Chapter Text
Felicity’s fingers tremble as she grips the letter, each word shooting out at her like hateful bullets. Each one represents her past insecurities and the words repeated and retweeted all over the Internet from trolls and angry masses. Tears sting and burn her eyes, hot and clinging to her lashes; she’s glad she wiped away her makeup before delving into the newest pile of fan mail.
And it had started out normal. Young girls letting her know exactly how much her music and words have inspired them. But this letter, this crude written attack, is too much for her to handle. She glances up and into the vanity mirror, eyes lined red behind her glasses and bottom lip quivering between her attempts at soothing breaths. A low, fearful whimper leaves her throat, pathetic and everything she is not.
She’s not weak. She’s not easily frightened. But the words are there, bright and etched into the page with aggressive strokes of the pen.
Fat cow, your vanity looks like a lovely place to blow your brains out. Will your fans still love you when you’re dead?
It is dark outside beyond the glass of her bedroom window, but it is clear as day that someone is blotting out the minimal light that usually trickles in. She is frozen. A mannequin displaying furniture to interested buyers. She is a sitting duck for the hater who penned the disgrace in her hand.
“No,” she begs, much too low for someone on the opposite side of the glass to hear. But it isn’t enough.
There’s a flash and then an echoing bang. She waits for the pain to begin, but it doesn’t. Instead, the mirror she is looking through shatters, a ripping cascade from a single point of impact. She spins in her stool and sees the culprit. A tall, oily haired man with dark eyes and a gun shaking in his hand, smoke billowing out of the barrel. The window is gone from the force of the bullet.
Felicity screams and it is mere seconds after that Rory appears and tackles the intruder. “How!?” he asks the intruder. “How did you get in!? How did you do this!?”
“I’m not the only one.”
---
Her manager, Caitlin, is a blubbering mess in the meeting the next day, constantly crying and panicking as they relay the events to John Diggle, co-founder of Diggle & Michaels Security Solutions . They are the only company Felicity will work with and John shows great patience in all meetings, regardless of the hysterics shown by his clients. She considers him a close friend, nearly a brother.
“We have no idea how anyone got through the gate or past Holt’s cameras and motion detectors,” Caitlin says, voice a shaking waver every few syllables.
“Technology is not the most reliable form of defense, Miss Snow,” Digg reminds them. “Even if Miss Smoak and Mr. Holt put their trust in them.” He winks goodnaturedly in Felicity’s direction, making her smile.
“Then what do you have in mind?” Felicity asks. The light trickling into the formal living room through the sheer curtains is soft and bright, warming and reflecting in Digg’s eyes as he ponders her question. He’s clearly hopeful - confident. And if he is that hopeful, it lightens the fear she feels.
“I have an employee. He’s relatively new but his expertise is leaps and bounds above your current staff.” Digg pulls a file folder out of his backpack and hands it to Felicity. The name on the tab catches her eyes and triggers her curiosity: Oliver Queen . “He’s not much for tech solutions. He’s much more… hands on .”
“Hands on?” Felicity and Caitlin ask in unison.
“He’s a weapons expert and proficient in all forms of armed and unarmed combat. He takes great pride in training for self-defense and situational awareness. Your team could benefit from having him heading the game.”
Felicity’s brows shoot up at the implications, eyes flickering toward the door knowing Curtis is on the other side, guarding but also listening. “You want to replace Curtis?”
Digg smiles, sincere. “Not replacing. Simply adding to your arsenal. Oliver would work with Curtis to improve your defense in every area.”
Felicity nods, then opens the folder. She is greeted by a pair of smoldering blue eyes and firm lips pressed into a stern line. From the width of his shoulders, she can tell he’s built well - toned and sculpted in the perfect depiction of a fairy tale protector. His hair is short, sticking up only slightly with an obvious smidge of product at the tips. But it is the impression she gets from his eyes that seals the deal. Coldness. Purpose. A clear note of discipline and joy in that discipline.
She closes the file without reading any of the bullet points on his resume. “He sounds perfect,” she says decidedly, handing the file back to Digg. He nods and they finalize the initial introductions.
