Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time Felicity Smoak was three tables into the speed dating event, she almost wished Oliver would show up with a full quiver of arrows and a grudge.

One arrow for Jake, who lost no time telling her he had nine inches of best ever if she was interested. One arrow for Todd, who leered down the front of her cherry red cocktail dress and asked her if she felt as good as she looked. Two arrows for Trey, who laughed when she told him she was an IT specialist and said the only place women had around computers was onscreen in porn.

Just then, Trey leaned over the tiny table until he was almost nose to nose with her, his humid breath blasting her with the reek of cheap Scotch.

"You know, I love watching hot blondes wearing red lipstick give blow jobs."

Make that three arrows for Trey, Felicity decided. She knew where she wanted Oliver to stick them, too.

Under cover of the tablecloth, clammy fingers crawled up her bare knee. The last of Felicity's patience evaporated. Smile frozen in place, she placed the tip of her stiletto heel into the top of Trey's shoe and slowly ground the point down into his foot. Her mother had taught Felicity that trick years ago, one cocktail waitresses used to discourage overly grabby drunks. She'd never used it before now, but it worked as well as her mother claimed. Trey's bloodshot eyes bugged as the pain penetrated through the booze. Swearing, he yanked his hand away and pulled back from her. The sight filled Felicity with an unexpected sense of satisfaction. Hanging around vigilantes with a taste for pointy objects was rubbing off on her more than she'd thought.

Grabbing her handbag and her glass of wine, she shoved her chair back and stood. The bell to change tables hadn't rung, but if Darth Mauler could manage to be that offensive inside of three minutes, she wasn't going to give him another two.

"I hope you've got a video saved. Watching it on your computer is about as close as you're going to get. Ever," she snapped, glaring at him. "I need some air."

The nearest refuge was an alcove by the emergency exit. Felicity threaded her way to it through the maze of tables, the back of her neck prickling from the not-so-covert stares from the nearby tables. Out of sight, she collapsed against the nearest wall, closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep, cleansing breaths. The thick stucco muted but couldn't block the racket of a roomful of competing, half-shouted conversations. A knot of stress between her eyes throbbed in counterpoint to the rise and fall of noise.

I want out, she thought. Now.

Desperate as she was, she felt a twinge of guilt. The event coordinator had specifically told people not to leave early because it would make the numbers uneven and mess up things for everyone else. Just because she was having a lousy time didn't mean anyone else was. Besides, she did have a deal with Iris and Barry, after all. She'd stick it out and make a good faith effort to make a connection at this thing, and Team Flash would stop trying to hook her up with every cheeseball in a costume who came by the Cortex. Since Dr. Wells and Barry had begun consulting for S.H.I.E.L.D., there’d been more than a few of those dropping by S.T.A.R. Labs to help round up rogue metahumans and add them to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Index.

I made a good faith effort, though, she argued with her conscience. She'd dressed to kill, let her hair down, lost the glasses and brought her best attitude. Felicity Smoak, manhunter, that was her. After that string of strikeouts, nobody could fault her for giving up and trying another time. And maybe it was bad etiquette to leave someone else short of a partner, but she was pretty sure Emily Post wouldn't be down with maiming people, either.

She peeked around the corner. Only one exit out of the lounge that she could see, and the event coordinator stood guard over it in her black Chanel suit and killer heels like a fashionista turned prison warden who'd gotten a tip about an inmate uprising. No way was she getting past that without help. Maybe she could grab a teaspoon and Shawshank her way out of the place. Or --

Wait. The exit door. Felicity eyed the fire alarm on the handle. She had her tablet. She could hack the bar's security system in her sleep. If she turned off the alarms for a few minutes, she could escape without anyone noticing until it was too late.

But where would she go if she did leave?

She let her head thump back against the cool plaster and sighed. Home was out. She'd spent every free minute over the weekend watching SyFy's zombie movie marathon. Any more time there, and she'd take root and become a actual couch potato. The Arrowcave wasn't an option, either. Roy was on patrol and Dig was taking a night off with Lyla, so she'd be alone with Oliver and Sara until they left for Moira Queen's campaign fundraiser. The thought of a second go-round with Trey was almost appealing in comparison. Sheliked them a lot more than Trey, of course, but --

She knew what Dig would do and say if he could read her mind now. He'd get that sympathetic, oh-so-wise big brother look of his, squeeze her shoulder and say, I know. It's difficult for you to see them together, isn't it?

No, it's not. I'm not jealous, she told both herself and Dig. I'm not jealous. It's just -- awkward.

Since Oliver had taken on the mantle of Someone Else's Boyfriend, everything about the team dynamic had changed, and not for the better as far as she was concerned. Without Dig or even Roy around, Oliver and Sara became too absorbed in each other and whatever they were doing to notice she was there. They were friendly, especially Sara, but sufficient unto themselves. Since they discussed things to which she couldn't relate, her own attempts to join in fell flat, though none as bad as the time she'd tried when the rest of the team had been comparing scars.

On top of that, although the two never exchanged more than brief kisses in front of her, there were times she had the uncomfortable feeling that her presence was the only thing keeping them from doing more. She felt like a third wheel, not the irreplaceable part of the team Dig claimed she was, and the situation was shooting more holes in her confidence than one of Oliver's targets after a practice session.

She cut off the train of thought, an all too familiar ache tightening in her chest, like a muscle strain that wouldn't ease. She'd let Oliver Queen and her work for the team take over her life, that was the problem. She'd depended upon Oliver to reassure her that she had a place she was needed, people who cared. That had to change. Everyone else on the team had a life of their own outside the Arrowcave. She'd had one before Oliver had come along with his bullet-ridden laptop, even if it had been a lonelier one than she would have preferred. She needed to get her life back. Look forward and move on. That had always been her motto, right?

And that was why she'd let them talk her into this, wasn't it? Not only to end the well-meant matchmaking, but because this was a good kickstart. The house odds were still in her favor. Statistically speaking, given the size of the candidate pool, there had to be one decent guy in the bunch who'd interest her. A guy without complications. A good guy whose job description didn't include 'masked vigilante', 'taking crazy risks' or 'occasionally being mostly dead'. Most of all, a nice, normal guy who wanted to be with her and wouldn't feed her a well-meant line like because of the life I lead before walking off with someone considerably more kickass than she was.

It was a good plan. All she had to do was go out there and find him, and not let three jerks stop her.

The bell clanged. Turning her back to the exit door to ward off temptation, Felicity pulled her phone from her purse and used her mirror app to touch up her usual bright lipstick. Victory Red tonight, the bravest, boldest, no-holds-barred retro shade she owned. She'd take all the confidence boosters she could get.

Tightening her grip on her handbag, she made her way to the next table. A few steps shy of her goal, her new match's previous date barrelled into her hard enough to rock her back onto her stilettos. As she grabbed for the back of a chair to steady herself, Felicity found herself facing a rail-thin woman with striped green hair and a small galaxy of piercings glittering on her ears, nose, eyebrows and lips, the last pressed together in disdain. Jerking her head towards the table she'd left, she stuck out her tongue, which was tattooed like green lizard hide, slit back an inch and decorated with a stud on each point. Felicity tried not to wince. The hair wasn't bad and she was all for self-expression, but that looked painful.

"Good luck with Dull and Boring," the woman told Felicity, not bothering to lower her voice.

The woman's rudeness knocked the breath out of Felicity and popped her mouth open in shock and outrage. By the time she'd hauled her mouth closed and recovered, Green Hair had pushed her way into the milling crowd and out of earshot. Felicity glared after her. Of course. One of the few times she didn't have to care if her brain to mouth filter worked, and there was nothing to be filtered.

The man Green Hair had left stood politely beside his table, though he was staring at the side door as if he wanted to escape as much as she did. If Green Hair was a sample of what he'd been drawing in the Loser Lottery tonight, she didn't blame him a bit.

But he'd been courteous enough to stand when his previous date left the table, no matter how rude she'd been to him. That impressed Felicity. He was also the only man in a suit, another plus. Par for the course for laid-back Starling City, the rest of the men had chosen to re-interpret the 'semi-formal' direction on the invitation to mean 'don't wear flannel and hiking boots' and the women had stuck with jeans. As a result, she'd felt overdressed and conspicuous all night.

When she thought of the contrast he made to Trey, though, she had to press her lips together to seal in a giggle, lest he think she was laughing at him. Talk about culture shock. From Blowjob McKenzie to Sir Galahad in three minutes. Only in speed dating.

He turned his head towards her and his eyes widened for a second as the rest of his face went still. Then he shook his head slightly, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, his jaw settling into the stubborn line of a man who'd decided to face a firing squad without a blindfold and was determined not to blink when he did it.

"May I get your chair, ma'am? I wouldn't normally stop to ask, but I offended the first lady I met tonight by doing that."

Poor guy. And she'd thought she'd been dealt some bad hands tonight. Felicity infused her smile with all the warmth she could muster.

"You're not offending me at all. That would be great, thanks." She juggled her half-full glass of merlot and her handbag until she could offer her hand to him. "I'm Felicity. Felicity Smoak."

He exhaled slowly, as if someone had come running in with a last minute pardon as the rifles were being cocked, his bleak expression relaxing into a slight, almost shy smile. Her hand disappeared in his, which was callused, warm and solid with muscle. Not unlike Oliver's, actually. She wondered what he did for a living.

"Steve Rogers." He shook her hand gingerly, as if afraid of squeezing it too hard.

"Nice to meet you," she said automatically, biting her tongue to keep from adding, At least until you come out with my next dating horror story of the night. But maybe he wouldn't. He already had more potential than the Terrible Trio combined.

As he seated her, she took the opportunity for a quick once-over. Square, open face, the type that got labeled honest. Direct blue eyes. Short, dark blond hair with a stray lock partly falling over his forehead, the kind she'd bet would eventually rebel no matter what he did to try to tame it. And hello, shoulders. Maybe not quite the spread Dig had -- it was hard to tell in a suit, well-tailored though it was -- but easily bigger than Oliver. Overall, clean-cut boy next door, the polar opposite of Oliver's brooding, bad boy style. Fine by her, especially now.

Quickly, she took a sip of wine to cover her inspection and put her handbag on the table, careful to avoid the puddle of condensation around his all but untouched bottle of beer. He did a double take of his own, glancing at her mouth, then looking away, two small creases etched between his brows.

"So," she said brightly, "Who dragged you into this?"

His attention snapped back to her as a half-smile erased the slight frown. "That obvious, huh?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I got the feeling you were casing the exits, too."

"Guilty as charged." His rueful laugh sounded rusty, as if it wasn't something he did often. "My friend Nat set me up. Said it was this or I was going to get fixed up on a blind date. Given most of the people she knows, I figured I'd take my chances here. How about you?"

Felicity blinked. The laughter transformed him, banishing the shadow and strain underscoring his face. She'd guessed he was older than Oliver, maybe a few years on the dark side of thirty, but he couldn't be much older than she was.

A half-beat later, she realized he was waiting for her answer and that she'd been staring. She took another sip of wine to cover her lapse, then grew even more flustered when she noticed him glance again at her lips.

"Some friends of mine, Iris and Barry, suggested it. Well, nagged me into it. I guess I shouldn't be surprised Barry thought this was a good idea, since he's all into speed anymore. I don't mean like the drug, speed, he's just. Well. Fast. With everything. Not," she added hastily, "that I meant everything, everything. I mean, yes, I dated him a couple of times, but never really dated, dated, you know, that didn't work out, so I don't know about everything, everything." She grimaced. Great. If he wasn't running for the exits before, he would if she kept this up. "Three...two...one. I'm sorry. I don't mean for things to come out that way. And are you...blushing?"

Steve averted his eyes for a moment, eyebrows raised slightly and his lips pressed into in a slight curve that wasn't quite a smile. Felicity didn't know if he was suppressing laughter, embarrassment or both.

"No, I'm fine." The small curve grew to a real smile as he looked back at her with humor and a touch of sympathy. "Don't worry. At least you're not trying to embarrass me on purpose the way To-- the way some people do."

He wasn't making a mad, panicked rush for the door. That was something. She sighed in relief, then remembered why she'd been flustered in the first place. "Speaking of embarrassed...do I have something on my face?"

"No, why?"

"Oh. No offense, but you keep kind of looking at my mouth. I thought maybe I had some spinach stuck between my teeth or something. I mean, I checked and did the breath mint thing before this started, but that would be my luck."

"Oh, no. You look great. Really pretty." But his smile vanished like a blown-out candle. "I was noticing your lipstick. Not a lot of women wear it like that now. A beautiful da—uh, woman in red and that lipstick... it reminded me of someone I used to know."

The lines of his face were stark and shadowed again. This time, though, she thought she could put a name to the shadow: sorrow.

"I'm so sorry," she said, wishing she had something more to offer.

"Not your fault." He smiled once more, but this one was a practiced, pleasant reflex, a utility expression worn thin from overuse.

Felicity searched for something to say, something positive; time had to be getting short and she didn't want to end on that note. Before she could come up with anything, the bell rang.

She sighed, trying not to be annoyed. "I guess that's my cue."

He stood when she did, and shook her hand once more when she offered it. The contact lasted a little longer this time. She was sorry when it ended.

"Glad I got to talk to you, Felicity Smoak," he said.

Something about how he said it reminded her of Oliver telling her she was remarkable. Oddly, the memory didn't bother her now.

"I'm glad you're glad, Steve Rogers," she said, pleased when she won a chuckle from him.

She turned to walk away, but slowed to a halt as a cold grip of certainty tightened inside of her. She didn't know how he'd manage it, but she was sure he was going to leave, and if he did, she'd never see him again. And that, she thought, would be a shame.

Growing up, she'd spent countless hours in the back of bars and casinos in Las Vegas, waiting for her mother to get off work. She'd learned early the best way to stay safe was to watch people and to trust her intuition about them. What she sensed from Steve was very much like the impressions she'd gotten from Barry and Dig when she'd first met them. Good. Honorable. A strength of character she could see almost as clearly as his features. Someone who could be trusted.

Still, logic told her to keep on walking and let him go. She didn't know him. She didn't know anything about him, only that her instincts told her he was a good man, and something had hurt him. As with Oliver, he made her want to reach out, fix the problem and find some way to make him smile. Something was unique about him, too, although she wasn't sure what it was. A little shy. A little old-fashioned, maybe, but there was more to it than that. The thought of finding out what the difference could be intrigued her.

But mystery or not, the very last thing she needed in her life was another beautiful, broken man. Hadn't she learned her lesson with Oliver? Sure, she'd run into some jerks, but there were plenty of other men at the event. Fifteen more, according to her card. No doubt one of them would be decent company, maybe for dinner, maybe for longer than that. She'd laugh and have a good time. Maybe even have a fling. Not her usual style at all, but wasn’t that what everyone seemed to think she needed? It wouldn't matter, though, because it wouldn't mean anything.

The last thought made her pause. Oliver's stock phrase. It didn't mean anything.

The phrase bothered her because of the unspoken double meaning beneath: that he didn't value himself enough to think he deserved something meaningful. But if she valued herself, why should she waste her time on something meaningless, either?

She'd spent months convincing Oliver he was a person of worth who should value himself, a hero. Maybe it was time to remember she, too, was a person of worth who valued herself. Numbers might be Oliver’s solution, and speed Barry’s, but if she was going to move on, she needed to believe in herself enough to do it her way. She wanted quality, not quantity. Why waste the evening fending off mouthbreathers looking to score when she could spend it talking to one good man?

She turned to see Steve picking up his overcoat. Taking a deep breath to shore up her courage, she walked back to his table.

"You know, there's an ice cream parlor around the corner that has homemade ice cream. I don't know about you, but I could really go for some mint chocolate chip about now. Why don't we play hooky and tell our friends we stayed?"

Blue eyes met hers, clear and candid. Slowly, he smiled. A real one this time.

"I'd like that."

Chapter Text

Steve ducked beneath the sun-faded pastel umbrella covering the patio table, narrowly avoiding a fringe of dripping water from the afternoon’s rain. Over Felicity’s protests, he’d spread his overcoat on the wet metal bench for her to sit upon. Now, she perched on one end, phone in one hand, her free hand worrying at her thin, gold necklace as she studied the screen. As he sat down beside her, she jolted upright and hurriedly swiped away whatever she'd been reading.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yes. It's. A project. I was catching up on it. For...work. I didn't mean to be rude." She stuffed the phone into her handbag between rapid-fire bursts of words.

"No, no, you're fine." He didn't know what had unnerved her, but at least she was putting her phone away. The couples Steve saw in restaurants and coffee shops often seemed more interested in their phones than in each other. Yet another change in manners to which he thought he'd never adapt. "Here you go, ma'am. One scoop of Scout mint chip."

With a heartfelt sigh, she leaned over to take the dish from him. He tried not to let his eyes widen and failed. The back of her dress made up for the fairly modest front, creamy skin peeking between a latticework of scarlet straps. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when she straightened up again.

"You," she declared, "are a total hero and a lifesaver."

Steve did a double take at the phrase, but her expression wasn’t the starstruck one he’d come to dread. Sometimes, that look led to embarrassing situations, including random body parts being bared for his autograph. To his amusement, she was eyeing the ice cream as if it was the only bottle of water within a hundred miles during midday in the Sahara.

“Oh, I am? Just for ice cream?”

"I am a stress eater. This is the best mint chocolate ice cream on Earth. There's no such thing as just when it comes to regular mint chip, much less Molly Moon's. And before that? You got us off the Titanic." She pointed at him with her spoon. "Scratch that. Compared to that shipwreck? Being on the Titanic would have been a pleasure cruise. So yes. You are a hero.” She checked herself, then hastened on. “Er...for...doing all that, I mean. Thank you."

Despite his own still-jangling nerves, Steve found himself smiling. "Glad to be of service, ma’am. I've got to hand it to you, too. For a lady in high heels, you run great evasive maneuvers.” Toasting her with his own cone, he bit into the top scoop.

“I work for a billionaire who's constantly pursued by the press or the paparazzi. You learn to run and hide or else." She grimaced in disgust. “You’re terrific at blocking and covering, though. Without you, the happy hour crowd in the main bar would have been too handsy for me to manage. I can’t believe you managed to talk the coordinator into letting us go, either. Not with all the fuss she made at the beginning about nobody being allowed to leave early.”

“Guess I got lucky,” Steve said, wincing inwardly at the evasion. He'd taken advantage of the confusion during the table changes to slip them out of the lounge. They’d nearly made it out of the bar without their escape being noticed, but the event coordinator had caught him inside the main door and asked for an autograph for her little boy. He never minded doing that kind of thing for kids, but the timing couldn't have been worse.

Thanks to the combination of being off his home turf and his usual baseball cap quasi-disguise, he hadn't been recognized by anyone since he'd come to Starling City. He hadn't been trying to hide, but he'd enjoyed the anonymity. Just his luck he'd get spotted now. At the moment, he was too rattled to be as polite or professional as he should be if Felicity turned out to be a fan.

Felicity tipped her head to the side, studying him. A silky wave of blonde hair dipped peekaboo style over one blue eye, like a Veronica Lake pin-up pose. With a no-nonsense flip of her fingers, she pushed it back. “It is Captain Rogers, right? Not Mister?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve answered without enthusiasm. He’d managed to get Felicity into the front entry before the coordinator could do more than call his first name, so he'd hoped she hadn’t heard the request or seen him sign the little plastic shield. Apparently, he'd been wrong.

“Good.” She carved a tiny, neat divot into the side of her ice cream. “Not that Mr. Rogers wasn’t a fantastic guy and all, because he was. I’d always think about the Neighborhood of Make Believe and Trolley, though. Also? You don't seem like the cardigan wearing type. Not that you couldn’t if you wanted to, I mean. Rock a cardigan. Or. Well. Anything else.” Quickly, she popped the spoonful into her mouth, cutting herself off again.

“Right,” Steve said noncommittally, hoping to cover the fact he had no idea what she meant. He’d heard this reference, but it still wasn’t one he knew.

