A/N: Welp. There's no excuse for this. I'm officially one of those people with eons between updates. This is dedicated to all of you who are still sticking with it. Welcome back. And to the newbies, thanks for reading! Get ready for a wild ride followed by like, four months of radio silence. Just kidding (I hope).

I'm a Slave to the Wires Ch. 5

Oliver's never been much of a morning person. He's awake the second Felicity is out of his arms, but it takes him a few minutes to come to, and he can barely piece together her side of the frantic phone conversation.

"Seriously Iris, is the house on fire? Because the house had better be on fire."

Damn, she's adorable.

"Wait, what are you talking about?"

Damn. She's worried.

"What…from the game?"

She's more than worried.

"But it's not…"

Oh shit.

"Oh god, oh shit, oh no…"

She hangs up and turns back to him with wide eyes.

"There were pictures…of us, at the game yesterday," she stammers, looking away to scroll through her phone.

"Yeah," he shrugs as he sits up on his elbow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, trying to be casual. "Instagram or something, right? I saw a few people on their phones, but what can you do about that?"

"Not Instagram, Oliver, fucking paparazzi!" Her eyes are darting between his and the screen, wild with fear, but it comes out like anger. "They got pictures of us…kissing!"

He'd laugh if she didn't look so stricken. "So what?"

This is the wrong question to ask.

"So what?!" She whirls back to face him in a fury. "So, the people I work with routinely comb paparazzi sites because, oh I don't know, it's part of their fucking jobs?"

"Somebody saw it." He likes to think he'd have been quicker on the draw if it wasn't so damn early.

"Everybody saw it!" She slumps then, righteous indignation deflating out of her like a leaky balloon. "Even if they hadn't seen it on the site, Ray sent them out wide to the whole office."

Oliver take a moment to think if he knows Ray Palmer's face from memory, trying to picture how satisfying it might be to punch it a few times. He's so preoccupied with the thought that his answering "It's gonna be fine," comes out placating and artificial. He can tell by her reaction that it's strike two.

She inhales and exhales once, slowly, deliberately. Then she starts down the stairs.

"Felicity…"

"I just need some air," she calls over her shoulder.

For the rest of his life, he'll regret the minute-and-a-half it took him to realize she had taken her bag with her.

He thunders downstairs, and finds only Tommy reading a paper and sipping coffee in the breakfast nook. He pretends not to hear the sound of a car pulling away outside.

"Did she…"

"Right past me, sorry buddy," his friends shrugs, genuinely contrite. "Where's she running off to?"

Oliver half-ignores him, yanking the front door open, but it's too late. She's gone.

"Dammit!" He spins back towards the kitchen, sputtering. "How did the goddamn car get here so fast?"

"I don't know man, there's like a million Ubers in this city," his friend answers unnecessarily, as Oliver stumbles into the nook. "They're everywhere."

"Goddamn it," he curses, fumbling with his phone. "I don't even have the fucking app!"

"Take my car, luddite," Tommy interrupts, motioning towards the side door, the house's private garage. "It's already here for me and Laurel to uh, go to brunch. Do you know where you're going?"

"No idea," he paces the tile floor in front of the table, pretending not to notice how amused his friend looks at the moment. Wait. "One idea. Maybe."

"Take. The. Car." Tommy insists. "Wherever she's going, Linda can beat her there, you know she can."

Oliver does know. The Merlyn's driver is a spitfire and he's made the mistake of doubting her in the past, usually resulting in some nasty whiplash. "But you guys…"

"…will call a cab. Or a summon an Uber or a Lyft or rent a Zipcar, or hell, maybe I'll buy a streetcar. Do you realize how many ways there are to get around in this city?" his friend teases. "Go get your girl."

Felicity ignores the driver's pointed look when she gives him the address.

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters mostly to herself, huddling down in the backseat. "Less judging, more driving."

She's breathing hard and using everything she's got to keep from crying in an Uber, idly wondering how it might affect her rider rating. She's not sure this guy, "Andre" according to the app, seems the type to give out pity stars. Plus, she's already mouthed off to him.

Every confidence she had last night has burned away in the harsh light of day, every comfort of the hours spent in Oliver's arms turned to razors in the embarrassing aftermath. It's her fault really, for finally giving and checking her work email after hanging up with Iris. She was surprised to find it was still activated, until she realized why.

5:06 a.m. An email from Ray directly to her. No subject. She didn't open this one.

5:15 a.m. An email to the entire editorial distribution list. Subject Line: "Oliver Queen's New Girl?" This one, she had opened.

We should get an angle on this, her boss had written, like it was any other pitch, like it wasn't her in the grainy shots from the baseball field. How long before he cheats on this one?

They won't run anything, Felicity knows this with certainty. Other outlets could catch on, make them look foolish, and what's more, Oliver honestly isn't enough of a name, not connected to her, anyway. The two of them aren't big enough to warrant extensive coverage or the purchase of exclusive paparazzi shots. No one would be interested in "Olicity." She knows this. She also knows that certainty shouldn't bother her like it does.

Because Ray sent the email just to taunt her. He had covered it under the guise of a weak pitch, so Felicity would know for certain that, at the very least, everybody she worked with had seen. As the fog of her initial panic starts to dissipate, it's clear that there's only one way this ends.

She has to get away from Oliver, and she has to get back to L.A., to try and salvage what's left of her professional life. But first, she has to do something she's always promised herself she'd do if she ever visited San Francisco.

She's barely thanked Andre and stepped out of his Prius onto the steep sidewalk when a giant black Suburban screeches to a stop across the street. She's more surprised than she probably should be when Oliver jumps out of the backseat and darts across the street, but she does manage a look of genuine shock at his disheveled appearance.

"Felicity!"

He fairly skids to a stop in front of her, as close as he can get without touching her.

"Oliver, how did you…" Maybe it's her tone that pulls him up short. Maybe it's the fact that she's high-tailed it from him no fewer than three times in less than 48 hours.

She tries to ignore the way that he's looking at her like she's a math problem, ignores the rom-com scene that plays in her head when she pieces together that he's actually chased her here. She definitely doesn't notice how he's still in his sweatpants and what sure looks like slippers. It doesn't register how his t-shirt is on inside out or how his hair is still a little stuck up in the back. And she absolutely does not want to kiss him.

"Tommy's driver used to drive security for foreign embassies in D.C." He answers the question she's not sure she was actually asking. "She knows her way around Sunday brunch traffic."

That's when she realizes that other people are starting to gather on the street, and they've all got their phones out to take pictures. Of course they do, that's why they're here in the first place. Suddenly, cursedly, everything that was endearing about his rumpled state sends her into a panic. This is the absolute last thing she needs right now.

