Title: Knife in a Gunfight
Word Count: 11,864

Notes: I know. I know it's not Decode, but life happened. I got sick last week and missed class, so I've been playing catch-up all week. So I hope you don't mind a little Monsters in the Mirror instead.

I finished this while I was working on "Curiosity Killed the Cat," and I decided to save it for a rainy day, and well, it's raining right now—both literally and metaphorically. I've told y'all that I had to do some reordering to MitM, and this fic is one of the main reasons why. I addressed some of it in "Raining Pitchforks," but I never got around to actually writing it. Whoops.

As always, thanks for being awesomely you and reading my insane rantings. ;) Always glad to hear from you, but if you choose to just be a quiet observer, I'm glad to have you here, too. :)

As Oliver stares at the rooftop across from him, he can't help feeling… alone against the landscape of Starling City. It's something that never bothered him before, something he never noticed. Before, it was simply the only option; he had to do this alone and no one could help him. Now, however, he's been given a taste—a tease—of how things could be different. Mostly he blames a very blonde swordfighter for that, for insisting they pair up at Hunt's three weeks ago.

Despite that, he has no choice but to take down James Holder by himself tonight. Though he has no doubt he can do it easily, the silence now makes him feel loneliness instead of solitude. After all, Felicity made it clear three weeks ago that she wasn't interested in a partner, and he doubts he could change her mind, even if he wasn't determined to respect her wishes. Unlike him, she's clearly a lone wolf, preferring to trust her own blade before anyone else.

Truthfully, he should probably call her. She gave him her number if he wanted to talk, but Oliver hasn't had the courage to reach out. After all, she programmed his number into her phone, too, but she hasn't called him, either. Felicity doesn't need the distraction of his problems, and he respects that. So, alone or not, he'll have to adjust to the feeling again. He's been alone a lot over the last five years; it shouldn't take one encounter with Deathstroke to change him.

Shaking his head to clear it, Oliver instead turns to his work, staring down at the building below him, where James Holder is speaking on the phone while lounging next to his rooftop pool. Satisfied that he's done everything to assure he can reach the man in question with ease, Oliver fires a grappling arrow into the rooftop, allowing it to propel him toward the rooftop.

He lands with boots crunching on the ground, and a very startled James Holder drops his cell phone into the pool, effectively removing all witnesses from the situation. Instead, the man holds up a radio as Oliver draws his bow, aiming for the criminal in front of him. "I have armed security inside," Holder warns, as if he's relaying a novel thought to the vigilante. "All I have to do is call out."

Before he responds, Oliver drops the radios he took from security downstairs several minutes ago—when he took out Holder's very poorly trained guards. "Go ahead," he answers under the voice modulator. "They can't hear you."

Starting to realize he's trapped, Holder backs away, but Oliver reaches him within seconds, coming up with a better plan as he sees the industrial fan on a level just below Holder's rooftop pool. He throws the piece of slime down first, before jumping over the edge and following, pushing Holder against it until his head is inches from the fan.

Before Holder can do much more than scream, Oliver cuts through him. "Your corporation put defective smoke detectors in low-income housing in the Glades," he declares. "People died in those fires those alarms didn't work." He pushes Holder closer to the blades, and he screams again. "The courts say you don't owe your victims anything, but I disagree. You're going to—"

Holder suddenly goes limp in his arms as a bullet strikes home between his eyes. It spurs Oliver to action, moving before he gets clipped himself. The shooter fires again several times, and he can feel a bullet burn into his arm. He clenches his jaw to keep from crying out in pain, instead going for his bow despite the pain now searing through his bicep.

Instead of stopping as the end of the roof draws close, the vigilante pushes himself to run faster. As he reaches the end, Oliver does one of the more dangerous things of his life and jumps off of the skyscraper without a moment of hesitation.

As he falls, he pulls one of the grappling arrows from his bow and fires into the side of the building, grabbing the cable with everything he has. It burns his hands even through the gloves as the momentum pulls it across his palms, but he can deal with the ropeburn later. For the moment, the most important thing is getting the hell out of the line of fire and away from the sniper lurking on the roofs.

From the direction he was aiming, Oliver knows he's out of range now, but it wouldn't take long for a pro to relocate and try again. Instead of hanging in place all night, he slides down the cable until his feet touch solid ground, the muscles in his arm starting to burn.

Checking the wound from an alleyway, he frowns at the wound. He's been shot enough times by now to know what it feels like, and this burning sensation is anything but normal. Armor-piercing rounds have torn through him before and felt nothing like this. He lowers himself against the wall behind a dumpster, tearing at the bullet stuck in his arm with his other hand.

Wincing against the pain, he pulls the slug out of his arm, studying it in the dark. There's something off about it; there's a smell to it and the bullet looks almost though there's a coat of something between the blood and the metal itself. He tries to push himself up to get back to the lair before it kicks in, but already his legs are weak. It's only then that he remembers the poison from his encounters on the island, and Oliver reaches for his cell phone, dialing the only person he knows who would be able to save him and keep his identity secret in the process.

Just when he's about to think no one is going to answer, someone picks up. "I was starting to think I'd have to call you," Felicity answers without preamble, her voice a little stiff despite the upbeat tone. Oliver knows that tone, though he's never heard it from her, because he's used it many times himself. She's hurt but refuses to show him that, instead trying to cover with a smile.

Apparently he has a lot to make up for when it comes to Felicity Smoak.

Sighing, he decides to just say it. Oliver doesn't know how long he has anyway, and if he lives, he can make it up to her later. "I'm in trouble," he admits to her in a rush. "I'm off Thirty-Second, in an alley in the block between Grand and Broadbent. There was a sniper—he hit me with a poisoned bullet. It's working like curare."

While anyone else wouldn't take the news so easily, Felicity is a woman born of chaos. She doesn't even falter at what he's saying, instead calling in a muffled voice, as though she's placed a hand over the receiver, "Roy, I need you to hotwire a car since the Beetle is down. Four-door sedan would be best. Oliver's in trouble." Then her voice becomes clear again as she starts speaking to the vigilante, rattling sounds coming from the other end. "I'm coming, Oliver," she assures him now. "Fortunately for you, I keep neostigmine and atropine on hand. As soon as Roy gets a car, I'm seven minutes out."

Feeling his shoulder start to go limp, he realizes that he's running out of time and that there was enough curare to kill him. Just to be on the safe side, Oliver admits to the blonde vigilante, "I should have called you earlier."

A rattling sigh answers from the other side of the line. "Don't worry about that now, you adorable charmer," she answers tersely, but there's a smile in her voice that the billionaire is pleased to have put there. "You'll have plenty of time to make it up to me after you recover." It surprises him when her voice suddenly turns small as she asks, "Just hang in there for me, okay?"

