A/N: I seem to have become the queen of tags and missing scenes. So here's the missing scene from the latest Arrow episode The Odyssey. It's a short scene and stuck right in the middle of the action so the corresponding one-shot is short and sort of ends rather abruptly. I'll admit, it's not my best ending. But the story doesn't end with my fic so I can't really end it properly. But, in any event, here's a nice little bit of Felicity angst with a dash of Ollie whump. Please enjoy my lopsided story

Cheers, Laatija

Men in Cars

The end of the day. She lived for the end of the day.

Well, no. That was a lie. She loved her job. She loved computers and feeling smarter than the big shot business people who couldn't install a virus protector at gun point. But no, that was mean. She shouldn't be so mean. Even if it was true...

Felicity walked to her cute little red car, her heels pocking on the concrete and sending echoes through the parking garage. Soon, she'd be home with her cats, her laptop, and season three of MI:5. And maybe even a mug of Earl Gray, hot.

Felicity was deep into her planning as she slid into the car and started it. She didn't even realize there was something wrong until her back seat started moving.

Alarm froze the scream in her throat.

There-is-an-ax-murderer-in-your-car-and-you-are-going-to-die-a-painful-agonizing-death-and-be- chopped-into-bits!

"I'm not going to hurt you, Felicity..."

The voice was husky. The tone was friendly enough, albeit a little on the desperate side. But he didn't sound like he had a gun pointed at her head.

"How do you know my name?" was the first intelligent thing that came out of her mouth as she watched the mystery man in her back seat as he unfolded from the blanket she kept back there for emergencies. And yes, one of those emergencies on her mental list did involve a spy or action hero in need of emergency care. Not that she ever imagined it could actually happen to her. Not in a million years—


The man under the blanket was Oliver Queen.


Oliver Queen.

"Because you know my name," he said.

"Oliver...oh...Wow..." she breathed.


Holy crap, he was the Hood! He was the vigilante!

"Everything about you just became so unbelievably clear," she said mostly to herself. All fear had vanished. Shock was painted over her face. Oliver was crumpled in a pathetic looking heap in the back, half hidden by the blanket. His face was painted. There was blood seeping out of his chest. "You're bleeding!" she yelped.

"I don't need to be told that..." he grumbled.

"You need a hospital," Felicity insisted firmly. She didn't exactly think before she said it. Of course he couldn't go to a hospital. He was the Hood. You didn't just take the Hood to the hospital and expect everything to be ok. But, then again, could she be responsible for the Hood's death? For Oliver's death? Maybe it wasn't a bad wound. Maybe she could just fix it herself...take him back to her apartment—

"My-my father's old factory," Oliver gasped, interrupting her thought process. "In the glades."

"You...you need a doctor not a steel worker," Felicity snapped.

"Felicity," he said firmly, holding her gaze with those big dreamy eyes of his. "You have to promise me that you are going to take me to my father's factory. And nowhere else."

He looked so utterly desperate. So injured. So in pain. So pathetic. "...Yeah, promise," she mumbled. "Something tells me bloodstains are not covered under my lease." The last bit was a joke. An attempt to lighten the mood. The mood was currently very depressing.

He didn't respond. He was busy breathing heavily and groaning. Felicity kept looking back at him in her rear view mirror as she pulled out of the parking garage.

"Pull the blanket over you. We're about to pass the security guard," she warned. He did what he was told and Felicity smiled brightly at the guard. "Good night!" she said. Too brightly. Too much enthusiasm. He'd see past the cheer and then call the police and she'd end up getting pulled over with a dangerous vigilante in her car and she was pretty sure that was way worse than getting caught with something like pot. Which she never ever did when she was in college... Nope.

The guard waved her by and raised the gate.

One obstacle down.

Obstacle two: get Oliver to the glades without him dying. Was he dying? He was definitely bleeding. Like, everywhere. And he looked like he was in a lot of pain.

"Do you want some aspirin?" she asked, digging her hand into her purse.


"I swear I have some in here..."

"Felicity, watch the road..."

"I can hear it—"


She snapped her head up and saw the pair of headlights coming towards her. She jerked the wheel and pulled her car back in her own lane. "Oops. So, no aspirin."

"I'm fine," he said in an exasperated voice. Or maybe it was just an exhausted voice. He looked like he'd had a really hard day.

