title: tell me your secrets (and ask me your questions)
category: arrow
genre: angst/romance
ship: felicity/oliver
rating: pg-13/teen
prompt: secret!life oliver + olicity - anonymous
word count: 5,935
summary: (au) Everything Felicity knows is turned on its head when she finds out her boyfriend, Oliver, isn't who she thinks he is.

tell me your secrets (and ask me your questions)
-1/1-

It started with something simple.

An uneven floor.

Felicity and Oliver had moved into their townhouse six months ago, trading up from the too-small apartment she'd rented for eight long years from a kind, older gentleman that always smelled like mothballs and nodded his head three times, saying 'yes, yes, yes' whenever she brought him the rent check. He was a good guy, and she hoped his new tenants appreciated how quick he was to answer maintenance calls, even at 4am.

Sometimes she missed the close quarters of her old apartment; how she and Oliver could barely fit into the bathroom together, working out a schedule ahead of time so they wouldn't have to fight for control of the sink. Their townhouse had a double sink in the en suite attached to their master bedroom. They'd scrimped and saved and even managed to avoid take-out, one of their more expensive habits, to afford the down payment on their very own home.

She didn't notice the uneven floor at the time.

Felicity was a busy person, so maybe if she had noticed it, she simply hadn't had time to do anything about it. But, for once, she had a weekend to herself. No pressing matters at SmoakScreen, the tech company she'd started just out of MIT and that was just beginning to really get its feet under it. She'd cleared her schedule and finally had some time just to herself, which explained the half-empty bottle of red on the coffee table and the DVR that was ripe with everything she'd been missing.

Oliver was at work, leaving the townhouse noticeably empty. It'd been a long time since she came home and found he wasn't already there, a dishrag over his shoulder as he cooked or the remote in his lap as he watched a basketball game.

They'd met, five and a half years ago, in a drive-by latte accident that was all her doing. For a girl who had eight years of gymnastics behind her and could proudly say she was graceful in even the tallest of heels, she somehow managed to bump into his table at a café she frequented, knocking his latte over and onto his laptop. In between apologies, she promised she could fix it, and somehow, don't ask her how, she charmed him into asking her out for dinner. Who was she to say no to a handsome stranger?

Her mother always told her not to talk to strangers, but, for some reason, with a smile like Oliver's, and the seemingly innocent manner in which they met, it never occurred to her that this was who she might have meant.

Felicity loved him.

She wasn't sure she'd ever loved anyone like she did him.

Those romantic ideas of being swept off her feet actually came to fruition when Oliver entered her life. He was… charismatic and smart and he always looked so enamored with her when her mouth would get stuck in ramble-mode, thoroughly embarrassing her while he would just listen, or, if he could see her getting distressed, reach out, his hand resting on her shoulder and effectively calming her down. Their relationship sometimes felt like it happened overnight, like a dream. One day they were meeting over a latte'd laptop and the next day they were spending every waking moment together, and a lot of non-waking moments, too.

He was a blanket hog, but made up for it with how little space he took up. A surprise considering the sheer size of him, all beautiful sinew that she'd done her fair share of marveling at. She never felt like her bed was empty before she felt how full it was with him beside her, and then the nights he wasn't there seemed wrong somehow. He moved in with her after nearly a year of dating. Of cheap wine shared over take-out and questionably funny sitcoms. She didn't remember the shows or the food as much as she remembered how good it felt to curl up beside him, her head on his chest and his arm wrapped around her like he was shielding her from some unseen force. He did that a lot. Spooked from a noise or a movement and, suddenly, he'd be around her, in front of her. She teased him at first, until she saw that wild look in his eyes. And he would crack a smile that was entirely too false and tell her he didn't get enough sleep.

When she asked him if he was some kind of soldier, the smile he gave her was bittersweet, full of memories she knew haunted him. She'd long memorized the scars on his skin, but she wasn't sure he'd ever share the ones in his mind.

That didn't make her love him any less. Maybe, in time, he would talk to her. Maybe. She was okay if he didn't, as long as he was happy, as long as they could move forward.

And they did.

They got their townhouse with its small, back porch, a swing that sold her as soon as she saw it, and a little shed in the backyard for all of Oliver's carpentry tools. He could build the most beautiful things with his hands. Case in point, their bed. But mostly he did repair work on homes and apartments. In his spare time, he built more elaborate things; furniture, mostly. Her bookcase was one of his creations; the spiralling carvings etched down the sides were some of the most beautiful work she'd ever seen. Sometimes she liked to let her fingers wander down it, sliding into the grooves, feeling the soft, smooth wood under her fingertips. It felt like an extension of him. The focus and energy he put into each unique piece was stunning.

