Chapter Text
Felicity didn’t think it was possible to feel so deliriously happy. When she woke the other side of the bed was empty, but still warm, and the scent of frying bacon was wafting in through the open door. She took a moment to curl into the warmth of the covers and bask in the pool of sunlight that poured in from the large windows, delighting in all of the places she was deliciously sore. She had half a mind to never leave the warm nest of blankets ever, but before long her stomach growled and her bladder insisted that she get up.
She paused as she exited the bathroom, her hand lingered over the robe hanging on the back of the door. A small, playful smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth before she opted to don one of Oliver’s button-ups instead. That was a sexy, morning-after thing that couples did, right?
If Oliver’s face as she descended the stairs was any indication, Felicity chose well.
He temporarily abandoned the pan of sizzling bacon to press one long kiss to her lips and murmur a soft, “Good morning.”
Felicity swiped one of the slices he’d already finished, “Good morning to you, too.”
There were a lot of things that Felicity had grown to hate during their brief stint in domestic suburbia. She hated that you always had to drive in order to get anywhere ever. She hated pretending to like all of her neighbors and their freaky manicured lawns. She hated faking bright smiles for them all. But she never hated this: quiet mornings with Oliver, soft kisses in soft sunlight unfettered by skyscrapers, the orange juice already freshly squeezed and poured, the news playing quietly in the background largely drowned out by the sounds of Oliver’s cooking. Things like that made her understand the appeal of quiet, domestic bliss.
Oliver chuckled softly as Felicity munched on her pilfered bacon strip. “Save some room for egg bake.” He motioned to the oven where a pan of eggy-cheesy-potato-y goodness was just visible through the tinted glass.
“Ooooh, egg bake. Yummm.” She gave Oliver a brief peck. “Knew I kept you around for a reason.”
He met her kiss with two more: one right at the edge of her lips and one just underneath her ear as he whispered, “Just one reason?”
And although his words sent a delightful shiver down her spine, Felicity’s body suddenly felt quite warm, ready to melt at a moment’s notice. “There might maybe, possibly, be a few reasons,” she breathed as she stepped closer.
But since Oliver could probably add ‘professional tease’ to his resume—right up there with former CEO and secret vigilante—he trailed one last kiss along her jaw and took a step back. “We’re dropping your mother at the airport in an hour.”
Buzz. Kill.
Felicity let out a very-much-not-sexy groan, but let Oliver turn back to the stove in order to rescue the last of the crisping bacon as she made a start on her glass of orange juice. “Ugh.” She said between sips. “She’s going to be so smug. One look and she’ll just know we had earth-shattering make up sex. She’ll congratulate herself on a job well done and shamelessly dig for all the juicy details.”
“Earth-shattering, huh?” Oliver teased.
“Oh, don’t you get smug, too mister.”
Oliver laughed. “Well, whatever keeps me in the good books—”
“Hers or mine?”
“Both.” He set down the plate of bacon. “And so that I stay in the good books and get your mother to the airport on time, I am going to hop in the shower.” He kissed the top of her head.
“Don’t want any company?”
He shook his head. “Sort of defeats the idea of being on time. You stay. Eat. Egg bake should be done in just a few.” Another last kiss, this time on Felicity’s cheek.
“I think I can manage taking it out of the oven.” She tapped her chin as if in thought. “I even think I remember where those heat-hand-protector thingies are.”
“Oven mitts?”
“Yes, those.”
As Oliver made his way up the stairs Felicity called after him, “You know, I could just call a car for my mom. Bet she’d love a limo. Perks of being a CEO and all.”
“Good books, Felicity!” was all he called back.
Felicity sighed and settled herself down at the table with her juice and bacon. She kept one eye on the TV—now airing a jaunty commercial—and one eye on the egg bake in the oven. She was determined to take it out at the perfect time, when the cheese reached the midpoint between bubbling and browning.
Despite the distinct lack of sexy-times, it was a good morning. The kind for the end of a romance novel. All was well for now. Ray was safe, Oliver was perfectly perfect, her mother had actually offered sound advice, and a deep seated sense of contentedness washed over Felicity as it would a sandy shore.
Until something caught her eye.
It was as if someone had reached into Felicity’s gut and shattered her insides. Her entire body froze, orange juice halfway to her mouth before the glass slipped from her hand and spilled across the table. Her gaze fixated on the television.
The news was back. The banner at the bottom of the screen read one phrase that chilled Felicity to her bones: “Central City Flash—Defeated or Dead?”
Ignoring the juice now dripping from the edges of the table, Felicity dashed to the couch frantically searching for the remote. The anchors were talking, their faces stern and serious, but Felicity couldn’t make out their words, couldn’t hear them say if—
Remote found she cranked the volume.
“—a new, as yet unnamed speedster. Eye witnesses say he appeared at the Central City Police Department as well, but despite reports of gunfire it appears the CCPD officers were unable to detain the suspect. We now go to the video captured last night inside the Central City Picture News. A warning to all our viewers out there: some may find the following footage disturbing.”
