Part: 4 - Out of the Woods
Word Count: 6594

Notes: Okay, I started working on posting this before 7 this morning. Real life caught up to me again. I am so excited to be sharing this chapter with you, but at the same time, I'm a little sad to see this fic end. It was a blast to write.

Thank you so much for all your love and support on this thing! I really appreciate it!

Everything is too bright. That's the first thought that crosses Felicity's mind as she opens her eyes, squinting against the light in the room that she knows isn't all that bright. Hello, hangover. It's too bright and it's too hot, like she's stuck in a sweatbox. And her contacts are gritty, too. Maybe she's died and this is Hell.

Only then does Felicity realize something heavy is thrown over her hip. Frowning, she reaches down, only to be met with the feel of skin under her fingertips. "That is an arm," she says aloud. More importantly, it isn't her arm. Eyes going wide, she turns to find Oliver, eyes closed and breathing evenly.

Scurrying as though she's staring down a barrel of a Yakuza gun, Felicity wrenches out of his grip, scrambling back a good five feet to observe the scene. The bad news is that somehow she ended up sleeping with Oliver—to be determined if that's a euphemism or not. The good news is this isn't her bed. Actually, it isn't a bed at all. It's a mat, down in Oliver's Arrow lair.

"What the hell happened last night?" she demands.

Sleeping Oliver doesn't answer. Rude.

"Okay, Smoak," she declares, running a hand through her loose, slightly disgusting hair. There was definitely a lot of sweating last night—to be determined why. "Pull yourself together." She tries to pull back any memories, but the last thing she can remember is Oliver getting all sweaty using the salmon ladder. While a nice image, it isn't exactly helpful. His watch on the edge of the mat, however, is very helpful. She checks it: 5:13 AM. She's barely lost any time, then.

"Morning checklist," she mutters under her breath, thinking back to the first days after Japan when she ended up in bed with her ex-asshole. Between the nightmares and the unfamiliar surroundings, sometimes she woke up like this, disoriented and one step away from hitting someone. At least she was used to it back then.

"Clothes?" She reaches down to touch her chest, pleased to find she's in her sweatshirt and jeans, and her athletic clothes are crumpled on top of her bag. There must have been a workout last night—and this time she knows that isn't a euphemism. "Yes, definitely. Good." She sighs. "No drunken sex with the best friend you are sexually attracted to is good." The words sound flat to her own ears. While her mind might be happy with that revelation, there's no denying that Oliver Queen is a tree her body would very much like to climb. "Yay celibacy."

The next thought blurts from her mouth: "Phone." She glances around, only to see the case shining on top of the desk with the monstrosity Oliver calls a computer. "Just found it. Good. Now keys." She glances around for a moment before dismissing the thought with a wave of her hand. "Didn't drive here, so they're in my bag."

She leans forward, pressing her forehead to her knees, taking a deep breath. "Sanity?" she calls, noting the next item on her list. Nothing happens. "Sanity?" This time, she rises to her feet with a sigh. "And, look, we have a runner."

Everything aches when she tries to move. "Apparently, my sanity is the only runner today," Felicity mutters to herself. "Oliver, I hope you have a shower down here because I am not doing a walk of shame if I have another option." She glares down at his sleeping form. "Why didn't you have the good grace to wake up first and leave?"

The last time they shared a bed together, that's what he had done. By the time she woke up the next morning, Felicity was left with only a very masculine cologne lingering on her sheets. That she could deal with; yes, he slept in her bed, but she didn't have to handle all the implications that came with it in the morning. They both pretended it never happened. Denial may just be a river in Egypt, but it's a good river. She likes that river.

Right now, her river is dry, and her boat is stuck in the mud.

"Ugh, hangover metaphors," she mutters. Glancing over at the door on the far side of the lair, Felicity decides to risk it. After going to fetch her bag, she walks up to it, placing a hand on the doorknob before whispering, "Please be a bathroom and not some kind of…" She can't even finish the thought; there are too many kinds of weird rooms it could be that she definitely does not want it to be. "If this is filled with pink unicorns, Smoak," she mutters to herself, "you are walking out of here and never speaking of it again."