"You know when people say they 'just need some air,'" she grits out through clenched teeth as she pulls him across the street, shoving him into the back seat of the SUV he just jumped out of and crawling in after him because the only thing on her mind at the moment is tinted windows, "you know it doesn't really mean that, right?"

She's ready to explain exactly what it does mean, but chokes on the words when she takes in the scene that's set inside the SUV. There's a few giant bouquets of fresh flowers and a giant, pricey bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket between the middle row bucket seats.

"This is all Tommy," he cuts off her train of thought with an emphatic wave of his arms. "He had some plans for Laurel this morning, I guess, and I kind of…borrowed his car to chase you down. Say hi to Linda."

He motions to the driver, who's half-rolled down the partition and is waiting calmly, seemingly unphased by the crazy woman who just shoved Oliver Queen across the street. It's probably not a first, she is the Merlyn family driver, after all.

"Hi Linda."

"Nice to meet you Ms. Smoak," the woman nods, tersely, before she starts raising the partition. "Mr. Queen, I'm up here if you need me."

"Oh, this is a really bad idea," Felicity protests, mostly to herself, as they're sealed into privacy and the car pulls away from the crowd that's started to gather on the street.

"Nope, great idea," he smirks. "The Full House house isn't anything to see in itself, anyway. You saw it, you're done. Where you want to go, is Alamo Square Park."

Oliver taps on the partition as she goldfishes beside him, mouth popping open and closed without really making a sound.

"Hey Linda, back us into a spot with a view of the Ladies, yeah?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Queen."

"How did you…?" Felicity stammers, and he just shrugs.

"You tweeted about it when we were at the game yesterday," he says, like that doesn't open up like several more lines of questioning. "And then you tweeted that your first screen name was DJTanner88."

"You follow me on Twitter?"

"I do now," he admits. "I mean, I hardly use the thing, but you link to it in your byline."

"My byline," Felicity repeats dumbly. "So you've read…?"

"I mean, I read some of the ones that sounded interesting."

"Ugh, don't give me a number," she groans. "I can turn out and publish 500 words on a Kylie Jenner Instagram in 20 minutes, doesn't mean I'm proud of it."

"You should be."

His smile's too bright and when he leans in, she knows that one touch of his lips could topple her resolve. It's a little too much. She pulls back so fast that she knocks her elbow on the door frame painfully, and uses the wince to change topics. "Wow, Tommy really went all out, huh? Three bouquets…is maybe a little excessive, but…"

She trails off and is totally screwed when he leaves her hanging, continuing to stare at her silently with eyes full of something she can't identify, or maybe doesn't want to. As always, her mouth fills the silence with something dangerous from her subconscious.

"He really…loves her, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, he really does." Oliver finally speaks, grinning at her and looking genuinely pleased for one long moment. Then his eyes go a little crinkly and he's looking at her like she's something to be solved again.

When the car pulls to a stop in a street-side parking space, he hops out almost immediately. Unsurprisingly, she doesn't follow, and he can barely hear her muffled sound of surprise as he rounds the SUV to open the back hatch.

"Oliver, what…"

He raises an expectant eyebrow when she turns fully in her seat to see him over the folded-down third row of seats. "C'mon, Felicity."

"I am not going anywhere with you dressed like that," she mumbles, almost like it's to herself. "Embarrassing pictures are what got us into this mess in the first place."

"I'm not asking you to go anywhere," he says, and it's like only then does she notice the stack of pillows and blankets he's arranging in the trunk. Her eyes go wide, even more so when they look past him to the familiar scene in the distance. "Just come back here and sit for a second. Please, DJTanner88?"

She climbs out, but not before rolling her eyes at him and he can't keep the grin off his face when she appears in front of him, eyebrows still knotted in suspicion. She takes his offered hand, climbing in beside him, and it's all he can do not to tuck her into his side and try to keep her there.

"So…the Ladies?"

"The Painted Ladies." He reaches over the back seat and snatches the bottle of champagne from the chilled bucket, then holds it outside the trunk to pop it off. After a healthy swig, he uses the bottleneck to point. "The row of houses that go down Steiner Street. It's the shot."

When he offers her the bottle, she turns up her nose at him, and even that's adorable. "It's like, ten in the morning."

He reaches back and grabs one of the bottles of orange juice that had also been chilling in the bucket, twisting open the plastic cap and holding it out to her.

"Here, have a sip of this," he tells her, taking the opportunity for another healthy swing from the champagne bottle. "Now, it's mimosas."

"You're right, this is a better spot," she concedes, taking the bottle from him and turning to take in the view of the park and the iconic line of houses beyond it. "I always wanted to have a picnic here, like they did in the opening credits."

He raises his eyebrows and waits until she turns to face him before he tugs at the blankets beneath them and raises the champagne in salute with a knowing grin. Her eyes snap wide almost immediately and she lets out a little laugh. He can tell she wants it to sound a little sarcastic. She's not very successful.

"I did not tweet that," she trails off, looking away from him and taking a healthy pull from the champagne bottle.

"No, that was just luck. Or, Tommy." His jaw aches from smiling so hard, but he can't seem to come up with anything else when she's around, even if she's still so skittish. "So, you're a big Full House fan?"

She nods, distant, still not really looking at him. "I was. They were such a rag-tag group of dummies but they just loved each other, and things always worked out. Plus, I liked the idea of a big family, you know, uncles and siblings and friends everywhere."

There's a wistfulness in her voice that fills in the blanks for him, enough for now anyway.

"I always wanted to be Uncle Jesse," he offers and her smile is grateful when she turns to look at him, resting her chin on her shoulder.

"I like that television does that for people," she admits, muffling her words into her cardigan where's it's bunched up at her shoulder. "That it gives you heroes, makes you root for people, makes you love things. I love that people watch TV to decompress."

He doesn't quite understand the feeling – for so many years, television viewing for him has been essentially a montage of parts he thought he had deserved, and now, it falls into two categories: things that are his show and things that are not – but the wonder on her face makes him believe anything she says. He'll listen to anything she has to tell him.

"Of course, David Foster Wallace called it an 'anesthetic against loneliness'."

"Full House?" It's a lame joke, but she giggles and it's entirely worth it.

"No." She actually snorts a little. It's adorable. "Television."

"Yeah, but David Foster Wallace was a sad man," Oliver retorts, and he raises his hands defensively when her head snaps around to gape at him in surprise. "Hey, I don't him well, I admit. But I did carry around a copy of Infinite Jest for a month or two to impress a girl freshman year."

