Actions Speak Louder Than Words (and other true sayings)

Summary - All-in-all, it's the best kidnapping experience Felicity's had so far by a lot. So, it's kind of an epic surprise when the fallout from it is so, so much worse.

Tags - Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, John Diggle, Roy Harper, Laurel Lance, Sara Lance, Detective Lance, Malcolm Merlyn, Thea Queen, Donna Smoak, Original Character, kidnapping, angst, romance, manpain, babbles, all of the feels, snark and sarcasm, tabloids are terrible, legitimate media isn't much better, probably sex, definitely violence, intentional run-on sentences, your author doesn't quite know where this is going, but she's sure enjoying the ride

Author's Note - It was dicey trying to figure out the exact spot in the timeline of the show to shoehorn this story. I eventually settled on this: It should be taken as a divergent-canon for the vast majority of season 3. In short? Felicity and Oliver's date in 3x1 happened (along with the fallout of that), but Oliver hasn't lost QC, Felicity is still his EA, Sara isn't dead and is no longer sleeping with Oliver, Malcolm still has Thea in Corte Maltese and Team Arrow generally between big villains at the moment. For reasons. Also, the rating subject to change.

"You keep runnin' that mouth of yours and it's gonna run you right into trouble. You mark my words, Felicity Meghan Smoak."

It'd been her gran's favorite thing to say, growing up. Gran had seemed ancient when Felicity was young, with leathery skin that had seen too much sun and lines etched around her mouth from decades of smoking Virginia Slims. But the years lifted away when her eyes twinkled and she'd looked every inch the Vegas showgirl she'd once been when she continued.

"Least you come by it honestly, baby girl. Try to remember, life's more fun with a little trouble in it, anyhow," she'd say with a wink.

This invariably led into an outrageous tale about some supposed escapade with the Rat Pack or the mob or both. Felicity was about 98% sure none of these stories were true and 2% terrified that they were.

But as unbelievable as Gran's stories got - and they did; Felicity will never in a million years buy that Frank Sinatra is actually her grandfather, sorry Gran - she wasn't wrong about everything. More often than not, Felicity's mouth did get her into trouble. With teachers. With boys. With her mom. And, one very memorable time, with a police officer trying to give her a parking ticket. Life being more fun with a little trouble in it, though? That she didn't quite believe until she met one very broody archer. And then? Well… when it rains, it pours. Gran used to say that, too.

Felicity gets kidnapped on a Friday immediately after work. Her very first thought (after 'Again?' and before 'If I'd known I was going to get kidnapped today, I'd have worn my panda flats. Heels are impossible to run in.') is 'Why doesn't anyone have the decency to kidnap me on a Monday on the way to work?' Because… seriously, it's a Friday night and she has plans. Okay, so maybe those plans involve Netflix, her comfiest pyjamas and a tub of Cherry Garcia, but they're still plans. They count.

It's been a long week. Team Arrow had put in some serious overtime tracking and taking down a human trafficking ring that had been based in the bad part of the Glades (which is a little bit misleading, because it implies there's a good part of the Glades. Which there isn't). Oliver had wanted to go patrolling again tonight, but Diggle had put his foot down and said they'd all earned a night off. Oliver had been going to argue. She knew it. But the sheer exhaustion on her face must have changed his mind because he'd looked at her for a long beat before nodding his head toward Digg sharply in agreement. She'd been a little relieved at the time, but now she wishes he hadn't. It'll take longer for them to miss her.

The guy who grabbed her wears a mask - because, of course he does - and it's almost embarrassing that he managed to kidnap her at all because he's absolutely terrible at this villain thing. All of his moves seem so hesitant that Felicity thinks its actually a minor miracle that he ever made the decision to go after her in the first place. He'll be no challenge for the vigilante at all. Hell, he'd probably barely be a challenge for her if her hands weren't tied.

"I'm not a villain!" Her captor protests petulantly.

And… oops? How much of that had she said out loud?

"You literally kidnapped me off the street, held a gun to my head, tied me up and dragged me to your lair. In a mask. You'll understand if that seems a little villainy to me."

"This isn't about you!" He insists and… God he sounds as young as Roy. Younger, even. She's gonna actually feel sorry for him when Oliver gets here.

"Well… I'm spending my Friday night tied up in a warehouse, so it's at least a little bit about me," she counters.