She winces, closing her eyes as she twists the knob. A moment later, opens her eyes to a pristine, no-nonsense bathroom, fully stocked. "There is a God, and He is good," she breathes out. A few moments later, the door is locked and she's under the spray of a blissfully hot shower, looking around for shampoo options.

There's only one: a two-in-one shampoo and body wash combo that smells like every product with for men on the label ever created. After deciding that smelling like generic masculinity and last night's regrets is better than sweat-soaked hair, she grabs it.

Halfway through lathering her hair, a memory from last night hits her. Felicity stops cold, eyes widening as she remembers the feel of Oliver's lips against the top of her head before he said goodnight. "Bad Felicity," she chastises herself, shaking her head and sending soap everywhere. "No. That never happened. Oliver did not kiss you. Not last night, not that first night you met. Never." She stops before allowing, "Well, maybe that one time in your dreams, but you are not in control of your subconscious. Let that thought go right now."

Ten minutes later, she's pulling on the fresh pair of jeans and the blue t-shirt she packed, hair pulled into a messy bun that doesn't drip water down her neck. She removes her contacts, flushes her eyes with water, and sighs in contentment when she slips on her glasses.

Felicity exits the bathroom, surprised to find Oliver still asleep on the mats, but curled on his side now. She didn't think he ever slept. Maybe he's making up for that today. Sleep is so rare for him that waking him now seems cruel, so she'll take the chance that Tommy is still upstairs. Uncertain what to do, she takes a pen from the desk, dropping her bag to go back to the mats. She crouches over him, picking up his extended right arm. Gnawing at her lip, she scribbles a message on his arm.

After nodding twice at her work, she makes the slow ascent up the stairs, glancing back at Oliver before she leaves.

As he tries to move a case of wine out of the cellar and into the cooler below the bar, Tommy knocks against something that isn't the wall. A glance over his shoulder reveals blonde hair, and it takes him a moment to realize why anyone would be in the bar at this hour. It takes another moment to realize she smells like Ollie's shampoo. Well, then. His girl must have stayed the night.

Setting the case on the ground, he turns to her with a polished smile. "Hey, blonde and beautiful," he teases in greeting. A second glance reveals that she's more beautiful than he originally thought. It's a weird kind of beautiful; her hair is falling out of its elastic and the only makeup she's sporting is a pink so bright he needs sunglasses to look at it. "How are you this morning?"

The blonde—Felicity; he needs to remember her name—rolls her eyes at his attempt at civility, brushing it off like a speck of dust on her leather jacket. "Not a morning person," is her reply, in that low voice that sounds like sin. What kind of sin, Tommy isn't sure; it could be murder just as easily as it could be sex. All part of Blondie's charm. "Also, if you call me that again, I'll cut out your tongue." She punctuates the thought with a smile so sweet it sends chills down his spine. This time he's certain: murder. The sin in her voice is definitely murder. She motions to the case. "Let me help you with that."

Unable to resist as he takes the other end of the box, he asks, "What's the matter with you? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Mats, actually," she mutters under her breath. Before he can ask what she means, Blondie says, "Where do you want this case?"

"Behind the bar is fine," he assures her, motioning. They set it down a moment later, and he throws her another grin. It's shut down just as quickly, and Tommy is starting to understand why Ollie likes this girl so much. "So, you've helped me." He claps his hands together as she takes a seat at the bar, wincing as she slides onto it gingerly. Apparently Ollie got in a little more than some vigilante practice last night. "What can I do for you?"

"Coffee," is her immediate response, leaning both arms against the bar. Blondie strips off her jacket, throwing it on the counter next to her. Underneath, she's wearing a light blue t-shirt with a wolf on it. The words inside read, Throw me to the wolves and I will return leading the pack. Of that, Tommy has no doubt. A moment later, she adds, "If you have it."

"I do," Tommy replies, "but you don't want any." He makes a face before leaning in to add, "It's terrible."

