Note: Half-way through this chapter, a rape occurs. If you are triggered by reading about such a thing, perhaps the story is not for you.

Felicity should have known better. She could hear her brain saying I told you so, as she stared at the ring of assassins surrounding her. She was going to die here, all because she'd agreed to hold Lyla's guns. What had been the point? Nothing had changed, Nyssa had been taken, and people had died. For nothing.

It had just seemed like a good idea at the time. Laurel had insisted that they couldn't let Nyssa go without a fight, and arming Lyla seemed like the only solution. And then, when it all went to hell, and those assassins were lying dead on the floor, it'd been too late. She'd remembered when they'd tried to free Oliver, back in Nanda Parbat - assassins had died there too, and Malcolm Merlyn had pointed out that Oliver must have struck some sort of deal with R'as al Ghul, to prevent them from being punished. When she'd said this to Diggle, his only reply had been that every battle has collateral damage – casualties of war. She'd had a suspicion that R'as al Ghul did not see it that way, and the men surrounding her, with arrows drawn, aimed at her heart, proved her right. At least there was one consolation, that Oliver wasn't here.

The second she thought that, Oliver strolled to the forefront, proving to her once and for all that the universe was laughing at her. She wanted to cry, she wanted to plead for her life, but she did neither of those things. She just stood like a rabbit mesmerised by a snake as one man tied her wrists while Oliver dropped a hood over her head. The last glimpse she had was of Oliver's eyes – no, of al Sahim's eyes - and she was surprised that they seemed sad.

Lying on the floor of some kind of van, she had time to bitterly regret her actions. She was angry that she still had hope of surviving, but she guessed that was inevitable – we always think we can get out of this one, right? When do we ever accept it's the end? Even now, when no-one knew where she was, no-one was coming to rescue her, she still had hope that she could get through to Oliver, somehow. But she had seen his face, and there was no Oliver there. That man was a stranger to her.

She was dragged into a building, and eventually to what seemed like an open space, and forced to her knees, the hood pulled off her head. She looked around her – there were torches everywhere, except at the end of what seemed like a long hall, where the shadows hid people. The two men on each side of her kept her down with a hand on each shoulder.

Footsteps brought her head up again. Oliver was approaching from the shadows, and as she watched, he motioned the men holding her down to move away, and drew his sword.

"You have caused the deaths of many of my brothers. The sentence for that crime is death." His voice was cold. Almost too cold, like he was trying to prove something to himself.

"Don't I even get a trial?"

Her voice broke at the end, and her eyes filled with tears. Damn, and there I was trying to keep things light, she thought. But I don't want to die, her mind wailed. I'm not ready, she wanted to plead.

"Will it make any difference if I beg?" she asked.

Oliver shook his head. He didn't speak. In the flickering torchlight it was hard to see his expression, but to her astonishment, his eyes slid to the side, as if pointing out the other assassins standing behind him. What was he trying to tell her? Was there some way out of this? Why couldn't he just say something? She was still trying to figure it out when she realised her time had run out.

Oliver tightened his hands about the hilt of his sword, and brought it up for a killing swing, and Felicity quickly closed her eyes. At this moment, which she was certain would be her last, her senses were cruelly heightened. She felt the tears trickling from the corners of her eyes, the heat from the torches on her face, the cold of the stone floor seeping into her knees, and hoped it would be quick. A few seconds passed like centuries. It should have happened by now, right? She kept her eyes closed, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, until a clatter in front of her made her jump. She opened her eyes to see the sword on the ground in front of her, and Oliver standing there, frozen, staring at her, his hands clenched at his sides. But it really wasn't Oliver – there was no recognition in his eyes, no sudden dawning realization that it was her, Felicity Smoak, the woman he loved. It was still Sahim. But a Sahim who couldn't kill her? What did it mean?

R'as al Ghul appeared out of the darkness, and she shrank back. She guessed he wouldn't have any problem doing the executing himself, unless-

"You allowed her to avoid the search, my son. You are the one who must execute her." R'as al Ghul's tone seemed stern but fair, even as he signed her death warrant.

Oliver answered, still with his eyes fixed on Felicity as she knelt, trying not to shake.

