harlequined | ( AN OPEN POST #3 )

( it's been three months, two weeks, four days, seven hours, and eighteen minutes since oliver queen is pronounced dead.

not that she's been counting. at least, not consciously. felicity and numbers get along; they always have. it's not something she has to think about. it's part of the reason she's so good at what she does. numbers come as second nature to her; she doesn't even blink when they're presented to her, which is also why they do nothing to keep her occupied.

counting sheep never works, which is why it comes as such a surprise when tonight, she's lulled into a restless sleep. restless, because she's almost immediately awoken by a sound from her living room. felicity knows all the sounds that come from her house, and this particular creak doesn't belong.

carefully and quietly, socked feet make their way to the bedroom door, which opens slightly as she peeks outside into the living room. it's upon seeing a ghost standing in the middle of the room that she realizes she's dreaming. there's no way this could be anything but her imagination. only her brain would be so cruel. )

Oliver?

[ they say that when you die, you see the faces of those you love. thea, his mother, laurel — felicity. he watched them all in glimpses as his thoughts faded into nothingness. he fell back through darkness and a life that would never be returned to, and as he fell, he found something he never might have known without the demon they called ra's al ghul.

he found peace.

what do they say when you awaken from the big sleep? when your eyes open, thick and hazy as a newborn child's, the sting of brightness reaches behind your lids, and you return to this plane without warning? plummeted, afraid — angry. something new. something rabid.

it's the sound of a voice, the whisper of a name. it reminds him of who he was, who he could have been. he's alive again, and all he can remember is how to hate.

time passes. always slow. never easy. it takes patience, it takes the willing secret of betrayal and loyalty broken. nyssa tends to him in solitude. raw, quick, he could be a weapon. something forged in battle. instead, she does all she can to have him remember. a voice. a whisper.

star city. no longer starling, but a ball of gases and energy, dead inside, but still glowing to all those who look upon its remains. he shouldn't be here. it isn't time.

he turns to hear her voice, standing among remnants of another life. shadows play across his face, but there is a softness that touches him there at the sound. ]

It's late.

[ he savors the seconds in which he doesn't look upon her face.

if he turns around now, this could all be for nothing. she may not have existed at all. ]

You should be in bed.

I am in bed. That's why you're here.

( she's fully aware of how stupid this sounds out loud, but in the dark, there's no way he can see the way her cheeks flush a deep red and the way her eyes water upon seeing his face.

this is why she has trouble sleeping. when she sleeps, felicity dreams of oliver queen, and it's something she finds herself entirely unable to handle, the feeling of her heart breaking all over again as she realizes, once more, that this isn't real, that there's no way he can actually be standing in the room with her right now. )

When I was a sophomore in high school, I took AP Psychology. We had a week-long discussion about lucid dreaming and how sometimes they can feel so real, people often mistake them for reality. ( she takes a step closer, the movement dislodging the tears that were trapped, brimmed on the edge of her eyelids. ) It's why people can wake up and feel like they've already gone through the motions of their day before even opening their eyes.

( she would reach up to wipe the tears that have fallen, but felicity finds that she can't actually bring herself to move her arms. instead, she stands tear-stained and in pink, plaid pajamas in front of a very accurate (thanks to her brain, or so she thinks) representation of oliver queen. had she been awake, she'd be mortified, but as it were, she's honestly just happy to be able to look at his face again. )

That's what this is. I'm dreaming about you. Again, just like every night since you left. ( there's a crack in her voice where the lump in her throat begins to grow. ) Why won't you leave me alone?

( it's not what she means to say. what she's really thinking is,

why did you leave me alone? )

[ she's hurt and he knows the doing is his. the wound he left behind, it sat in her chest and heaved heavily inside with every breath she took. he would have to live with that; he would have to live with knowing she bled inside for his choices.

her words bring a softness to his features. the pit, nyssa said, brought a youthfulness to him again, but he appears older, gaunt, in the shadow. his true nature, revealed — sunken and forlorn. the ghost of a man who should no longer walk this plane. ]

Felicity — [ her name is foreign on his tongue, sacred. ] I'm so sorry.