"I'll bet that was impressive," she trails off, voice going a little dreamy, and he relishes getting to see her guard drop, even just this tiny bit. It's another one of those quiet moments they keep having, where it's like they're saying everything important in the silence.

It takes him a moment to realizes she's using the opportunity to consider him just as carefully. "Are you a sad man, Oliver Queen?"

He chooses his answer carefully, because he could give her a dissertation on the happiness she's brought him in just the two days he's known her. He could give her pages and verses, poetry about how she's brought the sun up, songs about how things are light for the first time in years. But he's on such thin ice already, and he's worried that the weight of too many words might sink him for good. "I used to be."

She smiles bright. It hits him like a camera flash, but it fades just as quickly, and she ducks her head. Her cheeks are a little pink and he wonders if the champagne's to blame.

It's definitely the champagne's fault when he leans in, intent on tilting her chin up and brushing his lips against hers. He moves in slow, giving her time to pull away, and she does.

"Oliver…" She turns, and his nose and lips just glance off her cheek. He tries not to let the fingers on her chin tense, tries not to feel the warmth of her blush against his own skin. "I have to go back to L.A."

"I know," he nods, because he won't lie to her, won't tell her she's wrong just to be selfish. "I understand that, I do. I just don't know why you can't stay a little longer."

"Because I can't."

"Why?"

"Because the longer I stay here with you, the greater my legacy as the girl that ditched her job to run away with the TV star grows." She says it bitterly, mechanically, and he's so close to sure that she doesn't even believe it herself. "I have relationships with studios, publicists, all of that goes out of whack the second my name comes up here."

"Not to mention I'm technically job hunting right now," she continues before he can get a word out. He forces down an ugly, gleeful feeling that claws through him when he realizes just how hard she's thought about this. "It's not good to be 'that girl' and be looking for a job in this town. That girl doesn't write the punchlines, that girl is the punchline."

"So what?" he asks. "So you just, shake it off and go back?"

"As soon as possible." She nods, but she still won't meet his eyes.

He knows his luck will run out sooner or later. But he can't even imagine not trying, even now.

"Okay…" he tells her, like he's agreeing, hopping out of the trunk and offering her a hand. He waits until they're settling back into their seats before he plays his next card. "Okay, we'll go back to L.A., just not the way we came."

"Huh?"

"We've done something that you wanted to do, we did the Full House tour," he says as they buckle in, matter-of-fact, like this was a planned morning of sightseeing instead of a ridiculous rom-com ripoff. "Now we have to do something that I want to do."

He presses a button and the partition slides down a few inches, as he enters something into his phone. "Hey Linda, I'm sending coordinates to the GPS."

"Got 'em, Mr. Queen."

"Oliver, you're not listening to me," Felicity blows out an annoyed breath that flutters her lips. He's not subtle about the way his gaze drops to watch, and that action alone sends an unwelcome rush to her gut. "I'm telling you I have to go."

"No, you're not listening…" he smiles mischievously, before turning back to the front of the car, where the partition is still half-lowered. "Actually, Linda? I think we're going to have to stop at a store or something first. I can't exactly go in my PJs."

"Mr. Merlyn did have a suit pressed," the driver offers, holding up a garment bag.

He casts the driver a wary glace, before turning back to look at Felicity, like he's sizing her up. Then he grabs the bag. "Yeah, whatever, that'll do."

"Oliver." Her meek protest feels even more ridiculous as he crawls over her to the back row of seats to change. The partition slides up, and once again they're alone.

"Felicity." He fires her name back mockingly and she turns to glare at him…just as he's sliding his sweatpants down his hips.

"I'm serious, Oliver." She whips her gaze back to safety, but her cheeks are already on fire. Again. "I have to go back."

"I know, I know," he sighs, like his exasperation with the excuse somehow makes it less true. "We're going back, okay? We're going back to Los Angeles."

She doesn't answer, just narrows her eyebrows, and it's like he can sense it, even though he can't really see her face.

"That's my thing, that's the thing I want to do," he explains, sort of, voice strained as he maneuvers the acrobatics of a backseat quick change. "We're just…doing things a different way."

When the clothes have stopped rustling enough that she feels comfortable turning back to glare at him again, he's wearing a satisfied smile along with, thankfully, a full wardrobe.

"There aren't act breaks here, dummy," she scoffs at him. "You have to have to explain yourself."

He laughs at her then, full-bodied, and she struggles to keep her lips pursed in displeasure. It's hard to feel anything other than totally content when he's around, even when she knows they're chasing metaphorical daylight.

"You can't just be surprised?" For the face he's making now, for those eyes and that hopeful smile, she almost could.

"Nope."

"Okay, fine." He heaves an exaggerated sigh as he pulls himself back up to sit opposite her. "There's this train car, that runs up the coast from L.A. to Seattle…"

"The Coast Starlight," she interrupts reflexively, and his eyes actually light up, like somebody flipped a switch.

"Yes!" He looks downright amazed,

"It was on an episode of Big Bang," she shrugs, because it's really nothing, and also because it's hard to focus on anything but how inappropriately small Tommy's shirt looks on Oliver's broad chest. The buttons are pulled tight, and she notices that he's left the top three open, seemingly out of necessity. It makes her mouth go dry as he pulls himself back up to the bucket seat opposite her. "You…you look like you belong in a novela."

He just smiles at her. She thinks it should look cockier. "You watch a lot of TV."

"It's literally what they pay me for." The retort rolls off her tongue so quickly she almost forgets. "Or…what they used to pay me for and hopefully will again in the very near future. I mean, you should see me watch Jeopardy!"

She's babbling again, but all he does is keep smiling and lean closer. "I'd like that." His grin nearly blinds her as he closes the gap between their seats, and her heart takes a little stutter step. "Take the train with me, Felicity."

Come away with me, Felicity. Take a shot, Felicity. Tell me what you want, Felicity.

He's asking all these things of her, posing all these requests without question marks like he already knows the answers. It's kind of infuriating.

But she's always wanted to take the train down the coast.

Oliver can't help but feel victorious when they board the beautiful rail car and it takes all his willpower to wait until they make their way to their private cabin before he backs her up against a wall and kisses her like he's wanted to for hours that have felt like days.

A tiny gasp is the only indication that he's surprised her at all, and her arms wind up around his neck as she returns the kiss with the same frantic need he feels jackhammering in his own chest. He hasn't had her in his arms since they woke up this morning and he's already at the point where that's far too long.

"Felicity." Her name scrapes from his throat as he rasps his stubble across her cheek, trailing his lips across to kiss the spot right below her ear. The action elicits a sound from her that starts out like a moan but ends up being his name and it's singularly the greatest thing he's ever heard.

