A/N: This takes place during 2.1, City of Heroes.

Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)

No Problem

Apparently, not everyone who's been swung to safety pressed against Oliver's side has trouble sleeping. At least no one who's posted to the unofficial Vigilante blog, where people report sightings and share adventures. I keep my eye on it, just to make sure no one's getting too close. And it's not exactly like I can call up a friend and ask.

After jumping from the plane to the island and the landmine rescue and the return trip halfway around the world, I thought my insomnia was just nerves and jet-lag and worrying about the imminent hostile corporate take-over. But today's fleeing-machine-gun-fire-through-the-window incident makes me think it's something else because I should be exhausted. Except I can't sleep. And when I close my eyes, I don't see my life flashing before me like I assume normal people do.

Maybe I've had too many near-death experiences for that sort of thing to bother me anymore. Not that I'm exactly the epitome of normal, but I try not to be a complete freak, which is why it'd be nice to ask someone if after being rescued, when it's dark and quiet and they're safe, they close their eyes and don't envision their grisly demise. Bloody pieces dripping from exotic trees on deserted islands or the internal damage that would result from a fall from almost-the-top of a skyscraper seems perfectly rational. Only I'm not thinking about that. I'm not thinking of the incredible view either, although I do remember it. How often will I get to see Starling City glittering below me from a free-fall before the chain caught and Oliver swung us through the glass into the office below? Well, hopefully never, not ever ever again. But I'll never forget it.

No, I see him when I close my eyes. Shirtless and sweaty and weeks overdue for a shower and a shave but somehow just as beautiful, admittedly in a different way, as suited up in a fitted Tom Ford that cost more than I make in a month. I see those arms that not only miraculously keep himself from plummeting to his death, but me too, only then they're so gentle when they brushed back my hair and pushed my glasses up my nose and ghosted over my arms, checking for injuries, after he'd pulled me to my feet.

I sigh and roll over into the cool sheets on the other side of the bed. I need to just go to sleep. I have to be at work in a few hours, and there's enough going on without sleep deprivation added to the mix. Only when I close my eyes, all I can see is Oliver. Maybe that's my problem. Everyone else who's been miraculously saved owes their lives to the mysterious hooded vigilante. Not me. Both times this week, I was rescued by Oliver.

I give up. Reaching for my glasses and tablet that rest on the bedside table, I rearrange my pillows and settle in. The glare from the screen makes me squint until my eyes adjust to the brightness in the dark of my bedroom.

I check on Digg first. They have highly sensitive trackers in their phones now, both of them, so I can pinpoint exactly where they are at any given time. Not just the general address or the building they're in, but the floor, the room, and then hack into security feeds if I need to. I wasn't a Boy Scout, obviously, but I would've been great, except for the part about not being a boy, because I am prepared.

Digg's phone is in the bedroom of his apartment. Sixth floor. I make myself watch the red dot on my screen for three minutes before I acknowledge that it's not moving. It's most likely sitting on the table next to his bed, and he's asleep. Or, if he is awake, he's not moving his phone. Or someone kidnapped him and left the phone, which is entirely possible, and why didn't I think about that before? Oh my gosh! Someone could have taken him from his bed! These things don't just happen on tv. They happen to us. I should implant microchips in both of them. Walter and Thea and gorgeous-Laurel and Detective Lance and Carly too. Microchips for everyone!

I take a deep breath and then another. This is why I need to get some sleep, so I don't start freaking out. No one needs that, especially not me. Digg's fine, I tell myself. We're all fine. There's absolutely no reason to panic. Except Oliver's phone is moving. I swallow a squeak and stare at my tablet, my heart hammering in my throat, until I realize Oliver's pacing. I watch the dot that is his phone move in a steady circuit around his room at the mansion. He must have it in his pocket.

Why isn't he asleep? Does he wear pajama pants to bed? Maybe they have a pocket. Maybe he's still dressed and doesn't sleep in anything at all.

I have to clear my throat and scissor my legs at the thought of naked Oliver, trying and failing to find more cool sheets.

Focus, Felicity. He might lose his family's company, and he had to dodge four angry gunmen who broke into the office, and leaping out of the window seemed like the best option at the time, which doesn't make for a good day. No wonder he can't sleep either.

My fingers hesitate after I pull up his contact, but I quickly text before I change my mind.