"I find myself . . . unable to harm her."

"Is it a lingering affection from your time as Oliver Queen?"

R'as al Ghul sounded like he was discussing an interesting insect.

Was it that? Could there be something of Oliver left in him? She realised that Sahim was looking at her, and she opened her mouth to plead her case, but he shook her off with an almost imperceptible movement. His next words dashed her hopes.

"No. Oliver Queen is of the past."

Sahim paused, clearly reluctant to continue.

"But she is . . . fierce. And beautiful."

What? Felicity wanted to scream. What? Sahim had taken a shine to her? They'd only met once! And it could hardly be called meeting; she had glared at him, and pleaded, and there'd been nothing to indicate any kind of feelings for her. Maybe he was fooling himself, and there was still a bit of Oliver left there.

"I cannot have her blood on my hands," he continued, while Felicity screamed inwardly – don't say that, idiot! What if R'as al Ghul makes an exception and kills me for you? But R'as al Ghul had other ideas.

"Has she asked for the other punishment? "

Oliver shook his head. "No, master."

R'as al Ghul nodded, as if to confirm what he'd already known.

"She does not know our ways."

Felicity couldn't stop herself, and burst out with, "What do you mean, other punishment? And can I ask for it now?"

The two men looked at her like they'd forgotten she was there – maybe she should have left it that way.

Oliver answered her, sounding like he was parroting the party line, something that had been drummed into him.

"It is worse than death. You will be dishonoured."

The hell? Why couldn't they say what they mean, what was worse than- oh, shit.

"You're going to make him rape me? You –"

Oliver descended on her to clap a hand over her mouth, while R'as al Ghul watched her with a kind of detached amusement.

"Do not try my lord's patience," Oliver said sternly. His tone seemed to say that he might like her, but not enough to forgive her insulting his new daddy. Ew. That sounded wrong.

R'as al Ghul had had enough, it seemed.

"Sahim, she will be given the choice, and you will abide by it, disregarding your obvious affection for this woman. Remember, you must remove all attachments, if you are to become Heir to the Demon."

Oliver nodded, and they both looked at her.

"Speak," Oliver said. "Make your choice."

There was no choice, really. She didn't want to die. And she'd get over it. Wouldn't she? Ordinarily she'd say she'd never get over Oliver raping her, but this wasn't Oliver. She had to keep telling herself this. She could deal with anything, as long as she was alive to deal with it. She had to believe that. Life meant hope.

"I choose rape," she whispered, feeling terrified and ridiculous at the same time. The whole situation was surreal, and she tried to retrace her steps – how the hell did she get here? How had her life become this? Would it happen here, on the floor, while R'as watched? She didn't think she'd survive that with her sanity intact. R'as nodded, satisfied, and walked away, and Oliver grabbed her arm and lifted her off her knees. She staggered, unable to stop shaking, her heart hammering in her chest.

She started sobbing, taking deep gulping breaths. She was going to live! She just had to endure this – this whatever it was. And then she looked at Oliver, who was dragging her along, stone-faced, and shuddered. She was going to live. That was all that mattered. Just before they reached the group of assassins at the end of the corridor he murmured something in her ear, and then he pushed her towards them.

She didn't hear what he said to them, because his words to her kept floating in her head: "Tomorrow. Midnight. If you speak to anyone about this, I will cut your throat." So, that was it then. There was no Oliver, not any more. This was the proof she'd needed. Good job, Felicity.

She spent the whole of the next day in a daze, doing things on autopilot. Even when she joined Diggle and Laurel on the computers, she barely said a word, except to explain that she had to leave earlier than usual. They both looked at her like they expected more, some kind of rambling explanation which would make them smile. Felicity Smoak, comic relief, at your service. Well, sorry friends, but I'm all out of quippy banter for the foreseeable future. Try again on the first of never. Maybe she should tell them she had to leave early, because the shell of the man she loved was coming over to rape her at the order of the Dark Lord Sauron. At that point she had to rush into the ladies' room to stuff her fist in her mouth, to stop herself from screaming.