He's crawling out of his skin. Tommy's pants might fit better than his shirt, but they're still not the right size, a fact that's becoming rapidly more evident and uncomfortable the longer he's pressed up against her.

"Not on a train," she gasps out of the blue, pulling back in his arms and pressing some distance in between their top halves, even as she keeps one leg wound around his. "Our first time can't be a Dr. Seuss rhyme."

He wants to point out that she's the one who laid down the law in the first place, but his mind fritzes to static when he realizes she said first time. "Okay," he whispers, willing to concede to anything she asks, so distracted by the feel of her in his arms.

Because that doesn't mean he can't kiss her. In fact, he'd be crazy not to be kissing her as much as possible. She tastes like champagne and something even more intoxicating; something familiar, though he's dying to know more.

He sits on the fold-out bench seat, pulling her to settle in his lap and they lose a few minutes that might be hours in the soft slide of lips and hands. He wants her, he does, but it's like even his body knows to take any of her that he's lucky enough to get, and right now it's enough just to hold her however she'll let him.

It should feel dangerous, how he's ready to give her whatever she wants, but he's never felt more safe.

"So what's your show about?" He asks her later when they're settled a little, contently wrapped up in each other, watching the sun set over the Pacific as the train races down the coastline.

"My show?"

"Yeah, the show you want to write, what's it about?"

She stares at him blankly, like he's speaking a foreign language.

"Come on, you gave me like, a ten-minute monologue on the virtues of TV," he teases, just a little. "It's pretty obvious you don't just want to write recaps."

To his surprise, once she recovers from what he feels is slightly-exaggerated shock, she does tell him. Tells him all about the pilot she's writing, about the show that's "set in the future, but it's not really sci-fi" and "like, Firefly meets Veronica Mars."

"Wow." He does his best to sound suitably impressed, and not at all like a guy who hasn't seen much of either of those shows.

"I know, I know, they collectively pulled like, three seasons works of below-average ratings," she continues. "The elevator pitch needs work. But the pilot's almost done."

"I'd love to read it." She might be too brainy for him, but he's smart enough to tell the truth.

"Mmm, I'll get you a cameo," she murmurs, nuzzling her face into his chest. The mix of early morning adrenaline and late-morning "mimosas" are catching up to them, and he can feel his eyelids going heavy at the steady rhythm of the rails and her heartbeat pressed to his side. But she snuggles in under his arms and he's so desperate for it not to be the last time that he's practically vibrating.

"I'm tired."

The words and ensuing yawn are muffled in his shirt and he can feel her breath warm his chest, even through the material. He takes a moment to idly hope that she's wearing lipstick, answering her before his brain has a chance to think on it too hard.

"So stop running."

He waits until she's snoring lightly to whisper the other words, the ones that would scare her away for certain.

Felicity wakes up before him, but stays nestled in his arms, unwilling to move, overcome with something that feels a lot like desperation. When the name of the approaching station sounds over the PA, she consults the map on her phone, and the feeling takes a turn for the worse.

"Oliver."

His arms tighten instinctively around her as he wakes, and she tries desperately not to let that, or the tiny sounds he makes as he stumbles adorably into consciousness, affect her. She needs to remain composed and practical. This is a good idea. "Oliver."

"Hmm?"

"You should get off at the Van Nuys station." She turns to him, aiming for cool, collected, and enthusiastic, all at once. "Your car's at the airport, remember? You could get a cheap Uber and pick it up."

"What? No, I… that's Tommy's car." He blinks his eyes at her a few times, shaking his head like there's more than just sleep confusing him. "What about you?"

"I'll be fine," she says, matter-of-fact. This is the easiest way to do this, she keeps telling herself, and it will work if she can fully commit. "I'll keep going to Union Station and get the red line, there's a stop a few blocks from my house."

"No, Felicity…" He shakes his head, still not fully computing. "Let me take you home."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

His eyes darken as her throat tightens on the last words. It's a standoff, and when the train stops at the Van Nuys station, he holds his ground.

"Oliver…"

"So this day," he cuts her off, but he has to stop and clear his throat. It's a terrible sound. "I mean, I know it's complicated, I get that. But this whole day, after everything…you've still been thinking…this is it?"

He spits the words out, like they taste as bitter as they sound. If she had one wish right now, it would be to forget the look on his face. The stand in a stalemate, until the train jerks to a start again, headed for Union Station, for downtown Los Angeles and the next leg of their journey.

Damn it.

Damn it.

He slept too long – again – and she's made some kind of decision about this in the meantime. She's running for what the fourth or fifth time now? She didn't hear his whispered pleas, or worse, she did, and talked herself out of it once more. He's going to have to start setting alarms if this is ever going to work. He'll wake up before her for the rest of their lives if it keeps her believing in this.

"Okay, but Felicity," he tries to keep his voice from shaking, because he doesn't want this to sound like a surrender, "if this is all I get, I'm at least going to walk you home."

She acquiesces, smiling sadly, and somehow that's worse. They go silent then, transferring to the red Metro line at Union Station and riding north into Hollywood. He stays close, but keeps himself from reaching for her until she gets off at her stop and outpaces him, moving one step up on the massive escalator that brings them up to street level. He can't help it then, the imagery socks him in the gut, and he grabs for her hand, breathing a sigh of relief when she laces her fingers through his.

Oliver walks her home then, down a stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard that nobody writes songs about. They pass liquor stores and smoke shops, and a few assorted patrons of each that line the sidewalks out front. When they walk past the door of a small corner bakery, instead of cinnamon and yeast, all Oliver smells is cigar smoke, and when he glances inside, instead of a flour-freckled baker, there's just a group of four balding men glaring at him from their seats around a folding card table.

Two police helicopters sweep low and loud above their heads, shining their spotlights down to street-level, and he wonders, not for the first time, how she sleeps.

"Whoa, don't get your personas mixed up here, buddy." Her tone sounds teasing when his hand tightens on hers at the sound of some slurred nonsense bellowed down the street, but when he looks at her, her eyes are serious and sad. "Nobody needs rescuing."

"That's not what I…" He cuts himself off, because the last thing he wants to do is fight, and takes a moment to find better words.

"I'm not trying to save you, Felicity." He tells himself that the dread in his stomach isn't because he's lying. That would be a little grandiose, even by his standards. "I just want to take you home."

As they reach her house and round off the sidewalk to the front steps, she tells herself it's time to let go, even as some more honest part of her longs to hold onto every part of him she can. She's not proud of it, but she knows that if he tries to kiss her, she's going to let him.