“Tomorrow, then?”
She nods. “I have rehearsal tomorrow but we can have him meet and start training the new team tomorrow. The room is big enough for both.”
As they all part ways, she smirks. Her rehearsal and the new security training will take place in the same room, and she plans on seeing exactly what kind of man Oliver Queen is.
---
Oliver gets the call in the middle of his routine. He barely hears the buzz of his cell phone over the thundering music he has playing and the thrumming of his pulse. But a momentary lull in the song makes it clear and he rushes over, flexing his fingers out of the fist he holds. He shuts off the music, the silence shocking after the aggressive rhythms of the album and repetitive pounding of his fists on leather bags.
“This is Oliver,” he says, ignoring the caller I.D. - only a few people have his number and none of them surprise him. He shifts to speakerphone and drops it back down on the table.
“Oliver, I have an assignment for you.” John Diggle’s voice is direct and to-the-point, as he has come to request of his quasi-boss.
“I’m listening.” He tugs at the training tape on his hand, unraveling it as John begins to divulge information.
“Have you heard of the artist Felicity Smoak?”
Oliver remains silent. The name doesn’t ring a bell, and he doesn’t care to look it up.
“I’ll take that as a negative. Well, she’s been receiving a disturbing amount of death threats. Emails. Letters. Texts. The whole deal. But last night, a gunman broke through her security and very nearly took her out. Cops got the perp but are saying he’s not mentally capable of withstanding interrogation or trial. She’s rattled and has agreed to tougher protocol - anything to keep her safe. I recommended you and she’s interested.”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “So a self-absorbed popstar nearly dies and now she cares about more safety?”
“She has a great security team, but something must be lacking. I think your expertise is exactly what she needs.”
Oliver looks around, mulling over Diggle’s words and imagining the possibilities of the job he’s lining up. “I go from protecting diplomats in foreign countries and alleged drug lords to this ?”
Over the phone, he hears Diggle’s low chuckle. “You know all of that is why I recommend you to everyone, right? Listen, I’m not bullshitting here. I’ll send over the files, including the letter she received last night just before the hit. I know you’ll change your mind.”
The call ends and Oliver sighs. He knows he will take the job - there’s not a question in his mind or hint of hesitation. But his past is deep and dark and full of all the terrors most people hope to never witness. He pulls on a gray hoodie and collapses into the chair at his work station in the corner of the room. He waits there, sipping ice cold water from a bottle he had left there, untouched. The moment he hears the beep of a new email, he opens it. The files only take a few seconds to load and then he’s immersed in a chaotic assortment of news articles, blueprints and photographs.
Felicity is gorgeous - the kind of woman one might expect to be something famous. Wholesome. Smiley. A light even in the darkest of images. A few files feature videos from her concerts and he listens with interest, hearing the passion she puts into each lyric. She is captivating, despite the genre she claims as her own.
He moves onto the blueprints for her mansion and the grounds surrounding it. He memorizes each nook and cranny, all the little places someone might hide. He studies the experience and certifications of every member of her security team. Lackluster at best, but I can fix that.
The last file he opens is a scan of the letter. A hastily pieced together, murderous note straight out of Stalker Killers 101. Letter cut and pasted from numerous publications of all kinds, it rings out with an obsessive detachment - the work of someone that longs for nearness but can’t step too closely. He can see a small discoloration in the center of the letter. The tell tale sign of tears shed.
Oliver reads the words over and over, studying them as he has every other list and file and photo. He lets the words sink in, their meaning plain and clear. Obnoxiously so.
Within minutes, he has Diggle on the phone. “I’ll do it.”
“Fantastic. Can you be there tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Oliver grunts out, then frowns. “But I need to know one thing before this becomes official…”
“And that is?”
“She’s willing to do whatever it takes, right? No questions. No objections. No fighting me.”
“That’s what she’s told me,” Diggle says, then lets out a small huff of a chuckle. “But you know how women can be.”
“All I know is she better take this seriously.”
“I’ll talk to her again. Be at her place in the morning at ten. Her head of security will be waiting for you and the team will be there for introductions and any training you require.”
