How Did This Even Turn Around?

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It was a battlefield.

Shoes and heels formed the first line of casualties. Suitcases of every size sprawled across most of the living room. Clothes lay piled on the sofa in chaotic layers. Mismatched underwear and worn stockings hung wherever they had landed.

Damon believed he could adapt to almost any environment. Fresh experiences were still experiences.

But there had to be somewhere to step.

Felicity's face went red at once.

She had been gasping from the stairs a second ago. Now she rushed inside with startling speed, stepping neatly over the obstacles on the floor and throwing herself into cleanup.

Her method was simple and violent.

Everything went into one pile.

Damon could not keep watching.

He helped.

"Do not put worn stockings in with clean clothes."

"Do you have trash bags? Get several."

"Do you still need this? No? Then throw it away. If the living room is this bad, the bedroom probably isn't much better. Go clean that."

Damon took command with swift, decisive efficiency.

Felicity, dazed and embarrassed, did not even think to question him. She only wanted to make the apartment presentable as quickly as possible.

They divided the work clearly: one living room, one bedroom.

After more than an hour, three large bags of trash had been hauled out, and the apartment was finally clean.

On the sofa, the two of them slumped side by side and looked at the bright, cleared living room with matching satisfaction.

Felicity could not help saying, "The living room feels so much bigger."

"That's because there is less trash."

"I just moved in," Felicity said, embarrassed. "I had not had time to organize everything."

"I'm hungry."

Damon turned to look at her.

Grrr.

Felicity's stomach answered too.

"Should we order takeout? I know a good place."

"Sure."

Damon picked up the remote and turned on the television.

After placing the order, Felicity looked at her phone, then looked at Damon watching TV, and went still.

If she remembered correctly, Damon had hijacked her because he wanted somewhere to stay.

She had planned to find a chance to call the police.

So how had it somehow become him helping her clean the apartment while she called for takeout?

The reversal was extreme.

Worse, it did not feel out of place.

How had this weird shift even happened?

"How long until it gets here?" Damon asked, turning his head.

Felicity blinked. "About half an hour."

"Then go shower first. Once you are done, I'll shower. By then, the food should be here."

"Oh."

Felicity answered blankly. After a moment of hesitation, she set her phone down and went to the bathroom.

She seriously replayed everything from the moment he got into her car until now.

He did not seem to have done anything to hurt her.

If he were really a bad person, would he have worked that hard helping her clean and throw things away?

Maybe she should not call the police yet.

What if this was a misunderstanding?

Water began running in the bathroom.

Damon watched the television seriously, using the news to understand Starling City.

The short version?

Boring.

Either petty everyday problems or crimes that could not stir even a flicker of interest in him.

There were a few brief news reports about Gotham. Bane had been killed. Gotham had been liberated. In one passing image, Damon thought he saw Batgirl, Barbara Gordon.

Before long, Felicity came out.

Maybe she was usually too casual at home, because she came into the living room wrapped only in a towel.

When she saw Damon stand up, she finally remembered there was a strange man in her apartment. Her face went red, and she hurried to run toward the bedroom and put on clothes.

The moment she turned, she performed the rare left-foot-trips-right-foot technique.

Smack.

She fell flat on the floor.

Hurting and mortified, Felicity scrambled to arrange the towel and cover herself.

Then she saw Damon walk past her without stopping and go into the bathroom.

Click.

The bathroom door shut.

Felicity's face turned even redder.

More than ten minutes later, Damon came out of the shower.

He wore only boxers, his upper body bare, and rubbed his hair with a towel as he walked over and sat beside Felicity, who had changed.

Felicity instantly straightened. Her whole body went rigid, eyes fixed forward.

Then she jolted.

The doorbell rang.

Felicity shot up and ran to open the door.

The takeout had arrived.

After paying and carrying the food back to the living room, Felicity acted like a guest in her own apartment, tense about every little movement. Damon, by contrast, looked completely at home.

The sun sank. Night slowly covered the city.

Time ticked by.

Soon, it was time to rest.

In the bedroom, Felicity sat on the edge of the bed clutching her phone.

The door opened, and Damon walked in.

"What are you doing?" Felicity asked, her voice uneven.

"Sleeping," Damon said, as if it were obvious.

"There is only one bed."

"And? I can sleep on the floor?"

Damon smiled back at her.

Felicity let out a breath, apparently missing the teasing in his tone, and said with genuine concern, "The sofa would be better. Wouldn't the floor be too hard?"

"I'll try to keep it under control."

Damon said it with perfect seriousness.

Felicity stared at him blankly.

Keep what under control?

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