Resigned, he waited for Felicity to ask one or more of the questions everyone else did when they figured out who he was. If he was Captain America, which was the usual. What he thought of the world of today, which wasn’t his favorite, but acceptable. If he’d really been frozen, and what that had been like, which made him feel like a Neanderthal. Or, his least favorite, morbidly eager questions about the war or how he’d liked killing Nazis. Especially when they were asked by adults who should know better in front of a bunch of kids who didn’t.

Empty questions, all of them. He always gave stock, positive answers along with his best USO trained smile. After all, nobody wanted the truth and he didn’t want to complain. However, the rote answers resulted in repetitive conversations which ended once people satisfied their curiosity. Some days, he felt like a talking monkey in a time travel zoo, communicating with everyone but not connecting with anyone.

But Felicity didn’t ask. To his relief, she let the conversation lapse into comfortable silence. After a few minutes, he'd regrouped and relaxed enough to start enjoying himself. The ice cream rivaled that of his favorite shop in Brooklyn, the waning sun was still warm enough to be soothing, and he had a pretty girl for company. This was the kind of first date he would have chosen to have, if he’d ever landed one before the war. In his day, a fellow would go to a bar with his buddies, but he'd never insult a girl by suggesting he take her to one.

Maybe he should try to make conversation? He'd never been good at small talk, though, and besides, the quiet felt good. Peaceful. Instead, he discreetly checked Felicity out from behind the screen of his cone, appreciating the picture she made, vibrant red and warm gold against the watercolor paleness of the table and sparse greenery in the window box behind her. As he watched, she scooped out a careful bite and ate it, head tilted back and her eyes half-closed as she slowly drew the white spoon from between her red lips. When a stray drip threatened to fall off one side, she caught it with a slow slide of her tongue along the curve of the spoon and gave a little sigh of satisfaction before scooping out another bite.

Holy cow, as Bucky would have said. Steve exhaled slowly, trying to decide what to do. He'd bet his shield she wasn't deliberately trying to vamp him. He knew he was clueless at picking up when women were trying to flirt with him, but he was an expert in knowing when women weren't paying attention to him. Absorbed as she was in what she was doing, she wasn't aware of him or anyone else. As much as he was enjoying the view, it didn't seem gentlemanly to keep watching her under those circumstances, though. He took a bite of ice cream that was a lot less cold than he wished it was, then deliberately cleared his throat.

Startled, she froze for a second, her eyes wide and her spoon stuck halfway in her mouth like a kid who'd been caught red-handed raiding the freezer. Her sudden shift in demeanor made him chuckle.

"You weren’t kidding about ice cream, were you?” he asked.

"’M so sorry," she mumbled behind her hand, then swallowed. Her face was almost as red as her lipstick. "I told you, I stress eat. This is my anti-drug. And no, ice cream is never just ice cream. Ice cream’s a window to the soul.”

Steve eyeballed her skeptically. Sounded corny as Kansas in August to him, but he was too polite to say so. Too bad. She hadn't seemed like a dizzy dame. “Really. You don't say."

Her eyes narrowed. If she'd been armed with a gun instead of that glare, he'd've taken two to the chest. Steve mentally sighed. His attitude must have been a lot more obvious than he'd intended it to be. One of these days, he was going to be able to talk to a woman without feeding himself some shoe sole and a side of heel, but today wasn't going to be that day.

"Okay," she said, a little snap of sarcasm in her tone. "Call it a reliable data point. For statistical analysis. It's a fixed preference for people. I think it would be fun to write an algorithm to predict personality traits and behavior patterns based on ice cream choices. Is that better?”

Nope, not dizzy. His kind of dame after all, beautiful and bright with a bite. Steve couldn't tamp down his smile. Not because of what she'd said -- he wasn't nuts enough to like having his britches verbally dusted -- but because she wasn't awed or intimidated by the fact he was Captain America, the way most people were when he tried to talk to them.

It hadn't always been that way. Even when he'd been doing the USO tours and making those godawful short films, people had been impressed and interested, but not uncomfortable. Now, when people found out who he was, it was as if he stopped being a person and became an oddity, a science experiment, or a legend, which bothered him most. He’d never done anything to deserve that kind of respect.

He nodded in apology. "Yes, ma'am."

Her spoon stilled over her bowl, as if she hadn't expected his reaction, either. Mollified, she nodded back in forgiveness.

"Hm. You're the opposite of most people. Say 'window to the soul' and they get what you mean. Say 'reliable data point for statistical analysis', and they look at you like you're a whackadoo. Go figure." She rolled her eyes, then poked at the remains in her dish, carving out a chunk of chocolate. "Mint chip got me through college. Coo-- I mean, I had a favorite ice cream place I went to all the time. To de-stress. We -- I used to watch people there. What people choose and what they do with it really does tell you a lot about them. Sounds silly, I guess, but there's been studies to prove it."

Her comment reminded him of the last time the Avengers had been together. The day after the invasion, while the group was assessing the damage in the outer boroughs, he'd discovered his favorite ice cream shop in his old neighborhood in Brooklyn had survived and was still in business. He'd picked up several containers and gotten everyone together for ice cream sundaes, hoping they could discuss future plans before they scattered.

Tony had used the occasion for a monologue about links between frozen desserts and sexual preferences, complete with more detail than Steve had ever wanted to hear, especially in mixed company. Thor had reminisced about various frozen Asgardian delicacies which might be delicious but sounded more exotic than Steve’s digestion could handle, which was saying something given he’d spent most of a year eating K-rations and whatever he and the Howling Commandos could scavenge. Natasha had passed on the ice cream, but won a bet with Clint that she could tie a cherry stem into a double knot with only her tongue. Clint had drowned whatever he had in every cavity-causing topping available until the ice cream was hidden from view, and Bruce, caught mid-experiment, kept using the napkins for equations and probably didn’t know there was ice cream in the bowl at his elbow, period.

Even though it proved Felicity's point, it hadn't been a terribly successful team-building experiment. The disaster of a poker game he'd gotten suckered into afterwards had been even worse, though. He was never betting against Natasha again, ever, especially not for forfeits instead of money. He’d only thought he knew what dating hell could be until he’d walked into that place tonight.

“So does ice cream work better than the eyes or not?” he asked, only half joking.

“Eyes. Like those work.” She waved her hand dismissively. “People can look at you and lie with their eyes all the time. Ice cream choices and computers, now, those never lie.”

Computers. Right. Better to stick to what he did know. “So, what does the mint chip say about you?”

“Only that I’m in dire need of a broad-spectrum mood antibiotic. Peppermint and chocolate, best chemical mood elevators ever. You can't not smile with that combination. Perfect de-stress, cheer-you-up food.” She nodded at his cone. “So, what did you get?”

“Vanilla. Don’t worry, you won’t hurt my feelings,” he said, amused. “Ton – I’ve already been lectured at about vanilla being boring and lacking imagination. Doesn’t matter. I like it, anyway.”

“Who told you that? Only people with no vision would say that about vanilla,” Felicity scoffed. "I have all kinds of respect for vanilla. Vanilla is the building block of ice cream, the absolute essential of ice cream. It’s great by itself, but it makes anything you pair it with taste better, too. That’s impressive. And there’s nothing that doesn’t taste amazing on vanilla, so you can try anything on it. Vanilla’s for experimenters. You can pour chocolate syrup all over it, you can smother it with whipped cream, you can drizzle it with honey....” she shrugged. “Vanilla’s flexible.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He polished off the last of his first scoop. “Makes me glad to be a vanilla guy.” He stopped, concerned, as she choked on her next mouthful. “Are you okay?”

“Er. Yes.” She cast a wary look at him from beneath lowered lashes, then added under her breath, “Now I know how everyone else feels when I do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” she said hastily. “But anyway, that’s, um. Not what I meant. We’re still talking data abstraction. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I am definitely in comfort food mode. Since you’re not picking something more exotic, I’m guessing you are, too. So, what about vanilla comforts you?”

Steve considered the remains of his ice cream. Double-dip vanilla on a waffle cone, the special treat of all treats when he was a kid. For his mother, a widow with a sickly son, five cents for ice cream had been hard to come by, especially during the early Depression. After she’d become too ill to work and he’d gone to the orphanage, ice cream became a distant memory. When he and Bucky were older, they'd occasionally manage to scrape together an extra dime so they could each have a cone when they went to watch the Dodgers.

Memories crowded his mind. A hug and a smile from his mother, before she’d become so frail and thin from the tuberculosis. Walking home from the ice cream shop on a hot summer afternoon, dodging through the cool sprays of water from the open fire hydrants and jumping in the puddles. Cheering on his favorite team with his best friend. Things he hadn’t stopped to think about, in the rush of the new world around him. Comforting, but not sad.

Come to think of it, it was what he’d needed.

“Makes me think of good times,” he answered finally, and smiled at her. “Guess you’re right. Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.” She tilted her head to meet his eyes, smiling back in a way that made him feel pleasantly warm again. “So. That's a New York accent, isn't it? Are you a recent transplant?”

“Brooklyn, actually. I moved here about six weeks ago.”

“Welcome to Starling City, then. What brings you here? Work? The scenery? The coffee? The fact that your beach towel can double as your umbrella?”

He chuckled. “Work. I do a lot of traveling. Starling City's the best place for a home base on this part of the coast.”

“But you’re not working in Starling City?” she asked, a faint, almost anxious note to the words.

He couldn't blame her, given how many times an Avenger in town meant some kind of disaster in the offing. Besides, he’d seen the earthquake damage while he was out on his runs or doing parkour through the Glades. Starling City clearly was in no shape to cope with any more disasters.

“Not as far as I know.”

Which isn't enough. He pushed down familiar frustration. But at least it was the truth as far as he knew it, which these days, wasn't saying too much.

“Oh, good,” she said with relief. Checking herself, she rushed on. “I mean. Not that anyone would object if you did. Who'd object to where anyone works, right? Although living here’s going to be a big change. I mean, you’re a long way from home.”

Seventy years was about as far away from home as anyone could get, he guessed. “Anyplace is, anymore."

He'd meant it to be humorous, but the edge to the words was sharper than he'd intended. She looked at him a long moment, as if thinking over not only what he said, but what he hadn't, her expression softening with sympathy.

"Sounds rough," she said, so quietly the words were almost lost in the faint breeze rustling by them.

Then they both almost jumped out of their seats as music shattered the air. And there are crooks and criminals…

She glared at her handbag, then fumbled out her phone and tapped the glassy surface. The music cut off mid-phrase. “I'm sorry. Work emergency. I have to get this.”

“Be my guest.”

She turned partially away, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear as she did so. He could almost see coils of tension tightening around her as she spoke. Steve listened, mentally filling in the blanks while he finished his second scoop.

“What!? Wait. Roy? Roy, why are you using this phone? No, Roy, do not tell him. I am telling you that you officially know nothing because it’s none of his business where I am. I don’t care. He’ll survive.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, waiting. “Really. Fine. The key card is under the third monitor. Yes, on your left.” A pause, then with forced patience, “No, your other left.” Another pause, followed by a defeated sigh. “Fine, but I’m taking my time. He does not get to make me rude to my date and spoil my evening more than he already is because – no, Roy, I will not answer that.”

She stabbed the phone with her finger as if she wished she had a dagger to use instead before shoving it back into her bag.

“The billionaire boss?” He’d overheard too many conversations from Tony’s end with Pepper not to be able to fill in the gaps.

“On behalf of the billionaire boss, who was apparently too cowardly to do it himself, but yes. Nobody’s used to me having a life outside of work.”

"There’s life outside of work? Could've fooled me, some days.”

She rewarded his attempt at a joke with a wan smile, then sighed. “Thanks for being so nice about it. I have to head to my car, though. I’m really sorry.”

“Mind if I see you to your car?”

“That would be great,” she said, brightening. “Although I’m parked way out there. Sure you don’t mind?”

“Ah, it’ll be fine.” Standing, he tossed his remaining napkins into a nearby trash can. “Want me to throw yours away for you?”

She held up her small bowl, showing him the one neat bite remaining inside of it. “Would you like to try it first? I’m always willing to convert new believers to the Church of the Holy Mint Chip.”

He didn’t care one way or the other, but if it pleased her so much, what the heck. “Sure.”

“Do you want me to get you another spoon so you don’t catch my cooties?” She waggled the bowl playfully at him.

The familiar reference made him grin. He hadn't heard that expression since the schoolyard at P.S. 287 back in Brooklyn.

“Nah, I never catch anything,” he said, taking the dish. The plastic spoon bore a perfect red imprint of her lips around the bowl, and he barely registered the taste as more than good because he was trying not to think about how close it was to an indirect kiss.

“So, do I have a convert?”

“Absolutely.” He began to throw the dish away, but she put a hand on his arm.

“Hold still. Piece of chocolate,” she said briskly.

As she reached up, reflexes took over, calculating trajectory to where the piece was on his mouth. Without thinking, he licked at the spot just as her finger brushed his lips, catching chocolate and her fingertip with the tip of his tongue.

She jerked her hand back as if she'd been stung, her fingers curling protectively inward as if she'd pretended to catch a blown kiss. Rattled all over again and acutely aware of the tingling where she'd touched, Steve turned away from her. Deep breath. Get it together, Rogers.

He launched the small dish at the trash can, shield-style. To his annoyance, the small disk spun and landed on the edge before slowly toppling into the can. Able to boomerang a shield around corners, and almost fluffing a simple toss. Must be something to what the drill sergeant used to say about women being a distraction.

When he turned back, she handed his overcoat to him, looking anywhere but at him as she did. Looping it over his right arm, he offered his left to her. She slipped her hand down his forearm, farther than they used to do in his day, ending up much closer to him than he expected. He racked his brain for something to say in order to distract himself from the soft warmth snugged against his elbow.

“Uh--“ He cleared his throat, getting rid of gruffness. “...um...” His brain momentarily stalled before hitching back to life. The first thing that registered was the color contrast of her bright red, orange-tipped fingernails against the blue of his suit. “Interesting...nails.”

“Thanks! I have to keep them short all the time because I type so much. There’s no reason I can’t still be kind of fun and funky with them, right? I chip the polish off so fast, though...” She broke off, squeezing her eyes shut briefly in exasperation. “Augh. I’m so going to stop talking now.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, his self-consciousness ebbing as he did. At least he wasn’t the only one flustered for a change, nor the only one who rambled when it happened. Catching his eye, she shook her head and snickered.

“Seeing a pattern here,” he teased after they'd sobered. “Get chatty when you’re nervous, do you?”

“Today’s a good day. Sometimes, it’s worse. I am sorry, though. I didn’t mean to get all up into your personal space back there.” Biting her lower lip, she slanted an embarrassed glance up at him.

The sight of small white teeth sinking into ripe, scarlet fullness held his attention for a second longer than he'd intended. Quickly, he looked away, hoping he hadn't been too obvious. His mind kept right on going without his permission, though, imagining what she'd taste like, cold melting to heat, chocolate richness and peppermint bite.

This time, he remembered to clear his throat before he spoke.

“That’s all right. I didn’t mind. Appreciate your looking out for the welfare of my suit.”

“It’s habit,” she confessed. “Oliver’s the worst for getting things on his suits before board meetings and things. He has a real cat of a business partner who makes snarky comments if he does.”

“Oliver?”

“My boss. Oliver Queen.”

“That would be the billionaire you mentioned?”

“One and the same.”

For a second, her expression mirrored what it had been when she’d mentioned eyes which lied. He hesitated, thinking again of Tony and Pepper. “Are you...”

“Don’t even finish that sentence," she warned. "I should probably rent a billboard somewhere for as many times as I get that question. For the record. No. I Do. Not. Like. Oliver. Queen. He is definitely not interested in me. We’re friends. And he’s my boss. He brought me in as his assistant to do specialized computer work. I'm the best."

The first part of her statement sounded a touch hollow to him, but her pride and confidence in her skill rang true. “Kind of surprises me you’re not working with Tony Stark. Thought Stark had the market cornered on computer experts.”

“Ew, no.”

She sounded as if he’d suggested she eat a bug. A big one. Torn between between a snicker and curiosity, Steve asked, “Ew?”

“Stark Industries tried to hire me out of MIT. They always target the high and early grads, although the recruiters did say Mr. Stark liked my my master's thesis.”

“What was it?”

She stiffened, then sighed in resignation before she answered, her words picking up speed and running into each other like cars on a train about to derail.

“Secured computer programming for DNA based self-assembly and nanorobotic systems. Don’t worry,” she added before he could comment. “I know it's sucky date talk. It was only theory.”

"No, I’m impressed." His respect for her rose a notch. He knew what Stark Industries' standards were; even in his day, SI had never hired any but the best of the best. Given Tony's level of expertise, it would take something exceptional to capture his interest, too. "You should be proud of yourself."

She flicked a sharp, surprised look up at him, cautious but pleased.

“Wow, you're taking that well. Most guys glaze over and run for the door when they hear all that, and then it's --" she grimaced and drew her finger across her throat.

Though her tone was light and humorous, he didn't think she was entirely joking. He felt a pang of empathy. More than a few of the girls Bucky had set him up with had suddenly remembered urgent appointments or had convenient excuses to end the date early when they saw him. At least most had been polite, even if they'd had trouble masking their disappointment at how he'd looked.

How would most fellows react if they expected a brainless, beautiful blonde they could easily impress and ended up matching wits with a genius instead? He could guess, though he didn't like the answer. Because of Peggy and Natasha, he'd seen first hand how crude or belittling some men could be when faced with the combination of a beautiful face and exceptional talent. He wouldn't be surprised if that was why she'd stomped on her date back in the bar. Steve hadn’t heard what the jerk had said, but he'd leered at her like the stage door Johnnies who used to try to bother the girls on the USO tour. The girls sometimes bet whether Steve could make them bounce two or three times when he tossed them out the backstage door.

Women like her didn’t need his help, but that didn't stop him from wanting to sock fellows like that on the jaw, anyway. He still wished he’d gotten a chance to feed Gilmore Hodge a knuckle sandwich for what he’d said to Peggy so long ago.

"Running away's not my style," he said, matching her light tone. “Didn’t make Stark Industries run for the door, either, right?”

“I wish.” She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, mock-gagging. “No, it was a mess. Somehow the pushy hiring department got word to Tony Stark, and then he started in. The word ‘no’? Apparently? Not one of his favorites.”

Steve snorted. That had to be one of the biggest understatements he'd ever heard. “So, how’d you get Stark to listen?” Hell, he was still trying to figure out how to get Tony to listen to him half the time.

The corners of her mouth teased up a touch, hinting at mischief. “Someone hacked SI's e-mail server to send a broadcast e-mail to him and the entire company saying, ‘The answer is ‘NO’’. In 15 different languages, since English alone wasn't getting through."

Steve thought of what Tony's reaction had to have been and burst out laughing. She'd probably think he was nuts, busting a gut like that, but it felt good. He'd've loved to have been a fly on the wall when that happened. Would've been almost as good as the time Gabe had caught Dugan passed out after slugging down one too many and decided to trim Dugan's moustache to look like Monty's. "So what happened then?"

"Actually, I don't know. Ms. Potts stepped in and saved the day. She's amazing. She said it happened while she was out of town or she would have collared him earlier. She did say she printed copies for her own use, though.”

Steve made a mental note to ask Pepper if she still had any copies. He'd love to have one to use the next time Tony started to get contrary, just to see what would happen.

“That’s great. Other than pushy, though, what was your objection to Stark? I’m told he treats his employees well, and he does value bright people. No offense, sounds like you really would have been a good match.”

“He would be now, since he’s into clean energy. At the time, though, Stark Industries was all about weapons, and I didn’t want to work for a weapons dealer.”

His mirth died. “Do you have something against weapons?” He tried and, he thought, mostly succeeded in keeping the edge out of his voice. There were those who’d say he was a weapon partially designed by Stark Industries. Partially created, definitely.

“No. I’m very pro-weapon, if the weapon's in the right hands. Obadiah Stane was still there, though. Rumor had it SI was selling arms to anyone, including some of the worst bullies in the world. The money was tough to pass up, but I didn’t want my work equipping people like that. I don't mind designing weapons for a good cause. That is, I wouldn't. If I did. Design weapons. Which I don't." She tucked her bag closer to her body, fingers white-knuckled as if she were physically holding back another torrent of speech. A small card slipped out as her purse shifted, fluttering over to land in his path. He stooped down to pick it up and skimmed it before handing it to her.