He ends the call and drops the phone onto the desk. He eyes the letter for a moment and then scrubs his hand over his face, the impending stress already crawling in and finding residence. He slams his fist down and the screen flickers and his cell hops with the force. “ Fuck ,” he mumbles in irritation. “I’m now some popstar’s bodyguard.”
---
He walks in, confident and steady. As always. He never lets his guard down and he never lets his nervousness show - years of training had taken that habit away. The mansion is larger than he expected when John had called him with the new assignment - slick and modern with plenty of windows and balconies. Three stories. He is told the first floor is specifically designated for a gym and rehearsal hall and that he will meet the security staff there for evaluation and training. John’s words swim in his mind, giving him little faith in his new teammates. “They aren’t the most agile bunch, and the majority rely on tech to solve problems,” Digg had warned. Oliver takes a deep breath and gives the entryway a once over.
No security at the door. No cameras facing the door. Nothing. No one is there to greet him. He waits for a bit, marveling at the absurdity. It is too open and too easy to access, all the windows open and the door unlocked. No wonder someone got past them.
He hears footsteps drawing near from down the hall and he stands at attention, waiting. Around the corner appears a tall African-American man with a wide smile and bright, easy going eyes. Oliver reaches a hand out to the man’s own outstretched one. “Curtis Holt?” Oliver guesses.
The man nods. “That’s correct! And you must be Oliver Queen. So nice to meet you! Thanks for doing this.”
Oliver keeps their hands locked and stares Curtis down. “Normally I would say there’s no need to thank me but I can clearly tell there’s a hell of a lot to get done around here.”
Curtis snaps back, his hand ripping from Oliver’s grasp. “Oh?” It is clear he’s offended.
“Yes. I just walked in. No one was here guarding the door and look,” he says, pointing toward the ceiling, “there are no cameras pointing at the door.”
Curtis stares at the ceiling, dumbfounded. “Oh. Wow.”
Oliver blinks away his amusement. “Yeah. Wow . You want to protect Miss Smoak but frankly… you’re doing a really shitty job at it.”
Oliver watches Curtis’ ego deflate, looking as though he were physically shrinking.
Oliver steps forward and pats him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for the bluntness. But I’m really here to help.”
“Right,” Curtis says, voice tight to match the stiffness of his shoulders. “I’ll just lead you to the rehearsal hall. The rest of the main team is there waiting.”
“Main team?”
Curtis nods. “Rene and Rory… and myself. We’re Felicity’s personal guards. The rest are grounds.”
Oliver frowns. “I’ll need to meet with the grounds security one by one afterwards.”
“Sure thing.”
Oliver studies Curtis’ demeanor as they walk, seeing his body language and spacial awareness, finding very little in the way of defensiveness and more in personality and cheeriness. He’s the member of the team who is relied on for levity - for comfort in the face of chaos. Oliver knows he’ll have to make considerable changes to this team, and he also knows changes will be fought against tooth and nail.
As they finally make their way into the rehearsal hall, he finds the other two members of her personal guards. He doesn’t take a moment for traditional introductions, he simply moves to the equipment he had delivered a few hours earlier and eyes the two men, both polar opposites.
The youngest is unassuming and awkward, perfect for undercover operations. He stares at Oliver with nervously wide eyes and fidgeting hands. Obviously Rory. The other - slightly older in appearance - stares at Oliver in challenge, posture stiff yet careless. Obviously Rene. There’s always one, Oliver thinks as he sheds his hoodie and tosses it to the floor.
“I’m not gonna waste time on senseless introductions or bullshit posturing. I’m here to make sure your employer doesn’t get a bullet in her skull.”
“We have that taken care of,” Rene grumbles as he crosses his arms dismissively.
“Do you?” Oliver asks, stepping closer in an attempt to incite some sense of intimidation.
Rene does not back down but steps forward, toe to toe with Oliver. “She ain’t dead yet, is she?”
Oliver leans forward, face inches from Rene’s and he can see the small movement Rene makes to retract - to escape the nearness. “I don’t think your employer would appreciate that sort of attitude, Mr. Ramirez.”