With a smile, he replies before hanging up, "Only because you asked so nicely."

Eyes opening immediately as consciousness returns to him, Oliver tries but fails to get his surroundings to come into focus, is hampered by a blinding headache. Instead of trying to fight it, he closes his eyes so he can concentrate. Finally he hears a sound that is familiar and disturbing all at once: the long draw of a blade across a whetstone.

Tensed for a fight, he turns over on his right side, only to relax instantly at the sight that greets him. It gives him the opportunity to realize he's lying on a bed. Felicity is sitting next to it, back resting against a bedside table as she puts a new edge on her sword almost absently, as though she's thinking about other things.

When he becomes aware of the light pouring through the window, Oliver asks her, "Don't you have something else to do?" His voice comes out raspy, as though he hasn't spoken for several days. "You didn't need to stay here to watch over me."

She doesn't look up at him, but a smile tilts one corner of her mouth up as she pulls the blade against the whetstone again. "I wanted to," she answers simply, sheathing the sword before rising to her feet in a smooth motion. "And if you ask my boss, I'm sick and working from home today." Her mouth turns down ever so slightly as she looks at him. "More importantly, how are you feeling? Poisoning is bad enough, but neostigmine is a bitch by itself. It usually makes me throw up—not to mention the headaches and blurry vision."

Groaning in response, Oliver rolls over so that he's lying on his back again, eyes falling shut. "I thought that was from the poison," he tells her. Only then does he realize how sore all of his muscles are. Along with his aching head, he can't help but admit to her, "I don't think I've ever had a hangover that felt this bad before."

The blonde responds with an unladylike snort that makes him smile. "If you haven't had a hangover this bad, I don't think one exists," Felicity answers in a dry tone. "Didn't you used to spend most of your time getting wasted?" There's no judgment in her tone, only stating fact. It's one of the things Oliver appreciates about her: she knows he isn't that person anymore.

That alone is why he answers, "Not all of it, but enough. Tommy swears he can't remember anything about 2006." The self-deprecation is worth it because it makes her laugh. Then he can't help but ask her, "What about you? Who were you before?" It's probably an insensitive question, but most of his life before the island is public record. On the other hand, he knows nothing about her.

He feels the bed sink next to him, her hand brushing against his hip as she leans on the bed. "The same person I am now, I guess," she answers, sounding as though she's never thought about it before. "Minus the swords and the mask, plus a father. But I was happy then." Then she blows out a breath. "The part of me that used to enjoy going to a movie with my mother, or playing video games with Roy, or enjoying a meal at a nice restaurant with a guy… It just kind of… broke in Japan."

It's a feeling Oliver knows all too well. "Tommy has been trying to get me back in the club scene," he admits to her slowly, trying to apologize for what he's asked her to share. "He wants me to get drunk and take someone home because that's what we used to do. My mother is pushing me to take over the company again, the way she used to five years ago. And Thea wants me to open up, to talk to her about what I saw on the island because I always talked to her when I couldn't talk to anyone else." He sighs, exhausted just by outlining it. "They all want me to be who I was before the island." Opening an eye to look at her, he asks, "Do they ever stop?"

Though he doesn't expect an answer, Felicity responds anyway. "It depends on the person," she admits slowly. "Roy understands that it changed me." He squints to focus on her, only to find the blonde staring at the floor with a frown. "He doesn't always like who I am now, but he at least accepts it." Then an ironic, dark laugh leaves her. "But my mother is still waiting around for the old Felicity to come back."

As if desperate to change the subject, she pokes at his arm just as gently as she did three weeks ago, examining the wound with great care. "Looks like your stitches are going to hold," the blonde comments to him casually. "It's probably going to take a while for the poison and the treatment out of your system—you're welcome to stay here as long as you'd like."

Because he's been so immersed in their conversation, Oliver realizes he's forgotten to ask. Now that his vision is starting to clear, he can finally make out the black curtains over the windows, the computer parts scattered around the room, and the black-and-pink shoes thrown in one corner. Though he's fairly certain where he is, he decides to ask anyway, "Where is here?"

What he doesn't expect is the way Felicity turns away, finding something fascinating about the wooden floor. For the first time, he's able to see that she's wearing a pair of plastic-framed, rectangular glasses and that her hair is in a ponytail. Wearing just a tank top with thin straps paired with jeans, he can see the bullet wound in her shoulder that's still healing—along with a myriad of assorted scars not dissimilar from his own. Slowly he realizes that he's getting a real look at Felicity Smoak, not just the person she is when she's wearing the Deathstroke mask.

Felicity fidgets in place a little, and at first he thinks that he's noticed her staring, but then he decides she's uncomfortable with the topic at hand. "Roy tried to go back to the foundry to get some of your things, but you put in that new keypad," she answers, and Oliver doesn't quite follow. "It's pitiful, by the way—even Roy could have hacked that in his sleep. I told him to leave it alone, though." It's a nice gesture; apparently the blonde deeply respects his privacy. "We were going to move you down there when we thought you were stable, but I told him to go with plan B instead. So we kept you here." She waves around the room before shrugging self-consciously. "You needed somewhere comfortable to stay. You're twice the size of my couch and I don't really sleep, so I moved you into my room."

Oliver manages to pull himself into a sitting position, suddenly feeling less comfortable about his surroundings. This is Felicity's private space, and he feels like an intruder here. "I probably need to go back home," he tells her quietly. "Mom and Thea are going to be worried that I didn't come home last night." The blonde lifts an eyebrow in response, but at least she's decent enough not to point out that it's all too common an occurrence. "I haven't been missing for a night since I came back home."

Felicity bites her lip. "There's a slight problem with that," she admits. Then she reaches over and slaps his thigh, looking just as surprised as he feels when she finishes, her face flushing. "I wasn't trying to cop a feel, but I wanted to point out that you're still in your gear. Those green leather pants are just as notorious as they are tight." Oliver can't help the chuckle that follows, and she winces. "I thought I broke myself from the awkward word vomit thing." Then she shakes her head, as if to clear it. "I'd offer you a change of clothes, but Roy doesn't have anything to fit you. So you can either stay here until nightfall and run out, or I can go after your civilian clothes. Your choice."

Truthfully, Oliver doesn't mind that she blurts her thoughts; everyone seems to have a hidden agenda, but yet she seems to be transparent with him. Because of that, making a choice is simple. "The code to the basement is one-four-one-one," he answers, moving so that he's sitting next to her. It only lasts a moment, though, before she's on her feet again, marching out of the room. "And Felicity?" She turns at the sound of his voice while stopping in the doorway, and he offers her a small smile, the corners of his mouth barely turning up. "Thank you." There are so many things he's grateful for, not the least of which is that she just saved his life.