He smelled like sawdust and sweat. She imagined that might turn off some people, but she loved it. She even loved how he would come home and show her his hands, long callused from work, and he'd have her help him get the slivers out. "Where were you gloves?" she always asked, and he would grin at her. Sometimes she thought he did it on purpose. He would pull her into his lap, his chin on her shoulder, and watch her get each sliver out, wincing in sympathy for him. And when it was done, she would kiss his palm and tell him to be more careful. He always cupped her cheek and looked up at her like she was the most delicate and sweet thing to ever exist in the universe. Following it up with a kiss to her shoulder, he'd stand and ask her about her day or what she wanted to have for dinner, anything to distract from the moment. That intense moment where he couldn't hide the depth of his feelings for her.

Or maybe he could. Maybe he was much better at it than she ever thought. Maybe he let her see what she wanted to see. Or maybe she made it up for herself.

She was half-way through an episode of Elementary when she stubbed her toe on the uneven dining room floor. Frowning, she put aside her interest in seeing if there was any popcorn in the cupboards to figure out why the ground was uneven in just that one, particular spot.

Felicity didn't like mysteries, and this definitely counted as one.

Pulling up the carpet was probably going a little farther than strictly necessary for a situation like this, but curiosity was a killer and she answered its call.

Perplexed, she stared down at the risen floorboards. It was a perfect square, cut out from the original floor. Hesitantly, she reached out and dug her fingers into the side, lifting it up and away, setting it aside as she peered down into the floor. A box stared back at her, cherry wood and laminated with an arrow carved into the top. Tucking her hair back behind her ears, she reached for it, a sense of foreboding coming over her. She didn't let it stop her, however. Instead, she reached in and pulled it out, opening the top slowly, a million and one things going through her mind of what could be inside. Long-lost love letters from a soldier to his girlfriend, sent to her while he was away at war. Bills that the previous owner never paid and was adamant he never received. A boy's rock collection. A girl's time capsule. But as she stared down at the contents, what she found was so beyond what she expected, that she almost didn't understand.

Passports. Dozens of them. Stacks of cash, all large bills and different colors to represent different currencies and countries. And a gun. Black and sleek with an extra magazine beside it.

She stared and stared but it didn't quite register.

And then she opened each passport and she read the names: John Diggle, Sasha Lance, and Roy Harper were just a few of them. And every single one had Oliver's face on it. Oh, the details were a little different. Clothing style, glasses, haircut, but it was still him. It was his face and any number of names and birthdates and country of origins.

She read through every one of them, where this 'John Diggle' had been and when. Were any of them real? Was Oliver even Oliver, or was he Sasha or Quentin or Laurent or Dean?

Her heart hammered deep into her chest, constricted with betrayal and terrified of what everything in front of her meant.

Her life… Their life… Sunday morning's spent lazing in bed while they argued over who would get up and make coffee. Cuddling on the couch as they watched the latest episode of The Walking Dead. Sifting her fingers through her hair when he fell asleep with his head in her lap after a long day of work. All of the laughter and the joy and the feeling of belonging that had built up over the years, it was… what? For nothing? Pointless? Was she just one of numerous women he had out there? Was there a woman waiting in Russia for Sasha to return to her? Or maybe a man in Canada, wondering when John would come home.

Hysteria built up and threatened to choke her.

What did she do now? Did she call the police? FBI? Interpol? How would she even get a hold of Interpol? Were they in the directory? The white pages?

Oh God, she wasn't prepared for this. She was just a tech geek that grew up with a mother that always nagged her to find a good, Jewish man, and instead she found… She didn't even know his real name. She found someone. Someone who wasn't who she thought he was. Obviously.

She sat on the floor, surrounded by passports and money, with a gun in her lap and an empty box in front of her, silently crying until she was numb.

When the front door opened and closed, she didn't bother to look up.

"Felicity…?" he called as he moved through the foyer.

He would drop his keys in the bowl, kick his shoes off by the door, and hang his jacket on the hook. In that order, just like always.

"I know you said you wanted a lazy weekend, but I thought we could go out tonight. Nothing fancy, but maybe we could stop by Big Belly Burger? You said you were craving one of their vanilla milkshakes, so we could—"

His voice cut out as he paused in the living room, just behind the couch, leaving her in full view.

