Felicity makes her way over to the refreshment table without too much fuss or idle conversation—both of which are very good things. She can't remember why she agreed to accompany him to this benefit, but then she remembers it's because he asked and she can't deny him anything. She doesn't have any money to spare to give to the City Necessary Resource Initiative, though she does agree it is a good cause. Her presence here is absolutely meaningless.
She does admit that being here has its perks; the idle rich do know their wines. She was surprised to see several nice bottles of reds sitting at the bar, and, when she takes a sip, she's surprised to find it's a very nice vintage of Rothschild. She's not exactly a wine connoisseur, but she does know a nice red when she's drinking it, and she's definitely drinking it. Now she just stands in front of the hors d'oeuvres and watches the crowd mingle.
Felicity is perfectly content to be standing there, viewing the crowd from a distance. She's never really been an extrovert; she's always been best when observing the crowd, not standing in it. Sometimes she's called shy, but she doesn't think that's quite right. She definitely has a voice—especially when it wants to run away with her—but she just doesn't want to be the center of attention. Her date tonight, on the other hand, has that lovely Type-A personality she's heard about all her life, and he's perfectly content to be mingling with the crowd and rubbing elbows with the billionaires and other important people.
She's so engrossed in her thoughts that she nearly jumps out of her skin when a familiar voice says from beside her, "Hey, baby, what's your sign?" She rolls her eyes casually; of course he'd pick now to show up.
She doesn't even look at him before saying, "No trespassing—private property." She finally looks over at Tommy Merlyn, smiling slightly, suddenly glad for the distraction from her depressing life. "You know, I'd think that a billionaire could afford to buy better lines." She nudges his shoulder slightly. "You're losing your touch, Merlyn."
"Nah," he says, returning the shoulder nudge, "I just wanted to see how you'd respond." He winks. "And, if you're curious, that was about what I expected. Actually, I'm pretty thrilled that you didn't pour your drink on me."
Felicity rolls her eyes. "That would be a waste of a beautiful wine," she says honestly, and he chuckles. "But that's good to know. Because—no offense, Merlyn, but I'm not interested. Ever." She crosses her arms for good measure, but her intended stern glance falls a little short with the smile on her face.
"You know, Smoaky, if we weren't such good friends, that might actually hurt my feelings. That's the second time you've turned me down in as many conversations," he replies cheerfully. He looks around. "So, where's Ollie? Besides perpetually late as always, I mean."
Felicity offers him a confused frown. It's a weird question, but, then again, this is Tommy she's talking to. "How should I know?"
It's his turn to look confused. "Didn't you two—?" He trails off, making a motion between the two of them. When she still doesn't respond, he continues, "I thought he invited you." He says it so honestly that she knows he isn't messing with her; he genuinely thinks that someone like Oliver Queen would invite her to be his date for the night.
"No," she replies slowly. "Why would Oliver invite me, of all people?" She motions to herself and the blue cocktail dress that is surprisingly out-of-place among the sea of black dresses and ties. "I mean, have you met me, Merlyn? I'm not the kind of girl you invite to shindigs like these. I have a horrible open-mouth-insert-foot syndrome, and I have this crippling, debilitating disease where I make references to nerdy television." She shakes her head. "I am not the perfect débutante that the billionaire takes to the charity ball—unless I'm the charity case."
Tommy shakes his head. "Well, for the record, you look nice," he says offhandedly, and Felicity flushes with the unexpected praise. If he notices, he ignores it. "And, more importantly, you're the only one here who isn't a boring carbon-copy of everyone else, and your date is an idiot to leave you over here by yourself." He frowns in another direction, and Felicity is surprised to see Laurel speaking very intimately with a guy who looks absolutely like a rich, pompous ass. "He's Carter Bowen—guy Ollie and I went to high school with. He's apparently a famous doctor now." He leans closer to Felicity, but she doesn't mind it because they're suddenly comrades in arms—or comrades in being wallflowers, at least. "You know what he's saying to her?" Tommy asks bitterly, and there's clearly some resentment there. "'Did you know that, as a doctor, I can diagnose myself as a giant tool?'"
Felicity actually laughs at that, nearly spitting out fine red wine at the unexpected comment, and she's suddenly excited by a happy childhood memory. "Oh, Barry and I used to play this game all the time as kids!" She's practically jumping up and down by this point. "I'll do one. And Laurel is saying to him, 'Really? You don't say. I'm not a doctor, but even I could make that diagnosis.'"