When she shrugs, it's as if she's trying to shake off the unwanted gratitude. "Couldn't let you die when I still owe you a favor," Felicity responds, though the corners of her mouth are raised, too. They both know she would have helped him even if she didn't owe him. Then she points through the doorway. "Bathroom is a left and then the next door on your left. Living room and kitchen are to your right from here. Feel free to move around wherever you want." She runs her hands down the front of her jeans in a nervous gesture. "I'll be back with food and clothes. Roy is the only one who has a key, and he should be home soon for lunch. If anyone else knocks, just ignore it—it's probably my mother and I am not opening that can of worms today." Her tone turns hard toward the end, and Oliver knows better than to ask.

He nods once, surprised she isn't more hesitant to leave him alone in her space. Though he trusts her more than anyone else at this point—after all, they've fought together and saved each other's lives—he isn't sure he likes the idea of her alone in his base of operations. But he doesn't see any other choice. And, maybe, the hopeful part of him can't help but think, it will be good for him to put his faith in someone, just this once.

By the time he turns to speak to her again, she's already gone. He can hear the sound of his Ducati starting up outside, and he vaguely remembers her saying her car isn't working. The idea of her on his bike, surprisingly, doesn't bother him at all. Instead of dwelling on the reasoning behind that, he rises to his feet in slow, exaggerated movements, using the nightstand to steady himself when he wobbles in place. His head goes fuzzy for a moment, but it subsides soon enough.

It takes a frustrating amount of effort to walk to the living room, but he collapses on the couch that must have survived the seventies somehow, still in immaculate condition but the color of orange sherbet. In anyone else's house, he might call it garish, but it somehow seems to fit with the oversized purple chair and the plush, sapphire blue recliner on either end of the couch.

He has no idea how long he sits there before he hears the lock on the door rattle, and a wave of nausea washes over him when he tenses at the sound. Slowly he relaxes as the red-hooded figure appears in the door, allowing the wave of nausea to subside somewhat, but not completely.

If Roy is surprised to see him up and moving, he doesn't show it. "You look pretty good for a guy who just got shot and poisoned," he notes in a flat tone, betraying no emotion on the subject. "Felicity said it would probably be a few more hours before you woke up." He hangs his hoodie up on the coat rack by the door with a sense of tidiness Oliver doesn't expect, dropping his keys into the bowl on the table below. "I know where she keeps the good painkillers if you need some."

Instead, the archer rises to his feet, to find the action more tolerable than the last time. Then he walks over to Roy, extending his hand to shake. "I might have called Felicity, but I know you helped her. I wouldn't be standing here right now if you two hadn't come. Thank you."

Though his eyebrows fly up in surprise, the teenager doesn't hesitate to take Oliver's outstretched hand with a firm shake. "Least I could do," Roy answers, shrugging off the praise. "When Felicity got shot three weeks ago, you saved her life. I'm just glad I got the opportunity to return the favor."

He shoves his hands into his pants pockets, shifting in place a little. "Felicity might not be blood, but she's all the family I've got, Oliver. My dad died when I was little, and my mom's idea of parenting involved coming out of a drug-induced stupor long enough to make one meal a day." The archer frowns at that; it couldn't have been an easy life for him. No wonder he and Felicity are so inseparable. "Donna took me in after my mom went to rehab, but she let me do whatever the hell I wanted." He shrugs self-consciously. "Felicity is the one who kicks my ass when I need it. She's somewhere between a mom and a sister to me."

Not knowing what to say, Oliver nods once. Then he thinks of his own younger sibling, the sister he's neglected so much since coming home and the woman she's become in his absence. "It couldn't have been easy for you when she was gone," he decides after a long moment. Roy tenses, defensive, but Oliver knows better than to ask for details. Felicity's crucible is her own to share; he isn't going to ask for details from Roy, though he doubts she told even him. "My sister is struggling," he adds in explanation of his words. "My mother has… neglected her a little in my absence, I think."

The tension leaves the teenager's shoulders, sympathy softening his expression for a little. "I can't even imagine," he states, his tone dripping with sincerity. "Felicity was gone for seven months—not five years—and I managed to make a mess out of my life." He does that self-conscious shrug again. "I think I was trying to catch someone's attention. I dropped out of school, stole some cars, did a few armed robberies, and I wasn't able to see Felicity when she came back because I was stuck in juvie."

A smile turns the corners of his mouth up. "She came to visiting hours and did nothing but yell at me. It was scary." A breathy laugh leaves him then. "And then she came back the next day and hugged me. When the guard told her she couldn't, she yelled at him, too. When I got out, she taught me how to hotwire a car and pick a lock so I wouldn't get caught doing it and made me go back to school." His expression turns nostalgic as he gets lost in the memory, but finally he adds, "Maybe you should try that approach with your sister—it worked wonders for me."

Oliver nods several times, giving the idea some thought. There's no question Thea needs help, and maybe it's time he tried a little less preaching and a little more brotherly love. Unfortunately, though, the nodding causes another wave of nausea to hit him, and he remembers what Felicity said about the side effects of neostigmine.

Roy must notice a change in him because he says with urgency, "Bathroom is on the left down the hall—the room past Felicity's." The archer is already moving by then already, and he wretches a few times before emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. The last time he was this miserable, he'd been hungover after one of Tommy's parties and he'd at least had a good time. His hands shake after he finishes, grabbing a paper towel to wipe his mouth before uttering few choice curses in Mandarin. Of the things he expected to endure tonight, this was not one of them.

"Wow, Queen, you don't play around," a feminine voice comments from the doorway with a hint of amusement. "I've never heard you swear before, and now you're throwing out some of the worst swear words in the language." Oliver turns in surprise, only to find Felicity leaning against the door frame with a smile playing at her lips. Though it's unnecessary, she adds in the language itself, "I speak Mandarin. Very fluently, I might add." He can feel his ears go hot in embarrassment, but she waves a hand. "Hey, I understand." She pulls up one edge of her tank top to show a particularly nasty scar over her hip. "I was just starting out when some Triad guy clipped me with a knife. I think I created a few new curses in multiple languages that night."

She reaches around him for a hand towel from the cabinet, dabbing at the perspiration around his hairline with a delicate touch. As she finishes, she holds out a bottle of water for him. "Roy told me you were in here praying to the great porcelain god. I thought you might need something to rinse your mouth out. I told you, neostigmine is a vindictive drug. It can save your life, but it'll make you pay for it later."