The view cut to a shaky video. In it a dark figure stood, face obscured by a full mask. And there, clutched like a perverse trophy in the monstrous figure’s grip was a familiar man in a red suit.
“Oh my god.” Felicity took in Barry Allen’s limp form. “Oh my god.” His face was bloody. His eyes were closed. He. Wasn’t. Moving.
“Oh my god oh my god. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.”
Felicity scrambled for her phone as the footage cut to a reporter outside the CCPD, “—Flash hasn’t been spotted since the events of last night. We can only hope—”
Felicity tore through her contacts: Cisco, Caitlyn, Barry. Again and again she called; again and again she reached only voicemail.
‘SOMEONE CALL ME RIGHT NOW’ she messaged all of them.
She even tried the station’s main line, but when she asked for Joe West she got a harried sounding woman instead.
“Detective West had a family emergency this morning. This is his partner, can I pass along a message?”
“Uh, no-n-no…I just—no.” Felicity’s hands shook as she pressed ‘end.’
Desperation set in. She pulled out her tablet, fingers only just managing to stumble across the keys as she pinged her friends’ cell phones. All three dots appeared in the middle of S.T.A.R Labs.
But, she realized suddenly, that didn’t mean anything. Because Barry wouldn't have his phone if—wouldn’t need it if he was—
Her eyes started to burn, air couldn’t seem to reach her lungs fast enough. She was hyperventilating, her ears were buzzing—
“Felicity!”
She jumped. Oliver was at her side, still soaking wet, towel around his waist and suds of soap still littered across his chest. Her ears weren’t actually buzzing at all. The oven timer was going off and she hadn’t even noticed.
Oliver placed two steadying hands on her shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“The news.” She gasped-sobbed. “Barry. The Flash. They think that he—that he might be—” She couldn’t finish.
At last Oliver glanced at the television. It had switched to an interview, a civilian opinion of the terrifying event, but the title remained glaring at the bottom: “Defeated or Dead?”
Oliver clenched his jaw. “Did you call S.T.A.R Labs?”
“They’re not answering. No one’s answering!”
“Did they say what happened?”
“A meta, I think. Another speedster. But Oliver I saw him. Someone caught it on video And he—that—that thing wasn’t human.”
“Okay. Okay.” Oliver turned back to Felicity, she could practically hear the gears in his head turning. “Call your mother. Get her a car. Tell Ray and Curtis they’ll need to take over today. I’ll call the rest of the team.” Still dripping on the floor Oliver turned to run back upstairs.
“Wait!” Felicity called, “what are we going to do?”
Oliver paused halfway up. “If Barry’s hurt, he’s going to need our help. If the worst has happened and he’s—”
“Oh, god don’t say it!”
“If the worst has happened,” Oliver continued, “And there’s a meta out there that’s capable of that. Then a lot more people are going to need help.”
Oliver continued up the stairs, “We’re going to Central City.”
....................................................................................................
Felicity almost cried, but didn’t, as they left the loft.
She almost cried, but didn’t, as she explained to the company driver that, yes, she needed two cars immediately.
She almost cried, but didn’t, when Curtis came through with a different car service all together.
She almost cried, but didn’t, as John, Lyla, Thea, and Laurel assured them that they could handle Star City and would be one phone call away from dashing to Central City with them.
She almost cried, but didn’t, when the supposed-to-be-practically-deserted city was inexplicably traffic congested.
She almost cried, but didn’t, when Oliver finally said, “Fuck it” and swapped the car out for his Arrow motorcycle, weaving through the backed-up cars as Felicity clung tightly to him.
She almost cried, but didn’t, when she realized they’d packed nothing more than her computer and Oliver’s vigilante gear.
She almost cried, but didn’t, as they passed the, “Leaving Star City” marquee.
Felicity manged not to cry for the first two hundred and three miles of their deathly silent drive.
But at mile two hundred and four Felicity received a single text message.
From Barry Allen: not dead
Felicity cried. She shook so hard Oliver felt it over the bike’s vibrations. He pulled to the side of the highway and Felicity nearly doubled over as the tears fell. To top it all off in the middle of wrenching sobs came great heaves of laughter.
Oliver inched closer. As one would approach a bomb, “What is it? Is he—”
“No!” Felicity cried, her face stuck somewhere between a grimace and a smile. “Oh, thank god no. He’s alive. He’s alive.” She muttered it to herself like a mantra. “He’s alive.”
Oliver breathed his own sigh of relief as Felicty’s phone beeped with another notification.
Felicity blinked as she stared at the new message, certain she'd read it wrong. Because there was no way brilliant Barry Allen was being that ridiculous and obtuse. But the message didn't change or magically rearrange itself.
From Barry Allen: dont come.
“Oh, hell no! That little—!!! Why that stupid—UGH”
“What?” Oliver asked dumbfounded.
“Get back on the bike, Oliver. And drive faster. If Barry Allen is not dead before we get there I’m going to kill him!”
Oliver, who occasionally could be very smart, did not argue.