⁂ ⁂ ⁂

June 2013

Isn't it funny how sometimes the theory of an idea sounds absolutely amazing, and then when you put it into practice it turns to utter shit?

Yeah, this definitely fits that description.

"I wouldn't mind tapping that," the burly man plopping down in the uncomfortable chair opposite her drawls, licking his lips as he checks her out unapologetically. His handcuffs rattle against the metal table as he straightens in his seat. "Maybe we can turn this into a conjugal visit, baby."

She slams her eyes shut, wondering for the hundredth time in the last hour why oh why she agreed to do this.

"Guard," she calls, slowly exhaling through her nose, trying to dispel her mounting frustrations.

Is it really too much to ask for a little bit of respect? She's here to help these men and all she's gotten in return so far are lecherous looks and sexist comments. Do they not realize that she's trying to offer them a chance to turn their life around?

"Please escort Mr. …" —she looks down at the clipboard with the list of guys to interview, marking yet another name with a big fat X— "Lynch back to his cell or wherever he came from. We're done here."

The lewd smirk instantly drops off his lips, turning them down in a scowl. "Bitch, I was told you'd give me a job and now you just send me away after ten seconds?" he exclaims, trying to tug away from the correctional officer who's dragging him out of his seat. "Fuck this! You better hope I don't see you walking down the street once I get out of here."

She just shakes her head, biting back the snarky response lying on the tip of her tongue, while she watches him get pulled out of the interview room, ignoring his colorful commentary. There's really no point in arguing with an asshole like him.

You're doing this for Roy, she reminds herself firmly of the reason she's here.

Roy Harper, her best friend since childhood who she'd grown up with in the not so glittery part of Las Vegas, who'd been caught transporting drugs for a local gang. When he'd refused to name any of the guys that had paid him to commit the crime (in fear of retaliation), he'd been shipped off to prison at the tender age of 18. She'd been off at MIT at the time, feeling completely helpless as she witnessed her best friend get locked up. During his sentence, she'd only managed to visit him a handful of times during the holidays, but she'd made sure to call him every week to help keep him out of trouble.

Four years and a whole lot of good behavior later, he'd been released on parole. Assisted by A Second Chance, the very organization she's working with now, he'd found a job and started a new life far away from his criminal past.

Without the incredible work of A Second Chance, who knows where he'd be today. Maybe he'd be part of the 52% of inmates that return to prison within three years of their release, instead of holding a steady job and happy life in Starling City.

It's his shining example of resocialization that spurs her on. It would've been so much easier for him to go back to his gang in Vegas and continue right where he'd left off before prison, but instead, he'd put his trust into an organization that vowed to help him, and started over in a new city, thousands of miles away from home (and old habits).

A throat clears a few feet away. "Uhh… hi. Ms. Smoak? The guard just sent me in, but I can wait outside if you need another minute," a deep, yet soft voice rips her out of her thoughts.

And here we go again, she thinks, mentally preparing herself for the next disappointment, despite her best efforts to stay positive. But hey, this one has at least managed to not insult her in his first sentence, so that's a plus.

She pastes on her practiced CEO smile, that Roy has told her looks more like a grimace, and looks up. And oh boy, she wasn't ready for the man in front of her.

He's beautiful.

No, seriously, he somehow manages to look like a freaking model, even though he's wearing the very unflattering gray prison uniform. What the hell? Also, why does he look so familiar?

"H… hi," she stutters, her façade of careful indifference crumbles right in front of her eyes, because god damnit, this man should be on the cover of magazines (preferably undressed so he can show off the muscles his uniform fails to hide) instead of being in this place.

What was he convicted of anyway? Being too fucking beautiful?

"Joyriding and driving under the influence, actually," he replies, eyes sparkling with mirth.

Oh shit, she totally said that out loud.

"Oh no, please kill me," she mutters und buries her heated cheeks in her hands.

"Pretty sure committing murder would disqualify me from the program," the inmate quips and sits down. "Not to mention the twenty-five to life they'd likely add to my sentence."

She peaks through her fingers, not so subtly studying the man in front of her. He's quick-witted. That's for sure. And he has a sense of humor. And it's been a few minutes and he still hasn't made any sexist comments.

His sandy hair is short, maybe an inch long, and there's a light stubble growing along his jaw that she'd find unattractive on other men, but it's working on him. His nose is the tiniest bit crooked, like it's been broken before without being fully reset, but that's the only imperfection on this beautiful specimen of a man she can see. And weirdly, it only makes him more attractive.