After taking a minute to rinse his mouth out with both water and a bit of the mouthwash in the corner of the counter top, he turns back to find her holding up a black duffel bag. "I gathered up your clothes in this," the blonde vigilante informs him as she drops it at his feet. "You can change in my room—your hood should be on top of the chest at the end of my bed." She bites her lip. "I wasn't sure what to do with your bow and quiver, so I locked them in the safe with my swords. I'll get them out for you before you leave." Then she leaves him, calling behind her, "Food is on the kitchen counter—I hope you like Chinese."

Walking into Felicity's room with a smile lingering on his lips, smiling as he changes into his jeans and gray sweater. The bullet wound in his arm aches a little, but the feeling isn't intolerable. After a few minutes, he emerges from her room to find Roy sitting at the bar in the kitchen, Felicity passing him a brightly colored plate from the cabinet while getting her own. Chinese takeout boxes litter the counter, some open and some still closed, but all of it smelling delicious, especially as hungry as he is now. Usually he doesn't feel it, but perhaps he's put his body through a little too much abuse today to run on as little food as he does.

As he sits down at the counter, Felicity passes him a plate with a smile. Then she walks around the bar to sit down on the other side of him, dropping a handful of forks and spoons in the middle of the counter so that they can all reach them. "I hope you don't mind, but I didn't get out the fine china," she teases him with a smirk on her pink lips. "We don't exactly have a five-star chef on staff, and me trying to cook is an arson charge waiting to happen."

"It's nice," Oliver assures her with a smile of his own. "Family dinners in my house have always been formal occasions." He doesn't know why he's telling her this, but it somehow feels like a burden off his shoulders to tell the blonde vigilante the truth. "It didn't feel like family—it just felt fake. In my house, it's always about making a statement." Before anyone can comment on that, though, he rushes for a very obvious subject change as he reaches for the Mongolian chicken. "So, you speak Mandarin—do you speak any other languages?"

To his surprise, the answer is a sound of amusement from Roy. "What languages doesn't she speak?" he answers in a sarcastic tone, his answer garbled by a mouth full of food. After swallowing and taking a drink of his soda, he adds, "Noah—Felicity's dad—used to say she was a linguist in a previous life." Though mentioning her dead father is probably a delicate subject, the blonde doesn't even flinch. Maybe she made her peace in the last three years. Oliver hopes that happens to him, too.

"Dad did a lot of business in the Orient," Felicity offers in explanation. "He was in software R and D for one of your competitors, actually—Kord Industries. He was pretty good friends with Ted Kord and a pretty popular name in the tech world." For reasons he doesn't understand, a memory floats back to Oliver that he overheard his father and Malcolm Merlyn talking about: Yeah, well, if everyone had a Noah Kuttler in their tech division, they wouldn't be taking market share from us. "I started interning there in high school, and I went overseas a few times in the summer," she adds with a wave of her hand. "I fell in love with Spanish in high school, so I started studying the languages of wherever we went." She tilts her head to the side, popping a bite of food into her mouth. After she swallows, she asks, "So you're multilingual, too?"

Oliver nods once as he finishes his portion of food, reaching across for the fried rice. "As it turns out, I'm good at three things," he tells her with the barest hint of a smile. "Surviving, archery, and learning new languages." Felicity snorts at that, her mouth twisting up in a smile. "I speak Spanish, Mandarin, and Russian, mostly. I did pick up a little Ukrainian, too, but barely enough to get by. There was a woman who helped me survive during my fourth year there, and she was from Ukraine. She taught me a little." He tenses as he realizes he's just spoken about the island of his own free will; he's never talked about it with anyone before.

If Felicity or Roy notice any of the sheer panic flitting across his face, they don't address it. In fact, the swordmaster doesn't even miss a beat. "I speak Japanese, Mandarin, Korean, Spanish, Italian, and French," she informs him, ticking them off on her fingers. Then she frowns as she looks at her hands, mouthing the languages as she runs through them again, her expression clearing as she adds, "Oh, and German." She taps her lime green fingernails on the counter for a moment. "I'd love to learn Russian, but I haven't had the time."

Even though it isn't a question, Oliver can read between the lines. Over the years, he's found that he works best if he trains both body and mind, but he hasn't had much mental stimulation of late. "If you'll teach me Japanese," he bargains, "I'll teach you Russian."

Her smile is so wide it shows teeth before offering a hand out for him to shake, and Oliver doesn't hesitate to do so. "You have yourself a deal, Queen," she promises with a smile. Then the blonde pushes her fork back into her plate, twisting some chow mein around her fork. "I didn't get the chance to ask you before, but what's the deal with the bow? It's not exactly the most efficient weapon, even if you do make it look like an art form." Oliver blinks twice at the compliment; he has a feeling that she doesn't give out many of those.

"When I first arrived on the island..," the archer answers in a slow cadence, trying to make sense of his chaotic thoughts. There are no good memories on the island—only agony. "I almost starved to death before someone found me. His name was Yao Fei, and he was an archer. He taught me how to survive, but his daughter Shado was the one who taught me how to shoot." He tilts his head to the side. "Both of them would make me look like an amateur, but this just became my weapon of choice over the years." Then he offers a hint of a smile. "Your turn—tell me why you use the swords."

To his surprise, Felicity laughs at the statement. "I told you about Slade, didn't I?" she starts. At his nod, the blonde continues, "Well, Slade Wilson was former Australian intelligence. They booted him out because his methods were a little… unconventional, but the Fenghuang was more than pleased to offer him a paycheck." She shovels a bite of sweet and sour chicken into her mouth, swallowing and taking a drink of her water before continuing, "He was supposed to be one of my guards, but he… saw something in me that he liked, I guess. That was three months after I was taken, and I was the only one of the hostages left alive."

Oliver can't help but wonder why she was the one who lasted the longest, but after being Bratva, he can guess why they kept her above the others. The Fenghuang Cartel doesn't just have their money in weapons, and a young, attractive American woman would be worth a fortune in the skin trade. "Slade couldn't exactly give me weapons, so he taught me how to fight with his own swords—and without any weapons." A soft smile comes to her lips. "I started defending myself against the pushier guards after that, and I started winning." She twirls her fork against her plate. "So I guess the swords have become a reminder of all the things I've overcome." She places her elbow on the table. "We should practice together some time. I've never held a bow before, and I don't exactly have the kind of space to train here."

"You two are only allowed to do that if I can watch," Roy says from the other end of the bar. Both the archer and the blonde turn to him at once, and he shrugs at the extra attention. "I never get to see Felicity fight because she only kicks gun runner ass. I only know how to hold my own in the Glades, so I wouldn't stand a chance out there. I'd like to see what everyone is talking about." He offers a small smile. "And honestly, I kind of want to see her wipe the floor with you, Oliver."