[ sincere, the phrase cracks under the weight he feels. ] I did what needed to be done in order to keep you — [ ( always you ) ] all of you — safe.

[ the palm of his hand longs for the warmth of her cheek, the tightness of her embrace. he wants to come home again, but he isn't ready. the climb is not yet met. she remains at arms' length. ]

I knew that if I could face him, no matter the outcome, you would live.

[ he shakes his head. ]

I never meant to leave you haunted.

( it comes in the form of an e-mail exchange.

Ms. Smoak,

If you're not busy this upcoming weekend, I could very much use your specific set of skills at the lab. I have something I think you'd very much like to see.

Harrison Wells

Dr. Wells,

Without the Arrow around, I find that most of my weekends are free, nowadays. ( she doesn't mean for this to sound to as pitiful as it does. she simply finds herself much more honest, nowadays. like part of her spark's been put out, along with oliver queen. ) I'll get a train ticket for Friday afternoon and see you as soon as possible.

Felicity Smoak

it's still unreal, that he sees her as someone that he can invite into his lab; that he must see her as some sort of equal. (a lesser equal, she's sure of, but on the same level, nonetheless.)

it takes her focus off of what happens — or rather, what's stopped happening — around her in starling city (she refuses to call it anything but, not wanting that to be taken away just yet, either.), and for that she's grateful. it's perhaps why she's so quick to acquire that ticket, and why she doesn't bother to book a round trip while she does. if a day spent in central city turns into two or three, she believes it will only benefit her.

surely seeing barry and the gang will be able to pull her from this rut she's been in, keep her mind off of things for a little while. barry allen always seems to have that affect on her, and nowadays, it's an affect she can really use.

only, when she arrives at s.t.a.r. labs, none of the familiar gang is around. in fact, the building seems eerily empty over the vacant beeping of idling computers. she thinks momentarily that she might have misread the email, but that's not possible. she studied it for a solid twenty minutes before she responded, and since then she'd be lying to say that she hasn't looked at it once an hour. )

Dr. Wells? Barry?

( she hesitantly gazes around, hands absently finding their way to the strap of her purse to clutch at. vacant, quiet rooms have never meant anything good for buildings housing vigilantes in the past, and her mind immediately flashes danger in bright, red letters. )

...Anyone?

[ what our ms. smoak has yet to realize is that, once you pledge your allegiance to heroism — or, in this case, the life of a vigilante and his daringly do-right gang — your fight or flight patterns, by definition, lose their instinct. what was once the need to run away, turn tail, and disappear, now becomes the impulse to move closer, swallow a bigger mouthful of the unexplained.

she could have run away; instead, being placed in a familiar setting allowed her to view the picture as somehow less threatening. it filled her with a sense of wariness, but not enough to remove her from the equation altogether. it's one of the endless things he finds so fascinating about her — felicity smoak, oliver queen's golden girl. ( seen, heard, but hardly given the necessarily allotted room to explore her full potential. ) she doesn't run; she wants another look.

the invitation came by no accident. in fact, he had been considering this specific date for some months now during their correspondence. occasional, but always sweet to the palate, felicity knew how to keep the conversation earnest. and while he did always appreciate her honesty, her habit of oversharing, what he truly found compelling had been her clear fondness for him — the trust she was starting to project upon him.

s.t.a.r. labs is quiet when she arrives, yes. until, of course, it isn't.

the sound is piercing — the breaking of a barrier, but the blur is striking. yellow in color, streaking bolts like lightning as it moves past her. around her. tries all it can to move through her, within her. the outline of a man is made clear, laughing as it antagonizes with a warped voice and a sickening motive. it's here, mocking, until it isn't. paperwork falls slowly to the ground, metallic objects still tinkling as they continue to reach the ground. the alarm that blares is secondary — too slow. blink and you've missed it — him — only to be left with remains and the task of cleaning up the damage. ( psychological as it is physical ) ]

Felicity—?