Rene shakes his head. “You don’t know jack-shit about her, Mr. Queen.”
“Hey, guys,” Curtis steps into the fray, his hands up in defense and brows up in fear. “Maybe we should relax a bit and just get into that training you were talking about.”
They simply continue staring one another down until a feminine throat clears near the entrance of the rehearsal hall. Oliver turns and sees the source of his newfound agitation and inflated bank account. Felicity Smoak. Pop Goddess. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, a mixture of meekness and sass. “But I have a performance to rehearse for.”
She’s in fitted active wear, black and bright pink, hair in a ponytail that whips back and forth as she walks further into the room, followed by a collection of dancers and a choreographer. She commands attention and begs for invisibility all at once. It is in the sway of her hips and the concerned furrow of her brow. It is in the challenging set of her shoulders and the frown on her lips. She is a muddle of complexity - positives and negatives battling to overcome a single being. He can see it all in only a few moments, a few movements. It reaffirms the need for his presence.
Oliver nods. “As long as we can have part of this hall, Miss Smoak.”
She shrugs. “Just don’t get in our way.”
“Didn’t plan on it,” Oliver mutters as he shifts his attention back to the three men. “Now, I’d like to assess your reflexes… your reaction time.”
“What does that matter?”
Oliver looks at Rene, already growing irritated with the man’s insistence on being difficult. Rory jabs Rene in warning.
Oliver begins circling the men, his eyes on every detail of their movements. Rory’s twitching fingers. The shift in Curtis’ weight from foot to foot. Rene’s fists clenching. “Your reaction time can mean life or death not just for Miss Smoak, but for each of you.” Oliver moves swiftly and grasps Rory’s arm and flips him onto his back. The young man heaves himself up with a grunt after a few moments in a daze. “If you don’t listen and remain aware of your surroundings, you’re not gonna be effective in protecting Miss Smoak.”
He grips Rene’s shoulder and wrenches him backwards. The man fights back, fist thrusting forward toward Oliver’s face. He easily evades the attack and swipes his leg against Rene’s until he falls with a raucous thud to the floor. The glare Rene shoots to Oliver is deadly, but Oliver simply smiles. “You need to be better. You need to be calculating. You need to guess your opponent’s next move before they do.”
Before he can move onto his next lesson, music floods the hall. It reverberates off the walls and surrounds him every way he turns - deafening him and the other men from the sounds they need to pay attention to. Footsteps. Breathing. Shifts in the air. Oliver looks over to where Felicity Smoak has begun her rehearsal, breaking into the dance moves without hesitation. Aggressive with each turn, sashay and pose, giving a fierceness that she hadn’t shown at her entrance.
Oliver walks over and shuts the sound system down, the sudden silence a shocking relief. He can hear the already ragged breathing of the dancers and their feet moving as Felicity rushes at him, face scrunched in anger. He crosses his arms at his chest and steps in front of the system, a wall of muscle and stubbornness. He can see how it hits her, his presence and authority. It is clear no one tells her what to do, and this interruption has played against the normality she has established.
“Move,” she hisses.
He stares at her, a brow lifting in challenge.
“I said move .”
He still doesn’t respond - doesn’t move.
“You work for me , Mr. Queen.” She steps up to him, tiny in comparison, and glares up at him. “Move.”
He leans forward - down - so that their faces are level. “No,” he growls.
“Again, you work for -”
“John Diggle.” Felicity’s mouth remains agape as he speaks. “I do not work for you. I work for John Diggle. He brings me to you, not the other way around.”
Her eyes narrow further. “ I am the one paying you, Mr. Queen. Not John Diggle.”
“I’m still not moving.”
She lets out a frustrated grunt and throws back her head. “I need the music to rehearse.”
“And I need silence to train your security team.”
Oliver knows he’s overstepping. He knows it is her home, her rehearsal hall, her rules. But he also knows that she promised John that she would do whatever it takes to remain safe. And the silence that follows between them makes that abundantly clear. Then she shifts a bit, shoulders relaxing and face softening. “Let me take you to the gym. Its next door but the music shouldn’t be heard there.”