Taking the joke with ease, Oliver offers, "Wouldn't be the first time someone beat me." Roy studies him for a moment, as if he's surprised by that admission, but the billionaire only offers the hint of a smile. "You have to lose a few fights to learn how to win. I think you could be out there in the field with her, if you had a little training."

Felicity points her fork at him, her smile satisfied. "That's what I've been trying to tell him," she states, poking Roy with the utensil. He makes a face at her back when she turns back to look at Oliver. "I don't want him in the field with me because I don't want him to get hurt, but if Roy wants to do it, I'm going to help him get there." She pushes her fork into another piece of chicken. "But I'm not going to let him do anything without the proper training. That's a good way to get yourself killed."

"You have the code to the base now," Oliver points out as an idea strikes him. "You could use the space whenever you want." Hesitant, he adds another thought. "It might be a good idea for you to have the code to the house gate—just in case something happens and you can't contact me by phone." He drops his fork to his plate. "You saved me tonight anyway, but having those codes would make everything easier, if you ever needed to get in."

Roy points his fork at them from the other end of the bar, latching onto the idea. "I know you can handle yourself, Felicity," he starts in a careful tone, "but if something happened to you in the field, Oliver has already proven he can help you out. What if you gave him a key to the house, just in case something happened and he needed to bring you here?"

He expects Felicity to reject the idea without thinking, but instead, she nods once. "That's a good idea," she decides after a moment, giving it some serious thought. "And maybe we need to stash civilian clothes in each other's places, to avoid any more situations like today." She points her fork at him again. "But we are not working together. I meant it when I said one show only, Oliver."

Holding up his hands, Oliver answers, "I respect that. But we're the only two vigilantes in Starling City—we have to look out for each other."

Frowning as he reaches his destination, Oliver checks his phone again to make sure he's at the right address. Sure enough, it is 17505 Sunrise Boulevard, just like Felicity texted him, but it still doesn't seem like the kind of place that people of her computer skill level would work. She let slip the other day that she graduated from MIT, and the crumbling façade on the building in front of him doesn't look like a place that has its fair share of IT experts. The window is cracked in one corner, and a flickering neon sign that reads Computer Repair sits in the window. Otherwise, Driscoll's IT Solutions looks like every other shop on this street of the Glades.

Though he's convinced it's the right place, a sense of trepidation still falls over him as he pulls the battered laptop out of the storage compartment of his Ducati before crossing the street. He expected her to be less than thrilled when he came to her with another favor after she tracked down one Floyd Lawton—operating under the codename "Deadshot"—for him, but his promise of, "I'll owe you one, Felicity," seems to have satisfied her.

The lobby of the building is so small that it's claustrophobic, the counter manned by a redheaded boy with the unfortunate acne of puberty and a headset locked over his ear, probably still in high school. His eyes are locked onto the computer screen in front of him, so he doesn't even look up as Oliver enters. "Can I help you?" he asks in a monotone voice, as if he's simply going through the motions.

Putting on his best public face, he flashes a friendly smile to the clerk. "Hi," he starts in a light voice. "I talked to one of your technicians earlier—Felicity Smoak? She should be expecting me."

Only then does the clerk look up at him, as if he's going to protest, but then his face goes blank in the typical reaction to Oliver's very publicized face. He starts to feel sorry for the kid because he gapes like a fish for a few moments, but finally he pulls himself together. "I'll, uh… I can page her up front for you, Mr. Queen," he stammers in his nervousness. Then he pushes a button on his headset. "Felicity, you, um, you have a client waiting for you."

"I know, Jason," the blonde says from behind him, making the kid jump. Felicity looks completely in her element, perfectly at ease in jeans, red Converse, and a gray T-shirt advertising a masked, cartoon superhero of some sort around a pile of comics, the words I have issues proudly proclaimed on the front. A pencil is stuck through her hair behind one ear, which makes him smile wide enough to show teeth. "Oliver, you have to stop destroying electronics for my benefit," she teases him with her fuchsia lips curved upward, playing a part for the clerk. "You have my number. If you want to see me, just call and say, 'Felicity, I miss you and I have mint chip ice cream.' That's all it takes. You don't have to go to the trouble of breaking a computer for me."

Though it's a part, the wide smile on his face is genuine. "Noted. But this time I really did have computer trouble." He holds up the laptop as proof and adds for the kid's benefit, "I was at the coffee shop surfing the web and I spilled a latte on it. Think you can help me out?"

The corner of her mouth quirks up higher at the blatant lie, and she raises an eyebrow at him. The kid, however, looks between them with wide eyes that Felicity chooses to ignore. "Come on back and I'll see what I can do with it," she assures him, motioning to the back offices.

The clerk—Jason, Oliver remembers—is the one to speak up. "Felicity, it's company policy that clients aren't allowed in the IT department," he states, though his tone is timid and shaky. The billionaire is a little impressed; the kid seems terrified of his blonde co-worker and yet has no idea what she's really capable of doing.

"The reason that rule is in place is because no one wants other people's property damaged," Felicity retorts, rolling her eyes all the while. The kid merely blinks at her. "Jason, he's Oliver Queen," she points out, as though it's news to everyone in the building. "He could buy this building five times over." Then the blonde walks around the counter, stopping to loop his arm through hers, pulling him forward with a surprising amount of strength. "Besides, he's not a client—he's a friend and it's my lunch break, anyway." Smiling on her way through, she reaches down to pat the kid's shoulder, and he both flinches and flushes at the contact. "I vouch for him—it will be fine."

Before Jason can respond, they're navigating a maze of cubicles to a small office in the back. The room colder than the rest of the space, and Felicity pulls the door almost shut. "This is the only place that remotely offers any sort of privacy here, and I figured you didn't want everyone to know that I'm pulling information from an assassin's laptop." She holds out a hand to him. "Laptop, please."

He does as she asks, passing it to her with some hesitation. The blonde winces as she opens the cover to reveal the three bullet holes in the screen. "You weren't kidding when you said it was in bad shape," is all she says before plugging it up to a monitor on the wall. "If it starts, it shouldn't be hard to salvage anything from, but if it doesn't, I might actually have to do some work." Sure enough, though, it starts, and she beams at him.

While it's loading, Oliver can't help but smile, especially thinking about the poor boy at the counter. "You should take it easy on the kid at the counter," the archer notes. "He's terrified of you and half in love with you at the same time."

She looks up at him, eyes narrowing for a moment before the fog of confusion clears. "He probably has good reason to be afraid of me," Felicity admits, though not sounding too sorry about the fact. "Everyone here seems to think I'm a Machiavellian dictator." Oliver blinks twice at the phrase, and she waves her hand in agitation. "Niccolo Machiavelli? The Prince?"

The words might as well be in Greek for all the archer understands of it. "I didn't read that at any of the four schools I dropped out of, Felicity," he tells her with a hint of a smirk. "You studied in college—I didn't."

