from another man because he trusted Felicity to make the choice she wanted. He could drown in his envies without showing a sign of the flood. For so long, anyway.

She had put him to task. Asking for her before, like his heart didn't swell at every string of tangent she made, like he was completely okay when she gave him that sweet out of nowhere smile. He needed two arms lengths with her, but he waived this necessity per her request. Now she has the audacity to leave her work for team Arrow in favor of her daytime job-her other job.

He's bad with limits.)

;

It's been eighteen weeks since he first let her walk away. He's back to owning a sizable stock at Queen Consolidated, close to retaining the controlling interest.

It's 12:45 am, and stranger hacker did their job (not as well as Felicity), and he's done all he can for the evening. She's still in her office, a box of take out food sitting on her desk, probably empty already. She's sitting with her hair down, a fist of it in her hand, her glasses at the tip of her nose. A man about her age, he guesses her assistant, sits across from her, tapping her desk with his pencil, papers spread between them.

Oliver got dressed for this. He put on suit quickly, threw on the first tie he found, slovenly around his neck, just to put on a show about checking in on the employees who'd stayed far past business hours to finish up Ray's tireless enthusiastic work project of the week.

Felicity sees him before he even opens the door, and through the glass he sees her mouth open in surprise. She pushes her glasses up, mouths something to the man who's with her, and they both get up.

(The fault in their ground readies to shift, again, she feels it.)

Felicity falls over herself at the sight of him. He's put a fraction of effort in his appearance, unlike his usual 100% attempts to appear put together, and it looks off.

"Hey, I'll finish up, go home," she tells her assistant.

"No, Miss Smoak, I'm here till you're here."

"Ha ha, no. Go on," and she waves at him, "It's a write up if you're not out in 30 seconds."

"Write-up?"

Felicity goes blank for a second, but she stumbles out, "Yeah, write up. You wanna learn all about write ups?"

He gets up quick at that, muttering, "no, I'm gone. Have a good night Miss Smoak."

"Miss Smoak," she mocks, then smiles apologetically, "good night."

He leaves in a rush, almost hitting Oliver, but Oliver's quick on his feet and he moves in time.

Felicity stands up, and walks around her table, Oliver making his way in already.

"Oliver, what are-"

He doesn't attempt niceties, no intros, they know where they are and aren't. "You know how dangerous it was for you to send a stranger to do your job?"

"He had no clue who he was working for, he didn't even know what he was looking at," she reclaims.

"Are you really trying to excuse what you did?"

He's only just inside the office, many feet away from her, shouting out at her.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't leave. Did the job get done or not?"

His jaw clenches, refusing to answer.

"This," he points at the floor of her office, "never comes first. We do."

"I-" she sighs, pressing her hands to her temples, "I'm too tired to argue about this tonight. Please come bother me in the morning."

"What the hell has happened to you Felicity! Since when do you put things off and leave me hanging?!"

Her hands fall back to her side, and her eyes are wet, her glasses fogging up.

"Please tell me more about how I'm making you unhappy Mr. Queen, it's my favorite topic. After all, you are my number one priority, always."

It's quiet for a second.

Felicity stretches her jaw, and breathes out heavily.

"I really am sorry. I'm doing my best."

"I don't think you are," and at least he's not shouting anymore.

"Oh God." She rolls her eyes, because of course Oliver Queen is going to regurgitate this. Or maybe she had brought it on herself, karma and all. Who kicked first really?

He walks in measured steps toward her, and she feels her stomach tying up with every shortened foot between them.

"You can't have everything, can't do it all, can't ask us to be patient while you figure out how to stretch yourself thin."

"What, because you called dibs?" she scoffs.

"I'm not here to claim you!"

His shout rings in her ears now that he's just a step away. This is where he stops.

"Then why are you here?" she grits through her teeth.

(Once upon a time she would have walked away, too big for petty arguments and boys with ego. Oliver has a tendency of cleaning up once upons.)

"To scream, throw a tantrum? I'm here because of what we've both decided to let die."

(This, he knows, is true. He was hoping to never hear it, despite the exaggeration of death.)

Felicity lifts her glasses to her head, and wipes off her tears. They're stained a light red now, her cheeks pale from a long night and this tenth round of the same fight.

He waits, lets her clean herself up. She puts her glasses back on, blinks twice, and with her head down, asks, "say something?"

"Find your replacement, Felicity. I can't trust myself with you. I'm just hurting you."