"Ice breaking questions for speed dates. You want this?"

"Is that what it is? I just stuffed everything in there that they gave…" She broke off as she scanned the card, her eyes narrowing.

"Something wrong?"

"I-- no." She didn't move away, but the sense of distance was unmistakable. Strange. The questions had looked generic to him, nothing which should have rattled her. He tried for some humor.

"I read the first one, anyway. What would you bring with you to a desert island?"

An unwilling sputter of laughter escaped her. "Oh, no. Please. No. If I never hear anything else about an island of any sort, it'll be too soon. That is, unless the words 'Hawaii', 'Aruba' or 'all expenses paid five star vacation' come into it somewhere."

He blinked at her vehemence. "Okay, no desert islands." He glanced over her shoulder at the card. "Presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day."

"I'm Jewish, so, neither."

He eyed her askance. "You're not making this very easy."

"I'll have you know I'm very eas--" She huffed a sigh and shook her head. "Three, two...probably Christmas Eve, I guess. I hate mysteries."

Now that he'd pinned that nervous tell of hers, it stuck out as blatantly as his old USO uniform. Something had bothered her. Even given his lousy track record on dates, he couldn't think of anything he'd done, though. "Did I do something wrong, ma'am?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed in resignation. "The event coordinator. Her name's on the card. I didn't place it until now. I'd never met her before, but she's a good friend of someone I know." Disappointment flattened her tone and her head bowed. "I guess you know Barry Allen, don't you?"

"Never met him, as far as I know. Who is he?"

"He's...just...a friend of mine. He, my friend Iris and Te--other friends keep trying to set me up with --" she hesitated as if wavering between word choices, then plunged on, " -- guys who've come into town to work with the -- with Barry. I told them not to do it again. Barry swore this wasn't a setup, though. And to think I actually believed him," she finished bitterly.

Boy, did Steve get that one. He thought he'd 'accidentally' bumped into all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s single female staff members in the elevator or the cafeteria at one time or the other. Funny how they were always with Natasha and always needed an introduction.

“If it's a setup, it's news to me. My friend Nat got me my ticket. She’s kind of the same way as your friends, though. If I had a nickel for every person she’s suggested setting me up with, I’d be rolling in dough. I always say no. This was a one and done deal.”

“Do you know where she got it?”

“No idea. Some contact of hers, I guess. I didn’t ask.” He trusted Nat to know she'd never have suggested he go if she hadn't checked everything and everyone out personally.

“How did she get you there, anyway?” she persisted. “No offense, but it didn't seem like your kind of scene.”

“She’s, er, persuasive.” It didn’t seem polite to tell a lady he was there because he’d lost a bet. A poker bet, at that. "She's been after me for months to get out more. Told me if I did this, she'd call it quits and stop pushing."

She searched his face again, then sighed.

"Look. It's not you. I like you. I mean, I wouldn’t have minded...” She shook her head, pink tinting her cheeks. “I know they mean well. Good intentions don't matter. I don’t like people lying to me so they can trick me into doing something after I've said no, is all. The guys knew I didn't want to be set up, too. I guess they thought they were so irresistible I'd change my mind. It just got me mad." She swallowed. "Be honest. You didn't...I mean, you're not...are you?"

The question nicked a nerve. He'd only recently begun to figure out how much of what he was being told about his work was the honest truth and how much was some shade of gray in between. Irritating, particularly from people he needed to be able to trust.

“No. I wouldn't do that," he said. Too forcefully; she flinched, startled. He made himself smile, trying to lighten it up. "And I'm always honest."

She considered him as if she were weighing what he'd said against some known quantity of truth. Silence spun out, the tension underneath cranking tighter by the second. Steve tried to think of something to break it. Damn it, he'd actually thought this might be one date that didn't crash and burn. Then she exhaled sharply and scanned the card again.

"So, my turn, isn't it?" He had the feeling she was trying to recapture the lighter mood as well. “Most reckless thing you’ve ever done.”

He considered for a moment. As Captain America, there were a thousand examples from which he could have picked – reckless was a relative term for anyone in his line of work – but really only one as Steve Rogers.

“I let a very rich friend of mine take me for a test drive of a new sports car.”

Her eyebrows winged upward in disbelief. "Of all things, that's what you chose?"

“Trust me,” Steve said fervently.

In the half hour he'd been trapped in the Lamborghini, he was certain he’d gotten grey hairs in spite of the super serum. He should have wised up when Bruce flatly refused to go. That he and Tony both hadn't ended up as a thin layer of goo on a concrete embankment was an argument for divine intervention, as far as Steve was concerned. He was convinced Tony Stark shouldn’t even have a driver’s license, much less be allowed near an automobile. And this is the guy we allow to have an armored flight suit. With weapons.

Aloud, he said, “I’m sure your billionaire boss drives the same way, right? I don’t know much about Oliver Queen, but he’s kind of a playboy, isn’t he?”

“Oh. I wouldn’t know how Oliver drives his toys." She shrugged matter-of-factly. “Executive assistants get town cars. Sometimes the limos. Every now and then, the private jet. Sports cars and motorcycles are strictly for girlfriends and arm candy. All part of his image. And speaking of rides, here’s mine.” She stopped beside a chunky little red and black car and turned, pushing her hair back and smiling up at him. “It was great meeting you. Thank you for getting me out of there. And for the ice cream. And for taking the time to walk me out and...well, for listening to me babble.”

"I...uh...liked what you had to say." Suave, real suave, he thought, disgusted. Why couldn't he ever come up with something charming and flirtatious, the way Bucky used to do?

What should he do? He'd been too focused on surviving the evening to think ahead to what he'd do if he actually met somebody. He waited, hoping she'd offer her number or suggest going out again, but all she did was to get out her keyfob and unlock her car. Well, she had already asked him out once, which was more than he would have managed on his own. The next move should be his.

But while Felicity herself didn’t intimidate him, asking a woman out on a date was something he hadn’t done in years, not since he’d learned the hard way that women didn’t go for sawed-off 98 pound asthmatics. Even knowing how much his appearance had changed since then didn’t help. Besides, what could he ask her to do that he also felt confident doing?

He knew he should have swallowed his pride and asked Natasha for advice, just in case. Or Clint. No, not Clint. No telling what straight-faced smart alec advice Clint would have given him. Bruce? Pepper? Someone who wasn’t Tony, anyway. Inspiration struck as he thought of what she’d said about her boss.

“So, do you...like motorcycles?” he blurted out.

Felicity averted her face and busied herself tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Neither gesture quite hid the slight curve of her lips, too pensive to be a smile.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I've never gotten to ride one."

For all she denied any relationship between herself and her boss, her reaction made Steve think he'd hit a nerve himself. Maybe she’d done her share of watching other women ride away in Queen’s sports car or on the back of his motorcycle while wishing she was the kind of girl who'd be chosen to ride with him. The way he used to feel sometimes, watching girls fall over themselves for Bucky without seeing him at all. Hard to believe a woman with Felicity's looks would ever be passed over the way he once had been, but he knew from experience that society was never kind to the exceptional on either end of the scale.

Why hadn't Queen asked her? Professional reasons? Did he think she didn't fit his image? That idea didn't sit well with Steve at all. Whatever the reason, it clearly hurt her a little. She'd been kind to him tonight. The least he could do was ask her out and show her there were fellows who’d be proud to be seen with her, right? Maybe she'd still say no, but it would be the right thing to do to ask her. As long as he thought of it that way, the thought of asking her out and facing the usual rejection became slightly less daunting.

Slightly.

Steve took a deep breath, his guts writhing with apprehension. He'd been less nervous facing regiments of murder-happy Chitauri. Compared to women, combat was easy.

“If you want...I have one, if you’d like to go out some time. A motorcycle. For a ride.” Damn it, Rogers, you couldn't stumble over your tongue any more if it were hanging out of your mouth. He rubbed nervously at his forehead, feeling like an idiot. “A date, I mean.”

She blinked, momentarily speechless. "Like an actual date, date?" she asked at last, as if she wasn't certain she'd heard him correctly.

"Er. Yeah." Bracing himself, he counted heartbeats and forced himself not to withdraw the invitation before she could say no.

Instead, she lit up like Broadway. The way the dames in Brooklyn used to look when Bucky asked them out. The way he'd wished they would for him, though they never had. The way he'd hoped Peggy might, though he'd never gotten the chance to find out.

"Yes. I'd really like that. Thank you," she said.

After the night he'd had, her answer and that smile made him feel ten feet tall and capable of singlehandedly downing a Chitauri leviathan, with or without the serum. He hoped his answering grin wasn’t as silly as it felt.

"So when would you like to go? I'm off tomorrow. Or I should be. Unless there's an emergency. But I'm off. Tomorrow afternoon, maybe?"

Great. Now he was running on at the mouth. But he felt too good to care.

"Tomorrow's Monday. I have to work," she said apologetically.

"Oh. Yeah. I didn't think about what day it was." He'd long since gotten out of the habit of measuring his work periods by weeks. He stopped when injuries sidelined him or, like now, when S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations forced him to take a couple of days of R&R. "Too used to working odd hours and being on call, I guess."

"I know what you mean," she said with feeling. Her fingers tightened around her keyfob and her chin came up, set and defiant. "You know what? Forget that. If you don't mind picking me up at work, tomorrow afternoon will be perfect. Three, maybe?"

"Sounds great. You sure, though? We can do it another time. I don't want you to get in trouble."

"Oh, believe me. There won't be any trouble this time."

For Queen's sake, Steve hoped she was right. He wouldn't face any woman with that glint in her eye without his shield. He'd learned his lesson with Peggy.

"Let me write down your number and address, then?"

She stopped in the middle of opening her handbag. "Write it...are you sure you don't want me to send it over to your phone?"

"No, that's okay." He'd mastered the basics of the phone S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him, but he preferred to write down anything important. He couldn't rid himself of a nagging suspicion the information would vanish into the air at a moment's notice.

"Let me see if I still have a card." She dug into her handbag. Almost too casually, she asked, "So. What do you do for a living?"

Steve felt as if he'd slammed face first into his own shield. Oh, hell. She didn't know. How could he have misread her so badly? That was a new low, even for him.

He didn't know how to answer her, either. She hadn't asked who he was, but what he did. All the other Avengers had other jobs or cover stories, but he didn't. Could he tell her he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.? No, S.H.I.E.L.D. was still somewhat covert and he didn't know what the policy was for telling civilians.

When he thought about it, nobody had even asked him that question since before the war. People only ever asked him if he was Captain America. Nobody assumed he was anything else anymore.

Are you anything else anymore? a little voice nagged in the back of his mind. A little voice that sounded suspiciously like Natasha when she was bent on haranguing him about his personal life, so he shoved it aside.

So say it, Rogers, he thought. I’m Captain America. There. Done.

But that sounded like a comic book title, not a job description, or worse, as if he were bragging. He had enough trouble spitting it out to people even when he was in full uniform and saving their lives. Still, it did seem to be his only option, even if it didn't really answer her question.

Yet the words froze on his tongue. Short as it was, it was still the first real date he’d had since he’d come out of the ice and one of the best he’d had, period. He'd gotten to be just a fellow walking out with a pretty girl, enjoying her company and the attraction between them on a pleasant autumn evening. He'd almost forgotten what a relief it was to have someone expect nothing more from him except to be plain old Steve Rogers from Brooklyn. Even to Fury or his fellow Avengers he was Cap as often as he was Steve, an amalgam they never separated.

Altogether, being with her had been a precious slice of normal. He'd thought normal had disappeared from his life for good the day he’d bolted from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s sham of a 1940’s hospital room and run into a world of the future he'd been in no way prepared to face. He didn't want to see her shut down and disconnect the way everyone else did when they found out, or worse, have everything blow up and get awkward. Besides, they'd both had a rotten evening before it took this turn for the better. Why ruin the ending for either of them?

Except she'd had enough trouble with people shading the truth and he wasn't a liar.

Stomach sinking to his heels, he took a deep breath and squared off to face her. Maybe if he didn't lead with it, it wouldn't sound so jarring, at least.

“I was in the Army. I work for the government now. I'm kind of a specialist. They call me in to deal with unusual problems.” The back of his neck prickled hotly, as it always did when he lied, even though it was all completely true. "I mean, that's what I actually do. Mostly. I..."

He trailed off as she tipped her head to one side to look up at him. Something about the ironic gleam in her eyes made him want to ask, Is this a test?

"Let me guess. It's...complicated." The way she said it made him think she was mimicking someone. Then she sighed and shook her head. "Why don't you call me and tell me more later?"

"Yeah," he agreed, relieved. "I can do that." Her boss was waiting on her, and she'd probably have questions. Besides, if he didn't have to say it to her face, maybe it wouldn’t have the same impact, or at least, maybe he wouldn’t feel like an idiot saying it.

She handed him a pen and two business cards, both slightly the worse for wear. "There. It's my old card from the IT department, but all the information is right. Check in with security when you get there and they'll tell you where to go. If you’re not worried that I'm a crazy stalker type, you can write your number on the back of the second card, if you want."

He gusted out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, feeling as if he’d dodged a barrage of HYDRA’s energy beams without his shield. If it was a test, he guessed he'd passed, at least provisionally. He scrawled his number on the back of the second card, then handed the pen and card back to her. "Nope, doesn't worry me."

"I'll talk to you later, then," she said.

"Right."

He thought she'd leave, but instead, she looked up at him expectantly, as if she were waiting for something.

Did she mean for him to kiss her good night? He wondered again what she'd taste like, and the heat under his skin had nothing to do with embarrassment. Would she think he was getting fresh if he tried that on a first date, though? He knew things had changed, of course, but how much? Then her laughter scattered his thoughts.

“I have the worst luck waiting on these,” she complained good-naturedly. Before he could figure out what she meant, she tiptoed up and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Steve Rogers.”

Her lips were even softer than he'd thought they'd be, a little chilled, their touch like a snowflake melting to warmth on his skin. He mentally kicked himself in the pants for missing out on the chance to find out if the rest of what he'd wondered was true.

“Good night...Felicity Smoak.”

Lost in thought, he watched as she got into her car and drove away. As the amber glow of taillights receded in the gathering twilight, he absently turned her card in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the raised letters of her name.

When he’d requested -- okay, demanded -- his reassignment, he hadn’t considered anything but the strategic need for the relocation. Natasha had been the one to point out it might not be a bad thing for him personally, either. According to her, he hadn’t really rejoined the world; he existed in it. Going to a new place, meeting new people, she claimed, would force him to get away from the ghosts in New York, from the memories haunting him in Washington.

He’d dismissed the idea the same way he’d shrugged off her attempts to find him dates. Now...he wasn’t so sure. The night had opened his eyes to a few things he hadn't considered. Maybe he had gotten stuck in survival mode without realizing it. Maybe Natasha had been right all along.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

~*~ 

“What’re you watching?” Roy craned over Felicity’s shoulder to look at the largest monitor, leaning an arm against one of the round backrests of her chair as he did so.

“Raw footage from the Chitauri invasion in New York.  Someone on YouTube collected and spliced together a lot of the bystander videos,” Felicity absently batted him away with the back of one hand.  “The chair, Roy.  Respect the chair.”

“It’s a computer chair, not a throne,”  Roy groused, but he straightened. “What’re you watching that for?  You don’t get to watch enough action monitoring Oliver and Sara?  Or are you being unfaithful to Oliver and ogling Hawkeye?”

“A word of advice, Roy.  Stand-up comedy?  Not a good career choice for you.”  Felicity twirled in her chair to face him.  “Any problems with the key?”

“Worked like a charm.”  Roy slid the card out of his back pocket and dropped it into her lap.  “I guess that’s the good thing about being arrested so many times.  At least I knew where I was going in the police department.”

“Always a silver lining.” Felicity rolled her chair swiftly to the lockbox at the end of her desk, forcing Roy to retreat or have his foot run over.  “Did you get everything?”

“All the files on Lance’s list.  They’re on his desk as we speak.”

Felicity stopped, card in hand.  “On his desk?  Why didn’t you bring them back here?”

“The pile was almost two feet thick!  No way I could get out of there with all that.  Oliver said Lance would get them to him later.”

“What was in them?”

“No idea. Didn’t Oliver tell you?”

“All Oliver told me was that Lance needed some files removed from a secured area in the SCPD.  He asked if I could copy Tockman’s skeleton key onto an SCPD swipe card and how quickly I could do it.  End of conversation.”  Felicity tried and failed to stifle her irritation.  Not that she didn’t trust Oliver, but the bare minimum communication was getting on her nerves.  “Didn’t you look?”

Roy sighed, exasperated.  “I was crawling on all fours in the middle of the SCPD’s records department while you had Starling City’s finest running around on a tornado drill.  I grabbed the file numbers Lance told Oliver to get and that was it.  I didn’t think hanging around for a little pleasure reading was the best idea.”

“Wow, you thought?” she asked, unable to resist needling him.

“I know, red letter day, mark it on the calendar.”  Roy rolled his eyes.  “By the way, warn a guy next time before you throw in a diversion, will you?  I almost shi—I mean, I almost had a heart attack when you hit the tornado sirens.  I thought that Code Amber lockdown at the hospital when I was stealing Oliver’s blood sample was bad.  Come to think, you didn’t warn me when you did that, either.”  He leaned against the lab table, shaking his head in disbelief.  “I still can’t believe I didn’t figure out that was you in the hospital, even with Oliver’s voice filter.  Like Oliver would ever notice a pop song, much less talk about how much he liked it.  Better hope you never really have to disguise yourself.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”  She locked away the key card.  “The tornado siren didn’t activate the sprinklers like the fire alarm system would have, and it cleared everyone out so you could get the records, didn’t it?  Don’t argue with results.”

“Hey.  Two people I don’t argue with.  You and Thea.  I know when I’m beat before I start.”  He stopped, peering over her shoulder as her computers began beeping an alert.  “Hey, is that a facial recognition scan?  Who’re you scanning?”

“It’s nothing.”  Quickly, she spun around to cut off the alert signal and minimize the screens before he could get a closer look.  “Just...my...date tonight.”

Roy eyed her askance, eyebrows raised.  “You ran a facial recognition scan on your date?”

“I didn’t...really mean to...I mean, it wasn’t like that.”  Felicity felt her face heat. “I had a few minutes to kill while I was waiting on him and I thought I’d beta test the facial recognition app I wrote for Barry to use in the field.  I’m double checking the results, is all.”  She had faith in her app and all the other signs had pointed to yes, but given the result, a double check had definitely been in order.

“Isn’t that going a little overboard?” Roy shook his head. “Damn, what do you do after a coffee date, get a DNA swab from his cup?”

Flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, Felicity glared up at him.  “Hey, beta test aside, it was still smart.  If you’d ever had a 200 pound lacrosse player doing his version of Occupy MIT on your doorstep, you’d be careful, too. Of course, I should have known he had something wrong with him.  Anyone that attached to a big stick has to have compensation issues.”

Roy winced.  “Don’t need to tell me, thanks.  Really, really didn’t need to tell me that.”

“Educated guess only, not observation, Harper.”

“Facial recognition scan.”  Roy shook his head again.  “Glad Thea didn’t talk to you before we started dating.”

“Yeah, well, Thea already knew about your sordid criminal past, so that point would have been moot, wouldn’t it?”

“She thought it was hot,” Roy informed her smugly.

“Great.  Now I need the brain bleach.”

“Turn about’s fair play.”  Roy sobered. “Hey, this guy’s okay, right?  Nothing wrong with him or anything?  I mean...who is he?”

She twirled her chair around to face him again, arms crossed.  “You know, it’s close to closing time for Verdant. Don’t you need to go hulk around and look threatening and bouncer-y for a while?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the message.”  Roy grinned briefly as he levered himself to his feet.  “Hey.  Felicity?”

She stopped, caught by the serious note in his voice.  “What?”