Her head tilts to the side. "Okay, I'm going to ask: Why do you serve terrible coffee if you know it's terrible?"

He shrugs. "Anyone who orders coffee at a bar deserves terrible coffee."

In one of the most adorable things Tommy's seen recently, Blondie's mouth opens several times without sound. Finally, she shakes her head before waving a hand. "You know what? I will tear apart your shitty logic later when I don't have a hangover." He laughs without meaning to. "How about a bloody Mary and a pretzel?"

"That we have, Blondie," is Tommy's answer, producing a bag of pretzel sticks on the counter. "Bloody Mary, coming right up."

Making a noise in the back of her throat, Blondie declares, "Tommy, this is the list of acceptable things to call me," she announces as Tommy prepares her drink. "Felicity." She waves a hand. "That's it. That's the list. No nicknames."

"Hey, lighten up, sunshine," he replies with a wink, dropping the cocktail in front of her. "I'm just screwing with you." Her previous thought dawns on him, and he frowns. "Wait, how much did you drink last night?" It's probably been five years since Oliver got good and wasted, which means he's probably heaving his guts up right now.

"Not nearly as much as Oliver," she replies, taking a sip of her drink. Again Tommy notices the name: Oliver, not Ollie. No one under the age of thirty calls him Oliver—except, apparently, Felicity. There has to be a story in there somewhere. "In case you're wondering if I killed him and buried his body in the woods, he's downstairs sleeping it off. I didn't want to wake him." She stops to chew on a pretzel. "It's a miracle when he sleeps through the night."

Apparently her thing with Ollie is not a new thing, then. One of the more frustrating things about the new-and-improved Ollie is his ability to keep secrets; once upon a time, Tommy knew everything about his best friend's life, but no longer.

Instead of dwelling on the parts of his best friend that are different, he leans against the bar, staring at the blonde with eyes like murder. "So…" He trails off. Felicity is a mouthful, and shortening it is out of the question because he doesn't want to die today. "What's your last name again?"

"Smoak," she answers, clicking the k.

Yeah. That, Tommy can work with. "So, Smoak," he tries again, but stops short. "Can I call you 'Smoak,' or is that not acceptable?"

"I'll allow it, Merlyn," she answers with a slight grin. It's more than he's gotten this entire conversation, so he takes it as a win.

He can work with Merlyn, too. "So, Smoak," he starts for the third time, "are you and Oliver…?" He trails off, allowing her to fill in the blank.

She leans across the bar before countering, "Are Oliver and I what, exactly?" He starts to abort, but she takes mercy on him. Maybe he's starting to grow on her. "Partners, I guess. Friends?" It comes out as a question, her eyebrows knitting together. "Kind of? Maybe? I don't know. He's the Arrow, and occasionally, when his cases interest me, I provide my services."

"Which are?" Tommy hedges.

Smoak grins like the Mona Lisa: enigmatic and dangerous. "Many and varied," she replies, taking another sip of her drink. "Like my sins." If she'd winked, he would have asked for details, but her eyes are hard enough to make him wonder how many bodies she's buried. It's tempered by that challenge in her smile, as if to say, You won't earn my secrets that easily, Merlyn. Something tells him he isn't up to the task of trying.

He slides a stool from in front of the register down to where she sits, sitting down and leaning on the bar opposite her. "Okay, so that's off-limits," he answers instead. After a moment of thought, Tommy tries, "Can I ask how you started this partnership with Ollie?"

"Open auditions," she quips without missing a beat. "There was a casting call. 'Wanted: female hacker, mid-twenties, to work tech support for Arrow.'" She stops for a moment to chew on her straw with a wicked smile. "It was a big deal. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."

Though he should probably be frustrated with her cryptic answer, Tommy can't help but laugh. "Okay, so how you two met is off-limits, too," he notes aloud. "How about…" He stops to think. There isn't much more he wants to know about her; the rest are just details he'll pick up later. "Why are you helping Ollie?" He frowns suddenly. "I mean, half this city views him as a killer, but you paint him as a hero."