It is those words and that offering that gives him a clue as to what just transpired. She’s testing me, he thinks with a twitch of a grin at the corner of his mouth. She’s testing my seriousness. My resolve.
He lets her lead the way and he studies her more. She’s confident in her strides but timid in posture as they leave the rehearsal hall and walk to a door at the end of the hallway. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye as she opens the gym door and lets him in, waiting for him to enter before following. The rest of the men join them one by one. She spins around, arms lifting to present the room to them. “All yours. Enjoy your silence ,” she says, mockingly, and leaves the room. But not before giving him one last look before the door closes.
It is a hopeful expression, mixed with pain and terror and all of the things she has faced in the last few months - especially in the last twenty-four hours. And for a moment, he feels nervous and inadequate. Can she be saved?
---
Felicity enters the gym as the grounds guards trickle out. It is silent, almost cavernous. Oliver is gone but his gear remains, some things packed up while others sit exposed. She sees it all there and is shocked. Plenty of new punching bags and resistance equipment, but her eyes linger on the weapons - weapons of all sorts. Staffs made of different woods and metals of varying lengths, guns of all calibers… and arrows paired with a professional level bow.
She knows Oliver Queen is skilled all over the board - his resume laid everything out in exquisite detail. But seeing the variety is a shock. The most her guards have ever carried were stun guns and batons - nothing lethal. But now the presence of these weapons makes it clear and obvious that the situation calls for a totally different, much more serious approach.
“And you made a total ass of yourself, Smoak!” she scolds herself, embarrassment welling up within her at the memory of the challenge she showed him. So much resistance but no faith.
She bends forward and picks up one of the staffs. It looks like bamboo and has a soft leather wrapped thinly around the center. She swings it about awkwardly, learning its weight and the length in connection to her body and movements.
And with each new motion, an idea springs to mind. Something that she’s never considered. She takes the staff into the rehearsal room and turns on the music - songs that are still begging for choreography and beats that need that extra touch. She swings the staff, works with it and around it. She plants it onto the floor and uses to for leverage to jump and flip, toes pointing and calves flexed with each moment within the air. She twists it over her head and then repeats the entire thing.
A routine forms and she memorizes the sequence and each beat. By the end of her sixth run through the song, she nails it and she collapses onto the floor, heart pounding and body drenched in sweat. She glances at her watch and sees the time: 10:40pm.
She rushes out, replaces the staff amidst Oliver’s gear and then makes her way to the kitchen, stomach growling as her mind races with other ideas.
Maybe having him around won’t be too bad after all…
---
Training and assessments go well into the evening, each man gaining bruises and hurt egos. Oliver finds his way to his room in the sprawling mansion afterwards. It is one door away from Felicity’s with a door inside joining the two. He ignores the door, hoping it won’t be necessary. His luggage is on the bed waiting, closed and packed full. He has other cases and boxes scattered throughout the room, full of training equipment and firearms. He will make it a point to find places for those first thing in the morning in the gym with the rest of the gear he brought with him. He’s seen what each man in Felicity’s arsenal will be best suited for. Some will like their assignments. Others will not.
He feels his stomach growl just as he looks at the clock on the bedside table. It reads 10:53pm. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he’s feeling the emptiness.
He wanders the room, memorizing the layout. Each piece of furniture. Each window. Each wrinkle in the rug or imperfection of the sheets and duvet. He makes a note to request no one enters his room or, more importantly, Felicity’s. He makes another note to get his bedding from home. The ones the household has provided are thick and constricting even to look at - more for show than for function. He wishes he had thought of bringing his own. The thin, plain duvet and the soft dark sheets allow for movement and coolness, a way to feel comfort when the nightmares attack his muscles and drench him in sweat. He takes the duvet off the bed and tosses it on the floor, making a note of where it is in relation to his chosen footpaths.
His stomach rumbles and growls once more, insistent and angry. With a huff of annoyance, he leaves his room and trudges through the dark hallways down to the kitchen. It is pitch black as he enters. Without hesitation, he finds the light switch and turns it on. He hears a squeak of surprise.