“I really am sorry about your date.”

He looked so contrite, she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.  “Don’t worry about it.  We're going out tomorrow.”

“Good.  Still, thanks for being there.”

The last of her irritation melted.  “Hey.  Team Arrow and Detective Lance?  Of course I’m there.  Not even premium quality male on the hoof would keep me away.”

“Yeah.  Well.”  Roy stuffed his fists into the pockets of his hoodie, his jaw set.  “Oliver hasn’t asked me to do much of anything since we blew up the earthquake machine we got at Merlyn’s place.  I was starting to think he didn’t trust me.  I knew I wouldn’t screw it up if I had you there for backup.  I guess that’s kind of selfish, though.”

“Not a problem, Roy.  Really.”  She shook her head again, mentally damning Daily and Cyrus Gold, plus whoever had brewed up the Mirakuru in the first place.  At least Daily and Gold were dead, so they didn’t have to worry about that anymore.  “You know Oliver trusts you.  We all do.”

Roy shrugged, an overgrown kid again.  “Glad you guys do.”  His brief smile didn’t erase the air of tension that had become a constant part of him since he’d been injected with the Mirakuru.  “Can’t say I always trust myself, some days.  But one thing I do know is that I don’t want to let him down.  Or Thea.”

“You’re not going to.  We’ll figure out what to do eventually.”  Not that the chances looked that good since the cure S.T.A.R. Labs had put together on Oliver’s instructions hadn’t worked.  Quickly, she changed the subject to distract him.  “So.  Roy.  You’ve ridden motorcycles before.  What am I supposed to wear to ride one?”

He looked blank.  “Clothes, I guess.  Why’re you asking me?  Why don’t you ask Sara?”

“You’re right.  Stupid question to ask a guy who’s skin-bonded to a hoodie.”

He grinned and jogged up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

When she heard the locks engage, Felicity took a deep breath, turned her chair back to her computer and brought up the images for her scan.

The moment of truth.

She exhaled slowly as she looked between the monitors.  One showed a picture she’d taken of Steve as he was standing in line at Molly Moon’s.  A second showed the graphs of her facial recognition system and two square-jawed, straight-faced ID photo headshots of Steve: one black and white, grainy with age, in which he wore a World War II Army uniform and one in color, in which he wore a dark blue uniform she didn’t recognize.  Other than the quality of the pictures and the different uniforms, his appearance had changed so little the pictures could have been taken on the same day.

A little disconcerting, given that the first was over seventy years old.

The words across the second monitor blinked off and on, traffic signal red.

Facial recognition match 100%.

No question about it, not that she’d thought there was.  Her date for the evening had been Steve Rogers, aka Captain America.

Sighing, Felicity flopped back in her chair and stared up at the steel ceiling beams.  There was only so much coincidence she could accept.  Her boss turning out to be a vigilante?  Check.  The one guy she’d semi-dated in two years getting struck by lightning, gaining superpowers and then becoming a vigilante also?  Check.  Just happening to run into Superhero Bachelor behind Door #4 at a speed date?  That was too much to be mere coincidence.

All big, blinking Vegas Strip signs pointed to setup -- or they would if she didn't know what dedicated fanboys Barry and Cisco both were.   One of the two of them would have leaked something if they’d gotten to work with Captain America on anything.  Plus, as far as Felicity knew, there’d never been any S.H.I.E.L.D. –related problems in Central City which had required an Avenger’s assistance.  

Most of all, though, she believed Steve. Not only did he strike her as being unusually sincere, but he was a terrible liar. He'd looked like an overgrown kid about to get his hand smacked when he'd told her what he did for a living, though the answer was completely true and if anything, overly modest.  When he'd said he wouldn't agree to be involved in one of Team Flash's well-meaning schemes -- that had been granite-solid truth. She could have physically bounced off the force with which he’d said it. Therefore, if she’d been set up, so had he.  But if he didn't know Barry, who could have done it? Not Iris and Caitlin. Who would be helping them, and why?

Since Steve had turned out to be someone she would have wanted to date, anyway, she couldn’t object to the result...much.  She pushed away the small part of her that wondered what Oliver’s reaction would be.  Not that she flattered herself to think he’d care who she dated, but he definitely wasn’t going to be happy about Steve’s presence in town.  Well, she hadn’t told Roy and she wasn’t going to tell anyone else.  It was just one date, after all.  Time enough to deal with Oliver’s imploding if it turned out to be more.  Not that it was his or anyone else’s business, anyway.  

But the setup angle was still a mystery, and that meant she wanted it solved.

It was almost midnight, though.  Far too late to call Steve, which meant she was going to have to wait to see what it was he’d said he wanted to discuss with her.  Given the result of her scan, she thought she could guess.  It would certainly help if he’d let her know whether he intended his identity to be public knowledge, though.  And of course, nobody on Team Flash was answering her texts or calls to answer her other question.

Complications. Always complications around hero-types, damn it.

“Go figure,” she said under her breath.

“Talking to yourself?”

Quickly, Felicity minimized the screens again as Sara approached.  “What are you doing here?  I thought you were with Oliver at Mrs. Queen’s fundraiser...thing.”

“I escaped a couple of hours ago.”  Sara didn’t look at all repentant.  “Verdant needed the bartender and Ollie’s better at that kind of thing than I am, anyway. And Moira's okay, but she's well...you know. A little goes a long way, especially given the Cold War between her and Ollie right now.”

Felicity shifted in her chair, her pride squirming at the memory of Moira’s contemptuous, pitying stare and her cultured alto saying, I see the way you look at him.  “No, those things aren’t a lot of fun. Which may be the understatement of the year.”

“Yeah,” Sara agreed.  “Anyway, I...thought I’d come down and pass on a message from Dad.  He said thanks and apologized for the late notice. He’s kind of in a bind.  When they demoted him, he lost access to some secured areas, and with his partner killed, he doesn’t have anyone he trusts to ask.”

“I thought Daily was the only bad seed in the police department.  The officer Laurel shot, the one who attacked her and Oliver,” she added, seeing from Sara’s expression that she wasn’t placing the name.

“Oh.  Him.”  Sara sighed.  “Dad says Daily’s the one they caught.  He says there’s a big rotten spot in the SCPD.  He’s trying to work around it as best he can.  Speaking of which, he says he might have something for you to look into in the next couple of days, too, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll help him any time.  And tell him no apology needed.”  Felicity swallowed a familiar feeling of wistfulness.  “You’re really lucky to have such a good dad.”

Sara smiled, dimples flashing.  “Yeah.  I am.  I’ll tell him.  He thinks a lot of you, too.”

“Guess it comes from disarming an earthquake machine together.  Kind of creates a bond.”

“Yeah.  I guess it would.”  Sara shifted uncomfortably.  Felicity got the impression the other woman was trying to reach out as best she could, but was having a hard time doing it. “So...Roy mentioned you were doing a speed date thing tonight.  How’d it go?”

“In twenty minutes, I had a guy claim he was a walking Viagra ad, another who dropped the world’s lamest line on me and a guy who’s now a real lamer due to a stabbed instep.  And one really good prospect.  It ended well, even if it did kind of start out full of suck.”

She didn’t think she imagined the flash of relief on Sara’s face.  Had the situation in the Cave been as uncomfortable for Sara as it had been for Felicity?  She hadn’t thought anything short of a Lance family dinner could make the Canary feel that way.  Maybe she’d been wrong.  Well, she’d wanted the dynamic in the Cave to change, hadn’t she?  She’d already taken one step tonight towards the changes she wanted in her life.  Might as well try another and see what she could do to improve relations with Sara.

“Mind if I ask you for some advice?  I was asked to go motorcycle riding.  I’ve never been, so I don’t know what to wear or anything.”

“Sure.”  Sara looked surprised but also, Felicity thought, pleased. “When are you guys going?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’ll like it.”  Sara grinned wickedly.  “It’s like sex.  Move with your partner, hold on tight and enjoy the ride.”

Just what she needed to think about the next time the Arrow and the Canary rode out together.  But Felicity could tell Sara meant well, so she forced herself to smile and ignore the pang the thought caused.  “So you know, I’m not going to keep that in mind.  If I do, it’ll escape my mouth filter at the worst possible time.”

Sara laughed.  “You know me.  I’m all about the helpful advice.”  She paused.  “Speaking of helpful advice...I’ve got to finish getting the bar in order upstairs. Why don’t you come upstairs and have a drink?  I’ve got a spare pair of gloves I can lend you.  We can talk over what you’ve got and I’ll help you figure out what’s safe to wear.”

Felicity took a deep breath, feeling better than she had for weeks.  A step towards getting her life back and a step towards making the team dynamic one she was more comfortable with, too, all in one day.  Definitely a good start.

“I’ll be right up,” she said.

Chapter Text

The clock on Felicity’s desk clicked closer to 3:00. If Steve was going to show up, he’d be here any minute. And there Dig was, not downstairs waiting for Oliver to come out of his meeting, but parked in the outer office with her.

While it could be coincidence, she was starting to get a really, really bad feeling that it wasn't.

“Dig, is there some reason you’ve been holding up the lobby wall all afternoon?”

“Yep.” Dig turned a page of his magazine. “Never know when the building might collapse.”

Felicity sighed in equal parts affection and exasperation. “You know, the only reason you’re not the worst liar I know is that I also know Oliver.”

“Might also be that someone mentioned you were going out with a new boyfriend on his motorcycle.” Although Dig’s voice was carefully neutral, Felicity got the impression his mental image was more that of a Hell’s Angel on a Harley than of Oliver on his Ducati.

“Sara.” Felicity wanted to hit her forehead against the desk.  Although she’d made Sara promise not to mention anything to Oliver, she hadn’t thought to include Dig.  As protective as the Canary was of women in general and of the team in particular, it wasn’t surprising she’d gotten Dig to do an extra safety check. “But I didn’t tell her where I was meeting him.”

“Might also have been that when you asked for a ride this morning, I figured you’d be meeting him here.” Dig eyed her over his magazine. “I agreed with Sara that if you were going off to some deserted area with a near-stranger, I should at least get a visual on him. Never hurts to be careful.”

“I’m meeting him here instead of at my house, where I’d be alone. It’s a public place, even if neither you nor Oliver were supposed to be here. Besides, who does the background work for you people? Believe me. He checks out.” She’d tried to go to sleep early the night before, but her mind had refused to cooperate. Instead, she’d succumbed to temptation and Google and ended up getting so caught up in the wealth of old articles and newsreels about Steve that she’d stayed up well into the night.

Not that her efforts had netted her much. Enough information was out there about Captain America to fill a server’s storage to capacity, but she’d found only a few bare-bones facts about Steve Rogers himself. She wasn't about to hack S.H.I.E.L.D. for more, but she had gone past Google and into TOR to see what she could mine out of the deep web. Even that hadn’t produced much more than a couple of census records, the type she could probably have found if she’d just hit Ancestry.com. One of the byproducts of being from a time before the Information Age, she supposed, but still frustrating. Who was this guy when he wasn’t bashing things around with a shield?

“Good. Then he’ll check out with me, too.” Dig turned another page, an immovable object in business dress.

Felicity tried to curb her anxiety. While she was fully capable of taking care of herself, she usually appreciated Dig’s protective streak. Her father had been the last person in her life to care about her safety, and he’d abandoned Felicity and her mother when Felicity was still a child.

The suspicious older brother with the shotgun routine, however, she could do without, especially when it meant risking Oliver-level interference. She could at least trust Dig to be polite. Not so Oliver. After he’d nearly ruined her one and only date with Barry, she wasn’t about to give him a second chance.

“Dig, if you’re not outside of that meeting waiting for Oliver, you know he’ll come upstairs to look for you. All I want is to be gone before Oliver gets here. Fair?”

“I’ll just meet him, and I’ll be gone like a cool breeze,” Dig promised. Putting the magazine aside, he folded his arms across his chest. “Unless there’s some reason you don’t want me to meet this person, Felicity?”

She shot him her best don’t be an idiot look. “Of course not.”

“Is there some problem with him?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a problem,” she hedged. “There’s a small...identity issue, that’s all. It’s...complicated.” Ugh, now they'd gotten her using that phrase.

“Really.” Dig made it a one-word masterpiece of skepticism.

“He said he had something to discuss with me and he'd call me, but when he did, I couldn't talk. He called at a really bad time. As in, I was creating distractions in the SCPD for Roy so he could steal records for Officer Lance kind of bad time.” The incongruity still made her shake her head in disbelief. “And there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

“Probably no more unbelievable than Roy’s risking his neck doing favors for the guy who’s got the record for arresting him the most times.” Dig carefully leaned against the corner of her desk. “Times and people change. Speaking of which...”

Felicity crossed her arms and leaned back in her Aeron chair. She knew that tone of voice. “Oliver asked you to play Dr. Phil again, didn’t he?”

“Look, I know things have been kind of rough around the foundry lately. Even Oliver’s noticed, and you know what that takes.”

“A two by four to the back of the head? One studded with a few nails to push the point home?”

“Maybe not quite that much.” The corner of Dig’s mouth kicked up a little. “I told him he should talk to you if he was bothered. He says he’s asked you a few times if there was anything you wanted to talk about with him, and you’ve said no.”

“That would be because the answer’s no.” Which was accurate; she still cringed at her painkiller-induced admission about wanting to be his girl. Not so much what she’d tried to say, but how she’d ended up saying it. At least Oliver hadn’t brought that up with her. Although it could have been worse. She could have wailed why don’t you like me anymore? like a schoolgirl whose bestie had stopped wanting to sit with her at lunch.

“Felicity.” Dig stared at her until she sighed and looked back up at him. “I believe you when you say the problem’s not Sara and Oliver being together. I get being uneasy with new dynamics. Happens all the time when you get personnel changes on an ops team. I’m even glad you’re taking some steps to get out. You need to work on getting more of a life outside of the night work.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“But –“

“And, there it is.”

He paused, as if choosing over his words. “I want you to be careful, that’s all. Sara mentioned you’d met a rough character or two last night. Don’t do anything you’d regret on the rebound. I mean, first, there was Barry –“

Just as well she wasn’t standing, Felicity thought. She wasn’t certain she could have suppressed the urge to kick herself. She'd thought the Canary would appreciate that she'd lamed a lamer, not thinking of any assumptions Sara might have made as a result.

“They weren’t rough. One was a jerk. I handled him. And Barry wasn’t a problem. I admit, what happened wasn’t exactly what I expected –” he raised his eyebrow, but she forged on, ignoring it, “—but he’d known Iris for years. I even helped Caitlin get them together. The cartoon hearts circling Barry’s head every time he looked at her were ridiculous, and he was too shy to say anything.”

“And then there’s whatever is bothering you about Oliver,” Dig finished. “You can’t say you’re not at least upset at him about something.”

“Again, not rebounding. More like...trying to find a new equilibrium.” She shook her head. “I guess I thought we were closer than he thinks we are. And he just...changed. He’s pulled back, and I don’t know why. I’m not sure what’s bothering him, but I’m not the only one not communicating here. So take it up with him.”

“I give.” Dig shook his head in weary resignation. “So, who is the mystery man, anyway?”

Felicity fidgeted, not certain how to respond.  She was almost positive the ‘something’ Steve had wanted to discuss was the fact he was Captain America, but until she knew for certain, she wanted to respect his privacy. Still, she didn't want to outright lie to Dig, either.  If this keeps up, I'm going to need a score card to remember what I can tell people.

“Actually, I don’t know how to introduce him. I mean. I know his name, obviously. I don't know if I should say the rest or not. I don't think he knows I figured out who he is. What I don’t know is if he didn’t tell me everything because he was trying to do some kind of secret identity thing or if he had some other reason. I think you might know him, though, since you were in the Army. I mean, not that you know him, know him, obviously, or I wouldn’t have to introduce him. But know about him, anyway.”

Digg rubbed at a spot between his eyes. “Pretend none of that gave me a migraine and start over. What’s his name?”

“Steve Rogers.”

Both she and Dig looked to the doorway. Steve all but filled the area by the opened glass door, his hair wind-ruffled, thumbs hooked into the pockets of well-pressed khakis. After a polite nod to Dig, he ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, chagrined.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you last–“ he began, as she said, “I figured you were going to—“

They broke off, both laughing a little self-consciously, caught in an exchange of glances that lasted just long enough to start excitement fizzing inside her. Bouncing to her feet, she snagged her bag from the back of her chair and started to him, only to be brought short by Dig’s cough. She stopped, little embarrassed that she’d forgotten he was there, even momentarily.

“Steve, this is –“

Her jaw almost went slack as she saw Dig was grinning like a kid. She’d never seen Dig drop so much of his usual dignified reserve.

“Sergeant John Diggle.” Dig snapped Steve a salute. “It’s an honor to meet you, Captain. My grandfather was one of your Howling Commandos. Gabe Jones.”

Straightening, Steve returned it just as crisply, his leather jacket creaking with the movement. “I’ll be a son of...the honor’s mine, Sergeant.”

“John. Or Dig, as they call me around here.” He and Dig exchanged a quick double-pump handshake.

“Steve.”

If she’d thought Steve’s usual smile changed him, it was nothing compared to how his face lit at Dig’s words. Even his demeanor changed subtly, becoming more relaxed and self-assured, as if he was finally on familiar ground. Felicity was glad now she’d spent so much time reading about him; this was the confident, affable hero she’d seen in the newsreels.

Had she not seen those images, she never would have suspected how much he’d managed to conceal under that polite, pleasant manner. Anyone else she’d ever met would have poured out everything to a sympathetic ear. Instead, he’d smiled and even laughed and listened to her babble about ice cream, of all stupid things, as if his world had never been ripped out from under him.

“I thought Trip was telling stories when he said how little you’d changed from Grandpa’s photos,” Dig said. “My cousin, Antoine Triplett. He’s working ops in S.H.I.E.L.D., up with Agent Garrett. Said he got to meet you briefly in New York, after the invasion.”

“I don’t remember anyone I met saying anything about Gabe,” Steve began.

“Ah, Trip wouldn’t have mentioned it if anyone else was around. Doesn’t like the thought of getting special treatment because he’s a legacy. Can’t blame him, that’s one reason my brother Andy and I went Army. But the main reason we all three went into service was all the stories Grandpa told about you and his time in the Commandos. Got to admit, though, we were never sure if half of what he claimed happened was true. Grandpa was a little fonder of a good sounding story than strict truth.”

Steve laughed. “He usually told the truth about combat, at least in front of us. He usually saved the exaggeration for, ah...other stories.” He glanced at Felicity and cleared his throat politely, the implication clear that those stories weren’t for mixed company, at least not by his standards. “People gave me credit for taking down the Skull’s plane, but fact is, Gabe’s the one who took down HYDRA’s contact, Zola. Without Zola, we wouldn’t have gotten the information we needed to find HYDRA’s last base and stop the bombing.”

Felicity glanced uneasily at the clock and tried not to fidget.  She didn’t want to interrupt the two men, not when Steve, in particular, was enjoying himself, but Oliver was going to be out of that meeting any minute. 

Gone like a cool breeze?  Yeah, right.  She was going to throttle  Dig if –

Out in the lobby, the elevator dinged. Felicity held her breath. Not Oliver. Please, not Oliver. Let it be anyone, even Isabel, just not –

Then, behind her, the voice she least wanted to hear.

“Dig? Let’s get out of here.”

She closed her eyes and mentally cursed.

~*~

As usual with anything involving Isabel Rochev, the meeting had been only slightly less painful than actual physical torture, a comparison which Oliver unfortunately knew from first-hand experience to be accurate. He’d never felt comfortable in his role as QC’s CEO, and Isabel was determined to subtly undermine him in every way she could. If it hadn’t been for Felicity’s help, he knew he would have sunk long ago.

Home was no refuge, either; his mother, once the family bedrock, was no longer someone he could trust. Nor could he look at Thea without feeling the weight of his mother’s secret dragging at him.

An additional layer of foulness lacquered over his mood when he found Dig wasn’t there to meet him outside the conference room, as he usually was. The only thing Oliver wanted to do was to get to the foundry and beat something inanimate for a few hours until he burned away the stress.