"He is a hero," she retorts, smile slipping off her face.

"He kills people," Tommy answers. It's hard to wrap his mind around that part.

"I didn't say he was a saint," Smoak counters. "And, I mean, what kind of counterargument is that to say his actions aren't heroic?" She taps her fingernails across the bar, and for the first time he realizes they're painted lime green. "Cops kill people. Soldiers kill people. Would you say either of those were less heroic for it?"

Tommy shakes his head. "Cops have to defend innocent lives," he disagrees. "Soldiers have to fight a war. It's not—"

Throwing her arm out wide, Smoak leans across the bar to motion outside the club. "Do you think it isn't war out there on the streets?" she demands. "Every day, someone dies in the Glades. Wrong person, wrong place, wrong time. Bad things happen to good people all the time. The good cops try to stop it, but it isn't always enough for the legal system. The crooked ones just take a bribe to sweep it under the rug. Someone incorruptible has to stand up for the victims who can't get justice." She throws her hands up. "I don't see anyone else volunteering.

"There are people out there who have been deeply wronged, Merlyn," she continues. "People who can't turn to the legal system, people who can't fight their own battles." She throws an arm out. "I mean, we live in a world where a criminal gang can kill eight people on the street. They can kidnap someone, hold them hostage, and beat the living hell out of them every day for seven months. They can leave that hostage in the constant fear that they're going to die. They can leave that hostage in constant fear that they're going to live." She mimes a cloud of smoke with her hands. "And then they can just disappear without repercussions—without justice."

The words are out of Tommy's mouth before he can stop them: "Is that what happened to you?"

Maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe he's imagining things. But since he met Felicity Smoak, there's been some sort of subtext of past trauma. The way she stayed stiff as a board around Laurel and him last night. The way her eyes flick across the room to watch her surroundings. The aversion to touch Ollie mentioned. A lot of the things he recognizes as different in her are the same changes he's noticed in his best friend since he's arrived home.

After taking a huge drink of her cocktail, she says into it, "Yeah. Three years ago in Japan." She glances up to meet his eyes, and he finds something hard and cold there—not dissimilar to what he sees in his best friend sometimes. Slowly, he's starting to understand why Ollie let Felicity, a total stranger, into his life: she understands his struggles now because she's lived them. "I had to earn my freedom—and I didn't have someone like Oliver to save me."

Heavy has never been his strong suit. It makes Tommy nervous, probably because he's lived a mostly normal and happy life. He lost his mom when he was a kid, but he had a huge support team that helped to fill the void left behind. So, when faced with someone else's struggles, he doesn't know how to answer. Especially not something like this.

"I have a feeling you didn't need to be saved," is his reply.

She offers him a slight smile. "It took me some time and encouragement to figure that out," she admits after a moment, "but yeah." Motioning toward the city, Felicity adds, "Not everyone is that lucky, though. Like those girls the Bratva smuggled into the city. A guy with a bow and a green hood swoops in and saves them from the sex trade." She crosses her arms. "That's why they need the Arrow—sometimes people can't save themselves."

Whatever she reads in Tommy's face causes her to sigh. "Look, just… just give him a chance, okay?" She waves a hand. "Push this debate away and watch him try to save this city. Then decide if he's a monster for yourself."

Tommy nods once before nodding toward her. "Ollie needs this, you know," he tells her. "Your… unwavering faith or whatever." Suddenly he sees Smoak in a whole new light; not a lot of people would take time to defend someone who they'd hesitate to call a friend. While he still isn't sure if she's Ollie's type or not, he's fairly certain that Ollie is hers.

Shrugging, Smoak only leans across the bar. "Enough moralistic debate," she declares. "It's still early and I still have part of a hangover." She flings a hand toward him. "You've asked questions about me—I want to know more about the great Tommy Merlyn."

He nods once at her tone, biting back a grin. "Wow, the sarcasm is strong with this one," is his reply.

Felicity's eyes light up like she's given him a gift. "Please tell me you knew that was a Star Wars reference." She bites down on another pretzel stick. "I'm hungover and more than a little fragile right now."

