Felicity bolts awake at the sound of Saphira barking in her ear. She's nearly trampled as the dog walks over her and jumps down from the bed to get to the window, tail wagging as she paws at it. She wines pitifully as she scratches at the window, working herself up into a frenzy. While Felicity's glasses are off, she can make out the silhouette of that figure even when it's blurry. Now completely awake due in part to the adrenalin rush, she rolls over to get her glasses from the bedside table, and the first thing that comes into focus are the glowing numbers of her digital clock, unhelpfully informing her that it's 3:17AM.
Sighing, she pulls herself up into a sitting position, she pulls herself up from the bed, going to open the window, thinking that tonight was probably a bad night to wear her Star Wars pajamas. (Her pants are covered with cartoon Darth Vader faces, while her shirt shows Han with a guitar and reads "Guitar Solo" below the picture.) "I know you don't," she says tiredly, drawing the last word into a half-stifled yawn, "but most people have a day job. A little consideration goes a long way, you know."
"I wouldn't have interrupted your sleep if it wasn't important," is his synthesized reply, and she knows that's as close to an apology as she's going to get. Saphira interrupts by standing on her back legs and putting her front paws on his leg, and Felicity is amused to see Starling City's feared Vigilante palm her a treat before patting her head.
She yawns again, and then grabs her robe. "Fine," she says finally, "I'll go start the coffee pot. I'm going to need caffeine if you expect me to work my usual magic—which, I might add, takes a full eight hours of sleep per night to maintain."
He follows her back into her living area, and she winces as she realizes her papers and documents from the Tempest investigation are sprawled all over her coffee table. Of course the Arrow, curious thing that he is, immediately goes up to them, reaching for one. She slaps his hand away. "Hey, that's QC business. As in, not yours. Unless you're Walter Steele, then of course you're welcome to poke around." He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. "And no questions. It's top-secret stuff, and even I don't know all the details." She frowns, knowing that her high-powered laptop is full of Tempest business, and she grabs her tablet instead. "You're coming with me to the kitchen—I don't trust you alone in here with my research."
She's surprised when he complies with her, only asking, "What makes you think I don't have a day job?" He sits at the bar as though he belongs there, elbows resting on the bar casually. Saphira lies at his feet, and Felicity isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at how bizarre her life is. She would have laughed if anyone told her she'd one day think that the Arrow looks awfully domestic, but, somehow, he does look as though he belongs right at the bar in her kitchen.
As she adjusts her coffee pot, Felicity replies to his question, "Because you're running-slash-rappelling-slash-sneaking around Starling City at three-seventeen in the morning." She rolls her eyes. "Nobody can go infinitely without sleep, and you've been active this entire week. So, you probably sleep during the day and play superhero by night. Kind of like a vampire." She winces at the horrible analogy. "Well, you know what I mean."
"I don't have fangs," he assures her, and Felicity can't help but laugh because, dear God, the Arrow is starting to make jokes now. Instead of continuing, he pulls a black arrow that looks nothing like the green ones from the police reports. "There's a new archer in town, and he's killing people that have already paid Starling City for their crimes. This is one of his arrows. If you can get me the purchase records, I can find him." The end of his sentence turns ominous, and Felicity thinks it isn't going to end happily.
She frowns. "While I appreciate the confidence boost," she starts, "there's no guarantee that he buys these arrows. I mean, you clearly don't buy yours." She bites her lip as she realizes her mouth has run away with her again.
His head snaps up, and his mouth is turned down into a frown. "How do you know that?" he demands, and suddenly the Vigilante doesn't seem so friendly. Finally Felicity understands again why he's the terror of Starling; his voice sounds like the wrath of the gods when he wants it to.
She swallows hard, but then decides he's overreacting, so she draws herself up to full height and crosses her arms. "I'm not an idiot," she declares. "I trust you, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do my research. I know you want to keep your identity a secret from me—that's fine, by the way—but you can't expect me not to try and connect the dots. Mysteries are meant to be solved, and you're a mystery. I've read all the police reports. I've seen all the arrows they've collected, and I know they don't have serial numbers. They don't have producer information in the shaft. So you make them."