His work as the Arrow was the one solid, uncomplicated piece of his life anymore. He might be drowning at QC, his home life might be shot, but at least he was keeping the promise he’d made to himself to protect Starling City and the promises he’d made to himself to protect the rest of the team and Thea. It had become harder and harder to drag himself in to QC at all, especially when he could spend longer hours at night cleaning up the city and using the days for sleep and for Sara. As the Arrow, at least, he was making a difference for the better.

When he stepped out of the elevator, he heard the deep rumble of Dig’s voice coming from Felicity’s office. As he approached, he saw Felicity wearing jeans of all thing – he hadn’t even known she had a pair of jeans – standing next to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a brown leather motorcycle jacket who was talking to Dig. Meanwhile, Dig looked like a kid who’d been told Christmas was coming two months early and all his favorite sports heroes would be at Christmas dinner, to boot. Oliver frowned. Who was this guy?

“Dig?” he called. “Let’s get out of here.”

Then the man standing beside Felicity turned to face him, and Oliver froze.

Fuck. I should have known there was another way for everything to go to hell.

~*~

Felicity turned, pasting on a bright smile as Oliver strode in. He spared her a brief, curious glance, then turned his attention to Steve. Though his expression only shifted from puzzled to blandly polite, he didn’t so much stop as freeze, a predator checking out a competitor on his turf before deciding a plan of attack. From the tension rolling off him, Felicity suspected he was holding back Angry Face with an effort. Tough. She sighed and gave in to the inevitable.

“Steve, this is my boss, Oliver Queen. Oliver, Steve Rogers. We were just leaving. As in, now.”

Oliver extended his hand in best prep school fashion and shook Steve’s. Steve nodded cordially, the gesture as crisp and militarily professional as the salute he’d given Dig. If Oliver had tried the crushing grip technique, he gave no sign. She wondered if Oliver had actually had the sense not to try or if he had and Steve hadn’t noticed or was too polite to comment. Oliver turned his attention back to her, smiling as insincerely as an approaching barracuda trying not to scare off its lunch.

“Can I...talk to you a moment, Felicity?”

Felicity glared at Dig, who had the grace to look abashed. She touched Steve’s hand apologetically and tried not to shatter her teeth gritting them as Oliver took her arm to guide her into the office. What was so important that it couldn’t wait?

~*~

Oliver had guided her by the elbow or arm a hundred times before and never thought a thing about it. He didn’t now until she scowled. Since she didn’t pull away, he didn’t think she was doing it because he was touching her, but rather, because she didn’t want to talk just now. Too bad. He didn’t want to, either, and really not about this, not in front of Rogers, but he didn’t have a choice.

Worse, though Rogers resumed his conversation with Dig, Oliver noticed the other man’s jaw tense as he took in Felicity’s reaction. Well-intentioned though his concern was, in Oliver’s current mood, it was still one judgmental jaw he wouldn’t mind finding a way to break.

He drew Felicity back behind his desk, annoyed afresh that he had to half tow her. It didn’t help that he could feel Rogers’ eyes on him the whole time. He didn’t dare not bring her back as far as he could, though. For all he knew, that super serum had given the guy the kind of hearing that could hear silent dog whistles or some other equally improved and annoying sensory ability. Just in case lip reading was also one of Rogers’ talents, he maneuvered them so Rogers couldn’t see them talking. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“You want to tell me what Captain Amazing is doing in my office?”

Felicity’s eyes narrowed. “It’s America –” she hissed, stabbing at his chest with her index finger, “—not Amazing. He’s here to pick me up for a date. Not that it’s your business.”

Deep breath. Keep on smiling. “Calm down, would you? I got that part, but I’ll ask nicely. What the hell is Captain America doing in my city?”

“Your city?”

“You know what I mean. The Arrow’s city. He’s S.H.I.E.L.D., Felicity. Hell, he’s why it’s named S.H.I.E.L.D. What the hell is he here for?”

She looked blank. “Why should it matter?  I asked already.  He’s not working in Starling City, just living here for a home base.  He’s been here six weeks.  If he was doing something more, don’t you think we would have noticed by now?”

He considered explaining, mentally measured how far away Rogers was and calculated the odds on what he could hear, and thought better of it.  “It matters. I can’t tell you now, but it does. You have to trust me.”

She stared up at him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you ask him for details, if you’re so curious?”

He caught Rogers’ quizzical glance in their direction. He mustered up something which felt slightly more like smile than snarl and spoke between his teeth. “Because it’s not exactly a question Oliver Queen, CEO, would have for him, now, is it?”

“But it’s a question you want Felicity Smoak, erstwhile executive assistant, to ask for you.”

He nodded, still holding onto his semi-smile. “That would be correct.”

He groaned inwardly at her answering smile, sweet as poison. The last time he’d seen that particular expression was after he’d dropped the bombshell about changing her job, when she’d asked him if he wanted coffee and he, like an idiot, hadn’t immediately responded with no, of course not, never, wouldn’t consider it, thought never crossed my mind.

He still hadn’t heard the end about the damn coffee, either.

“You want me to warn him to take out a vigilante hunting license, too? Make sure he doesn’t bag the Arrow’s criminal limit for the night before you get a chance to hunt?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said automatically, and mentally kicked himself. I’m not going to hear the end about this, either, am I?

“I can’t be,” she snapped. “I think you have the market cornered on ridiculous right now. Also, you’re working on a majority interest of paranoid. And I am making my date wait, thanks to you.”

“Felicity.” He grabbed her arm. She glared up at him. He spoke quietly, but with all the force he could muster. “There are issues at work here you don’t know about, and for that, I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. I’ll only tell you it means the safety of a mutual friend I’ve promised to protect.”

“And you complained I don’t communicate.”

He closed his eyes briefly, forced himself to keep his voice low. “Felicity, like it or not, you’re a target because of...the night work.” Because of the Arrow. “People may say Rogers is Mr. All America and a bag of chips, but the man still works for one of the two biggest covert organizations in the world. That’s where his loyalty is.”

“So you’re basically telling me you think the only reason he’s asked me out is so he can chat me up to try to get information on you.” Her voice was flat.

“I’m saying if he’s here in Starling City, it’s for a reason, and it’s not for his health or the seafood or the commute, no matter what he might have told you. There’s no such thing as a coincidence where S.H.I.E.L.D. is concerned. I’m not...necessarily...saying that’s why he’s with you, just saying, be careful what you say to him, just in case,” he said. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t when he saw her eyes darken with hurt and anger. “Look. I’m telling you this because you’re my partner. I don’t want you used because of that connection. I don’t want you hurt and I don’t want other people hurt. I promised when you came on board I’d protect you. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

“Congratulations, Oliver. You’re two for two. Shades of Barry.” She jerked her arm from his grasp. “You’re even pushing the same buttons, aren’t you? And boy, what a loser Barry turned out to be. Saved your life, made you a mask, helped solve your mystery, all at the expense of almost losing his job. Really, I don’t know how we ever survived that kind of threat.”

“Damn it, Felicity, I know I was wrong about Barry, but this isn’t the same –“

“Good NIGHT, Oliver.” Great. Loud Voice. The muted buzz of conversation between Dig and Rogers ceased. “I know this is going to really cramp your world view, but why don’t you take a few hours to consider the tiny possibility that not everything is about you?” She stomped away, then turned on her heel, holding up her phone. “Also?” She flicked a finger over the surface, turning it off. “Don’t call. Dig and Sara can handle the plans you originally had for tonight, and you know it.”

Oliver ground his teeth. Dig was trying to keep from laughing and looked stuffed instead. Rogers...was less amused. Oliver, as another trained fighter, caught the subtle shift in stance from casual to combat ready as the other man glanced from Felicity’s angry, hurt expression to Oliver.

“Is there a problem?”

A polite demand for information, but still a demand, nonetheless. The note of authority grated on Oliver’s nerves, not to mention the lack of a Mr. Queen or even acknowledgement as an equal. As if Rogers were addressing a soldier under his command who was out of line, not the CEO of an international corporation who could buy and sell his star-spangled ass a million times over. The steely, implacable look Rogers drilled him with didn’t help, either. A not so subtle signal of I don’t give a damn who you are, disrespect the lady, and I’ll make sure you regret it, son.

The misplaced chivalry raised Oliver’s hackles. Felicity wasn’t Rogers’ responsibility, damn it. She was Oliver’s. Just like Roy was, just like Sara and Dig and Thea. He’d promised them his protection. And Oliver Queen wasn’t going to fall back into the trap of making promises he couldn’t keep to his friends , no matter who he had to go toe to toe with in order to keep his word.

The effort of not meeting the unspoken challenge was tremendous. The Oliver of Lian Yu would have met it, as a competing predator in the same territory. Survival of the fittest. As the Arrow, he would have met it as a threat to the people to whom he’d promised to protect. Felicity. Roy. Dig. Sara.

But Oliver Queen, CEO, the rich man’s Lindsay Lohan, wouldn’t recognize that kind of threat level.  Automatically, he flexed his fingers, thinking of the texture of his bowstring, drawing on the feeling of calm and focus the bow brought to him.  Rogers glanced down, taking it in, a faint, puzzled frown drawing his brows together as if he were trying to remember something.  Quickly, Oliver forced his muscles loose as cotton and pasted on the inane playboy smile that had gotten him through hundreds of social moments.

“Of course not. Sorry to have kept you two.”

Felicity icepicked him with a last glare and stalked out, not fazed by either of them, which annoyed Oliver still more. Grabbing Rogers by the hand, she all but dragged him out of the lobby.

He glared at Dig, who was calmly unwrapping a mint. The older man popped the mint into his mouth and crunched it down, unconcerned.

“Well,” he observed drily, “Glad to see the two of you are finally talking.”

Chapter Text

The executive elevator opened the moment Felicity hit the call button, which she first took as a good sign. Compared to the thought of being anywhere near Oliver, even the prospect of hiking down sixty floors of stairs while wearing toe-pinching boots didn't sound half bad.

What she hadn’t counted on was the silence: thick, choking silence. Once she and Steve stepped into the car, he took up a post on one side while she stood on the other, staring up at the floor indicator while frantically trying to remember any of the dozen things she’d looked forward to discussing with him. Anything to break the stifling quiet while the elevator slid down to the ground floor with its usual glacial slowness. Yet her clash with Oliver had rattled her concentration and inside she was a roiling mess of anger, hurt and disappointment.

There she’d been, ready to go on her date with Steve, excited by the flash of chemistry she'd felt between them and anticipating a night spent doing something fun and different with an attractive man who’d asked her out, for a change. Taking the first step towards getting part of her own life back by having an evening that didn’t involve chasing bad guys and hiding out in the basement of a bar.

Less than five minutes with Oliver and her excitement was gone like helium from a punctured balloon. She was as furious at him for spoiling that wonderful, happy lightness as much as she was for his insinuations about why Steve had asked her out in the first place.

She knew Oliver well enough to understand he hadn’t done anything on purpose. He wouldn't have processed the layer of insult in what he’d said any more than he would have deliberately tried to spoil her good time. He wasn’t cruel; he just didn’t think. She doubted he had a clue he’d even caused a problem because, as usual, he was viewing everything through Arrow-centric tunnel vision. What had happened was no different from when they’d brought him back from Lian Yu and he’d failed to see how any mention of Carly made Dig flinch. She’d had to all but yell the obvious in Oliver’s face before he’d noticed, and then he’d been stunned. For a man with his level of situational awareness, there was a lot he missed.

Blind spot, she thought wryly. Oliver had admitted he'd had one where Laurel was concerned but Felicity was starting to think he had one for every woman in his life, including herself. He’d have to, if he thought she’d be dumb enough not to see through someone who was trying to romance information out of her.

Understanding Oliver, however, didn’t mean she was inclined to forgive him yet. With any luck Dig would hit him with a clue-by-four on her behalf.

“Sorry about dragging you away like that,” she blurted out at last, the silence too much for her. “I could have at least given you a chance to say goodbye to Dig.”

Smiling slightly, Steve glanced down at her. A hint of Brooklyn underscored the dry humor in his tone. “Yeah, I was powerless to resist.”

In spite of everything, laughter bubbled up, easing away the worst of her tension. Right. She was apologizing for manhandling Captain America. Yeah, that made sense. The top of her head barely reached his chin and he could probably bench press a truck one handed. Talk about being threat level zero as far as he was concerned.

“Yeah, no, guess that’s not happening. Sorry. I keep forgetting that you’re, you know. You.” Ugh. Brilliant, Felicity. “As in, Captain America kind of you.”

“Yeah. About that.” Sobering, he straightened to attention, shoulders square and rigid beneath his brown leather jacket. “I’m sorry. I should’ve just told you when you asked last night. First date I’d been on in...a while. Got the jitters, I guess. Couldn’t think of a way to say it that didn’t sound like bragging. I wasn’t trying to lie to you, though.”

“You didn’t lie,” she said, surprised at how bothered he was. Compared to the level of lies Oliver and even Barry dished out on a daily basis to cover their secret identities, Steve’s vague truth was nothing. “You do work for the government," she pointed out, trying to ease his guilt. "If a superhero isn’t a specialist, I don’t know who is. And you definitely deal with unusual problems. Besides, it’s not like I couldn’t figure it out on my own. I didn’t know the Captain America part of it when I asked you out, but I knew by the time you’d come back with the ice cream. I’m blonde, but I’m not that blonde.”

Some of the stiffness eased from his posture. “Yeah, I thought you’d seen me autographing the shield for that lady. Never have figured why anyone would want my scribble on something, but she said it was for her son’s birthday, and I don’t like to let a kid down.”

Autograph? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask What autograph?, but then she’d have to tell him how she’d really figured it out. She couldn’t tell him that without sounding paranoid or worse, opening a barrel of questions about her night work she couldn’t yet answer. She rushed on, hoping to cover her second of confusion.

“Anyway, I thought you wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to go all rabid fangirl and ‘grr’ on you, or you were trying to be a real person for the evening. Either way, you’d tell me when you were ready.” She caught herself. “Not that you aren’t...always...a real person.”

“Thanks. I think.” Amusement shifted to concern. “Sounded like your boss had issues with me, though. You’re not in trouble or anything, are you? Looked like you had it handled, but I’d be glad to take it up with him, if you need me to.”

Sounded like? Her pulse skipped a beat as she mentally scrolled back through her conversion with Oliver. Anyone with an IQ higher than plant life who’d heard all of what they’d said could figure out Oliver was the Arrow, and Steve was definitely not someone with the brains of a begonia. But if he had heard very much, she reasoned, he’d be angry or he’d be asking more questions.

“Oh, no. Welcome to Oliver being Oliver and assuming things he shouldn’t. Stopping to be logical would slow the quantum leaps he likes to make to conclusions. But thanks.” Relief washed over her in a warm flood. Not until that moment had she realized how much of her disappointment was because she was afraid Steve would leave as Barry had. Instead, he’d backed her and wanted to be with her enough to stand up for her.

That felt...wonderful.

“Hey, you saved me from dates worse than death last night. Least I could do for you.”

“I’m just glad he didn’t scare you off,” she said before she thought. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, with Oliver.”

“Yeah, I don’t scare easy.” He hesitated. “But...so we’re clear...I’m not stepping on anything with you two, am I? I don’t want to make time with another fella’s girl.”

“No. No. I told you yesterday, there’s nothing between me and Oliver.”

“Good. Wanted to make sure you had room for me on your dance card, is all.”

Beneath the joking, she caught a ring of uncertainty. She couldn’t imagine why he’d think a woman wouldn’t want go out with him, but the tone, the look behind the eyes; after all her own dating disasters, she knew those from the inside out. She could feel the emergency brake on her mouth slipping as her brain struggled to come up with some way to reassure him and to let him know she understood.

“I don’t have a dance card. I don’t think they use those any more. But if I did have one, you’d be on it. I mean, you don’t have any competition to worry about.” She bit her lip hard enough to sting, mentally counting down until the emergency brake locked back into place and she could be certain she wasn’t going to blurt out an embarrassing commentary of her last three years of dating non-action as well. “Yes. Definitely. There’s room.”

His smile deepened around his eyes. Understanding in turn, not laughing at her. And to Felicity’s surprise, it was back: the clutch of anticipation in her chest, the snap and zing of attraction and possibility and promise.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Sign me up.”

~*~

“You are dead serious, aren’t you?” Dig straightened from the doorframe of Oliver’s office, staring at him in disbelief. “You really want me to investigate Captain America?”

Oliver dumped a pile of papers from Isabel’s meeting into the trashcan without bothering to read them first. Normally, he would have given them to Felicity to make sense of, but most of Isabel’s paperwork ended up as garbage anyway. Might as well give it a head start.

“Couldn’t be deader if my heart stopped beating, Dig.”

Taking a deep breath, Dig folded his arms across his chest, his face smooth and unreadable. Only the tightness around his mouth betrayed anger simmering beneath the crust of control.

“You know, I didn’t mind looking into Barry Allen for you. I thought he knew too much and his story was fishy, even if he is a nice kid. But what the hell has Steve Rogers done besides ask Felicity out?”

“He’s in the Arrow’s territory. He’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. representative in the Arrow’s territory,” said Oliver, nettled. “S.H.I.E.L.D wouldn’t station one of its heaviest hitters here unless there was something wrong. I want to know what it is, preferably before it bites me in the ass when I least expect it. Why is that so difficult to believe?”

“Possibly because your requests for investigation always seem to focus on someone with whom our Miss Smoak is smitten?”

Oliver flashed him a look of annoyance. Dig smiled blandly back at him, dark eyes sharp.

“That’s not true. We investigated Sara when she first came to town, before we knew she was Sara, I mean. You know I don’t like the idea of another player in town. And no offense to your family connections, Dig, but I’m not a fan of S.H.I.E.L.D. or anyone who works for them, either.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. calls Barry Allen in to consult on occasion and you’ve never objected,” Dig pointed out. “Hell, you were the one he came to when they approached him.”

“Which is why I don’t have a problem with Barry.” A knot of tension began to throb between Oliver’s eyes. “I’m his mentor. He’s in Central City, not in my back yard, and most importantly, I know where his loyalties lie.”

“You mean you think you can intimidate him into being a good boy and doing things your way if you need him to,” Dig said, a sardonic edge to his tone. “Think you saw that won’t work with Cap.”

Oliver didn’t dignify that with a response. “Like I said. All I want is for you to talk to your cousin and see what’s going on. That’s not too much to ask, is it? And before you think I don’t have a good reason for my suspicions, take a look at what Lance texted me yesterday. A special S.H.I.E.L.D. bulletin sent to all police departments, asking them to report any cases involving unexplained high intensity explosions or cases involving metahuman abilities...especially super strength.”

He tossed his phone to Dig, who caught it with ease. As he read the older man’s expression grew heavier. “You’re worried about Roy?”

“He’s the last Mirakuru survivor. I don’t know if this is all part of the metahuman cleanup and tracking S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been doing since that explosion at S.T.A.R. Labs or if they got a lead on the Mirakuru and they’re trying to track down anyone who might have been affected. You know S.H.I.E.L.D. tracks and monitors powered individuals. Rumor has it monitoring's not all they do, if they think the threat's bad enough.”

“This have anything to do with those case files Roy stole for Lance?”

Oliver nodded. “Since he was demoted and his partner was killed, Lance doesn’t have access to those archives anymore. If he got caught taking them, he’d be fired. Felicity wiped the electronic links between the Mirakuru cases and the Arrow months ago, to be safe. We didn’t know the hard copies were still there. Lance doesn’t know about Roy, of course. He thinks he’s covering the Arrow. But if the files disappear, they can’t be turned over to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Dig eyed him with a touch of exasperation. “Some reason you didn’t tell us all about this yesterday, Oliver?”

“We were kind of pressed for time, Dig! And besides, how the hell was I supposed to know Felicity was dating the Star Spangled Pride and Joy of S.H.I.E.L.D.?” At Dig’s level stare, Oliver forced himself to rein in his sarcasm. “Just check and make sure S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not trying to capture Roy and make him into a Mirakuru lab rat.” He cleared his throat. “And we can make sure Rogers isn’t taking advantage of Felicity to try to find him.”