With a scoff, Tommy rolls his eyes. Something tells him that no one has ever used the word fragile to describe the woman in front of him. Still, he humors her. "I'm not living under a rock, Smoak," he replies. "There was this theater in the Heights when I was a kid that would only play old releases, and I saw them all there." This time he flashes her a wicked grin. "Actually, I begged to see it so bad that Mr. Q had no choice but to take both of us. Ollie, too."

He earns a grin in response—a wide, honest-to-God smile, and not a smirk. "Thomas Merlyn, you have restored my faith in humanity," she declares. "For that, I thank you." He rolls his eyes at her formal speech pattern as she twists to place her feet on the stool next to her, leaning against the bar with a hand against her face. "But back to the conversation at hand," she declares. "Tell me about yourself—and not the parts anyone in Starling City knows. Like, the fun-loving, madly-in-love-with-Laurel-Lance, billionaire stuff."

"I'm broke," he blurts. Smoak's eyes go wide, but she says nothing, waiting for him to continue. "My dad, he, uh… cut me off." Talking about it makes his hands ball into fists, and he can feel heat on his cheeks. "He said I wasn't doing anything with my life, and that I needed encouragement. So he's doing it in his typical hands-off parenting style." Unable to stop himself, he reaches for the bloody Mary on the bar, taking a sip from the glass. For clarification, he adds, "My mom died when I was eight, and my dad pushed me off on the Queens while he was busy traveling across the globe."

"That's a shame," is Felicity's answer. Her expression makes Tommy believe she means it. "Fathers are important." He opens his mouth to protest, but she silences him with a hand on his arm. "Even when they're assholes." Quietly, she asks, "Have you talked to Oliver about this yet?"

With a sigh he answers, "Yeah. I told him Saturday." Felicity tenses, as if that day has some weight with her. "He told me that the club is going to be on shaky ground for the first few weeks, but he can guarantee me thirty-five K a year right now—maybe more if it goes well. And he promised to help me move into a room at his place." Tommy runs a hand over his face. "Laurel and I aren't ready to move in together yet, and I don't want to rush into that.

"It's when I found out, you know," he whispers. Even now, it feels kind of surreal. "I was mad, and I kicked that stupid, green box he has." Smoak's eyes go wide, and Tommy nods. "Yeah, you know about the box."

"The Box of Island Things?" she asks, her tone grave. "Yeah, I know about that. You do not touch the box, Merlyn." She motions to the entrance to the basement. "Roy almost died when he went for the box a couple of weeks ago."

"Roy?"

"Part brother, part friend," Smoak explains, shrugging. "He's not blood, but my family took him in and now he's just kind of my kid brother." Vaguely, Tommy remembers the boy in the red hoodie that she called Roy. "He knows about Oliver's whole vigilante thing." She smiles. "He's a mechanic by trade, but he has an ear to the ground. No one takes a breath in this city without it getting back to him somehow."

Nodding once, Tommy continues, "I kicked the box pretty hard, and stuff flew out of it. One was a really old bow and—"

She nods. "Shado's bow."

Frowning, Tommy wonders just how ingrained in Ollie's vigilante business Felicity is. She knows something about the island, which is more than any of them know. "—and the other was a scrap of green fabric." She nods at that, too, muttering something about Shado again. "I just kind of put them together, and I realized that when the Arrow was around, Ollie wasn't. I didn't want to believe it, but he didn't deny it." Before she can bring the topic up again, he switches it. "You said fathers were important even when they're assholes." He taps the bar. "Is that coming from experience?"

Her lips press together for a long moment before she nods. "Your dad is Malcolm Merlyn, CEO of Merlyn Global," she starts slowly. Felicity sighs. "My dad was Noah Kuttler, Ted Kord's right hand in software R and D."

Tommy's eyes widen, but then he realizes he should have put it together: Japan, 2009, and a single survivor—Noah Kuttler's daughter. He remembers meeting Kuttler at the house a couple of times. Most of it has faded with time, but he does remember the guy was arrogant and condescending.