At midnight she was sitting on her bed, wearing only a t-shirt, with her arms around her knees. Her brain was just coming up with a nasty jibe about how that wouldn't stop anyone, when she realised that Oliver was in the room with her. No, it wasn't. It wasn't Oliver. She had to stop that. Just looking at him with all his assassin gear on made her stomach lurch and she started shaking. Her terror must have been obvious in her expression, because he pulled off his cowl and mask, and sat next to her.

Felicity could never remember what she'd said to him then – she knew that she babbled something about having to fight him, to resist, and she remembered her surprise when he nodded, taking her seriously. When he told her she couldn't scream, and why, she shuddered. She had nothing else to say, so he got up, and switched the light off. There was a rustling sound which she at first thought was him taking his clothes off, but then she heard the arrows click together as he put his quiver down, and she wasn't sure anymore. Then he got on the bed, and started to push her down on her back. It was too much, she couldn't just lie there and take it. She jumped as if galvanized, and tried to fight him off – but just as she'd thought, he only needed a few seconds to immobilize her completely. He used his bulk to keep her down and forced his hand between her legs. She kept struggling, and started to sob, trying to scratch his face, go for his eyes.

"If you make believe that I am your lover, it will go easier for you."

The strained whisper in her ear took her by surprise. Did he seriously think she could do that? After he'd made it so clear that he wasn't, as he put it, her lover? He took advantage of her surprise to pin her arms down, and she gave up. This was happening, whether she wanted it or not. Which was kind of the point. He pushed her legs apart with his knees, lowering himself on top of her, and when he slid inside her she went limp.

She was tired of fighting. Her life had turned into some kind of nightmare, and she wanted to rush through this part. The sooner he does this, the sooner it's over and he's out of your life, for good, she thought. He moved inside her, and it must have lasted longer than she thought, but after what felt like a few seconds he pulled out. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. The only thing seeping through was a sense of disbelief, and bone-deep exhaustion. Was that it? She lay as he'd left her, legs spread, her limbs feeling too heavy to move. It was over, right? This was her, punished. But why wasn't he leaving?

In the diffuse light from the window she saw that he was sitting on the bed, head in his hands, and wasn't moving. She felt sorry for him for a second, then raged at herself – she was the victim here. He could have said, fuck you, R'as al Ghul. Just as she was about to ask if he'd finished his pity party for one, he got up and started looking for his weapons. He strapped his quiver to his back, and looked at his bow, considering it, before attaching that behind him too. Finally, he produced a sharp knife and slid it carefully into his sleeve, hilt-first. The old Felicity would have driven herself crazy wondering what he was doing, who he was expecting. New and improved Felicity didn't care much. She just wanted him to leave.

He switched on the main light and strode back to the bed, pulling her up on her knees.

"What? What are you doing?" she protested. They'd promised, her mind wailed irrationally. It was over, it had to be over, she couldn't take any more of this.

"Quiet," he hissed, as he grabbed one of those intricate scarves assassins loved, and used it to tie her arms together, wrist to elbow. He lifted her chin and looked her in the eyes, saying, "I'm truly sorry for this." Then, before she could even wonder what he meant, he backhanded her with such force as to topple her on her side. Her ears were ringing with the force of the blow so she couldn't even shrink back in fear as he tore the neck of her t-shirt to her waist, exposing her breasts. She could see him through her tears, staring at her as though there was something he'd missed. She realised what he was doing when the door to her bedroom opened, and another two assassins seemed to appear in her room.

"Is it done?"

She didn't recognize the assassin's voice, so it wasn't Maseo – no wonder Sahim had been so panicky. Probably these guys weren't exactly impressed by their master's new heir, especially as he'd already gotten a number of them killed. She shook as she felt their stares on her skin, and wondered if this was enough, if it was over, or if this was just the beginning. But there was a soft sound and they were gone. She looked up at Sahim and just caught him at the tail end of what, in another man, would have been a sigh of relief. She shrank back as she saw the wickedly sharp knife in his hand, but he just swept it over the scarf tying her arms together, so that her hands were free. The knife disappeared and he put on his cowl and mask and stared at her for several years, it seemed, until he too vanished into the night.