"Clearly, Mr. Queen, you are not fine."

"Aspirin's not gonna help," he clarified.

She stole a glance in the rearview mirror and saw him close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. His skin was super pale.

"I'm sorry. I'm not used to men in cars," she suddenly blurted. "My car. Injured men. I'm not used to having injured men in my car. Not like...not like I don't have guys often. Well, I mean, actually I don't. But that doesn't mean I don't have a boyfriend. Actually, I don't. Not right now. But when I did, we didn't usually take my car. I get really distracted by men in my car. And, I mean, you're Oliver Queen."


"I was just...Never mind." She clamped her lips shut. She was babbling. She did that around hot guys. And blood. And Oliver Queen. "What happened?"

"I was shot," he said shortly. Damn, his voice was so husky. And a little heart wrenching. His voice caught on the end of 'was', hitching up with a little huff of air. If pain had a sound...

"Oh my god! By who?" she asked.

"Felicity...can we not—"

"Right. Of course. Sorry." Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. What the hell are you doing, Felicity? You have a criminal in your car. You're talking to him. You intend to help him. He's not an injured puppy. He's a dangerous killing machine...

No. No, this was Oliver Queen. This was a man who'd spent five years on a deserted island. He didn't kill innocent people. He only went after crooks. So why was he at his father's business? Was someone there dirty? Did it have to do with the notebook? Or his mother? Why had the Hood been there?


"Drive faster..." he breathed before she could get the question out.

"Oh my god, are you dying?" she asked in a mildly hysterical voice.

"When you get to the factory, drive to the back," Oliver said very very quickly. "There's a door to the basement. Keypad combination is 09336. My bodyguard will be down there. His name is Diggle. He'll help you. He'll probably f-freak...freak out..."

His voice trailed off and she craned her head behind the seat to peered at him. He was really white. And really limp. "Oliver?"

He didn't answer her.

But his chest was still moving. So that was good.

Men in cars. Why was this always such a bad combination for her? When she turned sixteen, she invited a bunch of her computer club guy friends along for a drive in her bitty little car. They brought beer, got drunk, and got her pulled over by the cops. When she was twenty, she offered a ride to the man she had a crush on. He brought his girlfriend and ended up making out in her back seat. Her cousin got car sick and puked all over everything. And that was just a small sampling of her escapades. Damn men in cars!

Felicity speed through the intimidating ghettos, hoping she wouldn't get shot at. She was so white she was like a florescent light bulb. Somehow, this seemed like the most dangerous part of her evening. Not the criminal in her back seat, not the threat of a gun wielding maniac in her workplace – driving through the glades.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she pulled up to the factory that had the Queen name in large letters across the front. Felicity parked in the back like she'd been instructed to do and flung her door open. She trotted to the back and opened Oliver's door.



He was passed out.

She tapped his face. "Mr. Queen? Can you hear me?"

He didn't move.

She awkwardly grabbed him under the armpits and heaved—

No. Nope. Not happening.

He was like a ten ton stack of bricks. There was no way she was getting him out of the car. Bodyguard. What was his name... Diggle. Diggle would help. Oliver said so.

"Ok, um. I'll be right back," she told her unconscious bosses son. Then she trotted to the back door. There were about a billion back doors and she almost gave up but then saw a very shiny new key pad. It had to be the right one. So she went to it and closed her eyes, running back the conversation she had with him in the car.


Green light.

With a beep, the door unlocked. She yanked it open and clattered down the stairs.

This was like a bat cave. A lair. Oliver Queen had a lair. How cool was that? Was it equipped with high tech gadgets? Robot guards? Electric nets? Automated turrets? Well, there was at least one guy down here. How many were a part of this Hood thing? Did he run a super secret crime fighting agency?

She turned the corner and came to a halt. There was only the bodyguard. Diggle. At least, as far as she could see.

"Excuse me?"

Immediately, there was a gun in her face. She would have been intimidated if she hadn't been expecting an electrified net and automated turrets.

"Can you help me? He's really heavy," she pleaded. And that was it.

It was like magic.

Suddenly everything became very real.

This wasn't a dream.

It wasn't a wild fantasy.

This was real.

She was suddenly on the Hood team. Go figure.

Damn men in cars...