Nodding before he can say anything, Felicity releases a bitter laugh. "You met him." Unable to say anything, Tommy only nods. "Then you know." Her smile doesn't quite meet her eyes as she says, "It isn't easy being the only daughter of a world-class computer genius with no tolerance for failure."

Though he doesn't doubt Felicity's words, he also recognizes that she's become her own person—in spite of the expectations heaped on her as a child. Maybe, just maybe, he can do that, too. The thought makes him reach for a bottle of imported beer. After removing the cap, he holds it up in a toast. "To standing in the shadows of our parents," he declares, "and to discovering ourselves anyway."

A bright laugh escapes Smoak's lips, but she clinks her glass against his bottle before they both take a drink. Another thought occurs to him—one he can't ignore. "Okay," he warns, waving his hands, "one more thing, and then I promise to give Ollie's vigilante thing a chance." She only waits, waving a hand for him to proceed. Somehow all that leaves his lips is, "Deathstroke."

Smoak doesn't even flinch, asking with a look he can't read, "What do you want to know about him?"

Knowing where to begin would be helpful for Tommy. So many alarm bells go off in his head every time he thinks about his best friend working with a psychopath. Only one question makes sense to offer first, though: "Have you ever met him?"

"Once or twice," she replies, in the same tone she used when he asked about her work for the Arrow.

Leaning across the table, he whispers, "Does he scare you?"

After considering that for a long moment, Smoak finally answers, "Do I think he'll hurt me? No." She scoffs at the thought. "But am I afraid of him for other reasons? Yes." She sips on her cocktail for a moment before pushing it away. "He answers to no one and lives his life according to his own moral code. I think everyone is a little scared of someone like that. My biggest fear is that he'll forget where the lines are drawn."

Nodding at that answer several times, Tommy chooses to ask the most important question he has: "Do you think he'll hurt Ollie?"

"No." The word is out of her mouth in an instant, hard and unshakable. Her certainty makes Tommy release a deep breath, even as doubt makes his stomach turn. A moment later, Smoak clarifies, "I don't think Deathstroke is the kind of person who has many friends." She sighs, expression thoughtful. "I mean, he couldn't. Living a double life has to be hard—keeping one part of yourself away from everyone." Her fingers trace shapes into the bar, ones he doesn't understand. "He trusts Oliver implicitly. I'm willing to bet it's the closest thing he has to a friend. He'd appreciate the value of that."

The amount of insight she offers startles Tommy; that isn't something she could discover after meeting the man once or twice. Though he knows she won't explain, he decides that her impressions of Deathstroke might be valuable. "What's he like?"

She smirks, as if hiding a secret behind that smile once again. "Nothing like you'd expect," is her answer, just as cryptic as the expression on her face. Leaning across the counter, Smoak adds, "If you really want to know what Deathstroke is like, ask your friend. He knows a lot about the Vengeance of Starling. Oliver will be able to give you a better idea of what he's like."

"Oliver will be able to give him a better opinion of whom?" another voice asks, and Tommy jumps a foot in the air at his friend's presence. One of the newer discoveries in his life is that Ollie moves as quietly as a ghost.

Tommy turns to offer a nod at his best friend, and Ollie kicks Felicity's feet off the other bar stool, sliding into the seat himself. He exchanges a playful smile with the blonde, who pushes the bloody Mary and bag of pretzels his way. "Deathstroke," she answers, causing Tommy to throw her a look. Talking about his vigilante stuff only upsets Ollie these days—especially his slash-y partner in crime. "Merlyn was trying to make sure you aren't getting into bed with a monster." She nods to the drink and food. "You'll want those—best hangover cure in the world." She winks. "Smoak family recipe."

Ollie turns to meet Tommy's eyes, and the club manager finds no trace of doubt there. "Deathstroke is one of the best people I've ever met," he declares, eyes flicking toward Felicity once. "He isn't afraid to stick to his beliefs—even when it's easier not to. He's loyal, intelligent, and fierce when he needs to be." He stops to take a sip of the cocktail. "And he's afraid of heights, but he'll jump through a skylight on a grappling cable anyway."