Are you awake? I ask even though I already know the answer.

I stare at the screen and watch as the dot that is Oliver's phone stops moving, and I imagine him standing there, his eyebrows furrowed as he reads the text. Almost immediately, my tablet vibrates with his response.

What's wrong?

I nestle into my bed and type back. No problems.

Then why are you up at 3 am?

I'm considering commissioning a study re: insomnia following Tarzan-esque rescues.

His dot moves a little to the left and then stops again, and I wonder if maybe, like me, he's settled into his bed. I've never actually seen Oliver's room or Oliver's bed, but something tells me, like everything else he owns, it's nice. I'm sure it's nicer than nice. It's probably what nice dreams of being when it grows up.

Your sample will be small. I have it on good authority Tarzan doesn't do that for just anyone.

Well sure. I reply. Those windows have to be expensive.

As I was recently reminded, the building's only half mine. He texts back. That was Isabel Rochev's window.

I can't help but laugh and shake my head. If I didn't loathe her so much, I might feel sorry for Isabel Rochev. She doesn't know who she's picking a fight with. Like so many other people, she looks at Oliver and only sees a spoiled rich kid who dropped out of college and didn't do all that well when he was enrolled. She doesn't see him, although in her defense, Oliver's very good at hiding who he really is.

And I can't feel sorry for Isabel Rochev because in addition to trying to get us all fired, she's too polished and too beautiful. Why do all the women in Oliver's life, even the mean ones, have to be so incredibly good looking? It's just not fair.

My fingers hover over the keypad to respond when Oliver texts again.

Why aren't you sleeping?

I sigh and consider my answer. I can't exactly tell him I'm recreationally cyber-stalking him in the middle of the night, which is why texting is so much better than talking, even if I would like to close my eyes and listen to the sound of his voice while I lay in my bed. At least this way, I have control over what I say.

Are you hurt? He asks before I can respond.

Without the lights on, I can't see all the little cuts and bruises, which is remarkably all the evidence I have of jumping out of a skyscraper window and jumping into another. I can feel them, countless little stings all over my body, a throb in my left wrist from when we crashed to the floor, but it's nothing like what Oliver must be feeling. He's the one who bore the brunt of the impact. But he never complains about injuries, probably because no matter how bad it gets, it's not much compared to whatever it was that left all his scars. Well, except that time he flat-lined after his mom shot him, but fortunately, I don't think he remembers that.

No. I text.

Adrenaline? Bad dreams?

Is that why you're awake? I ask instead of telling him he's wrong. This isn't adrenaline. I know what that feels like, and this isn't it. This is something else entirely. And despite another close-call, I'm not afraid. Boogeymen don't haunt my dreams. But after all he's been through, as strong and brave as he is, maybe they haunt his? The idea of Oliver, vulnerable in his sleep, makes me want to ask Digg to teach me how to shoot a gun.

There's a long pause. It's so long I begin to think he's not going to answer.

Long story he finally texts.

Of course it's a long story. We just dragged him back from the island where he spent five years being tortured because that's where he went after Tommy died. Because he felt safer there, alone with landmines and arrows and creepy masks, than he did here. His mother's in prison awaiting trial for killing hundreds of people. Thea was just kidnapped. He needs to save Queen Consolidated. He needs to decide if he's going to be the Vigilante again or if he's serious about hanging up the hood for good.

He has to know he can't, that Starling City needs him. Part of me wants to shake him until he comes to his senses. But I also want to remind him that he doesn't have to keep punishing himself for things that aren't his fault. He's killed people, yes. And I agree that it's time to not do that so much anymore. And he couldn't stop the Undertaking. And Tommy died. But Oliver didn't kill him, just like he didn't kill Sarah. They made their own choices, and they died because sometimes that happens. Oliver just happened to be there.

I want to tell him that. I want to run my fingers along his jaw and cup his chin in my hand so he can't look away and stare into those freakishly blue eyes and tell him he can leave that island. He doesn't have to suffer alone in purgatory anymore. He has us, me and Digg, and we're going to help. And right now, for what it's worth, he has me awake in the middle of the night too.

Tell me. I text back.

You should try and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.

The Isabel Rochev meeting. Right. When she announces that she's bought controlling interest in Queen Consolidated and we all get fired. That'll be fun.

I want to hear this long story. I text. It's no problem.