"Roy, come on, anything?" Oliver slumps over the expansive metal table, gripping the edges and staring blankly at the pile of arrows before him. He doesn't notice that he's tapping his foot impatiently on the concrete floor until Sara throws him an annoyed look, one that has him drawing his leg back slowly, propping it up on the curved steel rod at the base of his stool instead. He sighs, rubbing his palms repeatedly on his leather pants.

Anxiety is coursing through him and he desperately needs to replace it with adrenalin. It's far from how he actually wants to spend his night, waiting for Roy to figure out how to pull up the police scanners so he can find himself a mission. A distraction. Anything that means he can focus on something other than Felicity.

Every muscle in his body aches to go to her, but he has to fight it, because he can still hear her words from the morning echo in his ears; still see the pained look in her eyes.

"We can just pretend it never happened."

This must be the penance for all his sins, he thinks bitterly, being the one between them who remembers every explicit detail and yet has no say in what it all means, or choice in where they go from here.

Roy whirls around and throws his arms up sideways, pointing both index fingers at himself. "Do I look like a blond IT genius to you?" he snaps, disgruntled. "The next time Felicity heads home early, we should all just call it a night. It's not like we can actually get anything done without her," he points out, facing the monitors just in time to see a large red window that says "Access Denied" flashing on the screen. It's a guttural grunt of frustration and then he's pounding on the keyboards with his fist. "Stop denying me—"

"Oh-kay!" Sara yells, grabbing his arm. A forced smile appears on her lips. "How about," she says, gently pulling him out of the seat, "you step away from there before you do any permanent damage to Felicity's babies…and, in the process, your credit score."

"My credit score's already crap," he points out with a shrug. "Not much she can do to ruin my life on that end."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "It's Felicity. She'd find a way."

"Well if she's going to ruin anyone's life, it should be his." Roy folds his arms, pressing his lips in a tight line as he jerks his head towards Oliver. "You guys all think I'm stupid. Like I can't figure out what's going on."

Oliver tenses while Sara shifts in her seat.

Holy crap, how did he know?

He waves his hand through the air, continuing. "And I'm not. Anyone with half a brain can see it," he says, tapping his forehead.

Sara turns around and tilts her head at him, feigning ignorance. "See what?"

He scoffs. "Do I really have to state the obvious?"

She fluffs her hair out and leans her cheek against her knuckles, batting her eyelashes at him. "Apparently."

She's good at this, Oliver thinks to himself. He narrows his eyes as he watches her, telling himself he needs to learn how to lie like that. Convincingly.

Roy rolls his eyes. "Well she's obviously dealing with issues related to you guys being back together," he says, shaking his head and throwing them both an incredulous, wide-eyed look. His hand lands flat on his chest. "Am I the only one who sees that?"

Sara balls her hand into a fist, bringing it up to her chin before biting down on the tip of her thumb. Oliver can see she's losing it. Her lips are shaking, but she clears her throat in a last ditch effort to regain composure.

"Yes," she says with a straight face. "I can honestly say you are the only one who sees that."

Despite the circumstances, the corners of Oliver's lips tick upwards.

"I swear you guys are clueless," Roy mutters, picking up his bow to get some target practice.

"Thanks for playing along," Oliver mumbles, making his way behind Sara.

Sara grins. "You know…" she starts with a droll. "After Felicity's little outburst today and the way you've been looking at her with those sad puppy dog eyes, he's going to connect the dots." She throws a dispassionate glance Roy's way. "Eventually."

Oliver gives Sara a wry smile. "It's Roy," he says, putting his hands in his pocket as he looks towards the younger man. "Probably going to take awhile."

It's beyond annoying that the one time he's desperate to pull an all-nighter as the Arrow, the most serious crime Sara can pull up is a liquor store robbery.

(By a teenager. With a BB air gun. For a six-pack of beer.)

