Lost in Purgatory

Chapter 14

When Felicity came away from the counter with the coffees and bagels and saw the way Oliver was sitting, she started to think that maybe this hadn't been such a great idea, after all.

He didn't twitch every time the door opened, and he didn't jump every time someone laughed really loud (and there was a definite shrieker here this morning – Felicity wondered where they got the energy from), but his fist was clenched on the table, and his other hand was in the pocket of the hoodie she'd bought him. Did he have the gun in there? She desperately hoped not.

She made sure to walk up to their table slowly, giving him time to register her presence – when he did, he gave her a smile which was more of a rictus.

"That's the fakest smile I've ever seen in my life," she murmured, "and I've watched a lot of reality tv." She was glad to see him relax, stretching out his fingers. He didn't take his other hand out of his pocket, though.

"Sorry." He rubbed his fingers together and tapped them on the table, then fiddled with his napkin. "I don't know why this is bothering me so much."

Felicity leaned on the table and took a sip of her coffee, regretting it when she burned her tongue. She blew on it a couple of times, grumbling.

"Stop laughing at me," she muttered, glancing up to see his lips twitching. "The way you describe that place," she continued, unwilling even to use the name in public, "sounds an awful lot like prison. So maybe what you're feeling now is that kind of anxiety ex-cons get once they leave the big house."

Oliver raised an eyebrow as he mouthed 'the big house' back at her. She narrowed her eyes, then pointed at him.

"Look, you're even guarding your food!" She immediately looked around her, worried that she'd been too loud, but the café was super loud on its own.

She was right, though: he'd curled his arm around his bagel and coffee, and now he was looking down at them like they'd betrayed him in some way. This time the smile he aimed her way was genuine, and she returned it, only to jump when the shrieking laugher struck again. Oliver shook his head, and continued devouring his bagel.

"Didn't they feed you – over there?" Felicity was genuinely curious now.

Oliver nodded, and swallowed.

"Yeah – but you're right. It was like prison – the food, too. It wasn't chosen for taste – every calorie was counted, and everything was super healthy. Hey, do you have ice cream at your place? Because I can't remember the last time I had some."

Felicity nodded.

"Sure." She sipped at her coffee some more, unsure of what to add to the conversation. She wanted to ask how he'd ended up as John Smith, amnesiac assassin, she wanted to know if he'd really have killed her – though a voice in her head crowed that she really, really didn't want to know the answer to that particular question.

Oliver had finished eating, and was starting to look nervy again.

"Why don't we go there, Oliver?" He looked up, trying hard to disguise the look of relief on his face.

"And then," she whispered, standing on tiptoes to speak in his ear, "you can tell me what you have in your pocket." She replayed the last few words and groaned. "No, that wasn't what it sounded like. I mean really in your pocket, not a euphemism for an erection- let me start again."

By this time, Oliver's shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was empty. His eyes twinkled.