His grand plan (which he explains… at length… in true villain fashion) is really about Oliver. Or, more specifically, about the 1% and taking from the rich to give to the poor. Felicity is pretty sure he's a college freshman who got too involved in his Intro to Social Justice class and watched the Disney version of Robin Hood too many times as a kid.

"I'm not the one percent, you realize?" She asks him. "Like, I'm the 50 percent, but probably not by much. I'm not really sure what you think you're going to accomplish by taking me."

"He'll pay to get you back. Everyone knows you're sleeping with him," her captor says offhandedly.

Felicity nearly groans in frustration.

"Right, because how else could a valedictorian from MIT with an IQ in the upper 150s get promoted, right?" She snaps. "Maybe after you finish your Social Justice course you should try taking Women's Studies. Your patriarchy is showing."

This genuinely seems to bother her captor (who, she found out during his monologuing, calls himself The Hound. Which… a) is a terrible villain/hero name and b) makes her really, really want to make a Game of Thrones joke).

"If you had any idea how much Oliver Queen gives to this city anonymously, you would totally not be doing this," she continues.

She means blood and sweat and sleepless nights more than she means money, but it's still true. And what he does - what they do - makes a bigger difference than money ever could.

She can't tell him that, though. Obviously. So she switches tactics.

"So what happens next?" She asks.

"I just told you," he responds agitatedly, switching his gun from one hand to the other and wiping a sweaty palm against his jeans.

"You outlined your mission," she agrees. "I get it. Robin Hood without the Merry Men but with added extortion and kidnapping. What I don't get it what happens next. Step one complete. You've got me. Now you want to swap me for an absurd amount of money from Oliver, so what's step two?"

"Ransom video," he says, but it sounds like it might be a question, like he's asking her if that's the right thing to do next and man she can't get over how young he is. She really hopes Oliver doesn't put an arrow in this kid. The more he talks the more she thinks he's dangerous because he's misguided, not because he's evil.

"Okay. How are you getting it to him?" She asks.

"I dunno… e-mail?" This time its a full-on question and Felicity - in spite of her situation - can't help sighing at the kid's naievity.

"He's a multi-billionaire with his own Fortune 500 company and an in-house IT department. You're trying to take him for a boatload of money. Do you honestly think he won't trace a video back to your IP address? Do you have encryption software at least? Or an untraceable e-mail account? Because TheHound is gonna be kind of a giveaway," she tells him.

"So a USB drive, then. I'll have a courier service deliver it," he counters, standing up a little straighter.

"That's less easily traced," she agrees. "Though you'll want to make very sure to wipe it down for fingerprints - literal and digital - and use a courier service without security videos. Pay cash and try not to stand out. Where are we filming this thing?"

"Uh… here?" He asks.

"Only if you want him to know we're on the north side of the Glades Interchange," she tells him with a wince.

"What? We're not…" her captor sputters before his face falls, she can see it in his eyes even with the mask on. "...How did you know?"

"I can hear the ferry to the south and the train to east. Plus I can smell some really amazing curry that just screams North Glades, though admittedly you wouldn't be able to tell that on a video. Still, Oliver will figure it out," she tells him.

"So I'll send a photo of you and you'll write a note. He'll know its your handwriting," the kid replies.

She thinks about that for a minute, like she's really weighing the pros and cons of his plan, before nodding.

"Yeah. That might be best. No digital signature at all to worry about," she muses.

"Why are you helping me, Miss Smoak?" The kid wonders aloud.

"Felicity," she corrects.

"What?" He asks.

"My mom's Miss Smoak. I don't have nearly enough makeup or push-up bras to be mistaken for her, so… Felicity," she clarifies.

"Fine," he agrees, rolling his eyes. "Why are you helping me, Felicity?"

Felicity does a mental fist pump of victory at that. Little tiny steps towards seeing her as a person instead of a tool to get to Oliver are completely fist-pump-worthy.

"I'm a helpful person," she replies glibly and without explanation. "How are you asking for the money? Because that'd a lot of tens and twenties and I'm pretty sure the bank won't cash a check for you."

This appears to be one part of the plan he's thought about ahead of time and his answer gives so much more away about himself than he probably thinks it does.

