Technical Assistance

Chapter 22: Hard Drive Replacement

The apartment feels a little quieter without him in it, but she tries to focus on the laptop sitting in her lap.  In need of a larger workspace, she carries to the bar at her kitchen, taking her computer tool kit with her before situating herself on a stool.  She tries to start it up, and she winces as soon as she realizes the hard drive has been damaged in the fall. She manages to pull it out of the rubble, and, knowing she probably can't salvage it, she grabs another one to replace it from her parts box. Interestingly enough, it's the same storage capacity, so she doesn't think he'll notice the difference. She promptly deposits the other one in the trash before rummaging through the file cabinets in her bedroom for the recovery discs she was smart enough to burn for his machine and save, in the event he needed them.

When he finally returns, he finds her waiting for his computer to restore to the default. "Hey," she says, not bothering to turn; she can tell by Saphira's reaction who it is. "I think I'll get you up and running temporarily." This time, she does turn because the scent starting to waft her way is heavenly. "  But you owe me another hard drive—yours was trashed."

He sets a plastic bag and two takeout boxes on the bar careful to keep them away from the computer, and Felicity thinks for the first time that their evenings like this—this one, and the one with a movie and fast food—are surprisingly relaxing and domestic. It's ridiculous, though; they shouldn't be acting like this after only a few months of friendship. In fact, if anyone had told her she'd one day feel comfortable with Oliver Queen, she would have laughed. But now, it's just another natural thing in her life.

She can't read the print in permanent marker on the styrofoam box before he opens it, but she sees what looks like an Italian pasta that has been fixed by a master chef. "Holy cheese fries, Oliver," she blurts. Then she goes onto say, "I hope you didn't pay a small fortune for this meal—that looks pretty five-star-ish."

He chuckles. "Tommy and I have been interviewing chefs for the club," he explains. "He's doing some of the preliminary interviews tonight, so I dropped by to pick up a sample." He offers her another tentative smile. "So if it's terrible, it's really Tommy's fault."

She laughs at that. "Well, Merlyn seems like a good enough person to blame," she agrees easily, before looking back at the computer screen. "Awesome," she mutters sarcastically. She explains louder, "I think this is going to take a while—system restores are the worst." She waves a hand. "Give me a set of code to write any day—it's better than this." She rises from the barstool to get a set of plastic utensils for both of them, and she holds out a fork to Oliver. "I'm breaking out the good silverware for this—I hope you're not intimidated."

He chuckles. "I'm not sure what to do with a setting this impressive," he teases hesitantly, as if he's forgotten how to do it, "but I think I can manage somehow."  Felicity can feel her eyebrows rise and her mouth gape a moment at the rare instance of genuine happiness and normalcy from Oliver, and her mouth finally settles into a smile as the surprise wears off.

She tries to bite down on the smile because he seems a little tentative.  She walks around to the other side of the bar again, sitting down a few inches from the computer, and taking the to-go plate and throwing her fork into it with vigor.  She expects Oliver to do the same—perhaps with a little less enthusiasm—but he simply watches her.  Felicity tries to ignore the self-conscious feeling crawling up her spine, but she can’t control the groan that leaves her when she manages to take a bite of the pasta.  To her surprise, it tastes even better than it smells—and she didn't think that was possible.

His eyes widen as he tries to hold back a smile, and Felicity bites her lip as she feels the heat of a blush cover her face.  “I no longer care how much you paid for this,” she proclaims.  “It’s amazing.  Seriously, all pasta hopes that it grows up to be this.”  She motions with her fork on the last word, pointing toward the meal.  “You know what?  Scratch that.  This is practically food porn—I’m not sure that this can even be eaten in public.”  This time he can’t hide his smile, and she thinks she can feel a flush on the back of her neck now.  “My point is, if you two don’t hire this guy for your club, you’re both insane.”