Felicity wanted to scream and tear at her hair, but that seemed like too much effort. She lay there and considered just going to sleep, but when she closed her eyes all she saw was his face and all she felt was his body, pressing her down into the mattress. A sudden wave of nausea washed over her, and she barely made it to the bathroom before she threw up all that she had eaten the previous evening. And she hadn't even eaten anything. Wow, coffee does not taste as good coming back up again. She spat and went to rinse out her mouth, and caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. One side was steadily reddening, and she looked in her mirror cabinet for some witch-hazel, then thought better of it and decided she'd use ice instead. If she had it. She remembered waving a bag of frozen peas at Diggle a few days ago. It seemed like another lifetime, and she had to hold back the sobs. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of an old pregnancy test, and snorted. Sahim hadn't even thought to use a condom – guess the League didn't go in for contraception. Good thing she'd had the shot, then.

She decided to look for the ice anyway, maybe there was some hidden away, and froze in shock in front of her freezer. There were five new ice-packs in her freezer which she hadn't put there. As she staggered towards the kitchen counter she noticed there was something there too - a pile of strange looking herbs and some liquid in a small bottle with a stopper. And a note – it was in Oliver's handwriting, but it seemed neater, somehow. It listed instructions to make a 'poultice', whatever that was, and press it on her face, which should help with the bruising. She stared at it for a few seconds and burst out laughing. She laughed till her sides ached, and the tears came out of her eyes, until she realised that she was crying, and had been for some time. She came to, sitting on the floor of her kitchen, her arms around her knees, staring at the underside of her kitchen table. There were some serious spider webs there. And the dust was . . . well, it was winning. That was unacceptable.

A few hours later, Felicity was scrubbing her bedroom floor on her hands and knees as the sun came up, and she realised that she was still only wearing the half-torn t-shirt she'd put on that evening. She pulled it off in disgust, her stomach rebelling again, except she'd already thrown everything up. She absolutely needed a shower, and afterwards was proud of herself for not crying in the shower or scrubbing herself raw, or anything like that. She put on some loose work-out clothes, and called in sick to work. As soon as she hung up, her phone rang. Diggle. She decided there and then that she wouldn't tell him. She knew he'd believe her, after Lyla's kidnapping. The problem was that he would believe her, and he'd go after Oliver- after Sahim, and get himself killed. She'd have to make some excuse, and she was so tired. She didn't know if it was the shock, or the fact that she'd just cleaned her whole apartment, but she felt like she could sleep for a week.

"Hi, Diggle," she said, trying to find a balance between normal Felicity and sad about Oliver Felicity, without sounding too happy. Acting was hard, especially when she felt so numb.

"Hey, Felicity," he answered. "Everything ok after last night?"

What did he mean, last night? What did he know? What could he know? She hadn't said anything. Oh. Mind games. He was just fishing. Being married to a covert agent was really rubbing off on him, she thought. Maybe she should make something up. Cramps, her mind suggested nastily. He won't want to know more. But this was Diggle, her friend. She decided to go for the partial truth.

"John, I need a few days, a week, maybe. All this with Oliver, I just can't handle it right now."

Her voice cracked on Oliver's name. Had she given herself away? She was terrified for a second, until she remembered she was supposed to be in love with him. That thought was so ridiculous she was about to burst into hysterical laughter again, but restrained herself with an effort.

"I understand." Diggle sounded like he wanted to argue, but then he didn't. "So, I'll see you in a week, yeah?"

"Yes," she answered. Maybe in a week she'd be able to face Diggle and Thea without crying. And Laurel, oh lord.

She just needed to talk to someone, but who? Diggle and Thea were out of the question. Laurel would go after Oliver and get her ass killed even quicker than Diggle. She needed someone who wouldn't have emotions at her, who wouldn't expect her to explain to them why it happened, how she let it happen, how it wasn't Oliver's fault, and so on and so on and- why was her face so wet? Oh. She was crying again. And then her stomach rumbled, loudly. She didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Why was her life such a joke? Why couldn't she just die of a broken heart, or violated honour, or whatever, why must her stupid body force her to go on? Oh, stop being a drama queen, she told herself.