"It's not for me," he says. "I told you that. I don't want Queen money. He'll donate it to the Glades Memorial Hospital for long-term care and rehabilitation of his mother's victims. Once that's done, you're free to go."

There's a very long moment of silence in which the kid in the mask fidgets uncomfortably and Felicity offers up a thin, sad smile.

"You could have just asked him, you know," she says quietly.

"Please," the kid says sarcastically as he angrily wipes at his teary eyes. "Like I'd ever get near Oliver Queen. Like he'd ever even talk to me."

"Maybe not," she agrees. "But he'll talk to me."

"What does that…" the kid starts in confusion.

"Oliver's not his mother. He spent five years on a deserted island fighting for survival. He knows suffering and he knows pain and I guarantee you he knows the names of all 503 people who died in the Glades that night and the 142 who have permanent injuries from it," she says, meaning every single word coming out of her mouth. "You want him to donate more money for their care? Fine. Done. All you have to do is let me ask him for it."

"Why are you helping me?" He asks her again.

"I'm not," she replies. "I'm helping 142 people who need it. And me. And you. And Oliver, really, because even though I'm not sleeping with him, he's still going to lose it if he finds out I've been kidnapped. Again. He tends to take that personally, which is kind of funny when you think about it because it's happening to my person."

"So… I just… let you go and you'll get him to donate the money? How do I know you'll actually do that?" He asks warily.

"You don't," she answers. "But I think I've been pretty truthful with you so far and you've got nothing to lose by ending this now."

He's tempted. And scared. And hopeful. She can see all that, even with his mask in place. She gets that. Hope can be a terrifying thing. It means you have something to lose. Something that can hurt you. She can't help but think that Oliver would get that, too.

"Can you… can you make sure the pediatrics wing gets new books? And maybe a mural. Something cheery. Like castles and princesses and knights or something. She'd… they'd like that. The kids."

Her heart breaks a little for this guy and for the little girl in the pediatrics wing a few blocks away, whoever she might be.

"I'll make sure they get two dozen tablets loaded up with e-books and that mural will happen even if I have to do it myself," she promises. "Though, for their sake, I really hope I don't have to because my art skills are completely nonexistent. It would end up unintentionally abstract. I tried to paint an elephant once when I was in middle school and my mom thought it was a submarine. Traumatic experience. I haven't gone near watercolors since."

The kid laughs in disbelief, shaking his head and looking at her incredulously.

"You are something else, Felicity Smoak," he tells her. "You aren't at all what I expected."

"Considering my previous abductions, you aren't what I expected either," she counters. "In case you're wondering, that's a good thing."

"I'm pretty sure Queen doesn't deserve you," the kid tells her.

She sighs in response.

"Unfortunately for me, he agrees with you," she says.

It's more than she should have said to him. Hell, it's more than she should say aloud, ever. But there's a weird sort of bonding element to this kidnapping experience and she's just rolling with it at this point.

"Ah," he says, a look of understanding flittering through his eyes.

"He's better than you think he is," she says a little defensively. "He's better than he thinks he is, too."

"Okay," he replies, though he doesn't sound convinced.

"He'll help the hospital," she tells him, feeling like she needs to continue to make the case for Oliver being a good guy in the eyes of a guy who held a gun to her head not even an hour ago for some reason she can't even explain. "He won't even hesitate. How much were you going to ask him for?"

"I don't know… $50 million maybe?" he says, looking a little embarrassed for asking for so much.

"That's… a lot of books," Felicity blinks at him.

"It's a lot of medical bills," he says uneasily. "Not everyone in the Glades has insurance, you know. And with hospital stays and surgeries and the medicines… some of their families just can't afford it."

"Okay. Fifty million, then," she replies. "Do you think maybe I could get untied now? The zip ties are starting to dig into my wrists and it kind of hurts."

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," he says, stashing the gun in his waistband and moving immediately to cut her loose.

"I have to say this is by far the nicest kidnapping experience I've ever had," she says, rubbing her wrists and turning to face him.

"So what…. what do I do now?" He asks, looking at her like she has the answers.

This time, maybe she does.

"Now? Now you head home," she says with her serious face. "Toss the mask and the gun in a dumpster on your way. You don't need those in your life. Tomorrow, you go to the hospital to visit your sister. Those tablets will be there by noon and money might buy those kids some books, but they need more than that. You need to be there to read with them."