Tommy actually laughs at that—really laughs, like Felicity's never heard him before. "You're not half bad, Smoaky," he replies, as though it surprises him. "And thank you for trying to heal my wounded ego, but if she wants to run off to that tool, well, let her." He shrugs, but Felicity sees through the nonchalance. "It's not like I have any hold over her, anyway."
Felicity scoffs. "Oh, please. It's obvious you two have something going on. You should go for it." She can't stop the smile across her face—never thought she'd be giving Tommy Merlyn dating advice. It's funny to see a known playboy so insecure about a woman.
Tommy looks at her as though he's trying to discern her expression—to see if she's lying or not. "You think?" he asks uncertainly. "Because she's kind of my best friend's ex, you know." He hesitates. "Ollie did say it was cool, though."
Felicity waves her hand in triumph. "Well, there you go. Free reign to have a relationship with your best friend's ex, then." She hesitates. "Helpful hint? A relationship with Laurel might go better if you stop thinking about her as your best friend's ex."
"Geez, Sherly," a voice says from behind her. "We've been here for, what, five minutes? And you're already giving out relationship advice." He offers her a new glass of wine, looking for all the world like he belongs there. His dark hair doesn't look any different than it does on a normal day, slightly spiked, and his green eyes are shining brightly with excitement. How an extrovert like Barry Allen ended up in a laboratory, Felicity will never know. "That seems a little early, even for you." He turns to Tommy. "And, I'd like to mention that you should probably take her advice—though her own experience is limited to a stalker lacrosse player in college."
Felicity doesn't hesitate to slap his shoulder. "Don't go around telling people stuff like that!" she says, her voice a little loud. Quieter, she says, "Merlyn, this is the jerk I've put up with since childhood, Barry Allen. He's also some sort of biochemist—don't ask him questions or he might start more scientific babble." She allows herself a smile to show Barry that she's teasing. "Barry, this is Tommy Merlyn. I'm sure you can fill in the rest for yourself, since we've grown up reading about the Merlyns in the paper."
Tommy blinks twice. "Oh, you must be the Dr. Allen from STAR Labs." He extends his hand. "Nice to meet you—thanks for showing up to help CNRI."
"My pleasure," he says, shaking hands with Tommy, and Felicity thinks her life has become a weird, alternate universe where she attends parties and is on a first-name basis with billionaires. Something on her face must indicate her feelings because Barry says to her, "So, are you looking for the zeppelins or the TARDIS?"
She waves a hand. "It's fine, Barry, really," she assures him. "I'm just waiting for the Cybermen to charge in and take over. After all, that happened at a nice party like this, too. All we need are some earbuds, and we could recreate the scene."
"Oh, God," Tommy says, smiling despite the horror in his voice, "you both talk like that." He looks at Felicity. "You know, I didn't really believe you when you said that people actually understood you. Now I feel like there's a secret language that I should get in on."
"Whoa, back up," Barry says to her now. "You've met Tommy before, and you didn't tell me? We talk on the phone, like, twice a week, and you didn't mention this?" He actually sounds a little hurt, and Felicity winces.
She chuckles awkwardly at the tension. "It's kind of a new thing. And I'm having a difficult time believing it myself, my dear Watson." She doesn't know how to explain Tommy or Oliver to Barry because it's such a bizarre little story. And he'd probably be furious if he ever learned she was helping the Vigilante—he's probably a bigger fangirl than she is, and he'd want to meet the guy.
Tommy chuckles at their interactions. "Oh, Ollie is going to be pissed when he sees this," he comments. "Do me a favor and tell me before he walks up to you two—I'm still not sure if I want to be here for that."
Felicity frowns; Tommy seems more insistent that Oliver has some sort of feelings for her every time they meet. It's getting a little annoying, and, frankly, she's not sure she wants anything to do with the love life of Oliver Queen. Barry gives her the look that says, You better tell me about this later, and she suddenly hates Tommy Merlyn for ruining her life. "And now we can return to the scenario where a guy has no hold over a girl," Felicity says flatly. "For your information, we are not like that."
"You and who aren't like what, Felicity?" a voice says darkly from behind her, and she cringes immediately. Barry looks a little stunned by the man she already knows is behind her, and Tommy doesn't hesitate to mouth, Told you he'd be pissed. She turns to face Oliver after plastering a smile on her face, but it falters when she sees the woman standing next to her.