And she marched into her kitchen, determined to fix this, somehow. She swept Sahim's herbs into the garbage (they were the league of assassins, not the league of apothecaries, as far as she knew), but used one of the icepacks on her throbbing face. She fixed herself a huge breakfast, and ate it all, telling herself that she wasn't some consumptive Victorian heroine, she wasn't a victim, she wouldn't lie down and die from this. No way. She was more than just her body, and she was going to get over this. And if her soul was a little bruised, well, she'd get over that too. She'd find a way to talk to someone about this, because she wasn't going to let it beat her.

The next morning, after a night during which she found it so impossible to fall asleep in her bed that she ended up on the couch with a firm resolution to find a new flat as soon as humanly possible, she wandered around the shopping district, with a clear image of what she wanted, but not where she could get it. A few seconds of research set her on the right track, and soon she was standing in front of her destination. Gun Depot. Seemed pretty straightforward. So why couldn't she go in? Maybe it was the irony of it all – she, who'd marched to oppose the NRA, to repeal the Second Amendment, she wanted to buy a gun. She'd been ok with holding the guns for Lyla, hadn't she, her brain reminded her. Sometimes she wished her brain would shut up. She steeled herself and went in, and the whole transaction was surprisingly easy. The guy behind the counter asked her if she knew what she wanted, and all that came to mind was Diggle's beloved Glock. And that was it – within a few seconds the box containing the gun in it was in front of her, as well as a box of bullets. The man noticed her hesitation.

"You ever used a gun before?"

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

"There's an indoor shooting range out in the North District, and I know a guy who's giving classes specifically aimed at women. He's ex-Marines, and used to be an instructor with the FBI. Goddam card, I have it somewhere," he muttered, rummaging under his counter. He pressed it into her trembling fingers and she thanked him, stuffing it into her purse. She grabbed the bag he'd given her and was almost at the door when he called her back. This is it, she thought. I knew it wasn't that easy.

"Just remember, lady. You can't keep it in your purse unless you have a permit to carry – you can apply for it but it's not that easy to get."

Oh. Felicity knew that, but it hadn't really hit her until now. Still, she was already regretting her decision, and was fully intending to stuff the gun somewhere in her closet as soon as she got home. Though she looked at the card he'd given her, and wondered. She had the gun now, might as well learn how to use it. Why hadn't any of her friends ever taught her how to use a gun? Why hadn't she continued fighting lessons with Diggle? Had it all just been because she felt threatened by Sara?

She stuffed the card in her purse and walked to the parking garage where she'd left her car, determined to keep her momentum going. She'd had a plan. She made a list, even. First gun, then support groups. Laurel had let slip in a conversation that sometimes the only thing that kept her from crawling back into a bottle was the AA meetings she attended – Felicity would do that. Whether it would be enough to help her get over this was another story. She couldn't really figure it out right now. She was wary about one-on-one therapy, for the simple reason that giving a cover story to a support group was one thing; it would be so much harder to lie convincingly to a trained therapist. She sat in her car for a while, thinking about the various options, until she realized she'd been there for an hour. She really didn't want to go home and spend another sleepless night on her couch, but the sooner she got there, the sooner she could start looking for a new apartment. One step at a time, Felicity, she told herself. One step at a time.

The next two months passed in a blur, and sometimes when she looked back, it seemed like she was just sleepwalking through her days. She'd consciously known that R'as al Ghul was still at large, and that Oliver was now his heir, but she had thought that it was over, at least as far as Starling City was concerned. So the phone call from Malcolm Merlyn, of all people, was bad enough. Telling her that he needed a way to destroy a super-virus, and that oh, by the way, Al Sahim was on their side now, was such a shock she was speechless for a few seconds. She had to bite her tongue not to scream at him, not to ask how he couldn't have rebelled before he raped her, rather than after. She controlled herself with an effort. She was sure that Merlyn heard the strain in her voice, but he chose not to comment, only relayed her demands to . . . him. She hacked into the security of the laboratory she directed him to, gave him the code, and Diggle called ARGUS, who'd be waiting for Sahim as he came out of the lab. Thea and Diggle raced off, worried that something would go wrong, but Felicity managed to stay behind, saying something about making sure the other assassins were dealt with. Thea was too happy about seeing her brother again to notice, but Diggle gave her an oblique, "you and I are going to have ourselves a conversation, girl" look before he left. Felicity laughed, bitterly. Like she was going to let anything slip, with Diggle of all people. The various support groups she was going to were dealing with her impulse to talk about what had happened to her – although she'd had to dress it up as a date rape, bringing it out into the open helped. But Diggle and Thea must never know what had happened.