"What are the chances that we can just forget the last two minutes ever happened?" she groans, forcing herself to stop staring at his brilliant blue eyes.

"Zero," he grins, "this is already the most fun I've had all month."

Right, because he's in prison. For committing a crime.

She sobers at his answer, using the sudden silence to look down at her list of names.

Huh.

That can't be right. Oliver Queen?

"Uhh, so what's your name?"

"Oliver."

Oh wow, everything about him just became so unbelievably clear.

No wonder he looks like a freaking model. He's a billionaire.

"Judging by the look on your face, you know who I am," Oliver surmises carefully, his smile dimming.

"Yeah, Queen Consolidated is one of my clients." And even if she didn't work with QC, it would've been hard to miss the very public downfall of the heir to the billion dollar empire two years ago. The local media had gone batshit crazy after it became clear that Oliver Queen would be going to prison.

"My parents always gushed about you and your company, even though it's always bothered them that Ray Palmer is credited with kickstarting your business," he tells her with a half-smile, confirming that he also knows who he's dealing with.

"I didn't think they'd be interested in funding me, to be honest. Software isn't exactly a specialty of QC, so I went after Palmer and got his attention instead."

"How'd you manage to do that?"

She looks around the dull, windowless room, checking for cameras. "I… got creative," she finally decides to divulge in this guarded environment with a complete stranger. And even though he really is a stranger to her, aside from the articles she's read about him over the years, she feels a sharp pang of something when he huffs out a disappointed "oh" at her noncommittal answer.

"Apparently, all his files were replaced by porcupine flatulence overnight and he turned to me to fix the problem when none of his techs could find a solution," she explains with a slightly cocky smirk.

Oliver gapes at her with wide eyes before breaking out into a full belly laugh. "You… I mean, someone hacked into his system and replaced all his data with porcupine farts?"

She shrugs lightly, barely able to contain her own laughter. "Yup."

"Huh," he breathes out, leaning back in his chair and pursing his lips. "That certainly is one heck of a creative way to gain someone's attention. Clearly, it worked out well for you."

"It did, and it put me in a position where I can help others who don't have any support and no good outlook on the future." Nice transition, Smoak, she applauds herself silently.

"Right, our COs told us that you're working with A Second Chance and looking for people to work for you," he picks up on her attempt of getting their conversation back on track. "So how does this work? It might shock you, but I've never actually done a job interview, so I'm a little lost here."

Oh, and here comes the hard part and the reason she should've let her HR manager do this. Why had she let her PR people convince her that having her do some of the interviews personally would get them even more good press?

She clears her throat, trying to decide how to explain this to him.

"Look, Oliver, you seem like a nice guy and I've had fun talking to you, but to be honest, you're not really the target group I'm looking for," she starts, immediately noticing the slump in his shoulders. "This program is supposed to be for people who have nothing or little to go back to after their time in prison and who run the risk of ending up back in the system without some help. When you get out you'll go back to your family's mansion and trust fund and unless you do another really stupid thing that your army of lawyers can't get you out of, you'll never come back here. Other guys aren't so lucky."

The more she talks the more his face falls until all that is left of his handsome smile is a sad frown. "Right," he huffs out, his jaw tensing, "except that I won't have any of those things you mentioned when I get out next month."

"Oliver, the last time I checked, your family was still one of the richest and most influential in the country. I doubt that has changed in the last 24 hours."

"That might be," he allows, suddenly looking defeated, "but all I am to my family is an embarrassment and a disgrace to the proud legacy of the Queen name."

An irrational bout of sadness and sympathy and anger overcomes her when she sees the complete and utter defeat on his face.

She exhales slowly, looking for the right words. "Just because you made a mistake, doesn't mean that you'll lose your family's support."

He laughs bitterly, "I already lost my family's support, Ms. Smoak. Or would you call cutting me off financially before the trial, letting me fend for myself with a state-assigned defense attorney, not visiting me even once in the two years I've been in here, or never bothering to take any of my calls, 'supporting' me?"

"Your parents never visited you?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper, her heart breaking for a man she barely knows.

He just shakes his head, gaze dropping to his lap. In that moment he looks like a lost little boy.

"So, contrary to what you believe, I'll have nothing when I get out and I could really use a job. I'm not sure other companies will jump at the chance to employ an ex-playboy-billionaire-heir who barely got through high school and who's a convicted felon no less," he presses out, self-deprecation dripping from every word.