She's tall and beautiful, her black hair flowing nicely. Her cocktail dress is exactly the right shade of black to blend in with the event, and she looks gorgeously in place with the scenario. But the problem is that Felicity knows that face, she knows that girl, and she most certainly should not be standing in front of Felicity. Because Felicity is very certain that she tasked the Vigilante with putting Helena Bertinelli in jail. And he just wouldn't fail her like that.
Would he?
She puts her doubts aside, and plasters the smile back on her face. "Barry and I," she responds, her voice a little too loud and shrill, and Tommy has to hide his laugh in a lame cough. "Tommy was about to make some sort of inappropriate comment about me and Barry." She turns to Tommy. "And, frankly, that's just weird. Barry and I grew up together. I pulled cactus needles out of his face when he was ten, for God's sake. He's practically my brother." That actually earns her a smile from both billionaires, but she's more interested in Oliver's. It's ridiculously hard to make that man smile.
Barry coughs. "And that just might be the weirdest introduction ever, Sherly. There's that smooth talker we've all come to know." He looks a little embarrassed, his face flushed pink. Felicity winces and mouths a, Sorry, at him, and he shrugs, though his face is still pink. "And, just to ease my wounded pride," he continues, "Ricky Pearce threw a desk cactus at me because I wouldn't do his homework. It's not like I was a goof and tripped face-first into one."
Felicity scoffs. "Everyone here knows I suffer from a word vomit disorder, Watson," she replies with a withering glance. She turns to Helena. "Except for you, I guess. I'm sorry—I'd tell you I'm not normally this much of a spaz, but I'd be lying." She holds out her hand, not wanting to. She doesn't want Helena to know her name, but acting weird will just make things more difficult for her. "Felicity Smoak."
She shakes her hand, and it seems just as slimy to Felicity as she expects. "Helena Bertinelli," she says in a smooth, dark voice, her expression sour. "Nice to meet you." She offers a smile, but it almost looks ironic on her face. Helena turns to Oliver. "I don't think I've been properly introduced to the rest of your friends."
Oliver nods, smiles a little. "Sorry, Helena." He motions to each one of them in turn. "Felicity you've already met. That's Tommy, my best friend, and..." He falters as he turns to Barry. "I don't think we've met before." Felicity doesn't think she imagines the way his voice darkens, the way his eyebrows knit together tightly. The last time she saw him do that, she had mentioned Tommy.
Barry holds his hand out, oblivious to the tension in Oliver's shoulders. "Barry Allen," he introduces himself. "I'm an old friend of Felicity's. Nice to meet you, Mr. Queen."
Before the measuring contest can get way out of hand, Tommy swoops in to save the day. "So, Smoaky," he says with that signature tilt of his head, and Oliver's eyes swivel immediately to him, "that's two times I've heard Barry call you 'Sherly.' I demand to know about all embarrassing nicknames so that I can torment you with them later."
Felicity laughs. "Please, it's not embarrassing," she explains. "Childish, maybe, but not the most horrible nickname ever—like 'Smoaky,' for instance." Tommy shoots her a withering look, but the smile lets her know he doesn't mean it. "It's from when we were kids. We grew up reading and watching mysteries together. Sherlock Holmes was my favorite, and I usually figured out the mystery and explained it to him. 'Sherly' is short for 'Sherlock.' And I call him 'Watson.'" She chuckles, thinking about all the times she used that cheesy pun of, "Elementary, my dear Watson." "I'm the one who likes mysteries, and he's the doctor." She puts her elbow in his side. "I think it fits nicely."
Barry laughs, which is the only thing he has that's socially awkward. His laugh is not charming—it's more like the sound of a donkey braying. "Well," he hesitates, "more like the brains and the lagging sidekick, I think, but I'm surprisingly okay with that. And besides, in the futuristic version, I get to be the cyborg. Which makes me infinitely cooler than you."
Felicity snorts, goading him. "Please," she drawls. "You wouldn't be cooler than me if you had ten ice cubes in your pockets." She forgets the audience, and is surprised to hear Tommy laugh again. But she certainly is not surprised to see Helena's eyes narrowed into slits.
"I think a drink would be nice," Helena says to Oliver in that sultry, smooth voice, encouraging him away from the conversation.