At the island in the center of the kitchen, he finds Felicity Smoak seated on a bar stool, a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream clutched protectively to her chest, spoon sprouting from it like a flag of domination. “Sorry, Miss Smoak. I didn’t realize-”
“No, don’t worry,” she interrupts with a shake of her head. “You’re welcome here, well, anywhere in the house really. So, no worries.”
“Okay,” he answers. He makes his way around and goes to the fridge in search of something to eat. He rummages through the shelves and drawers, indecisive.
“Raisa gets the best pastrami from the deli down the street,” Felicity explains as he digs deeper into her pint. “I recommend that.”
He spies the meat in one of the drawers, along with some provolone. Then he gets a griddle and two slices of bread. He butters them and then places them on the slowly heating pan, topping one with the cheese and meat.
“A pastrami grilled cheese?”
He nods. “Why not?”
Felicity grins, fingers loose around her spoon until she tosses it into the sink and then puts the ice cream back into the freezer. “Make me one?”
For a moment he hesitates, confused and a little taken aback. She had been so challenging in their first meeting, showcasing a stubbornness that very nearly matched his own. But here she is quiet, almost meek. An animal quietly begging for attention. Before he realizes it, he is buttering two more slices of bread and repeating the process, all while Felicity studies him.
“You’re a pretty tough guy, aren’t you?”
A chuckle slips out before he can stop it. “I’m standing here in front of a stove making grilled cheeses. This isn’t very tough… you might as well get me an apron.”
She smiles. A bright thing. A small thing. An uncommon thing in the seclusion of her home without all of the flashing lights and forced interviews, he can tell. “I mean, outside of the kitchen. With your job.”
He shrugs. There isn’t much to say without revealing the little bits of himself that aren’t on display for the world to see.
“You don’t talk much either, do you?” Felicity comes up beside him and places two plates on the counter beside the stove. Then she waits for an answer. Not impatiently. She just waits, giving the indication that she wants an answer without being too pushy. Still a little pushy…
“Only when it is necessary.” He finishes the grilled cheeses and plates them. Felicity goes back to her chosen stool and he takes one across from her. He watches her as she takes her first bite of the sandwich, the cheese stretching from her mouth to its place between the bread as she pulls it away. She rips the string of cheese and chews, eyes closing for a moment.
“Oh my goodness. This is amazing,” she says after swallowing the bite.
“It’s more about the good ingredients and less about the person putting them together,” he explains before taking his own bite.
“But you didn’t burn the bread.”
He eyes her for a moment, brow raised. “Do you burn the bread?”
She nods. “Always.”
The tension from earlier in the day is completely gone, eased by their banter and the food they are slowly consuming. He takes a bite and ponders her question and the implications that come with it. He usually stays silent about his job, not willing to divulge information, but he realizes she deserves to know.
“My job does require me to be pretty tough, I guess,” he finally admits.
Felicity looks up and chews, just watching him. Once she swallows, she asks, “Have you ever lost anyone?” He knows what she means and it reignites the ache he feels when he thinks about it; he never thinks about the job a few years back… never thinks of her.
He drops his sandwich onto the plate and slowly nods. “I have.”
He opens his eyes to see Felicity gulp down her fear at his words. “Tell me about it.”
For a moment he considers refusing - considers closing down and shutting off like he usually does. But then he sees the spark of hopefulness deep in her eyes. That hope that, despite either of their own personal mistakes, she will still be safer than anyone previously.
“A few years back I had to protect a high-profile lawyer. She was the best I had ever seen. Ambitious but compassionate. She was scary during cross examinations.” He took a deep breath. “It was a huge case, murder trial… serial murder, and she was getting plenty of threats. The night the verdict was announced and the scumbag was behind bars, she was shot down. Right in front of me.”
Felicity blinks and Oliver can see a little of that spark dissipating. “I’m sure there was nothing you could have done.”
He shakes his head. “There was plenty I could have done. But we all kinda felt the threats were empty and that once the guy was found guilty it would be over. We were wrong.”