"What else do you know?" he asks, and this time he's less confrontational about it.
"I know that you have to be an exceptional archer to fire the way you do," she replies, deciding to share her thoughts with him. "I know that you also have to fight well in close combat, because Oliver Queen's statement said that you killed all three of those men without firing an arrow. I know that the last man ran, and that you'd have to be fast to catch him. I know your friend—the Not-Vigilante, or whatever you choose to call him—has a military background." She shifts her weight onto one hip. "And I know that your training isn't military—it's something more." The corner of his mouth purses in, and she knows she's right about all of it.
"You should stop looking into me," he warns her firmly. "If my enemies ever learned you knew anything about me, they would use you to get to me." There's a long, pregnant pause before he finally adds, "I promised to protect the citizens of this city—especially the ones I endanger by allowing them to help me."
She rolls her eyes, frowning. "Why, that is incredibly sweet and overprotective of you," she replies, her words dripping with sarcasm. "Look, if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. Whatever. But don't try to make it look like you're trying to protect me when you just don't want me to know."
After a long moment, he finally says, "My... associate thinks it would be better if I didn't involve you any more than I have to."
Felicity waves her hands at him. "And here we have the honest answer!" she comments, now exasperated. "That's all you had to say: the Not-Vigilante doesn't like me. I'm not offended. Honestly, I'm not sure I liked him either, but I'm trying to hold out on judgment."
"It's not that," comes the reply, and Felicity looks at him with a silent question across her face. He looks down at Saphira before finishing the thought. "He doesn't like that I'm putting you in danger."
She rolls her eyes as the coffee pot finishes. "It is too early in the morning—or late at night, take your pick—to have this conversation." She pulls down her second-favorite coffee mug, the one with a robot that looks distinctly like a salt shaker. It declares in bold letters, "CAFFEINATE!" and she fills it to the brim with black coffee.
The Arrow opens his mouth to speak, but she silences him with her index finger before taking a long, healthy pull of the most ingenious liquid ever discovered by man. "Now," she says after she finishes, turning on her computer screen, "let me see if I can work my magic." She tilts her head to the side. "Would you prefer Grammaryë, or should I go get my wand?" She winces as she realizes what she asked. "Never mind. Nerd humor."
She takes the arrow from the counter top, and he frowns. "Be careful," he warns, and she rolls her eyes. Sure, she may not be a ninja like him, but even she can handle an arrow without poking her eyes out. She examines it carefully, but then she sees what she's looking for.
She squints at the shaft. "The composite looks like it's patented. I think I can look this up without breaking the law for once," she comments, but she's already plugging numbers into the US patent records. Examining her results, she continues, "It looks like it's registered to a company Sagittarius." She smirks at the joke.
"Or 'the archer,' in Latin," the Vigilante responds, surprising her.
She nods in agreement. "It is, but it looks like it's owned by a corporation in a corporation in a corporation. It will take me forever to untangle this mess." She frowns as she digs deeper. "And it looks like distribution is managed by a subsidiary called Artemis Distribution Services." She chuckles at the joke, but the Vigilante seems stumped by this one. "You know, the goddess in Greek mythology, Artemis?" She waves a hand in the air. "She was an archer—goddess of the hunt. Someone has a sense of humor—and a lot of money." She pulls up the sales records and is able to tell him, "It looks like the largest orders are sent to this address..." She trails off, looking for a stack of sticky notes, but they're nowhere to be found, and she holds up an index finger. "Hold that thought."
Without waiting for a response, she charges into her living room and upends papers and files until she sees a random stack. As fate would have it, they're lime green, and she rushes back into the kitchen with them, writing down the address. "Don't get excited about the color," she mutters to him as she writes. "It's a happy accident—I buy the multicolor packs. But at least you'll match." When she finishes, she circles the counter and sticks it to his chest again. "Go get the evil archer," she demands.