Her head snaps up. "You're kicking me out?"

"I'm sorry."

"This is my family, you can't kick me out."

"I can. I am."

"No!" this time, she shouts.

"Felicity," he says in a whisper, now his own eyes tearing.

"I will not stop showing up, I will follow the Arrow, and you can't stop me!" (In a place where he hasn't pushed and she hasn't stepped aside, she laughs at the bad pun of arrows, but it's safe to say he's at fault for her lack of self.)

She steps forward, toe to toe with him.

In her heels, she is only an inch and a half shorter than him. Her eyes are alight with fury, and his are aligned with a note of regret already.

"I will keep you out," he whispers, looking down at her.

"I'm done with you keeping me out," she whispers right out.

She pulls his face down fast, and normally he's all reaction, but his focus is always a sketch when she's at hand.

He feels the warmth of her mouth, he feels shock, and the thought that this was not a plan of his. And then he's kissing her back.

Her hands hold tight onto his face, small hands, warm against his beard. His right hand goes straight to the small of her back, and when her tongue pushes through his lips, his left hand snakes completely around her waist.

At this, her hands move to close in on his neck. His pulse is quick against her palms, his mouth a fever moving with hers, her body struck, on fire from the feel of his arms around her.

Suddenly, nothing is enough at all, it never was, he realizes. He pulls her close, kissing her harder than she must have anticipated because she groans and pushes off him.

Her lips are swollen, her hands in midair, eyes closed. His hands clench at the sudden lack of her.

"This isn't how I wanted us to go," she says. She opens her eyes again. He's so close but he was closer seconds ago, and it aches.

(Felicity was always good at pining without falling apart. She had her crushes, the boys that took her breath away, and although she got dizzy, she never ripped herself open. If her daydreams never saw the light of day, she would forget about them eventually.

Now she's had two years to wash away a crush, but it only evolved, and it made a new ocean on her shore. She had pictured a lot, hoped and believed in a lot more, and this scene was the terrible draft of her character and of the man she loved.)

"I don't want to hurt you anymore," he gets out.

"Then don't. Don't keep me out of our weird little family. Don't threaten me so stupidly. And I won't...I won't push you to talk to me if you don't have to."

His heart falls through a cliff at this. He's taken so much from her.

"You were right, you're always right. I failed us tonight, we were doing just fine. I shouldn't have come in."

"We were doing fine. But not great. This all really sucks."

Felicity takes a further step back, and sits at the edge of her desk.

"I want to be honest, Oliver. I want to tell you so much, but all I am is a liability to you. A soft, vulnerable spot waiting to be exploited by one of your enemies. How can you not know they're my enemies, too? Every time they threaten you or someone you care about, they make my very long list of people I am ready to take down. I'm not the only soft target in the room."

He stands there, the dust and debris at hand. He'd shouted at her only minutes ago. He must have broken her heart, but still there she sat, willing to allow him the grace of sewing it up.

(Wasn't she the wisest of them all, did she know something about him he did not? Maybe accidents did this, all the blood boiling, the hot streak of fire still blowing the avenue up. Broken things just picking up in a circle.)

"What do you want to tell me?" He sounds scared.

She studies his face, which reads like a cautious invitation. It's an opening at least.

"I am so gone," she laughs with a gulp. "Totally over the edge, drowning, crazy. And when you decided, for us, to not move forward, I should have called it, but there's no reason in these sort of things."

She shifts in her seat, and crosses her arms over her chest. She lowers her gaze, biting the inside of her cheek.

"I don't think I could ever realistically not love you," he says when she seems too scared to say another word.

Felicity looks back at him, her head tilted, like she's inspecting the scene of a crime.

(He's still not actually saying it. Contradictions sewed into his statements.)

"What does that mean?" She needs something concise, an equation to properly sort out this mess of theirs.

He closes the distance between them, and her shoulders tense up, arms still crossed.

He puts his right hand on her left, pulling it down from her defense.

She trains her eyes steady on his, his hand warm over her own.

"I want you, more than I probably should, more than I know anything."

Her body exhales, a good sigh of 'I'm not the only crazy one.'

"Then don't leave me hanging, Queen."

There's a small grin on her face, the amusement of her own comment.

He smiles, grips her hand harder in his. His other hand cups her right cheek, and she turns her face in his hand, pressing a soft kiss in his palm.

He's gone, too.

