1.

Felicity has, in the short time she's known Oliver Queen, gotten somewhat accustomed to seeing him without a shirt on. On more than one occasion, she's found herself with fingers poised over her keyboard, ready to work yet fixed in place as her eyes follow his movements while he trains. Most days she can ignore it, other days it's harder, sweat glistening on his impressive physique and her mind going places it shouldn't - he's her boss, after all.

Today, it's not sweat distracting her, but the lingering drops of water from the shower he's just taken after an intensely vigorous workout session with John.

It's not like she hasn't seen him without his shirt on before - Oliver with his chest bare is pretty much a daily occurrence. It's just the first time she's seen him fresh from a shower, looking more relaxed than she even thought possible, hair damp and slightly spiked up where he's just stopped rubbing it with the towel that's now slung over one shoulder. Flustered doesn't begin to cover how she's feeling as she averts her eyes, forces herself not to let her gaze linger on his jeans and the fact that they're still not buttoned.

Which only makes her notice that his feet are bare.

Cheeks warm, Felicity knows she's blushing, because it's all so thoroughly domestic and she's had fantasies about Oliver that have started out exactly like this. Only, instead of taking place in their base of operations, they've taken place in her apartment. With her wearing far less clothing and him looking at her in a way she's fairly certain he'll never look at her. Full of lust, maybe a hint of something more, the kind of look that could set a girl on fire.

The kind of look that's reserved for the Laurel Lances of the world, not the Felicity Smoaks.

And ok, maybe a few times said fantasies have taken place here. Right where he's leaning against the wall watching her, to be precise. But she can't really be faulted for that, right? It's where she sees him most, so... naturally.

Needing a distraction, because it's suddenly too hot for her in the room, Felicity uses her feet to turn her chair away from him. Put space between her thoughts and the object of her current desires. Very wrong desires. He's your boss, Felicity, that very annoying and practical voice in her head reminds her. Platonic. Keep it platonic.

Easier said than done.

2.

For several hours, Felicity has been glued to some form of electronic device, switching back and forth between computer and tablet, fingers clicking away on keyboards as her eyes get more and more tired. Not to mention her stomach getting more and more empty. When was the last time she ate? Three hours ago? Four?

The internal debate as to whether or not she should feed herself is interrupted by the sound of someone entering the foundry behind her. Oliver or John - whoever it is - has answered her prayers because she can smell the delicious, tantalizing aroma of Big Belly burgers. Probably John, then. Felicity twists in her seat, a smile on her face so wide it hurts her cheeks.

"Digg said you weren't answering your phone and he'd left you here three hours ago," Oliver holds up the bag, "He made me promise to bring you dinner."

"Aren't you my hero," she reaches out for the bag with an impatient noise. "Please tell me you got fries with this."

And he did, God bless his soul.

Felicity takes note of the two burgers, eyes the one with onions clearly visible and chooses the other. It's not until she's slightly hunched over the table - to the right of her keyboard so she doesn't spill anything - her mouth full of fries and a bite of burger that she realizes Oliver is watching her, his own food untouched in front of him. There's a hint of amusement on his face that suddenly makes her self conscious.

"What?" she asks once she's swallowed the bite.

"Nothing," Oliver says with a shake of his head, "I'm just glad you're enjoying it."

Enjoying is an understatement.

"And you're not hungry?" she nods toward his burger.

"Always," he tells her, but when he finally takes a bite, she feels it's more to appease her than because he actually wants to.

Felicity watches Oliver eat, mostly because it's something to do as she chews her fries, wishing he'd thought to bring something to drink. While she's lamenting her lack of beverage, she watches as ketchup drops from the bottom of the burger onto Oliver's shirt. Stuffing the handful of fries she has in her hand into her mouth, she leans over to the napkins she'd set aside, grabs one with the intent of handing it to him only to find he's already put down his food and is in the process of stripping.

Which she finds is a perfectly suitable thing for her to watch as she eats another fry, taking the opportunity to openly admire his chest and abs, his arms, everything. Except maybe the scars, which always make something hurt along Felicity's own skin, as if she's receiving some kind of phantom injury by way of empathy. The path to his face is a long one, but when she finally settles on it and finds him staring at her, she chokes on her mouthful of food as she's swallowing.

3.

"I can think of better reasons for taking your clothes off, you know," Felicity's eyes wander down Oliver's chest until she realizes what she's said, what she's doing, and her gaze shoots up to his face.

"Shit, sorry. Pretend I didn't say that."

The impassive expression he wears is familiar to her, the look she's seen dozens of times when her mouth has worked faster than her brain, spilling innuendos out that make her cringe and want to disappear into a hole in the ground. If there was a card that existed for this sort of thing, she'd have bought him one ages ago. Would have, in fact, bought an entire box of them to keep on hand.