And god, she wants to help this guy. She really does. But she doesn't know how. Judging by what he's told her about his family's lack of support, employing him would be a surefire way to piss off one of her biggest and most prominent clients and potential future business partners.

"It's just…" she's desperately grappling for words that just won't come.

The last little shred of hope falls from his face and his beautiful blue eyes turn dull.

She can see that he's frustrated and disappointed, but unlike all the other guys she's met today he doesn't lash out at her. He just bows his head and pastes on a fake smile that can't hide his sadness. "Well, thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Ms. Smoak. I do hope you find suitable candidates for your program. There are some good guys in here who deserve another chance." He gets up from his seat, turning towards the door before pausing in his step.

"Rory Regan," he sighs. "He's a good kid that got mixed up in the wrong crowd. Lost his parents while he was in here, so he'll have an even harder time to adjust to the outside world than most people when he gets out in six weeks, but he's got a real talent when it comes to drawing and all that. Maybe he has a future as a graphic designer or something."

Without waiting for a reply or even lifting his gaze to look at her he knocks on the door and lets the guard lead him out, leaving her behind with her thoughts.

Did he seriously just plug another guy, decreasing his own chances of landing a spot in the program even more? He could've made another attempt to talk himself up, but instead he'd chosen to help out someone else. That was either really stupid or really selfless.

Either way, one thing is for sure: this Oliver Queen is a far cry from Ollie Queen, the playboy billionaire that graced Starling City's page six on an almost daily basis.

And maybe this man is worth a second look.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ARROW ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

July 2013

He's been able to push down the anxiety surrounding his upcoming release for a long time, but today, two days before the official end of his 2-year sentence, the desperation has started to set in.

In less than 48 hours he'll be a free man with no money to his name, no job, no home, and no family or friends to turn to for help, since even his best friend has cut all ties to him.

Where is he going to sleep? What is he going to eat? How is he supposed to find work with this damn felony conviction looming over him?

In his most despondent moments he's thought about starting a brawl, maybe punching one of the guards to add some time to his sentence. But that would just be delaying the inevitable, wouldn't it?

His first order of business will need to be to find a way out of the city. It'll already be hard enough to find a job, but he doubts that anybody in Starling will even consider giving him a chance. Not with his former reputation.

With any luck, the press will have forgotten about him and his release will go undocumented by the local newspapers and gossip magazines, and he'll have a chance to leave the city and this life behind without making another splash in the papers.

Here's to hoping.

Across the yard he can see Rory and Rene laughing at something one of the other guys said, looking happy and relaxed.

Oh, how he'd love to be in their shoes.

They'd both been accepted into the A Second Chance program, Rory with a job at SmoakSolutions and Rene with a job at Palmer Tech.

Lucky bastards.

"Queen, you got a visitor," one of the guards yells over and Oliver almost drops the dumb bell he's working out with. He hasn't gotten a visitor in almost two years, the last one being a sneaky reporter posing as a lawyer, trying to get an exclusive from him.

"I'm not expecting anyone," he grunts as he deposits the dumb bell safely on the ground. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't visiting hours over already?"

The guard shrugs carelessly, smacking his lips together in a disgusting fashion as he loudly chews his gum. "That's above my paygrade, kid. Some lady called Felicity Smoak apparently pulled some strings with the warden and convinced him to let her in to see you asap."

Felicity Smoak?

What? How? Why?

A glimmer of the hope he's desperately been searching for these past few weeks flares up in his chest suddenly.

Did she reconsider her stance on employing him?

Why else would she come out here to speak to him?

Man, don't get your hopes up, he tries to caution himself.

He looks down at his sweaty form. "Do I have time to shower?"

"Nope," the guard tells him, "I was told to get you straight away because she only has a few minutes, so either go now or don't go at all."

Shit.

He grabs a towel, scrambling after the guard, and futilely wiping at the sweat covering his body, scrubbing over his faces and wet hair as efficiently as possible. At least he had the foresight to take his shirt off before working out in the blistering sun, so he won't have any disgusting sweat stains on the rough, gray material.

It's probably a good thing that he's so occupied with trying to look at least half presentable, otherwise he would've completely freaked out on the hurried trek over to the visiting center.

He immediately zeros in on her when the guard lets him into the large hall with tables and benches that's usually loud and chaotic and brimming with people but is completely deserted now except for the beautiful blonde woman and a really big, black dude looming a few feet behind her.