There was silence then. So thick and stifling that she almost couldn't breathe.

He didn't say anything, not at first.

She wondered what excuses he might give. What stories he would feed her. What explanation there could possibly be.

And then—

"I can explain…" he said, his voice thick and low.

And she laughed. A hysterical, cracked noise that escaped her lips.

If she had been looking at him, and she wasn't, because the chaos surrounding her was far too distracting, she might have seen the way he flinched at the noise.

"Felicity…"

"Isn't that funny?" She shook her head, reaching for one of the passports and waving it at him. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

Only it wasn't funny. Not one bit. Not at all.

But then he was kneeling in front of her, his hands reaching for hers, even as she pulled them away, curling her fingers into her palms so he couldn't twine them with his own. "You do. You do know my name. I'm Oliver. That's who I am."

Swallowing tightly, she murmured. "Today."

He sighed. "It's not what you think. I… I can explain this."

Felicity shook her head, dropping the passports abruptly. "No."

He shook his head in confusion.

Pushing up from the floor, despite how her knees shook, she slapped his hands away as he tried to help her. "No." She stepped away from him until her back bumped the kitchen table. "I don't want to know. I don't want you to tell me. I—I don't even think I'd believe you. So, just… no."

He stared at her, stricken, searching her face. "I know what you're thinking."

"I really don't think you do."

"You're wondering if all of it was a lie. If it was just some elaborate scheme or… or something." He swallowed tightly, shifting his feet as he balled his hands up at his sides. "It wasn't a lie. It… For the first time in my life, none of it was a lie…" He walked toward her, ignoring the way she shook her head and taking her by her shoulders. "I've spent most of my life being someone else, anyone else, and I… I made mistakes. I did a lot of things that I regret. Things you would hate me for. Things that… would do a really good job of making sure you didn't love me." His fingers flexed before they slid up her shoulders. "When I met you, I was on the tail end of a job. I… I didn't finish it. Partly because you fried my computer and partly because I saw a chance at having something good… I know that doesn't make up for it and I have a lot to explain, but Felicity, I fell in love with you from the first babbling, innuendo-filled ramble and I never stopped. This stuff, it's my past, it's who I was, who I never want to be again. It's every mistake I ever made."

She looked up at him then, her brow furrowed. "Then why keep it? If you never planned to use it again, why keep it?"

"Because there are people out there who would go to great lengths to kill me, and even if I don't want to go back to that life, I know that it can still find me. If I had to, I was willing to run. If that meant leaving you behind so you'd be safer, then I would. But I was really hoping it would never come to that."

"Yeah…" She sniffled before raising her eyes to meet his. "What were you hoping for, Oliver? That I'd just never find out. That we'd go on living like this, with me in the dark and you hiding everything?"

"I don't… I don't know. Maybe. I… I just didn't want this." He stared down at her searchingly, his brow knotted. "I didn't want to see you looking at me like you don't know me. Because the truth is, no one knows me but you."

Swallowing thickly, she shook her head. "How am I supposed to believe that?" She motioned a hand down to the collection of items on the floor. "You have sixteen passports, a gun, an insane amount of money, I— I mean, we spent four years living together, saving every penny, we put all of my savings into this house, and you have a box full of money under the floorboards. I know that's not even the craziest part of it, but you can see why I'm freaking out about that, right?"

"The money— I— It was a back-up plan. It was supposed to get me out of the country if I thought someone recognized me. If they threatened to expose me or force me back into working for them. I didn't—That money wasn't ours. I didn't want our home to be bought with dirty money." He took a deep breath, stepping back from her, a hand on his hip as the other one dragged down his mouth. "I… I used to do things, for hire. I…" He let out a heavy breath. "You asked me once, if I was a soldier, and I didn't really answer you. I should have. I just didn't want to be that man anymore. I wanted to be who I was when I was with you. Someone who was past that… I started out in the ARMY, sharp-shooting, when I was vetted by a government agency." He held his hand up to stop her before she could ask which one. "It's not any combination of the alphabet the public knows about. The point is, they brought me in and I was given folders with names and information. Targets."

"You were an assassin," she whispered, her heart speeding up and her breath leaving her abruptly. "An assassin." She raised a hand, curling her fingers into her palm when they shook, and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. "You k-killed people."