Thanks for not kicking me to the curb every time I say something sexually inappropriate.

- Your Very Platonic Friend, Felicity.

As it stands, cards like that don't exist and both of them seem to be operating under an 'ignore it and never speak of it again' policy.

Which is something Felicity is more than ok with.

It's not like he factors into her fantasies every night, just every now and then. Mostly after she's been reading one of the trashy romance novels she picks up at the grocery store once a week with her shopping. As far as she's concerned, it's pretty much as if every romance author ever picked Oliver Queen as their template when creating their heroes.

Tall, stoic, gorgeous - built in a way she's pretty sure would make a Greek God cry in envy - with a tortured past but a heart of gold. Not to mention a smile that, when he actually does smile, could set anyone's heart aflutter.

Really, it's not her fault.

"Right, so," she says more as a means of distracting herself than anything. "I'll just… you know."

Oliver, as usual, says nothing while she circles him to get a better look at his back. Or more precisely, at the shallow wound, courtesy of a bullet graze, running across one shoulder blade. Not deep enough to need stitches - though she's hardly an expert - and as far as she can tell, it doesn't look like it'll leave a scar that's anything like the others he wears.

Scars she most definitely has never thought about touching while they lay in bed, her fingers running over them while he tells her all about that tortured past of his and how he got them.

Focus, Felicity.

"This is gonna hurt," she tells him, voice professional, hand poised with an antiseptic drenched pad ready, and takes the lack of response as a sign he's ready for her to start cleaning the wound. When he tenses momentarily at the initial sting, she murmurs, "Sorry."

With all the practice she's had tending to him and John after their respective tangles with bad guys, Felicity has the process down pat. Clean, bandage, try to not tell him to be more careful. Lather, rinse, repeat. Maybe it's not as perfect as it would be were an actual professional patching him up, but for the small stuff, she thinks she does a good enough job.

And maybe, if she's being honest, it doesn't hurt that it gives her an excuse to touch him.

4.

Felicity has her eyes glued to the screen in front of her, processing data pertaining to her latest bout of file decryption, oblivious to everything around her as she absently reaches into the open bag of candy in front of her. Somehow she manages to knock it just close enough to the edge that the bag, along with the remainder of her skittles, tumbles to the floor. The sound of them scattering breaks her focus.

"Aw, come on," she whines, pushing back her chair with a scowl.

Thankfully, there were only a handful left, and Felicity praises her decision to wear pants as she kneels down on the ground, crawling forward on her hands until she can grab the offending candies. Seven of them total, all accounted for after a few seconds of rooting around. The small sound of victory she makes is drowned out by what she's come to recognize as John and Oliver during an intense round of sparring.

The kind of sparring that makes her sit up, take notice, appreciate all the masculinity on full display and possibly - definitely - need a cold shower after.

Once she's settled herself in the rather comfortable chair she'd forced Oliver to buy, skittles forgotten beside the keyboard, Felicity watches the figures of both her partners in vigilantism the way some people study fine art in museums. They're like a force of nature, beautiful and dangerous, and she'd be lying if she said this wasn't a perk of working in the foundry.

Not that she wastes time staring at them with her mouth open while they spar when she could be doing something useful. Only sometimes, when she's positive the both of them are occupied enough not to notice they've got a rapt, one woman audience. Honestly, she could watch them for hours.

But all good things must come to an end, and like always, the second they look like they're winding down, session over, Felicity is once more facing her computer screen. Fingers clicking away like she never stopped, though her eyes shoot toward them, lingering long enough to see Oliver walking toward the shower while John eyes her from across the room.

"Don't think I don't notice that," John says, raising his eyebrows at Felicity as she pushes her glasses up her nose.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she feigns innocence.

"Yeah, I bet you don't," he laughs, "But don't think he doesn't notice either."

Felicity pretends her cheeks aren't burning at the thought.

5.

"Shouldn't you be at home?"

The sound of Oliver's voice in the otherwise quiet space makes Felicity jump. She hadn't even realized she'd stopped searching for information on the latest name that needed crossing off. But late nights will do that to a girl, and after how hard she's been working to gather intel anyway, a break was needed.

"It's not that late," she says with a wave of her hand, despite it being half past eleven, far later than she usually stays. "And I could say the same to you. Since when did this become the place you clean up after your workouts? Don't you have a million dollar shower waiting for you at home?"

"I wasn't aware you were keeping track of my bathing habits," he says, and if Felicity didn't know better, she'd think that sounded a little bit like flirting.

Turning in her chair, she finds Oliver standing close enough for her to smell the soap, or shampoo, or whatever it is he used to get clean that's lingering on his skin. It's nice, different than he usually smells - which is equally nice - and she makes a soft sound of approval that's quickly covered up by her clearing her throat.