Today, she doesn't look as business-y as she did a month ago. Her pencil skirt and blouse from the interview are replaced with skinny black jeans and a comfortable looking sweatshirt.

But if she's not here for business, then why did she go out of her way to get another chance to talk to him again?

"Ms. Smoak," Oliver greets as he steps closer, more or less successfully keeping a lid on his excitement. "It's nice to see you again. Unexpected, but nice."

"Oliver," she smiles at him kindly, motioning for him to sit down opposite her. "Sorry for the impromptu visit, but since I'm about to step on a plane to Metropolis, my plan to stop by tomorrow was messed up." She lets her eyes quickly roam over his form, her brow furrowing a little. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay. Nervous… worried…. anxious to get out, terrified to actually be out," he admits.

She nods thoughtfully. "Well, maybe I can help with some of those feelings."

"What do you mean?"

"After our last conversation I had my people dig up everything there is to know about you. Every newspaper article, police records, every TMZ video, every school report, college records, and so on."

Oh boy, this can't possibly end well.

"You know what caught my eye?"

That I'm a failure?

"Uh, that I was terrible in school and got in way too much trouble?"

Her lips twitch as if she's fighting a grin. "That, too. Algebra was not your strong suit, huh?"

"Amongst other things," he mutters.

"Bad grades and occasional troubled behavior with the authorities aside, I also saw your protective side," she reveals her observation that takes him back. "You may not have always chosen the best way to show that side of you — because let's face it, without your parents' money and influence you would've been locked up for assaulting paparazzi and other sleezebags a whole lot earlier. But, and that's the important thing, you seem to have an innate sense or maybe even a need to protect those you care about."

He thinks back to the numerous times he'd violently shoved or even punched a paparazzo away from his sister and mother, or when he'd destroyed a few expensive cameras. She's right, he went about it in a completely wrong way, but at that time, in those moments, he defended his loved ones as best as he knew how, no matter the cost. Of course, back then he never needed to worry about repercussions because the Queen name and especially their money went a long way to sweep his altercations under the rug.

"Uhh, I guess," he mumbles, looking down at his lap, his ears burning, wondering if she just reprimanded or praised him.

"I'd like to build on that and see if this is maybe a viable career path for you."

"And what is 'this' exactly?" he asks with a furrowed brow, not quite following her train of thought.

"Personal security," the big, burly guy in the back chimes in. "Personal protection, asset protection, threat assessment, event security, intelligence gathering and analysis," he lists while unbuttoning his jacket and taking a seat next to Felicity, who doesn't seem to share Oliver's slight trepidation of being talked to by this massive guy. "There's a lot of facets to what I do. To what you could be doing."

"Personal security?" Oliver questions, not sure he heard this guy right.

"Yup. This is John Diggle, a close personal friend of mine and owner of Arrow Security, the security firm I've contracted for SmoakSolutions," Felicity jumps in. "I've convinced him to give you a spot on his team if you pass all the required tests in three months."

"Three months?" That's a long time from now. What is he supposed to do in the meantime?

"Believe me, you'll need all the time you can get to get even remotely close to the qualifications of my usual applicants," John Diggle assures him, picking up on his hesitation.

"And who are your usual applicants?"

"Ex-members of the armed forces," the other man says flatly, his tone suggesting that he's not very happy about offering this position to an ex-billionaire playboy instead.

"Just to be clear, Mr. Queen, this is not a free ticket for you. This is a chance. If you don't deliver, if you betray my trust, you're out. But if you put in the work and show me your dedication and prove that Felicity's faith in you is well placed, I'll happily support you in your quest for a new beginning. Understood?"

He swallows down the lump that's formed in his throat and nods. "Loud and clear, Mr. Diggle."

Felicity beams at him. "Welcome to Team Arrow."

"We don't call ourselves that," Mr. Diggle grumbles.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Two weeks later

His back hits the mat with a loud thud, the force of the shoulder throw knocking the air out of him for a solid two seconds.

"Again," Diggle yells and holds out his hand to help Oliver up. "What did I tell you about planting your feet?"

What the fuck was he thinking when he signed up for this?

He groans and lets the other man drag him up, still barely able to catch his breath.

It's the eleventh day of his training and it's safe to say that he's in over his head. He's never been so tired or sore ever in his life. After one day of settling into his apartment, getting a tour of both the SmoakSolutions headquarter and the Arrow Security facilities in Starling City, signing his contract and treating himself to the first Big Belly Buster in over two years, he's officially started training. And it sucks.