He nods, hard and fast, a new plan cementing in his brain.

"Is that… is that it?" He asks.

"Of course not," she tells him with a little laugh. "But the rest is up to you. I do really think you should take Women's Studies, though, because you need it."

"You aren't going to tell the cops?" He asks.

"That depends. Are you planning on doing this again?" She asks him.

"No," he says with a short laugh. "Definitely not."

"Then I don't think they need to know," she replies.

"You are something else," he tells her, shaking his head. "Thank you. I owe you something fierce. I won't forget you, Felicity."

"I should hope not," she scoffs. "It's not just any girl who hooks you up with fifty million dollars and declines to report a felony to the police."

He shakes her hand before he goes, which is really weird, actually, and she tries to figure out how exactly she got from being shoved into a car at gunpoint to shaking hands with a masked teenager and promising him a boatload of Oliver's cash but even she can't quite make sense of it.

Words are her superpower, she decides as she watches The Hound leave, and she used them to save herself. This is actually fairly badass if you think about it. Which she does. With pride. For longer than she'll ever admit to later.

Eventually, she leaves the building, rounds the corner and walks directly into a brick wall. Okay, so it's less a brick wall and more Oliver's impressive leather-clad chest, but all things considered, she feels like that's a fairly easy thing to confuse.

"God you're dense," is the first horrible thing that comes out of her mouth as her hands settle awkwardly against his pecs because he grabbed her elbows when they collided and doesn't seem like he's about to let go.

"Not dense like clueless," she clarifies, backtracking. "There are clues. Obviously, about things. You have them. I mean dense like… hard and thick and firm and oh my god why am I even allowed to speak words anymore?"

It's a moment of magnificent verbal floundering that ranks only slightly beneath the whole "it feels really good having you inside me" debacle on Felicity's internal ranking of foot-in-mouth disease outbreaks, but Oliver doesn't even seem to notice. Or, at least, he chooses not to be distracted by it, for which she is insanely grateful.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, voice all dark and rumbly even without the modulator.

His hands move from her elbows to her face as he looks her over for sign of injury and her breath stutters a little in her throat because Oliver is always intense but right now he's in full-Arrow mode and focused on her and that's more than a little overwhelming.

"I'm fine," she promises him breathlessly, though he looks thoroughly unconvinced, probably in part owing to her aforementioned breathlessness.

He's watching her still like he's expecting her to suddenly have some gushing wound she's been hiding from him, but hello, she's not that girl. Of the two of them, he's way more likely to hide an injury. But then her sense of self-preservation has always trumped his.

"I'm fine. I swear on Fletch, Oliver, really," she assures him, her hands progressing up to his shoulders in what's meant to be a reassuring move of solidarity but really just amounts to her coping a feel. She's not sorry.

He stills at her words. At least, she thinks its her words and not her hands. She's going with him stilling at her words until he says differently.

"Fletch?" He questions, finally apparently actually paying attention to her words.

"Yeah, Fletch," she replies, his eyes searching hers for further explanation. "Our lovely electronic baby back at the lair."

The look he gives her seems to say he's rethinking the idea of checking her for head wounds.

"The computer, Oliver," she says, rolling her eyes.

"You… named the computer?" He asks, continuing to look at her as if this doesn't make her any more sane, which is totally unfair.

"Of course," she says like its obvious. Because it is.

"You named it Fletch?" He asks again.

"Sure. Fletch. Like Fletcher. Like someone who makes arrows and, you know what? That's not the point. The point is I'm fine," she reminds him, hands sliding again down the rest against his chest because she can and she's too smart to waste the opportunity.

"What happened?" He asks, eyes darting around them obviously looking for her one-time captor. "Your abduction was caught on camera at QC. How did you get away? Where is he?"

"I talked him out of it," she says proudly.

"...I'm sorry, what?" He asks, far less impressed than she feels is warranted.

"Yeah. He's gone. I convinced him it wasn't a good idea after all and he let me go. With the power of my words. I'm a master wordsmith,," she tells him. "Which reminds me, I need to borrow about $50 million dollars? Actually, borrow might be too strong a word. Reallocate might be better."

"This is you being a master wordsmith?" He asks, looking vaguely amused which is startling beneath the shadow of his hood and the barrier of his mask.

