Pineapple Investigations

Cat in the Cradle (Or in Felicity's Apartment)

"Hey, Smoak, I've got a proposition for you."

She jumps at the sudden sound of Oliver's voice at the door of her office, and her mouth immediately turns to a frown. God, how many bad decisions have started with those words? Too many to count. And now he's in her office in the IT department of Queen Consolidated yet again, with that cocksure grin that's spelled out doom so many times before. As always, he comes back because when has she ever been able to deny him anything?

Utterly and totally oblivious to the things that matter, Oliver drops into a seat across from her desk, slouching as though he's preparing to put his feet on the desk. Again. He's all boyish charm, as always, wearing that same leather jacket and the boots she knows only go with his too-expensive motorcycle. If trouble had a name, it would be Oliver Queen in every way, right down to that roguish grin.

"Must be a slow day," he observes, nodding toward her, "if you're playing World of Warcraft."

Really, she shouldn't be amazed anymore. He's been this sharp ever since they were kids—since she was the awkward scholarship student who skipped four grades and he was the prep school's resident troublemaker. They shouldn't have clicked, but they did—probably because underneath that flighty, fun-loving exterior was the same guy who helped her study for calculus exams at MIT.

When she gapes at him and the screen he can't see, he only shrugs and rolls his eyes. "Please, Smoak." He nods toward her hands on the keyboard. "Left hand arrow keys, right hand mouse?" He drapes an arm over the back of the chair. "You should at least try to make it a challenge for me."

She huffs a long-suffering sigh that both of them know she doesn't mean. "While I appreciate you have nothing to do with your idle rich ass," she answers with a lopsided smile, "I actually have a job to do. One that I earned, despite the fact your name is on the building. You can't just waltz in here and take over my office."

He only leans forward over the desk. "I had a weird day today," he proclaims, getting straight to the point. His head tilts to the side. "Remember when I called you last night? I hooked up with that girl from the bar and—"

Yeah, no. She is not doing this. There are only a few things that Felicity and Oliver don't talk about, but this is one of them. "Shouldn't you be having this conversation with Tommy?" Rounding out their small group of misfits in high school was Tommy Merlyn, Oliver's favorite wingman.

Waving her off with a hand, he levels a look. "Since when do you have trust issues?" He points to himself. "Do you not remember who helped you move across country to MIT when your mom threw a fit?"

Felicity offers no mercy. "I also seem to remember you ditching me in Boston to get laid."

"That..." he starts, indignant. She only quirks an eyebrow in reply, daring him to deny it. "That is such an inconvenient thing for you to remember right now," Oliver finally sputters. He waves a hand. "But what I was going to say is that after I got back to my apartment, things started to progress, and..." He makes a face. "She hit the remote, and the news came on, so I called in a quick tip on those stereo robberies all over the news." Felicity snorts; there's her Oliver, the one who would turn down his kryptonite—a woman—just for a chance to show off.

"But Lance pulls me down to the police station," he continues. Felicity groans, thinking that the least he could do is stay away from his ex-girlfriend's dad. Or maybe ex-girlfriends' dad. One thing has never changed: it's always an exercise in semantics with Oliver. "Stereo robber had an accomplice, so of course Lance thinks it's me." He lifts a shoulder. "So I just pretended to be a psychic."