“Figured that was coming," Dig scoffed but when Oliver didn’t quip back he met his friend's gaze head on. "You really mean that, don’t you?”

Oliver set his jaw and stared back. “It would be a logical way for him to get information."

Dig tossed the phone back to him. “You know what your problem is, Oliver? You think everyone operates the way you do. You didn’t have a problem romancing McKenna so you could plant a bug on her phone, so you assume Steve Rogers would do the same to Felicity.”

“And you base that assumption off what, your grandfather’s seventy year old memories of his old war buddy?” Oliver snapped. “C’mon Dig, he works for spies.”

“No,” said Dig with strained patience, “He works for the organization that rescued him, which was started by good friends he knew and trusted. As for the rest, I’m going on month old memories from my cousin Trip and his friends in S.H.I.E.L.D., plus every Howling Commando I ever met who knew him. Trust me. Steve Rogers as a male Mata Hari works about as well as you being a male Virgin Mary.”

“Hey!”

“You asked.” Dig shrugged, unrepentant. “Oliver. Do you honestly think I would let Felicity walk out the door with anyone I thought would take advantage of her, no matter who he is?”

Oliver exhaled, his anger evaporating. “No.”

“Then trust my judgment. Trust Felicity’s common sense. She called your bullshit before you told her you were the Arrow. She made the call on her own to trust both you and Barry, didn’t she?” When Oliver opened his mouth to speak, Dig put up his hand and added, “I’m not negotiating. I get you’re worried about Roy, so I’ll find out what I can from Trip. But I won’t touch Steve Rogers’ personal life, Oliver...or Felicity’s. You need to start respecting her boundaries. You already changed her job without asking her. She’s got a right to her life and whoever she wants in it.”

Oliver’s gut tightened against an unexpected stab of hurt accompanied by the hollow sound of doubt echoing in his head. Was Dig right? Was he overstepping his rights as Felicity's friend, as her partner? Her work for the Arrow made her a target in more ways than one. He’d promised he’d protect her when she came on board. It would be his fault, his broken promise, if someone took advantage of her, but she’d be the one who’d suffer.

He’d taken a bullet for her to keep that promise, but emotional wounds hurt more than bullet holes. He remembered how it had felt to trust Helena, to feel a connection with her, only to have her use and abuse that trust.

He didn't want that for Felicity.

However, he knew Dig had dug in his heels. For now, he grudgingly nodded his agreement. After all, what more could he do?

Chapter Text

“Color me not at all surprised.  Half the garage is empty, and you still parked on the roof.  What is it with hero types and rooftops, anyway?”  Felicity slipped her hand over Steve’s arm, then nudged him playfully with her elbow when she was inside his guard. “Is brooding over the city better at higher altitudes or something?”

“That’s what it says in the manual,” he said, deadpan delivery perfect.

“Oh, do tell.  You read manuals?” she retorted, trying and failing to keep her own face straight. “You really are the peak of human potential, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be too impressed.  I just looked at the pictures.”

She laughed, sparking a grin from him in turn.  Unexpected as it was, she liked his blend of dry humor and snark.  She hadn’t known anyone like that since Cooper.  Quickly, she cut off that train of thought.

“Roof’s a coincidence,”  he said.  “More open space for practice turns up here.  You said you hadn’t ridden before, right?”   

“No, I haven’t.  You’re my first.”  She winced.  “My first with a motorcycle, I mean.  Riding.”  She stopped when he failed to react beyond a nod.  Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to him to read anything into the initial statement beyond what she’d meant.  Well, that was different.  “Are you sure that’s not a problem?”

“Nope.  I can show you how, easy.”

Circling around the slope of the exit ramp, he led her to a walkway along one side, his bootheels echoing with a hollow tock against the black-patched concrete as they walked.  Though traffic noise rumbled up from the street, their level of the garage was otherwise silent, empty save for a lone motorcycle heeled over on its kickstand at the far end of the lot.   Felicity squinted against the sun, but the only detail she could make out past the glare of sunshine on metal was big.

“Fair warning,” she said, trying to ignore a stirring of unease in the pit of her stomach, “I know lot more about fast processors than fast rides.”   

“You’ll pick it up in no time,” he predicted.  “Besides, I could use the practice, too.  Been a while since I’ve had a passenger.  Should be a lot easier than it was the last time I had one.”

“I’m afraid to ask.  You make it sound as if you had to tie them on kicking and screaming or something.”

“Close.”  He smiled at the memory.  “Used to haul the Commandos sometimes, if one of them got hurt or had to be pulled out in a hurry.  Couldn’t do much more than sling them across the back and hope for the best, most times.  You’re gonna be a cinch compared to a two hundred pound fella in field gear who’s yelling at the top of his lungs about getting his...er...” he coughed, “...being shot in a way that would ruin his future with the ladies.”

The image made her snicker.  Talk about truth in history.  That wasn’t something she’d seen on any of the newsreels she’d found online.  “I’m glad the bar’s set low, anyway.  Please tell me your dates didn’t usually scream and cling to the back, too.”

“Well, no.”  He cleared his throat, eyes focused on the bike in the distance.  “I’ve never taken a date out on it.”

“You haven’t?  Why?”  She bit herself off short before she could add, why me, then?  There had to be some logical reason.   Still, it was hard not to feel a little flattered, especially since no one else –okay, Oliver– had ever asked her.  “I mean, if you want to tell me.  It’s not my business.”

“No, it’s okay.”  He shrugged, his tone casual, though he tensed under her hand and didn’t look at her.  “Always wanted to. I didn't get to ride before the war, and then we were all busy.  I thought I’d wait until things were over.  Turned out I didn’t get a chance to ask...anyone, is all.”

For someone who was terrible at lying, he camouflaged his reactions well.  Had Felicity not spent two years with Oliver, for whom an eyebrow twitch could be the equivalent of a Shakespearean soliloquy, she would have missed both the tension and the slight hesitation before the substitution of ‘anyone’.  

She studied him under her lashes for a moment, putting puzzle pieces together as she did.  He’d said her red dress and lipstick had reminded him of someone.  She wondered if ‘someone’ was the same as ‘anyone’, and who the woman was.  Curious though she was, Felicity wasn’t about to ask.  She knew from her experience with Cooper how slow that type of wound was to heal and how much the scar could hurt when touched.

“I thought maybe you hadn’t because it was something that women didn’t.  You know.  Do.  I mean, back  --” She caught herself before she could say back then, which sounded only slightly better than back in those days, both of which sounded all kinds of wrong – “when you were first dating.  You run into a lot of ‘girls don’t do’ attitudes with computers and hacking.  I know it used to be a lot worse all around, though. I like to hear what's changed for the better.”

“Depended upon the girl. Although, I did have a friend who used to tell me I was nuts for wanting to take a girl out on a bike.  ’Course, he thought I was nuts for even wanting one in the first place.”

“Oh?  Who was it?  Did he think it was too dangerous or something?”

There was a second’s pause before he answered, as if the question had prompted him to recollect something he hadn’t thought of in some time.  “My best friend.  Bucky Barnes.  He used to say when it came to dames and dates, he’d rather have a ride with no motor than one with no backseat.”

“Let me guess.  His ideas of date destinations were going to first base, going to second base...?”

“Pretty much.”  She could hear the echo of laughter and affection in his voice.

“Yeah, I’ve met a few of those.”  She nudged him again. “Just to make it clear, you do have a motor on this thing, right?”

He chuckled.  “Yeah.  A real motor.  And no backseat.”

“Too –“ She bit off the bad that wanted to come tumbling out.  “I mean, uh...good to know.  And I’m glad you didn’t take his advice.  I mean, I’m really glad you asked me.”  Quickly, she looked away, embarrassed, then did a double take as she got a better look at the motorcycle, a long and low-slung Harley.  The late afternoon sun gleamed hot off its polished chrome and glossy black paint.  “Oh.  Wow.”

“That a good wow or a bad wow?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“That’s an...I don’t know what to say, wow.”  Slipping her hand from Steve’s arm, Felicity edged closer, not certain whether to be more impressed or apprehensive.  “I won’t knock anything over if I touch something, will I?”

“I can always pick it up if you do,” he said, poker-faced once more.

“Showoff.  I’m serious.  I’d rather not knock it over in the first place.”

“So’m I.”  He chuckled as she flipped her ponytail back, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. “You’re fine.  Look all you want.”  Folding his arms, he leaned against the short concrete wall marking the roof’s edge.

Slowly, Felicity circled the motorcycle, stopping to trace the wide curve of the back fender.  A few stray droplets of water sparkled in crevices on the thick frame.  Freshly washed.  The old-fashioned earnestness touched her.  A man who went to the trouble of having a clean ride for his date.  Who knew those still existed?

The rest of the bike was equally unexpected, although for a different reason.  She’d pictured something like the Ducati Oliver rode; sleek and lean, built for speed. The Harley was more of a warhorse than a Thoroughbred, though: broad, heavy, ready to charge over anything in its path. Intimidating.  She’d never gotten the same impression from the Ducati, but then, the closest she usually came to Oliver’s motorcycle was watching it secondhand through the safe distance of her monitors.

Watching everything secondhand.  The story of her life recently.  Steve asking her to go with him was the first time since Sara’s advent that someone had looked at her and said, I think you can do more.  Since Sara was around to help him, Oliver’s focus had changed from finding out what else Felicity could do to focusing on ways she could be kept safe, away from the action, away from him.  She’d grown since she’d joined the team, and she liked it.  Being sidelined hurt more than she cared to admit.

Maybe riding a motorcycle wasn't throwing people across the room, which she couldn't do even if she'd wanted to, which she didn’t.  But when Steve had asked her out, she'd seen Sara, fearless and fierce, hopping onto the back of the Ducati behind Oliver, and thought, I can do that. I can be that.

And she'd liked that Steve saw her as someone who could, too.  That was something a man asked a woman to do if he thought she was…

fearless, sexy, brave, strong, whispered a little mocking voice in the back of her mind.

...more than just an IT girl or a partner.

“So what do you think of the iron pony?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Pony?  Thinking more like Clydesdale, here.”  Quickly, she added, “It’s beautiful, though.”

“Thanks.  I hoped you’d like it.”  He twitched his shoulders in a small shrug, not quite looking at her.  “Anyway, if you think this is big, you should’ve seen the one I had during the war.  That one was a beast.  Howard and his boys rigged it with everything possible, including flamethrowers.  This one’s smaller, but it’s actually kinda familiar.”  His undertone of affection and regret told her what the Harley must mean to him, a piece of the home he’d lost as much as a vehicle.  “Got a lot fewer bells and whistles than the old one did, but it can still dodge bullets.”

His gaze remained on the Harley, momentarily unfocused, as if seeing some other when.  The kind of thousand yard stare she’d seen on Oliver when memories of his five years away were at the surface of his mind.  As she did with Oliver, she waited for a moment before speaking, keeping her tone light and bantering when she did.  “I hope you didn’t plan on being target practice tonight.  I’m allergic to bullets.”

His focus snapped back to the present.  “Never met anyone who wasn’t,” he said, amused.   “No target practice, ever, when you’re on board.”

“Good.  So.”  She gestured to the Harley.  “Where do I sit?”

“Right behind me.”

She skated her fingers along the dip in the smooth, sunwarmed saddle, up to a small seat perched higher on the back fender.  Despite being showroom clean, the rest of the Harley showed small signs of use.  The pillion seat, though, was brand-new, slightly darker in color than the saddle and didn’t look as if it had been there long.  Though it coordinated well with the rest of the bike, it didn’t match.  She wondered if he’d had to buy it, but thought she’d embarrass him if she asked.

“Here?”

“That’s it.”

She gulped, apprehension winning out as she studied the seat again.  Nothing to hold onto that she could see.  No back.  No seat belt, of course.  Visions of the gouges, scrapes and yards of road rash she’d treated for Oliver fast forwarded through her mind in gory Technicolor detail.  She’d seen what the Ducati could do when it fell on Oliver; she didn’t want to think of the damage the much heavier Harley could cause.

Calm down, she told herself.  Steve would do his best not to let her splatter on the pavement, right?  He was Captain America.  His whole job description was saving idiots like her from certain doom.  Bringing a date home as road hash would look bad for his reputation.  And she’d done far riskier things with Oliver and Dig, hadn’t she?  Okay, granted, she hadn’t done them the second time she’d met either man and not for fun either...

Then she thought of how she’d reacted after she’d done some of those things and her spirits sank.  What had she been thinking?  This wasn’t a normal ride with a normal person.  While Steve didn’t strike her as the type who’d try to show off and deliberately scare her, she’d never met anyone in his line of work who wasn’t an adrenaline junkie or speed demon.

So much for being sexy, brave or anything else.  Who was she kidding?  She’d be lucky if she didn’t do something to make Steve regret asking her to go, especially given what he’d told her and the effort he’d made.  She could white-knuckle out most things and get through them, but there was only so much she could do about motion sickness.  If she threw up the way she had after she’d skydived with Dig onto Lian Yu...she cringed inwardly at the thought.  Maybe she could hurl herself off the bike if she did, preferably under a bus.  If she threw up on Steve, she’d rather be roadkill than have to face him afterward.  

Surreptitiously, she swiped her damp palms against her jeans. Hopefully, this wasn’t going to turn into one of those ideas which sounded so much better in her head than it turned out to be in reality.

“Nervous?”

Oh, no. She hadn't thought she'd been that obvious.  Steve still leaned against the wall, watching her closely.  The scrutiny was almost as unnerving as the Harley itself.  A semi roared by on the street below, the noise buying her an extra second to steady her voice.

“You could say that.”  She crossed her arms, gripping her elbows just beneath her short sleeves, fingertips spots of ice on her bare skin.  “Sorry.  If I could get my brain to stop running through every worst case scenario, I’d be fine.  Statistically speaking, not the safest way to travel.  No offense to you professionally.”

“None taken.”  Pushing himself off the wall, he ambled over to stand beside her.  With him as a reference point, the Harley dwindled in size and threat level, and some of her anxiety along with it. “Shouldn’t ride if you’re not afraid enough to be cautious.”

“Oh, really?”  A nervous snicker escaped her, though she was grateful for his tact.  “I saw some of those old newsreels of you on the internet.  You were riding right ahead of an explosion and you were grinning ear to ear.  If that’s your definition of cautious, we don’t use the same dictionary.  I’m not even sure we use the same language.”

Chuckling, he spread his hands in denial.  “Hey, don’t take your cues off me.  Bucky used to say half the trouble I got into was because I was too dumb to run away from a fight.”

“Don’t call my date dumb.  I don’t date dumb guys.  I do have some standards.”  She reached out to touch the small seat again, biting her lip as she did.  “Does it make sense if I say I’ve always wanted to try this?   I mean.  I really do.  I just -- now I’m afraid I’ll fall off.  Or.  I don’t know.  Do something stupid and disappoint you.  That might be worse.  Or I might--”

“Felicity.”

Felicity jerked her head up, taken by surprise both at the use of her name and the change in tone.  Quieter, reassuring, rough-edged Brooklyn with no pretenses.  He was smiling a little, but the clear, intense blue of his eyes and the sincerity behind them jolted her with a tiny shock.  “You’re not gonna do that.  And I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.  I promise.”

It was a long second before she could blink or look away, her heart hammering and her face heating.  Despite that, she felt better.  She respected him for giving her a personal assurance instead of being offended that she’d dared to think herself in danger when she was with Captain America.  The men the Central City crew had tried to interest her in were nice enough, but that was how every one of them would have reacted.  They wouldn't have understood her reaction any more than they understood why their catchy names, showy costumes and flashy powers never impressed her enough to make her want to go out with them. She'd worked with enough heroes by now to know those things were only part of their personas, and their public images were only the fraction of their true selves that showed above the surface. What she believed in and trusted was the person underneath the mask, the sum of all the parts.

For most, that total didn’t amount to much.  But for a few, like Barry, like Oliver, the sum was far more than a mask could ever cover.

“Thank you.”  She smoothed a loose strand of hair back into her low ponytail to cover her sudden self-consciousness.  “If I get motion sick, you’re more than welcome to push me off the back.”

“Nah.  I’ve got good reflexes.  I can dodge.”  He grew serious.  “But if you want, we can do something else.”

She could tell he meant it, but there was a trace of disappointment he couldn’t hide.  She liked him better still for making the offer and giving her the choice.

“Nope.  I’m in.”

His face lit with a slow grin.  She was amazed at how young he looked when he did.  Whatever his life experience, it reminded her he was only a little older than herself; certainly no older than Oliver.  She wondered how many people bothered to notice that about him, or even cared.

“In that case, let’s get your gear on and hit the road.”  He handed her a set of keys.  “I’m gonna do a quick safety check, but the helmet’s locked on the back if you want to get it.  Got a jacket for you in the left saddlebag, too.”

“Thanks.”  She fished the half-gloves Sara had lent her out of her pocket.  “My friend needed her riding jacket tonight, or I would have borrowed hers.  I used to have one, but it was ruined in an...um...accident a while ago,” – okay, Tockman’s shooting her in the shoulder wasn’t exactly an accident, but she hadn’t meant to have it happen, and she really hadn’t planned on bleeding all over the lining, either, so that counted, right? – “and I haven’t replaced it yet.  My friend said everything else I had that was heavy enough was too long to be safe.”

“Glad to do it.  It’ll be a little big, though.”

“That’s fine.”  She unlocked the black half helmet, set it on the pillion seat, then searched for a second.  “Where’s yours?  You didn’t give me your helmet, did you?”

“Well...yes and no.  I got that one for me, but I never wear it.  Can’t wear one if I’m in uniform, anyway.”  He knelt by the Harley, frowning a little as he checked a footpeg beneath the small pillion seat.  Like the small seat, the metal looked brighter, newer, than the rest of the bike.  Digging a Swiss Army knife out of the right saddlebag, he unfolded a screwdriver, then pointed it at her.  “You’re not getting on unless you wear it, though.  You got more pretty to scrape off on the pavement than I do.”

“Matter of opinion,” she retorted, pressing her lips together to stifle a giggle as the tips of his ears turned faintly pink.  He busied himself with his work, not looking at her.

“Ah, nothing’s gonna make much difference to my mug.”

“Not worried about getting scarred up? Or are you going for that dark, damaged hero look?” she teased.  “I hear that’s what all the cool kids are doing these days.”

“Actually, I don’t.  Scar.”  He made an adjustment to the peg then flipped it up and down.  Satisfied, he returned to examining the rest of the bike, although what he was searching for, she didn’t know.  “One of the serum side effects.  Regeneration.”

“Convenient.”

“Has its advantages.  Doesn’t leave me much to brag about, though.”

Felicity cast a covert look down, appreciating the view.  The position he was in pulled his jacket tight across the breadth of his back and shoulders and she could make out the fluid flex of muscle beneath the leather as he worked.  Okay, he definitely had Dig beaten in the shoulder department.  Suits didn’t do him justice. But she was not, she told herself sternly, going to think of Steve entering a bare-to-compare-the-scars competition with Dig and Oliver.  No.   Just.  No.  Exposure to that much male muscle mass would cause fatal estrogen overload, she was sure of it.

“Scars aren’t everything.  You’ve got plenty to brag about anyway.  I mean, with what you’ve done,” she added quickly.  Damn Oliver anyway, for getting her so flustered in the first place.  She hated getting rattled.  Once she did, it seemed as if nothing came out right.  “Which side did you say that jacket was in again?”

He shot her a sidelong, considering look, apparently picking up on her tone if not the stumble itself.  Great. “Left.”    

Before her runaway mouth could belt out anything else she’d regret, she dug into the saddlebag.  The jacket inside was pebbled brown leather, heavy with zippers at the wrists and pockets.  When she slipped into it, she burst out laughing.  Talk about the opposite of sexy.  The hem came to mid-thigh and her hands swam in the sleeves, lost somewhere between the elbows and cuffs.