"I guess that depends entirely on whether you give it to me, really. Proof is in the pudding. Or, in the dollars, as the case may be. Anyhow, it's for a good cause. Promise," she tells him.

"Felicity, I'd do anything to keep you safe, but we can't just start paying off kidnappers. That sets a terrible precedent and it puts you in more danger," he tells her, the thumb of his right hand stroking almost absently against the edge of her jaw.

"Oh, it's not for him. Not really. It's for the Glades Memorial Hospital. Great cause. Charitable contribution and everything. You might even be able to write it off on your taxes," she says proudly because clearly this is an excellent selling point.

"He needs to be caught and punished, Felicity," Oliver tells her solemnly, "not rewarded with a huge donation to his favorite charity, even if it is a worthy one."

She gets where he's coming from. She does. In theory she might even agree. But she talked to this kid, heard the fear and uncertainty in his voice and she knows in the roots of her soul that this isn't some burgeoning hardened criminal. This is just a kid trying to save his sister.

"He's not a bad guy, Oliver," she tells him, voice equally weighty to his. "He's just scared and desperate to save someone he loves. I thought you of all people would understand that."

Oliver's thumb abruptly stops stroking her jaw. He stops moving entirely, really. He's just… frozen, watching her with this pained expression that makes her breath catch and her heart beat in her throat.

"...Because you have a sister, too," she mumbles lamely, fidgeting a little under his gaze.

His thumb starts moving against her skin again after a beat, but none of the depth of his gaze fades away and she's suddenly incredibly keenly aware of exactly how close they're standing to each other.

"Oliver?" She asks quietly, flexing her fingers against his chest.

He's always been more a man of action than a man of words and that's no different now. Instead of speaking, his tongue darts out to wet his lips and slowly, cautiously, he leans down to kiss her.

It's like gravity, this moment. The pull between them is ever-present lately and his lips on hers are just science in action, really. She loves science.

One of his hands drifts back to cup the back of her head and the other slides down to brace against the small of her back. Hers slide back up his chest to rest against the sides of his face, under his hood, her fingers skirting the edge of his mask. It's a long, slow kiss, rife with feeling and soul-shattering in its intensity and she wants to live in this moment.

But moments end. Even ones like this that make her skin buzz and her heart thud wildly and her head spin. And, like science says, for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction. Stupid science. She hates science.

Oliver pulls back, but not as far as she'd expected. Instead, he rests his forehead against hers, noses touching, breaths mingling in the early evening air and he tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ear. His fingers start stroking at that back edge of her jaw again and she wants to melt against him.

"I thought you said we couldn't do this?" She asks, regretting speaking even as the words are leaving her mouth.

His sigh is answer enough, really, but he gives her words too this time.

"We can't," he tells her, regret tinging his voice.

"Maybe… we could continue not doing this in exactly this manner for the next five, ten minutes or so?" She suggests.

He actually chuckles at her words and a wide smile spreads across his face. It knocks her for a loop. Smiles on Oliver are rare enough as it is, but on the Hood they're positively foreign.

She can't not kiss that smile. Really, it would be unreasonable to expect her to try.

She raises up on her toes and presses her lips against Oliver's smile like maybe she can seal it in place. She knows better, really. She's crazy about him. She wants him. She wants them. But there's no one but Oliver who can make Oliver see that it's okay to want more for himself than his mission.

"I lied," she says when she finally sets back on her heels. "I need more than fifty million dollars."

"Fifty-one million?" He asks, still looking at her fondly and slightly amused but with a little more distance than before.

"Nah, just fifty million and a ride back to the lair?" She asks. "Gotta check on Fletch. He needs me."

"Done," he says.

"See?" She asks. "Master wordsmith."

"Are you sure you want to declare that? Because, fair warning, I will remind you of this moment," he tells her.

"Good," she says, smiling, fingers tangling with his because he's adorable and she can't not touch him. "You'd better."

They head back on his bike, darting through the streets like… well, like an arrow, really. And it would have gone down as a relatively forgettable, if expensive, kidnapping experience had it not been for the unseen ornithologist with a really, really great camera who'd happened to be set up on the rooftop across the street from the warehouse where Felicity walked smack into Oliver.

Yeah. That kind of changes things entirely.