He takes the hint. "We need to work the room anyway." He offers a smile that is absolutely fake. "Nice seeing you again, Felicity," he offers before leaving, ignoring Barry's presence.
When she turns to talk to Tommy again, she sees him pining in the direction of Laurel and Carter Bowen, who are now dancing together. "Oh, for God's sake!" she snaps at him, and he jolts. "If you want to do something, go cut in." He gives her a disbelieving look, to which she replies, "Just as long as you don't punch Massive Tool in the face and retain that billionaire charm, girls love it when guys cut in. Go for it and stop pining—you're dampening my whole mood over here."
To her surprise, Tommy leans in and kisses her cheek, causing her to go crimson. "You are a goddess," he says, too serious for his personality, "and I'm not worthy of you." Less seriously he adds a wink and says, "See you in my dreams, Smoaky."
"You don't even deserve me then, Merlyn," she teases back, and then he's off to find Laurel again. Before Barry can start with questions, she holds up a hand. "I'll tell you the story later, but I actually need to make a run to the bathroom." She doesn't give him time to respond before she's making her way to the ladies' room.
She's surprised to find the place empty, but it's all the better for her. Picking up her cell phone, she dials the number she's only called once prior. He's obviously a smart man because he knows to ignore her, and it goes to voicemail (way too fast, so she knows he pressed the "Ignore" button). When she hears the tone, she says into it heatedly, "Hey, asshole. Guess who I just saw dancing with Oliver! Hint: she should probably be in jail right now, if you'd done your job! Call be back when you get this—believe me, you don't want to let me stew."
***
Helena watches Oliver wince for the second time in two minutes as he looks at his phone, and she wonders what he's doing. He made her a promise, and he betrayed her—just the same way her father did. Just the same way Nick did. Just the same way all men do. But then she reminds herself that it's her own fault—she's the one who trusted him, and she knew better. It would have been one thing if things had been awkward with Laurel, his ex, but that went perfectly fine. This, however, is just pushing the line.
He finally looks at her, and she can see the light dawn in his eyes as he realizes something is horribly wrong. "Hey," he says gently, his voice soft in a way that just makes her anger worse. "What's wrong?"
"I never should have trusted you," she hisses at him. They're in a corner of the room where she's sure that they won't make a scene. Because it wouldn't do for things to go public for them. They're not together, and they never will be.
"I'm sorry—" he starts, but she doesn't let him get that far.
"So am I," she snaps. "I never should have listed to you." Her teeth are clenched now, and she knows it's a good thing she's unarmed or he'd have a crossbow arrow piercing his hear right now—it would be too nice for the one he just shot through her. At least she wouldn't let him suffer; she may be a killer, but even she isn't that cruel.
He manages something remotely coherent, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. She doesn't let him speak—this is her turn to talk, and he's not stopping her from saying what she means. "You know what I've been through," she says to him, fighting back the urge to yell. "You told me you would never hurt me."
Oliver bursts out with, "I don't even know what I did wrong!" It's as much of a yell as it can be while whispering, and Helena is surprised to find he genuinely has no idea what he did wrong. Of how he hurt her. And that just infuriates her more.
"So, making me meet the love of your life is—what, exactly, Oliver?" she demands.
He sighs. "Look, Helena," he says, calmer this time. "I didn't know things would get so awkward with Laurel—"
She rolls her eyes. Is he trying to act stupid? "You know damn well I'm not talking about Laurel," comes out of her mouth, and she's surprised by the bitter anger there. She hasn't felt this vindictive toward anyone since Michael died. "I'm talking about Felicity—the cute blonde that stole your attention? Does she ring a bell?" She sees it then—the jealousy, the protectiveness, the entire this-conversation-is-off-limits look he gets to his face whenever someone dares to talk about her.
His eyebrows knit together in confusion again. "I'm not in love with Felicity," he says slowly, and Helena can tell he genuinely believes it. But she knows better because now she's seen them together. She knows better than to continue an argument that will go nowhere, so she turns to walk out.
"Hey," he tries again, with a hand on her shoulder.
She recoils immediately. "Don't touch me," she snaps. "I am done talking—now I'm going to take action." She can hear him calling for her behind her as she walks out, but she ignores him because today she's walking out of Oliver Queen's life forever.
But if there's one thing she knows about herself, it's that she's cruel and vindictive—and Oliver will pay for what he did to her.