He tilts her face up, guiding her to his mouth, and it's a good slow kiss. The way it should have been, how they should have begun. A kiss at the end of a first date that went perfectly well, a little clumsy, but too content with the final first to notice. Their hands stay on each other's, enough for a moment.

They pull apart.

Oliver's smiling, eyes closed, and it makes Felicity warm all over-it being so rare to see him actually smile.

He opens his eyes, and at seeing her smug smile, says "what?"

"I'm just, suddenly very hopeful," she responds.

He shakes his head, and moves to kiss her again, only harder. And his hand is on her thigh now, fingers moving over the end of her dress. She holds onto his face, his mouth not close enough, ever. He nudges her knees apart, to stand between her.

Felicity pushes on his jacket, and his shoulders loosen, the jacket falling quickly to the floor. Her hand moves to his tie next, which hadn't been tied tightly anyway, making it loose in her hand while her other hand plays with his shirt button. When she feels his fingers moving further up her thigh, her dress scrunching up significantly, it hits her that there are security cameras everywhere in the building.

She bites his lip accidentally in her hasty realization, but he mistakes it for aggression, and he groans. He puts his hand completely between her legs, two fingers ghosting over her underwear.

She pushes him hard (surely it barely registers with him, though), and pants, "Oliver! Cams!"

It takes a beat for him to comprehend, his head a haze.

He nods, and clears his throat.

She had felt him restraining against his pants on her knee when they were kissing seconds ago, and she can see it clearly formed now. She blushes, and licks her lips.

Oliver pulls her off the table.

"Let's go," he orders.

"Hey!" she snaps her hand free from him. "I still have work to finish."

"Just," he stutters, brushing his hand over his hair. "I'll send Diggle over to finish up."

She laughs at this, because Diggle would not drop everything for this of all things. Nevertheless, she shoves all the papers together, sets them neatly in a corner, and throws Oliver's jacket over her arm. She grabs Oliver's hand, and they walk out of the office, almost skipping out of the office.

;

(And they only make it to the elevator.)

Their brains become all feeling over thought, only pausing for Felicity to hastily disable the elevator camera.

He's able to peel down the top part of her dress and she manages to unbutton the first half of his shirt, his tie crushed beneath one of her heels.

It's quicker than she intended - somewhere along the way she meant to say she wanted to take it slow but her brain is a mush of flashing lights and Oliver's rough and perfect hands.

He's surprised at how apt she is at unzipping and disrobing clothes - she has his pants at his ankles, shirt unbuttoned, fingers pushing at his boxers in the same amount of time he has half of her dress off. It's a dress, he'd think he'd be winning.

He grabs her hands, and she gasps as he hoists her up, pushing her against the wall of the elevator. With one arm, he holds her by the waist, and his free hand roughly pushes up the skirt of her dress, pulling at her underwear.

She pulls him back for a deep kiss, her hands tightly knit at the back of his neck. She trails a slow kiss down his chin, scraping her soft skin against his beard, and when she lands near his adams apple, she purposely scrapes her teeth against his skin, at a slow pace, and she moves a hand to his ass, grinding against him.

He moans, and he feels a smile on his neck. Reflexively, his body courses against her, and she makes a sound that registers both pain and glee.

Slow becomes even more insipid, and he pulls down her underwear to her knees. He strokes a finger at her center, and she nips at his neck. He wanders her folds, teasing at her wet center, and she brings a hand to his shoulder, and presses her ear to his mouth.

"Oliver," she growls, sounding angry.

Her hand that had been steady on his ass, pulls forward to his cock, plunging past his boxers. She holds him in her small palm, with a soft but firm grasp, pinching him.

"Felicity," he growls right back, and his finger pushes past her folds.

She lets out a gasp that's too small for his liking, so he inserts another finger, and strokes her clit.

Her head falls to his shoulder, her hand rubs his cock lightly, and as willing as he is to respond to her, he wants to focus only on her.

"Look at me." He nudges her face, and begrudgingly she looks up.

Her face is a flush of pink, her hair falling all over her. Her glasses are the littlest bit fogged over, and he's glad she hasn't taken them off yet.

He grins at her, continuing to stroke his fingers inside her.

"Oli-" she can't fully speak. Her breath catches as she fights to keep her eyes focused on him. She grinds against his fingers, biting her lips. He presses his lips against hers, half closing his eyes, and her hand leaves his member to be back on his face. She cradles his cheek the way she's done it a thousand times before and somehow it's a thousand times more effective than when she'd had it on his dick.