"Bad people. Corrupt people. This—This wasn't your neighbor or your favorite barista or the guy who sells hot dogs on 6th and Cormorant, all right? These were high profile bad guys that killed villages of people. That decimated whole countries and laughed about it. These were politicians that were secretly running human trafficking rings while acting like humanitarians." His voice rose along with his intensity, his desperation. "So yes, I killed people. I killed a lot of people. But not one of those people didn't deserve death."

She stared at him, a wave of detachment hitting her. "They why stop?" she wondered quietly. "If you believed so strongly in what you were doing… Why aren't you doing it anymore?"

Oliver let out a long, heavy sigh, raising his hands to rub them over his face. "Because… What I did might have come from some twisted sense of altruism, but that doesn't mean that the people I worked for did… They wanted more. They always wanted more. And I was… tired. I was done playing their games. I was…. I was ready to walk away, to have a real life, to settle down and… And then, there you were, like a dream come true, and I took it as a sign. I'd been struggling for months, telling myself just one more job and then I'd go, but… There was nothing for me if I did. I have no family, no friends, just fake names and backgrounds, leaving nothing but death and destruction in my wake."

He shook his head, reaching for her, his hand finding her wrist, fingers stroking over her pulse. "Being with you was different from anything I've ever known. I—I could be me with you. Not—Not John Diggle or Slade Wilson or any of the other names I took. I was just Oliver. Just a regular guy with a regular job and it—" He gave her a tragically beautiful smile then. "It was perfect. It was normal and easy and I was happy. I—" He broke into a choked laugh. "I wake up every morning knowing that this is the best my life could ever be. You…" He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking over the tops of her cheeks. "You are all I have in this world and everything I love. And I know—I know it doesn't seem like much. I know I have a lot to make up for before you trust me again. But Felicity, please… Please don't walk away, not until you have all the facts."

She stared up at him. "There's more?"

"If you want there to be. I'll tell you every name, every place, every way I did it. I'll tell you anything you want to know. No lies. I promise." He looked frantic now, his eyes darting over her face. "Just hear me out, please."

Swallowing thickly, she lowered her eyes to the floor, to the fake identities and the money and the gun.

A gun.

To kill people with.

The same hands that held hers, that brushed through her hair as she fell asleep, that rubbed her back when she was sick, that had touched every single inch of her skin… those same hands had been used to hurt and kill and destroy. Those hands she used to admire for the beautiful things they'd built, those fingers had pulled the trigger on countless guns. Those calluses that she'd associated with hard work, with carpentry, that she'd pulled hundreds of slivers from, what did they come from? What history was written in the palms of his hands?

Did she want to know? Did she want to hear about how his targets struggled? How they fought or begged or cried?

And if she didn't, could she live with herself without knowing? Could she just blindly accept he had killed? Everybody had pasts, but she was expecting complicated family relationships or tragic time spent in the army, not government assassin.

Reaching up, she pulled his hands from her face, pushing them down and away.

He let her.

Even as a breath of defeat left his chest, he let her step back and away and around him.

She could have left. She could have told him to leave. She could go and stay with one of her friends or move home and stay with her mom. There were options. There was nothing that would force her to stay or listen or trust him. Maybe she did know him, enough at least to know that he would never make her do anything.

Bending, she picked up a random passport, her gaze darting to the name, and then she turned and said, "Tell me about Theo. Who was he? What was his fake background? Where did he go?"

Oliver turned. Until she'd spoken, he had stood with his shoulders tense, his head hung. He stared at her now from the corner of his eyes, his brow furrowed and his forefinger picking at his thumb. And thten he answered her.

"Theo was a party-guy. He was a bartender at a club in Munich. He had piercings – here, here, and here." He pointed to his nose, the top of his left ear, and his right nipple. "He had tattoos, three of them. A dragon on his back, a star-burst on his chest, and Chinese lettering down his right side. He died his hair, frequently, and he was quick to laugh, to offer free drinks to anybody he liked… The club was a high profile joint. There was a VIP room that only employees and people on the list could get to. Theo slipped something into the drink of the waitress and when she got dizzy, he offered to take the drinks up for her. She thanked him, and when he got upstairs, he found who he was looking for. He handed out the drinks; one in particular was laced with a slow-working poison. Long after he left the club, the target keeled over, dead. Theo never returned to work; he left Munich and, three months later, became Sasha."

Felicity stared at him, an overload of information filling her head. She took a seat then, crossing her legs beneath her, and searched the passports until she found the right one. Sasha Lance was much blonder than the Oliver she saw in front of her and clean shaven, a look she wasn't sure worked for him. Or maybe it was just that she wasn't used to it. "What about Sasha?"