It's a complete one-eighty from his previous life in prison where he basically had nothing to do all day. Now his days start at 5am with a run, an early workout session, classes all through the rest of the morning and afternoon, and end with practical courses and another workout session.

He's 85 percent sure that Diggle is trying to kill him within the first month.

Oliver can safely say that he's never looked forward to going back to the classroom, but dear god, those hours of just sitting and listening and soaking up the knowledge about psychology, risk assessment and basic coding are the best part of his day now. The more practical courses for first aid and defensive driving aren't too bad either, but he's already terrified to start weapons training next week.

Correction: the best part of his day is when Felicity decides to stop by the private gym and interrupt Diggle's torture of him with bags of takeout. Surprisingly enough, it's not the food or the temporary reprieve from getting pummeled by Dig that he craves, it's being in her company.

She has this way about her that just lights up the room when she walks in. Just seeing her smile or hearing her laugh make this whole ordeal seem absolutely worth it.

Oh boy, he's in so much trouble.

Having a crush on her is a completely misguided endeavor. He'll work for her in three short months (that is, if he doesn't die before then, and passes all his tests and exams). He simply can't allow himself to get distracted by her and gamble away his future.

Whatever. He's probably just confusing his immense feeling of gratitude towards her for taking a chance on him for something that isn't actually there.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ARROW ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

8 months later, March 2014

She leans back in her chair, swiveling so she can look out the window that gives her the perfect view of downtown Central City. She's in her newly finished office building that they just moved into two weeks ago.

Being here is a weird mix of being excited and terrified at the same time. She's incredibly proud of the first real expansion of her company. Until now, most of her business was located in Starling City, but this new office opens up a whole new realm of opportunities and gets her one step closer to making another dream of hers come true: creating her own Applied Sciences division.

The clearing of a throat rips her out of her daydreaming and she turns towards her office door, unable to contain the smile and the sudden warmth spreading in her belly.

"Ms. Smoak, I'm here to escort you to your car."

"Oliver, how many times have I told you to call me Felicity?" she grumbles with mock annoyance lacing her voice while she shuts down her computer, knowing there's no point in arguing to stay longer.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't quite break. "You know how Mr. Diggle feels about protocol, Ms. Smoak. I'm trying not to get on his bad side, while you seem to be trying to get me in trouble."

She sighs dramatically. "You're no fun. He's not even around," she argues. "It could be our secret."

"I'm sure he'd find out somehow and we both know that he'd happily pin that indiscretion all on me, despite knowing that you offered," Oliver shoots back, letting a playful smile spread over his lips.

"I'm starting to think that I should cut out the middle man and just hire you personally," she suggests and grabs her things. "That way I could order you to call me Felicity and I could finally make you stop going out of your way to complete the boring and completely unnecessary task of bringing me to my car every night. You do realize that there's basically no chance that anything can happen to me in here, right?"

His cheeks color a little and he looks down. "I'll stop if you want me to," he says obviously reluctantly. "I've just noticed that you tend to stay much longer when no one reminds you to go home."

She reflects on that for a moment. He's right, of course. It's not like she has all that much to go home to, so she tends to drown herself in her work, sometimes coding into the wee hours before she realizes that she should be in bed. That behavior had only become a less regular occurrence when Oliver started working the evening shift.

One night a couple of months ago when they were still in Starling, he'd done rounds through the building and he'd found her immersed in a stack of financial reports. Ever since then, he's seemingly made it his mission to catch her right around 6pm to remind her that everybody else has already gone home and she should probably do, too.

He's not always successful in trying to get her to call it a night, but he cares enough to keep coming back every evening.

"You're a good man, Oliver," she says and brushes her hand over his chest as she walks past him.

And he really is.

Despite all odds, he fought his way through Dig's grueling boot camp style training and aced all of his tests, managing to impress the man himself in the process with his unparalleled tenaciousness and never ending drive.

She admires him for adapting to this new life and for staking it all on one card instead of giving up and succumbing to self-pity.

And good god, does she admire his physique. He was built before, when they first met, but now after Dig's merciless boot camp he's built.

That, combined with his kindness and humor, makes it really hard not to be attracted to him.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ARROW ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

1 year and 8 months later, November 2015

Just when he thought his life couldn't get any better, it did.

It was a completely unexpected turn of events when Diggle had invited him out for drinks one night and told him that his wife Lyla was pregnant and that he planned on cutting down his hours once the child was born. But the most surprising part was that he'd chosen Oliver to be his replacement for the personal security detail for Felicity.