At her laugh, he looked up from his work, chuckling when she flapped at him.  Stretching over the seat, she struck an exaggerated calendar girl pose, letting the empty sleeves flop comically down over her hands.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his discreet, admiring look tracking the length of her legs, the appreciative pause on the curves hugged by her skinny jeans before he politely focused on her face again.

“Your jacket, I take it?” she asked.

“Yeah.  Sorry about that.”  Ruefully, he shook his head, then stood.  “Still don’t always think of myself as...anyway, didn’t think it would be that big.  It won’t matter except for the sleeves.  Need your hands free so you can hold on.”

He tried to fold one cuff in, then shook his head, frowning as the combination of heavy leather and equally heavy zipper refused to cooperate.  Helping her out of the jacket, he tossed it over the saddle.

“Let’s try this,” he said, shrugging off the one he wore.  The light blue button-down he wore beneath it looked as if it had been starched enough to stand up on its own, the sleeves neatly rolled up on his forearms.  Definitely not standard biker datewear, she thought, hiding a smile, but somehow, what she would have expected from him.

“Leather’s softer and without those zippers...there we go.”  He folded the ribbed cuffs inside the sleeves, tucked each securely in place, adjusted the collar, then carefully double checked it all.  He frowned as if irritated with himself.  “Not as heavy, though.  Hope it’ll be warm enough.  Don’t want you getting cold halfway out.  How’s that feel on you?”

Though still oversized, the jacket was glove soft, draping in closely, making her feel petite instead of swamped. The lingering heat of his body slid over her along with the silky lining, the weight of the leather protective, safe. As he zipped it, a blend of scents surrounded her-- leather, soap, hints of cloves and cinnamon-- bay rum, she recalled; one of Coop's hipster friends had been into retro colognes -– mingled with an irresistible tang of warm male skin. Surreptitiously, she tucked her head down and took another deep breath. The concentration was greatest at the front of the collar, the leather earthier, the spice a faint sting of heat in her nose, on her tongue. She couldn’t help but look at the smooth skin near the hollow of his throat where the collar had touched, couldn’t help but wonder if the same taste would linger there.

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady.  “Hey, it’s my fault I didn’t have one.  It was really nice of you to bring one for me.  And you feel really great on me.  All warm and heavy and safe.”

His eyes widened as slow color washed up his neck.  She frowned for a second, wondering why, before what she’d actually said hit her.  She hadn’t  – oh, just hell. She pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration.  Not even he could miss that one.  He obviously hadn’t thought of anything besides a practical solution to a problem, either, though she’d bet he was considering other angles now.

“Jacket.  Your jacket.  Your jacket feels really great.  That’s what I meant to say.  Not you.  I mean.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m sure you would feel great.  Like a hug kind of great.  And I guess it is kind of like that, you know...”  She trailed off with the dismal but unfortunately familiar sense of floundering in a verbal mire from which she couldn’t escape.  She forced a laugh which didn’t break the tension nearly as well as she’d hoped. “It probably looks pretty silly, though, huh?”

He blinked, then took a deep breath, as if regrouping.  His gaze dropped down, taking her in, came back more slowly to her face, dipped down to her lips for a second.  Ducking his head for a moment, he smiled a little, as if thinking of something, then looked up to meet her eyes again.  The connection stretched a beat, then two before she remembered there was something she was supposed to be doing.  Right.  Breathing.  That was it.

“Nope.”  Though traces of his embarrassed flush remained, the small half-smile stayed and he didn’t look away.  “You look like arm candy.”

It took her a second to place the phrase as her own from the day before, a moment’s flippancy covering a half-buried longing, and even then she didn’t remember exactly what she’d said  – something about motorcycles and sports cars being for arm candy and girlfriends, though she remembered thinking, as she’d said it, of the types Oliver always went for, the glamorous, leggy model types and gorgeous, kickass girlfriends.

Then the rest of it sank in:  He could have given some generic, polite response or laughed the whole thing off, but he’d stopped and deliberately chosen that phrase, instead.  Somehow, he must have picked up a little of what had been in her head when she’d said it.  And no, maybe Steve wasn’t a billionaire playboy, but he was a world-famous superhero in his own right.  If he chose, he could get all the same women Oliver or the Arrow could.  But he’d asked her.

Flowery, it wasn’t, but she thought it was still one of the best compliments she’d ever gotten.  She felt better than beautiful; special, warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the jacket, although she hugged it a bit tighter, anyway.

Before she could think how to respond, his phone double chimed, then buzzed like an angry hive of bees.

“Guess you’d better get that,” she ventured. 

He straightened, demeanor shifting as he did.  Not so different from the shift Oliver made when he donned the hood, she thought; in Steve’s case, crisp, serious. Soldierly.  “Yeah.  Sorry.  That’s the alert tone.”

Alert tone?  Felicity tensed.  What Oliver had suggested was logically impossible – she’d asked Steve out first, after all – but maybe Oliver was right about one thing.  Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. did have him here for a specific reason, not just the simple logistical relocation Steve had mentioned.

Fumbling a sleek black phone from his pocket, he scanned the screen, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he did.  Felicity blinked herself, torn between trying to give him privacy and wanting to ogle the phone.  A specialized StarkTech, at least three generations ahead of the marketplace from what she could see.  Her fingers twitched, wanting to touch it, but she wasn’t about to ask, not after the jacket debacle.  He typed a response with more skill than she would have expected. Painfully slow, but she thought that was the result of trying to make large fingers hit only one button at a time on the tiny touch screen.

“Everything all right?” she asked when he’d sent the message.

“Yeah.  My handler.”  Mingled dislike and exasperation leaked around the edges of his professionalism.

“Handler?”  she asked, recoiling from the term.  What did they think he was, a trained dog?

“Yeah,” he said, obviously misreading the question.  “Guy named Sitwell.”

“Not one of your favorite people, I take it?”

“Not especially," he admitted. "Don’t think he was any happier to be assigned to me than I was to be assigned to him, though.  He’d be a lot happier if I hadn’t gotten reassigned out here at all.  Didn’t like the implication he or the agents in the region needed Avenger backup.  Job’s gotta get done, though.”

The edge of flint to his tone made her think this Sitwell might be his handler, but not Steve’s boss.  Or maybe not the boss of Steve, she thought, which would fit with what little she knew of his history.  For a soldier, he certainly seemed to have an insubordinate streak.  The phone chimed again and he glanced down, frowning as he read.  He tapped out one more careful response, then put the phone back in his pocket with a sigh.

“You don’t have to go, do you?” she asked.

“No, not yet.  Got a...uh...briefing that got moved up, though.  Don’t have to go in now, but I’d kinda wanted to surprise you with dinner plans.  Can’t do that now.  I’m sorry.”  He rubbed at the back of his neck and looked down at his feet with another sigh.  “Gotta admit, I’m better at planning offensives than dates.”

Briefing.  Right.  She managed not to roll her eyes.  Now she knew someone who was a worse liar than Oliver and Diggle.  But she thought of the brand-new passenger seat, the careful work on her footpeg, the meticulously washed motorcycle and felt a pang of sympathy.  He’d tried so hard.  Impulsively, she grabbed his hand, threaded her fingers through his, and gave a reassuring squeeze.  His left, his shield hand; her fingertips slipped over a Braille pattern of small calluses on the insides of his fingers.

“Don’t worry about it.  I had to leave you last night, didn’t I?  And the ride was all I expected, anyway.”  She squeezed his hand again, then smiled up at him.  “You could teach lessons on date etiquette, you know.  I mean, you actually washed your bike.  The last date I was on?  The guy had so many fast food bags in his car, the whole thing smelled like an old corn chip and I got grease spots on my skirt.  Dinner or not, you’re ahead of the game already.”

“Thanks.”  His fingers tightened briefly around hers, his thumb brushing, rough-textured, against her palm, sending another tiny, pleasant shock through her. He let go to pick up the helmet from the pillion seat and hand it to her.  “In that case, we’d better get on the road.”

The helmet went on more easily than she’d thought it would, thanks to the low ponytail Sara had advised her to use, although the buckle posed its own set of issues.  As she worked with it, he shrugged into the other jacket and swung onto the Harley.

“Need some help?”  he asked after a moment.

“Please.   I can’t see what I’m doing.”  Holding the straps together, she circled around to him, tipping her chin back so he could work.

“Buckle got flipped, is all.”  He clicked it shut and checked the strap. She closed her eyes and concentrated on holding still as his fingertips skated over the sensitive skin beside her ear.

“That’s got it.  Ready?”

She took a deep breath, settling the last of the butterflies.  “Ready.”

“Mount from the left.  Hand on my shoulder, left foot on the peg, swing your leg over like you’re getting on a bicycle.  Nothing to it.”

His shoulder was wide and steady under her hand, the nap of the leather over it almost like suede under her fingers.  The Harley swayed a little as she mounted.  Reaching behind her, she curled her fingers beneath the fender, shifting on the small seat until she felt more centered.  The pad was more comfortable than it looked, even if it was disconcerting to find she couldn’t touch the ground with her feet.

Shifting closer, she fitted herself around him, thighs on the outside of his, then slipped her arms around his waist. His back was broad, warm, a solid wall of muscle and bone.  Safe.  When she clasped her hands, her fingers were still cold with nerves, but what nervousness was left was a sharper edge over growing excitement.  He rocked the motorcycle upright, then kicked the stand out from under them, his feet holding them in place.  She caught her breath, tightening her grip at the rock and sway, instinctively following his shift in balance, then grinning when she realized what she’d done.   He turned his head to look over his shoulder in time to catch her reaction.

“Think you’ve got it.  Holding onto me tight?”

She caught her breath at the near-echo of what Oliver had once said to her.  Except there was not a thing platonic about the slow burn of anticipation she felt at being so close to Steve.  And that was fine with her.

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes met hers for a moment’s shared smile.   “So. You ready to go riding with ‘Captain America’?”

He said the name with a more than a hint of self-deprecating humor.  Tilting her head, she considered him for a moment, thinking of the layer of uncertainty beneath his joking when he'd mentioned her having room for him on her dance card, how he'd been kind instead of laughing at her nervousness and how special he'd made her feel when she hadn't felt that way in so long.  

The sum of all the parts.  She was starting to think that in Steve’s case, that would turn out to be far more than even Captain America’s persona could ever cover.

“Nope,” she said, deliberately echoing him.  “I'm not going with Captain America.  But I’m ready to go with Steve Rogers, if he’s asking.”

She could tell from the way his smile warmed and grew that the words struck a chord for him.  Though she still didn’t know why, she was glad they did.  It was, after all, the truth.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I am.”

Chapter Text

A few hours later

A piece of the training dummy cracked off and clattered to the floor, joining two identically broken jongs nearby.

Oliver shook his head, set his jaw, and began a different drill with the eskrima sticks against the remaining jongs. Usually, the hollow tock of the sticks on wood calmed him. Rhythmic and steady like the wheels on a train, clack-clattering in counterpoint with the strain and burn of muscles working at their peak, endorphins overpowering stress for a few minutes of mindless peace.

Except it wasn’t working.

Every time he started to slip into the rhythm of the work, a memory surfaced to break his concentration. Dig’s veiled exasperation as he told Oliver to start respecting Felicity’s boundaries. Rogers’ steely stare as he asked if there was a problem. Felicity flaring at him before stalking out with Rogers. Every time it happened, his frustration rose and another jong would fall.

He was trying to protect his people. Trying to be be responsible, damn it. Why couldn’t anyone understand?

Responsible. After almost a quarter of a century of not knowing more about the word other than the fact it came between rebel and rubber in the dictionary, Oliver had more of it now than he’d ever wanted to have. He’d thought he was dealing with it pretty well, considering. Now, he was starting to think he was no more trained to handle it than he’d been prepared to survive on Lian Yu.

One of the last three jongs snapped, listing drunkenly to one side before crashing to the concrete. Scowling, he kicked it into the corner with the others.

“Going to leave any for the rest of us?” Sara leaned, hipshot, against the side of the computer table, her arms crossed. He hadn’t even heard her coming downstairs, which showed how scattered his concentration was. Catfooted though she was, it still didn’t speak well for his state of mind.

“I might if you ask nicely.” He paused to squeegee the sweat from his face with the crook of his elbow. “I thought you were working tonight?”

Peeling off her sweatshirt, Sara tossed it on the table, revealing her usual black athletic bra beneath.   “The bar’s slow right now. I thought I’d take five and get warmed up for tonight. Where’s Felicity?”

“Out.” He eyed the remaining jongs. One was cracked at the base. Shaking his head, he set the sticks aside and got a bottle of water. “She had a date.”

“Oh, that’s right. That was tonight.” Sara leaped up, caught the bar of the salmon ladder, then hoisted herself up with deceptive ease.

Oliver paused, bottle halfway to his mouth, irked. “You knew?”

“Yeah.” Sara pumped her legs, gathering herself for the first rung. “She told me last night.”

“You didn’t tell me,” he said, trying and failing to keep the accusation from his tone.

Snorting with laughter, Sara clanged the bar up to the next rung. “It wasn’t any of your business, Ollie. Besides, she asked me not to tell you.” Her tone turned wistful. “Getting to girl talk was nice. I’d forgotten how much I missed that kind of thing. Not exactly something you do in the League.”

“What kind of girl talk?”

“Girl talk about her date. And that’s all I’m telling you. Girl talk isn’t for boys.” She flashed him an impish grin. For a second, she looked like the college student he’d asked on board the Gambit years ago, and the memory made him smile. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

Swapping her grip, she flipped away from him. Clang, up another rung. As her muscles flexed, the scars scored into her back stood out in stark relief, as if mutely reproaching him. The sight wiped away his smile. All the places showing where the girl she’d been had been pared away from her bones. Missing pieces of the woman she could still have been, had he not talked her into going with him on the Gambit.

Marks of his guilt, carved into her skin.

Responsible, he thought. What a difference between being responsible and being responsible for something. And it wasn’t only Sara. He scarred every woman his life touched, it seemed, even though he never meant to do so.

The list marched through his mind. Thea and the scars left by his disappearance. His mother, warped out of recognition by the same emotional scar tissue. The invisible scars Laurel bore from his infidelities. Deepening Helena’s mental scars by training her instead of seeing she got the psychological help she’d really needed. The all too visible scars McKenna had now, thanks to that mistake.

Maybe others would argue those weren’t all his fault, but it damned sure felt like it to him, and he wasn’t willing to give himself a pass on that guilt. Too many others did. The least he could do was to make sure Felicity’s name didn’t get added to that list because she’d joined his crusade.

“I’m asking because I’m worried about who she’s dating and why he asked her out. That’s all,” he snapped.

“She didn’t tell me who.” Shifting her grip, Sara swung around to face him again, pumping her legs to build momentum. “Who is it?”

“Steve Rogers.”

Sara stilled once more, studying his face as she did. Whatever she saw sparked another grin. He had the feeling she was laughing inwardly at him, but he couldn’t begrudge her the humor at his expense. “That Steve Rogers? Really? Go her! No wonder you’re acting like a dog looking for a post to pee on. You were bad enough when I came to town.”

Oliver glared at her, exasperated.    

“Oh, lower your hackles, Ollie. She’s a big girl. And I am so going to grill her for some details.” Sara shook her head again, her shoulders shaking so hard with suppressed laughter she barely made the last rung. “I thought she was overreacting when she asked me not to tell you. Looks like she wasn’t. Besides, we had it covered. I asked Dig to check out her date before she left. If he didn’t have a problem, why are you worried?”

So that was why Dig hadn’t been waiting for him. Had every member of his team been keeping secrets from him? He tried with limited success to dam the surge of irrational anger he felt at the thought, knowing his reaction proved why they’d conspired to silence.

“I’ll tell you what I told Dig and Felicity, and maybe one of you will listen. I was worried Rogers might be asking Felicity out to try to get information from her. That’s all. Someone who just happens to work for the Arrow just happens to be asked out by someone who just happens to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., and it just happens to be after S.H.I.E.L.D. issued that directive your father sent us about reporting super strength cases. I don’t care what Diggle says about the guy not being the type to set something like that up and I don’t care if he’s an Avenger. That’s too much coincidence for me to swallow. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s got to have their fingers in it somehow.”

Sara’s amusement shifted to curiosity. “Weird police bulletin aside, what do you have against S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Oliver set his jaw and didn’t answer. After a moment she shook her head and went on.

“News flash, Ollie. Hero types do the same things everybody else does when they’re not out saving the world. You know that. That includes dating. People do ask hot girls out when they want to get to know them better, remember?” Sara wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, leaving no question about what definition of know she meant. “You sure used to, as I recall. Maybe Captain America can break a piece of rebar like a toothpick but it doesn’t mean he’s not still a guy.” Sara dropped lightly to the floor, then did a double take. “Wait. You told her that’s what you thought? You actually said the reason you thought he asked her out was to get information on you? As in, you thought that was the only reason he’d ask her out at all?”

“I didn’t mean –“ He stopped, stricken. Oh, fuck. No, he hadn’t meant it that way at all. When Sara put it that way, though, he couldn’t blame Felicity for thinking that was what he meant, nor for getting upset. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Felicity’s feelings. All he’d worried about was that she’d be hurt by people who wanted to try to get to him. That she, too, would be one of the women scarred because of him.

“Oh, my god, you did, didn’t you?” Sara rolled her eyes. “Smooth, Ollie. Really smooth. I swear, it’s hard to believe you used to be able to talk girls out of their panties.”

Oliver said nothing, guilt and resentment warring within him. He was going to have to apologize. The thought irked him still more. He hated apologizing. Damn Rogers, anyway. Why couldn’t he have stayed in New York instead of coming to Starling City to be a red, white and blue pain in Oliver’s ass?

“Hey.” Stepping to him, Sara ran her hands along the expanse of skin and scars on his chest, stopping to pat his shoulders. Though she still smiled, he could see the concern behind the expression. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” He blew out a sigh. “I’ll be better once I’ve talked to Roy. He’s coming down in a few.”

She frowned. “Since when do you guys work out at this time of night?”

“We’re not working out. I wanted to warn him to lay low until Dig finds out from his cousin why Rogers is here in town. Roy’s lack of impulse control’s going to give him away if we’re not careful, and Captain America’s the one person who could physically drag Roy back to S.H.I.E.L.D.. I know they say they only monitor powered individuals, but you and I both know S.H.I.E.L.D. will take more drastic steps if they think someone’s dangerous. Once he gets on their radar, they won’t leave him alone. Even if all they do is put him on their threat index, it’s too much.”

“Wow, you really are overreacting to this guy, aren’t you?” Sara shook her head. “I get that you’re trying to play it safe, but Ollie, you don’t even know if he’s here to find Roy. It’s not like Roy and Thea are going to be going on double dates with Felicity and Rogers, anyway. Besides, Roy knows not to say anything about the Mirakuru. All you’re going to do is upset him. Hold off until you know something, huh?”

Oliver ignored the tightening in his gut at the combined mention of date and Felicity and Rogers. He didn’t care who she dated, he reminded himself. She could date the Hulk as far as he was concerned. “But –“

He stopped as footsteps pounded down the stairs. Roy approached at a jog, slowing as he saw Sara. The two exchanged brief, wary glances before Sara stepped aside, grabbing her sweatshirt.

“I’d better get back up to the bar.” She dropped a quick kiss on Oliver’s cheek. “Think about what I said, okay?”

Oliver nodded. “Sara?”

She stopped, her head poked through her sweatshirt. “Yeah?”

“Would you...” He shifted his weight and crunched his water bottle in his grip. “Just...check on her, okay? She’s not talking to me right now.”

“And let me guess. Don’t tell her I’m doing it because of you.” Sara heaved a sigh, then yanked her sweatshirt down the rest of the way. “Fine, Ollie, if that’s what it takes to make you settle down. Honestly.”

Roy stepped aside so Sara could pass. Sara, Oliver noticed, gave Roy a careful berth, like a feral cat avoiding another’s territory. Roy’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing until the door closed behind Sara.

“You wanted to see me?”

Oliver hesitated as he took in Roy’s expression, hope and eagerness scraped thin over a layer of tension and anxiety.