"Right," she answers with a dry tone. "It's all about how a ruler is supposed to maintain control of his public," the blonde tells him. "He said it was better to be feared than to be loved." She waves a hand. "I don't believe that, but I maintain my rule through fear around here. One of the guys was a little pushy when I started and I finally convinced him to take no for an answer." The words are vague, but Oliver has a good idea about what she's capable of doing to men who can't take a hint.

Curious, Oliver can't help asking, "How long have you been here?" He can't understand why she'd stay here, of all places. After all, she graduated from MIT, and this seems to be beneath her skill level—even to him, who stayed in college just long enough to have a good time.

"Since I came back from Japan," Felicity answers in a sharp tone, turning defensive for reasons he can't understand. Oliver holds his hands up in a gesture of peace and she softens instantly. "I'm used to fighting over this subject," she says in apology. "My mother was furious when I told her I took a ten-dollar-an-hour job with my Master's from MIT." She shrugs, dismissing it. "But after everything that happened, I couldn't go back to Kord Industries—or anywhere else that would know me, for that matter."

The computer's screen comes up, and she turns back to it while continuing, "The media coverage was insane—but I'm sure you know about that." Oliver does, all too well. "Ted offered me my dad's job, but I didn't want to go back there. I tried to get jobs elsewhere, but the moment they saw 'Felicity Kuttler,' they knew who I was." Felicity props her elbow against the desk, smoothing down her already immaculate hair with one hand. "I came home wanting to avenge Slade, to make sure the Fenghuang Cartel couldn't hurt anyone else. So I legally changed my last name to my mother's maiden name and dyed my hair."

For the first time, Oliver realizes how hard this must have been for her. He grew up with the media watching his every move, but for someone who isn't familiar with it, it must have felt as though her whole life was under scrutiny. Not to mention how ruthless the paparazzi can be, asking questions that re-open wounds just to get the next story before someone else. "I spent some time in Coast City a year and a half ago," he admits to her, his voice low. To his surprise, the blonde doesn't even blink, but then he remembers that there's no judgment with her—she'll take what he gives her and reciprocate in kind when she's ready. "I wasn't…"

He trails off, but if he can admit this to anyone, it's her. "ARGUS recruited me for an off-the-record job in Hong Kong. I was there for about a year. Waller—my handler—thought I had a gift for interrogation." Oliver meets her eyes, trying to convey that he in no way means a police interrogation. "I did a lot of things for her I'm not proud of. She turned me into a monster. I could have gone home, but…" He shakes his head. "I didn't want my family to see that."

"I probably should have done that," Felicity muses as she reaches out, weaving her fingers through his. It's a gesture for his comfort, not hers. She can't make it better, and she knows it, so instead she tries to offer him solace the only way she can: she reminds Oliver he isn't alone anymore. "It's taken me three years away to get this far." She flashes him an ironic smile. "And I'm definitely not as emotionally healthy as you are."

Though it's probably rude, Oliver can't stop the surprised laugh that leaves him. "I've learned a lot about adapting to this life from you," he admits, honesty ringing through his words. "No one else has been able to help—they just push me to revert back to the man I was. But you, you're… at peace with who you are. He throws her a lopsided smile. "And I'm not exactly the spitting image of mental health, Felicity."

"Now you see why I'm concerned," she retorts with a cheeky grin. She releases his hand then, taking a moment to cup his face before turning back to the computer. The almost intimate gesture takes him by surprise, but the moment is already over before he knows what happened. For a moment, he's almost glad they're at her office; if they were in private, he'd probably kiss her and that would lead down paths he's no ready to explore yet.

Though he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to kiss her again.

After a few clicks of the mouse and a few moments of typing code, Felicity pulls up a blueprint. Oliver leans so that he can see the screen, his shoulder knocking into hers in the process. The blonde vigilante must not mind, though, because she pulls her arm out of the way, and places her hand on his far shoulder so he can lean in closer. "This is the building where the Unidac Industries is scheduled to take place," she informs him as she squints at it. He furrows his brow at her in confusion, and she shrugs. "I like to keep up with current events—I'm usually in current events. But the point is that your assassin is probably going to show up there." She opens a few other screens, pointing at the top of one. "And it looks like this laptop is registered to Warren Patel. He's one of the potential buyers."

"Can you show me the buildings around there?" he asks her, leaning further into her shoulder. It doesn't seem to bother her because she pulls up a map instead of addressing it. "There are four tall buildings around there—any of them can make good sniper perches." Even though he knows what she's going to say, Oliver has to ask. "I can't cover them all by myself, Felicity."

Felicity turns to face him, eyes narrowing. "What part of 'one show only' do you not understand, Oliver?" the blonde snaps at him, frustration making her temper flare. "While I'm glad to save your life and to help you with computer things that actually pique my interest, I work alone." She waves her hand between them. "I like being your friend. I like that I don't have to hide who I am around you, but I am not going to play sidekick."

Sighing, Oliver tries a different approach. "Felicity, my family is going to be there tonight—Walter is competing for the company. My mother, Thea. They could be in danger. And if I can't count on your help, I'll have to give the laptop to Lance and use the police to swarm the place."

He expects several different reactions from Felicity at this point in time, but what he doesn't expect is for the blonde to reach up and thump his cheekbone. He rubs the stinging place with a soft ow, but she ignores it as she pulls away from him. "That was for trying to manipulate me," she snaps at him, eyes narrowing as she crosses her arms over her chest. "While I admire your ability to play mind games, I'd like to inform you that I've been a card-carrying member of Mensa since I was fifteen. Meaning you just brought a knife to a gunfight." There's no bragging in her voice; the woman in front of him is just stating fact.

Guilt gnaws at him, making Oliver sick. He could have just destroyed the most healthy relationship in his life right now because he needs her and doesn't want to admit it—not even to himself. But instead of kicking him out of her office and her life, Felicity proves again that he doesn't deserve her when she softens. "But if I thought Roy could be in danger," she continues, her voice almost tender, "there wouldn't be a power on earth that could stop me, nothing I wouldn't do to keep him safe." Then she offers, albeit grudgingly, "Even if that meant manipulating my friends."

She sighs in defeat, looking weary, and effectively making Oliver feel like a bigger asshole than he already did. "Fine. "But I'm not going to keep collecting favors from you, Oliver. This is the last one." She points at him. "And if you ever try to manipulate me again, I will rain digital fire down upon your entire life and dance in the ashes of your credit score." The blonde holds up a hand. "I know you don't actually use credit, but it's the principle of the thing." And then she offers him a smile—not to soften her threat, but to let him know that they're still good and he's forgiven.