Which is what got him to this point. He's now living, yes, living, with Felicity.

He moved into one of the guest rooms of her loft and spends almost every waking minute only a few feet away from her.

It's heaven and hell at the same time.

Heaven, because he gets to spend almost all his time with her. Her constantly sunny personality impossible not to love.

And hell, well, because he's now responsible for vetting the guys she goes out with and accompanying her to her dates. To be fair, she doesn't date very much, but when she does, it rips tiny little pieces from his heart, because he knows that he'll never be that guy for her.

And yeah, he's totally not gotten over his crush on his boss' boss. On the contrary, it seems like his feelings just keep growing stronger and cementing themselves into his very being the more time he spends with her.

It took them both a while to adjust to their new living arrangement, tiptoeing around each other for the first couple of days before they'd started to find a new balance.

Now, two months into the change, he can't quite remember why he'd been so reluctant to even think about sharing an apartment with a woman before. He absolutely loves it!

They've started cooking together —which basically means that she sips on her wine and watches him cook— every other night when they get home from the office at a reasonable hour. On all the other nights they grab takeout and usually end up eating together in front of the TV, sharing their favorite movies and TV shows with each other. Sometimes they skip the entertainment and just talk for hours on end about everything and nothing. In the mornings, she asks him for his opinion on her outfit and she helps him pick a good tie.

It's amazing, and in the quieter moments when he lets himself reflect on everything, he has to admit that this feels a whole lot like being in a committed relationship — without the physical aspect, of course.

Even though, to be completely honest, there is a lot of that, too. Just not in the typical sense.

Felicity is a very tactile person and he finds himself craving even her most fleeting touch. They come in the form of hugs (mostly for happy occasions, sometimes when she's really tired or frustrated), quick squeezes to his hands, tightly grabbing his biceps when they have to wade through a sea of reporters, playful jabs when he makes a stupid joke, and challenging shoves when they work out together.

It doesn't matter how short or trivial the moment of contact is, he looks forward to each and every one of them.

He's so fucking screwed.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ARROW ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

4 months later, March 2016

She waits for him, impatiently tapping her foot against the floor.

Whoever said that men always had to wait for women to get ready?

"Oliver, hurry up or we'll be late," she yells up the stairs of her two story loft, more amused than annoyed that he lost track of time. She's attending the Annual Central City Cancer Benefit with Oliver as her trusted bodyguard, and they should've arrived at the event ten minutes ago.

"No need to rush out of here on my account, honey," a deep voice behind her drawls, making her whirl around in shock.

She stumbles back when she finds herself face to face with a massive six foot five guy that looks vaguely familiar. He's dressed in dirty street clothes, a wild beard growing on his face, unkempt hair somewhat tamed by the baseball hat he's wearing. But the really terrifying thing about him isn't the crazy look in his eyes. No, it's the gun in his hand that is pointed straight at her.

Panic washes through her body, paralyzing her in her spot, and robbing her of all memories of every self-defense lesson she's ever gotten from Dig and Oliver.

"Who… who are you?" she stutters. "What do you want?"

"Of course, you don't remember me, you stupid bitch," the intruder snarls, taking a step closer. "I knew you didn't give a shit about us and just used us for some cheap PR."

What is he talking about? Who is this guy? And where the hell is Oliver?

"Not so brave now, when you ain't got the guard to help you out, huh?" he taunts, grabbing her by the neck.

Guard? What guard? Is he talking about Oliver?

"We was promised jobs from you and now I ain't got nothing because you're an entitled little bitch," he keeps taunting her and the puzzle pieces finally fall into place.

He's one of the guys she'd interviewed at Iron Heights. One that she clearly dismissed early.

Quick footsteps come clattering down the staircase, giving her a burst of hope. "Sorry, sorry, I know I'm super late, but Dig wanted to talk about some new recruits and we lost track of-"

Her back is turned towards him, anchored in place by the intruder's meaty hands, but she knows that Oliver must've stopped dead in his tracks.

"Oh, so you did get a little boy toy that day at Heights?" he mocks, whirling her around and winding his free arm around her neck, pressing her against his chest. He points the gun at Oliver. "I would've been a much better choice," he whispers in her ear and she can't help the terrified shudder that runs through her when his hot breath hits her cheek.

"Let her go, Lynch," Oliver almost growls, his eyes fixed on his opponent.

Lnych! Yes, that name sounds familiar.

"Pff, what you gonna do, pretty boy?"

