A/N: Well...eleven months is less than two years, at least? *cringes* Sorry for the long wait, all! I wish I could promise it won't be as long until the next chapter, but...*shrug*

Thanks very much for all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! They mean more than I could say! 3

"Well, technically I married Oliver so that I could eventually trick my father into starting a war against the Bratva that would end with both of them dead and me regretfully returning to Las Vegas to dissolve the organization that cost me my husband and father," Felicity amends. "But some plans have had to change."

Oliver laughs a little under his breath, still totally unshaken by the news that she was plotting his death when she married him. (When she first told him, he actually laughed out loud. Strange man, her husband.) Tommy looks much less amused.

He's just as protective of Oliver as Oliver is of him. It's cute.

"Oh yeah?" he asks. "And why's that?"

There are a lot of things Felicity's willing to admit to—witness: the confession she made thirty seconds ago—but that…that is definitely not one of them. Nobody needs to hear that she rearranged the plan she's spent nearly fifteen years working on because she l…because she lov…because she feels things for her own husband.

"The manor," she says instead, flippantly. "It's so pretty here; I couldn't stand to go back to my father's gaudy estate after being surrounded by all this old-world class."

"Seriously," Tommy presses. "How do I know your plans have really changed? That you're not gonna turn around and stab Oliver in the back as soon as this little coup is over?"

It's a reasonable concern—she did just literally admit to counting on Oliver's death—but…nope. Still not gonna say it. (She probably can't say it. She sure isn't having much luck thinking it.)

Better to dodge the question entirely. "A little trust would be nice, you know. I could've said no when Oliver wanted to bring you in on this, but instead—"

"Yeah, why are you bringing me in on this?" Tommy interrupts. (Rude.) "Not like I've got all that much to offer the war effort."

He sounds a little bitter about it, but since he's been stuck in a wheelchair since his time with the Triad, Felicity figures they can forgive him that. She's still keeping up with the Bratva's communications, and judging by what Laurel's been texting Sara, physical therapy isn't going that well.

And speaking of keeping up with communications, Oliver's giving Tommy one of those meaningful looks that Felicity just hates. She can't read that. She has no idea what unspoken message is passing between them.

Well…maybe she does. A little. She knows Oliver's been (very quietly) worried about Tommy's recovery—and not just the physical side of it. And she knows (because Oliver's expressed his frustration to her) that Tommy's developed a habit of looking really guilty every time one of Oliver's people dies—because they were at war with the Triad before Tommy was kidnapped, but it was the kidnapping that pushed them into nine weeks of frontal attacks. And she knows that Oliver is super protective of Tommy. So, putting it all together…

Conclusion: Oliver wants Tommy to know that whatever comes next is her play and has nothing at all to do with Tommy. So Tommy'll have no reason to blame himself for any catastrophes that may result from Felicity's planned coup.

That's…really sweet, actually.

"Okay, fine," Tommy says, looking away from Oliver. Message received, she guesses. "But really, you gotta give me more than this. Why the hell should I trust that you won't turn against Oliver when you're plotting a coup against your own father?"

It's still a fair concern, and she still doesn't want to give him the truth. (She doesn't want to face the truth.)

But…she can give him a truth. She knows there's something about Tommy's father, some complication in their relationship—Oliver's been working around it for ages. Maybe—just maybe—he'll be a little sympathetic to her reasons.

So Felicity sits back against the couch (and, coincidentally, Oliver's arm, which is stretched along the back of it. Not that that's why she sat back or anything. She's a grown, independent woman; she doesn't need emotional support to answer a freaking question), crosses her legs, and says, simply, "Because I haven't spent my entire life plotting against Oliver."

The deliberate—and very true—implication is that she has spent her entire life plotting against her father. Tommy's brow furrows.

"I hate him," she adds. "More than anything. I hate him, I hate his people, and I hate the fucking organization that gives him all his power. Nothing will make me happier than tearing it all down."

"What does that—"

She's wandering from her point, but Felicity finds that now she's started, she can't stop. "My mother is a prisoner in her own life. My father doesn't give a shit about her, but because she had his daughter, he thinks he owns her. She works in one of his clubs, lives in one of his properties, and when I was growing up he once didn't let me see her for four months because she took me to a movie without getting his permission first. She can't do anything or go anywhere without his say-so, and the only way she is ever gonna get the life she deserves is if I burn his legacy to the ground."