"Well, you did it. Now, how are you gonna get home?" She sighs, looking everywhere but his face. She's aiming for upbeat curiosity, but it ends up sounding like a plea. Stay.

"I'll call a car, I guess," he shrugs, refusing to look anywhere but her face.

She realizes then that she doesn't even know where home is for him, not really. "You shouldn't have…."

"Felicity."

The way he says her name should be criminal, or at the very least, heavily regulated. Because it makes her do things like scale back the walls of resolve she's literally just built up. She doesn't realize his lips are dangerously close until it's too late.

"This could work, you know." When he pulls back from the soft, almost-chaste kiss, it's like he sees right through her, he sounds so sure. "It works for people every day."

"Oliver, it's not the odds I'm worried about." She hates the way her lips tingle after even the slightest contact with his, hates the way she knows from this weekend that's it's not just because of the emotional charge of this moment. "I mean, I'm just not sure I can be what you need right now."

"What I need…" He actually steps back from her to scoff at this, scrubbing a hand through his short-cropped hair. She feels the loss of his body against hers acutely, and she can't figure out why he looks almost angry. "Felicity…"

He takes a deep breath, like he's laying all his cards on the table. "I know Tommy told you what happened with Sara. I know he thinks the reason I haven't been…with anyone is because I'm afraid of hurting someone. Or getting hurt. I guess that's partly true, but I…"

"Oliver, no!" She interrupts him once it becomes clear how perfectly she's screwed this up already. "I didn't mean…You're not…It doesn't have anything to do with you. You're…remarkable."

"Felicity," he exhales her name and it makes heart stutter, but she doesn't let him continue.

"You deserve someone equally remarkable and I just, I have to be a lot of things for myself right now, and this thing with you…" She's talking with her hands, very aware of how they're not touching him. "I think I could get lost in it, and the worst part is, I'm not even sure that would be such a bad thing…but it's not what I've been working for. "

When she finally stops for a breath, he gets a word in edgewise "I know that, Felicity, I do." He shakes his head, like he's trying to take it all back, and she realizes that, despite everything, that would be the most heartbreaking thing that's happened today. "But there's something that you need to know, too."

She tries to cut him off, to head these emotions off before anything can even pass, but then he grabs her hands again, tracing warm circles with his thumbs on the center of her palm and she loses all power of speech. "You are remarkable. And as far as what I need…Felicity, I think…"

"Don't." She finds her voice then, just in time to cut him off, snapping her watery eyes to meet his. "Don't say anything you don't mean."

"Don't tell me what I mean," he fires back, gaze sparking back at her.

"You're crazy, then," she retorts, telling herself that it doesn't mean anything when they're moving closer instead of further apart as they argue. "You've known me for like, three days. You can't possibly…" She can't even bring herself to say the words.

"Why the hell not?"

"You don't even know me!"

He huffs out an angry breath. Because it's her trump card, the truth.

"You don't know me at all," she says again, because it bears repeating. "And what's worse is I know, just, so much about you. I mean, I thought that would at least give me the upper hand here."

"Upper hand? Felicity this isn't a competition."

"Isn't it? Then why do I feel like I'm losing?" The words are out of her mouth before she realizes how they'll sound. His face falls, and she really is an asshole for making it do that again.

"Listen, I'll go," he says, holding his hands up in surrender. Like she's beaten him down, when, in fact, there might not be a better way to describe what just happened. "I'm gonna give you some space. But don't think that I'm walking away."

"Why not?" Isn't he tired of this? "Wouldn't it just be easier?"

"Maybe." That's all he says out loud. He waits for her, waits until she meets his eyes to tell her the rest.

"Just please," she whispers, one last resort, "just don't say it."

"I said everything I needed to say last night, Felicity," he snaps, breaking contact, finally, stepping back and down a step. "I meant it when I told you I wouldn't want to let you go."

He pauses, and when he reiterates it feels like he's talking about something else, something more. "I meant it."

She closes the door behind her and watches him walk down the street through the front window. Then it's too much for her to bear.

He gives it a week – a week to purge her from his system, a week to shake it off – and then it's too much for him to bear. Truth be told, he's not all that surprised to fail completely. They didn't even have sex, and still his body misses her acutely, his fingers and lips itch at the absence of hers to tangle with and he's having trouble sleeping, like she's spent decades tucked against him instead of just two crazy nights.

He's always been a passive man, passive and selfish and how well they went hand-in-hand. Easier to get kicked out of a school you didn't want to be in. Easier to cheat on your girlfriend than have an honest conversation about breaking up. Easy to let everything crumble to your level than to try and build anything.

The first time he ever really tried at something was when he moved out to Hollywood, but that was desperation of a different kind. Maybe it's just that he's never had something like this to fight for before.

"Do you love her?" Tommy's teasing, but Oliver's breath catches in his throat anyway and the mirth in his friend's eyes drops as her eyebrows narrow to pin him in.

"Tommy, I don't…" He glances around the restaurant like there might be some consequence, someone there to overhear them, someone who knows, other than Laurel, who's getting a drink at the bar.

"Wait, are you serious right now? You love her?" His friend looks amazed, but not totally shocked, somehow. He's had an easy grin on his face ever since he and Laurel made their way back from San Francisco, and his next words confirm Oliver's suspicions. "You know a week ago, I would have told you you were nuts."

It's so hard to feel anything but genuine joy for his friends and Oliver gives in, letting a grin split his worried face. "And now?"

"Yeah, I'm not so inclined to spit in the face of true love these days," Tommy admits, before sizing his friend up comically. "Look at us, growing up."

"Look at you," Oliver retorts. "I haven't done anything, I don't have anything."

"Not yet, anyway" his friend says with a grin.

"Not yet, what?" Laurel asks as she slides in the booth next to him, eyes fixed on Tommy even as she slides Oliver his drink.

"Ollie's in love."

"Oh well, duh," Laurel answers, unamused until they both gape at her in disbelief. "I mean, it was pretty obvious last weekend. What, do neither of you have eyes?"

"I'm not…" Oliver sputters, futilely, reaching for the truer answer. "I can't be."

"What are you talking about?" The question might come from either of them, they're such a united front – have been for years now – and anyway, his mind's a million miles away.

He huffs a frustrated breath out his nostrils.

"I've never felt this way," he stumbles. "But I'm trying not to…I can't love her if she doesn't feel the same, if she's not going to… It's too much. It's too hard."

"So what are you gonna do?" This one comes from Tommy, the challenge clear in his tone, and reflected in his eyes when Oliver looks up at him. But Laurel's giving him a look too, one that he can't quite decipher.