The corners of his mouth twitch upward. "Thank you, Felicity," he says, as always, again tucking the sticky note inside his jacket. This time, though, it's followed by the shoulder touch from the last visit—from that intense moment where he said he trusts her.
"Yeah, yeah," she mutters before stifling a yawn. "My caffeine high is wearing off, so is there anything else you need before you go back to putting arrows in bad guys? I have to be up in..."—she glances at the nearest clock, and her voice drops in disdain—"two hours."
"That's all I needed," he assures her. "I'll lock up." Slowly, so that she knows what he's doing, he puts a hand between her shoulder blades and guides her back toward her bedroom. About halfway through the living room, he turns off the synthesizer to whistle shrilly at Saphira. The dog immediately jumps up to scurry after them, and Felicity can hear the synthesizer click back on as he guides both of them back to the bedroom.
The Arrow stands near the window as she stumbles into her bed, haphazardly tossing her glasses onto the side table. A few seconds later, she's safely tucked back in place, and the Arrow calls from the other side of the room, "Goodnight, Felicity."
"'Night," she mutters back quietly, but a soft chuckle makes her think he heard.
She doesn't even hear the latch click back into place before she's asleep again.
***
Felicity makes sure her favorite coffee mug is filled before she starts the latest project for the department. She's supposed to be working on top-secret things for Walter again, which apparently comes with a new, quieter office, but the IT department is hopeless without her. Three days of her doing nothing, and the department is backlogged with chaos again. She launches into the newest string of code in need of her services, only to be interrupted by a knock at her door.
At first she thinks it's her boss, whom she's about to tell to put his fried circuitboards in some very not-nice places, but then he speaks. "Hey," he drawls casually, "is this seat taken?" She looks up to find none other than Tommy Merlyn sprawled across the doorway, leaning against one edge of the doorway with his shoulder against the outside, one hand splayed across to the other side. Once he sees he has her attention he points with one hand toward the chair for guests sitting behind her, a cheesy grin on his face.
Felicity rolls her eyes, turning back to her computer screen as she replies, "No, and if you sit down, this one will be free, too." He laughs and she sighs. "While I usually love your amusing antics, I'm really busy today. If you're just here to chitchat, kindly get the hell out of my office."
She expects him to leave, but he instead shifts his weight and holds up a fast food sack with a Big Belly Burger logo on it. "Now is that any way to treat your savior?" he teases, moving to sit down in the empty chair, dropping the paper bag on her desk as he goes. She swivels in her chair with his movements, a question in her eyes. "Ollie told me you'd been working overtime this week. Then he grumbled something about talking to Walter hiring qualified IT personnel for the IT department." He waves a hand dismissively. "Anyway, we were running around when he texted you about stopping by during your lunch hour. Went absolutely nuts when he got your reply, and we went for food." He points upward. "I think he's talking to Walter now, actually."
Felicity rolls her eyes. "That was completely unnecessary," she says, though she's already peeling the paper off of the burger. She blames the food; it smells amazing, and Big Belly Burger has always been her favorite fast food joint. "I would have been fine without lunch—it's not the first time, you know."
Tommy holds up a hand to silence her protest. "First of all," he starts, "I'd recommend against telling Ollie that." He hesitates now, and Felicity is instantly on edge; anything that causes Tommy Merlyn to hesitate can't be good. "And it was necessary—I thought you'd be grateful." He puts emphasis on the words as he repeats, "Very grateful." The tone lets her know he's teasing, but she's still a little dubious of his intent.
Before he speaks again, Felicity nudges his thigh hard with the toe of her shoe. "Well," she replies casually, "for future reference, I don't prostitute myself out for anything less than a five-star meal—and I mean three courses, red wine, and a string quartet playing in the background." It's a joke, even though she manages to pull the line off as though she's discussing the weather, and she's proud to say she pulls it off without blushing.
Tommy stares at her a moment, mouth moving without sound, before he continues, "Good to know. But, while I do have a proposition for you, it's not that kind of proposition." He hesitates again, looking out the window. "I don't know if you know this, but the Queens used to have a Christmas party every year. It was sort of a Starling City tradition."
