The text from Felicity said only "Need you here ASAP." Oliver bolted from his office, mumbling an incoherent (and highly improbable) excuse to the board members sitting there. His bike was in the garage. He barely paused to fasten his helmet before speeding across the city. He took the stairs two at a time.
All of which explained why, when he pounded on her apartment door, her name was less of a frantic bellow and more of gasp. That he gasped again when she jerked the door open and stood there glaring at him had nothing to do with physical exertion, though.
"Oliver? What did you do, run all the way here? Get in here." Felicity reached out, grabbed his wrist and pulled him past the threshold. "I said ASAP, not "OMG the building is on fire!"
"You…You're…What are you wearing?"
With her weight on one foot, one hip cocked to the side, Felicity smirked at him. "This," she ran a hand from her collarbone to her waist, "is called a robe, Oliver. It's what women wear when they get out of the shower. You may have seen one before?"
He swallowed, still mentally off-balance. "I thought something was wrong."
"You weren't wrong."
"Huh?" He couldn't stop staring at the patch of pale skin showing at the v of her robe's neckline. Her still-damp hair curled in tendrils around her ears. Her feet were bare. Her hands were on her…
"Hey you got your splint off."
"I told you that was today." She held up both hands and wiggled her fingers. "Good as new. That's why I called."
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. "Felicity…"
She stepped closer and twined her fingers behind his neck. "Hi." She had to stretch a little bit to kiss him. Her tongue teased at his lips, but Oliver was still too distracted by the thought that she might have been in trouble.
"Felicity, hey. I thought you were in trouble, or hurt. I was scared." He rested his hands on her shoulder and gently, but firmly, pushed her away.
Her blue eyes flashed. The instant before she opened her mouth, he realized she was about to use what Diggle referred to as her "loud voice". He was already wincing by the time her first verbal salvo hit him. "Go ahead Oliver. Tell me what's stopping you this time. Give me some wonderfully noble excuse about how you're trying to protect me, or about how I'm too fragile. There's no splint on my hand for you to look guiltily at, though. Should I break the other hand so you have another excuse?" She pivoted (Oliver noted how the silky green robe clung to her thighs and hips) and stalked a few feet away before turning around again. "I should have known! How could I be stupid enough to believe that you were really interested in me? How could I have been stupid enough to let you pity me and coddle me? Do I look like a child, Oliver? I don't need your—"
"Felicity!" Oliver stripped out of his suit jacket and tossed it across the back of her couch. He yanked his tie loose but left it hanging loosely around his shirt collar. He stalked to where she stood, still muttering under her breath. "Hey. What's going on?" One calloused hand slid down her arm from shoulder to wrist. His thumb stroked over the sensitive skin there while he smiled softly at her.
She glared back, not feeling charitable enough to be easily soothed. "How long have we been together, Oliver?"
"Together? Do you mean since we first met or when you started working with me—"
"This," she hissed, gesturing between them with her free hand. "You kissing me. Me kissing you. Whatever this is. How long?"
Oliver counted in his head even as he realized that she wasn't really interested in the precise amount of time they'd been together. He wasn't quite sure what had brought on this, rather violent, fit of insecurity. "A little more than six weeks."
"Exactly." She snatched her hand from his grasp, tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear and crossed her arms over her chest. "Six weeks, Oliver. It's about time you made up your mind."
"I have! What's wrong? What happened today to make you—"
"Today? Every day Oliver. Every day I'm reminded how I'm not your type or out of your league. Too unsophisticated, too blonde, too smart—"
"Hey!" He looked and sounded annoyed. "I want you to stop talking about yourself this way. You know how much I value your skills. You know how much I adore you."
"Then why won't you sleep with me?!"
A/N: If you want to read the resolution to this squabble, you'll have to make your way to the epilogue. It's titled "Post-coital Ponytail" and it is rated M.
Thank you, again, a thousand times over, for the follows, faves and reviews left for this story. I hope you enjoyed the ride.