The words are barely out of his mouth before he rounds on Felicity. "When I woke up, you were gone," he says in a quiet voice. Tommy doesn't hear any inflection in his voice, but Smoak winces all the same.

She twists a pretzel stick in her fingers. "I kind of, maybe, freaked out a little," she answers, holding thumb and index finger a hair's breadth apart. They're quiet for a long moment, but Ollie is far more patient than he used to be. "I didn't really think about it, but, um…" She blows out a breath, and a strand of hair falls from her bun. "I kind of… panic when I wake up somewhere that isn't my bed." She shrugs before adding, "Hypervigilance."

It must mean something to Ollie, but to Tommy, she might as well be speaking Greek. "You could have woken me," is Ollie's reply.

Felicity places a hand to his face, and Tommy is positive he doesn't imagine his best friend leaning into her touch as he closes his eyes. The club manager's eyes widen; not even he and Laurel touch like that in public. Maybe Smoak is more Ollie's type than he thought. "I think it was midnight when we fell asleep," she declares. "It was five when I woke up. When's the last time you slept five consecutive hours?"

Ollie's expression is unreadable as he answers, "Saturday."

She flushes, but she doesn't back down. "And before that?"

Her hand slips from his face as Ollie turns away to confess, "I don't know."

"That's why I didn't wake you," Felicity declares in her victory. "Sleep is precious for you. I may not like to be alone, but I have to bite the bullet eventually." She shrugs it away. "I heard Merlyn here pattering around, so I thought I'd come up here and coax stories out of your best friend." Her eyes widen as light dawns in them, and she slaps Ollie's shoulder. Tommy chuckles when the big, bad vigilante rubs his arm and protests with ow. "Which reminds me—how dare you neglect to mention you saw Star Wars as a kid? I was starting to think you've never seen a sci-fi movie in your life!"

"Everybody has watched Star Wars," he replies. Turning to Tommy, he adds, "Thank you for that." Ollie earns a shrug and a grin in response. After tapping the table twice, he rises to his feet. "I think I should take you home." He frowns. "Thea called me. I think she's in trouble—again."

Felicity slugs back the rest of her cocktail. "Duty calls," she says to Tommy with a wink. "I need to get to work, anyway." She checks her phone. "It's barely six—maybe I can get a run in first." She takes a napkin from the bar and a pen from her pocket, scribbling something on it before pushing it toward the club manager. "If you ever need to talk about fathers or vigilante best friends or Deathstroke, give me a call." He glances down at it; just the word Smoak and a ten-digit phone number. "Doesn't matter night or day." She rolls her eyes. "I'm probably up."

Both Smoak and Ollie are halfway to the door before Tommy works up the nerve. After throwing back another gulp of beer, he follows them to call, "Hey, Smoak?" Both she and Ollie look back, but the latter throws Tommy a wink over his shoulder and exits.

Swallowing hard, he walks up to the blonde, who adjusts a bag over her shoulder. "I know this is going to sound weird," he warns her, "but hear me out." She utters not a word, looking up at him expectantly. "I, ah, was wondering if you'd like to do this again next Monday night." Her brow furrows, and he presses on, "We're closed Mondays, so I'll mostly be stocking shelves and crunching numbers." He waves his hands. "This is not me making a pass at you."

After a moment that feels like an eternity, she answers, "I'd like that." A heartbeat passes before she clarifies it. "The cocktails on Monday night, I mean. Not the making-a-pass part." She points a finger at him before turning on her heel.

"Seven, Merlyn. Don't be late."

In a graceless, uncoordinated heap, Felicity collapses in her front yard, barely throwing off the motorcycle helmet before she starts heaving. She chucks the helmet, throwing her hands out to steady herself before she begins to lose her lunch—and possibly yesterday's too. Whoever said a Ducati was a good idea wasn't hungover and definitely didn't experience Oliver's driving. Hello, motion sickness.