A thought comes to him. "I can give you the leader of the Starling City branch of the Bratva," Oliver offers to her. "I can give you a name and a location, but the rest is up to you." She nods once, unplugging the machine and giving all of her concentration to that. When she finishes, Oliver takes it from her, placing it on the desk behind him. With unsteady fingers, he tilts her head so that he can kiss her cheek. There's nothing romantic about this gesture, but instead a way for him to express his overwhelming gratitude for the woman. "Felicity Smoak, I don't deserve you."

"Maybe not," she agrees, a dusting of pink spreading across her cheekbones, "but you're working toward it."

As Oliver presses the button on his Bluetooth receiver, he asks Felicity, "Tell me what you see." Because he has to be at the auction with his family, he can't help her scout buildings. Fortunately, she can hold his bag until they find Lawton on the rooftops. Still, he feels like she's doing most of the work, and that doesn't sit right with him under the circumstances.

"I'm in building two of four—the one to the northeast," Felicity answers, voice masked by her deep modulator. "It's clear, too. All I have is a building in the process of being renovated." There's a long pause. "And a spectacular view of a billionaire bachelor who rocks the hell out of a tux." Oliver nearly trips over his own two feet at that; she's never been that forward before. She laughs in his ear at his reaction. "Did the floor move under you, Oliver?" she taunts in a knowing tone. "I hate it when it does that."

For the sake of his sanity, the billionaire can't allow that to continue. "I'd appreciate it if you could focus," he chides her. "There's an assassin running around who has claimed two victims already and the police presence here isn't going to help things."

"Excuse me?" a voice says from beside him, one that startles him out of his conversation. Most would probably find his bodyguard, one John Diggle, a little imposing because his arms are the size of bowling balls and he never smiles.

But, in Oliver's experience, big muscles aren't the key to winning a fight. A fighter with fifty pounds and half a foot on him might pack a punch, but they'd have to hit him first. There's an advantage gained on being the underdog. And he has no doubt that even Felicity—five-foot-four Felicity who might clock in at a buck twenty—could lay his bodyguard out without breaking a sweat. But, then again, that's probably a bad example; Felicity fights like an ASIS-trained berserker, a description he'd never say to her face.

She'd like it too much.

Oliver throws his bodyguard a fake smile. "I heard some of the police talking about it outside," he explains, though he knows that Diggle isn't an idiot and doesn't believe it for a second. The vigilante takes a few quick steps forward to separate the two of them before losing him in the crowd.

A distorted laugh comes through the headset. "Is that the best you can do?" Felicity asks. "Because if my identity staying secret depends upon your ability to lie, I might as well walk up to Lance and say, 'Hi and happy early birthday,' right now."

"I'm trying to decide if I can trust him," Oliver admits to her. "After last week, I think I need a partner, but my only current option doesn't need a partner because she's an expert at this." He can practically hear her smile over the phone. "John Diggle is ex-military. Army sergeant. I called in a favor and asked for a copy of his file—several awards and an honorable discharge." Another thought occurs to him. "Discipline record says he's not good at following orders, though. Apparently, he doesn't like to risk civilian lives to win a skirmish."

"Sounds exactly like the kind of guy you need," Felicity answers. "He can handle himself, but he's not going to be afraid to call you out when you need a reality check." Oliver makes a noise of protest, but she overrules it. "You have a tendency to go to a dark place in your head, Oliver," she tells him. "You've never said anything about it, but I can tell. You need someone to pull you back into the light—and that is never going to be me." She laughs, but there's no humor in the sound. "At least you spend time in the light—that's a good thing. I don't anymore."

The way she says it makes a thought occur to Oliver, and he stops mid-step as it hits him. "Is that why you won't work with me?" he asks her. "Because of some attempt to protect me from the darker side of who you are?" Silence is the only response that comes from the other end of the line. "Felicity, there's nothing wrong with who you are and what you do. You're not going to drag me down." Because she needs to hear it, he admits something he's never been able to admit to himself before: "You make me better."

"I know you have a lot of respect for me," she answers, her words slow and methodical, "but I'm not the poster girl for good mental health. I'm broken." He doesn't know what upsets him more; the fact that she said it, or the calm, icy demeanor with which she says it, as though she's accepted it. "My own mother wanted to have me committed, Oliver." The revelation makes sense of so many things she's said before about the woman. "And sometimes I think it would have been the right choice—not for me, but for her and Roy." Her voice is quiet when she continues, "Because I am going to end face down in an alley in a hail of bullets, and no one will even care."

If it wasn't for the fact she was in an entirely different building and several stories up, Oliver would find her to continue this conversation in person. Because he doesn't even know where to begin, but she's wrong about all of it. "I'm sorry about what your mother tried to do to you, Felicity," he answers. "Not because of what you must have gone through—because I know you can handle that. It's because of the effect it must have had on you. You've been told you were insane enough times that you've actually started to believe it. And they're all wrong. You're not insane." Quieter, he adds, "You don't survive something like that without it taking a piece of you. You might not be the same person they remember, but that doesn't mean you're broken."

He takes a breath, remembering what she said the first night they met. "Felicity, you're not broken. And I'm going to tell you that until you believe me." He sighs. "You've been surviving for too long because that's how you lived through Japan, but you're home now. It's time to stop surviving and time to start living again." A smile turns the corner of his mouth up. "I'm trying to learn how to enjoy life again. And I think we should do it together."

There's an odd quality to her voice, one he can't decipher under the modulator, when she answers, "I hate it when you're right." He chuckles, and her accompanying laugh is awkward and sharp. Too late, he realizes she might actually be crying under that modulator. Her voice is almost a whisper when she adds, "And thank you, Oliver. A lot of people have told me I'm not broken, but when you say it, I have this crazy tendency to believe you. Maybe because you're such a horrible liar."

Oliver opens his mouth to retort, but a flicker of red on Walter's suit jacket silences him. He makes a run to block the shot, calling to his partner, "He's in the southeast building. I'll catch you up." He's about a foot from Walter when the crystal glasses explode, but Lance has already shoved him to the ground, relatively unharmed.

His blood goes cold, however, when Thea screams. Her hand is on her arm, blood coating her fingers. "I need you to get him now," he hisses through the line to Felicity, but his attention is quickly diverted to his sister. Oliver reaches for his tie, thinking he can use it to make a bandage of some sort. "Thea, let me see," he asks of her, taking her arm as gently as possible.

"The shot just came out of nowhere," she says, her expression glassy. She shivers, and Oliver quickly shrugs off his jacket to throw around her. The bullet was a through-and-through, a simple graze, but he knows from experience how deadly one graze from Deadshot can be. "Ollie, did someone turn up the air in here? It's really cold."