[ he enters from another corridor, his expression panicked as he wheels quickly inside the main lab. he finds her terrified, shaking as if she's stood in the cold for hours at a time. ]

I suspect this wasn't you.

[ he presses a button at his right armrest and the alarm cuts itself off. as he reaches her, he holds an arm out to her. offering an extension of aid if she seeks it. wells glances around the room, eyeing the damage, until he's watching her face again. ]

I want you take a deep breath for me. You're all right. You're safe.

[ a brow crooks as he places a hand to the small of her back, tender. trusting. that's the problem with homo sapiens. so willing to put their faith in the nearest hero. and here he is, to be exactly that for her.

she doesn't run; she wants another look. ]

Start from the beginning. Can you do that for me? Take a seat and tell me everything you remember.

( she could leave, but she doesn't. almost immediately, she regrets it. felicity smoak is definitely not alone in s.t.a.r. labs, and that much makes itself obvious when they — it — enters the room.

her initial thought is barry. she's seen how fast he is, and has never seen anybody move in the way he does. at least, until now. the colors aren't right, and it doesn't make sense. if this was barry, something had to be wrong. he would never do something like this to her.

the room all but spins with the streak of yellow, a high-pitched hum following the figure as it circles around the room. papers are thrown about, glass breaks, all followed by the faint sound of laughter. (or, what she imagines is laughter, it's all happening at once and it's far too much for her senses, close to overload.)

her knees wobble underneath her and she kneels to the ground, bringing her hands up to cover her ears. eyes shut tight, she waits for the feeling of the room being torn apart to stop before she opens her eyes, slowly pushing herself back to her feet, shaking all the while. a handful of seconds pass before she takes a step, stabilizing herself fully.

she's not expecting a voice, and felicity nearly leaps out of her skin when dr. wells calls her name. she spins on her feet, eyes wide, and completely lacking the usual light they carry.

all she can do is shake her head, not quite able to form words just yet. her chest heaves under her dress, and her hands tremble as he reaches out to place his hand on her back. it's involuntary, as she knows he isn't going to hurt her, but could he really blame her, with the way this place looks? if he hadn't shown up, who knows what would've happened.

taking in a deep breath, she steps over to a desk, falling into a chair, there. )

Nobody was here, and suddenly ... It was fast. Barry-esque fast. A big, screaming streak of yellow. ( she takes another breath, hands folding in her lap. ) It was evil — it had to be. He ... I think it was a he, at least — was laughing the entire time. Like the thought of causing all that destruction was amusing.

[ wells moves forward, placing both his palms protectively on the armrests of felicity's chair. he watches her eyes, the frantic movements of her hands — he could take her pulse as a precautionary measure, but he can already average the rate at which its spiking. fear has taken place of her curiosity. like the yellow blur, it moves in and out, passes through felicity in a thick haze.

he wonders idly of the theories she's dispelling, wading through. the human mind is incredible; when provoked, it works at a speed faster than its generalized sum. again, fight or flight — in her remaining, she chose fight. smart girl — he feels somehow proud. the bravery she harbored might have been instilled in her at a young age, but moments such as these, they would remind her of who she really was. ]

The Reverse-Flash.

[ after placing a gentle pat (the goal is to explore a gesture of consolation) to her fingers, he sets back to his chair, adjusting his glasses. ]

It's what Cisco calls the Man in the Yellow suit.

[ he folds his fingers at their knuckles, his glance still focused on felicity's expression. the name's stuck; it's a step in the right direction. every move they make brings them closer to the truth, to correcting the course of human history. (his past, their future) ]

We've met before. [ a pause. ] If you consider pulling me from my chair and beating me half-to-death a good first impression, he certainly left one.

[ concern crosses his expression. he leans forward, reaching out carefully to adjust her chin. ] Did he hurt you?