Dig thought he overstepped boundaries and would only grudgingly investigate his concern about Rogers. Sara thought he was borrowing trouble, and he’d pushed both of them to exasperation with his fears. Maybe they were both right. He’d already accidentally insulted Felicity. A needless warning might only add to the kid’s worry and eat at his self-control, neither of which would help.

Oliver stretched on an ill-fitting smile. “No big deal. Sara said it was slow tonight upstairs. I haven’t been hitting drills with you like I should. Suit up and let’s work.”

Roy eyed the dismembered dummy dubiously. “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Steve had told Felicity he'd thought she'd like riding.

He was wrong.

She only liked it going through downtown Starling City, even if making their way through the heavy traffic and big cars was like riding the Dodge 'Em cars at an amusement park. Though there were a couple of near misses, Steve wove them through the tangle with a skill and confidence which put Felicity at ease. She liked going through the old neighborhoods by the Glades as they headed out of the city better still; the brief flashbulb bursts of sunlight through the overhanging trees made the big Victorian houses and passersby flicker by in brief, jerky images like a silent movie.

Like it changed to love it when they hit the exit to the Sea and Sky Highway, a steep, sharply curved ramp which arced into the sky like the first hill on a roller coaster. Steve took it at speed, fast enough to heel the bike over hard, the angle so sharp it seemed any moment their knees would scrape the pavement. The Harley banked like a small plane around the outer curve of the ramp, rising into the bright blue afternoon.

Heart pounding, Felicity pressed her cheek against the hollow of his shoulder blades and peered past him. She'd driven this section of the road before, but she'd never noticed how high it was, nor what a drop there was beyond the low concrete wall at the road's edge. They balanced for a breathless second at the top of the ramp's arc before they hit the downslope with a rush that made her stomach drop and excitement thrill through her. For a second, it was if she were living one of the dreams she'd had as a little girl about what it would be like to take off in a rocket bound for space. The wind stole her delighted laughter, but he must have heard it anyway, because he caught her eye in the rearview mirror and grinned as if he understood.

Minus the filter of her computer screens and out of the shell of her car, everything stood out in crisp focus and saturated color. Sensations and scents hit in bursts as they raced past the source: flashes of cold in the shadow of the cliffs, blasts of heat in the full sun, brine and fish when they passed an oyster farm, wood smoke from someone's beach fire, then a chill, dry hint of snow when the road twisted briefly inland, toward the mountains.

On the hairpin curves, Felicity could see straight down to the rocks along the shoreline, jutting up jagged and sharp as shark’s teeth. She knew she should be nervous. All it would take would be one mistake on Steve’s part, one small slip or oil slick, and they’d crash. Several of the low guardrails were heavily dented or had pieces missing, mute testimony to other accidents.

But the fear didn’t come. Though she didn't see Steve glance back at her often, Felicity nonetheless had the sense he was paying close attention and watching out for her. Although he was all she had to hold onto, she felt free and unconfined, not vulnerable. She’d believed Steve when he’d said he’d keep her safe; she was convinced now he wouldn’t let her get hurt, no matter what. The thought sent a rush of heat through her and made her very aware of how closely she was pressed against him and the flat, hard planes of muscle under her hands.

Best of all, she did feel brave and daring and sexy. Not like a clone of Sara, but like part of the Felicity she’d shed along with her Goth clothes and dyed black hair during her senior year at MIT. The Felicity who liked an edge of risk and danger...so long as she knew she was with someone she could trust to keep away the grues.

She'd missed that Felicity. It was nice to have her back.

Riding a fast bike with a beautiful dame snuggled up next to him - how often had Steve daydreamed about that back before the serum? More times than he could count, anyway. In those days, it had been a tossup whether the least likely part of that dream was being able to afford a motorcycle or getting a girlfriend.

These days, though, when Steve headed out on the Harley, it was for one reason: escape.

He left a lot behind him on the road. Frustration and anger after his clashes with S.H.I.E.L.D. about his assignments. Nights too densely populated by nightmares to allow him any sleep. Other times when the weight of all he’d lost and everything he missed crashed down and sandbagged him.

When it got to be too much, he rode and let the wind scour him clean. Maybe it wasn't the therapy S.H.I.E.L.D's army of shrinks kept pressing him to have, but it worked and kept his problems private. When his head was clear again, he could pick up his shield and focus on what was important. Being a soldier, doing a soldier's work, protecting people.

The Chitauri had proved Fury right about one thing, even if Steve trusted about one thing in three S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director told him these days. The world did need Captain America. As long as it did, Steve had a duty and a purpose for being where and when he was. Compared to that, what he'd once wanted for himself didn't matter, did it?

Or so he usually figured. This, though… riding by himself might never seem as good again. As an artist, Steve’s imagination had always been vivid, but there were details he’d never considered and others which had been vague, given his lack of experience at the time with either a motorcycle or a girlfriend. For once, ignorance worked in his favor. Had he known how intimate the experience would be, he never would have had the guts to ask her.

Reality was the sharp, cold cut of wind and blood rush of speed combined with the soft give of feminine curves pressed tight against him. No more than a hint and a tease, given the layers of leather between, but his awareness heightened every time she moved with him. Somewhere along the way, Felicity had slipped her hands beneath his jacket to hold onto his waist. Even through his shirt, he could feel the warmth of her touch, a tantalizing inch or two above his belt. His mind kept straying to thoughts of what her fingers might feel like trailing over his bare skin, not muted by a layer of cotton. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since any woman had touched him other than for a combat maneuver or to patch up his injuries.

At that, he reminded himself to concentrate and focus on the road ahead of them. The road his thoughts were taking was far too distracting, even if he did like the thought of the destination. Still, it was a hell of a lot better than thinking about having to deal with Sitwell later or seething over the FUBARed mess S.H.I.E.L.D. had brought him out to the West Coast to clean up.

Just then, Felicity eased a hand free from his waist to tap his left shoulder in their ‘slow down’ signal. When he did, she pointed to a hang glider soaring overhead, its blood orange wings brilliant against the cloudless blue sky. As he watched, it wheeled about, banking in long, easy circles above an island farther out in the bay.

“Have you seen those out here before?” Although she’d shifted closer to him, he could barely hear her over the combination of rushing wind and the Harley’s roar.

“Yeah, a couple of times,” he called back. Other than to reflexively catalog them as not-threat on his radar, Steve had never paid them much attention. “There’s usually more of them, though. Must be a place on that island that rents them.”

“There’s an overlook up ahead. Do we have time to stop and watch for a couple of minutes, maybe?”

“Sure.” Steve wished he’d thought to suggest it. He almost always saw others parked there, watching. At one time, he would have done the same, but anymore, he was always too mired in his own thoughts and too driven by his need to outrace them to consider stopping. “We should let you stretch your legs, anyhow. Hang on.”

Gravel crunched beneath the Harley’s tires as Steve swerved sharply into the now-empty lot. A waist-high stone wall curved around the lot, marking the edge of the cliff. Coasting to a stop beside it, Steve killed the engine. As the echoes of the Harley’s motor died, sounds surfaced to fill the silence: waves slapping against the cliff walls and rocky shoreline below them as the tide came in, the low rush of wind through the pines and the faint mosquito whine of the gliders’ small engines.

Taking hold of his shoulder, she eased off the bike, stumbling a little as she straightened. Quickly, he caught her elbow with his free hand, steadying her.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. My legs are a little shaky, that’s all.”

The brightness of her eyes, the windblown roses in her cheeks, the buoyant warmth of her smile, combined into one sharp instant of pretty, so vivid it almost hurt to see. Her reaction lifted his own spirits. How long had it been since he'd been around anyone that genuinely happy or been that happy himself? Nor had he expected to please her so much, especially not with something so small.

“You get used to it. Should’ve warned you. Sorry. But you're doing great."

“Thank you.” She flipped her ponytail back over her shoulder, looking inordinately pleased with herself. “I think I’ve done pretty well myself.”

“Told you that you would. Although,” he added, unable to resist teasing her a little, see how she’d take it, “Pretty sure I heard a yelp when we were pulling out of QC.”

“You heard that?” She covered her face with her hands, stifling a snicker. “Okay, you’re right. I totally yelped. But that soccer mom in the minivan missed us by two inches! I mean, did you see her? Phone in one hand. CCJitters gallon cup in the other. And? Half turned around and yelling at her kids in the back seat. That's not multitasking, that's scary.”

He laughed. As he did, it occurred to him that he’d done more of that in the short time he’d known her than he had in months, maybe even since he’d been revived. Grief and the weight of change had pressed it out of him.

“Ah, just teasing you. Don’t blame you at all. I’d rather dodge a Panzer division than rush hour, most days.”

“Thank you. I would have yelped if I were in my car.”

“That little red thing?” he scoffed, trying not to grin and failing. “I could see why. You use gas with that or did they give you a tin key to wind it up?”

“Okay, now you’re out of line. No making fun of my car. Or else.” She poked a finger into his chest then stopped, considering. “Okay, I don’t know what else. Yet. Do you really want me to be thinking of an ‘or else’, though?”

“No, ma’am, I don't.” He glanced down at her hand and frowned. The skin not covered by the half-gauntlets was reddened. "You sure you're okay? Not too cold?"

"My hands were, a little, until I tucked them under your jacket. They're fine now, though. And I'm good, as long as I stay close to you. I hope you don't mind. I mean, I don't want to be all gropey or anything."

Steve kept his face straight with difficulty. A beautiful dame like Felicity asking him if he minded her being close to him and putting her hands on him? Talk about something he wouldn’t even have dreamed of happening back in the day.

"Think I’ll manage," he said, unable to keep the dryness from his tone.

Bucky would have busted a gut laughing at the idea of Steve, of all people, finding a suave way to cop a feel that Buck hadn’t thought of first. Right after he slapped Steve on the shoulder and congratulated him for nerving himself up to ask a dame like Felicity out in the first place.

Nostalgia twinged at the thought, but it beat the endless loop of memories which usually played when he thought about Bucky: the snap of metal, the echoing scream, Bucky plummeting out of sight, hands still stretched up for aid Steve couldn’t give him. Memories which haunted his dreams and fed a wellspring of guilt.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he rocked the Harley onto its stand and dismounted, then followed Felicity to the wall. She peered up, following the glider's path, belatedly raising her hand to the helmet to steady it when it slipped.

Steve suppressed a smile at the sight. He’d bought the half helmet because it felt most like the old Army helmets he’d worn, and though it fit her well enough for safety, it was still slightly too big. In his old helmet, before the serum, he’d looked like a kid wearing a bucket on his head, but on her, the oversized helmet was cute. Probably not what she’d want to hear but he liked the look.

"How long have you been here?" she asked. "Six weeks, right?"

"About that."

"And here I've been in Starling City for five years and I've never driven out here. It's supposed to be one of the most scenic roads in the country, too. Thanks for bringing me." She lowered her hand from the helmet, and put her fingers up into the damp wind as if testing it. Sighing, she shook her head. “I can’t even remember the last time I was out of work this early. How crazy is that? Before Oliver, I was on call for the IT department all the time. After Oliver, it’s been straight from work to the -" she caught herself, then stumbled on. “Uh...more work, with dinner at my desk.”

To the where, Steve wondered, but decided not to ask. “Queen keeps you that busy, huh?”

“And some friends. There’s not a lot of people who can do what I do.” Her eyes stuttered away from his face for an instant. Not lying, but not the whole story, either. Odd, he didn’t remember Pepper being so evasive about the work she did for Tony. Maybe Felicity was too polite to tell him to mind his own business. Not that he was in a position to object, given that he couldn’t tell her details of what he did, either.

"It's funny. I get in my car, and I just think about going to work or running errands. But your bike -- it feels so free. Like you could do anything, go anywhere," she mused. "Are you ever tempted to hit the road and just keep on going?"

"Sometimes." What tumbled out next surprised even him. "I thought about it, after New York. Taking a break before I started working for S.H.I.E.L.D.. Traveling around. Seeing the country."

Going out and seeing the world had been one of the last things he'd wanted to do when Fury had first suggested it, but the idea had grown on him. After the invasion, he'd told Fury he wanted some time before going on active duty. He'd been packed and ready to go when he'd met the others in Central Park to bid Thor farewell. Tony had even set him up with various travel apps for his phone and showed him how to use them. All he had to do was ride away and keep on going.

In the end, he'd ridden all night, then turned back and met Fury at his office the next morning to report for duty.

She turned her head to look at him, scenery forgotten. "So why didn't you?

"Didn't seem to be much point. I travel all over working for S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway." The truth went deeper, but seemed too self-indulgent, even self-pitying, for him to admit.

Felicity scanned his face. He had the odd sense she was focusing past the surface and looking at him, seeing everything down to the muck of regrets at the bottom of his soul. Maybe it should have been unnerving, but somehow, it wasn't.

"Not much point in going someplace new when the only place you really want to go is home, is there?" Her tone made the words a statement, not a question.

Usually, he would have changed the subject or pretended he hadn't heard her. He barely knew her and his usual tendency was to clam up when people got personal.

But he'd barely known Peggy, either, when he'd blurted out his closest-held dream to her, that of wanting the right partner. Peggy hadn't poked at him, either; she'd seen his real problem and voiced it for him, as Felicity had just done. As with Peggy, he didn't sense any pity or curiosity from Felicity, only kindness and genuine concern. And he couldn't deny it was a relief to have someone understand.

"Yeah," he admitted.

She reached out to put her hand over his for a moment, a quick moment of connection and comfort. His chest tightened for a second. People looked to him for strength and reassurance. He wasn't used to people offering it to him, not anymore.

Then, as if sensing he'd gone as far as he wanted to go on the topic, she nodded to the sky. "Hey, look, there's another."

Relieved, he followed the direction of her gaze, noticing a second glider had joined the first, this one canary yellow. Like dragonflies, they hovered over the water before riding an updraft over the ragged, rocky shoreline. All the remaining light of the day seemed to gather on the two points of brilliant color while below, the bay curved off into a marine blue haze on the horizon.

She sighed. "Makes me wish I was an artist."

“I used to be.”

“Really?” She craned her neck around again to look at him, surprised but also pleased.

“Yeah. Went to art school for a year before it closed for the war, worked for the WPA arts program for a couple of years. Posters and such.”

“Nice," she said, sounding impressed. “I know a lot of amateur artists, but nobody who's made a living at it.”

To his amusement, she seemed more impressed that he'd been an artist than she was at finding out he was Captain America. Not that he minded, but it was certainly a different reaction than he would have expected.

"Wasn't much of a living."

"It's more than I could do." She shrugged. "Do you do anything with it now?"

"Some sketches, that's it. I haven't had time to do anything else."

That wasn't quite true. He'd had time, or he could have made time, but art required time to think. One reason he worked as hard as he did was to avoid giving himself time to think.

"So how would you do this?" she persisted. "I mean, what paint-y things would you use?"

"Not sure," he admitted. "I haven't done anything in color since the serum. I couldn't carry more than a pencil and a sketchpad with me during the war. There's a lot more to choose from now, too. I'd have to look and see what's available."

Yet he found himself mentally framing the scene, thinking about what he'd emphasize, the colors he'd use. It would be the first time he'd ever gotten to match colors to a scene by sight alone. Before the serum, he'd been colorblind, so he'd had to focus on color values instead. He would have been able to assess the values and compose the picture properly, but he would never have gotten to see the full effect himself. Now he could.

Dr. Erskine would have been delighted to know how much Steve's life was enriched by that one change.

Then the connected thought came: how disappointed Erskine would be to hear that being a soldier was all Steve had to hold onto anymore.

“I should take a picture -- hm.” Felicity glanced back at the bike’s saddlebags and frowned.

“Problem?”

“Not really. If I take a picture, I have to turn on my phone, and the minute I do, someone will try to get hold of me.”

In spite of her words, though, her fingers twitched as if wanting to reach for the device. His amusement deepened. Shades of Tony being separated from anything tech for longer than five minutes.

“I’d offer to take one with mine for you, but Tony just changed it and I'm not familiar with everything yet. Seems like he does that every couple of months." Yet another thing that seemed pointless to him, not to mention wasteful, but she nodded as if she understood. "You're welcome to use it, if you can figure it out."

“Could I?” She lit up as if he’d offered to buy her a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne. “It’s a specialized StarkTech, right?”

He fumbled it from his pocket and passed it to her. “Well, it’s a StarkTech S.H.I.E.L.D. communicator."

“Oh, aren't you gorgeous,” she murmured to the phone, caressing it. Steve blinked, both at the tone and her expression. He was growing used to women looking that way at his physique, but his phone?

“Nice. I see he changed the general setup from the 4e model. About time he got rid of that interface. Still needs some work on the app tabs, though, it’s too easy to pull up the wrong...application.” She trailed off, glanced guiltily from him to the phone and back, then made a few quick gestures with her fingers over the screen. “Um. Anyway, here goes.”

She snapped several quick pictures, the helmet listing a bit to the side as she leaned over to get the angles she wanted. Quickly, she quickly clapped her hand onto the top to center it. He stifled a chuckle.

"And here you go." She handed the phone back to him, not without a last, longing look that made him chuckle again as he pocketed it. Her helmet was still a little askew. Without thinking, he reached up and adjusted it, knuckles brushing her cheek on the way down. Then he clued in on how she was looking at him, eyes wide, lips parted a little.

Belatedly, connections sparked. Hey, that’s the way she looked last night before she kissed me on the cheek, led to, Gee, this would be a great time to steal a kiss, and then Okay, Rogers, you can do this, right before That angle’s awkward as hell, how am I going to get to her without cracking my nose on that helmet, and Maybe I should wait, I don’t want to screw this up.

But he was tired of missing out because he'd waited too long. He’d give it a shot. If he smacked his nose, well, he healed fast, and he didn’t think she’d laugh if something went wrong. Willing away the clutch of nervousness in his gut, he leaned in towards her.

Gravel crunched behind him. Automatically, Steve straightened and spun around, putting himself between Felicity and whatever was coming up behind them. No sooner had he done it than he wanted to kick himself. He’d waited too long again, damn it, and probably overreacted, to boot. Typical, Rogers, typical. If ghosts could slap people, he’d bet Bucky would have whacked him one upside the head.

A dirt-covered dark sedan pulled to a stop beside them. Steve frowned. There’d been one like that on the top level of the garage before he’d gone in to get Felicity, though it had been gone when they’d returned. No way he could tell if it was the same one, though. He hadn’t thought to look at the license plate, and modern cars all looked various flavors of the same to him – similar sleek bubble shapes and bland colors, no hood ornaments or varied body styles. The driver hopped out with a camera phone, snapping pictures of the ocean and the sunset with the dedication of a tourist while his companion in the passenger seat appeared absorbed in his phone. The child in the backseat, a little dark-haired girl wearing a Captain America t-shirt, pressed her face against the back window, breathing moist round circles on the glass as she stared at Steve.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Felicity murmured.

Steve blew out a breath of frustration. "If you're thinking we'd better go, you're probably right."

He had an impulse to lean in and kiss Felicity anyway, audience be damned. See if her mouth was as soft and lush as it looked, savor her sweetness and the little buzz of adrenaline that would sharpen all the edges of sensation.

But that wasn't something he wanted to do in front of strangers with cameras. He'd heard enough of Fury's grousing and Natasha's comments to know anything an Avenger did in public got captured on someone's phone and splashed all over the place. The chances were low, but why risk it?

Next time, he wasn't going to be so slow off the mark, damn it.

He nodded in the direction the gliders had taken, further down the coast. "C'mon, you want to see if we can catch up to them?"

“Can we?”

“Sure.” He swung back onto the Harley and started it, then helped her up behind him. "Gonna have to punch it, though. You up for that?"

“I am." She settled herself against him, and snuggled close, slipping her hands beneath his jacket. Her fingers sketched along his abdomen as she searched for the best place to hold onto him, a light, electric tracery that made him suck in a deep breath and will his body not to respond. "You're not the only one who doesn't scare easily, you know."

She sounded so proud of herself he had to smile. "Doesn't surprise me at all."

Turning them to the road, he opened the throttle. The Harley surged ahead, accelerating, chasing the wind as the world blurred by on fast forward.