" .go!" Oliver repeats slowly, punctuating every word as he steps closer. "Or I swear to god I'll kill you."

"Oliver," she whimpers, watching him as he steps right against the tip of the gun, so that it presses against his chest. And only then does she realize that there are unbidden tears streaming down her face.

Please don't do anything stupid, Oliver, she pleads silently.

"Let her go, Lynch."

"Fuck you, Queen," the other man spits out in disdain. "It's not fair that you got to walk out of that prison with a job and a new future when you're already richer than the rest of Heights combined."

"Then sort your problems out with me and stop hiding behind someone else," Oliver challenges, and she can actually feel Lynch's grip on her loosen ever so slightly.

A surge of hope ripples through her.

If Oliver would just look at her she could maybe communicate that they can take this son of a bitch out together. But he doesn't look at her, keeping his sole focus on the man behind her instead.

"Oliver," she tries again and this time with less pressure on her throat it comes out as more than just a croaky sound.

It does the trick and Oliver's eyes flutter down to meet hers and for a split second all his hatred and anger towards the other man melt away and makes room for his worry and love. That, more than the arm around her throat, takes her breath away. For just the blink of an eye it's like this man that usually keeps most of his feelings and emotions bottled up and safely tucked away, lets her see past all the walls.

And then suddenly it's all gone and without any warning he catapults his body forward, ripping Lynch's arm away from her throat, giving her the chance to drop down to the floor and scramble away from the ensuing fight.

Oliver lands a few brutal hits to the other man's face and somehow manages to disarm him in the process, sending the gun scattering to the floor a few feet away. But then Lynch lunges at Oliver in bling rage, hitting him so hard in the stomach that he has to double over, wheezing in a desperate breath of air.

Lynch uses the time to dive for his gun, a still reeling Oliver hot on his feet, landing right on top of him. They grapple for control for seconds that seem to stretch out for hours before a deafening bang rips through her apartment.

One of the men, Felicity can't quite tell which one, lets out an inhuman scream in what must be abhorrent pain.

Her breath catches in her throat, heart wildly beating in her chest with the absolutely horrifying notion that Oliver is the one that got hit, until he rises up and rips the gun out of Lynch's hand, landing hit after hit against the other man's face until he stops moving altogether.

For a couple of moments Oliver just kneels there on top of his knocked out opponent who's lying in a rapidly growing pool of blood on her living room floor, chest rising and falling quickly as he takes in labored breaths.

She's just emerging from behind the safety of the kitchen counter when Oliver's shoulders suddenly slump and he sags to the side, sliding to the floor until he's sprawled out on his back.

Only then does she realize that the blood on the floor is actually Oliver's.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ARROW ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Two days later

He wakes because of the searing pain in his right leg. His thigh feels like it's on fire.

But why?

Did he get into an accident?

Oh no, was Felicity with him when it happened? Is she hurt, too?

He forces his body to leave the hazy in-between state and to really wake up. He needs to make sure Felicity is okay.

"Oliver? Can you hear me?"

"Mhh," he hums, his tongue feeling too heavy to talk.

"Just go back to sleep," she urges him and he can feel her soft fingers smooth over his head. "You need the rest."

Yes, rest sounds perfect right now.

The next time he wakes, he's far more lucid and actually manages to open his eyes. The searing pain in his leg is now only a dull and uncomfortable throbbing, which makes him think that he's been given a considerable amount of pain killers.

This time there's a weight along the left side of his body. Glancing down with tired eyes he realizes that it's Felicity who's carefully sprawled over him, her hair tickling his nose. Maybe that's what woke him up.

A quick sweep of his surroundings tells him that he's in his room at Felicity's place, safely tucked into his bed. That's a good sign, right? He's not in a hospital, which means that his injuries couldn't have been too bad?

As he stirs, taking methodical stock of his body and any other potential injuries aside from the obvious one in his leg, she also jostles awake, lifting her head.

"Oliver." The relieved smile is enough to melt his heart. "Welcome back."

"Hey," he croaks out, pleasantly surprised when she makes no attempt to disentangle herself from him. "Are you okay?"

She nods, pressing her lips together. "I'm okay. How do you feel?"

"Mhhh... sore... tired," he hums. "What happened?"

Her eyes dim. "Do you remember an inmate at Iron Heights, called Ryan Lynch?"

He nods solemnly, indeed remembering that poor excuse for a human being.