With a sigh, he took a seat across from her and readied himself to tell the story.

He told her about each passport, every person he once was.

There were parts of them, these alternate names and people, that she could see in Oliver.

Sasha was charming; something Oliver could be, too.

John was quiet, thoughtful; Oliver had days like that, where he was lost in his head.

But while the characters he'd played, the characters in these passports, were parts of him, they weren't all of him.

When there were no more passports to go through, she stacked them back in the box.

A few minutes passed with nothing between them but air and a box of disclosed secrets.

Uncertainly, he asked, "What now?" He raised his chin slowly, like he was preparing himself to be hurt but didn't want to let it show.

She stared at the passports, the money, the box with the carving on top. "What's this mean?" she wondered, touching the groove with her finger.

He jaw flexed. "It was a code name. Arrow. My… first target, he was a weapon's collector and dealer. I used an arrow from his own collection, I put it through his eye. After that, the name just kind of stuck. I've been Arrow since. Or I was. I'm not anymore. I'm listed as 'rogue' in their database. I didn't exactly formally resign. The only way you leave them is going rogue or getting killed."

She hummed, staring thoughtfully at the arrow before she placed the top back on the box. "I want you to burn it. All of it."

He stared at her.

"No back-up plan. No 'just in case.' And if there is, if you have to leave, you don't leave me behind. That isn't how this – how we – work. We're partners, Oliver."

"Are we?" he whispered. "Can you… forgive me for this?"

She reached for his hand then, curling her fingers around his. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "But I'm willing to try." She stared at him seriously. "But only if you're honest, always. I'm going to have questions. A lot of questions. I can't even think straight right now, so I can't begin to ask all of them. But I'm going to. We might be in the middle of making dinner when I ask you about your life then, and I need you to answer me. I always need you to answer me. Because I don't understand, not completely, but I… I love you. I love who I think you are. And I want to know if the you I love is the real you or if I have to adjust everything in my head to fit this..."

"Okay," he rasped, nodding jerkily. "Okay."

She sighed, heavy and long, and then she released his hand and pushed up from the floor. "Burn it," she told him before she turned on her heel. "And then come to bed."

With that, she walked away, climbing the stairs two at a time until she was in her bedroom.

She stripped off her clothes and took a long, hot shower. Going through her usual night-time routine, she finally made her way back into the bedroom, still rubbing her favorite lotion into her hands. He was waiting for her, standing awkwardly by the bed in his pajama pants and a grey t-shirt. Crossing the room, she moved to her side of the bed, pulling the covers back. After a few seconds of hesitation, he followed suit on his side, peeling back the sheet and blanket. She climbed into bed, readjusting the pillow beneath her, and turned onto her side, away from him, before reaching up to turn out the bedside lamp. Oliver laid down slowly, lightly, and turned out his own light.

There were a long few minutes full of tension. She could feel him, feel the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat, his lips parting and closing. She waited, unsure what she wanted to hear or if he could even say it. The bed moved as he turned onto his side – away or toward her? She felt stiff and uncomfortable. This wasn't how she usually slept. She was a cuddler; she liked using his chest as her pillow, falling asleep to his steady heartbeat and the sound of his breathing. Her pillow felt too soft, and the sheets too cold. Oliver ran hot, his skin against hers always warmed her up when he stole the blankets.

She wondered how long it would take to get used to this, to the distance. Or would they have to? Maybe he hadn't burned the box. Maybe, in a week or two, when he decided it wasn't worth staying, wasn't worth explaining, he would sneak out and escape across the country. Who would he be then? The sarcastic, bitter Quentin? Or maybe the poised and intelligent Laurent? Tears stung her eyes, because the very real possibility was that they couldn't work this out and she would lose him. She would lose the one person she'd thought of as her family, her constant, her partner.

A hand on her hip made her breath hitch, a sob caught in her throat. He slowly moved up behind her, giving her an opening to tell him to stop, to pull away, but she didn't. He stretched himself out behind her, her back pressed to the firm expanse of his chest, and he curled himself around her, spooning her like he did when he was sick and he wanted attention or when she'd had a bad day and he wanted to make her feel better. He buried his face at her neck, breathing quickly, his nose rubbing against her ear. He slid an arm around her, across her front, and wrapped his hand around the ball of her shoulder, squeezing. "I love you," he said, his lips brushing her ear. "I love you, Felicity, and I'll do anything, okay? Anything to show you that I'm not who I was. I'm the same person you fell in love with, that's the only version of me that matters. I swear I am. And I know it doesn't mean much right now, but it will."