"Huh?"

"I'm saying, Oliver," his friend leans in, "sword through your chest, what are you gonna do?"

Felicity's week passes in a blur of late mornings in bed, all-day Netflix, and all-night wine. She sends out a few resumes and registers online for unemployment, like she's simply on hiatus with the other writer's PAs and assistants. On hiatus from what, she doesn't know.

Iris finally coaxes it out of her one night when she gets home from work to find Felicity already opening her second bottle of pinot.

"Huh-uh, no." Her friend slaps her with the junk mail as she crosses to the kitchen to throw it out. "Get up, we're at least going to The Foundry so you're not drinking alone like a loser!"

John raises a pointed eyebrow when she trudges into the bar in the same ratty T-shirt and yoga pants she's been wearing all day, but thankfully, he doesn't ask any questions. She's not so lucky when it comes to Iris.

"Felicity, you've got to level with me here," her friend says once they're settled with glasses of red in front of them. "Because I want to help you, as a friend, but also, because this is something that I just need to know, as a woman. Did you sleep with Oliver Queen?"

"No!" she blurts out, sloshing her glass a little to take a fortifying sip. "That's the worst part! I mean, I popped his buttons and everything, and still, nada…"

"Wait," Felicity's vision is a little fuzzy, but it's easy to see her friend's eyes go wide. "You…popped buttons?"

"Yes…" she whines, sobbing the words out across several syllables. "We were on the train, his shirt was too tight, buttons popped…just like a terrible romantic comedy."

"And yet, no sex."

"No," Felicity fairly sobs, and it might be pathetic except for how sad it truly is, how she couldn't even get the "sordid weekend getaway" right.

"Why not?"

"I just….everything was so crazy, you know?" She slaps her palm down on the bartop with a little more force than she intends, and John tosses her a light-hearted warning look.

"Felicity, I don't know. You haven't really told me anything about what happened." Iris makes a point she wishes weren't so cogent.

"Trust me, it was crazy." She feels like she's starting to slur a little, which truthfully, means she might have been slurring for a while now. "And he said…all this stuff and it just…it feels like a dream, you know?"

"Again, sweetie, I really want to help here, but you're not giving me a lot of specifics."

"It was so…but it just wasn't real." She shakes her head, hoping to Etch-a-Sketch the whole week from her memory. "So I figured, if I didn't sleep with him – if I didn't make the simplest part of it, the part that makes the most sense, really – if I didn't make that real, then none of the other stuff was real."

Iris sighs from somewhere beside her, and she snaps her eyes back open. "What other stuff?"

"Complications." Felicity motions emphatically with her hands. "Things he thought he was feeling, but he isn't…wasn't."

"How do you know he's not?" It might be telling that her friend keeps things in the present tense, but she's on the wrong side of tipsy to piece that together.

"Because he's Oliver Queen," she says, like that explains it all. Doesn't it? "And I'm Felicity Smoak."

"Do you, Felicity Smoak, feel these feelings too?"

"Oh, why don't you just can it, Lois Lane," she snaps at Iris' shit-eating grin. "All of this is off the record, by the way."

"Oh stop it, I'm not going to tell," her friend says, a statement that might be contradicted by the fact that she's dialing someone on speakerphone.

"Hey Iris!" Felicity makes a sloppy mental note to tell Barry that his too-cheerful tone is pretty transparent, even over the phone.

"Hey Bear, can you think of any reasons that Oliver Queen might be in love with Felicity?" John looks up from the bar in amused curiosity, and she shushes her friend dramatically.

"Uh, I mean, sure!" Barry sputters a little, but Felicity's gotta give him credit for how he recovers. He's really one of the good ones. "I mean, she's a genius, obviously, tech whiz, good kisser, those glasses…are a thing for some people…"

"Wait, a second, what now?"

It must be the wine, because Felicity could swear Iris looks a few shades of green at the mention of her ill-fated Christmas kiss with Barry. But she's saved by the bell, or whatever the drunk girl's name is that stumbles between them.

"Did I hear you guys say Oliver Queen?" the girl asks, too loudly, swinging her head back and forth, like she's trying to look at both of them at one. "Because my sorority sister totally slept with him, too. High five!"

Iris takes the raised hand and uses it to push the girl back, which thankfully has the added effect of diverting her entirely. It's either her words or the wine that has Felicity's stomach doing somersaults as her friend turns back to stare her down.

"So…you guys kissed?"

"Oh right, Barry," she nods hard, over-selling the truth, hoping they're done with the other part of this conversation. "Yes, that happened. Once upon a holiday shitshow."

Felicity remembers Iris calling their friend back then, and yelling at them both for not telling her sooner. Her last thought is that maybe Barry's not the only one who's getting transparent with his feelings.

Then, all of a sudden, it's noon the next day. She's in her bed, but also still in her jeans, and her head is pounding and heavy with the weight of several bad decisions. When she finds her phone tangled in her comforter, it's 2% away from dying, with one missed text message, and she groans at, just, everything.

Still on for lunch and prep? My place at 2?

When Oliver just can't take it anymore, can't wait any longer for her to reappear in his life, he goes to her. He knows knocking on Felicity's front door would be too much, but that doesn't mean he can't meet his sister for a late lunch at her favorite bar, right? He feigns ignorance and shames Thea for being uppity when she whines about going "this far east," hoping her affinity for anything hip and undiscovered keeps her from asking too many questions.

John just nods at him when he enters and takes a seat at the far end of the bar, the small part of the "L" with a view of the whole place, and he takes that as a good sign. He eyes Thea when she walks in not a minute later, and Oliver takes the first opportunity again, to stick out his hand and reassert himself.

"John, this is my sister, Thea," he says quickly as the bartender grasps him in another death grip, but his eyebrows go up at the news and Oliver'd bet a buck that his second nod, in his sister's direction, is an accepting one. Still, he's treading lightly.

"You got that IPA?"

"Got an even better one," the man grunts, already pouring. Thea turns to face Oliver with skeptical eyes.

"This guy knows you?"

"I know him enough," John says, setting the beer down in front of him.

He thinks it might be a good sign that the bartender is addressing him, hell, he thinks the fact that the man's let his head remain attached to the rest of his body bodes well for him at this point, but he still doesn't trust it. Maybe Felicity hasn't been here. Maybe she hasn't told him. He never really asked her about their relationship. There's so much he hasn't had the chance to learn about her. The reminder steels his resolve.