When they came back, Thea was visibly shaken. And Diggle looked tired. He went to get some cocoa for Thea and coffee for himself, and Felicity went to give him a hand, curious in spite of herself.

"You look like the cop at the end of the movie who turns in his gun and badge," she quipped, trying to regain the easy camaraderie they'd had before the league of assassins shitstorm that fucked up their lives. Diggle sighed, and smiled at her.

"I feel like that guy," he answered.

"Now, if only I had a gun and badge to slam on a desk. I'd need a desk, too."

His eyes fell on the bottle of vodka they'd rescued from the Foundry, and he winced. She remembered how he and Oliver used to drink it after a case, and wished she'd put it away. He responded to her enquiring look.

"Ever heard of suicide by cop?"

At her indrawn breath, he reassured her quickly.

"He wanted to, but Thea talked him out of it. At least I think it was what Thea said that stopped him. Not like he spoke to us. I mean, Oliver never talked much. But this Al Sahim guy talks even less."

"You talk about Oliver like he's dead," she said, thoughtfully. She was proud of herself that her voice didn't crack on his name. But she must have let something else slip, because when she looked up, Diggle was staring at her.

"You're . . . angry. That's it, right? You haven't been talking lately, not like you. Because you don't want to show us how angry you are."

Moment of clarity, she thought. It hit her, like one of those anvils in old cartoons, or a grand piano. She felt it, the rage, under her skin, threatening to explode, and God help anyone who stood in the way. Critical mass, was that what they called it? That was what she felt like, all the time. But she had to push it down, as deep as possible. Even talking about it with Diggle was dangerous.

"Aren't you?" she countered. Diggle gave her a knowing look.

"Felicity . . ."

"No, John. No. I can't . . . talk. Please, don't make me."

Diggle sighed.

"Yeah, I guess I'm angry, too."

Felicity waited, but Diggle didn't seem to want to say more, so she continued.

"What's going to happen to him, now?"

"ARGUS said they have a therapist who's been successful with deprogramming and exit counselling for cult members. And Waller promised me that if they can get him back, he won't be going to prison. As a kind of thank you for destroying the Alpha/Omega virus. All is forgiven."

Diggle sounded like he didn't believe a word of it. Felicity couldn't believe it, either. But who knew what went on in Waller's sociopathic mind – while most people in her position planned four moves ahead, she probably planned fifteen. Most likely she had some use for Oliver once he was himself again.

It didn't take long for the message to come from ARGUS – they'd had a breakthrough, and Oliver, well. He was Oliver. Or so they said. In the meantime, Nyssa had contacted Laurel with the news that she'd managed to kill her father, and that he would no longer be a threat to Starling City. She stared at the monitor for a while, looking at the emails. Their lives were so bizarre, she thought. She leaned back in her chair, trying to stretch, and caught a glimpse of the papers Ray had tricked her into signing before he left, and groaned. Another thing she had to handle. What had Ray been thinking? It was bad enough when everyone thought she'd gotten her previous job on her back, and Oliver had just made her his executive assistant, he hadn't given her the fracking company. Go on, Felicity, she thought bitterly. You can say 'fucking'. Because it was fucked up. God knows what everyone would think she'd done to get the company, some fifty shades of perverted shit. She'd already scheduled a meeting with Walter to advise her on a CEO who'd do a good job without trying to take over, and she'd made sure no-one knew that the ownership of the company had changed. What she really wanted to do was just give the company to Thea, but Ray had messed with that too – if she tried to transfer ownership, the company would revert back to him. So she had to deal, but she wasn't going to spend the rest of her life known as the woman who'd slept her way to the top. She wasn't.