She folded her lips for a moment, trying to keep her cry from escaping, but when he hugged her tighter, she let it slip. He held onto her, never letting go, while she cried and cried, with body-shaking sobs, until she had nothing left in her. And then she was just lying there, trying to catch her breath, emotionally spent.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, his arms still tight around her, and brushed a kiss to her neck.

She wanted to ask him if he'd be there in the morning, because, despite everything he'd told her, she couldn't help but this it might just be too hard. But she didn't ask; instead, she let her heavy eyes fall closed and fell asleep with the familiar comfort of Oliver wrapped all around her. It was different now, even if it felt the same; she wondered if that would apply to everything.

When she woke the next morning, she had a headache. It seemed like last night's cry fest and the information overload had left her with a hangover of sorts. She sighed, turning over to bury her face in her pillow, only to realize, abruptly that the other side of the bed was empty. She cracked open an eye, staring at the rumpled, cold sheets, and frowned. It was Sunday. Lazy Sunday. Which meant cuddling and arguing over coffee and bagels loaded with schmear. Instead, she was in an empty bed, very much aware of just how empty it stay.

Sitting up, she hugged her knees to her chest, and asked herself what she wanted going forward.

And then the door below opened and closed. The faint ring of keys hitting a glass bowl seemed to echo. The loss of his shoes being kicked off followed and the shuffle of clothing as he took off his jacket and hung it up on the hook. Finally, his feet were thumping on the stairs as he climbed to the second story. The door opened at last, revealing Oliver in a pair of jeans and his favorite grey, zip-up sweater. In his hands he held a cup tray with coffee from their favorite shop, unsurprisingly the one they met in, and a brown baggie she was sure held their bagels.

"Hey," he said quietly, before crossing the room to take a seat on the bed beside her. He held the tray out and watched her as she took her coffee. Putting his own on the bedside table, he started pulling out the bagels. "They didn't have the cranberry bagel you usually get, so I got you the five-grain…" He pulled hers out and handed it over.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, feeling a knot catch on her finger, she accepted the bagel, focusing on it as she pulled a piece off and popped it into her mouth, chewing absently. He let her eat in peace, saying nothing, just sitting back and eating his own while the morning settled around them. There were birds chirping outside, probably nesting in the tree in her backyard, the same one Oliver kept saying he needed to trim but never got around to.

Just as she was brushing the crumbs from her lap, he said, "You found the wrong box."

She paused, turning to look at him, a brow raised.

"If I had to pick one for you to find, I would've picked the velvet one in my sock drawer. The one with the engagement ring I've been carrying around for three months." He swallowed tightly. "I know you're not ready for that right now. And you might never be, now that you know, but… I wanted you to know that I did have a plan for us. A long-term plan. It— I didn't want this to end. I wasn't lying when I told you that I wanted to settle down. I want a home and a family and I want those things with you."

She stared at him, reading sincerity in a face that had long gotten used to lying.

"I want to believe you," she said throatily. "But I can't. Not yet."

"Not yet means someday." He reached for her hand then, folding their fingers together, and said, "I can wait."

And that she believed.

[end.]

author's note: So I got this prompt aaages ago, but I never really knew what I wanted to do with it. THEN, I found myself inspired by the (awesome) show ' The Blacklist,' which, if you've ever seen it, you would recognize a key piece from the pilot. I wrote this a while back, but completely forgot about it in favor of a few of my multi-chaptered stories. Anyway, I got so excited when I re-read this and remembered that I had two sequels planned out, just one-shots, but one involves Oliver's old life making a return when the government agency he worked for finally finds him, so super action-packed, and another more family-oriented. Anyone interested? I can add it to my to-do list when I'm done with my hiatus.

[edit: In case anybody doesn't know, I'm on a hiatus from writing right now. Anything posted for the next bit will be previously finished chapters or oneshots that only need editing. I was getting a little overwhelmed with messages on Tumblr asking for updates and leaving me prompts and decided I needed a break from writing, at the very least until I finish my school term, on April 11th. Possibly longer, depending on how I'm feeling. Thank you for your understanding at this time.]

Thank you for reading! Please leave a review; they're my lifeblood.

- Lee | Fina