Felicity snorts. "Of course I know about the Queen Christmas Gala," she replies dryly, crossing her legs and using Tommy's thigh as a footrest. He doesn't seem to mind. "Every ten-year-old girl on the planet dreams of being invited to the Queens' for Christmas." She frowns before editing herself. "Well, almost every girl. Mostly I just wanted a pet dragon, but I'm getting off-topic. What about the party?"
Tommy smiles, looking at her again. "I'm starting to think that off-topic goes along with your conversations, Smoaky," he teases. "The point is, Ollie wants to do another party this year—apparently he's really missed family Christmases." He frowns as he thinks about the island, and Felicity can't blame him; she finds herself thinking about Oliver and that island a lot these days. "Anyway, he's decided to reboot the old tradition of Queen Family Christmas. And, well, I've found myself in need of a date. I thought you might want to, um, go together?" Felicity's eyes widen in surprise, so he barrels on, "I mean as friends. Just friends. No strings, no expectations. No awkward conversations. And apparently I'm trying to make up for that lack now."
She hesitates, biting at her lip. "Two things, Tommy," is her reply. "First, most guys don't invite the Jewish girl to a Christmas party." She frowns. "Secondly, there's Laurel. She already doesn't like me." She rushes to add, "And that's fine—she doesn't have to like me. But you like her, and I don't want to get in the middle of whatever's going on between you two."
Tommy chuckles. "Well, you're already invited—I saw your name on the initial guest list last week." With emphasis she doesn't understand, he adds, "It was the first one, actually." He sighs. "And, well, I think Laurel's coming around. Do you remember that party last week?"
"When she was dancing with Doctor Massive-Tool?" she replies, not missing a beat.
Tommy actually laughs at that. "Yeah. I did as you said," he admits. "I went over to them and said, 'Hello, Carter. May I cut in?' And then we danced." He grins a cheesy grin. "Laurel liked that—she said it was romantic, or some other girly crap that I don't quite understand. Anyway, point is she liked it." He pauses, looking up at Felicity from under his eyelashes. "She really liked it," he emphasizes when she doesn't respond. "She really, really liked it."
"Yeah, I got it," Felicity snaps, waving her hands as her face turns a little red. "You went back to her place and you did the diddly-doo. I don't need the details of your sex life, okay, Merlyn?"
He shakes his head, laughing. "Anyway, the next morning, she got ready for work, and she said again how much she liked that I cut in—'like a gentleman,' she said." He chuckles. "So I confessed that it was your idea. I think Laurel's felt a little insecure about serious relationships ever since things went south with Ollie." Tommy swallows. "And, well, I've never known a girl I've called a 'friend' without having sex with her, so I guess she thought that you and I were—" He hesitates, and she thinks it's amusing that he's the one floundering around the idea of a relationship now. "Well, you know. But I think she figures that if you're pushing Laurel and I together, you're not trying to tear us apart." He shrugs. "I guess—like I've ever understood women."
"One more smart ass comment about women," Felicity threatens teasingly, "and I'm kicking you in the face." She makes a small gesture with her foot to emphasize the point.
Tommy holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Anyway, things have been weird between her and Ollie since the trial. She received an invitation to the party, but she thinks it's probably because of Mrs. Q, not because Ollie actually wanted her there. So she came up with an excuse why she can't go, and, well,"—he smiles mockingly—"the press would be disappointed if Tommy Merlyn didn't show up with a beautiful woman on his arm. Laurel actually suggested I ask you, and I think it's a good idea. It's next week—plenty of time to get a dress." And, as though he thinks she'll be opposed, he adds, "And you're going to be invited anyway—so you won't even have to be someone's plus one, or mark a plus one. Ollie wants you there, and I don't think he's going to take no for an answer."
"What the hell," she responds finally. "I'm invited to a Queen Christmas Gala—I might as well be there on the arm of a playboy billionaire. If only Judy Sanchez could see me now—she used to think I would grow up to be that crazy cat lady who lives alone." She frowns. "What time do you want to pick me up?"