A week later, Felicity managed to sit through the entire video Oliver left for them without once looking closely at the screen. Thea and Diggle studied it carefully, but she managed to look past it, without focussing on the image. But she couldn't stop up her ears, so she had to listen to his hesitant voice, talking about needing some time alone, on Lian Yu, to come to terms with what he'd done. His voice seemed to drown out everything else, even though she caught Thea asking a question, and Digg answering her. But she blocked it out, and tried to analyse what he sounded like. Was he really Oliver again? Or was this just a trick? He sounded like himself, but contrite. She noticed that he never once asked for forgiveness. Maybe he thought that he didn't deserve it. Maybe he was right. She felt sorry for Thea – her brother was the only family she had left, if you didn't count her father the sociopath, and she certainly didn't. But Oliver didn't sound like he'd be coming back to them anytime soon. Never, if she had anything to say about it.

And that was why she couldn't understand how, a month later, she was on a helicopter headed to Lian Yu, on a mission to get him back. Ok, so she understood how, she didn't really understand why. How could she have let herself be talked into this? Didn't they know how dangerous she was to Oliver right now? Well, no, they couldn't know, because she hadn't told them. Secrets and lies, right? Wasn't that their way? What did they call this in the army, situation normal, all fucked up? It sure was.

"Felicity, the helicopter's going to land for a few minutes, and then you can jump out," Diggle yelled into her headphones. "Are you still ok with this?"

She nodded, not wanting to speak, and especially not wanting to yell over the sounds of the blades. Hadn't they gone over this and over this, until she wanted to scream at them to just shut up. She was going to the island, but not for the reason they thought. She fingered the strap on her back pack nervously as she thought of what she had inside it, and whether she could go through with it. She'd soon find out.

The sun was setting as the helicopter started circling Lian Yu, and Felicity was glad that it meant the helicopter couldn't stay any longer. Diggle looked worried, but she reassured him.

"It'll be alright", she yelled. "He'll hear the helicopter and come to the beach!"

Diggle nodded, and the few minutes were a rush of movement, as they landed and she jumped out. A rush of noise and wind and she was alone on the rocky beach, and it was getting dark. Should she start a fire? Did she even know how? The momentum that had kept her going this far stopped, and she sat down abruptly. She felt drained, empty almost. She decided to just sit for a while, drinking in the quiet, so different from the buzzing energy of the city.

A twig breaking to her left made her look up, and there he was. Oliver looked the same as ever – even his hair had grown back from the harsh buzz-cut the Assassins had given him, and he reminded her of the first time she'd come here to get him back. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The only difference was that he was wearing a shirt this time – was it for her benefit?

"Felicity."

He even sounded the same as ever. This wasn't Sahim, who hadn't ever used her name, she thought.

"Oliver."

Wow, she was just full of clever talk today. Was that what she'd come here for, to just say his name at him? She shivered suddenly, and it seemed to break the spell.

"I'll make a fire," he said, and started gathering twigs and dried seaweed.

He piled everything up pretty quick, and just as she thought he was going to start rubbing sticks together, he produced an old-fashioned lighter and started the fire. He noticed her look and seemed to want to justify himself.

"It takes too long the other way."

"I'm not here to talk about scouting techniques, Oliver, " she said impatiently.

She couldn't just sit here and make small talk with Oliver. He nodded, abashed, but didn't add anything to her statement. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, to address the elephant in the room, as it were, but now she was actually face to face with him, she didn't even know how to start. The silence between them stretched out, past awkward and uncomfortable, and into peaceful, so that she started when he broke it.

"I left a video," he offered. "I wanted to explain."

He opened his mouth to say more, but it seemed he'd run out of steam.

"Yes, Thea and Diggle showed it to me. They asked me to come here and get you back."

He was staring at her face with such intensity that she had to look away. She couldn't meet his eyes. After a few seconds he seemed satisfied – she saw him nod, out of the corner of her eye. She looked straight at him and he was smiling at her, not openly, just a small relieved half-smile, the kind that used to make her melt in the old days.

"But you didn't come here to take me back," he said.

"No," she answered, as she got up and, opening her backpack, pulled the gun out. Just as she'd been taught: safety off, rack the slide, gun in one hand, other hand supporting it, use the sight, point it at the target. At Oliver.

"I came here to kill you."