"Oh, dude!" A voice breaks him out of his reverie. Andy, he remembers, as the barback rounds the corner, addressing him emphatically. "Will you please call your girl? I know she's not going to say anything, but she was in here the other night, and…"

"Andy," John warning voice silences his brother momentarily as he knocks the brim of his backwards cap, but the younger barback throws a pointed look Oliver's way as his sister interrupts.

"This is the girl we're talking?" Thea asks, turning immediately to Andy when Oliver gives her a noncommittal shrug. "You know this girl?"

"Yeah, Smoak's in here all the time," Andy nods. "She's the best."

"She'd better be," Thea says with a laugh that's too haughty for Oliver's taste. "I mean my brother apparently gave her the V.I.P. tour of San Francisco."

"Thea, enough." Oliver looks to John, for what he's not sure. Help, maybe, or at least solidarity. But the man's running a rag over the bar, feigning obliviousness so well Oliver thinks he could offer him a part as an extra. "Tommy needs to keep his mouth shut."

"Man, you didn't even tell your own sister?" Andy raises an eyebrow at him that he suppose he deserves. He's been keeping it to himself, save for the one, unavoidable conversation with Tommy and Laurel, afraid that to mention it out loud might jinx it.

"No he didn't, Andy," Thea agrees, gleeful to team up against her brother, as usual. "So why don't you tell me. This girl, Smoak, she's something special?"

"Oh, absolutely," Andy nods. "She's smart, pretty, kicks ass at fantasy baseball."

"Really the whole package," Thea teases him. "So, how come you're not dating her?"

"Oh man, no, it's not like that," Andy shakes his head and Oliver notices Digg's expression shift, almost imperceptibly, but definitely in the direction of pride. "Smoak's like my sister. And I don't date my little sister. Now, other people's little sisters on the other hand…"

He leans in a little closer to Thea, who just rolls her eyes and smiles. Oliver fights the urge to put the kid in his place, but it's a weak one because there are a million other things on his mind. Besides, Andy's game is harmless compared to the garbage he knows his sister gets dealt on a regular basis from the douchebags in Beverly Hills. He might even be good her, but Oliver's not certain that's a two-way street.

"Some kind of Serendipity thing, the two of them," Andy tells his sister then, leaning in even and pointing toward Oliver. She gives him a conspiratorial look before they both turn on him with knowing grins. "I think they're star-crossed."

Thea gasps, teasing, but Oliver thinks her wide eyes might be genuine. "Ollie, are you star-crossed? With Smoak?"

"Felicity," he snaps back before he can stop himself. "Her name is Felicity, and I just…I'm not star-crossed. I'm fine."

"Fine," his sister parrots. It's as annoying as it was when they were little. "Fine, like, sitting in a bar waiting for a girl, Felicity, who may or may not show up, fine?"

"Thea, it's not…I just want to…" He stammers, because she's just driven in the nail of one of his biggest fears. What the hell does he do if he simply never sees her again?

"Yeah, you're cool as a cucumber," his sister snorts, and over Andy's whoop, he almost misses the way John's mouth quirks up at the corner.

"Felicity!" Barry opens his front door with cheerfulness that sounds fake, though it might just be how his voice grates at her hangover. "How are you? How's Iris?"

"She's good Barry," Felicity deadpans, as always, pressing her way inside. "Ask her out, Barry."

"Ah, I'm getting so close," he says with a little cringe as he closes the door behind her. "Almost there."

She just groans, making herself at home in her friend's tiny home office while he babbles on. "Anyway, thanks for coming, Felicity, I really appreciate it. I just, you know, want to practice my questions and time out my panel, so I'm done in time for them to screen the teaser. It won't take long, I promise"

She can't figure it out, he sounds almost surprised and looks nervous as hell, even though this isn't his first time moderating at Comic-Con. And it's not like he's never seen her hungover before.

"Of course," she sighs, rubbing at her temples because they both know she agrees to help him ages ago. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?" he plays it off until she gives him a no-nonsense glare. Then, his face drops completely, and so does her gut when she realizes. "Iris didn't tell you."

"Barry…" she starts slowly, willing him to cut her off at the pass and tell her she's got the whole thing wrong. "Barry, what panel did you get?"

She helps him anyway, of course she does. Because she's a good friend and she's good at what she does, and most of all, because she's going to have to get over this at some point. Relegating Oliver to another name tag on a Comic-Con panel seems as good a place as any to start. It's how they would have ended up eventually meeting, she realizes idly halfway through, then spends the better part of ten minutes daydreaming about how that might have turned out.

She plays Oliver's part (and Laurel's, and all their other co-stars), dutifully making up terse, but realistic answers as Barry rushes through his questions. ("Seriously, dude, you have to breathe.") She tries to fight it, but anytime Barry asks "Oliver" a question, her heart beats a little faster and her head starts to buzz with the feeling of putting words in his mouth when just a few days ago she was kissing them away. He's making her nervous and he's not even here.

It also seems wrong, scripting answers for him. Because she feels like she might know him, might actually know him better than most of the people that will be in that room, and yet, she also knows that there's no predicting what he might do or say. He's a constant surprise, and her biggest revelation so far is how different he is from the jovial, open book he plays at events like this. She thinks about his layers, about how much he showed her, how sure she was – still is – that he rarely, if ever, opened up to people like that. And then she thinks about how she has to stop thinking of him in the present tense.

It makes her heart hurt, and it makes her anxious, the way the whole thing's starting to feel like a dream, like something that never really happened. But she makes it through the whole panel, three times over until Barry's comfortable, and honestly, the whole thing feels like an accomplishment.

"So, will I see you there?" Her friend smile's just a little sad when he walks her to the door and she stumbles on her answer, unexpectedly emotional.

"Barry, I don't know…"

"Not at the panel, obviously," her friend covers, blushing a little like he had every time he addressed panel-Oliver. "But you're not going to miss Comic-Con, are you? I mean, you've already got your pass, I assume you still have a hotel room."

He's right, she realizes. She hasn't even thought of it since quitting, but truthfully, her thoughts have been otherwise occupied.

"Maybe," she hedges, grateful when he doesn't push.

"Okay, well if you go, we're doing room service and crappy movies in my room on Wednesday night. It's tradition."

She thinks back to the first Comic-Con they worked together as interns, remembers how they were too nervous to leave the shitty hotel on the first night and spent the whole time camped out in her room, studying their schedules and maps.

"Of course, Barry," Felicity smiles at him as she leaves, and the grin he gives her in return is enough to make her think to another lifetime, one where that kiss under the mistletoe made her feel like she had last weekend. One where they're perfect and this is easy.

And then he asks her to tell Iris he said "hi", and she's reminded of where they're both at, really.