For a few moments they just sit there, quiet and contemplative, sandwiches left on their plates to slowly cool. Then Felicity clears her throat. “Is that why you’re such a hard-ass?”
She winks and he grins. It is a simple comment but completely true. And her acknowledgement means the world, even with the teasing tone and gesture she uses.
“That's exactly why I’m a hard-ass,” he answers.
She nods and returns to her sandwich, biting down with an audible crunch on the perfectly grilled bread.
They continue eating in silence. They avoid eye contact, Oliver sensing when she looks away so he can glance in her direction unnoticed - it is easy to study her and get a sense of how she works with her surroundings when she’s not paying attention. He finishes his sandwich first and places his plate and the griddle in the sink. He considers washing them but decides not to - the stress of the day is catching up to him and he’s ready to collapse into bed. He knows he has an early start in the morning and lots of work to do on the grounds with landscapers and Curtis, all in an attempt to merge old fashioned security with new technology.
He turns toward the door and almost leaves without a word, then thinks better of it. He turns to find her eyes on him. “Good night, Miss Smoak,” he says.
“Good night, Mr. Queen.”
---
As he comes to the top of the stairs, he realizes there is one place he has not gone, one room he has not studied and criticized. Her room. Her sanctuary.
He knows the details of the attack from the report John had sent him the night before, knows the layout of the room and can picture each moment in his mind without trouble. But imagining and being there are two very different things. He is not at the point in his professional relationship with Miss Smoak to ask her for her testimony - all of the details that only she could give him are tucked away in her mind, under lock and key until she is ready to bring them out for examination.
So he goes past his door and to hers, then stops. With his hand on the doorknob, he listens to the silence. No movement. No breathing but his own. He glances up to see that there are no cameras monitoring the hall and no guards on patrol. He makes a note of that, adding to the compilation of flaws that need to be fixed. As he opens the door to Felicity Smoak’s bedroom, the scene of the internal crime, he considers hiring some of his own men to join the security team. He makes another note to bring that idea to Diggle’s attention.
The room is dimly lit by one small lamp by the side of the bed and the glow of her open laptop. The wall of windows is curtained, keeping the room hidden from prying eyes. At least she has learned one thing, he thinks with frown.
Despite the obvious cleaning, however hasty that might have been, he can still see the faint glitter of glass in the rug beneath her vanity table. It is a new mirror - he knows the original shattered with the force of the bullet that was meant of her skull.
She is alive by mere inches. Saved by some psycho’s jumpy hand. And that psycho is currently being held and questioned - Oliver knows the man won’t talk, but the reminder of him being unable to wreak havoc in this room once again is enough. Enough for now.
He knows all too well that this situation runs deeper than just one obsessed hater longing to be remembered as the one who took America’s Pop Sweetheart out. There’s more to it. There always is.
He moves the vanity and folds up the rug to keep the glass from falling. He might have been hired to keep Felicity Smoak alive, but it seems fair to keep her safe in all ways, even if it’s simply to keep slivers of glass from embedding themselves into her feet. As he stands and begins studying other parts of the room, he hears it. Her humming a song. Not one of her songs, he’s fairly certain. But he hears it, out in the hall and drawing closer. He rushes to the door leading into his room and escapes, her dangerous rug still clutched in his hands as he closes it and leans back, head resting along the wood.
He listens. He can hear the melancholy tone of the song she hums, a desperate and lonely melody that mixes with the feel of the carpet in his hands and the sharpness of the glass. He imagines it cutting her, slicing through her skin and severing what he imagines to be perfection. He takes a deep breath and attempts to center himself.
He was hired to protect her. He is in the room, just a door away from her to keep her safe, to keep intruders from enacting their sickest desires. His insecurities recede, slinking away to their burrows in his battered heart, lying in wait to return and assault his confidence. I am what keeps her alive. I am the one who will keep her alive.
As he gets undressed and climbs into bed, he repeats those words to himself like a prayer, a mantra, a hopeful beatitude.
“I am what keeps her alive. I am the one who will keep her alive.”