"Anytime, anywhere," he jokes, but sobers quickly. "It starts at eight on the twenty-fourth, so I figure seven? The traffic is always a nightmare on those days."
"Sounds good," she agrees easily, then holds out her hand. "I demand your phone, please." When he gives her a questioning look, she replies, "You're finally getting your wish, Merlyn—I'm giving you my number." While he chuckles, she programs her number in his phone, and also looks up his digits to put in hers. She's about to let the conversation go, but then she remembers something, frowning. "What kind of dress do I need?"
"Preferably one that shows as much skin as possible," Tommy replies, deadpan, without missing a beat. Felicity nudges his leg, and he responds seriously this time, "I don't know—the long kind? I'm not Calvin Klein—I don't know ladies' fashion. But usually every girl wears a floor-length dress—with a full skirt, I think. You know, the kind of dress that makes you think long, white gloves need to go with it. But no long, white gloves. That's not really something you see." He looks at her shoes. "Neither are pandas on flat shoes—don't wear those, or I'll spend the night pretending I don't know you."
Felicity groans in frustration, rolling her eyes, ignoring the dig at her shoes. "This is like discussing computer engineering with a penguin," she grumbles, which earns her an indignant, "Hey!" from Tommy. "Oliver has a sister—I'll ask him when he comes by to drag you out of my office."
"I'm here to drag him away so you can finish your work," the man in question replies from her doorway, and Felicity spins awkwardly to face him. "What did you want to ask me?" he continues, and Felicity can see the smile on his face is tight and certainly not genuine, judging by the way it doesn't reach his eyes. She doesn't understand why he's so upset, but she thinks he's being a little ridiculous. He leans against her doorway similar to the way Tommy did earlier, but something about his hands in the pockets of his jeans and one leg crossed over the other takes her breath away for a moment.
"Oh, just proper attire for the Christmas party... thing," she replies belatedly, throwing her hands about haphazardly. When his eyebrows raise, Felicity continues, looking between the two men, "Merlyn told me I was invited?"
Oliver turns a glare on his best friend. "And Tommy should have also told you that I wanted to deliver the invitation in person. I didn't want you to hear about it secondhand." His eyes narrow as he pulls himself away from the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. "Didn't you need to go check on your car?" he adds, in an obvious dismissal.
Tommy raises his hands in defeat, rising from his chair. "This is what I have to put up with," he complains to Felicity. "The man has no humor in his soul. Well, he does, but when anyone mentions you, my friend is suddenly replaced with an angry bear that wants to maul people." In a move that makes her blush to her toes, he swoops in and kisses her on the cheek, then takes the time to give her a wink. Oliver's fist clenches and the smile falls off his face, but Tommy doesn't seem to notice; he just waves haphazardly over his shoulder. "See ya later, Smoaky," he calls as he leaves, and there's still too much tension in the room even after he's cleared it.
Oliver doesn't miss a beat; he holds out the invitation to her. "I wanted to deliver this in person," he admits, and she can't help but think of how hard it must be for him to host a Christmas party without his father there. She takes it, and there's a long pause before he adds, "I'd like you to come."
Without hesitation, she opens the envelope methodically, making Oliver smile as she tries to open it as efficiently as possible without ripping the envelope. "That better not be judgment I'm feeling," she mutters as she opens it, reading the standard invitation text. Thankfully, someone—probably Thea—has thought of everything, because there's a notecard on attire for the evening. She takes out the RSVP card and fills it out, marking the guest status she's always thought of as the "forever alone" box with pride, knowing she has a date anyway. She tosses it back to Oliver, and he catches it gracefully. "Just so you don't have to spend the two days it takes to mail this worrying about it," she quips, and he gives her a withering look, even though a smile sits underneath. "And thank you, by the way, for the food." He seems surprised when she mentions it, and she rolls her eyes. "Helpful hint? Don't ever tell your darkest secrets to Merlyn—that man sings like a caged canary."
He just offers an enigmatic smile in return. "I tell my secrets to someone much more deserving of my trust," is his cryptic remark, and he leaves before she can ask.