Where pride should exist, all Oliver feels is self-loathing for his efficiency as a crime fighter. The decline of illegal activity in Starling City is actually a source of frustration for him tonight.

Any other time, it would have made for a great story: Roy grabbing the kid by his hoodie, groaning when the kid pees on him at the sight of the Arrow and the Canary. "Oh come on!" he had grumbled, lifting his leg up and shaking it like a dog. "I love these boots!"

Sara doesn't bother trying to hold back her laughter for that.

But after, with only the hum of Felicity's computers resounding in the stillness of the lair, and the static that highlights the absence of crime on the police radios, it becomes clear that the Arrow is done for the night. It's time to shed his suit and switch personas. Only he has never hated being Oliver Queen more than he does right now.

It's the last place he wants to be, but the only destination he has left: home. Tonight, his apartment feels foreign and empty, because if the last twenty-four hours has taught him anything, it's that he doesn't belong here. He belongs with her.

His keys clang noisily against the ceramic surface of the bowl that sits by the front door, yanking his shoes off and letting them drop noisily against the marble tiles that line the floor. He collapses on the sofa, fingers digging into the creases, eager to find the remote control, desperate to fill the room with sound. In the deafening silence, he can only hear one thing: Felicity's voice.

Five minutes later, the remote control is still nowhere to be found, and he writes it off as just another point in the long litany of things gone wrong today.

"Don't do it Oliver," he thinks, commanding his eyes to stay open. He knows exactly what he'll see if he closes it, but willpower continues to fail him when it comes to thoughts of Felicity. And tonight, he's painfully aware of how relentlessly lonely he feels.

So he surrenders. Squeezes his eyes shut, leans back on the couch, places a hand on his head. In the darkness that he's created, he sees her clearly.

"Oliver."

The gasp sounds like a prayer on her lips. He's pulling her panties off, throwing them into oblivion (he now knows they land on her toaster oven) in between kisses, gently biting and sucking a trail of bruises down her neck. All that she says in response is his name, repeatedly, a chant, soft and steady and pleading.

"Oliver. Oliver. Oliver."

Her breathing quickens in his ear as his hands trace the surface of her thighs, sliding his fingers down to her bottom, kneading her ass before he lifts her up to the counter. "Felicity," he finally replies, teasing her with his hardness, the fabric of his boxers still between them as his hands move up to massage her breasts, catching her nipple with his mouth. He presses into her, and she responds, sliding herself closer to the edge to rub against him.

"You're a tease," she whines through heavy breaths, running her fingers up and down his chest. "God, you're even harder than I expected." He laughs because as dirty as that sounds, she's caressing his midsection, sighing appreciatively as her fingers trace the indents of his abs.

Trust Felicity to make a innuendo that's not as sexual as it sounds in the middle of an actual sexual experience.

She reaches to his sides, gripping his boxers, and biting her lip before pulling them down, effectively eliminating the last remaining barrier between them.

"Most women prefer more foreplay," he informs her, kicking off his underwear, as his fingers teasing her, flirting with her folds.

She swats his hand away with a scoff, grabbing his erection gently guiding him towards her entrance. "I'm good," she says simply, holding up the condom that he had retrieved from his wallet earlier.

Safe sex has never looked sexier, he thinks, looking down at her naked and willing, watching her tear it open, handing him the empty wrapper to throw away. She stretches the rubber over his erection, as he tosses the foil towards the trash can, watching it fall a few feet away from them, nowhere near his intended target.

Really, Felicity's water bottle got farther.

She frowns. "You missed."

Oliver gestures down to himself, hard and patiently awaiting entry. "I'm a little distracted, Felicity."

"Fair enough," she answers before pressing her lips back unto his. Her fingers grip his neck, moving up and raking through his hair, thumbs grazing his jaw. Her hands rest on his cheeks, staring into his eyes, blue on blue, as he guides himself into her. He loves that he can watch the expression on her face as she accepts him, the way her jaw twitches and her mouth parts, ever so slightly; the hitch in her breath, before she drops her eyes back to meet his, panting softly as he sets a pace. He watches her intently to make sure he's doing it right; giving her exactly what she wants.