Realizing she's on the verge of hissing her words, Felicity stops and takes a deep breath. Oliver's arm has curled around her shoulders; he rubs a gentle hand up and down her arm, soothing her temper a little, and just for a second—maybe five seconds—she lets herself rest her head against his shoulder. Just as long as it takes her to push down the memories of crying and screaming and begging to be taken back to her mom—and the memories of her father's indifferent refusal.

It helps. Oliver's arm, his warmth, his…him-ness.

But Felicity's not thinking about that. Nope.

Once she's sure she can trust her voice—ten seconds at most, really—she straightens back up and shakes off Oliver's arm. She's trying to convey her seriousness here; kinda undermines her point to be cuddling like a little girl. A little worried she's ruined things, she risks a glance at Tommy.

…Who looks kind of like he's been punched, except by something soft and adorable. Like there's an impact, but the source of it is so unexpected that it didn't even hurt past his shock.

She doesn't know what to make of that expression. Fingers crossed it's a good sign, she guesses?

But there's no way of knowing. All she can do is get on with her point and hope for the best. (And determinedly not consider just why it matters so much that Oliver's best friend/brother not distrust her.)

"I never wanted Oliver dead," she finally finishes. "He was just a tool—a way of getting what I want. But I found another way, and I have no reason and no desire to hurt him. Okay?"

"Okay," Tommy says—but he's looking at Oliver, not at her. They share another one of those silent looks, and this time, she really can't guess what's passing between them.

"What?" she asks. Maybe a little more impatiently than she should, considering she's trying to win him over, but sue her.

"Nothing," he says, returning his attention to her. "I just realized something, is all."

"What?" she demands. He's still wearing that punched-by-a-teddy-bear expression. "What is with that face?"

Tommy's eyes dart back to Oliver, and Felicity follows his gaze in time to catch the shake of the head he receives in return.

"What?" she asks, yet again. A girl could get annoyed with all the answers she's not getting. "What am I missing? Oliver?"

Her breath catches at the look he gives her. His eyes are full of all those things she's not thinking about—that she hasn't been thinking about, and has in fact expended a considerable amount of effort avoiding confronting.

"I don't think you're ready to hear it," he says—remarkably gently, for the head of a criminal organization.

And, okay. Felicity's not stupid. She can put two (her little cuddle session with Oliver) and two (the timing of Tommy's realization) together and compare four (everything Oliver's surprisingly willing to face, which she is decidedly not) to something she might not be ready to hear.

A clue, Sherlock: the word starts with "L" and ends, probably, with Felicity running away from Starling City and everything—everyone—in it.

Uh huh. She definitely doesn't wanna know what Tommy realized.

"Well," she says briskly, hoping that her pounding heart isn't obvious in her voice. "I, uh, I think we've wandered from the point. Which is me plotting solely against my father and not Oliver."

"Yeah," Tommy says, and his tone is not great for this whole ignoring-the-realization thing she's going for. "I believe you now."

"Great," she says. "Awesome." Is she sweating? This is humiliating. "Glad to hear it."

"And I'm sorry," he adds, a little softer. "About your mom."

Somehow, the sincere sentiment is more flustering than the thing she's not thinking about. "Oh. Well. Thank you. Hopefully her situation will be changing soon."

Why is she so rattled? She sounds like she's hoping for a change in the weather, not deliberately planning a course of action that will fix all of her mother's problems. She hasn't been so shaken since—since probably another time she doesn't wanna think about.

Oliver—bless him…or maybe damn him. It's his fault she's in this mess in the first place—comes to her rescue.

"Speaking of which," he says, a little dryly, "I think it's time we discussed your new plan."

Right. They didn't actually get past her stating her intentions before Tommy came looking for Oliver and Oliver insisted on bringing him in, did they?

"Yes." Felicity takes a deep breath and deliberately, forcefully shoves all the messy emotional not-thinking-about nonsense aside. There will be time for that later (…or never. Never's good, too). For now…

Well, for now she has a long-overdue coup to plot. "It all starts with Applied Sciences."