She feels his erection digging deep in her thigh, and she's very close to coming in his hand, but she would rather have this first time happen when he's inside her.

It takes everything for her to push him off, while saying "condom" and he gulps, responding, "wallet, jacket".

The jacket had pooled at her feet, along with his tie. Knees weak, she holds onto the bar of the elevator while leaning down to pick at the jacket.

Oliver has to look away from her, the sight of her rumpled dress and loose dreads of hair, glasses tilted and wet from fog, being the sight of his life. She stands back up, condom in hand, smiling triumphantly.

"Now would actually be the perfect time to be reasonable and say, well we could at the very least finish this in the privacy of my energy efficient car," she says, staring down the condom.

He hadn't the patient for that or her adorable peg of a comment. After all, her underwear was at the line of her knees, completely visible.

He grabs the condom, putting it between his teeth so he can completely, finally take off her dress. She giggles at his recklessness simultaneously yelping "careful with that!"

She's the one to take off her underwear, tossing them with her heels, and all that's left are his boxers and her bra. He takes the condom into his fingers so he can pull her in for another kiss, and while he busies himself with her mouth, and eventually her neck and collarbone, she pushes off his boxers. Just seconds later, he's unhooking her bra, and now both naked, he pulls her up to him again, her upper body leaning on the elevator. He pulls his torso back to look at her, and in a quick swoop he's on her left nipple, swirling his tongue on the mound.

When he feels her moving to take off her glasses, he says against her breast, "don't take them off."

"Well sure, that's practical," still trying to take them off.

He pulls his face up. His eyes are dark, jaw set. It really shouldn't be such a turn on.

He shakes his head, motioning no.

"Okay," she breathes. After a beat, convinced she's given up, he shifts her weight, so his cock is near her entrance. His hand wanders back to her center, again stroking at her clit. His mouth goes to her right nipple, suckling at it.

She presses her fingernails into the back of his neck, her other hand moving to the tip of his cock. She wraps her hands around it, her thumb stroking the length of it.

He starts breathing fast, and he's not going to last long at all. With the smallest strength he has left, he brings the condom back to his mouth, tearing off the packaging. Felicity squirms in his hold, and he sighs. She is driving him insane.

(In the best way, but also the worst because she's perfectly curved against his torso, her breasts hard on the corners of his scars, and her small fingers know just how to fit on his dick. She knows him all too well all along.)

The condom is at the height of his dick in seconds, and he pushes her hand aside when she attempts to help him put it on. Really, he's thisclose to coming as it is.

She parts her thighs further without coercion, and he's inside in a quick thrust.

Her mouth falls agape, and she lets out a whisper of a groan.

She's wetter than before, which he hadn't thought was possible, and it makes him want to drive her home harder. She's tight around him, and the curve of her neck while her head rolls against the elevator, the skin of her thighs open to him makes him want to stay right there for always.

She moves her hips, indicating for him to move, and he abides. He pushes in further first, and pulls out, thrusts back in. Her hands make a home on his shoulders, her thumbs pushing into his shoulder blades. He presses himself against her, no barrier of skin. Her legs part wider, and she wraps her arms around his neck. Her mouth stays near his forehead, at his hairline, one hand grabbing at the short hairs on his head.

He can feel her driving over, and he holds out until he knows she's there.

He pushes in at a rough pace, which he'd be concerned for if she wasn't whispering "harder". With his free hand he plays with her clit.

She can't see his movement clearly, but knowing he's holding her with one hand, moving inside of her, and touching the sensitive end of her nerves with his other hand, knowing all of that, definitely helps bring her over.

She moves her face down to bite the tip of his nose, and her mouth falls at the top of his upper lip when she feels her orgasm fall over her in waves.

She gasps, like it's the last breath of her life, and her head falls in a roll to his shoulder.

Oliver muffles a groan, still pushing in and out of her, her sigh signaling the last waves letting him get to his edge.

He stays inside of her, his hand still touching her clit. She writhes in his arm that's holding her up. He opens his eyes to see she has a soft smile on her lips, eyes roaming his face.

"Hey," he says, pulling his hand away.

"Hey," she says back. When he moves to pull out, she puts her hand on his waist, stopping him.

"Don't," she mimics him.

He grins. So that's how it's going to be.

(And this is how it goes.)