Her legs wrap around him, eyes still glued to his, meeting him thrust for thrust. He expects her to be louder, the hushed tones she makes allow him to listen to her breathing; the jagged exhales telling him where she's heading and whether he's on the right path. Her thighs clench under his touch, and he spends some time stroking the sensitive skin there before moving his hands back to her ass, pulling her up until she's no longer resting on the counter.

He's so aroused, it takes a concentrated effort to hold off his orgasm. Because it isn't about him. It's about her.

He quickens the rhythm, pushing north, her throaty groans telling him this is exactly where he should be. When he slows down, it's only to push harder and deeper, moaning deeply when her grip on him tightens in response. As he builds momentum, her breath quickens, and he can tell from the way she's saying his name and digging her nails into his skin that her orgasm is building. It's only after she screams out, having found her release that he goes for his.

They lie together, afterwards, panting heavily.

"You shouldn't have hit Roy," she says sluggishly, sprawled on top of him on her kitchen floor. She rests her ear on his chest, her fingers walking around his chest, lightly tracing the raised edges of his scars. His heart is still pounding. It's proof of their first time together, his palpitations. Well, that and the clothes littering her kitchen floor...and her underwear draped over the appliances...and the empty condom wrapper.

He wraps one arm tighter around her, his thumb rubbing small circles on her shoulder. "He put you in danger," he answers. "More than enough reason for me."

"I put me in danger," she mumbles, humming contentedly under his touch. "And you were worth it."

Oliver purses his lips and shakes his head. "No, I'm not, Felicity. I would have figured a way out, or Digg or Sara would have found me. You don't do that again, not for me." He means to use a harsher, firmer tone, but he can't manage anything more than a loud whisper, too content to pretend to be angry or upset; too distracted by the feel of her bare skin, smooth and supple against his, legs draped over his thighs…

She laughs. "I think you proved tonight that you were definitely worth it," she purrs, leaning her cheek against her hand and propping her elbow up on his chest, looking down at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She crinkles her nose. "You have, after all, just given me the best sex of my life." Her finger traces an invisible line up his chest, over his neck, before stopping at his mouth. His lips part slightly to suck on the tip of her finger, gentle and sensuous, reminding her that his mouth is very talented.

He runs his fingers through her hair. "That wasn't the best sex of your life," he tells her, his tone matter-of-fact, with an expression both cocky and smug.

She narrows her eyes at him. "It wasn't?" she asks coyly, fighting a smile.

He shakes his head, before a grin covers half his face. His arms come up under her back and knees, lifting her up in one motion, laughing when she squeals. She wraps her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss unto his temple.

"Bedroom?" she asks with that adorable head tilt.

He nods. "Bedroom." He leans in and kisses her again, before announcing confidently, ""This is going to be the best sex of your life."

Eyes still shut, the sigh he releases is thunderous against the silence of the room. He knows he should be trying to forget, not holding on to every detail of their time together. But it's more than just what he remembers, it's what he doesn't.

He doesn't remember the nightmares that line the edges of his consciousness, that keep him treading the line between a restful sleep and a fitful one; doesn't remember waking up in panic several times a night as the experiences that left physical scars come back to haunt him; doesn't remember the threats the voices of the dead scream in his ear. In those few hours, his reality is changed with a glimpse of what life with her would be like. It's the warmth of her head underneath his arm, the lilac scent of her hair, and way she drapes her arms around his chest, fingers reaching up to rub the stubble on his cheek. It's her voice in his ear, a lullaby both calm and melodious, that weaves dreams to replace his nightmares.

This is the moment that makes him believe in a future beyond the battleground, bright and peaceful and happy. It's a thousand tiny pixels, details he doesn't want to forget (and can't, even if he tries), that form the image of Felicity.