When she finally can wipe her mouth on her sleeve, a voice behind her says, "Thanks for waiting until we got here." She turns to find Oliver in not much better shape, pale and leaning against her shed like it's the only thing keeping him upright. "And for taking the helmet off."

"Bite me, arrow boy," she mutters in a hoarse voice.

A laugh is her answer, and she's almost glad she said it. "Make me, sword girl," is his cheeky reply, and this time she can't suppress a grin. The chances of Oliver humoring her are small on a good day, making this a rare treat.

As much as she appreciates it, she's a little shaky. Has she had anything to eat in the last twelve hours other than pretzels? Nothing comes to mind. Her legs collapse under her when she tries to get up, and she sighs before wiping her forehead. Perspiration comes off on her hands. So much for that shower earlier.

Moments later, arms lock under hers, and Oliver lifts her as though she weighs nothing. "That is definitely good for my self-esteem," she mutters, earning a low chuckle in reply. Her feet touch the ground, but Oliver wraps an arm around her waist to steady her. "But I think I need to eat something—I haven't done that since lunch yesterday."

When Oliver looks over at her, his face is so close she can feel his breath against hers. "Maybe you should call in sick today," he suggests in a gentle tone. He helps her up the porch steps slowly, allowing her to take the railing on the side. "After all, what would we do without the Vengeance of Starling to keep the monsters away?" Though he smiles, she can see the sincerity in his tone. He'd really miss her if anything ever happened to her. The concept is almost foreign.

"Probably sleep better at night," Felicity answers anyway.

She means for it to be a joke, but when he looks at her, there's no humor in his expression. "They might think that at first," he replies in a careful tone, "but they'd realize their mistake later." Oliver pulls away from her, but his hand still stays at his waist. "You told me last night that you didn't want to be a monster." Felicity looks away, but he offers no mercy, tilting her head back to look at him. "My question is: so what if you are?" Her brow furrows as he clarifies, "Only the weak monsters in the world prey on the innocent, the people who can't protect themselves." He offers a slight smile. "Only the best ones are brave enough to battle other monsters."

It's enough to make her think she's the biggest sap in the world because that sharp feeling comes to the corners of her suddenly-too-wet eyes. Everything in her wants to hug him right now—maybe more than hug him—but she doesn't because of the line they've drawn. Sometimes that line between them is a twenty-foot wall with no footholds, but other times, like today, it's as fragile as a line in the sand.

But, once crossed, they can never go back.

Felicity knows she isn't ready to see what's on the other side.

Yet.

Her hand finds his, and she squeezes it. "Thank you, Oliver," she answers in a tight whisper, and there are so many things she's grateful for. She's grateful for a friend she can trust. A partner she can depend upon. A sometimes wise, old soul who understands that the shadows aren't always black, but gray. A man who sees every side of her—her strength, her weakness, her fear, her pain—and isn't afraid of it.

"Anytime," he replies—and Felicity knows he means it.

She starts to enter her house, but something pulls her back. Felicity motions to the door, and Oliver lifts his eyebrows, waiting for whatever comes next. "I know you have a thing with your sister," she assures him, "but when you get done, maybe a movie and some ice cream?" She's forgotten how to do this; it's been so long since she's had a friend that she doesn't know how to ask anymore.

A chuckle is her response as Oliver shakes his head. "I haven't had ice cream since before the island," he tells her. "I… I used to dream about it sometimes." They both smile at that. His softens after a moment, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful. "I always said when I did it again, it would be with someone I cared about." If the line was fragile before, it's a trail of dust on the pavement now. Mercifully, he takes a step backward, waving once. "I'll give you a call." He takes the steps in a single leap before turning back. "What kind do you want?"

"Mint chocolate chip," she calls back, leaning against the door frame. The grin on her face probably borders on idiotic, but she doesn't care. Felicity has her first friend that isn't Roy in years. The giddy schoolgirl in her is skipping and singing an upbeat musical. Maybe a Disney movie is in order this morning—an upbeat, overly-bright one with lots of singing.

"Anything you want," he replies.

For the first time in years, Felicity realizes she has exactly that.