Thea taps out after two heavy beers and pulls out her phone to call for an Uber. Her smile's a little crooked and Oliver has to take a moment do that big brother thing where he reminds himself that she's an adult and is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

"You're really going to sit here and wait?" she teases him, dropping her phone back into her purse with a careless thunk.

"Just a little longer," he nods, looking down at his glass, staring at the foam swirling around the end of his third beer. "You think this is crazy?"

"I think I'm sending you out for the next Nicholas Sparks movie, you big sap," his little sister smiles, kissing him on the cheek before turning to say goodbye to the brothers behind the bar.

"Very nice to meet you," Andy says with a little bow. John just rolls his eyes and gives her a wave and a smile.

"Okay, now I'm serious man," the barback says, turning back once Thea's out the door. "I help you out with Smoak, you give me your sister's number. Deal?"

"Andy." John's voice is sharp and low and his brother once again raises his arms in innocence. "Why don't you go grab that half-keg of Lilikoi and set it up like I asked you to twenty minutes ago?"

"I really don't need help, John," Oliver protests when the younger man is out of sight, trying to appear as innocuous as possible.

"You might," the man says with a little smile. "You've got that look on your face."

"Look, I don't…you obviously know her well," he fumbles, taken slightly aback by the man's acceptance of him, and whatever it is he's got on his face. "I don't want you to think I'm…"

"Listen man, I don't really read that tabloid garbage, okay?" This time, John takes mercy and cuts him off. "And I sure as hell don't believe what I read, you know?"

"I just want to talk to her, I swear," Oliver nods. It occurs to him that he was in the same exact position a little over a week ago, waiting for her right here in this bar. It's almost shocking how different he feels like, like he's somebody else entirely. "Just give me a few more minutes, I'll pay for drinks."

"You'll pay for what I tell you," the man answers, still smiling, setting another beer in front of him. "But that one's on the house. In case you need it."

She drives home from Barry's in a bit of a haze, thinking back to the madness of the last week. And maybe it's muscle memory or maybe it's memories of a different kind that have her pulling in the parking lot of the bar. Maybe it's the memory of Oliver's lips on hers that makes her suck in a breath at the sight of him seated on a barstool, maybe it's the memory of the too-serious look in his eyes that makes her storm up to him before he can even look up from his beer.

"Get out." He nearly tumbles off the stool in surprise, and that should be hilarious. But none of this is funny.

"Felicity!" When he looks up at her – like he can't believe she's really there – she realizes her memories don't really do justice to any of this. Because the way he looks, the sparkle in his eyes, the way he says her name, it's so much more than she remembered.

"No, get out," she repeats. "You don't get to be here, this is my bar and my neighborhood, and…"

She's too worked up to realize that this outburst is causing the exact kind of attention she has expressly hoped to avoid. But he's distracting her, just smiling like he can't help himself, and he's come after her, again, and it's infuriating. "Get out!"

He turns to go, but he doesn't look at all defeated, and it's not until she turns see Digg behind the bar giving her a reproachful look that she snaps completely.

"Oh, absolutely not," she spits, louder than she intends, but with the exact amount of venom. "John Diggle, do not tell me you're on his side!"

"I'm on your side, Felicity, don't be stupid," her friend retorts in an obvious tone that's annoyingly placating. "But the guy's been here for four hours, you can't at least hear him out?"

She huffs out an angry breath through her nose, and Digg does his best not to say "I told you so" when she turns on her heel. She rounds the corner outside, and Oliver's waiting for her there, leaned up against the side of the building with a smile, like this is easy.

"They oughta put a plaque up for us in the this alleyway," he smirks, and she realizes he might be a little drunk.

"How are you everywhere?" She's aware that she sounds a little frantic, but there's not a whole lot she can do when the words are coming out faster than she can monitor them. "Why are you everywhere? I just want to…I need to just, let it go, and you're everywhere. You're on my TV, on my fucking wall, you're at Comic-Con…"

"Comic-Con...wait, I'm still on your wall?" It might be liquid courage that lets him lean in a little closer with a cocky smile, but she's got her own head of steam.

"Oliver, you have to stop."

"Stop telling me what I have to do, Felicity." He's not exactly sure what she was on about, and not just because he's three beers deep. But when he leans closer, her gaze drops to his lips, like she can't help it, and he knows that single thread of fear is that only thing that's really holding her back.

He's got a million ideas at once, fighting their way out of him, desperate to be the one that wins her over. "Listen, I won't say it if you don't want to hear it, but you have to know that I want to be with you more than you want to run from this."

"You can't be sure of that." Her voice is shaky and uncertain. It's the second part that keeps him pushing forward, and he gives her his most confident Ollie Queen smile.

"Why don't you let me tell you what I'm sure of, for once." When the smile doesn't seem to work, he remembers back to a few nights ago, standing on her front porch and takes her hands in his, thumbs rubbing against her palms, almost reflexively. He watches her, waits until the tension drops from her shoulders and she looks back up at him with eyes that are both nervous and expectant, before he continues.

"What I'm sure of, is that the last few years of my life have been a blur," he tells her. This time, it's really all in. "I work, I train, I have like, three friends. Days blend into weeks, and weeks turn into seasons and before you know it, I'm going around again…"

"Oliver." Even the sound of his name on her lips doesn't slow him down, though this time it sounds less like a protest.

"And then the other day, I got this call, and I heard your voice, and I saw you walk into that bar, and jesus, every time you smile, it's like everything comes into focus." They both take gasping breaths, but hers is sharper, and he covers the end of the sound with his lips on hers.

She tastes like all he's ever wanted and still, it leaves him wanting everything.

"Felicity, the other night," he breathes against her lips when they part. "You only gave me two options, that wasn't fair."

"Huh?"

"You said that I was lying," he whispers, stealing another kiss when her breath catches in recognition, "or that I was crazy. What if there's a third option?"

"I don't think there is." She sounds sad, but not resigned, and he's nowhere close ready to give up. He pulls back, resting his forehead against hers lightly, looking her dead in the eye.

"I do," he nods, sincerely. "What's more, I'm gonna prove it. And as soon as you start living your life based on what you feel, versus what you think you're supposed to feel, you'll catch up."

Her eyes are wide and her lips are glistening when she looks up at him with an expression that he's ready to spend a lifetime trying to pin down. He stays just out of reach, though, waiting for her to lean in again, giving her one more chaste peck and pulling back with a cocky smile. This time, there's no part of him that's worried the kiss might be his last. "See you at Comic-Con, Felicity."

A/N: Next stop, San Diego! Lemme know who's still on board, promise to try my best to wrap this thing up in a more timely fashion.