"I don't," she counters, all the while wondering why the hell he's not wearing a shirt.

Again.

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him to cover up, but she doesn't.

Felicity just stares at him. He stares back, and she can't figure out if the tension between them is something she's only imagining or if it's really there. Not for the first time, she wishes Oliver were an easier man to read, that he didn't keep his emotions so thoroughly in check that she's got no idea what he's thinking. Her eyes flick down, lingering on his abs before stopping at the waist of his jeans, and her face burns as she immediately looks away.

Someday, she's going to have to learn to stop blushing so damn much while checking him out. Or maybe she'll just have to learn to keep her eyes in more appropriate places.

"You're right. It's late. And my bed's way more comfortable than anything you've got here."

Shit.

Felicity lifts a hand to her mouth, but the damage is done. Another conversation they're both going to have to pretend never happened. Pointedly not looking at him, she's already bending to slip her shoes back on her feet. They've done this dance before, a routine that shouldn't exist though it does. Only this time, Oliver's voice stops her as she's rising to her feet.

"Is that your way of inviting me over?"

It's not just what he's said, but the way he's said it that has Felicity's heart beating faster. Playful, flirtatious. Not the Oliver she knows but the Oliver Queen he is when he's trying to fool people into believing he's still just a reckless billionaire playboy. Like he doesn't have a care in the world. So she ignores him, pretends she didn't hear as she grabs her bag from the table and walks out of the room. Because she may have dreamed of him saying something like that to her, but she doesn't want it to sound like that. Like he doesn't mean it.

Still, the decision to ignore him is one she regrets the instant she starts her car.

+ 1.

This isn't the first time Oliver has had someone else's blood on his hands. Considering the life he leads, he's fairly certain it won't be the last. Not by a long shot, and he's come to terms with that, with his carrying that weight. In the grand scheme of things, this isn't that uncommon of an experience. He wishes he could react the way he always does, simply wash off the evidence, patch up his wounds, ignore the flash of regret that follows him home.

But it's the first time the blood on his hands has belonged to Felicity.

"You know," Oliver begins, waiting until he's captured her attention before lifting her shirt, "if you wanted me to take your clothes off, all you had to do was ask."

It does the trick, distracts her from noticing when the fabric pulls on the wound it's become somewhat stuck to. He can practically feel her eyes lock on his face as he gently helps her out of the light blue blouse that's dark with partially dry blood, all the while trying not to let the bruises forming on her skin fill him with guilt - he fails. This is his fault. Nothing would have ever happened to her if she hadn't been involved in his war.

"What?"

Felicity's voice is breathy in a way that makes Oliver all too aware she's sitting on the table in front of him wearing her bra and a skirt that's revealing far too much of her thighs, his hands on her bare skin as he examines the knife wound on her side. But this is hardly the time to let his eyes wander, to think about all the ways he's imagined this sort of scenario going - minus the injury. Because all the times he's thought about Felicity like this, she'd never been wearing bruises, her skin smeared with dried blood that's flaking.

Even if the wound is superficial, nothing to be worried about at all, it's something of a mood killer.

Mostly.

"I think you're gonna live," he tells her, stepping back.

To clear his head. To give her space. To give himself space.

"Oliver."

He ignores her, remembering the way she'd ignored him the week before, when he'd been feeling tired and more attracted to her than he had in a while. It was that look she'd given him, the one he wanted to see while she was lying on his bed. Or that comfortable bed of hers she'd mentioned. He'd let his guard down, let the words slip off his tongue before he'd realized he was doing it. And she'd acted like he hadn't said a thing, made it clear that there are certain boundaries she's not willing to cross.

"There's a clean towel in the bathroom. I'll get you a shirt."

"Oliver," Felicity repeats, and he can hear her slide off the table to follow him across the room.

There's nothing he wants to do more than turn back towards her. Hell, close the distance between them and kiss her. But he can't, because if it wasn't for him, she never would have been kidnapped in the first place. If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't have a cut on her side that's going to leave a scar. She would be home, curled up on her couch, watching TV or reading a book. Drinking wine and falling asleep. Happy. Living a normal life.

She deserves a normal life.

Halfway to the small closet he keeps extra clothes in for emergencies, Felicity's hand touches his arm.

"Oliver, please."

Looking down at her as he turns, it's hard for him to not drink in the sight of her. Even bloodied and bruised, her hair heavily disheveled as it falls out of her usual ponytail, she's beautiful. And she deserves better than this, than him, than everything he's brought into her life since that first day when he'd walked into the IT department with a flimsy lie about coffee spilled on a laptop.

"For the record," she says softly, lips curving into a smile that makes him want to kiss her, "This is me inviting you home with me."