"I interviewed him two years ago for the ASC program. He was actually the one right before you. But yeah, long story short, he was a disrespectful dick and I had him escorted out of the room before we could really begin the interview. He didn't take too kindly to the rejection. After he got out of prison earlier this year, he ended up on the wrong side of the law again and apparently blames that on me."

"How did he get in here?"

"Dumb luck?" She shrugs her shoulders. "I had already turned the stay alarm off because I thought we'd be leaving any second and he just snuck in."

And caught you off guard because you were so focused on your night out with Felicity, he chastises himself.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, memories of her terrified face assaulting his brain.

Once again, he'd failed.

Will he ever stop disappointing the people closest to him?

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she urges him, propping herself up on her elbows so she can really look him in the eye.

"Yeah, I do," he mumbles. "You could've gotten hurt."

"But I didn't. Because you protected me."

"I'm supposed to prevent things like this from happening in the first place," he argues. "And I didn't. An armed man gained access to your apartment and threatened your life. While I was there."

He must be the worst bodyguard in the history of bodyguards.

Maybe this was a sign that he shouldn't be one in the first place.

"Don't you dare think about quitting," she warns him, poking his chest with her index finger. "Shit happens. We learn from our mistakes and move on with our lives."

"How can you just brush it off like that?" he questions, starting to feel agitated.

"Because he doesn't deserve to get more credit than that and because what happened wasn't one person's fault —contrary to what you may believe— but a series of unfortunate events," she argues softly, her soothing and level tone calming his flaring nerves instantly. "The police should've caught him faster after his newest string of robberies. He shouldn't have gotten past the lobby. I shouldn't have disarmed the security system so early. All of this was very preventable, and yet, it still happened, because sometimes life sucks."

Is it really that simple?

"But how can you still feel safe when you're with me after what happened?" he questions desperately, voicing his biggest fear. What if she decides that his protection isn't good enough anymore?

"I've always felt safe with you, Oliver." She presses her flat hand to his chest, immediately finding the steady thrum of his heart. "If Lynch attacking us did one thing, it's reinforcing my trust in you. I know that you'll do everything to protect me, even if it means having you femoral artery nicked by a bullet and almost bleeding to death. I know that there's nothing you wouldn't do for me. And not just because I'm your client and it's your job."

He swallows heavily. "Why then?"

She licks her lip, obviously contemplating whether to tell him what she thinks or not. "Because you love me," she whispers like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is. "And not just in a friendship-y way, or out of gratitude for giving you a job. Maybe it started out that way, but I'm pretty sure that your feelings surpass those things by far now."

"I… uh… I mean… that…uh…" Way to play it cool.

There's really no point in denying it at this point, is there?

"I'm sorry," he sighs, looking down at her hand on his chest. God this just feels so right. "I know it's really unprofessional. I can talk to Dig and have me reassigned to another position if I make you feel uncomfortable."

Please don't have me reassigned.

Felicity snorts, making his gaze shoot up to meet hers. "Stop apologizing for things that aren't in your control," she chastises him playfully. "You should never apologize for how you feel. I know I'm not."

"You're not what?"

"I'm not apologizing for how I feel about you."

Could she…?

"I'm rather certain that I'm in love with you," she spells it out for him, holding her breath as she waits for his reaction.

"You are?"

Can this be real?

"Mhh-huh," she hums and smiles softly at him. "I know that it's a terribly cliché thing to act on your feelings after something traumatic happened, but I don't want to wait anymore. I don't want to hide my feelings anymore, not when I know that you feel the same."

"I do," he agrees eagerly, still not quite believing that this is reality. "But is this going to work out?"

She shrugs. "The honest answer is that I don't know. I want it to work out, and after everything I think we owe it to ourselves to at least give us a valiant try. If, for some reason, we find out along the way that we're not meant to be more than friends and partners, then at least we can say that we gave it a shot."

"I like the sound of that," he smiles at her and tugs her closer into his body, mindful of his injured side. "So what would you say to having our first official date tomorrow night? I don't think I'll be able to go out yet, but we could order some Italian and watch a movie?"

"That sounds like an amazing plan, but I'd like to make a suggestion."

"Do tell."

"How about we have our first date tonight? I don't think I can wait until tomorrow. I'll order pizza and you can pick the movie."

"Mhh, you have the best plans, Ms. Smoak," he whispers and lets his lips skim against hers in a kiss that quickly grows more passionate until her phone starts ringing loudly and interrupts their little moment.

"To be continued, Mr. Queen."

⁂ ⁂ ⁂