"It's just shock, Speedy," he answers, speaking to her as he would a small child. She's not really in a place to comprehend anything. "It's just a graze—you're going to be fine." He holds up his tie. "I'm going to wrap this around your arm to stop the bleeding, okay?" She nods once, and he wraps the tie several times, knotting it tight.

When he finishes and looks up, he doesn't know whose look of surprise is more comical, Lance's or Diggle's. Lance wanders away quickly, though, barking orders with narrowed eyebrows. Diggle just continues to stare at him, motioning him out. "I need to go find Mom," Oliver answers before his bodyguard can start trying to rush him out—and away from his target. He watched Walter usher her out earlier, but Diggle doesn't need to know that "Take Thea outside. When the paramedics get here, tell them to give her neostigmine—this guy laces his bullets with curare." Something flickers in Digg's expression, but Oliver doesn't wait to see what it is.

Instead, he makes a run deeper into the building, ducking into the bathroom just long enough to grab his suit from the trash can where Felicity stashed it. "Talk to me about the security cameras," he calls to his partner, exchanging his headset for an earpiece comm as he switches on his voice modulator. "Am I clear?"

"Please, what do you take me for?" the blonde retorts, slightly out of breath from running. "The moment I heard the shot, I unleashed the worst virus outbreak since the Spanish flu. They're going to be lucky to salvage the cameras, much less see anything tonight." She pants a little before continuing, "Is your guy still firing?"

"Everybody is evacuating," Oliver answers, making his way toward the window Lawton broke when he fired into the hall. "If he has any sense at all, he'll try to make a tactical retreat, and there's only one entrance into that building." He breaks out the window as he reaches it, aiming a grappling arrow into the brick on the building across the street. Gunfire immediately erupts again, and he ducks behind an overturned table. "He's not done yet, Deathstroke—I need you to distract him."

"I think I can manage that," Felicity assures him, and he notes that she isn't panting any more. Instead, she goes quiet so fast that it's unnerving; Oliver can't even hear her breathing across the line, a fact he finds very disconcerting over the line. He's about to ask her what's happening when he hears an all-too-familiar sound, a blade humming as it flips end over end through the air. There's a grunt, and then Felicity calls out, "Can't you go take assassination targets somewhere else? Starling City is mine—or haven't you heard about the psychotic killing machine on the streets?"

Oliver doesn't let the moment go to waste; he fires another arrow, sending him into the building across the street. Gunfire erupts again, but it's away from the window and toward the stairwell—toward Felicity. The archer can't see Lawton in the dark, but he can hear him call out to her, "Yeah, but you like blades. I use guns." Another round of fire is let loose. "Haven't you ever heard what happens when you bring a knife to a gunfight?"

The bursts of fire let him locate the shooter, and Oliver fires an arrow into his arm. Lawton lets out a muffled groan. "That's why he brought me," Oliver informs the assassin, using the masculine pronoun to help conceal her identity. He fires another arrow, but Deadshot is already gone, moving despite the arrow still stuck in his arm.

Oliver explores the top floor, whispering into his comm, "Talk to me, Felicity." No response comes, and the archer's blood turns cold for the second time that night. The only way to search for her is to take out the threat in the room so that he can move freely. He nocks another arrow, taking slow, careful steps through the abandoned floor of the building.

When his eyes meet Deadshot's, neither of them expect it. They both stare at each other for a moment before Oliver looses an arrow as bullets fire again. But there's something different about the gunfire this time; it isn't automatic and it's too precise to be him. Then Lawton crumples, leaving Oliver staring into the eyes of one John Diggle.

It takes a moment for the two of them to react, but Diggle doesn't lower the gun when he faces him. "Drop the bow," he calls out to Oliver. He has to resist the urge to scoff—at the demand; he can move before the bodyguard could fire, which would limit a wound to a graze. The archer isn't too worried about it, so he doesn't move, thinking now could be his chance.

Then a gleaming blade appears at the bodyguard's throat, Felicity's ominous mask appearing over Digg's shoulder. "That's not very nice," she comments to him, her conversational tone out of place after the heat of battle has subsided. "I mean, we just stopped an assassin wanted by Interpol and you want to shoot him." Her eyes meet Oliver's for a moment. "I guess it's true what they say, Arrow. No good deed goes unpunished."

Oliver can hear that sharp sound to her voice, the one that says she's out for blood and she doesn't care whose it is. "I want him alive, Deathstroke," he warns her.

"I don't kill the good guys," she retorts. Then she presses her blade a little closer to Diggle's throat. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd latch the safety on your gun and toss it, please. Unless, of course, you're willing to call my bluff." John does as she asks without a moment of hesitation. "Very good. Now here's what's going to happen, Mr. Diggle. You're going to turn and leave. You don't hurt us, we don't hurt you. "If you try to grab your gun, the Arrow and I will have a little contest to see which one of us can kill you faster." Felicity's blade hand relaxes ever so slightly, only perceptible to Oliver because he's watched her fight before. "You can walk away tonight a hero or you can be carted away in a body bag. Your choice."

With that, she releases the blade from his throat, stepping away from the man. "Let's go, Green," she calls to him, latching onto his arm as she runs. Her voice drops down to a whisper as she adds, "He clipped me a few times. I swallowed a neostigmine pill after I caught the first one, but I need to pull the bullets out soon." She motions toward the other building. "Think you can pull me along on a grappling arrow?"

Oliver can't resist grinning at her as he fires the arrow, pulling her into his arms. "I think that can be arranged," he agrees. She locks her arms around his neck as he uses his bow to rappel toward the ground. Felicity's arms tighten around him, and she stumbles a little when they hit the ground, but despite everything, she seems to be doing well. "Where did you get hit?" he asks as he reaches for her.

Felicity slaps his hand away. "Go see your sister," she insists. "She's going to be scared and wondering where her brother ran off to, and I can get back to the house without any problems." She points to the bullet in her hip. "Besides, I'm not taking off my pants in front of you in a dark alley—we don't know each other well enough for that." They both laugh as she pulls off the mask, stuffing it in the storage compartment of the bike he let her borrow. If they start working together, he might have to buy her one.

When he turns to leave, Felicity catches his arm, spinning him back around to face her. "And Oliver?" she asks, her voice small. He only lifts an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. "Thank you. For what you said earlier tonight, I mean." She pulls off her gloves and shoves them into the pocket of her jacket before reaching a hand behind his neck, forcing him down so she can kiss the corner of his mouth. "Don't be a stranger. And if you need help, I'm your girl." She waves a hand. "I mean, I'm not your girl—I'm not making a pass at you. I just mean you should call me if you need help. Because if I need help, I'm going to call you."

He cups her jaw with a slight smile before promising, "I'm your guy, Felicity."